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Petname Babygirl II pt.1

yoongi x reader

genre: smut, dom!yoongi, sugardaddy!yoongi

word count: 7.3k

Sleeping with some random guy was one thing. But realizing that he is your boss was a disaster until he offers you something tempting you cannot reject.

Originally posted by sugamysavagebaby

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Summary: You met Steve in one bar and two have a great night together.

Words: 2593

Pairing: Steve x Reader

Warnings: Drunk assholes, fuffly, and smut.

You never minded to do things alone, you actually enjoyed it a lot. Going to the movies or shopping was, even more, fun to you when you are alone because you were the one in control. But you are starting to thinking that coming to this bar alone wasn’t your best idea.

Since you arrived at the bar, this is the fourth guy who hit on you in one hour. The first guy insisted on paying for your drink and after you declined several times he went away, the second was nice when you said you weren’t interested he went away without questioning you. The third one was insistent  but after hearing about your fake boyfriend he let you enjoy your drink alone.

The fourth asshole, Mike didn’t leave you alone. You told him that you weren’t interested, that you could pay for your own drinks and that you had a boyfriend but no, he wasn’t having any of it.  “Come on baby, your boyfriend doesn’t have to know… I can show you a really good time.”

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It's All Coming Back to Me

Summary: Upon returning to your former home, Mystic Falls, a series of flashbacks makes you remember why you left in the first place. But, most importantly, why you returned. (I swear that the story itself is better than the summary!)

Pairing: Damon Salvatore x Reader, Stefan Salvatore x Reader (platonic)

Word Count: 4069 (Whoops)

Warnings: Death scene, angst

(A/N): So, I’ve been on hiatus. I’m truly sorry, I just have had a HUGE drought when it comes to story ideas. Some people have requested ships and imagines but I haven’t been able to brainstorm any ideas for them, so I’m very sorry. But, I’m also excited because I’ve recently been rewatching the entire The Vampire Diaries series and I’m proud to announce that I have come up with some ideas for stories in the department. This is my first Damon fic, not to mention my first TVD fic. I really hope you enjoy it as it much as I’ve enjoyed writing it. Also, I know I left you on a bit of a cliff-hanger, but not to worry, there’ll be a second part. As you can see, this was getting a bit long. 

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Dating Lena Luthor (Everyday can be our Valentine’s)

Originally posted by lenazorel

Request: Prompt Lena x reader, the reader forgot it’s Valentine’s Day and Lena is mad because it’s her first time celebrating valentines. So reader does a surprise romantic date night

a/n: Ahhhh this was so cute to do LOL. I was thinking about this all during work wondering wth I was gonna do with this!! Firstly, I don’t really think Lena would be angry, per se, so I switched this up just a tiny bit! There’s a funny little easter egg I put in here because I’m absolute katie trash, tell me if you find the Funny Joke. Thanks for reading btw y’all! You give me something to do lol. Requests are always open, and I’ll get to them hopefully every other day!

- - - - -

So maybe you were a little bit of an asshole. Actually, you are definitely the tiniest bit an asshole. You’re a good enough person, and you show basic human decency because you surely weren’t raised to be a farm animal with no manners. You’d even go so far as to say you care about people if they’re really hurting enough for you to feel compelled to get into that uncomfortable place of relating to them and having to comfort them.

You’re a bit rough around the edges, you’d admit it. You’ve had a grand total of 3 and a half arguably serious relationships in your very eventful, very promising life so far and it’s not like you were emotionally stunted for the entirety of them all, not really. Sometimes you’d admit you are a pretty emotionally constipated person - you lose track of your days as often as you lose track of your housekeys, and if someone asked you to retell something from last week, well, you’d let them know that frankly you don’t even remember what the last thing you ate was. But you knew how to make your girl smile and that’s what counted. You’re kinda good when it comes to the bigger stuff. That’s all that should matter, right?

When you walked into CatCo for work in the morning, you greeted everyone who’d spare a glance at you, even spent some time making small talk with some of your deskmates. There was a restlessness in the air that made you think people were even itching to talk to you. Everyone had seemed peppier today more than usual. That was surely a weird thing to note, even for a place like CatCo (especially for a place like CatCo). There was an abundance of flowers sitting on desks and because Miss Grant has a very vocal opinion-decreed-official-but-not-really-official-policy regarding cheap-smelling things in her offices, even when arguably flowers are the most natural scent in the world (how possibly can they be cheap?), all the bouquets and arrangements were relegated to a place by their desk inhabitant’s feet where they could be admired in relative peace.

For what it was worth, the place seemed more alive than it ever has been - not that Miss Grant was the worst person to work for, quite the contrary, everyone was just too intimidated or outright terrified of her that any semblance of fun was  overpowered by the fear of messing something up. Miss Grant was nice, in her own quiet, borderline abrasive but never power hungry way. You could tolerate just one day of people being in a good mood.

You felt a slight gust of wind blow your way as you sat at your desk, and you really ought to think you should warn Kara about slowing down her speed just a notch more.

“Hi! (Y/N)! Golly it’s a great morning isn’t it. Oh, why aren’t you wearing red?”

“Kara, does it look like I own any coloured clothing other than black? Anyway, why would I?”

Kara’s eyes widen comically and she inhales sharply, and you almost dismiss it as another purely Kara Thing. You take note of her white pants and pink blazer, unbuttoned to reveal a simple white button up, and you grudgingly concede that this nerd always looks so stupidly cute.

Before you could get yourself irrationally angry at the multitude of Kara’s Preppy Looks, you wonder if Miss Grant has a special occasion that you didn’t get the memo for.

“Wait, is something happening today? Did Miss Grant finally acquire that small-town newspaper outside of Metropolis?”

Kara tilts her head at you, fully reminiscent of a confused child, and her eyebrow quirks ridiculously high up that it could disappear into her hairline.

“Hm, that’s not right. I would have heard about that one. I know she was saying how everyone should dress in red to symbolize the blood spilled of her competitors, but even that’s a bit much.” You say more to yourself than to Kara.

Kara opens and closes her mouth, and opens and closes it again seemingly at a loss to say something as she squints very severely at you. Your eyes widen marginally, taken aback by Kara’s silent assessment.

“Are you alright? Did I offend you or something?”

Kara’s jaw drops as she gasps indignantly. You were only half-kidding but you think you might as well have offended her unwittingly at some point in your very brief conversation.

“Seriously, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I really hope you’re joking.” Those words were startlingly ominous, and especially so coming from someone like Kara.

“What the hell do you even mean? Kara-”

Before you can ask any more of her, Cat Grant’s voice reverberates through the office. It’s impressive, considering she’s a good thirty feet away from you and inside an enclosed elevator when she speaks up.

“Keira, please tell me you found out who plastered that cheap Wal-Mart stock paper heart onto my window and that you have collected their resignation letter. Do not think that because I’m not here I don’t have eyes everywhere. I can practically smell the cheap scotch tape sticking eternally to my windows.”

“No DIY decor, already on it, Miss Grant. But don’t you think that’s a bit-”

Kara follows after Miss Grant, falling into step behind her rather impressively as Miss Grant hands off her coat to Kara and Kara hands her latte to her, balancing  various papers, clothing, and a bag in her arms.

Why is everyone so weird.

You boot up your computer and check the messages on your phone while you wait. An unread message from Lena fills your screen.

Lena: “I can’t wait to see you tonight.”

