#((she does kind of have a not-yet permanent name now actually - hesitantly her name is currently Millie))

[deadangelos]

Aww :) so what’s the plan?

#pjo #percy jackson #jason grace #reyna ramirez-arellano #dakota pjo #gwen pjo #gwendolyn pjo #athanasius macbeth #cadeyrn avitus #drawn response #ask #Anonymous #grace event #tbm event #event #cybele kid #((< ah the only other semi-named member of the 5th on the blog. dont worry im working on that)) #((she does kind of have a not-yet permanent name now actually - hesitantly her name is currently Millie)) #((still workshopping it though)) #((she's not really relevant at all i just think her design is cute))

[inkandpen22]

Permanent Chaos (4/?)

Pairing: MGK x Female!Reader

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: mild swearing

Part Summary: While Y/N is out shopping with Cara, news breaks that ties her with MGK. 

Masterlist

Masterlist

Two days later...

Cara and I go out shopping and have lunch for a girl’s day. I have yet to talk about the other night with Sam. Cara hasn’t mentioned it and I have no plans to either. Cameras have followed us up and down Rodeo Drive. By this point, Cara and I are both used to it. Carrying my bags however, I doubt I look graceful for these videos their taking. Oh well, they have fifteen thousand more of me.

“CARA! EXCITED TO WALK IN THE CHANEL FASHION SHOW?”

Cara ignores the paparazzi and points out a dress in the window at Dolce and Gabbana. I request to go inside to try it on. I’m not sure where I’d wear it to, but that doesn’t really matter.

“Welcome ladies!” A woman in a black dress approaches. “Can I help you find anything in particular?”

I point over to the dress in the window, “could I see that in a size six please?”

She leaves us to go find the dress for me and we roam around a small section while she does. My phone rings and I see Nicole’s name pop up. My heart immediately begins to race. She doesn’t call me unless absolutely necessary, usually we text. I step away toward the corner to be discreet.

I answer the call hesitantly. “Nicole? What’s up?”

“I got a call from Stephanie,” she sounds agitated on the other end.

Stephanie is my publicist, she handles everything that Nicole can’t basically. They bicker a lot since they’re both so headstrong and constantly need control. It’s the classic good cop/bad cop scenario, yet I don’t know who’s who. These two cover every aspect of my career, God bless them.

“Oh no, sounds bad,” I grumble anxiously.

“Depends how you look at it,” she lightens her tone.

“What is it?” I press.

“Well…” she hesitates.

“Nicole!” I drag out her name.

“It’s all over social media, magazines and it will be on TMZ tonight,” she stammers. “I’m surprised you haven’t already heard if I’m being honest-”

“Nicole! What?” I rush her.

“An article about you and Colson Baker just dropped on some gossip sight,” she explains. “It says that you and Colson Baker are dating. Stephanie and I figured no one would believe it but it’s everywhere! They have videos and photos of you two leaving The Ivy plus talking by Sam’s car. If I didn’t know you, I would be convinced.”

My head hangs low as I rub my forehead, letting out a deep sigh. “Oh dear God.”

“We can handle it, don’t worry!” Nicole assures. “This story will be gone soon!”

“I need to go, talk to you later!” I hang up on Nicole right when the woman shows me the dress.

“I’ll take it” I attempt to hurry up the process.

Cara comes up next to me “don’t you think you should try it on first?”

“I’ll explain later but we need to go” I whisper to her and just like that, she’s hurry the woman along at the register.

I have the dress and exit the store in a rush. I must act cool, the paparazzi will take notice of my mood change.

“HOW’S COLSON, Y/N?”

“SEEING HIM TONIGHT?”

“HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN DATING?”

“HOW ARE GONNA HANDEL HIS FANS?”

“HAS HE MET THE FAMILY YET?”

“What’s going on?” Cara asks concerned.

“I’ll explain once we’re somewhere private,” I whisper so the cameras don’t pick up on it.

We speed walk to the car and I offer to drive since I made us cut the day short. Once we’re on the highway towards home Cara asks what the heck is going on.

“Why did they keep asking about Colson?”

I turn on the radio and Elvis Duran, along with his team, are discussing no other than me and Colson.

Danielle summarizes the article for the listeners. “The article says they’ve been dating for the past few months. They’re very happy but the relationship is still new. The pair has not yet met each other’s families but Colson is going on tour soon so maybe Y/N will join him and eventually meet the family. Throughout, there are tons of photos of the cute young couple leaving The Ivy Wednesday night. There’s even a link to a video showing them, what appears to be, having a deep conversation by Sam Merka’s car. If you watch the video, the two are clearly looking at each other very lovingly. I mean, he’s looking at her the way I look at a fresh pizza!”

The rest of the cast laughs and I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Actually, scratch that, I can believe it. I’m just pissed.

“If MGK and Y/N are officially an item, why did she leave with Sam Merka?” Elvis questions.

“I’m glad you asked! According to sources, they’ve been very close friends since the start of TSL. In fact, the duo have taken many vacations together along with their co-star Penelope Glass.”

Cara turns down the volume and looks to me with a steady expression. “Is it true?”

I narrow my gaze at her in bewilderment. “What? No! There’s no way in hell!”

“Okay, just checking,” she lets out a sigh of relief.

“Never ever!” I add and change the station.

Colson Baker is everything I despise in a person. I’ve never hated someone so fast as I’ve hated him. Us together as a couple is impossible. It’s completely irrational.

_________________________________________________________

Later in the afternoon, Stephanie sets up a meeting for us to meet with Colson and his publicist. I had to drag myself to her office. My Fridays aren’t well spent in an office building with enemies. In fact, my whole day could be tarnished by this incident. The meeting room we’re all ushered into is freezing and I’m still in my sundress from earlier. Cara and I were never able to get lunch so I’m starving on top of being cold. The photos of us play in a slideshow on the meeting room’s tv. An endless cycle of false advertisement is how I see the photos. The media is selling us as something completely far from the truth. On top of everything, I’m in a meeting with the one guy in all of Los Angeles I can’t stand. Death would be less painful than the current situation. I tune out the debate between Stephanie and Colson’s publicist. He told me his name but my brain is so numb from the temperature in here I can’t recall it.

“Y/N!” Stephanie calls my name and I search for her around the room until I find her in the doorway with Colson’s publicist.

“We’re going to go make a few phone calls. You two will stay here while we handle the press.” I nod “sounds good.”

I send her a weak smile to charm her out of an apology for zoning out. She huffs and escorts Colson’s guy to her office so they can talk on speaker privately. I stand up from my office chair and stroll over to the windows overlooking the courtyard. I watch the cars zoom by on the street and businessmen and women shuffle in and out of the Starbucks below.

“If it means anything, I’m sorry,” Colson says quietly behind me.

I nearly miss it, he speaks so quietly. I lean against the wall, crossing my arms as I face him.

“You’re sorry?” I shrug, not really seeing his blame. “Why? It’s not your doing.”

I return my gaze to the chaos below us. I watch as people with office jobs travel about. I wonder if they’ve heard of me? I wonder if they like me or think I’m a stuck up actress? I shouldn’t care what people think, but it’s easier said than done. When millions watch TSL every week, it’s hard to ignore the wondering.

“If I hadn’t walked you to the car none of this would be happening,” Colson reasons guiltily.

I shake my head, finding humor in the situation now. The paparazzi can make nothing into a months long romance. A brief conversation outside a restaurant and suddenly we’re meeting each other’s families.

“We were only walking to a car. How could either of us have predicted the amount of attention that would come of us walking?” I justify, not to ease his mind, but my own.

My flicker over to the tv, I examine the slideshow of us. Examining the photos I realize it wasn’t all in my head, the way in which Colson was gazing at me is a tad bit gawk-like. Images of us walking to the car while I’m answering the paparazzi’s questions depict Colson glancing at me with what seems to be such admiration. A picture of when Cara calls for Colson comes up and I’m stunned by how we look. Even I appear to be in awe of him in return. It’s evident Cara is speaking yet neither of us react. We were so caught up within on another.

“I have one question!” I blurt out suddenly with my arms crossed I walk back over to the table. Just one and then I wish to put all of today’s events to rest.” Colson perks up and hums for me to continue. I point over to the photos on the screen “why did you look at me the way you did?”

Turning his head, he reviews the photos blankly and I wait anxiously for some sort of reason. “I’m not looking at you in any particular way,” he disregards my accusations.

I chuckle, amused by his horrible way of lying. “Lies!”

He’s thrown off by my reaction and I storm over to the TV screen to point it out to him.

“It’s clear as day to the press, the public and now me included. You’re clearly lost in some kind of thought! You were there, so was I and our friends! Say all the lies you want but you’ll never convince anyone.”

His jaw clenches and he avoids my gaze. He leans back in his chair, staring out the windows. “Colson,” I sigh, slowly approaching the table. “Maybe the truth could help the lies disappear! If we’re honest then maybe the press will leave us alone!”

He shakes his head low, letting out a brief laugh. “I highly doubt that.”

I have a thousand questions but I’m aware none will go answered. He’s a lost cause. I’m in this alone I guess. Turning my back to him I return to my position by the window. Observing the worker bees swarming around the spaces below. The sound of Colson’s chair rolling back comes from behind me but I don’t even shift. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his figure in the reflection of the window beside me. My attention remains outside. He won’t give me the time of day so why should I treat him any better?

“You wanna know why I looked at you the way I did?” His presence hovers of me and he feels like a wall surrounding me.

“Please,” I mutter a subtle beg.

 “I... I had this imagine of you in my head, pre-judgements. You’re supposed to be America’s Sweetheart, Little Miss Perfect! You told me you had been working for this for years, had drive and trails.” He confesses. “You’re not what I expected... It caught me by surprise is all.” 

My eyebrows furrow close, “So you thought I was just some pretty face, goody-two-shoes, ditz? If it’s because my image, my past, you said so yourself it doesn’t matter!” 

“No, no, that’s not it!” he runs his hand through his hair nervously.

Narrowing my eyes, I press further. “Why then?”

The door swings open and I straighten up before forcing a warm smile to my face. I step back from Colson before the person ever appears in the doorframe. One of Stephanie employees informs us that we’re free to go. Steph doesn’t want to keep me here all day and since I’m allowed to go Colson’s publicist is releasing him. I clasp my hand together, walking over to fetch my purse.

“Thank you so much!” I gush. “Have a good day and please tell Stephanie “thank you!””

The young intern eats up my pleasant expressions. “You too Miss Voss! Will do!”

The young woman shuts the door behind her and I return to the state I was in. Expressionless, I gather my belongings and Colson does the same. Checking my phone for any missed emails or calls I can tell he’s staring me down.

“Does it ever get tiring?” His tone is light, but I can hear the ounce of mockery beneath the surface.

My attention is locked on my phone as text after text pops up from Penelope. She’s more likely than not has seen all the articles and Twitter posts. I should call her and explain.

“Y/N!” Colson shout pulls my from my thoughts.

“Huh? Does it ever get tiring?” I restate his question back to him. “What exactly are we talking about?”

I slide my purse over my shoulder while stepping over to the door, leaving Colson behind. That is until he follows me.

“Your whole act.” He forces a fake smile and tosses imaginary hair over his shoulder. “The “happy go-lucky goody goody All-American girl?””

I scoff, eyeing him up and down. “You’re ridiculous. It’s not an act.”

I swing open the meeting room door, eager to leave here. My heels clink against the white shiny tiles on my walk to the elevators. After hitting the down button, I call up Blake now that I have some time to kill. She’s my oldest friend, I’m sure she sees right through all of the tabloids and is only checking in.

“Calling your boyfriend?” Colson mutters over my shoulder and I quickly move away.

“Don’t have one,” I answer plainly, waiting for Penelope to pick up.

He smirks and props himself up against the wall beside the elevator doors. I side eye him, all he does is smile all the time and he calls me out for acting so happy all the time.

“Can’t you find anyone else to annoy?”

He grins proudly, “sure I could. None would as entertaining as you though.”

“Geez,” I mumble under my breath.

I pace outside the elevators as I wait for one to arrive and for Penelope to answer. Classic of her to text me non-stop but not to answer when I call her back. The elevator doors open and I step inside, ready to get out of here. I hit the ground floor and Colson strolls in lazily not rushed at all. He checks the button and doesn’t add any. The doors shut then silence sits flat in the small space with us. My phone buzzes continuously, I check the name at the top of the screen.

“Frickin’ frackin’!” I clench my teeth together in a growl.

Colson’s eyes widen at my sudden explosion. Closing my eyes, I exhale to calm myself then bring the phone up to my ear. Smiling helps to fake enjoyment when talking to someone on the phone. Sometimes I can fool myself into thinking I’m not miserable during discussions.

“Finn!” I greet. “What’s new?”

My southern accent surfaces. I flip the switch whenever I speak to my family or friends back in South Carolina. I can’t have them thinking I’m not the same Y/N from Charleston. Colson eyes me with his eyebrows raised, surprised by my sudden transition. He makes fun of me in a whisper for my fake enthusiastic voice. I wack him on the arm and it only encourages him more.

“Hi ya Y/N, uh so ya prolly already know butcha face is everywhere along with this MGK fella...” Finn’s voice falters at the end.

I sigh and press my forehead to the wall. Finn asks me if any of what he has read is true and I instantly deny.

My tone goes timid, “who all knows?”

“Just us, Odelle, Greyson and Myself,” he assures.

A sense of relief rushes over me. I turn back around and Colson sends me a sympathetic look, it shocks me. Going from mockery to sympathy from him has my entire mood shifting.

“What ‘bout Momma or Daddy?” I ask, keeping eye contact with Colson.

“Nah, at least I don’t think they do,” Finn guesses. “I’m not entirely sure. Greyson is sayin’ they don’t. He’s the only one that’s home at the moment.”

“Heavens to Betsy,” I exhale deeply, looking up to the heavens. “Let’s hope to the high heavens they don’t. Thank you Finn.”

I go to hang up but he says one last thing. Bringing my phone back up to my ear I reply. “Sorry, missed that.”

My brother becomes stern on the other side, “do you and this guy spend tons of time together?”

I shift uncomfortably, preparing myself for the older brother advice I already see coming. “From time to time but I promise, we’re just friends.”

There’s a pause on his end, an unbearable pause. “I trust you Y/N,” Finn finally speaks. “It’s him I don’t trust. He’s not the best sort of guy. Ya’ll aint right for one another.”

I hope Colson can’t hear any of what Finn is saying. To keep him from becoming suspicious, I keep my replies indifferent. “Sure thing. Uh, talk ya later Finn.”

“Bye, talk to you soon.”

We hang up and I slip my phone into my purse.

Colson leans back onto the railing next to me. “Who was that?”

“My older brother, kinda overbearing,” I laugh nervously then bite my lip. My accent begins to subside again.

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” Colson remarks.

A faint smile appears across my lips thinking of my brothers. “I have two actually and an older sister. The order is Finn, Odelle, me then Greyson.”

Colson returns a kind and gentle smile. “That must’ve been nice to grow up with so many siblings.”

“It was.” I nod as memories flash across my mind. “Finn and Odelle were grouped together and so was me and Greyson since our age gaps are less.”

As we pass each level on the elevator there is a “ding.” Facing toward the doors again, I absentmindedly watch the numbers go down as we pass the levels. My mind wanders to the many memories I’ve made with my brothers and sister.

“Finn is about Sam’s age, so he likes to believe he’s almost a co-parent for me and Grey,” I describe with a pleased expression. “He’s the total opposite of Odelle.”

Colson genuinely shows interest, “how is she?”

“She’s a total wild card! We all joke that it’s every other kid. Finn and I are the rule followers. He was student body president, quarterback of the football team and still managed to graduate with honors. I’m nowhere near him on the perfect child spectrum but I’m supposed to be “America’s Sweetheart.” My parents eat that up. Then there’s Odelle, she’s the total opposite of Finn. My parents had to beg her to improve her grades so she could graduate. I remember being twelve, it was the middle of the night when I got up to get a drink. I went downstairs and saw her sneaking out of the backdoor. She made me promise not to tell our parents. I haven’t talked about it until today. There were days she’d fake being sick just to ditch school with her friends. By her senior year nothing had changed. She ended up graduating but my parents forced her to go to a college close to home so they could keep an eye on her. Her antics continued the entire time I was in high school. College for her was a playground. For some reason, I envied her. I still do. I suppose it’s because no one expects anything from her. She messes up, well, that’s Odelle for you. She causes trouble, just another day. For me, my parents have me up on a peddle stool. By the time I turned sixteen people out here started taking notice of me. When I reached seventeen the title of “America’s Sweetheart” popped up and from then on, I was longer a teenager. I had a role to play and an image to uphold. I could never make mistakes like Odelle. I have to be “perfect” constantly. Sometimes I feel like a doll, plastic. None of it is real.”

The bell rings for the floor. I comprehend the words escaping my mouth and snap back to reality. I revealed so much about myself while I was in that daze, private facts about myself that I’ve never spoken of before.

Straightening up and adjust my dress, I apologize. “I’m so sorry. I have no idea what came over me.” The doors slide open and I step out. “Good to see you Colson,” I rush out a farewell before speed walking towards the exit.

I mentally slap myself for all I confessed. If only Nicole found out, my head would be on a stick. My life, my background, every aspect of my being is supposed to be flawless. An All-American girl from South Carolina with a wholesome up brining is who I’m supposed to be. If word gets out that I’m not so perfect then… then I would be finished. My hand digs for my keys in my purse.

“Y/N! Wait up!” Colson jogs up next to me then steps in front of me, blocking my path.

“Colson, please....” I practically plead in a mutter, stepping around him.

He wraps his hand around my wrist, stopping me. “Let me buy you a drink!” 

Workers around us walk around in multiple directions like zombies. I wonder if they’re taking notice. Hesitant, I narrow my gaze at me. The reason we’re in this mess is because we were seen with one another.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I admit and release myself from his grip.

I only make it a few feet before he’s in front of me again.

“Fine, no to a drink! How about we go get some coffee? Or tea? If you prefer tea!”

His chest rises and falls rapidly, his desperation is evident. The reason behind is desperation is still unknown to me, along with the reason he looked at me the way he did last night. Who is this mysterious man who stands before me? So many questions I wish to ask but I can’t get passed his eyes. Puddles of crystal blue settle on a white canvas. Confused beyond belief, for a reason unbeknownst to me, I accept. Could be my curiosity is getting the best of me.

“Coffee it is,” I give in to his request.

He grins ear to ear and steps to the side so we can leave side by side. “Unless of course you prefer we get tea!” he suggests, sounding a tad nervous.

Honestly I like both drinks but I prefer coffee. He holds the door for me and the bright sunlight of California weather strikes me.

“Nah, I normally drink a cold brew with a shot of espresso,” I describe.

He winces and pretends to gag. “Ew! That sounds horrible!”

“It gives you a boost in the morning! Nice and strong!” I laugh.

“You’re nasty!” He waves his hands in disgust.

“Eh, you’ve called me worse,” I laugh, unfazed by his insult.

He chuckles, “you’re not wrong.”

Our laughing dies down a little as we stroll over to the Starbucks. I peer up at him with a side eye. When our eyes meet we begin laughing again uncontrollably.

___________________________________

Masterlist

Tags:  @canyoubuymetoast @bri-3530 @asil1652 @andstilltryingtofindmyself @nadia2021 @olafsidehoe @mgkobsessed @fairywriting101 @ferrell-cat @naylanae-0308 @tonystarkswife10 @alexsa56 @brocksbabyyy @stormrider505 @magnificenthumancopangel @sarcasticfangirlus @lilramencup95beech @missyviolet123 @skeleton-gxrl @glitterybearllamaflap @margaritaville20 @amoresixx @Thysagclub @hockeybabe87​ 

#mgk smut #mgk imagine #mgk fanfic #mgk #mgk aesthetic #machine gun kelly #colson baker #colson #machine gun kelly fanfic #imagine #fanfic

[drmmyrs]

The Way I Loved You (Poppy x MC)

Soo bear with me since I think this might be a long series. This part is mostly just establishing the story so there is little to no fluff yet.

But stiiill, let me know what you guys think and I’d really appreciate feedback/constructive criticism. Hope you enjoy and if not, thanks for reading anyways :)) 

tag list: @whackawriting @samanthadalton @crazzyplays @uselesslesbianfr (ithis is my taglist I thiiink, but if you wanna be added or removed just let me know)  

Pairing: Poppy x MC (Bea)

Word Count: 1650

Warning: Little swearing (at least for this part)

A/N: This is from the part before Poppy and MC were paired for a project

Bea had been at Belvoire for two months now, but she still wasn't used to waking up on a queen-sized canopy bed fitted with luxe sateen sheets in a bedroom which probably cost more than her family's house back at Farmsville. She glanced at the clock–11:30 am. She still had some time to spare before her first class. How people managed to wake up early on this luxurious bed made of clouds, she didn't know.

After a few more minutes of daydreaming, Bea begrudgingly pulled herself out of bed. She was preparing her outfit when the smell of heaven wafted through the bedroom door–bacon and pancakes. Like some kind of puppet on strings, Bea let herself be led by the delicious aroma to the kitchen where Zoey was expertly pouring pancake batter on a pan.

"I didn't know I was roommates with a master chef," Bea jested.

Zoey turned around at Bea's voice, and as she saw her, a smirk crawled up her lips.

"Well, don't you look sexy." Zoey eyed Bea up and down with an amused look on her face.

Bea glanced down at her outfit and saw that she was still in her pajamas. "Whatever Zo, not everyone can rock designer outfits even in bed."

"Hey, I'm not complaining. Besides, Spongebob PJs do have a certain charm."

Bea rolled her eyes while smiling. "So, what are we having for breakfast?"

"I'm pretty sure it's lunch. And aren't you supposed to be in class, like, right about now?"

"Nah, my Tuesday classes aren't until one o'clock."

Zoey stared at Bea. "Babe, it's Wednesday."

Bea's eyes widened at Zoey's words. "No, no, no, Professor Roberta is gonna kill me."

Bea rushed to her room and hastily changed her clothes faster than she thought was possible. She contemplated going to class au naturel, but ultimately decided against it. Bea was not ugly by any means without makeup, but in a sea of extremely contoured cheeks and false eyelashes, having no makeup was basically social suicide, especially since Poppy was in that class. Ugh, great. Of course, I'm late to the only class I have with Poppy.

When Bea thought she was presentable enough, she sprinted out the door but not before grabbing a handful of pancakes and shoving it to her mouth, looking like a chipmunk in the process. The T is gonna have a field day if someone saw me like this. Bea slowed her sprint to a stride as she swallowed the last of the pancakes.

Bea arrived in class forty-five minutes late.

"Look who finally decided to join us," Professor Roberta said in disdain.

"Sorry Professor, won't happen again."

"I'm sure it won't. And since you decided to join us so late, you're gonna have to work with Ms. Min-Sinclair over here for your community service project."

Oh hell no.

Sure enough, Poppy was sitting alone, glaring at her, and Bea could almost swear she could see smoke coming out of her nose.

Bea hesitantly sat down beside Poppy.

"Look Poppy, let's be civil about this and finish this project fast so we–"

"We're not going to do anything, Farmsville. I will ace this project and you will stay out of my damn way."

"Like hell I'm gonna let you take all the credit."

"Is there a problem here?" The professor glowered at Poppy and Bea.

"None professor, we were just calmly discussing the details of the project," Poppy responded with a fake smile.

Bea rolled her eyes. Kiss ass.

Once the professor was out of earshot, Poppy sharply turned to Bea. "Be ready on Friday, we're going to a foster home in Middletown."

"Middletown? But that's like an hour away!"

"I don't see you coming up with better ideas," Poppy hissed.

"I–I–"

"I thought so. Do not be late, Farmsville. I don't want you taking more of my time than you already do," Poppy said with a glare before she grabbed her Chanel purse and strode away.

***

Back at her dorm, Bea was resting her head on her hands on the dining table when Zoey arrived.

Upon seeing Bea, Zoey immediately took a seat beside her and placed her hand comfortingly on her shoulder. "Aww, babe. Was Professor Roberta that mad?"

Bea turned to face Zoey. "No, but it was much, much worse."

Zoey raised her eyebrow.

"I was paired with Satan for our project."

"Poppy?"

Bea nodded. "She even wanted to do the project in Middletown. Middletown. That's like an hour away! I mean surely there has to be another community that needs servicing that doesn't require an hour drive with Poppy."

Zoey pretended to think thoughtfully. "Hmm, maybe she finally found a way to get rid of you permanently?"

"I'm serious, Zo." Bea glared at Zoey.

Zoey laughed. "Okay, okay, sorry. But do bring holy water just in case."

Bea groaned and stood up from the chair before ambling to her bedroom. "I'm going to bed."

Before Bea was able to shut the door, Zoey called out after her. "You'll survive, babe! Give her hell for me."

***

Just a few minutes after Bea got back from her classes, she heard the sound of consecutive horns outside which she immediately knew were from Poppy. No one else is obnoxious enough to disturb an entire dormitory. With a sigh, Bea grabbed her things and trudged outside.

When Bea got outside, Poppy's Range Rover was parked at the curb. Bea walked to the passenger's side and opened the door.

"Be a dear will you and don't touch anything, I don't want your filthy hands staining my car."

Bea rolled her eyes. Hello to you, too.

The first few minutes of the drive were silent except for the light rain that started drizzling on the windshield, that is, until Bea asked Poppy, "why are we going all the way to Middletown anyway? There's probably some–"

"Remember that time when I asked for your opinion?"

Bea just glared at Poppy.

"Me neither. So, shut up, Hughes."

"How about you take a day off from being a bitch, Poppy. Seeing that you've had your whole life being just that," Bea rebuked.

The entire car ride was spent with both girls hurling insults at each other that it was honestly surprising that Poppy didn't kick Bea out of the car in the middle of the road.

After one looong hour, they finally arrived.

"Don't get in my way, Farmsville," Poppy warned as she approached the house and rang the doorbell. After a few moments, a middle-aged woman opened the door.

"Poppy! What a pleasant surprise. Come on in." The woman gestured them inside.

Hang on, how does she know Poppy?

The woman led Bea and Poppy to a couch and asked them if they wanted something to drink, to which both of them politely declined.

"So, Brenda. How is the family?" Poppy was wearing a smile that might actually be... genuine?

Bea stared at Poppy in shock. Not only were they on a first-name basis, but Poppy was actually nice to someone that doesn't involve sucking up.

"They're doing great! Thomas actually just got promoted recently so we're gonna take the kids somewhere nice sometime next week."

"That's amazing, send Thomas my regards."

Okay, what the hell is happening?

After a few more polite conversations, Brenda turned to Bea. "You haven't introduced me to your friend yet." Brenda extended her hand to Bea. "I'm Brenda."

Bea wore her biggest smile as she shook Brenda's hand. "Bea. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Poppy cleared her throat. "Actually, we came here for a community service project, and we were hoping that we could throw the kids a small party and maybe at the same time we can do a photography shoot that can be shared to prospective families. Do you think we can do that?"

"Oh, certainly! I'm sure the kids would love that."

"That's great to hear. Where are they anyway?"

"They're actually out there playing with the toys you sent them. Come on, I'll lead you to them." Brenda stood up and walked towards the back door.

Poppy started to follow her but turned around when she noticed Bea was still sitting down.

"If you're just gonna sit there like a half-wit, do us a favor Farmsville, and do it far away from here."

Still in disbelief, Bea stood up and followed Poppy and Brenda to the yard where Poppy was greeted enthusiastically by five kids. She watched as Poppy played with them with such kindness and compassion that she couldn't help but smile as most of her anger towards the blonde was replaced with warmth and some other indescribable feelings. After a few more games where Bea was basically manhandled by Poppy to join, all of them went back inside exhausted. As it was already getting late, Bea and Poppy said their farewells to Brenda and the kids with a promise of returning on Sunday for the party and went back on the road.

Bea had so many questions she wanted to ask Poppy but the look on Poppy's face implied that she probably won't be answering any of those. A few minutes later, there was suddenly a huge downpour of rain that Poppy had to park the car. Bea then received a text from Zoey, and as she read it, a look of dread flashed across her face.

Poppy frowned upon seeing the look on Bea's face. "What is it now?"

"There's a typhoon. We're stuck here."

***

Bea and Poppy managed to find a decent hotel nearby where they decided to stay until the typhoon passed.

"Two rooms, please. And make them as far away as possible," Poppy said to the receptionist while handing him her credit card, giving Bea a glare at the last sentence.

And here I thought we're finally making progress.

"I'm sorry Ms. Min-Sinclair, we only have one more room available for tonight."

#poppy #poppy x mc #poppy min sinclair #queen b #playchoices #play choices #choices #my work #my fanfics #my writing

[nerdypanda3126]

A Pink Ribbon and a Leather Cuff

I swear this started as a sprint fic and after my first 15 minutes were up I just... kept going...

The rules are three 15-minute sprints with 24 hours for light editing, which includes new writing to smooth transitions or make it feel complete.

Except of course on this one, I did one sprint that morphed into an entire writing session... oops!

Prompt: "My soul chose yours. And a soul doesn't just forget that."

Read on Ao3

In her Dream, Marinette walked through an endless room filled with innumerable objects. Everywhere she looked there was something different. She wandered through, searching—or more accurately, her soul was searching. For what, it was impossible to guess. Whichever object called out to her, whichever one she chose, would be imprinted on her wrist for the rest of her life. Just like everyone else who had the Dream on their sixteenth birthday.

She stopped to touch a silver necklace with a neon green paw print. It warmed under her fingertips, but it wasn’t what she was looking for. She let her fingers trail over the piles of objects beside her. A pair of headphones, a pencil, a unicorn mobile, a pair of glasses, a mirror— everything seemingly random but connected to someone she knew. Or maybe didn’t know yet. Nothing was jumping out to her. She’d heard of this happening. There was always a little fear. Maybe there isn’t someone out there. Maybe none of these objects are mine. She let the worry float over her and kept going.

A bright flash caught her eye and she turned her head to look for it. It was on her left, and the closer she got to it the brighter it started to glow. Hesitantly, she reached out to touch it, expecting it to burn, but it was cool to her touch and still glowing like the northern star. She clutched it to her chest and felt wakefulness rush back to her. This was it. This was hers. The one her soul had chosen.

When she woke up, Marinette instantly stared down at her wrist to get her first glimpse of the object she’d chosen in her Dream. She squinted down at it, unsure at first what she was looking at. It was a tube of some sort, with writing on it. Like a paint tube or… she glanced over to her vanity where her makeup lay waiting for her. Or a tube of foundation. She groaned and flopped back on her pillows.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” She lamented to her mom once she’d gone downstairs. “It makes no sense!”

“Well, sweetie, it usually doesn’t at first.” Her mom sat and pulled her sleeve up to expose her wrist, showing Marinette the bag of rice flour that was replicated on her skin. “When I first got this, I had no idea what it meant. But as soon as I walked into your father’s shop and saw him with this bag of flour on his station, I knew.” She smiled fondly at the memory before she reached out to take Marinette’s wrist. “When the timing is right, you’ll know, too.”

***

It had been three years since Marinette first got her mark and it was still just as meaningless as the morning she’d woken up with it. Her parents had both told her so many times it was better not to look, to let it find you, but she couldn’t help it. She frequented makeup stores, but none of them carried the brand that was on her wrist or had even heard of it. No one she knew used it, either. Most likely it was something that wasn’t on the market, yet. Which made her obscure and useless clue even more obscure and useless.

She started going on blind dates instead, hoping to find someone that she could be happy with. Alya had made that decision and she seemed perfectly fine. Nino wasn’t her soulmate, and she wasn’t his, but they were in love, and Alya insisted that was what mattered.

Marinette started keeping a wide pink ribbon tied around her wrist and tried not to think about it too much. After all, that’s what her mom kept telling her. But patience was not Marinette’s strong suit. And her mark was always in the back of her mind, no matter how hard she tried to forget about it. Somewhere out there was someone she was meant to be with. And all her blind dates ended the same way.

“I’m sorry. You’re not the one.”

***

“You did what?” Marinette snatched Alya’s wrist to look at the brand new ‘soulmate tattoo’ she sported.

“Had it changed. Nino did, too.” Alya was gleaming with pride, even more than the sparkling diamond on her left hand.

Marinette dropped Alya’s wrist and fidgeted with her ribbon to adjust it, covering the edges of her mark that had started peeking out. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Well, not officially, but this tattoo artist is amazing. You can’t even see that awful thing anymore, look!” She traced the old outline of the broken rocking horse she’d had since she was sixteen, carefully covered by a dark green tortoise shell.

“Yeah. It’s great, Alya.” Marinette tried to smile and be happy for Alya. But the concept of changing your mark had never occurred to her. What would she even change it to, if she could?

“He said he does coverups for single people, too, M.” Alya’s eyes flicked to Marinette’s wrist, to the ribbon she always kept tied around her enigmatic mark so she didn’t have to worry about it. “He said he could make it something that actually has meaning for you instead. Maybe you could get those flowers you always use in your designs?”  

“Covering it up doesn’t change the fact that it’s still there,” Marinette mumbled.

“No, but it does prevent you from shooting down anyone who doesn’t fit the bill.”

“I don’t mean to! It just—”

“I know.” Alya squeezed Marinette’s hand reassuringly. “Not everyone is like me and Nino. I know you want to find them. Just… promise me you’ll think about going to talk to him at least? He’s a nice guy, and he understands that sometimes choice is more important than fate.”

***

The bell to the tattoo artist’s shop jingled quietly as Marinette opened the door. The smell of antiseptic greeted her and made her nose wrinkle. There was artwork hung at regular intervals throughout the room—samples, Marinette guessed, of the artist’s work. And in between the framed pieces were polaroids tacked up with push pins of people proudly displaying their new tattoos. Mostly couples, Marinette noticed, holding up their wrists and smiling. Alya and Nino were probably on that wall somewhere.

“Be right there!” A voice called from somewhere in the back.

She wandered up to the counter and flipped through a book of pricing and common images while she waited. The Chinese characters offered had been well-researched and it made her feel a little better about talking to this guy—Luka, she remembered Alya had said. His name was Luka.

“Sorry about that,” Luka said as he appeared. He was tall and lanky, with a shock of black hair dyed electric blue at the ends and gauges she could fit her pinky through. For a tattoo artist, he was suspiciously void of tattoos, and she noticed instantly that he had a wide leather cuff on his right wrist. Her nose wrinkled again as a fresh waft of rubbing alcohol hit her. “Just cleaning up. What can I help you with?”

He leaned against the counter easily, as if she were an old friend, and focused not on her face, but on the book she was looking at. Or maybe on the pink ribbon tied around her wrist. She pulled her hand away self-consciously.

“My friend, Alya, she wanted me to… well, you see, I haven’t figured out my mark and it—well, it’s stupid, really, but Alya said that you might, well—not that you might, but that you mentioned you could…” she trailed off and tugged at the knot.

He nodded as if he understood. “Alya, yeah. I remember her. And Nino. She said she might be sending someone my way. Wait right there.” He tapped his fingers rhythmically on the counter and gave her a kind smile before he turned and walked back to the back. She heard him rifling through something and he returned relatively quickly with a few small tubes in his hands.

“Now, before I do any coverups, especially for marks, I always recommend…” he eyed her forearm then switched through a couple, setting them down beside him as he seemed to rule them out. He seemed to settle on one and offered it to her. “I always recommend covering it up with this for a while first. Less permanent, and if you decide you want it after all, then no harm done.”

With trembling fingers, she took the tube of foundation he was offering her.  

“This stuff—” he tapped on it while she held it— “it’s amazing. They use it in Hollywood all the time. For actors, you know? You won’t even know it’s there.” He smiled at her again and started picking the other bottles back up.

She stared at it in her hands. She knew that tube of foundation. It was the same brand—the same color even—that she’d been staring at for three years. Looking for, for three years. It hadn’t even occurred to her that it might’ve been something specifically used to cover tattoos. Her eyes snapped back up to Luka and to the leather cuff on his wrist. Luka believed in choice, Alya had said. Should she even tell him?

“If after a week or so you still want it gone, come back and see me,” he said. He flashed her a brilliant smile and she was too stunned to even form a word of thanks in return. She left the shop still staring at it. When she finally came to, she had found her way to Alya’s door.

***

“But this is good news,” Alya said as she tossed the foundation back to Marinette. “Why wouldn’t you tell him?”

“I don’t know! I… I blanked. I was just… surprised? I guess?” Marinette pouted down at what was undeniably her object. “Three years of wondering, and it’s as simple as that. He just hands it to me and walks away.”

“I wonder what his mark is,” Alya mused aloud. “He was pretty quiet while we were there, just kinda listened while we talked and smiled as he worked.”

“He’s probably changed it already.”

Alya shook her head. “I don’t think so. He said he thought people should be able to choose, not that he personally wanted to.” She shrugged. “Besides, I don’t know why it’s such a bad thing. Maybe you could get to know each other as people before dropping the big ‘soulmate’ bomb.”

Marinette paused to consider. It wasn’t a bad idea, not really, to get to know someone first. She pulled the ribbon away from her mark to look at it. Now that she had the object in her hands, the mark itself seemed more devoid of meaning than she expected it to. Her mom always smiled whenever she looked at hers, as if remembering something special. But Marinette was still waiting for the realization to catch up to her.

“It’s not a bad thing,” she said decisively. She uncapped the tube and smeared a little of the makeup across her forearm. Luka hadn’t been lying; her mark disappeared in seconds and she was staring at a blank expanse of skin. It made her feel giddy—free, even. “And he did say that he wanted me to be sure.”

***

A week later, she was wrinkling her nose again as she opened the door to Luka’s shop. She had ditched her ribbon in favor of the foundation. Luka glanced up from the tattoo he was working on and smiled when he saw her before his head dipped back over his work. The angry buzz of the machine prevented much conversation, anyways. She chose to walk around the room instead and look at the artwork he had framed.

He liked flowers, she noticed. They showed up a lot in almost every large tattoo he had pictured. The polaroids were her favorite, though. She liked looking at the different objects, the before and afters, and the absolute change in the people pictured. How they held themselves differently, their shoulders up higher and their smiles brighter. Luka was even in a few of them, his arm thrown affectionately around the people he had helped.

“You’re back,” he said, and his low voice in her ear made her jump. He leaned back, chuckling, and put his hands up. “Sorry, I’ve been told I have a tendency to sneak up on people.” He pointed to her wrist and raised his eyebrows. “Shall we take a look?”

She nodded and her heart started pounding in her throat when he placed his hand on her back just under her shoulder blades to guide her over to a low table and couch off to the side.

“All right, so I’ll need to see it first before we can talk about changing it into anything.” He pulled open a drawer and set out a pen and a pad of paper before he grabbed what looked like a package of baby wipes. When he caught her watching him, he shrugged. “You’re not the first to come in with it on.” He gestured for her to hold out her arm and wiped gently at her wrist.

She held her breath as the lines of her mark started to appear. Not that he would recognize it. Would he? Maybe he would—it was his suggestion and he’d put it in her hand. As he continued wiping, she tried to watch him for any hint of recognition, but his hair was falling over his eyes and hiding his face from her.

Finally, he stopped and looked at her uncovered mark. His eyes came back up to meet hers. He understood. He knew. She bit her lip and waited for him to say something.

“I don’t think I got your name before,” he murmured. His thumb rubbed against her wrist gently in what seemed like an unconscious movement.

“It’s Marinette.”

