judy is a punk
margot. richie, chas, eli, etheline, assorted. margot/eli, margot/richie, margot/everyone.
4350 words. r-ish not really.

summary: a history of margot.

note: also written for an exchange a few months back. pretty proud of this one tbh. random bit of headcanon: jack's girlfriend from hotel chevalier is rachael's little sister, for no real reason aside from that would be awesome.






Margot receives a single letter from Richie while he is away traveling on the Côte d'Ivoire. It reads:

Dear Margot.

I don't have much to say. The sunset off the ocean reminds me of you. I hope you're doing okay.

Sincerely, Richie.

Margot does not respond.





***





Chas is twelve, Margot is ten, and Richie is eight. Margot is reading Chekhov's The Cherry Orchard. She is learning two additional languages. Her parents, if she can call them that, are separating. Etheline has decided to cope by overeducating her children and has, in fact, written a book about their family, the leaps and bounds their juvenile minds have taken under careful tutelage. Everywhere Margot sees her own name, the word "genius" follows. Margot has a sizeable IQ, an impressive vocabulary, and is versed in three languages but the word genius will be infinitely puzzling.

The other word most often linked to her name is "adopted." It's not something she can remember being informed of outside of Royal's customary introduction of his adopted daughter Margot Tenenbaum, the genius. It will take another fifteen years for her to articulate the miserable, knotted feeling in her stomach every time he does it.

Her parents have separated, but are they even her parents at all?

This is all a way of saying that there are blind spots in her extensive education.





***





Margot and Chas are not invited when Royal comes by on the weekends to take Richie all over the city. Royal does not come into the house, just has the cab honk the horn impatiently while Richie scrambles into his sneakers and jacket. Richie always pauses halfway out the door, his hand on the knob, and says, "You could probably come if you wanted."

"I'd rather eat snot," Chas says venomously.

"I have a lot of reading to do," Margot adds. She's reading The Iceman Cometh. She guesses it's okay.

Still, Margot and Chas always go up to the second floor windows to watch Royal ruffle Richie's hair, call him a sweet boy, and drive off. Margot and Chas always scoff in unison and then spend a few minutes staring at the empty street, feeling empty themselves.

Margot reaches over for Chas' left hand and pushes at the B.B. lodged under the skin between his knuckles. He huffs and shakes her off. This is the closest they come to communicating their mutual dissatisfaction.

On the night of Margot's eleventh birthday, she decides Royal is most definitely not her father. It is the very first performance of one of Margot's plays. Etheline deems it delightful. Richie says it's his favorite, and Richie reads all of her plays, including the very esoteric ones. Even Chas gives it a brisk approving nod and Chas is a very difficult critic.

Royal's disinterest is the worst part and Margot cannot forgive it, even as she learns to feign it herself, day after day.

Chas is thirteen, Margot is eleven, and Richie is nine. She's not so sure she needs a father, anyway.





***





Margot is married twice.

She's nineteen when she meets Desmond Winston Manchester XI. They meet in the ocean, Margot drifting lazily in teal waves as Desmond's canoe slips through the water towards her. He is beautiful. His music is beautiful too. His first album is called Dynamite Stick and Margot is half-hidden on the cover, an accident in the photograph. They make love for three days straight before deciding to get married, and then nine days later she gets a letter from Richie and calls the whole thing off. It isn't even a letter about anything in particular. There's just something about Richie's looping signature that makes her want to come home.

She's twenty-seven when she meets Raleigh St. Clair. She loves him, sort of. At first she thinks he's kind of distinguished with his gray hair and black turtlenecks, the wire-frame glasses that perch high on the bridge of his nose. He is supposed to be a genius too. He is twenty-two years older than her, has never been married, and professes to love her wildly. So Margot says okay, and marries him.

Raleigh is always very concerned. He is always prying, always peeping around corners. He always wants to talk.

After a year she purchases her own studio in Mockingbird Heights under the name Helen Scott. She tells no one.

She doesn't complete a single play in the duration of her marriage to Raleigh.





***





At twenty-seven she gets married and that's also when she starts cheating on her husband, first with Max, the punk behind the counter at the record store she frequents, but later with almost anyone, up to and including Eli Cash.

Eli could be like a brother except for how he isn't. She's known him her entire life, but only in the periphery sense; Margot never made an effort to get to know Eli. No one ever liked him except Richie and maybe Etheline, who was probably just being nice. Eli existed on the fringe of Margot's life like the ants that swarmed the bathroom in the summer, a vague and unspecific irritation. She and Chas liked to crack jokes about Eli, or anyway Chas did and Margot would sort of smirk.

Eli asked Margot to read his short stories sometimes. It started when they were little kids. She was always honest with him, told him that they were okay but lacking in substance or originality. She didn't really care about Eli's writing, but after a while it seemed to pay off for him.

He dedicates his first book, Wildcat, to her entire family. It makes Margot frown. She tears the dedication page neatly from her copy.





***





In the winter of Margot's twelfth year, a combination of numbers and seasons that seems faintly mystical, she and Richie run away together. He is ten, but seems at once older and younger, too sad and too sweet. She does not consider Richie a friend and sometimes she's not sure she should consider him a brother, but she already knows that the feelings she has for him are particular, different than the feelings she has for the rest of her family. If they can be called her family.

She and Richie run away to the African Wing of the Public Archives. They eat crackers for supper and drink milk from Richie's thermos. She reads about sharks at night while Richie dozes, tucked together under a bench in the same sleeping bag. Margot doesn't really sleep, her head on Richie's shoulder as she watches his profile.

The African Wing is her favorite and she knows Richie came just because she wanted to. He doesn't have the same desire to run away that she does. Well, not yet anyway.

They make it two days and two nights before Etheline sends Chas to come get them.

"You kids oughta grow up," Chas huffs, the sleeping bag rolled under one of his arms and Margot's bag under the other. "You can't just do whatever you want."

It only occurs to Margot then that maybe Chas would have liked to be invited.

Twelve is the year she runs away for the first time. It is unsuccessful. Following the attempt she begins smoking in secret, a private act of defiance. She doesn't tell anyone, not even Richie.

There are five locks on Margot's bedroom door and three signs, all of them warnings to keep out. It is important that her secrets belong to her and no one else.





***





Twenty-one finds Margot living in Paris in an apartment on the Rive Gauche with Simone, whom she sort of loves. Simone is a poet. She has short dark hair and a wicked expression. She does not love Margot in return. Margot thinks that's good for her.

They met under a streetlamp. Margot had a cigarette between her lips but nothing to light it with when out of the corner of her eye she saw a hand extended, fingers pinching a flickering match. It brought out the hint of green in Simone's brown eyes. They fell into bed pretty easily after that.

Margot misses Chas' wedding while in Paris with Simone. He will refuse to speak to her for a good six months because of that, but Rachael calls her expressing no hard feelings.

"If I had a lover in Paris, I'd probably stay there too," Rachael says. "I only hope you're having a lot of sex."

Margot stifles a smile and doesn't confirm or deny.

Chas brought Rachael home the Christmas Margot dropped out of college. Rachael was tall, taller than Chas at least, with long brown hair that always seemed to be in her face. She was always twisting it back with a pencil stuck through it, or wrapping her head in a scarf. She smiled a lot and laughed a lot, at extreme odds with the rest of the family, and with Chas himself. But he smiled a lot when he looked at Rachael, so Margot decided to like her and she was never really disappointed.

Rachael was an easy person to talk to, almost too easy, and that scared Margot off a little.

Anyway, eventually Simone gets sick of Margot and they have a big falling out. Or Simone does, all passionate French shouting while Margot passively smokes.

"This is the problem," Simone accuses, pointing at Margot. "You."

Margot can't exactly disagree.





***





Margot runs away probably a total of ten times in her life. It's hard to keep track.

The second time she is fourteen. She takes the bus to Indiana where she finds her supposed real family, people with her eyes and nose and things like that. They live on a farm or something. The whole family is straw blonde and freckled with blue eyes and they all look the same age, somehow. Margot watches them moodily, black eyeliner smeared around her eyes, hair dyed black, fingernails black.

"You sure are real New York, Sister Maggie," one of them says, possibly her father.

"Margot," she says. "My name is Margot Tenenbaum."

But as soon as she says it, something in her falters. Maybe it isn't. Maybe her name is Maggie Scott. Maybe she was supposed to grow up on this farm or whatever with all these people who look like her and maybe if she had, she'd have grown up feeling…something. Anything. A sense of belonging. Something like that.

What she doesn't understand is that there are so many children around. There are so many children, and Margot is the only one who was given away.

She loses half a finger but not much more and when she gets back Etheline wraps Margot up in a hug that does feel like home. Etheline smells so familiar, like dust and the perfume in the cut-glass bottle on her dresser.

"Are you alright?" Etheline asks, the only question she will pose to Margot, who dislikes answering questions. Concern is evident on her face.

"I don't know," Margot says. And Margot, who likes showing affection less than she likes answering questions, steps back in for another hug. Etheline sighs and pets her hair and says her name like it means so many things besides genius and adopted and wrong.

Margot supposes Etheline can be her mother even if Royal isn't her father and Richie and Chas are only sort of her brothers.

But after that they send her to boarding school because of bad behavior, so say her teachers, because Margot is surly and silent and skips class. Boarding school might be better at containing her, and it is – right until she knots her sheets together and slides out the dormitory window.

That's the third time Margot runs away.





***





At fifteen Margot loses her virginity. She comes home late that night and sneaking in the way they all learned to: climbing the gate, swinging it in towards the window, and then hoisting herself inside. She goes up to the top floor, Richie's room, and gets into bed with him still in her coat. He is only thirteen, and lately he feels very young to her. He smiles at her without opening his eyes and then presses his face into the fur of her coat.

"Richie," she says, hushed, "Do you think I'm a bad person?"

"No," he says. "Why would I?"

"I don't know," Margot says, feeling uneasy. "Sometimes I'm not so sure." His face is tucked against her shoulder so they aren't looking at each other, and that makes it easier. "I don't think I feel the way I'm supposed to feel about people."

She slept with a boy named Peter Whitman from one of the college courses she's taking. She honestly doesn't care if she never sees him again. It isn't a negative feeling; it's just nothing. It's indifference.

"I don't think that makes you a bad person," Richie says, his tone a combination of definitive and unsure that is unique to Richie. It's as though he thinks he knows the right answer, but must always leave room for being wrong.

"If you say so," Margot says.

Margot finishes high school early, at sixteen. That same year her first professional production, Static Electricity, premieres at the Cavendish Theatre to glowing reviews. It's a smash. Margot spends a lot of time smoking pot on the roof. Chas moves out, though he still comes around a lot.

Etheline throws Margot a party to celebrate her successes. Needless to say, Royal is not invited and does not attend. Margot's hair is blonde again and she wears a silver shift dress with her loafers and fur. She sleeps with Eli for the first time, a little tipsy on celebratory champagne, and it occurs to her, when she squints, that he looks a lot like Richie. If his hair were darker, if the line of his nose smoothed out, if his eyes were different; if he were a Tenenbaum, he would look an awful lot like Richie.

They do it in her closet because something about that feels confidential. "This doesn't count," she tells him after.

"Okay," Eli says simply. "Hey, would you read something for me?"





***





At twenty-four Margot lets Peter Bradley feel her up backstage before the show. It's part of her publicity tour following Erotic Transference. He's rude to her in front of the camera, demeaning to her work, and Margot tastes bitterness in the back of her throat. She is not forthcoming in interviews so she says very little in response but afterwards in the green room she puts a cigarette out in his sleeve.

Uzi is born that night. It's kind of strange. Margot returns to her hotel to find half a dozen messages waiting from her mother and for a minute she's afraid someone has died. But instead it's the opposite.

Margot takes the bus to the hospital and has three cigarettes in quick succession before going inside and upstairs. Rachael and Chas are asleep, her in the hospital bed and Chas slumped in the chair beside her. They're holding hands. Etheline is overcome with pride and happiness, eyes shining. Royal is not present. Richie stands at the large window looking into the nursery, his hands clasped behind his back and sunglasses on. Margot goes to stand next to him.

"It's funny," Richie says. "Chas having kids."

She nods.

"But he'll be a good dad," Richie adds.

"Sure," Margot says.

Margot is certain she doesn't want children. She's not sure what she would do with one. Richie would probably be good at it, but she suspects he probably won't have any either. Richie never has girlfriends, so it's not like there's opportunity.

Margot goes back alone early the next morning. She looks in at Chas' baby, who already has a mop of dark hair though no other distinguishable features. It seems the Tenenbaums only have boys.

"Hi." A girl steps up next to Margot, a petite brunette with a pixie haircut. She wears a gray peacoat. "I'm Rachael's sister. You probably don't know me; I skipped the wedding."

"Mm," Margot says.

"I was in Africa," Rachael's sister continues. "With my boyfriend. Jack. This baby thing's crazy, huh?" She taps the glass, getting a harried look from one of the nurses. "Couldn't pay me. But Rach's good at this kind of thing, I guess. She's very responsible."

