#because… it is LOVE !! AND IT’S THE LITTLE MOMENTS & EVERY DAYS THAT CONSTITUTE A LIFETIME ! (⸝⸝o̴̶̷᷄ˬo̴̶̷̥᷅⸝⸝)♡*̣̩⋆��*

[silkjade]

by the time his eyes drift from the realm of ink and paper, the late afternoon sun has long seeped through kaleidoscope glass, dancing in threads of gold, as it weaves a crown of light and shadow atop her head. the air shimmers with hazy opalescence, and the beguiling tricks of his heart, echo the words penned by his late-grandmother, ‘may my child alhaitham lead a peaceful life.’ ….and he thinks this might be it. for love lies within the transience of time: in the fleeting daylight and the quiet solace, in the comfort found of a life unadorned. and so he makes a decision he dares not say aloud just yet, but a smile curves the corner of his lips, as he endeavors to imagine the tranquility of a life with her — forever.

illustrated by @/_hui.an on instagram; this was my second time working with them, and it was just as lovely as the last ! reblogs are okay, but please do not save or use — thank you ♡

[imagining-in-the-margins]

Vienna (S.R.)

*as always, the gif is not indicative of Reader's appearance.

Summary: Spencer is a bona fide 40-year-old virgin. After a few months of dating Reader, he finally decides he wants to change that. Based on "Vienna" by Billy Joel. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Smut (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Virgin!Spencer, Spencer POV, established relationship loss of virginity, fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex Word Count: 3k

MASTERLIST

I’d often wondered whether my preternatural love for autumn was part of why my life had turned out the way it had. As if my love for late-blooming flowers was built into my biology. Something innate in me that carried with it a promise for a lonely youth.

For a long time, I thought my state of waiting might be fated. Eternal celibacy seemed inevitable. As I watched the years pass by, I’d even started to find some comfort in knowing that there was still a part of me left untouched. Something that could be truly mine in a way things so rarely are.

I was resigned to a life filled to the brim with platonic intimacy. It had been a good life; a happy life. I had a family, albeit not in the ordinary sense of the word. But deep within me, in that 21 ounces that pseudoscience claims to constitute a soul, the longing never ceased. It persisted for nearly forty years.

And then I found her.

She walked into my life with little fanfare. Meeting her felt like finding the answer to an impossible equation after lifetimes of searching.

There had never been a dull moment with her. There was never a lapse in the conversation to permit for any awkward misunderstandings.

The first time that she kissed me, it felt nothing like the times before. It was soft and unassuming, like she were a natural extension of myself.

If one must fall into love, she caught me before my brain could even comprehend it was happening. There was no nauseating sunken stomach, no breathless anxiety of whether or not I was making a mistake.

The first night we were alone, she’d held my face in the dim light. I thought then that my lifetime of waiting had finally come to pass.

She’d only needed a moment of vulnerability to read my soul with the highest proficiency.

With an unrivaled tenderness, she’d told me that she had sensed my innocence the first day we met. That night, and every opportunity since, she had assured me that her love was not conditioned on a physical intimacy. Our life would be beautiful regardless of what it looked like, and she saw no need to fuss over something as simple as sex.

Her assurances had been unnecessary. It had hardly been a month before I found myself eager to give away what I’d once held dear.

Even without a faultless memory, I would always remember the first time she touched me without inhibition. I would forever cherish each of the times that I found myself through an exploration of her.

I had always heard the time-old adage, ‘when it’s right, you’ll know,’ and the skeptic in me doubted whether it could be true for someone like me.

But it was. Because that night, I knew. The same as I knew that the sky appears blue when it is closer to violet and that the color of grass depends on a multitude of factors, I knew that my waiting had come to an end.

I knew because it felt right when she walked into my room with faded lipstick and yet another wonderful memory. That quiet moment felt as fated as the first time I met her. That heaviness in my chest lifted when she turned to look at me, as if my soul had finally found its other half.

I approached her without words because they felt so unnecessary. I wrapped my arms around her instead, pulling her back against my chest and reveling in the warmth she provided.

She placed her hands over mine and fell back against me like a weary traveler who’d finally found their way home. I thought to myself that falling in love should always feel that way.

My lips found their way to her neck with a similar familiarity. I littered her with kisses, forever seeking the satisfaction of her sighs. I listened to each full inhale and felt the way her body moved with the breath.

The smell of her perfume would fill my lungs better than oxygen ever could. But as her skin grew feverish, so too did my lips. Chaste pecks turned to open mouthed kisses that were better spent on her.

I pulled away but lingered. I pressed my cheek against her jaw and my breath shook with excitement.

“I don’t want to wait forever,” I whispered into her ear, “I want you.”

She turned her head ever so slightly, pressing our cheeks together until I couldn’t resist the urge to kiss her. Before my lips could make it, though, she spoke the words I knew to be true but always loved to hear.

“You have me,” she said.

I believed her. I felt my belonging in the literal and metaphorical sense. I lifted a hand and pressed it against her chest to feel the soft thrumming of her heart.

Carefully, and taking the time to linger, my hands began removing her clothing. I took my time in a way I rarely ever did. Because was the kind of masterpiece that needed to be appreciated for every freckle and scar. Each perceived imperfection was nothing but the history of her, the proof of a life well-lived.

Her experience bled through to her behavior when she was bare. Although she still had her bashful moments, it didn’t take much persuading for her to drop her arms and turn to face me.

I stared with my usual awestruck expression. My eyes roamed along with my hands. They ended on either side of her smile, which was broken by laughter.

“Your turn,” she giggled.

My heart threatened to stop. Not because of nerves or insecurity, but because she looked so impossibly beautiful, and she was mine.

Her fingers were delicate but quick to undo my shirt. I wondered how it could be that someone could touch me without my needing to recoil.

I leaned into her touch, only slightly, and I sighed with relief when she finally released the pressure around my waist.

She didn’t take anything off. Instead, she slid her fingers underneath the loosened clothing. She explored skin that was normally hidden with an undeniable affection.

She looked at me much the same.

“We don’t have to do this,” she offered. Her voice was so gentle that scarred skin still broke into goosebumps at the sound of it.

I answered her offer by taking it upon myself to remove my clothing. Each piece that fell to the ground felt like the end of something.

Looking at her felt like a beginning.

Whether it was my fear of inadequacy or just the usual, simple overwhelming love I felt for her, I didn’t let her stare. Instead, I pulled her closer until our bare chests touched. Also between us was the evidence of my desire, burning hot and aching to be held by her.

A shaky breath slipped through her lips before I kissed her. I kissed her again, harder, and more insistent than ever before.

She laughed. I did, too.

“You’re the most beautiful thing in all of creation,” I murmured absentmindedly against her lips.

Still smiling, she grabbed hold of one of my hands before she pulled away from me. At first, I thought she was leading us to the bed. But then she spun around on her foot, displaying the entirety of her naked body for my adoration.

“You’d better take a closer look, then,” she said.

“I could never forget,” I reminded.

She knew that, though. That’s why she tempted me the way she did, so that I would remember perfectly how we looked in that moment.

I would see the motion in her body just before I pushed her back against my bed. I served witness to the way she made herself comfortable in a matter of seconds. Her body writhed with anticipation, her skin a perfect contrast to the sheets beneath her.

She was so beautiful in her vulnerability. I could tell she felt the same simply by the way that she looked at me.

As I climbed atop her, I tried to stop my arms from shaking. Her hand reached up to cup my cheek. I nearly fell limp in her embrace. I stumbled forward still, falling onto my forearm so that I could free a hand to feel her.

My hand slid between her open legs at the same time she reached between us. Her fingers felt scorching around the base of me. I imagine mine felt equally paralyzing as they dipped between slick folds.

We groaned in tandem at the sensation. The anticipation heightened with our quickened breath. She was already practically sobbing as I dragged my fingers down warm walls and imagined once more what it would feel like to be welcomed into her fullest embrace.

I was surprised to find how much her hand fumbled, how unpracticed she seemed when faced with my ultimate submission.

Dare I say, she almost seemed nervous. Yet I would never be anywhere near dissatisfaction. I was quite the opposite, already aching for the release that only she could give me.

“Do you want to do this?”

I was surprised to hear the question uttered in my own voice.

But I was so happy to hear her answer, “Yes.”

Then, with a lovesick smile that would always seem too good to be true, she teased, “I’m ready when you are.” 

I returned it with a taunt of my own. I withdrew my fingers and spread the remnants of her desire over her heat.

“I can tell.”

Like always, she accepted it with grace, and her own clever retort.

“I guess there really is something to that genius thing after all.”

But when the jokes were over, I was lost in the wonder once more. My whole body felt aflame with lust and lover for her the very moment that her legs fell further open.

I looked down at the way her chest heaved and her stomach tensed. Her back was arching like every part of her sought closeness.

As if her body had been begging: I love you, let me shelter you.

She must have seen how foreign the feeling was to me, because as soon as I felt the familiar warmth of tears gathering in my eyes, her grip turned gentle. One leg hooked around my waist and pulled me closer until I could feel the velvety slickness against the head of my cock.

“How about I help you with this part?” she offered.

I lowered my hand to join hers before I replied, “Together.”

“Together,” she promised.

True to her word, she helped guide me to her entrance before her hand slipped away. It found me again shortly thereafter when both of her arms were thrown around my shoulders.

I pushed forward to find a slight resistance. My breath caught in my throat, my whole body halting without any command.

“Keep going,” she said breathlessly, “It’s okay.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I explained.

She silenced any further protest by rooting her hands in my hair and pulling me in for a kiss. My hips fell forward from the momentum, sinking a few more inches into the blinding, blissful heat of her.

I tried to accommodate the feeling of her the same way her body tried to make room for me. Each twitch of my cock was returned with her walls closing in on me. Every one of her limbs begged for more of me, and I wanted so badly to give it.

But I was still bashful, still frightened by the possibility of hurting her somehow.

She ended the kiss prematurely. Before she could speak, she whimpered. Her eyes opened to reveal mirrors into myself. A vulnerability, a belonging beyond the physical.

Her body begged me, and I answered. I pressed forward, sinking into her inch by inch until there was nothing more to give. I reveled in the soft sounds of her pleasure, the way her whimpers turned to wanton moans.

“I love you through infinity,” I whispered against her lips.

“I love you, too,” she returned dreamily.

Her body was pulsing around me with a burning heat and unrivaled softness. I felt the shelter of her, the vulnerability of her embrace. There was no greater reward than the knowing that she allowed me, begged for me to claim the empty space in her body.

“You are…”

I struggled to find the words to explain the thought.

She found them for me.

“Yours,” she slurred, “I’m yours, Spencer.”

My hips moved without thought. They bucked forward and caused moans to spill from both our lips.

I became greedy quickly. I desperately sought to hear her again, to experience again the novel wonder that was her body. I pulled my hips back and focused on the way her walls clenched tighter, begging me to stay.

I returned to them immediately. I thrusted forward, faster than before and with enough force to set her body in motion.

Her mouth was open, alternating between simple, wonderful sounds and a lack of them altogether. The twisted tension, the unmuted pleasure of half-lidded eyes and flushed lips, it made me realize how badly I’d craved this experience all my life.

Again, my hips crashed into hers. I fucked her harder and took pride in the way her nails dug into my skin. I wanted her to claim me with the same animalistic nature that I displayed.

“I’ve waited my whole life for you,” I told her between brutal thrusts.

Like always, she understood the meaning behind the words. She could feel the decades of yearning with every motion. Each time that I bottomed out inside her, she would praise me, worship me, love me.

I didn’t expect her to respond with anything more than her body. It spoke so eloquently. Her back arched and her nails dragged down my shoulders as she struggled to keep hold.

To relieve her of the need, I straightened my back and sat up. With both hands, I pulled her hips up to meet mine.

“Fuck!” she squeaked.

I understood what she’d meant. The new angle felt entirely different, impossibly better than the one from mere seconds before.

“Are you alright?” I asked, anyway.

“Yes,” she said with a quick nod, “Yes, you’re perfect.”

My long dormant ego swelled at the praise. It turned my lips into a smirk and made my hands pull her even closer.

I watched with rapt attention as I pulled out of her. It seemed so intimate—was so intimate—that I couldn’t break away. Fascinated by the way her body accepted me, I continued to watch where we joined as I pulled her hips back to me. 

“You look so beautiful like this,” I groaned.

So elegant, so submissive and pliant as I filled her with the full length of my desire.

“You do, too,” she giggled.

I looked up to see her, and, immediately, I missed her. Without even taking the time to readjust her hips, I moved forward until our lips met.

She gasped at the pleasurable pain when I found a new depth of her. She swallowed my moans the same way her heat accepted me.

It was all so new, so overwhelming and invigorating that I couldn’t stop myself. My movements became sloppy and insistent. Her body folded beneath mine at the same time her arms fell on the bed. She gripped the sheets with a vengeance.

Open and wanting, her chest heaved, and her small voice managed to call my name.

“Do it, Spencer,” she pleaded with her everything, “Come for me.”

Without a single hesitation, I did. Unaware of how close I’d even come; I gave one more unrelenting thrust before I was hit with a truly staggering wave of pleasure.

As I emptied myself inside of her, the warmth pooled around what was an already burning heat. Each pulse came with bucking hips. Every time, her body tightened around me and prolonged the pleasure.

“I love you,” I chanted while the world felt far away.

She had never felt closer.

“I love you,” we said together just as I fell limp in her arms.

Breathless and with fast-beating hearts, I melted into her embrace without regret. I felt the sticky warmth as it filled every particle that remained between our joined bodies.

It was the most heavenly bliss, to feel so thoroughly loved.

Yet she was the one to say it first.

“Thank you,” she slurred.

“It was my pleasure,” I chuckled back. I’d meant it literally and in the traditional, colloquial sense.

The kindness continued when she was finally able to move again. She didn’t go far. Instead, she wrapped lazy arms around me and tilted her head back so that I could nuzzle further against her shoulder.

“Was it worth the wait?” she asked cheekily.

But I noticed the way her voice still shook. She would blame the exhaustion, but I could tell that she was nervous.

There was no reason for her to be. Regret was the furthest thing from my thoughts.

“Yes, it was,” I assured her.

Then, because she deserved to hear it and because it was the undeniable truth, I explained, “It had to be you. It would have always been you.”

“Are you saying I was meant to be yours?” she giggled.

“No,” I corrected with a smile, “I’m saying I was meant to be yours.”

“Split the difference?” she offered.

“Not a chance,” I scoffed.

“Fine,” she sighed happily. “I guess you’re mine.”

And I took comfort in knowing that everything was finally, exactly how it was meant to be.

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[lovelyirony]

made up fic title: icarus, icarus (you flew too high)

"There is a kind of tragic joke. You can’t really keep a man down -good but often otherwise- because history’s mechanics are built to keep him from climbing toward the top. Somehow, Icarus gets to be reborn as Iron Man.” -Wesley Morris

When Tony was young, he didn’t think that limitations really ever mattered to someone like him, and...he was right. They didn’t matter. 

The Starks were a family you never crossed because one overly-polite tone of disapproval from Maria Stark could send your social pedigree reeling. Just one scoff from Howard Stark sends your whole world plummeting. 

And Tony? 

Well...he learned both sides of the coin. There’s no telling what kind of damage he would do if he cared about others enough to. 

At least, that’s the picture he paints for all to see. The mediums he use are just fascinating. 

When Tony was little, he was the darling of American media. Whip-smart but in the “aw gee mister” Dennis the Menace nature that earned a ruffle of the hair, a disapproving-but-gentle-smile from his mother. 

Outside of the cameras, Tony was left alone. His mother would much rather dedicate her time to her socialite friends, trying to rejuvenate the feeling of youth that had fled so long ago, rushing in expectations of adulthood that she was loath to accept. 

His father wanted to focus on a man that was left on faded posters, advertising war bonds and a solution to a war that involved far more than anyone wanted to admit. Howard Stark much preferred to look through the world with amber-tinted glasses, and he didn’t much care if his son had a different tint. 

The thing about Tony as a child was this: he really was naive. Looking back on it, he should’ve seen his parents’ faults. 

But when you’re a kid, and when you watch TV shows and you read books for kids your age, all of the pictures and words depict parents as loving. 

So you think yours are too. 

Or, you think that maybe they’ll love you if you do the right thing. You don’t really know what the right thing is, so then you look towards one thing you should never look to: perfection. 

Maybe if you can get straight A’s, your mom will look at your report card and she’ll be proud. 

Maybe if you can perfect the robotics of one of the machines that your dad has been having trouble with, he’ll take an interest in what you have to say about the possibility of mirror technology for planes for the military. 

Neither of these work. 

So maybe if you look perfect. Maybe if you never have a hair out of place, maybe if you attain the everyone-wants-to-be-me status your parents will notice. 

And they won’t. 

They never do, and Tony? Well. 

Sometimes, people realize that it is not their fault that their parents are terrible people. Others don’t, and they internalize that. They think it’s their fault. 

Tony works hard. He studies everything, and he just wants someone to love him for himself. 

And then he goes to college. 

Thrown into a situation where there is no parent to impress but they’re still hoping that the heir of Stark Industries makes good decisions. 

And he does. 

He’s nice to everyone and any time any of the staff wants him to go for any publicity stunt, he does. He wears slacks and button-downs and drags himself out of bed and brings extra pens for giddy autographs and answers every single question comparing him to Howard with a glittering smile. 

Tony’s so fucking tired. He’s just...it’s all too much. 

He doesn’t do anything drastic, of course. No, too many eyes on him for that. Doesn’t want to become the next celebrity shut-in for a “delicate constitution” and “stress from work” or whatever bullshit his mom will sell to the papers to make sure that his legacy stays untainted from any malicious words. 

But he does sit outside at two in the morning. Doesn’t matter if it’s pouring rain or snowing or so bitterly cold that after about twenty minutes he doesn’t feel his fingers. 

There’s a person at the front desk who sees him every single time he goes outside. 

James Rhodes, who did not originally want the night-owl shift, but got guilt-tripped into it because Hope needed to help her mom at her house. 

So now, here he is. 

Staring at Tony Stark, who still wears the button-down shirts and slacks outside and doesn’t carry a fucking umbrella. 

Jesus, it’s fucking depressing. He’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to be sad at the front desk for someone else’s sake. 

The next time, it’s a torrential downpour. Thundering and lightning comes crashing, and the windows shake with the noise. 

And there he goes. 

Except before he steps out, comes back soaked, James does the only thing he can think to do: 

"Tony Stark, you get your ass back in here,” he says. 

He knows he shouldn’t have said that. 

You say one thing to a rich white kid and you’re down the drain. 

Tony Stark just looks at him. 

“What?” 

“Get inside. You don’t need to go outside for anything.” 

“I didn’t know you noticed.” 

“You’re really the only person who comes here at two in the morning.” 

“I am?” 

“Well, besides people at parties on Friday nights.” 

“Oh.” 

“Why do you go outside?” 

Tony freezes. It’s not a question he wants to answer. 

“Why do you work so late?” 

“No one else wanted to.” 

“Oh. Why did you decide to work on-campus?” 

“Flexible hours and I don’t have to drive anywhere.” 

“That sounds nice. Are you really going to stop me from going outside?” 

There’s another clap of thunder, white flashing all across the room from the windows, the windows themselves shaking. The rain pounds harder. 

“I think if you go outside you’ll come back looking like a drowned rat, and you really don’t wanna look like that.” 

“And what do I want to look like?” Tony asks. 

“I don’t know,” Rhodey says. “But drowned-rat-look was so two years ago.” 

Tony cracks a grin at that. 

“Can’t argue with that flawless logic. I’ll see you later.” 

And he walks off, as casual as can be. 

Thunder still shakes the building. 

But James is a little bit more at peace. 

- 

And then. 

Of course there’s an “And then” portion. 

Howard and Maria Stark die. 

It was a car crash, an accident. James avoids seeing the papers that don’t seem to care how graphic the pictures are, they’ll show it. 

He doesn’t know how to approach Tony Stark about this predicament, but everyone else, it seems, is just dying to, so-

Oh god. Yeah. Bad timing. 

Tony Stark does not come down the stairs at two a.m. for a week. For more than half of that week he is back home. But on the last day, he is there. 

He looks tired. Which of course he looks tired. He’s had people shove cameras in his face and he probably had to go over wills and estate hearings or whatever it is he needed to do. 

“I’m not coming back,” he tells Jim. 

“For the year, or for a long time?” he asks, because that kind of thing is something he’d like to know. 

“Ever. They don’t want me to start running the company.” 

“Why not?” 

“They say I’m too young. But that’s not the real reason.” 

“Okay.” 

And James leaves it at that. Because he is very much so not looking for any drama, it’s already drama enough that Tony’s parents died and there are already conspiracy gossip magazines just running with it. 

Tony is CEO, or at least co-CEO. He graces the covers of Forbes and Vogue and any other magazine that has any sort of interest in him. 

Another “and then” moment: 

He goes missing. 

He said he was ready for more responsibility, according to an article from Forbes. 

(What? James can keep up with news.) 

Tony Stark was ready for more responsibility, to prove that he could do what everyone said he couldn’t, to prove that he could further a legacy he didn’t want in the first place. 

So there was the Jericho missile. The demonstration went fine, all things considered by the US military report. 

The problem was that the cars got hijacked and Tony Stark was presumed dead. 

Ah. 

Another American society family gone to history books, and James Rhodes knew one of them at least on a somewhat personal level. 

He wasn’t going to tell anyone. 

At least not until he needed to pay off a loan or something. He’s not even sure what people would do with the fact that Tony Stark was a night owl who liked spending time outdoors. 

Maybe it’s because James Rhodes is gearing up for the military (at least, he thinks?) or maybe it’s because when he can’t go to bed he spends his time watching conspiracy videos and he shouldn’t do that, especially with all of the misinformation out there. 

People don’t think that Tony disappearing was a coincidence. It makes sense. 

Months after his parents death, and he assumes the role of CEO a year earlier than anticipated? 

Obadiah Stane has been working at that company for Tony’s entire lifetime and then some. It had to sting knowing someone without the “proper” years of education and familiarity would take over and maybe ruin whatever it was you had planned. 

So James Rhodes is kind of Concerned. 

- 

“You’re doing what?” His mama says over the phone. 

“I’m not gonna join Air Force,” Jim says to his mother. 

She’s been trying to convince him not to for about a solid year now. The reason she gives him is that he’s a damned fool who would probably get sent home with a broken foot or something anyways. He rolls his eyes at this. 

(The real reason is that she doesn’t want to see an American flag draped across a coffin she shouldn’t have had to consider.) 

“So what made you change your mind?” Dad asks. 

“Career opportunity. I’m going to work at Stark Industries.” 

“Doing what?” 

“Research and Development, plus a little bit of testing. I’ve been talking with a couple of friends.” 

“Which friends?” 

“You don’t know them, Ma.” 

“Why not?” 

James lets out a frustrated breath. 

“Because they’re from college.” 

“Doesn’t mean I don’t know them.” Mama scoffs, and he can hear her moving around the kitchen.

“You-I’m not gonna argue. You don’t know them, I do, and I’m going to see if I can get hired at Stark Industries or not. I’ll call you as soon as I get news.” 

- 

Stark Industries is hiring him as soon as he walks in for the department. With Tony gone, they need all the help they can get, even from someone with almost no experience. 

He learns. 

He learns a hell of a lot. 

He learns that Howard Stark was a fucking asshole who had no idea how anything worked, and everyone loves Tony because he’s fun and hardworking and he knows what the company needs. 

James hasn’t forgotten the message. 

They say I’m too young to be CEO. But that’s not the real reason. 

He doesn’t know what Tony means by that. 

Until Obadiah Stane starts talking. He’s always had a loose tongue, it’s part of why many SI employees can jump ahead of the curve on decisions and pick up loose ends. 

“The boy was always a jokester,” Obadiah says to his old colleagues, the ones who reek of cigar smoke and outrageously expensive alcohol. “Never wanted to play it seriously, and that’s how it was with the Jericho, you know? Just like his old man, Anthony was.” 

He gets a bad taste in his mouth. 

Tony was never someone to joke, at least not all the time. He had quips for the cameras, but he never once spoke out of turn. He was almost impossible to get a negative reaction out of, had never really had any press scandals that James knew of. No one spoke about anything if it had happened.

James decides to do something that is most definitely illegal, and will most likely make him homeless: 

He accesses files that he’s not supposed to. Files on Stane’s computer, files that no one else has access to besides a remote access somewhere in Afghanistan. 

Tony Stark. 

Sitting in a ripped up tank top, blood all over him. He’s looking to the camera with a sort of determination. 

Obadiah should be turning this into the FBI or CIA or whatever underground organization there is. 

But he isn’t. 

Which means that he probably paid for this to happen, and now there’s something to be done. 

-

“What are you doing in this office?” 

James’ head snaps up to see the PA of Tony, Pepper Potts. Said to have the fury of all the dragons in the world, impeccable fashion sense, and a competency that would scare off God. 

James is terrified. 

“Um. I kind of got evidence against Stane.” 

“You found the files too?” 

“Yeah? Wait, you know? Please tell me you’re not on his side.” 

“He wouldn’t ever be my choice of an ally,” Pepper says, wrinkling her nose. She whips out a flash drive, tapping some things into the computer before shutting it down. “No, you’ll be helping me get my old boss back. I refuse to quit, I hate job hunting.” 

James is pretty sure that this is not the only reason, but job-hunting does suck. 

There are voices coming down the hallway. Pepper freezes. 

“What should we do? I’m not getting fired, oh my god-” 

Obadiah walks into the hallway with the higher-up offices, and there’s Rhodes and Miss Potts discussing some sort of thing that the R&D department probably needs marketing help on. 