“Marinette.” His breath came out in a shallow laugh and he leaned back and covered his eyes with his hand. “Marinette,” he repeated, more to himself than to her. He shook his head and started to undo his leather cuff. “All this time I thought…” he laughed and shook his head again. He rubbed at the skin of his wrist once it was uncovered before he looked down at it incredulously. She resisted the urge to peek, even though her heart was fluttering in her chest. Something had clicked into place for him, too. That had to mean—

He glanced up at her before he bared the inside of his right wrist. His mark was stark against the skin that was pale from being hidden for so long. It was a simple puppet, held up by strings connected to a cross at the top.

“It’s a marionette,” he said with a breathless laugh. “I looked it up.”

She touched her fingertips to it lightly.

“I always thought it was something you saw, not something you heard for the first time.” He was grinning again, that same bright smile. “Marinette.” Her name rolled off his tongue, only off by a syllable.

He sighed deeply and sat back up to pick up his pen and lean over his notepad. "Okay. So what were you thinking on the design for this?"

She blinked back at him. "You still want to change it for me?"

"It's your choice." He smirked sideways at her.

"You never changed yours."

"Well, that was my choice."

She reached over to fidget with her ribbon before she realized it wasn't there. Her hand dropped back into her lap limply. When she glanced over at him he was watching her out of the corner of his eye.

"Why didn't you change it?" she asked.

"Because…" he grabbed his leather cuff from where he had dropped it and offered it to her. Shyly, she held her wrist out for him. He wrapped the cuff around her wrist before he glanced up at her again. "I am a hopeless romantic, and I like the idea that someone…" he smiled as he snapped the clasp shut. "Someone out there chose me and I chose them."

He lingered before he let her hand go.

"Looks good on you." He turned back around and she caught a pink tinge to his cheeks as he cleared his throat. "Um, but that really only works if that someone chooses me, too. And I don't think it should be because of a mark, or a sign, or fate, but because they want to be with me. So, if you want to change yours, then I think you should change it."

He tapped his pen on his paper nervously and kept his eyes down. She looked at his cuff on her wrist and smiled.

"I like this," she said quietly. He looked up and caught her eye. She gulped before she continued. "Do you think I could maybe… hang onto it? Just while I decide, you know on the… on the change?"

His lips quirked up into a smile. "Yeah, sure."

"And do you think we could maybe meet for coffee? Just, you know, whenever… to talk about it?"

His pen stilled on the paper and he turned to look at her, his eyes soft and his smile widening by the second. "I'd like that."

#miraculous ladybug #mlb fic #ml fic #lukanette #marinette dupain cheng #luka couffaine #soulmate au #panda sprints

[rocksandrobots]

Of Rocks and Robots Ch. 20 - Therapy

Varian sat on the leather couch inside the doctor’s office nervously bouncing his knee up and down. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to run, but he knew that would upset Aunt Cass who was seated on the chair next to the door.

This was meant to be his first therapy session and he didn’t know what to expect, or to say, or what to do. Both Hiro and Wasabi had told him that all he had to do was talk to the doctor about his problems, but Varian didn’t really feel like talking. He didn’t feel like delving into his past and reliving those painful memories. Moreover, he didn’t want anyone in this world to know of his mistakes, even if they were just a stranger.

Just then the door opened and a tall woman with short bobbed hair and glasses walked in. She wore a white lab coat and held in her hand a clipboard and pen.

“Hello, Miss Templeton. Are we here to see Hiro today?” The woman asked Aunt Cass.

“Oh hi, Dr. Mcguire.” Aunt Cass stood up to shake her hand. “No, I called earlier and told the secretary this, but I’d like you to meet Varian. Varian this is Dr. Mcguire. She’s our family therapist.”The woman smiled and shook his hand as well, as Aunt Cass contunited. “Varian is from Europe and I’m fostering him while he’s here in the states.”  

“Oh exciting!” The woman enthused. “Is this your first therapy session, Varian?”

Varian nodded his head numbly, still too unsure of himself to speak.

“Well there’s many different types of therapy. I’m a grief counselor. I use different techniques to help people deal with loss or trauma, such as, listening to people talk about their feelings and problems, helping people develop healthy coping mechanisms for anxiety or depression, helping people pinpoint or understand where their underlying issues are and what might cause them to react the way they do to certain situations, and basically anything else that helps the patient cope with their grief.”

Varian listened to the woman intently but none of what she said made any sense to him. He knew what all those words individually meant on their own but all together it just sounded like a word salad to him. He had no idea what any of that actually entailed in practice.

"Well, now Varian, tell me a little about yourself?" The doctor asked as she sat at her desk.

Varian only stared blankly at her, unsure what she wanted to hear.

Dr. Mcguire expounded "Do you have any interests or hobbies?"

Varian looked back to Aunt Cass questionly and she gave him an encouraging smile and a go on motion with her hands.

"Ummm...I like alchemy."

"Alchemy? Like the history of it, or is that some new video game I haven't heard of yet?" Dr. Mcguire gently laughed at herself. "My kids are always trying to get me into the lastest gaming craze and I can never seem to get the hang of it."

Varian once again could only stare. He'd played a few video games with Hiro and Fred, but he had no idea what was deemed popular or not. Nor did he know how to explain to this woman that he was a practitioner of a long dead science.

When this didn't elect a response from him the doctor tried a new line of questioning.

"Do you have a favorite video game?"

Varian shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't played many of them. We didn't have video games back in Old Corona."

"That's the city he came from." Aunt Cass explained. "Varian is from a Russia territory."

"Oh. Well, what did you play in Old Corona?" Dr. Mcguire asked.

"Not much." Varian racked his brain for a childhood game, but there had been no other kids to play with and his dad was not much for chess.

"My cellmate and I would play 'Noughts and Crosses' to pass the time. It's a little like Gomoku, but you try to get three in a row instead of five, and you just draw an X or O on to a grid you drew in the sand instead of having a board and colored pieces.'

"Oh we call that tic-tac-toe here." Aunt Cass cheerfully said, not immediately picking up on his mention of being in jail.

The doctor however did notice. "Cellmate?" She asked with concern.

Varian clamped his mouth shut at that. He didn't want to go into why he had been in prison, certainly not with Aunt Cass there.

Sensing the Varian's discomfort and seeing Dr. Mcguire's confusion, Aunt Cass spoke up. "I'm guessing the secretary didn't give you the forms we filled out?"

"No, I'm afraid not. I saw your name on the appointment and just assumed it was time again for Hiro's session. I'm sorry, that was unprofessional of me to assume and not come prepared. Would you like to reschedule?"

Aunt Cass looked to Varian. "It's up to you, sweetie."

Varian really didn't want to go through all this again. "No. I'm good."

"Well do you feel like talking about what's wrong then?" Asked Mcguire.

Varian tightened his jaw, unsure how to say no to the woman. But Dr. Mcguire knew her business and understood what Varian meant even without words.

"It's ok." She soothed. "You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. We're not here to make you feel uncomfortable. Therapy is supposed to help, not hurt."

This relaxed Varian a little, but only a little. He didn't know what either adult wanted from him then.

"Varian, would it help if I left?" Aunt Cass offered. "Or would you prefer that I stay? Either one is fine. It's your choice."

Varian looked back and forth between both women trying to decide. He honestly didn't know which would be more stressful; dealing with the doctor alone or risking slipping up again and having Aunt Cass find out about his past crimes.

"I...maybe?" He eventually answered.

"Alright then. I'll be just right outside the door if you need me." She stood up, walked over to Varian, gave him a peck on the forehead and an encouraging smile before closing the door and leaving.

Varian had to admit, he could breath more easily now that she'd left the room.

"Well," Dr. Mcguire spoke back up, "if you rather not talk about your issues right now, would you like to write about them instead?"

Varian gave her a confused look and in response she dug into a drawer in her desk and pulled out a notebook.

"Sometimes people find it easier to write about things than to talk about them. I often give my patiences journals, so that they can get out their feelings about stuff, make goals and plans, or to help keep track of their triggers and their responses."

She handed the notebook to Varian. It was thin and curiously printed on the front were images of lizards with hats and sunglasses riding upon skateboards. Varian might have thought it absurd looking but he was distracted by something that the doctor had said.

"Triggers?" He asked.

"A 'trigger' is anything that might make someone remember their trauma. It can be anything from a familiar sound or object, to an action or situation that is similar to an event that the person went through. When someone who's been through trauma comes across one of their triggers they might experience a panic attack, flashbacks, get angry or upset, or even completely shut down so to speak."

Varian studied the woman thoughtfully. Wasabi had described what a panic attack felt like and it sounded eerily similar to what he had felt when he ran away that day. The way he felt after having a nightmare. The way he'd felt when he had come home to find his dad unmoving in the amber.

“Do..do nightmares count?” He asked hesitantly.

“Well, yes, in a way. Nightmares are often associated with PTSD. They are a way for your mind to process what has happened to you. But they can also be caused by other things, like stress, anxiety, or just a lack of sleep. You’d have to dream about something multiple times and analyze those dreams in order to figure out their cause.”

She paused and studied Varian intently before continuing. "Some people write dream diaries to track the patterns of what they dream and when. You write what you've dreamed, good or bad, when you wake up. You also may write things like what time you went to bed, how long did you sleep, or what you may have eaten that day as those can affect how well you sleep."

"You could use your journal for that." She gently suggested.

"Then...then I show it to you?" He asked in kind.

"If you want to. Though, once again, you don't have to do anything that you don't want to."

"But, if I did, would it help?" Varian pressed, "Would it get rid of them?"

"It might help." The woman said measuredly. "Though it might not. Or you may need to do that along with a combination of things. The only way to find out is to try it."

Dr. Mcguire gave him a soft smile and Varian turned her words over in his mind. He would love for the nightmares to stop. They had only become more frequent since he moved in with the Hamada's. As if deep down he feared this new change in his life would become permanent and his subconscious was warning him to return home before it was too late. But, even still, while the doctor was right about not knowing till you tried, he worried over his past and what she or others might think of him once known. Then again, no reason to take a dream literally, right?

"I've..I...I've been having nightmares lately." He finally admitted. Dr. Mcguire only nodded along. She most likely had already guessed as much, but she didn't interrupt.

"They're always different. Like they're about different things. Sometimes they're about my home or my dad, sometimes about my friends, both old and new, and sometimes about, ummm, being in jail." He muttered this last part but then quickly contunited on, "They all end the same way though. With me being alone."

He met the doctor's eyes questioningly, wondering how she might respond. She looked to be contemplating over what he'd just confessed.

"Hmmm…Well dreams are rarely the same each time. It's usually just the repeated elements that we look for when analyzing. That's how the journal would help. But it looks like you figured out one of those elements on your own. Does being alone scare you?"

Varian looked at her wide eyed. He didn't know how to feel about having one of his greatest fears pointed out to him. It was true of course, but he didn't like to admit it.

"A, little." He admitted sheepishly.

"A lot of people fear being alone. We're social creatures. Humans need other humans and so we seek out relationships. It's nothing to be embarrassed about." Mcguire tried to ease his fear.

"Were you on your own in jail? Did you feel alone there?" She pressed.

"No, well sometimes, but like I said I at least had a cellmate. That's better than when I was completely on my own before then."

Dr. Mcguire face grew more concerned but she didn't pursue anything else about his time alone. Instead she asked, "Were you friends with your cellmate?"

"No." Varian scoffed, complaining about Andrew was easier than talking about his time spent on the run. "Dude was a creep."

"Oh, did you fight with him often?"

"Not usually. In fact we got along fine, but that's only because he'd pretend to be nice to get what he wanted. I always knew that's what he was doing, but I, guess I just went along with it because….because it was better than not talking to anybody at all."

Dr. Mcguire furrowed her brow, "What did he want from you then?"

Varian wiggled in his seat at that. He didn't want to go into the prison break and what followed thereafter. "Just….stuff."

This did not ease the doctor's fear. "How old were you when you went to jail?"

"I had just turned fifteen." He didn't know where this was going.

"And your cellmate was what, also fifteen, sixteen?" She guessed.

"Oh no. Corona doesn't have, what did the policeman call it, 'juvenile detention center.' Anyways, uh, I'm not sure what age Andrew was. He never said, but I would guess, like, late twenties?" Varian shrugged but he only became even more confused when he noted the look of horror on Dr Mcguire's face.

"And where were the guards when he was making you do… stuff?" She tried to hide it but Varian could still hear the way her voice shook.

"Ummm...well the guards make their rounds of the cells every ten minutes and stand guard at the door between then. Or they're supposed to, anyways. Sometimes they're late or they're switching shifts, or even sometimes asleep." He broke from his matter of fact statement with a little laugh. "I once saw Pete the guard fall asleep while standing up and Stan, the other guard, had to prop him up with his spear to keep the Captain from noticing." He whispered conspiratorially as if imparting some juicy bit of gossip.

But the doctor wasn't amused.

"It would appear that your home country has a very different legal system than ours." She stated as if trying to find a way to navigate Varian's revelations.

"I'll say." He snorted. Complaining about the conditions of the dungeon itself didn't bother him as much as admitting how he'd got there. He supposed it was because everyone suffered the same indignity as he did while there. So he didn't feel singled out.

"I saw what those cells down at the police station here looked like last week. Let me tell you. They were pristine." He began to number the differences on his fingers." Clean, not drafty, there were toilets, electric lights. I was on the bottom floor of the dungeon and all we had was a grate on the ceiling that let the tiniest bit of light and air in from the cell above us. Of course that wasn't much cause that cell only had a small window to begin with."

The doctor interrupted his ramble. "But what about when you were aloud outside?"

"Outside?" He echoed in confusion. "We never went outside. Who'd let criminals out of their cells willingly?"

Dr. Mcguire darted her eyes back and forth as if equally flabbergasted. "But, but what about for exercise!? Showers!? Mealtimes!?"

Varian looked at her unsure how to answer, now only realising just how vastly different the two realities really were.

"We ate in the cells." He said flatly in lieu of anything else. "Is the food better here too?"

"I don't know? What did they serve you?"

"Usually gruel, or bread and water. Sometimes we'd get scraps from the castle's kitchen. Like leftover bone broth before it went bad. I guess not to starve us completely."

"Castle?" She echoed hollowly.

"The jail is underneath the government's palace." He explained.

"And is that the only prison? Wouldn't that get over full?"

"Yeah, it does. That's why they only keep people there until they ship them off on the prison barge or…. til they hang them." He quietly admitted.

This seemed to be the last straw for the doctor.

She took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to compose herself.

"Well, that..uh..we seem to be reaching near the end of our session. How about we bring Miss. Templeton back in?" She flashed him a strained grin, but Varian knew she was rattled and he feared he'd said too much or had done the wrong thing.

"You mean Aunt Cass?" He asked.

"Yes. So you call her 'aunt' too?" He nodded. " Well let's get your aunt in here and we'll talk about how best to continue your therapy."

Dr. Mcguire walked out and Varian could hear her and Aunt Cass having a hushed and hurried conversion. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but he knew it was about him. Soon after, they both reentered the room and Aunt Cass took a seat next to him on the couch.

Dr. Mcguire sat at her desk again and proceeded to make an announcement.

"So Varian and I have talked a little and he's decided that he's going to keep a dream diary, which he can share with me during our next few sessions if he would like. However, I feel that Varian might benefit from seeing a specialist."

Varian heart dropped. He was being turned away? He'd somehow managed to screw up his first therapy session so bad the doctor was pawning him off to someone else.

"But, aren't you a specialist?" Aunt Cass asked, equally confused.

"Yes, but I deal with post trauma, sudden events, like a car accident or the recent death of a family member. After talking to Varian, it appears he's been through prolonged trauma. It'll take a few more sessions to confirm this but, he may have Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It's related to regular PTSD, there is some overlap in symptoms, but ultimately it requires different treatment."

Varian's stomach began to churn and he felt his heartbeat quicken. All he heard, behind the doctor's unfamiliar terminology, was that he was somehow, wrong or broken, more so than even the troubled patients she normally worked with. He wanted to cry, but instead he blinked back tears as Dr. Mcguire contunited.

"I have the name of a psychiatrist that I can recommend. I've worked with him before alongside other patients."

She handed a business card to Aunt Cass who leaned forward to take from her. As she read it the doctor went on.

"Dr. Brown deals with former soldiers, war refugees, abuse victims, and others who've had to endure extremely harsh conditions. He's better experienced in such cases and as a psychiatrist he can also prescribe any medicine that Varian might need."

"Medicine!?" Varian exploded and both women looked at him with concern. "But, but I'm not sick." He whined in protest.

Dr. Mcguire stood up and walked over to him. She knelt down to his level and looked him in the eye.

"I don't know if you are or aren't, diagnoses of mental illnesses take time, but you might still need prescribed medication even if you don't have an illness. You mentioned not sleeping well, something as simple as a herbal tea with added melatonin could help with that. However as a psychologist, and not a psychiatrist, I can legally write you a prescription for that, nor should I."

Varian darted his eyes about the room in confusion. Logically what the woman said made sense, he supposed, but that didn't stop his anxiety from raising. He felt cornered. He wanted to run again, but the gentle hand of Aunt Cass upon his shoulder rooted him to the couch.

"Look, you're still welcome to come see me." Dr. Mcguire reassured him. "I'll gladly help you in any way that I can. I just think Dr. Brown could do even more to help you."

"We just want what's best for you." Aunt Cass interjected. "Thank you, Dr. Mcguire. I'll give this Dr. Brown a call today when we get home."

And that was the end of it. They said their goodbyes and left.

On the whole way home, Varian sulked in the passenger seat as he stared dispondingly out the window. He could feel Aunt Cass nervously stealing glances of him, probably afraid he may jump out of the car again and try to run away.

She attempted to say something a few times, but thought better of it and kept quiet. The uncomfortable silence weighing upon them both until they arrived back at the Luck Cat.

Varian tore out of the car, pounded up the stairs, and was just about to run towards his new room, when he heard Aunt Cass say. "We need to talk."

Varian found himself sitting on a couch for the second time that day. This one in Hamada living room. He eyed Aunt Cass pensively and waited for yet another lecture.

"Sooo, I know that didn't go as well as we hoped today, but hey, we made some progress!" She gave him a plastered grin as she tried to find the silver lining. Varian only gave her a look as if she was crazy and rolled his eyes.

She heaved a heavy sigh.

"Varian, there's nothing to be embarrassed about. Lots of people see special psychiatrists. That's what they're for. They wouldn't exist if people didn't need them."

Varian still refused to meet her gaze.

"Also, not everyone finds the right therapist on their first try. It took me a whole year and three different doctors before I found Dr. Mcguire."

Varian did look at her upon that revelation, this time with surprise on his face.

Aunt Cass gave him a small smile.

"Did you think you were the only one who needed therapy?" She gently teased, before admitting, "I was only 24 when I took in Tadashi and Hiro. I didn't know how to be a parent. I didn't know how to handle two grieving little boys nor the emotional roller coaster I was on as well. I had to get help. I had to try out different doctors, different types of therapy, even took medication for a little while, and it took time but in the end it did make things better for all of us. I just want you to get better as well."

Varian processed this confession as he wrestled with his growing sense of shame and despair.

"But...but…you never did anything to deserve that. It was just a bad thing that happened to you.. I… I on the other hand…I wasn't in that jail for no reason." He confessed before bursting into tears.

"I don't care." Aunt Cass quietly said.

Varian looked back in surprise again. She stood before him with worry etched onto her face.

"I don't care what you did." She reiterated. "It doesn't matter."

She bent down and cupped Varian's face into her hand, just as she did when he returned after running away.

"Varian, no one deserves to be treated the way you were. Especially a child. That..that was just cruel." Her voice broke. "Cruel, and inhumane, and oh god, what ever did they do to you to make you think you deserved it?" It was her turn to cry as she scooped Varian into a hug.

Varian blinked rapidly, both because of the tears and because he hadn't been expecting this reaction. He knew he was at fault. Everyone in the kingdom knew it. They all blamed him for what happened and threw nothing but scorn his way. The only reason that Aunt Cass and everyone else didn't hate him too was because they didn't know, surely. But the sincerity in her voice, the tender loving embrace, the way she put up with him and his stupid mistakes around the house, all made him desperate to believe her. So he hugged her tightly back.

"But.. But.. I'm not 'no one'" The tears flowed freely now. "I'm...I'm…I'm not like anyone. The doctor said so herself, today."

"No!" She pulled away from the embrace to look him dead in the eye. "No. She said you needed help that she couldn't give. Dr. Brown, though, can. He deals with people who've been through what you've been through. You're not alone. You're not broken. You're not weird. And you are most certainly not deserving of being thrown in a dungeon."

She wiped her fingers through his bangs, a sign of affection he'd come to recognize from her, and blinking back tears said, "Oh how I wish I could have been there for you sooner. But I'm here now. And so is Hiro, all your friends, Chief Cruz, Professor Granville, and Dr. Mcguire. Ok? We are all here for you now, and we love you, and nothing is going to change that. And now Dr. Brown will be there for you too. So please, let us help you."

Varian searched her eyes. These were words he had longed to hear for who knew how long, but when faced with them for real he had trouble giving into them; to believing them. The nagging voice in his head was screaming at him, warning him that it wasn't true, that they would all abandon his as soon as he screwed up or they found out the truth of his past, the same as how everyone else had given up on him, told him how he didn't deserve such kindness, ect.,but he didn't care. He wanted it to be true.

He nodded yes and flung his arms around Aunt Cass again. They remained that way, just holding each other for several minutes. While Aunt Cass stroked his hair and cooed reassuring words. How she loved him, how she wasn't going anywhere, how he was her child now and nothing would change that. He wasn't sure if he was ready to accept her as a parent yet, to him his dad was the only parent he needed, but he deeply appreciated all that she had done, all that she promised to do, and it felt good to finally be accepted somewhere, to be wanted .

When they finally stopped hugging Aunt Cass said she was going to call Dr. Brown and set up an appointment. She then stroked the top of his head again and asked if he wanted to help her bake something special for dinner. He nodded yes and they both put the unfortunate incident at the therapist behind them.

#Varian #Tangled #BH6 #aunt cass #cass hamada #big hero six #tangled the series #rapunzel's tangled adventure #BH6 the series

[bcdrawsandwrites]

For Unity by @jaywings and me

Rating: T Genre: Friendship, Angst Characters: urGoh, skekGra, skekSil, skekSo, skekTek, skekVar, urVa, urSu, urSol, urZah, possibly others… Warnings: A LOT OF VIOLENCE. Description: One was as vile and repulsive as his brethren. He murdered, and maimed, and reveled in it. The other was as slow and indirect as the rest of his brethren. He hated his dark half as much as the others did theirs. But who they were did not matter, for Thra saw its moment, and seized its opportunity. Beta Reader: ThePrairieNerd

—~~~—

Chapter 8: Their Harsh and Twisted Wills Summary: In which the Conqueror and the Wanderer must sort out their... similarities.

—~~~—

Chapter 8: Their Harsh and Twisted Wills

The two Mystics stared at each other for a long time after the shard—and the Skeksis’ voice—had fallen silent.

"The Wanderer... has quite a ways to wander," urLii remarked.

UrGoh heaved a great sigh, closing his hand around the false shard. "At the border... of the Crystal Desert..." he muttered. "He could not... have chosen someplace... closer…?"

"UrGoh had best get started, then." And before he could reply, the Storyteller was already making his way back to the boat that had carried them both across the underground lake. However, he paused, partially turning to glance back. “And urLii is sure that, should urGoh speak to his shadow again, he will not mention urLii or his home in these caves?”

UrGoh dipped his head obligingly. “I… will not divulge the Storyteller’s secrets.”

The other Mystic nodded and resumed his path to the boat. He was right, anyway—urGoh needed to head out now, in order to reach the desert on time for their meeting. But first...

The Gruenaks hadn’t moved from the spot he’d found them. He hoped, with a sudden twist of his stomach, that they hadn’t overheard his conversation. The last thing wanted was for them to hear the voice of the one who murdered their mate and father. But they seemed to be as calm as could be expected in their circumstances; in fact, they were now hesitantly sipping at the broth they'd been provided. When urGoh approached, however, they both lowered their bowls and huddled closer.

"I will... be leaving again," he said, and paused, considering his next words as the two of them blinked up at him. "I will... do everything in my power... to make sure the Conqueror... never harms you... or your kind... again."

The mother gazed at him, and he wondered briefly if she had fully understood him. But she nodded slowly, and he thought he saw a hint of gratefulness in her weary eyes.

"Did the Wanderer lose his way already?" urLii's voice called from a distance, and urGoh finally turned away from the Gruenaks.

"No," he called in return. "I am... coming." With that, he marched back toward the shoreline, where urLii was waiting in the boat.

This time, he did not look at the shard in his hand; for once, he already had a destination in mind.

—-~~~—-

"E-Emperor!" skekGra cried, giving a belated bow. When he straightened himself, he was disappointed to find that Emperor skekSo did not appear any less displeased... or suspicious.

"Well?" skekSo said, raising his brows. "What are you doing in the Crystal Chamber at this hour? And to whom were you talking?"

"I was speaking… with m-myself!" he replied quickly. The ramifications of this choice of words hit him almost immediately and he stumbled over his own speech. "Th-that is to say, I was... practicing my next puppet show, my Emperor."

"Ah." The Emperor stared at him unblinkingly. "And where are your puppets?"

SkekGra balked. "They... h-have yet to be made, sire!" He fiddled with the handle of his sword, wincing when he realized he still held it, and turned himself at an angle to make the weapon less visible. "I wanted it to be a surprise, but... I was making a puppet of you, sire. But! I also wanted to practice in here, to make sure the... acoustics were good enough."

"...I see." SkekSo's gaze narrowed. "And that... noise?"

Agh, curse that howling Mystic.

"A nurloc mating call," he said hastily, and inwardly cringed. "I was practicing it for a different show. I can do it again if you like—"

Holding out a talon, the Emperor shook his head. "No, no, that's quite enough." The taps of his scepter against the floor rang hollowly throughout the near-empty chamber as he circled closer to skekGra. "I would prefer you not hold your shows here, Conqueror."

"I... understand, sire." He drooped in what he hoped looked more like disappointment than the actual relief he was feeling. It sounded like skekSo had—

"I don't want random Skeksis milling about the Crystal Chamber unattended," the Emperor went on, stalking closer and keeping his eyes trained on skekGra, who froze up under his gaze. "Don't think I have not noticed your behavior as of late, skekGra. Even the Chamberlain has noticed."

SkekGra's tail curled at the mention of skekSil. What business didn't he stick his nosy beak into? "SkekSil has... n-no reason to worry about me, sire. I want nothing more than to serve you, and conquer all the lands of Thra in the name of—"

"Yes, conquering." SkekSo came to a stop between skekGra and the Crystal of Truth itself, as though shielding it. "Have you come to the Chamber to drain extra power from the Crystal, to aid you on your conquests?"

"What—no!" SkekGra staggered back, shaking his head. "Of course not, my Emperor, I would never—"

"Then why have you not been attending the rejuvenation ceremonies?" SkekSo's hardened stare was unwavering. "It seems to me you have been planning instead to draw your own power from the Crystal when no other Skeksis are around to witness it."

It took every bit of skekGra's willpower to keep himself from shaking. "No, Emperor, I promise you, that is not what I was doing!"

"Then why did you not attend the Ceremony of the Sun? Why do you avoid it?" SkekSo stood firm, leaning against his scepter, his neck craning forward. "What, Conqueror, are you up to."

It was not a question. It was a demand.

SkekGra drew in a breath. "Sire... I had tried to tell you before." Forcing himself to look the Emperor in the eyes, he steeled his will. "I was given a vision."

The grandiose statement hung in the air for a moment, before skekSo impatiently waved it aside.

"As grand as they may seem to you, your artistic visions hold no importance to—"

"It was a literal vision!" skekGra cried, unable to help himself. "I saw things! Images Thra itself forced into my mind! It gave me visions of the future!"

For a long while, skekSo regarded him, and in a flash skekGra wondered if he was wrong to do this, if skekTek had been correct and he should keep quiet. But he'd intended to tell the Emperor all along, had he not? This was bigger than himself; this concerned all of Thra, over which the Emperor had full reign. But skekSo did not speak, merely watching him, and skekGra found himself going on.

"Thra showed me a future in which it was devoid of life. In which every race was destroyed, the Gelfling slaughtered, and no green thing grew. And yet in the midst of it all... we Skeksis gorged ourselves, and drank to excess, and..." His voice faltered, and he lowered his head. He couldn't bear to describe the rest. "It showed me a future, Emperor, in which there was nothing on Thra left for you to rule."

"I see."

He dared not meet skekSo's gaze again, suddenly finding the half a soul within him gripped with terror.

"Do you recall, Conqueror, what Thra is?"

SkekGra blinked, looking up, his beak opening and closing a few times. He couldn't imagine what sort of answer the Emperor was expecting. "It... it is where we live, sire, it is what you—"

"Thra," skekSo said, and he began to walk in a great circle around skekGra, "is a primitive planet that we were sent to rebuild."

Tracking the Emperor's path, skekGra frowned; this hadn't been what he'd expected to hear. "I... I don't remember much of those days, Emperor." That was at least one truth he could give.

"Few do," skekSo replied, with what might have been sympathy, "and those who do shudder to think of it. There is good reason to forget those days. However..." He tilted his beak to skekGra, looking him in the eye. "We must not forget what we accomplished here, skekGra. The Crystal was unprotected, the Gelfling frolicked naked in the forests, and there was not a trace of proper civilization anywhere on the face of this rock... until we changed that."

SkekGra opened his beak to say something, but what? It mattered little anyway, for the Emperor went on:

"We built the castle. We showed the Gelflings how to construct cities. We brought them to subjection. We raised Thra from nothing but a primitive rock..."

He gestured with his scepter and all three of his other arms to the Crystal of Truth behind him, and the grand chamber that encompassed it.

"...to what it is now."

And finally he brought all four limbs down, his front arms clutching his scepter and striking it against the floor with a final, definite clack.

"What does Thra know of what it wants?"

The air was heavy around them, and skekSo's gaze was unwavering. The Crystal towered over him, and yet the Emperor seemed enormous still, his eyes glowing the same malevolent purple as the Crystal itself in the dark.

Unconsciously skekGra took a step back, and suddenly skekSo was striding past him as though he were nothing but a Podling-slave.

"You will attend the ceremony tomorrow, Conqueror. And if you speak a word of this to the others, there will be punishment. Something… hm… permanent."

SkekGra swallowed, and the Emperor glanced over his shoulder.

"And the Chamberlain will not be here to save you again."

And with that, he was gone, vanishing into the darkness of the castle.

SkekGra heard his sword clatter to the ground before he even felt his grip begin to slacken.

Whatever he decided to do about urGoh... he would have to keep it secret from the Emperor.

—~~~---

The rest of the night was spent in restless wakefulness. SkekGra wondered, vaguely, if he would ever feel like sleeping again. His double encounters in the Crystal Chamber had left his nerves frayed, like he was a piece of cloth scratched over a dull knife blade. His talons gave periodic twitches and he found himself merely pacing across the floor of his bedchamber, unable to focus on anything.

By first light, skekGra stopped moving in a daze, staring down at the partially-repaired masterwork of a painting he’d left on the floor. On impulse, he knelt down and took up the crushed-berry paint, hesitating for a moment; he flipped the painting over, rolled a thick paintbrush between his talons, and began making marks across the rough underside of the canvas.

Thoughts strung themselves through his head like an indecipherable tangle of finger-vines as he worked. His mind swam with images of dim caves and black lakes, glowing moss and glowing trees, blood both dark red and bright green… in the center of it all, the Crystal, and an infuriating Mystic…

He gave a start, suddenly realizing that the first Brother was climbing high in the sky. It was time to head back down for the ceremony, if he hoped to appease skekSo. Turning the painting back over, he propped it gently against the wall to let it dry, sheathed his sword at his side out of habit, and headed out of the room once again.

His arrival time was carefully calculated; taking up his ceremonial staff from where it had been left for him by Gelfling servants and finding it as untarnished as the rest of his equipment, neatly cleaned and polished from its trip out to the caves and back, he found the line of Skeksis trudging their way toward the Crystal Chamber and slipped into the middle of it.

“Ssssslime-feeder!” skekShod hissed at him, and skekGra realized he had nearly trodden on the Treasurer’s tail.

Behind him, skekLach let out a dark laugh. “Well, well, look who’s decided to join us again at last. Stomping over us as usual.”

“Enough chattering back there!” skekZok called sharply from somewhere up ahead. “The Ceremony of the Sun is a solemn occasion!”

SkekGra let himself fall silent and was relieved to have the others follow suit as they filed into the Chamber and took their places in a circle around the Crystal.

He spotted both skekSo and skekSil casting narrow-eyed glances in his direction and carefully pretended not to notice, shifting so that he could stare unblinkingly at the darkened Crystal of Truth. It rippled with purple light but revealed no images within. How had the Wanderer managed to contact him through it?

His heart clenched. What if the idiot decided to appear again? SkekGra glanced hastily from side to side, hoping his fears weren’t evident on his face. He used to be a master at hiding his emotions, though in recent days the skill seemed to be slipping.

As the suns rose and skekZok spread his arms to welcome the Brothers in their zenith, the Crystal shone with violet light directed into the waiting eyes of each Skeksis. The achingly familiar surge of energy warmed skekGra’s body and he allowed himself to relax, his talons flexing against the staff he carried, breathing in the cleansing, strengthening light from the Crystal.

This was their home. Thra itself gave them new life each day. And yet, according to the Great Tree in the Grottan caves, the Skeksis were doomed to contaminate their world and must destroy themselves to prevent this. How could Thra bless the Twice-Nine in one breath, and curse them in the next?

SkekGra blinked quickly, his grip on the staff tightening again as he wondered, suddenly, whether skekSo had been right.

He stood numb with disbelief as the suns continued on their arc through the sky and the Crystal’s light faded, the tightly-knit group of Skeksis breaking up to shuffle on their separate ways. The ceremony had gone without incident—even the Emperor and the Chamberlain paid him no mind as they left the chamber in step with each other. So why did his heart feel frozen and brittle, like it might shatter if it pounded any harder? Why had the Crystal’s light left him feeling… strong, yes, but scraped out, hollow?

SkekGra shook his head and hastily looked around until he caught sight of skekTek, who had meandered over to inspect a lever that had been installed on the wall.

“Scientist!” he called quietly as he approached, wary of the few straggling Skeksis still meandering about. “I need to talk to you.”

SkekTek looked up, scowling. “What now, Conqueror? Surely you can see I’m presently unavailable for your manner of perfunctory diversion—?”

He trailed off, looking skekGra in the face and scrutinizing him with the same intensity that skekSo had shown the previous night. Realization seemed to strike at once, as his beak gaped and his eyes flashed. “You told the Emperor, didn’t you!”

SkekGra tensed, casting a hasty glance over his shoulder. “Er!... Very perceptive. Perhaps we shouldn’t talk here.”

“Perhaps we should not converse at all, as you seem intent on ignoring my advice!” The Scientist snapped his beak, his eyes narrowed to livid slits. “I knew I was unparalleled in terms of intellect, but I had no idea I was the only Skeksis with any amount of common sense as well!”

“Ooh, look!” the Ornamentalist said nearby, and skekGra jerked his head up in horror to see skekEkt watching them with glittering eyes. “The Conqueror and the Scientist are fighting!”

“Planning to start more fires, Conqueror?” skekOk asked wryly.

“Yes, among your scrolls!” skekGra shot back. What were they even still doing here? With an agitated look at the Scientist, he muttered, “forget it,” and turned to march out of the chamber, feeling his skin prickle with several sets of interested eyes watching him leave. It had been foolish to try to seek help from skekTek again—he’d only succeeded in attracting the attention of every Skeksis left in the room.

His pace slowed as he got further from the Chamber, his thoughts drifting. He’d promised to meet urGoh at the border of the Crystal Desert today. SkekGra scraped his talons down the stone wall, grinding his teeth together.

“I suppose I don’t have any other choice,” he said to himself, darkly. How had it come to this? Meeting with a Mystic?

“Conqueror,” a sharp voice said.

Startled, skekGra whirled around, bracing himself—but it was skekTek. The Scientist must have followed him out.

“I assume you had a reason for nearly shouting your secrets in the middle of the Crystal Chamber,” skekTek said, stopping in front of him. He still looked irritated, though skekGra was beginning to suspect that that was the Scientist’s default expression.

He sighed. “I did tell skekSo. He more-or-less cornered me to demand answers for my behavior lately, and telling him about the vision… seemed like a good idea at the time.”

SkekTek visibly rolled his eyes, pushing past skekGra and growling, “All ideas seem like ‘good’ ideas at the time.”

He glanced back, jerking with his beak for skekGra to follow. “But there’s no sense in sniveling over slopped milk dumplings. What did the Emperor say in response to your ludicrous claims?”

SkekGra closed his eyes, massaging his head with his fingers. “He said exactly what you’d think he’d say.”

“Yes…” skekTek’s breath hissed through his teeth. “I was planning to investigate this. You understand you have just made that substantially more difficult.”

"That wasn't my intention," skekGra said, peeling his hand away again. "I hadn't meant to tell him, after your advising." Or, well, not this soon, anyway.

SkekTek's hardened gaze drifted to the side. "Hrm. We'd best hope the Emperor does not speak to the sniveling Chamberlain on this matter, for both of our sakes," he muttered darkly.

SkekGra barely managed to repress a shudder. As bad as skekSo's response had been, he was sure things would be infinitely worse if skekSil learned what he’d shared.

"How did the Emperor succeed in trapping you, anyway?" the Scientist went on, cocking his head at skekGra and narrowing his eyes. "Did he barge into your sleeping quarters and grasp you by the neck until you spoke?"

"What? No, I was... um. I was..." He cast a glance around the hallway, making certain he was safe from eavesdroppers this time, and lowered his voice, "I was in the Crystal Chamber, in the middle of the night."

"And what could you possibly hope to accomplish there at such a preposterous hour?"

"Only, er... practicing my puppetry, of course. I'd had plans to do a show in the—"

"You are not speaking with an imbecile, Conqueror," skekTek said flatly, his lips curling to show fangs.

SkekGra hesitated, his talons clicking together and his tail curling behind him. "Very well. I heard the Crystal call." He swallowed. "Only to me, apparently."

The sarcastic-but-suspicious expression on the Scientist's face immediately dropped, and he stared at skekGra for a long while, his look unreadable. SkekGra would have felt uncomfortable, had the Scientist's reaction not been so bewildering. He opened his beak, but skekTek cut him off.

"The Crystal... called... to you."

"Yes," skekGra said, nodding slowly. "It did."

He wondered, briefly, if skekTek was angry with him—or jealous, perhaps?—but the Scientist regained his composure, grunting and turning around. "Come with me."

For a moment skekGra considered telling him he had an appointment to keep. (“With whom?” he could just imagine skekTek sneering. “The Ascendency, come to offer their immediate surrender?”) He quickly tossed that idea, and simply followed the other Skeksis with no comment. Mystics were supposed to be patient, weren’t they? If by some miracle the Wanderer got to the meeting point before he did, the thing could stand to wait a while. An entire ninet, maybe.

SkekTek, to skekGra's lack of surprise, led him straight back down to the Chamber of Life, and immediately began rifling through some books on a table. "You are quite certain that the Crystal addressed you alone?"

"I think so," skekGra answered, stepping up to the other side of the table and examining the mess of pages for himself. It all looked to him like nothing but meaningless numbers and symbols. "No one else showed up."

"Except the Emperor."

"Yes, but I don't think he was called. He didn't come until... after."

"After," skekTek repeated, settling over a book written in a hasty scrawl skekGra could not hope to read. "After the Crystal showed you something."