Margot particularly dislikes this kind of small talk and always finds she has little to say in return. She looks at Chas' baby and doesn't feel very much in the way of anything. That's been her problem her whole life, she thinks. Where she should feel love there's only indifference. Where she should feel guilt there's only impotence.

"I skipped it too," Margot says belatedly. In the glass she first sees the reflection of her and Rachael's sister, both of their expressions unreadable, and just beyond them the newest Tenenbaum. "I was in France."

Richie once told her she wasn't a bad person, but Margot suspects he is not an unbiased critic.





***





Chas is thirty-six, Margot is thirty-four, and Richie is thirty-two. They aren't children anymore. They aren't geniuses anymore either. They exist in a post-genius fugue, three disasters who had once been rather promising.

It is the day of Etheline's wedding to Henry Sherman. She looks beautiful in ivory, touching up her makeup in the mirror. Margot lounges barefoot on the windowsill gnawing on her nicotine inhaler. Margot's mother has had many suitors since the divorce, but Henry is the only one Margot ever liked.

"What did Raleigh mean the other day?" Etheline asks without turning to look at Margot, her voice light.

"You'll have to be more specific," Margot says.

There is a very obvious pause and then Etheline says, "About Richie."

Margot's teeth dig into her tongue. She says, "You'd have to ask Raleigh what he meant."

Margot doesn't feel guilty about any of the people she's been with, not really. Maybe that's bad. The only person she feels guilty about is Richie, and she's never been with him, not once, not at all.

The worst she's ever felt was hearing about him in the hospital. Every time she thinks of the jagged marks on his wrists she wants to cry, wants to wrap him in her arms and apologize for nothing, for doing nothing, for always making herself feel nothing.

She clears her throat and swallows. "You don't think Richie will do it again, do you?"

"I hope not, sweetheart," Etheline says gently. Then, "I'm worried about you too, you know."

"I'm fine." The reply is immediate, but her stomach twists a little, pleased by the concern and embarrassed about it. "You shouldn't worry."

Etheline rises so she can come closer and press a kiss to Margot's forehead. "I'm going to anyway," she says. "You don't have to talk to me, but you should know that you can."

Margot doesn't know if Etheline knows about Richie – about how Margot is in love with him even though it's gross and wrong. She wouldn't put it past Eli to have sent over a note or something. Margot swallows past the tightness in her throat and only nods.





***





Rachael dies in the height of summer. Margot is thirty-three. Ari and Uzi are seven and nine, respectively. Uzi is quiet and reserved. He likes to read. He didn't think much of The Cherry Orchard, which Margot lent to him. She understands. Ari is much more forceful. Sometimes he sort of reminds her of Royal, but mostly he just reminds her of Chas.

The boys look pale and drawn in their black suits. Standing on either side of Chas, they look like diminutive versions of him: Chas throughout the years, so to speak. Chas declines to speak at the service and he refuses any help in the planning, though Etheline is forced to step in when he loses it at one of the caterers.

Afterwards they invite the funeral-goers back to the house on Archer Avenue. Rachael was cremated so there wasn't a casket or anything, but her ashes are in an urn on the mantle and Margot finds it unnerving. Chas and the boys will have to take it home with them at the end of the night. Margot remembers Rachael once joking, "Scatter my ashes at Saks Fifth Avenue!" but she doesn't think they're going to do that.

Margot finds Chas upstairs in the ballroom. Her own face stares down at them at least twenty times on one of the walls. Diversification of subject was not one of Richie's strong suits.

"Mom wants to know if you've eaten," Margot says by way of an introduction. "Or if you'd like to eat."

Chas does not respond. Margot sits beside him. She reaches over to prod the B.B. between the knuckles of his left hand, then lightly smoothes her finger over his wedding band. Chas does not flinch so Margot, who is not normally demonstrative, slips her hand into his.

"She knew how much you loved her," Margot says. "And I think she was really happy. I mean, she always seemed happy."

"She was really mean before six a.m.," Chas says.

The corner of Margot's mouth lifts a little and at the same time her heart breaks. "Most people are," she says. "We can probably agree on that."

Chas releases a long, slow sigh and, surprising her, turns to lean his forehead against her shoulder. Tentative and a little uncertain, Margot raises an arm to put around him.

"I'm sorry, Chas," she says softly.

"Everyone's sorry," Chas says. He sounds worn-out. They sit there for who knows how long and eventually Richie finds them. Silently, Richie moves to a corner of the room and puts on the record player. The Velvet Underground fills the room as Richie comes to sit on Chas' other side. No one says anything else and it seems alright, or as alright as it can get right now.





***





"What you did," Margot says, "With the investigator. I didn't like that."

Raleigh gives her a look that might be incredulous if it wasn't so sad. Most of all, she'd always liked his sad eyes; Richie had sad eyes too. "My dear, you can hardly –"

"I don't like that either," she interrupts. "'My dear.' I know I was wrong but you were wrong too. So I thought you should know."

"Alright." Raleigh looks down at his hands, smoothing one over the other. He picks up his pen and signs his name, unintelligible as always, on the dotted line of the divorce papers. "Alright."

Margot is thirty-five. She has been married and divorced twice. She doesn't intend to do either again, and that's a relief.





***





Chas is nineteen, Margot is seventeen, and Richie is fifteen. She and Richie lay on the floor of the ballroom with Bob Dylan on the record player. One of Chas' Dalmatian mice has made a home in the half-empty snack box they brought up with them.

Margot and Richie lie facing away from each other with their heads side by side, interlocked like puzzle pieces. Her cheek is against his cheek, which is a little scratchy with the beginnings of stubble.

She considers telling him about Eli Cash, who she slept with again without quite meaning to, but Margot isn't very good at confessions and anyway, she thinks it might crush him. Richie's low, burning sweetness has begun to shift into melancholy lately. It makes her very upset but it's not like there's anything she can do about it.

"I love you, Margot," Richie says suddenly. Margot stills. Then –

"I know, Richie," she says. She turns her head to kiss his cheek but he turns at the same time so instead she ends up kissing him on the mouth, upside down. It's very quick and very dry but it zings sharply down her spine and Margot knows that isn't the right way to react to kissing your brother. Probably you shouldn't be kissing your brother in the first place.

She sits up and changes the record.





***





After their father's funeral, Margot and Richie return to the studio in Mockingbird Heights, which they now share. He sits in a chair pushed slightly away from the little kitchen table. He sighs. Margot comes to put her arms around him, to hold him against her chest. His hands settle on her lower back. His hair is beginning to grow back but Margot is getting used to Richie without it. It's so easy to see his face now.

"I told Chas we would take Ari and Uzi to a museum or something this weekend," Richie says.

"Alright," Margot says. "Maybe the African Wing of the Public Archives."

She feels Richie smile. Richie's smiles are tender and infrequent, have been since they were teenagers, and it makes her grip him tighter. She loves him, always has and especially now. It feels odd to admit that to herself, but there are probably worse things to feel. Richie pulls away enough that he can look up at her and Margot sinks down to sit on his lap. He kisses her and she kisses him back, winds herself around him.

They haven't slept together, whatever anyone else thinks. Margot figures it's a matter of time but she is content to wait for it. She's spent half her life running away from Richie and it's good to stand still now.

She is writing a new play. It's about running away. It's called Loneliest Paradise. It takes place on a ship. Margot finds she doesn't really care if it does very well. Right now it's enough to be doing something new, and enough to want to do something new.

Margot and Richie curl up together in a bed that belongs to both of them. A record plays in another room. Her typewriter is on the small card table in the corner and a collection of racquets lean against the wall. Margot doesn't believe in cheap sentimentality and she is a proponent of deep denial but even she would be hard-pressed to call this place anything but home.

And that really is kind of nice, honestly.

last icon post for a while! i am not even good at making them anymore, guys, IF I EVER WAS TO START WITH. but yeah if you requested something, it's in here!







dollhouse
01. 02. 03. 04.
05. 06. 07. 08.
09. 10. 11. 12.
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17. 18. 19. 20.
21. 22. 23. 24.
25. 26. 27. 28.
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gossip girl
38. 39. 40. 41.
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46. 47. 48. 49.
50. 51. 52. 53.
54. 55. 56. 57.





the hunger games(sometimes i used sebstan as a finnick stand-in bc i don't like whatshisname)
58. 59. 60. 61.
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winona ryder
71. 72. 73. 74.
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musicians
sleigh bells, lou reed, lou reed & david bowie, velvet underground, joan baez, bob dylan, lana del rey, natalia kills
88. 89. 90. 91.
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96. 97. 98. 99.
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miscellaneous
marvel, monty clift, bound, on the road, batman returns, sebastian stan, penn badgley, leighton meester
109. 110. 111. 112.
113. 114. 115. 116.
117. 118. 119. 120.
121.122. 123. 124.
125.

Handful of people on my flist who also have read Anne Rice – can we talk about Armand for a minute? Because I hate him, and also don't get him, and need to discuss this with other humans, lol. I'm at the point of The Vampire Lestat where we get Armand's backstory, which I had honestly forgotten in its entirety, and I have been having Thoughts since he reappeared in the book/my life and really I just have nowhere else to discuss these old-ass books nobody cares about anymore.

I am pretty sure I have just always hated Armand. Conversely, some of my favorite quotes of the novels come from him – nearly all the stuff he's had to say about how changing times consume vampires and kill them more than anything else are great. Really interesting stuff. And as a character I would perhaps be more able to deal with him if he wasn't so clearly stamped all over as authorial wankbait. I mean: he is flatly awful. And that's cool! Awful characters are necessary in fiction. But Anne Rice has such a clear and distinct hard-on for Armand (her favoritism is so blatant sometimes, lorddd) that it confuses and muddles things for me personally as a reader. This is how I feel: in Interview with the Vampire, I did not feel such intense authorial prodding in the narrative voice of the text. I felt like I was being presented with these characters and places and events but I was free to make up my own mind about everything that was going down. I don't feel that in the Vampire Lestat. This is not to say that I don't still love and deeply enjoy this book; I really do. But I feel like I am being presented with these characters and places and events and there is all this subtextual nudging telling me to feel one way or another about them, and it's at odds with how I actually feel. I don't think it's just a difference in Louis and Lestat as narrators. I think it's a clear difference in how Rice is writing.

And it's also a big part of why I can't deal with Armand. I didn't care for him in IwtV specifically because of the one instance where he basically vampire roofies Louis to force him to turn a woman to care for Claudia and then admits it and Louis has to be like: uh, that's okay that you did that, I guess, because you love me and stuff. This is classic Rice: she always romanticizes rape and lack of consent, perhaps exemplified best in her absurd porn novels that are basically just an endless stream of scenes in which characters are raped, but enjoy it. I think it's even evident in how the act of feeding is written; it's been said many times that they are meant to stand in for sex, but I don't think so. I think they're meant to stand in for rape that becomes pleasurable, aka the ultimate bodice-ripper trope of the 70s and 80s. The characters are never fed on by choice, to my memory, and they always fight but then give in. I also think this ties in importantly with the fact that the fledgeling almost always turns on their maker, as the act itself is seen as a betrayal. So the scenes are written, in my opinion, more like pleasurable rape than sex. I have never felt grosser writing anything in my life. Ew. I'm bringing this up because it comes up a lot specifically in regards to Armand.

Most of the main characters have a kind of confusing love-hate relationship with Armand. They despise him for his actions but he has such otherworldly beauty (more so even than everyone else's otherworldly beauty, it seems) that they cannot help but be seduced. Armand actually exemplifies a lot of Anne Rice's weird sex stuff, and having such bizarre psychological nonsense heaped on a fictional character does make me partially sympathetic to him. First, there's the fact that she is SUCH A PEDO, as I have said many times before. Armand appears as a seventeen year old boy (seventeen, tops; that's what Wiki says, but I was always under the impression he was physically closer to fifteen or so) and it seems to me that this is linked with the over-the-top, fawning descriptions of his beauty – from an author who is known for purple prose, esp. re: the physical appearances of characters. He is an angel, a cherub, a Botticelli in motion; his beauty is somehow so pure it eclipses his behavior, and it is intrinsically linked to how childlike he appears. Second, there is the way Armand bulldozes over consent. Pedophilia and rape are big parts of Armand's story, especially when he is a human. As a vampire, he exhibits his control through classic abusive manipulation techniques and more blatant mind control (what I tend to think of, tactlessly, as vampire roofies). He does this in IwtV to Louis to get what he wants. And he does it in TVL to Lestat to reach the same ends. The scene in TVL is even more explicitly rape-y, because Armand ~seduces~ Lestat with MIND CONTROL at a party, draws him away from everyone, and then violently assaults him, drinking his blood in an attempt to take Lestat's power (explicitly, this is what he says after). Lestat fights him off but is afterwards still tormented by how drawn to Armand he is, because of Armand's beauty.