He doesn’t notice Pepper slip a USB into her purse, thinking it’s lipstick. 

Obadiah always jumps to conclusions far too quickly, Howard used to tell him that that was what was going to do him in. 

- 

The US military takes care of it. Or someone like it. 

Pepper knows someone named Phillip Coulson, which sounds honestly like a name that shouldn’t be the name of an American man. 

“We’ll get him back as soon as possible,” says Mr. Coulson, who has a bland smile that betrays nothing and makes James feel uneasy. 

- 

Tony comes back in one piece. He comes back with bonus material. 

Rhodes shouldn’t have thought that. But now he has, and that is that. 

Pepper Potts made him come onto the tarmac with her. 

Tony stills. 

“What the absolute hell are you doing here?” 

There’s no heat to the statement, can’t be when he’s as exhausted as he is. 

“Moral support,” Pepper says. “He also works for you, I thought that’s how you knew each other.” 

Tony gives Rhodes a hard look. 

“Sure.” 

They’ll have a discussion later. 

- 

He shuts down weapons-manufacturing. Rhodes can see Stane’s eyes glint with anger from where he’s standing. 

“We’re all just tired,” he says, chortling as if Tony coming back after being captured for three months is all one gigantic joke that’s just waiting for the punchline. 

“No,” Tony says. 

For the first time in his life, he says no for himself. 

“I’m not tired,” he states plainly. “Well, I’m tired of sand in my hair.” 

Cue uneasy laughs. 

Tony continues on. “I have been complacent for too long. And I want my legacy to not be a continuation of my father’s, but a better legacy. Which is why, effective immediately, weapons manufacturing is being shut down.” 

Flash go the cameras, and Rhodes doesn’t know how he’s swung it, but he’s helping stuff Tony into a car, and that can’t be- 

It’s a burger. 

“You want fries or something?” Tony asks. “You can have fries. I don’t really like the fries they serve, not my deal.” 

Rhodey eats a cold fry that honestly sucks, but it’s better than no food at all. 

“You’re back and you’re already causing a Mount-Everest-level of work,” Pepper says. “I’ve missed that.” 

“What, they’ve been boring you to death?” 

“Nearly,” she says. “Let’s get you home.” 

James is not sure what to do in this situation. Because he probably shouldn’t be going to his technically-boss’s-place-of-residence, but he’s kind of gotten caught up in the drama of this whole situation, and he’s not sure if he remembered to get his apartment key from his office. 

Tony Stark keeps looking at him. 

“Why did you...? I thought you were going to fight for the Air Force or whatever. I didn’t think you wanted a job with us.” 

“I didn’t,” he says simply. “But you said that they didn’t want you to be CEO, and it wasn’t just because you were on the young side. I figured that you needed someone to at least find out.” 

“Did you think I was dead?” 

“I was about seventy-five percent sure you weren’t,” James says. 

“And why is that? Because I’m an inventor?” 

“No. It’s because you would go out in freezing temperatures for an hour in nothing but slacks and a white button-down in college, which was weird. What were you doing, anyways?” 

“Not important,” Tony says. “Pepper, can you order more food? I’ve dearly missed American cuisine and all the sodium.” 

“You need to go to a hospital.” 

“Yeah, not happening.” 

“And why is that?” 

“I’ll...” Tony sends a look to James. 

“I’ll tell you when we get home,” he says quietly. 

“Do you have a phone I can use for a taxi ride?” James asks. 

“You can take one of my cars.” 

James has seen the various articles on Tony Stark’s ever-growing car collection. All of them are worth more than his entire life, and he is petrified of them. 

“I can call a taxi.” 

“What, scared you’ll screw up the paint job?” 

“Scared I’ll crash.” 

Tony laughs, and then winces. It seems that something’s weighing on him. 

“That’s the least of my worries. I’ll set you up with a Ferrari, then.” 

“That doesn’t make me feel better.” 

“It should! It’s my least favorite.” 

“And you still have one anyways?” 

"They tend to be for appearances only, although occasionally they can get the job done. I wouldn’t take one for a road trip.” 

- 

So James is driving a Ferrari and trying not to die, even though his boss told him he wouldn’t. 

He makes it home and leans against the wall of his apartment. 

His neighbor had stared at him. 

“You get a pay bonus or something?” 

“Or something, Clint. Or something.” 

“Okay, okay, I get it. No questions asked.” 

- 

Returning to work is...an ordeal. 

“You bought a Ferrari?” Wesley asks, looking over the car. “How? I thought you hated them!” 

“I do, and that doesn’t change anything,” James says. “Now hands off the car unless you want Tony Stark himself to smite you down.” 

“He wouldn’t smite me down,” they scoff. “At the most, he’ll give me a strong talking-to that in no way rivals my mother’s reactions to anything I do.” 

James grins, laughing. 

“I’d hate to meet your mother.” 

“Believe me, so did I.” 

The conversation is cut short by Pepper entering the offices. 

“Rhodes, with me please?” 

“Of course,” he responds. 

For a few moments, there’s nothing but the click of Pepper’s heels and the steady thump of Rhodes’ work boots. 

“So. What’s going on, Ms. Potts?” 

“I need you to sign some NDAs.” 

“For?” 

“...you’ll find out.” 

- 

James is led to Tony’s personal work workshop, which is something incredibly fun to say twice as fast as you normally would. 

There is also something protruding from his chest, and Rhodes just stares. 

“So, is this like. A new thing?” 

“Relatively,” Tony says dryly. “I didn’t have it in college, safe to assume.” 

“I would’ve felt a bit like an idiot if you had had it and I failed to notice.” 

“Well, now you know. Pep, the paperwork?” 

Rhodes is slipped quite the stack of sheets, and is handed a pen that probably costs more than his pair of shoes. 

“So, what’s the reason for this?” 

"Well, you’re getting an NDA for this thing, and for a couple of other things,” Tony starts out. “I’m going to be letting you in on a secret that no one can find out about. And if they do find out, you are not going to like what I do to you.” 

“Noted.” 

“Meet me for dinner at seven,” Tony says. “Bring the car back, won’t you?” 

“Gladly, so long as you don’t call me Jamie.” 

“Not a nickname kinda guy?” 

“Not that nickname kinda guy,” he says with a wince. 

Tony smiles. 

“And Rhodey?” 

“I suppose I can’t petition for Jim?” 

“I know far too many ‘Jims’ in my lifetime, darling.” 

He doesn’t know how to feel about this, any of this. He doesn’t think his life is in danger, or else Pepper might have a sharper smile on her face like when she’s about to tear apart someone she doesn’t like. 

His boots make a steady rhythm on the floor as he exits, and he wonders if he should fill up the gas tank all the way as a courtesy. (When a man is richer than God, maybe, you ask a lot of questions.) 

-

James Rhodes, for once in his life, does not know what to wear. 

Usually, the nicest outfit he ever wore was a suit to his grandparents’ funerals, and then for church or any other event it was a polo shirt or a button-down and black pants with reasonably nice loafers. 

Tony Stark probably has on a suit that is more than a very nice, reasonably priced used car. Which is quite a lot, in Rhodey’s opinion. 

Oh god. He’s started thinking about himself with the nickname. 

He settles on a dark green button-down with no tie, and he drives the Ferrari about five miles under the speed limit and causes quite a bit of trouble for traffic. People honk. Someone in a lifted truck calls him a name that was really quite creative and unexpected. 

He arrives in one piece, which is a great deal. 

Tony is lounging in jeans and an old t-shirt, and Rhodey feels a bit guilty about his own outfit choice. 

“Sorry for the...shirt. Here are your keys.” 

“What’s wrong with your shirt? Looks great from where I’m laying,” Tony says, a hint of a grin on his face. 

“You want some pizza?” 

He relaxes slightly. 

Tony Stark is a very guarded man. His shoulders are tense even though he’s reclining as if he’s relaxing, and he’s looking at Rhodey with a look of curiosity. 

“So, why am I here?” Rhodey asks. “Besides pizza and returning car keys.” 

“We can get to that soon. For now, pizza. And talk with Pepper.” 

Pepper comes in, holding a wine bottle and balancing three wine glasses expertly in the other hand. 

She has to be a magician or a goddess or something. There’s no way someone can be that grateful. She also looks like a model in simple red shorts and an over-sized t-shirt advertising some old running event. 

“I see you forgot to tell him the dress code,” Pepper says. “You want a different shirt, Rhodes? It’ll be easier for later.” 

“If I could,” he says, slowly. “What’s it for?”

“Green not your color?” Tony asks, eyebrows raised.

“No, but button-downs aren’t my favorite.” 

He eats a piece of pizza and makes small-talk about pizza toppings. Tony loves pepperoni and absolutely hates Canadian bacon. 

“It is ham, call it what it is, and then never put it on pizza again,” he whines. 

Rhodey smiles. 

“I still stand by green bell peppers being the worst.” 

“Have you ever had good pizza?” Tony asks. “I don’t think you have, otherwise you wouldn’t be saying those things.” 

Pepper chucks a t-shirt at Rhodey. 

“It might fit a bit tight, but it should be fine.” 

“What exactly is this for?” 

Tony turns away as Rhodey changes into the shirt. He looks again when it’s all on, and Rhodey’s shifting a bit. It is a bit tight, but not bad. 

Tony is staring. 

Rhodey does not notice this, because sometimes Rhodey is very bad at observations. 

“Come with me,” Tony says. “I’m about to show you what will be, I think, the world-changing thing.” 

“A thing?” 

“A thing,” Tony says with a smile. “My legacy.” 

Inside is a treasure trove of toys and machines and Rhodey can see Dum-E, the robot that had been submitted to a robotics contest at MIT. He didn’t know he was still around. 

And then, the opus magnum of it all: 

(At least, Rhodey thinks.) 

“This is a flyable suit of armor,” Tony says. “And I need to make an offer to you.” 

Rhodey turns, looks at him. 

Tony breathes in, breathes out. 

“My father’s legacy was building weapons for the war, helping out wherever he could. He’s been hailed as a hero for years, and I was expected to fill his shoes. And I tried, I really did.” His face hardens as he looks down at the blue light emanating from his chest. 

“My attempt at becoming my father was perhaps the worst thing I’ve ever done, because it resulted in innocent lives being lost and my own ignorance to become someone I should never have been in the first place. This? This is the answer to it all.” 

“And what are you hoping to get out of me?” Rhodey asks. 

“Flying lessons.” 

“Flying lessons,” Rhodey deadpans. “You just built a knight-in-armor with jets or whatever, and you want me to give you flying lessons.” 

“Well, it’d be helpful,” Tony says. “You nearly went into the Air Force. You have to know more than most.” 

“Only sometimes.” 

“Better than never,” Tony says. 

“Why me?” Rhodey asks. “You could’ve asked anyone with military clearance or someone that knows you better.” 

“You never once questioned me in college,” Tony says simply. 

Rhodey stares. 

“That’s your reasoning?” 

“The reason why I’m his PA is because I didn’t bullshit on wrong answers, and Happy--his driver--got hired because he liked him more than other people,” Pepper says. “He has good intuition.” 

Rhodey takes another look at Tony. 

He looks determined. 

And he looks like he knows what he wants to do, and he’s going to make his own path. 

Rhodey can’t lie. He can’t say he doesn’t want to be there for that. He can’t lie and say he isn’t itching to get a look at the suit design, see where improvements can be made. 

He takes a deep breath. 

“So,” he starts, grinning, “When do I get my own suit? Can’t let you have all the fun.” 

Tony cracks a grin. 

“Let’s just try this one out first, pilot.” 

Rhodey grins, looking at the progress. Tony grins back, just as wide. 

“Well,” Rhodey says, nearly giddy. “Let’s start the future.” 

[drivingsideways]

Hi Pri, I'm back with more coherent thought(I hope). Sorry for the previous asks. I'm no expert so I can't comment on the actual institutional changes. I did say despair because in one part I have no faith in an institution like the military reforming itself when the entire purpose to teach others to perhaps one day take a life. Of all the things Seokbong knew, his love for teaching, art, the students he taught, his mom that he called for at the last moment, he still chose death. The desire for all of these had been beaten out of him. I can't tell if "I should at least do something" was for himself or for others watching, hoping it would change them. Maybe it felt good to watch him fight back, finally, but the end was so cruel to him. To be honest, I do live a country where, on paper, we have a good constitution, child protection laws, labour laws, gender based violence etc yet everyday, we have a new statistic. Every new victim, like Seokbong, is just one too many to me. So it seems like we are on our own in every which way. That feels hopeless to me. (PS: DP makes it so clear why LSY had to have a character like HSM, it's brutal out there.) (And a large part of this how I feel about it which may not be helpful in anyway, especially against the points you made.)

Hi Anon! First off, apologies, because I think your earlier ask crossed tracks in my brain with what I was thinking about at the time, and so I misunderstood what you were saying. I don't think it's an invalid reaction in any way to feel despair/ horror at the hopelessness that ending is imbued with. At the end of the day, D.P, though heavily based in reality is, in fact, a work of fiction. So there were deliberate narrative choices made, and you are following those narrative cues. We are intended to feel horror and sorrow at what happened to Suk-bong.

But! It's also worth noting (assuming that the show followed the webtoon closely even in the ending) that the same text reads differently depending on the time and context. In 2015-16, I would guess that this was intended to make people pay attention to a terrible problem, and do something about it. In 2021, as I wrote before, it probably reads differently to domestic audiences, for whom the source material isn't new, and who've seen things change at least a little ; though I'm sure there are those watching who feel despair at how slow progress has been. International audiences on the other hand, I think, are mostly reacting both to our current general context (the world seems a very dark place right now for most of us!) and the general horror that the show depicts.

Under the cut for length

I don't know if I've got anything more useful to say than I've already said re: my own response to the ending, which is to take a slightly more optimistic view of the world, I guess!

I don't think it's unfair to say that an institution like the military can never be reformed fully because its very basis is so violent. I agree! In my perfect world, there exists no nation states and no armies (and no need for them). Alas, we're a ways from that stage (but I'm hopeful we will get there, probably not in my lifetime, but maybe by the time of my great-grand nieces/ nephews/gender fluid cyborgs! :D) And you're right, every new statistic is one too many, one more person we've failed as a society. And it's very hard to live with that knowledge, unless you've completely deadened your conscience, or shut yourself away (which is a trauma response I can understand!)

As to the larger question of how to "fix" these almost incomprehensibly huge problems- idk, there's no one size fits all here, is there? Many people feel justified in choosing violence as a path to change, many others abjure it, with equally justifiable reasons. I fall in the latter category and try not to judge the former too harshly.

On a more personal note, my immediate impulse is to "fix it" - i.e. the story we've been told in DP- by writing a story of recovery, healing and change! I feel it's important to counter narratives that feel hopeless with narratives that show the possibility for change; I feel that need is more immediate now than ever before in my own lifetime. But I guess that's just where I'm coming from.

Take care anon! I hope some of this rambling is helpful to you!

[tiaragqueen]

Effete

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Alastor x Reader

✂ Word Count: 1,2k+

✂ Trigger Warnings: Manipulation, confinement, mention of murder

[Edited]

***

I can't believe I've regressed far enough to like this bastard, but I have no regrets. And it's very, very self-indulgent.

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

“When we first met, I didn't know what to do. So, I gave you my heart. Now, it belongs to you.” - Gave You My Heart [Teenage Bottlerocket]

Perhaps, you’d grown comfortable with him. Perhaps, his jovial and charismatic façade had fooled you a bit too much. Perhaps, you were just stupid for dismissing Vaggie's warning as mindless concern and ended up falling into such a flagrant trap; one that you could’ve avoided had you take a step back and perceive the world through a realistic eye.

This was Hell, not Heaven. The inhabitants constituted of wicked humans whose circumstances had forced them to act that way or personal autonomy. Therefore, it was only natural to presume that their attitudes remained the same and reformation had probably never crossed their minds before. Sure, a lot of them suffered in here, but wasn’t it the very definition of punishment? To make them suffer for their sins?

And, well, some people enjoyed dwelling on this pandemonium and planned to dominate it. Namely, Alastor himself. You had an inkling of suspicion that he only assisted Charlie to use her to expand his already large territory; something that Vaggie shared.

Unfortunately, it remained just that; an inkling. It didn’t blossom into a full-blown paranoia and overprotectiveness like Vaggie had so readily displayed to her girlfriend.

No, you’d regressed.

All traces of apprehension and skepticism from his abrupt appearance vanished the moment he serenaded and bantered with you. It came to the point where you fell into melancholy whenever he ‘disappeared’, giving tight-lipped smiles to concerned questions and often ignored people on accident. Being a sensible person, it didn’t take too long for Vaggie to put two and two together and, suffice to say, she looked rather… disappointed in you. Even Husk noticed this and wondered, aloud, if Alastor had ‘poisoned’ you with his ‘shitty’ grin somehow.

But you genuinely liked Alastor, and although you knew he would never reciprocate your feelings aside from a sneer, you wanted to keep this childish crush alight. In a way, it reminded you of your old life where you used to get all giddy over attractive men, even if they didn’t exactly possess a ‘boyfriend material’ or even good personality to begin with.

You just… hadn’t considered the possibility of him liking you back. And, maybe, his infatuation had overstepped the boundaries a little. But that was to be expected, no? He was a demon, after all. So you shouldn’t hope for a benign, or even fair, treatment beyond courtesy from him.

Because, as he’d kindly remarked, you’d brought this upon yourself. Therefore, it was your responsibility to deal with the repercussions.

Was it really your fault, though? You just wished for romantic love and attention from a special someone; something that you never truly had even during your lifetime.

And, perhaps, that was what plunged you to Hell in the first place. You were so desperate for affection until you willingly gave them everything, only to ended with a crushing disappointment once the truth manifested. From cheating to manipulation, you’d endured it all. And then you murdered them slowly, painfully, methodically. You’d reminded yourself many times that you wouldn’t fall in love again, but every lesson and bittersweet memories seemed to have escaped your brain the second someone displayed a hint that they liked you somehow. Never mind that it was probably platonic or accidental, you’d cherish it.

However, it was different now. You were no longer able to kill the men who had disappointed you, or tortured them until they begged for undeserving mercy because Alastor was stronger than you. He’d been here longer than you were, and he’d committed crimes more than you did.

Now, you were the captured one. The tortured victim. And you were what you’d always been; a hopeless romantic.

“Good evening, my dear!”

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Oddly enough, he always came whenever you recollected your first meeting with him, as though he knew that his appearance could exacerbate your predicament. You began to wonder whether he could secretly read minds, or if he was just that good at reading you. The latter didn’t sound as farfetched as the first one considering how… manipulative he was, and something that you hadn’t fully swallowed despite being aware of his intelligence.

Alastor burst into the room and skipped towards your cage. It was tall enough for you to stand at half your height, yet narrow enough to limit your movements, and was made from sturdy iron painted in gold to appear deluxe. You didn’t react well when he told you that he’d abducted during slumber and tried to stab him, thus, the cage became your new ‘room’. It was rather pitiful to see you slumping on the floor like you’d lost all hope in the world, but it was better than seeing your reckless attempt of murder. And he wouldn’t deny the surge of pride he felt whenever you pleaded him for something so mundane like food and never bothered to conceal it, either.

That just served to further established his power over you, whether you admitted it or not. Without him, you wouldn’t survive and Alastor reveled every moment of your dependency. It was nice to watch a cautious girl like you gradually stooped at his allure until you collapsed, the lights in your eyes dimmed to mere voids.

However, it was just a little ‘love test’. Alastor would surely release you after you’d ‘proved’ yourself, because even he was still capable of doing ‘good’ sometimes, however vague it sounded. He only wanted to see whether you were worthy of his love, although he didn’t know how to love beyond himself.

Then again, why did it matter? As long as he provided you affection, you’d surely be able to overlook his ‘deficiency’, right?

“Hey, Alastor.” You raised your head and smiled weakly, stretching his already wide grin. Ah, that expression was always a joy to see.

“Dear, have I told you how positively radiant you are tonight?” With your slightly hollow cheeks and fish eyes, he could marvel it all day without getting bored. He smiled when you nuzzled into his palm and caressed your jaw. “And you’ve been such a good girl, too. I think you deserve a reward for your behavior.”

Euphoria suddenly filled your whole being as you perked up and stared at him wide-eyed. “R-really…?” you whispered hesitantly, afraid that it was just a diabolical joke on his part.

Alastor nodded giddily, though it wasn’t due to the prospect of rewarding you. No, your happiness was simply contagious for him to repress. And it wasn’t as if he’d ever bothered to mask his feelings from public, anyway. “Why, of course!” he beamed, eyes narrowed. “I have a reservation waiting for us in an exclusive restaurant. Only the best for my darling, no?”

Envy and resentment slithered like poisonous vines around your thumping heart as you watched him producing a key from thin air. Why couldn’t you have the same power? Why was life so hell-bent on torturing you even in the afterlife? Why were you born with such bad luck in romance?

And, most of all, why did you still fall for people like him – the chaotic yet charming men – despite knowing the inevitable pain that would soon follow?

Your parents once said that you could be too stubborn for your own good, and you rarely learned your lessons. Well, would they laugh at you now?

Alastor gently guided you out of the cage and stroked your disheveled and dusty hair. “Oh, my. Look how dirty you are, my dear.” he tutted, shaking his head in disapproval. “Well, I believe we have some time to spare. So, let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

[gov-info]

President Joe Biden Delivers Inaugural Address

Chief Justice Roberts, Vice President Harris. Speaker Pelosi, Leader Schumer, McConnell, Vice President Pence, my distinguished guests and my fellow Americans, this is America's day.

This is democracy's day. A day of history and hope of renewal and resolve through a crucible for the ages. America has been tested anew and America has risen to the challenge. Today, we celebrate the triumph not of a candidate, but of a cause, the cause of democracy. The people, the will of the people, has been heard and the will of the people has been heeded.

We've learned again that democracy is precious. Democracy is fragile. At this hour, my friends, democracy has prevailed.

From now, on this hallowed ground, where just a few days ago, violence sought to shake the Capitol's very foundation, we come together as one nation, under God, indivisible to carry out the peaceful transfer of power, as we have for more than two centuries.

As we look ahead in our uniquely American way: restless, bold, optimistic, and set our sights on the nation we can be and we must be.

I thank my predecessors of both parties for their presence here today. I thank them from the bottom of my heart. And I know, I know the resilience of our Constitution and the strength, the strength of our nation. As does President Carter, who I spoke with last night, who cannot be with us today, but whom we salute for his lifetime of service.

I've just taken the sacred oath. Each of those patriots have taken. The oath, first sworn by George Washington. But the American story depends not on any one of us, not on some of us, but on all of us, on we the people who seek a more perfect union.

This is a great nation. We are good people. And over the centuries, through storm and strife, in peace and in war, we've come so far. But we still have far to go. We'll press forward with speed and urgency, for we have much to do in this winter of peril and significant possibilities, much to repair, much to restore, much to heal, much to build, and much to gain.

Few people in our nation's history have been more challenged or found a time more challenging or difficult than the time we're in now. Once-in-a-century virus that silently stalks the country. It's taken as many lives in one year as America lost in all of World War II. Millions of jobs have been lost. Hundreds of thousands of businesses closed. A cry for racial justice, some four hundred years in the making moves us. The dream of justice for all will be deferred no longer.

The cry for survival comes from planet itself, a cry that can’t be any more desperate or any more clear. And now a rise of political extremism, white supremacy, domestic terrorism that we must confront and we will defeat.

To overcome these challenges, to restore the soul and secure the future of America requires so much more than words. It requires the most elusive of all things in a democracy: unity, unity.

In another January, on New Year's Day in 1863, Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation. When he put pen to paper, the president said, and I quote, “if my name ever goes down into history, it'll be for this act. And my whole soul is in it.”

My whole soul was in it today. On this January day, my whole soul is in this: Bringing America together, uniting our people, uniting our nation. And I ask every American to join me in this cause.

Uniting to fight the foes we face: anger, resentment, hatred, extremism, lawlessness, violence, disease, joblessness and hopelessness. With unity, we can do great things, important things. We can right wrongs. We can put people to work in good jobs. We can teach our children in safe schools. We can overcome the deadly virus. We can reward, reward work and rebuild the middle class and make health care secure for all. We can deliver racial justice and we can make America once again the leading force for good in the world.

I know speaking of unity can sound to some like a foolish fantasy these days. I know the forces that divide us are deep and they are real, but I also know they are not new. Our history has been a constant struggle between the American ideal that we're all created equal and the harsh, ugly reality that racism, nativism, fear, demonization have long torn us apart. The battle is perennial and victory is never assured.

Through civil war, the Great Depression, world war, 9/11, through struggle, sacrifice and setbacks, our better angels have always prevailed. In each of these moments, enough of us, enough of us have come together to carry all of us forward. And we can do that now. History, faith and reason show the way, the way of unity. We can see each other not as adversaries, but as neighbors. We can treat each other with dignity and respect. We can join forces, stop the shouting and lower the temperature. For without unity, there is no peace, only bitterness and fury. No progress, only exhausting outrage. No nation, only a state of chaos.

This is our historic moment of crisis and challenge. And unity is the path forward. And we must meet this moment as the United States of America. If we do that, I guarantee you we will not fail. We have never, ever, ever, ever failed in America when we've acted together.

And so today at this time in this place, let's start afresh, all of us. Let's begin to listen to one another again. Hear one another see one another, show respect to one another. Politics doesn't have to be a raging fire, destroying everything in its path. Every disagreement doesn't have to be a cause for total war. And we must reject the culture in which facts themselves are manipulated and even manufactured.

