#eventually ceding and calling her ‘him/her’

[dihalect]

my current episode of house features a teenage supermodel. and generally i don’t put much stock in punitive “justice”, but with the way house is acting, i think one billion million gajillion years in the hellpit would be fair

[miryum]

Stop Possessing My Boyfriend (Newt x Reader)

Requested by my amazing friend @the-bibliophile-public-library!!! Summary: The gang’s car breaks down by an abandoned, haunted mansion. They decide to investigate and in doing so, Newt gets possessed by a ghost hoping to win Y/n’s love and affection as she looks like an old lover. It’s pretty cheesy, but I have a better one being released a bit later. :) 

The full moon that always prophesied odd things shone brightly on the car. It bounced off the windows, momentarily blinding the people inside. Thomas felt the engine under him rattle and he cursed. 

“What’s wrong, Tom?” From the passenger seat, Teresa looked up from her book.

“Somethings wrong with the engine,” he muttered. Suddenly, the car lurched forward and came to a surprising, complete stop. 

Minho let out a scream and yanked out an earbud. “What was that?” He cried. 

“Go back to sleep, love.” Newt whispered to Y/n from the very back. He rubbed her back and she laid her head back on his shoulder, awakened by the sudden movement. 

“No, no,” Thomas said, “guys, I think something’s wrong.” 

“What do you mean?” Newt asked, brows furrowed. His arm tightened around Y/n unconsciously. She hummed and snuggled into him, unaware of the situation. 

Thomas said, “I don’t know,” then got out of the car. Teresa frowned and glanced back at her friends. Minho shrugged, a hint of concern in his eyes. Gally, who was sitting next to him, got out as well. Gally and Thomas opened the hood and rummaged around, talking adamantly. Gally eventually pointed at something. Thomas shook his head but Gally looked at him like he was stupid and said something loudly. Thomas countered his point but after Gally shook his head, Thomas ceded. They both got back in the car and Thomas said, “There’s a leak in the radiator. It overheated. We're stuck until we can get a tow- truck.” 

“So we’re staying the night here?” Minho started freaking out. “I can’t do my hair in a car!”

“Relax,” Teresa held up a hand, “it looks like there’s a mansion, hotel- looking place up on that hill. Why don’t we go ask the owner where the nearest mechanic is?”

“Can’t we just call someone?” Gally snarked. 

Teresa glared at him. “We could also ask to stay the night if need be. I’m sure they have plenty of room.”

“In that creepy- ass mansion?” Thomas asked sarcastically, “Yeah, this isn’t a horror movie at all.” 

“Let’s just go see.” Teresa opened her door, deciding for the group. 

Newt gently rubbed Y/n’s arm, whispering, “Love, we need to go.”

“But you’re so comfortable!” Y/n whined, still in her sleepy state. 

“I know,” he grinned, “but do you wanna sleep in the car?” Y/n hummed, contemplating it. “It’ll be cold,” Newt warned. Reluctantly, Y/n peeled herself off of Newt and crawled out of the car. 

Before Teresa could lock the doors, she rummaged around the trunk and pulled out a sweater. “That’s mine!” Newt protested as Y/n tugged it over her head. 

“Yeah, that’s why I like it.” Y/n took his hand and the group trouped towards the mysterious mansion. The moon shone brightly, illuminating their way.

The group finally made their way up the hill and to the mansion and forced Gally to knock on it. Eerily, the door swung open after the last resounding knock. It creaked agape with no one beckoning them in. Gally stepped forward to try and see their host, but no one appeared out of the darkness.

“Nope,” Minho swung back around and headed for the car. 

Teresa caught his arm and pulled him inside, muttering, “Come here you big pussy.”

“I don’t like this.” Thomas shook his head, but followed after everyone else. 

“Ditto,” Y/n agreed. 

After the imposing, dark foyer that entered to a grand staircase with obsidian railings and black candles, there was the sitting room with ominous Victorian furniture. Then there was the kitchen with old utensils and facilities and finally, the set up dining room with plates, silk napkins, and shadowing candelabras that connected back into the foyer. 

Suddenly, a cold wind swept through the house, slamming the door shut and chilling Y/n to her bones.

“Absolutely not!” Minho shrieked. “I am not about to be a white person in a horror movie.”

“Did anyone else feel that chill?” Y/n asked. Newt looked at her worriedly. Little did they know, someone else was watching as well. 

Bob and Carl watched from the bannister of their house. “Intruders.” Carl lazily said. 

“No, no,” Bob corrected, “visitors. Look at her!”

“Bob,” Carl sighed, “are you sure she’s the one? She doesn’t look anything like Angie.”

“I’m sure, Carl.” Bob huffed, “Look at the eyes. Angie had eyes just like that.”

“Maybe Angie is just somewhere we can’t find her.” Carl suggested, staring inquisitively at Y/n.

“Not possible. Angie died at the hospital. The curse was only placed on this house, remember?” 

“Of course I remember!” Carl cried, “It’s all I have to think about!”

“Shut up,” Bob growled. “That’s Angie.”

“But, new Angie has a boy- toy on her arm.” Carl pointed to Newt. “What are you gonna do about him?”

Bob grinned. “Possess him, of course. How else will I get Angie to stay here forever?”

Carl sighed and floated through the bannister down to the first floor. He slowly walked through the group of humans, eliciting a shiver whenever he brushed up against one of them. Stopping in front of Y/n, he whispered, “I’m sorry. But Bob thinks you look familiar. Your lover boy will be acting a bit differently until you can get Bob to confess who he really is.” Y/n looked around, confused. Was someone talking?

With a loud cackle, Bob flew down from the second floor and collided with Newt. Newt stumbled back and started coughing loudly.

“Newt, are you okay?” Y/n touched his back. “What’s wrong?”

Then, as quickly as it started, the coughing fit ended and Newt straightened back up. “I’m perfectly fine, sweetie.”

Y/n cocked an eyebrow. “Sweetie? That’s a new one.”

Newt blinked before hurridley saying, “Hm. That’s true.” He shrugged. “Oh well.”

“Newtie,” Y/n frowned, “are you sure you’re okay? You seem a little off.” 

“I’m wonderful!” Newt cried, hugging Y/n tightly. Y/n patted his back timidly. “Oh, I’ve been wanting a hug for years.”

Y/n carefully extracted herself from the hug. “We were just cuddling in the car?” 

Bob, in Newt’s body, quickly backtracked. “Oh, you’re right.”

“Should we stay here for the night?” Teresa asked.

“Are you kidding me?” Minho scoffed. “We are not staying here. We haven’t even met the owner!”

“The door opened for us.” Newt said excitedly, “I’m sure he’s okay with it!”

“What is up with you?” Y/n asked, taking a small step towards Minho. Minho folded his arms.

“Let’s just explore a little bit.” Newt started up the stairs, acting as if he owned the place. 

Y/n gripped Minho’s forearm and whispered, “Something’s off with Newt.”

“Yeah, I see it too. It could have to do with this weird house.”

“What? You think there's ghosts in here?” Thomas joked, overhearing their conversation.

Carl said, “Why, yes. There is. In fact, I’m right here. Just, you can’t see me. How dreadful.” Carl rolled his eyes and followed Bob, aka Newt, up the stairs. 

The five teens followed Newt as well, starting to peer into the rooms of the second floor. Newt, seeming to know exactly what he was looking for, opened the door to an old bedroom.

“Wow. That’s cool.” Gally commented, taking in the beautifully hand carved bed posts, velvet bedspread, and other wooden furniture.

“I know, right?” Newt said. Teresa glanced at him inquisitively.

“Look at these old books.” Y/n stepped into the room, making Newt smile widely. 

“I don’t think those are books,” he said. “I think they’re diaries.”

“You’re right.” Y/n flipped through the dusty, yellowed pages of a diary. “Written by someone named Angie?”

“I don’t think you should be looking at those-” Gally frowned, him and the rest of the group still in the doorway. 

“No, it’s perfectly alright.” Newt, too, stepped into the bedroom before quickly slamming the door shut and locking it.

“Newt?” Y/n cried, “What are you doing?!”

“I swear to god Newt,” Minho pounded on the door, “this is not the time to do the deed! Hanky- panky can wait!”

Newt started advancing on Y/n, smiling calmly. Y/n put her hands up and said, “Newt, stop it. This is not the time to joke around.”

“Honey,” Newt purred, “let’s just relax for a second.”

“Honey?” Y/n shook her head. “Newt never calls me that. And he would always respect my wishes to stop! In fact, when we first got together, he always kept asking if what he was doing was okay. I don’t know what’s happening, but I don’t think you’re Newt. I don’t know how, but you’re not Newt.”

“You’re so smart.” Newt caressed her cheek. Y/n had to resist leaning into the familiar touch. She had to remind herself that this wasn’t Newt. “Just like Angie.”

“Angie?” Y/n stepped away and lifted up the diary. 

“Oh, yes. You should feel very connected to her.” Newt nodded vigorously, “Because you are her!”

Y/n backed up and started yelling, “Guys! Newt’s creeping me out! I don’t know how, but I don’t think this is my Newt.”

“What do you mean?” Minho shouted. 

“Just- get me outta here!” Y/n screamed. 

“Hold on!” Thomas cried. Y/n soon heard a dull thump on the door, accompanied by a soft, “ow.”

“Wow, good job Thomas.” Gally's sarcastic reply followed. 

“You’re absolutely right.” Newt said, “I’m not Newt. My name is Bob. I used to live here with my wife, Angie. Unfortunately, she died, I soon after. I’ve been looking everywhere for her. Now, I’ve found her! It’s you.” Newt looked ridiculously happy.

Y/n, on the other hand, looked confused. “Are you saying you’re a ghost that’s possessing my boyfriend?” 

“Anything can happen on the full moon!” Newt crowed.

“You imbecile!” Y/n punched him in the arm. “Get out of my boyfriend!”

“But you're Angie.” Newt frowned. “You have e/c eyes exactly like her.”

“Lots of people have e/c eyes!” Y/n yelled, frustrated. 

“Are you sure Angie’s not possessing you? Or you haven’t been reincarnated?”

“I’m pretty sure I’d know if I was possessed. And even if I was reincarnated, I have a boyfriend. Newt! Why would I want to give him up?” Y/n tried to explain it to Bob, growing more and more desperate.

“I don’t know. I guess I thought you were Angie.” Suddenly, a low howling swoops through the room. “Carl!” Bob exclaimed, “Are you sure?” Another soft cold wind swept through. “Okay.” Bob sighed, “Carl, my friend, said I should exit my host now. I’ll let you and your friends stay here the night, but I would advise you leave in the morning.”

“Yes, please exit Newt. And I think we’ll find someplace else to spend the night. But thank you for the offer, Bob. I hate that you took control of my Newt, but I’m sorry you can’t find Angie.”

“It’s okay. I have Carl.”