Now: is Anne Rice doing this on purpose? Does Armand act out in abusive ways because he was abused so horribly himself? Logic would deem it so, but she either brushes aside his abuse entirely or turns it into a romance, so I don't think her intention is to draw the line between past and present abuse, or even characterize Armand's behavior as abusive.

Armand is also one of the biggest victims of Rice's purple prose; half the scenes he appears in are just endless synonyms and incomprehensible emotional descriptions. He is always having these huge shifts from angelic solemnity to hideous all-consuming rage, and there are equal shifts in Lestat from fear to derision to adoration. It's a fucking rollercoaster and OH GOD DO I HATE IT. CAN SOMEONE IN THESE BOOKS FEEL THE SAME WAY FOR LONGER THAN THIRTY SECONDS????? But I guess it's mostly around Armand that this nonsense happens. Which brings me to my issue again: am I supposed to realize that this is because he is manipulating the emotions of those around him? That is what I think. Or am I supposed to think that he is so incredible and challenging and powerful that he inspires these intense emotions in others? I think that is what Anne wants me to think.

So. To the story of Armand's human life, which I just finished. I read the Wiki article about him in preparation for writing this just to keep my details straight, and it summarized a lot of what happens in the novel the Vampire Armand (which I never read, because I am a hater) and it differs SO ENTIRELY from the account Armand gives in the Vampire Lestat that I am cackling, omg I can't.

But basically, shit's about to get creepy (creepier).

Armand is abducted, I suppose would be the word, from his home in Russia (I think???) as a child, is brought to Constantinople and sold into slavery, where he is purchased by Venetians and put to work in a brothel. Assuming he is in fact seventeen when turned, he'd have to be around fifteen when he is sold to the brothel. The novel is not at all clear as to Armand's age, but assuming my guess of fifteen/sixteen when turned is correct, he'd be somewhere around twelve then, and I do feel the novel stresses that he is a child. So. Armand is subjected to extreme amounts of sexual abuse before he is again sold, and this is where it gets even shadier. He is sold to Marius, a vampire, who becomes a relatively big character within the books. I haven't gotten to the Marius sections yet, but to my memory he was always treated as wise and kind, highly respected. And now re-reading this section as an adult, I am pretty horrified. Marius takes Armand in and continues to abuse him, though now it is presented as a good thing, as a special and singular relationship, because Marius loves Armand deeply. Also because Anne Rice is obsessed with sexualizing children and obsessed with romanticizing sexual relationships that adults have with children.

And Armand and Marius' relationship is definitely sexual, despite the vampires-don't-have-sex thing. It is also couched in the kind of language that we associate with the abuse of children, even as the novel tries to tell me this relationship was amazing. Marius feeds on Armand, Armand sleeps in Marius' bed. (This also sets up the relationship Armand has with a young human boy in IwtV, which is extremely similar.)

"...his face in the Master's hands as, alone in the bedchamber again, that secret, never tell anyone, kiss."

"Holding tight to the Master. Waiting for the rapture of the kiss. Dark secret, unspoken secret. The Master slipping out of the door sometime before dawn."

I MEAN. It certainly reads to me like Marius is abusing Armand, but the tone of the book simultaneously says the opposite. Marius also tells him to "forget the bitterness" of the brothel, which just seems to gloss right over the actual horrifying things Armand endured, and it claims in the wiki that Marius took Armand to brothels when he "came of age" (at, what, fifteen?) which seems immensely gross and also glaringly insensitive.

All of this is gross, but it is not why I hate Armand, nor why I don't get him. I am actually shocked that I am writing a whole verbose post about him, because I generally try to think of England and wait for all Armand sections to be over. But he is just so confusing to me. There are lines like: "It occurred to me [Lestat] as it had in Notre Dam that he spoke the way angels must speak, if they exist." Actual note written by me in my book next to this line: r u kidding me.

Lestat wants Armand, but fears him. He knows Armand is dangerous. He refuses to be Armand's companion, but also refuses to let Armand leave. Shit like this: "My heart expanded slightly, against my will, as it had on the battlements when I had heard his voice. I thought of the pain only half an hour ago in the Palais when the lie had broken with the stab of his fangs into my neck. I hated him. But I couldn't stop looking at him."

This sums it up, really. Even Gabrielle seems to have a desire to be near Armand despite her distrust of him. Awesomely, she rips him a new one in this book, because she is a queen and I love her, but it ALSO seems to me the novel wants to position her as cruel and cold SO WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO REALLY THINK, ANNE? ALSO THINGS LIKE THIS: "Dear God, this is love. This is desire. And all my past amours have been but the shadow of this."

WHY IS ALL THE LANGUAGE RELATING TO ARMAND SO FUCKING UNBEARABLE. Whoa sorry I got so capsy. I am just endlessly confusseeeeeddd by him, can someone explain him to me? This shit goes on constantly whenever he shows up, and it exhausts me. I think I am supposed to love him but I do not. Has Anne spoken about this? Are there articles about these books, academic or otherwise? I have never actually looked but I deeply need something or someone to elucidate this shit for me.

Due to unexpected business and life, we're extending the due date of the exchange to AUGUST 30 @ 12am. If you have already posted your story, or already finished, you are a beautiful angel and you should feel the superior glow of accomplishing a goal before everyone else. If you have not, then congrats, you can procrastinate a little while longer! Personally I am in the latter category.

If you have to default, please do it now to save my sanity. But please don't default. That would be sad. I, a stranger on the internet, would be disappointed in you personally.

If you have questions or comments, feel free to ask here. Or on tumblr, either at fromlittlececily or lessoleilscouchants.

What is this?
A ficathon! This is open to all fandoms, characters, pairings, genres – whatever your heart desires. AUs, crossovers, RPF, weird stuff, not weird stuff, anything! The only thing that makes it different from literally any other comment ficathon is that thing time around, purely for the sake of variety, we are shunning the use of song lyrics as prompts.

How do I prompt/fill?
Only one prompt per comment please. But as many comments as you want! When you fill something, post the fic to that comment and the fills thread. If your fic is too long, then post the link.

Prompts can be anything: a word, a poem, a gif, a bit of dialogue, a half-baked plot idea, a scenario. Be creative, my little darlings!

What else?
Pls do pimp to your f-list!! Any questions, ask below. :)

BANNERS
Feeeel freeee to make any, because clearly I was too lazy.

untitled
dan and blair. 1920s au. 1k.

summary: The debutantes come in one after another in floaty white gowns with their pristine smiles like handmade dolls, virginal down to their slippers.

note: written for the ficathon i expect everyone to go write for. only in a separate post bc i like to keep my shit straight, u feel me.



Dan gets the job from the friend of a friend. It isn't the sort of thing he normally signs himself up for, but money is money and he's always hard up for that; the scholarship pays for his schooling but not his books, not the good coat he has to buy so he doesn't look so shabby beside his Yale classmates, not the fabric for Jenny, who has more need of the money than even him. So he takes the job – just one night in a rented suit, serving champagne to debutantes.

The night is bitingly cool and crisp, winter edging into spring. The narrow fingers of bare-branched trees silhouette against the big windows of the hall, a darkness that lurks beyond the room's fairylights and flashing diamonds. Candles glimmer from every table, giving the room a white-gold hue. All the women are beautiful and rich and glittering, the men dark inkblots beside them. The debutantes come in one after another in floaty white gowns with their pristine smiles like handmade dolls, virginal down to their slippers.

She is the last one. She would have planned it that way, wanting to make an impression, and not the fleeting kind either. She wants to eclipse the girls that came before her in their gowns with lace like ice, spring buds in their hair. She wants to be the last girl imprinted on your eyelids, he can tell just by looking at her descend the stairs slow as could be, her smile brittle and triumphant. She enjoys every eye upon her.

She certainly makes an impression on Dan.

He is meant to be circulating with the champagne but he stops dead when she steps out. Her hair is dark and glossy, threaded through with moon-bright pearls. Some girls went in for scandalous crops, their hair fluffing around their rosy faces, but not her. No, she's a traditional kind of girl, the kind of girl who'd sneer at Dan if she ever accidentally looked at him. When she dances, it's with each step precise and completely lacking in feeling.

Eventually one of the other waiters gives Dan a pointed shove and he remembers his duties, but he finds his eyes drawn back to her all night.

Passing by her once, he actually hears her voice – sharp and haughty, not bothering to be soft, "Her family lost it all, I don't see why she's even still allowed to be here –"

And his heart hardens automatically, even as his gaze finds her again and again in the crowd.

The night ends with Dan loosening his tie and mussing his hair, rebelling in his own small ways, but of course only now that he can do so without actually breaking a rule. He's going out the back, fresh dough in his pocket and illusions promptly shattered, when he hears a little hiccup and a sob.

It's the debutante, looking worse for wear, her dark hair falling around her pale, slumped shoulders. She brings a green champagne bottle to her pink mouth.

Awkwardly, Dan stops and says, "Are you sure you're supposed to be here?"

She starts and then glares at him, dark eyes narrowed. "Are you?" she shoots back venomously.

He tries hard not to roll his eyes, instead shooting a glance up and down the narrow hallway to see if someone's around to come and collect her. She's probably got friends left in the ballroom but Dan isn't interested in debutante-wrangling after a full night's work, and especially not if the socialite in question is this girl.

She continues as though he'd spoken, voiced some concern or other. "I'll have you know I had an awful night, just awful."

He can't help a little contempt then. "Yeah, looked real bad from where I was standing – in the back, holding the drinks."

She stares at him, then blinks. "Oh god, are you a waiter?" She says it like Dan lives under a log in the woods. "To think the night couldn't get any worse."

That's just about Dan's cue to exit, so he huffs a little huff of frustration and goes out on his way, but he hasn't even gotten to the exit when he hears little slippers clattering along behind him.

"Did I offend you?" she asks curiously.

"You're stunningly without tact," he tells her.

Her lips purse but she plows right along, "It's only that I simply cannot stand another minute with all those girls. Do you know what I mean? You couldn't possibly, of course. But to be surrounded by them all the time, to have them constantly tearing at you –"

"Don't your social graces set you up for that kind of thing?" Dan interrupts dryly. "Isn't that what etiquette classes are for, how to avoid backstabbing?"

"You clearly don't know anything at all," she decides. "In fact, you're mocking me, and I do hate to be mocked."

"You set the scene for it," Dan counters. Finally he gets himself outside, the night air near-stinging with coldness against his ears, his bare neck. "Are you going to follow me all the way home?"

She blinks. "Is that where you're going?"

"Customarily people return home after work," Dan says.

She gives him a cursory look, up and down, appraising him like she might if he were something she had decided to buy. "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't," he says, "Dan Humphrey."

"Blair Waldorf," she returns, superciliousness invading the syllables without her even seeming to try. "Dan Humphrey, the night is terribly young, don't you think?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I've got places to go, and an escort who abandoned me for another girl," she says, a hard little frown marring her face. "I'd pay you."

He balks. "Pay me? For what?"

"Escorting me," she says with impatience. "I doubt anyone noticed you, I didn't even; and you haven't got a bad sort of look to you, what do you say?"

"I say you're plumb awful at invitations."

"I'm in dire straits!" she says, only it comes out less supplication and more demand. "I've got to save face, don't you know a thing about that? And you're the only boy I've got on hand who is already in a suit and isn't in his eighties – and it'll drive Penelope just crazy to see she didn't get one over on me after all. One night, what do you say?"

Dan looks at her, the filmy shawl around white shoulder speckled with gooseflesh, the big inquiring eyes, the champagne bottle still clutched in one hand. And he thinks aw, hell because the decision has already been made for him.

"Fine," he spits. "One night, that's what I say."

She near beams, lips curling up in that hard, pleased way like when she came down the stairs. "Dan Humphrey, you've got yourself a deal."

lonely hearts and other stories
dan/blair. under 1k. linearly weird.

summary: One day he didn't love Blair, and then one day he did; it's as easy as that, sometimes.

note: also for the ficathon.




his

When he tells the story to his typewriter, Dan says it began with a kiss, but that isn't right; sometimes he says it started two rows away at the movies, but that isn't it either. Finding the clear beginning is a pointless exercise in trying to fictionalize his own life, find narrative sense in a world that doesn't have a linear beginning-to-end that clocks in at two hours, five minutes. One day he didn't love Blair, and then one day he did; it's as easy as that, sometimes.

But if pressed he'd say it probably had something to do with a sad girl standing alone in the middle of her friend's wedding, because he's partial to girls like that.



hers

Exactitude and denial are Blair's hallmarks, though she usually falls short of the former and pretends she doesn't do the latter. So normally she'd say she only really loved one man in her life and she married him, but normally Blair lies through her teeth without even knowing she did it.

It wasn't exactly an aha! moment but once upon a time she stood next to Dan and watched a boy she will later say she never loved get into a car with a girl Dan never loved either. Dan looked at her or she looked at him, either way their eyes met and shared the same betrayal, the same hurt, the same resignation. Nate and Vanessa drove off into the sunset and Blair walked away from Dan, but she felt something then, something like kinship. It would be years before she'd let herself feel it again.






his

There are things Dan knows, even if rationality would deem them bullshit. He knows Blair needed something that she could only get from him, even though once she got it she was gone. He knows for the better part of two years she didn't just keep him around, she sought him out, and for the better part of two months, she looked at him like he was the only person she wanted to see. It's not all ego, his or hers. It couldn't be.

