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elanorjane · 8 days

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Rumbelle Fic: Screw The Roses, Send Me The Thorns

Gift for kelyon.tumblr.com @kelyon for @rumbellesecretsanta 2022 rumbellesecretsanta.tumblr.com

Prompt: Mutually horny at family event

Read on AO3

A/N: This is fiction, not reality. The romance is compressed into a very short time period. Remember: safe, sane, and consensual, friends. Warnings: BDSM talk and actions

“I’d like to make a toast….”

Mayor Regina Mills raised her Waterford crystal toasting flute. The sleek, pulled stem of her glassware was intricately adorned with an eternal flame. Her captive audience, seated, had been given plain flutes. Regina’s eyes roamed up and down the long dinner table. The stark black and white decor of the table matched the rest of the stately manor. In a nod to the season, blood red poinsettias were sprinkled here and there to dramatic effect.

“To family,” she began.

The mayor’s dramatic pause failed to hide Gold’s snort of derision.

Her dark eyes cut to him down the table.

Gold lowered his chin and held up a hand in a gesture for her to continue her annual speech, but he couldn’t quite erase the evidence of his smirk completely off his lips.

He felt his son lean over his right arm, feigning straightening his father’s dessert spoon. “You promised,” he murmured, as Regina droned on.

“I promised I would attend,” Gold replied. “You failed to make any demands as to my demeanor.”

Bae straightened, shaking his head, “Always the technicalities with you,” he hissed. “Always have to have the upper hand. Even with your own family.”

These people were Gold’s family only in the loosest sense of the word. But Mayor Regina Mills, by a twisted series of events, was the adoptive mother of his biological grandson. A child Bae, and himself, had not known existed until fairly recently. Gold’s own son had correspondingly reentered his life after decades of estrangement. Gold came to these little gatherings as a favor to Bae. It was one of the few olive branches he could muster in their still fragile relationship. Unfortunately, rebuilding a relationship with his son included regularly coming in contact with the whole damn town.

“If you, Emma, and Henry want to come over for dinner,” Gold countered, “I welcome you. But this,” he waved his finger up and down the dinner table dismissively, “is not my family.”

Regina insisted on holding these mock “family” gatherings every holiday season. He’d rather be at home in his library slowly sipping a scotch. Or in his shop balancing his ledgers for the end of the year. Better company, either way.

Bae looked down at his lap, tugging knots in his napkin as he shook his head. He sighed, leaning back over towards his father. “Thank you for coming,” he said evenly. “I know you’d rather be at home in your library with the drink of a lonely man. Or locked in your counting house with your gold.” Bae made both options sound distasteful.

“Counting house?” Gold echoed.

“Yeah, you know, like in A Christmas Carol.”

“Oh, I know the reference. I’m just impressed you do. I didn’t know you read Dickens.”

“What? No,” Bae scrunched his face. “Mickey’s Christmas Carol was on last night.”

Gold’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Am I Scrooge McDuck in this analogy?”

“I’m saying your Scrooge McDuck after he sees the three ghosts,” Bae placated. “See,” he waved his hand around the table, “you have family now.”

Despite Regina’s accommodating table, the "family" seemed to grow every year, much to Gold’s dismay. This year the table was downright crowded. First Emma, his grandson’s biological mother. Then her parents, the Nolans, David and his equally insufferably sunny wife Mary Margaret. Then Regina and her idiodic sister, Zelena. In a display of her status as Mayor, Regina expanded these events to include Storybrooke’s most influential citizenry, at least by Regina’s standards. Besides the “family,” their gathering now included Jefferson, Regina’s stylist and decorator, Sydney Glass, her counsel, Dr. Archibald Hopper, town shrink, and a handful of other rotating characters, depending on Regina’s humor and who she was feuding with that season.

“You could use the opportunity to get to know people, like, network,” Bae tried again.

“Son, I know everyone here. Half of them owe me rent and will use getting drunk at this event as an excuse for why they were late.”

Bae, who dismissively shook his head through his father’s excuses, pressed, “I mean really get to know them. Let them know you. You could talk to David. He could be my father-in-law someday.”

Gold considered Henry's other grandfather. David Nolan acted like they were friends every time he saw him, much to Gold’s bewilderment. But what Bae thought they had in common was beyond him.

Gold glanced around the table, considering his other options. Occasionally his and the mayor’s business desires lined up and they worked in tandem when it suited Gold. But they could be at cross-purposes just as easily, which didn't inspire deep confidences. Beyond that, he didn't understand what sharing his personal life with these people had anything to do with his continued campaign to regain the trust of Bae, or Neal, as everyone else at the table called him.

Bae elbowed him, “You could talk to Regina’s sister,” he wagged his eyebrows.

Gold jerked out of his reverie, glancing over both shoulders in fear that Bae speaking her name would conjure her.

“To what end?” he rasped, looking down past Bae to make sure Zelena remained in her seat well across the table and diagonal. While she was still seated, when Gold did locate her, she was looking straight at him. Accidentally meeting her eyes caused her to give him one of her wide smiles that made her look psychotic and him feel nauseated. Gold pressed back in his seat, thankful for Bae’s larger profile concealing him. He grimaced. That one accidental eye contact would cause him months of irritation while she took it for an invitation to try to engage him.

Bae chuckled at his father's alarm. “It’s obvious she has the hots for you.” He shrugged, “Hey, some guys like crazy chicks. No judgment.”

No judgment indeed. His son wouldn’t be nearly as tolerant if he knew what his father was looking for in a woman, if he was searching for one. But he gave up on finding companionship long ago.

“If I wanted to interact with this many people I’d spend more time at Granny's eating overpriced hamburgers,” Gold grumbled.

A loud cough brought an end to their discussion. Regina had finally had enough of them murmuring to each other over her toast.

“Fine, have it your way, Pop,” Bae whispered.

“I always do,” he assured him.

Bae scoffed at that, but the formal end of Regina’s speech kept him from retorting as everyone at the table raised their glasses.

“By the way, I put your white elephant gift under the tree for you,” Bae told him over everyone's clinking.

“My what?” Gold planned, as every year, to slip out right after dinner. “I don’t participate in that nonsense.”

“You did this year.”

Gold lifted his glass to his lips, “What, pray tell, did I contribute?” he asked before taking a long sip.

“A certificate for a month’s free rent.”

Gold choked on his champagne.

Bae slapped him hard on the back, smiling. “Very generous of you,” he shook his shoulder. “People are gonna love it. I bet it’s the most stolen gift this year.” He grinned at him.

“I hope you are having a grand time at my expense.”

“I most certainly am,” he assured his father in his good natured tone. Satisfied, he turned away from Gold, being happily pulled into a conversation with Emma and Henry.

The din of mindless small talk immediately rose around him. Hired wait staff reached at each guest’s left, placing the first course. Instead of dying down, the chatter increased to fawning over Regina's menu choices. The evening loomed long and tedious before him. As he avoided situations such as this at all costs, his ability to exercise control over his behavior for this long, or “behave himself”, as Bae would call it, had not been tested in some time. The room seemed suddenly more crowded than ever to Gold. He stopped short of pulling at his collar. He settled for smoothing a hand down his tie as he tried to focus on the meal in front of him.

Later, when the waiters reappeared to clear the first course, Gold closed his eyes to momentarily block out the tiresome buzz around him. His right hand drummed against the tablecloth while his left hand twisted the stem of his wine glass in front of him. Under the table he struggled to placate his bad leg, which ached to be stretched. Worse than that, he was bored. And when he was bored, he was left to his own devices to amuse himself. He glanced at Bae, who was still smiling and laughing with his corner of the table. Only a quarter of the way through the meal and his restraint struggled to find a release valve.

His eyes swept up and down the row of faces. Little pleasure was to be had at this table.

“Screw the roses, send me the thorns.”

The low-pitched accent hooked his attention to the far end of the table.

The newest addition to the “family” met his eyes, revealing a bewitching pair of cerulean orbs. They danced with playful light, as if sharing a private joke. Miss French, the town librarian. Well, she will be if she ever got that mess of a library up and running properly. For week he’d watched her carry boxes and push bookcarts back and forth across the library in those ridiculous shoes she favored. His shop had an almost direct view across the street to the library and the constant motion had been very distracting.

Despite their close vicinity, he’d never been this near to her before. He was amused to see the dark rimmed eyes and the throaty voice were in direct contrast to the rest of her cherub face. Despite the innocent and amiable energy radiating off her so strongly he felt it across the table, her eyes said she’d read some books in the restricted section. Her voice suggested she’d like to try some of the things she’d read.

She was seated diagonally from him, next to Gaston LeGume. The librarian and the pet shelter caretaker, how quaint. As members of the community running town services under Regina’s purview, they warranted an invitation. They sat at the end of the table because that’s where Regina sat the newest, least politically savvy of the gathering. Regina wanted to either impress them or intimidate them. The librarian, he noted, looked neither.

LeGume was prattling away next to her, but Gold didn’t register a word he said. Neither did she, judging from the open curiosity of her stare. Her remark was obviously in response to something LeGume had said, but the librarian regarded Gold across the table, like she was daring him to enter the conversation. Gold raised an eyebrow at her continued attention. Usually that was all it took to make a misguided townsperson scamper away. Instead of turning back to her dinner partner, the insolent little creature arched a thin shapely eyebrow right back.

The phrase that had piqued his interest was one he hadn’t heard in a very long time. She was too young to know the classic guide she’d inadvertently referenced, subtitled The Romance and Sexual Sorcery of Sadomasochism. Considering sadomasochism as “sexual magic” had always resonated with him. It was delicate, like he imagined a spell would be. It required the precise blend of trust and sensuality. Get it just right and BDSM could be intensely erotic and deeply intimate. Many years ago he was active in that community. He hadn’t dipped back in in a number of years. Mostly because he couldn’t find the right partner to join him in the dark, to make the formula he sought complete. It was always off, somehow, despite his efforts and care he took considering partners. The frustration over not being able to conjure the correct combination of elements forced him to abandon the community altogether and he’d begun to suspect the incomplete desire would haunt him for the rest of his life.

It was Bae’s mother, of all people, who introduced him to the lifestyle. Ironically, at the time, he was neither a dominant enough dom or a submissive enough sub for her liking. It ultimately didn’t matter. The demise of that relationship, of wanting to understand what she’d wanted him to be, led him to exploring and discovering what he truly desired…power and control. Becoming a master dom had been the answer to all of his problems. He’d become known in the community as being the best. People came to him to get what they needed. They begged to spend time with him. The potency he wielded was heady. But he had never gotten what he truly wanted in return. In the moment, yes, but not long term.

He’d thought he had it once, with a woman who shared a lot of the same hurt and a lot of the same ambitions as he. But in the end she’d wanted power and control more than she’d wanted to be with him. Love proved to be a weakness for both of them. He had been completely open and vulnerable with her and she took his love, along with his instruction and his training, and used it against him. First by trying to top from bottom, and then ultimately taking what she learned from him and applying it as a dom elsewhere, with other people.

But she’d taught him a more valuable lesson. That having anyone know what he truly wanted and needed, and why, was a vulnerability he could not afford. No one could understand, let alone accept, his complete need for control, inside and outside a scene. He'd been out of control too early and too often in his life. That’s why BDSM had appealed to him in the first place. He had to protect himself. He had to feel in control in order to feel safe. His buffer against the past - his father, his failed relationships, his own mistakes as a parent - were money, power, and control. And his need for those things started with his wardrobe and extended to the bedroom.

While uninvited memories flickered through his head and the familiar weight of old aches settled in his chest, Miss French was being pulled back into conversation with LeGume. Her chin swiveled towards LeGume but her eyes hung on him. The spark he had seen there dimmed when he did nothing but passively regard her in return. The mischievous uptick to her lips visibly downturned. Just as her blue, uninhibited eyes were turning to LeGume and, he intuitively knew, abandoning him forever, something new emerged from the discomfort in his chest. A fresh, sharp pain, like an invisible string being pulled taut. The question came out of his mouth, unbidden.

“Read any good books lately, Miss French?”

It came out in his usual indifferent and condescending manner. He focused on smoothing a wrinkle in the tablecloth in front of him, as if her answer didn’t matter to him in the slightest.

He’d interrupted LeGume’s blathering, who blinked and gaped at him like a fish. He shot Gold a look that he supposed was meant to be threatening. Gold markedly ignored him.

Miss French wasn’t offended by his intrusion or tone. Instead, her eyes widened for just a moment before quickly recovering. Her entire body shifted to face Gold full on, incidentally giving LeGume the back of her shoulder. With a lift of her eyebrows and a subtle tilt of her head, she conveyed her triumph, her smile holding a hint of mischief.

It was his first time experiencing the verve of her full attention. He sniffed, looking down to brush away a crumb on the tablecloth, waiting dispassionately for Miss French’s answer.

“In fact I have, Mr. Gold.” It was the most words they’d exchanged since she arrived in town. Her being new could be the only explanation for her insistence in pulling him into conversation and the ease in which she conversed with him now. “It’s one I’d never considered until recently, but based on positive recommendations I finally tried it out.”

He idly rearranged his silverware as he waited for her to name some romance or current fiction title.

“The Story of O.” She was all politeness and formality as the French erotic novel rolled off her tongue. His eyes shot up in time to catch the perfect round shape of her lips. Her mouth lingered there until a sly grin spread across her face. “Have you ever read it?”

She’d tried to shock him, ostensibly in response to his resisting her efforts to pull him into conversation for so long. But he was satisfied to know that he’d judged her right. She did read books in the restricted section. He felt an involuntary twitch in the corner of his mouth at her, thinking him capable of being scandalized. Unlike her, he hadn't just read about it. He’d seen and done things she wouldn't find in any book. Even in the restricted section.

“It’s an old favorite,” he volleyed back, making direct eye contact with her and letting it settle there authoritatively. “Though I haven’t had reason to revisit it in some time. Are you finding it,” he let the word hang in the air, “satisfying?”

“Oh yes,” she answered readily, not even blushing. “Like any good book, it’s…” she leaned across the table, mimicking his cadence, “arousing some new ideas in me.”

“As all good books should,” he spoke slowly and deliberately, emphasizing his words. He sat back in his own seat, his leg settled and his hands resting on the table. “You may have inspired me to pick it up again.”

“I have it on my bedside table if you need a refresher,” she offered casually.

The extra glint to her eye told him that she registered the suggestive meaning of her words, commanding his unguarded brain to produce a hazy picture of her lounging across white sheets on a brass bed, reading her one-handed novel, taking her bottom lip between her teeth when she reached a particularly racy excerpt.

His gaze tightened with suspicion. What was she playing at? He inspected her glass. The wine in front of her wasn’t even half gone. Her eyes still shone clear. Her voice was controlled, not loud and obnoxious like Regina’s sister at the other end of the table.

Memories stirred in him. Belle was being polite, respectful…and a brat. She reminded him of rebellious submissives he used to know. He’d refused to work with cutesy, teasing, playful subs who pushed back on his dominance and challenged his authority. But, he reminded himself, these were obviously empty words from a girl who read too much.

She was playing a game with him, obviously. She’d led LeGume on long enough and thought she’d amuse herself by torturing him next. She thought she would be charitable by giving a lonely old man a thrill. Well, Miss French had vastly overestimated how far one little book and her feminine wiles, while admittedly bountiful, could get her. He set the boundaries. He set the rules. He set the expectations for behavior. And he’d never been known for tolerating blatantly rebellious submissives.

"I hardly think that would be appropriate, Miss French" he replied, his tone cool and calculated. "Lending without a library card? How do you know you can trust me with your...prized possession?" His words were laden with subtle implication, matching her innuendo with a cold demeanor.

“You misunderstand, Mr. Gold,” she placed both hands at the edge of the table, leaning as far as she could without leaving her seat. “I wasn't suggesting it leave the property.”

With that, she added to the previously formed image, her laying across his lap in said bed, reading her favorite passages out loud in her smokey voice. That she would be so blatant in her attempt to provoke some reaction told him that she was getting desperate. She most likely never had to take her teasing this far before, because what man wouldn’t follow her instructions right into her bed? She’d never experienced loneliness, surely. But she’d never come across anyone like him, period. He massaged a thumb across his right palm, settling an itch that had started there.

"One must be cautious about who they share their treasures with, Miss French," he finished with unwavering composure.

His condescending and dismissive response succeeded in rattling her coquette act. Her sharp inhale was audible across the table, as if he’d stung her cheek with his palm. Her pale skin even reddened there as he stared at her impassionately. After which her lips pressed into a thin line, her jaw visibly tightening.

Gold inwardly smiled and sat more relaxed in his chair. Miss French had been a diversion, even if she was not a worthy opponent. How could she even pose a challenge, given how transparently expressive she was? He could effortlessly decipher her every emotion. Unlike with most people, whom he found inscrutable and untrustworthy, Miss French telegraphed her feelings to the back row. As she struggled to rein in her emotions, he couldn't help the deep satisfaction he felt at her following his subtle command to cease her behavior. The weight of his limbs settled and grounded him. His breathing deepened and slowed. He felt more at ease at this table than ever before. Though, only being on the soup and salad course, Gold found himself perhaps regretting correcting her so quickly. There was still a long night ahead.

“What book are you talking about?” Mary Margaret chirped from the other side of Belle, having caught part of their exchange. “My book club is always looking for recommendations.”

The idea of virginal Mary Margaret reading the erotic novel by Pauline Réage was preposterous. He looked at Belle to see how she’d handle it, positive now she regretted her recklessness. He vowed to only step in if she lied about the title. Let the humiliation teach her a lesson for being so forward with him.

She surprised him by looking to him to save her from embarrassment. He retained eye contact as he slowly picked up his glass and took a leisurely sip of wine, letting the flavors rest on his tongue. If she was looking for a knight in shining armor to come to her rescue, she’d have better luck with LeGume. Watching a gorgeous woman be publicly humiliated was rather mundane to him. Though he had appreciated the respite from the dullness of the evening, she’d better trifle with someone else. She squirmed in her chair, which just made the berry notes of the wine burst on his tongue. She wasn't made for BDSM, obviously, but watching her writhe in mortification was delicious. He smirked at her across the table. Who was having fun at whose expense now?

He watched panic, annoyance, anger, and surrender flicker across her features in quick succession. But then, just as quickly, they were all replaced with grim determination. She shook back her shoulders, her chin lifting.

“The Story of O,” Belle repeated for the benefit of the table, matching his challenging stare. “A French novel from 1954.”

The title was met with silence.

“Oh,” Mary Margaret said. “I’ve never heard of that one. I’ll have to look it up.”

He knew it was more polite, empty words. Nobody at this table would look up the book. For one, Regina made them put their phones in a bowl on their way in. (He had kept his. He knew how to conduct himself at a dinner table.). Second, he'd be surprised if anyone in this town knew how to read. From what he could tell they seemed to spend the majority of their time running around like idiots.

Further veiled discussion on the matter of sadomasochism came to an end when several waiters appeared and dishes were cleared to make way for the main course.

With the back and forth with Miss French finally subsided, Gold found himself searching for the relief he thought he’d feel. Instead, each clink of silverware and murmur of conversation at the table seemed amplified to his ears. He played with his ring. It twisted easily now with his damp palms. The banter with Miss French had stirred something deep within him, resurrecting a side of himself he thought long buried. He shifted in his seat, feeling the old familiar surge of adrenaline begin to trickle through his veins, like a damn that had sprung a leak, the pressure building behind the wall. But he had no outlet for it. Frustrated that this girl had done this to him against his will, he wiped his palms on his pants. His gaze searched for a safe place to rest. His plate would be the obvious answer, but none of the dozen side dishes before him looked appetizing now. Despite the turmoil roiling within him, there was a flicker of something akin to anticipation in him as his eyes inevitably found Miss French.

The image he found was a stark contrast to her earlier persona at the table. She poked at her food with her fork. The people around her made polite conversation but her expression remained vacant when called upon to respond, which was rare. Her chin wasn’t lifted in the haughty way she’d demonstrated earlier and her eyes stayed downturned. Rather than “corrected”, the word “unmoored” floated through his head. He investigated the people seated around Miss French. Perplexingly, no one else at the table seemed to notice her lack of engagement. LeGume and the surrounding guests made conversation and passed plates around her. Gold glared at all of them as he waited for LeGume or one of her friends to come to her aid.

"I've always admired the intricate knotwork in table decorations,” he found himself saying to no one in particular. He picked up his napkin that was in an artful yet simple knotted fold. He rolled it around in his hands, then gave both ends a tug, “Adds a certain charm, don't you think?"

At the cadence of his voice, Belle straightened in her chair, her posture shifting from dejection to anticipation, hands resting delicately in her lap as her eyes lit up with renewed interest, fixating on Gold. A spark cracked down Gold's spine as he couldn't help but notice the immediate and eager reaction she had to him.

Just then the main course—a turkey—was placed in the middle of the table with much pomp and circumstance. The legs were crossed and tied over the bird’s cavity with kitchen twine.

“Yes!” She readily agreed with him. “Don't things look so much more delectable trussed up?” she chirped across from him.

His gaze lingered on Belle, tracing her features as if attempting to decipher the hidden layers of meaning behind her words. The idea that she could possess any knowledge of his past felt unfathomable; in this town, his history remained a well-guarded secret. Yet, since their conversation had begun in this public setting, an unsettling sense of vulnerability had crept over him. A sudden rush of warmth swept through him, accompanied by the unnerving sensation of being under scrutiny from every corner of the table. However, a quick survey revealed that everyone else remained engrossed in their meals, utterly indifferent to their dialogue. Despite this, he couldn't shake the regret that had settled in, as their interaction stirred up memories that left him deeply uneasy.

As side dishes circulated around the table, he remained indifferent to the dinner companions seated on his left and right. Yet, under his observant gaze, Belle seemed to bloom. Her eyes sparkled with lively conversation, and her smile radiated warmth and charm as she engaged with those around her. With graceful movements, she effortlessly passed plates across the table, her gestures imbued with a natural elegance that drew his attention.

"Oh Regina, these potatoes are delicious!" Mary Margret said. "Like..." she looked thoughtfully.

"Silk," Belle supplied, catching the unspoken challenge. She looked into Gold's eyes with a playful glint. Her eyes brightened even more as if she found herself incredibly clever. In that instant, she seemed to believe they were playing a clandestine game together, testing the boundaries of outrageous remarks in polite company.

"Exactly!" Mary Margaret echoed.

“And whipped to satisfaction,” Miss French added. "Getting the perfect blend of flavors is all about command in the kitchen, isn't it?"

Her latest remark bore an uncanny resemblance to how he perceived BDSM as a form of enchantment or magic. Gold swiftly reminded himself that she wasn't a submissive; she couldn't possibly be. Despite her audacious words, she exuded an innocence that rendered her oblivious to the intricacies of BDSM. Moreover, she appeared too young to have delved into such experiences, although he had encountered his fair share of young individuals within the community. Unfortunately, most of them had proven to be naive. A safe word, some aftercare, and a hasty farewell usually marked the end of their brief foray into the scene. Miss French, with her eagerness to flirt with danger, seemed oblivious to the potential consequences. Gold, however, was keenly aware of how easily he could ignite her curiosity, leading her into uncharted territories where desire and danger intertwined.

He watched as LeGume offered her something rich and savory from a bowl.

“Not right now, thank you,” she declined civilly. “I’d like to try a little restraint.” Instead she took a spoonful of something gray off her dish. He couldn't help but notice how she allowed the spoon to linger on her tongue longer than necessary before releasing it with a soft pop. "But this is delicious,” she countered. “I’ve never tried anything like it. Won't you try a bite, Mr. Gold?"

Offering him such a direct invitation to him in a public setting, he could take her over his knee for such impertinence. Turn her ass ruby red while she squealed and struggled in his lap. He’d punished teasing subs for much less. The pleasure he would take in wiping the cheeky smirk off her face and transforming it from shock to eagerness to please and then, finally, after she’d shown proper remorse, sensual gratification.

LeGume confusedly exchanged his bowl for the bowl of gray stuff, lifting it between them. Gold didn’t spare it a glance.

Instead he tilted his head with a faint smile, "Ah, Miss French, your enthusiasm for experimentation is quite intriguing. However, I've always found that some things are best left untested."

"I’d have to disagree in this case, Mr. Gold,” she boldly insisted. “The flavors in this dish are so intricately bound."

LeGume continued to hold the dish suspended between them, his eyes volleying between them.

“Some would describe it as an artform,” she continued.

“I would be inclined to agree with them,” he responded coolly, not moving his arms from his sides.

With agitation evident in her movements, she swiftly snatched the dish from LeGume's grasp, her arm extending across the table in a decisive gesture. It was clear that she wasn't about to drop the issue, and Gold could sense the growing attention their exchange was attracting, a subtle buzz at the periphery of his vision. As his fingers closed around the opposite end of the dish, she didn't release her grip right away. Instead, she waited until their eyes met once more across the table. Her eyebrows raised expectantly, silently waiting for a response from him.

"Thank you, Miss French," he stated firmly, his tone carrying a sense of finality.

Satisfied with his acknowledgment, she released the dish, her expression turning more subdued.

"Yes, sir," she responded quietly, her voice holding a hint of deference.

The dish slipped from his fingers, upending half of it on the tablecloth and splashing some of its contents onto Dr. Hopper. The sudden noise and commotion drew curious glances from others at the table, including a puzzled look from Bae as Gold abruptly stood up.

The screech of Gold's chair echoed through the room as he pushed it back, a sharp contrast to the otherwise calm ambiance of the dining room. Taking a moment to collect himself, Gold drew in a deep breath to regain his composure. With deliberate movements, he retrieved his cane from where it rested against the back of his chair.

"Excuse me," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper as he turned and swiftly exited the dining room, leaving behind an unsettled atmosphere in his wake.

As he walked down the hallway, the sound of talking faded and the oppressiveness of the dining room began to lift. But he itched.

He knew where the bathroom was, the one reserved for guests and people who came to the house on business. Gold bypassed that one in favor of the larger one in the private living quarters of the house. He took his time, having sat with his bad leg too long. His cane clicked as he walked down the hallway, the lights dimmed to discourage guests from wandering into the private residence.

His footsteps reverberated sharply against the high ceilings, a sound that seemed too loud in the quiet surroundings. Gold came to an abrupt halt, his narrowed eyes scanning the space behind him. The echo ceased as he stopped, and after a moment's pause, he attributed the noise to the tapping of his cane. Shaking his head slightly, he realized that the combination of the pressure to behave in front of Bae and Miss French's teasing remarks had left him more on edge than he had initially realized.

That’s why he liked BDSM, he thought, it required total honesty or someone could get hurt. It was the “real” world where everyone put on masks and facades. He hadn’t truly been himself, he realized, since his time as a Master dom. The true essence of himself had been deemed unacceptable by society, leading him to retreat into hiding. The weight of this realization bore down on him, weighing heavily on his bones and leaving him feeling aged and weary.

