#THE FACT THAT THAT ELABORATE SHIT POST WAS THE LAST THING OF MINE TO SHOW UP IN TAGS

[criminalmindzjunkie]

The Reward of Suffering (Part Six)

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Summary: Spencer comes face to face with a ghost from the past.

A/N: Hey... how y’all doin? Long time no see, huh? Sorry about that - hopefully this extra long update will make up for my absence. This has definitely been my favorite part thus far, and I had so much fun writing it. I hope you guys enjoy reading it. You guys know the drill by now: SPOILERS for season 12. Also, shoutout to @zhuzhubii​ for posting the absolute best set of gifs right in time for this update - you’re the coolest.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Warnings: cursing, mentions of death, mentions of rape, mentions of mental illness, kidnapping, choking

Word Count: 10.3k

           With every clack of my heels on the concrete floors, the nervous feeling in my gut grows into full blown nausea. It’s been nearly two months since I last walked these halls, but somehow it feels like a lifetime has passed. Considering everything that transpired in the last forty-eight hours, it makes sense that I feel that way.

           I hadn’t been on the team when Lindsey Vaughn first came into the picture ten years ago, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t familiar. At the time, I thought nothing of the kind neighbor that I sometimes passed in the stairwell on my way to Spencer’s apartment. I mean, why would I? I had no reason to be suspicious. Our interactions never went beyond the usual pleasantries – polite smiles and the occasional greeting – and I never gave her a second thought.

           Maybe if I had, Cassie wouldn’t be dead, and Spencer’s mother wouldn’t be missing.

           I shake my head at the thought. Now isn’t the time to ruminate on what ifs. I would have plenty of time to blame myself when all of this is over. Instead of torturing myself, I focus on trying to steady my breathing as I come to a stop just before I reach the interview room of the Milburn Correctional Facility.

           I know what lies beyond that door, and I’m equal parts excited and worried. Excited, because I’d finally be able to see Spencer after two long months of daydreaming about when I’d finally hold him in my arms again. Of course, it was very possible that Spencer wouldn’t want to see me. After all, I promised to keep his mother safe, and instead of doing that, I let myself get swept up in moving in to my apartment, and now Diana was God knows where.

           I was so sure that he wouldn’t want to see me that I’d initially suggested that Emily be the one to go to the prison and get him. My idea was met with a sad smile and a pat on the shoulder.

           “I think that if it was anyone but you standing there when they open that door, it’d break his heart.”

           Her reassurances did little to assuage my nerves. I spent the entire ride here running over every possible scenario that I could imagine, scrambling to form some kind of game plan. But now that I was here, any semblance of preparedness left me the second the guard reached for the door handle.

           “You ready, ma’am?”

           Yes.

           No.

           I don’t trust my voice, so I settle on nodding my head. The door opens with a groan, rusty hinges creaking in protest, and with shaky legs and a heart that threatens to beat out of my chest, I step into the doorway.

           It’s like the world stops turning on its axis when his eyes meet mine. Those familiar pools of caramel stare back at me with such an intensity that I force myself to look away, petrified at the prospect of seeing disappointment in them. 

           I trail my eyes over his frame, drinking in every inch of him - every bruise and every scrape feeling like a dagger to my heart. My eyes linger on the bandage adorning his left arm, before trailing down to the one on his leg. Emily had warned me about happened, about Spencer injuring himself in order to secure his safety. It was smart of him - that I knew - but that didn’t mean that I wasn’t horrified. 

           His hair has gotten longer, and his curls hang limply around his face. The usually clean-shaven Spencer I once knew was a thing of the past - replaced now by a more disheveled, scruffier version.

           Clean-shaven or not, he still looks just as breathtaking as always. 

           I hesitantly raise my eyes up to his again. He’s staring at me still, mouth parted in shock. He doesn’t look angry, just confused, and that fills me with a tiny sliver of hope.

           “Hi, Spence,” I murmur, voice thick with emotion. It’s not until I speak that I realize I’m crying, and I hastily wipe at my cheeks with my shirtsleeve.

           The dazed look in Spencer’s eyes washes away when he hears my voice and he blinks hard.

           “What… H-How are you…?” he trails off, eyes moving up and down my body.

           It feels so fucking good to hear his voice again, and I find myself unable to hold back a sob.

           “M’ here to take you home,” I choke out.

           It’s like all the tension in Spencer’s body is expelled at once and his shoulders slump in relief. I open my mouth to elaborate, to explain how Emily had managed to pull this off, but I’m stunned into silence when Spencer’s body collides with mine. I hadn’t even had time to process that he was moving before his arms snake around me, tugging me forward until there’s no space in between our bodies. Spencer’s hands collect fistfuls of my shirt, clinging desperately to the fabric as he nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck.

           Once I get over the initial shock, I’m hugging him back, arms locked around his torso in a vicelike grip. He doesn’t smell the same – the usual fragrance of cinnamon and vanilla is long gone, replaced with that of some generic detergent – but the way his broad shoulders feel underneath my palms is something so familiar that I can’t help but smile against his chest.

           This is still my Spencer.

           Spencer lets out a shaky breath against my skin and I let out an involuntary shudder at the feeling.

           “Missed you so fucking much,” Spencer whispers. “I-I can’t believe you’re here. Thought I was imagining it.” Spencer takes a shaky breath in, nuzzling further into my neck. His next words are muffled from the way his lips press against my skin, but I’m still able to make out the quiet ‘I’m sorry’.

           “You’re sorry?” I hiccup, eyebrows scrunching up in disbelief. I attempt to pull away so that I can look at him, but Spencer only tightens his grip on me. Something about it makes my chest feel incredibly warm, but I push that feeling aside for now. “I’m the one that’s sorry. I should’ve done more – I should’ve visited more often. I let myself get busy, and if I’d just been more careful, then your m-mom… she wouldn’t be-”

           “Stop that,” Spencer interrupts, and this time he’s the one that pulls away. He holds me at arm’s length and those beautiful brown eyes lock with mine. “This is absolutely not your fault.”

           Spencer’s hands come up to cup either side of my face and his thumbs wipe away at the tears on my cheeks. “You’ve done so much for me – for her. I’m sorry that I took you off the list. Things were getting so bad here, and if something would have happened to you…” Spencer pauses, closing his eyes and leaning down until his forehead rests against mine. “It was never because I didn’t want to see you, I promise. And… And your letter - I can’t even begin to explain how much that helped. I’m sorry that I couldn’t write back. I didn’t know what to say. Especially not after…”

           He doesn’t elaborate, but I’m able to fill in the blanks myself. I bring my hand up and rest it on top of his.

           “S’okay, Spence. I know,” I whisper. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. I understand.”

           Spencer hums and a ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

           “Time to get you out of here, Doc.” I remove his hand from my face and give it a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s go get your mom back.”

           Spencer opens his eyes and for the first time in two months I’m on the receiving end of my favorite smile in the whole world.

           I lead him from the room, never once removing my hand from his. Now that I have him back, I don’t ever want to let go.

--

           For the second time today, the clacking of my heels against the concrete floor is the only sound that can be heard. Spencer moves silently beside me, his face pulled into a somber expression as we stalk down the long corridor. His hand brushes against mine, and I long to reach out and intertwine our fingers like I had only hours before. I suppress the urge, stealing one last, poorly concealed glance at him before I settle my gaze on the door at the end of the hall.

           In the last several hours, the entire case had been flipped upside down. We’d been wrong all along – Scratch wasn’t to blame for the shit show that had transpired over the last three months. It’d been an easy enough mistake to make. After the incident with Tara’s brother, Scratch was the obvious choice. Pair that with the fact that Spencer had been drugged and we had no reason to suspect anyone else.

           Cat Adams was the last thing on everyone’s mind when Mexico happened. It’d been over a year since Spencer outsmarted her in that restaurant, and she was very much out of sight and out of mind. She was in a maximum-security prison, for fuck’s sake. That alone should have rendered her unable to carry out a scheme this convoluted.

           But apparently that meant nothing, because Cat had somehow managed to be the mastermind behind this whole ordeal, perfectly orchestrating the entire thing from her cell in solitary confinement – using Lindsey Vaugh as her metaphorical puppet on a string. We’d sorely underestimated Cat, and our arrogance had come back to bite us all in the ass.

           A guard that stands at the end of the hall opens the door for us, and I feel an intense rush of foreboding as we step into the room. The sound of the guard closing the door behind us brings a sense of finality to the situation; there is no turning back now. Either we walk out of here knowing Diana’s whereabouts, or we miss the mark completely and loose Diana in the process.

           I cast a worried look at Spencer, whose eyes are trained on the double-sided glass. The tension has returned to his shoulders, and his fists are clenched tightly at his sides. There’s a sort of fiery determination in his eyes – a sort of menacing resolve that I’d never seen in him before.

           Spencer looks intimidating, and nothing like the Spencer that was led from the courtroom three months ago. I pull my eyes away in favor of looking through the glass.

           Reid had been able to see through Cat’s mind games the first time, but the Cat that sat on the other side of that door is a far cry from the one he encountered a year ago. If she’d looked cold and calculating before, she looks downright deranged now.

           “Are you sure you want to go in there alone?” I ask after a moment. “I could-”

           “No,” Spencer cuts me off. His tone is hard and definite, warning me not to argue. “I can’t ask you to do that. Emily shouldn’t have made you come in the first place.”

           “Emily told me to come with you because she knew that there was nothing she could do to make me stay.” I pause long enough to shoot him a weak smile. “Hope you enjoyed your three-month break from me, because I’m going to practically glued to your side from now on. You’ll be dying to get rid of me in a month’s time.”

           Spencer’s lips twitch, threatening to turn up into a smile.

           “I sincerely doubt that.”

           “We’ll see,” I breeze. “But I’m serious, Spence. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here the whole time – I’m not letting you go in there alone, and I’m not going to leave you.”

           “Promise?” Spencer asks, finally pulling his eyes away from the window in favor of looking at me. There’s a sadness in his eyes that wasn’t there before, and the weight of his gaze is so heavy that I worry I might buckle under it.

           I reach for his hand and hook my pinky finger around his, lifting our intertwined hands to eye level.

           “I promise.”

           Spencer’s pinky finger squeezes mine and he closes his eyes.

           “I don’t deserve you.”

           “You deserve the world, Spence.”

           For a moment I think he’s going to say something else, but then Spencer’s lips press into a tight line and he only nods in response. He releases my hand and I let it fall limply at my side. Spencer rolls his shoulders back, and that stony expression returns to his face. He reaches out and pulls open the door, and I follow closely behind him at he steps over the threshold.

           It’s as if I’m invisible; Cat doesn’t even spare me a glance when I enter the room. Her eyes, narrowed and sparkling with amusement, hone in on Spencer immediately.

           “Spencie,” she greets, smiling deviously up at him.

           “Where’s my mother?” Spencer asks, completely devoid of emotion.

           “I missed you.”

           “What did you and Lindsey do to her? How did you-”

           Cat raises a hand, effectively cutting him off. She points a finger at him, and the smile that she previously wore is replaced by a grimace.

           “Now, stop. You don’t get to walk in here and hiss at me like I’m the criminal. No – we’re going to do this my way.” Cat kicks the chair that sits on the opposite side of the table and Spencer reaches out to grab it. “Have a seat.”

           Spencer complies and Cat’s smile returns.

           “How was prison? Did you like it?”

           “No.”

           Cat hums.

           “It’s not fun, is it?”

           “Unlike you, I didn’t deserve to be there,” Spencer retorts.

           Cat leans forward, crossing her arms before resting them on the metal table.

           “How did you stay sane? A brain like yours needs stimulation in such a gray place.”

           “I worked in the laundry room and I played chess.”

           “That’s three, maybe four hours, tops. What about the other twenty?”

           “I read.”

           Cat shakes her head. “That’s still not enough. You have to… go someplace.” She taps the side of her head. “Up here. Or else you go crazy. Do you want to see where I go? I’ll show you.” Cat crooks a finger at Spencer, and I tense at the gesture. The idea of that psychotic bitch getting any closer to him makes my skin crawl. I clench my fists together and the feeling of my nails digging into my palms is enough to ground me.

           Spencer leans forward, mimicking Cat’s relaxed position. She reaches a hand out towards him, and before I can think better of it, I speak up.

           “Hands off,” I warn.

           Cat halts her movements and fixes me with an irritated expression, looking me up and down distastefully before turning her attention back to Spencer.

           “Close your eyes,” she instructs him. Spencer complies. “Good. Now keep them closed. Sit back and relax. When you open your eyes, I want you to look at me like I’m the first woman you’ve seen after being in prison for three months.”

           I clench my jaw at that. Something stirs in my chest – something foreign and possessive that has me bristling. I tense, watching closely as Spencer opens his eyes and smiles that beautiful smile at Cat. My stomach turns painfully at the sight.

           “Hello, Cat,” Spencer greets her, and all the contempt his tone previously held is gone – replaced with a neutrality that bordered on happiness.

           Cat lets out a pleased laugh.

           “You’re here!” she exclaims, throwing her arms out as she gestures about the room. “You’re really here.”

           “There is nowhere else I would rather be,” Spencer replies, sounding startlingly genuine.

           This is all an act, I remind myself. Spencer’s just playing a part. None of this is real.

           Cat crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow at him.

           “You’re good at this. You’re so good at this that I almost believe that you don’t want to kill me.”

           “I don’t want to kill you,” Spencer says with a shake of his head.

           “No?”

           “No.”

           Cat narrows her eyes at him.

           “What if I let your mother die?” she inquires. “Then would you kill me? Or would you just…” Cat trails of as she leans forward. “… Hurt me? Would you pin me down and leave bruises that don’t go away?”

           I swallow hard against the bile that threatens to crawl its way up my throat. Spencer might not want to kill her, but I do.

           “Is that what you want?”

           Cat shrugs her shoulders.

           “I guess I just want to know if you would – if you could.”

           Spencer gives a small shake of his head.

           “No.”

           “No?” Cat taunts, cocking her head to the side.

           “It’s not the kind of man I am.”

           Cat’s face drops and her eyes narrow into slits.

           “Do me a favor and tell your little chaperone over there to step aside, because we’re going to play another game. And this time, we’re going to find out exactly what kind of man you are.”

           Spencer’s eyes flit to me and he nods towards the door. I open my mouth to argue, but the pleading look in his eyes has me clamping it shut. It’s okay, his eyes seem to tell me. I know you promised, but I’ll be fine.

Cat waves at me as I reluctantly move towards the door. When the door clicks shut behind me, Spencer takes it as his invitation to continue.

           “Let’s play,” his voice sounds through the speaker to my left.

           “Let’s!” Cat exclaims before resting her head in her hand.

           “So, is it the same game as last time?” Spencer inquires. “I answer every question you ask honestly?”

           “No,” Cat sighs out. “This time you get to ask the questions.”

           Spencer raises an eyebrow at her. “About what?”

           “Well, I know a secret about you. And you can ask me as many questions as you like to figure it out. But you only get one guess as to what it is. If you guess correctly, I take your phone, I call our friend Lindsey, and I tell her to release your dear mother unharmed. If you don’t…” Cat trails off, before mimicking bringing a gun up to her mouth and firing.

           Crazy fucking bitch.

           “Is there a clock?”

           “There’s always a clock.” Cat holds out her hand, eyes flicking down to Spencer’s watch. “Give it to me.”

           I cringe when Spencer hesitates – I know what he must be thinking. That’s Gideon’s watch. The only thing he has left of him. I’d never seen Spencer without it in the two years I’ve known him.

           Spencer reluctantly slips the watch off of his wrist and hands it over.

           Cat smirks and slides the watch onto her arm.

           “Now, you’ll have four hours.”

           “Do you want to give me a hint before we start?”

           Cat chuckles. “Do I look like a girl that gives hints?”            “Actually, you do.”

           Cat takes pause, looking Spencer up and down before speaking.

           “Okay, how about this; it’s a secret you’ll never admit to.”

--

           “I know what the secret is.”

           Cat quirks an eyebrow up at Spencer.

           “You do?”

           He nods. “Why else would you put me through all this?”

           “Ooh, phrasing it in the form of a question that way it doesn’t count as a guess. Very smart, Doctor.”

           “I’m gonna walk you through a scenario, and your face is going to tell me how close I am,” Spencer murmurs, an amused smile on his lips. He leans forward to rest his elbows on the table. “From the moment I arrested you, you watched and waited for the right time to take your revenge. When you learned I was going to Mexico, you took it. You and Lindsey framed me for murder so I’d be put in a prison and treated like a criminal, and then you kidnapped my mother so I would know how it feels to have a parent manipulated, because you want to prove that you and I are the same. Am I right?”

           Cat feigns a yawn in response.

           “Mm. Sorry, I couldn’t hold that in any longer. What were you saying?”

           “Psychopaths tend to get bored easily.”

           “You’re right. Let’s speed this up,” Cat sighs with a roll of her eyes. She pushes away from the table, standing up and walking over to Spencer’s side of the table. I fight the urge to barge in when I see her take a seat on his lap. Cat runs a hand down Spencer’s chest before she continues. “Shall we? What do you think about all the pain you’ve suffered in your life? What would I capitalize on, do you think? Is it… the death of your mentor, SSA Jason Gideon?”

           I can see the way Spencer’s jaw clenches and it makes my heart lurch painfully in my chest.

           “No, because we caught the man who killed him.”

           “What about Agent Morgan and your guilt over not visiting his little boy?” Cat whispers in his ear as her hands fiddle with the collar of his suit.

           “I was in prison.”

           “Yeah, but you had time before that. Why didn’t you go?” she presses as she grazes her nails down the length of his throat. I see red when her hand loosely circles around his neck. Spencer absolutely loathes being touched by anyone other than those closest to him, and I’ve no doubt that he’s horribly uncomfortable.

           “Truthfully, I got distracted. I was trying to figure out a way to help my mom. She didn’t have time. Morgan, Savannah, and little Bobby did. So, there’s absolutely no shame in admitting that. Morgan would understand.”

           “I agree. That’s why that’s not the secret,” Cat divulges, brushing her nose against the side of his face before pulling away and standing up. I let out the breath that I’d apparently been holding and allow myself a moment to run a shaky hand through my hair. If I was getting this frazzled from being a bystander to this conversation, I can only imagine how Spencer must be feeling.

           When I look back up at the mirror, Spencer’s looking over his shoulder at me through the glass. I know he can’t see me, but I can’t help but feel guilty for losing my cool.

           “Good job, Spence,” I murmur to myself as I pull out my phone. After a few rings, Rossie answers.

           “Go ahead, Y/N. You’re on speaker.”

           “Cat has an extremely deep background on Spencer. She knows about everything – Gideon’s death, Derek leaving the team, his mom’s condition,” I inform them, tapping my foot nervously against the concrete.

           “She’s throwing him off-balance.”

           “Yes, but Spencer also purposefully gave the wrong name of Derek’s son and she didn’t correct him,” I point out.

           “She must’ve gotten her hands on Reid’s confidential FBI file,” Emily chimes in. “It would mention pertinent team information but it wouldn’t name Morgan’s son for confidentiality reasons.”

           “We were thinking she’s been getting help from someone inside the prison. This goes deeper than that,” Rossi sighs.

           “Call us if she says anything else of any importance,” Emily signs off. I mumble a quick goodbye before pocketing my phone and turning my attention back to the window.

           “Working deductively, the secret wouldn’t be any of the topics you’ve already volunteered, because you wouldn’t want to make it easy on me,” Spencer reasons. He clasps his hands together and sits back in his seat before raising an eyebrow in challenge.

           “Genius, truly,” Cat taunts sarcastically as she twirls the watch around her finger.

           “So, what is left that I wouldn’t want to admit?” Spencer muses, eyebrows drawn together in contemplation. Cat shrugs her shoulders at him and another moment of tense silence passes.

           “Love,” Spencer utters, and Cat’s incessant twirling of the watch comes to an abrupt halt.

           Got her.

           “Is that what this is all about – love? For my mother?” Spencer whispers, and when Cat fails to respond, he shakes his head. “No, not for her. For you. You want me to admit that I’m actually in love with you.”

           Cat purses her lips together.

           “Don’t get me wrong – I love my fairy tales as much as the next girl – but I’m not delusional,” Cat says as she crosses her arms.

           “Are you sure about that?”

           “Very sure. So sure, in fact, that I had Lindsey leave a clue for you in that little scrapbook in your apartment.”

           I scrunch my face up at that. The clue in question had been a message inscribed on the back of an old photograph;xx-xy. We’d originally deduced that the message, the female and male chromosomes, was to confirm that Lindsey was working with Scratch. But now? Now I didn’t have a clue what Cat was talking about.

           “I couldn’t have you come all the way down here and make a guess until I was positive. That is…” Cat pauses for dramatic effect, a sly smile on her lips. “… until I tested positive.” Cat punctuates her words by placing both hands on her stomach, and the action makes me raise a hand up to my mouth in shock.

           No. There’s no fucking way.

           “What, you’re pregnant?” Spencer asks, confused.

           “No, we’re pregnant.”

           I feel my knees buckle upon hearing the admission and I blindly reach for the chair to my left.

           This cannot be happening.

           “No,” Spencer says, shaking his head adamantly.

           “Oh, yes,” Cat replies. “Mazel tov.”

--

           “Here you are, ma’am.”

           I reach for the file, my movements stilted and awkward.

           “Thank you,” I mumble to the guard, who gives me a peculiar look before leaving the room. I waste no time in flipping through the file, heart pounding wildly in my chest as my eyes skim over the page until –

           Positive.

           I slam the file down on the table.

           “Fuck!” I yell out in frustration. I’m thankful then for the thick, concrete walls, because neither Spencer nor Cat show any sign of having heard my little outburst. I place both palms down on the cool metal of the table, my breaths coming out in haggard puffs as I try to rationalize it all.

           “- not possible,” Spencer’s voice coming through the speaker snaps me out of my thoughts. I cut my eyes to the window to find Spencer pacing the room. “Even if you are pregnant, the baby’s not mine.” Spencer comes to a stop behind his chair and shoves his hands in his pockets.

           “Except for the part where it is.”

           “That’s completely preposterous. You’ve been in prison,” Spencer points out as he once again takes a seat across from her.

           “So have you.”

           “And we’ve never-”

           “I know. We’ve never…” Cat trails off with a suggestive waggle of her brows. “Ask me how I did it. Come on, ask me.”

           Spencer rolls his eyes, but he indulges her nonetheless.

           “How did you do it?”

           “I had Lindsey dose you in Mexico. You lost time. And I gave her very specific instruction on how to get you in the mood,” Cat admits.

           “What?” Spencer snorts cynically. “Did she pretend to be you?”

           “Why, would that have worked?”

           Spencer leans forward and shoots Cat a cruel kind of smile.

           “No.”

           For a split second Cat’s face falls, but only for a moment and then she goes right back to smiling that wretched grin.

           “Yeah, I know, I know. Believe me, I know exactly where I stand on the Spencer Reid hot or not list,” Cat sighs. “So, ask me again.”

           “How did you do it?”

           “I told her to pretend to be Y/N.”

           For a second I think that I misheard her – the blood rushing in my ears almost overpowered her admission – but the way Spencer’s entire body tenses before he looks back at the window tells me that I didn’t.

           Why me?

           Spencer gulps hard before he turns back around. I find my way to the chair nearest me and collapse into it.

           “How do you know about her?”

            Cat gives him an unimpressed look.

           “It wasn’t hard, seeing as she’s your very best friend in the whole wide world,” Cat teases as her eyes wander from Spencer to the glass behind him. She waves at me, endlessly amused, before turning her attention back to Spencer. “But that isn’t all that she is to you – is it Spencie? At least, Lindsey didn’t think so. At first, she thought the two of you were tangled up in some kind of sexy little tryst. But then I had Lindsey do a little digging, and, well, that’s when we found out about the boyfriend.”

           “Stop.”

           “Oh, it seems I’ve struck a nerve!” Cat trills gleefully. “Shall we call her in here to join us? I know she’s just on the other side of that glass. I’m sure she’d love to hear all about how pathetic little Spencer Reid pines after her like a school boy with a crush.” She pouts her bottom lip out in mock sadness. “There’s just something about unrequited love that really tugs at my heart strings.”

           Oh.

           For the second time since arriving here, my hand comes up to cover my mouth as I struggle to process Cat’s words. She can’t be right, can she? Spencer had never done anything that eluded to him seeing me as any more than a best friend. Perhaps she got it wrong. Lindsey saw me come and go and she just assumed it was something that it wasn’t. There was no way that Spencer -

           “I said stop.”

           The underlying plea in his voice is enough to make tears well in my eyes. If what Cat is saying is true, that means that Lindsey . . . 

           “All it took was Lindsey saying she was Y/N for you to crumble like a house of cards. You really made it too easy.”

           “You’re lying.”

           Cat chuckles. “Listen to you, you’re not even trying to deny it.”

           “It didn’t happen,” Spencer argues, voice so quiet that I have to strain to hear it.

           “Hey, I was thinking, if it’s a boy, we should definitely call him Spencie Jr.”

           Spencer pushes back from the table so abruptly that both Cat and I flinch, and he’s almost out the door when Cat delivers one final dig.

           “-But if it’s a girl, I think we should call her Y/N. I mean after all; she played such a huge role in in her own conception!”

           The sound of the door slamming behind him as he trudges into the room is enough to make me bolt up from my seat. Spencer comes to a stop at the center of the room, eyes wide and full of remorse as he looks over at me.

           “I-I… I’m…”

           I try my best to muster up a smile but I worry that it comes out more as a grimace.

           “Later,” I murmur, and Spencer winces before nodding his head in defeat. I walk over to the table and open up the file. “She’s not lying about being pregnant.”

           Spencer joins me at the table, eyes skimming over the document.

           “She’s three months, and the timeline matches, but that doesn’t mean-”

           Spencer yanks the file off the table and hurls it at the window, shoulders rising and falling rapidly as he runs a hand through his disheveled hair.

           I take a step back and Spencer curses under his breath.

           “I’m sorry. It’s not you,” he sighs. “I just… need a minute.”

           I press my lips together and nod.

           “Take all the time you need. M’gonna go call Emily,” I murmur.

           Spencer closes his eyes and lets his head hang low.

           “Yeah, okay,” he whispers dejectedly, and the despair in his voice is enough to stop me in my tracks.

           “Spence?” I call out. He looks up at me from underneath his lashes, more than a little bit timid and scared. “I’ll be right back, okay? I’m not leaving you.”

            I open the door and step out of the room, but it doesn’t close before I hear the quiet ‘thank you’ drift from within.  

--

           Spencer waits until the door clicks shut behind her to push away from the table and head back into the interrogation room. He couldn’t bear the thought of her overhearing any more than she already had. As far as Spencer was concerned, Cat had just singlehandedly ruined the one good thing he had going for him, and at this point, he had nothing left to lose.

           “Let’s pretend you’re telling the truth,” Spencer starts. “That means I guessed it, right? The secret, the one I don’t want to admit to? It’s my child?”

           Cat looks up at him with bored eyes and Spencer feels his unease begin to give way to rage.

           “Is that your guess?” Cat asks. “You only get one, remember?”

           Spencer takes pause, before shaking his head.

           “No. It’s too easy,” he decides.

           “Believe me, getting pregnant with your baby was not easy,” Cat mutters, and Spencer’s lips press into a tight line. The implication of it is enough to make his skin crawl. He feels violated and absolutely disgusted, but still he tries to school his impression into one of indifference. Spencer thinks about his mom, scared and confused, and that’s enough incentive to make him focus on the task at hand.

           “You misunderstand. It’s too easy emotionally,” Spencer explains in a clipped tone as he sits down. “Because I can take your child from you. The child I had absolutely no role in creating, but a child that I would care for better than you.”

           “That’s rude,” Cat seethes as she slowly lifts her head from off of the table.

           “It’s true. You can’t be a mother, Cat. I’m not trying to insult you – it’s your psychological makeup. You literally do not have the emotional skills to care for another human being. You’d lose interest in your own baby the way a six-year-old loses interest in a pet hamster. This baby is simply a means to an end, which is to keep me here and playing your game, guessing like a fool and assuming something that I never should have assumed in the first place.”

           “And what would that be?”

           “My mother’s already dead,” Spencer says, and the words taste positively foul in his mouth. “She was dead before I walked in here”

           Cat’s lips pull into a frown.

           “She’s not dead-”

           “Yes, she is,” Spencer reiterates as he rises from his chair.

           “No, because that would be cheating and I don’t cheat. You cheat!” Cat panics, voice growing louder the closer Spencer gets to the door.

           “I’m done playing,” Spencer says as he turns away, reaching for the door knob.

           “Get back here!”

           Spencer pulls the door open. “Goodbye, Cat.”

           He has one foot out the door when;

           “I’ll let you talk to her!” Cat yells out as she slams her fist down on the table.

           Spencer lifts his eyes up from their spot on the floor, and it’s with a jolt of surprise that his eyes meet Y/N’s. It feels to him like it always does when he sees her – like some great relief that floods through his entire body in an instant. He feels guilty for it, now that she knows, but that doesn’t stop him from basking in it. The feeling grows when a triumphant smile graces her lips, one that says you’ve got her, Spence. You’ve got her right where you want her.

           Spencer is positively rejuvenated by that smile.

           He reluctantly pulls his gaze away from her and focuses back on Cat. He’s come too far now to fuck it all up.

           Spencer pulls his phone from the depths of his suit pocket and hands it to Cat. He watches on as she dials the number, and his heart beats so fast that he wonders if she can hear it. The sound of the dial tone ringing fills the room, and Spencer can only hope that the call will be long enough for Penelope to trace.

           “You’re early,” a voice that’s unmistakably Lindsey’s calls out. Spencer lets out a shaky breath of relief.

           “Yeah, I know.”

           “Did he guess?”

           “No, not yet,” Cat sighs. “We need proof of life.”

           “All right, hold on,” Lindsey says, exasperated, and her words are followed by several seconds of muffled rustling and what Spencer deems as some sort of liquid being poured.

           “Spencer!”

           His heart practically bursts out of his chest as he lunges forward, yanking the phone out of Cat’s hand and bringing it up to his ear.

           “Mom - mom, are you okay?”

           “I don’t… know-”

           Spencer opens his mouth to reply when the gut-wrenching sound of an explosion rips through the tiny phone speakers, distorted and so loud that it makes Spencer’s ears ring.

           “Mom!” Spencer desperately yells into the phone, but all he gets in reply is a ‘gotta go’ from Lindsey before the line goes dead. Spencer growls out a string of swears, throwing his phone down on the table before leaning over the table.

           “What the hell was that?” he yells, and he’s vaguely aware of the sound of the door opening, but he can’t focus on anything other than his own rising panic.

           “I don’t know,” Cat replies, opening her mouth to continue but Spencer cuts her off.

           “Lindsey said you were early. Was that a signal?” he bellows.

           “Spence, come on,” Y/N tries to interject. Spencer feels her hand on his shoulder but he shrugs it off before bringing his fist down on the table.

           “Was that a prearranged signal to kill my mother?!” Spencer snarls, eyes wide and teeth barred. He feels positively feral, images of his mother in all sorts of terrible states of distress flashing through his mind like some grotesque picture show. “Tell me the truth!”

           “No! I am!” Cat shouts back.

           “Tell me the truth!”

           “I am!” Cat spits out, eyes flashing angrily. “You wanna know the truth? Your mother is an Alzheimer’s-ridden moron who’s getting dumber by the day and if she’s dead, it’s your fault!”

           Something comes over Spencer then, and in an instant, he’s shoving the table out of the way and pushing Cat against the wall. His hands find purchase on her throat, not dissimilar to how hers had on his hours before, but instead of dragging his fingers against her neck, Spencer’s clamping down on it as hard as he can, taking great pleasure in the way she gasps for air as his hands tighten. Everything around him fades away until all that he can focus on is that way that her pulse feels under his hands – the way it starts off strong, before tapering, slower and slower until he can barely even palpate it anymore.

           “I’m going to kill you,” Spencer hears himself whisper as he presses down hard on her windpipe. “M’gonna fucking kill you.”

           Cat’s eyes are fluttering closed now, and Spencer shouldn’t enjoy the way the light in her eyes starts to dim. He shouldn’t but he does – in fact, it prompts him to press harder and harder and –

           A harsh yank pulls Spencer away from Cat, and as soon as his hands begin to loosen Cat splutters in an attempt to catch her breath.

           “Spencer, she is pregnant,” Y/N yells in his ear, and just like that his tunnel vison fades away and Spencer feels the adrenaline leave his body. He only realizes that his hands are still on Cat’s throat when Y/N yanks at his arms again. “Fucking let her go, Spencer!”

           His entire body goes limp and he allows himself to be drug away from Cat and out of the room. Spencer’s heart still pounds and his blood is still roaring in his ears, but the satisfaction has given away to shame. He steals a glance at cat as he’s being pulled from the room, and despite her ruffled appearance, she’s grinning at him – smiling as if to say see? I told you that you were just like me.

           Spencer stumbles into the other room, steadying himself on the wall to keep from faceplanting onto the cold hard floor. Now that the adrenaline has expelled itself from his body, he’s left shaky and panting and ashamed.

           The feeling of Y/N’s eyes on him as he braces himself on the wall only exacerbates his mortification. What will she think of me now? Will she think me to be some kind of monster? Spencer wouldn’t blame her - he’s held that same opinion of himself for months now.

           Spencer stands there, face turned downwards as he catches his breath, and when he can take the weight of her gaze no longer, he darts out of the room and down the corridor.

           Being alone is preferable to being a disappointment, Spencer thinks as he flees the room.

