#speaking of things that make me giggle i ordered a beach skirt from this place i havent bought from before

[todayisafridaynight]

no cause why DOES daigo do that sassy lil hand-on-hip bit during his poundmate

[maaaddiexo]

Chapter Five | Peter Pevensie

[Red Series Book Two: Ribbons]

Rosemary returned to England to find things just how she left them - her father and brother missing and her mother drinking in her bedroom. But Rosemary wasn't going to give up this time. She took charge of her family as the Pevensies took charge of a country. 

But it's been a year since all five of them returned to England, and when they are called back by Susan's magic horn, they return to a completely different Narnia. Magic has been dormant for centuries and men now rule Narnia but with brute force and terror. 

The Pevensies know why they've been called back to Narnia but Rosemary is once again left in the dark. And with Aslan making himself sparse, the five kids are left to their own devices to answer their own questions.

Do they trust the exiled prince? Can they save Narnia again, and this time without Aslan swooping in to save them? And in Rosemary's case, why was she called back?

[Chapter Six] [Series Masterlist] [Masterlist]

The dwarf - Trumpkin, as he had introduced himself after being beat by Edmund - was at the front of the commandeered rowboat, giving out directions every so often. He wasn't as grumpy as he originally was, but he was still just as standoffish. While they were the rightful Narnian Kings and Queens - at least, they were at one point in time - Trumpkin didn't seem entirely trusting of them. Perhaps it was in dwarvian blood; they did once fight with the White Witch.

While Peter rowed, Edmund steared, and Trumpkin navigated, the three girls got to look around. The river had narrowed significantly and towering cliffs were on either side of them, overrun with trees and foliage. Light filtered down to them, keeping them warm and slowly drying the three boys' clothes.

"They're so still," Lucy observed, staring up at the trees.

"They're trees. What'd you expect?"

"They used to dance," Lucy explained to Trumpkin. She felt bad for him. He'd only lived in a Narnia overthrown by evil people. Even when the White Witch ruled, the good magic of Narnia still made itself known.

"It wasn't long after you left that the Telmarines invaded. Those who survived retreated to the woods. And the trees - they retreated so deep into themselves that they haven't been heard from since. It's like that for a lot of things these days."

Rosemary was listening with one ear as she peered over the edge of the boat and dipped her hand in the clean blue water. You didn't see water like this in England.

"Not afraid of water anymore?" Peter asked quietly, looking over his shoulder at Rosemary. She smiled at him before looking back at the water.

"Not as much as I used to be. Daniel's friend, James has a small pond near his house. He's been teaching Daniel and I how to swim. Besides, you'd jump in after me if I fell in."

Peter smiled, nudging Rosemary's side. "Of course."

"You guys are sickening," Edmund replied. He looked like he'd just eaten a whole lemon. Rosemary and Peter laughed.

"Aslan?" Trumpkin scoffed. Rosemary tuned back in to the other conversation going on. "Thought he abandoned us when you lot did."

Shocked, Peter stopped rowing. Did the Narnians really believe they'd abandoned Narnia? "We didn't mean to leave, you know. We wanted to come back."

"Makes no difference now, does it?"

Peter sighed and continued rowing. The warmth of Rosemary's hand on his shoulder helped him ignore the guilt and regret he felt. "Get us to the Narnians and it will. We'll make things right."

•

Forty minutes later, Trumpkin was shoving the anchor into the rocky beach shore as Peter and Edmund pulled it up onto the beach.

Rosemary ruffled the skirt of her dress, smiling at the familiar site of Lucy approaching a bear. "I see she still has no problem making friends."

"Don't move, Your Majesty," Trumpkin ordered, freezing in place. "Nobody move."

Rosemary frowned, looking between the Trumpkin and the bear. What was the problem? The animal stood up on its back legs before dropping down and growling. It charged forward after Lucy, chasing her across the beach.

"Stay away from her!" Susan raised her bow but couldn't bring herself to release it. Peter and Edmund had unsheathed their swords, but they weren't distance weapons like the bows Rosemary and Susan had.

Lucy tripped over the burnt orange skirt of her dress, going down with a scream. Pebbles scraped the heels of her palms.

"Shoot, Susan! Shoot!"

The bear hovered over Lucy and all she could see was a wild, animalistic craze in its black orbs. It roared again and Lucy screamed.

Thunk.

Lucy opened her eyes and watched the bear drop. It fell on its side, exposing the arrow that had punctured its heart. Lucy rolled over in the dirt and looked for her siblings. Peter and Edmund were sheathing their swords as they ran to her, Susan was still standing with her bow raised and an arrow still nocked. It was Rosemary who had taken the shot. She lowered her bow before placing it over her shoulder and walked over to Lucy.

"Why wouldn't he stop?" Susan wondered.

"I suspect he was hungry," Trumpkin replied plainly, marching over to Lucy and the bear. Peter was helping Lucy up and pulled her into him in a protective hug.

"Thanks, Rosemary."

"I thought you didn't kill animals?" Peter asked.

"Not without a reason. I suspect this was a good first reason." Still, Rosemary's hands shook a little. She fisted them and hid them out of sight.

"He was wild," Edmund observed.

"I don't think he could talk at all," Peter added curiously.

"Get treated like a dumb animal long enough and that's what you become," Trumpkin spoke. They could all hear the despondent tone to his voice. Rosemary assumed he was speaking from experience. He pulled out a dagger and knelt down by the bear's stomach. "You may find Narnia a more savage place than you remember."

Peter sighed. It seemed everything that defined Narnia when they ruled was in the past. Nothing was familiar about Narnia except for four of the five faces he was traveling with. "It's getting dark. We should set up camp."

They started a fire in a grove of trees where they knew their backs would be protected. Nobody had ever eaten bear before so Trumpkin made dinner that night, roasting pieces of meat over the fire.

Rosemary swallowed any complaints and disgust about eating an animal that she'd killed by reminding herself that at least she was eating and the meat wasn't going to waste.

"This is very different from how we used to live and - more importantly - eat," Edmund recalled, taking an exploratory bite.

Rosemary felt bad for the Pevensies - the kings and queens of old being thrown back into a world - their world - but having to live like fugitives. "Trumpkin, what can you tell us about this Narnia and the Telmarines?"

"As I said before - it's a savage place. The invasion happened not long after you lot left," Trumpkin looked at the Pevensies but didn't seem to have any anger in his voice. "Without you guys, the army wasn't as strong or united. It was a bloodbath. The Narnians that survived the invasion went into hiding. As did the magic of Narnia. It's been hidden away ever since. The Telmarines are savage and cruel people. They will kill any Narnian creature because they aren't human. They don't feel remorse or guilt. And they don't like magic."

Rosemary picked at the dead skin around her nails - a nervous and bored habit of hers. It seemed that her world and Narnia weren't that different in some cases. They were both witnessing the same thing: mass genocide. Neither the Germans nor the Telmarines had succeeded yet, but was this what the people back home were facing? Was this what life would be like if the Germans succeeded and won the war? She shuddered at the thought and wiped away unfallen tears. "We need to end this."

Peter placed a warm hand over hers. "I agree. But we can't do it alone. Trumpkin, who blew Susan's horn?"

"Prince Caspian the Tenth. Of Telmar."

"Why would a Telmarine call us here if they're the ones that made Narnia go into hiding in the first place?"

"He wasn't leading an army. Perhaps he was running."

"The only way to know for sure is to ask him," said Susan. "So that's where we'll go."

Peter nodded in agreement. "Let's get some sleep."

Everybody hunkered down around the fire, pulling their capes and jackets over their bodies to protect them from the subtle breeze. When Rosemary rolled onto her back and stared up at the stars, she wondered if Aslan was looking at them too, or if he was busy preparing an army for them like last time.

Someone across the fire shifted in their sleep while Trumpkin snored on the other side of her. Rosemary giggled, turning away from him to face Peter. He was still awake and staring right at her. The fire was still going strong and Rosemary could see the features of his face: strong cheekbones, soft lips, and captivating eyes. His hand found hers in the dim lighting and he tapped her ring finger two times, silently asking a question. Rosemary found the chain under her dress and pulled it over her head, dangling it between the two of them. Peter did the same and Rosemary felt her heart swell.

He kept it.

In the dim light, Peter struggled to unclasp Rosemary's chain, laughing to cover up his embarrassment. When the ring slipped off the chain and into his palm, he stared at it for a moment. It had the same pattern as his and was just as wide but it was so much smaller, made for a finger daintier than his 'sausage fingers'. He reached for Rosemary's right hand and slipped the ring onto her ring finger.

Rings don't belong on chains hidden beneath clothing, Peter thought to himself. They're meant to be shown off.

Rosemary held her hand up and watched the firelight glint off the silver. It was weird for her. For one thing, she never wore jewelry, and secondly, the ring was meant to go on her left hand. But seeing as they weren't married, putting it on her right hand made it less inappropriate but just as personal. She grabbed Peter's chain and - with a lot less trouble - unclasped the chain and slipped the heavy ring onto his right ring finger. She ran her finger over the intricate design on his ring. The couple these rings belonged to clearly had them made as a matching pair because the designs were the same, and she loved the feeling Rosemary got as she stared at the ring on Peter's finger.

She locked her fingers with his and lowered her head to the hard ground.

[Chapter Six] [Series Masterlist] [Masterlist]

[iambuckyrogers]

3 Nights... Chapter (4/7)

Summary: After your friend bails on your trip to Australia a week before you were due to fly out, your best friend Steve swoops in and saves the day. Unbeknown to you, he’s harbouring the biggest crush on you, but will it get in the way of your holiday?

Word Count: 2041

Chapter Warnings: swearing, angst galore, mentions of sexual harassment,

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Authors Note: alright it’s about to get interestinggggg. hope that y’all enjoy I promise everything works out well in the end :) taglist is open. likes and reblogs appreciated xxxx

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

The afternoon went surprisingly well, the two of you settled back into your normal, comfortable routine, joking and laughing with each other like nothing had happened. Steve still felt uneasy, the thought of you and Joel bouncing around his head. He tried to push it away, tried to be happy for you but all he felt was resentment and hate, not only towards Joel but himself as well. If he had grown some balls years ago everything could be different. Sighing, Steve flopped himself onto the bed in your accommodation. Your afternoon plans had consisted of horse riding along the beach and a long walk back into town from the ranch, which left Steve thoroughly spent both physically and emotionally. He had to listen to you gush about Joel every 18 seconds, not that he was counting, and it had really taken its toll.

“Do I look alright?” Your voice pulled Steve from his self-pitying spiral. He rolled himself to face you and propped himself up on his elbow, looking you up and down as you stood in the doorway to the bathroom. You wore a tight red bodysuit and short a-line leather skirt, you had on your favourite pair of black doc martins and the fuzzy red socks that Steve got you for Christmas.

“I-ah, god,” he stammered, stumbling over the thousands of things he wanted to say but didn’t have the guts to.

“Nope not god, just Y/N,” you sassed. You did a little spin and faced Steve again, sticking your leg out and pointing your toe. “Like my socks?” you wiggled your eyebrows.

“Y-yeah wow I wonder who has such good taste?” Steve managed to say, offering you a sly grin, “in all seriousness, you look wonderful, doll.”

“My god Steven you sound like such an old man,” you laughed smacking him playfully on the shoulder. He couldn’t help but laugh too, you just seemed to have that effect on him. Getting to his feet he offered you his arm and bowed his head.

“Well then my dear, shall we journey to the parties of the night?”

“Why yes, fine sir,” you loop your arm through his and throw your handbag over your shoulder dramatically, “let us go!”

You opted to walk to the club, the evening air was warm but pleasant with the occasional cool breeze blowing through. You and Steve kept your arms linked as you wandered down the road, the bustling sounds of Byron growing with each step you took. The first club you came across was The Cheeky Monkey. It looked shady, the windows were blacked out, music thrumming through the walls, despite its exterior appearance it was popular, with the line stretching back along the main street.

“Let’s go here!” you pull Steve by the hand to the back of the line and who is he to say no. You join the line and begin bopping away to the music, lost in your own little world. The line moves surprisingly fast and before long you’re inside the club, the smell of cheap booze and hot bodies hitting Steve like a brick wall. Your hips sway to the beat as you move towards the bar, pulling Steve with you. You push your way through the crowd and order 2 drinks from the bartender while Steve waits behind you.

“Dance with me Stevie!” you shout over the music, pushing a glass into his hand and taking the other in yours once again before leading him to the dance floor. Dance floor was a funny word to describe what Steve saw because really, the ‘dance floor’ was a number of heavily reinforced park benches lined up end to end. People were stood on the seats and tables, bumping and gyrating to the electro trash that thumped over the speakers. Taking a swig of his drink Steve tried to loosen himself up, rocking back and forth in an attempt to move with the music. You shook your head and downed your drink in one mouthful, discarding your glass on a nearby table. You leaned in close, warm breath fanning over Steve’s cheek making him shiver.

“That’s not how you dance, Stevie,” you tutted, spinning around and taking his hands, placing them on your hips. You began to sway to the beat once again, hands moving to cover Steve’s and guide his movements. He closed his eyes and sucked in a sharp breath as you moved against him. He followed the movement of your hips with his own, the two of you moving as one in the packed club. His dropped his head to the crook of your neck and pressed soft kisses along your skin. You lifted your head to give him better access, a soft moan escaping your lips as his hands pulled you in closer to his body. Almost as if you were burnt, you jumped from his grip.

“I, ah- gosh. I need to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” you hurried off without so much as a second glance at Steve, disappearing into the crowd. He ran a hand through his hair and blew out an unsteady breath.

He stood where you left him for what felt like an eternity, never once letting his eyes stray from where you disappeared into the crowd. Eventually you, emerged but you were dragging someone else by the hand now.

“Look who I found!” you announced as you approached Steve

“Joel,” he spat, not even trying to hide his disapproval this time.

“Nice to see you too, mate,” Joel slurred, pulling you into his side almost possessively.

“We’re going to go dance, is that ok?” you asked.

“No- I mean, yeah, of course, why would I have a problem with that?” Steve mumbled, as much as he wanted to stop you he had no control over what you did. You kissed him on the cheek and left with Joel as Steve sulked off to the bar. He ordered a drink and sat at the bar, scanning the crowd for you. Sure enough, he found you stood on one of the table tops, grooving to the music and holding Joel’s hands, who stood on the floor below you. He watched you intently, the whisky in his had sat untouched. As much as he tried to look away he couldn’t, something about the way you moved had him transfixed. You ran your hands through your hair and thew your head back as the music washed over you. He clenched his jaw as he saw Joel’s arms snake around your hips and pull you, giggling, into his embrace. He whispered something into your ear before he pulled you in for a kiss, Steve had to look away before he gagged, gulping down his drink and savouring the warmth it left in his throat. When he looked back you were right in front of him, wrapped in Joel’s arms.

“Stevie I’m going to go back to Joel’s house,” you explained as Joel assaulted your neck making you laugh.

“Y/N I don’t think that’s a great idea,” Steve tried to reason.

“Fuck off Steven you’re not my boyfriend. Why do you care?!” Your words stung, cutting right into his heart like a knife.

“Because I do, I do care because that’s what friends do!” he shouted back, eyes stinging. By this point, Joel had removed himself from you which was a smart move because Steve was close to decking the guy.

“Well, I’m sorry we have different ideas about how friends are supposed to behave…  ugh never mind I’m going I don’t care what you say,” you stomp your foot and fold your arms, glaring at Steve.

“Fine but don’t come crying to me when it all blows up,” he gave up, you were stubborn and there was no getting you to change your mind.

“Not to worry, I won’t because I’m going to be fine! Good night Steve.”

“Good night Y/N,” he whispered as Joel swept you away, out of the club and into the dark of night.

*****

Steve checked his phone for what felt like the 87th time in one minute. 12:08, no new messages. After you left the club Steve waited for a while, not wanting to bump into you on his way home, before he left and trekked home in the dark, tears in his eyes and heart full to the brim with hurt and pain. He’d showered and changed but refused to fall asleep, just in case you needed him. It had been 2 hours with no word from you and he was starting to freak out. He should have done more to stop you, to keep you safe. He kept replaying your last conversation over in his head, ’don’t come crying to me when it all blows up’, if that was the last thing he ever said to you he would never forgive himself. He had to stop expecting the worst, you were a strong and capable woman, you had proven time and time again that you could look after yourself, he needed to take a step back. But what if you fell in love with Joel? Would you move here, leave Steve behind? His chest began to tighten, heart feeling as if it may beat out of his rib cage. He couldn’t lose you. In the midst of his panic, he didn’t hear the glass door to the apartment slide open.

“Stevie?” you sniffed, his eyes snapping to you. You were a mess, not wearing any shoes you leant against the doorframe shivering, chest heaving as if you had just run a marathon. The straps to your top were slipping down your shoulders, your hair was dishevelled and your make up a mess. He opened his mouth to speak but you quickly shut him down.

“Don’t,” you choked out. Not saying a word he rushed to your side, scooping you up in his arms and holding you close. The moment he had you in his arms you broke down, warm tears sliding down your cheeks and pooling on Steve’s shirt, heart-wrenching sobs wreaking your body. He just held you tightly and rubbed your back, whispering soothing words as you cried.

“It’s ok Y/N, I’ve got you sweetheart, I’ve got you.” Slowly your body stopped shaking and your breathing slowed back to normal. You nuzzled your head into Steve’s chest, fisting your hands into his shirt. His arms wrapped tighter around you and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“I-I’m so sorry, I sh-should have l-listened,” you whimpered, “h-he said we could g-go back to his place and hang out. I’m so stupid. I should have known.” A fresh wave of tears washed over you as you recounted the evening. “I-I said no, I didn’t want to, but he insisted. Tried to g-grab me so I ran. I’m so sorry.”

“Hey Y/N, stop that, ok? Stop apologising,” he pleaded, “the important thing is that you’re safe. I promise I won't let anything happen to you.” You nodded weakly.

“How about you get cleaned up and I’ll fix you some food,” he suggested to which you agreed, disappearing into the bathroom. Steve put bread into the toaster and busied himself with tidying up the room, trying to push away the images of you alone and scared, running down the streets of an unknown town. The click of the bathroom door opening pulled him from his thoughts.

“I’ve got your favourite movie on Netflix and bread in the toaster, can I get you anything else?” he asked. You shook your head and smiled sadly.

“Thank you, Stevie.” You climb into bed and Steve joined you, bringing a plate of freshly buttered toast which you ate gratefully. You snuggled close to Steve and he draped his arm over your shoulders, pulling you into his side where you rested your head on his chest. He held you close until your breathing evened out and he was convinced you were asleep. Slowly he removed his arm and tucked you under the covers.

“Good night Y/N” he whispered kissing your cheek and turning off the light.

NEXT CHAPTER

*****

TAGLIST:

@njayfbi

@bloodyproudpotterhead

[variantia]

For the Times, They Are A-Changin’

BELLUM.  ayyyyyy this Rhodolite thing is done ! ! !  I think it came out pretty good.

based on a little story Rhodolite told @outofthisgxlaxy‘s Garnet in a thread we have going  :D

ENJOYYYYYY ... ~

-

Watching Rhodolite Garnet put on her own cape instead of doing it for her is still strange to Bordeaux Pearl. She’s not sure if she’ll ever get used to the sight.

Moreover, the way her relationship with her former owner has evolved is a lot to take in. Ever since Homeworld passed new laws to grant them all full Gemship and freedom, like a lot of Pearls, she chose to stay with her mistress simply because it’s what she knows. It’s where she’s comfortable. Leaving and trying to start a new life – the very thought unsettles her. She enjoys the fact that she can now express her thoughts without inhibition and form true opinions, but until she learns that she’s someone different, she’s happy by Rhodolite’s side.

Rhodolite, on the other hand, relishes the way that Gemkind’s paradigm is shifting. It never occurred to her that as a proud Gem, the idea of having someone else do things for her that she was perfectly capable of doing should have been an insult. That was exactly what her Pearl had done for her all these millennia. Doing small things herself brought her a sensation of independence she’d never known was possible before.

The changes their race are going through now have left her feeling more peaceful than she ever has in her life. She can’t remember the last time she felt so light without the weight of their rules on her shoulders. She can relax. Her daughters can relax. It’s liberating.

“Well, Bordeaux.” Rhodolite briefly adjusts her outfit, proudly displaying her gem. “I’m going for a walk down in the streets. I want to see how Tsavorite is doing with that navigation center of hers she’s trying to get running. Are you going to be accompanying me today, or would you rather stay here?”

It’s a choice neither of them would have given much thought up until recently. It’s not an order of, Pearl, come with me, or, Pearl, stay here. Regardless of what Bordeaux says, she won’t be punished.

Smoothing her skirt down, Bordeaux gave her mistress a genuine smile. “I think I would love to join you, My Radiance.”

Rhodolite nods, and within seconds, they are down in the streets among all the other mixing Gems.

Down here, the various throngs create a swirling mass of rainbow colors now that they’re no longer separated by class or color. It’s never the same, which is what makes it so wonderful. Excitement buzzes all around them and inside them as they witness how their world looks today. Despite the fact that they don’t have to be afraid of not showing proper respect for a Matron, many Gems smile or bow or greet Rhodolite with royal titles anyway.

Everything is so unlike it used to be. As the two of them walk together, she sees things she never would have seen in past eras here.

There’s a Prasiolite and a Carnelian both dressed in fine clothing, modeling for a Ruby who’s drawing them. Gems lean over her shoulder to offer compliments as she works while some others fawn over how beautiful the two former soldiers look.

There’s a Bismuth and a Peridot inside what looks like a small forge shop, where the Bismuth seems to be teaching the smaller Gem how to work metal. The Peridot looks a little unsure, but there’s a smile on her face, and the taller Gem is clearly happy to be passing on her knowledge to someone who wants to learn.

When Rhodolite goes a little further down, she sees a Sapphire who’s wearing clothes that don’t restrict her movement, and she’s sparring with a much larger Faden Quartz. What’s more, despite being smaller and thought of as a fragile Gem type, the Sapphire appears to be kicking the Quartz’s butt.

Even further, and there’s a small crowd gathered watching something. She approaches with Bordeaux trailing behind her – only to see that the spectacle is apparently two Gems attempting to fuse. An Agate and a Pearl stand in the middle of the crowd. One set of their hands are clasped, with the Agate’s other arm wrapped around the Pearl’s waist and the Pearl’s other arm clinging to the Agate’s shoulder.

“Oh, oh…” The Pearl quickly pulls her legs back just in time for the Agate to stomp the ground where they would have been. When she speaks, her voice is underlain with giggles. “I-Iris! You almost stepped on my foot!”

A squeak comes from the other Gem that’s very un-Agate-ish. “I’m – I’m sorry, Mystic! I don’t really know what I’m doing… should we stop?”

“No, no, no! It’s okay. It’s… it’s okay. I mean, I don’t know what I’m doing any more than you do. Okay, deep breaths. Come on, maybe if we go a little slower…”

“Okay… let’s try this again.”

Rhodolite’s eyes are glued to the scene as the two Gems start to move again. The Agate seems as though she’s calmed by what the Pearl is saying, and the two of them sway in sync. It’s like watching water crash on a beach in slow motion. They move a little awkwardly, but the emotion beneath it is graceful and in its purest form. The Matron is struck with the fact that she’s witnessing something take place that’s part of their changing empire.

Everyone is coming to realize that fusion isn’t appalling, or a shortcut, or nothing but a battle tactic. Rhodolite is among those who have been stubborn, and although she has a long way to go still, she began to change before Homeworld as a whole did. Her perma-fusion daughter is the biggest reason why she can see the beauty in this.

These two Gems trying to fuse, openly, unashamed of who they are and what they’re trying to become, remind her of Garnet.

There’s something between them that has been mostly lost to Homeworld until now. It’s elegant and raw and more powerful than any Gem who was created or has yet to be created could ever hope to be. It’s illogical and wild. It’s incomprehensible.

It’s love.

Rhodolite has been staring and twined up in her thoughts for so long that she nearly misses the climax of their dance. They melt into each other for a few seconds, a glowing ball of white-hot light that half-blinds her soul. It only lasts for a brief time, because suddenly both Gems are back in their forms, falling to the ground. The Pearl lands on top of the Agate, but after all’s said and done, they’re both lying flat on the street.

The sight causes several Gems to drift away from the crowd with grumbles of disappointment, and Rhodolite winces in sympathy. Not only did that have to hurt, it also couldn’t have been a great emotional experience to break apart before you’ve even fused.

The Pearl’s and Agate’s reactions surprise her, though. They look at each other, blinking wide-eyed and silent, before bursting into laughter. The Pearl snorts, which makes the Agate roar twice as loud. “Oh, stars, what are we even doing?” She scoops the Pearl up in her arms and gets them both to their feet. “You wanna try again?”

“I do…” The Pearl’s face flushes a deeper color as she reaches to take the Agate’s hand again. “Do you want to?”

“Yeah, as long as you want to.”

Several Gems around them start to give them encouragement. Calls of things like, “You can do it!” and “Go on, try again, guys!” follow Rhodolite as she strolls past the two of them. Both the Pearl and the Agate pause as she walks by, looking at her as if they think they’ll be punished.

She doesn’t blame them. Even among the previous Homeworld’s disdain for fusion, she had a reputation for being absolutely intolerant of it.

That said, she doesn’t stop walking. She gives the two a gentle smile and a nod of acknowledgment, and that’s it. They look relieved, even smiling back at her and wishing her a good day before they focus their attention back on each other.

“Would you look at that!” Bordeaux exclaims as she catches up to her former mistress. Though she’s back with Rhodolite, her eyes linger on the couple who are trying once again to fuse. She remembers what her mistress thought of fusion before. She remembers explaining to Garnet why. She can’t help but think about what it might be like to fuse like that. The way Garnet is fused and the way those two are trying to fuse seems wonderful. “They look so… so happy.”

All she or Rhodolite can do is wonder. Despite the fact that Rhodolite can recall being fused once or twice for battle, it’s not the way Garnet is. It’s only one facet of the experience that fusion is supposed to be.

Rhodolite can still hear those two Gems laughing while attempting to fuse long after they’ve faded out of view.

Her mouth quirks into a genuine smile, and she glances back at her companion.

“They do, don’t they?”

I can’t wait to see you again, Garnet.

[thedeviltohisangel]

Follow You Through The Dark//1//We Speak By Saying Nothing At All

Musician AU; Michael Langdon is hellbent on achieving his dream of being a musician. Grace Hall is hellbent on surviving her life in the mold her parents have set for her. What happens when the two cross paths on a sidewalk in New York City?

