#none of the pr the network did worked

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP fanfic idea: Corporate Rivals

Bruce is really excited to hire a boy genius from a small time town. He found him by accident while scrolling through some creative writing competition past winners on various school sites. He originally wanted ideas for his own contest for the annual Wayne Young Writers Scholarship when he stumbled up Amity Parks Youth Authors.

Daniel Fenton's science fiction had won second place, and Bruce thinks he only lost due to the judges not realizing all the science of the gadgets his charaters used were real. Real, well explain and proper research. Daniel obviously knew his stuff and knew it well.

He had reached out to Daniel with a science scholarship opportunity, wanting to see what he would come up with. He gave him a basic assignment asking him to fulfill a prompt "Software or Hardware development for disabled" in either theory or model. If he created something worthwhile, Bruce would send him ten grand.

Daniel did not disappoint, not only doing the theory paper but also sending back a prototype of a pocket ASL translator. It would be an app on a phone that would have an AI watching through a camera of the person doing sign language and say out loud what the person was saying. It had a few bugs here and there, but for a high schooler, those were very impressive accomplishments.

Bruce found himself sponsoring the boy for early high school graduation. The young Fenton boy was a genius just like his parents, but he lacked proper motivation. Bruce suspected it was due to his school not challenging him enough much like Tim.

When Daniel got his diploma Bruce offered a few rid to Gotham University with the condition he would be a employee at WE. Daniel agreed under the condition it was as a proper employee and not a unpaid intern. A little daring for a kid getting already a amazing deal but Bruce liked his moxy and agreed.

Daniel Fenton was to be a worker in the RD department for WE tech in one week.

He couldn't wait to introduce him to Tim. Two young geniuses would get along swimmingly with their shared brain prowess!

______________________________________

Tim hated the new guy.

They were the same age, but everyone acted like he was amazing for finishing high school and starting university while also being a top WE reseacher and Devloper at such a young age.

Oh Tim was CEO, but as many people have whispered, he didn't graduated Highschool or have a GED so the only reason he got to be CEO was because of nepotism. Danny on the other hand got his position through hard work.

Which was ironic, seeing as the company has never done so well since Tim came on board. Their sales, PR, and production numbers all tripled because of him. Danny, on the other hand, was a sloth with little to no ambition. He didn't even work well with others! He mostly did solo projects and everyone seemed fine with that since genius "need their own space"

Tim has been networking since he was three years old, and failure to do so had always reflected badly on him and his company. He spent his entire life careful choosing his words and his actions. Even his appearance, what he wore, his hairstyle even the hand gesture when he talked, were planned before hand.

Then comes Fenton, who avoids crowds, dressed in the worst formal wear Tim has ever seen . Black jeans were not formal!- and acted like this important office was just a after school hang out spot. Now Tim was much more laid back than his board co-workers, who were all in their fifties or older, and even more relax then the mangers or superiors of lower stations but even he could not understand Fenton blaring music, bags of chips lingering everywhere and his ordination skills were none existing!

Not to mention the fact Daniel didn't believe in using computers unless he had to. His office was covered in towers of paper that he scribbled and work on! It was such a waste!

And yet, despite all of that, Daniel was rapidly becoming an asset to WE. His ASL translator app wasn't finished, but it had everyone buzzing with excitement and would be well received when it was released with Wayne Phones as a built in app.

Tim tried to avoid him as best he could least he get offended by his lack of work proper behavior

Daniel Fenton did not understand what it meant to put your all into something that you lost yourself along the way. Best to ignore him.

________________________________________

Danny couldn't stand his company CEO. Timothy Drake reminded him a little too much of the A-listers but without the bulling bit. Somehow, that made it worse.

Timothy was popular because he was well liked. He didn't need to relay on his good looks or aggression to make other yeild to him like Paulina or Dash. Even if he was ridiculously good looking to the point, Danny confused him for a siren when he met him.

He had the ability to walk into any room and take command if it. Timothy didn't even need to speak, his very presence commanded attention and awe. Not to mention how great he was at his job.

WE had always been a popular corporation but under Timothy's command they rose to one of the most important corporations in the world. Bruce Wayne was raised to run a company, Timothy Drake was born to run it. There was a large enough difference between the two that anyone could see Timothy was superior at running things.

Danny was nothing like that. He couldn't talk to people, couldn't make them like him, and often he was overlooked for his sister or his wacky but loveable parents.

He was the other Febton. The one that was there and nothing else. A few months ago he was even considered the dumb Fenton, who somehow was skipped over for intelligence.

Then he wrote a little story and everything changed.

Danny turned out to be a proper Fenton, after all, having gotten the attention of Bruce Wayne for his mind. His parents haven't been so proud of him in a long time, and he found himself accepting the job position after graduating high school early before he knew it.

Along with the job came a move to Gotham city. He went after debating it a great deal with his family and friends, but the deal was too sweet to turn down. Now he was in Gothem and he knew absolutely no one.

Danny didn't know how to make new friends here. Tucker and Sam had been the ones to approach him at the beginning of their friendships. He also was scared of getting close to his co-worker less they suspect his Phantom powers.

He knew that Metas was not welcome, and he thought Batman wouldn't care that he was technically dead and not with a meta gene.

So he focused on his work, avoiding large crowds and keeping his head down. He would turn on music to help pass the loneliness and would gater papers to write down his thoughts less they made him mad by running around his head all day.

This anxious insecurity was something Timothy Drake would never understand. He just shone like a fallen star, dazzling the masses with his neat press suits, easy charisma, and intelligent bedroom eyes. Best to ignore him.

________________________________________

Dick never really ventured to WE now that he moved out. He made a habit of trying to visit Tim every two weeks for lunch to fix this. He also really wanted to spend more one on one time with his little brother now that they reconsidled from Bruce's timeline fiasco.

He was still well known by the employees, even new ones, so when Dick arrived to the lobby he was waved in by security. The receptionists were all huddled together muttering to eachother and missed his entrance since security didn't call out to him.

Dick could tell the gossip they were talking about was juicy based on the way Lola was wiggling her eyebrows and Stacy and Isaiah's reaction.

He creeps closer to the front desk, hoping to hear something good.

"Isn't that against the rules?" Isaiah asks.

"WE doesn't have anything like that. Not since Thomas Wayne married his old PA and had Bruce. I think it's cute that Mr.Drake is following in his adoptive Grandfather's footsteps."

Dick paused, shocked. Tim liked someone at WE!?

"They aren't even dating yet, Lola"

"Yeah but you can cut the sexual tension with a- Mr. Grayson! I'm so sorry, I didn't see you. How can I help you?"

Dick blinks. "Oh I'm here to see Tim for lunch. But what was that about Tim you were saying?"

The woman pales as the other two quickly become busy with some email or another.

"Oh, um, I'm so sorry, sir. I shouldn't have -"

"It's fine I don't mind a little chat between co-workers. I'm just curious"

Lola stares before nervously blurting "Rumor has it that um, Mr.Drake has a thing for Daniel Fenton"

"The new boy genius?" Dick thinks about it considering what he knows of Tim's type and his past preferences in partners before nodding "That tracks actually"

He says his thanks and hurries away to Tim's office unaware he may have confirmed a relationship between Tim and Danny.

The gossip circles in WE exploded with the news everyone careful not to let the two subjects hear a whisper.

[cherrycolored-punk]

WADWSH - Chapter One: The Contest

Masterlist

pairings: 2000s!actor!Steve Harrington x fem!Reader, 2000s!bestfriend!Eddie Munson x fem!reader.

summary: Bad boy Steve Harrington is in trouble and desperate to clean up his image by any means necessary.

author’s note: we’re having fun, amping it up and d r a w i n g it out. we need angst, and pining and indecision (we is me) 🖤 I hope you all enjoy this chapter and this story. Remember, it’s completely re-written so things are different 👀

comments/reblogs and any feedback is always appreciated !

w/c: 6.8k

warnings: mentions of parental death, absent/neglectful parent

“Are you fucking seeing this?” Steve gruffed, pacing the length of his living room as he clenched the phone pressed to his ear.

“Yes, I’m seeing it just like I saw the tabloids of you cruising around West Hollywood holding a bottle of Ciroc,” Tad’s voice was full of frustration, causing Steve’s jaw to clench. His gaze shot back to his plasma TV.

Images of his wild night out were plastered on the screen as Ryan Seacrest narrated a version of his night out.

Hollywood’s most famous bad boy is back at it again! 

“Steve Harrington was spotted making the rounds and leaving Bar Deluxe with two of Victoria’s sweetest angels.”

“Guiliana, what are the chances he will ever settle down?” He asked as he turned to his cohost. 

Rancic cringed and stared into the camera.

“It’s not likely,” she laughed, and Ryan joined her. 

Their laughs grinding every last one of Steve’s nerves. 

He’d had enough and snatched the remote from the coffee table, angrily pressing the power button until the screen went black. 

“What are you going to do about it?” His voice raised an octave, pointing at the TV with the remote as though his manager were there.

“Harrington, I’m already in contact with the best PR firm in the city. Trust that I am taking care of this.”

“You know this will ruin my chances with Hewitz for his latest film.”

“Just don’t plan on any more late nights. The firm is working on a plan, and as soon as I hear what it is, I’ll call you. Don’t go making my job any more difficult.” The older man grumbled on the other end of the line, voice deeper from years of smoking. 

“Take care of it, Jenkins.” Steve flipped his phone shut, tossing it and the remote onto the couch before plopping himself onto the cushion.

He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose as his mind whirled with thoughts.

Henry Hewitz was the most prominent Hollywood Director to date. Anyone who starred in his movies was guaranteed success, a shoo-in during award season, and Steve wanted the role of the leading man in Hewitz’s current project more than anything. 

Hewitz, however, did not want him.

Steve had a reputation and not one that many directors wanted attached to their films. Offers were already coming in less frequently. The stench of his troubles kept most investors away; try as he might, he couldn’t clean up his image. 

And he did try, stints in rehab or starting new hobbies. None of them stuck, not the way that partying did. 

He was antsy for the remainder of the afternoon, bouncing between activities. Tanning by his pool, lifting weights inside his gym, and even trying to copy a recipe off the Food Network. He quickly realized that “Foolproof Ribs” weren’t foolproof enough for him, and nothing would keep his mind occupied while he waited for Jenkins to call him. 

Harrington leaned against his marble-top kitchen island, reluctantly nibbling on a piece of his creation. 

Why didn’t I just ask Dorota to come and prep something?

He winced at the taste and plucked the nearly burnt rib back onto the plate with a heavy sigh. 

His phone rang beside him, loud and shrill, and he hurriedly grabbed it when he spotted his manager’s name flashing on the screen. 

“Tell me you’ve got something already, Tad,” Steve turned toward his fridge, thirsty for a beer. Voice a little desperate. 

The older man coughed loudly, and Steve pulled the phone away, his face twisting in disgust, before putting it back to his ear.

“I’ve got something, but you’re not going to like it,” Jenkins coughed again and cleared his throat.

“Lay it on me,” Steve rolled his eyes as he used the bottle opener to pull the cap off the glass neck, guzzling down half its contents while he listened to his manager prattle on. 

But it was something the older man said that caused him to choke on the amber liquid and press a finger to his mouth to keep it from spewing all over the kitchen floor.

He gulped loudly.

“You want me to do what?”

“When I agreed to come to the movies with you two, I didn’t mean that I was game to watch your Romeo, Steve Harrington, poorly act his way through another rom-com,” Eddie whined as the three of you walked towards the auditorium.

“Majority rules,” Beth stuck her tongue out at him, her arm linked with yours as the two of you walked a few paces ahead of him.

You giggled along with her.

“Don’t be such a poo,” you called over your shoulder, and he rolled his eyes. 

“Excuse me for not finding the appeal of some Hollywood bozoo.” 

“He’s not a bozoo, Eddie, he’s-” Beth began.

“Dreamy,” you chimed in.

He stopped in his tracks and tilted his chin to the ceiling. 

“God, I know that I ask for a lot, but if you’re ever going to answer my prayers, I ask that you strike me down now.” Eddie’s hands were clasped together in a plea. 

You grabbed a handful of popcorn and threw it back at him with a teasing grin.

“So dramatic.”

“It’s not nice to litter, Sunshine.” He followed after you, picking popcorn from his brown curls and popping it into his mouth. 

The auditorium was nearly full as you entered it, the eager eyes of the crowd already pinned to the screen. The theater itself had not been updated since the eighties; the same dusty drapes lined the walls and smelled slightly of mildew. 

The three of you climbed the stairs and took your seats. Eddie on one side, Beth on the other and you situated right in the middle. Just as it had always been since the three of you were old enough to ride your bikes to the cinema. 

The room fell silent as the lights dimmed and the opening trailers began to play. You and Beth squealed when you saw the trailer for Steve’s latest project, each holding onto the other as you caught glimpses of his profile through the flashing images.

“Oh, brother,” Eddie grumbled and slinked further into his seat, aggressively chewing off a piece of his Twizzler. 

He sat through the movie with his arms crossed, bored and occasionally glancing at you. Watching the range of expressions that crossed your face. He could always read you so easily.

If your eyes glittered when you smiled, you were happy. Truly happy. 

If you smiled with an arched brow, you were feeling mischievous. He saw that look often.

If you found something funny, you snorted, and he knew you found something hysterical when there was complete silence. The only evidence that you were amused was how you held your stomach, eyes crinkled shut. 

If your eyebrows scrunched together, you were worried or seconds from crying, just like now. 

Eddie watched as you held back tears at the pivotal moment, Steve’s reunion with his love interest after years away at war.

The strings of the orchestra music playing in the background of the scene pulled at your heart, the emotion palpable.

“And how is this different from his other movies,” Eddie leaned over and whispered into your ear. 

“Shut up,” you nudged him with your shoulder and shoveled more popcorn into your mouth. 

You sighed in satisfaction when the two on-screen lovers finally kissed. 

The credits began to play, and Beth leaned over your frame.

“How good was that?” 

Eddie’s face twisted in disbelief.

“I’ve shit turds that were better than that.”

“Ew,” both you and Beth said in unison. 

“I just wonder if he’s really like that, y’know, all sweet and romantic.” Her gaze tilted to the ceiling as she imagined Steve gazing at her like he did his costar. 

“He has to be. There’s no way he could play a character so well if he weren’t,” you chimed in.

“He’s an actor,” Eddie reminded you.

“An hour ago, you said he couldn’t act,” Beth scoffed.

 It was the umpteenth time he’d had the same argument with the two of you. 

“It’s a sign - I’ve lost my mind.” Eddie held his hands in front of him, his gaze fixated on the ground as he put on the charade of someone who wasn’t all there.

“You’re such a butthead.” Beth leaned over and pushed at his head of curls before she stood up to leave. The auditorium was nearly empty, the screen had gone black and the theater workers waited patiently for you to leave so they could finish their closing tasks.

It was late, and you were scheduled for the opening shift at Family Video the following day alongside Eddie.

The three of you walked towards Eddie’s Volkswagen Rabbit, Beth’s beat-up Corolla parked beside it. 

“See you tomorrow,” Beth called over her vehicle as you opened the passenger door to Eddie’s car. You waved over your shoulder before plopping into the seat. The car smelled like him - weed, tobacco, and spiced vanilla. A scent you’d become accustomed to in all the years you’d known him.

“Don’t be late!” Eddie yelled back at the strawberry-blonde, index finger pointed at her.

“You’re only my manager between the hours of twelve and eight within the confines of Family Video!” She flipped him off and climbed into her car, getting the last word. 

Eddie tapped his knuckles against the hood of his car as he watched her leave, watching the tail lights of her car get further away before jumping into the driver’s seat. 

“Do you have to pick at her?” you questioned as he got comfortable in his seat.

“I only dish up what she’s dishing out,” Eddie shrugged as he started the car. 

And it was true. While you and Eddie were best friends, Beth and Eddie would be considered something closer to frenemies. 

You’d known him since you were kids. He was the first kid in the trailer park to say hi to you after you moved in with your grandma days after your parents died.

Sure, Uncle Wayne was the one who insisted he said hi, but what came after the small introduction was all Eddie. 

The two of you grew up thick as thieves, soldiering through the complexities and horrors of middle and high school together. There was no one on the planet you were closer to, especially after your gran passed away two years ago. But you’d never admit it, especially not to Beth. 

You’d met her towards the end of eighth grade when she transferred to your school in the second semester. You warmed up to her immediately; Eddie was still working on it.

In many ways, they were alike - not that either of them would agree. Both were headstrong, sarcastic, witty, and total pains in your ass. 

“You get lost in your head over there or something?” He glanced at you before quickly returning his gaze to the road. 

On drives like this, you couldn’t help but think of your parents, couldn’t help but miss them something fierce. You hated when it was time to return home, to the empty, quiet trailer that gran had left you in her will. 

It hadn’t felt like home since she passed, but even before it still always felt temporary. Despite your gran's best efforts, you never felt settled or like you belonged. Constantly yearning for a place that felt like yours, chasing the feeling you had when your parents were alive.

“Just thinking of them,” you answered honestly, staring out the window and eyes darting to the stars that dotted the night sky.

Eddie didn’t need a further explanation; he knew how you felt all too well. He became an orphan two years before you. Even though his dad was alive, he was as good as dead. His absence felt at every birthday, Christmas, and band gig he didn’t attend.

Without asking, he took the road toward Lover’s Lake instead of the one that led to your home. He wasn’t up to any funny business; he just knew you weren’t ready to go home, and you didn’t question him as the paved road turned into a dirt one lined heavily with trees on either side. 

He pulled near the lake and cut the engine, rubbing his palms along his jean-clad thighs. 

“You good, Sunshine?” He watched the side of your face, worry creasing in his brow.

Your eyes rolled in amusement at the nickname he’d given you when you were just kids. 

“Just peachy,” you responded, fingers swirling in your hair absently, and still staring out the window.

“Never been a good liar, sweetheart,” he nudged your shoulder.

“Do you ever feel stuck?” You stated abruptly and Eddie’s eyebrows shot up into his bangs, hand falling back into his lap.

“Be more specific?” He was studying your face, what he could see of it, attempting to decipher what you were trying to say.

“Here in Hawkins. O-or like you don’t really have a place to call home?” you stammered and turned to him. Your eyebrows were knitted together and he knew you were worried, sad even. 

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Not exactly my dream to still be living with my Uncle, who was forced to take me in while I manage a movie rental shop in the worst city along the bible belt.” 

Your lip jutted to the side.

“Wayne loves you,” you insisted and Eddie nodded at your words.

“Yeah, he does but I still flipped his life upside down,” he chuckled without humor and began to pull at the frayed edge of his jeans.

You wanted to assure him but knew he wouldn’t believe you so instead you changed the subject.

“What would you do? If you could do anything, no limits?” 

His lips lifted into a sideways grin, the kind of smile you saw when he was amused and you knew that it was the distraction he needed. That you both needed.  

“Get my music out there. Cut a record and get the fuck out of Indiana. I just want to buy my uncle a house and let the old man retire.”

You nodded, teeth digging into your bottom lip. Your dreams felt so much simpler in comparison, almost lame.

“And you?”

You took a deep breath and sighed heavily, blowing a raspberry as you did. 

“I just want my own house. Maybe with some land. You know, like my family used to own?” 

You used to have a home. A big ranch-style house that your parents were still paying on at the time of their accident and when there was no one who could pay, the bank took it away.

He nodded and smiled wider at the image in his head. Eddie could picture you sitting in a rocking chair on a wraparound porch, the golden retriever you’d always wanted resting at your feet. 

His silence made you self-conscious, and you laughed, but Eddie knew it wasn’t one you meant.

“I know it sounds lame, but-”

“It’s not lame,” he assured, “I know it’s going to happen one day. Going to have that dream house on forty acres with two-and-a-half kids-”

“Six,” you interrupted with a wide grin.

“Holy shit, ok, six kids and a loaded husband. Who the fuck can afford six kids?”

“We said no limits,” you reminded him, and he nodded in agreement. A broad dimpled grin spread across his lips.

“If anyone’s dreams are gonna come true, it’ll be yours.”

“How are you so sure?”

Because I’ll make it happen even if I have to work three jobs until my hair turns gray.

But he didn’t say that part out loud.

“Just trust me, it’ll happen before you know it.” 

“It’ll happen for you too.”

Eddie began to scoff, but you shot him that look, the one that dared him to question you. He held up his hands, calling a ceasefire before any shots were fired.

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence as you stared at the lake. It was always easy like this with Eddie; easy conversation without awkward pauses. Comfortable enough to sit with just the sound of crickets chirping around you. 

Family Video was dead; the afternoon rush before a weekend had settled into a quiet lull. 

You sat at the computer, scanning in returned videos as Eddie worked in his office. His molten honey gaze darting to the clock every so often. Beth was nearly thirty minutes late. 

The Goonies played on TV - Eddie’s choice instead of the endless cycle of previews for Steve Harrington’s newly released movies. He drew the line at his job.

Beth barged through the front door, huffing and obviously distressed. Her hair disheveled and sticking to the sweat that lined her forehead. 

“Are you okay?” You questioned as you took in her appearance.

“Oh, just great,” she responded sarcastically.

“That’s twenty-eight minutes, Walden!” Eddie shouted from his office, addressing her by her last name.

She groaned. 

“I had a long night!”

“You left before us?” 

Eddie’s voice grew louder as he left his desk and leaned against the doorway. 

