#and we’re not even halfway through with our paper

[diazheartsbuckley]

I need someone to end my misery. I HATE THIS

[pandapetals]

Double Date

professor logan howlett x professor fem!reader - established relationship (y'all married), cute, fluff, teasing, no y/n used, no reader description, your an english professor, logan is a history professor - imagine days of future past logan with the white streaks in his hair

You and Logan go on a double date with Jean and Scott.

read on ao3 or find more parts for the series: here

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Jean?" you asked skeptically, glancing over at her as you both sat in her office, grading papers. The afternoon sun filtered through the window, casting a soft glow over the stacks of assignments that never seemed to get any smaller. “Double dates... that's something teenagers do, right?"

Jean laughed, her red hair catching the light as she set down her pen. "We’re young, you know. Well, young-ish... except for Logan," she teased, shooting you a playful grin. "Besides, it's just a double date. It'll be fun."

You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Fun is us going out for drinks or a movie without our husbands.”

Jean rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair. "Scott and I could use a night out. It’s been a long time, especially since the baby came. His parents agreed to watch Nathan tonight, so I’m taking advantage of this rare opportunity."

You sighed, knowing there was no way out of it now. "Alright, fine," you said, smiling despite your reservations. "But if Scott and Logan start a stare-down contest halfway through dinner, you’re handling it."

Jean laughed again, giving you a knowing look. "Deal. But I have a feeling you’re going to be the one keeping the peace. You’re good at bridging that gap."

Later that evening, you found yourself sitting at a dimly lit restaurant, across from Scott and Jean, with Logan seated beside you. The tension in the air was palpable from the moment the four of you sat down. Scott greeted Logan with a nod, and Logan returned with a grunt. So far, so good. But the undercurrent of their long-standing tension hung over the table like a dark cloud.

The waiter came by, taking drink orders—Logan, predictably, ordered a whiskey straight while Scott opted for something more reserved, a scotch on the rocks. You and Jean exchanged a glance, both of you silently acknowledging the subtle stand-off that had already begun.

"So," Jean started, trying to inject some lightness into the atmosphere. "How’s your class going, Logan? I hear the kids have been really into your military history lectures."

Logan shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. "They’re learnin' somethin', at least. Though they could use a little more discipline. Kids today get distracted too damn easily."

Scott smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Well, not everyone can handle boot camp as a teaching method, Logan."

There it was. The first jab. You glanced at Jean, who raised her eyebrows in warning. You could practically feel Logan bristling beside you, his hand tightening around his glass.

"At least they listen when I talk," Logan muttered, his voice low and gruff.

You placed a hand on Logan’s arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. "What Logan means ," you said with a grin, cutting in before things could escalate, "is that the kids respect his... unique teaching style. Right, Logan?"

Logan glanced at you, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. "Yeah, somethin' like that."

Jean, ever the diplomat, smiled brightly. "Oh, I’m sure they love it. Scott's geometry students seem to survive somehow. Maybe there's room for both methods."

Scott chuckled lightly, but the tension still simmered beneath the surface. It was going to be a long night if you didn’t intervene more.

"So, Jean," you said, turning to her with a playful smile, "have you read that new book I lent you? The one about feminist literary theory in Victorian novels?" You purposefully leaned into the topic you knew would bore the men to death, hoping to shift the energy at the table.

Jean’s eyes lit up. "Yes! It’s fascinating how they reframe the narratives, right? That chapter on Jane Eyre was so insightful. It’s like reading the novel through a whole new lens."

Logan groaned quietly under his breath, and you could practically hear Scott internally rolling his eyes. You looked over at Logan, who was staring down into his whiskey like it held the answers to the universe. "Sounds riveting," he muttered.

Scott leaned in, shooting Logan a conspiratorial glance. "These two and their intellectual deep dives, huh? Bet they could talk about Victorian novels all night."

Logan smirked, finally breaking through the tension with a rare flash of amusement. "Don’t even get me started. The last time she tried to explain one of those theories to me, I ended up readin’ half of Wuthering Heights. Still don’t understand why Heathcliff didn’t just leave."

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. "Because it’s a story about obsession, Logan. It’s a metaphor for—"

"For poor decision-makin'," Logan cut in, his smirk growing. "Guy shoulda walked away and saved everyone a lot of trouble."

Jean laughed along with you, and Scott, for once, found himself nodding in agreement with Logan. "I’ve been saying that for years," he muttered, raising his glass. "Heathcliff is one of the most frustrating characters in literature."

Logan raised his glass, clinking it lightly against Scott’s, both of them sharing a rare moment of camaraderie. "Guess we agree on somethin' then," Logan said, still grinning.

You exchanged a surprised glance with Jean, both of you trying not to laugh at the sudden shift in tone. Maybe this double date wouldn’t be such a disaster after all.

As the evening wore on, the conversation flowed more easily. Scott and Logan even took turns teasing you and Jean about your "intellectual" interests, mocking the way you both could get lost in endless discussions about books, theories, and literary tropes.

"Oh, and remember last week," Logan said with a grin, "when she got all riled up about literary accuracy in that TV show?"

Scott chuckled, shaking his head. "You should’ve heard Jean going off about the scientific inaccuracies in that alien invasion movie. She almost walked out of the theater."

"Almost?" Jean said, raising an eyebrow. "I did walk out. I refused to sit through that nonsense."

The four of you laughed, and the earlier tension dissolved completely, replaced by the warmth of shared jokes and unexpected camaraderie. By the time dessert arrived, Scott and Logan were trading more quips than glares, their long-standing tension buried—if only for the night—under layers of teasing banter.

The evening drew to a close, you leaned over and whispered to Logan, "See? Told you this would be fun."

Logan gave you a sidelong glance, his lips twitching into that lopsided smile that always made your heart skip. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, slipping his hand into yours under the table. "Guess I was wrong. For once."

You grinned, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Don’t get used to saying that."

He smirked, leaning in close enough that only you could hear. "I won’t." Then, with a wink, he added, "But this was all for you, darlin'."

[tricktster]

Is the mom in the picture at all?

Bahahha trust me, these kids are not lacking for moms. We have shared custody, which means on paper they’re with their Mommy (my boyfriend’s ex) and Mama (her new partner) half the week and Daddy and TST the other half… but, you know, in practice?

Schedules are complicated, we’re all getting our respective post-divorce permanent housing situations sorted out, we all wanna see the kids as much as humanly possible, and I’m the only one who isn’t directly in the medical field and doesn’t have overnights where I have to work or be on call, sooo like… it’s not an infrequent situation for all four of us to be under the same roof for the whole weekend, or for me to stay over when Mommy’s on call and might have to go to the hospital and Dad and Mama are both working overnight shifts, etc etc. We’ll take them to the amusement park and switch off kid duty halfway through, we all went to pride together, we went to kindergarten orientation together, we do all the big holidays/birthdays together… we even had a group halloween costume (the kids were Squirtle and Meowth, bf and I were Team Instinct/Valor trainers, mommy and mama were Team Rocket, it was fucking adorable.)

It was truly weird at first. It’s still occasionally weird. I know we’re all looking forward to seeing a little less of each other once we finalize housing. But like… at the end of the day, all that really matters is that the kids now have four incredibly loving adults in their lives who all have their best interests at heart and can put aside any interpersonal awkwardness in furtherance of that goal. They’re great moms, and I’m so happy the kiddos have them.

3 y/o was lounging in the pool a few weeks ago and looked around at everyone and happily announced “This is my family. Somehow.” and if that ain’t the truth, I dunno what is.

[estrellami-1]

If I Should Stay

Part 1 | . . . | Part 29 | Part 30 | Part 31

Chemistry isn’t any better than Steve remembers it. He shares Algebra with Nancy, though, so they sit together and work through the problems, getting done much faster this time around than he’d remembered doing so the first time.

He catches her looking at him, sometimes, and finally sighs, halfway through a problem. “Look, Nance, I get if this is gonna be weird now. If it would make it easier, we could officially break up. Have a big fight in public where one of us storms off, maybe. If it would help with… with closure, or whatever.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Even if we painted you as the asshole?”

He smiles. “It’s not like most our classmates don’t already know me as such.”

She shrugs. “Even if we said you cheated on me?”

He’s not fast enough to keep his expression from shuttering. “If… if that’s what would help you-”

“Steve,” she says softly. Almost too softly. “When are you gonna stick up for yourself?”

He ducks his head and chuckles. “Still working on that,” he admits. “I’m fine, though, I can take it. So if you need-”

“Steve,” she interrupts. “We can just break up. Just normal. Like how we did. There doesn’t need to be a big fight or anything, we can just say that we realized we aren’t right for each other.” She tilts her head. “Cause it’s true, isn’t it? We’re not right for each other.”

Steve smiles at her. “You’re very driven,” he murmurs. “It’s something that initially drew me to you. But we weren’t ever gonna make it. I was talking with someone last night, about being compatible. And we just… aren’t, really. I’m not nearly as motivated as you, and I need someone more laid back. You need someone who’s gonna do what he can to help you reach your full potential.”

“And that wouldn’t have been you?”

Steve hums. “I think I would’ve tried my best,” he says. “But I’m still living under my father’s shadow, and the most he’d want you to be is a housewife.” She makes a face, and he laughs. “Exactly. I think maybe if we’d met later, after I’d realized I don’t owe him anything, maybe things would be different. But as it is… I’m being haunted by things that haven’t even happened yet. And won’t, now, because of what we’re trying to do. But that’s not fair to you.”

“And what I did to you wasn’t fair to you,” she says softly. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

He stares at her for a moment, then looks abruptly down at his paper. “So, for number six, I’m still not understanding the polynomials.” He catches her sympathetic smile as she ducks her head to look at where he’s pointing.

“Okay, this is easy,” she says, and it feels like closure.

Still, he drags Robin into an empty classroom later. “Oh boy,” she says. “That’s a Nancy look. What did she do? Do I need to stop being friendly towards her?”

“No, Robs,” he chuckles, pulling her into a hug. “Just… it’s been a day, okay?”

“You can say that again,” she agrees, and wraps him in a hug tight enough he squeaks.

“It was good,” he finally manages. “We talked, during Algebra. Um. She apologized.”

“Oh, Steve,” Robin murmurs, and hugs him even tighter.

He buries his face in her hair. “Love you, Robbie.”

“Love you, dingus,” she murmurs. “Always.”

They stand like that for a few minutes, until the next bell rings and Steve pulls back with an apologetic smile. “Don’t wanna make us late.”

“Screw school,” Robin replies immediately, the way Steve knew she would. “I’m here for you.”

He grins sheepishly at her. “Next class is gym,” he says. “With Eddie. And all the guys I used to be friends with.”

Robin nods knowingly. “And you started burning those bridges with Tommy today,” she adds. “Yeah, okay. Go get your man.”

Steve chuckles and squeezes her one last time. “What class do you have?”

“Art.”

“Ooh,” he teases, because he knows she shares that class with Tammy.

“Fuck off,” she mutters, rolling her eyes and shoving him away.

He just gets right back into her space. She lets him. “Never,” he grins.

She fights down a smile as she pushes past him. “I thought you had gym?”

“Oh, fuck,” he says, and rushes to the lockers.

He can hear her laughter following him all the way.

Because his life must hate him, the gym teacher chooses dodgeball as the activity of the day.

Steve’s good at dodgeball, but he’s never been on the team opposite his friends. He’d always been the captain, and he’d always picked them for a reason: they’re good at the game.

But now it seems like the whole school is aware of his and Tommy’s parting, and they’ve all unanimously decided to side with Tommy.

Not that Steve cares about any of that at all. He’d just like to get through this class without a concussion.

Permanent Taglist: @justforthedead89 @ilovecupcakesandtea @madigoround @bookbinderbitch @suddenlyinlove @nburkhardt @artiststarme @paintsplatteredandimperfect @i-less-than-three-you @alyelf @quarble @messrs-weasley @littlewildflowerkitten @vankaar @starman-jpg @bornonthesavage @steddie-there @goodolefashionedloverboi @andienotannie @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @platinum-sunset @just-ladyme @steddiestains @swimmingbirdrunningrock @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @martinskis-lydias @notaqueenakhaleesi @sleepyboosstuff @bestwifehaver @m-owo-n @thatonebadideapanda @finalmoondragon @velocitytimes2 @callmeanythjing @ajeff855 @ilikeititspretty @knitsforthetrail @sillysparrow @that-one-corvid @ace-is-bored @muricel @harpymoth @weirdandabsurd42

Fic Taglist: @blondlanfear @do-you-want-something-more @str4wb3rry-guy @paperbackribs @ninjapirateunicorns @bisexualdisastersworld @hiscrimsonangel @lolawonsstuff @xo-r4e @thedragonsaunt @l0st-strawberry

[leaderpinhead]

Ace - Overachiever Syndrome

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial current prompt.

“You know this paper is only five hundred words, right?” 

The stack of books landed on the table with a heavy thud. Someone from across the library loudly shushed them for the noise. Ace ignored the shusher, as did everyone else, and groaned when Yuu opened the first book in the stack. “You’re not even gonna be able to read that before our next history of magic class!” 

“I’m done!” Grim exclaimed, earning them another “Sssshhhhussshhh!” Grim proudly held up his paper. “Trein’s gonna give me a gold star when he sees this!” 

Deuce leaned across the table and squinted at Grim’s wobbly handwriting. “The...Queendom...of...Roses...is...gi..gib?” 

Ace snorted on a laugh. “Those first-grade reading lessons are finally paying off.” 

Deuce’s cheeks turned red. “It’s not my reading that’s the problem! Grim’s handwriting is barely legible.” 

“What d’ya mean you can’t read my handwriting?” Grim flattened the paper on the table. His paw perfectly fit the inked paw print he had left behind on the bottom corner of the paper. “It’s perfectly readable!” 

“You misspelled big! The b is at the beginning.” 

“That is a b! You just can’t read!” 

While Deuce and Grim argued—the shusher interrupting with a few shushes—Yuu flipped through the thick textbook. Ace rolled his eyes and started balancing his pencil on the tip of his nose. “Are you seriously about to do a binge study session? We’ve got homework in three other classes to do 

“I’m glad you’re taking our assignments seriously,” Yuu said. She kept flipping through the book. Her speed would have impressed someone like Deuce, but Ace knew better. She wasn’t some super-genius with a photo memory who could skim a whole textbook in fifty seconds and retain everything. She was looking at all the pictures at the most. “So you understand why it’s important I do research for this assignment.” 

Ace groaned and let his pencil roll off his nose to bounce on the table. “Doesn’t that defeat the whole point though? Trein said the paper was to assess what we already know about the Queendom of Roses.” 

“That’s easy for someone like you who grew up in the Queendom of Roses,” Yuu countered. She was about halfway through the textbook now, and she paused on a photograph taking up one whole page. “Unlike you, I didn’t grow up in Twisted Wonderland. So how am I supposed to write five hundred words about a place I don’t know?” 

“Easy.” Ace twirled his pencil through his fingers and grinned. “Just write I don’t know anything five hundred times.” 

Yuu crumbled a piece of paper for the single purpose of throwing it at Ace’s head. “I think I'm going to do it my way, smartass.” 

