#a little like what imogen was trying to express. 'i love you. i will always love you. i just don't know what to do with it.'

[imogenkol]

— WIP WEDNESDAY

tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton and @neonshrike thank you lovelies!!

Sorry for the double Imogen x Bix today, but I am especially Unwell about them lately. Very first “I love you” anyone?

Bix got out of bed and collected her discarded clothes off the floor of the ship — clothes that Imogen had started to nearly trip over whenever she got up during the night — and dressed herself as she made her way to the vanity. 

Imogen sat up and watched her mechanic freshen up for the day. It was a routine she witnessed a dozen times or so now, yet she drank in every detail and every movement until she knew it by heart. If she shut her eyes, she could calculate precisely when Bix would move on from washing her face to combing her hair. 

That was her favorite part. Imogen was infatuated with the way Bix brushed her hair back before she braided or pinned it up. Perhaps it was the slight flex in her arms when she raised them. Or the perfect sculpt of her jawline and neck once they were exposed. Or the serene concentration on her gorgeous features as her fingers wove strands of dark hair with seamless practice. 

“What?” Bix asked without a glance in Imogen’s direction. Right on cue. 

A newer addition to her routine, though her tone had gradually shifted with each new day.

It started a little playful, like she expected Imogen to drag her back into bed for more of their intimate indulgences. Of course, that craving was always at the back of Imogen’s mind when she watched her. How could it not be? But lately, she started to watch her simply just to watch her — to admire her. An intention that neither had much experience with. 

Then the question came out exasperated. Bix never did like it much when Imogen's eyes lingered on her while she worked. Or so she said. In reality, the mechanic did not appreciate the distraction while she was on the clock. During her own time, they rather enjoyed the little game of poking at each other until someone’s composure cracked and they would finally give in. 

This was not one of those times. There were no expectations. There was no tension in the air. 

For the past weeks, Imogen had no answer for her. She could not adequately explain why she felt so enamored by such a mundane scene and Bix grew impatient with her. 

Imogen wondered if the explanation was more straightforward than she previously thought. She wondered if this was what love was — to be utterly fascinated by the most monotonous actions simply because the one who holds your heart is doing them. Because they turn the unextraordinary into extraordinary. 

If that were the case, then she may finally have an answer for her. 

“I love you,” Imogen said. Her heart leapt into her throat after the second syllable, and for a terrifying moment, she thought something far less pleasant might come up right after. Imogen swallowed hard and forced her jaw to clamp shut until the sensation passed. 

Bix completely stopped partway through a braid and turned to look at Imogen as if trying to decipher if she had heard her right. 

The sincerity of the statement was not in any doubt, but both women could not deny how foreign those three words sounded coming from the bounty hunter’s lips. They felt strange, even when she rehearsed the phrase in her mind. Imogen worried she did not fully understand the concept quite yet, but they had come this far. 

Why not take another leap?

Bix’s expression softened into what Imogen could almost describe as a bashful smile and she returned her attention back to the mirror. “Have you ever said that to anyone before?”

Imogen rolled her eyes, though the relief she felt from the lighthearted jab coaxed forth the same exact upturn at the corner of her own mouth. “You know full well that I never have, darling.”

“You’ve said it to me in a hundred different ways, but kind of seem allergic to the word itself,” Bix replied matter-of-factly. 

Imogen contemplated the statement for a beat. “Have the other ways I choose to express my devotion been inadequate?”

“No, not at all. I’m just…” She finished the braid and her hands dropped to her sides with a thoughtful exhale. “I’m still breaking through those walls of yours, I guess.”

Imogen rose from the cot and approached her lover with calm purpose, knowing that the unrestrained honesty of her next words will assure Bix that what she feared were walls were merely doors. And they would always be open to her from then on.

“Whatever love I had no knowledge of possessing is now entirely yours.” Imogen tucked a stray strand of the mechanic’s hair behind her ear and ran the backs of her fingers down her neck. “You are my love.” 

“Say it again,” Bix murmured, intensely holding Imogen’s gaze as she leaned in ever so slightly. “It’s good to hear.”

“I love you,” Imogen repeated obediently. It came out easier the second time, but still felt like a brand new muscle to be flexed — one she was afraid to damage if she used it too often. 

Bix grabbed Imogen by her hips, fingers slipping just underneath the hem of her shirt to brush lightly against her cool skin as she pulled her in. Imogen felt her blood suddenly rush hotly throughout her veins as if her whole body absorbed her lover’s warmth from such a small touch. 

The heat bloomed into an all encompassing warmth once their lips met. Bix kept their cadence sweet and chaste. Imogen fell into it like a bath and allowed the other woman to lead the lazy push and pull. The soft sensations prompted the bounty hunter to part her lips in a silent invitation, which Bix answered by squeezing her hips and drawing her in deeper. 

They slowly parted until their foreheads gently rested together. Imogen could feel their shared smiles even with her eyes closed. 

“I love you,” Bix said softly against her lips.

The Force around them seemed to sing with those three words as they echoed in Imogen's ears.

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[mostlyanything19]

WHEW that back half of the episode was JUICY, HUH??

[blue--ingenue]

Staircase Ballet ("Half Life" by Imogen Heap)

Turn your sound on, I promise it's worth it :)

the lovely @bawbawbridgie kindly informed me that all of the songs in the score are songs written by Imogen Heap. she also noticed that that most of the lyrics fit the scenes they belong to. so here's a little edit I made and some things that make me go feral about this sequence :)

everytime i listen to this i imagine the lyrics are Scorpius' thoughts

the NAMES. Staircase Ballet. they are literally dancing around each other, separated but remaining in each other's orbit. Half Life. they feel incomplete without the other. they've lived the last several years at school, practically inseparable, and now they forbidden from even being near each other

Scorpius' devastated confusion. it's the same expression he wears when he confesses "Sometimes I wonder if they're right. If I am the son of Voldemort." he's so tired that part of him wonders if it's him that wrong

the lyrics "the stickler is you played not one beat wrong, you never promised me anything" - i'm imagining Scorpius, not yet out, hanging onto whatever he can. he doesn't imagine that Albus returns his feelings, but he loves him so much that he'll bear anything to be with him in any capacity

the PINING

"there may well be others, but i still like to pretend, that i'm the one you really want to grow old with"

"will you ever slow down, will i ever come first?" - thinking of this as a precursor to the "Try my life" speech in the library

THE WHOLE TIME NEAR THE END WHEN THEY'RE INCHES APART, THE LYRICS ARE A REAPEATED "HOLD ME"

the pining and agony of "you know you'll never be lonely, you know you'll always be loved, and maybe you never need more than that"

poor Scorpius, whose only family is his father (i have a headcannon that he's disowned the blood maniacs he's related to) wishes he had a family as large and tight-knit as the Potter-Weasley-Granger clan

(thinking about the library speech again) even when everything else is horrible, Albus has people who love him

"maybe you never need more than that" - my translation: "Maybe you don't need me." Scorpius loves him despite the overwhelming belief that Albus will never love him back in the same way, and he can't help it

"but for the surplus that loves, what's to become of us? does it even register on your conscience?" is the lyrical equivalent of the library monologue's "Can you imagine what that's like? Have you ever even tried?"

the use of the word "surplus," as though Scorpius' love for Albus is an unneeded, unrequited excess

[unicyclehippo]

hi bud pls chat about 23, 28, 32. n give us a lil 19 if you so wish 🥰

19. Share a snippet from a wip without giving any context for it.

‘Your Highness!’ the Lady Commander called, striding forward. ‘A moment of your time?’

The Princess paused at the top of the stairs. A pale hand gripped tight to the banister as if she were trying not to fall; there was no sign of that frailty in the face the Princess turned toward them, all marble planes and blackstone eyes.    ‘Commander Nydorin,’ she greeted politely. The tone needled Imogen. The Commander was a hero. She deserved respect and admiration. Not boredom. Dark eyes flicked across to Imogen, scanned her - paused on the frown Imogen could not banish in time - then returned to the Commander. ‘You have my ear.’   The Commander's hand twitched at her side in the desire to grip her sword, a gesture Imogen was most familiar with. She didn't understand the Commander's need for it though; the Commander was a famously even-tempered woman. Imogen couldn't imagine that boredom would rankle her. Nydorin cleared her throat, bowing neatly at the waist. ‘Your Highness, I would like to introduce Sir Temult, a knight-errant lended to us from House Faramore.’   ‘Faramore,’ she repeated, then hummed a little. One finger tapped against the banister. ‘Horses, grains, fabrics. A small export of dyes. Yes?'   Nydorin nodded when Imogen glanced at her. She could speak. Imogen bowed again. 'My lord Faramore has stakes in a quarry now as well, your Highness. On the eastern border.’    ‘Hm. And now knights as well, it seems.’ Her highness's gaze lingered. It was the softest touch Imogen had felt, the boredom somehow cool as a breeze against the scars that tore up her neck. The Commander had forbidden her from wearing her gorget or helmet for this meeting.    After a moment, Nydorin cleared her throat. ‘Sir Temult is a storm on the battlefield, your Highness. Very talented.’    Something passed between her Commander and the Princess—and for the first time, something seemed to stir in those dark eyes—and then it was gone. The Princess's lips twitched into the blandest smile and she inclined her head to Imogen.   ‘How fortunate we are then. May you be welcomed by Castle Marvorlin, Sir Temult.’

23. Dialogue or description? Why is the other one so hard?

dialogue is harder. i find it quite difficult sometimes to sit in a characters mind & write as they would speak. i think the more i play dnd n improvise n act, i HOPE i am getting better at that. & the more i rip myself free from the need to like. have my characters be right. i need them to be weirder & more wrong & stupid. i need to have more fun with my characters n make them weird.

28. Any writing advice that works for you and you feel like sharing?

writing advice..... write first, edit second. when you're editing, try to look at the verbs you use. use stronger verbs. get rid of "just" and "very". if your verbs are strong enough, you wont need them. (you dont have to cut all of them. this is advice to be aware of your use of them.) make your sentences less passive. as an example, i have a tendency to write setnences like "The bar was long and narrow. Over the bartenders shoulder was shelves of liqour in dusty bottles.". & im trying to get rid of "There was" phrases because im trying to IMMERSE readers into it & give more action to the actual scenebuilding so sentences end up being more like... "Alexander squeezed through the narrow bar past a patron who couldn't decide what to drink; he had sent the bartender back to paw through the dusty bottles on the shelves three times and still wasn't satisfied." something like that. to give it a little more lived-in-ness. idk if thats really advice but its something that im trying to do with my writing

32. Do you have a word/expression that you always use in your writing?

ooh baby there's an image that i have always loved & i couldnt rmbr where i had first seen it but i KNOW that i have used it in a few fics/stories. i was reading one of tamora pierce's books the other night & was delighted to find that THAT was where i had first encountered it. it's along the lines of - she heard the words and let them fall into her like stones, felt the ripples across the surface of the lake and while those would fade, the stones would forever be there. (its much better than that but i am so in love with that imagery. of an internal change that is invisible to others but you know that you're different now. i just. phew!! love it.)

i also use the word just way too often. & ostensibly. not as often but its always obvious to me when i use it. fun word!

[independentartistbuzz]

7 FROM THE WOMEN WITH KRISTEN RAE BOWDEN

Kristen Rae Bowden is a singer-songwriter whose music captures the raw emotions of love, freedom, and personal growth.

Growing up in a musical family in North Carolina, Kristen’s journey from a self-taught pianist to a recognized music artist in the Americana and indie scenes is inspirational.

In this exclusive interview, Kristen discusses her latest single, "Skateboard," a song that vividly recalls the thrill of young love and the sense of independence she felt during her college years.

She also opens up about her creative process, sharing how her sound has been influenced by artists like Joni Mitchell and Imogen Heap. Collaborating with her partner, guitarist Joe Lawlor, has been a significant part of her recent work.

What have you been working to promote lately?

I am happy to be here promoting my latest single "Skateboard," my exploration of what it felt like to be young and in love and newly on my own.

I wanted to capture a time early in my college days when I had a skateboarding, long-distance boyfriend. We would visit each other at our respective schools, and after I’d had just enough to drink and smoke I’d get brave enough to try and ride a skateboard myself a little bit. Both the skateboarding, and the time in my life, were pure exhilaration… the wind in my hair, being free of a curfew, falling in love… life felt new and full of potential. That’s the feeling we wanted to capture in this song: the uplifting freedom of hot summer nights through the lavender haze of young love.

I co-wrote this song with my musical and romantic partner, guitarist Joe Lawlor (DMB). I heard him playing the opening guitar pattern one night and immediately wanted to sing over it… “Keep doing that!” I yelled from the next room, and the first line just came out of my mouth: “Feeling so high / when you’re driving all night / to my front door”. When I first sang the line, I thought we were writing a pop country song - it’s that type of soaring vocal. Ultimately it turned into an indie-pop tune with folk and alt country elements. We were so lucky to have our friend Dane Alderson (Yellowjackets) play bass on the track, with mixing by John Alagia (Dave Matthews) and Pedro Laet (Mt. Joy), and mastering by Whynot Jansveld (The Wallflowers).

Have a listen!

Please tell us about your favorite song written, recorded or produced by another woman and why it’s meaningful to you.

My favorites change with my moods, but "Canvas" by Imogen Heap is what just came to mind.

This song truly is like a sonic painting, and when I listen to it I feel immersed in another world. The lyrics are pretty abstract, so what I hear in them changes based on what is meaningful to me at the time. There is both peacefulness and a desperation in the words and the soundscape, and this combination resonates with me. It’s ethereal and haunting, like a soundbath. It always takes me out of where I am and puts me on a different plane with a different outlook. I’ve read that Imogen does a lot of her own engineering and production in addition to writing, singing, and playing: that’s inspiring to me. The production here is stunning. This is a song I come back to again and again.

What does it mean to you to be a woman making music/in the music business today and do you feel a responsibility to other women to create messages and themes in your music?

It’s important for women to have the space, time, and support to express themselves with art. With everything that’s happening in our country and our world, we need that outlet. I’m ridiculously lucky to have the resources and freedom to write and create music. As a woman I feel even luckier in this way because I think women carry so many burdens in their daily lives that having a quiet spare moment alone is a rarity for many.

And no, I don’t feel a responsibility to anyone to put certain messages or themes in my music. It’s hard not to look at what you’re creating through the lens of what other people are going to think and say about it, especially in this age of social media. I think it’s important to create what you want and do your best to forget about all that. I hope the themes in my music lift women up, and that that happens organically. That’s how I feel in my heart, so I hope it spills out when I’m writing. 

Who is your favorite female icon (dead or alive) and why?

The Mexican painter Frida Kahlo is a female icon I’ve delighted in learning more about in recent years. I’d previously admired her beautiful, raw, symbolic paintings, but two years ago I decided to read her biography after seeing an X-Ray of my own crooked spine. After I cried about it for a minute I thought, I bet reading Frida’s biography would change my perspective and stop me feeling sorry for myself. She had polio as a child, and then as a young woman she suffered a broken back and many other terrible injuries in a bus/trolley crash, leaving her in horrible pain for the rest of her life. She took up painting while bedridden after her accident, and channeled the pain into her art.

Reading her biography I learned about the origins of her instantly recognizable personal style: she used fashion and her outward appearance to express her Indigenous Mexican heritage, essentially becoming a work of art herself. She challenged traditional norms of gender and sexuality, defying conventional expectations of femininity.

Her paintings address deeply personal women’s issues and pain, such as her sexuality and her inability to carry a pregnancy to term, with shocking openness at a time when nobody was doing that. They also address her political stances and cultural heritage. The way she lived her life and created art is incredibly touching and inspiring to me.

A couple of years ago I had the opportunity to visit her house in Coyoacan, Mexico City, which is now the Frida Kahlo museum. Seeing her paintings up close, along with her her belongings (her wheelchair, her easel, her back braces and incredible folk style clothing), and walking through the rooms where she lived, gave me goosebumps. If you have the chance to go, I highly recommend it.

Who was the first female artist that made you want to create music / be in the business?

I ran cross country in high school. When I was 15, before I could drive, one of my older teammates would drive a couple of us younger girls to practice after school. She played Joni Mitchell’s ‘Blue’ album in her car all the time. I’d never heard it before, and at first, for some reason, I didn’t like it. I kind of hated it. Something about the timbre of her voice was off putting to me. But after a couple weeks of listening to it, I became obsessed. I started listening to it at home on my own time, and really digging into the lyrics and melodies. To this day, that album gives me flashes of memory from that first summer that I heard it, and all that it has meant to me since then. Joni made me want to write my own songs and put my poems to music.

Do you consider yourself a feminist? If so, why or why not?

Hell yes. No one is free without bodily autonomy. Women all over the world are enduring unspeakable horrors simply because they are women. We need feminist belief and activism as much now as ever. 

What do you hope to share with other women in the industry with your music?

Catharsis, solidarity, empathy, and empowerment.

Finally, where can we find you online?

Connect with me all over the web here:

[divinesouldariax]

Consider also, 75 from physical I Love Yous with Laudna and Imogen

75. Painting their fingernails because their hands are too shaky.

I know you said Laudna and Imogen, but Ashton just kinda snuck his way in here and I couldn't get them to leave lmao <3 Unsteady hands crowd, make some noise! Also whoops this was sent in literal months ago ~Martin

P.S. Apologies if tumblr nuked the formatting on this, I couldn't figure out how to fix it in the 10 minutes before I leave for work.

Word count: 1,770

Content warnings: mild internalized ableism

Send me these? (different prompt list but still)

*

Laudna had just about the steadiest hands that Imogen had ever seen. Maybe it was something about her heart rate being so low, or so many years of experience with detail work crafting and mending things, or maybe it was just a trait she had always possessed, but she could tend to the smallest tasks with exact precision.

Right now, that task was painting Imogen’s nails. Laudna had been so excited by the shimmery black nail polish they'd found in a shop they wandered into that morning, and Imogen had suggested that Laudna paint hers as well. Laudna had beamed. But Imogen didn't really want the same black paint, so she had bought a few other colors as well.

One of Laudna's cool hands was supporting Imogen's, and her delicate fingers held the small brush that was coating Imogen's nails in sky blue polish. Laudna was humming happily. Smiling, Imogen leaned her head against the wall and let her mind relax.

The rest of the group were in the room as well, resting in the heat of the afternoon. Chetney was sanding something in the corner, his thoughts focused and bent on a stubborn gnarl in the wood. Fearne was taking a nap on one of the beds, dreaming about swimming by a waterfall, and Orym was sitting next to her and stretching, the rhythm of the Zephra'atam flowing through his mind. FCG was by the window, peeking out through the crack in the curtains, watching for birds a little nervously. Ashton, who was sitting in the chair near where Imogen and Laudna were on the floor, was drowsy as well, and not thinking about much, but Imogen did pick up something a little strange. Jealousy, maybe?

She looked over at him. They were staring down at the hole in their vest that he was trying to patch, having turned down Laudna's offer to fix it with magic. But as she watched, Ashton glanced over at her and Laudna. His eyes widened briefly, and a spark of embarrassment flooded through his mind as they saw Imogen looking back. Quickly, he turned back to his work.

Imogen fought a smile. Ashton, she said softly into his mind.

For a second, they ignored her. What? he replied eventually.

She wiggled the fingers of the hand Laudna had already finished so he could see them. I bet she'd do yours next if you asked.

I don't-- An incoherent jumble of thoughts followed as Ashton put the mending down and rubbed their forehead. Imogen waited patiently as he gathered themself. Oh, you're awful, you know that?

I know, Imogen said, amused. Don't be embarrassed. You want her to paint your nails?

Ashton shifted. They were looking down at their hands now with a weird expression. Imogen felt nostalgia that was closer to sadness from them, and she frowned. I used to like having them painted, he said. I'd do it myself. Hands are too fucking shaky to do that anymore, though. Paint would get fucking everywhere.

Imogen had noticed the shakiness in his hands before, of course. Hers often trembled as well. Is that why you make a point of fixing your clothes by hand, even though it takes a while? she asked.

Just to prove I still fucking can? Yeah, pretty much.

You know, Laudna's doing mine 'cause my hands shake, too, Imogen said gently. She saw a little tension leave their shoulders. It's that part that you're embarrassed about, not that you want them painted, huh?

Ashton shrugged tightly. I don't like needing help for something that simple, they admitted, and Imogen got the feeling that it wasn't something he would ever say out loud.

I'm not gonna make you, Imogen told him. But I do think it would make Laudna happy if you asked her to.

"There, we'll let that dry and then do another coat," Laudna announced. "How does it look?"

Imogen held her hands up to the light. Several nails were a little wet, but it still looked lovely. The blue stood out against the lines of purple electricity that crackled under the skin of her hands. "I love it," she said sincerely. "We got a little time to wait, then?"

"Mm-hmm, we'll give it five minutes or so," Laudna said.

She's got tiiiiime, Imogen said, teasing a little.