Smut Warning

masterlist in bio!

I want to write this one in the non-chronological way that I have written other ones so if you guys have one shot ideas for the two of them, let me know!

“Lie down, baby,” he whispered against her cheek as her breath began to slowly even out. Now that she was calm, she felt like a tool. Especially compared to Michael. He was in his usual nighttime attire of sweatpants that hung dangerously low on his hips and no shirt.

“No! God, Michael, aren’t you even going to try and fight for me?” Abruptly, the air around them shifted. Her arms pushed outwards from where they had been wrapped around herself and the thrust was enough for Michael to stumble back slightly. “I just threw away everything for you!”

“Your parents will forgive you and take you back in a heartbeat. Their little fucking princess.” Now Michael was getting angry. It wasn’t supposed to be a fight. He had made the decision to not go to her parents charity gala for her own benefit. Anywhere he went with her was accompanied by stares and whispers. Did you see that boy? He’s wearing an earring. Isn’t his hair a bit shaggy for an event like this? Do you think she had to help him with the tie? It was agonizing to know the woman he loved was spoken of so poorly simply because of his presence. “I took a step back for you! If you stopped being a brat long enough to realize-”

“So now you’ve reduced yourself to name calling? Where’s the poetic songwriter now?” she huffed. They stood in silence, holding each other’s gaze for a moment, before she gathered her red skirt in her arms and began to march back towards her car. Stupid Michael Langdon. It was as though every time she interacted with him, he was trying to make her regret the day she had stumbled upon him on the sidewalk. Constantly infuriating is how she would describe him. One minute he was writing love songs and making her see stars and having her believe that life in the back of his van could be everything she ever wanted and more. He had made her believe in love and perhaps that was the worst mistake she made.

“Grace! Stop!” She tried to ignore him. She really did, kept on marching towards her car and the escape from this cycle that it offered. “Don’t...don’t fucking run away from us like that.” He sounded exasperated when he finally reached her.

“You’re the one who has been running, Michael. Every time I take a step forward in your life, you take a step back from mine. It’s breaking my heart.”

“I hear everything those people say about me, about you. It makes me sick to think that people view you like they do just because you showed up to an event with me on your arm. I don’t want that life for you. I thought by stepping away, I was protecting you.”

“You’re not. You’re hurting me.” She took a step closer to him and his hands came to cup her cheeks. “You told me to fuck them all. That the boundaries of that life were too small for a mind like mine. Remember?” Michael smiled. He had a habit of ranting and waxing poetics whenever he was around her. He couldn’t help it. She was his muse.

“Of course I remember. I wrote a song about you that night.”

“Well, now I’m finally following your advice. I’m going to do what makes me happy. Not what makes my parents happy. And, for starters, being with you is what makes me happiest.” Grace didn’t divulge her feelings often or easily. It was hard to when the man you loved and were in a relationship with did so. Michael expressed himself so clearly and eloquently through his music. She could never find the words to explain how much she loved him in the same ways he did for her. It was daunting to try and compare.

“I’m happiest when I’m with you, too.” There were so many words that Michael could use to describe the way he felt when he was with Grace; at peace, alive, elated, but he knew how trying to express himself in that way shut her down. And she was being open and vulnerable with him. He didn’t want her to close that door quite yet.

“Then let’s just focus on being happy together. We can compromise on things like galas and dive bar tours and where to sleep at night. I love you, Michael, I’m in love with you.” He dropped his hands to intertwine them with hers, bringing one to his lips for a kiss.

“Is anything ever that simple with us, Grace?” Michael wishes his mind would let him just embrace this new take on life that she had. That he could just profess his love for her and hold her forever and just live his life in a bubble of her.

“No. But that is precisely what makes it so worth fighting for. I’m not saying it won’t be hard some days but...that last piece of me that was holding onto the life my parents want me to lead, is gone. Shattered the moment I went tonight and felt like half of me was missing. You’re the other half. My other half.” For so long their worlds had kept them apart. Hers was filled with pearls and fake smiles and expectations that could almost never be reached. His was wandering and wondering and writing. They weren’t supposed to work together. Hell, they weren’t even have supposed to cross paths let alone fall in love.

“You love me, Grace Hall?” It was partially teasing, Michael knew she loved him, but he wasn’t used to her saying it. She had been raised to keep her emotions to herself, never let anyone in. It was frustrating for someone like him who found joy and solace in putting his thoughts and feelings out there for the world to see. He had never wanted to ask her to say it more. Never wanted to force her to express herself in a way that wasn’t natural.

“I know I have trouble expressing how I feel to you and I know you deserve better than a girl who-”

“I barely deserve you,” he whispered. “You’re everything to me. The past year, that’s all I’ve been trying to prove. We’ve both made some mistakes along the way. But that’s what a real relationship is. Real love isn’t perfect. It’s jagged and cuts and stings and-” He pulled away while holding his breath.

“Go write your song, loverboy,” she chuckled as he quickly jogged back to his van so he could grab his notebook and a pen.

“Just a couple lines, baby, I promise I’ll be quick.” Grace walked over to where he was sitting on the back bumper, listening to him hum as he tapped a pen against his lips and jotted down some words. “I’ve been having trouble writing recently. I’ll write a verse here and there or a chorus but have nothing to put around it. Then you show up here in your Victoria Beckham gown and it’s like I see the world in color again.” That urged another scribble onto the page.

“It’s kind of daunting to be someone’s muse, you know. What if one day I stop inspiring you?” She sometimes worried that the basis of their relationship was her ability to make the music come out of him. There was no way of knowing if that would happen forever.

“You, my dear Grace, are constantly growing and changing. As any human being does. The love of ours that I write a song about today could be a completely different love when we go to bed tomorrow. Our foot never steps into the same river twice. I think love is the same way.” Another scribble.

“You ease my worries like you were meant to,” she whispered.

“That’s a good line, baby, thank you.”

“Well, give me writing credit if you use it,” she giggled as she crawled in next to him. She peered over his shoulder cautiously. Sometimes he was adamant that she not read anything he had written. That she wait until is was ready to be sung and performed. Michael always wanted her to get the full experience. He also felt that, when he sang, he could really portray the emotions behind the lyrics in a way that just having them on the page couldn’t. “I missed you tonight.” It had been the whole reason that she had sped her way to the beach where his van was currently parked. Had left the gala in a flurry of her red skirt and the gasps of others around her. Grace had always had a reputation of being the perfect daughter. She had been Valedictorian of her boarding school, graduated from an Ivy and was working her way up the corporate ladder in order to inherit her father’s company one day. Running out of galas was not in line with her usual behavior.

“If we mean everything we said tonight, you won’t have to miss me ever again.”

“You mean that?” It felt like they were professing their love for each other all over again. It was a re-commitment of sorts. Up until this point, something invisible had been holding each of them back from truly giving their all to the passion and chemistry and love that was between them. Maybe tonight, all of that could change.

“I would never say something to you that I didn’t mean, Grace. You deserve honesty and validity. I respect you and love you too much to ever speak behind a veil.” She pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder, Michael turning his head so he could capture her lips with his own. “I pledge my heart to you,” he whispered as he nose nuzzled against hers. It was the most sacred thing he could ever give her. And he did so willingly. Joyfully.

“I’ll take good care of it,” she smile, “as long as you promise to take good care of mine.”

“Promise.” He returned her smile before he leaned in for another kiss. She held him firmly by the back of his head and slipped her tongue between his lips. Michael groaned in response, it had been a few nights since he had last seen her and his body was letting him know that it had been too long. Gently, he placed his notebook on the side before leaning over her until her back hit the mattress.

“Aren’t you going to the shut the door?” she mumbled against his lips. They chuckled as he quickly removed himself from her to shut the side door to the van, attaching his lips back to hers like there hadn’t even been a pause. His hand fisted the waist of her dress and began to pull up with the aim of exposing more of her skin to him. Once it had gathered around her hips, his hand firmly wrapped around her thigh and pushed it to the right so he could settle in between her legs. Her own arms reveled in the bare skin of his back was already open and available to her. They moved steadily down his back to slip past the waistband of his sweatpants and grab at the supple flesh of his bottom. He moaned against her jaw and the grip on her thighs tightened as lust began to cloud his thoughts.

“Roll over,” he whispered. Grace did as instructed, Michael’s calloused fingers finding the zipper to her gown easily and sliding it down. His lips, tongue and teeth followed it’s path and marked the skin that became exposed to him. A trail of hickey’s was left in his wake. They line up along her spine like a hidden message of his love for her. “Lift your hips.” Once she did so, he was able to shimmy the dress down and toss it to the side.

“Michael! That’s expensive! You can’t just-” A quick slap to her backside quieted her cries of protest.

“The only sounds I wanna hear coming out of you are your pretty little moans, got it?” Grace nodded. “Good. Now let me look at your pretty little pussy.” She went up to her hands and knees so her glistening core was perfectly level with Michael. Many had referred to him as a maestro when he sat behind the piano or began to move his fingers against the strings of his guitar. Grace thinks it’d be more fitting to call him a maestro when he had a wet pussy waiting for him to play it. Michael joked once that the sounds she made whenever his head was between her legs were the melody to his life. He licked slowly, savoring the taste of her. Once her essence hit his tongue it was like a tablet of ecstasy. Every nerve ending in his body was lit on fire and not a thought entered his mind that wasn’t concerned with pleasing her.

“Up a little bit...to the right,” she whispered from where she had rested her cheek against his pillow so she could watch him work between her legs. There was a particular sweet spot on the side of her clit she was hoping he was working towards. He knew exactly where it was, didn’t need her to tell him. It was sweet, he thought, that she thought he didn’t know or that she was trying to ignore the fact that he was hellbent on teasing her.

“I know where it is.” Grace hadn’t known when she first met him but Michael had been somewhat famous within his circle not only for his love songs but for his sexual prowess and knowledge. She had been told that, more than once, he could be found at a dive bar with a cigarette between two fingers having an in depth conversation with a fellow patron about the beauties of pleasing a woman properly. There was always something elusive and intricate about Michael. Grace thinks she’s going to spend the rest of her life trying to figure him out. “Tell me how this harmony sounds.” His lips enclosed around her precious pearl and he began to hum. What a fucker.

“Fuck that feels good.” Her hips began to rock back against his lips, his hands tightening their grip around her thighs as a signal to stop. Be patient. He made sure to keep his eyes locked on hers. Michael thoroughly enjoyed watching her expressions as he feasted on her like he had just come stumbling out of the desert, her wetness an oasis. It was like a fountain of youth. He was constantly in search of the inspiration that flowed from her but found so much thrill in the chase. “I’m gonna cum. You’re gonna make me cum.” He knew she was close as her pussy began to flutter around his mouth and her juices flowed faster. Pressing his lips and tongue in deeper, he played her harder and faster until she was falling apart like a symphony before his eyes. Finally, he came up for air and watched Grace absorb and relax into the after effects of the orgasm he had given her.

“You sleepy, baby?”

“Not sleepy enough to let your cock throb in your pants like that.” The bulge straining the fabric of his sweats was too tantalizing to ignore. “Let’s consummate our new beginning,” she teased as he leaned over to peck her lips. Michael quickly ridded himself of his sweatpants and lined up with her entrance.

“To new beginnings and them lasting forever.” And with his toast, he fit inside her perfectly. The last piece of the puzzle put into place.

----

Grace woke up a few hours later to find that the man she had gone to bed with was no longer next to her. And considering she couldn’t see him anywhere else in the small van, she assumed he must’ve left to go sit on the beach. She rummaged through his chest of clothes, tossing on a pair of his boxers and a shirt before she opened to the door to go and join him.

“I thought you were quitting that?” He was sat atop a picnic table smoking a cigarette with his notebook in my lap.

“Snuff it out for me?” He handed her the object which she took and brought to the disposal unit by the garbage.

“We can’t have nearly enough of our forever if you keep smoking,” she pointed out as she sat behind him, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his shoulders.

“I’ll try harder,” he promised.

“Is the song you’re writing gonna be good enough to warrant me waking up alone in a cold bed?” she teased as she kissed the soft spot behind his ear.

“I think it’ll be for you and you only so…” Sometimes Michael kept his most personal of songs to himself. The vulnerability reflected in them was not for just anyone to hear and interpret. The ones about Grace, the most personal and vulnerable of them all, were sometimes shared with just her. When he couldn’t find the words to tell her how he felt, he would write them down and sing them to her. Through a song was how he had first told her he loved her.

“Is it selfish that those are the ones I love the most?”

“No. I think love is a deeply personal thing. The way I feel about you and how I wish to communicate that isn’t for anyone else to be a part of if we don’t want them to..”

“I like that. Thank you. For writing such beautiful things about me and making me feel as though I deserve them.” Her cheek rested flat against his back and she took a deep breath of the salty air coming off the water. “I love you, Michael Langdon. I’ll love you forever.”

“I love you, Grace Hall, for as long as the music I write is in the universe, our love will live on.”

Tags:

@avesatanormalpeoplescareme @aveiangdon @ticklish-leafy-plant @and-shes-not-even-pretty

[likethetailofacomet]

Beneath

Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves on the surface, but what is hiding beneath the glitz and glamour at the season’s opening ball? 

Pairings: Drake x Claire, Drake x Kiara, Liam x Kiara 

Tagging: @sleepwalkingelite @zaffrenotes @nekkidmolerat @ooo-barff-ooo @notoriouscs @gardeningourmet If you would like to be added just let me know! :)

Drake didn’t hear the footsteps coming up behind him. His eyes were glued to the twirling of her skirt and the way her hair fanned out as Liam spun her on the floor. Time stilled as her deep blue eyes found his, and he lifted his glass to his lips to drown the intense fire that they caused. Her smile looked light and free, like it had that night on the beach, as the dance came to a close and Liam pressed a chaste kiss to her delicate hand. Drake tore his eyes away, finally noticing the woman who had been approaching him.

“Bonjour, Drake,” Kiara purred. She looked up at him with her soft brown eyes through heavy black lashes.

“Lady Kiara,” he responded with a nod.

“You look very handsome this evening, Mr. Walker.” She said, with a flirtatious straightening of his tie. They’d had a short albeit incredibly hot fling last year, Kiara finally getting what she wanted from him at the end of the last social season. He’d been happy not to have to see her again for a while, hoping that whatever feelings she thought she had for him would fade. He’d regretted sleeping with her, not that it hadn’t been great- he just knew from experience that no matter how much she thought she wanted him while they were between the sheets, nothing would ever come of a relationship between them. He wasn’t eager for another let down, and honestly, while he found Kiara physically attractive, that was where it started and ended for him.  

Drake took a step back from her, leaving her hands hanging in midair. “Thank you, M ’Lady, you look very nice as well,” he returned with practiced diplomacy, without really looking at her.

“Merci beaucoup,” she said, blushing. Kiara was so blinded by the school girl crush she had on the man that she didn’t even notice his lack of interest.  

Drake took a sip of his drink and cleared his throat. “Was there something that you needed, Lady Kiara?”

Kiara tossed her hair revealing the soft skin of her shoulder beneath the thin straps of her dress. “More like something that I wanted,” she said mischievously. “I was hoping that you would ask me to dance.”

Drake stared blankly at the woman before him for a few seconds too long before noticing the hopeful, expectant look on her face. As it began to fade and be replaced by hurt, he cleared his throat again. “Maybe another time.” He answered.

“Then maybe we can share a drink?” she persisted.

Drake felt his teeth clench tighter as his lips pressed into a thin line to keep from saying what he wanted to say. Instead he said, “Sure,” and turned to the bartender to order another whiskey for himself and a glass of Cabernet for Kiara.

Taking the glass from him, she let her fingers brush against his and blushed with a smile. She leaned her lower back against the bar next to where he stood, close enough so that her arm was less than a hair’s distance from the sleeve of his jacket. She felt that buzz pass between their bodies. He felt nothing, taking a large sip of his drink; the faster he finished it, the faster he’d fulfilled his obligation to share a drink with her.

“So, did you see Prince Liam dancing with the new girl?” She asked, a sour tone accenting the last two words. His lip pulled up slightly in an involuntary snarl at the way she was trying to gossip.

“Lady Berkley,” he clarified, venom ready on the tip of his tongue should Kiara have the nerve to say a negative word about her.

“Yes, Lady Berkley,” she confirmed, taking a sip of her wine, eyes twinkling over the rim of her glass. “She says she is a server…at a bar.” She gave a little giggle, “Bold of her to think she could fit in here, yes? And yet, the prince seems taken with her.”

“Bold of her? How do you mean?” He asked, choosing to ignore the last part of her statement. He had shared with Liam how he felt about Claire, and trusted in their friendship enough to know that this meant that Liam would not pursue the woman, but he didn’t want to have to think about whether or not Liam wanted anything more from her.

Kiara scoffed. “Well, she isn’t nobility; she isn’t a diplomat or philanthropist. She’s not even Cordonian. A server…that is beneath the court, don’t you think?”

It was for precisely this reason that Drake felt nothing for Kiara. She was just as shallow as the rest of them, and for as well versed in the politeness of politics as she was, she never seemed to consider people’s personal feelings before speaking. She was a product of her environment, he knew, but one that stood to show that no matter the beauty on the surface, the true nature of the nobility was condescending and cold. “Beneath the court?” he questioned, anger starting to rise in his chest. “Please, Lady Kiara, enlighten me. How is it that a server or a maid or a stable hand,” he gestured towards himself, “is beneath the court.”

“Oh, Drake,” she put her hand on his shoulder lightly, but he shrugged it off. “You must know I don’t mean you,” she blinked her eyes at him.

“I don’t know that, Kiara. I’m sure if you actually got to know people for who they are instead of what they are or what they can do for you, you’d have a different opinion of what should be beneath the court.” He responded coldly. “If you’ll excuse me,” he drained the rest of his drink, “it appears that I’ve finished my drink and I have some things to tend to. Have a wonderful evening.” He left her leaning against the bar, mouth agape.

“Lady Kiara,” she turned her head and was shocked to see the prince standing right next to her. She’d been so wrapped up in watching Drake leave that she hadn’t noticed his arrival. “May I have this dance?” he extended a hand, an innocent smile on his lips, blue eyes shining right through her, his hopes soaring beneath the request for a dance.

Claire stepped off of the dance floor, head still spinning from the conversation she’d had with Liam while they danced. “I happen to know that he was planning on returning to New York after the social season to see you.”  Her heart beat was quickening out of control, confusion clouding her thoughts. Drake had confided his interest in her to Liam. She hadn’t been wrong about what she’d felt from him that night. But why then had he been so cold to her, so uncaring? Liam had mentioned that Drake had endured an undue amount of heartache in his life. Claire knew how this could manipulate your spirit, could crush your dreams and make you expect the worst of people, could drown you beneath your own doubts.

She watched him casually chatting with Lady Kiara by the bar on the other side of the ballroom, Kiara smiling and blushing. Reading Kiara’s body language told her everything she needed to know about the situation- another skill she’d picked up in the hospitality industry. She’d spent enough time serving and observing couples on first dates to know when one was interested and the other was not. She continued to watch as Drake downed his drink, set it roughly on the bar next to Kiara, and stalked off towards the balcony. Liam came up a moment later, bright eyed and smiling. He extended a hand and escorted Kiara to the dance floor. He liked her. She smiled to herself as she watched the pair assume position on the floor and begin to dance, then turned in the direction that Drake had just gone in.

The doors to the balcony were open, long white curtains billowing in the light breeze that blew in. Claire rubbed her arms as she felt the night chill on her skin. The music and laughter from the ballroom faded as she stepped out into the dark night. She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was out here. Looking around, all she could make out were shadows.

“Why did you follow me?”

Claire turned in the direction of his voice, squinting.  “Drake? Where are you?”  

He stepped forward until he was so close that she could reach out and touch him. Her mind flashed to the flirtatious way she’d seen Kiara lay a hand on his shoulder and she internally cringed, despite knowing what she knew about how Drake felt for her. “Why did you follow me?” he asked again once he was in front of her. His hands were in his pockets, his eyes trained steadily on her face.

“I…had an interesting talk with Liam earlier,” she said, crossing her arms. “About a trip you were planning…”

Drake felt the color drain from his face and was grateful for the darkness and her inability to see him clearly. He cleared his throat but couldn’t think of anything to say. Shifting his weight, he pulled his hands out of his pockets, one going to the back of his neck.

Claire held her breath and took a step closer to him, her heart thundering in her ears. When he didn’t take a step back she released the air from her lungs. “A trip to New York.” She reached a slightly trembling hand towards him, pausing for half a second to get her courage up before letting it rest on his cheek. She almost yanked it back for the tingling heat she felt as her skin made contact with his.

Drake closed his eyes and swallowed hard. The feeling of her fingertips alighting on his cheeks was setting fires throughout his body, and he wanted nothing more than to give in to the flames and pull her onto the pyre with him, to crash his lips to hers and burn together. Opening his eyes, he gently took her hand from his face and set it at her side. “That was before,” he said, his normally gruff, booming voice hoarse, almost a whisper.

“Before what?” she looked down to where he’d placed her hand, their fingers still touching.

“Before you came to Cordonia as House Beaumont’s chosen Lady.”

Claire could feel frustration and anger building and mixing with the disappointment and sadness she’d been holding inside. “I’m not a Lady,” she blurted out.

He looked at her sadly. She was beautiful from head to toe, made up and styled like a true princess. It was only a matter of time before she saw it too. “Yes, you are,” he said.

“No, Drake, damnit, listen to me. I’m not a Lady. I’m just plain old Claire Berkley. I’m a server in a shitty bar in New York City. I didn’t jump on that plane to advance my fucking station in life. I didn’t get on that plane to be with Liam or to wear fancy gowns. I got on that plane for you, can’t you get that through your head?!” Tears were biting at her eyes but she was determined not to let him see them.

“Whether you’re Just Claire or Lady Berkley,” he sighed, “I’m beneath you.”

Claire wanted to pull her hair out in tufts. She wanted to kick and scream until he understood that she knew that he was broken because she was broken too. She settled for something more drastic. As he turned to go back inside she grabbed his hand firmly. “Wait!” she said breathlessly, pulling his hand to turn him back towards her. As he did she took his face in her hands and pressed a searing kiss to his lips. At first he froze, so caught off guard by her bold move, but quickly melted with the heat of her lips on his. He kissed her back furiously, hands flying to her hair, pulling her closer than he thought possible. If this was to be their only kiss, he wanted to make sure he didn’t hold back.

When they finally broke apart neither could breathe. Foreheads pressed together, noses almost touching, Claire placed another, gentler kiss to his lips. “You’re not beneath me, Drake. And I’ll prove it to you.” She whispered.

He stepped back slowly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Berkley.” Before she could stop him again, he headed back inside, leaving her shivering in the night.

[geeky-roleplayer]

An Eternal Thing

A self indulgent Edmund Pevensie X Oc.

I'm in the midst of rereading the books so I apologize if it doesn't make much sense when compared with the source material..

---

The sprawling halls of Cair paravel were clamoring  with mirth as the guest of the night flitted about.  Eccentric ball gowns skimmed the marbled floors, and the echoing steps of hooved creatures resonated with the music.  Couples swayed about in a daze; drunk on the ambience of the ballroom. This was often the case, at celebratory events such as these.  This event happened to be the anniversary of the end of the eternal winter. It is true that many years had already passed, but the castle on the oceanside clung to the memories of the four siblings who helped free Narnia from the Witch’s frigid grasp.  

One by one those siblings made an appearance. Peter the Magnificent, the eldest of the four who was known for his iron hand and decisive blows.  Armies quaked beneath his feet, and his people bowed at his side with deep-rooted respect. Susan the Gentle, a woman who could make men swoon, and her heart kinder still.  Her aim was deadly, and yet her hand was extended with the gentleness of mercy. The next of Kin of course, is Edmund the Just. History would never forget his betrayals, and neither would he.  The King was a master of the sword and of a silver tongue. None would ever wish to challenge him in a battle of wits or blade; for he would call them out for their wrong doings as he tried to make up for his own.

Finally there was Lucy the Valiant, a girl of legend, a daughter of Eve, and for all intents and purposes, the true savior of Narnia.  She was the last in the line of siblings, and the most legendary. Her open heart and brave mind was what pulled the creatures of the country from their frozen wasteland.  Her resolve and will was enough to melt the snow, and to welcome Aslan back into the lives of all. She was a miracle some would say, and her acts of courage would be shared through the generations, long past her life.

The third sibling was balancing delicately on the arm of his throne chair.  His feet swayed, and his raven hair fell into his eyes dangerously. He couldn’t quite make out those who entered and left the room, but he would prefer not to speak to them anyway.  He was listening, with a tilted head, for anything amiss. Edmund would let his siblings enjoy one night, as he kept vigilance with the guards. A group of noble women passed by, and he offered them a smile.  It didn’t take much for them to erupt within a fit of giggles. Their delicate hands brushing through their hair, or covering their painted lips. He regarded their laced skirts and corsets for only a moment before looking away.   

“Come on Ed,”

He didn’t jump at the familiar voice, Peter was stumbling about, obviously not worried about keeping up appearances. He’d heard his brother coming from halfway across the room, even if he couldn’t find him amongst the crowd.   “Any of those women would love to have you as a suitor, or a dalliance.” His voice was still firm, but as he climbed the stairs to stand beside his sibling, Edmund could smell the liquor on his breath.  He wrinkled his nose.

“They’d be much happier with you, I’m sure.”  

“You’re right.”  

Edmund swung his head around at that, and fixed his brother with a hard stare. “You don’t have to be an arse Peter.” As he spoke, he jerked his thumb in the direction of the ladies who were now clinging to every word that was falling from Lucy’s lips. He could only assume the stories his little sister was telling.  “You can have them, I’m not looking for a..a plaything.”

Peter’s brows furrowed, and for a moment Edmund thought he had overstepped, but the older man simply shrugged. “They don’t have to be all fun and games, there could be someone worth keeping in that lot, if you took the time to look.”   Edmund rolled his eyes.

“You’re awfully sentimental tonight, brother.”

“I’m drunk.”  Peter responded with an exhale.

They both unwinded with a laugh, and Peter gave his brother a playful nudge to the shoulder. “I’m only teasing you, they aren’t your type anyway.”  

The Just hummed,  and his eyes traveled upwards, as he studied the large pillars which held up the delicate, arching, ceiling. “Oh, and what’s my type?”

“She is.”

His dark gaze  snapped away from above, and fell to follow Peter’s pointed finger.

Edmund couldn’t help his sharp intake of breath, and how he bit the inside of his cheek.