Ace batted away the paper ball. “Suit yourself.” He pointed at the stack of books she had collected. “You know there’s, like, fifty books in that series, right?” 

Yuu’s eyes widened. “Fifty? Are you sure?” 

Ace nodded. “Yeah. War in the Queendom of Roses, right? It’s way popular in the Queendom of Roses even outside of school. Riddle quotes it at least once a day.” 

“Fifty,” Yuu repeated, her voice soft like she didn’t even realize she spoke aloud. She didn’t react to Grim flying across the table to tackle Deuce in the face. “I only saw these books on the shelves...” 

Ace shrugged. “Maybe the librarian put the other books in different sections. Not all of them are about history. One of them is a straight-up cookbook. Trey’s got that one in Heartslabyul’s kitchen.” 

Yuu stood from her chair. Her eyes shone with a new determination. “I need to find those books.” 

“You need to write your paper, so we can get out of here!” 

“I can’t understand the Queendom of Roses without those books.” 

“Do you not know how convoluted the history of the Queendom of Roses is? Riddle can’t even give you a timeline that’s 100% accurate!” 

Yuu punched the palm of her hand. “I’ll start with the Queendom of Roses and then move on to the history of the countries in the Shaftlands.” 

“We’re not even supposed to start on the Shaftlands until next semester!” 

Yuu completely ignored him and disappeared into the bookshelves. Ace groaned and slouched into his chair. “Man! If I had wanted a Riddle-study-session, I would’ve just gone to the dorm.” 

Deuce and Grim ignored him too, the two of them loudly wrestling on the floor. Whoever had been shushing them had given up, and Ace had the sneaking suspicion the librarian would soon be around to kick them out. He threw the paper ball at the back of Grim’s head just to be sure the librarian had a strong enough reason to kick them out. 

It took Yuu getting into a loud argument with a Scarabia student over War in the Queendom of Roses Vol. XLII for the librarian to finally expel them. The next morning, Yuu turned in a thick stack of papers for her assignment. When Trein only stared at the stack, Yuu shrugged. “The instructions were to write at least five hundred words.” 

Trein was very strict about the length of the rest of the assignments he gave them. 

[ai-the-broccoli]

AIKA (Love / Elegy)

I sang and recorded this in several hours of karaoke sessions over two days during the summer. my throat was very sore throughout, and I caught a fever after that, but I think it was halfway worth it.

I wrote the lyrics myself.

the music is from a certain song that you may very well have heard of (okay, yes, it's a parody of "Love Story").

It was record with mobile phones.

I really do not know how audio editing works.

the song is a bit high for my vocal range "comfort zone", also like I said my throat got very sore after the first few times (and because it's my own lyrics, I needed some tries to adjust to singing the entire thing)

the album picture you see above is a piece of fanart, drawn by me, of Himena Aika and San Kagura. it is not that directly connected to the content in this song (since this song is technically more about Himena and Hiko) but it feels like an idol album cover sort of thing if that makes sense lmao.

While the song was written for a certain Magia Record fanfic of mine, you 100% don't need to have read the fic (or even know MagiReco, really) to listen to it lol

my lyrics under the cut:

(note: this is the lyrics of the original version of this parody song, the one in the fic; the karaoke remix version has some slight changes due to it being karaoke and also remix [w/ like parts of 6 different takes layered over each other])

AIKA (愛歌・哀歌)

[Himena] We were both young when I first saw you I close my eyes, and we think back as one:

[Both] Let’s take a trip Down the resounding lane

[Hiko] The school bell rings, I’m walking on my own As you light your way through the crowd And wink at me…

[Himena] Little did they know —

[Hiko] ‘Cause you were Himena, you could outshine the Sun And all your friends orbited your glowing crown In shadows I stood alone Till you tiptoed to join me…

And you sang —

[Himena] “Hiko-kun, let’s go, find us some paper strips, I'll be wishing, for our love to always live. Stars in the sky, we’re Vega and Altair, Just like a love song — we’ll resonate forever.”

<music>

[Himena] I sneak out to see you; don’t wanna face the music We keep quiet 'cause we're dead if they hear ‘Cause they don’t get…

[Hiko] That true love doesn’t care

[Both]

— Oh, no!

[Himena] 'Cause you were Hiko-kun, and I noticed too late, All my friends laughed, chanting, “Just move on!” But you were everything to me I was begging, "Don’t do it — no!"

And I sang —

“Hiko-kun, let’s go, find us some paper strips, I'll be wishing, for our love to always live.

[Hiko] Stars in the sky, we’re Vega and Altair, Our tragic love song — shall pass down forever.”

[Both] Hiko-kun, don’t let them, decide how we truly feel (Himena, don’t let them, deny what is truly here) This love is different, but it's as real (This tune is difficult, but it is haunting!) One and the same, we’ll rise above the crowd (One and the same, our rhythm over them all) In this jolly love song, we harmonize together (An elegy we lament, be resonant forever)

<music>

[Himena] I got tired of searching Wondering when I would hear you again My one true love was fading Away into silence no one could bear

And I sang —

"Hiko-kun, how dare they, be so loud they drowned you out, I keep listening, but your voice has disappeared. Not an echo comes back, however much I may shout," And then at long last, you spoke to me and sang —

[Hiko] “Here I am, Himena; you never have to sing alone, I am you, and

[Himena] None can ever tear apart!

[Hiko] No more wishing papers,

[Himena] Do we need from now on,

[Both] Let’s harmonize forever — A one-and-only love song!”

<music>

[Hiko] ‘Cause we were both young when you first saw me…

[humbledragon669]

S1E3 – Hard Times Write Up P5 - Friday (One day to the end of the World) up to "the break up"

So, here we are, more than halfway through the episode yet only just getting to the credits. That really threw me the first time I watched this episode! I do think it’s a very clever way to handle the format of this episode though – you couldn’t exactly break the flow of the historical scenes to make way for the credits, and those scenes definitely don’t belong nestled in amongst the main storyline, particularly as all of those scenes were additional material written specifically for the show (as described by Neil in the introduction to the Script Book – this was do with ensuring consistency for seeing Crowley and Aziraphale in every episode of the season). Despite the fact that the storyline covered in these scenes is newly created, the information we learn from them is crucial to understanding the motives, emotions, and thought processes that the angel and demon show throughout the show, and I genuinely don’t think the rest of the episodes, or our relationship with the two main characters, would have been the same without them.

I also think the crazy-fast montage of scenes that we see immediately following the credits is a great way of bringing us back to the main storyline of the show, picking up right where we left off at the end of episode 2, which in fairness does seem like an awfully long time ago – after all, we’ve just been through a whistle-stop tour of 6000 years of history.

The entire sequence takes 5 seconds and appears to use a different image for every frame of film, which means it consists of approximately 130 different tableaus, in chronological order of their appearance in the season. Some editor had fun doing that I’m sure.

Knowing that I should be looking at any instances of writing whenever it’s used, I paused my rewatch of this episode at the point where we’re shown Aziraphale’s little planning board. Whilst most of it makes perfect sense (a map, notes about Adam’s name, relevant prophecy numbers), there is also a sheet of paper covered in writing that, to me at least is completely ineligible:

If anybody knows what this writing is, or even if it’s just made-up scribblings to look cool, I’d love to know the answer.

The conversation between Adam and Anathema has always struck me as slightly odd. I mean, it’s nice that Adam stops to ask if she’s OK (when she clearly is not), but there doesn’t appear to be any recognition from either party that they actually met just the day before. And forgive me for imposing modern-day suppositions on to work that was written a few decades previously, but a fully grown adult inviting a kid into their house for something to drink just feels creepy to me. We know she’s perfectly fine to be around though so we’ll let it go. What I do like about the conversation is that there’s an echoing of the exchange that Crowley and Aziraphale shared as they were leaving Tadfield Manor (about angels not being occult but ethereal) but this time the labels in contention are “witch” and “occultist”.

ADAM: Are you a witch? ANATHEMA: No, I’m an occultist.

It’s a nice nod to the notion that words have power. Both parties are describing the same idea but choosing what connotations they want to associate with it. And what’s really important to note on that matter is that changing Anathema’s label completely changes Adam’s opinion of her immediately.

Side note: anybody else find the juxtaposition of some manky old thumbscrews right next to a colourful birthday candle to be a beautifully accurate summation for what an oblivious shitshow the Witchfinder’s Army really is?

I find the choice of location for Crowley’s meeting with Shadwell to be an interesting one. The café they meet in proudly declares itself to be the “Best Café in Wandsworth”. Wandsworth is a long way from Crouch End, where we know Shadwell lives, and Mayfair, which is where the book states Crowley’s flat is located. And just so we’re covering some of the other possibilities, it’s nowhere near Soho and Aziraphale hasn’t set up the meeting at the 3rd rendezvous point yet for it to be a precursor location for the meeting on the bandstand. Why Wandsworth?

There are a couple of Easter Eggs in Crowley’s newspaper here, and perhaps one on the TV playing in the background. Let’s start with the newspaper. It’s no surprise that Crowley would be reading the Infernal Times, but who knew that demons would consider a bit of hiking for their holidays:

It’s a bit hard to make out, but I’m pretty sure that the headline reads something about walking trails. And it’s a pretty pathetic sounding front page headline:

In case you can’t read it (again, it difficult to make out), it says “SOUL MUSIC: Catalogue your collection of Souls?”. As a headline it doesn’t make a great deal of sense, but I think this is probably a reference to Crowley’s soul music collection mentioned in the book.

He was very proud of his collection. It had taken him ages to put together. This was real Soul Music. James Brown wasn’t in it.

The last of the headlines I can actually make out is the following:

Again, if you can’t quite make it out, this one describes some latest research that suggests exorcisms are on the rise in Wales. Just who has done the research, and why specifically concentrating on Wales, remains a mystery. Now let’s have a look at that TV in the corner of the room:

This was really tricky to get a clipping of something that made sense but the footage on the screen looks like it’s set in Puritan times. The guy on the right in this image is even wearing a costume reminiscent of Adultery Pulsifer’s clothes in the previous episode, so perhaps this a witchfinder? I couldn’t get anything concrete, but I think it’s probably a little Easter Egg nonetheless.

It’s nice that we have an acknowledgement of Shadwell’s involvement with Crowley going back decades during the conversation where we discover the demon is sponsoring the Witchfinder’s Army. We know, from the 1967 historical scene, that Crowley has been dealing with this dense oaf for 50 years by this point. I suppose in a show where character recognition, or rather the lack of it (see previous scene with Adam and Anathema, or even the use of the same actors to play different characters as we see in season 2) happens regularly, it was probably necessary to script something that explicitly states that these two characters are aware of the “resemblance” that Crowley bears to someone Shadwell knew many years previously.

Moving back to Anathema and Adam now (this episode does fair rattle through the sub-plot development doesn’t it?!). What’s with the whale obsession please? This isn’t the first time we hear about how whales have big brains (Crowley already raised this point when he was very drunk in episode 1), and it won’t be the last. I mean, I’m not denying that they do have huge brains, I just didn’t realise it was a thing that so many people thought about. I wonder if it’s one of those questions you supposedly can ask men about to get an unexpected response, like how often they think about ancient Rome? Regardless, the whale comment is just one of a bunch of foreshadowing Clues in this scene for later on.

They’ve got it all covered – ley lines, nuclear power stations, the Kraken, Atlantis, and Tibet, all mentioned or seen in a very short space of time. There’s even mention of the destruction of the Brazilian rainforests, something Adam tries to resolve in the book.

Up in Heaven, which looks like an incredibly boring place in my opinion, Aziraphale is busy telling his superiors things they’re either not interested in or already know. I don’t know whether Uriel’s line “what’s happening” is a little reference to Jesus Christ Superstar (the song “What’s the Buzz” uses this phrase repeatedly throughout), but if it is it would effectively put Aziraphale in the role of Jesus, with the archangels being disciples. Not exactly fitting with canon, so maybe this is a little Easter Egg. Or maybe it’s nothing at all.

Whilst I was doing this write up, I noticed that Aziraphale is the only one of the angels to be wearing a patterned garment – his trademark tartan. It’s a nice way to subtly distinguish him, or more precisely his relationship with the concept of free will, from the other angels, and whilst we know he has been exercising his own free will for centuries, his addition of a non-standard item of clothing to angelic attire would suggest he is becoming more comfortable with his stance. Looking back through the historical scenes (including the ones from season 2 we are yet to see), I think the tartan first makes it appearance in 1862, but I’m happy to be corrected on that.

It's a good job that the archangels are a somewhat dense bunch because Aziraphale does not do a good job of hiding when he’s hiding something here. He has a tendency to overact when it comes to the discussion around Crowley, and the pause he puts in before his non-committal answer to Gabriel’s questioning is almost painful.

It should be obvious to them that he’s covering something up but luckily they’re totally oblivious and Aziraphale actually manages to buy himself some time. Credit to him here – he went to Heaven with preconceived ideas of how this conversation was going and he not only manages to adapt to the deviation from his expectations, he also considers what this means, how it changes his plans, comes up with a plan for how to achieve his new objective, and executes that plan very convincingly. There’s a lot of talk about how Aziraphale can often be pretty dense at times, but this little scene should tell you that that’s only really true when it comes to Crowley – outside of the blinkers of friendship and love, this is one quick-thinking and intelligent angel.

We’ve had a couple of mentions of Crowley being “fallen” before now in the show, but I think this is the first time we get any clues as to why that might have been. And surprisingly for such an important piece of information, it’s delivered in an almost nonchalant way.

There was war in Heaven, long before the Earth was created. Crowley and the rest were cast out. Not nothing was ever really settled.

We already knew that Crowley wasn’t the only fallen angel (see Hastur’s comments in episode 2) but this is the first mention of him being involved in all-out war against Heaven. Hastur talks about rebelling in the previous episode, so we can only assume that these are two puzzle pieces that fit together. I don’t know whether season 3 will bring us a fuller answer for Crowley’s fall, but I hope so. I feel like it’s a huge part of his history and who he is; as a fan it would be nice to be able to put it all together for an even better understanding of his character.

Gabriel’s comments about the war and Armageddon make for some interesting discussion points. He says that even though the fallen angels were cast out of Heaven, nothing was settled. What exactly were they hoping would be the outcome of that war? If it was the destruction of those who rebelled, why only cast them out? Why not destroy them at that point? And why exactly does Earth have to get tied up in all of this? His parting line about Earth’s destruction offers little to the debate about what Earth’s role is in the whole Heaven/Hell war, only that Heaven is determined to destroy it, regardless.

The Earth isn’t going to just end itself, you know.

Charming. And unfortunately for Aziraphale, his lack of enthusiasm for another war has triggered the suspicion of the archangels – it’s interesting that he was able to cover his intentions through his talk of Crowley and poorly disguised buying for time but what really makes them think he can’t be trusted is that he clearly isn’t fully on their side when it comes to war.

There is a line in the book about anybody who meets Aziraphale believing him to be “gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide”. I can see how this might have been a little difficult to get into a TV show, but I think the double entendre delivered by the following exchange probably serves as a suitable alternative:

AZIRAPHALE: Do you have any men free? I need them to poke about a bit. SHADWELL: Poke, eh? And where exactly do you want them poking?

And if it wasn’t clear what Shadwell’s thoughts on Aziraphale were, calling him a “great southern pansy can probably fill in the blanks for you.