Ashton didn't answer her in her mind. A few seconds passed, and she was about to drop it, but then he cleared his throat and said, "Laudna, want to do mine too?"

Laudna, Orym, and Chetney all looked towards him. Imogen felt a radiating defensiveness from Ashton, but she knew nobody was going to prove that wariness right.

"I would love to!" Laudna said enthusiastically. "What color would you like? Imogen bought several!"

Ashton squinted at the collection of paint. "I mean, I've got a whole thing going on," he said, gesturing at themself. "So, same color as you, I think."

"The black? Alright! Come sit with us down here?” Laudna invited.

They nodded and got off the chair, tossing the mending onto the seat and sat down on the floor in the corner next to Imogen, who scooted over to give him space to face Laudna. “Sorry if I move too much,” they mumbled. “Hands kind of do their own thing sometimes.”

“If the brush slips, we can just wipe it off,” Laudna replied easily. “Bring your knee up and put your hand down on it, maybe? Would that help it be steadier?”

Imogen smiled at how gentle the suggestion was–Laudna had said the same thing to her the first time they’d done this. She sent a wave of pure affection in Laudna’s direction and saw the corner of her mouth turn up.

Ashton pulled one knee up close to their chest, wincing, then rested their right hand down on top of it. When Laudna carefully slipped her fingers under his, lifting them up one at a time to apply the first coat of black paint, Imogen saw his forehead crease, and his hands twitched a few times, smearing the paint occasionally, but they were watching her work intently and didn’t pull away.

“There, done with that hand,” Laudna said.

Imogen reached her hand out. “I can clean up the edges,” she said, and when Ashton didn’t even hesitate to give her his hand, she felt a little twinge of pride. It had taken so long to get them to be okay with being touched, and it was a special kind of honor to be allowed to do so when she knew that it could cause a lot of pain. She prestidigitated the smudges around his cuticles while Laudna started painting the nails on their left hand.

That one seemed to be a lot worse in terms of the twitching and shaking. Which made sense, most of the injuries were on the left side of his body. Still, Imogen couldn’t help but wince when their wrist kind of jerked involuntarily away from Laudna.

“Are you alright?” Laudna said softly.

“Fine,” Ashton almost snapped.

Laudna paused, and Imogen tensed slightly, but then she just went back to painting. “You know, the black looks really good, but I bet purple would as well. Matching your hair.”

Ashton let out a little laugh even as their hand shuddered again, and Imogen relaxed. “Sure, maybe next time.”

Fearne had woken up from her nap, and was peering down at them from over the edge of the bed. “Oh, that looks like fun,” she sighed. “Laudna, will you do mine?”

“Of course!”

“Maybe you can do everyone’s!” Fearne added. “Fresh Cut Grass doesn’t have nails, but–”

“You could paint something on my hands anyway,” Letters remarked. “That could be pretty.”

“Orym, Chetney?” Fearne said hopefully.

“Nah, it’d chip off too fast on me. But I might borrow those paints and the tiny brushes,” Chetney said. “You got red?”

“Kind of a dark maroon?” Imogen said, looking at the little glass paint bottles. “Nothing bright.”

“Dark maroon works.”

Imogen sent the bottle floating over to the windowsill. Chetney gave her a nod as he snatched it out of the air.

Laudna had finished Ashton’s left hand as well, and as Imogen was cleaning it up, she grabbed the paints and climbed up onto the bed with Fearne. “I’ll come back for a second coat for both you and Imogen in a little while,” she told him.

Ashton nodded awkwardly, looking at his nails. “Thanks,” he said.

“Oryyym,” wheedled Fearne.

Imogen felt a spike of fond amusement from Orym. “What?” he said.

“Will you let Laudna paint your nails?” Fearne said.

There was a pause. “If you promise not to ever tell Opal, because if she finds out that I let somebody paint my nails and it wasn’t her, I think she’d probably murder me,” Orym said lightly.

Ashton was still examining their nails. Imogen couldn’t read his expression, so she reached out in his mind.

You alright? she checked.

Mm-hmm.

I think we’ve started a trend, Imogen said with a giggle. Just you wait, even Chet’s gonna give in eventually.

Ashton smiled slightly. Think the paint would stay on his claws as a wolf?

Imogen laughed out loud, covering her mouth. Oh, gods, that’s an image.

I bet that’s really why he doesn’t want to, Ashton continued. But I really want to know now. Think Laudna could paint them in his sleep?

Oh, Ashton, that’s mean if he doesn’t want it, Imogen giggled.

Just one, even! Fearne could do it, Chetney wouldn’t mind.

That’s probably true. Imogen got distracted by an increasingly heated conversation between Laudna and Fearne about whether Orym should go with the dark green or try to break out of his usual color scheme. Fearne was very insistent that he should try the purple, and Orym was just leaning back against the wall and wasn’t offering an opinion, but seemed to be enjoying the discussion.

Ashton looked like they were watching, too, but they spoke to her again in her mind a minute later. Thanks, he said.

What for?

Getting me out of my fucking head about it.

Imogen reached out for his hand. He let her take it. Careful of their nails, though they were probably dry by now, and she laced their fingers together. Both of their hands were a little shaky, and no less so for being together, but it was still nice. Side by side, the similarities of the gold scars and the electric purple veins were striking. I get it, she said simply.

Ashton squeezed her hand and said nothing. It was obvious anyway that he understood.

Send me these? (different prompt list)

[agentdumortain]

AN INTERVIEW WITH JACKIE COHEN by Isaiah Mock for WHIPLASH MAGAZINE

(Top row: cover art from Jackie Cohen’s solo EPs About Yesterday and Give It Time. Bottom row: cover art of one of Stunts’ EPs “Leaning Backward” and their most recent release, “Didn’t See That Coming”.)

Jackson Cohen, better known as Jackie, is the frontwoman of one of alternative’s underdog up-and-coming bands Stunts. She tells me before she’s even sat down that she never expected to be where she is today. “I know a lot of people say that kind of thing under these circumstances, but I mean it in every sense.”

We discuss the obvious first; how the element of surprise, virality, and speed affects the path and struggles of becoming a public figure. But the singer feels that the "unexpected" sentiment she holds is even more relevant to her and the band's evolution since highschool. "I don't think our music is what we imagined it'd be at all, but we're pretty in love with it. That's a good thing!"

Cohen’s earliest works, both solo and collaborative with various members of Stunts, (past and present) are a far cry from what you’ve most likely heard from her today. Psychedelic pop, sweet and swooning, are accurate descriptors—sometimes even synthesized.

All of those elements are still found in Stunts’ recent projects, but the trajectory of their music has undoubtedly shifted into something heavier. Not darker, but in the literal way, with more weight. Post-punk and rock influences are obvious, especially in lyricism. There’s an air of confidence and lived experience that wasn’t present before. The singer names Jeff Buckley, Slowdive, The Smashing Pumpkins, and The Cure, as just a snippet of her and her bandmate's inspirations. “Y’know, I think—doesn’t everybody want to be someone else a little bit?” She smiles with some humor at the thought, but it’s clear she believes it.

“About Yesterday”, Cohen’s first EP, can be found scattered in many corners of the internet, (not on any formal streaming platforms, as it is rife with uncleared samples) where it’s often named as a favorite by indie popheads from all backgrounds. She made it in her basement with the help of her older brother and a few of his musician friends. “Realizing your older siblings are cool is a tough pill to swallow,” she jokes. “But at some point or another, they realize you’re kind of cool too, and that opens up a whole new world of opportunity. He [Jackie's brother] definitely encouraged my, um, my—penchant for music? That feels dorky to say."

“Artists like Imogen Heap, TV Girl, Mazzy Star; I looked up to them for sure while making that, [About Yesterday] and most of my other stuff too, to be honest. I think it was comfortable and fun to work in that style. I was able to express myself how I needed to at that time, and I still am, it just sounds hugely different from when I was 16.”

I ask her how that change in sound, as vague as that is, came to be. Does she attribute it to anything specific, or feel like it was a natural progression?

"Working as a team, probably? That will always yield different results and force you to "evolve" in some way or another. I was doing the band and my own thing at the same time, [in highschool] though, so if I came up with something I knew wouldn’t fit with Stunts, I could still take it somewhere else if I really wanted to. But I think meeting my friends, my bandmates, that was a really big part of the shift. Probably the biggest. They all have their own unique tastes and styles in what they consume and create. I grew up going to shows, but they have taken me to probably hundreds more at this point, and shown me stuff I wouldn't find on my own. They’re so versatile as musicians and artists, they’re always open to trying all these different things, but they don’t lose their standards or vision in the process. Ever. Um, they’re the best. Sorry—I’m rambling," she laughs. "Does that answer that question at all?”

Not even minutes later, we've bounced through several different subjects, Jackie sometimes asking me more questions than I can ask her. When I had reached out for an interview, she eagerly accepted the opportunity and invited me to come to her apartment rather than my initially suggested café. "Coffee shops can get so fucking loud!" She had emailed me.

We're still in her living room, which also serves as a makeshift studio. (She clarifies: "None of the real recording happens here, I think I would've been evicted by now if that were the case.") The space is small and full, but well organized. There's a few photos framed on her desk-side wall above her monitor, a handful of them I recognize as cover art. I ask her if there's any story behind them.

"Oh—ha, I was really into film in highschool. I still am, I just don't have as much time or opportunities for it right now. But yeah, some of the photos I've used for cover art are mine. Some are just ones I dug up from my parent's basement." She follows my gaze, which lingers on one cover that has been an object of speculation since it's release. "Give It Time."

I glance back at her, understanding if she doesn't want to elaborate on it. Most fans believe it's a photo of her and Seven Lawless, her ex-bandmate and ex-boyfriend, (who, at the time of the EP's release, were both in Stunts but their relationship was not yet public.) but the pixelated editing has left it fairly ambiguous. There are other plausible theories floating online about who it could be.

When I had first arrived at her door, she told me: "I'm an open book with most things, as long as you don't have bad intentions." And I'm not in the business of prying into subjects like that for anyone I interview—but she smiles at me warmly when she realizes what's caught my eye.

"I didn't take that one actually. It's still one of my favorites, though."

There's a comfortable lull in the conversation while I continue to examine the wall, until I point to one that looks only slightly out of place among the rest. There's about five people (you can probably guess who) squished into the frame, all half-dressed and soaking wet with wild grins plastered onto their faces.

She immediately bursts into a fit of laughter. "Okay, maybe not that one. My manager might kill me."

Stream "Didn't See That Coming" here.

☆☆☆

This is the first part of a pre-BOTB interview miniseries about my @infamous-if OC, Jackie Cohen. Whiplash Magazine is local to her home county's music scene but a lot of their audience is spread out online too. :)

The album cover edits were inspired by @spider-actual’s edits for their Infamous band Shelter In Place, go check them out they are so cool !!!

Original sources of the photos used for album art: About Yesterday / Give It Time / Leaning Backward / Didn't See That Coming

[utilitycaster]

I think the shallow feeling of Laudna/ Imogen also comes from how they talk too and about each other. The gnarlrock conflict felt so much more real than all the “Imogen is very competent and powerful” and “Laudna is so comforting,” there’s nooooot really anything else there? There’s no annoyance or teasing or boredom or Anything, just vague softness. And actual roommates or lovers or siblings aren’t soft and sweet all the time, so Imogen and Laudna come off as people who haven’t actually spent much time together.

So I want to talk about the Bjork song "Hyperballad". It's a great song musically which is why I originally liked it, but the premise of the song is that, within a relationship, there will be weird and messy parts of one's self that need to be expressed elsewhere, outside of that relationship, so that you can be both your entire self but also part of a couple, with the compromises that entails. Anyway, I love this song and I feel like that aspect of this relationship - either as friends or romantically - is entirely missing.

What gets me is that not only is there so little teasing or minor annoyances (and on the rare occasions we have seen them, even when it's been in less direct conflict - think Imogen being kind of impatient and annoyed at Laudna thinking her dolls birthed the gnarlrock - it's felt like a breath of air); it's that they both always automatically go to each other for everything, but won't address the darker issues, and seem to have no outlets for all of the messier aspects of themselves. It's again why Ashton calling Laudna out directly on her bullshit feels more vivid and alive than tens of conversations with Imogen in which neither is willing to risk asking any real, piercing questions. It's why the conversation in the storage room beneath Imahara Joe's is such a strong Imogen scene, because she doesn't have to spend the whole time correcting Laudna's misconceptions but instead actually has to think about and answer to whether she feels she's a hero or something to be feared.

I do keep going back to prior campaigns for comparison but I think that makes sense here. Part of why the Nein worked is that, for example, Jester and Veth became friends very quickly and were able to explore some of the sillier and more chaotic aspects of themselves there, which not only made them much more realized but also pushed Fjord and Caleb to mesh with the group more, whereas Imogen and Laudna are kind of a static island within a group that is both tied to them and also forcibly distanced from them. Or going back further, this is why the twins' respective romantic relationships (and Percy and Keyleth's friendship) make so much sense. The twins love each other deeply but there is a disconnect in what they understand about each other, and their romantic partners, respectively, do understand; but also it's valuable for, say, Vex to have someone in her life who's like "I see how you relate to Percy, and I genuinely believe you are very good for each other, but you are fucked up in the same way and you should be aware of that," just as it's valuable for Vax to have someone in his life who serves as an example of the virtues of self-preservation.

If I may: I think there's sometimes a belief in fandom that having an all-consuming relationship with nothing left outside of it is the goal, rather than a cautionary tale at best and a recipe for despair at worst. I also think there's a bizarrely prevalent belief that being openly protective of a person, in the sense of "I don't want you to get hurt because I care for you," is bad; but constantly trying to protect someone's feelings through never addressing difficult topics is good, even as it stunts their ability to grow as a person. The most obvious parallel from past campaigns I can think of is how Caleb specifically avoided telling the clerics about his past for fear of how they, Jester especially, would respond to it. And it's an understandable impulse, to want people to think the best of you; but it's also terribly difficult and sad to be around someone who thinks you have everything under control when you feel like you're drowning. I suppose from a certain point of view it's romantic to say "I love this person so much that I have to hide absolutely essential aspects of myself out of fear they won't love me back"; but in the 19th century doomed-by-the-narrative gothic romance Bronte sisters sort of way, not in a "this is a romance and they are in love and will live happily ever after" way. I want to see people who finally can be honest with each other, not people who can only engage with each others' masks.

So that's my problem; Imogen and Laudna do genuinely have potential if they can find a way to be honest with each other, but we're almost 40 episodes in and the relationship feels identical to how it did in episode 1, which is to say, recent roommates who might have crushes on each other, rather than best friends of 2 years.

[laudsimogen]

All the Way

“Are you sure you’re all right? Do you need me to get anything for you?”

Laudna nervously wrung out her hands in front of the bed where Imogen sat against the headboard. Their last battle hadn’t been a particularly bad one, but Imogen had sustained the brunt of the damage while Laudna had come out of it with no more than a few scrapes and bruises. That was by design on Imogen’s part.

“I’m fine, honey,” Imogen said. “You know I woulda let Letters heal me more if I weren’t. Just come sit with me and relax a little?”

Laudna nodded and crawled into bed beside Imogen, but she didn’t show any signs of relaxing. They sat silently for a moment before Laudna said, “I don’t like what you did out there.”

Imogen sighed. “Laud, I just—”

“No,” Laudna interrupted. She fiddled with her fingers, self-soothing by rubbing a nail against the skin of her thumb. She didn’t look directly at Imogen as she spoke. “You can’t—you can’t just throw yourself in front of me like that.”

“It was one arrow,” Imogen said. “I knew it wouldn’t be too bad in my shoulder. It was aiming straight at your chest. I couldn’t…”

“I was ready to dodge it,” Laudna murmured. “That could have been much worse for you.” She shook her head. “Please don’t make a habit of doing that. If anything ever happens to you because you were trying to protect me, I—I couldn’t live with that, Imogen.”

“I’m sorry.” Imogen looked down at her lap, trying to hold tears back. “I’m just…I’m just so afraid all the time of losing you again. Those were the scariest few days of my life when you were gone, and I can’t let it happen again. I can’t.”

“Darling…” Laudna ran her fingers through Imogen’s hair, then gently lifted her chin until Imogen met her eyes. “I wish I could promise it won’t happen again. But regardless, I can’t have you putting your life at risk for me. Please, Imogen.”

Imogen let out a shaky breath. “All right,” she said. “I’ll try not to. I’m sorry.”

Laudna took Imogen’s face in both of her hands and pressed a long, gentle kiss to the top of her head. “Thank you,” she said, and she trailed her fingers down a curl of Imogen’s hair. “You’re very precious to me, you know. I don’t like seeing you get hurt.”

Imogen’s breath caught. She knew Laudna loved her, of course, but lately it’s been harder and harder to remember that she didn’t love her the way Imogen loved Laudna. Ever since the resurrection a few weeks ago, it was as if Imogen’s feelings had grown to a nearly unbearable degree. They’d always been there, but now she could hardly think about anything else. And it didn’t help that Laudna had been clingier as well.

“Likewise,” Imogen managed to say.

Laudna placed another kiss on Imogen’s cheekbone where a blade had grazed her, and then another one on the puncture wound in her shoulder. It had closed up enough that it no longer bled, but it was still tender to the touch. Still, the shiver Laudna’s lips sent down her spine overpowered any pain she felt.

“Laudna,” Imogen whispered. She couldn’t do this. “Please stop.”

Laudna pulled away, eyebrows drawn with worry. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Did that hurt? I was trying to be gentle.”

“No, it’s fine,” Imogen said. “I just—” How was she supposed to explain this? She had decided long ago not to burden Laudna with her feelings, especially not after she’d explicitly expressed that she didn’t use that part of her brain. But if Laudna kept touching her like this, she didn’t think she’d be able to hold back.

“What’s wrong, Imogen? Talk to me.”

Finish on AO3

[revvethasmythh]

I think people just ship Imogen and Laudna because they are close friends and are women. Women who are not afraid to be affectionate with each other. I still very much hate people calling them lesbians when they both have expressed feelings for men. Why can’t they be bi or pan? It’s not a bad ship but the shippers are so fucking insufferable. And lowkey I think some people (a very weird subset of fans) just ship Laura and Marisha. And have shipped literally every Laura and Marisha characters. I have a lot of grievances or complaints with those subset of fans/shippers.

Okay, at the risk of getting spicy on my own blog, yeah anon, I feel you. I always try to remain open minded to certain ships and things that take hold in the fandom that I may not particularly like, but I have found myself drawing a harder line on this topic as of recently. Not because the ship is bad (not my cup of tea, perhaps, but not bad) but because I dislike the vibe of the shipping culture that is growing around it.

I mean, I say that delicately, but the specific attitude that has rubbed me the wrong way existed since at least the first 4sd and probably long before. It's like, the level of presumption that these characters a) are a certain way (re: your point about them regularly being referred to as lesbians despite showing attraction toward men/male presenting), b) WILL end up together, and c) that anyone who thinks otherwise is straight up wrong, that I have found off-putting, particularly as we're at a stage in the campaign where NO relationships are certain. I vividly recall seeing at least one person say with genuine confusion and a little bit of hurt after the first 4sd that they didn't understand why Marisha would even ask Robbie if Dorian had a crush on Imogen (let alone sounding excited about it) because "Laudna's in love with her :("

And in normal sized quantities, I'm never going to be a bitch about these sorts of things--ship what you want! life's short, imagine your blorbos kissing while you can! I do--but the breadth of it and the insistence that it will happen is something I have found grating for a long time. I mean, you try to be above it, but we're still human. Sometimes things are just annoying and frustrating. And how quickly it all gained ground is probably helped along by, as you said, the fact that a fair number of these shippers roved over from previous Marisha PC/Laura PC ships and have consistently shipped Marisha PC/Laura PC in every campaign. So, like, yeah. I get it.

Also, just a disclaimer that this is NOT about everyone who ships imogen/laudna. This is mainly about, as anon said, a specific subset of shippers that have contributed to a general vibe that has been. uh. not great. Which is fine and a thing that we can talk about, and everyone is going to engage with this post like completely normal and rational people! Right? Amazing. Thank you for agreeing.

[ascendanceseriesveteran]

🌹 Short fanfiction I like to call “tHis Boy iS OuR KinG?”

This is inspired by the sneak-peak, Shattered Castle quote ‘“This boy is our king?” She shook her head, her expression souring with every movement. “And soon he will be my son-in-law. How wonderful.” Her tone implied that she believed having a thorn in one’s foot was also wonderful. I was clearly the thorn.”’

Warning no. 1: I lost a bit of inspiration in part 2 and just wrapped it up, sorry that it feels unfinished.

Warning no. 2: Yes I have decidedly made this a little ✨spicy✨ at one point and also slipped in a ✨risqué✨ joke (don’t attack me please and thank you.)

Warning no. 3: Potential spelling mistakes bc I wrote this in a very short period of time.

