let me be a dreamer

let me be a dreamer.

[stormlit]

🗲 STORMLIT. an independent, mutuals only multimuse, containing canon and original characters from a wide variety of fandoms and eras, as written by CLAIRE (she/her, gmt, 30+).

21+ followers only. activity may be slow due to chronic illness. please do not use double spacing or custom colours with me for accessibility reasons.

featured muses: fionn tremayne, beau rafferty, amalia braganza, molly o'sullivan, ylfa snorgelsson. featured settings/aus: iwtv, heated rivalry, doctor who, regency.

BLOGROLL: @tremaynes CARRD ᛫ MUSES ᛫ MEMES ᛫ AFFILIATES

[astrophager]

❛ can i get that in writing ? the scientists are wrong part. i'll have a field day giving them the fattest 'i told you so' of the 21st century. ❜ he'll get her a front row ticket for her contributions, although he's pretty sure she'd prefer her own company and probably isn't all that invested in the modern day squabbles between fellow academics.

maybe her friend would care. still, i like her mettle and my curiosities linger, aliens or not. i wonder how she came to be here, both in the literal sense of how time and space and physics factor into the equation, but also the simple fact of why her and why now ?

❛ is there a particular reason your friend kidnapped you from your own time period ? was this voluntary ? blink three times if you need help. ❜ he ends on a playfully solemn note, but his questions stand as pillars, solid and inquisitive.

[stormlit]

❝ and they'd just believe me, would they, your scientists, in this scenario of yours? ❞ molly has her doubts; no matter how strongly worded this hypothetical letter would be, she's a time traveller from another century, not a space scientist, and a woman to boot. maybe attitudes on that last point have improved, over a century, but if academic doctors are anything like the medical ones she knows, they'd be looking right down their noses at her for everything else. ❝ i'm surprised you aren't questioning it, if i'm honest. believe you me, i've nothing but questions. ❞

and so few answers. she doesn't know why she remembers things that never happened, or why her eyes are special, or what exactly went on in france. she doesn't understand how time travel works or what she's looking at, half the time, in the future, or what on earth the doctor talks about, most of the time. but she's here, and she's learning, and she lets her heart lead the way. nothing very scientific about that. just compassion, something which always seems to be in short supply, yet molly has in abundance. she can spare a wee bit for strangers, whatever shape they take.

❝ it was that or death, ❞ she says with a shrug, as though that explains it all. ❝ and aye, you'd be right, there's a lot of that going about, that close to the front line, but there's not usually aliens involved. ❞

[n0bodyson]

ella sputters for a moment before her features turn in disappointment. ❝ i-----well! i've never tried, i guess. ❞ the dark thought crosses her mind for a brief moment; knowing that perhaps she hasn't thrown a single punch at anyone, but she's taken several. ella shakes the thought away before she can even linger on it for longer than a second. violence has never been in her vocabulary. her entire life, she has been too soft for a world that grows harder and harder by the day. the less she has to think about protecting herself, the more she can move on from that part of her life.

she has her own family, now. she has beau, now. there are far better things in her life than she could have ever dreamed of. why should ella spend another second longer in a world that is no longer the one she lives in?

she sighs heavily when she manages to finally get rid of her shoes, though the rolling of her eyes is reserved specifically for her boyfriend. still, there is a hint of a smile at the corners of her lips. the water cools her from the inside out, despite the warm touch of beau's fingers as they trail gently down her back in the path of the zipper of her dress. ella giggles at the tickle of his lips against her shoulder, shrugging them closer to her ears as she slides the sleeves down her arms. ❝ thank you, baby. you looked very handsome yourself. ❞ she turns and reaches on the tips of her toes to kiss him properly before plopping back to the floor and pressing her forehead against his chest. ❝ can i at least finish this in bed? i'm exhausted. ❞

[stormlit]

❝ if you wanna learn, for self-defence, i'll teach you, ❞ beau promises. not tonight, and not because he loves fighting, but he will. he hopes, desperately, that it's not something ella will ever need. he'll fight for her, he'll bloody his fists, before he ever lets anything get to that point—but he hopes, too, that that is never necessary. he's not a fighter on the ice, most of the time, nothing more than cleanly hitting someone into the boards, but there are times he's dropped gloves, times the cap on the anger he bottles up is knocked off and he explodes. in day to day life, he's even less of one. beau doesn't want to hurt anybody. at least not unprovoked.

but he'd do it for her in a heartbeat.

