#bookkeeper’s shelf: art

[marlynnofmany]

Not Special

The refueling station was on a small moon in the back end of nowhere, close to nothing but a couple of wormhole junctions. Since it had a little convenience store and everything, it really gave off “7/11 next to a desert highway” vibes. Just, y’know, in space. The moon wasn’t big enough for proper gravity or air on its own, so someone had installed a gravity generator under the dusty red ground. And turned it up just a smidge too high, but I wasn’t going to complain.

I was going to buy pre-packaged alien snacks at the store while my coworkers handed the refueling. Mimi was calling the shots, tentacles waving and gravelly voice audible from here, while the Frillian twins handled the heavy lifting of connector hoses and Captain Sunlight was at the payment kiosk. The others were either staying onboard or already browsing the aisles.

I’d just picked up a pack of something colorful (doing an artful fumble-and-recovery because of the gravity) when a rowdy group of Armorlites trooped in. I didn’t pay them too much attention — just a bunch of macho dinosaurs with holstered blasters and bipedal swagger; totally normal here — but one of them said something that brought me up short.

“Hey look, another human,” said the cheerful voice. “Maybe you can get some tips on how not to be such a disappointment.” Raucous laughter followed.

I frowned in their direction and saw that they did have a human with them: a pale and unassuming guy just a bit shorter and stockier than me. He looked annoyed by the comment, but not surprised.

When he walked over to me, I asked, “What’s that about?” The Armorlites were already ignoring him.

The guy sighed. “They heard a lot of stories about humans before they hired me, and I don’t meet their expectations.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Humans doing daring things, like running for hours to get medicine to dying people, catching a diseased rat before it infected an entire space station, throwing fruit at charging fauna hard enough to make it leave…” He ticked things off on his fingers. “Exorcizing a ghost, and riding a hoversled like a skateboard fast enough to catch a bomb before it blew up. How am I supposed to compete with that?” He threw his hands in the air.

“Um,” I said, putting down the snack I was still holding. “Would it make it better or worse to know those were all the same person?”

“What?”

“The rat wasn’t actually diseased, the ghost was a howling dog, and I didn’t know the thing was explosive when I rushed to catch it,” I said. “And I wasn’t the only person throwing things at the fauna.”

“What?” he repeated, with a spread-arms gesture that smacked into the shelf. Rubbing his hand, he asked, “That was all you?”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “Unless there are other humans doing the same things, which is possible.”

He raked fingers through his hair, setting it at odd angles. “I can’t believe this. I’d tell them, but they’d just want to hire you instead.”

I rushed to assure him, “I’ve got a job already, and I don’t want to take yours.” I glanced over at the Armorlites, who were grabbing food and accessories. One clicked a flashlight on in another’s face, prompting curses from him and laughter from the others. That tracked from what I’d seen of Armorlite culture before. Toughness was important. Kindness, not so much. “What do you do for them?”

He sighed again. “Bookkeeping, officially. They needed somebody to handle the boring stuff like money and permits while they focus on hunting the biggest animals they can sell.”

“Gotcha. That sounds … exciting.”

“It’s not. It’s like going on a trip with my cousins again, except they’re even bigger and make fun of me for not having claws.”

“You’ve got other stuff going for you, though!” I said. “We just need to figure which of your differences they’ll respect most.”

“I’m all ears,” he said with a certain level of sarcasm. “Please tell me what about my fragile human physique will get me respect from the Mighty.”

Oh right, they did call themselves that. I’d almost forgotten. At least they were a straightforward species without a lot of mysterious depths.

“Well,” I said, thinking. “They like fighting. You’re more suited to stealth than they are, small enough to hide and do sneak attacks that they wouldn’t see coming. What if you introduced them to rubber band warfare, and sniped from hidden parts of the ship?”

“Nope,” he said. “That would just end with me cornered somewhere, and them showing off how even thin scales are tougher than my skin.”

“Good point. Oh! What kind of animals do they hunt? You said big ones, but do you know the specific names?” I got out my phone and brought up the database of known fauna that I’d talked Captain Sunlight into buying for me. As her own hired animal expert, it was really the kind of thing that I should have. My vet training on Earth only went so far.

“Uhhh, I think the last one was a treehorn,” he said. “Wait, they talked about going for Argoshan Dagger Birds next.”

“Right. Now what kind of noises do those make…” I typed quickly. Big creatures indeed, by the looks of it: Dagger Birds had prevented more than one colony from getting a foothold in the wilds of a nearby world, and were unlikely to stop being a threat anytime soon. I skimmed the rundown for the vocal files. “Here we go. Mating call.” Keeping the sound low enough for just us to hear, I played the croaking warble.

“Okay?” the guy said, confused.

“Can you imitate that?” I asked. “Give it a shot. Kinda like a frog. Woarrrk.”

Looking skeptical, he did. The expression on his face said he wasn’t impressed with his own efforts, but it sounded accurate enough to me.

“Great!” I said. “Give that a bit of practice, then you can go out with your crew and impress everybody by luring in some targets for them.”

“I could,” he said thoughtfully. “I usually stay on the ship while they’re hunting, but it might be worth a try. Can I have a copy of that sound for practice?”

He got out his own phone and I played it again so he could record it. The Armorlites were dumping things onto the front counter, ready to pay and leave. I caught sight of bright packaging that I recognized, and I had another idea.

“Thanks,” the guy said. “This might actually help. What was your name?”

“Robin Bennett,” I said with a belated handshake.

“Oscar Tennyson,” he replied. “Thanks for your help. Looks like I should grab my stuff and get going.”

“Before you go. See those tall cans with the purple labels?” I pointed at something the Armorlites were buying.

“Yeah?”

“Have you ever tried that?”

“No! They get wasted on it; I’ve steered far clear.”

I grinned with all my teeth. “That’s not alcohol. That’s caffeine.”

“What?”

“Humans can process caffeine better than most species on our own planet, and just about everybody in space. It’s a poison to most. It gets them super drunk, but for you—” I pointed at him with glee. “For you, it’s just a bit of energy. Pick your moment, then walk in casually while they’re getting wasted, and slam one down. See what happens.”

He was smiling now. “You’re sure? It’s really just caffeine? How much?”

“I checked into it before. One of those huge cans is like a watered-down coffee. These guys are absolute lightweights, and they don’t even know.”

He grinned to split his face. “That is the best news.”

One of them called for him to hurry up, and he bid me a quick goodbye before scampering off. I saw him grab food cubes, water, and a six-pack of caffeine, which he bundled onto the counter as the Armorlites headed out the door.

“Be right there! Just getting some stuff!”

They didn’t look, simply telling him not to waste any time. He smiled his way through the purchase.

Peeking over the shelves, I smiled too. Then I went back to my own purchases, with thoughts of getting an energy drink or two in his honor.

~~~

These started as backstory tidbits for the main character from this book, and turned into a sprawling adventure series in their own right. The sequel book will feature a return of some familiar faces. And Patreon is coming soon — even the free tier will be a handy way to keep up with the ongoing shenanigans of this particular human in space.

[0harpies]

Your art tastes like freshly-baked bread with cinnamon and sugar on it. A little bit too much, but in the way that it just tastes even better. Like pure bitter sugar. It feels like a Red Bull, but only the drinking part. It feels like a cup of matcha has engulfed you physically, in shades of matcha green and porcelain whites. It feels like being a witch and a bookkeeper, but the type of witch as those two women from Coraline. Only sane. The tea leaves are being read, and fate is being foretold- the aftermath tastes bitter, but sweet. And it tastes and feels like accidentally-swallowed tea leaves. You finally shut the book, relishing in the old smell, a brown and gold shelf of books behind you. You rest in a dark green chair, eyes closed, head up towards the cloud. It’s a white void, but not a suffocating one. A comforting one. As you wait for shapes to appear behind your eyelids, and for the mail to be delivered by some paperboy named Stan the next day.

that is what your art feels like.

also for the record I have never had matcha in my life

What is wrong with you people!! /Pos

[spiffy-cleaning]

How to Get Kids Involved in cleanliness to Make It Fun for Them

It is very important to keep a school clean and organized so that the atmosphere stays healthy and friendly. As important as it is to have Melbourne day care cleaners like Spiffy Clean, there are also benefits to having the kids help clean.

Make cleaning easier

You need to make cleaning fun for kids if you want them to do it. Make cleaning fun for the kids by giving them something to look forward to. As the kids clean, make up some happy songs that they can sing along to. While kids clean songs that make it look like a game might keep them interested. Let kids clean with easy things that are small enough for their hands. If you want to clean more, use highly colored brooms, dusters, and mops. Hold little races or games to see who can clean up their space the fastest. Offer small rewards or praise to get people to participate.

Make your assignments easy

Make sure the kids are working on easy tasks that are right for their age if you want them to help clean. Reminding kids to put their toys away after playing is an easy job. With labels on the cases, they can sort things by type. To help kids' clean surfaces, use cleaning wipes that don't scratch or damp rags. Make sure that they know how to use the cleaning supplies safely. Ask the kids to put the books back where they belong on the shelf or somewhere else. This job helps with both being responsible and being organized.

Plan out when you will clean.

Children learn when and how to help around the house better when they clean in a set way every time. Simple cleaning tasks like clearing up messes and setting up play areas should be a part of your daily routine. Every week, do things like clean or put boxes in order. The kids can each do these things for a turn. Utilize picture schedules to help little ones understand their cleaning responsibilities and the correct order in which to complete them.

Make people responsible

Cleaning up around the house with you is a great way to teach kids to be responsible. Giving each child a specific job to do will help them develop this attitude. One easy way to do this might be to be the "Toy Collector" or the "Bookkeeper Book." Show them the right way to clean and make sure they know why it's important. When kids learn the right steps, they will be able to understand how important their work is. Positive feedback should be used to recognize and reward their efforts. To improve their self-esteem and get them more involved, it's important to praise their hard work and happiness at their successes.

Clean up as part of your daily routine.

Add cleaning to the daily routine to make it a normal part of school life. Make cleaning a normal part of your life. Like after arts and crafts or before snack time, you might clean up. You should set aside times during the day to clean up. From a young age, kids learn that cleaning up after themselves is just a normal part of the day. Helping the kids will teach you how to clean up after yourself. It's a good idea to include kids in the cleaning process because kids like to copy what their parents say and do.

Help people work together

While they clean, kids may learn how to work together and improve their ability to get along with others. Plan group cleaning tasks to get the kids to clean up a space they all use. In a team setting, they might learn how to work together better. When kids clean together, they might learn how to help each other and work in pairs. Honour and appreciate the work and accomplishments of everyone. Thanks to everyone's hard work, the area is now clean and tidy.

Making sure people are safe

Making safety a top priority is very important when getting kids to help clean. Use only non-toxic cleaning items to keep kids safe. Make sure there are no dangerous chemicals and that all the cleaning supplies are safe for kids. When you let your kids help around the house, make sure they follow the rules and use things correctly. Children should be kept in a safe place where they can't fall or hurt themselves while you clean.

In conclusion, Kindergarteners can turn cleaning from a bad thing into a fun and educational activity by making a plan that works for them. Kids can help clean up the house if you make it fun for them, give them simple tasks, and get them to work together. It's helpful to hire professional kindergarten cleaners in Melbourne like Spiffy Clean, but getting the kids involved also helps them learn important life skills and keeps the kindergarten a safe place for everyone.

[memoirsofanerdygirl]

The Gold in the Abyss - Chapter One: Going Over His Head

Summary: 

London, 1991. 

Katherine Clarke -- Auror, Slytherin, and in desperate need of Severus Snape’s help. A mysterious shadow has poisoned two victims with an unknown substance, slowly decomposing their stomachs from within. When more bodies turn up in cramped London alleys, she has no choice but to ask her former professor for assistance. 

As Britain is plunged into war, Kate and Severus are forced to confront their demons of guilt and fear. Caught between two sides of a hopeless conflict, can they learn to respect one another, and, in time, perhaps even care for the other? 

Warnings: Language, implied attempted rape, mild graphic depictions of violence/gore. 

Notes: (feel free to skip this, it’s just to cover my ass) The Harry Potter Universe, all its characters and places are owned by J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended, nor am I making any profit from this story. All original characters, I own. This story does contain adult situations, language, violence, and sexual situations. If any of these offend you, please do not read.

Okay, now for the real notes. So, this idea has been floating around for quite a while now, and I’m super, super excited to share it with you all. Hope you enjoy! And remember, comments, reblogs and general reactions are ALWAYS appreciated :)

~~~

The bookshop was tucked away in a corner of Diagon Alley, hidden around the bend of a back road that branched off the main shopping street.Small, but stuffed from floor to ceiling with old and new volumes alike, topics ranging from Guide to De-Ghouling to the latest editions of The Dark Arts Outsmarted. 

A sign with a bubbling cauldron and the words ‘The Melting Plot’ dangled above the entrance. Kate pulled open the door and entered. It smelled of old books and the unmistakable scent of a cooling charm -- artificial freshness, like the crisp air in the frozen aisle of a grocery store. All the same, she was glad for the rush of cold air that dispelled the muggy mid-August heat. 

She slipped her wand out of the sleeve of her lightweight jacket and stuck it in her belt loop. Her armpits were damp with sweat. At least there would be no stains in the loose blouse underneath. She shrugged off the jacket and draped the olive material over her arm. 

The bookkeeper was a spindly old man with a knotted hulihee beard, two bushels of coarse grey hair broadening his jaw to three times its size, but leaving his chin bare. He gave off whiffs of tobacco when one stepped too near, but he did, at the very least, know the store like the back of his hand. He looked up at her through thin rimmed spectacles.

“Research,” said Kate. “Poisons.”

He jerked his head toward the back right corner of the shop. 

She nodded. It suddenly occurred to her that in all the times she’d been to The Melting Plot, she had never asked the man’s name. Hadn’t been able to stand the stench long enough. 

The Melting Plot wasn’t large at all; perhaps, if she had to guess, half the size of Flourish and Blotts. Besides Kate, there was only one other patron present at the moment: a rather beefy man clad in deep violet robes. He barely glanced up at her as she breezed past his aisle. 

Secluded from the busy areas of Diagon Alley as it was, the shop’s customers were a medley of sporadic regulars who forwent the noisy din of Flourish and Blotts for the empty silence of The Melting Plot. Kate, however, came for the prices. Two-for-a-Galleon days were simply too tempting. 

Coming upon the aisle in the back, she sighed. She didn’t have the faintest idea what she was looking for; she had only the patients’ symptoms to go off of, and even those weren’t much. Vomiting. Bloody urine. Comatose state. How in the world was she supposed to find the poisonous culprit?

Encyclopedia, she answered herself. That had always been a good place to start.

She proceeded down the aisle, her finger brushing over the spines of the books as she quickly scanned the titles. Dark Arts Discovered by Eglantine Pickering… Vampires and Bats by Garrett Puckett… She was halfway down the aisle before she found a relevant title and plucked it off the shelf. She rested her foot on a bottom shelf, balancing on one leg, and propped the heavy book on her knee. She began to read.  

Barely five minutes in, and already it was hopeless. Like finding a Knut in a pile of dragon dung. She flipped idly through the pages, and when she heard the front door creak open again, she peered through the aisles for a glimpse of the newcomer. 

A flash of black between the stacks. Clacks of a forceful stride on the wooden floor. There was a low murmur, and Kate heard the bookkeeper wheeze, “ ‘Course,” and then the squeak of the backroom door opening and closing. Likely some customer picking up an order. She returned to the book in her hand. 

A Compendium of Magical Poisons, it was called. An antique, too; the textured leather spine gilded and ridged. She snapped the book shut to inspect the front and back covers. It would make a fine addition to her collection. 

Might as well. 

She exited the aisle for the till. If it didn’t prove useful, it could always be used as a coaster for her tea. Or given to Tristan; Tristan knew all sorts of muggle markets that sold old items for a vastly inflated price. One of the advantages of being a muggleborn, she supposed. 

The bookkeeper reentered from the backroom, carrying a small stack of books. “Four Galleons,” he said. “You want wrapping?”

The clink of coins hitting the counter. “Yes.” 

But… she knew that voice. Deep, deliberate. Always the hint of a sneer. She snapped her gaze up from the item in her hands. “Professor Snape?”