The Lady of the Forest  was not known for her social appearances, and yet there she was, as radiant as ever.  Her long black hair was left loose, shifting against her back, and flowers clung to the strands as if she was a garden in full bloom.  He eyed her own dress, with green silks and olive ribbons. It was loose, and the straps fell to hang from her shoulders. He knew he’d never catch her wearing a grand outfit, all fluff and extravagance like their other guest, but he preferred it that way.   

“I didn’t notice her arrival?” He stated, his words hanging in air like a question.

Peter grunted, and turned about so that he could fall back into the seat of his own throne. Others danced by them in a whirl, and they both watched them with soft amusement.

“She didn’t wish to be announced, she isn’t much for small talk.”

That was the truth, she was a woman of conviction and far off thoughts.  She loved to talk of their world, and of his old one. She seemed to hold all the answers, and if she didn’t know, then she would make it her mission to learn.   

“Does that mean I shouldn’t go say hello?”

“You’re kidding, right? You’re the only one who can get a word out of her.”

That was also true, the Lady and the Magnificent had a rocky relationship, and often kept each other at arm's length.  However, they both knew the importance of the other, and did their best to work together without stepping on the other’s feet.  As a result of this, it was often Edmund’s job to be the mediator, while his sisters let him scramble. They were often the diplomats, so they enjoyed watching him squirm.

He pushed himself to his feet, and gazes turned to watch him for a moment, nobles hungry to see what he would do. The animals and creatures, the actual citizen’s of Narnia, tensed. As if they were awaiting his word, or an order.  Gradually they all returned to their previous conversations when he didn’t stir further.

He sighed.  “Wish me luck?”

Peter dismissed the request with a wave of his hand, and instead offered his  sibling a smile.

“You don’t need it.”

Edmund pushed through the crowd, and to his relief only a few from his neighboring countries stopped him along the way. It was always work, and it was almost never ending, but it was his other sister who came to his rescue this time.  As Susan came to his side, he offered her a look of relief as she placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Gentlemen, I do believe my brother has some place to be, but please, if the matters are urgent you may discuss them with me.”  

Before they could protest, Susan bumped Edmund with her hip and sent him on his way.  He picked up his pace until he reached the open doors of the balcony. He hesitated, and instead waited a moment before interrupting her solitude.  She was leaning against the railing, and the wind brought her hair up to dance along the edges of her face. She seemed so serene in that moment, her body slacked as she watched the waves crash into the rocks below.  

The formalities were long behind them.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

She startled at his sudden appearance, but as she gazed over her shoulder there was nothing but warmth in her green eyes.  “I would like nothing more.”

He stepped farther out into the open, and stopped at her side. “It’s nice to see you again Noel,” he offered as her attention  returned to the water, but she smiled all the same.

“Likewise, your Majesty.”

She knew he hated being called that, and he knew that she hated smalltalk.

“Would it be wrong of me to admit I didn’t think you would show?” At the time he couldn’t bring himself not to extend an invitation.

She laughed, and he felt his heart lift with the sound. “No, for a moment I considered staying home, but there was something here I wanted to see.”

He found himself arching an eyebrow in question. Surely it couldn’t be the ocean below she was watching so intently. The beach was open for any, and it was even more marvelous to look at during the day.  “Something?”

“Someone.”   She corrected herself promptly, and planted her heel firmly on the ground so she could turn to him.  Her arms were crossed, and the emerald jewelry that hung from her neck glinted in the light. “If you don’t mind me being so bold in saying so.”

“Gracious no,  I'd prefer it.”

She took a step closer then, and he didn’t shy away.  Her sweet aroma of summer lilacs snagged at his senses, and he resisted the urge to close that gap between them, as he has already done numerous times before.  

“Then dare I say it was you, my King, that I came to see?”

He watched her earthly eyes, and the haunting mischief that reflected in them.   

“Do you dare?”

“I do.”

A chill crept up his spine, at the thought of kissing her there, hungrily and out of depth.  Where people could see, and murmur, and repulse. She was no noble, and he was no man that had the pleasure of running away with her.   She caught onto his hesitancy, and offered him another smile.

One that told him that it was okay, she could wait.  They could wait.

“Love is a fragile thing.” He murmured, sadly, watching her expression soften as they both turned back to the dark waves, and the sky above.

“Edmund?” She inquired softly after a few moments, and he hummed, as her hand intertwined with his for a painfully fleeting moment.

“Love is an eternal thing.”

[caeliri]

Wake of Woe

[[ Belated aftermath to the last Summerglen event, Fallow Fields and Hallowhearths!

Thank you once again to everyone who came to the event, it warms my heart that people have taken an interest in Summerglen and the story I’ve been slowly writing around it!]]

The bitter tang of blood was heavy on the air, plumes of sickly sweet rot rolling over the ruined floor in billows and bursts, permeating upheaved stone and sinking deep into the dark soil below. Spring was on the wind, bearing with it wet-heat and pollen that danced in heavy clouds through the fel-streaked valleys, but within the devastated halls of the chapel it only served to hasten the putrefaction of flesh and heating stagnant smears of blood until they birthed a more belly-churning scent. A hellish haze hung around her shoulders, and Caeliri let herself be swallowed whole by the trademarks of decomposition.

“Why do you return here?”

Caeliri’s eyes swept along the long-dried river of blood, following the snaking trail of maroon down it’s path to the edge of similarly colored skirts. She did not need to raise her eyes to her Seneschal’s face; she knew the woman’s pale, thin lips were pulled into a solemn frown and that the crimson brows above her bright blue eyes were furrowed tight enough to cast shadows over her sallow skin.

Lyla Redgrove was not a woman to question her employer or her oft-odd habits; the quel’dorei was stoic, polite, statuesque in the way that frightened people are, still when they did not need to move, exact in their motions when they did, trying to minimize their existence until they blended into the woodwork. It did not make her less effective in her position; she ran the young Dame’s small household with a terseness that did not allow for error, as if error was the foremost thing to be fearful of.

Thus, she did not question commands that came from Caeliri’s lips, nor offer argument as Liadove did; it was not her.

Not usually.

It was beyond the scope of Caeliri’s downcast vision, but Lyla’s hands - pale and near skeletal, ran through with veins so stark blue that her skin seemed almost translucent - curled tightly together, catching a loose length of blood-colored skirt and sliding it between her knuckles to soothe the tension twisting in her belly.

Caeliri said nothing, turning her head slightly towards the gruesome mound of flesh that had once been villagers, then a monster made of their disparate parts, then nothing more than loose skin and punctured organs that the Sunguard had laid to rest.

For days she’d come to the chapel and sat among the rot and ruin, and it was beyond worrisome.

No answer given, Lyla pressed on, her voice wavering --

“This behavior… is beyond unseemly. It speaks of madness--”

Reflexively Caeliri laughed - a short, sharp sound, entirely unlike her normal symphony of sweet giggles - and it did not help her case, “You think me mad, Lyla?”

The corner of Lyla’s mouth twitched, nearly reeling back into a fearful grimace, “Not mad,” a pregnant pause passed between them as the frightful woman selected her next word with a scholar’s scrutiny,”... morose.”

“Morose,” Caeliri parroted back, her shoulders heaving with a sigh. She forced her eyes away from the floor to the heap of rotting faces. In the slurry of skin, there were faces she recognized - decrepit and looseleaf as they were - and it made her stomach turn. Light be blessed there was nothing but bile in there. Guilt, hot and sharp, panged in Caeliri’s chest, and she drew in a deep breath, tasting turning flesh and old blood on her tongue, “...I can’t just leave them--”

“They are no longer; you mourn nothing but meat.”

It was a harsh truth; when the Legion’s fel-fissures were purified, the magic that bound the unwilling spirits of the dead to Summerglen was severed, and they had fluttered away like so much sand on a windy beach. Still, Caeliri could feel a lingering presence, a whisper of agony still etched in the stones of Summerglen, an unending reminder of the life lost here.

She’d noticed it first with Elleynah, in the ramshackle ruins of Azsuna; phantom fragments seemed drawn to them both - Elleynah for her Sight, Caeliri for her sundered soul, still marked by death, blackened by the Winter of Woe and the time she’d spent in the unwieldy Inbetween - and even now, a thousand miles away from that cursed place, she felt the fear and pain of those whose lives had been ended here. Caeliri had hoped that employing the talents of those Light-blessed would purge the spirits in their entirety, but it seemed as though the echoes of their violent end would never fade.

Or maybe it was all in her mind. Maybe at last all the guilt she slung over her slim shoulders was crushing the sense out of her.

”You only make yourself suffer more.”

Silence swelled between them again, and Caeliri could not - would not - pull her eyes from the bloody avenues that ran through the crumbling floors. “Do you know why I built this place?”

“For spiritual enlightenment?”

“For sanctuary.”

At last she hauled herself up from the floor, the motion slow and labored, as if her slight frame weighed a thousand, thousand pounds and ached with ages that did not belong to her. She kept the same haggard pace she moved to the nearest support column, fingertips finding a vein of pale grey that snaked lazily through the creamy stone, tracing it up and out as far as her arm could reach as she spoke, “Lord Firestorm advised against it; he told me that funds would be better spent on arms and armor, on barracks, on something befitting war… but he ceded to my judgement. He let me make my choice, because I knew Summerglen better, and put forth the money to build this place.”

“It was a noble endeavor,” Lyla offered, an earnest edge in her voice; what else would a Confessor say?

“It was,” Caeliri agreed, letting her fingers slide back down the stone, until her hand came limply to her side. “This place was supposed to be for everyone, all faiths, for them to find solace and comfort, for us to hold sermons or village meetings or just give people a place to be alone with their faith. I wanted to fortify this place, so that it would be a bastion, a final stand for the people of Summerglen if ever the time arose. Tahnuu was meant to help me secure the supplies to erect Lightforged barriers.”

The Draenei had not failed on her part; with old hatreds laid to rest, it was easy to facilitate a meeting with engineers eagerly adopting the blessed metals of the Lightforged, and several Artificers of the Lightforged themselves. But no warrior of the faith would freely relent on their divine gifts without scrutiny, and rather pursue her initial plan to fortify the chapel with other worldly advancements… Caeliri had burned her favor on a gift.

“You spent the allotment of supplies on Lord Dawnstrider’s arm,” Lyla stated simply, her voice bereft of judgement - that didn’t stop Caeliri from flinching where she stood. “You feel guilty.”

“I am guilty,” Caeliri turned, letting her back thud against the pillar, “I told them this place was safe. I told them, time and time again, that this would be their safe heaven should anything happen.” Her hand shot out towards the lingering, lifeless lump in the corner, but Lyla’s eyes would not follow her arm. “They all came here, seeking safety, and they died here.”

“You ordered the evacuation of Summerglen prior to the assault, did you not?”

Caeliri let her hand drop heavily to her side, her wrist striking her own bony hip so hard it sent an ache shivering through her arm. “I did.”

“Many citizens stayed behind, did they not?”

“Yes, but --”

“There is no ‘but’ -- there is nothing more you could have done. The Archon, your Lord, ordered you to the west to defend the Evergrove, and you went. What difference would it have made, had you come to Summerglen?” Lyla’s pale, thin lips pressed into a stern line. “You would have traded lives in the Evergrove for lives here - maybe. More likely than not, you would have died here.”

“I would not--”

“You would have stayed and held the line until every last villager escaped. Do you know who stayed to hold the line?”

Caeliri did not answer the question - it felt pejorative and foolish to offer a response. She knew the names of the Guardians who had stayed behind, and she knew where they were now.

Lyla did not press her point. Between them the silence drew on, until it was taut and oppressive.

A sigh slipped through the former Confessor’s lips, and at last the tension that trembled through her knuckles eased ever so slightly. Daintily, she lifted up her dark skirts and crossed the space between them, small feet weaving artfully over the filth that stained the stones. Lyla laid one pale, bony hand on Caeliri’s shoulder, and Caeliri could feel the cold seeping through the shoulder of her blouse. “This is not penance - this is self-mutilation of the soul. You ruin yourself with this quest for moral purity. Your suffering now does not ease theirs then. You have already committed yourself to Summerglen’s renewal, this,” Lyla let loose her skirts and wafted her now free hand through the air, her skin catching the light and seeming to glow, “solves nothing. Nor does it help you grieve, stewing in your mistakes. Reflect, adapt, but do not linger in the remnants of what-has-been.”

The effort of touch grew too much for the Steward to bear, and she pulled her hand away, taking a few shuffling steps backwards to regain a more appropriate distance. “The Anori priests will be here any day now to assist with the last rites and the funeral pyres; you needn’t maintain this vigil any longer.” Lyla offered nothing more than a polite curtsey, and left, artfully dodging the ruined remnants of the chapel as she made her way back to the manor.

Caeliri was not so quick to depart, tethered to this place by a thick strand of remorse, but slowly, she pressed forward, down the stairs, along the aisle, and out into the white-hot light of day. It was harsh enough to sting her eyes, and she lifted an arm to block it, wincing against the brightness. There was a clarity in the burning as enlightening as Lyla’s harsh words, and when the world around her began to bleed back into view, Caeliri hefted a mighty sigh, deflating slightly where she stood - before pulling her shoulders up and back.

She had sworn to see this through unto the end - she would not renege on her promise to the citizens of Summerglen. If she could stare down the black-rot face of death and still stand to swing a sword and bear a shield, she could rebuild a village ravaged.

[[ Tags: @vaelrin @stormandozone @veloestian @thesunguardmg @telchis ]]

[alexandralyman]

Beyond the Horizon: Chapter 40

Fic Update: Beyond the Horizon

Summary:  When Princess Emma's ship is captured by the Jolly Roger and Captain Killian Jones, she offers herself as a hostage for ransom if he will let the ship and the other passengers go. With Emma, Killian remembers the honour he once held dear, and Emma catches glimpses of the gentleman Killian had been. Against all odds, the pirate and the princess begin to fall for each other.

Read this chapter on ff.net here

                                              Chapter Forty                                                 Pixie Dust

Killian took a deep breath when he came up on deck, inhaling the sweet scent that perfumed the air in the small cove where the Jolly was anchored. Lieutenant Courtice’s accusations had burrowed under his skin more than he wanted to admit, each expertly-aimed barb reminding him of the man he used to be. Or the man he still was, a few recent good deeds could hardly be enough to wash away the considerable sins of his past. The lieutenant clearly didn’t think so, and neither did Emma’s father, Killian could tell. There was no sign of the the two of them or of Emma’s mother, and he wondered if Courtice had gone to tell the king and queen about his many crimes, letting them know exactly why the name Killian Jones was feared and reviled across the sea. Perhaps he was even pressing his own suit, putting forth his name as a possible match for their daughter once they returned to the Enchanted Forest and regained their kingdom at last. He wasn’t a prince or a lord, but Killian was sure the lieutenant came from much more honourable stock than he did. The glory that would have redeemed the Jones family at long last had died along with Liam, when he’d been cast adrift in the world to forge his own destiny alone.

It was warm in the cove but not humid, not like the thick jungle on Neverland where sweat had beaded on his brow and plastered the linen of his shirt to his back as he’d followed Liam unknowingly into danger. Everything about that island had been wrong, it had felt wrong, it had looked wrong, it had even smelled wrong, though lush and green there had been an unmistakable whiff of decay hanging in the air like the rotting of overripe fruit left too long on the vine. But the Fairy Queen’s domain was as beautiful as a perfectly cut jewel and when he took another deep breath the smell was like a mix of all the good things he could think of. Freshly baked bread and highest quality rum, and the sky after a heavy rainstorm, when the clouds parted and everything had been washed clean and fresh from the downpour. But most of all it smelled like roses, a scent he was rather more intimately familiar with now than he ever had been before thanks to the soap he bought Emma every time they made port. The floral aroma was particularly stubborn, it clung to the collars of all his shirts, lingered in his bed linen and permeated the handkerchiefs she unabashedly stole from him while he pretended not to notice. Would the scent of roses remain even after she was gone, another ghost to taunt him in the dead of night when he was left alone in a cold bed and sleep wouldn’t come no matter how much rum he drank?

“Captain on deck!”

The crew all snapped to attention at the cry from McIntyre until he released them with a flick of his wrist and an order of, “Back to your stations, lads.” The deck was a hive of activity under the bright afternoon sun, the men preparing the ship for departure so they’d be ready to set sail the moment the tides turned the next morning. Ropes were tossed back and forth, the lines were being checked and rechecked, but the sails were still down. They’d be raised last, to catch the wind that would carry them home.

Emma was standing at the rail, seemingly oblivious to the hustle and bustle around her while she stared across the water at the narrow gap in the forbidding cliffs. It was the only passage back out to the open sea, and Killian supposed the Fairy Queen would use her magic to widen it again so they could leave. As it stood now, a rowboat couldn’t even squeeze through it at the moment, let alone the much wider bulk of the Jewel.

He blinked, his stride faltering for a moment at the mental slip. An old memory drifted through his mind, of a dark beach littered with flotsam and jetsam and white sails raised high against a stormy sky.

“She’s very pretty. What’s her name?”

“Killian?”

Emma had turned to face him, appearing completely calm and unruffled despite the chaos that had followed them at every turn. She was the only one who called him that now, he was “Captain” or “Sir” to the crew, “pirate” or “scoundrel” (and...worse) to men like Courtice and those who had been forced into surrender at the point of his sword, but never Killian, not anymore. Nor had anyone defended him so vigorously as she just had to her own parents, like he was worthy of more than fear or scorn. He’d almost believed it, too.

“That was quite passionate back there, Princess. Reminded me of the day we met, though I find I much prefer being your ally instead of your opponent.”

This time he leaned against the rail next to her, crossing one foot over the other and watching her own memory of that day play across her face with the echo of her voice in his ear.

“Withdraw your men or I will throw myself in and you will lose your prize!”

Now she smiled instead of threatened, looking up at him with a teasing gleam in her eye, “What would you have done if I’d had jumped off the ship?”

“Gone in after you, of course,” he answered , with a wink, “What kind of pirate would I be to let such a valuable treasure slip through my fingers?”

He reached for her hand and their fingers twined together easily in the space between them. Killian felt a tiny spark like the strike of a match to flint, a pulse of magic leaping from her palm to his that stole the breath from his lungs and made his heart skip a beat. Loose wisps of golden hair had escaped from her plait and stirred against her cheeks while he brought their joined hands to his lips again, brushing a kiss to the white skin that was as soft and seemingly as fragile as a rose petal.

Leather danced around his knees and he felt a cold draft on the back of his neck that made him frown with Emma’s hand still tucked in his. The wind was picking up, making crewmen shout as hats were almost snatched off their heads and a loose kerchief took flight like a bird, rising high in the air amid the rigging while the water in the lagoon started to move. Waves formed, tiny ripples that quickly grew and crashed white against the hull. Killian frowned, with the island on one side of the cove and the cliff on the other to give shelter there shouldn’t be more than the slightest breeze and he looked up, expecting to see stormclouds rolling in over the main mast. But the sky was still clear, a brilliant blue as far as the eye could see without a single cloud in sight. It was perfect weather for sailing, the wind was even coming in from the west now and if they were out on the ocean they could be making good headway towards the Enchanted Forest in the east with such favourable conditions. The gold and silver leaves on the trees fluttered towards the east as if pointing the way, while the tide began to run out and the beach grew so rapidly that a few fish were actually left behind, flopping on the sand until the next wave washed them back out. It was all happening so fast, too fast, and the Jolly drifted with the pull of the tide until it strained against the anchor line that kept them tethered in place. It held, but he could hear the thick chain begin to squeak and groan in protest and was almost afraid the links would snap from the sudden force of it.

“She’s coming.”

Emma’s voice and her hand squeezing his tight drew his attention and he followed her gaze, to the ball of violet light that heralded the Fairy Queen’s imminent arrival. It was crossing the lagoon towards his ship and was followed by dozens of smaller white ones, like a swarm of fireflies that spilled through the trees and skimmed low over the water, heading straight at them. The crew all stopped and stared, googling like schoolboys at the sight of them all while high, tinkling laughter echoed in the air.

No, not just tinkling. Knowing laughter.

“It is time.”

The Fairy Queen appeared in a gown that was even more fanciful than the last, her skirts wider than she was tall and lavishly trimmed with lavender ribbons that fluttered and danced on the breeze while she hovered above them. She wore a different tiara and a necklace even more elaborate than Emma’s sapphires, made up of hundreds of diamonds that cascaded down like a waterfall to cover her deep decolletage and sparkled brightly in the sun. But for once he had no eye for the jewellery, ignoring the display of wealth in front of him to glance from side to side at the other fairies surrounding his ship. They were too small to make out even at a squint and he groped for the hilt of his sword with sudden unease. He couldn’t see them, but he could hear them, still laughing and giggling as they darted around his men. This wasn’t Neverland...but old habits died hard and he couldn’t shake the feeling that the little queen knew far more than she was letting on.

“We’ll sail first thing in the morning with the tide,” he assured the queen, keeping watch on the others from the corner of his eye, “As you can see my men are making haste as we speak to prepare for our departure.”

“No, Captain, I’m afraid that time is no longer on our side. You must leave and you must leave now, I can feel the Dark Magic rising more than it has in decades and I fear that Regina is attempting once more to enact her terrible curse. Our only saving grace is that she does not yet possess everything she needs, but if she gets her hands on the final missing piece and you don’t stop her in time then all will be lost, and so it will remain until the day that was prophesied.”

She stared at Emma with a significant look that made her stiffen beside him, her free hand reaching up to clutch at the lapel of his coat.

“My twenty-eighth birthday,” she whispered, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Emma was still nineteen, he’d taken her ship in the spring and she’d been born at the end of fall, she’d yet to celebrate her twentieth birthday and her twenty-eighth was nothing but a distant speck on the horizon.

“Yes,” the Fairy Queen nodded, “Until then time itself will stop, all the Happy Endings will be undone, and no more will come. No one will wish upon a star and even magic itself will be forgotten.”

The cold feeling ran right down his spine and it wasn’t from the wind. The Happy Endings will be undone….he’d been happier than he ever dreamed possible and with each word the queen spoke he could almost see it being snatched away right before his very eyes. He never backed down from a fight...but he’d been unable to stop his father from abandoning two small, trusting boys like a thief in the night, he hadn’t stopped the poison from reaching Liam’s heart and taking away the only person in the world who’d loved him...he couldn’t lose like that again. He couldn’t. More than the cut of any lash…it might be the thing that finally broke him at last.

Her strange violet eyes met his while his thoughts raced ahead. If they kept sailing west they might be able to outrun this Dark Curse and he could shelter Emma safely for the next decade, keep his own happiness close and leave the rest of the kingdom to suffer under Regina’s thumb. He was selfish enough to want it with a desperation that clawed at his belly, while a little voice whispered in his ear that her own parents had planned for it when they’d sent her away in the first place, and he’d promised her mother to follow through if push came to shove. “Take her and run”, the voice whispered, “You’re no great hero, Killian Jones.”

“Even if these winds hold all the way back to the Enchanted Forest, the Jolly will be lucky to break twenty knots and we can’t sustain that pace for more than a day, two at most, or the ship will start to break from the stress. It will still take us weeks to return.”

Killian glanced down at Emma, steeling himself for another argument. He told himself it wasn’t a push, exactly, just a tiny nudge and not a lie. She’d know if he was lying, but that didn’t mean she’d be happy about what he was about to propose. She still hadn’t said yes to his tentative offer of marriage, even though the sea diamond continued to reside on her finger. He’d been tempted to ask her again, to do it properly, like a gentleman, and get down on one knee, but-

He was no coward, but he was afraid to hear her answer. Taking him impulsively as a lover while alone and stranded far from home was one thing, but a husband...that was forever. Emma looked up at him and her hand splayed across his chest, over his heart. He told himself it didn’t matter, his sword was hers either way by his own sworn oath. If she wouldn’t be his wife, she was still his queen.

“I’m sorry my love,” he murmured, willing her to accept this, at least, “If there was any other way to get us back in time-”

“Leave that to me, Captain.”

His head jerked up and he saw that the Fairy Queen was still watching them close, a tiny smile on her rosebud lips.

“Your Majesty?” he asked, alarm bells starting to ring in his head. He’d never sat at the gaming table with a fairy before, but he could tell that she was still holding trump cards close to her chest.

“Raise the sails and bring up the anchor, and I will show you,” she said, a cryptic statement that revealed absolutely nothing. The question of how she planned to get them across the whole of the western sea when she couldn’t leave the island raised to the tip of his tongue but he hesitated. The little queen had said that it was his belief that had brought him to the place when others faltered and Killian sensed that this was another test of his faith. His hand twitched and he felt the weight of his rings, two conflicting orders warring within him as the smooth metal rubbed against his skin.

“Mr. Smee!”

Smee was trying to bat away the little fairies away from his face as if they really were flies, without much luck. He muttered something under his breath that only made the giggling louder, eyes crossing comically when one flew right at his nose and banked at the last possible second before darting away again beyond his reach.

“Aye, Captain?” he replied absently, clearly distracted by the balls of light taunting him.

“Raise anchor. Hoist the sails.”

That got the first mate’s attention and his hand abruptly fell back down at his side while a fairy lifted his knit cap and dropped it back down so that it flopped heavily over his forehead, “Captain?”

“You heard me. Relay the order.”

His lips disappeared into his beard as he blinked rather owlishly at them a few times, but then he quickly fixed his cap and bellowed through cupped hands, “Raise the anchor! Hoist the sails! Captain’s orders!”

“Raise the anchor!”

“Hoist the sails!”

“Captain’s orders!”

The cry was taken up by the rest of the crew as the men still up in the rigging began to climb down, calling back and forth as they tied off lines with grim determination. With the high winds and the rapid current if the anchor was raised and the sails were hoisted into place then there’d be nothing to stop them from slamming right into the cliffs, the cove was too small for any kind of maneuvering that would save his ship from being smashed to pieces against the rocks. Whatever the Fairy Queen planned to do, she would have to do it quickly.

“I should go tell Mother and Papa that we’re leaving now,” Emma said, pulling away from him. He immediately felt colder and it wasn’t from the whip of the wind. His shoulders hunched under the heavy leather while she picked her way over the thick ropes that snaked across the deck and disappeared down below.

“Captain.”

The fairy swooped down so that they were face to face and the cacophony surrounding them seemed to fade at once into a muted hum, as if it was coming from a great distance. She looked both young and old with her unlined face and white hair and he could feel the magic that emanated from her like the darkening of the sky before a lightning storm, crackling with immense power despite her tiny form and fanciful dress. When she spoke it was with the air of a pronouncement, a royal decree that was tinged with a hint of warning.

