#the things in the corner if you can’t tell are magnets that represent all of them

[inafallsaway]

Drawing time!

[duskandstarlight]

Embers & Light (Chapter 28)

Notes: Happy Sunday every one. Thanks for last week's comments. They were so lovely and I love to hear from you all!This chapter is the one lots of you have been waiting for... not smut, but THE conversation. I hope you enjoy it... And sorry about the typos in this chapter, I can't look at this chapter any more! I'll try and scan over it tomorrow...Lastly, just a head's up that I might not be able to post next Sunday. Work is super busy this coming week and I haven't yet started the chapter. I'll try my best, though :)

Oh, and for those of you who ask every week, I post Sunday evening UK time between 7-10PM. I will rarely change and if it’s late, it’s because I’m still working on it :)

Also, sorry, there should be italics in some places but I am done editing so Tumblr will get what copy and paste has done!

Twenty-Eight Cassian POV

Lorrian and Cassian walked silently down the hall, following the servant who was scurrying in front of them. The sound of their footsteps rang around the hallway in an echo that was almost haunting, and if it wasn't for the meeting that has just adjourned—the Rite meeting which that was whirring around in his mind—Cassian would be contemplating how quickly he could organise their departure despite the wishes of his High Lord.

As distracted as Cassian was, he had still committed every corridor to memory. Every twist and turn as the house tunnelled into mountain rock. Up the wide staircase, right, second left, first right, next left…

Deeper and deeper they moved into the mountain. No doubt to ensure that the General and Colonel felt as uneasy as possible. No Illyrian liked being unable to escape through a window and step straight into the skies, and from what Cassian could tell, there would be no windows or doors that led them straight out into the heavens. Only endless crystalline rock and shadow.

Lord Marsh’s property always had been unusual in that way. Even though it was positioned on the wide ledge of the mountain pass, suspended high in the sky above the rest of the Ironcrest camp, the house did not stop when it hit the mountain wall. Instead, it tunnelled inside of it, providing a lodgings that was a vast, confusing labyrinth that was too easy to get lost in.

It was why Cassian had been so loathe to stay the night. To stay any longer than necessary.

Cassian could only thank the Cauldron that Rhys and Feyre’s presence had not been required. Neither of them deserved to be trapped inside a mountain again. Cassian supposed he could count his lucky stars that their presence had not been necessary. Would not be able to bear their anguish, even if they did their best to conceal it.

“Your rooms,” the servant announced suddenly, with a bow that was so deep Cassian wouldn’t have been surprised if the male’s nose had scraped the floor.

They had reached the end of the hallway, and in front of them was a heavy wooden door set into an arch.

Even through rock and stone, Cassian could sense Nesta. Knew she was located somewhere to the left with Frawley, thanks to that magnetic pull which never seemed to cease, even just for a moment. That was the one thing Nesta hadn’t been able to stop. She could constrict their bond as much as she liked—could freeze him out so nothing could travel up and down their twisted tether—but it didn’t stop him from being able to sense her. It was as if he was hyper alert to where she was. His body moved when hers did. His heart did its best to beat in tandem with hers. And when they were near, everything in him had a tendency to relax, as if he no longer had to worry.

Cassian didn’t know if Nesta felt the same. Would never know, given that they did not discuss their fate at all.

Lorrian bid goodbye to the servant as Cassian stepped through the door and into a hallway that was equally as dark. Two doors flanked the short, cramped hallway and Cassian took the immediate left, pushing the door that was ajar so it creaked wide open.

Unlike the rest of Marsh’s residence, the room was cast in a light that was almost unforgiving, betraying the dark ominous furniture and the gloomy crystalline rock thanks to bobbing faelights which Frawley had magicked to illuminate the room. To his left, fire raged silently in the grate, and ahead of him, in a huge stone bay straight ahead of him, sat Nesta.

The carved out rock was fashioned as if it were a window—an irony, given how deep underground they were—and Nesta’s back rested against the far left-hand wall. Her knees were bent, and her long legs, which were hidden beneath her skirts, stretched across expanse of the ledge. She was facing Frawley, who was sitting on the huge Illyrian bed which took up most of the floor space.

Cassian just had time to catch Nesta’s unfettered expression—the tight, bracketed mouth and the downward pull of her brows— before it was wiped clean.

“What happened?” she demanded, as Cassian cast a shield which threw the whole suite into an impenetrable sound bubble.

Her eyes bore into his, and across the surface, silver roiled like liquid mercury. Despite her careful expression, he felt her worry and Cassian wondered just how much he had accidentally hurtled down their shared bond whilst he sat in that meeting to have her so concerned.

“They’ve cancelled the Blood Rite,” Lorrian announced grimly, from where he had entered the room behind Cassian.

Nesta’s eyes snapped to Lorrian. Confusion twisted across her features, but she did not say anything.

“That,” Frawley said after a moment’s pause, “is very clever.”

Begrudgingly, Cassian nodded. Because it had been clever. None of them had seen it coming. The Solstice luncheon, which invited all of the nobility across Illyria, had been enough to ward away any suspicion when it came to the lordlings presence. Rite representatives were chosen privately by each camp, so there was no way that Cassian could have known that the lordlings who had recently met with Kallon planned to fill many of the positions. Nor had it crossed Cassian’s mind that the Rite meeting might have been pulled forward only for it to be cancelled, especially given how steadfast and stubborn Illyrians were when it came to tradition.

But, even if Cassian had asked Az to find out what representatives had been chosen for the Rite that year, they never could have predicted that Kallon intended to instate a hiatus on the most important ritual in Illyria’s long history—a political manoeuvre that would make the Night Court look even worse than it already did.

“How did he get the lords to agree to it?” Frawley asked, as she watched her husband sink down into a chair that sat in the right hand corner of the room next to a dark, looming wardrobe that only served to make the room feel even more cramped. “Those princes will usually be damned if they listen to a word the other says.”

“The Rite representatives,” Cassian announced with a heavy sigh, wishing he too would give in to the temptation to sink down and sit somewhere. Next to Nesta, ideally. “All of them were lordlings who met with Kallon all those months ago. And the worst thing about it all is that Lorrian and I swayed the vote in Kallon’s favour. He played us and we walked straight into his damn den. It made us look as if we were agreeing with him for the sake of politics, rather than because we thought it ourselves.”

Which was the irony of the situation, Cassian thought to himself grimly. Cassian had been worried for a long time about the unnecessary loss of further lives due to the Blood Rite. Had been losing sleep over it, just as his nightmares continued to plague him whenever he did succumb to the clutches of the unconscious. There was already so much ash of flesh and bone on Cassian’s hands from when he had deserted his legion for desperate screams. And now… he was existing on stolen time—a time which had been bought by a female who at the end of it all, had not accepted his heart.

“Every word of Kallon’s appeal resonated with the Lords,” Lorrian told Nesta and Frawley as he ran his hands over his face… over his dark, close-cropped hair and the nicked scars on his scalp. “He played upon the sentiment that is already festering inside so many of the Fae in Illyria. That the Night Court uses our warriors for their own gain in war but does not care about them in the interim.”

“And then Kallon presented them with the damn sword,” Cassian growled, clenching his fists at the memory.

Frawley’s eyes gleamed so brightly her irises turned glacial blue and amber. “You saw it up close?” she asked, leaning forward so eagerly from where she was sitting on the mattress that she near folded in half. “And what did you feel?”

“Ancient magic,” Lorrian replied grimly, even as his wife continue to stare at Cassian. “My own magic spiked at the sight of it. It was…” he broke off and shook his head, “It was odd. All of the lords could feel it, I am sure of it. Not one of them disputed that it was Enalius’s.”

Cassian remembered the way his siphons had throbbed and the ruby star over his chest had pulsed so fiercely it felt like a second heart—as if it were answering a silent call that even he couldn't hear. Only Nesta’s power had made Cassian feel like that before. It didn’t matter if it was silver fire or healing light, Nesta’s magic called to him, chanting and moaning until he thought he might combust from it.

But Cassian did not say any of that. Had barely dared to admit it to himself, let alone voice it out loud. So, instead, he flared his siphons and rummaged through the travel bag which appeared on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed.

His fingers found the book without having to search for it, his callouses brushing against soft brown leather. He pulled out Heroicis, the gold-lettering on the cover shimmering as he flipped it open to peel back the delicate pages.

It was easy to find the illustration of the sword. Cassian had stared at the drawing so many times the book wanted to be opened to that page.

He placed the book down on the vanity.  “It looked exactly like that,” he announced wearily, waving a hand to the illustration. “Except the jewel is missing.”

The rustle of clothing sounded as three Fae moved towards him. Cassian did not turn but he scented all three of them. Lorrian’s gentle rush of heat and sandalwood. Frawley’s damp forest earth after rain and air streaked with fire smoke. And then Nesta. She had drawn up to his left, but he would have known where she was in a room without scent or sight. Yet, he allowed himself the privilege of scenting her all the same, as that rush of her became sharper and more focussed, like a blade narrowing to an essential point: jasmine and vanilla and Nesta.

Rivalling most Fae in height, Nesta’s head barely reached his shoulder. Cassian desperately wanted to wind his arm around her and pull her close, but out of the public eye they were no longer pretending. He didn’t want to push the boundaries that were already so brittle. Would not disrespect Nesta by overstepping the mark. Not unless she indicated she wanted it otherwise.

So, Cassian pushed away the stark vision of him moulding her to his body, or the way he had bowed earlier to press his lips to her knuckles. Tried not to ponder over the temptation of brushing his lips over her cheek by the end of their visit…

“I did not expect a General to carry epic poetry,” Frawley drawled in amusement, but there was an edge to her voice that told Cassian she was holding something back.

Lorrian snickered at his wife and did what Cassian had yearned to do to Nesta—he dropped a kiss to the top of her white head. The Colonel had used his siphons to peel back his armour as soon as the door had closed behind them. With it, his arm had disappeared, and the Colonel looked more like himself.

“Well, witch,” Cassian demanded with forced lightness, “is this an accurate depiction?”

“It is the only illustration I have ever seen that is correct,” Frawley said simply, her head cocked to the side so the white of her hair fell in an impossibly straight stream. The strands shimmered pearlescent in the light. The colour was almost otherworldly.

“Did you find anything out from the females?” Lorrian asked. He was rubbing over the stub of his limp, as if it was causing him phantom pain, his expression drawn tight.

The change of subject wasn’t as abrupt as it seemed. Cassian knew why Lorrian was asking. If they found anything incriminating against Kallon or the Ironcrest clan, it would aid them in stifling the rebellion that at this point seemed inevitable.

A fierce flare of pain wrangled through Cassian’s gut and his head snapped to Nesta, but she was staring fixedly at the book.

Lorrian had also turned sharply to Nesta, his eyes wide. His hand dropped from where he had been trying to ease the pain from his arm and his expression, although surprised, was free of any discomfort.

“Thank you,” Lorrian said quietly.

There was a pause that stretched out too long. All of them were silent, but Nesta dipped her chin without turning her head.

“The females didn’t speak beyond polite conversation,” Frawley began, steering all of their attention from Nesta. “But I did mention the kerit attacks on the widows camps.”

“Did you pick up any emotion?” Cassian asked Nesta.

“Yes,” Nesta replied, but her shrug dismissed the notion that she may have felt anything prominent. “Fear, disgust, anger towards the attacks. Most of it low level.”

Cassian frowned. “I suppose the attacks have not hit Ironcrest. They have not experienced the damage first hand.”

“There was a spike of horror and despair,” Nesta told him. “From someone. But I couldn't place it. It came from behind me and by the time I had turned the emotion had gone.”

Cassian stared down at Nesta. “Did you scent it? The insignia behind the emotion?”

Nesta shook her head. “All of the scents were jumbled. I got a flash of something, but I couldn’t—” Nesta stopped abruptly and her beautiful face twisted into a dissatisfied grimace. “If I sensed it again, I might recognise it, but—”

Already Cassian knew she was punishing herself. He refrained from putting a hand on her shoulder in silent reassurance.

“Even a Fae with years of practice would find it difficult to associate the source of an emotion in a crowded room,” Frawley said with a dismissive wave of her hand, as if she too knew that Nesta would not stop the self-blame. That it would rage internally until it consumed her. “You do not have eyes in the back of your head.”

“And from Kallon?” Cassian asked, even though he suspected he already knew the answer, and that he wasn’t going to like it.

They all watched Nesta’s lips tighten into a thin line. Eventually, she said, “He likes my power.”

Cassian knew that expression. Knew from the way everything had gone very quiet that she had frozen him out so he would not know how the promise in those yellow eyes had turned triggered Nesta’s trauma.

But the problem was that Cassian had learnt to notice the slightest change in Nesta’s expression. Had catalogued every movement in the four months they had lived together, even when he didn’t know what it meant.

Frawley’s brown eye flicked to Cassian. Even behind the brisk facade, Cassian could tell she was worried about Nesta. Cassian wondered what they had spoken about whilst he and Lorrian had been gone. “What time is this dreaded dinner?” she asked.

“In an hour,” Cassian grimaced.

“And do you think the princeling will be carrying the sword with him, now he has confirmed the rumours?”

Lorrian grunted a laugh. Cassian wondered if he, too, was thinking of the way Kallon’s eyes had gleamed triumphant. How tempting it had been to smack the princeling around the face. “I think we can count on it.”

 *** 

An hour later, the same servant escorted the four of them down the warren corridors to dinner.

Both Lorrian and Cassian had discarded their full-scaled armour for tunics layered with a stainless steel cuirass over the top. That, coupled with plates and fingerless leather gauntlets on both of their hands, allowed Cassian and Lorrian to showcase their siphons. The light-weight pieces of armour were made of the usual Illyrian scales, and whilst the armour was more ornamental than for the purpose of fighting, Rhys had worked his magic so it was as indestructible as carbon steel, if not more.

Lorrian’s right arm was back and glowing. Cassian understood why his friend wanted to face the vultures with all of his limbs, but he wished he could take Lorrian’s shame away. He supposed there was nothing to be done but to hope that time led to acceptance. Already Lorrian had come a long way. Had even started training with Cassian without his arm, learning to wield a sword with his left-hand should the occasion every call for it.

It was that willingness to adapt that reminded Cassian why Lorrian was an exceptional warrior. Why he would conquer where others would fail. The Colonel would be prepared for every scenario. Would know how to balance his body with and without a limb.

Opponents would not expect it. It would give Lorrian the upper hand in battle, rather than showcasing a weakness that anyone who knew about his limb would expect.

It meant that if Lorrian’s siphons ever became drained, that he could still fight.

Nesta and Frawley had also changed for dinner, even though the witch had grumbled at having to dress up for company she would rather obliterate from Prythian. Unsurprisingly, Nesta had only grown more divine with a change of clothes, but she had barely spared him a glance as she looped her hand through his arm.

Which, Cassian thought, had been just as well, because he had not been able to stop his eyes from darkening and his wings from rustling at the sheer sight of her.

Now, Nesta held onto him as they followed the backs of Lorrian and Frawley from where they walked in front of them. The two of them had fallen slightly behind, most likely because of their hesitancy to fling themselves back in the path of the vultures that were Marsh and Kallon.

And, Cassian admitted, because he had purposefully shortened his stride so he could glance surreptitiously at Nesta—at the dark, deep forest green of her long-sleeved dress, which had actually stopped Cassian’s heart and made his breath catch in his throat. Something which he knew Lorrian had clocked but had decided not to mention— thank the Cauldron.

The top half of the velvet material wrapped around Nesta’s every curve, before it billowed out softly at the hips into an A-line skirt. At her chest—which was bared rather than hidden away—the silver chain of the pyrite necklace fell tauntingly below the v-neckline.

Cassian thanked his lucky stars and the Gods combined that he could not glimpse her cleavage.

“Want to go home yet?” Cassian murmured, breaking their silence.

They had barely spoken since the luncheon and certainly not alone. Nesta had not commented when she had emerged from their bedroom. Had not mentioned the single bed that had taunted him when he had first entered to change.

Cassian had ensured they were not in the room at the same time. Was actually terrified to close himself into such a small and cramped space with her.

The way in which Nesta did not look up at him as he spoke told Cassian that she was very far away. Her huffed breath was practically inaudible, and she had an almost unreachable air about her that told him that for some reason, her trauma had caught up with her.

So, Cassian did what he did best. He decided to rile her.

“You’re going to have to lower your shields,” he warned her.

The slightest of frowns graced Nesta’s expression as they came to the end of a corridor and entered the vast landing that graced the first floor. Here, the flagstone floor was layered with a carpet runner that was dappled in brown and white, like the feathers of a hawk-crested eagle. “I’m aware,” Nesta clipped, that chin of hers raising as her back straightened.

Cassian brought a hand up to cover hers. Anything to get her to look at him. “You can stay in the room if you’d prefer,” he said quietly.

Those tempting lips thinned into a straight line. She turned her head away from him, so he could only see the intricate braid that weaved a halo around her head. “No, I can’t,” Nesta replied shortly.

She was not wrong. Cassian would not leave her deep in the mountain where he could not protect her. Even if that meant taking her to a place where her trauma would intensify.

He hated himself for it.

“I won’t let him harm you. I won’t let them touch you.” The words came out fiercer than he had intended, even if his voice was a low rumble.

There must have been enough urgency in his voice, because finally Nesta twisted her head to look up at him. Those eyes were a little less hollow. “I know,” she replied simply. Her eyes slid to a spot past his head. “I might harm them, though.”

A dark, please laugh issued from his throat, even as he wished that mercury would slide over the frosty blue of her irises. Nesta had issues summoning her magic when she succumbed to the numbness, and Cassian did not want her in this Gods damned awful place without her power at her disposable.

“I look forward to seeing it,” he responded smoothly, but his heart fell as she turned away from him again.

Desperation clawed at his insides—at the bond which was constricted by ice—that the next words left him without contemplating the gravity of them. “Are you wearing that dress to taunt me, Nesta?”

Nesta’s eyes snapped to his so quickly that everything in him jolted. A dim light throbbed in the depth of her gaze. “Excuse me?”

“This dress,” he said in a low confession, “has become my favourite thing.”

An unamused snort, even as a glimmer of embarrassment forced its way down their bond. It was fleeting and barely there, but Cassian felt it. Grasped for it. “Your favourite thing is chocolate.”

“My favourite thing is you,” he corrected, scarcely believing his loose tongue. He made his eyes glint playfully. “Chocolate is a close second.”

“In fact,” he mused after a moment’s pause. “The two together—”

“In your dreams,” Nesta snapped, her words coming out so sharply and with such aggression that both Frawley and Lorrian’s heads whipped round to stare at them.

Cassian grinned wolfishly, watching Lorrian shake his head at the obvious fire in Nesta’s eyes. The fire that Cassian was doing everything to rally.

Both of his friends had noticed Nesta turn silent in the hour before dinner, but neither of them had uttered a word. They understood the peaks and troughs—the challenges of life when things became too hard.

“That comeback again, sweetheart? I’d have thought you’d have something more original by now.”

“You are insufferable,” Nesta clipped. And at her hands… a wisp of that mist.

“Do you not like being complimented” Cassian taunted, stifling the way his blood soared at the faint pink that stained her cheeks—another blessed reaction.

Together they descended the elaborately wide staircase, moving slowly to accommodate for Nesta’s skirts. Usually, Cassian had no time for impractical attire, but he had long learnt that Nesta could wear whatever she liked and he would accommodate it, no matter how ill-thought-out. 

Nesta’s grip on his arm tightened into a death grip.

She was not looking at him again. Deliberately avoiding his gaze, even as his eyes did not once stray from her face, his legs carrying him blindly as he furiously scanned her for expression.

Finally, Nesta said with a quiet that did not lack in intensity, “A compliment isn’t true if it’s designed to be a distraction.”

Cassian huffed a breath of laughter. Of course, she had seen right through him. Yet…

He dared to lean towards her, to close the distance between them so he could murmur into her elegantly tipped ear. “It was a distraction,” he confessed honestly as they turned down the corridor that led off to the right-hand side of the foyer, “but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true, does it?”

Blue, smoky eyes latched onto his, Nesta’s chin tilting upwards to meet his gaze. It was a torturous form of bliss, the movement bringing her face far too close to his. She stared at him and he stared right back, even as his heart thumped hard against his ribcage.

He lowered his head further. Watched Nesta’s eyes widen ever so slightly as he closed the distance between them. She had stilled completely, halting them just outside of the dining room.

This time he allowed his lips to ghost her ear. Let the Illyrian roll of his tongue and savoured her suppressed shiver. The spark of something which wound itself around his ribcage. “After you, amore.”

Cassian made himself wink as he straightened up, as if he were entirely unaffected by her proximity.

And then he steered her into the dining room.

 ***

Dinner was worse than Cassian had anticipated, and by the time the four of them arrived back at their suite, none of them were bothering to hide their exhaustion. The door had barely shut behind them when Frawley brusquely announced that the sword which had been showcased at the dinner was undoubtedly Enalius’s, before she disappeared into her room with Lorrian following closely behind.

The first thing Cassian had done upon entering he and Nesta’s shared room was to flop onto the bed. Dealing with Lord Marsh was trying at the best of times, but tackling Lord Marsh, Kallon and the other arrogant lords, as well as the drama that came with it… Cassian had been fighting a headache all day and the pressure was now a keen, insistent throb behind his eyes.

That, coupled with a tense dinner that had slowly chipped away at his pain threshold, had Cassian desperately wanting to slide beneath the sheets and succumb to sleep.

To Cassian’s surprise, Marsh had not been present at dinner, and from the way that Kallon sat unfazed at the head of the table, Cassian gathered that it was not an unusual occurrence.

Kallon had held audience with an ease that had rivalled Rhys when he was playing cruel High Lord during a visit to the Hewn City, and apart from the shadows of servants lining the walls, no other lords and ladies had been present at dinner. It had been a surprising move. Cassian had expected Kallon to parade and taunt in front of the watchful eyes of the Illyrian nobility, who would no doubt disappear later to whisper into others ears…

But, instead, it had only been the five of them. That had been enough to tell Cassian that whilst Kallon might have no qualms in wielding words as vicious as Nesta’s, he also did not believe he could control the tongues of those he was dining with. That he knew that despite the sword that lay gleaming on the gilded cushion further down the table, that they his company had the capability of maiming him if they saw fit. Something which Kallon could not afford given his victory earlier that afternoon.

This fear came to a conclusion halfway through their main course, when Kallon deigned to insinuate that females were not designed to wield a sword.

“Are you saying,” Nesta asked with a deathly sort of calm that had Cassian tensing, “that you do not deem females worthy of protecting themselves?”

“I think that the Night Court should protect the entirety of its court so the females don’t have to worry about protecting themselves,” Kallon had responded swiftly, his sharp knife slicing into his bloody steak as if it were nothing but butter.

“What you are saying,” Frawley corrected, her voice brusque and hard, “is that you do not  see females as having any other purpose than bearing younglings.”

“Is that not their purpose?” Kallon had challenged. He paused, surveying all of their faces with a grim sort of satisfaction, before he had pressed on, “Is that not what is needed for a race who has lost more males in this war than it has seen in hundreds of years?”

“A female’s worth is not found in their ability to reproduce,” Nesta had responded coolly. Her voice, Cassian had noticed, had dipped into the deathly sort of calm that usually preceded an outburst of flame. “In fact, I have not met one male in Illyria who is more worthy of learning how to wield a weapon than the females in Illyria’s camps.”

“And does that sense of worth extend to the males around this table?” Kallon had replied, his yellow eyes gleaming at a sudden opportunity. Like the rest of the residence, the dining room had been dimly lit, illuminated by faint faelight and the fire that raged in the hearth. It meant that shadows had crept across the walls and table as Kallon leant forward to where Nesta was sitting at his right. “I assume not, given your tendency to fuck anything that moves.”