Side note: I think Imogen’s real mother will be different to what I wrote here but I’m just really excited to see her grill Jaron. This TSC quote gave me life.

Final note: I almost died when I read “son-in-law”, don’t talk to me- 🤧 but if we get Jarogen’s wedding in TSC, or even just more talk about them being a package deal, I’ll combust.

Without further ado. Here’s the fic:

“It will be fine.” Imogen articulated every syllable. Probing me forward and ahead of the exacerbated sighs behind us.

This wasn’t how I’d hoped to meet my future mother-in-law. Not with Tobias, Roden and Amarinda here too. And certainly not while all of them, including Imogen, were angry with me for keeping the Scope from them. Now Wilta was terrorising Carthya and it was all my fault.

I grabbed Imogen’s arm, “No mother in the history of mothers has ever approved of their daughter’s partner.”

She huffed, crossed her arms, and sent our friends out of hearing-range with a single glare so that she could scold me privately. This was scarier than what was to come, I decided. “Firstly, after what you pulled, calling me your partner is a bit generous.”

I winced. Hearing her say that was like a dagger to the heart. She never seemed to accept my keeping secrets for her safety. I knew that with information, a person became vulnerable to their enemies. So did she. And yet she was willing to risk her life. I however, wasn’t willing to do that. I loved her more than anything and couldn’t bear to lose her. But each of my mistakes was succeeded by another. And every time I kept a secret, I was pushing her further and further away from me. Hurting her. It seemed that the prospect of losing her wasn’t that far from reality. That my own stupidity would be the reason I ended up alone. And I was terrified by that fact. I was nothing without her.

Clearly sensing my distress, her frustration was interrupted by a calming softness only she could muster, “Stop panicking, Jaron. I’m not leaving you. I’m just angry and need you to know that you can’t keep doing this to me. I love you and I care for you, but I need you to let me in.”

I averted my eyes.

“Secondly, very few daughters have brought a handsome, strong, honourable King home for their mother’s approval before. Though we will need to keep your sharp tongue in check. She’s very quick at forming opinions.” It was obvious that she was trying to perk me up a bit. Complimenting me. Attempting to be make feel worthy. But with that came the realisation that everything she said were standards I would never truly live up to. Standards she deserved to have in her partner that I would always fall short of.

Imogen continued, cupping my cheeks, “I haven’t seen her for a few years, but I have faith that she will see what I see in you.” I looked at her in surprise as she shuffled closer. She had to stand on her toes to reach my lips. And without any hesitation, I dipped low to meet her kiss, whimpering as we made contact. For days I have wallowed in the despair of depravation. Receiving glares rather than the glorious affection I craved like a starved man. I would give her everything. Her hand gripped my messy nest of hair and the other pressed me against her. I melted at the thought that she missed this as much as I did.

“I’m still angry at you.” She whispered, nipping my lip gently.

“I know.”

“You still have to shower me with apologies.”

“Until you forgive me.”

“If I forgive you.”

Smiling against her lips I pulled her even closer until our bodies melded into one another, basking in each other’s warmth.

“We don’t have all day” Somewhere in the quiet, insignificant distance, Roden’s frustration was heard. But it was as easy to block out as the chirping of birds at five in the morning when I’d much rather be sleeping.

And we stood like that for a while. And it was perfect. Until-

“Your sword is poking me.”

Quickly letting her go, I leaped away before I could manage to cross any more lines. Only to have her reach over and adjust the strap that held my sword in place. Because she was talking about the weapon that was currently on my hip. The sharp, stabbing device. The one used to stab people. Not anything else.

Imogen had the nerve to giggle and shake her head in amusement. At least she was no longer angry at me, I concluded.

When finished, she whispered, “I hope she likes you.” And with a final peck, Imogen knocked, fluffed my hair and tucked the face-concealing strands behind my ears. My heart fluttered as she made me look presentable. Her touch, full of love. The others returned to stand behind us, Tobias mumbling about how he hoped Amarinda’s family would accept him even though he wasn’t royalty. And I felt like I could conquer anything, including this greeting.

It was naive to be so optimistic about my chances.

When Imogen’s mother opened the door, I saw the resemblance instantly. Honey-coloured eyes and cascading, brown locks. She scooped her daughter into her arms and held her for what seemed like forever. Tears sparking in her gaze as it swept over Imogen.

“I’ve missed you so much. I can’t believe you’re finally home.”

Imogen wrapped her arms around her mother again, “I’ve missed you too.”

“And who are all these people?” It wasn’t really bitterness in her voice. More frustration from having four strangers impose on her reunion with her daughter.

Imogen answered for us, “They’re my friends and we need a place to stay tonight.”

“I thought you were still at Connor’s estate. Even after…” Her voice was a mere whisper, as if she was telling something forbidden. “Well, you know.”

“No, actually,” Imogen bit her lip and glanced over at me. I tried my best to look calm but it was clear I had failed. “No, I’ve been somewhere else. I think we should talk inside.”

•••••

I regretted everything. Sleeping outside in the cold would have been less painful than the scrutinising examination I was receiving from Lavinia, Imogen’s mother.

“This boy is our King?” She shook her head, her expression souring with every movement. “And soon he will be my son-in-law. How wonderful.” Her tone implied that she believed having a thorn in one’s foot was also wonderful. I was clearly the thorn.

I kept my mouth shut. Vowing that my natural talent at making bad situations worse would not cripple my chances of being liked by Lavinia. She however, had different ideas.

“Is he also a mute?”

“No.” I swallowed my words, realising my mistake. “I mean, no, my Lady.”

My courteous efforts were completely useless. “What are your intentions with my daughter?”

I shot Imogen a panicked glance and thanked the saints when she swooped in to save me. “Is this really necessary?”

“Yes, it is,” Lavinia snapped. “I’ve heard a lot about him. And not all of it was good. As far as rumour goes, he’s the reason Prozarians are burning our crops and terrorising our people.”

Imogen snapped back. I could see where her fierce personality stemmed from. “He’s also the one who saved Carthya from slaughter by the Avenians and united us with our neighbours and liberated a whole country from the Prozarians.”

“A few good deeds don’t absolve him of the bad.”

Imogen huffed and crossed her arms, “You haven’t even given him a chance.”

“Perhaps you’ve given him too many.”

That was true, I thought ruefully. I deserved far less than what Imogen has given me.

“You have always been an intelligent woman, Imogen,” Lavinia said. “I didn’t think I’d live to see the day you let your wits be clouded by status, wealth and appearance.”

“Don’t speak to her that way,” I hissed without much forethought. Insulting me was one thing. If anything, I could prove my strength by not showing my hurt. But implying that Imogen was shallow or lacking in judgement was were I drew the line. Even if the target of my rebuke was none other than the mother I hoped to win over.

“Jaron,” Imogen hand gripped my wrist warningly.

“Your daughter has more wisdom than the entirety of Carthya and if you suggest otherwise I swear we will leave.”

Lavinia stood eerily still until a satisfied smile crossed her face. “Good answer.”

I frowned, confused. Imogen’s posture relaxed a bit. But her thumb continued drawing circles on my wrist.

“I made dinner before you arrived. There should be enough for everyone. Come take a seat.” She gestured to the table and walked off to get what I could only assume was said dinner.

“I’m very confused.”

Imogen guided me to the table as everyone else took their seats. Ironically, I was at the head of the table. I guessed that was out of habit for everyone. But I wished I had a less imposing seat. Perhaps the corner Tobias lodged himself in would’ve been nice.

“See, you’re already growing on her,” Imogen whispered.

I scoffed, “Sure I am. Like fungus.”

She rolled her eyes. “I will be honest. I didn’t expect her to react that way. I know she can come off pretty strongly, but even I can admit her perception of you is misplaced.”

“No it’s not,” I murmured.

“What?”

I smiled at Imogen and Lavinia came back into the room carrying a large dish of soup and six bowls.

“Alright, let’s begin,” she announced and I swallowed.

Because it was here that I realised that my interrogation had only just begun.

[deathonyourtongue]

Falling Again

Summary: Life is cruel, but the mind is crueler. Pairing: AU!Henry Cavill x OFC  Word Count: 5.2K Warnings: Angst. Loads of tears. I apologize in advance. A/N: @luna-aestas​ requested angst in the same vein as the Welcome Home series, along with some unrequited love. What’s worse than unrequited love? Assuming it’s unrequited. This will probably end up being another series. You’ve been warned. 

Everyone told him that the pain would pass with time. That with each day, the wound would scar over and the dull ache in his chest would go away, that things like work and social events would be less awkward, and that even alone time would normalize again. 

They were all wrong. 

The truth was that it had been five years, and he still felt the pain like a red-hot poker searing through his heart each time he woke to live another day. 

The knocking on the door was never loud enough to hide the sound of her sniffles, and though sleep always threatened to drag him back under, it was her soft voice that always made him sit up. 

“Papa? I had a nightmare.” Her voice, tear-filled and scared, always broke his heart, and though there were days when he needed an extra moment to hide his own tears, he never denied his daughter entrance.

“Come in, sweetie,” Henry called, barely getting the words out before he heard the knob turning. He watched as she padded in, taking extra care to close the door behind her. With her otter plushie tucked under her arm, she tiptoed to the bed, looking up at her father, fresh tears tracks painting her ruddy cheeks. 

“What did you dream about, pumpkin?” He asked, his voice as soft as his daughter’s as he picked her up and lifted her into what had--over time--become her spot. He was shocked when the mere question had her whimpering, her little arms finding his neck and holding on tight as she cried into his shoulder. His face broke into one of sympathy and pain, his heart breaking any time his daughter cried so earnestly.

"We were at the park and I got l-lost! I ran the wh-whole park and f-finally found you, but-but you were a-asleep and wou-wouldn't wake up! J-just like g-grams!" She keened, his shirt soaked with her tears as she shook like a leaf in his arms.

Cradling her head against his chest, Henry smoothed down her hair over and over, his own eyes filling with unshed tears as he realized, in that moment, how much his mother-in-law’s death had affected his little girl. His mother-in-law had been far too young to go, but had lived long enough to become attached at the hip with his daughter. Her death hadn't come as a surprise to either of them, but holding her now, he could tell that his daughter hadn't been given a fair shake at grieving.

He'd taken her to the funeral, not because he thought it was the right thing to do, but because he had no other choice. Babysitters were exorbitant luxuries in NYC, and everyone he knew was either going to be in attendance, or tied up with work. Technically, he couldn't even afford the day off for the funeral, but his boss was self-servingly magnanimous and had paid him time and a half, knowing full well it would put Henry in his pocket for another year. She'd been quiet as a mouse during the ceremony, the eulogies, and the procession to view the body (which he'd left her in her seat for). Even the ride home, he realized, had been a silent one, and for all the grieving he'd done when he thought she wasn't looking, Henry had never seen his daughter so much as throw a tantrum to try and express herself.

Now, holding her as she wailed softly, her grip on him a vice that wouldn't release until she slept, Henry realized that the nightmares she'd been having were her mind's way of processing what had happened, and that, like her father, she was afraid of losing everyone she loved.

Kissing her forehead, Henry tried to think of a way to make her understand that he wasn't going to die the way her grandmother, and her mother both had, but he knew his daughter well enough to know that promising he'd live to a ripe old age wouldn't cut it.

"That sounds like a scary dream, pumpkin, but papa's not going anywhere, okay? Grams was very sick, the kind of sick that only really happens to people that are much, much, older than Papa. Grams was sick for a long, long, time. Ever since you were a baby. Papa just went to the doctor and he said I was in perfect health. I don't want you to worry about Papa falling asleep and not waking up, okay? I’m going to be around for a long, long time. Might even be around when you've got white hair and wrinkles everywhere, okay? Papa works out and eats healthy every day so that I can be around as long as possible. So don't worry, alright? I’m not going anywhere."

Sophia sniffled and whimpered a little more, but finally nodded, understanding what he was saying, even if she didn't 100% believe it quite yet. "I love you, papa," she whispered, giving him a squeeze. He kissed her temple and nodded. "I love you too, sweetheart. More than you'll ever know."

"I won't worry about it unless you go bald like grams or mama," she whispered, the decision one that made her content and relaxed in his arms, Sophia never to know just how much the simple reasoning shattered her father's heart.

Henry waited until she was completely asleep to tip his head up to the ceiling, his own tears silent and desperate as he clung to what little family had left.

There was very little he paid attention to at work aside from work itself. He couldn’t afford distraction; medical bills, funerary costs, utilities, rent, and groceries all required money, and working an entry-level job was barely cutting it, even with mandatory overtime. Still, there was one distraction he couldn’t seem to shake, despite the guilt that came over him each time he realized it was happening again. 

His distraction had a name and a devastating smile much like his wife’s. In fact, there was a lot about Zoe that reminded him of his Izzy. At first glance it was hard to see, given the differences in eye color, nose and face shape, but there was something about her mannerisms, her energy, and her kindness that evoked the love of his life. Henry couldn’t help but watch her whenever she came to speak to one of their colleagues, and at lunch they exchanged polite conversation. That was the extent of it, though. Henry knew that a woman like Zoe, a woman who radiated such brightness and joy, would never be with a man like him, a hulled husk ready to be crumbled into dust at any given moment. 

There were days however, where even Zoe’s brand of sunshine couldn’t break the storm clouds that seemed to follow Henry wherever he went, days where the world crushed him just that little bit further. As Henry took a seat at his desk, he knew today would be one of those days, if his morning had been any indication.

He had cried himself to sleep, if the heaviness of his eyes was anything to go by, but as the sun crept through the crooked blinds of his bedroom, Henry remembered the events of the night before, and in peeking down, found Sophia pretending to be asleep.

"Rise and shine, pumpkin, it's time for school," he murmured, peppering her face with gentle kisses, Henry angling his head before blowing a small raspberry on the top of her arm.

"Papa, I don't feel good," she said as she swatted his face away, her eyes staying closed--Henry's first indication that she was faking it.

"You don't feel good? Well, let's see," he kept his tone soft and neutral, both of them knowing this game all too well, both intent on playing it anyway. The back of his hand pressed to her forehead before he scooted down to press his ear to her tummy. Coming back up, Henry gave her a half-shrug. "You don't have a fever, and your tummy’s not rumbling...Is it the kind of 'not feeling good' where you just want to stay home?" Fixing her with a soft, 'tell the truth' gaze, Henry waited for her answer.

"I don't wanna go to school. Wanna stay home with you."

"But papa's not staying home, I have to go to work, sweetheart," he tried to reason with her, Henry surprised when, for the second time in less than 24 hours, Sophia’s lower lip started to quiver.

"But I want you to stay home! You're always so tired and so sad, papa! Want you to stay home so we can nap and have tea, and so you can be happy!" 

Sophia's reasoning hit him like a truck at an intersection, Henry feeling his heart stop for a few beats while he tried to process what she'd just said. He'd thought he'd always been careful to smile and be upbeat around her, but obviously his little one had the gift of stealth and had caught him in private moments, when he thought she wasn't looking.

"What makes you think Papa's not happy?" he asked, trying to keep his face neutral and his eyes from watering.

"I hear you crying every day, papa! And when you talk to Uncle Dom, you always say about how you're worried about money, and about how bills are piling up. At night, you say mama’s name over and over, like you're having a bad dream."

Tears spilled over as he listened to his six year old be so observant, so astute, and so heartbreakingly no nonsense in her reasoning. Chin falling to his chest, he only managed to hold back his sobs, crying as quietly as he could, because, as seemed to be the case whenever she really watched something and made up her mind about it, Soph was right.

The shrill ring of his cell phone cut through the otherwise-quiet moment, and Henry answered it without looking, not realizing that it was his sister-in-law, Imogen on the other end.

"H-Hello?" he stammered, the grief clearly heard in his voice, even through the shortest word possible.

"Henry? Darling, is everything alright? Nevermind all that, I’ll be over in a jiff."

Wiping his eyes, Henry sighed heavily, getting up to unlock the door to his ramshackle apartment, knowing Gen would be there in less than five. Though it was nice having her and her husband, Dom so close, there were times when Henry wished they lived just a little further up town. Henry hadn't been expecting the hug, but the moment Gen was through the door and her arms were around him, it was all he could do to keep from sobbing. 

“Are you certain you’re okay to go into work like this?” Gen asked softly, feeling a sense of dejavu come over her. It was a conversation they’d had often enough, both before and after her sister’s death, and it had yet to end differently. Shoulders shaking, Henry nodded, the words that followed being the opposite of what anyone wanted to hear.

"I d-don't have a choice," he whispered, knowing full well that any slip-up would cost him his job, and that being without income, even for a few days, would spell disaster for his and Sophia's lives.

"Aunt Gen, make him stay home and sleep!" Soph said quietly with urgency in her voice, the little girl knowing how frayed her father was, even if he fought it tooth and nail.

"Soph, sweetheart, Papa has to go to work. It's not like school, I can't miss a day just because I don't feel like coming in," he did his best to explain it to her gently, Henry crouching down, arms outstretched for her.

Reluctantly, she came, and Henry wrapped her up tight, kissing her head over and over. "You're going to have the best time with Aunt Gen. You always do. You'll go shopping and have lunch at her place, or maybe even help her and Aunt Beth make a cake! Or you two could go to the pool, or maybe even go see Uncle Dom at the bookstore. You're going to have loads of fun and before you know it, papa will be there to pick you up."

Though he managed to keep his voice steady, Henry's free hand covered his eyes, the age-old shame he felt as a father who couldn't provide everything his daughter needed and wanted coming back the second he realized he couldn't even give her spending money for anything.

Wiping his eyes hard, he pulled back and fixed his daughter with a beaming smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I want you to tell me all about the fun you had today once we get home, okay? Now, go on, you're wasting time hanging around here with your old gaffer, when you could be having pancakes for breakfast with your favorite auntie."

He winked, Henry’s smile growing just a little more when Soph's eyes lit up. It was rare she got more than a bowl of oatmeal in the morning, as groceries tended to be kept to the cheapest items that provided the most nutritional value possible. If the military had taught him anything, it was how to stretch food, and he did it without even thinking sometimes; without taking into account that a treat here and there would be good for his little girl.

Standing, he went for his wallet, eyes on the floor, jaw clenched, and face burning red with shame as he handed Gen a five, giving up what he'd budgeted for lunch for the week, wanting his daughter to at least have something on her day out with her aunt.

Henry turned immediately so that Gen didn't have the chance to put it back in his hand, moving across the room to grab his phone and call in to Sophia's school, not wanting to get the call later at work, where he wouldn't be able to answer it.

"Hi, Mary, yes, this is Sophia’s father, Henry. Soph's not going to be coming in today. She's feeling rather poorly, so I'm going to keep her home. Okay, thank you. Have a great day," he spoke softly, making silly faces at Soph while talking, grateful to get a silent laugh from her, his daughter knowing better than to jeopardize her day off by giggling loud enough to be heard by the school secretary.

"All right, pumpkin, come ‘ere. You have fun and listen to your auntie okay? No running off, no being a silly monkey in a crowded place. I love you, have fun, and I'll see you tonight," Henry said softly as he hugged Sophia tight, holding on just a little longer than usual and wishing for all the world he could call in.

“You always have a choice,” Gen reminded him, her face holding sympathy for the man who’d single-handedly been responsible for her sister’s happiness, especially in the last few months of her life. “You should stay for dinner. Dom’s making his famous Kitchen Sink Pasta,” she added after a moment, noticing the sallowness of Henry’s skin, how the hollows of his cheeks were becoming more pronounced.

To Gen, Henry and Izzy would forever be soulmates, an insurmountably perfect couple, but her sister’s request that he find someone new after her passing weighed heavier and heavier on Gen’s mind with every passing year. If Heaven did exist, Imogen imagined her sister was tearing her hair out with impatience, or sobbing without end at seeing how life had panned out for her husband after her parting.

"Easy for you to say," Henry murmured, giving Gen a kind smile, not needing to remind her that her situation was far different than his, given her huge family, and the fact that she ran her own business. The more Gen looked at him with sympathy, the more shame he felt, and while he knew she was only trying to do right by him, it only made him feel worse about his circumstances.

"Don't count on me for dinner. Dom's been picking up Soph for a reason. I probably won’t make it out of there until at least nine," he spoke softly and between his teeth, wanting to make it as garbled as possible so that Sophia wouldn't be upset. One look in her eyes however, and Henry knew his daughter had understood every word.

"You two have fun. I'll see you ladies later," Henry smiled, seeing them to the door and watching until they'd disappeared down the stairs before closing and sliding down against the frame, his tears free to fall in privacy.

Connected to her father by an invisible thread that latched her heart to his, Sophia forced Gen to stop midway down the stairs, her ears perked, head tilted towards the general direction of her home.

"Papa's crying again," she stated plainly, her own chin falling to her chest, the softest, saddest little  sigh escaping her. "He hasn't been happy in a very, very long time. Wish I could fix him. Wish I could make him stay home, aunt Gen. The only reason I wanted to stay home was to stay with him."

