#I used it a lot when writing Bonds Left Unbroken so that’s why I always remember it

[101flavoursofweird]

Ooh, I can help! I don’t know if it’s the first time the line was ever mentioned, but Layton does mention it to Angela (Descole in disguise) during Chapter 8 when they’re trying to raise to city in the ruins below the monument, and DescAngela asks where the Mask of Order is.

Layton also mentions that the engraving was in the same message Randall deciphered on the stone tablet when they were teenagers… but I’m not sure if or when it’s mentioned during the flashbacks.

Another question for anyone with an encyclopaedic knowledge of Professor Layton and the Miracle Mask, when was the line “Only the bearers of Chaos and Order may reveal our legacy. It is always the two halves that make the whole.” First said?

I am currently looking for this and will reblog if I find it, but if anyone could help I’d be grateful!

[101flavoursofweird]

Fic Questionnaire

Thanks for @sixtyfourk for tagging me! I’m putting the questions under a cut because it’s quite long :’)

I’ll tag @northernscruffycat, @northelypark, @edward-elbowlick, @vermontwrites, @asa-liz, @yoshi-g-teh-first, @call-me-rucy, and @aquamarineglow but if there’s anyone else who wants to do this, please go ahead!

How many works do you have on AO3?

107… but a lot of these are just reposts or prompt-inspired fics that are 10 lines long!

What's your total AO3 word count?

378242 words

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Professor Layton, PLvsAA, Layton Brothers Mystery Room, Rhythm Thief, Voltron: Legendary Defender (I only watched the first two seasons, haha…), The Ancient Magus Bride (I was in it for the cute dragon mage— not for the main romance), Steven Universe, Ace Attorney (only as a part of PLvsAA), Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts, My Hero Academia

…10 fandoms altogether, but some like PLvsAA and LBMR fall under the PL category.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Aizawa Doesn’t Give Hugs - MHA- 1111 kudos - (Why can’t I update my most popular fic?)

Fireflies - Steven Universe - 221 kudos - (Again, WHY DID I NEVER UPDATE THIS?)

Reset - PL - 134 kudos - (This is the one I feel the worst about because it’s an ongoing long fic for my main fandom and I’ve had so much support from readers but I just can’t find the strength to update it…)

Worth Fighting For - PL - 86 kudos - (My incomplete Whumptober fic!)

Mending - Voltron - 85 kudos - (I think this was one of the first fics I posted on AO3 and I was really happy about the response it got! And for a fandom I’d never written for before!)

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I usually respond to comments pretty quickly because I want to show my appreciation for people who take the time to comment :) If I’m ever slow to respond it’s probably just because I’m busy or I’m trying to formulate a long response. If a person leaves a longer comment, I try to make my response longer!

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

That’s probably ‘To Boldly Flee’. It’s a fic I originally posted on FF.net but it’s now part of an Aurora & Luke oneshot series called ‘Looking Foward’ on AO3. The fic stars Aurora and Luke in an AU set during Azran Legacy. It diverges from canon after Descole steals the Azran keystone in the Nest. Aurora doesn’t want to go to the Azran sanctuary and face her ‘duty’ as the Azran emissary— she also doesn’t want to get STABBED IN THE HEART— so she decides to run away with Luke.

Aurora receives even more angst in this AU than in canon. After Descole’s betrayal, she starts to doubt herself and her friends, aside from Luke.

With a bit of help from Rook and Bishop, the two of them fly to London and then to Misthallery when they hear Targent have taken over the town. During this time, Aurora has her identity crisis about being a golem and having the fate of the world resting on her shoulders. She eventually decides to help Luke save his hometown because Luke is worth the world to her.

This all culminates with Luke getting fatally(?) wounded and taken to the Golden Garden. Aurora is so distraught by this point that she almost ‘floods the whole world’ in a kind of failsafe doomsday device the Azran may have implanted in her. Luckily, Descole and Layton show up to assure her that Luke is alive— but just barely. Aurora returns to her normal self and they get Luke to hospital. Aurora waits by Luke’s bedside for him to wake up. Aurora mentions that Emmy’s fate is unknown, but they still mourn for her.

In the original FF.net ending, Luke wakes up.

In the AO3 ending, Aurora just keeps waiting for Luke. ‘She could not age, so she would wait until he awoke. Even if it took forever...’

If I ever did write more of this story, Aurora and Co would probably go to the other Azran sites (Ambrosia, the Infinite Vault of etc) to search for a cure for Luke. But at it is, the fic is left open-ended as to whether Luke ever recovers.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Not really hate but there was one anon review that may have been ‘too brutal’ (their words). I can’t say it hasn’t affected the updates on that particular fic.

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I wrote a couple of light smut fics back when I really shipped Layton/Emmy. I think I’d cringe if I went back to read those fics (but then again, I do that with a lot of my old writing). I can’t see myself writing smut now.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I can’t say I’ve had a fic stolen, but I was reading a fic a while ago and the wording was veeery familiar. I’m not sure why because the fic was already good up to that point? Why would they bother copying my writing? XD I can’t complain, though! We’re all technically stealing the original creator’s characters and concepts by writing fanfic.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes, for my Rhythm Thief AU, Déjà Vergier! In this AU, 16-year-old Raphael gets taken in by the Vergier family. A Deviantart user called BakApple kindly translated my writing into French. With the help of Google Trabslate, I started translating their French Rhythm Thief fic— ‘July the Fourteenth’— into English, but I didn’t get around to finishing it. My translating skills are nowhere near as good as BakApple’s!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I wrote a PL fic with called ‘If You Only Had Time’ with an awesome writer called Glowbug. It’s an AU (of course) where Rachel Bronev survives and she runs away from Targent with eight-year-old Emmy. Glowbug doesn’t seem to be active online anymore, which is a shame, but I don’t mind! I’m just glad we were able to write 6 chapters.

I don’t think I’d co-write any more fics now… but more for the co-writer’s sake than mine! I’m notoriously bad at updating long fics and I struggle to write under pressure or within a time limit. There’s a reason why I don’t enter Big Bang events, as much as I’d like too :’)

Writing fics is a hobby first and foremost. If I don’t feel like writing something, I’ll leave it and come back later, hopefully with renewed inspiration.

But I’m always happy to discuss fic outlines/ideas/characters’ with other people!

What's your all time favorite ship?

Apparently the ship I’ve written the most fics for is Janice/Melina on AO3?

There seems to be more content for them recently and that makes me SO HAPPY.

Ranhengela might be a close second favourite… Sometimes I literally forget both of these ships aren’t canon.

My favourite characters tend to be those who are so selfless and would sacrifice their lives for the ones they love— e.g. Janice and Henry— even if their significant other is presumed to be dead. I want these characters to be happy but I also want them to through ANGST.

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

I don’t want to say Reset… but maybe Reset? I haven’t given up completely but I’ve lost a lot of confidence with this fic. What I wanted most out of this story was for Luke to bond with other characters aside from Layton— his parents, Arianna, Emmy, Flora etc.— and to give these characters a chance to shine. But I guess I realised I can do this without all the crazy plot twists and time travel mechanics… like in Ready Now, for example. Most of that fic is just Arianna bonding with Luke, Layton and the others, and it’s hopefully giving Flora her chance to shine too! I guess after giving Arianna her own chapter in Reset I just really wanted to write about her, haha.