"That's right." SkekGra felt a chill crawl up his spine, suddenly realizing what the Scientist would ask of him next. "But—"

"And what," skekTek went on, "did it show you?"

And... there it was. SkekGra's talons grasped the edge of the table, and he stared down at them. Bandages still bound his hands, though the burns hurt a great deal less, now. "It... showed me..." He hesitated, unsure how he could put this in a way that would not make him sound like he was betraying his own kind, like he was going against his own Emperor, like he was a...

"Well? Out with it. Some of us have matters of significant importance to attend to in the near future."

"It..." He shook his head, and scraped his talons into the table. "It showed me my other half."

"UrRu?" the Scientist said, and skekGra tensed, preparing to defend himself. But skekTek only shuddered, making a sound of disgust. "...You wouldn't be the first."

SkekGra released his breath in a rush of air, trying to relax his hold on the table.

And then gave a start, knocking the desk and sending sheafs of paper flying, eliciting an irritated squawk from skekTek.

"What do you mean, not the first?"

"You ungainly blockhead!" skekTek sputtered, hurriedly grabbing up the papers again. "What do you think I meant?"

"I... have you seen visions in the Crystal as well?"

The Scientist let out a deep sigh, heaving his work back onto the table. "I experiment daily with the Crystal," he began. "Trine upon trine have I done so. And before I could pull the Crystal into my laboratory to study it here, I would visit the Crystal Chamber to examine it and learn what I could. Often I visited at night, when all other Skeksis slumbered unaware."

"And it... showed you things?" skekGra gasped.

"Indeed. There were times when I would see vague shadows within the Crystal if I stared long enough, and I was able to ascertain that these were not merely the tricks of unreliable, organic eyes." He tapped beneath his right eye with a talon. "Sometimes if I concentrated enough, I could force the Crystal to show me sights from the far corners of Thra, farther than even you have traveled, Conqueror."

SkekGra's beak gaped, and he found an odd sense of envy stirring up within him at the concept. What other civilizations lie on this rock? What other creatures that he had yet to see?

"I recorded whatever I saw in my notes. But the Crystal was not merely to be used as a telescope," skekTek went on. "Though I would have preferred it stayed that way. It seems the Heart of Thra has a mind of its own... of sorts."

Oh, more than you know.

"After some time, it began to show me something I had no desire to see whatsoever." The Scientist's lips curved into a snarl. "It showed me visions of four hands at work, performing experiments, similar to my own but... cowardly. Uninterested in the results. It showed me... the Alchemist."

The name seemed like a vile taste on skekTek's tongue, and he shuddered as he spoke it.

"Your Mystic," skekGra breathed. "The... the Crystal showed you your Mystic."

"Yes," skekTek grunted. "It did. Annoyingly often, despite my protests."

"Did... the Alchemist ever speak to you?"

SkekTek frowned down at the page before him, smoothing over a small tear with the flat side of his claw. "I heard that horrible humming racket from his overlong throat, and some mutterings, but the creature never addressed me."

"...How long has this been going on?" skekGra ventured, edging along the table to move closer to the Scientist.

"It went on for far longer than it should have," skekTek snapped, finally slamming his book closed. "I proclaimed to the Crystal that if he was all it would show me, I would personally splinter further shards from it until it dared not defy the will of its Lords any longer." The Scientist blinked. “After that, it ceased showing me images of any kind.”

"...I see." SkekGra took a step back. For some reason, his chest felt oddly heavy.

"If it is doing the same to you, you may be wise to put it in its place, as I have." He tipped his head. "Or let it go on. Perhaps it may show you something of interest if you let it have its way."

"Yes..." skekGra said, lowering his head. "That is something to consider."

SkekTek peered at him shrewdly. "And... this was all it showed, Conqueror?"

He nodded. "Just the Wanderer, nothing more."

"Hm." After a moment, skekTek clicked his beak. "It seems for some reason or other, the Crystal has put us in similar situations. As we seem to be the only ones, I suppose you are welcome to speak to me of this matter should it continue, skekGra." He swished his tail briefly, lowering his head. "It feels beneficial to... tell another of such things."

The sudden, palpable relief that swept through skekGra at this declaration almost took his breath away. The decision to confide in skekTek had been an uncertain one from the beginning. But now he felt that, at last, he had an ally—someone who wouldn’t mock, like skekVar, or pry, like skekSil, or demean and threaten, like even the Emperor.

“Thank you, skekTek,” he said. “That is… good to hear.”

The Scientist eyed him for a moment. “Of course, if you should receive… further visions, from the Crystal or otherwise, you must bring them to me forthwith.”

SkekGra’s eyes narrowed slightly. And now his one ally, the weakling Scientist, was giving him orders.

“Of course,” he replied, in a somewhat cool tone. “After all, you’re the expert.”

The other Skeksis’ face folded once more in a glare. “And you would do well to remember that.”

—-~~~—-

SkekGra had been dreading the walk to the desert. He longed to take a carriage or similar comfortable travel, but he could not afford the others to miss the transport when they were already suspicious of him. Especially when the Emperor had all but forbidden him to partake in any further conquests, for an indefinite length of time.

He passed quickly over the leaf litter and springy green plants that coated the forest floor, his feet taking practiced steps to avoid the slightest crunch on a dead leaf, his dragging tail and robes equally soundless save for a slight rustle that matched the wind. He breathed deeply, the chilled breeze bringing scents of the forest to his nostrils, his lips curling when he also detected the sour stench clinging to his own robes.

In a rapid change of his initial plan, he had taken the opportunity of being brought down to skekTek’s laboratory to slip into the catacombs—rather that than leaving the castle through the main entrance, where he would be seen by the guards as well as anyone else who happened to glance in that direction. Down in the labyrinthine catacombs below the castle, he was able to creep along undetected and squeeze out through the ancient Teeth of Skreesh carved into the cliff face, landing with a small splash in the slow-moving creek below.

This had come with consequences, of course. The dark, looming stone walls, the musty smells, the muffled echoes of running water and skittering crawlies that rang in his ears—it all reminded him forcefully of the Grottan tunnels. He had finally clambered out of there in relief, only to soak in the warm light of the suns outside and realize that the escape had left the hem of his robes drenched in foul-smelling water and waste flushed from the castle.

Wonderful, now he could trek all day through the Dark Wood and arrive to meet his self-righteous counterpart while smelling like a long-dead fish.

He rolled his shoulders irritably. Well, it wasn’t as though he and the idiot Mystic could think any less of each other. At least skekGra wasn’t planning on going out of his way to alert others about their communications, as the wretched Wanderer had last night. And as he was probably doing now. SkekGra scraped his nails along his palms, biting back the roiling ball of fury in his chest.

Imagine the creature making his ear-rattling howling noise right there in the Crystal Chamber, bringing none other than the blasted Emperor down on them and nearly getting them caught speaking to one another. Out of spite. He ground his teeth together.

Today they would end this.

The sick, anxious feeling that had taken up residence in his gut over the past few days seemed to intensify as the hours passed and he continued to walk, checking both his position and the time by the shape of the three Brothers and the angle of the shadows cast by towering trees. He was unused to traveling for so long by foot over mulchy, uneven ground, but he could at least be thankful that it wasn’t raining this time. He gripped his sword tightly, a pair of knives clenched in his secondary hands.

No beasts bothered him. The air was strangely quiet, absent of the stirrings of small forest creatures—likely too afraid of the clear predator stalking lightly through their wood, he mused. If anything dared show its face to him, he merely let out a low, rattling hiss, and it vanished again. He was Skeksis—nothing native to this forest could bring any harm to him.

His eyes darted quickly from side to side, lingering on the deeper shadows for the slightest movement or out-of-place form. There was, of course, one phantom known to haunt these woods that he did fear a confrontation with, and his grip on his sword tightened all the more. It would be best not to be out here after dark.

SkekGra’s breath seemed to come easier once the clustered trees and pines began to thin out and leaf dirt transitioned to grass, with rocky hills rising steeply to his left. Tall, reddish shapes stood out against the cloudy horizon, a pale, shimmering line in the distance. The light was dying—the first sun was about to set. He let out a sigh, shuffling one foot through the springy grass. At this rate he wouldn’t reach the desert before nightfall.

Suddenly he wondered if he had already been missed back at the castle. SkekSo and skekSil would almost definitely be sniffing around. He imagined them side-eyeing his empty spot at the banquet table tonight. There would be yet more questions upon his return. How was he to answer them? It was getting more and more difficult to come up with plausible excuses.

Plausible excuses such as ‘imitating a nurloc mating call,’ he thought, wincing slightly.

Steeling himself, he continued on, as the day’s warmth faded and the air began to chill his skin. One by one, the suns sank over the horizon, the three Sisters rising in their stead, and strange noises seemed to echo at him from every side. Chirps, low howls, rustling. SkekGra let out a growl, his long tail swishing the grass, and the noises ceased. It was only after several minutes of this that he decided silence was much worse.

The tense knot of anxiety in his chest now threatened to overtake him; his skin prickled, the spines on his back rising, his eyes flicking from side to side and struggling to make out anything in the darkness.

Was that the swish of robes along the ground? The telltale shwing of a sword being drawn? Had someone followed him from the Castle? No, that was ridiculous, no one among the Skeksis could pursue him without detection, not out here in the wilderness of his own domain, no one except—

Snap.

Heart pounding, skekGra whirled with a hiss, lips drawn back to reveal jagged fangs, and stood at his fullest height with his sword posed to strike. “Reveal yourself!”

For a moment, there was no sound save for the quiet chirping of insects and the wind stirring the scant vegetation. SkekGra peered through the darkness, sword at the ready, hardly able to distinguish individual shapes in the deep shadows along the landscape.

Then, a low voice spoke up.

“Careful… with that… Or you may hurt yourself.”

A lumpy boulder standing near him stirred, watching him with dark eyes and unfurling four long arms and a heavy tail. SkekGra bit back a shocked yelp, stumbling backward a step. In an instant he readjusted his stance and pointed the tip of the sword directly between the Mystic’s baleful, blinking eyes.

“You,” skekGra rasped, eyes narrowed in hatred. The cretin had disguised itself as a boulder to deceive him in the darkness yet again. “I’ve had enough of that trick!”

The Mystic’s brow furrowed. “What… trick?”

With a loud snort rivaling those of even the General, skekGra turned with a flick of his tail and hunted along the ground for stray branches and dry kindling. When the Mystic neglected to move, he snapped, “Well, help me build a fire! It’s freezing out here, and I’ll not talk until I can see my enemy clearly.”

The eyes set deep in the Mystic’s long face narrowed as well. “So… the murdering scourge of Thra… is afraid… of me.”

“Distrust does not equal fear,” skekGra replied, his tone clipped. He glared at the other creature until it finally obliged, bending down slowly to hunt for firewood as well. The two of them seemed to walk in spiraling circles around each other, both refusing to turn their back on the other. When they had found a few handfuls each, skekGra snatched the kindling from the Mystic’s hand and set to work building a fire. There were pieces of flint in his pockets, which he pulled out and struck. Nothing happened.

“Hmmm,” the Wanderer said, somewhat sardonically. “Perhaps you have… lost your touch. Especially since it seemed… this humble, lumbering Mystic… snuck up on you.”

SkekGra clacked the two pieces of flint together harder than he meant to, showering a spray of sparks across the ground but not managing to light anything except for the hem of urGoh’s robes.

“Not… again…” the Mystic murmured, stamping out the smoking fabric before it ignited properly.

SkekGra scowled at him, his eyes shooting poison. “It’s sneaked.”

The Mystic slowly looked up. “What did you… say?”

“It’s sneaked, not snuck. Idiot.”

“...Ohh.” The Mystic blinked. “I see the mighty Conqueror… has traded in his sword… for a far deadlier weapon: grammar.”

The jibe should have made him angry, and it nearly did, but skekGra almost found himself choking back a laugh instead. That was... quicker wit than he expected of a Mystic. But—no, what was he doing? He was talking with an enemy! With a growl, he struck the flint together again, finally igniting the campfire. Now that their meeting spot had a light source that was slowly but steadily growing brighter, he could see the amusement in the other creature's eyes—clearly proud of his own joke.

"Now is not the time for jests," skekGra muttered.

"For one who.... bears much armor... the famous Conqueror... has a fragile ego."

One of skekGra's claws scraped against the flint as he pocketed it, chipping its edge. "I do not!" But realizing he'd raised his voice, he cast a cautious glance at their surroundings, making sure a familiar phantom was not nearby. "That's not what I'm upset about," he went on, quieter. "The Hunter roams between the forest and the desert, and I'd rather we wrap this up before he rears his masked head."

"Oh." The Mystic stared down at the fire, his amused expression melting into a somber one. "The Archer's... shadow."

"What?" SkekGra blinked, then shook his head. "Nevermind, it would probably take you all night to explain." He leaned in closer, careful to keep the hem of his robes away from the flames. "We need to discuss what we came here for, and then leave."

The Wanderer breathed out slowly, embers scattering in the wake of his sigh. "And you think... we can take care of this... in one night?"

"I don't know! Let's just get on with it." His tail gave an impatient swish, and it unnerved him to see the Mystic's tail tip mirror the motion. "Do you remember what I told you last night?"

"Yes..." Now the creature's face fell, his head dipping. "I do not wish... to hear it again."

"Yes, well. That's our future, apparently." He leaned back, taking a seat on a nearby stone and frowning when a sharp corner of it dug into his leg. "Or did your vision say otherwise?"

"My vision..." The Mystic turned away from the fire, his gaze slowly traveling up to the stars. SkekGra followed it, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. "I... saw the heavens... and I saw Thra."

"And maps?" skekGra tipped his head. "Didn't you mention that?"

"...Yes... and... maps." He lowered his head again. "I saw... the heavens... and maps... and—"

"Yes, we established that. Can you go any faster?"

The Mystic blinked, then slowly, slowly turned his head back toward skekGra. "I... can..."

Oh, Aughra's eye.

"...go... as..."

"Are you serious?"

"...fast... as..."

"As you like, yes, I get it!"

"I..."

"YES! I understand!"

"...like."

In spite of the consequences of the action, the thought of strangling the Mystic was quite tempting at the moment. The tip of his tail flicked.

"Now... as I was saying..." The Wanderer glanced up at the sky again. "I saw... the heavens... and the suns... close to aligning themselves..."

"The Great... what's it. Conjunction?" skekGra offered, glad to finally be getting somewhere.

"...Yes. That was... it. I also saw.... Thra... as a map. The Gelfling... civilizations... were torn away..."

An image of bloody battlefields flashed across skekGra's mind, and he blinked hard, staring into the fire to try to rid himself of the thought.

"But... later... the map pieces were... put together." The Mystic joined each pair of his own hands thoughtfully. "Not where they were... before... but grouped together... in one... place."

"...Is that all?" SkekGra reared his head back. "You got off easy."

"No... that is not... all..." Now the Wanderer parted his hands, and only then did skekGra notice that he clutched something in one of them. The Mystic held the object closer to his face, letting it glint in the firelight. "I saw... the Crystal... and... felt it."

"Felt it? What did it feel like?"

"Pain... emptiness... and... incompleteness." He thumbed the object in his hand, then closed his fist around it. "It is... fractured."

"You only just noticed?" skekGra snapped, only to pause—it was easy to forget that other beings didn't have ready access to the Crystal like the Skeksis did. "It's been fractured since you creatures left."

"Yes," urGoh said solemnly. "Have you... not thought... that it needed... to be healed?"

SkekGra hissed in a breath. No, because if it were fully healed, we would be unable to take in its power, and we would die.

"...It... never occurred to me," he lied.

The Wanderer gave him a hard look, and skekGra cleared his throat. "So... what, we're supposed to heal the Crystal?"

"Yes... and help... the Gelfling..." The Mystic's gaze hardened further. "Unless... that is beyond you."

"I'm not opposed to helping the Gelfling!" skekGra cried, indignant. "What do you think I was doing in those blasted caves?!"

"Murdering... innocents?"

SkekGra rose to his feet, all four fists clenched. "I spared them!"

"You... spared... two." UrGoh was shaking, and so was he. "Two... of the hundreds... that fell by your swords—"

"I KNOW!" he screamed.

He knew he had to be quiet, he knew he could be endangering himself if he was seen, but he could not stop, the words tumbling from his beak as he paced before the fire and before his other half. "You think I'm not aware of what I’ve done?! I killed so many! More than skekUng or skekVar! I made paint of their blood, puppets of their corpses! I did it with every creature I conquered! Every race! And when I'm not being repeatedly afflicted by sickening visions of the Crystal’s design, I'm seeing them! I'm seeing their blood on my swords, my claws, on me!"

And he rounded on the Wanderer once again, his eyes burning as bright as the fire between them.

"And it's because of you. You did this to me!" His talons clenched and unclenched, raised and shaking in rage. "Ever since you did—you did—whatever in Thra's name you did to me, I haven't been able to stop thinking about that stupid, rotten Gruenak I beheaded in those caves, or his mate and his child that saw it!"

His chest heaved in harsh gasps and his eyes burned in the smoke and heat of the fire.

"Does it bring you joy to know what you have done to me, Wanderer?"

UrGoh stared at him silently, unmoving, the fire casting dark shadows across his face and form. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "You believe yourself... to be the only one... unchanged?"

SkekGra's arms lowered. "What?"

"In these few days... I have felt... more anger... toward you... and your kind... and my own kind... than I have ever felt... in my hundreds of trine."

The Mystic was, skekGra suddenly noticed, trembling again.

"I had not felt it... until you touched me."

"You were the one to grab me," skekGra said, but the rage had gone from his voice. He paused. "Is anger really so terrible?"

The Wanderer opened his mouth, but faltered.

"Anger at incompetence leads you to taking matters into your own claws,” skekGra continued. “Anger at others leads you to confront them. This is how the world functions." His tail swished one way, then the other, and he turned aside. "At least you don't have this horrible, nagging, endless... something... that keeps reminding you of—"

"Guilt."

The word ripped the air from his lungs, and he clutched a talon to his chest. "No."

But you've already known, something within him said. Something that sounded alarmingly like the slothful being before him.You knew it the moment you felt it.

"You feel... guilty... Conqueror."

"No!" he cried, his talons moving to clutch his head. "Skeksis don't feel guilt!"

"And urRu... do not... feel anger."

Silence hung between them, and even the fire seemed to quiet, sensing the gravity of the situation.

"We have... been changed."

SkekGra swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "I don't want to change." He swallowed again, his tongue sticking to his mouth, uncomfortably aware of how much he sounded like a pitiful childling. "I want t-to..."

"You want to... go back... to killing?"

In spite of his words, the simmering anger was absent from the Mystic's voice this time.

Head bowed toward the ground, skekGra felt hollowed, bloody, raw; half of him heated in the flickering firelight, the other part, shadowed, shivering like brittle ice.

“I… I am skekGra the Conqueror,” he said, without looking up. His voice was a rasp. “For over five hundred trine I have wounded, I’ve maimed, I’ve killed. And now you come to me? Now is when Thra chooses to speak, to threaten everything I have ever worked for and achieved?” He whipped his head up, eyes flashing in the firelight. “My honor is already being questioned, ever since the battle with the Gruenaks where you decided to show your stupid long neck and make me—”

He broke off, breathing hard.

UrGoh the Wanderer watched him through narrowed eyes, unmoved. “I… was not aware… that the Skeksis had honor.”

SkekGra scraped his teeth together, letting the insult slide with no comment. “I am being watched, you should know. The Emperor is suspicious of me, the Scientist probably knows too much, if he chooses to speak. The General noticed my absences in two consecutive battles. SkekMal will hunt us both for sport if he finds us out here. And the Chamberlain will haunt my every step until he’s convinced of where my loyalties lie, either with the Skeksis… or against them.”

“And… where do they… lie?” urGoh asked quietly.

The tips of skekGra’s talons twitched. “I am Skeksis.”

UrGoh let out a frustrated huff. “Then this meeting… will get us nowhere.”

“Particularly since Thra itself seems to be calling our kinds to unite,” skekGra hissed through his teeth. There was an uncomfortable, fizzling silence, like the feeling in the air after a bolt of lightning strikes.

Words rang in skekGra’s head, as clearly as though someone were speaking them directly into his ear.

“What does Thra know of what it wants?”

“Well…” urGoh said, slowly once again, apparently weighing every word. “Of course… we are not doing… that.”

Suddenly, unexpectedly, a surge of defiance ripped through skekGra, leaping from his tongue in the form of a one-word demand. “Why?”

The Mystic stared at him with brows raised, the fire dancing in his dark eyes. SkekGra himself was just as taken aback by his own outburst, but he scarcely let it show, instead pacing back and forth in front of the fire again with his hands clasped firmly behind his back and his tail swishing over the gritty rock, brushing up against knotty tufts of grass that sprung up among the stone here and there.

“Have you been seeing them?” he asked, his voice harsh, his eyes flicking to settle on urGoh. “Visions in the waking world? Things…” he hesitated, but then forged ahead, “changing before your very eyes?”

He blinked quickly, preemptively, to dispel the images before they came, but they came anyway. The land through the carriage window ravaged and blackened by glowing purple veins. SkekVar’s face crumbling to dust. The Scientist bearing an empty, bloodied eye socket. Dark blood pooling from a strange wound on urGoh’s head...

The Mystic had his head tilted very slightly. “I… suppose,” he said, and he gave an almost imperceptible glance at the ground where his flickering shadow was cast.

SkekGra snaked his hand back out and pressed his talons to his chest, where his heart—or whatever shred of blackened tissue he might have in place of it—beat in an almost convulsive manner. “They won’t stop.” The certainty weighed on him like stone. “If we don’t do what the stupid planet wants us to do, we won’t stop seeing these… things.”

UrGoh stirred slightly, rumpling the woven coat on his back and the frayed cloak that lay over his shoulders, perhaps trying to warm himself up. “Then… they don’t stop,” he said, in a voice as nonchalant as though he had simply looked up to pass comment on the moons.

To outside eyes, it would almost appear as though skekGra had barely moved at all.

His talons were already dripping dark blood, his robes slightly singed and his face stinging like he’d been branded with hot coals, before he even registered what had happened. UrGoh looked stunned, his face now sporting long scratches that hadn’t been there before.

"No more," skekGra found himself gasping, the words like razors in his throat. "I will put up with this no more. We will agree to Thra's demands if I have to take you by your ugly tail and—"

"A Skeksis... aligning with Thra?" urGoh said, seemingly unaware of the blood on his own face.

SkekGra faltered. "Of... of course we align with Thra. We make Thra align with Skeksis. It does as we see fit."

"Yet now... you are bowing... to its will."

A shudder ran down his spine. He brought a hand to his face, smearing his blood across his beak.

UrGoh's tail dragged closer around his body as he regarded skekGra. "Perhaps... this will get... somewhere... after all." He paused. “...Ouch, by the… way.”

Shakily skekGra sank back onto the stone he'd sat upon earlier, impatiently dabbing at the claw marks in his own face. “Are you a pouting infant? These are shallow. They won’t even leave scars.”

The Mystic's brow furrowed again. “Hmph. As you… say.” He shook his head, tossing his mane. "I want this... no more than you.”

"Yes." SkekGra flexed his talons; they felt sticky with blood (whose, he no longer knew). "We'll... play along, for now. Only until that blasted rock leaves us be."

"Hm." The Wanderer sat back, staring into the fire. "And how... do we plan... to do that?"

"I don't know."

The two remained silent, skekGra's vision blurring as his thoughts turned inward, reflecting on what he had just agreed to.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when he heard a strange huff. Blinking, he looked up, bewildered to find urGoh smiling into the flames. "What?"

"Oh." The Wanderer's smile faded and he blinked slowly. "I was... remembering something."

"Is it anything useful to our current situation?" skekGra mumbled, leaning his jaw against his knuckles.

"No." UrGoh shook his head from side to side, and the smile returned. "This place... reminds me of another fire I sat around... many trine ago."

"You don't say."

"I was with... Gelfling... for your kind had not caused them... to fear us yet." As the Mystic turned his head upward in memory, skekGra's gaze was downcast toward the ashes on the ground. "They were... telling a story."

As they often do. His vision grew unfocused again as he remembered the Gelfling battalions he would lead, and how the soldiers would tell each other tales to keep themselves entertained on long journeys. SkekGra had rarely paid attention—Gelfling stories were not nearly so interesting as his own conquests... or so he'd thought at the time, anyway.

"It was a story... of how the Gelfling maiden... obtained her wings..."

Snorting, skekGra shifted where he sat. Gelflings were the sole intelligent race with the ability to fly, a useful tactic in battle. He’d never particularly cared why the females had wings when the males did not. It had always seemed to have a strange logic to it. But something nagged at him and he blinked, lifting his head slightly. "I think I did hear that one."

"The songteller said... the maiden’s wings were forged... from hollerbats..." The amusement in the Mystic's voice was evident. "But the others... cut him off... and they argued..."

"Yes," skekGra said, his mouth quirking in a small smile. "The one argued that her wings were made from cragraptor feathers."

"And another said... his mother's version was..."

UrGoh fell silent abruptly.

Frowning, skekGra raised his head. "Was what?"

The Wanderer stared back at him, sheer confusion clouding his gaze. "You... were not present."

"What are you on about?" He straightened himself, the tip of his tail flicking indignantly. "I remember this. The Gelfling all got into a fight over whose story was right. And there was that little whiny one, who hadn't—"

"You... weren't... there..."

"Of course I was!" But now that he thought of it, why would he have been? Aside from the Makrak incident, when had Skeksis and Mystics ever met together peaceably? It wouldn't have been then, surely. He knew he hadn't been present for this incident. But then how...

Suddenly skekGra stared into urGoh's eyes, and urGoh into his, and all of Thra went still around them.

Something crackled up his back like electricity, and it chilled him, and yet... at the same time, there was warmth, warmth that had nothing to do with the fire. It filled him, more and more, until it was greater than himself, like nothing he had felt before...

No, he had felt it before. Trine upon trine ago, nearly past his memory, like he was... they were...

He blinked, and it was gone, leaving him empty and wanting.

The fire crackled before them.

"Oh," urGoh said simply, and his entire frame drooped, as though it had grown heavy. He was staring down at something in his hand, and there was a weariness in his eyes that had not been there before.

SkekGra realized he probably looked the same.

For a moment, he was tempted to look up into the stars, but he resisted, unsure what their light would remind him of and certain he didn’t wish to know. "Perhaps... this will take more than one meeting to resolve," he admitted, staring stupidly at the ground.

"That... seems likely."

Having nothing else to say, skekGra heaved a sigh. Finding his mouth dry, he licked his fangs, only to wince at the sharp tang of blood that he had smeared on his face earlier. With it came a sudden memory—one far more recent and that had nothing to do with the Mystic before him—and he rose to his feet. "I have to get back to the castle," he said hurriedly.

"Why?"

"The others will miss me," skekGra said, already kicking dirt over the fire. "Especially the Emperor.” Even this lumbering oaf must realize the danger they were putting themselves in.

"Thra... wishes for us all... to unify..."

"I know." The flames now put out, he began hurrying back in the direction he'd come.

Frustratingly, urGoh dragged himself alongside him. "I don't think... we should approach... the Skeksis... about this..."

Sickness churned in his stomach. "Of course not!" he snapped. "Do you think I have a death wish?" He wrenched his head around as he walked, his back spines prickling with a sudden anxiety. "Speaking of, keep your voice down."

The Wanderer lowered his head and his voice, keeping up with skekGra's pace oddly well. “But what of… the Mystics?”

SkekGra barked out a dry laugh. “By all means, if you think your fellow snail-crawlers can be convinced…”

"We must... arrange... a meeting with them."

"Fine! Let’s set it now, and then get away from me, before someone sees us."

UrGoh did not immediately answer, and skekGra lashed his tail impatiently—turning down to look at him, he found the Mystic studying his face carefully. Unnerved, skekGra faced forward again, straining to find his way in the moonlight.

Finally the Wanderer spoke: "Meet us..."

"Yes?"

"At the southern border..."

"Yes?"

"Of the Dark Wood..."

"Can it be anywhere else—?"

"...and the northern border..."

"Now what?"

"...of the Spriton Plains...."

"Seriously?"

"...where they meet the Black River."

"What?" He turned to look at the Mystic, but urGoh had already broken off in another direction. "Wait, why all the way out there?"

"You can... find your way... yourself."

"But why should—?!" SkekGra cut himself off; he was being too loud, and the Mystic probably wouldn't answer him anyway. Growling, he lowered his head, quickly rearranging his robes for what he would have to do.

In a few moments he had his robes tied back, and he lowered himself onto all fours, sprinting back toward the Dark Forest. This was not his preferred way of travel. His feet hurt from travel and his stomach ached for want of food. But the meeting had taken too long, and he could not be late for the Ceremony of the Sun.

Yet as he ran, his mind was not on what potential tortures awaited him if he failed to arrive, but rested instead with the strange, fire-lit meeting he'd so hastily left behind, and the creature he'd found himself forced into an uneasy alliance with.

Occasionally his thoughts were tempted to wander back to that moment, when they had gazed into one another through the flames with that spark of oneness, but he forcibly shoved it aside.

He was Skeksis. And this was temporary.

#urgoh #skekgra #skekso #the dark crystal #the dark crystal age of resistanace #skektek #urlii #my writing #fanfic #my art #for unity #FINALLY DONE WITH THIS CHAPTER

[deathsteel]

30 day fanfic challenge

Prompt #13 -Regret

“Fuck”, Dean muttered, scrubbing at the dark ink curving over his collarbone with a washcloth. 

It hurt like a bitch, the skin red and inflamed and raw like he was scrubbing over a sunburn. But, damnit, Dean was NOT going to keep looking at the name of his ex-fucking-girlfriend tattooed right over his heart like some damn fool. 

Last night was supposed to be their 5 year anniversary, but instead Dean had gotten drunk alone at the divest dive bar to ever exist while looking at pictures of Lisa on her honeymoon on Instagram. They’d gone on to Jamaica, how lame. Dean would have taken her to see the Northern lights, kissed her in a forest, and climbed to the top of a mountain to declare to the world how much he loved her. In his hungover state, Dean spitefully hoped that Lisa and Benny got rained on the whole time they were there. 

So yea, Dean was out a best friend and a girlfriend all in one fateful night two years ago. He didn’t even really know why he hadn’t unfollowed the two of them on Instagram yet. Sam said it was because he liked to torture himeself, but Dean had just thought of it as him playing the long game until Lisa was single again. He’d had the tattoo for two and a half years and it served as a constant, daily reminder of how shitty one Dean Winchester was at relationships. 

“You should get that covered up,” his roommate Garth said, leaning nonchalantly in the doorway of the bathroom. 

Dean just groaned at the other man who looked annoyingly well-rested and continued to rub at the curling script even though he knew it wouldn’t make a lick of difference. He tried to avoid his own gaze in the mirror because he knew he looked like death warmed over and eventually just tossed the washcloth in the sink with a growl of frustration. 

“Really, man,” Garth continued, cheerful as ever even though Dean had brusquely pushed past him on the way out of the bathroom. “The guy that does all of my work, he’s great. He specializes in cover ups too! He did this trailing flower thing on Bess’s side to cover up the scar from her accident. It's pretty awesome.” 

Dean knew which of his girlfriend’s tattoos that Garth was talking about. Bess had worn a bikini last summer for the first time that Dean had known her and he’d seen the ink flowing gracefully down her ribcage. It had been lifelike and beautiful, dandelions both in bloom and as the white-tufted seeds clinging to delicate stems; waiting to turn into wishes. He hadn’t even noticed that Bess had a scar that the tattoo was covering up, but that was probably the point. 

He stormed towards his bedroom, mulling over the thought of going under the needle to cover up Lisa’s name on his skin. 

How much longer could he kid himself? Was it even healthy to continue to hope that he and Lisa would get back together? She was fucking married at this point, to Benny of all people! Benny was a good dude, the best dude. And Dean was scum for selfishly wanting them to split up. 

The little voice in Dean’s head that sounded an awful lot like Sam whispered that it was time to let go. 

“Garth!” Dean hollered, pulling a grey t-shirt roughly over his head and reaching for his discarded jeans from the night before. “You got the name of this tattoo guy?!”

~~

Ethereal Ink was in the up and coming part of town that all the locals snidely called ‘gentrified’. It was located in a refurbished furniture manufacturing plant that had one been the town’s pride and joy in the 60s and 70s, but it had since been updated and broken up into smaller subsections that housed the tattoo shop, a smoothie bar, and a hot yoga studio respectively. Dean grimaced at the sign for the empty space next to the tattoo shop that declared ‘Artisanal Cheese Shoppe Coming Soon!’ as he walked into the parlor before dropping his jaw open as he started at the flash adorning the walls around him. 

It was unlike any tattoo shop he had seen before, which granted he had only seen the one when he had initially gotten the ‘Lisa’ tattoo and it had been much seedier than the shop he stood in now. One of the walls of the shop was painted with a sweeping solar system, glowing in hyperrealistic color and scale, the stars and constellations radiating vibrantly against the starkly painted navy hue of the wall itself. A second wall was swathed in plaques and trophies, proudly displayed showing the triumphs and accolades of the shop’s employees. 

The remaining two walls showcased lovingly framed flash art and pictures, but it didn’t look like the kind that someone could just pick off the wall and request to have put on their bodies. No, the placement of it looked purposeful. Arranged artistically and clustered into themes, the art seemed to capture the personalities of the people who drew them. 

Dean noticed that the artists Anna seemed to prefer portrait art of people and pets, keeping mostly to a black and white color scheme. Hannah, on the other hand, used bright colors and worked in a style that reminded Dean of old sailor tattoos. Billie seemed to favor a tribal, geometric style, and Jess appeared to be the shop’s resident piecer since her cluster was artfully taken photo close-ups of healed piercings. But the last group of artwork, infuriatingly unsigned, seemed to be a marriage of realism and storybook illustrations. There was something arrestingly lifelike in the drawing of a fox posed among vibrantly pink wildflowers and playful in the drawing of a rocketship taking flight. Dean liked all of the artwork, but these caught his attention, these made his hands itch to reach out and touch. 

“You my two o’clock consult?” A femenine voice asked causing Dean to spin around and face the counter that separated the awards from the rest of the store. A dark skinned woman with riotously curly hair and tattooed arms revealed by her black tank top leaned comfortably on her arms against the glass top of the counter. 

"Yea," Dean replied, putting on a charming smile. "You Cas?"

“No,” the woman said flatly, unfolding her arms to reveal twisting dark tribal tattoos going up the inside until they disappeared under her top. “I’m Billie. Cas is sick and I’m the next best at cover ups.”

Dean tried not to be disappointed, Cas must be who the unsigned artwork belonged too and it was much more intriguing than the stark tribal pieces the woman seemed to favor.

It must have shown on his face though, “You can reschedule with him in about a week or so,” Billie offered. “He has the flu, so he shouldn’t be out longer than that. But Cas said you sounded pretty eager to get this done in your email so he asked me to see you.”

 “Cool, well.” Dean floundered, not wanting to appear ungrateful because really, he wanted this fucking name off of his body like yesterday. “Uh...where do we start?”

“Come back to my office and show me what I’m working with,” Billie said, gesturing to the hallway that led behind the counter and deeper into the store before heading that way herself. 

Dean followed quickly and was led into a doorless office that contained a padded, reclining tattooing chair, a very large tool chest that was covered in stickers, and even more art featuring tribal tattoos on the walls. 

“So where is this no doubt beautiful work that you want to get covered up?” Billie asked blandly, taking a seat on a small rolling stool that had been tucked into the corner. 

“On my chest,” Dean answered, perching on the tattoo chair before he hooked a finger in the collar of his shirt and tugged it down to reveal the inked skin in question. “It’s just the name of an ex and well…”

“Hey, no shame,” Billie said, leaning forward to study the ink. “We all do dumb stuff for love, right?”

Dean shrugged and let out a puff of air through his nose in amusement. It was nice not to be made to feel like a tool for getting a dumb tattoo.

“Can’t say I’ve ever gotten a person’s name put on me though…”Billie mused, pulling out her cell from her back pocket. “Mind if I take a few reference pictures? So I can make sure my sketch actually covers the old ink?”

“Sure,” Dean replied, feeling like a moron again. He should’ve never gotten this tattoo, even Lisa had thought it was dumb when he’d shown her.

“Can you take your shirt off for me?” 

“Um...yea?” Dean said hesitantly, reaching back to pull the shirt over his head. 

“Don’t be shy,” Billie replied, her phone audibly clicking as she snapped a few pictures of Dean’s newly revealed torso and shoulders. “This way I’ll know how much room I have to work with. Plus you’re not my type.” 

“Oh,” Dean laughed nervously. “Not enough muscles?”

“Not enough tits,” Billie replied with a smirk, winking at him before snapping another picture and sliding her phone away. “But I’m sure there are lots of people who would appreciate your physique just the way it is. You can put your shirt back on now.”

Dean smiled to himself as he did just that; he had never been one to turn down a compliment from anyone, even if they weren’t interested in more than just admiring for aesthetic reasons. 

“So what are you thinking as far as design?” Billie asked, taking her seat back on her stool. 

“Well…” Dean started before hitting a proverbial brick wall. He really hadn’t thought beyond just wiping Lisa’s name off of his body. “I’m open to suggestions?”

Billie just raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you alway this impulsive when it comes to putting something permanent on your body?” 

Dean just waved his hands in a helpless gesture and put on what he hoped was a charming smile. Based on Billie’s expression it didn’t really work as well as it typically did. 

“Which art did you like the best out there?” Billie asked, smiling when Dean froze like a deer in headlights. “I saw you looking at Cas’s stuff? You like those flowers and nature things?” 

“Yea, but uh...yours are really great too,” Dean offered trying to backpedal his way out of inadvertently insulting his tattoo artist. 

Billie just waved away Dean’s compliment with a grin, “I know my stuff is not everyone’s cup of tea. I can see the appeal in the Cas’s pretty stuff.”

Dean wanted to protest that the prettiness of the other artist’s work had very little to do with why he liked it, but honestly it was pretty and Dean was comfortable enough with his masculinity to admit that he liked flowers sometimes. Especially after all of that therapy he did after his and Lisa’s breakup. 

“Listen,” Billie continued, entirely unaware of Dean’s inner monologue. “This is just a consult, we’re not getting married. If you like the flowers, I can forward these pics onto Cas and he can work something up for you.”

Dean gnawed on his lip for a second, ultimately deciding that another week or two with Lisa’s name on his body didn’t mean anything. Maybe he could just cover it up with some bandages or something. He nodded in agreement and moved to get to his feet. 

“That settles it then,” Billie said, getting to her feet and leading Dean back towards the front of the shop. “But, let me get your contact info so Cas can reach out once he’s back to schedule with you.”

“No prob,” Dean replied, jotting down his cell number and email address for Billie before giving her a little salute and bidding farewell. 

~~

 The first text came the next afternoon. 

“What is your favorite color?” Unknown Number 1:47pm

Dean stared at his phone incredulously for a minute before shrugging and typing in ‘Red’ and hitting send. 

It had been a slow day at work, maybe this was one of those call/text your number neighbor things going around again. 

“What is your star sign?” Unknown Number 3:20pm

‘Aquarius,’ Dean replied, feeling bold. ‘What’s urs?’

‘Leo,’ Unknown Number replied a few minutes later, followed quickly by, ‘Favorite flower?’

Dean smirked to himself as he thumbed out a reply, ‘Chocolate sunflower.’ 

‘Opportunity’ Unknown Number 3:42pm

‘Huh?’ Dean replied back. 

‘Chocolate sunflowers symbolize opportunity,’ Unknown Number answered. ‘I like proteas, myself.’