My fellow Americans. We have to be different than this. America has to be better than this. And I believe America is so much better than this. Just look around. Here we stand in the shadow of the Capitol dome, as was mentioned earlier, completed amid the Civil War, when the union itself was literally hanging in the balance. Yet we endured, we prevailed.

Here we stand looking out in the great mall where Dr. King spoke of his dream. Here we stand, where 108 years ago, at another inaugural, thousands of protesters tried to block brave women marching for the right to vote. And today we marked the swearing in of the first woman in American history elected to national office: Vice President Kamala Harris. Don't tell me things can't change.

Here we stand across the Potomac from Arlington Cemetery, where heroes who gave the last full measure of devotion rest in eternal peace. And here we stand just days after a riotous mob thought they could use violence to silence the will of the people, to stop the work of our democracy, to drive us from this sacred ground.

It did not happen. It will never happen. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. Not ever.

To all those who supported our campaign, I'm humbled by the faith you've placed in us. To all those who did not support us, let me say this. Hear me out as we move forward. Take a measure of me and my heart. If you still disagree so be it. That's democracy. That's America. The right to dissent, peaceably, the guardrails of our republic is perhaps this nation's greatest strength.

Yet hear me clearly: disagreement must not lead to disunion. And I pledge this to you, I will be a president for all Americans. All Americans. And I promise you I will fight as hard for those who did not support me as for those who did.

Many centuries ago. Saint Augustine, a saint in my church, wrote to the people was a multitude defined by the common objects of their love. Defined by the common objects of their love. What are the common objects we as Americans love, that define us as Americans? I think we know. Opportunity, security, liberty, dignity, respect, honor and yes, the truth.

Recent weeks and months have taught us a painful lesson. There is truth and there are lies, lies told for power and for profit. And each of us has a duty and responsibility, as citizens, as Americans, and especially as leaders, leaders who have pledged to honor our Constitution and protect our nation, to defend the truth and defeat the lies.

Look, I understand that many of my fellow Americans view the future with fear and trepidation. I understand they worry about their jobs. I understand, like my dad, they lay in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering, can I keep my health care? Can I pay my mortgage? Thinking about their families, about what comes next. I promise you, I get it.

But the answer is not to turn inward, to retreat into competing factions, distrusting those who don't look like look like you or worship the way you do, or don't get their news from the same sources you do. We must end this uncivil war that pits red against blue, rural versus urban, rural versus urban, conservative versus liberal. We can do this if we open our souls instead of hardening our hearts. If we show a little tolerance and humility, and if we're willing to stand in the other person's shoes, as my mom would say, just for a moment, stand in their shoes. Because here's the thing about life. There's no accounting for what fate will deal you. Some days, when you need a hand. There are other days when we're called to lend a hand. That's how it has to be. That's what we do for one another. And if we are this way, our country will be stronger, more prosperous, more ready for the future. And we can still disagree.

My fellow Americans, in the work ahead of us, we're going to need each other. We need all our strength to to persevere through this dark winter. We're entering what may be the toughest and deadliest period of the virus. We must set aside politics and finally face this pandemic as One Nation. One Nation.

And I promise you this, as the Bible says, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” We will get through this together. Together.

Look, folks, all my colleagues I served with in the House of the Senate up there, we all understand the world is watching, watching all of us today. So here's my message to those beyond our borders. America has been tested and we've come out stronger for it. We will repair our alliances and engage with the world once again. Not to meet yesterday's challenges, but today's and tomorrow's challenges. And we’ll lead, not merely by the example of our power, but by the power of our example.

We'll be a strong and trusted partner for peace, progress and security. Look, you all know, we've been through so much in this nation. And my first act as president, I’d like to ask you to join me in a moment of silent prayer to remember all those who we lost this past year to the pandemic. Those four hundred thousand fellow Americans, moms, dads, husbands, wives, sons, daughters, friends, neighbors and coworkers. We will honor them by becoming the people and the nation we know we can and should be. So I ask you, let's say a silent prayer for those who've lost their lives, those left behind and for our country.

Amen.

Folks, this is a time of testing. We face an attack on our democracy and on truth, a raging virus, growing inequity, the sting of systemic racism, a climate in crisis, America's role in the world. Any one of these will be enough to challenge us in profound ways. But the fact is, we face them all at once, presenting this nation with one of the gravest responsibilities we've had. Now we're going to be tested. Are we going to step up? All of us? It’s time for boldness, for there is so much to do. And this is certain, I promise you, we will be judged, you and I, by how we resolve these cascading crises of our era.

Will we rise to the occasion, is the question. Will we master this rare and difficult hour? Will we meet our obligations and pass along a new and better world to our children? I believe we must. I'm sure you do as well. I believe we will. And when we do, we'll write the next great chapter in the history of the United States of America. The American story. A story that might sound something like a song that means a lot to me. It's called American Anthem. There's one verse that stands out, at least for me, and it goes like this:

The work and prayers of a century have brought us to this day.

What shall be our legacy? What will our children say?

Let me know in my heart when my days are through.

America, America, I gave my best to you.

Let's add. Let us add our own work and prayers to the unfolding story of our great nation. If we do this, then when our days are through, our children and our children's children will say of us: They gave their best, they did their duty, they healed a broken land.

My fellow Americans, I close the day where I began, with a sacred oath before God and all of you. I give you my word, I will always level with you. I will defend the Constitution. I'll defend our democracy. I'll defend America and I will give all, all of you. Keep everything I do in your service, thinking not of power, but of possibilities, not of personal interest, but the public good. And together we shall write an American story of hope, not fear. Of unity, not division. Of light, not darkness. A story of decency and dignity, love and healing, greatness and goodness. May this be the story that guides us. The story that inspires us and the story that tells ages yet to come that we answered the call of history. We met the moment. Democracy and hope, truth and justice did not die on our watch, but thrived. That America secured liberty at home and stood once again as a beacon to the world. That is what we owe our forbearers, one another and generations to follow.

So, with purpose and resolve, we turn to those tasks of our time. Sustained by faith, driven by conviction, devoted to one another and the country we love with all our hearts. May God bless America and may God protect our troops. Thank you, America.

[ourplaceinthecosmosphff]

Chapter 1. The Case Against Fairytales

'his eyes across a room tangled up in her imagination they had spent a lifetime together by the time he said hello' atticus

My brother died the same way he came into the world: silent, eyes closed, changing my life as I knew it. 

We spent our whole lives trying to convince anyone we could that we were as regular as they were, but here's the first fundamentally different thing when you are royal: the meaning of the word ‘everyone’. 

In our case, we usually mean anyone in the country, most of the international media, and at least a sizeable majority of the world's population. It's not that everyone knew us... it's just that enough people did. Enough for it to be easier to call them 'everyone'. 

When my brother Louis was born, mom had been rushed to the hospital in the middle of a Sunday afternoon. The press was notified, they promptly set up camp at the hospital entrance, and the people started prayer campaigns to the safe arrival of their new prince and heir. Everyone rejoiced at his arrival. I remember, I was there. 

At three years-old, it felt like everyone was every single person in the planet. It was mostly just the people in our country; to everyone else, his birth was a quick, short line of announcement, maybe some notice to the fact that the newborn baby boy was taking his older sister's place as heir, and not much else. 

When he died, everyone was every single person in the planet. The second thing fundamentally different when you are a royal: from a very early age you must learn that tragedy sells more than joy. And in any constitutional monarchy country, a royal family is merely another commodity.

A few people talked about my early graduation from University. A lot more people talked about my boyfriend breaking up with me. There were a few articles about my little sister's victory at the ice-skating junior final. When she fell on her face in front of the cameras while attempting a risky move, she went viral. When my brother came into our lives, a few people took notice. 

When he left us, everyone did.

---- ---- ---- ----

I, too, am a victim of culture appropriation. Since the dawn of time, from the moment humankind developed communication skills, there has been storytelling. And for the past few thousands of years most stories that parents tell their young as they tuck them into their blankets every night, have been about my culture. As far as that goes, it is not the most damaging kind of culture appropriation. But I have a duty today, and I will not shy away from it. I am sorry to say I must, and will, shatter the beautiful image of fairytales that kids have been fed for so many years now. 

I know what you are thinking – oh, boo-hoo, the poor little princess girl; is life too difficult in your beautiful palace with all the money a person could ever need? And yes, I know. I am not a victim. The same colonialism that placed my ancestors, and therefore, me, in the position of privilege and power I am in today has created many more actual victims around the world. But that is also why I must tell this story the way it was always meant to be told: truthfully. With all the weird, awkward, awful, bits and pieces that fairytales tend to skip. 

Fairytales would, for instance, skip straight to the grand, majestic welcome ceremony between the Queen of the United Kingdom and the King of Savoy in a sun floored courtyard with guards on tall, furry black hats strutting around, standing in a red-carpeted dais, with a handsome prince making eyes at me. But in my story, we will start with the train. 

That’s right, in modern fairytales you don’t take a lovely carriage ride to a neighboring kingdom. You take a train there – a commercial train, if you can, because modern times beg for demonstrating to the masses that the Monarch isn’t throwing money around. We were trying to highlight the easy routes of access to our neighbors to the northeast, and so we took the ferry across the Celtic Sea to Hugh Town Island and from there, Eurostar number 2 train that made a quick stop in Penzance, UK, and then went straight to London. 

The train ride isn’t comfortable – even if you have a first class private car. It’s bumpy and crowded and a terrible place to spend three straight hours. On that particular morning, I was in our car with my father, his household secretary Auguste, my private aide, Cadie, and a few other staff members. 

In fairytale world, when a princess does not look the part, there is usually the appearance of a fairy godmother who sings a nice song and magically transforms her into a Proper Princess™. There is no fairy godmothers when you are a real princess- real ones, sure, but they are not magical-, but you do learn from an early age what a Proper Princess™ should look like, act like, and sound like, and god forbid you don't. 

In the train that day, I heard all that was keeping me from being Proper™ from Auguste, who was in many ways the exact opposite of a fairy godmother. He had all the menacing authority of one, with none of the charm. He also didn’t have wings or a sparkly wand; he had greying short hair, and thin, small, reading glasses that he always pushed down to the tip of his nose to look above, which made me wonder what was the point of the glasses at all.

Before our arrival, I had to change my lipstick, which was too dark, my dress, which was too short at the daring height of above my knees, my shoes, which were open toed and therefore wrong, and finally, make sure to brush my hair once more.

My parents never subscribed to the idea that we were forbidden to do anything. They were raised on stern rules and heavily traditional costumes and wanted their kids to live more freely. So, growing up, they revolutionarily told us that we were free to be whoever we wanted to be – in private. In public, we had an obligation to be Proper™. After all, as I heard repeatedly growing up: royals don’t make mistakes, we make history; and history remembers.

So, yes. I, a grown, 25 years-old, law-school graduate, bar-approved acquisitions lawyer, changed out of my dress into a more proper one because my dad asked. Because as a princess, you’re never just yourself; you’re the country. And if your country comes from a Roman Catholic tradition, your hemlines must reflect that, no matter what century it is.

The country in question was just to the south of the United Kingdom, west of France, a large island named Savoie. The English call it Savoy, which is how it was pronounced anyway. It was originally populated by the Irish, but over the years it was conquered by the English, the Spanish, and the Portuguese until finally, in the 13th Century, it was conquered by France. It was bigger than Ireland, but smaller than England, and one of the biggest GDPs in the world, with a population of 49 million. Under the reign of Louis XV, however, France lost most of its possessions after its defeat in the Seven Years' War, and to secure Savoy, the king sent part of the court to live there and to reign in his stead as his emissaries. Louis XV's reign grew weak, including his ill-advised financial, political and military decisions, which discredited the monarchy and arguably led to the French Revolution 15 years after his death. France dealt with its dissatisfaction by revolting, Savoy however, secluded away at sea, decided to declare independence before the Revolution had even taken steam. The political leaders of the Island reached an agreement with the king's emissary, Prince Louis, the highest ranking monarch on the island; in exchange for support for the severance of all connection to France, he was then made King Louis I of Savoy. The Royal House of Savoy grew steady and strong by protecting its people and assuring them a freer, better life than the one they'd known under French reign.

A few years later, I sat on that train in front of the current King of Savoy. My father. 

“You look beautiful, Maggie.”

“Thank you.” 

“The other dress was beautiful as well. Just not for today.”

“Mm-hm.”

A moment of silence went by. I picked up my phone and checked my emails. There was one from Sophie with the subject ‘urgent!’ so I clicked in it feeling my heart race.

It read,

‘Marie, I’m sorry to bother you on your days off, but the depositions got moved up to Monday and we can’t find the notes on the manager deposition, you were the one who did them. Is there any chance you have a copy and if so can you send them to me? Enjoy England! XO Soph’

Sighing, I put down my phone and quickly found my laptop on my suitcase. I turned it on as I replied to Sophie’s email to tell her to expect my deposition notes shortly. 

“You know if we could I’d let you wear whatever you wanted.” Dad added as I logged into my computer.

“I do.”

I moved quickly through my folders realizing the most recent update on my notes hadn’t been uploaded to the cloud. Sighing, I logged on to the train WiFi and checked the storage service online. It didn’t connect.

“Honestly, darling, you look even prettier with this dress.”

I looked up, mentally wondering if the previous versions of the notes would be useful.

“This isn’t about the dress.”

I realized, then, that it wouldn’t matter anyway because I wouldn’t be able to send them to Sophie without internet. I looked out the window, realizing perhaps too late that we were in the tunnel, underwater. Of course there wasn’t internet.

“Well, what is it about?” Dad asked, putting his book marker back inside the page he was on and laying down the book to give me his full attention.

“Work, papa. I have a job.”

“Yes, and it’s your day off. Maybe you should try and turn off from work for the next few days?”

I smiled down to my computer, “maybe this is a conversation for another time.”

Dad adjusted his posture, looking a little taller, and looked around the room to Cadie and Auguste sitting in a booth nearby with our private hair and make-up artist, and dad’s footman, and personal aide.

“Excuse me, everyone, would you be so kind as to give us the room? Or, uh, the car? There is a little lounge outside, isn’t there?”

“Of course, sir.” Auguste said, jumping up immediately with the aide, and Cadie and Cass, the make-up artist, followed.

After they had left and closed the door behind them, I looked at my father. He lurched back in his seat and smiled at me. 

“Go on,” he said. “If you don’t scream I don’t think they’ll hear us.”

“Why would I scream?”

“I don’t know, Maggie. But I don’t know why you would be so passive aggressive, either. Can you tell me?”

“What do you want, dad?” 

In truth, I added the ‘dad’ at the end of the sentence to make it sound less aggressive, but as he stared at me, I felt uncomfortable not explaining myself.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”, I asked, tiredly. “I’m here, wearing a proper, long, not-slutty dress-“

“No one here used that word-“

“My toes will be perfectly hidden away when we arrive, I have hidden my ugly, evil legs under some stockings-“

“Really, Maggie, no one said your legs were-“

“My make-up is light and my hair is simple and non-threatening. I know not to smile too much or too little and to let the adults lead the conversation”, I said, the word ‘adults’ dangling bitterly from me lips. “And not to walk ahead of you, but always behind, taking your lead.”

“You make it sound so stiff and calculated.”

“And I have taken time off of work to be here.” I said. “All other Junior Associates are working overtime and through weekends to cash in as many billable hours as possible to be promoted to Full-time Associates, and instead I took off four days to travel with my dad.”

“Work, for work!”

“So, again, what do you want? How else am I not meeting your expectations?”

I spoke calmly, gently, and as low a volume as I could just to confront his joke not a minute before about how if I didn’t scream the others wouldn’t hear us. I made sure to be as poised and contained as I could. He heaved a sigh.

“I’m sorry you had to take time off work.” 

I waited, as he stared in his usual lovingly, patient way. I smiled, more as a peace offering than genuinely. 

“You know very well they won’t fire you.”

Still, I was quiet, smiling as sincerely as I could. 

“And I know that isn’t fair, but there’s nothing I can do about it. So tell me something I can do and I will.”

“Okay.” I said, nodding. “I want your honesty. Don’t treat me like a child you need to protect, don’t patronize me. All I want is an honest answer.”

He adjusted himself in his seat and cleared his throat. “Alright. Go on.”

“Why am I here, papa?”

He blinked, seemingly confused. I could tell he expected a harder question.

“Your- Because your mother sprained her ankle?” he answered, still unsure. “What- do you mean philosophically? Why are any of us here, really? I don’t understand.”

I tried not to smile. “I mean I have a life. I am not your heir. Louis is your heir, it is his job to help you when mom has emergencies.”

He sighed deeply, finally arriving at the same page where I was.

“Your brother is in school.” He said. “And you are our oldest child. So, I’m sorry if it disrupts your life, Maggie. But you are needed.”

“And after school?” I asked “His graduation is in 6 months. Are you telling me that after he graduates university and moves back home, when he is starting his career, maybe moving to the capital, when you and mom have an emergency, you will call him up instead of me?”

He gave the table a sad smile. “If that is your wish, yes.”

“So that’s all, then?” I confirmed, suspiciously. “He moves back after graduation and you will give me the space I need?”

He smiled. “Is that what you want, then?” it wasn’t a confirmation. It was a tone of accomplishment. Of finally realizing what was it that I wanted, as if this entire conversation that’s what he had been trying to find out.

“I went to school for years. I interned for a year. I studied hard for the bar exams in America and Savoy. Yes, dad, I want to use the degree I worked hard for.”

“Okay, then. We will give you space.” He said. “Space from us, to be who you want to be. To be normal.”

I rolled my eyes, smiling, slightly amused at his dramatics. “That is not what I meant.”

“But it is accurate.”

“Papa...” I sighed.

“I’m just saying, sweetheart, I understand.” He insisted. “It’s why you went to America for University, it’s why you are based on the capital now. As long as you’re too close to us, you can’t live a normal life.”

“I can never live a normal life. We are not normal.”

“But you wish to try.”

I chuckled. “How?! You said it yourself, they will never fire me. My firm, I mean. Wherever I am, I am never just me and my degree and my career. People look at me and see you, as if I am you. I am their King. I am the Royal Family of Savoy. They’ll never take me seriously or afford me the same opportunities as everyone, because I am not everyone.”

He nodded, slowly, then sighed. “Yikes. You’re right. That sounds tough.”

“And I’m the passive aggressive one?”

“Job security and the attention of your bosses. That sounds awful.”

“Papa...”

“You want the space to dedicate yourself to your career without us pulling you away for royal work. Is that it? Okay. You got it. As soon as your brother is back from University, I will make sure you’re only needed for official events, and only if you’re not working.” 

He sounded serious now. Sincere as when he delivered the End of Year address every Christmas, which was meaningful. Getting dad to afford me the same seriousness he afforded his subjects was as much seriousness as I could get from him. Still, there was no mistaking the sadness in his eyes. 

“Even before his affirmation ceremony?” I asked, trying to sniff around for a trick.

The affirmation ceremony was meant to make clear to the country that an heir to throne had the seal of approval of the Monarch, and it usually happened when the heir was 21 years of age, to signify the Monarch believed in the event of a tragedy, the heir was ready to rule.  In modern times, it meant an heir was ready to start working as a full-time royal. Though my brother was 22, the family had decided to wait until he had graduated university to do his ceremony. 

Dad took longer than I wished, but finally, he nodded. “Yes. I promise.”

If you’re paying attention, then you might have noticed the math doesn’t add up. How come my 22 years-old brother is the heir when I said I am 25, the oldest child? Well, as with most fairytales, as well as with most of life, the problem is the patriarchy. For the thing is, though I was older than Louis by three years, because I was born a girl, he became the heir when he was born. So, at three, I went from future-Queen to lower ranking older sister. 

It wasn’t unusual, my father himself had two older sisters who were lower than him and his brothers in the line of succession. As a result we had older cousins who we outranked. I cared about all this at 25 the same as when I was 3: not at all. 

Absolute primogeniture law was passed in Savoy when I was 5, propelled by my birth and the new times. It was, however, not retroactive. This meant the law was changed for future births, not past ones, so all girls born after the law came into effect would be heirs in their own right, no matter how many brothers they got after, and all girls born before would go into history as having missed it by ‘just a bit’.

Louis and I, though, didn’t sit around having long discussions about who would be a better ruler. There has never been an instance in which we were arguing and I yelled something like, “first you stole my throne and now you stole my cookies! I hate you!”. For us this was just a little footnote in the family tree. A little fun fact to tell our future kids one day. And although I couldn’t remember what it felt like, I always knew it was much better not having to be the Crown Princess of Savoy.

---- ---- ---- ----

When we finally reached Penzance, the small town in the tip of the isle of England where sat the second Eurostar station, I was able to finally connect to the internet. My father left our train car to walk about with his security because he wanted to witness the new English policy of installing a check-point at the entry due to the immigrant crisis – a huge part of why we were there. While he did that, I sent Sophie my notes on the deposition, and answered some messages.

There was one from Louis, my aforementioned brother:

‘are you close?’

And one from our baby sister, Lourdes:

‘what do you think??!!!!!!!!’, with an attachment of two videos.

And, lastly, one from my mother, Her Majesty Queen Amelie-Elyse, back home with a sprained ankle.

‘Hope all is well! Let me know when you’re with your brother. Don’t forget to let your hair down before leaving the train!’

She didn’t mean it in a philosophical, have fun kind of way. She literally meant let my hair down, apparently it softened my features. 

I replied to her with a selfie, with my hair properly brushed and down, in preparation for the arrival in London, which was close now. Let Louis know we were almost there. And sent a quick, uncommitted ‘woah!’ to my sister, without opening her attachments. They were always the same: videos of her practicing. There was only so much ice skating I could watch in a lifetime.

My mom answered my text with, “why did you change your dress?!”

I sighed, getting ready to justify this decision as well, already anticipating she would argue that the fascinator wouldn’t go with this one dress, so I told her I already had another fascinator standing by. 

Growing up with fairytales they don’t tell you about the little annoying details. Characters who are annoying usually are the villains, the ones the Princess escapes from, usually saved by the prince. They don’t tell you sometimes, actually a lot of the times, the people you love can be equally as annoying. 

---- ---- ---- ----

When we arrived at the station in London, I was already wearing my disc fascinator in a light shade of blue matching both my lace dress, this time reaching all the way to my ankles, and eyes. We were quickly greeted by the Savoyen Ambassador to England in front of the press, and escorted into government cars towards Whitehall. 

The large parade ground was a traditional courtyard in central London that usually housed ceremonies related to the military and the royal family. When we arrived, the day finally was washed in a feeling of ceremony. 

The place was lined neatly with military guards, security barricades and the Scotland Yard Police kept watchers and paparazzi at bay, the press lined up inside to have the best view of all involved. As we arrived, the traditional 41 gun salute was already sounding on. A military band was playing. People waved and yelled hello as we drove inside. I suddenly knew what to do, as if my body had the gene for it. This was one thing that was definitely genetic.

I stepped out of the car delicately, smoothly, knees together like a proper lady, polite smile on my lips in thanks to the guard who saluted as I left. My father greeted a handler who escorted us to the front of all the lined guards, where three structures had been set up: one large one in the middle, with a red-carpeted stage and a large roof, the British Royal Coat of Arms in the center with the British flag to its right and the Savoy flag to its left. Decorative flowers and elegant plants here and there. Two smaller, simpler structures to both of its sides. Inside all of them, men and women in formal suits and ties and knee-length, appropriate dresses and hats. 

We walked the grovel path to the larger structure as the band played and the press, lined up in front of this platform, took their photographs. My father climbed the steps first, quickly being received by the small, elder, lady in a lavender overcoat and matching hat, impressive set of pearls dangling from her neck. She smiled as he lowered himself down to kiss both her cheeks warmly. 

The queen then looked at me and I approached, just as our handler told Her Majesty:

“And may I present, Her Royal Highness, Princess Marie-Margueritte of Savoy.”

I lowered myself in a curtsy, and as she extended her hands to hold mine, I also kissed her cheeks, trying to avoid knocking her hat with mine. 

“Welcome.” She smiled. “I hope the ride was forgiving.”

“Very comfortable.” My father told her. “Always surprising how fast it is.”

“Yes. You’ll remember, I’m sure, the Prince of Wales.” She said, walking us to the center of the platform where another two men awaited.

My father and the Prince of Wales greeted each other warmly, they were more used to running in the same circles – royal weddings here and there, international summits and meetings, or whatever it is they do. 

“We’re so glad to have you.” He told my father. 

“I don’t know if you’ve met my daughter, Princess Marie-Margueritte.”

Smiling, I curtsied to the Prince of Wales as he held my hand, before kissing my cheeks. 

“You brighten this day, Your Royal Highness.” He told me, before stepping closer to add, in a whisper. “Sorry you have been dragged to this.”

I giggled, “I’m happy to be here, sir.”

Straightening up, he noticed my father was already greeting the man behind him. “Hopefully we won’t bore you too much. I have tried to bring someone else closer to your age. Have you met my son?”

The handler didn’t know it, but there were no introductions necessary. And yet, all I could do was smile politely as we were introduced to:

“His Royal Highness, Prince Harry of Wales.”

I wondered, for a moment, if he would acknowledge that we already knew each other. 

“It’s a pleasure, Your Royal Highness.” Holding my hand in his, he brought my knuckles to his lips. 

The answer was, obviously, no. So I lowered myself again in a curtsy as an excuse to avert my eyes from his.