And then there was Miss French. Ironically, she’d enjoy the kink community. It was all about curiosity and continuous learning, something a librarian could appreciate. However, she would never receive such knowledge from him. Hopefully she was smart enough to do her research and find the local community and learn from them and not from some fumbling idiot who fancied himself a sadomasochist because of some problematic porn he watched. The mere thought of Miss French being misled sent a bolt of anger through him. She was a pampered pet who needed a certain kind of handling. Not by him, obviously, but someone with experience. Nevertheless, his mind couldn't help but wander into the realm of how he would guide and educate Miss French, an idea that brought a subtle sense of satisfaction to his thoughts.

Regina’s bathrooms were just as ostentatious as the rest of the house, with the white and black color scheme continued. Leaning his cane against the vanity, he steadied himself against the counter and studied his reflection in the mirror. His appearance remained unchanged from when he’d left the house that evening. Although his tie didn't require adjustment, he found himself straightening it nonetheless, a subtle attempt to regain composure. Yet, he couldn't shake off the sense of dishevelment that seemed to linger. Was it a consequence of passion, agitation, or perhaps both? These unfamiliar emotions felt out of place and uncomfortable within his own skin.

He turned on the faucet and ran his hands under cold water, then used them to blot his face and neck. He looked at himself in the mirror again, his gaze tracing the contours of his face with a mixture of detachment and introspection. The reflection stared back at him, a dual image capturing the essence of who he once was and who he had become. In the past, emotions flowed freely, unchained and unrestrained, revealing a vulnerable yet authentic version of himself. But the present brought a facade of coldness, control, and composure, a mask carefully crafted to conceal the tumultuous memories and lingering emotions stirred by the evening's events. As he stood there, the mirror became a portal to his past and present selves, each vying for recognition in the stark reflection before him.

"Enough," he muttered to himself, frustration evident in his tone. Enough with this endless dinner. Enough with Miss French's playful provocations. Enough with tormenting himself with memories of the past. He had endured the majority of the meal, and that would have to suffice for Bae. The boy wouldn’t understand, but there was no way he ever could, not without learning things about his father he most assuredly would not appreciate. Gold met his own gaze in the mirror once more. Despite not feeling it within, a sense of unwavering determination flickered in his eyes, a silent promise to walk out the door and away from Miss French, despite his inner dom telling him to take her firmly in hand.

The door behind him clicked open quietly, followed by a soft snick as it closed. In the mirror's reflection over his shoulder, she appeared as if a figment of his imagination. Perhaps she was a manifestation born from his suppressed desires and self-imposed restraint. A flawless end to an arduous evening, he thought bitterly. He hesitated, reluctant to turn around and face potential disappointment if she turned out to be nothing more than an illusion. Yet, Belle's image persisted in the mirror, as if waiting for a command, or was that merely his own subconscious projecting onto the reflection? The tormenting thoughts that had plagued him throughout the evening spilled out.

"Who are you?" he asked the mirage, his voice barely audible.

She responded with a serene smile, "Someone like you."

He snorted derisively. "Not likely, dearie," he retorted.

With a decisive pivot, he turned around, fully prepared to dispel the illusion and face the disappointment of his wishful thinking. He was unnerved by the resurgence of emotions he had long suppressed, all because of some bright, shiny young woman. Best to bring them to a halt with sharp disappointment than continue this torment.

But there she stood, unnervingly real. Alone with him in Regina's bathroom, in a secluded corner of the house.

He observed her, standing composed and immaculate in her skirt and blouse. Despite her mischievous nature, there was an undeniable aura of brightness around the girl. Her eyes sparkled with innocence, her smile was infectious, and her laughter seemed to fill the small room with warmth. Everything about her seemed out of place in this dark, shadowy setting with him. If she had any inkling of who he truly was, she would surely take off down the hallway. He had never invited someone like her into his world of BDSM. She couldn't possibly comprehend the intricacies it demanded—submission, trust, honesty— especially in association with him. The moment he allowed his dominant side to fully surface, she would undoubtedly flee from the room she had so foolishly locked herself in.

His narrowed gaze bore into her, filled with suspicion.

"Why are you here?" dropping any pretense of playful banter or games, his tone was now serious and demanding.

Her bravado faltered under the weight of his ruthless stare. She glanced down, momentarily losing her composure. If she struggled with a simple question, she surely wouldn’t be able to withstand a little punishment.

Toeing her heels together, she managed to mumble, "I'm curious." Her eyes met his briefly, but the uptick at the end of her response told him there was a flicker of uncertainty in her.

His bark of laughter caught her off guard, causing her to wince. He shook his head ruefully, a mix of disbelief and resignation crossing his features. So, this was nothing more than a fantasy for her—an attempt to step into a world she didn't truly understand, believing she would be safe with him. He chuckled inwardly at their shared foolishness. In his darker days, the old him would have relished such an opportunity—a naive and innocent ingénue coming to him seeking an arrangement. He would have used contracts, negotiations, manipulations—all to extract every ounce of desire and compliance from her. He felt a surge of excitement at her words, a temptation he fought to suppress.

She looked at him expectantly. How could she ever understand? For him, being dominant was not a mere roleplay or fantasy—it was an integral part of his identity that he couldn't switch on and off at will. The enormity of it had been suppressed for over a decade, but it still lurked beneath the surface, dangerously close to emerging over the past hour. This was real to him, and that was something no one else would ever truly understand.

“This isn’t one of your books, dearie,” he told her plaintively. “I’m not a knight in shining armor.”

Her lips pursed, more comfortable with the exchange now that the topic had turned to her area of expertise, and she tilted her head. “You don't know what books I read.”

“The kind with happy endings, surely,” he countered.

“You’d call the ending of The Story of O happy?” she challenged.

He tipped his chin, conceding the point. “O being abandoned by her lover? Well, Miss French, I’d call that realistic.” She had the audacity to roll her eyes. “Everything that comes before that,” he trailed off, referring to the fantastical depiction of an underground society that in no way represented the actual kink community. Which begged the question…. He studied her in a way he didn't dare before. He rationalized it to himself that it was his job as a dom to be acquainted with her body. His inspection started at the top of her auburn hair, over her thin brows, expressive eyes, and thinly curved lips. He skimmed over the petite curves under her blouse, the belt that cinched in her waist, and down the vast expanse of exposed leg, the muscles shaped and lengthened from the height of her heels. The shoes, he thought, were the only thing about her that objectively did belong in a scene. She shifted as he boldly acquainted himself with her body. What could such a girl find exciting in The Story of O? Was it the submission, the whipping, the bondage?

He could be a cruel dom. He could embarrass her. Demand her into the most depraved blowjob, make her cry, scare her, scar her. He’d done it all before and could do it again. But he took his position as Master seriously. BDSM was meant to provide personal freedom, self-expression, and above all, pleasure. In real BDSM, no one got truly hurt. From him, they got exactly what they asked for, even if they regretted it after the fact.

“What are you so curious about exactly?”

When he looked deeply into her eyes, which he dared to now, he didn’t see hurt or desperation or trauma. She wasn't running to BDSM to escape. But what could her life possibly be lacking? What made her think he could offer her what she needed? And what made her believe he wanted to give it?

He stepped closer to her, forcing her to look up into his eyes. “If you don’t know why you're here,” he warned, “by staying in this room, you’re asking me to help you find out. And my methods are untraditional, to say the least. So, I’ll ask you again, why are you here?”

In response to his intimidation, she gave him that defiant chin again he admired and found foolish in equal measure. Her eyes narrowed in a way he’d come to recognize as not anger, but sheer determination and force of will.

“I think you’re lonely.”

He blinked. He didn’t think he was capable of being shocked by anyone anymore. But her answer truly left him speechless. Once the stupor faded, anger was quick to rise in its place. First she teased him throughout dinner, drawing him out against his will. Then she pursued him to a private room. Her biggest offense, by far, was now pretending she knew anything about him.

She thought she knew him and…pitied him for it? He ceased being a man deserving of pity many years ago, he’d made certain of it. He didn’t need her pity. He needed nothing from her. She had come to him. She’d played her games, gotten a rise out of him, and he’d kept a reign on his dominance throughout. The stress of repressing his true self over dinner, of trying to be a better man for Bae over the past few years, of never being good enough for anyone, come to a boil. And he only had one antidote for that. He felt another version of himself, long discarded, rising to the surface of his skin.

“Turn around,” he commanded. He didn’t have to reach far for his alpha voice. It was low, slow, and precise. He didn’t, and wouldn’t, repeat himself.

Her eyes grew wide at his tone, but she quickly spun on her heels so she faced the wall. Her swift response to his order satisfied him. Given a momentary reprieve from her eyes, he lingered just over her shoulder. He let the anticipation hang there. In response, she tensed and her breathing sped up.

She believed she was stepping into a scene from one of her romance novels, those sensationalized portrayals of BDSM that tarnished its true essence. In her mind, she controlled this narrative, playing the role of a submissive because she viewed him as pathetic and easily manipulated. He was determined to shatter her illusions. He wouldn't allow Miss French to think she could outsmart him or take charge in this space. No, she had overestimated her own knowledge and underestimated him. This encounter would end swiftly, with him pushing her boundaries just enough to make her flee back to the comfort of LeGume’s arms. She wanted to play games? Fine. She could consider this her first lesson. He doubted she’d make it to a second.

He briefly scanned the room. In front of Miss French a hand towel hung through an ornate black ring on the wall. A string of decorative holiday bells dangled over the towel.

He reached around her front and she jumped. He smiled to himself. Over before it begins, he thought again. He whipped the towel and bells out of the ring, tossing the towel on the vanity and shoving the ribbon and bells in his pocket to muffle them.

“Bend over. Hands through the ring,” he ordered.

He paused, waiting for her to balk and push back. A little discomfort and she’d be telling him to stop and reaching for the door handle.

It was an awkward height, but she slowly hinged at the waist, reaching out her arms and draping her wrists through the towel ring. She self-consciously spread her legs and wiggled her hips to get in a more comfortable position. He watched predatorily as her skirt rode up with her movements. He allowed the pleasure he felt from a beautiful woman following his command to wash over him. It brought a calm he couldn’t get anywhere else. She took a hesitant breath and looked back at him.

In response, he moved to her side and splayed his fingers on her lower back. He held her eyes as he firmly pressed down so her back was flat. Her legs stumbled to adjust. She looked up at him apprehensively. He hooked her chin between his thumb and forefinger and and faced her back to the wall. She let out a breath and her eyes closed. The tenseness in her shoulders eased. Being firmly corrected produced a positive response, he noted.

“Eyes down.” he reminded her, something she should already know if she was experienced and involved in the scene. Despite her ignorance, the dom in him urged him forward, to not let this opportunity go to waste. She had come to him. He controlled the scene. That relaxed him.

“Your safe word," he demanded, watching her carefully.

She hesitated, a moment of uncertainty flickering across her features.

“Did that not come up in one of your books? Tut tut, Miss French. I expect Storybrook’s resident librarian to be better read than that,” he chided, his tone tinged with disappointment.

“If I can’t trust you to speak when required,” he whipped the discarded set of bells from his pocket. He tugged one from the ribbon, shoving the scrap ribbon and other bell back into his coat. He reached around her to where her wrists hung over the towel ring. He forced one hand open and pressed one of the bells into it. His fingers closed tightly over her hand. He paused to take in the feel of her soft skin under his. He was tempted to run a hand up her leg, from ankle to thigh, to compare the smoothness there.

He squeezed her hand hard, so she knew he meant his next words. “Then this is your safe word. You ring it, the scene ends. You understand the rules?”

“Yes, Mr. Gold.” Funny she didn't struggle to find those words. Her reply soothed the dom in him, assuring him that she could submit when necessary.

“Repeat them.”

“If I want to stop, I shake the bell and it ends. It…it all ends.” Her voice broke at the end and he again questioned how ready she was for what was about to happen.

“Perhaps you’d like to leave now and go do a little more studying?” he prodded, though inwardly, he regretted providing such an easy escape. It was a departure from his usual unrelenting approach.

She replied with a simple, "No, Mr. Gold."

Her hair had fallen to the sides of her face and from behind he could see her neck muscles strain to hold position. He could sense her eyes flitting about the room, trying to find a place to rest. The dichotomy of her struggle and determination to comply enraptured him. Despite her initial reluctance to divulge her motives, it was evident that she was here by choice. Her persistence conjured something within him, allowing his dominant side to settle more comfortably.

“In that case,” his tone darkened, “I suggest you keep your eyes down when speaking to me in this space. I won't ask you again.”

Giving demands was like an incantation to summon the submissive in her. Her eyes went to the floor and she stilled. Miss French required a firm master.

Now that she was in position, he hesitated. He’d never topped someone like her and he didn't believe she would last much longer. He wasn’t going to lay a hand on her, he decided. That way, when she inevitably went screaming from the bathroom, he could rightly claim that he hadn’t touched her.

Her body wiggled in anticipation of what he would do next. He reached behind him where his cane rested against the vanity. He hefted it in his hand so he held the bottom and ran the gold hooked edge down the nape of her neck.

She shivered from the cold metal, the marked weight, or both.

“So what is it, Miss French?” he asked languidly, the cane taking a similarly slow trail down her spine. “What do you come to me for?”

She exhaled and swayed in response. Something akin to euphoria bubbled inside him and he had to close his eyes to keep it from boiling over. It had been too long since he’d had to key in so intimately to the reactions and feelings of another person. The experience ensnared him in a mystical web of control and pleasure.

“To learn?” he questioned. “I don’t take on inexperienced students anymore. And I thought, based on your cleverness at the dinner table, that you’re learned everything you needed to know from your books.”

The cane reached her ass and he let the weight of it press down on her.

“Or do you come to me to be punished?” he hissed. His words evoked a shifting of her legs where her thighs rubbed together. His eyebrows rose at her response. He lifted the cane and let gravity bounce the heavy handle off of her bottom. She jerked but held position. “I can’t imagine what for,” he taunted. “Forget to renew someone’s overdue book?”

He tilted his head and studied her. Could it be possible Miss French wanted a stern, disapproving master to punish her? True, she had surpassed his expectations by lasting this long. But if things progressed further, she would have to relinquish control completely. If he touched her, there would be no going back without her safe word.

“Do you know what you’re playing at, little girl?” The cane hooked over the end of her skirt and slowly lifted it until it bunched on her back. She trembled and her breath became audible, but he didn't hear even a whisper of the bells. In fact, her fist tightened over them, as if to still them further.

“I suspect you don’t,” he continued, admiring the midnight blue panties stretched over her ass. For the first time his control wavered and his cock twitched. He had kept himself firmly in check, prepared for her abrupt exit. Now his own needs as a Master demanded to be met. Enough with slowly brewing her submissive tendencies to the surface. The invocation of the dom/sub roles urged him to teach her the essence of their relationship: That her body was his to decide what to do with.

“I’ve seen you, you know,” he growled. “Through the window of the library. Perched on your little stool. Reading your dirty paperbacks. Swiveling back and forth, back and forth.” He ran the handle boldly over her panties, between her ass cheeks, up and down. “Does it give you any relief?”

She pushed back against the cane, trying to force him closer. When that didn't work she tried to lift up on toes, to dip the handle lower to the apex of her thighs.

In response, he pulled the cane away completely. “Answer me,” he demanded.

“No, Mr. Gold.” It came out in a rush.

“What is this about?” he asked again.

The words stuck in her throat, but she knew the answer. It was evident in the way her body twisted, her wrists rubbing against the ring, that admitting the truth was more uncomfortable to her than what he was doing to her body. She was thinking, not feeling, which meant she wasn’t in the proper subspace yet.

She struggled to find the words. “I don't kn–”

The smack of his palm on her ass reverberated off the walls, the noise making her jump as much as the feel of his hand against her. She gasped in surprise, tipping to the side before catching and righting herself, but her wrists stayed constrained.

“That’s for lying,” he told her seriously. “You never lie to me in this space.” It may look like just a bathroom to her, but by coming to him, by initiating this, she’d instantly transformed it into a sacred space. It was for her own safety. He’d hurt her as much as he needed to, but only if she followed the rules. “If you plan on doing so again, I believe you know where the door is.”

She stayed where she was, but her body undulated, taking in the new stimulation.

“If you want to continue I need to hear you say it.” He craved hearing her admit she wanted to stay in this scene with him, to let him do to her what he wanted, needed, to do. “What do your books tell you to say, dearie?” he prompted.

“Please,” she responded immediately. “Please, Mr. Gold. Sir. Please. More.” Consenting words tumbled out of her mouth. When he was austere and patronizing, goading her to push past her limits, she responded beautifully. But she needed to be in harmony with him if this was going to work.

“Very good, Miss French,” he praised. “But I’m afraid bratty, dishonest, teasing girls earn more punishment than that,” he said darkly.

This time he slapped the back of her thigh. She lifted up on her heels, but came back down. He spanked her again, this time on her other cheek. As she swayed in response, he kept a steady rhythm on the meatiest parts of her ass and thighs. He left ample time in between each smack to allow her to explore the sensations, as well as read her response. Her hands weren’t draped through the ring anymore. Instead her fingers were wrapped around it, anchoring her as she twisted and shifted with each blow, the bell still clutched in one hand.

“You hold position sloppily, Miss French,” he noted absently. “You are in desperate need of proper training.”

She gasped at his evocative words. He moved to stand beside her. He faced the vanity where the mirror not only reflected himself but the pinkened thighs of Miss French. He hooked his left arm around her waist to hoist her spine straight and hold her in place. With his right hand he rained light stinging slaps down on her, including the sensitive place where her ass met her thighs. That elicited sharp intakes of breath and soft moans. Her head thrashed but he let that go in favor of admiring his work in the mirror. Her thighs were turning red in places now. He continued with quick, close slaps. She shocked him by opened her legs, inviting him to slap at her core. He pointedly moved further away. She hadn’t yet earned a reward. On the contrary, her continued efforts to top from bottom pissed him off. He grabbed the edges of her panties and shoved them between her ass cheeks. He smoothed a hand over her ass. Her skin was hot and silky under his palm. She hissed. He had no salve with him here. She’d bear his marks and the lingering pain from his correction for days, and that pleased the darker aspects of dom. His emotion was reflected in the quantity and intensity of his punishments because her adrenaline had kicked in and she was now gasping for breath.

“Time for some truth,” he reminded her. “What do you come to me for?”As her dominant, his role was to delve into her psyche, uncovering her desires, fears, and needs. She hovered on the edge of surrender, on the brink of soaring freely, yet clung fiercely to this guarded aspect of herself. But the bell remained firmly silenced in her fist. The realization ignited a surge of anger within him. He raised his arm, intent on delivering a forceful blow. It was then that she seemed to anticipate the impending strike.

“I’m lonely too,” she blurted.

His hand stilled at his shoulder. Sensing there was more inside her, he leaned forward and ran his hand up the inside of one shapely leg, a move meant to entice more information out of her, to communicate that he could give pleasure, not just pain.

“More,” he demanded.

“You’ve been watching me?” she panted when his fingers danced over the tissue paper thin skin of her inner thighs. “I’ve been watching you too. You’re as alone in this town as I am. But you’re so,” she struggled for the right word, “in control all the time.”

His mind raced as he mulled over her words, the implications sinking in with each passing second. Her admission that she had been watching him, observing him closely, sent a jolt of realization through him. Their encounter, he realized, had been brewing beneath the surface long before this insipid dinner, waiting for the right moment to come to fruition.

“I’m not,” she continued. “People tell me I’m impetuous.”

“I’m shocked,” he replied dryly. “Have you ever done this before?”

“No,” she shook her head, proving all his suspicions correct. “But I’ve read about it. Extensively. I was…intrigued. I wasn’t lying,” she rushed out, sensing that her punishment was not yet over.

It was a rare moment of vulnerability from her, a glimpse beneath the carefully crafted facade she presented to the world. Her admission brought to light the depth of her curiosity and the extent of her interest in him, surprising him with its intensity. This revelation added a new layer of complexity to their dynamic, a dance of power and submission, revelation and concealment. Each word, each action, revealed layers of their desires and vulnerabilities, weaving a complex tapestry of intimacy and control in the brightly lit bathroom of Regina's mansion.

He took everything he knew about her and reframed it in his mind. She desired deep, penetrating connection—a bond that went beyond the surface, one that delved into the depths of understanding and intimacy. But she didn't seek safety in the conventional sense. She craved adventure, excitement, and unpredictability, yet she also desired a sense of security and trust. These were contradictions that challenged him, and in that moment, doubt crept into his mind of whether he was truly capable of fulfilling the complexities of her desires and giving her the connection she sought without compromising either of them.

“No one understands me,” she whispered, her voice trembling with vulnerability. She paused, hoping for a response, a sign that he was still listening, still willing to understand. “Please. Please understand me. I’m alone. I’m always alone. Make me not alone, please.”

To his shock, he found that he did understand. In that moment, he saw beneath the layers she used to shield herself from the world. She was hidden, pent up, yearning for connection and understanding. Despite her outward appearance of confidence and control, she didn’t feel truly connected to anyone.

Finally grasping what she needed, he realized that she sought release, a chance to spread her wings and fly freely. For her, BDSM would not just be a means of physical pleasure but also a path to personal growth and empowerment. Through BDSM, she could learn skills that would translate into every aspect of her life: how to claim her desires, negotiate for what she wanted and needed, set boundaries, and communicate limits.

She was hyperventilating, the physical sensations along with the vulnerability of what she’d just shared overwhelming her. He didn't spank her, just rested the weight of his full palm onto her bare ass.

With gentle care, he gathered her hair in his hand and let it cascade over her right shoulder, revealing her profile to him. As he smoothed the strands away from her eyes, his touch conveyed a silent message: he was there to look after her, to bear the weight of her burdens, and she could trust him to do so. Then he rested his hand on her back, not pushing, just anchoring her.

“Deep, slow breaths,” he instructed. Then he began spanking her again. This time he kept a steady pace of heavy, solid blows. Not hard enough she would need to stop, but strong enough that each time he struck her something inside her began to shake loose. Together they built a pace. She’d breath in deeply, he spanked her, and her breath would release in a whoosh.

When she acclimated to that, he rachetted up the strength of his slaps but kept the steady, punishing pace. She grunted and moaned, her body and mind fighting the punishment as adrenaline, endorphins, and natural painkillers flooded her nervous system to soothe her. Surrender, he demanded, never relenting, surrender to me. Finally, she quieted, her eyes open and unfocused, in a deep trance-like subspace. A single tear escaped her, slipping down her cheek to land on the floor.

“Good girl,” he praised and a soft sob escaped her.

The hand resting on her back ran up and down her spine, the gentle touch in contradiction to the solid, punishing blows.

“Let go.”

The dam broke. Wracking sobs escaped her. He thrashed her all the while and he didn’t begin to let up until every last ounce of tightness in her body was released. When her sobs transformed to sighs and her wrists hung so loosely she dropped the bell he finally ceased. Her head came to rest on her arm, too heavy for her to hold up any longer.

"Stand," he murmured gently, and supported her to rise and lean against the wall. With care he tended to her wrists and hands, massaging the circulation back into them. His touch was soothing and deliberate and the last tears of relief washed down her face. Her eyes were dazed yet full of vitality, her body slack but simultaneously buzzing with energy.

Suddenly, she flung herself across the small space between them and wrapped both arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. The strength of her embrace caught him off guard and he swayed slightly under its force, momentarily stunned. A delicate fragrance of roses enveloped them, reminiscent of her—sweet, fresh, with a hint of spice.

Pulling back, she wiped her tears with one hand, the other fisted in his lapel.

“Sorry,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Just overwhelmed.”

Unable to resist, he brushed the wetness from her cheeks with his thumbs.

“You apologize for nothing in this space,” he told her, “except not being honest with me.”

She had performed brilliantly, navigating the complexities within her mind like a firestorm, emerging on the other side freer and more authentic. He suspected both of them felt a sense of release, intimacy, and freedom in the moment. He knew he felt more at ease here than he ever did at the dinner table.

Relaxed, she leaned into him, her eyes heavy. Twisting both hands in his jacket, she sought his support as he leaned against the vanity, gently holding her elbows and rubbing his thumbs along the silky skin on the backs of her arms. Though outwardly unchanged, inwardly he mirrored her relaxed state, loose and at ease.

“You're really good at this,” she sighed contentedly.

A soft chuckle escaped him. “You should see what I can do in a proper dungeon and leather pants.”

Her laughter joined his, the sound carrying warmth and shared understanding.

She released a long, slow breath, her body swaying slightly in a dance of contemplation. "You're right, you know. You're not the hero."

His muscles tensed like coiled springs, every fiber of his being laser-focused on her, anticipating her next words with a mix of dread and anticipation. So she had finally seen through him, pierced through the layers of his facade to uncover the truth. She knew exactly who he really was now, and he braced himself for the inevitable recoil, the rejection that had become all too familiar. He swallowed hard, the weight of her newfound understanding bearing down on him like a looming storm.

"But you're not the villain either," she observed, her head tilting to the side as she studied him with an intensity that made him squirm. "You're far more complex than that."

Under her perceptive gaze, he shifted uncomfortably, feeling as if she had peeled back layers of his carefully constructed armor. He was exposed, vulnerable, in a way he hadn't allowed himself to be in years.

"You're exactly who I thought you were," she concluded softly, a warmth seeping into her words. "And I'm glad." Her gaze held a depth of understanding that left him feeling seen in a way he hadn't expected.

As their breaths mingled in the air, a soft glow seemed to envelop them, casting a spell of warmth and intimacy around their figures. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his, a tender touch that sparked a rush of sensations akin to a magical potion coursing through his veins.

In that moment, he glimpsed a future intertwined with hers. He envisioned waking up beside her, the morning sunlight filtering through the curtains, casting patterns of light and shadow across her serene face. With her by his side, he saw himself becoming more adventurous, embracing new experiences, and breaking free from the confines of his solitude. She was not one to sit back and let life pass her by. Constantly engaged, always testing her limits, she would challenge him in ways he had never imagined. But then, amidst the enchantment of the moment, a torrent of insecurities flooded his mind.

No one could ever truly love him, he thought. Not the real him, with all his flaws and scars. This connection they shared was nothing but a trick, a fleeting illusion born from a surge of endorphins and shared vulnerability. Once the magic wore off, she would see him for who he truly was—a broken man, unworthy of her affection.

She would undoubtedly use what she discovered about herself during their time together and blossom into a confident and empowered woman, no longer reliant on him for validation or fulfillment. The thought that she might eventually outgrow the need for his presence in her life, just as his past lovers had done, sent a chill down his spine. He had witnessed the cycle before. The deception, like a slow poison seeping into his soul, eroded the fragile trust he had dared to build. And then, the abrupt ripping out of his heart shattered the illusion of security he had clung to, leaving behind a hollow ache of betrayal. The thought of her wielding such power in their relationship terrified him.