Newt then pitched forward, knees hitting the floor, shaking and coughing. Gally yelled out, “Everything okay?” Shuddering wind blew through Y/n and out the door. Miraculously, the door swung open and the group was greeted with the sight of Y/n tightly hugging Newt, who looked disoriented and pale. 

“Newtie, are you okay?” Y/n whispered, rubbing his back soothingly. 

“Yeah… but what happened?” Newt groaned, holding his head, “I can’t remember anything.” 

“It’s hard to explain.” Y/n said, “Let’s just get out of here.”

“Good idea.” Minho agreed. Y/n, helping Newt up, followed everyone out and down the hill and to the car. Teresa called Alby and then a tow- truck, both calls reassuring that they would be there soon. Thomas opened a map and started planning a route. Gally reclined his seat and tried to take a nap. Minho put in his earbuds and started blasting rock music. Y/n held Newt close, the latter laying down on her shoulder and muttering, “What happened?”

“I’ll explain later,” Y/n shushed him, “just get some rest. I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” Y/n laid her head on Newt’s hair. She clutched the boy tight, still rattled after the day’s events. Y/n kissed his forehead, just glad that he was okay and in her arms.

[sky-kiss]

Jaheira x Tav: Evening In

A/n: Again. This is mostly for me. But I'm putting it here. XD Sassy old people. Being sassy and frisky.

Jaheira x (Named) Tav: Evening In

“And how are we meant to spend the evening?” 

Solaen listens to this disbelieving protest, chuckling. The drow stretches before reclining more fully, sinking into the pillows. Nothing like the pleasure dens in Menzoberranzan, but not without its merit—everything is brighter and warmer. The residual scent of spices in the air lacks the slightly sulfurous quality he associates with House Baenre. 

Jaheira’s exasperated tone calls a great eagle to mind, eager to edge her chicks out of the nest. He can imagine how her mouth twists, amused but unconcerned, and how she waves off their argument. She’s the wind, a storm, some purely elemental force, inevitable and impossible to resist. “It does not not concern me. You are adults! Explore! Throw rocks at cultists. You will make do.” 

“Jaheira, dear,” Astarion starts. “It bears remembering: you are the only one with a home in the city—readily available, I might add.” 

“Ah! There. A place for you to spend the evening.” 

“Damnable woman, that’s not…” the spawn sighs. “When may we return?” 

“Who can say? Perhaps listen—pray for silence.” 

“Jaheira.”

It’s a familiar tone, fond despite itself, struggling for outrage and dying off well before it reaches that point—Astarion only manages to sound delighted. How tawdry, High Harper—how scandalous. Eventually, the door shuts, and silence dominates the Elfsong’s upper level. Jaheira moves as silently as a shadow…he feels the shift in the room’s energy and the slight change in its temperature before he hears her. The drow opens his eyes, smirking, cataloging the sway of her hips as she approaches their den. 

“There,” Jaheira holds her arms out wide. “Rid of the cubs at last.” 

“We’re liable to lose one of them.”

“Eh.” She waves him off. “We can afford it.” 

Solaen hums in agreement. He motions for her to come closer. The half-elf scoffs, brow arching in the way that suggests they’ll spend the evening wrestling for control…but she cedes the ground. It is a welcome concession, one he intends to return in kind. The drow presses up on his knees, hands sliding over her hips to pull her close, dragging his lips across her belly. 

Jaheira snickers, tangling a hand in his hair, yanking once. “Where is your patience, hunter?” 

“Absent.” He tweaks his nose against her hip, finding the seam between her tunic and trousers, licking along that thin line of skin. “Your cubs are liable to return within the hour.” 

“Then they will deserve the earful—or eyeful—they get, no?”

Solaen snorts. “Wicked creature.” 

Her smile says she knows this very well and remains unbothered—it is one of the things he’s come to—goddess preserve him—love about her. She walks in mischief rather than malice, eyes glittering in the evening sun. Jaheira’s grip tightens in his hair, pulling just enough to tip his head back to look at her. She traces his lower lip with the thumb of her free hand, chuckling when he nips at the skin.

“Drink with me, old man.” 

“I should prefer to drink from you, Ilharess.” 

Jaheira’s sharp bark of laughter shatters the heavy air, replacing it with something softer, sweeter. She bends to kiss him, sinking down to straddle his lap, fingers smoothing into his hair. “Do not make me bind you—hah, oh, you smirk. Find my threat uninspired, eh?” 

She smiles against his lips. Solaen tips her head up, mouthing along her throat. “You are ever inspirational, High Harper.” 

Another laugh. Jaheira shoves his cheek, crawling from his lap to the bottle of spirits procured for just such an occasion—from Jaheira’s home, no less. The half-elf takes a swig from the bottle before offering it to him, muttering something in her native tongue as she noses into his throat. 

An auspicious start to their evening.

[lemonsrosesandlavender]

Planar Tears, pt. 2// Rolan/GN human Isekai

yeah ok I have so much brainrot and plot thoughts so here’s some more. Will I just write this fic properly in the end? Who knows.

2

After initially panicking, Rolan decides that the best thing to do is keep the stranger hidden in this cave - where there is at least a little fresh water, and a hole in the roof that lets the moonlight through. The druids are already on high alert about intruders, and Rolan does not think Kagha will take lightly to one who can’t even explain themselves. He doesn’t wake Cal and Lia either, ashamed of his own foolishness in attempting far too difficult a spell.

Instead, he and the strange human have a difficult, abortive conversation in charade, unable to communicate much beyond (Rolan hopes) that they should trust him and do as he says. He tries to go back to the bedroll he slipped from in the first place, but cannot sleep with worry and self-recrimination. How is he supposed to care for this person, and get them alive to Baldur’s Gate? At least there, perhaps Lorroakan can send them back to the right plane. And right now, leaving them defenceless in a cave to sleep, where they might be discovered and killed on the spot -

He takes the damned bedroll, and moves it to the cave.

In the morning, he wakes to see the stranger pacing the cave. The moment he sits up, their eyes are on him, their mouth speaking alien words that they must know cannot be understood. It sounds like questions, frustration, confusion. None of it angry, just tired. Eventually, they run out of words, and mime that they’re hungry.

Sunbeams are beginning to dance through the hole in the roof, and Rolan realises he needs to get back to the other tieflings, before Cal and Lia realise something is off. After breakfast, he needs to find a way to communicate. They could be stuck together for a month - or - permanently. No. He can’t allow himself to think about that.

‘Eating for two?’ Ethel snarks at him, as he goes back for seconds from the vast cauldron of porridge that constitutes breakfast. Gods, he never wants to eat porridge again. Especially not like this, made with watered-down milk because the druids will only spare so much. And the porridge sits so much worse in his stomach when Ethel smiles and tells him she won’t tell anyone about his ‘friend’. After all, she likes desperate people. They’re the easiest to cut a bargain with.

3

Rolan watches his stranger eating their breakfast in worried silence. No-one else seems to have noticed the trail of malignant magic that clouds Ethel like rotting seaweed. If only the damned druids would leave their ritual alone long enough to notice her presence - but that will never happen. Having ceded the caves to the tieflings, they are determined to avoid them as much as possible, until the moment the thorns expel them forever.

The human smiles at him, a smile that makes him feel an unbidden flicker of warmth. Gods no. Rolan hurries to his feet and leaves in agitation, knowing very well what he felt and denying it anyway. This person is practically his prisoner.

He drowns it out with practicalities. It seems to him that they must learn some Common. But to do that - with any ease beyond the years-long agony of teaching a child, a task Rolan thinks of with horror - he needs magical assistance. He’s heard of a spell called Tongues, but who here could cast it? Or - perhaps Detect Thoughts. That way, he can at least show them things beyond the cave. Communicate other ideas.

In the end, he goes to Arron, one of the few original grove inhabitants who will still have anything to do with the tieflings, and produces much more than he wants to from his coinpurse to beg for just one mind-reading potion - only for Arron to refuse. He won’t say why, but it’s obvious; Kagha herself probably told him not to sell the tieflings a single thing that might threaten the Druids. Arron is unrepentant in his refusal, and Rolan snaps in his face, tells him he’s a pathetic, snivelling coward who he would drag to Avernus personally if he actually knew how to. No tiefling does, of course, but if the people of Faerûn are so damned determined to believe it, he’ll let them. They can all sink to the Hells, when he becomes a great wizard.

Before they all get summarily cast out from the Grove, Cal intervenes, but he can’t wrangle a single word of explanation from Rolan about why he needed the potion in the first place. And then Rolan retreats, right back to his hiding place, no further forward than the last time he left.

It seems the same questions are on his stranger’s mind, because when he gets back the floor is covered in writing, strange letters etched into the dirt.

[tiredassmage]

@frauleiiin​ Re: your tags, yES. They are! And since I said I should eventually do a post on Tyr & Keeper/the Minister anyway, we’ll just add this to my collection of dynamics posts, lol.

I’m sure I will get more/better pictures of them together on this run, but this will serve us well for now.

Officially, Cipher Nine’s files list him as an orphan adopted into the Deckard family following the death of his parents in Imperial fleet action by a friend of the family and a fellow officer. Tyr is never particularly close with the family; his relationship with adoptive sister Mavis is borderline antagonistic and his mother, a successful, it not overwhelming Sith who married her husband for reasons more political than emotional, barely tolerates the adoption of a non-Force sensitive into their house when they have a daughter to-be-Sith.

Unofficially and buried well within redacted parts of Nine’s files that ultimately require clearance from the highest authorities of Intelligence, Tyr Deckard is the son of the former Keeper-turned-Minister of Intelligence, from a time when the elder man still operated in the field as a Cipher. In a bid to limit potential operational risks and in hopes he could protect the boy from the trappings of life in the field of shadows, he sent the boy away, entrusted to a distant family association to be raised.

Unfortunately, it seemed fate had other plans.

Tyr does end up in Intelligence willingly. Initially, he enlisted for the Imperial military in his would-be father’s footsteps. When Tyr’s files cross Keeper’s desk for approval to complete recruitment into Intelligence, his hands are rather bound by duty. There’s no logical reason to deny a recruit that performed so well during preliminary training, particularly with the military ramping up operations to probe the Republic for weaknesses. Operations cannot afford to be understaffed, particularly of good talent. Begrudgingly, Keeper cedes he’s been outplayed, and everything Keeper could have wanted to spare him from and more ends up squarely on that boy’s shoulders as he takes on the moniker of Cipher Nine. There’s a fic about it that still hurts my feelings.

Deckard is, also unfortunately, somewhat of an idealistic officer. When he joins Intelligence, he is proper, takes direction well, but thinks on his feet. He strikes a fine balance between independence and loyalty that makes Keeper worry. He’d worry seeing it any operative. Not that it’s helped by looking at his own son.

But Nine is, perhaps thankfully, rather mission-oriented. While Keeper is a mentor to him in a lot of ways, Nine doesn’t dig far enough during their tenure of service to ever quite get to the deepest truth. He’s busy wrangling his entanglement with Jadus, trying to deal with the fallout of the Castellan Restraints, and tearing down the Star Cabal for tearing apart Intelligence.