The sentence was as abrupt as a slap to the face, but Nesta did not move. Did not give any indication that the princeling’s words had hit home, even as Cassian’s gut had wrenched.

“It is funny,” Nesta had mused icily, her voice as cold as the fiercest Illyrian winter, “that you should try to shame me, especially given that if I was a male, I am sure you would be praising me for such a consistent pursuit of pleasure.”

Carefully, Nesta had set down her goblet, her eyes boring into the princeling’s with such intensity that Cassian had been surprised that the male hadn’t burst into flame.

Other than Frawley’s snort of agreement, nobody had dared to move. Time had passed. Time in which Cassian vowed to remain steadfast to his silent promise that he should not interference unless it was absolutely necessary. Even as Kallon did not back down.

Together, they had all watched the princeling settle back into his chair with the relaxed sort of ease that had Cassian wanting to castrate him. “Perhaps then, I should surprise you by showing you my room in case you fancy pursuing some real pleasure later—”

“That is —” Cassian had started to snarled, banging a fist on the table just as Lorrian had growled, the sound a low, deep warning—

And that was when the entire room had glowed silver, the magic snapping around the room with such ferocity that it was like a whip cracking against bare skin.

When Nesta’s magic dropped—when Cassian’s blood had reduced to a simmer rather than boiling—Cassian realised that exercising her magic had been the perfect excuse for Nesta to silence the fire that had been crackling fiercely in the grate behind them. The fire from which Cassian had spent the entirety of the meal trying to shield her from as best as possible, his wing curled protectively around the back of her chair.

Even so, the showcase of Nesta’s power had been startling and undeniably effective. As Nesta’s temper had flared, that silver fire had ignited in the grate, swallowing the orange flames as mist wreathed up her arms, eddying around her at such speed that it began to seep across the table towards Kallon.

And the whole time Kallon’s eyes had gleamed. Not with fear, but with the kind of awe that Cassian felt when he’d first witnessed how magnificent Nesta was.

It had taken everything in Cassian not to leap across the table and rip the princeling’s head from his body. From the way Frawley was gripping Lorrian, it had seemed as if his friend felt the exact same way.

But to Cassian’s surprise, Nesta had only let out a low, cruel laugh which had sliced through any of Cassian’s intention to intervene.

Instead, he had watched, riveted as those eyes of pure mercury raked up and down Kallon’s body with a look of unbridled disgust. And when Nesta had spoken, her voice was as terrifying as the promise of death, “I would never deign to lower myself by sharing a bed with you,” she told Kallon, “and I certainly hope that no other female has been forced to endure it.”

Infuriatingly, Kallon had only let out a musical laugh rather than a snarled retort. “And I suppose you would rather pair yourself with a male who has nothing to give you—not a title or a name, only the promise of a cheap necklace. Perhaps that is why you seem to have no true inclination to secure your future with him.”

Then, Kallon had slowly dragged his eyes to Cassian. “I would have thought your role in leading the Night Court’s armies would pay better than that, General. But I suppose you can’t take the bastard out of the slums.”

It had been at that point that Nesta had found Cassian’s hand under the table. It had been the most careful of movements—unnoticeable to anybody but them. The clasp of her fingers around his and the easing of the pain and fury in his gut had been the only thing that had stopped him from either beating Kallon to a pulp or leaving the meal in a rage.

Both of which would only have allowed Kallon to emerge triumphant… So, they had eaten in the sort of tense silence, speared sporadically with the odd ferocious comment. And at the end of the table, that damned sword had lain on the gilded cushion, gleaming magnificently in the firelight, calling to Cassian’s power in a way that pulled at his skin…

Now, recollecting the monstrosity of the evening, Cassian wanted to ward away the feeling of unworthiness that still lay bitter on his tongue. There was also a sense of foreboding that he could not shake. A terrible knowledge that whatever he and Nesta had  constructed between them was something false rather than true.

There were so many cracks they had hastily tried to ignore. So many past actions that had been pushed to the background rather than being acknowledged.

Cassian didn’t know what would happen if they were addressed. If it would fling the two of them so far back into the past that it would shatter the present.

Yet… it seemed inevitable. A hulking, looming presence that clung to them like a shadow.

But for now… Cassian wanted lightness. He wanted to know that he and Nesta were ok. So he waved a hand tiredly at the room, and said, “Sorry we have to share.”

“It’s fine,” Nesta replied finally, as if she had been so far away it had taken her a while to rope herself back to reality.

Cracking open an eye, Cassian watched her close the bedroom door behind her. She had closed their bond as soon as they had left the dinner table. Cassian did not know if it was a deliberate move to shut him out, or just an attempt to sever any emotion. He knew she must be feeling raw. Lowering one’s shields did that, especially for Nesta, who felt more than everyone else. Azriel had warned him of that. Had confirmed what Cassian and Feyre had always thought. That Nesta’s gift expanded outside of the power she had clawed from the Cauldron. Something which had always existed inside of her but which had been magnified further when she was Made.

“I wouldn’t want my own room here,” Nesta elaborated when she caught him studying her.

Cassian watched Nesta’s ever perceptive eyes scan the room: the simple, whitewashed walls and the pine furniture. The room was of moderate size, although Cassian would wager that it wasn’t Lord Marsh’s biggest guest room. That silent rebuff hadn't gone unnoticed — not that Cassian cared. He had endured far worse conditions, after all.

Most of the floor space was taken up by the Illyrian bed, which was big enough for two sets of wings. Now, Nesta hovered beside it as if she were unsure what to do next. It was the most awkward he had ever seen her.

“By all means,” he drawled tiredly, waving to the other side of the mattress. He folded the wing that he had spread onto the other side—her side—of the bed, “I can sleep on the floor. Just...give me a moment.”

Ignoring his invitation, Nesta floated over to the dressing table instead. Propping his head under a bent arm, Cassian watched her as she started to slowly take the pins out of her hair.

For a long while, the clink of metal on wood was the only noise that filled the room, and Cassian was just about to ask Nesta how many gods damned pins she used, when she started to slowly unspool the hair from the top of her head. Jaw slightly slack, Cassian watched in awe as Nesta parted the thick strands of the braid with well-practiced hands. When she was finished, she began to brush it out, until the light brown strands shimmered gold in the faelight and the teeth no longer snagged on knows.

Cassian wondered if any male had ever seen her do this: the simple act of getting ready for bed. He hoped not. There was something intimate about watching Nesta let her hair down, as if every pin that came out of her head removed a little bit of that mask, revealing a younger, softer version of the hot-headed hellcat he usually had to contend with.

“You’re staring.”

The words clipped through the silence, as sharp as a cutting knife.

Well, perhaps she wasn’t a softer version, after all.

Cassian’s eyes slid to Nesta’s in the mirror. In the dim faelight, the blue of her irises had given way to a stormy, mesmerising grey. He made his lips pout, even as he imagined running his fingers through the soft strands. “Your hair looks prettier than mine.”

The faintest of smiles tugged at Nesta’s lips. It was slightly wicked, the only warning she gave him before she tossed him the ivory-handled brush.

Cassian’s hand snapped up, catching the brush inches from his face, his eyes never straying from hers.

His grin was triumphant and when Nesta rolled her eyes at him, the gesture so uncharacteristically playful, satisfaction burned through every pore, every fibre of his being.

How far they had come.

“Then brush it, you stupid brute. I won’t deny that it needs it.”

Cassian laughed throatily—the first true laugh he had let loose that day. “I thought you liked my rugged looks?”

A soft, unimpressed snort. “A wholly made up notion.”

He watched Nesta rummage through her travel bag and pull out a white cotton nightdress and some toiletries, before disappearing into the adjoining bathroom. He brushed his hair whilst the water ran and then peeled off his clothes, baring his skin to the chill air.

The glare Nesta sent him when she reemerged would have sent a lesser male scarpering. It made him wonder how any of the males she had bedded had even made it home with her in the first place. She crossed her arms defiantly over her chest, which only emphasised the swell of her breasts beneath the cotton. She was still wearing the pyrite, and the metal shone mockingly against her creamy skin—silver flecked with gold.

The sight of it so close to her cleavage had him biting back a groan.

Mother Above, he had to get a grip if they were going to sharing a room all night.

“You can’t wear night clothes like a normal person?” Nesta hissed at him.

With a taunting grin, Cassian rested a hand on a hip, highlighting his tight undershorts. He refrained from flaring his wings—largely because the space did not accommodate for it. “I usually sleep nude sweetheart, which would you prefer?”

And then, not waiting for her to start on him, he headed straight for the bathroom, making sure their skin brushed as he passed.

To his delight, Nesta’s angry snarl chased him until he closed the bathroom door firmly behind him.

When he reappeared five minutes later, Nesta was already under the covers with her nose buried in a book. Silent, silver flames licking fiercely up the chimney from the open fire grate. The heat was fiercely warm and very welcome, especially given that this deep underground, there was little warmth to be found. The heat sunk deliciously into his skin, and Cassian flared his wings slightly to fight the goosebumps that were scattered across the sensitive membrane.

Since Nesta had lit the torch at the widows funeral, she had taken to lighting the fires throughout the house, and Cassian had become so used to the glow of silver flames in every fire grate around the house that he barely bat an eyelid.

It warmed him, though, to see the house alight with silver and warmth. To see Nesta unafraid and relaxed. To see her sit near the fire, rather than as far away from it as possible.

“I didn’t see you sneak a book into the bag,” Cassian commented, as he pulled a blanket from the wardrobe and pulled on some loose pants. He had been teasing her before about sleeping in his undershorts. He’d mainly wanted to pull a reaction from her, to see how she would respond to his bare skin.

Her hiss had been satisfying enough. Not that Cassian hadn’t hoped for more. A too long glance, or even better, a blush.

Nesta didn’t glance up at Cassian as she turned the page. “You should know better than to think I’d travel without a book.”

He watched her eyes move across the page, utterly absorbed. Her long hair fell over her face and unconsciously she tucked the strand behind an elegantly arched ear. A signature move of hers, however unconscious, that he had yet to name. It was fast becoming one of his favourites.

Nodding, Cassian reached for the pillows on his side of the bed to distract himself from looking at her. Her next words made him pause.

“Just stick to your side.”

Nesta did not look up. She gave none of her focus to him yet she must have been watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“I don’t mind,” he reassured her after a moment.

A flip of a page. “There’s no room for your wings down there.”

She was right. It was a tight enough squeeze for his body let alone the wings on his back, and the blanket would do little to protect him from the cold flagstone floor. Cassian had endured far worse of course, but the thought of tucking his wings in that tight all night... well, he’d suffer for it tomorrow. And even though he knew sleeping an arms length away from her would be torture of a different kind...

“Thank you,” he conceded softly.

No acknowledgement, yet… this was progress. Only months ago, Nesta would have made him sleep on the cold just to watch him suffer.

A contented groan escaped him as the mattress moulded to his sore back. He rolled onto his side, flaring his wings to settle behind him and examined her.

The faded paperback Nesta was reading was well-worn. Many of the pages were dog-eared and Cassian knew that he’d seen her curled up with it before. He craned his neck in an attempt to try and read the title on the spine. He would bet good money it was a love story. No, he would bet his entire wealth that it was a love story.

It was quick, but he caught Nesta’s darting glance. It was enough for him to break the silence.

“Why do you read romance novels?”

A burning question Cassian had wanted to ask her more times than he could count. On both hands.

Not that he didn’t have his own theory on that.

“Why do you read books about war?” Nesta countered.

A slow, taunting smile. “I asked you first, sweetheart.”

Nesta rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Why can’t I read them?”

Cassian bit back a growl of frustration. “You can read whatever you like. What I mean is why do you enjoy reading romance novels so much?”

Nesta bookmarked her page with a scarlet ribbon—a gesture at odds with the earmarked pages—and placed it on the nightstand with a sigh. “I revoke my offer, you can sleep on the floor.”

“But what about my poor wings,” he whined.

“Feyre’s right, you really are Illyrian babies.”

Cassian scowled. “I’m full of testosterone, thank you very much.”

Nesta snorted. “Rumour has it that Azriel has the largest wingspan.”

The soft snarl that tore out of Cassian’s mouth surprised even him. He hadn’t made the noise deliberately, it had been completely unconscious, just as much as the next words out of his mouth. “Would you like me to prove you wrong, Nesta?”

His voice had turned low and husky without his bidding, as if it had done so purely on instinct. Maybe allowing himself to get in the same bed as Nesta had been a mistake. The scent of her was enough to cloud his judgement and this close... He could have his mouth on hers in seconds.

“I’d like anything but, actually,” Nesta clipped, completely unfazed by his act of dominance. “Besides, males seem to forget that it’s style over substance.”

Propping himself up on an elbow, Cassian leant towards her. He arched an eyebrow at her, his expression cocksure. Somehow, his headache had completely vanished. “Lucky for you, I have both.”

Nesta’s groan was one of long suffering. She reached to undo the clasp of the chain around her neck.

“Don’t take it off.”

Nesta’s head snapped round to his, his sudden command at odds with their banter. He held up his hands, the two ruby siphons glinting from where they sat firmly on the leather straps.

“We’re in that much danger?” she asked.

Cassian sunk back down onto his side, “I’m not taking any chances, and... I won’t be able to sleep if I know you’re not wearing it.”

Nesta’s lips parted slightly but her hands slowly withdrew from her neck. The stone glinted briefly against Nesta’s skin and then she extinguished the lights.

The soft flicker of silver that glowed from the hearth was the only reprieve from the darkness that fell across the room. Cassian wondered if flames would go out when Nesta fell asleep or if they would keep on burning.

The sheets rustled as Nesta got comfortable. In the following silence, Cassian could make out the reassuring thump of her heart. It wrapped around his own, the feeling a comfort until his breathing slowed and his muscles relaxed.

“He’s horrible,” Nesta said suddenly into the darkness.

“Marsh?” Cassian asked, but he knew who she meant. Wasn’t sure why he didn’t say it out loud.

“Him too, but I meant Kallon.”

Cassian grunted in agreement. Then, he dared to say, “He’s taken a liking to you.”

Revulsion forced its way down their constricted bond and into his gut.

Cassian didn’t need to look at Nesta to know her expression was hard. “He’s a pig-headed Illyrian brute.”

A flicker of a smile tugged at Cassian’s mouth, despite the subject. “I thought I was a pig-headed Illyrian brute?”

“Then I’ll have to rework my insults for you in light of recent events.”

Cassian barked another true laugh. Would Nesta ever stop surprising him? He suspected that if they were to spend a lifetime together, he would never grow bored. Would never be tempted to look in another female’s direction.

“I feel both triumphant and expectant,” he confided, before he sobered. “You didn’t have to defend me, earlier. I’m used to the comments. It doesn’t matter what I do, but my race will always see me as a bastard first and a General second. Being coupled with you is not something they will ever believe I deserve.”

More rustling of the sheets as Nesta turned onto her side to face him. Through the shadows, Cassian’s Fae eyesight could make out Nesta’s eyes staring directly at him. Even in the muted light, they were mesmerising. “I had a pretence to upkeep,” she replied shortly, as if that explained everything. But then her voice became so quiet that his ears strained to hear her. “You’re worth more than them.”

Usually, Cassian would have teased Nesta for voicing something so groundbreaking, but in this room—in this shared bed—the words dissolved on his tongue. He was momentarily speechless, so much so that the silence became awkward and weighted. His family had attempted to address his insecurities before, but it had never been enough to quash the beliefs that had been drummed into him from a young age. Cassian, too proud to succumb to the seriousness of the conversation, had brushed his family off until they left him well alone.

Azriel was the only one who truly understood; it was why he had never seen himself worthy enough to pursue Mor.

By the time Cassian summoned the courage to open his mouth, Nesta was already speaking, “How do they know about the war?”

The question made his heart stop. Not just because Nesta had mentioned a subject they usually stayed well clear of, but because, for the first time, she was addressing what had happened between them on the battlefield.

“I don’t know,” he admitted softly, ignoring the way his heart had begun to hammer in his chest. “By the time the healer had mended my wings everyone was talking about it. I think a conversation must have been overhead by a healer.” He paused, hoping Nesta might speak again. When she didn't, he added, “I was… very angry when I found out.” He palmed a hand over his face to try and soothe away the nerves that were humming agitatedly inside of him. He had done his best to ignore the whisperings behind his back.

It hadn’t been hard at first. The aftermath of the war had taken all of his attention. He had barely had time to eat and sleep, let alone digest the gravity of what others had found out. Not that he had gotten the gist of it in drabs: the entirety of the Night Court knew of how they had defended one another; how Nesta had been willing to die with Cassian when she could have run.

They did not know what he had promised. That he had kissed her, even though they were calling it the greatest love story in centuries. Cassian would never forget how Nesta had lain over him when she’d had the chance to run, and the urgency to her voice—the way it had cracked—as she had said; I can’t.

It was those two words which hounded Cassian the most, because even now, he did not know whether Nesta had said that because she hadn’t wanted to leave him, or because she had no choice.

“I assumed it was my sister and her loose mouth.”

Nesta’s words startled Cassian, bringing him back to the dark room rather than the muddy battlefield where his body was broken but his heart was full and aching. And in truth, Cassian had expected Nesta to draw a line under the conversation by ignoring him and feigning sleep, the next morning a fresh page where they need not bring up the previous night’s discussion.

Despite the dark, Cassian nodded, even though he was unsure as to whether Nesta could see it.

He had considered the same about Feyre. Not on purpose, of course, but by mistake. Feyre had been a witness. The original witness. “One thing I’ve learnt growing up Fae is that there are eyes and ears everywhere,” Cassian said eventually. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t prefer having my business kept to myself.”

Cassian knew Nesta was fiercely private, far more than him. Was it that invasion coupled with the monumental pressure that came with being spoken about by Fae and humans alike, as they whispered about the greatest love story in Prythian—the lowly bastard and the human Made Fae—that had been the final straw for her? Or had it been the death and destruction which had slammed the door shut on something as naive and fanciful as love?

The desperation to know—to understand—was so fierce that Cassian could not stop himself from asking what he had never dared, “Is that why you wanted nothing to do with me?”

A long, stony silence that eventually began to simmer with anger. Cassian did not know if it was the audacity of him having asked or for bringing unwanted memories to the surface.

Finally, Nesta clipped, “I wanted nothing to do with someone who treated me as second best.”

The icy dismissal in Nesta’s tone had goosebumps rising on Cassian’s bare arms. Recently their conversations had been a torturous, delicious heat rather than frosty, but this delivery… it made Cassian feel as if he had stepped back into the past.

They were going there then. A conversation Cassian never dreamed they would have. Yet here they were... and suddenly he was so terrified it would ruin everything he wished it would stop, even as he asked in a low voice, “In what capacity?”

Snapped words like the crack of a whip. “In every capacity. Let me go to sleep.”

“Nesta,” Cassian pressed, not caring that it was dangerous. Desperate to try and understand why they were not together when his entire body was begging him to close the distance. He knew she must feel it too. Hoped that she did. That it was not just a wishful fantasy on his part. Cassian had always thought their chemistry undeniable. It was what scared him.

It never went away, the wanting.

“What do you mean second best?” he urged.

“The fact that you do not know shows how stupid you are,” Nesta replied coldly, turning away from him, signalling that the conversation was over. Through the shadowy dark, Cassian could make out the slope of her shoulder and the outline of her curvaceous side. The spill of her hair, a tempting drape across the pillow.

He curbed most of the desperation that wanted to creep into his voice. “You are speaking of Mor.”

An abrupt snort of confirmation.

“Mor is my family,” Cassian said carefully, even though he knew his words would not convince Nesta.

“Your dynamic is not familial.”

“Not at the start, no,” Cassian admitted, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. To give himself distance. Because he could not bear to stare at her turned back as she tried to shut him out. “We slept together once when we were very young. It has never been repeated.” He blew out a long breath as he ran a hand over his face, trying to smooth over his pained expression. “She used me to lose her maidenhead. I don’t know how much you know, but Mor was mutilated by her family for it—she was dumped in the Autumn court with a note nailed to her womb for her betrothed to find her. It collapsed her marriage proposal and I have been responsible for that mutilation every day since, not least for driving a wedge between me and my brother.”

As he trailed off, the blankets moved and to his surprise, Nesta’s shoulder dipped slightly towards him. He’d clearly piqued her interest. “You mean Azriel.”

“Yes,” Cassian admitted bitterly. “I slept with Mor because I was a jealous prick and Az was besotted with her. His diverted attention made me feel like I had lost my brother and I thought it would make him move on.” Loosing another sigh, Cassian rubbed his tired eyes with the heel of his palms. “I grew up alone, so when I moved in with Rhysand’s mother and Azriel joined us… he and Rhys were the closest I had ever had to a real family. When we were a three, it was the first time I remembered being truly happy. Mor threatened that, so I did what I thought would remedy it. I was a naive, arrogant prick and bedding Mor is a regret that I have lived with ever since.”

Pausing, Cassian took in a deep breath. He’d never voiced any of this out loud before. It had always been something he and his family did not discuss out in the open, not until recently with Mor, anyway. And he had not gone into so much depth.

He hoped that Nesta understood what it had meant for him to be happy for the first time, when before that he had been miserable and alone. Nesta herself had confessed to Frawley that she did not know when she had last felt joy, but then Cassian had felt it the other day, the sensation so wonderful in her stomach he felt as if he had been knocked of breath. He had flown to find her, followed that tether between them that was more visceral than he had ever felt it, before he realised that this was not his moment to experience. So he had turned around in the skies, headed back home, waited to see Nesta later. Her face had been flushed and she was dirty from a day of helping in the widows camp… but her face, it was free of that mask. With it, her expression was less severe and the light in her eyes made her irises a shade lighter. It was the most beautiful thing Cassian had ever seen. And when she had seen him, she had smiled without thinking. As if he, too, brought her joy.

It had been a quiet smile. Secret. His.

But where could Cassian even start to begin explaining the mess of the love triangle between Mor, Az and himself? Of the guilt he felt for a few minutes of pleasure which nearly costed Mor her life.

A bitter laugh escaped his lips. “I felt so much guilt over what I had done—over what happened to Mor and for betraying Azriel like that—I spent the next five hundred years doing everything I could to make things easier between them. Azriel doesn’t think he is worthy of Mor and Mor isn’t interested. So I stepped in when I could… I eased the tension. I let Mor use me as a buffer and it just… it became a bad habit. We fell into an unusual friendship. Mor can be very protective of me.” He sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “I can see how things were misconstrued. I think about it a lot, Nesta. I think about it all the time.”

Only silence met his confession.

“Things won’t be like that anymore,” he pressed on. Because he needed Nesta to understand that Mor was not in the equation—that she never had been—even though he was sure he and Nesta would never be anything but two Fae forced into close quarters. “Mor has finally been honest with Azriel.”

No reply. Nesta had turned preternaturally still again, as if she weren’t breathing.

“Nesta?"

“What.”

It was only one word but it was more vicious than anything she had said to him in months.

He felt his blood heat as he propped himself up onto an elbow. “Are you going to say anything or are you going to ignore me and pretend this conversation never happened?”

Nesta’s body moved slightly beneath the sheets as her muscles seized up. “I don’t think any of it matters now, so it’s not relevant.”

“It has always been relevant to me.” Cassian’s voice came out as a low hiss, his self-control snapping as his vulnerability became too much to bear. He threw a protective bubble around the room, sound proofing them inside. For the sake of their pretence, he couldn't have Fae ears overhearing their conversation. And… he could not bear Lorrian and Frawley overhearing something so painful. “You terrify me, Nesta, because I have never been so fucking captivated by anyone in the whole five hundred years I have been alive. From the very start you were different and it scared the shit out of me. My entire family knew it, too. I’m not a fan of everyone knowing my business, either, believe it or not, and they witnessed you putting me down at every step.”