I couldn’t understand why, but I had been unprepared for him. With all of Auguste’s preparation, all the briefings, with all the preachings about my appearance, no one had prepared me for him. I don’t know if it was that, like me, he was one of the youngest there, or how absurdly, almost ridiculously tall he was, or maybe how the blue in his eyes contrasted with the red of his hair, but he just… stunned me. When he kissed my hand, his eyes traveled down my legs all the way back to pierce mine, igniting a wave of electricity down my spine I was unable to control. 

He leaned back, and there we stood, hand in hand, wordlessly. 

“You can follow the King, ma’am.” Auguste whispered behind me, his voice making me jump slightly, as I quickly pulled my hand from Harry’s, not before realizing he had something scribbled on his palm.

My father and the Queen were deep in conversation, with Charles besides them, as they reached the center of the platform to watch the guards. The Queen in the middle, my father to her right, and the Prince of Wales to her left, I walked forward to stand beside my father, while Prince Harry walked to his. 

We waited just a moment, and then the band started playing the Savoy National Anthem, and the British Anthem after it. A few words said, more ceremony here and there, and the Prince Wales formally invited my father to inspect the Guards, so they left together, accompanied by one of the military leaders to walk among the rolls of guards,  as the three of us stood behind to watch.

“I was sorry to hear about your mother, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” I said, looking regretful, walking towards her, closing the gap left behind by the others. “She was sorry she couldn’t be here.”

“I hope it’s nothing serious.” Prince Harry interjected.

“A sprained ankle.” I explained, looking ahead. 

“Harry is also here after a small hiccup with the Duchess of Cornwall, my daughter-in-law.” His grandmother told me. “An illness in her family, nothing serious.”

“Hopefully I’ll have time to meet her before we leave.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” She nodded. “How did you mother hurt herself?”

“Horse fall. She was never very fond of Polo, I’m afraid this will drive her further away from it.”

“Oh, that is regretful.” The Queen said. 

Harry looked at me. “Do you play?” 

“I do, sir.” 

“Harry is very good,” his grandmother told me, “he will be the one playing with you in the charity match in the coming days.”

“I look forward to-“, I started, but Harry had started the exact same sentence. We locked eyes, and chuckled.

“You first.” I said.

“Please, I insist.” He responded, cheeks reddening.

His grandmother looked between us, and then back to the uniformed men in front. She then said, in a low tone, something I would spend a large part of the upcoming months thinking obsessively about:

“Be careful with him... He will charm you, but he is a heartbreaker.”

The words astonished me so much I looked at her, unsure she had actually said them. But she had, clearly, because Harry was also looking at her, quite shocked.

“Granny!” he complained, in such a whiny tone I broke into laughter.

“Do I lie?” She asked him, grinning. It only made him look more shocked. 

“Don’t ruin my reputation in front of foreign royals!” he said, in a low tone, before looking at me. “Specially such pretty ones.”

My giggle froze in my throat under his intense glare, and I could feel my cheeks reddening.

The Queen looked at me. “Oh, you’re blushing. It’s too late, I see.”

It was.

---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Margueritte’s outfit

The ask box is open! Let me know your thoughts? And if at all possible, like this page so I know you liked it? Thank you so much!

[A/N: Attention: by continuing to read you are accepting that some sad stuff is coming. You been warned. Thanks for checking this out! Let me know your thoughts?? thanks!!!!]

[A/N2: Hey! Nat here. I wanted to talk a little more about the story we are about to go on together.

In the upcoming chapters you will be introduced to the Royal Family of Savoy, a fictitious European country right below the UK, to left of France. When I first posted a fanfiction, FIUYMI, I made the main character latina, since that’s what I am, and I had previously felt that I couldn’t relate to other characters I had read. In this one, however, I decided I wanted to write about a fictitious monarchy, and I knew I wanted to make it as realistic as possible. 

As much as I wanted at many points in the story to make the character look more like me, the idea felt like cheating: Margueritte is a blood royal, born to a life of specific privileges and hardships, and pretending she could look like the type of people who don’t have white privilege would be trying to ignore a very real issue: all monarchies - past and present - existed, lasted and gathered riches on the back of people of color. Most of their descendants still carry white and wealth privilege because these royal families, however many years ago, supported and perpetuated colonialism and white supremacy that left countless countries and their populations still recovering today.

That is a legacy Margueritte didn’t chose, and which she also doesn’t have to face, but in this story she will chose too. As you’ll see, she finds herself in a much more influential position she thought she would have, and as such she realizes she has two options: she can stick to the message her family - and other royal families - have perpetuated for generations and keep her head high, mouth and ears shut, so their legacy can survive; or she can chose to be a modern Queen who will make the institution relevant again. I want to write about this because this issue is important for the times we live in, particularly after the way the Duchess of Sussex was treated in the United Kingdom.

What that will look like will depend on who Margueritte is as a person and whose advice she takes, and that is a journey I hope you’ll take with us =) ]

[spencerbdpi978]

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[saint-hildegard-of-bingen]

If you love our country, please read this article, and continue to work to save our democracy. And stay hopeful!

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The despair felt by climate scientists and environmentalists watching helplessly as something precious and irreplaceable is destroyed is sometimes described as “climate grief.” Those who pay close attention to the ecological calamity that civilization is inflicting upon itself frequently describe feelings of rage, anxiety and bottomless loss, all of which are amplified by the right’s willful denial. The young activist Greta Thunberg, Time magazine’s 2019 Person of the Year, has described falling into a deep depressionafter grasping the ramifications of climate change and the utter refusal of people in power to rise to the occasion: “If burning fossil fuels was so bad that it threatened our very existence, how could we just continue like before?”

Lately, I think I’m experiencing democracy grief. For anyone who was, like me, born after the civil rights movement finally made democracy in America real, liberal democracy has always been part of the climate, as easy to take for granted as clean air or the changing of the seasons. When I contemplate the sort of illiberal oligarchy that would await my children should Donald Trump win another term, the scale of the loss feels so vast that I can barely process it.

After Trump’s election, a number of historians and political scientists rushed out with books explaining, as one title put it, “How Democracies Die.” In the years since, it’s breathtaking how much is dead already. Though the president will almost certainly be impeached for extorting Ukraine to aid his re-election, he is equally certain to be acquitted in the Senate, a tacit confirmation that he is, indeed, above the law. His attorney general is a shameless partisan enforcer. Professional civil servants are purged, replaced by apparatchiks. The courts are filling up with young, hard-right ideologues. One recently confirmed judge, 40-year-old Steven Menashi, has written approvingly of ethnonationalism.

In “How Democracies Die,” Professors Steven Levitsky and Daniel Ziblatt of Harvard describe how, in failing democracies, “the referees of the democratic game were brought over to the government’s side, providing the incumbent with both a shield against constitutional challenges and a powerful — and ‘legal’ — weapon with which to assault its opponents.” This is happening before our eyes.

The entire Trump presidency has been marked, for many of us who are part of the plurality that despises it, by anxiety and anger. But lately I’ve noticed, and not just in myself, a demoralizing degree of fear, even depression. You can see it online, in the self-protective cynicism of liberals announcing on Twitter that Trump is going to win re-election. In The Washington Post, Michael Gerson, a former speechwriter for George W. Bush and a Never Trump conservative, described his spiritual struggle against feelings of political desperation: “Sustaining this type of distressed uncertainty for long periods, I can attest, is like putting arsenic in your saltshaker.”

I reached out to a number of therapists, who said they’re seeing this politically induced misery in their patients. Three years ago, said Karen Starr, a psychologist who practices in Manhattan and on Long Island, some of her patients were “in a state of alarm,” but that’s changed into “more of a chronic feeling that’s bordering on despair.” Among those most affected, she said, are the Holocaust survivors she sees. “It’s about this general feeling that the institutions that we rely on to protect us from a dangerous individual might fail,” she said.

Kimberly Grocher, a psychotherapist who works in both New York and South Florida, and whose clients are primarily women of color, told me that during her sessions, the political situation “is always in the room. It’s always in the room.” Trump, she said, has made bigotry more open and acceptable, something her patients feel in their daily lives. “When you’re dealing with people of color’s mental health, systemic racism is a big part of that,” she said.

In April 2017, I traveled to suburban Atlanta to cover the special election in the Sixth Congressional District. Meeting women there who had been shocked by Trump’s election into ceaseless political action made me optimistic for the first time that year. These women were ultimately the reason that the district, once represented by Newt Gingrich, is now represented by a Democrat, Lucy McBath. Recently, I got back in touch with a woman I’d met there, an army veteran and mother of three named Katie Landsman. She was in a dark place.

“It’s like watching someone you love die of a wasting disease,” she said, speaking of our country. “Each day, you still have that little hope no matter what happens, you’re always going to have that little hope that everything’s going to turn out O.K., but every day it seems like we get hit by something else.” Some mornings, she said, it’s hard to get out of bed. “It doesn’t feel like depression,” she said. “It really does feel more like grief.”

Obviously, this is hardly the first time that America has failed to live up to its ideals. But the ideals themselves used to be a nearly universal lodestar. The civil rights movement, and freedom movements that came after it, succeeded because the country could be shamed by the distance between its democratic promises and its reality. That is no longer true.

Democrats and anti-Trump Republicans are often incredulous seeing the party of Ronald Reagan allied with Vladimir Putin’s Russia, but the truth is, there’s no reason they should be in conflict. The enmity between America and Russia was ideological. First it was liberal democracy versus communism. Then it was liberal democracy versus authoritarian kleptocracy.

But Trump’s political movement is pro-authoritarian and pro-oligarch. It has no interest in preserving pluralism, free and fair elections or any version of the rule of law that applies to the powerful as well as the powerless. It’s contemptuous of the notion of America as a lofty idea rather than a blood-and-soil nation. Russia, which has long wanted to prove that liberal democracy is a hypocritical sham, is the natural friend of the Trumpist Republican Party, just as it’s an ally and benefactor of the far right Rassemblement National in France and the Lega Nord in Italy.

The nemeses of the Trumpist movement are liberals — in both the classical and American sense of the world — not America’s traditional geopolitical foes. This is something new in our lifetime. Despite right-wing persecution fantasies about Barack Obama, we’ve never before had a president who treats half the country like enemies, subjecting them to an unending barrage of dehumanization and hostile propaganda. Opponents in a liberal political system share at least some overlapping language. They have some shared values to orient debates. With those things gone, words lose their meaning and political exchange becomes impossible and irrelevant.

Thus we have a total breakdown in epistemological solidarity. In the impeachment committee hearings, Republicans insist with straight faces that Trump was deeply concerned about corruption in Ukraine. Republican senators like Ted Cruz of Texas, who is smart enough to know better, repeat Russian propaganda accusing Ukraine of interfering in the 2016 election. The Department of Justice’s inspector general’s report refutes years of Republican deep state conspiracy theories about an F.B.I. plot to subvert Trump’s campaign, and it makes no difference whatsoever to the promoters of those theories, who pronounce themselves totally vindicated.

To those who recognize the Trump administration’s official lies as such, the scale of dishonesty can be destabilizing. It’s a psychic tax on the population, who must parse an avalanche of untruths to understand current events. “What’s going on in the government is so extreme, that people who have no history of overwhelming psychological trauma still feel crazed by this,” said Stephanie Engel, a psychiatrist in Cambridge, Mass., who said Trump comes up “very frequently” in her sessions.

Like several therapists I spoke to, Engel said she’s had to rethink how she practices, because she has no clinical distance from the things that are terrifying her patients. “If we continue to present a facade — that we know how to manage this ourselves, and we’re not worried about our grandchildren, or we’re not worried about how we’re going to live our lives if he wins the next election — we’re not doing our patients a service,” she said.

This kind of political suffering is uncomfortable to write about, because liberal misery is the raison d’être of the MAGA movement. When Trumpists mock their enemies for being “triggered,” it’s just a quasi-adult version of the playground bully’s jeer: “What are you going to do, cry?” Anyone who has ever been bullied knows how important it is, at that moment, to choke back tears. In truth, there are few bigger snowflakes than the stars of MAGA world. The Trumpist pundit Dan Bongino is currently suing The Daily Beast for $15 million, saying it inflicted “emotional distress and trauma, insult, anguish,” for writing that NRATV, the National Rifle Association’s now defunct online media arm, had “dropped” him when the show he hosted ended. Still, a movement fueled by sadism will delight in admissions that it has caused pain.

But despair is worth discussing, because it’s something that organizers and Democratic candidates should be addressing head on. Left to fester, it can lead to apathy and withdrawal. Channeled properly, it can fuel an uprising. I was relieved to hear that despite her sometimes overwhelming sense of civic sadness, Landsman’s activism hasn’t let up. She’s been spending a bit less than 20 hours a week on political organizing, and expects to go back to 40 or more after the holidays. “The only other option is to quit and accept it, and I’m not ready to go there yet,” she said. Democracy grief isn’t like regular grief. Acceptance isn’t how you move on from it. Acceptance is itself a kind of death.

[project-ohagi]

Hayato Yamagata x Reader - Soulmate AU {Haikyuu!!}

[Soulmate AU: Wherein you have the first words your soulmate ever speak to you, written on your wrist].

Trigger Warning: Self-Harm.

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Although the day was long, the evening seemed longer - significantly so.

Volleyball practice had ended a while earlier, yet here he was, remaining in the building to run some errands. The dormitories weren't far, so it wasn't as if actually minded. Glancing down at his wrist, a solemn sigh passed his lips. Gentle fingers traced the inscription: the first words his soulmate would ever orate to him, the words fated to spark an inevitable romance, which would blossom and blossom. Despite currently being unfamiliar with his predestined partner, his heart soared at the very thought of them. He knew, instinctively, that no matter their appearance, to him, they would present the most beautiful divinity.

Their aura would be unmatched in compassion towards himself and others - this was Hayato's sole expectation. Besides that, he couldn't care less. His heart thundered with the determination to shower them the utmost love and affection. He would treat them as a god, a goddess, a mixture of the two, or some genderless celestial. Whatever their manifestation, he would love them, both passionately and unconditionally.

However, the phrase engraved into his wrist was quite unsettling.

'No, please don't touch that!'

Without context, it sent insuppressible shivers all the way down his spine. Obviously, worry consumed him - it always did. He couldn't comprehend the truth of the message. Yet...an ache tugged so violently at his heartstrings. Those words bled pain, desperation. If they, his future, needed help in any way, then with his fiercest conviction, he wished to bestow it upon them. He wanted to find them, to cradle their frame tightly, close to his chest, so that his raging heartbeat could echo in their ears, acting as the proof of his love. He desired nothing more than this, and to witness the majesty of their smile. It made him giddy, like a young child arresting its parents' attention.

...Until his mind played back the phrase, droning on in miserable notes, as an amalgamation of all the world's depressing songs.

His yearning for the information of what agonised you so greatly was causing slight mishaps in his daily life. You had yet to physically enter the scrapbook of his life, but he could almost feel your energy...fragments of your pain. It was suffocating, sometimes. But still, he didn't completely understand. Meeting you, at this point, was absolutely imperative; he figured that it could potentially be the difference between life and death. Another abysmal thought began to plague his already-throbbing mind - what could you be referring to? What would cause such wretched words to tumble from your lips, and would they be in retaliation to a forceful act on his end? He really hoped that wasn't so. If he traumatised you to the extent at which your very vocals trembled, then, soulmate or no, surely your heart wouldn't ever allow itself to love him.

That imagining was a cursed reel, and he vowed never to replay it. Besides, there couldn't have been any point to worrying so tirelessly, when you were still yet-to-be-discovered. Hayato could hazard a guess that, at the least, you weren't in his class, and, perhaps some mystical connection might have compelled you towards each other, if you ever passed in the halls. Therefore, he decided that either you simply didn't occupy a space in the third year, or you didn't attend Shiratorizawa, period.

Although his brain favoured the latter, his heart pounded for the former, since it would obviously make finding you so much easier. Hayato had been raised to place faith in his gut instinct, and right now, his gut seemed to produce two words: foreign and danger. He was unsure whether this meant that you were of a different lineage, or that you attended another school, and consequently would be alien to him.

But, danger...

...There was no doubt - you were in a precarious situation, or on the losing side of a violent, bloody battle. He prayed for your eternal safety, day in and day out. You would forever arrest his unconditional support, no matter the circumstance.

Shaking off these depressing pictures was difficult, but necessary, because torturing himself over them during your omission from his life, would only affect his health and grades on a greater scale. Hayato trudged around the building, finding the papers and other things he needed, and prepared to head back to his dormitory. So much of his mental energy had been wiped out already, and he was exhausted. Lying down on his lovely, soft bed sounded blissful.

Instead, mere moments after falling, he registered that what he was kneeling atop wasn't a bed, but in fact...a girl?

Embarrassment permeated his very core. He never achieved much with women, mainly due to his sharp glares (yes, the unintentional ones - perhaps he had the masculine equivalent of resting bitch face), but this was just...oh my lord, why? He refrained from punching himself, only since terror had gripped your features, and he didn't wish to disturb you any further. He scrambled to his feet, apologising profusely, and reaching out a hand, to help you up. Those almost-feral, chocolate eyes ghosted over you, and in an instant, he was transfixed. You adorned the regular, Shiratorizawa uniform, but it appeared to be slightly larger than you needed. Your sleeves were very long, he noted, and he couldn't see your wrists at all. Luscious, (h/c) locks swept across your face, partially shielding your (e/c) orbs from view.

"Eh...are you alright? Can you stand?" His genuine concern captivated you, but you were panicked, tears welling up amongst the glittering constellations.

When you failed to respond, he started rubbing his neck, in an effort to soothe his nerves. This was a situation unlike any other (he was often a lot more careful of his surroundings), but his aid seemed to offend you, for some reason, so what could he actually do? The waterfall, which dripped from your eyes, was something he desired to wipe away. He detested this - watching you suffer in relative silence. Why weren't you letting him help? Couldn't you speak? Was something about his actions, his words, so wrong? After a minute or two of deliberation, he decided to perch himself on the floor, in front of you.

"Do you need somebody to talk to? Should I go and find a teacher?"

The words remained lodged in your throat, slowly suffocating you.

You squirmed uncomfortably, every movement revealing slightly more skin, although you didn't appear to notice. Hayato's eyes travelled to your wrists, now exposed, and his blood ran cold. His compassionate nature kicked into overdrive, and he immediately locked on to your arm. Meek sounds of discomfort rolled off your tongue, as the knife-inflicted wounds seared with pain. He was speechless, left gawking at your arms, specifically the one he had grabbed. Despite his concern, he proceeded to squeeze your wrist (albeit, absentmindedly - he was far too focused on the actual cuts). His fingers moved closer to them, as his mind scrambled desperately for any trace of logic.

Fear widened your eyes, causing you to whisper-yell, "No, please don't touch that!"

Hayato's mind ceased its constant rotations.

His eyes graced your own, partly in astonishment, partly in worry. He remembered all his previous musings with great sobriety - he was right to be concerned for your safety. Although, it hadn't ever truly crossed his thoughts, that you could have been your own arch-nemesis. That was just...it was awful, the fact that you felt such hopelessness, to rely upon a knife to release the agony. The deadly war in which you were engaged...it was against yourself, and that knowledge hurt immensely. He wished to place gentle kisses along all those beautiful, yet disheartening battle scars.

They were beautiful, he affirmed, because they were a part of you. They had been carved on to your flesh, and in spite of their secrecy, you owned them. With enough time and care, they could be removed, but they were a testament to your survival. You had lived, through everything which tried to kill you, and that made you strong - stronger than him, by far.

With determination, he maintained the eye-contact.

"You can talk to me, about anything. I'm not going to judge you. Everyone feels pain - people just cope differently."

"You - You're not disgusted? Scared?" Your voice quivered, emotions spilling to the surface.

"No, of course not. Those scars are yours, and you're beautiful. I'm not scared of them - I love them, like I love you."

This boy, he was honestly too sweet. Someone of your position, your weak constitution, didn't deserve he who behaved so admirably. He possessed a strength with which you could never compete. He was everything you had ever wished for in life. But...you couldn't keep him, and he couldn't keep you.

Not in this lifetime.

Before the illusion vanished, before it was too late and regret began to fester, you smiled, as brightly as possible. You wanted to leave him with something positive, if only for a mere second. Hayato mirrored your expression, ears burning crimson with the inclusion of your little "I love you too.". A question danced on the tip of his tongue, but he was never allowed to pose it.

"Hey, Hayato! What're you doing over here?" Said male turned, meeting the perplexed gaze of a certain, infamous red-head.

"Tendou?" He muttered, equally as confused. "I'm helping someone I bumped into."

A strange look came upon the boy's face.

"Well, did she run away before I got here? I didn't see anyone!"

The chocolate-orbed one paused, asking, "No...she's right her-"

Although, when he tried to glimpse your divinity once more, he found nothing but an empty spot. There was no indication that you had ever been in the general area, but he hadn't noticed you leave. Tendou surely would have seen you...?

Was madness consuming him?

[noonachronicles]

Everlong Pt. 4

Kwon Jiyong/ G Dragon X Reader

Word count: 6k

Warnings: mild language, discussions/themes of death, mentions of infidelity. 

Genre: Hades/Jiyong. Greek God AU. Fantasy. 

A/N: I took extra care with this one because it’s important. I feel like it’s the part where the actual plot comes into play and I hope everyone is excited as I am about it. :D

Update Tag: @kathrynwynterbourne (do you still want this? lol)

Moodboard by bae @memoiresofaneternaldreamer

The throne room in the Judgement Pavilion was truly a sight to behold. An architectural scholars wet dream, if only they knew it existed before they were dead. It was imposing to say the very least. A long room with magnificently high ceilings. Expertly peaked arches, and ribbed vaulting that lined the narrow length of the hall. Ivory columns stood like centurions at uniform intervals, every three yards. The walls were a dark rosewood. They looked black in the dim lighting of the room. It was difficult for anyone not looking for it to notice the fine details of the wood that had been carved to reflect the faces of the suffering souls that occupied the underworld. Some of the faces had their features scrunched in pain. Others were stretched long, mouths wide open, screaming in agony as waves of hellfire washed over their outreaching arms. Hades always found it a bit dramatic and not at all how he would represent his home, but everyone had said it fit the aesthetic of what was otherwise known as the Hall of Judgement. To break up the intricate and macabre details, panel windows of stained glass were inlaid along the walls. There was one window for each of the Titans, one for each of the Olympians, and several panels dedicated to some of the greater battles that occurred during the Titanomachy.

At the end of the long hall sat a single throne made of what looked like black onyx. Completely dominating the wall behind the throne was a marvelously large rose window that could rival those at some of the most famed cathedrals. It was easily done as Hades had immediate access to Louis Barillet who more than willingly designed the window in exchange for a spot in Elysium. 

The throne on its own was just as intimidating as the room as a whole, and purposefully so. The back was unnecessarily high. It’s highest peak reaching the bottom curve of the rose window. It’s crest rail had several horned peaks that were so aggressively pointed it looked like a person could be impaled on them. Even still, after all of that, the most threatening thing about the lone chair was often the god that sat upon its seat. This was especially the case on this particular day.

In the past, the judgement of souls had been the burden of three. Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Aeacus. However, in an effort to make Persephone feel more involved, Hades relieved the trio of their responsibilities quite a long time ago. He’d taken over the important task alongside his wife. It had worked out well for awhile, until she had become disinterested and restless. Preferring to wander the underworld alone instead of staying seated next to him. Hades suspected she just disliked how much time they were spending together. It had been just him taking the brunt of the work for some time before she’d left him. And it was in fact she who left him, despite all of his strongest arguments. For so long he fought to keep her but eventually he just got tired and let her go like she’d always wanted and that was the truth of it. After she’d gone he overburdened himself with work, letting it mask the aching loneliness he felt. Everything had been going smoothly for such a long time, but then he found you.

As Hades sat lazily slumped on his throne, his notebook flipped open on one arm and his own arm hanging down from the other with his fingers loosely holding onto his scepter, he knew he had no one else to blame but himself. No one else to blame for the line of souls waiting for judgement that stretched the entire length of the throne room and then some. No one else to blame because he’d been the one neglecting his duties to spend time with you instead, causing a backlog of unjudged souls. What made things worse for everyone, was that he hadn’t seen you in days. It was nearing a full week since you’d been at the bakery and he had no other real way of contacting you. Every moment that passed without him being able to make you blush over something stupid or every moment that passed without you sassing him so much he wanted to flick your forehead, he became more and more irritable. Everyone could tell he wasn’t in his best mood even if they didn’t know the reason behind it.          

“Next!” Phobos called out as Hades drummed his fingers on the pages of his notebook impatiently.

He’d already sent five souls to Tartarus just for what he’d claimed was ‘speaking out of term’. Though he would argue in his own defense that they had been right on the cusp of being sent there anyway, so it wasn’t as harsh as people were making it out to be. Even still, Eris had become so uncomfortable that he had to leave the hall before his nerves turned into an actual anxiety attack. No one, not even the Personifications would look at or speak to Hades when he was like this. Only the poor souls that were there for judgement were forced to address him and they did so with an almost comedic amount of caution.

Good. He thought grumpily to himself as the next soul in line stepped forward.

“Name!” Phobos called out from his place just off to the side of the throne.

“Jiho.. Woo Jiho.” the man stuttered out. He’d had an air of confidence as he stepped forward but it faltered before the god, they always did.

Hades brow furrowed, the name sounded familiar but he didn’t know why. He flipped the page of his notebook and the page started to fill up with information about the soul before him.

Woo Jiho, twenty-eight. Date of birth, September fourteenth. Date of death, April seventh.

Hades was almost positive he’d read this page before, but had no idea why he ever would have. He thought perhaps he’d been one of the customers in the bakery that he’d recently played his game with. It would be quite the coincidence but he couldn’t think of another reason. He browsed through the list of things Jiho had done in his lifetime.