What are your writing strengths?

Someone mentioned in a nice review that I often fuse canon with fanon? That’s usually just me poking fun at the series— like when Arianna’s mother asks about Flora’s age and her adoption status, Arianna and Tony just shrug at her comedically. Who knows, really? :’)

I’ll often just make two character sit in a room TALK about their feelings.

Dialogue is an easy one, but I like writing dialogue for characters and getting their voices down. (I will forever portray Dalston with his official Yorkshire accent— not the fake posh accent they gave him the the US version of Miracle Mask.)

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I think it’s cool! …If it’s not used to mock another language— apart from English. Please make all the English jokes you want. I’ll probably agree with you and laugh at them.

I remember when I was re-reading Goblet of Fire and I cringed every time J. K. Rowling wrote about a character who wasn’t English.

I’ll occasionally throw French words or sayings into Rhythm Thief fics especially because that’s what they do in the game. It’s hilarious how Charlie has an English accent but then she’ll sprout a random French phrase.

What was the first fandom you ever wrote for?

Pokemon, but that short oneshot is long gone.

What's your favorite fic you've ever written?

I’m going to be boring and say Bonds Left Unbroken— an AU where Layton and Desmond both get adopted by the Laytons. I think I enjoyed the earlier chapters more, focussing on younger Desmond and Hershel, and especially their time in Stansbury. The later chapters don’t really branch out from canon that much, aside from the fact that Hershel and Desmond are on the same page during Azran Legacy.

I feel bad that I never got around to finishing the ‘bonus’ episodes, but it kind of just felt like the original series with Desmond phoned in :’) But I’m still proud of the original fic!

[some-cookie-crumbz]

Hello 👋🏼, sorry if I’m bothering u but ever since the recent chapters of BNHA I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the Todoroki family. Not many of my friends are into this anime and I just couldn’t stop myself from sharing this with you because I need to let this out.

[SPOILER ALERT 🚨!!! IF U DONT READ THE MANGA THEN U CAN JUST IGNORE THIS]

First of all:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!

(I’m still screaming as I write because the backstories RUINED me.)

Poor Touya having this horrible obsession over heroics and having his father acknowledge him but ever since his quirk started reacting against his body the whole family got negatively affected by it.

Rei and Enji wanted to stop at two kids but with Touya’s sudden disadvantage and the latter’s craving for power, Natsuo and later on Shouto was born (the youngest getting titled as the perfect heir from the moment he was born). I got torn seeing Touya’s eyes succumb to absolute madness at the birth of his younger brothers.

What scared me the most was how when it was just Touya and Fuyumi, the two hardly interacted despite being only a year apart in age. Touya claimed that ‘girls just don’t get it’ this small foreshadowing was later brought to light in the most recent chapter where he once again rejects Fuyumi’s company in favour of ranting to only Natsuo and where he disregards his own mother— another ‘girl’ that doesn’t understand his obsession passion for surpassing All Might and someone who plays along to the acts of those stronger than them. Touya saw his mother as a weak person who had no choice but to marry for the sake of her family and have custom children. Little Touya firmly believed his very existence depended on getting acknowledged my his father and defeating All Might but it sadly didn’t come true😭😭

Also..... LOOK AT THE BABIES!!!! They’re all so CUTE!!!

Chubby Fuyumi!!!

Natsuo with a running nose

And Baby Shouto with a meme like face since the day he was born🤣🤣🤣🤣

So ADORABLE!

And another thing. FUYUMI WAS EVEN YOUNGER THAN I THOUGHT TO HAVE STARTED ACTING LIKE A SECOND MOTHER TO HER BROTHERS!! Look at the way she defended Natsuo when Touya went on a rampage and tried to attack Touya! And during moments when Enji and Rei fought the two most notable heroes were Shouto and Fuyumi; the former fighting on the frontlines to face his father while the latter stood behind to once again care for her remaining family that though weren’t involved in the fight, they still needed emotional support to get through it.😭

I AM SO SORRY TO BE GETTING TO THIS SO LATE ANON BUT I HAVE SO MUCH TO SAY!!!

TW: Spoilers, Brief Mention of Child Abuse (Physical, Emotional and Mental), General Fandom Wank

So, like, SO MUCH HAPPENED in those chapters and I ABSOLUTELY LOVE ALMOST ALL OF IT! There’s obviously all the things you mentioned above that were just amazing to see and learn! I know that a majority of the fandom has been absolutely livid about the reveals involving Touya being drastically different than what fandom thought they were all this time, but I think it honestly highlights how smart Horikoshi’s writing really is.

In Shoto, we see the effects of physical and mental abuse on a child, and how easily he could have ended up going down a troubling road much like Touya. Shoto’s saving grace is facing off against Deku in the Sports Festival, giving him an outside perspective and makes him realize that he can choose to be better, but that doesn’t just magically fix all of Shoto’s problems. Shoto still struggles with his feelings towards his Father and how he is perceived by simply being Endeavor’s son. We see that in the Provisional License Arc, where Shoto is so thoroughly rattled by Inasa. It’s even further pushed through how Shoto struggles with his feelings about Endeavor trying to better and whether or not he should forgive him. I feel like Shoto’s arc is incredibly strong and that his struggles are very realistic, which is why people love him so much. This whole concept is another thing I could rant about but I’m going to leave it here.

Meanwhile, with Touya, we see the effects of mental and emotional abuse on a child and how it can completely destroy them. I think people that act like Horokoshi “down played” and “ret-conned” Endeavor as a character to make him more sympathetic/ redeemable or that he’s simply writing Touya as “always being a bad seed” are missing the mark. This is, admittedly, something you see a lot when it comes to victims of abuse in the real world as well; the idea that if you weren’t physically or sexually abused on top of emotional or mental abuse, your abuse is somehow less “valid.” Now I’ve seen more voices speaking out against this mentality - which is relieving and positive - but it’s still a problem. The way Touya was abused is no less valid or scarring to himself as a person as what Shoto has been through was. Touya and Enji clearly had a deep bond as father and son. Hell, the fact that Enji is sobbing and saying he “can’t fight his own son” in regards to Touya, but clearly had less issue training Shoto until he got ill or passed out says a lot.

Touya was put on an incredibly high pedestal by Enji’s constant praise and attention. He was the apple of his father’s eye until the limitations of his Quirk were discovered. Enji had filled his head with promises and goals for what his future would be, essentially selling him what turned out to be a lie. We see Rei herself tell Enji that Touya “knows you expect something out of the kids.” Touya’s whole life up until that point was being told of all the great he would someday accomplish, and equating that to being deserving of his Father’s love, attention and affection.

And then he couldn’t live up to that expectation. And then his parents had two more kids following that revelation. The idea that Touya doesn’t realize that Natsuo and Shoto were meant to be his replacements - unbroken models that “deserved” Enji’s love - is clearly not missed by him. It’s evident in the way he looks at Natsuo after he’s born. He sees this as a sign that he is no longer deserving - no longer worthy - of love or support from the parent he absolutely adores.