A quick google search taught Dean that proteas symbolized change and hope; he decided to share this newfound knowledge with his mystery text buddy. 

He earned a photo in return. It was just a picture of a blooming flower, one which Dean now knew to be a protea, inked onto a forearm that was corded in sinewy muscle and ended in a long-fingered masculine hand. Dean noted the ink smudges on the tips of the index and thumb, the fine, dark hairs dusting the skin around the tattoo, and the freckle on the edge of the palm of the hand. 

‘I was thinking of a bouquet,’ Unknown Number shared. ‘Something big to cover up that name on your chest. I’ll send some sketches along shortly.’

Dean swallowed hard, realizing that he had been flirting with his tattoo artist via text. His apparently inked and muscled and weirdly nerdy tattoo artist.

 If asked he would deny stalking the tattoo shop’s instagram until the day he died, but it was in a picture simply captioned ‘#flowerboy’ that Dean managed to find a picture of the elusive Cas. The Cas who would be covering up the name of Dean’s ex-girlfriend. The Cas who had probably seen shirtless pictures of Dean courtesy of Billie. The Cas who was practically the walking embodiment of all of Dean’s wet dreams that featured a male counterpart. 

He groaned into a pillow for a little bit, questioning all of his life choices, before beginning to feel better. Dean had a lot of regrets, but bailing on this tattoo would not be one of them. This could be an opportunity for something. A change that he needed. Hope for something more with a cute guy who had the swoonest arms that Dean had seen in a long time. 

And yea, he did swoon. Just a little. 

#30 day fanfic challenge #destiel #spn #regret #fic writing #fanfiction

[fizzyxcustard]

Thoughts Of You (Part 2)

Part 1

Fandom: Richard Armitage RPF

Summary: From the imagine of ‘Imagine Richard is in a loveless relationship but can’t stop thinking about you’. In the first part, Richard broke up with his girlfriend, forcing her to leave their shared apartment. Now Richard is looking forward to seeing you. Part 2 requested by @patanghill17 @legolaslovely and @deepestfirefun

Pairings: Richard Armitage x Fem!Reader, Richard Armitage x OFC

Warnings: Angst, yearning, requited love (but not acted on), swearing, text harassment, mentions of overweight!reader, insecurity

Word count: 1379

Comments/Notes: If you wish to be added to my tag lists for a particular fandom, character, or even everything, please send me an ask or a private message and I will add you. This idea actually came into my head from looking at a GIF set of Lucas North. Your background with Richard and also the woman he’s with have been left open for you to fill in your own gaps.

Music inspiration/listened to for this piece: Piano music and rain sounds (3-hour video), found here. 

Masterlist of fan fiction here

As she left that night, taking only her essentials for now, and crying the whole way to the door, Richard tried not to look. She had mascara in streaks down her cheeks, paired with glistening tears. “Please, Rich,” she begged again, hesitantly reaching for the door knob.

“Just leave,” Richard said coldly, opening the door for her.

He watched her depart, the beginning of the end. No doubt she would come begging him to forgive her when she visited to pick up the remainder of her possessions. But Richard had already got a hard resolve in his gut. She would not sway him. The door was now open for him to follow his heart and seek out your light.

***

Your flight got into JFK airport the next morning. As all the passengers filed off, you yawned, bracing yourself for the immigration queue that was about to ensue. New York had always been one of your favourite destinations and whenever your work needed someone to visit, you were always the first to offer your help and volunteer to go. In actual fact, most of the time now, no one was even asked, apart from you. Your boss made sure your name was put forward.

Midtown Manhattan was to be your home for ten days, and you took the cab from JFK, like you normally did, to your hotel. It was the same place you always stayed; middle of the road, not too extravagant, but clean, with friendly staff and was somewhere you found comfortable.

When you had checked in, you made your way up to your room on the third floor, trailing your suitcase behind you. In the elevator, you shared the space with a young couple who were more interested in the taste of each other’s faces than you. You blushed and looked down, trying not to take too much notice of their public displays of affection. Instead you looked at your reflection in the mirror and looked down sadly. Slightly overweight. Nothing special.

It seemed like an age passed until there was the familiar ping!

The room was clean, the smell of polish and fresh sheets still hanging in the air.

The first thing you did, like always, was throw yourself on the bed, testing out the mattress. Ahh, Memory Foam! Always able to send you to sleep within minutes.

Your iPhone chimed loudly. You were hoping it was Richard, but instead it was an unknown number.

You’ve fucked with the wrong bitch. I know you’re seeing him behind my back.

What on earth? Seeing who? The number was international, so it was someone abroad, no doubt from the States.

Another text chimed.

Ha! You are one ugly bastard!

Your heart began to race, pounding and sending heat all around your body. Tears were threatening to fall down your cheeks in both anger and sadness. Whoever would be sending you these disgusting insults?

And another text.

You are seriously joking to think he’d want you over me?

Were these texts even meant for you? Your hands shaking and you holding back sobs, you blocked the number.

Rain was falling outside your window now, and not even that relaxing, calm sound could cure you of the hurt and disrupted nerves. You sat down on the end of the bed, resting your hands on your thighs and let the tears fall. You knew you were ugly, fat and the kind of woman most men walked past without a second glance. And here you were, waiting to see Richard, an actor and absolutely beautiful man in all ways. What kind of planet were you living on to think he’d everconsider you?

As if on cue, your phone began to ring and Richard’s name flashed upon the screen.

“Umm, h…hello,” you stuttered, trying to gather your nerves and thoughts together properly.

“Are you okay?” his voice came back, concerned for you. He must have noticed the tremor in your voice.

And you sobbed, unable to hold it back anymore.

“Love, what’s wrong?” his voice came again. “Do you want me to come to you?”

“N…no. Don’t put yourself out for me, Rich. I’ll come and see you later. I just…”

“Just, what?” Richard pressed.

“Nothing,” you said softly. You sniffed, trying to push your hurt away. “Are you alright?”

“No, you’re not doing your usual and diverting the conversation,” Richard replied, chuckling.

His chuckle made you smile.

“I’ll get a cab up to you. Are you in the same hotel as usual?”

“Yes,” you replied. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“Give me half an hour, and I’ll be with you.”

What you would give for this man to be a permanent part of your life. To feel his kindness every day, be enveloped by his compassion and held steadfast by his faithful nature. But he belonged to someone else.

Like always, you were early. You sat in a leather seat in the lobby, sipping quickly on a free coffee you had made yourself by reception. It was bitter, but decent enough for a free beverage. The rain began to pound against the panes, and soon hailstones hit the ground outside, bouncing. Pedestrians rushed on past, some dashing inside the hotel for temporary refuge from the terrible weather.

Then you saw him. Dressed in jeans, an open neck navy shirt and his usual white trainers. That smile.

You stood up and he stopped in front of you, his arms twitching at his sides.

Richard felt his breath become caught in his lungs. Your eyes looked swollen, the window to a crushed spirit. “Are you alright?” he asked, his hand reaching out a little and then dropping back at his side.

“N…not really,” you replied.

“Come on,” he said, his hand reaching out for you to follow him. “Do you want to go back to your room or shall we get a drink in the restaurant?”

“Can we go back to my room because I’ll probably start crying again,” you replied, swallowing hard.

Richard remained silent as you both made your way back upstairs to floor three. You noticed the concierge eyeing you both as you disappeared into the elevator.

In the room and you sat down on the edge of the bed. “I haven’t even unpacked anything yet,” you told him.

Richard took out the chair which accompanied a small desk in front of your mirror and wheeled it to in front of you. He sat down, his knees only inches away from yours. You noticed his hands were resting at the very end of his knees as if wanting to reassure you and take yours in his.

“I had some really nasty text messages, saying I was ugly and that this person knew I was seeing someone behind their back,” you said. Tears rolled down your cheeks again. “They said they’d seen me and something about him wanting me over them. I have no idea…”

“What was the number?” Richard asked suddenly, his face having grown contorted into an expression of anger. “Show me the number.”

“I don’t know…I blocked it.”

“Please, show me the number…”

You grabbed your phone and brought up the blocked numbers.

Richard’s jaw clenched. “The fucking bitch,” he growled.

“What?”

“Miranda!” Richard hissed. “She got your number off my phone.”

“Your girlfriend?” you asked. Why was Richard’s girlfriend texting you?

“Not anymore. We broke up last night. That smashing you heard in the background, that was her. She’d been looking at my phone and it was the last straw. I’m going to…”

“Rich, calm down,” you said, taking his hand.

Richard looked down at your hands and tightened his own grip around yours. “I won’t let her get away with this. She doesn’t hurt you. No one does. I’d wanted to break it off with her for some time, last night being the reason I could use, but at the bottom of it all, it was because of you.”

“Me?”

Was Richard leaning in to you? His head was coming closer, until you felt his lips on yours. You took a huge intake of air, completely thrown off guard by this situation. Richard’s stubble tickled your skin and you smiled beneath the kiss. His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb wiping away your tears.

Follow Forever tag list:

@himoverflowers @shikin83 @theincaprincess @deepestfirefun @nowiloveandwilllove @houseofrahl @mynameisnoneya1991@blankdblank @captainrainbowpanda @cd1242 @c-s-stars @thorins-magnificent-ass @patanghill17 @inumorph @leah-halliwell92 @msjava1972 @bespectacled-bunny @ghostlyandee @raindancer2004 @dottiechan @captain-almighty @hobbitlover23 @catthefearless @epicallychrissy @nelswp @adaliamalfoy @spn-obsession @armitageadoration @peneigh-dzredfohl @here2have-fun @greendragonette @thorinsraven @thophil2941btw @princessoferebor94 @banlaochranda @wilhelmyna @gabrieleaquaman @rachel1959 @serpensortia06 @rcrispina @kategorically-challenged @tigereyesf @jumpingmanatee @therealpamdiaz @tschrist1 @inlovewithamantwicemyage @aspiringtranslator @princessofthefandomrealm @letsbeinspiredby @lilith15000 @lealina-scarsdale @scarsfanfictiontrash @mechromancing-cinnamon-roll @ra-of-light @jassy2101 @durinsqueen @hariclea @sherala007 @onewithleaf  @michelem703 @bthtallmadge2 @marieannetora @valuedabovehoardedgold @tiredwritersworld @xxbyimm @miabee0706 @fuck-off-you-stupid-goat @legolaslovely @meganlpie

Richard Armitage tag list: @inkededucatednnerdy @crazytxgradstudent @birdkeeperklink

#Richard armitage #Richard Armitage x fem!reader #thoughts of you #thoughts of you part 2 #fanfiction #real person fanfiction #rpf #New York city #angst #overweight!reader

[circusballoon]

How about Rosette baby

@burbled​: Would you want to do Rosette for the character meme? :3c

ABSOLUTELY

Name: Incomprehensible to most beings. “Rosette” is an acceptable alternative, though.

Age: Ancient

Gender: Also incomprehensible, but she accepts feminine titles and “she” pronouns.

Species: Divom-Elaial. They’re a variety of ancient celestial beings known as the “Mercenaries of the Gods,” as they’re skilled and powerful fighters who can aid in battle (and sometimes other ways) if paid what they require.Standing in the presence of the Divom-Elaial is known to cause feelings of existential dread as you stare into an embodiment of the vastness of space. Rosette usually has this effect masked when not working because it makes interactions difficult.

Hobbies: Space stuff,sparring, parties and weird deity games with friends, visiting her genespri (individuals magically bound to her in order to receive a portion of her magic), exploring new worlds, and also lately keeping up with what Paz and their group have been up to (although this also falls under the genespri bit).

Occupation(s): Celestial mercenary

Personal goals: Train more, study up on the worlds relevant to the gaggle of mostly ex-supers she found, and befriend said gaggle of mostly ex-supers.

Are they dating anyone?: Not presently

Do they have any crushes?: Not presently

What is their orientation?: Rosette doesn’t give a lot of thought about it and finds the whole concept kind of strange, but would hesitantly lean towards pan if she had to pick an English term. She’d most likely just shrug at you if asked.

Who do they consider to be their family, if anyone?: Some of her genespri, also surely some of the Divom-Elaial and such deity-type beings who haven’t been developed yet.

Do they have or want children?: Rosette doesn’t have children but isn’t opposed to the idea of them, so long as she would not be the primary parent raising them.

Do they have any pets?: Do her genespri count Nah.

What type of animal would they most want for a pet?: Some variety of celestial being who would be able to travel with her. Either fierce or cute, or both.

What is their favorite animal in general?: Rosette thinks many less powerful beings are weird and adorable. Who needs to play favorites?

Do they have any other forms and, if so, do they have a preferred one? If they don’t have any other forms, what would they choose as an alternate form?: Rosette personally prefers her natural form but lately smaller versions of it with masks and more human-like forms have been proving to be more practical for interactions.

If they could have one addition to their physical features (wings, horns, etc.), what would they choose?: Rosette has shape-shifting abilities and sees no point in a permanent change to her features.

If they could have one ability (magical or otherwise) they don’t already have, what would it be?: At the moment, healing or curse lifting don’t seem to be all that bad. Also just being more skilled at talking would be decently helpful, too. Whatever works.

What mythical creature would they choose to be if they had to be one? (If they’re already a mythical creature, pick a different type): As far as more standard western stuff goes, probably a werewolf. Otherwise, I don’t know.

What do they normally spend the day doing?: Anything from her hobbies, really. Or working.

What would their perfect day look like?: Relaxed with friends.

What would their ideal date look like, if they ever date?: As chill as the cold of space because it’s actually in space. But also a relaxed time doing something new on a planet is good, too. Dating on Turupin and Wenqosi (the planets relevant to Paz and company) is very weird to her which is interesting.

What would their ideal friend hangout be?: SPACE. Or otherwise hanging around playing weird games or exploring.

Do they have any notable past relationships of any variety?: I’m sure she’s been in relationships and had friendships and things with deities and mortals and other sorts of beings but wow I do not have much developed on that front right now.

What is their favorite season and why?: Who needs seasons when you have space? (Summer, though. It’s closer to a star and it’s brighter and nice. But it’s not a strong preference.)

What is their favorite type of weather?: Clear skies and any temperature. Light breezes are kind of nice.

What kind of nerd are they?: Uh… a nerd about battles and space.

Are they an early bird, night owl, or neither?: Who needs sleep?

Are they skilled in any form of fighting?: Rosette is versed in magical combat, hand-to-hand combat, and a variety of weapons. She has a strong preference for magic.

Do they believe in or worship any sort of deity? (If they are a deity of some sort, are there any more powerful ones that they work for?): While she is essentially a deity herself, she does revere Caelestis, the Celestial Goddess.

Are they an easily frightened person?: Nope

Are they easily flustered?: Very much not

Do they care about being polite?: No

Are they shy, outgoing, or something else?: Outgoing. Not always the most socially adept because Rosette’s skill is fighting and not talking, so it can make knowing what to do in social settings pretty awkward, but outgoing.

Are they easily provoked into arguments?: No. She’ll just sit there silently and look at you with her faceless face and tilt her head forward, questioning why you’re still going on about this.

Are they easily provoked into physical fights?: Not provoked so much as she’ll readily accept a challenge when presented. However, if someone trying to pick a fight with her is not remotely near her level, it would prove nothing to fight them and she will ignore it. She’ll also fight to protect friends if that’s necessary.

Do they ever swear?: Not really. Rosette doesn’t feel a need to but isn’t opposed to it, either.

Do they care what others think of them?: Rosette wishes for decently powerful beings to have an apt amount of fear and respect for her and her work, but she doesn’t care a lot about the views of the sorts of beings who wouldn’t normally hire her–such as mortals and the like. She would, however, like Paz’s group (particularly Salles) to be less intimidated by her because it makes visiting complicated.

Are they generally a physically affectionate person, or do they prefer their personal space? Are there any exceptions to this?: She’s fine with whatever, although certainly doesn’t mind affection from people she actually likes.

Does their room tend to be clean or messy?: Rosette has many rooms and they are intricate but probably not what people would consider organized.

Do they collect anything?: Silver.So much silver.So much silver.Flowers are nice too, though.

How would they react to bad puns?: She’d laugh more at the pun-teller’s amusement (or embarrassment) than the actual joke.

Would they rather have a life of adventure, or do they prefer a quieter, more predictable life?: A bit of both. Adventure and quiet.

Do they abide by the laws of their area?: Who needs laws when you’re practically a goddess? But when she is in areas with laws, often the answer is no.

Have they ever been arrested?: Nah

What would they do if they found a stranger crying?: It would really depend on if she actually noticed and how curious she felt about that particular individual, or how bored she was. Rosette would either pass by as normal, or curiously wander over and question what’s up.

What would they do if they found a loved one crying?: Go and sit beside them.

Do they have any unusual or supernatural requirements to sustain themself?: I’m still figuring that out but it’s probably something like dark matter or something

How far or close to where they were born or spent their childhood do they live?: Rosette often keeps near to the general region of space she was formed in because she has a strong connection with it, but she goes anywhere.

Do they like where they live now? Would they rather be somewhere else?: Rosette’s fine. Space is good and there’s a lot of universe to explore.

Do they still have any friends they had when they were a child? If they are a child, who would they consider a friend?: Probably?? Probably some variety of mentor. They may or may not be close, I really don’t know.

As a child, what did they want to be when they grew up? If they still are a child, what do they want to be?: One of the Divom-Elaial.

If you wrote a story with them as the main character, what would it be about?: That’s a really good question I do not know the answer to. Maybe about her meeting and befriending Paz and company? But I’m not sure what would work best if she was the main character.

#tubertrapper #burbled #Tiger #Pika #memes #Rosette #Rosey is popular today #she appreciates the attention

[eerythingisshaka]

Wakanda Got Y’all Pt. 8

[Black Panther x Insecure Mashup]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

Word Count: 4.6K

Issa can’t keep her composure if it was handed to her.  “Lawrence, I didn’t know you were doing waiter work...food service...I mean I didn’t know you worked here!”  Issa stammers, like occupation political correctness is most important right now.

Lawrence adjusts his black bowtie before, tapping his pen in his notepad.  “Yeah, it’s kind of a side gig I got going right now until I get Woot Woot off the ground.”

“You’re still trying to make that happen?  That’s what made you lose your job in the first place.”

Lawrence scoffs.  “”No, the company not believing in something good before everyone else was doing it got me LAID OFF, not fired.  But yeah, thanks for reminding me in front of your...date?”

T’Challa noisily slurps his water, bringing the glass down a little too hard on the table to bring Issa’s attention back to him.

Issa shakes her head in embarrassment.  “Right, this is T’Challa.  I’m working with him at We Got Y’all in an international collab kind of thing.”

Lawrence checks him out suspiciously.  “Yeah I think I heard about it online on some gossip site.  You’re from Africa, right?”

“Wakanda, yes.  Small country that I’m the King of.  It’s actually on BBC, CNN, many cable news networks almost everyday since I’ve been here.”  T’Challa says matter of factly.

“And T’Challa, this is Lawrence, my...ex.”  Issa adds hesitantly.

T’Challa offers a hand.  “I’m sorry for your loss, Lawrence.”

Lawrence peers at T’Challa with a slight attitude.  “Will I go to jail for doing something else with my hand besides shaking yours?”

“Well I doubt you could lose your job again, so....”  Issa snipes.  

T’Challa laughs genuinely.  “It’s ok Lawrence, I understand.  I come to you in good faith.”

“So is this a business meeting or…”  Lawrence says, getting nosy.

*Issa’s inner conscience* ‘Nah nigga this is nunya meeting; as in NUNYA BUSINESS!  Like how the bank teller bitch you fucked on my futon wasn’t my business.  Or maybe like how your unemployed ass left a permanent dent in the couch next to Frank Ocean was none of my business!  When you said you were focused on getting bread who knew it came with butter, bitch?! But what is my business is how I got a new nigga who’s rejuvenating my pussy one stroke at a time.  Best be leave the royal penis STAYS clean, ya brokeness!  I oughta Remember the Time your ass to a pile of dust, which ya dusty ass, Radio Shack ass, ‘may I refill your glass, sir?’ head ass-’

“Well right now we’re just trying to order food, so,”  Issa looks intently at her menu.  “If you wanna grab someone else to help us, that’s fine.”

“No, this is good.  Got a King who’s paying the bill, might as well earn the tip.”  Lawrence smile at Issa while nodding towards T’Challa.  

“Well, did you jot down what I told you before?”  T’Challa asks reviewing the menu once more.

“Yup, the shrimp dinner and the chicken marsala.”

“Good.  Have you had experience as a waiter before?”  T’Challa hands him the menu.

“Long time ago, but I’m really more into technology.”  Lawrence says.

“Oh, so is that what Wot Woot was from?  What is it exactly?’  T’Challa asks.

“We don’t have to get into it tonight, especially since I’m hungry and the order isn’t in yet.”  Issa reminds them through her teeth.

Lawrence waves her off.  “Don’t worry, this’ll be quick.  So Woot Woot is an app that’s a social media app that keeps track of your friends locations.  So when you’re near one, it goes-”

“Woot Woot?”  T’Challa says.

Lawrence snaps excitedly.  “That’s it man, or your highness!  Sounds cool, right?”

T’Challa rocks back and forth.  “It’s a bit out of date, is it not?  So many things have location trackers, and to have an app solely based on that, is like having holo-air boards with an incandescent headlight and a bell.”

“A what now?”  Issa asks.

Lawrence purses his mouth.  “Yeah, it was in development for a couple years and corporate politics kept shelving it so…”

“I do have some family that are into tech.  I would help myself but I’ve been busy…”  T’Challa takes Issa’s hand for emphasis on the subject in his sentence!  “But here’s a card with their info.  Give them your pitch and maybe they can help tweak it for you.”

Lawrence takes it, thinking it over.  “I...think I’m good, but thanks anyway.  I’ll get your bread and drinks.”

As Lawrence walked away Issa spoke under at a whisper.  “I’m sorry about that.”

T’Challa smiles sweetly.  “It’s ok.  I’m not surprised you have broken some hearts along the way.  I just hope it doesn’t affect our dining experience.”

Issa sighs.  “You don’t know the half.  I wasn’t very...good to him.  He didn’t try, but neither was I….I don’t wanna get into it.”

“You don’t have to, that’s not what tonight should be about.  Whatever the case was, I have only known you as woman who does things with intention.  You have a heart for the community that has made me even more excited for the start of the center here than I could’ve been before.  And then I just so happen to work with someone who resembles the the core of a  vibranium mineral being struck with pick axe.”

“What does that look like?”

“It’s beautiful, creates sparks that twinkle like a falling star….but explosive and volatile.”  T’Challa pauses a moment.  “Maybe that wasn’t as poetic as I thought it would be.”

Issa laughs.  “No, it’s nice.  Thank you.”

T’Challa kisses her hand as Issa looks back towards the kitchen area where Lawrence and a couple other waiters juggle orders.  

“I’ll be right back.”  Issa excuses herself making her way to Lawrence, who barely notices her standing by.

“Hey.   How are you?”  Issa asks awkwardly.

Lawrence looks at her with an unreadable expression.  “We got the introductions out at the table, we good.”

Issa’s chin collapses in her neck.  “I know you’re not mad, are you?  You moved on, I did too.”

“So if you know we’re good, why are you over here now?:  Lawrence chastises.

“Why are you being like this? “

“You come up in here with your new boyfriend, the King of Africa and shit and I’m supposed to just sit back and serve y’all?  You know what that feels like?”

“I thought you were good!  It’s not like that though.”

“It’s automatically like that.  I felt low before but now you puttin me under your foot with this new nigga Issa, I’m not tryna be a witness to that.”

Issa scoffs.  “Then don’t!  Get your tip and we can part!”

“You think Imma lower myself to taking his tip?  First he throws his resources in my face, downing Woot Woot, now I’m supposed to hand him a bill with a smile for 20%, you buggin!”

“Lawrence, this is the reason you aren’t getting nowhere.  You think you can do all of this by yourself, but you can’t!  You need help but you won’t ask for it!  It doesn’t matter if it’s a stranger or who I’m dating, you can’t take criticism.”

“That’s why you went behind my back with ole boy instead of talking to me right?”

“I DID TALK TO YOU!  I tried sooo many times, and yeah, I shoulda talked to you then to but we were so past that at that point-”

“And I’m past this Issa.  I’m good.”  Lawrence says.

T’Challa comes up behind Issa.  “Are you ok?  It sounded loud over here.”

“Yeah that’s the cooks man, they get noisy with orders and shit.  Don’t worry bout it, yours coming out soon.”

“T’Challa, I think I’m ready to go, actually.”  Issa says walking away.

Oh ok.  Don’t worry bout it.  Have a good night!”  Lawrence yells after her.  T’Challa and Lawrence stare at each other for a beat before Lawrence shrugs and goes back to his tickets for the night.

----

Molly checked her playlist on her phone to pick the perfect category curated for a twockin good time.  Pressing play, Molly oohs at the beat dropping on Janet Jackson’s ‘Go Deep’ on her 90s queue.  She twirls in her living space as the aroma of buffalo wings snakes around her nostrils tempting her to take another taste test just to make SURE sure that the meat was cooked to perfection.  Before she could go for it, her phone rang: picking it up she sees Erik’s name light up.  Luckily for her, fucking him on the first date didn’t wind up in a ghosting situation.  They’ve been quietly inseparable for a minute now.

“Whatchu doin callin me boy?  You know this Girls Night!”  Molly asks in an accusatory manner, jokingly on her FaceTime

Erik laughs slow, looking like he just took a break from a smoke session.  “I’m just tryna have a night with MY girl, you hear me?”

Molly smiles leaning on her counter.  “Whatever man, you better not be interrupting shit.  They should be here any minute.”

“That’s cool.  I’m just tryna figure out the next time you wantin to hit the mile high club?  I can get my hands on a jet that’ll take care of the work so you ain’t gotta wait for me to land and jump my bones like you crazy.”

“That was a one time thing, I do not trust you on any aircraft.  Damn near killed me with your tricks!” Molly scolds him while turning off her oven.

“Shiiiit, you got your revenge on me there, in the car…”

Molly leans on the counter.  “And it coulda been at your spot too if you wasn’t actin all tired.”

A knock on the door interrupted the list of their future indiscretions.  

“I gotta go!  I’ll talk to you later old man.”

“Pssh, aight.  Big talk, Mol.”

Molly bounces over to the door, pausing before swinging the door open with a squeal.

“Ahh!! Oh!  You’re early!”  Molly says, excitement slightly diminishing as Tiffany puts a stank face on in her direction.

“Uhh, fix your energy.  I lugged four bottles of Moet and some Fiji for me, up your long ass flight of steps, me and my baby will fight you for the blatant disrespect.”  

Molly takes the bags out her hands.  “I didn’t mean it like that, thanks Tiffany.  Have a seat, you’re the first one here.”

Tiffany whips her blonde hair back with a quickness.  “First?  These heffas pulling a fashionably late move on us?”

Molly shrugs.  “You already know what time it is.”

Tiffany goes to the kitchen to pick up a wing.  “I do, and it’s past my bedtime!  These wings are going to bring me closer to that!”  Tiffany smacks loudly on a her morsel of chicken, enjoying the salty, spicy sauce off her fingers.  

“There’s napkins in there too ma’am.”  Molly calls from the couch, flipping through channels.  

“Speaking of things that need to be wiped down, how’s you and Erik doing?”  Tiffany asks, waddling over to join her.  

Molly laughs a little too loudly.  “Whatchu mean?  We’re having fun, and it’s….really been fun too.”

Tiffany cocks her head to the side.  “I can tell, you’ve loosened up a little bit more since meeting him, putting spring in your step.”

“And he keeps me hopping!”  Molly chuckles.  “I don’t know what it is, but he brought out a side of me I barely remember having anymore.  With work and all these lame niggas, I forget what a real cool one is even like.”

Tiffany licks her fingers.  “Well, ‘cool’ doesn’t last a lifetime, like the weather.  And he sounds like a seasonal nigga to me.”

Molly rolls her eyes, pouring some wine for herself.  “Good thing your opinion doesn’t run my life.”

A knock at the door brings a wave of relief over the both of them as Molly trots to open the door.  

Molly brings out a big smile for it to drop just as quickly.  “Oh, hey, are you….Issa’s co-worker?”

Nakia smiles politely.  “I am, Nakia.  Nice to meet you.”

Nakia holds out her hand for Molly to take while she gains her bearings.

“Yeah, of course!  Nice to meet you!  Wow, you’re gorgeous.  Come on in!  Not everyone is here just yet.”  Molly closes the door behind Nakia.  Tiffany waves from the couch.

“How are you!  I’m  Tiffany Dubois,  one of Issa’s friends.”

Nakia offers waves back.  “Yes, nice to meet you as well.  This is a lovely place you have.”

Tiffany scoffs, twirling her honey blonde hair.  “Oh no, this isn’t up to my code of residential requirements.  This is Molly’s bachelorette pad.”

“Tiffany, you recommended me this place!”  Molly exclaims.

“I brought some sweets I hope you all will like.”  Nakia offers a container that was too fancy to be plain tupperware..

Tiffany perks up.  “Ooh, where are they from?”

“I made them actually.  I had some spare ingredients and a craving so I figured this was the perfect time to whip something up.”  

Molly thanks her.  “You can put it on the counter in the kitchen.  Grab a glass of something to drink while you’re at it.”

“No!   Grab a whole bottle!  We have plenty!”  Tiffany insists.

Nakia does so, setting her tray opposite the hot wings.  “So, how long have you and Issa been friends?”

Molly starts.  “For a loooong time.  Almost half our lives now.”

“I came around later, but I like to think I really elevated the class in us all.”  Tiffany adds.

“Bitch, what?”  Molly looks over at Tiffany, who doubles down.

“You all were eating 2 for $20 appetizers and $5 hurricane slushies and the Trops Bar for fun.  But with me, we have tasteful dinner, sipping wine in art galleries, all kinds of high class activities.”

“You do remember partying at the Dunes with them gang bangers almost setting her place on fire and you got so high off their supply, you and your husband conceived that night, right?  Also, I’m a lawyer in this expensive ass loft, don’t tell me I ain’t high class, that’s Kelli and Issa’s trapping asses.”

Just then some raps start banging on the door to the beat of Grinding by Clipse, extra loud making Nakia jump slightly.

Molly gets up.  “Speak of the devils.”  As she goes to open the door, Kelli is bent over twerking her ass in the air Issa keeps the beat on her door, smiling with her whole teeth.

“Get the hell off my door with this shit y’all, DAMN!”  Molly scolds.  Issa ends her concert, smacking Kelli’s ass to cut her ass performance short.

Kelli straightens up, walking on through the door.  “Ain’t my fault, I stand for my national anthem and that means face down, ass up!”

Issa walks in behind her scanning the room.  “Hey Tiffany and oh Nakia, I didn’t know you’d be so on time, I would’ve came earlier.”

“No you wouldn’t’ve.  Cuz I asked you to help me cook these damn wings but all I heard was drool and snoring on your side of things.”  Molly says, heading to the kitchen.

“You know I take nap before girl’s night cuz alcohol makes me crash fast…”  Issa mutters.  “Anyway I brought the hot Cheetos and ranch to snack on!”

“How many bags?”  Molly asks.

Issa looks around her feet, behind her back, checking her pockets.  “One, duh!”

“Is!  How the fuck are we supposed to snack on one bag of Cheetos between five bitches?”  Molly exclaims.

“Tiffany don’t eat them!  Kelli been getting heartburn bad lately, so she don’t fuck with the spice, Nakia?  You had these before?”

Nakia studies the bag.  “ I haven’t, no.”

“It’s nothing but cayenne and cancer, it would be tragic to ruin that good immune system of yours with this American fuckery.”  Molly quips.

“Why are you fighting over it then?”  Nakia asks.

“Because they are delicious!  I grew up with these, and I’m not dead yet so I’m good!”

Kelli pops her tongue from the Moet bottle  tickling her tastebuds. “And bitch, don’t think I can’t still go in on some hot Cheetos.  I just gotta pop a calcium tablet, don’t get it twisted.”  She turns to Nakia.  “So, are you the princess we have heard so much about?”

Nakia smiles humbly.  “No, not at all.  That would require a marriage to the King, which is not happening.”

Molly walks in with the wings on the coffee table, Issa has plates and napkins.  

“And T’Challa is...a king right?”  Tiffany asks slowly.

Nakia sips her drink and nods.  “Yes, and that ship sailed a long time ago.”

Issa almost choked on a flat hanging out of her mouth.  “It got that serious between you two?”

Nakia shrugs, shifting in her seat.  “We’ve known each other all of our lives, so when things changed to a romantic relationship, it was always taken seriously.  But I have my own life that I want to live that does not fit in the traditional queen setting.”

Kelli stutters.  “Oh shit, you….you can do that?  Just telling the King no?”

Nakia laughs.  “It’s not a dictatorship!  I can tell him no when I want to, I can come and go from the country as I please,  plus he knows better than to try me on most things anyway.”

“Oh so you got a hold on him good?”  Molly asks, her eyes whipping back to Issa for a cosign.  

Nakia finishes her drink.  “It’s not just me particularly.  The women in our country are held in an equal and in most cases higher regard than the man.  It hurts me to see these women in other lands I’ve visited being treated unfairly and violently because they are seen as second class.  It was an eye opening experience.  That’s why I know T’Challa enjoys Issa’s company so much.  She is a strong personality, not a people please, and intelligent.  Of course very beautiful.”  

Molly pushes Issa a little with her shoulder as she tries to hold back a smile.  “Oh stop.  I don’t even do a lot.  Plus my makeup routine been so nonexistent, I need to get back on it.”

“Ok bitch, this ain’t your birthday, so I won’t sit for all this overcomplimentary foolishness.”  Tiffany says pouring a small glass of the Moet for herself.

“But at least that means this wine is kicking in, y’all feeling all extra happy and loving.  Don’t go kissing each other now.”  Kelli snorts as she polishes off a wing.

Issa rolls her eyes.  “But Nakia, really thank you for that.  I was feeling really insecure about T’Challa and you, that I thought I don’t stand a chance.”

Nakia reaches across to tap Issa on the knee.  “You don’t have a chance.  You have an open and unadulterated opportunity to get to know a great man.  I would never stand in his way, nor would I stand in yours.”

Issa smiles at her genuinely, squeezing her hand and sharing a moment with Nakia.  She couldn’t believe how supportive Nakia was being but maybe it helped that T’Challa and her are friends first.  And T’Challa showed no inkling of being back and forth between them so maybe she was just being extra paranoid.  He even took running into an ex of hers as better than she would.  All this made the possibilities with T’Challa that much more difficult for her to imagine.

“Now that we all waited to exhale, let me get some dirt on m’boyfriend M’Baku!  My mm-mm good to the last drop!  He got any spare hoes running around the States?”

Nakia pauses to think.  “No, but I know he’s had a harem of choices back home.”

Kelli gasps, looking horrified.

Tiffany touches her back.  “Kelli?  You ok?”

Molly joins in.  “Yeah?  Were you getting serious with him?”

Kelli swallows hard.  “So...he’s got a gang of women over in Wakansas?”

“Wakanda, yes.”  Nakia says curtly.  “But he’s not a bad man either, it’s just his custom.”

“So...I got somebody that is able to maintain that level of sexual prowess.  To keep multiple women and new ones on a regular happy with that shaft?”  Kelli shouts, clapping her hands as the other women look around in confusion.  “Bitch, bring them brownies in.  We are celebrating today!”

The ladies share a laugh as Nakia goes to bring her container of delicious looking brownies.   

“I hope you like them.  They are custom for parties, especially meeting new people.”

She cuts some pieces, and serves them around the group as everyone specifies their preferred pieces: corner, center, edge.  They are an instant hit as the girls whoop over the moist and rich density of the baked good.  Their laughs bounce off of the walls as they open up to each other more and more about themselves.  If anyone were to witness them, they would appear like long life friends with Nakia.  After their dessert, the wings went even quicker.

“Damn, you know I wanted to fuck y’all up for bringing nothing but a bag of hot Cheetos to this dinner party with ya cheap asses, but this shit is hitting!”  Molly says in a relaxed manner, leaning over her plate to take a healthy bite of her wing, chasing it down with a chip.

Kelli is leaned back with Tiffany drifting off on her shoulder.  “That’s cuz...the hot Cheetos are the appetizer to every meal.  Think about it.  Cheetos.  It starts with ‘cheat’.  That means, it’s the cheat code to every meal.  It unlocks the flavor….of whatever you bout to eat!”  

Issa  slowly turns from her lean on the arm of the couch.  “Kelli that has to be the smartest shit I ever heard you say.”  

Kelli nods emphatically in agreeance.  

“So, Nakia….first of all, you the MVP for this dessert.”  Molly starts.  “But you gave the scoop on Issa and Kelli’s flames, what about mine?  Wassup with Erik?”

Nakia sits back in thought, clearly the most lucid of the group.  “Well, we have not known him as long.  He’s long lost family of T’Challa’s, first cousin.”

Issa smacks Molly’s leg a little too hard making her wince.  “Damn girl, the fuck was that for!”

“Shit, my bad.  But we would like double date or something.  Girl, our children would practically be siblings.  That shit mad cute!”

“No they would not, but I appreciate the sentiment.”  Molly says.  “So not much to say other than that?”

Nakia picks up her wine glass.  “I didn’t say that.  There’s plenty to get into, just a shorter span of time he became acquainted.”

“Tell us!”  Kellie bellows to the ceiling out of the blue.

“Him and T’Challa didn’t get along too great when they first met.”

“Oooh, cousins fighting!  That’s some Black shit.”  Issa says.

“And of course Erik wanted to kill T’Challa, so when he didn’t succeed, T’Challa almost killed Erik but gave him another chance and started trying to rehabilitate him since then.  I think it’s going well since Molly seems taken by him.”

Molly stops to stare at Nakia.  Issa squints, raising her hand like a child in class.  “When you says Erik tried to kill T’Challa, you mean like kill you like fuck you up real bad or kill you like first degree, capital felony offense type shit?”

Nakia purses her mouth.  “The latter.”

Molly begins to breathe in and out deeply and frequently.  

Kelli’s head pops up, stirring Tiffany awake.  “Molly fuckin a murder?  Oh shit!”

“He didn’t murder him!  He didn’t do it, T’Challa’s alive!”

“Nah bitch, he didn’t SUCCEED.  Which means he meant to fully end Issa’s dudes life.  Girl, did he choke you when y’all fucked, cuz that could be him testing the waters-”

“Molly, I’m sorry if this upsets you.  I thought that this may have been brought up by now.”

“Well, we’ve only been on like a date and a half so it’s still fresh.”  Molly says.  “But they are good now?  Even after all that?”

Nakia nods.  “Yes.  T’Challa has a kind heart, and respect for the son of his father’s brother, especially with all he has been through.  Erik is Wakandan but never group up knowing this side of his family, so he understood Erik’s anger.”

Molly relaxes a little.  “I guess, that’s a happy ending.  I still gotta talk to him about this, no way I can let this go without his side of it.”  

Issa nods.  “That’s right, you doin great sweetie.  Hear him out.”

Tiffany stretches and yawns.  “I told you girl.  Seasonal ass nigga.”

Nakia reasons with Molly..  “It would be noble of you to talk to him about it.  I’m so surprised you didn’t know.  What did he tell you the scars were for?’

“What scars?”  Molly asks.  

“The scars covering his torso.  They represent….maybe I should let him explain it.”  Nakia’s voice trails off.

“Are they scars from his fight with T’Challa?”  Molly asks.

“Girl, how you not know he got scars on him?  Y’all fucked right?”  Kelli asks.