He was exactly as she remembered him. A tall, sharp frame draped in black robes buttoned up to his neck. Lank black hair lay limp against his pallid face, upon which a sharp brow was quickly rising. “Miss Clarke. What a surprise.”

“Yes. Yes, indeed.” As his critical gaze swept over her, Kate was suddenly very conscious of her flushed face, slightly oily with sweat. And Lord, her hair -- she hadn’t washed the dark brown mess in three days, too busy stressing over the new case. She instinctively raised a hand to sweep her hair over one shoulder. It was surprising, him having recognised her without her signature schoolgirl fringe. 

“It’s been six years, hasn’t it?” he said. 

It… had. Six years since she’d left the confines of Hogwarts. “Yes. Yes, indeed,” she said. 

The bookkeeper eyed them both with a twitching eye as he finished wrapping the books in brown paper and tied the package with a string of twine. 

Snape whisked his purchase off the counter. He gave her a curt nod and turned for the door. 

But -- he -- “How are the students?” she called. The least he could do was to finish their bloody conversation. 

He turned around. “Simply charming,” he sneered. 

“Wonderful.” He had never liked teaching, much less his students. Kate knew that. For four years, she had watched him stalk the dungeons. She’d watched him smirk in glee when a student answered a question wrong, watched him dock points by the bucketful when they made a racket in the halls. She, for some miraculous reason, had been on the receiving end of his withering stares only a handful of times. Owing to her Slytherin status, perhaps. Merlin knew she had never been a Potions Extraordinaire like Snape. 

Potions… Could she… 

“My cousin” -- she fished for something to say -- “my cousin is a first year student this year.”

“Your cousin.” 

“Ron Weasley.”

“Splendid.” His nostrils flared. “Another shabby Weasley to add to my excessive collection.”

She bit back a retort. They were a little shabby, and she admitted as much. But when Snape said it like that, sarcasm dripping from each word, it made her stomach twist. Regrettably, defending them would have to wait. For now, she needed Snape to tolerate her. 

Which, judging by the fleeting glance he cast toward the door, was going none too well. 

“Perhaps,” he tucked the package under his arm, “we shall meet again in another six years.” 

She smiled. “I doubt you’ll have to wait that long.”

“Is that so?”

“Well, I was wondering whether I might… consult your expertise.”

His brow arched up high on his pale forehead. “My expertise being…”

“Potions.” Kate made her way toward him, past the till and the bookkeeper. “You see, I’ve been assigned a case involving an unknown poison -- I’m an Auror -- and, well, unfortunately it seems that an ‘Exceeds Expectations’ N.E.W.T in Potions is not quite enough to find the antidote.”

“I can’t imagine it would be,” he said coldly. 

It was her turn to lift a brow. 

“Haven’t you contacted the St. Mungo’s Healers? They’re always eager to offer their services to the desperate.”

Kate forced a wry smile to her lips. “I have. A team has already begun to look into it. But, according to my father, we’ll all be dead in our graves before they find a cure.”

“And anything your father says must be true.”

Her smile was difficult to maintain. “He works at St. Mungo’s. Claims a horde of pixies could get it done faster. So, frankly, I am desperate. Two lives hinge-- ”

“So I’ve heard,” he interrupted. “I do read the Daily Prophet, Miss Clarke. ‘HIT Witch Janice Bulwark mysteriously discovered unconscious, admitted to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries’, no?” He recited the headline. 

Kate averted her eyes, muttering under her breath. She thought Kingsley had managed to get the reporter to keep the whole thing under wraps. “Yes, that’s the one.” She glanced at the bookkeeper, who was still eyeing them grittily. She caught a strong whiff of tobacco and resisted the urge to scowl. “Listen,” she said, “it’s rather sensitive information I’m about to share with you-- ”

“I’d much rather you didn’t,” said Snape. “I have no intention of involving myself in Ministry matters, much less a murder investigation.”

“Yes, but we have never seen anything like this before, and I’ve already exhausted every other option. I’m doing research in a bloody bookshop, for Merlin’s sake.”

He smirked. “Then I hope you are still a swift reader.” 

Git. Kate lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “Their stomachs are being decomposed from within, Professor.”

His ink black eyes studied her woody brown ones.  “I’m afraid I must disappoint you,” he said smoothly. “Term begins in a few short weeks, as you may well know, and I must prepare for the students.”

Prepare for the students? That was a load of dragon shit, and they both knew it. Snape’s gaze glinted, challenging her. 

So, this was how he wanted to play things. 

“Of course.” She smiled. “I understand.” She held up the thick encyclopedia in her hands. “Well, I had better go pay for this before the man suspects me of theft. Wonderful to see you again, really.” 

The slightest twitch of his brows was the only sign she had surprised him. Abruptly, he turned and departed the store, leaving a very amused Katherine Clarke to watch the door swing shut behind him. 

“You’re right about the stealin’,” the old bookkeeper grumbled. She caught another whiff of tobacco. “You going to buy it or not?”

“No,” said Kate firmly. “I don’t think I will.” She had too many books as it was. Besides, if she was right, she would soon possess a resource far more useful than a tatty reference book. 

***

In the end, Kate did purchase the book. She had a terrible soft spot for beautiful books that left an even more terrible dent in her Gringotts account. She strode a little ways toward the main street before she stopped, shifted her paper-wrapped package more securely under her arm, and turned on her heel. 

A swift pop, and she appeared once again in a back alley. Blaring honks and the rumble of traffic sounded from up ahead. 

Exiting onto Whitehall, she wove among the pedestrians until she came to a row of black spiky railings that flanked two flights of descending stairs labelled ‘LADIES’ and ‘GENTLEMEN’. She took the stairs to the right and quickly emerged into the underground public toilets. Dim lighting concealed most of the grime on the black and white tiles, and the mirrors that were supposed to have hung above the three sinks were respectively cracked, nonexistent and spattered with a brown substance that looked suspiciously like spit and chewed tobacco. 

Merlin, did everyone enjoy tobacco? 

Despite being the main entrance to the Ministry, the Whitehall public toilets were quite disgusting, and the only reason Kate could think why they wouldn’t perform a few simple cleaning charms on the place was that it kept Muggles at bay. In all the years she had used the toilets, she had only ever seen four, perhaps five Muggles wander in. They had been chased out by the unsavoury sight, or else quickly Confounded and sent back overground. Today was no different. Of the dozen or so people queued up by the stalls, all bore some sign of being a Ministry employee. 

Dawlish nodded at her from the next queue over. “Alright there, Clarke?” 

“Just popping in for a quick chat with Scrimgeour,” she returned. 

“Thought you were out on assignment.”

“I was.” She stepped forward in the queue. “Quite productive, actually. Lunch break?” she asked him. 

He nodded and patted his stomach beneath his beige suit. “Genevive came ‘round.”

“What about the baby?”

“Helen’s with Gen’s parents.” His wiry brown hair looked grey under the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’ve got a holiday next weekend, so they decided to come down for a fortnight.” 

“Excellent.”

Dawlish stepped into a stall. “It will be, as long as my mother-in-law quits smoking,” he called. “Terrible for Helen’s lungs, I told her.” There was a flushing noise and he was gone. 

Again, she thought. Again with the tobacco. 

It wasn’t long before Kate joined the throng of Ministry workers ambling toward the golden gates at the far end of the Atrium. The crowd was much thinner than the morning rush, however, and within minutes she was striding into the Auror Headquarters on Level Two. 

Dawlish had gotten there before her and was already settling in his cubicle, a small mountain of paperwork before him. He adjusted the framed picture lovingly placed in the corner of the cubicle -- a smiling brunette cradled a pig-tailed toddler, both perched atop a broomstick -- then set about dipping his quill in ink to begin the first page. 

“Oi, Clarke -- ” Gawain Robard twisted around in his chair, “ -- look at this.” He gestured at a chubby faced witch with cropped pink hair. 

The girl grinned cheekily and squeezed her eyes shut as Kate turned to watch. The enormous mane seemed to sprout out of her very neck; bushels of tawny hair laced with grey grew and grew until they framed the girl’s face like a lion’s mane. The girl brought her hands up to her eyes and formed two circles, like glasses, and set her lips into a deep frown. 

Kate snorted, then broke into a laugh as the girl growled in a spot-on imitation of the Head Auror. 

“Brilliant, eh?” Robard gazed at the girl proudly. One half of his face was gnarled with raised white scars. 

“Stunning,” she laughed. “Though I’m not sure Scrimgeour would appreciate the comedy.” She wracked her brain for the girl’s name… Tina… Tink… Tory, was it? 

The girl flushed and brought her hands down. The mane retreated. “Bloody terrifying, he is.”

“Who -- Scrimgeour?” Kate asked. 

She nodded, her hair turning to an apple red. “You know, I was getting myself some tea from the break room the other day -- adding my milk and sugar and everything -- and he appears next to me and he says -- ” the girl deepened her voice, imitating him, “ -- ‘Ought to use less milk. Have a mind to save the budget.’” She leaned against Robard’s desk. “I wasn’t quite sure what to say. He seems to hate me most out of all the A.T.s.”

Robard propped an arm on the back of his chair. “Well, there are only two of you. The man’s got to pick one, hasn’t he?”

Kate frowned. “Only two Trainees? I thought he hadn’t finished sorting through applications. Didn’t he have seventy some odd left?” 

“Dunno.” He ran a hand over his close-cropped black hair. “Anyway, I’ve got a pair of missing twins to find.” He spun back around in his seat. 

“Godspeed.” The Auror Trainee’s hair bloomed back to an offensive pink. 

Kate could distinctly remember meeting the girl not a week ago when the two A.T.s had first stepped foot in the Headquarters. After all, it was difficult to forget meeting a metamorphmagus, especially one with hair that rivaled the most garish of Valentine’s cards. But she could not, for the life of her, recall the girl’s name. 

“Can I get you anything, Ms Clarke?” the girl asked, stepping out of Robard’s cubicle. 

Kate had the sudden, fleeting image of a hook nosed, sharp faced man sneering at her over a cauldron. She hadn’t been addressed as ‘Miss Clarke’ for six years, and now… twice in one day. “Just Kate,” she said. “Er -- actually -- could you… ” She gave a small laugh. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Tonks,” said the girl brightly, offering a hand to shake. 

Kate took it gratefully. “Welcome to the Auror Headquarters.” She smiled. “Where we discuss murders over tea.”

Tonks grinned, and her hair turned yellow. 

Merlin’s pants. The girl was like one of those Muggle mood rings. 

“Is Kingsley in?” Kate asked. 

“Don’t think so. I saw him dragged out by a group of Obliviators ‘bout an hour ago. A little irritated by the looks of it.”

Then he’d have to wait, she decided. Time was of the essence. She bid Tonks a quick goodbye and wove to her own cubicle to set her package down. 

Kate’s cubicle, directly across from Kingsley’s, was cluttered. Very cluttered. A pair of reading spectacles rested lens-side down atop various open books. An unopened Chocolate Frog sat beside a red case folder labelled ‘BULWARK/GOLDHORN’, from which various photographs and documents threatened to burst. A marked map of London’s warehouse district was pinned to her cubicle wall, and next to that a rather crude drawing of a gnome Ginny had recently gifted her. Kate bent to pick up the scraps of parchment that had fluttered to the floor, set adrift by colleagues sweeping past her desk. 

Someday she would find time to tidy everything up. Someday, when this whole decomposing stomach debacle was sorted. 

She made her way to the back corner of the room where the Head Auror’s Office was located. Kate knocked softly on the door. The blinds looking out toward the cubicles were drawn. 

“Enter,” grumbled a voice on the other side. 

Scrimgeour’s office was rather dark; grey storm clouds twisted and gathered in the windows behind his desk, pregnant with heavy rain. He scribbled a few last words on a lavender coloured memo before it folded itself into a neat paper aeroplane and zoomed out the door just as Kate closed it behind her. 

“Clarke.” Scrimgeour fixed her with a steadfast gaze, his mouth turned down in a deep frown. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles sat low on his ridged nose.  “What’s the matter? Something gone wrong with one of them victims?” 

“No, no,” she said. “Conditions unchanged, last I heard.”

“Comatose.”

She nodded. “Fortunately. Or they’d be in quite some pain.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“The St Mungo’s task force isn’t working fast enough to save them -- Bulwark and Goldhorn.” It was the truth, plain and simple. 

“Aren’t they?”

Kate approached his desk but did not sit down; she rested her hands on the back of the chair before the table. “It’s been made very clear that they’ve only got a list of three possible poisons. Three, sir. It’s been a week and a half. Therefore,” she steeled herself, “it is my hope that, with your permission, I may bring the Potions Master Severus Snape in as a consultant on this case and work on an antidote myself.”

“Severus Snape? What -- the Death Eater?” His tone was incredulous. 

“Former Death Eater, sir.”

Scrimgeour huffed a laugh, shaking his tawny head. His maned head looked too large for his rangy frame. When he saw that Kate’s expression was quite unchanged, he stilled. 

She took the chance. “He is a brilliant Potioneer. A specialist in his field. In fact, I believe his knowledge of poisons and antidotes surpasses even that of the task force’s.”

“With all due respect, Clarke, you can’t expect me to believe that you and Severus Snape can produce an antidote faster than the task force. They’re a group of highly skilled Healers. They’ve studied poisons for years.”

“And with all due respect to you, sir, you have never been taught by Severus Snape.” Her straight, stubborn brows drew together. 

He opened his mouth as if to say something, revealing small rows of snaggled teeth. He let out a suppressed sigh. “Sometimes I wonder if you weren’t sorted into Gryffindor instead.” 

She ignored the comment. Her feelings regarding her house were muddled, and it was much easier to ignore them instead. Besides, no use crying over spilt potions. “Please, sir. It can only help the investigation.”

“Your job is to catch the wizard, not to cure the patients.”

“And the antidote will help us to do just that. You know it will. The sooner we find the antidote, the sooner we catch the wizard.” Kate released the chair back and slid her hands into the pockets of her trousers. “If you require it, I can have a copy of his professional record owled to you, but that will take time. Precious time I’m afraid the victims don’t have.” 

Lie. She was quite sure she would not be able to obtain a copy of Snape’s record at all. The man certainly wouldn’t provide it willingly. 

Scrimgeour narrowed his yellowish eyes behind his spectacles. “And if, in the end, you find you’ve spent too much time mixing cocktails in the dungeons and the case goes cold -- what happens then? What happens when you find you’ve lost?”

“I won’t -- ”

“Shacklebolt is an excellent Auror, top of the line. But no wizard shy of Merlin himself could conduct interviews, formulate theories, inspect crime scenes, subdue the Prophet, investigate suspects and catch the perpetrator singlehandedly.” 

“But he won’t be, sir. I am in no way deserting him. I’m merely pursuing an alternate method of investigation in addition to the established method.” Kate took her hands out of her trouser pockets. She hastily swept her dark hair over one shoulder. “I’ve had a chat with Kingsley already. He agrees that it would be extremely helpful to have Snape on standby.” Her mouth dried slightly. She tried not to swallow. 

Scrimgeour pulled his frown deeper and inspected Kate for a few quiet  moments. Then his spectacles shifted as his ridged nose twitched in resignation. “Shall I inform him, or shall you?”

Warm satisfaction spread through her chest. “Oh, no, it had much better come from you.”

“Very well.” He pulled a blank sheet of parchment from behind his desk. 

“Thank you, sir.” Kate returned to the door and pulled it open. 

His rumbling voice called her back. “Remind me what grade you received on your Potions N.E.W.T.?”

This she couldn’t lie about. Scrimgeour had her records. “‘Exceeds Expectations’, sir.” 

Scrimegour’s busheled brows lowered. “I see.” The doubt in his tone was unmistakable. “I don’t need to remind you that two lives rest in your hands. However you decide to proceed with the case, whether through investigation or experimentation, will determine whether they and their families receive justice. If you fail, it will reflect poorly on our department.” His yellowish eyes blinked at her in the dim office. “Be careful, Katherine.”

She dipped her head. “Of course.” 

***

Kate had been right about Kingsley. Admittedly, he’d been rightfully irritated at her not having waited until after he’d got back to ask Scrimgeour, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle. She’d even gotten him to confess that having Snape on hand would be useful. At least he hadn’t given her one of his ‘honestly, Kate’ looks. The last time she had gotten one of those was three years ago when she’d still been his trainee. 