We see this mostly from Enji and Rei’s perspectives, so we know the reasons they did it, but it’s clear they didn’t stop to think about the way this would be interpreted by Touya himself. This whole matter is only worsened by the fact that Enji refuses to make sacrifices for the sake of his oldest son. He pushes Touya to live a life outside of Pro Heroics while Enji himself refuses to do the same, thus setting a positive example and showing solidarity with his son. He instead pushes him away and distances himself, loses himself in focusing on Natuso and, once his Quirk turns out to not be what he wants, Shoto. Touya continues to push himself despite his limits in a desperate bid for Enji to look at him the way he used to; with pride and love. 

What caused the fire that “killed” Touya? His anguish over being neglected and abandoned - left unloved - by his father yet again. It’s clear that Touya’s mental health is in need of some real focus that he has never gotten - due to both his parents negligence as well as the fact that mental health is highly stigmatized in Japanese society - and pairing that with the emotional and mental abuse he suffered at Enji’s hands broke him.

So many people are claiming Horikoshi is trying to make Enji “more redeemable”, but how do you get that? Enji abused Rei, his own wife, physically and emotionally and mentally until she had a psychotic breakdown, hurt their youngest child, and then robbed her the right to mother her children further by having her locked up in a psych ward for the next decade or so; built their oldest son, Touya, up only to then emotionally and mentally abuse him to the point he damn near killed himself in a frantic bid to garner Enji’s support only to return years later completely unhinged and looking to murder his entire family out of spite; neglected Fuyumi and Natsuo to the care of each other and hired help; alienated Shoto, his youngest son, from his siblings for his entire formative years, physically and mentally and emotionally abused him, groomed him to accomplish a task he never wanted, put him through such extensive physical training that Shoto would get sick or pass out.

Enji was a shitty father. He has a long ass road to continue walking if he ever wants redemption. The fact he didn't physically hit Touya doesn’t mean that Enji didn’t abuse his son and it doesn’t make Touya any less of a victim.

* End TodoFam Rant*

On a slightly lighter note, I also like all the information with Hawks’ past and all the parallels we’re seeing develop!

I’ve rambled briefly about this in other places the Huwumi discord but I want to expound upon this a bit more here.

I feel like Touya/ Dabi and Keigo/ Hawks are meant to be parallels to one another.

Back to back, we had proper name claims by these two characters. We had Dabi reveal his true identity as Todoroki Touya and then we have Hawks choosing to abandon his hero name to instead step up to fight as Takami Keigo.

I feel like “Dabi” was always a mask, of sorts. Dabi is typically pretty calm, cool, composed with the occasional bites of snark and cruelty. Meanwhile, we see Touya emoting and moving in a manner more akin to himself as a child, dancing about in manic delight over revealing his true identity and intentions. The pair of them are two drastically different people when you stop and look at it. “Dabi” was the mask he wore to gain ground to enact his revenge, and now that he is there? Now Touya can burn everything tethered to it down to ground.

Meanwhile, we have "Hawks” as he was forced to become as per the Hero Public Safety Commission. We had it revealed quite a while back that Hawks was a man of many faces, jumping from laid-back and chill to serious and focused quite frequently. “Hawks” is the presentation for the public and the Commission, groomed to be the perfect little canary in the mine that was Pro Heroics. The reveal of his true heritage, however, is not the killing blow Touya wanted it to be. Instead, it allows Keigo, the one who wanted to be a Hero to help people, the chance to truly dedicate himself to that. In being freed from the cage of “Hawks”, he is given the change to really soar as Keigo.

Now, I feel that “Dabi” and “Hawks” are most certainly parts of Touya and Keigo as well, respectively. Even though those titles were masks, they were masks made from parts of the men who wear them. I think what we’ll see going forward is the true elements of those masks bleeding back into the whole, and seeing the truest forms of each character.

For better or for worse. 

[cheese-greater-official]

The Great Gatsby .. I think antibucci Summary: Literally just the great Gatsby. Nothing else here. Absolutely no changes. Definitely use this for class, or reference. The Great Gatsby is public domain now after all. Anyways here's the totally unaltered and complete book of the Great Gatsby. I swear nothing was changed, most definitely. Of course credit to F Scott Fitzgerald for writing this commentary on both his life and the world he was in. A lot of this can still relate today, so keep an open mind when reading. Notes: I'd like to preface this by saying... This is really I mean REALLY just the Great Gatsby. I swear. There is nothing going here that is out of the ordinary! Nothing at all! Chapter 1 Chapter Text Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her; If you can bounce high, bounce for her too, Till she cry “Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover, I must have you!” - Thomas Parke D'Invilliers. In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought — frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction — Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament.”— it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No — Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the

wholesale hardware business that my father carries on to-day. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him — with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe — so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why — ye — es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog — at least I had him for a few days until he ran away — and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees—just as things grow in fast movies—I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News"—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man." This isn't just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented

rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby's mansion. Or rather, as I didn't know Mr. Gatsby it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eye-sore, but it was a small eye-sore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor's lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed and I'd known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he'd left Chicago and come east in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance he'd brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came east I don't know. They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn't believe it—I had no sight into Daisy's heart but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian Colonial mansion overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold, and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy, straw haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining, arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. "Now, don't think my opinion on these matters is final," he seemed to say, "just because I'm stronger and more of a man than you are." We were in the same Senior Society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. "I've got a nice place here," he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm

he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep pungent roses and a snub-nosed motor boat that bumped the tide off shore. "It belonged to Demaine the oil man." He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. "We'll go inside." We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of the ceiling—and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless and with her chin raised a little as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. "I'm p-paralyzed with happiness." She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I've heard it said that Daisy's murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate Miss Baker's lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth—but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered "Listen," a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way east and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. "Do they miss me?" she cried ecstatically. "The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath and there's a persistent wail all night along the North Shore." "How gorgeous! Let's go back, Tom. Tomorrow!" Then she added irrelevantly, "You ought to see the baby." "I'd like to." "She's asleep. She's two years old. Haven't you ever seen her?" "Never." "Well, you ought to see her. She's—" Tom Buchanan who had been hovering restlessly about the room stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. "What you doing, Nick

?" "I'm a bond man." "Who with?" I told him. "Never heard of them," he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. "You will," I answered shortly. "You will if you stay in the East." "Oh, I'll stay in the East, don't you worry," he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. "I'd be a God Damned fool to live anywhere else." At this point Miss Baker said "Absolutely!" with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. "I'm stiff," she complained, "I've been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember." "Don't look at me," Daisy retorted. "I've been trying to get you to New York all afternoon." "No, thanks," said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry, "I'm absolutely in training." Her host looked at her incredulously. "You are!" He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. "How you ever get anything done is beyond me." I looked at Miss Baker wondering what it was she "got done." I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. "You live in West Egg," she remarked contemptuously. "I know somebody there." "I don't know a single—" "You must know Gatsby." "Gatsby?" demanded Daisy. "What Gatsby?" Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips the two young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch open toward the sunset where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. "Why candles?" objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. "In two weeks it'll be the longest day in the year." She looked at us all radiantly. "Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it." "We ought to plan something," yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. "All right," said Daisy. "What'll we plan?" She turned to me helplessly. "What do people plan?" Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. "Look!" she complained. "I hurt it." We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. "You did it, Tom," she said accusingly. "I know you didn't mean to but you did do it. That's what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great big hulking physical specimen of a—" "I hate that word hulking," objected Tom crossly, "even in kidding." "Hulking," insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here—and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. "You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy," I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. "Can't you talk about crops or something?" I meant nothing in particular by this remark but it was taken up in an unexpected way. "Civilization's going to pieces," broke out Tom violently. "I've gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read 'The