You smile at your girlfriend’s simple text. You know it’s tired and not very fair to keep having presumptions of your girlfriend based solely on her career, but you can’t help it. She’s a softie and an absolute sucker for romance and you never would have suspected it - certainly not the first few times she’d spent the night at your place and she’d untangle her hair from her high bun, shucking off her heels and stripping off her CEO persona. It always mesmerized you, it still does, which is why you’re smiling at your phone like an absolute nerd at her easy vulnerability when it comes to you.

you: “I can’t wait to see your beautiful face, pretty lady ;) Don’t make my day any more difficult than it needs to be…”

You remember all too well the very incriminating texts that have recently bombarded your phone with startling frequency. Lena being her own boss certainly had its perks, and spending an awful amount of time sending suggestive messages and downright not-safe-for-work pictures certainly was a perk in itself.

You’d wondered how often anyone would see you looking around suspiciously with the biggest shit-eating grin on your face. It begged the curiosity of who knew you were practically sexting sometimes? You figured you were probably a bit obvious, Kara has spent her fair share of your shift grimacing and blushing furiously whenever you meet her eye. It’s strange because it’s not like part of her powers involves mind-reading, did it really not take a genius to figure you out? Maybe with her super hearing and- oh. That might explain a little bit. In fact, that might explain a lot. Gross. You are not going to broach that conversation with her.

Lena: “Hmmm, that’s no fun…”

You smirk down at your phone. It is far too early for this teasing bullshit, but Lena Luthor lives on her own time and the universal conventions of decency wait for no one, apparently.

Lena: “What if I’m in the mood to be bad?”

you: “I guess I’d have to teach you a lesson about what happens when you tease me all day”

Lena: “It’s settled, let’s call it a date.″

you: “you’d call anything we do a date, love LOL

Lena: “Well then let’s make it extra special tonight ;)”

you: “looking forward to it, you big nerd”

You finally amend to put to your phone, seeing as though you spent a good few minutes flirting with your girlfriend instead of working. You figure even someone with as much money as Cat Grant wouldn’t appreciate you fooling around on company time.

“Ooooh, texting a fancy someone?” Winn’s voice comes from behind you as he swirls around to face you in his swivel chair.

“Yeah, weirdo.” You roll your eyes amused as Winn feigns hurt, but he continues nonetheless.

“Cool, you guys got any romantic plans tonight? Lena must be wicked excited.” He quirks his eyebrows suggestively, and you reach over to hit him on the arm hard enough to make him yelp.

“Gross. Even if we were I wouldn’t tell you anything.”

“Aww aren’t we superfriends? Don’t we go to share super secrets?”

“Definitely not of the bedroom variety.”

“Ah fine, I don’t think I want to know anyway. J’onn and Kara must try so hard to tune out all the adult stuff you and Lena get into whenever you guys are chilling at the DEO.”

You grimace and tune out whatever else Winn was about to say, “Oh god.”

“Really, you guys have no PG plans tonight? No extravagant displays of luxurious affection or cute date outings?”

“No, Winn. Why are you and Kara so interested in my life today anyway?”

Winn stares blankly at you before chuckling and turning back towards his computer. “Ah, ah okay! Sore topic. Sorry to pry. Just know I’m your pal, alright? You can tell me all the things.”

“Yes, rest assured, you are my pal, Winn.” You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head at your interaction.

You’d become quite busy the next few hours, all the bustle and general strangeness of the day wearing off as the remaining CatCo employees that stuck around waited until they could go home. You finally had a chance to lean back and check your phone’s notifications.

Lena: “When are you coming home? I miss you.”

you: “lol you’re so cute. Soon babe, don’t worry. Just a few things to finish up here. Are you done yet?”

Lena: “Yes, I managed to finish all that I needed today. I let Jess go early too, she’s got a cute date of her own.”

you: “oh man, no way! Is he cute? Is he worthy?? Is he an asshole? Do we need to threaten him?”

Lena: “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re more excited about Jess’ plans than ours. I’ve no clue, I merely assumed. Though she was acting particularly off today come to think of it.”

you: “you too eh? People were so weird today. More than they usually are. It must be a full moon.”

Lena: “I’ve no doubt that must be it. Tell me when you’re about to leave, darling. I’d very much like to get out of these restrictive clothes.”

you: “what? You won’t let me help you out??”

Lena: “If you take too long, you’ll regret far more than just that.”

Lena: “I will see you soon <3″

If you rushed to pack up a little quicker than you usually would and took off at a speed that could rival Kara’s, you’d never admit it to anyone. In your haste, you still managed to text Lena once you got into the packed streetcar and were notified that she was just on her way to yours from her apartment.

You had the chance to clean up your apartment a bit and get into your comfiest trackpants and your favourite hoodie when you heard knocking on your door. You opened the door and smiled as you opened your arms to your girlfriend. Lena immediately walked into your embrace and wrapped her arms around your middle, sighing happily as she did.

“You smell nice.”

“Thank you, I just got back from work.”

“And did work have half an army’s worth of perfume sprayed throughout the entire office to attract potential mates today?” She smirks as she makes her way around you to put her things away and make herself at home.

“I thought you said I smelled nice.”

“You do, I’m going to be stealing that sweater from you by the end of tonight.”

You chuckle at her nonchalance, “Naturally.”

She leans back on the back of your couch and crosses her arms easily. “Any hot plans for tonight?”

“You, me, and a box of pizza?”

“Make it two and you got yourself a deal.”

“Any other requests, beautiful?” You make your way slowly to Lena, eventually pinning her between your body and the couch. Your face is just inches away from hers and you can practically feel her next words against your skin.

“I was good today, need I remind you.”

“You were, actually.”

“What do I get for that?” She brings her lips close to yours and you can feel yourself being pulled for a kiss, but she doesn’t let you.

“Anything you want.”

“Oh, that’s dangerous.”

“Yeah, well, I want to make it all about you tonight.” You try again for a kiss, leaning in just too late as Lena brings herself away again. You grunt in mild frustration and she chuckles at your desperation.

“Are you sure? I see you’re getting a little impatient.”

Finally, she kisses you and you feel relieved. You’ve been waiting all day to be able to kiss your girlfriend. She’s the only sense of normalcy you have, no matter the absurdity that is your life or your individual circumstances. Her hands come up between your bodies as she latches onto the front of your shirt and tugs. Your hands come up to her hips and you push up against her lightly. You hear a soft groan from her lips and kiss it away.

You lose yourself in the kiss for however long you’ve been going at it, and she pulls herself away suddenly, leaving you moderately shocked at the abrupt loss of contact as she makes her way towards your kitchen.

“Let’s get Tony’s, I think I’m in the mood for a greasy cheesy-stuffed crust pizza.” She smirks as she takes in your indignant expression. You decide right then and there that, yes, in accordance to all science, religion, and all poetry that could be: Lena Luthor will be the death of you.

You call in your favourite pizza place and have two large greasy, cheesy-stuffed crust pizzas delivered to your door - one vegetarian for Lena (compromises, apparently), and one specialty butter chicken flavoured pizza that does an excellent job of tasting like it’s supposed to.

You’re the very definition of relaxed as you recline into your couch, Lena leaning into you as you wrap an arm around her. You both decided on one of the conspiracy theory documentaries on Netflix, deciding it was a good piece of relative garbage to consume.

Lena hums happily as she nuzzles into your side, taking a bit more of the blanket wrapped around you two as it uncovers a bit more of your legs.

You hear her mumbling from somewhere near your stomach, muffled by your sweater and the blanket and her general sleepiness. “Happy Valentine’s day.”


There’s a long pause as you stare at Lena’s figure, no doubt with the intensity of burning into her skull if you had heat vision.

“I’m sorry, was that too weird? I shouldn’t have brought it up-”


Lena finally turns her head to look at you questioningly. “What is it, love?”

You squint hard at the TV, the documentary long forgotten as you quickly run a reel of your entire day, pulling the brakes hard to a screeching halt when you put all the pieces together.