Sniffling, she wiped her eyes, looking up at her aunt with questioning eyes. "Do you think it would be easier for papa if I gave him all the money in my piggy bank? Would he be able to stay home and sleep then? Is there a way that we can make the bills stop coming? Stop them from making papa so worried and sad?"

Gen did her best to keep her face neutral as bent down to hug Sophia tightly, feeling the waves of anguish roll off her. Her heart broke for her niece, knowing the little girl was as empathetic as her father, and that at her age, emotions were always felt more deeply.

“Tell you what, why don’t we go back in there and see if we can’t convince your father to stow away with us one more time? I think he could do with some pancakes as well, don’t you?” Knowing she was pushing her luck, but also knowing Sophia would spend the day withdrawn if she didn’t try, Gen opened the door, hoping once, just once, Henry would say yes.

“So Soph and I decided that you don’t have a choice. You’re coming with us today, for pancakes and books and cake, alright?”

He’d had just enough time to wipe his eyes and stand up by the time the door opened and Sophia ran to him full tilt, hugging him as tight as she could manage for such a little girl.

"What's wrong?" he asked, looking up at Gen in concern before her words clicked everything into place. Though he kept a smile on for Sophia, he couldn’t stop from fixing Gen with a look.

"Girls, much as I'd like to join you, I have to go to work. Like I said, pumpkin, I can't just skip a day because I feel like it. Papa's has to go to work." Henry was tender with his daughter, never once wanting to be the one that made her upset, but also needing her to understand that his world didn't work as easily as her's did.

"Give papa just a second to have a word with Aunt Gen, alright? Then you two can get to those pancakes," he nodded, pressing a kiss to each cheek and giving Sophia a squeeze, before motioning for Gen to follow him into his bedroom.

With the door closed and locked behind them, Henry ran a hand through his hair, blowing out a sigh. "I appreciate what you're trying to do. I really do. But I can't skip work, or I'll lose my job. Furthermore, Gen, if I miss a day, I literally can't make rent or groceries this month. I cannot skip today, especially when I’m being paid overtime. I'm sorry, I r-really am, and believe me, this is k-killing me, okay? But I c-can't. So please, don't get her h-hopes up like that. It's not fair--"

Turning his back to Gen, he curled in on himself until he was crouching down, hands covering his head as though it were a bomb drill. Using his forearms to muffle the whimpers, he stayed down there until he felt his composure return. Wiping his eyes with the same ferocity he always did whenever he knew someone had seen him crying, Henry stood up and gave her a gentle smile.

"Please make it a day she'll never forget, okay? Do that for me? Please?"

It wasn't lost on him, in that moment of vulnerability, that he'd yet been able to make it to any of his daughter's events during her first year in kindergarten. None of the little parties, show-and-tells, or anything of that nature had seen him in attendance, but instead, had been graciously covered--and recorded for later viewing--by Dom, who had been mistaken for Sophia's father more than once.

Wracked with guilt and shame over his failings as a parent, Henry looked down at the floor, destroyed through and through. There were a lot of things missing from his life that most took for granted; a couch, Netflix, sometimes electricity. But it was the intangible things that ate him up and made him feel like true scum. Missing Sophia’s events, not picking her up from school every day, and often being too tired to do more than what was absolutely necessary for her when he finally came home, were all things that caused him deep shame and often-sleepless nights.

He waited for Gen to give up, to say she understood, and to leave in order to hopefully give his beloved daughter a day she'd not soon forget, Henry knowing that today, no matter how easy the calls turned out to be, would be hell.

"You were supposed to be here by six, Cavill!!"

Henry's head snapped up when he heard his boss' voice booming down the hall.

"I'm scheduled to start at nine, sir," he replied, trying to maintain his cool as he fumbled with trying to pull his schedule from his desk drawers while putting himself in a code so that calls wouldn’t come in automatically. He was certain his schedule was right and that he hadn’t switched with anyone.

Even as he tore through his papers, a write up sheet was laid on his desk, Henry finding the printout before turning and looking up at Jerry, utterly confused and more than a little appalled.

"You were supposed to start at six, you showed up at nine. You're late, so I'm docking your pay." Henry's eyes hardened as he held up the sheet of paper, handing it to Jerry.

"I was scheduled for nine. I logged in at 8:58 am."

"I wanted you here for six, I told you on Friday. Sign the form and get back on the phones."

Henry tried to wrack his brains for any important conversations he'd had with his boss, anything that could help him defend himself, but nothing came. Friday had been as ordinary as any other day.

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Henry signed the paper, knowing full well he was giving away half his paycheck and with it, any chance at getting rent paid on time.

Sick to his stomach, he looked at the clock, then at the picture of Sophia he kept tucked in the back of his cubicle. "I'm sorry, pumpkin. Should've just stayed home today," he murmured, wiping at his eyes to keep fresh tears at bay. 

By lunch time, Henry was beginning to feel light-headed with hunger. Knowing he’d given his lunch budget to Gen, he settled for a black coffee and took his usual seat, intent on shutting out the world, if only for a few minutes. 

“Uh oh, *someone’s had a rough morning,” Zoe grinned as she came in, setting her lunch bag down on the counter before putting the container inside into the microwave to heat. Moving over to where Henry sat slumped over, she rubbed his shoulders gently, surprised when she felt nothing but tension beneath her fingers. 

“Everything okay? I heard Jerry muttering in his office all morning about you being late, which I found unusual, given you were here on time.” 

“According to him, I should have been here at six. I think he has it out for me, or is planning on letting me go,” Henry answered, finally lifting up his head to look at Zoe. He wasn’t surprised when she gave him a double-take; he knew he looked like roadkill, her expression simply confirmed it. 

“Have you been sleeping alright? You look like you could use at least 24 hours’ worth,” She commented softly, Henry scrubbing a hand over his face before taking a sip of his coffee. 

“No rest for the wicked, isn’t that the saying? Soph hasn’t been sleeping all that well, so I wake whenever she has a nightmare.” Though it wasn’t the full truth, it wasn’t an outright lie. Henry simply omitted the parts he knew no one at work would care about.

Zoe grimaced in sympathy, getting up and fetching her food before sitting down across from him. Whatever was in the container smelled wonderful, and were it not for the coffee boring a hole in his gut, it would have been pure torture. 

“I bet she sleeps snug as a bug in a rug once she’s been comforted though, huh?” Zoe grinned, taking a bite of sauce-covered ravioli with impeccable manners. Like him, Imogen’s family, and Dom, Zoe was a British expat, having come to NYC to fulfill a career in fashion, but having had her dreams detoured instead. Unlike the rest of them, Henry had landed on his ass in the Big Apple, with all his prospects falling through within the first year of him being in the country. He managed to stay afloat until his paperwork was in place, but no matter how often he applied to jobs in his field, nothing ever came through. Then Izzy got sick and the downward spiral began for good. 

“That she does,” he agreed, rubbing his face and managing a smile for Zoe’s sake. Finishing his coffee, he allowed himself to daydream for a moment. He only ever allowed himself to think of what a date would be like with Zoe, and it was always the same thing. A bright blue sky, good food, and a trek through one of the city’s smaller and more interesting museums. Nothing more, nothing less. More than anything, he just wanted her company. 

“Earth to Henry!” Zoe’s sweet, musical voice brought him back to reality, and looking at her, he couldn’t help but blush. “You were on a different planet. Time to get back to it, sleepyhead,” she mused, tugging one of his curls playfully before letting it spring back up.

“Sorry. Just a zombie today, I s’pose,” Henry answered, looking at his watch and seeing he only had two minutes before he had to be back on the phone.

“I’ll see you later. No falling asleep at your desk, eh?” Zoe grinned, giving him a wink as she stood to wash out her container, her heels clicking on the floor in a way that had Henry momentarily entranced. 

Nine o'clock came as quickly as molasses. By the time he’d stamped out, Henry’s vision was blurred, and he was slightly dizzy. He was careful as he walked home, staying closer to the buildings than the car-lined roads, and waiting for the crosswalks to give him the right of way instead of jaywalking like he normally did.

By the time he hit Dom and Gen's block, he was swaying a little, beyond starving. He hoped the goodbyes wouldn't take too long and he and Sophia could be on their way. Dinner would be something quick, easy, and carb-loaded to hopefully keep his roiling stomach from protesting too much.

Taking the stairs slowly, Henry knocked on the door, leaning against the frame and dying to see his little girl.

“PAPA!!!!” Sophie called excitedly, rushing to Henry with the biggest smile on her face. Though she loved her extended family, it was clear that she’d missed him as much as he’d missed her.

"Oh, my sweet, sweet girl. Papa missed you a ton!" Henry grinned, dropping into a squat to hold her close, his body swaying a little at the sudden movement.

“We had so much fun today and I made you dinner and I made cake and Aunt Gen said you can eat here while it’s still hot and I missed you, papa!!” The second part came out in a single, muffled rush of air, a confirmation of the type of day Henry’d hoped she’d had. At hearing about dinner, he pulled back, fixing Soph with a playful, narrow-eyed smile before raising a knowing eyebrow up at Gen. 

"Did you now? Did you make it allll by yourself?" he asked, tickling Sophia’s sides, Henry tugging her close once more to press kiss after kiss to her face.

When his legs began to get pins and needles, Henry reluctantly let her go. Standing, he tripped over his own feet, Henry’s swaying combined with his clumsiness making it seem as though he were drunk.

"Everything alright, mate?" Dom asked as Henry finally came in through the door,  Dom hugging his brother-in-law a little tighter than normal, concern etched in his features.

"Yeah, yeah, just a very long day. Glad to be back with the munchkin and to apparently have dinner made for me…Gen," Henry spoke the last part with emphasis, shooting her a half-smile and a wink, not in the least mad at her for making him dinner. If anything, he was relieved he wouldn't have to wait until they were home.

He didn't even flinch as Soph crawled up onto his lap as his plate was set in front of him, Henry crooking his finger at Gen before she could leave, a warm kiss pressed to her cheek in thanks.

"Thank you for doing this today. I owe you big time," he murmured, cupping the back of her head for a moment, Henry wanting her to be certain that he meant every word.

“Just remember, you’re not alone in this,” Gen whispered back, her expression tight and filled with an emotion that was both intense and unreadable, a cross between anguish and worry.

“Hands off my wife, pal,” Dom joked to bring some levity to the room, his hands coming down on Henry’s shoulders with a friendly shake. Henry’s mind set out to hurt him, reminding him of the many daydreams of Zoe, of their lunchtime conversations, long enough to make him flinch in his seat, the thoughts feeling like blasphemy.  

There was once a time where he’d come back with a quip of his own, something quick-witted to keep the room laughing just a little longer. As it stood however, Dom’s words were just a painful reminder that there was only one married man in the room. Putting on a brave face, Henry managed to look the part, but his voice betrayed him, coming out soft and broken.

“You got a good one, mate, that’s for sure, but I got the angel.”

[camiddletonxox]

The Babysitter and Flour Incident - Part 1

Pairing - Sam Dalton (Male) x Charity Middleton (The Nanny Affair)

Rating - General

Note - Ngl I have been struggling with writing so much over the past few days, my brain has been so overwhelmed with my new job and my confidence in myself and my writing and just little things that happen at work. But I am trying and here is a fic inspired by a conversation I had with one of my students dad’s at home time tonight.

Taglist - @drakewalkerfantasy @ao719 @princess-geek @polishchoicesfan @binny1985 @adriansbiss @desireepow-1986 @i-bloody-love-drake-walker @hatescapsicum @itscassandral @gardeningourmet @thequeenofcronuts @heauxplesslydevoted @kaavyaethanramsey @imonlybibecauseofethanramsey @waitingforalana @regencylady1810 @storyofmychoices @dailydoseofchoices @sanchita012 @sushiharrington @akshara16 @choicesficwriterscreations

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Setting - This is in a AU where Sam broke off his engagement with Sofia without the scandal and drama and the affair

Summary - After a Dalton Enterprises night out, Charity and Sam come back to a floury mess...

Word Count - 966

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“I don’t know what you expect me to say” Sam tried to keep a calm face as him and Charity had returned from a night out, the two of them had been together a few months now, since Sam broke off his engagement to Sofia. The father of two looked around the apartment where there was mess everywhere, the boys had played pranks on the baby sitter, some part of Sam would have found this amusing, only, this wasn’t the first time these boys, how to say it, had experimented and basically made their home look like a bomb had gone off literally.

The 19 year old girl who the pair had trusted to babysit the boys was, bless her heart, trying to clean up the best she could, she was scrubbing as if her life depended on it. “I am sorry, Mr Dalton. This wasn’t meant to happen, I didn’t even realise they would do something like this” She had tears in her green eyes. Charity bent down and she helped the girl up.

“Don’t apologise, the boys can be a bit too curious for their own good, I know that first hand. The main thing is you and the boys are both safe” The former nanny tried to reassure the girl as much as she could, but with the look on Sam’s face, she couldn’t really tell if he was going to support her with assuring their babysitter. The flour was all over the couch, the sides, the table, the leather seats, even on the floor. The boys had clearly gotten a bit too experimental.

Sam stared at Charity. “I just don’t understand how you could not tell they were going to pull a prank, thats what I’m struggling with” He sighs as he runs a hand through his hair. “Surely you saw them get the flour out the pantry” He gestured to where the pantry was, in plain sight.

“I swear, I didn’t see them go in the pantry, and if I would have done, I would have found another way to entertain them” The girl says, her voice breaking.

“I just don’t understand” Sam insisted, he needed to have a good word with those sons of his for sure, the young girl clearly was apologetic.

“I will come and clean this up after my classes tomorrow, I am sorry Mr Dalton” The girl was trying to make amends, she felt awful about what had happened and she clearly took responsibility to like these other teenagers around in this generation.

“No” Sam shook his head, “I appreciate the thoughtful offer, Imogen. But the boys need to learn when they have done something like this, they have to face consequences and they made the mess.... it would be unreasonable for me to ask you to clean this up” Sam finally gave a gentle smile to the girl.

“I am so sorry Mr Dalton” The girl repeated and he held a hand up.

“Please, don’t worry, I’ll send your mum your money tomorrow” He smiled and Charity led the girl out,

“You know, Sam isn’t mad at you, lovely. He’s just a bit irritated, the boys can be wild at times and sometimes they are hard even for him to deal with” She assured the young girl.

“I really hope not.” The girl had tears in her eyes.

“Sam isn’t the type of man to get angry with someone unless they were careless and they then blame the boys for a mistake that was your fault. I can assure you he knows this wasn’t your fault” Charity smiled and the girl finally smiled and left, feeling a litttle bit more reassured by Charity. Back in the apartment, Sam was looking around in utter disappointment, he just wanted to try one night with a new babysitter and for the boys to behave. He even promised them a video-game and let them have their iPads which they clearly didn’t have any intention of using.

“It isn’t Imogen’s fault” Charity’s soft voice says and Sam wrapped his arms around his girlfriend, he knew this, of course he did. He just didn’t plan on coming home and seeing the house dusted in a kilo at least of flour.

“I know that” He insisted as he rubbed his girlfriend’s waist, before cracking a half-hearted smile.

“Those boys really can pull a prank, I’ll give them that” He says, but Charity knew he was disappointed in the boys, as was she.

“They are fast asleep and I don’t see any benefit in waking them up now to confront them, we will wake up 8am tomorrow because we told them they could have a lie in and then when they wake up, we will have a word with them, and ensure they tidy up the mess, and we will not lose our rag with them, just express how disappointed we are in their behaviour without upsetting them. How does that sound?” Charity inquired, Sam tried not to smile. She was always his voice of reason in situations like this.

“OK” He agrees and the to of them get ready for bed, and curl up together in bed but Sam was thinking.

“I don’t think they tried to cause trouble or out of being malicious” Charity tried to reassure her boyfriend.

“I know, I just think I need a good night’s sleep” Sam looked at her, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips and she cuddled into him, somehow holding her in his arms and the scent of her made his frustration melt.

“I love you Sam, sweet dreams” She whispered and closed he eyes.

“I love you too” Sam whispered and dozed off, not loo excited for the conversation the two would be having with the twins in the morning.

[sasharacket]

Thoughts on the relisten.

We need to stop woobifying Martin. I love him as much as the next person but dude was a passive aggressive, jealous little shit to people that definitely did not deserve it. It's entertaining and understandable, and absolutely delightful when certain bastards deserve it, but he is not as soft as we make him out to be and I need fic of the cutting edges. (I would like to make it clear that I live for soft fic. Just, I'll take sharp fic recommendations if you have them)

God, every single interaction between Jon and Georgie in her flat is gold. Jon instantly getting irritated on her behalf when she told him he didn't need to leave for her date is gold.

"Prove it" "What would you never willingly tell me?" "Your accent sounds fake as hell"

The 180° of Melanie's "god guys this job is fine and I'm staying, I'm not even going to try to leave" to "I'm going to murder this bastard for keeping me here" is fascinating.

Jon's sassing Jude will always be a highlight. "Yes, I understand, you could easily kill me, I'm at your mercy, blah blah blah"

I appreciate the official transcripts, but [MUFFLED FEELINGS] does not describe how vehement and clearly "fuck you" it is

Ah yes, the episode where I went from "ooooh Elias is an evil bastard I love him" to "Elias is an evil bastard and I would kill him myself"

....did they just imply that Julia listens to The Archers too? Cause "Hunters all listen to the same soap opera" is very funny.

Julia and Trevor's gentle ribbing of each other is so good.

111, the episode where the yelling officially caught my attention and made me start listening.

I'm just so sad that we only got one episode with Gerard snarking. I'd listen to an offshoot with his running around messing shit up. "I'm not their bloody Monster Manual"

Forgot the context of "like colors, but if colors hated me" I know it's going punch me in the gut and end terribly, it's still a funny show.

Jon's actively trying not to ask Tim questions and choosing to trust folks has been talked about before but it is still such good character development.

I know it's part of being a VA, but the ability to telegraph enough emotion with just your voice to conjure mental pictures of facial expressions is fascinating. Also, Jonny's flustered stutter is amazing.

I listened to 118 the first time while doing the dishes and basically dancing around the kitchen. It was great the first time and is great the third time too. I know earlier drops are WAY healthier for the crew, but I really miss evening drops. Getting to scramble to finish supper so I could listen while cleaning up.

Ok, relistening to the Q&As while I'm at it and the bit about needing to trust the show not to curve ball into uncomfortable/unsafe topics is EXACTLY why I thought I hated horror and now love this show (tbf, I listen to a ton of horror that I didn't realize it was horror because I felt safe)

"There hasn't been an Alex" there was and she died.

I want to be Georgie Barker when I grow up.

I'd be pretty mentally unsound myself if I had the shit beaten out of me 13 times in what? 2 years?

Ooooh! The clay episode that came out immediately after I finished a pottery clay and wigged me the fuck out at the timing.

The sound design when Jon says "Stop." in Heavy Goods? Amazing. The ....hum? leading up to it and then the high pitched whine after is just good stuff.

Ok, pandemic messed with my ability to think about this doc, so I just missed half a season.

Listened to Movement of the Heavens 4 days ago, then got a little over bouncy about Flamsteed in the Isaac Newton bio of A Brief History of Time tonight (tldr: Newton was a garbage man). I know it was pulled from fact, but recognizing names is always fun.

Concrete Jungle is still probably my favorite statement giver.

Why does Helen have Michael's laugh? Not the echo, that's the Spiral, but the little sigh at the end is Michael's. Before being taken. Kudos to Imogen for replicating it perfectly, but why is it a thing?

[badsext]

A New Darkasher on Carnival Row: Vignette x Tourmaline - Part 1

Author’s note: There will be more chapter(s) and this story is about to get spooky for Halloween.

———————————————————–

Vignette walked up to the Tetterby Hotel in her servant’s clothes. And looking down from her balcony, Tourmaline recognized her closest friend and former lover. “Vinnie!,” she fluttered excitedly.

The Tetterby was a well known house of ill repute in the Burgue. In spite of the madam’s objection, Tourmaline took Vignette up to her room. They grabbed each other tight. “You’re alive…and indentured, I see,” Tourmaline made reference to Vignette’s ridiculous black and gold domestic servant’s costume and corseted wings. “Don’t be ashamed. Look at what’s become of me.“ She motioned to her blue hair. Unnatural hair color was the hallmark of fae prostitutes. They died it so they could resemble the tiny mythical creatures from human fairy tales. “It doesn’t matter if you’re scrubbing their toilets or tugging their cocks. It’s all the same. The Burgue is a trap and not one of us is free, but at least we are alive.”

Vignette looked down at the ground remembering the refugees, women and children for whom she’d sworn to provide safe passage, killed by The Pact during her escape.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put it that way. I heard about the ship. I’m so sorry, love. You did all you could for them, Vinnie…Damnit, for a poet I’m really having trouble expressing myself properly right now,” Tourmaline chastised herself.