Nesta’s snort was so cold that his entire blood heated fire. He was thankful for the dark to conceal how red his face has turned. He wanted to throttle her at the same time as he wanted to press her into the mattress and slant his mouth on hers. To show her that even now he only wanted her. That Mor meant nothing. Hadn’t for centuries. That he’d royally fucked up in so many ways that he didn’t even know how to start apologising.

“If you cared so much, perhaps you would not drop my hand when your friend enters the scene or gift her lingerie whilst I am in the same room. You are disgusting,” she spat. 

Then, Nesta was facing him again with such sudden speed that Cassian braced himself for an attack, but Nesta only propped herself up onto an elbow. Her hair fell like a curtain over her shoulder, the flare of silver from her fingertips lighting the room with a sudden brightness.

“You asked why I read romance novels,” Nesta said, her voice having dropped suddenly into a quiet fervour that was no less chilling. “I read them because I was engaged to a boy who turned out to be cruel and I have watched a five hundred year old male discard and ignore me as he pleased. I would rather read about love than be in it. After all, I recall you saying that I was not worthy of love.”

“Sweetheart—” Cassian croaked. The blood had drained from his face and he knew that if he were to look in the mirror all he would see was a haunted ghost of himself. “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to say that. You were so empty. I couldn’t reach you and so I lied. I thought you’d get angry at me, but instead you just walked away.”

“You are not unloveable,” he told her fiercely, when she remained silent and so fiercely sad his heart clenched. He had not known that she was engaged to that human filth. “You are the exact opposite. If anything—”

He stopped abruptly. Took stock. Her light was still glowing around them, illuminating the room in an ethereal mist which he would have considered beautiful if the two of them hadn’t been consumed by such agony.

“You’re not unloveable,” he insisted vehemently, after a moment’s pause. “And love doesn’t work like that. You can’t choose not to love, sweetheart. You know—”

“We decide how we act on it, that’s what matters,” Nesta interrupted, that mist sparking momentarily into flame before it was eaten by shadow.

And that was the crux of it. The truth behind the words—the calculated response that told Cassian that Nesta had thought of this over and over again. He would not change her mind when it came to him, because it all boiled down to her ability to choose. And he was not a choice. He had been thrust upon her. They were history rather than present. Would always be that way, it seemed.

Cassian fell onto his back as the gravity of the realisation crushed him with such force that for a moment, he felt as if he was choking.

“It was wrong of me to do those things,” Cassian said quietly, forcing out the hoarse words through the tightness in his windpipes as a result of the crushing disappointment. “All of it was wrong of me. I know that, Nesta. You may think I’m old but around you I find myself a teenager.  On Solstice last year I didn’t know how to deal with the situation so I ignored you before you could do it to me and then regretted it later. I hoped you would speak to me. I hoped—”

That you would change your mind. That you would want to be with me. That you would stop fucking all those males. That you would forgive me.

But Cassian did not say those things. Instead, he said, “Look, we just need to pretend to be together for one more day and then you don’t have to think about being tied to anyone ever again.”

Silence.

That as all he needed to move. Logic told him that he should stay put—that he should remain calm and rational rather than affected—but the pain was too much and he found himself sitting up and pushing off the covers. He needed distance. In this room all he could scent was her—jasmine and vanilla—and it hurt, to be so close and know that he could not comfort her without the knowledge that she’d set him alight.

Cassian had thought he’d drawn a line under it all. Thought he’d accepted that he was content to co-habit with her and resist the undeniable pull between them for the rest of his days. But they had taken such big steps forward recently. Had thought things had continually shifted until all it boiled down to was their connection, which ran far deeper than twists of rope and a damn Cauldron.

At times, Cassian had even thought Nesta had wanted him to touch her. Had almost leant in to him. Walked close, stayed close.

Snorting, he discarded the memories, angry at himself for having wished for something that he had tried to put to rest.

“Where are you going?” Nesta’s words were sharp. The fanciful part of him detected alarm, but Cassian pushed it away. He knew better.

“To sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Again, Nesta moved with that extraordinary speed that Cassian should have accounted for. He had seen her in the sparring ring, had witnessed her move so fast that she was almost a blur. Only he could move that fast.

A mist-wreathed hand closed around his wrist with a strength that had his heart beating in his mouth and his siphons flaring. “Stay.”

Cassian ran a shaking palm over his face, pressing the heel of it to his eyes, hoping the pain of it would ground him. “I can’t,” he lied.

“You can,” Nesta said shortly, but there was a quiet plea lacing her voice. “You will.”

When Cassian didn’t move, Nesta tugged on his arm, urging him to join her back on the mattress. “Please,” she breathed, and this time Cassian did detect panic, as if Nesta had not bothered to conceal it. “I don’t want to fight with you. You’re the only—”

To Cassian’s dismay, Nesta broke off as her eyes filled with tears. When she spoke, her words were barely audible—small, “I like my life at the moment. I’ve never liked it before.”

Something cracked inside of Cassian, the sound internal and akin to the smashing of china.

“I don’t want anything to change,” Nesta continued. “I don’t want to have to move back to Velaris. I want to stay with you where I feel safe.”

Her expression cracked. The tight line to her mouth trembled and a frown twisted across her features. A tear slid down her cheek. “I said awful things to you,” she admitted.

“Yes,” Cassian conceded with a sad, tremulous smile, because even now he did not want her to hurt. “And I said awful things to you.”

“I wanted you to leave me alone. You scared me.”

“I know,” he replied. Because he understood what she meant. How even though his blood sang when she was near, he was equal parts terrified. “You scared me, too.”

“I needed to make you leave.”

“I know,” he repeated again. Because he knew that, too. Knew she had purposefully driven him away. She had wanted to hurt and be consumed with trauma. To finally feel nothing. To make sure the those she cared for were safe from her.

A broken sob had Cassian cupping Nesta’s face before he could help himself. Her skin was unbelievably soft against his calloused palms. He brushed a thumb over the arch of her cheekbone. “Nesta,” he breathed, waiting until she looked at him, until blue and hazel clicked into place. “I want you to stay with me. You never have to move back to Velaris, not if you don’t want to.”

Nesta did not reply. Did not move away. He bowed his head until his forehead was resting against hers, wanting her to know that he was sincere. That he wanted her to stay not because that’s what she needed to hear, but because he didn’t know what life would be like without her in it.

“I like living with you,” he told her again, because he knew somehow that she didn’t believe it. “I don’t want you to leave, either.”

Then he pulled her to him. She didn’t resist, her body pliant as he wrapped his arms around her. Cassian could feel Nesta’s heart, the sound pattering to meet his, as she wound her arms around his bare waist.

Her furled fists rested lightly against his skin, the pressure welcome and wonderful as she finally held him back.

“So, you won’t sleep on the floor?”

Such a small voice. Vulnerable and trusting. A voice she didn’t use with anyone but him.

“No,” Cassian assured her, knowing that staying was something he would never refuse. Something he couldn’t. “I won’t sleep on the floor.”

When he lay on the edge of his pillow closest to hers, Nesta settled beside him. She found his hand beneath the blankets, her fingers threading through his.

The initiated contact had his blood thrumming and he resisted the urge to pull Nesta back to him and wrap her in his arms.

An indeterminate amount of time passed.

Cassian listened to Nesta’s breathing as it became even; the slow, relaxed beat of her heart. The sound of his, thumping in tandem. Watched her eyelids flutter shut and her features soften. Felt how her fingers remained entwined with his.

“We would have crashed and burned. I would have dragged you down.”

Quiet, sleepy words. A confession, really, and Cassian stilled in surprise at the honesty that was not spat or wringing with deadly venom, but level. And if Cassian allowed himself to be rational, he knew that Nesta was right. Despite the thorny, overgrown path they were trampling down, it had all been necessary. Trauma, internal conflicts, self-doubt, complicated relationships… there were so many things that the both of them had needed to face before they could be truly content. What was it Cassian had said to Rhys when his brother had asked about his happiness? I’m working on it. He still was, but with Nesta beside him, still holding tight to his hand, Cassian found the world a little brighter, despite the shadowy future that lay ahead of them—a shape that had not yet taken form.

So, Cassian allowed a small smile to creep onto his face. “Maybe I’d like to be set alight.”

A soft snort. “That doesn’t mean you should.”

Then, Nesta’s fingers squeezed his. Soft breath travelled across the pillow to caress his cheek. “Goodnight, Cassian.”

He wondered how many times Nesta had actually said his name without being in mortal danger or when she had needed to get his attention. His name sounded intimate on her lips, a whisper of a prayer across the void that he hoped was narrowing between them.

In his mind, Cassian raised her hand again to press a kiss to her knuckles, even as he merely tightened his hold on hers.

It was in that moment of calm that Cassian vowed that he would change Nesta’s mind. That he would spend this gifted time showing Nesta that they might be strung together but that he had chosen her, if she would have him.

In the flickering silver light, Cassian felt Nesta began to slip into unconscious. Felt her fingers loosen their grip on his, but he held on tight, and said, “Goodnight, Nesta.”

Tags: @arin1030 @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @iammissstark @lovelynesta @melphss @nestalytical @darkshadowqueensrule @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @grouchycritic7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @princessconsuela02 @lavendergoomsltd @little-diyosa @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @sjm-things @imwritingthesewords @nestable @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta @inyourmindeye @amelie775  @iwastoowildinthe70s @helen-the-weirdo @pizzaneverdisappoints @san-y-a-blog 

[real-work-of-art]

Can We Fall?

A little fall themed piece. 

A/N: Thank you x a million to @oh-honey-styles, @for-fucks-sake-h, @andwhenshesays, and @haute-romance-quotidienne​ for always reading and encouraging me. 💕💕

Word count: 1.9k

Many people consider fall a time that represents sadness. As the leaves fall off the trees or as the days get colder, it’s only a matter of time till winter storms in with her frosty bite. But for you, fall always feels like electricity hanging in the air. Like something new could be waiting at the end of every gust of wind.

You were walking out of your favorite coffee shop on this cool Saturday morning, heading to the small pumpkin patch just around the corner. Dressed in your favorite blue jeans, brown booties, and a thick knit mustard cardigan, you held on tight to your cup of this month's specialty drink.

The pumpkin patch was less of an actual patch and more like a little stand surrounded by pumpkins that also sold some delicious fall desserts.

This was your tradition— every year you picked out a few small pumpkins and gourds to decorate your apartment with.

Luckily it was still early enough in the morning that only a few other people were out picking up pumpkins. As you approach the stand, you notice a young couple pushing a stroller and a man dressed in a black hoodie and running shorts picking through the box of gourds. Waving to the cashier, you walk around the little stand to search for the perfect sized pumpkins to decorate your window sills with.

Looking down at the pumpkins scattered on the ground, you notice two giant pumpkins next to a pair of feet. As your eyes travel up you realize it’s the man in the black hoodie. Letting out a little snicker, you wonder if he carried both of those over at the same time. The image, making you let out another little giggle.

~~~~~

Hearing what he thinks is a laugh, Harry looks over his shoulder to see a woman wrapped in a yellow cardigan, smiling down at his feet. He follows her gaze to the pumpkins next to him. With furrowed brows and a small smirk, he looks back up, but no one is there. Confused, he turns his head to the other side trying to find where she went. He only sees the couple talking to the cashier as they pay for their pumpkins. He questions if he imagined her. Just as he is about to forget about the strange moment, he hears a quiet “oh shit” come from the back of the pumpkin stand.

He sets the gourds he is holding back into the bucket, taking a few steps towards the back. Popping his head around the corner he sees the woman. Her back is to him but she’s bent down picking up an empty coffee cup and wiping away at a pumpkin covered in coffee.

“Are you okay?” Harry takes another step towards the girl but she jumps at the sound of his voice, falling back onto her butt.

Harry tries to take another step but his foot catches on a pumpkin and he trips. Falling on his hands next to her, he lets out a grunt before turning his head over his shoulder to look at the woman next to him.

~~~~~

You’re staring back at him with wide eyes, trying to hold back a laugh. “That pumpkin is a menace,” you say with your thumb pointed over your shoulder.

Shifting over to his bum, he leans back on his hands with his legs stretched out in front of him. “He takes the trick in ‘trick or treat’ very seriously,” he says with a smirk that makes a dimple dig deep into his cheek.

You laugh at his joke, while taking in the mess around you.

“I’m Harry by the way,” he says as he moves to stand, sticking his hand out to help you up.

Sharing your name, you grab his hand and let him pull you up, not letting the strength of his grip and his pull go unnoticed.

Dusting off your jeans, you’re at least thankful none of the coffee spilled on your clothes. As you check the different places of your cardigan for possible coffee stains, Harry picks up your now empty cup and walks to the nearby trash can, careful not to trip on any more pumpkins.

“Sorry about your coffee,” he says as he makes his way back to you. “They sell a really good pumpkin coffee cake here, though.”

“Oh! I’ve never tried it. I always get the apple pie.”

“Me too! It’s my favorite.” Harry was smiling at you but after a few seconds, when neither of you spoke again, you found yourselves awkwardly looking around at the pumpkins scattered on the ground.

“Um. I was actually just about to get one. Would you want to join me? Maybe we can split that coffee cake too.” His voice was smooth but you could see the hopeful glimmer in his eyes and the way he was fidgeting with his fingers.

You really wanted to turn him down. He was a stranger, after all, and the whole situation felt a little awkward, but you were also planning to order a dessert. So, it would feel silly if you both just sat at opposite tables.

Your eyes scan around the little pumpkin stand, realizing you are the only two customers left. “Um, sure,” you finally say. Looking back up at his face, a flash of surprise runs across his features before a smile spreads across his lips and his teeth poke into his bottom lip. You look away, distracting yourself from letting your mind wander with thoughts of how pink and soft his lips look.

Harry steps around you, walking back into the stand and straight to the cashier. You follow behind him unsure how this whole thing is supposed to play out.

As Harry reaches the counter he quickly begins to order. “Two apple pie slices, a pumpkin coffee cake, and two hot apple ciders, please.” You’ve barely reached the counter as Harry is pulling out his wallet and handing over his credit card.

“I can pay for mine,” you try to interject while reaching for your own wallet.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says with a smile, quickly making eye contact with you before turning back to the cashier. “I can carry this over. Do you want to grab a table?”

Honestly, you’re confused. Confused why this stranger is being so nice to you. It’s not like he knocked the coffee out of your hand or pushed you to fall on top of those pumpkins. There’s no reason for him to be buying you treats and offering to eat them together.

Regardless, you nod shyly and walk towards the two little tables set up against the stand. You slide into the seat with your back towards the counter. If you got up right now and ran away he wouldn’t know which direction you ran in. Checking over your shoulder to see if Harry is looking at you, you notice him engaging in a full on conversation with the cashier as they put your order together.

Maybe this guy is just friendly with everyone? You turn back around, quickly getting lost in the possible reasons for how you got here, who this man is, and why he’s so kind.

Lost in thought, you barely register Harry approaching the table, carrying a tray filled with all of the treats he ordered.

“Alright, here we go! One apple pie for you,” he places the desserts on the table in front of you, and quickly runs back to the counter to return the tray. When he sits down at the table he’s looking at you with the biggest smile spread across his face. You can’t help but let the corner of your mouth pull up into a smirk in response to his happiness. There really is just something so magnetic about him.

Harry and you talk and share stories while you finish your food. He asks you tons of questions about yourself, listening to your answers with an endearing intensity. He fights you for the last bite of the coffee cake, ultimately letting you win. His smile leaves you breathless every time. He tells you about his career, apprehensive at first but relieved at your calm reaction.

You knew of Harry Styles, of course. Having been a fan of One Direction back when they were together. The band separated and your life moved on as well. You tried to follow along with their careers. Listening to the music they released whenever you got the chance, but you hadn’t seen a picture of Harry in years.

He really was just a normal guy. Strikingly beautiful, sure, but also kind and genuine. He makes you laugh and as you both gather up the pumpkins you had picked, he offers to walk you to your car that was parked down the street by the coffee shop.

He insists on carrying your things for you, and as you reach your car, after placing everything in your trunk, you find yourselves standing awkwardly in front of each other. You want to see Harry again, but don’t know how to make that happen or if he is even interested.

Clearing your throat you finally speak up. “Thanks for walking me to my car, and for dessert. It was really nice meeting you,” you say as you dig the toe of your boot into the sidewalk.

“I had a great time too.” He looks like he wants to say more but quickly averts his eyes back to the ground shuffling his feet backwards. A gust of wind whips between you two. Stuffing his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, he slowly brings his eyes back up to yours, holding your gaze. With eye contact so intense, your body feels like it’s being pulled towards his.

“I uh thought, um maybe…” he stumbles over his words before taking a deep breath, “Maybe we could do dinner and dessert next time?” You can’t resist the wide smile spreading across your face, so completely endeared by him.

“Yeah, I would really like that. Maybe I could give you my number,” you offer. Harry quickly pulls his phone from the front pocket of his sweater. Unlocking it and handing it over for you to save your number in it, he can’t seem to wipe the smile off his face.  You wonder if he’s having as much trouble as you are controlling the pounding of your heart against your chest.

Returning his phone back to him, you watch as he takes a moment to read over your contact in his phone. “I’ll text you,” he says accompanied by another one of his gorgeous smiles.

“I hope so,” you quip back as you step towards your car. Harry steps back as well, moving to turn and walk back up the street. He gives you one last look over his shoulder as you slide into the driver's seat. Watching him walk away for a couple more seconds, you turn on your car, place your phone in the cup holder and buckle your seatbelt. Just as you reach for the gear shift, you hear your phone vibrate. Seeing a message notification, you unlock your phone to view the message.

“Are you free tonight? - H”

Shaking your head, you let out a chuckle and quickly type out your response.

“Completely.”

Thank you so much for reading!

Falling For You (part 2)

Other works

Golden

The Night Before

Shut Up And Kiss Me

[moonyandsaturn]

this love

What if Sirius escaped from Azkaban sooner... you can also read this oneshot here

Remus could remember it clearly. It wasn’t all that long ago. A year or 2, maybe? It’s hard to keep track.

James and Lily died and Sirius went to Azkaban. Peter was dead too, but he could care less.

It had been darkening skies for what seemed like eternity. Not just for himself, Remus was sure of it, everyone could feel it. The war was just simmering down, but could that really be the end of it? Trust was a fickle thing. You can’t bet your life on it, or anyone else's. Truth was in the same boat. Lies were a swirl of black and white with no signals to guide you.

But the truth, the truest of truths, was that the feeling never dimmed. And it was as heartbreaking as it was fulfilling. Did he believe that Sirius killed them? No, but everyone else did. And Remus would be just as doomed to express that.

--

“Moony, look,” Sirius had nudged him slightly. The two were splayed on the grass, under the shade of a kindred oak tree. The Summer holidays were coming up and Spring was livid.

“Hm?” He bent his next up sleepily to see what it was. A little butterfly was perched upon Sirius’ knee where he sat. Remus smiled. “I think it likes you.”

It was his turn to smile now. Sirius hummed in agreement. “Did you know,” he started and Remus sat up next to him. “That butterflies represent hope?”

“No, where’d you get that?” He aimlessly picked at the grass in front of him as Sirius continued.

“A book?”

“A book?”

“Yes, I’m sure you know what that is, Moony.” He smirked.

“Ha, Ha,” he deadpanned. “What a load of useless knowledge you are.” Remus leaned to the side so that he was leaning on Sirius’ side with his shoulder to rest his own head on.

“Useless! I’ll have you know this might come in handy!”

“And when could that be?” He laughed.

“I don't know,” Sirius admitted. “Sometime.”

“Sometime?”

“Yeah.”

“You aren’t very convincing.” Remus teased.

“Sirius grinned. “You still love me though.”

He pressed a kiss on his cheek. “Yeah, but that didn’t take any convincing.”

“No hope either?”

He laughed. “Unless you’re talking about my mum then no, I don't think so, love.”

“Maybe some other time then.” Sirius leaned his head on top of his.

“If you say so,” Remus smiled. He looked back ahead and the butterfly was gone.

--

Remus tried to convince Dumbledore into letting him take care of Harry. It didn’t work, obviously. His condition wasn’t suitable for raising a child. He couldn’t disagree. But, Harry was now stuck with some of Lily’s muggle relatives. The Dursleys if he remembered right. Not that Remus had anything against muggles. His mum was one so how could he? But for Harry to grow up without knowing anything about James and Lily? Well, that was the problem. Dumbledore seemed not to care. Perhaps he had other things to do rather than taking care of the next generation of wizards.

He visited them once, the Dursleys. Petunia was a thin little woman with pouty lips. There weren’t many similarities to Lily in her, but Remus could recognize one: her eyes. They were the very same as Lilys, and the very same as Harry’s. She wouldn’t let him in to see Harry. He didn’t even see a peek into the house to look at any other people living there. Petunia claimed to know him from “The Pictures”.

It was well known that Lily loved to take photos. She had an old polaroid camera, the muggle kind. It would print out photos right as you’re taking them. James, Peter and Sirius were obviously very fascinated. She took it everywhere. It hung from a strap around her neck. Remus could recall a few of the photos she took.

There was one of all of them sleeping on the Common Room couch after falling asleep while trying to study. Another Lily charmed to move like the painting they had in the castle. It was one of James and Lily dancing. James had just proposed as Lily, of course, said yes. Remus, Sirius, and Peter were hidden by a nearby tree to watch the outcome. Lily loved dancing. It was quite honestly, the perfect moment. Remus never figured out where that photograph went.

He had the teary-eyed job of cleaning their home after the Potter’s death. But he could never figure out where the specific photo disappeared to.

--

“Wait, wait hold on!” Remus could see Lily grinning as she released herself from James’ embrace. They didn’t know him, Peter, and Sirius were standing behind three separate trees watching them. James finally got the courage to ask Lily to marry him. He bought the ring 3 months prior but was much too nervous. In these times, he wanted to make sure to keep time precious. Who knew how long they had left? So, he decided he wanted to spend however long they had left with Lily. And they were destined to be together anyway, it didn’t even feel rushed.

“What are you doing?” James let go and watched her. Lily took her camera from the strap around her neck and placed it on top of the dull brick wall to their right. It was this small alcove area near Hogwarts. James thought it to be sentimental to propose where they met so many years ago. Remus thought it was sweet.

She scrambled to get her wand out of her back pocket and casted a quick charm on the top of the camera. They couldn't hear the murmur that escaped her lips as she did it. She walked back toward James with a smile on her face.

“So, what was that?” He placed a quick kiss on her cheek.

“When I press the button to snap a photo on that,” she pointed to the camera. “It should come out like one of those live photos they have in Hogwarts. Even though it’s muggle made.”

James laughed. Like, really laughed.

“What?” She hit him lightly with her wand.

“I just proposed to you but It looks like I’m marrying you and you’re captured memories.” He smiled softly down at her.

Lily reached up and adjusted his glasses to sit right on his nose. “You certainly are.”

They started swinging in tune to an imaginary song together and the wind hummed the melody. James spun her around, under his arm before continuing the dance. Lily quickly reached her hand out to press record.

The two danced and held each other softly.

Remus turned his head when he heard a sigh. He looked to his right to see Sirius looking at him.

“I forgot the cloak, how do we get out of her without them seeing?” He whispered.

Remus shrugged. “Run for it?” He moved his head back to see Peter two trees away and he nodded in agreement.

Sirius made a look that said ‘if you say so’ and motioned for Remus to come over quickly.

“What if we just waited for them to leave? James is gonna freak when he sees us here after telling us not to follow him.” Peter said, closer to the two of them now.

“Um, I don't think waiting here with them slobbering over each other is going to be very fun for us.”

All three of them looked over at the couple. Who was now simply talking to each other.

“Ew, heteros,” Sirius grimaced. Remus laughed quietly.

“Okay,”Peter started. “Count of three we go east, toward the lake, and then, hope James doesn't catch us.”

Sounded like a good plan.

“Right then, One, two, and three!”

Sirius, being as forgetful as he is, might have mixed up easts and wests. Luckily there were more trees scattered to hide where he was. Unfortunately, there was not enough sound to cover Peter’s yells.