“Our pasts do not define our future, Captain Jones, and forgiveness is a gift. Remember that, and remember that love will always be the most powerful magic of all.”

“Even for a pirate?”

His voice cracked on the words and he turned, forcing a cough to avoid the piercing stare of her violet eyes. His whole plan hinged on dredging up the dark past that Courtice had thrown in his face and once Emma saw him like that...finally saw him for the man he truly was, how could she possibly forgive him? How could she still love him, after all was said and done?

The queen’s voice softened, going as gentle and as soothing as a long-forgotten lullaby, “Take heart, dear Captain. There’s a Happy Ending out there for everyone, even pirates. You just have to believe.”

With that she flew off, across the deck to where Emma had returned with her parents in tow. And Lieutenant Courtice, but Killian ignored him and watched as the queen spoke directly into Emma’s ear for several long moments, hovering in the air with her wings beating in a quicktime rhythm that made them nothing but a blinding blur of lavender against her back, a bright spot of colour that drew all eyes to the sight. But whatever she was saying was clearly meant only for his princess, her mother and father both hung back when the fairy raised her hand to keep them at bay and it was impossible to hear anything above the snap of the ropes in the wind and the shouts of the men.

“Captain! We’re ready to hoist the sail!”

The Fairy Queen kissed Emma on the forehead, a shower of violet light falling over the both of them and the feel of magic pricking under his skin again as he watched, before she rose up with a smile and came back to the middle of the deck.

“You’d best take the helm now, Captain. Keep to the east, and the wind will carry you home.”

Killian glanced at the cliffs and the narrow passage between them, still completely impenetrable for the Jolly, and over the expectant faces of the crew, all in position to set sail. They would follow his orders to the death, he knew, he was the captain, and he held all the lives aboard in the palm of his hand. Not for the first time, but never quite like this. Another test of his mettle, he supposed. You just have to believe.

Emma’s hand slipped into his again and she looked at him with nothing but absolute trust. She believed, and it was time to fulfill the other half of the vow he had made all those months ago when she’d returned to him against all reason and sense, and take her home. He took his place at the helm with her standing behind him, resting his hands lightly on the well-seasoned wood.

“Hoist the sails!”

“Aye, aye, Captain! Hoisting the sails!”

There was a great rattling noise as the men pulled on the lines and the sails began to rise up both masts, filling at once with the wind as they went. In the same instant, the Fairy Queen and all the little fairies rose up high in the air as well, above the top of the main mast and the crimson flag that hung there. The grinning skull and crossed bones disappeared under what looked like a sudden fall of snow, raining down from the sky. Only it wasn’t snow and there still wasn’t a cloud in sight, it was-

“Fairy dust,” Emma breathed, one hand resting on his shoulder.

Once, long ago, the Jewel of the Realm had flown on the feathers of the last remaining Pegasus, second star to the right and straight on til morning. The magical sail was gone, but a fine glittering powder drifted down and coated the lengths of waxed canvas with a sheen of pure gold. The sails billowed and snapped, and Killian kept both hands firm on the wheel as the prow started to lift. Crewman rushed to the sides of the ship and looked down, open-mouthed, while he could see the king and queen quickly grasp hands and Fergus whooped, pulling off his hat. The cliffs loomed and Killian felt his jaw tighten even as a thrill ran through him at the feel of soaring into the air, wind in his face and sky instead of sea.

You just have to believe.

The Jolly Roger sailed over the top of the jagged rocks with room to spare and when he glanced over his shoulder the island was gone. White mist rolled over the ocean as the Fairy Queen and her little kingdom disappeared, hidden once more by the magic that kept them shielded from the rest of the world. Or not, Killian thought, remembering the queen’s warning about the Dark Curse and wishing that he’d thought to ask what it was that Regina still sought, the missing piece the queen claimed the powerful sorceress still needed. A few faint shouts were heard as they flew over the Mermaid’s Song, still anchored and waiting off the now absent coast and undoubtedly stunned by the sight of the Jolly soaring overhead. The other ship quickly retreated into the distance as they kept climbing higher and higher, into the very clouds themselves. Some part of him realized that he was now saddled with Liam Courtice for the rest of the journey, there was no way the man could survive the drop, let alone swim back to his own ship, and he gripped the wheel a little tighter, knuckles going white. The winds filled the golden sails almost to bursting as he laid in a course to the east, back to the land of his birth and the destiny that awaited them all.

There was no turning back now.

                                                  ......

“Emma?”

Killian came into the cabin and shut the door behind him, an expression she couldn't quite decipher on his face. He looked a bit nervous, which was rare, but she supposed everyone on the ship was a little nervous at the moment. The shock of it hadn’t worn off yet and Emma didn’t imagine that it would, they weren't sailing, they were flying, high in the air above the clouds themselves. The Fairy Queen had given the ship wings, a parting gift like the ones bestowed in the many tales of her kind. Emma wondered if she’d ever see Violet again, somehow, or if she’d have to remain forever hidden away on her strange isle.

The price she paid for being queen.

“Where’s Fergus? He was supposed to stay here with you.”

He glanced from side to side as he spoke, looking for the boy while one hand disappearing inside his coat.

“Galley,” she explained, drawing a pattern on the table with the tip of her finger, “He said he was hungry.”

That got a hint of a smile, “He always is.”

In truth, she’d also sent Fergus to fetch a bite because she’d needed a few moments alone to think. Everything had happened so fast and her head was still spinning with it all, the Fairy Queen’s warning, the Evil Queen’s curse, she wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep, to wake in her lover’s arms with his kiss on her lips and her great destiny forgotten as nothing but a dream.

“He loves you, you know. Fergus. He’s always loved you.”

“Hmm,” Emma mused, “Is he the only one?”

She loved him too, the boy with the sandy mop and the large dark eyes. He was like Killian, but dark where he was fair and fair where he was dark. She loved them both, just as she loved Red, and Melody, they weren't blood, but they were family.

Killian leaned against the ladder with one booted foot propped against the bottom rung, watching her. Her skirts rustled with a whisper of silk when she stood up from the table and went over to the window, looking out through the panes of glass to the endless expanse of blue beyond the hull of the ship. She could feel the magic of the fairy dust, running through the wood under her hand like the vibration of distant hoofbeats on an empty road. The path ahead was shrouded in mist and at the end of it lay only uncertainty. A woman Emma had never met, a power she didn’t understand, a destiny she didn't want...a stray rose petal lay on the ledge below the window like a drop of blood, red, and curled at the edges that were just starting to turn black.

“It’s difficult to be certain, but I believe that at this speed we’ll reach the Enchanted Forest at some point before sunrise tomorrow morning. Once we land, your parents will have to remain hidden down below while we search out a ship flying the Evil Queen’s flag.”

She nodded without turning around, that made sense. Regina still believed that her parents were dead, they would have to maintain the ruse when they returned.

“Emma…I….when we,” he said, somewhat haltingly, as if each word pained him to speak, “When we make contact with the queen’s men, I will have to act in a manner that betrays nothing of what I truly feel for you. I will have to say things that I don’t mean, perhaps even threaten you-”

“It doesn’t matter,” she interrupted, twisting to face him.

The dark eyebrows rose while his voice dropped and took on an edge that made her back go straight, “Doesn’t it?”

A knife suddenly appeared in his hand as if by magic, gleaming in the light as he turned it to and fro. He touched the edge to his thumb and she gave a sharp inhale, feeling her nostrils flare and a burn in her lungs, but the blade only pressed a line into the skin without breaking it.

“Blunted,” Killian drawled, looking at the knife and not at her, “Wouldn’t even cut through butter now. But will it feel that way if I have to hold it to your throat?”

Emma felt a cold shiver run right down her spine at the image his words conjured in her mind. She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, and his chin dropped, long lashes resting dark against his cheeks as his eyes closed. The distance between them was small, but it loomed suddenly more large and forbidding than it ever did before. It was so quiet without the crashing of the waves outside to break the silence, the only sound was the faint echo of the wind.

He looked up when her hands landed on his chest, a shadow slashing jaggedly across his face. She’d been afraid of him once, fearful of the darkness that clung to him like the long leather coat. Now she reached up and touched her fingers to his temple, sweeping down and tracing the strong line of his whiskered jaw. He went utterly still save for a ragged breath, knife still clenched tight in his fist. His lips began to move, but she laid a finger over them before he could speak.

“No matter what you have to say or do, I’ll know that you’re lying.”

The knife fell to the planks with a clatter that she ignored, pushing the hilt aside with the toe of her shoe. Blunted edge or not, it couldn’t hurt her.

Night was beginning to fall outside the ship and the shadows lengthened around them even more. A few stray flecks of fairy dust glittered in Killian’s hair, catching the last of the light and bright against the inky locks. She went to brush them away and his hand seized hers, his eyes going wide.

“Where’s your ring?”

The fourth finger on her left hand was bare, or at least, that’s how it looked. Both their heads bent over it and she covered it with her right hand, making the sea diamond appear again in a brief flash of magic.

“Glamour spell,” she whispered, “To hide it. I knew I couldn’t wear it once we got back home...not in front of the Evil Queen...but...I didn’t want to take it off.”

The look that crossed his face at that almost broke her heart, staggering relief that had him slumping against the ladder at his back as his knees began to buckle and a hand flew to her hip while the other curled around the ring.

“It. Doesn’t. Matter.”

His eyes flew to hers as she said it again, as blue as the stone held between them. A mermaid’s tear, and another slipped down his cheek and over the scar that marred it in a damp trail. Emma told herself that this would be what she remembered when the time came, when his face was hard and his mouth was cruel. The memories were seared into her skin like a brand, the first dinner at his table, the night he had gambled for a kiss and lost, a hot bath and his arms around her in the dark, promises whispered into her hair while his heart beat softly against her chest. It fluttered under her fingers now when he pressed their joined hands to the rich silk of his waistcoat, brilliant red, the same one from that first night. Captain Killian Jones of the Jolly Roger, pirate, jailer...she remembered the harsh turn of the key in the lock, the fall of the shadows through the iron bars of the cell. When the time came she would remember the shadows that played across his face now, how open and soft he looked with a smile curling at the edges of his lip even as another tear joined the first. They don’t turn to diamonds when they fall, but then, he’s the sailor and she’s the princess.

“I thought we’d have a bit more time,” he sighed, “More time before I had to...I never wanted you to see me like that again.”

“Like what?” she asked, thumbing away the tear.

“A villain. I wanted to be a hero for you, Princess.”

She shook her head in disbelief, cupping his cheek, “You are a hero, Killian.”

“If you believe that, then maybe it's true.”

His arms went around her, drawing her to him and enveloping her in the warmth of his body as he rested his chin on top of her head. She felt the rise and fall of his chest under her cheek, “I can’t do this without you. I can’t face….her, alone.”

“You won’t, I promise. My sword is yours, always.”

“I love you.”

It came out as the barest whisper, but he heard it, his arms tightening and lips pressing to her hair.

“Say it again.”

Her eyes drifted shut, the spreading heat of him making her limbs slack as she was lifted off her feet as easily as if she were a small child. Flying without wings, but that’s what love was, wasn’t it? The words slipped easily over her lips while he carried her with his sword at his hip and fairy dust in his hair.

“I love you.”

[kujo1597]

Actually, That Was a Good Thing

A lot of time has passed since the beginning of Peridot’s tale. There have been a lot of ups and some downs. But overall things were going fairly well.

Too bad there was a six-foot five shadow hanging over Peridot’s shoulder.

There was no word on that however.

What Peridot needed was a nice date and Amethyst is always more than happy to give her that.

You can also read this on Archive of Our Own.

Chapter 9

A few weeks later and no update on Jaune. A normal person would conclude that there was nothing to worry about but stress was a part of Peridot’s life that will never leave.

She concluded that the only way this sense of dread would go away is if all the residents of Beach City chased her mother out of town with pitchforks and torches.

The mental image made Peridot smile.

If only...

Peridot check her phone and saw that Amethyst sent her a text just a few minutes ago.

Ams: Yo, call me when you get a chance.

Normally Amethyst would simply phone Peridot.

And why’s Amethyst up so early? She’s off work.

Peridot decided to get ready for the day before making her phone call.

A groggy Peridot is never great at making conversation.

Feeling nice and refreshed and ready to make a phone call, Peridot phoned Amethyst.

“Mornin’ Peri!” Amethyst sounded very chipper for somebody who isn’t a morning person.

“Good morning,” Peridot giggled. “Someone’s in a good mood.”

“Of course! Next week’s our six-month anniversary!”

“It is?” Guilt flooded Peridot. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize it’s been that long already.”

“Hey don’t sweat it, you’ve had a lot on your mind.”

This made Peridot feel a bit better. “Okay.”

“So anyway, I was thinking that we could eat somewhere nice together.”

Peridot started going over her budget.

This pause told Amethyst a lot. “Don’t worry about the money, I saved up for this.”

“You’re too good to me.”

“Oh no, don’t start that up again. You’re plenty good to me, let me treat you.”

“Alright. So, when are we going?”

“I was thinking Wednesday or Thursday, I waited to make the reservation in case you had plans.”

“Nope, no plans, well, not before now,” Peridot winked, Amethyst obviously couldn’t see it but it felt so natural.

“Smoooooth Peri,” the sarcasm was obvious. “I’ll update you when I reserve a table.”

“Sounds good.”

“‘Kay, talk to you then! Love you, bye.”

“I love you too, bye.”

Peridot hung up and felt a slew of emotions.

First, excitement. This would be my first time eating someplace nice with Amethyst.

Second, happiness. Amethyst kept track of how long we’ve been dating.

Third, concern. There wasn’t enough time to make something nice as a present, and the budget won’t allow for an expensive purchase.

Fourth, regret. Why did I have to buy that awesome model kit?

Fifth, calmness. Amethyst doesn’t expect me to buy her nice things.

Six, some guilt. Of course Amethyst doesn’t expect anything. She’s dating someone in massive amounts of debt. She deserves to be treated too.

And finally, determination. Amethyst deserves that present, darn it. 

Peridot picked out some purple yarn and got to work.

It’d take some all-nighters but Peridot wanted to crochet the best present she could.

Peridot deeply inhaled after she she got out of her car. She adjusted her dark-green three-piece suit, it rode up a bit while she was driving.

She ran her fingers through her hair. After staring in the mirror for an hour she decided to not style it and kept it in its somewhat feminine long bob-cut.

Part of that hour of staring was trying to decide which plugs to wear.

Despite the fact that she only had the two pairs.

She eventually settled on her solid black ones, in her opinion they go better with formal clothes than the tunnels she usually wears.

Peridot’s heart sank, she almost forgot the present!

She fetched the large box from the car, the gift was wrapped in green paper and had a deep purple ribbon on the top.

Peridot’s never been the religious sort but that didn’t stop her from praying that she wouldn’t need her cane on this date. Her knee was sore but still in good enough shape to just need a brace.

Her legs shook as the walked to the restaurant door.

Logically, there was no reason to be so nervous. It was a date with Amethyst, they’ve dated plenty of times before.

But this was the first date where Peridot was carrying a huge box into an eating establishment. 

A silly voice in her head said, “is it really much more conspicuous than your usual hairstyle?”

A giggle left Peridot’s mouth without her realizing it.

Okay, maybe the box wasn’t that bad.

The heavy door of the restaurant opened and wow, Amethyst wasn’t kidding about it being fancy.

Speaking, or rather, thinking of Amethyst, she wasn’t there yet.

“Good evening miss,” the host greeted Peridot. “Do you have a reservation?”

Peridot smiled awkwardly. “Sort of? My girlfriend made it. It should be under Amethyst -” it was then that Peridot realized that she never asked Amethyst’s last name, “-oh dear, this is embarrassing, I’m afraid I don’t know her full name...” Peridot’s face turned red, he voice squeaked. “I’ll just sit down-and... and wait for her.”

“Okay, we haven’t had an ‘Amethyst’ arrive yet so you haven’t missed her.”

“Oh good,” Peridot sighed, her cheeks were still red, she leaned back on the bench. “I’m such a nervous mess.”

“Is this your first date?”

“No, we’ve been dating for six months,” Peridot laughed bitterly. “So it’s kind of pathetic that I’m so nervous. We’ve just never eaten somewhere nice before.”

“It’ll be fine,” the host reassure Peridot. “And if it helps, you can imagine that you’re at a fast food restaurant.”

Peridot smiled. “One where it’s too dark to see your food.”

“If you ask me, it’d be an improvement.”

This made Peridot laugh. “Thank you, you really helped.”

“You’re welcome.”

The ten minute wait passed by pretty quickly thanks to getting so sucked into a game.

“Hey Peri, sorry I’m late,” Amethyst sounded a bit out of breath.

The sight of Amethyst stunned Peridot.

She was gorgeous.

Amethyst wore a light-purple mock-neck sweater, it hung nicely on her shapely body.

And Amethyst didn’t typically wear skirts but decided to make an exception for this date by wearing a black skirt that stopped just above her knee.

Her hair... it looked so beautiful in a bun. Amethyst’s left eye was covered by her hair as it usually was, her right eye and her piercings glittered with what little light was in the restaurant.

She was so picturesque.

And Peridot was so tongue-tied. “That's, uh, okay. You made it,” Peridot kicked herself for not immediately complimenting her date. “You’re pretty.”

Whyyyyyyy was that all that came out?

Amethyst didn’t seem offended, in fact, she looked very amused. She leaned into Peridot. “You’re handsome.” With a wink Amethyst gave Peridot a kiss. “Kidding, we all get tongue-tied. Well, I wasn’t kidding about you being handsome. That suits looks great on you.”

“Thank you.”

Amethyst went up to the host and a waitress came to lead her and Peridot to their table.

“Oh, miss,” the host noticed a box on the bench. “You forgot your package.”

“Thanks,” Peridot ran and grabbed it then rejoined Amethyst. She started to feel bashful when Amethyst stared at the large gift. “Um, now that I think about it; perhaps I should have left this in the car.”

“Nah, it’s cool, I reserved a booth for us,” Amethyst held Peridot’s hand. “It’s more intimate. And it gives me a place to put my purse.”

“Practical and personable, my two favourite ‘p’s.”

“Nerd,” Amethyst kissed Peridot on the cheek.

They arrived at the table and opened their menus.

Amethyst gave Peridot a firm look. “Promise me something. Don’t you dare look at the prices. I know you, you’ll order the cheapest thing they have. Just pick what sounds good to you.”

“You’re dead-set on treating me,” Peridot smiled crookedly. “Unfortunately I’ve already seen the prices. But don’t worry, I won’t concern myself with them.” Peridot’s mouth twisted. “Well, no steak and lobster, ordering something that pricey is just plain rude.”

Amethyst softly chuckled. “Alright.” She frowned in thought. “I’m debating ordering wine, it’s kind of a big night. Ugh, but I haven’t drank in years.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, why did you give up alcohol?”

“I just don’t like what it does to me, I made a lot of mistakes while drunk,” Amethyst answered with a shrug. “So uh, how ‘bout you?”

“I simply don’t like the way it tastes, and it burns my throat a bit. It’s unpleasant.”

“You get used to that.”

Peridot wrinkled her nose. “That’s another reason, drinking something that I have to become numb to doesn’t appeal to me.”

“Fair enough,” Amethyst thought some more. “Nah, I don’t need it.”

After placing their drink orders Peridot and Amethyst mulled over the menu some more.

“You know, I started saying ‘cola’ to avoid being asked if I prefer one over the other but I keep getting blank stares.”

“Not everybody’s an old lady like you are,” Amethyst winked and stuck her tongue out.

Peridot blushed. “So what are you ordering?”

“Probably a chicken breast, you?”

“Steak. I hardly get to eat beef because Lapis doesn’t and I’m not about to cook two meals.”

Irritation flashed on Amethyst’s face for a split-second. “Cool, steak. We also gotta get appetizers. I mean, this is a fancy joint and all.”

Peridot made an excited noise. “This shrimp appetizer sounds really good!”

“Good to see you so excited about this, I have a couple things picked out too.”

After agreeing on what appetizers to get, Peridot and Amethyst placed their orders. While waiting for the food to arrive they talked about work, TV shows, and other mundane things.

“Ugh, I’m not too happy about my Ninja Keith NOTP becoming canon,” the appetizers arriving cut off Peridot’s rant. “Thank you.”

“Thanks,” Amethyst didn’t hesitate before digging in.

“I mean, I’d be okay with it if they at least had some chemistry or if there was some buildup, but there wasn’t,” Peridot finished her passionate complaining before digging into her shrimp.

“Yeah, I totally get your frustration, and like, Keith’s in his seventies and Mei-Lin’s how old, like, twenty, tops.”

“I wonder if people are so okay with it because he stopped aging in his twenties. Although that presents a whole host of other problems.”

Amethyst thought of something as she popped some calamari into her mouth. “Y’know, maybe this romance’ll convince Keith to not change the past.”

“I think so too,” Peridot enthusiastically agreed. “I mean, I’d rather~”

They somehow managed to talk about Ninja Keith theories until the main course arrived.

“That steak looks so good,” an envious look was in Amethyst’s eye.

Peridot looked up and snickered. “Alright, I’ll give you a bite.”

“Wha, I wasn’t asking for any.”

“You’re looking at my steak like Max looks at chicken,” Peridot was clearly amused, she cut off a piece and pierced it with her fork. Her first instinct was to feed it to Amethyst but she hesitated when she saw the other patrons. “Would it be weird to feed you over the table in this environment?”

“No weirder than talking about cartoon characters having sex,” Amethyst said with a snort. Peridot still looked unsure. “Look, don’t worry about everyone else, they’re doing their thing, no reason we can’t do ours.”

“Okay,” Peridot looked relieved, she held the steak out to Amethyst who cheekily pulled it from the fork. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is, I picked a good place,” Amethyst cut off a piece of her chicken breast. “Here, try mine.”

As soon as Peridot bit down on the chicken their waitress arrived. “So, how is your meal?”

Peridot blushed and sat back down chewing the chicken, Amethyst replied saying that the food is great. The waitress walked away.

“I swear, wait-staff is trained to ask that at the worst time,” Peridot grumbled. “The chicken’s good by the way.”

Amethyst chuckled. “You got us, that’s the first thing the boss covers.”

Peridot giggled. 

“That reminds me of Kayla, this girl I work with,” Amethyst spoke between bites. “So she asks this guy how his food was as he was stuffing his face. Well he gets all pissy and was like, ‘how come all you waitresses do that, can’t you see I’m eating?’ Now, Kayla’s from the Bronx, you don’t mess with New Yorkers. She can’t do anything too bad to a customer ‘cause you’d get in shit with your boss. But no reason she can’t make note of him. So now we all go out of our way to ask him questions as he’s eating or drinking.”

Peridot burst out laughing. “Seriously? That’s great!”

“Yep, it’s a fun little game we play now,” Amethyst hastily added, “But don’t tell my boss, we’re not actually supposed to be doing that.”

“My lips are sealed,” Peridot thought of something mid-bite, she quickly swallowed. “Oh actually, I have a funny work story too.”

“So, this guy hired me and didn’t know exactly what he wanted, fine, annoying, but fine, I’m getting paid. Anyway, he’d make changes with no notice, I’d finish what he wanted, he’d change his mind and I’d redo it. Well, he wasn’t very polite and I got sick of it. We argued and I eventually got it done. He decided that I was overcharging and refused to pay what I was asking. We went back-and-forth on it for a while, I had the program so I had the leverage and eventually got what I asked.”

Peridot took a sip before continuing.

“Before sending it to him I gave him the little ‘I’m dyslexic, I need to do another once-over to make sure it’s working’ it was, I just needed the excuse. I put into the code a very rude message, something like ‘I’m a clod who doesn’t know a thing about coding. I can’t even decide what pants to wear, and I don’t know how much hard work is worth’ and probably some more too. I set it to pop up when a certain combination of keys is put in and it’s not one a person normally uses.”

“Did he ever see it?” Amethyst asked with a smile.

Peridot shrugged. “No clue, I kind of hope not. Word of mouth and a good reputation are how I get business. I was inexperienced and didn’t know any better, it’s still funny, but I wouldn’t do that again,” Peridot smirked. “Instead I just bury my rants where only another programmer can find it.”

Amethyst snickered. “So I guess the lesson is to not piss off a programmer.”

“Oh, no, what I do is nothing compared to what wait-staff does. My messages are hidden so the lousy customer can never see it.”

“Sometimes the satisfaction of knowing it’s there is the best feeling.”

“I hear that.”

They finished their main course while talking about silly topics.

“Before we eat dessert, I was thinking that we could open presents. I’m dying to know what’s in the huge box.” Sure enough, Amethyst would not take her eye off of it.

With an amused expression Peridot passed her gift to Amethyst who pulled a small box out of her purse and gave it to her partner.

This gift was the size of a jewelry box. “Um, I didn’t get you anything pricey. I actually made your gift.”

“Don’t sweat it, I wasn’t expecting a present, and homemade’s great. I mean, it’s one-of-a-kind, that’s awesome,” Amethyst started opening the large box. “And by the way, I didn’t spend a ton of money either.”

As soon as the box was opened Amethyst’s eyes went wide and her shoulders shook with suppressed chuckles. She pulled out a large crocheted puma.

“You made me a puma, it’s big, really cool,” Amethyst took a close look at its face. “Man, look at those eyes!”

“Yeah,” Peridot rubbed the back of her neck, “it ended up so big because the only purple yarn I had was blanket yarn.”

“So did you stitch the eyes yourself? They’re really detailed.”

“I did stitch them,” Peridot replied, full of pride. “It’s tiny intricate work, three layers of thread and attaching them was tricky too.”

“This is awesome, thanks,” Amethyst put the puma next to her with a smile. “So, you gonna open yours?”

Peridot felt a lump in her throat, it really looked like it could be jewelry, not only does she not wear jewelry, it’s also expensive.

She opened the box and saw a pair of dark-green plugs with a star-shaped cutout in them. 

“Ah, so that’s why you asked the gauge of my ears.”

The tepid reaction concerned Amethyst, were Greg and Vidalia wrong about it being a good idea? “Yep, like, couples usually give each other jewelry but I know you’re not into it.”

“The stars are neat, did you pick them because I like aliens?”

Oh, so Peridot seemed to just be bad at receiving gifts. 

“I didn’t even think of that. Nah, I picked the stars to kinda say that you’re y’know... part of the family. Not like, in a creepy incest way,” Amethyst’s face was red. “That turned out wrong! Okay, so Rose loved stars and when she died we all started to keep a star somewhere on our bodies,” Amethyst hid her face behind her hands. “Oh no, when I say it out loud it sounds less sweet and more cult-ish.”