“Doesn’t mean I went to sleep,” she said in a low tone, gaze avoiding that of her two friends as she clocked in and set her bag underneath the counter.

“What kept you up, or should I say who kept you awake?” You questioned, voice breathy in faux flirtation. 

“You know that cutie from the bar?”

“You didn’t!” You gasped, mouth rounded and eyes wide in excitement. Beth had been eying the curvy brunette behind the bar for ages, never working up the courage to ever introduce herself. 

“I did. Twice!” She held up two fingers as you both squealed. 

“Gross,” Eddie gagged, and Beth shot him a dirty look.

“Don’t be jealous.”

“How did you blast off twice and have a bad night?” You interrupted, using the code name the two of you had come up with in high school. Not that it was any use, Eddie had caught on years ago when you and Beth tried to talk in code about her trysts. 

“Because my car wouldn’t start this morning, and she expected a ride home. So by the time I got it working and dropped her off, I was already running late.”

“Oh.”

She turned her head and looked at Eddie with pleading eyes.

“Could you, pretty please, take a look at it, Eds?” 

“It’ll cost you,” he pushed off the frame of his office door and moved to lean against the counter across from her. You turned your attention back to the computer as they bartered with each other, scanning in the last rental return. 

You hummed to yourself as you opened your email and skimmed through the new messages you’d received. Eyes practically bulging out of your head when you saw the subject line of one in particular.

Win a Date with Steve Harrington!

“Oh my god!” You shouted, catching the attention of your friends. Both of them looking at the back of your head with concern.

“What is it?” Beth leaned over your shoulder and read the email, fingers gripping your skin as she neared the end.

“Holy shit!” She shouted with you, and both of you began bouncing in place.

“What is it? Rick check-out Fast Times again?” Eddie chuckled, amused with his own joke.

“I could win a date,” you paused, “with Steve Harrington!”

You and Beth squealed again.

“Yeah, right. Let me see.” 

He nudged you out of the way as he read through the e-mail.

“Seems like a scam.” He backed away from the computer and shook his head disbelieving.

“It’s not!” 

You clicked the link and read through the site to confirm that it was indeed official.

“See, he wants to donate the money he raises to Feeding America.” 

You and Beth awed in unison; Eddie couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“There’s no way that King Steve doesn’t have some sort of ulterior motive,” he grumbled. Referring to Steve as the nickname he’d had for the brief moment in time he’d walked the same halls of middle school as you. 

“That was almost thirteen years ago, Eddie!” The two of them began bickering again.

You turned your attention back to the screen and read through the contest rules.

“I doubt he’s some gem now.”

“Not everyone donates to charity with an ulterior motive.”

Beth turned away from him and read through them with you.

“Grand prize includes a first-class flight to Los Angeles, lux accommodations at the Waldorf Hotel, styled outfits for the date, and a private dinner with Steve!” You gripped Beth’s hand excitedly as you read the entry rules.

“Says we have to pay one hundred dollars for a ticket to enter,” your shoulders sagged. 

“Shucks,” Eddie snapped his fingers in fake disappointment. He knew that you didn’t have a hundred bucks to spare.

Slowly, you and Beth turned to him. 

You looked at him with pleading eyes. 

Beth looked at him with murderous intent.

“I think you want to donate twenty-five to the cause, don’t ya Eds?” She asked as she stood straight and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Would you, Eddie? Please?” your lip practically jutted out into a pout as you waited for his response. 

And how could he ever say no to you?

He groaned and reached for the wallet nestled in the back pocket of his jeans before handing you a few bills he didn’t bother to count.

“Guess I can’t say no to feeding the hungry,” he muttered, refusing to acknowledge that there was even a slight possibility you’d win.

You jumped up and wrapped your arms around his neck, hugging him close before acknowledging the money he was willing to give you. Your lips pressed to his cheek, and you pushed off his chest before grabbing the money.

“You’re the best, Eds!” You gleamed, but Eddie was still in shock—cheek vibrating from where your lips had just pressed, and how affected he was by the moment wasn’t lost on Beth.

She shot him a knowing smile as he shook his head from the stupor but didn’t say more about it as she reached for her purse. 

“Eddie gave you thirty, and here’s twenty more. Now you just need fifty.”

You bounced with excitement, pulling them both close in another embrace.

“Have I said that you guys are my best friends?” 

“I know I am, but Beth?” 

The strawberry blonde shot her hand towards his ribs, and he winced as though he’d been mortally wounded. 

You were too blissed out to notice - images of your imaginary date with Steve Harrington already popping into your head. 

Three Weeks Later…

The Hideout was crowded, bodies pressed together and huddled around the makeshift stage. You and Beth weren’t amongst the large crowd, though, opting instead for your usual seats near the bar—the spot where you’d have the perfect view of Corroded Coffin as they played their usual Thursday night gig. 

“I can’t believe the turn-out,” you exclaimed, eyes darting around the hole-in-the-wall that never saw this many people. 

“I know,” Beth remarked incredulously. 

Both of you were shocked for very different reasons.

Eddie had begun to play shows at the local bar back in eleventh grade. His usual crowd had consisted of the same five drunks, but over the years, the popularity of the band, his popularity, had grown exponentially. Far surpassing the occupancy limits of the small space. 

People had started to come from all over the state, even out of state, to see them perform. Their followers on MySpace had nearly tripled what they used to be, and their monthly listeners had doubled, but Eddie had yet to accept that his band was known, that they could play at a bigger venue, or even book a small tour. Even when you’d shown him the evidence, he’d rolled his eyes. Too afraid to believe that his dreams might be within grasp. 

The bar lights dimmed, and the stage lights came on, illuminating the wooden platform in shades of red. The crowd began to cheer, surging forward to get as close as possible to the stage.

Gareth, Jeff, and Xander took the stage with their instruments, each giving a small wave as they did. Jeff began to strum on his guitar before Gareth joined with his drums, freestyling before Eddie came on stage. 

They loved to tease the crowd. 

Eddie came out a few moments later, waving his hands to greet the crowd. Amping up the energy even more. The buzz of it felt in the air. 

“Holy shit,” He breathed into the microphone as he took in how many people were there.

“How are we doing?”

The crowd’s yells grew even more in response to his question.

“I hope you’ll indulge me tonight. I want to do something a little different than our usual sound. Something I’ve been working on with the guys,” he turned and pointed to his bandmates with a bright smile. 

The audience cheered, and Eddie nodded as they did.

“Anyone a fan of Audioslave?

They roared a resounding yes.

“Me too,” he nodded again, “This is a cover of Like a Stone. I hope you enjoy it.”

The stage lights changed, washing the band in blue. A more somber mood settled over them as they began to play the song's opening. Eddie bobbed his head as his friends played, eyes closed as he felt the music and your gaze focused on him. You loved seeing him in his element, a different kind of focus that fell over him that you only ever saw when he played dungeon master during campaigns. Passionate. Happy. And it looked so good on him.

“On a cobweb afternoon, in a room full of emptiness,”

Eddie’s voice was rich, enveloping you in its warmth as he sang. Your eyes traced over his features. Noticing him in a way you hadn’t in a long time. The slope of his nose, the apples of his cheeks, the sharp edge of his jaw and it was like your childhood crush was rearing its ugly head. Surging forward and nearly knocking you to your feet. 

His eyes found you in the crowd, and it felt like he was singing to you.

“I’ll wait for you there like a stone,

I’ll wait for you there alone.”

You swallowed harshly, blinking rapidly as you gripped the glass cup you held before chugging down its contents. 

He isn’t singing to you. Get a grip.

You were best friends, but there was a time when you wanted more. 

Throughout your senior year, you yearned for Eddie to notice you the way that all girls wanted to be noticed when they fell in love with their best friend, but he never saw you that way. His attentions were on Paige, some girl who claimed she’d help him get his music to a reputable producer, and then on Chrissy, the head cheerleader he’d had a crush on since all of you were in middle school. 

It was never you, and you had accepted that long ago, but seeing him on stage roused something inside you. Something that unfurled its wings and took flight in your gut, creating a flurry of excitement. Making you nervous, anxious, and overwhelmed. 

The song continued, Eddie’s deep voice turning you into a puddle. He was right; it wasn’t the band’s usual sound. It was melancholy, a longing felt in each lyric, and you wondered who it was for, who Eddie thought of as he sang.

You glanced back up and noticed that Eddie’s attention was still on you somehow despite the size of the crowd. 

His vocals kicked up, and he hit every note like a plea.

“I’ll wait for you there like a stone,

I’ll wait for you there alone.”

Your breath hitched, lungs squeezing tightly as though you were in the middle of the crowd being pushed on all sides. Claustrophobic. Overwhelming.

“I know I usually shit on Eddie, but oh my god,” Beth cut through your trance and you gave her a tight grin.

“They sound so fucking good,” her breath was warm in your ear. The smell of gin enveloping you. 

“He does,” you breathed. 

Your muscles were tensed the rest of their show, and you felt like you were drowning in your thoughts. In the feelings that’d crept up from their burial site deep within your ribs. You didn’t take a breath until Eddie was no longer on stage. Until the stage lights dimmed and the bar lights came back on.

“Listen to me,” Beth grabbed your arm and your attention.

“Do not tell Eddie what I said. He can’t know that I think he’s good.”

“Why not?” You laughed, brows pushed together in confusion.

“Because he’ll never let me live it down!” She insisted with a roll of her eyes. You knew that she wasn’t wrong. If there was anything that Eddie enjoyed, it was teasing her. 

“Your secret is safe with me,” you promised, holding up your pinky finger to seal it. Her finger encircled yours, and you kissed the side of your hand—an official pact. 

“What’s the secret?” Eddie interrupted, sliding into the bar stool next to you. You jolted at his sudden appearance, frazzled by the sight of him. 

“What do you mean,” you questioned, avoiding eye contact but entranced by the smell of his cologne: spice and vanilla with a slight hint of tobacco. 

And why is your mouth watering? 

Your eyes widened at the realization.

“I walked in on the sacred pact. I know you guys are hiding something,” he pointed between the two of you. 

“Great set tonight,” you changed the subject - sort of. 

“Yeah, yeah, it was fun,” Eddie glanced around the bar. At the strangers who were still eying him and debating whether or not to approach. 

“Surprised by the new song,” you began to broach the subject. 

“Just a little something I’ve been working on,” he shrugged.

“I heard, but who has my best friend all glum?” You poked his side with a grin that didn’t meet your eyes, and he could tell something was bothering you.

“Just a girl,” he chuckled.

“Must be some girl,” your smile fell, and you played with the condensation on your glass.

“She is,” Eddie assured, eyebrows lost in his bangs—a mournful look painting his gaze.

Did you really not know?

“Eddie, use your newfound local fame for some good and get us some free drinks,” Beth interrupted, begging as she finished her gin and tonic. 

“No way,” he scoffed.

“Come on!” She whined.

“What if I played you for them?” You challenged with a lilt of your brows.

“Ok, but if I win, you’re buying the drinks.” Eddie set the terms and pushed off the bar stool.

“Deal,” you held your hand out to shake on it. His warm palm slid against yours, his large hand enveloping your smaller one. You could feel the calluses on them, evidence of his years of practice and manual labor. He shook your hand gently, holding onto you for a moment. Swallowing hard at the simple contact. 

“Go win us some drinks!” Beth interrupted again, shaking your shoulders and egging you on. Your hand slipped from his, heat growing in your cheeks.

“301?” you challenged as you pushed off your barstool. 

“Game on,” Eddie said in agreement and followed.

The two of you walked towards the dartboard, pushing each other playfully as you did.

“I’ll take a pina colada, Munson. Make you order something the bartender might hate you for,” you teased. Eyes tracing up his jean-clad legs, admiring how they hugged his thighs as he pulled the darts from the board.

“Oh, you’re toast,” he muttered over his shoulder. 

He walked over and handed them to you, a mischievous glint in his eye. Had he caught you staring?

“Ladies first,” he beckoned you to stand in front of him, allowing you to start the game.

You lined up, feet dancing along the tapped line that desperately needed to be replaced. Your tongue stuck out to the side as you concentrated, arm moving back and forth as you got ready to aim. To start the game, you needed to double in.

“Scared to lose?” Munson questioned, his breath fanning against your ear. You tried to hide the shiver that traveled up your spine in response and threw the dart - hitting the double ring next to the number eighteen.

“Not a chance,” you flashed him a cocky smile.

“Lucky hit,” he rolled his eyes and stepped back to allow you to throw your other two darts.

They landed where you aimed them, bringing your score down from 301 to 231.

“Your turn, Munson.” You walked to the board and grabbed your darts, standing behind him as he lined up with his own.

You giggled as you noticed that the two of you shared the same look of concentration. Eddie’s brows were pushed together, tongue jutted out as he looked to aim. You stood on your tiptoes, leaning close to his ear.

“Miss, miss, miss,” you whispered. 

Eddie stilled, and you felt his muscles tighten underneath the palm of your hand that rested on his shoulder. He took a deep breath, the scent of your perfume filling his lungs: vanilla musk and jasmine. 

He turned to you, chestnut eyes boring into your gaze, as he released his dart. If this were a movie, he would’ve made the shot. But it wasn’t, and he didn’t. Instead, the dart fell to the ground, and you couldn’t help but laugh. Eddie was entranced all the same. 

“Already losing, and you haven’t even joined the game,” you swallowed harshly. Teasing him to cover how his gaze was affecting you once more. 

The game continued like this, each of you trying to distract the other, but in the end, you had won, much to Eddie’s chagrin. Beth cheered from her seat, nearly falling off the barstool in her excitement. 

“Looks like you owe me that pina colada,” you raised your eyebrows smugly as you looked at him. 

“Fuck me,” Eddie grumbled to himself.

Getting your drinks wasn’t an issue; the issue was having to talk to the bartender. Violet Jennings had a massive crush on him since the second grade, one that never faded or wavered, and every time he was in the bar, her eyes remained glued to him. It might even be cute if she weren’t so intense. 

As he approached, Violet dropped everything she was doing and walked to where he stood. The only thing separating them was the wood of the bar top.

“What can I get you, Eddie,” she said his name. Breathy and affected. 

“Uh,” he cleared his throat, his cheeks turning pink because he could feel you and Beth watching him—your giggles carrying through the air.

“Can I get a pina colada, a gin and tonic, and just a pint of whatever is on tap?”

“Whatever you desire,” she nodded her head and jutted her chest out, but Eddie didn’t dare glance down. No matter how great her cleavage may be. 

She began to prepare his order, and he looked toward your table, you and Beth throwing him a thumbs up. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, tapping his fingers against the bar as he waited.

“Here you are, on the house of course.” She winked at him. It wasn’t his newfound fame that got the drinks but her neverending crush. 

“Thanks,” he tilted his chin towards her as he grabbed the glasses. Doing his best not to drop the drinks. 

“Here you go, assholes,” he murmured as he pushed the drinks onto the table. You excitedly grabbed for yours, humming as the sugary drink slid against your tongue and the rum burned your throat. 

“We won these fair and square,” Beth argued and took a sip of her drink, shooting him a glare.

“No, Sunshine here won them fair and square. You just made her do your bidding.” 

“Whatever,” she rolled her eyes and looked over at the bar. Spotting the girl she’d spent the night with three weeks ago. Her eyebrow raised, a warm feeling settling into her stomach as she recalled that night.

“This a snooze,” she looked at you both before jumping from her seat and walking towards the girl. You chuckled as you watched her leave, sauntering to the brunette whose name you still did not know.

You looked back at Eddie, a smile still wide on your lips.

“Did you ever hear back about the contest,” he asked suddenly, feigning disinterest. 

“No,” you sighed, “but it was a long shot anyway. Plus, in what world would I go on a date with Steve Harrington.”

“You say his name like he’s some god,” he scoffed.

“Shut up, I do not,” you grumbled, cheeks growing warm.

“Y’know there’s better guys out there than some lame actor, right?”

“Eddie, you act like even if I had a date with Steve, that he’d be interested in me. I wouldn’t measure up to the models and actresses he’s dated.”

“He’d be an idiot if he wasn’t interested.” 

Your heart stuttered in your chest, and you struggled to respond. Settling on deflecting instead of overthinking what he said.

He’s your best friend; of course, he’s going to say that.  

“Yeah, well, I don’t have to worry about hypotheticals and whether or not he would or wouldn’t be interested because I didn’t win. Now enough about me,” you nudged him, “You need to do something with the attention Corroded Coffin has now,” you urged.

“I want to,” he closed his eyes for a moment and sighed, “but I just don’t wanna make the wrong move, and what if no one is interested?”

“There is plenty of interest. Did you not see the size of the crowd?” You waved your arms around the room. 

“Yeah, from fans, but that doesn’t mean a record executive will be interested,” he gulped his beer down.

“You are stubborn as always,” you tilted your head up and looked back at him.

“Submit the demos. The worst that someone can say is no, and you’ll still have the growing fanbase if they do.” 

You looked at him with pleading eyes, and he shook his head. 

“Stop,” he pushed your face away, “you make that face, and I fold.”

You beamed and grabbed onto his arm, taking note of how his bicep felt beneath your fingers.

“Please, please listen to me, Eddie. I know your big break is around the corner, and when you make it, the only thing I ask is that you remember little ol’ me when you’re jetting around the world or marrying Heidi Klum.”

“Who?”

It was your turn to push his head away.

“Just promise?” you held a pinky finger up. It was his turn to make a pact. 

“I promise,” his pinky circled yours and you kissed the other side of your hand, gaze never leaving his. Wishing that it was his lips that you were kissing instead.

The next morning you woke up, head a little heavy from the alcohol you drank and dragging ass to the restroom to start getting ready for work.

You started the shower, turning the nob until it was nearly scalding, just how you liked it. Steam already filling the small bathroom when you stepped behind the shower curtain. You hummed as you worked the shampoo into your scalp, thinking of all you had to do at work. Creating a grocery list in your head for when you got off and went to the grocery store. 

It was a Friday night, movie night with your two best friends, and it was your turn to host. You debated whether to torture Eddie with another rom-com starring your favorite actor or if you should give in and watch one of his favorites. You always chose based on what was easiest to make themed foods for and never found it easy to make anything around any of the horror movies Eddie loved. 

The sound of someone pulling near your trailer interrupted your thoughts and caused you to stop humming as you listened closely. You could hear car doors slam shut and the sound of footsteps approaching. 

You rinsed your hair, shut off the water, and stepped out into the cold air.

What the hell?

A sharp rap at the door startled you and you hugged your towel close, quickly darting to your room to change so you could answer the door.

You took hesitant steps, pressing your body against the wood and peering through the peephole. A woman stood on the other side, preening as she waited for you to answer. 

Slowly you opened the door, poking only your head out.

“Can I help you?”

She said your name excitedly, and your eyebrows pushed together, unsure how she knew you or your full name.

“Yes?” 

“I’m Vanessa with WRTV!”

“Okay?” 

Everything came out like a question because why was she here?

“I’m here to interview you about winning a date with Steven Harrington,” she beamed, cameraman rushing up behind her. Lens focused on you.

“I won?” Your eyes bulged, and you threw the door open.

“Congratulations!” 

You squealed and jumped in place excitedly, wet hair sending droplets of water in the air. 

People began to poke their heads outside their doors at the ruckus and the scene of news trucks outside your trailer. All the neighbors stared including Eddie. 

“Eddie, I won!” You turned to him and invited him over, but with the camera pointed at you, he only arched a curious brow. 

Usually, you’d shrink away from the attention, but as you prattled through Vanessa’s interview questions, all you could think about was your luck. 

How you’d just won a date with Steve Harrington.

-

next>

tag list: @ali-r3n, @12thatsanumber, @lonely-phantoms, @Chickocrit

Request to be added to tag list here 🩵

[lorei-writes]

Sweet Nightmare

William x OC (OC Chart: Charlotte) Fluff/Comfort ~600 words

An idea flash occurred, so it had to be let out.

Content Warnings: none

Sleep, sleep, locked further in the land of dreams than an eye can see. Let slumberous sand embrace you, push its way into your ears, your mouth… Sleep, for what else is there for you beside dreams? Only there you can feel… … not even you still believe in that lie…

Sleep, sleep, locked further in the land of dreams than an eye can see.

Let slumberous sand embrace you, push its way into your ears, your mouth…

Sleep, for what else is there for you beside dreams?

Only there you can feel…

… not even you still believe in that lie…

William’s chest heaves as he releases a heavy sigh, hot breath clashing against cooled evening air. It is quietly cacophonous, a hailstorm of thoughts emerging from cloudy clarity, freed now that pleasures of the flesh hang low above the dark granite floor of his bedroom. His crimson gaze travels across the room, from the door, to the black velvet sofa, the mahogany table… the pile of hastily discarded clothes, the sleeves of his coat fondling a neckline of a dim burgundy dress, his cloak a snake throttling its skirt. Sweat taints his scarlet satin bedsheets, diluted in sweet essence of Charlotte’s moans, each resurrected gasp still lingering under the surface of his skin. William’s back aches pleasantly where her nails clawed into him…

Charlotte is so innocent when she sleeps, or so at least William concludes. She must be, as she hides her face in the bend of her elbow, so very sheepish despite being unaware… Her skin is as white as porcelain, spotless save for one spot; strawberry blonde hair drapes over her bony shoulders, clavicles protruding sharply from her chest. Yet there is still softness to her, to her thighs and to her belly, her breasts, and to where a fluttering butterfly has been branded into her skin. William lets his touch brush over her side, supple warmth turning freezing as soon as his fingertips glide above the angry scar.