“YOUR OTHER EAST, PADS!” He yelled at him, hands cupping his lips.

“Peter, shut up! They’re gonna hear us.” Remus scolded.

“We already did!” Lily replied coolly and out of vision. Peter and himself poked their head out from behind the tree.

“OH FUCK, YOU SAID EAST NOT WEST DIDN’T YOU?” Another yell came from a few yards away.

Remus held in a muffled laugh but relaxed when he heard James and Lily.

They walked over.

“You know I literally saw you all follow me, right?” James said, leaning against the wall.

“Obviously not,” Remus replied.

“Oooo, group picture!” Lily grinned and turned around to prop up that stupid camera once again.

The last thing Remus could remember laughing at was when Sirius came running back saing, “GET MY GOOD SIDE!”

--

Remus got in bed late into the night. He stumbled around the nearly pitch-black room and crawled into the warmth of countless quilts and pillows. The dreams he silently screamed in the night were the most comforting that he’s felt in a while. It was still hard to sleep alone. Or with anyone else for that matter, but that didn’t happen often.

He once dreamt that these past few years had just been a sinking ship. Some people caught in a rainstorm. A curse planted by thieves. He woke up thinking that it had all been imaginary. That it was in his head. Remus could basically hear Sirius' voice in his ear. “Don't worry, Moony. It’ll turn out alright. We’ve swam together and we’ll sink together, right?” What a surprise it was when he was wrong.

Most people would be wishing for it to all be a joke. For everything to go back to normal. Remus was much too realistic to think that way. He had to keep in mind his condition. Maybe it was for the best. He knew he’d be the first to die if it were by natural causes. The moons weaken his body month by month. It’s a wonder he hadn’t passed already. And for someone to be bitten at such a young age? Unthinkable that they’d live past 30. He was to be 24 in March, time drew faster than he could keep up with.

He’s been able to stay in his and Sirius’ old muggle flat. Sirius paid it off before going to Azkaban and it was similar to staying there. Not that he wanted to. Every corner had some sort of sentiment tied to it. Yet Remus could never bear to take anything down. For the past 2 years the same photos have been getting dusty, the magnets on the fridge have been losing grip, the couch had some new found stains, and the coffee table had prints of mugs scattered like freckles.

It was the ground floor which was unfortunate. The upstairs neighbor didn’t enjoy being quiet. Plus, it felt more invading. All the people on the street could simply just look through the window or put their ear against the wall and hear whatever was going on. Not much, usually. Remus didn’t have a lot of people over. Just himself. He didn’t want to go back to any wizarding towns. No, that was too disgraceful.

There were always two responses when people saw him. It’s one or the other, neither being very pleasant to hear. The first was sympathy: “Oh, you were the one whose friends died. I’m so sorry, dear. Oh and one was sent to Azkaban for the murder of them! My, how horrible. I’m very sorry for your loss.” The second was worse: “So where were you when the Potter’s died? Did you not try to protect them? What about that other one, who gave up his inheritance for a sinful life? Oh, he’s gone to Azkaban. Hmm, I’m glad you were the one who got away…Somehow… ”

And so he gave up going out to places with people he knew. Loneliness was better than being ridiculed.

Sleep was a tedious project that crept up when unwanted and hid itself when needed. Remus pulled the covers tighter and over his ears.

A warm light flickered outside. A fire?

Muggles normally didn’t use candles or anything while walking down a street. That's what the sidewalk lamps were for.

The light burned and flickered.

He saw someone walking on the sidewalk. Young, he thought, maybe in use of a good washing, though.

Remus thought nothing of it.

When morning came a note could be found on his doorstep, not even in his mailbox. Which was weird because there was a code to get into the apartment building.

Harry’s alright, I hope you are too.

At the bottom of the torn letter was a familiar paw print of a love he once knew.

[olitech]

Thoughts on the Z Fold 3

The Samsung Galaxy Z Fold 3 is an interesting device. While it is not the first foldable device made by Samsung, and not even the first foldable device on the market in general (though Samsung certainly was the first real company, I'm not really counting the horrible Royole Flexpai) for me personally, this is indeed my first foldable device.

So what is it like? For context, I am a long term Samsung user, having used the S2, S3, Note 4, S7 edge, S9+, and recently the S21 Ultra. Coming from the S21 Ultra the Z Fold 3 isn't that extreme in size, and folded it lies even better in my hand because it is less wide. Typing on the slimmer front screen is certainly something you have to get used to though.

The weight increase of 44 grams from the S21 Ultra's 227 grams to the Fold's 271 grams is noticeable. It isn't the end of the world or tipping the scale into "This is way to heavy" territory, but you will notice it when you handle them one after the other. The Z Fold 3 is, however you hold or handle it, definitely not a small or light device. Considering you have a foldable tablet in your hands, that fact isn't really surprising - it is kind of the point of this whole thing.

So If you want something small and light, you are definitely in the wrong market segment if you are looking at this phone.

The device can be unlocked with the fingerprint reader in the Power button on the right side, which I massively appreciate. I guess they can't yet fit an under display fingerprint reader into this kind of display due to size constraints and I am happy that's the case. I have an under display fingerprint reader on my S21 Ultra and my Galaxy Tab S6 and constantly have to retry with both of them to unlock these devices. These fingerprint readers have not yet gotten to the same level of performance the old ones are capable of, so I am really glad the "old" tech has made it into this device. If you want to unlock your phone with your face, that works perfectly fine, but in a world full of masks today the fingerprint reader is in my opinion the most versatile option, when done this way at least.

For my use cases, this thing is clearly overkill, I'll be really honest. Watching a Youtube video or TV Show is really nice on this device, especially if you want to watch classic shows like Star Trek The Original Series or Knight Rider, because the unfolded screens aspect ratio of 5:4 is really nice for those old 4:3 shows. 16:9 content is fine too, but there is of course quite a bit of screen real estate you are not using in those cases. But since this is more of a productivity device, 5:4 is the perfect aspect ratio in my opinion.

Typing on the unfolded screen is nice, but takes some getting used to. I have been using this phone since I have received it on Friday the 20th of August 2021, which has been 5 weeks now, and I still mistype quite a bit. I don't know why it takes me so long to get used to the split keyboard I use with Microsoft Swiftkey. When typing or swiping on the screen the crease of the folded display is very noticeable. When you watch or read something it quickly becomes absolutely not an issue, I couldn't care less. But you definitely will feel the crease with your fingers or even with the S-Pen.

Coming to the S-Pen, and the Note package available for this device. I like the S-Pen for the Fold 3. I have the smaller one of the two available since Samsung gave me the Galaxy Z Fold 3 Note package for free as a promotion for preordering the phone. The Note package contains a Super Fast Wall Charger supporting up to 25W, and this should have come with the phone itself in my opinion. I understand the environmental concerns these companies cite as the reason they don't put chargers into the box anymore, but for this price I simply cannot accept that this is the case. It just feels cheap when you open up such an expensive device and there is the phone and a cable in the box and nothing else.

I'm sorry but I have to start swearing for the next section of this article. You have been warned.

The Flip Cover that comes in the Note package is a horrible fucking mess and I don't want to meet whoever designed this thing because I would be scared of that person and the drugs they must have taken designing this thing. The cover doesn't stay closed, flops around like a flaccid dick and just feels like cheap crap. I cannot tell you how glad I am they gave that package to me as a free promotion for preordering, because if I bought this package and actually paid 89,90 Euros of my money for this cover I would have been fucking pissed.

Samsung, if anyone of you is reading this, you can do better than this. Much better. It feels like someone decided 5 minutes before production started "Hey we have this new folding phone, and we decided not to make a new Note, so why not combine the Pen with the Fold 3?" and wanked out a design on a napkin during dinner while the kids were screaming at them.

I am not a massive fan of the magnetically attached pens the Galaxy Tab Series and the iPad use, so I appreciate having a place to actually store the pen in, but the front opening part of that cover makes this thing completely useless in my eyes. And I think they kind of knew that, since you can take off the part of the cover the pen stores in - a fact I didn't see anywhere other then one single Youtube video made by the channel HighTechCheck in his video "Best And Worst Cases For Samsung Galaxy Z Fold 3", here is the link, it's a great video in general if you're looking for cases for this phone:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X2TBKlm-R2E&ab_channel=HighTechCheck

There might be other videos showing this feature of the Note Flip Cover of course, but this is the only one I came across while looking for accessory videos for this device.

Continuing on with the S-Pen, I understand that they had to make a new version because people would've poked holes into their screens with the old one - the new one is spring loaded to prevent you from pressing the pen to hard onto the screen - but what I do not like about the new S-Pen (at least the little one, I don't have the bigger one to test this with) is that you can only use it on the inner screen of the Z-Fold 3. That's right, the smaller of the S-Pens available for the Z Fold 3 does not work on the outer display of the phone when it is closed. I do not know why that is. It works perfectly fine on my S21 Ultra screen, but not on the outer screen of the Z Fold 3. I find that very bizarre. The outer screen has Gorilla Glass Victus on it, it certainly isn't a matter of screen protection. And it works on the S21 Ultra, so what the hell?

I'm a tech nerd, so I love the technology behind the foldable screen and the new form factor this results in. But I don't write 20 emails a day on my phone, or write a book on it, or anything like this. I use the big screen on the Z Fold 3 mainly for content consumption, Google Maps occasionally, web browsing, looking a photos, stuff like that. I am not a productivity monster that actually does multi tasking with a device like this. It is a great phone and the continuation of a new era in mobile technology and screen technology, and I'm glad I could be here to support that change because this means cool things might come out in the future with this technology. Could I still do everything I usually do on my S21 Ultra? Yes, yes I could, easily. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad I bought this thing, but for someone like me this is massive overkill, as it probably will be for most people. Most people who buy this thing with their own money might not agree with that I guess. They have to justify the price of 1800 Euro for this thing after all. But I prefer to be honest with myself, and with you.

This is not a sensible device. It is absolutely a fun device and a great look into the future of what will one day be possible with this display tech, not just in the smartphone world but with screens in general. Just like that rollable LG TV this is technology that can be used for so much more than smartphones - it doesn't even have to be foldable. Just being able to put a display around a corner like it is a plastic sheet and having that in a fixed position opens up cool possibilities, once the tech is even better, and most of all, cheaper.

So no, it doesn't make my S21 Ultra look like unusable crap when compared to the Z Fold 3 just because of the foldable aspect. But in my opinion that's not the point of this device. It is to further push along the technology and establish it so it becomes more common place. So it gets better, can be made better, not just because the manufacturer Samsung is continuing to work on it, but because they get feedback from users about the device. The more established and researched a technology becomes, the cheaper it can become, meaning better and new usage forms for this technology in everyday life. Take a screen like that, make it see-through and put it into my car windscreen. It doesn't need to fold for that, but it does have to be durable, and depending on the windscreen, at least bent in some form. Give me overlay graphics on my car window for navigation. Give me glasses not like Google Glass with a small area of a screen but have the glasses BE the screen with this technology in a see through version. Give me a Cyberpunk 2077 style visor. That would really be exciting for me. What this phone and it's display technology represent is what is more interesting and exciting for me than the device itself. But the device itself is still great and I do not regret buying it. If you're into tech and have the necessary funds for it, I can recommend it. Maybe you are even a person that uses this device to its full multi-task capabilities, who knows?

Speaking of which, multi tasking is a breeze with this thing, it's perfectly fine running several apps at once, not just switching between apps but displaying several at the same time since you now have the screen real estate to actually use it. Since I just launched my homepage (this will be the first entry on it, actually) who knows, maybe I will use more multitasking myself in the future when writing stuff on the go, reading and researching in the browser and typing a note on the side perhaps. I doubt it, since for real writing I really don't like to use the touchscreen, but if I have a quick idea on the go and I have time, I could definitely see this being very useful.

Battery life is not an issue either for me, last week I had a day where I watched 6 hours of Star Trek The Original Series on it at around 80% brightness and was around 65% battery when I stopped, which is pretty impressive in my eyes. I have the episodes on my phone, so I wasn't streaming them over the network in case anyone is wondering.

The software has so far given me no troubles, not all apps scale to the screen but they still usually work without issues, and many apps like Youtube for example are adapted to use the foldable aspect of the Z Fold 3 in several ways, like when you half-fold the phone, set it on a table, and have the video on the top and scroll the comments on the bottom. Or multi task by having one app on the top and other on the bottom, stuff like that works really well in most apps I am using, I can't really recall any app right now that had huge issues with the aspect ratio or the foldable nature of this device. Good job Samsung!

The back cameras are on par with the S21 Ultra, so they're in my opinion top, but I'm no expert. What even I notice is the inner camera under the display. No longer is there a hole punch style camera, this one is actually under the display, which drastically decreases the performance of that inner camera. It's usage for video calls I guess, but for a device in that price range I think I would've been fine with a hole-punch style just to get the better image quality. I've made a comparison video on Youtube, comparing the front camera of the S21 Ultra and the Z Fold 3:

https://youtu.be/h5uQ1IQeIvE

The Z Fold 3 is a tech nerds dream come true, and really does whatever you need it to do. Whether you actually need all of that and if it is worth the money is for you to decide. If you already have a tablet you use for media consumption, and if you aren't a huge productivity fan or need one device that does it all and can carry nothing else, then I'd say no, you don't need it. But you might still want it just the same, like me.

Sunday, October 3rd, 2021.

Oliver Weber

[calumcest]

Ashton from your soulmate au when he finds the tattoo?

HMMMMMMMM having THOUGHTS 

It’s one of those things where everyone remembers where they were when they found out. 

Ashton had been in the studio, bleary-eyed and sleepy, rubbing at his eyes as he mumbled a hello to Reg, who looked far too happy for a Thursday morning, and made to head into the live room. 

“What’s yours, then?” Reg had asked, and Ashton had paused, hand on the door, trying to figure out whether he’d somehow missed the start to this conversation. 

“Eh?” was all he’d managed to come up with. 

“Your tattoo.” Ashton had frowned, casting a glance down at his forearms to see the moons, the tally, the heart. 

“Reg, you’ve seen my tattoos,” he’d said, bewildered. Reg had rolled his eyes. 

“No, the new one,” he’d said. 

“The moons?” Ashton had asked, holding his forearms out. 

“The one you got last night.” Ashton’s frown had just deepened. 

“Mate, are you alright?” he’d said, a little alarmed. “Think I’d remember getting a tattoo last night.” 

“Have you not been on your fucking phone?” Reg had said, frowning at him, and Ashton had shook his head. He never goes on his phone before midday. Cleanses the mind, he thinks. “Fucking hell,” Reg had said, and had pulled something up on his phone and thrust it in Ashton’s face. 

Mysterious tattoos appearing all over Australia, Ashton had read. And then read again. And then re-read a third time. 

“Is this the Onion?” he’d asked, handing Reg’s phone back. Reg had sighed, exasperated, and pulled up his sleeve to show Ashton a brand new tattoo of two half-full test tubes on his forearm, ink crisp and dark on Reg’s skin. 

“Fuck’s that meant to be?” Ashton had asked. Reg had shrugged. 

“Not a clue, mate,” he’d said. “Everyone’s got one, though. People think they’re meant to be your soulmate.” Ashton’s stomach had flipped at that, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed face forcing its way into the forefront of his mind. He’d stared down at his hands exaggeratedly, frowning, turning them this way and that, looked down at his shins just in case. 

“Well, I haven’t got one,” he’d declared flippantly, and turned to head back into the live room, at which point Reg had gasped. 

“Yeah, you do,” he’d said, and Ashton had whipped back around at the speed of fucking light, twisting to look at his hips, his arse, anywhere Reg could have seen a fucking tattoo. 

“Where?” he’d asked, heart beating wildly, because he’s wearing a shirt and shorts, and he can’t see anything on his hamstring. Reg had pointed, which was fucking useless since pointing’s not exactly the finest art, and Ashton had snapped fucking where, mate? at him once more before Reg had leaned forward and tapped on Ashton’s tricep. 

“Can’t see it properly,” Ashton had grunted. Easier than saying I don’t want to see it. Don’t want to know. 

“Here,” Reg had said, pulling his phone out again, and Ashton had pulled back. 

“Nah,” he’d said. “Don’t want to see it for the first time on a photo.” Reg had cocked an eyebrow at him, hesitated for a moment, but then nodded and put his phone away. 

“Well, fucking get on with it, then,” he’d said, and Ashton had smiled uneasily, and it had dropped off his face the minute he’d turned on his heel and headed into the live room. 

-------

Ashton’s never really given the idea of soulmates much thought. 

He’d always believed in it on some level, he thinks - maybe not that there’s one person, but that there are multiple who are perfect fits - until he’d met Luke. 

Luke had been a fucking whirlwind. Three years of Ashton’s life, and he remembers every fucking moment of them more vividly than he remembers any before, or any since. He remembers the exact hue of blue of Luke’s eyes, the way they’d crinkle when he grinned, the way they’d well with tears when they watched a sad film, the way he’d burrow into Ashton’s chest and wrap his arm around Ashton’s waist and pull, and the way that Ashton’s heart would fucking sing in response. At first, Ashton had told himself it was just a particularly intense honeymoon stage. He’d read online that honeymoon stages could last up to two years, especially if it was long distance, and given that he was away for weeks at a time recording, he told himself that was all it was. The magnetic fucking pull of Luke Hemmings was just an intense honeymoon phase, just something Ashton knew all to well but had never experienced on this level. 

After two years, though, it didn’t abate. In fact, it got worse. 

Ashton would start to feel a little unwell if he stayed away from Luke for too long. Never to the point of actual illness, but it felt like there was something spiritually wrong, like his soul was misaligned. He told himself it was just love, normal love, but he knew it wasn’t. There was something stronger at play, and it fucking terrified him. Something told him he was going to spend the rest of his life tied to Luke, and he’d pushed back, said no, he’d only ever spend the rest of his life tied to himself. Luke could come along for the ride, but he wouldn’t be the ride. 

For the first week, he does nothing but read theories online - doesn’t look at his tattoo, doesn’t talk about his tattoo, doesn’t let anyone else talk about his tattoo - and he feels that same cosmic misalignment again. It’s never gone, not really, but he’s got better at managing it, at numbing it. He never feels quite right, but he never feels all wrong nowadays, either. The theories, though, bring it back in full swing. He spends hours lying in bed, feeling spiritually queasy, after reading article after article about how they might be soulmate markings and thinking fuck, fuck, fuck, because it doesn’t feel wrong when he reads it. It feels anything but fucking wrong, and no matter how much he wills himself to make it feel wrong, his heart sternly tells his mind no, not this time. 

It’s a full week before he can bring himself to look at it, and even then it’s only with a buffer. 

He gets to the studio early, knowing Reg’ll be there, and before Reg even has a chance to say anything, before Ashton has a chance to bottle it and go along with Reg’s conversation, he forces himself to speak. 

“Can you look at my tattoo for me?” A look of surprise crosses Reg’s face, and Ashton kind of wants to fucking die. 

“Sure,” Reg says, and he gets up and stands behind Ashton, touching his tricep gently. Ashton can feel something strong when his fingers brush over Ashton’s tattoo, and he’s not sure whether it’s a good or a bad sensation. 

“I don’t really know how to describe it, mate,” Reg says, letting Ashton’s arm drop. “It’s a microphone with daisies wrapped around it.” 

“Can you take a picture?” Ashton asks, voice small, and Reg nods, sliding his phone out of his pocket, and there’s the sound of a camera shutter and then the phone is being held in front of Ashton.

Ashton never thought he’d be able to pinpoint the moment his world fell apart, but then again, he never thought he’d be marked as Luke Hemmings’s either.

A microphone, Reg had said. But he hadn’t said an old-fashioned one, just like the one Luke has (or had?) stashed away in the corner of his bedroom, that he’d stopped using years and years ago, that Ashton had only ever seen in his hands once, when he’d thought Ashton was out for the day. He’d been tentatively singing a song, soft and quiet, like he couldn’t trust the notes to come out right, the words not to trip on their way out of his lips. Ashton had stood there, bedroom door open just a crack, absolutely fucking mesmerised. He’d known, then, that Luke had been it for him, and he’d nearly buckled under the weight of the fear that accompanied that fleeting thought. 

(Two days later, he’d called Luke from a phone box in California. Three minutes was all it had taken.) 

“Fuck,” he says, and puts a hand on Reg’s mixing board to steady himself, because, well, fuck. 

“Mate, are you alright?” Reg says, alarmed. Ashton barely even registers it, too busy seeing the beautiful, delicate little daisies wrapped in a chain around the microphone, each one too beautiful for the pain they represent. The blades are sharp, pointed, and Ashton vaguely wonders if there’s some kind of twisted symbolism in that.

“You really fucking think they’re soulmate tattoos?” he’d managed to grit out. 

“Dunno,” Reg had said, still sounding a little unnerved. 

“You know who yours is about?” 

“I- no,” Reg had said. “Do you really think they’re- are you- is it about someone?” Ashton had swallowed back bile, and nodded. 

“My ex.” 

-------

It had taken five weeks for Ashton to get the answer to the question he’d been dying to ask the minute he’d managed to process what the tattoo was, and what it might represent. 

Ashton had spent those five weeks breaking his no-phone-after-ten-and-before-midday rule day in, day out, picking it up and putting it down, typing out messages and erasing them again. It didn’t matter whether or not Luke had Ashton, he told himself, because Ashton had severed any chances they had at reuniting. Luke was probably in a new relationship. Luke probably didn’t even remember Ashton. Luke had definitely deleted his number. But then, if Luke had deleted his number, it wouldn’t hurt to text, would it? No, he shouldn’t. On the off chance that he hadn’t, his response might hurt Ashton too much. But then again, was he just telling himself that so he wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences of his actions? Running, the same way he’d been running for the past two years? 

In the end, the decision is taken from him. 

He’s in the studio again, breaking another one of his rules - no phones in the studio - twirling his sticks in his hands, bored, while Reg and Jasmine hammer something about the bass out. At first, he thinks he’s imagined it, the rapid buzzing in his back pocket, because he doesn’t bring his phone into the studio - maybe the construction work outside is louder than he’d thought - before he remembers shit, he had brought his phone into the studio, and pulls it out. 

Luke What’s yours? 

Ashton’s heart lurches, and his stomach drops, reading and re-reading the two words. 

What’s yours? 

It feels surreal to see Luke’s name in a notification again. Ashton had meant to delete it, but had only got as far as deleting the stupid nickname he’d given Luke, changing it to Luke Hemmings, and then deleting his surname, because it feels too formal and there’ll only ever be one Luke to him, no matter how many he meets. It’s a moment he’s dreamed of, daydreamed of, fantasised about, but not like this. Not so stilted, so cold, so distant. Luke hadn’t even said hello. 

But Luke wouldn’t have asked, surely, had his tattoo not been Ashton? There would have been no need, Ashton thinks, phone slipping down in his sweaty palms, catching it with one hand while he wipes the other on his shorts. Luke would never have thought to ask Ashton otherwise. But he’d taken five weeks to ask, so maybe it was just curiosity? Maybe he couldn’t figure his out, and was running through a long list, and Ashton was near the bottom? 

“Ash?” Jasmine calls, and Ashton looks up, wild-eyed, and she frowns at him. “Are you alright?” 

“What?” his voice is hoarse, and he clears his throat, but it just hurts his dry mouth. “Yeah. Uh. Yeah. Sorry. Give me...” he trails off, staring down at his phone again. 

“Take five?” Reg suggests, and everyone nods. Ashton barely even registers it, reading the two words again. 

What’s yours?

Should he lie? Maybe it’d be easier, for everybody involved, if he pretends it’s not Luke. They can both go their own ways and find someone else to love. There are seven billion people in the world, after all, and some of them don’t have tattoos. They could do it. 

But, the selfish little voice in his mind says, you don’t want that. You don’t want Luke with anyone else. You want him for yourself. 