“It’s fine…really. I know what you were trying to say,” Vignette tried to smile.

"What about your Burgueish soldier?,” Tourmaline asked, eager to change the subject.

"Philo? He lied to me…betrayed me. I went to see him…Stopped just short of slitting his throat. I’m here for you…It’s always been you.” She ran her fingers over one of Tourmaline’s braids, an intimate gesture between fae folk. Then she kissed her gently on the lips and clasped both her hands. “What about you?,” Vignette asked, looking deep into Tourmaline’s eyes that shimmered with unshed tears. “You were the one who decided we should just be friends…,” she continued.

"I was scared. I thought I knew love, the very subject of my poetry. But when I fell in love with you, suddenly I felt like…the biggest fraud…I lost the words.”

Vignette furrowed her brow. “Writer’s block?…You ended it because you had writer’s block?”

"No, not exactly.” Tourmaline put her hand softly on Vignette’s cheek. “Falling in love with you changed me…made me question everything. It was too much for me then.”

"And now?,” Vignette leaned closer, their lips were nearly touching.

Then a high pitched sound started emanating from the corner of the room as a little gray kitten emerged from a pile of linens. Tourmaline scooped it up and stroked it lovingly between the ears. “What is that?,” Vignette looked shocked. Felines were rare in Tirnanoc.

"Found him in an alley and took pity on the scrappy little thing…His name is Orageux,” she said placing him into Vignette’s hands. While she became acquainted with the curious little creature, she suddenly remembered the errand she’d been tasked with. She had already taken much longer than expected and her mistress, Imogen Spurnrose was likely contacting the authorities.

"Shit! I have to get back,” she sighed, returning the kitten to his Mum. Then she turned to go.

"Wait!” Tourmaline grabbed her by the frilly nonsense on her collar and kissed her madly with all the passion of a long lost lover. Vignette responded, deepening the kiss and pressing her body against Tourmaline’s. She relished the flavor of her lips and the scent of her perfume before she left. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Part 2

@dandycandy75 @marychovny @bi-satanist @wrong-planet-boy @ac3dan @dopeybubbles @unlikelymoors @miraclesoflove @the-og-witch-boy @unlikelymoors​ @mckie113

[witchqueenofthemoon]

BODY AND SOUL Part 16 (Duncan Shepherd/Mackenzie Stone Millory AU)

BODY AND SOUL MASTERPOST

Author’s Note: OKAY DUCKENZIES. This part dragged my ass. It took forever, but once again, I’m so happy with it. My schedule has been punishing. I can’t stop writing and never feel like doing anything else but I have a full time job and my relationship and all this other shit in my life and I have to sleep sometimes and I’m trying to find a balance. But I’m so happy lately? I’m so lit all the time, everyone I know IRL is like “what is UP with you” because I’m writing a book (this, this is the book) and I’m fucking beside myself, I’m so relieved about it, I’m so happy about it all the time but I’m also having a hard time disconnecting from it to plug into other things lately. Still working out how to do that. The thought Kenzie has about Duncan in the beginning of this part (”...you are exalted in my eyes and my body and my soul”) is literally a thought she had about him in another life, and she will never know that. Plume has a really fancy three-course menu that I didn’t feel like writing about at length, so I sort of chose one thing for each of them off it and skipped the rest. Here’s A SUNDAY KIND OF LOVE, imo one of the best love songs of all time. The man who got upstairs at Kenzie’s work and tried to hurt her will feature again. I listened to this remix of Imogen Heap’s Headlock a lot for the sex (69 dudes) in this part (sex which I am very proud of if I may say so, I can write a goddamn sex scene y’all--THREE SEX SCENES THANKS); cuz the mood in that is VERY sex-vibe Duckenzie. Duncan’s dream that Kenzie is an angel is based on @inkedbadwolfart‘s ICONIC Michael x Mallory piece. Deep Creek Lake is real but the cabin I’m creating that belongs to the Shepherd family is of my own invention. I’ve never liked “Dunc” as a nickname for Duncan and it doesn’t really fit Duckenzie, so I came up with another nickname I like more and Kenzie will indeed call him Dunny every now and then when she’s feeling particularly affectionate from here on out. This is the top Kenzie wears in the morning and this is the skirt (which I ordered the other day, can’t wait to get it!!). This is her star necklace. These are her pointed boots which she wore to Le Diplomate as well and I have them irl and they are legit my favorite shoes I own and always make me feel sexy hence them giving Kenzie that feeling too. Here’s the short-sleeved button-down Duncan puts on in the morning; summer clothes from here on out for awhile, babes. I had to put The Chain in this part; I’m a die-hard Fleetwood Mac/Stevie Nicks fan. A reminder that the MASTERPOST wants you to reblog it and pass it around because I won’t be loading the fic up on AO3 until it’s totally finished, which...I don’t know how long that’ll take? Maybe a few more weeks, maybe a month, maybe longer. Still not entirely sure where this story is ending, I figure I’ll know when I get there. The Shepherd mansion (that is, Annette’s mansion) is some kind of cross between this mansion and this one in my mind. The chairs in the dressing room look like this. To my beloved Duckenzies: @impiorumrequies, @hi-ilovedamien, @nat-de-lioncourt, @ladywriter94, @leiwya, @icouldrun, @killcort, @starscavengers, @carousallie, the list goes on--I love you more than words can express. THANK YOU.

“I would like for you, Mackenzie, to do a few interviews with us next week.” Kenzie refocused on Duncan’s mother; her thoughts had been full of Duncan’s eyes (sky and storm) since he had gazed at her so lovingly and pushed something into her; wrapped his love around me, like a blanket made of softest gold, that’s what it felt like, and I pushed it out of me and onto Annette and then her face fell and she looked so confused and then she softened...the anger in her eyes towards me dissolved and now her eyes look the way I think they probably looked when she was a girl, a girl who wanted something else; wanted to be loved, wanted to love. A wave of affection for Duncan had crashed into Kenzie, and she couldn’t help but gaze over to him with fierce devotion; you are my Prince, most beloved to me, and you are exalted in my eyes and my body and my soul. The thought had fallen, soft as a sheer curtain, over her sight and her mind, as if it were something she’d read in a book somewhere and forgotten; and she had stared at him and flowers had bloomed in her thoughts to behold him; and the moment had extended, spread out far beyond itself, and she had felt the weight of time and the depth of his love for her again and she was lost in it for a little while.

“It’s important...that if you and Duncan are going to be...together...you understand your new responsibilities as a part of the public face of Shepherd Unlimited.” Annette spoke with a strange slowness, as if something was holding her back, and Kenzie couldn’t decide if it was the heavy energy that now hovered in the room (something that passed between Duncan and I, I don’t understand what it was, but it had some kind of power) or Annette’s own inability to say what she was truly thinking or feeling. Or her inability to accept the idea of them, truly together. Whatever the reason, Kenzie looked away from her; she found Annette terribly beautiful, but Duncan’s mother had a strange coldness that raised the hairs on Kenzie’s neck, drained the blood from her fingers. As Annette spoke, she seemed to gain momentum, falling back into her clipped cadence. “That will include making public appearances with us and coordinated communication with the press. I’m sure Duncan has mentioned this, but I expect you to come to the house tomorrow to do a fitting for the Gala. Everything has to be carefully planned, it’s the most important public event of the year for the organization. From now on, you’ll be expected to present yourself publicly with physical, verbal, and behavioral sophistication. Duncan himself has been a poor example of that lately.”

Kenzie looked back across the table to Duncan; his eyes betrayed none of his discomfort, but she felt his annoyance, drifting in dark colors: To hell with sophistication, keeping her safe is what I care about. If she isn’t happy, nothing else matters. His thoughts fell over her with fierce warmth; Kenzie felt as though she could drink them, swallow them, absorb them, feel them as though his fingers were all over her.

“Mackenzie, do you understand me?” Annette took another long drink from her wine glass, eyes hovering across the table at Kenzie.

“I...yes, Annette. I think so.”

“That article published today was an opposition to the company. I expect you to turn down editorials of that nature in the future.”

Kenzie was silent, pressing her lips together. No, I don’t think so. I’m going to write about what I feel strongly about. Or why write at all.

The waiter returned at that moment, mercifully, and Kenzie breathed a silent, internal sigh of relief. She had the distinct feeling that Annette not only did not tolerate being lied to, but that she was preternaturally skilled at sniffing out said lies; that she could pinpoint them with precision and yank them out of a person. Better to lapse into silence than to lie to her, I think. Annette ordered foie gras; Duncan ordered lobster. Kenzie looked down the menu, lost; she hadn’t even contemplated food under Annette’s steely gaze, and it seemed to be in a foreign language, suddenly.

“I think you’d love the risotto, Kenzie,” Duncan said to her gently. She nodded to him gratefully and said “I’ll have that.” Thanks baby. Affection washed over her again and he gave her a little smile. Baby, you’re doing so good. Just a little bit longer and we’ll be done. Soon, we can escape. Annette ordered another bottle of wine; the one she’d had on the table when they’d come in was already half empty. Duncan’s mother tipped it carefully into Kenzie’s wine glass, filling it about a third of the way, and pushed the stem closer to Kenzie, pointedly. Then, she poured another glass for Duncan.

“To the continued success of Shepherd Unlimited and our dynasty.” Annette raised her glass and nodded to both of them with stern expectation. Duncan raised his and nodded at Kenzie a little; she brought hers up with a timid hand and Annette clinked against it with a sharp tap. Kenzie drank a small sip of the wine; hope it isn’t poisoned, she thought wildly, watching Annette drink from her glass again, eyes skirting over to Duncan taking a deep gulp of his, as if he were terribly thirsty and it was water. Duncan looks so beautiful. But he always does. His hair fell over his forehead, perfect waves down the sides, falling behind his ears. The velvet blazer gave him an almost royal appearance; like his throne was sitting in some vast chamber somewhere, waiting for him. His straight nose and full lips were like a statue carved by a master sculptor; he seemed too lovely to her to be real, I don’t think I’ll ever stop thinking that, feeling that way, like he’d been molded from the first human clay and every piece of come after had been slightly less. He pressed one long hand against the side of the stubble at his cheek; I want to bury my fingers in that stubble, I want to breathe it deeply into my senses, impossibly intense blue eyes carefully switching between the two women sitting in front of him, warily at Annette, with aching affection at Kenzie, then back again.

“I am capable of putting my differences with Madeline aside if you can conduct yourself appropriately,” Annette spoke again. Her gaze slid between her son and Kenzie; she seemed to regard their obvious adoration with a mixture of disdain and incredulousness; she can see how much he loves me, and it’s upsetting her, Kenzie thought. Well, Annette, get fucking used to it.

“Do you think you can do that?”

Annette stared at her, hands around her wine glass, head cocked slightly, her eyes like dark pools. This woman is like a very dark well, Kenzie thought. And I don’t know how far down the bottom of the well is. I think it might be a very long well, and very, very dark. But she loves Duncan. I can tell. I don’t know if the love is the kind of love I know, the kind I feel for those I care for; her love is different, I think. But I do think, in his case, it’s real love, in her fashion.

“I’ll do my best, Annette.”

“Your best must be as close to perfect as you can possibly make it, dear. Or else you will not last long in our world. Steel your mind, Mackenzie. You no longer have the luxury of living anonymously. To be part of this family, however long that may be, you accept the scrutiny and criticism of the nation.”

Kenzie bit her lip, clutching her hands together in her lap. “I can handle it.”

Duncan’s eyes flickered over her, bright with intensely warm emotion. So brave, so brave, she heard him think. ....your strength around you like gold...oh, Kenzie…

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Annette replied, and Duncan said, immediately, “She can, Mom. She’s one of the bravest people I’ve ever known. She’s amazing.”

“You sound drunk already, Duncan,” Annette rolled her eyes, her expression annoyed.

“Today someone got up into her office and tried to attack her,” Duncan said, his tone going dark as he looked at his mother. “They said something about the Shepherds taking everything away from them, so they were going to take something away from the Shepherds. I hired her a bodyguard yesterday, thank god--he’s the only reason she wasn’t injured. Being thrown into our world can’t be easy, and yet she was the one who insisted we still come to dinner tonight, Mom. I was contemplating cancelling on you. Already Kenzie has proven she is more than capable of navigating this world and has the resolve it takes to weather whatever comes her way. And she deserves your respect.”

Annette was silent and looked down; there was a flicker over her features; “I didn’t know about that,” she said, carefully. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Mackenzie.”

“I’m okay,” Kenzie said, fighting to keep the trembling edge she felt out of her voice. The truth was she didn’t feel very okay at all; the incident at One Franklin Square had terrified her and Kenzie longed for nothing more than the dinner to be over and to be held in Duncan’s arms in the safety and quiet of their bed with the rain falling against the window. Sweet Fates, hurry us on to that place, through this storm, through this rain, through this difficulty, she thought, looking into his eyes, fighting the bubbling emotion that threatened her again, feeling crushed and laid bare by the beauty of his face and the love in his eyes. She wanted to tell him what had happened in her own words with her own mouth and then she wanted him to press his mouth with aching need into her body and tangle the black sheets into symbols of their passion and their love and their devotion and press his fingers into her mouth and against her throat and down between her legs, where they belong my love, where you belong, pressed against me. I want to be alone with you my love and I don’t want to be here anymore. But Kenzie knew that this was part of the test; the test of knowing if she could indeed suffer a lifetime of Annette Shepherd; if she could put her love before her exhaustion and help Duncan in this way. And so she said again, “I’m okay. I would do anything for Duncan. I will do anything.”

“God, but you do remind me of Madeline.” Annette shook her head, as if to clear away her disorientation.

Two waiters came in then with their dinner; Kenzie’s risotto was delicious, savory and sweet, and she sent warm, grateful thoughts across the table toward Duncan again; he smiled at her and she was struck with another ache to hold him, to touch him; she watched his fingers stretch out at the side of his salad fork, towards her; he tapped them a little every now and then, and she could feel his impatience, his restlessness, his aching need for her. She wondered if Annette garnered strange delight from keeping them apart like this, even across a table; Duncan’s mother seemed like the kind of person who never did anything on accident, everything, every movement and inflection and gesture, ever-calculated. She’s trying to exert her will over him, Kenzie thought. Show him that she still owns him even though he belongs to me now and his desires have changed and she wants to pretend like she can’t see it but she can and that’s what made her so disoriented. She didn’t expect to see love in his eyes when he looks at me, because she hasn’t seen it there before, not like this. But she saw it. And now she knows. Now, she can’t pretend it isn’t real, or that he’s infatuated, or what he feels is only lust. Even Annette can’t deny that Duncan Shepherd fucking loves me. He loves me. He loves me.

Kenzie couldn’t help it; she smiled at Annette, and Annette returned it, but very small, a smile that did not extend to her eyes. You think you’re going to be able to control me now, Kenzie thought. But you won’t be able to. Duncan is going to change your company. He’s going to change everything, and I’m going to help him. We’re going to take all of Shepherd Unlimited and we’re going to give its riches to people who need them and we’re going to create beautiful things and we’re going to help people and you won’t be able to stop us. I know it, deep in my bones. Kenzie turned her eyes to Duncan and he was watching her with intense concentration, a morsel of lobster paused in his fork in midair, halfway to his mouth; as if he had heard everything she’d been thinking and was struck with it, as if her could see her drawing him a map that was invisible to Annette even though she was sitting directly in front of them, and the luminous smile in his eyes filled her with a depth of glowing energy that felt like sunlight on her skin. Yes baby. Yes, we will.

-------

It was well past 10 when Annette finally released them; by then, Kenzie felt as though her body was in physical pain, such was the depth of her desire for Duncan to hold her. I thought yesterday had been long, she thought, but today was almost unbearable. Annette had insisted on discussing endless details of the most recent episode of Duncan’s show, and he answered her in clipped, short sentences. Every now and then she shot Kenzie a suspicious look and seemed to change the way she was about to say something; she thinks she can’t trust me, and she’s not necessarily wrong, Kenzie thought. Finally, Duncan had come around the table and helped her out of the seat on Annette’s left side; relief flooded her at the warm, smooth feeling of his large hand grasping around her fingers; “It’s time for us to go, Kenzie had a very long day today, Mom.” “I expect you at noon sharp, Mackenzie,” Annette had said, her eyes flashing at Kenzie with a dismissive shimmer; Duncan leaned forward and she inclined a sharp cheekbone for him to kiss. Then, Duncan pulled Kenzie out of the room with a pointed determination, leaving his mother there to her own devices; Kenzie followed behind him, dizziness washing over her in a wave as they stepped out of the cocoon of the secluded room and back into the warmer light of the restaurant, and then out to the polished foyer. She could hear the rain falling against the windows; Duncan had pulled out his phone with his other hand and was texting Samuel, then he looked at her with a terrible softness (those eyes, my love, those blue eyes) and tucked the phone back into the inner pocket of his velvet blazer, his fingers coming up to her cheek, their warmth sending a flutter of sensation down her skin.

“Baby, you did so fucking good,” he whispered down to her mouth, and Kenzie sighed at the sound of his voice, her body flooding with the relief of his touch. “God, I wanted to touch you so much, that was agony. You are so brave and I’m so proud of you, Kenzie--”

“I wanted to touch you too, baby, Duncan, I wanted to so much--” Kenzie pulled him down into her roughly by the lapels of his velvet jacket, his full lips crashing against hers with a deep heat, her hands going into his hair, those waves like fading autumn and Duncan’s hands fell down to the small of her back, pressing her tightly into him, the desperation in his touch filling her with coiled hunger, her hips grinding against his thighs. The doorman and the people at the reception desk nearby carefully ignored them; Kenzie felt grateful towards them. Four hours with Annette Shepherd unable to touch each other and I think we’ve earned this. Duncan’s phone sounded; “Come on, Samuel’s here,” he breathed into her and his breath was sweet with wine and the chocolate mousse they’d had for dessert and Kenzie heard the tiny moan that escaped from her lips as he pulled away from her, such was her need for him. “Come on baby,” Duncan said again, pulling her gently through the door, “let’s go home.”

In the shadowed backseat of the BMW Kenzie folded close against him, her shoes kicked off and her legs tucked under her; Duncan’s arm was around her and her head was in the crook of his chest, her face pressed into his smooth shirt, and Duncan was looking down at his phone; emails. “I messaged Ben today,” he murmured to her, softly, tucking his phone away, as Etta James floated towards them from the stereo again (I want a Sunday kind of love...a love to last past Saturday night...and I’d like to know...it’s more than love at first sight...), “I want you to sit in on the interview, baby, okay?” Kenzie smiled despite how tired she felt; “I’m sure Ben will love that.” “It doesn’t matter what he thinks of it, because I’m not doing it if you aren’t there.” Kenzie nodded; she looked at Duncan in the dappled color of the neon lights they passed and was struck again by how beautiful he was; feeling shy suddenly, her affection tumbling out of her, unable to be contained: “Duncan, you look so handsome right now.” He turned his head to her, smiling, and she saw the shyness in it; in him. “And you look so lovely, baby.” That he felt shy before her, too, made her heart clench. Kenzie pulled her phone out of the little clutch on the seat beside her; she opened the Instagram app on her phone as Duncan said “Baby, what are you doing...”

“I think it’s time we took a selfie together, baby,” she said, matter-of-factly. Kenzie lifted the phone above them and reversed the camera so it faced them; she looked up into it, her eyes bright and wide under her dark eyeshadow and carefully applied mascara, her head still tucked under Duncan’s arm, and he inclined his head down to her, pressing his nose gently against her hair, closing his eyes. Kenzie snapped a picture; Samuel had been driving through the glow of downtown still, and the lights had fallen over them in pink, blue and gold; over Duncan’s cheek and Kenzie’s forehead, giving the picture a haunting luminescence. Kenzie brought the picture up to her eyes--it stopped her heart, the peaceful expression on his profile, the glittering aspect of her gaze, the lights falling over them.

“We look so good together, baby--” Duncan whispered into her ear, and his lips fell into the small space below; Kenzie gasping at the sweetness of the sensation, “--you are so fucking beautiful.” Kenzie sighed into his lips, pressing closer to him as she typed: The longest day, the greatest love. She hit Share with a satisfied smile. “You always look fucking beautiful,” she argued, her voice soft. “No, you fucking do,” Duncan murmured as his lips fell down her neck, his fingers threading through her hair. “You do angel, you do…”

Kenzie was aching for him, her body pulsing with need, but she hadn’t really told him what had happened that day, and she longed to; the burden of it was pressing into her heart, and she felt as though the weight of it was crushing her. “Baby, I...wanted to tell you what happened today.” Duncan lifted his head up immediately, leaning back to look at her, his face serious. He looked over her shoulder; “We’re home, baby,” he said, and Kenzie glanced behind her to see Samuel had pulled up to the high-rise. Finally. Samuel handed the roses to Duncan carefully as they got out of the car; there were no paps anywhere, and the rain was stopping again, the thunder moving off far into the distance and a barely-there drizzle fading away, the sky finally clear. The moon had returned though it was again barely a sliver in the sky; it hung there over the building as Kenzie looked up at it, an omen of the new cycle that had begun in earnest now; my new life has begun, and my life of anonymity is gone, she thought, the echo of Annette’s words falling down. Duncan carried the flowers carefully beside her as they moved upstairs; Anchaly gave him a nod, then looked at Kenzie with a smile; “you look lovely, Miss Stone, I trust whatever was distressing you earlier has been taken care of,” and Kenzie smiled back at him, nodding. Anchaly had a new book now; it was The Year of Magical Thinking, by Joan Didion. “Yes, I’m better now, thanks, Anchaly.”