Rise of the Coloured Empires' by this man Goddard?" "Why, no," I answered, rather surprised by his tone. "Well, it's a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don't look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It's all scientific stuff; it's been proved." "Tom's getting very profound," said Daisy with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. "He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—" "Well, these books are all scientific," insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. "This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It's up to us who are the dominant race to watch out or these other races will have control of things." "We've got to beat them down," whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun. "You ought to live in California—" began Miss Baker but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair. "This idea is that we're Nordics. I am, and you are and you are and—" After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod and she winked at me again. "—and we've produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art and all that. Do you see?" There was something pathetic in his concentration as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me. "I'll tell you a family secret," she whispered enthusiastically. "It's about the butler's nose. Do you want to hear about the butler's nose?" "That's why I came over tonight." "Well, he wasn't always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night until finally it began to affect his nose—" "Things went from bad to worse," suggested Miss Baker. "Yes. Things went from bad to worse until finally he had to give up his position." For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom's ear whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing. "I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn't he?" She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation. "An absolute rose?" This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing but a stirring warmth flowed from her as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house. Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said "Sh!" in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond and Miss Baker leaned forward, unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether. "This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor—" I said. "Don't talk. I want to hear what happens." "Is something happening?" I inquired innocently. "You mean to say you don't know?" said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. "I thought everybody knew." "I don't." "Why—" she said hesitantly, "Tom's got some woman in New York." "Got some woman?" I repeated blankly. Miss Baker nodded. "She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner-time. Don't you think?" Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots and Tom and Daisy were back at the table. "It couldn't be helped!" cried Daisy with tense gayety. She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me and continued: "I looked

outdoors for a minute and it's very romantic outdoors. There's a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He's singing away—" her voice sang "—It's romantic, isn't it, Tom?" "Very romantic," he said, and then miserably to me: "If it's light enough after dinner I want to take you down to the stables." The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at every one and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn't guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking but I doubt if even Miss Baker who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy skepticism was able utterly to put this fifth guest's shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police. The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee. Daisy took her face in her hands, as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl. "We don't know each other very well, Nick," she said suddenly. "Even if we are cousins. You didn't come to my wedding." "I wasn't back from the war." "That's true." She hesitated. "Well, I've had a very bad time, Nick, and I'm pretty cynical about everything." Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn't say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter. "I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything." "Oh, yes." She looked at me absently. "Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?" "Very much." "It'll show you how I've gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. 'All right,' I said, 'I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope she'll be a fool—that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool." "You see I think everything's terrible anyhow," she went on in a convinced way. "Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I've been everywhere and seen everything and done everything." Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom's, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. "Sophisticated—God, I'm sophisticated!" The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged. Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the "Saturday Evening Post"—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamp-light, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms. When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand. "To be continued," she said, tossing the magazine on the table,

"in our very next issue." Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up. "Ten o'clock," she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. "Time for this good girl to go to bed." "Jordan's going to play in the tournament tomorrow," explained Daisy, "over at Westchester." "Oh,—you're Jordan Baker." I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago. "Good night," she said softly. "Wake me at eight, won't you." "If you'll get up." "I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon." "Of course you will," confirmed Daisy. "In fact I think I'll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I'll sort of—oh—fling you together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—" "Good night," called Miss Baker from the stairs. "I haven't heard a word." "She's a nice girl," said Tom after a moment. "They oughtn't to let her run around the country this way." "Who oughtn't to?" inquired Daisy coldly. "Her family." "Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick's going to look after her, aren't you, Nick? She's going to spend lots of week-ends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her." Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence. "Is she from New York?" I asked quickly. "From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white—" "Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?" demanded Tom suddenly. "Did I?" She looked at me. "I can't seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I'm sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know—" "Don't believe everything you hear, Nick," he advised me. I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called "Wait! "I forgot to ask you something, and it's important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West." "That's right," corroborated Tom kindly. "We heard that you were engaged." "It's libel. I'm too poor." "But we heard it," insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. "We heard it from three people so it must be true." Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn't even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come east. You can't stop going with an old friend on account of rumors and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumored into marriage. Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he "had some woman in New York" was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart. Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red gas-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud bright night with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight and turning my head to watch it I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor's mansion and was standing with his hands in

his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens. I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn't call to him for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and far as I was from him I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness. Chapter 2 Summary: Just chapter 2 of the Great Gatsby Notes: (See the end of the chapter for notes.) Chapter Text About half way between West Egg and New York the motor-road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud which screens their obscure operations from your sight. But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then sank down himself into eternal blindness or forgot them and moved away. But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground. The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute and it was because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan's mistress. The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular restaurants with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about, chatting with whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her I had no desire to meet her—but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon and when we stopped by the ashheaps he jumped to his feet and taking hold of my elbow literally forced me from the car. "We're getting off!" he insisted. "I want you to meet my girl." I think he'd tanked up a good deal at luncheon and his determination to have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do. I followed him over a low white-washed railroad fence and we walked back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg's persistent stare. The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact Main Street ministering to it and contiguous to absolutely nothing. One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an all-night restaurant approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a garage—Repairs. GEORGE B. WILSON. Cars Bought and Sold—and I followed Tom inside. The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. It had occurred

to me that this shadow of a garage must be a blind and that sumptuous and romantic apartments were concealed overhead when the proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of waste. He was a blonde, spiritless man, anaemic, and faintly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes. "Hello, Wilson, old man," said Tom, slapping him jovially on the shoulder. "How's business?" "I can't complain," answered Wilson unconvincingly. "When are you going to sell me that car?" "Next week; I've got my man working on it now." "Works pretty slow, don't he?" "No, he doesn't," said Tom coldly. "And if you feel that way about it, maybe I'd better sell it somewhere else after all." "I don't mean that," explained Wilson quickly. "I just meant—" His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on a stairs and in a moment the thickish figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering. She smiled slowly and walking through her husband as if he were a ghost shook hands with Tom, looking him flush in the eye. Then she wet her lips and without turning around spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice: "Get some chairs, why don't you, so somebody can sit down." "Oh, sure," agreed Wilson hurriedly and went toward the little office, mingling immediately with the cement color of the walls. A white ashen dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled everything in the vicinity—except his wife, who moved close to Tom. "I want to see you," said Tom intently. "Get on the next train." "All right." "I'll meet you by the news-stand on the lower level." She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson emerged with two chairs from his office door. We waited for her down the road and out of sight. It was a few days before the Fourth of July, and a grey, scrawny Italian child was setting torpedoes in a row along the railroad track. "Terrible place, isn't it," said Tom, exchanging a frown with Doctor Eckleburg. "Awful." "It does her good to get away." "Doesn't her husband object?" "Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He's so dumb he doesn't know he's alive." So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York—or not quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat discreetly in another car. Tom deferred that much to the sensibilities of those East Eggers who might be on the train. She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York. At the news-stand she bought a copy of "Town Tattle" and a moving-picture magazine and, in the station drug store, some cold cream and a small flask of perfume. Upstairs, in the solemn echoing drive she let four taxi cabs drive away before she selected a new one, lavender-colored with grey upholstery, and in this we slid out from the mass of the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she turned sharply from the window and leaning forward tapped on the front glass. "I want to get one of those dogs," she said earnestly. "I want to get one for the apartment. They're nice to have—a dog." We backed up to a grey old man who bore an absurd resemblance to John D. Rockefeller. In a basket, swung from his neck, cowered a dozen very recent puppies of an indeterminate breed. "What kind are they?" asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly as he came to the taxi-window. "All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?" "I'd like to get one of those police dogs; I don't suppose you got that kind?" The man peered doubtfully into the basket, plunged in his hand and drew one up, wriggling, by the back of the neck. "That's no police dog," said Tom. "No, it's not exactly a police dog,"