Petty thievery starting as a child. Money from his mother's wallet, age seven. Candy from a convenience store, age nine.

Common. Boring.  Hades thought to himself. Perhaps that it was why he’d seemed so familiar, he was just like everyone else. He moved his eyes down the page and he let out a long sigh.  Things did get a little more interesting as he got older.

One hundred and eighty-seven acts of infidelity between the ages of sixteen and twenty-eight, most of which were committed against his current partner.

Poor soul, he thought to himself before moving on.

Ten different instances of assault, mostly bar fights but once was against a woman when he was eighteen. There were several instances of blackmail, bribery, and extortion. The list of lies he had told in his lifetime between small white and bold faced was countless. Longer than most people who died at his age. Clearly a master manipulator. Under the list of things that he had done in his life that were considered as redemption there was barely anything. Hades made a half disgusted face and looked up at the man before him, already knowing his fate would be Tartarus, no question.

“What can I do for you, Jiho? Have you come for your judgement?” he asked idly.

“Actually...sir...god...Hades?” he tripped over every word. Hades would have found it much more funny if it didn’t happen nearly every time a soul had addressed him for millenniums, “I was told I could offer you a soul, in place of mine? That you had the power to resurrect my soul.”

“The second soul must be willing.” He said slowly stretching his legs out in front of him and sitting up straight. It had been some time since someone had propositioned him with an exchange. “You know you can’t just offer up someone else’s soul? It’s not how it works.”

“No, of course.” The desperate soul shook his head “There is someone I left back in life and I just know that she would do this for me. I know she would give you her soul in place of mine. No one has ever loved me like she does. I love her too, she’s so loyal, I just need to get to her…”

“I don’t care about your love story, just give me the name so we can find out if she’s willing.”

As he stuttered out the name of the soul he hoped would replace his in death Hades finally, and truly, looked at him. It had been your name that fell from his lips. Surely, he thought, this was a mistake. There had to be at least one other on earth who shared your name, and of course he must be talking about her. It could not possibly be you.

He flipped through his notebook until the pages reflected the name he was looking for. The page that showed your name and whose timeline was connected to Jiho. His heart began to race as his eyes flashed over the page. Age, location, life history. The page he’d read a hundred times already. He couldn’t deny it. It really was you. He gulped as he flipped back and forth between your page and Jiho’s, confirming the relation to each other. His breathing remained steady but it was clear he was upset. Phobos watched wide eyed with fear as Hades whole chest lifted visibly with every heavy breath, subconsciously he leaned his body away from the god.

Hades face was calm and reposed, but his eyes were aflame with unspeakable anger as he looked back up at Jiho. “This woman, the one whose soul your offering me, is she perhaps the same woman that you’ve been unfaithful to, lied to, and had a hand in emotionally abusing for years?”

“Woah, no! I have never laid a hand on her like that. I’m not like that!” he denied vehemently.

Hades sighed with immediate annoyance, his hands vibrating with anger, “That would constitute as physical abuse where I had said emotiontionally, you... moron. And before you deny having done that as well, you should now that I do have a record of every instance of your emotional abuse and manipulation of this woman. Not to mention your counts of infidelity, lies, et cetera.”

“Everyone manipulates people to get what they need and want. That’s just the way the world works. I didn’t do anything that any of these other souls haven’t done.” Jiho argued gesturing to the line behind him.

“Wrong.” Hades lifted his open notebook towards Jiho, “All this girl has ever done is trust you, and try to do right by you. And still you would deny her a future so that you could prolong your own.”

“I mean, I guess so, but she doesn’t know all that stuff that I did! She would definitely be willing to give up her soul for mine and isn’t that what matters anyway? What do you care about morality?”

“Just so we are being clear, even in death, you would manipulate this soul into offering up her life for you just to be set free? I want you to look me in the eyes, not just past my shoulder, which is a cowards trick. And I want you to say to me, very clearly, that you upon her willingness, are offering me this soul in place of yours for all eternity.”

“Well...yeah. She just has to be willing, right? I know she will be, I won’t even have to really do anything.” He said more to himself than anything. He squared his shoulders and looked up at Hades, “I, upon her willingness, offer you this soul in place of mine for all of eternity.”

“As you wish then. Go back to holding and wait for my summons. I will go and retrieve the soul tomorrow. I will bring her back here where you will explain to her the exchange you have propositioned me with. If she agrees, you may go free.” He said with a now barely contained rage. “If she doesn’t agree, then you will wish you’d never asked for the opportunity.”

As Hades watched Jiho get escorted back down the length of the hall and towards holding his nostrils flared and his hands gripped the arms of his throne so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. His back was stiff and he sat forward on the seat as if he was preparing to attack the next thing that moved or spoke.

Deimos cleared his throat from beside the throne, “I can get the soul for you, Hades. It would be my pleasure to assist you.”

“If I wanted you to go, I would have asked you to go. Don’t you think?” Flames were flickering visibly in the darks of his eyes.

“It’s just that,” Hades whipped his head around to Phobos, who was already shaken before and looked, now, like he might truly cry from fear, “you’ve been ‘topside’ so much recently. Surely you wouldn’t want to waste your time on a task one of us could and would happily complete for you.”

“Oh, have I been ‘topside’ too much? Is that what everyone has been talking about while I’ve been away?” He asked looking around the room. There was nobody with the courage to look back at him. “Have you all been very concerned about my whereabouts? Are you all worried that I’ve not been here enough to do my job properly AS THE FUCKING GOD OF THE UNDERWORLD? Everyone here in such a rush to get to Tartarus?”

Many of the souls murmured at that but otherwise the throne room trembled with only the boom of his furious voice. Everyone who stood around him shook their heads in denial and a shaky chorus of “No, sir” rang out around him.

“Good, and now that we’ve cleared that up,” Hades took a long, deep breathe and then let his next words ooze with sarcasm, “I will happily judge this entire line of souls today, if it so pleases the court of Personification. And then tomorrow, I will go get the girl who holds the soul that has been promised to me, because I am Hades and this is still my domain. Does anyone hold issue with that?”

This time no one disagreed.

~

It had been an atypically quiet day at the bakery, which you’d been grateful for. A nice calm way to come back to work after what was essentially a week of laying around in your pajamas crying hysterically for any and every reason until your eyes burned red and the only relief you could find was through sleep. At least the funeral had been nice and you felt like you finally had a little closure which made things slightly more tolerable.

You placed an oversized mug filled with hot coffee and a matching plate with a muffin in the center down in front of a waiting customer who was sitting at one of the tables in front of the large window that opened to the street. When you looked out at the busy sidewalk you felt a spark in your chest as you laid eyes on the one person you’d hoped you’d see all day long.  

Jiyong looked expensive, as usual. Black on black on black on black outfit. From his black blazer to his shiny black wingtips. Sunglasses sat propped on his nose and his hair was slicked back. His undercut looked fresh, like he was just coming from the barber, and it reminded you of the first time he walked into the bakery. His lips were thick and pouty, making him look worried instead of his usual disinterested expression. He had one hand casually in the pocket of his dress pants, and the other was gripping a bouquet of flowers at his side.

You bit your lip, unsure if you should just assume that he’d gotten them for you. Maybe he made another friend over the last week, someone he liked a lot and wanted to give flowers too. The sweet feeling in your stomach turned sour at the idea. When you first saw him he was walking so casually confident towards the bakery. Once he finally got to the door, however, he paused as if he’d just thought about something. You watched curiously as he turned and walked back down the sidewalk a little ways. He tucked the flowers into the skeleton of what used to be a payphone. He nodded to himself and then turned back around making his way to the door once more. This time he got as far as having his fingers around the handle before he shook his head and anxiously turned back around, hurriedly lunging for the flowers before they were snatched up by a passerby.

Now incredibly amused by the show he didn’t realize he was putting on for you, you leaned against an unoccupied table and continued to enjoy. With the flowers back in his hand he looked down at them. It was clear to you that they were brand new, just purchased flowers, still in their plastic sleeve. It seemed he had thought about that too as you watched him tug the flowers out of the cellophane and stuffed the sleeve into the trash near the payphone. For the briefest moment you thought that was going to be it, that he was going to make his way inside for real. Instead he stepped towards the trash and began to pluck out all of the filler foliage, the baby's breath and the fern palms, and shoved them in the trash with the plastic sleeve. Finally it was just the flowers left in his fist. He looked down at them once more, very thoughtfully, and then slammed the bouquet against the side of the payphone for good measure. You bit down on your lip to keep from laughing too hard. Then your whole chest warmed at the realization that for the first time in a week you’d even had the urge to laugh at all.

“Hey stranger, what are you thinking about?” his voice snapped you out of your daze and you looked up at him with a small but very genuine smile.

“Hey, Ji.”

He beamed at the sound of his name on your lips again and shoved the flowers at you quite roughly. “I, uh, found these for you.”

Taking the bouquet from him you fingered one of the red gerberas that had nearly snapped from its stem after the collision with the payphone and was now just sort of dangling sadly.

“Found them,” you asked skeptically, “or bought them?”

“Why would I buy you flowers? And hideous ones at that.” he asked as if it was the most insane thing you’d ever suggested to him.

“Hmm.” you smiled cheekily as you hummed, giving the flowers a sniff,  “Okay, so say you didn’t buy them. What you did do was see a bunch of flowers somewhere...on the ground or poking out of a trash can...wherever. You saw these flowers just waiting to be appreciated and snatched them up, and then thought to yourself with no hesitation, ‘I know exactly who I want to give these to’ and in that moment you thought only of me. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Give them back.” he said and held out his hand, “I think I saw a vagrant outside who I can give them to who would certainly be more grateful than you are.”

“No way!” you turned and hurried away from him to your safe, no customers allowed, space behind the counter. “They’re mine. You found them, just for me, remember?”

“You’re welcome.” he grinned.

“Thank you.” you smiled quite happily as you found a cup that you could put them in that wouldn’t tip over from the weight and filled it with water before dropping them in. “Would you like your usual rocket fuel?”

He leaned against the counter, “Yes, please.”  

“A treat? On me, as a real thank you for the flowers?” you asked.

“No, not today, thank you.”

As well as he was hiding it, he actually felt sick with nerves. He had to find a way to get you to go with him to the underworld but he wanted to gentle about it. It was the reason he was so adamant about being the one to bring you in the first place. Anyone else would have dragged you kicking and screaming, and he could never allow that. If he was being honest, he didn’t want to do it at all. Bringing you there meant ultimately having to explain to you who he was and he was positive that it wouldn’t go over very well. How could it? No matter what it would have to be done because he had been too thoughtless in his anger when he agreed to the deal with Jiho and he never went back on his word. He tried to think of this as a positive, at least you would finally see what a worthless worm your dead boyfriend was.

“Let’s go sit.” you said suddenly pulling him from his thoughts.

He nodded and followed you as you came around the counter. You nodded over to a table against the wall, sitting beneath the painting of Posiedon. You placed his cup in front of one chair and sat down in the other with a deeply exhausted sigh.

“You haven’t been around for a few days. I’ve...missed you.” Jiyong said after a few minutes of comfortable silence. He graced you with a small smile and it really did warm you to see it. “The guy whose been making my drinks for me doesn’t even make fun of me like you do.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that, I had to take some personal days. My boyfriend…” you froze. It happened like that, and often, in an instant you could be teetering on a breakdown. You sat quietly willing the tears that threatened the backs of your eyes to go away.

You looked so tired. Jiyong felt horrible. He wanted to tell you everything, wanted you to know that the man you knew had not been worth the pain you were enduring. He wasn’t worth it in life and was even less deserving in death. Still, he couldn’t just tell you. Delicate, he reminded himself, confess everything slowly and delicately.

“What did he do? Cheat on you or something.” He asked, you said nothing in response, only looked at him with big glistening doe eyes. “Did he break up with you? What...did he die?”

You looked down at your hands on the table. They didn’t feel like your hands, like they were real. None of this felt real. Nothing had felt real for days. Then almost sounding completely out of context you said, “It was a freak elevator accident.”

Still staring down at your hands, you waited for the sound of his laughter. Everyone else you’d had to tell laughed instantly, as if you were undoubtedly joking. You knew it sounded like a lie. What a stupid way for a person to die. So people laughed and would say something like “You’re fucking with me, right?” or “Did Jiho put you up to this? Where is that asshole?” You waited for longer than you expected and still Jiyong did not laugh. Part of you actually thought that when you looked up he would be gone from the table, having left without a word.  When you finally did look up he was still there, looking at you with a genuine concern.

“You don’t think it’s funny?” you asked with a sniff.

“Why would I? You’ve just lost someone you cared very much for. Death isn’t typically a joke for mortals.”

“Everyone laughs when they hear. I laughed.” you admitted, only half hearing his response “When they told me, I laughed. The hospital called and they said...they said he was dead. I laughed and I asked the doctor who he really was, what kind of stupid prank he was playing. Seriously… freak elevator accident! Who dies that way?”

“Nearly fifty people die in elevator related accidents every year, worldwide. You’re less likely to be killed by a shark than an elevator.” Jiyong shrugged and then mumbled, “You’d never know because my brother has a horrible PR team.”

You stared curiously at him, “I-I don’t know how to respond to that.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” He regurgitated the words he knew that most people would say in this sort of situation.

“Are you though?” As hard as he had tried to sound genuine, you saw through it. “You weren’t exactly Jiho’s biggest fan as I remember.”

Jiyong sighed, there was never usually any use in lying to you. It’s why he liked you so much. “I’m not sorry about his death. I am sorry that you’re dealing with the repercussions of having lost a loved one. Especially someone who didn’t earn or deserve the love and care you provided them with in the first place.”

“I missed you.” you said quietly, and you really had. It had been a week and everyone you talked to was exactly the same. Full of pity, lying to make you feel better, treating you like something that would crack and break at the slightest disturbance. You felt like you should have known you could depend on Jiyong to remain brutally honest with you even now. That he would treat you like you were still you. “Why am I not surprised you have no qualms with speaking ill of the dead?”

“Despite popular belief, dying doesn’t change what you did and who you were in life.” he said simply.

“I mean,” you hummed lightly, “it sounds a little harsh when you say it out loud but I suppose it does make sense.”

“I’m pretty smart.” he grinned, and you couldn’t help but smile, however small.

“You’re more cocky than intelligent, sometimes it just works out in your favor.” you joked. He didn’t come back with anything witty like you expected, he just met your gaze. The smile fell from your lips and very seriously you asked, “Can I...confess something to you?”

“Anything.”

You gnawed slightly on your bottom lip nervously for a moment before blurting out the words, “It’s my fault he’s dead.”

Jiyong raised his eyebrows in definite surprise. “Did you fuck with the elevator mechanics or something?”

“No, no. I don’t mean intentionally.” You shook your head fervently and swallowed the small lump in your throat, “We got into a fight the night he died. I told him to leave. I locked him out of the apartment. If I hadn’t done that he never would have gone to stay with his friend that night. He never would have been in that elevator.”

His friend. Jiyong held in his urge to scoff. According to his notebook, Jiho’s friend had been the girl he’d been sleeping with behind your back for almost a year now. He contemplated the best way to proceed with the conversation. The guilt you had been feeling was so clear on your face, he couldn’t just dismiss it.

“Have you considered,” He began slowly, “that if he hadn’t been in the elevator that night, that it wouldn’t have malfunctioned? That you were never the catalyst for the accident, he was?”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I’m saying that I believe that fate is real. Everything from birth to death is predetermined. Which means even if you hadn’t fought that night and he hadn’t died in a faulty elevator, he would still be dead today. Maybe he would have choked on a crouton or tripped over something and crushed his temple on the kitchen counter.”

“Morbid much?” you commented, still processing his theory.

“I don’t think so. I’m just saying that life is life and death happens. You can’t allow yourself to feel guilt over something that probably would have happened regardless of whatever actions you actually took.”

“I just- I didn’t,” you looked away from him quickly, but he could still see the tremble in your lips and glisten in your eyes from the tears that threatened to fall again.

“What was the fight about?” he asked calmly.

“What?” you were clearly surprised by the question. However your lip stopped trembling and your breathing was less panicked. He’d accomplished what he wanted and you didn’t even realize you’d been distracted.

“You said you two had been in a fight that night. It’s why he left. What was the subject matter of the argument?”

“Oh.” you turned away again, but this time to hide the blush that passed over your cheeks.

“What was it?” Jiyong asked, now completely curious, “You can tell me you think you’re the cause of someone’s death but you can’t tell me what you had fought about? Must have been bad.”

You let out a long slow sigh. “It was you. We were arguing about you.”

One of his flawlessly shaped eyebrows lifted to its highest possible point. “Me? Please, do go on.”

You restrained yourself from your regular eyeroll, “There is this stupid cherry blossom festival every spring. They have it at the friendship gardens just outside of town. I went once, and it was so beautiful and remember thinking how romantic it would be. I had really wanted to go so I asked him if he would take me as a date. We hadn’t been on a real date in such a long time. Which I guess I just assumed was what happens when you’re with someone for so long.”

“He said no?”

“He didn’t even pay enough attention to what I was saying to hear the question.” You could hear the annoyed intake of breath, but Jiyong politely said nothing so you continued. “I got so upset. I said if it was too much to ask for him to make an effort, I would just go alone. And he said, ‘Fine, what do I care if you go alone”. Then I...made a comment about how he should start to care because I was going to ask you to take me instead.”

Jiyong dawned the smallest smile at the thought of you thinking of him taking you out. Somewhere you had just said you thought would be romantic, his heart flipped. He wiped the smile from his face fast enough, realizing that this was not at all the time, and he was serious with you once more. “And that, I assume, got his attention.”

“Big time. He wouldn’t let it go. He kept asking me all these crazy questions. He wanted to know where we met. How long we’d known each other. Why you came around so much…”

“If we’ve ever fucked?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“How’d you guess?”

“They always ask that.” he muttered. Cheaters almost always assumed infidelity. “Of course it would be a concern of physical intimacy, as if emotional attachment isn’t just as significant.”

“Right.” you said looking at him with big eyes, taken back by his comment.

“Not… that I’ve assumed you have an emotional attachment to me. Or that I have one for you…” he spewed out the blantent lie, that neither of you really believed.

“No, right. Of course.” you stuttered out your own words.

The table fell into a silence that wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, just an awkward energy as the two of you privately tried to decipher your actual feelings towards one another. Jiyong gulped down the rest of his drink, that had gone slightly cold by now, as you picked at something sticking to your apron. The silence lasted long enough for your thoughts to circle back around to Jiho and you felt the overwhelming sadness attempt its return.

“I guess,” you started, “I guess I just wish I’d had the chance to say goodbye and make things right between us.”

This was the opportunity he was hoping wouldn’t come. If there was ever going to be such a thing as a perfect moment this was his. He formed the words inside of his brain, the ones that he would say so simply to anyone else, but because it was you his heart seemed unwilling to release. This was the burden he had placed on himself. As much as he didn’t like it, he still preferred to be the one to do it. He felt you deserved at least that much.

“What if I told you I know how to get to the underworld? Would it interest you to go?” Jiyong asked staring into his now empty mug hoping you’d say no immediately.

You looked at him for a long time without saying a word. When he finally looked up at you expectantly you couldn’t help but to let out a small chuckle. “That’s good. That’s a good one. For a second I thought you were serious.”

“I was.” He replied calmly, “I am.”

Suddenly you found yourself uncomfortable and no longer understanding the joke. “That’s not... funny.”

“It’s not meant to be. I can bring you to the entrance of the underworld. Down the river Styx. I can get you passed the main gate and Cerberus. I know a way to get you to Hades palace undetected. It’s safe, most of the journey is through the Fields of Asphodel. If you really wanted me too, I could help you see him again. Possibly even help you free his soul, but ...only if you want to.”

“I-” you scratched the back of your neck, unable to meet his eyes. “I have to get back to work.”

“Y/N…”

You pushed yourself out of the chair, it slid across the polished concrete floor with a loud scraping sound. He watched as you went around the counter and through the swinging doors to the back. His chest felt heavy, you’d never disappeared from him completely like that before. Anger rose up inside him at Jiho and then a fear that he had gone too far, upset you too much. He wasn’t sure how he could have been anymore gentle about it.  

Sitting for a while longer he watched as your coworker helped customers and cleaned around the register while you remained hidden away, but then he decided to give up for the day. It was likely you weren’t coming back out while he was present and he even wondered after a point if maybe you’d left through a back entrance. Standing up he slipped back into his jacket and prepared to leave.

“Jiyong.”

Your voice was soft, but he was sure at this point he’d hear you say his name, that wasn’t even his name at all, from miles away. When he turned around you were standing at the door to the back room. He’d never seen you look so nervous. It almost looked like you were scared of him. For a moment he thought to smile, to try and comfort you, but worried it  wasn’t the right time and would come off creepy. Instead he stood straight faced, hands in his pockets, and waited for you to reach him with your small, uncertain steps.

“I get off work tomorrow at 5.” You said shakily, his eyebrows raised with interest. “Can you take me then?”

“Of course.” He replied. His heart ached slightly. Was it possible that you really loved this man so much you’d offer up your soul for his? He looked down at his polished shoes, “I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow then.”

“Wait.” You said quickly as he looked like he was about to sprint away from you. “Do I need to bring anything?”

He’d wanted to be sarcastic and mean to push you away. He wanted to snap at you and prove to himself that really you meant nothing to him. Your eyes were so big, so beautiful and so filled with sadness that he couldn’t do it. He sighed, “Like what?”

“I don’t know...a passport?” He looked up at you stunned and then realized you’d been joking. You let out a breath of a laugh, “You really thought I was that stupid.”

“No, I’d never think-”

You shook your head, “It’s okay. Maybe I am that stupid. I just agreed to let you take me to a place that doesn’t even exist.”

“It does.” He smiled small. “You’ll see. Tomorrow”.