… guilty…

… not guilty?…

Did she deserve it?

A part of him wants to take up a knife and to carve it away. To free her once and for all, to erase the evidence of her ever being chained. To punish her, perhaps, for she too has sinned… But wouldn’t it be self-righteous of him to hold as much against her? William swallows a chuckle, but Charlotte scrunches her nose up regardless, his long fingers combing through her tresses. Silk-soft strand wound around his hand, he brings it to his lips, bestows it with a feathery kiss.

“M-mhm.” A muffled complaint exits her throat.

“What is it, my sweet Nightmare? Are you having another bad dream tonight?” William hums, draws her to himself by the waist. The warmth of his skin seems to lull Charlotte, to lead her back into more peaceful sleep. Her penance postponed, frown briefly eases off her face and she cuddles into his side, her lashes tickling William rather terribly. Ha.

“Rock-a-bye baby, on the tree tops, when the wind blows, the cradle will rock.”

Ha. Haha.

“When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall.”

Is it so bad?

“And down will come baby, cradle and all.”

Then why is it so good?

Their fate has already been recorded among the stars. In that moment, however, William could not be more content. The judge, the accomplice and the guilty yet to be sentenced, he embraces the sin of his blood and the blood spilled through her sin. Charlotte, his wicked communion… And he, the snake who had her forsake the hopes of absolution. Entwined, interlocked, they fall asleep, free and bound by their respective curses. Until another morning… Another night, another day… For as long as they still are, and to cherish that precious “still”.

You've seen a typo? Let me know!

Tag list: @lancelotscloak @starlitmanor-network @violettduchess @lucyw260

+@snapdraco

Since it is my first work for IkeVil with an active taglist, I've tagged the people who either asked for it or subscribed to "all" Ikemen games (pre-Vil release). Please, tell me if you'd like to be kept or added to my taglist >:)

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

I think a suits revival or a spin-off is hoping to be picked up by Netflix. hence, the reunion for Golden globes. Spin-off articles did the rounds a couple of months back and the idea may have been that since the show was suddenly top of the charts on Netflix (which I think was a PR slant, not actual fact) the show runners and Netflix maybe testing waters.

Suits does not, and never did, have a cult following like Grey's anatomy, Friends, Ally McBeal, succession, breaking bad etc. But it is Meghan's only claim to fame. I do think that she believes people only watch the show because of her, and so for Golden globes the suits people tried to capitalize on that. The reunion, by the way, was a bit blah, because the rest of the cast (except Gina) is lacklust outside of the show and individually do not have the charisma or stage presence. They have also not done any work outside of suits since then (except Gina). I suspect Meghan will now be miffed and ghost the show lol.

I'm glad I didn't answer this yesterday when I first saw it, because the background for the main character in Aaron Korsh's (the Suits creator) new show was announced.

Set in a LA firm, Erica is an entertainment lawyer and

"30s, Black, SoCal native, and Harvard law alum. She’s jockeying to be made Head of Entertainment. She’s great at closing clients but struggles elsewhere. Smarter than everyone." (Source)

Sounds a wee bit familiar, right? And guess who's PR has picked it up and is now spamming the internet with "oh my gosh, this sounds just like Meghan and it would be so easy for them to tweak a few details to turn Erica into Rachel Zane."

Also, it's not true that none of the cast has worked since Suits. Patrick Adams, Sarah Rafferty, Gina Torres, Rick Hoffman, Wendell Pierce, and Abigail Spencer all have worked steadily since Suits. Only Gabriel Macht hasn't worked. What might be tripping you up is that only Gina Torres has a network television series (but Wendell Pierce and Abigail Spencer are in new series that are starting shortly - Wendell is in the new Good Wife spinoff but I think it's a recurring character and Abigail is the female lead in the new Jon Cryer/Donald Faison show). The rest of them are working on streaming services and cable. You can check out their IMDBs for specifics.

[darcytaylor]

I wonder if all this about the impact on Luke's career, the PR disaster, etc., isn't much bigger within our fandom bubble and in reality it's not even that important in “real life”? Maybe he's just taking a vacation and laying low after the six intense months he's had and will soon announce new projects and start working and in the meantime we're worrying about him and blowing things out proportion thinking he doesn’t care? Idk sometimes that’s what I think 😂 am I crazy?

No I don't think you are crazy. This is all speculation at the end of the day. It's okay to look at a situation and not see it exactly how another may, because like I have said so many times before, none of us actually know anything.

When I look at situations I try to come up with the most logical answer. And what is logical for me may not be logical for somebody else. (although I do know that life sometimes isn't logical and can throw curveballs, which is why anything is possible).

We as a collective can look at situations from afar and analyze, then try to come up with the best answer (and sometimes those answers change depending on things unfolding). But that's as far as any of us that are not Luke can do. Only Luke has the answers to his life.

I personally do think that some of Luke's actions have hindered job prospects. I also think that he hasn't taken some advice from his team. I also know that while he did work hard with the promo tour, the time to take a vacation and relax wouldn't be the best move professionally.

Right after the promo tour would have been the best time for him to land a gig, to continue to network, to keep his name out there (for his acting and not his social life). I think that if he stayed private and didn't let his personal life bleed into his professional one, all of this would be a different story, and we all might be talking about Luke's career or his acting in season 3 of Bridgerton.

But what I also don't know is what he wants career wise. Maybe his goals are not to take it to the next level (and that is okay). Maybe he is happy doing Bridgerton and every once in a while doing some small theatre work.

Only time will give us answers. And I want to say this again, you are not crazy to look at this situation and hope for the best. Being optimistic is a good thing!

[thccampers]

Kerem Bürsin, bisexual, cis-gender + he/him/his → isn’t that Altan? they’re the father of the Kartals. i hear they’re 45 years old and they’ve been coming to camp for 20 years. they seem to be relaxed & flirtatious, but also disingenuous & impulsive. they’re into restraints, flip-flopping, rough sex, but not into scat, vomit, infantilism.

he is a verse-top (switch, dom lean) and enjoys, but isn't limited to:

restraints, flip-flopping, rough sex, multiple partners, roughness, facials, bareback, outdoor scenarios, public scenarios, dirty talk, manhandling, degradation play, spanking, slapping, spitting, mild feminization play (giving), and much more...

but he's down for anything except scat, vomit, and infantilism.

biography and other stats:

- age: Forty five - height: 5'10" - weight: 165 lbs - occupation: Run's a well-known/reputable PR firm - tattoos: none at the moment - piercings: none at the moment - erogenous zones: His chest and his arms - safeword: Cucumber - favorites: Spending time with his boys, lavish parties, spending a day on the water, designer clothing, bourbon, his job - dislikes: Stubborn people, paparazzi, people that ask too many questions, soda

Altan worked hard for his station in life. He is wealthy and, by all means, powerful and everything he has he had to work for and earn for himself. He, basically, built an empire for himself by marrying the enjoyment he got from telling people what to do, and having them listen, with his ability to read people and understand what they wanted without really having to ask. It wasn't always easy, of course. He started out working as a corporate assistant for some big business, getting coffees and scheduling meetings, but he was able to build a network within that companies clients of people that trusted him-- of people that recognized he was the one pulling the strings, and getting things done-- so that when he finally did make the jump to start out own his own he had a few people in his corner to catch him.

It started small but now? Altan has more celebrity clients than he can keep up with on his own. He personally vets every single person he employs, he takes his firm seriously and wants to make sure that even the clients he isn't handling personally are still getting the best he has to offer, but even as focused and driven as he is with his work he still manages to make time for his family.

He loves his husband, and their boys; he would do anything for them-- well, to a degree. Altan has the tendency to be a bit strict with his sons. Though he has the finances to easily give each and every single one of them a cushioned, comfortable life in the lap of luxury without even putting a dent into his wealth, he is very tight with his money with them. He doesn't want his boys to grow up spoiled, or with the mentality that things are simply theirs for the taking-- he wants them to work for what they have and what they want; he wants them to earn it.

He knows that because of how he's raised them, and how stern he can be, that he isn't their favorite but he does love his sons-- and he hopes that this year, with their time at camp, he can change their opinion of him and prove he isn't some cold, emotionless robot; he's hoping to prove to them that he really does love them and that he has always been in their corner.

[mattzerella-sticks]

Not to post about the Supernatural finale again but I find it hilarious that we've gone through so many different attempts of watching them trying to salvage and explain away what did air when in truth the finale was bad and there is no defending it and that's what we want to hear and also I'm glad that that what they tried to make the end of the story is very much not the actual end of the story.

[hologramcowboy]

Look, I'm someone who's mainly staying out of this prequel mess, that's for Jared and Jensen to sort out and none of our business (also, everything I've been reading is just speculation that's colored one way or another and none of us will ever know what exactly happened), but saying "Jared had no choice but to respond!" is just plain bullshit.

So what if fans asked him and Kripke tagged him? Jared is not the president of the United States. He and Jensen are nothing but C list actors from a shitty network, most people have never even heard of them and the world doesn't stop turning just because they don't immediately respond to Twitter announcements or fandom kerfluffle.

What if Jared had been out skiing when that whole thing went down or at the hospital with a sick kid? Or missed the announcement/was unable to immediately respond for any other reason? You know what would have happened? Nothing, that's what. The world would have heard his response a few hours later and it wouldn't have mattered in the slightest. So no, Jared wasn't forced to respond as quickly as he did. He could have waited a little while longer and probably would have reached Jensen in the meantime. Jensen would likely have seen this long text that Jared apparently sent him before it was too late and this whole pointless drama could have been avoided.

Sooo many assumptions in this post. First of all ""Jared had no choice but to respond!" is just plain bullshit." Is it? You know how the industry works? No, I gather. It's anything but bullshit. Say you are a part of a project, go ahead, put yourself in Jared's shoes, and your colleague fails to notify you of a press release regarding something you are connected to and you are out of the loop not to mention heartbroken at a personal level. Now, show business is a...BUSINESS. So let's say people start texting, calling, your agent, your manager, etc etc plus fans going crazy and you are in the middle of your own things and get caught by surprise and can't be professional because you have no information. Would that not upset you? Is that a professional thing to do? Leave your partner in the dark?

If no one cares about them why are you even on my blog for one? Secondly, in their business, again show business is a business, they do matter, they have a place and people they answer to. PR mishaps affect their experience directly. What Jensen did impacted Jared and he is allowed to have a voice about it, he's not a decorative object surrounding Jensen, you know. He's a human being with feelings. If you can say that Jared did something wrong why can't you admit Jensen did as well? Or does he get a free pass forever because he has a pretty face? Because if so ewww.

I apologize if I misread your ask in any way, written words don't always convey the feelings of the person writing and I do get you were just trying to convey that in your opinion Jared could have waited to tweet but he did sent a long SMS to Jensen so he did contact him privately. As always, please take what resonates and ignore the rest.

[luluwquidprocrow]

(the three-part folding mirror)

the denouements & the snickets, olaf, r, olivia 

teen

15,985 words 

The year the schism gets worse is the year one of the quarterly information costume parties is held in the grand ballroom on the third floor of the Hotel Denouement. 

@lyeekha won my commission in the @asoue-network fandom against hate raffle and asked for the denouements, so i put together some shenanigans with the denouements and the snickets, with slight ernest/lemony kit/dewey frank/jacques, and a few other associates hanging around ~ 

some minor warnings – language; smoking; brief mention of murder; referenced parental death; identity anxiety about being seen physically and personally 

title from i am alone by they might be giants 

10:59 PM—The Ballroom—East Drink Table

Kit skirted the perimeter of the crowded ballroom, stopping at the side wall by the drinks, one eye on the table and the other on the dance floor. She couldn’t put her back to it. Not now. There was a tall, potted boxwood nearby, unreasonably lush, almost slouching against the decorative golden pillar beside it. She picked up one of the wineglasses, the only signal she could think of to properly get his attention. She’d have to find Lemony as well; where was he?

The plant coughed.

“J,” Kit whispered, “listen to me.”

A few of the branches parted, and Jacques’s blue eyes appeared out of the green. “What happened?”

Kit breathed slowly. Her free hand curled into a fist, crinkling up the fabric of her dress. She swallowed. It did not help. She gripped the glass. Beneath her feet, the floor gave a slight shudder as the clock out in the lobby readied itself to chime the hour.

“Someone in this very room has—”

WRONG!

7:25 PM—Above The Lobby

It was Saturday night, and Saturday night always meant one thing—Guess The Guest.

Ernest stood in the small alcove situated around the gears of the hotel clock, far above the lobby, and looked down. Like any other night, the sleek gold and red lobby was filled with people, loitering around the front desks and the fountain and each other before they made their way up to the grand ballroom on the third floor. Well, the ballroom was different. This was a work event, as Frank had so brilliantly labeled it on their schedule, so no one was a regular guest tonight. Frank, who had never appreciated the joy in making up grandiose lies or exaggerated half-truths about the strangers who came in and out of the hotel, certainly wouldn’t appreciate the thrill in watching all of his associates in costume and trying to guess who was who, either. Dewey thought the game was slightly mean, because Dewey was just too kind for this sort of thing.

It was good that Ernest was not Frank or Dewey. Not right now, anyway. Ernest knew how to get joy out of the little things.

He watched a flash of green scales move erratically through the lobby, a cheerful voice calling enthusiastic greetings that echoed all the way up to the ceiling—Montgomery. There was a reason he did undercover work so sparingly. Two women in nearly identical butterfly costumes by the door, one purple and one white, hand in hand, standing close together—Ramona and Olivia. It was nice to see them together. A woman with a deep blue dress that swept around her like a wave—Josephine, here alone. Ernest had it on good authority that the Anwhistle brothers weren’t coming. Another loud voice, but deeper, following the confident swath a tall figure in black cut through the crowd—Olaf. Ernest turned away, in time to catch a glimpse of a long red cape shifting from behind one pillar to another around the edge of the room, carefully avoiding Olaf—aha. Kit. Which meant another one was nearby. Not that the Snickets had arrived together, because none of them ever did, but where there was one there was always at least one other, ready to make a decent amount of trouble. (Ernest liked trouble. The little things, of course.) And there, near Ramona and Olivia, Lemony Snicket, a figure shaped in grey shadows.

The alcove door opened. Ernest knew exactly who it was, so he didn’t give him the courtesy of turning around, keeping his eyes on Lemony. Grey was a fitting color on him, on the long line of his shoulders, his legs. Ernest’s stomach flipped over, once.

“It looks like a full house tonight,” Frank said, standing beside Ernest. He adjusted the sleeves of his jacket and folded his hands behind his back. “I wasn’t sure.”

Ernest leaned a hand on the alcove railing. “Takes more than a murder to stop a party, I suppose,” he said.

Frank didn’t reply, but Ernest knew that for once he agreed. The double murder in Winnipeg two months ago had, like any other sudden, suspicious death they’d dealt with over the years—Ernest shuddered and flexed his fingers—barely made a ripple in VFD, except that after the funeral, everyone had closed ranks significantly tighter.

This worried Frank; this did not worry Ernest. Very little truly worried Ernest, at the end of the day. That, of course, only made Frank worry more, but Ernest couldn’t help that. Frank would find something to worry about if Ernest was still on “his side”. Ernest had much more pressing commitments than the heavy, idle worry that everyone else shuffled between themselves without any results, and it wasn’t that he’d be found out. It was change. The real kind of change, not the noble one, not the fragmentary one. Change Ernest could see.

He shifted his hand on the railing once more. If he kept thinking about it, he was going to argue with Frank, and they’d rehashed the argument so many times the past few months without any resolution that it was better, Dewey had eventually insisted, if they just didn’t talk about it at all. So they wouldn’t. Ernest stood next to his brother, and the silence dragged out between them, punctuated by the soft ticking of the clock gears, and they wouldn’t talk about it. Not at all.

“Ernest.”

Almost.

“Frank,” Ernest said back, in the same critical tone, tilting his head to the side and giving his brother a look.

Frank shot him a flat and unimpressed stare in return. At least he still did that. “Promise me you won’t do anything—” he paused, his face pinching in an aggrieved sort of way before he settled on a word. “—rash tonight,” he finished.

Ernest laughed. “I don’t intend to do anything rash, Frank.” Of course not. You couldn’t carry out a pre-established plan rashly.

“I should hope not. I—”

The door opened, again. Dewey burst into the alcove, all smiles as always, and stopped on Frank’s other side and leaned over the railing, gazing into the lobby. Like Ernest and Frank, he wore the muted red manager uniform, because somebody had said it was the “host prerogative” to not dress up for a costume party. Somebody had felt bad about it when Dewey was disappointed, but somebody had still not relented, and there they were, a matched trio, everything outwardly perfect.

“Everyone’s costumes are so beautiful,” Dewey said. “Who’s that, in the big blue dress?”

“Josephine,” Ernest and Frank said at the same time.

Ernest raised his eyebrows. Frank, stooping so low as to actually guess the guest? Even Dewey blinked at him in surprise. The tips of Frank’s ears went slightly pink, but he didn’t say a word.

“Oh, Frank, you left your name tag downstairs again,” Dewey said. He pulled the name tag from his pocket, the slim gold rectangle glinting briefly in the soft light of the alcove, and pressed it into Frank’s hand.

“Thank you,” Frank murmured. But when Dewey turned away, Ernest saw the tag disappear from Frank’s fingers, most likely slipped up into his sleeve. None of them wore their name tags with regularity—the black ‘manager’ embroidery on their jackets was really enough—but Frank’s kept showing up places, and Ernest and Dewey kept giving it back to him, every time. Ernest didn’t quite know what to make of it. He wondered about asking Frank about it, but he didn’t want Frank to take it as another argument. Ernest didn’t actually enjoy arguing with Frank. About small things, sure, like Dewey’s stupid poetry and Frank’s inane hotel schedules, the sorts of things brothers argued about. But Ernest was sure Frank would make it into another one about VFD.

Dewey was studying the lobby, one hand on his chin. Ernest watched him go from one friend to another, then stop when he got to Kit’s red cape sweeping towards the stairs. It was an unusual color for her, but Dewey, whether he thought it was nice or not, knew how to identify someone from the pieces they let slip through too. Kit was straightforward about everything, and the way she walked, determined and with an endpoint in sight, was no different.

Ernest and Frank exchanged a quick glance.

“So,” Frank drawled, “when’s the wedding?”

“I look best in black,” Ernest put in. “Take that into account, Dewey.”

“I look best in blue,” Frank said. “Take that into account.”

Dewey’s face went its typical six shades of red, flushing through to his ears as well as he jumped back from the railing and sputtered, “What—we’re not—we haven’t even—I don’t—Kit’s not—you two are impossible.” He stormed out of the alcove, shutting the door with a slight snap behind him, because Dewey had never slammed a door in his life.

Ernest enjoyed a brief chuckle with Frank before his brother fell silent again. The lobby crowd was thinning as everyone made their way to the elevators or the stairs, or to the bathroom, or, perhaps, to some clandestine hallway somewhere else. Ernest could see the ring of neatly-trimmed boxwoods lining the lobby now. He wasn’t sure, but he thought there was one more than usual, sitting right inside the door.

He leaned forward, squinting. “Did we always have a boxwood there?” he asked.

Frank moved his head down a fraction of an inch and considered the lobby. “Of course,” he said. Then he straightened his sleeves one more time, and left the alcove.

7:35 PM—The Lobby

Among the Snicket siblings, there was an ongoing discussion about the best hiding place. Kit preferred the quiet, professional approach. She stood behind newspaper stands, put her face into books and brochure racks, stayed in the shadows of a store awning. Lemony was difficult about it. He thought the best place to hide was the least likely place someone would look for you; the place you wouldn’t look for yourself. He took dangerous perches in train station windows, seats in restaurants he vocally hated, or sophisticated and cramped corner cafes that had never heard of a root beer float.

Jacques, meanwhile, with a lifetime of hiding experience, always liked to hide in plain sight. People barely ever remembered what was right in front of them as long as it appeared relatively normal. And there were a number of options—a large potted plant could be overlooked among a dozen other potted plants, people received packages every day and wouldn’t notice if there was one more oversized box, every city park lost track of how many statues were supposed to be there, even a regular man in a fine suit crossing the street or driving a taxi was expected and forgettable. Another boxwood was just another boxwood sitting in a free space in the empty Hotel Denouement lobby, slowly making its way to the ballroom for optimal eavesdropping. Another volunteer in costume was just another volunteer in a lion costume borrowed from Bertrand, for the moments tonight when Jacques had to communicate information to an associate.

That was the point of the party, after all. Jacques couldn’t deny that everyone liked dressing up—he liked dressing up, a little—but the main objective for most of them tonight was the passing of relevant information that had happened in the three months since the last official gathering (not counting the funeral). It should have been at Winnipeg, as they usually were, the organization taking over the Duke and Duchess’s sprawling, sparkling mansion, the couple’s easy laughter flowing from room to room. Jacques didn’t blame Ramona for not wanting to do it after what happened there. He doubted she’d actually been in the mansion since, although it was entirely hers. But the Hotel Denouement was a suitable replacement. It was too public to ever lose its neutral position among both sides. No one was going to get killed here, Jacques was certain. But he was mildly worried something else would happen. He didn’t know what. But something.