--

           It doesn’t take long for her to find him sitting in the floor, knees to his chest with his face downturned. Spencer hears her before he sees her, and he prepares himself for the yelling that’s surely to come.

           She surprises him when she slides her back down the wall until she’s sitting beside him, legs sprawled out in front of her. He doesn’t look up – fearful of what he might see when he looks into those beautiful eyes of hers. There had been love there, before all of this happened. Not the kind of love that was reflected in his own, but it was love just the same and Spencer thinks that it might kill him to see that love replaced with disgust. So he doesn’t look. Instead, Spencer just sits there, slumped over and pathetic, hoping that she doesn’t pick up on the fact that his hands are shaking.

           “Richmond County police just reported a gas station explosion. One victim – male. Whatever Lindsey did, we have to assume that your mom’s still alive,” Y/N murmurs. Spencer lets out a shaky breath and his grip on his knees tightens. It’s good news, and he’s grateful, but it does nothing for the overwhelming guilt that’s eating away at him.

           “Hey,” she whispers when he doesn’t reply. “Can you look at me, Spence? Wanna see those pretty brown eyes. Please?”

           Spencer chokes down the sob that threatens to come out. He shakes his head. 

           “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened in there. That… That’s not me. At least, I don’t want it to be,” Spencer whispers. “Emily should’ve sent someone else with me. I never wanted you to see me like that.”

           Her small, incredibly soft hand comes to rest on his own and Spencer closes his eyes at the feeling. Y/N flips his hand over and intertwines their fingers and Spencer can’t help but think that’s she’s showing him way more kindness than he could ever deserve. But he’s selfish, unable to deny himself of the feeling of her hand in his, so he clings onto her hand for dear life.

           “I’m so scared that this is who I am now,” Spencer mumbles, prompting her grip on his hand to tighten.

           “No, Spence. Don’t say that,” she chastises him. “You’re the best guy I know. Everyone has a breaking point – Cat just knows how to bring you to yours, is all.”

           “You… You don’t know…” Spencer trails off, still unwilling to look her in the eye.

           “I do know, Spence. I may not have been able to visit, but I asked about you every day,” she says as she shuffles closer to him. Spencer can smell her perfume now, subtle and sweet and comforting. “I know that two inmates, Frazier and Duerson, killed your friend in front of you. I know that they wanted you to move heroin for them, and I also know that if you didn’t, you would’ve been next. Anyone in your spot would’ve done the same.”

           “You wouldn’t have.”

           “Hell yes, I would have,” Y/N persists, and Spencer can’t help but to look up at her from behind where his unruly curls fall into his face. “I would have, Spence. If someone was threatening my life, you bet your ass I would have done the same thing. It doesn’t make you a bad person – doing whatever it takes to survive does not make you a bad person.”

           She must pick up on the hesitancy that lingers in Spencer’s eyes, because she decides to continue.

           “You know who does think like that? That – that in you doing what you had to do in order to survive somehow makes you a psychopath?” Y/N pauses long enough to point her thumb towards the direction of the interview room. “She does.”

           Spencer watches the realization wash over her face, and for a split second he’s terribly confused. It isn’t until a ghost of a smile pulls at her lips that he catches on, and when he does, he has to stop himself from doing something terribly stupid like kissing her.

           “She does,” Y/N reiterates when she sees that Spencer finally caught on. “Because she knows.”

           “That’s the secret,” Spencer thinks aloud. He pushes himself to his feet and begins to pace down the corridor. “The one that I don’t want to admit about myself.”

           “Hold up, Spence. Let’s talk through this, because she will not lose to you twice. She already said that this wasn’t about the two of you being the same.”

           Spencer scratches the back of his next, nodding to himself.

           “Then she’s all about the game. She thinks that I cheated the last time because I lied about her dad, so it’s integral that she beats me by following the rules.”

           “But, Spence, she’s the one that makes the rules. She can change them to ensure that she wins.”

           “-Which means that I’m locked in-”

           “Like she is.”

           “She needs me locked in, playing by her rules, a game I can’t win, so she-” Spencer pauses then, and an actual, honest to God smile creeps its way across his face – the kind of smile that was only reserved for Y/N. “I got it.”

           Spencer doesn’t elaborate, because he doesn’t need to. He can tell with one look that she understands, because somehow, she always does. Spencer offers her a hand and hoists her to her feet. 

          Spencer almost laughs as the two of them step back into the room. Of course, she would be the one to figure it out. It seems like she’s always saving him, these days.

--

           “Guess that’s one way to get you to put your hands on me.”

           Spencer feels a twinge of guilt, but he pushes it to the back of his mind as he holds a hand out to Cat.

           “Dance with me.”

           Cat lifts an eyebrow at him.

           “Why?”

           “Because I don’t want the people watching to hear what I’m about to say.”

           Cat is still suspicious, but she takes his hand and lets him pull her to her feet anyways. Spencer puts his arms around her and the two of them begin to sway back and forth. Spencer suppresses the urge to pull away when her hand lowers and intertwines with his own. It’s rough and calloused and cold – a direct contradiction of Y/N’s – and Spencer positively loathes it.

           “You had eyes on me while I was in prison, didn’t you?”

           “Spencie, don’t ruin the moment,” Cat groans.

           “I don’t want to, but I’m on the clock. Answer my question, am I right?”            Cat places her head on Spencer’s chest, her hair smelling of some generic bar of soap, and Spencer wishes more than anything that he was smelling the familiar notes of honeysuckle and vanilla instead.

           “Yes, you’re right. I wanted to make sure things were just as uncomfortable for you as they were for me.”

           “That’s how you timed everything so perfectly. Like sending my mom and Lindsey to visit me when I thought I was at my lowest.”

           This piques Cat’s interest and she lifts her head up until her eyes meet Spencer’s.

           “Thought? You’re sure you weren’t?”

           “No, I wasn’t. Because I didn’t feel bad – I felt scared at how much I enjoyed poisoning the other prisoners. I had a hundred ways of getting myself out of that situation, and I picked the one that would cause them the most pain.”

           “Well, look at that,” Cat hums. “You might end up saving your mother’s life after all.”

           A moment of silence passes as Spencer contemplates his next move. Before he can get the words out, Cat breaks the silence.

           “They won’t get there in time. They must be on their way, right? Your team is too good to wait around, but you know me. I always have a contingency plan,” Cat murmurs, hands dipping under Reid’s suit jacket. She rubs her palms across his chest in slow circles and Spencer tries hard not to squirm. “They’re walking into a trap, and the only way out is if you give me your phone and you guess – right now.”

           Cat removes her hands from Spencer’s chest, crossing her arms and fixing him with a pointed look. Spencer reaches down and pulls the phone from his pocket, passing it to Cat who wastes no time in taking a seat at the table once more.

           Spencer’s skin tingles, half from anticipation, half from fear. They’ve come too far for him to misstep. He thinks of his mother – of how the next two minutes will determine her fate, and Spencer clenches his hands into fists at his sides.

           Here comes the moment of truth.

           “When we first sat down, you said you were going to show me what kind of man I am. And you have.”

           “Every time I dial a number, you’re getting warmer.”

           “At first, I was furious, because the secret had to be the baby inside you. How could it be anything else? But then I realized that somehow, you knew I liked hurting those men.” Cat dials another number, prompting Spencer to continue. “Now, I know it’s both things.”

           “So, which is it, Spencie? Come on, don’t fumble it now. You’re at the one-yard line.”

           “You’re not pregnant with my child. You got pregnant with Wilkins to put me in as compromised a position as possible. But it should be mine – I wish it were mine. Because you and I… we deserve each other. That is the real secret.”

           By the time Spencer finishes speaking, tears are steady falling down Cat’s cheeks. With a shaky hand she presses the call button, and Spencer watches on with bated breath as the phone rings.

           “Kill her.”

          When Cat receives no reply, she pushes out of her seat and begins to pace around the room. “Lindsey, I said kill her.”

           “You bitch,” Lindsey curses, sounding positively heartbroken in the way only a jilted loved could. “You’re pregnant?”

            “Lindsey, sweetheart, it’s complicated, okay?”

           “No, it’s not,” Lindsey whispers, and then the sound of the dial tone is all that’s left.

           Not a second later, Y/N bursts through the door; the figurative light at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

           “We’re clear.”

           Spencer snatches his phone from Cat’s hand before turning to face Y/N.

           “Is my mom okay?”

           “Yeah. She’s fine.”

           “We do deserve each other, by the way,” Cat calls out, prompting Spencer to pivot and face her. She slides back into the seat and shrugs her shoulders. “You guessed right.”

           Spencer falters for a moment, but then a voice in his head is reminding him that he deserves the world. And that voice sounds a lot like Y/N.

           “You lied, by the way. You were going to kill my mother regardless.”

          “Yeah, I think you really liked hurting those men. Once you cross that line, you can’t ever go back. And you’ll never get her to love you, either. You and I are too fucked up to be loved.”

           Spencer takes two steps forward before he bends down, reaching out and clutching Cat’s forearm in a tight grip. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his watch off her wrist and back on to his own.

           “Watch me,” Spencer whispers, and without so much as a parting glance at the broken women sitting at the table, Spencer walks towards the light.

--

           The elevator ride up to the bullpen is a quiet one, not unlike the jet ride before it. I had about a million questions that I was dying to ask, but I thought it best to let Spencer stew in silence. The poor guy had been through enough in the last twenty-four hours – he didn’t need me hounding him on top of all of that. Besides, I wasn’t entirely sure where to start in the first place.

           So, Spence – how was prison?

           I heard you got the shit kicked out of you. How interesting, so did I! Wanna trade war stories?

           I hate to put you on the spot like this, but was that little tidbit about you being hopelessly in love with me true? Just curious.

           As wonderful as all of those conversation starters were, I didn’t really think that now was the time to breech any of the aforementioned subjects. So, instead, Spencer and I communicated in stolen glances and shy smiles, and that more than sufficed for the time being. We had all the time in the world to talk later - there was no need to rush.

           I can practically feel Spencer shaking with anticipation when the elevator ride comes to a close, and the two of us share one last, longing glance before the doors open and Spencer steps out and into the arms of his mother.

           There’s not a dry eye in the house when Spencer and his mother reunite, and it takes Emily ushering us all away to keep us all from devolving into sniveling messes right in front of the elevator. We all scatter about the bullpen, and after a quick trip to the bathroom I meander to Emily’s office.

           “Derek Morgan – you are a sight for sore eyes,” I whistle as I walk into the room, not stopping until I’m pressed up against two-hundred pounds of rock-hard abs.

           “Ah, little bit. I sure have missed you,” Derek laughs as he presses a kiss to the top of my head.

           “To what do we owe the pleasure? I’d be hard pressed to believe that you just decided to drop in at three o’clock in the morning.”

           Derek lets out a sigh and the smile drops from his face.

           “I wish I was just here to say hello, but we may have bigger problems. I got a text from Penelope saying that Reid was out of prison and that he wanted to see me. And that he was staying in an FBI safehouse where he was putting his mother up for the night.”

           I cast a glance at Emily, who shakes her head.

           “I didn’t approve of that,” she explains, and just like that, a weary feeling settles over everyone in the room.

           “I think we all know what this sounds like,” Derek says.

           “A trap.”

--

           “I know we’re all tired, but we may have a new lead on Scratch.”

           “Somebody did a bang-up job of cloning my cellphone to send Morgan a text luring him to a nonexistent safehouse. And whoever that somebody is has mad skills,” Penelope explains.

           “The kind of skills Scratch has,” Stephen mutters, earning a round of murmured agreeances.

           “Were you able to trace where the hack came from?” Luke inquires, earning an affronted glare from Penelope. She shakes her head at him before turning to Derek, who’s watching on with a shit-eating grin on his face.

           “Do you see what I have to put up with?”

           Derek chuckles and gives Luke a pointed look.

           “Alvez, you’ll always get a location with this one.” Derek reaches forward and rubs Penelope’s shoulder, and it’s impossible to miss the way Luke’s eyes zero in on it.

           “Down boy,” I whisper at him. “Green isn’t your color.”

           “Shut up.”

           I roll my eyes good-naturedly before turning my attention back to Emily.

           “Obviously, Morgan can’t come with us. He’s a civilian now.”

           “We’ll miss you out there,” JJ chimes in.

           “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it out there in the field with you guys. I think about it every day. But between my old friends and my new friends, you guys are gonna go out there, you’re gonna handle your business, you’re gonna make people feel safe, and then you’re gonna go home. And that’s all that matters.”

           “Civilian life has turned you into a sap,” I tease.

           “Is it just me, or has this one gotten mouthier since I left?”

           Penelope pats him on the arm.

           “Someone had to fill the silence.”

           After everyone has the opportunity to tell Derek their goodbyes, it’s a mad dash to get everything we need to roll out. I pull my hair into a ponytail and shuck off my blazer, only to replace it with my Kevlar. I’m in the middle of securing the last strap as I hurry down the hall when I come in harsh contact with the front of someone’s chest.

           But it’s not just someone – it’s Spencer.

           “I thought you left already?”

           Spencer lets out a strained chuckle.

           “Uh, yeah. I was on the way out when Penelope texted and said Derek was here. Mom’s sitting with Anderson while I go talk to him.”

           I nod in understanding.

           “Good ole Anderson,” I manage to say, trying hard not to cringe at my awkward choice of words.

           “Yeah,” Spencer mutters, shuffling his feet as he looks anywhere other than my face. “There’s a case, I’m assuming?” he says, gesturing to my vest.

           “We think we have a lead on Scratch, actually.”

           Now, that gets Spencer’s attention. His eyes finally settle on me, and his brows furrow.

           “Why didn’t anyone tell me? I need to go with you-” Spencer makes a move to brush past me, put I stop him with a hand on his chest.

           “Back it up, Spence. There’s absolutely no way Prentiss will sign off on that, and even if she did, I’m still saying no.”

           “And I’m supposed to listen to you?” Spencer tries to keep his face neutral, but his lips twitch as he fights back a smile.

           “Mm. What I say goes, and I say that you need to go home and not even think about work for at least a month. You certainly could use the break.”

           “A whole month, huh?”

           I nod, looking up at him with a faux serious expression.

           “I better not see you around here for at least that long, or there will be repercussions.”

           Spencer finally does smile at that, and I can practically see the way he’s mulling over his next move in his head.

           “Does… Does that prohibition extend only to the work place?”

           I tilt my head to the side.

           “I’m lost.”

           Spencer scrunches his nose up and his eyes dart across the hall before eventually settling back on me.

           “It’s just that, well, I don’t really know where this leaves us. Will I still see you outside of work, or is that all messed up now?”

           “Why would that be messed up?”

           Spencer closes his eyes and he lets out a haggard breath.

           “Are you really gonna make me say it?”

           Even though he can’t see me, I smile up at him anyways.

           “On any other day I absolutely would, but things are a little… hectic right now. How about we put a pin in this conversation until things slow down a bit?”

           Spencer slowly opens his eyes and they roam over my face, searching.

           “You’re not uncomfortable? Considering everything that, uh, she said about me? Especially the part that pertained to you?” Spencer asks, meek and unsure.

           I shake my head.

           “I think you’ll find that I am very much the opposite of uncomfortable,” I reply. We stand there for a moment longer, just basking in the fact that after three long, miserable months, we’re finally together again.

           Spencer opens his mouth to say something, only to be cut off by Emily calling my name from further down the hall.

           “Duty calls,” I chuckle, pulling away from Spencer. “Tell you mom I said hi, and I’ll be by to visit once you have time to get settled in,” I call over my shoulder.

           I make it a good ten feet down the hall before Spencer’s tugging at my hand and pulling me flush against his chest. He hesitates for a moment, and a flash of uncertainty clouds his eyes, but then he’s pushing it down and pressing his lips to mine.

           Spencer’s lips are slightly chapped, but so, so warm as they move against mine. My response is instantaneous – I don’t hesitate for a second before I’m kissing back. The kiss is slow and tentative, as gentle and tender as it is intoxicating. It’s everything that a kiss should be and it ignites a fire in me that has me grasping at Spencer’s shirt, desperate for more. The hand that isn’t cupping the side of my face presses firmly against the small of my back, urging me forward until absolutely no space is left between us.

           Every drag of his lips against mine acts as gasoline to a flame, and I can’t help but think that Ray Bradbury said it best. It is a pleasure to burn.

           I’m the first to pull away, but it isn’t because I want to. What I want is to stay just like this – entangled in Spencer Reid – until not an inch of our bodies lay unexplored by the other. But when Emily calls out my name yet again, I force myself to stop.

           “I really need to go,” I murmur regretfully, and Spencer nods.

           “Yeah, I know.”

           But that doesn’t stop him from going in for one last, delicious kiss. This time when we break away, it’s his doing. I don’t have the self restraint to pull away twice.

           “Pinky promise you’ll come back to me in one piece?” Spencer says as he lifts his pinky finger up in offering. I link mine with his, and I smile a dopey grin at him.

           “Of course, I will,” I reply. “After all, you and I are due for one hell of a conversation.”

           I shoot him a wink before I’m running down the hall and slipping into the elevator just before the doors close. My teammates all shoot me curious looks, but I pretend like I don’t see and I lean against the wall, trying and failing to slow the rapid beating of my heart.

           It’s Stephen who approaches me when we all file out of the elevator and into the parking garage.

           “Spencer Reid wouldn’t have anything to do with that love-sick look on your face, would he?”

           I attempt to school my expression, but one pointed look from Stephen has me devolving into a fit of giggles like I’m a goddamn school girl.

           “Possibly.”

           “Possibly my ass. When we get done with this case, I expect a full explanation,” Stephen chuckles as he climbs in the back of the SUV.

           “You gossip like a teenager, Walker,” I tease as I climb in after him.

           “What can I say? You kids keep me young.”

           I let out a loud laugh at that.

           “Best shrink a girl could ask for.”

-

-

-

If suffering brings wisdom, I would wish to be less wise.

           - Unknown

taglist: @90spumkin, @wave0fg00dvibes, @bartlebyreid, @goldenxreid , @crubbycrab, @djreid , @waywardswain, @anotherr-fine-mess , @shadyladyperfection , @memoriesfornobody , @fakeauthor , @easygoingtheatre , @haylaansmi , @criminal-minds-reider , @leavesofgrass-stark​ , @anitazut​, @reidspurplescarf​ , @xoprincessmel, @pinkdiamond1016​, @eldahae​, @itsametaphorbriansblog​, @ziggystardustxo​

[immortalcoelacanth]

Between the Walls, Chapter 3: To Earn His Keep (Dream SMP fic)

*hits table*

I have so many wips, why is my muse just like this?

Word count: 5313

Summary: Jobs are assigned and questions are asked as to why the hell Tommy and Techno are still putting up with one another.

Tommy had been confused as to what Techno meant by him having to work to earn the right to stay in his house. What work could he possibly do that would benefit him?! He couldn’t chop wood, or mine any precious resources. Crafting was also out of the question since he could only make things that were good for someone his size, so that left…

Nothing.

There was nothing he could do. There was no possible job that would suit him that Techno would benefit from, so he honestly had no idea what would come of the deal they had made. Perhaps nothing at all, and he would be allowed

Yeah right, as if he had ever been that lucky.

“TECHNOBLAAAAAADE! YOU FUCKING DICKHEAD!” Tommy howled as he clutched the wooden bars of the makeshift cage he was in. It was practically a repurposed box, the gap between the bars being too slim for the borrower to slip through, but even if they were big enough, he wouldn’t dare escape.

Primarily because of the large pit of groaning mods below him.

Apparently, the “work” Techno had planned for him was nothing more than him acting as bait for a basic mob farm. He was suspended above a pit, his cage attached to a wooden outcropping, and the faint glowing of the strange, red and orange cubes below him allowed him to easily see the hoard of zombies, skeletons, and the occasional creeper milling about.

He glanced back at the house and scowled, knowing Techno was probably sitting inside, all safe and warm. The cage barely blocked out any of the freezing winds, and since Tommy hadn’t been able to grab a jacket before being put out here, there was nothing to protect him from the cold. He was stuck, freezing and yelling at the top of his lungs.

Damn that stupid pig-

… Or hybrid.

It was a term the borrower was vaguely familiar with, he had been eavesdropping when one of the farmers back in Borrowton mentioned “hybrid plants” and how useful they could be. From what he knew, hybrids were like a sort of mixture, two different things being used to make one. Two different plants producing a new one.

He guessed one of Techno’s parents really was a pig fucker.

Tommy snorted at the joke before shuddering in the brisk breeze, arms wrapping tightly around himself while he huddled up on the floor of the cage. It sucked, being out here with nothing but the mobs for company. At least when he had been with Techno, he’d been able to interact, to socialize. It was something that he had always craved, to be able to reach out and connect with people. Even Techno’s occasional barbs, jokes, and the anger he caused Tommy to feel was better than being stuck outside.

Bastard, going from acting like he wanted to protect him to sticking him out here.

… Speaking of which, it had been very strange to witness that exchange. See the way that Techno hesitated to reveal his presence, and the fact that he had tried to hide Tommy further after the librarian made it aware that he knew the borrower was there. Some part of him had cheered, recognizing that maybe the pig-hybrid actually cared about him in some way, even though they had only known one another for about a day, but Techno’s actions earlier-

“What’re you making?” Tommy hesitantly asked as tried to stare at the crafting table. He had basically been told, ordered, to wait on the table while Techno finished whatever it was that he was making. Not wanting to anger the pigman, he had reluctantly done his best to stay in place.

Fidgeting the entire time, of course. Staying put had never been his strong suit.

“Just something to help with your new job.” Techno explained before turning around and showing off the cage he had made. “Gonna make things a lot easier.”

“... What’re you gonna put in it, then?” Tommy questioned, not at all liking where this was going. Of course, the answer he got was one he had expected, but still never wanted to hear.

“You, duh.”

Techno grinned, and Tommy felt his heart drop.

“You’re gonna be the bait.”

Had obliterated the small sparks of that hope. Techno didn’t care about him and only saw him as a means to an end. Probably why he got so huffy when that other guy noticed him. Clearly no one was allowed to mess with or torment Tommy unless it was Techno himself-

Twang!

The borrower let out a startled yelp as an arrow slammed into the side of his cage, making it rock and sway. He scrambled to the side of the enclosure and tried to spot what had shot at him. His eyes scanned the empty yard, briefly landing on the empty stall that Techno must have built for some reason. It was weird to just have that structure sitting there, all empty and ready for some animal to inhabit it-

There!

Tommy shook himself out of his thoughts as he spotted the source of the arrow. A lone skeleton that had, somehow, not stumbled over and fallen into the pit, was aiming at him, bow drawn and another arrow pointed in his direction. He immediately backpedaled, arms flailing as the newest arrow was released, just barely missing the cage.

Shit, shit!

“Fuck off you stupid bitch!” Tommy howled as the skeleton readied another arrow. As it was aimed at him, his panic and the pitch of his voice increased until he was practically shrieking. “FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU-”

Twang!

Another arrow slammed into the skeleton’s skull, bone shattering and turning to dust. The monster dropped to the ground, the fallen bow and arrows the only sign of it ever having been there, and he quickly looked over at what, or who, had shot the arrow.

Technoblade.

Of course.

“Couldn’t have shown up any sooner, you bitch?!” He shouted, internally cringing when those too bright, red eyes landed on him. He watched as the hybrid rested the crossbow he had used to kill the skeleton on his shoulder before making his way over to the wooden post. He glared down at Techno, more than aware of how not intimidating he looked as he shuddered in the cold. Although, his glare lightened up when he was finally removed from the post, less exposed to the winds as he was unintentionally sheltered by the hybrid’s body.

“I was just testing a hypothesis I had.” Techno simply responded. The borrower waited to see if he would elaborate on what that meant. A moment passed, then two, and then-

“Well tell me then! You don’t need to act so secretive!”

That tiny, near invisible smile on Techno’s face grew as he started to speak. “A hypothesis on whether your voice is annoying enough to instantly agro mobs, and it is from the looks of it. Congratulations-”

“Wh-you bitch!” Tommy sputtered as he raged and pointed aggressively at the amused hybrid. “I have the voice of an angel! It’s not annoying!”

As if trying to prove Techno’s point, and in turn prove the borrower wrong, another arrow was launched at the duo. Techno easily dodged it, hardly sparing a glance at the new skeleton as he returned fire and took it down, while Tommy was jostled about thanks to the sudden movement. He just barely managed to stop himself from smacking his head against the wooden bars, and that scowl on his face grew deeper.

For some reason, Techno possessed the uncanny ability to infuriate Tommy no matter what he did. Whether it was his occasionally smug, know-it-all attitude or how obtuse he could be at times, there was just something about him that never failed to upset the borrower.

… Not that he would ever tell him, of course.

Of course, his general unease and anxiety towards this new situation did not help in the slightest, leaving him on edge and ready to snap when something potentially bad happened. It was a miracle he had not been killed yet, and he quietly wondered how much longer his luck would last.

Not that such a thought would stop him from acting like how he typically did.

So, as was in his nature, Tommy immediately started shouting and cursing once more. “And why the fuck did you stick me up there for so long, anyways?! It was freezing up there-”

“You wanna go for round two?” Techno interrupted, lifting the cage up so Tommy could easily see the wooden post he had been hanging from. Immediately, the borrower backed up and started shaking his head.

“No! No, c’mon man! I was just teasing you!” He backpedaled. “Just a little joke, I swear!”

“The only joke here is your accidental pun.” Techno quipped, his smile growing as he watched realization, and then horror, cross Tommy’s face.

“Listen! It’s-it’s a crime to make jokes about me being small, because I’m not! Absolutely criminal!”

Techno let out another chuckle as he shut the door behind him and made his way towards the table. “It’s a good thing I don’t follow laws, then.”

Tommy didn’t dare ask what that meant.

Fortunately, a distraction soon appeared in the form of the cage being set down on the table, followed by one of the sides being removed. He quickly jumped out once there was enough room for him to move, stumbling a bit over the lip of the cage before he straightened himself out.

He ignored the amused snort he heard from beside him, not at all looking at Techno, and instead chose to bask in the sensation of finally being indoors, even if he was still freezing. Tommy shuddered as he wrapped his arms around himself, doing his best to heat up after being exposed to the cold for however long he had been stuck outside. The roaring fireplace definitely helped to chase away some of the chill, and he found his eyes lingering on the large pot that had been added to the fireplace. The air smelled… nice, and it looked like Techno had decided to make soup for himself.

Strange, since he swore the hybrid’s diet consisted of nothing but steak and the occasional, weird sparkly apple.

God, he’d been dying to bite into one of those and see what they tasted like…

He jumped in surprise as Techno placed a small, obviously handmade, wooden bowl filled with soup on the table. Curious, he slowly walked over and checked it out. It was still a bit too large for him to use, he’d probably drown himself if he tried to drink straight from it, but it was definitely much more manageable for him to use.

“Is… is that for me?”

The hybrid just nodded as he got himself his own bowl of soup. As such, he was unaware of how Tommy’s jaw dropped in pure shock, as he carefully traced the side of the bowl. The guy who’d spent the last twenty four hours tormenting him had made something for him, made something that would make his life easier!

He hadn’t been given any cutlery when he’d been kicked out of Borrowton, all he had were some basic tools and rations of food. The absolute bare necessities. And, instead of letting him suffer and search for something he could use, Techno had made it using his own two hands.

It dawned on him, in some strange, iconic twist of fate that he had unintentionally helped Tommy out more than his own people had. Invested more care into making sure he didn’t just survive, but was also comfortable.

… And not spilling soup all over the place-

Regardless, it was one of the last things he would have ever expected from Techno, and he quietly wondered if the hybrid had been working on the bowl while he had been stuck outside. Was this…

A reward?

Tommy’s breathing hitched and he quickly wiped his eyes before any of the budding tears could fall, idiot, crying over something as stupid as a bowl. By the time he had gotten his emotions under control, Techno had looked over to find him just staring at the bowl, appearing to be doing nothing.

“Did you expect me to spoon feed you or something?” He chuckled, waiting for Tommy to respond. When the borrower said nothing, his smile faded. “Bruh-”

“Don’t look at me like that!” Tommy objected, nearly knocking the bowl over as he turned his attention to Techno. “I’m just surprised! Big, bad, Blade making a bowl, never thought I’d see the day. Guess you’ve got little dainty girl hands for that!”

Techno rolled his eyes as the borrower continued rambling, tuning him out as he went about his supposedly dainty hands, and questions about if he made bird houses in his spare time. Eventually, Tommy got that he was done interacting, and the duo focused on their respective meals, with the borrower burning his tongue in his haste to try the soup.

“Fuck.” He hissed, waving a hand over the bowl to help it cool down as he cringed in pain. After waiting for the burning sensation to fade, as well as checking to see whether the soup had cooled down enough, he carefully tried again.

As he slowly sipped away at his soup, he watched as Techno made his way over to a chair, picking up the book that had been placed on it, as well as putting on his reading glasses. They were surprisingly worn, primarily held together by tape, and just barely managed to stay on the hybrid’s face as he sat down and cracked open the book. He then quickly realized that the book was the one he had gotten from the librarian.

The one about borrowers.

He felt… weird knowing someone was basically researching him, studying up on the supposed myths about his kind, and wondered to himself when he would get interrogated. Would Borrowton be mentioned in that book, or one of the other settlements? Tommy had never visited them, but he knew they were out there.

Knew about the rumours of the secret tracks that had supposedly connected each settlement to one another and was used to ship goods back and forth. He and Tubbo had tried searching for them one day and had only wound up with bruises and a stern scolding from the adult borrowers, telling them it was foolish to believe in made up stories.

But he never listened. Those tracks were there, had to be there. He and Tubbo had spent so many nights dreaming of how they’d get away, racing down the rails in a minecart. The angry yells and shouts fading as they raced off into their newest adventure.

They had planned to find a home using those rails.

And they would, Tommy promised himself as he grit his teeth. They would go on that adventure, they would find a home. He would get back to Tubbo, no matter what. All he needed was to figure out how to get back to Borrowton, and perhaps snag some supplies from Techno when he wasn’t looking.

… Maybe that book would come in handy after all.

Not that he had any hope in hell of stealing it, or even really reading it since the book was considerably larger than him, but it was the only chance he had at figuring out where Borrowton was and how he might get there.

It was ironic, to think he had spent so long dreaming about getting away from that hellhole and then ending up stuck in a situation where he needed to do everything he could to get back.

All in the name of Tubbo, of course.

He’d rather spend the rest of his life stuck with the annoying prick known as Technoblade instead of going back to Borrowton if it weren’t for Tubbo.  

… He did need a proper plan, though. He had to survive, figure out how to escape the hellish tundra he was in, get supplies for his journey which would probably last several days, and figure out what path he needed to take to reach Borrowton. Plus he’d need to figure out how to sneak in and find Tubbo, too.

So many things… did he even have a chance at completing them all? He could easily freeze to death in the snow, get mauled by some monster, starve, get lost and never reach his destination-

Don’t think about it.

He let out a sigh and placed the bowl down, distantly noticing he had finished his soup. It was nice, tasted like potatoes and something else. Unconsciously, he started rubbing his thumb against the smooth rim of the wooden bowl. All in all, being exiled wasn’t nearly as bad as he thought it was going to be, aside from him missing Tubbo of course. Techno was a bastard, a prick through and through, but he was surprisingly…

Nice wasn’t the word. Less cruel than he thought he would be? He thought back to the discussion with that nerdy librarian and let out a snort. Borrowers and hybrids working together, living together, sounded like a load of crap.

… Even if he was technically doing that just now.

But it wasn’t like there was some mystical force making them act all soft! Like… like they were best friends or something! He and Techno weren’t buddies or allies, they were just stuck together until either Techno got tired of him and kicked him out, or he left.

Nothing more, nothing less.

With both his meal and mental contemplation finished, he stood up and made his way over to the edge of the table, attaching his grappling hook to the end and throwing the rope over the side. He didn’t bother to check on what Techno was doing as he slid down, bowl carefully pinned between his arm and his body, and felt no need to tell the hybrid he was leaving. The last thing he wanted was to piss him off or something.

As he made his way over to the hole in the floor that would lead to his home, he was unaware of the contemplative, glowing red eyes that followed him. Nor did he see how those eyes narrowed as they landed on the bowl he was still carrying.

The next day, Tommy jolted awake as the sound of knocking reverberated through the hollow he lived in. He yelped in surprise and promptly tumbled out of his makeshift bed, a pile of wool and other fabric he had managed to steal from Techno. For a moment he stayed on the floor, looking up at the carved ceiling as he contemplated whether it was worth it to get up or not.

The more trust you gain, the more you can get away with. Work. Take what you can. Find a way back to Tubbo-

Yup, that was enough motivation to get him moving.

Slowly, he pushed himself upright and got ready for whatever Techno had planned for the day. Since it was morning he doubted he’d be acting as bait again, nor did he think he would have to deal with any mobs. Perhaps he would get a chance to relax?

Maybe he might be able to scope out some of the more valuable items Techno had that could help him since he didn’t have to worry about sneaking around as much. Or he could always try and check that book out and see if he could actually move the pages enough to read it.

But before he could even consider doing that, he had to figure out what Techno wanted from him.

It didn’t take long for him to finish freshening up, and soon enough he was quickly making his way back through the tunnels towards one of the few exits he had made. Fortunately, the section of the tunnel that Techno had damaged had been replaced.

Of course, the hybrid had left it up to Tommy to actually carve out the replacement tunnel, which left the whole system feeling pretty disconnected since the walls no longer lined up.

The prick.

Eventually he made his way out of the tunnel, climbed out of the hole in the floor, and walked out into the open. Instinctively he shuddered, hating how exposed he felt. This feeling only increased as he felt the ground shake with each of Techno’s steps. In no time at all, he found himself in the hybrid’s shadow once more, reminded of just how vulnerable he was.