Peridot laughed. “No, it’s fine. It’s a really nice gesture. But are you sure it’s okay for me to wear them? Especially around Pearl, weren’t her and Rose...” Peridot put two of her fingers together, “...girlfriends?”

“Yeah, they were for years. But it’ll be fine.”

“Alright then, I’ll be sure to wear them, thank you.” A thought occurred to Peridot as she looked through the dessert menu, she didn’t have much of sweet tooth so finding something was proving difficult. “So where’s your star? I’ve seen Pearl’s earrings, and Garnet’s sleeve, but I’ve never seen yours.”

“I can’t show it to you right now,” Amethyst replied, she broke out in a chuckle-fit when she saw Peridot’s dropped jaw. “Nah, nowhere like that. It’s behind my ear, I was so young when Rose died and knew Pearl would freak out if I came home with a tattoo so I got it someplace she wouldn’t see.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t a minor need a guardian’s permission to get a tattoo? Or is that different in the states?”

Amethyst laughed. “Oh god, yeah, you’re right. But when you go to as many parties as I did you meet people. Well, one of my friends’ brother made this janky-ass tattoo gun, y’know, like they have in prison. You don’t need permission to get one with that.”

Peridot was astonished. ‘Wait, really? You actually got a tattoo like that?”

“Young and dumb Peri, young and dumb.”

“Did it turn out well?”

“Sort of, there’s no shading or colour or nothing but the lines are straight at least. A part of me wants to get it touched-up by a professional but at the same time, Rose knew me when I was a teen so in a way it’s fitting the way it is.”

Amethyst thought of something as she tried to decide between chocolate, cheesecake, chocolate mousse, and a slice of fifteen layer chocolate cake. What, she was in the mood for chocolate. “So have you ever gotten a tattoo?”

“Have I ever... that’s an interesting way of phrasing it,” as the waitress took their orders Peridot processed the question. “Ah, right, the burns. No, I’ve never gotten a tattoo. It’s so permanent, you know.”

“And your mods aren’t?” Amethyst smirked.

“Technically no, a plastic surgeon can fix my ears and it’d be painful but I can get my tongue fused, although that wouldn’t be worth it. Meanwhile, tattoo removal technology hasn’t been perfected yet. It may interest you, however, that I used to have nipple piercings.”

This did interest Amethyst. “You get bored of them and take ‘em out?”

“No, when,” Peridot put her hand over the left side of her chest, “that happened I took the one I had left out.” She giggled. “It’s a bit silly, the asymmetry was bothering me. I don’t know why though, my whole body’s asymmetrical now.”

“Makes sense to me, you want your piercings to match. I’m the opposite, I made mine not match on purpose.”

“That’s true, I’ve been thinking about that piercing some more. You know, the barbell one. I might get it on one side, both may look a bit silly.”

“So which side?” Amethyst was actually hoping Peridot would go through with it.

“I’m undecided. I’m leaning towards the left but, well... that’s where my burns are and a part of me doesn’t want to draw more attention to them.”

“Think of it this way, drawing more attention to ‘em also looks like you’re embracing your burns and sorta rocking them. I mean, I can’t talk since I have nothing like that ‘cept maybe my chest but uh, if I did I’d wanna show it off. Like, let everyone know that I survived and still going strong, y’know?”

Amethyst would’ve leaned forward to emphasize her point but dessert had arrived.

Peridot thanked the waitress then continued the conversation. “You’re really good at getting me to look at things in a different light.” Peridot composed her thoughts, “I’m not embarrassed or ashamed, if I were I’d have my hair like this more often. But at the same time, I never want too much attention drawn to it, or myself for that matter.” She sighed heavily. “I think I’m just still getting used to it. Which is funny since it’s already been three years.”

“Think about it Per, three years is nothing compared to twenty-something.”

“That’s true,” Peridot said with a giggle. “It probably doesn’t help that I was bald for a while.”

“You were? So did it all... burn off?”

“Oh no, you just can’t have hair in the way of skin grafts so they had to shave some of mine off. When it grew back my hair looked so patchy and awful since they didn’t shave my whole head. It bothered me so I hopped over to the barber’s shop and had him shave it all off.”

Amethyst chuckled. “You’re a girl of extremes, aren’t ya?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Peridot rubbed one of her earlobes.

They shared a laugh and finished dessert.

When it came time to pay the bill Peridot absolutely insisted that she covered the tip at the very least.

Amethyst eventually let her because Peridot’s face clearly said, “I will never give in, I will argue this until the restaurant closes.”

Peridot walked Amethyst to her car after the bill was settled.

“I had a wonderful evening,” Peridot said as Amethyst fit her new Puma in the back seat. “Thank you.”

Amethyst stood up and gently pulled Peridot towards her. “You’re welcome Peri.”

They gazed into each other’s eyes then leaned in for a kiss.

It started off gentle and reserved and eventually let into something deeper. Over the months Peridot’s kisses became more confident and stronger. But Amethyst was bolder and initiated the tongue-kiss. She explored the divide in Peridot’s tongue causing her partner to melt in her arms.

“Stars Amethyst,” Peridot spoke when they separated for air, her cheeks were flush.

Amethyst chuckled. “Got a little carried away there.”

“Oh I’m not complaining,” Peridot looked around and saw nobody. “I kind of want to continue.”

With a smile Amethyst ran her hands along the top of Peridot’s hips feeling her seldom-seen figure through her suit. And Peridot put her hand on the crook of Amethyst’s back getting a feel of that wonderful body fat.

Amethyst deeply kissed Peridot’s neck making sure to avoid the scarred side, she learned early on that Peridot could only really feel pressure and dampness which isn’t nearly as pleasurable as feeling the subtle movements.

She moved her hands up Peridot’s back then ran her fingers through Peridot’s hair enjoying the rare opportunity.

Peridot giggled and the vibrations made Amethyst break down into giggles too.

“God damn it Peri,” Amethyst wasn’t actually mad, she found Peridot’s giggle-fits endearing. “It’s hard to kiss when laughing.”

Peridot was the first to calm down. “You know I can’t help it.” She kissed Amethyst’s round jaw and slowly trailed down her neck.

“You’re getting good with that tongue of yours,” for once Amethyst was blushing.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Peridot said slyly.

They put their foreheads together getting ready for another round of kisses but unfortunately they heard a loud conversation getting even louder.

“Damn,” Peridot thought the same thing. “Guess that’s all for tonight.”

The interruption clearly irritated Peridot. “Well, you could always come to my place.”

“Can’t, I work tomorrow.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Not like we’ll never see each other again, right.”

“True. So then, until next time,” Peridot kissed Amethyst on the cheek.

“Yep, next time,” Amethyst kissed Peridot back.

“Until then. I love you, bye.”

“Love you too, ‘night Peri.”

They hugged and Peridot walked to her car with a warm feeling coursing through her body.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Can we please have some more "Our story?"

What happens after Claire calls Jamie in “Our story?”

anonymous asked: When will we get a continuation of “Our Story”, this is a really great fic and I can’t wait to discover if Jamie and Claire will finally meet after all these years apart. Thanks to all the writers, you’re each doing a terrific job with your own world and creation. Keep up the great work :)

[December 24th, 2007]

When another deadline flies by, Jamie is flying at 10,000 feet, Boston-bound with a mouthful of pretzels. He can almost see Geordie in his Glasgow office, fat fingers typing misspelled threats into a text: droppING representaton, beach of contract, an etc. etc. dripping with career-ending venom. But no matter. How could anything matter, when the sea is a sheet of blue glass below? When a woman—his woman—is waiting for the sound of his knuckles on the other side of her door?

Later that evening, Jamie’s rental pulls up outside Claire’s home. He does not move from his seat, but waits, wanting to see what fragments of life he can snatch from the trees, the waft of peanut butter from the swaying pinecones. The house is large and painted brick, with a mismatched patch of white above the garage. Roman Column instead of Lily of the Valley. (He imagines a man, Frank, on a ladder; Claire looking up, shielding her frustration from him and the sun). The grass is freshly cut, and Jamie knows that if he wanders to the back, he will find a garden. Marigolds sleeping until spring.

Jamie thinks, with a certain sense of awe, This is the place. This is the place and that is the yard and that is the door. Inside, there is the kitchen where she has eaten breakfast, the table where she’s done her taxes, the mirror that has fogged with her breath when she leans close. (He remembers being that close, once.)

Finally, he gets out of the car.

The slats of thin metal clank when Claire pulls at the blinds. She sees Jamie striding up the pathway, looking as impressive as he does on glossy paper, or in the intricate webbings of her late-night brain. She smooths her curls and her skirt to tame whatever has burst inside her. (Loneliness, that old friend—just a puff of smoke.)

The first thing Claire says when she opens the door is, “You broke your nose.”

There is no intonation at the end, implying doubt, or criticism (“You broke your nose.”). Rather, there is only quiet evidence that Claire has not forgotten, still knows Jamie and the once-sharp bridge of his nose, through and through.

And Jamie, seeing Claire, says, “Aye, and you’ve gone a bit gray.”

Similarly, it is not a question or an insult (he thinks she looks wiser, wants to see what she’d look like in all white), but merely a quiet recognition that time has passed, they are older, and he does not care.

“I’m assuming there’s a story to go with it.”

Claire squints, trying to mine the story from his face. The possibilities: a horse, riled by the teeth of flies. An angry lover, whose palm soars, its heel shoved outwards and up. It’s unsettling, almost, how Claire can only fill these blank spaces with assumptions.

“Aye, there’s always a story,” Jamie says.

With her face pinched this way, Jamie can read the years in the crinkles of her forehead. He sees the spot where the furrow is at its deepest, the place where she probably wonders, “What other parts of you have broken?” He wants to put his lips there, tell her about every splinter and fracture without speaking them aloud. 

Claire’s eyes travel downwards until they sparkle. Apparently, she has found something in the cut of his jaw because she puts a hand to her chin, saying, “I’m going to assume…an unfortunate encounter with a mountain lion? No. A bear. A grizzly. Are there grizzlies in the Highlands?”

“Nay, unless ye count Rupert,” Jamie replies and, as if on cue, a roar comes from a nearby porch. A man staggers towards an idled taxi, all hairy haunches and pale flanks in the streetlight. “Merry Christmas!” he shouts to no one, voice ringing with booze. He draws up when he spots Jamie and Claire across the way, and his lips are spit-shined when he puckers them, cooing, “Now kissssssssssssss!”

Jamie laughs quietly, so that Claire must work to hear it once the engine putters awake. (When she moves a bit closer, she does; decides it is still the best thing she’s ever heard.)

“Well, there appears to be a small population of them in Boston,” she jokes. “Now’s your chance. I’ll hold those flowers while you two go at it.”

Christ, he’d forgotten the flowers. 

“Thank you,” he says, placing them in her arms (the pulse of an old grief when she cradles the roses). “Make sure ye dinna crush them, mind. The woman I’m taking to dinner wouldna appreciate crushed flowers.”

“Better crushed flowers than a crushed date. Not much you can do with that.”  

Whether either of them realizes it, the four feet between them have become one, and if Jamie were to extend his arm, he could wrap it entirely around Claire’s waist. Instead, he jerks his head towards the car, and she follows him.

“But if a ghastly beast did break your nose, I’d love to hear about it.” 

“The story’s not as exciting as all that,” he replies, opening the passenger door, taking an extra second to admire the clumsy way she ducks inside. “Just a rugby match against the Mackenzies.”

“Beasts enough,” she says, once he’s in his seat. “Was it worth it?”

Already, the new-car smell has been replaced by hers: that fertile spring scent, moss and rain and opening flowers. Jamie rubs his nose and wonders if, after all these years, Claire’s green thumb would set it straight by simple touch. Crunch, click, wholeness.

“A broken nose in exchange for Dougal on his arse, doing the splits for all king and country? Worth it, I’d say.” 

“Oof.” Claire cringes. “Think I could die happy without that one.” 

“Aye, there’s a few other things I’d rather see…” Suddenly bold, Jamie lets his words become a suggestion. A flush blooms across Claire’s cheeks as she reaches toward the dashboard. 

“Easy there, lad.” 

Jamie notices how her fingers waver in the air, seem to yearn for the knob of his knee. But Claire freezes, suddenly self-conscious, and only turns the radio dial. When Joni Mitchell sings through the speakers, she hoots, “You’re still listening to this stuff?”

“Always,” he wants to say. 

“Better than what’s on nowadays,” he says instead, tapping the cracked CD case on the consul. “And my iPod broke.” 

“Broken nose, broken iPod…” Claire looks out the window and hums. (What other parts of you have broken?)

It’s as though the music is dragging them from Jamie’s car, pushing them into a crooked Edinburgh flat where a needle crackles and the record spins. The soundtrack of their newlywed bliss, “Blue”—forever playing in tune with the creak of their cot, the groan of the pipes behind their heads. Lying awake at night, they had dreamt aloud of the 70’s—of history—believing they’d both been born late, two souls adrift. (“If you could be anyone, who would you want to be?” they had asked each other. But whatever time or place, the answer was always, “Yours.”)

“So where exactly are you taking me?”

“That’s for me to ken and for you to find out.” 

“I do hope it’s at least remotely interesting,” Claire replies. 

“Jury’s still out. Awaiting yer judgment.”

“Hope you remember I’m a difficult one to please.”

“Not as difficult as ye think,” he says. Another suggestion. Suddenly, Claire remembers bubble wrap and a weightlessness where there was nothing but the flutter between her legs. Jamie remembers her face, gone slack, and her heavy-lidded sighs above him.

“No,” Claire says, “maybe not.” 

And when she smiles, it is just as Jamie remembers (the most beautiful, the best thing). He feels himself wrap and wind, like a red string, around her finger.

Jeanne’s, the place is called, a tiny French joint where a glass of water costs $2 and the tablecloths feel like spider silk. It is a short walk from Jamie’s hotel and a much longer drive to Claire’s home, out in the suburbs. Both of them silently agree to ignore the implications of these distances, shunting away thoughts of alabaster shoulders and muscled calves under a hotel bedspread. 

“So tell me,” Claire says, their meals ordered, “why this place?”

“You have to promise ye won’t laugh.”

“Promise,” she says (though she will giggle halfway through, a teenager’s star crossed giddiness). “I won’t laugh.” 

So this is what Jamie tells her: that he’d once looked up restaurants in Boston, and found this one. That he’d used it as a reference—a stage set in his mind, which he could place Claire easily inside, see her occupy. That, in knowing the menu and the wine list and the painting near the bar, his memory of her could be something more than memory. Something just short of real because there she’d be, ordering from the menu and the wine list, sitting beneath the painting that he’d memorized from the bookmarked Yelp page. (This, Claire understands. It’s why she used to read the articles, why Frank shredding her collection seemed like the greatest theft.)

There’s a synchronicity to their movements as they eat. When Claire reaches for the salt shaker, Jamie’s hand is already there, passing it to her. And when Jamie spills his whisky, Claire is already advancing with a napkin, blushing as she grazes his lap and feels a hardened promise in his trousers. At one point, there is a crumb at the corner of Claire’s mouth, and Jamie does not feel shy about telling her it is there, about flicking it away with his finger (but God, does he wish it was his tongue) when her own cannot seem to find it. 

“There.” 

They talk about everything: Sorcha the horse, the online forum, Laoghaire, Frank. The random moments when they were reminded of each other: a particular slant of light on a penny, a navigation system set to British English. They smile, they laugh, and begin to think that a span of fifteen years is no significant thing. No time at all.

But for all their honesty, they are skirting around the great, fat elephant. It squats in the middle of their table, fattening itself on the bread basket, until it grows too large to ignore. A breathing wall that Claire considers hopping, sticking one brave limb over the edge; testing, testing. Are ye sure about this, Claire? 

Their conversation halts when a fight breaks out beside them. A couple, much younger than they, lips curling with their fists. Everyone—Jamie and Claire included—braces for the smack of a cheek or the slosh of drink, but a waiter intercedes and guides them out. The combatants rush into the night, huffing a trail of hate that only lovers know.

Claire seems to wilt then, her shoulders and eyes lowering. The last bite of coq au vin is left untouched.

“I suppose we should….” She pauses, bullying a lone mushroom onto the table. “We should talk about some things.”

It is then that Jamie realizes what is to come and that—no matter how hard he wishes it wouldn’t—it must. He straightens himself in his chair, gives a noncommittal, “Mmm.” And only after Claire’s lips tremble does he realize his mistake: like so many years ago, he has not said the right words. 

“Ironic,” she says. “You seemed to have a lot to say about it in your books.” 

He stares at his plate. 

“You’re not going to say anything?” 

“Not here, no.”   

“Ever?” 

Jamie’s gaze falls further, to the floor. The hardwood is darker than in the pictures, he thinks. More mahogany than chestnut. Suddenly, he feels betrayed, like his picture-perfect stage was built from rotten planks all along.

When he finally looks up, he sees Claire’s empty chair, spots her back as she spins through the revolving door. 

“Wait!” he shouts (A word! A word!). He slams $100 onto the table and weaves his way to the entrance, rattled nerves rattling wine glasses. Once he’s outside, he finds Claire leaning against the building. Eyes like smothered coals in the full dark. 

“Mo nighean—” 

“Don’t say it,” she barks, so fiercely, that he shuts his mouth. “You don’t get to say that. Not yet.” (He had forgotten her fury, how her tiny body could hold so much of it, wield it carefully or recklessly whenever she wanted.) “You know, I’ve never heard you say her name since that day.”

Jamie thinks his gut has been sliced open. Believes that, if he looked down, he would see his liver, his intestines, his kidneys—a collection of his organs—soaking into the sidewalk. Streams of his blood trickling into five letters. 

No, he hasn’t said it. Can’t.

“Of course I remember,” he grumbles.

“Then what else do you remember?” she asks, but she gives him no time to respond. “Do you remember that morning, Jamie? The half-empty church? The too-full cemetery?” She shakes her head, laughing. “No, you wouldn’t, would you? Because you weren’t there.” 

“How was I to know what to do?” he yells, his own grief-rage pouring out. “I was 23, just a kid!”

“And I was your wife. You know, that person whose side you promise to stand by? But you weren’t standing by me, Jamie. You were in a bloody prison cell.”

“I did it for you. For her! We had no money, and I thought—”

“Which part did you do for us? The prison part? The not being at the funeral part? The let’s-just-make-another-child-and-things-will-be-better part?” 

“Jesus, Mary, and Bride. I’m trying to explain myself so that you can understand, if you’ll only give me the chance.” 

Claire takes a staggering step forwards, drives her index finger into his chest. She cranes her neck to look at him, unafraid. “No, I want you to understand first. I want you to understand what it was like, standing there, surrounded by “Beloved Mothers” and “Devoted Fathers.” All these people who’d lived long enough for that kind of stuff.”

She whirls away again, caught up in memory.

“And the priest, the damn priest! Jamie, he couldn’t even say your name right. Faith Eraser. Like some sick joke. I didn’t know who I hated more. Him, for not being able to pronounce it right. Or you, for having that stupid name.” She pauses, catches her breath so that her words don’t break when they hit the air. “In the end, I remembered: it was you who I hated more. Because at least the priest was there.”

“You’re the one who left. You’re the one who didn’t even try.” 

“I tried. I—” 

“Nay, give me just one second, because I think you’ve got it in yer head that ye somehow own this grief. The grief of—” He swallows. “Of Faith. But ye don’t. Ye werena there when I finally took the crib down, or when I brought all the wee clothes to the charity shop because I couldna look at them. I pretended—Christ—I pretended they were my niece’s because I couldna allow myself to think I had a daughter. That I was ever a father.” 

“You were a father. You still are.” 

“Aye, I ken that now,” he says. “It was too painful, though, at the time. To think of what I had, to remember what I’d lost. And then there were the phone calls, all the questions: Where’s Claire? Is she all right? When is she coming back? The worst of it all, really, because I didna ken the answers. Wasna sure you’d ever come back.”

Claire looks down, but he can see the beads on her lashes, the thin stream flowing down her neck, inside her collar.

“Why did ye leave? How could ye leave?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Back then I thought I did. You couldn’t look at the crib or the clothes? Well I couldn’t’ look at myself, or you, without seeing her. Remembering everything: how she felt, what she smelled like. What it was like to hold my entire heart in my arms, just for a moment, and then watch it break.” 

(She wants to tell him about the butterfly ears and about the sheets—Please, please just to remember—but is afraid of them, even now.)

“The day I came home, she was everywhere—on the walls, in the little flower mobile—and you weren’t. And then when you were, I would look at you and there’d be a split second, just a blink of time, where I’d forget. Because how could she be dead if she was still there, in the bones of your face?” Claire is sobbing now. Streaks of mascara under her eyes and snot from her nose. (Grief: such an ugly, ugly thing.) Jamie steps forward, waiting for her to shrink away, but she doesn’t. Welcomes his arms. “The moment after that—where I remembered again—was more painful than anything else. Y-y’know?” 

“I understand, Sassenach. I do.”

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I—I don’t think I should have left. Jamie, I really shouldn’t have left.”

“I’m sorry too. And I wish you hadn’t.” 

“God, we fucked everything up, didn’t we? Made a real fucking mess.” 

“Aye, perhaps we didna do—or say—the right things. But it’s nothing we canna fix.”

Claire’s laugh is mirthful when she says, “Fix? How can we ever be the same?” 

(Jamie was asked a similar question, years before, in a cabin up in the Grampians. He had doubted it too, then, thinking of nothing more irreparable than a speechless husband, a fleeing wife, and a baby who never cried. But that was long ago and before this night, where he is hugging Claire and feeling a ring beneath her blouse.)

“We can’t, Sassenach—but I dinna want to be the same. I dinna want to make the same mistakes.” His head bows, an oath. “I willna make the same mistakes.” 

“You’re really willing—”

“Yes.” 

“And even though—“

“Yes.”

“Will you stop bloody cutting me off?”

Jamie’s silence. Claire’s pointed look.

“Oh sorry. Wasna sure if ye were going for a dramatic extended pause or no’.”

Jamie grins, and it pulls at the corners of Claire’s mouth.

“You’ll forgive me?” she asks, then. Shy. “And trust me enough to know that I won’t run off? Because that’s what I do, Jamie. I disappear.”

“And I get too quiet, and I dinna say the right things—or anything—when I should. Too prideful, too ashamed.” 

“But you do, eventually. Say the right thing. The perfect thing.” 

“And you come back, Sassenach. Eventually.” Jamie tweaks her chin, brings his forehead to hers. “Can ye no’ see it? You are my courage, and I am your conscience. We canna be whole if yer no’ here to bring the words out of me. If I am no’ here to bring ye home.”

Claire rubs a sleeve across her eyes.

“Bloody writer,” she chokes, and he kisses her. (A second passes where they are 21 and 22 again, two young things dashing through the streets of Edinburgh. All this life ahead of them.) When Claire tries to break apart, he keeps her to him as if wanting, somehow, to fall into her.

“Are you going to write me into your bed tonight?” she asks, breathless.

“Is that a proposition?” 

“Merely the question of a curious reader.” 

“I thought I might drive ye home first and see where the story takes me. Dinna like working from an outline.”

“All right. Spontaneity’s nice. I like a good plot twist.”

“Are ye ready, then?”

Claire reaches for his hand, and he gives it to her. Jamie squeezes, she squeezes back. She leads him toward the car. He follows, holding the keys and her heart. 

“I’m ready,” she says. “Take me home, Jamie.”

(At her doorstep, Jamie will give Claire a Christmas gift: a vase wrapped in old hopes, tied up with a sweater ribbon. Because of this, she will say, “Want to come in?” and will allow him to shuck his shoes on the rug, kiss her in the moon-drenched foyer. It will be immediate—the dissolution of their separate mouths and the resurgence of a familiar knowledge—once Jamie’s shirt parts and Claire’s skirt drops. Blue stripes and liquid gold on the floor.

She will let Jamie lay her down—gentle, so gentle—in front of the fireplace. And Jamie will bend—reverent, so reverent—and lick the pale tributaries of her inner thighs, inching towards the most tender part of her. “Please,” she’ll say, and he will make her say it again.

“Please.”

There are old lines. Ones they will know, remember as a soft curve or a particular bulge of muscle. Theirs to re-meet, reclaim and own.

There are also new lines. They will cut their teeth on them, tasting each other’s now-bonier spines or the looser skin of their upper arms. Jamie’s hands will still be larger—so much larger—than hers, and he will grasp the soft side of her knees, spread, and sink. “God,” Claire will think he says, and then wonder if he’d ever prayed in an empty church. Found some kind of grace in religion, as she had done, during those lonely, intermittent years.

Claire will kiss Jamie’s jawline, remembering that he likes it. Jamie will nip Claire’s neck because he knows it makes her shiver. And they will both be happy when they see that they’ve remembered correctly, that he does, yes, still like it when she kisses his jawline and that she does, yes, still prickle with goosebumps when he nips her neck. Please. God.

Jamie will begin to move faster, pushing Claire up and up until stars fall into her open mouth, then pour out again onto his shoulder. The bite marks there will glisten. 

Not long after, Jamie will follow, the fullest kind of breaking. And this time—oh, oh, oh this time—she will hear his whisper. Not “God” at all, but: 

“Claire.” 

And maybe, she will think, her cheek finding his steadying beat. Maybe this is what God is. The sound of your name in a lover’s mouth. Your face inside his heart.)

[aggresivelyfriendly]

Divide- Chapter Three- Solamente

“Willy Cartier is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, and I could even have a shot with. I’m so excited he’s supposed to be at Tomo’s live art thing,” Nick shared and Harry could picture his goofy grin all the way across London.

“Who’s Willy Cartier?” Harry asked, as though he hadn’t already asked himself that every day for the last month.

“I’m sure you’d recognize him if you saw him, you’ve probably seen him at a show or in your arty magazines, cover boy. Except, he’s an actual cover boy. Beautiful man, Harry. Prettiest flower. Man o my dreams,” Nick sighed dreamily, “anyway, google him. You’re coming round to that live art show next week, right? Think Campbell is featured.”

“Um….been kind of avoiding being photographed and stopped,” Harry searched around for his iPad.

“What are you doing, you sound distracted?” Nick complained.

“I can’t find my ipad,” Harry explained and then cursed when found it, “shit, its dead.”

“That excited to google Mr. Cartier, huh? Those latent tendencies getting harder to ignore?” Nick guffawed.

“Shut up, you twat. You know there is nothing latent about it. Explored and done with. Like girls better, Obi-Won,” Harry sat down to his computer.