“Yeah, but it was quick and we didn’t even get our clothes off for real...Nakia, where are they from?”

Nakia looks down.  “I should go.  I can’t tell you without giving away his past.  He should be the one to tell you.”

Nakia gathers the leftovers of her dessert and issues goodbye with the group.  Tiffany and Kelli follow next.

“Hey girl.  If you need pointers on a prison pen pal relationship.  I won’t say I know about how to sneak shit in for him but…”  Kelli makes motions with her head and winks so boldy she might as well have said what she meant.

Molly’s eyes widen impatiently.  “I hear you.  I won’t need your services tonight so thank you, buh bye!”  Molly leads them out the door, leaving her with Issa.

“Hey, how are you?”  Issa asks.

Molly puffs out her cheeks.  “I don’t know girl.  I haven’t dealt with this before!”

Issa nods.  “Well I know you have your standards on guys so if he doesn’t fit, just make it a quick cut while you can.”

Molly makes a face.  “What do you mean I have standards with guys?  Like I’m nitpicking or judgy?

“No!  But I mean, if you can’t make it work with a guy that made less money than you or experimented with a guy once years ago, but give your key to a married man, I think you should put your standards under review at least in this case.”  

Molly walks away from Issa.  She could never take blunt criticism outside of the law firm well, and from her best friend is even worse.

“So I guess I’m that big of a mess huh?  Now I let a murder fuck and what, I’m gonna be his next notch in his belt?”  Molly hisses with contempt.

Issa sighs exasperatedly.  “He hasn’t hurt you now!  Just meet him in a well lit, well populated area and ask him upfront what’s good.”

“You sure have all the answers.  What about you?  T’Challa is a part of this conversation too.”

Issa scratches her neck.  “I mean, I wasn’t going too…”

“Huh?”

“I said….I wasn’t going to BUT, maybe I will.”

Molly nods.  I think you should.  If y’all go the distance, he could run into shit like this on a regular.  Assassination attempts, missions that call for him to fight.  You really tryna be the right hand of a man in all of that?”

Issa hadn’t thought of that.  He is a King after all, and political figures are constantly in need of protection and close watch, but he is so active that’s hard for anyone to keep up with.  And America really doesn’t give a shit, so if he died could she handle?  Would she be tapped to lead?  Would he ask her to live in Wakanda with him?

“Thank Molly, now I’m paranoid.  How can I see him with all that on my brain?”

Molly scoffs.  “Join the club girl.”

Masterlist

RagTag

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#insecure fanfic #black panther fanfic #black panther x insecure #mashup fic #shakafic

[chibinightowl]

Dinner, Dancing, and a Dog

For the @jaytimsecretsanta 2018, I received prompts for @brightestdaay and chose fake relationship for the mission. Beta read by @comebackolivia. 

Enjoy!

~*~*~

It starts with a favor, as things involving Jason so often do. Tim adjusts the phone against his shoulder and blows his bangs out of his eyes with an impatient huff. “You want me to what?” “Be my date for the night. It’ll make my cover more complete if I have some arm candy.” Yeah, that’s what he thought Jason said the first time. “You do know that five hours before isn’t exactly the best time to ask a favor like this, right?” He can hear the frustration in Jason’s voice. “I know, I know. But it’s just dinner at Scarpetto’s. Guy or gal, doesn’t really matter to me.” “No, but it matters to the Sicilian mobsters it sounds like you’re trying to nail.” Tim eyes the clock on his desk. If he leaves now, he’ll have enough time to shave and tame his eyebrows into something vaguely feminine that won’t take forever to grow back. “You owe me.” “Done. I’ll pick you up at 8.” Tim glares at his phone. One of these days, he’s going to collect on all the little favors Jason owes him. Big time. ~*~*~ Jason lets out a low whistle when Tim opens the apartment door. Traffic had not been kind earlier so he’s glad the rush job passes muster. “Wow, I’ve heard some stories about the things you can do with makeup, but this is top notch.” Tim shrugs and the fabric barely covering his shoulders flutters slightly. “If I’m going to crossdress, I’m not going to half-ass it.” “Nope, I can see that.” Jason nods approvingly. “Perhaps you can teach me a few things.” It’s hard to keep a straight face because Jason’s idea of a disguise tonight is a goatee. Tim can’t spot any telltale signs that it’s a fake, so it is entirely possible that the dark facial hair is real. He supposes he can give him a bonus point for dyeing the white streak on his brow. It stands out. “About what?” Tim replies blithely as he grabs a coat. “Padding? Falsies? Gaffes?” Jason pales slightly. “I was thinking mascara and eyeliner. There’s a club I need to hit up in a few nights where that kind of look is in.” Tim flashes him a bright rosy smile. “Darling, that look hasn’t gone out of style for ages.” He takes Jason’s arm and marches him out the door. 

The target is Paul Giannini, an up and coming mobster who Jason believes is the newest hitman for the Petrillo crime family (the irony behind the name means nothing to Jason, so Tim doesn’t elaborate). They’re relatively new to Gotham, transplants from New York, and seem to be trying to rebuild what was once Carmine Falcone’s little empire. Not that this has a chance in hell of happening under Batman’s watch, but it’s nice to let these guys spin their wheels before showing them the ugly reality of what doing business in Gotham really entails. Jason isn’t doing more than surveillance tonight and for his own reasons that have nothing to do with Bruce as he was quick to explain during the drive to the restaurant. 

Tim doesn’t care. He’s the one in a dress after all. 

Dinner is good. It always is here, and Tim makes sure he bats his eyes and coos at appropriate times. Jason tries to play along as best he can, but it soon becomes clear he has no idea what to do with a date. “You’re acting like you’ve never done this before,” Tim says quietly once the antipasti is devoured. He may be playing a simpering girlfriend but damn if he’s not getting a free meal out of it. The faint reddening of Jason’s ears is all the answer he needs. “I haven’t exactly dated much,” he admits quietly, which is more than Tim expects from him. “Time, inclination, you name it. I always worry I’m going to hurt the other person.” Tim can’t fault him for that. “I get it. I really do.” Jason smiles crookedly and huffs a small laugh. “I’ve heard about your track record.” “It’s nowhere near as bad as Dick’s,” Tim replies with a cheeky grin and takes a sip of wine. The woman Giannini is with gets up and heads toward the bathroom. Tim glances at Jason and he nods wordlessly. She’s almost as important as the mobster so he follows after counting to ten. Sauntering into the women’s bathroom like he totally belongs there, Tim pauses at the mirror to check his makeup since the woman he’s tailing is in a stall. Nothing wrong there so he freshens up and shares a smile with the bottle blonde when she emerges. The smile drops when she draws a gun. Tim is moving before she has a chance to aim it, gripping her wrist tightly and forcing her arm away from them both toward the floor. She’s shouting at him, screaming about how they can’t pin anything on Paul. He doesn’t know or care how they knew they were being spied on, all he’s focused on at the moment is not getting shot or his eyes clawed out by the woman’s free hand. He shifts slightly and puts more pressure on her wrist, forcing the woman to drop the gun. She shrieks as he kicks it into one of the stalls and Tim blinks from the sheer volume she manages to reach. The gun is out of the way, so he pins her against the countertop and forces both arms behind her back. “Would you please stop that?” he says in a low tone. Too low. Her eyes widen. “You’re not a woman!” she manages to get out before Tim claps a hand over her mouth to muffle her. In the brief silence, they both hear the gunshot from the dining room, followed by loud shouts and screams from the other guests. It’s impossible to say who shot who from in here, but Tim just hopes that Jason isn’t involved.

This is all going to hell. The blonde tries to headbutt him and Tim decides he’s done with her. A quick nerve strike has her limp in his arms, her eyes wide in shock from the sudden paralysis. “You’ll be up and making trouble in less than ten minutes,” he says as he tucks her inside one of the stalls and closes the door. “Enjoy the view.” Retrieving the gun with a tissue, he hides it in his purse and peers out the door to get the lay of the land. It’s pure chaos in the dining room and Tim doesn’t spot Jason immediately. He does see Giannini laying against an overturned table with blood streaming down one shoulder, gun in hand and shouting at some unseen person about his innocence. What he’s saying doesn’t make sense though, not for what Jason dragged them here for, so there’s a distinct possibility this isn’t Jason’s fault at all. Tim keeps low and carefully creeps out. It’s a challenge in three inch heels but he manages. As soon as he emerges, a voice speaks up from behind him. “Thank fuck that’s you.” It’s Jason. Glancing over his shoulder, Tim finds Jason peering out from the men’s room. “What are you doing?” he hisses and tries to crab-walk backwards. Again, heels. “Can’t a guy take a piss in peace?” “You’re on surveillance. Hold it.” “You went to the bathroom!” Tim wants to throw up his hands and scream. This is what working with Jason always does to him. “Whatever. You get what you need or is that little firefight out there not the kind of trouble you feel like jumping into?”

“Those are Maroni’s goons out there. I think they’re gonna take care of my problem for me.”  

That sounds awfully permanent. Tim scoots past the men’s room door and hides behind a large planter. Taking his phone out of his purse, he sends a quick text to Barbara via one of their encrypted numbers for police backup. She replies back an instant later saying they’re already on the way, with the SWAT team en route too.  

“Time to leave,” Tim announces and darts down the back hall to the employee only door. He’s been here enough to know it’s actually the backdoor to the restaurant that leads out into the alley.  

“What the hell?” Jason protests as he follows. “Since when were you in charge?”

“Since SWAT is on the way and we really don’t need to be stuck here for questioning later.” He also doesn’t want to be here when the nerve strike on Giannini’s girlfriend wears off as she’ll easily point him out unless he gets gone now.  

“Works for me.”  

They’re barely outside when Jason wraps an arm around Tim’s waist and hauls him close, the hiss of a grapple line firing up and into the night. Tim has a brief moment to hold on tight before he’s swept off his feet like the proverbial damsel in distress.  

“What was that for?” he asks once they’re on the rooftop, feeling slightly breathless. He smacks Jason upside the head for good measure, which makes him feel much better.

Jason growls and rubs his head. “I have a safehouse in this building. We can lay low for a couple hours, watch a movie or something, and then I can take your bitchy ass home.”  

Tim wants to protest but his ankles hurt and the sooner he’s out of these shoes, the better. “Fine. But I’m picking the movie.”  

~*~*~*~

After the other night, Tim should have seen this coming. At least this time, he has more than twenty four hours notice, which is good since his ankles are still sore.  

“What time?” he asks with a long suffering sigh.  

“Nine?” Jason replies hesitantly. “Your place because I still can’t quite get the hang of that thing you showed me with the eyeliner?”  

This, at least, he did see coming. “Fine. What club are we going to?”  

Jason rattles off the name of a gay club in the Upper East Side that Tim is rather familiar with. “I know it. I’ve picked up my fair share of drug samples there.”

“You don’t need to wear a dress,” Jason adds, clearly trying to be helpful since he knows Tim is doing him yet another massive favor.

He’s glad they’re on the phone because Jason would probably try to deck him if he saw his hugely exaggerated eye roll. “Well, I could, but that would send the wrong message. I’m more believable as your date if I’m in pants this time.”  

“Huh?” Jason sounds confused.  

There’s a growing suspicion in Tim’s mind, one that is going to have him on the floor laughing once this call is over. “Jason, you do know this is a LGBTQ club, right?”  

The long silence is answer enough.  

“Right,” Tim replies matter of factly. “In that case, make sure you wear a pair of tight pants and a t-shirt that’s one size too small for you. Anything else and you’ll probably stand out too much.”  

Considering Jason’s considerable physique, he’s already going to stand out. Tim has a feeling he’ll be the one doing the real work.  

“Okay,” Jason agrees in a slightly taken aback tone. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”  

“Later.” Tim hangs up and glares at his phone. Why is he putting himself through all this? The favor he’s going to call in at some point will need to be a doozy.  

~*~*~

Tim totally called it earlier. For all the guys whose type is tall, dark, and muscular, Jason is a piece of meat they can’t wait to get a chance with. Most aren’t pushy once they see him all but clinging nervously to Tim, but a few are forward enough to keep the taller man close. They put out a cover story that fits all too well — this is Jason’s first time in a club like this and he’s a bit overwhelmed.  

Proud to be out with his boyfriend, but still overwhelmed.  

Another new suspicion grows in Tim’s mind, one that harkens back to their dinner conversation the other night. Jason doesn’t date much. Or very possibly at all. This would explain volumes as to why he’s asking him of all people for assistance. Sure, Jason has to know he’s opening himself up to Tim’s ridicule but what he has to dish out is lightyears weaker than the constant ribbing from Dick.  

So Tim plays the role of the more experienced boyfriend, laughing and teasing his significant other lovingly as they maneuver slowly toward the VIP rooms where a drug dealer on Jason’s radar has taken up residence and uses a handful of people here as runners who scope out potential deals, from those who just want to have a little fun to others looking for a more serious fix.  

Jason isn’t after him tonight, he just wants to see what he’s pushing.  

“I’ve heard a rumor that he’s got access to fentanyl,” he explains to Tim out on the crowded dance floor, their bodies pressed together firmly. When he’s not stressing over where to place his hands, Jason is a decent dancer. “If it’s true, then I want to know where he’s getting it.”  

That is definitely something Tim can get behind. He nods and wraps his arms around Jason’s neck, drawing him closer so he can speak without shouting. “Any idea what the street name is around here?”

If he’s going to be asking around, knowing the right terminology for this part of town will help. What Jason’s real interest is here remains to be seen, but there has to be a connection to the Bowery and Crime Alley if he’s wandered out of his usual haunts.  

Jason frowns, but whether that’s from Tim’s breath tickling his ear or because he doesn’t know, Tim can’t be sure. “I’ve heard both Jackpot and Murder 8 on my streets.”

Tim knows quite a few more, but this doesn’t do him any good. “We may need to do this more than once. Establish ourselves, work our way up.”

“I thought you’d been here before?”  

“In various disguises.” The one he’s wearing now is a bit more eye shadow heavy than usual and for once in his life, a five o’clock shadow hides the shape of his jaw. It irks Tim that it still takes him a few days to grow something that Jason, Dick, and Bruce all have to shave off twice a day if the need calls for it. Perhaps he’ll get lucky the further into his twenties he goes.  

The first night is a bust, even if they do score some rather questionable lollipops in a bright shade of blue that would make Dick proud.  

They come back several nights later and Tim manages to buy some oxycodone from the backroom dealer. Apparently, the man doesn’t trust his little army of tweekers with the real cash deals. He drops a hint that he’s in the market for something a little more potent and the dealer gives him a smarmy smile, openly eying Tim in his too tight pants and stylishly ripped t-shirt.  

“I’ll see what I can do for you,” is all he says, and Tim takes that as his cue to leave.  

He makes his way toward the bar where he left Jason and stops short, fighting down the impulse to laugh. It’s way too loud in here for it to carry far, but he’s undercover.

Jason has two men practically wrapped around him, one with a slender build Tim would probably have if he didn’t have to work out so much while the other guy is a bit more compact. He can’t help but notice neither one of them is any taller than him. What’s even more hilarious though is Jason’s deer-in-the-headlights expression. He’s on the verge of bolting, Tim can tell.

Well then. He can’t have that.

Tim strolls up to the bar, letting just a hint of predatorial intent enter his gaze. Right here and now, Jason is his and those two guys are poaching on his territory.

The things he does to maintain a cover.

Jason spots him and shoves away from the bar, completely ignoring the two men pouting and pleading with him to stay.

“Thank fuck,” he says as he all but hides behind Tim. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt more like a piece of meat in all my life.”

Tim makes sure to smirk at the other men before turning his attention on Jason. “I can’t take you anywhere, can I?” he asks, wrapping an arm around Jason’s waist and dragging him out to the relative safety of the dance floor. They can’t leave quite yet. “Do I need to put a collar on you? A leash?”

“You’re such a shit, you know that?” Jason comments as they find the beat of the music and settle in.

“You’re the one who’s a trouble magnet.”

“I didn’t ask those guys to climb all over me!” Jason’s ears are more than a little red.

Tim wraps his arms around Jason’s neck and tugs him down slightly, his mouth pressed close to Jason’s ear. From the right angle, it looks like he’s mouthing a line up the side of Jason’s neck, which is the point he’s trying to make to the two men who are still watching them closely from the bar. “You need to relax. We’re undercover and you’re the one acting like the shy virgin. In case you’d forgotten, we’re a couple here. Act like it or these things will keep happening.”

This close, he can feel Jason swallow even as his back stiffens. Before Tim can even register it, he’s shoved away from him. His protest dies on his lips as Jason spins him around, slotting himself against his back, hands falling to Tim’s hips like they belong there.

“Better?” Jason’s voice is rough and low in Tim’s ear as they start dancing again.

Tim swallows, startled by the overwhelming sense of how right this feels. He’s no stranger to being held like this, some nameless person grinding against him while his attention is elsewhere following his target. His body reacts as it never has before and ever so briefly, he wishes that Jason’s hands would slip just a little lower.

Reality comes slamming back into him when another dancer accidently jostles them. What the hell is he thinking? This is Jason Todd, the same man who has tried to kill him more than once. A few years may have passed since then and they’ve managed to forge a pretty good working relationship, but to say they got off on the right foot would be a complete and utter lie.

So why is Jason making him feel this way?

A little too late, Tim nods his head, remembering the question. “Yeah. Fine.”

They leave a short while later, Tim hoping that Jason doesn’t notice the slight awkward shuffle to his steps.

Third time is the charm, a fact for which Tim is glad for because once they hit the dance floor again and Jason’s big arms wrap around him, his body starts to betray him once more. He’s never felt so glad to see one of the drug runners and hit them up to see their boss.

Tim pays out the ass for the fentanyl, not quibbling because this guy knows he’s got the money and is marking it up.

That night after they leave, he and Jason part ways to change into their uniforms and return, staking out the front and back doors of the club. It’s late by the time the dealer exits through the employee door. They tail him all the way to Burnley and into a nondescript townhouse.

Jason lowers his binoculars. “Well, thanks for helpin’ me out. I think I got it from here.”

Tim frowns, but doesn’t argue. His part in all this, pretending to be Jason’s boyfriend to create a believable cover, is over. “No problem. You still owe me one.”

“Yeah, yeah. You know I’m good for it.”

Surprisingly enough, he does.

~*~*~*~

Tim drops his box with a heavy thunk. Inside, something crunches and he takes a certain amount of petty delight in Jason’s frown.

“What if I told you the coffee mugs are in there?” Jason says. He’s arranging the silverware drawer.

“That’s your problem, not mine. I have travel mugs that don’t break.”

Tim stalks away to grab another box. How the hell he let himself get talked into this, he has no clue.

This being the third time in less than two months that Jason has asked him to help out with one of his cases. Or, more specifically, asked him to be in a fake relationship to help establish his cover. He’s starting to see a pattern here.

“Why the hell did I say yes?” Tim mumbles as he grabs another box from the back of their small moving van.

He knows all too well why he did. It’s the same reason that’s been haunting him for the last six weeks. The same little feeling that keeps reappearing anytime he even so much as gets a text from the man.

This isn’t happening to him. It can’t be. He does not find Jason attractive.  

“His face is stupid,” he mutters, then sighs.

Leaning against the back of the van, Tim closes his eyes, trying to calm himself even as he toys with the wedding band resting on his finger yet again. There is nothing to be worked up over. It’s not as though Jason is doing this on purpose. He really does need his help here because a single man living in a neighborhood like this one is going to catch someone’s attention, especially since Jason needs to make himself visible and approachable. He gets to be the house-husband while Tim toddles off to work every morning and returns in the evening. Their marriage is a complete and utter sham. Nothing to get worked up over.

Besides, it’s not like Jason even sees him the same way. This is just a job. A case. Bad guys to be caught.

The drug ring Jason has been after is much bigger and better organized than he originally suspected, the trail leading into the suburbs of Gotham Heights, a solidly middle class neighborhood where crime is more of the white collar variety than anything else. This particular subdivision is relatively new though and when Tim poked around, there were more income figures in the upper five digits and lower six than the rest of the area. Wannabe real housewives of Gotham is what Jason called them and Tim has to concur. In fact, it’s what they’re hoping for. Two good looking gay men moving into the area is bound to attract the kind of attention they want, and Jason is fully ready to play house-husband and collect all the gossip while Tim is at work.

“Here, let me get that one.” Jason’s unfairly big arms reach around Tim to grab a larger box.

Tim huffs and blows his bangs out of his eyes. He needs another haircut but decided against it as it’ll help detract from how similar he appears to Timothy Drake-Wayne. That and the glasses that are perched on the end of his nose, ones that he never lets himself be seen in public with for this very reason. If it works for Clark, it’ll work for him, at least to the casual observer.

“I had that.”

“You’re supposed to be the computer nerd, remember? Lifting big boxes isn’t in your repertoire.”

Tim eyes the muscles flexing under Jason’s t-shirt, easily managing the weight. “Fine.” He picks up a large plastic tub labeled Bedding and takes it into the house.

There are three bedrooms in the house, but from what Tim understands, one is being used for their surveillance equipment and the other for the makeshift office where Jason is ostensibly writing a novel. The current plan is to rotate sleeping in the master bedroom while the other sleeps on the sofa.

Right. Tim heaves a sigh as he drops the bin on the floor and stares at the unmade king-sized bed he’d help set up earlier. “This is gonna suck.”

~*~*~

Two weeks later, Tim is ready to revise that statement. His life doesn’t suck. His life is a miserable living hell.

The routine he and Jason have fallen into is, well, domestic. Every morning, he’s out the door no later than eight to do battle with the evils of rush hour into the city where he mucks around and does casework from the quiet safety of his apartment in Crime Alley. Every evening, he makes his way back out to the suburbs, rolling in no later than six.

Thank god they have a garage because Tim is pretty sure he’d die if he had to go through the front door and make a show of kissing Jason for anyone who is watching.

“Honey, I’m home!” Tim calls out with more than a little bit of sarcasm coloring his voice.

“Fucking finally.” Jason sounds frustrated over something.

It’s probably dinner. He’s taken to watching cooking shows in the afternoon and applying what he’s learned.

Tim kicks off his shoes in the laundry room and crosses into the wide open kitchen.

Jason is wearing an apron. It’s a crying shame he’s also wearing jeans and a faded blue henley.

Son of a fucking bitch. Not again. Tim swallows hard and thanks every god he can think of that the man is facing away from him and can’t see him flounder.

“Rough day?” he manages to say without stumbling over his words.

“Just a shitty one.” Jason points toward the sink. “Wash up, then grab your plate. We need to talk.”

Great. Just great.

They sit at the kitchen counter, Jason taking a large swig from his beer bottle before digging into his meal. Tim is a little slower to start and fiddles with the wrapper on his. “What happened?” he finally asks.

“I think I’ve narrowed it down to which house around here is our real target. I finally saw that pool maintenance truck pull up today.”

The fentanyl and possibly some other drugs are being funneled into the city with vehicles that appear to be for legitimate small businesses, like plumbing contractors or yard maintenance trucks. Vehicles that wouldn’t catch anyone’s attention with drivers who actually make a show at doing what they’re there for. Or so Jason says from what he’s observed.

Tim perks up. “That’s not bad news.”

“No, it’s actually pretty good,” Jason concedes. “The problem is that I can only take so many walks through the neighborhood and chat with so many people before it starts to look strange.”

“Okay…” Tim doesn’t see where this is going.

“We need a dog.”

He blinks and drops his fork. “What?”

“We need a fucking dog. One with a good amount of energy that gives me an excuse to wander around.” Jason viciously stabs some broccoli and stuffs it in his mouth.

“And just what will happen to the dog when we’re done here?” Tim asks. He’s always wanted a dog but doing so for the sake of a mission isn’t exactly the best reason.

Jason gives him a look that clearly says he thinks Tim is being an idiot. “We find it a good home, duh.”

Right. Because that’s totally going to happen.

~*~*~

The dog’s name is Darcy because this is what happens when Tim lets Jason name things. He’s a two year old black-and-white American bulldog who thinks he’s a lapdog and drools more than any creature Tim has ever seen.

For some bizarre reason, he also adores Tim and tries to sleep with him on the sofa instead of on the big beach towel they’ve laid out on the bed in the master bedroom.

“Ugh, get off me,” Tim says, trying to shove Darcy aside one night. “You’re supposed to sleep with Jason.”

He’s tired. Really tired. All this sleep he’s been getting can’t be healthy because pulling an all-nighter didn’t used to be this challenging.

Darcy whines and gives him the big sorrowful puppy dog eyes that never fail to melt Tim’s heart. How anyone can say no to this dog is beyond him. If it weren’t for the fact that most people thought he was a pitbull mix at the pound, he’d probably have been adopted sooner.

“You’re a big baby.” Tim yanks at his blanket. More of it needs to be over his shoulders and not pooled around his waist where the dog has made a nest from it.

“I can’t believe you let him walk all over you like this.”

Tim looks up to find Jason leaning in the hall entrance. Apparently, his battle over the blankets caught his attention. “I do no such thing.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Come on. The bed’s big enough for all three of us.”

No. No no no no no. This has been what Tim’s resisted most from the moment they moved in together last month. Living with the man that he’s finally acknowledged to himself that he has a crush on is painful enough. Sleeping beside him is a whole different ballgame.

“It’ll be okay,” Tim says, trying to find an out. “If you can just get Darcy in there, that should be fine.”

Jason is already shaking his head. “He whines at the door to be let out. Get your ass in there. Or are you afraid I’ll smother you in your sleep?”

Tim would almost prefer it if it means he can escape what are likely to be some very awkward morning boners. “I starfish in my sleep.”

“What does that mean?”

“I tend to sprawl out. There’s a reason my bed at home is a king.”

Jason runs a hand through his hair and yawns. “We’ll fuckin’ deal with it if you start kickin’ me. Now, get in there and go the fuck to sleep.”

“I want to state for the record that this is a bad idea,” Tim comments as he stands. Darcy ever so helpfully jumps off the sofa, freeing the blanket.

“Noted.”

~*~*~

The case drags out for three months, two of which Tim finds himself sharing a bed with Jason. And Darcy, because the dog somehow manages to sleep between the two of them on his beach towel.

In the end, Jason not only manages to figure out the supply route, but also where he needs to head next.

“Montreal is not where I expected this case to go,” Tim says one evening as they’re eating dinner. “But it’s not entirely surprising. Canada has a pretty similar problem.”

Jason nods thoughtfully. “I’m sure I’ll end up in China at some point, but the base of this particular supply line seems to end there.”

“Well, my Mandarin is a bit rusty, but if you need help, gimme a call.”

“I will. And don’t think I’ve forgotten what a massive favor you’ve done for me with all of this.” Jason gestures to the house around them and the home it really has become.

Tim frowns and glances down at Darcy, who’s waiting ever so patiently for any crumbs or slivers of meat that may fall to the floor. “Yeah, about all this… Umm… I really don’t care about the house, but… I don’t want to give up that overgrown lapdog.”

Jason smiles fondly at the dog. “Neither do I. You’ve got the space at your apartment, right?”

“Yeah, but I’m busy. Face of WE and all that crap.” Tim scowls and leans down to rub behind Darcy’s floppy ear. The dog’s tail thumps loudly against the flooring. “He needs more attention than I can give him on my own.”

“Well, I can always stop by. To help.” Jason’s gaze darts away in a brief flash of uncertainty that Tim hasn’t seen since that neighborhood barbeque they went to last month where they had to act like the married couple they’ve been pretending to be. Holding hands was enough to make Jason’s ears turn red, although he tried passing it off as too much sun.

Tim narrows his eyes, a suspicion rising in the pits of his heart that almost feels suspiciously like hope. Before he can talk himself out of it, he reaches out and takes Jason’s hand.

Cue the red ears. And a faint flush that reveals a slight scattering of freckles over his cheeks.

“What?” Jason asks, clearly startled by Tim just randomly holding his hand. He looks everywhere but at him.

“Jason,” Tim says slowly, carefully because he really doesn’t want to be wrong. “You do know you can come by my apartment to see me, too. I wouldn’t mind at all.”

He doesn’t let go of Jason’s hand.

“I… uh… Are you sure?” There’s that insecurity again, but Jason’s giving him a hopeful look, one that makes him appear so much younger than he is.

Tim raises their joined hands to his mouth and presses a kiss onto the scarred knuckles. There’s no mistaking the heat that flares in Jason’s eyes. “I’d love it if you did. Perhaps we can take Darcy out together. Have a cup of coffee somewhere.”

“Yes!” Jason all but shouts, then blushes harder as Tim chuckles over his enthusiasm. “Fuck, we kinda went at this ass-backwards, didn’t we?”

“Well, this is actually one of the longest relationships I’ve ever had, but it’s also the first one where I haven’t gone on a real date. How about we fix that before you go to Montreal?”

Jason nods, then bites his bottom lip. “Umm, does that mean I can’t kiss you until after the first date?”

“Hell, no.” Tim pushes their mostly empty dinner plates to the side and seats himself on the counter. He tugs Jason to his feet and the taller man slots himself between Tim’s parted thighs in a way that he can’t wait to explore in more explicit detail later.

Their mouths meet, hesitantly at first as Tim lets Jason set the pace, then harder as Jason’s confidence grows.

Jason moans against Tim’s mouth as he tugs lightly on the short hairs at the back of his neck. The moan quickly turns into a groan as Darcy launches himself up from the floor, whining and barking as he tries to get in on the action.

Tim starts to laugh, even as the dog manages to get his front paws up on the counter. “I hope he doesn’t do this all the time.”

“Something tells me he’s going to be a worse cockblock than Dick.”

#chibinightowl writes #brightestdaay #jaytimsecretsanta #Tim Drake #Jason Todd #Darcy the Dog #JayTim #Eventual Relationship

[anth-seeing2019]

Assignment 1Seeing Prohibition Alyssa Maurer Everyone’s Peggy: Threats to Seeing.

[reblogged to ensure grading]

This space is static. There is little to no movement. The movement that does occur is directly related to mobile phone usage. Eye contact between patients is kept minimal. Heads are locked onto their phones or on the television screen; fixations are controlled by artificial movement. The only desirable eye contact is between the patient and the nurse that beckons them into the next room. The twiddling of thumbs, texting messages to family or friends, accompanied by an obligatory glance towards the phone’s housing; whether it be pant pocket, hoodie pouch, or carry-on bag. Outside of that codependency, the occasional side-ways glance is done in secret. That was my way in.

Animals That Saw Me, a photobook by Ed Panar, is one of the biggest references I could draw off of after completing this activity. In the book, Panar creates a visual narrative discussing the fleeting, face-to-face interactions that people have with animals. I make the comparison, between staring at animals and staring at other people, because I think that it touches on the animalistic inclinations that humans retain. The fight or flight instinct, for example, uses staring as a way of preparation. The person or animal takes in the immediate threat through visual context and acts accordingly. Staring, in this context, is as a natural, animalistic instinct. An archaic inclination passed on from human ancestors.

While not all of the images could address the concept of staring, I do believe it to be an interesting gesture on how the staree and starer can be swapped. This addresses aspects of the power dynamic, but in this case, you’re never quite sure who instigates (starer) the action and who submits (staree) to it. Of the many observations I had while sitting in a waiting room and performing the act of staring, the power dynamic between the two characters was the most obvious. To me, before reading more on the subject, staring was a violation; used only to manipulate the staree into a submissive state. Garland Thompson reflects on the aspects of intensity associated with staring on page 14.

“We speak of “staring daggers,” “penetrating looks,” “piercing eyes,” “riveting glances,” and “looking somebody up and down.” Such phrases reflect the intensity of being on either side of a staring encounter” (Garland, p. 14).

It was only after reading chapter 7 of Staring, that I began to understand that the power in the staree as well as the starer is subjective. While one could overthrow the other, the idea behind a positive response to any staring is an acknowledgment from both parties, acceptance, and a shared visual dialogue.  What is of more importance is the amount of experience (from both the starer and the staree) between both parties that make this dialogue possible. I am not saying it isn’t impossible without shared experience in this performance, however, it does make it less burdening. 

“The struggle for starers is whether to look or look away. The struggle for starees is how to look back”(Thomson, pg 84). 

My observations substantiate Garland-Thompon’s discussion of staring because they exemplify many of the key points outlined in the reading. There are two or more characters being activated in this position. I, as the starer, have observed the power dynamics at play and the dualities that exist. After hesitantly establishing a visual introduction, I attempted to tame the world with my eyes; jumping innocuously from one waiting room to the next. Of course, this interaction isn’t complete without certain fulfillments. The staree must deny or acknowledge the starer through some sort of reactionary impulse. This could be a hand shooting up to cover their face, a surprised jitter, a reluctant smile, or a hostile glare. Any negative reaction to me, no matter the level of resentment, would immediately persuade me from pestering further. 

“A seasoned staree evaluates when to turn away, stare back, or further extend the stare. Some allow the staring to go on in order for the starer to get a good look. Others find it most effective to use eye contact and body language to terminate the stare as soon as possible, although this risks being interpreted as hostile. Another option is to redirect the stare” (Thomson, pg 86)”

This ballet is a duet; it cannot be completed without the other participant. This is where the starer’s role intensifies and his/her duties to the staree become paramount. What goals are going to be met through this? Will I know I’ve been given the signal to stop? What do I want them to see from me? What do I want them to know from me? How best to communicate this through eye contact alone? Remembering the goals for each conversation once the line has been cast, is both the most difficult part of this conversation and the part with the biggest reward.     

The context-specific prohibition against looking that I had intended to explore, was photographing in a private office space, but I found myself fighting against the compulsion to stare. So, instead of trading one for the other, I did both; staring and photographing. There are a number of power relationships at play while staring in a health clinic. In the waiting room environment, there is an all-too-often overlooked, but very much so present overseer in the form of surveillance footage. The hierarchy of surveillance is a  prevalent, pervasive threat to the staree and starer. This outlier interferes with the accessibility that a communal stare indoctrinates. The other prohibition, in this context, is the HIPPA agreement made between patients and healthcare providers. HIPPA is a United States legislation that provides data privacy and security provisions for safeguarding medical information. This safeguards against, but is not limited to data breaches, restrictions on access, broadened security measures, and patient interactions within the facility. I was unaware that photography interferes with those measures at the time as well.

What was disturbing about this interaction was that it was one-sided, invasive, and mostly unsolicited on my end. I should have been more considerate of my surroundings..

 After two hours in the waiting room, hearing the names being called into the next room, listening to the medical procedures that the television played on repeat, I successfully talked to 3 people about this area. John, April, and Emilio. The fourth and final person I talked to was the one who escorted me out of the building but not before asking me to delete the photographs on my camera and requesting my full name for their records. Her alias was Peggy, but her actual name, after gathering further information on her, was Ndidi. Peggy is an immigrant from Nigeria.

April was the first person I began to have a visual conversation with. She’s a bold, middle-aged woman. She wore pink leopard print, unicorn slippers, and had pinkish-purplish semi-permanent hair colorization. She entered and sat at the furthest end of the waiting room, which looked more like a hallway with chairs. April was fidgety, so establishing prolonged eye-contact with her wasn’t easy.

As I stared, I noticed more and more of April’s features. Her skin was a deep tan, almost leathery texture with countless freckles. I took her picture in secret without asking for her permission. Soon after, I asked from across the room,

“What’re ya in for,” this question startled her out of her trance, looking up towards me with an almost lifeless reaction. Her face scrunched up and she replied with a loud and  puzzled,

“Huuhhhh?!”

I repeated my question from across the room. Her response was a waving of her dainty hand and a rolling of her head round in a clockwise direction. She replied,

“I been comin’ here for months, lady. They ain’t found nothin’ on me yet worth talkin’ bout,” she continued looking downward, “it’s--been a long road, hah.” She chuckled to herself and half-smiled looking back up at me.

“I’m Alyssa--er, Al for short.” I chortled waving at her with, what I would consider, a long-distance handshake.

“Oh, we’re givin’ names now,” she quipped questioningly.

“I’m April--don’t ‘ave any nicknames, but I like the one you got. Sounds funky and for a girl with green ‘air, I’m sure that’s was your--ahaha--goin’ for.” She laughed and then I accompanied her. We conversed in segments. I told her about the picture I had taken of her and she laughed again, saying that she would have never noticed. I asked how this made her feel and she said ‘ain’t no harm if I didn’ see no foul’. John walked in about 8 minutes after April.

John is a middle-aged man, but with more seasoning than April. He wore a black t-shirt, blue jeans, and black Nikes. He had in airpods and didn’t look like the type of person who enjoyed casual conversation. *note* I’m not making these judgments in real-time, I’m only including this information to better visualize the character John made little to no eye-contact outside of his phone’s screen. Occasionally, he would glance upward at the television or around at the faculty when they would meander around the sides of the waiting room hallway. I continued to stare at him, without reciprocated fixation, until one of his wandering glances met mine. Then, another latched on to me without lingering for much longer than the first. Frustrated, I took out my camera and took a picture of him looking back down on his screen. Unhappy with the angle of the image on my LCD screen preview, I took another image. John looked up, but not in time to see my camera angled towards him. Enthused by his reaction, I took another exposure and he looked up to meet my stare as the camera pulled away from my face. He pulled out his airpods without looking away from me as I continued to stare back. Once out, he blinked and the corners of his mouth curled up into a smile; the kind of smile you don’t expect to receive from someone who looks and acts so unamused or bored in a public environment. As he smiled, he laughed quietly, and half-whispered,

“Whaaat--are--you doing, aha,” his shoulders drooped over while he leaned toward my direction anticipating an answer of some sort. If the charisma in his voice didn’t prompt me into talking, his body language did. He sat legs open, arms on his lap, and his face jutting out towards me in some comical fashion.

“I was just--uh--staring at you, but you--well it’s for an assignment in my class, but, uh, you didn’t respond to that. Sooo--”, I replied scatter-brained and eager to get him to talk to me, “I took your picture instead while you were looking around to get your attention. I hope it wasn’t rude or anything. I just wanted to see what you had to say about everything.” Everything? Really, Al?

John smiled, his head twirled upwards with his eyes as he shook it there. When his eyes came back to mine, he continued.

“Man, I thought I came into the psych ward or something for a sec. You had me scared!” Me and him both laughed, then I asked him why he felt like he was in a psych ward, how the staring made him feel, and why he averted it so much. He said that staring made him feel paranoid or uncomfortable. He said that he wasn’t equipped to handle that type of conversation on this day and that his brain was more so acting to get him ready for his doctor’s appointment. He was overcompensating and he hated doctor’s visits.

Here, we could begin to discuss some of the points outlined in Daniel Segal’s Can You Tell a Jew When You See One?. Here, Segal substitutes the word stereotypes for typifications, which was originally coined by Alfred Schutz. In the essay, he elaborates on problems relating to prejudice, stereotyping or typifications, and how their social construction delegitimizes sensory perception. Sensory perception cannot be the reason for issuing a typification. Social jurisdiction operates to define the terms that we then give onto people from other cultural backgrounds or descent because it operates like a machine; giving titles, descriptions, and names to people, places, and things. To exercise what was learned from this essay, I’m taking precautions not to undermine John’s character.  Now, John is not like me. His skin is olive-toned and he is male. That doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s from African descent nor that his descent affects his character, but his physical makeup does characterize visible attributes. The segment of the essay that I am referring to most directly is on page 238, paragraph three.

“Take the case of whether a person is or is not “African American.”[...] the facts about this matter of identity, independent of a person’s ‘looks,’ are located in ancestry[...] Consider, in other words, the possible outcomes of discrepancies or incongruities between visual signs of identity and a person’s knowable ancestry.[...] Thus, by social conjuring trick--one that alters who it is who is known to have African-American ancestors-the incongruity of white-looking African-Americas is removed from the world that appears before our eyes. The Statistical correlation is tightened, in this cay by exploiting the instability of the supposedly fixed facts about whether someone is or is not ‘African-American’” (Segal, pg. 238).