In the elevator they stared at each other, Duncan’s hands full of roses, Kenzie’s hand reaching out to tuck around his arm. “Before the man got upstairs, there had been some other people who had tried to get up, reporters from a magazine or something, I’m not really sure,” she started. “But the security downstairs caught them before they got to the elevators. The other guy was faster, I guess, and he didn’t really look like paparazzi--I don’t think he was.” The elevator slid open quietly and Kenzie used her key to open the penthouse door; Duncan continued to listen to her, quietly, as he opened the cupboard under the sink and brought out a Waterford vase for her roses, which had begun to wilt a little; fitting, because that’s how I feel too, Kenzie thought. Kenzie took the vase gently from his arms and brought it over to the coffee table alongside the low leather couch; the roses immediately threw their brilliant color against the juxtaposition of light and shadows there, one of the reading lamps switched on by the housekeepers. Kenzie looked down at them, emotion washing over her again. Then she turned to him and folded herself into him and Duncan kissed her hair and closed his eyes. “He had really wild eyes, I remember that. Like he was lost. But Harris had just gone to the bathroom...he was only away from me for a minute, I swear. The man comes up to my desk and he’s in a big overcoat and shaggy hair and he smelled...strange, sort of like gasoline. He grabbed my wrist with this terrible grip--” at that Kenzie looked down at her wrist and for the first time that day noticed a small purplish bruise that had begun to form there, Duncan reaching down delicately to examine it, bringing his lips down to her skin; “and he hisses into my face, looking right into my eyes. He said “There you are. I saw you on the videos. The Shepherds took everything away from me, so now I’m gonna take something away from the Shepherds.””

“God, baby.”

“He starts dragging me and Precious sees him but she’s too far away, she’s down at the other side of the office, and he’s so strong it feels like he’s going to snap my wrist and rip my hand out of my arm and I’m trying to get out of it but--but he’s just too fucking strong.” Kenzie felt tears in the back of her throat; she turned, pushing her hair to the side. “Unzip me, baby,” she said, and felt Duncan’s warm, long fingers between her shoulders, gently pulling the zipper down, his face pressing into her hair. Kenzie reached for his hand and then she pulled him, slowly, softly, into their bedroom (ours) and pushed the dress off her shoulders, stepping out of it, her hands coming up behind her to unclasp her bra and she could feel Duncan hovering there, close, but it was as if he was afraid to touch her. She turned and looked at him for a moment; he was still fully clothed and absolutely regal in his velvet blazer and she shivered, vulnerable; she pressed against him in just her panties now, his arms coming around the softness of her bare skin, and cradling her with his body, so much larger and so warm. “Harris comes out of the bathroom--” Kenzie continued, feeling able now that he was holding her again, “--and he sees this man pulling on me and I look at him and I scream help Harris help me and he goes up to this man and he hits him right in the throat under the chin with the flat of his hand and...the man just crumples like he’s made of paper.” Kenzie drifted her hands down the soft velvet of Duncan’s arms and turned her eyes up to him; his expression a dagger into her heart, his eyes dark with the memory of the fear she had seen there when he’d run out of the elevator and to her desk, his face white, his body shaking as she fell into his arms. “I just sort of stood there in shock for awhile, by the time I felt like I started breathing again I realized Harris was holding me up and my knees were buckling and he picked me up like I was a doll and set me in my desk chair and I just...I just burst into tears…”

“Oh Kenzie, oh, baby, oh no…” Duncan’s lips came down and kissed her eyelids, first one, then the other, his mouth came down and kissed the tip of her nose and then her cheeks, one at a time, and then her mouth, kissed her mouth with aching supplication and Kenzie thought that’s enough, I’m done and I don’t want to talk about it anymore tonight, I just want you to kiss me, kiss me everywhere, kiss me forever, and Kenzie whispered “Duncan,” into his mouth and she turned away from him to the lamp beside the bed and switched it off and they were bathed in darkness, the low light from the living room spilling through the doorway for a moment; “Shut the door, baby,” she whispered, and Duncan obeyed, turning and pressing it closed, and now they were in darkness entire, but for the low glow of the city somewhere far away through the window. “Your eyes look like gold,” he said to her, and he threw his blazer onto the floor (that’s right baby, abandon everything except for us) and moaned softly into her as her hands came up to unbutton his shirt, pulled his belt out with aching ease, unbuttoned his pants and pushed them away. “And yours look like blue fire,” she replied, up into his lips, pulling him down to her as she fell back onto the bed. He hovered above her and she could just see the outline of his hair over his eyes, the shape of his jaw, the shadow of his stubble, the soft shape of his lips, open and his stare falling down over her, and Kenzie loved the darkness because in that moment it felt like it was holding them, shielding them truly from the eyes of the world, creating a secret place where they could hide and all other thought could fade and only the two of them existed, in this place. His lips came down to her nipple and sucked with urgency, fingers coming around to push her breast into his mouth, and she shivered as his hair fell against her collarbone, a whisper of his love, and her hands went down his back, nails digging in and leaving red trails that were lost in the shadows, her legs coming around him, crossing at his back, pressing her sex up into his groin where she could feel the hardness of his cock through the two thin layers of fabric that covered them there. Duncan continued to suck, swirling his tongue over the hardness of her nipple again and again, then moved to the other breast and worked at it carefully, his free hand drifting down to the waistband of her panties and toying with it carefully in his thumb and index finger, pressing into her hip bone, but not moving them further down, not yet.

“I think my mother liked to try to keep us apart tonight,” he whispered against her between sucking on her, the tickle of his breath against the wetness he’d left on her making Kenzie’s eyes flutter. Duncan’s musky-wood smell was falling over her in the darkness and it made her heart beat wildly up into where his lips were devouring her, and she was dizzy with the strength of her senses, the presence of him in the absence of sight. “She wanted us to not be able to touch each other, but she failed, because I’m going to touch you everywhere now, I’m going to touch you until you’re written into my skin like a tattoo that can never be erased, I’m going to kiss you a thousand times, baby, kiss you until I’ve memorized every inch of you...”

Kenzie was murmuring before she even realized it herself; a low hum of yes, baby, yes, mhmm, yes, fuck, the feeling of his mouth on her in the darkness kindling a fire low in her body that made her want to writhe, and she was pulling his face up to her to taste him, breathlessly connected, and her hand fell down his ribs to his hip bone and into his briefs where she wrapped her fist around his cock--it was achingly hard, thrilling her again, sending a shiver down her body and he arched into her, moaning into her mouth as she pushed the fabric off him, cradling his ass in her hands for a moment, dragging her nails down to his thighs as she pushed the underwear off him and he said “Oh fuck, baby, that feels fucking good--” and then he yanked her panties down with one terribly strong hand and Kenzie’s heart stopped for a moment with the force of it, gasping as his index finger pressed harshly between her legs, into her clit, his mouth hovering over hers again; if she’d been standing her legs would have buckled instantly, instead, her legs keened back, lifting her sex up towards his hand, up so her ass fell against his thighs with a low slap, and she uttered another little moaning cry into him, her fist still clutching his erection and his hardness was sending currents of energy through her core, her cunt convulsing for a moment in anticipation. Duncan seemed to feel this current under his fingers flush against her; he let out a pitiful groan into her cheek, and she felt his cock convulse under her fingers.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” he whispered, his blue eyes staring down into hers in the dark, penitent, devoted, and the outline of his expression in the deep shadows one of aching adulation, and it made Kenzie feel as though he was whispering a prayer into her, a prayer of worship, a prayer to her only and always, a priest to her, and a prayer so fervent it made him most beloved in her eyes. “I’ll do anything you want to you, I’ll let you do anything to me, fucking anything. Tell me, angel.”

“I want your lips on me and I want mine on you, baby, I wanna suck your gorgeous cock while you eat me,” Kenzie whispered, and she moved from underneath him, pushing his arms gently so he lifted away from her, following her carefully, completely supplicant to her direction; Kenzie pushed him down into the pillows now, his head falling into their softness, his long form stretched out underneath her, and she straddled him for a moment, staring down at him. Her eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness and she could still see that aching devotion falling down the beautiful contour of his face; he reminded her of a Renaissance painting, a man who also seemed unlike a man in that he was so radiantly graceful and sublime, a higher form of man, an ideal of the ecstasy of human imagining. How are you mine, she thought again, dumbstruck and shivering, and his hands came up to cup at her breasts, and she pressed a finger down between his lips and he sucked at her skin, her thumb grazing down his stubble. Kenzie moved back a little, moved until she felt the hardness of his cock brush up the sensitive, wet space between her legs; Duncan moaned into her finger, closing his eyes; those eyes, low blue flame, a constant candle lit for her and her alone.

“Am I your angel, baby,” Kenzie asked, her body thrilling at the feeling of his length flush against her pussy and ass, her cunt twinging again, the spasm of the muscles there sending a thrill of demanding need through her thighs. She let her sex press into him that way for a long, aching moment, knowing it must be as intense and terrible for him as it was for her, relishing the intensity, pressed against his need.

“Fuck, Kenzie, yes, you’re my angel, you are the only one,” he said into her fingers, and her hand fell down to clutch around his adam’s apple, desirous for more, a longer prayer, a deeper worship, a worship from his mouth into the core of her being, and she squeezed a little, her nails pressing into his skin, and he gasped. Kenzie’s mind filled with heat, her senses suddenly feeling like scalding water overflowing, and she raised her little palm and brought it down against his cheek with a snap, the little slap startling her ears and his eyes flashed at her in the dark and Kenzie said “Worship me with your mouth now, baby,” and he said “Yes, baby, come here,” and she knew he was commanding her--the slap and her hand at his throat seemed to have kindled an animalistic rush in him--and her need to be filled was bleeding into a need to do what he wanted now, and she was lost in the clash of her desires as he gripped her thighs and carefully pushed her down so he could turn her at the hips (god he’s so fucking strong, his hands could rip the life out of me, drag me down into oblivion, my Hades dragging me down with his beautiful, terrible hands, down into the depths to be devoured by him entirely devoured this way devoured in his aching lips), flipping her carefully but with an ease that made her heart jump into her throat; suddenly her back was facing him, her legs slipping down to straddle on either side of his chest under his arms, his cock pressing between her breasts now, and he yanked her up, demanding, to his face, so her cunt hovered just below his lips and his cock was brushing against her jaw; he pulled her into his mouth and Kenzie cried out, whimpering helplessly as his tongue immediately pressed into her clit, terribly warm and dripping wet, and her head fell and she drooled onto the head of his cock; she felt her eyes roll back into her head as he ate at her, and Kenzie steeled herself and opened her mouth and took his hard cock (fuck he’s fucking big when I look at him this way fuck he’s huge) into her and carefully pressed down, her tongue working against his length, and she felt him shuddering under her as his tongue probed into her soaking wet cunt and back to her clit again, focused there with a precise, deft rhythm; Kenzie opened her throat, willing herself not to gag as she took his whole length into her for a moment, then worked herself back up carefully. She could feel her thighs shuddering, the feeling of his mouth shattering her desire for control; it was bleeding out into a desire to give him terrible, transcendent pleasure--in this moment, Kenzie felt gold waves of emotion falling from the top of his head down into her body; I want you, only you, only you and always, always to be pressed into you this way, only to worship you, only to feel your mouth, only to feel you, you belong to me and I am yours entirely and there is nothing without you, there is void in your absence, that is all I know for certain, I wanna fuck you until I am lost in you and I become you and you are me and together we are something else, I wanna fuck you endlessly and so hard and so deeply and so often--

Kenzie moved her mouth up and down, working her hand at the base of his cock, her tongue swirling at the sensitive hole at the smooth head of his length; her saliva dripped down from her lips, down the shaft of him, and she moved her hand up and down and the sound of the wetness sucked in her ears as she moved her head again, faster for a moment and then with aching slowness, and Duncan moaned against her, against the swollen lips of her cunt, swollen with his attentions, swollen with terrible want. “Fuck baby, you taste so fucking good, god, your mouth feels so fucking good, fuck, I can’t--oh, fuck--Kenzie, fuck, baby, gonna--” Kenzie could hear the tremble under his words, the edge, and she dipped her head down further so the head of his cock pressed into the back of her throat and she felt his tongue lave out and press harshly into her clit, press there with wanton concentration as his hot come spurted into her mouth and she swallowed, once, twice, the taste of him salty and thick, her eyes going hazy as she felt the edge of her orgasm cresting down between her hips; she pulled back and up so she was sitting on his mouth, her ass at his nose, and pressed her hands into his torso, the taste of his come coating the inside of her mouth, and she looked up at the ceiling, dark with shadow, and his hands were on her thighs pressing her down onto him and Kenzie cried out as her orgasm forced itself roughly down through the center of her and bright flames burned behind her sight, filling the blackness of the room with intense light as she lost herself in his devoted prayer, the most ecstatic of prayers, his mouth and his tongue rushing every bit of her out into him in that moment, extending her helplessly into oblivious exaltation.

“Kenzie, baby, oh, baby, Kenzie--” Duncan’s hands were pulling her softly down, murmuring her name with aching softness, and Kenzie felt like she was coming back from a far distance to his arms; back from the brink of of edge of the universe, and she was sliding off him and she was beside him now, her head falling onto the pillow, hair falling across her cheek, close to his face, his arms clutching her with fervency, as if he couldn’t stand the sudden cease of the closeness of their orgasms; she pressed into him, her leg coming over his thigh, and he kissed her and the taste of her sex filled her own mouth as he did, and her tongue came against his and Kenzie thought I could die, I love him so, I could die right now and this would be enough for me, how can I bear this, how can I bear how much I love him, it’s so much, it fucking hurts, it aches.

“Duncan, I love you. I love you so much. I wish there were other words--”

“Shhh, baby. No. I know. I have to ask you something,” and his mouth was at her forehead, his hands threading her hair, his fingers pressing to the sides of her face; Kenzie could feel the weight of his cock, going soft, pressing into her stomach, and the thin film of sweat on his skin against her, and his eyes seemed almost white in this light, ethereal in post-coitus. “Do you feel like...sometimes...you can hear what I’m thinking? I know...I know it sounds crazy--”

“Yes, baby. Yes. I heard you tonight, I think, when we were with your mother--it’s not the first time, but I...I thought I heard you think that I was so brave, brave and that my strength was like gold, and, before that...you looked at me and it felt like you pushed something into me, you pushed you love and your faith into me and it spread around us--”

Duncan was nodding into her--“Yes,” he was whispering, “yes, baby, yes, I didn’t imagine it, yes, that happened, yes, you can hear me, you heard me, you felt it too,”--and she could feel the smile on him, though she could barely see it; his body felt as though it was smiling, a coiled joy in him as he pressed more deeply into her, his hands falling down her waist to clutch her hips into him and his hips ground against her and she sighed; a sigh that was more like a cry, and tears came instantly into her eyes, tears at the intensity of her orgasm and at the intensity of what had just passed between them; the realization that they had both experienced that energy tonight, that they had both heard each other’s thoughts, somehow, madly, impossibly, and yet somehow possible, and the wildness of this revelation stopped her heart; sweat broke out instantly on her skin and she was filled with terrible longing for him again, in a sharp wave that crashed into the center of her chest.

“How--” and Duncan was kissing her again, his mind falling into her and it felt like a thousand pinpricks of light that had burst into brilliance under his skin, in the lining of his soul; how, how, how, but the how suddenly meant nothing; the only thing that mattered was the understanding, the reality, the knowing, and Kenzie wondered if she willed it enough, if she wanted it, if she could hear him now--she focused on the feeling passing between them, the connection of their mouths pressed together, the salty sweetness of his skin, the musky smell of him that fell over her in bursts, the aching strength of him pressing into her, the soft cascade of his hair as she pushed her fingers through it, in the dark; I don’t need to see him with my eyes to see him, to truly see him, the low blue glow of him, the radiance of his beauty. I think I could see him, really see him, at the very end of time. I think I could pick him out of a million other souls and know him, instantly. And then she did hear him; heard the tenderness under every beat of it, and she felt lost in him, like he was pressing his lips onto the deepest, most secret part of her: Kenzie, I think I’ve always known you, I think we knew each other in some other time and in some other place, and I think we were together then, and I think it’s destiny that we found each other again, and I think no matter what happens someday we will find each other again, because that’s our Fate; that’s what they wove for us, when time began, they wove our souls together and it cannot be changed and we cannot be long parted from each other and we will always find each other again, because they will It--and their will is the way of things. You are my One, the only One, until the end of all things. Mackenzie. I love you. I love you. I love you…

Kenzie pressed into him, pulling him gently so he was on top of her now, their mouths still crashing against each other as these thoughts, his thoughts, and she knew they truly were this time, fell into her like a waterfall, like a rainstorm, and Kenzie’s hand came down to his cock again and slid up and down as he grew hard and she lifted her hips up onto his thighs and slid down onto him, her cunt slick with release, and they gasped into each other, his hands buried in the golden cascade of her hair and clutching her hip so she was pressed flush into him and this way, us together, it’s the only thing, she pushed the thought into him and she knew he didn’t need to speak, knew he heard her, his eyes staring into hers then closing, overwhelmed, and Duncan nodded into the bridge of her nose, his hair falling against her eyelashes, yes, the only thing, the only thing, to be here with you, beloved of all, most beloved, my love. He pressed into her, then out with aching slowness, then began to ride into her with a measured, building rhythm; his hand came down from her hair and Duncan brought his fingers up to his mouth to suck them carefully, not breaking the tide of his concentration as his length pressed into her with wild urgency, and brought them, slick with his spit, into her swollen clit, still, already, aching with wetness from his mouth; his other hand came up from her hip to press into the center of her chest, between her breasts, as if to hold her heart; as if to feel its luxuriant pounding through the tips of his fingers; his thighs pressed down into her, forcing her legs wide, and he was so hard Kenzie ached; ached with the knowledge of him. Their minds came together again, for a moment, from spinning around each other; the intensity, the intimacy of the touch--of our souls, she thought to him, and into her he pressed another thought--our bodies and our souls, Kenzie, for both of mine are yours.

“You’re gonna come,” she breathed into him, her mouth pressing into his nose, pressing against his eyes, which fluttered closed against her; “and I’m gonna come at the same time, okay, baby?” She arched up into his hand, the feeling of his fingers making her want to scream, making her hips grind up, making her want him inside her always.

“Okay, Kenzie, baby, okay…” Duncan’s eyes stared into her, needy, aching--and then he let out a little whine into her that seemed involuntary--a little cry that seemed to echo out from the center of his being, and Kenzie said “Shhh, baby, I know--” “Kenzie, how, I found you, somehow I found you, fuck me, I fucking found you--” “Fuck me, baby, fuck me,” Kenzie demanded, her eyes rolling back as the sensation of his fingers rushed her up to the edge, “Fuck me like that, fuck me hard like that, give me your hard cock, baby--” and Duncan pressed into her with such force that she felt the scream building at the back of her throat--”I’m going to--come--”

At that moment Kenzie felt herself slip down over the edge of her orgasm; felt it cascade up through her, from the ends of Duncan’s fingers deep up inside her where his cock was buried in her, and at the same time her cunt clenched down onto him with ravenous need and her scream, completely overcome and tinged with a sob, rattled out of her--and then she felt Duncan press his mouth into her neck to stifle the strangled scream that came from his own throat, and he came deep inside her and they clung to each other, convulsing, trembling, and Kenzie could feel the hot wetness of his tears falling into her hair and against her skin where his face was buried against her ear and she felt the sob of his body as her own hot tears coursed down her cheeks and her arms clutched around his back and her sex spasmed again and again against his length, sending dizzying shocks up her body. Kenzie brought her hand to his cheek and her heart spasmed painfully at the wetness there; in the darkness she could see the glowing white-blue of his eyes again, now overcome by his orgasm and the emotion that had fallen out of him with it--Duncan Shepherd, her prince, so soft and pliant and vulnerable in her arms, and she gathered his sweetness in this moment against her and knew she would remember it always; Kenzie knew that she would look back on his tears in her hair on this night; knew that if she ever doubted at all that he loved her, she would look back to this night, the tender color of him as he clung to her and know that he did; know that he always would, would because it was their destiny to love each other, through every shade of time.