Remember what I was saying about Aziraphale not being dense earlier? Well this is one of those moments when he proves the exact opposite. He genuinely appears to believe all the stories Shadwell has fed him about the soldiers of the Witchfinder’s Army. I suspect he simply can’t bear to think that somebody would lie to him for financial gain, something which Crowley appeared to be fully conscious of when he dismissed Shadwell’s presentation of the ledger in the café earlier on. Whatever the angel’s reasons for this gullibility, we as the audience can now see that both of our hero pair are not only funding the Witchfinder Army (for the paltry combined sum of £500 per year according to the Script Book) but making use of their services, and hiding the organisation from the other for fear of reprimand. How very Shakespearian.

There are a few little things I’d like to show appreciation for in the Famine scene. First off, and I did have to look this up, but the word “sable” can be defined as “black”. So Famine’s chosen name consists of 2 words that describe black. Given that one of War’s alternative names is Red (or Carmine, which means crimson, as well as her chosen surname of Zingiber, which is another name for ginger – a word you might use to describe a red-headed person), this is hardly surprising. Next up. I love how beautiful the plate of non-existent food in the fine dining restaurant is. I have eaten at a Michelin starred restaurant and I can assure you, that isn’t far off the mark at all.

Next little Easter Egg – there’s a picture of the Bentley, albeit in red, on the wall of the burger joint that Famine and his assistant go to:

And how many times have we heard/read terms and conditions that sound very similar (scratch that, there are some phrases that are word-for-word perfect) to the ones for Chow for any/all new health product that comes to market with the sole purpose of making money out of gullible/vulnerable people. Neil really nailed the wording and delivery in the script there. Elvis’s presence in the restaurant is a cute bit of humour too, and halfway makes up for one of the lines in the script that didn’t make it to the final cut but made me guffaw like a loon – it’s Death’s response to a question about the year of Elvis’s death from the quiz machine:

I DON’T CARE WHAT IT SAYS. I NEVER LAID A FINGER ON HIM.

Lastly, I’d like to think there’s another instance of script mirroring in the use of the word Chow here. Cast your mind back, all the way to episode 1…

LIGUR: Wassat mean, “Ciao”? HASTUR: It’s Italian. It means “food”.

Except to anyone actually eating Sable’s prized invention Chow isn’t food at all, but eating it might result in you having to say “goodbye” to a lot of things like “hair. And skin tone. And, if you ate enough of it long enough, vital signs.” Beautiful word play.

Side note for the next scene: the Witchfinder Manual actually has a price on the cover (I can’t quite make out what it is, but it’s “old” money), which means at some point that sack of crap was actually sold to people.

One last tiny note: Crowley tells Aziraphale to meet him at the 3rd alternative rendezvous. Not the 3rd rendezvous or the alternative rendezvous. And Aziraphale can’t remember which location it maps to, though he can list off three possibilities, much to Crowley’s annoyance. I’d quite like to know how many formally named rendezvous locations they have, and why they think that referring to them in “code” prevents their respective superiors from knowing they’re meeting in the first place.

I am going to call it on this part of the write up at this point. I had intended for this part to be the last one for this episode, but I’m already at nearly 3000 words and I haven’t covered the “break-up” scene yet. I think I’m partly just putting off the inevitable by not including it here because I find the last scene of this episode very difficult to watch. Nevertheless, I hope you’ll forgive me. I’d hope I can give that scene the attention it deserves if I split it out into its own write up. So for now… comments, questions, discussion, all welcome, as always.

[fluentmoviequoter]

hi!! i love ur dalton fics and i was wondering if you could write one based before the red door where dalton and the reader are child hood friends and they are in high school. maybe some angst along with it 🫶🫶

Hi! Thank you so much, I'm glad you love them!! Ask for angst, and angst you shall receive! Honestly, I'm not sure how I feel about this one so I may revisit this request and try again later (the title is the only thing I'm sure I like). I hope this is along the lines of what you wanted though! :)

Warnings: angst, references some of the events of Insidious (2010). 1.0k+ words.

Beg You to Stay, Push Me Away

You wait for Dalton by his locker, one of your many traditions since starting high school. You have known Dalton for most of his life, and the time taken from you during his coma only strengthened your relationship.

“Morning, sunshine,” you call as Dalton approaches.

He smiles when he sees you, shaking his head fondly. “You’re too energetic.”

“Perhaps it is you that is not energetic enough, D-Dog.”

Dalton turns to you, his fingers freezing halfway through his combination. “What did you call me?”

“I was trying something. Didn’t work.”

Dalton shakes his head again, chuckling at your antics. He finishes what he’s doing, then gestures for you to lead the way.

“Ten bucks says our English prompt is romance-related,” Dalton proposes.

“Oh, I’ll take that deal. There’s no way it’s not something historical.” Dalton extends his hand, and you shake it once before entering the classroom.

“Nice of you to join us,” your teacher says, looking at the clock, “twelve seconds before the bell rings.”

“We aim to please,” you respond as you sit behind Dalton.

“Today you will write a page about where you plan to go to college and why,” your English teacher announces.

Dalton turns to you and shakes his head in defeat, mouthing, “Tie?”

You nod, and he smiles before turning back around. As you write, you remember the conversations you and Dalton had as a kid about being together forever, even in college. The moment you decided to sacrifice your Ivy League hopes in exchange for a life with your best friend.

“Your time is up, turn them in and start reading chapter 6 while I grade them,” your teacher says.

Dalton stands, allows you to walk by him, and follows you to the desk.

“I’ll give you two peas in a pod a pass if these papers are the same.” When you sit back down, Dalton turns to you again. The teacher doesn’t care this time; no one reads while she grades.

“Why would they be the same?”

“Because we’re going to the same school,” you answer with a laugh. Dalton still looks confused. “Remember? We’ve said for years we had to stay close.”

“I don’t remember that. Besides, I want to go to art school.”

Dozens of questions float through your mind, but your teacher interrupts the conversation.

“We’ll talk later,” Dalton whispers as he turns.

Dalton doesn’t remember some things before his coma, but this conversation has happened many times. As the class ends, you walk out before Dalton has packed his things, unsure if you want to talk to him.

“Hey, why’d you leave so fast?” Dalton asks as he sits beside you in the next class.

“I had to go to the bathroom first,” you answer, not looking up from your notebook.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m perfect.”

Dalton tries to talk to you several more times before lunch, but you tell him you’re busy or can’t hear, even raising your hand and asking to go to the nurse once. He knows you’re upset but isn’t sure if it’s because he doesn’t remember a conversation or art school.

Standing at your locker before lunch, you jump when someone leans against the locker beside yours.

“What did I do?” Dalton asks. “And don’t make up another excuse not to talk to me.”

You sigh and push a notebook into your locker with too much force.

“Nothing, Dalton, I’m just tired, I think.”

“You weren’t tired earlier. I’m sorry that I forgot our conversation about college.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you say, smiling as you close your locker.

“Then what is the problem?”

“Um, can we just talk later?”

Dalton swallows harshly and nods. “I’ll see you in history.”

“Have fun at art,” you reply.

Just as this morning, you wait for Dalton as school ends. You plan to tell him that it hurt your feelings he forgot something important to you.

“Hey.” Dalton smiles as he walks to you. “Want to see what I drew in art?”

“Sure, but in a minute? Can we talk first?”

“Of course.”

You wait until students have cleared out for some privacy before you begin talking.

“So… My feelings were hurt, and I reacted childishly, and I’m sorry.”

“I hurt your feelings?” Dalton asks quietly, stepping closer.

“You forgot about going to college together.” You shrug.

“I’m sorry. I- When did we talk about it?”

“When didn’t we, Dalton? We’ve talked about it pretty much every back-to-school season since kindergarten.”

“Oh. Um, yeah. Where did we want to go? Somewhere with an art program, I hope.” Dalton laughs at his last sentence, and you realize he doesn’t care as much as you do.

“How long have you wanted to go to art school?”

“As long as I can remember.”

You nod and pull on your fingers. “I just don’t understand how you forgot something so important.”

“Going to the same college is that important?”

“I thought so.”

“I mean, it’s the twenty-first century, we could video chat and text every day, that way we could both chase our dreams,” Dalton argues.

“And what if staying close, going to the same college, was my dream?” You ask, hoping that you don’t start crying.

“Then you can go to the same school as me. But I found an art program that’s my dream.”

You take a deep breath, now trying not to yell. “Forget it, Dalton.”

“You’ve been giving me the cold shoulder all day and now you just want me to ‘forget it’? Over a stupid college decision?”

“No! What was stupid was being so willing to throw away an Ivy League education to follow you. Do whatever you want!”

“I will! I’m going to art school, no matter the sacrifices.”

“You know what, Dalton, I hope you get into that art school. And I hope we end up on opposite sides of the world. And maybe someday you will realize that the people closest to you didn’t deserve to be pushed so far.”

You walk out, slamming the door, and Dalton’s mind flashes to a different door.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Roadkill: Final Part

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.2k

Summary: Someone is using their vehicle to run people over, but why? What compels someone to take another life?

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them. If you’ve seen the show, then it’s the same level of angst unless otherwise stated

x

Not even a day later, there is news of another murder. This time, the victim is a man. He was chased down in a parking garage and nearly got away when the unsub rammed his truck into an elevator, nearly cutting him in two. There are crime scenes--one on the second floor where the initial contact was made, and the one on the first floor where the unsub made contact with the victim.

"The impact nearly cut him in two. His name is Victor Costella, a podiatrist. He works in the building," Detective Quinn says.

"This is the first male victim. So much for the rape theory."

"He ran down from the level above to try to get away."

You're brought back to earlier in the day and see Victor run down from the car ramp to the first floor. The unsub is right behind him with an angry look on his face. You can't see the unsub at all but you can tell by the way it's speeding at Victor that he is angry. Victor thinks he's gonna make it to the elevator, but it closes right before he can get on. That's when the unsub rammed into him.

You rewind the events and follow Victor up the ramp to the second floor. Victor's car is all the way on the other side of the parking garage, so he's running backward the more you rewind. You rewind it as far as it can go and let it play normally. Victor leaves the building and heads to his car, not having seen the unsub in his truck. When he gets halfway to it, the unsub speeds forward to hit Victor but the victim jumps out of the way.

He rams into his personal car, and that's when Victor starts running away. He passes by you in a mist that brings you back to reality.

"Is this the victim's car?" Spencer asks.

"Yeah, why?"

"Uh, excuse me for a second." Spencer takes out his phone and calls Penelope as he walks away. "Garcia, I need you to look into something."

"This is a reserved spot. The unsub knew where he was gonna park and must have gotten here early and picked this spot right across. Somebody might have seen him waiting."

"Somebody did," an officer says. "I talked to an x-ray tech on the third floor. She noticed a truck when she arrived."

"Was he inside it?"

"Yeah, but she couldn't see him because of the tint."

"How did she know if he was inside, then?"

"She said the window was cracked. The occupant was smoking."

"I don't suppose your people found any cigarette butts, did they?" The officer shakes his head. "What time did the tech get in?"

"Ten in the morning."

"He waited for seven hours. A proper addict could go through a whole pack." Rossi walks over to the spot where the unsub was waiting and notices the cigarettes on the ground. It looks like the cigarettes were stripped down. "He field-stripped these."

"What is that?" Emily asks.

"It's something they teach soldiers to avoid leaving traces in the field. They squeeze out the filter then ball up the surrounding paper."

"Then our unsub could be ex-military."

"We can get DNA on this," the officer says. "If we're lucky, he'll be in the system."

"If he's military, why would he choose a truck as his weapon?"

This gets you thinking. Why would he use his truck as a weapon if he could use guns? He's been in the military, so he should be comfortable using one.

"Yeah, a truck is loud and draws attention. Plus, he risked rendering it inoperable. This doesn't make any sense."

"It does to him. He needs to kill this way. I just don't know why."

"Guys, I think I know what connects the victims," Spencer says. You head back to the police station so that everyone can hear what he has to say while local police stayed behind at the crime scene. "All of the victims drove red two-door coupes."

"Don't you think that could be a coincidence?" Quinn asks.

"It's statistically significant. We haven't been able to find any other common denominators but this. If the unsub is targeting people because of their cars, then his initial contact with them would have been on the road."

"What if he had to use his truck as a weapon?" you say. "Think about it. He's in the military and gets hurt. If he's disabled, then he has no other choice but to use his car. I don't know why he chose these people as his victims, but I think looking into injuries in the military is worth it."

"I agree," Hotch says. "It's worth looking into."

"I spoke to the families about the victims' daily car travel," JJ says. "There's one road all the victims have in common. Route 7."

"Of course," Quinn sighs.

"Does that mean something to you?"

"Maybe we should take a drive."

Quinn takes Hotch and Spencer to Route 7 on a hill that overlooks the road. There are a bunch of crosses on the other side of the road where people have lost their lives. It's such a dangerous stretch of roads that the locals call it "Suicide 7". The crosses represent the fatalities of the accidents that have happened there. The fire chief put them up to remind drivers to be careful.

There are two lanes with no dividers, so there are either a lot of head-on collisions or people get run off the road. Maybe the unsub didn't get injured in the military but got injured from an accident he was involved in on this road. If he felt someone was responsible for his injuries, that could be how he's choosing his victims. Using his truck gives the unsub power and control that he otherwise lacks in his everyday life.

The idea that he's avenging his own physical suffering speaks to a victim mentality that's inconsistent with the profile, so maybe it's not just about his own suffering. It's safe to say that you're comfortable with giving the profile out. While you're giving the profile out, JJ is talking to the press about the same thing.

"As we speak, this profile and a description of the unsub's truck are being released to state and national media," Hotch says. "In addition to what we already know, we believe the unsub is ex-military, most likely Army or Marines. We also believe he's physically handicapped."

"From combat?" an officer asks.

"No, from an automobile accident. This accident may have occurred along Route 7 where the unsub finds his victims."

"Does that have something to do with why he's going after red coupes?"

"We believe that he holds the driver of a comparable vehicle responsible for his accident, and this person is the object of his rage. Since he can't confront them, he's taking revenge against a surrogate."

Emily walks in with two boxes in her hands followed by Derek with two more boxes.

"These boxes contain accident reports from a strip of Route 7 between Bend and Eugene. There's about five years' worth. We're gonna need everyone you can spare to comb through them."

"We've also compiled a list of local rehabilitation facilities where the unsub may have gone to recover. Use the profile as you canvass these places. Remember, we're looking for a white male in his early forties that is former military who may have sustained severe injury in a car accident. Though only owners of red coupes have been targeted at this point, we're asking all drivers to be vigilant on the road. Thank you.

Rossi, Quinn, half the BAU team, and some officers go out to canvass the area and the local rehab centers in hopes one of them knows who your unsub is. You grab some files from one of the boxes when JJ walks in with a man.

"Just wait right here," she says to him, and she approaches Hotch. "Hotch, we just got a walk-in. His name is Gil Bonner. It's about the unsub's accident. He says it's his fault."

"Sir, why do you think this accident is your fault?"