These are just facts, just things Dan knows; once he meant something to her and no one in the world can convince him he didn't.



hers

At the end of the day, this is it. At the end of the day, when Blair craves seclusion and safety, she goes to Dan. For pizza she doesn't normally eat, and movies, and falling asleep on his shoulder, because he will always let her. It means having no defenses because Dan will not stab her in the back so long as she's honest with him, and that's just about Blair's nightmare, just about the worst thing she can think of.

She remembers that night, the sky outside his window streaked orange and violet over the Brooklyn buildings: bright sunset orange alighting on brick, the shadows a deep, clear purple. Isn't that what love is? she wondered then. The world done up in Technicolor?

She learned that on movie screens. She learned a lot of things there.






his

The worst part is not feeling alone anymore. Dan's loneliness is like an old friend, a shield, and he used to make jokes about it to his family, that he was a loner and liked it. He has never not been set apart from the people around him, so he'll take his loneliness and wear it and then it won't hurt him anymore.

But with Blair it's as though someone else has stepped inside the little room where only Dan exists. No one else has been in the room before. It's not just knowing his references and decimating his arguments and liking Radiohead. Blair has figured him out, she doesn't pull punches, she doesn't trust anyone but she needs him.

And when she's gone, it feels less like a joke, less like a shield, less like a metaphor he made up to make himself feel better. It just feels like he's alone, but worse, because he knew what it was like not to be.



hers

Blair goes home and reads Inside cover to cover. Then she reads it again.

She almost wishes she hadn't; it was much better when she could compliment font choices and be indignant about sex that never happened (indignant or jealous, so close for her). But to sit down and read every word twice –

She didn't think Dan knew her like that. She didn't think Dan, of all people, knew her expressions and her voice so well, the way she holds herself, the way she wears her hair. That Dan could know her with such horrible intimacy without her allowing him to, that Dan could know her and not just the things she says. That he could replicate her down to the last horrible detail but render her inexplicably loveable at the same time – because who could really know her, and love her anyway?

F I C   +   I C O N S

professional disaster human. marvel. clint barton + others.
kill your darlings, kill them dead. marvel. peggy/natasha. vampire slayer au.
judy is a punk. the royal tenenbaums. margot tenenbaum + others.
untitled. gossip girl. dan/blair. 1920s au.
lonely hearts and other stories. gossip girl. dan/blair.

icons. dollhouse, gossip girl, the hunger games, winona ryder, musicians. 125.


M E T A
incest, gender, and other fun stuff in 'the vampire lestat'
trash books, girl rage, and v.c. andrews
can we talk about armand
the ask me anything meme tag

there was no sacred place
lestat/louis. 1617 words.
set in the 1980s, before lestat's big concert.

summary: It's in the moment between wishing and knowing that Lestat realizes the approaching figure is Louis.

note: for the ficathon! kind of a reworking/rewriting of a canon scene.




Lestat is ensconced in the house in Carmel Valley, a thoroughly modern contraption of cool glass and cold cement with sharp, minimalistic furniture and accents of silver gleaming in the dim, atmospheric light. Lestat lounges on the angular black leather sofa, his boots up on the glass coffee table, his body in a deep and careless sprawl. A movie plays on the television. Taxi Driver. Lestat finds it stylish but without grace, and he is disturbed by the young prostitute in a way he would rather not address at this late hour. He is tired, he has fed, and he can feel the pull of the distant sun already. But it's no matter; Lestat has always tried his damndest to hold out against the sun, and tonight is no different.

First he feels a prickling along his senses, little hairs along his arms standing on end.

He sits up slowly, trying to quell the excitement and anticipation rising in him quick enough as to be laughable. It's one of them, he's certain; finally, some supernatural creature drawn by his music has come to find him, to penetrate the sanctuary he has built here with his little human band. For company, perhaps? Solidarity? Or, more deliciously, for a fight – Lestat cannot deny he has a taste for this more than any other outcome.

But then he investigates further.

Second is the sound, very far away, of footsteps on soft grass. The pace is unhurried, but the fact that the creature allows itself to be heard at all is notable.

Lestat stands before the huge glass doors, floor to ceiling transparency revealing the entire vista of green hills, dark now and hooded by stars. It is one of his dangerous little games, all the glass, for even a second of daylight would so suffuse the compound as to burn him up instantly.

Third is the sight of a small figure moving closer and closer to the large house. Lestat puts his fingertips to the glass as he leans in eagerly – no oils on his fingertips to smudge the surface, no real heat to cloud it. The door slides open under his hands and Lestat passes through it like a ghost.

The balmy air passes over his skin in a caress, a cool California night with the threat of the day already in the air. It's soon, the sunrise. Perhaps too soon.

It's in the moment between wishing and knowing that he realizes the approaching figure is Louis.

Lestat's heartbeat picks up. (Just yesterday he had teased and flirted his way through a press conference, correcting for what felt like the millionth time all the misconceptions of vampire bodies. "Of course we have heartbeats, my darling," he'd purred at a reporter. "How else to move your lovely blood through our veins?") He finds himself stepping forward, one foot before the other, fast, too fast, not a run but a brisker walk than any mortal would be capable of producing.

In seconds, they stand facing one another. In moments. In heartbeats. Louis stands against the backdrop of darkened hills like a shadow, blending easily except for a visible white hand, a pale throat, the bright cheek. His clothes hang on him, a well-worn dark sweater and black jeans, scuffed boots. His hair has been cut short (for tonight at least) with apparent impatience, the ends hanging haphazard around his face. He looks like one of them, one with the modern age. He has always slipped so easily amongst mortals, even more easily than Lestat himself.

Lestat stands against the white concrete of his current enclave, the unnatural blue of the lit-up pool. His hair is nearly as pale as his flesh in the washed-out fluorescence, his eyes starkly blue. For his part, he wears black leather and an open black shirt, a long thin chain around his neck with a little cross at the end of it, for laughs. He watches Louis' gaze travel over all of this, ending at the cross, and watches as something like amusement seems to lend a cast to Louis' generally unreadable face.

Silence reigns.

Then Lestat remarks, "You don't call, you don't write…"

And Louis smiles, as brief and devastating as ever. "I did visit, once."

"Lies," Lestat declares. "I denied that visit in print, so truly it's as though it never happened."

"That terrible vanity rears its head again," Louis says.

"You've given up yours, though, I see," Lestat counters, reaching out to touch the ratty sweater – inappropriate and too much as always, but unable to resist, thrilling at the solidity of Louis beneath his fingers.

"Come, Lestat," Louis says gently, and the sound of Lestat's name in his voice is an ache, "Are we to be strangers even now?"

Lestat's hesitating fingers smooth and he presses his entire hand, palm flat, right about Louis' heart. He fancies he can feel the calm, unwavering beat of it. His hand slides up to curve over Louis' shoulder, then to grip it tightly, and finally he pulls Louis hard against his chest, wraps both arms around him. Louis answers the embrace with the same fervor, his fingernails biting into Lestat's back even through the shirt, wonderfully fierce.

Not once in the years past had they embraced like this. They had clutched one another in passion, in fury, had fought and suffered and wanted, but Lestat does not think they ever missed one another before.

Lestat runs his hands over Louis' sturdy, narrow shoulders, his graceful neck, his ears, his cheeks, his lips, his jaw. Louis is unchanged by time yet rendered unknown all the same. Louis is like a house Lestat has not visited in many years, though in his heart he still knows every room.

Louis' hands alight softly on Lestat in return – a touch here, there, a thumb trailing over the bump in Lestat's nose. Lestat has not felt such affection from Louis since before his turning, when Louis was human and hot with fever and he clutched at Lestat as only a dying man could.

"You're in danger," Lestat notes.

Louis gives an uncaring shrug, a tossed off nod. "So are you," he says. "But that's not why I came."

Lestat strokes the short hair at the nape of Louis' neck. It seems his body retains the memory of it from all those years ago, the silken texture of Louis' hair, and aches and aches. "Then why did you?"

Simply, "You wanted me to."

And Lestat had. Beneath the grandeur of his public gestures, his ridiculous gallivanting, the attention he would always crave – beneath it all had been a simple goal, to reach Louis again.

In the back pocket of Louis' ill-fitting jeans is a folded-up paperback of Lestat's book, the partner of the half-shredded copy of Interview that sleeps with Lestat in his coffin each day.

"Will you come in?" Lestat asks, gesturing back at the house.

"Oui, Monsieur Le Rock Star," Louis says, his measured tone as polite as ever and the only hint of humor lurking deep somewhere in his green eyes.

They lose their words as they cross the threshold, sit awkwardly like mortal teens side by side on the couch. The end of the movie runs red with blood on screen, its dim electronic light rendering them both alien. Lestat cannot keep himself from touching Louis' face and his hair again and again, though he does not dare to kiss, not yet. They grow comfortable together, but quiet.

Louis dozes. Lestat takes his hand and turns it over, remembering the long, elegant fingers, the cool dry skin. The sleeves of Louis' sweater are overlong and so he has folded them up, but there is a bulkiness to the folded knit that seems unnatural, as though it's hiding something. So, careful not to wake him, Lestat unfolds it. And there it is, a small locket of sorts pinned to the wool, very old-fashioned. Perhaps Victorian. And when it is opened there is the face of a small blonde girl, her gaze dark and direct even in miniature. The unexpectedness of it cuts through to Lestat almost as much as the sight of her does and he cannot stifle a sharp, stilted breath as he clicks the locket closed.

Then there is Louis' voice, soft and not a bit sleepy. "You'll forgive my sentimentality."

"I will forgive you anything," Lestat says graciously despite his unease, though he adds a moment later, "Except that hideous outfit."

Louis' mouth twists, not quite a smile.

"The sun is rising," Lestat murmurs then. "You won't have time to go." He gaze slides over flirtatiously, though of course Louis can see right through him. "Do you remember your first night?"

So they go together into Lestat's coffin, on their sides, face to face. Lestat's fingers find the little locket unwillingly. "You mourn her still," he says, quiet and breathless.

"Now is not the time to speak of her," Louis says, but the unspoken lingers: they will speak of her, they'll have to, or this respite between them will never last.

Lestat's hand goes up to pull the lid of the coffin down, drinking in the sight of Louis' face before darkness swallows them. The straight brows, the lips that seem to frown even when resting, the flashing green of his eyes – Lestat commits it to memory all over again.

Then time for just one whisper in the darkness – will you stay crossing Lestat's lips unbidden as his eyes grow heavy with sleep. Instead of words Louis answers with the squeeze of his hand, the press of his body so very close.

There are no guarantees but this: he will be there when Lestat wakes.

The other day I happened to think about that five things meme I did one time and so I went to go look at the entries and saw that, even though it took me like a year to fulfill all the prompts, I had asked for them in the first place in 2012. TWENTY TWELVE. That is like one million years ago!! And I cringe a lot at the answers I had for those things because I am 100% a different human and I just kind of want a redo. An updated kinda thing. I have so many different interests! Different opinions!

Also I'm running out of stuff to post on tumblr, so.  And since lj is dead and I get like a fraction of the response I used to get to stuff, I will probably be able to finish any prompts I receive in a timely manner.

THE TOP 5 MEME: ASK ME MY TOP FIVE FAVORITE ANYTHING AND I WILL RESPOND IN A SEPARATE POST


* and lack of fic lately is because i am working on one specific thing that got longer than i planned and no, it is not an update to any WIPs and it is also not anything any of you asked for. YOU'RE WELCOME.

Hello sweet summer children. Your fics are due! They have to be in by 12:00 AM Eastern Standard Time on August 31, which should give y’all all of today and Saturday to finish up!

Especially if you are like me, and you are not even done yet.

I've decided to arrange the prompts into categories, so each post will have a ~theme~ and not just be a mismash of nonsense.

in 'margot is pathetic' news, I had to rewatch an episode of gossip girl (4x10 for those curious) for fic reasons, and experienced a gamut of emotions

this was probably the first time I had actually watched a real episode instead of gifs in years, like since the show ended years

first, upon hearing kbell's voice beckoning me in, I felt overwhelming skin-crawling revulsion

I deeply wished for alcohol

but then. something occured. upon seeing their faces and hearing their voices, a strange feeling overtook me. my heart? reluctantly? became charmed? immediately I was set upon by self loathing

but. my KIDS. nate and dan were just as homosexual as I remembered! blair and serena shared a legitimately heartwarming moment! dan and serena made squishy loving faces at each other! dan and blair jointly tried to raise serena because let's face it, at least they are more qualified to do that than lily.

in case anyone was wondering, lily is still a piece of shit

and then at the end? at the end dan and blair make faces of teamwork and burgeoning respect at each other? and I? my face did a thing? my face did a scrunchy horrible thing? and then my eyes were legitimately damp? I am not sure what even happened there? why feels still have?