------

Later, after their tears had dried, Kenzie lay against him with her head in that space under his arm; her space, and Duncan’s hand threaded through her hair behind her, lazily, absently, her leg crooked over his thigh, one of her hands on his belly with his hand hovering above, his pinky crooked against her thumb; they were silent, the only sounds coming from the faraway drift of the night outside, and Kenzie couldn’t hear any of his thoughts now; couldn’t perceive their shape, knew that they were hazy with the weight of his orgasms, hazy with tiredness, hazy with the depth of the emotion they had shared, and she felt sure hers were hazy in the same way, that he couldn’t see them; she was on Duncan’s side of the bed (somehow she knew this inherently; that she would always sleep on the other side, but tonight they hadn’t moved from the way they’d fallen post-coitus) and had switched on the lamp there, on the lowest setting; the bronze light fell over them as they stared up at the ceiling, and seeing him now, after the sensation of him bathed in darkness, struck her with wonder; to see you that way, and then this way.

“I think we can only hear thoughts when...when whatever is happening is really intense,” she murmured into his cheek, and Duncan sighed into her, closing his eyes; “I think you’re right,” he said, hand coming from her hair to hold her at the incline of her arm above the crook of her elbow, press her naked torso into his hip. “Kenzie, I can’t believe it...it’s so incredible…I never believed in anything like this before now. I never believed in things I couldn’t perceive with my own eyes. Now...I do believe. I believe in all of it, now. To be near you is to believe.”

“You think of me so tenderly,” Kenzie whispered, looking up at him. “It takes my breath away.”

Duncan’s eyes were still closed, as if he was afraid to look at her; “I love you so much, Kenzie. I don’t have words for it. It...scares me. But it’s the most amazing...the most moving thing I’ve ever felt...” Kenzie’s eyes fell over his wildly beautiful face; like this, he was like an aspect of the Pieta, or some aching divinity; to be loved by him shatters my soul into a thousand pieces, each one raw with sensitivity, each one alive with so much feeling I can barely stand it.

“I love you too, Duncan. Please tell me you felt it from me.”

He nodded; his eyes opened and they were shining with tears again. “I did. I do. And I heard those thoughts towards my mother from you, baby--I heard you--that we’ll help people and create beautiful things--and we will, I promise we will, I love you so.”

Kenzie sat up and pressed a kiss into him, and smiled; “Oh, Duncan.”

“With you beside me, Mackenzie, I promise we will make everything I have--everything we have--into something beautiful. Baby, I swear.” He brought her hand up to his mouth, kissing along her fingers, making low heat coil in her belly.

“Duncan, we can make so many people happy. As happy as this. As happy as we are,” she said, and then Kenzie suddenly pressed the tips of her fingers into Duncan’s torso, unable to keep her smile at bay, dancing them along his skin, all of her joy spilling out of her; a peal of laughter burst out of him and Duncan jerked to the side to get away from her tickles, and then he pulled her down onto him and rained kisses between her breasts and Kenzie thought more joy is coming and our love will make us brave and so bright and our love will bring light to others and she knew, in the deepest part of her soul, that it was true.

------

When Kenzie woke the sun was shining down onto the bed (it’s summer, she thought, we should go to the beach soon, I’d love that, kissing him in the sand with the blue ocean stretched out before us) and Duncan was (wonderfully, blessedly) still sleeping quietly beside her. They’d slept naked (like that first night, Kenzie’s thoughts drifted, sleepily, eyes roving over his saintly face, the delicate incline of his eyelashes, the pout of his lips, whatever dream she’d had instantly forgotten, that first night where my heart was shattered by you and you kissed my ankles and said god, you taste good and I fucked you wearing that necklace that had taken me so long to save the money for and when you woke you hovered over me again, desirous, and I knew it hadn’t been a dream, and I knew I’d be content to always be in your bed, a bed we’ve now made ours from our passion), and Kenzie could feel the delicate press of his fingers against her hip, their bodies turned towards each other, Duncan’s curls falling over the pillow. She pressed her toes into the incline of the top of his ankle, down his foot and up again, where she could feel the hairs on his smooth, long leg, and pressed toward him, hungry for his heat. Kenzie lifted her face up into Duncan’s neck, sending little kisses down from the incline of his jaw to his adam’s apple and the elegant fall of his collarbones; Duncan let out a little pliant sigh, his big hand coming up from her hip to clutch her against him, immediately needy; she marveled again at the way it seemed to cover so much of her body, wherever it touched her; she felt enveloped under his hands, cradled in his colossal embrace. Kenzie felt the hardness between his legs press between hers (fuck, he always has an erection in the morning, ugh, fuck me baby) and the musky smell of him fell through her (he smells like sex, like the woods after warm rain) and he said “Kenzie,” and she thought like a prayer, he says my name so lovingly, “what time is it, baby.”

“Only after 8.” The smell of him was making her dizzy, making her cunt pulse down towards where she felt his cock pressing to the inside of her thigh; Duncan’s eyes opened to stare at her, and Kenzie breathed out a little, wondering if she’d ever not feel frozen with the intensity of his gaze. “We can sleep for hours still if we want to, baby...”

Duncan kissed her gently, just once, sleep still clinging to his eyes; Kenzie brought her hand up to brush the bits of skin that had gathered at the corners of them away with one careful finger, admiring the hairs along his jaw and the straight fall of his nose, the dusting of tiny beauty marks along his left cheek. His eyes were open still, half-closed with the remnants of the sleep he’d just left; and he said “You were an angel in the dream I was having,” and his eyes fluttered, his throat bobbing as he swallowed, one of his hands coming up between her shoulder blades, one falling down to clutch, fingers spreading, over her ass cheek.

“Oh really. An angel, huh?” She pressed more kisses into his chest; into the bones of his shoulders, still marveling at his smell. Duncan was nodding into her, greedily; pressing her mouth up into his, his fingers tightening around her skin, speaking between their lips; “Yes. You had wings and a halo that looked like it was made of stars...of starlight. I was...I don’t know who I was. I was dark. I was something dark. And you put your arms around me and I was full of light and relief. Your touch was...healing. It healed me. You were divine, baby. You are divine.”

“You aren’t dark, Duncan. You aren’t.”

“Kenzie...I’ve done...there are things I’ve done that--”

“Shhhh. They don’t matter now. We’re together. You aren’t dark. You aren’t.”

His tongue was in her mouth and she was shifting up onto him in the soft morning light, on the incline of his hips against the trail of hair on his abdomen that led to his groin, pushing herself up from the center of his chest so the lips of her vulva were pressing down into the upper side of his morning wood, and he moaned into her; “I’m never gonna stop wanting to fuck you, Kenzie,” and she said “Good, baby, because you’re gonna fuck me again right now,” and she lifted her hips and pushed herself down onto his thick erection so she was straddling his thighs and Kenzie whined as he filled her, “god, baby, you’re so fucking hard,” and he groaned a little, as if trying to steel himself against the intensity of the sensation, and Kenzie put two fingers in her mouth and rolled them along her tongue; saliva dripped from them as she brought them out and pressed them against her clit and worked at herself, hard and immediate, as she rolled her hips on him, his shaft totally buried inside her so she could feel the knobbed surface of his balls against the bottom of her ass, feel him throb deep inside her, filling her so much she wondered if he’d tear her apart; it made her shudder and throw her head back, and she watched his eyes, hazy with sleep a moment ago, go wide and roll back as she rode his aching cock.

“We all have darkness in us--” Kenzie breathed down at him as she moved her hips and rubbed at her clit, building a tantric cadence with her body, “--but you have so much good and so much loveliness in you, baby, and it was there before we met, I know it--”; Duncan’s hands came up, one pressing to her breast and kneading at her nipple, hard now in her arousal, the other at the small of her back, his nails digging into her skin there, as if to chain her against him; “Don’t stop, baby, god you feel like fucking heaven, fuck me,” and his voice begged, she could hear the edge in it, the need; she smiled, and he gazed up at her, his expression rapturous; that beautiful face, that gorgeous face, like a God, like Hades to his beloved Persephone, like Dionysus beholding Ariadne, like Apollo, most fair, smitten with Daphne, or Eros folding Psyche into his arms: just for me, when he looks at me that way. It’s only for me, and I know it. I can feel it. That gaze is for me and me alone, for I am most beloved among all to him.

“Kenzie, angel,” he breathed, and she watched his eyes flutter with the wave of his release rising, the intensity of the softness and wetness and tightness between her legs; god I love to see him in the light, she thought, I want to stare at him all fucking day, I want to drink him like wine. Her sex ached; ached with their fucking from the night before, ached with need for him now, ached so wonderfully that she thought she might faint from it, the intensity of the want there coiling like a spring that would cut and maim when it broke forth; “let me, baby, please, let me touch you,” he whispered, and she lifted her fingers from her clit to let the large, warm pad of his index finger flush itself against the bud of nerves between her legs, her hand falling down over his palm to grip at his wrist, holding him there--”There, that’s better, baby,” he murmured, “God, I can’t wait to get that fucking mirror,” and she nodded and said “You wanna watch yourself fuck me, huh, baby,” and he said “Fuck yes, I wanna watch myself fuck you, Kenzie, angel baby, fucking goddess,” and she laughed a little, and her laugh seemed to stir his desire further and she felt his length spasm inside her and his other hand came up from her breast and around her neck and she gasped a little “Fucking yes, baby,” and he squeezed, the pressure of his fingers constricting the air from her lungs and Kenzie’s heart pounded harshly in the center of her, and her sex twinged under his fingers and then he was pressing his hips up into her and moaning her name as he came, “Kenzie, angel, Kenzie, baby--” and she whimpered as he hand went tighter for a moment, tight enough to make her gasp longer, harder, fuck yes, baby, I love your hand there, forcing me down onto you this way, she knew he heard, and then she came under his hands, came and knew that as she did, he saw the halo around her head as she hovered over him in the sunlight; the halo he’d seen in his dream.

------

“Baby, I was thinking--” Duncan said as she sat at the black obsidian island in the kitchen, in the Marie Laveau tee shirt, staring down at her phone in one hand (Instagram; the comments on the photo of them together were absolutely wild and it had wracked up over 35,000 likes; Claire had already sent her several links to websites gushing about the photo, including one from BPF.com: DUNCAN SHEPHERD AND GIRLFRIEND MACKENZIE STONE POST FIRST SELFIE TOGETHER ON INSTAGRAM; LEGIONS OF FANS COIN NICKNAME “DUCKENZIE”), hair over her shoulder, a spoon poised in her other hand over the bowl of granola with blueberries and blackberries he’d given her, to her delight--”We own a cabin around Deep Creek Lake...it’s about a three hour drive from the city, and it’s...well, it’s a very large cabin, very secluded. Sometimes my Uncle BIll and my mother still use it for private parties, mostly. We used to go there more often when I was young, but it’s been about two years since the last time I stayed there. I was thinking...we could go there and stay for a few days. After the Gala. We could get away from the paps and my mother and everything...all of this. It’s so beautiful there and there are deer sometimes and I think--”

“Yes, baby, fucking yes,” Kenzie cut him off. “Dunny, I would fucking love that.” She couldn’t stop the grin that broke over her face as he turned to her, his blue eyes smiling down at her incredulously, the espresso he’d just made her in his hand. “Dunny, huh? That’s a new one.” He brought it over to her (he was in black sweats again, his torso bare) and she leaned up as his face came down to her; his kiss tasted like bitter coffee and sweet berries and him, all of him, and she sighed into him, gently pulling the copper espresso cup from his hand, her fingers trailing over his languidly.

“That’s what I wanna call you, baby,” She grinned again. “Dunnybunny.” She laughed. Duncan snorted, his face breaking out into a smirk that became a snorting laugh of his own. “I can’t wait to see my mother’s face when you call me that in her presence.”

“Oh, I definitely will, in that case. Not much will make your mother like me less than she already does, so I have nothing to lose.”

“She does like you, though. She can’t help it. The way she kept mentioning that you look like Madeline; that was her way of showing you affection. How could anyone not like you, baby?” His fingers came across the island as he leaned down onto it, trailing down her arm, her wrist, her hand; Kenzie’s phone lay just beyond her fingertips; Duncan glanced at it, noticing the Instagram photo open on it, eyes falling over the hundreds of thousands of likes. “Everyone loves you. And they should.”

“Shut the fuck up,” she smiled up at him, toying with the ends of his fingers, feeling her cheeks blush. Duncan smiled again as he turned away to make another espresso, this one for himself. “Yes, Miss Stone, whatever you say, Miss Stone.”

“Ugh, no, don’t,” and she stood and ran over to him and threw her arms around his back, burying her face in his skin, hair falling in her eyes. “Don’t call me that. Call me baby. Call me Kenzie. Call me angel.”

“Fuck,” and he turned around so she was looking up into his eyes and he said “Kenzie, I will call you angel a thousand times a day if you want me to, anything you want belongs to you now, just say it, just tell me what it is and it’s yours, okay? I mean it. Anything, baby. When’s your birthday, anyway?”

“July 17th. Anchaly told me you’re a Cancer too, so yours must be close to mine.” Kenzie’s arms still gripped Duncan’s hips, and his hand had come around to that soft spot under her ear, down into her hair, the tangles of sleep brushed out. “July 6th,” he answered, pressing his lips into her forehead as she stood there barefoot, feeling tiny in his embrace again, wildly vulnerable and soft and small. “My mother always insists on having a huge party...invites a hundred people, all politicians and celebrities, god, I always hate it, but this year--this year I’ll love it because you’ll be there.” “Mmhmm, of course I will, baby...but I have no idea what to do for a present--what do I get for the man who has everything?” She grinned up at him.

“I do have everything. Now, I truly do, baby. Now the party will always be for you, too. Oh, Kenzie, I love that. I love that our birthdays are close.” He pushed his fingers gently along her cheek, his arm around her shoulder; the tenderness in his voice made her heart shake. “Kenzie, I love you so much, being with you is like--like I’m fucking high as a kite all the time, wonderfully drunk--” he pressed his lips down onto her cheek, along to her ear, and Kenzie shivered, her body arching up into him, unable to stop herself. “That cabin sounds so wonderful, baby,” Kenzie said, trying to break the spell that had begun to weave between them again--she’d have to get ready to go to the Shepherd mansion soon, it wouldn’t do to arrive disheveled in front of Annette Shepherd from fucking her son on the table. But I do want him to fuck me on the table, Kenzie realized. We haven’t fucked on the table--not this one or that fucking beautiful cherrywood table in the other room--I want him to lay me down on it and fuck my fucking brains out standing. “To get away from everything like that sounds so perfect, everything has just been so insane…”

Duncan pulled away from her, nodding. “That’s why I thought of it. I don’t want you to get...overwhelmed. The paps are enough to drive anyone insane, but they hound this family like wolves at raw meat, ever since my grandfather became one of the richest men in America back in the 70’s. And the way they’re acting around you scares me. I want you to be safe and happy more than anything, baby. And it’ll be just the two of us. Just us.” His hand fell against her lips, probing gently. Kenzie opened her mouth a little to let his finger in, tongue swirling over it, her eyes lifted to his and she could see the heated desire coiled there again, could see the shape of the thoughts drifting inside him; he’s thinking about getting a hook for the ceiling in our bedroom, a hook to hang velvet rope, rope to tie me up and fuck me standing while we watch each other in a gilded mirror and I fall down onto his face as he eats me on his knees and he’s thinking about using that plug on me and then fucking my ass himself, fucking me hard in the ass with his big cock and coming inside me there, and her senses tingled and vibrated with the onslaught of these thoughts. Fuck, baby. Fuck, yes. She sucked at his finger as his thoughts crashed against her, and his eyes went bright with his arousal--blue like the summer sky drifting outside these windows, all my little plants hanging along it now, resting on the spotless sill--Kenzie was sure she had never wanted a man so much in her life as much as she wanted Duncan; she wanted every part of him, every secret, every shadow, every crevice and contour of him memorized, every inch explored, and the desire for him seemed to grow rather than dissipate every time they fucked, every time they came close together as if their minds were linked (but they are, we can each other’s fucking thoughts sometimes), every time he made her come with his mouth and his hands and his hard cock. The thought of exploring each other for days, sheltered by woods and a lake and the quiet of nature, with no one to tell them where to be and no one to take photos of them and no one to stare at them or scold them or probe them for details made her ache; god, that couldn’t come soon enough. But there was so much still to get through, first. Ugh.

“I should get ready to go to your mother’s house, baby,” Kenzie whispered, with regret. Duncan was leaning down to her again, his nose brushing against hers, his mouth hovering just above hers, his breath shallow, his thumb wet with her spit, now trailing along her bottom lip. “But I heard that. And the answer is yes.”

“Fuck, Kenzie.” He pushed his mouth onto hers and she returned his aching kiss for a moment, then pulled back and spoke into him, hearing his breath go ragged.

“While I’m with your mother, you should do some shopping. For us.”

“Uh huh, Kenzie. Yes, baby.”

She slid out of his grasp; Duncan groaned in frustration, and Kenzie could see the flush of his skin, looking at him over her shoulder as she stepped towards the bedroom. Her hip ran into the edge of the island, not looking where she was going; she blushed, wincing, and Duncan bit his lip, looking down at the floor and then back up at her, shyly. Kenzie saw the vulnerability in his gaze at her having heard those thoughts, raw and carnal and full of hedonistic want of her; but they had sent a thrill through her, one that made her think of the colossal painting that stretched across his study again; The Youth of Bacchus, the pleasures of the flesh, my body and your body, baby, together, where they belong.

“Wanna come watch me get dressed, baby?”

“Ugh, yes,” Duncan groaned, and came after her as she ran towards the bedroom, past the dark red roses on the coffee table, laughing.

------

Most of Kenzie’s clothes were still on the rolling clothing rack she’d used in her old apartment; the clothes that had been in her sun-and-moon dresser still stacked neatly in large boxes. Duncan had, somewhat shyly, asked if he could put all her things away for her--while she was busy with Annette--in the drawers on the right side of the walk-in closet; “I’m going to move the things I have in there out; it’s your side now.” “Are you kidding, baby, it’s my dream for someone else to do my laundry for me. You can put my clothes away every damn day. You can be my personal stylist,” and she clutched him around the waist for a moment, pressing against him, and he smiled down at her. “You’ll have one of those for real very soon, baby,” he replied. “Annette insists, for all public events. Also--now that I’m thinking of it--I have a service deliver groceries here several times a week. If you write down everything you think we need and give it to Anchaly in the morning, it’s here at night. It’s safer--and especially after that incident yesterday, baby, I think you shouldn’t go out alone for things like that. Harris should be with you if you need to go shopping for any reason. You should use the card I gave you to order anything you need online as much as you want to; Anchaly signs for packages, too.”

Kenzie frowned a little, leaning away from him, going over to her hanging rack and pulling out a black collared sweater with short sleeves, throwing it on its hanger on the bed. She leaned over one of the boxes that littered the corner, finding the high-waisted mini skirt she was looking for; it was black too, with gold buttons down the front. She pulled the Marie Laveau shirt off, standing there in just her underwear for a moment; as she pulled the skirt up, wiggling it over her hips, she avoided Duncan’s gaze from where he stood standing at the door of the walk-in closet, leaning against it, eyes focused on her; she couldn’t hear him right now, but knew anyway that he was looking at her with both affectionate concern and desire.

“Kenzie. I understand your frustration, baby. I do.”

Kenzie breathed out, leaning over another box, finding a strapless tan-colored bra, snapping it over her arms and pulling the cups over her little breasts (she’d remembered reading somewhere that for fittings a strapless bra should be worn), and then she turned to him, in just her bra and skirt, the frown still creasing over her face. I can’t help it, she thought. This sucks. “It just...makes me fucking sad, baby,” she said, tucking a golden-tawny wave behind her ear, reaching for the shirt she’d tossed on the bed. Duncan came over to where she stood; he slid onto the bedspread, grasping her hand before she could pull it away, crossing his legs, pulling her gently down to him. “Like I’ve given up a part of me...one that could go to the grocery store and just...get groceries. Fuck.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry it’s like this.”

She knelt on the bedspread, mussed from their passion and their sleep, looking at him; the bareness of his shoulders and the fall of his hair and his expression of remorse, blue eyes burning, oh, those eyes; then she pressed her arms around his neck, and Duncan put his face into her hair and pulled her into his lap, breathing her in.

“I know it’s not your fault, baby,” she murmured. “I just...I can’t believe...in just a week...so much can change. Everything. You know?”

“Baby, I know. Everything is different now. It feels strange to me too--everything I thought I wanted for the company...it was really something my uncle wants-- something my mother wants. I want something else. I want what you said, what you thought across that table when you looked at my mother--to bring other people happiness like this.”