"It was late, and I'd spent all day in Eugene with my mom. She'd been sick. I shouldn't have been driving, but I just wanted to get home to see my little girl. It was darker than usual. I remember the moon was just a sliver. Right outside the cascades, my phone started vibrating so when I went to reach for it, I knocked it off the far side of the seat. It fell down by the door and I thought I could reach it. I took my eyes off the road but it couldn't have been for more than a few seconds. When I looked back up, there were lights and this horn was blaring. I swerved at the last second and kept on going without a scratch."

"You'd gone into the oncoming lane? What happened to the other vehicle?"

"That's the thing. It was in the rearview mirror and then it was gone. It vanished."

"Why didn't you stop?"

"It didn't seem real."

"Wait, you're saying you just pretended it didn't happen?" you ask.

"I guess if you tell yourself something for long enough, you can make anything true."

"Well, you're here now. Tell us about the other vehicle."

"It's definitely the truck you're looking for. When I saw the news, it all made sense. It's come back for revenge."

"When did the accident occur?"

"December of 2007, the second Saturday."

"There are no accidents reported in December of 2007," Spencer says, confused.

"No, I'm sure there was."

"Maybe you have your dates wrong?"

"I guess it could have been November."

"Uh, memories are like puzzle pieces, and it's entirely possible that in suppressing these for so long, you've sort of rearranged things. How long was your mother sick for?"

"Five months. She died in January, that much I know."

Gil wasn't able to get much on the unsub, but Derek and Emily did. What you know about the unsub is that he's ex-military that's good with his hands when it comes to cars. Even with that generic description, you're still going through five years with of patients with the same conditions. If you can narrow it down to a five-month window between September 2007 and January 2008, that would help a lot.

Some of the doctors refused to believe that a person who is paraplegic isn't capable of murder, but they have special rigging equipment that can help them drive. There is one person who went to therapy that made a lot of progress physically but wasn't advancing as well mentally. His name is Ian Coakley, and the doctors he worked with were baffled that he was making physical progress but none mentally.

The doctors have patients write and draw daily to help strengthen their hands, and when Ian was tasked to do this, he would draw trucks with spikes and other weapons coming out of them. Anger is part of healing, but the things Ian did is over the top. It's his murder fantasy that he's now making a reality.

The unsub is having a hard time trying to piece together what exactly happened, which is why his victims and their cars keep changing. His mind is trying to find out the truth about what happened. When it changes, so do his victims. When Derek and Emily got the date of his accident, they immediately send it back over to the office so you can go over what happened.

"September 28, 2007, Ian and Sheila Coakley crashed while driving home from Napa Valley going Eastbound on Route 7 around midnight. It appeared their car was run off the road and flipped numerous times with no witnesses. His wife was riding in the passenger seat. She died at the scene," Spencer reads.

"Coakley survived. Paramedics indicated spinal cord injury. Morgan said he fractured his T6 and T7 vertebrae. He's paraplegic."

"That's not all. He's a former light-wheel mechanic in the Army National Guard," you add.

"Does it say anything about a red car?"

"No. It says Coakley suffered memory loss after the accident. Short-term retrograde amnesia is common after a serious accident."

"I think it's safe to say he remembers now," Rossi scoffs.

"Do we have an address?"

"Garcia is working on it now."

Hotch calls Penelope but before he can talk, she does.

"Okay, the house Coakley and his wife bought was foreclosed on ten months after his accident. There's a paper trail that leads to a land called Nowhere. He cashed some insurance checks during a stay at Edelman House, but after he left, zilch."

"Are there any relatives he could be staying with?"

"No. I tried that. There's no family in the area. My exquisitely educated guess is he's either squatting or subletting with cash."

"What about his truck?"

"He owns a '79 Dodge D100. He bought it used ten years ago."

"He's had to rebuild it several times now. Those parts can't be easy to find for a truck that old."

"I smell what you're cooking, Agent," Penelope chuckles at Rossi. "I'll check auto suppliers in Bend." She pauses while she types. "Yeah, Rossi gets a fruit cup with lunch. He's having the parts drop-shipped through Syd's Auto Shop and sent directly to an address in Southwest Bend."

Your team heads over to Ian's house when Penelope sends over the address for Ian. He's not home, obviously, but this trip isn't a total waste. You don't have to step foot into the house to know if you go in there, you're going to throw up. Ian smokes so much that his entire house reeks of cigarette smoke. You don't care what job you're doing, you're not going in there.

That's fucking disgusting.

"Get all your vehicles off this street and set up a perimeter," Rossi says to Quinn. "If Coakley returns, we want to be ready for him."

"Got it."

"Rossi, Y/N, you'll want to see this," Derek calls from the garage. Thank God the garage door is open to air out the smell of cigarettes, but you don't need to go inside to see what's in there. A ton of grilles are on the ground... grilles that Ian has replaced. "Look at the grilles. They still got blood on them."

"He's been switching plates, too." There are different types of plates on his workbench. "We should revise the BOLO."

"Rossi, look at this," Derek says. He finds some pictures of all the victims in a nearby box. "This is stalk central. He has pictures of everyone."

"Who's this guy?" you ask and point to the last one. "Do you think it's possible there are other victims we don't know about?"

"I don't think so. Garcia would have found them."

"Then I think we've found his next target." Derek quickly calls Penelope. "Hey, baby girl. I need you to run a plate fast."

Half of the team went to talk to the wife of the next victim, James Burke. His wife was home but he wasn't. According to her, he goes on a bike ride with a club of people around town. Whenever he's on his rides, he doesn't take his phone with him so there is no way to call him and warn him.

He has a regular route on the Prineville Reservoir Loop which is a fifty-mile roundtrip from their house. Ian is going after him next and it's your job to find James before Ian does. You're in the same car as Rossi and Derek while Hotch is in the same car as Quinn. You call Hotch and connect him over Bluetooth so everyone can talk to each other.

"Hotch, we're on Route 26 heading toward the Reservoir. I think we're about halfway around the loop. So far no sign of him," Rossi says.

"Copy that. We're heading southbound on 20. Hopefully, we can hit Route 26 before they fly by us."

Emily, Spencer, and JJ are back at the station doing more research on Ian and his accident when Emily noticed something strange about the case. Ian got injured to the point where his memories started changing the more he thought of different theories as to what happened. Ian was driving his wife's car the night of the accident, and it was a red Coupe.

The only explanation for that is there was no other car on the road that night. The make and model of the car keep changing in Ian's mind like he knows they aren't right. His doctor at the rehab facility called it fluid memory since it's always changing, but what if it was more than that? If that accident was a single-car accident, then it's Ian's fault he ran off the road. He was driving back from Napa Valley which is a long drive in of itself. He must have fallen asleep at the wheel and driven off the cliff.

The thought that he'd be responsible for his wife's death was too much to bear so he projected the blame onto someone else. He blamed someone who was driving a red Coupe not knowing that it was him who was driving it.

"Gil wasn't responsible for the accident, Ian was. He just refuses to believe it," you say.

There are two cars chasing Ian who is chasing James around like a maniac. Ian sees the group of bikers that James is part of and lurches forward at top speed but Hotch is quicker than him. Hotch intercepts Ian and runs his car right into the driver-side door, causing a side-impact collision. The hood of Hotch's car is up and the engine is smoking but both occupants are alright.

Ian tries to back out and go after his target again, but the Detective gets out and aims his gun at Ian. Ian isn't the kind of unsub that will be stopped by talking to him. He's either going to get cornered and get arrested or he's going to kill himself.

He chooses the latter when he realizes it's his fault he killed his wife.

You come around the corner and see Hotch's accident, but he orders you to follow after Ian. Derek peels away from the scene and speeds off after the black truck, though, he never gets close enough to hit him. The mountains have curvy roads and steep inclines, and you're getting a bit car sick from all this, you have to admit.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," you groan and take deep breaths.

"Sorry, mama," Derek sighs.

Ian inches up the hill toward a spot where there are no other roads. It's a lookout spot for people to park and enjoy the view. However, Ian isn't planning on stopping. He presses the gas more the closer he gets to the edge of the cliff.

"No, don't do it, man."

Ian's car drives off the cliff at full speed, and you gasp in horror.

"Derek, stop!!" Derek comes to a screeching halt right before you can suffer the same fate. "Yeah, I'm gonna be sick."

Car chases and fast driving aside, you're glad this case is over. You get to spend the weekend with your boyfriend in a hotel room away from all this. You and Spencer can't be more excited which is why you two are packing up as quickly as you can.

"Alright, we are going away for the whole weekend. If you call, we will not answer," you joke. Of course, if it's an emergency, you'll come in but everyone knows not to bother you two. "Are you ready to go?"

"Lead the way," Spencer grins and grabs your hand.

"The human voice can never reach the distance that is covered by the still small voice of conscience." - Mahatma Gandhi

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[sionisjaune]

After a secret is revealed brocedes!

Nico burst inside the lab, the panels of his white coat flapping furiously behind him. 

“You,” he said, ripping a spare pair of safety goggles from the rack near the door and shoving them over his head. He stalked over to Lewis’s bench and slammed his palms down on the table. Lewis’s glassware rattled, and the spongy surface of the gel medium he was inspecting quivered underneath the microscope. 

“You got the Lauda Award,” said Nico. His face was flushed, and his hair was in disarray, barely mollified by the band of his safety goggles. “What happened to applying together, Lewis? We had a plan.”

Lewis nudged the petri dish out from under the lens and capped it, setting it to the side. Now that Nico was here, his work was certainly done for the day. “I decided to go for it.” 

“Ugh,” said Nico, an ugly noise in his throat. He carded a hand through his hair, freeing several locks from the confines of his goggles. His hair fell over his face in a floppy sheet, exactly like it had when he and Lewis were fifteen. Lewis watched him shake silently with rage and resentment, shivering like a malfunctioning machine. Eventually he produced a packet of folded papers from the pocket of his coat. He shook the paper in front of Lewis's face. “HAM4 transcription factor misfolding is related to muscle function in adults with cerebral palsy.” Nico’s whole face was screwed up, like he was tasting something sour. “Since when do you even work on this?”

Lewis's heart skipped a beat and began to race, blood pounding anxiously in his ears. He busied his hands flipping the microscope off. Nico was accusing him of keeping his research secret as if Nico didn’t close his laptop whenever Lewis walked behind his desk on the way to make tea—as if Nico didn’t shut the door to Toto’s office when he was in there, so that Lewis couldn’t hear them down the hall. As if their days of sharing crib sheets and editing each other’s papers weren't already a decade in the past.

“Where did you get that?” said Lewis, standing from the stool. He shoved the cover over the microscope and lifted the petri dish to return it to the incubator.  

“You really should lock your desk,” said Nico, eyes dark.  

Lewis blinked, and paused where he was, halfway across the lab. He spun around, petri dish in hand. “Let me get this straight,” said Lewis. “You’re accusing me of breaching your trust when you stole my research from my desk?”

“We had a plan,” Nico whined. It really was whining. Lewis used to think it was sexy, how Nico’s voice climbed to a woman’s breathless octave when he wanted something badly. “Fuck, Lewis,” he said. “One more year, and then we were going to do it together.” Lewis watched him make a big show of damning the lab safety protocols and removing his goggles to rub at his angry eyes. “It’s fucking over, now.” 

“We shouldn’t be collaborating anyway,” said Lewis, shaking. He turned back around to finish putting the tissue culture away. It was better if he didn't have to stare at Nico’s red face. “Our fields are diverging. We’re only going to slow each other down.” 

“I’m not talking about collaborating,” said Nico, coldly. “We’re done. Find a new apartment, and find a new fucking boyfriend. You seem to like that geeky post-grad just fine—maybe he’ll fuck you and let you leech off of his grant too.” 

Nico turned around and walked out in the same way he had entered, in a giant, theatrical flurry, flinging his goggles and Lewis’s research at the ground. The door slammed shut after him, and Lewis was left kneeling in front of the incubator, warmth radiating through the little glass window in the front, his dish of muscle cell culture tucked gently inside.

His research fluttered to the floor, a snowstorm of text and tables, and settled on the vermiculite. Some dreams died. Lewis decided he could live with that.

[snarky-wallflower]

for those who are lost at sea

Word Count: 2106

Hershey, sometimes I can barely get out of bed. Sometimes the only thing fueling me is the fact that my Satellite will save so many people like my father. That no one will ever be stranded out in the ocean, that deep blue sea that's deeper than any expanses of space to me. That no one will ever have to watch their father sink into those depths-- swallowed entirely. Watch him disappear, know that he didn't know his place in the world when he died. OR A letter Nova never sent to Hershey.

(A plaque, found at the Smithsonian National Museum of American History: 

A LETTER FROM DAME ANNA HANOVER, TO SIR JOHN HERSCHEL

September 1834

Measures 11 inches by 5 inches, 4 pages. Written using a black fountain pen (see exhibit 4), on parchment paper.  

This letter contains words from Dame Anna Hanover, seemingly never sent to her friend, Sir John Herschel, while he worked at The Cape of Good Hope. It is one of the only records we have on just why she decided to build the Satellite, a peek into the mind of a true scientific genius. It goes over her deep friendship with her scientific equal, and talks of her history previous to the Satellite’s construction.)

Dear Hershey, 

I can’t sleep. I’m writing because I hardly know what else to do about it. 

I know, I know–that’s hardly new for either of us, isn’t it? I remember when we used to take turns hauling each other off to sleep in university. Telling each other that the exams could wait, that we would fail either way if we were falling asleep in the middle of the lessons. You used to get this constipated expression as I had to tug at your coat in order to get you to rest. I’m half-convinced you still do—what I would give to have a portrait of it! It truly was a ridiculous look.

I suppose we both knew we’d never stop. But that didn’t mean we couldn’t get each other to take care of ourselves. 

I’m not with you, and I am awake. And since I cannot speak with you late into the night, distracting myself from such things, I must do the next best thing. I may not get your wry comments, or your half-laugh when I say something witty, or the way your brow furrows as you think over a problem I have proposed. All I have right now is this pen, and memories of those times. 

So, how is the Cape of Good Hope? How does your map of the stars fare? Do they invite you to those ridiculous parties there, all those stuffed shirts that hold our funding in their pockets? I don’t miss those parties. Honestly, you getting this project so far away truly has saved my soul there–

Oh. 

Oh, I don’t–I don’t know if I can continue pretending as if everything is normal. Even if only in a letter. My mind is a whirlwind, Hershey, and the only thing that even partially calms it is these words. Writing down, documenting what exactly has happened to me. 

I know exactly why I can’t sleep, and I just–

(The words become illegible here, through heavy scribbles.)

Damn it. 

I don’t plan to send this, so what should I care about here? It’s nothing but throwing my feelings into the void? I need to write this down, to say something about this before I scream aloud. 

Tonight was the anniversary of my Father’s death. 

And it was a day like any other. 

I didn’t even realise until halfway through the day. I was so caught up in checking the flywheels, making sure the bricks were not crumbling. Organising the workers, because you know I don’t rest when it comes to that. Tasks I’d completed a thousand times over, a steady routine. We’re still relatively well-staffed, so I was mostly just checking over work, encouraging the bricklayers. 

But, while I was in my place in the Township, I saw the sea from my window. 

I saw the waves swirling and rippling, and felt my heart freeze, icy seawater seeming to wave over my heart. 