The keys jangled as she inserted one into the lock and opened the door to her flat. The bloody things were a nuisance, but living squarely in the middle of Westminster, it was a necessary sacrifice.

It was dark and quiet inside her flat. Street lamps outside cast a small pool of light by the window. Late night traffic grumbled past; Trafalgar Square never slept. Kate dropped her briefcase by the door and hung the keys on the coat stand. As she passed into the small kitchen, she dropped her linen jacket on the granite counter. 

She had already eaten dinner with Kingsley, working on the case while nibbling on Ministry canteen sandwiches. Four empty wrappers lay crumpled on the table before they had looked up and realised it was nearly ten. But the brain burned nearly twenty percent of one’s daily calories, which meant an extra supper for her after a long day’s work. 

And so it was that Kate rooted around the fridge, the white light casting an eerie glow on her pale face. She spooned down a bit of leftover curry from the Thai place down the street. A quick wave of her wand and the dishes were washed. She crept down the creaky hall to the bedroom. 

The bedroom door was slightly ajar, but all was dark inside. White noise rumbled in the chambers. Kate eased herself through the crack in the door, then shut it behind her. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness before creeping to the dresser across from the large bed. Slowly, ever so slowly, she pulled the drawer out, inch by inch. The ancient wood squeaked, loud enough to be heard over the white noise. 

A groan from the rumpled sheets on the bed. “Kate?”

Damn. She gave up and yanked the drawer open the rest of the way. “Sorry to wake you,” she whispered. “I was trying to be quiet.”

“It’s fine. Just got back from work?” His American accent was slightly slurred with sleep. 

“Yes. Kingsley and I had some business to discuss.” She pulled her nightclothes from the drawer and pushed it shut again. 

Mark grunted. Kate could just make out his lean form struggling to sit up. 

She shushed him. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be right there.” 

“No, no, it’s okay, baby. I’ll wait up for you.” But he fell back against the pillows and tried to conceal a yawn. 

Kate shimmied out of her work clothes, carefully folding the white shirt and trousers and draping them on top of the dresser. 

“What was the business with Kingsley about?” 

“The new case.” She slipped into her nightshirt. “We brought in a new consultant today.” 

Mark hummed sleepily and dragged a hand up to scratch his beard. She climbed into bed next to him. 

“Come here,” he said. He opened his arms and waited until she settled in to continue. “Who’s the consultant?”

His chest was too high for her head; her neck scrunched uncomfortably when she laid against him. “My former Potions Master.” Kate shifted her arm under her shoulder, then changed her mind and wriggled it out. 

“The mean one or the fat one?”

“Mean one. I actually haven’t heard from the fat one in a while.” She grunted as she shifted positions. “But Tristan says he keeps getting letters from him.”

“Really?”

“Apparently Slughorn wants a special invitation to one of his concerts.”

His beard scratched the top of her head as he looked down at her. “You okay?” 

She removed her arm from under her shoulder for the third time and stilled. “Sorry.” 

“So, what’s the plan with him? Your Potions Master?”

“Not sure yet.” Well, she did have a general idea, but the specifics would ultimately come down to how difficult Snape was set on being.  “How was your day?”

“Good.” He rubbed her back, up and down. “Went to the Leaky Cauldron to get some writing done. Five thousand words and half a chapter finished.”

“Excellent. Has what’s-his-name found the killer yet?”

“Not yet. That’s in Chapter Thirteen.”

Kate laughed softly. “Thirteen, you say?”

“Yeah.” His fingers wove into her dark hair. 

For a few minutes they were silent, white noise thundering over the sound of their breathing and the traffic outside. His chest rose and fell; Kate’s neck cricked awkwardly. 

“I kept staring at our spot at the bar,” he said suddenly. “At the Leaky Cauldron.”

She thought he’d fallen back asleep. “Our spot?” 

“Remember -- the day we met? You were sitting on the third seat from the left end of the bar -- ”

“You remember which seat I was sitting in?”

“Of course. How could I not?”

Kate huffed in amusement. 

“You wore those robes -- I think they were blue, yeah, navy blue -- and you were reading that ratty copy of Pride and Prejudice.”

“And the ring too. Don’t forget the wedding ring.”

She could hear the grin in his voice. “Didn’t stop me from asking you out, did it?”

“Not sure what that says about you, Mark.”

“But I knew it was a fake.”

“Did you now?”

He hummed. “I was people-watching that night. There was no way I would’ve missed something as obvious as that.”

“And yet,” Kate propped her chin on his chest to look up at him, “I distinctly remember you ordering two bottles of firewhiskey, throwing me the worst pickup line, and proceeding to get me exceedingly sloshed.”

“You weren’t that drunk,” he protested. “You were still sober enough to help me with my novel.”

“Well, we both know it only sold so well because of me.”

“Really?”

“Most definitely. The murder mystery wouldn’t’ve been half so believeable if I hadn’t mixed in a dash of first-hand experience.”

He chuckled. “Of course, baby. All because of you.” His arms tightened around her back. His voice was husky when he spoke again. “My life is perfect because of you. So, so perfect.”

She could almost feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. She didn’t know how to respond. 

“Sleep, sleep, baby,” he murmured. “I love you.” He kissed the top of her head. “My soon-to-be wife.”

And suddenly the ring on her left hand felt cold as ice. She could think of nothing to say without sounding like a lovesick chit, so she settled for sliding an arm around his stomach. “Goodnight, Mark.” 

He merely hummed in contentment. 

It took less than five minutes for him to drift off again. Kate’s head rose and fell in time with his chest. A powerful snore escaped his mouth. Wrapped in rumbling white noise, she let her thoughts race. 

She’d been wrong before, when she’d thought Snape looked the same. Their exchange had lasted mere minutes, his words, tone, attitude all as she’d expected, but his posture, his body language… Taut, shallow breaths through the nose, fingers gripping his package so tightly they turned white… 

Of course, noticing such details was part of her training, but even without it, she would’ve recognised the signs for what they were -- silent, creeping fear. 

The fear of the unknown. The knowledge that something, at any time, could attack her from anywhere. Like stumbling down a pitch black corridor and feeling a hand latch onto her ankle. 

Merlin. 

Kate slid from the bed. For a moment, she teetered on the edge; she was being ridiculous and dramatic. Crawling back into bed was the right choice, the reasonable choice. Kate watched the sleeping man in the bed, his golden brown hair nearly black in the darkness, his beard freshly trimmed, his chest bare. Her left thumb reached for the ring around her finger. 

Perhaps a cup of tea would do her good. 

The warm beverage didn’t take long to make. Soon, she was cradling the mug in her hands, though not daring to drink for fear of burning her tongue. Waiting a few minutes would do the trick. 

Out in the sitting room, there was no white noise. A siren wined in the distance. Kate leaned against the window frame, looking out over Trafalgar Square. Despite the late hour, pedestrians still dotted the brightly lit square; some gathered around the colourful fountains, while others stopped to admire Nelson’s Column, an imposing Corinthian column upon which sat the Admiral of the same name. He hopped the twig ages ago, but his mark was long since made. 

Kate blew on her tea. The warm steam tickled her nose. Some marks, she knew, never faded. The sight of her former Head of House had only reminded her of the fact. 

Even now, bundled in her soft cotton nightshirt and her hair cascading around her shoulders, she could still feel his hand on her breast. Gripping. Pinching. 

Hyatt Travers. 

Her stomach turned over. She set her mug on the window sill. 

The Death Eaters swallowed Slytherin house like a riptide. She knew, because fighting the current had come with a steep price she’d paid in full. 

Her hands itched in restlessness. Kate picked up her mug again, scraping the rim with a nail. She looked at her knuckles. It was too easy to picture his blood and hers, drops flying from her fist as she’d drawn back to strike him again. The blinding frenzy. His spit in her face, a mouthful of saliva and blood from his broken teeth. 

The scars from that night were still there, faint but clearly visible between her knuckle ridges. 

Mark asked about them once. A rough encounter with an illegal dealer a couple years ago, she told him. He hadn’t suspected anything then, but since then… Her random bursts of resentment were impossible to overlook. 

From the window, Kate watched a couple amble across the Square, arm in arm. The woman turned her face up to his, and the man gave her a chaste kiss. Kate smiled, but it soon disappeared.

When her moods came -- as they inevitably would -- Mark would sit her down on their bed, poking and prodding with this tranquil voice. He was trying to avoid a row, but it was like a bloody piece of plastic wrap smothering her. She tried to contain herself, really, but her voice raised of its own accord, the tears came unbidden, the swell of anger unwelcome. And when he shushed her or pulled her to his chest, she just … she couldn’t. She didn’t want to be quiet. She didn’t need a hug. 

Kate took a large sip of her tea. The hot liquid prickled her tongue. 

Oh, Mark… He would never look at her the same way. 

That night -- her violence -- was a secret to keep. 

***

Loud beeping woke Kate in the morning. She felt better after a quick face wash, but last night’s sleeplessness lingered as she plodded into the kitchen. Mark was seated at the small square table, dressed in only a shirt and boxers. He sipped a mug, transfixed by the glowing picture box pushed against the corner counter. A blonde woman chattered on screen as images of rubble flashed behind her. 

Kate gazed at the box for a long moment; it was called a telephone, wasn’t it? Well, tele-something, that much she knew. “You’re up early,” she said. 

Mark glanced up. His brown gaze swept over her nightshirt clad form. A blush rose in her cheeks.  “I’m meeting Steven and Wilson for some ball at nine. Told you last week, remember?”

She did not. “Football?”

He pushed his floppy brown hair back from his eyes. “They’re muggles. Can’t play Quidditch.”

“Shame.” She spotted a covered plate on the table. “Oh, what’s this? Breakfast?”

“Toast and eggs. There’s coffee in the pot, if you want it.”

Kate pouted playfully. “No baked beans?”

He grimaced. “I will never understand you Brits.”

“No matter. I’m sure I’ll survive.” She gave him a quick peck and settled down to eat. Mark turned back to his tele-box, downing the rest of his coffee. 

She had just finished her toast when Mark interrupted. 

“Incoming.” He was looking out the window. 

With the way the table was pushed against the wall and window, Kate had to stand and move behind Mark to get a look outside. In the distance, above the narrow alley the window faced, two spots flapped toward them. 

“Two owls?” She settled back into her seat. “You know, we’re much too popular to be living in such a busy muggle area.”

“I’m the one paying the rent -- ”

“Just having you on, Mark,” she smiled. “The concealment charms’ll hold up.”

And though Mark’s gaze followed the sweeping path of the owls as they swooped into the alley, to the Muggle passerbys down below, they were nothing more than thin air. Mark pushed the window open. A beastly eagle owl fluttered in, followed by a rather plain barn owl. 

Tied onto the first owl’s leg was a bundled copy of the Daily Prophet. Kate reached over her eggs and untied the string. It took a few tries; several of her nails had broken during a nasty tumble in a duelling simulation a week ago. 

“It’s for you.” Mark slid the letter from the barn owl across to her. 

She hummed in acknowledgement, but opened the newspaper instead. She hoped Kingsley had taken care of the stray reporter. A quick scan of the paper confirmed her hopes: there was nothing about the case. In fact, the only interesting headline read, ‘GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN STILL UNDER INVESTIGATION’, but she gave it no mind. That was Moody’s case. 

“Here.” She handed the Prophet to Mark, then took up the letter on the table. 

The letter was merely a small square of folded parchment sealed with flimsy black wax. Katherine Clarke was written in sharp lettering, as if the author had tried to stab through the paper as they wrote. She broke open the seal. There was no greeting, no signature, but she didn’t need them to know exactly who had sent the letter. 

She couldn’t help it; she snorted. 

Mark looked up at her. “What?”

Kate set the paper next to her plate. “Seems I’ll be visiting Hogwarts soon.”

For, written on the yellowed parchment in a cramped, spidery scrawl: 

Potions classroom. 25th August. 4pm. 

Without Rufus Scrimgeour, if you please.

~~~

Notes: Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist. No promises on when the next update will be, but I’m working on it :)

~~~

[strigistricken]

SUBSISTENCE PREP: Edalyn Clawthorne

Subversion: Ten Years Ago...

Much like her counterpart of another world, Eda is a free-spirited woman with a disdain for authority and a sardonic sense of humor guarding a heart that cares fiercely for those closest to her.

Though quite smart when she put her mind to it, she got fed up with the educational system early on in her high school career and dropped out, escaping out into the world to live life the way she wished to.

Those years weren’t all bad, though- it was in high school that she met Raine Whispers, an incredibly talented musician who she became fast friends with, eventually blossoming into a relationship. They dated for several years after she dropped out, though they would part ways on amicable terms after Raine found success with the traveling city orchestra, which would prove to be very demanding. They remained in contact even after their breakup.

She found early thrills in her adult life as a gambler and con artist- she found she had a natural talent for reading and deceiving people.

The need to withdraw from her risky lifestyle made itself known, though, as she found herself with an unexpected gift in her life: a child to care for.

This child was not her own, mind you- a very close friend who’d helped keep her safe at times passed away, and Eda, out of a sense of obligation and attachment, took the young Luz Noceda under her roof.

Finding inspiration in a dumpster-diving habit she picked up in her vagrancy, she invested a majority of her savings into opening up a pawn shop that grew successful enough to keep her and Luz afloat, though it was far from an extravagant life.

She took care to set aside money so Luz would be able to get the education her bright, creative mind deserved. It didn’t take long for her to grow to care for the girl as an adoptive daughter, and she’d be lying if she said there wasn’t any warmth in her heart whenever Luz called her “mom.”

Also she has Owlbert. A perfectly normal pet owl.

Subsistence: The Here and Now

In the time since their return to the duplicate world, Eda has seen Luz graduate high school and complete her education in art school, after which Luz would move out. Though Eda was largely lighthearted about it, the two would eventually come to a very emotional confrontation shortly before she moved out.

The two have completely taken to a mother/daughter relationship in that time as well; they keep in frequent contact and have family dinners every weekend.

Also within those ten years, she and Raine have gotten back together and are happily living with each other!

The pawn shop is still in business, with Eda being able to support herself easier than before with one less mouth to feed(not that she wouldn’t give the world for Luz). She keeps the now-much-larger-and-scarier Owlbert around the storefront- he helps temper the attitude of any potential rabblerousers.

A solo operation still isn’t easy though- she’s taking apps for anyone to help with the bookkeeping involved with all the inventory!

One of the most ardent supporters of Luz and Amity’s book series- she’s got every entry proudly displayed on a shelf.

Just a kooky lady vibing and doing her best in this weird world! Glad she isn’t having to potentially take care of any chronic conditions that may mirror an affliction that the other Eda had to deal with at one point in her life! .............

[scribeofmorpheus]

Himmeløyne [26/?]

Pairing: Loki Odinson x Reader

Catch Up Here | Masterlist

Warnings: Thor as a poor comedic device? Speed running though important scenes honestly??

A/N: This chapter was meant to be all fluff at the end but it ended up being too long so I've broken it up.

Taglist is open! Reblog, comment or leave a like please ☺

~Loki

 The healers rushed to his side. His peripheral bombarded with too many arms and hands. Too many strangers. He shoved them away. Now wasn’t the time to worry about scrapes and bruises. He had to get Y/N back. He had to make sure the others were alright. But first, he needed to speak with his father. Convince him somehow.

His body still felt strange. Half-asleep. As if half-drunk. He tried to open a portal to the throne room but his magic fizzled, weak. It took him twice as long to reach the large doors to the throne room. Two guards were posted by the entrance. Their lances crossed to block entry.

“Stand aside,” he commanded.

The guards barely flinched, standing their guard like rooted trees.

“Is this how it’s going to be, Father? Your son returns to you and you imprison those that saved him?” Loki shouted at the large doors, ignoring the guards’ presence, since they were so set on ignoring his orders. There was no reply. Not even a peep. He sneered. “Will you not face me?”

Again, no answer.

In a fit, he balled his fists and shouted, “Coward!”

The guards tensed, as if afraid of that very word. But when no ramifications fell upon him, Loki turned on his heel and headed for the library. If his father was to be no aid, his mother would be his last hope.

 The library looked strange. Not how he remembered leaving it. It was still drowning in a frenzy of loosened papers and books, but there was more order. Someone had tried to clean it up. Tried to make it right, but with little effort. His mind wandered to Y/N, burning the midnight oil, perusing through countless books for answers. For comfort.