❝ mm, i know. you told me. ❞ god, he loves her. he loves her so much. it's so easy to kiss her back, to let his fingers tangle in her hair, to press lips to her forehead. he wants this forever, this closeness. beau had always thought he preferred being alone, that it didn't matter that he'd not had a relationship in a long time; he loves his friends, loves being around people, but he values his space and being able to retreat to the quiet. but ella is different; she brings him out of his shell when he needs it, and is a gentle cushion in the quiet he needs to recharge. her presence is always easy. even when she's drunk.

beau chuckles, shaking his head. ❝ nope. now, 'cause i reckon you'll be asleep the second you lie down. c'mon, sweetheart. ❞ he kisses her forehead and steps back so he can pick up her dress, shaking it out and folding it over a chair to be dealt with properly tomorrow. at least it won't be crumpled. while he waits he starts undressing himself, unbuttoning his shirt with fingers that only fumble a little, placing it with her dress. ❝ you good? ❞

[scapedgrace]

        “good to know the offer's on the table,” hawke says, then grins. “though, if athenril ever asks, i rebuffed the very mention of it. violently.”  they're pretty sure their mother is already having a hard enough time accepting that their children are smugglers; they can't imagine how she'd react if hawke came home and told her they'd switched careers to join a gang. still, the dregs they've met are solid folk. it wouldn't be a bad thing to count themself among their numbers.

        but for now, the smuggling is at least a bit more lucrative for them. they'll stick to trying to solidify some degree of trust between kaz's crew and athenril's company, in the meantime. it can only benefit them both.

        as they both continue to wait for the late ship to arrive, hawke feels an anxious buzz settling across their shoulders. “i'm mostly worried about what that means for when it comes in...” they can't help feeling some suspicion at the lateness—athenril's ships run on a tight schedule; they very rarely arrive off time and when they do, they're early. “wait, there it is.” the ship comes into view just then, moonlight reflecting off the white of its sails.

       “maybe you take to the shadows and let me greet this one? just in case...” hawke raises a brow at the wraith questioningly. if the ship was taken somehow by someone, they might be best off leaving it entirely. but they have to know for sure first, or risk losing an entire shipment to their suspicion.

[stormlit]

❝ your secret is safe with me. ❞ for once, inej means it. she may be kaz's spider, crawling into people's homes and businesses, gathering information for his schemes — with very little she knows held back — but this is not about work, or a mark. this is about someone in a position they cannot afford to lose, and inej knows a little something about those kinds of odds. and, perhaps, she worries what kaz might do with the information.

hawke may not be one of them, but neither are they a mark. she has no desire for them to become one. trust and friendship may be tenuous things, these days, small flames gently nurtured, and vulnerability rarely handed to anyone outside her inner circle, but inej would like to think they are something close to it. even kaz brekker does not betray his friends, though he'd claim otherwise.

❝ alright. i'll find a vantage point. ❞ already inej's mood has shifted, the wraith laid upon her shoulders like a cloak. the teasing she tries to be comfortable with has gone, replaced by focus. ❝ i'll be watching, but signal if you need to. ❞ she doesn't wait for a response; inej is gone, already a shadow. on silent feet she climbs higher, following hawke's movements from the roof of a boathouse, two of her knives in her hands.

she prays she won't have to use them, pre-emptive penance on her tongue, but she's ready to.

[stormlit]

off-campus aus.