And that’s true, it is, but even though it hurts every fucking fibre of his being, Ashton doesn’t think he can make Luke happy, and that’s what he wants more than anything. More, even, he tells himself, than he wants Luke to be happy with him. 

Me I don’t know. 

Me Not sure, actually. What’s yours? 

Me Hey, man, hope you’re good

Me It’s my friend 

It all feels wrong. Something in Ashton’s gut, something he’d only ever felt with Luke, tugs uncomfortably, telling him no, don’t lie. You need to tell him the truth. 

So he tries. 

Me Hi. I’m sorry for how everything ended. I wonder if we could speak on the phone at some point? It feels too impersonal over text. My tattoo is you, but that doesn’t surprise me. I’m not sure if you’ve seen, but people think they might be soulmate tattoos. I’ve seen a lot of different theories, but those are the only ones that seem to make sense. I’m sorry. For everything. I still love you. 

It’s too much, and it’s too late, and it’s not enough, and Ashton can never fucking be enough for Luke Hemmings. No one could ever compete with that fucking supernova, but fuck if Ashton doesn’t want to try and be a star teetering on the brink of Luke’s event horizon. 

Ashton’s backspacing before he even realises, typing two words before he can second-guess himself.

Me It’s you. 

[monsterboyes]

Welcome to Night Vale Fan Episode: Curly Fries

I wrote this Welcome to Night Vale fan episode for fun. I had a lot of fun writing out an outline of the story and coming up with ideas for dialogue. I might not have built up the outro as well as I wanted to, it’s kind of emotionally discordant with the story, but I had fun writing it all anyway. Honestly the entire story is based on me hearing the song I chose for the weather three times in one day, associating it with a concept from the series, and imagining Carlos and Cecil driving while it plays in the background. I wrote around that idea and this is what I came up with. I don’t promise official quality but I hope you enjoy!  -------------------------- Cecil: Not all who wander...are lost. 

...But, uh, we are. We are very lost. Please help. Welc-

Carlos: Ooh, let me do it! Carlos: Welcome...to Night Vale! Cecil: Listeners, today’s broadcast is very special, because as I’m sure you’ve already deduced, we have a special guest in our midst- my husband, Carlos! With whom I am hopelessly lost in the desert. Carlos: Hi everybody, really glad to be here! Cecil, we’re not hopelessly lost. We’re talking to Night Vale right now! They’ll help us! Cecil:  I’m...sure they will. Not terrified in the least. We’re definitely not going to wander this hellscape for eternity. Anyway, uh, Carlos, what brings you to the show today? Carlos: Well, Cecil, as you know, we were out on a date at the  Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area, on a sunset stroll across the boardwalk, when we came across a vendor renting out metal detectors.

We rented one, went down to the...uh, beach...or, as much of a beach as it can be, considering there’s no water, and the ocean is only visible from the boardwalk itself, and started searching for treasures.

Cecil: Untold treasures.

Carlos: Yes, excuse me, untold treasures. Of the deep, you know, that sort of thing. But we wandered too far from the boardwalk and were swept out to sea by the phantom ocean, and we woke up...uh, here. 

And now we’re stuck here, and we don’t know how to get home, and it’s very boring, so we’re putting on a broadcast together! 

Cecil: Oh, it feels so good to be back on the air. Listeners, I don’t know how long we’ve been trapped here. My portable radio equipment doesn’t seem to be broadcasting, and my phone is dead. So I couldn’t reach anyone for help. Help we desperately need. Or we’re going to die here.

Carlos’ phone is fine, but he’s got no signal at all. He’s been trying to play Pokemon Go all morning and it’s just not working. It just shows his cute little trainer standing there in a big empty void of space, which is normal for the desert, but none of the Pokemon are showing up and it’s just been very frustrating for both of us.

Also, I wore these new boots, and I’m very upset that they are hurting my feet. They’re 6 inch high platform boots with a goldfish swimming in a little fish bowl embedded permanently in the platform with no hope of escape and no source of food, and after days of trying to break them in they still just aren’t comfortable for some reason. All things considered, this has not been a good morning for us.

Carlos: At first I thought we may be in the Desert Otherworld somehow, but that was quickly disproven when I realized my phone had no signal. Also, there are no mountains, or lighthouses, or crippling post traumatic stress reactions, or masked armies, or geographical loops. But mostly no cell phone reception. That place had incredible cell phone reception. Cecil: Really, the only thing here is lots and lots of sand, and also old televisions, refrigerators, mysterious piles of magnetic shavings, all sorts of neat stuff. It really takes my mind off the inevitable bleached skeletons we’re going to leave here in the desert. I’ve been playing with this metal detector and honestly, this place is a gold mine for neat junk that if we ever manage to find our way out with, I’m going to take home and then put in the garage, and every time I look at it I’ll think “Why did I bring this home with me? What was I thinking?”, before formulating plans to organize or dispose of it, only to keep it there forever as a monument to my obsessive need to collect mementos and symbols representative of my experiences in an attempt to create a physical record of the fact that I did something, went somewhere, was someone, even if they pile uselessly in a corner serving only to remind me that I opted for material goods and trinkets in lieu of crafting meaningful personal memories of events and loved ones that only I could ever truly understand that would die with me rather than be thrust upon whoever is saddled with the task of organizing my affairs after death, walking into my garage, seeing my pile of junk, and not grasping for even a second the depth of what I wanted it to mean and represent and communicate about my life, tossing it into the trash and along with it any dreams I may have had in the back of my mind of being immortal by way of inspiring others with my personality made manifest by collected worldly goods. Oh! And radio equipment! We found some radio equipment that seems to be working just fine, unlike mine. And to elaborate on this phenomenon, it’s time for the Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner! Carlos? Carlos: Cecil, and kids at home, my running theory is that we are trapped in another time entirely. You see, we’ve dug up a lot of stuff here. But all of it is from the past. When scientists do a lot of digging- it’s called Earth Science, by the way- they often find things underground organized in layers of sediment, one on top of the other. As you dig further down, you find older things, and that’s how we know which fossils are older than other fossils. But here, no matter where we dig, we seem to find things at random, completely disorganized. It’s very unscientific of these random objects to appear all in the top layer of dirt. Meanwhile, Cecil’s portable broadcasting equipment seems to work, but based on how none of you came out here to rescue us during our first several broadcasts, it doesn’t seem to be reaching you. I believe that it can only broadcast to the present day, and- because we are surrounded by anachronisms, we are not in the present day. It’s 2019, I think. So we should, in theory, only be surrounded by things people use in 2019. But we’ve dug up several Furbys and at least one toot-a-loop, which indicate that it is not 2019, wherever we are. We’ve found such a wide range of things there’s no telling what year it really is! But this set of radio equipment we found is timelessly elegant in its design, and so I believe it probably broadcasts to any point in time. Also I can pick it up on the portable radio we brought with us to the beach, so it’s definitely working. Cecil: It is true that my equipment only seems to broadcast to the present day. I know my phone back at the studio sometimes makes and receives calls through time itself, but I don’t know that I’ve ever broadcast to another era...but it is also possible that our listeners just plain aren’t feeling very helpful today. Maybe they’re busy. Maybe we’re doomed. Maybe we’re just doomed.  Carlos: Cecil, nobody is ever too busy to listen to your show. And we’re not doomed. Cecil: Oh, Carlos, you’re embarrassing me. And we’re probably doomed. Carlos: I’m sorry, but it’s true. And it has to be, otherwise my theory sounds ridiculous. And we’re not doomed. Cecil: Fair enough. It sounds very scientific to me! Anyway, this has been the Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner. Also we’re doomed. Carlos: Cecil, I’m going to go run some tests with the metal detector and see if I can find anything to help us figure out where and when we are. And maybe a refrigerator that still has food in it. So far, besides the radio equipment, everything’s just a bunch of junk. I’ll take my radio with me so I can hear your broadcast, be sure to call me back if you need anything! Try to stay calm, alright? Cecil: Good luck, Carlos! Listeners, in the meantime, let’s get to the news. Local radio host Cecil Gershwin Palmer was reported as saying that despite the suffocating fear of eternity or the dark void of ceased existence, he doesn’t really mind being trapped in an endless mysterious desert, as long as it’s with his husband Carlos. He could, quote, “Do science here forever”, as long as it was with his handsome husband. Aw, isn’t that sweet?

Meanwhile, we’ve got...uh...there’s...hm.  I’ll level with you, Night Vale. This place is booooo-ring. Nothing’s happening at all. There’s barely any plants. I’ve only seen one animal, and it was a lizard, and it was a very boring lizard. It only had 4 legs, and it just kind of sat there on a rock for a while. The fish in my shoes died, so their senseless agony is no longer a viable source of tragic entertainment. I can’t check my tumblr. It’s just dirt and sand and rocks and sun and junk. If we were going to be whisked away to a mysterious time and place, couldn’t it at least have been an interesting one? I do have to admit...I’ve tried to keep a strong, stoic face about this whole situation, but I’m getting a little worried. We don’t know how long we’ve been here. Carlos claims it’s only been a few hours, but you know how he is with time and perception and facts. There’s never any wiggle room with him for senseless anxiety and baseless assumptions of doom. I shouldn’t make fun, I’m sure he’s worried too. At least we’re here together, I suppose. Better than being lost in the desert alone... Oh, uh, looks like it’s time for Traffic.

A car, gliding effortlessly across the sands of a vast desert. The man inside turns up the radio, and hears a familiar story- familiar because it’s literally happening, right now. The radio describes his every action. The way he glances at the radio as if it is another human being to make eye contact with, questioning its words with his eyes. It describes the way he turns the dial to increase the volume. The way he furrows his brow, attempting to understand how the voice on the radio knows what he’s doing. The way he pulls out a set of beakers and places them carefully on the dashboard, normally a reckless act while driving, but completely safe in the flat, closed-course, car commercial style desert he’s driving on. He sends some colored liquids through swirling crazy straw tubes from one container to another, a bunsen burner aflame, attempting to science some sort of sense out of this disembodied narrator. The liquids are turbulent and sloshing, but he does not care. He looks out the windshield and stares at a dot, in the distance- and the dot stares back. He focuses all his energy, all of the vehicle’s horsepower, the entire weight of his leg on the gas pedal, and every photon receptor in his eyes on that tiny...little...dot. He stares with such intensity that his eyes start to lose track of their own interpretation of the light that enters them, blurring into one solid color, forcing him to focus on something else to be able to focus back on his goal. He blinks furiously. The dot becomes bigger, and bigger, and bigger, until finally- he sees that it’s me! Hi Carlos! This has been, Traffic. Carlos: Cecil, look! The metal detector came through! I found a 1987 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am 2-door coupe! And a renewed interest in those psychic energies I told you that you sometimes give off and that I really need you to let me probe into! Cecil: A car, that’s wonderful! We can use that to get...home. Assuming it’s...nearby, and that we’re...in the same timeline as home, and...in the same year. Maybe we’ll even be back by dark! The sun is starting to set... Carlos: Cecil, I know how to get back home. We’re going to be okay. Get in the car. Wait- first, help me take the t-tops off. On the drive back we may as well enjoy the weather. [THE WEATHER] Cecil: Listeners, we are home. As we drove dramatically with sweeping camera angles and rolling hills through that sudden downpour of mysterious flashes of light, pink clouds, psychedelic wind, nostalgic VHS fog, and laser beams erupting from the desert floor, the sun set and we could see in the distance a guiding light. As we drove towards it, we reached an old dirt road, and down that dirt road, we found a fence, and a gate, and a sign. I turned around in my seat to read the sign, and...well, you remember a few years ago, when we got the new landfill, which doesn’t accept any physical items?  Carlos: My theory had one major flaw. I thought based on all the anachronisms we had found in the dirt, all at the same layer of sediment, we must be in some sort of mishmashed timeline, outside of the linear time that we’re normally outside of, but also outside of the non-linear time we’re normally not outside of. Some third form of time never before seen. But they...well, they weren’t anachronistic. There weren’t any items from the future. That would be anachronistic. Everything we found was from the past. Which is...normal. That’s just normal. That’s how time works, even here. Cecil: Yeah, we were...just...in the old landfill. Also my portable radio equipment was working fine, I just...forgot to...plug in the microphone. I was very stressed. I forget to plug in microphones when I’m stressed. Carlos: I guess the sand blew over top of it over time and hid it entirely, and the phantom ocean must have created a phantom beach next to the raised sands as a result, and we washed up on top of it. But, hey, even if my science was flawed, at least we got to spend the day together, and I got to be a big part of your show! Plus, it was my day off, so I really didn’t want to do any accurate science anyway. Cecil: Yes, we’ve never done a show together like this. It was a lot of fun even if I was terrified the entire time. Carlos: Cecil, I was scared too, but I didn’t want you to worry, so I tried to be strong, for you. And you know,  despite the suffocating fear of eternity or the dark void of ceased existence, I also wouldn’t really mind being trapped in an endless mysterious desert, as long as it’s with you. I could, quote, “Do radio broadcasts there forever”. Cecil: Aw, you were listening! And so intently. That’s almost word for word, with adorable changes in perspective. And it’s a good segue into an inappropriately sappy closing statement for tonight’s broadcast. Listeners, Steve Carlsberg, my brother in law, speaks often of lights and guiding markers in the sky, telling him exactly how the universe works. I’ve never really believed in any of that stuff.  But today, some lights in the sky showed Carlos and I the way home from the old landfill. As soon as we crested the horizon I saw them- and I’d recognize those lights no matter where they were, Arby’s or not. Sometimes I wonder if maybe they’re part of something bigger, too, like the lights in the sky Steve talks about. They lead us home today. And they lead us to each other years ago. Carlos, I’m glad we have each other. I’m glad we have this place. I’m glad we have delicious roast beef sandwiches and curly fries with horsey sauce. We have not eaten in days. I love you.

Carlos (mouth full of curly fries): Aw, Cecil, I love you too.

Cecil (mouth full of curly fries): Today’s broadcast is sponsored by Arby’s. Not officially, it’s just, (swallows), we’re currently eating Arby’s and I don’t know how to end the broadcast. I don’t normally do broadcasts off the cuff like this. Carlos: I know how to end it! Can I end it? Cecil: Well, I mean, it’s my show...I always...um. You know what, sure, it’s fine. Go ahead. Carlos: Good night, Night Vale! Carlos and Cecil: Good night.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Baby You Were My Picket Fence [Chapter 3: Light My Fire]

You are a first grade teacher in sunny Los Angeles, California. Ben Hardy is the father of your most challenging student. Things quickly get complicated in this unconventional love story.  

Song inspiration: Miss Missing You by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter warnings: Language.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing) HERE

Taglist: @blushingwueen @queen-turtle-boiii @everybodyplaythegame @onceuponadetectivedemigod @luvborhap @sincereleygmg @stormtrprinstilettos @loveandbeloved29 @ohtheseboysilove @jennyggggrrr @vanitysfairr @bramblesforbreakfast @radiob-l-a-hblah @xox-talia-xox @killer-queen-xo 

You open the front door and there he is: black button-up shirt, navy jeans, chic but not overdressed. His hair is neatly gelled back from his forehead. In his arms are a lug wrench, a car jack, and a brand new tire wrapped in an oversized, floppy red bow like a Christmas present.

“I think normal guys bring flowers,” you comment.

“I figured...since you’re automotively illiterate and all...you probably hadn’t gotten around to replacing the spare yet.” He shoots a glance at your Elantra, then announces victoriously: “I was right!”

“Mr. Hardy...Ben...I really can’t allow you to perform any more free labor.”

“Five minutes,” he calls over his shoulder as he trots to your car. He has trouble with one of the lug nuts, so it takes him six and a half.

“You can come inside,” you tell him once he’s finished. “I won’t be long, I just have to water my plants.”

Ben raises an eyebrow. It’s dark and rather undomesticated, yet endearing. “I feel like there must be better stalling tactics than that. If you’ve got cold feet, I can handle rejection.” But what he can’t do is disguise the way his shoulders slump, the way he bites the corner of his lower lip apprehensively.

“No, really, it’s totally stupid, but I’m really trying not to kill this batch and if I don’t water them now I’m going to be stressing about it until I get home, and I don’t want to be thinking about houseplants all night, I want to be thinking about...” You wave your hand towards Ben inarticulately. “You know. You.”

He smiles, showing his teeth, his eyes lit up like embers, flickering and radiant and warm. “Take your time, Martha Stewart.” 

“My parents give me so much hell for this,” you call back to him as you flutter around the living room, standing on your tiptoes and reaching around furniture to water your peace lilies and spider plants and devil’s ivy and one wilting ponytail palm. “They’re farmers. They’re professional life-givers. I’m lucky if I can keep the cactuses alive.”

You hear Ben rambling around the kitchen. “I hope your nurturing skills are at least marginally better with first graders.”

You laugh, nodding even though he can’t see you. “I’m alright with those. I’m just more of a rock person than a plant person. Gems and minerals and volcanic glass...fossils and bones and teeth...that’s where the magic is for me.”

“I can see that. Dinosaurs are well-represented in your extensive fridge magnet collection.” There are clicks and scrapes as he rearranges them: prehistoric animals and tiny planets, peace signs and alphabet letters and cross-sections of agate. “These are so cool!” he exclaims.  

You bustle back into the kitchen, place your watering can in the sink, and wipe your hands with a dishtowel patterned with cartoon brontosauruses. “Ready?” Your eyes flick to the refrigerator. He’s organized your magnets into a giant smiley face. It’s ridiculous, it’s juvenile; but you feel this liberatingly simple joy flooding through you like early autumn air. And the way Ben’s grinning at you—a little mischievous, a little proud—reminds you so much of Eli that your breath catches in your throat. You have no idea who Eli’s mother was, but her genetics were omnipotent; it’s almost impossible to find any of Ben in him at all. But every once in a while there’s an unconscious gesture, an off-kilter smile, and suddenly you can see the common threads that wove them into being like spiders’ webs.

“Ready,” Ben agrees.

You smooth your dress as you slip into the passenger’s seat of his Lexus, placing your purse between your feet, checking your hair and makeup in the sun visor mirror. Ben glances over at you as he shifts the car into reverse and roars out of your driveway. Your hands aren’t shaking, your heartbeat is hushed, there’s no hot rushing blood in your cheeks or ears; this shocks you. It’s eerie how inexplicably at ease you are.

“Find something good,” he says, pointing to the radio.

You seize the dial. “Uh oh. My first test?”

He smiles, his eyes on the road now. “Choose something lame and I abandon you at the nearest sketchy-looking gas station.”

You flip through stations until you find Somebody To Love. “I work hard, every day of my life, I work ‘til I ache in my bones...” “Okay, how I’d do?”

Ben steals a suspicious peek over at you. “Are you fucking with me?”

“What?” you ask, bewildered. “No, why?”

He shakes his head. “Never mind. You definitely pass. You’re a Queen person?”

“Oh yeah, absolutely, I adore Queen. Most classic rock, actually.”

“So have you, uh...” He touches his chin thoughtfully, what you’re quickly realizing is a little nervous tic. It’s cute as hell. Goddammit, daddy demon, stop being so fucking perfect. “Did you ever see Bohemian Rhapsody?” But something gives you the impression he already knows you haven’t.

“Not yet,” you confess.

“Not interested?”

“It’s not that, I just...” You hesitate, trying to put it into words. “I know it did well and all. But I guess I’m skeptical of anyone trying to play Freddie Mercury. He was a legend, he was one of a kind. So are the rest of them. Those are massive shoes to fill. It seems like setting the actors up to pale in comparison.”

“I’ve heard it was pretty good,” Ben presses, almost teases.

“Yeah, maybe...”

“And Rami won the Oscar. So his portrayal must have been satisfactory.”

“Okay, oh my god, I’ll see it, are you happy now? Were you on the marketing team or what?”

You’re only half-serious, but Ben chuckles evasively. “So you like old rocks and old music,” he pivots. “But not old not-boyfriends. Except Jeff Goldblum.”

“This is news to me. I sincerely thought you were sixty.”

He laughs, a full gutsy laugh this time, a laugh that says he’s caught-off guard and thrilled about it. “That’s okay. I’m into old stuff too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Old music, classic rock, just like you. But old books too.”

“Gatsby?”

His eyebrows leap up; you’re watching his face as streetlamps illuminate the car in reiterating flashes like a spinning pulsar. God, he’s beautiful. “How’d you guess that?”

“Eli’s middle name is Fitzgerald. That’s not a common one.”

“Ah,” Ben says, and his full lips turn up at the edges into a smile, proudly, fondly.

“I really like it.” That’s the truth; Eli’s a handful and that’s a titanic understatement—though he has been better the last few days, the only blip on the upward trend being his attempt to convince Brayden to eat a live cricket by paying him in Oreos—but his name is classic and elegant and a few literary references here and there never hurt anyone.

“Yeah, that was me,” Ben reveals. “His mother insisted on choosing his first name, I think she heard Eli somewhere and just liked the sound of it. But she let me pick the middle name. And The Great Gatsby was always my favorite book...and The Beautiful and the Damned, and This Side of Paradise?! Freaking incredible. In my humble opinion F. Scott Fitzgerald is a certifiable genius. So...Eli Fitzgerald.” There’s a color in his voice you can’t quite read: the golden yellow of reminiscence, the murky blue of loss, the grey nothingness of depression, the bloody maroon of deep pain or resentment. Who was she, Ben? How did she hurt you? And could I ever fill those hollow places you’re carrying around like pocket change?

He asks how Eli is doing in class, and you tell him; you ask about his favorite classic rock bands, and he answers: Boston and AC/DC and The Stones and Queen. His Lexus cruises by your go-to dinner spots—the affordable chains like Noodles and Co. and Panera and Chipotle—then past the mid-level raw vegan and farm-to-table joints, and finally into the neighborhood reserved for fine dining establishments with three-figure price tags and reservations booked up months in advance.

“Uh...” you begin. “I don’t think we’re going to get a spot at a place down here.”

“Think again.” He parallel parks with absurd ease in front of an Italian-Japanese fusion restaurant called Nejire. There’s a line of people in suits and evening gowns waiting at the door. You feel like a minnow in a shark tank.

“Ben...”

He comes around to your side of the car, opens the door, and holds out his hand. “You trust me?”

Do I? You take his hand in yours like a life raft. “Don’t let me down, Mr. Hardy.”

Unpredictably, fantastically, he brings your knuckles to his lips. “You got it.”

He spirits you inside, past the line of waiting customers, past the hostess and waitresses; they glimpse up and nod at Ben as he draws you through the main dining room and back to a VIP table in a dimly-lit, quiet corner of the restaurant. Oh, you realize with awe and trepidation. He’s an important guy.

You take your seat and open a menu as waitresses array full glasses of water and wine across the table. There’s nothing under fifty dollars. You flip to the salad page, searching desperately.

“What are you doing?” Ben asks gently.

“Um, nothing, just browsing...”

“You’re not paying for any of this,” he says point-blankly.  

“That’s not very feminist of you,” you quip, but on the inside you’re sinking. This is too much, this is way too much. I can’t let him do this for me.

“I’ll explain later. Trust me, we’re good. Order something expensive or I’ll do it for you.”

“I’m a teacher, Ben. My idea of luxury is Olive Garden.”

He grins at you boldly, almost roguishly. “Oh we are going to have so much fun together, Miss Y/L/N.”

Orders are placed, wine is sipped, appetizers are ferried to the table. As you nibble on ahi tuna tartare and caprese sushi, you find yourself lost in how Ben motions wildly with his hands as he tells stories, how his large emerald-or-jade-or-malachite eyes gleam when he’s animated, how his voice is so rich and deep and yet mild, how it suddenly feels like you’ve known him your entire life. Oh no. Oh no, I like this guy a LOT.

Ben abruptly stops eating and cracks his knuckles. “So there’s something I need to tell you. Since we’re...” Air quotes. “Not dating.”