The magnitude of her actions hit him the hardest in that space. The one-room in all the palace he treasured had become the one place she could turn to for comfort. She never gave up on him. She changed to save him. That was more than anyone had ever done for him. He had brought so much chaos to her life, and yet she chose to be by his side. Now it was his turn, and he was prepared to change the world for her, if need be.

 He searched every hiding place he could think of for the tome, he even tried calling out to its magic, but nothing worked. Something was blocking it from his magic, and someone had managed to magically untether it to the library. The question was: was it intentional or not?

“Where is it?” he shouted to the room, agitated.

A bookkeeper halted in his steps when he caught wind of Loki shuffling the books off the shelf, leather spines and pages ruffled by a magical wind.

Loki turned when he sensed another presence in the room. The bookkeeper seemed frozen in place, unsure of what to do. Just as he remembered himself, and his etiquette, Loki stalked close, a sharp edge to his tone. “You there, bookkeeper, where are the rest of the volumes?”

“Other volumes?” the bookkeeper stammered briefly. Then, a spark came to his eyes, a look of relief. “Oh, yes! A few of the tomes were taken out by the Midgardian wit—”

Loki narrowed his eyes at the bookkeeper, making him wince.

“T-The Midgardian woman.” 

“Where are they now?”

“The Allfather ordered all magical tomes to be sent to the scryers after the queen dis-disappeared, your highness. A few were found in her possession,” the bookkeeper kept his head anchored low, afraid to meet Loki’s gaze.

Loki dismissed the bookkeeper with a sigh. The scryers were on the other side of Asgard, in a fortress that was guarded around the clock. He had tried to enter its grounds numerous times as a child. And each time he was discovered. Only one other person had ever snuck into the fortress undetected. Thor.  It was a mystery Loki had tried to pull from Thor like teeth. But the stubborn brute never gave up the secret.

He rubbed his temple, speaking to himself, “Well, I suppose a thousandth try couldn’t hurt.” He set out in search of his brother.

 Thor was passed out in the great dining hall. Loki was thankful that the mead smell had mostly vanished from the warm space. Thor was grumbling in his sleep. His snores disturbed by faint sentences.

Loki tried to hoist his brother onto a chair but struggled. He grabbed the washbasin that was filled with chilled water and splashed it over Thor’s form. The large Asgardian prince woke up in a fright, arms swinging, a raspy battle cry dying out as soon as he saw it was Loki that had rudely interrupted his moping time.

“Loki?” Thor’s voice perked up. Some of his spirits seemed to as well.  “I’m not dreaming am I?”

Loki rolled his eyes, “Please, brother, if this constitutes a dream, you really need to get out more. Now get up, for once, I actually need your mind for something.”

Thor blinked several times, hand reaching out to touch Loki’s robes. When Loki swatted him away with a snide comment, Thor beamed at him.

“It is you!” Thor sprang up as if he didn’t have half the tavern’s supply of mead in his system and crushed Loki in a hug. “Ha-ha! Little Stormbringer did it! She said she would. I—I didn’t think… If Father couldn’t… but that’s no matter. She did it, you’re awake!”

“And you reek, let me down,” Loki grumbled.

Thor ignored his brother’s protestations and held onto him a few seconds longer before setting him down. Loki wondered how long his brother could keep that oafish grin plastered to his face.

Thor pushed his hair away from his face, sniffling. “Where is the Little Stormbringer?”

“The guards took her away,” Loki said, making a point to look out of the window so he seemed impassive. His fist was shaking, so he motioned his body away from Thor’s direct line of sight. He could feel his throat go dry. Control was becoming harder and harder to maintain the longer he stayed awake—the more time he had to settle into his body and feel the residual shock ebb away.

“What? Why?” Thor’s eyebrows drew close together, making him look serious. The energy shifted in the room.

In the back of Loki’s mind, he wondered just how much his brother cared for Y/N. He felt a little less like an outsider knowing that Thor’s first reaction was surprise, followed by anger. Much like his own reaction.

Thor picked himself up off the floor, “We must speak with Father. Clear everything up. He’ll—”

Loki placed his hand on his brother’s chest, no force to stop him in his tracks. “It was by Father’s orders. What I’m going to ask of you, what I ask of you, is to go against the Allfather’s wishes. He won’t listen to me. Chances are, even if he does grant you an audience, he won’t listen to you either. He thinks you too green. Me, too reactive. We both know how stubborn he can be when he makes up his mind.”

To Loki’s surprise, Thor didn’t argue, he just let out a grunt of affirmation.

“There’s only one person who can sway his decision. Or challenge him on equal footing. We need to get Mother back.”

Thor nodded. Then, after a moment, he looked up, quizzical brow cocked high. “By the way… where did you hide our mother, Loki?”

Loki opened his mouth but felt a flush of heat. Maybe embarrassment. Maybe regret. He cleared his throat and stared at a spot on the tiled floor before answering sheepishly, “In a book.”

“You trapped our mother in a book?” Thor guffawed. “Are you mad?”

“Relax, it’s an ancient magical tome. Supposed to house an endless labyrinth of false worlds in it. Mirror images of real places. She probably thinks it has only been a couple of hours,” Loki put on airs, pretending not to be the slightest bit worried. In truth, he didn’t really know the full purpose of the tome. He’d traversed it before, but only for a few hours. He had no idea if being inside the book tome for extended periods of time came with any consequences. For that, he’d just have to hope for the best. “I hope,” he whispered to himself.

Thor muttered something under his breath before sighing. He knew better than to start an argument over at that moment. Emotions were high and everyone was still raw. Still reactive, as Loki described it.

Loki reached for a jug of water and splashed it over Thor again. His brother shuddered from the cold water.

“I’m awake!” Thor yelled.

“I know, it was for the smell.”

“Oh…” Thor shook the water from his long hair and took a deep inhale that popped a few of his joints. “So what do you need form me?”

“I need to know how you snuck into the Scryers’ Fortress when we were kids.”

Thor smirked, “That’s easy. I didn’t. There’s a hidden entrance. Father showed it to me. Told me to keep it a secret from you. Said you were too mischievous for that place. Too many strange things. Powerful things. And Mother had only just begun to train you in the arts.”

 Loki ground his teeth. He hated the fact that he saw reason in Thor’s explanation. Right now, Loki just needed to be angry at Odin. It was his right. And no amount of reason would stifle that fire. He wouldn’t let it. Not until Y/N was free and in his arms. And safe. “Just… lead the way.”

 The secret entrance was hidden in plain sight. Masked behind a pantry shelf. Loki heard a tear of fabric in the pitch blackness of the passageway. Then Thor struck a small knife against the stoned walls. An effort to make fire, no doubt. Loki smelled oil and held back the urge to sigh. With a flick of his wrist, he magically conjured flames into the hanging oil lamps that lit the way. The tunnel was a straight shot, long but narrow. Thor was forced to press his arms inward. Loki managed to walk through it just fine. Though, both brothers had to duck under the hanging oil lamps.

Loki counted sixteen until the passageway came to a dead end. Thor pushed three unmarked bricks and a concealed door lifted to their immediate right. A gust of wind welcomed them. The smell of mould and sulphur made Loki’s eyes water. They were in the basement of the fortress. A place that housed dying things—or dead things magically preserved.

“Let’s not linger here,” Loki said, generating an orb of diminishing light above his fingertips.

“Aye, I agree,” Thor held the torn fabric from earlier over his nose. “I can smell blood.”

“As long as you keep yours inside your body, we’re fine.” Loki said dryly, mind filled with questions and awe. He fought against his nature to pry further. “Don’t touch anything.”

Thor was inches away from letting his hands touch a dusty, old, shrivelled head that was locked behind a barred box of wrought iron. Perpetually frozen in a look of inconvenience. As if being decapitated and store was more of a bore than torment.

Thor folded his arms like a little boy annoyed at being told what to do. “I wasn’t going to.”

“My mistake,” Loki chided, marching towards the only other door in the room. “Hurry along. I don’t want to have to deal with any reanimated corpses or thousand-year-old curses simply because you have itchy fingers.”

“I do not have itchy fingers.”

“A toddler’s then. You crush everything and make a mess around you. Each of your fingers are practically the size of sausages.”

Thor looked down at his hands and frowned. “They are not!”

“They are too.” Loki opened the latch to the door, wincing when it creaked.

“Not!” Thor shouted, slamming the door behind him.

“Shut up.” Loki held his breath and counted to three. He pointed to the endless staircases that crisscrossed and overlapped from one floor to the next. “Save your breath for the climb.”

The guard patrols in the hallways were seemingly random, proving to be more difficult for Loki and Thor to slip past and commit their movements to memory. After passing two scryers in long, hooded robes, Loki used his magic to disguise himself and Thor. A shimmer of green the only evidence of their change in appearance. After a run-around, chasing their own tails and being lost in the complex architecture of the fortress, Loki finally felt the magical essence of the book tome. Somehow, his mother’s perfume had infused itself around the tome. It smelled of lilacs.

“This is it,” he said, brushing his fingers over the cover.

Thor relaxed his shoulders, no longer visibly tensing. Loki’s hand hovered over the cover once he set the tome on the ground, a hesitancy to his actions, the shine of glass in his eyes.

“Well?” Thor asked, impatient. A patrol cast shadows into the small recollections room.

“Give me a minute, my magic is still a little rusty,” he stalled for time. Loki was wracked by doubt, wondering if his mother would be glad to see him. Or angry. Or impartial. “Okay,” he said, steeling himself for the inevitable. With a flick of his wrist, the spell was undone, and Frigga began to form out of light and ink and pages torn from the opened book. In those brief seconds, Loki was a child again. Small. Afraid of disappointing her.

Frigga took a long, deep breath. Her face was unreadable. It took a second to orientate herself, but she wasn’t surprised, or the least bit confused.

“Loki?” she said, softly, blinking the light that poured in through the window away. “Thor?”

Loki stepped back. Now it was his turn to make himself smaller. “Mother, I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I was angry and I—”

Frigga rushed to his side, hugging him close, “Oh, Loki, I’m glad you’re alright.” She looked over to Thor and beckoned him closer so she could hug him too. Thor’s frame brushed up against them, making the hug wider. “I’m glad you’re both alright.”

Loki was shocked. He had expected anger at worst and a tongue lashing at best, but not this. Not warmth and joy and not the slightest hint of disappointment.

Loki was stumped, no words came to him. He truly was a child again, hiding under his mother’s embrace. “I—”

“Hush,” Frigga said. “I know. You have nothing to be sorry for. It is we who should apologise for keeping you in the dark, your father and I.”

 Loki hadn’t sorted through all his emotions yet. He couldn’t offer forgiveness as freely as Frigga had just done. He couldn’t quite muster anything beyond his need to correct his mistakes. One hurdle at a time until there was peace.

“Mother,” he looked up at her, thankful that her face looked exactly the same. “I need a favour. Heimdall and Y/N have been imprisoned by Father. I need you to evoke the rite of conscription.”

Both Frigga and Thor’s eyes grew large.

Frigga composed herself, thinking of the gravity of Loki’s request. “That hasn’t been evoked since the war… How do you know about the law?”

“I read a lot,” he tried to keep the atmosphere light with a smirk.

Frigga let out a breathy laugh, “Yes, I suppose you do.”

“I was searching for a loophole. In case—” he couldn’t bring himself to admit he had spent hours trying to find ways to keep Y/N close, through law if need be, in case Odin chose to send her back to Midgard. Away from him. Forever.

“You wanted to keep her close,” she said knowingly. “You care for her deeply, don’t you.”

“And whose fault is that?” he said coyly.

Frigga hummed in amusement, “Mine, I suppose.” Then her demeanour turned serious again. “But, you do know the Rite of Conscription is absolute. A life sentence. Once bound, it cannot be undone.”

“I know, but that is the only way.”

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[my-happy-little-bean]

The Bookkeeper - Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Wuthering Heights 

pairings: logan/patton (logicality), roman/virgil (prinxiety) words: 3216 chapter warnings: mild swearing, mild existentialism chapter summary: once upon a time...

[read on ao3]  [masterlist]

—

“I know a lot of kids who’ve endured Civil wars and famines These kids are wise  Aware  And they’re searching for a little beauty in the world Because life without beauty is unbearable”

                                   – Jordan Tannahill, Concord Floral

 ~*~

Imagine for a moment, the process of a songwriter. One picks a key, uses the notes within the key, and tinkers with the piece until it sounds pleasing, familiar; until it sounds like anything. 

All art is, to some extent then, structured and formulaic. So if that is the case, is there any ‘magic’ in art’s rigid form? In practice, art disrupts the very foundation of its being; creating something out of nothing. Hence, is there any true value—under the nihilistic impression that life bears no meaning—in pursuing art if it, at its core, has no purpose? Where could one derive significance from the way notes scatter on the staff, when it holds no initial meanin–

Logan Fray cursed as he slammed his pen into the counter. He gripped onto the surface of the paper he was writing on, crumpled it, and squeezed it out of the spiral binding of his notebook. Without looking up, he hurled it towards the garbage can to his left. He heard the soft sound of it hitting the metal rim and sighed, flicking his wrist without much thought.

A small spiral of shimmering navy dust shot out of his index finger and caught the balled-up paper before it could fall. He glanced over to his left, realization clicking in his head. Logan sighed and, annoyed, steadily moved his finger across his line of sigh. The crumpled piece of paper followed suit until it hovered over the garbage can. 

Logan narrowed his eyes at his magic. The blue coated the creased edges of the balled-up paper, as if contemplating the survival of this draft and its feeble grasp on the edge of the tin-can cliff. 

“Oh isn’t this quite the show!” 

The loud, triumphant voice behind him jolted Logan forward. He lost concentration on his spell and the paper dropped helplessly into the bin. 

Logan pushed his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“Christ, Roman…” 

“Sorry, sorry! Didn’t want to disturb the almighty Wizard Fray and the extraordinary use of his powers! Fray and Far Fables is in for a treat today, fellas!” 

Logan rolled his eyes, spinning around in his chair and watching as the small, fairy-like form of Roman floated in front of shelves. Roman’s red magic formed some sort of feather duster.

“Anyway, don’t mind me! I don’t mean to be a heckler — just doing some spring cleaning!” He exaggerated a flick of the magical duster against a book.

“You don’t have to dust the spines of books, Roman,” Logan drawled. “It is illogical. With your magical wards, nothing here collects dust. And even if it did, your size and your...general aura deems you an ineffective housekeeper.” 

Roman gasped, twirling around in the air to float over to Logan’s face. He hovered in front of his nose with his hands on his hips. 

“I will pretend you did not just hurt my feelings just then!” Roman smiled smugly as he dusted Logan’s nose. Powder puffs of his red magic fogged Logan’s vision. “I will instead pretend you said ‘thank you, Roman, oh dashing bookkeeper!’”

“A happier reality, I’m sure,” Logan huffed, rubbing his nose and holding back a sneeze. Roman floated back to the shelves.

“Besides, someone has to tend to the nooks,” Roman hummed pointedly, landing on the edge of the shelves and leaning against one of the book spines. “Each one is a ghost town at this point.” 

“They were always ghost towns,” Logan gritted out, annoyance growing. “There’s nothing in there.” 

“Yeah yeah.” Roman stuck out his tongue. “ ‘Art has no meaning in a meaningless life’ or whatever, which means there’s nothing in art and there’s nothing in books, yada yada yada – you keep telling yourself that, Specs.” 

“I am not the only one saying that. If you read Virgil Aries’ work on nihilism and its implications on art as a sort of void—” 

“Yawn, Logan,” Roman groaned, “uber yawn. I’m not going to read some sad philosopher’s existential crisis.” 

“Virgil Aries was not sad, he was brilliant–” 

“I’m sure he was.”

Logan sighed, standing up and sweeping the books off the counter and into his arms. He walked around the counter and across the store, placing the books back on the other shelves. Roman flew closely behind him.

“It is nice to see you using your magic again, even in pitiful displays." Roman nonchalantly tilted his head up. "Almost thought you forgot how to.”  

“It was just an impulse, Roman,” Logan muttered, letting Roman dust the floor of the shelves before sliding the books into their proper place. “I was deep in thought and wasn't thinking I will not make a habit out of it.” 