Tyr would never quite entirely express his full respect for the Minister to his face out of a professional respect for their chain of command. To Nine, he’s the leader that takes risks for them, that is always precariously balancing his duties as Keeper and eventually Minister with an intrinsic level of care for his operatives that sees them all just as much as people as resources for the Empire. It’s why Tyr has such a hard time ceding that the Minister has any real responsibility in his Castellans. Tyr reasons this away as the man’s hands being tied. When the alternative was his permanent retirement for doing his job, Tyr sees the Minister did what he could. How could he not respect that?

Ultimately, Tyr’s loyalty, in the end, wasn’t even so much to Imperial Intelligence as a whole, as an agency, as it was to the Minister, Keeper - formerly Watcher Two. If the Minister called, Nine answered, in full faith that he would not ask something of him without a full assessment of the risks.

When they cross paths again on Rishi, Tyr’s just glad to see the old man’s alive, that he survived the fallout of how things ended. Because even in his bone-deep loyalty to the “old paradigm” of their Intelligence crew, Tyr couldn’t swallow everything he had been subjected to. He struck a deal with Ardun Kothe and told the Minister and the Empire that the Black Codex had been destroyed. In a way, it felt like betraying all that faith they had ever placed in each other, a direct elbow to the nose to that discussion they’d had about ideals and goals and how to balance them, but the old man was the one that was always advocating for and teaching Nine how to look out for himself, at the end of the day.

That was how he chose to do it.

In the end, the old man manages to take his secrets with him quietly into his elusive retirement. After everything Nine goes through, he fears the revelation of their exact relation and all that it had allowed for would’ve been too much on an already incredibly strained operative that had given him nothing but his all during his service.

Nine was a fine agent. And most importantly, he managed to be a fine man beneath it all, even if it wasn’t always easy to manage or keep in perspective. If the Empire had more like him, perhaps they’d all be in a better place.

Perhaps the only two other people with any solid knowledge of this relation are Lana Beniko, as the later Minister of Sith Intelligence and inheriting the appropriate levels of clearance to access such restricted information, and Eckard Lokin, given his long history with the former Minister. Out of respect for his old friend’s wishes and agreeing with the assessment that perhaps it was for the better this truth lay quietly, Lokin makes no mention of this, though I’m sure he has it figured out swiftly by the time he’s settled as part of Cipher Nine’s crew.

Tyr did always see the man more like a father-figure and a mentor than he ever did his relations at home. He’s one of the few Tyr would have reconsidered staying more true to the Empire for, if only because they shared sentiments of reform and change. Tyr would say he owes him a lot for the man and agent he ever became. He hopes, perhaps a bit naively, that the old man’s retirement remained peaceful.

Perhaps at least one of them, then, would have made it out of this whole mess relatively unscathed.

[laurestcphens]

Name: Laure Rothschild Stephens Occupation: Owner of Westriver Gardens / Clan Pretorius Representative Age: Appears 47; actually 677 Sexuality: Lesbian Species: Vampire Clan/Pack/Coven: Clan Pretorius Hometown: London, England Relationship Status: Widowed Personality Traits: Machiavellian, disarming, arrogant, gregarious, strategic

Biography (tw: mentions of bubonic plague, death, murder)

Laure doesn't think about her life before the bite. It seems frivolous, unnecessary even. She had somehow lived an entire lifetime by that point, with children and grandchildren even, and then the plague came and took them all. Laure survives because a vampire finds her, half-delirious as she tried to tend to the corpses of her family despite being on death's doorstep herself.

Her sire dies before her transition is even complete, but Markus takes his place as she wakes. He teaches her how to stand up for herself for the first time in her life, to find the voice that had been buried by marriage and social structures and expectations. She finds her power and knows never to look back.

They make a charming pair, perfectly fitting in within the fabric of history, but not in any way that's conspicuous or obvious. Markus acts as advisor to some of the most powerful men in the world, his influence evident if one knows where to look, but unnamed in any records. To others, Laure is everything from his wife to his assistant to his whore. The reality is that they are partners. She acts as history's witness, producing art and literature that leaves behind a record of the life they've lived. She paints with Da Vinci, sculpts with Bernini, and was an avid participant of 19th century salons. Her art hangs in galleries under pseudonyms and his theories are parroted by intellectuals. Neither of their names are ever recorded, but they are satisfied with their ability to shape and influence society as it unfolds. Laure enjoys learning about people and how the function, how dynamics shift when individual or in a group, and soon she learns how to pull their strings while remaining unseen.

It's not as flashy as a life as literature might suggest for their kind but it works for them. What's between them is mere common interest, not really love, but more like a shared goal and comfort after centuries by each other's side. But all good things eventually come to an end. Markus falls in love, and decides that he is done watching and recording history from the sidelines, and that he wants to live it instead. She says nothing when he leaves, as giddy as a child, pitying him almost, and continues on with their work instead.

By then, history has somewhat progressed, enough that a woman with enough wealth can purchase a plot of land in 1942 without too many people raising an eyebrow. The country is embroiled with the rumblings of war, and she settles in Port Leiry to continue her vigil. The conflict between the species is tentatively over, and she watches, intrigued, as the different groups coexist.

The Gardens are a happy coincidence, originally meant to be a way for her to preserve the beauty that has always inspired her art. As the city builds up around her, she maintains her property, with her personal home on the edge of the property and the rest of the grounds dedicated to the natural world. With advances in technology, it turns out that Laure doesn't need to be physically anywhere in order to deploy her influence. With the amount of wealth she had accumulated over the years, she is able to make her will heard without issue, behind an army of lawyers and shell companies who shield her from the public eye, and the protection of one of the oldest and largest vampire clans in the world.

Ironically, there are some humans who call her a witch, for her solitary lifestyle and her refusal to cede any of her property for development. But Westriver Gardens becomes a popular destination for vampires and the uninitiated alike. By day, she rents out the small chapel for weddings and photography sessions, and by night, it operates as a prime feeding ground for vampires. To the truly big spenders, the entire property can be rented out for what can only be called "hunting parties", in which vampires can indulge in their natural instincts and hunt their prey across acres of land. To Laure, it's a cycle of influence and money that fuels her day to day and it pays off when she is elected as the Clan Pretorius High Council representative, a position she enjoys relatively unchallenged for the most part. Those who underestimate her based on her appearance are quickly shown why that is a mistake.

Laure lives 662 years before she understands what it means to fall in love. What she once mocked Markus for becomes astoundingly clear to her when she meets Kiri. The witch is wary at first, rightfully so, rebuffing Laure's initial advances, but eventually, a relationship grows, genuine in a way she had never before experienced in her nearly seven centuries of life. Despite the differences between their species, the impossible happens, and an unlikely bond forms not just between Laure and Kiri, but between Clan Pretorius and the Circle of the Phial as well, an example of the power they can have if they work together. When Kiri turns 45, the question turns to one of turning into a vampire, and Laure wants nothing more than eternity with her wife.

Eternity turns out to be a mere handful of months. The plans are made, with permission granted from the High Council, and a small intimate ceremony of their closest friends. Two days before the arranged date, Kiri goes missing, with a staggering amount of her blood left behind. On the day Laure should have been welcoming her wife to immortality, she received a package with Kiri's finger inside, still wearing the ring she'd given to her.

Laure returns to the life she led for six hundred years before meeting Kiri, but it's dull in comparison. She now knows what it means to have something, and what it means to lose it. She withdraws to Westriver, emerging only for her duties as Council Representative. She maintains the greenhouse and garden that Kiri had cultivated, filled with magical plants and herbs that were difficult to find elsewhere. To honor her late wife, Laure permits Phial witches to use the garden for their needs, so long as they respect it. It comes with a monetary cost, but she is fair in her dealings.

She sees her eighteen months after Kiri dies, and her world finds color again. A near perfect vision of her late wife and the delusion is born. Laure watches from the shadows, learning her schedule until it is ingrained in her memory. She imagines a chance to redo what has already been done, to recover what she lost. When she goes to the High Council again for permission however, she is denied. They see her actions as obsessive, driven by her grief and emotions and she can't deny it. But she decides she doesn't need their permission anyways.

It's simple to orchestrate a meeting at the Serval, a rare outing away from Westriver. The girl is still young and all too trusting, and Laure almost pities her as she struggles feebly in her grip. It pains her to leave her sprawled in an alley, for anyone to find, but she reminds herself to be patient. She's waited a year for this, she can wait a few months longer. And finally, maybe, eternity is within her grasp.

Wanted Plots / Connections

Markus de Villiers - Markus is the equivalent of Laure's platonic soulmate. Not her sire, but the first vampire she came across after she was turned. Much of who she is today can be attributed to him recognizing and coaxing out the potential in her. They worked together in tandem for over 500 years, witnessing and shaping history together. He is incredibly intelligent and a born noble.

The Successor (Blair Davenport) - This witch from the Circle of the Phial was chosen to be Kiri's successor as liaison with Clan Pretorius once she transitioned into a vampire, a position that continues after her wife's death. After working alongside her wife diplomatically for years, it is an adjustment to this new witch, and Laure is not shy about hiding her frustration, even if unfairly directed towards them.

The Council (Markus de Villiers, Hester Lomidze, Aoife O'Sullivan, Nsilo Castillon) - Laure's fellow Council members who denied her permission to turn Aria because they were worried about her increasing instability. Maybe they disagree with the fact that Laure was married to a witch. Maybe it could have started out as a positive relationship but she has since felt slighted because they turned her down.

The Plotter (Cordelia Verges) - Laure has been the Clan Pretorius Council Representative for Port Leiry for almost 30 years, and she's grown increasingly more erratic since Kiri's death. Someone can try to oust her or otherwise try to manipulate her position for their own gains.

TBA

[mazegays]

could've followed my fears all the way down

Chapter 23

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 24

Gally blinks the sleep out of his eyes. What woke him up?

He’s hardly slept at all since Harriet came out of the cabin and told them Thomas was alive.

Then he sees Thomas is awake, looking around, confused.

Last time he woke up— two days ago, and not for very long, according to Harriet— he was in the medical cabin.

Anya had eventually told them since they were all healthy, they could be near Thomas for longer periods of time.

“Thomas,” He calls, trying not to wake anyone else up. Carefully, he moves his chair to the empty side of the bed. “This is yours and Minho’s cabin. We thought you’d sleep better here.” There’s a bowl of applesauce, the strawberry one he made, on the table.

It’s easy to swallow, and light enough that it won’t upset his stomach.

Frypan had known. He’d known, and he’d wanted to be prepared.

Gally still doesn’t know how to thank him for that. Gally doesn’t even know how he knew, but he’s always thought that Frypan was some kind of magic.

“Here.” He feeds him a few spoonfuls. Thomas doesn’t even try to take the bowl for himself.

He’s gaunt, and his face has started peeling, but Gally’s so glad he’s alive that he doesn’t care about any of that.

“Gally?” Thomas sounds almost scared, and his voice is completely shot.