" said the man with disappointment in his voice. "It's more of an airedale." He passed his hand over the brown wash-rag of a back. "Look at that coat. Some coat. That's a dog that'll never bother you with catching cold." "I think it's cute," said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. "How much is it?" "That dog?" He looked at it admiringly. "That dog will cost you ten dollars." The airedale—undoubtedly there was an airedale concerned in it somewhere though its feet were startlingly white—changed hands and settled down into Mrs. Wilson's lap, where she fondled the weather-proof coat with rapture. "Is it a boy or a girl?" she asked delicately. "That dog? That dog's a boy." "It's a bitch," said Tom decisively. "Here's your money. Go and buy ten more dogs with it." We drove over to Fifth Avenue, so warm and soft, almost pastoral, on the summer Sunday afternoon that I wouldn't have been surprised to see a great flock of white sheep turn the corner. "Hold on," I said, "I have to leave you here." "No, you don't," interposed Tom quickly. "Myrtle'll be hurt if you don't come up to the apartment. Won't you, Myrtle?" "Come on," she urged. "I'll telephone my sister Catherine. She's said to be very beautiful by people who ought to know." "Well, I'd like to, but—" We went on, cutting back again over the Park toward the West Hundreds. At 158th Street the cab stopped at one slice in a long white cake of apartment houses. Throwing a regal homecoming glance around the neighborhood, Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dog and her other purchases and went haughtily in. "I'm going to have the McKees come up," she announced as we rose in the elevator. "And of course I got to call up my sister, too." The apartment was on the top floor—a small living room, a small dining room, a small bedroom and a bath. The living room was crowded to the doors with a set of tapestried furniture entirely too large for it so that to move about was to stumble continually over scenes of ladies swinging in the gardens of Versailles. The only picture was an over-enlarged photograph, apparently a hen sitting on a blurred rock. Looked at from a distance however the hen resolved itself into a bonnet and the countenance of a stout old lady beamed down into the room. Several old copies of "Town Tattle" lay on the table together with a copy of "Simon Called Peter" and some of the small scandal magazines of Broadway. Mrs. Wilson was first concerned with the dog. A reluctant elevator boy went for a box full of straw and some milk to which he added on his own initiative a tin of large hard dog biscuits—one of which decomposed apathetically in the saucer of milk all afternoon. Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of whiskey from a locked bureau door. I have been drunk just twice in my life and the second time was that afternoon so everything that happened has a dim hazy cast over it although until after eight o'clock the apartment was full of cheerful sun. Sitting on Tom's lap Mrs. Wilson called up several people on the telephone; then there were no cigarettes and I went out to buy some at the drug store on the corner. When I came back they had disappeared so I sat down discreetly in the living room and read a chapter of "Simon Called Peter"—either it was terrible stuff or the whiskey distorted things because it didn't make any sense to me. Just as Tom and Myrtle—after the first drink Mrs. Wilson and I called each other by our first names—reappeared, company commenced to arrive at the apartment door. The sister, Catherine, was a slender, worldly girl of about thirty with a solid sticky bob of red hair and a complexion powdered milky white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more rakish angle but the efforts of nature toward the restoration of the old alignment gave a blurred air to her face. When she moved about there was an incessant clicking as innumerable pottery bracelets jingled up and down upon her arms. She came in with such a proprietary haste and looked around so possessively at the furniture that I wondered if she lived here. But when I asked her she laughed i

Feel free to delete the first one. I would do anything for you if post this. The Great Gatsby in all it’s glory

im aware i was probably supposed to read the whole thing to find out if you changed anything and tnhen find out you hadnt and id wasted an hour of my life but i am way too lazy to do that

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @Codeblackglitter!

For @codeblackglitter – Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! Thanks for giving me some really great ideas to work with. I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you enjoy it, too! 

Read on AO3

*****

Something in the Air (makes you do strange things)

i.

“Do you trust me, Alexander?”

Alec shut his book, marking his place with his thumb before glancing up.

Across the room, Magnus was ensconced behind his potions desk, surrounded by a veritable army of bottles in various shapes and sizes, each filled with brightly colored liquid. Large, ornate bowls simmered over magically conjured fires, letting off puffs of steam at irregular intervals.

Alec’s thoughts tripped to a halt, caught on the ripples of evening light dancing across Magnus’ exposed forearms beneath rolled-up sleeves. At the way his fingers constantly moved, even at rest. When his mind finally caught up, he set aside his book entirely.

Did Magnus really not know? 

Shaking his head, he gave a soft smile, the kind Magnus always seemed to draw from him. “I trust you with everything.” 

He could count on one hand the number of people he let see past his walls, and within forty-eight hours of their first meeting, the High Warlock of Brooklyn had become part of that group. Alec could still remember their first night together. That vivid sense of feeling stripped bare, yet conversely, more in control of his life than he’d ever felt. When he finally fell asleep—alone, exhausted, and unarmed in a strange Downworlder’s home—he never doubted he was in safe hands.

That sense of safety lived so deep in his bones it could no longer be separated from the rest of him.

Safety. Love. Sex. Trust. All the things he never thought he could have, now such an intricate part of his life he couldn’t imagine living without them. The knowledge was as unyielding as the color of a freshly applied rune or the exact angle of his bow in motion.

“Well,” Magnus said, breaking Alec from his thoughts. “You may not after you hear my request.” He fiddled with his earcuff, a simple black one that matched the thick lines around his eyes.

Alec shook his head. They had variations of this conversation before, and experience taught him that the best tactic was to keep pressing his point.

“What do you need?” Alec asked. “I can’t give it to you if you don’t tell me.”

Magnus swallowed hard and left his workspace, plucking an object from his desk as he went. The setting sun glinted off the honed edge of a blade, throwing lines of yellow across the floor and furniture. The matching glow of Magnus’ eyes, however, had nothing to do with the golden hour.

Most people might be scared at the sight he made. The most powerful warlock in New York gracefully stalking across the room in fluid, unbroken movements. Wisps of magic lingered around one hand while the other gripped the knife with the ease of longtime use.

Alec’s breath caught, and he shifted in place on the couch. The only concern he felt was that despite the trappings of his power, Magnus was clearly uncomfortable.

The last few steps brought him between Alec’s legs, where he came to a halt. Without thinking, Alec spread them wider, reeling him in with hands at the back of his strong thighs.