He hated it, hated it so damn much, but he did his best to swallow his fears and not retreat back into the comforting shadows of the shelf.

“So, what’s the plan for today, big man?” Tommy asked, rocking back and forth in place as he stared up, and up, and up, at the hybrid. Damn Techno and his stupid tallness, making his neck hurt with how far up he had to look.

He let out a startled yelp when he was picked up, the back of his shirt pinched yet again as he was moved from the ground and carried over to the crafting table. It took all of his willpower to stop himself from struggling, lest he was dropped, and he felt no small amount of relief when he was put down.

“The fuck was that for?!”

“I didn’t feel like watching you fumble with a rope.”

“Fumble?” Tommy scoffed and flexed his arms. “There ain’t no fumblin’ with manly muscles like these-”

“Are they just for show or do you actually know how to use them, then?”

Well that question definitely caught him off guard. The borrower paused, momentarily uncertain as to how to respond, before he that cocky smile appeared on his face once again. “I’ve won plenty of fights with these bad boys-”

“Great.” He didn’t miss the way Techno rolled his eyes, nor did he miss the heavy sarcasm that laced his voice. “Try this out.”

The item that the hybrid nudged over was… surprising to say the least.

“It’s… a stick.” Tommy blinked as he picked the stick up and looked it over. It was a bit longer than the length of his forearm, and if it weren’t for the lack of a sharpened end he would have assumed it was just a toothpick. “You gave me a stick.”

“It’s for practice, I’m not gonna give you a sharpened one and watch you trip and stab yourself with it.”

“I wouldn’t-practice?” All the anger Tommy felt at the implication of being a clutz, which he absolutely was not, evaporated as what Techno was saying registered. “For what?!”

“Self defense.” Techno shrugged. Upon taking note of the aghast expression on Tommy’s face, he elaborated further. “Not everyone you meet is gonna be as nice as me.”

Especially if I need you to spy on L’Manberg.

“Yeah, like you’re just the shining beacon of goodness.” Tommy scoffed while rolling his eyes.

“Beacon? Paragon has more impact to it. You really need to work on that lexicon of yours, kid-”

“And there you go makin’ up words again! Paragon! Lexicon! What’s the next word you’re gonna make up? Ontological?”

“... Tommy, that is a word.”

“Your mum’s a word, and that word is bitch!”  

“Are you going to keep throwing a tantrum over the tiny dictionary you call a brain, or are you actually going to listen to me?”

Tommy grumbled and kicked at the ground before sighing and looking up at the hybrid. It was time for him to pay attention, no matter how reluctant he was about this whole practicing thing.  “Yeah, so what should I practice, huh?”

“Stabbing me.”

A burst of high pitched, somewhat hysterical laughter escaped the borrower upon hearing Techno’s deadpan response. He slapped a hand over his mouth as he struggled to control his response, not wanting to piss him off further.

What a weird day this was turning out to be.

“You want me… to poke your hand? What the fuck, man.”

“Are you planning on just asking questions or are you going to use those manly muscles of yours?” The narrowing of Techno’s eyes combined with the immense amount of sass in that question told Tommy that his patience was running thin. The borrower quickly nodded and took a step forward.

As the hybrid’s hand stretched out in front of him, fingers uncurling and palm facing upwards, Tommy quietly realized this was the best look at Techno he had ever gotten. Previously, he had only ever really processed snapshots of the hybrid. The long braid, the glowing eyes, the sharp tusks that seemed to shine in the light, everything had only ever been pieces and not the whole.

But now here he was, and his situation felt far more real than it had before.

He could feel the heat radiating off Techno, the natural warmth his body produced reminding Tommy of the furnace he would huddle next to with Tubbo when the weather grew too cold. He could see the scars that littered the hand in front of him, and the callouses that covered the palm and fingers. He could also see the nails, dark in colouration and dangerously sharp, that tipped each digit.

He had been wrong about Techno having dainty hands, and for some reason this realization only made his appreciation for the gift he had been given grow stronger. It was so easy to imagine the hybrid hunched over with a tiny block of wood held in his hands, struggling to carve it and muttering curses when it accidentally broke. How long had he spent working on it-

“Tommy.”

Shit, he’d zoned out.

He could practically feel Techno’s eyes narrowing in disgruntlement, and he immediately looked up and threw his hands into the air in exasperation, nearly conking himself on the head with the stick in the process. “Don’t give me that look! It’s all so… so weird!”

Weird to be doing this! To be so close to someone who could kill me! It’s all wrong!

And yet, it felt right in its own way. The weight of the makeshift weapon in his hands, and the part of him that longed for some shield to hold up. Tommy had always been a fighter, using dirty tricks to get out of dangerous situations while quite literally throwing hands with anyone who threatened him or Tubbo, but this was another kind of fighting entirely.

A style that felt both familiar and alien at the same time.

The hybrid, choosing to not engage with the turmoil visible on the borrower’s face, decided switch tactics. Demonstrations would happen later when he was more settled and less likely to break down in borderline hysterical laughter, the time for basics was now.

For the next several minutes, Techno explained where it was best to attack in order to do the most damage and even disable his opponent for a short period of time. He was… strangely calm, and knowledgeable as he pointed out which parts of his hand were softer than the rest, more vulnerable.

It was unexpected, and Tommy could only ask himself one question.

Why?

Of course, he got no answer, not that he had ever asked the question to begin with. Rather, he just threw himself into practicing the maneuvers he had been shown over and over again, quietly thinking about how helpful they might be.

Tubbo, he might have to fight to get to Tubbo, and if practicing whatever Technoblade taught him would help, he’d do it.

Meanwhile, the hybrid silently studied the borrower as he thought about all that he had learned so far, from the book to his general observations of the kid. There was obviously something else going on with him, from the way he randomly spaced out at times, to that determined look that would sometimes appear on his face. Anger would occasionally appear, too. A kind of anger that Techno was intimately familiar with.

Tommy was expressive, too expressive.

At least that made things easier for him, but it also left him with far more questions than answers. Questions he didn’t really want to ask, but was still curious about.

It was obvious that the borrower had lived somewhere else before he had decided to invade his cabin. According to the book, most borrowers either stuck to a house they stayed in for their entire lives unless they were forced to move, or lived in community settlements. There were also the “wild” ones, but Tommy’s clear lack of any self-preservation instincts made it clear he did not fit in that category, and yet both of the remaining options made little sense as well.

There were no nearby houses nearby that he could have previously lived in, he doubted the kid would have been living in the village without the librarian’s knowledge, and a tundra biome was one of the last places he would expect to encounter a settle of tiny people. So, what had happened that wound up with him being out here in the first place? And why did he care so much?

Ah, the greatest question of all.

Why?

Why was he putting so much effort into this obnoxious kid? Sure he had his reasons, but were those reasons enough to justify the work he was going to have to do. Why had he let Tommy stay instead of throwing him out like he would have done to anyone else, aside from Phil.

Why had he gotten so protective of the kid at the library? It didn’t make sense-

“Look Techno!”

Tommy’s shout snapped Techno out of his thoughts, and the hybrid looked over to see that he was now holding one of the other practice sticks. He grinned and enthusiastically waved them.

“I’ve got two sticks!”

He raised a brow as the borrower started hitting some made up enemy, swinging the sticks through the air and letting out noises that he probably thought were intimidating, but only made Techno quietly laugh to himself. His laughter grew louder when, during one of his more enthusiastic swings, Tommy ended up smacking himself in the face.

“You’re supposed to hit other people with those.”

“Oh fuck off!”

Hours later, Tommy let out a groan as he flopped into his makeshift bed, burying his face into one of the pieces of fabric. The cloth was cool and soft, and he let out a happy little sigh as it helped him cool down. His muscles ached, and he wanted nothing more than to pass out for the next couple days, but his mind was abuzz with thoughts.

Techno was teaching him how to fight and was apparently making him armor. It sounded like such a horrible idea, teaching the person who was practically a pest in your house how to fight back, and it made Tommy wonder why.

Why was he being taught how to fight? Why was he being given weapons and armor? Was there something he needed to keep himself safe from? Someone?

“It’s a good thing I don’t follow laws, then.”

The hybrid’s “retirement”. The amount of weapons and armor Tommy had seen. The potions.

Was… was Techno a criminal? Had he unintentionally put himself in more danger by choosing to stay here? He knew nothing about him other than his dry sense of humour, his aloof personality, and how intimidating he was.

Dammit, this is why he needed Tubbo. Tubbo would have warned him about the possible dangers, discouraged his ideas, and brought reason to his chaotic thoughts.

It was at this moment that Tommy also realized that among the training and sparse breaks, he hadn’t been able to check out the book either.

Fuck.

                                   xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ah yes, the slow development from “you’re a pain in my ass and I’m only putting up with you for personal gain” to “okay, you might be decent”.

Also, there are many things I'm gonna make Tommy kind of cry over. A bowl of soup is just one of the more out there instances XD

[nayarablueglasses]

Duo x male reader

a/n: oh gods this is so. anyways this was meant for day thirteen of the @gundam-wing-pride event but certain circumstances have caused me to be unable to post in time for it. the tears prompt was kept in mind for this, i hope it suffices.

word count: 2,059

summary: horrific battles never made you cry, so how did a joke from Duo manage to do it?

warnings: reader is in an active war at first, brief mentions of reader becoming deaf to loud sounds after the battle, reader has a very dry way of thinking, i haven't seen the entirety of the show in ages so i think my timeline is a little messed up

reader pronouns: he/him but comes off as gn

How’d you end up here?

You’d woken up to the extremely jarring sounds of the space station’s evacuation alarms. Considering the immediate panicking masses of people that then flooded the streets, it wasn’t the best way to wake up. Especially when you factor in that your first evacuation drill since the ‘safe space’ had been rebuilt, relocated and refortified was supposed to happen next week. Though to be fair, there were absolutely no signs that you knew of that would signal a a war erupting on your colony.

Honestly? You never were impressed by the Gundams. All you knew about them was that they were starting a war with what a few of the colonies had begun to call the “colony rebels.” The White Fang. Maybe the White Fang had started the war, but you could care less. No matter who’d started this, the colonies- your colony- was caught in the crossfires now.

And it wasn’t like you could trust the Gundams, either. It wasn’t that long ago that Gundam Pilot 04 almost blew up an entire colony because their father had been killed. If that was how the Gundams handled personal loss, your colony could only speculate on the ways they’d deal with the political difficulties of a war. And unsurprisingly, it turned out that they handled it absolutely terribly.

The scariest part was the absolute absurdness of the whole war. Two sides that claimed to speak for the colonies. The White Fang pressed attention on the colonies, while the Gundams remained an absolute mystery. Plus, the individual power struggles claiming the colonies, the Treize Faction war against Oz that was reportedly occuring back on Earth... everybody was misinformed about absolutely all of it, and the best you could do was try to make sense of the chaos unfolding and hope it never touched your poor colony.

But wishes don’t always come true. And certainly never the wishes you make.

Like the wish you’d been repeating back to yourself for the last hour- to be able to come out of this unscathed. Your arm had some thoughts on that.

As it turns out, trying to run through an active warzone to the safe space you didn’t know the location of was extremely dangerous. So dangerous that your arm had been hit with a stray bullet. Right now the main dangers were the footsoldiers firing at each other, but not that far off in the distance you could see two of the Gundams fighting a swarm of Taruses. The fact that they weren’t close was anything but comforting, since you’d seen the speed of the Gundams before on T.V.

Oh.

“Hey- get outta the way! Ya try’na get killed?” A White Fang footsoldier shoved you to the side, presumably trying to help. Instead you stumbled facedown into a very large pile of scrap metal. Which very much hurt your arm and effectively trapped your leg as well.

Fun. “The fuck kinda horror movie is this?” You muttered to yourself. Of course, of course you ran directly into the fray. Because of COURSE that was safer than the opposite direction (which in all fairness had been covered in sharp-looking rubble). That’s fine. You could work with this. What did your uncle usually tell you- take inventory in terms of crises?

You hadn’t brought a backpack with you, so, all you could take inventory on was what was in your pockets. One elastic, a single outdated coin, and fuzz. Plus, a bleeding arm and the bullet you figured was still in there, a possibly twisted and hopefully not broken foot, ringing in your ears... and the clothes on your back. Ok.

So this is how you die? Fine. That’s fucking fine. You had plenty to live for, but fine. Who cares?

“Woah-hoh, what the hell? Hey- hey handsome, you awake?”

A very neon green light pierced your consciousness. Out of habit, you tried to raise your arm to block it out- and then an even more painful, piercing feeling jolted through your whole body. “Ahh-huah- ‘m. ‘m awake now. Ohhh gods. Yeah. ‘m- yeah. Fuck. Who’re you and are you going to help me or kill me?”

“Kill you? Man, I might be the god of Death and all but I’m not going to kill you! You related to Heero or somethin’?”

“Don’t know- ow- who the fuck that is. What’s up with that green light shit> ‘M gonna be blinded if I open my eyes.”

And there the light went. Nice. If this guy didn’t kill you, you might actually survive. Sans your arm. Nobody on your colony could help your arm. You figured that life would be interesting from now on. “Great, thanks man. Fuuuuck. You- you see my arm? Yeah- I’m taking your silence as a yeah. This bitch’s fucked and moving at all is very very painful. So hey random stranger. You strong enough to carry me to the nearest amputator?”

Apparently you were just being dramatic. Your arm would 100% be still attached and your foot would survive. Your ears were… fine. After waking up in a hospital on an entirely different colony station, you learned that apparently, there exists a kind of deaf in which it was hard to hear things that were too loud. Which. You now had.

No more concerts. Meh.

The most jarring of everything was when you discovered that a) you were likely to have either trauma or ptsd and b) the guy that carried you to the hospital in his Gundam- was a Gundam Pilot. 02. Duo Maxwell. He’d brought you to Colony 14 Blue and was now reportedly “chillin’ outside until you get discharged.” with the promise that he’d bring you to the Peacemillion afterwards.

Oh. And almost everybody you knew closely had “likely” passed away in the attack. The therapy for that was going to be interesting when you consider that nobody of your family was on the colony at the time of the attack. Honestly the way they were pressing for you to be evaled made it feel like they were planning to make an example out of your supposedly poor mental state. Unsurprisingly the hospital was being run by the White Fang.

Discharge went quickly. The ride back to Duo’s Deathscythe went quickly. The ride in Duo’s Deathscythe went far, far too slowly. And adjusting to life on the Peacemillion went poorly.

Every now and again, Duo would look for you and, if he hadn’t immediately come from a fight (he passed out on your carpet once due to blood loss after being in a gunfight. Zechs was less than appreciative.), he’d bring you to the nearest colony. Being able to enjoy a day out on occasion was a rarity you usually only got to experience with Duo.

“Ooooi, Duo. Check these out. Tell me these aren’t the coolest gloves you’ve ever seen.” You held up some black fingerless gloves for him to inspect. He’d brought you to a new colony, where apparently a special holiday (complete with fun sales) was happening. Admittedly, some of the people on this station were giving you and Duo some especially strange looks whenever Duo would tug on your shirt or grab your hand to get your attention but like. Fuck them.

“Hey, those look pretty awesome!” he grinned and bounced over, snatching the gloves from your hands to look for a price tag. “To steal or not to steal, that is the question.”

You raised an eyebrow. So maybe the crush you’d developed on this overgrown child of a thief was growing. So what? It’s just a crush. Everything’s going to be fine. “Is the price tag expensive or something?”

Duo shook his head. “Exact opposite. There isn’t one.”

“Let’s just leave ten gilla and bolt, then.”

“...wicked.”

Normally the rides back home were silent and awkward, but after the rather exciting day you’d had, you were feeling especially chatty. Which wasn’t to say that there weren’t still awkward breaks in the conversation. It was quiet, sure, but a lot of things had been quiet lately. Being deaf to louder things tended to do that to a person.

Duo drew you out of your thoughts with another tug on your sleeve and pressed one of the gloves into your hand. “Here. Figured we’d both look badass with just one glove. Plus we match!” He held up his gloved left hand with an air of confidence. He wasn’t wrong, honestly. Wearing his braid the way he did, he already cut an impressive figure, but the gloves really sold the look.

You pulled on the glove he gave you, flexing your fingers to test it’s flexibility. After all, if you couldn’t engage in you and Duo’s elaborate handshake, you might have to ditch the glove altogether. Luckily the glove fit you well- functionality and style alike. Ten gilla spent well.

“Not bad. Y’think Zechs’ll get jealous?” Duo laughed at the idea.

“Doubtful, doesn’t he have Noin to get him cool stuff? Plus, I think his mask and that hair are defining accessories, what else does he need?”

You shrugged. “What gay wouldn’t love these? ‘M already enjoying mine ‘nd yours look more worn in than mine do. Solid fuckin’ proof right there.” Not like you could confirm or deny that Duo was gay. Honestly, you didn’t really care for his specific labels, but Zechs was definitely gay so it just helped further the joke. With his demeanor and his lesbian best friend? Could the flags get any gayer.

“More like pansexual on my account. Good to know your take on gender preference though. This mean I’m allowed to openly flirt with you now?” He leaned back into his seat, throwing his feet up onto the table in front of you and resting his head in his hands.

You raised an eyebrow. “Only if you promise not to ‘no homo’ me afterwards.” Duo pretended to fall backwards, clutching at the nonexistent pearls and acting offended. You two giggled when Sally came in from the cockpit to assure herself that somebody hadn’t just gotten a concussion. To which Duo immediately pretended to have a head wound of some sorts (you suspected he was being purposely vague) in hopes of attaining the candy that Sally sometimes had on hand.

Once she left (leaving you and Duo with strong warnings against fooling around more, lest Duo’s “head injury” get worse; to which you had saluted and replied, “absolutely no promises, ma’am!”) you shared a look with the brunette and tried to keep from dissolving into a fit of laughter. To your chagrin, it was a fail. You were laughing so hard that your stomach was starting to genuinely hurt. Duo was doubled over on the ground, wheezing unintelligible words and trying to hand you the lollipop that Sally gave him.

By the time you had managed to calm down and breathe, Duo was getting into the chair beside you and clutching his side. “I think I pulled a muscle from laughing so hard.”

“Yeesh, ‘m crying from laughin’ so much. Aah, this is what y’do to me.” You joked, wiping away tears from the corners of your eyes.

“Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry before,” Duo paused to think. “like, at all! Now that I think about it, didja even cry when I rescued you?” You shrugged again. The battlefield was pretty terrifying and if you hadn’t found it in you to cry from fear… well, you were feeling a lot of emotions during the whole ordeal. Who could really blame you? “Pretty tough that a fuckin battle didn’t even make you cry. Hey- my bit musta been pretty damn good to make you shed a tear!”

“Yeah, don’t let it get to y’head. ‘S just because ‘m crushin on you.” You mentioned casually, testing the waters.

“Full homo?”

“Full homo.”

Well, would you look at that. Now Duo was crying. What was with you two and tears today?

BONUS:

“You’re so cheesy.” You muttered to Duo, who was proudly holding up your guys’s fingerless gloves- which he had sewn a rainbow patch onto the back of.

He smiled, tugging your glove onto your hand. “Mhm. You love it though.”

Sighing, you returned the favour and pulled his glove onto his right hand. “You’re right. I love it. I love you.”

[all works found under the name "nayarablueglasses" are property of nayarablueglasses. please do not repost, claim as your own, or edit. i do not consent for my works to be part of any social media other then tumblr, including having my works be adapted for asmrs.]

[secretive3amramenmaker]

My Opinions On Jujutsu Kaisen That Literally Nobody Asked For

I finished binging the Jujutsu Kaisen manga in 48 hours. I am having some expresso, because I’m depresso.

Here’s a Sad Stitch to show you how I feel.

(And of course, warnings for discussion/ranting/kinda meta on the Jujutsu Kaisen manga below the cut, so please read at your own discretion!)

Sukuna is truly a Bastard™, along with Mahito. 

I just- *cries in Shibuya Arc aka PAIN*

*Pulls out megaphone* Nanamin. 

That’s all folks. Thanks for reading, have a nice day!

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(Just kidding!)

Ugh, NANAMIN 👏 WHAT 👏 A 👏 MAN 😭 😭 😭 😭 I became a certified Nanami stan once I saw the tired business man aesthetic (plus, his words about how work is shit? Truer words have never been spoken), and his little speech about adults and responsibility, how children no matter their circumstances are still children, and should be given the opportunity to act as such. Because, YES, FINALLY, A RESPONSIBLE ADULT WITH THE VOICE OF AN ANGEL aka the voice of Kenjiro Tsuda

Anyways, I love how the Jujutsu Kaisen manga shows that adults can handle things, and that is A-OKAY!!! If Jujutsu Tech follows the Japanese school system, Yuji is a first year in high school, so he’s probably 15 or 16 years old, way too early to go through Shibuya level of trauma (though, I think anybody is too young to have to go through what happened to Yuji in Shibuya). 

Children should have the privilege to be children. That doesn’t mean coddling, it means that children should have plenty of time to experience new things, enjoy being a child, and I’m so happy Nanami says this! 

In conclusion, Nanami deserves happiness and a vacation to Kuantan 🥺

YOSHINO JUNPEI!!! He and his mom deserve happiness, they’re both precious beans. I didn’t even realize Junpei was dead until 5+ chapters later. But it was too late, for I had already gotten attached!!! *cue curse worthy screeching* 

I was so excited for Junpei to join Jujutsu Tech, too! I had this whole headcanon of Junpei being HAPPY again, talking about movies with Yuji, interacting with the other first years, him seeing Panda for the first time!!! The thing was, back then, it wasn’t headcanon! I thought it was going to be facts, until Gege said ‘lol, you thought, peasant’, before spitting on any hope of mine for a happy Junpei.

(On a completely different tangent, I would be SO psyched if I got to meet a talking panda, we could act out all of “Kung Fu Panda” together, especially the chopstick scene, and maybe we could go to a zoo, just to mess with the zookeepers about a honest to god PANDA walking on its hind legs around the zoo)

‘If Junpei had lived’ is a phrase I think about a lot, and I think that is why the “Young Fish and Reverse Punishment” arc  was so crucial to the story and yet so tragic. 

Junpei has so much potential to be happy, and then he didn’t get the happiness he deserves. It really sets the tone, the high stakes to the whole manga, for we see the amount of damage a curse inflicts on somebody who could be in a situation like Junpei. 

As the readers, we understand the reasoning behind Junpei’s ideology, sympathizing with him as we see what horrible torment he has to go through. That very first scene of this arc, where the bullies made him eat the cockroach and BURNED HIM WITH A LIT CIGARETTE, and the teacher who saw all of this happening, JUST TURNS AWAY!!! It was haunting. But finally, finally, we get a light at the tunnel for Junpei in the form of our lord and saviour, the cinnamon roll of cinnamon rolls, Itadori Yuji. HERE is a person who is able to connect with Junpei, who wouldn’t dismiss how Junpei’s circumstances or feelings. and then Junpei dies.

(look at this cute face, how could you Mahito?!)

Also, the symbolism in the opening? The Junpei fish ENLARGING??? HNKDJSFLJDSF JUNPEI NOOO-

Also ALSO (sorry this is the last ‘also’), did we ever learn if Junpei was a sorcerer, or was he a window that possessed enough talent to summon a shikigami? I at first thought Junpei was a window, since he was able to see Mahito, and was hoping that we’d get a more detailed explanation of what windows actually do. (Do they just wander around Tokyo, or wherever they live, and act all ‘La Dee Da, just living my regular, normal life, oOOHHH is that a special grade? Tell that to the sorcerers, maybe I’ll get a bonus!’ Is their life basically a demented version of Pokemon Go? I have so many questions-)

All the villains were well written, and had super cool character designs. My top three villains other than Sukuna, my top three villains are Geto, and Mahito.

Geto’s backstory in the Hidden Inventory arc was so incredibly written, I especially liked the way Gege wrote how Getou’s righteous ideals gradually deteriorating throughout the Hidden Inventory arc as he realizes the depth of the curses of humanity, the dark hatred the “weak” hold towards things they have no understanding of. (i.e. Riko’s death by the Star Religious Group, Haibara’s death, and finally the villagers ignorant treatment and abuse towards Geto’s twins, Mimiko and Nanako, beating and imprisoning them for “causing” the deaths of the villagers) Geto’s chilling charisma and the reasoning behind his actions as a villain makes him a top tier villain in my eyes. 

As for Mahito, I love to hate him, and that why I think he is a great antagonist. I guess I’ve just been seeing a lot of villains that because of their tragic backstories, the readers or characters sympathize with them and rationalising their actions, turning the villain into a flaky antihero of lesser impact. It’s very refreshing to have a villain who is just pure evil. 

I think that Mahito fulfilled his purpose as an antagonist very well; his twisted ideals on the worth of human life foiling Itadori’s own ideals of giving others a “proper death”, the curse making Yuji continuously adapt both physically and mentally to defeat him. Physically, by learning new spells and techniques to defeat Mahito, such as the Black Flash (and possibly his own cursed technique! The weird “Past That Never Happened” in the fights with Choso and Todo), or mentally, by questioning his ideals, such as what exactly is a “proper death”, after Yuji had to kill the transfigured humans. 

(Ew look at this worm.)

Some Honorable Mentions of Good Villains IMO: Jogo, because I find his ideals of curses, who stem from the true emotions of hatred and fear, being superior yet suppressed by the emotionally faceted humans is definitely fascinating, and eerily reminds me of Geto’s hatred towards non sorcerers.  Dagon was pretty cute in his Cursed Womb stage, and I really liked Hanami because the eldritch environmentalist aesthetic is pretty coolio  👌 .

How do Inumaki children learn to speak if all the adults barely talk, only saying inane words like “salmon” and NOT ACTUALLY meaning “salmon, the fish” but an adult secret code for a definition that you might not even know?? Or do the adults just charmspeak the kids, like “SPEAK small child, and have full language comprehension, O tiny ball of pudge!” and boom! Babies talking in complete sentences, maybe understanding weird adult customs. Will the child know when then adult actually mean salmon, the fish, and not the code word salmon?

Let’s assume that Inumaki clan children from learning to speak to four or six years old will be able to speak normally until the clan technique sets in (because that’s when the jjk wiki says cursed techniques kick in). How do you explain to a toddler: “Hey sweetie, happy birthday, have a present! Oh, by the way, those cool tattoos of yours mean that you can’t talk normally to anybody anymore, EVER. Only using these specific words as code to mean these specific meanings, restricting any chance of normal interactions with non-sorcerers if by some inane chance you DON’T want to become a child soldier jujutsu sorcerer. Welp, guess you have to become a jujutsu sorcerer now! Make sure to restrict your choice of words, you could kill somebody! Have fun playing with your Legos honey, welcome to adult life.” Like, EXCUSE ME? 

You can’t tell mw a four year old is expected to understand that (or didn’t kill somebody by accident via cursed speech. That MUST have happened at least once). 

This is all an elaborate way of saying please give us Inumaki backstory, I’m very curious.

Anyways, thank you for reading my post, and I hope you have a nice day!

[pebblysand]

It’s me again! You gave such a thorough reply that I wanted to first say thank you and second elaborate on devastating and maybe also expound on why i love castles so much.

So honestly what i most appreciate in post-dh hp fanfics is the exploration of what happens after the war- particularly the trauma and healing process. I’ll be frank in that I’m probably projecting my own mental health issues but that’s neither here nor there.

Castles strikes me as particularly interesting and unique because it delves into Ginny’s trauma from the war as much as Harry’s. Very often in other post-dh fics we see that Ginny is the stable one, she is Harry’s anchor, they show her understanding and forgiving him without question. Which I understand and love but your fic sheds a new light on other possibilities. When I say devastating i mean the internal turmoil, the truth that recovery and healing and growth are agonizing processes. (This is me projecting again, that last three years have been A Lot). And i really appreciate that, personally and narratively. The ordeal of healing and healing alongside people you love and at the same time hurting and being hurt by those same people, and the harsh reality that none of this is linear is something that I just find so compelling in your writing.

Man that’s the most coherent I’ve been in a review in AGES - not just feral screaming. Needless to say, I am very very excited for your update and I will literally wait however long it takes, because you can’t rush genius.

Aw thank you so much for your kind words. I'm glad this fic is resonating with you. This is going to be long, so buckle up under the cut.

Thanks again for what you've said, I truly appreciate it. Without blowing my own horn too much, I will say that castles does seem to "speak" in that way to a lot of people in terms of trauma and healing, which as a writer is immensely flattering. I think as authors, all we ever want to do (or at least all I've ever wanted to do) is to write things that are faithful to human emotions and human experiences (as Sally Rooney puts it, we want to write books about "people"). When we get that right that's honestly the most rewarding thing in the world.

To tell you the truth, though, I never really set out to write about that. To give you a little bit of backstory on Castles, it's a story that's been more of less brewing in my head since I was 14 years old, which is when DH came out. I remember sitting there at the end of it and even then I couldn't stop thinking about the 'what now?' question. Obviously there is the epilogue (and I will come back to that in a bit) but I always had a question mark drawn on the direct aftermath of the battle. I think most HP fans have their own little corner of obsession, right? Like, some people are obsessed with Marauders, some with Next-Gen, some with the Death Eater side of the fight. The Post-War world has always been mine.

I believe that the reason for that, as much as I hate to admit it, is that as humans, when something bad happens to us, we have a very easy way out: death. I'm obviously not trying to encourage anyone out here to kill themselves and if anyone who reads this is having thoughts along this line, please seek help, but the truth of the matter is that in the human experience, death is always a possibility. We could choose it, embrace it, and end our own suffering. Yet, like Harry at the end of DH, most of us don't. For the most part, we tend to hang onto to life. Because, truth be told, it's full and wonderful and deserves to be lived, despite the fact that, objectively speaking, it's bloody hard. And, as a writer, that's the space I want to be in. I want to understand and describe why we make that choice, every day, to get up and carry on, rather than giving up. I find that absolutely fascinating. I'm not a writer for the sensational stuff (some people do that much better than me), I want to write the quiet and the silence and the dirt and the blood that's dried and the grief and the powering through and the not giving up. To me, choosing life despite trauma is the epitome of bravery which, as a Gryffindor, is probably the character trait I value most in people.

Obviously, from a narrative perspective, this interest of mine lands itself to a post-war exploration very well. There's an old interview of JKR where she says she insisted on the epilogue being included at the end of book seven (even though she knew it was going to piss people off) because she wanted to show that they made it through. That, as I put it in Castles, 'They lived, for better or for worse.' And, in that interview, she talks more specifically about soldiers and PTSD, and says that 'getting over that kind of war, that's the hard part.' I remember watching that interview and thinking: yes, exactly. And, that's the thing about the epilogue. It's not so much about the content of it, the who-ends-up-with-who rather than the symbolism of it. It's not only about the fact that they fought in a war and won it, it's about the fact that they fought another war afterwards, a quiet one with the world they were trying to rebuild, along with rebuilding themselves, and they won that one, too. It's about showing that bravery isn't always this sparkling, flashy thing. It's also overcoming the silences and the grief and the struggles and making it to the other side.

And, so, yeah, I suppose that leads me to write about trauma. Although that isn't the initial endeavour, it's certainly part of it. And as you pointed out yourself, that road is full of ups and downs because "living" is fucking fantastic, but it's also fucking hard. I find the phrasing you used about Ginny typically being the "stable" one in other fics particularly interesting. I'd never thought about it that way, but I see what you mean. And, the thing with Castles is: none of them (and I mean H & G but also Ron, Hermione - hell even Kingsley) are particularly stable or unstable. To me, they just are. They exist and they live and they try to put one foot in front of the next the best way they can, with very little sense of plan or strategy. They sort of make do, which to me is the only realistic way I can envision the post-war world. They're kids who've just lived through the apocalypse. It's unrealistic to me that any of them would hold all of the answers, or even come close to having their shit together.

To me, it was and is very important to show all sides of that spectrum. Although they likely all wouldn't have suffered from acute PTSD, they would certainly all have struggled with something. Not everyone deals with everything the same way, and I want to show feelings of guilt, and bravery, and confusion, and fear, and determination which are all as unique as the individuals who experience them. I also wanted to show that not everything has a clear-cut explanation for it. For example, when Ginny breaks up with Harry in chap3, she says some truly horrible things. But, what she does say is also the one percent of everything that lies under the surface. She says she breaks up with him for Reason A but it's actually Reason A. 1, A.2, B, C, D, etc. Because, truth be told, that is what happens in life. People rarely give you a neat little list of all the reasons they do something, especially if, again, they've just lived through something huge. Often, you only truly find out the real reasons for people's actions months later, and often, that's because they themselves don't even know, haven't made sense of it in their heads. So, of course, I think it's incredibly important to write all of them as going through something, because to me anything else would be deeply unrealistic.

And, truth be told, I've thought about this extensively every time I've re-read the books in the past. Throughout the years, I started countless drafts on this topic, which I often gave up and left unfinished, until now. I think what motivated me this time is honestly the pandemic. I re-read the books during the first lockdown, then set out to find The Perfect Fanfiction which would deal with all of that. I'd never been in the Potter fandom before and thought to myself: 'there's like a million fics in that fandom, someone must have written this.' And, to this day, I still sort of believe that? Like, I've had a lot of comments in the past year telling me that they like or dislike Castles because it has a unique "tone" and a unique "mood" as well as themes but I'm always like "really? someone else must have written this," haha. But, despite spending a lot of time looking, I never found it so I suppose that's when I decided to write it, haha.

And, here we are, lol.