Especially considering Lemony was here. Not that his brother was a troublemaker—Jacques would never say it out loud, at least—but because Lemony wasn’t supposed to be at the hotel tonight. He had told Jacques that he was going to be with Beatrice and Bertrand, who were working on plans for an upcoming assignment. This meant two things—one, that Lemony had lied to Jacques. But Jacques had counted on that. He had assumed, however, that Lemony meant the three of them were finally going on a date and hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Two, that if Lemony never did anything idly, without a specific purpose, then he was here for an unknown reason. Something else was going to happen, Jacques was certain. Something Lemony wanted to be here for.

First, though, he had to get the boxwood he was hiding in from the lobby to the ballroom upstairs. The pot was significantly heavier than Jacques had counted on.

8:05 PM—The Ballroom—Main Doors

Every time they all got together, Frank was so amazed at how many of them there were. Despite some noticeable gaps—Beatrice’s overbearing presence, for one, which Frank was happy to do without for an evening—the grand ballroom had barely any free space. Every available and noble associate was here, and it filled Frank with a sense that everything was going to be alright. All these people, including himself, doing what was necessary to keep the world quiet. Tonight would be fine. Ernest wouldn’t do anything regrettable; Dewey would forgive him about the costumes and the gentle ribbing; the meeting would pass without incident. Tomorrow would come. Sometimes Frank almost thought that it wouldn’t. Typically when Ernest was being difficult, but tonight even he seemed to agree that the organization—their organization—was impressive.

He spotted a potted plant by one of the drink tables, a boxwood that matched the ones lined around the room and back in the lobby. One branch was bent out of place. Frank would have to have a word with the person responsible later. But he should fix the branch now.

Everyone he passed on his way across the room gave him a quick nod, a brief smile. Frank returned it as that familiar buzzing started under his skin, like it tended to in groups. He shrugged it aside. He gave the controlled smile of a manager with everything in place, and no one said a word.

All of a sudden, his view of the boxwood was blocked. Through the mass of associates came Olaf, head to toe in a suit and mask of black, spiky fur, smiling with all his teeth, unceremoniously pushing a woman in a silver dress painted like a large, rocky moon aside on his way towards Frank. Frank steeled himself. You never knew what you were going to get with Olaf, if he would try and charm you with a reckless humor or annoy you with a joking cruelty. It was one of the many reasons Frank had never particularly cared for him.

“Ernest!” Olaf exclaimed when he got close. He hooked an arm through Frank’s. “Lovely to see you, wonderful party.”

The cold, dark hand twisted its way along Frank’s insides. It gripped down through his chest, put a film over his eyes that made the room seem distant and wrong. The party continued around him, Olaf was still talking into his ear, and Frank couldn’t hear any of it. The name tag pressing into his wrist up his left sleeve didn’t help. Just because it was his didn’t mean it was him. His name meant nothing if no one was going to care about who it was, about what made Frank instead of Ernest or Dewey. No one should need evidence to tell the difference. No one should make a mistake between the three of them. How many times would it happen?

Time was still passing. Frank blinked once, twice, until Olaf’s voice filtered back in and the noise of the ballroom swelled up once more.

“—incredibly delicious, I have to say, but, to be frank with you—ha! This champagne has seen better days, which one of you is responsible for this travesty?”

Frank smiled, a little turn of the corner of his mouth, the professional smile of all three of them. If Olaf wanted Ernest, alright. Frank would be Ernest. “Frank,” he said. The word sounded like it couldn’t possibly have come out right, but Olaf didn’t break his stride, so it must have.

“That does not surprise me in the least,” Olaf said. “Meanwhile, allow me to take up one single minute of your time,” he continued, and pulled Frank into the shadows by the door. Frank’s stomach gave a terrible lurch as the stark terror he woke up with every morning came back, riding over the dissonant gap he still felt between his body and his brain. What did Olaf want with Ernest? Had Olaf found out about him? Frank had covered up for Ernest before, but would he be able to keep doing it if more people knew?

“Have you thought about it any more?” Olaf asked, leaning close.

The sheer relief that Olaf didn’t know battled with the swooping fear that Ernest was doing something new Frank didn’t know about, and with Olaf. He remembered, with startling clarity, the last time he talked to Kit, when she told him that Olaf had been spouting dangerous ideas about the organization and trying to rope in as many people as possible. It was one of the reasons, according to the rumors Frank had heard elsewhere, why he and Kit had ended their relationship. What was he trying to get Ernest into? Ernest needed absolutely no encouragement, and neither did Olaf. He had to say something.

“I have,” Frank said. It was the safe answer when you were pretending to be someone else.

Olaf grinned again, big and excited, which was a terrible sign. “And?”

“No,” he said, because it was also the safe answer, and the faster Frank could untangle Ernest from whatever trouble he was into this time, the better. “Sorry to disappoint,” he added, with the cool tone Ernest used.

Olaf frowned. “Really? I must admit, I am a little surprised. I mean, I know you weren’t entirely on board, but you’d given it a shot before, and I was hoping you’d come around again.”

Before? They’d talked before? Frank thought a series of incredibly inappropriate words Beatrice was always using that he would never say out loud.

“But!” Olaf pivoted quickly, in his speech and his actions, spinning on his heel away from Frank and shrugging broadly. “Who am I to bend your arm about it! I’ll keep you in mind, though, in case.” He showed all his teeth, his eyes glittering. “And keep me in mind, next time you have anything else worth sharing, will you?” He flounced off again, tearing through the crowd.

It took a few minutes for Frank’s heart to go back to where it was supposed to be from where it was thundering in his throat. He put his hands in his pockets and gripped the fabric, something real and his to hold onto.

Anything else worth sharing. Since their apprenticeships, Frank and Dewey and Ernest had been tasked with organizing a great deal of information, mostly about the history of the organization, but sometimes, and especially as they got older, the very information that was passed along between volunteers. It was part of the reason Dewey had started building his personal archives in the basement. He liked the business of collecting facts. Of course all three of them were still being given that information. Of course Ernest still had access to every single piece of that information. Ernest, collaborating with Olaf, Ernest, sneaking around behind Frank’s back, Ernest, who had promised, at the beginning of all this, that he wasn’t going to jeopardize their positions by doing something stupid.

Ernest, what are you doing?

8:40 PM—The Archives, In Progress

Dewey was not hiding. He liked parties a great deal, and he loved people, but like his brothers and everyone else, he too had his own appointment to keep tonight.

His just happened to be in the basement.

He still sort of felt like he was hiding, especially the further he went into the archives. But things always needed organizing, and while he waited, he had to do something to keep his hands busy. He searched for a set of organization accounting records for five minutes before realizing he’d already shelved it, last week.

So Dewey was nervous. Plenty of people were nervous. Olivia went around all the time being nervous and no one gave her any grief for it. But Olivia didn’t have a sister to give her any grief for it. And Dewey didn’t mind, not really. He loved it when his brothers teased, because it meant they were getting along. But this time it was slightly personal. Because he was meeting Kit, and he was nervous.

Kit was—well, normal. Like Dewey was normal. He loved his brothers, but Frank was high-strung and made it everyone else’s problem, Ernest was often disagreeable for the sake of it, and with the Snickets, Jacques was always hiding in furniture and Dewey didn’t think he’d ever seen more of him than one hand and possibly an eye at a time, and Lemony was wonderful but sometimes too cryptic and morbid for Dewey’s taste. He liked things a little more sensible, comfortable, pleasant. And Kit was organized, reasonable, quiet when other people were reading, cool under pressure. She let herself get lost in books and people she cared about, underneath all the professionalism. Her smile was a careful, slow thing, something private she only showed you if she genuinely liked you. And it meant a lot to be on the receiving end of that smile.

His brothers didn’t get it. He wasn’t involved with Kit, and he wasn’t going to ask her out, because you didn’t do that with Kit. If Kit wanted to spend time with you, that was her own choice. She never did anything she didn’t want or she hadn’t thought through first. That she wanted to spend time with Dewey, specifically, to see him, and no one else, was nice. It made the whole of him feel all tingly and weightless. He wanted their meeting in the archives to be as nice as that feeling.

Dewey grabbed a set of Agatha Christie translations he kept on hand for when things got boring (rarely, but Beatrice got bored easily, and if you gave her a translation she sat down for a while to prove she could read it) and walked to the next aisle to shelve them. His foot snagged on something in the middle of the floor and he stumbled, hugging the books close to his chest so they didn’t fall. He turned around to see what it was, and found Kit blinking up at him with wide eyes from where she sat on the floor, a thick book open in her lap, her long red dress pooled around her on the floor. Her dress had an off-the-shoulder neckline, but most of her shoulders were covered by the matching red cape pulled around her. In the wide diamond of skin left between the cape and the top of the dress, he could see the sharp edge of something black around her collarbone, a point of the nearly-finished tattoo she’d been getting done. The red sleeves disappeared into short white gloves, with her hands folded together at the bottom of the book pages. Oh. Dewey’s heart pounded for a horrible, exhilarating moment, his mouth going dry. He swallowed once, twice, a third time.

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling wryly, closing the book and sliding it gently back in the middle shelf. “I got distracted.”

“Oh, no, that’s completely understandable,” Dewey said. He folded himself down beside her, crossing his legs, still clutching the books to him. “Happens to me all the time. What were you reading?”

Kit smiled again, and it was that slow, beautiful smile, her eyes lighting up. “Have you heard,” she said, “about the cookiecutter shark?”

Dewey had absolutely heard about the cookiecutter shark. “Isistius brasiliensis,” he said. “It can travel in schools, and it bites little circular sections out of fish, like a cookie cutter. Have you heard about the brownsnout spookfish?”

“Barreleye fish, has mirrors in its eyes. Toothless upper jaw,” Kit replied easily. “Anostraca.”

“Fairy shrimp, they swim upside down,” Dewey said. He leaned forward, grinning. “Sometimes even found in deserts. Frilled shark?”

This was his favorite game, with his favorite person, in his favorite place. Both of them were librarians, or librarian-adjacent, so he and Kit dealt in information, not only about nobility but about the rest of the world around them. And the whole world was so fascinating, and there was so much to know and share, so how could you not try and see who could stump the other first?

“An eel-like living fossil, with six pairs of gill slits. Chaunacidae.”

Dewey scrunched up his face, thinking. “I think you got me there,” he admitted.

“Sea toad,” Kit said, looking pleased, “and coffinfish. Deep-sea anglerfishes. The sea toad has fins that can be used as leg flippers.”

“Really? Wow.” Dewey made a mental note to check that out later. He hoped, on the scale of unsettling sea creature to pleasantly spooky sea creature, that it was somewhere in the middle. “So besides oceanic intrigue,” he said, “what else is going on with you?”

“I’m supposed to get something from Frank tonight,” Kit said. “But, I also came to give you this. From Bertrand,” she clarified, and then picked through the seams of her dress, which revealed themselves as hiding at least ten different pockets.

When he had the time, Dewey wanted to study clothing design. Kit and Beatrice always found the place for so many pockets that you could never see from the outside, and Dewey wished he had the same capacity in his slim manager’s jacket and trousers for all the things he wanted to carry around. Poetry; chocolate-covered pretzels; the pencils Kit always left behind; spare buttons; sturdy rope, in case he needed it; maybe a mini chess set. He’d have to work on it. Maybe he could hide them in shoulder pads, or his shoes.

Kit pulled out a book from a side pocket. Dewey finally put the Agatha Christie down, piling it in a neat stack between them, and took the book. It was the one Bertrand had spoken to him about last week—Undercover Underwater: Diving For The Truth, a truly terrible murder mystery novel he said Dewey had to read to believe. He was greatly looking forward to it.

“That was awfully sweet of him,” Dewey said, running his thumb over the cover. He looked for a place to put it, and then just put it on top of his book stack. It felt a little sacrilegious, if it was as bad as Bertrand said, to put it on top of Christie, but he didn’t want to misplace it. “Thank you very much.”

Kit shifted on the floor and put her back to the bookshelf. “Did you hear the Anwhistle brothers finished building that marine research and rhetorical advice center?”

“Yes,” Dewey said. “I guess that’s why they aren’t here tonight? Josephine was all alone when I saw her earlier.”

“They should’ve celebrated with the rest of us,” Kit said. “What a massive architectural achievement—and I wanted to hear about the leeches, too.”

“Yes!” Dewey exclaimed. “Have you seen them yet? I haven’t.”

“No,” Kit said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Not in person. Ike gave Lemony one of the earlier ones as a paperweight some time ago but I haven’t been able to see their recent work yet. I hear the teeth are impressive.”

“Cookiecutter shark impressive?”

Kit grinned. “Potentially.”

Dewey laughed. He wished he and Kit could go see them, together. For the scientific curiosity. For spending time with someone who really, really wanted to see him. No, for the oceanic intrigue, of course. “You know—” Oh no. He hadn’t intended to actually start the sentence, but it was out, and Kit was looking at him expectantly, and Dewey was rapidly losing all handles on the conversation. His face was heating up. Everyone else made talking to people whose company they enjoyed look so easy, but the words jumbled together in his mouth. “We should—go? I mean—not right now, but, soon, we could—to the research center—for the leeches, for, for science.”

Pink colored Kit’s face under the freckles along her nose. “For science,” she said. Then—“Not a date,” she added firmly.

“Definitely for science,” Dewey insisted. “Oceanic intrigue, and everything.”

“Yes,” she said, blinking quite a few times. “That would be fine.”

They stared at each other for the longest minute of Dewey’s life.

“We should probably get back up to the party,” he said. The archives were feeling much, much too close, all the books and shelves pressed up against him, the point of Kit’s tattoo still peeking out from under the edge of her cape.

Kit nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

8:55 PM—The Ballroom—Near The Piano

Next—Jacques had to find Olivia.

He abandoned the boxwood by the east wall, for the time being, out of sight near the piano, where a man with a white half-mask played a pleasant Beethoven sonata while a woman in a sharp, pointed gold suit argued with a man dressed as an octopus with a hat. They did not notice Jacques, even in his own costume, but he noticed them. He noticed everyone in the room so singularly. He’d almost forgotten so many people could be in one place at the same time. You spent a lot of time alone, hiding in small spaces, you got used to yourself.

Olivia was easily identifiable. Nothing she did could ever disguise the tightly-wound nervous energy coiled inside her, not the shimmery white butterfly wings curled over her shoulders or the mask of purple flowers on her face. Something always gave her away. Tonight, it was her hands, twisting together as she talked to someone in a large, leafy tree costume, so consuming Jacques couldn’t make out the face. He scanned the crowd, trying to locate Ramona in her reversed purple wings and white mask. He saw her making her way towards one of the drink tables. Ramona wouldn’t leave Olivia alone for long.

The tree left soon after, and Jacques made his way over to her, getting a decent amount of elbows into the side along the way. “Olivia,” he said, when he stopped in front of her.

Her eyes passed over him and onto the rest of the room, like she was staring straight through him. Jacques frowned. He’d certainly said something. He’d certainly moved, Olivia was right in front of him. People moved around them without sparing him a second glance; someone said a cheerful hello to Olivia and she returned it. His voice dried up in his throat, like if he tried to speak he’d never make a sound. When was the last time before this he’d spoken out loud? No one expected him to talk, in his line of work. When had he done it? No, perhaps she simply hadn’t heard him.

He cleared his throat a few times. That was a sound. That was undeniably a sound. Jacques existed here.

He touched his hand to her wrist. “Olivia?”

Olivia jumped nearly a foot. She turned her head from side to side frantically, and Jacques gave her a short wave.

“Oh!” Olivia pressed her hands against her chest and laughed, breathless. “Oh, Jacques, you startled me. How are you?” she asked, as unfailingly kind as always, as if he hadn’t just frightened her. She looked like she wanted nothing more than for Jacques to tell her the long, substantial answer, instead of the polite one. He almost did. But Jacques was here for business.

“Fine,” he said. “And you?”

“Alright,” she said, still smiling. “Ramona’s gone to get some champagne, would you like to join us?”

“Not tonight,” he said. “I have a message for you.”

Her bright smile faltered, her hands seizing together again. “I see,” she said quietly. “What is it?”

“We’d like you to take up the outpost at Caligari Carnival.”

Olivia blanched. “The—the hinterlands?” she repeated. Her voice trembled. “That’s, ah, terribly far away, isn’t it?”

“It is a distance from the city,” Jacques conceded, “but not far.” It was far from Winnipeg, though. It was very far. Eventually, Ramona would be back there, at least in some capacity. Things would be different, especially if Olivia was wanted in the hinterlands permanently.

“Jacques, I really—I don’t—I’ll think about it,” she said finally. “I promise, I’ll think about it.”

An assignment from headquarters was not exactly optional. Her eyes darted somewhere behind him, and Jacques knew who she was looking at. She and Ramona had just gotten together only recently, before the Duke and Duchess’ deaths. Any kind of love was difficult within the confines of their organization, but the solace here, Jacques thought, was that she and Ramona were both there. They would never be that far away. They might see each other a good deal less, but they would see each other.

“You can take your time to leave, if you wanted,” he said.

“I’ll think about it.” Her voice was firm. “But, thank you for letting me know, Jacques.” She gave him her soft, breezy smile again, and slipped off through the dance floor.

Jacques watched her go. They would see each other. That was an invaluable thing, in their line of work. Being seen. Sometimes even the best person you loved with your whole being couldn’t see the part of you that mattered. To be seen when you disappeared from the rest of the world—that was worth holding on to. It would be difficult. But he had no doubt Olivia and Ramona would do it.

The floor rumbled, like it always did before the lobby clock chimed.

9:00 PM—Room 687

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Does the clock always sound like that? Like it’s saying wrong?”

“Incessantly,” Esmé sighed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I think Frank’s responsible. Heaven forbid he goes an hour without reminding everyone else how little he thinks of their decisions, you know.”

9:00 PM—The Ballroom—North Drink Table

The hotel was not Winnipeg. But right now, that was exactly what Ramona wanted. The modern angles, the warm, well-lit ballroom, the dark corners and firm rigidity of it all currently felt homier than the soft, open pinks and whites of the Winnipeg mansion. She was glad to have another excuse to avoid it and the constant questions. Tonight, she was going to see her friends, and dance with Olivia, and drink champagne, because Olivia said every occasion was cause for celebration and champagne, and Ramona was going to have a good time. She picked up two champagne flutes from the table and took a sip of one in the careful way her mother taught her, so she didn’t leave lipstick on the glass. Her heart stuttered as she saw the press of plum purple streaks on the glass when she pulled it away. The hotel clock was chiming, sounding like a heavy, distorted vibration of a word. It was right. The lipstick was wrong.

Who had done it? Everyone wanted to know. The firestarters? Likely, but they had been quiet for some time, and Ramona wasn’t going to point fingers without evidence. Some older enemy? Ramona didn’t know enough about whoever that was to consider them. Someone new?

She didn’t want to think about it. Her parents were dead, and she’d found them, and she didn’t want to think about who could have done it or why they did. It wasn’t going to change that it had happened. Ramona wasn’t looking for answers. She was looking for—

An arm slung around her shoulders, jostling her and the champagne, which sloshed around in the flutes as she lurched forward. Scratchy fur and outrageous cologne bore down on her, and she knew exactly who it was.

“My dear duchess,” Olaf said, squeezing her tight. “How have you been?”

Ramona found it in her to roll her eyes. Some people didn’t like Olaf, which she completely understood. There was something about him though, as brash and outlandish and obnoxiously tactile as he was, that had to make you laugh sometimes. She felt comfortable, close to a friend. “Just peachy,” she said. She offered him the other champagne glass; she could get another for Olivia. “Champagne?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Olaf said. He hooked his free hand around both glasses and set them back on the drink table. “Look, I wanted to give you my sincerest condolences—” And he did look sincere, sliding around in front of her, his hand still on her shoulder, the joy immediately gone from his face and replaced by an uncharacteristic seriousness. She was struck by it, by how glassy and shiny his eyes were under the dark of his mask. “I’m sorry about your parents, Ramona.”

Her mouth wobbled at the edges. She knew Olaf could understand. They’d had similar positions in the organization their whole lives—their parents their chaperones, their time split between assignments and society, the safety that existed in his manor as well, its own controlled pocket of the world, like Winnipeg had been, like the Hotel Denouement was, too. She thought of the Count and Countess, still alive. She hoped they’d stay alive.

It wouldn’t do to cry at a party. Ramona picked up her flute again and took another small sip. “Thank you,” she said.

And just like that, he straightened up and pulled away from her. Some of the mirth found its way back into the shape of his mouth and his arm found its way back around her, this time a tight grip at her waist as he steered her back into the crowd. Ramona felt slightly less consoled than ten seconds ago. Easy come, easy go, with Olaf. “I hate thinking about you all alone in that big house,” he said with a sigh. “All that room, all those things—remember when I knocked into that vase in the hallway?”

“Very vividly,” Ramona said.

“A glorious time!” he crowed. “Well! At least you’ve got all of us, haven’t you. What are your friends if not your family, et cetera, et cetera.”

But he still understood. That was what made it so important to be here tonight. What were all the people in the room, the friends she’d grown up with, people she knew and loved, if not her family as well, just as much as her parents had been? They were more than associates or volunteers, stepping in around her not to fill a void, but to offer back some little part of what had been taken from her. Her throat tightened up as she thought about it. Everything they did was hard, but it was also so special. Ramona wanted to hold it close to her and never let it go.

“And what wouldn’t one do for one’s family, am I right?” Olaf continued. “So, if you ever need me for anything—a shoulder to cry on, although certainly not in this jacket, or, say, a partner in crime, or a willing participant in any daring assignment you might come across otherwise—do not hesitate to let me know, okay?”

“Of course.”

“I mean it.”