“I need a vial of your blood,” Magnus said. His gaze was focused somewhere over Alec’s shoulder. “Not for anything untoward,” he added quickly.

Well then. That explained the knife. And the uncharacteristic hesitance.

Every young Shadowhunter was drilled about the importance of never giving such consent, even under torture. Blood freely given was a weapon. Powerful and versatile. It was a skeleton key to the vilest magics in existence. Mind control, possession, resurrection, and more curses than he could count. Not to mention its aid in getting through an institute’s wards. There were dozens of other usages, each one straight out of a nightmare.

“Hey, look at me,” Alec said, waiting until those beautiful eyes focused on him. He unhooked an arm from around Magnus’ leg, holding it out and up as if in offering. “It’s okay. Take what you need.”

Magnus’ eyes grew wide. “Don’t you want to know why?”

Alec wrapped fingers around the arm holding the knife, and slowly brought the sharp edge to rest against the skin of his forearm. The metal was cold, but he didn’t flinch.

“I’m not worried, if that’s what you’re asking,” Alec said. “You’d never hurt me, Magnus. You’d never use that power against me.”

Magnus squeezed his eyes shut. “I’d rather die.”

“I know.” The silence hung heavy between them as Alec bent to place a kiss against Magnus’ wrist, still holding the knife. “If you say you need it, then you need it.”

He’d already given Magnus his heart and his body and his love. There was nothing of him that was off limits, nothing he wouldn’t share freely with the man before him.

Magnus’ face slackened in surprise, but he recovered quickly.

“There’s a little girl,” he said, shadows in his eyes. “A young warlock with a rare disease not seen in centuries. The strength of Nephilim blood is the only thing that can give the potion I’m brewing enough of a boost to cure her. It’s a long shot but nothing else has worked.”

“Magnus.” Alec tugged at Magnus’ wrist until he lowered himself to his knees between Alec’s legs, bringing them face-to-face. “I already said yes. Go save your people.”

Magnus leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Alec’s and whispering a soft, “Thank you.”

After that, it was almost anticlimactic. Magnus wielded the knife with the dexterity of an expert, and Alec was used to far more serious injuries. It was over in an instant.

Banishing the tiny vial, Magnus threw himself back into his work. When the potion was ready several days later, he whisked them off to a large house in Queens. The warlocks embraced Magnus but gave Alec skeptical looks.

Magnus hushed their protests with a wave of his hand. “Not to worry. This is Alexander. He’s one of the good ones.”

Alec wasn’t sure he deserved that endorsement, or even to be there, but Magnus insisted with a firm, “You should be here, you had a hand in this, too.” With a smile, he patted Alec’s jacket at the precise point the knife had rested. “Or more precisely, an arm.”

The warlocks let them pass, and Alec got to witness a very sick little girl regaining her health. He watched with a careful eye, ready to jump in and offer his strength if needed.

Her smile was something he would carry in his heart for a long time. A reminder that for all the loss, there was also good in their world.

Afterwards, he didn’t quite know what to say. Everything seemed inadequate, so he settled on, “Thank you for taking me with you. For showing me that.”

Magnus took both his hands and squeezed. “You did that. Your blood, the gift you gave that little girl.”

Alec brought their joined hands to his lips, brushing a kiss against Magnus’ knuckles. “You did that,” he corrected. “I was just ingredients.”

Because it was true. Alec gave his blood, but it was Magnus who transformed it into a cure for a sick child. It was Magnus who stayed up night after night, hands shaking from fatigue, eyes bloodshot, refusing to rest until the work was done. There wasn’t a day that went by when Alec wasn’t amazed at what his boyfriend could do, at how much he cared and how he worked himself to exhaustion for anyone who needed it.

“Oh Alexander, don’t you see? Do you know how many Nephilim would willingly give their blood to a warlock to save a Downworlder? But you didn’t hesitate. You didn’t even need to think it over.”

“Anyone would have done the same,” Alec protested.

Magnus shook his head, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “No,” he said, eyes heavy with memories as he untangled their hands to cup Alec’s cheek. “They wouldn’t. They didn’t.”

Alec didn’t know how to convince him he’d always be there. Always by Magnus’ side in whatever capacity he was needed. That it would be the two of them, together, for as long as Magnus would have him.

He did the next best thing, and leaned in to seal their lips together, trying to put into actions everything that Magnus wouldn’t yet accept from him in words.

--

 ii.

“Trust me,” Alec said, grabbing his bow. “This will work.”

Isabelle looked like she wanted to say something but with a shake of her head, took a silent step back, willing to follow his lead.

Not for the first time, Alec’s heart swelled with the love and care she always gave him. Isabelle was a fierce woman and he was lucky to have her in his life and on his side.

Neither did Jace look convinced, but with a nod, he clasped the bow in the same spot as Alec.

Events of the past several months had tested their bond, but they were still siblings and Parabatai, two souls united against the world. The confidence Alec felt—the certainly that this would work—was unwavering, and something of that must’ve filtered into Jace as well.

The power of the Parabatai tracking ritual thickened the air around them. Held tightly between their palms, the bow Alec favored began to hum with energy.

Alec met Jace’s eyes as the tracking took hold, but his thoughts were a world away. Not that he needed to strain himself to bend his mind towards Magnus. The memories rushed over him like the familiar wash of the tide coming home.

Magnus deep in concentration, hands flowing effortlessly across tiny bottles of spell ingredients as he worked his magic. Biting at his lip when he was unsure and trying to hide it. Head thrown back in the midst of pleasure, throat bared and mouth open in a silent shout as his entire body arched off the bed. Half asleep on the couch and nuzzling his face into Alec’s neck to chase the warmth of his skin.

A location formed in the front of Alec’s mind, hazy at first and then razor sharp, as if it had always been there. Opening his eyes, he saw the same knowledge reflected in Jace’s gaze.

They unclasped their hands.

“We know where he is,” Alec announced. As if the determined look on his face wasn’t announcement enough.

“That was…intense,” Jace said, visibly shaking himself off.” His eyes studied Alec as he continued. “More than usual. You okay?”

Isabelle gave Alec a pat on the shoulder as the three of them moved towards the Institute’s main exit. “I don’t see why you’re so surprised. Alec is intense on a good day, and now that Magnus is missing, well…” she trailed off, letting the sentence hang in the air.

Alec shrugged, unwilling to get into it when he had more important matters at hand. And it’s not like she was wrong.

Magnus should’ve been home days ago. No one knew where he was, and his phone went straight to voicemail. The last Alec heard, he was helping smooth over rising tensions within the vampire community, acting as an impartial, trusted third party. According to local gossip, there was a new clan in town and frictions were high.

Alec knew Magnus could handle himself, but that didn’t stop the worry that gnawed relentlessly at his mind, working its way steadily deeper until it was all he could think about. He had thrown more of himself into the tracking spell than usual.

Activating his speed rune, he watched from the corner of his eye as his siblings followed suit. And then they were off, sprinting through the city towards Long Island City and Magnus.

“Care to explain how that tracking even worked?” Jace asked as they ran.

Despite his nerves, Alec smiled. “Remember Izzy’s trial?” he said. “Magnus agreed to act as counsel, and the payment we agreed on was my bow and quiver.”