[sunlightdances]

Public Relations (Bucky x Reader Oneshot)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader Prompt: “I’m a woman with a brain and reasonable ability” Author’s Note: Written for @captain-kelli​’s 500 Fam Writing Challenge! Congrats, Kelli, and thank you for hosting! Takes place post-Endgame, but with some adjustments to canon (Tony and Nat are alive, Steve stayed). This has a lot more dialogue than I initially planned! Hope it’s not too choppy. My love of commas is also evident in this piece. *shrug emoji* Disclaimer: I don’t own Bucky, Marvel, or any other related characters or events. The other details of the plot are mine, including the characterization of the “reader”. Please don’t post my work on any other sites without my permission! If you liked what you read, please consider reblogging to help my work be seen. I would love you forever!

Let’s clear one thing up straight away: Bucky Barnes is not an asshole. He has a chip on his shoulder, sure, and it’s also true that he can be grumpy from time to time.

But can you blame him, really?

His life after age 26 has been one giant shit show that he’s just starting to get back on track, so he thinks the world at large could forgive him if he’s not super nice to the reporter hanging around outside the coffee shop or if his resting face sometimes looks like he wants to punch someone.

Still - he’s working on it. Trying to appear a little softer around the edges, trying to remember how to be the person he once was, not because he thinks it’s healthy to try to go back to that time, but because that’s the last time he actually remembers liking himself.

But, again, he’s not an asshole. Or, he tries really hard not to be. A fact he has to keep reminding his friends of (and he uses that word loosely, sometimes), especially when you’re around.

Everything just comes out of his mouth wrong when you’re there.

Probably because you’re around all the time, and you’re smart, and funny, and pretty, and-- nope. He’s not going there. Because reminding himself all the reasons why he likes you just makes him feel more guilty about the way he acts around you. He’s just too chickenshit to admit that he likes you, and ends up being a dick.

As soon as he walks into the Tower, you’re there.

After Thanos, the Avengers returned to New York City. There’s not much left of the Compound upstate to live in right now until the rebuild is done, and he’d been thinking about Brooklyn anyway. Manhattan is different, but he feels better in the city. He thinks the rest of the team likes it here too - it reminds them of the old days, or whatever.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you greet him coolly, matching his stride as he heads towards the elevator. “There’s a meeting in fifteen minutes in the main conference room.”

Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement, stepping into the elevator and hitting the button for the tenth floor. “Do I have a choice to attend?”

“No you do not.”

“Great.”

He thinks you’re trying not to smile. He grinds his teeth.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant Barnes,” FRIDAY’s voice comes through the overhead speaker. “Captain Rogers requests that you, and I quote, don’t even think about it.”

You snort, and Bucky rolls his eyes. “Punk,” he whispers. “Thanks, FRIDAY. Tell Captain Rogers I said, and I quote, to shove it--”

“Thanks, FRIDAY,” you interrupt, “Thank you so much.”

The few remaining minutes in the elevator are in silence, and you push your way out of the elevator before he can even take a step when it stops. Bucky follows you reluctantly to the conference room where some of the rest of the team is waiting.

Nat looks barely awake (she has trouble sleeping after literally coming back from the dead when Steve returned the stones, what a shocker), Sam is spinning in his chair, and Steve is patiently listening to Peter prattle on about some project he’s working on for biology.

“We’re just waiting on Tony, Bruce, and Scott,” you say, heading towards the head of the table. “Wanda is on a mission with Clint, and Thor is off world. No word from Carol in a few days, either.”

Steve waves you off. “Don’t worry about it. We can fill them in later.”

Bucky’s brow furrows. “Wait, this is your meeting?” He asks you. “What was the point of the AI-assisted lecture from you--” he pointedly glares at Steve.

“Because I knew you’d try to get out of it, so I asked for some help.” You smile sweetly at him.

The rest of the team files in over the next few minutes, and Bucky watches as you shuffle through a few papers before turning on the overhead projector. He has to admit, while he absolutely despises public relations, he has a lot of respect for what you do.

He knows it’s not easy wrangling Tony’s ambitions plus whatever manic situations the team get themselves in on a daily basis. Trying to do press for the Avengers is probably akin to wrangling cats, he supposes.

“So,” you clap your hands together, “the event at Children’s Hospital is in two weeks. Can we please, please avoid any earth-threatening situations that might take precedence over this? We missed it the last few years, obviously, so we need to get out there and make some kids happy.”

A murmured agreement goes throughout the room, and Bucky tips back in his chair, counting down the minutes until he can go literally anywhere else. It’s not you, really. It’s the idea of public appearances. He hates them. People still think of him based on who he was, not who he is now. Despite the fact that Steve and the rest of the team have publicly vouched for him and are working on clearing his name, he sees how people look at him.

You’re tied to that feeling, even though he knows that isn’t fair. He has a hard time separating you from your job.

“The next thing -- and I don’t want to hear about it --” You look around, eyes landing on him meaningfully, “-- there’s a magazine feature for the anniversary of the Battle of New York.”

“Well, that’s me off the hook,” Bucky says flippantly, grinning smugly at Sam, who high fives him.

“No, it absolutely doesn’t,” you argue.

“I wasn’t there, in case you forgot.”

You glare. “Thank you for the reminder.”

“Guys--” Steve tries to interrupt.

“You have to participate, because this article is about the team and how it’s grown since the inception of the Avengers.” You say, almost sounding bored. Probably because you and Bucky have this argument at least once a week.

“Bucky, it’s an hour.” Steve says gently, trying to barter.

“Whatever.” Bucky grumbles, “You know what they’re going to ask,” he says, suddenly angry. “Where was the elusive Winter Soldier during the Battle of New York? Do I remember it happening, or was I in the middle of being frozen or wiped for the thousandth time?”

You shift your weight, looking down at the floor. He feels guilty for a half second. “I won’t let them ask.”

His heart thuds weirdly in his chest at how earnest you sound, but he just can’t help himself, apparently. “Because you’re so sure they’re going to listen to you.”

Hurt flashes across your face so quickly he thinks he’s imagined it, but he knows he hasn’t. Again - he’s not usually an asshole. He still hates himself for it, though.

“Alright, we’re done here.” You say quietly, gathering your paperwork. “I’ll email you all the details.”

Sam elbows him, and across the table, Steve is giving Bucky a look that he’s come to associate with a lecture.

He sighs and rolls his eyes before getting up and heading out of the room, his friends at his heels.

“Wow, a five minute meeting,” Sam is saying, sarcastically. “Gotta be a new record, don’t you think, Rogers?”

Bucky’s new plan is to ignore Sam at all costs. It’s not a plan he thinks is going to work out in his favor, but it’s what he’s sticking with.

“You can’t ignore me forever.”

“Are you a mind reader?” Bucky asks, hitting the button in the elevator for the residential floors.

“It’s two events, Buck.” Steve sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can handle it.”

“Yeah? Why don’t I let you field the questions I normally get, and we’ll see how you like it.”

“I’m not doubting you. I just don’t understand why you always have to take it out on her.” Steve’s voice is so disappointed, Bucky almost wants to laugh. When his best friend turned into such a mother hen, he’ll never know.

“Don’t be late!” Sam calls as Bucky gets off on his floor, leaving the other men in the elevator.

Flipping him off over his shoulder, he hears Sam’s chuckle and Steve’s sigh before the doors close, and finally he’s alone with his thoughts.

.

.

.

Turns out the interview happens before the hospital visit.

Bucky is in an uncomfortable chair, a reporter across from him, and you behind the reporter, fidgeting slightly. He feels almost relieved that you seem to be as nervous as he is.

“Mr. Barnes,” the reporter begins, a smile Bucky already hates on his face.

“It’s Sergeant.” You say quietly from behind him, and Bucky meets your eyes briefly, seeing the resolve there.

“Of course.” The reporter says smoothly, offering another smile to Bucky. “Sergeant Barnes, you weren’t in New York for the Chitauri invasion, were you.”

“No.”

If the reporter thought he’d elaborate, he doesn’t let on. Bucky saw these questions coming a mile away, and isn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of saying something he’ll regret. Well, he won’t regret it. But it’ll be a pain in the ass for everyone if he can’t keep his cool.

“This was the first official Avengers event. Do you remember hearing about it?”

Bucky wants to laugh. “Do I remember-- no. I don’t think I was awake for much of 2012.” You fidget again, shifting your weight, and Bucky sighs, grinding his teeth. “I’ve been fully briefed on the invasion and know that what the Avengers did that day saved the world.”

The reporter looks at him for a long moment before shifting the papers on his lap around a bit. “The Avengers have changed a lot in all those years since that first mission. Can you tell me a bit more about your role with the team?”

Bucky relaxes a bit. This is the part he prepped for, the part he could recite in his sleep if he had to. Whatever instinct he had back in the day that allowed him to lead a unit and report to his CO is still there, especially for questions like this. “I work mainly with Captain Rogers and Sam Wilson to coordinate missions and do strategic planning. Recon and research are my main areas of focus, but I go on missions too if needed as backup, or if it’s an all hands on deck situation.”

“So you’re not handling any weapons?”

Bucky blinks. Over the reporter’s shoulder, you frown.

“All Avengers team members undergo weapons training.”

“During the War, you were a sniper with the 107th, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So you’d say that you’re pretty proficient with a gun?”

Your eyes are flashing now. “I’m sorry - none of this was on the list of pre-approved questions.” You interrupt, and the reporter holds up a hand to stop you, causing you to make an affronted face.

Bucky would laugh if he wasn’t feeling so sick at this turn of questioning. Every time. No matter who they vet, no matter how many times reporters insist they aren’t trying to catch him in a question he can’t or doesn’t want to answer… this is why he hates interviews.

“I’m just saying -- you’re one of the world’s most accomplished assassins. I guess I wanted to know why you’re doing research and recon when you could be on the front lines with the team? Are they worried you’ll have a setback?”

Bucky barks out a laugh.

You start, taking a few steps forward. “That’s enough. We’re done here.”

Bucky’s already standing, pulling out the chair from behind him as you come around to follow him out, until the reporter stops you, a hand firm on your elbow. You freeze, and Bucky’s eyes narrow on the point of contact, an unfamiliar feeling surging through him.

“Do you know who I work for?” The reporter hisses. “You told me I’d have a half hour.”

“That was before I knew you were going to ask questions that have nothing to do with your article.” You reply, face darkening when he still hasn’t let go.

Bucky waits, waits for one more sign that you’re uncomfortable before he steps in.

“If you ever want to get another high profile piece done on your team you’ll let me finish here.” He threatens, hand tightening.

You sigh, almost looking bored, and in one swift move, you’ve shifted enough of your weight to turn, pulled the elbow he was holding out of his grasp, and driven it into his ribs, simultaneously kneeing him in the groin.

Bucky’s eyebrows raise, and you look at him, rolling your eyes. “What?”

“Didn’t know you had it in you,” he says, letting a smile slip out so you know he’s kidding.

The reporter is doubled over, still making threats, but neither of you pay him much attention as you walk out the double doors of the conference room in the unfamiliar magazine office, heading towards the lobby.

In the car that’s waiting for you outside, Bucky watches you carefully as you roll your shoulders a bit, clearly smarting from the move you pulled back there.

“If I would have known you could do that, I would have been a little nicer,” he teases, but there’s an undercurrent of truth to his words. Not that he thought he’d ever piss you off enough for you to hurt him, but that he wishes he was nicer to you in general.

You glance at him, face neutral. “It wasn’t that hard. Everyone who works for the Avengers goes through basic self defense training, and I’m a woman with a brain and reasonable ability.”

Bucky nods. “Still. Thank you, by the way, for putting an end to that.”

You sigh, sitting back in your seat, all the fight leaving you. “It’s nothing.” You dig your phone out of your pocket and he watches as your thumbs fly across the screen before you hold it to your ear. “Hi, Steve.” A pause, “No, that’s cancelled. You’re not doing it. Tell Tony I’m cancelling the rest of the interviews. We’ll find some other place to get it published.”

He knows he’s staring and he knows he should stop before you notice, but he just… can’t take his eyes off you. The way you stood up for him, the way you promised him you would even when he was being a total asshole… he has no idea what he did to deserve it, but he’s damn grateful.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You ask, your tone softer than he’s ever heard it.”

He shakes his head, looking down at his feet. “No reason. Just-- sorry I’m such a dick sometimes.”

You laugh, and he immediately wants to hear it again.

“I mean it,” he continues, “I don’t mean to be. You don’t deserve it.”

“Bucky.” Your voice is even softer, quiet, and he struggles to think if you’ve ever called him by his name before. You wait until he meets your eyes. “It’s fine. We’re all-- just trying to get through this.” You shrug. “I know it’s not easy for you. Just… Trust me sometimes, will you?”

“I do trust you.” He replies immediately, absolutely sure of himself for once.

It’s your turn to be a little surprised.

He rubs his hands together, a nervous tick he’s never gotten rid of. “I’ve been trying to distance myself because I like you. And that honestly scares the shit out of me. I don’t know--” He stops, frustrated. “I don’t know how to do this anymore. And all I keep thinking about is what could go wrong.” He takes a chance and glances up at you, and the look in your eyes… it’s more than he expected. He feels his heart take off in his chest.

“We’re both so stupid, Bucky.” You tell him, but your words are light. “You should have said something.”

He rolls his eyes. “People always say that. But when has a conversation like this one ever been one that someone wants to have?”

“Maybe when the other person feels the same way?”

Bucky can’t breathe. He never even considered it. It was always a forgone conclusion in his mind. He thinks you’re beautiful, and you never think about him at all. That was always the truth that he thought he knew. “Go out with me.” He blurts, and then feels his face redden. “I mean-- let me-- will you let me take you to dinner?”

The car stops in front of the tower and you’re opening the door before you say anything, making him panic a little. A look over your shoulder, “I’ll see if I can pencil you in somewhere.” You say, and then with a wink, you’re gone, leaving him scrambling to get out of the car to catch up to you.

Before you can, Steve is there, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Not now--”

“Can’t help it. She called a meeting.”

Bucky stops in his tracks, and laughs. “Did she.”

“She must know how much you love them. Come on.”

Upstairs he finds his usual seat next to Sam and across from Steve, but when you gather your notes and meet his eyes, yours absolutely sparkling, he finds he’s not dreading this one at all. He still wants to take you to dinner though, so he might have to try to break his own record.

A 5 minute meeting so he can convince you to go on a date with him? He thinks he can swing it.

End

[glitterblazercalum]

got a river for a soul, and baby, you’re a boat

or:  Oh, fuck. We showed up wearing matching couples’ costumes to this party by accident and now everyone thinks we’re together.” + cashton

hello and happy halloween everyone!! giant thank u to ainslee @ashesonthefloor for putting this event together!! and for forcing me to actually get this fic done, looking it over, and generally being a major source of serotonin in my life. another huge thank u to bella @clumsyclifford for being one of my favorite people and loving frat boys enough that it made me want to write a fic about them to annoy her <3 love you both <3 

here is the link to the event masterpost bc I highly recommend checking out all of the other amazing fics: 

https://ashesonthefloor.tumblr.com/post/633534107120549888/hello-welcome-to-my-halloween-fic-event

warnings: mentions of alcohol

word count: 2,872

without further ado, please enjoy the fic I wrote mostly all last night while looping drag me down for thirteen hours straight :))

Calum doesn’t know what fuckhead came up with the idea of having a joint Halloween party for Sigma Nu and Sigma Pi this year, but he really wants to fight them. He thinks he’d probably have a lot of people on his side, considering how much Sig Nu and and Sig Pi hate each other, so he tucks the idea of interfraternity war away in his head as a contingency plan in case the party goes to shit, as joint parties with any other frat always seem to. And it’s not like it’s a one night thing, because all three days of the “Halloweekend,” as Michael refuses to stop calling it, are supposedly going to be spent with Sig Nu, one party at their own house, and two at the shithole that he assumes is the Sig Nu house, in some deranged attempt at bonding. He’ll be lucky to make it out alive, probably. 

Before college, he really never did anything of his own for Halloween, mainly used to being used as a prop or side character for his sister Mali-Koa’s elaborate costumes, or, after she’d moved out, sticking a pair of fake fangs in his mouth to hand out candy to the few kids who rang the doorbell despite his efforts to keep all the lights in the house off. Last year, as a freshman, he’d gotten roped into a group costume with some of the other Sig Pi pledges, and while his memories are...hazy at best, he vaguely remembers falling asleep in a Teletubbies onesie at the end of the night. 

This year, though, no one has tried to tell him what to dress up as, so it’s now a few hours before the first of the three parties, and Calum still has no ideas for what he should dress up as. A quick Google search for “cheap easy costumes” hadn’t really been all that helpful, so he decides to ignore the problem and take a nap until he actually has to leave. 

A few hours later, Michael barges into the room to drag him out of bed, and looks around for a few seconds before asking, “You don’t have a costume, do you?”

Calum groans, pulling himself out of bed and wracking his brain for an idea that he can plausibly bullshit in the next few seconds, because he can’t let Michael be right and have something to tease him about, so he blurts, “I’m going to be a salt shaker.” 

Michael gapes at him a bit for a few seconds before asking, “What the fuck? What kind of costume is that? What are you even going to wear for that?” 

Calum mentally kicks himself in the shin, as hard as possible, because he really hasn’t thought this through. Why couldn’t he have just said cat or cowboy or something even slightly in the realm of normal Halloween costumes? 

“Uhhh.. y’know that baseball tee I have? The one with the black sleeves and white middle?” 

“I’m pretty sure that’s in my closet, but continue.” 

“What the fuck, dude? Give it back!” 

“You haven’t noticed that it’s missing for like three weeks, I just assumed it was mine now. Tell me what the rest of the costume is,” Michael demands. 

“I’ll just tape a piece of paper with a big ‘S’ on it to the front of my shirt, and then put one of those pots with the holes on my head. Bam! Salt shaker!” Calum says, moderately impressed with his ability to pull stuff out of his ass this quickly. 

“What makes you think we even have a colander?” Michael asks, crossing his arms. 

Calum gives him a blank stare. “A what?” 

“That’s what the pots with the holes are called, you idiot.” 

“You think Harry would live anywhere that didn’t have a fully-stocked kitchen? There’s bound to be one in one of the cabinets or something.” 

“Fine. I’ll go get the shirt while you look for the colander.” Before Calum can object, suggest that he look through Michael’s closet himself and steal back any of his other clothes that have somehow wound up there, Michael’s already halfway down the hallway. 

Sighing, he trudges down the stairs towards the kitchen, where one of the seniors, Niall, is sitting with his head in his hands, dressed as a pirate. 

“Hey, dude, nice costume,” Calum offers as a greeting. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find a colander, would you? I know Harry—” 

“Do not talk to me about Harry right now,” Niall says, and Calum stops his search for a moment to send him a concerned look.

“What happ—” 

“That needy-ass motherfucker thinks that just because I didn’t want to do a couples’ costume with him, it means I don’t love him anymore! Never mind the fact that he literally mentioned this idea to me yesterday, well past the point where everyone finalizes their costumes.” 

Calum offers him a sympathetic look and offers, “Couples’ costumes are boring and cheesy anyways. Neither of you are missing out on anything, at least in my opinion.”

Niall lifts his head up from where he’d been repeatedly hitting it on the table to smirk at Calum and ask, “Have a lot of experience with couples’ costumes, do you?” 

Luckily, Calum has finally found the colander, so he opts to ignore the question and just leave the kitchen entirely. 

When he gets back upstairs, Michael’s in his room, unabashedly checking himself out in the mirror that’s on the back of the closet door. “Yeah, yeah, your anime character of the year looks great, now get out and let me get ready.” 

Michael scoffs, “Get ready, as if you’re even doing anything,” but moves towards the door anyway. 

Michael’s right, the costume is ridiculously easy to throw together, and two minutes later, they’re both out the door, walking across Fraternity Row to get to the Sig Nu house, where the music is already blaring and strobe lights throw red, then green, then blue shadows across everyone’s faces. On his way to the kitchen to grab a drink, he sees Niall and Harry walk into the house, holding hands and laughing together, so he assumes that their fight has blown over as quickly as all of their other fights always seem to.

He sees a few different trays of shots and decides he might as well take one to get the night started off right. After, he realizes that he probably shouldn’t grab a beer now, Mali’s rule about sticking to one color of booze for the night ringing in his head, so he settles for filling up a Solo cup with whatever glow in the dark gin concoction is in all the punch bowls. He wouldn’t put it past the Sig Nus to poison the drink on purpose, but it tastes relatively normal, so he grabs another cup for Michael and attempts to leave the kitchen, steering around the couple sloppily making out in the doorway. 

It’s harder to spot Michael than it usually is, considering that at least half the people at the party are wearing some type of wig, but Calum eventually makes his way back over to him. He’s talking to Niall and Harry, and they both offer him a smile before continuing on with the conversation. Once that reaches a lull, Niall leans closer to Calum and says, “Mate, you didn’t need to lie to me about couples’ costumes.” 

Calum has no idea what Niall is talking about, so he shakes his head and asks, “What are you talking about?” 

Niall cackles, and Harry turns to look at him adoringly before going back to talking to Michael, and Calum is more confused than ever. Niall grabs his shoulder and spins him around and points in the direction of a clump of people. “You’re salt and he’s pepper, right? That’s such an obvious couples’ costume, although you two do seem to have a bit of a disconnect on how much effort you put in. That guy really went all out. And dude, why haven’t you told us that you have a boyfriend? You know we’d want to know about that, give him the Sig Pi seal of approval and all that. Wait. Unless he’s a Sig Nu, in which case, I don’t want to know because I’d probably have to kick you out. That’s a joke, by the way.” 

Calum barely has the presence of mind to mumble, “He’s not my boyfriend,” before crossing the room to get to the guy in the hyper-realistic pepper grinder costume. 

The guy smiles as Calum approaches, and despite the costume covering most of his body, Calum can tell that he’s cute. “Why so salty?” Pepper Guy greets, the sunshiney smile still on his face. 

Calum smirks and replies, “Maybe I just need some more spice in my life.” Pepper Guy laughs, and just like everything else about him, it’s cute, and Calum wants to hear it again. “I’m Calum, by the way.”

“Ashton. Nice to meet you, man.” 

Calum leans a little closer so that it’s easier to hold a conversation over the loud music and asks, “What’s the deal with the super realistic pepper grinder costume?” 

Ashton makes a strange noise, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and says, “I got it off some random sketchy website, but it was supposed to be a chess piece. Something clearly went wrong somewhere in production, and my friend Luke said that I might as well sharpie a “P” onto it and just go with it.” 

Calum makes a noise of agreement, mind stuck on a dumb idea. Before he can reconsider, he sends Michael a quick text that says if u’ve already taken over as dj, can u play that come grind w me song? and a few seconds later, he hears the opening notes and grins. 

“Hey, Ashton?” 

“Yeah?” Ashton replies, as realization slips across his face.

Right in time with the singer’s voice, Calum says, “Come grind with me,” and he laughingly pulls Ashton towards the makeshift dance floor. Neither of them can really dance, so it’s a mess of laughter and limbs flopping around, but Calum feels an unmistakable electricity between them too, and once the song is over, they stay for the next few, enraptured by each other. When they finally exhaust themselves with all the laughing and mock-twerking, Ashton asks Calum if he wants a refill, and when Calum nods, he grabs his hand and starts pulling him towards the kitchen. 

Once they’re there, Calum goes for another serving of the glow in the dark punch, which is steadily dimming as the glow sticks run out of light. Since that’s really the only light source in the kitchen, Calum doesn’t see Ashton until he’s turning around and Ashton is right in front of him, reaching around him for a cup. Calum’s kind of trapped with his back against the counter, Ashton’s pepper grinder costume tall enough to really block out the view of the rest of the party, and the world narrows, all of it contained in where their eyes connect, and then, after Calum has safely set his drink back on the counter, that narrow point expands just a bit to where their mouths land on each other’s. The colander gets knocked off Calum’s head as he lifts himself up to sit on the counter, wrapping his legs around Ashton’s waist to pull him closer, as close as he can possibly get him. 

Ashton’s sucking a mark into Calum’s neck when Calum has his first coherent thought of the past few minutes and pulls back, breathlessly asking “Wait, wait, you’re not a Sig Nu, are you?” fully expecting the answer to be no.

Ashton steps back a little too, and it takes him a second to register the question before he groans, “Of course you’re a fucking Sig Pi, that’s the only explanation that makes sense for me never seeing you anywhere before. You’re too hot for me to not notice otherwise.” 

Calum flushes and mentally curses out whatever idiots had started the rivalry between Sig Nu and Sig Pi before he grabs his stupid colander off the ground and gives Ashton an awkward wave goodbye.  

Once he’s out of the kitchen, he quickly glances around in search of Michael, and when he can’t immediately find him, he just gives up and leaves entirely. Fuck Sig Nu. 

He spends most of the next day bitching about his hangover, and then, a few hours later, bitching about his hangover while helping to set up the house for that night’s party. 

He doesn’t really have much more of a costume for tonight, throwing on a gray shirt and sharpie-ing some whiskers on his face. Michael takes pity on him and makes him a headband with an approximation of what they both think mouse ears are, and Calum is mildly entertained by going up to everyone and saying, “I’m a mouse, duh.” 

His heart’s really not in the right place to party tonight, which is probably breaking the cardinal rule of being in a frat, so he sticks close to Michael, who has taken over the role of DJ, once again. Zayn from Alpha Sig strolls over after about half an hour, devil horns askew, and quietly says to Calum, “Cat and mouse, huh? Didn’t think you had it in you, Hood, that’s proper cute. Not as cute as me and Lou, mind you, but still, I respect the effort.” 

Calum is reluctant to look up and see who he’s accidentally matching with today, because, with his luck, it’s probably another guy from Sig Nu. When he does eventually look up, he immediately makes eye contact with Ashton, who happens to be walking by, dressed in all black and with whiskers sharpie’d onto his face too. Calum wants to bang his head into a wall because the universe clearly hates him if it’s having him match with Ashton again. Even beyond that, Ashton looks so good out of the stupid pepper grinder and in all black that Calum wants to make out with him again. 

Ashton is clearly having similar thoughts when he gestures Calum over and leads them towards a little pocket of quiet space in one of the lesser used hallways. 

Calum really wants to hook his thumb into one of Ashton’s belt loops, so he does, as Ashton looks him up and down a few times. “Is the mouse costume your way of telling me you want me to chase you?” 

Calum murmurs, “Shut up,” before leaning in to kiss him, frat rivalry be damned. It’s just as good as it was the night before, maybe even more so, now that the pepper costume isn’t in their way. At this point, there’s no denying the chemistry. It can’t be blamed on being drunk since Calum’s been nursing the same beer all night, and the part of his brain that’s protesting against being this close to a Sig Nu is getting smaller and smaller as he and Ashton continue to kiss. 

They stay in that hallway for the rest of the night, eventually sliding down to sit on the ground, legs pressed together, sharing stupid stories about their respective frats. Calum’s surprised when the music shuts off because it feels like it’s only been an hour at most, that’s how easy it is to talk to Ashton. Ashton heaves himself up and reaches both hands down to help Calum up, too. 

“I don’t think there’s any way you can match your costume to mine tomorrow, but I’ll come find you anyways,” Ashton says, as he leaves Calum with a kiss on the cheek. 

Calum’s too wired to sleep much, so he opts to help clean up the house instead, and that takes up enough of his day that when nighttime rolls around, he’s stood staring at his closet without a costume idea for the third time in as many days. After ten minutes of consideration, he digs through one of his drawers to pull out the fake vampire fangs that he had somehow remembered to bring with him, and he goes down the hall to ask Jack to put some fake blood on his mouth and neck. Jack always goes all out for Halloween. 

Once he’s at the party, he doesn’t have to wait long to find Ashton, who looks incredibly good in his werewolf costume. There’s fake blood on him too, which is really the only way their costumes could be understood to be matching, or so Calum thinks. Tonight, Jack and Alex are the ones to tease him, “You know what, I agree. Jacob and Edward should have ended up together, Bella was boring as shit.” 

Calum’s really not bothered by the comments at all, so much so that he’s already thinking of couples’ costumes ideas for next year when he finds his way over to Ashton and whispers, “Let’s get out of here.” 

“Are you trying to make a move on me? I’m a respectable Sigma Nu, I don’t know if I can allow that.” 

 Calum laughs and tugs him out the door, “Told you I wanted some more spice in my life.” 

[messofcurls-creative]

Day 15 - Joshua

First Impression: I used to know boys like you 😕 Final Impression: …well, fuck. Ouch 💔

Joshua, Joshua, Joshua… There’s a lot to say about this guy, and not all of it good. He’s a tough one to get my head around because his character has so many sides to it. The game gives us his attributes: thoughtful, loving and complex, and BOY did they deliver. I mean, I know they said complex, but did they have to go SO HARD?

This is a long post. I’ve got a lot of thoughts. Going into essay mode (sorry!)

Character development in three acts The gradual deterioration of his character is so interesting to me and done so well. There are essentially three stages to it.

The Front (I am a normal human boy) From the outset, Josh’s video message to his friends is… well. Hm 😕 At the time I thought it was a bizarre way of coping with his sisters’ disappearance and maybe even a little lazy by the writers—a flimsy premise to get the characters back to the lodge. Of course, once you know the extent of Josh’s plans, the nonchalant video makes perfect sense. It’s a front. But as far as we’re concerned, he’s fine. Fine, fine, fine. Other than the video, we get a few glimpses of what Josh is like early on through Sam and Chris’ conversations.

Chris: “I-I don’t know how he keeps it together… I’d… I mean, I’d be a wreck…” Sam: “Well we’re all just gonna have to keep an eye on him. He must be going through so much… and he seems like the kind of guy who’s not going to just ask for help, you know?”

It sounds like Josh is sort of coping. I didn’t overthink it because I was still getting used to the characters.

Then he shows up.

When Josh and Chris try to get into the lodge, Josh seems okay enough, but his Ashley pep talk had me rolling my eyes because he sounded like a sleaze. And fuckin ‘Bone Zone’? That killed me. In hindsight, it’s probably because a lot of his big plan involves Chris and Ashley’s romance arc, but without that knowledge, it comes off as a bit much. Then there’s his flirtation with Mike and Jess when he sends them up to the cabin. I mean fuck, calm down, son 😅 The front he puts on is so forced that I found it kind of offputting, but I guess if the other characters don’t see it as out of the ordinary, then that’s what he’s usually like?

So yeah, wasn’t 100% loving Josh at this point exactly, but I was certainly intrigued by him and his relationships.

Shortly after, there’s his trip to the basement with Sam, and it seems like he lets himself be a little more vulnerable, like his “I’m fine, let’s fuck” act gets put on hold. The recollection of how he used to play baseball with his dad made me feel for him. It’s clear he’s not 100% fine, but that’s okay. He has his friends around him.

Later, there’s the seance. Josh takes it seriously and seems generally freaked out by it. He storms off, and again, I felt for him (the manipulative fucker). AND THEN. THE SAW SCENE. He dead! And I was pretty gutted.

The Reveal (I’m not so fine) …right up until he showed up again, the little shit. His reveal was such a big fuck you, and I felt a lot of conflicting things. Like, he’s clearly having a breakdown, and that is the Worst. But he was alive! So that was good? But he did a bad thing, so that was shit? This moment helped everything that came before finally make sense. All the pieces of his personality that didn’t quite sit right with me fit together at last. Post-reveal, Josh quickly goes into decline. He’s a total mess in the shed, wide-eyed and lashing out. There’s so much bitterness and anger, and I love how misdirected it is, especially when you consider that Chris and Sam didn’t have anything to do with the prank the year before! We know how much the others have been through because of Josh, so we’re angry at him, but it’s also just so sad to see how badly the events from the year before affected him.

The Fall (Peak Despair) As soon as Josh is taken to the mines, any last little bit of coherency he possessed vanishes. The hallucinations, his bumbling walk and stuttered words… he’s gone. Comparing the Josh we see in Chapter One with the Josh in Chapter Ten side by side shows just how far he’s fallen. By the end of the game, he is an emotionally broken human being. It’s sad to see a character deteriorate so quickly over the course of a night, and though his motives and actions are open to debate, it’s still easy to feel sorry for him.

More Rambles Through investigation, we find clues that highlight how close he was with his sisters. There are photos and doodles and anecdotes that make it clear how much he cared about them, not to mention the massively elaborate Revenge Fantasy he just acted out. He’s wounded and doesn’t know how to process what he’s feeling, so (in my mind at least) he channels it into the prank— something tangible he can do after being made to feel so helpless when the twins disappeared. He’s a tragic figure, using his inner demons — Dr hill and his sisters — to goad himself on.

There are also the therapy sessions, which take place in Josh’s head and show yet another side to him that we don’t realise at first. They’re full of fears and self-loathing and all kinds of terrible inner turmoil—sad stuff. It’s all going on beneath the surface, and they also deteriorate. It’s such a good game mechanic.

Final Thoughts

There’s always been the argument that Josh didn’t deserve what he got, and 'deserve’ is the word that should be focused on. Josh did some truly shitty things to his friends, we can all agree on that at least? However, deserving something is 'receiving a reaction which rewards or punishes something or someone as appropriate.’ With that in mind, perhaps Josh didn’t deserve what he got, but only in the same way that none of the characters deserved any of this. There are outside forces at work beyond their control. Nobody wanted anyone to actually get hurt. The punishment — whether it be the prank or death — doesn’t fit the crime for anyone involved.

Josh is many things, and I like that fandom reflects that range. He’s so interesting to write. I genuinely like his character, not despite the dubious aspects of it but because of them.