Ramona stumbled to a halt as Olaf stopped abruptly. He looked down at her with a gash of a grin. “People like you and me, we’ve got to stick together, duchess.” He gave her a squeeze one more time and then finally let go, dashing away.

Goodness, but he was rough about things. Ramona gave herself a shake, trying to collect herself back into order. She stood up on her toes to try and see where he’d gone. She didn’t get much more height, already being in heels, but she did manage to see him already making grandiose hand gestures across the room to those white-faced triplets Ramona had seen once or twice. They were younger than she was, still in their training. The three of them stared at Olaf with three immaculately raised eyebrows. Ramona chuckled a little, dropped back down, and went back for Olivia’s champagne glass.

9:40 PM—The Ballroom—Center

Over an hour had passed, and Frank hadn’t seen any sign of Ernest. He had better things to be doing than keeping track of Ernest, and yet here he was. He couldn’t have gone far—the hotel was enormous, but it was a hotel. The whole world contained on nine floors. You couldn’t disappear from it.

Frank edged his way through the dance floor, searching for him through three separate groups of associates doing three slightly different versions of a circle dance. A snake and a tree frog whirled past, a phantom with them, a tangled shape of dark greens and blacks and bright blues and exuberant laughter. When they’d gone, Frank found himself in the center of the floor and face to face with Dewey, coming towards him from the other direction, his cheeks pink.

“Are you alright?” Frank asked immediately.

Dewey blinked. “Of course,” he said. “Just dancing. Is everything okay?”

He should have known, but Ernest had him on an edge he hadn’t expected to be tonight. He tried to look apologetic but wasn’t sure how well he succeeded. “Have you seen Ernest?”

“Not since earlier,” Dewey said. “Oh, and Kit was—”

“When you see him, could you tell him I’m looking for him?”

Dewey’s shoulders drooped down. “If I see him,” he said. “Then I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you,” Frank said, and he meant it. He smiled at Dewey until he smiled back, and then Frank moved past him, pushing back into the crowd.

He hadn’t meant to be short about it, but Frank’s worry never came out like he wanted it to. It became biting irritation instead, or a slow-simmering temper he never let boil, or professional, distant orders about hotel business, or a refusal to talk at all in case he said the wrong thing. More often than not, he still wound up arguing with Ernest. He didn’t argue with Dewey, but their conversations were so much more stilted than they should have been lately.

But it was because he feared Ernest was going to slip away from him one day and never come back. Realistically, it was unlikely. After all, Ernest was still here. Indecision entering their home hadn’t taken him away from it. But what if that changed, one day, and it was Frank’s fault, because he reacted too quickly or too slowly? And Dewey—Dewey was so sweet and so kind Frank thought the world might crush him. He had to keep them close, and he had to keep them safe. It would’ve been so much easier, though, if Ernest wasn’t so difficult about it, if Dewey understood that Frank didn’t want anything to happen to him, if they would listen.

Frank glanced at his watch. It was getting late. He’d look for Ernest on the way, but for one small hour, Ernest was going to have to wait.

9:59 PM—The Floor Behind The South Drink Table

Through typical party events, The Herpetology Squad (Plus Hector) found themselves on the floor behind one of the drink tables.

“So how do you tell them apart?” Gustav asked, stirring his drink with a spoon. “Because, and I do feel terrible about this, but I can’t do it. We’ve known them for ages, and I can’t do it.”

“Frank is taller,” Monty said immediately, and very confidently.

“What, no, he can’t be taller, they’re triplets,” Hector said. “Do genetics work like that?”

“Hey Haruki,” Monty called around Gustav and Hector, “do genetics work like that?”

Haruki leaned into Hector’s shoulder and considered it. “I’m really not sure,” they said. “But, I always figured, Ernest was kind of quiet, and Frank was kind of stern, and Dewey was kind of, well, kind.”

“But that seems so reductive,” Gustav pointed out. “You can’t just identify a person down to one base trait and leave it at that. And I say this as a screenwriter and director. You need to be creative.”

“All your characters sound exactly the same, though,” Hector said, frowning. “Or, like, so different, I don’t think you’re keeping track of them between scenes.”

“Oh, that’s awfully rude,” Haruki said.

“No, he’s right,” Gustav said. He hung his head into his hands, his glass tipping sideways through his fingers. Haruki reached over and grabbed it, twisting their arm around and up to slide it back onto the drink table where it’d be safer. “I always thought they did, and now I know for sure. I’ll have to renounce film making and go back to herpetology. Or, submarines. I can’t disparage your honor too, Monty.”

“Oh, Hector, you hurt his feelings,” Monty said. He patted Gustav on the back consolingly. “Gustav, you write wonderful scripts. I loved the, the Werewolves In The Rain.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I can’t handle a drunk Gustav,” Hector said, closing his eyes. “Gustav, I’m sorry. To be fair, I only watched—what was it—” He waved his hands around. “—the one with the—you know—”

“Vampires In The Retirement Community,” Haruki said.

“And it was once. And—hey, weren’t we talking about something else?”

10:10 PM—The Short Hallway Between Rooms 40-45 and 46-49

Unassigned numbers within the Dewey Decimal System were not the trouble they appeared to be to a hotel based on it. They still existed in the hotel, no matter how much Ernest had protested that it made no sense to have rooms that had no theme or purpose in a hotel whose very purpose was theme—Frank and Dewey’s rebuttal was that it made no sense to nonchalantly remove numbers out of their sequential existence because they didn’t fit in neatly otherwise. They existed. They didn’t have themes, even this stretch of ten, which had been previously designated but was now just a blank space between encyclopedias and magazine publications, which left the rooms relatively blank and boring, typically unnoticed and unused, but they still existed.

In the brief, dark hallway between the two sets of unassigned rooms, Frank could sit on the bench against the wall, and he didn’t have to think about family or the hotel. Frank sat featureless in the shadows and thought about himself. Usually, it meant he felt better about everything. But tonight, with the worry set aside once more for now, all he felt was that chill through his insides again, when Olaf mistook him for Ernest.

He took the name tag out of his sleeve and turned it over in his hands. Frank was a man in a manager’s jacket, with a face that looked like two other faces, someone who could be anyone. The name tag did nothing but identify him without caring who he was. What was it that made Frank himself, the imperceptible, innate existence of him that mattered? His love for Ernest and Dewey? Visible. His organization? Trivial. The fear he was going to lose everything? Meaningless and a weakness, in the face of everything else. It was hard to say for sure. He had gone his whole life getting mixed up with Ernest and Dewey and it was exhausting to keep trying to prove he was real when it felt like the world was rubbing him out. He leaned his back against the wall.

He heard Jacques before he saw him, like always. Exact, economical footsteps, nothing extraneous, the tap of his expensive shoes on the rugs, the swish of his jacket. Everything measured, as it had to be.

Jacques appeared around the corner, that bent piece of the boxwood plant stuck in his hair. He seemed to brighten when he saw Frank, like Frank’s presence set something off inside him. Frank watched him. What did Jacques see, when he looked at Frank? What was it that made Jacques notice, over and over again, over other people? How was Jacques so certain that when he looked at Frank right now, at that moment, that Jacques was looking at him?

Jacques sat down next to him on the bench. Frank had seen him in a mask earlier, something terrible and orange, but it was gone now, and he faced Frank fully. He was inches away from Frank, and Frank could see every part of him, even in the dark—the calm, if tired, resolution in the set of his jaw, the way he waited, still and patient, as if he could do nothing else. He had the darkest eyes of his siblings, a steady and unchanging deep blue.

“That which is essential is invisible to the eye,” Jacques whispered.

Frank let out the breath he’d been holding. How long ago had he said that to Jacques? “I initially said that to insult you,” he said.

“It was deserved,” Jacques said. “And I never forgot. Do you know how I always know it’s you now?”

“Enlighten me.”

He put his hand against Frank’s jacket, resting his fingers against the fabric to the left of the buttons. Jacques kept it there, and he didn’t take his eyes off of Frank for anything, not even when the heartbeat under his hand sped up. Frank felt almost split open to the core. He always did, every time. Jacques saw whatever it was. The man who was always hiding knew exactly who he was, because he looked.

“How very sentimental of you,” Frank managed. His breath hung between them. He traced the side of his thumb over the collar of Jacques’s shirt, just below the skin. If he moved his hand just a centimeter he’d be able to feel his heartbeat as well.

“It’s the truth,” Jacques murmured. “Sentiment is—dangerous. Truth is immutable.”

“Do you know how I know it’s you?” Frank said against his mouth.

“How?” Jacques asked.

Frank finally pulled the branch out of Jacques’s hair. “You do terribly stupid things.”

Jacques laughed, and the sound vibrated all the way down through Frank’s throat.

10:19 PM—Room 366

Frank had to be somewhere. Kit was not overly concerned with finding him, but she would rather do it sooner than later. She worked from the ground floor up, combing through the hallways but finding no sight of the Denouement, until she was on the third floor again. The faster she found Frank, the faster she could, maybe, go back to talking to Dewey. About completely professional things, of course. The fact that she felt different when she was with Dewey was simply because he was pleasant, welcome company. He wanted to look at leeches with her, for the delight of science. They expected nothing from each other but a nice time.

She immediately pictured Beatrice waggling her eyebrows at her, if Kit had said that out loud. Not that kind of nice time, she thought, but the mental Beatrice kept laughing joyously at her.

“He’s a nice person,” she grumbled to the empty hallway. He was calm. Regular. Okay. The exact opposite of everyone else, Beatrice. Could she go five minutes without them all picking apart her romantic life? This was why she wasn’t interested. This was why it was strictly nice. There were other, more important things that needed her attention.

The door to Room 366 was ajar, and Kit, who had naturally been trained to investigate the suspicious, investigated the suspicious. She slid herself carefully through the gap in the door and into the dark room. She’d been in there a few times to know it was an absurdly comfortable meeting room, with plush chairs and a bookcase that spanned the length of the far wall. A figure sat against the side wall, reaching up and tapping ash from a cigarette out the open window. For a moment, they looked like a blank, featureless shadow, until a light outside the window shifted and Frank—no, Ernest’s face resolved itself in front of her. The tip of the cigarette burned bright orange against his fingers.

“I heard about you and Olaf,” he said. “Would you like an apology, since I’m sure you’ve been getting enough I told you so’s?”

Kit sighed. “I really don’t want to talk about it.” But she shut the door and walked over, sitting down on the floor beside him. She took her own pack of cigarettes out of one of her dress pockets and accepted Ernest’s lighter to light one. She never carried her own.

“He did,” she muttered, giving the lighter back. She brought her legs up and wrapped an arm around them. “Tell me, I told you so. Not in so many words, of course, but I knew he was thinking it.”

“Ah,” Ernest said. “The disappointed look of, I’m not going to say it, but I’m going to think it, in your general direction. Which is worse.”

“Exactly,” Kit said. “At least argue with me so I can tell him he’s wrong.”

Ernest breathed out a long line of smoke. “Yes.” She thought he was going to say something else, but when he didn’t, Kit pressed on.

“He acts like it was my fault,” she said. “Should I have known better? I—” It was a harsh thing to admit, but she and Ernest didn’t do this to lie to each other. “Yes. Fine. But he acts like I can’t be left alone now to make my own decisions. He keeps following me, hanging around.” She slouched against the wall. “My own brother thinks so little of me.”

Ernest hmmed. “Well—”

“Do not. Do not say I’m short. I’m not short. Jacques has one inch on me, Ernest. Esmé is short. I’m not short.”

“Sorry,” Ernest said, laughing.

“Say it,” she said, and pushed her elbow into his side.

“Ow—Kit, you are anything but short.”

“Thank you.” She took her elbow back. The two of them sat in silence, blowing out small circles of smoke as the cigarettes smoldered down. “What’s Frank disappointed about?”

Ernest waved his hand with the cigarette dismissively. “Frank’s disappointed he can’t find a tie that matches the custom paint in the lobby,” he said. “It doesn’t take much for him. I was five minutes late, I didn’t give him the mail on time, I missed a meeting, and he just—” He did an obviously perfect impression of Frank’s unimpressed stare.

Kit snorted. She had to admit, Frank did look like that a lot, even if you caught him in a good mood.

“If he wasn’t so difficult,” Ernest muttered, “he’d be almost bearable.”

“Wouldn’t they all,” Kit sighed. “Brothers.”

“Brothers,” Ernest agreed.

10:25 PM—The Ballroom—West Hors d’oeuvres Table

Dewey stood at the hors d’oeuvres table, away from the crowd of his friends, surveying the food. At least, with everything going on, there was always good food to look forward to. It was awful to glare at it like he was. He’d felt so good after talking to Kit, and now he was glowering at little rows of canapes like they were the source of his problems.

He wasn’t usually upset with his brothers. No matter what they did, he knew they had their reasons, and Dewey loved them regardless. But sometimes they really were impossible. Frank’s quiet temper and Ernest’s secrecy and indifference had driven such a wedge between the two of them that when Dewey suggested they didn’t talk about it, it had seemed like the best idea at the time to get them to go forward. Otherwise, he’d been worried that Frank was going to say something he’d regret, because he wasn’t going to change Ernest’s mind, and Ernest might’ve done something terrible. Dewey didn’t think he was capable of something truly terrible, because Ernest was his brother, and he knew Ernest. They both believed in a right way to live, just in different ways, so Dewey respected him. You couldn’t let anything change that. But he was still as worried about Ernest as Frank was, and he had just wanted the arguments to stop.

But it had led to Frank and Ernest almost refusing to talk to each other, ninety percent of the time. The other ten percent was pleasantries or conversations that skirted the edge of an argument, which was worse. Dewey particularly hated it lately, when he was asked to pass messages between them, typically from Frank. He wasn’t a messenger system, he was their brother, and he was, in fact, if either of them cared to remember, the oldest. But they treated him like someone to protect because he wasn’t as forceful as them. He frowned down at a section of tiny shot glasses of—he picked one up. Gazpacho. It looked so charming and Dewey couldn’t even appreciate it.

What it came down to was, the schism couldn’t come between him and his brothers if they didn’t let it. Just like his current irritation couldn’t come between him and his brothers if he didn’t let it. He considered it, because he was angry, but he didn’t let it change anything.

He found a narrow, palm-sized spoon from one of the other hors d’oeuvres and poked at the gazpacho with it. He thought, for a moment, about the Anwhistle brothers, sitting in their brand new marine research and rhetorical help center, probably having a lot of fun together talking about fungi and grammar. Gregor and Ike were two of the most different but most companionable people Dewey knew. Nothing got between them. They probably didn’t forget who was the oldest. Who was the oldest out of them, anyway? They probably didn’t let it matter.

Oh, Dewey was letting it get to him. He piled some of the gazpacho onto the spoon and took a bite. He wished Bertrand had been able to come. Bertrand would’ve loved the appeal of the gazpacho as well. Bertrand didn’t have a single sibling to complain about and he would’ve enjoyed the gazpacho wholesale. He could’ve stood around with Dewey at the table, and maybe they’d have brought in Lemony, too, and talked about flavor profiles. Lemony, who was legitimately the youngest of his siblings, commiserating over cold soup about how they never stopped trying to protect him either. Who could possibly think Lemony of all people needed protecting, too? There was always that quiet, competent energy around him.

Dewey finished the gazpacho and put the jar on a passing hotel attendant’s silver tray. Where was Lemony, actually? He was sure he’d seen him earlier. Dewey remembered, because it was the first time he’d seen Lemony in a long while. Wherever he was, Dewey was sure it was probably more enjoyable than here.

10:32 PM—The Ballroom—Dance Floor

“Josephine,” Olaf said, sidling up behind her, “Jo, angel of my eye—”

“The correct word for that expression is apple,” Josephine interrupted. She did not take her eyes off of her plate of puff pastry. “We’ve been over this.”

He continued, persistent as ever, his smile stretched like candy. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me, angel of my apple?”

“No.”

10:45 PM—The Elevator

The night was passing by, and Kit still hadn’t found Frank. She’d made it all the way up to the ninth floor with no sign of him. Was he the type to be on the rooftop sunbathing salon? Unlikely. But she should check, just in case.

She had her hand against the rooftop door when the elevator dinged behind her. Kit turned to look. The elevator doors parted, revealing the gold-walled interior with rather harsh lighting, and there was Frank, standing with his hands folded behind his back. He caught Kit’s eye and gave her a slight nod. “Kit.”

“Frank.” She stepped into the elevator beside him and pushed the button for the third floor. As the doors closed, she smelled smoke for a moment, and her heart leapt before she realized the cigarette smoke must’ve clung to her gloves. She tugged them off and stuffed them into one of her pockets.

“I heard the Anwhistles finished the research center,” Frank said, as the elevator started to move down.

“Yes.”

“And the mycelium—are they still working on it?”

“As far as I know, yes.”

Frank sighed. “Do you have any concerns?”

“Some,” Kit admitted. There was no denying it was dangerous. Necessary, but catastrophic if it ever got out of hand. “If anything happens, it can be dealt with.”

“Good,” Frank said, decisively. Silence dropped through the elevator, the hand counting down the floors moving slowly from eight, to seven, to six. Frank raised an eyebrow; Kit realized she’d been staring at him. “Is something wrong?”

“I was under the impression that there was—” More, or something else entirely. It was Kit’s understanding that Frank was to give her a list. There was usually only one kind of list that mattered in their organization, and unless she had radically misjudged the ages of the Anwhistle brothers after personally knowing them for years, they wouldn’t be on that list. “—something more specific,” she wound up finishing.

Frank looked at her with his impassive, unimpressed mask. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

The hand moved again, six to five to four. Kit had the strangest sensation that she was missing something. She should’ve been given that list, not subjected to a brief interrogation, especially about something she was already aware of. The smell of smoke flitted in front of her again.

Disbelief shot through Kit like an arrow, pushing the air from her lungs. She felt like the floor was dropping out from under her. She didn’t want to believe it. She couldn’t. She stared at the man in the elevator, and he stared back, cool and collected. It couldn’t be. Because that would mean—but the longer she looked, the more certain she was.

“Frank quit smoking,” she said quietly, “but you didn’t.”

The corner of his mouth turned down. “I—”

Kit slammed her hand against the stop button on the button panel, and kept her hand there, boxing him in against the wall even after the elevator had halted, the counting hand stuck between four and three.

“Don’t lie to me, Ernest.”

One Month Ago—City Headquarters

It wasn’t like there was, say, an initiation ceremony or anything. They’d been through that already, there was no need to do one again. You knew what you were getting into this time, you were just, “changing sides”. And it was so subtle that it barely mattered. Nothing about Ernest’s life really changed otherwise. He ran a hotel with his brothers. He ranked tea brands with Dewey during lunch. He played loud music in Room 784. He carried a lighter in his pocket that he used for other things. He went to headquarters, sometimes as himself, sometimes as Frank, never as Dewey. He acquired messages, and took his sweet time delivering them or delaying them, spaces of time where nothing changed, either. He almost wondered what the point had been, until he overheard Frank spout off some noble patter again. At least he wasn’t like that. At least Ernest knew better.

And since nothing had changed, no one knew. Not even the “firestarters” knew there was another one, namely because Ernest hated the name and disliked a great deal of them, but also because Frank made him be so careful about it. He thought a few people in VFD suspected, or at least suspected someone of switching, because everyone could feel something was happening and they were trying to pinpoint a source, and it was only a matter of time before someone suspected a Denouement. Triplets were naturally suspicious. But it wasn’t like they could do anything, even if they ever had proof—how often did anyone know which Denouement they were talking to, anyway? It was likely Ernest could exist like this for the rest of his life.

The thought almost stopped him on his way into the city headquarters. Day after day of calculated, performative nonsense without an end in sight. Age sagged through him. His bones were too heavy and to move them another step was impossible. He kept walking.

What had made Ernest change? That, exactly that. Change. He’d lived in VFD for practically his entire life, and nothing was different there, either. There had been no great strides made towards the nobility they all talked about, only tiny little steps that were easily set back. Ernest watched his friends and his family get sucked in by this big, dramatic fight that never ended, a fight none of them had ever initially had a part in. He’d learned that you couldn’t achieve “nobility”, whatever that even was, by a bunch of absurd spy behavior and kidnapping, or by coded messages and age-old discussions that went nowhere, or by acting like information weighed more than your life, by pretending any of that was normal. None of it did anything. Ernest was going to find some way to make something happen, to make what they’d lost worth it, and if it meant Frank thought he was a traitor, fine. He’d do it even if Frank didn’t appreciate that Ernest was doing it for him.

The note for Frank that he’d intercepted said that there was a file under the fifth floorboard of the back staircase in the city headquarters. Frank was supposed to give it to Kit.

He made his way to the back staircase. It went up to the observatory, which no one had used since Esmé burned that spot into the rug with her telescope out of protest. The corridor and the staircase were, predictably, deserted. Ernest slowly lifted the fifth board, but it came away without resistance, so he pulled it up all the way and saw the slim folder waiting inside. He took it out, replaced the floorboard, and sat down at the bottom of the stairs. He opened it.

He wanted to crumple the folder in his hands but he made himself breathe and look at it. It was the upcoming recruitment list. There were some he recognized faintly, distant associates, long-lived families in VFD, but a majority of the names he’d never seen before. New families to carve apart. He flipped through the pages—addresses, dates, times. A few photographs. Ernest closed his eyes and held them shut tight. When he opened them, he was still looking at the folder.

Of course none of it mattered, he thought bitterly, shoving the folder into his jacket. He could intercept or stop a thousand messages and there would still always be more. There would always be more children, more fires, more lies, and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stop it.