The way she looked at him, he realized with alarm, could only be described as adoration. No one had ever looked at him that way. Not even his wife. The prospect of Belle wielding such transformative power within their relationship was both exhilarating and petrifying. On one hand, he admired her growth and strength, but on the other, it stirred up his deepest insecurities. As her lips pressed against his with a newfound urgency, he realized that surrendering to her would be the ultimate act of bravery.

“Dagger.”

She stumbled backward with how hard he shoved her away. His grip on her shoulders tightened, a painful paradox of pushing her away while desperately holding onto her, as if trying to distance himself from the pain while refusing to let her slip from his grasp.

His safe word, he belatedly realized. His safe word had, unbidden, slipped from his lips. He had never used it before. The safe word, an unexpected intrusion in their charged exchange, hung in the air like an unspoken truth. It was a word never meant to breach their sanctuary of intimacy, yet now it stood as a stark reminder of their shattered connection.

"What?" Belle's voice quivered, the remnants of a smile fading from her lips, replaced by a furrowed brow of concern.

"You’re not going to do this to me," he hissed, his gaze searching her face for signs of deceit, his emotions a tempest of confusion and betrayal. "You think you can make me weak," he accused, his grip tightening as if trying to shake her from her supposed manipulation. "I knew it was too good..." His voice trailed off, the weight of disappointment heavy in the air.

"What are you talking about? This was working—" Belle's words faltered as she tried to reason with him, to salvage the unraveling threads of their bond.

"Shut up," he snapped, his desperation bordering on anger as he refused to be swayed by her attempts to explain.

"We work together!" Belle pressed on, her voice tinged with disbelief and hurt.

"Shut the hell up!" he retorted, his resolve hardening against the vulnerability threatening to break through his defenses.

"Why won't you believe me?" Tears welled in Belle's eyes, a stark contrast to the freedom they had shared mere moments ago. He had wounded her deeply, and a twisted satisfaction stirred within him at the sight.

"Because no one," he declared, forcing her to meet his gaze with an intensity that brooked no argument, "no one could ever, ever love me." His words hung in the air, final and heavy with the weight of his self-imposed isolation.

With a swift motion, he snatched his cane from the vanity and unlocked the door, rushing out of the bathroom and into the safety of the hallway. The door shut behind him with a decisive thud, sealing him away from the intensity of the moment he had just shared with Belle. As he hurried away, a knot of apprehension tightened in his chest, fearing that she might follow him, her presence a potent reminder of his own vulnerability.

Yet, even in the solitude of the hallway, he couldn't shake the turmoil raging within him. Their encounter had been electrifying, unlike anything he had experienced before, and yet he had held back, unable to give her what she desired. The realization left him feeling exposed, as if she had unearthed a weakness he had long buried.

Lost in self-reproach, he almost stumbled upon the entrance to the dining room, where the remnants of dinner lingered and conversations ebbed and flowed around him. A sudden clarity washed over him, a stark realization that he didn't belong in this room, surrounded by people and their casual interactions.

His shoulders turned instinctively, leading him back towards the hallway, but as he paused, he realized that it only led back to the bathroom. He stood there, caught between two worlds, suspended in a moment of uncertainty and introspection.

He hesitated at the threshold of the dining room, a wave of discomfort washing over him, being in such close proximity to all these people who didn't want or need him, leaving him adrift in a sea of purposelessness. He had left something meaningful behind only to return to this emptiness, a stark reminder of his own insignificance in this world of superficiality.

His thoughts drifted to Belle, to the warmth and connection they had shared, now replaced by a sense of guilt and regret. Had he hurt her? Was she in need of comfort, of the aftercare he could have provided? But he had denied her that, shattered the delicate balance of their scene and left her, and himself, broken in its wake. If he was capable of being any more broken then he already was, he thought ruefully. He’d failed Belle, like he had so many people in his life.

The decision of which direction to take was made for him as he realized he needed to retrieve his coat and escape the suffocating atmosphere of the dinner party. He had caused enough damage, both to others and to himself, for one night. It was time to retreat to the sanctuary of his counting house, a place he should never have left.

As he made his way towards the foyer and the promise of a hasty exit, he was intercepted by Bae, who tugged at his arm, urging him to join the gathering around the Christmas tree. He opened his mouth to object.

"Just ten more minutes," Bae implored, a touch of warmth in his voice. "It won't kill you, Pops."

He wanted to argue that ten more minutes might indeed be his undoing—it already felt like it had been. After experiencing a rare moment of authenticity and connection with Belle, he now felt hollow, a mere shell of himself. Reluctantly, he allowed himself to be guided towards the towering pine tree, his gaze instinctively searching the crowd for Belle. If he had to endure this evening, he reasoned, he might as well bear the weight of her silent reproach.

But Belle was nowhere to be found, and his hopes for self-flagellation were dashed as he realized she was absent. Only then did he tune in to the conversations swirling around him. No one mentioned Belle's absence; instead, they were engrossed in debates over the rules of the gift exchange game. Not a single person turned to him for an explanation or inquired about her whereabouts. He scanned the room once more, his heart sinking as he realized that no one seemed to be searching for her.

As the first gift was selected, he strained to peer over the heads and past the throng of guests, searching desperately for any sign of Belle. Why hadn't anyone noticed her absence? Even LeGume appeared entirely unconcerned as he laughed along with the festivities.

What kind of friends were they, he wondered, a sense of unease settling over him as he grappled with the realization that Belle had slipped away unnoticed. The monotonous game dragged on, each gift selected and unwrapped with forced enthusiasm. A cashmere scarf, a vintage board game, a gaudy piece of costume jewelry—Gold barely registered the items as they passed from hand to hand, the game's triviality gnawing at his patience. Why was he still here, enduring this banality?

Arguments erupted over stolen gifts, strategies debated over the optimal time to choose or steal. Gold grew increasingly restless, his discomfort simmering beneath the surface as he vaguely acknowledged a gift being put in his hands, being taken, and a new one put in its place.

Then, a sudden disruption—a puzzled inquiry from Regina about an extra gift left unclaimed. Regina scanned the people circling the tree and the dwindling number of gifts. Everyone looked at each other, perplexed. Gold's irritation flared, ready to unleash a scathing remark, but before he could, a soft voice spoke from behind them.

"I haven't gone yet," Belle's voice cut through the tension, and the circle parted to reveal her presence. She appeared composed, her attire restored, but Gold noticed the subtle dimming of her usual radiance.

He scanned the group, expecting someone else to acknowledge Belle's return, to question her absence or offer concern. Yet, to his bewilderment, no one seemed to notice the change in her demeanor. Belle avoided his gaze, a telltale redness around her eyes betraying her recent tears.

A prickling discomfort spread over Gold's skin, a primal urge to protect and comfort her as her dominant. He couldn't ignore her distress, couldn't bear the thought of her suffering in silence while the oblivious crowd carried on around them.

He shifted restlessly, grappling with how to communicate to her across the crowd. A weighty presence in his pocket drew his attention, his hand instinctively reaching inside. A jingle, amplified in his ears, resonated from his jacket—the leftover bell from their scene. Heat surged through him, an acute awareness of the personal and sacred nature of the bell clashing with the public setting.

Yet, despite his unease, everyone remained engrossed in the game. A giant inflatable pool float emerged from the wrappings, likely his son's contribution, followed by LeGume's bold theft of Belle's book from another guest. The pet shelter caretaker caught her attention and wiggled his eyebrows at her. Gold’s palm, which had so recently been on her ass, tightened on the bells.

Gold looked down at the cheap bottle of alcohol in his other hand that he didn’t remember someone putting there. His gaze darted around the group, quickly calculating how to get Belle’s book into his hands. Amidst the chaotic unwrapping and stealing, he spotted the rectangular box with its familiar haphazard wrapping—the one Bae had placed there for him. It had been overlooked momentarily, nestled inconspicuously in the folds of the tree skirt. With practiced nonchalance, he meandered over to the tree, his fingers deftly palming the box as the game continued behind him. A quirky, artistic hat was unwrapped and stolen for a few turns.

Returning the box to its place, he looked up only to meet the smug gaze of Regina's sister, her victorious smile igniting a wave of irritation. Ignoring her, he focused on the unfolding game, tension simmering beneath the surface.

When it was her turn, Zelena pounced for the pile under the tree, her hand closing around his gift. Gold felt a surge of possessiveness, every fiber of his being screamed to lunge forward, to reclaim what was not meant for her. But he held himself back, his glare directed at her instead. Unfortunately, his silent challenge only seemed to embolden her. Everyone else eagerly stared at the gift, all vying for a new twist in the game.

Zelena's expression fell as she lifted the ribbon from the box, revealing the dangling bell. A ripple of disappointment and confusion spread through the group. Gold felt his son eye him in suspicion and pointedly ignored him. The gift looked unnatural in Zelena’s hand and Gold had to force himself not to snatch it away from her and put it back in his pocket.

“I thought I said there was a ten dollar minimum,” Regina grumbled.

As Zelena shook the bell, its chime seemed to echo a silent tension that had settled over the gathering. Gold's gaze instinctively sought out Belle, their eyes locking across the room. But this time, he found her unreadable, her emotions veiled behind a mask he couldn't penetrate. It was a defeat more profound than any other—they were closed off to each other, locked in a silent standoff of unspoken feelings.

A voice broke the tension, asking if the game was over, but Regina's annoyed response clarified that Belle, having joined late, would be the final participant. All eyes turned to Belle, who appeared momentarily overwhelmed by the sudden spotlight. Clutching her current gift—a luxurious cashmere scarf—she seemed unsure of how to navigate the attention now focused on her.

“Belle, you can keep your gift or steal,” Regina reminded her. “Not that we don’t know what you’re going to do,” she grumbled, eyeing the gift greedily.

Belle's gaze locked with Gold's across the circle, a chasm of unspoken words and unresolved emotions stretching between them. She caressed the soft folds of the cashmere scarf in her hands, the most coveted item now that the month's free rent certificate was safely tucked away in his pocket. In that moment, Gold's eyes pleaded with her, a wordless entreaty for forgiveness and understanding. His gaze was a mix of regret and longing, a silent admission of past mistakes and a fervent desire for reconciliation. "I'm sorry. I am an idiot," his eyes seemed to say, the unspoken words hanging between them like a delicate thread waiting to be woven into a tapestry of redemption and renewal.

For him, it wasn't just about the scarf or the bells; it was about the choice between clinging to old wounds or embracing a future fraught with uncertainty but filled with the possibility of healing and love. It wasn't about relinquishing control; it was about sharing it with someone who had the strength to handle it. And perhaps, in the magic of their union, he would find the courage to let go, to trust, and to love without reservation.

“Well,” Regina prompted.

Regina's prompting brought Belle back to the present moment. With a determined yet vulnerable expression, Belle stepped out from the group, extending the scarf towards Zelena, a gesture that spoke volumes about her decision and the path she was choosing to tread.

“A bell for Belle. How…quaint,” Zelena commented, confused but not asking questions as she grabbed the more expensive gift. She held the bell’s ribbon between her index finger and thumb distastefully as she dropped it into Belle’s awaiting cupped hands.

Belle's eyes fell to the bell, the brass catching the light and casting a soft glow in her palms.

“It’s perfect,” she announced, looking at Gold. In that moment, as the bells exchanged hands, a silent understanding passed between them, a promise of second chances and the courage to choose love over fear.

With the game concluded, the group dispersed, their reactions ranging from groans to cheers depending on the gifts they held.

Alone by the tree, Gold watched Belle with a mixture of awe and gratitude. Her simple gesture spoke volumes, signaling her readiness to release old hurts and embrace the possibility of a fresh start.

He took a step towards her, his heart brimming with newfound hope and determination.

"Gold!" Jefferson's arm draped heavily over his shoulders, a gesture he only dared when the alcohol had loosened his inhibitions. He knew Gold's aversion to physical contact, yet somehow, Jefferson always managed to push past that boundary with a mix of familiarity and charm. "Don't be the party pooper. A few of us are taking the festivities outside. I raided Regina's stash and struck gold, no pun intended," he said with a wink. With his other hand he reached under his coat and flashed a series of hidden inner pockets bursting with purloined cigars and a bottle with a Glenmorangie label.

Gold's eyes, however, were fixated on Belle, who had been pulled into conversation with Mary Margaret. The bronze bell he had gifted her now hung gracefully around her neck. To others, it might have seemed festive and sweet, but to Gold, it was a declaration of something far more primal, something that stirred the depths of his being in ways he hadn't felt in ages.

As Belle's gaze met his, a wave of heated intensity surged between them, reigniting the flame that he feared had died. The way she wore that bell, with a blend of defiance and surrender, spoke volumes about the unspoken desires and emotions that tethered them together.

It wasn't just a bell; it was a symbol of her choice, her willingness to be marked by him in a way that transcended mere trinkets. The resonance of its chime echoed their shared longing and the unspoken desires and tangled emotions that now bound them together.

In that fleeting moment, Belle became more than just a woman he desired; she was his anchor, grounding him in a reality where love and longing converged with an electrifying intensity.

With a subtle nod and a warm smile, Belle silently conveyed her assurance that their journey was far from over, encouraging him to embrace what lay ahead.

So he allowed Jefferson to momentarily tug him away from Belle.

“I thought that might convince you,” the designer said, thinking it was the label on the bottle that had been the deciding factor.

As they ascended the winding staircase to the balcony, Gold felt a rush of anticipation mingled with a hint of trepidation. The crisp night air greeted him as they reached the open window overlooking the front garden. David Nolan and Bae peered at him from the balcony on the other side of the window, cigars already lit, beckoning him through. With a clap on Gold’s back, Jefferson vaulted over the ledge. Pulling out the purloined bottle, Jefferson cracked the seal and held it out to offer Gold the first taste. With that invitation, Gold threw his good leg over the low window ledge and propelled himself out onto the balcony to join his family.

#Rumbelle Secret Santa #Kelyon #I’m just going to leave this here over a year after the due date and slink away quietly forever #Rumbelle #Rumbelle fic #RSS #RSS 2022

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gretahayes · 8 months

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Damian elseworlds?

elseworlds in the loosest definition ever here cause it’s literally canon but to the left heavily. but like elseworld where talia dropped off her kid because “he wanted to meet his father” (and also she felt like causing problems. sue her.) and he’s just the chillest kid ever. he holds his own amazingly in a spar (“mother taught me the basics,” he says, as tim picks himself off the floor groaning.) and is trained, definitely, but. he isn’t particularly violent. give the kid a sketchbook and some headphones and you won’t see him for the rest of the day. it’s a struggle getting him to come to dinner because nobody can find him because he doesn’t want to be found. he would rather avoid you all unless he’s seeking you out. he’ll eat when he’s hungry. he’s fairly pleasant, if incredibly antisocial, and is hypercompetent. they aren’t sure if the fact he walks on silent feet and doesn’t announce his presence in a room if not to give an unwanted comment on what you’re doing is how he is or just him trying to freak them out. (not cass though.) he lights up like a kid on christmas when bruce compliments him or pays him any special attention and when he sticks around, pokes at bruce to get it. and they get him in the cave, sure. he’s in the batchair flipping through a textbook he stole from bruce’s study and glancing up periodically at the monitors to critique their form or insult criminals. he eyes robin with an air of heavy judgement.

^ this would be funny to me but only if we get a segment of like. why he’s this way as opposed to canon. if they keep his backstory the same it won’t work cause it’s like. they’ll be weird about abuse survivors. but if they show us his backstory changes, talia raising him away from the league and what that looked like, made it clear the differences. then it would be cool. and this would be mostly an elseworld on damian and how he adjusts. wouldn’t follow the canon timeline religiously as it’s not about whatever is going on around him, it’s about this kid's upheaval of his entire life and how he learns to...be. to live with them. it starts with talia dropping him off with an “i’ll visit you” as her final goodbye, and ends with her, months later, visiting. and he’s adjusted, is happy.

(ask game)

#asks #ask game #this is a huge maybe. treading very lightly here. amen

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loudandqueer · 11 months

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I'm just a girl.

Maybe it starts with your first catcall on the street. Maybe it starts with your first period, your first bra or the first time you ask your parents to let you go out with your friends without supervision. I’m not quite sure, but I do know that once it starts, it doesn’t really end. You begin to notice, for example, your male friends’ behavior. And not in a sudden-crush-that-makes-me-aware-of-every-interaction way. It’s more about how he moves so freely, unburdened by the gaze of every adult or fellow teenager, who won’t judge if his skirt is too short, or he knows how to do make-up, or how he hangs out with too many men, or talks too much, or if he stuffs his bra, or, or, or…

You’re also overcome with a sudden existential dread. To be a woman is to perform, they say, and they are not wrong. You long for the days when you didn’t check what you ate at a family reunion. You long for when you didn’t cry every year on your birthday; for the time before you noticed how cruel the world had been to your mother and cower at the thought of suffering the same cruel fate, shouldering the same burdens.

And one day, you also become aware of your parents’ existence. Of course, they’ve always been there, but all of a sudden, their presence in your life has a weigh. Your mother becomes your greatest ally and your worst enemy. She’ll buy you that little black dress and whisper conspiratorially not to tell your father; but she’ll also tell you to mind your waist, so it still fits in a few years. And even when she doesn’t actually say anything, you’ll still watch the way she looks at herself in the mirror, how she never eats seconds, is always worried about her legs being waxed and buys every anti-wrinkle cream in existence. You begin to replicate those same harmful behaviors that you resent her for, you too tweeze every single eyebrow hair if you must, and decline dessert after dinner because that’s how you were raised, even if it was unintentional.

And just when you think that you’ve come to live with the harrowing, soul-draining experience of being a teenage-girl, it ends. Or it doesn’t. You turn 20, 25, 30, 48, 65 and yet it lingers. You’re still hyper-aware of your surroundings, you still watch how the men in your life are praised for carrying one third of the baggage you handle on a daily basis, you still feel the needle of the scale in the back of your brain every once in a while, and you still choose the loosest blouse and pants for dinner with your friends.

You realize people begin to sigh instead of smiling knowingly at your antics, so you joke. “I’m just a girl”, you say humorously when they judge your “obsession” with a certain artist. But it’s not a joke at all. You are just a girl, when you’re 23 and drowning out your birthday candles with your tears, when you walk behind your friends to check if they’ve leaked, when you use your brush as a microphone and belt out lyrics you relate to on a bone-deep level. Because when all is said and done, every Barbie doll you got for Christmas, every first kiss, every first drink and every friendship bracelet stay with you. It sticks to your skin and becomes a shared experience with every girl friend you make and leave behind. Thankfully, even if you feel like you are isolated and completely unrelatable, you’ll never be alone on that feeling, because there will always be someone else who knows what it’s like to be a teenage girl.

#girlhood #how i love being a woman #the beauty of female friendships #but also the harrowing feeling of being a teenage girl #stream of conscious writing #teenage years

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cluelessbees · 1 year

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Secret Santa Gift! @upside-down-theater-kid

Merry Christmas! (I'm hoping it's still Christmas for you)

“You play?!” Will exclaims, a little shocked, as he gently lifts the guitar by the top of the neck from its stand. He had a smile plastered on his face and – while yes normally Mike would take the opportunity to not-so-subtly admire how beautiful his smile was or …gawkathismuscles – Mike was too focused feeling embarrassed over how God awful his guitar skills were.

Because okay – technically, yes. In the loosest definition of the word, he could play the guitar. He had started to learn after he spotted the acoustic guitar at a random yard sale one day. It was only 15 dollars and came with a bunch of songbooks (which – by the way, a steal), and after watching Eddie play guitar one time after their DnD sessions, he decided that maybe it would be cool if he could play an instrument. Y’know…wow a girl or two…or a guy or two…

Okay, maybe one specific guy.

Who, funny enough, is the guy who just asked Mike if he played. Literally, the moment he shamelessly daydreamed about when buying the damn thing, and he’s panicking, like an idiot – because it wasn’t meant to go like this. It was meant to happen after he got super good, and he could just magically wow him. He had it all planned out and yet he didn’t think to hide the flipping guitar before Will came.

This…was on him.

“Yeah–” Mike’s voice cracks – excellent start. “Uh– just a– just a little bit. It’s nothing fancy or anything, but– Yes. I do.”

Once again, excellent speaking skills from the one and only Mike Wheeler here.

He watched as Will continued to smile to himself, running his thumbs along the strings against the fretboard. He stood like that for a bit before turning to Mike.

“…Can you show me?” He whispered, biting on his bottom lip as he continued to smile.

And…this was unfair, really. Because Mike can’t say no to this Will. The Will that is vulnerable in the purest form when he’s with Mike. The Will that’s comfortable showing Mike every inch of his emotions– especially his excitement. It’s Mike’s favourite thing. The way his eyes light up, the way his smile is toothy, how giddy he gets, and his whole– just everything is so much more…Will.

“It’s really bad, Will,” He started. “I can’t even play a single chord correctly–”

“Still! Please just play a bit.” He lifts the guitar and brings it to Mike. “Show me what you’re working on.”

He pushes the guitar closer to Mike, who is still very much terrified.

“I won’t laugh or anything I promise.” Will adds, giving him a reassuring smile. Mike hates that he’s contemplating it now. Pursing his lips, he finally sighs.

“Okay– fine,” He concedes, grabbing the guitar, putting the strap over his head, and placing it on his lap as he took a seat on his bed. “Your last warning, though! You sure you want to put your ears through this?”

Will just shakes his head, smiling. “I guarantee you I’ll love whatever you play.”

Meanwhile, Mike was busy trying not to implode as he tried to revise the chord progression to the song he was learning. It wasn’t the most difficult song in the world, but given the presence of a barre chord and Mike’s lack of barring capabilities, it probably wasn’t the best song to start with.

No turning back now.

He glides his fingers along the fretboard as he revises one last time before looking up at Will, who’s giving him an excited and encouraging smile, and then finally placing his hand over the bridge to strum.

Immediately, Mike’s lack of skill is evident. His strumming is jagged and abrupt, his chord changes were slow and awkward, and for some reason, there was a constant buzzing noise coming from one of the strings Mike was failing to press down on. It was all in all bad. The song was barely recognisable by the intro sequence alone – which is bad.

“Darling you’ve got to let me know.” Mike sang. Although, “sang” isn’t entirely accurate. He more so…said the words to the tempo. Because his ego had already been bruised by his inadequate playing. He didn’t want to add his screeching singing into the mix.

“Should I stay or should I go.” He strummed the chord progression once more, his eyes glued to the fretboard. He kind of felt stupid for learning one of Will’s favourite songs and possibly inadvertently ruining it with his horrible guitar skills. He wonders what Will’s face must be saying right now. He was probably horrified by how bad it sounded, Mike thought. Although he wouldn’t show it, of course. He’s too kind and nice for that. Maybe it was more of an awkward attempt at a smi–

Oh.

He was beaming.

At that moment, in the most purest form of the phrase, Will Byers was the sun. He just radiated such a sense of warmth. His toothy smile was wider than before. His eyes were gleaming. His body was just-

Electric.

That…took Mike a little off-guard – resulting in a random pause mid-strum, which he caught after Will furrowed his eyebrows at the sudden quietness. Still smiling – Mike would like to add. He kept smiling, and he kept his eyes on Mike, and he was electric.

And Mike couldn’t help but smile back.

He started to feel more relaxed and a bit less self-conscious about his capabilities because he made Will Byers smile the brightest smile he’s ever seen, and that sort of accomplishment comes with an added boost to your confidence.

“Sooo you’ve got to let me knooooooooooow,” He began to sing, his strumming louder and more prominent in the room. “Should I stay or should I go.”

He mimicked the sound of the guitar with his voice – exaggerating it a bit for show. Which– Stupid? Yes. Weird? Definitely. But it earned a laugh from Will Byers so,

What else mattered?

Not to mention that Mike, himself, was starting to have fun. Even though his guitar skills were still horrible, and his fingers were killing him, and his chords were still a mess – he was having fun. And the messiness was part of it. Because it didn’t matter how bad it was. Will liked it.

“One day it’s fine, and next it’s black,” Mike screams, closing his eyes and rocking his head back and forth – garnering another chuckle from Will (not that Mike is keeping score). “So, if you want me off your back.”

“Well come on and let me knoooow.” He peeks at Will, who is now sitting next to him on the bed, and gestures to him with his head.

‘Go on.’

Will takes a second before he starts shaking his head and saying no – the embarrassment evident in the colour of his cheeks and the nervous fry of his laugh. But Mike persisted, standing up now, the strap holding the guitar in place as he continues prolonging the ‘know’ until–

“Should I stay or should I go—” Will finally concedes, his hands covering his face – causing Mike to smile.

And, okay playing whilst standing is a bit new and different, which doesn’t help the whole situation, but fuck that. Mike starts to bounce his head and sing the next line.

“Should I stay or should I go now?” Mike yells louder, nudging his head to signal to Will to stand up – which he does…somewhat begrudgingly but Mike can tell he loves it.

“Should I stay or should I go now?” Will continues, gaining a bit more confidence.

“If I go there will be troubleeee.”

“And if I stay it will be double.” Will finally sings – still giggling.

They continue singing – more screaming for Mike – the entire song. It was a mess; they were both laughing and Mike kept doing weird dances which didn’t work when trying to play chords he’s barely even mastered. But none of that mattered. Because it was just them. Mike and Will. They were just shamelessly themselves, together.

“Should I stay or should I go.” Mike strummed the last chords – panting, a little out of breath and a little in pain from playing too long. He turns to face Will and– wow that’s closer than he thought they were. Will just smiles, and Mike smiles back.

“I-I can’t believe you learned that song,” Will whispered, his voice a bit hoarse from the singing – which Mike shouldn’t focus on as much as he was.

“It reminds me of you, how could I not?” He replies, his eyes wandering a bit before remaining on Will. And– okay Mike might be imagining it but he could’ve sworn he saw Will’s eyes fall on his lips.

‘Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.’ Mike thought, slightly hoping Will could read his mind and take the hint or maybe Mike should just make a move and—

“Michael! Will! Dinner!”

…His mom has the best timing, doesn’t she?

#byler #byler secret santa 2022 #byler fic #byler fanfic #the ending is a bit rushed I’m very sorry ;—;#I’m really bad with limited word counts #I hope it’s still good tho T—T #I ran this through grammarly so I’m hoping there’s no grammar mistakes #I’m rambling MAKSKSNS okay enjoy-

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vaguegrant · 2 years

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I want to talk about the best thing I've done for my mental health recently: Keeping a diary.

To clarify, this is different from "journaling" as an organized activity. I'm sure that's cool, but I haven't looked into it. No, I'm talking about keeping a regular-ass diary for the day. Events, thoughts, general state of things, and the like. It's extremely simple, and yet I've found it to be remarkably grounding. Also, it's fun as hell! And also it's weirdly poignant!