“Ugh, when will you understand that I want you to make a habit out of it– I want to have cool magic duels with you!” 

“More the reason why we don’t need these ‘pitiful’ displays of magic. First of all, I’m not even supposed to be using my magic while we’re open. What if someone walked in? What would you say to them then, hm?”

“ ‘Hey, do you want to see the coolest thing in your flimsy, mortal life?’ ”  

Logan rolled his eyes. “ ‘Cool’ is not how I would describe it.” 

“Ouch!” Roman turned his red feather duster into a small, sparkly sword. He dramatically stabbed it into his chest, bits of his red magic exploding in a small puff around him. The sword dissipated upon contact. “What is up with your...your spiciness today?” 

Logan slid the last book into the shelf and leaned against it.

“I’m just stuck on this speech again .”

Roman deflated. “Oh, here we go…”

“I just don’t understand what my problem is. I have all my research in place, I know what I want to say about art, I know what I want to do, but nothing I write has any substance! None of it makes sense. I can’t answer the fundamental question of my own damn argument.” 

“Which is…?” 

“ Why, ” Logan hissed, running both hands through his hair. “Why do people pursue such meaningless tactics of escapism if– if they’re escaping from nothing. That, in turn, makes art nothing. Right?” 

“I don't know, Lo. Maybe that actually means it’s not entirely meaningless then,” Roman hummed idly. 

Logan glowered at Roman, whose face was plastered with a shit-eating grin.

“I just need to get this speech done,” Logan stiltedly said, evening his breath. “If I get any of it done by the end of the month, I can be reassured that I won’t make a complete fool of myself at the university conference.”

“It’s a convention of sad, young nihilists with student debt. Everyone there is a fool.” 

Before Logan could respond, the bells above the front door echoed across the shop. Roman and Logan exchanged frantic looks. Shit. Logan didn’t even realize what time it was.

“Book nook. Now,” he hissed. Luckily, Roman already beat him to it. Roman pressed his hand onto the spine of a nearby book on the shelf. His red magic spread across the surface until his hand could go through the spine. Then, with a small yelp, Roman tumbled into the book and disappeared from Logan’s view. 

“Logan! Hi!” a peppy voice rang out at the same time. Logan spun around on his heel to face the front door and forced a smile. 

“Salutations, Patton,” Logan replied, awkwardly leaning against the shelves. He snuck cautious glances to the book Roman had hid himself in, making sure he was completely out of sight.

“I’m here for a book!” Patton chirped, tipping his hat at Logan. He looked up at the shelves around Logan with a smile. “And I have a feeling you have just the one for me!”

“You come here every week, Patton. You do not have to repeat the same thing, I know what you are here for.” Logan, despite everything that was occurring, found himself smiling warmly at Patton. “Please roam around as you see fit.” 

“I shall!” Patton said, moving past Logan and starting on the opposite end of the shelves Logan was leaning against. Logan’s eyes widened. 

“Um, did you end up finishing the book you bought last week? The one by Elizabeth Gilbert?” Logan blurted out as he moved closer to Patton, his back covering the book he knew Roman was hiding in. Patton looked up at him and smiled.

“Oh! Yes, The Signature of All Things, right? I really enjoyed it! I can’t believe you made me enjoy historical fiction — I’d usually fall asleep a few pages in, but Alma’s life is just so interesting!”

Logan nodded tensely as Patton moved closer to him. He pressed his back against the shelves as if that could further hide Roman. “Truly.”

“And I actually brought you a painting!”

“Oh?”  

“Yeah!” Patton fished through his messenger bag, his hat nearly slipping as his head tilted down to find it. Logan could hear a small thump! muffled behind his back. Logan winced. He hadn’t even considered the conditions of the book nook. While he knew none of them could ever hurt anyone—especially Roman—he definitely knew some were not ideal. 

He tried to quietly grab the book Roman had escaped in, slowly turning around to take it off the shelves while Patton wasn’t looking. 

“Here it is!” Patton exclaimed loudly, animatedly pulling out a rolled piece of paper. Logan jumped at the abrupt action, ducking to the side to avoid getting hit by Patton’s arm. “The book took me longer to read– I didn’t even think I’d finish it within a week– so sorry that the painting is a bit crude!” 

“That is quite alright, Patton,” Logan said, adjusting his tie. “It is a gift that you do not have to keep giving yet...you do. So I appreciate the painting regardless.”

“Of course! Take a look and tell me how you like it!” 

Logan took the paper out of Patton’s hand and unrolled it. 

Sprawled across sketchbook paper was splashes of watercolour making up an array of botanical illustrations. The flowers and plants overlapped each other on the old-yellowed background in a way that didn’t seem too suffocated; each plant had space to breathe. Thin, cursive descriptions sprawled across their stems. It almost felt like a map of some sorts, navigating through each individual aspect of a garden.

“It’s a bit reminiscent of my collagist days,” Patton said with a small giggle. “But I like it! I actually drew a lot of inspiration from the cool sketches of all the plants scattered throughout the book. 

“Evidently,” Logan hummed, smiling at the painting. He looked up at Patton. “It is very nice, Patton. You capture the book’s essence very well here.” 

“Oh, well I know how you feel about the art stuff– but thank you for humouring me, Lo!” Patton giggled. Logan’s smile faltered, but he fought to keep it upright. 

Logan kept observing the painting, idly walking away from the shelf, as if mesmerized by Patton’s work. 

“Ooh, this book looks interesting!” 

Patton’s voice suddenly snapped Logan out of his daze. Roman. 

Logan turned around to see Patton standing in front of the book Roman was in. Instinctually, he shot a small burst of magic at the display table behind Patton, sending books tumbling to the floor with a loud thud!

“Oh!” Patton whirled around at the noise. He gave Logan a sheepish grin. “I must’ve bumped into the table or something! Sorry ‘bout that!” 

“No worries,” Logan said with a tight smile. Patton crouched down to start picking up the books as Logan tucked the painting under his arm, quickly moving to the book Roman was hiding in. He pulled the book out slightly. 

“Roman,” he hissed as quietly as he could. “Get out of there.” 

Almost immediately, Roman hopped out of the book, all his clothes dripping wet. 

“An unfortunate choice,” Roman muttered, shivering. Logan shook his head. 

“You can clean yourself upstairs, just go now– ” 

“There you go!” Patton announced, standing back up in a swift motion that knocked his hat off his head.

Logan watched as Roman, clearly panicked, jumped into the back cover of the book and flattened himself onto its surface. Logan, startled, pulled the book off the shelf and pressed it to his chest, attempting to cover the new picture of Roman on the back cover. 

“Everything’s in its place!” Patton continued, brushing off his hands. His stare flitted over to the book in Logan’s arms. “Oh! That’s the book I was looking at! Do you mind– ?” 

“N-No!” Logan blurted out. Patton frowned at him, and Logan squeezed his eyes shut, clearing his throat. 

“I...I mean, no problem. That would be...no problem at all.” 

“Cool!” 

Patton took the book from Logan, who kept his eyes glued to the frantic 2D-Roman next to the book synopsis. 

“Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë,” Patton read aloud. “Huh! Sounds interesting.” 

“Y-Yes!” Logan slowly reached to grab the book back. “How about I get a bag for y–” 

“Let’s see what this is about!” 

Logan paled as Patton turned the book around, almost in bullet-time. Logan caught a glimpse of Roman’s eyes widening and, horrified, watched as Roman slid his flattened form into the spine of the book, becoming squished within its confines.  

“ ‘The wild, passionate story of intense and almost demonic love between Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff’,” Patton continued to read. “ ‘Brontë captures the evocative, conflicted interplay of nature and culture in her’– wow, ‘masterpiece of English literature’!” 

Patton playfully tossed the book in the air, catching it by its spine. “Sounds like I found a winner!” 

Logan yelped, snatching the book back from Patton, who tilted his head to the side. Logan broke into a sheepish smile. 

“Er, let me check you out!” 

Patton winked. “If you insist!” 

Logan flushed red, hurrying to the cash register. He crouched down behind the counter, lowering the book out of sight and disguising his attempts of freeing Roman as him grabbing a bag for Patton. 

Logan knocked firmly on the spine, sending Roman disappearing through it and into the book. He then opened the book and Roman emerged with a gasp, as if he was swimming in the pages.

“Good Fantasy- Gucci–”

“Shh!” 

“What was that?” Patton asked from above. Logan’s eyes widened as he stuffed Roman in his pocket, despite muffled protests. 

Logan shot back up with a small paper bag and a forced grin. 

“Shhhh-ure is a great day to buy a book!” An unnatural laugh escaped his lips. “That...that is what I said, heh.” 

“Ah, it is!” Patton slid a few bills across the counter and brought the bag to his chest in exchange. “I’m excited for the new book! Sounds good for a rainy day.” 

Logan tensely nodded, feeling his pocket slowly dampen. “Mhm.” 

Patton’s stare floated over to Logan’s open notebook, his smile faltering. 

“Still stuck on your speech, it seems?”

Logan blinked, following Patton’s gaze and sighing. “It appears so, hm?” 

Patton nodded slowly. 

“I know you explained it to me once, but I still don’t really understand your plan for the speech. Wasn’t the prompt supposed to be ‘finding the meaning of art’?” Patton’s stare flitted towards the shelves behind the counter with all of Logan’s various philosophy and aesthetic texts. “Yet you’re tackling what seems to be the opposite and...and I admittedly don’t get it. Just ‘cause it’s for a bunch of art students doesn’t mean it has to be all deep and dreary, heh.” 

Logan shrugged helplessly.

“I just need something new to say,” he mumbled. “You can’t understand art’s meaning without understanding the implied lack thereof.”

“So you’re stuck in the lack thereof?” 

Logan looked up at Patton and frowned at his slightly-amused smile. 

“It’s a lot more complex than that.” 

“Uh-huh.” Patton’s smile felt filled with pity, or perhaps sympathy. “Maybe the solution– just a suggestion– is to go outside? Touch the grass? Find meaning in the world rather than bury your nose in a book?” 

“Ironic,” Logan scoffed, though regretted it instantly. Patton, however, just laughed. 

“Touché.” Patton shrugged. As he was about to leave, he turned his head over his shoulder. “And hey, I’m sorry that I keep pestering you about the speech, heh. It’s just…” 

Patton lowered his gaze, shifting on his heels. In an uncharacteristically hushed tone, he said, “I care about you, Lo. More than you think. I would hate to see you unravel yourself in trying to find the answers and...well, I fear that you already have.” 

“That’s impossible,” Logan mumbled, though averted his gaze from Patton. “If I were to unravel, it would be because the answers ended up in me, in which case I would need to access them." Logan tugged his collar awkwardly. "But...but they are not.” 

Patton rose an eyebrow. "Maybe we both need to get out there then.” 

“ ‘There’? As in...the world?” 

Patton grinned, holding his new book close to his chest. “And all the other ones too.” 

The door closed swiftly, bells chiming in Logan’s ears. Logan heaved a deep sigh of relief as Roman floated out of his pocket, arms-crossed, unamused. 

“We have to be more careful,” Logan muttered. “Who knows what would happen if he figured out about you, about the book nooks, about me… ” 

“Come on, Lo. It’s Patton , we’re talking about.”

“Still.” Logan grimaced at the thought. “He could see everything in the wrong way and I would prefer to keep some things normal around here.”

Roman just nodded, shaking off like a dog. Small drops of water splashed against Logan’s cheek. 

“Soooo….that Patton sure is a character, hm?” Roman eventually asked, looking at Logan coyly. Logan felt his cheeks heat up. 

“That is what you want to focus on?”

“I just think he has a lot to teach you. And it seems as though your heart is telling you the same.” Roman winked. “Maybe it’s time for you to listen.” 

Before Logan could rebuttal, Roman flew up the stairs to clean himself off. Logan shook his head, walking over to the door to close up early. On his way, he nearly slid on something on the floor. He frowned, picking the item in question up. 

Patton’s hat. He must’ve forgotten about it.

Logan stared at the hat for a few seconds. He held it up and then, without really thinking, held it to his chest. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and then opened them to see a blurry view of the world outside his shop doors. 

‘What does it all mean?’ 

Logan sighed, shaking his head as he flipped the door sign to ‘closed’. He stalked back to the counter, sitting back in his chair and tossing the hat to the side. With a flick of his wrist, a small stream of magic shot out of his index finger and landed on a book behind him, lifting it off the shelves. 

He continued to levitate books without turning back, and Logan began to write once more.

—

next chapter > 

[haltandcatchfiretothemax]

FEMSLASH FEBRUARY 2019 #19: In which Cameron reads a book

[CW: mentions of food and eating]

Things had gone back to what she and Donna apparently both took for granted as normal. Or, not really, Cameron had decided. There hadn’t been any sort of going back, things had just continued forward after that Sunday night, both of them seemingly comfortable, at least for the time being, with not talking about why Cameron had brought up the realtor. Cameron thought of that night often, she’d dreamed more than once of Donna’s chicken pot pie, probably because she habitually thought about that evening, about how warm and bright Donna’s kitchen was, and how relaxed she’d felt there even when she was self-conscious and afraid of upsetting Donna, when she was trying to fall asleep. 

In the mornings, Cameron thought about work: if she should follow through on designing the game she’d been imagining for a year, whatever freelance project was paying the bills that week, and Donna’s idea. Donna was always one of the first things to cross Cameron’s mind when she woke up. But, that was how it had always been: when she’d been recruited to Cardiff, she’d thought of whatever game she was playing and the alterations she’d make to it if she were a game designer, the Giant’s software, and J*e. At Mutiny, she’d thought about whatever game they were in the middle of writing, their user base, whatever she and Donna were arguing about that week, and then, Tom. It took a long time for her to stop thinking about Mutiny and Donna after she relocated to Tokyo, or maybe she never really had. She’d never thought to question any of this. It was easy to think of it as thinking about work, rather than thinking about Donna. 

With as ‘normal’ as things were, Cameron couldn’t get through a day without wondering, what if she wasn’t ever ‘ready to talk’ about everything that had happened with the realtor, with Simon, with her entire relationship with Donna over the past ten years? She wasn’t usually really asking, on most days, she worried about this instead of really considering it. She wasn’t even really sure what she was worrying about when she asked herself about this. It was a knee-jerk thing she did that she couldn’t help.

Over one of their regular dinners, Bos had asked her, “Well, that’s a good question. What would happen if you two never have that conversation?” Eyes narrowed in bafflement and slight irritation, Cameron had said, “I don’t know? I’ve never thought about it?” Bos had responded with a fatherly but gruff, “Well think about it now, then!” With minimal effort, Cameron imagined driving to Donna’s house to write code and eat various kinds of takeout every night until they were in their 80s. She knew that it wasn’t realistic, but it sounded incredibly appealing. It maybe sounded perfect. 

For some reason, Cameron was afraid to say this out loud, even to Bos. She admitted that it wouldn’t be the worst thing, for things to stay as they were between her and Donna. “So then there’s no reason to worry,” Bos said. Pointedly, he added, “No need to borrow worry, get all worked up over a hypothetical conversation.”

Which made sense. So why did it feel like something was still bothering her?

The next day, Cameron got up, got dressed, and went to a bookstore.

Cameron had become a reader in Tokyo. She’d been too anxious, too full of nervous energy to enjoy it as a kid, and even a good story with an interesting lead couldn’t soothe her the way that taking apart and reassembling a computer always did. She’d gotten into the habit of visiting libraries and bookstores, mostly because Tom had given her a strict ultimatum about how she needed to get up, get dressed, make their bed, and go outside every day. The result was that she’d spent a lot of days sitting in libraries and cafes, where, if nothing else, she managed to significantly improve her Japanese reading comprehension. Sometimes Joanie sent her new paperbacks from California, and she’d usually devour them in a few days; they were one of the few things she’d regretted losing in her move back to the states. Books became a sort of security blanket, an escape that gaming and game design couldn’t be anymore, and reading became Cameron’s most reliable method of self-soothing. 

She had anxiety about accruing too many books, especially after having gotten so attached to the Joanie volumes, so Cameron also finally got a library card from her local branch, and got into the habit of stopping there whenever she was out. She didn’t need to buy books, she just needed to always have something to read, a novel or essay that she could grab when she started to worry about ‘things with Donna,’ and a place to go on days when her trailer felt too small, and sitting outside, or weeding her flower beds wasn’t enough of a distraction. 