“Holy shit.” You mumble more to yourself than Lena.

“Babe, what’s wrong? Please, we can just forget about it-”

“No. No, no, no…”

“Oh my god, (Y/N), are you okay? Please talk to me.”

You sit up quickly, trying as best as you can to ease Lena off your lap as you continue to scratch at the surface of your struggling comprehension. You can’t believe yourself, you really can’t. You’ve certainly outdid yourself this time.

“I can’t believe it.”

Lena becomes increasingly alarmed at how upset you’re becoming and is at a loss for consoling you.

You finally look at her, an amalgamation of sadness, disappointment, and disbelief in your eyes. “Baby why didn’t you say anything?”

“I- I mean, I just did?”

“No, no way. This was supposed to be special.”

She looks at you, total confusion written on her face. “I’m sorry. I just thought- you didn’t bring it up? You hadn’t mentioned it all day and we haven’t really talked much about it, which is fair because that’s not really a thing one talks about in detail. I just thought you weren’t comfortable? I didn’t intend to upset you.”

“No, no baby that’s not it. I just- wow, I kinda suck. Aren’t you a little bit sad that I forgot?”

Lena’s lips quirk into a small smile. “Well, I mean I’ve never really had an official Valentine’s day so to speak. I would have liked to do something nice for you. But I wasn’t sure if you’d already made plans and I didn’t want to encroach on yours, and you didn’t give many hints about today at all so I thought maybe there was something else there. I didn’t want to bring it up if it was going to upset you.”

You click your tongue and lean across the couch to meet Lena halfway. You take her face in your hands and kiss her passionately. “You are too good for me, you know that?”

Lena smiles and kisses you again in between her words. “It’s okay, darling. As long as you remember my birthday.”

You pause in between your kisses, stopping as you stare almost cross-eyed into her eyes. The delayed reaction most certainly wasn’t going to help you. “Yeah, of course.”

She squints her eyes at you, backing away marginally so she can regard your entire face.

“You do remember when my birthday is, right?”

“How can I? You have like, three.”

She gasps in mock offense and begins to move away before you pull her back in, grinning at her reaction. You savour one last kiss before gently pulling yourself away and shaking your head. “Nope, I won’t have this. Get up.”

“What is it now?” She quirks her eyebrow at you quizzically, surely pondering what other nonsense you’ve come up with now.

“Get up baby, this is our date night.”

“I’d figured this night was, regardless of the calendar date?”

“Nope. Get your pretty little ass off that couch and help me, Luthor.”

Lena laughs as you take her in your arms and take her away from the couch. You pull the cushions off immediately and leave them in a heap on the floor as you take long strides toward your bedroom.

She calls after you from the living room.  “Where on earth are you going? What are you even doing?”

You come back with various blankets and push them into her arms. Lena looks down at them questioningly and watches as you stack the cushions against the couch, taking care that they won’t fall.

Eventually, you’re satisfied with your work and you’ve made a tiny fort in front of your TV with the blankets and couch cushions. Lena smiles at you, bewildered and her expression just begging for an explanation.

You notice her look and cock your head to your creation. “Well then? Get in. You said you’ve never made one of these in your life, ever. Right?”

“Yes…” She’s still looking on with perplexity but crouches down to get into your fort. You follow happily behind her.

“Well, I fucked up, so I’m going to try and fix it.”

Your girlfriend looks at you with utter adoration, her eyes slightly wet with unshed tears. “You are truly something else, (Y/N).”

You smile at her and let her kiss you, closing your eyes in content as you bask in the love you have for Lena - the woman who came into your life and challenged everything you thought you knew, and then changed you for the better.

“I am sorry. I feel like absolute shit. I’ve never forgotten before and I…” Your words trail off, and she looks at you, encouraging and understanding. You find the resilience to continue. “I just, I don’t know how it’s escaped me. It’s like, lately it’s this simultaneous experience of my days blurring together and looking forward to each day, you know?”

Lena doesn’t answer, she simply nods and silently prods you to continue.

“It’s no excuse, I don’t want it to be. It’s just that, I’ve been so happy now. I am so happy, and that is all thanks to you. I lose track of my days because I’m not counting down anymore to some unmarked end or whatever, or waiting until the next greatest thing happens to me that makes me feel alive for a few minutes. I don’t need that anymore because it’s you. You are the best thing that’s happened to me, and I don’t need to count down anymore.”

You hear her sniffle and you wrap an arm around her, as best as you can attempt with the lack of space in your fort.

“I just want to make it up to you. Because you deserve everything. And the people I’ve dated in the past have done things on Valentine’s day, and it makes me feel fucking terrible that I can’t even be assed to remember it for you. It makes me feel like I’ve let you down, and it sucks, because I want to be worthy of you. If I can’t even remember one stupid day, how am I supposed to be the person you need me to be?”

You inhale sharply, getting all your words out and finally being able to breathe. Lena’s freely crying now, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes and wetting her cheeks.

“No, (Y/N), look at this. You did this.” She points up at the fort surrounding you. “You did make it up to me. You realized it and did something about it. I could never hold this against you. I can’t be mad at you for this. You did nothing wrong, baby. And you are exactly the person I need.”

Lena’s hand comes up to your face and caresses your cheek, her thumb lightly treading circles on your skin.

“You are so good to me. You are good for me, (Y/N), and I couldn’t have asked for a better person to spend this day with.” She leans in to kiss you and your breathing steadies, allowing yourself this forgiveness.

There’s a pause in your kisses as you and Lena look at each other, the documentary long over as silence fills your apartment. Nothing but the sounds of the street and the humming of your appliances can be heard.

“You wanna know something that I haven’t done?” You ask her after a moment.

“What is that?”

“I’ve never had sex in a pillow fort before. I’m gonna fuck you in this one.”

You smirk as she she gasps scandalously, swatting your face away from her as you effectively ruin the moment. You laugh as you dodge her half-hearted attempts to keep you away, poking at her sides as she twitches and squeals at the onslaught.

“Hey, but honestly. What else haven’t you done before? You wanna do some watercolour painting tonight? I think I have a full set hiding around somewhere that I got from my best friend for my birthday. Or we could put together a puzzle, or something.” You contemplate the items you have in your apartment, and you’re about to move to look for them.

All Lena does is give you a long look, studying you before she pushes you down onto your back and moves on top of you, kissing you so that you both forget the time or the day by the time you’re both done with each other.

anonymous asked: I love Joe!!! I would love to see more of him in Modern Glasgow or any other idea that strikes any of y'alls fancy. I think he is truly the only good friend Claire ever had (beyond Jamie, naturally) and I wished the books had even more Joe and Claire moments!

Read the other chapters here.

Our Story

[December 24th, 1998]

There is something to be said for the peculiar hour of the blue-morning, when a hospital beeps into quiet life. The rattle of death behind drawn curtains, expletives hissed over set bones and shots taken in the thigh. It is not like Jamie’s Grampian refuge, which springs forth naturally from the earth. Instead, Boston GH scars the landscape, numbing loneliness through morphine drips and the tug of sheer necessity.

It is during this gradual reawakening, that Claire hides in a closet, imagines the pink, wet sacs of her lungs contract and expand. She counts her breaths—one, two, three, one, two, three—to release the night’s chaos, still lodged in her throat. 

During the wild evening hours, Claire sees only what exists outside her body. Such an easy thing to do as a doctor, this sudden corporeal separation: leap into the procedural dance, embrace the temporary loss of yourself to the staunching of blood and the sewing of sutures. 

But eventually, the window of calm arrives, and the wall of dissociation begins to crumble. Claire, in her closet sanctuary, returns to her body once more, the sight of her arms and her hands like four old friends, reacquainted.