Of what? Of him?

“How mad are you?”

That makes… more sense than he thought.

Gally’s mad, yeah. But he can’t make himself stay mad when he’s looking at Thomas. Thomas, who is alive and not dead and he’s right here and he’s going to be fine.

“That you lied? Yes, I’m upset, but we spent nearly two weeks thinking you were dead, Thomas.

That kind of overshadows the anger. I know you didn’t want us to think you were dead. Talk to us next time instead of running away.”

This isn’t the best time for this talk. Thomas is falling back asleep already, and Gally doesn’t think he’ll remember it later.

Besides, he and Minho have started talking again, trying to figure out this— how they  are going to work.

He’s not in love with Minho. Not how he is with Thomas.

But he could be.

He could be, and it probably won’t be as hard or scary as it seems right now.

finish on ao3 or continue reading

He wants to try, and now that Thomas is safe, they have all the time they could ever want to find themselves in each other over and over again.

Minho’s hand is significantly colder when he wakes up than it was when he went to sleep— he and Gally had ceded the mattress to the girls after an intense round of rock, paper, scissors, but they’d held hands between the chairs as they fell asleep.

No one else is awake, despite the sun highlighting Sonya’s face.

Gally’s moved to be by Thomas, still holding the bowl of applesauce.

Minho does the same, taking the bowl and setting it down before it spills. Gally wakes up, but he looks like he slept better than in the past few nights, so he doesn’t try telling him to go back to sleep.

“He’s worried we’re mad at him.” Gally whispers. “It’s the only thing he said to me before he fell back asleep.”

Sounds like Thomas.

“We’ll talk to him later.” Minho squeezes Gally’s free hand.

Thomas looks better than he did the first time he saw him like this.

“Do you think he’ll like the tree?” He asks.

Gally snorts, and it’s just a little too loud. Harriet wakes up and glares at them, but no one else reacts.

“He’ll hate it. Well, he’ll love it because it’s a spruce, but it totally messes up the plan he set up.”

“I don’t know, I was kind of hoping it could be our spot.” Minho murmurs. “Or that we could… I don’t know, move it. Once we decide where we’re going to stay.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, this cabin is bigger, but yours is more isolated. And I know Thomas likes the trees he planted out there.”

“Let me check him over for a minute, boys.” Minho hadn’t even noticed her waking up. Anya seems so certain that Thomas is out of danger, and it really does only take a few minutes.

“He’ll wake up soon.” She says, not bothering to whisper. “Sonya and Harriet went to get breakfast, I’ll be in the other room unless you need me.”

Thomas opens his eyes almost as soon as the door shuts.

“Were you faking so she would leave?” Minho asks, unable to hide his amusement.

“Maybe.” Thomas tries to push himself up. Gally catches his shoulder gently and Minho grabs a pillow off the mattress and tucks it behind Thomas’s back.

He’s thought about this a million times, what he was going to say when Thomas woke up for real.

He can’t bring himself to say any of it.

Thomas is here, he’s alive, and yes he’s a shucking idiot but he’s their idiot.

“There are some really pretty wildflowers, farther out in the forest.” Thomas whispers, like he’s not sure what to say.

“Let’s go see them together next time.” Minho says. Gally glares at him a little for it, but if Thomas wants to look at pretty flowers, then Minho is going to take him to see pretty flowers.

Gally will come anyway, he knows.

“After you heal.” Gally’s firmer than he’s willing to be right now. Maybe that’s a good thing. “And we need to talk, first.”

“Yeah. I know. I’m sorry.” Thomas watches them both carefully. “I thought— I just. I don’t know.” He signs along as he says it, and that probably means he’s done talking for now. Thomas’s voice sounds rough, but his hands are cracking and wind-burned, and signing has to hurt, too.

“Eat your applesauce, Thomas. Gally made it.” While Minho knows they have to have this conversation— for real this time, they can’t put it off again. Not the way they had before. Or something like this might happen again.

They might lose someone for real, this time.

But a little longer might be okay. It can wait until Thomas can sit up on his own, until he doesn’t sound like he’s been swallowing nails.

None of them are going anywhere anytime soon.

<- 22 24 ->

[sevenciircles]

anyways, full ramblings under the cut. and y'all know me, millie supporter through and through, so here we go. my main opinion? finally some good fucking food. not that it beats out my fave truth seekers, but it's nice. a nice little thing.

gonna put this out there that I am not gonna talk about blitz and the sister thing simply because I don't really care. like the fizz episode, it served as less of a proper introduction and more like a teaser for what's to come. establishing further plot lines that will eventually go somewhere.

ANYWAYS I do think that it's nice to FINALLY see Millie shining outside of Moxxie. That she has her own talents, that she has her own struggles that are being hinted at. She's revealed she wants more attention, she's revealed she doesn't always like being just the angel of death. she would rather be loved for all parts of her. she's been in a supportive role for years (even in this mission her job was to support Moxxie while he gathered intel), she now finally has the spotlight. her reveling in people liking her is something that was nice to see. she is often take advantage of, unintentionally, by someone else. she rarely gets the opportunity to have the glory for herself.

I also love from the beginning it's established that Moxxie is taking his own desire for approval and the desire to prove himself way too seriously. he was obsessive with it. he assumed that he would taking point, and she'd be there to mop things up. however, when that didn't happen, he became frustrated because he felt his plan was being derailed.

this leads him to lash out at millie, forgetting it was his own idea. however, I'm glad that millie called him out by saying that she's always been so supportive of him and whatever he does. that she wanted the same in return. for once millie wanted to take an active role rather than a reactive one, and she had finally had enough of being overshadowed. it was entirely fair reaction. I don't blame her at all. hell, even when she tried to enjoy herself by the campfire she decided to cede her time to support Moxxie's dreams and goals. I'm glad she stood up for herself.

I do like that Moxxie and Millie did make up, through a balance of communication and ACTION. he showed that he was sorry, that he was willing to change. that he would amend his further action.

it shows that even though they have their fights, they are still a team.

for once, Moxxie's drama with himself is the set up for MILLIE, rather than Millie's things being the set up for Moxxie's. (i.e her family episode).

and yeah, I love how the ENTIRE camp worshipped her and everyone loved her. and how she became a celebrity because people love her millie-ness.

some other high points were discovering that drugs are like catnip to imps, millie can play the banjo and guitar, she's capable of sooooo many things, and we figured out how asmodean crystals worked. a bit dramatic, but it is what it is.

overall, this was clearly meant as a way to set up further plot lines and connections. as well as make a fun lil side plot of millie getting some vindication she rightfully deserved.

[borrowedtimeandspace]