I suppose his biggest flaw is his attitude that revenge is the best medicine, when, in fact, medicine is the best medicine 😔

[your-ace-cousin-clover]

ahhhh hi sorry for the LATE response, life's been kinda wild lately

anyway, i'm really glad you liked the poem & i don't mind you sharing it :)

(plus, a new prompt sounds nice)

(&btw, richard siken's new book is gonna be called "blue jupiters" (as far as i know copper canyon press will publish it))

also, happy you liked the recs! i found it cool how you said "the way god chooses to escape from his own reality through someone who does not believe enough in him to question him at first"! couldn't have put it better myself.

(sorry if this ask seems all over the place, i just have to get somewhere and i'm gonna be mad late - but i really want to finally send a response)

i enjoyed your recommendations a lot so let me elaborate real quick-

the problem with travel:

right off the bat, same.

traveling does always make me feel like i'm starting a new chapter and i should act accordingly.

love "kill the kid stuff, start to act my numbers" - the choice of words you use when writing is so important. (thats why i cant judge anyone who spends a long ass time on thesaurus! sometimes writing really does feel like looking through a lost & found or fishing the right word out of a goodwill bin! flipping through a magazine in search for the right word to cut out and stick on your collage!) imagine how substantially different the poem would sound if limon had written "start to act my age" instead of "start to act my numbers"

"[...] - we’re small

and flawed, but I want to be

who I am, going where

I’m going, all over again."

this^ part kills me in a good way

accident report in the tall, tall weeds:

"my ex got hit by a bus"

gets right to the point. kinda like a short story? an immediate jump into action

i might've said this before but i like it when poems tell stories (i mean i guess they all do, in a way, but i specifically mean the ones that have clear characters? if that makes sense)

"No tampering with the great universal brake wires."

ahhh yeah - when you feel like a thought can cause real life consequences

"When the plane went down in San Francisco,

I thought of my friend M. He’s obsessed with plane crashes.

He memorizes the wrecked metal details,

the clear cool skies cut by black scars of smoke.

Once, while driving, he told me about all the crashes:

The one in blue Kentucky, in yellow Iowa.

How people go on, and how people don’t.

It was almost a year before I learned

that his brother was a pilot.

I can’t help it,

I love the way men love."

^ don't you love it when a poem beats your heart to a pulp?

"What I saw in the men who came before,

sometimes I don’t want to say this out loud,

was someone I could hold up to my ear

and hear the ocean, something I could say my name into,

and have it returned in the inky waves."

self recognition through the other! yeah! sometimes people are people and sometimes people are mirrors and i know this wasn't her point but aren't we all just saying "hey! this is how i feel! do you feel like that too?" and sometimes "language is complicated but i think you know exactly what i mean and i know what you mean too!" and "when our experience overlaps the cosmic alone-ness becomes bearable!"

shit i'd love to drop another rec but i REALLY have to go now! hope to hear from you soon

-cat

Well, lmao Cat now, I'm the one who's late in replying, but yeah, I've been really busy. Now, I've got a bit of a time to reply to your ask.

First of all, "Don't You Wonder, Sometimes?" by Tracy Smith is a really interesting poem especially centred around Bowie. I love how the poet makes Bowie into a mythical being, like a sort of a spirit rather than a mortal man.

"Not God, exactly. More like-

Some thin-hipped glittering Bowie-being"

I love how the poem takes in the spirit of Bowie as something that will keep living on -

"Saying nothing is lost, that everything lives on waiting only

To be wanted back badly enough?

Bowie will never die. Nothing will come for him in his sleep

Or charging through his veins. And he’ll never grow old,"

It's just a beautiful way to think of the artist living on despite their death. They live through those they have touched with their art as well as their art themselves.

"In which I’m forever a child looking out my window at the night sky

Thinking one day I’ll touch the world with bare hands

Even if it burns."

And I just simply love these lines ^^^ . I love the poem touches up on reincarnation. It's interesting as it mentions how people are reincarnated a few times and then, they go to the beyond.

"And how many lives

Before take-off, before we find ourselves

Beyond ourselves, all glam-glow, all twinkle and gold?"

And finally, I love how the deification fo Bowie continues making him into a cryptid? That's the best way I can describe it honestly.

"When a man his size can meet

Your eyes for just a blip of time

And send a thought like SHINE

SHINE SHINE SHINE SHINE

Straight to your mind. Bowie,

I want to believe you."

(I followed your style of picking up lines and talking about them - it's a pretty fun thing to do)

{Purple happens to be my fav colour so, yeah I annotated with purple}

And yeah, language is funky like that. Honestly, I love the fact that people swap art with each and it's like every though we're different, you go through the same emotions. No matter whatever niche emotion is, someone has already written about it! If they haven't, you can always write it!

This reminded of a favourite poem of mine (tw : homophobia and sort of death ? though) which reminds me of the awkwardness of telling people I'm queer / coming out to them. It's called Three A.M. by Jill McDonough.

Also, I've been reading some more stuff to rec them and to hear your thoughts on them. It's all food - themed because I really got into food poetry last week. And as I was talking to a lovely mutual about the intimacy of cooking food and feeding someone.

I'd highly rec the movie "Big Eden". It's a wonderful gay rom-com movie with no homophobia at all and a lot of intimate cooking and wanting to make sure that your crush is loved and taken care off.

But anyway -

Having a Coke with You by Frank O'Hara

Perhaps the World Ends Here by Joy Harjo

The Orange by Wendy Cope

For Grace, After A Party by Frank O'Hara

Eating Together by Li-Young Lee

And these two posts are where I got these poems from, so perhaps you could read the other ones in the list.

Food Poems 1

Food Poems 2

And also, you're into Succession! Yay!! Are you into Tomgreg? If you're not, that's chill. But, like more Tomgreg people the better. I'd love to hear your thoughts about the show too! :) And like I said before, I really enjoyed your Kendall edit! Did you get a chance to watch my Tomgreg edit? It's called Don't Blame Me, I put it on my Tumblr. (No pressure if you can't)

And I have to ask, because I forgot, what are your pronouns, Cat? I use she/they. I just wanted to ask what you want me to use while referring to you. And let me know if you wanna do another poetry writing swap again.

Anyway, that's it for now! Let me know what you think! I hope to hear from you soon :)

[lightwoodsmagic]

Hi! So I agree Liam is queer, and the pink🔺in his video compels me not to ignore it. I saw one of your Ziam posts making its rounds after the SIU video, so I thought you were the person to ask. I only joined the fandom after Zayn left, and I’ve always had a hard time finding info on why and how that played out at the time (nobody seems to agree). Could you elaborate (or link to previous posts) on why you think Ziam is still a thing, and how they are telling us? Thanks for your insight so far!

 Hi anon! 

Thank you so much for thinking of me! I’m sorry it’s taken me a little while to answer, but it took me a bit to gather all the info I wanted (while I should’ve been working oop).

Okay, please know that this post is gonna be loooooong, so I’ve popped it under the cut.

You’re right about nobody agreeing on Zayn leaving the band, and it makes sense that people have differing views. It’s such a complicated thing; there was a lot happening at the time. 

I’m going to start by saying there’s a brilliant masterpost about Zayn leaving here. It’s incredibly detailed, talks about pretty much every aspect of it, and there’s so much to look into. It’s also wonderful to demonstrate how much the boys and Zayn still hinted at things and loved each other, like Harry using Zayn’s mic one night, Liam talking about him fondly in interviews, Niall still calling him by his nickname, and Louis wearing his clothes.

It’s a long read, but incredibly worth it, as it this stunting timeline.

Everyone is absolutely entitled to their opinion, so I’ll just give you mine. I’m gonna keep it (kind of) short though. A lot of what I’m about to say can be found in the masterposts I’ve linked above.

I believe that Zayn leaving was out of his control, and was never completely his decision. I believe that he was set to return, but for some reason, the plan changed. Mind of Mine was apparently written before he left, and while I think he would’ve been working on solo music before he left (and that all of them were to some extent), to tease an album right after the announcement that he left makes no sense. A contract like the one that 1D had/has with Syco would cost an obscene amount of money to get out of, and Zayn’s net worth didn’t change at all. They made it seem so simple in the very few interviews with Zayn afterwards, saying he just called his security, got on a plane, and left. I think Zayn struggled a lot with everything, they all did, but I don’t think he could’ve just left. There were articles put out about his new album that mentioned Simco and everything, but when people pointed out that it didn’t make sense with the narrative that Simon felt ‘betrayed’, the references were removed straight away. 

There’s also a very solid theory that MoM was counted as One Direction’s sixth and final contracted album, and it really stands up. Check it out! 

Look. There’s a lot to unpack with the whole situation, and I’ve hardly touched on it at all, but I really do encourage you to look into it with everything I’ve linked above  💞

Okay, now onto the second part of your ask! 

Ziam. My loooovveesss.  

I’m going to start by saying that there’s a lot of ways that Liam and Zayn have hinted that they’re still together, and honestly? The boys ain’t even subtle about it. I’ll start by talking about heaps of ways they’ve done that since Zayn left!

Alright, let’s start with the fact that they WILL NOT STOP LIKING, REBLOGGING, AND RETWEETING POSTS FROM ZIAM ACCOUNTS. 

(x) (x)

These aren’t subtle Ziam accounts, and it’s not just these examples. This also isn’t just something in the past; that bottom right one references Stack It Up.

They’ve also both reposted fanart from a well known Ziam where each drawing referenced the other one. 

(x)

The Zayn art says ‘Love Payne’ on the beanie. Well then. 

And the Liam one? That he posted on his personal insta? The artist added the ‘love’ tattoo from Zayn’s hand onto Liam’s. It’s obvious, and it’s not like Liam wouldn’t have noticed that suddenly there was a new tattoo added ON HIS OWN HAND. 

Not very subtle, hey.

It’s also not the only shady social media activity related to the boys  👀

There was the time that Liam explained why he’d written ‘personally’ twice in a thank you post in his insta story to Bvlgari. 

But he hadn’t. What had happened was that Twitter account @TheZiamNews had made a small mistake, and had actually written it twice. The only explanation was that Liam saw it on a Ziam update page VERY quickly, thought he had made the original mistake, and then explained. Interesting that Liam keeps up to date with them. 

There was also the time Liam blocked an account for talking absolute shit about Zayn, or when Herbie Critchlow (a producer from Icarus Falls) retweeted a tweet about Common being about Ziam. Also can’t forget Brandon Colbein posting on insta about some songs he’d written, and somehow there was one for Zayn and one for Liam. 

Oh, and when Liam’s friend Andy (who seems to…split the fandom, but alas) posted a video of him listening to Icarus Falls, or every single mirroring insta post Liam and Zayn can’t seem to help making.

And their eyebrow slits! 😊 this goes allllll the way back to One Direction days.

(x)

Now, this is a constant, recurring thing for them over the years.

It’s usually at the same time, and it usually signifies something. 

Zayn went ALL OUT one day, just after Z*gi ‘broke up’, and put a slit in his eyebrow, but it wasn’t a normal one. It was in the shape of an L. That fucking sap. Not to be outdone though, Liam popped a lil’ Z in the graphics for his show last year in Japan. 

SAPS, THE BOTH OF THEM.

Now, jewellery. 

OOOOOF are we in for it now. You’re probably regretting this ask already. 

Cartier. 

Say that single word around someone who believes in Ziam and you’ve lost them forever. 

Back in 2015 (so yes, a while ago but bear with me) during the OTRA tour, Zayn suddenly started wearing a gold Cartier bracelet. It was interesting because Zayn didn’t wear bracelets at the time. It was particularly interesting because Liam had been seen earlier that day with jewellery bags buying a present. Curious.

Or obvious. 

Either or. 

A similar thing happened when Zayn attended the ‘Straight Outta Compton’ premiere, one of his first appearances after he left the band. He was wearing a Hublot watch, which was also interesting because Zayn didn’t wear watches either. 

But GUESS WHERE LIAM HAD BEEN 2 DAYS BEFORE THE PREMIERE?

You’re damn right, anon. It was Hublot.

Now, the Cartier love bracelet. 

This picture was posted when Liam was getting ready for the Brits in 2017. For those that don’t know, the Cartier love bracelet has little screws, and can only be undone with a little gold screwdriver that comes with it. 

Liam wore it everywhere that year, and so often. It didn’t make sense for it to be ‘given to him by Ch*ryl’, because they would’ve used every opportunity to show that damn screwdriver. 

But they didn’t, because she didn’t have it. Zayn did. 

There’s also the other matching bracelets they’ve worn by Alexander McQueen.

And also the other time Zayn wore Cartier in his film clip, or the fact that Zayn started wearing a ring on his right ring finger that was sold and marketed by Cartier AS A WEDDING RING. 

They also share watches if Zayn decides to wear one, because they’re cute like that.

Now, they also share clothes. 

So many clothes, ohmygod. 

(x)

A prime example of this actually happened just last year! TWICE! IN NYC WHEN LIAM WAS THERE (obviously to see his husband). Both times, Liam was out and about wearing two of Zayn’s jackets. 

It’s also absolutely not a coincidence that when Zayn was staying at G*gi’s apartment on Bond Street, Liam stayed at a hotel a few minutes away a number of times, but when Zayn moved to Soho, Liam suddenly switched hotels to one in Soho, a few minutes away from Zayn’s new place. Just can’t stay away from an old band mate you hardly talk to, hey. 

Also can’t ignore Liam wearing numerous Kooples shirts during the time Zayn was doing promotional stuff for them. Husbands givin’ gifts.

 NYC isn’t the only city that relates to Ziam though! 

Ahhhhhhhh. Ziami. What a time, what a time, what a time (for you and I).

Anyway. 

At the start of last year, Liam and Zayn were both in Miami at the same time filming music videos for Let Me and Familiar respectively, arriving either at the same time or a day apart. It was at a time when Zayn was all over his socials, posting poems and selfies and generally being his relaxed, gorgeous self, which wasn’t incredibly common for a while. 

People were convinced they could hear Zayn in one of Liam’s insta stories, talking in the background just before Liam realises and raises his voice. It’s definitely not firm though, and Liam has someone in his team with a similar accent, but I’ve linked it so you can judge for yourself! Regardless, we knew they were both there, but it was a fun lil’ talking point!

Anyway, according to people who live in the area and know the coastline, they were in the same area at the same time, and we also knew that Liam wasn’t with Ch*ryl because she was back in the UK. Now, Liam posted an Instagram story the next morning half naked in bed, his 4 tattoo (we’ll get to that) and roses on full display, and saying he’d wrecked his voice. 

Well then. 

He also posted this. 

It was a video, but it was Liam, in his room ‘alone’ with two desserts for breakfast at a time when we knew Zayn was there and no one else was, and he suddenly had no voice. 

Okay okay, we get it. 

They also consistently reference the number 25, and honestly, no one knows why the fuck.

Just casually on Liam’s jackets and shoes, Zayn’s shoes and a shirt that was sold (even the red and yellow, ffs Zayn), and also Zayn’s NECK, which he got in 2018. There was also chevrons on a collection for Zayn, just like Liam’s tattoos.

Speaking of tattoos Zayn got in 2018. 

That big, red wolf on his chest just up there?

One of the biggest Ziam things to ever happen. 

Red was Liam’s mic colour in 1D, everything they fucking do seems to be related to red, and Liam’s nickname is Wolfie because he’s from Wolverhampton. 

It’s a red wolf, directly on his chest, and it’s 100% for Liam. It’s not the only red wolf tattoo Zayn has; he also has one on his leg with feathers, just like Liam’s feather tattoo. 

The media often talk about the eyes Zayn has underneath that, and that they’re for G*gi, but the eyes underneath are so much lighter than the surrounding ink, the shape fits easily, and to me, it seems clear they’ve been done in a way that they can easily be inked over. It was designed for a cover up, and hopefully it’s coming. Zayn also has Liam’s name literally inked into his skin. 

They also have coordinating hand tattoos. The mandala on Zayn’s hand and the roses on Liam’s are explained brilliantly in this post. The two of these together mean ‘Symbol of Eternity’. Fucking hell. 

The three roses on Liam’s hand also translates to ‘I love you’. FUUUCCCKKKKKKK.

Liam also wore a ring for a while, until he was forced to take it off, but then he rebelled anyway, and got this.

It’s important because not only is it on his wedding finger, it’s also what he said about it, and when he got it. 

Now, not only is 4 as an angel number about changing the only things that you can in a situation, but Liam directly said that’s what it was. He can’t wear a wedding ring, so he did the next best thing. 

It also came when Liam and Ch*ryl became ‘official’, and when he’d already quashed marriage twice in an interview. Interesting choice, then. He also spoke of the 4 and a ring forming a halo, but still somehow shut down marriage talk? 

…….okay then. 

Some incredibly brilliant people pointed out that it also came just before Valentine’s Day.

And just before he started wearing the Cartier bracelet from earlier. 

There’s also the blatant references to a gorgeous, loving relationship throughout Icarus Falls, especially in Common and There You Are. There You Are was pushed as a Z*gi song, but people realised it was impossible when they found old pictures of the name of the song on his original plan for Mind of Mine, and realised it just hadn’t made that album. It doesn’t fit their timeline at all, but it does fit Ziam.

We don’t see Zayn very much at the moment, and I’m glad that he’s taking his time just doing what he’s doing! It does mean that we hardly see them interact or reference each other much, but I have absolutely no reason to believe they’ve broken up. The fact that they’re both still going through PR relationship bullshit, and the timing of Liam getting a ‘girlfriend’ right now instead of just rumours is very interesting to me, because Z*gi officially finished again not that long ago. When one is ‘single’, the other can’t be, it seems. 

This isn’t even everything, anon. They’re not subtle; Zayn just isn’t in the public eye as much. 

Everything they do screams love, devotion, and commitment to each other. 

And it’s fucking gorgeous.

[notquitechaotic]

so I’m back online, never thought I would be blogging again but here I am after having to deal with man children and their audacity. and y’know, what better way to deal with yet another misadventure with the male species other than bitching about them?

given that this happened like a day ago, I feel like I’ve cooled down enough to try and talk about it. 

screenshots will be included but I would have to blur out the guy’s face (sadly) because of POHA

for some context, I matched with this guy named William (”Will”) on Bumble. I want to say that things kind of went well at first and we exchanged telegram usernames and started talking there instead.

(edit: he has “changed” his alias and is now “Wilford”)

first red flag was the reason he gave after he unmatched with me.

and if anything, I’ve learnt that most of the time when guys like him say that a girl is crazy or “batshit crazy” without elaborating, it’s mostly the guy who is the problematic one and because the girl isn’t reacting the way they want the girl to, the girl would then be “crazy” to fit their “I’m a nice guy” narrative.

I let the matter slide, and I moved on with my day because it was none of my business too. and everything was kind of fine until he accepted my follow request on Instagram.

I’m not that great when it comes to remembering faces but it’s not that bad to the point where I would forget a person’s face completely. So when I realised that he looked different, I asked him.

“my hair diff only” were the exact words he sent so I asked him to sent the photos that were posted on the app. 

this was the part where he fucked up lol

I asked him who the person was because when I tapped into the photo of the guy who is in a sauna, it was a screenshot of someone else’s Instagram account.

he said that it was his good friend and they “agreed to exchange photos” (honestly I don’t believe that for a second, the photo he sent is of his friend, blurred it all out in case someone recognises it)

all the while being pushy to meet irl.

if anything, I absolutely hate it when a person lies to me (because I find things out eventually) and I hate it when they are pushy (in this scenario, this guy just flat out reeks of desperation)

at this very point of time, my impression of him hasn’t been all that great, I was starting to feel really uncomfortable, I just didn’t think it would get worse (but I was wrong)

screenshots from here on out have the top cut off because it shows his phone number and again for privacy issues *cough* POHA *cough*, it has to be cropped out.

on hindsight I should have just set the record straight and say that I wasn’t comfortable meeting him instead of trying to imply it because I wasn’t explaining myself right and it just flew right past him.

“don’t you realise texting can be deceiving” and “some is my friend some is mine, I told you honestly already” are two very contradicting sentences. and again, he was being pushy about meeting.

I probably shouldn’t have used “weird” should have outright say that it was sus, but I would say that I was okay/ somewhat comfortable with the idea of meeting him until I realised that he wasn’t being honest. if he can’t even be honest about his own identity, then whose to say that he wouldn’t have ill intentions? so yeah I would say that me being uncomfortable meeting him is justified.

but this is the part where shit hit the fan because he started showing his true colours when he was being met with rejection:

“there’s nothing to be scared about” again, he wasn’t being truthful of his own identity, I think it is fair for me to overthink and be afraid that he has ill intentions and I’m just trying to protect myself. I don’t think I’m wrong for that lol

you can say “go google and stop ignoring the facts” but he can’t even try to link his sources. errr, when Dr Inna Kanevsky roasts people who use psychology to back to talk about things, she includes sources to support what she says.

again, made the mistake of not telling him outright that I wasn’t comfortable but if you scroll up a little bit to the screenshot where he made the contradictory sentence, I did try to imply that I was no longer comfortable meeting him.

he is trying to act all smart and shit but he can’t imply or at the very least, try to infer

“because it’s wrong (referring to him invalidating how I feel)”“how you feel is plain false” hello? I’m not a robot. and I’m pretty sure that there are paid and experienced psychologists and therapists, not just in Singapore but around the world, who would beg to differ with your statement. no one is wrong to feel the way they feel.

yes I did say that I would be more comfortable texting, but I did make it clear that I’m not comfortable meeting him.

“doesn’t change how you were wrong” “you are completely wrong” ok so feeling uncomfortable meeting a guy who was displaying signs that he may potentially be dangerous is wrong. noted with thanks.

(don’t ask me about the copy cat thing though cause I deadass have no clue why that was being sent to me also lol)

I rejected his call, and by then I’ve blocked him because I was too tired to deal with his shit. And I thought it would be the last I heard of him until I swiped down on my notifications  and saw that this crazy (he deserves this label by now) called me 5 times 

and iMessaged me instead because he couldn’t reach me on Telegram anymore

(what was in the screenshot he sent to me)

“no wonder take so long to graduate”

“lowlife vermin”

“pathetic”

“retard”

“bitch”

“pathetic piece of shit”

(this guy was an NUS student btw)

but I just want to rebut the thing where he said that “it’s a fact you can’t get to know someone by text”

because just based on his outburst and the way he acted and reacted to things, I can kind of tell what kind of a person he is and what his attitude and personality is like:

- he is egoistical (obviously)  “I’m a nice guy” type person, can’t handle rejection

- most likely toxic (based on how verbally abusive he was, I wouldn’t be surprised if he verbally abuses a person to bring down their self-esteem before making it seem like the person can not live without him, and thereby trapping the person in a toxic relationship)

- disrespectful (especially towards women)

- and based on everything, he is most likely insecure 

update: found out who he is, and this isn’t the first time he’s done this shit and it pains me that I can’t expose his identity

[justanotherdeadgirlwalking]

That is Just the Saddest F**king Thing I Have Ever Heard.

TW obviously DEH is about a kid’s suicide, so it has those themes

other parts :)

Part Three.

I’ve been alone in the room for what feels like hours now. Doctors and nurses keep coming and going, pricking me with needles and giving me medicine to take, taking my vitals, and asking me how I feel. Rate my mental state on a scale of 1 to 10. I feel fine, I just want to get the fuck out of here. They could’ve at least put me in a room with a TV or given me a magazine or a book or something, literally anything. I’m so bored. If I didn’t lose my mind already, I definitely will if I have to spend another minute in this room. The only thing keeping me company is the beeping of the heart monitor, and the hissing of the air unit. I’ve counted all the cracks in the ceiling, and I’ve recited every song I know. I started playing a game where I see how high I can count before another person walks into the room. I got up to 6000. We need to pick up the pace here. I get they’re worried that there could still be something wrong with me, but if I was asleep for the unspecified amount of time everyone keeps referring to as a “long time,” I think if something was going to happen, it would have. I just took a really long nap, its fine, let me go home.

Everyone that walks in keeps saying that they’re happy to see me awake, that I was so missed. “Don’t worry everything is going to be so much better” Some tech told me. Sure, it is; everything sucked before, and there’s no reason that it would stop sucking. Hey, at least now I have a fake friend and a sister that refuses to see me. I can’t forget that I have an apple orchard? Someone really needs to tell me what’s going on.

On top of that, everyone keeps telling me  that it’s a miracle I’m not brain dead. Obviously, the higher powers that be think there is still some entertainment value left in me. Maybe this will be the single event that puts me on the path to becoming the person that ends world hunger. More likely, I’m going to just spend the rest of my life drawing pictures that no one appreciates, struggling to make ends meet. Oh, what a life to live; and it’s going to be mine, unless I get into a BFA program with connections to Disney or something, then it might actually be a life worth living.

Look at me: I can walk, I can talk, and I still remember everything that happened leading up to going to the park. It’s a miracle I remember what a fuck-up I am.

There’s a knock on the door, I look up expecting another person wanting to draw my blood, but it’s just Cynthia. She holds up a fast food bag, “I bet you’re hungry.” She unpacks the bag on the tray table, burgers and fries. We never get to eat crap like this. I think since the time I was 5 years old she was always doing some weird gluten free, keto diet. I must have really scared her to get a treat like this. I wasn’t hungry, but I didn’t want to hurt Mom’s feelings, nor did I want to pass up on this rare opportunity to eat junk food, so I picked at it.

She watches me eat, “I really love you Connor, you’re my baby boy.” She’s crying again. I’ve never seen her so upset before. My whole life, she was always nagging me about something: smoking weed, growing out my hair, missing school. In fact, the last time I was in the hospital, for hurting myself, she told me that she was disappointed in me. “I expect better from you Connor,” she had said. That really stung. I was hurting, I still am hurting, and even my own mom wasn’t there to support me. What’s different about this time? I got too close to actually dying? Did they finally realized that I wasn’t faking my struggles, and now they feel guilty for not helping me?

My whole life they have pushed me too be something that I’m not, which actually caused them to push me away. They keep pushing me and pushing me, but still expect me to be able to stand. They load they weight of their expectations and disappointments on me, but I can only hold so much weight on my shoulders before it starts to crush me. I’m trying the best I can here, but I’m buried under the rubble that is the mess that I am. I tried so hard, I tried faking it so everyone could accept me, but its so exhausting. I just want people to love me for who I am, the mess and all, and not want to change me. I’m sending out a S.O.S. and its too bright outside to see my flare.

“Mom,” I say, “how long was I in a coma?”

“A long-time” she says.

“Can you please catch me up? I jus-” Mom waves her arm signaling me to stop. I really want to know what happened while I was asleep. No one seems to want to talk about it. I’m left to wonder what happened to the world while I was in this bed. Oh, I hope aliens invaded.

Mom sighs like she’s tired of being here, “The doctors said to wait to reintroduce media to you, but you must be so bored, so I brought you this.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out my phone. Oh, thank God. I basically rip it out of her hands and push the home button. The screen lights up to reveal hundreds of notifications. What the hell, I don’t have friends, literally. I don’t have a single person in my life I could even call a friend. People must really pity me. You disappear from the world, and suddenly everyone realizes how special you are. Everyone wants to be friends with the kid that almost died, their conscience won’t let them sleep at night otherwise.

I look at the date, October 15th. You mean to tell me I’ve been asleep for almost two months? It’s been two months since the first day of school. I missed two months of my life? Two months of school. Two months of gossip. Two months in this hospital bed. No wonders why everyone is freaked out, someone in a coma for that long, there has to be something wrong with them. “I’ve got to get going,” Mom says standing up. She kisses my forehead before she leaves.

I scroll through the notifications, they’re all texts from unknown numbers saying shit like “We miss you Connor, get well soon” Okay, talk about some bullshit. No one cared about me before, so why do I have to almost die for people to notice me. I mean no one deserves to be forgotten, or to disappear, but it would’ve been nice if they all noticed me before. I log on to Facebook. I hate that website, but I have a feeling it would be the most reliable place to find out what happened. Surly, Cynthia posted some Please keep my family in your prayers, our son is a freak bullshit. Sure enough, my feed is filled with pictures of me, people sharing stories about me, Connor was my best friend in the fourth grade, and he used to ride my bus. Everyone talking about how they know me, how much I mean to them. Its funny how death can bring out the shallowness in everyone. Also, why is everyone making my almost death so personal? My life had no bearing on yours before, and it doesn’t now. You don’t care about me. If I really meant anything to you, I would’ve known, I would’ve been an actual part of your life.

I click on my profile, and I’m tagged in something called The Connor Project. I click it, a video of Evan Hansen and Alana Beck plays, “The Connor Project is student group dedicated to keeping Connor’s memory alive, to show that everyone matters, everyone is important.” Okay, but, I don’t know why I need a whole group to keep my memory alive, I’m still alive. The site is filled with videos of Evan talking about how important I am to him. There’s a video of him telling the story about how he broke his arm , but it’s completely false. Maybe he fell out of a tree, but I wasn’t there. We never went to a yellow field or climbed any tall trees. I definitely didn’t drive him to the hospital either.

There’s old pictures of me everywhere on the page.  You can tell they’re old because my hair is so short in them, my ears sticking out. I wonder where they got them from. I’ve never been a big poster, I think there’s maybe two posts on my Instagram. Maybe Zoe or Mom gave them the pictures. I’m not mad, they’re all really good pictures of me. I look happy in most of them, like genuinely happy.

I don’t even remember ever being that happy.

There’s so many copies of emails me and Evan sent each other. Oh, that’s funny, because I’ve literally never talked to this kid, let alone sent him an email. And people are eating it up, thank you for sharing such an intimate conversation. Hey, I hate to break it to you: this isn’t real. This doesn’t sound like the Connor I knew. Guess what! The emails don’t sound like me because I didn’t write them. None of these emails I supposedly sent could vaguely belong to me. It’s like writing an essay about a book you never read. Also, who even emails anymore? Did we hit a time warp back to the 1990’s? It’s like I was asleep for so long that time actually started moving backwards. Why are they all about trees? You can tell by how pale I am that I don’t go outside. I keep scrolling. It’s just endless content of bullshit. Evan did say he wrote fake emails, and Jared was in on it, but how many other people were in on it? This is really elaborate. The page has 16,239 followers. Evan Hansen is being crowned as an amazing kid who shared a great tribute for his best friend.

This is a really cruel. It has to be an elaborate joke, right? But, what did I ever do to Evan that he would do something like this? First he writes a creepy letter about my sister, and now he’s infiltrated himself into my life as my best friend, as my hero. What is his obsession with me?

I’ve always been a loser just waiting to be seen, and finally everyone sees me. But they don’t see me.

They see the me Evan created.

[blackgirlblues]

Being A Black Girl: And Chasing Your Dreams.. Yikes.

Hi, 

It’s me, your resident black girl back with some new shit to rant about. I’ve been posting a few screenshots of short poems and paragraphs I’ve been writing on my phone as a way to heal and get over Capricorn boy from my last post on here and I see you guys like and reblog. Thank you for showing love, although it makes me sad that so many of you seem to be going through the same range of emotions I am. I’m sorry. 

I know it’s a lonely place to be in. 

But, on the bright side, I’ve got a lot of new followers joining the diary/manual/rant page that is blackgirlology and it’s nice cause I think it’s becoming a little bit of a community. So, in a way, were never really going through any of these emotions alone. If you’ve found this page-you’re part of a community. Bask in it. 

Anyways, that aside, a lot has happened since I last spoke to you. I don’t know if any of you may remember, and for some new people this will be a surprise. But I’m actually a singer songwriter from Ireland. Moved to London a year and a half ago to pursue my music dream and that’s how I met Capricorn boy whos been the source of all my poems. 

Throughout this time in between, I’ve been trying to chase my dreams, and chase them relentlessly. and this summer i did just that, let me tell you, what im about to tell you guys, is to put it simply, wild. I’ll just cut to the chase. 

It all started in July. I’d been in London for quite a long time now, over a year and now have a manager who’s my best friend first and foremost. We’ll call her Maya. I met her in my first week of moving to London in the student halls I was staying at and we became best friends pretty quick. She studies music business, so it made sense and she just naturally ended up taking up the role as my music manager. Shes seen everything. The songs I wrote about Capricorn boy, the tears, everything. And she saw everything this summer. 

I saw an ad for a record label opportunity in London. It was advertised on my university facebook page; a new indie label, looking for demo submissions for a competition they were setting up to find their new signee. I sent a screenshot to Maya who agreed I should send my stuff in. I did, they liked it, I got a meeting, we were sent terms and conditions for the competition. We signed it, the rest was supposed to be history. 

Big yikes. 

There’s so many layers to this story that I will be shortening it, just because it can get very draining for me to talk about or even write about. I’ve healed from it i think, but I still want to put it here and write it about to finally close that chapter and be done with my feelings about what happened to me and my music. 

Basically, the whole competition, the record label, the dickhead CEO, it was all a scam. I had accidentally signed away the master rights to my new song to a record label started by a fake CEO who was committing fraud and known for tricking young artists into handing over their master rights so he could profit off of them, for power. 

It was a mess. Another contestant told me and Maya when we were outside of their office. Just minutes before we were under the impression that I was doing an interview for Billboard Magazine. Honestly, I never truly believed it. Shit was too good to be true. 

But she told us everything. How he was actually a run away from Spain, where he was caught and exposed for doing the exact same thing to artists there, how he didn’t have any money to fund the competition he had somehow roped all of us into, how he was illegally avoiding paying his team, how none of the creatives we had collaborated with for photoshoots etc were paid, how everything was a lie, how he didnt have any connections, and how he was trying to convince me specifically to sign a 360 deal with his label. 

Which, guys, I’m not stupid. After the first week of being with the label for the competition and letting my song live through their disastrous marketing campaign, Maya and I long decided that regardless of what they said, I would not under any circumstances be signing anything with any entity of their company. 