Claire hunkers down between two shelves, and relief travels from foot to torso, settling somewhere inside her gut. As always, she has brought her medical bag—a gift from her husband, CER embossed in golden filigree—and rummages through it. As always, she finds the folder and flicks it open, seeking the page that is stowed inside. She is forever tethered to its final sentence, which launches a fresh rip of longing straight to her chest.

And as always, she goes back to the beginning, following the words. Fingers like greedy sponges, text absorbing into skin.

NEW YORK CITY, 11:30AM - The diner hushes when the bell tinkles, announcing the arrival of literary darling James Fraser. He is a giant in more ways than one: six-feet tall, wide-set shoulders, and a critically-acclaimed author with legions of fans. But for all his inches and his clout, Fraser is blissfully unaware of the eyes on his back. When he sits opposite me and shakes my hand, I, like the rest of the world, find him to be impulsively likable.

Sporting one month’s growth of beard and a wrinkled v-neck, it doesn’t take long for Fraser’s roguish charm to earn a free meal. He is quick to thank the waitress, and for not the first time, one has to wonder how the man could possibly be single. Surely his good looks, his talent, and Reformed Bad Boy reputation draws the ladies in? 

Point proven: our waitress lingers, hungry for Fraser’s attention, but he closes his menu after ordering a glass of lemonade. (An odd choice, but then our writing heroes are full of idiosyncrasies, aren’t they?) I almost leap to console the girl, that poor thing, as she runs a self-conscious hand down her apron.

Alas, one gets the impression that it isn’t pickiness keeping Fraser romantically unattached. Nor is it misogyny or closeted homosexuality (despite what those tabloid vipers spit). James Fraser simply enjoys his place in the lonely hearts club—and is perfectly content to stay there, sipping ice-cold lemonade.

Frank’s ring glides across the lines, pauses over “single”. Such a different life, so removed from Claire’s, though here it thrums beneath her hands. Suddenly, her head grows heavier, weighted by the chain draped around her neck. Jamie’s thistle ring dangles there, cold as death against her. Forever tucked inside her shirts, a secret between her breasts. (Frank lets her wear it, just as she lets him wear his stained button-downs, other women smiling from the collars.)

Fraser’s second and latest novel, Two Centuries in Purgatory, released just last month to stellar reviews. Hailed as a “modern classic” by The New York Times (and truly, it is), Purgatory has found a comfortable seat at the top of the bestseller lists, and shows no signs of losing momentum. Now touring the U.S., Fraser seems nonplussed by the bustle of the Big Apple, his eighth time to our concrete jungle (“I’ve a parade of publisher meetings and interviews tomorrow,” he grumbles). Though he’s a longtime resident of both Edinburgh and Glasgow, he says no city feels like home nowadays. “Where is home then?” I ask him, and in traditional Fraser fashion, he deadpans: “Lost.”

For all his fame and glory, there is something decidedly melancholy about James Fraser. But of course, we all know why. We’ve read his books, haven’t we? We know his story.

Gillian Edgars: Are you enjoying your lemonade, Mr. Fraser?

James Fraser: Aye, verra much so. Lemonade in Scotland doesna taste like this.

GE: Mmmm, exploring the pleasures of America. I like it. Now, shall we begin? Let’s start with Two Centuries in Purgatory

Claire brings the page a few inches closer. This is not the first time she has read the article, its edges worn to yellowing curls. 

A familiar anger sinks its claws into her side, as this reproduction of Jamie staggers into a flickering half-life. Gillian Edgars thinks she knows the man behind the book jacket. The entire world, for that matter, believes they can claim the bold-faced names on their hardbacks: James Fraser.

But, Claire seethes, do these people know that Jamie smiles in his sleep? That he’s prone to seasicknesses, could not wink at the waitress even if he tried? No. Only Claire knows these smaller, intimate truths—but still, they are not enough. Jamie, no longer only hers, but a communal being disseminated and shared amongst millions. Strangers have molded her Jamie into something new, into hollow casts of their false impressions.

Without warning, the closet door swings open and Joe Abnernathy leans in. “Knew I’d find you in here,” he says, but he draws up short. His smile falters when he sees Claire on the ground. Falters further still when he reads the headline, “Scotland’s Newest Literary Hero.” on the page and on her face.

“Lady Jane, why do you do this to yourself? We’re working, I know, but can’t you try to be merry? It’s officially Christmas Eve!”

Joe kneels down, and levels his gaze with hers—the gentle but silent disappointment of an older brother. Claire holds firm when he pries the clipping from her grasp, the paper snagging the skin of her palm. It glides over and up, a shallow curve that splits into fine, shining rubies. A jeweled J, just at the base of her thumb. 

Claire presses the wound to her teeth, tastes the heady, metallic taste of herself. (Later, she will trace the cut with reverence, grateful to be marred, at the very least, by a shade of Jamie.) Joe tsks and reaches for a shelf, bringing back the first aid kit.

“Perks of hiding in a hospital supply closet. Bandages, everywhere. Take this.”

“It’s fine, Joe,” Claire assures him but accepts the bandaid anyways (Later, she will paste it on before she leaves, for the J should be hidden. Hers alone). “I’m fine—just a bad day and a scratch. See? No significant blood loss.” 

“Phew. Thought I’d witnessed the first fatal paper cut,” Joe says, but then continues, more softly, “LJ, I thought you’d given this up. That Frank made you promise you’d stop.”

“He did,” Claire replies. “And I did too, for a while.”

Her stomach turns as the memory resurfaces: her husband, feeding the shredder a feast of papers. The machine’s tight-lipped and fanged smile, destroying Claire’s collection of articles, her glimpses of Jamie. Frank had held her as the teeth had chewed, tightened his grip when she repeated his words back to him, “Time to leave the past behind.” And afterwards, once the beast’s belly had emptied into the trash, Frank had dragged the bag of shreds to the curb. Claire had looked on, standing in the doorway. A soldier’s wife already in mourning.

(That evening, she almost snuck outside to piece the words together, for old habits die hard and a planet will always yearn for her sun. But then Frank’s arm had risen in the darkness, flopped sleepily across her waist. The weight of it had held her there, and so she’d stayed, picturing the night creatures stealing Jamie away, piece by piece.)

“I just…wanted to see what people were saying. About his new book.” She sighs. “I know I’m being ridiculous. But – it’s just that…”

“He’s everywhere, ain’t he? In the papers, on TV. Saw they’re making a Lifetime adaptation of A Blade of Grass. Jesus.”

Claire nods. “Must say, I’m steering clear of that one.” (But she won’t, of course. Claire will want to see herself and Jamie on that screen, their better, manufactured selves broadcasted in technicolor.)

“You’re really gonna let me down like that, Lady Jane? I thought we’d drink cheap Scotch, put the movie on mute, and invent the dialogue ourselves. Next weekend, the two of us. Drunk and vengeful. Whaddya say?”

“A hard pass, Joe. We’ll be in Oxford for the holidays, anyways. Visiting Frank’s family.”

“Well, la-di-dah. I’ll be on this side of Atlantic throwing popcorn at my TV.” Joe leaps to his feet when his pager beeps. As he walks out the door, his hand flies to his coat pocket and he withdraws a shabby paperback. “Before I forget—a Christmas gift, for the Lady. If you’re gonna scramble your brain with nonsense, let it be the fault of Tessa’s ‘membrane of innocence’. Not ‘Scotland’s Newest Literary Hero.’”

Claire laughs and flips through The Impetuous Pirate, inhaling its smell of antiseptic and mildew, the vestiges of long-ago fingerprints. A Harlequin, taken from the hospital waiting room. “Aye aye, captain. But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay here in Davy Jones’ Locker for a while longer.”