Kenzie nodded into his neck, her body filling with sweet affection for him, a golden cascade of love--to choose your light over your darkness takes courage, my dearest love, and I am so proud of you, so proud to know you and love you in this moment, was the thought she pushed into him, and his arms tightened around her and she felt the emotion in the way he moved his head against her, felt the tremor in him, overcome with her admonition. You aren’t dark. You’ve chosen to be something else. That’s what matters.

Kenzie heard her phone trumpet from the kitchen island where she’d left it; she glanced over at the silver alarm clock on Duncan’s side of the bed and noticed it was 11:30 exactly. “Baby, I think I have to go soon,” she whispered into him and Duncan sighed. “I wish we could just stay home together, today,” he murmured into her.

“Me too, baby. But tomorrow we can. Tomorrow we have the whole day to ourselves. Maybe I can finally put all my things away.” She kissed him and Duncan closed his eyes; “Or we can just fuck all day, baby,” he said into her mouth, and Kenzie grinned into him, shivering. “I’m curious how many times I can make you come in a row--” And she wiggled out of his arms teasingly as he said this, loving the hungry look in his eyes. “Get that mirror and that hook,” she said, staring at him for a long moment, “and we can test that theory,” then, Kenzie went back over to the boxes in the corner, pulling out a pair of black socks, slipping them on her feet. Duncan watched the incline of her leg, letting out another soft little moan, almost involuntary; then he climbed off the bed and went to the walk-in closet, pushing his sweatpants down as he did, kicking them off, still looking over his shoulder into her eyes as his cock came free of its constraints, not quite erect, but not soft either; in that between state of arousal and anticipation; he slowly moved his hand down to it, gripping its shaft for a moment, leaning against the doorway, eyes falling up and down her body in the little sweater and mini skirt, his mouth open just a little, and Kenzie bit her lip. “Bad boy,” she whispered. “I’m gonna punish you later.” He grinned at her and went into the closet. Kenzie passed by to get her phone from the kitchen and couldn’t help but glance to him undressed, his back turned to her now; his wide shoulders extending down to his round ass and thick thighs, the fine hairs on his legs visible in the warm light of the closet. Beloved. Like the statue of David. I really do wish we could stay in bed all day, worshiping each other. If we ever get tired of fucking, it won’t be anytime soon.

Kenzie reached for her phone as she reached the island, looking down at the text.

Samuel: Miss Mackenzie, ready when you are.

Harris had today off; Kenzie supposed it wasn’t necessary to have him at the Shepherd mansion (there was no chance of paps being there; there was heavy security around the clock), though, she thought, it would have been nice to have his large presence beside her, in case Annette tries to poison me, only half-facetiously, biting her lip. On my way down in 5, she replied. Thanks Samuel. Kenzie went back to the bedroom, stopping in the doorway of the walk-in closet; Duncan was mostly dressed now, in tailored black slacks and a short-sleeved button down; “I don’t think I’ve seen you in short sleeves yet, baby,” she said softly, coming up to him as he did the top button, facing her; glancing up at her. “You look nice. You always look nice. But I like you in short sleeves. You look more...relaxed, or something.”

“I’m pretty sure naked is the most relaxed state you’ve seen me in, Kenzie,” he said, eyes in hers, his radiantly beautiful smile making her shy again. “Also, the short sleeves are for practical reasons--the high today is 81.” Kenzie turned to where several pairs of her shoes were lined against the floor; she hadn’t had time to organize these yet either, but she picked out her long black pointed boots, leaning against the drawers as she pulled them on under Duncan’s watchful eye; he was switching between buckling on his black Movado and staring at her legs again as they vanished under the black velvety fabric of the boots; they always made her feel pretty when she wore them, and she felt like she could use all the help she could get if Annette was going to be breathing down her neck for a few hours. “Samuel’s waiting for me downstairs, baby,” she said, looking up at him, straightening, clutching her phone in one hand, reaching for him with the other; he grasped her arm, stepping forward, and leaned down into her, and his heady, musk-wood smell fell over her again, dizzying and deep. “I’ll text you when I’m done with your mom, okay?”

“Okay, baby. Thank you for doing this. But remember what I said, if you don’t like what she wants you to wear, you don’t have to wear it. Erik is reasonable, he’ll understand.”

Kenzie reached over to where some of her jewelry was lined on the accessory shelf built into the side (her side) of the closet; she slipped the long necklace with tiny gold star charms on it around her neck; it dangled to her stomach, and she flipped her hair back over her shoulders, placing her hands on her hips. “How do I look, baby.”

“Like my Kenzie. Like a fucking angel.”

“Can you see my halo and wings still?”

“Always.”

She blushed; ugh, this fucking Prince. Fuck me, pressing her face up to kiss him again, then dancing away as he tried to grab her closer--”You are too fucking good at that,” he said after her, his eyes like deep ocean, and she giggled as she snatched the little convertible bag from where she’d left it by the wall in the living room, dipping down to smell the roses on the table, their evocative sweetness floating up at her; she glanced towards where she knew his bust of Nike was on the left side of the Bouguereau prints, and spoke a silent prayer for a day that wasn’t rife with the stresses of yesterday; spoke a silent prayer that in Annette Shepherd’s presence, she would be fearless and calm. Duncan followed her out, barefoot; he watched her go to the door and pull it open, and she said, “Wish me luck, baby.”

“You don’t need luck, Kenzie. You are beloved of the gods.”

She stared at him, puzzled; she could feel the small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “That’s a funny thing to say, Duncan.” He came up to her, hands falling through her hair with adamant affection, before she could slip away from him again. “It’s true. I said it because it’s true. I feel it. Destiny. Our destiny. This wasn’t luck. It was destiny. It is our destiny.”

The doubt slipped from her mind; the confusion melted. “It really is, isn’t it.”

“Yes. It really is.” He kissed her fiercely again; his mouth bruising into hers; touching in thin tendrils down to her stomach. She pressed into him for a moment, suddenly possessed by her sadness at leaving him; then pulled away softly and stepped into the hall.

“I’ll see you in a few hours, baby.”

“Mhm, Kenzie. I love you.”

“And I, your Persephone, love you.”

“Oh, baby--”

Kenzie ran away from him down the hall to the elevator, which magically, somehow, opened for her before she even pressed the button. She turned as the doors slid shut, and he was leaning against the frame of the penthouse entrance, arm clutching the lintel, eyes on her, and she knew he was thinking of flowers in her hair again, petals floating down and leaving a secret trail behind her as she descended back to earth.

-----

Samuel had his foot on the gas of the BMW as soon as Kenzie slid into the backseat; she’d taken more time than she thought upstairs (your son was distracting me, Annette) and it was fifteen till the hour. Today he was listening to Fleetwood Mac; Kenzie clapped her hands together, delighted; listen to the wind blow, watch the sun rise--”Samuel, can you turn it up?” She saw Samuel’s very white grin at her in the rearview, and watched his hand reach out to the knob on the Harman Kardon sound system; Stevie and Lindsey’s voices crashed into her on either side as if they were in the backseat with her.

“And if you don’t love me now, you will never love me again, I can still hear you sayin’, you would never break the chain--” Samuel had the windows down and the wind whipped her hair across her cheek and neck, and Kenzie thought of Duncan’s hands and his blue gaze and his mouth and his hair on his forehead and the stubble on his cheeks and his height towering over her but his looks of longing into her eyes and toyed with the little stars on her necklace, feeling them carefully, singing along softly to herself. We can hear each other’s thoughts sometimes. A week ago I would have thought current me had lost her fucking mind. But I know it’s real. How can it be real? I don’t fucking know. But it is.

“Miss Mackenzie, your voice is so beautiful,” Samuel said, glancing up at her, the smile still at his mouth. “You should have been a singer, like Ms. Nicks.”

“Thank you, Samuel. To be compared to Stevie is the highest of compliments.”

“Just so.”

Chain, keep up together...Chain, keep us together…

As Samuel pulled up to the gate of the Shepherd mansion, Kenzie’s stomach did a backflip and she floated away from the strains of Christine’s high, cheerful voice: you, you make loving fun, it’s all I wanna do--Holy fuck, Kenzie thought. This is huge even for a mansion. She could see the tall Colonial-style windows over the gate, the Roman pillars extending in the doorway, a balcony above. I need to remember Duncan’s family is one of the richest in the country. Fuck. Am I ever gonna get used to this? Samuel spoke into the intercom (“Mackenzie Stone here to see Annette Shepherd,”) and the gate buzzed open. Kenzie glanced down at her phone; it was five till. She silently thanked Samuel’s magical powers of speed again. Samuel pulled up around the curving driveway to the entrance; vast double doors seemed to stare down at her with hostile judgement. Kenz, you got this. Remember the way Duncan pushed his love into you last night. The way you gathered it and moved it and made it more. You can gather it that way again, just remember that feeling. Be brave like Momby.

Kenzie breathed out, thanked Samuel (and silently, Stevie) and stepped out of the car, boots clicking on the smooth, tasteful cobble of the driveway, looking up at the house, bag slung over her shoulder, phone clutched in her palm. It was sunny and beautiful today; it was truly beginning to feel like summer. Kenzie breathed in deeply and let it out again; don’t let her get to you, no matter what she says, Kenzie. Momby wouldn’t. Duncan wouldn’t. Don’t do it.

She waved a little at Samuel before she shut the door; “I’ll text you when I’m done, is that okay, Samuel?” “Of course, Miss Mackenzie. See you later.” She turned away as it clicked shut, steeling herself again for a moment, then going up the three wide, smooth white steps to the double doors, both with opulent knobs made of embossed gold; she hesitated, unsure of the etiquette; do I knock? Kenzie reached out and turned one of the knobs, apprehensively, peeking her head slowly into the interior of the house. Inside, it was as opulent a place as she had ever seen; if Duncan’s penthouse was spotless, you could eat a steak off the floor of the foyer of this house; Kenzie felt immediately far too ordinary to be here; too flawed, too insecure, and far too human. She toyed with the idea of running out, waving Samuel down and speeding off. But that, of course, was impossible.

A woman came towards her, beckoning sternly. She was very tall (probably taller than Duncan, Kenzie thought, reminded of Harris) and had hair so blonde it was almost white; it was pulled back into a very tight bun that looked painful to Kenzie, and her face was done up with carefully-applied, subdued makeup, her thin, nude-lipsticked lips pressed together tightly. She wore a very tight, very neat pantsuit in dark gray with low black kitten heels, and she looked very strong, with wide shoulders and hips. “Mackenzie Stone, come here.” Her voice had a slight accent, one that Kenzie couldn’t place. Danish? Swedish? “I am Ingrid. They are in the South Wing.” Kenzie jumped inside, pulling the big door shut behind her; the foyer was eerily quiet but for a huge grandfather clock swinging in one corner. Ingrid beckoning with a short motion again; “Come, now, thank you.”

Kenzie stepped quickly behind the woman, who moved very fast and almost noiselessly; I bet this woman could kill someone easily without ever getting caught, Kenzie thought with a chill. I guess Annette needs people like that around her. Ingrid led her around the right side of the curving double staircase, down a hallway hidden behind it, towards the far end of the mansion; if Duncan has one Bouguereau original, I can’t even contemplate how many of these are authentic, Kenzie thought, gazing around at the paintings that adorned the walls (they seemed to mostly be a mixture of Impressionist and Modern art--but there’s nothing here as beautiful as The Youth of Bacchus, she thought, it’s the most beautiful painting I have ever seen, and my boyfriend OWNS it), the sconces and shelves that held Ming vases and sculptures and china and embossed books. Ingrid turned a corner sharply, then opened a long white door (another embossed gold knob) to a round, wide parlor room, modified to look like a dressing room, with a round dais in the center and several mannequins along one wall, a few very beautiful Regent-style white-and-gold armchairs littered here and there; Kenzie saw Annette stretched languidly in one of them, dressed in a flawless cream-colored wrap dress with a black sash tied at her waist, her perfectly styled hair falling down her shoulder, her expression hidden by the angle, and a man with a very bright floral scarf, a shiny bald head and very long false eyelashes standing with a hip cocked facing the doorway, gesturing at her flamboyantly and telling a story, animatedly.

“--I said honey-bun, you don’t get to tell me what the fuck I’m going to do, I tell you what the fuck I’m going to do, then you give me the time I need to fucking do it.” The man cocked his head, batting his lashes. Annette let out a little barking laugh. “Needless to say, I--” The man broke off, noticing Ingrid at the door, and Kenzie hovering behind her.

Annette glanced back. “Oh. Mackenzie. You’re actually on time.”

Uhhhhh. Kenzie’s hands came up to the star necklace, noticing her hand was trembling. What would have happened if I wasn’t?

“Thank you, Ingrid, you can shut the door.”

Ingrid gave Annette a curt nod, and gave Kenzie a long glance as she left, her eyes going from Kenzie’s feet up her body to her hair around her shoulders and down again, a judging glint in her cold eyes. Yep, you got it, I’m fucking Duncan, you’re right, Kenzie thought. Stare away, make sure I have the right genetics and the birthing hips and my boobs are the right size. I wonder what Annette will say when she hears I don’t want to have kids, ha! The door shut behind the woman with a loud, clean click, and the man in the eyelashes came toward Kenzie, pressing his hands theatrically to his cheeks.

“My, my, my, what a little cupcake you are.” He reached for her hands and Kenzie extended her palms into his, her cheeks burning with apprehension. “A little rose petal, a babydoll blooming bud, a teensy slice of delectable red velvet. I’ll bet he’s been nibbling at you night and day.”

“Erik, that’s enough,” Annette said, and Kenzie glanced over to her to see an expression of sharp annoyance in her eyes; whatever mirth may have been on Annette’s face a moment ago was gone, replaced with a calculating neutrality.

“Lord, Annette, as if you can’t see why he’s absolutely head-over-heels.” Erik rolled his eyes, letting Kenzie go, giving her a little wink that Annette couldn’t see from where she sat. Kenzie pressed her lips together tightly, trying not to smile. I like him. “She’s like a tiny little princess in a fairy tale. Snow White. Rose Red. Princess Peach. I’m Erik, sweet thing. And you’re Mackenzie. And this is Annette--oh, you knew that, of course.” Erik turned to Annette, giving her a long look and a coy smile.

“Mackenzie, come here, we have a lot of work to do and I have a meeting at 3,” Annette said to her curtly, standing up and beckoning to the dais. “Erik needs to take your measurements, and then we need to discuss a color palette.”

“I’m thinking mod,” Erik gestured vaguely towards Kenzie’s hips, flicking his wrist. “Like Edie Sedgwick at a Renaissance fair.” Annette made an exasperated noise from the back of her throat as Kenzie came up beside her, heart pounding, and grasped Kenzie’s arm suddenly with a tight, pinching grip, pushing her onto the dais. “Measurements, please, Erik. Mackenzie, hold still.”

Erik spent the next ten minutes or so pressing a measuring tape along Kenzie’s body as she moved as he told her to; Kenzie looked down from Annette’s appraising gaze, which seemed as cold and heavy as ice; she tried to remember the warmth that had spread around the table over dinner last night, but it slipped away from her, just beyond her grasp; without Duncan there, Kenzie felt lost inside her doubt, caught in the approximate, austere eyes of his mother. I doubt those comments from Erik helped warm her heart to me today, Kenzie thought, exasperated. Her stomach felt sour and she contemplated asking for a glass of water, but Annette’s frown deterred her. She remembered Annette didn’t know she’d moved into Duncan’s penthouse yet; oh fuck, she’s really gonna love that one. Annette’s quietness unnerved her--who knew what Duncan’s mother was thinking behind her dark-well eyes. Erik fussed over her, as if to fill the silence between them: “Look at your tiny little hourglass! Those hips, my dear, absolutely to die for. A pity you’re not a little taller, then again, Madeline was never known for her height, was she. How is she these days, by the way?”

“Very well, thanks for asking.” Kenzie’s eyes slid to Annette, who raised her eyebrows, then back to Erik, who was pressing the measuring tape along her bust with careful precision; he had clearly done this a thousand times before her, and his interest in her breasts was completely non-existent beyond the practicality of his duties. “She’s retired now. We had a wonderful time with her the other night.” She looked at Annette again for a moment, seeing the angry flash in the other woman’s eyes; kicking the hornet’s nest, Kenz, she scolded herself, but it was too late; heat was rising behind her temples. I am good enough for your son, Annette. You may never think so, but that doesn’t fucking matter. You’re going to accept me eventually because your son loves me and that’s not going to change. This is our destiny. He said so himself to me. He knows it too. I may not be the trust-fund heiress to an oil company in Texas you would have chosen for him, but I’m the one for him, tough shit.

Erik seemed to have finished his measurements, taking note of them on a little yellow notepad with a fountain pen in his manicured fingers; “Annette, what do you think for colors. I’m thinking black and white with a gold embellishment.”

“I don’t fucking care,” Annette said, her tone biting. She sat in the armchair facing Kenzie, eyes falling down Kenzie’s small form; half-full of resentment, half a simmering superiority.

“Ummmmm,” Erik said, rolling his eyes a little again. “Honey, you’re the one who insisted she do this with you in the first place.” Kenzie gave him a grateful look.

“Mackenzie, I hope you understood how serious I was last night,” Annette said, ignoring Erik. Kenzie bit into the inside of her cheek, willing herself to stay calm. “If you are offered another article in the nature of the one published on Friday, you will turn it down.”

“Annette, with all due respect, I’m a journalist working for a liberal publication. I’m not a Republican, and dating Duncan doesn’t suddenly make me a centrist. Maybe you should ask Duncan what he really wants for the company in the first place, since he’s going to be helping you run it soon.” The words tumbled out of her, and Kenzie immediately bit her lip, fumbling her hands together. Oh fuck, Kenz. What was that.

A cold pallor fell over Annette’s face; it made Kenzie’s blood chill in her veins. Erik’s mouth snapped shut and he raised his eyebrows, a little hiss of air escaping his lips. Annette sat up very straight in the chair, setting her hands on the armrests with her fingers tightly curled. “He told you that, did he,” she hissed.

“Yes. We’re together now. I deserve to know about his life.” Kenzie tried to quell the tremble that had started in her hands; adrenaline pumped through her, making her feel as though she’d just taken a hit of weed. “You seem determined to hate me, Annette, but I don’t hate you at all. I wish you could see that Duncan doesn’t want what you want; that he’s sensitive and good and kind and wants to be surrounded by real things, beautiful things. He just wants to be loved, just wants to love--and we love each other. Why would you try to deny him of that?”

“I don’t have time for this today.” Annette stood, eyes blazing. “Mackenzie, if you speak a word of what Duncan has told you to anyone, I will make sure you seriously regret it. Erik, get her a fucking dress, I don’t give a shit what it looks like. Give her a fucking brown bag to wear for all I care.” She stormed out the door, slamming it behind her.

“Oh, honey, you are Madeline Stone’s daughter, aren’t you?” Erik turned to Kenzie, a grin falling over his features, his long eyelashes batting at her. “She had that coming; and you have nerves of steel.”

“Not really feeling like it at the moment,” Kenzie said, voice audibly shaking. Now that she had started to come down from the adrenaline, she felt woozy and sick.

“So, what do you want to wear?” He pressed a finger to the side of his face.

Kenzie tried to clear her head, her mind frenzied and racing from the exchange with Annette; then, like clouds parting to the sun, she thought of the one friend who had been a constant in her life since they were in middle school; their friendship carrying her through high school and shitty jobs and college and a breakup and her bumpy first year at the Post when her self-doubt had been at an all-time high. Clairebear. Morgan Winthrop.

“My...my best friend Claire. She works for a designer. Morgan Winthrop.”

“Oh, honey, I know Morgan. We go way back. We used to go to Studio 54 together. You want Morgan to make your dress?”

“I--Yes. Yes I do.” Kenzie tossed her head back, pushing her chin out. To hell with this. It’s my life and my relationship and if I have to go to this Gala, I want to wear what I want to wear. The theme is based on me after all. Gold in the darkness. He said it was based on me. That it’s for me. It’s me.

“Darling, I think that’s marvelous.” Erik tucked his head down to her conspiratorially. “I can see why you’d be drawn to Morgan’s aesthetic. And I think she’d know just what to do for you. A little birdy told me Duncan based the theme on you, a little slice of starlight--little golden moonbeam that you are. I’ve never seen him this way. You’ve gotten down under his skin, babydoll. You’re in the soul of him, now.”

“So...you’ll help me?”

“Darling. In a minute. I want to see that boy happy. And Annette does, too. She just needs to realize that. With your help, I have a sneaky suspicion that won’t take as long as one might have thought. You’re a bold little burst of fresh air.”

Kenzie hopped down from the dias, heart pounding, and went to the armchair where she’d placed her convertible bag, pulling her phone in its gold case out, opening her contacts to Clairebear. She hit the call button, raising the phone to her ear. Claire picked up after two rings. “Hello, Kenzie? Is everything okay?”

“Clairebear, I need your help. I need Morgan’s help. I need Morgan to make my dress for the Shepherd Freedom Foundation Gala. And I need it to be the most amazing fucking dress of all time.”