:readmore:

There's no special process involved; I just have a notebook sitting next to my bed, and before going to sleep I write about my day in it. A little summary of the day, how I feel about those events and why, what I'm worried about or excited about, and whatever else comes to mind. That's it! But for someone with both ADHD and anxiety (which stems from said ADHD), this has been super helpful.

See, my anxiety typically stems from the unknown. If I'm sick, and I don't know what it is, I assume it's the worst possible condition. Lots of disasterizing like that. Unfortunately, ADHD means a LOT of unknowns. Did my boss think I completely screwed up? Who knows, I wasn't fully paying attention, and I definitely won't remember tomorrow—so yes, probably! But keeping a diary has mitigated many of those issues. If I'm writing about my day, I have to provide a concrete, honest description of it. Not only does that ground me, it also reinforces my memories and gives me something to refer back to of needed. And likewise, when GOOD things happen, I can remember those better.

Writing in my diary is also a chance to meditate on and appreciate the events of the day. Those little mundane things that are personally meaningful—a kid's soccer game, a good meal with the family, a fun movie with my partner, etc.—those get written down and written about. Now when I say "meditate", I mean that in the loosest possible way. Nothing formal, just revisiting them and writing about my feelings about them. (Honestly, a lot of this is about my kids, and the feels that come with watching someone change into an actual full-grown person.) I don't need to talk about the difficulty of expressing genuine emotions publicly, especially as a middle-aged man in modern American society—gotta leave something for the rest of you to discuss—but this is the ultimate safe space. Being honest with myself and reminding myself that good things do in fact happen to me, even just in the privacy of a diary, has chipped away at my protective shell of cynicism and anger.

A few notes. First off: Yes, sometimes I absolutely sound like a stuck-up Edwardian gentleman in my head when I'm writing. It's great. This has an audience of one, at least until I'm dead or nearly so. So you'd better believe I'm writing my diary the way I'd want to read it. I can be my own little weirdo for a few minutes, and the world be damned.

I do mean "a few minutes," by the way. Each entry is a half-page on slow days, to a page-and-a-half on eventful or emotional days. That's it. No need for more—again, who am I trying to impress?

Second, I know beautiful leather-bound notebooks, dot journals, and rich thick paper are a thing. Frankly, I think they're beautiful objects. But here's my journal:

A cheapass composition notebook (I sprung for the plastic cover! So fancy!) and a Papermate #2 pencil. No 90g paper. No fountain pens. No trappings. And that's all you really need. That's not just me railing against the bourgeoisie, either—I always struggle with getting "the right tools" for a new project or activity, and that quickly becomes a distraction or a source of guilt when I eventually drop it. So, none of that. Pencil. Paper. Writing. I might ask for a nicer one for my birthday or for Christmas or something, but it's utterly unnecessary and I'll only do so if I'm sticking with it still.

Third, regular writing as opposed to typing has been like a remedial handwriting course. I'll never be a calligrapher, but I do find that improvement a little satisfying.

Finally: At some point, I'll be dead or in a nursing home or something. And for all that a diary is a very private thing, it is also a record of a life. Not an exceptional life, but one that I hope means something to a few key people. And so there's always a certain sense that ultimately, my diary is something my kids or a historian somewhere might find interesting. It doesn't stop me from writing honestly, and it's weirdly motivational. After all, this is for posterity!

So yeah. If any of this resonated with you, pick up a notebook. Keep a diary for two weeks. See if it sticks. I hope it'll be worth it for you.

#anxiety #mental health #mentalwellness #mental heath support #daily diary #diary #adhd #journal #journaling

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whatstruthgottodowithit · 3 months

Text

The Other Evans Girl [Part Twenty Five]

Fandom: Harry Potter [Marauder’s Era]

Pairing: Sirius Black x Original Female Character, Sirius Black x Daisy Evans, James Potter x Lily Evans

Characters: Sirius Black, Original Female Character, Daisy Evans, Lily Evans, Remus Lupin, James Potter, Harry Potter, Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall, Alice Fortescue, Frank Longbottom, Marlene McKinnon, Albus Dumbledore, Voldemort, Peter Pettigrew, Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix LeStrange, Walburga Black, Orion Black, Jasper Thicknesse, Barty Crouch Jr, Mulciber, Walden McNair

Word Count: 5787

Rating: Mature

Summary: Hogwarts is a safe haven, a home for many, but it’s often a place where heartache, love and complex emotions dwell and none know that better than the Marauders. Lily Evans just wants to make it out as a successful witch though the oncoming war and the ongoing advances of James Potter threaten that. Daisy Evans, her twin, has other goals. Join the Evans sisters as they make their way through Hogwarts, prepare for war and eventually find love.

Tags/ Warnings: Hogwarts, Friends, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Marauder’s Era, Teenage Angst, Babies, Weddings, Dating, Crying, Loss of Virginity, First Wizarding War, Love, Kissing, Teenagers, James Potter is a bit of a dick, Hogsmeade, 1970s, Fighting, Loss of Parents, Grief, Babies, Injuries, Gore, Harm, Christmas, The Potter’s Mansion // Daisy’s Dress // NYE Lily’s Dress // NYE Daisy’s Dress // Lily’s Ring // Daisy’s Ring

Notes: Okay so I’ve been working on updating this and I’ve finally gone through all the chapters already written before I start writing more. It’s changed a lot so I’ve decided it’s just better to completely re-upload it.

If you want tagging let me know

LINK TO AO3 // LINK TO PINTEREST // LINK TO ALL PARTS

The group worked hard through the rest of the term. As October rolled into November they convened in the attic of Hogwarts at least once a week to practicing and learning as much as they could in the way of defensive magic. James and Sirius had even managed to talk some other Gryffindors into joining them and though the group wasn’t teeming with people, they had a good dozen or so which meant they could try out what they learned in even numbers. And as time went on they all seemed to find their niche. Whilst James and Sirius excelled in defensive spells, Remus and Lily took to counter curses and Daisy took quite well to healing and dealing with all the war wounds that came with each one because even if the spells they were learning were still low level being able to hide the evidence of them from McGonagall was crucial. And all of them had taken to teaching though admittedly Frank was her favourite teacher of the lot. He was really good and caring, taking the time to explain it to them where the boys tended to get a bit frustrated or make her giggle. He seemed to be especially adept at concealment and tracking charms though Daisy didn’t know what was his own research or if he was just what he’d learnt being a year above them.

And though Daisy had been enjoying herself with their meetings she still felt as if there was something wrong with Sirius. It wasn’t as bad as he had been before but there was definitely something. Sirius, on the other hand, hadn’t been enjoying himself. Sure, he liked doing the defence group and it made him feel better to think that he and his friends were prepared when it came to it but he was still in turmoil. His feelings had continued to plague him and given that he was now being watched knowingly by the boys and Marlene it was hard to ignore them. In fact, he’d been so wrapped up in his own angst he had barely noticed that James and Lily hardly fought anymore and were friends, in the loosest definition of the term.

Still even with his own problems he wasn’t immune to the infective air of the last week of term. Whilst most were looking forward to spending time with their families, others were looking forward to having a break from homework and nagging teachers. And though Sirius couldn’t go to his own home and never really bothered with homework when he was at school never mind out of it he didn’t care because was going to spend Christmas with his favourite people. The Potters had invited him to stay and the boys and Daisy were coming up after Christmas which meant they could spend time together outside of the school, to enjoy themselves. He just had to get through the last meeting of the group before Christmas.

It was Thursday night and the group was convened in the attic as usual. When Sirius arrived Frank was sitting with Alice by his side chatting to the other Gryffindors they had recruited from seventh year Terry Bones, Rudy Scrimgeour and his girlfriend Eleanor Vane. And though they had been welcomed additions to their little gang Sirius wasn’t in the mood to chat, not with relative strangers, and so he smiled politely at the foursome sitting on some pillows by the stacks of old desks, and then walked over to the table where everyone had been leaving their research and books and started to peruse it. Just as he started to scan over a piece of parchment that had Remus’ neat handwriting on it he felt someone beside him and turned to find Marlene stood next to him, smirking as she said, ‘find something interesting?’ ‘Just reading Remus’ latest find on counter curses,’ he said, glancing behind her when he saw she was alone, 'where’s the girls?’ ‘We’re not attached at the hip you know,’ Marlene said rolling her eyes, ‘besides I should ask you the same thing, don’t you usually have three smelly teenage boys hanging off you? Or are they not allowed near when you’re trying to schmooze Daisy.’ 'Har har,’ Sirius said, ‘I had an apparition lesson if you must know and besides I don’t schmooze anyone.’ ‘Oh sure you don’t,’ she chuckled. ‘Who’s Sirius schmoozing?’ James’ voice echoed behind them before his face slotted in the gap between their shoulders. 'No one,’ Sirius snapped as Remus and Peter appeared next to them. ‘Alright touchy,’ James said. ‘I’m not touchy,’ Sirius said defensively. ‘He wishes he could be touchy don’t ya Sirius,’ Marlene chuckled as she walked away from the boys towards the door where Lily and Daisy were now entering arms ladened with bundles of brown paper. Sensing food Peter followed towards the girls as did Alice and the rest of the gang but James and Remus held back, hemming Sirius in.

‘What was that about?’ James said. ‘Nothing,’ Sirius lied. ‘Pull the other one,’ Remus said, ‘are you two arguing again? I thought everything was cool between you and Marlene now.’ 'It is,’ Sirius said in hushed tones, 'she just…she likes winding me up.’ 'What would she be winding you, oh, about Daisy?’ James said a bit too loud earning a swift dig in the ribs from Sirius. 'What about me?’ came Daisy’s voice from behind the pair, causing the trio to spin around, guilt ridden faces meeting her quizzical one. As none of them spoke she raised an eyebrow and said, ‘what’s going on?’ 'Is that food? That’s what we were wondering have you brought food?’ James said quickly, gesturing to the bags and bundles Lily was now setting down on a table. 'Yeah we were just talking about the-’ Sirius said. ‘Packages,’ Remus finished. Daisy’s eyes narrowed, watching as they all stared back at her as innocently as possible. ‘Yeah just some bits,’ she said, allowing her suspicions to fade as she figured there was no point in pushing them given shifty behaviour was basically Sirius’ default setting recently. As they heaved a silent sigh of relief she continued, ‘we thought that we could put off the learning for tonight and just spend the night chilling, eating what have you.’ 'Sounds good,’ Remus smiled, shuffling over to where Lily was decanting packages and bundles onto the table which was now surrounded by everyone. Daisy went to follow but seeing James and Sirius hadn’t moved she hesitated. ‘Are you coming?’ Daisy asked, eyeing the pair of them though she couldn’t see James’ hand on Sirius back, clutching at his jumper and keeping him in place.

‘Yeah not be a minute,’ he nodded. Daisy eyed them one more time and then went to join the mob which was now eagerly raiding the sweets, drinks, puddings and crisps that the girls had got from the kitchens.

Once she was out of earshot James lessened his grip, allowing Sirius to turn and look at him incredulously though before he could say anything the dark-haired boy said, ‘you should just tell her mate.’ 'I already told you,’ Sirius said, ready to break into the speech he’d given himself a million times before though James cut him off. 'I know what you said but there’s gonna come a time when everyone is going to know you’re in love with her apart from Daisy,’ James reasoned, and before Sirius could retaliate he swanned off and joined the group.

✵✵✵

'Erm, truth,’ Alice giggled as she took another sip of butterbeer. The last meeting had been a success with all members enjoying chatting and munching their way through the snacks the girls had brought with them. And though the older students unfortunately had a mock NEWT the following morning, and had all retreated to revise, the party hadn’t stopped though without their supervision it had quickly descended into a game of truth or dare where the forfeit was taking a swig from the bottle of Firewhiskey James had snuck with him.

'Okay,’ Daisy said, 'have you ever…’ 'Skipped a class?’ Marlene finished. 'Oh, that’s not fair!’ Alice whined. 'Why?’ Peter asked. 'Because they know I have!' Alice giggled. 'Yeah but you don’t have to drink if you’re telling the truth,’ Remus said. 'True, true Moony,’ Daisy smirked.

‘But unless Alice wants to share what she was doing when she skipped class then she’ll have to sip sip!' Marlene chuckled. Remus handed the bottle to Alice who now had all eyes on her but she was only looking at Daisy and Marlene, scowling.

'Let’s just say Frank and I didn’t realise we were missing class…we just got…carried away,’ she sighed, sipping from the bottle, her nose wrinkling as the liquor hit her tongue. 'Go Frank,’ James said with a smirk. 'Oh don’t worry Al I’m sure Sirius has missed many a class eh?’ Lily teased. 'Many a time,’ Sirius said, his tone not exactly playful which caught Daisy’s attention straight away, that suspicious feeling returning. Lily however didn’t seem to notice, too busy taking the bottle from Alice’s hand as she said, ‘okay, my turn.’ 'Truth or dare?’ Remus asked. 'Dare,’ Lily said firmly.

‘Kiss Potter,’ Sirius said not a second after the words had left Lily’s lips. The room fell silent. 'What?’ James and Lily said simultaneously.

'I dare you to kiss James,’ Sirius said firmly. 'As if Lily would,’ Marlene baulked. 'Well she can always forfeit then,’ Sirius said with a sly smile. 'Sirius,’ Daisy said, hoping he’d look at her. He didn’t though, instead just staring between the pair of them expectantly. She didn’t know why he was doing it though she felt it was probably due to Lily’s teasing she didn’t know why. Just more of his ridiculous behaviour lately. Except this wasn’t just some little thing. Sirius knew just how much James liked Lily and to do this to him, to put him under pressure like that seemed mean. In fact looking at him now he seemed nervous, a shade of red she’d never seen as he stammered, ‘you don’t have to Lily. He’s being stupid.’ 'What so I can be called a wuss by your mates,’ Lily scoffed, 'no thank you.’ 'Wait does that mean-’ James’ words were cut off as Lily’s lips met his. In the blink of an eye she had pushed herself up off the floor and was across the circle, her lips colliding with his for a brief moment before she flopped back into her seat on the floor, everyone watching wide eyed. As everyone’s eyes followed her back to her seat, James seemed stuck, staring at the space she’d occupied in a trance.

‘That alright for you Sirius,’ Lily said smugly. 'Well done,’ Sirius said with a chuckle before he looked next to her and said, 'Dais you’re next.’ 'Never mind me,’ Daisy said, still as shocked as everyone as she gestured to James and said, 'Lil, I think you’ve killed him.' ‘He’s fine. You’re not getting out of a dare that easily,’ Lily said though Daisy couldn’t help but notice that her sister’s cheeks were a little more red than normal. 'Fine, I pick dare,’ Daisy said. 'Kiss Sirius,’ Marlene’s voice cut through the remaining giggles. Sirius looked towards Marlene, his grey eyes cold but his tone light as he joked, 'what James not good enough for Dais?' 'I’d rather take a bath in the lake,’ Daisy chuckled.

As she turned to face him the reality of the situation hit him like a freight train. It had been a joke, a tease from Marlene, and yet that didn’t stop Sirius’ heart from thudding in his chest as she leaned in. He didn’t move, allowing her to move closer to him as he watched her. Her blond hair was dishevelled around her face from where she had kept pushing it back the more tipsy she got and her green eyes were half-closed as she giggled before planting a soft kiss on his lips. As soon as it had come it was gone encouraging laughter and jeers from the group though it felt muffled to Sirius, the thudding in his heart deafening him as he clung to the warm feeling that spread through his chest.

After that the night continued in a sort of haze for Sirius, like he was there but not really, dipping in and out of the conversation well enough that no one seemed to notice that he was still thinking of the kiss. Of Daisy. James was right, if he kept on going the only person who wouldn’t know his feelings for Daisy would be Daisy herself. He had to tell her.

As the night came to an end they decided it was better for the group to split up on their way back to the dorms so they didn’t draw attention. Remus and Lily headed back first, given they had the alibi of prefect duties should they get caught, and the since the remaining group was too large not to cause suspicion they decided it would be best to split up.

‘So how are we doing this?’ Daisy asked, joining the huddle of boys who were scanning the map in front of them.

‘I don’t know,’ James shrugged, ‘one group take the map the others take the cloak.’

‘Sounds good,’ Daisy said, ‘me, Mar and Alice are probably better with the cloak. We’ll probably fit easier.’

‘Good point,’ Sirius nodded.

‘I’d rather use the map,’ Alice giggled, appearing from nowhere and attempting to snatch the parchment out of James’ hands though she was pulled back by Marlene. Apparently no one had noticed quite how hammered she was until she had stood up, swaying from side to side. ‘Hey,’ Marlene said as Alice tumbled backwards onto her after losing her balance from the tug, ‘I think one of the boys is better with the map eh?’ ‘From the looks of it one of the boys might have to carry her,’ Daisy said. ‘You say that like we’ve never had to carry you, Dais,’ James chuckled, ‘or are you forgetting us four hauling you up-’ ‘Yes, thank you, Potter,’ Daisy scowled making him grin. ‘I’m fine,’ Alice said in a singsong voice but as she pulled out of Marlene’s grasp she tumbled onto the floor before anyone could catch her. Marlene sighed and moved to help her up.

‘Alright new plan. Pete you take the map, me and Mar will carry Alice,’ James said, moving to help Marlene hoist Alice upright between them.

‘Okay but I don’t know how we’re going to get anywhere. Filch is patrolling the corridor between here and the common room,’ Peter said as he started reading the map. ‘Well then Sirius and I can take the cloak and head back the long way and see if we can cause a distraction to give you a chance okay?’ Daisy said earning a muttering of agreements and a cheer from Alice didn’t reassure anyone.

And though Sirius hadn’t agreed, his stomach flip flopping thinking about being alone with her post-kiss, he didn’t have time to disagree with her decree because she grabbed the cloak and tugged him towards the door, Marlene and James’ wry smiles following their path. She let him go as they reached the exit, allowing the pair of them to descend the stone staircase one by one but as they reached the bottom, where the stairs were concealed in an alcove by a statue, she swept the cloak over their heads. His tension returned in an instance even more so as she grabbed hold of his shirt sleeve to keep him near.

‘Can you see Filch?’ Daisy whispered as he leant out of the alcove, close enough he could feel her warm breath on his neck. ‘No,’ he mumbled, ‘he must be at the other end of the corridor. Come on.’

The two ducked out from behind the statue and found the corridor thankfully empty except for a pair of lamp-like eyes watching them. Mrs Norris didn’t make any noise but her eyes narrowed as she looked in their direction, her tail flicking up as she turned away and trotted back down the corridor, no doubt going to tell Filch there was something amiss. Once she was gone Daisy and Sirius tiptoed down the corridor which was now considerably darker than expected.

‘Can you see properly?’ Daisy whispered. ‘No,’ Sirius replied, ‘but we can’t draw attention just yet.’ ‘Right,’ Daisy said. Sirius felt her hand fumble down his arm until it slipped into his, ‘you lead.’ ‘Right,’ Sirius mumbled, thanking merlin that the darkness hid his smile as they crept to the end of the corridor and out into the staircases. Once they reached the staircase Sirius wrenched the cloak off them. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked whipping her head around to see if they were alone. ‘I figured it was best for us if we didn’t run up moving staircases with a trip hazard draped over our heads,’ he chuckled as he produced his wand from his pocket. Sirius walked up to the door they had just come out of and cracked it open a little. He couldn’t hear much but there was the distinct sound of Filch muttering to his cat. ‘Right from what I can tell he’s at the end of the corridor so…’ Sirius said. But he didn’t finish. Instead of explaining he flourished his wand causing sparks to fly out, grabbing Daisy by the hand and pulling her onto the staircase they needed, running up it full pelt as the entire chamber was alight with fireworks. As they reached the top of the staircase they darted forward through the door slamming it behind them and throwing on the cloak. The fireworks were dying down but they could hear Filch shouting for Peeves through the door and had to hide their laughter imagining how red his face would be at this late-night prank from his nemesis, the Hogwarts poltergeist. He just hoped the kerfuffle was enough to draw Filch away for enough time so that the others could get Alice to the dormitory.

So that they didn’t lure Filch back towards them Sirius and Daisy walked back to Gryffindor tower in silence, the only noise occurring when they muttered the password to a very confused and irritable Fat Lady, who seemed to have only just been disturbed, signalling the other’s had made it back, but swung open nevertheless. Fortunately their suspicions were confirmed as they found James waiting for them in the common room looking nervous though as they pulled off the cloak he heaved a sigh of relief.

‘Thank God,’ he said hugging the pair of them, ‘I don’t know what you did but Filch didn’t half take off in a run.’

‘Gave you enough time?’ Sirius asked pulling back.

‘Gave us plenty of time to get back,’ James said grinning as he added, ‘though Alice was sick in the corridor so I don’t think he’ll be too thrilled about that.’ ‘Is she okay?’ Daisy said with concern. ‘She’s fine. Lily came down and helped Mar get her up the stairs,’ he said, ‘but I think she must have had too much to drink too.’ ‘Lily?’ Daisy said perplexed. Her straight-laced sister would never get outlandishly drunk, especially not at school. ‘Yeah,’ James said bashfully, ‘because she actually thanked me.’ ‘Woah,’ Sirius teased, ‘did she smile at you too? Because I need to know how long the pining will go on for this time.’ ‘Oh shut up, besides you’re one to talk,’ James jibed at his mate, forgetting entirely that Daisy was standing there. ‘What?’ Daisy said looking between the pair of them. ‘Nothing,’ James said quickly as realisation dawned, immediately feigning a yawn after as he added, ‘I’m gonna head up. See ya later mate.’

‘Yeah see you,’ Sirius grumbled, watching as James fled up the staircase wishing he could follow just as quickly given that he could feel Daisy’s gaze land on him.

He didn’t look at her, instead busying himself with folding the cloak meticulously, but she didn’t stop staring. Had this been why he was acting so weird lately? He had a crush on someone. Daisy started to panic. Had Marlene spoken to him the way she had to her? Made it seem as though she was in love with him and because he was in love with someone else he hadn’t wanted to make her feel bad? Not that it would matter anyway because she wasn’t in love with him. Well, she didn’t want to think she was. Of course she liked Sirius…a lot but they couldn’t be together, right?

‘What was James on about?’ Daisy said, unable to stop herself from questioning him. Sirius looked up from the cloak, his grey eyes meeting her green ones. He could tell her. Here and now just get it over with. ‘Just… this girl I fancy,’ Sirius started begging his confidence to withhold. ‘Oh,’ Daisy said, trying to sound casual though her stomach suddenly felt lead lined. ‘Yeah, I must have talked about her a little too much,’ Sirius said, that wasn’t technically a lie. ‘Do I know her?’ Daisy said dropping her gaze. Sirius watched as her fingers fiddled with the loop in her jeans. ‘She’s…James neighbour,’ Sirius said cursing himself as the lies came tumbling from his mouth, ‘yeah you don’t know her but she’s nice, amazing in fact.’ ‘Yeah?’ Daisy said looking at him. ‘Yeah, she’s really pretty too, caring and kind, and she’s funny as anything,’ Sirius said unable to stop rambling. ‘I’m sure she is,’ Daisy said quietly, ‘I guess I’ll get to meet her at New Year’s huh?’ ‘Yeah,’ he said as she started walking away from him. He wanted to grab her. He wanted to tell her that the girl was her, that he thought all of those things about her. But he didn’t, he didn’t move, or speak. As she reached the staircase she turned and looked at him.

‘Night then,’ she smiled somewhat sadly. ‘Night,’ Sirius said. ‘Pads?’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘You should tell her…James’ neighbour. She’d be lucky to have you,’ Daisy said and before he could say anything else she disappeared up the staircase where he couldn’t follow. Sirius fell back against the couch allowing his body to flop over the height of the couch and onto the comfy cushions below. ‘You fucking moron,’ he sighed.

✵✵✵

A couple of days after the last defence club meeting the end of term came and Daisy wasn’t prepared. Having been so busy with classes and the club she had barely had enough time to get everyone a Christmas present let alone sort out an outfit and travel for the New Year’s Eve party though admittedly she hadn’t put much thought into it until Sirius had dropped the bombshell on her that there was another girl in his life. She didn’t know why she cared. She had said to herself that nothing could happen between them but that didn’t mean she hadn’t scoured the Madam Malkins catalogue looking for a new dress the morning after he had told her. Even if they weren’t meant to be she was sure as hell going to look better than her. The morning they were supposed to leave for home Daisy was sitting in her dorm room looking at her belongings sprawled out along the floor and wondering what to pack when Lily came in.

‘Are you not packed yet?’ Lily gasped, ‘the train leaves at midday!’ ‘Yes, thanks for that Lil,’ Dais grumbled. ‘You’re not still fretting about what to wear to that New Year’s Eve party are you?’ she said as she sat down on her bed, beside her own neatly packed suitcase. ‘I couldn’t find anything to buy so I’m assessing my clothes,’ she said. ‘Why? It’s you and the lads you said right?’ Lily said, ‘I thought they didn’t care what you looked like.’ ‘They don’t,’ Daisy said defensively, ‘but it’s a party. I don’t want to go looking like a troll in an ill-fitting robe. There are important people there.’ ‘Like who James Potter,’ Lily chuckled mockingly though Daisy didn’t miss the fact that at the mention of his name Lily’s hand instinctively went to twirling a strand of hair, something she did when she was nervous. ‘Like ministry officials. And besides Mr and Mrs Potter are lovely I don’t want to show them up,’ she said. ‘Right, in that case you should wear this,’ Lily said holding up a dress Daisy hadn’t worn in years. One she loved but she had always felt too self-conscious to wear. ‘Lil,’ Daisy said uneasily. ‘You’ll look amazing,’ Lily said and before Daisy could contest she was packing it in her suitcase which then ended up with her packing everything, not that Daisy minded. As her sister tucked everything neatly into place, she lay on the bed watching her, her mind on Sirius and the new girl in his life. In fact she spent so much time lost in her thoughts it was quickly time to leave and she and Lily made their way downstairs to find Marlene and Alice waiting for them in the common room. Daisy’s eyes scanned around but she couldn’t see the boys and so she left with the girls and made her way down to Hogsmeade. She didn’t see the boys at any point in the journey but as they got to the station Daisy spotted a gang of familiar heads a way up the platform. She didn’t know whether to head towards them or stay put, given that since Sirius had told her all about his new muse all she seemed to feel a pang in her chest every time she looked at him.

‘You don’t have to sit with us you know,’ Alice said following Daisy’s eye line. ‘But,’ Daisy said, not wanting explain her apprehensions to join them. ‘But? Don’t worry about us,’ Alice said, ‘besides I’m sure Mar and I can keep ourselves busy whilst Lily crams in as much studying as possible before we get to Kings Cross.’ ‘I’m going to see them over break,’ Daisy reasoned. ‘And you sleep in the same room as us all year,’ Alice said touching her arm, ‘don’t worry we’re not going to break because you’d rather be with your other friends besides we don’t want to sit in a carriage with four loud teenage boys anyway.’