I am ashamed but clearly not so ashamed that I didn't make a post about this event in my life

Look how good I'm being! I may do this whole thing in under three years, which would honestly be a record for me.






THREE-MOON NIGHTS by SIGNE (OXONIENSIS)
brick/skipper, brick/maggie. cat on a hot tin roof.

Brick asked Maggie just a few days prior, didn't she think Skipper was handsome, and she'd laughed and agreed, but said her baby was even more handsome. Brick didn't disagree out loud — couldn't really, not with Maggie kissing him and showing him just how handsome she thought he was — but when he thought about it (which wasn't often, just sometimes, when Skipper was standing next to Brick and he could see their reflection in the mirror above the bar), he thought Skipper was unusually handsome. Maybe not so classically handsome as Brick himself, but there was something about his straight nose and the cleft in his chin and the way his sandy-blond hair curled around his ears that Brick thought was fine.

I really really like fic that fills a void of sorts in canon, or at the very least slips into canon without disturbing what we already know. I was so happy when I found this fic, for that reason. It really brings life to the situation that's only alluded to in the play/movie and does a solid job of capturing the tone of Tennesse Williams' dialogue and style. It also intercuts that with post-play/movie stuff and it's just really satisfying. It supplements canon in a great way, and stands alone very well too. Also I remember the author saying they pictured Redford as Skipper, which yes.



A FRIEND IN NEEDby DIDOXIDATE
stuart/ashley. sirens.

Later, just before he leaves, Stuart says, “If I change your name to the King of Blowjobs in my phone, is that flattering or weird?”

Sirens is one of those cancelled shows that I will be eternally bitter about. I really loved it so much! And it was SO SHORT ugh and now there's that heinous American remake that'll probably last forever because USA never pulls the plug on anything. I didn't really ship anything besides Stuart/Maxine when I watched it, but ofc when I looked for fic, all of it was Stuart/Ashley, which I was not necessarily averse to, though good fic convinced me to like it. I super love this fic, I reread it a lot; it's just perfect porn? Lol. The dynamic between Stuart and Ashley is great, really easy and funny and sexy. The character voices were perfect. I also have a reeeal thing for bffs-with-feels, as will become clear across the entirety of this post.



WHERE MY THOUGHT'S ESCAPING by SNORKACKCATCHER
cho chang. harry potter. mostly gen.

A scholarly gentleman in the Comprehensive Emporium heard her using Accio to retrieve a book from a high shelf -- it took a couple of tries to make it work -- and smiled at her. "You are English, then?"

"Scottish," she said automatically. "But my parents are from Guangzhou. We just moved there."

"I see." He nodded vigorously. "May I be so bold as to offer you a small but helpful suggestion?"

Cho blinked. "Er -- yes, of course, please do."

"A thousand thanks. Well then, allow me to say it will be worth your time and trouble to learn the Chinese forms. A spell and its incantation become as two parts of one whole, tied together and gaining in power by use; where everyone says the same words, the repetition smoothes and strengthens the flow of magic. It is like a river cutting its course through the earth, at once carving out and being guided by the path it has formed. This is a deep law of magic. You will find that the incantations everyone uses in Europe will be less effective here, so far from home, where spells have channelled their power in other forms, and a newcomer must create its own path. And of course this applies in reverse." There was a twinkle in his eye that reminded her of Professor Dumbledore; a sharp pang. "I myself always forget this when I travel to Europe for a conference, so the difficulty is not yours alone."

When I was planning out this post, I just had listed 'that Cho fic' because I lost all my bookmarks way back when my old computer died, and I'd never been able to find this one again. However! I wracked my brains for details and aggressively googled and I was able to find it again!!! This fic really stayed with me for a long time. I just thought it was so impressive. It's about Cho's family moving to China circa Book 7 to get away from the war and it delves into all this incredible world-building, particularly about wizarding culture in other countries and how magic differs in China from how Cho learned it, as well as her feelings of displacement both in the UK and in Guangzhou. I really love fics that explore secondary characters in HP, and also open up the world even wider. There's so much potential for expansion within the canon that it's thrilling when someone really takes advantage of it.



ACHILLES HEEL by MITHRIGIL
finnick odair. the hunger games.

My name is Finnick Odair. I am fourteen years old. I am a citizen of District 4 in Panem, but I wasn’t born in any country. I was born at sea.

That’s what they’re telling me to say for the cameras.

The cameras love me, almost as much as the people back home. They say that too. They, my prep team, my stylist, my mentor Mags, the people she says are already lining up to sponsor me. But if the cameras love me, won’t they believe anything I tell them?

Mags says a flat no to that, tells me that she loves me and she doesn’t take any of this with a grain of salt. I don’t believe her. If she loved me, I wouldn’t be here.

I don’t think love is the right word for what the cameras do to me.

Like almost all the fics on this list, this also fills a void in canon. This fic is about Finnick's Games, and his life afterwards. I honestly wish we could get everyone's Games, I have been intensely thirsting for a fic about Johanna's Games forever, someone pls alert me if you know of one. I really like Finnick in this and how he gets slowly dragged into world of Snow and the Capitol. Because he'd been so young when he won, you see it start to creep up on him until it swallows him whole. And especially I liked his growing awareness of how people view him and react to him. It's all so horribly, wonderfully creepy. It's definitely in the style of Suzanne Collins, which is nice for it feeling canon-compliant.



SEBASTIAN REVISITED by speranza
sebastian/charles. brideshead revisited.

It wasn't until we were sitting out one cool night, eating dates and quietly soaking in Vieux Magon, that I realized that Sebastian had – in that casually miraculously way in which he seemed to do everything - recaptured the lost languor of our youth. I had thought that this relaxation of the spirit had been exclusive to Brideshead, that it had risen like a dryad out of its orchards, its hothouses full of exotic blossoms, the rich depths of its wine cellars. Now I saw that my soul's peace was not captive in that enchanted palace, that there were other sacred places: here, now, with him. Sebastian, born and bred within that house, had understood that, and had tried to tell me that happiness could not be imprisoned within the walls of any castle.

I got this a few years ago for Yuletide and I was so immensely thrilled. It's utterly perfect. It's a little bit wish fulfillment-y which is exactly what I wanted, haha. It gives Charles and Sebastian a happy ending after the events of the novel and does it so beautifully that no1currs if the idea of them finding happiness again is slightly unrealistic (not that I necessarily think it is unrealistic). The language is really just so so so wonderful. I happily accept it as a part of canon.







TOP FIVE FIC TROPES

PRETEND MARRIED :: DOMESTICITY :: ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP
These are not actually all the same thing, but they all exist under the same umbrella, so. Pretend married/pretend dating is like catnip to me. I do not know why this is?? I suppose I just really like people being idiots about their own feelings. And I'm sure it feeds a little into how much I love fics that explore relationship dynamics, etc. The Americans is probably the best non-fic example of how amazing pretend married can be as a storyline, how it dredges up all kinds of unwilling emotions.


______ MADE THEM DO IT
Aliens. Sex pollen. Oddly strict games of truth or dare. I don't care. Usually supernatural-y fics have more of this than other fandoms – I remember nouvou Star Trek in particular had a lot of it, lol. It's fun for a lot of the same reasons fake dating is fun, probably. All that ~suppressed ~desire.


EVERYONE IS BISEXUAL
One I am particularly fond of in my own writing, haha. Nothing deep to it, I just like options.


EVERYONE IS DUMB ABOUT FEELINGS :: FRIENDS WITH SECRET FEELS :: UST
Also not the same things, also under the same umbrella. I always really thirst for those long, slow slow slow slow burn relationship fics. You know those ones? I have zero patience when it comes to writing them myself, but damn do I always look for them to read. There is just something so satisfying about watching relationships blossom and develop between people?? God, now that I'm looking at this list all together, I think all of these boil down to people being absolute emotional idiots.


BAD SEX
I love when things go terribly wrong! Lofty expectations not meeting up to reality, miscommunications, nerves – and then the characters caring about each other despite it, and working through it. Plus it's refreshing to read some bad sex every so often; sometimes the unrelenting perfect sex in fic can get a little, uh, repetititve.







TOP FIVE STEVE/BUCKY FIC RECS

MAKE ONE DREAM TRUE (YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE) by BEARDSLEY
A man who looks and moves just like Bucky, exactly like him, is walking towards him and sees Steve, who has a split second to think gloved hands before the man smiles in a breathtakingly, achingly, impossibly familiar way and says in Bucky's voice, 'There you are, I looked everywhere for you,' and pushes Steve against the door to one of the reception halls and kisses him.

James Bondian shenanigans! I love this fic a lot, I re-read it quite often; it involves Steve running into the Winter Soldier in a number of classy locales while wearing a number of tuxes, and them being drawn to each other despite Bucky's lack of memory. Steve is lovely and angsty, there is some nice humor via the other Avengers, and also A++ making out.


NO HEART TO RECALL by KIARASAYRE
He has failed missions before. He knows it the way he knows he's the Winter Soldier, the way he knows how to disassemble a sniper's rifle, the way he knows the most efficient method of killing a man with his bare hands: the knowledge is simply there, with no context, no sense memory. But he still knows it: he has failed missions before, and he has failed this one spectacularly.

As far as I am concerned, this is the best and most satisfying post-Cap2 fic I've come across. The characterization is excellent, achingly slow and well-done. It's from Bucky's PoV and there's this really nice touch of the evolution of names he uses: first he is the Winter Solider and Steve is Captain America, then it shifts to Barnes and Rogers, and finally Bucky and Steve. I'm a real sucker for Bucky being pulled to Steve without remembering or understanding why, and watching him slowly want to protect Steve here is really wonderful. The hesitant way they get to know each other again is great. There's some great stuff with the rest of the team, too.


BEI MIR BIST DU SCHOEN by LAURA JV (JACQUEZ)
"You'll make someone a fine wife someday," Bucky said, and dodged the wooden spoon Steve aimed at his knuckles. It was easier, here at home, not to think about what Steve would be like, stretched out naked in Bucky's arms, or kissing him, open-mouthed; easier, because at home Steve was there, taking up space. His raspy breathing and wry smiles and strong, sure hands drove out the fantasy Steve between Bucky's ears, and a good thing, too, or Bucky might forget and lay one on Steve, forget and press Steve up against the wall, start doing things he oughtn't.

Sometimes I flipflop on 1940s fic – all the repression and stuff can be appealing (lol that sounds horrible to say) but it easily puts me off for two reasons: 1) it often displaces Peggy entirely, which I don't go in for, and 2) everyone suddenly starts talking like Huck Finn, even though the whole first movie was set in the 40s and we saw that this was not the case. I really enjoyed this one, though, because its exploration of Bucky's sexuality felt more real and valid to me than some I've seen. Not eveything is ceaseless angst; not everything is unrealisitc openness. There's also a little subplot of gay OCs Bucky and Steve are friends with that I thought was really nice. But best of all it remains respectful of ladies and Bucky's attraction to them, even if his love for Steve ends up being the stronger emotion. (It's still a little Huck Finnsy with the language but that's okay because it's a very lovely fic.)


HAVE YOU EVER THOUGHT JUST MAYBE by DESDEMON
The first step was enlisting Pepper, who predictably agreed with JARVIS at first, and who said, “You filmed them? Tony, that is such a huge invasion - I can’t even begin to tell you how inappropriate -” and then sat down and watched the entire recording that Tony had saved as evidence.

“It’s really not my business," she said. “But they both seem very lonely,” which was Pepper code for “I’m on board.”

This is a pretty fun fic, one of those ones where the Avengers just seem to hang out and watch movies and be bros a lot. And also Tony gets it into his head to matchmake with Bucky and Steve, and Pepper sort of reluctantly gets pulled in, and it's just super cute. (It has a sort of sister fic with the same premise that is also very fun.) I particularly dig the Tony-and-Pepper-partners-in-crime aspect, lol.


SAFEWORD: "ERSKINE" BY PARAXDISEPINK
Five times Bucky wondered how everyone can think Steve is an innocent boy scout.

This was actually one of the first Steve/Bucky fics I ever read, so I'd probably be fond of it for that reason if nothing else. It is basically just porn, but very good porn. Just copy+pasted the summary because I feel odd being like GRAPHIC PORN EXCERPT so, yeah.

One of these days I'll probably post a fic but hahaha, let's not get our hopes up.





I feel like I get asked this a lot, so I'm gonna leave off the explanations; I've probably already given them at some point. I pretty much just like it when they yell at each other.










I am ride or die for musicians AU. And, very politely, Penn and Leighton seem to be doing everything they can to make it a reality, lolz. In general I am a sucker for musician stories and films so it's no surprise I'm super drawn to it with DB too. Plus they just give me so much to work with!




Lol it's sad that GG plots make more sense if you insert them into the 19th century, but c'est la vie. A lot of Wharton couples give me DB feels, and period pieces are just fun.