“Slack-arrr,” Joe jokes, turning swiftly on his heel. She hears his cry boom down the hallway. “Operating room, ahoy!”

Alone again, Claire tucks The Impetuous Pirate inside her bag, picks up the discarded article from the floor. For the first time, she notices its publication date, October 20th, was her 31st birthday. She cannot remember the details of the occasion—did Frank take her to a concert, or to a movie? Buy her flowers or chocolates?—and yet a foreign scene plays so clearly in her mind. Something cut from the script of her life, the stagehand’s hook pulling her to the wings before she has a chance to speak. Cast in the closet’s dim spotlight, it unfolds as the playact that could have been but never was:

Jamie, in the New York diner, drinking lemonade. Condensation like dew drops, rolling down the pitcher. A young girl, in Gillian Edgars’ place, singing a high soprano. And Claire, beside her, blowing out candles in a single huff.

As she slices the birthday cake, Claire nicks her finger on the knife’s blade. “Kiss to make it better!” the young girl cries, and Jamie does, his lips on the sting and then Claire’s mouth. He tastes of citrus, of yellow and sunshine, a marigold paradise in a city of dying autumn leaves. “Does it still hurt, Sassenach?” he asks her. “Not anymore,” she says. And when the little girl giggles, watching them, it is something sacred. She licks the frosting from the candles. “So what’d you wish for, Mama?” she asks, not knowing that, in a moments like these, there is no need for wishes.

Claire’s pager rings, rearranging her memories. Now she remembers her 31st birthday—and knows it did not happen in that diner. On that day, there was no little girl, no citrus kisses in a molting New York. (But in a parallel land, perhaps, where the lemonade is phosphorescent and you can eat the stars.) Instead, Frank had taken Claire to the opera house, a drawn-out affair they had both fidgeted through. He’d led her to the bedroom, with its king-sized bed, and slipped off her dress while she kept her chain on. “Talk to me,” he’d panted, silver thistles against her chest. And when she came, it was not Frank’s body that drew her cries. It was not Frank’s name that rose from her lips.

Claire scans the article, skipping again to the final paragraphs. Here lies the line she reads over and over, the very reason she shells $20 for subscriptions, scavenges in bins for scraps. Anything to discover some evidence of herself, some proof that she still lives in the peripheries of Jamie’s life. And whenever she finds it, it pours into her and lingers, like wine.

GE: Your debut was quite impressive—an instant bestseller, an Oprah Book Club pick, an upcoming TV movie. I’m sure you’ve been asked this before…but allow me to be a hack, for just one moment. Let me ask the nosy questions. Let me pry

JF: I dinna have a fear of rats [SMILES]. Get on wi’ it then.

GE: I appreciate it, Mr. Fraser, I do [LAUGHS]. The protagonist’s struggles in A Blade of Grass—the financial woes, the criminal record, the years of solitude—they seem to mirror your own. Is it accurate to say that the book is autobiographical?

“Randall?” a voice calls from outside the closet. “Randall, are you in there? Mr. Duncan in Room #18 needs to be—”

“Prepped for surgery, I know!” Claire finishes. Her voice is shrill, rising with her goosebumps as she nears the interview’s end. “I’ll be out in a second, Dr. Hildegarde!”

JF: In some respects, aye, A Blade of Grass is autobiographical. Mind, I made a lot of it up myself. Embellished a few things. 

GE: Oh yes, certainly! But even without your embellishments, your life does make for such an interesting tale. In a way, your struggles are what made you a literary sensation. But still, I do wonder—do you regret any of it? The gamble, the money, the arrest? 

JF: [LAUGHS QUIETLY] I thank ye for the compliment, Ms. Edgars, but I hope my sins are no’ responsible for the book’s success. And for the record, they were largely exaggerated by the press. 

GE: Ah, right. We rats are despicable creatures, always making bread from crumbs. But it never rises in the oven, not really.

JF: Have ye tried poetry before, Ms. Edgars? You’ve a knack for it [LOOKS AWAY]. But nay, it isna the crimes themselves that I regret most. Whether they were exaggerated or no. 

GE: Really? There’s something else [LEANS FORWARD]? Will you tell me then, your life’s biggest regret? Or will you keep me and your readers in the dark, forever wondering what keeps our beloved James Fraser up at night?

Now Claire closes her hand into a fist, forces herself to bleed out from that thin, half-mooned J. She imagines Jamie’s face, inscrutable to Gillian Edgars, but fixed in an expression that she, and only she, can read. And if Claire had been there on that October afternoon, sitting in the diner’s vinyl booth, she would have understood. Would’ve known already what Jamie regretted most, what he would and could not say aloud. For within this precious, final line—their spoken and unspoken wishes:           

JF: My biggest regret? I let the story end early.

(JF: I should have loved her better—God! I should have loved her better.)


Unfinished Symphony

Suits100 prompt #71 - Harvey finds a letter from his father.

(Main) Pairing / Character - Mike Ross/Harvey Specter

Gifset by @loyalty2waystreet

Writing by @novemberhush

Word count - 3,654

Thanks to the amazingly talented, wonderfully supportive and endlessly caring @loyalty2waystreet for surprising me with this gorgeous gifset at a time when my motivation was waning. I absolutely love it! It really inspired me to keep going and I’m sure you will all agree with me when I say how beautiful it is.

Thanks also to Aqua and Erin for undertaking to organise the Suits100 event in the first place, and to whoever originally submitted this particular prompt. I hope what I’ve done with it doesn’t disappoint you too much!

He had first found the letter when he’d went to clear out his father’s place in the weeks after his death. It was a rented apartment, the family home having been sold off following the divorce and the proceeds divided between Gordon and Lily. Harvey could easily have kept the place on, but it had never meant anything more to Gordon than a place to hang his hat and rest his head. It had never been ‘home’ to either him or his eldest son and Harvey therefore held no attachment to it. All he cared about was the parts of his father it housed.

The record collection that had inspired Harvey’s own and which was even more extensive. His saxophone and other varied instruments. All the memorabilia commemorating a life soaked in music. Photos, ticket stubs, posters. The hat his father swore had been given to him by Thelonius Monk himself. These were the things Harvey cared about. Not the four walls that surrounded them.

Gordon’s will had been straightforward enough. All his money was split evenly between Harvey and Marcus, except for a few small bequests here and there to a handful of old friends and charities close to his heart. As for everything else, well, there were some items of sentimental value left to Marcus. Their grandfather’s watch, for example. (Harvey didn’t mind in the slightest. It wasn’t to his taste and he’d always hated the old buzzard anyway.)

There were a few other things, but the bulk of it, mostly musical in nature, went to Harvey. Marcus raised no objections, never having shared his father and brother’s love of music.

And so Harvey had found himself spending a weekend packing up his late father’s belongings, all his worldly goods, the mementos of a life, tucked away safely in boxes to be transported to Harvey’s condo. Donna had offered to help, Marcus and Jessica too, but this was something Harvey had felt he needed to do alone. Which meant there was no one there to witness him stumbling across the envelope in the desk drawer, addressed to himself in his father’s flowing handwriting. No one to hear the way his breath caught in his throat or see how his hand shook. To glimpse the tears he blinked back.

He sat there for a full half hour, just staring at it as if he could divine its contents without actually opening it, but eventually he’d carefully peeled it open and extracted the letter inside. The letter that began:-

To my dear son, Harvey,

Hey, kid. If you’re reading this then you’ve either been snooping in my desk or I’ve gone to the great Blue Note Café in the sky without telling you all the things I should have told you when I still had the chance, all the things I’ve put in this letter. And as you were never much one for snooping I’m guessing it’s not looking too good for your old man right about now…

And that was as far as he got before the tears refused to be blinked back any longer and the dam broke. The letter was put back in its envelope, never read beyond the first paragraph, once he was all cried out. Whatever his father wanted to tell him, Harvey wasn’t ready to hear. He wasn’t ready to hear what he felt sure was his father’s final goodbye to him.