“Ah the salad days! Valuable lesson, that. Don’t fall for a curious friend,” Nick joked.

“Nick..” Harry said as he searched Laurel’s lovers name. “It wasn’t my intention to lead you on. Love you, just, not like that.”

“I know, we’re getting maudlin, gonna go to bed, it’s half eight, big show tomorrow. Come to the art show, you are so boring these days,” Nick cajoled.

“Alright, I’ll turn up, but only for a bit, and I’m skipping the carpet entirely, Ta,” Harry hung up as he read over Willy’s bio and was glad his eyes were already green. Fuck, this guys credits were amazing. And, apparently, he was better for Laurel if his perusal of her insta was anything to go by. He sighed, running a hand up into his head.

Jack had given him a little hope, but maybe it was selfish to even consider pursuing her now.

Nearly two weeks after his hasty promise, Harry was running later than he intended. The art show Tomo had invited him to and Nick had badgered him about was in an area of London he didn’t frequent. He’d lived in the city off and on for 7 years now, but he stayed in his north London bubble. He should have just used a driver. But the freedom he’d been enjoying from laying so low was addicting. He liked having his own car and not having to arrange pick ups constantly.

“Finally,” he muttered as he pulled up outside the converted warehouse. Stepping out and slamming the door, Harry shook hands with the valet and exchanged his keys for a ticket. He was so late the photographers had gotten too comfortable. He was sure one or two got a shot off, but he was inside before most of them could stub out their cigarette or drop their coffee. He smirked as he heard their frustrated cries of his name.

The first thing he saw was a blown up picture of Willie Cartier. It was a gorgeous shot, but not the welcome he hoped for. Harry scoffed, mostly at himself, and ventured deeper into the venue until he located Tomo’s exhibit.

“Harry! So glad you made it. Let’s get you a drink. Then I’ll show you my latest.”

Harry was heartened by the excitement in Tomo’s voice. He was even moving exuberantly. He’d told Harry he felt humbled by the other exhibitors tonight and had been painting frenetically to prepare. He watched him skirt the dance floor and went to follow him until he heard a familiar laugh that stopped him in his tracks. His eyes tracked to the sound on the dance floor and he was happily shocked to see Laurel dancing with her arms aloft and giggling with her coworker Tawny.

She looked effervescent and he was transported to a late night street in Barcelona.

They’d decided to wait out the crowds at the stadium, Camp Nou was just too big and the streets too much a mess to expect to make a quick getaway to their hotel by the water front.

He wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to leave Milan fashion week and fly to him in Barcelona to see a show, but having her to croon to off stage had been a treat. He noticed as he walked to her off stage, Her nose had turned red just at the tip, so he knew she had availed herself of the tequila in his dressing room. She was so euphoric she leapt on him as he came off stage and covered his face with kisses. “You were so good! I’m so excited! I love Barcelona!” Laurel continued to enthuse when they got in the blacked out sedan after he showered and they shared a drink. “I came here during my gap year with my friend. It was meant to be a two day visit, but we got this hostel off La Rambla and found this wine bar from a vendor at La Boqueria. Don’t tell any Spaniards, but we entirely skipped Madrid and stayed here and drank cava all night and laid on the beach for days. Think we only left because we had a flight out of Pamplona,” she sucked in a breath and Harry reached across and caressed her bright cheeks.

“That why you came, to see the city and not me?” Harry tried to sound offended, but her Joie de vivre was infectious and his grin irrepressible.

Laurel blushed, “well, i couldn’t turn down your invitation, but I love this city! And I’ve never seen you live!” She excitedly ran her fingers into his hair, “you own the stage baby.”

Harry chuckled, “it was lovely to have your arms to rush into, this leg of the tour has been exhausting, but you’ve perked me right up!”

Laurel clapped happily, “good, because I have a proposition for you.” She laughed at him, “not like that, don’t give me that look.”

“What look is that?” Harry pushed his tongue behind his front teeth.

Laurel pointed at him, “that one,’ she tapped his bottom lip, “hold that thought. Can we go see if that bar is still open? It was like a cave and they played this music and everyone spilled out onto the paving stones of the interior courtyard. I’d love to share it with you.”

She looked so hopeful and Harry couldn’t turn her down, but he worried that their night out would turn into a mob scene. The longer he waited to respond, the more her face fell, and he couldn’t stand the dimming. “Yeah, let’s go. Tell the driver.”

Laurel bounced in her seat and shocked Harry when she gave the driver instructions in Spanish.

“You speak Spanish?”

Laurel looked back at him, “yeah, my dad’s Venezuelan. Mum is English. Long story, long story short, I speak Spanish.”

Harry shook his head. How did he not know that.

When they pulled up to a side street in the gothic quarter, Harry was heartened by the quiet on the street, but he wasn’t sure it matched Laurel’s mood. He paid the driver while she excitedly pulled him inside and he felt like he went from a sleepy medieval square into a house party. There were a surprising number of people in the dimly lit bar and no one seemed to pay the newcomers any mind.

Laurel navigated to the bar and ordered a bottle of red, this time in not Spanish.

“And what was that?” Harry asked bewildered and impressed.

“They speak Catalan here, kinda don’t like Spanish, actually, I don’t speak it, but that week here I became an expert at ordering wine! Come on.” She pulled him deeper into the bar and suddenly they were outside and there was music. She walked to a corner and he had no choice but to follow her flared skirt. She perched their glasses on a counter and poured.

“A toast to my rockstar!” She clinked his glass and downed it in one go, watching him over the lip.

“To my seniorita,” Harry tried to mimic her accent and she laughed at his attempt and kissed him square on the mouth.

“Dance with me?” Laurel wrapped her arms around him and pulled him, willingly, to where the dancers were. Harry’s hands found her waist and her arms reached for the night sky and he realized he also didn’t know how well she danced. Though, her ability to move surprised him less than her bilingualism. His two left feet were forgotten as he got lost in her rhythm.

Her eyes shone when she turned into the moonlight and he wasn’t sure he’d ever had more fun, felt more free, with a girl.

Two bottles in, the band changed to a slower flamenco number and Laurel surprised him again when she sang this one into his ear.

“What’s this called?”

“Solamente Tu, only you. Like it?” Her eye contact skirted down to his lips.

“I like you,” he breathed and took the opportunity to kiss her breathless. They swayed through the song and Harry was relieved that the place was closing now just as he wanted to leave.

Tomo pressed Harry’s drink into his hand, and he realized he’d never made it to the bar. His reverie had halted his progress, not that he’d made much since he saw her and Willy on the street.

Laurel was looking at him and he was sad to see she was no longer dancing. He gestured with his head to a table and she nodded.

“I see someone I know, gonna saw hello. I’ll find you later?” He spared his friend a glance before he made his way to Laurel. Kissing her cheek, he inhaled her familiar scent and ran his nose along her cheekbone, as he always had.

She stiffened a bit, but relaxed as she pulled back. “Hi, Harry, how’ve you been?”

He could play this two ways, be honest or play dumb. Harry already felt so vulnerable, he couldn’t stomach telling her he knew she had a man. Dumb it was.

“Good, missing you, you haven’t been round for a bit…..” He dimpled and took a drink.

“Yeah, I’ve been busy, and, well,” she bit her lip and looked down before re establishing eye contact. “I’ve met someone, and I think we said that’d end our arrangement.”

He caught her brittle smile and was about to press on it, see if feelings were still beneath her skin. Before he could, a hand clasped her waist, deep purple trimmed nails.

“Harry fucking Styles, I’ve always wanted to meet you man. You were front row at my first Burberry show and you had this green coat on. I loved it, I’m Willy Cartier.“ he finished his compliment, hand outstretched. Harry shook his hand but was still caught off guard, a feeling exacerbated when he kissed Laurel on the corner of her mouth. It set Harry’s teeth on edge. “So, how do you know my Laurel.”

The way he emphasized the second syllable of her name and the fact that Harry had to look up to make eye contact left him playing catch up, what had Willy asked?

“Um….” Laurel looked uncomfortable and Harry missed the look she’d worn on the dance floor.

“I have to excuse myself, Nick Grimshaw is waving me over, but she came to a show once,” Harry looked at Willy first, but then his eyes roved to Laurel’s where they held “in Barcelona.”

[insecure-hbo-recaps]

hella open

Previously on Insecure: Issa slept with Lawrence but Lawrence is apparently with Tasha. Lawrence told Tasha, and it didn't go well. Lawrence moved out of Chad's place. Molly's therapist helped her try to move up a level at work. Issa starts to accept that Lawrence is done.

Issa is having a red wine and chill with some random. She's wearing a purple football jersey for the occasion, which is an interesting choice. Her hair is braided down in a protective after-shampooing set of Celie cornrows like... it tickles me when famous black women publicly do stuff that is just-for-at-home and mainstream media loses their shit over it (see also Rihanna wearing sparkly bobby pins in her wrapped hair) but, Insecure is for us. I'm not so sure I can cosign this ostentatiously quirky style choice, lol.

The guy moves in to kiss her and Issa awkwardly accepts it. She continually giggles while he is trying to be sexy, past the point where he is amused by it. As an aside, this is everything:

Issa is frankly annoying him now - I get that it's weird for her to have sex with a new person after being with Lawrence for five years. The first time I had a serious long term relationship I was surprised how weird it was to begin sleeping with someone new again. It wasn't something I thought I'd have a problem with, since obviously I'd never had a boyfriend and that was the weird thing. But, it was. Issa asks to reschedule, but she has blown this dude's high - he's wearing jeans with cutouts at the knee, this is some Eric Benet California shit - he doesn't really want to try again. This didn't work. So Issa gets dressed to leave.

Dunes. Issa is about to leave for work when she catches sight of the plume of smoke she burned into her wall at last week's party. She also notices before she goes that the new property management has issued what appears to be every apartment notices for noise violations, taped to their doors.

On the way out, Issa runs into one of the bloods that crashed her party. He has a really big, weird shaped head.

It reminds me of this kid I went to high school with named Mickey who had a big oversized head that sort of came to a point at the top; so more a triangle than round head. Of course now that I've spent several years working in developmental pediatrics I know what happened there is that he should have had a helmet as an infant and his parents didn't get him one, but at the time it was just there goes Mickey with his big ass pointed head that he for some reason chooses to accuentuate with a cloth headband. (This was obviously during the Rocafella era when that was en vogue for men.) I actually think that he ended up being shot and murdered as an adult, but for the life of me I cannot remember his last name in order to check and I'm not exactly on speaking terms with my high school classmates.

Anyway, Mickey (I don't know that we ever get to hear his name and I'm going to make the executive decision that it doesn't matter) says he had fun at Issa's party and she watches him go.

Molly's law office. She's skyping with Hannah in the Chicago office as well as the TSA agent from Get Out, Quintin, a fellow lawyer in a trendy bow tie. There's a Chicago joke about the sun shining so he's going to the beach. That doesn't work here because Chicago is not an overcast city and we don't have an excessive amount of cloudy days. You're thinking Portland, Insecure writers. Idk why the actor didn't correct him, since apparently he's also from Chicago. In the summer I hang a dark blanket on the window behind my blinds because my bedroom is east facing and there's too much sun for 75% of the day. Anyway, they bond over being the token black lawyers and it's all lovely and relatable.

High school. As you may have noticed, I really don't give a shit about this storyline. I did think it was interesting that Issa ended up being the bad guy in this scenario, as the show's hero, because you are definitely tempted to take her side in this. Frida comes across as an overly Clueless White Person with her concerns that the after school program is only black children while Issa isn't bothered because she's just glad the program is full. When I watched this the first time I was uncomfortable with it because while I didn't exactly disagree with Issa's blase attitude, I did think the show made it clear enough that she wasn't doing the right thing to take it. Of course this season will make it overtly clear - more than the first season did in my opinion - that Issa's judgment is sure in the fuck not to be trusted, and this was just another way that they established that. Duly noted that white people aren't always wrong when it comes to race. Issa's attitude doesn't sit well with Frida.

Multicultural Silicon Valley start up, aka Lawrence's computery job. It looks like he's wearing one of those Untuck It shirts. Tangent. I went out with this guy who was born in the 70s because he started hitting on me when I was working on my laptop at Map Room and trying not to cry because I was texting with my new boyfriend-even-though-we'd-been-fucking-for-the-last-three-years-not-as-a-couple because he up and booked a flight for a 10 day trip to Costa Rica and didn't tell me about it til afterward. I was two La Fin du Mondes in already and when I went to close out, the random man offered to buy me another, apparently not noticing my teary eyes. Anyway, because he was born in the 70s, he was particularly preoccupied with anything young and trendy, and frequently mentioned his Untuck It shirts to me. Granted they do look expensive and well made in real life. But they're also just regular fucking shirts that charge a 300% premium because they cut them slightly shorter so that you don't have to... guess what... tuck them in. I've literally only ever seen or heard of these shirts due to advertisements during daytime CNN or MSNBC viewing so like... who's supposed to be impressed by this?

Anyway, The Generic White Guy is obnoxiously eating snack food made from crickets, and Lawrence is talking about his trip to Phuket, so we get the full range of lovely diversity at work in this cool, trendy environment. Apparently the ethnic girl next to Lawrence slept with Corny Colin, which the blonde teases her about. Ethnic Girl is not amused by it. The group discusses a company social, but Lawrence can't go because he "promised someone he'd pick up some chairs." So he's going to go to Tasha's family bbq after all. The group clearly regards Lawrence as a trendsetter amongst what's hot and what's not - a distinction I feel that certain types of black people, in certain environments, are relegated to simply because black culture is presumed to be cooler than the other prevailing cultures - and everyone is disappointed that he will not be going.

Loading dock. Molly is wearing a fabulous black skirt suit with leather trimmed lapels. She's on the phone with her mom about the vow renewal thing her parents keep bugging her about. A worker comes out with her bookcase and assumes the random black man standing nearby is there with her. He asks if he should hand it over and everyone looks at each other, blanketed by the wrongness of the assumptions all around. Molly scoffs that she's not with him, and makes to pick up the bookcase by herself.

Yes, it is exactly as absurd as you'd think it would be, and two things. Motherfuck this whole concept where black women aren't allowed or should be or expected to be the normal amount of "feminine" granted to every other woman. I had this epiphany somewhere not long after high school when I realized how panicked and backed up against the wall I felt that my natural inclination was to resist any kind of vulnerability and the realization that I didn't want to have to be "strong" all the time. That wasn't going to work for me. I am damsel in distress all the time. You will stop when I cross the street, even if I'm timing it wrong with the stop signs - when I politely give you the right of way, you will insist I cross instead. You will pause to let me pass and open doors when I do. You will push my car out of the snow. You will offer to carry the leftovers from the restaurant. I dated a guy who insisted on walking down the stairs in front of me when I was wearing high heels, just in case I tripped. Point being, with regards to this scene, I wouldn't have lifted that shit. I wouldn't have carried shit. I would have been pointedly unable to carry that box. I'd have stood there for a half hour if that's as long as it took for someone to offer to carry the box for me. But it wouldn't have. When you behave with the expectation that you are a woman and you expect to be treated like a woman, something kinda funny happens... people treat you like a delicate woman. It doesn't escape my notice that the black man the worker assumed was there for Molly is there with a white woman, whose boxes he handily carries, while Molly struggles absurdly with the bulky oblong in her five inch heels down a flight of stairs. No ma'am. Later for "strong black womanhood," in this physical sense at any rate.

Molly's fantastic apartment. She's telling Issa she's putting her therapy on hold until she finds another therapist. Naturally, therapy was hitting too close to home, so Molly's instinct was to run from the truth. They are trying to put together this Ikea ass bookcase (related to my previous tangent, whenever I need this kind of manly work done, I outsource it now. Task Rabbit is an app, y'all. That's what it's for. It's not as solid a solution as having an actual man around or anything, but on some level I simply refuse to become a handyman myself just out of sheer principle. You will not deny me my femininity this way, it is a political issue at this point to me.)

Anyway, Molly is bitching about the therapist trying to get too close "just because we both got brown titties." Issa abides this silently. I can't believe they unironically drink Carlo Rossi. I remember being a kid and trying to learn about this kind of stuff and making a note from, of all places, an episode of Intervention about what kinds of wine people actually drink. Haha! (And yes, it was the huge gallon jug of Carlo Rossi.) Issa encourages Molly to keep looking for a new therapist, which Molly flips back on Issa regarding not finding a new Lawrence either.

Issa recounts how she couldn't do casual sex because she was too stuck in her own head. I'm so glad this has never been a problem for me LOL. I don't even know what my social life would be like if I had a hang up about this issue. They decide they should be doing their "ho phase" together - but then Issa met Lawrence and he "made [her] fall in love with him and shit." Issa wants to get on Team Fuck Love, and asks Molly "can you teach me how to ho?" "Bitch that's rude... and yes," Molly replies.

Late night spot. Issa is wearing a ridiculous outfit as she ridicules the other thirsty women in the spot that are there for an apparently different kind of thirst than the one she is. Seriously, what were we supposed to think about this outfit?

Baby, no. Especially as a woman walks past wearing the exact same bad dress. She's also wearing what I'm sure are an expensive pair of espadrilles, but they are wedge espadrilles, with a red floral print. Plainly, that outfit is ridiculous. Issa suggests a vacation to somewhere where they'll be exotic. Molly doesn't care, and seems very underwhelmed by the night.

Issa is chatting with some guy, making awkward double entendres and sexual innuendos. The guy is not amused and flat out walks away from her mid conversation. The next guy at the bar keeps peeling his eyes around at everything else but Issa, finally admitting that he's only talking to her because his friend wanted to talk to Molly. Issa is the grenade. Dayuuuuum, bro. "Do you have any other friends?" he asks, which Issa doesn't dignify with a response.

Molly is talking to Sterling K Brown and is still underwhelmed with the night - the way his friend was only talking to Issa, she's only talking to him. He asks for her number and Molly coolly hands him her business card. She joins Issa at the bar, who has given up on the night and ordered a plate of wings. I get it. There's only so much humiliation you can take when you put yourself out there to pick up a random at the bar. Hell, at least Issa has a friend with her while she does it.

Tasha's house. Tasha is in bed with Lawrence with her hair wrapped gossiping about tv shows. Lawrence tries to distract her and get amorous but Tasha isn't interested in going there. She pushes Lawrence away and we are treated to more of the show-within-a-show.

Back at the Dune's, Issa (in her middle-of-the-bed pillow) can't sleep so she pulls out her vibrator. The battery dies and she spends like ten minutes walking around the apartment looking for new batteries. And, why don't you have a magic wand? True story: I held off buying any kind of sex toys because I never had any and it made me have to seek out men if I wanted to have a sexual encounter; I (it turned out, rightly) figured that if I had any sex toys it would discourage and demotivate me from meeting actual men. Guess what... I was completely correct, and my love life took a marked down turn the same year I bought a magic wand of my own. Could have been timing, coincidence, I don't know, but it was interesting. I have since incorporated it into my regular sex life. (My boyfriend-that-I-loved-so-much-I-was-always-crying was amused the first time I used it with him, calling it "violent" and "over the top" because I was "loud" and it "plugged into the wall." lol. I did nothing but laugh and concede the point, because he was right. But in other news, fun fact: it also works on men, so if you are hooking up with someone that you don't actually want to have sex with, everyone can have an orgasm with no intercourse whatsoever.)

There are a few scenes about Molly's being underpaid and Issa missing the discrimination that I'm going to skip because the point has been made already.

Lunch. Molly is on a date with Sterling K Brown. He's showing her pictures of his niece on his phone, because he's a Good Black Man looking for a Good Black Woman. Actually, given the champagne flute and the bottle on the table I'm going to assume this is brunch (mimosas, you see). Sterling K Brown is wearing an interesting outfit, what says the tribunal?

This rote-date-conversation centers around the fact that they both have ticking biological clocks, and that Sterling K Brown is not being at all ambiguous about his intentions. Molly seems uncomfortable, and isn't following this conversation as well as a woman would be if she were truly interested. I gotta say, Sterling K Brown comes off as a LITTLE thirsty... but, considering Molly really does the most when it comes to choosing a man, like... you can't empathize with her at all. Do we know this, do viewers know this? Molly is wrong and ridiculous and has no clue what she is doing, and her choosing criteria is wildly outdated, immature, and foolish. Like, there is no shrewdness to her relationship behavior at all. She is doing nothing that would prove to be in her best interests or better her life circumstances at all, even if it were just casually dating a potential husband so that you have that back up available when things aren’t going well. This is the kind of thing I might of done before I realized it may be an actual real possibility that I actually might not find the husband I wanted some day.

California Family Cookout. There's ribs, there's dominoes. You feel right at home. Lawrence shows up in some hipster ass shirt, carrying chairs as promised. Tasha is wearing a lime green midi dress with scribbled print and a lopsided sew in. It works, as long as you don't pause at the wrong moment. Why am I hating on both their outfits? Let's move on. Tasha's relatives line up to get a good look at Lawrence and he is clearly there in a capacity of Tasha's Man Friend... which he looks decidedly uncomfortable with. Well, what the fuck were you expecting, Lawrence? Why do you think she hedged around inviting you, and made it clear you didn't have to come?

Lawrence's coworker texts him, and he decides to take it as an out, telling Tasha he'll be right back. "Oh... ok," she says. Damn. Again, people were furious over the "thirsty" character of Tasha. Meanwhile I'm just over here wondering why fellow black women didn't have more sympathy for her flexibility. Some of the time when I peek back into conversations in The Community, I am reminded of all kinds of toxic shit I used to feel and believe when I was younger that I eventually had to unlearn in the interests of any kind of healthy interpersonal life. She cheerfully says she'll see him later, and he leaves.

Molly is at a cupcake shop - those are a thing, y'all, and why? I live near one that granted, makes delicious cupcakes, but they cost like fucking four and a half dollars for one REGULAR SIZE muffin tin mold cupcake! Funnily enough, they are actually named "Molly's Cupcakes." Someone calls out that they will pay for her cupcakes, and it appears to be someone Molly knows:

A guy named Dro and his ostensible wife, who playfully criticizes Molly's insistence on wearing "ugly" dark colors - it's a black greek thing. (The wife is Delta, which I presume makes Molly AKA). The married couple set up the plot for next week's episode, expositing that they are in town for the Kiss n Grind party. It's clear that Molly knows Dro from way back, and the wife is newer.

Dunes. Issa has decided to paint over her burnt wall. She's typically spastic at it, dripping paint everywhere and making a mess. While cleaning off the roller, she spots Mickey Bighead lounging by the pool and is apparently attracted by what she sees. Molly calls; Issa notes her "high pitched fakeness" as she describes the date with Sterling K Brown: although there is clearly nothing wrong with him it's obvious to the both of them that Molly just isn't into it. For SOME reason. And this is the thing that is frustrating about Molly... there's never any legitimate or tangible reason why she has no interest in normal men and normal relationships, or why she brushes off scenarios that would be good for her. Like, what is she looking for instead? What's wrong with Sterling K Brown? Why would she not be interested in him? There are no red flags - it's not his looks, it's not that he's not a professional peer, it's not his baggage as he is unmarried with no children. And perhaps that is the point the show is making - that just because she should be interested in him, that doesn't mean she has to be. In the larger context of women "wanting it all" or "not settling," the point is valid. But in a practical sense, Molly is being ridiculous and her actions are not justified. This is how bitches end up single til 40 when they wind up marrying a bald janitor in the end anyway, is all I'm saying. Making smart choices don’t always feel like the choices you want to make.

Molly is comparing her lack of interest in Sterling K Brown with the fact that Candace and Dro are happy despite the fact that Dro was a mess and never had a "five year plan." So I guess that's what her problem is. She has no idea what will make her happy and is constantly peeking in other peoples' lives like it will tell her what would work in hers. You can always find a reason why a person is lacking when you compare them to someone else because... people aren't the same.

Start up Happy Hour. Lawrence shows up and his coworkers are happy to see him. They know the workplace is one big ho fest once enough drinks start flowing. Ethnic Girl is still pointed about regretting hooking up with Generic White Guy. Which, rude.

Issa has painted over her wall, which looks really good. But then she notices she neglected the smoke on the ceiling. Knowing she can't reach it, she reckons with it and tells it, "you can't have my joy." She spots Mickey Bighead going into his apartment and concocts a plan. She pulls out her charger and takes it down to Mickey's asking whether he left it at her house at her party. He seems momentarily taken aback, but recovers smoothly enough to invite her in.

Start Up Saturday. Lawrence gets a text from Tasha wondering where he is. Ethnic Girl asks what his deal is - and I kind of hate those "work people" that you can tell their primary source of social capital comes from people they meet in and around the work environment. Like other people are wrong for having a life outside of work and are not as immersed as you are. They ask whether Lawrence is single as a waitress comes up to flirt with him. Although Lawrence says he has to take off soon, her overt interest is all it takes for him to stay for a round of shots.

Back at Mickey's they're talking about Gossip Girl. Blake Lively is the most generic white woman on the face of the planet. "Yeah, white people," Mickey says. "There's so many of them," Issa adds awkwardly. Lol. Issa daydreams a confidence boost rap to convince herself to make a move: "even if it's wack, you can still get some head!" Unflattering accidental pause moment:

Issa makes an awkward kiss move, accidentally knocking him in the nose with her forehead. It works anyway, and they start making out. The first time I watched this I was a little annoyed because while I understand Issa's excitement over her new body, her constantly barely clothed state this season just seems so gratuitous. The fact that I personally don't like her body type - not to say she hasn't done a lot of work on it! - mainly just annoyed me. And I don't enjoy her sex scenes. Molly's sex scenes and Lawrence's sex scenes are great. So it's always kind of a let down when we have to watch Issa have sex. Her bra collection is excellent though, I guess.

Mickey asks if he could titty fuck her, which Issa "respectfully decline[s]." He wants to put her legs over her head, which she is uncomfortable with. Her head is squashed into the headboard and it's terrible. To her credit, Issa asks to change positions and finds a way that suits her better. He's wearing white socks. Aw. Flashbacks.

Molly is at home, working with a glass of red. Sterling K Brown invites her to a SZA concert and she declines. He comes back with a dinner invitation which she doesn't even reply to. Whatever, Molly. But hey, she heard my complaints and hired some random men to put the cabinet together for her! There's that at least.