BEAU RAFFERTY. forward (wing) on the hockey team, has had a lot of interest from teams; hockey isn't his life, but he's great at it and it is a way out. studying architecture, which he hates, because that's what his dad wants him to study, while taking as many art/photography/art history type classes as he can justify; at some point he's going to wake up to the fact that he's allowed to study what he wants and switch to art. a third parent to his younger sisters and feels constantly responsible for them. quiet, introverted, only talks when he really has something to say, does go to parties but drinks very little and prefers to just sit on the side somewhere. always has a sketchbook or his camera on him, definitely takes a lot of team photos. bi but he hasn't had his awakening yet lmao.

MANON RENÉE. defence on the women's hockey team. daughter of a legendary montréal goaltender who died essentially on ice, montréal's darling just trying to be herself without legacy hanging over her (but she IS going to sign with the victoire and there is no other option for her). studying physiotherapy, coaches a girl's team at the weekend, lives for hockey. loves to chirp and tease, extremely hard-working, scrappy, perfectionist, protective. grew up playing with boys and WILL challenge the men's team to stupid things to prove she's a match. out lesbian.

[lioncourtz]

INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE 01.07 X THE VAMPIRE LESTAT

[thrownsoul]

nodding, alice sets the tin cup down with a soft clink. "thought i might as well bring something, that's all. i used to be pretty good with plants." is it the kind of thing you forget?

she sits on the bunk and, at once, feels even more incongruous in her armor. she's not quite ready to let it melt away in front of billie and see her reaction.

the butterflies in her stomach are settling oddly, as if looking for the right anxiety to call home.

"need anything else done before...?"

[stormlit]

❝ space may not be the most common place to find 'em, but i'm sure you can find some whenever we stop to refuel. this place'd look better with more greenery. ❞ the cabin is, like any cabin on any ship billie's ever been on, entirely nondescript, just walls, a bunk, some storage, and a little window. she knows it isn't much, but it's what she's got to offer. she'd never wanted a luxury cruiser or a mansion on some world; billie had just wanted a little freedom. that she gets to do the ship up is entirely by design. why would a mechanic want an already perfected ship?

❝ nah. i'll, uh, give you a few to settle in? holler if you need anything. intercom button's right there if you can't find me. ❞

[soulmissed]

the boy almost disputes it. he can take first watch. bea can rest. insistant hands form a wave of dismissal. that dispute, however, dies dead-eye fast. it’s pressure building between kernel eyes. it’s a dull, static pain surge. tension headache. silently, august clams his palm against his forehead. he situates the backpack underneath his crown of ink hair.

like falling into the void. like you blinked and their universe went dungeon dark. (he wakes with a frightened huff, confused by the cool fabric across half-closed lids. a cold cloth, texture drying within palm.) his blurry sight lands on the woman. she’s kneeling at a healthy distance. her smile was soft, worried.

august shifts, gaze roaming. bea. first watch. his hand, feeble, reaches toward her. pretend hand hold. friends. best friends. « thanks for taking first watch. did it go alright? » stiff joints snap-and-pop while lanky arms stretch into twilight sky. his eyes stray to the woman, whose head tilts as though she were studying him. « has she been there this whole time? i don’t even remember falling asleep. »

[stormlit]

they are both too young to be this tired, bea thinks—but they are both too young for a lot of things they are living through, and the world does not care how old they were. she can no longer imagine a world where she gets to sleep deeply in a comfortable bed until she wakes up, naturally well-rested. she only sleeps at all because she knows august is watching her back, as she watches his now. hypervigilance is a great stimulant. she sits close to him and she watches the adults, the woman especially, though bea does not meet her eye.

she can't wait to be gone. strangers set her on edge. bea's still afraid they won't let the kids leave, tomorrow.

beside her, august shifts, and bea's attention turns to him, stretching her hand out in return. their fingers don't meet — skin-on-skin contact is the worst, saved for dire situations and bleeding wounds — but the ghost of them together is enough. she nods in answer, tired eyes shifting across the fire and back again. she keeps her signing small, private. a whisper, just for them.