After being told the truth, I had to sit down. You see, when I came across this opportunity, I thought this was finally the life I’d been manifesting coming true. I had begun to grow in my spirituality and start journaling, writing down my manifestations, and getting to work with a record label who would later offer me a fair contract before I turn 20 was one of the manifestations I had written down every night before I went to bed. However, what I’d gotten was the exact opposite. 

I remember, me, Maya, and 2 of the girls from the competition all stood around in a circle outside of their new office that the CEO also hadnt paid for wondering what our next move would be with this new information. There was still 2 other contestants inside who had no idea what was really going on was an elaborate scam. One of them wanted to go in and expose them on the spot. I said no, we had to go in and pretend like everything was normal until we figured out what to do afterwards. 

So in I went, plastering the fakest smile on my face and pretended like I still thought I was about to be speaking with Billboard Magazine. Once I got out, I broke down in Maya’s arms. 

I went home to my flatmates, Ellie and Bea and cried for hours before I had to go work a 7 hour shift at a pizza place. 

I stayed in bed, and cried, and cried. and cried again. I didn’t get out of bed unless I needed too. The only people I talked too were my flatmates E and B and Maya. 

Everything was sorted out eventually, a lot more happened, but as I’ve been writing this article for you guys, I realised that all of that stuff is no longer relevant to my journey and isnt something I want to bring back into my energetic circle because I’ve made peace with the fact that a lot of people who betrayed me when I was at my lowest, peace with the fact that these contestants who wanted to “work together” to get out of this mess, actually wanted to save their own asses and leave me in the cold. 

But I still got out of it and I’m still here. 

I nearly got sued by a man with less than 20 pound to his company account online, but hey, I’m here.

I guess why I’m telling you guys this really short account of my summer is to both record it for myself but also to say its okay to flop, its okay to fail. I did both this summer. and thank god i did. it was the best thing that ever happened to me. 

following your dreams is scary, doing it as a black girl is terrifying because society has already kind of set you up to fail. there’s already misconceptions about what you do, who you are, where you come from and how good you’re going to be at what you do. its almost like we cant fail and we need to work 10 times harder to obtain half of what the average white person will get. and sometimes it can feel like we dont have any space to fail or make mistakes because of this but let me tell you thats not true. 

if anything, the universe will put you in places that will force you to grow through the mistakes you make. and thats exactly what happened to me this summer. 

i chased my dream so relentlessly i ended up in an environment i thought i manifested, i thought was good for me, only for the universe to show me that that specific environment i’d been wishing to be in is the furthest from what i need right now in my life. 

this so called failure showed me that not everybody who smiles can be trusted, and that people can be way more deceiving than i ever thought, especially when push comes to shove and they need to save themselves. you start to see the real them when it starts to get tense. the people who seem to be around you when you’re doing good will most likely dissapear when things start to go south, including some of your oldest friends. you will get radio silence on their end. be upset. cry. but after that be glad that this situation revealed their true colours. 

and then never put any more energy into them again. 

this failure showed me how fucking strong i am. how resilient and kind i am even in the face of disrespect and actual evil. it showed me how much i can care for someone who i believe is at a risk of losing it all, and showed me that this will not always be reciprocated. and for a while i thought that meant that i had to harden myself up and grow a shell. but i dont think so. i will not allow the things ive been through to make me into a hard person when i was born soft. i mean now, im a little rough around the edges, jagged enough to cut anyone who comes too close with some of that bad energy, but soft enough to hold myself tight and glue myself back together when i need to. soft enough to hold the people who held me this summer. soft enough to help people who i know deserve it. 

im a good person in a shitty world, i don’t need to match the world and become a shitty person to survive. 

after all of this happened, i stopped writing music. 

i haven’t written anything properly or produced anything in months and sometimes i get worried that ive completely lost my talent. but thats another thing that this failure taught me, i can never truly lose whats meant to be mine. i know that i was put on this earth to create change, to inspire, to be an activist and a voice for people who dont have one. i know i was put here to do it through a creative medium and right now i still think that is music. 

i think i just need to stop being so scared to start again, to learn my craft again.

i used to be so scared of failure but now i am so thankful for it and the lessons its taught me. i had so much hurt and pain and hatred in my heart for the universe for, in my head, doing this to me. but then i realised that the universe never does anything to you, it does it for you. all of this happened in my best interest and while i definitely didnt understand at the time, i get it now.

thank you universe for the worst summer of my life. 

and my black ass will be continuing to chase my dreams relentlessly, failing, tripping and falling on my ass until i get to the very top. 

besides, if everything had just gone right, that wouldnt have been very interesting, would it?

[spongeguyandlelouchvibridankia]

The Milo Murphy’s Law Wiki Guy AU: Balthazar Cavendish Vs The World: Chapter 1: Prologue: The First Domino Falls

Darkness.

The stage is set.

Lights!

Music!

CURTAIN!

The curtain parts and we are greeted with a big ass title card that states in what can almost be described as a whisper that the year is

2141 The place? Marlborough Lines, Andover, Hampshire, in the United Kingdom. 51° 12′ 32.72″ N, 1° 31′ 17.65″ W.

As we cross non league football grounds, a railway station and a flour mill, we can see a mostly industrial town, in which the clouds are grey, yet cool.

Not your stereotypical English weather here, folks!

In this sort of lifeless small town, rooted in traditional thinking, we approach the very basis of this old timey tree of a town: Marlbourough Lines, the official Army Headquarters of The United Kingdom.

At first glance, the building would seem unimportant to most: Beige walls, multiple green doors, surprisingly miniscule.

In fact, its most striking external feature would be its oddly shaped roof.

Ah, but you see…

It is what inside that is important.

And it is definitely true with Marlborough Lines, and as we enter the doors, the hustle and bustle of Behind The Scenes army management is shown to our curious eyes.

Here you will not see men and women in green practice their shooting, however.

Here, my dear friends, is where we find the minds behind the operations.

Men in dark blue high neck tunics and elaborate headwear shuffle along importantly, discussing matters with a dry, formal air.

Everything, even the most trivial of conversations is gravely important.

Bushy beards and wrinkled faces nod and harrumph, and sounds of hurried typing and fax machine dials reverberate in a light room.

One of these bearded men, a Sergeant Arthur Wilson, former bank clerk from Thetford, Norfolk, currently twiddling his thumbs and pacing agitatedly near a big, wooden brown door, made of the oldest and finest yew,  is tasked with a most unenviable errand: Deliver the Chief of the General Staff bad news.

The polished wall clock tick tocked the seconds away, causing more and more sweat to glisten on Sergeant Wilson’s forehead, as he took out a hankerchief to wipe the droplets away.

“Just get it over with, Arthur old boy…”, he told himself, trying to ignore his heart’s desire to leap out and travel the world as a minstrel.

Or a dog show judge. He hadn’t chosen yet.

“You may come in, Sergeant Wilson.”, the gruff yet deathly serious commanding tone of the Chief of the General Staff sounded from within the office out to poor Arthur’s ears.

Arthur gulped, his throat almost croaking like a toad as he edged nervously towards the shiny brass metal door knob.

As he wiped his brow once more, he tried to settle his irate nerves.

“Take it easy, old chap. It’s just routine. Yes, routine.”

He nervously turned the handle.

“Why, you’ve told him this a million times.”

Of course, a small voice inside him couldn’t help but retort “Well, he’s also massacred you every single time you’ve said that.”

But there was no time to dilly dally.

Otherwise Arthur would get massacred twice.

And there were only so many times that could happen in a day.

Arousing last bits of blind courage, Arthur swung the door open wide, entering the office with a frenzy.

“Sir, I have bad news to report!”, he shouted out in attention, saluting the currently turned with his back to him chief.

The office was quite a sight to see: Swarms of medals decorated the walls, maps and diagrams of key hot spots and defensive positions hung on every spot that wasn’t filled with pictures of important people meeting the Chief, and shelves upon shelves of thick, detailed books on military history stood proudly, knowledge practically oozing from their yellowing pages.

However, that was not what caught Arthur’s eyes, and certainly your eyes would agree.

All eyes would and should dart towards the Chief himself, his imposing and towering stature present even when seated.

His back was hunched in thought, but since no one could see his eyes, no one could tell whether said thoughts were stormy or cordial.

One thing for sure: He would not like the news.

And that was immediately apparent in his dark, turquoise eyes that almost cut Arthur to ribbons without a single word.

The rest of the slaughter would be done with his piercing and sharp voice, one that could slice through air like it was… Well, air.

“What… Bad news, Sergeant?”, The Chief asked with a decidedly displeased tone.

Sergeant Wilson took a moment to breath as his voice trembled.

“Well… You see… It’s about… Um… Oh, you know…”

“This never gets easier, does it?”, he thought to himself.

The Chief, his rifle green high neck tunic and monocle now present, stood up, his large form now even more apparent as he strode towards Arthur, each step echoing in the halls of Arthur’s mind.

“In actual fact, Sergeant Wilson, I don’t know. If I did know… The matter would have been resolved long ago.”

His hands crossed behind his back, his head now lowering to meet the meek man below him, The Chief stared him straight in the eyes. The whites of his eyes to be specific.

“Refusing to report under order could lead to serious trouble for you.”, He said with way more than a hint of a threat in his words.

He tugged at the cross adorning Arthur’s chest.

“Would be a real pity if someone as essential as you lost their privilege to serve the Queen’s army over something as trivial as… Bad news.”

His words were loud and clear, and as Arthur gulped one last time, he choked out the message he so feared.

“Understood sir. It’s… It’s about your son, sir.”

The Chief’s composure died alongside Arthur’s words, his monocled eye twitching and his dulcet tones now replaced with rage and frustration.

“You don’t mean…”

He seethed and huffed, slamming the door aside, knocking Arthur down to the ground with a loud thud.

“Back to your duties, Sergeant Wilson!”, The Chief barked as he marched down the hall towards the entrance doors with great intensity.

“I will deal with Balthazar personally!”

As the doors swung wide and the sun invaded the premises, a doozy Arthur weakly saluted from the ground.

“As you wish, Chief Cavendish…”

1. Just seeing that there’s a title and a tagline and that this story is finally happening is magical to me. A friend of mine and I came up with this back in October 2018, and I’ve been adding more and more to it ever since!

2. Believe it or not, back when I was consistently making stories for the wiki, the plan was to post this on December 2018 (preferably Christmas). There would be a sequel (which I hadn’t chosen yet, and would end up becoming WaffleTail’s requested “Is This A Crossover Fanfic?”) and the threequel, “The Question”, was scheduled for Serend’s birthday. As you all know, the reverse happened.

3. Only a few things were clear to me from the start: The title, the plot (at least, parts of it), the villains and the ending. The musical parts were only thought of back in September 2019 after a first viewing of Steven Universe: The Movie left quite the impression!

4. The purple font that stops after Cavendish is on purpose: Purple is the official BI-Sexual color on the LGBTQ+ Flag. It represents his denial. The World is black because most of it (outside of a few close friends) want him to be someone else.

5. I like the intro! The story is written as a movie, a musical and a play, so the whole curtain shebang was fun to add!

6. I must say that another inspiration comes from MelissaFan’s musical about Milolissa! It sparked something in me, so thanks, Colleen!

7. 2141’s green font (that you can't see) is because of Cavendish, and because it felt kind of soft and homely, before everything goes to the shit.

8. Every detail in this one, from the military uniforms to the longitude and latitude to the locations are accurate. Lot’s of research for this one!

9. It was fun writing this chapter! This story HAD to be different to my usual stories, so I spend a lot of time on locations. It feels slower than most of my work, and it was fun to try doing that!

10. It is what inside that is important isn’t very subtle, true.

11. Arthur Wilson is one big “Dad’s Army” reference, and I love him for that!

12. In general, writing this scene was so different! It really feels like nothing we’ve seen before in the AU, which is most of this story. It’s easily the most mature, adult and sad story yet, and it takes us to places we’ve never seen!

13. And we finally see Cavendish’s Dad! He did appear as a ghost in “This Date Must Work” but it is here that is his true debut! He doesn’t feature that much (in fact, once this prologue ends, you won’t see him again until the end), but he is important! His presence is the reason Cavendish is the way he is, and he is arguably the biggest figure in Cavendish’s life!

I’m sure some of you may find this chapter a tad disappointing: Only 1k words? And it’s not even about Cavendish? Yes, I get you. But don’t worry! Not only is this chapter important, it will  be continued on Monday, where some REALLY big things happen!

In short: Lil’ Cavendish. Nuff said.

Please share your thoughts on this one! I’d be more than happy to answer all maner of praise, critique and questions you may have! Here, on FF.Net, Ao3 or Tumblr, I’ll take anything!

See ya then!

The Milo Murphy’s Law Wiki Guy.

[lainelannister]

So as I mentioned earlier today...I did some #MeToo-inspired re-writing to an old modern AU of mine, “Slayers and Stones”. You’ll find the edited version below- I’d love any feedback anyone can provide! If you’ve read the old version, I’d love to hear if the edits are working for you...and if this is your first time reading, those responses are also super valuable!

Her father calls her into his study early in the morning, a rare smile on his serious face as he passes her a laminated name badge.  “Your internship begins tomorrow.”

 Sansa looks down at the red-and-gold tag.  The Lannister Inc. logo emblazoned across the top, her pseudonym  (“Alayne Stone,” she likes the sound of it well enough) in bold font below, and beneath that...

 “Marketing and PR?”  She cannot keep a dark frown from pulling at her lips; Lannister Inc. has a top-notch corporate analysis program, and she’d hoped that she might have a chance to experience it first-hand...

 But of course, this isn’t strictly a learning experience, is it?

 “It’s the best place for you.  You’ll be privy to every nasty rumor that passes through that place, which is very, very useful to us.”  Ned Stark still wears his smile, but it has yet to reach his eyes- corporate espionage is not attractive to him, and if not for Jon Arryn’s urging, she doubts that he’d be encouraging her to do this in the first place.  

 “Besides, the PR department handles press releases, events, parties...it would be the most fun for you, love.”  

 Sansa grinds her molars together at that; she may have graduated cum laude from Bryn Mawr with plans to start at Harvard Business School in the fall, but in her father’s eyes, she’ll always be that giggly, vapid seventeen year old, throwing a tantrum because another girl wore the same dress to the prom.  

 But she just smiles back and nods.  “I’m sure you’re right, Daddy.  I’ll go and do my best.”

 “That’s my girl.”  And in spite of her annoyance, Sansa feels a flush of pride at her father’s affectionate words, and she eagerly steps into his open arms and lets him hug her tight.

-

“You’ll fit right in over at Lannister.  They’ve got a thing for blondes.”

 Sansa glares at her brother, who leans casually against the doorframe of her bedroom.  She reaches up to run a self-conscious hand through her newly-highlighted hair; auburn curls now shine strawberry-blonde, and she has yet to become used to it.   

 When she doesn’t answer, Robb steps into the room and crosses his arms over his chest, a bright smile on his handsome face.  “What are you planning to wear?”

 “That.”  She gestures to her closet door, where she’s hung the sensible pantsuit that her mother gave her right after graduation- “Classic, good for interviews,” Catelyn Stark had said.   

 Robb plucks at the fabric before shaking his head in distaste.  “Sansa, I’ve been to Lannister Inc.  You can’t wear that...you’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

 It’s not like her brother to pay attention to women’s fashion; the novelty of the conversation is enough to hold Sansa’s interest.  “It’s a high-powered corporation.  You’re telling me that the women don’t wear business suits?”

 “They do...but not like that.”  She’s starting to understand his implication, and her cheeks blush, just a little.

 “Then what should I wear, Robb?”   

 To her surprise, her brother opens her closet door and begins to rifle through her clothing.  It’s a comical sight, and she laughs.

 “You seem to know your way around a girl’s closet.  Do you pick out outfits for Jeyne, too?”

 He makes some retort, but his head is buried deep enough in the closet that she cannot make out the words.  Finally, he re-emerges, passing her a set of hangers and a pair of shoes.  

 “There.  That’s what you should wear.”

 Sansa huffs an incredulous breath through her nose- her brother has selected a black cocktail dress, short and tight.  The other hanger holds a fitted black blazer, and the shoes are four-inch stiletto heels.

 “What, is Lannister, Inc. an elaborate cover for a fancy prostitution ring?”   

 Robb rolls his eyes and smirks before heading to the door.

 “Fine, don’t listen to me.  But you’ll go there tomorrow, and you’ll see that I was just trying to help.”

 When Robb leaves, Sansa evaluates her options.  And with a beleaguered sigh, she places the sensible pantsuit back in her closet.   

 - 

 When she arrives at the skyscraper that houses Lannister Inc., Sansa realizes that Robb was completely correct.  There are more svelte, leggy blondes here than there are at Conde Nast, everyone dressed to the nines.  And not just the women; every man here looks like he walked off the set of a GQ photo shoot.  She thinks for a moment of the lax dress code at Stark Incorporated: her father’s worn Frye boots, Robb’s polo-and-khaki uniform, Theon’s leather jacket.  The comparison makes her giggle under her breath.

 After a brief meeting with Kevan Lannister, the head of HR (an older, somewhat stern man, but pleasant enough), she’s ushered into the office of Genna Frey, the director of marketing.  She takes a seat beside a handsome blonde man who appears about her age; her heartbeat skips when he smiles at her and asks her name, but the excitement quickly abates when he continues to speak, and she realizes how dreadful, pompous, and unpleasant he is.  She makes a mental note to stay clear of this one ( Jeffrey, was it?) and turns her attention to the heavy-set, no-nonsense woman behind the wide mahogany desk.  

 The tasks she sets for the interns are very menial at first: archiving press clippings, calling publications to follow up on print deadlines.  Sansa is a good listener, always has been, but even her best efforts at eavesdropping reap few results.  She returns home each evening with dread building in her stomach, for she hates to look at her father and Uncle Jon night after night and tell them that no, she still hasn’t learned anything new.  Failure sits heavily on her shoulders and keeps her awake deep into the night.

 And yet she forces down coffee after coffee (even sneaking the occasional Adderall from Arya’s medicine cabinet) and throws herself into the work.  Tedious as it is, she strives to surpass the other interns, and when Ms. Frey lectures her co-workers, holding up Alayne’s work and declaring, “This is how you document.  I don’t want to see any more half-assed shit from you people, I want to see this ,” she blushes as brightly as she does at her father’s praise.

 Finally, at long last, Sansa receives a reward for her hard work.  There’s a meeting scheduled with the senior executives to discuss “the family matter”, and Genna invites her to come along and take notes.  

 (She does not invite Joffrey into the closed-door session, in spite of his Lannister blood, and Sansa feels a sudden admiration for Genna’s value of talent over nepotism.)

 Sansa is, of course, well acquainted with the PR disaster that has befallen Lannister Incorporated.  In fact, it would not exist at all without Ned Stark and Jon Arryn; they gained knowledge of the story from an executive at the Baratheon Corporation, and they’ve installed Sansa at Lannister to report on the fall-out.  

 Goosebumps prickle up and down her arms as she takes a seat beside Genna.  The CEO is not present- in the weeks since she started here, Sansa has never once seen the mysterious Tywin Lannister, and she finds herself imagining him as a disembodied head surrounded by smoke, like the Wizard of Oz.  But Kevan is here, along with CFO Petyr Baelish, Junior Vice President Tyrion Lannister, and Senior Vice President Jaime Lannister.

 Everyone at the table appears tense, but as she looks at the man seated directly across from her, she thinks that she’s never seen a person more drained and empty-looking than Jaime Lannister.  

 She’s noticed him before, of course, sauntering down the hallways in his perfectly-tailored Italian suits, golden hair neatly combed back, tall and confident and devastatingly handsome.  The junior associates whisper his legend in the break room and by the water cooler- he’s a ruthless, predatory raider, known for crushing smaller companies beneath his feet and pillaging the spoils.  “The Slayer,” they call him in tones of hushed reverence.  She’s watched with distaste as assistant after intern after associate tries to flirt with him, only to be rebuffed by a distant smile and words of cool courtesy.  He’s only spoken to Sansa once, asking to borrow a pen and Post-It.  But he winked at her when he handed the pen back, and she’s sure that the smile she gave him in reply was every bit as insipid as the ones she’d seen from all those other silly girls.

 But now he does not look at anyone.  He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes as Tyrion catalogues the leaked information.  And it is, as Genna would say, an absolute shitstorm.  The former junior vice president, Cersei Lannister, had listened to some extremely bad advice and made an absurd, careless power play for the company.  Her illicit dealings and failed investments cost Lannister Inc. millions of dollars, and reports of her questionable character and distasteful personal life brought shame and derision upon the mighty Lannister dynasty.  

 Tyrion concludes his report by informing everyone that Cersei has been removed from public view and will be unable to do any more harm to the family or the company.

 “Where is she?”  

 Jaime’s voice rings out rather more loudly than is appropriate, and no one can bring themselves to look at him.  

 (Sansa thinks of some of the more salacious rumors that Jon Arryn has drummed up about Cersei Lannister and her handsome brother, but Uncle Jon has always had a flair for the dramatic...)

 “It doesn’t matter, Jaime...”

 “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?”  He turns on his brother, emerald-green eyes flashing with rage, and Tyrion, usually so poised and glib, actually appears a bit frightened.

 But the moment passes quickly, and the younger Lannister brother speaks in as even a tone as he ever does.  

 “I mean that we need to distance ourselves from her, for the sake of the company.  Any outward show of support would make us all look weaker...but if she’s just the bad egg, that’s something that could happen to any family.  She’s an embarrassment, and we need to acknowledge that.”

 Suddenly, Sansa feels a discordant twang in her stomach at the coldness of it all.  Yes, Cersei Lannister is a class-A fuck-up, but she’s still their sister, still one of them...and to just abandon her like that...

 Her voice sounds strange in her ears, as though it belongs to someone else.  “But she’s your sister.”  

 Every head whips around to stare at Sansa; Genna’s face glows red with rage as she mutters, “Alayne.  Be quiet.”

 “What was that, Miss Stone?” Tyrion asks.  

 She knows that she should shut up, that she must shut up.  But the words fall from her lips of their own accord- “She’s family...how can you just hide her somewhere and...and throw her away…?”

 “Alayne.  Go get my Starbucks order and leave it on my desk.   Now, ” Genna seethes.

 As she rises from her chair, trying and failing to keep from shaking, she happens to glance across the table.  Jaime Lannister watches her, beautiful eyes unblinking and intense.

 And then his lips curve into a smile.

 - 

 When she arrives at work the next day, Sansa finds herself immediately re-routed to HR.  Her stomach sinks; she hasn’t told her father about the disaster of yesterday’s meeting, and she has no idea how she’ll explain getting fired...

 But Kevan Lannister barely even speaks to her before directing her to a conference room.  “Go in, please,” he says.

 She mentally steels herself for an apoplectic Genna or a sneering Mr. Baelish, but she finds herself face to face with Brienne Tarth instead.

 Sansa took an immediate liking to Jaime Lannister’s executive assistant; she rejects the couture that is the office standard in favor of loose, comfortable suits (“Probably buys them at the Big and Tall Men’s Wearhouse,” one of the catty, pretty office drones once snarked), and she gives off an undeniable air of competence.  She’s calm, collected, capable, and discreet, and Sansa considers these qualities far more valuable than any pretty facade.

 “Please sit down, Miss Stone,” Brienne says, gesturing to a chair.  Sansa sits and waits for the other woman to continue.

 “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’ve just been promoted.”

 “Oh!  Congratulations,” Sansa replies, and Brienne’s pretty blue eyes crinkle in a grin.

 “Thanks.  It’s a great opportunity for me- I’ll be a junior associate in the Boston office.”  

 “Then you’re leaving?”

 “Yes, I move at the end of the week.  And that’s why I’ve called you in.”

 “Oh?”  Sansa lifts a brow in surprise, while her insides jiggle in a hopeful dance- maybe I’m not getting fired...oh, thank God...

 “The thing is, this all happened really suddenly, and HR’s been so backed up lately that they haven’t really had time to deal with new hires.  Finding a replacement for me will definitely be a long process, lots of interviews...I’ve been with Jaime for five years, and he’s...very particular.”  

 “Of course.”   Five years, that’s a long time...but it makes sense, he obviously relies on her so much...

 “Anyway, until we can find someone he’ll like, we need a person to sit at that desk and answer his phones and manage his calendar.  It will be a lot more hours than what you’re used to, at the same intern pay rate, so I completely understand if you don’t want to take on the added responsibility-”

 “You want me to be Jaime Lannister’s assistant?”

 She must be quite a sight- eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar- because Brienne laughs brightly before nodding.

 “He asked for you specifically.  Will you do it?”

 Sansa thinks of the locked folders on the company drive, filled with information only available to the top executives and their assistants- she imagines having access to Jaime’s calendar, intimate knowledge of the second-in-command’s comings-and-goings...she begins to salivate, and she swallows it down.

 A red-gold ponytail bobs up and down as she eagerly nods.  

 “Oh, yes.  Thank you.”

 - 

 She should have known better.  Sansa curses herself for her naivety; just because Jaime gave Brienne the password to the locked files doesn’t mean he’ll hand it over to a twenty-three year old intern he’s barely met.  She lets herself wallow in disappointment for a few brief moments, but then forces the feeling aside- there’s got to be another way.  She’ll just bide her time; she’s good at being patient.

 And so she fields phone calls and handles his e-mail correspondence and schedules meetings.  The scheduling is by far the most interesting part of the job; he’s on the board of numerous organizations, and every night is a different gala, a different opening night, a different photo op.  

 She’d seen his picture on Page Six that morning, taken at a heart-disease benefit the evening before.  He wore a tuxedo- he’s even better-looking in a tux than in a suit- and stood with his arm wrapped around his date’s narrow waist: Margaery Tyrell, the heiress to Highgarden Communications, beautiful and striking in Alexander McQueen.  The Lannister PR machine desperately wants New York to believe that Jaime and Margaery are romantically involved, but when she considers that she must always arrange for a separate car for Margaery at the end of these events, Sansa thinks it rather unlikely.

Maybe he’s gay, she thinks to herself as she returns from the dry cleaner and enters Jaime’s vacant office, hanging his tux on the door and placing the newly-shined dress shoes beneath it.   He certainly dresses well...and Margaery’s gorgeous, but he’s definitely not sleeping with her...

She crosses the room to water the little tree in the corner; Brienne schooled her carefully in the care and keeping of the plant.  

 She bends over to tip the watering can toward the back of the tree, and she does not hear the door open behind her.  When she stands upright, she locks eyes with Jaime, who watches her with a peculiar expression.  

 “I think it has enough water.  You’ve been very thorough.”  Sansa nods and places the watering can down as Jaime furrows his brow, gesturing to the tuxedo.

 “Where am I going tonight?”

 “The opera, Mr. Lannister,” she replies, taking a small step toward the door, in spite of the fact that he’s directly blocking her path.  

 “Fuck, that’s right.”  He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand and sighs.  “Which one is it?”

 “’La Boheme’,” she replies.  

 “Hmm.  I haven’t seen that before.”

 “It’s beautiful,” Sansa volunteers with a soft smile.  “It’s one of my favorites.”

 “You like opera?”

 “Yes.”  She’s nearly at the door now, but he still hasn’t moved- she’s near enough to catch the scent of his cologne- musk and sandalwood- and her mouth begins to go dry... snap out of it, you’re being an idiot...

 “Duly noted.”  He grins at her, pivoting his body just enough to give her space to slide through the doorway, but not enough to keep her from brushing her chest against his arm as she tries to pass.  “I’ll get you tickets next time.”

 “I..I would like that very much.  Thank you.”

 When she closes the door behind her, Sansa falls into her chair and presses her palm to her heart.  She scowls at the quickness of the beats and restrains the urge to smack her head on the keyboard over and over again.

  -

 It’s nearly midnight, and she’s completely alone.  She’s sure of it- even the cleaning people have left for the weekend.  Still, her eyes dart about anxiously as she retrieves the zip drive from her purse and plugs it into her computer.  It will work...it has to work.

 Bran had been surprised, when she approached him to ask about computer hacking.  “I hack into gaming sites, Sansa,” he’d sighed with exasperation.  But the same principles must apply, she imagines- she adjusted the codes, tweaked the infrastructure on her own computer, saved it all to the drive.  And now she’ll be able to get into the locked files and secure her father some information far more valuable than the Cersei Lannister gossip.  

 Her toes tap and her fingers twitch with exhilaration- this is it, this is it, I’ll really prove myself now...

 So engrossed is she that she does not notice the door behind her swinging open, not until a low voice echoes through the empty office-

 “Still here, Alayne?”

 She shrieks, whirling her chair around.  Jaime stands in the doorway of his office, tie loosened and shirt untucked, a tumbler of scotch in one hand.  

 But no, I saw him leave for the museum gala, I called the car and got his tux...when did he have time to come back?  When I was in the bathroom, maybe...God, I should have checked his office first, stupid, stupid, stupid...

 She tries to push her self-loathing aside long enough to answer his question.  “Yes, Mr. Lannister.  Just trying to finish up the agenda for the next board meeting before the weekend.”

 “I appreciate your dedication,” he drawls with a smile.  “But can I persuade you to take a break?”

 He opens the door to his office wider and gestures to her to enter.  She hastily closes the open windows on her computer and complies, shutting the door behind her.  

 “Do you like scotch?” he asks.  She doesn’t really, but her brothers and uncle are fond of it, and she knows she can hold it down when necessary.

 When she nods, he fills another tumbler from a crystal carafe and hands it to her.  “It’s good, smooth.  Aged seventeen years.”  

She takes a sip, trying not to wince at the burn of the liquid as it courses down her throat.  

“Thank you.”  

He sits on the sofa at the corner of his office and nods pointedly to the space beside him.  As she lowers herself down, he removes his tie and tosses it on a side table, unfastening the top few buttons of his shirt.  Sansa fights to keep from staring at the glimpse of his chest left exposed...she takes another sip and regrets the squeakiness of her voice when she asks,

 “Why aren’t you at the gala?”

 Jaime replies with a dry laugh.  “I’m not in a very festive mood tonight.”  His eyes darken a bit, and Sansa is reminded of the calls she’d forwarded to him that day from the private investigator.   They still won’t tell him where she is, he has to hire his own detective...it’s insane.   

 She finds herself unable to keep the sympathy out of her expression when she nods.  His gaze sharpens, but his tone remains calm and still.

 “So, Alayne.  Are you enjoying yourself here?”

 “It’s a great opportunity for me.  I’m learning a lot.”

 “And what is it that you want to do?  What’s your big career dream?”

 Sansa answers with more candor than she originally intended.  “I want to go to business school, then become an analyst.  And eventually, I want to run a company like this one.”

 “Not exactly like this one, I hope,” he sniffs derisively.  “But you’re ambitious...everyone loves ambition here.  They eat, sleep, and shit ambition.”  

 He refills her glass before she has time to protest, and the hard set of his jaw prompts her to change the subject.

 She’s an easy conversationalist, and she turns the talk to music, art (he has an impressive collection), higher education.   He makes her laugh with stories of his undergrad fraternity days at Yale, recommends business schools (he went to Harvard himself, and she bites her lip to keep from revealing her acceptance and inundating him with questions).  And he keeps the liquor flowing, until Sansa drops her heavy head onto the back of the sofa, just a hairsbreadth away from his shoulder.

 “May I ask you something?”  She looks up at the clean profile of his face and breathes deeply, inhaling the scent of peat and alcohol and expensive cologne.

 “Whatever you like.”  

 “Why did you ask for me?  When you were picking an intern to help you, I mean.  Why me?”

 He reaches for her tumbler, and she relinquishes it.  After placing both his glass and hers on a nearby table, he reclines back against the sofa and runs a hand through his thick golden hair.  

 “It was what you said in the meeting that day.  About family...there are plenty of ambitious people around here, like I said.  Lots of smart people and driven people, but there aren’t a lot of compassionate people.”  He props his elbow on the back of the couch and leans closer; she can feel the warmth radiating from his body, and she inches nearer...

 “What you said...it was very human of you.  And that’s fucking refreshing.”

 Their knees are touching now; if she moves her head just a fraction, her brow will fall against his.  She sees the prickling of stubble along his jawline, the way his eyelashes become light at the tips. A lock of her hair falls across her face, and he reaches up to smooth it back behind her ear.  

 “You’ve got a lot of red in your hair,” he comments, twisting the strands around his finger.   “Very pretty.”

So, so tacky, a cutting voice reverberates at the back of her mind. Powerful executive trying to get into his young assistant’s pants...he honestly couldn’t be more cliche if he tried.

His mouth barely hovers over hers at this point. And she’s not sure whether it’s defiance against those bitter voices coursing through her head or simply a total lack of fear (a middle-aged guy acting inappropriate with an intern, even in this day and age...that’s just sad), but she figures that she has nothing to lose.

She tilts her chin up and brushes her lips against his.  Jaime cups her cheek in his hand, and the way he kisses her- soft, patient, gentle- stokes a fire in her belly, sending tingles up and down her limbs and between her legs.  

 Jaime’s tongue teases at the seam of her lips, and she opens her mouth for him willingly, knotting her fingers in his soft hair.  He massages her tongue with his, and when he wraps a strong arm around her and eases her down onto the sofa cushions, she’s almost embarrassed by the ease with which her legs fall to either side, giving him unambiguously-direct access.

 “Oh-” she sighs when she realizes that he’s settled his hips into the space between her thighs, his mouth lavishing attention on her neck, kissing and biting and sucking (enough to make her whimper and writhe, but not enough to leave marks- won’t have to break out the concealer, at least....).