I was thrown back to all those years ago. I feel I must have gone light-headed, as a thousand memories of that day burned through my mind in an instant. I don’t even remember the next couple of minutes–by the time I came back to myself, I was gasping on the chair of my room, trying to get back steady breath. 

I didn’t get much more work done after that. 

It’s been seventeen years and yet, I still feel my heart sink and sway whenever this day comes around, when I remember just how long it’s been. 

That’s why I’m writing this letter. After all, I ran out of tequila a couple of days ago, and haven't bothered to replenish it.

I miss you. I know why you’re gone, and I know that I can run this project by myself. That’s not why I need you. You’ve called me indomitable, and I know I live up to that. I don’t lie to myself, Hershey. The project is working, and every day I grow closer to seeing that new Polaris brightening the night sky. 

Instead, I miss having someone I could truly talk to. Spend hours speaking on the stars, on celestial astrophysics, on just how far we still have to go. On old memories of university, of those horrible parties we were both forced to attend, but made bearable simply by your presence. I miss being able to talk about my grief, even if I’ve never been brave enough to tell you its full extent. 

Who else is there to tell?

Because I certainly cannot speak to Charles about such things! That man hates everyone and everything in this place. I swear, every time I’m left alone with him, I grow closer to knocking him over the head with one of my heavier books. If I hear him muttering about Americans one more time—

Ugh, I’m getting off track. Perhaps I would rather focus on something else, but these feelings will consume me if I let them. So I cannot do anything but write.

I work above everyone else here. While I may be friendly, this is not the sort of thing you can tell a casual friend. My grief fuels me, just as it makes it harder to truly function some days. How do you explain that? Even with science on my side, I’ve never been able to say all of it aloud. 

Hershey, sometimes I can barely get out of bed. Sometimes the only thing fueling me is the fact that my Satellite will save so many people like my father. That no one will ever be stranded out in the ocean, that deep blue sea that's deeper than any expanses of space to me. That no one will ever have to watch their father sink into those depths-- swallowed entirely. Watch him disappear, know that he didn't know his place in the world when he died. 

God. 

I think that's the deepest blow of them all. I had to watch his eyes lose their light, his confidence replaced by fear and confusion. He had always known where to go, what to do, what next to say–but did he, really? Or is that just a child’s fantasy? A little girl’s dream, believing that her father would never falter? 

I’ve lived so much longer without him than I did with him. 

He’ll never know the woman I became. He’ll never know that I never abandoned my dream of the sciences, never fell for a man. He’ll never get the chance to truly know me, because I wasn’t even fully formed when I lost him. I was still becoming, still changing–and yet, he died only knowing a version of me that quite possibly no longer exists. Every time I think about it too long, Hershey, I swear it’s like I’m adrift again, the waves crashing over my small form. Being stabbed with blades of seawater. 

I do this all for him, and he will never know it. He will never know the woman his daughter became. I believe that he would have still loved me, still cared for me. But I’ll never know for sure, will I? 

Sometimes, I wake up and I'm back on that sea. Clinging to that driftwood like it's my only tether to the world. I was just as lost as my father, really. I was just the one who got to survive. Kicking, kicking, kicking, frantically trying to move towards a land that I wasn't quite sure existed.

I nearly gave up, Hershey. I was a child. Not even a decade past of life, having just lost–my world. My everything. I had nothing but my books, my father, and his crew - a life spent at sea, sailing the Caribbean, gone forever. Before that night, I believed that the sea was a home. That the waves would never overwhelm me, that they’d always bring me back to shore safely. 

I’ll never be that little girl again. There’s a reason I bring navigation gear everywhere, you know. …well, of course you don’t know. Sorry, Hershey. 

Every day, I wonder how I found the strength to survive it. You don't know how tight of a grip exhaustion can have on your heart, swirling around your skull, lulling you into letting go of everything you know. Until everything you have ever loved is gone in one storm. Those who are lost, never found again. 

But even as a child, I didn’t want to let myself be lost. 

I would not let Father's sacrifice be in vain. 

Not then. Not ever.

So I fought against the sea for weeks. I had my own personal battles with the waves, clinging to that driftwood like it was my Eden. I fell asleep, woke again gasping for air, fighting against tides roaring above my head. Even after so long, those memories don’t fade. I remember them as vividly as they were yesterday…even as my father’s laugh and voice fades from that same memory. Seawater tastes so bitter on your tongue, your blood racing up and down your veins as you scream into the stars, your voice going unheard for thousands of miles. Even writing this down makes me want to shudder.  

Now, it still makes little sense to me. It makes even less sense to me knowing more about the world. I should have died of hunger, of thirst, of lack of sleep. That risk should have killed me a thousand times, a child fighting against too much to bear. But I suppose even back then, the woman I would become, the indomitable Anna Hanover had started to emerge. 

That little girl survived, making it to shore. Only I remain of the Hanovers. 

My father is gone. 

But I will make his legacy live on. I will make it so that no one is never lost at sea, unsure of where they are in the world ever again. So that no children have to struggle against the sea, too tired and afraid to yet get to mourn. 

It is a vow I’ve made over and over, and one I will continue to make. 

God, it truly is late, isn’t it? I don’t know if as many of these words would have left me otherwise. My hand aches, the ink running low. I suppose I’ll have to replenish it in the morning. Add another task to the neverending pile. 

Anyways. I doubt I'll send this. 

But maybe one day I will. 

Maybe one day this letter will be meaningless, because I will have said all of this in person to you.  

But I don't–Hershey, I just don’t know. Imagine. Me, not knowing something. Not being able to talk about something! You know better than anyone just how much I can go on and on. It's heavy, this grief. It's been over fifteen years now, and I don't think the load has gotten any easier to carry. Father’s memory is the reason why my life’s work exists, after all. My grief and old love for him weigh on me almost as heavy, if not heavier than my Satellite.

Given how much I care for you, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to share my truth on these matters. If not you, then who? I may take lovers, may have friends—but you have been my dearest person for so long. You have gotten me through so much, been my friend so long, and yet the words die whenever I think of trying.

Good night, Hershey. I think I’ll try to sleep now. My eyes grow weary, and my hands shake. After all, I need to be up rather early tomorrow in order to . Sleep may be hard to come by. Perhaps it will come easier after baring my soul in this letter. 

A woman can only hope. 

I hope that wherever you are, your night has been more peaceful, more filled with stars, than mine. 

Your friend,

NOVA

[indiaalphawhiskey]

Hi love ❤️ I’ve seen you’ve been missing writing and while I don’t want to burden this on you (please only respond if thinking and writing about this gives you joy) I wanted to share these two pics I keep connecting in my brain as if they happened at the same moment.

Harry walks by Louis’ desk. Their eyes meet.

And I keep wondering, what is going on here? Do you know?? 👀

Ask and you shall receive. 😘

— (loosely) based on Can You Keep A Secret? by Sophie Kinsella

—————

Harry was barely able to fight another yawn as he stood up from his incredibly new, incredibly bare, incredibly normal office desk.

As he closed his laptop and slipped it in his bag, he tried not to be too disappointed. All in all, the day had gone pretty well.

Ish.

Okay, so it had kind of been dead boring, but that was partially Harry’s fault for expecting too much. Apparently, almost dying on a horrifically turbulent flight halfway across the world to get a foot in the door of your dream job at an indie record label tended to lead to a rather anticlimactic first day. Who knew?

Like, not that Harry expected Elton John to walk through the halls or anything (that would be ridiculous; he was signed by Universal, everyone knew that), but like, maybe some grungy up-and-comer he could brag to all his friends about finding in a garage in the future.

Or, even the rumored new (hot), young (hot), brilliant (hot), openly gay (and hot) CEO, at least. Just to, like, confirm the rumors of the insanity of his hotness, you know?

But alas, the Mystery Boss had been holed up in a twelve-hour meeting that hadn’t even stopped for lunch, and God, did Harry somehow get tricked into working for the indie record label version of JP Morgan?

He grimaced. Considering his luck last weekend, he wouldn’t put it past the universe.

But just as he let out another quiet sigh, a petulant pout already forming on his lips, the door to the fortress that was Conference Room A opened. And because Harry was nothing if not nosy, he craned his neck just enough to take a harmless little peek inside at the head of the table.

It happened like lighting — blue eyes, and a smart smirk, and a 28 tattooed on his fingers.

And, thinking about that exact moment in hindsight, Harry would bet everything he owned that if there was a way his soul could have simply left him to die from embarrassment right then, it probably would have because…

“Flight 568, this is your captain speaking.”

“Oh God,” Harry whimpered over the crackling of the speaker as the plane rattled wildly all around them, “oh God, we’re going to die. Our captain is about to tell us we’re going to die,” he said, clutching the fingers of the stranger beside him without bothering to spare a thought to manners or like, boundaries. What on earth did he need manners for, now that they were clearly about to fucking die?

“We’re not going to die, mate,” the stranger said, his Northern accent calm.

But Harry wasn’t listening.

“Uhhh, we are,” he deigned to argue, even with the panic that was rising in his throat with each new violent shake. Then, suddenly, faced with the mounting reality of his mortality, Harry blurted out, “I lied on my CV.”

A beat of confused silence before, “O…kay—?”

“I just really wanted this job, you know?” Harry continued, because apparently, the precipice of death made him chatty. “It’s literally the dream. Like, the job I’ve wanted to do my whole entire life but never thought I’d have a shot at? That job.”

“I… see—”

“So I lied,” Harry repeated, just in case this stranger didn’t understand the depth of his betrayal. “And then I got it, and… and… Oh God—“ Harry wailed, squeezing his eyes shut as the plane rocked like it was made of paper, “And now I’m going to die, and they’re going to know. They’re going to know that I lied about where I went to school and I’m going to be dead, and my super hot new boss is gonna fire me posthumously, which is really unfortunate because I’m pretty sure he’s the kind of hot I would probably let fuck me in against a glass window, you know?” he asked, nervously forcing a laugh as he chanced a quick glance at the stranger.

He was met with blue eyes.

Blue eyes, and a smart smirk, and a 28 tattooed on the fingers Harry was currently crushing in his vice grip.

The stranger chuckled easily. “I’m nervous about my new job too.”

And…

“Oh God,” Harry said then, the horrible horrible truth sinking into his stomach as he watched his new (and now confirmed super, insanely hot) boss narrow his eyes thoughtfully at Harry through the slightly open door, before his brow began to lift in slow, amused recognition.

Oh. God.

[xoxo-surfergirl]

wash my sins away

V. The awful spirits of the deep,

aemond targaryen x fem!lucerys velaryon

abstract: lucera and aemond awake on a beach in storm's end, with no recollection of how they got there. they sense the brewing war, but amnesia has ripped away the memory of visery's passing.

themes: amnesia, dark aemond (he's a dark character so he's gonna come off as dark in this fic), all of rhaenyra's children are girls, enemies to enemies to lovers, eventual smut, medium burn

lucy's notes (lucy as in me, not lucera, lmao): the scene from this chapter is what inspired me to write this fic :)) this is cross-posted on ao3, where I currently have 8 out of about 13-14 chapters posted. Here's the link for the rest of the chapters.

word count: 6.2k

Lucera awoke with her neck cradled in Aemond’s arm, the warmth of his body stretching across hers. She felt the dead weight of him, and could feel his deep breathing navigating sleep. Part of his presence was still anxiety inducing, but her peace in his company grew with each passing day. She liked how she felt in his thick arms and how their bodies slid together effortlessly. She wondered if he noticed too. 

He almost looks harmless when he’s sleeping.  

Her eyes closed shut at the thought, content on the pure feeling of him, grasping this moment so that she may live in it for eternity. It felt good to be at peace in his arms. Lucera thought of their kiss, the way their lips and tongue harmonized so perfectly. His hands pulling her down and into him in what felt like an attempt to consume her. 

His arms shifted, squeezing her tighter and closer. Aemond was awake now, and his normal self pursued. 

It was a quiet morning, the townspeople subdued in their sleep depravity and ale sickness from the festivities the night before. The lanterns hanging above the square swayed lazily, only a few still lit. Papers and flowers were strewn in the now empty plaza, and the large bonfire had been sunken to ashes. 

Aemond and Lucera lugged themselves out of bed in search of breakfast, the late night and ale making their heads spin. Through tired eyes they made their way to a tavern on the edge of the treeline, the soft glow of a cloud-covered sky and fresh air easing their aches on the short walk. 

Aemond sat across from her, his cloak covering his hair. Lucera noticed that even through the shadow of the hood, she could still see the platinum hanging down his shoulder. He was carefully examining the dining room, quite empty at the moment since it was still relatively early. He had lowered his eye to look more directly just to the left of her. 

He turned his gaze to Lucera. “I’ve seen those two everywhere as of late.” 

“Which two?” Lucera quietly asked, noting their proximity. 

Aemond lowered his voice. “The man with his hair pinned back, and the woman with the red cloak.” 

Lucera attempted to subtly avert her gaze towards the pair. She noticed them immediately—it was hard to ignore his long, dark hair pulled carefully halfway up, leaving the rest to hang down. The woman was equally as striking, with a deep red cloak bordering on a neutral tone, but with just enough brightness to catch the eye. 

“Do you believe them to be following us?” Lucera inquired, still unsure if she’d ever seen them before. 

“They could be. It’s possible they know who we are. Maybe they even know why we’re here.” Aemond lifted his cup, pausing to take a drink. “But they can not be trusted. No one but us can be trusted.” 

Lucera nodded uncomfortably. 

Aemond didn’t wait for her to respond to his theories, and instead brought forward the one conversation they had been avoiding. “We can’t stay here forever.” 

“I know.” Lucera looked down, unsure of how she felt. Truthfully, she knew nothing, and this fact was becoming increasingly frustrating. Her head warped around the potentialities for awaking drenched on Shipwreck beach, and none came to mind. There was nothing she could think of. “But we also don’t know what has occurred in our absence. It is wise for us to be cautious.”  

What was he going to do now? Was there something blooming between them? Was it just her? Did she mean anything to him?  

She knew of his darkness, and wanted to curse herself for developing any sort of feeling for him, but she couldn’t help herself. He was enigmatic, and it fascinated her. Aemond felt so far away and yet so close. He was the essence of Valyria: deadly and beautiful, haunting and irresistible. 

Lucera tried to ignore her thoughts as the man in question was seated directly across from her. They waited in silence as the barmaid settled steaming bowls of porridge in front of them. It hardly looked appetizing, but it would fill their hunger. 

Once the barmaid had run back to the kitchen, Aemond spoke. “What is your most recent memory?” 

Lucera knew the answer immediately. She had sifted through her brain, each day attempting to find something hidden that wasn’t there the day before but to no avail. But she did remember one thing. 

“I was in my mother’s solar, after dinner with King Viserys.” The dinner where you called my sisters and I bastards. It hung silently between them, but neither addressed it. “We were speaking about how we were to return to Dragonstone once we gathered our things. I do not remember a moment later.” 

What Lucera didn’t add was how Daemon had thrown his rage into the room, claiming he would teach Aemond a lesson . How her mother had been distressed, feeling pregnancy aches and wailing about how she desired her turmoil with Alicent to be put to rest. How Jacaera and her had held each other’s hand watching and listening as their parents expressed their discontent. 

Jacaera . She was certain Jacaera was terribly worried. As was her mother. As was Daemon. How long had she been away? Were they looking for her? 