‘Okay, see you later,’ Daisy said, leaning into hug her friend. Alice hugged her back and Marlene mumbled a ‘Merry Christmas’ before headed toward the boys. As she got close to them her heart started fluttering much to her annoyance. James and Sirius were throwing something between them, out of Peter’s reach, whilst Remus stood beside them shaking his head. Not being truly part of whatever they were doing he was the first to notice her approach and said, ‘hey Dais.’

‘Hi Rem,’ Daisy said with a smile. As her voice floated through the sky Sirius whipped around to look at her which earned him a clunk to the back of the head as whatever James had thrown hadn’t been caught. Peter scurried forward and grabbed the object from the ground, cramming it in his pocket as quickly as possible. Sirius didn’t seem to mind the clunk as he smiled at Daisy and said, ‘hey.’ ‘Mind if I sit with you for the ride?’ Daisy said feeling her heartbeat in her ears. ‘Of course, you can,’ James said coming to stand next to his best mate and throwing an arm over his shoulders. ‘Come on,’ Peter said irritably, ‘we’ll not be sitting anywhere if we don’t hurry up.’ And without waiting for them, which was unusual for Peter, he strode off towards the open carriage door. Daisy quirked an eyebrow as they gathered their things and followed where he’d gone. ‘What’s the matter with him?’ Daisy muttered to Sirius as they walked towards the train. ‘He made the mistake of trying to hide the Christmas present Fiona Swett got him.’ ‘I take it that was what you were chucking about,’ she smiled wryly. ‘Of course,’ Sirius chuckled.

When they climbed aboard they found Peter, still with a scowl on his face, now in a cabin. He didn’t even say anything as they all got settled, stowing their belongings in the overhead lockers for the long ride back to London but fortunately, as they crossed the border into England, he started to mellow. A fact Daisy suspected had more to do with the sweet trolley coming around and the fact she had suggested swapping presents now than his love for his country. By the time they were near the lake district Daisy had four neatly wrapped parcels that she tucked away in her backpack, ready for Christmas morning, and they were onto discussing their Christmas day plans and how all of them were coming to Potter’s for New Year.

After a few hours the sky started getting inkier though the compartment was lit by the low carriage lights and the streetlights which were becoming more and more frequent as they neared London. Eventually they were pulling into platform nine and three quarters which soon descended into pandemonium as everyone decanted off the train, laden with luggage. Whilst Peter hurried ahead waving goodbye to the group quickly as he scuttled off to the barrier in order to make his connecting train Daisy took root on the platform, scanning the sea of people for her sister. Fortunately, Sirius appeared next to her a second later and since he was quite a bit taller than her was able to spot the redhead a little way down the platform.

‘Lil!’ Daisy shouted, causing her sister to look in their direction and hurry quickly towards the group, which was now full, the other boys looking for their families. Given that Remus’ father was practically his twin he wasn’t difficult to spot, looming over the milling school children on the platform, and so after a hurried ‘Merry Christmas’ the boy took off towards him. James however didn’t have the luxury of scurrying off, unnoticed by his fellow classmates because just as Remus disappear into the crowd Fleamont appeared from it, his loud charismatic voice causing heads to turn as he neared them and said, ‘boys there you are!’

‘Dad,’ James said, gritting his teeth as his father appeared, making his friend’s chuckle.

‘Oh and dear Daisy too!’ Fleamont continued as if he hadn’t spoke, ‘and, I’m sorry who are you?’ ‘This is Lily, Mr Potter…my sister,’ Daisy said. ‘Monty, please,’ he smiled, looking at Lily who smiled politely, ‘nice to finally meet you m’dear. Of course we’ve heard a lot about you.’ ‘Where’s mum?’ James said speaking over his father. Sirius and Daisy shared a look and a smirk as they watched James’ face turn beetroot red. ‘Oh, you know your mother she’s in a tizzy about Christmas day. She’s in Diagon alley right now doing some last-minute shopping so I said I’d collect you boys and take you home,’ he smiled seemingly not noticing his son’s obvious embarrassment, ‘I take it you’re all set for the big day girls?’ ‘Just about,’ Lily said politely. Daisy noticed a slight pink tinge across her cheeks evidently she and Sirius weren’t the only ones who noticed Fleamont’s remark.

‘Dad,’ James said, tugging on his father’s sleeve, finally making him realise he was there. ‘It seems silly all for one day doesn’t it. Though I dare say it’s nice to have everyone together celebrating,’ Fleamont said, ‘I bet your parents are happy to have you two home. Are they here yet?’ ‘They’ll be through the barrier,’ Daisy said. ‘Ah, muggles?’ Fleamont said excitedly, ‘how fascinating! I’d love to speak to them; I never get much of a chance to meet non-magical folk. Perhaps they could come to our New Year’s Eve party! Oh yes what a good idea! You must invite them! The more the merrier after all!’

‘They’re probably busy,’ James said through gritted teeth, ‘and they’re probably wanting Daisy and Lily to hurry up.’ ‘Don’t be so rude James,’ Fleamont said, ‘besides you should be offering to walk these lovely ladies through. And here I am thinking I have taught you manners.’ ‘Don’t worry Mr Potter. James is quite well mannered,’ Lily said, her words slipping out without warning causing James, Sirius and Daisy to gawk at her. Had she actually just complimented him? In front of witnesses. Before anyone could say anything Lily mumbled a goodbye and grabbed her suitcase and her sister by the arm simultaneously. Daisy barely had a chance to shout ‘see you after Christmas’ to the boys before she was tossed through the barrier and into the muggle world.

‘Bloody hell Lil,’ Daisy said as she straightened out her jacket sleeve which was now crumpled from her older sister’s grasp. ‘What?’ Lily said snappily. ‘I mean it’s not my fault you said something nice about James. There’s no need to wrench my arm out its socket,’ Daisy grumbled, moving out of the way of other people coming through. ‘I didn’t do it because of that,’ Lily said earning a raised eyebrow from her twin, ‘okay maybe I did.’ ‘You’re allowed to be his friend you know,’ Daisy chuckled. ‘I know it’s just I don’t know if I want to be his friend or more than that,’ she sighed. ‘Lilian Jade Evans are you telling me you have feelings for James Potter?’ her sister said agog. ‘Maybe,’ the redhead said as they weaved through people on the platform looking for their parents. Daisy thought about it for a moment. Sure she’d told James she’d try and help Lily see that he wasn’t such a bad guy, she had just thought it would take a few years or a miracle to help bring her around to that fact. Now it was here though she couldn’t say she was disappointed; in fact she was happy for them.

‘Well could do worse you know,’ Daisy said. ‘Yeah you’re right I could be in love with Sirius,’ Lily teased, watching as her sister’s jaw dropped.

‘You don’t mean,’ Daisy said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. ‘Of course, I bloody do!’ Lily said rolling her eyes.

‘I’m not in love with him,’ Daisy protested though much like her sister had Lily raised an eyebrow, ‘okay so I like him…really like him.’

‘I’m only teasing you,’ Lily said, slipping her arm into her sister’s so they could carry on walking, ‘I actually think the two of you would be good together.’ ‘Shame that’ll never happen,’ Daisy said morosely. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure you know,’ Lily said honestly, smiling at her sister who looked up at her curiously. Unfortunately they didn’t have time to delve into the debate as they heard their names being barked from a short distance away and looked up to find Petunia and Vernon’s beady eyes watching them.

‘Oh yippee,’ Daisy grumbled, ‘Petty and Vermin are here to bring us Christmas cheer huh?’ ‘Play nice,’ Lily said putting on her fakest smile and dragging her sister towards them. Daisy faked a smile. What a Christmas this was going to be.

SIRIUS BLACK/SERIES TAGS

@maeisafangirl @mysteriouslydelicateface @caitlin1996 @imthebadguyyy

#my writing #the other evans girl #sirius black #sirius black x ofc #sirius black x daisy evans #sirius black fic #marauders fic

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thxtandromedatonks · 5 months

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She didn't wake up in the Common Room that she started the day waking up in. Oh no. The weird thing about having returned to Hogwarts, bar the fact that there was extremely very few individuals about, was the fact that the things that they had always wished they could do back when they were potential rebellious students, they actually had been doing. They'd never actually been rebellious because they knew that could have caught them out and could have caused far much more trouble than the other necessarily wanted. So they had their tried and tested ways because the relationship that they were builing together back then meant so much tp them. So much so that the fact they had returned as a couple, and were now trusted as a couple, albeit in the loosest of terms to some wizarding folk, well it was almost like they had come full circle.

Christmas at Hogwarts had always been full of as many sparkley things as possible, whether it be fairy lights, tinsel of the flicker of a candle when you passed it a but too quickly than expected. This year all the sparkle seemed to have gone. Whatever had gone on before their arrival had not been good and therefore they were there to just keep a low profile. They had their orders, which were mostly to keep the castle looking as not lived in as possible. Not the easiest of assignments in a castle that looked uninhabited. The moment they appeared at the school gastes a week ago it had un-nerved them both so much that they had made a pact to not leave each others side for as long as possible, and if they were it was to never go too far, and if it had to be longer then the other one would always be found in their darkened hiding spot within the library.

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disast3rtransp0rt · 2 years

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anyone want a sweet treat?

How about a story featuring Nutcracker Prince Anakin, shy Victorian-era Obi-Wan, a nine-headed Mouse King, and lots of silly fluff and adventure for everyone?

“Visions of Sugarplums” now on AO3!

A Nutcracker Ballet themed ObiKin fanfiction vaguely based on the George Balanchine choreography.

#nutcracker obikin #nutracker au #obikin fluff #obikin fanfic #christmas fic #obikin christmas fic #but christmas in the loosest way #victorian obikin au #victorian au #prince anakin

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ninja-go-to-therapy · 4 years

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Turtleneck (Aftermath of Devastated)

Tw: Panic attack, discussions of past trauma and dehumanization

Cole wasn’t sure what had caused his panic attack. Maybe it was the way he had been feeling off all day, the way everyone had clearly sensed it and either stayed far away or way too close, or the way his clothes had clung to him, feeling like they were constricting him.

Whichever one it was, he was currently bent over in his room, hand clamped over his mouth to muffle his noises in a desperate attempt not to alert the others, tears squeezing their way out of his eyes. The sheets were fisted in his other hand in a pathetic and failed attempt to ground himself, and they were quickly becoming very wet under his face.

Cole made a pathetic wheezing noise behind his hand while attempting to force the panic back, to remind himself that he was here. That Koshiro wasn’t, that he wasn’t ever going to be treated like that again, that he wasn’t ever going to treated like a dog-

Cole made a whine before grabbing his turtleneck and throwing it off. It ripped and he stared at it, before letting out another gasping sob. It was a nice turtleneck, a gift from Nya years ago. It most certainly wasn’t her fault that the neck felt too much like a chain around his neck, that the arms felt too much like handcuffs, that it felt too much like he was back there-

Cole curled in on himself, another sob escaping him as he pressed his face into the wet sheets. He was now openly crying, broken gasps escaping him every time he didn’t have enough breath in him to sob. FSM, he’s pathetic. Having a panic attack over a turtleneck, over a trauma that ended three years ago. Christ, he’s known he’s a mess for a while, but this is taking it to a whole new level-

The bed dips beside him, and he glances up through teary eyes to see Kai sitting on the bed next to him. With a soft sigh, he took out a tissue from a box on the nightstand and dabbed it around Cole’s eyes. Cole looked away hesitantly, trying to stop himself from crying anymore, knowing Kai isn’t going to leave until he stops crying. The violent panic had stopped now, something about having Kai there helping him calm down. Maybe it’s because Kai was always there to help when they were with Koshiro. Despite his best attempts, another couple of tears trail down his face, and Kai hurriedly grabs a couple more tissues.

As soon as his tears stop Kai drops the tissues into the garbage can and curls into his own little ball on the other side of the bed from Cole. He doesn’t say anything, but Cole can feel the other boy staring at him. Cole bit his lip, feeling the apprehension welling up inside of him. Kai’s expecting him to speak, he knows he is. It’s their tradition whenever one of them finds the other like this.

Eventually Cole swallowed the shriveled remains of his pride, and said softly, “How did you know I was here?”

Kai sighed. “You’re not nearly as slick as you think you are. I can tell when you’re feeling off.”

Cole swallowed. “Of course you can.”

“Your room is also right next to mine, and you’re not nearly as quiet as you think you are.”

Cole stared at the sheets for a couple of seconds, feeling his heart rate go down and his breathing steady. He let go of the sheets in his other hand and Kai immediately grasped it with his own, running a thumb over his trembling fingers. Cole grabbed it back with relief, trying to remind himself that Kai was here, they were all here, and that here wasn’t a foul basement on a dog bed with chains all around you.

It’s not working well.

Kai took in an unsteady breath, right before he said, “Wanna go outside?”

Cole blinked at him in blank confusion. “Why?”

Kai shrugged. “Whenever I’m feeling down, it… it helps. To be outside. In a place where you can see all around you.”

Cole blinked at that. “Can’t hurt, I guess.”

Kai smiled weakly. “Good. You have to put on a shirt though, I’m not dragging your ass half-naked outside.”

Cole flinched at that. “K-Kai, I-”

“Just a tank top,” the other one assures him. “Nothing else. I just don’t want to be teased for another month straight by Jay. He still thinks we’re dating.”

Cole snorted at that, before he hauled himself off the bed. He grabbed the loosest fitting tank top he could find from his closet before following Kai outside. When he did, he saw Kai perched on the edge of the deck with a bunch of blankets gathered around him. He’d clearly been intending to stay for the rest of the night out here.

Cole walked over to him, sitting down easily on the pile of blankets. Kai’s got his legs swinging out over the edge from between the railings, dark green eyes fixed somewhere on the horizon. They’ve both got dark shadows under them.

Cole glanced down, not wanting to ignore his own issues by focusing on Kai’s. “On the edge? Isn’t that a bit risky?”

Kai shrugged. “Perhaps. There’s worst coping mechanisms. Drinking, smoking.”

Cole gave a hollow laugh. “The only reason neither of us do that is because the one time Nya caught you with a bottle is the one time she screamed at you for long enough that you had a panic attack.”

Kai winced at that. “Low blow, Cole.”

They remain sat in silence for a couple of more seconds, before Kai said, “Turtlenecks, huh?”

It was Cole’s turn to wince as he glanced away, fixing his gaze on anywhere that wasn’t Kai’s own. “I-yeah.” “Why?”

He stared at his tank top for a couple of seconds before he murmured, “It feels too much like chains, I guess.”

Kai shrugged again. “I get that. I have the same problems with scarfs and basically any type of jewelry. Even socks feel iffy sometimes.”

Cole stared at him for a couple of more seconds until Kai continued. “Guess I’ll have to tell Nya then.”

Cole’s eyes widened at that. “What? No! Th-that was a gift something she gave me on the first Christmas when we were out, it wouldn’t-”

Kai cut him off with a soft, “Yeah, and she’d feel worse if you continued torturing yourself with it. You don’t have to be able to wear turtlenecks to say that you’ve recovered, Cole.”

Cole curled in on himself once again. “I know, but it’s just…”

Kai stared at him. “It’s just what?”

Cole felt himself shriveling as he said his next words. “It’s just… pathetic. It’s a turtleneck, it’s something so basic. We’ve been out of there for three years, I should be able to-”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

Cole stared at that. “Excuse me?”

“You shouldn’t,” Kai repeated. “At least you shouldn’t have to. You don’t have to wear turtlenecks, I don’t have to wear scarfs, we can just wear however much we feel like. It’s not worth being fashionable or socially nice if it hurts us.”

Cole rolled his eyes at that, but couldn’t find anything else to say. Kai’s right, objectively speaking, it just feels wrong to be so scared of something so simple. Kai shifted closer to him, laying his head on Cole’s shoulder.

“I know, Kai,” he said. “But I’m having panic attacks over a turtleneck. That’s just pathetic.”

Kai turns to him sharply, green eyes alight with something between fury and sympathy. “Don’t you dare call yourself that.” Before Cole has a chance to speak, Kai grabbed him by the chin sharply. “You aren’t pathetic or broken, you’re hurt, you’re damaged, you’re just like me. Would you ever call me pathetic over a turtleneck?”

Slightly shaken, Cole shook his head, and Kai retreated, apparently satisfied. They remained staring at each other for a couple of seconds before Kai pulled him into a tight hug, holding him close. Cole’s breath caught, and then he pulled Kai closer, resting his head against Kai’s shoulder. He can hear Kai’s breath next to his ear, heavy and uneven right before Kai says firmly, “You’re not broken.”

Cole took in a couple of breaths before he pushed Kai away. The night has been exhausting so far, both physically and mentally, and all of a sudden he wants nothing more than to collapse right then and there on the deck.

Kai sighed, apparently having the same thought, because he got up and said, “Come on, we need to get some sleep. We can sort out our emotions later.”

Cole blanked at that, his brown eyes widening before he grabbed Kai’s hand. “Can we-” He cut himself off all of a sudden, embarrassed to say what he’d been thinking.

Kai stared at him. “Can we?”

Cole blushed ever so slightly. “Can we stay out here?” he asked, slightly afraid of Kai’s answer. But he’d been right, being out here is nice the cool breeze on his face, the open air surrounding him, miles from harm.

Kai stared at him for a couple more seconds before he nodded. Together they made a slapdash pseudo-bed, with one blanket underneath them and two covering them. It’s so warm and tight and cozy in such a good way that Cole almost tears up again. Kai hugged him tightly under the blanket, soft and reassuring against him, and Cole hugged him back.

Just before they drifted off to sleep, Cole suddenly said, “Wait, Kai, after I have a panic attack I basically always have nightmares-”

Kai cut him off with a soft snort. “And I’ll be here to help with them. The others, too, if I’m not enough. We always will be.”

Cole blinked once before he held Kai closer to him, taking comfort in the other’s breath and his closeness, in the reassurance that Kai would be there for him. Before he drifted off, he softly said, “Thanks, Kai. Thank you so much.”

——

La de da I had no idea how to end this properly. Have fun with this piece of trash that I didn’t edit at all!

EDIT: Hi thanks I’m screaming this is INCREDIBLE

#kat's writing challenge #Devastated #the damage tree #non canon damage #fanfic of a fanfic #tw panic attack #tw dehumanization #(past)#tw trauma #submission

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shipaholic · 4 years

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Omens Universe, Chapter 6 Part 1

Phew! After a short break, we are back. I have had a successful day’s NaNo-ing, and this entire chapter is queued up and ready to go, so let’s do it.

This is largely based on the unfilmed episode 3 bookshop scene, set in 1800, that is available in the script book. A lot of the dialogue is taken from there, although there are some twists!

Also, I did some minor edits to the last two parts, because I set up a subplot and then ground to a halt trying to write it, so I’ve taken it out for now.

Warning for a couple paragraphs of homophobia via analogy.

Link to the next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 6

AD 1800

A.Z. Fell & Co. stood before him on the street corner like an unwrapped chocolate box.

The door handles were polished bronze. A placard in the front declared that the grand opening was the coming Friday. He already had some marvellous ideas about opening hours.

He pushed open his front doors and strolled inside his new shop.

It was perfect. Just a few little jobs here and there. He summoned a stepladder and picked up the nearest armful of books. This, he would do without miracles. His shelving system would be both gratifying to himself and utterly incomprehensible to customers.

While he worked, the shop bell dinged.

“I’m afraid the shop will not be open until Friday, good people,” he called down. “But we will be having a grand opening immediately after lunch.”

The voice of the Archangel Gabriel said:

“We aren’t here to buy books, Azir -”

He broke off.

Zadkiel froze.

The hardback in his hands almost toppled to the floor. He shoved it into place and jammed his right hand in his pocket, hiding the gem on his finger from view. Luckily, his sideburns concealed the serpent-shaped gem under his ear.

He aimed a smile at his visitors. Gabriel was not alone. He and Sandalphon blinked up at him. Gabriel was impeccable in dove grey, Sandalphon frumpy in beige.

“Gentlemen,” he trilled. “A pleasure to already receive some interest. Mr. Fell will be delighted.”

“Uh. Good.” Gabriel eyed him like he was a woodland creature that had turned up somewhere unexpected. “Who are you?”

“Ezra Crawleigh. I’m Mr. Fell’s assistant. How do you do?” Zadkiel held out his right hand without thinking. He yelped, grabbed the nearest shelf, and toppled off the stepladder, which broke his fall in the loosest possible sense.

“Are humans normally that size?” Sandalphon asked Gabriel in a carrying whisper.

Zadkiel leapt to his feet, dusting off splinters. Sandalphon gaped. It was possible he’d just forgotten to close his mouth.

Gabriel coughed. “Sir, we are here to speak with... Mr. Fell, was it? Is he about?”

“He’s in the back. Please, make yourselves at home. Not that at home,” Zadkiel said sharply as Sandalphon picked up a book and sniffed it.

Both angels stared at him.

“Sorry! Everything’s new, that’s all. It’s like Christmas morning, you know, before the kids start screaming and the wrapping gets everywhere. It’s great that you’re here.” His smile probably looked a bit nauseous at this point. “Just a moment...”

He edged towards the back.

“Oh, Mister Fell! You have esteemed guests!”

He tried to stroll to the back room. Definitely no running. Nope, none of that.

“That human’s a bit… off,” said Sandalphon.

Gabriel agreed. The man had a very strange walk. It was sort of… swingy.

Also, his angelic senses all agreed that the man didn’t really feel human. There was nothing celestial or infernal coming off him, which would normally indicate a human, or possibly an animal, Gabriel wasn’t the best at identifying those. But the lack of an unearthly aura didn’t feel exactly neutral. It wasn’t as if that quality was lacking, more like it was… canceling itself out, somehow. Like opposites laid on top of one another. But that wasn’t possible.

Gabriel put it out of his mind. Impossible things were, well, impossible, and thus not worth acknowledging. As an Archangel, he didn’t believe in unknown unknowns.

Zadkiel, meanwhile, made it to the door to the back room, fell through it and split apart while saying “Aaaagh,” as loudly as he could get away with.

Crowley stared at Aziraphale, wide-eyed. He flapped his arms and mouthed, “Get out there!”

“Where will you go?” Aziraphale mouthed back.

“I’ll hide! Keep them talking!”

“Pardon? Didn’t catch that?”

“Talking, Christ, Aziraphale - oh, blehhh -”

Aziraphale reappeared in the shop as if given a shove in the back. He waved to the men-shaped beings across the room.

“Gabriel - hello. Sandalphon - it’s certainly been a while.” He picked his way towards them. “Listen, if it’s about that business in Paris, um, it wasn’t my miracle…”

Sandalphon still looked baffled, but he usually did, so there was no reason to panic on that account. Gabriel frowned.

“I have no idea whereof you speak, oh Angel of the Eastern Gate.” The frown lifted slightly. “We are here with good news.”

“Oh! How lovely.” Aziraphale came to a halt. A tiny round table piled with books separated him from the two angels. Some good news would go down a treat after the scare he’d just had.

“We’re bringing you home.”

Aziraphale stared.

“Promoting you back upstairs,” Sandalphon added, helpfully.

Something wrenching and painful happened to Aziraphale. Hopes he had never voiced, even to himself, burst and shrivelled up like sickly pods under the glare of the sun.

“I’m opening this bookshop on Friday,” he said, small-voiced. “If Mr. Hatchard can make a go of it, then I think I can really…”

“It’s an excellent idea.” Gabriel clapped his hands together. “Whoever replaces you down here can use it as a base of operations.”

“Use my bookshop?”

Gabriel’s smile turned flinty. “You’re being promoted. You get to come home.”

“I can’t imagine why anyone would want to spend five minutes longer in this world that they had to,” Sandalphon said.

“Aziraphale has been here for almost six thousand years. We must applaud such devotion to duty.”

There was a box in Gabriel’s hands.

“And it hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

The box opened to reveal a medal.

“I don’t want a medal,” Aziraphale said.

“That’s very noble of you.”

Aziraphale swallowed and met Gabriel’s eyes. The diamond was hard and searching and reflected nothing back at him.

Gabriel knew. He probably didn’t know what he knew, but that didn’t matter. Aziraphale had strayed, and he was being gently, lovingly forced back into the flock, where they could keep an eye on him. His lips felt numb. For some reason, they were still moving.

“But only I can properly thwart the wiles of the demon Crowley.”

Why. Why did he have to mention Crowley? Nothing he could have said would be worse.

Gabriel’s eye widened. “I do not doubt that whoever replaces you will be as good an enemy to Crowley as you are. Michael, perhaps.”

Aziraphale thought a very faint noise came from the back room. He hoped to God he had imagined it.

“Crowley’s been down here just as long as I have.”

Through flood and cave and lakes of wine. Through three thousand years of silence. Through everything.

“And he’s wily, and cunning, and brilliant, and…”

My other half.

For an instant, his heart stopped entirely.

Gabriel waited for the pause to become sufficiently uncomfortable. “It almost sounds like you like him.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth and tried to pull something up. A deflection, a lie. Nothing came. He stood sweating in the silence.

Gabriel crossed his arms. His expression was not triumphant, only terribly knowing.

“Where is your assistant?”

“Pardon?”

“The man with the walk. Is he still around?”

“Erm. He’s gone to lunch.”

“It’s eight a.m.”

Aziraphale’s mind swore loudly and then erased the memory of having done so.

“He keeps strange mealtimes. He’s a very… singular man.”

Gabriel leaned towards him. He looked oddly conspiratorial.

“Can I have a private word? In your back room, perhaps?”

This was it. Gabriel knew about Zadkiel. He knew Crowley was in the back. Maybe if he and Crowley ganged up, they could take him down… and then what, impersonate him to Sandalphon? What was wrong with him, he was an angel, angels didn’t attack their bosses, not unless they wanted to plummet into a lake of boiling sulphur at any rate -

Gabriel swept past him and headed for the back without permission. Aziraphale bobbed along behind him.

The little stockroom was empty. Aziraphale wanted to cast an eye around for Crowley, but held himself in. He stood to attention before Gabriel.

Gabriel looked down at him. He snapped his fingers. Aziraphale almost flinched. Then he realised Gabriel had performed a miracle to soundproof the room.

“Listen. Aziraphale. Can we talk?”

Aziraphale gave a squeak.

“Here’s the thing. I’m concerned for you. Six thousand years - that’s a stretch. It’s bound to have an effect on an angel. Maybe they’d start to get… overly attached? To someone on Earth that they shouldn’t?”

Aziraphale’s heart rate reached a fever pitch.

“Your assistant,” Gabriel said.

“Oh!”

He gaped at Gabriel.