Please Try To Hear

8. Dream

From this list of gt prompts

AU: Zepheera's Origins

Note: This features a song that has come up before if you've kept up with the life and times of Zepheera. This particular version can be found here if you're curious.

~~~

Every once in a while, the human who lived in the house above the floorboards would put on a record in the evening. Usually after dinner, while they went about whatever quiet activities humans get up to with music on. Toffer in particular enjoyed the chance to listen in, and over the years developed quite the taste in music, albeit a limited one.

His partner, Ceillo, indulged him in a night of frivolity when this happened, allowing himself to get into the silly dances Toffer would pull him in for. Borrowers had to find their fun wherever they could, just like anything else in their lives.

Only tonight, they weren’t alone. They had a third partner in their dance. A lovely baby girl, only a few months old and promised to be theirs once her mother, their dear friend, ceded her to their care.

Zepheera sat placidly to the side watching them all. They were a colorful group, with her daughter’s bright red hair between Toffer’s blond and Ceillo’s brunet, and all their smiles and laughter. Now more than ever, she was confident in her decision to leave her as yet unnamed child with these two. They had been so kind in giving her a safe place to stay, taking care of her all throughout her pregnancy. Ceillo’s mother had acted as a midwife for the other borrower families in the house over the years, so she was in good hands with him.

The two men did their best to make Zepheera feel welcome, especially now that she’d promised to give them the gift of parenthood when such a thing would not be so easy for them ordinarily. She honestly couldn’t have asked for better people to raise her and Orrick’s daughter, with the option of Orrick himself well out of the picture. Not by his choice.

Looking at them now, they seemed like they would make a wonderful, loving family when Zepheera was gone.

She did plan to leave, eventually. She wouldn’t tell Toffer and Ceillo why, and they didn’t push her for explanations. It was just as well; she couldn’t begin to describe the way that she couldn't bear to keep the child herself. Perhaps the awful reality that she was too afraid of watching her and Orrick's baby grow and wither and die before her while she was left behind, could be cushioned by the gesture of giving her dear friends the gift of raising her themselves.

Zepheera had never heard of Doris Day. Apparently she was from a part of the world far, far away from here, and this particular album was called “I Have Dreamed” after one of the songs. She had a beautiful voice, which drifted down through the floorboards that night. Toffer adored her, it seemed, and was quite excited to hear that the human had put it on. So far, the album had consisted mostly of ballads about love, which put Zepheera in a contemplative mood to say the least.

It had been just about a year since she’d left Orrick behind. What would he think of her now? The woman who abandoned him out of the blue. What would he say if he knew she’d taken their child with her, no matter how unwitting it was?

Watching Toffer and Ceillo dance around with that happy, healthy baby did help distract her from such thoughts. She would live a good life here.

The baby began to fuss in Ceillo’s arms, just as one side of the record ran out and the human got up to turn it over. He did his best to shush her, but she had a need that needed expressing and no amount of rocking or back-patting could make it better.

“I’ll take care of it,” said Zepheera, getting wearily up from her seat. This was why she was sticking around the place, after all. 

Nodding in understanding, Ceillo gently handed the baby over. Her cries didn’t quite stop, but they settled down significantly once she was in Zepheera’s arms. She spent the walk to her bedroom convincing herself that it was because she recognized Zepheera as the one who could sate her hunger, and not because she recognized her mother.

By the time Zepheera sat down in a chair in her room, the human had begun playing the B side of the record. Focusing on that instead of the way she avoided eye contact with the baby, she noticed that the first song was a tad more whimsical than the previous ballads. Bouncy and flowery, yet still about love and all that fluff. It seemed she couldn’t quite escape the topic tonight, but the lighter tune at least put Zepheera and her child at ease for the moment.

Then the airy flute and strings faded away, replaced by a melancholy oboe and piano.

“When one is lonely,” Doris sang, “the days are long…”

Zepheera’s hand clapped over her mouth, barely containing a gasp.

“You seem so near…”

‘No! Not this song, please!’

“But never appear…”

Zepheera hadn’t heard this song in years, maybe decades, but she’d never forget it in all her life.

“Each night, I sing you a lover’s song…”

Their song. Hers and Orrick’s.

“Please try to hear, my dear… My dear…”

The next thing Zepheera knew, Ceillo was holding her in a tight hug while Toffer muffled the baby’s fussing in his shoulder as best as he could. Evidently, she slowly realized, she’d begun sobbing uncontrollably, loud enough that the other two heard and came to help. Given how hoarse her voice felt after only a few moments of such raw, turbulent emotion, it was a true miracle that the human hadn’t heard her through the floorboards.

In all the time Zepheera had been with them, she never allowed herself to break down like this, even when the dark thoughts wouldn’t leave her alone. All the reminders of all the hurt she’d caused just by being alive, making the choices she’d made. They didn’t quite know what to do but hold her and assure her that it was alright, they were here for her, and she was safe.

If only they knew.

The song was still playing, Doris’ dulcet tones dragging out the chorus that Zepheera knew all too well.

“I’ll leave you never.... Love you forever... All our past sorrow redeeming…”

Zepheera did her best to pull herself together, pulling away from Ceillo. Catching her breath, she told them something that they didn’t quite expect after such an outburst.

“I think I know what to name her.”

They blinked at her in shock. Zepheera had always insisted that they name the baby, since they’re the ones who would raise her. They, in turn, insisted she should at least come up with a few ideas. It was only fair since she did all the work in carrying the child. So they’d reached an impasse, and the most Toffer and Ceillo would do was call the baby by a few pet names like ‘sweetie’ or ‘love’. A few more names were brought up in conversation, but Zepheera refused to give input.

“Make it all come true…”

“I… Do you think Day could be a good name for her?”

“Make me love you, too…”

Ceillo and Toffer exchanged looks, as though confirming for one another that Zepheera was actually offering a suggestion. They couldn’t begin to understand their friend, but the last thing they could do was deny her this.

“Someday I’ll find you…”

Taking one another by the hand, they nodded together and Toffer said, “Day is a lovely name for her.” He shifted the newly named baby in his arms so the three of them could finally put the name to her soft, round face. “Look at her. She shines like the sun.”

All three of them were misty-eyed at that point, and with the last of her strength, Zepheera reached out to wrap an arm around each of their necks. Their hug surrounded Day in a warm embrace.

“Someday I’ll find you…

Again…”

[sunderedazem]

What Corrain's relationship with his siblings like? How much older is he then his half siblings?

After the dust settles...he's on surprisingly good terms with them, actually - and both Vaylin and Arcann survive.

Chronologically, he's less than a year older than Arcann - maybe around seven or eight months older - and therefore just about three-to-four years older than Vaylin. So...when he's finally freed from the carbonite, he's therefore younger than *both* of his siblings, a fact which they will forever rub in his face. The numbers are as follows - Corrain is taken prisoner by Zakuul when he's 24 and some change - at which point Vaylin is just 21, and Arcann is about to turn 24. Then, when he's unfrozen, he's still 24 (almost 25), but Arcann is 29 and Vaylin is 26.

What changes everything for their relationship - and more importantly, helps Vaylin to avoid death - is a combination of three things. - One - Arcann and Corrain are told by Valkorion that they're brothers to knock them off-kilter. It's a massive shock to both of them, but Arcann's focus thereafter twists to *Corrain being the rightful heir to Zakuul* and more Scion prophecies predicting his fall from power at 'his brother's hands' and etc. Arcann doesn't want to believe that he has another brother, especially one that Valkorion has appeared to favor over him for No Apparent Reason (again) - but that connection makes the fight between them personal in the "I want our father to acknowledge ME" vein, rather than "Emperor Trying to Crush Annoying Ant." So when Corrain displays both his strength in the Force, untainted by Valkorion, and how cruel Valkorion's hold on him is during their battle over Odessen, Arcann starts to understand why Corrain was the one able to kill their father and stops being quite so jealous and wary of him. - Two - Corrain hates Valkorion because of the Castellan Restraints. With every fiber of his being. It's a hatred that cannot be forgiven or forgotten - he will literally destroy himself (and has before) to kill Valkorion/Vitiate, and it all stems from Corrain's time on board the Emperor's Fortress. It's the depth and breadth of this fury that eventually convinces Vaylin and Arcann of his truthfulness in his overtures to ally with them against Valkorion - and in Vaylin's case especially, it's his understanding of what it feels like to be conditioned against your will. Corrain knows what it's like to be Vitiate's tool, and therefore intimately understands both Arcann and Vaylin's underlying motivations - Arcann's being to prove himself better than what Valkorion thought of him, and Vaylin's being to set herself free from Valkorion's control at any cost. - Three - Corrain and Vaylin are paired in the Force - they're a Dyad. They're two sides of the same coin, both of whom suffered near-identical forms of torture and control at Valkorion's hand, but their backgrounds split them - Corrain didn't completely break thanks to his Jedi training, while Vaylin did. So when their Force Bond first forms while she's visiting Arcann's carbonite vaults - he understands everything she's ever felt about Valkorion, but he came out of that horror able to heal from it. And his connection to the light side of the Force slowly helps Vaylin to grow more stable over time - it reintroduces her to emotions beyond hate and pain and cruelty - and by the time Corrain breaks out, she's both more stable mentally and more aware of her own motivations and emotions. Ergo - when Corrain calls out to her during her party on Zakuul, pointing out that she really doesn't want power, she wants freedom, but the only freedom she's ever known is THROUGH power and if she'd just give him a chance he could prove her wrong- she realizes he's right, because she's in a much less anguished state of mind. So she throws down the gauntlet - a "let me unlock my powers, then fight me to prove you're strong enough to do what you say you can, and I'll cede the throne to you" - instead of going on rampage. She's also more stable throughout Arcann's time on the throne, and gives Corrain insider assistance at times, because she's trying to figure out how Arcann sees her.

This all means that the Arcann in my plot surrenders to Corrain on Voss, because he finally trusts in Corrain's motivations and compassion - he doesn't feel the need to run. And when Corrain wins the duel with Vaylin on Nathema (and accidentally restores the planet in the process) Vaylin is thereafter loyal to him, because he did what he promised and is 'strong enough' to protect her free will from Valkorion.

Both Vaylin and Arcann in the Moonrise Legacy are stripped of any real decision-making authority, which they both understand, but Corrain names Vaylin the captain of his personal guard, and names Arcann as an advisor to the legislative body he creates on Zakuul after he takes the throne as a sign of trust in them on a personal level. And unlike him and Iomlan, who agree to have a more adult-to-adult kind of friendship, the three of them do manage to connect as siblings after a while, and Vaylin and Arcann are both part of the few in attendance when Corrain, Theron and Lana finally get married.

[divinesayer]

Series: Yu-Gi-Oh! 5D’s Ships:  Misty Lola/Carly Nagisa, Misty Lola/Carly Nagisa/Jack Atlas Characters: Carly Nagisa (Carly Carmine), Misty Lola (Misty Tredwell), Crow Hogan Tags: mentions Jack Atlas, polyamorous Carly Nagisa, focuses on Misty/Carly, background Jack/Carly, title from a TWICE song, first kiss, date night Summary: Very few things on this Earth could distract Carly from a good rom-com. But, the way Misty was staring at the screen, blinking those beautifully long lashes, raising her brow when the movie amused her…

this is a commissioned piece for @diabetic-best-bi! i really hope you all like it, i hope i've done these two sapphics justice. if you enjoy, please consider sending me a tip on kofi! you can also commission me! you can find an excerpt of the fic below:

The longer the phone rang, the more Carly’s stomach tied itself into knots, biting her bottom lip harder than intended. A spill-over from years of nerves swallowed with a shaky sigh. If Jack had been home, she might’ve felt less scared for the call to be answered, since she could have just thrown the phone at him to deal with.