Lucera’s heart ached at the thought of their concern for her. She wanted to ease it. 

Aemond interrupted her thoughts with his own. “I remember walking to my chambers after dinner. The last thing I recall is the sound of my door slamming shut. It seems our memory ends at the same moment.” 

“Do you think anyone is looking for us?” 

“If our absence is not intentional, I’m sure they are searching.” Aemond had a far off look in his eye. “At least I’m sure your mother would be.”

“And why not yours?” Lucera asked, already knowing his answer. 

“Because I am the strongest out of all my siblings. If I am gone, they won’t question it too closely. They know I can survive on my own, and would assume that I have my reasons.” Aemond’s voice was void of doubt. They both knew that if his family had not known of his whereabouts, they would not jump to go looking for him, anticipating his eventual return.

“I would have imagined my mother and Daemon to rain hellfire upon my disappearance.” Lucera pondered curiously. “If we truly are missing, perhaps they have, or they will.” 

“We can’t wait for half the realm to burn to figure it out.” She could see Aemond’s thoughts process on his face as he paused. “At the very least, we need to leave this village.” 

“I do think that is wise.” Lucera nodded her head, taking in her first spoonfuls of porridge.

The rest of the meal was taken in silence, each of them lost in their heads. Aemond set another ring of his on the table in exchange for the meal—a severe overpayment at that. He thought of the suitress at court who had gifted it to him. He couldn’t care less for it, but it had suited his other rings quite well. Regardless, it would not be missed. The suspicious pair eyed him as he followed Lucera out the tavern, and he subtly caught their gaze in warning. 

They had since returned to the Inn, gathering what little they had. The royal attire they arrived in had since dried, but was too revealing of their status to leave behind and it didn’t make sense to carry it along the length of their journey. They decided that the garments must be burned when they got the chance. 

What little belongings they had were gathered and tucked away in satchels. Lucera looked at him, emotion filling her. She couldn’t quite figure him out, and it bothered her. Why had he kissed her yesterday? There were so many uncertainties, so many unknowns. She was tired of feeding into the confusion. They had been there for days . Had a sennight passed? 

On her bedpost hung his cloak, which he had not yet thrown back over his shoulders. She wrapped it into her hands, unwilling to hand it over before she discussed the loudest thought on her mind.  “When we go back to our keeps, are you going to continue hating me?” 

With a solemn look on his face, Aemond exhaled. “I don’t hate you Lucera.” 

She held a lengthy pause, unsure of what she was asking for. Lucera held his cloak tighter to her chest. The concentrated smell of him whirled through her nose as it puffed up by her face. Without his cloak, he would be too recognizable to leave. He had to answer her if he wanted to walk away.

“But you do. You treat me terribly Aemond, I won’t have any more of it.” 

“Lucera. Give me my cloak.” He dismissed, not wanting to talk further on the subject. It wasn’t something Aemond felt like he could get into right now—his complicated feelings for her, their history, it all was too large of a subject to face. He needed more time to process it. 

He wasn’t trying to treat her terribly. He didn’t have to call her a bastard anymore, that much was true. 

But she wouldn’t relent, tucking the fabric deeper into her arms. “You offered me glimpses of vulnerability. I was naive to believe you were truly capable of it. Aren’t we at least friends now?” 

Aemond scowled at her, his voice hardening as he stepped closer to her, power behind each of his strides. She couldn’t understand why he didn’t want to talk about it, or what made him so cold. 

But to Aemond, now didn’t feel like the right time. Sure, in some ways it was—they had spent a quarter or two of a moon’s turn in each other’s ceaseless company, which in many cases would have been an adequate amount of time to confess or discuss complex emotions with someone. Not for Aemond, though. He had never approached this subject before, let alone with someone he’d loathed with his entire being all his life. 

He kept his voice even, but there was a lowly threat in his words. “Lucera. Give it to me.” 

“Why do you have to do this? Can’t you just answer the question Aemond?” She exasperated. 

His patience slipped, and he lunged for her. 

“Give me my cloak or I will take it.” There was a certain assuredness in his voice, accompanied by a venom that she couldn’t quite describe as he grabbed for the thick wool woven into her chest, wrenching it with force.

The air hung empty in the seconds that followed, as both of them sunk into the depths of their subconscious. 

A spark was lit, and it traced the dry rope with its light, illuminating the rocky ground of their minds beneath it. 

Give me my…

The silence stung between them, eyes searching one another, limbs frozen in place. It was close. Something was about to burst, and they looked at each other to try and find it. 

Give me your….Give me your eye or….

Give me your eye or I will take it, 

The explosion of the revelation was blinding. The lightning of revelation those words had illuminated flashed a series of more words, each echoed in the same timbre which they were delivered. 

Give me your eye or I will take it, bastard.

The thunder was not far behind. Just like it was that night. 

The wild expression in both of their eyes let each other know that they remembered everything . 

The nonchalance in his stance, the way every pound of his being spat supremacy over her bastard existence. The echoes of light and growls of thunder outside. Vhagar’s shadow in the moonlight. Arrax and his beautiful scales. His plume of fire beaming against Vhagar’s head in the dark night. The sky-wide wet maw looming above her and Arrax. 

Silent breaths hung in the room and they held each other’s gaze, unsure of everything. 

It was heavy, deeply strung, and painful. Both had a hard time grasping the reality of it. Standing in the room. Images, sounds, and smells burning their way into their minds. 

Thunder. Urgency. Desperation. Aemond’s laughter. 

Ilībōños! Jemēla gēlȳni enkā, rina! Bastard! You owe me a debt, girl!

The cloak slipped from Lucera’s fingers, falling onto the floor. Her feet took her scrambling down the steps, a rapid clobbering gaining the attention of the patrons inside the tavern below. The stones on the village streets were uneven but she paid little mind. 

She didn’t care if she fell and collapsed if her ankle slipped. The cobbles deteriorated to dirt and she sank into the anonymity of the forest of which there was no trail. She watched from a place inside her head as her feet took her far, far away from her existence. Where she belonged, she was not certain. A world without Arrax, and a world where her life could be ripped from her with nothing but a laugh, a world where she could never rest from fear of Aemond, was not one she could bear right now. 

Her tears endlessly fell from her cheeks, and her breathing deepend until she reached a full sob. 

Her vision became clouded and she slowed down a few paces, grabbing for a young birch, but running had been the only thing to prevent her from fully breaking down. She slid unceremoniously down the tree, her forehead in the trunk. 

She crawled slightly away from it, breath heavy and painful in her chest. Hysteria took over, and the forest soaked in her wails, held her while she shook, and gave her its humble peace. 

Time doesn’t exist when you’re grieving. 

Lucera had reduced herself to a carcass, the soft moss offering the little comfort it could to her. 

Aemond had run after her, but upon getting closer slowed to cautiously approach her, and observed her from a slight distance. His heart ached for her, and if he thought guilt and shame had overtaken him before, he had been oblivious to its potential. 

He didn’t like seeing her this way. It was alarming. 

He walked over to her, taking gentleness in every step. He put time into his approach so that she would know he was coming. He thought it best to not say anything out loud. He softly laid his hand over her upper arm, and slid it down to her hand. 

Aemond sat there with her as the sun and clouds shifted, listening to her breathing. At least she was breathing . 

“I get it. You’re stronger, you’re better, and you always will be.” Her voice was choked, lacking in spirit. 

“I never wanted things to go that far.” Aemond was still processing his memory. He had tried to use that time to find the words to say to her, but hearing her voice made his mind fade. 

“You’ve taken him. He’s gone. An-and you almost killed me too.” she rasped. “I’ve always been afraid of you, Aemond. I’ve hardly ever felt like I shouldn’t be. And now…I just can’t do it anymore. I give up. You’ve taken so much away from me. If you want to finish the job, then do it. I..I can’t live in this fear anymore”. 

Part of him couldn’t believe he’d almost killed her. The other part of him…understood to some level. Aemond struggled to control his emotions, and the anger he had carried from childhood was some of the deepest and most rotten of all. He had let it fester into something much greater than it had to be. Every time he felt not good enough, every time he had felt the need to try harder and to be better, he pinned on her. 

“I never wanted you to die.” He took a deep breath, hoping that he wasn’t making her heartache any worse by speaking. “I held onto so much resentment. You…you were just a child. And I was too, but sometimes life is cruel, and I should have handled the situation differently now that I’m older. I unleashed all of it that night, and I went too far.” 

His tone had softened, but he steeled himself once more.  “I should have never chased you through the storm. Vhagar, she could feel my anger.” 

Lucera inhaled deeply, unsure on whether or not she should focus on his words or the emotions she was moving through. 

“When I saw you falling, I commanded her downwards and tried to catch you but I was worried that you’d hit her wings too hard. I let you hit the water first and then untangled my saddle to jump in after you, but there was no way for me to get us back on her, so I had to pull us to shore.” While retelling the facts, his tone had once again slipped into something with less emotion, but looking at Lucera crumpled his heart again. He let the silence embrace her. 

He got closer to her, reaching out his hand to cup her cheeks, swiping away her tears with his thumb. What had happened almost didn’t make sense because the implications were so grave, and yet it made perfect sense. He had almost killed her. Took her life from her. 

Watching Lucera laying in front of him in the depths of her mourning, he didn’t want to admit that it made him feel powerful. Free. Released from the past, their past.

Their confrontation in Storm’s End was inevitable. There had been too much tension between them at the Red Keep when she had arrived—they both felt it. Aemond had not known what to do with the few words they had spoken to each other, while feeling so much within him. Anger, frustration, and other things he could not name at the time. All of it had only grown in their time together. 

Every time she walked into a room, he couldn’t focus. Her blue gowns hanging over her skin were distracting. Her skin was perfect. Her hair was neatly done. She was the perfect image of a princess, and he would never be a charming prince. Not that he had wanted to be one for a very, very long time. But that was the point. She had robbed him of that. She had hurt him. 

But now he hurt her. Was losing a dragon worse? Probably. But that didn’t matter. He understood it clearly now. They would be forever tied together, no matter their futures. Aemond needed to have her, to hold her, for her to be forever his. Her body, her mind, and her spirit were already tied to him so permanently, and it was time they stopped denying it. 

“I understand now. You and I are tied together by blood. You have been indebted to me for years, and for years I have debated what I shall take from you” He reasoned, his demeanor now perfectly calm, sending her into a spiral of unease. She had thought he was apologetic just moments before, but now she wasn’t so sure.  

“But on Driftmark you said that your eye was payment for a dragon. I thought there was no debt to be paid, only remorse to express” Lucera choked on her tears. 

  “Yes, my sweet niece, your dragon,” he trailed his fingers through her hair, calming her despite his words. “I should have never attempted to take your life, and for that I am sorry. But your debt is paid. Don’t you see? You no longer have to worry about payment for my eye.” His voice slipped into something deceivingly sweet, no longer in the same state of shock as she was. Lucera felt her stomach sink at his words. 

He was just as dangerous as Lucera had assumed him to be. All of these soft moments, all of these little kindnesses that they had shared, did not show a different man hidden underneath. He was a monster, through and through. 

“We are tied together by fire and blood. There may be no debt to repay anymore, but we are never escaping the inevitability of us.” He leaned in to whisper in her ear as tilted her chin to the side. “We burn together Lucie. We always have and we always will.” 

She wanted to laugh, and she wanted to cry. Lucera had spent almost all her life incredibly concerned with what her uncle thought of her. She had tried to convince herself for years that she simply didn’t want to be on the receiving end of his hatred, but had recently discovered that she did want to be on the receiving end of his affections. How mad was she? Why was it him of all people? He was wild, untamed, driven to darkness by a myriad of unfortunate events. She was to blame, partially, and in realizing this, she realized what he meant. 

In some twisted, fucked up way, she deserved this.  

He pulled her up by her arms, away from the moss that had cradled her. The shock tracing through her system helped her reach her feet. 

Aemond’s voice had an unnatural, sinister calmness to it. “It’s time we go, Lucie” 

Another wave of realization came flooding through the gates of Lucera’s mind. Home. Dragonstone, where her mother had been crowned Queen . Where she had given Lucera orders from the seat of the Seven Kingdoms. Aemond’s idea of home was the Red Keep, where his brother had usurped her mother’s throne. 

Lucera withdrew. “I’m going to my mother , to my Queen. ” 

She saw the understanding flicker in Aemond’s eye. There had been so much focus on their confrontation in the skies, and none on what had been happening within their families. Both of them had hardly thought about it. 

“My brother was crowned in front of the masses.” He droned, as if detached from any meaning that the sentence held, as if finally recalling the scene of the coronation play in his head. “I will not betray him.” 

At his words, Lucera’s heart squeezed tight in her chest. She couldn’t tell what emotion it was. Grief, heartache, longing, sadness, anger. All of them. 

Damn him. Damn their divided families. Damn her for cutting out his eye in the first place. Damn each and every complication.

“You—you always win. You always get what you want in the end. You humiliate me. You wanted your debt paid and you took it. And you get to return to Aegon and support him, with your new betrothal and slaying of my dragon.” Lucera said fiercely. 

She was breathing hard, the frustration boiling. She didn’t want to elaborate on what she meant by feeling humiliated, but Lucera hoped he would understand her meaning. That she had feelings for him, that his long hair and carved face was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen. That she saw him as a god she wanted to pray to. She wanted him to know, but her judgment declared against it, given their circumstances. 

The brewing civil war hung thick between them. They both had flown to Storm’s End for the same purposes, to recruit a crucial paramount lord to their respective causes. Even through their childhood, through Driftmark, through years of separation, through Arrax, she had never felt more divided from him. 

“I don’t win Lucera. I don’t see slaying Arrax as a trophy of conquest. It was an accident . One that I understand now, but it was unintentional nonetheless.” He paused. “We are forever intertwined, nothing will change that.”

Lucera read between the lines.

No war. No division between their families could change their bond, however complicated their dynamic was . 

“But what do you mean? For all we know, we might meet again on the battlefield, Aemond. That could change that.” 

“I won’t deny our fire any longer. You mustn’t either.” 

When it came to threats to her mother’s side, there was only one true thing to be feared, and he was sitting across from her now. There was no one as cruel, no one as willing to do what it takes to succeed, and no one else who rode Vhagar. The other dragons would be a nuisance, but could be taken care of. 

Should she just kill him now? End the war before it began? 

As convenient as that might be, she knew she wouldn’t actually follow through with it. 

Aemond reached for her hands. He looked at her as if he was being physically pulled away from her. Aemond didn’t say anything, he simply studied her face with longing. He looked pulled open and raw, his eye wider than usual. Perhaps he did truly care about her. Aemond smoothed his thumbs over top of each hand he held. 

“Can I just hold you for a moment?” 

Lucera was angry, but she didn’t have time to be angry. She wanted to shun him away for what he did. 

But she couldn’t knowing that all of this, all of their time together was wretchedly temporary. 

He felt it too. 

“Yes.” 

Blackwater Bay

Lazily removing the rag to cover his eyes, Aegon was greeted by a golden sunset. It was one of the less comfortable places he had slept—although in his youth he had spent his fair share of nights strewn in an alley on the Street of Silk. 