“Now, obviously it’s happened before,” Gabriel went on. “The whole Nephilim thing, you remember that, you were there. Of course we made sure that no offspring would ever again be possible between our kind and humans, and not a moment too soon. Wow, was that ever disgusting! But, I suppose, if one were that way inclined, it would still be possible to develop certain feelings, a preference for one human in particular, say? And I need to make it plain that that is totally and one-hundred percent not allowed. Under any circumstances.”

Aziraphale’s mouth made a few shapes.

“Right you are?” he managed.

“Any. Circumstances.”

The diamond shone, menacingly.

Aziraphale fought down an urge to laugh hysterically.

“Yes,” he choked. “Yes. I - I see. Well. Thank goodness you arrived and - and set me straight. Not a moment too soon! Of course, I would never - but if I had - I would certainly feel my, er, preference dissipating.”

Gabriel clapped him painfully on the arm.

“Good man. So, you can just tidy up down here, and then come back to Heaven with me and Sandalphon.”

The air of giddy relief evaporated on the spot.

“We’re… going right now?”

Gabriel screwed up his face.

“Well, you know what? I might squeeze in a visit to my tailor first. Give us a couple of hours.”

Aziraphale nodded mutely. Gabriel waved.

“Catch you later.”

He swept out of the room. Soon after, the shop door slammed.

Aziraphale tiptoed to the door and checked they had both gone. He could feel no pulse of celestial energy in his shop. No angels here.

He closed the door and sagged against it.

A tiny black snake crept out from behind a shelf. It turned back into a full-sized Crowley. He dusted his coat off, frown lines deep between his hat and sunglasses.

“Well, then.”

“I could use something strong,” Aziraphale muttered.

“No time. You’re about to be press ganged back Upstairs.”

“So it appears.” Things were dire if Crowley’s first reaction to hearing bad news was to skip the drinking. “And replaced by Michael, apparently.”

Crowley shook his head vehemently. “No chance. Michael’s a wanker. Sit tight, angel. I’ve got a plan.”

Before Aziraphale could react, he snapped his fingers and vanished.

---

(link to next part)

#omens universe fic #omens universe #good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #steven universe #yeah neil gaiman gets credit for most of these lines #'but why bother to include a scene that's mostly a retelling of (almost) canon?'#WOULDN'T YOU LIKE TO KNOW *ominous laughter*#look Gabriel's always fun to hate #don't read too much into it

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goatkingwc · 4 years

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HIDE & SEEK THE SEWING SAINTS Episode 3 of GKWC

GOAT KING WRITERS CLUB, The loosest storytelling Podcast in all the land, were we don’t let Grammar get in the way of a good yarn.

HIDE & SEEK By Nathan Hull

Contrary to popular belief the fun and games began when i lost my eye. Both eyes to be exact, i'm still not sure how it happened. I was sitting at home bored attempting to do my taxes, when out of nowhere darkness took over... at the exact same time i heard two dull slaps as my peepers hit the floor and rolled off to who knew where.

At first i was shocked and slightly worried, life could possibly become a touch hard without vision. I panicked, flailing around my kitchen smashing and crashing into anything in my proximity before i tripped on a rogue jam jar and hit the ground hard. I was down for some time, contemplating my options when it struck me, this was the greatest thing to ever happen.

In my youth i was a champion hide and seek player, i spent those years traveling from town to town, seeking out hidden children to rapturous applause, from those communities slack jawed populations. Life had been great. That is until i turned 14 and all of a sudden i was forced into retirement. A large man child with unkept strands of facial hair and increasingly bad body odor was NOT who parents wantedwanted hunting there children out of hidey holes, no matter how much of a genius i was at the fine art of hide and seek. It had been a cruel blow i never recovered from. I spent my teenage years home schooled with no friends and little connection with the real world. My parents never forgave me for becoming a teenager, and ruining all of our lucrative sports wear contracts, and their for cutting off our family's main source of income. As i grew i stayed introverted i was ashamed when people brought up my past. They would hide under tables in pubs and restaurants, laughing at me sadly pointing them out to there friends. I had no purpose no real reason to exist i was just floating through life aimlessly. But now... now I had a reason to exist, the greatest game of hide and seek ever, a blind depressed Thirty five year old vs his missing eyes. It was an epic match, it went on for days. I ran into walls, i crawled along the floor, i rolled and flipped and fell and sniffed and listened employing every visionless technique i new during the search.

Eventually almost defeated from dehydration and hunger i swiped out and like two delicious dust covered balls of bubble gum my eyes where back in my hands.I slowly put them back in there respective sockets i took in all i could see, i smiled life was beautiful. I took a drink, ate a ham sandwich and had a well deserved rest. Then i took a spoon popped each eye out and threw them in opposing directions, it was game on again.....a life worth living again.

THE SEWING SAINTS By Sean Conway

It was a calendar anomaly that Susan had never experienced. Two of the biggest holidays in Susan’s diary converging on a Friday and Saturday night, to form a magical weekend of debauchery.

National Sewing Machine Day was crossing paths with National Bourbon Day. A pair of holiday’s that mean very little to the regular Tom Dick and Harry, But for Susan who is a member of the local sewing group this was a very big deal. Despite their wholesome name, the Sewing Saints are notorious amongst the sewing fraternity for two reasons, first for agreeing to sew the patches for the most diabolical bikie gang in the country The Diablos and second for when Abby McMillion stabbed a rival Sewing group member and received a 4 year sentence in the state penitentiary and garnering the nickname Stabby Abby.

Every year the rival sewing groups would meet up for their annual get together and this year it was the Sewing Saints turn to organise the shin dig. This party took 12 months of planning, and the event was to be held at the Diablos club house, with music by DJ WhizDik and would have so much alcohol, cocaine and prostitutes, it would put the local police Christmas party to shame.

The party was going off without a hitch, the ladies were drinking, dancing, and sneaking off to any free room with their younger male counterparts, even Stabby Abby was cutting lines for the lady she stabbed 4 years earlier.

After an hour of decadence, the bikie prospect Shit Sticks ran through the door to warn the women of the impending danger that was approaching but before he could he was shot dead by a Mexican cartel member. As the cartel member walked triumphantly through the clubhouse, he was somewhat surprised by the lack of bikie members and the overwhelming number of old ladies, but before he could wrap his head around this conundrum he collapsed to the ground with a broken bottle in his throat and Stabby Abby standing over his lifeless corpse.

A drug war between The Diablos and the Mexican cartels had been brewing for years and the Sewing Saints were in the eye of the storm.

Susan lead the charge alongside Stabby Abby, arming every woman and prostitute and demanded they hold the line. With cocaine running through their veins these once old geriatrics fired round after round into the wave of cartel foot shoulders charging the bikie club house.

These old Dames fired on the cartels, but it was no use, for every member they shot 2 more would appear. They fired so furiously that if they continued, they would run out of ammunition before the end of the next Whizdik song Susan knew that there was only one way to win this battle, and that was to plant a bomb in the path of the charging cartel. As she collected the explosives needed for the suicide mission, she was stopped at the exit by Stabby Abby who starred into her eyes with blood lust and said “you’re not going without me” before doing a bump of coke off her clenched fist and running into the wilderness.

The clubhouse was eerily quiet, the music had stopped, the ammunition had run out and the only thing you could hear is the gurning of the old timers jaws.

KABOOM I giant orange light illuminated the midnight darkness followed by the sound of blood and guts raining down on the clubhouse that caused an air of excitement amongst the people in the room. The excitement had quickly turned to mourning as they realised their survival had cost the Sewing Saints their two greatest assets, the room collectively dropped their heads in despair for the lose of Susan and Stabby Abby

“What are all you sluts mopping around for” a blood soaked Stabby Abby screamed walking arm in arm with Susan to the thunderous roar of coke filled seniors.

Susan sat at the bar feeling content, sipping her first Bourbon on National Bourbon Day watching on as the old biddies danced and snorted lines. She smiled because she knew, The Sewing Saints had put on the best damn National Sewing Machine Day party ever.

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achristmasmovieaday · 4 years

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A Movie for Christmas Day 2019

Ōgon Batto (The Golden Bat, 1966)

Today’s themes: Capes, Super Destruction Beam Cannons, Machines that go PING!, Theremins, “Holy crap! Earth is in danger!”

Remember when you were a kid and believing you could be the heroes you saw on TV? Me, being old, I have a collection of heroes that I and my brother and his best friend Tony and my best friend Steve would go to the field near our houses (really just a very large vacant dirt lot) and act out all our favorite shows. Star Trek, The Wild Wild West, Flipper, Thunderbirds Are Go, even Lost in Space. They were varying degrees of lame, let’s be honest, with terrible special effects, men in rubber suits pretending to be monsters and villains, cool vehicles, even cooler wardrobes, and overwrought acting and plots ripe for replaying among the tumbleweeds and discarded mattresses as if we were on some amazing outer space planet fighting enemies bent on our destruction.

It’s often hard to remember what that felt like, that we could be heroes as easily as that, but it was mostly because the things we saw were…cheap. Easily mimicked, and simple to make believe into reality using cardboard boxes for lairs and old sheets for capes and ketchup for blood. In a way, computer-generated effects have ruined all that. Films and TV shows look too good now, and take themselves too fucking seriously. What we all need — kids and grown ups alike — is to remember what really crappy, really cool, really outlandish and exciting entertainment was. And in that spirit, I present to you Ōgon Batto (The Golden Bat 1966) in all its original amazing black-and-white glory.

I need to fill you in on some important stuff about Ōgon Batto the character before we dive into Ōgon Batto the motion picture. There is some confusion and learned discourse concerning who is the first superhero, and what a superhero is. For example, is Robin Hood a superhero? He’s certainly a hero, but does anything make him super? He can shoot arrows really well, and that’s all that makes Hawkeye a superhero. Is Black Widow a superhero? She can kick ass really, really well, but she has no super powers. She can’t fly and she can’t melt steel beams with her eyes. Still, it’s generally agreed that the first real superhero debuted in 1931 and was created by Suzuki Ichiro and Takeo Nagamatsu (who was 16 years old at the time), seven years before Superman ever leaped a tall building. Ōgon Batto is an ancient being from Atlantis who was sent forward in time 10,000 years to battle the forces of evil in present day Japan.

Ōgon Batto, the film, is an origin story from Toei Company and stars Sonny Chiba in a skull mask and very awesome cape and collar as the titular hero. The villain of the film, intent on destroying Earth by altering the orbit of planet Icarus and send it crashing into us, is Nazo, “the ruler of the universe,” who is apparently a giant four-eyed rat-squirrel (in the world’s loosest furry rat-squirrel costume) with one mechanical claw hand who really, really enjoys laughing maniacally and being just generally mean. To be fair, The Golden Bat, who appears on an island and must be resurrected from his 10,000-year slumber by pouring water on his chest (pretty simple!), also enjoys laughing maniacally while pointing his walking stick? I think? And flapping his cape about and generally being awesome.

There’s a secret organization that protects the Earth, there’s a super smart scientist who invents the only weapon strong enough to destroy Icarus and ruin Nazo’s evil plans, there’s the scientist’s granddaughter who forms a special bond with Ōgon Batto that super-annoys Nazo, though pretty much everything super-annoys Nazo. That is until he introduces us to his equally evil henchmen, Keloid, Piranha, and Jackal! That’s when things get really intense, what with masquerading as good guys and infiltrating headquarters and using flying submarines and whatnot.

But why spoil any more of this forgotten classic? If this film were rebooted by Michel Gondry today it wouldn’t look any different. The effects are simple but effective, the acting is melodramatic and overwrought, the action is breakneck and involves a lot of running, and I defy any kid of around six years old to watch this and not want to don their own skull mask and walking stick and start kicking alien butt.

Watch the trailer:

youtube

Watch the full movie:

youtube

#the golden bat #movies #xmasdaymovies

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gideonthesoldier · 5 years

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the first funeral ; self para

September 1976

Weldon Elks was buried on a sunny Sunday morning, in a moving funeral service thrown by his family, who didn’t know anything about him.

Or, at least, they didn’t know how he spent his time. His job was fake, a made-up cover story tailored to fit the night and weekend patrols that few other Order members could stomach.

They didn’t know who his friends were, either. That much was evident. Gideon had handed his coat to somebody when he walked in, streaks of tears staining his face. It was only later that he’d realized it was Weldon’s brother who’d taken his coat – and that he’d forgotten to track it down again before leaving, which explained the cold he fell to in the days that followed. Everywhere in the room, those not too distracted by mourning were finding the time to shoot curious looks at the redheaded twins, inconsolable in the back of the room.

Someone asked Gideon a question, at one point – was he the nephew of so-and-so, the old bastard? Gideon, who was choking on the smell of flowers, accidentally agreed. Not that that stopped the whispering.

Gideon hadn’t been a member of the Order for long, and this was the first death he’d experienced. He hadn’t been there when It (the capital-I infected everyone’s whispers at that point) happened, but the aftermath was difficult to swallow. There would be more lost before the war was over, Gideon knew that. There would be harder sights to stomach, toughing hills to climb. Gideon knew that.

But fresh out of school and barely dispensed of his status as a New Recruit, he couldn’t imagine it. He couldn’t imagine anything more gut wrenching than the sight of Weldon’s sister throwing herself, sobbing, over the edge of the closed casket as if Weldon would wake up within and push the lid open with his infectious laugh. He couldn’t imagine anything more unnerving than the pale looks of all the elderly people in the room who assumed they’d be the firsts – by a long shot – to go.

And none of them even knew why he’d died. Or how. Or for who.

Definitely not for who. The Elks family was a small one, closely knit. Neighbors came and went, cousins struggled to control their children while maintaining their composure. But the main family, Weldon’s real one, stood in the same protected knot at the front of the room.

Weldon’s other family stood together at the back of the room.

Two redheaded twins, a man missing an eyebrow, two blonde woman that had nothing in common save the color of their hair and their penchant for defensive charms, and the space they were saving for Moody or Dumbledore, all the while knowing they wouldn’t show up. They stood just as tightly knit as the other group, murmuring variations of ‘we should say something’ and ‘we should leave.’

All around them, everyone else murmured, ‘who are those people?’

When Molly got married, Gideon and Fabian had delivered their toast the same way they’d done everything up to that point in their lives – together. They’d come into the world together, entered school together, watched their sister float down the aisle as a bride together. Joined the Order together. They were together today, too. Standing at the back of the funeral hope. There was no speech – eulogy, Gideon reminded himself, it’s called a eulogy – to deliver today. Not together. And certainly not for Gideon.

That honor (was it an honor, though?) belonged to Weldon’s partner Tristan.

Gideon had nothing to read, which was good because he had nothing to say.

Or, rather, he had too much to say.

Too much to say and no time given to say it, surrounded by a roomful of people that did not know who he was and did not understand why he looked every bit as upset as the rest of them. Not that Gideon could blame them for their confusion. He didn’t know any of them, either.

Even among the tearful clan of Order members who’d shown up to mourn, Gideon didn’t feel known. He’d begun to think of them as his family, in the loosest of terms. But his real family was beside him: Fabian hadn’t let go of his arm since they walked in, and Gideon knew he wouldn’t drop it until – until, not unless – he twisted it free of his own accord. He was grateful for it. He hated it, too.

Tristan (Gideon didn’t know his last name and felt an unpleasant twist of satisfaction in that fact) stood up to give the eulogy at one point, and it didn’t last long. It was a tidy, emotional thing, which had clearly been written and rewritten until it sounded perfect. Perfect, but dry. Perfect, but cold.

There was nothing cold about his face when he fell into silence. Someone tried to be helpful, prompted him along. Asked if he had ‘any last words.’ That blow fell suddenly and heavily against everyone in the room. There was something so sinking, so final about it. Last words. It was a concept that none of them could grasp, even after spending their day in this cramped, perfumed room talking around the idea of death to honor a man who was already dead. Who could not hear them. Eyes searched for eyes, looking for answers even on the faces of those they did not know. Did Tristan have any last words? Did anyone have any last words?

Oh, god, Gideon heard someone whisper, closer to the front of the room. It was a woman’s voice, but he couldn’t see where it came from, or from whom. Did Weldon have any last words?

It was a rhetorical question. Of course he’d had. But that didn’t change the fact that a sickly confusion was now spreading through the room. It was a mix of people realizing that they didn’t know exactly how Weldon had died. It was a mess of people realizing that everyone there would eventually have last words, and that somebody might not be around to hear them.

Gideon thought about wrenching his arm away from Fabian. He held onto his brother more tightly, instead.

Last words…last words about Weldon? It didn’t seem possible. What it seemed was ridiculously simplistic, especially because of all the things still unsaid.

Like the fact that Weldon had faked a work conference out of town for a long weekend just because one of the youngest Order recruits was having panic attacks about her glitching shield charms and he wanted the uninterrupted time to coax and coach her through it; Gideon had gone too, lounged on a couch nearby and watched Weldon’s wrist snapping with the elegant confidence of a swimmer.

Or the fact that Weldon spent every Christmas Eve cooking a dinner for Order members who had no families to go back to, or didn’t feel safe returning home. He’d looked genuinely stricken when the Prewett twins mentioned that they’d be spending the pre-holiday at Molly’s. He’d pressed a plate of still-warm leftovers into Gideon’s hands the next time they saw each other after New Year’s.

“I want to go home,” Gideon whispered to Fabian. For a moment, he worried his brother hadn’t heard. But then an identical chin gave a slight, understated nod. Neither of them moved yet, but they’d made the transition from staying to leaving. They were treading water through the uncomfortable grey space in between. Fabian’s eyes flickered toward the exit, mapping out – it was unlike him, unlike the both of them – the least intrusive path possible. Gideon’s eyes stayed fixed on Tristan.

They’d almost kissed once, Gideon and Weldon. At the time, Gideon chalked it up to his imagination. There had been drinks, and they were talking the same way they’d always talked, and nothing had happened at all. But there had been a moment…a look. Something heavy and tangible had passed between them in that moment, and the only thing that stood between a grieving Gideon and a guilty Gideon now was the fact that neither of them had leaned in, and that nobody else knew.

Gideon did not remember arriving home. He only remembered the heavy sensation of falling into bed and passing out almost immediately, some faint half-conscious awareness of Fabian telling him he needed rest to feel better. Pulling the blankets around himself to block out the light, Gideon also remembered being seized by a fleeting, desperate hope that he’d sleep peacefully and long enough to dull the overwhelming effect of all that had happened that day. That day, and in the weeks leading up to it. He just wanted to sleep easy.

He did not.

That was the sleep that brought his nightmares for the first time.

When Gideon woke up, visions of his bloodied and tortured family still swam before his eyes, ripping him out of sleep and shoving him into a world of cold sweat and a dark, lonely bedroom. It was the first time he realized he might never sleep easy again. Not until the war was over; not until he’d done everything possible to make sure his family was safe.

He needed to make sure both of his families were safe.

He didn’t want to have a funeral with a dividing line to separate the people that knew only a certain side of him. He didn’t want to stand in the back of the room watching more of his friends carried away by pallbearers to find new rest beneath the ground. He didn’t want to stand at the front of the room, either, knotted into a grieving family unit and forced to read out platitudes about people who couldn’t be dissolved down into a few neat words on a page.

All in all, Gideon had slept fourteen hours. He didn’t feel rested at all.

He stood up, still in his clothes from the day before, and didn’t break stride until he arrived at Order Headquarters. He’d been scheduled to have the next few days off but undid that with a stubborn wave of his hand. The next mission, he insisted. Whatever you’ve got. I’m in.

It was better, he reasoned, than somebody else having to go.

#xx self para #wiltimelines #it's LATE and FULL of NPCs i'm doing great #xx hc #september 1976

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wombathos · 5 years

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the lawyer, the witch and the minotaur

Here’s my 2018 Buffyverse Secret Santa gift for @aesthetically-turnt - because I just got really carried away with the concept of a Lilah/Tara pairing (thanks for that prompt). Merry Christmas, and hope you enjoy!

12.5k words, read here on Ao3 or below the cut.

The thing is…

The thing is that Tara has been dead for a while. All things considered, it’s not too bad. Well, she would rather not be dead. Wouldn’t most people? And she had been quite young. And it had all been so very sudden, with Tara standing in the room with Willow - her Willow, reconciled and happy and whole for the first time in forever. She had felt the bullet, in a weird, disembodied kind of way. Thinking back, she wonders whether she had died the moment the bullet impacted. There was an after-bullet: in a vague sort of way she can remember falling down and Willow being there and weeping, but all the pain she would imagine came with a bullet just kind of… didn’t.

And then she was dead.

But now, it’s all soft. And comforting, because there’s nothing here too hurt her. It’s not as much fun as being alive was. It doesn’t hurt either, which is nice. She doesn’t understand exactly what this is, where she is and where she’s going. If she’s going anywhere. There are no gates, no old white guy with a beard. No demons and hellfire either, which she’s sure would come as a surprise to some people. But it is peaceful, and she is grateful for that.

She does miss Willow, though. She hopes that everything turned out all right. Then again, Willow never needed anyone, least of all Tara, to protect her.

***

The thing is that all of this changed. Much like being wrenched out of life in the first place, this is sudden too. That vague nothingness that had surrounded Tara became something - and it’s hard to explain because there isn’t really anything to look at. No swirl of colours, no white blankness either. But now, the nothingness has solidified. It has become a door.

And Tara sees it, even though there shouldn’t really be a Tara who is able to see it. It’s all very confusing, but the door somehow has shifted her perspective. As if the door being something, that forces her to be something too. And she’s staring at the door. Because she can see it. She can see.

That’s when the door opens. That’s when Tara sees the woman standing there, dressed in what she imagines to be quite a fancy suit, with a mane of brown hair falling down and curling up again, looking distinctly unruffled as if this is something she does every day when she stretches out a hand into the nothingness and the shiny pink lips stretch out into a smile.

“Come on then. I don’t have all day.”

***

The thing is, Tara doesn’t know exactly how she ended up on the other side of the door. She looks have a body to cross through the door, for starters. She’s also not sure whether it is her choice. Did she accept the hand? She finds herself staring down at perfectly manicured nails, that hand grasping another one which she ends up recognising as her own. Does that means she chose to go through? Or did the woman pull her through?

“Merry Christmas, Miss Maclay.”

Tara stares at the woman. And she stares some more. And then she reaches for the only word she can think of.

“Huh?”

***

“I suppose it’s arguable whether it’s actually Christmas if you’re dead,” says the woman in a conversational tone as she looks Tara up and down.

Which means… there is a Tara to look at. Tara looks down, takes in grey denim and a thin blue jumper. She was wearing this… She reaches up to her heart, draws her finger away. It is stained red.

“Yes, that is rather unpleasant,” says the woman. “Considering all of this is only corporeal in the very loosest of senses, I suppose you should be able to change that. Focus hard, or something. Isn’t that something witches are meant to be good at? Psychic projection and whatnot?”

“What is this?”

The woman’s smirk broadens. “Good to see you still have some sense about you. It makes all of this easier.”

“What - Tell me what’s going on. Please.”

A titter. “And polite too! It really is Christmas.” The woman adjusts her scarf - soft and purple and carefully wrapped around her neck - seemingly content to make Tara wait just a little longer for anything approaching a proper answer. “Let’s see then. Well, first of all, you’re dead. Now I know this may come as a shock -“

“I know that,” says Tara. “I meant, what is -“ She gestures around her. She gazes around her to see what looks suspiciously like a corridor. “This.”

The woman blinks. “That was easier than I expected. I really thought we’d take longer to get over the whole ‘death’ thing but I guess we can skip straight to the bit where you help me out and then get to go back to whatever you were doing.”

“I - what?”

“You help me out,” repeats the woman, slowly. “Do the world a service, that kind of thing. There’s a few benefits you can secure, too, in terms of insurance against paranormal incursions on your regular death experience. If you’d feel more comfortable signing a contract, then I have several papers prepared too.”

“A contract?” says Tara, able to feel her brain gradually dissolve.

The woman produces a leather bag which she definitely hadn’t had a second earlier and pulls out a thick wad of papers. “Yep. All in order.”

She holds them out. Tara does not accept and instead simply stares at the papers, then at the stranger again.

The woman rolls her eyes. “Oh, there’s no clauses that involve selling your soul or anything. That’s what people always worry about, which is a reasonable thing to worry about but really isn’t necessary. But it’s just to formalise the arrangement, show you what you’re going to get out of it and that you’ll be returned back safely. We can always continue without.”

“Who are you?”

The answering grin is all teeth, some unnerving combination of cocky and dangerous. “Lilah Morgan, attorney at law. Well… I was, anyway.”

***

The thing is, Tara had not expected - as far as she had been expecting anything at all - to be bailed out of limbo or heaven or whatever it had been by a lawyer, of all people. And this lawyer isn’t making a lot of sense: when you’ve just been wrenched back into some sort of a manifestation of a physical reality after an indeterminate time in an inexplicable void, it takes you a little time to be ready to deal with things like contracts again.

Tara isn’t at her best right now. So when the woman - Lilah - tells her to follow her, she does so, without really thinking about it. They are walking along what is indeed some kind of a corridor, bleak with no particularly interesting features that distinguish it from normal corridors of the sort one would come across in the land of the living.

“I’m confused,” says Tara, unnecessarily.

The woman considers her with an air of patience. “That’s understandable. I imagine it’ll take you a bit to wrap your head around all the details.”

Tara is less worried about the ‘details’ than she is about the ‘what the hell is going on’ bit, but she declines to mention this.

“What is this place?”

“I suppose you could call it the afterlife,” says Lilah. “Though that term isn’t particularly useful in an explanatory sense, is it? You are dead, after all. This is after life by definition.”

Tara blinks a few times. “You’re right. It isn’t helpful.”

The woman seems to find this funny. Tara doesn’t.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To a connection point, of sorts. The closest place - well not place since none of this is geographically construed in the regular sense but you know what I mean - to the real world, if you will.”

“You want to… to bring me back?”

“Oh. Well, no. Sorry,” she says, looking genuinely apologetic. A little, anyway. “No, it’s more that we need a place to get the connection straight, so to speak. Give an access to whoever might need it. I’m a little vague on the details myself, if I’m being honest. All I know is that I need to get you there.”

“Why?”

“Long story.”

“I have time.”

Lilah laughs. She seems to do that a lot. “It doesn’t really matter. Come on, we still have quite a way to walk.”

***

But that really isn’t good enough, Tara decides after a few minutes.

She stops.

It takes Lilah a moment to notice, but then she turns around to look back at Tara.

“Is something the matter?”

“What do you want?” asks Tara, deciding to get to the crux of the matter.

Lilah gives her an odd look. “I told you -“

“I want an explanation.”

The odd look deepens, and Tara thinks Lilah might be surprised. After a moment, she sighs.

“Come on, I’ll explain as we walk.”

“No,” says Tara, and saying the word makes it feel like something important has returned to her. She doesn’t know what it is and it probably doesn’t make any sense, but it makes her feel more like herself again. “Explain to me first what you want.”