Start up Saturday. Everyone's drunk and Lawrence is explaining the concept of his app to the two girls. What IS "Woot Woot" exactly? Besides the fact that everyone makes fun of him when he talks about it, as far as I can tell it's some kind of group chat client? Idk. Tasha calls, and Lawrence puts the phone to his ear in the loud bar. Tasha is mildly agitated, asking what happened to him because he never came back; her family members are even now in the background asking about him. He apologizes and says he ended up drinking too much. Tasha says if he didn't want to come he should have just told her. Lawrence tries to brush it off but then admits he isn't looking for a serious relationship. Tasha is put out because he ghosted on her in front of her entire family; if he didn't want a serious thing he shouldn't have come. He embarrassed her. Lawrence apologizes in a way that still blames it on her: "I know how much you wanted me to be there." It's her fault for expecting his intentions to match his behavior, not his fault for not being up front and leading her on. Tasha tells him to stop acting like he gives a fuck about her feelings, because he "fronted like it was [something more], apologizing for shit" he knew he wasn't sorry for.

Lawrence insists he was being genuine. Tasha: "You're a fuck nigga. You're worse than a fuck nigga. You're a fuck nigga who thinks he's a good dude." And she hangs up. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the cultural conundrum facing all of us in this new technologically advanced hook up landscape we are all attempting to navigate. I don't know how it used to be before Swiper Not Swiping and casual sex became the rule, not the exception, but I also find that men are preoccupied with being "good guys" in a way that belies their shitty behavior; some kind of veneer of honesty and distance that doesn't quite square with the level of intimacy and acquiescence they are seeking from their partners. Maybe back in the day it was understood you couldn't get that level of commitment without expressly acknowledging it; I find these days men think they get to have their cake and eat it too on this issue.

Anyway, look at this shit:

Bitch, what are you wearing? Those 1980s Jessie Spano mom jeans. Her name is "Arpana" which leads me to believe she's supposed to be Indian, but I think in real life her body type would indicate she is something else. She's probably Latina tbh. (And no I'm not going to google this to find out.) Anyway, Lawrence is laughing off his conversation with Tasha well enough as he rejoins the party.

Back at the Dunes, Issa is sneaking out of Mickey's apartment. She isn't quiet enough and he wakes up, offering for her to sleep over. Super generous considering she lives literally right upstairs. As Issa grabs her phone to go, she decides she isn't actually willing to sacrifice her phone charger for this farce, so she snatches it up too. But not to fear: it turns out Mickey was aware of her ruse the entire time, as his phone has been sitting plugged into his own not-missing charger the whole time. Issa can't even be mad as she lets out a chuckle and goes. She seems pleased, at least, with this first foray into "honess."

[waypathfinder]

Crimson Lane - Chapter 26 - Pieces

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Winter changed into spring and with it small bundles of hope that made each day pass a little easier than the last. Within a month of Ben returning to jail, the knights of Ren were rounded up, arrested and placed in a different jail across the other side of town.

And through good behaviour, Ben had finally earned the privilege of receiving phone calls from the outside world, up to three times a week for 15 minutes each.

At 3 pm, every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, Rey slipped away to the grass area in front of her apartment and paced barefoot, waiting for the call to connect.

"Hello?" Rey spoke quickly. "Yes, connect me to prisoner 5831, please. That's right, Ben Solo. It's his girlfriend. Yes—I'll hold."

She was getting used to the stern woman on the other end, having called her twice this week. She was abrupt and gave the never-ending sense that everything was far too much effort. But she'd deal with the devil himself if it meant she could talk to Ben.

It was a surprisingly humid day for Spring and with every step, Rey could feel the trickle of sweat beading down her back. She waited for him, heart pounding in her chest and the roar of waves playing in the background. She stared into the horizon where a storm was brewing, a high anvil cloud looming overhead, flashing dully above a cast-iron sea. She loved days like these, they had their own life about them.

The phone clicked, and Rey beamed at the familiar voice on the other end.

"Rey," Ben dragged out her name. "What did you do?"

She smirked. "Did something happen?"

"You know exactly what happened. Armitage Hux was dragged in here both kicking and screaming this morning."

Rey couldn't hold back her smile. "Oh, you got yourself a little friend?"

"I wouldn't go that far," he scoffed, and Rey pictured him smiling into the phone, that crooked eyetooth winking at her. "How did you guys manage to find that slippery eel anyway? The cops said it was a tip-off."

Rey sat on a faded yellow deck chair, one leg crossed over the other, the cool ocean breeze making her hair whip around her face.

"Can you believe it wasn't even me? Rose found him." Rey forced back a chuckle, thinking back to Rose's manic call. "Hux's cat went viral."

"What!?" She heard a cross between a grunt and a laugh, and her heart pulled at the sound of it.

"I'm serious. She was watching Funniest Cat Home Videos on YouTube and there was a clip of this fat ginger cat falling onto a sail shade from a third-story apartment and Armitage Hux screaming at the bottom trying to catch him."

Ben's laughter rang out like he couldn't get a breath in and Rey started giggling herself.

"Was he okay?" Ben asked.

"The cat? Yes. Armitage, not so much. The cat was so terrified he clawed his face."

"Now I know what caused the scratch marks."

"You can tell him he's famous now. Poe recognised the street from the video and from there it wasn't long before we were able to tip the cops off as to his whereabouts."

In the background, Rey heard the low growl of one of the guards, giving them a 30-second warning.

"Did you get your— " he struggled to say the word.

"I got it yesterday." Rey adjusted her underwear, the second day was always her heaviest. " I told you it would be okay."

"Thank God for that."

"I have no regrets, do you?"

He chuckled. "None at all."

In the background, the correctional officer ordered them to finish.

Ben went quiet. He always did at this point. The moment where they crashed back to reality.

"It makes my day, you know, hearing your voice," he said, words soft, almost like he was hiding them behind his hand.

"Mine too." A gust of wind rushed in from the ocean and the bi-fold doors slapped open and closed. She rushed to fasten them, aware that every second of silence was a second wasted.

"Say something."

She hesitated, searching for words. "I love you."

There was a quick exhale on the other end of the line and she hung on in silence, waiting.

And at last: "I know."

"Say it back, you dick!"

He laughed again and Rey's eyes began to pool. She wished she could see him laughing, it would never be enough just to hear it.

"Love you back, sweetheart."

Over the next three months, Rey worked diligently on the Snoke story, along with Poe and Finn. With some off-the-books help from Dom, they managed to create a pretty clear picture of Snoke's operations, including his brutal recruitment strategy, where he blackmailed his employees to stay until they were no longer needed. Before Ben, the only other Knights that left the order seem to have disappeared from existence or were forcibly removed, which also coincided with some career-destroying scandal.

In the summer, a new visitor arrived at the Island. Rey had watched the seaplane land with a few skips on the ocean before it taxied to the wharf and a tall and slender woman stepped onto the dock, dressed entirely in white, with black shoes and a large-brim black hat and glasses. She exuded class and sophistication, and Rey was fascinated by the sight of her. She approached the resort, dragging a pair of rose-gold designer suitcases and Rey balked at the colour of her hair, brilliant lavender styled in a 1920s faux bob.

"Ah, she's here!" Leia exclaimed at the breakfast table. "Amilyn, over here!"

At the sight of Leia waving, Amilyn tore her hat off and waved it back.

Rey would soon learn this powerhouse of grace, was one Amilyn Holdo, the most sought after criminal lawyer in Coruscant, and Leia's oldest friend.

"This is Ben's girlfriend, Rey," Leia said and Amilyn extended her hand.

She stared at it briefly; so this is the woman who could change their future.

Rey met her handshake enthusiastically and was surprised to find Amilyn's hold was loose and warm. It shouldn't have made her panic, but it did. Ben needed someone strong enough not to take his shit, to fight the devil and his demons for him. Would this woman be up for the challenge?

"My client speaks a lot about you," Amilyn told her with a smile that came through equally to her eyes. Rey noted the refined lilt of her accent, it sounded like she'd spent her young adult life bouncing between the world's most prestigious universities, which, she later learnt, wasn't far from the truth.

Rey blushed. She always did, when it came to Ben.

"Did Leia tell you we go to trial next month?"

"Already?" Rey's heart skipped a beat. She'd spoken to Ben every day this week and not once had he mentioned a trial date, or even that he'd gotten a lawyer.

"Yes, with the Knights of Ren arrested and the State vs the Estate of Alaistair Snoke trial, it was pushed forward. I thought he might have told you though."

"I— no, he hadn't mentioned it."

Amilyn's eyes narrowed and Rey had never felt so naked. She shrunk back in her chair, aware that the lawyer was scrutinising her every move.

"I mean, it hasn't come up yet. I'm sure he was planning on—" Amilyn quirked her head to the side, appearing keenly interested in Rey's body language.

You know, don't you? Rey thought. You know everything.

"Leia, I think it would be a good idea if Rey and I had a quick chat." Amilyn held her hand out expectantly. "Come for a walk with me?"

Rey glanced at Leia, and the older woman nodded, slowly. "We'll have lunch ready for when you get back."

"Excellent," Amalyn clapped her hands together and Rey stood to go with her

"She's very stubborn," Leia called out as they left.

The women paused, glancing at each other.

"Is she talking about me or you?" Rey asked.

"Both, I imagine."

On the beach, they kicked off their shoes and made their way to the waterfront where the sand was firmer. Amilyn hiked her dress pants above her knees and Rey tied her sheer black skirt by her thigh. The ocean was quiet today, lapping at their toes, the only noise was the swish of waves upon the sand and the blow-fly buzz of jet ski engines somewhere far in the distance.

Rey dawdled, staring at the shifting line between the water and sand, very aware that Amilyn continued to study her.

"I imagine this has been hard for you," she said at last.

"Of course." Rey shrugged her shoulders, still staring ahead. She'd never met a lawyer before, nevermind one of the country's most respected criminal lawyers. Everything she'd seen on television had made her believe they were cunning and only after the big paychecks that came with cases like this. But perhaps, being Leah's friend, this one was different.

"You miss him." Amilyn's lips pressed in a warm smile. "But I imagine that's not why it's hard."

"I'm not sure what you mean." Rey pushed down the nauseous feeling in her stomach. The one that swelled whenever she thought about the reason why Ben was in prison.

"It's not fair of Ben to expect you to wait here." Amilyn put her sunglasses on, they were purple-rimmed, just like her hair, dotted with tiny diamonds.

"I'm not planning on waiting here. When Leia and Han go to the mainland for the trial, I'll be going with them."

"He won't like it."

Rey kicked sand into an oncoming wave with a little more force than intended.

"Then he shouldn't have told the world he was Kylo Ren. Let's keep walking, shall we?"

Amilyn gave her a sly smile. "Ben's underestimated you. But that's typical for a man. They can never shake off that whole damsel in distress idea. Little do they realise, their damsel probably has her own ideas of how things are going to play out. Wouldn't you say?"

Rey stared ahead. "Is there much hope for him to get out of this?"

Amilyn's face pulled into that sympathetic expression, brows knitted together and a soft smile. "It will depend on many things. The judge, witnesses, how the Snoke case is progressing. It wasn't long ago that the bastard was winning awards for being a good citizen."

Rey mulled all of this over. They still had time. Another month and every day new information came out about Snoke and the First Order. But what if it still wasn't enough?

She hesitated. "If things go badly, I'm not going to just sit by."

"Rey," Amilyn stretched out her name, but once again there was gentleness and empathy to her voice.

"No. I won't have this on my conscience!" Rey snapped, Surprisingly, Amilyn didn't look put out at all by her outburst. If anything, she looked pleased.

"I won't do it unless I need to. I know it would destroy him after everything he's done to keep me safe but if they're going to put him away for years and years. I can't—"

"We'll avoid that if we can. Meanwhile, there is something you could do to help."

Rey paused. "Anything!"

"What do you know about Phasma Christie?"

The next month dragged. Tourist season was coming into its autumn lull and Rey was reaching the limit of digging she could do into Snoke and the First Order from Bespin. She still spoke to Ben every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but as the trial came closer their conversations were getting difficult. Ben was quiet and moody, even snapping at her on occasion, and each time she'd bite her tongue knowing the pressure he was facing. He never once mentioned the trial, and Rey suspected that he hoped she didn't know about it. To this, she played along, knowing anything else would have stressed him out.

Two days before the trial, Lando pulled up in his luxury yacht, the Lady Luck, and they packed their bags for the mainland.

The journey was an eight-hour boat ride across choppy, pewter seas. Once they arrived, Rey stepped onto the mainland, feeling like she was still walking on waves and clinging to the railing.

"What time is it?"

"Almost twelve," Leia replied.

Three more hours until she could call him.

Leia and Han taxied to the office of the Hosnian Herald. It should have been thrilling walking through those doors and showing her press pass, but all she could think about was Ben and the trial.

Poe gave her a quick hug and told her she looked like shit before he took her on a tour of the building. Rey nodded and smiled, and said pleased to meet you on cue, but inwardly was counting everything second until she could excuse herself and call Ben.

Finally, in the middle of a tour of the graphic's department, Rey gasped when she checked her phone and Poe rolled his eyes.

"Go call him."

"Thank you!" she said, excitedly. "I won't be long."

"Use the roof. It should be quiet up there."

Rey took the old elevator to the top of the fourth floor, from there she travelled up a dimly lit staircase leading to a large fire door. She pushed it with a sharp shove. It screeched, metal against metal, putting her nerves right on edge. The exposed roof was a tired and weathered area; cigarette butts lined the floor, a couple of pot plants were parched dry — most of them doubling as an ashtray.

But it would do.

Rey looked out over the city. The Hosnian Herald building was five stories high, so while she was still dwarfed by skyscrapers, the building was elevated enough that she could still see much of the city. Down below the streets were busy, and in the distance, she recognised the roof and courtyard of the Taco Dana Restaurant.

Shit, she'd forgotten about that place. She hadn't even said goodbye to Jess or handed Kennedy a letter of resignation. Images flashed in her mind, Ben and Snoke at the table, Rey's horror at seeing them there and suggesting Ben order a crab taco. He'd given her such an irritated smile at the time. How she'd hated him so much at that moment. Looking back they seemed like two other people, strangers from a lifetime ago.

Towards the east, there was a collection of low-rise buildings and terrace houses. Mustafar. She squinted, trying to make out the brothel, but the grey rooves all blended into one from here.

That shady part of the city would always fill her with contradiction. It was like she'd walked through hell and found herself a soul mate — speaking of which, she dialled the number of the jail, waiting as the phone rang.

The receiver picked up and she immediately recognised the low no-nonsense tone of the female officer on the other end.

"This is Rey, calling for Ben Solo, 5831."

"Hold." The phone line went dead and Rey waited. This was always the moment she dreaded most; when her body began to betray her: heartbeat racing and pulse throbbing. It was taking a long time. Rey watched the seconds pass on her watch with a growing sense of unease.

She paced, running her hand along the cement barrier, avoiding pigeon poo dotted along the top. Someone had scribbled Fuck You, Capitalism! and Rey traced the letters as she waited, wishing to hell that he'd pick up already.

There was a click.

"Hello." The voice was gravelly and low.

"Ben, is that you?"

He cleared his throat. "Yeah."

In the distance, Rey spotted a grey shape swooping down from the sky, her eyes darted to it, watching the falcon circle on the hunt for a fresh kill that wouldn't even know it was coming.

"Luke said you were sick."

There was a grunt. "Yeah."

"Is that why you couldn't speak last week?"

Rey watched the bird again, swooping at something she couldn't see, waiting for Ben to answer.

"Yes."

She rubbed her elbow. "You sound … are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Liar. In the months that had passed, she'd come to find Ben's moods pretty erratic, which wasn't surprising considering. Some days he would be cold and aloof, others ecstatic and romantic and then like this, depressed and quiet.

She tried to change the subject.

"You won't guess where I am?"

"No idea." Her chest tightened. She tried to ignore it. "I'm on the roof of the Hosnian Herald! Can you believe it?"

She waited, the horn from a commuter bus bleated from below as it pulled into traffic, cutting off a number of cars. The metal of the fire door screeched against the trim again as another employee came out for a break, bundled up in a grey trench coat and lighting a cigarette. Smoke swirled around her and she wrinkled her nose, trying to move away.

He released a long, strained breath. "What are you doing there?"

Cold. How could he be so cold?

"I'm here for the trial."

"Fuck, Rey!" he spat. "I told you not to come."

Her cheeks burned and she covered her hand over her mouth to keep their conversation private. "I want to support you. We all do. Your mum and dad are here too."

"Why didn't you stay where you were?"

"I—" Tears pricked at her eyes and the cityscape blurred below. "I wanted to see you. I thought I could come for visiting hour tomorrow."

Silence.

"If you wanted me to that is."

"One minute left," the guard's voice echoed in the background.

She pushed away her growing panic. "Do you want me to come?"

"I wanted you to stay on Bespin. I didn't want to you to—fuck!" He shouted the last word, and she heard the guard growl his name in warning.

"I'm sorry," Rey murmured, blindsided by his reaction. She tried not to let out the weak little sob that was harbouring in her chest, but it came anyway.

"Are you crying?"

"No," she said, sniffing.

"Look, Rey, I don't know what you're hoping for but the trial isn't going to go well."

"How do you know—"

"And I don't want you to hear about all the shit I've done. Are you prepared for that? To hear about every bone I've broken, every person's face I've smashed? Do you want to hear in detail about how I blew Lor San Tekka's fucking brains out," he was talking quickly and quietly now. "Do you think you can really hear all that and still want to be with me?"

"Time!" the guard's voice came in the background.

"I gotta go," he said, despondent. "Amilyn didn't ask you to testify, did she?"

"No, of course not." The door slammed again and the smoker was gone, although the smoke still lingered in a hazy cloud, burning her throat.

"Good," Ben said. "And promise me you won't come."

"Time!" the guard repeated, and this time she heard the sound of something hard smacking on metal.

"Rey?"

"Time!"

"Would you just fucking wait!?" He had that tone in his voice, the one that came before everything was eclipsed by his anger. "Promise me, damn it!"

The door screeched again, this time it was Finn popping his head out to look for her.

Rey quickly wiped her eyes.

"Rey?" Ben asked, and her heart broke at the panic in his voice.

"I—" The line went dead and Rey stared at the blank phone in her hand, trembling.

"Are you okay?"

She nodded, quickly, blinking away the tears. "Is it time for our meeting?"

Finn nodded and she breathed.

Push it down, push it all away.

It was something she knew how to do: compartmentalise, conceal and continue.

"Sure you're okay, peanut?"

She turned back to Finn, eyes dry, and a smile beaming. "I'm great. Let's go."

"This case is going to go terribly unless we have someone who was there the night Snoke died." Poe raked his fingers through his thick, curly hair, twisting a cold cup of coffee in his hands.

"I was there."

"Someone other than you."

Rey sunk in her chair. Here she was at the Hosnian Herald, sitting opposite the editor chair, while dozens of reporters tapped away on their keyboards, and conducted phone interviews. It should have been the best day of her life but the pain of her interaction with Ben was still there.

The glass door to Poe's office was in constant motion as a steady stream of people bustled in and out.

"Poe, what do you think of one of these as the front-page photo?" A young photographer with bangs and a polka-dot dress leaned over his desk as she flicked through a dozen images on her camera and Poe narrowed his eyes at them all, mumbling to himself.

"Can you try and find a photo of him not looking like a dementor?"

Rey raised an eyebrow.

"Your boy's trial is big news and we're going to lead with it tomorrow."

"You can't do that!"

"I know he's your boyfriend and all, but we gotta run with it. Every other news outlet will be doing the same thing. It's fair and unbiased reporting, Rey. I shouldn't need to remind you about that."

He leant forward, glasses slipping down his nose as he flicked through his emails.

"Fair and unbiased," she scoffed. "You really think the Ilum Times is going to do that?"

"We will. And who knows, perhaps an exclusive with his girlfriend might help. You could tell them how he cries when he makes love to you—"

"Forget it!" she snapped, and Poe started laughing.

Finn bustled in then, carrying lots of folders and a laptop. As he went to sit, he took one look at Rey and dumped them on Poe's desk crossly. "You didn't."

Poe sipped his coffee with a shrug, only to realise it was stone-cold and spat it out in the trash can.

"Ex-hooker teams up with Snoke's personal hit guy and falls in love. It's gold."

"Ignore him."

"I usually do," Rey said, trying to smirk but the corners of her lips fell.

"Why am I still paying you both?"

"Because no one else can stand you?" Rey snapped back and Poe laughed.

They'd been working together for six months now, but today was the first time they'd done it in the same space. Usually, their morning meetings were held over Zoom. In those days, the witty banter and excitement of what they were trying to achieve gave Rey enough fuel to face the rest of the day alone knowing that every second of it she spent fighting for Ben.

Finn pulled his chair closer and leaned over Poe's desk, looking through the many papers he'd dumped over the top of it.

"So final tally, what do we have?" Poe asked.

"Ordering the terror bombing on Resistance HQ, blackmail and bribery, specifically related to the government security contract, attempted murder by car bombing, assault, rape, grooming minors to work with him … to be honest, we could be here all day," Finn said.

"And what do we have specifically on Ben?"

"Our biggest issue is the San Tekka murder, and Snoke, obviously."

Rey opened her mouth to speak at that one, but Poe held his finger up. "Save it."

Poe continued: "there were a few misdemeanours that were still on the USB. That's since been turned over to the police. Word from Holdo's is Enric Pryde's prosecuting."

"What does that mean?" Finn asked.

"It means we're up shit creek without a paddle. Pryde plays dirty and he hates to lose. Plus, he's an Imperial supporter. He's not about to go easy because he's Leia Organa's son."

Rey sighed. "We need something else, something that could sway all of this." Poe tapped his index finger on the table.

"You guys anything?" Finn sat with his arms folded, legs stretched out, gazing out to the left as though he was trying to catch a thought and then to Rey, who was chewing on her lip.

"Amilyn and I talked about trying to get Phasma on the stand. She saw the whole thing," Rey said.

"From past conversations, I seem to recall she was no friend of yours," Poe answered, taping his pen in frantic beats on his table.

"She isn't." Rey thought back to her interactions with the imposing woman. "But she's all we have."

"Are you okay?" Amilyn asked, clearly noticing the way Rey gripped her hands on the car seat.

Rey nodded.

"I didn't realise she lived in Mustafar."

"We're not far now. Close your eyes if it's easier."

It wasn't easier because Rey knew these streets like the back of her hand. She knew the sounds and the smells. The waft of the kebab shop, the soundtrack of sirens and horns. She would always know these streets, from their graffitied boarded up shop windows and trendy open-air cafes, to the women in platform shoes and glitter skirts strolling along the pavement with their cappuccinos and lattes.

And she would know it by the turn off to the small lane ahead on their left.

"Can we drive past? it" Rey asked.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, please. I want to see it."

Amilyn put her blinker on and they turned onto Crimson Lane. They approached the brothel, charcoal-coloured in the evening sun. The curtains were drawn, and the door was still blood red. The light was off. Closed for business. For good, she hoped.

The biggest difference was a line of tape around the perimeter, bright yellow and blue, warning people to stay away: unsafe structure.

"Someone set fire to it about a month and a half ago. It's pretty much just a shell now."

Rey nodded slowly, expecting to feel something, but it was like every emotion had drained away. Her gaze travelled to the top floor: their room.

There was evidence of the fire now, the glass smashed and frame black and broken.

She wondered how it had come to burn.

"Do they know who did it?" Amilyn shook her head. "Probably just an opportunistic arsonist."

The longer Rey stared at Number 12, the more it seemed to suck her in, like she was watching the heart of a fire, twisting and burning with red flame and ash. She couldn't look away.

"Rey—" Amilyn said from some distant part of her mind.

How could one find peace looking at the place that had infiltrated her mind at night with the most horrific nightmares, playing over and over and over again in her mind?

And yet, such beauty she had found there, healing, forgiveness.

Amilyn placed a hand on her knee and Rey turned to face her, surprised to feel her face was wet with tears.

"Are you ready to go?"

Rey sniffed and nodded. "Yes, I'm done."

They continued their drive, away from the red-light district to a narrow street dotted with parking metres and Jacaranda trees.

"So, you think she lives there?" Amilyn asked, peering out at the two-story terrace house.

"I hope so."

It was nothing special, rusty-coloured bricks and terracotta tiles. It was a modern re-creation of the original terrace designs, with their ornate ironwork and cement walls. Along the street, there were bars on the windows of the lower floors, and some on the doors. But Phasma had none of those, as if to say to the world she could take on anyone.

They waited. The street was quiet, apart from the gentle twit of swallows flitting in and out of the eaves.

Rey tapped her fingers on the window frame nervously. "I spoke to Ben today."

Amilyn sipped her coffee, leaving a line of bright red lipstick on the rim of the paper cup. "I imagine that was pleasant."

Rey turned in time to catch Amilyn's smirk, disappearing as she sipped her drink. "He's been a snarky prat for the past month. Trust me, when I say you get him on his best behaviour."

Rey thought back to the conversation, to the tone of his voice: distant, defensive … caged.

"He's scared." She picked some twigs and grime out of the window slit. "I don't—"

The door of the townhouse opened and they froze as a tall, slender woman with short blonde hair and a silver, velvetine tracksuit came out the door and over to the mailbox.

"Go, go, go!" Amilyn hissed.

Rey jumped out of the car and made a beeline to meet her.

"Phasma!" The woman stopped, blinking once, twice, before turning on her heels to go back to the house.

Rey darted behind her, shadowing her so when they got to the front door, Rey slipped in too.

Phasma didn't pay her any attention, busying herself around the interior: boiling the chrome silver kettle, unpacking a half-empty dishwasher and opening the blinds, as a ginger-coloured cat rubbed up against her calf.

Hux's celebrity cat, Rey thought with a smile.

The terrace house was surprisingly domestic, there were placemats on the table, and a collection of abstract art in deep purple and orange dotted around the room. As she entered the kitchen, she smelt an audacious eau de toilette mixed with the subtle hint of marijuana.

Rey waited, backed up against the wall as the kettle boiled as Phasma poured the hot water into a rose-coloured glass teacup, sitting at the table and watching Rey with oculus sky-blue eyes.

Even now, in this small kitchen, the woman ruled her space like a goddess. Rey was determined not to let this game of silence intimidate her and with a shrug of her shoulders, she sat down and waited.

Phasma sipped the tea, gaze fixed out the window. Rey watched her unblinking, her fingers twitching to move, to play with the strip of fabric of her shirt, to pick at her nails or tap on the table.

But no, she kept them folded, legs crossed, shoulders straight. She would not be intimidated, not anymore.

Phasma placed the teacup on the table, dabbing at her lipstick with a small tissue she had stowed away in her pocket, and when she glimpsed at Rey again it was with an exasperated sigh.

"Fine. I'll bite. How's Kylo?"