As I entered into the facilitation of this assignment, I’ve taken precautions to understand typifications, how they operate and how to avoid them in descriptive narratives. That being said, John was comfortable enough to discuss stereotypes with me. He said that he and his family have felt the effects, but that they’ve been subdued by political correctness, informative outreach programs, and efforts in diversity and inclusion. When asked about micromanagement over the situation--in communities, schools, etc.--he said that perseverance is above all else the most paramount.

Emilio was received in the waiting room, along with his grandparents and mother, while John and I were talking.

Proud of my accomplishments thus far, I grew more confident and actively starred at Emilio. I glanced towards his family occasionally but kept persistent contact with the child. The mother, persuaded by my eye contact, beckoned me over to sit with the family. I asked her about her son. Her heavy, Latin accent generated a language barrier, but she still allowed me to interact with the child. He looked to be about 7. Every time I starred, he unabashedly returned my glances with an assumed childish demeanor. I got his name after many attempts at explaining and gesturing to myself to receive an answer.

Why are children open to acts of starring more so than adults? Is this exception related to childhood development and the absence of socially constructed expectations? Presumably, the answer relies on the age of the child and their experiences with public or social media environments.

I was called into the doctor’s office for my scheduled appointment shortly after talking with Emilio and his family. The visit was conducted as usual. My blood results came back normal. The lumbar puncture confirmed that I had an inflammatory disease that would require medication and future consultations. During our intermissions, where the doctor or nurse would leave the room, I would photograph the room. After I received my prescriptions, I was told that I could leave.

The confrontation with Peggy occurred while I was making my escape from the clinic. Peggy found me attempting to make my way out of the labyrinth of halls that made up the facility. Deliberately walking up to me, she told me that the exit was in the opposite direction.

“Ma’am, the exit is this way,” she said as she pointed in the opposite direction.

“Oh,” I replied, “thank you, I’m sorr--” she interrupted my apology mid-sentence.

“I haff been meaning to ask you where did you get dat camera and what are you doing in this place wit it?” She interrogated me in a foreign accent while pointing at my camera and the surrounding walls.

“I am a patient here and I was just taking pictures to check my camera’s settings, y’know? Staying loose, that’s all,” I replied trying to sound as genuine as possible. She wasn’t amused by my response at all.

“Noooooo! You cannot do dat ‘ere. This is a medical facility. That is wrong, very wrong. You cannot do dat ‘ere with other patients' privacy. We have people who come in to take pictures for us when we need it...[--]” she rambled on about issues concerning privacy, of which, I was aware of, but didn’t think any of my images infringed upon patient privacy.

“--So, I need to delete my images. Is that what you’re saying,” I interrupted her, “There’s really nothing too invasive with these images, I swear. I’m aware of privacy laws regarding media, but there’s really nothing in here that could come back to you guys. I’d be more than happy to agree to a release form or some kind of disclosure or no compensation agreement” I pulled out the camera with the LCD screen pointed up to show her the images. In preview mode, I went through the pictures to show her each one carefully. None of them were impressive. Most of them were still frames of objects found in the waiting room and consultation; a chair leg coming in contact with the ground, a stack of pamphlets on nesting table, a rolling chair, doctor’s instruments, John looking down at his ph---oh no.... Peggy was outraged.

“See!! That is a patient, that is no good! You delete all of those images right now. You cannot do that! Can’t you see how that is wrong?! Delete everything,” She commanded.

“Everything?” I questioned, but it didn’t more than a glance to realize her anger and bewilderment. I dutifully obliged and deleted every image I had taken from my duration with her head lingering over my shoulder. Still, I felt determined to question her further.

“What is so wrong with photographs? The camera isn’t a weapon, ya know. Besides, there are people taking images with their phones regardless of privacy standards. I feel like the only reason you’re targeting me is because my camera is ostentatious and unconcealable. Besides, I asked this patient if it was ok after I took the shot.” I continued to argue my point while deleting the images. It only angered Peggy.

“There,” I said, “all deleted.”

“Good, but don’t you see how it is wrong to do that?” she, once again, asked. I had already replied to this question twice and didn’t feel like answering it again. I just kept to myself and allowed her to continue. At this point, I felt like a vacuous child being lectured into the ground. Did I feel remorse? Undoubtedly, I felt it, but the fact that I could reconcile with this women plagued me with more, unsurmountable guilt than anything else. What does it mean to be a photographer, to have a degree and uphold certain values, if I can’t convince someone otherwise about its nature? Peggy touched on the small of my back, urging me to exit the facility. Before leaving she had one final question, that I didn’t feel the need to answer after considering the negative connotations involved in the conversation.

“What is your name for our records?”

“Oh, I can’t give you that,” I replied solidarily and exited the clinic doors.

Upon looking back, I realize now that Peggy’s confrontation-in particular-illuminates more on the prohibitions of seeing; as well as legal/moral issues involved. Peggy was obligated to stop and lecture me on the legality of the situation. Her duty, in that respect, was to act according to protocol. When I tried to reconcile the situation-albeit-in a frivolous, panicked manner, I was met with more of the same lecture. We didn’t see eye-to-eye on the situation. In a more diplomatic conversation, I could see the conversation being more successful. However, Peggy instigated her side of the conversation with such emotional gravitas that it overwhelmed me; it brainwashed me into contrition before I could even begin to build my side of the argument.

Binding, legal implications have power over ways of seeing just as much as emotional jurisdiction does or even an acceptance of conversation. Communication is a two-way street. Both sides have to be willing to receive and contribute to the discourse. I’ve never photographed in a health care facility. I’ve been advised not to and was aware of the complexities involved both legally and morally. Why did I do it? I did it because I have a passion for something and I wanted to further understand the stigma behind. I thought I could maybe reason with someone if I got caught or share information about the art form that means so much to me.

The biggest threat to seeing, in any way, is cowardice. Summoning up the courage to seek discomfort, to be vulnerable, and to be forthright on the discoveries made after the fact, is the key to seeing behind walls; even when you meet someone like Peggy. Peggy didn’t give me the signs that the book warned me about and for the most part, this experience was going all too well. If it weren’t for Peggy, I wouldn’t know how it feels to be terminated from a specific visual conversation. Now, I look back and I am grateful for her involvement in my life. She’s shed some light on things that I had never considered or had even been given the circumstances to consider. Sure, there may fear surrounding embarrassment or failure, but it’s only when we experience those emotions first hand that we truly begin to understand; especially in the case of visual communication.     

“To see things thousands of miles away, things hidden behind walls and within rooms, things dangerous to come to, to draw closer, to see and be amazed” (Secret Life of, 2013).

Works Cited

Kuku, David. Unknown. n/a.

Panar, Ed. Animals That Saw Me. Vol. 1, Spaces Corners, 2011.

Segal, Daniel. “Can You Tell a Jew When You See One?” Judaism: A Quarterly Journal of Jewish Life and Thought, vol. 48, no. 2, 1999, pp. 234–238.

Stiller, Ben, et al. The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. Amazon Prime Video, 201th Century Fox, 5 Oct. 2013.

“What Is Staring?” Staring: How We Look, by Rosemarie Garland-Thomson, Oxford University Press, 2015, pp. 13–17.

[one-direction-fan-fiction]

Chapter 19

(Jess POV)

my life in New York is finally starting to shape up! i have an amazing job that i love. i found this huge apartment just down the street from a baby store, grocery store, train station and the office building i work in. it’s perfect! ... and i should be happy but honestly i cry myself to sleep most nights because i miss everyone so much. but, i know this is for the best. if i where to go back it would rip Harry, Louis and Zayn apart forcing Liam and Niall to choose sides and they would all just end up getting hurt... so if i have to be miserable for a while to prevent hurting the people i care about then it’s %100 worth it.

i’m 9 months pregnant and walking 2 blocks to get to work. it’s not easy but i’m determined not to miss a single day of work until the baby comes. my boss Mia really took a chance by hiring me. when we met i was a 6 month pregnant, recent high school graduate, who was living out of her car and had no money or work experience of any kind. yet she saw potential in me and that’s something i could never thank her enough for. she’s also like my only friend here. i talk to some of the people i work with but it’s always about work. it’s just like high school, no one wants to hang out with the pregnant teenager. Mia is the only one that treats me like an actually person... yet another thing i don’t know how to thank her for.

the moment i walk into the office i get a sharp, cramping pain in my stomach causing me to stop in my tracks and double over in agony. Mia sees me and rushes over to see if i’m okay. “what’s wrong?” she asks, placing a hand on my back. “something’s wrong. it hurts!” i say holding back a scream. the next thing i feel is a small release of pressure and my feet feeling wet. “i think my water just broke.” she nods looking down at the wet floor. “okay, i’m taking you to the hospital.” she states, not asking. i nod without argument, waddling to the door and into the awaiting car.

she drives as fast as she can through the city to the closest hospital. when we pull up she runs in before me to get a wheel chair for me. we reach the nurse at the front desk and she takes us directly into a private room. “do you want me to call anyone for you? the father, maybe?” i shake my head. “no, i can never see him again. there’s a reason i left home. i can’t drag him back into this.” i say, sad at the realization that i really will never see Harry again. “okay, well what about your mother? do you at least want me to call her?” she asks. “no...” i muster out before i scream in pain from another contraction. she seems to let go of any hope that i might want someone here with me. “but, can you please stay? i don’t want to be alone. this baby girl shouldn’t come into this world with only me here.” she nods with a forced smile. “okay, i’ll stay. as long as you don’t mind me working.” she says sitting in the chair next to my bed and pulling out her laptop from her bag. “go ahead.” i say finally able to catch my breath.

(12 hours later)

who knew having a baby would take this damn long? it’s been hours and i’m still only 4cm dilated. i’m ready to just give up and say ‘no, this baby is staying in. it’s warm and safe in my stomach. she can just stay in.’ but that would be completely insane because if she where to stay in it would likely cause permanent damage and possibly even death. and as much as this sucks and hurts like a motherfucker but in the end i’ll have a beautiful baby girl. “ahhhh! call him, call Harry!” i say through the pain of yet another contraction. Mia looks at me, wide eyed. she doesn’t ask if i’m sure because she doesn’t want to give me the chance to change my mind.

i watch as she takes my phone and goes through my contacts to find Harry’s number and hit call. my heart pounds hard against my chest as i wait for him to pick up the phone. i know he does when Mia says “is this Harry?” she pauses for a moment. i’m guessing to hear his answer before she starts talking again. “i’m Jess’s boss Mia. i’m calling because Jess is in labor and she wants you here.” i snatch the phone away from her before he even gets the chance to respond to what she said. “Harry! i’m sorry, i’m so sorry i left. but, i want you here. i can’t do this alone. AHHHHHHHHHH!” i scream at the top of my lungs at another achingly painful contraction. “okay, where are you? i’ll get there as soon as i can.” after taking a moment to catch my breath again answer him “i’m at Lenox Hill Hospital in New York. i don’t care how you get here, just do.”

(Harry POV)

i’ve given up hope of ever seeing Jess again after almost 4 months of not seeing or hearing from her or even knowing where she is. i’ve tried calling her mother a few times but she wont tell me anything. i’ve just been trying to enjoy the tour and meeting our fans and it helps... until i’m alone and everything comes flooding back. i miss her more then anything. even after everything that’s happened i still love her.

after our show in Chicago we are all messing around in Niall’s hotel room when my phone rings. i’m hesitant to answer it because i’m so tired. but when i see the name on the caller ID i almost drop my phone as i frantically try to answer it. “Jess?” i ask quietly so the guys wont hear and stare at me like sad puppies. “is this Harry?” asks an unfamiliar voice. “yes, it is. who is this?” i ask, feeling my heart race as i have flashbacks to when the doctor called me from Jess’s phone after what happened with Jay. “i’m Jess’s boss Mia. i’m calling because Jess is in labor and she wants you here.” my mind goes completely blank. what did she just say? before i can respond i hear i shuffle on the other end of the phone and then i hear her voice. “Harry! i’m sorry, i’m so sorry i left. but, i want you here. i can’t do this alone.” then she starts screaming so loud i think my ear drum might rupture... and our concerts can be as loud as a NASA rocket taking off. “the guys are here. i’m sure they’d want to come too.” i say absentmindedly. “no, don’t tell them. i only want you, please.” she pleads. i hesitantly agree. she tells me where she is and after hanging up the phone i turn to the guys who have all come to be staring at me. “is everything okay mate?” Liam asks, from across the room. i get to my feet and grab my keys, phone and wallet before answering. “i’m sorry i have to go. i’ll explain everything later.” before i can get to the door Louis stops me. “take a breath mate. tell us what’s going on.” i take a beep breath and close my eyes. “i can’t explain right now. it’s a family emergency... i need to go, NOW!” i break through his grasp and storm out of the room in a hurry.

the driver is waiting for me when i get outside “take me to the airport!” i demand as i close the door behind me.

(Jess POV)

it’s been over 2 hours since i called Harry and he is still not here! he has to get here soon or i might just kill someone. “do you want me to get you anything, hun?” Mia asks, getting up from where she had been sitting for the passed 6 hours or so. “yes, can you hand me my phone, please? i want to call Harry and see where he is.” she nods politely and reaches for my phone - that is on the bedside table - just out of my reach. i snatch it out of her hand and start dialing the minute my second hand comes into contact with my phone.

it rings for a while before finally there’s an answer. “hello?” a deep, frantic voice says through the phone. “Harry, where are you?” i ask in desperation. “i just landed at JFK i should be there soon. just hold on, okay? i’ll be there as soon as i can.” i don’t know why but it makes me laugh. “i’ll try but i can’t promise anything. this baby is going to come whether i want it to or not.” i say sarcastically, knowing that’s not what he meant. “you know that’s not what i meant. i’ll be there soon. i--” he pauses just before he’s about to say something i find my self longing to hear. “i love you.” i manage to say before another contraction comes ripping through my stomach. i hang up the phone before getting a response about what i said, not wanting him to hear me scream. i’m just holding onto the fact that he’s close and i’ll see him soon.

(Harry POV)

i hate New York traffic with a passion right now. i’m already anxious but being stuck in traffic is going to make my head explode. “can you get around this? i’m kind of in a hurry!” i almost shout at the poor guy. he looks at my through the rear view window and smiles. “your wish is my command.” he says sarcastically. suddenly we swerve out of the lane we’ve been stuck in for the passed 10 minutes into a fast moving lane. we swerve in and out like a bat out of hell. which is exactly what i wanted him to do.

the next thing i know we’re pulling up outside of the hospital and i’m opening the door before the car has even come to a stop. i run into the hospital as i pull out my phone to call Jess and make sure i’m not too late. “Hello?” says the same voice as i heard earlier that day. “where’s Jess? did i miss it?” i ask, running into the lifts. “no, you didn’t miss it. but, things are moving along. the doctors are ready to move her into the delivery room. where are you now?” she asks. “i’m in the lift. what room number is she in? i don’t want to miss another second of this.” just after she tells me the room number, the lift doors chime open. i hang up the phone and run straight into the room where Jess is screaming in pain, surrounded by doctors. “can i help you?” one of the nurses ask, sounding angry. “it’s okay, he’s the father.” Jess says from behind her. she walks away, but not without giving me a death stare as she walks away. i shake it off and walk over to Jess’s side, taking her hand as i approach. “i’m here.”

(Jess POV)

as the minutes pass i can feel myself getting closer and closer to having this baby and Harry still isn’t here. i made a mistake not having him in my life for the passed months and this is something no parent should miss. it’s the birth of his child. i just really want him here... i don’t think i can do this without him.

the next thing i know they are moving to a delivery room... alone. ‘Harry, where are you?’ is all i can think. there are doctors rushing around me like a bomb is about to go off or something. suddenly he comes bursting through the door sweaty and out of breath. the nurse is ready to call security before i intervene and tell her that he’s the father. she backs down and Harry comes over with that smile i love so much plastered across his face. “i’m here.” he whispers as he leans down and kisses me gently on the forehead. i smile back at him, speechless about what to say next. “thank you for coming. i know i messed everything up by leaving. i’m really sorry--” he cuts me off before i can continue talking. “you don’t need to apologize. i may not understand why you left. but, i know it’s something you needed to do. you can explain everything about your life to me later. right now you focus on having our baby. i’ve got you.” he squeezes my hand gently. another contraction comes - like a tsunami hitting me in the stomach - and i scream as loud as i can, squeezing Harry’s hand so tight i think i might break it. but, he doesn’t complain. he scrunches up his face with the pain but just keeps holding onto me until it passes.

the doctor comes in for an examination. “okay, Jess it looks like you’re baby is ready to come out. it’s time for you to start pushing.” fear enters my eyes. i’m not ready for this. she’s just going to have to stay in there. Harry sees the expression i have on my face and as usual he knows exactly what to say. “it’s okay. you’re going to be okay. it’s just going to be a moment of pain and then you’ll have a beautiful baby girl that you will love more than anything in the world. i’m here for you... i love you.” he kisses me quickly on the lips - just a little peck - that gives me the strength to go on. i nod. “i love you too.” i say back before i turn to the doctor. “i’m ready.”

the pain is unbearable and it feels like it will never end... that is until i hear the cry of my new born baby girl. Harry lets go of my hand for the first time since he got here so he can cut the cord and help as they clean her off and wrap her in a tight swaddle. then the doctor hands her off to Harry and he brings her over to me. i take her in my arms and my entire world shifts. everything i thought that mattered, everything i thought i knew... changes. it’s only been like a minute since she was born and i already love her more then anything in the world.

she has so much hair already - figures because we both have a lot of hair, his is better then mine - i just hope she gets his curls. “she has your eyes.” Harry says, holding onto her little hand with just his fingertips. i smile and stare down at this perfect baby girl i have held in my arms. “she’s perfect.” i whisper, not breaking my gaze at her. “have you picked a name yet?” one of the nurses ask as she wheels in a little bed, just big enough to fit our tinny baby girl. that’s when i realize i hadn’t even thought about names. i’ve been too busy with getting baby clothes, a crib, car seat and how the hell i was going to do this by myself. thinking of baby names never even crossed my mind. “no, not yet.” i say, glancing up at her only for a moment. she nods and leaves us alone. i look up at Harry who is looking down at our perfect new born daughter. “what do you think we should name her?” i ask him. he meets my eyes and smiles. “how about...” he pauses for a moment and we both look down at her and at the same time we both say “... Sophia.” we say in unison making both of us laugh. “it’s perfect... Sophia.” i whisper. he places his hand on my shoulder and i take it in mine, pulling him in close. we’re parents... how crazy is that! in this moment everything seems to fall into place. Harry’s the one and he always has been. i was kidding myself to think otherwise. when i look up at him again it’s different. his green eyes are sparkling in the florescent light of the clean white hospital room and the way his hair falls over his eyes and how his long fingers hold Sophia’s tinny, fragile hands and all i can think is ‘why did i think this baby would be better off without him? he’s going to be the best father!’ he looks up to see me staring at him and he smiles. “what is it?” he asks. “nothing. i’m just sorry for everything that has happened since we met. and i really regret not having you around these passed few months... because i love you and i always have.” i wait for him to answer but instead he leans in to kiss me gently on the lips. “i love you too. all that matters is that we’re together now and we have this beautiful baby girl that is more loved then she could ever know.” i laugh gently with my forehead rested against his. “yeah, she has two loving parents that will always put her first. 5 grandparents that will spoil her rotten and 4 crazy uncles that will treat her like their own. no one will ever be more loved!” he laughs at me calling the guys ‘4 crazy uncles’.

the nurse comes back in to take Sophia into the nursery so i can get some sleep. but, i refuse to let her out of my sight. she agrees to let the baby stay as long as i set her into the bed that was brought in earlier. and from the moment i let her go i start fading fast. i guess 15 hours of labor will do that to you. 

(Harry POV)

i watch as Jess drifts off into a deep sleep. she needs her rest after literally pushing a person out of her body. after a few minutes of just watching her sleep, Sophia starts to fuss. so, i pick her up out of her little bed and rock her to get her to calm down - so she wont wake up Jess who’s finally sleeping after what i guess was a long and hard labor - and i just stare at her, still in ‘awe’ of how much she looks like Jess. she’s perfect in every single way. then it hits me... i’m a father. i knew that i was going to be a father since the day the doctor told us she was pregnant. but, it didn’t feel real until now, standing here staring down at the beautiful girl laying in my arms. i make my way over to the chair in the corner of the hospital room once she has calmed down.

i sit there for what was probably 4 hours just debating what to do next... call my parents or the guys. Jess did tell me not to tell the guys. but i think that was just so they wouldn’t want to come with me here. which i get... this is something that was meant to be just for the two of us. but now that it’s all over i think they should know. so, i call them.

“hey, mate! are the rest of the guys there with you?” i ask quietly as Liam picks up the phone. “hey... yeah, everyone’s here. what’s up? is everything okay with your family?” he answers sounding almost... confused? “i’ll explain everything. just gather the guys around your phone and we’ll switch to FaceTime.” i instruct. i hear shuffling on the other end of the line and muffled voices before Liam comes back on the phone. “okay, we’re all here and supper confused. can you finally tell us what’s going on?” i laugh to myself and take a deep breath. “let’s switch to FaceTime.” i say, removing my phone from my ear to change the call over. the image of the guys pops up and they all seem pretty excited to see that i’m not curled up in bed or in a jail cell or wherever they thought i was. “so, what’s with all the suspense? are you finally going to tell us what’s going on?” Louis asks. “i’m sorry i didn’t tell you where i was going, Jess told me not to. but, i couldn’t keep this a secret any longer...” then i point the camera down to the baby sleeping in my arms. “guys, this is Sophia.” i say feeling a kind of... pride that i’ve never felt before. “holly shit Jess had the baby!!” Louis screams. “shhh! Jess is sleeping. it was a long labor, this is the first she’s slept in 24 hours.” he covers his mouth and whispers through his fingers “sorry, mate.” i shake my head. “it’s fine. i’m sorry i guess i’m pretty tired too. i haven’t slept since last night. i’ve just been sitting here staring at my daughter - completely in awe of her - for the passed 5 hours while Jess was sleeping.” i don’t really think any of them are actually listening to what i’m saying. they’re too distracted by Sophia... i don’t blame them though. “look at you. baby Hazza is a father.” Niall says teasingly. all i can do is smile. “yeah--yeah i am.” we talk for a little while longer - most of the time spent letting the guys look at Sophia. when i hang up the phone, i look up to see Jess awake.

(Jess POV)

i wake up to the sound of several voices filling the room. i see Harry sitting in the corner, holding Sophia close and holding his phone so they could both be seen by whoever was on the other end of the call. it takes me a moment to recognize Niall’s voice and with the other noise on the other end it’s obvious that they are all there. i thought i’d be mad but i’m actually really happy. i don’t think anything could ruin my mood.

after he hangs up the phone he looks up to see me laying awake in my hospital bed. “i’m sorry i didn’t wake you did i?” he whispers. “no, you didn’t, don’t worry. who was that you where on the phone with?” i ask quietly, trying not to wake Sophia up. “it was the guys... i’m sorry i know you said you didn’t want me to tell them but--” i stop him mid sentence. “i’m not mad. i’m actually glad you told them. they’re your family. which makes them Sophia’s family too... and i still like to think of them as my family even though they might not feel the same about me anymore.” i look down at my hands as i fiddle anxiously with the bed sheets. i glance up to see him getting up from where he was seated and place Sophia in her bed. then he comes over and lays down next to me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders to pull me in close. “they are your family. they love you, they always have and nothing you do or say will change that. and now that we have Sophia our family is just getting bigger.” the way he talks about us all being a family makes me feel so guilty that he still doesn’t know about what happened between me and Zayn and me and Louis. “Harry, there’s something i need to tell you.” i’m ready to tell him everything right then. but, he stops me before i can continue. “you can tell me in the morning. right now i think we both need some sleep.” then he snuggles in closer to me and closes his eyes. i take a deep breath and curl into his side, easily drifting off.

[al-the-photographer-blog]

Everyone’s Peggy: Threats to Seeing.

This space is static. There is little to no movement. The movement that does occur is directly related to mobile phone usage. Eye contact between patients is kept minimal. Heads are locked onto their phones or on the television screen; fixations are controlled by artificial movement. The only desirable eye contact is between the patient and the nurse that beckons them into the next room. The twiddling of thumbs, texting messages to family or friends, accompanied by an obligatory glance towards the phone’s housing; whether it be pant packet, hoodie pouch, or carry-on bag. Outside of that codependency, the occasional side-ways glance is done in secret. That was my way in.

Animals that Saw Me, a photobook by Ed Panar, is one of the biggest references I could draw off of after completing this activity. In the book, Panar creates a visual narrative discussing the fleeting, face-to-face interactions that people have with animals. I make the comparison, between staring at animals and staring at other people, because I think that it touches on the animalistic inclinations that humans retain. The fight or flight instinct, for example, uses staring as a way of preparation. The person or animal takes in the immediate threat through visual context and acts accordingly. Staring, in this context, is as a natural, animalistic instinct. An archaic inclination passed on from human ancestors. 

While not all of the images could address the concept of staring, I do believe it to be an interesting gesture on how the staree and starer can be swapped. This addresses aspects of the power dynamic, but in this case you’re never quite sure who instigates (starer) the action and who submits (staree) to it. Of the many observations I had while sitting in a waiting room and performing the act of staring, the power dynamic between the two characters was the most obvious. To me, staring is violating and is used only to manipulate the staree into a submissive status. Garland Thompson reflects on the aspects of intensity associated with staring on page 14. 

“We speak of “staring daggers,” “penetrating looks,” “piercing eyes,” “riveting glances,” and “looking somebody up and down.” Such phrases reflect the intensity of being on either side of a staring encounter” (Garland, p. 14).

My observations substantiate Garland-Thompon’s discussion of staring because they exemplify many of the key points outlined in the reading. There are two or more characters being activated in this position. Me, as the starer, have observed the power dynamic at play and the responsibilities that are enacted from that position. After hesitantly establishing an visual confrontation, outside of any consideration for the staree’s comfort or vulnerabilities, I attempted to tame the world with my eyes; jumping innocuously from one waiting room to the next. Of course, this interaction isn’t complete without certain fulfillments. The staree must submit or acknowledge the starers advances through some sort of reactionary impulse. This could be a hand shooting up to cover their face, a surprised jitter, a reluctant smile, or a hostile glare. No matter the outcome, this ballet performs until climax or ceases to provide stimuli. This is where the starer’s role intensifies and his/her duties to the staree become paramount. What goals are going to be met through this? What did I want them to see from me? What did I want them to know from me? How best to communicate this through eye contact alone? The patience of waiting for the right person to sit down and motivating them to talk, none of this should seem foreign to anyone. However, remembering the goals for each conversation once the line has been cast, is both the most difficult part of this conversation and the part with the biggest responsibility.     

The context specific prohibition against looking that I had intended to explore, was photographing in a private office space, but I found myself fighting against the compulsion to stare. So, instead of trading one for the other, I did both; staring and photographing. There are a number of power relationships at play while staring in a health clinic. In the waiting room environment, there is an all-too-often overlooked, but very much so present overseer in the form of surveillance footage. The hierarchy of surveillance is a  prevalent, pervasive threat to the staree and starer. This outlier interferes with the accessibility that a communal stare indoctrinates. The other prohibition, in this context, is the HIPPA agreement made between patients and healthcare providers. HIPPA is a United States legislation that provides data privacy and security provisions for safeguarding medical information. This safeguards against, but is not limited to data breaches, restrictions on access, broadened security measures, and patient interactions within the facility. I was unaware that photography interferes with those measures at the time. 

 What is disturbing about this interaction is that it is one sided, invasive, and mostly unsolicited. After two hours in the waiting room, hearing the names being called into the next room, listening to the medical procedures the television played on repeat, I successfully talked to 3 people about this area. John, April, and Emilio. The fourth and final person I talked to was the one who escorted me out of the building, but not before asking me to delete the photographs on my camera and requesting my full name for their records. Her alias was Peggy, but her actual name, after gathering further information on her immigration, was Ndidi. 

April was the first person I began to have a visual conversation with. She’s a bold, middle-aged women. She wore pink leopard print, unicorn slippers, and had pinkish-purplish semi-permanent hair colorization. She entered and sat at the furthest end of the waiting room, which looked more like a hallway with chairs. April was figgety, so establishing prolonged eye-contact with her wasn’t easy. 

As I stared, I noticed more and more of April’s features. Her skin was a deep tan, almost leathery texture with countless freckles. I took her picture in secret without asking for her permission. Soon after, I asked from across the room,

“What’re ya in for,” this question startled her out of her trance, looking up towards me with an almost lifeless reaction. Her face scrunched up and she replied with a loud and  puzzled,

“Huuhhhh?!”

I repeated my question from across the room. Her response was a waving of her dainty hand and a rolling of her head round in a clockwise direction. She replied, 

“I been comin’ here for months, lady. They ain’t found nothin’ on me yet worth talkin’ bout,” she continued looking downward, “it’s--been a long road, hah.” She chuckled to herself and half-smiled looking back up at me. 

“I’m Alyssa--er, Al for short.” I chortled waving at her with, what I would consider, a long distance handshake. 

“Oh, we’re givin’ names now,” she quipped questioningly. 

“I’m April--don’t ‘ave any nicknames, but I like the one you got. Sounds funky and for a girl with green ‘air, I’m sure that’s was your--ahaha--goin’ for.” She laughed and then I accompanied her. We conversed in segments. I told her about the picture I had taken of her and she laughed again, saying that she would have never noticed. I asked how this made her feel and she said ‘ain’t no harm if I didn’ see no foul’. John walked in about 8 minutes after April. 

John is a middle-age man, but with more seasoning than April. He wore a black t-shirt, blue jeans, and black nikes. He had in airpods and didn’t look like the type of person who enjoyed casual conversation. *note* I’m not making these judgements in real time, I’m only including this information to better visualize the character John made little to no eye-contact outside of his phone’s screen. Occasionally, he would glance upward at the television or around at the faculty when they would meander around the sides of the waiting room hallway. I continued to stare at him, without reciprocated fixation, until one of his wandering glances met mine. Then, another latched on to me without lingering for much longer than the first. Frustrated, I took out my camera and took a picture of him looking back down on his screen. Unhappy with the angle of the image on my LCD screen preview, I took another image. John looked up, but not in time to see my camera angled towards him. Enthused by his reaction, I took another exposure and he looked up to meet my stare as the camera pulled away from my face. He pulled out his airpods without looking away from me as I continued to stare back. Once out, he blinked and the corners of his mouth curled up into a smile; the kind of smile you don’t expect to receive from someone who looks and acts so unamused or bored in a public environment. As he smiled, he laughed quietly, and half-whispered,

“Whaaat--are--you doing, aha,” his shoulders drooped over while he leaned toward my direction anticipating an answer of some sort. If the charisma in his voice didn’t prompt me into talking, his body language did. He sat legs open, arms on his lap, and his face jutting out towards me in some comical fashion. 

“I was just--uh--staring at you, but you--well it’s for an assignment in my class, but, uh, you didn’t respond to that. Sooo--”, I replied scatter-brained and eager to get him to talk to me, “I took your picture instead while you were looking around to get your attention. I hope it wasn’t rude or anything. I just, wanted to see what you had to say about everything.” Everything? Really, Al?

John smiled, his head twirled upwards with his eyes as he shook it there. When his eyes came back to mine, he continued. 

“Man, I thought I came into the psych ward or something for a sec. You had me scared!” Me and him both laughed, then I asked him why he felt like he was in a psych ward, how the staring made him feel, and why he averted it so much. He said that staring made him feel paranoid or uncomfortable. He said that he wasn’t equipped to handle that type of conversation on this day and that his brain was more so acting to get him ready for his doctor’s appointment. He was overcompensating and he hated doctor’s visits.

Here, we could begin to discuss some of the points outlined in Daniel Segal’s Can You Tell a Jew When You See One?. Here, Segal substitutes the word stereotypes for typifications, which was originally coined by Alfred Schutz. In the essay, he elaborates on problems relating to prejudice, stereotyping or typifications, and how their social construction delegitimizes sensory perception. Sensory perception cannot be the reason for issuing a typification. Social jurisdiction operates to define the terms that we then give onto people from other cultural background or descent because it operates like a machine; giving titles, descriptions, and names to people, places, and things. To exercise what was learned from this essay, I’m taking precautions not to undermine John’s character.  Now, John is not like me. His skin is olive toned and he is male. That doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s from African descent nor that his descent effects his character, but his physical makeup does characterize visible attributes. The segment of the essay that I am referring to most directly is on page 238, paragraph three. 

“Take the case of whether a person is or is not “African American.”[...] the facts about this matter of identity, independent of a person’s ‘looks,’ are located in ancestry[...] Consider, in other words, the possible outcomes of discrepancies or incongruities between visual signs of identity and a person’s knowable ancestry.[...] Thus, by social conjuring trick--one that alters who it is who is known to have African-American ancestors-the incongruity of white-looking African-Americas is removed from the world that appears before our eyes. The Statistical correlation is tightened, in this cay by exploiting the instability of the supposedly fixed facts about whether someone is or is not ‘African-American’” (Segal, pg. 238).

As I entered into the facilitation of this assignment, I’ve taken precautions to understand typifications, how they operate and how to avoid them in descriptive narratives. That being said, John was comfortable enough to discuss stereotypes with me. He said that he and his family have felt the effects, but that they’ve been subdued by political correctness, informative outreach programs, and efforts in diversity and inclusion. When asked about micromanagement over the situation--in communities, schools, etc.--he said that perseverance is above all else the most paramount.

 Emilio was received in the waiting room, along with his grandparents and mother, while John and I were talking. 

Proud of my accomplishments thus far, I grew more confident and actively starred at Emilio. I glanced towards his family occasionally, but kept persistent contact on the child. The mother, persuaded by my eye contact, beckoned me over to sit with the family. I asked her about her son. Her heavy, latin accent generated a language barrier, but she still allowed me to interact with the child. He looked to be about 7. Everytime I starred, he unabashingly returned my glances with an assumed childish demeanor. I got his name after many attempts at explaining and gesturing to myself to receive an answer. 

Why are children open to acts of starring more so than adults? Is this exception related to childhood development and the absence of socially constructed expectations? Presumably, the answer relies on the age of the child and their experiences with public or social media environments. 

I was called into the doctor’s office for my scheduled appointment shortly after talking with Emilio and his family. The visit was conducted as usual. My blood results came back normal. The lumbar puncture confirmed that I had an inflammatory disease which would require medication and future consultations. During our intermissions, where the doctor or nurse would leave the room, I would photograph the room. After I received my prescriptions, I was told that I could leave.

The confrontation with Peggy occurred while I was making my escape from the clinic. Peggy found me attempting to make my way out of the labyrinth of halls that made up the facility. Deliberately walking up to me, she told me that the exit was in the opposite direction. 

“Ma’am, the exit is this way,” she said as she pointed in the opposite direction. 

“Oh,” I replied, “thank you, I’m sorr--” she interrupted my apology mid sentence.

“I haff been meaning to ask you where did you get dat camera and what are you doing in this place wit it?” She interrogated me in a foreign accent while pointing at my camera and the surrounding walls. 

“I am a patient here and I was just taking pictures to check my camera’s settings, y’know? Staying loose, that’s all,” I replied trying to sound as genuine as possible. She wasn’t amused by my response at all. 

“Noooooo! You cannot do dat ‘ere. This is a medical facility. That is wrong, very wrong. You cannot do dat ‘ere with other patients privacy. We have people who come in to take pictures for us when we need it...[--]” she rambled on about issues concerning privacy, of which, I was aware of, but didn’t think any of my images infringed upon patient privacy. 

“--So, I need to delete my images. Is that what you’re saying,” I interrupted her, “There’s really nothing too invasive with these images, I swear. I’m aware of privacy laws regarding media, but there’s really nothing in here that could come back to you guys. I’d be more than happy to agree to a release form or some kind of disclosure or no compensation agreement” I pulled out the camera with the LCD screen pointed up to show her the images. In preview, I went through the pictures to show her each one carefully. None of them were impressive. Most of them were still frames of objects found in the waiting room and consultation; a chair leg coming in contact with the ground, a stack of pamphlets on nesting table, a rolling chair, doctor’s instruments, John looking down at his ph---oh no.... Peggy was outraged. 

“See!! That is a patient, that is no good! You delete all of those images right now. You cannot do that! Can’t you see how that is wrong?! Delete everything,” She commanded. 

“Everything?” I questioned, but it didn’t more than a glance to realize her anger and bewilderment. I dutifully obliged and deleted every image I had taken from my duration with her head lingering over my shoulder. Still, I felt determined to question her further. 

“What is so wrong with photographs? The camera isn’t a weapon, ya’know. Besides, there are people taking images with their phones irregardless of privacy standards. I feel like the only reason you’re targeting me is because my camera is ostentatious and unconcealable. Besides, I asked this patient if it was ok after I took the shot.” I continued to argue my point while deleting the images. It only angered Peggy. 

“There,” I said, “all deleted.” 

“Good, but don’t you see how it is wrong to do that?” she, once again, asked. I had already replied to this question twice and didn’t feel like answering it again. I just kept to myself and allowed her to continue. At this point, I felt like a vacuous child being lectured into the ground. Did I feel remorse? Undoubtedly, I felt it, but the fact that I could reconcile with this women plagued me with more, unsurmountable guilt than anything else. What does it mean to be a photographer, to have a degree and uphold certain values, if I can’t convince someone otherwise about its nature? Peggy touched on the small of my back, erging me to exit the facility. Before leaving she had one final question, that I didn’t feel the need to answer after considering the negative connotations involved in the conversation.

“What is name for our records?”

“Oh, I can’t give you that,” I replied solidarily and exited the clinic doors. 

Upon looking back, I realize now that Peggy’s confrontation-in particular-illuminates more on the prohibitions of seeing; as well as legal/moral issues involved. Peggy was obligated to stop and lecture me on the legality of the situation. Her duty, in that respect, was to act according to protocol. When I tried to reconcile the situation-albeit-in a frivolous, panicked manner, I was met with more of the same lecture. We didn’t see eye-to-eye on the situation. In a more diplomatic conversation, I could see the conversation being more successful. However, Peggy instigated her side of the conversation with much more emotionally involved gravitas that it overwhelmed me; it brainwashed me into contrition before I could even begin to build my side of the argument. 

Binding, legal implications have power over ways of seeing just as much as emotional jurisdiction does or even an acceptance of conversation. Communication is a two way street. Both sides have to be willing to receive and contribute to the discourse. I’ve never photographed in a health care facility. I’ve been advised not to and was aware of the complexities involved both legally and morally. Why did I do it? I did it because I thought I could maybe reason with someone if I got caught or share information about the artform that means so much to me, but retains a heavy stigma in the public eye. 

The biggest threat to seeing, in any way, is cowardice. Summoning up the courage to seek discomfort, to be vulnerable, and to be forthright on the discoveries made after the fact, is the key to seeing behind walls; even when you meet someone like Peggy. 

“To see things thousands of miles away, things hidden behind walls and within rooms, things dangerous to come to, to draw closer, to see and be amazed” (Secret Life of, 2013).

Works Cited

Kuku, David. Unknown. n/a.

Panar, Ed. Animals That Saw Me. Vol. 1, Spaces Corners, 2011.