Ernest leaned the side of his head against the banister. He thought about Olaf, suddenly. He’d been trying to corner everyone lately, Ernest among them, talking his ear off about big ideas that Ernest agreed with, but Olaf had a habit of taking an age to follow through with them. Ernest did not have the time to wait an age. He’d shared some information with Olaf a few times, on the off chance that it would spur him into action, but Olaf had hidden it away, for “later”, and it obviously had not helped.

Maybe the only way you could fight a long game was to play the long game back. Maybe that was what Olaf was doing. He was on to something, at least, with his words. Maybe Ernest could try again. Maybe he could learn to wait. Maybe the payoff would be worth it. Maybe.

Ernest stood up. He didn’t at all feel like going home, but he wasn’t going to stay at headquarters any longer.

The staircase creaked. When he looked up, he saw Lemony Snicket at the top by the observatory door, standing like he’d always been there.

“What are you doing up there?” Ernest asked.

Lemony watched him carefully. Ernest got the distinct feeling that he was being appraised. He shivered. When they were younger, you could look at Lemony and see the gears working in his head, like watching—yes, like watching change take shape and form and meaning before your eyes. Lemony Snicket was going to do anything, lead them all anywhere. Ernest hadn’t been foolish enough to believe a twelve-year-old in a brown hat was going to demolish VFD from the ground up. Then Lemony had disappeared, and in the years after resurfacing at sixteen, he looked less and less like that powerful, mythical figure everyone had worshiped and more like he’d seen too much. Ernest sympathized.

But here, Ernest finally saw it, that hunger they’d all talked about. In his eyes, bright blue in the shadows. Physical change, a juggernaut of determination. Ernest’s breath caught in his throat.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Lemony said softly. “Do you think we could talk?”

10:50 PM—The Elevator

Damn.

The disbelief on Kit’s face was gone, replaced by a blazing, dangerous fury, the threatening and exacting professionalism she hid inside her on full display. She wasn’t all that short, Ernest thought, inanely. He wasn’t going to be able to bluff out of this one. She knew. It was significantly more terrifying than Ernest had imagined it would be. How stupid could he have been, to forget about the way that cigarette smoke would cling, to think Kit Snicket wouldn’t notice. “Kit—”

“How long?” Kit demanded.

“Does it matter?”

He could see that it very, very much did. Kit was already disgusted over dating Olaf; that she’d spent so much time with Ernest when he wasn’t on her side was going to eat her alive, Ernest knew. He winced.

“It wasn’t personal,” he tried.

She glared at him. “What were the names Frank was supposed to give me?”

That, he was going to hold on to. They’d already burned the papers, anyway, up in the observatory. No one was going to get that list now. “I guess you’ll never know,” Ernest said.

Her hand clenched on the button panel. She stepped closer. For a wild and uncontrollable second that seemed to spin out into eternity, Ernest imagined she was going to kill him.

“The elevator is going to start again,” she said lowly. “We’re going to walk out into the lobby. You’re not going to make a sound. We’re going to go to headquarters.”

Ernest didn’t like what he was going to do next. But he was always going to have the upper hand for one distinct reason.

He swallowed and straightened the edge of his sleeve. “Who’s going to believe you, Kit?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Regrettably for you, I am at a distinct advantage,” Ernest said. “You and I are the only two people in this elevator. You did think I was Frank. Who will be able to figure out who was who when you try and tell on me? Who can really know for sure?” He hesitated, but it was true. “Why, I could be Dewey, even.”

Kit slapped him across the face, her cheeks flushed a fierce red. The force of it stung hard, knocking Ernest’s head to the side. She removed her hand from the wall and stepped back.

“Does it help if I’m sorry?” he asked, gingerly rubbing the side of his face.

“You aren’t,” Kit said.

Ultimately, it was true. He wasn’t. He was sorry he’d been caught more than that he’d done it. Ernest regretted nothing about what he’d decided to do. Not in his line of work; and Kit was the same, too. But he was sorry he was going to lose a friend.

Kit didn’t have friends, though. You were with or against Kit Snicket, and she always made that abundantly clear. Ernest touched his cheek again, and then lowered his hand.

“I’m not,” he said. He took the elevator key out of his pocket and put it into the lock on the button panel, watching Kit the whole time. She watched him back. The elevator slid into motion, settling down on the third floor.

The doors opened.

11:00 PM—The Ballroom—East Drink Table

“Who?” Jacques asked.

Kit turned slowly back to the dance floor. Was one of them still here? Had she been followed out of the elevator? She locked eyes with a Denouement across the room. Which one? Was it Frank? Was it Ernest, again? Was it Dewey? The clock was still rumbling under her feet. The glass trembled in her hand and she felt almost sick, anger and shame and fear churning through her. She was in a nightmare and she couldn’t shake it off. The triplet held her eyes for a long moment and then walked away.

“Kit.” Jacques had a hand on her arm; he must’ve gotten out of the boxwood. “Who?”

But she couldn’t get the words out, not here. Ernest was right. She was at a disadvantage when she couldn’t prove it. If she pointed the finger now, what would be done? What could be done? How could he do that to Dewey and Frank? To put them in the position where they’d unknowingly cover for him merely by existing? Did they know at all?

What would she do if her own brothers—no. She couldn’t even think it. Kit couldn’t fathom the idea of her brothers doing anything like this.

“We have to find Lemony,” Kit said.

11:02 PM—The Ballroom—Main Doors

Frank still couldn’t find Ernest. He did not have the time for him to be hiding like a child; where was he? Frank had looked everywhere over and over and was back in the same ballroom again, scanning through the associates for what had to be the hundredth time. He caught Kit’s eye—and stopped.

There was cold and intense fear looking back at him. It was unbearable to have it directed at him, and Frank turned away after a few seconds.

Ernest. A thousand possibilities ran through Frank’s head, each of them worse than the last. He had had enough. Frank strode towards the main doors, just as he saw Ernest making his way out of them as fast as possible. Finally. Frank followed him out into the hallway and grabbed onto Ernest’s arm, whirling him around.

“I asked one thing of you tonight,” Frank said.

“Don’t do anything rash,” Ernest repeated. He wrenched his arm out of Frank’s grasp and put his hands in his pockets. “And I didn’t, thank you.”

“Apparently I wasn’t specific enough,” Frank said. “When I said that, I clearly meant, don’t do anything stupid that’s going to compromise the family and our position in it. What information have you been giving Olaf?”

“Who said I was?”

“Olaf.”

“You know, that hurts a little, that you’d believe Olaf over me.”

Frank’s jaw clenched. Fine. Olaf was less important, anyway. “Then what did you do to Kit?”

Ernest raised an eyebrow. “Did I do anything?”

It was agonizing, seeing such a carefully blank mask on your own face staring back at you. Frank didn’t hate him, but he came close. “What have you done, Ernest? Do not lie to me.”

Something fractured through Ernest’s expression. “I just—miscalculated,” he muttered. “She found out.”

“She found out?” Frank echoed, his heart skittering in his chest. It had finally happened, and Frank couldn’t protect Ernest this time. Kit wouldn’t keep this a secret, not by a long shot. By morning—by midnight, because nearly the whole organization was already here—everyone would know. And Ernest didn’t seem the least bit concerned about it. “Ernest—”

“It’s fine,” Ernest said coolly. “Considering she can’t prove it.”

The world detached from Frank’s consciousness. Kit’s fear made a sudden, terrible sense. Ernest had used him as a shield between himself and the organization, on purpose, he’d positioned Frank and Dewey as pawns whose only use was whatever Ernest wanted. Frank could feel his hands shaking. They didn’t feel like his hands.

Ernest sighed. “Don’t look like that,” he said. “You’ve pretended to be me, that’s the only way you would’ve found out about Olaf. Don’t act like you didn’t use our face as an advantage too. That’s what we do. That’s what this family does.”

Anger burned through Frank, hot behind his eyes. That had been different. A sharp fury that had been building somewhere inside him all night snapped apart. “You are not a part of this family.”

He regretted saying it the second the words were out. Of course Ernest was still his brother. That was an immutable fact. But Frank was so tired of trying to hold onto Ernest when Ernest so blatantly didn’t care. He wasn’t looking at family, he was looking at a stranger, who stole his face, who used his name, who threw it around like it meant nothing, who denied everything noble and proper and real. It wasn’t how a brother was supposed to act. But it was how Ernest acted, and now Ernest was staring at him with an open, wounded expression, something Frank hadn’t seen since they were children.

Frank ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t—”

“No.” Ernest’s jaw trembled for a second, his mouth pressing into a thin, flat line. “I don’t think I am.” He took one step back, a hard glare in his eyes, and then walked away from Frank.

11:20 PM—The Rooftop Sunbathing Salon

Ernest hadn’t figured on Frank being angry, because, primarily, he hadn’t figured on Frank finding out at all. He hadn’t figured on Kit realizing what he was doing, either. Well, that was on him, but Frank didn’t need to be so—he didn’t have to say—

Shit, Ernest thought, breathing hard. He came to a stop in the dark, empty hallway some floors up from the ballroom and let himself think it, pressing his palms into his eyes. Shit, shit, shit. He’d have a brother after this, sure, a family member who stood by him and ran a hotel with him and played nice, but he didn’t know if he’d have his brother. He would have an associate, like everyone else, a found family of people who loved on conditions, not a family. Not his family.

He had to find Lemony. Just because he’d been hiding all night didn’t mean he was exempt from this.

Lemony disliked heights, open spaces, and decently-sized bodies of water, which was why Ernest found him on the roof, sitting on one of the pool chairs, his mask discarded beside him. He was studiously avoiding looking at the pool or the ocean or the night sky, dark and enormous above him. The rooftop salon was never used at night, but there were small lights along the edge of the pool and the railing, giving off slivers of stark white light. The brief anger Ernest felt downstairs evaporated the longer he watched Lemony not-watching the world around him. He wanted to say a million and one things to him, but the one that came out was, “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“What do you know about exposure therapy?” Lemony offered as a response.

“Enough to know you probably shouldn’t use it for heights,” Ernest said. “Among other things.”

“Point taken,” Lemony said. “What would you say if I told you I was now too frightened to move?”

“That you brought it on yourself,” Ernest said, but he didn’t mean it. He walked over and sat next to Lemony on the pool chair. Ernest stole a quick glance at him again, brief and fleeting. To look consistently was dangerous; Ernest always had to make a distinct effort not to touch.

“Your sister found out,” he said. “Not about you, but about me. She also hit me.”

Lemony’s head shot up. “What?” He reached out, his fingertips lightly brushing Ernest’s jaw as he turned his face towards him. They trailed warm over his right cheek, where his skin still smarted from Kit’s hand. Here in the dark, Lemony’s eyes were so bright again, full of concern, directed right at him. Ernest held himself so still, barely breathing.

Falling in love, if you could call it that, with Lemony was what Ernest personally considered the most ill-advised thing he’d ever done, even after lying to Kit. Lemony loved other people, and it was clear in everything he did, in the way he looked when they weren’t there. But Lemony understood what Ernest wanted, and Ernest craved that with a destructive ache.

Really, who else were they supposed to fall in love with but each other? They didn’t know anyone else. No one was going to get this life but them. It was probably why half of VFD had a crush on Beatrice, honestly. It was terrible, but none of them seemed to be able to stop doing it. Ernest included.

“You—” Lemony’s hand jerked back, shrinking down between them onto the chair. “What happened?”

“She knew I lied,” Ernest said. “About the information and about being Frank. I got out of it, but—she won’t trust us again, I think. And Frank—probably won’t trust me either.”

“I’m sorry,” Lemony said. “I didn’t mean for—”

Ernest shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. It wasn’t. He and Lemony had both just wanted something, desperately. Ultimately, they’d still succeeded, in the end. They had. Change he could hold in his hands had happened. He still felt hollow about it all, everything drained out of him, but he didn’t regret doing it. Not at all. The hurt would go away and he’d do it again. “What we did—that mattered.”

“It did,” Lemony whispered. “But I never like the cost.”

“Why did you do it?” Ernest asked softly.

Lemony smiled ruefully. “I guess I didn’t want to stop trying.”

The real, noble answer, Ernest thought. Why the “firestarters” and Ernest would never get him. He raised his hand. Slowly, without looking, he put it on top of Lemony’s. Lemony turned his hand over and gripped Ernest’s tightly. He knew that the way Lemony would try from this moment forward would be different than the way Ernest would, and he wanted to have this moment while it lasted.

Ernest stood, tugging Lemony up with him, and let go of his hand. “You should go back downstairs,” he said.

11:30 PM—The Ballroom—South Drink Table

The party would be over soon, but you’d never know it, the ballroom still thronging with people. But most of the dancing had died down, and Dewey was taking mental stock of how clean up would start. He found one of the attendant’s silver trays and picked it up, estimating how many glasses he could fit on it.

Frank came back into the ballroom and made a beeline for him, pale. Dewey’s shoulders tensed up yet again. What had happened now?

“I can’t believe it,” Frank muttered, grabbing a wineglass.

“Whoa, hey, hold on.” Dewey took the wineglass back and set it off to the side. “What happened?”

“He—” Which meant it was Ernest. Again. Dewey’s patience with both his brothers tonight was wearing extraordinarily thin. “He’s been passing information to Olaf this whole time.”

“To Olaf?” That was not what Dewey had been expecting. A flare of worry burned through him and curled his hands around the tray. “But—”

“No,” Frank said. “This time, I’ve had enough. I’m tired of covering up for him, and he’s going to have to deal with this mess himself.”

Olaf was certainly a threat in one way or another, but it seemed a disproportionately vicious answer for Frank. Dewey frowned. “Did something else happen?”

Frank looked so—frantic, was maybe the word, a terrifying energy breaking out of him in quick bursts of anger on his face. He looked at Dewey, and the emotion seemed to cage itself back in.

“He was found out,” Frank said quietly. “About being a firestarter.”

Dewey had counted on it happening. It seemed unlikely that it would be able to remain a secret forever. It still hurt to hear. Things wouldn’t be the same as they had been, if people knew about Ernest. Dewey imagined the division between the three of them only growing larger, and he didn’t know if he’d be able to do anything about it if it got too wide.

Something broke in Frank’s expression again, and Dewey startled—it looked like guilt. “Don’t defend him,” Frank hissed. “Dewey, he’s going to get away with it. He’s going to ruin what we’ve worked for, what you’ve worked for in the archives—do you want all of that information in the hands of the enemy?”

Dewey clutched the tray. “Ernest isn’t the enemy,” he said, darkly. The agitation from earlier at the hors d’oeuvres table shot back into him.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Frank said. “I—”

Dewey slammed the silver plate down on the drink table. A real, genuine slam, like he’d never done before, the glasses around it rattling. Frank stared at him, gaping a little.

“He’s still here,” Dewey said. “That’s enough.”

“Dewey—”

“That is enough.”

12:00 AM—The Lobby

Jacques had never seen Kit so unsettled. Even when she’d been arrested she’d kept her composure. But she stood beside him in the empty lobby, tapping her foot against the floor, her arms crossed over her chest. He still couldn’t get out of her what had happened, but it was obvious from her face in the ballroom that whoever betrayed them had to be one of the Denouements. It was a sobering realization, the worst possible outcome of the schism that had been building for too long. One of three identical triplets being a traitor complicated matters, although it was easy to figure out which one it was that had done it. Things were going to change after tonight.

He took a small, brief moment to appreciate that Kit actually wanted to stand next to him and acknowledge him as her brother. Lately, he’d gotten the impression that she couldn’t stand him. But now she needed him, and it was a relief to Jacques to still be needed by his siblings. He never thought he did that successful a job of managing to keep them all together.

The elevator dinged, and Lemony stepped out, adjusting his jacket. The only evidence he’d been at the costume party was the mask tucked under his arm, because his suit was as plain as ever. 

“Finally,” Kit muttered, and she ran over to him, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly, something none of the siblings had done since they were children.

Lemony froze, and then hugged her back. He met Jacques’s eyes across the lobby.

Jacques knew it, immediately. Lemony had played a part in what had happened tonight with Ernest. It shouldn’t have surprised Jacques as much as it did. Lemony had held a perilous position in the organization for years now, and this wasn’t the first time he had wound up disagreeing with Kit about recruitment. But it was the first time it had involved other people. That made it dangerous.

Lemony shook his head a fraction of an inch. Part of Jacques relaxed. The three of them might still be okay. He wondered, with a slight jolt, how the Denouements would fare. 

Kit pulled away from Lemony. “Where were you?”

“Did you know the rooftop sunbathing salon has night lights?” Lemony said. Jacques couldn’t help but chuckle as he walked over to his siblings. “Very pleasant. I recommend it.”

Kit rolled her eyes, and she led Jacques and Lemony through the lobby and out of the hotel.

“I’ll drive you both back,” Jacques said. “It’s on my way.”

“You brought the taxi?” Lemony asked.

“Regrettably,” Jacques sighed. “I still seem to have it.” Headquarters refused to take it back for some reason, even after Jacques insisted he didn’t need it. It had been six months since the initial assignment with it and he was still driving it, and probably would be, for the foreseeable future. He took his keys out of his pocket.

“I’ll drive,” Kit said.

“You will not drive,” Jacques said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly,” Kit said, snatching the keys out of his hand and walking briskly out of his reach. “Jacques, did you say something about hives? There aren’t any bees nearby.”

“Trees?” Lemony said. He jogged ahead a little and caught up with Kit’s pace. “They do look particularly lush this time of year, now that you mention it.”

“No one is in a rush, and Kit, give me my keys you are not going to drive—” His siblings raced ahead of him down the front drive, and Jacques ran after them into the night.

1:55 AM—The Ballroom

Olivia and Ramona stayed on to help the Denouements clean up. Ramona had insisted, saying that it was no trouble at all, and she owed them for being so kind to host the party. She was very good at insisting; Olivia had never seen anyone able to resist the charm of Ramona cheerfully demanding she was going to help and they were going to have to deal with it. She hid her smile in the champagne flutes she was stacking on a tray as Ramona talked with one of the triplets on the other side of the ballroom. She picked up the one rimmed with half-rings of Ramona’s deep plum lipstick and giggled.

She’d have to tell Ramona about what Jacques told her, of course. But for once, Olivia wasn’t all that worried about dealing with it. It had been an extraordinarily pleasant night otherwise. Ramona was happy, some of the glow back in her face, so Olivia was happy too.

All the glasses were stacked, the plates piled together, the tablecloths folded up, the lights finally dimmed. There was only one Denouement left in the room, and he stopped Olivia and Ramona on their way out. “Olivia, could I speak with you?”

“Of course,” Olivia said.

“I’ll wait for you outside,” Ramona said, squeezing her hand, and she disappeared down the hallway, the hem of her dress sweeping the floor behind her.

Some people expected Olivia to be able to tell the Denouements apart, and some people expected her to be as clueless as most others as to who she was talking to. It wasn’t terribly hard to tell them apart, because Olivia liked to pay attention, but what she could never remember what when she was supposed to know and when she wasn’t. Here, she knew the one in front of her was Frank, most definitely. There was a weight to the way Frank carried himself, not like he assumed he was in control, but like he assumed he had to be.

“What is it, Frank?” Olivia asked.

He hesitated, which was rare for Frank. “When was the last time you saw Miranda?”

Olivia blinked. Had she misheard him? “What?”

“Miranda,” Frank said again. She hadn’t misheard. “When was the last time you saw her?”

Miranda?

“I—I don’t know,” she said quickly. “I—” When was the last time she saw Miranda? Years and years ago, wasn’t it? Shortly after they’d been taken. Olivia hadn’t minded. Miranda was older than her, not by much but by enough, and enough that they weren’t kept together. Miranda had thought it a chore to look after her, and Olivia hadn’t liked being seen as a chore. She wanted a sister, not a babysitter. So she’d been okay when Miranda was gone. They went to different classes, made different friends, passed each other in the hall without saying a word until their apprenticeships, where Olivia was shuffled around from chaperone to chaperone and Miranda—went where? What had become of her?

The questions spun through her head, dizzying, but they kept coming. What did Miranda look like, now that she thought of it? Had she looked like Olivia at all? Would she recognize her own sibling, like she could easily identify the Denouements? Would she know Miranda if she saw her in a meeting, on the street, at one of these parties, if she was an enemy? But what made a person wasn’t appearance—how did Miranda act? What made Miranda, in the way Frank’s quiet made him? How could she not know what made her sister? Miranda was her sister and it hit Olivia, squarely in the chest, that she didn’t know a single thing about her.

She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, her gaze darting across the floor. How had she gone all this time without thinking about her? How could she not know? How much had she forgotten?

“I’m sorry I asked,” Frank was saying. “Olivia. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Olivia whispered. She took one step back, then another, almost hitting the edge of her dress with the point of her heel, and another, then made herself turn around and leave, back downstairs, through the lobby, anywhere else but there.

Olivia hurried out into the night with the front doors banging open after her; the humid air was sticky on her skin, sitting heavy in her lungs as she tried to inhale. She saw Ramona past the front archway, leaned back against her car a way down the front drive, her shoes beside her and her feet in the grass, the shape of her soft and fuzzy in the heat. Olivia tore off her mask and scrubbed her hand over her eyes, wiping the tears on the side of her dress.