On her third bookstore trip, Cameron went to a large chain bookstore that she’d been to with Haley. Feeling strangely lonely, she wandered through the same sections they’d browsed, the magazines, the bargain books, the art books, the science fiction section, where Cameron stopped to look for a short story collection by Ursula LeGuin, but didn’t find it, and the cookbook aisle, which had become Haley’s favorite section of the store. Cameron looked idly at the cookbooks in stock, wondering which aisle she should try next, or if maybe she should go somewhere else altogether. She turned around, and then she saw it, in the next aisle — a copy of Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe.

Fried Green Tomatoes had been one of the movies that Cameron had gone to see at one of the few theaters that showed English language movies in Tokyo. She’d gone by herself on a rainy afternoon after yet another battle in the cold war that her marriage to Tom had become since her last COMDEX trip, and then she’d gone another time, and another. She managed to find a vhs copy, and watching it had become another kind of security blanket, like the books, a weirdly comfortable space that felt like going home, even if temporarily, even if Cameron had never actually been to Alabama, or had fried green tomatoes. She put it on when she couldn’t sleep, when she got sick, whenever she needed background noise to make household chores and tedious bookkeeping-type work tasks go more quickly. She’d worn out her tape, another thing that had been either left behind in Tokyo or in the dumpster behind the Mutiny/Calnect/Comet office, but hadn’t known that it was based on a book. 

Cameron took a giant, slightly frantic step across the aisle and grabbed the book off its shelf. It was from a more recent printing, it had the actresses from the movie on the cover. She flipped through it, and went straight to the end, and saw that there were recipes in the back, for the titular fried green tomatoes, both milk and red eye gravy, cornbread, biscuits, snap beans, creamed corn, pork chops, fried chicken…Cameron’s stomach growled, and she suddenly realized just how hungry she was. She decided to buy the book.

She looked up at the shelf where she’d found it, vainly hoping that there was some kind of Fried Green Tomatoes series, and at least 4 other novels about Ruth, Idgie, and the rest of the Threadgoode family and Whistle Stop Cafe staff. Instead, she saw the placard announcing the section: LGBT Themes. Confused, Cameron looked back down at the book, had there been ‘lgbt themes’ in the movie? Did they mean Ruth and Idgie? A tiny voice in the back of her brain said, Of course, Ruth and Idgie. Cameron felt the most bizarre combination of surprised panic and overwhelming relief. It was like making it to the next level of a game after days of trying, only to realize that the next level would be harder, but that it was okay because that was made the game worth playing. She took the book up to the register and paid for it before she could talk herself out of it. 

She wound up reading the first 100 pages in one sitting, and would have gone farther, if she hadn’t had to stop and make herself breathe. At 80 pages, the book finally described Idgie, Cameron’s favorite character in the movie: “Some people are like that, you know…run from you, won’t let you love them.” “She wouldn’t let anybody get too close to her. When she thought somebody liked her too much, she’d just take off in the woods.” “But when Ruth came to live with us, you never saw a change in anybody so fast in your life.” A few pages later, Idgie was charming the honey out of the oak tree for Ruth, and eating a picnic lunch with her, "happy as anybody who is in love in the summertime can be.” A few pages after that, Idgie was pitching a fit over Ruth’s decision to marry a man from her hometown, and then she was crying and drinking and carrying on, living down at the river for the next five years with a well-known prostitute that Idgie’s brother had wanted to marry. And all of it made sense to Cameron, even more than Idgie had made sense to her all those times that she’d watched the movie.

The passage that had really gotten to her was from Ruth’s perspective, though: “When Idgie had grinned at her and tried to hand her that jar of honey, all these feelings that she had been trying to hold back came flooding through her, and it was at that second in time that she knew she loved Idgie with all her heart….she had never felt that way before and she knew she would never feel that way again…. She had no idea why she wanted to be with Idgie more than anybody else on this earth, but she did.” Lying on her bed, in her pajamas, in her trailer parked out in the middle of nowhere, Cameron thought about Tori Loman, her first friend, her only real childhood friend, who she’d wanted to be with at all times. She was never happier than when she was at Tori’s, she stayed at her house as many nights as the Lomans would have her. As an adult, it had been easy to think that of course she’d loved visiting them; she’d hated being at home after her father’s memorial service. But Cameron vividly remembered playing with Tori every day after school before her father had been redeployed. She remembered telling him, “Tori is my best friend, she’s my favorite person after you.” 

Cameron pushed that out of her mind and made herself read a little more, but she couldn’t concentrate. She closed the book, and holding it in her left hand, she reached for the cordless phone where it sat on her nightstand. She started to dial Donna’s number, but when she realized that she had no idea what she would say. She didn’t know how to tell Donna about Tori, either. I wish I knew what to say to her about Tori, Cameron thought, unable to imagine how that phone conversation might go — hey, did I ever tell you about Tori, my friend who I used to play house with? And how I didn’t realize I was playing house with her until Joanie pointed it out to me? As soon as she thought this, she realized how badly she wanted to say exactly that to Donna. 

That was when Cameron decided that she needed to quit reading for the night, and put herself to bed.  

[glitchinthesystemspiderbyte]

Glitch in the System - New Ink

Some new art happens.

By E.

“Do you have an appointment?”

Sombra looked at Widow as the woman tensed - she didn’t appreciate being questioned, or any implication that her plans might be compromised. The tattoo artist behind the counter didn’t appear to notice anything out of the ordinary in the taller woman’s rigid stance, fingers hovering expectantly over the holographic display of the digital pad before them.

They didn’t have an appointment, though.

“No,” Sombra answered, smiling. “Behold the dreaded walk-in.” She gestured at a sign by the front door that proclaimed WALK-INS WELCOME in thick, chunky text. The shop logo was a smiling bulldog with perked up ears, the words New Tricks Tattoo under his face.

“Oh, yeah, that’s not a problem!” the artist replied, and Sombra felt Widow relax beside her. “Saves me from having to sift through my boss’s terrible bookkeeping.” Flipping the holopad off, they stepped out from behind the counter. “Come on back! I’m Tiger.”

“Sofia,” Sombra replied, “and this is Danielle.” Sombra glanced at Widow and they followed the artist, down some stairs, and over to a long black table. Several lights floated alongside, and Tiger pushed them away to sit down on the stool by a large trunk containing another holopad and an antique-looking box. There were bottles of all sorts of color arranged on a shelf above the chest, and the station was decorated with paintings and sculptures Sombra could only assume were the artists’ own work.

“So,” they said, leaning forward and gesturing for Sombra and Widow to sit in the chairs by the wall. “What were you thinking of getting?”

“Um,” Sombra paused, not sure why she was surprised to have the question asked. Widow looked at her expectantly, and she blushed. It wasn’t often she felt out of place, but sitting here between Tiger and their artistically covered skin and Widowmaker with her macabre French scrawlings across her arms, she felt, for the first time in a while, like a complete and total outsider.

“I was thinking, I don’t know - a take on the tragedy and comedy theater masks, except maybe more...skully?” she stumbled, not sure how to describe the image in her mind. As she spoke, the artist began sketching on their holo pad, nodding for Sombra to continue. “Less silly, more anatomical, I guess,” she summed it up. The artist drew furiously for a minute or two more, pursing their lips and furrowing their brow as their pen raced across the holopad’s surface.

“Like this?” they said eventually, flipping the pad around to show a new take on the theme, with a grimacing skeleton behind a grinning one in the forefront. “It’s just a sketch, but that’s the image I got as you were talking.”

Sombra blinked, impressed. “Yeah that’s pretty much what I had in mind.”

“Perfect,” the artist beamed, setting the pad down. “Let’s get you prepped and we’ll get to work.”

“Aren’t you going to draw the final copy?” Sombra asked, worried. Widowmaker was silent, eyes on the stairs in case anyone came down them that she didn’t like the looks of.

“I certainly can,” the artist nodded, “but it might take me a little bit. Would you like to schedule an appointment for later in the week?”

Sombra looked around at the art hanging on the walls. She’d seen the artist’s work - it was why they’d come here in the first place - and she certainly didn’t feel like waiting.

“No, I mean,” she hesitated, sweating a bit, “you’re the professional. I trust you.”

The artist beamed. “Awesome. Honestly I work best when it’s a sort of collaborative, free form exercise like this. I’ll let you know how it’s going along the way, too, so if you want to add anything, we can.”

“Cool,” Sombra said, less nervous about the quality of the artist’s work and far more about the impending hour of pain she’d signed up for.

Standing up, Tiger began wiping down the table, giving Widowmaker a closer look as they did. “Where’d you get your skin work done?” they asked. Sombra could feel her nerves jumping all over in time to the buzzing of a tattoo needle somewhere else in the shop. It was a high pitched keen that grated against her already rising anxiety, and she hoped it wouldn’t be so bad when it was happening to her directly.

“Quoi?” Widowmaker replied, unprepared for the question, and even Sombra was perplexed as to what they were asking.

“Is it grafts or cybernetics?” they pressed, still making small talk as they applied the sketch of the design to the small scanner on their wrist.

“Grafts,” Sombra said, at the same time Widowmaker said “Cybernetics.”

“Cybernetics,” Sombra corrected, at the same time Widowmaker amended with “Grafts.”

They looked at one another, a thin blush creeping over Widow’s face. That tattoo artist simply shrugged and laughed.

“Trade secret?” they asked knowingly.

“Yes,” Widow replied, pulling out a book and opening it on her lap, patently ignoring Tiger’s stare. Sombra looked at them and shrugged.

“Are you ready to get started?” they asked, pulling out a thin laser device. “I just need to shave your shoulder blade where the tattoo is going to go.”

“I have hair on my shoulder?” Sombra asked skeptically, but leaned over obediently against the soft cushion Tiger had positioned for her comfort.

There was a short beep followed by the brief sensation of pressure. “Not anymore!” they chuckled. “Back in the day we had to use soap and razors for this sort of thing.”

“That feels uncomfortably intimate,” Sombra replied, stretching out on the chair, arms folded under her chin as she wrapped her legs around the single metal pole holding the chair in place.

“Not as intimate as we’re about to become.” Tiger raised the scanner at her wrist over Sombra’s shoulder, and the hacker looked over her shoulder at the mirror behind them as the device slowly imprinted a purple ink version of the sketch onto her freshly-shaven skin. “Look good? Placement ok?” Tiger asked.

“Yeah,” Sombra nodded before turning her head back forward. A moment later, she heard the sound of a tattoo gun whir to life right behind her. She jumped, and chastised herself immediately for doing so, glad it happened before needle meant flesh and not after.

“You ready?”

Stealing a peek back, she noted briefly that despite being surrounded by new technology, the machine itself must have been decades old. It was a rich red mahogany etched with pictures of flowers, clearly something used for its own inherent aesthetic value as well as the tradition that came with it.

“I guess,” she said, turning back around.

Sombra exhaled sharply, wincing against the pain as the weight of Tiger’s hand was followed by the ragged pull of sharpness. It was not the worst pain she’d felt in her life, but in the grand scheme of sensations she enjoyed compared to ones she did not, this was falling a lot more firmly into the latter category.

“Ohhh, fuck,” Sombra hissed between clenched teeth. “It feels like someone’s letting Toulouse have at my scapula. How long is this going to take again?”

“An hour or so. More if you keep squirming.”

“A complete cybernetic overhaul and this is what affects you?” Widow asked, one eyebrow raised in symmetry with the quirk of her mouth. “A needle?”

“It’s not a needle, it’s,” she hesitated, looking back at Tiger.

“Seven needles,” they replied without looking up.

“Seven needles,” Sombra echoed petulantly. “And it hurts.”

“Do you want me to hold your hand?” Widow offered in amusement, eyebrow raised over her book.

“Yes.”

Chuckling softly to herself, she reached out and took Sombra’s hand, squeezing her reassuringly as the machine buzzed on.

*Read from the beginning or check out our intro post! All stories tagged under #glitchfic. Table of contents located here.

[thepenisparker]

obscure ◍ peter parker x reader

description:

“do i even matter to you anymore? just answer me that.”

“…you don’t.”

pairing:

MCU!PETER PARKER/SPIDERMAN X READER

read it on wattpad!

table of contents:

one.               two.            three.         four.         five.            six.            tbc

three.

Peter and (Y/N) started walking from school talking mostly small talk. What classes they were taking, found out they both had wood shop and chem lab together.

"So why'd you switch to Midtown Tech?" Peter asked, walking down the steps to the subway.

"My Dad has always wanted me to follow in his footsteps. So when he got a job in Queens we picked up everything and came out here, and he put me at Midtown Tech so I can focus on my engineering skills." (Y/N) shared while using her metro card.

"And you don't want to?" Peter asked, rubbing his arm. The more time he spent with her the more attractive the girl next to him got. He continuously was getting overwhelmed by how much prettier she was getting to him.

"No.. I don't know. I mean, I don't know what I want to do for the rest of my life. I like photos and art and reading but I don't know what any of that can be as a solid career." (Y/N) said, "I just want to find something I'm really passionate about. And I haven't found that yet. But I'm just a big believer in you shouldn't do things you aren't passionate about."

"That's a good mindset." Peter said. Smiling at his clammy hands.

"What about you?" (Y/N) turned, leaning against a streetlight.

"What about me?" Peter asked.

"Do you know what you want to do?" (Y/N) pressed.

"Uh, I think so. I mean I actually have the, uh," Peter fumbled.

"The Stark internship, yeah. That's really cool. But what do you want to do for him?" She asked. The subway came screeching just then flying Peters hair into a frenzy and (Y/N) found it very hard to keep from vomiting on him because of how attractive it was.

"Um, well. I, uh, just stay at Mr. Stark's side really like you know watching how he creates the technology for his suits and the other suits and tech for the Avengers." Peter explained. Boarding the subway quickly.

"That's really awesome! See, that's something to be passionate about. I was never really into superheroes growing up, but seeing the Avengers do what they do, that's amazing." (Y/N) sighed, "I would die if I could suddenly gain superpowers."

"Tell me about it." Peter kept a smug grin on his face, (Y/N) thought he may be making fun of her. She hit him playfully on the arm.

"Don't give me that face! Don't act like you never wanted to be a superhero." (Y/N) laughed, but also noting that when she hit him he had very toned biceps. It's like he's asking for her to have a crush on him.

"Of course! What little kid wouldn't?" Peter said and she hit him again, "What was that one for?"

"For telling me my dreams are childish." (Y/N) crossed her arms, "I could be like Black Widow if I wanted to."

"I have no doubt." Peter smiled. While Peter was looking down, (Y/N) took the opportunity to look at his profile, take the boy's face in a little bit.

"So, you said you live with your aunt, where do you guys live?" (Y/N) asked, not giving up on his conversation.

"Uh, like in an apartment off of 23rd street?" Peter said.

"Oh really? That's like 2 blocks away from me." (Y/N) said.

"No way! 21 or 25?" Peter asked.

"21st Street, like right across from Delmar Sandwiches and next to that Chase ATM?" (Y/N) said.

"Yeah, I know exactly where that is. I was actually going to Delmar's right after this." Peter straightened his backpack, getting ready to get off the train, "I go every day after school."

"Me too, I mean now, my mom just started working for him at nights as his bookkeeper." (Y/N) said.

"He's the best." Peter laughed, getting off the subway (Y/N) behind him. Suddenly Peter started moving a lot faster, "Think he has a crush on my Aunt though."

"Peter, I've seen one photo of your Aunt and I have a crush on her." (Y/N) laughed, "I can't really blame him."

"Stop!" Peter whined, running down the steps and out to the street. Mr. Delmar's was a block away.

"I can't help it, she just seems like such a nice lady." (Y/N) put her hands up.

"Well get in line behind everyone else in Queens, okay." Peter picked up the pace in his steps.

"I'll gladly wait for that woman." (Y/N) played around. Peter laughed, rolling his eyes.

"I think she would like you," Peter said, surprising himself that he said it out loud.

"Thank you. I hope I can meet her soon." (Y/N) said, Peter wondered how she stayed so calm. But realizing it was probably because he was alone in his affections.

Earlier that day, after lunch, Ned even elbowed Peter about how cute (Y/N) was. Then he said he hadn't really noticed. Ned only rolled his eyes and said she may be a good homecoming date. But Peter was way too scared to do something like ask a girl to homecoming.