Life went on. Harvey’s career flourished even as his personal life became one long string of meaningless encounters with anonymous strangers and the occasional hook-up with Scottie whenever she was in town. The firm was his unit, Jessica his general and Donna his trusted second-in-command. Louis was Forrest Gump. With less gumption. Harvey didn’t see what more he could need.

And then one day another anonymous stranger walked into a hotel suite, dropped a briefcase full of weed at his feet and soon Harvey didn’t know how he’d survived this long without him.

Now, six years later, that blue-eyed stranger was no longer a stranger, but Harvey’s loyal lieutenant and junior partner in the firm. Mike Ross, ex-con, attorney at law and all-round bleeding heart. He’d also just taken it upon himself to pack up Harvey’s old office and transfer everything into his new one, recently vacated by Jessica, apparently. Or at least that was the only explanation Harvey could come up with for why he came to be standing in what he could have sworn was still his office, looking around and wondering just what in the hell had happened to it and all his things.

“Mike, what the fuc-”

“Relax, Harvey, your stuff is fine. I just moved it all into your new office, seeing as you were never gonna get around to it, so I could take possession of mine.”

“If there’s so much as one scratch on any of my records, rookie…”

“I know, I know, you’ll feed me to the fishes, yadda yadda yadda,” Mike said, rolling his eyes with a smirk and leaving Harvey nostalgic for the good old days when he could intimidate the kid with a single look.

Before he could try out any more threats, though, Mike reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced an envelope.

“By the way, I found this when I was packing up your records. It fell out of the sleeve of one of them. Thought it might be important.”

He held the envelope out for Harvey to inspect, but he didn’t need to look to know what it was. His father’s letter. Hidden away inside one of his favourite records, never forgotten, but pushed to the back of Harvey’s mind along with all the other things he didn’t want to deal with. Like his feelings for the man sitting in front of him. The engaged to someone else man sitting in front of him, Harvey reminded himself. But one emotional crisis at a time, right?

“It is important,” Harvey croaked, voice suddenly thick. When he didn’t elaborate further Mike cocked an eyebrow at him as if to say Go on, I’m listening.

With a sigh, Harvey gingerly took the letter, staring down once again at the familiar handwriting.

“It’s a letter my father left for me,” he murmured. “I found it among his things after he died.”

Mike’s eyebrows shot up. “Jesus. That must’ve … Christ, I mean, I bawled my eyes out when Father Walker gave me one of my old childhood books that my parents had written a message in for me, but this … he left you this, knowing he’d be gone when you read it. That must’ve been pretty intense, finding it like that.”

“Yeah,” Harvey agreed.


Silence fell between them then, but Harvey knew Mike well enough to know that mind of his was far from silent.

“Spit it out, Mike. I know you’re dying to know. It’s okay, you can ask.”

Mike hesitated for a second, an aborted denial hovering on his lips, before giving in to his innate curiosity.

“What’s it say?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t get beyond the first paragraph,” Harvey replied, a wry smile on his own lips.

“What?? Why not? Come on, it can’t have been that bad. Loving parents - and by all accounts that’s what your dad was - don’t leave their kids letters telling them how disappointed they were in them or how they never wanted them to begin with. They tell you how much they love you and how proud they are of you. Why wouldn’t you want to read that?”

Harvey shrugged. “I didn’t always give him reason to be proud of me.”

“Bullshit!” The vehemence in Mike’s voice startled Harvey, causing him to jerk his head up and stare at Mike as intently as he’d been staring at the envelope.

“You can’t seriously think your dad left you a list of all your faults and misdemeanours, Harvey, come on.”

“No, I know, you’re right, it’s stupid. I guess I … I …”

“You weren’t ready to say goodbye.”

As usual Mike had cut straight to the heart of him in a way only he could.


“Are you ready now?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. I know it’s a letter, but this feels like the last conversation I’ll ever have with him.”

“Maybe. But I’d lay odds on it being one you’ll feel better for having.”

“You think so?”

“I do. And you wanna know something else? I’m jealous of you right now.”

Harvey’s forehead creased in confusion. “Jealous? Why the hell would you be jealous?”

“Because I’d give almost anything for one more conversation with my mom or my dad or Grammy. This is a gift, Harvey. Open it.”

Nodding, Harvey did just that, but stopped as Mike got up and began to walk away.

“Where are you going? Aren’t you going to stay? Don’t you want to know what it says?”

“Yeah, and you can tell me when you’re ready. If you want to, that is. But this is a conversation between you and your father and it should be a private one. I’ll be at McGinty’s nursing a whiskey. There’ll be a glass waiting for you if you want to talk afterwards. Or not. We can just sit and drink. But right now it’s father/son time and I don’t want to intrude on that.” He strolled towards the door, turning before he left to add with a smirk, “Besides, I’m pretty sure your pride can’t handle me seeing you cry like Louis after sex.”

Harvey returned the smirk with one of us own. “And how do you know Louis cries after sex, rookie?”

“Please. It’s Louis. Of course he cries after sex. And before. And durin-”

“Okay, okay,” Harvey interrupted, rolling his eyes. “Just have the scotch ready, wiseass.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Mike retorted, standing to attention and saluting.

Harvey huffed a laugh before a thought struck him. “Hey, not that I don’t appreciate it, but it’s late enough as it is. Won’t Rachel mind you dragging me to some faux Irish bar to sit around drinking cheap scotch all night while the patrons get misty-eyed and sing songs about the homeland while you try to get me to spill my guts?”

Mike stilled, the smile faltering on his face before falling away completely.

“No, Rachel won’t mind. She won’t even know. She’s staying at her parents’ place for a while. We, ah … we’ve decided to take some time out from our relationship.”

“What?? Since when?”

“Since I suggested we postpone the wedding. Again.”

“Mike, I … I don’t know what to say.” Well, that wasn’t strictly true. His heart had a few suggestions. Like, Please tell me it’s over for good. And, Tell me you don’t love her. Or, Am I the reason you keep postponing the wedding? Please say yes. But something stopped him from saying any of that. Harvey told himself it was his honour, because wishing the end of someone’s relationship was almost as bad as physically interfering in it, but he suspected at least part of it was cowardice. He didn’t want to hurt Rachel, true, but he didn’t want to risk Mike’s rejection either.

“You don’t have to say anything, Harvey. It’s on me. I’m the one who can’t commit to her.”

“Why not?” Harvey asked, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them. His heart applauded even as the rest of him quivered with fear. The question hung heavy in the air between them and Harvey fell back on his favourite fail-safe to defuse the tension - humour.

“What? You get a better offer or something?”

Mike didn’t crack a smile. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink. He just stood there and looked at Harvey, long and hard, a searching, scrutinising look on his face that left Harvey feeling stripped bare.

“Not yet,” he finally replied, voice low and hoarse. And with that he was gone, leaving Harvey with more questions than answers. He suddenly wished he had that drink in his hand already. That thought reminded him that he already had something in his hand. His father’s letter. Foregoing the scotch for now, he sank into the nearest chair, took a deep breath, and began reading.

To my dear son, Harvey,

Hey, kid. If you’re reading this then you’ve either been snooping in my desk or I’ve gone to the great Blue Note Café in the sky without telling you all the things I should have told you when I still had the chance, all the things I’ve put in this letter. And as you were never much one for snooping I’m guessing it’s not looking too good for your old man right about now…

I’m sorry to do this to you, son. I should have told you all these things face to face, but somehow I never got around to it, and now the doc is telling me my old ticker ain’t doing too good and it feels like there’s so much to say that I don’t know where to begin.