One of these days I am so going to do this in a fic. I was working on one with the excessively wonderful lookinglassgirl for a while but it sort of petered out and wasn't quite post-able; maybe one day I'll go in and edit it and get my shit together. I love AUs so much because I really like taking characters out of their element and seeing how they change and/or remain the same. And this one is particularly suited to these characters, I think. Blair would definitely maintain her elitism, albeit of a different sort, and I think Dan would still have a chip on his shoulder, it just wouldn't be related to being the "poor" loner. So yeah. Lots of fun to come at their dynamic in a kind of opposite way.




I saw this in a graphic on tumblr and became obsesssedddddd. How cute!!! Blair as an impossible, arrogant aspiring starlet and Dan as the writer/director slowling losing his mind over her antics! So screwball!!




Hahahahahaha cries.







I think of this as, like, the ULTIMATE Serena look. It's got that Kate Moss/Edie Segewick vibe. It's weirdly casual in a careless, thrown-together way that nevertheless manages to make a huge impact and look great. My issue with the direction Serena's styling took post-s1 is that it stopped looking effortless and started looking overworked, which is the opposite of how Serena should look. She's one of those characters who has to look amazing while seeming to put in zero effort, because that is the whole point of her effect on other people. Blair tries too hard; Serena doesn't try at all.



Loooove this. I wish I'd put some of her outerwear on this list because her coat/gloves were always so boss. But casual!Serena is my favorite Serena. I love this outfit because it's not super sexy or anything (aside from the obvious fact that she is hot). It just looks comfortable. It looks like something a real human woman would wear to go chill with her friends.



I AM COUNTING THESE AS ONE, I DON'T CARE. Legit think I have been looking for the perfect black with gold studs Serena dress since 2008.



A very simple outfit I have also been eternally obsessed with. She looks sooo good in jeans and her s2 hair was the pinnacle of her hair aaand that purse with the gold chain strap!! So good.



I mean she just looks hot as fuck. Love this dress.








TONY STARK STYLE: no powers, but using $$ and brains
I did an Avengers-themed GG graphic a little while ago and have been quietly obsessed with it ever since, lol. Blair is like Tony and Pepper's horrible love child: a spoiled rich bratty meglomaniac with terrifying effienciency skills. (Okay, she's more Tony than Pepper.) But I could just really see Blair with no powers existing in a world where people do have special abilities and utilizing her money and intelligence to make herself equally formidable. Plus stories of self-obsessed women crazy for power are just interesting to me.

(Dan would be Bruce and obviously Serena is Thor.)


PETER PETRELLI'S POWER: absorbing the powers of others
Aw remember Peter! I think this could feed nicely Blair's hunger for everything, her burning desire to possess everything (though she'd lack Peter's compassion, of course; Blair wants everything especially if it comes at a detriment to other people). She would totally collect abilities and amass power that way.


SUPER LEARNING!: the ability to take in information at an advanced rate
Remember when Blair was a person who cared about academics and stuff? I know, I barely do either. But once upon a time she did, sort of, so I think evil genius Blair would be pretty great.


PERSUASION / MIND CONTROL
Self-explanatory. She would clearly use it to create a dictatorship.


ROGUE DOES THIS I THINK?: feed on life energy
I don't know one single solitary thing about X-men but I saw the first movie when I was like ten or whenever it came out, and Rogue did something like this, right? She sucked away people's life force for her own (unintentional) benefit? Yeah, I think that works well with Blair's characterization. I think at first she'd probably take advantage of it but then it would start to majorly fuck with her.

Every so often I poke around my journal and judge my productivity or lack thereof, and yo. I am APPALLED at my own WIP progress. I post like a chapter ONCE A YEAR how does anyone even deal with that! That's so stupid! No wonder I always feel like I can't maintain interest loooool.

But it is a new month, I am always trying to be better, and every so often I try and use my inability to relax for good. Basically what this means is I am going to attempt a regular posting schedule. I only have two WIPs going right now and it is incredibly unlikely that I will ever do another because I'm obviously not very good at the upkeep, so I think this is a manageable goal. These are both fics I intend to finish and by putting deadlines out into the world, I hope to, you know, actually finish them. I usually work very well with deadlines.

So. Here it is:

I am going to post age of dissonance on the first of the month, starting in October. without a key will be posted on the 15th of the month, also starting in October. This month, you are likely to get at least one or more of the five things posts, in addition to a Dan/Carter fic that is getting very out of hand and the third (and final) installment of the musicians au fic.

Those are my goals so far. We will take it from there. 

The summertime fic exchange fics have now been revealed on AO3. You can view the works here.

Thank you very much to everyone for participating; we were super pleased with the low drop out rate and this new bunch of GG fics!

Happy reading! And please remember to comment and thank your authors.

is this sound okay?
Dan, Blair. Also Vanessa, Serena, Jenny.
3021 words. PG.


Summary: Somewhere along the way he lost his voice, and you could say he's on the lookout for it.

Note: The third and probably final installment of my little musicians au series! This is probably one of my favorite things that I've worked on, so I'm of mixed feelings letting it go – happy to be done, but sad too. I should probably do a fanmix for this series tbqh; I have like a gigantic playlist for it, lol. Anyway I hope you guys have enjoyed it so far and will enjoy this last bit!







Dan's mom found a box of his journals from when he was fifteen or so, a dusty cardboard box of adolescent longing tucked in a corner of the attic. Dan sits on the floor in the middle of his apartment and reads them one by one. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

He plucks out lines here or there, scribbling them down on scraps of paper, and then gets his guitar to start piecing it all together. It's a puzzle put together to reveal the full picture of his teenage angst. He gets a kick out of it.

The body of the guitar is plastered with stickers, a joke from Jenny: they're years-old Blair stickers, sparkling up at Dan silver and pink and mass-produced. Little girls probably stuck them on their composition notebooks and practiced infant contempt when interacting with girls who chose Serena stickers instead.

Dan only uses this guitar privately at home, away from prying eyes. The thing with him and Blair is enough of a public joke.

Everyone likes to point fingers at him for breaking up Blair's engagement. There was a skit on SNL about it; music magazines put forth think pieces on their alleged genre-spanning affair. Someone even asked Blair about it during an interview, live and televised. She was wearing a graphic black and white minidress, her lipstick bubblegum pink. She smiled enigmatically and said, "We're collaborators."

Dan probably isn't supposed to like the sound of that, but he does.







Vanessa won't speak to Dan outside of the recording studio, and even then it's in terse, clipped phrases.

The second album is bloated and incomplete and the pressure is ever-ramping. Jenny is already on her third album, each more critically acclaimed than the last, and the label wants the same sort of success from him – that, or a business-savvy breakdown to keep public interest. They don't care if Dan rises or falls, so long as he does either with full conviction and drama. So Dan can't think lately. He can't sleep. He can't write.

"Maybe you should go somewhere quiet for a while," Vanessa says. "Like rehab."

Dan sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'm fine," he says, which has become near-litany. "I cut back a lot."

It's the truth, sort of. He doesn't know that the need for it is burning in him like it was before, but that might be one of those lies people tell themselves.

"Then I guess you're just busy with the pop tart," she says.

Dan looks at her. "Are you just being a bitch or are you jealous?"

Vanessa glares at him for a beat, then grabs her bag, spitting out a low fuck you on her way out. It's how most of the recording sessions go these days.







Music plays quietly in Dan's bedroom, the TV going at the same time, the lights low. Blair sits cross-legged in the center of his bed reading a spread in People about Serena's unexpected Vegas wedding, a disapproving frown on her face. Dan's knuckles brush over the small of her back to get her attention.

"I want to go somewhere," he says. "Get out of the city for a while."

"Okay," Blair says without looking up. "I'll see you when you get back."

Dan rolls his eyes. "No," he says. "I mean with you. I want to get out of the city with you."

Blair glances over at him with a sly smile. "I'm in very high demand," she tells him. "I don't think I could spare the time."

He sits up so he can kiss her shoulder. "Plead exhaustion."

"Everyone's going to think I'm on a crack binge or something," Blair says. "Where would we go?"

"I don't know," he says. "Somewhere no one will bother us."

"Does a place like that even exist?" She pushes him back with a gentle poke to the forehead. "Anyway, our little roadtrips don't seem to be very successful, do they?"

Dan doesn't need the reminder. He changes track. "We can go wherever you want."

Blair abandons the magazine to wind her arms around his neck, lean into his body. Lately she's been allowing him to see her without all the glittering trappings of Blair Waldorf, pop sensation. Tonight she wears no makeup and a simple gray babydoll dress patterned with small electric blue flowers, a line of tiny buttons down the back that Dan will enjoy unfastening one by one. She kisses him full on the mouth, her own way of redirecting the conversation.

"I want to be right here," she says.

Who is he to argue that?







Dan has taken to haunting a few Lower Manhattan bars, and not just for the booze.

He goes in a few nights a week to tip back a solitary whiskey and churn out some songs. He does covers mostly, because they're safe and easy; he can't find a way to set his own pain to music so he'll allow it to filter through other artists, other songs. He tries not to fall into a schedule with his impromptu performances so he won't be anticipated – the unexpected, spontaneous feel is half their charm. He usually goes very late or very early, and chooses whichever bar looks the emptiest. Word hasn't really gotten around about it yet, or at least people seem to be respecting his privacy with this, if nothing else.

Somewhere along the way he lost his voice, and you could say he's on the lookout for it.







Blair's latest album has been received tentatively. A few people called it a game-changer but mostly the reviews came off politely curious, as though the entire thing was a belated April fools. It's a transitional album, they say. She's growing up, they say; she's growing claws. Who would have expected such edge from the ladylike princess of pop?

The album is called bubblegum bitch, which, Dan believes, Jenny once called Blair in the heat of an argument, an insult as ridiculous as it was furious. Jenny grouses that she ought to sue. Blair takes what she can from people to propel herself forward. Everyone in Dan's life likes to remind him of that very pointedly.

The ads are everywhere, plastering the subway and the streets. In them, Blair stares out challengingly from an ironically candy-pink background, heel of her hand smearing pink lipstick across her face like melted ice cream, or blood.







Blair says, "I want you to go on tour with me."

When Dan does not respond except for a raised eyebrow, she huffs a little and puts her hands on her hips and generally does her best to imply that he is acting ridiculous for not acquiescing immediately. "What's that face?"

"If I invited you on with us…" Dan starts. He's tuning his guitar, and he finds having his hands occupied makes him more likely to be patient with Blair. "To go on before us. To tag along. What would you say?"

"I'm not an opening act," she says, seeming offended at the thought.

"Well, there you go."

"You're not either," Blair insists. She drops onto the couch next to him, legs curled beneath her, and stills his hand on the strings with her own. "I thought you wanted to go somewhere with me."

When he looks at her, she gives him such an overly pleasant smile that he laughs. "I'm not even going to consider it unless you give me the real reason."

But Blair is not a person easily swayed. She takes the guitar off his lap and sets it aside before taking its place, straddling his thighs. "I want you to come with me. It can be that simple, Humphrey."

Except it isn't, not with her.

Maybe she thinks she can puff up her new artistic image with him coming along. Maybe her ticket sales aren't doing so well and she wants to capitalize on their media scrutiny – who wouldn't come to see if the pop princess and folk rock legacy really do make eyes at each other like the magazines say? Maybe it was the label's idea, not even hers.

"They'd never agree to it," he says finally, not an intentional agreement by a long mile. "The other guys. Vanessa. Not in a million years."

"Then I suppose it's up to you to be very convincing," Blair says, and before he can respond she covers his mouth with hers.







Dan is aware that at no point did he actually agree to go on tour with Blair, but he's also aware that declining was never really an option. She would ask and he would go and that's just the way it would be.

As expected, Vanessa and the other guys are far from interested.

"You can go," Vanessa says. "I wouldn't be caught dead."

Resentment slithers up his spine. "Yeah, well, who asked you?" he says, even though he just did. "We're not Dan Humphrey and the Pips. It's just Dan Humphrey. And the people holding the instruments."

Vanessa looks at him like he slapped her. "You're such a joke," she says. "Who are you lately?"

"A washed up drunk, I hear," Dan says. "Apple didn't fall too far from the tree, I guess."

Vanessa colors just slightly. "Don't do that," she says. "Don't make me pity you."

"Why not?" Dan says, a touch tauntingly, just to be an asshole. "I do."

Vanessa releases a frustrated breath and turns away. "Go, then," she repeats. "See where the hell it gets you."

It isn't officially a joint tour. It's not the entire Dan Humphrey experience, after all; as far as they're selling it, Dan is just tagging along in a friendly capacity and if the fans are very lucky maybe Blair will invite him up on stage. The thing works like gangbusters, leaves a sour taste in Dan's mouth. Their shows are sold out all over the country.

It goes like this: Dan is never the opening act. Rather, once Blair has sufficiently dazzled her audience on her own with the mix of new stuff and re-imagined old stuff, she trots Dan on stage like it's a big surprise every single time. They sing together, and then she goes away to let him sing alone, and then she takes the mike back alone to finish the show. Dan goes to have a drink.