Oh fuck. He’s married or something. “Okay. I’m listening.”

“It’s about my job.”

Whew. “Ah yes, your elusive profession. You can tell me the truth if you’re a dogwalker or a circus clown or something. It’s always nice to out-earn someone. Actually, dogwalkers in L.A. probably make more than me...”

“I’m an actor.”

“Oh,” you reply cautiously. “Like, for tv shows or independent films?”

“No,” he says, amused. “For major films.”

I knew he was too fucking gorgeous to be a normal person. What am I doing here? “Like what?”

“Well, recently, Bohemian Rhapsody.”

You choke on the white wine you’re drinking and cough and gasp into your cloth napkin.

“You okay?” Ben asks. “Don’t die. You can’t die yet. You haven’t tried their tempura crème brûlée.”

“You...” You cough once more. “You were in the movie that made $900 million dollars...?”

He grins toothily. “So you were keeping up with it!”

“It was hard to miss that tidbit. It was all over the news. BoRhap won the Golden Globe.” Your head is spinning. “You’re an actor,” you repeat.

“I played Roger Taylor.” The brilliant, obscenely good-looking drummer, the man who wrote Radio Ga Ga and These Are The Days Of Our Lives and A Kind Of Magic.

“Oh my god, Ben!”

“I mean, I’ve been in other things too—”

“Ben!”

“Look, relax, we’re cool. I’m not telling you this to freak you out, I’m just explaining that you don’t have to worry about dropping a few hundred bucks at dinner. You have a right to know who I am if we’re going to be...involved. And there’s something else.” He wrings his hands. “I have to be...discrete about my personal life. Try to stay under the radar.” But now that effortless comfort is strained somehow, weighted, ominous; Ben averts his eyes. There’s a presence in the room like a storm cloud, trapped pulsing lightening igniting the opacity from within.

“Sure,” you say, thinking that a life in the spotlight can’t always be easy. “Lowkey. I got it.”

“Awesome.” He’s relieved.

“I have to keep it on the down-low too. I’m a pretty important person myself. A bunch of six-year-olds would lose their minds if they knew about my extracurricular activities. They would color such scandalous pictures in art class. Premarital dinner dates, maybe even handholding. Yikes.”

That makes Ben chuckle; the shadow is nearly lifted. “Keep drinking, Miss Y/L/N. I’m loving this.”

And it should feel weird or frightening or wrong that he’s using the word love this soon, this casually; but it doesn’t at all. It feels anything but wrong.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your feet are on your kitchen floor, your palms empty. Ben’s fidgeting around, his hands in and out of his jean pockets; it seems like he’s trying to say goodbye, but maybe he’s not.

“So...” he ventures.

You wonder if he’ll touch you, if he’ll kiss you. You try to catch his eyes, but they’re everywhere except meeting yours. “Hold that thought.”

You dash down the hall to your bathroom to smooth your hair, touch up your makeup, swish some Listerine. On the way back to the kitchen, you stop in the living room to check on your plants. If it’s possible, they look a little perkier than they did when you left a few hours ago. You run your fingertips over the broad leaves of your peace lilies, smiling faintly to yourself. “Maybe we’re going to make it after all,” you whisper.

You hear the distinct clicking sound of iPhone texting. “Oh shit,” Ben mutters from the kitchen. “I’m sorry, I gotta go, Y/N, okay? I gotta run. But I’ll call you. I’ll see you soon.”

“Okay, just a sec...” But by the time you rush into the kitchen to say goodbye, Ben is gone, the screen door swinging forlornly. Puzzled, you lock the door behind him as headlights flare to life in the driveway and swiftly retreat into the night. Then you turn around.

Your fridge magnets are rearranged again, this time in the shape of a heart.

[fuckingthefictional]

Nice to meet you, Soulmate.

Derek Hale x reader.

Request: no

Warning: n/a

I had always wondered what it was like to meet your mate. Would it be like Scott and Allison when it was love at first sight. Instantaneous and full of a love that was so bold and strong and caused them both to act on impulse.

I often think about the little things. Like what they look like when they smile, or if they had little habits that they picked up during childhood.

But then the ‘what ifs’ kick in. What if I never find my made? What if they’ve already met the one for them? What if they don’t want to find me? What if I don’t even have one.

The last one would be false I suppose, I can hear the thoughts of my mate. They’re usually grumpy and frustrated, but that doesn’t matter to me. It’s my mate. Or at least that’s what I hope it is.

Let me tell you something, it’s one thing to have not found your mate. But it’s another when you’re not even in a pack and you had no friends. An Omega that’s all I am. A lone wolf. And if you didn’t know Omegas aren’t supposed to last long without a pack.

The past year or so had been full of more supernatural bullshit than Beacon Hills had seen in a long time. I was there protecting my fellow wolves from danger and harm- even if they didn’t know who their supposed ‘hero’ was. But regardless of that, here I am packing books away into my locker and try to keep a low profile.

If there was one thing I knew I was good at, it was being a wallflower. I noticed everything about everyone and yet always managed to stay out of the limelight. It was great. Lonely. But great.

The locker next to me slammed shut, making my body jump and my heartbeat spike up. The locker’s owner sent a confused and apologetic look my way, before walking off.

English. I used to love it- but now with the argent takeover in school. I hate it. Victoria Argent was a sneaky, stuckup piece of work. Who honestly made me anxious.

Although she’s sly, she’s clever and she knows it. The likelyhood of her finding out about my ‘condition’ was high. Especially with the full moon being around the corner.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t shifted before. I was born a werewolf- but being the runt I was abandoned. You had the shift locked down, even to the point of being able to shift into a full form (tail and all)

The problem with the full moon was my mate - or lack thereof. My instincts were constantly telling me that I needed to find my mate. Then everything would make sense. It’s as if my body was a magnet and it was being lead on a wild chase to find the other half.

“Miss Y/L/N!”

Shit. I was daydreaming again and not paying attention and the snake had caught you.

I raised my head up, putting myself fully in her gaze.

Act normal

“Yes Mrs Argent?” I replied sweetly, a sugar coated smile played on both of our lips.

“The answer Miss Y/L/N.”

Fuck

I racked my brain for any type of possible answer.

‘It’s about Lord of the Flies- what do each of the characters represent.’

The gruff voice was present again, but you could tell it was full of sympathy and genuineness.

‘Thank you

“The characters are split into 3 main areas: good, bad and middle ground. “ I racked my brain for the answer, “Ralph represents democracy and civilisation of society and the general utopia that Golding wants society to be. Piggy is the intellectual one, he’s out of the circle of stereotypes that a British boy should be, his worth isn’t noticed until the end of the book. Simon is the martyr and the only inherently good person- hence why he has religious imagery.” I sighed deeply, “Jack is the savagery that Golding knows is present in every person, Golding believed evil and impulsiveness is present in all our lives.”

An awkward silence fell over the room, I doubted anyone had ever heard me say that much in a single sentence.

‘You’re clever...I like that’

My cheeks burnt up in a rosy hue.

‘You’re being chatty today.’ I teased the person at the other end of the connection.

‘I can always go if that’s what you want.’

‘NO. Not what I meant!’

A deep chuckle resonated from the guy. Damn that was hot.

‘Thanks.’

My body froze up and I felt my hand smack itself on my forehead.

I can’t believe I said that.

I had a love hate relationship with coach, on one hand we had a no annoyance policy he stays out of my way I stay out of his and I get my work done. On the other hand, he was just plain erratic- you had sometimes questioned the possibility of a possession but eventually you had to cut it out. He was just batshit crazy.

“Y/L/N! Get your ass over here now!”

Speak of the devil and he’ll appear

Jogging over I braved myself for the conversation to come.

“Yes Coach?”

“You get free choice of the trail you want to run today. So pick one, get back to me and then set off.”

I wondered for a few seconds, how far I could stretch this. I had double Phys Ed.

“I’ve got my mind set on the beacon hills reserve, if that’s okay coach?”

A deep, gruelling sigh resonated for the teacher. “Ugh fine. I know you’ll come back, but if you don’t I’m sticking you next to Greenberg for the rest of your school career.”

With the permission granted I began my journey, I loved the freedom of running.

Granted it wasn’t in wolf form (and nothing could beat running in wolf form) but I still loved the sensation of the breeze on my skin and the cool air whipping through my hair.

I focused on the pounding of my shoes on the leaf covered ground, I had not a care in the world (which was rare) and I let my senses take me wherever they wanted.

I kept running for about 30 minutes, before stopping at a rather crispy looking wreck of a building. It was spectacular.

It was charred black and half of it was completely burnt down, the windows were gone and the frames only held the ghosts of the people who lived there before. It was a site of grief and a story of loss.

I didn’t know who lived here previously, but I felt myself sympathising with them massively. I knew what loss was like, and what it could do.

I also didn’t know what possessed me to take a deeper look into the wreck of the house, but my body worked on autopilot as it began to charge up the stairs.

“This is private property.”

Shit.

The man stood there was gorgeous, he had a well built body and his muscles pulled taunt through his jacket. His expression look angry and my adrenaline slowly drowned in a pool of pure anxiety.

“Shit indeed.”

My eyebrows rose into my hairline- shock coating my entire being, I swallowed “you’re him.” I pointed pathetically as he took a large step forward.

“The names Derek. Derek Hale. Nice to meet you soulmate.”

[roominthecastle]

duality in the Red/Liz dynamic filtered through James’ own words

∎ “If I’m choosing a project on content, it’s through a prism of sexuality, in the oddest corners of someone’s life. I’m not someone so much interested in exploring a slice of life unless that is down the corridor, around the corner, up the alley and down the rabbit hole. That I like.” [x]

∎ “I really think it’s safe to say that you don’t really know what the nature of the relationships are going to be, and also what the future holds for each and every one of the individual cast members. […] For me the [Blacklist] is what I had hoped for when I first read the pilot. It has a broad landscape in every aspect - in terms of tone, storyline, the development of characters, and the development of the relationship between different characters.”

⇢ excerpts from the pilot script (establishing sexual attraction from Red’s side, i.e. “a prism of sexuality”):

On top of instant physical attraction that is clearly indicated in the script, romantic attraction also seems to be in play but this develops slower, is guarded, and lives on a predominantly subtextual level.

∎ “To figure out a character, I try to look for something that’s not in the screenplay - a little secret they carry around with them. Sometimes it’s allowed to show itself, sometimes it isn’t, yet it’s always there.”

∎ “[ Red ] clearly has strong feelings for [ Liz ].” [x]

∎  “The challenge in playing [Red] is really the diligence in trying to strike a balance between what to tell and what not to tell - or to tell something in a way that you are not aware that it’s being told. To let the viewer in on something in a way that you are not telling them something. You’re letting them feel it and see it. Something that is new. Or something that is surprising. Or something that adds just another layer of complexity.”

But sometimes the secret “is allowed to show itself”.

for example, compare James’ personal experience of romantic love

∎ “When you’re in love, you can’t control it. It’s when you can’t take charge of what you feel, when you are completely powerless in the face of the emotion. When it happens, it happens in spite of you.” [x]

with

⇢ Red to Liz in 208, The Decembrist: “When you love someone, you have no control. That's what love is. Being powerless.”

 ⇢ J. Eisendrath in Behind the Blacklist S2: “Red is an incredibly powerful person but the only person who renders him powerless is Liz.”

⇢ Red about Liz in 319, Cape May: “There was a woman I loved. She was my life. My heart.”

There are moments where Red’s attraction - both physical and romantic - clearly surfaces in the text - in dialogue and behavior. This attraction was 100% absent in the past and it sparked in spite of the role Red assigned himself earlier (a protector, nothing more), which is why it must feel like “a kick in the head” when he meets her after decades as an adult.

It is something new, surprising, and complicates things for both of them - especially for Red because it conflicts with the original concept (of the past) he held of her in his mind: the helpless child he saved and felt obligated to protect from afar vs the new concept (the now) which is of the attractive adult woman who is perfectly capable of taking care of herself and demands to be treated as such. He has been struggling with this conflict, trying to come to terms with it, with his feelings, and the colliding concepts that pit his “duty” as a platonic protector with the present attraction he feels as a man (a conflict he projects on Tom’s behavior, as well).

⇢ Red to Kate in 421, Mr. Kaplan: “She's not Masha anymore. With little to none of my presence or influence through the years, she has grown up to be Special Agent Elizabeth Keen.”

⇢ Red to Liz in 611, Bastien Moreau: “All those years spent worrying about you, fancying myself your guardian angel. [My mother] would've taken one look at you and known you'd be fine.”

He is both distancing himself from her past image here and emphasizing the lack of actual contact during her childhood, which makes sense if he is indeed experiencing new, different feelings for her now. He re-affirms that his contribution was in the form of money, which also parallels Liz’s guilt-fueled way of trying to anonymously “compensate” the daughter of a man who got murdered as a result of a situation she was partially responsible for creating. Neither Red’s not Liz’s contribution can be characterized as actual parenting, but they were both trying to be “pseudo providers” in place of parents who - due to crossing paths with them - were no longer around to do so.

In Cape May, Red’s past and present traumas wash together in an opium-induced mind trip. Liz first gets referred to as “a child” he wanted to provide for to balance some cosmic scale but later she becomes “a woman” he loved.

There has been only one 4th wall breakage in the entire show but it is unmistakable and speaks clearly to this “conflict of concepts”:

⇢ Mr. Solomon in 305, Arioch Cain: “What is the deal with you two anyways? It's what everybody wants to know. Some say it's a daddy/daughter thing. Others swear it's May-September. I prefer to believe... it's a little of both.”

This dual approach is also echoed in Eisendrath’s off-screen “twisted paternal” label or his more recent remark about Red’s “Liz fetish”, and Bokenkamp’s interesting take on how there's conflict in Red’s reaction to Liz’s faked death: the parent figure part should forgive, the romantic partner side struggles [x].

James appears to be in agreement:

∎ “It’s a very, very complicated relationship between the two of them. As much as she doesn’t know the true nature of their relationship, I think it’s quite equitable for Reddington, as well, because I think he is trying to grasp a hold of what the true nature of their relationship is now. Forget the past, regardless of what that the past represents. What is the nature of their relationship now and what are even the possibilities of a relationship with her.” [x]

∎ “The most compelling relationship is, in fact, what it’s turning into. What the nature of that relationship is now and what it will be building over the next few years. We’ve already seen them very fractured at times and yet there’s some sort of compulsion that they have for one another. And not just Reddington’s feelings for her but also her feelings for him. And to me that’s one of the most fascinating things besides the fun to be had on the show. In terms of the emotional center of the show.” SDCC ‘14

Based on these bits and pieces (coupled with on-screen interaction), I think it’s safe to conclude that Red and Liz’s present dynamic is in flux and carries conflicting elements. Both James off-screen and Red on-screen emphasize the ultimate importance of their present over their past, though: “Forget what the past represents.” & “She is not Masha anymore.” While this instantly rules out any biological connection, their past still exerts its influence (manifesting in guilt and fueling uncertainty) and it will continue to do so until it is sorted. So it is not surprising (imo) that Liz wants to keep Red both near but also at an arm’s length, repeatedly needing a buffer zone whenever things flare up btw them, be it physical distance (e.g. putting him in jail) or another man (getting involved w/ someone else). He is a question mark still, confused himself, and she faces that wall of puzzling, magnetic intensity that has the very real capacity to consume her (she has been warned of this before by other women, too).

They love each other, that much has been firmly established, but the precise nature of that intense (compulsive) feeling is still under negotiation, so to speak. They may never have an overt romantic-sexual relationship but the seeds are there, they have been since the pilot, and they still have at least one and a half seasons to map the possibilities and figure out the best way to be together.

[solastnightidreamt]

This gets straight up nsfw smutty at the end so be prepared for that...

I don’t know why but I manifested in this dream as a blonde white lady. I was a business woman running some kind of organization that had something to do with the fabrication of tech built into the glass windows on big buildings. I was at some kind of conference showing it off and giving a rundown of what our company offered and how this tech would be a game changer in the world of AI and renewable energy. I was discussing package deals with the heads of big companies and we were talking like, millions and billions of dollars of investment. I don’t remember exactly what kind of tech it was but I was about to land a deal when the conference room turned into a convention for casinos. 

The tech I was representing and developing transformed into AI and I started marketing it to the larger reps that were attending. It was some kind of AI to use for table games that would replace the actual dealers. It was like a robot that was ultra-realistic and nearly indistinguishable from a human. It had 4 sensors on the face that could be programmed to change the facial structure, skin color, add makeup, move the mouth with a certain accent, eye color, etc. 

Basically it was super ground breaking because it could be programmed to look like any ethnicity and speak any language, but since it was AI it was also able to slightly rig the games in the casino’s favor. The customization factor was super popular within the Asian market and I was giving a demo when a big storm cloud filled the convention center. 

Through the dark clouds and wind Jason Momoa appeared and came straight up to me. He grabbed my wrist and yanked me into his chest and as soon as he touched me I turned back into my regular self. Not white or blonde or a business woman... just me. 

Jason was like really pissed and almost reminded me of Zeus. His eyes were  full of fury and lightning and I tried to pull away from him but he held onto me and dragged me into the thunder cloud. All the people I’d just been talking to tried to grab me but he pushed them away with some kind of invisible force and then we were both sucked up into the thundercloud. 

I was scared but he was holding me tight and when the cloud dissipated I realized we were flying. I felt helpless and scared and confused because it wasn’t like, swoony Jason Momoa, it was almost as if it was some weird super villain inhabiting his body. 

We were flying over what looked like mid-western country type states. Lots of farmland washed in moonlight, not that many city lights, etc. At one point it all looked black and he said, ‘There’s the blue one.’ and then we dove down into an area that still looked black to me. He held onto me while he picked something up off the ground and then we took off again before I could ask anything. 

He flew us to a big city and as we were approaching the sun started to rise and was casting glimmering and blinding lights off the buildings so we flew in the shadows of the skyscrapers and approached one. About 10 floors of the building’s windows all merged into one tall opening and the reflective glass on it turned into a blue opaque color before it faded completely and gave way to his home. 

We flew in the open window and as soon as his feet hit the floor the glass became solid again. He put me down and started walking away and through his place and kinda turned to me and said something along the lines of ‘we’ll get you back home when we figure everything out’. I didn’t know what that meant but the way he said it implied that I knew answers to something even though I didn’t, so I was still pretty confused but I was no longer as scared. 

He wandered off in the house and I just rummaged around trying to get my barrings. There was a dog bed off to one side and as I looked around everything was surprisingly small and cozy. It was lived in with books and clothes and shit all kind of strewn about. It wasn’t messy, but you could tell it was lived in and used and it didn’t feel like some villain’s lair, it was just a kinda small apartment. A small, old, black pug came around the corner and right up to me. 

It was super cute and friendly and I sat down on the couch and was petting it. Jason came back out and offered me a drink. We talked a little bit and he was keeping me there with him until he figured everything out. Even if I didn’t exactly know what was going on or wasn’t able to help him, he’d already kidnapped me and it was easier for him to keep me hostage than it would be for him to release me. 

I don’t know how much time passed (a few days, couple weeks maybe?) but there was a definite time shift and a sort of shift in my mentality and the way we interacted. I remember feeling conflicted because here he was, literally had kidnapped me and was holding me in his apartment, but he was still Jason Momoa and he never hurt me. He was kind, he gave me some extra clothes to wear and we slept in the same bed, he fed me, etc. 

I was getting ready to shower and was naked from the waist down. I had a towel wrapped around my lower half and just a tank top on and was in the bathroom checking the water. The door was slightly open (part of the whole captive thing) and when I took my shirt off he walked in. I covered my chest and he kinda arched his brow down at me and shut the door behind him. When he shut the door it was kind of like a magnetic pull and I was forced to take a couple steps toward him and then he pulled me in the rest of the way. 

He looked down at me with a little grin and I blushed and shied away and looked down and he ducked down to find my eyes and asked if I was ashamed. I nodded a little and he grabbed my head and told me that I had nothing to be ashamed of, and then he kissed me. As we were making out I could feel myself fighting that internal battle of ‘he kidnapped you’ and ‘but he’s Jason Momoa’. We made out and he slowly grabbed my tank top and pulled it away and grabbed my boobs and was mumbling against my mouth how sexy I was and that there was no need at all for me to feel self conscious. We kept making out and I finally gave in. I fucking wanted him and apparently he wanted me. It didn’t matter that I was his hostage. I went full Stockholm Syndrome and was pulling his hair and making out with him when he undid the towel around my waist and I was fully naked while he was still fully clothed. 

The steam from the shower made his hair kinda damp and frizzy and was clinging to my skin while we made out and he touched me all over and then finally he pulled away and told me to shower. At that point I was super turned on and wanted him and he told me to get in the shower and he’d take care of me in a minute. I got in and washed up really quick and then with the door open I could see him doing something out in the other room across from me. He was like typing something at a computer and watching me and I suddenly had a purple dildo in the shower so I started licking my lips and like sucking the dildo then lubed up the dildo and started using it while he kept doing whatever he was doing in the room. 

I was on my back on the shower floor and almost at an orgasm when I stopped and turned over onto my hands and knees and kept going. I felt a hand on my ass and then he got into the shower with me and took the dildo from me. He was just touching me all over and moaning into my hair and telling me every little thing that he loved about my body, fucking worshiping me before he started fucking me from behind. He was grabbing me all over and grunting all deep and sexy and telling me how much he loved me and that he never wanted to let me go. 

I confessed my love for him and felt some sick twist in my gut as I said it but it was true and I wasn’t gonna deny it. Even though he’d kidnapped me I’d still fallen in love with him and finally admitting it was cathartic as fuck. He leaned over me and kissed me and while we were making out he stuck a finger in my ass and my orgasm started welling and I finally came. He kept going and grabbed the dildo and started using it in my vag and lined himself up against my ass and before he could get it in I woke up. 

-------

But like, bros, it was super fucking vivid. Oh my god. I’m missing details in here that I can’t remember/articulate but like I could feel his hair on my palms and feel his tongue in my mouth. I was actually kinda wet when I woke up and my heart was pounding and that Stockholm Syndrome was just SO. FUCKING. POWERFUL! UGH!!! It was fantastic and there was so much depth in the emotions I felt from start to finish. 

[superchartisland]

Italy 1990 (US Gold, Amiga, 1990)

Gallup all formats chart, Computer & Video Games Issue 105, August 1990

When Daley Thompson came back again for 1988, I mentioned the obvious context of the quadrennial boost provided for multi-sport computer games by the Olympics. There is of course one other comparable sporting event in terms of domination of British cultural consciousness: the men’s football World Cup. So it makes sense that as we finally reach our first standalone, you-control-the-team football game, it’s a World Cup one. Not just any World Cup, either, but one that in the UK represented a particular breakthrough for football’s cultural reach, helped by England reaching the semi-final, Gazza’s tears, and all that.

US Gold came very close to getting a football game to #1 four years earlier, when they narrowly missed the top spot by taking a two-year-old game from Artic Computing and rebadging it as World Cup Carnival with an official licence and some posters. This act of phenomenal cynicism was infamous enough to get referenced in a number of magazine reviews of their Italy 1990, and was surely one no company would get away with again (*checks schedule, sees next game after Italy 1990*... oh.)

For 1990, US Gold did at least make a new game. A new game which uses the capabilities of the Amiga, not just while you’re kicking the ball around the pitch from its standard top-down view, but at every break in play and menu. There are two main schools of football game it draws on. At one end there are the bold arcade games, with their chunky, ultimately anime-based players. Like those, Italy 1990’s players are big and move dramatically, making exaggerated slide tackles. And on top of that, there’s the approach of trying to replicate people’s experience of watching sport on TV. That’s most obvious in having each match introduced by a de-aged electronic Des Lynam sitting at a desk, but very much present each time there’s a goal kick or corner too. The camera pulls back to a long range view so you can admire the scenic view of the set piece taker kicking the ball, before it flips back to the standard view so you can... watch them kick it again in a different trajectory.