First things first, I suppose, so let’s get the obvious out of the way. At least, I hope it’s obvious. I love you, Harvey. And I’m proud of you. I’m so, so proud of you. I think you know that. Jesus, I hope you know that. I hope I told you that enough when I was alive. I hoped it showed in everything I did and said when we were together. I think you know. I think you know.

Secondly, it wasn’t your fault, you know. You know what I’m talking about. Your mother’s infidelity. I know that as far as the rest of the world is concerned you appear to lay all the blame for the break-up of our marriage at your mother’s door, but you don’t fool me. I see the little boy, hiding behind his anger, using it as a shield to deflect attention away from the fact that he wonders if it was his fault, wonders if he did something to drive her to it. You didn’t. It. Wasn’t. Your. Fault. There was nothing you did to cause it and nothing you could have done to prevent it. You were a child when it started. Hell, for all I know it started before you were even born. But I do know this - it was not your fault. Okay? You didn’t make her cheat. Get that through that goddamn head of yours.

And stop beating yourself up about being the one to tell me about it, too. Truth is, I think I always knew, deep down. I just didn’t want to admit it. I knew your mother was unhappy and I turned away and pretended not to see. Because I was afraid of losing her. I loved her, and I wanted her to be happy, and she wasn’t. And that made me feel like a failure. But instead of letting her go, I clung on. I told myself it would be okay. If we could only make it to Thanksgiving we’d be okay. Or to Christmas. Or your birthday. Or our next anniversary. But I was kidding myself. When you love someone, and they don’t love you back, it’s never  okay. It’s soul destroying. But keeping someone tied to you when you know they’d rather be free, that’s killing the person you love, slowly but surely. A little part of your mother died with every passing year and I did nothing to stop it. I did nothing to help her.

I pretended that all she needed was a little space from time to time. So I agreed to tour with anyone who asked me. I told myself that she missed me as much as I missed her when I was on the road. But her voice on the other end of the line was always cold when I called. Except when we talked about you and Marcus. She always loved you two. Her beautiful boys, she called you. You remember that? Her beautiful boys. But you were mine, too. My beautiful, proud, stubborn, hard-headed boys.

But it’s that pride and stubbornness and hard-headedness that has me worried now. (Not about Marcus. I know he’ll be all right. He has Katie and your mom and if anything good came from him being sick before it was that it taught him it’s okay to reach out to people when you need them. You, though, I’m afraid the only thing you’ll reach for is the scotch.)

You see, I’ve been talking to your mother. Her and Bobby both. I should have told you that. I should have told you it was all right to forgive her. To love her. But I was scared. Scared you’d think me weak for forgiving her. Scared I’d lose your respect. But it wasn’t fair to either of you. Maybe nothing I said would have made a difference, but I could have tried. So much time you’ve lost. Time you could have spent repairing your relationship. And now I’m gone and you’re going to need someone, Harvey. And if not your mother, who?

I know you won’t lean on Marcus. You take your role of big brother far too seriously to allow you to do that. There’s Jessica and Donna, and even Louis, of course. But you won’t open up to them. You won’t let them see you weak, even though they’d never judge you for it. And you know I like Scottie, but you need someone who does more than just challenge you, Harvey. You need someone you can let yourself be weak around. Someone you don’t have to appear strong to all the time. But to do that you’d need to let someone in, and that doesn’t come easy to you, kid. I guess you can blame your mother and me for that. You heard me talk about our great love so many times, and you saw the truth of that love, how it only went one way, and now you doubt it could ever be any other way. But it can, Harvey. It can. You just have to be open to it.

And here’s the thing. If I had it to do all over again, I would. If I could go back in time to that first night we met, I wouldn’t change a thing. I would still ask her if I could take her home. I wouldn’t walk away. I wouldn’t know how to. Because I don’t regret your mother, I could never regret her. And not just because she gave me you boys (although, of course, I’d never give you up for the world). I’m not good with words, but I’ll try to explain.

Before Lily most people were just … white noise. There’d been other women before her, but they were nothing more than background music. Easy listening. Safe, comfortable, predictable. But Lily, oh, she was a blues song and a country ballad. Soul and jazz and gospel. She was rock and roll and she was Beethoven’s Fifth. She was ‘Ode to Joy’ sung by choirs of angels. My lullaby. My national anthem. My requiem. She was it all. She still is.

Some people are their own magnus opus. A great work in and off themselves. I think your mother is one of those people. But most of us are works in progress. Unfinished symphonies just waiting for the right one to come along and complete them. Your mother completed me. Unfortunately, I couldn’t return the favour. She didn’t need me to.

You pretend you’re one of the ones who truly don’t need anyone else to come along and help them compose their life’s song, Harvey, and maybe you even believe it. But I know better. I know you. You’re the sweetest tune I ever produced, kid, but you’re an unfinished symphony. And somewhere out there there’s someone with all the right notes. You just gotta find them, and when you do - let them in.

Maybe it’ll be love at first sight, like me with your mother. Maybe it’ll take a little longer. But you’ll know it’s them when you find yourself breaking every rule you ever made for yourself. I swore I’d never fall for a groupie, but five minutes with your mother and I was already planning the proposal.

I would have went anywhere with her, put her above everyone I’d ever known, given up my life for her. Hell, I’d have even given up music for her if she’d asked me to. When you find someone you’d give it all up for, you’ll know. And you’ll understand why I never stopped loving your mother. It was beyond my power to do so. But even if I could’ve, I wouldn’t. Because your mother was the most beautiful song I ever heard and no matter how it ended I wouldn’t have missed a single note for anything.

You’ve never been afraid of anything in your life, son. Don’t start now. Don’t be afraid of loving someone. Life’s too short, take it from me.

I love you, Harvey. Never doubt it.

All my love,


Harvey let the letter drop to the desk in front of him as the silent tears that had been threatening to fall all through his reading of it finally found release. For maybe the first time in his life he understood what people meant when they said crying could be cathartic.

When he had pulled himself together enough to talk he didn’t even hesitate as he reached for his phone and hit Mike’s number. His dad was right. He was Harvey goddamn Specter and he’d never been afraid of anything in his life. He wasn’t going to start now.

“Mike? Hey, listen - how soon can you get to my place? The scotch is better there and I have an offer I’d like to run by you…”

First a Man (Resistance) (1/3)

Originally posted by supernatural-pantry

Characters:  Chuck x Reader, Dean, Sam, Castiel

Word Count: 3003

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Heavy Drinking, Swearing, Implied Smut, and  Protective!Dean (Apologies if I’ve overlooked any.)

Request:  Can you do a Chuck x Reader based on the song “Resistance” by Muse? Kind of like a secret relationship because the angels don’t approve of the reader dating a prophet/God (whichever you prefer). So they never know when they might be caught or how long they have? 

A/N:  This is the first part of a three part mini-series.  This is kind of rough rewrite of a few episodes throughout the series.  So it requires at least a vague recollection of Season 4, 5 and 11.  It’s also incredibly meta and generally I hate that, so, apologies. 

Is our secret safe tonight?
And are we out of sight?
Or will our world come tumbling down?

Chuck ran a hand over his face, squeezing his weary eyes closed.  He heaved a sigh to distance himself from the words he’d just typed. Sneaking a glance, he groaned.

Y/N wrapped her fingers around the base of his neck, standing on tip toes to pull him into a kiss, embracing the mystery of this stranger’s lips to block out the reality of her own loneliness’.  Despite being a hunter, the weight of the job’s responsibilities had never come easily to her.  She wished she could be more like her brothers, distance herself from the people they’d lost, the people they couldn’t save.  But she couldn’t.  So she’d loose herself in the arms of a stranger instead.  