< yes. she's watching. worried, maybe? or assessing. i'm bad at knowing what people are feeling. > she rubs an eye, biting the inside of her cheek to stifle a yawn. < nobody else has come near. >

[embodies]

invitation to have a seat is taken wordlessly, a wry twinge of a smile tugging at one corner of yennefer's mouth : she cannot help but respect such steely demeanour, recognises its reflection in her own assertion of authority. in truth it is the mark of a great leader, to recognise that not everyone will be pleased no matter the course of action, to aim for directness over courtesy. zoya may be the right person to seek, after all.

but how best to discuss matters of destiny ? it is a word as flimsy as superstition, wispy like smoke and impossible to get a solid grasp on. by the gods, even religion is less controversial a topic to pivot a monarch on, with all its political sways and pulls. the simple matter is this : not everyone believes that some things are simply meant to be, and yennefer is on even less certain footing in this newly charted territory. she is not privy to their customs or beliefs, has no idea how the outward truth may fall upon this already skeptical listener's ears. and so she bends the truth. not for anyone's sake but the general populace, the whitest of lies for she suspects the nature of her . . . hunch wouldn't be quite as palatable.

❛ i don't have concrete answers. ❜ she acquiesces with a stoop of her crown, legs demurely crossed over one another, tipped with sable boots, hands interlaced over a knee. ❛ but i have it on good authority that here holds the root of the issue. and it's rising. ❜ she stops a beat, eye contact held steady to emphasise the severity of a not yet existing calamity. her premonitions are vague but equally full of clarity : she does not know the nature of the danger, but its gravity feels like a hollow in her chest, despair wrenching at her synapses for what is to come unless they act. ❛ perhaps it is wise to start with an investigation of sorts : have there been any variations of great remark, turmoil amidst the people or climate ? other than the customary — what stands out as novel or unusual, what has changed ? ❜

[stormlit]

this should be a matter for the triumvirate together. it should be a matter for the king; anyone who knows anything about ravka's governance knows that zoya is only going to tell the rest of the inner circle. and yet yennefer sought zoya out. perhaps a sense for power, both grisha and political, perhaps chance. perhaps one witch seeking another, though zoya despises the term. she's flattered, inasmuch as she is always flattered to know she has a reputation outside of ravka's borders (fearsome zoya, sankta zoya, storm witch zoya), but unmoved by it. flattery is a matter of course, when one looks as she does, and she is a general.

her laugh is dry and humourless; where did yennefer say she had come from? ❝ this is a country still recovering from civil war. from the scar dark magic left on the land. yes, i would say there has been turmoil. ❞ and then, even more she's unwilling to talk about; a king with a monster in his body, saints alive once more, a squaller unlocking power she should not be able to control. but that is not something to be shared with a stranger.

she crosses her legs, her gaze direct. general nazyalensky does not shy away. ❝ i'm sympathetic. i care greatly for this world and its balance. the order of things. dark, forbidden magic has done a lot of damage here, to my country and my people. but i neither know nor trust you, and i don't wear the crown. as much as it would suit me. ❞ she's just its confidante, its advisor, its closest friend. that is no secret. ❝ you understand, i'm sure. ❞

[nursc]

❛⠀ how could i say no?⠀ ❜ motioning for the other to sit down with a quick wave of her hand, she sets her book down by her arm, eyeing the tea mug with a bit of suspicion. ❛⠀ you flatter me and i say: gee, thanks, beat it? ⠀ ❜

it did cross her mind. book club is tomorrow and she's way behind. not her fault, really. it was a terrible book and she kept falling asleep with it on her chest, so she came in here to finish it and leave. not chit-chat.

but this was amalia braganza. she'll read in the subway on the way-there, it'll be fine.