The ringing sound, tinny from the sheer age of her device, eventually ceded, replaced with Misty’s familiar honeyed tone. “Carly?” Despite no view of her face, it was obvious that she was smirking. Somehow, that just made her more flustered, and Carly prayed that she didn’t notice it.

But when would she ever be so lucky? Of course it would get mentioned.  “Little flustered, are we?”

Misty definitely knew how to press her buttons, and the stuttered attempts at denial only made it worse. A moment of silence between laughs was granted for Carly to unscramble her brain. A deep breath helped decrease that racing heartbeat. “I wanted to know if you wanted to come by and hang out for a bit.” Her voice still wobbled, betraying the anxiety that she was desperate to hide. New relationships were scary, and Misty was definitely scarier than Jack was.

“Sure, I can. Now?” Not asking about if Jack was home confused her for a second, but then she remembered how his voice could carry down the phone. Aki used to complain about hearing him better than Yusei whenever she called him.

“Uh, y-yeah. Now.” There was a brief tone of confidence, relief washing over in waves as it slowly set in: Misty wanted to spend time with her. Now, she really should have known this. They were dating, after all. 

“Alright. I’ll leave now. See you in about an hour.” 

[showerbong]

As much as it may be uncouth to admit it, I do believe, in a way, that fucking ugly guys is not only my god-given right as a hot, successful 29-year-old, but a ritual i must continually observe with gusto until my 30th birthday. Incidentally, my birthday is in a mere four hours-- while there is still time for a buzzer-beater (quickie with the habitual jeans-with-no-underwear-sporting crust punk barback in the single-occupant bathroom at the dive next door), I shall begin the process of post-morteming this experience in detail to mark my completion of three decades of tumultuous existence.

One must believe that one can make a difference in this fucked up world! To each according to her ability, or something like that. You see, choosing to fucking ugly dudes while one is young and hot is a privilege-- there will come a day when one's only choice is to fuck hideous men. Best to seize opportunity by the horns, if you will. Otherwise the horns come for you eventually.

I've always been a go-getter--an artist with a vision-- a martyr looking for a cause. I have a particular talent for scanning the room at establishments ranging from an upscale wine bar to a Texas Roadhouse, somehow identifying the subject who is most subconsciously self-conscious of his patchy facial hair, or his dandruff, or his beer gut, or his pencil penis (especially his penis). Often I can pinpoint with detail particular insecurities before the subject himself can even place the source of his existential disquietude. It's not even that I, personally, think these men are, in reality, ugly at all-- no, not really that. It is more that I am acutely aware of grotesqueness in general. And there is nothing better than studying someone's particular grotesqueness, choosing to study it closely, before they are even aware of it themselves.

Call a gift, or sixth sense, or pathetic, or pathological-- it makes no difference to me, really. The reason I have come as far as I have thusly is because I have made up my mind to do things, and then done them-- what a lot of people don't want you to know is that all you have to do to do things is to simply do them.

And for the record: I do not hate men or wish them grievous harm. I simply feel the compulsive urge to, in many ways, reset the karmic flow of things around me. My mother, though devout Catholic she is, often told me in my childhood (with an uncharacteristic acumen) that not every situation need be moralized-- I was thrilled to be pulled out of Sunday School at age 9 after refusing to cede to Sister Agnes my stance on the story of Lot (that his daughters should have simply killed him), though I still believe that, in fact, we are all free to arbitrate justice on a wider scale through incremental, prosaic means.

All of this started the summer I turned 22 (stay with me; it ramps up). You see, at the time, I was truly, completely, and indescribably bored.

[rametarin]

Think my younger brother is finally convinced.

Mom is, was, and always has been a plotting, scheming, selfish, narcissistic, mind fucking harpy. And ever since COVID started, she became insufferable.

She's always been the breadwinner, because she's always been the one with the career. Making between 65 and 70 thousand a year, from the 90s to no. That's 90s money. She eventually bounced from actual hospital work to rest home/boarding home work, which paid substantially less but was significantly easier on her aging self.

But whatever job she took, her way of "taking back" what the job took from her was to come home and create Problems(tm) for me, specifically. Because I was the only person she was taking it out on and she always dressed it up as being an "eccentric, strict mom," and motherhood in this society is considered sanctified whether left wing or right wing, she got to be as obnoxious as she possibly could so long as she dressed it up as something else.

Have a problem with that? Then you would be put down and disregarded as bellyaching over something that could not be helped and so wasn't worth bitching about. If you were a man and being antagonized, belittled and abused by your mother, you were called a pussy if you hollered in pain about it. And it didn't matter exactly how she was abusing.

Her favorite way to abuse was to hold something metaphorically over my head, offering it as if I were allowed to have it. Then manipulate circumstances to keep it perpetually out of my reach, but still use that as a carrot on a stick for behavior.

Even when I gave into despair and stopped fighting or struggling or putting up any resistance whatsoever, she'd still be talking my ear off trying to make me WANT things, solely to then pretend circumstances ruined the opportunity when she decided that she didn't actually want me to have the thing. Whether it was ceding any interest in the outcome, or really putting effort into it and forcing her to eventually break down, break character and start screaming about how I wasn't supposed to actally have the thing and now never would, I had her number, and she constantly tried to engage "around it," get me back on that track as if I didn't understand what she was and what she was doing.

She never did this to my younger brother. Typical narcissistic parent bullshit, she made him the Golden Child and played him off of me, letting him be as big a brag as she possibly could. I guess as vicarious revenge against her dad, or mom, for favoring her sisters. Who fucking knows. Point was, she encouraged him to be as big of a loud, obnoxious problem as he could be.

Many the times he'd tear down the living room curtain and just 4 and a half years between us meant it was my obligation to put it back up. But the catch was she wouldn't actually get a better curtain rod or curtain. She'd do that bullshit stalling tactic women do, pretend they forget over and over and over again, when you know if they REALLY wanted the thing and cared so fucking much, they'd go out and buy the god damned curtain and better rods, tomorrow.

The shitty curtain rod prone to malfunction and forcing me to interact with it about 10 times a month, was her idea of an environmental and circumstantial punishment. Something to "keep me busy." She had a million of these things, and it always gave her the opportunity to start demanding/ordering. And if she didn't get a response immediate enough, start threatening and flashing repercussions for non-compliance. She couldn't want to jump to threats and warnings, because that was the whole point. Threaten violence (not necessarily to beat me up. Calling the police, throwing me out, getting my father over here to deal with me were common threats of antagonism)

She had to be in the middle and front of everything, adding or removing something to it, just to make bends and twists and "bark like a dogs" just for the sake of being in my face. Or she'd torpedo the entire thing. It didn't matter what it was. Sucking any and all fun out of a thing, wasting my time listening to her warnings, or rambling "advice," or interrupting what I'm doing like a fucking tutorial character with unskippable cutscenes with the power to give you a GAME OVER if you ignore them.

My younger brother was virtually immune to this behavior. I was her psycho heat-sink. He both didn't care because he wasn't the recipient of her selfish shit, and he benefitted, so he had every reason not to care.

He didn't care when she spent so much of her own money that she put herself a little in the red, then "asked" for a few hundred dollars that I'd saved over actual years of carefully not spending holiday cards from the extended family. He didn't care when I told her no, so she snuck into my bedroom and swiped $300 from my sock drawer and then later bragged she sent my money to some other family she knows to, "give them a merry christmas! ^.^"

When I got mad at her for theft, she turned on the crocodile tears and made the issue about me being selfish in the face of her doing a generous thing, and tried to turn it into a lecture about being stingy on a religious holiday.

The bottom line was she hated me having any savings or money. She hated not having absolute control over my finances. She hated that I wouldn't open a bank account with her and let her have complete access to every dollar I had, while preventing me from being able to access it virtue of not having a car.

Well. Fast forwards about 20 years. My younger brother has to date purchased two cars. She has wound up riding both of them until they collapse.

She was legitimately screamed at by a client and had to quit her job over harassment. But then she decided she was just going to "retire early." And she implied sevely that both her sons, us, were going to have to start paying her bills, since she wasn't going to do that anymore.

I can't work because of some health problems. I can't even afford to get those problems properly diagnosed.

But my younger brother had enjoyed this relationship and been situationally fattened up for exactly this scenario for the last 10 years. Where he wasn't forced to pay rent, was allowed to save all his income from his job, and summarily just pissed and smoked it all away.

Until suddenly he found himself having his savings account being raided by mom whenever she chose to spend her money like an asshole. At times it seemed like she was clearing out his account solely for the sake of having that agency over him, even if she replaced it with money from her pension and social security. She was still just wiping his savings clean because she won't stop wasting cash on garbage and needing, "emergency funds."

Emergency funds that wouldn't need to fucking exist if she wasn't creating problems. But then she wouldn't have the artificial spur to dig into his savings or the whole situation exploding and leaving us all homeless.

So, he's been having a bad few years. Suddenly the hundreds to thousands of dollars in surplus and savings he was enjoying, he's watching her piss away in the form of extra boxes of icecream and frivolous sweets and "kind gestures" at other people outside this house, and the resulting financial insufficiencies that force us to tighten our belts in other ways. Defacto, backdoor "mom gets absolute control of all my money" by manipulating the circumstances and refusing to adjust. Giving everybody stress and insisting, "YOU DON'T TELL ME HOW TO SPEND MY MONEY!"

yeah, welcome to the club, chief. Even if I could hold a job with my health as it is, I wouldn't make that cunt a hundred dollars in a year out of spite. I am so fucking tired of being used and exploited and my time wasted, I'd almost just jump into a bottomless pit if I was sure the chain was wrapped around her neck and she'd starve to death on the drop to hell.

So, he's had a miserable year. His crops in the yard got too much rain and didn't come up, his car finally aged out because mom living like an asshole and clearing his savings meant he couldn't save for a car (and she still expects him to buy THE "family" transportation. Saves her from the expense and gives her more money to lord in other avenues) So he has to pull even deeper.

I'm hoping he finally starts realizing she is the problem, she has always BEEN the problem, and maybe we can get out of here and not wind up stuck sleeping in a fucking ditch and living on a treadmill to stay there. But, not too much.

[petalsmooth]

Call back to first episode of TNG with farpoint. First episode involved a mystery that discovered new life much like the one seen there.

Call back to when Ro left to join the Marquis

I’m sad....I love her. Loved her in the tv series, kind of thought she was dead after Starfleet hunted down the Marquis and then to learn she wasn’t but now is? Though I’m glad we got some resolution. 30 year’s of hard feelings and misunderstanding. I wasn’t even suspecting her return. 