Chuck reread his text and pinched the bridge of his nose.  He highlighted the better half of chapter 7 and hit delete.  Upwards of 10,000 words gone and all because he couldn’t bring himself to write her having sex with a stranger.  

“I need a drink,” he murmured to himself, pushing away from his computer.

If it wasn’t bad enough that he was a two-bit writer for a series that would never see the inside of a Barnes and Noble, he’d gone and fallen in love with a fictional character. His own fictional character.

Keep reading

Rafael Barba and Reina King, Pt 14


Moodboard by @yourtropegirl

Did you think we forgot about you? We didn’t! Life, however, has a tendency to get in the way.

But here is the next installment. Your votes were tied between nonchalant and grateful, so below is a bit of a mixed bag. :)

Originally posted by nbcsvu

The door opened after the second knock, Reina standing in the doorway in shorts and an NYPD sweatshirt that looked two sizes too big.

“Let me guess, Fin asked you to come babysit?”

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Dirk did not begin hoarding kittens as a method of psychic torture, Todd is approximately 87% sure, but in the end, intentions are irrelevant once the damage is done.

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anonymous asked:

what were kurt's favourite foods/drinks?

oh lord.

the king of junk food, kurt.

he liked,  and I got this from interviews and books….

burritos, tacos,  KFC chicken, and those chicken little sandwiches,  thin crust pepperoni pizza.     any kind of pasta,  but he liked Alfredo sauce the best.

seafood,   crab and shrimp…….he liked coke , mountain dew, sprite,  but would drink pepsi. no ice.  

any kind of cookie.  chocolate chip, sugar, no bake cookies. 

cereals…..fruity pebbles, capt crunch,  and that horrible Quisp cereal  BLECH

he drank  Glenfiddich scotch…(not cheap),  and bourbon.

and champagne.    and of course vodka.

Geffen offered a dinner for NIRVANA, and kurt wanted junk food.  and got it.

never have seen the NIRVANA concert rider….but every picture it’s sandwiches, deli trays,  beer, wine, and kurt’s liquor.

and pizza afterward.   

Of All the Gin Joints - Chapter One

When Killian Jones decided to move stateside after the war, he expected some amount of trouble. He was tending bar in Manhattan, after all, while his brother was scrounging with low-lifes just to keep them safe from the rising criminal enterprises. Yes, Killian Jones had counted on a lot of things after getting settled as a civilian. He just hadn’t counted on her.

for @starlessness, without whom this would not exist and @the-reason-to-sail-home, my lil bb


CW: descriptions of murders, violence, alcohol

                                            1 - A New Lead

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.

16 October 1945 - 10:15 pm

The night was crisp, the air scented with autumn and the wind sharp, pricking Emma’s skin as she walked down fifth avenue… again. She had been up and down the blocks between fifth and first almost ten times now, looking for a tiny alleyway that would supposedly take her to some dinky hole-in-the-wall bar called Castle Harbour. It was the first real lead that she had gotten in months so no amount of chilly wind or hard to find bars was going to stop her from following it.

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voicemail || chen

Originally posted by everybodyloveschen

more often than not, you often find yourself listening to his voicemails.

5004 words; high school!au; chen/reader scenario; angst

“Hey, it’s Jongdae. Sorry I missed your call! If you would please leave a message after the beep, I’ll gladly get back to you. Thanks!”

“Kim Jongdae where the hell are you? It’s been an hour and I’ve been sitting out here in the rain waiting for you. You better show up soon or I’ll be leaving your sorry ass behind.”

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Steroline Fanfic

AN: Sorry about this, I wrote it at 2am when I couldn’t sleep and I’ve decided against editing since I’ll probably end up deleting it. This is my idea of how things could go down once Rayna’s gone (whatever that means).

“I love you.”

He says it loud and firm, a promise. The truth. The only thing that’s ever been true. Even after all this time, after everything that’s happened, it’s the only thing that will always be the truth.

He says it as a question. Do you feel the same?

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The House of the Rising Sun

((A/N: Written as a submission for the lovely and amazing @kazchester-fanfiction‘s writing challenge. I stole House of the Rising Sun by The Animals. It’s a glorious song, and I decided to take it to a bit of an angsty place for this. I’d love to write more, depending on reception, actually. I enjoyed the shit out of the premise. Lyrics are italicized, and some adjusted slightly to fit the story.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1.8k 

Warnings: Abuse mentions, swearing ))

How long had you known the Winchesters now? Three years? Four years? Honestly it seemed like forever some days. The boys didn’t know much about your past, but they had never needed to. It was an unspoken rule, not to pry into a Hunter’s history without them asking first. You knew about the boys purely by virtue of who they were. It was hard not to know who Sam and Dean Winchester were, or even the Angel Castiel who traipsed around with them.

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Pokemon Go outside for once in your life

“Stop it,” Levi groans until he rolls over onto his stomach and lets his limbs skirt across the bed for the coldest surfaces.

“Stop what?”

“Stop–” He hangs a hand off the edge trying to meet his fingertips with the blow of air. “–Stop blocking the fan.”

At the same time, he’s afraid Eren’s going to chop his fingers off when he sticks them through the grating of the oscillating fan. “Wait,” he says. “I’m trying to… Just wait.”

“What, exactly?”

“Trying to tape my phone to the fan.”

Of course he is. With scotch tape in one hand and his other about to have quick surgery, Eren attempts to attach his phone to one side of the fan with a scary amount of serious dedication. Maybe he should have turned off the oscillation first, Levi’s about to say. He’s not willing to take Eren to any emergency room in this heat.

“Why…” Levi has to ask.

“Well, I read somewhere,” Eren begins informatively, “that if you tape your phone to an oscillating fan with Pokemon Go on, it will count it as steps so you can hatch your eggs without doing anything.”

Levi is almost, almost speechless after hearing that. “There’s no way that works,” he says, dumbfounded.

“I think it will.”

“I mean, I don’t think that’s how it works.”

The weight of the phone might just be too much for the cheap adhesive of scotch tape anyway so Eren eventually gives up in frustration, and Levi can only thank the legendary Pokemon gods Arceus and probably Deoxys as well for letting Eren get away unscathed. Those Pokemon aren’t even out yet in Pokemon Go but he knows Eren is waiting contendedly for those generations along with a million other features that Eren insists are coming soon.

“I want to go outside,” he sulks, lying back down on the floor and staring uselessly at his phone and his unmoving avatar. “Let’s go, Levi. Come on.” He pokes at Levi’s dangling palm from the floor.

“You literally had a heat stroke last time,” Levi mutters into the pillow, revelling when the fan turns towards him and his skin and ruffles up Eren’s hair with the nicest coolest breeze. “We’re not going out until it’s less than 30,” Levi tells him.

“…Fine,” Eren huffs, dropping his arm back down to the cool wood of the floor. “But just so you know, real Pokemon trainers aren’t stopped by a little heat wave.”

“Real Pokemon trainers don’t push themselves to the brink of dehydration just because they overhear someone mentioning an Aerodactyl six blocks away.”

“But we caught it, didn’t we!”


Later that night there’s a thunderstorm and, well, technically 22 degrees (feels like 28) is less than 30. Despite the obvious dangers that going out in a storm already poses, frankly Levi’s getting tired of Eren quoting lines and scenes from Pokemon The First Movie to get him to go. And this is especially considering a) they’re not about to meet Mewtwo, b) no one in their right mind would actually fly on a Pidgeot through thunder and lightning, and c) even if they can’t share the back of a Lapras, they can still share a tiny umbrella and apparently that’s good enough for Levi to risk life and limb for Eren.