[loseweighthacks101-blog]

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There are plenty of common weight loss myths that people live by when it comes to their health. It is difficult at times to separate the fat loss myths and fact from what is true. Many sound true while others are just laughable. I once examine somewhere that if you drink water at night that you are going to gain weight or that if you scratch your head labor you are going to lose your hair.... Weight Loss Myth # 1 The more weight that I have to lose the more intense my own exercise routine should be Weight Loss Truth: Although having an intense workout routine is great, there are a few things you should consider: the first being that will everyone is at a different level when it comes to their fitness and how much intensity they can actually handle. If you have ended up physically inactive for a number of years, an intense work out for you might be, walking half a mile a day. After you go around that half mile you notice that you are sweating bullets and that you are tired. However , for someone who has been in physical form active for many years, walking half a mile can be done without a sweat. Everyone has a different definition of precisely what "intense" is. If intense for you is working out for an hour a day, but due to life's busy arrange you only have time for 20 minutes a day, then those 20 minutes will go an extremely long way. It may possibly not necessarily be classified as "intense", according to your definition, but those little cardio moments will have confident health altering effects. Fat Loss Myth # 2 Stress and weight gain do not go hand in hand Losing weight Fact: This is one of those "laughable" myths. To learn more how stress is adding lbs. to your life please get my free E-Book, "Psychology of Releasing Weight" Weight Loss Myth # 3 I can lose weight while taking in whatever I want Weight Loss Truth: Sir Isaac Newton once said " What goes up must come down. inch There are natural principles that govern our lives. If you throw a ball up in the air, it will come back down. You can sit on your couch and imagine and visualize that the ball will staying afloat in the air, but natural principles teach us that it will come down. Same goes when it comes to our excess weight. This is one of the most common weight loss myths out there. It is illogical to think that your health and weight are going to be in stabilize if your nutrition consists mainly of twinkies, chips, and donuts. Sure you can burn it off just by exercising, but most people whose diet consists of mainly junk food are probably not disciplined enough to stick to a fitness routine. I do know a few people who, from the outside, look like they are in good shape, because they are not "fat, but who have excessive cholesterol. Just because I feel sorry for crushing the hearts of so many twinkie lovers out there, I would claim this. You can eat junk food, cookies, chips, ice cream, pizza, burgers.... All of those "soul satisfying foods", but it surely should be in moderation. Anything in excess is never good. Fat Loss Myth # 4 Skipping meals constitutes a way to lose weight Weight Loss Fact: There are numerous studies that show that people who skip breakfast and eat a lower number of times during the day tend to be a lot heavier than who have a healthy nutritional breakfast and then eat 4-6 small foods during the day. The reason to this might be the fact that they get hungrier later on in the day, and might have a trend to over eat during other meals of the day. Weight Loss Myth # 5 I will not shed weight while eating at night Weight Loss Truth: You can over indulge in food during the day and not eat a single thing at night and you should gain weight. As is the fact that you can starve yourself during the day and eat all night long and you still might gain weight. The key here is balance. If your body is telling you that it is hungry then perhaps you should listen to it. The reality is, that over eating, while not exercising, will cause you to gain weight; no matter what time of the day that you eat. Whenever My organization is hungry at night, as is my habit with other meals during the day, I try to select something that is usually natural in nature. Something like fruits, vegetables, or I might even make myself a fruit smoothie. At the time of those moments that I am craving ice cream or something sweet, I allow myself to get a few, and DO NOT feel guilty about it. Many people who are overweight live their life in guilt and shame. As i allow myself to get some, however , WITH MODERATION. Fat Loss Myth # 6 I'm not acceptable until such time as I lose weight Weight Loss Fact: The person who doesn't feel acceptable because they are fat is because they are not acceptable to help themselves first. The way that you think others view you is based on your view of yourself. I genuinely believe that one must become emotionally fit before becoming physically fit. I have gone through these self-limiting emotions in advance of. Once I realized that I was ALREADY ENOUGH in the eyes of God and that I had no need to prove average joe to anyone or to receive external validation for my self-worth, that made all the difference for me. As soon as you accept yourself as who you are RIGHT NOW and realize that you are already enough in the eyes of Goodness, you will not feel like you are not acceptable because of your weight. Weight Loss Myth # 7 I need to cut calories to lose pounds faster Weight Loss Truth: Cutting your calories down might be a great thing, if you are drastically overeating and filling your face. However , if you are eating proportionally then cutting calories might have an aversive affect. If you are cutting high fat calories and are starving your body, then that will lower your metabolism, or in other words slow it down, which may result in that you not losing any weight at all, even if you are "cutting calories" Fat Loss Myth # 8 Skipping dinners will help me lose weight Weight Loss Fact: Skipping meals may actually cause you to gain weight! You will become too hungry but will eventually have to eat. This will knock your metabolism off track and will eventually slow it down. See a car running low on gas (food), if you do not fill it up, it will eventually stop working. Same goes for our own bodies, we need to keep it fueled constantly. Weight Loss Myth # 9 I think I have genetic weight gain, that runs in my family! Weight Loss Truth: Can someone say E-X-C-U-S-E-S? I will not deny that there might be tastes for heavy parents to raise heavy children who will remain heavy their whole lives, but I don't think that there is actually a "fat" gene or DNA out there. What we do inherit from our family, primarily people directly raised us, are our views and beliefs. Your views about food, money, religion, state policies, education, etc . are based upon how you were raised. If you were raised in a home where the primary ingredients cooked where fried foods, then you might have a tendency to continue cooking and eating fried foods across your life. If that is the case then you might be a little heavy around the waist. The easy thing to do is to blame the application on those who were in charge of your upbringing, however , you ALWAYS have a choice to change. Fat Loss Myth # 10 Eating healthy is too hard Weight Loss Fact: Eating healthy is the simplest thing in the world..... once you have trained you to ultimately do it. How many times have you placed a goal to lose weight or to "eat better"? The first few days you are doing terrific, eating all kinds of foods which you normally wouldn't eat. Then something funny started to happen, you went back for a old habits and behaviors. This has happened to you in other areas outside of your health. It could be with making money, buying new job, or in your relationships. Creating a new habit takes time because our brain's do not like switch. Change to the brain is dangerous. Anyways, if you would like to learn more about how our brain attempts to sabotage people from creating new habits then please download my free E-book, "Psychology of Releasing Weight" Fat burning Myth # 11 You have to give up your favorite foods to lose weight Weight Loss Truth: What would a world without the need of chocolate and without pepperoni pizza be like??? I think it would be a torturous world to live in!! lol, today on a real note I completely disagree with this myth. You are definitely able to eat your favorite foods. Starving yourself of this kind of pleasure is not fun, and quite frankly you probably WILL eat it anyways. As may be mentioned before, the real key is moderation. If you are a steak lover, then perhaps it might not be the preferred things to eat it every single day, but perhaps once or twice a week. Those who know me personally know that I LOOOOOOOOVE roasted chicken wings with pizza. In a perfect world where I wouldn't gain any weight and my blood vessels were clog-less, I would love to eat it several times per week, well more like every day. However , I know that people aren't the healthiest of food choices so I have it about 2-3 times per month. I am not abandoning my favorite foods, I am just eating it in moderation so that it doesn't catch up to me in the form of pounds. Fat Loss Myth # 12 Overeating is caused by hunger Weight Loss Fact: Nice try there. If only we're able to blame "hunger" for it. In fact , this person we call hunger has nothing to do with you OVEREATING. It'd have something to do your body telling you that it is time to "fuel up" and that it needs food, but that is not symptomatic that one should overeat. What causes many people to overeat are different reasons. One of the main ones is feeling of pressure, depression, loneliness, anxiety, fear, and other down grading emotions of that nature. Many times food can be a means of pleasing your needs. You might be actually getting your needs met through your foods. For example , if you live a lonely lifetime, and aren't very happy, then food could perhaps be a means of you feeling happy and comforted. There are many other articles that I have written on this subject but suffice it to say that overeating is NOT cause when it is hungry. Weight Loss Myth # 13 Only drastic diets work Weight Loss Truth: There goes that phrase again... DIEt.... those "drastic diets" are only good for quick weight loss and rapid weight gain once you get from it. These drastic diets range from the "cookie diet", lol.... All that way to "the water only diet"..... I am sure you may lose weight while on these DIEts, however the weight will be gained right back and usually with some increased weight as a bonus Fat Loss Myth # 14 I am too fat and too far down the road to begin Weight-loss Fact: A long journey begins one step at a time. It is natural to expect instantaneous results and to even worry the road ahead of you; especially if you are extremely overweight. The secret here is to make SMALL incremental changes. Don't hope perfection because that will lead you to disappointment. You are never too far down the road to where you cannot see the sun's lightweight...... Weight Loss Myth # 15 I can't do it, I have tried many times and have failed Weight Loss Truth: The great Holly Ford once said "Whether you think you can, or you think you can't- you're right. '"...... It is 90% mindset, and 10% actually getting off your butt and doing something about it. You fall down, you get back up.... people fall down again, you get back up again. If you have tried to lose weight in the past then it is time to keep intending. Discouragment is to losing weight as is a piece of fried chicken to a vegetarian...... they DO NOT go hand in hand.

[sauveteen]

i'm not sad | s.m

warning: i've never dabbled in angst (?) before and am (clearly) not well versed with writing in 2nd person, SO PLEASE FORGIVE ME! / slight cursing, nothing too serious

summary: you have a shitty day, and platonic roommate!shawn tries comforting you

"Fuck!" You curse under your breath, startled as the glass topples off the counter, stepping backwards when the broken shards skid around the room on impact. Cursing yourself, you crouch down, urgently tucking your untamed hair behind your ears. Your shaky hands pick gingerly at the pieces of glass, replaying the day's events in your head. This isn't the first time you've had a complete, utterly shitty day, but that's not what triggers the tears that start flowing down your face — it's the fact that the entire month leading up to this day hasn't been any better. Choking on a sob, you continue to grab at the shards, hazy vision causing you to cut your finger against a sharp edge. Flinching only for a moment, you keep sweeping and piling until you physically can't anymore. Falling limply against a cabinet, you continue to cry, bringing your knees up to your chest. You don't know how long you're there, and although it feels like a lifetime, only minutes pass. You wipe desperately at your face, empty sobs raking through your body, but stop when you realise that it doesn't help. So you bury your head in your knees, chanting to yourself the happiest things you can think of.

When you hear the sound of a lock being turned, you immediately try to quiet down — sniffling only when you absolutely have to and staying completely still otherwise. You don't want to talk to anyone right now — you can't talk to anyone right now. Especially not your roommate — fuck, if Shawn saw you in this state he'd probably join in the crying too, for all you know. He cares too much — not that's necessarily a bad thing — but the last thing you need is someone fretting over you. All you can hope for is that his perpetual hunger has calmed down for a second, because he had no other reason to venture into the kitchen anyway.

You hear him calling out your name, saying, "You there, dumbass?" but you pinch your lips shut, gulping softly. Not even a minute later, a smily Shawn walks into the kitchen. Whistling, he spins the keys in his hands, cheeks and ears tinged red with the roaring cold outside. It takes him a second to spot you, eyes widening almost comically at the sight of you crouched on the floor, body still shivering with your cries.

Smile immediately dropping from his face, heart beating loudly in his chest when your red, tear-stricken face stares back at him.

“Hey," He begins, glass crunching beneath his shoe clad feet as he makes your way towards you, “What happened?”

You answer with a cry louder and wilder than the rest, immediately lowering your head. Shawn crouches down, arms going around you. You push against his chest, almost making him lose balance and fall on the shards still littered around the floor.

“Leave!” You manage to choke out, then quieter even, “Please.”

“What?” Eyebrows furrowed, Shawn moves back towards you, only for you to press further into the cabinet, “Hey, you need to—“

“Just fucking leave!” You shout through your tears, palms pushing weakly at his clothed chest.

“Jesus fuck, Y/N!” Shawn says, grabbing your arms to calm you down, fingers closing around your fists, “I’m not fucking leaving! What happened to you?”

The next time Shawn tries to hug you, you don't resist. Your head falls against his chest, hands balling his sweater. As you continue to sob, Shawn runs a hand up and down your back, whispering words of comfort into her ear. Pressing soft, sure kisses against her temple. Although he tries to calm you down, with every second that passes, his worries only increase. What happened? When did it happen? Why are you crying when Shawn has never seen you cry before?

“Talk to me,” Shawn says, hugging you tighter, so close that he can feel your heart beating against his, “Please, baby, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

When you shake your head adamantly, Shawn pauses with his inquiries. He wants you to want to tell him, but he can’t help but assume the worst. Did someone say something? Even worse — did someone do something?

"Hey, hey," Shawn pulls back, balancing on the balls of his feet. His eyes carefully map over your face, using the pads of his thumbs to wipe at your tears. He notices how you completely avoid eye contact, something so unlike you, and something breaks in his chest. Softly cradling your head in his hands, he whispers, "I'm sorry, okay? For whatever happened — I'm so sorry. But I'm here now. I'll beat up whoever the fuck hurt you. I'll beat up a door if you stubbed your toe. You'll be good, 'kay? I'm here for you."

All you can manage is a weak chuckle, but that doesn't seem to satisfy Shawn. He tries really, really hard to hide his disdain, but he can't fucking stand the sight of you upset. You're known for being the absolute light of your friend group — the one with the shittiest of jokes, but the brightest of smiles. With a little bit of convincing, he gets you to step over the glass — since you absolutely refuse to his offer of picking you up — and makes you sit on the couch in your living room.

Shawn crouches in front of you, looking up at you with concern apparent in his wide, puppy eyes. You hate the fact that you've got him all worried, that his sole attention is on you, and you'd be damned if you let it continue any longer.

"Shawn," You push his fretting hands away, using the back of your hoodie to wipe at your face, "I'm good. I'm — stop touching my face."

"You're good?" Shawn echoes childishly, and you can tell he's struggling to keep his balance, "Hello, your feelings called; they think otherwise."

"Shut up," you mumble halfheartedly, trying to push him away, only for him to lean closer into you. He thumb and forefinger grab at your chin, tilting your face downwards, but you still can't look at him. Your eyes are too red, you just know it, and Shawn doesn't need any further indication of your sadness.

"Come on, look at me," He coos, using his spare hand to push your hair behind your ears, "You're good, right? Look at me, then."

"The constitution guarantees my right of not looking at you."

You can't see Shawn's reaction, but you hate how can almost hear his smile. You don't feel any better, and if Shawn were to leave, you'd probably continue your pity party in full swing. For his sake, though, you manage to keep your emotions at bay. And it's hard, because while bottling up is something you're an expert at, building a dam isn't something you're well versed with.

"Alright, then," He lets go of your face, going on his knees so he's almost the same height as you sat on the couch, "What's your favourite Kings of Leon song?"

"How is that relevant? Shawn, I'm tired, can you—"

"Just tell me and I'll go fall asleep in my room. I promise I won't bother you anymore."

"Your mere existence is a bother to me," you mutter, loud enough for Shawn to hear, and he can feel his heart warming again. Although he can tell that you're still just as upset, the fact that you're still cracking jokes has his eyes dancing with love. Inhaling deeply, you answer, "Revelry is my favourite Leon song — there. Are you happy now? Can you go, please?"

Instead of leaving like he'd promised he would, his hands go to the back of your head, carefully pulling at your hair tie. Your hair, now fully out of control, cascades down your shoulders. You give him a confused glance, and he answers with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. His fingers softly run through your hair, causing your eyes to flutter shut.

"That isn't your favourite song, and you're not good. If you can't tell me what happened, it's okay," His fingers softly itch at your scalp, and you can feel your eyes blurring again, "But you don't have to hide from me, honey. You're the strongest girl — fuck, the strongest person I know. Remember when you broke your toe at my birthday and didn't tell anyone because you didn't want to spoil my day?"

You're crying again now, leaning into his touch, and it's so goddamned difficult for him to continue. He pushes back his own tears, saying, "Or when you gave an exam five minutes after hearing your grandma passed away?" He's wiping at your tears as they fall, crouching so he can meet your eyes, "You've put on a brave face for as long as I've known you. But it's okay to feel sad—"

"But," you hiccup, shaking your head, "But I'm not sad!"

"Right, of course," Shawn doesn't know how to respond to that, because what else are you? But he knows better than to argue with you, so he coos, "But you're tired, right? That's it, you're probably so tired. You had a full day of college and your job, I'd be tired too. Are you tired, bub?"

You nod softly, not finding it within you to tell him just fucking sad you actually are. The way he's looking at you, all sad eyed and gentle, you're scared he's minutes away from crying too.

"You know what we're gonna do?" He gets you to look at him, running his hands down your arms, "We're going to take a nice, hot bath," His hands are on your face again, and he's stroking your cheeks, "Then we're going to fill that tummy of yours, and then I'll sing that song you love. I'll sing you to sleep. How does that sound? That sound good, honey?"

"You'll sing All Star for me?" When he nods, you sob harder, "But you hate All Star!"

"And I hate seeing you sad even more."

"But I'm not sad!" you declare with tears running down your eyes, hating how close Shawn is right now. But when he pulls you in for a hug, you accept it with the utmost readiness, awkwardly bending your body to meet his. You bury your face in his shoulder, sniffing loudly, and he rubs your back, gently moulding your bodies into one.

"Did I say sad? I meant rad. I've got the raddest roommate, who occasionally cries, but not because she's sad. Have I ever told you how fucking rad my roommate is?"

"I hate you so much," your words are muffled by his sweater, but he hears you clear as day. And although he's still hellbent on getting the reason of your sadness out of you, he manages a small grin — because he knows it'll be okay. That you'll be okay. You always are.

"Love you too, bub."

[shootwinterfest]

Happy Hunting

Shoot Secret Santa Gift by @lizburnz!

The navigation system chimes, “You have reached your destination,” and Shaw mashes on the brakes, simultaneously as she cuts the wheel.

The car screeches to a halt, slanted in a parallel spot, ridden halfway up the curb in front of some apartment buildings and a few startled pedestrians. She slams the gear into park and bolts before the tire smoke even has a chance to settle. Anything else vehicular related is irrelevant now, as she leaves the door hanging wide open and the engine still running. 

Root needs her- needs her help. With what? Specifically, Shaw doesn't know, but the short text with more exclamation points than words seemed pretty damn urgent. And since Root's phone has been going straight to voice mail ever since, she believes the threat to be serious, something that requires a second gun and Shaw's most preferred method of intervention. Shooting. 

But the neighborhood is quiet. Well, not that it shouldn't be, this early on a Saturday morning, but when Root's involved in anything there's usually some degree of chaos. Oddly, nothing seems to be out of place. No smoke means no fire, no screaming means no gunshots have recently gone off. The only person running like their life depended on it, is Shaw, who's starting to wonder if she's even at the right place. 

But it is the right place. 314 Avenue C. And Shaw knows this because it says so. Right there on the door. Behind Root. 

The woman who cried wolf lounges casually at the foot of the stoop, without a scratch on her head or a single care in the world. And though Shaw is somewhat relieved by the sight of neither dead nor dying Root, it doesn't make her any less perturbed, being pulled out of bed at the brink of dawn because someone can't quite grasp what constitutes an emergency. 

Shaw drags her feet the rest of the way, shoving her hands deep into her coat pockets so Root can't see how tightly they're balled into fists. She doesn't want to do anything she might regret, like punch a certain grin off a certain someone's face. Not until she has a valid reason at least. 

“Good morning,” Root sing songs in her usual pleasant way. 

“What is it this time?” Shaw asks, bypassing formalities completely. The faster she gets to the point, the faster she can turn down whatever it is and go home. 

“Let's see...” Root glances to the imaginary watch on her wrist. “Fifty-eight city blocks in less than twelve minutes. Wow, Shaw! I think you broke your old record.”

Shaw's eyes flutter into the back of her head. “Why am I here, Root?”

“Isn't that the age old question?” Root ambles to her feet with a large cup of coffee in hand. “Whole milk. No sugar. Just the way you like it,” she says, extending it towards a wary Shaw. 

Whether it's a hot cup-o-bribery or a peace offering, Shaw isn't sure, but she takes it anyway. “You know, this doesn't even begin to make up for-”

“Do you like hunting?” Root asks peculiarly and out of nowhere. 

Shaw just blinks. There isn't enough caffeine in this coffee, or in the entire city of New York, to help prepare her for the roller coaster that is Root's cryptics. 

The first thing that comes to mind is fugitive tracking of course, a literal man hunt. Now that, Shaw could get on on board with. But knowing Root, it's probably nothing so obvious and easy. It's two very different things, what Shaw thinks and what Root actually means. 

“It depends,” Shaw says, reluctant to commit without details first. She's learned the hard way too many times before. “What the target is... if I can shoot them... but mostly, my mood.”

“And...” Root leans in on the tips of her toes, “What kind of mood do you currently find yourself in this lovely day?”

“The pistol whipping kind of mood if you don't cut the crap and tell me what you want.”

Root pouts half-heartedly, slipping a piece of paper from her coat pocket, to which Shaw snatches and unfolds. Written on it, in barely legible hacker scrawl, is a list of addresses that still do everything but answer Shaw's question. 

“They're apartments,” Root clarifies. “I need your help finding one.”

A map could do a better job. Hell, Root's practically got a GPS system and then some squawking in her ear. But maybe it's more than that, Shaw thinks. Maybe there's a bomb planted in one, or a missing person tied to a radiator. Looking closer at the list, she finds a four digit number beside each address. Next to that, some kind of code... 2/1 1700SF W/D... 

But it isn't until Shaw reads the part about “no pets” that she shoves the paper back at Root. 

“This is why you 911'd me? To help you house hunt!” Shaw says, gaping in amazement. “Are you out of your damn mind?”

Root throws her an obvious look. 

“I thought you were...” Hurt. Dying. Both. The potential of either could light a fire of apocalyptic proportions under Shaw's ass, and Root seems to relish the fact. “Do you know how many traffic laws I just broke?”

Root shrugs. “All of them, I imagine.”

Shaw deadpans her for a moment, mystified as she internally debates whether or not she should spoil her knuckles today with an all you can beat buffet of Root's face. Shaw nearly mowed down a group of tourists crossing the street, sideswiped about a dozen parked cars, ran every single red light while doing quadruple the speed limit. For christsake, she car jacked someone at gunpoint. And for what? For the exciting, once in a lifetime mission of finding analogue-interfull-of-shit a place to live?

“Happy hunting,” Shaw eventually says and turns heel in the opposite direction. And of course it isn't the last word. Root follows on her heals and whines in her wake, with things like please and wait and a few pet names she isn't allowed to call Shaw in public. 

“You're bored, I get it,” Shaw tells her in stride. “The Machine gave you the day off, so instead of annoying relevant numbers, you've decided to annoy me instead. I get it.”

“No, that isn't-” Root groans in frustration. “Will you please just hear me out?” and she hooks an arm around Shaw's to stop her. “I called you because, one, I value your opinion. And two, I thought you'd like to be a part of a mutually beneficial decision.”

“How in the world does this benefit me?”

“Think of it like this. The sooner I get a key to my own place, the sooner you can have yours back,” Root says and places an encouraging hand on Shaw's shoulder, which is batted off not a second later when the information is really processed.

“You have a key to my apartment?”

“I made copies.”

“Wait. Copies, plural?” As in more than one? “Seriously, Root. What the fuck.”

“Look, we can stand here, arguing semantics for the next 45 seconds until your stolen vehicle is swarmed by cops, plural, or...” Root jingles a set of car keys like a carrot on a stick. “I'll even let you drive,” she adds, and Shaw doesn't have much time to mull it over, not with all the sirens wailing in the distance. 

“Fine,” Shaw finally agrees, though it was a tough decision to make. The back seat of a squad car or Root's- where is her car? 

She presses the clicker and follows the faint little beep across the street, to where the vintage muscle car sits. Not just any muscle car though, a cherry red, 1967 Mustang twin turbo V8 in pristine condition. And Shaw knows this, because it looks just like the car Harold has, locked in his garage. The one he brags about all the time, having spent years restoring it to near mint. The one he never drives or lets anyone else drive, for the matter. 

“How'd you get Finch to lend you his car?” Shaw asks, quickly realizing how dumb her question sounds aloud. Especially to Root, who just throws her head back and laughs. 

…

The first stop of the list is on the upper east side, to a twenty something story apartment building fitted with a starch press suited doorman and a security guard station, which Shaw deems is more for appearances sake. Armed with walkies, flashlights, and pens for the sign in sheet, they let Root and Shaw breeze right by with their fake ID's and concealed weapons.

It's no surprise when Root hits the “P” for penthouse button in the elevator. She's not exactly the humble type, or one to underplay any sort of small endeavor.

A well dressed blonde woman greets them right off the elevator, shining a permanent smile of all veneer that never lets up even while she speaks. Root gingerly accepts the pamphlet offered, glossing over it as she absently wanders about the main living area, which is two times bigger than Shaw's entire apartment. And white. All white. The carpets, the walls, even the staging furniture. Lord forbid anyone so much as whisper the words red wine or tomato sauce, or in Root's predictable case, blood. 

“Seems nice,” Root says while Shaw shuffles alongside like a bored child. 

“Then buy it.” The sooner Root signs the deal, the sooner she can get back to her regularly scheduled program of having absolutely nothing to do on her day off. 

“The master bath apparently has a built in sauna...” Root gives her a little nudge, “Guess how many settings the smart shower has?”

“Enough to replace me.”

“Not likely,” but then Root lowers the pamphlet in introspect. “Unless I could program it to be mean to me...”

“Ha. Ha.”

“I'm gonna have a look around.”

“And I...” Shaw scans the room, searching for the oasis in this desert of white hell, “...will see you later,” and she branches off towards the refreshment table.

It's probably the best thing about an open house. Well, if you're Shaw and you have no intent on buying anything. The free food. And not just tired old finger sandwiches either. The last time Shaw's seen a spread like this, she was undercover at a political fundraiser for what's his name running for office of who cares. 

Shaw sips a bellini from a flute as she grazes the table, helping herself to a little of this and that. At some point she does make threatening eye contact with the foolish person who tried reaching for the last salmon wrap, but all is pleasant and well for the most part. She get's to explore her pallet, Root gets to explore the apartment. A win-win so far in her book. 

“God! You wont believe the offer that tacky-khaki couple just proposed.”

Inconspicuously, Shaw glances a little ways to her right. The fake toothed woman who greeted them earlier stands with another, conversing in whispers and hushed voices. Well they'd like to believe no one else can hear them.

“An open house... what was Harriet thinking? Letting anyone waltz in off the street?”

“We'll have to fumigate when this is over.”

“Would you look at all the riff-raff?”

Shaw follows the acrylic red finger nail as it not so discretely flicks across the room. Of all the people scattered about the living area, she decides to pick out Root. 

“What do you think her net worth is?”

“If that ugly leather jacket's anything to go by. I saw holes in it.”

“And the hair...

“I like her boots though...”

“So did I- five seasons ago!”

Their annoying laughter eventually fades into the violin music, but Shaw's temper continues on it's high note. In her head, she's already plotted half the steps towards their accidental deaths, because no one – no one – is allowed to talk crap about Root. Except for Shaw, that is. 

And under any other circumstance, she'd just go over there and confront the two women with a lesson in manners. Incidentally, fists are a great learning tool for most people. 

Oh, but where would that get her? Wanted by the police, probably, if that little car jacking stunt didn't already land a warrant for her arrest. But it would be fun, well fun for Shaw, to give those rent-a-cops downstairs a run for their money. 

No, she eventually decides. There are more subtle ways to exact revenge. 

She sidles over to the group of young hipsters first, who have gathered by the fire place pretending to admire the brickwork. 

“Did one heck of a clean up on this place, huh?” she says, cutting into their conversation at just the right moment. 

They turn to her with mixed expressions. “What do you mean?” one of them asks. 

Shaw leans in. “Oh, you don't know?” she says in a hushed voice, so secretive and curious, it demands the group's undivided attention. All but one.

The guy with thick rimmed glasses just scoffs at her. “What? Did some dude die here or something?”

“More like dudes. Plural,” Shaw replies and glasses guy stops laughing. “A few months back, this tech company was having their big launch party here. Well, during the party, one of the partners totally loses it and I mean loses it. I heard, it was because the other partners were trying to cut him out... guess he thought he'd beat them to it.” and she unfolds the rest of the scene, in graphic detail with complementary stabbing gestures. To the point, a few of them turn a sickly shade of pale. 

But glasses guy, the apparent leader of the pack, needs more convincing. 

“Come on! How do you not remember this?” Shaw says, and name drops a famous New York magazine that all the people like them claim to read but never do. 

And suddenly, him and the rest of the group are singing a different tune, nodding their heads and collectively muttering things like: Oh yes, I remember that article and Such a tragedy and It's too bad, I heard they were really up and coming... 

“Yeah.” Shaw gazes solemnly at the fireplace. “That's where they found the head... threw it like it was a bowling ball.”

Like before, they stare at the fireplace. Albeit, in utter silence and for new and morbid reasons now, but Shaw takes it as her cue to move on. 

And move on she does, to the pleasant older couple standing by themselves in the kitchen, which is also bigger than Shaw's apartment as well. They look a bit out of place. Suburban, perhaps midwestern. Shaw isn't sure just yet, but they definitely aren't like the rest of the people who live here. 

“Excuse me,” Shaw says, all smile and cheer. “I couldn't help but notice, you two aren't from around here, are you?”