“He what!” Isabelle nearly missed a step in her surprise. Her voice turned serious. “Alec, you never said. I know how much those weapons mean to you.”

“So did he, I bet,” Jace chimed in with a scowl.

“He had every right to ask for it.” Alec shot back, the metal of the Queensboro Bridge clanging beneath their feet with every step. Beneath them, the East River was an inky ribbon winding through the evening darkness. “He would’ve been well within his right to ask for more.”

Probably best not to mention that he’d initially asked for Alec himself. Though looking back, it was clear that was never a demand meant to be taken seriously. Regardless of his quick temper, Magnus was the kindest person Alec knew. He would never have demanded that of him as the price for saving his sister, not if Alec truly didn’t want to give it.

“But you were never without it,” Isabelle said, interrupting his thoughts. “After the trial, you were still using the same bow.”

Alec smiled, despite the bittersweet memories of that time. “He gave it right back. Told me to hold on to it for him.”

Jace bumped their shoulders together as the three of them ran in perfect unison. It was either silent support or an apology for his earlier judging words. Alec couldn’t tell but he appreciated it nonetheless.

“So your bow belongs to Magnus,” Isabelle said with a laugh. “I knew you were a hopeless romantic.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Alec said, not really meaning it. Growing up, he never in his wildest dreams thought there would come a day when his siblings would tease him about his boyfriend. It was an impossibility, right up until it wasn’t. Alec wouldn’t give it up for anything.

He wasn’t giving up Magnus either. Alec belonged to Magnus every bit as much as his bow. And Magnus belonged to him.

No matter what it took, Alec was going to bring him home.

They fell silent as they reached their destination, an abandoned glass factory that hadn’t yet been converted into high rises. The joking atmosphere between them turned serious.

It was time to get to work.

Later, after everything was settled—it turned out Magnus had been snatched by one of the vampire clans who thought the local High Warlock would be more effective as a hostage than a negotiator—Magnus turned to Alec and frowned.

“You shouldn’t have been able to find me. After that first time with the ruby, I enchanted my belongings against it. Not that I’m ungrateful to have my dashing Shadowhunter boyfriend swoop in to rescue me.”

“Not that you needed rescuing,” Alec said. He pressed a kiss to Magnus’ collarbone, the easiest place to reach from where he was laying atop his chest, both of them warm and safe in bed. “You had the whole lot of them hanging on your every word before I even showed up. You actually got them to sign a provisional peace treaty.”

Alec trailed a finger down bare skin, enjoying the feel of hard muscle under his hand. “I half expected the vampires to beg us to save them from you.”

“High Warlock,” Magnus replied, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that made him look slightly ridiculous. He captured Alec’s hand from his chest, placing a kiss on the forefinger. “Politics is part of the job. It’s not all flashy magic, you know. And you never answered my question. How did you find me?”

Alec laughed. “You didn’t enchant all your possessions. Remember my bow and quiver? Or should I say, your bow and quiver.” He pulled back, not wanting to miss the reaction his words were sure to evoke.

It was even better than expected.

Surprise etched itself across Magnus’ face and his mouth dropped into a tiny, adorable ‘oh.’ He recovered just as quickly, warmth melting away the shock like the first rays of spring.

“I forgot about that,” he said, the words as tender as his smile. He pulled Alec back down, until Alec’s head was once again tucked into the warmth of his neck.

Alec went willingly. More than willingly.

“I didn’t forget,” he replied, fitting his body to Magnus so there was no space between them.

They drifted off to sleep holding each other. It was Alec’s favorite way to end the day, and if he had anything to say about it, that wasn’t ever going to change.

--

 iii.

“Trust me,” Magnus said, pressing closer to Alec as they were surrounded by a small army of possessed mundanes. “Let them come closer.”

The heat of Magnus’ back against his own was a reassuring presence, the two of them circling in place even as they were herded further into the narrow alley.

One of the mundanes leaped forward, hands extended like claws. Alec swatted her away with the flat of his blade. With a hiss that wasn’t quite human, she fell back. It was only a temporary reprieve, the inhale before a piercing scream. 

Alec didn’t want to fight these people, but soon he would have little choice.

“Don’t hurt them.” Magnus echoed his thoughts, voice strained as the static of his magic crackled the night air. “I’m close, I just need to—”

He cut off as a hoard of the possessed descended on them at once.

Alec exploded into motion, jerking on Magnus’ elbow and spinning him towards where the herd was thinnest. Shielding him with his body, Alec pushed the attackers back, careful to only use non-fatal slices of his seraph blade. The pain made them cautious but wouldn’t keep them back for long.

“Alec darling, save the manhandling for later, if you would.” Rolling his wrists, Magnus summoned more power to his hands.

Alec snorted despite himself. “I’ll hold you to that once we’re home.”

“Promises, promises.”

There was no time to reply. For every person he knocked down, more came forward. From the corner of his eye, he could see Magnus throwing elbows and a few kicks of his own, even as the light gathered in his palms grew brighter. A burly man got past Alec’s guard, thick fingers curling around his neck and scratching at his eyes. Alec headbutted him. But as he did, another hand ripped his blade from his grip. It clattered to the ground, out of reach.

Desperate, he threw himself after it, using the momentum to dislodge his attackers. His head hit the concrete, dazing him just enough to slow his reactions. A middle-aged woman in bright workout clothes pounced on him.

A blast of angry red magic hit her chest, knocking her back. It startled the rest, buying him a temporary reprieve.

Alec leaped to his feet, giving up the weapon as a lost cause and letting his training take over. He fought for what felt like forever, losing himself in the rhythm of kicks and punches. Occasionally, Magnus blasted the stragglers before going back to whatever miracle spell was building between his hands.

But Alec could see he was faltering. They both were.

“I can’t hold them off forever,” Alec shouted between punches.

Just as he began to despair, Magnus shouted, “Now! Close your eyes, Alec.”

Alec’s body reacted on instinct, his absolute trust in Magnus guiding his movements. It left him open. Blinded and undefended—completely vulnerable if whatever Magnus planned didn’t work.

He braced himself for it. An attack, a punch, fingernails and teeth tearing into his skin.

Nothing came. The sound of bodies hitting the ground sounded in his ears, but Alec didn’t dare look. Finally, there was silence, save for the rumble of garbage trucks along a nearby street.

“It’s over.”

Magnus sounded tired, and Alec half expected him to be on the floor when he opened his eyes.

He wasn’t. His back was straight, stance slightly wider than normal. The magic had dissipated into the air save for the remnants clinging to the edge of his form. He cut a powerful figure, one that not even the exhaustion hovering around the creases in his eyes could dim.

Standing tall and wreathed in his own power, it was hard to believe he was real.

Unfortunately, Alec had more mundane matters to take care of than staring at his boyfriend. Literally mundane, in this case. Surrounding them was a circle of collapsed men and women, and he had a job to do.

He rushed over to the fallen mundane closest to him, a young man in an expensive business suit. Two fingers placed just above the collar released the knot of tension between Alec’s shoulders. The pulse was strong and steady. He checked the rest and, when the last was done, slumped in relief.

“They’re alive,” Magnus confirmed. “I took their most recent memories in the same spell that cured them. As far as they’re concerned, they got caught up with gangs on PCP.”