❛⠀ flatter me some more i'll give you some of the cookies i brought. ⠀ ❜

[stormlit]

amalia has always loved dance. even before she had any kind of training, when all she had were village dances and servants' balls, when she'd learn how to dance by watching the lords and ladies, and take that knowledge back below stairs to teach to her friends, she'd loved to dance. if she'd never been turned, she would never have been able to learn properly. she would never have performed — though it's not a profession that lends itself well to being as nocturnal as she must, especially in this age of increased technology and scrutiny. she'd certainly not be a choreographer, someone known in a way that she has earned, rather than gained through manipulation and supernatural persuasion.

she wouldn't be talking to christine chapel, a smile on her face, completely at ease.

discomfort isn't something amalia wears in public; if she feels it, she keeps it to herself, until she's alone. and humans, especially of the dance, non-hunter kind, do not scare her.

❝ that's kind, but they'd be wasted on me. ❞ she waves a hand airily, as though it can be chalked up to a chosen diet, and not vampirism. ❝ how's the book? ❞

[oakthcrn]

𝑨𝑵 𝑨𝑴𝑼𝑺𝑬𝑫 𝑺𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑫 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑫 𝑯𝑬𝑹 𝑳𝑰𝑷𝑺. The thought of facing an entire battalion did little to frighten her. In fact, her emerald hues seem to glimmer with a new found vigor. 

❝ Do not limit yourself. You control the winds, and they bend it your will, as does storm and lightning. A battalion should be child's play to you.❞ Lark replied as she lifted her hand, the embedded gem shimmering as she called upon it. As if out of thin air, an ornate blade materialized into her hand. The blade was slender, but strong, one that valued speed over strength. 

❝ What do we breathe if not air, Zoya? ❞ Lark mused and pivoted to face the other. ❝ Steal the breath from their lungs. Be creative. Stay to the trees if you like, and I shall be a distraction for you to be able to do so.❞ 

Feeling confident, She grinned, something feral and wild within that smile. 

❝ I would not suffer them to live. These…witch hunters, left to their own devices, they will surely hunt down Grisha. Let us show them the error of their ways. ❞ 

[stormlit]

❝ i do not need to be told how to summon, ❞ zoya snaps, her tongue sharp and her gaze sharper. she does not need a merzost blade, she does not need nikolai's guns; she is the weapon, and she has known how to wield herself since she was a child. her hands are still, but the air pressure shifts anyway. zoya is the storm. she's the hurricane, the lightning, the sheer force of the world. she is also depleted by weariness, and alone, and above all, she is a general. lark's ego wishes them to forge ahead with no back up, no plan. this is not about individuals. war never is; ego is what got them the darkling. it's what got her friends and family killed. ❝ save your patronising talk for the children. ❞

there is one person who can give zoya orders, and he is not here—and she frequently argues with him, anyway, king or not.

❝ no. you are thinking with your anger, not your head. we know nothing of where they have come from, what strength they have behind them. we've not had long enough to catalogue their weaponry, to determine which of ravka's many enemies may be funding them. we don't know if they've got captives. if they die now, not only do we likely die in the process, we lose that information. tamar's spies will learn what they can. and then we kill them, with greater numbers. ❞ zoya needs soldiers, not people grinning at the thought of a one-woman battle. she has a country to run. she may hate the grisha hunters, she may wish them dead, but vengeance must be sharpened into a blade. ❝ the answer is still no. we go around. ❞

[astrophager]

that's a point. i've got no idea what her pop culture and general trivia knowledge is like, and juggle with the idea of refraining on references going forward for fear of making her feel isolated ( again with thinking she has feelings which maybe needs curbing ) but then, doesn't everyone love learning ? maybe i need to make even more references.

grace interlaces his fingers, palms upward and crooked at the wrists in a stance that pensively prepares him for explaining something. ❛ bonnie and clyde are — were — probably the most notorious crime duo of their time. of all time. ❜ the word duo seems like safe terrain, not necessarily implying romantic connection while still conveying the general message of his comparison. he cocks his head in a directional gesture to follow as he walks to retrieve the good stuff : they have pouched ready made coffee for zero g, but the instant is hopefully a decent enough medium for her to work with. ❛ they were in the press, shows, there's a movie — which, if you can forgive historical inaccuracy, i hear is pretty good. driving away from a crime scene with old - timey banjo music playing. what more could you want, right ? ❜

they reach the makeshift idea of a kitchen, which is really just a surface and dedicated area for storing food alongside a water dispenser for rehydrating meals. he retrieves a tub of instant coffee granules and sets it on the counter decisively. ❛ mi spaceship, su spaceship. and uh, i can do the sugar. ❜ mostly because he can't deal with the embarrassment of revealing just how much he doles into one cup.