There was a weight on her shoulders, more than just the heat. She had the horrible sense that she was going to turn around and see Miranda. Olivia wanted to leave. She wanted to leave the city, she wanted to go somewhere she’d be away from this. She wanted to take Ramona—would Ramona go with her? She had her own things to care about besides the violent anxiety shaking Olivia from the inside out. She had a duchy to take care of. She didn’t deserve to have to deal with Olivia.

We’d like you to take up the outpost at Caligari Carnival. The carnival was miles from the city, out in the hinterlands, flat and desolate blankness. Maybe she should go. Maybe that would be better. She would be away from the city and be one place where no one had to bother her and she couldn’t bother anyone else. Maybe.

Olivia squeezed her eyes shut again, and when she opened them the tears were gone and Ramona came into focus, all of her slender and beautiful in the moonlight. Olivia ached to look at her.

She went over to Ramona and slid her hand into hers, tucking her face into the smooth skin of Ramona’s shoulder. “I want to go somewhere else,” she whispered.

“Hey,” Ramona said, her other arm coming up and folding around Olivia, drawing her close. “We can go anywhere you want.”

Behind her, through the open front doors, Olivia heard the hotel clock starting to chime again.

[stuckinapatriarchalbullshitland]

Award shows - ɟ

Heeeelloo, my fellow CS 👋🏼

The idea for this post came to me because I recently saw again that some fans still can’t explain some things about the awards, therefore, I’m going to briefly explain the things I’ve read on which they’re still confused about so that maybe I’ll automatically answer some questions you guys have too.

First of all, celebrities, whether they’re actors, singers, models, heirs, fashion mavens, aristocrats, etc., are notified months before they’ve been invited. Usually, the reason why they were invited is written along with the invitation. The reasons obviously vary. They may have been invited because they were nominated for an award, or because, and they may accept or decline, they were asked to present a category or a performance, or to interview someone on the red-carpet or backstage, or to perform, etc., etc. They can also be added as I like to say ‘+1’. But be aware, there’s a difference between being invited as a ‘+1’ and as a guest.

‘Are they not the same thing?’ you’re probably wondering. No, they are not. Being invited as a guest is simply that. A celebrity who invites their partner, or their kid, or one of their parents, or a friend, as indeed their guest. The +1, on the other hand, is a term that I’m using because I don’t think there’s one to describe when a person who is also a celebrity is invited by another one. You know the seats they show us with pictures of celebrities and how some seats next to it lack these pictures? Those seats without pictures belong to the celebrity guests or their team members. If a celebrity invites another one, then next to their picture there will also be that of the celebrity they invited. Aka, the term I’m using in this case: the +1.

I’ll give you an example:

I’m a singer and my fake PR boyfriend has to perform that night, but I don’t, and neither have I been nominated for any awards and therefore not even invited. Also to keep up appearances of our relationship, I get invited as his +1. This means that you’re gonna see my picture next to his in the seats and the cameras will film me for literally two seconds counted during his performance. It also means that my fake boyfriend and I will be wearing matching outfits, that we’ll arrive on the red carpet together, that I’ll have to show unnecessary PDA out of the blue while one of our managers films us to make us more believable and real, and that I’ll have to pretend to be happy to be his arm candy. Do I accept or do I not accept the invitation?

Yeah, of course I do. It’s a great idea actually, both to show people my support as a cheerleader for him, and as publicity. Publicity not only for us as a couple, but also for myself. Our management, and yes, we have the same management, has arranged interviews for me too on the red carpet, so why shouldn’t I accept that? Plus, I want to go. Helloo? We’re talking about an important award show. Not to mention that my girlfriend performs too the same night and has also been nominated for several awards, so it’s just an extra incentive to want to go and be able to support her. Oohh, how foolish of me. I apologize for my forgetfulness. My name is Lauren Jauregui and I’m talking about the American Music Awards 2018.

See what I did there? 😏😏😏

These events are very exclusive and have an invitation list. If you’re a celebrity and you’re not on the list, then it’s very hard for you to be able to attend. But there’s a way, and no, I’m not talking about finding a way to sneak in. The only other way to get there is by taking the place of someone who had been invited and couldn’t attend.

Let’s say you’re a celebrity and you want to go there. Let’s say you want to go because you’ve been out of the spotlight for a long time and want to make a big comeback with a beautiful dress to show yourself off. The first thing you do is call your publicist and see if there are still seats available. Not all celebrities can attend those events despite being invited because they may have other commitments, or they’re out of town, or I don’t know, they’re on tour or something like that. So there’s the possibility that you can have their seat. If there aren’t any, then your publicist themselves may be looking for another way to get you in. Again, for an X reason, the celebrity who was supposed to present an award cannot go, and therefore your publicist manages to get you the invitation as one of the presenters. If none of these options are possible, then.. well, I hope you enjoy the show watched in the living room of your home.

You want another practical example? Okay, okay, babies, I’ll content you 😏

Latin Grammy Awards 2019. Still me, Lauren Jauregui, hi 🙋🏻 🙈 I wasn’t invited. I had no reason to actually be there, except for one…

I didn’t even publicize and say on my social media that I’d have been there. It was so unexpected and awesome for you nuggets, wasn’t it? Well, my girlfriend was invited but she unfortunately couldn’t go due to other commitments. You can imagine how sad she was not only to not being able to attend, but also to not being able to perform with Alejandro who is one of the people in the industry that she loves and admires the most, right? You can imagine her pout and her kicked puppy face for not being able to sing the song she wrote and dedicated to her little sister, can’t you? Well, I couldn’t bear to see her that way, so I told her: ‘Don’t worry, babe. I gotcha. I’ll go for you. I’ll go to represent you’. Also because her team didn’t need to be there, not even to collect the award which I later discovered she won the same evening. Awards, my beautiful chickens, are shipped months after the night they are received.

And so it was. I went with Brenda (my manager). I got dolled up. I did my interviews, even teasing my fans about my new project with Tainy. I sat in my baby’s seat in the front row. THE FRONT ROW. Front rows are reserved for the evening’s award winners. They NEVER put the winners in the back rows because it would take them too long to get to the stage when their name is called otherwise. And I was there, for her. And in addition to enjoying the show, I tried to hold back my happiness, especially since there were cameras everywhere, both during Alejandro’s performance as soon as my love appeared on the screens, and when they won the Record of the Year. I swear I had to get a hold of myself. I had to restrain myself and concentrate on clapping my hands like a normal person and not smiling too big.

*end of the sketch*

As you may have noticed so far, these are the only ways to attend award shows if you are a celebrity. But, just because you’re a celebrity, there’s no guarantee that you get invited. And you certainly cannot show up there with the hope that they’ll let you in without being invited, or nominated, or without a ticket just because you’re ‘someone’. Security kicks your ass out no matter who you are.

Every year, hundreds of celebrities don’t make it onto the invitation list. Keep in mind that the ‘exclusivity’ of these events is also due to the seats. Take as an example precisely the Microsoft Theater in Los Angeles where the AMAs 2018 took place. It has 7,100 seats. These seats are reserved for people in the show’s broadcast network, the telecast’s sponsors, the production team, the accountants, the legal team, the donors, the representatives, the press and media in general, etc., and THEN for the invited celebrities including singers and their teams, so also their publicists, agents, managers, [and not even all of them have a reserved seat; maybe only one of them has it and the rest are backstage or in the dressing room or not really there], etc., actors, and as with singers, their teams, the team of people who worked on the film with them, etc. See how many people and how few seats?

I’m still not 100% sure about this but, Emmy’s, Oscars, Golden Globes, Tony’s, and Grammy’s are the only award shows where the names of the winners aren’t revealed until the envelope is opened live on stage. All the remaining shows? Pfft, it’s all an organized thing. What you see on TV, the reactions ‘Oh my God, did I win? I can’t believe it!’, ‘I really wasn’t expecting that’, they’re all fake. Yes, the emotion for the win is true, but everything else? It’s all bullshit. Winners are notified long, but very long time before that. Indeed, many award shows only invite winners to attend. Haven’t you ever noticed how in some of them the other artists nominated in that same category aren’t even there? If they happened to be there, it’s because it’s very likely that they had won another category, or were there for other reasons, like presenting a performance or whatever.

Aaaand I’m done 😎😝 I think I’ve answered pretty much all the questions I’ve seen on the subject, even though I haven’t seen them here. If you yourselves have questions about this or anything else (even if you want advice on a personal level), as I’ve already said other times, feel free to ask. I’m at your disposal 😊

And thank you, Mari. It has been a while since I’ve done this, but I hope you know that I’m serious every time I thank you. Therefore, thank you once again for virtually letting me into your world and thank you for letting me continue to have little spaces in your blog 🤗🤗🤗

Thanks also to you babies for reading, liking, and re-blogging my occasional posts. But thanks mostly for her. Thanks to those who follow my friend’s blog with the right intentions. That is, with respect and without attacking her. Thanks to those who follow her because you actually like her and the content she posts, and thanks to those who use their brains before asking or submitting something to her. Thanks for real 🙏🏼

I hope you’re all well and that your holidays are continuing with peace and serenity. Stay safe, please. Stay patient. Keep the boat afloat. As usual, always with love, F ❤️

P.S. since I’m currently on vacation for a few more days before having to go back to work, and since I have a little bit more free time, I’m preparing something else for you based on some information that I was able to found out. Stay tuned for the next post 😉 The initials of the title are U and S, so you’ll know when you see it. Byee 😘

___

I was smiling with every word of this submit. Thanks for this clarification, F. It was awesome as usual

[crosby-interesting]

Kathy’s fan page appeared in July 2015 after these images hit the Internet.

It was decided that she would become a permanent member of the WAGS group.

Kathy’s ratings on the internet were very low at the time. 👎💩 Her IG profiles were noticed, her ex-boyfriend wrote about her, and her relationship with Crosby was of an extremely questionable status.

PR could not leave this situation as it was. Kathy cannot give interviews, Sid does not want to give interviews about her personal life, none of them have the right to conduct public social networks. There is only one way out - to create a fan page on which a heavenly atmosphere will reign. 🌈🌈🌈

At this time, the personal lives of other Penguins stars are going well. Malkin together with Anna; Letang is getting married, MAF is expecting her second child ... and only Sid is the black sheep

This fan page was completed by December 2015 and created the illusion that Kathy has a fan base🐹🐹🐹🐹🐹🐹🐹🐹🐹🐹🐹🐹🐹🐹🐹🐹 and personal public status.

Starting from her first photo, along with WaGS, information about Kathy comes out on this site exactly like a clock 😂

I would believe in the amazing kindness of her fans and their responsible work on her fan page if they did it in 2010-2011. The peak of Kathy's career was in 2011. At the time this page was founded, Kathy only worked with Izod. This is the end of her little career. This is a very suspicious time to activiting fan love.

And you? Are you ready to believe this coincidence? )))

So it was all for nothing. For 6 years of work, only bots have been able to fall in love with this page. 🪦

[karliesbuzzcut]

hi buzzcut, i’ve recently discovered your blog after being sent one of your threads by my hardcore taylor swift fan friend. it is hilarious and now i know more about josh kushner than i ever wanted to. i thought i could shed some light on all things entertainment PR - i was a PR assistant for a publicist with many A-B list clients (mostly actors) for years, and now i am a publicist for a premium streaming network (slightly different than being a publicist for an individual but the industry rules don’t change). per the last q, i HIGHLY doubt that anyone from taylor or karlies team keeps tabs on these kaylor blogs. they def know they exist but most publicists i know have much more important things to worry about than some teenagers on the internet thinking your client is gay. and as you’ve pointed out before, that narrative is not a bad thing at all. i’m sure both teams are aware of this section of the fanbase and happy to have them, if only because it is another dedicated group of people absorbing all of your clients content, obsessively. the reason they are not worried about these sort of blogs is because none of what they are claiming is true, and so the risk is zero other than maybe mild annoyance from some of the aggressive shippers on social media. but a publicist with an A list client (in the case of tree) keeping tabs on a tumblr account? chances are zero. it’s not the same as tree keeping tabs on enty for example, who is also known within the industry to be a hack who gets lucky with a legit source 30% of the time. maybe karlies team would keep tabs on someone like ttb if they have nothing better to do and because “kaylor” is still a significant part of karlies fanbase and sm presence. but still, the chances are so low. the biggest client i ever worked for wasnt as famous as taylor but was certainly leagues ahead of karlie - and we just had our small team of 2 PR assistants helping manage his social media presence. we definitely did not have time to patrol random tumblr blogs, even if they had been circulating conspiracy theories he was having secret affair. it’s just not a big deal, poses lino threat when it’s untrue, and doesn’t really matter to be quite frank. a couple more things: i’ve noticed the way some people on your blog speak about “PR relationships” and “pap walks/stunts” in general are just.... untrue. again, perhaps in the world of taylor swift this is more normal and i can only speak from my own experience, but these things are NOT common industry wide. yes PR relationships do happen but i’ve never once heard of a contract being involved! that would be a horribly disastrous PR nightmare if it was ever leaked! NDAs are not magic binding curses, they can be broken and are often avoided bc they cause such a legal headache. it’s also at times hard to trace who leaked a story to the press. if kaylor was this widespread, it would 100% have been leaked. PR relationships are short lived, no commitment required, and typically happen during the promotion of whatever product is being pushed. they are not binding (i’ve never seen any such thing) and that’s the point - if one half of the couple gets drunk and is seen making out with someone else, we just say they broke up weeks earlier and everyone moves on. the talk of all these menacing contracts and NDAs is SO absurd and funny. i wish i worked in that industry bc it would be much more exciting. and finally, yes, publicists do call the paparazzi to help promote upcoming headlines (i think everyone knows this by now) but just bc a photo is on Backgrid or is HQ doesnt mean it was pap promo. the general rule of thumb is - if the client looks content or unbothered or is smiling, it’s promo. if they look unhappy, confused, or like they don’t know there’s a camera, it’s organic. anyway, sorry for the long post, but figured this is the only anonymous message i will ever leave someone and why not share some of my insights. oh the incredibly boring and inane things you learn in celebrity pr! props to you for being so discerning buzz & have fun!

Not gonna lie. I started reading this message and I was mentally preparing for:

“I work in the industry and I can tell you that I have seen Taylor and Karlie making out in front of me plenty of times — there was some tongue action too. They’ve also held hands and chanted in perfect unison ‘we hate our beards’. I just thought you’d want to know”

And while those type of messages are endlessly entertaining, I must say I enjoyed yours more. Thank you for taking the time to type it all down!

[utterlyinevitable]

24,26,34 for Raleigh x MC 👀👀👀 I think it’s a good mix

24. things you said when we were alone 26. things you said in writing 34. things you whispered in my ear

From the things you said prompt list. Send me a pairing and number and I’ll write a mini fic!

---

Nobody Knows The Whole Truth 

Everyone knew Cadence Dorian, the midwestern sweetheart, had a way with words. Not only did her debut album go certified platinum, but all the songs she ghostwrote topped the charts. 

Everyone knew of Raleigh Carrera. They knew his image, his voice, his affinity for danger and property damage. To the world, Raleigh Carrera was a certified bad boy. 

Everything everyone knew was only half of the truth. 

Nobody knew who Raleigh and Cadence were when they were together. When all they wanted is to share a peaceful dinner, hold hands, and have Raleigh carry her at the end of the night when her heels got too painful.

In public, they were the poster couple for on-and-off, toxic lovers. Raleigh is the flirt; sizing up opportunity after opportunity, and drinking a little too much. Cadence is the goody-two-shoes keeping him on a leash, and severing it once he gets too rowdy. 

Every public encounter between them has a layer of tension implied. 

After weeks apart, they ran into one another at the MoDA Gala. Their very public breakup stunt still very fresh in the public psyche. 

They bumped into one another on the red carpet - literally. Raleigh turned to avoid a few reporters and knocked into Cadence posing for photos. It had the potential to be a PR nightmare. 

The crowd gasped. 

The pair just looked at one another as Raleigh went to steady her. His hands firmly on her body and thousands of pairs of eyes watching their every move as he leaned over; 

“You look beautiful,” he whispered in her ear. 

Cadence bit the inside of her lip, schooling her features from the bright smile threatening to oust them. Raleigh pulled away all too soon for her liking. But not soon enough for them to not get throngs of questions thrown at them; 

“Are you getting back together?” “Have you worked through your issues?” “Will you be making music together in the future?” “How do you really feel about the break up?” “Can we get a picture together for the fans.” 

The evening droned on and on and became more about business than the charity they’re here to support. There were only so many networking and industry conversations Cadence could take. And none of them were quite as endurable without Raleigh by her side. 

The worst part of the evening by far was their publicists making sure they weren’t seated at the same table, keeping them apart for appearances sake. 

Eventually Cadence needed a breather, a healthy dose of reality. So she made a sneaky decision. As no phones were allowed at the gala, she wrote on a napkin and whisked across the room to slip it under his champagne flute. 

Then she waited in the shadows of a roped off area.  

“Fancy seeing you here,” she said with a flirty smirk as Raleigh rounded the corner. 

“This is bold,” he commented with his signature smirk. “What’re you gonna do with me now that you have me alone?”

“Murder sounds good. But be a dear and please keep your blood to yourself. This is a Zadie Couture original.” 

He let out a laugh and crossed the distance. His hands reaching out to wrap around her waist before kissing her lightly, yet with the force of all their bottled up feelings. 

“How was the rest of tour?” he asked when they broke apart.  

Her face lit up and Raleigh’s heart skipped a beat. “Amazing! I can’t believe I sold out Troubadour!” Her fingers trailed to tangle in the strands at the back of his neck, “Missed you though.” 

“Knew you could do it, kid.” He pressed a sweet peck to the tip of her nose. 

Cadence smiled then leaned into him so that their lips met once more.   

When they pulled away they gave a knowing look. 

“Let’s go home.” 

They slipped out of the event one at a time. Hank drove Cadence home and Raleigh called an Uber. They entered their building through separate entrances - her through the front door and him through the parking garage. 

They met back up in the elevator where no one but building security could see them together.  

Once they were safely home, Raleigh wasted no time in freeing Cadence from the confines of her corset. 

“Oh sweet oxygen!” she sung as the dress fell to the floor and she could finally take long, deep breaths. All she wanted was the sweet comforts of home. “Where’s my onesie?” 

“Under the pillows where you left it,” he said matter-of-factly as he began stripping off his suit.  

“You didn’t wash it!?”  

“No,” Raleigh shrugged, “Why would I?”  

She looked at him, dumbfounded, “I’ve been gone for three weeks.” 

How did he not think to wash the dirty clothes? She thought to herself. 

Their eyes met as he told her, “It smells like you.” 

________________________________________

Masterlist

@choicesficwriterscreations​

Perma:

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[uncannychange]

It's a heck of a thing to sit and watch a full-grown man dissolve like a candle in a frying pan over high heat.

However that's what Doctor John Cameron Ice and billionaire Marcelo Zucchero did years ago, and while frighting to watch the pair regarded the event with optimism as the start of what they hoped would be a world-changing discovery.

Dealing with impairments their whole lives, Ice having a badly curved spine, and Zucchero struggling with a congenital heart defect. Ice had come to the billionaire with a proposal for a radically new form of treatment that would cure them both, and offer the same for thousands of other conditions, up to and including old age. He financed it fully.

Until at last the first full-blown clinical trial was held and William-X became a puddle in a vat. And yet he still lived because as he was so reduced his every cell was rejuvenated and re-calibrated and most fantastic of all the mysterious substances known as Dark Matter and accompanying Dark Energy was made a part of him as it bonded with his Y chromosome turning it into a very special Neo-X chromosome.

Then the pair watched as the man listed only as William-X in their records started to reform into a human.

But what a human! No longer an elderly man in his mid-80s William was hale hearty and a woman who appeared to be in her early 20s.

Oh, and due to the Neo-X chromosome possessed of what could only be called superpowers far beyond those of ordinary mortals. While having the mind of his former self William-X was otherwise a whole new person. And frankly, she went more than a touch mad.

Deciding her only choice was to dash out and fight crime and or evil, unable to stop her the being what soon became known as The Indelible She-Funk (the name hints at her powers, but in case you're eating we won't go into detail) made quite an impression on the public.

At first, thinking that the experiment was going to be a failure. After all, it only worked on men (doesn't work if you already have an X chromosome) and there was no telling what weird powers the new women would have.

Then Marcelo's money-making instincts kicked in and so was born.

Supreme Ultra-human Genetic Augmentation Regimen Strategies, or SUGARS.

Housed in their all-white cube-shaped headquarters, The Sugar Cube, men without families go in, their identities are erased, and outcome a new breed of super-heroines for hire The SUGARS!

Led by Ice and Zucchero, who themselves have gone through the process, emerging as the telepathic super hypnotic powered Empress Bee, and Blizzardella the princess of polar powers.

Crime has never been more scared or turned on.

Below are some of the new Super Women.

Hector Hensley: The Starry Knight

Hector on finding himself turned into an attractive young woman exclaimed “Oh man! I am spacing out here!” and then she did... shoot out into space.

Seems she has the ability to teleport herself and up to twenty-two other people, animals, or objects anywhere in the world, after first taking them on a dizzying spin in outer space.

Impressive if you ignore the two or three people who always lose their lunch on landing at the destination.

Guy Bright: Good Knight Nurse

Gained the ability to control the body functions of other people. Blood pressure, blood sugar levels, temperature, etc... 

Which led to GKN's most famous way to take out the baddies, the orgasm blast. 

Which led to the Good Knight Nurse also taking special stealth training at The Sugar Cube to become sort of the de facto “dark knight” of the SUGARS, not so she could sneak up on others, but so she could better hide from people following her demanding “blast me! blast me!”