“Oh, heavens no!” The woman replies. Her accent is unmistakably southern and thick as molasses. “We're visiting our daughter. She just graduated from NYU!”

“Edna, you don't gotta tell everyone we meet,” the husband grumbles. “Hell, half of New York City knows by now.”

“No, it's fine,” Shaw politely reassures them. “You two must be very proud. Are you looking to move here as well, or?”

The woman side eyes the man. “Well, I would like to... It'd be nice to live closer to our little girl. Not  to mention the broadway... But Richard here's an old stick in the mud.” she leans in to whisper only to Shaw, “He doesn't take to change very well.” The man grumbles again. 

“I totally understand. When I first moved here, it took me a while to get acclimated. I mean, the first time I was mugged-”

“You were mugged?” The woman clasps her chest. “Oh, you poor thing!”

“Yeah, well,” she shrugs, “You get used to it. After a dozen times or so it's just like muscle memory. Wallet, phone, jewelry, please don't kill me.” Shaw acts it out like a routine. The grand finale, pulling the bottom of her shirt. “I was stabbed a block away from here, wanna see the scar?”

Their southern manners come to a full stop and they leave without so much as a goodbye or a bless your heart. Filled with a sense of crudely gained accomplishment, Shaw blows the smoke from the imaginary barrel of her imaginary gun and sets her sights on other targets. 

One by one, they're taken out. She tells the uptight newly weds the apartment had been used as a movie set for prestigious films such as Gang-Bangs of New York, and One Fuck Over the Cuckhold's Nest, and Forrest Hump. 

The leader of the co-op board has a portrait of Hitler hanging in his foyer. The neighbor downstairs is prone to clanging pots and pans at odd hours of the night because the voices tell her to. The walls are coated with so much lead paint, the apartment could double as a fallout shelter from radiation. And the whole building is haunted by failed venture capitalists, Shaw said to another person, and when his back was turned, she flickered the light switches. 

And alright, that last one was mediocre at best, she admits. But in her defense, the one too many bellinis were starting to kick in a that point and she was running out of material. Thankfully, Root had come full circle by then, finished with her browsing. 

“What do you think?”

“I heard the foundation's crumbling-” Shaw covers her mouth, pushing back the bubbly. “Whole place is gonna level in like a year.”

Root flashes her a look of disbelief, “That's absurd,” and returns to the brochure in hand. “I think it's pretty nice,” she says, and goes on and on about all the nice features and the nice amenities and the nice view.

“You!” 

They look up and see the teethy realtor clomping her heels in their direction. “Aw, shit,” Shaw whispers when the woman turns her pointed red nail to her this time.

“Just where the hell do you get off! I lost potential buyers because of you!”

Shaw blinks, unfazed by this woman practically yelling in her face. However, Root's rather confused, bordering the edge of worried. 

“What is she talking about?” Root asks, one of her hands sliding to the taser tucked in the back of her pants. Hovering, like she's unsure whether or not it's going to be necessary in the next ten seconds.  

“I don't know,” Shaw replies with an innocent shrug at first, until she completely abandons the concept of an inside voice. “Must be all the asbestos in the air!” she shouts and the rest of the room, the few people she hadn't managed to scare off, they all clam up and turn bug eyed in their direction. 

For a moment, the realtor panics and her fake smile returns to settle the crowd. “You need to leave!” she says through gritted teeth. “Both of you need to leave, immediately!”

“Way ahead of ya, sister.” Shaw says and calls out over her shoulder, “Wouldn't want to get a stupid thing like lung cancer or anything!” At this point, Root looks like she's going to taser Shaw instead. 

“Let's go, Sameen,” she says, perturbed and not in a mild way, judging from grip she has on Shaw's elbow. 

And still... “Really, you think they'd shell out a few extra bucks to remove hazardous materials from the walls!” Shaw manages one last time before she's shoved into the elevator.

Root jabs the lobby button and the doors close. She turns to Shaw with a myriad of emotions, some embarrassment, a little confusion, but mostly anger in her eyes. Shaw can feel them boring into the side of her face.

“What?” Shaw eventually shrugs. “Something you wanna say, Root?”

Root crosses her arms, tightly over her chest. “Something you wanna say, Shaw?”

Shaw rolls her eyes to the top of the door, watching the floor numbers fall on the screen for moment before clearing her throat. “Your hair looks nice today.”

…

Miles later in Midtown...

Together, they loiter the sidewalk in front of the next apartment Root might potentially rent, if the realtor ever decides to make an appearance. They've been waiting over a half an hour now. 

“What's taking so long?” Shaw asks, again. 

“Traffic, probably.” Root shrugs. She doesn't seem to mind the waiting as much as Shaw does. Then again, she doesn't have anywhere else to be. And neither does Shaw, but that's besides the point. Tardiness is just unprofessional. 

“Call them.”

“I've already called five times,” Root tells her. “No one's picking up.”

“When?” Shaw asks. She hadn't seen Root touch her phone at all. 

Root just taps the shell of the cochlear implant hiding beneath her hair. Oh yes, how could have Shaw forgotten, the ethereal blue tooth connection to robot overlord. 

“I still don't understand why the Machine couldn't help you with this,” Shaw says to her. “Seems it'd be a heck of a lot easier. Beep boop beep... an apartment appears.”

Root smirks at her sideways, “You know that's not how it works.�� 

“Why not? I mean, she can make up elaborate identities for you, reposition satellites in orbit for you-”

“She can also tell me how many times you've watched Eat, Pray, Love... this month.”

Shaw glares to the side of Root's face trying, and failing to keep the amusement all to herself. But she's distracted for a moment, there's a passerby who's taking too long to pass by Harold's car. “Keep moving! So her abilities fall just short of finding her favorite asset a place to live?”

“She wants me to be more...” Root chews the inside of her cheek, “Independent, was the word she used.”

For once, Shaw's in agreement with Root's girlfriend. 

“I'm pretty sure this is the exact opposite of what she meant,” Shaw teases. That is unless, the definition of independence changed over night and no one bothered to say anything. 

“She also thinks we don't spend enough quality time together,” Root quickly adds, casually with a flip of her hair. 

“Yeah, right,” Shaw scoffs at that. She'd like to know what the Machine would have to say about being  slandered and used as a pawn for Root's own projections. “We spend lots of time together. Too much if you ask me.”

“Numbers don't count.”

“You come over all the time,” Shaw argues. Root just lets herself right in, with all those keys she's made.

“Sex doesn't count either.”

“Then what- Hey buddy! You wanna lose that hand!” Shaw shouts at a particularly touchy admirer of Harold's car. “What does count?” she finally asks. Really, she wants to know, how she can possibly spread her time thinner than it already is. “Does this count?”

Root thinks about it for a moment. “I'm not sure yet. But I'll let you know.”

“Right.” Shaw shakes her head; Root can be impossible at times. The 'issue' can go on the back burner for now, Shaw decides. They've got to move forward with the day, which is no longer dependent on the no-show realtor. 

The front door of the building is locked, go figure, but that doesn't repel Shaw. There's an intercom system right beside it with dozens of names, each having their own call button. Shaw mashes all of them and waits. 

In no time does the speaker crackle with static and slews of voices, speaking all at once in a melody of Hello? Who is it? and What the fuck do you want?

“Time Warner Cable,” Shaw says into the box and almost immediately, a buzzer goes off and unlocks the door. Shaw opens it and turns to Root still waiting on the sidewalk. “You coming or what?”

Root leads her upstairs and down the short hallway. “This is the one,” she says, pointing to the lock for Shaw to pick, which she does so effortlessly.

The inside is just as bland as the outside. The walls are coated in a neutral beige color that matches the carpet in all the rooms. A single bedroom, an eat in kitchen, a reasonably sized living area with a few windows and an okay view of the coffee shop all these midtowners mill about. And that's pretty much it. Though, Shaw thinks that was Martha Stewart crossing the intersection. 

“I don't hate it,” Root sums up, having toured the entire place in less than a minute. 

“But you don't like it either.”

“Eh.” Root shrugs. “It's just hard to picture myself living here, without my things.”

An idea pops into Shaw's head. “Okay, how about...” she thinks aloud and surveys the area. “Your desk can be here, in the living room, since you don't watch TV anyways...” She moves to the kitchen next. “You can put a little cafe table here... coffee pot here... and hey look, extra cabinet space for things that aren't cooking related.”

“I know how to cook, Shaw.”

“Name one time you cooked anything,” Shaw asks, but immediately stops Root the second her mouth opens. “Let me rephrase. Cooked anything that wasn't eventually used as tear gas.”

“Okay, you've got me there,” Root concedes. “Please continue.”

Shaw leads her to the bedroom. “The bed can go here. Nightstand with the lava lamp right next to it. Dresser here. Bean bag- if you still want it, there. The closet's kinda small... you'll have to get rid of a few jackets, but-”

“Wait,” Root interrupts. “Go back to the part about the bed.”

Shaw back tracks a few steps. “The bed goes here and-”

“Right here?” Root asks, edging closer and closer. 

And Shaw's so distracted with her fake floor plan, she thinks nothing of it. She doesn't realize Root's been methodically backing her into the wall until her back actually hits the wall. 

“And, what do you imagine we'd be doing on this bed, Sameen?” Her voice drops an octave in Shaw's ear, tingling like those fingertips skirting the inside hem of her jeans. 

“I can think of a few things...” Shaw whispers, tracing the heat radiating from Root's lips inches away from her own. “On this bed, and then, that bureau over there.”

Root flashes a grin and presses it to Shaw's, briefly though. The kiss was only a ruse to take Shaw's lip between her teeth and tease some more before letting go. “I want you to know...” Root sighs as her hands circle around Shaw's wrists, “I'm really sorry about this.”

What that means? Shaw doesn't know. She barely had time to process anything Root said, because as soon as Root said it, she was spun around and pinned to wall with her arms locked behind her back. 

“Whatthafuck!”

“Just go with it sweetie,” Root tells her, and not a second later do they hear footsteps coming down the hall and a man's voice calling out shakily. “Hello? Is someone there?”

He double takes when he sees them, his face conveying a look of surprise and slight fear for his life. “What's going on here? Who are you?”

“Special Agent Augusta King,” Root announces. As swiftly as she got the jump on Shaw, her free hands whips out a black leather bound badge that says FBI. “We received an anonymous tip about a wanted criminal hiding out in the building.”

“Here? In this building?” the man stutters in shock.

“Are you the tipper, sir?” Root asks, meanwhile, zip tying Shaw's wrists together for the bonus effect. So tight, Shaw thinks she's actually in trouble with the federal government. 

“No, I live next door, I was just going-”

“So you heard suspicious activity from the vacant apartment right next to you and didn't think to report it?” Root says, catching him off guard. “Sir, are you aware that harboring a fugitive of the law is a felony offense?”

Shaw grumbles, “Like impersonating a-” 

Root silences her with a good shove.

“Woah, wait a minute,” the man backs away, hands up in defense. “I had no idea she was- I wouldn't harbor anything!”

“You'll be hearing from my offices.” Root begins escorting Shaw out into the hallway, pausing to glare at the man as she passes. “Don't leave town.”

By the time they exit the front door, Shaw is more than done with the whole charade. Immediately, she shirks out of Roots grip, fuming slightly as she strains for the folding knife in her back pocket. “I can't believe you- no wait, I can!” The zip tie snaps free after a bit of sawing.

“I'm not the one who left the door wide open.”

The few choice words bubbling in the back of Shaw's throat, simmer down. Root's right. She did leave the door open. Like some kind of fucking amateur. She rubs her sore wrists, bitter. “What are you still doing with that thing anyway?”

“I don't know.” Root jogs the badge in her hands. “It does come in handy though.”

Shaw shakes her head. From the corner of her eyes, she notices a suspicious group of hoodlums beginning to circle Harold's car like vultures on a carcass. 

“Gimme that!” Shaw snatches the goddamn badge out of Root's hands and flips it out with an, “FBI! Freeze!” The little bastards bolt in all directions, and Shaw hums to herself. “How come I never got one of these?” 

…

Later and lower on the east side...

Jerri, a fast talking woman from Queens who looks like Fusco's sister, hustles them up the stairs of a run down walk up. The bellinis Shaw guzzled earlier threaten to make a second appearance as they round the landing of floor number six. More so when she sidesteps a ragged baby doll lying in a questionable pool of something awful slicked on the floor. 

“Not much further,” the woman tells them. “Just a few more floors!”

“She said that- three floors ago!” Shaw huffs in tow.

“Try to keep up, Shaw,” Root says, jogging the steps with ease, at a steady rhythm that's utterly baffling. Considering Shaw's never seen her so physically active at something that didn't involve

“Coming...” Shaw grumbles and picks up the pace. She reaches the top floor well behind them, out of breath. “I gotta start working out again.”

Jerri pulls out a ring of keys bigger than a steering wheel and starts sifting through them. “It's gotta be one of these,” she says and tries a few but to no avail. “Doh!” she smacks her forehead. “Silly me, we went too high! It's two floors down!”

Shaw deadpans. “Are you fu-” Root jabs her with an elbow, “Funny! Aren't you just funny!” 

“Down we go!” Jerri cheers, waving at them to follow her once again. Shaw wouldn't follow this woman if she were the most relevant number of her career. But Root insists, so she has no choice but trudge back down the stairs. 

The door, the right one this time, it looks like it was breached with a battering ram and glued back together. It sticks as Jerri tries to push it open. Shaw wishes she hadn't been able to unjar it from the frame, when they finally step foot inside.

Cramped is an understatement. Claustrophobia is an increasing possibility for Shaw as they stand shoulder to shoulder in what the realtor calls a studio apartment. More like a closet. 

“Why don't I give you the grand tour!” Jerri says. 

Shaw turns her head left, then right, then back again. “I think I've just had it.”

“Oh, she's hysterical! Does she do stand up?”

“Only when she can't sit down.” Shaw wriggles free of the pair for more space, but doesn't get much. The square footage of this place barely pushes the three digit realm. 

The detail Jerri goes into as she tries to upsell this apartment gives Shaw the idea, she's either the most optimistic woman in the world or the biggest hustler in New York real estate. And if it's the latter, Root's the most patient mark, letting this con artist finish her entire spiel of blatant lies. 

“Look Root, I'm in the living room, kitchen, and bathroom. At the same time.”

“I think what my friend is trying to say-”

“Her friend...” Shaw interrupts, until she realizes that Root didn't actually put the word girl in front of friend first. For once. “Never mind, carry on.”

“There just isn't a lot of space,” Root puts delicately. 

“Space? There's plenty of space!” Jerri fires back, jazzed and sorts. “What this place lacks in size, it makes for in compartmentalization!” and she goes on to show them, the hidden cabinets in the in the walls, the drawers underneath the diagonal slant in the staircase frame. “And!” she claps her hands together before grabbing the the lonely painting from the wide wall. Underneath is a latch like rope, which she pulls. “Tada!”

A bed flops out of the wall and Shaw stares at it, unblinkingly. “You've got to be kidding me.”

“May we have a moment please?” Root says, and Jerri the realtor goes into the kitchen, two feet away. 

Shaw whispers to Root. “This whole thing is one bad pullout joke. You can't actually be serious.”

“So what?” Root replies. “It's not like I'll be around to mind it so much.”

“Well, I mind it!” 

Root smiles as she bats her lashes. “Planning sleepovers already?”

“Not if I have to unhinge the bed every time I wanna-”

“Want to what, exactly?” Root teases, for a moment, until Shaw's dead serious face hits home. “Okay, okay.” She clears her throat for Jerri to end her fake phone call. “Do you have anything else available?”

“Preferably not coffin-sized,” Shaw adds. 

It's like a light bulb flickers over Jerri's head. She frantically searches through the mess of sordid papers in her haphazardly thrown together briefcase until she finds the one. The holy grail of documents, she holds it up. “Yes!” she exclaims at first, then presses it to her chest, distraught. “No, I don't! Technically, the application's still pending and I can't show you.”

“Come on, Jerri,” Root says, putting on half her charm. “We just wanna look. Where's the harm in that?”

She gives it some thought. Not much. “Oh, what the heck? You've convinced me. It's only three floors down, come on, I'll show you.”

“Let's hope she's got the right building at least,” Shaw says and Jerri bursts in laughter. 

“Honey, if your job doesn't involve a stage and microphone, you gotta change careers because you are-”

“Hysterical?” 

…

The other apartment is nothing like the previous. It's as if they've slipped into an alternate universe on the stairwell, because there's no possible way this is the same building. Root's in awe the moment she walks in, her eyes lighting up in a way Shaw's never seen before, well, when it comes to this sort of thing. 

Crown molding lines the walls, coated in a scheme of rich blues soft whites. The long paneled windows that stretch from the living room all the way to the kitchen fill the spacious interior with honest light. And the view, Shaw's never considered Midtown to be a scenic place. Then again, she wasn't looking through this window. 

“You've been holding out on us, Jerri,” Shaw tells her. For the first time today, she approves.  

“About that other application,” Root says, “What if you accidentally misplaced it?”

“Say no more, sweetheart.” Jerri bats a hand. “My family's from Sicily. I know all about that sort of thing. We'll go to my office, lose some paperwork, sign some paperwork, have ya in here in no time,” she says, and starts ushering them towards the door. Quickly, adamantly. Suspiciously. 

“Wait,” Shaw says. There's something missing, something she's not telling them. “What's the catch?”

“Catch? What catch? You two look like a nice couple, I wanna cut you a break, that's the catch.”

“We're not-” Shaw rubs the bridge of her nose. “Look, no offense, but this is all too good to be true.” There's got to be something wrong with it, Shaw can feel it in her bones. Shit plumbing, rats in the walls, a weird smell that only comes around during certain times of the day. Something. 

“Listen, I got pristine records going back thirty years on this place. You can take a look for yourselves, but we gotta go down to my office fir-”

“Shh!” Shaw holds a finger up, silencing the room. “Did you hear that?” Her ears keen to the faint, muffled noises. “It's coming from the living room.”

“Yeah, you know what,” Jerri hastily explains in Shaw's wake. “I know what that is. The neighbors are redoing their kitchen. On a Saturday, can you believe it?”

Shaw ignores her and presses her ear to the wall, listening for the noise that seems to have gone away now.

“See? What'd I tell ya? Now if you don't mind, I-”

There's a loud crash suddenly. Something had smacked against the other side of the wall with such force, it rattled the hanging lights and shook the floor. 

Shaw slowly backs away as more, lesser thumps follow. Steadily, like a beat from a drum. And not seconds later, the moaning starts. Unmistakably from a man and oddly, a very strict sounding woman who seems rather disappointed in him.

“And...” Shaw turns to Root with her I told you so face. “there's the catch.”

“Rent controlled nymphos...” Jerri hisses and then smacks the wall, “Hey! Some of us are trying to work over here! Not that you care! Can't go one minute without screwing each other's brains out! Literally!”

“Are they?” Curiosity in her eyes, Root steps closer to have a listen for herself, and it's completely unnecessary. With walls so thin and neighbors so loud, she could stand in any room and still hear all the graphic details of their sexcapades. So it's really a bit extra of Root to flatten the whole side of her face against the wall like that. “Oh, Jerri, you have been holding out on us.”

Shaw rolls her eyes, “Come on, we're leaving,” and takes Root by the arm.

“No, Shaw wait! It's getting better!” Root protests as she's literally dragged to the door. “Shaw, I heard a paddle!”

….

The end in East Village.

“I don't think I've ever heard the word charming used to describe so many not charming things in my life,” Shaw says. She fiddles with the butter knife at the table while she waits for her order. They decided- well, Shaw insisted they stop for a late lunch, and the Russian owned deli on 7th was the closest eatery that wasn't a letter grade away from being quarantined. “How is a giant water stain on the ceiling charming?”

“Depends on how you look at it,” Root replies, her head in the piece of paper lain on the table top. She's been scribbling on it since they sat down. The list from earlier today looks nothing like it did, crumpled up, torn at the edges and for some reason, wet. Nearly all of the address had been crossed out, angrily by the look of it. 

Shaw twirls the utensil in her fingers. “I thought it looked like Margaret Thatcher.”

“I'm not getting sucked into this argument again.” Root draws another x over something and brings the pen to her lips, chewing at the end. “It was Barbara Bush anyway...”

Shaw snatches the paper from Root's unsuspecting hands. 

“Hey I need that,” Root says. Her attempts of retrieving it are all in vain. “Shaw, I still haven't decided which one I- where did you get those glasses?”

“Glove box,” Shaw replies, lifting the shades from her eyes to squint at the paper. “Didn't think I could get a hangover before I fell asleep.”

“Can I have it back, please? It's important.”

Shaw throws the glasses aside. “Root, these are all crap. You know this.”

“But I need to pick one.”

“Seriously, have you never gone apartment shopping before?” Shaw asks. Judging from the look on Root's face, she hasn't. “Root. Just make a new list.”

She sinks into the booth, whining pitifully. “But I hate this so much, Shaw. Can't I just live with you? Please?” 

Root smiles, full charm this time. And Shaw jumps when she feels something crawling up the length of her thigh. Luckily the waiter comes with the food, so Shaw has a valid excuse for evicting Root's foot from her crotch. 

“Independence.” Shaw reminds her before grabbing the sandwich off of the plate. She's about to take a bite, but pauses midway. An odd feeling had struck her, a feeling like she's being watched and not by a secret system.

Leaned against the wall, slumped in her seat, is Root, staring at Shaw's sandwich with a weird lust in her eyes. If she was hungry, then she should have ordered something. So tough, Shaw thinks, bringing the sandwich to mouth again and goddamnit!

Shaw cuts the fucking thing in half and slides the plate across the table. Root smiles to herself and takes a nibble and then just- chomps down. Shaw can't believe what shes seeing right now.

“This is the best sandwich I've ever had,” Root says, at least that's what Shaw thinks she says. Root's mouth is so full, and yet, she keeps trying to fill it. 

“As a person who's had a lot of sandwiches, I-”

“Shut up and eat it, Shaw!”

Without further protest, Shaw takes a bite. Her eyes roll into the back of her head. “Oh my fucking god.” It is the best sandwich she's ever had. Why is Root right all the time?

“So, tomorrow...” Root manages to swallow the rest without choking. “New day, new list, perhaps a new car even? I heard Harry's got a viper tucked away in cold storage.”

Shaw chews on it. As fun as it was gallivanting around this charming city with Root... she'll have to pass. “Sorry, you're on your own for round two. I'm busy.”

“I checked. You're not.”

What is this? Slow season for criminal activity? “I'm taking a personal day.”

“Fine,” Root says, dabbing with the napkin before it's surly tossed aside. “I'll be wandering Hell's Kitchen tomorrow if you change your mind.”

“Okay, Root.” Shaw snorts, almost choking on her food. “Give your taser a good charge before you do.” She'll definitely need it for that side of town- if she were actually going. 

Shaw's not stupid, she recognized the pattern as soon as she saw the list. All the stops they've made so far today were along the 4 train, which lets off near Subway HQ and coincidentally, right by Shaw's apartment.

They step outside the deli and Shaw gives the place a nod as she slips the glasses back on. The sign is in Russian, and unfortunately, none of it involves the ten words she knows. “Goodbye restaurant I don't know the name of.”

“Actually,” Root says, glancing up at the sign. “It think it says sandwich, well, bread meat bread, but you get the picture.” 

“Hmm.” Shaw shrugs. She's halfway to the car, that better not be stolen, when she notices Root isn't behind her. Doubling back, Shaw finds her standing at the deli's window, staring at a sign that says For Rent – Inquire Within. 

…

They inquire within. 

The owner of the deli; a burly, grey bearded and rather abrasive gentleman named Vlad, throws his dirty apron over his shoulder and yells something wild in Russian to the cooks behind the counter. 

“Come! We go!” he then yells to Root and Shaw, and leads them out and around the building, through several locked doors and up a rickety old freight elevator, all while cursing in his native tongue. And Shaw's sure of this because most of those words he's using, are the same ones she's used to start bar fights overseas. 

“You go, I wait,” Vlad says, and shoos them off the elevator. 

It's was an industrious space converted to a loft by the previous owners. The concrete floors were replaced with dark hard wood for a more domestic feel, but the steel pillars remained. Carved out to one side, the obvious kitchen accustomed with marble counter tops, a range, and a classic style refrigerator. And in the far corner, the porcelain bathroom with the large clawfoot tub, partitioned by a wall of glass blocks. 

Root turns circles, marveling the expanse of open floor plan. “I have no words, Shaw.” 

“I'm shocked,” Shaw replies, but it has nothing to do with this rare real estate gem they've stumbled upon by sheer luck. Root's non-stop motormouth has suddenly run out of fuel and hell has actually frozen over. 

But in the weird trend of today's events, Shaw checks and double checks everything. That the light switches turn on and the water runs from the faucets. She test the sturdiness of the steel beams and the thickness of the walls. She stomps around in her steel toed boots for weak spots in the floor. In the end, everything seems to be in working order. The radiator is blasting heat, the toilet is flushing, and yes, the refrigerator is also running. 

The second Shaw mentions roof access, Root's falling over to make a deal. 

Vlad may be limited in English, but he understands the universal language of money and the giant wad of cash Root suddenly pulls out of her pocket. He shoves a set of keys in her hand and goes off on Russian tangent as he counts the money.

“He says...” Root pauses to listen. “No checks, no cards, rent is cash only...”

“How the fuck do you know that?”

“I did some work for the Russian mob- long story,” Root tells her before she's back to translating. “I'm supposed to put the money in an envelope and slip under his door... on the first of the month, not the second, or... well that doesn't sound very pleasant.”