After the show there's partying sometimes but traveling mostly. Blair doesn't like the bus even though hers is basically a palace on wheels, about six times nicer than anything Dan ever rolled around in. But for all her complaining about being a sardine, she seems to find herself constantly giving up her space to remain cozied up next to Dan. He doesn't hate it. Obviously, he doesn't hate that.

At the end of the day Dan wouldn't do any of it differently. His hang-ups are made inconsequential nightly when Blair leans in close to his mike and smiles at him like they aren't on a stage in front of thousands, like they're alone. When she falls asleep curled in that coffinesque bus bed with him. He wouldn't give that up.







One night when it's late and dark and the only sound is of wheels hitting asphalt, Blair murmurs, "How much did you have to drink today?"

"Not you too," he says.

They're supposed to be sleeping. Both of their heads are on Dan's tragic little pillow, their bodies pressed close in the narrow space. It is not the place for serious conversations about Dan's supposed alcohol addiction.

"It seemed better for a little bit," Blair continues, undeterred, her fingertips tracing little curlicues on his chest.

Dan gives in. "It's worse on tour, I guess."

"You should've told me."

"There's not really anything to tell."

Even in the dark, Blair's skepticism radiates. "When we went to see your father –"

Dan cuts her off. "I don't want to talk about that."

"Humphrey, you fight it so much," she sighs. "I see you do it. But what are you even fighting? Where is it getting you?"

He shifts onto his back, which brings Blair onto his chest a little more. When they had gone to see his father –

"Isn't that a self-fulfilling prophecy?" he muses. "I don't want to be him so hard that I become him anyway."

"You aren't him," Blair murmurs. "You're you. You've just got some not-unexpected commonalities."

The arm around her hugs her closer. "It's not as bad as it was," he says, which isn't a lie.

Rufus hadn't been there, when they went. He'd moved. There was no forwarding address, and he hadn't seen fit to tell anyone where he had gone.

Dan's not sure what he expected, really.







Their last show is in Los Angeles and they hang around the venue a few hours beforehand, sort of rehearsing and sort of fucking around. Blair is trying to learn the guitar so Dan is trying to teach her but she is, unsurprisingly, not a very pleasant pupil.

She's got a little crease between her brows, lips creased in a frown as she arranges her fingers. Then, statement at odds with her expression, she says, "I have something for you."

"Is it respect for my teaching skills?" Dan asks, rearranging her hand.

"No," Blair says. "Hold on."

She comes back and gives him a cassette. It has a little white label with her neat handwriting spelling out for Dan. Confused, he turns it over in his hands. "What's this?"

"A demo," Blair says matter-of-factly. She picks up the guitar again.

"Already?" he says. "Your album just came out."

"No, it's for you."

Dan looks at her. "For me?"

She rolls her eyes. "That is what I said, Humphrey."

"You made me a demo," he says slowly.

Blair huffs a little. "Are you brain damaged? I wrote some songs for you. I know your album's all –" She waves a hand vaguely. "Anyway. I just. Wrote some for you."

For a moment, Dan isn't sure what to feel at all. Offended is always a good choice – does she think he needs her to come up with music for him? – but he isn't offended. Perhaps this is Blair evening the scales, paying him back. But then he notices she's holding herself a little stiffly, like maybe she's nervous or something.

Softly, he asks, "Why?"

She gives him a faintly annoyed look. "Inspired, I suppose," she says.

Later, once the tour is over and they are ensconced in her Manhattan hi-rise again, she elaborates. Dan has grown kind of reluctantly fond of her lush all-glass space age home, even if he's always afraid of leaving fingerprints.

"You know, when you sing…" Blair starts, trails off. She fidgets a little, appearing discomfited. "You sort of – sort of lean in and, I don't know, curl around the mike, and your hair's in your face… And you close your eyes, like you're listening. It's very intimate. It's like watching you while you're alone."

His hand rests on her stomach, stroking gently up and down. "That's how I feel when we sing together," he says.

Blair looks at him, agrees, "Yes." She admits, "It's very sexy."

Dan smiles a little and teases her, "Are you just being nice to me because I have daddy issues?"

"Ugh." Blair wriggles out of his grasp so she can reach for a pillow and smack him upside the head with it. "Yes, and it was the last time, so I hope you enjoyed it."






Dan goes back to his apartment, much neglected over the last few months, and listens to the demo there. He sits in the middle of his living room and listens to Blair sing songs she made up for him, the Blair-plastered guitar sitting next to the stereo. Jenny had come over to get the mail and water the plants, and as a dick move she left an array of tabloids on the coffee table that feature him and Blair. Dan listens and sits surrounded by all of that and wonders what exactly he's running from.

Dan stays up all night and at the end of it he has twelve songs. Twelve songs, and every last one of them is about Blair.

There is time for his loneliness and time for his tangled feelings about his father but tonight can be about Blair. He can stop pretending that tonight is not about Blair.

Dan doesn't waste recording studio time. He takes Vanessa for fries and a walk, and they feel sort of normal, for once.

"I think we're going in different directions," he tells her.

Vanessa gives him an amused-if-skeptical look. "Are you breaking up with me?"

Dan smiles. "Musically," he says.

She nods a little like she'd been expecting that. "I've been writing my own stuff," she says.

He isn't surprised. "I bet it's great," he says. "I'd like to hear it."

Vanessa gives him a little shove and steals the soda out of his hands. "I don't like you all timid," she says, but she smiles a little herself. "Yelling's better than that."

Dan puts his arm around her shoulders and is glad when she doesn't shrug it off. "I'll keep that in mind. I like really mean women, have you noticed that?"

When Dan goes back into the booth, he does it by himself. The label hires some backing musicians, new people without history or connection to Dan. He records a whole bunch of stuff that they cut down to ten songs – some of them his, some of them Blair's. He gets a demo of it to give to Blair first. They're love songs, he's not exactly subtle, so he wouldn't send it out without letting her have a say first. She tells him to go for it – against her better judgment, naturally.

The album does pretty well, even if he assumes most people are in it for the scandal rather the music. But that's okay. He's proud of it and that's more important. In an interview for Rolling Stone, a woman with short spiky hair asks what his inspiration was.

"I guess I fell in love," Dan says.

again and again and again
Dan, Serena, Blair.
4300 words. PG.
sequel/companion piece to dear so-and-so


Summary: You said the anger would come back just as the love did.

Note: For sing_song_sung for the summertime fic exchange. Just crossposting bc that's how I do.





In the winter the house looks made of gingerbread with snow like frosting topping the roof. Serena makes cookies shaped like stars for her children, because she knows how to do things like that now. Every year she and Dan stay up late on Christmas Eve wrapping gifts and drinking eggnog; it's her favorite tradition, one that started by accident because they always procrastinated on the wrapping. For years, Dan would kiss her under the mistletoe.

In the summer they keep all the windows open and drink lemonade on the green grass of the backyard. The dog sleeps in the shade of a deck chair. Serena constantly has to stop her infant son from eating daisies, and Dan teaches their daughter to ride her pink bike down the tree-lined street.

Serena's children have the kind of life she always wanted her children to have. They pick blackberries off brambles and take a yellow bus to school and their father would rather die than leave them.

It's enough. For a very long time, it's enough.







Their daughter's name is Annabelle. As soon as she's born Serena and Dan immediately become the worst kind of new parents. It's as though no one else in the world has ever had a baby before; to them, Annabelle is nuclear fusion, universal gravitation, the first light bulb. Serena instagrams baby feet until Blair sends her a cease and desist text (but then does a few more anyway, for good measure). Dan sends out mass emails practically every time Annabelle blinks. Sometimes they let her sleep right in the center of their king-sized bed, sitting side by side and watching her avidly, waiting for her to breathe or sneeze or clutch her tiny fingers in a fist.

They had the name picked out and stenciled on a wall of the nursery before she was born. Serena plucked it out of a baby book based purely on superficiality; it's a pretty name, a name with music in it. Serena likes that no one in her family was ever named Annabelle. There's something freeing about that.

Sometimes Serena finds herself murmuring it softly, like a lullaby, into her baby's ear as she rocks to sleep. Annabelle, Annabelle, Annabelle, a spell to calm fussy little girls before bed. Dan is more prolific, and his quiet, gentle recitation of Annabel Lee becomes something of a tradition too. Nothing puts Annabelle to sleep faster or sweeter, especially once she's a little older, especially after nightmares. Serena enjoys it too, drifting off to the faint rhythm of Dan's voice.

Annabelle is a daddy's girl from day one and Serena doesn't have it in her to be bothered by this – not at first, anyway. She's so happy her daughter can have that. All her life she knew if she ever had a daughter, she'd want her daughter to have that.

It's different when Annabelle is older. Serena has so many petty resentments then that daddy's girl isn't even the cherry topper.

Their son is named Scott. The choice is all Dan, the name snatched from between F. and Fitzgerald. Six years separate Scott from Annabelle, and she is determinedly responsible for him in a way that makes Serena smile. When they bring Scott home, all of three days old and teeny-tiny, Annabelle sits right down with him and commences trying to teach him to read.

"That's my girl," Dan says.

If Annabelle is Dan's, then Scott is Serena's.

Annabelle is always a head taller than the other kids in her class. Her hair is long and blonde and wild; her eyes are a deep dark blue. But if comparisons are to be made, that's where they end. Annabelle grows up to be reserved and sarcastic, poised and controlled. Scott is different. Scott is her baby. He's so quiet and kind that sometimes he reminds her of Eric as a kid; it's less easy to admit, but sometimes he reminds her of herself as a kid, before everything.

The last thing Serena wants is to become the everything that splits her children's lives into before and after. She would do anything before she let that happen.







Everyone always jokes that sex is the first thing to go, but with Serena and Dan, it's the conversation. They can go weeks without saying anything of value to each other. They rely instead on the old domestic script: who's going to get Annabelle from soccer, what are they going to have for dinner, see you later honey don't be too late!

After a while she begins to wonder what they used to talk about, but all she can think of are the things they were too afraid to say.

The only time she still feels close to him is in bed, pressing a kiss to his mouth that she's always afraid he won't return. But he does. Even with two tiny children and a house to take care of and a dog and Dan's work – even with all the little things that get in the way, they always make time to reach for each other in the dark of their bedroom. Or Serena reaches, and Dan doesn't turn away.

She never goes into his office or reads the notebook he keeps by the bed. She never snoops on his phone or his computer. She makes her trust in him a forceful, real thing by refusing to admit that there is any doubt at all in her heart or her mind. Dan doesn't give her a reason to worry. He's never late coming home. He never misses her calls. He doesn't even go on book tours because he doesn't want to be away from the kids that long.

Serena's mother likes to tell her that she's lucky, with a kind of wistfulness in her voice that Serena feels in her bones.

But Serena hasn’t forgotten the look on Dan's face when Blair got married.

There was a line in Inside that always stuck with Serena, even though she only read it once and tries not to think about it much. She's the kind of girl who never laughs, it said, only smiles – very carefully.

Serena remembers a Blair who got tipsy on mimosas and giggled with her face against Serena's collarbone. Serena remembers a Blair gasping with laughter in pillow fort in fourth grade. But Blair hasn't been that way in a very long time, and certainly not with Serena.

Once they went to a gala in New York as a favor to Nate. Serena was surprisingly happy to catch up with her old crowd, at least for a night, but at some point she looked up and saw Dan and Blair standing together by the bar. They didn't often speak these days; if Blair called and Dan picked up, he'd hand the phone over to Serena with barely a word. But they were talking then, very politely. Dan put his hand on Blair's lower back and said something and Blair laughed, her head just tipping back.

It felt like being punctured.

Serena could never quite forget that either.







Sometimes Serena and Dan spend summers in the city, a kind of backwards logic that appeals to them. They see their families, they make the rounds, and then they retreat back to their Connecticut cottage gulping huge breaths of relief. New York is dangerous ground for them, even if they'd never admit as much.

Serena makes Blair dismiss her nanny for a day and go to the park – the two of them, Annabelle, Scott, and Blair's daughter Nicolette. It's a good day, the kids all get along, and Serena is having a pretty good time. It's not like old times; it couldn't be. But it's okay, and that's all she needs these days.

Then a woman comes over and says to Blair, "Your children are beautiful. Are they twins?" She points to Scott and Nic, who are currently laughing as they chase each other around one of those painted horses stuck on massive springs.

Blair smiles, waving it off easily. "No, cousins," she says with a conspiratorial look at Serena. Serena smiles back, but inside she feels deeply cold.

Scott was born three days before Nicolette; Serena and Blair have some kind of timing. It had been a childish dream of sorts that they would grow up and have daughters together, but they kept getting the genders mixed up, Annabelle and Henry then Scott and Nic. And while Serena's children just tied her more deeply to Dan, Blair's seemed to push her and Chuck apart. Their marriage ended because of Nicolette, or at the very least it ended right before Nic was born.

The rumor is that Nicolette is the product of an affair, though as far as Serena knows, the contender for her father was never definitively determined. Chuck always had another girl in the wings, for all he pretended to be discrete, but there had never been a whisper about Blair before she got pregnant. Serena doesn't know the truth. She never asked. She doesn't ask Blair things like that anymore.