It would have been impossible to fall asleep in the hull of the skiff with the sun beating upon him had he not paddled with vigor the entire previous night. He had succeeded in making it far enough away from King’s Landing to rest, setting out his anchor hours after dawn had broken. 

Everything ached—his back, his arms, his hips, even his legs. He supposed it was a mixture of the most enduring physical activity he had ever done in his life and sleeping in a disagreeable place. That would do it. 

But it would be worth it. 

The pain was temporary, and no matter how much it burned him, it wouldn’t last. As he resumed his paddling through the night, the aches he acquired the day before were set alight with his renewed activity. In his most agonizing moments, he imagined the luxury of a large estate in Pentos, Volantis, or Myr. He had the connections, and the gold, and he planned on using it. It pushed him forward. It prevented him from stalling. 

He was hoping to make it to the southernmost stretch of Massey’s Hook sometime in the night. The stars lit up the sky into something quite beautiful. He found himself missing Sunfyre. He found himself thinking about many things. The abyssal darkness of the water added to his thoughts.

After many hours of paddling, he noticed in the cloak of the night where the land began to creep upwards. The base of the Hook. 

It’s about time . He thought to himself, wiping the sweat off his brow. But no time to rest, of course. 

His limbs had reached a state of numbness, like gears in a machine that turn ceaselessly through the morning and night. Even after he lodged the skiff into the rocks on the shore, gathered his few belongings, and set out to find a village, his legs carried him. His hips were especially tight from sitting in such an uncomfortable position, and the lack of sleep in his body echoed through each fiber in his body. 

Aegon figured that if he found a village and arrived in the early morning, he could escape some suspicion—as opposed to arriving midday, when everyone was teetering about. 

The adrenaline from being a runaway king led his charge through the forested seaside, the acorns freckling the ground, the exhaustion, the aches. The sky was lifting from a deep night to a dark blue, and he knew that first light was approaching. 

As anticipated, he spotted a shack in the distance—and then another one as he drew closer. And another. And, horses in the field beyond.  Perfect.  

He trudged harder. 

There was a man, already preparing for his day’s work in the fields. Aegon straightened himself, pulled his cloak over his hair, and walked towards him.

“‘Scuse me good sir?” Aegon hardly recognized his own voice, it had been so long since he last spoke.

The man was scruff, with arms and a back that knew a hard day’s work—many of them. He looked up, curious about the disruption, and scowled. 

“Whaddya want, boy” The man said, bored. 

Aegon knew any lick of a royal accent would give him away. 

“I want a mare o’ yours.” Luckily, Aegon also knew his way around the smallfolk, and knew how they wove their tongue around words. “I got plenty to pay you” he said, as he shook the bag of gold dragons at his hip. 

The man, now much more intrigued than he was before, leaned in. “Now what kinda work has you getting paid like that?” 

Aegon was ready for these questions, but he couldn’t over explain right away. He had to be clever. “Nothing that concerns you. But the money is clean, I promise.” 

The man’s brows drove inwards. He eyed the satchel at Aegon’s hip—and it twinkled when he shifted his weight to his other leg. Only gold dragons sound like bells when they clink together.

��“You have the balls to show up at my door, asking for one of my horses, the sun hasn’t even rose yet, and you won’t say a word about where the money’s coming from” 

The man, though clearly intrigued by the payout, was skeptical. For that, Aegon thought he was wise. 

They were standing near enough to each other now, eyeing each other carefully. 

Aegon decided it was time to deepen his ruse. “I’m a mercenary. I do the dirty deeds so others don’t have to.” He strategically placed a hand on his other hip, which had a sheathed sword. “I’m quite good at it.” 

The subtle threat was understood. 

The man threw his hands up, lightening his attitude. “Ah ah, I want no trouble. 6 gold dragons for the brown one. She rides good, fast too.” His voice caught when asking for the price. Aegon knew he had probably never touched a single gold dragon in his life. 

It was a steep price for a horse, but Aegon was feeling generous that day. The man needed the money more than him, anyways. 

“Let me look at her first. If she’s sound, we’ve got a deal.” 

The man led Aegon over to the fields across from them, where the warm brown coated mare stood grazing. She had a white diamond on her forehead that reminded Aegon of the southern star. 

Her legs looked sturdy, she was well fed, and she was tempered. Aegon dropped the coins in the man’s hand, and the man guided the horse to a shack, where he fit the horse with a saddle and reins. 

Aegon reached over and shook the man’s hand. “I’ll be on my way. My business will stay out of yours, I swear it.” 

It wasn’t a lie, and it would soothe the man. Aegon slung his leg over the horse’s back, and pulled the reins to guide her west. 

The sun was rising now, as he trotted through the countryside. He had never ventured into this part of Westeros on foot, but had seen it plenty of times on dragonback. From above he could see the tops of trees, with whistling streams and rocks peeking through. He thought it was beautiful, but that it would perhaps be more enjoyable in different circumstances. 

As the hours wore on, Aegon felt like a half-dead man tied to his horse—slumped and barely hanging on. Somehow his head was still attached to his shoulders. If his estimation were correct, he was somewhere near the base of the finger peninsula of Massey’s Hook. On horseback, he should be able to reach Stonedance in a few days if he was quick about it. Stonedance was sure to have a village looking to sail towards the Narrow Sea—there was certain to be a proper boat from all the trade. If he had to hide himself in a cask of brandywine, then so be it. Pain was temporary. Uncomfortableness was temporary. He would survive.   

A small town was taking shape through the hills and trees, and Aegon was thankful for it. He needed food. Perhaps he could rest too—but he’d need to contemplate more on that idea. It was most likely not the smartest move in the moment, but it was possible he’d be able to spare a few candle marks. 

Would he hear the news of his absence? No—most likely he wouldn’t. It would be a secret for as long as his mother and a select few could manage it, even when the search party eventually reaches the realm. With Rhaenyra crowned as the Black Queen, there was no chance those in the Red Keep—the ones that had fought so hard to arrange his ascension—would let his sister and his uncle know of his absence. It would have to be kept so deeply under wraps, lest Rhaenyra use it to her advantage. 

Aegon couldn’t deny his curiosity. He was interested to know what exactly would happen in his absence. He had never been above wanting to hear the latest whispers in the castle, the city, or the realm. Aegon knew everyone in the castle and had numerous friends within and without it. His wide web was something he was proud of, and he wanted to know all of the happenings tied up in it. 

The throne would be an empty seat. Aemond was god knows where, so he was out of the question for ascending it in his absence. Would he come out of hiding if he knew Aegon was gone and there was an open seat looking to be taken? Of course he would. Aegon had no doubt of that. Even still, Aemond would also probably go searching for him. But if Aemond was still missing, that left Daeron, who was still so young. It most likely wouldn’t deter the green council from pushing him up there, but it would be a weak stance to hold against Rhaenyra. 

Especially since without him and Aemond, there were two less adult dragons—which is really all that ultimately held significance, anyways. He prayed no open act of war could cause such things to matter, but it was hard to push away such thoughts in dark times. His stomach curled at the notion. 

However Rhaenyra planned to win over the throne, he wished it to be peaceful. Aegon had wished that his initial runaway attempt had been successful. Maybe then, Rhaenyra might be sitting on the throne now, his brother wouldn’t have gone missing, and the whole mess could have been avoided. It was more complicated than that, but he had always been a wishful thinker. He’d known that Rhaenyra was considering terms for peace at this very moment, but rumor had it that Lucera had not returned from Storm’s End either. 

Aegon’s head was starting to hurt. He hadn’t fully thought any of this through as he’d been so wrapped up in his own plans for escape that he hadn’t thought about Lucera and Aemond. It was so obvious, wasn’t it? How had he missed that connection? 

There were now cobbles underneath the mare’s hooves. This town was laid in gray bricks. Aegon noticed it made the whole place look quite drab. He led his horse straight to where he could see people gathered outside with horns of ale in their hands. It had to be the tavern. He sluggishly slid off of her back and onto the ground, ignoring the attention his arrival was attracting. His aching bones wouldn’t allow for him to do much else. Making sure the cloak was fastened around his head, he opened the weather worn door and made his way to the closest table through the shoulders cloaked in wool. 

Aegon had a pit of dread creeping through him. He knew Aemond. He was unrelenting, driven. And nothing drove him to madness the way Lucera did. It was plain—Aegon knew Aemond blamed every hardship in his life on the Velaryons, especially Lucera. If Viserys had shown the same amount of affection for them, Aemond’s life path would have started off differently. Perhaps he would have more forgiveness and openness in his heart. But then of course there was the eye conundrum, and it had solidified Aemond’s belief of the world’s detestation of him forever, and Lucera was at the heart of it. There was something behind his eye when he looked at her. It was narrow, focused, and deep. 

Aegon saw where a confrontation of the two could lead them, especially after the tension that was present the last time he saw them together. It was nowhere good. He didn’t want to think too hard about it. 

He needed a drink. 

[hotchs-bitch]

Fluffy Feb Day 5- Words of Affirmation

Warnings: platonic relationship, BAU reader, brief mentions of case involving kids (no details)

Pairing: Hotch x blank slate Fem!Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 902

Your performance review couldn’t come at a worse time, in your opinion. You’re fresh off of a hard case; those involving children are always the worst. Everyone is exhausted, not helped by the late hour that you land back in Quantico, but reports need to be written and files need to be filed, so you end up back at the office right from the airstrip.

Halfway through your second cup of coffee and squinting at the folder in your hands, you look up to see Hotch standing near your desk. He shoots you an apologetic smile, then lifts the folder he’s holding. Your name is written on the tab, and you groan when you realize what it is.

“Performance reviews. I hope you don’t mind, but they’re due by 9 AM,” he explains, and you get to your feet. “We can do it in the morning if you prefer.”

That’s almost laughable because it’s nearing 1 AM already, so you just shake your head and start in the direction of his office. “Let’s get it over with.”

Your attitude isn’t exactly stellar, but you know that after the week you’ve had, he’ll understand. Hotch follows you up the steps to his office, seating himself behind the large mahogany desk before he sets the file down.

“Are you okay?” He asks, his voice gentle, and you know that this isn’t part of the review. “I know this case wasn’t an easy one.”

‘I’m fine’ is on the tip of your tongue, ready to be said so you can get on with the review, but instead, you sigh out a tired, “I’ve been better. How are you doing?”

“I’m alright. Thank you.” Hotch opens the folder and removes a few papers, but you narrow your eyes at him. 

He’s got a shield up, as he so often does. Especially now, on those days that he feels the need to appear strong for the sake of the team. It makes something in your chest ache for him; the rest of the team can bitch and moan and whine all they want about the workload and long hours, but Hotch’s shield never falters. Who can he talk to, about the things you’ve seen and the lives you live out in the field?

“I’m serious,” you insist. “That was probably the worst week of my life since I’ve started here, and I don’t even have a kid. Hotch, talk to me.”

The smile he gives you is half-placating, half-grateful. It gets on your exhausted nerves more than it should. “I am. I’m trying to do your review, remember?”

His light tone doesn’t lend itself to your good graces. “The sheriff was a dick,” you tell him, and his smile becomes a little more genuine at that.

“We’re supposed to call that ‘unreasonable’.” His correction comes quickly, as you knew it would, but there’s no mistaking the amusement in his eyes.

“Fine. He was an unreasonable unreasonable-head, and you dealt with him more than anyone else did, and I don’t know how you didn’t rip his head off.”

Hotch’s head ducks slightly, as though he’s unused to the recognition, and it makes you frown. Case after case, he commends your efforts and those of the rest of the team with little comments made here and there. You’re no stranger to hearing that you’ve done well in an interrogation, and you’ve heard Morgan complimented for his takedown of an unsub more than once.

So, who’s saying that stuff to Hotch?

He clears his throat and looks down at his paper, but you’re not done talking. “You did really well handling the victim’s family, too,” you add, if only to see his lips press together into what has become a repressed smile. “I could see that they felt safer after you spoke to them.”

“Yes. Well,” he clears his throat, “Thank you. The family is one of our top priorities.”

“I know that. I’m just saying; you’re good at your job, Hotch.” You shrug one shoulder, trying to play off your words with nonchalance for his comfort. It works, and you can see the moment he relaxes slightly and some tension drains from his shoulders and their stiff posture.

“That’s kind of you to say,” he says, and you can tell that you’ve flustered him. It’s almost time to back off, you can tell, but you’re not quite done yet.

“Honest.” Your correction comes as swiftly as his earlier one did. “You’re in charge for a reason. We wouldn’t be half the team we are without you.”

This time, when Hotch clears his throat and looks down at the paper, you don’t interrupt. His cheeks are tinted with the lightest pink, and he seems intent on not looking back at you.

“Okay, Agent.” When he speaks after a minute, his tone is final but it’s also more casual. Relaxed. “We should get on with the review; it’s getting late.”

“Of course.” You relax into your chair in turn as he leafs through a couple of pages, and the moment gives you time to profile him despite your silent agreement that you never would. 

His head is ducked, but not enough to hide the upturned corners of his mouth, and you make a mental note to compliment him in the field more often. He deserves it more than anyone, and you’re happy to be the one to give it to him.

Fluffy Feb masterlist | < Prev Day | Next Day >

Fluffy Feb tags: @doctorsteths-fluffyfeb @iammirrorball @hausofwhores @allthefandomstogether @myweepingangel @hotched @spacecowboyhotch @chibsytelford @honeybrowne @formulapierre (send me a dm or ask to be tagged!)

[dailyrickastley]

Via Rickastley.co.uk & Polydor

"On the 22nd October 2001 Rick was in Hamburg to performed songs from his new album [as well as a few classics] in front of a packed media audience - The Rick Astley News Team were there to capture

All excited, RANT’s taxi drops them off at the ferry port. We eventually find the meeting point. We’re nice and early but we were worried about our names not appearing on the guest list. Guarding the jetty were 2 Polydor representatives who were waiting for the guestlist to arrive before letting people aboard. There was an impressive boat behind us in the harbour and I joke to the others that that’s our ferry. It was rather appropriately named Rickmer Rickmers! However, appropriate as it might have been, this was not our ride.

People are beginning to gather. Everyone I see is a journalist or photographer or at least it looked like it by the notepads and cameras they were carrying. We are relieved to find that our names are on the guest list. We make our way to the end of the jetty and climb aboard. We claim seats around table where we discuss excitedly about where we’re going. It must have been a good 25 minute ride when the ferry halts next to a jetty.

The path ahead leads us along a wall and to some steps that carried us over it. The badly lit path resumes, shrubbery on both sides shielding any clues to what the evening’s venue was going to be like. Eventually we reach a mansion, at least that’s the best way to describe it. Bright light beaming through the front doors blinded my chances of making an accurate assessment!

We climb the steps and go through the doors and enter the ‘main’ room. There were two large medieval looking chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and the room was all lit in blue. It really looked something! To the left of us was a bar, ahead another room and to the right was Rick’s stage. Tops, Rick’s manager, greets us and he tells us how Rick is in an excellent mood and how he wants us to be near the front so we can get some good photographs. That was absolutely fine by us! Turning right to look ahead at the stage, about halfway there was narrow scaffold bridging across the width of the room. Spanned across it was the lighting for the stage. To the right of the stage was a desk with laptop computers. We guess they were controlling the projected image at the back of the stage, perhaps the lighting as well.