Shaw's eyes widen some. She tries to ask what the she means by that, but Root shushes her with a raised finger.

“There is one rule... don't bother me. If you do not bother me, I will not bother you and everything will be... cookies and cream?”

“What does that mean?”

“Sorry, I'm a bit rusty.” Root tunes back in, nodding profusely at the last part before he shakes her hand and leaves. 

“What did he just say to you?”

Root turns to her. “He said, My name is Vladimir Baronov Petrovich, and I fix nothing.”

…

A week later... 

Shaw picks up a bottle of wine on the way to Root's. A house warming gift of sorts, or a present depending on how you look at it, though Shaw prefers it as a celebration of mission completion and good things yet to come. 

The days of Root living out of satchels and crashing on couches are finally over, and for some reason, Shaw takes comfort in that. It means things are changing, for the better, she believes. Having a safe, permanent place to lay your head, it means something.

Shaw can hear the faint music playing as she lifts the elevator gate. She expects Root sprung for a decent sound system, something to listen to while she cranes her neck over a computer for hours on end. And maybe she found a nice desk and a comfortable chair like Harold's to sit in while she does, Shaw wonders, as she rounds the corner, quietly. 

Sneaking up on Root is a hit or miss, depending on the Machine's mood. But Shaw hopes she gets to catch Root doing something weird for once, even though she has no idea what that might entail. 

Root's barefoot, sitting cross legged on the floor with a soldering iron, humming to herself. And Shaw thinks it's actually kind of cute- maybe, at least until she finds a better word for it. Which is never. The feeling becomes short lived, the nameless word is moot when she realizes why Root's sitting on the floor. 

She has no goddamn furniture. 

“Love what you haven't done with the place,” Shaw calls out, announcing her presence to Root, who flinches and then smiles bashfully to the wires in her lap. As it turns out, the Machine was in Shaw's favor this evening. It's a rare occurrence to find Root so off guard, with her hair pulled into a loose bun, with little smudges of soot on her shirt and holes in her blue jeans. 

Her walk is still the same, smug saunter as it always is though. Root lets her hair down as she approaches, on purpose Shaw thinks. 

“Welcome. May I take your coat?” Root offers, and Shaw does a bit of casing as she slips her arms free of the sleeves.

It was inaccurate to say Root didn't have any furniture; there's a mattress lying in the middle of the floor beside a steel column. Root had thrown some sheets and pillows on top and called it a bed. Next to that, her other Root things. A laptop, a bag, a few articles of clothing and a cell phone playing the music Shaw had heard earlier. 

��Is that for me?” Root asks, nodding to the bottle of wine in Shaw's hand. 

“Yeah, but uh,” Shaw rubs the back of her neck, glancing again at the great empty space. “I feel like I should have brought a plant or something, or a chair.”

“Busy week,” she says, internally debating where to hang Shaw's jacket, for a moment, until deciding to just throw it on the floor. “Haven't been home much lately-” and then Root laughs, lightly to herself. “It's strange isn't it?” 

“What is?” Shaw asks, halfway to the kitchen for a pair of drinking glasses before she realizes, Root probably doesn't have any of those either. 

“This place, my place... It is supposed to feel this weird?”

“Don't worry, the charm wears off pretty quick. Eventually, it'll be just another Tuesday night where you store all your things.” Shaw flops down on the edge of the mattress. “Correction, thing.”

“Awfully presumptuous of you.” Root teases. 

“Awfully rude of you, not owning a couch.” There are worse problems than not having a proper place to sit. “I'd guess you don't have cork screw either, or is that me being presumptuous again?”

Grinning, Root ambles to the spot next to Shaw on the mattress. “You'll have to use your imagination, sorry. I didn't think you'd bring anything fancy.”

The label is the only fancy thing about this wine, an Italian sounding word, Shaw thinks it means something like hat. The price tag said twelve, but she got it for six. 

Shaw flicks open her pocket knife and stabs it into the cork with a twisting motion. 

Root leans back and lounges on her elbows. “I did buy something yesterday, now that I think about it.”

“What?” Shaw asks, straining with the knife and the cork that wont budge.

Root nods. “That.” and Shaw looks in the direction. Hanging on the opposite pillar is a crudely sketched portrait. Of Shaw.

“Um, where did you get that?”

“From the man in the park,” Root replies, like it's supposed to mean something to Shaw. “Fun fact, he used to be police sketch artist until he injured his hand in a tragic trout-fisting accident. Anyways, if you pay him twenty dollars, he'll draw anyone you describe.”

Thankfully, Shaw gets the bottle open by then. The horrible taste of it helps her forget she ever heard the words trout-fisting back to back. “Hope you like cork in your fancy wine,” Shaw says and passes it on. “My eyebrows are off, by the way.”

“Hmm...” Root cocks her head the side, “I still like it.” She takes a swig from the bottle and grimaces almost instantly. 

“You know, you don't have to drink it,” Shaw says, laughing at the sour look on Root's face from the cheap wine. She has to run to the kitchen sink to wash her mouth out, it's so bad.

“Wanna see something cool?” Root asks when she returns and Shaw throws her a wary look. The last time Root tried to show her something cool, she ended up with stitches. 

“Do you have a first aid kit?”

“No?”

“Then no.”

“Just close your eyes,” Root insists. “Please..”

“Fine.” and Shaw covers her eyes, however, she checks for any sharp objects in Root's hands and in the immediate vicinity first. Patiently, she waits on the bed, listening to Root as she scampers around in her bare feet, for a moment until there's a loud click and the main lights go off.

Shaw opens her eyes... winding up the steel columns and along the rafters high above the bed, Root's hung strings of lights. Of all shapes, sizes and colors, they're arranged in way that makes Shaw feel like she's sitting inside a Christmas tree. 

“So this is what you've been doing?” Shaw smirks to herself. The order of Root's priorities are a mystery to her.

“Livens the place up,” Root says, looking up with a kind of awe in her eyes, or maybe it's the light glowing from the red bulbs. 

Root joins her on the bed again. Their legs hang off the edge, their feet occasionally running into each other.  

Shaw takes another swig of the wine, biting at the taste. “So um, does this count?” she asks, and when Root turns to her mixed, she has to awkwardly clarify. “Is this part of that quality the Machine says we don't have enough of?”

Root says nothing, she just grins.

“Why not?” Shaw goes on the defense. She showed up, she brought the wine, she looked at the pretty lights and they're talking. If that isn't quality time, then what is? “I really think you should reevaluate-” and suddenly, Shaw is rendered speechless by Root, who grabs her face and kisses her. 

“That's why,” Root says, giving Shaw a quick peck on the lips before pushing her down on the bed and climbing on top. 

And Shaw doesn't protest either, when Root starts unbuckling her belt, she's beginning to think this may fall under another made up category in Root's head. Something along the lines of fun time. 

“But if your so worried about it, Sameen,” she says, leaning in as she pins Shaw's wrists above her head, “You can come by tomorrow. I'm going to Ikea.”

[outlyingthoughts]

Portrait of Livia: Summer 19

Livia;

There are millions of babies born each year, on a planet rotating on itself in an ever expanding universe, an ever expanding population on a pressure-cooker-like planet. Infinitely small on the human scale, and yet our daily interactions, anxieties, priorities remain overwhelming. Weirdly sometimes all things and concepts stop making sense, like words you repeat a little too much, syllables and letters mashed up seem irrationally meaningless when we give them too much attention. In the same way, all the things and concepts that makes us, all those pains and losses sometimes lose sense when we overthink them, millions of breaths and tears shed but when laying mind clouded, nothing makes sense anymore.

When our minds trip on reality, the game is to wonder what is more irrational: giving up on years of socialization and society overall because nothing really matters or pouring too much meaning and fear in a life and future that is infinitely smaller than all things around us? Atoms, on their own, mean so much more than us, tiny pieces of matter that constitute the universe, far more significant than all the thoughts that will ever cross our lost neurons. Because life and things of the nature will irremediably travel across ages and spaces without me, you, us: humanity and what we give meaning to, society and expectations don’t really mean anything.

Obsessed by our irrelevance, we kill our souls over our empty meanings and fill our brains with more worries. As irrelevant as we are, the pain and wounds of being a living mortal remain the most vivid reality of our lives. One occurrence in an infinite number of realities and hypothetic dimensions, we end up here. Silver lining in the elevator, the higher we get, the more my heart presses against my chest, the fear of height and breath-taking view leave me at loss of words. Far away from home, in a city that goes too fast, we take a break from our priorities, gaping at the Tokyo view.

There are moments in our everyday life, where we just stay silent, either scrolling aimlessly and endlessly or lost in our own mental universes. In any case, I know I could remain in this floating in between. Alone and yet you’re here because with time you became an extended part of my brain. Seating in that in between, I watch the busy night from a rooftop and you’re tensely silent.

Night views make me happy, they used to remind me of lonely yet blissful nights on my balcony back in middle school, now they remind me of our first year at uni and falling asleep to the peaceful Den Haag skyline . For years, I dreamt of bigger and farther away city escapes, cutting shapes of metal in the neon darkness of megacities. One common dream of living in New York and I adopted yours of visiting Tokyo: You have a special bond with Japan, it ties you to the music you love, to love in general and million memories.

There’s a kanji on your shirt and your heart on your sleeve when you tell me about the things that make you happy. In this massive universe you’re drowning into, you absorb its darkness and exhale soft words that make us all feel okay, there is a nostalgic tint in the way you love nature that evoke great forests and empty spaces, magnificence of the Nature and how tiny we are. A recurring theme that darkens your mind is how insignificant we are, how manipulative are the things around us, tricking us into believe things, walking on eggs unsure of how truthful is our understanding of our surrounding; afraid of our own conspiracy theories, you smoke to forget but it drives the doubts further. Another friends of us once said: “what if weed is controlled and taboo within our societies because governments know it brings people to enlightenment or at least allows them to see the wider truths?”. I don’t want to know for sure as it’d either mean that we’re sickening our brains or current governments are sickening, or maybe both are true? See? tripping and overlapping realities, maybe the Matrix is the reality ? And while I try to flee from my own mind games and thoughts labyrinth, you dive deeper on a trip to the truth, as aching as it is, a desire for fairness and justice powering you. 

No matter what, you find a way to escape, there is a distance in your eyes and a thousand kilometers in your silences, road trips to yourself because we’re too aware of the current climatic crisis to afford actual trips to peaceful northern landscapes. Still, from the Hague or Tokyo, we can distinguish the stars, trap their shapes into constellations that we don’t really want to believe impact our lives and shape our beings. Yet in a mystical search for meaning, looking at the stars to decipher our nonsense existence actually provides a bit of cohesion; us so small and useless and celestial bodies so big and widely stretched out yet still useless, one maybe guiding another, at least did: didn’t the great explorers use the sky as a map to walk or sail the earth? Ask Christopher Columbus, maybe we should blame our current US “world domination” on the stars that guided him to the Americas. Still, maybe we can’t afford to put all the fault “in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings”. Maybe that’s why the world around us is so fucked up, maybe we all escape somehow, us from shitty environments we were brought up in, our world leaders escaping from their responsibilities and the heritage of past centuries’ rise of capitalism, ruins of colonialism, rejection of minorities and normative discourse preventing us all from seeing larger truths, starting from the Western centered way we were taught in school to the coming crises challenging to our generation and ignored by current leaders.

Apart from the miracles of Nature, art also connects you to the rest of your world, tears bled into ink then sung in studios: music; proving you that other people feel such ways. I relate to this feeling, but this is not about me. The primal surge that music creates in most humans makes it hard to not add a layer of personal thoughts to its discussion. And you know how personal it can be, as you make playlists for every single one of us, like a teenage lover in the 80s, you pour your love onto us, one carefully chosen song at a time. Playlists as effective coping system. Memories roll before your eyes, just like the modern Japan landscape before ours right now. Sometimes, you’ll venture to tell me how music makes you feel and it’s probably even more elevated that how high we are, on the rooftop of a skyscraper; just like music, architecture is an art you are sensible to, and soon this manmade landscape will make you ache with nostalgia, it’s odd to think that for years, you’ve dreamt of visiting this country, blissful waves of hope and bright future where you can move freely and visit this place for the first time. Now your first time here is almost over and like a song attached to a person about to eclipse from your life, a twinge in your chest shuts you out of our world, deep into yours. Calm and peaceful because there’s nothing we can do against time flying faster than our hearts, you surrender and try to envision what artists think when they write those sad songs you add into our playlists, your curiosity in people’s thought is another escape from your own racking brain.

Sometimes, I’ve felt lost in time and spaces, consumed by the fear that no one’d ever feel nor understand that aching pressure in my chest and pinches in my guts: empathy and intense feelings due to my surroundings and people I love. Yet one day you told me you knew how I felt because you felt the same way, overwhelming pain that seizes one’s soul and tears it down with nostalgia and empathy.

It was a suffocating but clear night back in my old room, in my old life, on a summer break that felt like a too-long pause on the sideline of the highway I’m living on now. We were on the phone and gazing out, I was trying to collect in my head memories dripping of bliss, epiphany of why I’m so much happier now, because I know I have you all and you told me: “I get my happiness through you all”. Told me that your parents don’t understand why you keep talking about your friends but it’s because you live through them. I’ve rarely felt this happy in my life, because never had anyone phrased something i relate this much too. And I knew staring into the dark, that as far as I was from our new home, as hard as being surrounded by the ghost of my past was, the bond that we had created over the nine past months was an everlasting one, if you will, full of sisterhood, care for each other and faith in friendships. As much as it’s hard for you to believe in and trust people, we have a lifetime to work on our insecurities.

No matter the dozens of atrocities we see, whether they are corrupted leaders showing you the worst of humanity or couples fighting their ways to hatred, making me fail to understand love, somehow an intuitive faith for the future convinces me that we’ll be alright as long as we have faith in our friends and loved ones. You swiftly swing from one side to other on your seat deep in your thoughts as deep as I am in my fears of loveless life. Sharing and caring, as hard as it gets, is the only cure we found so far. You’re a sponge and hopefully we, your friends, provide the sun you need to cast a brighter light on your life, because we all care about you, all of us that have stuck around, here to stay as long as the stars and pressing global warming will allow us to.

Still swinging on the metallic chair of the rooftop bar, eyes deep into to the dark, you sip a peach flavored tea, small reminders of home. The wheels turn fast and hard behind your eyes, they calculate, divide and jump into conclusion by the minute, and I wonder what is dividing your Libra soul again. There’s guilt in your aura, it’s in the weight crushing your shoulder, in the way you carry your pains around. Under pressure, we all want to pop the champagne bottle that you are, release the bubbles, let you be bubbly and pure like this foamy and rich liquid instead of the tame version of Livia you serve us because you’re afraid of the million powers you hold in. Being so intense in a world empty of meaning makes you absorb the surrounding’s emptiness, only confusion appears to cloud what the world sees in you, full of light and brightness: dark only because of the world we live in. A paradox you say it yourself.

In the thousands lives and adventures that we’ll have, I know there’ll be this question hanging out from your eyes, one that questions what you are and what world we are in. Unsettling in my small certitudes, we know there is still a whole world we have to tear down to make room for our vision. The struggle is the path, the hardened way to our glistening futures, and as you reflect all the energy of Tokyo, boiling under your skin, I know there are neon lights to film, pavements to run onto and lyrics to shout from the top of my lungs. And stories to tell my kids on how “your mom and aunties Livia & Zeineb went to blah blah or used to make random ass movies” or whatever is our next adventure, we’ll tell them. 

[antiquery]

Randolph Carter?

Good afternoon. Thank you for the coffee. I know you must be busy, so I’ll do my best to make this quick. Feel free to stop me if anything I say is unclear or requires further explanation, but be warned that I do have a tendency to ramble. Old habits die hard, it seems.

I enlisted in the war on the day I turned forty. Before you ask— yes, the identification I provided you with states my age as twenty-seven, and yes, that is accurate. I can see you’re thinking that one of the things I have just told you must be false, but I assure you that they are both quite true. It’s a longer and stranger story than you probably have time for, so I do hope that for the moment you will take my word for it. And the word of the Massachusetts Department of Motor Vehicles, I suppose.

Anyway. I joined the French Foreign Legion in 1914, well before America became involved in the war. My friends looked at me askance, when I told them, and I can see why. I don’t exactly look— or act, for that matter— the part of a soldier. [Laughs.] But I had just lost a very dear friend of mine to a terrible accident for which I was partially to blame, and I was consequently in a rather volatile emotional state, so on the kind of wild whim that drives braver men to braver acts I went to the recruitment station in Back Bay and signed the requisite papers. It was barely a week before I shipped off to Europe.

I remained in France for two years. I will not bore you with a laundry list of the battles in which I participated, or the campaigns on which I marched. Those events have all been recorded many times over, and I do not particularly care to relive them. I will say, however, that I first saw combat in the early summer of 1915, at what I believe is now termed the Battle of Artois. Strange to hear it referred to like that, even in my own voice— it is an ill-fitting name, almost heroic on the tongue, but then I don’t think that even a mind so great as dear Wilfred’s could come up with a name that did fit.

What? No, I didn’t know Wilfred Owen personally, though I often feel as though I did. I’m not as intimately familiar with his history as I am with his writing, so it’s entirely possible that we fought at some of the same battles— even that we saw one another, though at the time I obviously wouldn’t have recognized him. What’s that line from Longfellow? “Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing.” Rather. 

I apologize, I’m a bit off topic. Feel free to omit this section of the recording, if you like, it’s just— Wilfred had a way of speaking of the war that I’ve never heard anyone else quite match in visceral accuracy. There is a kind of knowing in it that I’ve come to believe can only be obtained by the experience of what it was. There’s been much written about the war since his time, but nothing that really…captures is the wrong word, you can’t capture a thing like that. Expresses, maybe. I remember the first time I read his poetry I had the odd thought that it sounded as though the war itself were speaking, with Wilfred as its mouthpiece, or perhaps its translator.

I’m rambling. This isn’t what you asked me in here for. I should describe the battle to you, such as I am able. I say that because, in the vein of the above, I have more often than not found myself lacking the words to express the things I experienced in those two years. In my former years I fancied myself a poet, but now…

But I will try my best. I can start, at least, by setting the scene. It was early May, a lovely time of year in the north of France; the winter had been harsh but short, and as we marched through the countryside we were all awed by the beauty of our surroundings. Being from New England, I was not at all used to the sort of gentle blooming that constitutes late spring in much of Europe; I associated the season with mud and slush and fervid, feverish warmth. I vividly recall the sight of the trees that dotted the field that would become the scene of such carnage positively bursting into flower. Even when we had dug ourselves into the trenches, and all the misery that comes from life within them, there was the not insignificant consolation of the world outside. 

I have forgotten— or blocked out, perhaps— the tactical details of the battle that I was privy to. I knew what I needed to know at the time, and nothing more; I have no interest in improving my knowledge now. And anyway, in the thick of the fray, there is no such thing as tactics, because there is no such thing as consciousness. You momentarily go mad with fear, and it is a mercy, for if you had to witness the savagery taking place before and within you as a thinking and feeling man, I am confident that something essential within you would be as surely murdered as the fellow soldier speared on the end of your bayonet.

I apologize for the grisliness of my language, but you must understand that I am only trying to convey to you a sliver of a fragment of a fraction of what it was truly like. I cannot show you the fullness of it, of course, nor would I want to. I would never wish such a thing on anyone. But— your aim, as I am told, is to know as much as you can about this particular moment, and so I will try and provide you with that knowledge at as little cost to your sanity as possible.

And I do mean sanity. I am not unlearned in the occult (as you may have come to suspect granted the discrepancy between my appearance, my true age, and the story I am telling you) and in my time studying those strange arts I have been privy to a great number of secrets one might consider maddening. You are an institute devoted to the study of the paranormal, so you will know the gravity of what I am saying when I tell you that there is nothing in Prinn or Chambers or even Al-Hazred that so much as holds a candle to what it was like to fight in the Great War. 

The battle waged on for what felt like years, but in fact were only days— about two weeks, all told. I remember very little of the specifics; all of it blurs together in a haze of mud and blood and screams and gore, violent and unceasing death on every side, and fear that filled me with such icy coldness that I thought I would freeze solid on the spot. Such utter and infinite horror, and all of it enacted on that pastoral field, beneath a beautiful spring sky, around trees so delicate and fragrant I sometimes thought I was hallucinating them. I wonder if all the blood in the soil changed the color of those lovely white flowers.

Eventually it was over, though I felt as though I had lived a thousand lifetimes before that day came. When my commander told the regiment that the Germans had surrendered, or that we had, or that the random and reignless turning of the war had rendered us a stalemate, I felt as though I might die with relief. Temporary as it was.

The dead were everywhere. That’s what I mostly remember, about the days after the battle— the sheer plenitude of bodies, and the weak-kneed gratefulness that I was not among them, that I had escaped with nothing but a bullet wound to the upper arm and a bayonet scar that cut from the corner of my mouth to my ear and always made me look as though I were half-smiling in polite concern. [Gestures to upper lip, though no such wound is visible.] They filled the abandoned trenches and the open field of no-man’s-land, of course, but also the places in which we living made our salvaged lives— makeshift field hospitals, filthy messes, even the pitiful “rooms” where we slept. It was like living in a cemetery, but instead of clean graven headstones the markers of the dead were their bodies, slowly beginning to stink in the spring air. I remember— thinking of that line in Eliot, in The Waste Land, where he quotes Dante. “So many, I had not thought that death had undone so many.” But for months and months there was no burial of the dead, none at all.

It was not as bad as the battle itself, this living amongst the dead, but because we were fully conscious and thinking while going about our days it was much more— impactful, I suppose. Before I had always thought of the deceased as relics to be treated with respect, but seeing them lying where they died and dying where they lay, bloated and pale and so unnameably numerous, drove home to me the unimaginable insignificance of us, all of us, you and I and Wilfred and every other human being that is or was or ever shall be. (Isn’t that the phrase? I was raised Episcopalian, but that was so very long ago.) We are such ephemeral creatures, meat and spark, flickers in a howling void. Or, at least, it is hard not to conclude such things.

It must be strange for you, hearing sentiments so bitter from the lips of a young man. By now, though, you ought to have realized that I am not fully what I seem to be, and the face I wear is not wholly my own. “Life is very long,” to pull from dear Thomas again, and mine more than most. I have known so much, and seen so much, and yet— nothing I have seen or known has touched those days among the dead, those hours underneath the spring sky, looking into the faces of men I knew that know me no longer.

I met a god once, many years ago. Not one of the petty gods, mind you, but— whatever it is that is the proper term for the ones above them. (Perhaps it’s misleading to call them gods— they’re more like forces of nature, as fundamental and ineffable as gravity. The Norse have a term for their type: “they who sit beyond the shadow.”) In my youth I was an adventurer in more lands than our world knows, and I was…reckless. Foolhardy, and often too skilled in the ways of dreaming for my own good. I got it into my head to challenge a divine mandate that had been set down before me, and spent months and months questing after a desire I had only the vaguest idea of. Eventually my seeking led me to a mountain a thousand times greater than any on this planet, atop which I met— well. I probably shouldn’t say his name out loud. 

He tried to kill me, of course, because he was— is— cruel. Though that word, too, is misleading; would you call a human cruel for crushing a particularly noisome fly between his fingers? I can hardly blame him, really. Before that, though, he strode up to me and took my face in his hands and kissed me, which I found absurd at the time and still do now. What could possibly motivate such a being to focus his attention on me? I didn’t know. Still don’t, and I’m not sure I want to be given the answer.

But that isn’t the point. The point is that during the time I spent in his presence, with what must have been an infinitesimal sliver of his full attention focused on me, I felt as though I were— there’s no simile I could use to describe it. The closest I can come is that it was what an ant must feel, caught in a concentrated sunbeam reflected by a magnifying glass, at the moment just before it burns up. The term “under the microscope” is a pale shadow of what it was like, but it conveys the general sense. I couldn’t think or speak or move; I’ve been hypnotized before, and this was a thousand times more intense. I thought— to the extent that I could— that I was going to die, right there; I thought I would turn to ash in an instant, like Semele at the sight of Zeus. To this day I believe that if I had spent one more instant in his presence I would have been vaporized. His nearly killing me was a mercy.

That was how the war felt. That sense of ultimate, final, finitive insignificance in the face of something for which you have no name, something for which there is no name. The god I saw, the god who kissed me, he was the war made a brilliant mockery of flesh, and behind his golden eyes I saw the carnage I knew so well writ large across the whole of the cosmos. It is what this universe is made of. It is all that there is, and was, and ever shall be.

I nearly died a year and a half later, at Belloy-en-terre during the Battle of the Somme. A shell hit the ground directly behind me and flung me into the air as if I were a doll, scarring my back with shrapnel and nearly snapping my spine. As I lay there on my stomach in the mud of no-man’s-land, ears ringing and mind woozy, I could have sworn I felt a familiar hand on the nape of my neck.

After that I was too badly shell-shocked to fight. Once my wounds had been seen to, they sent me back stateside, and I finished recuperating in Boston— my cousin Ernest had graciously (for once) taken over the maintenance of my house in Beacon Hill during my absence, and I was welcomed back warmly by those of my friends who had not also gone off to war, willingly or not. And life went on, as it has a tendency to do in the world of the living. My life, strange and wondrous as it has been, continued on its course.

I dream often. Mostly of the war, sometimes of the god, frequently of both. I wonder how much of those latter dreams are my doing, and how much are his— I had a lover once who jokingly told me that I was “supernatural catnip,” and I’d thought it funny at the time. But I have a feeling I’m not being left entirely alone with my memories, such as they are.