It’s a superficially impressive spectacle. As a football fan there is a certain delight that comes just from starting a match and taking control, seeing the big colourful arrow pointing to the player you are moving at that moment and seeing all of the possibilities of being placed into the World Cup. I remember looking longingly at the attract reels of arcade football games that looked a bit like Italy 1990 as long as two World Cups later. That magic is a bit less sufficient when it’s not just after 50p, though, and Italy 1990 does not have much to back up its dazzle. The zoomed-in view makes the players look bold but also means that you can’t see much of what’s happening around them. With the ball magnetically stuck to their feet, going on a run towards the opposing goal turns out to be a better move than trying to pass in almost all situations. When defending, the difficulty of getting control of the player you want is overpowering. If there is depth, it is well hidden behind the surface.

Italy 1990 also fails to fully reckon with the consequences of the same improved graphics. In the days of older games footballers were barely identifiable as such. When Spectrum games struggled to even render players in different colour shirts next to each other, it was easy to think of each footballer on screen in purely functional terms: each is but a marker of a player for a team. In Italy 1990’s grand TV-vision, the striving for realism means going past that. The players need to be more than just generic symbols.

As such, playing a match with Brazil and seeing them in yellow shirts with white shorts, rather than the traditional blue shorts, is noticeably sloppy. In a game of a tournament which makes a big thing of its global nature, every player using the exact same model is much worse. Every team is full of identical people with light olive skin and dark hair. The display may tell you that the player that you are controlling is John Barnes, but it visibly isn’t. Cameroon’s run to the quarter-finals was one of the stories of the tournament, but the game whitewashes them just the same. It’s a theme we will plenty of in future - carelessly producing a ‘default’ person and doing a whole lot of othering to anyone it doesn’t fit. In this case it also does a disservice to the sport and players without whom there wouldn’t be a World Cup Italia ‘90 or an Italy 1990. If you want to make things more real, you can’t just half-arse it.

[aionimica]

reylo - 38 or 45 for the writing thing!

pretending to hate each other au

read on ao3

There was a magnet on Rey’s refrigerator with two hundred dollars in cash stuck beneath it and a date circled on the calendar in a fat, black marker: January 22. The reason for it all innocently began New Years Eve at the Organa Foundation’s annual party. Hosted each year at Leia Organa’s lavishly decorated home, employees became family and the lines between wishes and wants blurred.

Finn catches her eye as she works through her second glass of wine and waves her over. She joins them as he leans against the wall, Poe and Rose each leaning over a shoulder. “So what do you say to a little money making scheme? Start the new year off with a bang?”

“Technically it’s money losing, in her case,” Poe amends.

Rey raises the glass to her lips. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

“See! I knew she’d be into it!” Poe pumps his fist into the air.

“Into what?”

“Well…”

It should have been an easy bet for Rey to win. Ever since she started working with the others at Leia Organa’s foundation, she’d had a rather contentious relationship with one of the board members who just so happened to be Leia’s son. The others were more than reasonable to get along with but Ben Solo had been a piece of work. Though over the past few years he changed. He attributed to a therapist, his mother attributed it to genetics and everyone else attributed it to him getting out from underneath his previous work environment with a boss that Finn liked to call “the General Manager of Hell.”

Rey was pretty sure it was a combination of all three. And so the bet was made that Rey and Ben Solo would get together within three weeks of the new year.

For her to win, all Rey had to do was to keep from hooking up with him. Should be easy enough.

There was one convenient problem, one that Rey couldn’t help but see as particularly damning as the soft, perfect lips belonging to one Ben Solo trail down her neck, her hands curling and knotting themselves in his hair.

“They’re all betting we’re going to hook up within three weeks.”

Rey bites her bottom lip as he pulls away. He blinks once in the dim light, his eyes slowly coming into focus. Rey groans inwardly. She should have said no, shouldn’t have agreed to any of this–

He shrugs and shifts Rey more onto his lap. Beneath her she felt the coiled tension of him as his hands rub along her back in gentle circles. “You do know we’re already hooking up,” he says.

“Yeah, but they don’t know that,” she clarifies as she kisses the sides of his nose. “And they’ll owe me two hundred bucks if we win.”

“So you already made the bet?”

“Possibly?”

He frowns, his heavy brows falling over his eyes. Dark eyes watch her from under dark hair and Rey curls into his chest, peppering kisses along his jaw. “So what does that mean? That you’re going to hate me?” he asks eventually.

“Fake hate you?” Rey suggests. “I mean I hated you for three years, three more weeks shouldn’t be that difficult.”

Now two weeks and three days into the bet, Rey couldn’t imagine anything more difficult. She never mined working with Ben, at least not in the past year, but the past two weeks had been unbearable. Where they once exchanged back office kisses and whispered longings, they now shot stinging barbs and heavy scowls. And it wouldn’t have been so bad, if she didn’t spend almost every evening with him. And to pretend she hated his guts.

Rey turns in the mirror as she adjusts her blouse and smooths her skirt. She doesn’t look that bad. It is nicer than anything she’s worn to work, but not date nice. The event tonight didn’t have any particular dress code, but when she’s representing Leia Organa, it doesn’t hurt to put on something with a little effort.

But trying to pick out something to wear that doesn’t look like she was dressing up for Ben Solo when the only thing Rey wanted to do was dress up for Ben Solo was getting on her nerves and Rey is very much looking forward to this bet coming to an end.

“Just a few more days,” she mutters to herself. “A few more days and then you can go dine on their dime and have the best date of your life.”

Lord, it couldn’t come soon enough.

“You look nice.” Rose peeks into the bathroom, a very particular suspicion in her eye.

“Yeah, Ben and I got assigned to yet another fundraiser tonight.” She groans as she fiddles with her mascara. Rose just shakes her head from the doorway. “I swear, it’s like Leia’s out to get us or something.”

“You work well together,” Rose says flippantly. “That’s all.”

“He’s a self-absorbed dick who can’t seem to think of anything past his own hair care products.”

“Oh come on, he’s not that bad anymore. He’s really come a long way, though he does have amazing hair. You know he’s bought the department coffee for the past six months–”

Rey points her hairbrush in Rose’s direction. “I know what you’re doing, don’t think for a second I’m forgetting that bet.”

“But he smells nice,” Rose muses. Rey looks to her in shock. The other girl shrugs. “He lives with Finn and Poe, they talk about cologne all the time and how Ben has the best taste.”

Rey frowns and finishes her hair with the last of her pins. Rose peeks out the window as a door slammed shut.

“Oh looks like you got a car again.”

It was standard procedure for anyone in Leia Organa’s retinue. Rey had ridden in a number of private cars chartered by the mogul, though there was always a healthy mix of cabs and ubers dropped in. Since New Years, however, there had only been private cars. And they always arrive with the privacy screens already raised.

She groans as she finishes with hairspray. “Ugh why is he so early?”

Rose shrugs. “Maybe because he wants to spend more time with you?”

“I highly doubt it.”

Not that it matters, as Rose quickly ran to get the front door. Ben’s shout carries through the apartment. “Hurry up! We’re going to be late.”

Rose flashes Rey a grin when she runs back. Rey gestures as if to say see?

“Oh god-forbid we be late,” Rey mutters. “Just give me a minute!”

She steps out of her room to find him leaning against the open door. Wearing a black suit, casually pressed, with his hair only barely passing as brushed, Rey furiously resists the blush attempting to flood her cheeks. She was supposed to hate this man, not eye him like a piece of meat, but fuck.. He cleans up nicely.

Rose snickers and eyes Ben openly. “Looking good, Solo.”

“Thanks,” he says gruffly before looking back to Rey. He taps his foot impatiently. “You’ve had three hours to get ready. It shouldn’t take this long.”

Rey groans loud enough for Rose who conveniently left them for the kitchen. She shoves her lipstick into her clutch and pulls on her heels. “Not that you’d ever know but some of us actually care about how we look. Not to mention, you’re a fucking asshole, you know that, Solo?”

He throws his hands up in the air before slamming the door shut behind them. “It’s the only thing you tell me! How could I know anything different?”

He walks down first, his long legs quickly overtaking her pace. They aren’t stupid. He doesn’t hold any doors open for her, refusing to look back. Rey trails behind just close enough to step on the heels of his shoes, smiling in satisfaction as he stumbles, barely catching himself.

He snarls. She smirks.

When they got into the car, they sit as far away as possible. Rey puts her clutch between herself and him while he leans forward and gave the driver the address. With a practiced ease of people determined to win, they wait until the car was at least three blocks away before turning, his big arms reaching out and pulling her close. She slides easily across the middle seat, her legs curling up underneath her as she tucks herself in next to him. His breath tickles her ear.

“Was that too obvious?” he asked, deliberately avoiding her lipstick. “I think that’s too obvious.”

“No that was good, you really were an asshole,” she says. “Sounded like you hadn’t changed.”

Ben breaks away and frowns. Rey laughs and delicately kisses him on the cheek.

The event was a simple fundraiser, partially hosted by the Organa Foundation, so all Rey and Ben had to do was show up. They didn’t have to talk to anyone, no one in particular wanted to talk to them, so Rey grabbed herself a glass of wine and a glass of water and made her way over to a high-top in the corner where she could watch the night pass and be out of the way.

The fact that she and Ben got to wait in the shadows out of the corner of anyone’s eye was merely a side benefit.

“You know they’re going to find out sooner or later,” he says in the soft, rumbling voice that she’s become so accustomed to.

“Mmm,” she mumbles as he nuzzles in the crook of her neck. They were in the shadows, no one there would notice. “Maybe we should let them.”

“Three days,” he says placing a kiss on his nose. “Think you can keep fake-hating me for three days?”

She shrugs as he spins her around and rests his chin on the top of her head. Rey leans in and takes a deep breath. Damn, he really does smell nice. “I think I can manage.”

Poe sits on the couch in his apartment with Finn and Rose on either side and Leia on speakerphone while somewhere else in the city, Rey and Ben rode to an event on their behalf. Originally it was supposed to be Finn and Rose’s event, but it didn’t take much effort on Leia’s part to conveniently change the memo and put Rey and Ben on the list instead.

The change took place five minutes past midnight January 1st. As did several others.

“So how many more events can we put on their calendar before the twenty-second?”

Leia’s sharp voice crackles from the phone. “I can find a way to conveniently lock them into a filing closet tomorrow,” she offers.

Poe claps his hands and points at his phone. “I knew I loved working with you for a reason.”

“They’ve got to be so close to cracking,” Finn mutters.

“Rey won’t last much longer,” Rose says with a laugh. “Trust me.”

[rmjagonshi]

Whole Again  - Chapter 4

Whole Again on AO3

The temperature was immediately different upon stepping into the crypt. The stonework acting as an insulator against the cold Icelandic environment. The room beyond the doorway was wide, but low; the ceiling hardly two feet above their heads. The ceiling and walls were rounded, blending into one another with smooth curves. If Stan had been younger, he could have jumped and smacked the stone, but his knees were 50/50 on good days.  

The chamber looked as though it had been a mine once, large pillars left behind after removing material to help support the ceiling. The pillars were positioned lengthwise, one in front of the other with a gated door at the other end of the room. Cast iron and well-oiled enough to be resistant against rust. “Barred. Hmmm. You said you had a crowbar?” Ford turned to Stan, rubbing his chin. “’Course.” Stan flipped his pack around and dug out the crowbar before inspecting the gate. The metal nearest to the stone was probably the weakest due to moisture exchange. He could try bending the gate there first and yanking it out of the door frame. That was only if the gate was standalone and not integrated into the wall itself. Maybe he should have considered bolt cutters, or a welding torch.

Ford had wandered off, taking more pictures and (now that he was able) pulling his journal out to write some more. Whatever, let the alpha male do the hard work. He slipped the crowbar between the stone and the iron rod and put pressure on the crowbar. Nothing. Ok, not a problem. He grabbed the end of the bar and pushed as hard had he could. Nothing. Stan breathed and held back the flow of curses he wanted to scream. Instead he rubbed at his forearms and pushed against the bar with all his weight. He felt movement! It was the crowbar bending under the pressure. The profanities that echoed off the walls reverberated to the surface, startling an artic fox that had been hunting in the snow.  

Stan was ready to start throwing things and turn the iron to rust and splinters with a snap of his fingers, when he heard a quiet flip of a latch. He felt a rumble through the stone as some counter weight was dropped, lifting the iron gate he’d be ashamed to admit had not even dented.

“Hey. My crowbar!” Stan smacked at the tool as it rose with the gate, knocking it loose and wincing as it tumbled down on his head. “Ow!” Stan rubbed at his head, kneeling on the floor, and watching the dust fall. Part of the wall it is.

Ford exited a hidden corner of the room and Stan stopped grumbling long enough to get off the floor. “There are a series of symbols in ancient Gaelic engraved along every wall. The pictographs seem to be recording a religious or spiritual ritual that was performed here. I believe the inhabitants may have worshiped an interdimensional being, these glyphs look familiar.”    

“Hey, next time you wanna start touching random shit, let me know, will ya?” Stan shouted, collecting both of their bags, and packing away his crowbar. “Hm? Oh, yes, fine.” Ford said, completely not paying attention to anything Stan had said. Stan rolled his eyes but held back a complaint when Ford continued speaking. “I took some rubbings for further study. I may have to consult some of my old notes. Shame we tossed those journals in the Bottomless Pit, I could use some references now.” This wasn’t the first time Ford had made a passing remark lamenting the loss of the journals. If he was so upset, why not take a trip back to Gravity Falls and start re-recording all the weird things that existed there. They were on ‘ok’ terms with most of the creatures there, it wouldn’t be hard. Instead, Stan simply reminded Ford of the danger their contents possessed. “Those things were dangerous. Inert of not, some of that stuff should be forgotten. And hey, it can’t be that hard to learn ancient Gaelic. Heck, I learned your stupid nerd code in about a year. Should take you a few weeks to a month, tops.”

Ford looked apprehensive…and maybe a little resigned. “Dare I ask if you decoded everything?”

“I had that thing for thirty years, Stanford. Yeah, I read the whole thing. Could’a probably recited some pages before the whole memory wipe thing.” Stan was a world class liar, born with a silver tongue that had matured to tempered platinum with age, but he disliked lying to his brother. Sure, lying by omission was one thing, but flat out telling a falsehood gave him acid reflux. At least with Stanford. It felt…wrong. But Stanford didn’t need to know he could recite every word on every page.

Ford looked sheepish, right hand grasping at his left arm nervously. “Look Stan, I…” Stan interrupted him, “Hey, its nothin’. You missed me, but you were mad. I missed you, but I never bothered to reach out to ya. We both needed to grow up.” There was that bile taste again, but Ford really didn’t need to know about…that night either.

“I know, but I…what I wrote…what I was thinking…you know that it was just...” Ford was distraught, or approaching that limit. “I didn’t mean it.”

A moment passed. Then another. Stan sighed. Stanford had meant it. But that was a bucket of rotten fish Stan had no intention of ever opening. Even if he did, this was not the time nor place to be doing that anyway. “Hey, we’ll talk later. Right now, we have a crypt to plunder and ancient squiggles to archive. We got time.” Stan had placed a hand on Ford’s shoulder and Ford returned Stan’s smile with a weak one of his own, but a smile nonetheless. “Now common, we got ourselves some real adventurin’ to do.” Stan slung both bags over his shoulders and charged through the open gate, Ford left with no other alternative, followed him.

The second room opened into a towering chamber with a massive and ornate central pillar. Stan could hear drips of water echoing in the cavern. A rickety wooden ramp led them up to a platform that had been carved into the central pillar. A ledge bordering the room had once been connected to the central pillar, but the bridge had collapsed. Under the debris, was a body.

Everything passed the poor sod’s topmost ribs had been crushed, just a pile of grey bones and threadbare cloth that looked as if it would turn to dust. One hand, stretched out in front, was wrapped brittlely around what looked like a sculpted lizard or bird foot. Ford knelt down and broke the bones, drawing the thing up with him as he stood.  

It was a bronze, three-toed dragon’s foot. Ford held it up close to his face and Stan supplied the light. It glinted slightly, but was tarnished. It was highly detailed for its time; the toes having folds and creases to represent skin and scales before shifting to the claws. The sculpture seemed to end at the ankle joint.

“But where would they get the reference from? A Comodo Dragon? But where would they get one? Did the Nordic people travel that far south? Could one have been traded? Was it alive? No, preserved, most likely; it’s doubtful that it would have survived this climate.” Stan had rolled his eyes and pulled out a tiny notebook from his back pocket, half a pencil from the lip of his beanie and scribbled down a few key words that Ford had prattled off. “’Comodo dragon, preserved foot, how far did travel’, Got it” Ford sighed and rolled his eyes, but said nothing, Stan’s small notes did help him remember his spontaneous questions.

Stan pocketed the sculpture and his notebook, Ford’s jacket already near bursting, and they ascended the ramp to the next level. The distance from the central pillar to the next floor was too far to jump. “There doesn’t seem to be another way across. Too bad, this is all stone; my magnet gun is useless.” The answer was simple.

Stan’s steady aim with the grappling hook and squeezing Ford to his side with his free arm, ensured hasty progress. Albeit, slightly bruised ribs and a sore shoulder. Man, he was getting old. Ford had squeaked in surprise when Stan had grabbed him, sputtering his hesitation at this “horrible and highly dangerous idea”, but Stan had only grinned maniacally and held on tighter. They landed roughly. Or rather, Stanford had landed in his classic hero pose and Stan tumbled head over foot, landing on his ass. He hurt, but it was worth it.

Ford stood, brushing himself off and peering to the top of the cavern. He let out a low whistle. “These ledges go all the up. It appears that this room acts as a central connecting point to all surrounding chambers. I don’t see any direct connections, though. Maybe there are stairs elsewhere. Hey Stan, you mind waiting a bit while I take notes?” Ford glanced back at Stan who was still a bit winded from his reenactment of Tarzan. “Stan?” Stan waved him off, shuffling on the floor to lean against the wall. Getting old sucked. He didn’t recommend it.

While Ford sketched and buzzed with energy, Stan rested, drinking some water, and munching a granola bar. It was bizarre, this place felt creepily familiar, but no matter how much he tried to pull the knowledge to his head, it seemed to flitter away before he could get a good look at it. It was almost as if the ward had protected this place from his mind too. And wards. That didn’t make any sense. The shack was still warded against him, but he had no problems going in and out. What made this place different? It grated at his mind that he couldn’t remember. Sure, he’d gotten used to having gaps in his memory, and he had tried to ignore that he just knew things now, but it was like a lyric to a song you just couldn’t get right so the song plays at the edges of your mind driving you crazy, and you can’t even remember the name of the song or who sang it and you couldn’t even ask anyone because you killed them all and…ok, time to calm down. His gums had started to twinge as he clenched his dentures together.

He’d been meaning to ask Ford if he knew how to regrow teeth (he didn’t) or at least invent something like a serum that could (he could, but it was painful). ARRRGH! Why? Why just know things unless it was about something that was helpful? Stan wanted a cigar to chew on, but he settled for a stick of gum. ‘Course smoking was how he lost his real teeth, that and bare knuckles boxing in Mexico. There was more than one night he spat out a tooth, but his winnings paid for passable, if not functional, bridges. Come to think of it, he was lucky to have his eyes after some of those matches.

Eyes. Eye. Yellow eyes, what was that?! Yeah, anything that was a depiction of him was a window, but the dragon or wyvern wasn’t a depiction of him…was it? Or not him, not him him, but past him. Oy. I need an organizer. Stan rubbed his eye eyes, two eyes, and glanced around his little corner. He caught sight of three waist high stone structures that looked like sliced bread loaves. Or maybe he was just hungry. Regardless, there were three of them, and they seemed to be facing each other, meeting in the middle. He couldn’t tell if the floor between them was dusty, broken or what, but there was something weird about the pattern those mounds made. Stan called out to Ford.

“Hey, Sixer! There’s a-a thing that might be interestin’ for ya.” He didn’t spare the mental energy to actually describe anything, counting on Sixer’s gravitational pull towards him to do the trick.

“Find something?” Ford had returned and Stan pointed out the stone mounds. “Whadd’ya make of those?”

Ford hummed as he wandered around the stone figures, crouching down to trace the designs on the faces. Stan eased himself off the floor, grabbing his bag, and making his way over to Stanford. He approached Ford’s left side and stood directly in the middle of the three mounds. Both brothers jerked at the eruption of red light from the floor and designs on the stone. They both turned towards the bang of a gate opening to their right that Stan had not noticed before. “What the hell…?” Stan mumbled slowly and took a step. Almost instantly, the light vanished and the gate closed again. Ford strode over and peered through the gate, Stan followed, weirded out by the light a moment ago. “It’s a puzzle. Two people must work together to open the way through. See…” Ford held the flashlight aloft and pointed to the other side of the room beyond the gate. “I suspect that to open that one, we’ll have to make the totems match with their counterparts on this side.”  

“Hey, I got this one.” Stan patted his brother on the shoulder, fully intending to not stand in the ring of creepy red light again. Ford nodded and returned to the ring, the light appeared again and Stan ducked through when the gate rose. He stood in the center of the room, and froze.  

Shoot, he hadn’t bothered to look at the symbols. “Um..Sixer?” he called, hesitantly, voice filled with embarrassment. “Stand facing the next door” Ok, he could do that. He turned to his left, facing the barred doorway; he could see Ford from the corner of his left eye. He turned a bit more to look at Ford again.  

“No, Stan like this. See me?” Ford waved and adjusted his body to face directly between two of the figureheads. Stan grumbled, but turned to mimic his brother. “Reach out your left hand to the nearest one. This one should be a whale. Or, at least it kind of looks like a whale.” Stan rolled his eyes, stepped forwards and tried to spin the figurehead. It didn’t budge.

“Stan?”

“Hang on a minute, would ya? This thing ‘s heavy.”

He placed his hands on the top of the stone for leverage and pushed. The figurehead sank into the floor slightly before turning. “Oh”

“What?”

“Nunin’, Sixer. I got it.” He pressed down again and turned it so the whale was facing him. Ford was right, it did look kinda like a whale. Kinda. He returned to his previous position.

“Ok. Turn right, the next should be a snake” Stan did as Ford directed; this one did look a bit more like it was supposed to.

“The last one’s an owl.” No, it wasn’t. It looked like a cat’s head on a bird body. Whoever carved the mural likely had never seen an owl before. Stan’s call of “Got It” was drowned out by the clang of the rising gates.

Ford joined him a moment later, holding out a granola bar to Stan. He waved it off and pulled out the empty wrapper from his earlier one. Ford shrugged, tore it open and began to eat as they walked.

The hall they followed didn’t go up; they went down. “The rooms above aren’t connected?” Ford asked himself quizzically.  

“There might’a been a ramp or sommin that use ta be there. There was a lot o’ debris back there”. There had been a ramp, but it had been vaporized and left only dust. Stan scowled at this tidbit of information entering his brain involuntarily. Ford didn’t seem to notice, instead he just hummed and made a few notations on his phone as they walked. Several of the rooms they passed looked as though they were residential rooms; a couple of bedrooms, what looked like a galley with a stone oven and hearth, a room with what looked like it once housed a pile of tables and chairs, and a tiny closet that smelled rancid that neither of them were interested in examining further. Ford paused in another room to take a rubbing of a pedestal with a bronze plaque covered in Gaelic that he couldn’t remove. The room gave Stan the creeps and looked like a place of worship.

They continued their descent down, passing more wall carvings that Ford photographed with his phone. Stan rolled his eyes; his phone was filled with funny pictures of himself, Ford, places they had been, weird animals and the occasional picture of something for Ford. Ford’s camera had exactly one picture of the kids, a scanned picture of the two of them on the original Stan O’War and a picture of them both on the Stan O’War II. Oh, and about three hundred pictures of anomalies and glyphs and interesting plants and rock formations and…well, there wasn’t much of his family. Stan had wanted to call him out on it, but he didn’t know how to voice his concerns in a way that didn’t sound insulting.  