“Fine,” says Lilah with a shrug that is just a little too casual for Tara’s liking. “I want to undo a spell. Or rather, my employers want to undo one, though for all intents and purposes it’s quite the same thing.”

“A spell?” repeats Tara, unsure of what she had been expecting. “You want to use my magic?”

“I’m not here for your power, I’m afraid,” says Lilah. “Oh, it’s considerable. Don’t get me wrong. Just, in this particular instance, it’s your link to a particular hotheaded force of nature that has gotten the attention of the folks on top.”

Willow.

“What do you want from her?” asks Tara, feeling her fists curl up into tight balls. No way is this woman getting Tara to do anything that would in any way -

“You’re linked. Magically, I mean. She summoned up a great deal of dark magic trying to get you back -“

“She did what?”

“- which kind of leaves its mark. Well, yes. And then went on a bit of a rampage, from what I hear. Anyways, she then went on to do a very specific spell with a whole bunch of consequences which I need you to undo.”

Tara’s mind is still reeling from all this jarring new information so she seizes on to one of the few things she is reasonably sure of. “You can’t just undo spells that have already happened. That’s not how magic works.”

“Not with the living it might not. Here, however? Things are a little more flexible. See, we’re not so much undoing it as making sure that it never happens in the first place.” Lilah winks. “I’ll explain more if you come along.”

She starts walking again and Tara seriously considers for a moment turning around and letting this strange and quite possibly malicious woman wander off on her own. But where would she go? Tara groans quietly, well aware that she simply does not know enough yet. So she follows the woman again, determined to get at the answers she needs.

***

It’s not easy getting anything useful out of the woman, but there’s another quite crucial question that really needs answering.

“Why would I help you?” asks Tara. Because she’s getting quite close to turning around, out of frustration if nothing else. They are still in the corridor, which feels unending. Maybe it is.

“Kindness of your heart?”

Tara just looks at her.

Lilah smirks. “Fine, then. If you want to be all difficult about it…”

“Then what?”

“Then I could always ask you what else precisely you’re intending on doing. You didn’t seem to be very busy.”

“And if I told you I’m sure I’d figure something out?”

“Then I’d have to inform you that my employers rerouted you from your initial final destination - a particularly nasty hell dimension. And if you don’t cooperate… Well, let’s just say there’s some folks who’d be thrilled to have that decision revoked.”

Tara’s heart sinks. She isn’t even quite sure why. Probably because the idea of being sent to a hell dimension doesn’t sound at all appealing, but the alternative of helping a woman she really doesn’t think she should trust isn’t great either.

That’s not all, though. There’s a sense of disappointment, almost. So she had died… and she had been judged… and she had been found wanting.

Which shouldn’t be a surprise, really.

Doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.

“Do you know… why?” asks Tara quietly, not really expecting an answer.

“Why?” repeats Lilah, glancing at her and then giving her a harder look. “You… Oh, it wasn’t because of anything you did, if that’s what you’re worrying about.”

“It wasn’t?”

Lilah laughs, but trails off at the expression on Tara’s face. “You’re… Look, from everything I’ve heard you were… you know, good. It’s just because of what I said earlier, about your girlfriend using a hell of a lot of very dark stuff to try to suck you back to the material realm. It leaves a mark, and it left one on you too. She summoned powerful demons and did her best to piss them off. When she failed… they were ready to take their revenge.”

If anything, this makes Tara feel worse, as the cold realisation burns her, creeping into her lungs and scratching at the back of her throat. The idea that Willow - her Willow - might have accidentally damned her is too horrible to seriously contemplate. So she takes the only avenue open to her: denial.

“You’re lying.”

The lawyer smirks at her, before shaking her head. “I can’t lie,” she says. “Literally, cannot. I don’t know what it is about this place, but somehow the rules for… communication are different here. Passing on mistruths is a major no no. Makes it so much more tricky in my line of work, I can tell you.”

This is not what Tara wants to hears. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Many things don’t. Sometimes they don’t have to, as long as the overall story works. So accept it and move on.”

“You could be lying about… not - not lying.”

“Right.”

“How do I know you’re not?”

“You could always try lying yourself.”

This strikes Tara as a good idea and she’s irritated at herself for not coming up with it. Given the circumstances, perhaps it is understandable. “I am -“ she starts, then cuts off. She physically cannot bring herself to say the word ‘alive’. It is more than a little disconcerting.

Lilah looks smug. “See? Told you.”

“How do I know it’s affecting both of us?” asks Tara. “For all I know, it’s only me who’s stuck truth-telling while you’re free to lie however you please.”

“You’ll just have to trust me, I suppose,” says Lilah, then chuckles at Tara’s expression. “Even if you don’t think you were headed there already, trust me on this: you will be sent to a hell dimension if you follow me. Just a small job, then you have the rest of forever.”

Tara is about to ask more questions, but Lilah instantly cuts her off, pointing at a door.

“See that?”

She does, but just stares at it before answering. The corridor, that expanse of boring nothingness she had almost believed would end forever, ends there. “Where does it lead?” she asks, not sure if she really wants to know.

“Depends,” says Lilah. She hasn’t stopped walking and they’re getting steadily closer to the door. “Hell, if you head the wrong way.”

“Hell?”

“The underworld proper. When you were… diverted, you were sent to a sort of limbo zone. Thing is, it’s buried pretty deep. Not deep in a geographic sense, mind.”

“But you’re taking me to hell.”

“Hopefully not. There are shortcuts, ways to skip most of it. And on the other end, a connection point. Which is all we need.”

Tara is not following any of this but she doesn’t have time to get any answers, because now they’re at the door. Lilah stretches out her hand to grasp at the handle - which looks all cheap and plastic-y and not particularly important or hellish - before turning around and winking at Tara.

“This should be fun.”

She wrenches the door open.

***

There’s a gust of wind that ruffles their hair when Tara steps through into a kind of cave. She looks around. It’s badly lit, but she heads to the first thing that catches her eye.

A plain wooden door marked with a ‘2’ that shines with an odd green light Tara might have described as neon.

“Not that one,” says Lilah. “Definitely not that one.”

Something in her tone of voice makes Tara back away a bit, and she follows Lilah to an even more unassuming gap in the corner of the chamber. There’s no door, just a place where the stone looks a bit crumbly and the light doesn’t reach. Tara probably wouldn’t even have noticed it.

But before they can slip through the gap, someone appears.

***

He looks like a teenage boy with wild, faintly greasy black hair. His jeans are all ripped up and he resembles a million similar specimen Tara has run into over the years, but he’s wearing a rather silly Christmas jumper with a big, smiling reindeer on it accompanied by the words ‘Jingle Beelz’.

Lilah looks like she’s suppressing a grin. “Hello, Beelzebub.”

Tara makes a small choking sound. When the boy looks at her, she got out - “Beelzebub?”

“What, not live up to your expectations?” asks the boy in an ill-tempered way.

“Eh…”

The boy glares at her. “Go on, then, have a laugh.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she says, quite honestly.

“Oh, I’ve heard it all before.” He grimaces. “It’s bad enough to be stuck in customs for three hundred years without having that arse Mephistopheles deciding that what we really need is another infernal human celebration. What is the point of these jumpers anyway?”

He is looking at Tara as he said this, and Lilah is enjoying herself too much to step in. “They’re… meant to be funny?”

“Funny?” spits the boy. “What’s funny about this monstrosity? People have burnt in hellfire for thousands of years for lesser crimes of fashion.”

“Who came up with ‘Jingle Beelz’?” asks Lilah.

“Gressil,” says the boy bitterly. “And he’s so very friendly with good ol’ Meph these days, of course he thought it was hilarious. Oh, never mind. It’s not like I care what a couple of humans think anyway. Sometimes you just need some meat to talk at, you know?”

“Indeed.”

“And wherever you think you’re going, don’t.” The boy sniffed. “Just so you know. This is as far as you get.”

“What a shame,” says Tara, about to turn around when a firm grip held her in place.

Lilah smiles sweetly at her. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ve got the paperwork.”

The boy eyes them both with a frown, then groans. “Let me guess. Wolfram and Hart?”

“Yes. We met a few years back, actually - at a gala. Don’t think you’d remember… So if you’d just take a look at the file -“

“I’m afraid we’re not able to take requests just at this moment,” the boy intones. “It’s Christmas Eve, you see. Come back, new year of 2103 and I’m sure somebody will be able to process your request.”

“We have a right for audience, especially since you don’t get leave for human holidays,” says Lilah, still smiling at the demon.

The boy gives her a rueful look. “What if we’ve changed the rules?”

“You haven’t. Unless you want me to contact my employers -“

“Fine,” snaps the boy, taking the papers from her. “Thousands of years building up a reputation for leading men astray through their pride and gluttony and then I’m banished here for a simple misdemeanour just to set an example,” he mutters as he flips through them. “I missed the entire industrial revolution, for crying out loud. The demons they send down these days barely make any effort… Don’t even really care about humans…” He looks up, gaze settling on Tara. “You’re a human, aren’t you? Surely, you’d want the demon exploiting your deadly sins and leading your species to its own damnation to really have put some time and effort into the whole thing, right? You’d want someone who actually knows about the societies they’re ruining, right?”

“Eh…” says Tara, not feeling like she is going to get any more articulate any time soon. “Yeah?”

“Exactly. Well, this request is ridiculous. The human died, she’s serving out her RDE. And I’ll note that Wolfram and Hart already got a request through to redirect her from a hell dimension.”

“Like I told you,” mutters Lilah to Tara. To the boy, she says - “This is a short-term engagement. Besides, my employers only brought her here in case they needed her again.”

“That’s not my problem. Rules are rules. I’d be better disposed to your case if you hadn’t already gotten special waivers. Besides, she’s a witch and they don’t ever do anything else than burrow away at the veil between life and death, causing the rest of us no end of trouble. As I once said to my good friend James, a living witch is nothing but trouble.”

“I don’t want to bring her back to life.”

“But you want to bring her into contact with the living. A magical link to a witch? Sounds dreadful.”

“It’s for a good cause.”

The boy snorts. “I very much doubt that. This witch… Willow Rosenberg? Oh yes, I remember her. All sorts of dark magic about this one, seems determined to rip out every dead soul one by one. Awfully blunt about it, too. If you’re trying to sacrifice her then good luck with that, but otherwise…”

“No!” exclaims Tara.

The boy’s dispassionate gaze fixed on her for a moment before he looks back at the file. “Mind you, I did get a taboo-breaker a few years back where she invoked my name… Nothing real, I’m afraid, so I couldn’t actually do anything about it but she did say ‘I worship Beelzebub’ which was rather nice of her… Still, there’s no way I can allow this. So if you could just leave….”

“And what will you put down as your reason for denying the request?” asks Lilah.

Tara suddenly wonders whether squabbling about paperwork with a demon is something this woman does regularly, and then decided that it probably is.

“I don’t need to put a reason,” says the boy. “I made the decision, and that’s that.”

“Actually, you need to make an official declaration. So that we can try to have it overruled.”

There was a moment of silence as the boy considers Lilah with narrowed eyes.

“Do you want to be tortured for all eternity?”

“My soul isn’t up for grabs.”

The boy raises his eyebrows.

“Standard perpetuity clause.”

“Oh, how irritatingly human of you. I don’t actually need your immortal soul, you know - I’m not Mephistopheles. I’d just ram in some hot pokers, cut out your tongue, make your listen to Daft Punk all day. That sort of thing.”

“What’s wrong with Daft Punk?” asks Tara.

The demon looks a little taken aback by the question, but then shrugs. “Nothing, I’m sure. But this one doesn’t like them, so it’s part of the routine.”

Tara looks at Lilah, who shrugs in an apologetic sort of way.

“I just think they’re a bit irritating.”

“Right,” says Tara. She turned to the boy. “And you know her taste in music?”

“I know how to torture her,” he says, sounding increasingly irritable again. “What kind of demon do you think I am?”

“Of course,” she says weakly, pretending like this made sense.

“The point is,” says Lilah, “we have papers. And if you want an inquiry, I can make your life to hell, pun absolutely intended.” That earns her a particularly vicious glare from the demon. “So unless you want to stick around customs for another few centuries, by which time humans will probably already have managed to destroy themselves…” She trails off, voice laden with implications.

Beelzebub glares at her some more. But somehow, that is that.

***

The gap doesn’t lead to some spectacular hell-scape. Instead, it’s more corridor for them.

Tara is almost glad, because she’s not sure she can process anything else just now.

“Are you all right?” asks Lilah, sounding amused.

Tara can’t immediately reply, so settles for nodding.

They walk in silence for a few minutes.

“What was he?”

“Beelzebub? A demon.”

“But he -“

“Not just any old demon. One of the archdemons. I suppose you’d call them Old Ones.”

Tara exhales sharply, earning her another amused look from Lilah.

“Not bad, right?”

“He doesn’t look it. And surely I would’ve heard -“

“He’s been grounded, remember? Trust me, he thinks customs is -“

“But he looked -“

“- beneath him too. Yes, well, some of these demon types enjoy looking ordinary. Side effect of being extraordinarily powerful is that you don’t need to boast about it. The ones that look entirely ordinary? They’re the really dangerous ones.”

Tara thinks about all the demons and other assorted evil she’d faced over the years, and can’t help but think that the scary-looking ones had been dangerous enough already. Then, a new troubling thought strikes her. “What exactly is powerful enough to ground an Old One?”

Lilah shrugs. “They do have their own system, you know. Beelzebub has always been a bit of a rule-breaker, from what I’ve heard. He must have done something to irritate the others enough to keep him confined here.”

This makes sense, but is quickly followed by a new, equally unsettling, thought. “But if you were able to get past him…” A lump formed in her throat. “Who exactly did you say your employers were?”

Lilah’s mouth quirks but she doesn’t answer.

“Wolfram and Hart,” repeats Tara. She has never heard of it, though that doesn’t have to mean much. “Are you -“ She breaks off, incredibly irritated at herself for not having considered this quite obvious possibility earlier. It’s just that Lilah looks so ordinary and…

“Very much human, I assure you,” says Lilah. “Unlike my employers.”

“They’re demons?” A beat. “Old Ones?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re working for demons?”

“Haven’t we all,” says Lilah airily. “They’re not all bad, you know.”

“Old Ones are.”

“But they offer an excellent pension. If you survive to enjoy it.” She chuckles.

“So why didn’t they get me myself? Why send you?”

“Because,” says Lilah, “we’re not quite back to the land of the living yet. This place - I suppose you could call it a limbo. Come and go, in between, here and there and everywhere.” She laughs. “They didn’t have enough power to wrench you back just like that, you see. Now me, I can move a little more freely. Advantages of being undead.”

Undead.

She shouldn’t be surprised. But she is.

***

The thing is, Tara still isn’t quite herself. That’s why she has followed the lawyer down a winding path that is leading to some mysterious new location without protesting. She’s taking way too long to process information.

The corridor is changing, too. Gradually, it’s shifting away from the bland and bleak faux-office design to something quite different. Pebbles are appearing on the ground with increasing frequency and the walls on either side are becoming less smooth, with the occasional rougher stone or protruding rock shedding dust that worms its way up Tara’s nose and makes her want to sneeze. She hasn’t sneezed for a long time.

It’s hard to focus, with everything going on. Easier just to follow this lawyer. But Tara has heard enough to make her uneasy - deeply so.

There are two facts that matter right now.

One: Lilah wants her to undo a spell cast by Willow.

Two: Lilah is working for Old Ones.

It’s been a while since she’s had to make moral judgements, but as far as she is concerned Willow is good and the Old Ones are very much bad, which is what makes all of this so very worrying.

Of course, there’s also Three: If Tara doesn’t help Lilah, she’ll be sent to a hell dimension.

Maybe that isn’t true. Maybe it is just some elaborate con. Then again, the same could be said about her other two ‘facts’, whatever Lilah might say about her inability to lie. All she has is Lilah’s word for any of those things.

But it’s all she has. And if they’re true…

She can’t worry about Fact 3 now. It’s Facts 1 and 2 that need to be her more immediate concern. And once again, she finds herself in dire need of more information.

The path has turned decidedly rocky by the time Tara has prepared herself for another attempt.

“What kind of spell do you need me to undo?” she asks, trying to sound casual.

Lilah gives her a very tired look, and Tara can’t help but think this is turning into a long day for both of them.

But that’s how Christmas usually works, she supposes.

“Here’s the thing. Your witchling put some powerful voodoo into the world and has shaped her own brave new world. She gave every little girl out there who had the potential to be a slayer the power. No more ‘in each generation, one is born’. Now, there’s hundreds - possibly thousands - of the little brats running around, carving stakes like there’s no tomorrow. Which there might not be, if we’re being honest.”

“Willow… did what?”

“Oh, there’s some reason, I’m sure. Some primal evil or other - isn’t there always? Still, it’s caused an awful mess, of the kind my employers aren’t at all happy about.”

“Why?”

“All those girls, running around and making trouble? Killing things left and right? Just between ourselves, all these clients being slaughtered just isn’t good for business.”

That certainly sounds honest to Tara, and she isn’t liking it one bit. “I need to turn back.”

Lilah sighs. “Are you going to be difficult this entire trip?” She shakes her head. “Don’t answer that. What part of ‘you’ll get sent to a hell dimension’ do you not understand?”

“I’m not going to help you! You’re just doing it for the benefit of evil demons -”

“I never disputed that,” says Lilah. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t have benefits too.” She smirks. “Can’t lie, remember?”

“First off, I still don’t know whether I can actually believe you. And there’s a huge gap between benefits and this is a good idea.”

The lawyer laughs. It almost sounds genuine. “Good point. All right - this is a good idea.”

“Vague,” protests Tara, weakly. But she can feel doubts niggling at her. Because if what Lilah says is true… Well, it sounds insane. But Willow has done insane things in the past. And it’s so hard to figure any of this out, and a part of her is horribly afraid that Willow has done something incredibly stupid in a way that makes her feel deeply ashamed.

Lilah can see all of this on her face, of course. Which is why she keeps walking with a smirk on her face that is growing far too familiar.

***

She’s still thinking when music starts blaring all around them - electronic and sounding suspiciously familiar to Tara.

She looks around, trying to figure out where it is coming from, but it seemed to be all around them.

Lilah groans.

Tara is still confused by this odd turn of events when a man started singing.

One more time.

“Hilarious,” Lilah mutters.

One more time we’re gonna celebrate.

Tara tried not to laugh. “Daft Punk.”

Oh yeah all right don’t stop the dancing.

Lilah shoots her a dirty look. “You won’t think this is so funny after several hours.”

“Several hours?”

“What, do you think it’ll just play once and then be fine? Demons might not be able to stop us but they can certainly irritate us, so get ready to become very familiar with the lyrics of ‘Harder Better Faster Stronger’.”

“But… why? Surely they can’t think we’ll turn back because they’re playing irritating music?”

Lilah looks at her blankly. “They’re demons. Sure, sometimes they try to win our souls and damn our species, but mostly they’re just quite petty.”

They continue walking as the singer croons One more time for the eighth time.

***

The path is entirely rocky by the time it opens into some sort of cavern. Tara sees the ground drop off below them a few feet ahead, except where it continues on along a narrow, closed off path.

It’s like a bridge. A bridge over hell, with glass on either side separating them from what lies below. It’s all so bizarre - this oddly artificial gap to the chaos outside as they continue over metallic planks, dull lightbulbs illuminating the inside - and Tara feels like she is in a zoo of some kind. Outside of the bridge lie the enclosements, but there are no animals here. No, the shapes and the screams of the inhabitants are distressingly familiar.

Because they are screaming. Screams blending into the sound of music, so that the wail is hard to distinguish from the voice going Our work is never over.

Lilah hasn’t stopped and Tara has to almost jog to catch up to her, but she’s peering out through the glass because she just can’t help herself. It doesn’t need description, but it’s fair to say that it’s a dreadful sight.

“If it helps,” says Lilah in a conversational tone, “they’re not human.”

That makes Tara look more closely.

And she recognises the faces - well, not who they are but what, with their features distorted from those of usual humans: the brow, the sunken eyes, the teeth…

“Are those…” Tara hesitates.

“Vampires?” finishes Lilah, staring dispassionately at the faces contorted not only through screams. “Yes.”

“But I thought… aren’t their bodies separated from their souls when they’re… turned?”

“And now they’ve been reunited.”

Tara feels a horrible lurch in her stomach. “Those aren’t demons’ souls?”

“The ones making all the noise? No.”

“But then… Are the humans… They’re being punished for what the vampires did?”

“Cruel, isn’t it?” remarks Lilah, not sounding in the least bit concerned.

“That’s horrible,” says Tara. “It’s not… It isn’t fair.”

Lilah snorts and Tara looks at her in shock. At the expression, the lawyer rolls her eyes. “Calm yourself, I’m hardly disagreeing. But nothing about… well, anything, is particularly fair, is it?”

They stop talking.

Work it harder make it

Do it faster makes us

Tara finds herself listening again to the stupid song after having worked very hard to block it out. Because just then, she really needs something to distract her from the screams.

***

“This trip was more enjoyable when you were talking,” says Lilah after they’ve walked for an indeterminate amount of time through a series of hellscapes.

Tara summons a glare. “Enjoyable? How can any of this be enjoyable?”

The lawyer shrugs. “Feeling bad doesn’t actually help them, you know.”

“Is that supposed to help?” asks Tara, then winces. She’s surprised at how scathing her voice is.

Lilah gives her a look, then shrugs again. “Don’t know what helps you. I never found out what makes you… hero-types feel better.”

“I’m not a hero-type,” mutters Tara. “But I can’t just not care.”

“Can’t you?” says Lilah, expression blank. Like it is the easiest thing in the world.

“How can you justify it?” she asks, trying to get through to the woman. “They didn’t… It wasn’t them.”

“So the wrong souls get punished. It’s always that way. I suppose the folks in charge here would argue that it doesn’t mean the souls aren’t responsible for the sins of the flesh.”

“This is all…” Tara looks even know how to finish the sentence.

“Look, if it makes you feel better humanity’s downfall will come through its own sins. Demons only facilitate the process. We’re all doomed, it’ll all come to an end. Cheer up, it’s Christmas.”

But that only makes Tara fall silent again. And it makes her think.

***

Tara stops.

Lilah turns around. “What?”

“I can’t do this.”

“You can’t… what?”

“I can’t - If Willow was fighting something that evil, I can’t undo it.”

Lilah frowns, whether it’s at Tara or at the renewed blazing of ‘Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger’ she might never know. “Let’s keep going, Tara.”

“No.”

“You’ll be sent to a hell dimension. For real, this time.”

“Fine,” says Tara. “Do it. I’m not dooming everyone, I’m not betraying Willow, just to save myself.”

Lilah keeps frowning at her for several seconds before sighing. “Heroes,” she mutters. “Always rediscover their morals when you last need it.”

“I’m not a hero.”

“Whatever you want to tell yourself. Look, this primal evil… Sure it’s bad. But what your girlfriend did was really bad.”

“Saving everybody? That was bad?”

“Oh, but even you know that your enchantress is the reckless kind. I’ve been told all about her - about the two of you, in fact. Didn’t she even put her little spells on you?”

“We made up.”

“And perhaps you did. But she has a history of using magic irresponsibly. Making all the girls slayers - that’s going to have consequences. Not least for the girls themselves. You know Buffy. Did she strike you as happy with her lot? And now think of all the girls out there. Targets, just like her. Your sweetheart has condemned them.”

Tara glares at her. “I’m sure they’ll deal.”

Lilah laughs quietly. “Do you really think so?” she asks. “There aren’t enough watchers in the world to supervise all of them, not least because most of them got blown up. Don’t ask,” she adds, seeing Tara’s shock. “The point is, Willow has made their lives hell. There’ve been several casualties already. Other girls who’ve gone mad. All of them have had their lives irrevocably changed - ruined, even. You can make it right.”

“She was saving the world,” says Tara stubbornly.

“Do you really think they couldn’t have come up with something else?” asks Lilah. “A better solution? Your friends are smart. But they let those girls pay the price for their plan.”

“But -“

“I’ve never pretended to be doing this for anyone except for my employers,” she interrupts. “I might be a servant of evil, but at least I’m honest about it. That doesn’t mean your friends didn’t do some serious harm, and I’m not giving you a way of undoing it. Most people don’t get that chance, you know. To do good from beyond the grave.”

“You say it’s good.”

Lilah snorts. “Are you coming or not?”

Tara hates herself because she knows Lilah has convinced her again. Because if there’s a chance that Willow has done something truly horrible… isn’t it her responsibility?

***

“Are you… dead?”

Lilah smiles thinly. “Clearly.”

“But you’re…”

“Seemingly a model of good health? I know, right? I’ve been preserved.”

Tara nods despite not understanding, which she has been doing a lot. She recalls the meeting with the demon. “Standard perpetuity clause?”

The smile widens. “Exactly. Work doesn’t end with death.”

“You mean you… have a contract that still binds you when you’re dead?” Tara is again feeling the overwhelming urge to scream.

Lilah nods, as if this is perfectly normal. Which none of this is.

One more time we’re gonna celebrate

Oh yeah all right don’t stop the dancing

“How did you die?” asks Tara, then winces at how blunt the question was.

Lilah doesn’t care, because of course she doesn’t. “Bit of a long story, actually. Was running away from a vampire, then this ancient powerful being - think Old One except technically speaking on the side of the angels except this one really wasn’t - who was possessing my ex’s former friend killed me.” She shrugs. “Not that long, maybe. Oh, and then my ex ended up chopping off my head. In all fairness, it was rather sweet of him.”

She says all of this rather airily, like it is of no great import whatsoever. But for some reason, Tara isn’t convinced. It’s just a little too casual for her liking. And there’s something about how Lilah’s staring straight ahead, how her fingers are stretched out and stiff like she’s trying not to curl her fists… Dying can’t be a pleasant experience for anyone. It certainly isn’t for Tara. And Lilah’s experience hardly sounds pleasant.

This woman is human. She had an entire life. Her career. An ex, who she had some kind of history with. There’s so many edges and snark to her that Tara had almost forgotten to be curious - but she is, now.

Why would you chop off the head of a dead person?

The bit of her mind that’s actually working supplies her with this question, and it isn’t one she can immediately come up with an answer to. Some kind of ritual? A way to end possession? But hadn’t Lilah said…

Wait…

“Your ex,” says Tara. “He… Was he trying to stop you from… coming back? As a vampire, I mean?”

Lilah looks startled by this, and her eyes narrow for a moment. But then she nods. “Heavens, you’re pretty smart, aren’t you? Yes, he was.”

“And did he succeed?”

A snort. “I’m not a vampire, if that’s what you’re asking. That’s not how the contract works.”

Then how does it work?

***

“End of the shortcut,” says Lilah with what approaches trepidation in her voice. “Now, there’s a path that takes us directly to the contact point, but first we need to get through a bit of hell first.”