We decided to take a peak in the room that had originally been in front of us as we came in. This room really reflected the courtesy of Polydor. There were white leather beanbags strategically scattered around the dark tiled floor, the far right corner played host to another doorway. This led to another bar, the perimeter of the room displaying a harvest of extravagant foods. It was packed solid so we test the leather beanbags and then roam about taking mental notes. We recognise Sune, who had won his right to be there in a competition on Danish radio. He had brought his brother along with him, armed with a camcorder!

Walking back into the main room, there was a large mixing desk, its operators wearing headphones. Perhaps they were doing some last minute fine tuning? The venue is beginning to fill so we slowly edge our way towards the stage. Bob notices a sheet of A4 paper stuck to the stage right by the microphone. A quick investigation reveals the playlist for the gig. We are delighted to learn that we’re going to hear quite a bit of Rick’s new material. It was what we were expecting, nevertheless there was a thrill with the prospect of hearing new songs.

9.30pm, with Rick due out on stage, we claim our places at the front. It involved a wrestle with the photographers who were also seeking a ‘prime’ location. There is a sudden surge of journalists, crammed among them a few people from Polydor. Polydor were easily identifiable wearing black T-shirts with “Rick Astley” in silver text on the sleeves, collar, arms and front of the T-shirt. After a German spoken introduction, Rick races onto stage grabbing the microphone like he couldn’t wait to be out there! He was wearing a tight black t-shirt and rather snazzy pin stripe trousers, all in all, looking fashionable. “Okay, we’ve had enough of speeches… let’s get on with the singing” he says before asking if we’ve drunk enough yet! If he was suffering from nerves then he was doing well in not letting them show. “Wanna Believe You” is first up. Rick breaks into song and despite the fact he’d only just started, I was already impressed by this live performance. It was a great song to start with setting an up-beat pace. A really catchy number is this, well worth a listen capturing you right from the start with an impressive intro.

Moving straight into “Sleeping”, the crowd gets going. They’re all familiar with this one and Rick seems to be aware of the enjoyment the crowd was reflecting back at him. During the song, Rick says “I’m starting to enjoy it now.” At the end he admits he had been apprehensive before he came out to face the hordes! By now there is loud sound of cheers and clapping… everything seems to be going well.

Another fast tempo song emerges, this one’s called “What You See is What You Don’t Get”. Another very good song, strong in both chorus and verse. Rick appears to be relaxing a little and seems more than comfortable being on stage. You would never have guessed this guy hasn’t performed in nearly 9 years! This performance was comparable to any of the world’s best artists. During the last verse, Rick sings the words to YMCA laughing and pointing to his keyboardist! It goes down well with the audience.

Breathe is next and I notice that the music is much improved on the demo I’ve heard. Rick explains at the end how he’d been suffering from flu and hadn’t rehearsed the “testing” bits as he wasn’t sure he was going to make them. He went for it and hit every note as he should and confesses how happy he was to have done that. It says something about the character of Rick, pleasing the crowd so much they gave him confidence to attempt something completely un-rehearsed.

It’s time for some oldies… A medley is about to follow but Rick opts to get the crowd involved. He teaches us the “Oohs” to “Never Gonna Give You Up”, demonstrating how each gender should sing it. The medley starts with that debut single of his from 1987 and turns into “Together Forever”. Rick then takes us all by surprise when “Together Forever” turns into “I Should Be So Lucky”! The audience loved it! There was a huge cheer and lots of laughter. Rick now singing with a huge smile. The medley had an acoustic sound, amazingly although slowed down, the songs still sounded as great as they did in the 80s.

“Don’t Ask” was next, slowing the tempo right down. It doesn’t matter as the crowd are more than content and willing Rick to sing some more. Being slower, it enabled that rich voice to show off its range a bit more, impressing everybody.

Before the next song, we get an un-scheduled track! Rick asks us if we’re happy to listen to a silly comedy song. Someone shouts “Of course, we’re German!” He demonstrates how he wants us to ripple our fingers and then begins “Fishy Fingers”. It went down a treat with it’s funny lyrics. Rick expresses his enjoyment with a comical phrase which I dare not repeat! But it would involve a box of tissues… if you’re on my wavelength!

We’re back onto the new material as Rick breaks into “Keep It Turned On”. Personally, I would love to see this song turn out to be a single. It’s so catchy I had this song in my ahead for ages after the gig had finished! Another upbeat song which is in the same ball-park as Ronan Keating’s “Loving Each Day”. He finishes the set with “One Night Stand”. For some reason I had expected this one to be a fast tempo song but it turns out to be another slow one. It was one of my favourite tunes of the evening perhaps another one I’d expect to be a single. The lyrics were ‘touching’ and the music complimented them well.

At this point the gig was supposed to be finished. However, there was some unexpected chanting. Marion explains that in English it meant “We want more!” “We want more!” Rick doesn’t let the crowd down and returns to stage with a smile stretching from one side of his face to the other. He informs us that the next song was still in ‘rehearsal’ stages as he’d only introduced it to the band the night previous. The tune turns out to be “Miracle” and arguably the best performed song of the night. It was delivered so emotionally and powerfully, I was absolutely taken aback. I’m so familiar with Rick’s voice but I promise you, this was exceptional.

Rick tells how the band only know the songs they have rehearsed so he’ll have to do a song already performed. He turns to Polydor who tell him to do “Keep It Turned On” one more time. It was a good choice, leaving people with a really good song and that of the album title.

After crediting his band, Rick leaves stage. I think it’s fair to say that both Rick and the audience were reluctant for him to do so, but there were interviews to be done. It seemed strange as these people who were supposed to be journalists were behaving more like fans! After doing his interviews, Rick came out to join the party that had started in his absence. He milled around talking to many people. We even got the opportunity to exchange a brief few words."

[dailymobpsychodrabbles]

valentine’s day terumob?

But of course!

Word count: 1.8k

Tags: terumob, valentines day, flowers

In retrospect, maybe Shigeo should have realized that flower shops are at their busiest on Valentine’s Day. 

By the time he gets there, he’s out of breath, sweating through his school uniform, and there’s a line of people out the front door. Shigeo’s excitement very quickly turns into dread when he stands on his toes and counts the number of people ahead of him. Ah, not good. He’d thought that coming early before school might be enough to beat anyone else who may have his idea, but it seems like everyone had this idea. He even notices a few of his classmates a little bit ahead of him in line. 

Shigeo taps the shoulder of the person ahead of him. “Um, excuse me, do you think I could-”

“No way, bud,” they interrupt abruptly. “We’re all here because we forgot to get our girlfriend flowers. You can wait.”

But… Shigeo hadn’t forgotten. He and Teru had agreed not to get each other gifts, but then Shigeo had talked to Tome who insisted that was just boyfriend code for I’m secretly getting you a gift. Which only made Shigeo panic that much more, and he had decided to take a detour on the way to class to get something last minute. 

…And apparently, so had everyone else in Seasoning City.

By the time Shigeo is actually inside and able to make a selection, he’s pretty sure he’s going to be late for school. 

People brush by him carrying lovely bouquets full of roses and peonies and all sorts of big, pretty flowers. But when Shigeo reaches the shelves that are normally bursting with all sorts of arrangements, they’re totally bare. He frowns and looks around the store. They’re all empty? But… But it’s a flower shop. Flower shops can’t run out of the one thing they sell.

Panic grips his throat and threatens to squeeze the air from his lungs. No, no this can’t be right. He needs to get something for Teru! Or else that would make him a bad boyfriend, right?

Eventually, Shigeo makes his rounds around the entire store and finds one arrangement left. It’s… well, it’s minimalist, he supposes: one purple peony that’s still halfway to blooming, two smaller flowers, and a few sprigs of leaves. Shigeo feels himself deflate at the little bouquet in his hands. It’s nothing at all like his boyfriend. Teru walks into a room and exerts a confidence that demands attention to be drawn his way. This doesn’t fit him.

But it’s all that’s left, so it’ll have to do. Hopefully whatever Teru gets him won’t be too impressive.

–

Shigeo realizes he has to carry the flowers around all day, so he makes do and tucks them into the front pocket of his backpack with the blooms sticking out as much as they can. It’ll be alright. They only have to survive the school day until he can meet up with Teru.

Tome texts him in the middle of his last class to stop by the Telepathy Club slash Body Improvement Club’s room for a gift. According to Inukawa, she made Valentine’s for all her friends every year. 

She already has Shigeo’s waiting by her side when he comes into the room. Tome pauses her game and kicks her feet off the table to get up and greet him. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Mob!” Tome announces happily. Shigeo sets his bag on the ground to get some weight off of his back. His friend holds out his card, and he accepts it with a bow of his head.

It’s handmade: thick cardstock with a little alien in a spaceship orbiting the moon. In sparkly font, it says I’m over the moon for you, valentine! Shigeo runs his fingers over the lettering and smiles at its texture. 

“Thank you, Tome-chan.” Shigeo’s heart swells with appreciation.

“Don’t take it too much to heart,” Takenaka rings out from behind Tome, where he’s sharing a box of chocolates with Inukawa. “She uses the same, like, eight alien jokes every year.”

“At least I made something, moron!” Tome snaps back at him. “You just scribbled on a piece of notebook paper!” Inukawa grimaces as his Mobtendo Switch makes a very obvious game over noise. 

Takenaka points a chocolate in Tome’s direction. “But it was original, wasn’t it?”

Shigeo’s smile widens a bit. He’s just glad his friends are all in one place. 

The door to the club room swings open again, and it seems the Body Improvement Club is finished with classes for the day as well. They’re all talking to each other about a new workout regime and tossing their bags to the side. Shigeo watches in slow motion as Onigawara’s bag slips from his hand and hits against Shigeo’s.

Specifically, it hits the front of Shigeo’s bag where the flowers are neatly tucked away.

Shigeo ignores Musashi’s greeting and bolts to his backpack. No, no, no. Surely not. Surely this isn’t happening to him-

He removes the bouquet from his bag, and a few wilted petals fall to the ground around his feet. All that’s really left are some twigs and leaves and the vague semblance of some color. 

“What’s that- Oh.” Onigawara pauses behind Shigeo. “Shit, was that important?” 

Takenaka wrinkles his nose and scratches the back of his neck a bit awkwardly. Tome exchanges a look with Inukawa that suggests it didn’t exactly take the telepath in the room to understand that yeah, it had meant a lot to Shigeo. 

“Kageyama-kun-” Musashi starts, holding out a hand as if to try and calm Shigeo.

“I have to go,” Shigeo blurts. He bows to Tome. “Thank you for the card.” And then he bows to Musashi. “I’ll-I’ll be back tomorrow.” 

With that, Shigeo bolts out the door before he can do something stupid… something like crying. His eyes feel uncomfortably hot, and his throat squeezes tight as he fights back tears. 

–

Teru is already waiting for him at the train station. His boyfriend is looking around, trying to find Shigeo in the swarm of people as one train dispels its passengers and allows more on. 

But Shigeo has had a bit of a growth spurt, so he stands out better than he may have used to. Teru’s eyes lock onto him at the same instant Shigeo notices him searching for him. His boyfriend’s neutral expression very quickly changes into a big grin. Teru pushes off from where he’s leaning against the wall and shoves through the crowd to get to Shigeo.

Shigeo feels so guilty the second Teru starts to approach him, but Teru also has a quality to him that soothes Shigeo like no one else can. As soon as Teru is in front of him, Shigeo wraps him into a hug.

“Oh!” Teru laughs, voice ringing gleefully even with the subtle roar of hundreds of people talking at once. “Happy Valentine’s Day to you too!” He hugs Shigeo back just as tight, tucking his face into his shoulder. Slowly, the horrible shame starts to melt. The warmth of Teru against his body is enough to seep away all the terrible feelings weighing down Shigeo’s conscience. 

They part after a moment. Teru still has his hands on Shigeo’s hips, and he’s beaming up at his boyfriend. Ah, he’s really cute, isn’t he? His school is strict on uniforms, but it seems Teru managed to rebel in his own little way with dangly heart earrings and pink hair clips. 

Teru reaches up and tucks a stray piece of hair behind Shigeo’s ear. “I know we said no gifts-” His hand moves to cup Shigeo’s cheek. “But I couldn’t help myself. I’m sorry!” 

Only Teru would apologize for getting a gift. Shigeo’s heart sinks. He’d been secretly hoping Teru really didn’t get him anything, but it seems that Tome’s secret language had been correct. Shigeo can only watch in half-masked disappointment as Teru rummages through his bag and produces a little gift bag, maybe a little bigger than his hand. Reluctantly, Shigeo takes it from him and peers inside. 

A keychain with a milk carton. Shigeo takes it out and lets it dangle from one finger. “It’s a little silly, I know,” Teru starts with a sheepish smile, “but it reminded me of you. I saw it whenever we went to that store that’s beside the churro store- you know the one? And I couldn’t help but-” He cuts himself off, smile dropping into a horrified expression. “Shige? Are you crying?”

Oh, when did that start? Now that Teru’s mentioned it, Shigeo can’t focus on anything but the hot tears falling from his cheeks. He drops his head in shame. “I-I tried to get you something too, but-but I…” Shigeo sniffles loudly. “It’s terrible.”

Teru ducks his head so he can see Shigeo’s face. “I know for a fact that nothing you could have gotten me is terrible,” he says, offering a reassuring smile. Shigeo only hiccups at that. Why is Teru so wonderful? His boyfriend nestles close to him, rubbing his arm. “Can I at least see for myself?”

Every fiber of Shigeo’s being screams at him not to show Teru, but… he can’t deny him anything. Teru’s his biggest weakness. So Shigeo reaches around to take out the sad, wilted bouquet from his backpack. It looks even worse than it did in the club room. Even the leaves are starting to fall off now. All that’s left are stems and maybe the leftover bud from one of the flowers and- man, Shigeo is crying again.

“I-I couldn’t- There weren’t-”

“They’re perfect,” Teru says.

Shigeo risks looking up at him. He expects… well, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but certainly not the pleased expression on Teru’s face. His boyfriend takes the sad bundle of stems in his own hands and looks up at Shigeo. 

“You thought of me when you got them,” Teru explains with a warm smile. “That’s what matters.”

The tears stop coming, but Shigeo can’t stop his lower lip from trembling. “Is it okay if I kiss you?” he asks softly.

Teru nods, and he stands on his toes to meet Shigeo halfway. Their lips brush together, and it’s like coming home. It’s taking your shoes off and flopping into bed. It’s submerging into a warm bath with a candle lit. It’s comfort. It’s home, Teru is home-

The stems in Teru’s hands tremble, and as if they were fireworks waiting to pop, they explode into an array of big, colorful flowers. Teru yelps in surprise and looks down in awe at the transformation happening right in front of them. The sad little arrangement is no more. Now it’s pinks and yellows and oranges and purples- roses and carnations and peonies and exactly what Shigeo had been looking for when he set his alarm extra early this morning to get Teru a bouquet. 

Teru grins down at the bouquet, then back up at his boyfriend. “You-”

“Thought of you,” Shigeo finishes.

Teru reaches up for a second kiss, a third, a fourth. The cracks in the sidewalk around them start to have wildflowers sprout up, the flower beds lining the pavement begin to spill over-

And they end up missing their train.