The hall finally ended at a spiral staircase that disappeared into the darkness below. Ford pulled out a glow stick, cracked and shook it, and let it drop. Ford counted under his breath to three, almost four. “It’s about…um…what’s the acceleration of gravity on Earth, again?” Ford frowned. “I don’t know,” Stan did, “but I’d say it’s about five or six stories down. You want me ta go first?”

“I’ll lead, just stay close behind me. And keep that grappling hook ready. We don’t know how sturdy this wood is.” They started down, taking slow steps at first, shifting their weight. The wood creaked and popped, but held firm. They made it past a full spiral before they were emboldened by the lack of instability. Ford started in with more deliberate steps and Stan resumed his normal near stomping gait. It was a mistake.

The wood below Stan gave way and he would have fallen the entire way down had his reflexes not been in top condition. The grappling hook was deployed before he’d even passed the next level and lodged itself in the wood above them, shooting passed Ford’s head and causing him to backpaddle away from the edge. Stan hung in shock with bits of wood dust and debris raining down on his head.

“Stan? Are you alright?”

“I’ll, um, I’ll meet’cha at the bottom!” This was embarrassing. “Just be careful, Sixer”

“Will do” Ford muttered quietly and began making his way, with less confidence this time, down the steps. Stan toggled the button on the grappling hook to lower himself slowly down until he reached the bottom of the stairwell. It was pitch-black. He could see the bobbling of Ford’s light above him. He was reluctant to let the rope grow loose and disengage until Ford could reach him. The echoes around him told him that the room beyond was massive. And he could hear scurrying.

He held a death grip on the handle of the grappling hook until Ford rounded the last spiral. “You good?” he said, shinning the light at Stan before growing concerned and continuing in a whisper, “What’s wrong?” Stan glanced at Ford, then back at the doorway. Ford spun and looked too when a squelching sound emanated from the room; the flashlight held at an angle pointed away from the sound to not attract attention.

Stan gulped. He had an uncanny feeling that this was gonna be his wort nightmare. Ford steadied himself and directed the beam of light into the room.

Yup ‘Worst nightmare’, in the flesh, or carapace in this particular case.

A giant spider the size of a Great Dane paused mid step, turning towards the two and hissed.

FUCK!

The thing was dead in a matter of microseconds; its body flung across the room from the force of four plasma rounds being fired at it from close range. The pistol smoking in Ford’s hand.

“Did I ever tell you what happened on that road trip I took the kids on?”

“Yup, that’s why I shot it. I have no intentions of dealing with that.”

Stan also suspected that his panic attacks over the ordeal that had kept Ford awake some nights after that had something to do with it.  

With Ford’s help, they pulled the grappling hook free and tentatively entered the room from hell, Ford taking point and pulling Stan along behind him by the hand. Stan only felt some shame at hiding his face in the back of his brother’s coat.

The room was filled with webbing and things wrapped up in that webbing that Stan had no interest in looking at. Ford carefully lead him through the room and towards the next doorway when he heard a quiet insect clicking. He risked a glance up at the same time Ford flicked his flashlight up. There was a large hole in the top of the ceiling and a large black mound slowly descending and reaching its way too many legs out.

NOPE!

Stan bolted for the door, Ford right behind him, not daring to look back as he felt the ground shudder slightly with the creature’s landing. He saw something goopy and gelatinous whiz above their heads, but he was NOT turning around to look. They made it through the door, Ford shooting a gap in the webbing that covered it, and bolted down the hall beyond. When Stan could bring himself to stop, he realized Ford was not behind him.

He heard some plasma shots ring out and a loud grunt.

Stan took a second to steady himself before turning around and heading back into the hall to rescue his brother. Another rumble ran through the stonework and a bright light emanated from the end of the hall. He rounded the corner to smack right into Ford.

“What the hell?” Stan winced at the light.  

“I stole a stick of dynamite and a smoke bomb and trailed the powers behind us and fired a shot. Those smoke bombs are incredibly flammable, you shouldn’t be using them.”

Stan just laughed with the release of adrenaline and hugged his brother tightly. “Come on. The rest of the way is safe…probably.” It was Ford’s turn to laugh.  

The heat from the inferno in the spider room, now turning it into a literal room from hell, escaped through a series of vents in the stonework and erupted out to the surface. The same fox from before jumped directly into the air with all four feet when a gust of warm air puffed across its tail. It brought its body low to the ground and thought about going back to bed.  

Ford and Stan walked along the hall that opened up as it went, ending in a tubular room with a circular door at the end. The walls were again covered in murals. Most prominent was a yellow-eyed dragon and a procession of people worshiping it. The eyes made him uncomfortable. And it had everything to do with the fact that he had to fight to keep his vision his own.

Ford was snapping pictures like a paparazzi catching a celebrity in the nude, and grinning widely. Stan just made his way over to the door and peered at the markings in the center; ignoring the face of the yellow-eyed dragon glowering at him. His vision shifted momentarily, looking at the top of his own head and Stanford taking more notes behind him. He placed a hand on the door and shook his head to return his vision to normal. He blinked a few times and rubbed his fingertips on the bronze disk at the center of the door. There were three holes and a semicircle blob that almost looked like a foot print.

Stan pulled the bronze claw from his pocket and inspected the underside. There were scuff marks on the pad of the foot and on the tips of the claws. A key?

“Hey” He called out to Stanford, using is free hand to wave over his shoulder.

“A dragon’s claw for a key?” He adjusted his glasses. “Unusual choice. Though depictions of dragons were revered as beings of great strength and power in Viking culture. The structure of this chamber seems to indicate this was done deliberately. Enemies would find it alarming and hesitant to go further and allies would see a welcome protector. Brilliant design. And the door is unusually intricate. It must have been designed to protect something exceedingly significant.” Stan perked up at Ford’s suggestion.

“Significant like treasure?” He couldn’t help the toothy and predatory grin from enveloping his face, his eyebrows waggling up and down. Ford rubbed his chin and returned Stan’s grin with a smug one of his own, “Could be. It could also be a pile of scrolls and books with more glyphs to study.” Stan frowned. “Way to be a buzzkill, Poindexter.”      

Ford just chuckled and took the claw from Stan and fitted it to the grooves in the door, “Well, only one way to find out.” The claw fit perfectly. Ford turned the claw counter clockwise until he felt the lock resist him, before turning it back to the starting position. The door jolted, and both brothers stood back as it sank into the floor with a stutter, Ford having kept hold of the claw. They stood, quiet exhilaration and trepidation coursing through their veins. “Ready?” Stan asked. “Always,” was the reply as they passed through the gateway to the unknown.

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Chapter 1

[madstars-festival]

5 MINUTES WITH... JOACHIM KORTLEPEL, AD STARS 2020 JURY

We are delighted to welcome Joachim Kortlepel, ECD at Jung von Matt in Hamburg, to our Final Jury. Don’t miss his interview with Little Black Book.

As a former journalist on Capitol Hill, Joachim Kortlepel wonders if we’ll all look back on fake news and Trump & Co as a flaw in the matrix. He also dislikes the rise of xenophobia and one-hit-wonder marketing campaigns, but is passionate about music, experiential marketing and Jung von Matt’s ‘magnetic’ culture, where he’s been since 2001.

As well as being ECD, he joined Jung von Matt Holding in 2017 as a creative service provider for around 15 Jung von Matt agencies globally.

Joachim has won over 200 awards including a Graphite Pencil at this year’s D&AD Awards and a Grand Prix/Green Pencil at One Show 2020 for ‘For Seasons’ – a campaign that cleverly recomposes Vivaldi’s Four Seasons using climate data to raise awareness of the consequences of climate change.

You began your career as a journalist. Why did you decide to be a reporter?

I was always extremely into politics. From early on. I believe this is connected to my country’s history and its role in world politics ever since World War II. I was always looking for answers with regard to all of what happened before and after WWII. So politics became my major at University and together with my deep love for writing, I kind of made my way straight to the European Commission in Washington D.C., where I worked as a legislative correspondent and political analyst. I was allowed to report on US foreign and domestic politics. Pretty amazing to witness Senators and Representatives of the House on a day-to-day basis on Capitol Hill to be honest.

But as time went on, I discovered that rather than writing about something and running after the facts (facts meant something in those days) it would be more challenging and somehow more fun to create something that others would be writing about. That is when I switched, got back to Germany and worked at BBDO with a focus on copywriting.

As a former journalist, what do you think of the ‘fake news’ phenomenon?

Quite honestly: it pisses me off. The other side is pure disbelief that Trump & Co. manage to keep this going for them: disregarding everything, putting criticism aside by simply calling it fake news. How could that happen? To a little lesser extent this applies also to decision makers in other countries, i.e. Russia, Poland or Hungary, just to name a few. But what happens in the US is still worse. It will be interesting to see how we will look back on this in a couple of years from now; or maybe even after the next US election in November. Is this something we will be referring to as a flaw in the Matrix?

Anyhow, all of this asks us to be even more in love with every detail of a story, to be even more precise and responsible and even more reliable, because mistakes and flaws in our facts and stories will only foster and nourish the ‘Trump-way-of-doing-politics’ (if you can call this politics at all). My hope is, in the end, facts will win over.

You joined Jung von Matt in 2001. What does it do differently?

I feel the culture is magnetic. There is such a strong drive for non-conformity, a desire to break the rules no matter what. We always want to be unexpected, we like to surprise people and add some humour to our stories. Our campaigns entertain. And what I do like very much about our spirit: “No” is not an answer, whatever the obstacles are in bringing campaigns on air, creativity will find an answer. Together we can do everything. And if we fail to reach our goals, we come back stronger.

Wherever and whomever I did meet in the past: I never saw this creative spirit or experienced anything close to it again. So maybe they – as we say in Germany – will have to carry me out of the building because I will die here one day at my desk ;-)

In 2001, you set up Jung von Matt/relations – why did you become so interested in experiential marketing and ‘brand experiences’?

To me, experiental marketing is one of the most authentic ways to communicate. Brand experiences (specifically the combination of digital & non-digital) create highly emotional reactions. The way I see it, making brands tangible is one of the greatest challenges in marketing and creates some of the most emotional and credible ways to communicate with customers: everything is real. No editing, no post-production and no ‘let us do it all over again’. It is live. And you know what is really great about this? If you do your utmost to create something amazing and emotional, people will not only highly value the experience itself but also the amount of work you put in only to please them. That is a win-win scenario on all accounts.

You believe ‘creativity can solve every problem in the world’ and there are lots of problems to be solved this year in particular. Have there been any innovations in Germany in response to the coronavirus or Black Lives Matter movement?

In Germany, they managed to bring about a mobile app that every German can download. It tracks your way and if you got in contact with somebody infected, it is much easier to trace. And it is even in accordance with privacy rules, which are pretty tight in Germany.

As for Black Lives Matter: it is a global movement that is a long time overdue. And although racism seems to be a larger problem in the US, we too in Germany must be very aware of it. Not only because of our history, but also since we have our own problems to solve, racism being one of them but another big one is xenophobia. We still need to do everything we can to stand against this. In politics, in society and in advertising.

I am somewhat fed up with those one-hit wonder marketing and advertising stunts: I believe we need to engage something truly more profound and impactful. And yes, creativity can solve this! But first we need to address the problem and ask the right questions.

Do you have a creative process: how do you approach a new brief?

Everything begins with a white and empty sheet of paper. From then on it is the permanent search and the discarding of possibilities. Always and always further. I don't think that we are very different from others. It's hard work and we don't have that one elaborate process, except that we create the best possible framework so that creatives can fully focus on the task at hand.

Everything at Jung von Matt is designed to allow creative people to be as creative as possible. Then it takes a little luck and every now and then courageous clients. Because one thing is clear: just like in a Formula 1 race, to get to the top you have to leave the racing line and move to the battle line. Only then can you overtake. And to do that, you sometimes have to do the unexpected, surprise everyone and challenge the status quo. Equipped with these guiding principles, the goal is clear and the way is clear for all to see. For me it is living the breaking-of-rules. Non-conformity to the extreme.

What is your proudest achievement, professionally or personally?

Personally, it is a short answer: My three kids ;-)

Professionally, projects that involved music in one way or the other to solve a problem, to raise awareness or to create a meaningful impact.

As a standalone project, most likely the global marketing campaign for the opening of the Elbphilharmonie in Hamburg back in 2017. That has been a once-in-a-lifetime effort. Because it does not happen all too often that you have a building only for music and art like this one, and a client’s construction delay crisis like the one we faced when we began to work.

As the leading creative I spent some 1.5 years solely dedicated to this project. It was worth the effort and I can look at the Elbphilharmonie every day when I pass by it on my bike. That’s awesome and sort of a permanent reminder of my own work when you look at how it has become a concert house for truly everybody and how we managed to turn public opinion around.

Are you working on anything interesting right now?  

Yes, and it involves music. A truly global effort demonstrating yet again the power of music and creativity. What is remarkable is that we are cooperating between agencies and I am extremely happy to work with AKQA Australia on this. Public announcements are to follow sometime in the fall of 2020 and I can’t wait to tell more.

You’re joining AD STARS as a Final Judge this year. What are you most looking forward to?

Well, it is a great honour to be selected as a final judge for the AD STARS festival and I am so curious to see all the work.

What city are you based in, and how does it inspire you?

Hamburg. The city is located at the river Elbe not too far away from North Sea. Water almost surrounds the entire city, it is everywhere and the power of it is to be felt in every corner. The liquid force is something that I seek to achieve with ideas, too. Creating unstoppable power such as the strength that water can develop. And as for the tides, nothing stays still, it is a constant flow, day by day as it is with ideas. That asks for humbleness.

* Joachim Kortlepel is joining AD STARS 2020 to judge Brand Experience & Activation, Creative eCommerce, Direct, Media, PR. This interview was originally published in Little Black Book.

[lookatthedawn]

While in Bangkok

Breakfast at the hotel is a very formal affair.  The dining room is big and well decorated and there is a plentiful buffet.  The headwaiter speaks good English and is quite solicitous, although a bit intimidating.  He wants to make sure that everything runs smoothly and that's good, but I need a little more space.  A table at the corner is occupied by a sour-looking French couple.  At another table sits a group of Asian ladies who could be Thai or from another country nearby.  They're noisy and demanding, but I'm grateful to them as they hijack the headwaiter's attention.  My usual beverage of choice is tea, but I want to try the Thai coffee.  I find it a lot like the Vietnamese; extremely strong and sweet.  Also, very small.  After it's gone, I'm still thirsty, so I have a big cup of tea. Many people in Thailand speak English, some quite well.  On the way to the Grand Palace, I get directions from an Englishman with lovely blue eyes, then a couple of locals are happy to direct me to the train station. From the station, I take a tuk-tuk whose driver convinces me that the best way to see the city is by boat.  He shows me the route on the map which covers a great part of what I want to see.  He can't tell me the price of the boat tour but his own fare is quite low.  I like the tuk-tuk as it offers an affordable way to see the city.  As we arrive at the pier, I'm surprised that there's no line and no one waiting to go on a tour. 

The tuk-tuk driver directs me to a woman sitting at a table, who will make a special price for me, which is two thousand Baht.  I think I misheard, so I ask how much again.  Two thousand Baht, she repeats.  I tell her I don't have that kind of money and start to walk away.  She lowers the fare to 1800, I tell her no, thank you.  Sixteen hundred, she says, is her best offer.  The driver is still around, trying to convince me as well, but I'm already on my way out.  He offers to take me wherever I want to go, but I decline.

I want to see a Buddhist temple we passed by, but in Bangkok, you find Buddhist temples and Seven-Eleven stores in every corner.  I stop at one of these temples for a bit of peace and quiet away from the heat.  It is white with a red and gold roof decorated with precious stones in the front.  Everything is clean, neat and peaceful.  Dozens of statues of the Buddha sit behind glass windows facing a patio.  At a table on the right side of the temple, two monks sit and talk.  I greet them and they reply amiably but as I don't speak Thai and they speak precious little English, so we communicate with smiles and nods.  I usually feel quite comfortable around Buddhist monks.  Something about their lifestyle appeals to me.  I have a thousand questions for these two, but for now, the language barrier means my questions will remain unanswered.  

After a while, I exit the temple and take a taxi to the Grand Palace.  In Bangkok, the taxis have the most wonderful shade of pink, something between magenta and fuschia, and drivers drive on the left side of the road. It's a busy Saturday afternoon and the area around the King's Palace is blocked.  The driver, who speaks English with ease, makes light conversation.  He asks where I am from and we talk about soccer a little bit, then he speaks of his country; he has a few complaints, mostly about the cost of living, but overall he is quite proud of his homeland and the new king.  He drives me as close as he can to the Palace and I jump out.  I see men and women dressed in black going toward the palace and feel inadequate in my jeans and red, sleeveless tunic.  I think of the long-sleeved shirt in my bag, in case I have to change into something more somber.   There is a narrow passage leading to the palace area where security is tight.  They check my ID and my bag before letting me in.  There are a few people, tourists like me, wearing regular clothes, but most visitors are in groups, wearing black and walking purposefully.  The marine, the army, and the navy are massively represented.  A sign at the palace's gate says that the King's Palace will close earlier, because of the death of the king.  I bemoan my timing as I connect the dots of the sights around me; the people in black, the many official cars, the soldiers, the monks and all the signs praising the king.  The mood is both festive and somber, as the tribute to a well-lived life.  I don't know much about the king, but I suspect he was quite well liked.  

I leave the area near the palace and find a pier with shops around.  I'm looking for a fridge magnet from Thailand.  On January, when my son Marcelo went to Europe, he had the bright idea of collecting magnets from every country visited.  He proudly displays his collection on our fridge and I have decided to do the same.  Thailand will be my first if I can find one.  I walk around the shops and find shoes, hats, and t-shirts, but no magnets.  On this pier, there is a line to get in the boats.  The price for the boat tour is around six hundred.  Four hundred and change before 4 p.m., but this is 4:10.  It strikes me as odd that prices for the same tour -- even though the first was individual and this is in a group -- can go from 2K to 600 hundred Baht.  I watch the long line of people getting into boats as I try to make up my mind whether to buy the ticket or not.  In the meantime, I sit in the shade and rest, while watching the people and the breathtaking view of the city.   I decide not to take the tour.  I walk out of the pier and back in the streets.  There's food for sale everywhere.  Fruits, juices, smoothies.  Small shops, doors that are no more than two meters wide, selling every kind of food and clothing. No magnets, though. I come to another pier, which looks like a well-kept plaza, pleasant and tourist-friendly.  This is the third pier I visit and it offers quite a contrast to the other two.  The first one was poorly maintained and smelled strongly of fish.  The second and busiest catered to tourists but was disorganized and the staff was not very friendly. The pier where I now stand is elegant, with a restaurant overlooking the Chao Phraya River, big pots of flowers, and polite people.  I imagine the price of the tour to be exceedingly high.  When I ask, I think I misheard.  "Forty Baht."  "Excuse me? How much did you say?"  The smiling clerk pushes a table with different prices.  For the ride I want is, indeed, forty Baht.  "The next one leaves in twenty minutes," he adds in clear English.  I buy the ticket and wait for the boat to arrive. This is a hop-on-hop-off boat, for which you pay for the whole day or buy a one-way ticket like I did.  The ride offers a chance to see much of Bangkok for little time and money.  It is not only for tourists but a safe and pleasant type of transportation for Bangkokians commuting from work, school or just going out shopping.  I try capturing the moment with my phone camera, but I can never catch the breeze, the sounds and smells as the boat glides over the Chao Phraya River.  I'm aware that this is a singular moment, one I'll remember many times when I think of my time in Southeast Asia.  Yes, I was there, I shall say, and it was worth it! I hop off at Yannawa and walk toward Silom.  The streets are busy with traffic, vendors, and buyers.  I wonder if other cities in the country are as busy as Bangkok or if the whole country conglomerates here.  I make a mental note to research.  That is what visiting a different country does; it ignites the mind and incites our curiosity.  Who is the minority in this country?  Who do they blame when things go wrong?  Who is the scapegoat? What are their problems?   What I see is a pretty homogenous people, going about their business boisterously but peacefully.  I search my brain for news I might have heard from Thailand.  Was there any terrorist attack on its soil?  Earthquake? I find nothing.  The place reminds me of movies with Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker, where a lot is happening right under the surface, but the regular man and woman don't have a clue about it.  Is that the case here?  "Be careful, his bowtie is really a camera."

In Silom I enter Robinson Department Store, which is a chain of megastores, sometimes standing alone, other times in a shopping center.  This one is in a shopping center, which includes a supermarket, cafes, clothing stores, etc.  I spend much time in this mall, looking at products and prices, then sitting at a cafe to rest for a while.  

I don't know what I thought about Bangkok, but I definitely didn't think it was so large, busy and well organized as it is.  I see a fair number of tourists and Westerns living here.  Something like 8 million people live in Bangkok.  And yet, traffic flows without conflicts.  Unlike Hanoi, drivers don't honk as much and the people are polite and helpful.  I find quaint little shops in picturesque villages.  Art galleries, cafes and restaurants look delightful in the late afternoon's glow.   I stop at Mama Mia Bangkok, a busy diner on a side street where I'm served the richest vegetable soup I ever tasted.  The restaurant has tables on both sides of the narrow street, which the waiters cross constantly while carrying trays with hot dishes and cold drinks.  There are more tourists eating here than there are Thai customers.  While waiting for my soup, I pull out my laptop.  The humdrum in the background is perfect for writing.  In the meantime, night falls over the city.

After searching in a number of stores I finally find magnets at a stand of a street vendor.  It's the first one I see and it's dirt cheap.  As soon as buy it, however, they appear everywhere.  I explore the city on foot, amazed by Bangkok's modern and creative architecture.  It's hot and humid, but there's a constant breeze that makes walking around a pleasure. At a bridge over the train station in Silon, a girl wearing a costume poses for a photo shoot. She's not the only one.  In fact, the place seems to be quite popular with photographers.  Most people on the streets are in their twenties, usually with a group of friends, having a good time.  If they're in a group, they keep to themselves but if they're alone they politely greet me.  There are many Westerns around, and most of them look like well-adapted residents, not tourists.  

If you ever go to Bangkok, pay close attention to which airport you're arriving and departing. I arrived at Suvarnabhumi Airport, but I will be leaving from Don Mueang International. This airport is smaller and the staff is quite friendly.  As I am flying first thing in the morning, I spend part of the night in the airport, and I'm far from the only one.  There are people sleeping everywhere.   At a busy charging station, I meet and befriend Carl, Kazild, Kevin, and Cynthia.  Each of us is from a different part of the world, traveling to another, completely different place.  At that airport, what unites us is that we need to charge our phones.  Carl and Kazild are best friends originally from the Philippines but raised in Hawaii.  They're on their way to Hanoi, Vietnam.  Kevin is from Pennsylvania and he's flying back home, and Cynthia, who is from Argentina, has just arrived from Myanmar and is flying to Japan.  All of them have been around and have interesting tales to tell.  Just by looking into their eyes you can see a world of places and people, of which they're happy to share, though no narrative can fully bring to others the intensity of the experience itself.  After talking of places, people and how to find the best lodgings, we settle on politics, and I find that, though our backgrounds are quite diverse, our views are similar. Soon it's time for Kevin to board his plane.  One by one we go our own ways, but we promise to stay in touch.  As I depart from them I wonder about their expectations and thoughts toward their destination.  It took courage for each of them to embark on this adventure and I'm impressed -- and jealous -- of their experiences.  I wish them all the best.   My batteries are fully charged and it's time for me to go too.  I stop at the exchange booth and turn baht into riel, then eat my last guava before heading to my gate.   Goodbye, friends! Goodbye, Thailand!