[stormlit]

❝ you haven't spent much time in space, huh? ❞ sid really doesn't think some couple from some time in old earth's history can be as notorious criminals as some of the people anarchera has cooked up among the stars. it is, after all, anarchera, full of space battles and mercenaries and chaos. of all time seems a little excessive a claim, is all. sidney hasn't been around very long, so maybe she's wrong. but she bets bonnie and clyde didn't even blow up a spaceship, and she has definitely done that—and aside from the fact that her entire existence makes her a fugitive and there's a megacorp who wants to melt her down for parts, sid doesn't think she's a notorious criminal. she's just...a droid with sentience she's not supposed to have. and who got to decide that, anyway?!

why is her existing so wrong?

she follows ryland through the ship, to a kitchen that is, frankly, disappointing — and sid doesn't even eat! well, maybe there's no fancy coffee machine, or even fancy coffee, but she's still going to make the best fucking cup she can. ❝ doin' the sugar's part of the job. ❞ she doesn't want to half-ass it. not even because she's scared ryland might decide he doesn't want her around, might decide to throw her out the airlock, but just because he's nice, and he deserves a good cup of coffee. and outside of battles, sid isn't sure what purpose she serves. too many, and not enough. ❝ i don't have any tastebuds, i don't care how you take it. and i haven't made coffee for a lot of people before. ❞

[korolnichevoya]

HIS GRIN only widens at the buffet of his hair , at the threat she gives him .

❝ what a waste of a perfectly good wine , ❞ he chastises . ❝ might i suggest a DAGGER instead ? far more intimate . ❞

[stormlit]

❝ tempting. but i'd get blood all over my kefta. ❞ zoya knows she is in a fortunate position; that very few people have ever been privileged enough to know nikolai like this, to have known him as prince and king and lover. there were years she couldn't let herself acknowledge anything she felt for him, because it was all an impossibility. a silly girl from a small village thinking she could turn the head of a king—and she has spent her entire life taking any foolish notions and grinding them beneath her heel. she cannot afford silliness, or foolishness. people are always watching. ❝ suffocation, perhaps. ❞

[leschanceux]

"i don't think i was ever that green," carter laughs, "but i always had scott to keep me grounded. that helped some." he wonders sometimes what his olympics might've looked like without scott's support, without that friendly face to tell him he was doing okay ( although he knew all the other players on team usa from the league ) and to sit with him for meals ( which were arguably the most nerve-wracking part of the day for carter --- and probably other players too ). this isn't his first time, though, and he's much more comfortable this time around - ready to take on the mantle of being one of scott's alternates and be that friendly face some of the other players might need.

he hadn't anticipated that one of the players needing a friendly face might be the other alternate, but he's not judging.

"maybe i'm just exceptionally observant," he teases, watching the other man put his sketchbook away. "you're all good, buddy. just wanted to make sure you didn't have the yips or something about being on the international stage."

[stormlit]

❝ don't think i spoke to anyone outside of practice for days, my first training camp. ❞ despite appearances — beau never being particularly chatty, preferring to spend team hang outs nursing his drink and talking to a few people quietly, and corralling everyone once they're shit-faced — this was unusual. even for him. he was taking all his fear, burying it inside, but hadn't yet figured out how to just exist around a group over overexcited, overstimulating players he didn't know. it's better now; everyone's still overexcited, but beau's certain of himself. he knows his place, knows what he's good at. knows how to talk to people, too.

it's the first day excitement that got a little too much; everyone'll calm down. even the rookies.