It seemed like confirmation enough when Nicolette was left out of the custody battle.

Serena finds herself watching Nic sometimes. That day at the park, after the woman went on her way, Serena's gaze kept being drawn to Blair's daughter running around with her son, thinking they very easily could be twins. They're same age, the same height, they have the same dark curly hair. It's difficult to tell because Nic looks just like Blair with her big brown doe eyes, her high cheekbones and pale skin like a little porcelain doll. She looks more like Scott's sister than Annabelle does.

Henry and Annabelle don't play well together (memorably, once, Annabelle became so irritated by him that she threw his teddy bear out the penthouse window. They'd punished her, but Serena imagined Dan was secretly very proud) but that isn't true of the rest of the children. Annabelle bosses the younger ones around with great satisfaction, but is especially protective of little Nicolette. They are best friends despite their age difference, sisters almost.

She would never say so, but sometimes Serena can't stand the sight of those two little girls together.







Serena has one affair, just one.

It lasts the better part of a year. It's not a year that differs from any other at first glance. Serena is not any more exhausted or any less loved, but the affair happens anyway, in the way things have often just happened to her.

His name is Ian and he's Annabelle's soccer coach. The first thing that strikes Serena is how very tall he is, much taller than her, so much so that she has to shade her eyes from the glare of the sun to look up at him. For Serena who is always taller than her boyfriends, five ten in flats and over six in her highest heels, this is strangely thrilling.

Ian has broad shoulders and wide, strong hands; he has forearms dotted with freckles that she'll later learn speckle his shoulders and chest too. His eyes are a cool, clear blue and his hair dark red that catches golden in the sunlight. All the moms have crushes on Ian and Serena is no exception.

Flirting is like stretching a long unused muscle. Once they know each other better, Ian teases her about the early days, the way she'd posed and preened. Serena always denies it, but she knows it's true. It is a heady thing to feel like that again, to feel careless and desperate and wanting. She had forgotten what it was like to crave someone like that.

Wanting Dan was different. Her desire for Dan always made her uncharacteristically shy, as though it was embarrassing or shameful to want such innocent things as hand-holding, first dates, flowers. Dan made her feel like a girl in a Norman Rockwell painting. He grounded her, gave her roots, made her real. He was a nice, normal boy who could make her nice and normal too just by loving her, just by deciding to give her his love.

Ian isn't exactly a bad boy or anything, but Serena fucking him in a pizzeria bathroom post soccer game is definitely a bad thing to do. She never thought she'd miss doing things like that, being the fuckup, but it's exciting. It's exciting to have a secret, to meet a beautiful man in covert locations and kiss him like the world's about to end. It's a little vindictive, no denying it, but it's hers.

Almost a year into it, Ian wants her to leave her husband so they can get married. Serena stops seeing him after that.

Once after the divorce, Serena asks Dan if he ever slept with anyone else. "No judging," she adds, more for him than her.

"Nope," he says with a careless shrug. "I didn't."

She levels him with a dubious look. "Never? Not once?"

Dan gives her an odd look in return and says, "No, Serena, not once. Not once in the fourteen years we were married did I cheat on you."

Serena could argue that, but she doesn't. Instead she takes a slow sip of beer and sets her empty bottle back down. "Then I guess that makes you a saint," she says.







The thing Serena misses the most about Blair is Blair.

It's bizarre to stand next to someone who used to live in your skin and think of them as a stranger. It's worse than any lover she's ever lost, worse even than the distance that exists between her and Dan. At least she's still privy to Dan's life; at least she still shares his experiences if not his heart. Blair is foreign where she used to be best beloved, like one of those science fiction stories where an alien takes up residence in someone's body. Serena looks into Blair's eyes now and has no idea at all what is going on behind them. She can't tell the difference between Blair's bullshit and Blair's truth anymore.

She knows she is at least partially responsible for the situation as it is now, which is why the guilt hits her so acutely sometimes. Her guilt lets her be talked into things like traveling to New York for charity galas, or going on expensive joint vacations. She never thinks it's a good idea but she does it anyway out of some kind of misplaced loyalty to the Blair-who-was. And Blair's family is so small now, just her and Nic, that Serena can't help wanting to share hers, misguided as it may be.

So they all go to Spain for three weeks in July not long after Annabelle's twelfth birthday. The kids are crazy excited, but the amount of convincing needed to get Dan on board takes most of the wind out of Serena's sails. He gives her this look while they're arguing, a look that seems to break the fourth wall to say do you have any idea what you're doing?

But Serena does not break character, and she pretends not to know. Eventually Dan gives in and Serena gets Eric and his husband to come along, hoping that might smooth things over a little.

For most of trip Dan and Blair treat each other like ghosts, but near the beginning of the third week they get into a huge fight. Serena is not technically supposed to know about it. Eric and Matt took the kids for the day, so Serena treated herself to a luxurious afternoon nap and woke to the shouting. There was a shatter that indicted Blair must've thrown something but it was impossible to make out anything they were saying. Then silence. Serena lay unmoving in her bed, heart beating very fast, straining for sounds. Eventually Dan came back into the bedroom all huffy and she pretended to be asleep.

The most unsettling part is that the next morning they're almost friendly. Dan is already gone by the time Serena gets up, and she goes downstairs to find him and Blair and the kids having breakfast, planning the day. Nicolette is sitting in his lap explaining something with a very serious look on her small face and a decapitated Barbie in one small hand. Scott listens along intently. Blair has abandoned her plate to work Annabelle's long hair into a braid, lecturing her all the while about proper split end prevention. Annabelle, devoted to her aunt, will probably take each ridiculous word to heart more than she would half of Serena's advice.

Nothing about the picture of them all together should really bother Serena. If anything she should be glad that the trip didn't end in disaster. But even if she won't let the thought form in her mind, her unease is reflected in her body in the lump in her throat, the nervous flutter in her stomach.

Late that night Serena sleeplessly wanders into the kitchen to eat olives or maybe have some wine, anything to distract herself from the low discomfort she's felt all day, and she sees the light is on in Blair's room. The door is half-open and she hears Blair talking quietly, maybe on the phone. Unwillingly, Serena is drawn in.

Blair holds a finger to her lips when Serena enters and continues with her phone conversation. Serena perches on the edge of the bed, drawing her knees up and her robe tight around her. Nicolette is sprawled asleep on one half of the bed, her face completely hidden beneath an unmanageable haze of curls. Serena swallows.

Blair hangs up. "The office is just lost without me," she says, smiling, something charming and light in her voice that only serves to unsettle Serena more deeply.

She opens her mouth to respond in kind, since by now they have small talk down to an impersonal art, but what she blurts out, without meaning to at all, is, "Is Dan Nic's father?"

Blair stares at her. "What?"

"Dan." Now it's surer, more biting, accusatory. "Is he Nicolette's father?"

Blair is still staring at her, and her brows draw together in what appears to be genuine confusion. She wets her lips, says clearly, "Chuck is Nicolette's father."

It's Serena's turn to be struck dumb. Chuck acts like Nicolette doesn't even exist.

Blair's gaze turns towards her sleeping daughter briefly before returning to Serena. "I just – I said Chuck wasn't. So he wouldn't take her away from me." It's practically imperceptible, but there's a little crack in Blair's voice. "Like Henry."

Before Serena can speak, Blair continues, "I was under the impression you knew that."

"No," Serena breathes, a touch helplessly.

"Yes, I see that now," Blair says. She studies Serena. "You really think I would do that? Have your husband's baby and never say a word about it?"

That's the thing: Serena doesn't know what Blair would do, not anymore.

"I just thought…" Serena says, but falters.

"I am aware of what you thought." Blair arches an eyebrow. "I'm not proud of most of the things I've done. But that's not something I would do. Ever."

"I know," Serena says, which sounds absurd, so she amends, "Now."

"I always knew he was yours." Blair pulls away physically now, shifting on the bed until she's closer to Nic, turning away from Serena. It seems like an odd, disconnected statement and she follows it up with another, equally disjointed. "You're a good mother. A much better mother than I am. I was always jealous of that."

Automatically, Serena protests, "B, that's not true."

"Yes it is," Blair says. "You'd never let someone take your child away, would you?"

Serena doesn't know how to answer that.







Serena has always loved her engagement ring, an art deco style vintage ring with an ice blue stone in silver filigree. It probably wasn't very expensive and doesn't stand up next to the icebergs the country club moms all had, but it reminds Serena of her and Dan, so she loves it.

Towards the end, during a fight, she rips it off and throws it at him. It disappears into the land lost things go, never to be found until the day Serena finally moves out of the Connecticut house. She sits there on the floor of what was their master bedroom holding the ring in her hand and cries, more than she probably did in their entire fourteen years together.

They say a lot of awful things to each other in the end. It is like their marriage was an open wound hastily stitched and at some point all the blood and guts came seeping out. She's never sure what tipped their impasse over into all-out war, only that once they started hurling accusations they couldn't seem to stop.

She remembers standing in their room trembling with anger, her hands in tight fists, looking at the man she gave her whole life to. "Why don't you just say it," she says, her voice sounding oddly flat and removed, "Just admit that you still keep that torch burning for her."

Dan sighs with the weight of the world in it. "I was with Blair for three months," he says. "I've been with you since I was sixteen years old. When is it enough?"

Quick, breathless, she answers, "It's not that simple and you know it."

"You think because I had feelings for Blair I was checked out of our marriage the entire time," he says slowly, as though he's waiting for her to correct him. "And I wasn't. That's not true. I love you and the kids, to pretend like I – it's like you don’t respect anything we had –"

"Don't," Serena says, turning away.

"I gave you everything you wanted," Dan says, a mixture of frustration and desperation. "Everything you wanted me to do, I did it. And you're still not happy."

You should be happy is what she hears.

When she doesn't respond, Dan sinks heavily onto the end of the bed. "I can't take this anymore."

Her shoulders draw up, spine tensing. "What does that mean?"

Dan doesn't say anything for a minute, but then sighs. "It means I think we should get a lawyer."

For some reason she never thought it would come to that. However bad things got, she never thought they'd just give up. And hearing him say that –

"Sometimes I really hate you," Serena says, quick and almost a gasp, her knuckles coming up against her mouth, which is twisted in a miserable grimace. She does not want to cry. She would do anything right now if it meant she wouldn't cry.

"Serena," Dan murmurs with a gentleness that makes her want to hit him. "Serena, do you even remember the last time you were happy? Because I don't. I really don't."

A little sob does escape her then. If pressed, Serena could dig up all kind of happiness, brief moments of unmatched perfection that dotted the expanse of their time together, and Dan can't even give her that right now. "So, what, it was all a mistake?"

"That's not what I'm saying." He's trying to be patient, she can tell, but it comes out snappish. He sighs. "I'm sorry. I don't mean that. I only mean – I only mean it hasn't been right for a while and we shouldn't put ourselves through this."

That doesn't make her feel any better. Here it is: the moment it breaks. Annabelle is already growing short with Serena and now she'll definitely hate her. Scott is so young, still a baby, and he'll grow up without the kind of family Serena needs him to have.

"Serena." Dan touches her back softly, his familiar hand sliding up to press comfortingly against the nape of her neck. His other hand finds her wrist to pull her closer. "Serena, I'm so sorry."

"No you're not," Serena says and except for the slight trembling, it's without emotion. She shuts her eyes to take a calming breath, thinks again no you're not, and then turns to kiss him hard, her arms going around his neck. Dan is utterly still for a moment before he gives in, kisses back, holds her close.

She wants to hurt him, somehow. She wants to sink her nails into his skin and draw blood; she wants to break his heart with well-chosen words. But Serena has always been better at hurting herself than hurting others, so all she does is grasp him and kiss him and crave him, one more time if never again.

They end up on her vanity table, all its cluttered miscellany getting knocked over or pushed away. Dan kisses her deeply, pulling at her clothes like maybe he means it. Serena wonders if he has actually loved her since they were sixteen years old, but the thought makes her want to cry again so she pushes it away. Her teeth are near ferocious on his skin, leaving all kinds of marks, but Dan always did like that.

She comes with a shiver like breaking apart, and Dan doesn't come at all. He holds a tight fistful of her hair, says low in her ear, "You never trusted me, you know that, you never did."

Her pulse is still thundering around her body. The injustice of that statement is startling, but then she thinks: no, I never did. He never gave her a reason to.

"I loved you anyway," she says. She grips the back of his shirt so tight, wraps her legs around him. She has never been good at letting go of Dan.

"I know," he says. "I loved you anyway, too."







Serena leaves behind the little house in Connecticut that turns gingerbread in winter and paradise in summer.

All good things come to an end.

damn, I wish I was your lover
Serena, Dan, OFC. 2706 words. PG.

Summary: Serena isn't sure that she's ever had a normal friend, someone she could spend contented hours with without a fight seeming to lurk around the corner.

( roomie bonding experience )