Rey stiffened, she'd almost forgotten that name and everything it represented.

"Oh, like that, is it?" Phasma chuckled, taking another sip. "You don't need to tell me, I saw him last week. He looked like shit, but then you would know."

Rey looked down into her lap. "I haven't seen him."

Phasma smirked. "Hmm. Well, that's interesting."

"The reason I haven't seen him—" Rey snapped back, her voice a little too high and peevish— "is because I came to see you instead."

"How sweet!"

Phasma flashed her a quick smile, fixing those cold blue eyes on her once more, like a predator waiting to strike.

"You know, I slept with him once."

Rey blinked. Trying not to move, or breathe, or do anything that would show weakness. But Phasma seemed to find something, because she smiled contentedly, her long ring-clad fingers caressing the skin behind her neck.

"He's a brutal lover, like an animal."

Rey's jaw clamped shut, every breath she took whistled through her nose. Is that why Phasma saw him last week, why she warned him to stay away from the brothel, why she'd always seemed to hate Rey and lastly, why she'd let Rey go — to save him?

"You—" Rey reconsidered her words, she needed to be careful. All this time, when Phasma was playing Snoke's pet, had she really just wanted Ben to save her?

Phasma smirked again. "Actually, I don't think I've ever been fucked so hard."

"He's always gentle with me." She met her gaze. It wasn't entirely true, she'd seen that side of Ben too, the part of him that brimmed with fire and passion, an unquenchable urge to hold on, but fuck that there was no way she would share that.

"That's funny. Some nights, I could have sworn he wasn't gentle at all. But you still seemed to like it. I mean, the night he trashed the room—"

The air was growing warm or at least it seemed to, heat licked at Rey's neck and she felt her chest getting blotchy as her temper boiled over.

"Yes, he fucks me hard and I like it. And, other times he's gentle, and I like that too. And every time we talk he tells me how much he loves me, and I tell him the same."

Phasma smiled again, but this time it was tighter, smaller.

"I am sorry for whatever horrible things Snoke did to you, but from what I can see you got your revenge for both of us — 37 times."

Phasma stiffened.

"So, did Hux help you kill him in the end?"

She froze; teacup in hand, the rippling surface the only thing giving away how much she was trembling.

"You have no proof."

"I'm not looking for proof."

Phasma's body relaxed. "Well, there wasn't much to do after you finished with him — before you let Kylo take the fall for you that is."

"We can throw barbs at each other all day. But the fact is you were the only one there that night who can prove this was self-defence."

"And what about you?" Rey looked down at her hands, scratching at each other like something was clawing under her skin.

"He—" Rey blinked quickly. "He doesn't want me at the trial."

Phasma laughed, shrill like a banshee, it made Rey's skin crawl.

"You want me to lie on the stand? To say that Kylo knifed Snoke in the neck when you're just letting him take the fall for something you did. I'm not protecting you."

"I'm not asking you to, I'm asking you to help him," Rey shouted back. "And I'm sure in your whole fucked up existence working with Snoke he has helped you."

Phasma stared at her, face unreadable.

"Please, Phasma. He needs your help. You know what kind of charges he's up against … along with everything else."

Time slowed as Rey waited for an answer, outside she could make out Amilyn's mauve hair in the car, she must have been listening to music as her head bobbed side to side in time with the tap of her fingers.

"Is that his lawyer?" Rey jumped, she hadn't realised Phasma had been watching her also.

"Amilyn Holdo. She's supposed to be very good."

Phasma stared at the woman with a blank expression.

"According to her, we should have a good case for justified homicide, in both cases, considering all the evidence against Snoke and what he has done to Ben-I mean, Kylo, considering Snoke blackmailed him as a minor and what he did to him after he tried to leave the First Order."

Phasma tucked a curl behind her ear, eyes closing.

"I remember that night. Snoke was barbaric. Kylo's lucky he got away with just the scars that he did. Others have suffered much more for much less."

Rey nodded. "Funny; that was another time he suffered for you. He never would have asked to leave Snoke had he not met you."

"I—" Rey's face turned a deep shade of beetroot, the sting of Phasma's words striking her just where she meant them, in the heart, filling her with guilt and shame.

"He was so fucking shaken up by the pathetic girl who slept on a dog bed. The thought of you being forced into sex work ..." Phasma rolled her eyes. "And here you are." She gestured to Rey in a grand motion. "Kylo's little whore, getting away with murder."

Rey stiffened, her jaw locked so tight she felt like she'd crack her teeth. "You might want to reconsider that statement."

They glared at each other. In the distance, the bell of an ice cream truck rang out along with the tinny chimes of Greensleeves. Children would be rushing out to buy soft-serve cones. It was such a contrast to the cold standoff taking place in this dimly-lit kitchen.

Rey had hoped not to find an enemy here. In some warped, idealistic way, she might have found an ally, someone who understood the pain of being held captive within Snoke's cruel grip, to have been enslaved in the most undignified way.

She had not expected to find a jealous lover, rotting in her own bitterness.

Rey stood, scraping her chair along the kitchen tiles. "This is useless."

Phasma was on her feet almost instantly, but Rey didn't wait. Storming to the front door, she'd just opened it when Phasma called out to her.

"I'll do it. Not for you, but for him."

Rey didn't look back.

"Tell your lawyer, I'll play her game, but if Kylo goes down for this—"

"He won't."

"But if he does," Phasma gave her something between a smile and a sneer. "I'm throwing you under the bus, Desert Flower."

Rey gave her a lopsided smirk. "I'll see you in court, madam."

[insecure-hbo-the-recaps]

hella open

Previously on Insecure: Issa slept with Lawrence but Lawrence is apparently with Tasha. Lawrence told Tasha, and it didn’t go well. Lawrence moved out of Chad’s place. Molly’s therapist helped her try to move up a level at work. Issa starts to accept that Lawrence is done.

Issa is having a red wine and chill with some random. She’s wearing a purple football jersey for the occasion, which is an interesting choice. Her hair is braided down in a protective after-shampooing set of Celie cornrows like… it tickles me when famous black women publicly do stuff that is just-for-at-home and mainstream media loses their shit over it (see also Rihanna wearing sparkly bobby pins in her wrapped hair) but, Insecure is for us. I’m not so sure I can cosign this ostentatiously quirky style choice, lol.

The guy moves in to kiss her and Issa awkwardly accepts it. She continually giggles while he is trying to be sexy, past the point where he is amused by it. As an aside, this is everything:

Issa is frankly annoying him now - I get that it’s weird for her to have sex with a new person after being with Lawrence for five years. The first time I had a serious long term relationship I was surprised how weird it was to begin sleeping with someone new again. It wasn’t something I thought I’d have a problem with, since obviously I’d never had a boyfriend and that was the weird thing. But, it was. Issa asks to reschedule, but she has blown this dude’s high - he’s wearing jeans with cutouts at the knee, this is some Eric Benet California shit - he doesn’t really want to try again. This didn’t work. So Issa gets dressed to leave.

Dunes. Issa is about to leave for work when she catches sight of the plume of smoke she burned into her wall at last week’s party. She also notices before she goes that the new property management has issued what appears to be every apartment notices for noise violations, taped to their doors.

On the way out, Issa runs into one of the bloods that crashed her party. He has a really big, weird shaped head.

It reminds me of this kid I went to high school with named Mickey who had a big oversized head that sort of came to a point at the top; so more a triangle than round head. Of course now that I’ve spent several years working in developmental pediatrics I know what happened there is that he should have had a helmet as an infant and his parents didn’t get him one, but at the time it was just there goes Mickey with his big ass pointed head that he for some reason chooses to accuentuate with a cloth headband. (This was obviously during the Rocafella era when that was en vogue for men.) I actually think that he ended up being shot and murdered as an adult, but for the life of me I cannot remember his last name in order to check and I’m not exactly on speaking terms with my high school classmates.

Anyway, Mickey (I don’t know that we ever get to hear his name and I’m going to make the executive decision that it doesn’t matter) says he had fun at Issa’s party and she watches him go.

Molly’s law office. She’s skyping with Hannah in the Chicago office as well as the TSA agent from Get Out, Quintin, a fellow lawyer in a trendy bow tie. There’s a Chicago joke about the sun shining so he’s going to the beach. That doesn’t work here because Chicago is not an overcast city and we don’t have an excessive amount of cloudy days. You’re thinking Portland, Insecure writers. Idk why the actor didn’t correct him, since apparently he’s also from Chicago. In the summer I hang a dark blanket on the window behind my blinds because my bedroom is east facing and there’s too much sun for 75% of the day. Anyway, they bond over being the token black lawyers and it’s all lovely and relatable.

High school. As you may have noticed, I really don’t give a shit about this storyline. I did think it was interesting that Issa ended up being the bad guy in this scenario, as the show’s hero, because you are definitely tempted to take her side in this. Frida comes across as an overly Clueless White Person with her concerns that the after school program is only black children while Issa isn’t bothered because she’s just glad the program is full. When I watched this the first time I was uncomfortable with it because while I didn’t exactly disagree with Issa’s blase attitude, I did think the show made it clear enough that she wasn’t doing the right thing to take it. Of course this season will make it overtly clear - more than the first season did in my opinion - that Issa’s judgment is sure in the fuck not to be trusted, and this was just another way that they established that. Duly noted that white people aren’t always wrong when it comes to race. Issa’s attitude doesn’t sit well with Frida.

Multicultural Silicon Valley start up, aka Lawrence’s computery job. It looks like he’s wearing one of those Untuck It shirts. Tangent. I went out with this guy who was born in the 70s because he started hitting on me when I was working on my laptop at Map Room and trying not to cry because I was texting with my new boyfriend-even-though-we’d-been-fucking-for-the-last-three-years-not-as-a-couple because he up and booked a flight for a 10 day trip to Costa Rica and didn’t tell me about it til afterward. I was two La Fin du Mondes in already and when I went to close out, the random man offered to buy me another, apparently not noticing my teary eyes. Anyway, because he was born in the 70s, he was particularly preoccupied with anything young and trendy, and frequently mentioned his Untuck It shirts to me. Granted they do look expensive and well made in real life. But they’re also just regular fucking shirts that charge a 300% premium because they cut them slightly shorter so that you don’t have to… guess what… tuck them in. I’ve literally only ever seen or heard of these shirts due to advertisements during daytime CNN or MSNBC viewing so like… who’s supposed to be impressed by this?

Anyway, The Generic White Guy is obnoxiously eating snack food made from crickets, and Lawrence is talking about his trip to Phuket, so we get the full range of lovely diversity at work in this cool, trendy environment. Apparently the ethnic girl next to Lawrence slept with Corny Colin, which the blonde teases her about. Ethnic Girl is not amused by it. The group discusses a company social, but Lawrence can’t go because he “promised someone he’d pick up some chairs.” So he’s going to go to Tasha’s family bbq after all. The group clearly regards Lawrence as a trendsetter amongst what’s hot and what’s not - a distinction I feel that certain types of black people, in certain environments, are relegated to simply because black culture is presumed to be cooler than the other prevailing cultures - and everyone is disappointed that he will not be going.

Loading dock. Molly is wearing a fabulous black skirt suit with leather trimmed lapels. She’s on the phone with her mom about the vow renewal thing her parents keep bugging her about. A worker comes out with her bookcase and assumes the random black man standing nearby is there with her. He asks if he should hand it over and everyone looks at each other, blanketed by the wrongness of the assumptions all around. Molly scoffs that she’s not with him, and makes to pick up the bookcase by herself.

Yes, it is exactly as absurd as you’d think it would be, and two things. Motherfuck this whole concept where black women aren’t allowed or should be or expected to be the normal amount of “feminine” granted to every other woman. I had this epiphany somewhere not long after high school when I realized how panicked and backed up against the wall I felt that my natural inclination was to resist any kind of vulnerability and the realization that I didn’t want to have to be “strong” all the time. That wasn’t going to work for me. I am damsel in distress all the time. You will stop when I cross the street, even if I’m timing it wrong with the stop signs - when I politely give you the right of way, you will insist I cross instead. You will pause to let me pass and open doors when I do. You will push my car out of the snow. You will offer to carry the leftovers from the restaurant. I dated a guy who insisted on walking down the stairs in front of me when I was wearing high heels, just in case I tripped. Point being, with regards to this scene, I wouldn’t have lifted that shit. I wouldn’t have carried shit. I would have been pointedly unable to carry that box. I’d have stood there for a half hour if that’s as long as it took for someone to offer to carry the box for me. But it wouldn’t have. When you behave with the expectation that you are a woman and you expect to be treated like a woman, something kinda funny happens… people treat you like a delicate woman. It doesn’t escape my notice that the black man the worker assumed was there for Molly is there with a white woman, whose boxes he handily carries, while Molly struggles absurdly with the bulky oblong in her five inch heels down a flight of stairs. No ma'am. Later for “strong black womanhood,” in this physical sense at any rate.

Molly’s fantastic apartment. She’s telling Issa she’s putting her therapy on hold until she finds another therapist. Naturally, therapy was hitting too close to home, so Molly’s instinct was to run from the truth. They are trying to put together this Ikea ass bookcase (related to my previous tangent, whenever I need this kind of manly work done, I outsource it now. Task Rabbit is an app, y'all. That’s what it’s for. It’s not as solid a solution as having an actual man around or anything, but on some level I simply refuse to become a handyman myself just out of sheer principle. You will not deny me my femininity this way, it is a political issue at this point to me.)

Anyway, Molly is bitching about the therapist trying to get too close “just because we both got brown titties.” Issa abides this silently. I can’t believe they unironically drink Carlo Rossi. I remember being a kid and trying to learn about this kind of stuff and making a note from, of all places, an episode of Intervention about what kinds of wine people actually drink. Haha! (And yes, it was the huge gallon jug of Carlo Rossi.) Issa encourages Molly to keep looking for a new therapist, which Molly flips back on Issa regarding not finding a new Lawrence either.

Issa recounts how she couldn’t do casual sex because she was too stuck in her own head. I’m so glad this has never been a problem for me LOL. I don’t even know what my social life would be like if I had a hang up about this issue. They decide they should be doing their “ho phase” together - but then Issa met Lawrence and he “made [her] fall in love with him and shit.” Issa wants to get on Team Fuck Love, and asks Molly “can you teach me how to ho?” “Bitch that’s rude… and yes,” Molly replies.

Late night spot. Issa is wearing a ridiculous outfit as she ridicules the other thirsty women in the spot that are there for an apparently different kind of thirst than the one she is. Seriously, what were we supposed to think about this outfit?

Baby, no. Especially as a woman walks past wearing the exact same bad dress. She’s also wearing what I’m sure are an expensive pair of espadrilles, but they are wedge espadrilles, with a red floral print. Plainly, that outfit is ridiculous. Issa suggests a vacation to somewhere where they’ll be exotic. Molly doesn’t care, and seems very underwhelmed by the night.

Issa is chatting with some guy, making awkward double entendres and sexual innuendos. The guy is not amused and flat out walks away from her mid conversation. The next guy at the bar keeps peeling his eyes around at everything else but Issa, finally admitting that he’s only talking to her because his friend wanted to talk to Molly. Issa is the grenade. Dayuuuuum, bro. “Do you have any other friends?” he asks, which Issa doesn’t dignify with a response.

Molly is talking to Sterling K Brown and is still underwhelmed with the night - the way his friend was only talking to Issa, she’s only talking to him. He asks for her number and Molly coolly hands him her business card. She joins Issa at the bar, who has given up on the night and ordered a plate of wings. I get it. There’s only so much humiliation you can take when you put yourself out there to pick up a random at the bar. Hell, at least Issa has a friend with her while she does it.

Tasha’s house. Tasha is in bed with Lawrence with her hair wrapped gossiping about tv shows. Lawrence tries to distract her and get amorous but Tasha isn’t interested in going there. She pushes Lawrence away and we are treated to more of the show-within-a-show.

Back at the Dune’s, Issa (in her middle-of-the-bed pillow) can’t sleep so she pulls out her vibrator. The battery dies and she spends like ten minutes walking around the apartment looking for new batteries. And, why don’t you have a magic wand? True story: I held off buying any kind of sex toys because I never had any and it made me have to seek out men if I wanted to have a sexual encounter; I (it turned out, rightly) figured that if I had any sex toys it would discourage and demotivate me from meeting actual men. Guess what… I was completely correct, and my love life took a marked down turn the same year I bought a magic wand of my own. Could have been timing, coincidence, I don’t know, but it was interesting. I have since incorporated it into my regular sex life. (My boyfriend-that-I-loved-so-much-I-was-always-crying was amused the first time I used it with him, calling it “violent” and “over the top” because I was “loud” and it “plugged into the wall.” lol. I did nothing but laugh and concede the point, because he was right. But in other news, fun fact: it also works on men, so if you are hooking up with someone that you don’t actually want to have sex with, everyone can have an orgasm with no intercourse whatsoever.)

There are a few scenes about Molly’s being underpaid and Issa missing the discrimination that I’m going to skip because the point has been made already.

Lunch. Molly is on a date with Sterling K Brown. He’s showing her pictures of his niece on his phone, because he’s a Good Black Man looking for a Good Black Woman. Actually, given the champagne flute and the bottle on the table I’m going to assume this is brunch (mimosas, you see). Sterling K Brown is wearing an interesting outfit, what says the tribunal?

This rote-date-conversation centers around the fact that they both have ticking biological clocks, and that Sterling K Brown is not being at all ambiguous about his intentions. Molly seems uncomfortable, and isn’t following this conversation as well as a woman would be if she were truly interested. I gotta say, Sterling K Brown comes off as a LITTLE thirsty… but, considering Molly really does the most when it comes to choosing a man, like… you can’t empathize with her at all. Do we know this, do viewers know this? Molly is wrong and ridiculous and has no clue what she is doing, and her choosing criteria is wildly outdated, immature, and foolish. Like, there is no shrewdness to her relationship behavior at all. She is doing nothing that would prove to be in her best interests or better her life circumstances at all, even if it were just casually dating a potential husband so that you have that back up available when things aren’t going well. This is the kind of thing I might of done before I realized it may be an actual real possibility that I actually might not find the husband I wanted some day.

California Family Cookout. There’s ribs, there’s dominoes. You feel right at home. Lawrence shows up in some hipster ass shirt, carrying chairs as promised. Tasha is wearing a lime green midi dress with scribbled print and a lopsided sew in. It works, as long as you don’t pause at the wrong moment. Why am I hating on both their outfits? Let’s move on. Tasha’s relatives line up to get a good look at Lawrence and he is clearly there in a capacity of Tasha’s Man Friend… which he looks decidedly uncomfortable with. Well, what the fuck were you expecting, Lawrence? Why do you think she hedged around inviting you, and made it clear you didn’t have to come?

Lawrence’s coworker texts him, and he decides to take it as an out, telling Tasha he’ll be right back. “Oh… ok,” she says. Damn. Again, people were furious over the “thirsty” character of Tasha. Meanwhile I’m just over here wondering why fellow black women didn’t have more sympathy for her flexibility. Some of the time when I peek back into conversations in The Community, I am reminded of all kinds of toxic shit I used to feel and believe when I was younger that I eventually had to unlearn in the interests of any kind of healthy interpersonal life. She cheerfully says she’ll see him later, and he leaves.

Molly is at a cupcake shop - those are a thing, y'all, and why? I live near one that granted, makes delicious cupcakes, but they cost like fucking four and a half dollars for one REGULAR SIZE muffin tin mold cupcake! Funnily enough, they are actually named “Molly’s Cupcakes.” Someone calls out that they will pay for her cupcakes, and it appears to be someone Molly knows:

A guy named Dro and his ostensible wife, who playfully criticizes Molly’s insistence on wearing “ugly” dark colors - it’s a black greek thing. (The wife is Delta, which I presume makes Molly AKA). The married couple set up the plot for next week’s episode, expositing that they are in town for the Kiss n Grind party. It’s clear that Molly knows Dro from way back, and the wife is newer.

Dunes. Issa has decided to paint over her burnt wall. She’s typically spastic at it, dripping paint everywhere and making a mess. While cleaning off the roller, she spots Mickey Bighead lounging by the pool and is apparently attracted by what she sees. Molly calls; Issa notes her “high pitched fakeness” as she describes the date with Sterling K Brown: although there is clearly nothing wrong with him it’s obvious to the both of them that Molly just isn’t into it. For SOME reason. And this is the thing that is frustrating about Molly… there’s never any legitimate or tangible reason why she has no interest in normal men and normal relationships, or why she brushes off scenarios that would be good for her. Like, what is she looking for instead? What’s wrong with Sterling K Brown? Why would she not be interested in him? There are no red flags - it’s not his looks, it’s not that he’s not a professional peer, it’s not his baggage as he is unmarried with no children. And perhaps that is the point the show is making - that just because she should be interested in him, that doesn’t mean she has to be. In the larger context of women “wanting it all” or “not settling,” the point is valid. But in a practical sense, Molly is being ridiculous and her actions are not justified. This is how bitches end up single til 40 when they wind up marrying a bald janitor in the end anyway, is all I’m saying. Making smart choices don’t always feel like the choices you want to make.

Molly is comparing her lack of interest in Sterling K Brown with the fact that Candace and Dro are happy despite the fact that Dro was a mess and never had a “five year plan.” So I guess that’s what her problem is. She has no idea what will make her happy and is constantly peeking in other peoples’ lives like it will tell her what would work in hers. You can always find a reason why a person is lacking when you compare them to someone else because… people aren’t the same.

Start up Happy Hour. Lawrence shows up and his coworkers are happy to see him. They know the workplace is one big ho fest once enough drinks start flowing. Ethnic Girl is still pointed about regretting hooking up with Generic White Guy. Which, rude.

Issa has painted over her wall, which looks really good. But then she notices she neglected the smoke on the ceiling. Knowing she can’t reach it, she reckons with it and tells it, “you can’t have my joy.” She spots Mickey Bighead going into his apartment and concocts a plan. She pulls out her charger and takes it down to Mickey’s asking whether he left it at her house at her party. He seems momentarily taken aback, but recovers smoothly enough to invite her in.

Start Up Saturday. Lawrence gets a text from Tasha wondering where he is. Ethnic Girl asks what his deal is - and I kind of hate those “work people” that you can tell their primary source of social capital comes from people they meet in and around the work environment. Like other people are wrong for having a life outside of work and are not as immersed as you are. They ask whether Lawrence is single as a waitress comes up to flirt with him. Although Lawrence says he has to take off soon, her overt interest is all it takes for him to stay for a round of shots.

Back at Mickey’s they’re talking about Gossip Girl. Blake Lively is the most generic white woman on the face of the planet. “Yeah, white people,” Mickey says. “There’s so many of them,” Issa adds awkwardly. Lol. Issa daydreams a confidence boost rap to convince herself to make a move: “even if it’s wack, you can still get some head!” Unflattering accidental pause moment:

Issa makes an awkward kiss move, accidentally knocking him in the nose with her forehead. It works anyway, and they start making out. The first time I watched this I was a little annoyed because while I understand Issa’s excitement over her new body, her constantly barely clothed state this season just seems so gratuitous. The fact that I personally don’t like her body type - not to say she hasn’t done a lot of work on it! - mainly just annoyed me. And I don’t enjoy her sex scenes. Molly’s sex scenes and Lawrence’s sex scenes are great. So it’s always kind of a let down when we have to watch Issa have sex. Her bra collection is excellent though, I guess.

Mickey asks if he could titty fuck her, which Issa “respectfully decline[s].” He wants to put her legs over her head, which she is uncomfortable with. Her head is squashed into the headboard and it’s terrible. To her credit, Issa asks to change positions and finds a way that suits her better. He’s wearing white socks. Aw. Flashbacks.

Molly is at home, working with a glass of red. Sterling K Brown invites her to a SZA concert and she declines. He comes back with a dinner invitation which she doesn’t even reply to. Whatever, Molly. But hey, she heard my complaints and hired some random men to put the cabinet together for her! There’s that at least.

Start up Saturday. Everyone’s drunk and Lawrence is explaining the concept of his app to the two girls. What IS “Woot Woot” exactly? Besides the fact that everyone makes fun of him when he talks about it, as far as I can tell it’s some kind of group chat client? Idk. Tasha calls, and Lawrence puts the phone to his ear in the loud bar. Tasha is mildly agitated, asking what happened to him because he never came back; her family members are even now in the background asking about him. He apologizes and says he ended up drinking too much. Tasha says if he didn’t want to come he should have just told her. Lawrence tries to brush it off but then admits he isn’t looking for a serious relationship. Tasha is put out because he ghosted on her in front of her entire family; if he didn’t want a serious thing he shouldn’t have come. He embarrassed her. Lawrence apologizes in a way that still blames it on her: “I know how much you wanted me to be there.” It’s her fault for expecting his intentions to match his behavior, not his fault for not being up front and leading her on. Tasha tells him to stop acting like he gives a fuck about her feelings, because he “fronted like it was [something more], apologizing for shit” he knew he wasn’t sorry for.

Lawrence insists he was being genuine. Tasha: “You’re a fuck nigga. You’re worse than a fuck nigga. You’re a fuck nigga who thinks he’s a good dude.” And she hangs up. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the cultural conundrum facing all of us in this new technologically advanced hook up landscape we are all attempting to navigate. I don’t know how it used to be before Swiper Not Swiping and casual sex became the rule, not the exception, but I also find that men are preoccupied with being “good guys” in a way that belies their shitty behavior; some kind of veneer of honesty and distance that doesn’t quite square with the level of intimacy and acquiescence they are seeking from their partners. Maybe back in the day it was understood you couldn’t get that level of commitment without expressly acknowledging it; I find these days men think they get to have their cake and eat it too on this issue.

Anyway, look at this shit:

Bitch, what are you wearing? Those 1980s Jessie Spano mom jeans. Her name is “Arpana” which leads me to believe she’s supposed to be Indian, but I think in real life her body type would indicate she is something else. She’s probably Latina tbh. (And no I’m not going to google this to find out.) Anyway, Lawrence is laughing off his conversation with Tasha well enough as he rejoins the party.

Back at the Dunes, Issa is sneaking out of Mickey’s apartment. She isn’t quiet enough and he wakes up, offering for her to sleep over. Super generous considering she lives literally right upstairs. As Issa grabs her phone to go, she decides she isn’t actually willing to sacrifice her phone charger for this farce, so she snatches it up too. But not to fear: it turns out Mickey was aware of her ruse the entire time, as his phone has been sitting plugged into his own not-missing charger the whole time. Issa can’t even be mad as she lets out a chuckle and goes. She seems pleased, at least, with this first foray into “honess.”