beau snorts softly, shaking his head. ❝ i don't got the yips. ❞ he enjoys international games, a chance to play with people who are usually his opponents, to see how players from other countries are playing. he could do without the USA! USA! pressure, but he'd love hockey a whole lot more if there was no media to deal with, period. ❝ i'm lookin' forward to playing. i'm just...not an extrovert. ❞

[anoffering]

“ what, the idea of running into min or struan in your personal time doesn't excite you? ” truthfully, river tends to avoid this place when he's able to as well. looking at reminded him of why he was here, and when he remembered why he was stuck at slough house, it made him mad. he was here, while spider was living it up. a nice cushy desk job while river was stuck in career suicide.

river puts the car into drive and starts making his way towards the diner, a relatively short drive considering the lack of people around. he doesn't think he remembers a time the street was so empty. not like he's complaining. he's tired and hungry, and at least one of those things will be remedied quite shortly. after he parks, he gets out rather quickly, hands shoving into the pockets of his coat. when did it get so cold and rainy? “ come on, then. in you go. ” he motions towards the door of the diner, following behind her.

[stormlit]

❝ the idea of running into them when i'm being paid doesn't excite me. ❞ it would be better for everyone if they were just let go, she thinks sometimes. if the park didn't keep hanging onto people, if there wasn't the faintest glimmer of hope that things might get better again. but there is just enough of a real op at slough house to make people feel like a real agent, and a whole heaping of fear about not being an agent at all, anymore. how do you leave the service, once you're in it? how does any other job compare? maybe sid can't fault the slow horses for, generally, being people she doesn't want to spend time with, but she can't help but feel sorry for them. and, she supposes, herself as well. even if there's a reason she's here. ❝ mostly it's ho i want to avoid, though. and lamb, but he only seems to go to the aldergate street chinese. ❞

river, however...river is one of the very few she's willing to spend time with. who she wants to spend time with, no secret missions or ulterior motives. this isn't going to go in any report. ❝ jesus, it's chucking it down, ❞ she complains, making a quick dash from the car to the diner, brushing off her hair once they're in the dry. she selects a table in the far corner, away from the counter and the door, where they can sit side by side in the booth and see the whole of the empty room. ❝ i need hash browns. ❞

and...she sighs, waiting until they've ordered, until they're alone again. ❝ and i need to tell you why i'm at slough house. haven't you wondered? ❞

[anoffering]

“ hey, sois gentille. ” her french was rusty, even more so now that she no longer lived in canada. people didn't really speak french in minneapolis, and her and manon usually just spoke english. maybe she needed to change that. not now, though. “ i hope you're ready to have me just stare at you while you talk. i have never been conversationally fluent, you know. ” sam knows manon probably doesn't care, which makes her laugh.

she matches her speed with ease, eyes closing momentarily as she feels the cool breeze flow through her hair. “ hey, what if instead of going out somewhere for lunch, we get takeout and watch some shitty movie on the hotel tv? i miss you. i don't feel like sharing you with the general public. ” there were national teams, of course, but it wasn't the same. sam turns around, continuing to skate backwards. “ i'll buy, obviously. for the inconvenience of you having to trek to a hotel room. ”

[stormlit]

❝ oh no, i hate speaking my first language, being stared at, and showing off, i'm so glad my job doesn't require any of these things, ❞ manon teases, as though she doesn't relish being under the arena lights, even when it's the opposing team's fans booing her for making sure the puck doesn't get near the goalie. she plays hockey for the love of it, sure, but the attention is part of the package. and it's fun to be so present in the minds of fans that they think they hate you. ❝ but fine, we can speak english. just 'cause i like you. ❞

she really does; it's so good to be sharing ice again. the league is too damn spread out. and yes, sam's only a three hour flight away, but when do either of them have time in their schedules for that? it's why, given samantha's suggestion, manon's entire face lights up. uninterrupted time to catch up, yes. ❝ you're a fucking genius, sammy. it sounds perfect. i'll even eat room service again for the chance to spend time with you. no public. ❞

[stormlit]

the victoire won the walter cup yesterday which means manon won the walter cup yesterday which means she's having the time of her life (and is being a little insufferable)