"Yeah definitely." Peter said, "Ok, favorite Delmar sandwich order?"

"Number 5, easily. I haven't tried everything but that's been my favorite so far." (Y/N) shrugged, Peter motioned to his head and then a fist pump out.

"Yes! Yes! Now you have to meet Aunt May, she's been trying to tell me the Number 9 is better for years." Peter said.

"Ew, doesn't that one have way too many onions and a weird bread?" (Y/N) said, making an ick face.

"Yes, exactly. Eck." Peter said, (Y/N) repeated the noise. He noticed that it was much easier to talk to her than any other girl he had tried to talk to. He always thought he had a very specific type of girl he liked, like Liz Allan, but maybe he was wrong.

They continued to joke and talk about things that make them go "eck." And every time they would make the noise louder. So much so that a stranger told Peter to shut up. The two just laughed harder because of it. They ran across the street with their backpacks to finally make it to Delmar's.

"Hey, what's up?" Peter said to the guy outside, Jaime.

"Hey, man." Jaime responded, Peter smiled. They both walked in.

"What's up, Mr. Delmar?" Peter said, walking in. (Y/N) stayed behind a bit but close enough to Peter that it was obvious they came together.

"Hey, Mr. Parker." Mr. Delmar smiled, leaning against his counter,

"Number 5, right?" Kalen in the back said.

"Yeah, with pickles and could you smush it down real flat? Thanks." Peter said his routine order.

"You got it, boss. For both of you?" Kalen added, looking at the girl amused with the Murph the cat.

"Number 5, too but I don't need mine smushed down." (Y/N) said.

"Ms. (Y/L/N)! Does your mother know you're hanging out with this hoodrat? I mean I know you're desperate for friends but c'mon." Mr. Delmar joked.

"Yeah, between you and me I don't know about this one." (Y/N) played along.

"I'm seeing you tonight for doing your homework in here, right? I better see some work done not any oggling about this idiot." Mr. Delmar waved his hand. (Y/N) felt the heat rise to her face, as much as she tried to play it cool her body wouldn't let her.

"Me? Never! Of course, I'll be in here." (Y/N) smiled awkwardly and kept her face toward the cat. Peter saw how red her face got, he was staring at her really. His insides starting doing backflips.

"How's your aunt?" Mr. Delmar pulled Peter's attention away.

"Yeah, she's all right." Peter grabbed some gummy candies off the shelf and put them on the counter.

"Ella es una mujer italiana muy caliente." Mr. Delmar laughed to his co-worker. (Y/N) knew what that meant, and aparently so did Peter.

"Como esta tu hija, eh?" Peter crossed his arms and got an extremely cocky grin on his face that only mad (Y/N) more flustered than to begin with. She laughed. He was so cool, and it was like he didn't even try.

"10 dollars." Mr. Delmar frowned. Peter's mouth dropped.

"It's 5 dollars!" Peter pointed to the menu.

"For that comment 10 dollars, you're paying for (Y/N)." Mr. Delmar demanded.

"C'mon I'm joking, I'm joking." Peter pulled out his wallet, "Lucky, I was going to pay for (Y/N) anyway."

Peter hands him the $10, then reaches behind (Y/N) to pet Murph.

"What's up, Murph?" Peter said, then became suddenly very aware of how close he was to (Y/N) and even though she had no problem with this it was like his insides exploded and he backed off.

"So, how's school?" Mr. Delmar asked.

"It's boring, got better things to do." Peter said packing his stuff in his backpack.

"Stay in school, kids. Otherwise you're gunna end up like me." Mr. Delmar motioned to his sandwich shop.

"This is great, I don't know what you're talking about?" (Y/N) hushed him, grabbing her own sandwich, the one that looked more inflated than Peter's.

"Best sandwiches in Queens." Mr. Delmar added on their way out.

"Alright, well uh," Peter looked around when they got to the crosswalk, "I've got to run, I have a lot of homework tonight."

"Yeah, yeah, me too." (Y/N) said, looking at her doorstep to her apartment building.

"But, uh, I'm free later. I was thinking if you're going to be at Mr. Delmars doing homework I could maybe come help you out? Not that you need it, I just-" Peter started rambling.

"I could use all the help possible. I'm gunna be here from like 6 til my mom leaves for the night which will be around 10. So anytime in there, I'd love for you to come by." (Y/N) said.

"Cool, uh yeah." Peter said, stepping out into the street, "I'll see you later then?"

"Yeah, sounds good!" (Y/N) started turning around when she heard a honk and turned back. Peter had almost gotten hit by a car. She laughed to herself, he wasn't like everyone else.

what do you guys think? please tell me by liking, reblogging or messaging me here! please dear god i’m very lonely.

happy reading!

NEXT PART..

[ladylibertypress]

Reading ‘Publishing as an Artistic Toolbox’ in the Digital Age

Publishing infiltrated the art world as an art in and of itself in magazines, on the Internet, in libraries, artistic collections to notions of the bookshop and round table discussions on and off-site in Publishing as an Artistic Toolbox at Kunsthalle Wien from November 2017 to January 2018. 

Nowadays, we even consume the analog as a digital experience. This lens i.e. “But is it instagramable?” or "Can I look it up online?” might at first, seem like a basic method but was a means to navigate the books on display.

Red tiled rooftops shape bookcases, replicated in three rows, symbolizing “home is where the books are” . Explanatory meta text is written on the walls, setting its timeline from 1989 to the present, marking the fall of the Berlin Wall and the beginning of the world wide web. This transformation from analog to digital shapes the perception of the show, spanning and panning the many mutations since publishing became an artistic practice.

Exhibition view: Publishing as an Artistic Toolbox: 1989-2017: Foto: Jorit Aust

Experience digitally

   Similar to the world wide web the show is vast in scope but mostly material. Rather than walk each red-roofed aisle like the wet dream of bibliophile, surf it like the Internet. Each publication opens up its own vortex in your hands or via clicks. A large screen hovers over a pedestal, displaying The Post-Digital Publishing Archive, a section in its own right. This project itself is an infinite exhibition. Worth clicking your way through from the comfort of your MacBook for the museum struggles to display post-internet art in interesting ways. The cultural value of this piece gets lost here. So take a look here, on your browser: http://p-dpa.net. Expand your resources of published data online wider by following up your search with the revolutionary UbuWeb, a platform from 1996 that opened up another galaxy to share avant-garde fine art.  What catches your eye? This is the mantra for the impatient digital reader. 

Fixated like a junkie, insatiable like a foodie; the viewer is blinded by bibliophilia. All the curators or rather collectors, headed by Luca Lo Pinto, and the authors, artists, publishers, binders, and coders involved are bibliophiles. Therefore, visiting this show feels like a crash course in library studies or creating an annotated bibliography for your Ph.D. in art. You have to be a true bibliophile —A minor fetishist to the endless textures, multiple formats and content of artist books—to appreciate this interactive index. Listicles are cool here. It’s paper on paper, on paper and on the Internet. 

   Upon entry you receive a booklet, the #toolbox17 index. Next to your iPhone camera, this proves just as important a device to roam and browse the exhibition. Another tool is an oversized newspaper —with no pictures— dryly explaining in small, tight paragraphs the background stories to the individual books in detail. You might have to meticulously read these manuals from front to back before you can even fathom understanding the deep contextual underpinnings of what your vision discloses. 

   The tricky almost virtual method to reading this show is to cross-reference between numbered and titled paragraphs on the wall, corresponding to a red-roofed shelf pew in Real Life. Then match the lists of typed book titles in your booklet with the real book or magazine. Eleven sections in total. On the sensory bright side, you may, however, touch the books individually, smell them, rifle through them, take a picture of a picture or text, and enhance your social media. This system  compares to an encyclopedic video game. The reader has been shrunk to a mouse cursor, and is now stuck in a very colorful version of Wikipedia, doomed to forever roam, browse and cross-reference. After reading on reading, a tiredness sets in similar to the affect after scrolling through your news feed or after reading this article.

Tabs

   Though the show sets up clear sections, there is an algorithmic randomness to what jumps out at the viewer. Each book is click-bait. You will come across dick picks such as the cover of Schism-zine as well as news on news and printed landmarks of sub and high culture. In the section Artist-run Magazines, The Magazine as Medium, you can find radical pieces of paper such as the fanzine Heyt Be! Created by Denis Beser, Sedef Karakas, and Bari’s Sinsi, it represents the Austrian local underground zine scene as well as the alternative and political printing culture in Turkey. These red roofs house a global village in their breath of artistic periodicals. Heyt Be! and the Swiss, Austrian and Berlin-ese art periodical Ztscrpt — each issue is named after a different Word Font— can also be purchased in the actual museum gift shop.

Heyt be!, Photo Credit: Nina Prader

Don’t confuse the gift shop with the art bookstore, you enter the show through. The latter is art, curated by Motto distribution and Gregorio Magnani, usually found in Berlin on Skalitzer Strasse as a shop. On display are meta books such as The Book on Books on Artist Books, exemplary of eternal and viral mirroring effects that suck a reader in to open another book tab. The museum guard mentions that he sometimes has to act as the bookkeeper here. On the wall, a text proclaims the relevance of the distributor and the bookshop to the art world. Aptly titled The Bookshop as a Medium (section 11), the implication uncovers one example from the spectrum of art book distributor practices. From a circulating gift economy, not-for-profit structures, non-profit, not-enough-for-profit to veritable art book gangsters, they all operate and advertise under the ideological belief that the notion of the book is the purest symbol for freedom of speech on the dog-eat-dog art market.

Filters

   Artists that read and make books is the overarching theme to the show’s theoretical filters. Each book has its own set of filters in turn. In the section Artist’s Library, the canonical artist chose inspiring works, relating to artistic publishing. Paul Chan’s choices: Self-Publishing for Dummies, H.P. Lovecraft’s Grimoire, a textbook of magic: Necronomicon and the University of Chicago’s A Manual of Style prove ironically helpful to understanding the show.

    To the book nerd, all the pretty books are markers of printed matter history. Celebrating icons of the printed matter magazine renaissances from the early 80s such as General Idea’s FILE Magazine’s final issues and Starship and Index from the turn of the Millennium. A contemporary response on the timeline is the New York-based independent online-culture, post-internet Sex Magazine, paying tribute to digital-natives and the unregulated Internet. 

File Magazine, Photo Credit: Nina Prader

   Also worth a skim to get that friction between analog versus Instagram photography vibe, SKULPI, annually published by Roman Schramm, is mostly matt technicolor photography, exploring different ways to express sculpture. Follow that up, with the 3-D materialization of the magazine THE THING Quarterly, a periodical that literally is an object edition. It takes the shape as 1 of 1000 hand-crafted numbered ceramic lottery balls. Does the one on display contain a diamond at its center or just a zirconia like the other 999? The message is the medium, worth a snapshot.

2.THE THING Quarterly Issue 28, 2015 THE THING Quarterly Issue 28, 2015, Foto: Kunsthalle Wien 2017

This is Not a Newspaper

   Artistic publishing is a collection of glitches —illy camouflaged— with which artists hack the public. The section The Message as Medium contains artists masking their message in newspapers and periodicals. Pop-culture activist and rabble-rousers like the Yes-Men, Steve Lambert, and Andy Bichlbaum, made a special edition of The New York Times with visions of a better America on July 4, 2009, with the headline piece: “Iraq War Ends”. This section juxtaposes well with the takeaway meta-newspaper NEW YORK POST flag profile by Michalis Pichler at the entrance of the exhibition. On its mostly white pages, this compilation counts flags from newspapers like The New York Times, New York Post, Village Voice around 9/11. Sometimes the absence of text acts self-explanatory like an emoji. In a similiar vein, the Profil magazine facsimile from 2000 by Hans-Peter Feldmann (Austria’s equivalent of the German Spiegel) has a blackened cover. The original rests next to it, Austria’s political mess best described in imagery as an emptied cover of political mourning. These alternative forms of mediating news resonate as artistic fake news with substance.

   On the whole, the show is a haptic google image search. How much you will actually see in full remains a mystery. A heap of book culture from a very specific time frame crystallizes in the shape of an index. There is much room to read or not read in between the lines. The publishing toolbox is obtuse. What is still legible in the age of digitization? Though a feeling of over-saturation, paired with attention deficit disorder sets in, the book remains a monumental signifier for knowledge and freedom of speech, everyone can subscribe, maybe even read one.

Profil by Andy Bichlbaum, Photo Credit: Nina Prader

Written as an Online Review for SLEEK Magazine January 2018

Exhibition Publishing as an Artistic Toolbox: 1989-2017  8/11 2017 - 28/1 2018 at Kunsthalle Wien

[sqftspacedesign]

5 Tips for Interior Designing around Television

The part of the wall where you put your Television is the part you often look at. As you watch the TV, it would feel good if the place around the box is beautifully decorated. Beauty attracts our eyes. A good movie or match on TV and a nice decoration around it can be a pleasant treat to your eyes. Let’s discuss some ideas of interior design around a television.

1. Paint the wall: - One of the easiest eye-catching ways is to decorate the wall with your paintbrush. If you are good at painting, apply your hobby to make the wall beautiful. So that whenever someone watches TV, his eyes get attracted to the picture as well. If you are not into painting, you can buy stickers, print out a picture and paste it to the wall. Picture made of plastic and cut into shape looks cute as wall decoration. Make sure the wall has a suitable color contrast to the picture. Bright color seems more attractive in such cases. Interior designer in Kuala Lumpur fondly appreciates the idea of wall painting in interior decoration.

2. Showpiece: - If there are free places on both left and right sides of the television, you can put some nice showpieces of dolls, fish, animals, god, or other idols there. A hand-made clay toy, a paper-made bird, or woollen doll can be kept beside the television. The Interior designer in Kuala Lumpur suggests hanging the Paper birds from the top. It looks better. A Craft made by you or the little ones of your home also can be considered. Interior designer in Kuala Lumpur gives importance in choosing a suitable showpiece when it comes to decorating your living room.  

3. Display Storage: - You can make a built-in cabinet with an open-faced display beside your television. It will allow you to showcase your decoration style around the TV. You can put your book collection on the shelf. Art items, fancy utensils, photo frame stand, any other form of self-expression can be kept in the storage. It not only will add value to your home decoration but also creates storage for your goods. According to house interior design, Malaysian bookkeepers are often found to keep their collections this way.

4. Flower vase: - House interior design Malaysia suggests decorating with natural elements like flowers. The flower vase also looks good when it comes to decoration. You can make a vase with a pitch board or by painting a used plastic jar or a clay pot. You can simply buy a readymade vase from a shop. Now if you are fond of gardening and has some flower plant in your rooftop garden, Pluck some pretty flowers and put them into the flower vase. You need to change the flowers every once in a while, don’t need to water them daily.  

5. Light it up: - If you want a theatre-like ambiance at home, Set 2 fancy light lamps on both sides of the hanging television. While watching a thriller movie, u may off the main light of your drawing room. Switch on the lamps and get the feel of enjoying a movie. The lights should be of low power. Lamps with a shed will do better. If you want to keep the room cozy in winter, display the TV above a fireplace. This can be a digital one or a real fireplace beneath it. This can create a warm atmosphere. Many of House interior design Malaysia is done this way.

Conclusion: - So these are some unique ideas for decorating the place where you put your ultimate box of entertainment in your living room. A well-decorated room is always a treat to the eyes. Television is the medium of entertainment and knowledge for us.

[lostscenarios]

Which Way to Home? Chapter 3

Title: Which Way to Home Characters: OC Han Soo, Oh Sehun and ft the rest of Exo Plot: Today, it seems as if everyone knows what they want to do and how they’ll do it. Fresh out of high school Han Soo is a fish out of water, sucked into a forced summer program at a local college with her cousin Han Soo attempts to find the answers to her unanswered questions. And the only thing that she knows? Oh Sehun may just have the answer. Genre: slice of life, college au, suspense, angst, romance Rating: PG13 - only because I plan on doing more with this and if it wasn’t PG13 or lower my mom would have a serious discussion with me so…

Chapter 3

June, 18, 2017,

The next morning all was well. I slept soundly and over half of the tenants were gone, leaving the dorm peaceful as could be. And for once I awoke to the harmonies of the song birds as they belted out their morning hymn! That was until...a chorus of groans and moans filled the campus dorms halls.