Marsh Marshall: Ballistic Ballerina

Marsh, an ex-motorcycle racier rose from the vats at The Sugar Cube with super-human agility, and the ability to run at super-speed (max velocity 444 MPH) on her toes!

However, she still insists that SUGARS get her the best bike they could find which she still uses to get around from place to place, saying “Hey, those damn toe-shoes are expensive!”

Jim Yates: The Transcendental Technician

Found she had the ability to “commune” with technology and machines. Said Neon, “when they said I was going to be a super-heroine I was thinking more along the lines of Wonder Woman smashing into villains, not going around and setting on copying machines to see what they had been used for.”

Joel Walton: Nun Better

Can force a confession out of anyone, has a flock of telekinetically controlled 12-inch rulers, and can cause elemental changes in small objects (if she tosses some small bland cookies or a glass of wine at you they might change into explosives or knock-out gas when they arrive.)

Says Nun “This is all so weird, I'm an agnostic!”

Paul Aaron Flynn: The Pink Avenger

Not only did his trip through the SUGARS process give his super-powers, but it also seems to have turned him into a Japanese woman... with pink hair!.

Her very unusual power is the ability to fire pink force bolts that cause anything struck by them to have their reality altered becoming feminized, eccentric, and leaving behind the scent of Shiseido Ever Bloom Fragrance.

Such as the team of bank robbers who found themselves turned into a middle-school cheer-leading squad from the '50s or the mad bomber who found himself turned into a living version of Betty Crocker and his bomb a plate of toll house cookies.

Alfred Ferguson: Puzzle Boxer

Alfred really, really wanted to be a knockdown taken `em out rough and tumble sort of super person. 

But the SUGARS process does its own unpredictable thing and instead, Alfred found she now had the ability to break any code, solve any puzzle and defuse any bomb or trap. She insisted on being trained in all the combat skills The Sugar Cube had to offer, and on being called not the Puzzler as PR suggested but the Puzzle Boxer so people would think she was mainly a fighter.

But as the SUGARS process had also turned him into a five-foot-one-inch cutie no one is really buying it.

Henry Hiroto Kazuhiko: The Clone Ranger

The only single person in the world that if she wants to talk to herself, has to use Zoom.

Maximum clones: 15.

James Jasper Mueller: Obsidian Rose

Turns into a shadow, walks through walls, phasing through a person knocks them out.

But that's not the important thing with Obsidian Rose. James on finding himself turned not only into a woman but a rather spooky one at that did not take it well.

Plus on being handed the bill for being healed by the SUGARS  process (talk about out-of-network NONE of it is covered by any insurance) with the only real way out to sign an exclusive five-year contract to work for SUGARS as a super-heroine for hire.

The former Mr. Mueller said screw this and went rogue founding a team with other disgruntled SUGARS that she calls Adventuresses, Mercenaries, Outsiders & Killers or AMOK.

Which is just as well, because what's a bunch of supers if they don't have another bunch of super baddies to fight? Pain in the neck, that's what they are.

And boy howdy does this ever help with the merchandising from The Sugar Cube.

[zamilemzizi]

A trip down lockdown memory lane!

A trip down memory lane

As my business steadily builds itself back up, with a new face and some Covid-influenced changes, I look back at what it was like for a few months last year as just the “Mom.” The South African lockdown, one of the strictest in the world at that time, forced most of us Marketing and PR SME owners to close our doors and focus on creating a safe and “new normal” environment for ourselves and our families.

My parents both contracted the Corona Virus and so, it was left up to me to care for ALL five grandchildren for a few months. Including my own children, I had two five-year-olds’ (one boy; Wandi and one girl; Koli), one nine-year-old girl (Thotse), a twelve-year-old girl (Lungi) and the legend himself, my two-year-old son (Bugsy) whom you will have read a lot about on my personal Facebook page. As if that was not enough, we rescued an eight-week-old puppy (Luna) too!

Being a person known for preferring the company of all the Mzizi grandchildren, I was up for the challenge of this time spent being reacquainted with the daily struggle of just-being-the-mom-with-no-work without the pressure of having to go to work.

I acknowledge that my experience of this time is grossly different to that of a majority of my fellow countrymen/women, who struggled to make ends meet. Zam’s Hive started a fund, which generously received funds donated by almost ALL of my clients, close friends and colleagues from my place of work. We used these funds to assist families who wrote in via WhatsApp and SMS stating what their urgent needs were and paired them with the correct donor. I was astounded at how the people I knew were able to look beyond their own experience of the Lockdown, and were able to give the little (or lot) that they had to keep hope alive.

However, being the stay-at-home mom yielded quite a few hilarious experiences, which naturally, I shared on social media as they happened. Here are some of these posts. I hope they make you chuckle a bit at my expense. I hope they remind you that no matter how bleak the situation, our inner circle, our families, our children, the people that matter most to us are the ones we should keep our focus on.

How the wars began…

Wandi’s benevolent fart

Raising boys is a BREEZE!

My Wandi has reached that age where every hug and cuddle is a conscious decision on his part to be with me. It says, ' I choose to be near YOU. I choose you, mommy'

So imagine my joy as I was working in my office and my big boy chose that moment to sit on my lap...

He sat facing me, flashed his special smile and said' 'Mommy, let me show you how much I love you'

He put his hands on my shoulders and closed his beautiful brown eyes. I could see him mentally reaching deep within himself in order to share what he had to say. Then...

I felt it. A persistent drill-like hammering on my sturdy thigh where his bony bum was perched.

The stench was instant and the fog it created in my mind was confusion personified. I could not immediately compute that my baby came all this way just to fart on me. As realization dawned on me, my little angel held onto me just a little bit tighter to keep me in place as the hammer-drill was still operating. My thin leggings were no barrier from the barrage of bodily functions battering my poor skin.

During this assault, Wandi did not change his facial expression at all. He looked like a little Buddha bestowing a blessing upon a lesser mortal.

When he was done, he nimbly sprang off my leg and bestowed a beguiling cherubic smile upon me. Slowly reversing from the room with his cheesy smile and eyes closed, he blessed me with his benevolent ' enjoy the smell mommy' and quietly closed the door.

Bugsy drinks shit water

I'm on my knees begging for this changeling to be taken. Return Bugsy pre-terrible twos to me please!

I went into the toilet for a teensy while. I'd been holding it in for some time chasing my kids around. To my knowledge, fake Bugsy was safely chilling on my bed.

As my empty bladder and I float out the bathroom, changeling proudly displays a cup of water he is drinking...now this is a problem because all taps and cups are beyond his reach. This cup looks like the dirty one I ignored on the floor a teensy while back- are you judging me Karen?!

I frantically urge fake son to show me if he got water from the other toilet. He proudly replies, ' I no drink here Wandi peepee here' This is good. It's great actually. Wandi has diarrhea and drinking from his toilet could kill someone. Never mind Corona.

So I drag the smirking not-really-my-son into the kitchen to wash this mysterious cup. At this stage I'm fuming at the lord thinking 'turn this crap into wine NOW'

As I wash the still alcohol free cup, I turn to find swopped-at-birth guy smacking his lips and drinking from the bucket mqobothi style.

MY HEART SKIPS A BEAT!

I used water and Jik to clean dog poop just now. I spilled the water but clearly not all of it. What's worse here? Jik poisoning or dog poop poisoning?

The terror child is ok. I gave him milk and surrendered the rest to his creator.

I'm ok. I have a new twitch in my eye and I think I might have peed my pants a little. But otherwise baaah I'm good.

No really.

Just fine.

Look- fake son took the tin of milk and smeared the stuff on himself.

I'm just FINE!

Then the tensions were rising

The stand off

In a bid to demonstrate his defiance of my authority, my two year old has taken the long life milk and some shopping bags to an undesirable corner of the house. He has boldly announced that, 'I puttinnnin me in noty cona' This is his strategy to deprive my authority of putting him in a corner myself. The standoff continues...

Sulking in the shower

I swear I don't make this stuff up...

Wandi just played with matches and his cousins came to tell on him. Naturally I gave him 'the look' times 10. He says to me,

'I know you're cross with me and wont talk to me.'

He stalks off to the shower and sits there while singing his new and spontaneously composed struggle song. The words weren't too clear but this is what I heard:

Take me away in peace, take me away in peace.

 Please note he has taken to eating some of his meals in this shower.

Can someone please send me a bottle of gin??!      Its for the kids.

 The breaking point

Exacting revenge in small ways

My kids broke my hair clippers machine while I was cutting them. So now I'm leaving them with unfinished cuts because one needs to take revenge wherever the opportunity may present itself-even if it's your own kids. They think they know me. Mxim!

 Mom flu strike

I've been in bed with flu for a week now. During this my kids haven't given me an inch of space and rest.

I'm still a horse, jungle gym, chef, personal snot cleaner and unwilling audience to dance shows and song decompositions.

Tonight was just the worst! I went to the chemist for more meds and so needed a nap from the trip. Only to realize that I'd over slept and it was supper time.

After a mad dash to cook, serve and feed the royal highnesses, I'd had enough.

Where am I now? What am I doing now? These are all relevant questions I'm happy to answer for you.

I'm in my bedroom. For the first time since I became a mother, I have done the only sensible thing a tired parent can do...

I'VE LOCKED MY BEDROOM DOOR BIYAAACHES!

The situation update is as follows:

Hostile!

1.  Two year old has attempted breaking door down

I DON'T CARE!

2. Five year old has resorted to creepy body plastering against door and quietly chanting 'mooommyyyy can we have ice cream while you die?'

I  DON'T   CARE

3. In a rare show of solidarity the boys are now howling like wolves outside the door, throwing in the odd 'moooommmy where are youuuu'

I    D O N T   C A R E!

4. Nine year old niece has increased the volume and frequency of her coughing

IIIIIIIII DOOOOOOOONT CAAAAAAARE!

I'm at peace in my warm bed. Let the siege continue I have all that I need in here. A bathroom, all the toilet paper in the house, the only phone with airtime and did I mention -I'm the only person tall enough to cook. Muhahuahua!

They will know me!

 The resolution?

Wandi prays for peace

So as usual the kids were acting up and driving me crazy before bedtime. This time however, the transgressions were extreme.

Someone didn't pee INSIDE the toilet but decided to mark his territory next to it instead.

Another decided to generously leave food on a dinner plate and put it in the kitchen sink for Santa maybe.

Another was dejectedly roaming the passage without pajama bottoms like a homeless person. Left to wander the night in shame and bottomlessness.

This was the last straw and I blew my top off.

EVERYONE TO BED WITHOUT A STORY NOW!

Even the little one understood that Armageddon was nigh, and scurried into bed as fast as his fat stubby legs could carry him (only half way up the bed usually).

In an unusually respectful and hesitant tone, Wandi bravely reminded me that I forgot to pray. So fine! I asked God to please help me make my children good etc.

Wandi again bravely offered to pray too and this is where he played his master plan into action (he never wants to pray):

Wandi: Dear God, please make all my dreams come true. The end.

 Yes. He said the end and not AMEN. I felt a reluctant smile coming on but I was wise to the enemy.

The next morning the kids all came to greet me in that way guilty kids do hoping for a cease-fire.

'Good morning rakhali' etc.

Then the master played his Ace move.

Wandi: In the name of Jesus, good morning everyone!

 How could I remain grumpy after my son evoked the name of Jesus?!

He's goooooood. One point to Wandi. None to me.

 Please subscribe to my blog and follow me on social media for more insights into; what goes on in the life of a working mom building an empire. All the links are below. My women’s network as well as my courses are also available on this site.

[incarnateirony]

Representation, Authorial Diversity, and more.

“I’ll take some beef jerky and a pack of menthols.”

Been a while since most of you thought about that line, hasn’t it? And for some of you it somehow sends some primitive lizard brain gaydar into overdrive and you can’t really pinpoint why, can you? It makes no sense, that line alone, and how it stands -- but between all of the talk of both Bobo Berens and LGBT media history, including The Celluloid Closet/Vito Russo or the Vito Russo Test, this moment actually puts a pin in a shift within our show, its handling of content formerly completely overlooked by creatives, and the importance of diversifying our writing crews that we all press for.

It was the moment our show leaned, and frankly-- should have been the moment the straights panicked. In fact, some of them did, just before it aired, and then everyone has played at oblivious since.

Before seasons air, we get news on new authors being added to teams, or other workers. Pre-S9 was no different, with fandom finding a tweet from Bobo Berens, our first open-closet LGBT author. I mean, Out And Proud. A true king.

The association if this is the mention of the Bechdel Test, a step aside of Vito Russo.

Now let us begin.

Well first of all I’m just gonna let everyone get a giggle at how Bobo handled the straight male knee coil:

But anyway the response to his initial tweet was a merry go round of concern trolling in the area of “OH DEAR I FEEL SO SORRY FOR YOU PLEASE ALLOW US THE NORMAL ASSBAGS OF THE FANDOM TO TELL YOU AN AUTHOR HOW STRAIGHT THE CHARACTERS ON THE SHOW YOU’RE WRITING FOR ARE” and I dunno, it’s comedy.

Whether or not Bobo was addressing SPN as a new project in particular -- and it, from a dark age of SPN I’ve covered the upheaval during -- this is important. Really, really important.

Let’s say that timeline does overlap Bobo’s, and he did implicitly believe it; he might have had to write them as Straight Guys; but his own deep-seated place in the LGBT community developed resonant text, he made change. Change enough that when his first script was put into motion, the showrunner took one look at it and, for the first time in recorded history, we had note of some sort of intent --

Misha went on to say “so that’s what we played there.”

Regardless of anyone’s misunderstanding about how the fandom riled themselves up prematurely and shot themselves in the foot by lighting a CW exec on fire in the middle of network level board/CEO rotation commotion, or whether or not it’s visible enough for anyone--

this, this moment, this content, created by this LGBT individual led to this first known forward motion of intentful creative subtext. People can hilariously try to argue semantics about it that summarily boil down to “I mean it could be metaphorical jilted lovers it could be this it could be jilted lover bros, it’s just a turn of phrase!” in a loop as they’ve done with this data for six years until it dies every time, but this was it. This was the moment.

There is a nuance in this sort of writing -- how easy would it be for Dean to come up and say, “I’ll take some beef jerky.” Dean’s the meat man, Dean loves meat! We’ve seen it in other, new, straight authors the first time they try to tick off the Dean checklist, but like many lessons, that extra line leading into that smile holds volumes of LGBT history unspoken.

I think several of us Old Gays(TM) have banged on about the necessity of reading the Celluloid Closet, because for as much as people think they’re chasing queer subtext around here, it’s like they have completely missed that there actually is like, a printed, accepted code of conduct on this shit, basically. That’s not exactly what it was released for, but if you’re LGBT and engaged in lit and over 40 like you’ve read and understand and know this.

I’m not going to sit here and over-needle that line; most of you felt it the second your eyes drifted over it; but the sum of it is -- why that, what charming secret comes with that smile, a dean we’ve never seen smoke either, how is this part of how Dean throws himself back before his ex buddy leaves more unseen, *why* is that the hook? These are ironically things that no lit crit study *beyond* excessive citation of Celluloid Closet will really capture. This is a form of queer coding -- not the villainous disaster type that queer coding actually *is*, but the subversive form as it’s begun to be casually addressed in the population with positive, resonant content by authors choked out by IP holders while trying to service an audience. Or sometimes, even starting to accidentally.

So you know, you can unironically double down on the simplicity of Dean implicitly probably being a smoker (a possible read of subtext!), and I think this is kinda where the bizarre split happened tbh, because dude bros double down subconsciously into each reading of this kind of coding-- Dean just smokes, or this or that, though it grows thinner by year. Not about why that line is tossed, and how, and does just set off some sort of TV pheremone we all swamp like a bee hive. None of these moments truly mean anything independently. But it is the perspective and voice the text begins to take. The difference between that and “Hey pal [chews on jerky before buying] marlboros and got any pie?” in one moment that knocked everybody around on their ass in the fray of it. And then it all just went gayer from there, as if framed by one sharp moment that set the rest of the tone.

Hopefully you’ve all read my giant post about the history of this all to remember what I mean by accidentally, but even Bobo posted on it before,

That’s all an aside to the general point but worth placing into the edge of the conversation here.

The simple fact is, an activist gay man joined the show, and possibly with ‘keep it straight’ notes wrote some stuff so resonant, due to his point of view in life and the world, that even the showrunner decided to further guide it in that direction. It blossomed a direction.

The direction was small and slow and meek at first, (well, in final product -- don’t get me started at how S10 looks if all the cut scenes were included) with subtext running as dull echoes in Colette (oh look he wrote that too), and maybe more obvious with classic heart songs -- but even this was more structured than “Misha inherited abandoned storyline they scrubbed the romance out of as best they could”, or “Sera Gamble is a dumbass” that just happened to feature great chemistry and some resonant elements, like Bobo mentioned, we all connected with. But to actually constructively choose to incorporate these, no matter how quietly, was... *new.*

And some called it queerbait and I’ve already given history lessons from other angles on why no, but also now why here, definitely, no.

By season 12 we gained Yockey, another LGBT man, another activist in his own way like Bobo, but his less in writing political stuff and more in writing LGBT specialist plays. And everybody loved him, and saw it, and Yockey gets a boat load of praise -- deserves a lot of it -- but sometiems I feel like Bobo gets trampled over without recognition of how he shifted the playing field, the calculated effort he started putting into mastering those accidental resonances into something new, and ultimately to guiding the new author crew, Yockey included, or Jeremy on this newest episode who thanked him.

The same man that picked up Wayward and connected Dreamhunter... back to his own work and moments. The insanity of yelling “HOW DARE YOU LESSEN DREAMHUNTER BY COMPARING IT TO DESTIEL!” when, dead ass, you’re looking at this author who has carefully incorporated work and, with an already resonant story, made another relationship familiar to us by making it similar. Because that’s how writing stories works! But either way, Bobo has been in here doggedly growing the breadth of the legitimacy of queer narrative in supernatural -- to the point that it HAS narrowly, quietly breached into text even if not “loud” or “visible” enough for some people -- and the point where the subtext is so wall to wall and flooding every piece of cinematography in shooting and not just set or lights but complete mise en scene -- a point where everybody OUTSIDE of fandom is just addressing this shit as what it clearly is --

...That’s something that came with bringing the scope of an LGBT male author into the show. Whether you like the volume he’s been allowed to take his work to or not is your own thing, but before yelling queerbait at any creatives, perhaps it’s time to play “sit down children, and learn to appreciate the activists who came before you and how they’re fighting for you right now”. You wanna yell at something, get organized, pelt the CW in a non-aggressive, non-light-on-fire way, do activism like the books Emily put together that are resultingly still on the current showrunner’s desk now 6 years later, but most of all, don’t take a shit all over content you would otherwise enjoy, at the expense of a man in the demographic you’re trying to represent, who has battled, LITERALLY, for both the women and the gays in this show. Wayward was his baby. This slow swing in S9 that turned into a loud din in S12? 

It wasn’t magic. It was a gay author. A gay author that has now climbed to be an Exec alongside dabb and the others and SURPRISE now suddenly everything’s so gay the whole goddamn world is seeing it. Literally SEEING IT, not just guys looking at each other with stories, but intentful, meritful choice in extremely bold cinematography choices that don’t require chasing a post-it on the wall, but instead are shot with care and devotion. Be that 12.19 Mixtape (OH DAT HIS) or 13.5′s Never Too Late (OH DAT YOCKEY. check what antis said to Dabb in his mentions after, even they saw it). Be that 14.18′s het drama PR promo (OH OOP DAT WAS HIS), be that 15.1-3′s entire tension and the openly addressed and so-called by media sources break up (OH DAT HIS), be that 15.7′s low key textuality (to which the new author thanked the elder for guidance, huh), or 8′s heavily shot domestic separation moment loudly filmed in the choicefully hollowed out and dimmed kitchen bereft of family -- this change? This had a moment. And you can find it.

I’ll have some beef jerky and a pack of menthols.

So this has been eating at me ever since this whole topic came into play. 

Anyway full circle them trying to ride Bobo to Keep It Straight probably wasn’t their smartest idea ever. We gays are contrarian by nature so tell me to do it again, motherfucker. And now here we are in Destiel Divorce Season 15 as heavily managed by Bobo.

Everyone got so fuckin dramatic when Yockey said he was leaving like, tolling the burial bells of Destiel and-- like??? hello? BOBO? JUST? GOT? PROMOTED? Like Yockey didn’t make that entire platform all by himself, and hell, he didn’t leave without laying out unironic empty space of it. Yo guys, Berens done been here a WHILE to the point he’s now *callbacking his own season 9-10 material wtih him and dabb*. Like. Lmao. Guys. Guys listen. Listen. Think.

Whatever your weird goalpost is I’m not promising anybody’s anything is about to get hit. Whatever clown nose expectations you all have enjoy those and honk those loud and proud but remember most of those are yours. But respect the fact that Berens has essentially cornerstoned an entire queer canon within Supernatural discussion, of which others are included in as they joined.

And yes, queer canon. Not the way fandom throws it around for weird kissing spots, but articles of discussion of queer narratives, of which we can literally draw a wealth of episodes from LGBT authors or their understudies and literally point and go “all of that right there, officer.” Whether it’s visible or textual or undodgeable or marketed enough or glittery enough or whatever for everyone’s very unstable definition of “canon” -- Berens has literally cornerstoned an entire architecture of queer canon within this legacy show.