Background: She was Bajoran. Her people, long before Starfleet existed, were technologically advanced, culturally impactful then they were conquered and oppressed by Cardassians. They lost most of their history and knowledge. Eventually their rebellion kicked the Cardassians but but the trauma remained. Starfleet played “neutral” during the conflict but still signed a peace treaty with the Cardassians (who they had themselves had a war with). Peace treaty meant uprooting citizens against their will from their homes in both Cardassian and Federation terrorities as each ceded contested space. Marquis formed in resistance and Ro was sent to infiltrate them to bring down the rebels. In the end she joined them as hit too close to home for her given her case of being uprooted as  Bajoran. Picard is the one who sent her there and he took it as a personal betrayal since he was the one who had gotten her out of the stockades (form of prison) and arranged a second chance in Starfleet for her over another matter. Surrogate father/daughter you might even say where neither could really see from the other’s point of view but both acting on their own principles. Hard feelings, betrayal...love. At least she went out in a way that was very true to her character. Principled, courageous, moral....and in the end he finally understands the betrayal was not against him even if he took it as such...but the institution. Kind of fitting she is the one to teach him that lesson.

Show ends with a massive mystery and corruption of the highest levels of Starfleet with the skeleton crew onboard fugitives with Ro leaving them a map of all she had learned in her earrings. Earrings call back to her heritage and her first episode where she only agreed to rejoin Starfleet if allowed to retain that badge of individuality.

I loved her character. She wasn’t always pleasant, she could be hard edged (she had reason to be) but when everyone around her is conflicted between comfort or duty or misplaced honor or fealty to institutions...she always sliced through it all and risked all to stand for what she believed was right. She had a moral clarity others have but let other concerns temper. I would have loved to have her on longer...

The positive is that this season of Picard is bringing the Star Trek universe back into focus where I think it’s been unfocused until now. I could see many sequels springing from this season that I might enjoy where previously I’ve been ignoring the new shows. It feels like Trek again. I’m hoping maybe this season’s positive reception might give us another season despite intending this to be the end....

[zooterchet]

The O’Neill Boston History of Military Support (French Paradis Tradition)

Gene O’Neill: Worked as an economist and psychiatric administration designer in China, under Richard Milhouse Nixon, to design mindfulness hospitals, splitting the Chinese and Soviet causes, harkening the end of the Vietnam War.

Marie O’Neill: “Fullbird” Colonel, US Army, base psychiatric nurse, experiments on xenids captured from Roswell and other downed saucer crashes.

Robert Edwards: Police and social engineering work, as a housing and civilian rights advocate, dealing in police mistreatment of soldiers, pro-war advocates, and psychiatric patients, particularly when medical or foreign activists were involved; always with communists targeted in terms of their base civil needs of assertion and status “grifted through penny”, her signature term for someone taking away something simple to humiliate someone into ceding rightful heir to a “faggot hippie”, another term she coined as a new alignment, placed on a child of a soldier by marriage of fact, not tantamount (a forced bride or groom’s wedding, out of sight of father, mother, or parent of child).

Francis O’Neill: Work in chemistry, psychology, and rare blood sciences, through philosophy and endotropic healing factors of plant toxins, at Boston University, using reprints and modifications of Friedrich Nietzsche, to break Immanuel Kant and Kantian inclined philosophers, for supporting the anti-war cause through psychological shutdowns of reason, the false sign of shutdown from a “fags”, later placed in her structure for them, the Westboro Baptist Church, to “eat shit and die”, the famous Poison Ivy term for an anti-war protestor, as a nominal statement of fact adverb preposition of exposit sentence, noun and fact of reason (ancient Cardinal’s quarter, Benson Catholic Church, Yardale, Vermont, for Jamaican protestors against Peace Acts, 1950s).

James O’Neill: Marksman chaplin’s rifle shot unit, Australian MI-6, specializing at the targeting of African, Hindu, and Mali Malaysian soldiers of wealth and status, supplying the war effort of the South, through the North, for drug sales and “arbor trees”, changed draft statuses, suicide setups and Naval indoctrinations, through “Charles Manson Shifts”, based on the famous case prior to suspicion, incarceration, or arrest of the subject, through a prank letter sent to Steven Charlebois, to get Oliver Stone drafted for being a cadre member of a Jewish Sipophon unit, an anti-war unit for “tolerance protests”, the draft of O’Neill kinsman of African blood, Cassius Clay, for boxing, against his will, inducing Parkinson’s.

Daniel O’Neill: Indoctrination in the Boston University Culminate Columns unit, for undercover journalists tracking columnists, berveistas (bartenders and barristas), and ‘had rags’ (southern Hispanic soldiers, supporting Che Guevera, the talent and trade administration).  Shot a Hispanic journalist, disguised as a Dutch Country cop, on the border to New Mexico, and Mexico, after revealing him as a “narc pipeline”, to Hispanic Mossad, resulting in the label of Che as “KGB”, and his eventual hunt and glorious godfounder murder, by “CIA”, actually rice plantationers from America, with a CIA button and tag, from Gene O’Neill of New York City, confused in the mail (not an Irish Witch, but a Jew with the last name O’Neill, hence easy to trick for Gene Roberts, an old walsh plantation artist from Carolina, South and North at two extremities of fact and meaning).

Evelyn: I can’t remember her married name, which means I’m not supposed to know what she did.

Timothy O’Neill: USMC heavy “lago” unit, scout sniper, took bearings apart and put them in golf balls, inventing modern NSA theory, “phone phreaking”, taking a disused military line or police campus radio, on a “jock set”, then calling through to the proper origin of source, a declassified trick since the 1990s, used to spy on cops with “Mar-a-lago” fictional brokers, for “caluminate corruption”, causing or fostering the psychotic break through hypnosis or harassment, of any Irish citizen, particularly those with Royal, Native, or Carib roots, not counting Hispanics, hunted at “Gourds Send”, for the crime of Che Guevera and the Jewish movements in the American South practicing castration on Vietnam veterans, and their friends and family, the “gook killers” as we’re termed.

Alice Charlebois: The support of Vietnam veterans through hunts for “chung-ko”, martial arts actors prepping for stage and drama movies and films for CIA agent Osama Bin Laden, and scumbags like him, people that want a live action film or filament philosophy.  The placement of knife blades, in cooked candy bars, to pull and draw on “black bands”, actors in “honorable fights”, and the stabbing death of 27 cop informants doing so, as well as the Desert Eagle shooting of several Italian Carabinieri on Revere Beach with CIA tattoos, all framed on Jimmy Bulger, a cop and Mossad double agent, labeled as Irish Mob and IRA through the press because of Alice’s work.

David Charlebois (Self): The support of the War on Terror through the shutdown of pacifist and peaceful forces of drug dealers inside the anti-war movement in Canada, Israel, and the United States, while marijuana was “piped” in by military veterans and retired soldiers, to pro-war advocates in defense attorneys guilds and outside of prosecutor hands, due to the unpopularity of the war with “conviction authorities”, over the war being blamed on eminent domain lawsuits, imprisonment of comic book artists, and support of the rights of the retarded to kill people on “cop orders”, drug dealers for the “numbers racket”, stealing the semen or forcing copulated marriages on bright college kids for being avariously politician, knowing when to make a public stand, instead of a private backstab with a ‘gabba gabba”, a flapping jaw with girls they want to bed (but can’t, they’re Smithers from the Simpsons, they like obese women, not strippers).

[ezlebe]

Prompt (if you are still taking them): Greg actually does go over to Tom’s to get a watch

Greg takes a sip of his drink and catches Shiv staring across the room, as a smile crosses her face, and follows it only to find that guy from the wedding drifting toward her for the second time that night. He glances back and forth between them while something ugly builds in his chest, and he should go over there, do something, but instead his feet stay rooted, as usual, while they start to flirt.

He watches Shiv lean forward, offering her cheek for a whisper in her ear, and feels an abrupt wave of guilt break across his sternum. He finishes the rest of his champagne in a gulp, handing off his glass, and decides that holding his grudge about getting stuck in a stuffy not-office has reached a premature end, considering what’s going on in Tom’s particular corner.

He glances around and spies Kendall on the other side of the room. He’s avoiding Shiv now, after getting in between those two the first time to bomb whatever his pitch was, and Greg finds himself moving with a nervous sense of urgency. It looks like Kendall is still riding the high of his big speech, so he probably won’t be as much of a downer about Greg about to bail for no real reason.

“Hey, Ken,” Greg says, bending a little closer to Kendall while smoothing hair back over his forehead. “I – uh, I think I need to go?”

“What?” Kendall asks, shaking his head with a typically dramatic, affronted blink. “Where?”

“I – uh, I…” Greg says, know that he probably shouldn’t mention Tom, lest any… donut dots get connected; they had been pretty good though, and it sort of felt like, in a weird way, Tom got him breakfast. “I left my oven on?”

“All day,” Kendall mocks, then exhales a low scoff, gesturing with a dismissive turn of his hand. “Do you even know where the oven is in that place?”

“Yeah?” Greg says, as a little irked stab digs into the center of his chest. “It’s where I make, like… pizza rolls.”

Kendall stares for a beat, then snorts while rolling his eyes across the room. “Sure. Whatever, man.”

“So, uh…” Greg takes a step backward, throwing his hand up in an awkward wave. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Hey, wait –” Kendall says, reaching out with a wag of his finger at Greg’s wrist and the timepiece hanging off of it. “Give that back, if you’re not buying it.”

“If I’m not –” Greg repeats, then hastily tugs at the clasp and shakes off the watch, holding it out to Kendall with a firm, “No. Absolutely – n-no way. I thought you were buying –”

“Do I look like a fucking sugar daddy?” Kendall sneers, taking back the watch with a hook of his fingers around the band. “Jesus. Go check on your stove, dude, maybe it gives a shit.”

“Hah,” Greg says, digging a hand up through his hair a second time and scratching harder against his scalp. “Maybe.”

It takes a lot of time, getting another ride, then getting across town, but Greg eventually finds himself in front of Tom’s door. He thinks about sending a warning text, as he hovers outside the door, but then Tom probably would call him, so…

“What the fuck are you doing?” The door says in Tom’s tired voice.

Greg jumps about three meters backward, then feels his ears burn, but the embarrassment just cedes to awkwardness when Tom doesn’t even laugh. The door unlocks a few seconds later, so Greg pushes inside, glancing around to the living room side and waving at Tom hovering at the bar.

“You’re late,” Tom scolds, gesturing hard at Greg with a whiskey glass.

Greg flattens his mouth in an apology. “Sorry, I –”

“Oh, please, you’re not,” Tom mutters, throwing the glass back with a wince and a setting it down with a heavy smack onto the bar. “Why’re you here, Greg?”

“I felt bad,” Greg says, watching Tom pour another few fingers of liquor.

Tom rolls his eyes with a bursting scoff. “And here I thought I polished that out of you.”

Greg smiles, weakly, “Guess not.”

“Well, get comfy, buddy,” Tom says, drifting around the room with an aire of melancholy mania, sort of dancing in a big, lopsided circle.  “I didn’t mention you, specifically, to the guy, but I am no foreplay, no lube, capital-F fucked.”

“Are you sure?” Greg says, taking off his jacket and putting it onto the back of the plush chair. “Maybe he’s just paid to say that? Like, if he talks like that, you – uh, keep using him. He’s like not a lawyer, right?”

“It’s a big deal, Greg,” Tom says, slumping down into the sofa with a drop of his head against the cushions. “You know this. You blackmailed me about it.”

“Right, but – but I’m not a lawyer, either?” Greg says, shrugging and yanking on his bow tie with a grimace. He thinks he did it wrong – he’s stuck in it forever, or, at least, like during this totally not a bow-tie conversation. “I have like not even half of an English degree.”

“Jesus,” Tom mutters, then pulls himself right back up off the sofa with a groan. He reaches up, suddenly, yanking at Greg’s bow tie. “Stand still.”

Greg is glad that’s all Tom is asking, because he can’t really do anything else, eyes fixed over Tom’s ear while his breath goes so shallow it may as well stop. He does accidentally swallow, feeling his throat brush up against Tom’s yanking fingers, and refuses to examine any shivers or raised hairs too close.

“There we go,” Tom says, voice crooning, pulling the tie from Greg’s neck with a flick. “And look, your head even stayed on.”

Greg answers with a huff and raises a hand to the back of his neck, pretending to loosen his collar rather than rub out the heat.

“Keep that up. Shiv left out some clothes and Mondale ate them,” Tom says, sighing hard and glancing backward where Mondale’s sleeping in his pen.  “Poor guy’s been real down, I just didn’t know why – I thought he was getting old.”

“Oh, that’s not like great – is he okay?” Greg says, hastily shoving the bow tie deep in his pocket. “What was it?”