It’s all moving along at an alarming pace, and the sensible side of Sansa, the one that regularly talked Arya down from her more fantastical flights of fancy and stopped Mya and Jeyne from becoming the subjects of especially-vicious high school gossip, urges her to slow things down-

“Mr. Lannister,” she begins (not very convincingly- she doesn’t actually want him to stop, although she knows it’s the right thing to do)-

“Jaime,” he pants into her skin, his tongue dipping into the groove of her collarbone.  “It’s Jaime.”

“Jaime,” she repeats- it’s a good name to whisper nearly breathless, a good name to sigh- she imagines herself screaming it as she comes, and she spreads her legs wider, quivering with anticipation.  

(And the practical part of her slinks into the wings, completely forgotten for the time being.)

Her nimble fingers slide between them, unfastening the buttons of his shirt.  Her hands roam over the perfectly-contoured muscles of his body, and she’s momentarily distracted by the thought of the personal-training appointments Jaime’s had her schedule for 4:30am every day. “Who gets up that early?” she’d asked Kevan’s assistant Joy after sharing this story at one of their impromptu mid-afternoon coffee breaks. Joy had replied with a smirk, rolling her green eyes as she muttered, “Someone with something major to prove.”

 He fingers the hem of her camisole, and she helps him pull it up over her shoulders, nearly surprised by her own lack of hesitation- she hasn’t been touched so intimately since she broke up with Harry almost a year ago, she should probably be more reluctant, more shy...

 But the way Jaime presses his face into her chest and softly kisses the tops of her breasts...the way he mouths her nipples through the thin cotton of her bra...the deft way he reaches beneath her to pull the hooks open- nothing like Harry at all.

 “You like that, don’t you?” he breathes as he scrapes his teeth over her left nipple.  She pulls his hair tight and whimpers in response, and he laughs, taking one breast in each hand and pushing them together until he can suck both nipples into his mouth at once.  

 She lets out a little peep of objection when he releases her breasts, but then his lips trail lower, skimming over her stomach, tongue swirling into her navel.  He lifts her skirt up and slides his fingers over her through her underwear, and she digs her nails into the leather of the sofa.

 When he replaces his fingers with his mouth, kissing her through her boy-shorts, she growls his name low in her throat, surprised by her own abandon. The tip of his tongue teases at her clit, and the warmth, the soft pressure, the friction of the fabric- she reaches down to grip his shoulder, scratching at the golden skin, while her other hand kneads her own breast.

 “Oh, please...”  she begins, but soon interrupts herself with a sigh of delight as he catches her underwear in his teeth and pulls them down her legs.  Jaime peppers soft kisses on her ankle, the inside of her knee, all up and down her inner thighs before spreading her folds and licking into her.  

 He’s slow and patient in his exploration, taking his time to discover the way she likes to be touched.  When he curls his fingers inside her just so, his tongue softly massaging her swollen outer lips before resting flat on her clit, she finds herself moaning just the way Harry always wished she would, bucking her hips up and feeling her wetness pool over his fingers and his lips.  

 He kisses his way back up her body and then captures her mouth- she licks her own release from his lips and tongue.  She can feel him pressed against her belly, and she quickly unbuckles and unbuttons until he’s in her hand, hot and hard.  Sansa kisses along his jaw and takes his earlobe in her mouth as she begins to stroke; her other hand pinches his nipple, and he grabs her hip tight and releases a breathy trail of obscenities.  

 Then she brings her hand to his face and looks him in the eye, those gorgeous cat’s eyes, set in this laughably-perfect face- “The Slayer”, they call him, he has no soul, no conscience...but would a man with no soul care so deeply for his disgraced sister?  Would a man with no soul place such a premium on compassion, on “human” behavior?  

 She kisses him again, hungrier than before, as she rubs the head of his cock against her.  He moans into her mouth- “Alayne”, and she tries not to feel a prick of sadness- and his hips start to shift-

 “Do you have a condom?” she thinks to ask him, just in time. His brows knit together, and she’s blessedly able to stop herself before she rolls her eyes. There’s something strangely vulnerable about him as he leans down to retrieve his wallet from the back pocket of his pants and fishes within until he finds a Trojan.

 “Not sure how long this has been there…” he begins, trying to sell the curve of his lips as a gesture of good humor...but he’s fragile in a way she can’t quite understand, and she chooses to be merciful.

She takes the rubber from him and tears the package open with her teeth, sprawling flat on her stomach to apply it with her mouth.

Once this crucial task is complete, she guides him into her and lifts her knees to her chest, savoring the deep thrusts, the hard grip of his hands on her thighs.

Jaime lifts her legs so that her ankles rest on his shoulders, and he lowers one hand to caress her, turning his head to kiss the side of her calf.  She comes again, even harder than before, and when he slides out of her, she wraps her hand around him and pulls off the condom before raining kisses over his shoulders and neck and chest until his ejaculate leaks over her fingers, pooling in the spaces between.

 They do not move right away, content to stay coiled around each other, exchanging leisurely kisses with generous tongue.  Sansa starts to truly consider what she’s done- this man is her father’s rival, a top executive in the company that Stark Incorporated is trying to destroy.

 And these facts shouldn’t make her want him more.  That’s childish nonsense...but there’s an appeal here that she can’t deny, can’t ignore.   Between the leather and the sandalwood and the musk and the scotch and this powerful, beautiful man sucking on her lower lip-

 But then she remembers the red zip drive conspicuously plugged into the side of her computer, and she pulls away.

 “I should finish up and go home,” she murmurs.  He does not object, but he keeps his arms around her as she tries to put her clothes back on, slowing down the process with his kisses and touches and wicked insinuations.

 After she slips her top back on and wraps her hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in for a deep kiss, he whispers,  “Come home with me.  I want to fuck you in the back of the town car-” He brushes his lips beneath her ear- “-and in the elevator-” His stubble scratches at her collarbone as he moves down- “-and in every room in my apartment.”  He gently squeezes her breast, and she shifts closer, nearly sitting in his lap-

 But then she stops.  She pulls away and stands, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt.

 “Not tonight,” she replies with a soft smile.  He looks disappointed, but when she reaches down to brush an errant lick of golden hair out of his eyes, she can feel him smile against the thin skin of her wrist.

 “We ought to clean ourselves up,” she says, watching as he tucks his cock back into his pants and crosses toward the closet.  He drops a kiss on her shoulder as he passes her, opening the closet door and retrieving a clean white dress shirt.

 “Very sensible, I’m sure.”  He slides the shirt over his arms, and the fabric clings to his sweat-dampened chest as he fastens the buttons.  

 Before she loses her wits entirely, Sansa hastens out the door, shutting it behind her.

   She gathers her things quickly, shuts off the lights, powers down her computer (but not before ejecting the zip drive and slipping it back into her purse).  

 Jaime emerges from his office a few minutes later in perfectly-clean clothes, briefcase in hand.  He approaches her, graceful steps putting her in mind of a lion stalking its prey.  When he closes in on her, his arm firmly wrapped around her waist, her lower back pressed against the desk, she feels that she wants to be ravaged and savaged and ripped apart.   Of course, she reflects as she observes a thin scratch on his neck, courtesy of her sharp fingernails, I’d be able to give plenty of my own back, too.

 “Will you let me drive you home, at least?” he asks, and she forces her head into a vehement shake.

 “No, thank you.  The cabs are lined up around the block at this hour.”  She tries to straighten her posture, but he holds her fast against the desk.  Just one more, she thinks as she pulls his face down to hers, the force of the kiss pushing her up onto the desk, her leg rising to wrap around him again-

 A clatter of metal, and they both look down- she’s knocked her stapler and tape dispenser onto the floor.  They separate, and she leans down to retrieve the supplies.  When she stands back up, Jaime places a thumb on her lips, just a gentle pressure.  

 “Good night, Alayne,” he whispers before turning on his heel and heading toward the elevator bank.  

 She waits by the window until she sees his town car pull away.  Only then does she leave; she opts against taking a cab, choosing instead to walk the thirty blocks to her parents’ townhouse.

 Sansa strolls out to the river park, walking along the water that frames the west side.  She slips a hand into her purse and closes it around the zip drive.  And then she thinks.

 Regardless of what just occurred between them (a #MeToo moment waiting to happen...she’s ashamed of the flippant nature of this thought, at the ease with which she left her own complicity out of the equation), Jaime seems to be a decent person.  And Genna is decent in her way, and Kevan and even Tyrion...is it fair, is it right to help her father tear their company up like this?  The information she’s stolen has the potential to obliterate Lannister Inc....  Can she...will she...?

 She rests her hand on the railing that separates the pathway from the water below.  The little red drive nestles in her fist, and she loosens her fingers-

 But instead, she returns the drive to the inner pocket of her purse.  Shutting the bag with a resolute zip, Sansa continues on her way home.  

[witchqueenofthemoon]

BODY AND SOUL Part 31 (Duncan Shepherd/Mackenzie Stone Millory AU)

Author’s Note: At this point I’m done with this fic besides the epilogue, which I’m going to write when I get back from this trip I go on starting tomorrow (Wednesday) through Sunday night; I’ll still try to get at least 32 up at some point over the next few days. A reminder that this is Kenzie’s dress in this part. Here’s the shirt Duncan’s wearing in the first part; this is the chevron shirt he’s wearing at Madeline’s later. Here’s Clair de Lune; had to put it in this story somewhere, it’s one of my favorite songs of all time (I want it played at my funeral, fun fact). Here is Chopin’s Nocturne. Not totally clear on what Frederick used to be for the Goddess in conjunction to his dream; but I know all seers (him, Rosemary) were her counselors in that heavenly place long ago. A reminder that I kiiiinda based the garden house property on this listing. Here’s the Medusa earrings Annette gives Madeline. Here’s the dress Annette is wearing at Madeline’s. This is Claire’s top at Madeline’s. A reminder that I based Kenzie’s ring on this one, but Kenzie’s has diamonds all around the moonstone. Duncan’s new driver Barry is based on B.D. Wong/Baldwin. GO YOUR OWN WAY does indeed cede into the achingly romantic SONGBIRD on the Fleetwood Mac album RUMOURS. I went with the natural cadence of the amount Duckenzie seemed to want me to write, as I have for the entirety of this fic; sometimes they give me lots of details, other times they give me the larger gist of things. I loved finally writing Madeline and Annette together; I always knew it would be when both their hearts have softened, I just didn’t know exactly when that was happening, but Duckenzie revealed things to me in time, as they always do. I’ll elaborate on this more at the end, but this fic has changed my life forever, and that is not hyperbole--I don’t know how quickly or easily I’ll finish the epilogue, because I’m going to be going through intense personal stuff very soon. In the meantime, enjoy this chapter, which is a pure delight, an oasis of sheer enjoyment. Editing it helped me escape from everything for a little while, hope it does that for you to if you need it. 

In the morning, when Duncan woke, Kenzie had been watching him from the edge of the bed with wide, concentrated eyes. She was wearing a black, short-sleeved flowing dress, with a dipping neck, a rippling hem that cascaded over her crooked leg, and bronzey buckles at her waist. She was eating granola with milk and raspberries in one of Adelaide’s silver dogberry bowls in her lap, her fingers curled around one of Adelaide’s silver spoons. Her strawberry-honey hair was hovering in a shaft of sunlight; his heart thumped  into his mouth to see that she was wearing the golden star-point headband in it, the one she’d worn so many nights ago, that first moment he saw on her a quiet rosy balcony. The black triple moon necklace was hanging in the white crook of her throat. High Princess, wherefore art thou mine.

“Spooky, baby,” he’d whispered, blinking at her. “What’cha looking at?”

“Sorry,” and she laughed a little, snorting down at the bowl. You just looked so lovely, my Endymion, drifted to him on a golden wisp of thought. She lifted another spoonful into her mouth, a raspberry in the center disappearing between her little lips, pink with moisture, the Cartier bracelet falling down her wrist. He stretched a hand towards her, full of need, letting a sleepy whine escape and fall against her. Kenzie slid down to him, her sweet smell crashing over him. He kissed her arm, the crook of her elbow, sighing in relief.

“I gotta go soon, baby,” she whispered. “I have to go talk to Candice about everything. Resigning. Starting my book. How we’re gonna buy the Post, now that the company is yours--but it’ll be hers to do whatever she wants with. I wanna give her full executive powers over it. It’s one of the ways we’re going to change things; with her help. I can feel it. Can you feel it? Like a current pulling us. It’s so strong now. When I woke up I felt like someone had dumped cold water on my face. Like I was really awake.”

Duncan felt a wave of her gold course against him; I feel it too. I see the shape of it. The shape of your knowing. And I believe in it, utterly. I trust you completely; I trust everything you feel; inside it is the clockwork, the rhythm of this world. I wonder how I ever overlooked it, High Princess. But now I see it. I see the hidden aspect of you. Your sweet, holy power. And your foresight to see what we need to do. I’m feeling that pull too.

“All that stuff we were saying to the reporters last night--that was being awake, wasn’t it?” He murmured, his voice heavy in sleep. Kenzie nodded.

“Yeah. It was Her...speaking through us, I guess you could say. Telling us and them what we need to do at the same time. Watch this, baby,” and Kenzie lifted a hand towards where his phone lay on the nightstand, and as his eyes glanced over to it, it zipped, as cleanly, quietly and neatly as a raindrop falling to earth, into her hand.

“Fuck,” he sighed. Art. The way she does it--uses it--it’s art. She is a work of art.

“I think I’ve got the hang of it. It’s about the telling. You tell the matter to move. Tell the air to pull it. You command it, with your will. Because you know you have...the right. You know you can do it, that the power was given to you for a purpose. That’s what it feels like.” She slid his phone into his hand, brushing against his fingers, her thoughts warm on his skin.

“That was so lovely, Kenz.” He lifted her little hand to his mouth; let his lips close over her fingertips, sucking gently. Your sweet little hands. Touch me.

“Unh, baby, stop that. Fuck,” and she sighed against him. He did not stop. He pulled her more insistently against him; let me taste you, flower of heaven.

Duncan Shepherd, we have shit to do. We have to save the world, remember? And don’t you have something important to pick up today?

Fuck, you’re right, Princess Kenzie. A moon, down from the sky, for you.

He kept his lips on her skin, lost in her softness, for another moment; drifted his fingers up the incline of her to the small space between her shoulders, marveling at her smallness, the delicate beauty of the shape of her, the curving wonder of her thighs, the dress pushed up. Last night he’d clutched her so close, his mouth against the dip of her throat, her head above his on the pillow--her arms so small, and yet so vast, so very much my home, the entirety of the universe therein. Every sunrise, every sunset, every ocean, every night of stars, every soft rain, every thing that has ever made me laugh or cry. All beauty. In her arms.

Kenzie leaned down, kissing him with a long, slow knowledge, her mouth sweet with almond, oat and fruit; Duncan saw a pale vision of drifting moons as she did, an echo of last night. So many moons; our story happening in so many ways, and yet so constantly. In so many worlds I have loved you. In so many worlds I love you now, beside this one, beside us, at this moment.

“Momby wants everyone to come over around 5,” Kenzie murmured, smiling. She pulled her hand away from his kisses, but he could see the green that had seeped into her gaze, the want there. “I’m so excited to see Claire, baby. So excited to tell her. To see her happy, too.” She hovered over him for a moment and Duncan leaned towards her from where he lay; turning his chin into her as she moved away, her loss a stab into the center of him. Don’t go, don’t go, sweet Princess. But she did; Kenzie drifted off the bed, her eyes dancing at him over her shoulder. Your happiness is the only thing I want in this world, Mackenzie Stone.

“I think I might start looking for the garden house today,” he said softly, eyes falling down her hair and the floating fabric of her dress, glancing to her silhouette in their Mirror. It shimmered; as is its way, he thought, a winking memory of our long past. How many times have we worshiped each other in front of it, the fibers of that strange sphere ingrained in its frame? How many times have I watched you in it this way, stunned by you?

“Send me everything, please?” Kenzie turned back to him, her eyes suddenly wet. “Anything you find. I want to see.”

Duncan sat up, pushing himself to the edge of the bed, ruffling his fingers through his hair, watching her, thoughtful. “I think I have a place in mind, actually--well, the idea of a place. But I want to make sure no one bought it yet before I show you. I can’t bear the thought of you loving it and not being able to have it. It was a place my grandmother took me once. An old place. Very old, and quiet, and secluded, and special. I think maybe it was one of those places, like the oak circle--” The Veil, he thought. That’s where we’ll make our home. That’s where we’ll settle into the sweetness of this life. In a place where our magick is strongest, brightest, and closest to Her. “--I mean, I think it was my destiny to go there, now that I know...about everything. About us. And about the in-between places.”

“I’m sure it was, Dunny,” she whispered in reply. She hovered there a few feet away--she dipped her head, looking down from his eyes, and the golden stars in her headband glinted, and he thought Star of Heaven, and heard her own thoughts, flowing against him: I love you too much, sometimes it almost hurts me to look at you, Evening Star.

Please look at me again, my sweet High Princess. I beg you. I’ll take your hurt away, give it to me. I’ll hold all of it for you if you’ll just look at me. He stared at her, hand trailing at his chin, along the prickle of there, contemplating the silken hair brushing her cheek, the fall of the dress against her, the bare rise of her legs, her delicate fingers holding the now-empty bowl, the low blush on her cheeks. Her eyes came up--he watched them skirt over the flowers above the headboard, still avoiding him. There were two bunches of roses now, one of peonies, one of the sacred wildflowers. I’ll get you so many more, baby, he thought, in agony to have her so close and yet out of reach. Enough to cover every wall in this penthouse. Enough to cover the floor and every space and every nook and every inch of this place. And your house--your garden house, your dream, my beloved--will be a shrine to your name alone. And there will be so many flowers there; we’ll make it the Garden of All Delights here on earth, the garden where your heart will always be safe. That place will belong to you, and I will be blessed to be held in it; held in your temple, at your flowery altar.

“Oh, Duncan,” she breathed, and the bowl fell out of her hands--it dropped, dully, on the carpet, and she was in his arms now, her cheek crushing against the bristle on him, her voice a lilting song in his ear. “This is what I’m going to write about, baby. About being loved so much--about being loved by you...”

“You’ve healed my soul, Kenzie--” his mouth shivered against her as she slid flush to him, straddling him, the fabric of her dress brushing into his naked crotch, the soothing weight of her breasts crushing into his chest, and she kissed him, open-mouthed, bleeding his words into intoxicated thought--saved me from the darkness. In that other world, I was lost to the void, and you saved me still. But here, in this place, in this halo of blessed light, you snatched me from the jaws of it before it could take me away from you, miraculously, and your gift is incalculable to me--your love so holy I could never worship you enough--

Her scent devoured him, and inside it, he melted into her; roses, vetiver, geranium. My Prince, I would do it a thousand times. I have. I will. Because I love you. And in the grace of this love, I am forever yours.

--------

Harris had arrived too soon--always too soon--with the entourage of escorts from the previous day. Duncan had watched Kenzie with badly-veiled concern as she stepped into her wedge heels--he’d hurriedly grasped the wrappings at her ankles, insistent to tie them--and she leaned down to kiss him, uncaring of their audience. Her smile and thoughts were calm, and he tried to share her peace of mind. You know better than I do.

Trust me, Duncan. Her eyes flashed with gold. Look for the secret place where we’ll build the garden house. It’s calling to us. I can feel it. I can’t see the shape of it, but you can. You’ll be the one to bring it to life. That’s your task--to will it into reality while we build this new world.

Yes, Kenzie. Yes. He felt the rightness in her words; the destined fiber of them. I can see the shape of it. You’re right. Like the outline of your hair in the sun; like your halo.

“I’ll see you in a few hours, Mr. Shepherd, don’t worry so,” she whispered onto his bottom lip, and Duncan shut his eyes; sighed against her.

“I’ll have the moon for you when I see you again,” he replied. He could feel Harris’ eyes on them particularly; the other security were all looking away, seemed to be highly interested in literally anything besides the two of them, trained to be discreet above all else. But Harris’ face was bright with emotion, in spite of all his training; Duncan had glanced to him a moment go, noticed his face turned earthwards, a sincere smile of happiness playing at his mouth, his eyes floating up to their embrace, then away to try to hide his interest. Duncan thought of the reporter who had clutched Kenzie’s hand yesterday with tears in her eyes. Thank you for showing your love to all of us.

“Shall we go now, Miss Stone?” Harris seemed to know he needed to give them the cue to break apart, or it might never happen. Kenzie sighed against Duncan’s black, collared shirt for a long moment, fingers toying with one of the buttons. Duncan thought, wildly, of pulling her into the bedroom with him and slamming the door behind them, throwing her on their black bed in passionate abandon; fuck the world, he thought. I only want you.

But then she let go of him, and his heart ached for the moment she would return to his arms (wrapped against me, the rightness of you), and her little smile broke him into a thousand drifting pieces of blue and gray ash. Bring me your tribute when we meet again, beloved, her eyes spoke. You are exalted in my eyes. He shivered, stepping to the door behind her, the flowers for Candice now gathered in her little arms; he watched the fall of her hair, its sway as she walked ahead of the swarm of bodyguards now surrounding her, Harris directly behind her, his hand lifted protectively near her shoulder, hovering. The Young Royals, Duncan thought, and shivered again. Now, everyone sees her divinity, not just me. She’s the Queen of Roses in my heart--but she will always be the High Princess to all, and her power grows in this world with time. Rosemary called her a Supreme, whatever that means--The Supreme, golden beyond imagining. I think I sort of know what it means. Kenzie turned in the elevator, surrounded by black suits (gold in the darkness) and blew him an aching kiss (I count the hours until you return to me, Persephone), the moons at her neck shining in the warm lights, the flowers a bursting vision of color around her little face as the door slid shut, whisking her away.

It means she is the savior of humankind. And what did Rosemary call me? Her consort. She said if I bend myself to her, others will see and do the same. And so I am her adorer. That’s how I can repay what she has done for me; how I can thank her for saving me, for the light she’s given me. I’ll worship her all my days.

He thought again of the quiet, serene stretch of field Adelaide had taken him to as a child, her stories to him of exploring its long-dilapidated farmhouse as a little girl, playing among the wildflowers that grew inside, heedless to the danger of a fallen-down structure. There was such peace here, he remembered her saying as she held his hand, her elegant voice quiet in the cool dusk, a scarf wrapped around her slender chin, her eyes misty in the lavender-and-rose-tinted sunset. There still is. Duncan had been no more than a child himself when she took him there; they’d been having a day together, the way he used to with her, where they’d drive around rural Maryland to admire the scenery, away from the attentions of the city, and to buy fresh milk and butter and ice cream from her favorite dairy farm. Again he wished she could have met Kenzie; grandma, you would have loved her. You would have held her close to you and breathed in her scent and felt her gold and loved her so much. I wish you could be there on our wedding day--I wish you could somehow know that I’m going to have our house built on that special spot--that Thin Place--where you played as a little girl, among the flowers, reborn from the decay.

Duncan toyed with the Cartier bracelet on his wrist, his finger tracing the outline of the circles carved into it--he glanced across the kitchen to Kenzie’s plants at the window, their greenery scattered in sunlight. He moved to the dining room, going to the chest in the corner, rifling through its contents until he found a box of thin gold ribbons and another box of tiny, elegant white folding note cards with embossed gold Shepherd crests stamped on their surface, pulling one out. He went back to the island, his thoughts full of the sweet crook under Kenzie’s ear, the softness of her mouth, and tied the ribbons around the bunches of flowers that remained--one for Madeline, one for Claire, and one for the housekeepers who he knew would be arriving to do their quiet work in the penthouse in a few hours’ time. With a fountain pen he wrote in his neat, elegant handwriting on one of the notecards.

Dear Housekeepers,

Thank you from the bottom of our hearts for the impeccable work you do. It means everything to us. Please know that your hard work in this space never goes unnoticed. These flowers are a special token of our affection; as for our gratitude, please accept the incentive I’ve enclosed. It will be the first of many, and for its lateness, I apologize deeply.

Our sincerest thanks to you-- Duncan and Mackenzie Shepherd.

Mackenzie Shepherd. He felt dizzy with the pleasure of the way it looked. My wife. My partner in this life. My beloved.

Duncan went to his Ferragamo wallet and pulled out four crisp $100 bills; two each for the duo of housekeepers he knew frequented the penthouse, tucking them into the notecard. He knew there would be time to check on salaries in the company later, but for now, his heart was so full, he needed to start somewhere. Annette had long-ago purchased the penthouse on a whim, so technically all of its employees were beholden to Shepherd Unlimited. Well, the entirety of Shepherd Unlimited’s staff is getting a serious raise, he thought. Bill Shepherd, your reign is at an end.

Duncan arranged the flowers neatly on the island with the notecard, gathering the others into his arms to put them in a vase in the sink for now until Madeline’s party later tonight; despite not having been in water all night, though, they still looked as fresh as if Kenzie had just picked them. Then he slid the Givenchy sunglasses by the front door over his eyes and called the Shepherd family’s private car service. I guess it’s finally time for us to get a second driver, he thought with some disappointment. Would that we had two Samuels. He’d always liked calling his own cars via pick-up services, but as he knew well, the world had changed for them. Whatever happened with those pictures while we were away is very potent. In a way, we truly are royalty now. The trade-off to the change in everything is we are now charged with immense responsibility and a consuming lack of anonymity. We have a responsibility that extends over everything. Our magic is a blessing, but it’s also a task.

As Duncan made his way downstairs, his thoughts drifted back toward Kenzie. Mackenzie Shepherd. He thought of the way her name had looked as he wrote it; wanted to write it again and again like a love-struck high schooler in a notebook. My wife. My beautiful wife. My golden-haired, amber-voiced wife, gentle as summer rain. I can’t fucking stand it. I feel like I’m on fire, melting into the center of the sun. She said she would marry me. Kenzie said she would fucking marry me. That angel I saw on the balcony among the roses, moonlight in her hair, eyes turned to heaven. Persephone, under whose feet grow endless blossoms. Coming down to where I dwelt in shadows and kissing blue flowers into my eyes.

As Duncan passed Anchaly at the front desk, he noticed the man had put the flowers Kenzie had given him in a silvery vase on his desktop. He was still reading The New Adam and Eve, and this time the title struck Duncan queerly. That’s us, isn’t it. The new world. Anchaly glanced up at him, but said nothing, giving him a little nod, an omniscient smile playing around his friendly face. The flowers were stunningly bright and noticeable in the man-made opulence of the foyer; their organic beauty was staggering.

Among the cold wealth of Hades, Duncan thought, Persephone’s flowers bloomed through cracks of dark gold. But now my heart is that of Dionysus; my desire for beauty and joy is endless in her arms. So I’ll throw stars into the sky for her, my Ariadne; I’ll bring the moon down to adorn her.

--------

It was several hours later; Duncan was in the backseat of a Mercedes, another car of security behind him (god, that’s a new feeling, he’d thought on the way--The Young Royals, me and my six bodyguards), and his hands were shaking. He had set the little black velvet Tiffany box on the seat next to him, overwhelmed by it for a moment, needing to look away; Debussy’s Clair de Lune was drifting from the stereo. Fitting, he thought. An ode to the moon. And so therein my heart lies. His finger drifted over the ring box’s smooth surface, biting his lip. How I long to see you. Minutes feel like hours away from you. Hours feel like days. He nervously brought the box back into his lap, lifting the little lid, staring down into his lap, breathing in through his nose (1, 2, 3), out through his mouth (1, 2, 3) in a long, shaking sigh.

The ring inside was more beautiful than he’d dared to dream; looking at it again now, it was the most flawlessly exquisite piece of jewelry he’d ever seen. And it came from my own thoughts--my thoughts of her. Highest of all Princesses. He’d described it to the jewelers in a fever that he barely remembered; his mouth seemed to know how to describe it without him being fully conscious of himself, and here it was, somehow.

It was a moonstone; iridescent and creamy, as round as the face of the moon itself, its swirling depth akin to a sweet liquid made still. Around the perfect round stone were eight perfectly round, minute diamonds, framing it in a delicate, glittering nimbus. The band was pure rose gold, intricate and elegantly thin. It belongs on her hand, always. It was made especially for her, guided by the hand of the Goddess. I can feel it. In that far-flung place of cosmic wonder, She was the one who guided my thoughts to this. This lovely thing that will always be the symbol of my love for her in this life.

A half hour ago, sitting on a low velvet couch in a private showroom at Tiffany & Co., his breath had been instantly snatched away by it; if I was going to only see the ring in my dreams, I would have dreamt this exactly. I would not have hoped it could have ever been real. But now--life is no longer confined to reality, is it. Now, life is extraordinary, brimming with magic, purpose, and love. Now my life has turned to fortune far beyond anything I had before. Mackenzie Stone, light of my soul. To give this to you--a pure token of my love, made in the image of my thoughts of you, the image of your soul to me. I’m beside myself. And I’m going to do it with the people we love the most. He heard the ragged quality of his own breath, felt the painful reverberations of his own heart, soft piano in his ears, the image of her hazel eyes piercing his thoughts. This is what it is to feel alive. To be crushed by the weight of something--someone--so beautiful. To be moved by it, by her, endlessly--every fiber of my body, every hidden place in my soul, shaken by hers, her thoughts, her loveliness, her spirit of soft gold. He tried to rehearse his own words to her in the heat of the moment soon to come, but his mind was overcome, awash in the image of blue butterflies bursting into the sky, snow tinged with golden firelight. You and I. Me and you. What are words when there are the colors of our souls in each other’s minds this way. I know you’ve accepted me, but I’ll still ask you every day. Because every day is more precious than all the wealth in every world, so long as it’s with you.

When Duncan had pulled his Black AmEx from his wallet to give it to the jeweler, two wilting red rose petals had fallen from the side-pocket onto his thigh. He’d slid them into his palm, staring down at them, lost for a moment; from the roses in her hair--that night of the full moon, magic heavy in the air, and every force that tried to rend us failing utterly in the light of the higher wonder that is our love. How could I ever have doubted any of it? The surety of Destiny. The deepness of Fate. Everything I’ve ever done has led me to now; has led me to the halo of her perfect love, to my purpose; to do good with my fortune and spread this light to others, to love her with every part of my being that grows continually under her grace. It never grows smaller, and that’s the wonder of it; the more I love her, the more I feel her love, the more love we have to give to everyone and everything else--a wave that gathers more water, time after time, and then becomes an ocean of light.

A text chimed from Duncan’s phone, and he pulled it out of his pocket; it was the Shepherd family’s long-standing real estate agent.

Hamilton Realty: The land is available. Apparently it’s remained unsold for several decades now, despite its prime location and its vast acreage (16 to be exact). Very unusual. No word about haunted activity, which is usually the culprit for stuff like that, just seems to be chance. Your lucky day. I can head over there today and take some photos. Beautiful day for it. It’s truly a lovely piece of land. You could really do something extraordinary with it.

Oh, I plan to, Duncan thought, typing back a short reply of thanks.

And it’s not chance, he knew. It’s our destiny to have it. The way it was our destiny to find each other. The way it’s our destiny to always find each other; in every hidden place. To see each other, despite every shadow, every obstacle, every thing, minute or vast, that would attempt to stop us. Because as it was long ago, it’s our decision now to love each other. And in that decision, we have carved our own Fate out of the fabric of time, woven by her three sets of hands, being woven still, written and yet unwritten, told and yet still untold, the story of us endless and immovable and yet happening again and again and changed each time. Michael, Rosemary called me, lost to darkness. Mallory is what she called Kenzie; saving me by killing me, so we could start over, so I’d be reborn, so I’d be redeemed.

His finger trailed over the smoothness of the moonstone, watching the diamonds dance in the sun as the car traveled back to the penthouse, where he knew the otherworldly flowers waited for Madeline and Claire. The sun and the moon. Always together. The way you’re always with me, Kenzie, even if you are away from me. As I love you, so you are the constancy in every thing. The way you hold me in the dark. The tiny comfort of your fingers, your lips. I can’t wait to read what you write. I can’t wait for you to share your heart with the world. It has staggered me every day since I first beheld it. And they will be staggered by it, too. They will see all the sincerity of your radiant light. They will all see what has changed this world. The grace in your beloved heart. You.

His phone chimed.

Kenzie: Oh my goddess, baby. You should have seen Candice’s face when she saw those flowers, she almost burst into tears. I felt like she knew immediately how special they are. And when I told her what we’re doing with the Post!!!! We both cried but they were mostly happy tears. She’s sad I’m leaving though. I am too. I want to write one last piece for them. About our plan for Shepherd Unlimited. Candice is going to have it printed on a full page. And they’re going to print your interview alongside it. Both of us together.

Duncan typed. That’s perfect, baby. I love you so fucking much. Whatever you write is going to be exactly the right thing, I know it. Can I give the ring to you with everyone else there at Madeline’s? Is that okay? If you don’t think it’s perfect we can fix it. I just want everyone to fucking see. I just want everyone to be there.

He went to add more, but Kenzie replied immediately. Yes. I know, Dunny. I do too. You don’t need to explain. I know exactly what you mean. Everyone would love to see you give it to me, I think. I love you too. My Evening Star.

He couldn’t help it; maybe it’s selfish to want to show everyone our love this much, but...something tells me it isn’t. The way people react to us, as if we’ve given them something too, just by their witness--I want everything leading up to our wedding to be like that. If it’s a gift for people to see our love, if we can give them love in that way too, then we’ll show it to them whenever we can.

A reminder came up on his phone with a whistle and he glanced down at it. Ariadne at Sotheby’s next week. Starting bid is $25 million. See about withdraw prior to auction. He went into his phone, finding a contact. Frederick Stapleton. The phone rang twice, then he heard the small breath of the older man, imagined him leaning on the spindly silver cane as he bent over the phone.