Alec nodded. “I’ll call Luke and he can deal with the mundane police.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Magnus sway on his feet. Quickly, he stood, making his way over and getting his shoulder under Magnus’ arm.

“I can stand on my own.” Despite the words, Magnus made no move to extricate himself.

“Maybe I just want to feel up my boyfriend,” Alec responded with a smile, wrapping a hand snug around Magnus’ waist.

“Well, in that case, proceed.” Magnus gave an airy gesture, letting himself lean into the support Alec offered.

Alec gripped his waist tighter, relived to have the solid weight of him pressed up against his side.

He was accustomed to fighting alongside the people he loved, staying focused when they were in danger. Years of patrols with his siblings had drilled the constant threat into his mind, the knowledge that one of them could fall at any moment. It was something he tried not to think about, and was generally successful at it.

It was different with Magnus.

Alec hadn’t spent over a decade training his mind and body to accept Magnus being in danger as a mere fact of life. He wondered if that primal fear was what Magnus felt every time Alec walked out of their home towards the Institute.

Placing a kiss to Magnus’ temple, Alec closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar scent of the man he loved. Warmth curled in his chest when Magnus dropped his head to rest on his shoulder, letting Alec take more of his weight.

“Come on,” he said, gently, leading Magnus to one of the nearby storefront benches. “We can wait for Luke here.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Magnus mumbled into his neck with a yawn. “Maybe just a little tired,” he conceded, as Alec maneuvered them into sitting.

“That was an impressive piece of magic you did.”

Magnus preened. “It wasn’t fully finished. I had to improvise a little at the end.”

Alec brushed a stray spike of hair from where it had fallen in front of his face. “Showoff.”

“It wouldn’t have worked if you didn’t keep most of them away from me. Thank you, Alexander. I know I didn’t give you much to go on.” Magnus grew visibly tired, until the words were no more than a mumble at the end.

The spell must have taken a lot of out of him because he didn’t complain when Alec coaxed him into lying across the bench, his head cradled in Alec’s lap. After a moment, Alec carded tentative fingers through the longer hair at the top of his head. Magnus could be touchy about having it messed up in public, but when he didn’t protest, Alec continued.

A little groan escaped Magnus’ lips, his eyes falling shut as Alec shifted to massaging the base of his skull. He let his fingers wander, tracing the lines of his eyebrows and trailing up and down his cheekbones. Without his usual defenses and extravagant gestures, he looked painfully young, a far cry from the centuries-old powerhouse and warlock leader he truly was.

Staring down into his relaxed face, Alec couldn’t help feeling a little floored.

Magnus was independent, often to a fault, preferring to look after himself under any and all circumstances. But here he was, practically asleep in a magically exhausted state on a New York City street. Letting Alec stand between himself and the world.

Alec would die before he let anyone touch him.

Eventually, the sound of approaching sirens reached his ears and he gently shook Magnus’ shoulder. They were both standing by the time Luke arrived on the scene with a handful of his officers.

Confident that the situation was in good hands, Magnus summoned a portal for them both. By unspoken agreement, any post-mission briefings would wait until tomorrow.

Hand-in hand, they stepped through the portal and into their home.

--

 iv.

“Magnus, trust me. I want this.” The words were hardly real, even to Alec’s own ears.

He had spelled out his entire plan, his research, everything. He spoke until his voice felt flat and scratchy. Now that it was done, he shifted in place, needing an outlet for the excess energy.

But Magnus only stared.

The silence stretched thin, the air between them cracked and brittle.

Alec was adept at reading the nuances in his boyfriend’s expressions but now those familiar features may as well been carved from stone. He could feel the exact moment his world dropped out beneath him. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he rocked backwards on the golden sheets of their bed.

“Please say something.” Each word felt forced from Alec's throat.

He spent so much time preparing, so many months soul-searching and charting every possible eventuality. He hadn’t planned that Magnus might say nothing at all.

A negative answer, sure. How could he not, after that first fiasco of a move-in discussion what felt like a lifetime ago. Eventually, they’d come to an understanding about how they each viewed the passage of time, and their relationship was stronger for it. Alec was so sure he wasn’t about to repeat past mistakes.

He hated being wrong.

“I’m afraid,” is what Magnus finally said.

Alec squinted at him. “What?”

Of all the responses he expected to his declaration of wanting to spend the rest of Magnus’ long life together, this wasn’t it.

Magnus swallowed, and Alec was momentarily distracted by the jut of his Adam’s apple as he explained.

“I’m scared that one day, maybe in a century, maybe four centuries, after your family and friends have all passed, that you’ll remember I’m the reason you’re stuck here without them.”

Magnus looked down at his hands, fingers reaching to fiddle with the rings he had already taken off in preparation for sleep. He paused, grasping at nothing until he finally clasped them together and placed them in his lap. “I don’t think I could live with myself if you looked at me like that.”

Alec choked back his instinctive denial.

It wouldn’t be fair to brush aside Magnus’ very real fears, even though he knew with a certainly aimed as true as his arrows, that those fears were wrong. The thought of living without his family was a white-hot poker seared into in his gut, but so was the thought of growing old and abandoning the love of his life to nothing but memories.

Alec couldn’t do anything about the lifespan of those he loved. He could only do something about his own.

He got to his knees on the soft mattress, shuffling forward to straddle Magnus’s lap where he sat against the headboard. Carefully, he wrapped both hands around the back of Magnus’ neck, using his thumbs to tilt his chin upwards.

Magnus let out a breath and allowed himself to be maneuvered.

Alec stroked the pad of his finger along the sharp cut of Magnus’ jaw. “I’ve thought about this, Magnus. So many times, you don’t even know. I understand what I’m committing to. I’m committing to you. Forever with you.”

Magnus squeezed his eyes shut like he was in actual pain.

When he opened them, they shone gold in wonder. “I wish I knew what I did to deserve you. I would keep doing it for the rest of my life.” He paused to bite at his lip. “But Alec, this is a big decision that can’t be undone. I need you to be sure.”

Alec pressed their foreheads together, mumbling against Magnus’ lips, “I’m sure about you.”

With a muffled cry, Magnus pressed forward, closing the slim distance between them.

Alec could taste the slightest tang of salt on his face as their lips moved together. He opened his mouth into the kiss, eagerly letting Magnus in. Magnus kissed like he wanted to devour Alec’s every word with his tongue, like he could sweep them directly from Alec’s lips into his own body and keep them safe in his heart for the rest of eternity.

Like if he didn’t, Alec might take them back.

Alec let him have it all, giving himself over to the kiss and giving Magnus everything he so desperately needed. His head spun, giddy with the thought of forever. This was only the beginning. He could see his future stretched out before him, bright and wondrous in the way he used to dream about, when he let himself imagine a fantasy world where things were different.

Except this was better. Magnus was real and warm beneath his hands, and Alec loved him with such a fire in his chest that he was surprised the whole world couldn’t see him burning.

When it was over, they stayed pressed up tight, breathing each other in as their racing heartbeats settled and the urge to gasp for each drag of air had passed.

“Oh Alexander, do you know what you do to me when you say things like that.”

Alec nodded, taking Magnus’ hands into his own. “I’m going to say it every day.” Alec turned serious as he added, “Forever, if you want it.”

Magnus’ eyes shone bright. “I do.”