Tara gives her a look.

“Just a bit,” says Lilah in a tone that tries and fails spectacularly at being reassuring. Once more, she reaches out

Tara takes another look at the scarf. And she thinks about the own blood staining her jumper. And she thinks of what Lilah said. My ex ended up chopping off my head.

Blood and gore comes as part of the territory for witches. And Tara has seen plenty of it in her time. But there’s something so sick and twisted about the whole thing that she can taste bile in her mouth.

When Lilah opens this new door, the blood and gore come rather closer.

They step through onto a plateau of some sort and when the door swings shut behind them with a loud clang, Tara realises there is nothing behind it. Instead, a few feet away, there’s a sheer cliff under an unsettlingly crimson sky.

What lay ahead of them, however, is considerably more unsettling. There is an acrid smell in the air that verges on sulphuric, and it seems to be coming from the river. It’s hard to quite make out, what with the steam gently curling from it. She steps forward to get a better look (because hey - if she’s survived this much what’s a weird river going to do) and she thinks… that the river might be burning. Constant flames of red and blue and the occasional green flare up, with the steam diffusing into the air that bore down on them like an insistent mist. Like they are both pushing against each other, constantly fighting.

But it’s not water, she realises. It’s too dark, too red for that - it runs slowly and it’s thick and is that odour -

She blanches. And then she gets very close to retching.

“Let’s get out of here quickly,” says Lilah beside her, and for once they are in perfect agreement.

***

Before they had passed through the door, they had been sheltered. Tara had seen hell. She had heard it.

But she hadn’t felt it. And she hadn’t been surrounded by it.

It surrounds her now, engulfs her, seeps into her very pores - inescapable and unbearable. There is another bridge that leads them across the river, but unlike the safety of the last one the river is boiling and spitting on either side of them. She flinches every time a drop comes too close.

The music is gone now. She very nearly misses it.

When they’ve crossed the bridge, they have to walk alongside the river as a shallow stream runs on their other side, keeping their heads down and wearily looking out for anyone to come close. Tara keeps her eyes averted from the more distant figures.

They’re getting close to the little door Lilah says will take them straight to the contact point. Of course, this is all going too smoothly.

***

Tara hears a growl and as one, the two of them whirl around.

A shadow is approaching - twice their height and looming over them - and as it takes another step the light of the burning rivers illuminates his form. His body might be shaped like that of a human but his head resembles that of a bull and he’s coming closer, ever closer -

And the monster rears before them - monstrous, face twisted into fury as the fires from the deepest pits of hell lit in its eyes, dark and writhing yet impossibly bright all at once. Its mouth opens and impossibly sharp and impossibly many teeth protruded, with a set of fangs that promise to tear into shreds anything within reach.

It pauses, reared above them, as drool drips down in front of them. Then, the minotaur frowns.

“Who are you?” it asks.

It can talk. Not in a harsh growl. The voice has a bit of a squeak, actually.

“Hello there,” says Lilah. “I’m Lilah Morgan, and this is Tara Maclay.”

“Oh,” says the minotaur, looking the closest a minotaur can to put-out. “You don’t belong here.”

“We’re just passing through,” says Lilah brightly.

“Right,” says the minotaur and gives a long-suffering sigh. It isn’t really rearing any more. “Just passing through. Well, don’t let me bother you. No one else does.”

“Could we get through here without actually… having to go all through the hell?” asks Lilah.

That earned her a baleful look from the minotaur. “You just want to skip all this?”

“It’s just that rives of fire and blood tend to do hell for the shoes.”

“Ah.”

“Stains, you know.”

“Of course.”

“So can we?”

“No.”

Tara half-watches a centaur passing. He’s muttering something about strangle them with tinsel and she decides she doesn’t need to know more.

“We’ve gone through this already earlier,” says Lilah. “My employers are Wolfram and Hart. Beelzebub agreed to us taking the fastest direct route to -“

“Beelzebub can suck it,” says the minotaur. A rock the size of a frying pan dislodges itself from the ceiling above and falls straight down at the minotaur. He steps aside, looking bored. “He’s not what he used to be if he’s just letting humans wander about.”

“We’re not just wandering about,” says Lilah. “We have all the requisite papers -“

But she’s interrupted as a winged rat swoops between them.

“Delivery coming through,” the winged rat screeches at the minotaur and the two humans. “Move along now!”

Tara stares, and somehow she still manages to be surprised as several centaurs cross the bridge with pine trees strapped to their backs. They all move aside, and she can’t help but notice that the passageway is now directly behind them. If they could just make a run for it…

“Christmas decorations?” asks Lilah in a polite sort of way.

The minotaur groans. “They keep wanting us to make our torture Christmas-related. You’d think we could get on with what we’re meant to do without randomly shoehorning in Christmas at every possible moment, but apparently that’s not the seasonal spirit.”

“What, do you impale them with the trees?” asks Tara.

She doesn’t know whether they catch the sarcasm because they both look at her like they’re both surprised and impressed (she thinks she’s getting better at interpreting the minotaur’s expressions).

“You have been hanging out with the slayer for a while, haven’t you,” mutters Lilah. “Not everything’s a stake, you know.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” says the minotaur, “but we’re using this batch to tie the victims against, then we set them on fire and have a few imps sing Christmas carols. They’re horrid at it, of course. Thing is, pines are far too flammable - usually you’d want a more slow-burning experience. As always, the aesthetic is coming before the practicality.”

“Dreadful,” says Lilah with sympathy. “Now, about letting us through…”

“I said no,” says the minotaur.

“We have the proper documentation -“

“I don’t care about your papers. You’ve come here, and you should have been prepared for the consequences.”

Consequences?

“There’s nothing you can do to us,” says Lilah, slowly. “Wolfram and Hart -“

The minotaur laughs. “They have no power here. You were foolish to come. More foolish still to believe you could get away again. And now” - he leers at them - “you will join the others.”

He takes a single step forwards and swipes at Lilah. She shrieks as she flies back and lands heavily on the floor. And he advances towards her, fangs in full view again.

Tara doesn’t know why she steps between them.

But she does.

She reaches for the power she has felt all her life. Instinct, she supposes: she has no reason to believe that it’ll work here. Tara flexes her fingers and juts out her palm, muttering a syllable. There’s a tug inside her, somewhere close to her gut, and the warmth curls around before spreading outwards. She knows it’s there even before she sees its effects: the demon flying back.

It lands - hard - against the stone wall. The smell of sulphur is thicker than ever in the air and it’s making Tara feel faint. She tries to steady herself - she really doesn’t want to fall into the river to her side. Lilah’s still on the ground, the soles of her shoes sliding on the slick stones stained red at the riverbed. Tara starts coughing and even as her eyes tear up she can see the minotaur raising itself again. She looks around desperately, struggling to see through the tears and the mist that is now tinged red. The way out is still behind them, and whatever her worries about going on with this mad mission she’s not exactly got a lot of choice right now.

But Lilah’s still lying on the ground. Tara runs to her, terrified the lawyer has lost consciousness.

She hasn’t.

Lilah stares at her, eyes wide open, and (genuine) shock on her face. Tara holds out her hand, because what else can she do?

“Come on, then.”

The lawyer keeps staring for a moment, but then grabs it. Tara pulls her up, with only a little difficulty.

They start running as rocks fall from the ceiling behind them. Completely blocking them off, keeping them away from the minotaur. Which would be great if they weren’t in serious danger of being crushed.

One stone sets of another, and the ceiling above is crumbling. There’s an opening ahead but the path is caving in way too fast and Tara has to drag Lilah behind her, refusing to let go. With a last burst of strength that is half magic and half muscle, she throws Lilah ahead off her into the cavern. The lawyer falls hard but safe.

For a horrible second, Tara doesn’t think she’s going to make it. But a last, desperate leap takes her into the cavern and she falls forward before managing to drag her legs out of the way of the falling rocks.

She quickly gets up and looks around. The opening barely deserves the term - but the rocks are a slightly different colour. Beige. And no rocks are falling here. It doesn’t look stable, but the path ahead isn’t currently trying to kill them. So she pushes Lilah ahead of her into the wider path.

Lilah isn’t moving fast. Even though there could be something els here that’s trying to kill them. It’s agonising.

But also exhilarating. Tara has missed being frightened.

***

Tara wants to go on, but Lilah is slowing down.

“Just… let me catch my breath,” she says. She leans against the wall, looking more dishevelled than she has been by anything else, but casts her an almost sly look. “That was pretty brave of you.”

“Yeah, well,” says Tara. “Just kind of happened.”

“Uh huh,” says Lilah. The smirk has returned, but it’s softer this time. She places the palm of one hand against the wall, still steadying herself but pushing off. After a moment of stillness, she almost falls forward and stretches out the other hand, landing against Tara with her fingers closing around her forearm. Tara stumbles - if Lilah had let herself go with her full weight she would surely have fallen. But her movements are far too careful, too deliberate for that. Instead, she leans into Tara, pressing against her closely. She smells of expensive perfume but sulphur clings to her hair and that hair is suddenly in Tara’s face, making her want to gag. But she doesn’t, instead watching as Tara’s lidded eyebrows hide her eyes before her head gradually tilts upwards. She doesn’t do anything as those big eyes meet her, pupils wide and almost hiding the bleached-out colour of her irises.

Both hands are on Tara now, grabbing at her forearms. She doesn’t know how much of it is for support. But it doesn’t really matter now, with Lilah leaning in ever further. Lilah’s mouth opening slightly. Lilah tilting her head to the side. Lilah’s lips brushing against her own.

Which wakes Tara up. Which makes her stand back. Which makes her jump back.

Lilah almost falls. But she’s steadier again, and after a moment she’s leaning against the wall, and she’s shaking just a little. She’s trying for the smirk again, but it’s not as firm as it should be.

“What can I say,” says Lilah, “Near death experiences make me thirsty.”

It makes Tara sure, all of a sudden, that Lilah is covering. The thought hits her, confuses her because… it would make what Lilah had done real.

But this could be a manipulation. It could be another manipulation.

She’s about to say this, but something stops her.

Because somewhere beneath the smirk is a horribly unguarded expression.

“Sorry,” says Tara. Lilah’s mouth opens again - she hadn’t noticed quite how full those lips are. “I have a girlfriend.”

“You’re dead, honey.”

Tara almost laughs at the bravado. A part of her suddenly wonders whether - if this were real - she could somehow use it to get out of this mess. And then she hates herself for the thought.

She should have jumped into hell’s fires before even considering it.

“Still,” she says, more weakly than she wanted.

“If it’s fidelity that’s worrying you, you’ll be thrilled to know that Willow has moved on,” says Lilah dispassionately.

“Oh,” says Tara, then forces herself to be happy for Willow. She has every right to move on, of course. Every right to be happy. “Good.”

“I’m sure. Not that it should matter. You being dead and all.”

They stand in silence for a moment.

“I… Look, I saved your life. Can we just go back now?”

Lilah shook her head. “I don’t have a life for you to save.”

“But -“ She bit ferociously at her lip, in a moment bringing back a bad habit she had managed to stop years and years ago. The pain, at least, is real. “What happens? If you die here?”

The lawyer studies her.“You’ve changed the subject.”

Tara does not answer, the kiss still hanging between them.

“What happens when a dead person dies?” The smirk is a sour twist of the mouth now. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

This is ominous, and not at all useful. Tara is just about to protest when something catches her attention.

The walls are closing in on them.

Slowly, but slowly, they’re shifting towards them. Stones screeching over stones, somehow escaping her awareness until now. But now -

“Um… Lilah?”

Lilah frowns for a moment, still distracted. Then she realises too. “Ah shit.”

The walls haven’t stopped moving.

“We need to get out of here,” says the lawyer and before she has the chance to straighten up properly, Tara has grabbed her hand. They’re running again, with a new desperation, and Tara is searching for an exit even as she has to concentrate to not stumble on the rough terrain.

They’re both gasping and straining as their lungs struggle - just as a corner of Tara’s brain realises that the shoes that Lilah are wearing really aren’t appropriate and she’s astounded the lawyer has even gotten so far. One burning leg ahead of the other, pushing each other forwards as the walls press in ever closer, pushing up stones and making the ground hard to step on and their ankles flare up in pain. But Tara can see a space ahead where the walls are no longer moving and it’s a desperate last sprint - fifteen feet, ten feet, five -

They make it. Just.

They’re in a cavern. And they had better hope these walls don’t betray them because right now, they’re too tired to run.

***

“Somehow, this doesn’t even make my top three worst Christmases,” says Tara.

Lilah, who is still panting, looks up at her in bewilderment, then catches Tara’s expression. She starts laughing - it’s a nice laugh, Tara finds, even if it’s interrupted by regular bursts of coughing. All the smoke and gruesome odours are still messing with them. Tara looks away, a smile appearing on her own face. Somehow, that makes Lilah laugh harder.

“This is all so not going to plan,” says Lilah at last, wiping her forehead with the pack of her wrist before examining her dirt-covered hand with an air of disgust. “A few checkpoints, I was told. Just stride right through, they said. And then there’s you, of course.”

“Me?”

“I was told you were going to be disoriented. Easy to convince of anything, considering you long jaunt in limbo and your unfamiliar surroundings.” She laughs again. “All that bullshit about protecting you about paranormal incursions or whatever is just rubbish to make it go down smoother.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Yeah. You’re not easy to disorientate. Instead, you’ve been… well, you. Or at least, I hope you won’t more argumentative when you were alive?”

Tara shrugs, somehow not bothered by this new information. “Probably. I don’t think I’d have followed you this far if I were thinking straight.”

“Figures,” says Lilah. “You’ll be thrilled to know that my employers very much underestimated you.”

“For all the good it’s done me.”

She laughs. “This’ll be over soon. Promise.”

“How?” asks Tara. She gestures at the ruins behind them. “We can’t get back.”

“There’s another way,” says Lilah. “I think, anyway. Once we get to the contact point, there’s a door that leads back to hell proper.”

“Great.”

Lilah smirks, but it’s as close to warm as she’s ever been. “We need to continue on to that point though. It’s the only way.”

“How very convenient.”

She rolls her eyes. “Trust me, this was not my plan. None of this…” There’s a moment of awkwardness as Lilah straightens again.

There’s only one path out of the cavern. Just when Tara is feeling herself again, she’s all out of choices. So there’s really nothing to do except to continue. Whatever may be waiting for them next.

“I didn’t really do much of that sort of thing when I was alive,” says Lilah suddenly. They’ve walked for a bit and it’s shaping up to be a fairly ordinary tunnel.

Tara glances at her but Lilah is looking down. She does the same, able to guess what the lawyer means. She doesn’t know whether dead people can get tired… but this definitely feels like the real thing.

“Maybe death changes things,” Lilah continues. “Or… Perhaps I didn’t see the point in it. I liked using intimacy. I liked the power I got from it. Women never did have much of that, not where I’m from.” She flashes Tara a smile. “Should have sought out some witches, shouldn’t I?”

Tara really doesn’t know what to say to this. She racks her mind for something, then tries to figure out how to change the subject and goes with the first thing she can think of. “Your contract. The one with your employers, I mean. Does it even bind you here?”

Lilah stares at her for a few long moments, making Tara wonder whether she’ll get angry. But she shrugs, and again she’s looking so very painfully casual. “It’s complicated.”

“If you disobeyed…”

“It wouldn’t be a great idea.” Another shrug. “You’re not the only one who could spend the New Year in a hell dimension.”

“I’m starting to think I really shouldn’t be doing this,” says Tara sardonically.

Lilah snorts. “If you really want to get away, there’s another path you can take,” she says. “There’s the one that leads to the real world, where the connection is formed. And another one, that leads straight back to hell. The real hell, that is. Trying to get back to limbo? You’ll have to go through the second one either way.”

“Why are you telling me this?” She can’t keep the suspicion out of her voice.

“Because -“ says Lilah, then cuts herself off suddenly. She closes her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips. “It’s what I need to say,” she says eventually. “To get you to follow me.”

Of course, they’re faced with one last obstacle.

A pit of fire. Just what Tara needs.

***

“We need to jump,” says Lilah.

“What?”

“Well, there’s meant to be a bridge but clearly the denizens of hell haven’t felt in the mood to provide one.”

“It’s too far,” she says. The gap has to be at least five feet, and the flames beneath are hissing. The edges of the rocks on the other side hardly look stable either.

“Then use your magic.”

“You can’t just -“ Tara takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the inevitable smirk. “I don’t even know why my magic is working, but it’s not particularly reliable. And it’s not as strong as it usually is. Levitation requires a lot of energy and self-levitation is beyond me so unless you want to continue on your own…”

“That won’t do,” says Lilah. “How about creating a bridge?”

“What, just magick some stones into place?”

Lilah nods.

Tara rolls her eyes. In doing so, she focuses on the pit of fire. As conduits go, fire is pretty much perfect - like a ready-made fuel. “There’s one spell - the Ritual of Cherufe. It warps fire into ice. Usually you’d use candles but…”

“- we’re not exactly short on fire.”

She nods, examining the ground. It’s dusty, and the thin sheen is ideal to make signs on. “Don’t suppose you keep a stick hidden wherever your papers are?”

“No.”

Tara kneels on the ground, gesturing Lilah to stand aside. She closes her eyes for a moment, summoning the relevant memories. She’d always had a good head for spells. Perhaps she never would have had Willow’s raw power, but when it came to knowing magic, there is no one who matches Tara. She sketches a pentagram with her grubby finger and adds the specific lines and runes to the edge, before adding a small latinate stabiliser to the bottom. Then she steps gingerly into the pentacle.

“You’ll have to be fast once I conjure the spirit,” she says, hoping spirits could even be summoned here. “I won’t be able to hold it for long.”

“You’re sure the ice will hold?” asks Lilah dubiously.

Tara gives a thin smile. “I thought you can’t die here.”

That earns her a scowl.

“All right then,” she mutters, and recites the incantation quickly and confidently, waving her hands in a manner reminiscent to a conductor, before throwing her head up in expectance of the spirit - even though there isn’t much reason to expect it to come from above or anywhere at all.

But a prickle of energy and a gasp from Lilah tells her that the spell is working. After a moment, she looks down to see that the fire has transfigured itself to a single ice platform.

Lilah gives her an uncertain look, but she takes a quick run and bounds on to the platform, skittering dangerously on the surface but jumping immediately on. She lands at the edge and almost tips backwards, but after peddling furiously with her arms she manages to fall onto her knees, before instantly raising herself again and beckoning to Tara.

“Come on!”

Tara takes another deep breath and inhales a lot of soot for her trouble. The ice looks rather flimsy, especially with the fearsome flames licking at its bottom. Well, no time like the present. Besides, a fall to a fiery undeath would certainly be one way out of her current dilemma.

She runs forwards and jumps on to the platform, landing with both feet and pausing. She can see through the ice, can see the flames leap at her. After teetering for just a moment, she summons her courage and jumps again, falling against Lilah and taking them both to the ground.

They lie on each other. Lilah looks winded, but quickly gives a cheeky grin.

“Skipping straight to the good parts, are we?”

Tara groans and rolls off. She lies on her back staring at the jumble of rocks above, wondering whether this day will ever end.

***

They’re in a room of some kind. It’s lit by a single torch, which makes Tara wonder where all the light in the taverns came from. Hell has different lighting rules, she supposes. She can’t make out the corners, and Lilah has pried the torch from the wall to illuminate stairs.

“This is just the antechamber,” says Lilah. “What matters is up those stairs.”

Tara just looks at her.

“Come on,” says Lilah. Tara has to stay close to see anything, and the stone steps don’t look particularly safe. It’s another narrow path that curves around with steps that are slightly to high to be comfortable and uneven enough to be dangerous. She has to stare at her feet where the flickering flame shows her where to step. They don’t speak.

The room at the top is somewhat better lit. That’s mainly by the glow of a portal of some kind - with tendrils of silver spinning around on the frame and spiralling off the edge. And behind it, an altar of some kind. A stone that shines green.

“What…”

“It’s linked to you,” says Lilah as they step forwards.

“To me?”

“Once you reach in.”

Tara looks around for another way out, but there’s nothing except the portal.

“We need to find the moment of the spell,” says Lilah. “In your time stream -“

“But what you want after my death.”

Lilah shakes her head. “The time stream is… everything. It’s who created you, what effects you had on the world. You live on in Willow’s magic. That’s why this’ll work. Then you step through and touch the stone. That makes the connection.”

Tara hesitates. “You said there’d be another way. A way out of this.”

A nod. “There is. But behind the portal - there’s the stone you touch to make the connection. You do have a way out.”

“And if I decide not to help?”

Lilah shrugs. “You’ll see the truth of your choice in the stream. Then you can decide what to do.”

“My decision, eh?”

No answer.

She stretches out and lets her hand run through the portal.

***

She stares into the time stream, the visions and voices washing over her in a ferocious mess. Glimpses of people connected to her, as far as she can tell - a younger version of her father standing over a cot, her cousin laughing at something she can’t see, a girl who looks like her mother sipping at coffee.

She’s growing so -

Norman Lamond said he’d prop up -

It’s in the bag for the Rams -

But it isn’t just the past. She sees Willow again and again - and not just the Willow she had known but an older Willow too. A Willow who had a bright future - sometimes with Buffy at her side, sometimes without. Willow with friends, enemies, lovers… Xander frowning at a man with handsome curls, holding a flashlight tightly. Buffy pressed with her back against the wall, a bruise covering her brow as she groaned quietly.

I can’t give you up. Not after Dortmund -

The Gatwick drones changed everything. Now that everyone knows about vampires -

Dawn, it’s not safe. Please, come back, let’s talk about this. You don’t need to do it on your -

And a voice piercing through. A familiar one. Spike.

Something’s brewing and it’s so big, ugly and damned, it makes you and me look like little bitty puzzle pieces.

Tara tries to hold on to the voice. She feels, instinctively, that it matters.

His eyes are wild and he stares at someone out of sight. Maybe it’s Buffy.

And his voice says one more thing. You’re gonna need help.

“There it is,” mutters Lilah.

Tara whirls around. “That’s it?” She has felt the darkness. Whatever it is… Whatever Willow did, she suddenly knows it was necessary. She can’t undo this spell, she just can’t. Consequences be damned.

The First. A primal evil, indeed. One that Willow had -

She has to get out of here.

“If we do this,” says Tara, pleading, “we’ll ruin everything. God, Lilah, can’t you see? Don’t you care?”

That makes something break in Lilah’s face. But the mask is back in an instant. “I don’t care. And I got past appeals to God a long time ago.”

“You do care,” says Tara, not sure if she believes it or if she wants to convince herself of it. Because she’s begun seeing Lilah as a human and she can’t - she won’t - think of her as a monster, but now more than ever she just needs to get through…

Lilah hesitates for a moment. Then she pushes Tara in the back towards the stone. “I’m sorry. But I don’t have a choice.”

***

“You don’t have to do this!” shouts Tara, struggling furiously. But Lilah’s grasp is surprisingly strong and she pulls her wrist towards the flickering stone. She tries to reach for her magic but she’s exerted herself too much. There has to be some way to bend the torch’s flames or to -

Lilah lets out a gasp of pain and she’s staring down at where she’s grabbing Tara’s wrist. Tara is burning her through the touch, one of the first spells she mastered. She can only imagine how painful it is but Lilah does not let go, tears in her eyes but still pulling her hand down. Tara starts muttering under her breath, pouring her magic into the stones below, loosening them and making them crumble from within. But it takes time, time she doesn’t have.

Her hand is inches away from the stone.

She can’t resist any longer so she does the only thing she could think of and steps forward to kiss Lilah. It has been a long time since Willow. It has been a long time since she has been this close to anything. To anyone.

But there’s no real time to think - no real time for anything at all except to get away from here, to end this. She’s managed to disorientate Lilah enough to pull her away from the stone and in a natural continuation of the movement her hand makes a gesture towards the floor. It takes all her energy to even make a dent and for a single, horrible moment as they lean ever closer into each other she thinks she won’t be strong enough. She pulls out every last tendril of her power, not caring what happens past this moment.

And the floor comes crashing down.

***

The thing is… That is that. There’s nothing else to do. Nothing else to say.

This is how their story ends.

***

Except that they’re no more dead than they were before Tara ripped up the floor and made them tumble through, before they landed in a mess of dust and stone that leaves scratches and bruises and they need time to crawl away from, before Tara makes a small light hover in the air above her head with power she didn’t know she still had.

They don’t speak. They just sit on their respective piles of rocks.

***

“We’re stuck here. In an antechamber, with the path leading back completely blocked off and the path ahead collapsed,” says Tara, dully.

Lilah still has her eyes closed, but eventually she answers. “That’s not entirely true.”

Tara stares to where the lawyer is once again flattened against the wall. That once lovely suit is pretty much in tatters by now, the scarf isn’t looking much better. She’s grubby and grime-cladden and hardly an impressive figure any more, but right now she’s all Tara has.

And Tara wants her to explain herself. Now.

“There’s a crack,” says the lawyer and slaps the wall to her right. Tara looks where she’s gesturing. And hidden in the corner, there is indeed another opening.

***

Lilah opens her eyes to see Tara’s expression of fury.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It’s what I do. It’s what I always do.”

It’s not like Tara hadn’t been warned. Not like she hadn’t known.

Tara makes a move towards the door, and for a moment Lilah thinks she’s going to leave her there.

***

The thing is, whatever Lilah has done, Tara can hardly leave her there. She has enough of a measure of the woman by now that there’s more to the woman than the cold veneer, more than this last trick. This series of tricks and misdirections, because of course now Tara realises how carefully Lilah chose her words. No lies. Only half-truths.

She’s all Tara has.

“Come on,” says Tara.

Lilah’s expression is blank. The silence stretches between them.

“Lilah,” she says. “Come on.”

At that, Lilah’s gaze meets her own. And she straightens up, somehow, again. And she follows Tara towards the gap in the stones that leads to another world entirely. But before Tara can cross the threshold, Lilah stretches out her arm and blocks her way.

It takes Lilah a moment to say what she wants to.

“If you hadn’t needed to distract me…” The question hangs unfinished in the air.

Tara imagines testing out either response, figuring out which one is the truth and which one dies in her throat. But neither feels right. Not yet.

“I guess we’ve got all the time we need to figure that out.”

There’s a ghost of a smirk on Lilah’s face as she withdraws her arm. “Let’s rule hell.”

“Merry Christmas.”

The smirk becomes a real one and it’s the last thing Tara sees before she steps through the crack. And as she enters the next part of their journey, she can just about hear Daft Punk playing in the distance.

#buffy femslash secret santa #sorry this is really pushing the deadline (and also so long and weird)#I just got carried away with this unusual pairing #we attack the mayor with hummus #wanna give me a hand?#tara maclay #lilah morgan #tara/lilah #leela writes a thing #txt

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