Segal, Daniel. “Can You Tell a Jew When You See One?” Judaism: A Quarterly Journal of Jewish Life and Thought, vol. 48, no. 2, 1999, pp. 234–238.

Stiller, Ben, et al. The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. Amazon Prime Video, 201th Century Fox, 5 Oct. 2013.

“What Is Staring?” Staring: How We Look, by Rosemarie Garland-Thomson, Oxford University Press, 2015, pp. 13–17.

#forms of seeing #fos2019 #fos 2019 #daap #anth #Graduate #Graduate Writings #Starring

[allthevmff]

Trust Me, I'm a Gentleman

by CubbieGirl1723

“C’mon, Veronica, it won’t be that bad.”

  Lilly sets Veronica’s paisley patterned duffle bag on the king-sized bed with a huff.

  “Logan’s not—”

  “Lilly,” she interrupts her roommate sharply, “I’ve met him, remember? Multiple times. So yeah, it will be that bad.”

  “This bed is so big, you won’t even notice that he’s in it.” Lilly’s persuasion does nothing to alter the glare on Veronica’s face. “Okay, I’ll double your fee.”

  At that, Veronica feels her resolve start to slip. “Well…”

  “Seriously. I’ll double it AND let you have the master suite in our apartment.”

  Veronica sticks out her hand for a shake. “Done.”

  Lilly sinks down onto the mattress of what looks like a very luxurious, gigantic bed and Veronica glances around, taking in her surroundings. The afternoon sunlight filters in through the windows overlooking the backyard and gives the space a peaceful feel. The Kanes’ fourth-best guest suite really is lovely—plush carpet, vaulted ceilings, soothing grey walls, sumptuous bedding—but the prospect of sharing it with Logan Echolls takes most of the joy out of it for her. Sure, he’s handsome and charming but he also flirts with everything that moves. Anyone who’s that hot surely can’t be trustworthy.

  She sits down on the bed next to Lilly and sighs. “Honestly, Lils, I can't figure out what you used to see in him.”

  Lilly giggles. “Mmm, yeah, we were pretty terrible together. But the boy has skills, Veronica.”

  She bobs her eyebrows, leaving no doubt in Veronica’s mind what kind of skills she’s referring to.

  Veronica rolls her eyes. “Ugh. Lilly, I do not want to hear about that! I can’t believe I agreed to this case.”

  She flops down onto her back on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. Is that a small chandelier hanging above the bed? This house is so much nicer than any place she’s ever stayed before.

  “I can’t believe I just agreed to pay you double.” Lilly lays down next to her, their heads touching. “I just have a really bad feeling about this girl he’s marrying, Veronica. You have to help me.”

  The door clicks open with a soft snick, making them both sit up.

  “Lilly Kane. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Leaning against the door frame with a sardonic grin on his face is none other than Logan Echolls, jackass extraordinaire. He draws out the last word in a particularly naughty fashion. His dark jeans and tight maroon cashmere sweater hug his body and Veronica gulps.

  He goes on. “Fulfilling my two blondes in bed fantasy?”

  He closes the door behind him, still smirking.

  Lilly laughs. “You wish, Logan. I know you miss me, but it’s time for you to move on.”

  Her eyes glint, not with malice but merriment, and Veronica can tell that while Lilly might be able to admit their on-again-off-again relationship was a disaster, she still has fond feelings for Logan.  He’s ridiculously good looking but the effect is almost spoiled because he obviously knows it. Veronica can’t stop herself from glancing at his hands and remembering Lilly’s comments about his skills.

  “In fact…” Lilly’s voice trails up the scale, building suspense, and she clears her throat.  “I’ve arranged it all for you. You’re dating Veronica.”

  He sputters and Veronica rushes to explain.

  “It’s not like that!”

  Lilly laughs again at her roommate.

  “I’ve hired Veronica to look into Kendall.  I think she’s a conniving little gold-digger and I can’t let her sink her claws any deeper into Duncan.  Veronica’s going to help, but I had to tell my parents that she’s here as your date, since it’s just a small, family wedding.”

  Logan’s mouth drops open in shock.  “What the hell, Lilly?” He moves away from the door and strides into the room. “You can’t just — ”

  “Look, I hate this as much as you do!” Veronica jumps in, yelling back at him, but Lilly cuts them both off, waving her hands.

  “Logan, do you honestly trust Kendall any farther than you could throw her?” She eyes his biceps, outlined nicely by his tight sweater, and amends her statement, smirking.  “Okay, any farther than I could throw her?”

  He doesn’t meet her eyes, so she charges on.  “She’s the worst, and I know you must think she’s terrible for Duncan.  You have to help me.”

  Logan’s mouth opens again, this time hesitantly, as he perches on the edge of the bed.  He stares at Veronica, and she feels like he is evaluating her. His eyes rake up and down her body, making her flush hot and then cold.

  “Kendall’s pretty awful.” He swallows and looks down, pleating the white duvet cover between his long fingers.  “I never told anyone this...but right after she started dating Duncan, she made a pass at me. I don’t think he knows. She played it off later like I had misunderstood but…” He stares intently back and forth between Lilly and Veronica for a second.  “I definitely didn’t.”

  He clears his throat and goes back to his examination of the bedspread before continuing.

  “I was actually hoping I’d be able to talk him out of this. Or at least a longer engagement.”

  “I know, right?”  Lilly rolls her eyes. “A month is crazy if she’s not…” She rounds her hand in front of her stomach, indicating a baby bump.

  “He says she’s not.”

  Logan has virtually ignored Veronica for most of this conversation but his focus shifts to her now.  

  “What I don’t understand,” he sneers, “is what she has to do with it.”

  Veronica hops up off the bed, incensed, but before she can yell at him, Lilly intervenes.

  “Logan!  Play nice.” Lilly gives his arm a playful swat. “You know Veronica. She’s building up her PI business and has taken some cases for friends on campus. She’s good. But this was the only way I could get her an invite.”

  He looks skeptical.  

  “No offense,” although his face implies the absolute opposite, “but why didn’t you have Celeste hire a professional? I know the look of disdain is permanently etched on her features but I can tell that she hates Kendall even more than you do, Lils.”

  “She did.”

  Veronica’s ears perk up at this new information. “Who did she hire? What did they find?” She grills Lilly.

  “Some guy named Vinnie? And Kendall came out smelling like roses.”

  Veronica snorts.  “That’s her first problem. Vinnie Van Lowe is a hack for sale to the highest bidder. She should have called my dad.”

  “But she didn’t, so I hired you.”

  Logan flops down dramatically on the spot Veronica vacated on the bed. “Let’s be clear. I’m only agreeing to this terrible idea for Duncan’s sake, so he’s not saddled with that sack of silicon for life.”

  At Lilly’s raised eyebrow, he elaborates. “Yeah, they’re fake. I told you she made a pass at me.”

  Lilly just smirks. “Good to know.”  She sighs deeply, like she’s distraught, but Veronica has lived with her for two years and knows better.  There is nothing Lilly Kane loves more than secrets and intrigue.

  “Well, I should be going.” She moves across the room, stopping with her hand on the doorknob, smiling back at them wickedly. “I’ll let V settle in and you two lovers can figure out your cover story.”

  “What are you talking about? You said we’re dating. That’s it, cover story done.” Logan brushes his hands together and hops up off the bed, giving Lilly an alarmed look.

  “Of course, but how did you meet? How long have you been dating? What’s your favorite sexual position? These are all questions that could come up at dinner.”

  Logan sighs and runs a hand down his face, haggard.  “Only if you ask them, Lils,” he says to the door as she disappears through it.  

  He turns and glares at Veronica.

  “Was this your idea?”

  She huffs, hands on her hips.  “As if!”

  His face loses a measure of its aggression. “Yeah, it has Queen Lilly written all over it. Sorry.”

  He flops back down on the bed. “Um, maybe we got off on the wrong foot the first time we met,” he mumbles to the ceiling.

  “Which time would that be? When I found you wearing my bathrobe in my kitchen, drinking my special Lavazza Espresso Super Crema coffee? Or the time I came home to find you and Lilly, naked on the couch? Or what about when — ”

  He cuts her off. “To be fair, I thought it was Lilly’s robe and I bought you a new one. And that can’t have been the first time you’ve found Lilly naked on the couch with a guy. I guarantee if you continue living with her, it won’t be the last.”

  Despite her efforts to the contrary, Veronica laughs and decides to accept his olive branch. His sexual charisma might make her uncomfortable, but she realizes she may need his help this weekend.  

  “She warned me as much when we moved in together. And I do like my new bathrobe. I never thanked you for it.”

  She gingerly sits down on the edge of the bed, keeping a careful distance from Logan.  

  “So we met through Lilly, obviously. And how long have we been dating?”

  “Lilly and I stopped fooling around about a year ago. So...eight months?”

  “No good. Why wouldn’t Duncan or Kendall know if we’d been dating that long? He’s your roommate and best friend, right?”

  “Ah, good point. How about two months, then? And I just haven’t told Duncan because...he’s been so busy with Kendall planning his wedding?”

  “Sounds good. Long enough that you’d ask me to be your wedding date, but short enough that we still like each other.”

  “Whoa, Ms. Cynic. Who broke your heart and left you so bitter?”

  “None of your business,” she answers sharply and decides to change gears.

  “Now what can you tell me about Kendall? I’ve heard Lilly’s views, obviously, but I haven’t met her yet.”

  Logan grimaces and, still lying on his back, covers his eyes with the crook of his arm. He’s probably not doing it to purposely show off his arm muscles but she can’t help but notice. Yum . Veronica squashes that traitorous thought quickly and makes herself focus on what he’s saying.

  “Lilly’s a drama queen; she’s probably exaggerated but...she’s not wrong. Like I said, I’ve been planning on talking to Duncan myself. I just got...busy.”

  Veronica scoffs and raises an eyebrow. “Right.”

  “Hey!” He throws off his arm and sits up. “I’ve brought it up a few times but Kendall is always at our place and then I had finals and…” He sighs. “You’re right, I probably should have done more.”

  “So Kendall…” she prompts.

  “Right. Duncan met her at a party at the start of the semester. He brought her back home and the next morning...she maybe got confused about which room she had been staying in.”

  His face says this is doubtful.  

  “She was in your room?”

  He nods. “Yeah. Naked in my bed. She came onto me and then when I turned her down, she pretended like she was embarrassed and in the wrong place.”

  “Is she a student at UCLA?” Veronica asks, her brow furrowing as she dives into investigation mode.

  “I guess.” He shrugs. “I’m pretty sure she’s majoring in General Studies and sorority parties.”

  Veronica can’t keep from making a face at that fact. “Ick. What else? Where does she live?”

  “When she’s not at our place she has a room in the Delta Gamma house, I think?  I actually don't know much about her background...I think she transferred to UCLA this year? Not many people know her.” Logan runs his hand through his hair, obviously frustrated. “She was just suddenly...there...in our apartment all the time. So I started making myself scarce.”

  “Suddenly crashing with her super rich boyfriend? New transfer student? Yeah, Lilly’s instincts might be founded on something more than sibling rivalry this time.”

  Veronica hops off the bed and begins digging in her black studded messenger bag. She emerges with a tiny notebook decorated with unicorns and a pen and scribbles some notes and reminders to herself.  

  “What time is dinner?” she asks Logan without looking directly at him. She can still feel his gaze on her, observing her movements. Apparently ignoring him would not actually make him go away. His constant piercing stare is beginning to make her flustered.  

  “Uh, seven, I think?”

  She makes another face as she glances at the clock on the nightstand. “Great.  An hour is just enough time to raid Lilly’s closet and get ready.” She looks back at Logan. “We might be stuck sharing this room but I’m getting dressed by myself. So you can do your thing now and find Duncan. I’ll see you at dinner and we’ll put on our couple show.”

  “Are you going to make a schedule of when we’re each allowed to shower?” he teases her, heading into the bathroom and turning on what she assumes is the hot water because of the issuing steam.

  “Don’t tempt me,” Veronica calls as she exits the room. She doesn’t know where the thought of Logan, hot water running in rivulets down his body in the steamy shower, comes from.  

  _____

  Veronica steps into the formal dining room of the Kane mansion and takes a deep breath, looking around for Logan.

  She spots him leaning against the fireplace, glass of scotch in hand, talking with Duncan. Presumably the tall brunette on Duncan’s arm is Kendall. Her dress is purple with sparkles, utterly tacky, but her curvy figure fills it out well. Her long brown hair is pulled to one side with just the perfect amount of curl and it highlights her slender neck. The heels she’s wearing make her almost the same height as Duncan and she’s clutching him possessively.  

  Logan is wearing his tight maroon cashmere sweater from earlier that begs to be petted but has switched out his jeans for charcoal dress pants. He catches sight of her and his eyes widen as they rake up and down her body.

  Veronica had grabbed a variety of outfits from her closet as she packed but a family dinner at the Kane mansion was a more formal affair than she was used to. Thankfully, Lilly let her borrow a dress from her closet. It’s strapless red satin, gathered under her bust and it flares out flatteringly over her hips. It hits few inches above her knee and since Lilly’s bust is larger than hers, they had employed some safety pins and duct tape to keep it secure but nothing could change the fact that she’s showing way more cleavage than usual.

  Based on Logan’s indrawn breath and lingering eyes, it’s noticeable. She touches the diamond star pendant resting in the hollow of her neck that Lilly had lent her for the weekend and plasters a fake smile on her face, making her way over to Logan’s side.

  She grabs his forearm and pushes up on her tiptoes—at least her silver heels help close some of the gap between their heights—and plants a kiss on his cheek.

  “Hi there, Love Muffin.” She goes into full-on perky mode, trying to appeal to Kendall’s sorority girl nature, and her eyes sparkle as her traitorous fingers stroke the soft cashmere covering his arm.  

  “Sugarpuss! You look beautiful tonight.” He’s overly jolly as he places a kiss on the top of her head, probably angling for a glimpse down her dress.

  “Veronica! I had no idea you were Logan’s date for the weekend!” Duncan turns to her, his open, guileless face full of happiness for his friend.  

  She actually feels a stab of guilt for lying to him. She’s met Duncan a few times before and while he doesn’t shine as brightly as Lilly— who could? —she’s always gotten the vibe that he is sweet, if a little clueless. Being taken advantage of is his fault, really, for being so damn trusting but she can see why Lilly wants to protect him and if Kendall really is lying to him, she needs to pay.  

  “Yep! He and I kept in touch after Lilly dumped him again, poor guy. I actually felt bad for him! He was so mopey—”

  If she had to pretend to be dating him, she could at least have a little fun.  

  “And I just hadn’t had a chance to tell you, man,” Logan quickly interjects before Veronica can do any more damage to his reputation. “Things got so busy there for a while.”

  “Well, I’m happy for you.” Duncan claps Logan on the shoulder and turns to the brunette on his arm.  

  “I guess you haven't met Kendall yet. Kendall, this is Veronica Mars, Logan’s girlfriend and Lilly’s roommate. Veronica, this is my fiancee, Kendall Shifflet.”

  Veronica tears her fingers away from where they’re resting on Logan’s arm and shakes Kendall’s limp hand.  Kendall’s eyes gleam with malice as she gives Veronica the once-over and for the second time today, she feels like she’s been measured and come up short. It’s as if Kendall can tell she’s borrowing Lilly’s dress and jewelry, as if she knows she definitely doesn’t belong at a fancy dinner at the Kane’s.

  “Lilly’s roommate?” She sneers and turns back to Duncan, placing her hand on his chest, not-so-subtly showing off the four carat Harry Winston on her ring finger as she fawns over him. She smooths over his blue dress shirt, then runs her hand down the sleeve of his sports coat.  Her haughty glance reminds Veronica of the mean girls in her high school and she’s even more determined to expose any potential secrets Kendall might be hiding.

  “My girlfriend,” Logan clarifies firmly and puts his arm around her but Kendall, no longer interested, ignores them. Logan’s affront on her behalf is sweet, if unnecessary.

  Veronica takes a minute to rethink her strategy. Originally she’d been planning on adopting a vapid sorority girl persona to befriend Kendall but that doesn’t look like it’s going to work. The best way to fight mean girls is to be one, she thinks to herself with a sigh.

  She leads Logan away—Duncan and Kendall don’t notice—and whispers in his ear. God, he smells good.

  “She seems lovely. Any insight here?”

  Logan just shrugs, helpless.

  Thankfully Lilly chooses that moment to appear at her side.

  “So, did you meet the Wicked Witch yet?”

  “Mmm. I couldn’t call it a pleasure, but yes, I was introduced and I see what you mean. Want to come with me and try to pump her for information?

  Lilly rubs her hands together gleefully. “God, yes. I knew this was going to be fun!”

  Veronica rolls her eyes and turns to Logan. “As long as you can bear to be apart from me, Honeybunch?”

  He gives her a fake pout. “I suppose I’ll live, Snookums.”

  Lilly snorts and rolls her eyes at their exchange, then turns and shasays over to Duncan and Kendall, Veronica trailing in her wake.  

  “Kendall, you get to talk to Duncan all night! Come ’ere, Veronica and I need girl talk time!”

  Kendall’s eyes widen in horror before she can school her features. “Oh, I don’t know—”

  Duncan cuts her off. “You should go, Babe. You don’t really have any girlfriends to share this all the wedding stuff with and Lilly and I are close. I want you to get to know her better.”

  Lilly doesn’t bother to hide her triumphant grin, and Veronica notices that Kendall can’t successfully hide her moue of distaste. Duncan moves over to talk to Logan, though, so Kendall gives a fake smile and lets Lilly pull her over to a secluded corner of the elegant dining room.

  “So tell us everything! All the details!” Lilly squeals.  

  Kendall looks like she just bit into a lemon. “Um.  Well, you saw my dress when we went shopping for your bridesmaid dress a few weeks ago…”

  Veronica waves this away. “What about ceremony details? Those are my favorite. Is your dad giving you away? Tell us about your family coming in for the wedding.”

  Does anyone ever say that? Veronica thinks to herself. Oh well, Kendall doesn’t question it.  

  “No, no family.” Her tone is harsh and at Veronica’s obvious recoil, she clears her throat and tries for a softer note. Veronica knows con-artists, though, and this girl is not a very good one.

  “I mean, my parents died when I was little. No extended family.”

  “No aunts and uncles who raised you?” Veronica questions.

  “Nope.” Kendall pops the P on the end of the word, obviously annoyed with her pushiness. “I don’t like to talk about it.”

  “Right, sorry. So who are your bridesmaids?”

  Kendall gestures at Lilly.  “Just her. Look, I really don’t know much about that stuff; I let Celeste plan the whole thing. The only thing I wanted—” she tries to turn wistful, but lays it on so thick that Veronica wants to gag “—was a Christmas wedding.”

  Behind Kendall’s back, Lilly rolls her eyes and Veronica agrees with the sentiment. Facing Kendall, though, she keeps her face neutral and makes a small “oh,” sound, like she’s interested.

  Kendall doesn’t elaborate, though. “I think Duncan needs me,” she says, and glances over at her fiance. He is deep in conversation with Logan and his dad and definitely doesn’t seem to ‘need’ her.

  “Oh, wait,” Veronica quickly pulls her cell phone from the lace garter holster she wears specifically to hold her phone. “Let’s take a quick picture, just us girls.  I promised my dad—”

  But she doesn’t have to finish her excuse because Kendall interrupts her. “Oh, no, I hate having my picture taken. I’m terribly unphotogenic.” She hurries over to glue herself to Duncan’s side.

  Veronica had been hoping for a picture to aid her background search but apparently it was going to be harder than that. She is just about to whisper something very mean in Lilly’s ear when Celeste interrupts them. Her cream-colored suit looks offsets her auburn hair nicely and looks very tasteful but her sneer of distaste ruins the overall effect.

  “Lilly, no gentleman escort tonight?” she asks her daughter in a berating tone. “You’re throwing off the dinner party numbers.”

  But Lilly is breezy and unaffected by her mother’s scorn.

  “Mom, you know I don’t get a Flavor of the Month at Christmas! Gifts tend to make them...attached.”

  Celeste huffs at her and calls everyone to dinner.

  Veronica has met Lilly’s mother a few times before, and as Logan had alluded to earlier, Celeste does not seem like a terribly happy person. Usually she’s upset with Lilly, which seems to bother her roommate very little.  During one of their first late-night tipsy evenings, Lilly confessed that Duncan had been the favorite for so long that she had given up on ever getting her parents’ approval and embraced her wild side. But if Duncan, the heir-apparent and child-who-can-do-no-wrong, is marrying someone they don’t approve of, Celeste is likely to be more upset that normal.  

  Logan quickly finds Veronica and escorts her to the chair next to his. Thankfully it’s across from Lilly and she catches her friend sticking her tongue out at her as they all sit down.

  Jake Kane, software magnate and CEO of Kane Industries, taps his fork on his glass to get everyone’s attention. He clears his throat.

  “Thank you, everyone, for joining us tonight.” He looks around the table and Veronica takes notice of the guests. There are two older couples, she would guess them to be Duncan and Lilly’s grandparents, seated at the far end with Duncan and Kendall across from Jake and Celeste. She, Logan, and Lilly round out the other end of the table.  

  “While we are saddened that Kendall doesn’t have anyone special to join her tonight, we hope she will feel like a part of the family.”

  Kendall glances down demurely and Jake continues.

  “So please raise your glasses: to Duncan and Kendall.  May they have many happy years together.”

  Everyone clinks their glasses together after his toast and Veronica notices that Celeste looks pained.  

  Lilly raises her eyebrows meaningfully at Veronica. “We’ll see,” she mouths silently.

  Veronica gives her a tiny head shake. “Be good,” she mouths back.

  Lilly nods like she’s agreeing but then sticks her tongue out again.  

  Oh, god. Veronica should have known this was really a case of babysitting Lilly.

As if he can read her mind, Logan puts his hand on her arm and whispers in her ear, “Don’t worry.  I’ve had years of experience keeping Lilly out of trouble at family events.”

  She glances at him, grateful, and realizes how close their heads are. She swallows, her mouth suddenly dry, and can’t help staring at his lips, inches away from hers. They look soft, and supple, and she’s hit with a memory of Lilly describing his kisses in vivid—and flattering—detail. All she can manage is a nod.

  They are too far away from Duncan and Kendall to try to hear their conversation, which turns out to be a good thing because Veronica is so distracted by Logan’s presence that she has a hard time focusing on dinner. She’s pretty sure she ate, and took small sips of her wine, but she can’t remember what the meal was because Logan’s arm kept brushing hers and once—it was probably an accident—his knee bumped hers under the table.

  Why does he have to be so damn sexy?  Now she can’t stop thinking about the time she walked in when he was screwing Lilly on the couch...or wearing her much-too-tiny bathrobe, and how incredible his body looked.

  He is patently a jackass, though, and amazing cologne and soft cashmere can’t do anything to change that. She tries to make herself think of his sneering contempt at her investigating this case...and not the plush bathrobe he thoughtfully left on her bed from La Perla, or the extra bag of Lavazza that magically appeared in the cupboard. She can’t afford to let herself get distracted by Logan Echolls.

  Suddenly, dessert appears before her, and this she definitely notices because it’s the most decadent slice of chocolate cake she’s ever seen. The cake is dark, decorated with thick ganache and extra shavings of chocolate curl on top. Her mouth instantly waters as she inhales sharply at the beautiful sight and Logan leans over to whisper in her ear.

  “Yeah. The Kanes’ cook is a pearl above price when it comes to chocolate cake.”

  HIs whisper sends a shiver down her spine.  

  “Oh, are you cold?” Logan thoughtfully puts his arm around her and rubs his hand up and down her arm, as if trying to warm her. It definitely has the intended effect as her insides heat up at his touch.  

  “Thanks,” she manages to choke out. “I’m fine.”

  He stops rubbing but keeps his arm around her.  

  “Mmm.” She takes a bite of the cake and her eyes roll back in her head a little. Between her proximity to Logan—she gets a whiff of his cologne again—and the tingle of chocolate on her tongue, she’s practically in sensory overload.

  He takes a bite but then pushes his plate over to her. “You can have mine.”

  If her mouth wasn’t full of cake, she would question him. As it is, though, she merely raises her eyebrow.

  “No, it’s good. And I like it. But I like watching you eat it even more.”

  Veronica looks around carefully. Lilly is busy teasing Duncan; Jake and Celeste are having a whispered argument across the table and the grandparents are too far way to have heard anything. So if he didn’t say that to cement their faking dating relationship...is Logan Echolls flirting with her?

  She’s not sure how she feels about that. But she finishes her piece and slides his plate of cake in front of her.  She never has any doubts about extra helpings of dessert.

  _____

  “Oh, shit.”

  Veronica is locked in the en suite bathroom in the Kane’s fourth-best guest room and she has just realized that she and Lilly safety-pinned and duct-taped her into this dress so well that she can’t get herself out.

  She looks for her phone on the bathroom counter, but she left it charging on the nightstand. She can’t call Lilly to help her.  She supposes she could walk down the hall to Lilly’s room but she forgot her plush bathrobe at home and she really doesn’t want to be wandering around the Kane mansion in her pajamas.  

  She takes a deep breath. She can do this.

  She cracks open the door to the bedroom. Logan is lying on the bed with his hands behind his head, contemplating the ceiling. He’s taken his shoes off but otherwise he’s still in the clothes he wore to dinner.

  “Logan?” she whispers. “I need some help. Can you…?”

  He glances over at her, immediately alert, and hops off the bed. Concern is etched on his face as she opens the door fully.

  “Are you okay, Veronica?” He leans against the door frame, and damn, that man can lean.

  “Oh, yeah, nothing bad. It’s just, um, kind of embarrassing.” She giggles and can’t meet his eyes.  “I’m stuck in this dress. It’s Lilly’s and she finagled it.” She waves her hands to encompass whatever Lilly did to make this dress fit. “And now I can’t get it off.”

  Logan’s eyebrows practically hit his hairline. “Well, lucky for you, I’m an expert at such things.”

  Even knowing that some sort of quip was coming, she rolls her eyes. “Lucky for me.”

  He turns her body to face the mirror and moves the soft waves of her hair over to one shoulder, baring her back. His fingers gently brush the skin along the top of the dress and she can’t help it; goosebumps break out over her body and she shivers.  

  “Oh, sorry, are my hands cold?” Logan bends to examine the back of her dress and all the clever ways Lilly kept it from falling down.  

  Veronica tries to look anywhere else—around the luxurious bathroom, at the glass walls of the shower or the jacuzzi tub, at the marble countertop or tiles along the wall—but her eyes are drawn back to Logan in the mirror. His movements are sinuous, like a cat, and thinking about how sexy he is makes her shiver a second time.

  “Okay…” He bites his lip in concentration, and dips his hand below the top of the dress.  “Sorry, I just have to undo this safety pin…”

  She can feel his fingers move all along her back, scrabbling to open the safety pin—

  “Oh, shit!” she breathes again. She can feel his fingers along ALL of her back because her bra didn’t work with the neckline of this dress and Lilly convinced her not to wear one. A fact that slipped her mind but must be taking root in his right about now.

His head pops up at her expletive and he eyes her questioningly in the mirror. “Did I poke you with the pin?”

  “Um, yeah,” she lies. “I’m fine, it just startled me.”

  “Okay...that should just about...do it.” Logan concentrates as he successfully unzips her dress.

  She carefully clutches the red satin material to her front to keep from giving him a peek.

  “Thanks for your help.” She keeps her eyes fixed on the marble countertop and she’s sure her cheeks are scarlet.

  “Anytime.” He clears his throat and they both stand there awkwardly until he apparently realizes that he needs to leave so she can change.

  “Oh, yeah, sorry, I’ll just…” It’s his turn to be uncomfortable as he jerks his thumb in the direction of the bedroom.

  Veronica giggles at the flush that covers his face now and playfully—one hand still holding her dress up—shoves him out the door.

  “Yeah, nice try, Echolls.”

  His smirk is back in place as she firmly closes the door and she’s glad the moment of tension passes.

  She definitely doesn’t let herself think about Logan’s hands on her skin as she soaps up in the shower. At least, not too much.

  When she slips out of the bathroom later, clad in her favorite soft nightshirt—which is a few inches shorter than she would have picked if she’d known she was sharing a room—Logan is sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing black jersey pants but no shirt.

  He’s facing away from her and, god, his back is marvelous. A freaking work of art. He should be sculpted, immortalized in marble for future generations.

  She lets her eyes linger as she fantasizes about running her hands over those beautiful muscles.

  “So…” Veronica gulps, her mouth suddenly dry, and perches on the edge of the gigantic bed.

  He turns to face her, and his eyes rake up and down her body, taking in the expanse of her thigh revealed by her too-short grey nightshirt. At least the scoop neck isn’t too revealing.

  If she thought his back was gorgeous, it’s nothing compared to the front view. There’s a sparse scattering of hair—with a slightly reddish tinge, perhaps?—across his chest and she’s surprised to note that he’s freckled. It should mar the perfection but it doesn’t. His chest is well-defined, his abs are magnificent, and she definitely wants to follow the happy trail of hair below his navel and see where it leads.

  She shakes her head to clear it when she realizes that he’s speaking.

  “I know I should do the gentlemanly thing and offer to sleep on the floor, but this bed is plenty big and way more comfortable than floor. So, is this okay?”

  Veronica nods. “It’s fine. I mean, we’re adults, right? It’s no big deal.”

  He smiles. “Thanks. I’ll be right back.”

  She slides under the covers as he heads to the bathroom and keeps her eyes closed until she feels the bed shift upon his return. She can tell through her eyelids when he switches off the light. Maybe if she doesn’t look at his bare chest again, she can stop thinking about all the hollows where she wants to put her tongue.

  She balances on the edge of the bed, keeping her eyes tightly closed and putting as much space between them as possible. Just don’t think about it, she tells herself. Don’t think about the incredibly hot, half naked man in bed. Think about his jackass sneer instead.

  “Veronica-ca-ca-ca!” Logan whisper-yells her name from the other side of the bed, adding a fake echo to the end. “You’re so far away, you’re going to fall off the edge of the bed. You can trust me, I’m a gentleman.”

  He can’t see the glare she shoots him for that smarmy line thanks to the darkness but he’s not wrong about falling off the bed. She mentally weighs her options and then rolls over to face him, giving herself a little more room to get comfortable.

  There’s enough ambient light coming in through the windows for her to see he's lying on his side, his head propped up by his hand as he stares at her.

  “So we got through tonight okay, but I figure if we are going to keep up this ruse for a couple more days, there’s probably some background information about my girlfriend that I should know.” He clears his throat. “In case anyone asks, of course.”

  “Of course,” she murmurs. “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, tell me about your family for starters. Where did you grow up?”

  “Oh, actually not too far from here. I went to Pan. That was how Lilly and I connected. A mutual friend, Eli, thought we’d get along so we decided to room together at San Diego State.”

  “What about your family?”

  “It’s just me and my dad.” She stumbles a little over the words and wonders how much to reveal.  A boyfriend would obviously know more details by now but it’s not like she’s really dating him… “My mom’s...out of the picture.” There. That’s enough of an explanation for their little ruse. She rushes on, skipping over that painful subject as much as possible.

  “Dad was the Sheriff while I was growing up but then he got injured in the line of duty a few years back and made a change. He’s a PI now. So I picked up some of his tricks along the way and got my license, started working little cases as favors for friends.”

  She shrugs in the dim light, aiming for modest, but really, she had been bursting with pride when she passed her PI exam and worked her first case at San Diego State. She loved investigating, the thrill of secrets and stake outs and unraveling mysteries. The fact that Lilly trusted her with this, well, it was a huge boost for her.

  “So what’s your major? What do you want to do after graduation?”

  “Criminal Justice.” She shifts, mirroring his pose so that her head is propped up by her hand. “I’d really like to work for my dad, but we’ll see. So far he’s not sold on the idea.”

  “Over-protective?”

  “You have no idea.” She clears her throat. “What about you? Family?”

  He scoffs. “You really don’t know?”

  “Well…”

  She’s glad it’s dark and he can’t see her flush.  She grew up only fifteen miles away so she did know something of Logan Echolls’ background. It would be impossible not to. Son of two-time Oscar winner Aaron Echolls, mother Lynn jumped to her death off the Coronado Bridge when he was sixteen, rocky relationship with the press—and pretty much everyone else for a while there.

  She decides to try a different track. “Okay, so how about you and the Kane’s? How’d that happen?”

  “Ah.” He sits up in bed and turns on the lamp on the nightstand next to him. “That’s actually a good story.”

  Veronica shifts and sits up as well, trying not to stare at Logan’s bare chest as he speaks.

  “So when I was in junior high, we moved to Neptune from L.A. My first day there, this really horrible girl, Madison, kept trying to befriend me, mostly because she wanted to meet my dad, I think, and Lilly swooped in and saved me from her evil clutches.” Logan’s face is animated as he talks, and he gestures expansively with his hands. “She pretty much claimed me as her own and that was that. Duncan and I became friends along the way, surfing together and stuff. After my mom…”

  He clears his throat and glances away.  

  “Well, I spent a lot of time at the Kanes’ house after that. They’re like family to me.”

  “And you and Lilly?”

  Now he looks abashed, and runs his hand over his face. “Yeah, we were kinda a train wreck. I guess you could say we dated in high school. After my mom died, I was a mess for a while. Lilly and I kept ending up together but it wasn’t a real relationship; it hadn’t been for a long time.”

  He’s looking at her earnestly now and she realizes that she didn’t really need to know that for their cover story. He told her anyway, though, like it matters to him that she knows the truth.  

  “And it’s not weird between you?”

  “Nah. We’re better off as friends and we both know it. She really is like my sister these days.”

  Veronica moves to face him, sitting up further and tucking her legs under her, tugging the fabric of her too-short nightshirt down to cover them. “And what’s your major?”

  “Anthropology.”

  “Really?” she asks, incredulous, before she can think about it, then claps a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, that was mean of me—”

  But Logan is laughing. “Yeah, I know. But I like history and sociology so it’s a good fit. I have no idea what I’m going to do with it after graduation, though. Archeological digs would definitely cramp my style, so not that, and academia is getting a little old.”

  He shrugs. “I kind of only picked the major to piss off the department head. He hates me.”

  Veronica giggles. “Masochist?”

  “Yeah, I guess. But it turns out I like it so it’s okay, even if I have zero job prospects.”

  “Forensic anthropology is cool,” she offers. “We learned about it in one of my criminology classes.”

  “Too much anatomy for my tastes. But you’re right, it is cool.”

  He smiles at her and she’s disappointed that she can’t think of anything else to say to prolong their conversation.

  “Um, I guess we should probably go to bed. I’ve got my work cut out for me tomorrow.”

  “Oh, yeah, right. Gotta save The Donut from the Evil Queen.”

  She laughs. “I’m practically a fairy godmother.”

  She lays down and pulls the covers up to her chin but instead of rolling away like before, she stays facing Logan. He turns out the light and lays down. She can see his eyes, shining darkly in the dim light.  

  “‘Night, Veronica.”

  “‘Night, Logan.”

  _____

  Veronica wakes the next morning with her head pillowed on something...odd. It’s not soft and plush like her pillow, but firm and warm. As her eyes flutter open, she realizes that she is laying on Logan’s muscled chest. She can hear his heart beating under her ear and his chest hair tickles her cheek slightly. He smells incredible up this close and he has his arms wrapped around her tightly. Oh, god, what happened? With all this room in the giant king-sized bed, how did she end up on top of him?

  She rolls away, but he stays wrapped around her, with her back to his chest now. He sighs in his sleep and mumbles something unintelligible. He seems quite content...and is divinely warm and comfortable. It’s been a long time since she’s wakened in someone’s arms. Logan is practically a stranger; this should definitely bother her—but she’s surprised to discover that it doesn’t. She figures she might as well enjoy it, and presses closer against him. She sighs, contentedly, and lets herself fall back asleep.

  ______

  Veronica wakes again later, still cocooned against Logan’s chest with his arms around her. She’d really love to stay there all day...but on second thought, she’d rather avoid the awkwardness of waking up this close to him and she does have to get ready. She gently disentangles his arms and rolls out of bed, grabbing her clothes and heading for the bathroom. For a second, she thinks she hears him whisper her name in his sleep...but she’s probably imagining that.

  ______

  “Good morning.”  

  Logan is sitting up in bed, still shirtless, with his finger keeping his place in a paperback copy of  ‘Guns, Germs, and Steel.’ He looks adorably sleep-rumpled still, with his hair mussed and sticking up. He is wearing a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and instead of looking like a dorky bookworm, he looks like the Mr. July spread on the best Naughty Librarians calendar ever.  What can she say? Smart is sexy.

  Veronica adjusts her black blazer over her polka dot blouse, cuffs up her sleeves, and tucks her jeans over her boots, fluffing the soft waves of her hair. She shakes her head, trying to banish the image that flashes into her mind of making love to him on top of the checkout desk at the Malcolm A. Love Library on campus. Clearly she is sex starved if she’s now having library fantasies.  

  She clears her throat. “Morning. How did you sleep?”

  “Really well. I hope I didn’t bother you on your side of the bed?”

  She flushes. “Nope. Not that I know of.” She jerks her thumb in the direction of the door behind her. “Bathroom’s free.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  He gets up and pads to the bathroom while she tries not to stare at his chest as he brushes past her.

  Down, girl, she tells herself fiercely.  

  She makes her way downstairs to the dining room of the Kane mansion where a brunch spread is laid out. There is coffee, french toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon, plus muffins and scones, on the sideboard so she helps herself and fills a plate. The spacious room is decorated in a modern style, and Veronica thinks that it suits Celeste implicitly—it’s cold and unwelcoming, with the vast table, recessed lights, and marble floors.

  Duncan and Kendall are already sitting in the middle of the long table and while Kendall doesn’t look like she wants any company, Duncan waves her over. He looks like an ad for Brooks Brothers in khakis and a blue polo shirt.     

  “Hey, Veronica,” he greets her. “I’m glad you found breakfast. Did you sleep okay last night?”

  She smiles. “I did, thanks. You?”

  “Oh, definitely.” He turns his eyes to his fiancee. Compared to Duncan’s casual monied look, Kendall appears out of place. Her clingy red v-neck sleeveless blouse shows too much cleavage to be classy and her black pants are practically painted on. “I mean, I didn’t sleep as well as I will when I have Kendall with me next week, but yeah.”

  Kendall glances up briefly from her phone, where she’s been furiously texting someone. She gives him a distracted smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.  

  “Yeah, you, too, Baby.”

  Duncan takes a bite of eggs and sighs in contentment, still moony-eyed over Kendall. He doesn’t seem to notice that her response doesn’t quite make sense and Veronica would love to get a hold of her phone and read those text messages.

  She takes a sip of coffee. “So what’s on the agenda for today?’

  “Um, I’m not sure about you ladies. I know the guys are going golfing. Kendall?”

  She doesn’t answer, just continues to tap on the keys of her phone.

  “Kendall? What are you girls doing today?”

  She looks up, startled, and her doting fiancee mask falls back into place. “Oh, sorry, Baby. I don’t really know.” She gives a ditzy smile and waves her hand. “I’ve left most of that up to your mom.”

  “Well, luckily, that’s what I’m here for.” Lilly bustles into the dining room, brandishing a folder of papers and a beguiling smile.  

  “Celeste just gave me the schedule,” she waves a piece of paper in the air, “and put me in charge.”

  Kendall’s face falls at that news and Lilly’s smile widens.  

  “Hurricane Lilly,” Duncan quips affectionately at her as she sets down her papers and fills up a cup of coffee and a plate.

  “Hey, now,” she teases as she sits down next to Veronica at the table. “You and Logan desperately needed my...direction..when we were younger.”