“Pantyhose,” Tom says, slumping back down onto the sofa with a wretched curve to his shoulders. “I can’t go to jail... she won’t take care of him, Greg? She’ll let him eat anything.”

“I – I don’t think you’re going to jail, but like – but I could help. My mom has had dogs like my whole life,” Greg says, exhaling a laugh and managing to force a grin. “They’re like all she ever took care of.”

Tom grunts a low mumble, taking another sip of his drink, and tilts his head one way, then the other. “Did I get you those suspenders?”

“Yeah,” Greg says, looking down and slipping a thumb through one, then realizes with a start that Tom has the same sort and color hanging off his waistband. “It’s – uh, mostly the same suit I wore to RECNY.”

Tom stares for a few beats, then snorts, “Fitting. Beginning of the end.”

Greg winces and glances toward the liquor cabinet, then decides he better not – he’s pretty sure Tom won’t care what he drinks, he never has, but… He still has Rava’s upset voice ringing in his ears.

“I think it’ll be fine, Tom,” Greg says, uselessly, because despite everything some part of him still likes to think that if he wants something hard enough that it can work out. “People like you don’t really go to jail for these things, you know? I – I think that guy just wants a – like, his fee.”

Tom is silent for a few seconds, then exhales a deep sigh. “Why did you pop in here tonight, Greg?”

“I did feel bad,” Greg says, which is, at least, honest, if still a half-truth.

“Thanks for the pity, I guess,” Tom said, taking another overlong sip from his drink. “I’ll take what I can take.”

“And like I can agree to whatever story you want, too, as long as it –” Greg winces, then shrugs, “I guess, isn’t a better deal for you, you know? And you don’t like ever testify again.”

Tom exhales a wheezy, humorless laugh. “Deal.”

“I’m kind of hungry,” Greg says, walking back across the room with his fingers twisting into his palms. He pauses, nearer the sofa, “Do you still have that fancy bread?”

“Probably,” Tom says, muted, staring hard out the window wall to his right.

“Are you? I’ll make you some, too,” Greg says, fumbling, feeling a flare of mortification against his ears. He doesn’t know what to do and – and he can’t even do what he does what to do, because it just makes everything even worse.

He finds the bread in its usual place carefully hidden inside a Mondale-proof box. He looks for honey, but the little container is gone, so he hesitantly grabs a bottle of agave syrup - it’s not that different, right? It’s not the same, either, like at all, but the sentiment matters.

He wishes Tom had a toaster, too, instead of only a toaster oven. He thinks it would be quicker, maybe, since the smell of fresh bread is all of a sudden making his stomach cramp.

He flinches when Tom greets Shiv in the main room, and his shoulders hunch in mostly reflex. He can just barely hear Tom starting to relay to Shiv the Mondale incident, then the prison-advisor, and tries to concentrate on the glowing heat in the box. He wraps his arms across his waist and swallows hard, thinking about the last time he brought it up, but also… but also.

“ – mean cooperate?” Shiv says, her voice lifting at the end.

Greg drifts closer to the door while furrowing his brow.

“No, not with the DOJ,” Tom says, “Your dad. I go to your dad and I… offer myself up.”

Greg blinks hard and shakes his head to himself, thinking of Tom’s anger and stolen chicken – it feels like forever ago, but it’s only been days. He doesn’t really want to believe Tom could now be willingly stepping onto Kendall’s death march path.

Shiv is quiet for a few tense seconds. “No, no honey, you can’t. You’re drunk.”

Greg feels his shoulders relax slightly, looking up and reaching for a plate from the floating shelf.

“…But it is smart.”

Greg fumbles the plate, slightly, swallowing hard, because she isn’t even… He thought, on the yacht, maybe she said that just for Logan, but – but Logan isn’t here, it’s just Tom, who’s super drunk and already feeling bad.

“It’s kind of a win from a no-win.”

Greg feels his eyes go wide toward the wall – a win for who?

“Yeah, it’s punchy,” Shiv continues, now halfway to actually eager, somehow, “It’s very likely that no one goes to prison, and, either way, you bank gold with my dad. The offer is… kinda genius.”

“What?” Greg mouths, silently, frowning at his own reflection in the kitchen cabinets.

Shiv offers a delayed, pitchy laugh. “But no, no you – ”

The toaster oven interrupts with a few small beeps, and Greg winces hard while hastily reaching out to grab the toast from the oven. He nearly drops the first piece, a burn stinging across his fingers.

“Is someone here?” Shiv says, interrupting herself with sharp surprise.

“Just Greg.”

Shiv raises her voice further, exhaling a pitchy, upset huff. “What – honey, why didn’t you say anything?”

Tom is quiet for a few seconds. “He’s here all the time.”

“Not usually when I’m here, though,” Shiv says, her voice getting louder, so she must be walking toward the kitchen.

Great.

Greg looks up when some chill somehow wafts through the kitchen, looking back over his shoulder to see Shiv in the entry. He nods in some greeting, trying not to feel too aware of his current appearance in comparison to her still-immaculate gala outfit.

“There he is – why the hell are you here?” Shiv asks, cocking her head while raising an incredulous brow. “Weren’t you playing jester to Kendall?”

“Yeah,” Greg shrugs, nodding his head a bit. He lowers his voice, barely above a mutter, but tries to keep it firm. “But then I saw you and, uh,” He shrugs, looking down while dolloping syrup onto the toast. “That guy.”

“Uh, okay? Cousin Greg?”

Greg picks up the knife, looking up while setting the syrup to the side. “The one who was at your wedding.”

Shiv narrows her eyes slightly, then shifts her jaw, now dropping her voice to match. “He told you about that?”

“I told him, really,” Greg says, looking down while gradually spreading the syrup in a thin layer across each slice of crusty toast, then gently setting the knife down with a quiet clink into the sink. “I was going to tonight, too, only he’s like… yeah. But, still, you know – uh, fuck you, I guess?”

Shiv scoffs hard and widens her eyes, taking a half steep forward while a sneer curls across her mouth. “You cannot talk to me that way.”

Greg stares back at her for another silent pair of moments. “I just did, so,” he says, slipping past her to go back toward Tom in the sitting room.

“Hey, here,” Greg says, offering Tom the plate between them, then catching Shiv all but stalking out of the kitchen. He meets her stare, when she pauses, and realizes he might actually do something, if she tries to kick him out.

“What’s on it?” Tom asks, peering down at the plate, thankfully missing the poisonous look that Shiv sends Greg, as she turns up the stairs to the next level.

“Oh, uh,” Greg says, looking over to Tom with a sharp clear of his throat, reaching behind his head with his free hand and scratching at his scalp. “You didn’t have like any honey, so it’s agave syrup.”

Tom barks out a loud laugh, clumsily taking the plate, as abruptly his face crumples. “Thank you, buddy.”

“So, um…” Greg squeezes at both his knees, leaning forward, then back, taking a deep, harsh breath. He takes the slice from the top of the plate. “Look, Tom, remember my – my grandpa took me to that anarchist lawyer?”

“What?” Tom says, blinking, his voice going a little flat. “Your grandpa - Anarchist, really?”

Greg nibbles at the edge of his piece, while he shrugs and pulls out his phone. “And uh, I can give you his number?”

“Greg…” Tom sighs, red eyes dropping toward the plate. “I’ve been thinking, and it’s probably just better, if I –”

“Tom,” Greg interrupts, he glances backward to where Shiv disappeared up toward the bedroom. “It isn’t, like better at all if you volunteer go to jail.”

“That afraid I’ll turn on you, buddy?” Tom says, blinking slow while offering a feeble smile.

“O-or me either, yeah,” Greg agrees, swallowing thickly, “But, no, like…?” He has that recording, yeah, but he – He probably shouldn’t mention that like right now with Tom already talking up a worse case scenario. “But this is sort of about you, right?”

“I don’t want to be on Kendall’s ‘side’,” Tom says, crunching into the toast with a twist at the corner of his mouth. “He’s so… Greg, he’s unwell. Existentially.”

“He gave me an apartment,” Greg says, taking off another edge of the crust.

“So you’re biased,” Tom says, eyes rolling drunkenly wide, as he settles Greg with a flat look. “He probably didn’t – I don’t think anyone in your family is doing stuff to be nice. Including me, including you…”

Greg shifts forward on the sofa, glancing toward the stairs while rubbing a circle at his temple. “…Probably not, yeah. It was after I told him I kept some of the papers at the wedding,”

“My wedding?” Tom clarifies, then laughs, taking another bite of the toast. “God, you’re so sly. Like a big ol’ musky polecat. Sneaky sneak.”

Greg shrugs, halfheartedly, and starts in for real on his own piece of toast.

“And you can’t even blame me for it,” Tom says, spraying crumbs on his lap through a seeming honest grin. “You’re just like that.”

Greg drops his head in a nod, thumbing through his phone with his free hand. “Yeah, you’re… uh, not really subtle.”

“Good lord,” Tom says, tone briefly gaining a pitchy rebuke “Someone’s getting full of himself.”

“Here,” Greg says, swiping on the contact and telling it to send to Tom, then looking for the picture that he took of the business card, too. “That’s the lawyer? You can, uh…” He shakes his head with an awkward shrug. “Think of it as my grandpa’s side?”

Tom stares at the text popping up on his phone. “He doesn’t like me. At all.”

“He doesn’t really like anyone, so,” Greg says, though he does wonder if this is him banking gold, trying to pull someone in like Tom, but, then again, Grandpa Ewan will probably just be annoyed by another fickle variable. “But I-I think… if you wanted to? You could blame Uncle Logan, o-or Gerri, or Kendall?”

Tom rolls his eyes hard, but he doesn’t do anything like make a show of erasing the number. He does drop the phone to his lap, where it slides across his thigh into the seam of the cushion. “Everyone who told me not to, but you, Greg?”

Greg feels his eyes go a bit wide, glancing away and then back to Tom.

Tom blinks placidly and raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t seem angry. “It became obvious after a point.”

“I-In my defense,” Greg says, sweeping hair behind his ears with both hands, “That was like…” He takes a deep breath, exhaling it slow through flat lips. “Way before I cared about you more than them?”

Tom coughs around the toast in his mouth.

“Tom?” Greg asks, wondering if he’s choked – the syrup was pretty tacky.

“Ah, hah – oh,” Tom says, stuffing the last bite between his lips with a hard shake of his head. He takes a particularly long time chewing, then reaches out and taps Greg’s arm while setting the plate to the side. “Weren’t you getting a watch, Gregaroo?”

“Um,” Greg intones, rolling his head to the side with a wince. “No, like I guess I – I would’ve been buying it.”

Tom exhales a low scoff. “See? What a jackass.”

“Yeah, like…” Greg looks down at his bare wrist, circling his fingers around it. “I don’t have $40k like just lying around? I mean, I sorta do, but I would like, uh – rather buy a car, or something, you know?”

Tom hums with a meandering sort of drunkenness. “How do you feel about Jaeger-LeCoultre?”

“I don’t actually like need a watch,” Greg says, ears warming while he shakes his head with a sink into his shoulders. “For coming here.”

“Oh, get over yourself,” Tom says, flopping back on the couch and grasping back for his phone with a furrowed brow. “Answer the question.”

“I mean…” Greg exhales hard through his nose. “I’m not sure what that is?”

Tom tuts harshly, sweeping up his phone screen in a wide gesture. “Oh, Gregory,” He says, as he starts tapping at the browser with his head lolling against a shoulder. “So many big words, so few definitions.”

“It’s not like a real word…” Greg leans forward to look at the picture that Tom offers, then raises his brows; it’s nothing like the one that Kendall’s watch guy brought out, instead it’s sort of normal and rectangular with gold, somewhat bubbly numbers. “It’s like an antique?”

Tom grunts, awfully and maybe melodramatically dejected about it. “You not an art deco guy?”

“No, it’s – I like it, actually?” Greg says, a little surprised that he really does, feeling drawn in by the simple, easy-to-read face and the design like he might see in an old movie. “But what if I broke it?”

“It’s lasted eighty years, bud, it can take you,” Tom says, as he swipes at the screen, showing a few more pictures, then revealing that the face apparently flips around to hide the clock. “See, it’s fiddly. You like fiddly.”

“Yeah,” Greg says, rolling his lips together, then leans in a bit closer to Tom until their shoulders are pressed hard together.

It’s not a screaming posse or a chartered limousine, there’s no man with a case offering up multiple thousands of dollars in a box; it’s somewhat tensely quiet, it smells a little like burnt toast, and none of these watches might ever leave the phone screen. The difference is nothing less than stark. Greg doesn’t exactly regret being part of one or the other, as catching a taste of Kendall’s mania is always exciting and Tom’s attention makes him feel like a – a person, but, sometimes, both are a little intense to the point of exhausting. He’s glad to have, at least, ended the night here, as he tilts his head when Tom angles the screen to share a pocket watch.

“I think you’re just weird enough to pull it off, Alice.”

Greg just huffs quietly and drops his chin, not quite brave enough to set it across Tom’s shoulder. Next time, maybe, if they’re really alone.