“Duncan Shepherd,” Frederick breathed. Something in his voice made Duncan smile; he drifted a finger over the moonstone on his thigh again. “I trust you’ve been well. Word of your fortune has reached even me, an avoidant of all things technological.”

“Frederick. I’m sure I don’t need to say this, but...life is so beautiful.”

“As you say, Mr. Shepherd. How is the Mirror?”

As if it’s alive. In a way, he’s right. It is. It’s part of us; the living thing inside it is the reflection of our love in it, always. That Sphere that was lost, its dazzling fragments ingrained in it, reflecting us, reflecting a place beyond our reach, but real--out there, beyond the stars, the place where She resides.

“Perfect.”

“Just so.” Duncan could hear the smile in the other man’s voice, the knowledge. “To retain it for you was my privilege.”

Oh, goddess, Duncan thought, and knew. You have truly been its retainer, haven’t you. That was Her Will. You have been its protector for a long time. And you know that. You, like Rosemary, are a seer. And you always have been.

“Thank you, Frederick. For keeping it safe for us.”

Frederick was silent on the other end, and Duncan felt acutely that his silence was full of emotion--it washed over him like a shining, silvery rain.

“It has been my honor, Evening Star.”

Oh. Duncan’s voice shook as he spoke again.

“And her? The High Princess. Did you know? Frederick, did you know who she was right away?”

“Not in so many words. But I felt all of it, I’ve felt your coming for a long time, though I didn’t know it--and last night, I dreamt of the world beyond this one, where your love for each other lived in a perfect tandem, in line with the woven fabric of time…” The older man’s warm voice trailed off. “There’s nothing more I can say, Mr. Shepherd. I’m moved beyond words today.”

“That’s okay, Frederick. I understand. I really do. I have one more favor to ask of you.”

“Anything.” My Flaming Sword. Frederick didn’t say this, but Duncan felt it from him nonetheless, over miles, through the phone’s smooth surface. We called you that, once. In that place beyond time. And your glory was astounding to us. Your bravery, goodness and beauty beyond all description. Duncan’s heart pounded heavily in his ears. You were our Prince. As she was, and will always be, the Highest of all Princesses.

“Waterhouse’s Ariadne is going up for auction at Sotheby’s next week. I want it. It’s a birthday gift for her--for Mackenzie. The price is irrelevant. I’d like to put down an offer before it goes up--$30 million. If they want more, I agree to it. Whatever it is. There is no object.”

“Very good, Mr. Shepherd. I’ll contact you again after I speak to Linus over there. I know he’ll be pleased to hear you’re interested. How is The Youth of Bacchus, by the way? It’s been too long since last I laid eyes on it. Acquiring it for you is still one of my greatest achievements.”

“As colossally lovely as ever. She adores it. The way she stares at it would break your heart, Frederick.”

“I can only imagine. It is singular in its majesty. But all arts pale in comparison, I think, to what you share together. The greatness of it is beyond me. I feel that acutely.”

“You’ll meet her soon. I’ll bring her to see you, Frederick. I want to show her the peacock, she’s going to love it so much. She is the loveliest being on earth. We’re getting married--” Duncan’s voice hitched with tears.

“As you are meant to, of course. What a beautiful wedding that will be.”

“Expect an invitation.”

“All the blessings of Her Grace be on you, Prince Exultant.”

Duncan lowered the phone from his ear, knowing Frederick had hung up. Soft Chopin was drifting from the speaker now; Nocturne, its cascading piano an achingly gentle knife, sliding into his heart. This is you, Kenzie. Your hair. Your eyes. The softness of your skin. The soft drift of your little clothes. The shiver of tears on your cheeks. In every meticulous work of art, you. In every flowering field, every facet of wild nature, you. He contemplated the shape of the wedding ring soon to rest around the finger on his left hand. Nocturne drifted in his mind as he imagined, almost saw, there, could just see the shape of the rose gold band that he would wear there forever, the one he knew, acutely, that he’d be buried in in this life, when he died. And Kenzie’s will have a ring of tiny diamonds, he knew. Like our bracelets, mine in gold, hers in diamonds and gold. I can see them. I can see the moonstone and her diamond wedding ring together, the flash of them on her little hand as she tucks her hair behind her ear, leaning over her writing desk in our garden house, leaning down to her flowerbeds with a watering can.

For a moment, in the low sunlight of the afternoon, he felt another vision wash over him; one of them laughing at a long table covered in candles and peonies and tiny green succulents (oh, Kenzie)--he couldn’t see himself, but felt that his fingers were clutched over his eyes as tears leaked from them in his mirth. I’m laughing at Madeline, he thought. Madeline said something fucking funny, as is her way, and everyone is beside themselves. In the vision he saw Kenzie’s face, her little mouth open and teeth shining out as she laughed, one hand in a little fist clutched against her cheek, the other tightly twined through his between the golden-armed chairs they sat in, under some shadowed awning, the light low and precious. He could see the rings on their fingers he’d imagined moments before; saw that his was the gold he’d seen, with an angular, elegant framing, and hers, a thin band of tiny diamonds alongside the moonstone ring he now held in his lap in the Mercedes. He couldn’t see the shape of her dress, somehow--only the outline of the crown in her hair, a cascading veil falling from it with the glinting, delicately embroidered shapes of the cosmos in gossamer white--tiny stars, crescent moons, sunbursts. The crown was made of golden leaves, pale pink peonies and burgundy blushing rose buds, and around them glinted tiny rose and clear quartz points, catching in a light beyond his eyes as she dipped her honey-colored head, her laughter infinitely lovely to him. Duncan knew the scene was real--not a dream, no, a vision of the future. The knowledge made him press his fingertips against his chin, trailing his index finger along the rise of his bottom lip, lost inside it; lost in its unfading charm. Duncan felt a nostalgia; a melding of present, future, and past, and knew, inside his confusion, that it was Her, the Goddess. The Fates, showing him how eternal They were, how this moment, that seemed to be ahead of him, was in fact now, and also behind him, and also beside him.

In Her wisdom, time is meaningless. She made it; she can unmake it. The moment we are together, any moment, every moment--for it is a moment, a blink, and also too long to comprehend, and neither--is a moment that never ends. Not really. And this moment, laughing together, laughing at Momby, the funniest person on earth, all the love inside it, cosmic in its depth, ageless and always; this moment is already here, and it lives in my heart forever.

-----

A few hours later, Duncan was stepping out of the Mercedes, clutching the bundles of wildflowers in his arms with gentle hands, in front of Madeline’s warm and inviting brick house. The heat was deep, having drifted from the afternoon into a hazy hint of new sunset; it clung to Duncan’s skin with immediacy. He had changed into jersey shorts and a short-sleeved button down with tiny chevrons printed on it, his Yves sunglasses pressed to his eyes, but the heat seeped into him nonetheless; he could feel it gathering under his hairline at the back of his neck, feel it on his upper lip, nestling between the fibers of the stubbly hair on his cheeks, kindling his nervousness. She already said yes, you idiot, he thought to himself. Oh god, what if the ring isn’t perfect. What if she hates it. And I’m showing it to her for the first time in front of everyone. Oh, fuck. What the fuck were you thinking.

He felt in his pocket for the ring box, the Cartier bracelet sliding down against the top of his palm, staring at Madeline’s warmly-lit house, hearing the faint sound of music from the deck in the backyard, the hint of laughter--Claire, he knew, then heard the very soft notes of Kenzie’s voice, replying to Claire’s laughter, her own words tinged with an unknown amusement. Mackenzie Louise Stone, please fucking marry me. It didn’t matter if he’d already seen a vision of their wedding. It didn’t matter how many times he felt in his heart that they had been together for a very long time, and that he’d loved her for eons beyond his own imagining. I’m still afraid to lose her. Because that’s the cycle of it, isn’t it? Someday we’ll die and have to start over. Someday we’ll have to find each other again. I see the shape of it. I see how it must be. But even contemplating that parting, however long or brief it is each time, how much I miss her, unknowing, unaware that it’s her, each time. Me in the circle alone that night, not knowing what any of it meant, but feeling her out there, and longing for her so deeply. It’s agony and ecstasy. That’s the way its been for hundreds, thousands of years. Maybe a lot longer. Rosemary said there are infinite universes. Who knows how long some of them have existed.

Whoa, Duncan. Time to have a margarita. That’s enough of that for one day.

He stepped, in comfortable black loafers, across the gravel drive towards the side of the house. He waved a little to his new driver as he did, indicating the man could come back later. His name was Barry, and he was Chinese-American, of an indeterminate age, with slender, boxy glasses and a friendly, serene smile.  Duncan thought he looked oddly familiar, but couldn’t place his face no matter how hard he tried to remember it. Barry nodded to him, giving a little wave in return, and slowly backed the Mercedes from the drive.

It’ll be strange not having Samuel as my driver as often anymore, Duncan thought, but it only makes sense for him to be Kenzie’s personal driver. He adores her and would do anything for her, and I want her to feel as safe and happy as possible as she transitions into a wider role for the organization. I know it’s hard for her to give up the Post. But I also know it’s her dream to write this book--and I know she’s the most important aspect of us being able to do anything we’re dreaming about with the company. Anything that makes this easier on her is something I’m more than willing to give up if need be.

Besides, I like Chopin and Debussy. Barry has good taste. I feel like being so close to Kenzie all the time is making me constantly see the wonderful things in other people; the things I maybe wouldn’t have payed attention to before. He felt it again; that washing nostalgia, of time falling in on itself, expanding, distorting into a whirlwind of the outlying thing beyond time, full of grace, far too beautiful and vast to conceive, and yet always around them, holding them in its woven threads. He saw the thread again--gold tinged with blue--that tethered him to her, dragged him, pliant, into her arms. He heard another burst of laughter as the music became more distinct (blackbird singing in the dead of night...take these broken wings and learn to fly...all your life you were only waiting for this moment to arrive); its earnestness was unmistakably Kenzie’s, her snorting yelp rising over the humid air to push a shiver of affection down his spine. As he turned the corner with the flowers he could see the outline of her golden hair bouncing as she ran across the yard on bare feet, away from Claire who was chasing after her, in cut-off denim shorts and a wrapping peach blouse covered in soft pink flowers, and a round red water balloon poised in a raised fist. Duncan could see that Claire’s blonde shag and her cheek were damp, rivulets of water falling down her neck. Uh oh, payback time.

Kenzie turned, laughing, her mouth poised up to the sky; for a moment she glanced across to Claire, who advanced on her, and then Kenzie seemed to sense him, to see him from the spot where he stood very still, gazing at her with his hands full of flowers. Her head turned, the chestnut silk of her hair whipping along her shoulder, and she let out a little scream of happiness towards him that made his nerves sing.

“Dunny!” She called out, and then she was racing towards him, her little teeth peeking from her slender mouth, her eyes bright, cheeks flushed. She fell against him softly, careful not to crush the flowers--he clutched at her arms, tucking his mouth against hers, awash in the sweet scent of her sweat and the sunlight on her skin and the rose of her.

“Hi baby,” he whispered, and she hopped back on her toes, eyes on him, full of jade and tiny golden droplets, still gripping his fingers. “I missed you today.”

“Don’t let Claire get me!” she replied, laughing again, slipping around him as Claire came up to him, panting, at a slow jog. Duncan held one of the bundles in his arms out to Claire, and her face changed from her expression of frustrated amusement to one of wonderment.

“Oh my god,” she said, reaching out insistently, almost involuntarily. “Holy shit, these are so gorgeous. Are these from that circle you told me about, Kenz? The one with the flowers growing in spirals?”

“Yes, Clairebear, yes. Loooook at them,” Kenzie breathed, and her little arms came around Duncan’s waist, her face burying itself in his shirt. He leaned his mouth down to her temple, pressing tiny kisses there, loving the scent of her sweat there, the saltiness of it on his mouth. “Aren’t they the most beautiful flowers you’ve ever seen? And look, they haven’t wilted at all.”

“They really haven’t, wow,” and Claire leaned her face down into the bouquet Duncan had handed her. Her bouquet had a ring of goldenrods, looking as fresh as if Kenzie had just picked them, with what seemed like a hundred of the alyssums in purple and pink in the middle, and three huge magenta-colored fuschias in the center. Duncan watched Kenzie’s sweet little face soften towards her best friend, felt the drift of her complete happiness. My Clairebear.

Did you tell her yet? He thought down to her.

No, not yet. I was waiting for you. And her expression of soft sincerity moved to him; her eyes were so wide and had such depth, he could barely stand to look into them. Princess Kenzie. I have such a tribute for you. Such a sweet delight for your blessed eyes. I can’t wait to give it to you. Her gaze flickered; the gold seemed to seep into them, and she bit her lip with a smile.

Give me my present, Prince Duncan. Give me my present, baby.

Soon, baby, soon.

“Duncan--” and Claire’s voice dragged them out of their repose. “--you really need to assign Kenzie her own PR team. Or help her choose her own. Or something. I’m getting calls every day from people trying to interview me about her. It’s insane. DUNCAN, MAKE IT STOP.” She was laughing, but the last part came out as a strangled plea.

“Claire, I promise, now that I’m in charge of Shepherd Unlimited, Kenzie will have the most flawless PR team on the east coast. I’m sorry anyone’s been bothering you--I’ll make sure that stops.”

Claire gave him a look of mock relief. “Well, thank you, Mr. Shepherd. I admit, I am selfishly motivated. I want my phone to stop ringing, it gives me fucking anxiety.”

“Dunny--you know who I want to ask?” Kenzie tugged on his elbow and looked down at her. Stay right there, baby. I love you so close, tucked against me. “That girl from Vanity Fair. River Tsukamoto. I loved her. I wonder if she’d leave the magazine if we offered her a pay raise.”

“Baby, if you want her, we’ll get her. We’ll make her an offer she can’t pass up.”

Duncan glanced up to the deck as he heard the door slide open, turning away from her, intent to tease her for just a little longer; Madeline had just come out with a tray of icy tumblers of margarita in her hands, each garnished with a lime wedge and line of salt around the rim. She wore red-rimmed glasses today and a tee shirt that said I LIKE BIG BOOKS AND I CANNOT LIE, a long black spandex skirt falling to her ankles, sparkly, colorful bracelets on her wrist--Erik followed behind her in a feather boa in iridescent cobalt blue, and a blazer covered in bronzey sequins (Duncan noticed he was not wearing a shirt underneath), a bowl of tortilla chips in one hand, a huge mixing bowl of guacamole in the other. Harris shyly followed at the rear, holding the massive tray of hard and soft-shelled tortillas. Duncan noticed a vast spread of taco toppings of all varieties on a long fold-out table they’d pulled onto the deck; shredded cheeses and lettuce, shrimp, shredded chicken, crumbled beef, tofu, diced tomatoes, pickled jalapenos and radishes, roasted corn, Mexican-style rice, a huge bowl of spicy-looking salsa and at least five different kinds of hot sauce. Duncan’s stomach rumbled and Kenzie glanced up at him, grinning.

“Oy, you three!” Madeline spotted them, cocking her head up to them, then down at the margaritas. “Come make this tray lighter, Momby’s orders.” Kenzie broke away from him (come back, baby) and he followed after her, admiring the fall of her hair again, imagining the peony and rose crown in it (gold leaves, tiny crystals). Claire was already back on the deck, shyly coming up to Harris (who, Duncan noted, was wearing a tropical shirt covered in palm trees) and going up on her toes to kiss his cheek--the sincere smile that crossed Harris’ face was enough to melt the heart of anyone who witnessed it. Besotted, Duncan thought. That’s a mood, Harris. There is so much beauty in everything, and to see it so clearly is a gift I can’t fathom the weight of.

“This man,” Madeline cocked her head at Harris and Claire as Kenzie reached her, grasping two of the margaritas in her little hands, “is such a dream. He walked right out of 1940’s pre-code Hollywood if you ask me.”

“I agree,” Claire whispered, and Harris looked away. Is Harris blushing? Duncan grinned down at Kenzie, who was at the crook of his elbow now, holding a margarita up to him. He dipped down to kiss her, achingly slow, and she laughed a little into him, the chime of it clenching at his heart. He sure is. I love them so much together. Dunny, Claire is so happy. I love her so much. To see her so happy like that is so wonderful, I can’t stand it. She looks so beautiful.

It was all Duncan could do to nod to her, his hand in her hair, then he moved gently away from her to where Madeline was placing the tray on the deck table. He gently reached out a hand and touched Madeline’s turned shoulder--Madeline looked up at him, and then she smiled, a deep smile of aching warmth that sent a dizziness through his temples, threatened his eyes instantly with tears. She pulled him against her; Duncan’s was immediately enveloped by her linen, wine-rich scent.

“Still waiting on that mother of yours,” she murmured against him. “I heard you talked with her today. Good boy.”

Duncan clenched his arms around her a little, lost in the intensity of his emotions. “Hey, Momby.” He closed his eyes, fighting off the instant urge to sob. Hey, Momby.

“Oh, honey,” Madeline’s hand came up to his hair, stroking for a short moment before he stepped back from her. “You should be proud of yourself. I’m fucking proud of you. And you should’ve heard how proud my little Kenzie Lou is. I’m proud as fuck of both of you. You’ve weathered this insane storm like it was nothing.”

“I’m--I just--” Duncan’s breath hitched. Kenzie ducked under his arm, her cheek pressing against his chest, her arms coming around his waist. Shhhh, Dunny, baby. Golden wave after golden wave. His voice became a whisper in his own ears.

“I’m very fortunate.”

“Yep.” Madeline laughed a little, two fingers coming up to dip against his cheek, pinching it delicately. “Yes, Duncan Shepherd, my soon to be son-in-law. You are. Now go forth and be grateful.”

The sound of a car turning onto the gravel out front pulled his attention away from Madeline. There she is. Annette. My mother. And she really is my mother, isn’t she? She’s always been my mother. She always will be. Blood doesn’t matter here; I don’t think it really matters at all. I can feel that she’s my mother. Kenzie looked at him, knowingly, dipping out of his arm and leading him around the house, their drinks momentarily forgotten. Duncan knew what was in her mind; he could see it.

Let’s go welcome your mother into the new world.

At Madeline’s front drive he could see Annette slowly exiting her Mercedes, gripping Becket’s large hand for balance. The sun was setting behind her, and for a moment her dark hair looked like it was surrounded by a ring of fire. She wore dark sunglasses despite the lowering evening light, and a long white dress that fell to her calves covered in tiny flower bursts that immediately reminded him of the alyssum they had given her yesterday; Duncan knew, too, that that’s what Annette had been thinking of when she decided to wear it. She was thinking of us. She was thinking of me, and how much she loves me. And she was thinking of Kenzie too; how she’s always wanted a daughter, and can’t believe she didn’t see before how beautiful Kenzie is, and mom, oh, mom. He could feel her, like an echo that reverberated against him, feel the thoughts she’d tucked away today, hidden in the depth of her dark brown eyes as she slid her sunglasses off, staring at him with a shy, apprehensive expression.

Kenzie ran ahead of him, her little body crushing into Annette’s. The innocence of her embrace stopped Duncan’s heart. Kenzie, Queen of Roses, angel of heaven. He watched his mother’s face crumple with emotion; he hovered a yard away from them, watching as Kenzie pulled away from her, saying something softly to her. Annette nodded, her eyes glistening, her hand coming against Kenzie’s chestnut-honey hair. The vision of their faces so close together this way, Annette’s full of a peacefulness he could have never imagined, was dreamlike in its perfect splendor.

He went up to them now, the moment dissolving. “Hey mom,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Guess I can’t back out now,” she laughed a little, sniffing quietly. “There aren’t any sharp objects around Madeline, are there?”

“Just her tongue,” Kenzie grinned, and Annette laughed again. “Ah, yes. Sharpest weapon of all. I expect an earful.” Clearly they hadn’t spoken at the Gala--that was such a strange night for everyone, Duncan knew.

“Madeline is the one who invited you, mom. She wants you here.”

Madeline was coming around the side of the house, her lips pursed in a look of apprehension; but no malice. And she was curious, that was obvious--it had been years since Annette and Madeline had spoken to each other in person, let alone kindly. Kenzie stepped back as Madeline approached. Annette came forward a little, her face uncharacteristically nervous, and Duncan noticed she had a small box in her hands.

“Madeline, I--”

“Hug me, you ragged old hag.” Madeline pulled her into a crushing embrace; Annette let out a little strangled sound of astonishment, then a barking laugh.

“Jesus, Madeline, you’re suffocating me--”

“Oh, shut up. You’ve made it through worse than me. I’m sorry, Annie. I’m sorry about Bill.”

They broke apart. There were tears in Annette’s eyes again, but she was smiling. My mother has such a beautiful smile, Duncan thought.

Annette held the box out to Madeline in the sunset; “Bygones, and all that,” she murmured. Kenzie was leaning over the box curiously, her honey hair falling over her shoulder to dangle in the air (my Kenzie Lou) as Madeline opened it--inside the box were a pair of gold Versace Medusa head earrings.

“I think I see, now, that Medusa was unfairly maligned,” Annette whispered.

“Annie, they’re lovely. Not sure if they’re quite my style, but I’ll wear them just to piss off the conservative news pundits, that’s for sure. Thank you. Come have a margarita.”

“Can I see the house? I’d--I’d like to.” Annette seemed to want to talk to Madeline alone, Duncan realized--and Madeline softened, nodded, reached out her hand to link her arm around the bottom of Annette’s elbow.

“We won’t be long, my moon babies,” Madeline said over her shoulder to Duncan and Kenzie; then she pulled Annette towards the house.

“Fuck, Dunny,” Kenzie whispered up to him, intense happiness in her face. “I love them together so much. Fuck, I’m so happy. Look how beautiful they are.” Duncan looked to the retreating backs of their mothers, the sunset showering them in a pattern of orange and deepening sunflower-yellow. Madeline was saying something low to Annette and his mother threw her head back laughing, her mouth opening and chin raising in mirth. Mom. You’re so lovely. To see you happy this way is beyond words.

“Come on, baby, I’m starving,” Kenzie was pulling on his arm now, her fingers sliding down to his palm suggestively; she leaned away from him and he caught her under her elbows, pulling her back into him until she was flush against his torso.

“I missed you today, Princess Kenzie,” he whispered into the space between her lips, and Kenzie laughed; the sound made him shiver, made his ears ring, his head dizzy. He could feel the soft weight of the ring box in his pocket, its presence there like a tiny fire. Eat first, then the ring. When everyone is there.

“And I missed you, Prince Duncan.” She pushed up on her toes; Duncan lifted her into his mouth, feeling a chill of sensation flow through him despite the heat at the sweet taste of her; like the grapes of Dionysus in some paradise, or the ambrosia of Olympus. Hers is the sweetest of all tastes. His hands clutched her; one tangled inside her hair (I’ll never let go never let go never), cradling the back of her head, the other tight around her hips. Kenzie reclined back from him for a moment, still lifted into his arms, eyes dancing; he leaned to her desperately, starved.

“I love you, I love you, I love you--” he lost himself in the cadence of his own speech; his entreaties to her bled together, a wordless song. “I have something for you, and it’s so divine--almost as divine as you are--”

“Give it to me, Dunny,” she pressed her forehead against his, grinning. “Give me my present.”

“I want everyone to be there--”

“Oh, fuck, baby.”  Kenzie slipped down from his grip, staring up at him now, her face having drifted from radiant excitement to shy wonder. “I know what it is.”

“Kenzie.”

“Duncan.”

“Food first, baby.”

“Did you--did you find out if the place is still there? The one you saw with Adelaide so long ago.”

“It is,” he breathed, nuzzling his nose against her again, loving the scent of vetiver and roses at her temple. “Baby, it is. It’s been sitting there, untouched, waiting for us for decades. I feel sure of it, it’s not a coincidence--it’s Fated, it’s Her. They’re going to send me photos of it soon. I don’t know what it looks like now, if it’s any different, or if you’ll be able to tell from the way the pictures look, but--I have the most wonderful feeling. Baby--I’m going to have the most beautiful house built there for you, Kenzie. I’m going to have your dream house built there--your house, for you and you alone, and your garden, and your own greenhouse, and your horses--Kenz, it’s 16 acres, they’ll have so much room, we can ride them together, we can plant fruit trees--”

Kenzie abruptly burst into tears. Her face crumpled, lips thinning in a paltry effort to stop herself, her eyes squinting up and a tiny wail coming from her; Duncan crushed her into him and she buried her face against his shirt, immediately soaking it with a cascade of tears; her fingers gripped him tightly, bunching the fibers of the chevron-covered fabric as if he were the only thing anchoring her in a storm.

“Listen to me,” he whispered into her ear, swirling blue into her. Listen to me. Cry as much as you want, Kenzie baby. Cry as much as you need to. You can always cry against me this way--whenever you need to cry, I’ll hold you. I’ll hold you so close, in this life, and the next one, and the life after that. Listen to me. I love you. I love you, my moonbeam, my angel, my beloved, exalted love. I promised you I’d give you everything you’ve ever wanted. I promised you before I knew who you were--and even now, now that we know, it doesn’t really matter, does it? I’d still have given you anything; everything. Even if Rosemary hadn’t told us, we’d know anyway, deep down. I knew from the first moment I saw you. You, High Princess, will have whatever your heart desires. You’ve blessed this world with your radiance, and blessed me forever with your love, and so you will have anything you ever wanted. And we’re going to bring your sacred house to life.

He could feel her thoughts in return, shuddering: I’m glad Momby and Annette went to the house. I want to cry alone with you. I’m so happy, but I just want to cry, Dunny, just for a little while.

I know, Kenzie. Duncan felt the tears on his own cheeks; and was unafraid of them. I know, baby. Me too. He felt his tears drifting down into her golden hair, knew she knew now, in her golden thoughts, that he was crying too, her little arms tightening around him. And he thought, when your dreams come true, what can you do but cry?

-----

Everyone was gathered on Madeline’s long deck; the fireflies had come out, the fairy lights glowing. The tacos were long-consumed, the margaritas having eventually ceded into shots of tequila. The realtor had sent Duncan dozens of pictures of the acreage; it was huge, with an overgrown orchard of crabapple trees, several vast fields, an old farmhouse and dilapidated barn, and a wild energy that Duncan remembered acutely from that day so long ago with Adelaide; one that Kenzie could clearly sense from the photos, her hands shaking as she held Duncan’s large black iPhone, her finger sliding through them. She’s Here, in this place, Kenzie had thought to him, and he nodded. It’s one of those places, as we suspected, and it’s strong, like the black oak circle. The Veil. This is where we’ll build your temple, High Princess. This is where we’ll get away from the world when we need to, and where I’ll worship you for the rest of our lives.

Duncan couldn’t believe it; Annette and Madeline were both drunk, laughing with each other uproariously. Annette had been telling a story he’d never heard about milking free drinks from a very well-known politician when she was still in grad school, then quickly ghosting the date when he went to the bathroom, but not before taking the thousand-dollar caviar tapas she’d put on his tab and bundling it into a napkin in her purse. Duncan watched his mother with awe as she tossed back another shot of tequila nonchalantly, slipping a lime between her elegant lips. “Best caviar I’ve ever had, sweet with the taste of escape.”

“Annette, honestly, thank you for telling me this story,” Madeline was crying with laughter, and Kenzie was looking between him and their mothers with an iridescent glee in her eyes, reflecting more gold than ever in the fairy lights, her hair dazzlingly flipping, back and forth. “I prefer the Annette who fucks the bourgeoisie with their own AmEx.”

Kenzie had poured him another shot of the tequila alongside one for her, and he glanced around the deck table, at every face gathered with them; Erik was sitting in a deck chair across from Annette and Madeline, watching them with a bemused drunkenness, his fifth margarita held languidly between thumb and index finger, a silvery paper fan drifting in his other hand in the humid night. Claire and Harris were sitting close together on the long deck couch in the south corner beside the steps that led down to the yard; Claire was whispering something into Harris’ ear with her leg dipping over his knee, and his wide, friendly grin was breaking forth. They are lovely together, Duncan thought. They are meant to be together, too, at least in this time and place. I can see that very clearly. It’s like a map of them that’s all spread out in front of us; I think Kenzie can see it too. Us coming together brought them together too. As it was meant to be.

Lindsey Buckingham’s disgruntled wail bled out of Go Your Own Way on Madeline’s little stereo, fading--and Christine McVie’s gentle piano drifted out into the night as Kenzie brought his eyes back to her, clinking her shot-glass against his. For you there’ll be no more cryin’, for you, the sun will be shining…

He drank the shot down, wincing a little--it was his fourth tequila of the night, and it had done its job; he felt wildly bold now, ready to shout out his love for her into the night, to whirl her around in his arms until the two of them dizzily sank into the grass. I wish we were still in that starry field alone, laying against each other, dreaming of blue butterflies and golden-tinted snow. I love everyone, but I always want to be alone with you. He watched Kenzie for a moment as she made a face over her shot, sticking her little tongue out, rubbing a lime wedge along it in a cute tick that squeezed his chest. Nobody uses a lime after a tequila shot like that...except my Kenzie. She noticed him looking at her and kept her tongue out, wiggling it towards him pointedly now. What are you staring at, Duncan Shepherd.

My wife.

Duncan stood up, the night a balm to his buzzing skin; then, he knelt down in front of Kenzie, sliding the ring box out of his pocket in the soft, low light. Kenzie’s cheeks were flushed with the tequila--her eyes were glistening green-forest-gold, her hair falling around her shoulders in luxurious waves with sweat shining at her temples, the triple moons at her throat, the Cartier diamonds on her wrist. Her feet were bare and dirty with mud and grass; the black dress had hitched up around her thighs, exposing the whiteness of her smooth skin, and lime juice was shining on her bottom lip. Her tiny mouth trembled with a smile that made him swallow back a nervousness that he couldn’t place; I know you said yes already, baby, but you make me so flustered, you’re too fucking beautiful. I can’t fathom how you’re mine. I still just can’t comprehend it. You’re so moving. I’m shaken by you endlessly.

And I love you, I love you, I love you, like never before...

Erik was the only one who noticed, for a moment--Duncan felt his eyes, framed by fake eyelashes (these with blue rhinestones), going wide, knowing. Then Claire screamed; everyone jumped, balking towards her.

“Holy fuck, Duncan!” Claire said, on her feet, hands pressed to her cheeks--Harris was staring up a her with a shocked expression--and then, Claire burst abruptly into tears.

“Clairebear, do not fucking cry!” Kenzie whined at her best friend across the deck. “I already cried today and you’re gonna make me fucking cry again. Or let him at least give it to me first. Clairebear. I love you.”

“Kenzie,” Claire sobbed into her fingers. “I love you both so much.” She sat back down beside Harris at this, peering through her teary fingers at them, hands drifting down to her mouth to watch. Harris tucked a comforting hand around her shoulder, smiling at her shyly.

Duncan watched this exchange, shellshocked, then realized the only sounds now were Songbird and the soft sound of Claire sniffling; Annette and Madeline were watching him quietly, their expressions serene, approving, and deep with emotion. Duncan noted, tears beginning to gather behind his eyes again, that Madeline had reached out to Annette’s hand and grasped it affectionately. Who would have ever imagined.

Duncan turned back to Kenzie. She was looking back at him now; she reached for his hand and her fingers were so warm and immediately comforting, so right, his eyes closed inside the feeling of them for a long moment.

“Some of the people here knew this already. Some of them didn’t--Claire,” he said, glancing to her, “We wanted it to be a surprise for you. We love you too. We love you all, so much. Thank you for everything you’ve ever done for us.” He looked around at their mothers; at Erik, whose rouged cheeks were now streaked with twin tears.

“Kenzie,” he whispered, then, and he saw her halo again; saw it glittering around the nimbus of her golden hair in the night, saw fireflies, emboldened by her aura, lighting softly in the air around her. “Mackenzie Stone. I love you more than anything in heaven or on earth. I love you with my body, my spirit, my whole soul. Please marry me.”

He opened the ring box toward her--Kenzie’s breath hitched as the moonstone caught the fairy lights, its cool, serene surface an immediate, exquisite, otherworldly thing. As fervid, as perfect an object for her as could be conceived; a devotion to her unspeakable loveliness, her beauty that I can only seem to describe as a color. Gold, gold, gold. The moon amid all that gold, cocooned in her heavenly sky. My Kenzie forevermore. The diamonds framing the stone glittered as his hand shook around the case it was tucked into; Kenzie’s face was awash in tears again, despite her plea to Claire.

“You know I will. Put it on me, Dunny, please,” she said quietly, holding out her elegant little hand. “I’ll never take it off. Never.”

Duncan took the ring from the little velvet box, feeling everyone’s intent eyes on them. He slid it gently up onto the ring finger of her left hand; Kenzie dipped her finger down and the stones caught the light again, dazzling him. Her thoughts were a song sweeter than any he’d ever heard before; the sweetness of her mind a prayer that extended all around them, spinning its shining threads into intricate geometries that he could barely conceive.

Duncan. Sword of the Evening Star. My Soulmate, Exalted for all time. It’s perfect. It takes my breath away, my love.

“Earth to Duckenzie,” Madeline crowed, her hand cupped around her mouth from across the table. “Some of us can’t read thoughts, though you two are constantly staring at each other as if you can.” Duncan snorted. Someday, Madeline, we’ll tell you all about it.

“Momby. It’s perfect. Yes. I will. Yes.”

For the span of a few seconds (infinite, me and you, baby) Kenzie stared into his eyes; he saw her halo still, and now he saw her wings, saw her otherworldly hair, lustrous in the night. Then Claire rushed to Kenzie and fell against her, sobbing again. Kenzie’s eyes still looked at him from the halo of Claire’s arms, and the devotion that lit them, twin stars in the shadow of the evening, from deep within the most secret part of her soul, he knew, was the only answer he would ever need to any question.

I love you. Body and soul.