  He laughs. “Sure we did, Lils.”

  Veronica swirls a bite of French toast through the river of syrup on her plate—it’s divine—and pops it into her mouth before turning to Kendall.

  “They’re cute but I don’t really get the sibling thing. I’m an only child. You?”

  “Yep, me, too.”  Her response is short and predictable. Veronica contains her sigh. It’s hard to look into someone when she has so little to work with.

  “So, Kendall, did you grow up around here? Where are you from?”

  Kendall waves her hand vaguely. “Oh, here and there. We moved around a lot.”

  Lilly zeros in on this. “How old were you when your parents died? When did you start moving around?”

  Kendall turns fidgety and starts playing with her spoon. It looks like she only had coffee for breakfast.  

  “Uh, I was just a kid. I moved around a lot because of foster care and stuff.”

  This could be legitimate, but the way she says it just sounds so fishy. Veronica keeps pushing.

  “Logan said you just transferred to UCLA this year? Where did you go to school before that? Where did you live when you graduated high school?”

  Kendall practically throws her spoon down on the table. “God! What is this, the third degree? I told you, it’s very painful, I don’t like to talk about my past.”

  Duncan puts a soothing hand on her shoulder and Veronica apologizes.

  “We just want to get to know you better, is all.” Lilly gives her a fake smile. “Not trying to upset you.”

  “Yeah, Babe,” Duncan placates. “Lilly is like your sister now. She’s just curious. You should open up to her. Maybe it would help you to talk about it with someone.”

  Kendall obviously realizes that she has to say something and Veronica watches her squirm as she considers what story to tell.

  “Uh, I actually moved to UCLA from Tennessee. I went to Handley High School in Tennessee, right outside of Memphis, and then I went to the University of Tennessee. But I decided it was time for a change and I’ve always wanted to live in LA.”

  She turns to gaze adoringly at Duncan. “It must have been fate that we met at that party.”

  Veronica glances at Lilly, who is pretending to stick her finger down her throat. She stifles a giggle and looks away, only to see Logan enter the room.  

  He’s wearing artfully ripped jeans—the kind Veronica rolls her eyes at because spending money on torn clothing is ridiculous—and a fitted charcoal short-sleeved Henley. She watches out of the corner of her eye as he grabs a cup of coffee—black—and sits down beside Duncan at the table. Remembering how his chest felt under her cheek, she takes a large gulp of coffee and winces when it burns her mouth.

  Duncan claps him on the shoulder. “Man, I didn’t get to talk to you much last night. I still feel bad that I didn’t know about you two.”

  He gestures between Logan and Veronica and she can see guilt filter across Logan’s face as he takes a sip of coffee uneasily.

  “So when did that happen?” Duncan asks.

  Veronica jumps in. “About two months ago, right, honey?”

  “Yeah.” Logan nods and picks up the narrative. “I didn’t say anything at first because it was just casual, you know, and then I didn’t see you for a while there.”

  “Yeah, totally, man. Sorry if I’ve been a bad roommate.” Duncan looks so sincere and Veronica vows once again to protect him from Kendall’s possible schemes. Someone needs to.

  “And Lilly?” He turns to his sister with a teasing smile on his face. “Normally she hates the girls you date.”

  “Oh, I set them up,” Lilly interjects, her eyes glittering with glee. “You’re right, normally Logan dates bimbos, so I knew this was another situation where I had to intervene. I think they’re perfect for each other.”

  She gives Logan a dramatic, put-upon sigh. “What would you do without me?”

  Veronica expects Logan to tease her back but he just stares at Lilly thoughtfully.

  Kendall, still preoccupied with her phone, jumps up when it begins to buzz. She mutters something about having to take the call and heads for the patio doors off the dining room.

  Veronica spots an opportunity and excuses herself to use the bathroom. After winding down the hallways and pretending to get lost, she ends up on the other side of the patio where she opens the French doors a crack to listen to Kendall’s conversation.

  Kendall sounds agitated. “Listen, just back off. We’re not married yet,” she snaps into the phone.

  She pauses a second. “Give me a few weeks to get your money.”

  Another pause. “Of course there’s a prenup; Celeste’s not as trusting as her son. But it won’t be a problem. I’m not leaving him for a while yet.”

  Kendall drops her voice menacingly and Veronica presses her ear to the crack in the doors to hear her. “Don’t call me again at this number or you’ll live to regret it.”

  Veronica eases the door open slowly and surreptitiously snaps a picture of Kendall with her phone before the other woman huffs and ends her call, storming off. The only sound is her high-heeled sandals clacking on the patio tile.

  Veronica has no doubt that Kendall is conning Duncan. She just needs to figure out how to prove it. The photo is not the best quality—nor is it flattering—but hopefully it will be enough.

  She makes her way back to the breakfast table.  Thankfully, Lilly and Logan are still sitting and chatting over their coffee cups. Duncan and Kendall are nowhere to be seen.

  “You about ready to go, Veronica Mars?”  Lilly looks up at her with a smile. “We’ve got a full day of pampering and girl talk ahead of us.”

  Veronica winces. “Actually, Lilly, I’ve gotta do some research. I’m gonna head over to my dad’s office. Can you make an excuse for me?”

  “Veronica! You can’t leave me alone with her and Celeste all day! That’s torture.” Lilly’s eyes are wide with horror. Logan chuckles softly at her plight.

  “I know, Lils, and I’m sorry, I really am, but I’ve gotta do some digging.”

  “You rode with me. You’re stuck.”

  “I’ll take a cab.”

  “Oh, I’ll drive you,” Logan hurries to offer. He quickly drains his coffee cup and sets it down decisively on the long dining room table.  

  “Oh, no,” Veronica protests. “I don’t want to keep you from your best man stuff.”

  He grimaces. “I hate golfing. Please let me go with you?”

  His pouting puppy dog eyes are too much for Veronica and she relents, laughing. “Yeah, okay.  As long as you can come up with a good excuse. Go talk to Duncan and meet me back down here in ten minutes.”

  Logan tosses her an eager smile and lopes off to find Duncan while Lilly turns to her with a calculated look.  

  “So...you and Logan, huh?”

  Veronica stammers and hopes she’s not blushing. She throws down the cloth napkin she was unconsciously pleating between her fingers.  

  “It’s not a big deal, Lilly. He’s not as horrible as I first thought, yeah, but I’m still mad at you about this fake dating thing.”

  “Sure you are, V. Sure you are.”  Lilly’s eyes glint with mirth as she stands, pulling Veronica with her. She links their arms and saunters off, dragging Veronica in her wake.  

  “I still can’t believe I have to brave this by myself,” she grumbles.  

  “I know, Lil. But hey, you can keep prodding on your end and text me if you learn anything else. I’m gonna go to my dad’s and see what I can learn from her school records.”

  “Fine, fine. But I’m still not happy about it.”

  The wide smile on her teasing mouth belies her words. Lilly is nothing if not up for a challenge.  

  _____

  “Wow, this car, it’s...”

  Veronica searches for the word as she pats the interior of the passenge door of Logan’s black Range Rover.

  “Luxurious? Sumptuous? Pimpin’?” Logan looks over at her, his hands tapping on the steering wheel, and smirks.

  “Um, I was going to go with ‘ostentatious’. It would never work for a stake-out. But it is nice.” She strokes her fingers along the tan leather of the seat.

  “A stake out? Is that how you judge cars? ‘Cause I base my decisions on the back seat.”  

  Before she can stop herself, she glances reflexively in that direction. He bobs his eyebrows at her and she can’t help but laugh.  

  “Do those lines actually work on the girls you date?”

  “Not the keepers, no.” His brown eyes are warm as he looks over at her and she curses her traitorous heart for the flutter that she feels. Logan might be fine as a friend but she can’t let herself get involved any further than that. Not after what happened with Troy.

  “It’s up here,” she points out the window at the shady storefront that houses Mars Investigations.  “Sorry, there’s only street parking.”

  Logan is faux aghast. “Will my baby be safe?”

  “I know, the mean backstreets of Pan are pretty dangerous. Not like your pampered existence in Neptune. Especially for you rich pretty-boys.” She smirks at him as she hops out of his car.

  “Aw, you think I’m pretty?” Now it’s his turn to grin at her.

  Her dad’s PI office, Mars Investigations, is sandwiched between the sketchy law offices of Cliff McCormack, Esquire, and a nail salon. The strip mall also houses a Subway and used to have a Blockbuster on the end but that space has been sitting vacant for a few months now.  

  The bell dings above the door as she pushes the glass—embossed with her dad’s All Seeing Eye logo—open and she calls out, “Hiya, Pops!” as they enter.

  The space is cramped and narrow but the bright sunshine streaming in the storefront windows helps keep it from feeling too dark. The waiting area is decorated with old issues of People magazine on the coffee table—Veronica grimaces at the Aaron Echolls Sexiest Man Alive edition—a scattering of uncomfortable chairs, a ficus tree, and a rickety receptionist desk, currently empty.

  “Still no applicants for the receptionist job, huh? I guess my shoes are hard to fill.”

  “Veronica!”

  Her dad comes bustling out of the back office. He is wearing a blue dress shirt, slacks, and a sportcoat and a wide grin lights his face as he envelops her in a hug.

  “I didn’t expect you! I thought you had that thing with Lilly in San Diego this weekend.”

  He places an affectionate kiss on the top of her head as she explains.

  “I do, and the thing is actually in Neptune. I just need a little bit of help.”

  Her dad glances at her companion and raises a questioning brow.

  “Oh, right. Dad, this is Logan Echolls. He’s kind of, um, my partner on this one.” Logan shakes her dad’s outstretched hand.  “Logan, this is my dad, Keith Mars.”

  “Nice to meet you. I hope she’s paying you well,” Keith jokes.

  “Not so much. She’s actually doing me a favor right now and getting me out of golfing so I figure we’re even.”

  Logan glances at her with affection in his brown eyes and her stomach gives a flutter. Maybe she should just sleep with him and get him out of her system.

  She snaps out of it when her dad gets her attention. “Well, Veronica, what sort of help do you need?”

  “Okay, I’m looking into Duncan Kane’s fiancee. I’m pretty sure she’s conning him, that she’s not who she says she is. So I was hoping to access your database.”

  “Sure, sure.” He gestures at the empty receptionist desk. “It’s all yours. I was actually on my way out. Can you lock up when you leave?”

  She pats her messenger bag as he grabs his coat off the rack by the door. “Yep. Keys are in here somewhere. I’ve got it.”

  Keith shrugs into his coat and plants another kiss on the top of her head. “Good luck with the case, kid. I’ll see you soon, right? Home for Christmas and all that?”

  “Of course, Dad. Wouldn’t miss it.” She gives him a wide grin and sits down behind the desk, booting up the computer.

  “Nice meeting you, Logan. Don’t let her walk all over you,” Keith calls on his way out the door.  

  The bell jingles as it closes and Logan laughs softly. “You two are cute.”

  She smiles up at him, distracted by the research ahead of her, and waves at the pitiful reception area.  

  “Sorry, I don’t have much to entertain you while you wait. But there’s a water cooler in my dad’s office if you’re thirsty and we have a lovely assortment of outdated magazines.”

  “It’s no problem, Veronica. Still better than golfing. I do think I'll grab some water, though.”

  She quickly removes the offending issue of People magazine while he’s gone and then settles back at her desk.

  Logan finds a true crime paperback buried under the magazines and seems content to sit quietly and read—well, he jiggles his leg the whole time, but it doesn’t bother her—while she types furiously at her computer and makes phone calls. Occasionally he glances over at her, eavesdropping on her phone conversations, but he doesn’t interrupt her to ask what she’s doing.  

  After countless phone calls and—she glances at her watch—hours of digging, Veronica jumps up from her desk, holding a sheaf of papers, triumphant.

  “The real Kendall Shifflet is dead. The girl we know is named Priscilla Banks.” She can’t keep the wide grin off her face.  

  Before Veronica can turn back to her desk chair, Logan is across the room at her side. He grabs her around the waist and spins her around.  

  “You did it! That was awesome.” He sets her back down on her feet and gazes down at her and the look he gives her is so full of affection, her stomach drops and her breath catches.

  His arms slowly leave her waist but he grabs her hand.  

  “I’m gonna be honest, watching you do this Nancy Drew stuff—it’s really hot.”

  Veronica self-consciously tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “Logan, no one is here.  We don’t have to pretend to be dating.”

  His eyes widen and he drops her hand, taking a step back. She immediately misses the contact and mentally kicks herself for opening her stupid mouth.

  “Oh, yeah, right. Sorry about that.”

  “But, um, thanks for your enthusiasm. Most guys, uh, most people don’t feel that way.” She leans back against her desk, trying to smooth over this awkward moment.

  “Really?” He is genuinely skeptical. “What do you mean?”

  “My boyfriends haven’t always been very supportive. Troy...well, he probably didn’t like the investigation stuff because when I finally turned my skills on him, I found out he was a drug dealer and got him arrested for it. And Leo, he kept freaking out and smothering me, thinking it was too dangerous.”

  He grabs her hand again. “Ah. I’m starting to understand your bitterness about relationships last night.”

  “Maybe they did have something to do with it, but I’m starting to think I have terrible taste in men.”

  She huffs a laugh, trying to break the moment with a joke. Logan continues to gaze into her eyes, though, and she gets a sneaking suspicion that he might try to kiss her. As much as she would like that—and she’s pretty sure she would enjoy it immensely—if Troy, the ‘nice guy,’ and Leo, the sheriff's deputy, both broke her heart, there’s no chance that it would be a good idea to get any cozier with celebutante playboy Logan Echolls.  

  His thumb caresses her knuckles, and sends a jolt of warmth through her. She allows him to step closer to her and cup her face in his hand. Her breath quickens and her lips part as she stares up at him before she’s even realized what’s happened.  

  She takes a step back and gestures at the waiting area. “So what did you think of the book?”

  Logan looks dazed. A moment later, she can tell when her words her words register with him because the light dims in his eyes.

  “Oh, yeah. It was good.” He clears his throat. “But how will I survive without knowing the end?  Think your dad will let me borrow it?”

  She gives him a hard, speculative look. “What are the odds that you will be back to return it?”

  He stares at her steadily, picking up on the undercurrents of what she’s really asking.

  “I’d like to. That is, I’d like to have a reason to come back.”

  And before she can change the subject again or flee, he takes two steps forward, cups her cheek and the back of her neck, and kisses her.

  She’s sure that something shorts out in her brain when his mouth meet hers. His lips are soft and gentle but urgent and she takes deep drags from his mouth as her arms wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. She lets her tongue rub against his and, god—he tastes good. Lilly wasn’t exaggerating. She lets herself get lost in the moment, feeling his hands on her face and his soft t-shirt gripped in her fingers, and she’s pretty sure her legs have turned to jelly.  

  The kiss doesn’t end so much as lengthen and slow down. They break apart reluctantly, like they can’t quite bring themselves to stop.  

  “Well, now.” Logan clears his throat, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. “I’m glad that’s out in the open.”

  She should protest. She should fight this attraction harder. But he’s still cupping her face and gazing into her eyes. He places a sweet kiss on her nose and she just—melts. Maybe her first impression of him was wrong. Maybe she needs to stop looking for ‘nice guys’ and take a chance on this one in front of her who’s actually been way better than ‘nice.’

  So she swallows and says, “We should probably talk about this. But right now, we have a wedding to ruin.”

  ______

  Much like the previous evening, Veronica is seated in the same spot at the dining room table in the Kane mansion. This time, however, her slinky black v-neck cocktail dress is her own and she feels more at ease than she did 24 hours ago.

  Jake raises his glass for another toast.

  “To Duncan and his bride, Kendall.”

  Lilly, who couldn’t resist the spectacle of it all, recognizes their pre-established cue and before everyone can clink their glasses, she clears her throat. Her forest green lace dress offsets her green eyes, sparkling with mischief.

  “Actually…”

  All eyes—grandparents, parents, Duncan, and Kendall—flash to her. Logan, who knew a little bit about their upcoming production, smirks down at his plate. He looks delectable in a well-tailored suit that hugs his frame snugly.

  “That’s not quite right. Is it, Priscilla?”

  Kendall shoots a venomous look at Lilly and clenches her jaw. She flushes and her complexion clashes with her chartreuse dress—although, what wouldn’t? Jake and Duncan look confused, and Celeste sputters, “What?”

  Lilly is triumphant. Really, Veronica can’t blame her. The ‘big reveal’ at a dinner party is definitely a rush and Lilly lives for this sort of drama.

  Lilly stands behind her chair—did she block this out earlier, Veronica wonders—and gestures expansively at her roommate.  

  “Veronica! Would you like to do the honors?”

  Veronica stands as well, adjusting the hemline of her dress. Might as well play along with Lilly’s big moment. After all, it is kind of fun.

  “The real Kendall Shifflet is dead. This,” she waves in Kendall’s direction, “is Priscilla Banks. She’s not an orphan, not a Delta Gamma, or even a student at UCLA. She’s a twenty-five year old con artist with a rap sheet as long as my arm. Convicted in Tennessee but never served time. She took off and stole the identity of a girl from her school who was killed in a drunk driving accident.” Veronica levels a glare in her direction. “She was the drunk behind the wheel.”

  Kendall slinks further and further down into her seat during this revelation. Duncan’s eyes are wide and his face has gone pale, in stark contrast to his black suit coat. Lilly grins like the Cheshire Cat and Logan continues to smirk, clearly enjoying the show.

  Celeste sputters again and manages to get out, “But this can’t be! I checked! I hired a PI.”

  Veronica looks at her with faux-pity. “You got what we call the ‘Vinnie Van Lowe Special.’ He discovered all this but then decided to blackmail Kendall for her silence.”

  Celeste gasps and turns to Kendall, swearing like a sailor. She lunges for the woman, screaming something about the Harry Winston and Jake has to physically hold her back to keep her from attacking Kendall across the table.

  Kendall leaps up—self-preservation is clearly a skill she’s honed—and tries to placate Duncan.  “Baby, it’s not like that. Maybe I haven’t been totally honest about everything but I love you!” She grips his forearm with her talons.  

  Everyone else leaps up from the table and Celeste knocks over a chair in her rage. The grandparents slink out the dining room, shocked looks on their faces.  

  Duncan’s eyes flash with anger as he shakes Kendall off. “How could you? Get out!”

  The gleeful look slides off Lilly’s face and Logan stands protectively by Duncan, fixing Kendall with a fierce glare.

  “The Harry Winston!” Celeste hisses again.  

  Kendall drops all pretense of love and remorse. “Fine!” She slams the four carat ring down on the dining room table and huffs off.

  Celeste sinks down into Jake’s chair and gapes at them. “Someone needs to follow her to make sure she leaves without taking anything else!” From the way she speaks, this job is obviously beneath her. “Lilly!”

  Lilly glares at her mother. “As if! It’s thanks to me and the reliable PI that I hired that you even know the truth!” She links arms with Veronica in a show of solidarity.

  Logan claps Duncan on the shoulder. “I’ve got this, man. I’ll let you know when she’s gone.”

  He shoots Veronica a meaningful look and mouths, ‘Later’ at her before following Kendall, the sound of her clomping high heels still echoing through the cavernous house. Duncan sits back down into his chair woodenly, shellshocked.

  Celeste lowers her head down onto her crossed arms on the table and Jake shoots a pointed look at Lilly and Veronica as he tries to comfort her.  

  “You’re welcome!” Lilly sarcastically hisses at her parents as she and Veronica make their way around the table to Duncan. Lilly lets go of Veronica and drops down onto her knees next to Duncan’s chair, turning his shoulders so that she can look into his unfocused eyes.

  “Duncan, I’m really sorry this hurt you. I thought it would be better to know the truth. I hope you can forgive me.”

  “It’s okay, Lils,” he whispers, his voice raw, and covers her hand on his arm with his own. “Thanks.”

  She places a gentle kiss on top of her brother’s head as she stands up and once again links arms with Veronica.

  As they make their way upstairs, Lilly allows a small smile to grace her features. “That was both more fun and less fun that I expected. Thanks for being awesome at your job, Veronica.”

  They halt outside the door to Veronica’s room. “Yeah, it’s a rush—until you remember it’s someone’s life, huh? You’re pretty good at it, though, Lil. I might have to take you on as a consultant sometime.”

  Veronica winks at her and Lilly pulls her into a quick hug.  

  “I’m sorry I made up that story about you dating Logan,” she gestures at the guest room door. “Although it looked like maybe there was some chemistry there?”

  Lilly eyes her knowingly and Veronica opens the door and pulls her roommate in after her. It’s not a conversation she wants to continue in the hallway.

  Her cheeks turn a pretty pink shade as she admits, “Maybe. But how would you feel about that?”

  Lilly squeals loudly. “I’ve been trying to set you up for the longest time!”

  Veronica’s mouth drops open in surprise. “Is that—is that really all this was? A set up?”

  “No, of course not, Veronica Mars.” Lilly scoffs and shoves her shoulder gently. “I had utter faith in your PI skills and genuinely needed your help.” She grins mischievously. “Setting you up with Logan was just a benefit.”

  Lilly bounces over to the bed and perches on the edge. “So! Tell me everything.”

  Veronica shrugs and sits next to her. “There’s not much to tell. I think...maybe...there could be something between us, but…”

  “But what?”

  She sighs and flops down on the bed to contemplate the ceiling. “I dunno, Lilly. He just doesn’t seem like my type.”

  Lilly lays down next to her. “Wanna know why it didn’t work between us?” Without waiting for Veronica’s answer, she continues. “Because Logan is way more into monogamy than I am. His playboy reputation is mostly smoke and mirrors to keep girls like Kendall—or whatever her name is—away. He was never the one who wanted a casual fling but I pushed him into it and I knew he would agree because we’ve been friends for so long. He just didn’t have anyone else in his life, not for real, and I took advantage of that because the sex was so damn good. It was selfish of me.”

  Veronica sits up, suddenly, a faux-shocked look on her face. “Lilly! Don’t tell me you’re getting all deep and self-aware here!”

  Lilly laughs. “I know. It doesn’t suit me. But honestly, V, you should give him a chance.”

  Their conversation is interrupted by Logan, pushing the door open and peering inside.

  “Lilly, seriously.” He groans. “You’ve gotta stop this—” he gestures at the two of them on the bed “—or I’ll never get over imagining all the topless pillow fights.”

  He winks, though, and Veronica can see now that he’s teasing. Maybe he and Lilly will always tease each other like that. Now she knows there’s really nothing between them, maybe she can live with that. Like Lilly said, maybe it’s worth finding out.

  She takes a deep breath. “Yeah, Lilly. Get outta here.”

  Lilly sits up and turns wide, surprised eyes on Veronica and slowly gives her a wicked smile.  “Anything for you, dear,” she murmurs as she slips out of the room.

  The door closes behind her and Logan comes to stand at the foot of the bed, staring at Veronica speculatively.

  “So. Is everything…?” She waves her hand around to encompass the dinner drama.

  “Yeah. Kendall—Priscilla?—is gone and Duncan...well, he’s in his room. I checked in on him a little bit ago. He’ll be okay, I think, eventually.”

  Veronica pats the space on the bed next to her and he sits down.

  “The pursuit of truth is good, I think, but sometimes…” She trails off and clears her throat. Logan grabs her hand and caresses her knuckles with his thumb. “It’s better to know, right?”

  He nods. “It is. And like I said before, the Nancy Drew thing you’ve got going on is hot.”

  His eyes are twinkling and it helps pull her out of her worry about bearing the bad news to the Kanes.

  “Oh, it is, huh?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” He moves his hand to the back of her neck and leans in to kiss her again. It’s just a soft brush of his lips against hers but it sends shivers along her spine and she’s aching for more when he pulls away.

  His eyes look a little glazed over, too, and she’s glad that she’s not the only one affected.

  “Hey, Veronica?”

  She bites her lip and tries to focus on his words. “Yeah?”

  “Can I confess something? I’ve wanted to ask you out all weekend. I really like you and—”

  She can’t help it, she starts to laugh. He stops talking and looks slightly offended.

  “Really? That’s your big confession? You’re asking me out? I thought for sure it was going to some quip about the bed and how we should test it out.”

  He bobs his eyebrows at her suggestively. “Well, I’d hate to disappoint you. Should we test out the bed?”

  She playfully swats his arm and leans over to kiss him again. “Is this some roommate thing? Like, points for dating girls who live together?”

  He laughs softly and she can feel his breath against her cheek. “No, I—is that what’s holding you back? My history with Lilly? Because—”

  She cuts him off. “Actually, Lilly and I had a little chat and things are cool. She maybe kinda orchestrated this,” she gestures, encompassing the bed and the space between them, “on purpose.”

  Logan’s eyes light up with delight. “Little minx. I’ll have to thank her for the wingman assist.”

  He grabs her hand earnestly. “You didn’t actually answer my question. Will you go out with me?”

  Veronica pulls her hand from his grasp and hops off the bed, walking around to the nightstand where his cell phone lays.

  He raises an eyebrow as she types in something and tosses it to him.

  “It’s Christmas,” she explains, twisting her hands together, “and I doubt the Kanes want me sticking around. You probably should stay, though, to keep an eye on Duncan. So there’s my number. Call me sometime.”

  He checks his phone while she pulls her duffel bag out of the closet and starts packing.

  “Wait, Veronica.” Logan’s hand on her arm stills her movement. “It’s late. You should at least stay the night.”

  She gazes into his eyes and sees genuine affection reflected there. It makes her bold.

  “And share your bed?”

  “Well…” She thinks he might actually be blushing a little bit, something she didn’t think was possible. It’s adorable. “I was a perfect gentleman last night, right? Trust me. I can behave again.”

  He bobs his eyebrows in a way that totally negates his words and takes a step closer to her, moving his hand to rest on her waist. His voice is husky and it resonates low in her belly, warming her. “Or not. It’s up to you.”

  He bends his head down to capture her mouth with his, and she’s helpless to resist the pull she feels towards him. She wraps her arms around his neck, tugging him closer, and kisses him deeply. Sparks zip along her spine and heat continues to build in her core. She lets him maneuver them over to the bed, sitting down on it and pulling her on top of him, across his thighs.

  Maybe, she thinks as he sucks on the side of her neck in a delightful way, Logan Echolls isn’t as bad as she expected. In fact, she could get quite used to this. His lips send jolts of pleasure through her and she pushes him down on his back, tugging the hem of her dress up so she can settle herself more comfortably astride him. He looks at her with wonder in his eyes and slides his hands up her thighs.

  “Veronica…” His voice is seductive, wrapping around her, and she didn’t know her name could sound like that. She wants to hear him say it again. Everyday, perhaps.

  She puts her finger over his lips. “No more gentlemanly behavior tonight, please.”

  He nips her finger and sends shivers down her body. “If you insist.”

via AO3 works tagged 'Veronica Mars (Movie 2014)' https://ift.tt/2HjEFjj March 20, 2019 at 11:36PM

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[swanandapirate]

A Gift (Card) for Someone Special. Chapter 13 At Last

Summary:  Killian owns the local coffeehouse “A Cup of Jones” and business is going well. A blonde woman sets foot in his establishment and she fascinates him. Will he figure her out or is that to hard to do?

ff.net / Start from the beginning

A/N: I definitely chose this title (borrowed from an Etta James song) because it’s probably going to be your reaction. At last, a new chapter. You have the wonderful hub ladies to thank for implementing a deadline because I am quite the procrastinator. This is the last chapter, the epilogue, so I hope you enjoy <3

"Morning, boss." Killian can only see her reddish hair behind the computer, but once Aurora peers over the screen, he can see her blue eyes as well. They twinkle with kindness and that happiness Aurora always carries with her, that joy that only has multiplied in the last couple of months.

"Morning, Aurora." Killian smiles back. "How's the paperwork going?"

"Good! Thanks again for letting me do this. My ugly, swollen balloon feet were killing me in the café, but I was so bored doing nothing at home."

Killian pours himself a cup of warm coffee and approaches the desk.

"Hey, anything that can alleviate me from doing paperwork, I like." He lifts himself and settles on a patch of empty space on the desk. Hesitantly, he brings his lips to the rim of the mug, testing out the temperature of the coffee before taking a real sip. Aurora spins on the chair to face him. "Have you seen Tink today?"

Aurora nods. "She stopped by an hour ago. Anna has been doing great, a real natural according to her, so if it's alright with you, Tink would like to hire her permanently and full time. She stopped by to inform me and she's probably bringing Anna here tonight to show her what our official office looks like."

"Oh, that's superb. I'll discuss it with the both of them when they visit here. I'm still not used to having an official office, to be honest," he says, softly shaking his head in disbelief.

It was incredible how great business has been going recently. The door of the coffee house never stopped moving, constantly opening and closing and letting in a flux of colorful and varied people; young, old, regular visitors, new faces, tourists, locals. Their budget now allows them to rent a small office space. To think that he had considered giving up multiple times, been on the verge of just closing the cafe and returning to the UK as the failure he felt was. It's a bloody good thing he didn't.

"You deserve it, Killian." Aurora squeezes his knee. "You have worked really hard the last few years and this your reward."

"This is our reward," he corrects her, "I couldn't have done it without the both of you."

Trying to muffle the nerves that suddenly arise with the thought of his next subject, Killian fiddles with the rings decorating his fingers. "I've been thinking…" he begins but lets his sentence die.

"About?" Aurora encourages him to continue, wearing a soft and friendly smile on her lips.

"Opening another coffeehouse."

"Really?" Aurora's mouth opens and she widens her eyes in surprise.

"Yes," he affirms, his voice a bit more certain. "It would take a lot of money and work and a lot of people, but I think we would manage."

"If there's anyone I know who can manage something, it's you. What does Emma think about it?" Aurora inquires.

Emma had been the first person he had spoken to. Telling her had even been the first time he had dared to pronounce his idea out loud. The night had fallen and was filled with very pleasurable activities. In the aftermath, in the dark and quietness they needed to fall asleep, he had softly asked if she had fallen asleep yet, which she hadn't. Why he could only tell her then, Killian didn't quite understand. Maybe the nervousness or the importance of her opinion. There was always a chance- very improbable but it existed -that Emma would tell him that he was crazy to want that, that he was being unrealistic, that she would laugh. Of course, she didn't really; his fears were very far from what actually happened.

"She's very enthusiastic," Kilian replies, keeping Emma's reaction in mind. "She has even proposed to cut back on her work hours and help out."

"So 'A Cup of Jones II' is coming?"

"Aye, there were two Jones brothers, so it only seems fit to have two establishments."

His brother was so involved in the café; he helped Killian pay, sent him words of encouragement from the other side of the ocean. Without Liam, his dream could have never become reality. This is the right to do. One final way to pay tribute to his brother, his hero. 'A Cup of Jones II" in honor of a great man.

He is freezing; his cheeks are red, his hands are cold, his hair is wet. It's like he shouldn't even have bothered to wear the scarf around his neck, the beanie on his head and gloves on his hands. Never will Killian understand the allure of winter.

"Damn you, winter weather," he says, entering the apartment and setting the box in his arms down. His, now empty, hands remove all of the ineffective protection against the season.

"Technically, it's still fall."

Emma walks towards him after correcting him. She is dressed in a comfy sweater and a pair of jeans. The radiance that lingers around her, that brightens the room, overwhelms him like tidal waves relentlessly hitting the breakwaters. It instantly makes him forget why he was complaining, blurring all of his frustration and loathing towards his least favorite time of the year.

"It feels like winter which is enough reason to hate it." Killian toes his shoes off and sets them on the rack. With the socks on his feet, he slides over their wooden floor, approaching Emma, before greeting her with a quick but sweet peck on her lips.

"Hey," Emma protests, causing Killian's brow to contract in surprise. "We met in the fall-winter," she continues, immediately smothering that inkling of fear burrowed inside of him.

Emma is right; their one year anniversaries are coming up (their first meeting in just under a week, their first date a bit later.) How is that not even a year ago? Time is a strange thing; passing with the blink of an eye, but somehow taking an eternity to do so. Not that he would complain, an eternity with this life, in this company is one he would gladly spend over and over.

"I'm aware of that, Swan." He cradles her warm hands in his cold ones and places a kiss on her knuckles. "But that still doesn't squelch my abhorrence of the season."

"Well, I love the cold because it means you can make me hot chocolates twenty-four/seven. Especially now that you are officially moving in." Her lips curl.

To hear her say those words still sends a jolt of happiness through his body, as if he had just taken a liquid, physical shot of oxytocin and dopamine and they were now pulsing through his veins. They were going to live together.

To be honest, he was already spending ninety-nine percent of his time with Henry and Emma. His apartment lacked that homey feel, that sense of relief and freedom when you entered after a long, tiring day; Emma's, however, had that, evoked exactly that sentiment. But Killian still kept his flat, only going there to occasionally grab some clothes or to simply prevent the place from withering away under the dust.

One day, after Killian left to and returned from his apartment in the early morning, not long after dawn because he needed some paperwork, they both concluded that what they were doing was idiotic. They were practically already living together. Why should he keep his apartment and pay rent for a place he sets foot in maybe once every two weeks? Why wouldn't they just take that jump they had already taken weeks ago? They didn't need more to seal the deal.

"As you can see, I've brought my first official moving box with my most prized possessions." With a quick gesture, he motions to the brown square. "The rest I left in the car."

Emma raises a questioning eyebrow, the movement full of curiosity and looks back and forth between his face and the box.

"What do you consider your most prized possessions?" she inquires.

"If you want to know, check the box."

"I will," Emma says in that determined way her words always seem to carry.

It's one of the reasons he loves her so much.

She steps closer to it and crouches down. Swiftly, her hands open one flap and then lift the other one. Killian sees her rummaging through the contents and sees the emotions flash across her face. There's respect and a sad smile when she picks up the picture of his mother and the one with Liam and him. And there's happiness when she uncovers a picture of her and Henry, one that had been recently added to his collection but was as important to him as the rest. The biggest item in the box, however, safely and cautiously wrapped in bubble wrap, is his coffeemaker.

"I should have known." Emma's curls dance as she shakes her head. "What's the big deal with this thing anyway?" she questions. Stretching her legs again, Emma turns to him, the machine still in her hands.

"Swan, would you leave Fasóli alone." He softly pries the coffeemaker out of her hands.

"You gave your coffeemaker a name? And it's Fasóli?" Her voice is a pitch higher, a pitch of incredulity, as if she truly couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"It's Greek." His statement is followed by a nonchalant shrug.

"Really?" Her eyebrows shoot up. "You speak Greek?"

He doesn't really; his bilingualism is limited to English and a handful of Spanish he learned during that gap year he spent on working on Ibiza. But he couldn't find a fitting Spanish name and he had thought of nothing better than just to insert the world bean in Google Translate and to pick the best sounding one.

"You'd be surprised what the true power of Google translate is." Killian grins.

His little joke earns a roll of her eyes as response, but he can discern her effort not to laugh along.

"Should I be offended that you are calling her Greek names you have never called me?" Emma says, taking part in the game he started.

"Swan, I think my love suffices. I love you and all that, but this is my coffee maker. My true love."

"Why are you moving in again?" she asks dubiously, but the smile on her face never even lets the doubt come close. "Because you-" her finger presses down on the skin of his chest and then seductively trails down. "-are so sleeping on the couch tonight." Emma unexpectedly takes a step back and Killian needs to blink before her seducing spell is gone. "You can even bring your true love with you."

He chases her, to be closer, to feel her warmth again, because he's that desperate, and his hands manage to catch and stop her from widening the space between them because she doesn't even try to run.

The green of her eyes shimmers with mischief and amusement as he caresses the soft skin of her cheeks, framing her face. With an observant gaze, Killian continues the light touches, brushing her hair behind her ears, smoothing the little laughing lines by her eyes, the pad of his thumb skimming over her lips, causing them to part ever so slightly. The sparkles in her eyes turn into a low burning fire, the gold accents flaming.

"Please," he says before placing his lips on her forehead. "Don't." A kiss on the apple of her cheek. "Make me." And as the finishing touch, he merges their lips.

Emma continues to resist, attempts to keep her willpower strong, but somewhere along the line, she caves (it's after Killian's fingers slide under her sweater and start to draw large circles on her hip). A giggle escapes out of her, the sound vibrant against Killian's lips.

"I love you," Killian says when they sever the connection, making sure that the rest of their bodies are still glued together.

"I love you too," she whispers -or sighs- and she curls her arms even tighter around his neck, ready to resume what they had momentarily put on hold for their umpteenth declaration of love and adoration.

"And I love you too-," another voice interrupts, prompting Emma and Killian startle and to instantly release each other. "-but can we please start this move? Because at this pace, we'll still be unpacking when Christmas comes around." Henry stands with his arms crossed.

"Sorry, Henry," they reply simultaneously, with shame in their voices and a red hue on their cheeks that had nothing to do with the outside cold.

"Reprimanded by my own son," Emma chuckles, noting the reversed roles of the scene.

"Talking about Christmas," Killian says, Henry's words reminding him of something he spent the last couple of days pondering on. "I was thinking we could invite Hazel over. It's going to be her first Christmas without Liam."

It's his first Christmas with the knowledge that his brother is no longer here as well, but at least he has his other true love left, has her and Henry to spend this time of joy with and fill the void. Hazel doesn't.

"That's a great idea," she reacts enthusiastically. "I'm still sad I couldn't get time off work and Henry had school when you went to visit her the last time."

"If she agrees to come in a couple of weeks, you'll all get to meet one another. She can see the café and the States in general during Christmas time."

"And you can tell her about the expansion," Emma adds as she walks back to the forgotten box on the floor.

"I can,' he agrees, following her movements with a piqued interest.

Her hands remove the frames from the box with care before her eyes scan their living room. The sound of her soft hum, the one she always makes when she is thinking, reaches Killian's ears. Her socked feet walk around, stopping before the wall that bears different pictures of her, of different stages of her life. She reaches out, standing on her tiptoes, to take one of them off and hangs Liam there instead. His mother gets a place on a cabinet, a spot where she can smile her beautiful smile at him every day. She finishes by unwrapping his coffeemaker and setting it on the kitchen counter.

A look of pleasantness settles on her face, shapes her lips into a smile as she studies her small changes that seemed all but small to Killian. Their gazes meet and she nods proudly.

Bloody hell, this woman.

"Thank you, Emma."

The words cross his mind often, they did not too long ago, but every now and then, he has to say it out loud. To transmit every feeling of gratitude and love, of respect and acceptance that drenches his bones and fills his heart.

"For what?" She lightly furrows her brow while tilting her head.

"Loving me." His shoulders go up in a slight shrug.

"Oh," she utters, the understanding hitting her. "Well, my pleasure then. It is one of my favorite things to do."

Henry, the teenager that he is, makes a sound akin a grunt, something to remind them of his presence and his distaste of seeing another make-out session.

Emma lights up the room with her laugh and Killian can't help but join her. She rubs over her forehead. "Now, I believe we have some unpacking to do," she says to the contentment of her son, who looks visibly relieved;

Killian grins. "That we do, my love. That we do."

And there we go. The end! Quite emotional to end it, because this was the first multi-chapter fic that I ever started writing and I still remember coming up with the idea for my writing week. Even though finishing this story has taken me way (way, way) longer than I originally planned, I am very happy with how it turned out. Thank you to everyone who has read, followed or reviewed, it has meant more to me that you probably realized while clicking on the button. Au revoir! <3

(If you'd like to read other stories that I write, be sure to check out Blue Petals & Broken Glass, A Bitter Sweet Memory and my collection of prompts somehow they just keep falling in love)

#cs ff #captain swan #agcfss #cs crew #cs au #my words and sentences