Peaking my head out the door I saw all of the girls coming back from last night’s frat party. They either looked like a mess or were one, there was no inbetween. And then there was Ara. Smeared eyeliner, frizzy hair, puke covered shoes and I assumed she had a massive headache as she was cradling her head. Not wanting to deal with that I swiftly shut my door, and for good measures gave it a good lock too! Click.

Now what to do? It’s Sunday morning, yet, the only people I know are recovering from their immense hangovers. And summer classes don’t start for another week. Should I go exploring?

Throwing on a random pair of jean shorts and a white tee, I messily tied my hair, grabbed my phone, wallet and keys and headed out the room. Closing my door I made sure not to slam it, I wouldn’t want to give anyone a worser headache and I made my way out. It was still fairly early and I assumed that most of the other students would still be recovering as well, thus, I set off for the nearest coffee shop in hopes of filling my empty stomach.

As I walked past all of the dorm buildings, I basked in the warmth of the sun. There was nothing better than a beautiful Sunday morning. Spotting a coffee shop just down the block I smiled in triumph, crossing my fingers I prayed that this one would be open. And just my luck, they were!

Entering the dimly lit coffee shop I was hit with the smell of freshly grinded coffee beans, as the door closed, the bell chimed signaling my entrance. My eyes scanned the blackboard menu and I couldn’t stop the peaking smile as I found myself amused with the childish chalk drawings that lingered towards the bottom. As I was deciding in my head what to order I heard a familiar voice.

“Welcome to Exodus cafe! We make the best coffee on campus, plus we’re pretty good looking too.”

Raising my eyebrow, a lightbulb popped in my head. Baekhyun was his name, right? Shaking my head I walked up to the register and ordered what I hoped to taste pleasant, “One artificial love please, and hold the whip cream.”

“Of course! A cinnamon frappuccino for a spicy lady!” He said as he winked. “It’s usually five dollars, but I’m feeling a bit generous so I’ll just take four.”

Handing him a five I said, “Keep the change.”

And once again with a wink, Baekhyun left me to make my drink.

As the buzz of the blender filled the quiet atmosphere my eyes continued to roam the small minimalistic coffee shop. There were tan stools that complimented the high ceiling of the cafe, while the dark brown round tables gave off a cozy feeling. In the right corner of the cafe sat a larger rectangular table with heaps of newspapers and stacks of nicely organized magazines. Who knew these frat boys had a sense of style? “Order up for the spicy lady checking out the cafe.”

Rolling my eyes I grabbed my drink and sat near the large window. Sipping on my frappe I was taken back by how smoothly the cinnamon was blended into the creamy mixture. Just maybe, I would have to stop by this place again.

Another chim of the bell made me turn around, and, I almost let out a gasp of surprise. Too late, he heard. Smiling weakly I awkwardly waved to Sehun.

Waving back Sehun made his way over to me, leaning his arms on the table Sehun said, “So I see you’re enjoying my new creation.”

“You created this drink?” I asked with my eyes wide open.

Chuckling Sehun laughed, “Hey what’s with the doubt? You know just because I’m in a frat doesn’t mean that I all I do is party.”

“But can you blame me?” I shrugged as I took another sip of the delicious drink.

Before Sehun could say a snarky remark Baekhyun entered the room and hollered, “Oh Sehun is that you? About time you showed up! You’re nearly fifteen minutes late mister!”

Holding back a laugh I tried to pretend that I didn’t just hear Baekhyun call Sehun a “mister”. Muttering nonsense to himself Sehun bid me goodbye, not without telling me to stay for a while longer, and then excused himself to the back before emerging again wearing the cafe uniform which consisted of a slim black cotton polo, white apron with the words, “Exodus” engraved in silver and a bright red plastic nametag that contrasted with the color scheme. Walking over to me with a little paper baggie Sehun placed it on my table, before I could reject the gift he had already disappeared into the backroom. Finishing my new favorite drink, I jumped off the stool and left the cafe, not without my little gift though. As I opened the bag I fell in love with the just-out-of-the-oven croissant fumes, as I rolled the bag up so I could eat my snack later I noticed there was something written on the bottom of the bag. Smiling to myself I let out a chuckle, Sehun wrote his number along with a short message in messy handwriting, “Sorry I couldn’t chat long, had to start my shift. I hope you enjoy my little gift to you, and wanna hang sometime?”

Pulling my phone out I quickly typed in his number, sent him a quick “hello” and proceed on my walk of the campus. To some people, being able to walk on Yonsei’s campus was already a huge accomplishment, but, for me? It just made me even more confused, my mind told me one thing yet my heart said another. I’m just praying that I find the answers to what I’m looking for while I go through my stay here.

As I passed clothing boutiques, then electronic stores and more cafes I wondered if I was going to stumble upon my own “hidden gem”. And just as I expressed a moment of doubt, I had finally found what I had been looking for. The antique book store that I passed last night on my way to the party. Hurriedly making my way to the hidden store I opened the door, and was astonished by the rows and rows of literature that stood proudly before me. Reading the category names I swear my heart was about to leap out of my chest! There was Henry David Thoreau, Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman and so much more! Would it be too obvious for me to say that I love literature? Especially the time period of the great American Transcendentalist movement! Like a kid in a candy shop, I browsed book upon book, looking for the one that just called my name. And then, there it was, “Civil Disobedience”. Letting out a squeal I couldn’t believe that I stumbled upon such an inspiring composition. A man of his time, Henry David Thoreau left the comforts of his time and secluded himself in nature where he became one with himself and one with the environment. If only I had the courage to do my own thing, I whimsically sigh.

Grabbing the book off the shelf, I continued to look for another book. It was one thing to read a classic, but, I just needed to read a good young adult book. And so the search began once again. I searched high and low, but I couldn’t find what I was looking for. Sure there were books with covers that could be in an art museum, or some of the plots seemed really interesting however the covers were boring. I was just about to give up when an elderly man, who I assumed, to be the bookkeeper approached me.

“Why hello there, young lady. It’s been a long time since a youngster has stepped foot into my book store. Is there something in particular that you are looking for?”

Grasping my hands together I pleaded, “Please help me find a young adult book that will sweep me off of my feet.”

Wiping away an imaginary tear the elderly man motioned for me to follow him. As we walked through what seemed like endless rows of book shelves we finally came upon a shelf that was unlike all of the others. The wood was rough, not sanded like the others, the stain had long faded away yet it felt as if there was something luring me towards the shelf. Grabbing a book that definitely needed repair the man placed in my hand, the title read, “Little Women”. Brushing the dust off I just knew this was the book I was looking for.

Taking me to the cash register the man scanned my items. However, he insisted that I only pay the Henry David Thoreau book and take “Little Women” as a gift for coming to his shop. With a bid of goodbye and a hop in my step, I was more than excited to start the adventure of reading my lovely new additions to my book collection. But, just as I was about to head back to my dorm room a voice off in the distance shouted my name.

“Han Soo! Hey wait for me!” Sehun cried out.

Squinting my eyes, I slightly waved to him and met him halfway. Grinning Sehun pointed at my bag, “I see you still haven’t eaten my gift.” “Did you just get off of work?” I ask in astonishment.

“Yep. I usually get off at four but Baekhyun let me go early today.” He replied smugly.

Wow. I knew I took a long time to search for books. But did I really just spend four hours in a book store?

“So what’d you buy?” Sehun asked as he tried peeking into my bag.

“What do you think?” I ask as we walk side by side to who knows wherever.

Playfully tapping on his chin he said, “Hmm… I could say what’s on my mind right now, or I could say the right answer.”

Shoving him I scoffed and walked faster, laughing Sehun caught up to me and took the bag out of my hand. “Let’s see...oh wow these are some old pieces of paper.”

Slapping his arm I exclaimed, “Old pieces of paper! Sehun these are works of art, hidden gems in the world of literature! And you sir, just dissed my new babies.”

Raising his eyebrow he snickered, “Babies? Wow you really need a life.”

Grabbing my bag out of his grasp I stomped away.

“Hey, look, I’m sorry...not really but you just need to life a little.” He said as he tried to console me.

Giving him the cold shoulder I pretended that he was invisible, and continued on my way back to the dorm. Knowing very well that he was still following me I turned around and snapped, “What?”

Kicking at the ground like a little kid he asked, “So...does this mean you’re not mad at me?”

Letting out the most dramatic sigh that I could muster I said, “I guess I have no other choice than to accept your terrible apology.”

Fist pumping into the air Sehun grabbed my hand and dragged me across the street, “Great! Now let’s go!”

Barely keeping up with Sehun’s long strides, I struggled to follow his lead. Noticing this, Sehun sheepishly apologized, let go of my hand and slowed his pace. As we continued on our walk, I was still amazed by how even the littlest things were beautiful.

As Sehun stopped us in front of the campus greenhouse, I smiled. Motioning for me to enter first, I gladly entered. Just like the night before splashes of pinks, oranges, greens and violets danced across the greenhouse. There were numerous aromas of phlox, plumeria and more. But the most magical aspect? Was the laughter of the nearby elementary school children as they toured the greenhouse.

“How cute.” I said as I watched the children run around as if they had never seen such a magnificent sight.

“I could say the same thing too.” Sehun said as he glanced at me.

[aardvarkingmad]

Creative Bookkeeping

“What am I looking at?”

Lando leaned forward and laced his fingers together. “My taxes.” He paused, then gestured to Han. “Our taxes,” he corrected, with an unnecessarily rakish grin.

Leia squinted at the datapad. “Tax fraud.”

“Oh, no no no. Absolutely not. My accounting is impeccable.”

“I don’t see how it could be,” she said. “He’s a smuggler.”

“Hey,” Han began. He shut his mouth when Leia leveled him with a look. He opened it again to persist, but saw that Lando had a shit-eating grin as he watched their argument-in-potentia. Han glowered at Lando, and made him grin wider. Han huffed, hooking his thumbs on his belt.

“Legally, he’s a long-haul transport navigator,” Lando said, and Leia snorted. “Because he has a spouse at home—me—he qualifies for a higher income deduction as well as a few credits unique to the profession.”

“Wait, credits?” Han asked.

“Because he’s my dependent,” Lando continued, ignoring him.

“The hell I am.”

“That puts me in a unique legal position—not many people know about this, but in order to incentivize long-haul transportation, a spouse who claims a long-haul transport navigator as a dependent qualifies as a household caretaker, which is a kind of head of household that’s able to claim significantly more not only for themselves but for any other dependent spouses they may happen to have.”

“But his transport isn’t legal,” Leia said, fascinated. Han was pretending to understand the conversation, which would have been more convincing if he weren’t already fiddling with a kinetic sculpture on one of Lando’s shelves.

“It’s art.”

“What?”

“As far as my taxes are concerned,” Lando said, “Han transports art. They can’t prove that it isn’t. And I’m always careful to get the valuation right.”

“How do you know what I transport?” Han asked, indignant. A piece came off the sculpture in his hands. He looked down at it, then looked at Lando. He made a hasty attempt to reattach the piece. The entire sculpture collapsed. Han took his hands from it, and attempted to lean casually against the shelves with his elbow to block it from view.

“They call me,” Lando said.

“No,” Leia gasped, delighted.

“Yes,” Lando said, grinning again. “They know I’m his partner. They know I can’t be sure I’m getting my fair share unless I know exactly what he’s getting. So they call me.”

“What!” Han stood straighter, his brow furrowed and his face all twisted into an incredulous pout of anger.

“They might have been able to catch him smuggling,” Lando said to Leia, still not addressing Han.

“They would never,” Han sneered.

“But they’re never going to get him on tax evasion. There’s no way he would have been paying taxes on his own.”

“It never even occurred to me that he would,” Leia said.

“I’m right here,” Han reminded them.

“So you can see why I can’t divorce him,” Lando said.

“I don’t follow,” Leia said.

“My household caretaker status is the foundation of all of this,” he said, pointing to the datapad. “I divorce Han and the whole thing collapses.”

“Collapses how?” Leia asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Cloud City goes bankrupt.”

Han choked.

“How many people have you married?” Leia demanded.

“Leia, you know that you’re my favorite wife-in-law,” Lando said, “but I don’t think I’m comfortable discussing that aspect of my personal life.”

The pile of former-sculpture slid from the shelf, and clattered to the floor.

Han pretended not to notice.

NOTE: I tried to reblog this from @unpretty but Tumblr wouldn’t let me. So I cut and pasted it. It’s not my doing. I just liked it.

[goope-jp-tenmei]

Behind the Stationery: Blackbird Letterpress

Kathryn from Blackbird Letterpress is a seasoned printmaker, stationer, and former teacher! Based in Baton Rouge, Kathryn has grown and built her business in Louisiana since her MFA days and has become known especially for her die cut greeting cards. Today Kathryn is taking us through how she’s grown and transitioned her business throughout the years. Welcome Kathryn! —Megan Soh

From Kathryn: When I finished my MFA in printmaking at LSU in 2003, I bought my first letterpress, a Chandler and Price 8×12. I moved the press into a friend’s house who had a large back room and started printing custom work — business cards, wedding invitations, etc. Before making Blackbird a full-time job, I taught adjunct at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette teaching drawing, 2D & 3D Design, and Art Appreciation. I moved back to Baton Rouge in 2007 with the press and type. In 2009, while keeping overhead low (my printshop moved into my husband’s metal fabrication shop) I decided to put all my energy into Blackbird. This meant expanding from custom and retail online & local markets to the wholesale market and exhibiting at trade shows.

Our printshop is located in mid-city Baton Rouge in what I like to call the “cemetery district” (we are next door to a 19th century cemetery). We moved into a new studio in 2016 and this expanded our space, almost tripling it in size. My husband and I renovated an old office building for about 4 years where we live upstairs and the printshop is downstairs.

We focus mostly on letterpress greeting cards, handmade notebooks, calendars, while also continuing to provide custom letterpress printing from business cards to fine wedding invitations. We print, die cut, bind notebooks, and assemble our products in house.

Many of our cards are die cut shaped cards (like the folded hand-shaped and skull-shaped cards). Our biggest sellers are the animal cards in which most are die cut to hold a gift card, money, note, or photo. We love to design things that move, like our perpetual calendars and volvelle info spinners (National Parks, Brilliant Women).

Most days are full of nonstop packaging, binding notebooks, and printing, with some design or drawing thrown in somewhere. We have a board that keeps track of the list of card reprinting to do, as well as lists of orders to fill. Personally, as the owner/printer/designer/bookkeeper, my biggest struggle is getting it all done. I do all of our accounting, plus much of the printing and designing, so it can be difficult to fit it all in a day. I’m lucky to have a great team that focuses on printing, scoring, order filling, cutting paper, and custom printing and designing.

Most card designs start with pencil and paper, from sketches to the final drawing finished in black ink. The drawing gets scanned into the computer where it is formatted and then compositionally laid out in order for plates to be ordered for printing. As a team we discuss color options, as well as envelope color and packaging options. Plates arrive, paper gets cut, and then the card is on to print.

We have 5 presses in the studio, 8×12 C&P platen press, 10×15 C&P platen press, Vandercook SP15, and 2 10×15 Heidelberg Windmills. Each job or card is printed on the press that will print the design the best. Each press has it’s strengths and we use them accordingly. For example, the Windmills do the die cutting and quantity production printing and the Vandercook will print notebook covers and wedding invitations.

The printed pieces get die cut or trimmed and scored if needed and then move to their inventory place on the shelf until they are packaged and shipped to one of our retailers!

All photos courtesy of Blackbird Letterpress.

Want to be featured in the Behind the Stationery column? Reach out to Megan at megan [at] ohsobeautifulpaper [dot] com for more details.

from Oh So Beautiful Paper http://ift.tt/2y3MHni via IFTTT

[handsingsweapon]

24 for the October Writing Challenge! :3c

24. The character starts a brand new job, but quickly learns that there are warnings that come with the job. No wonder they can’t keep employees for more than a few days.

GROUNDSKEEPER / ESTATE MANAGER WANTED has been a recurring advertisement in the Salem Gazette jobs listings for at least three months. It’s the sort of oddity Phichit Chulanont tells Yuuri Katsuki about over lunch: Phichit works for the town newspaper, overseeing their fledgling social media presence, and Yuuri, well. Yuuri’s just put his graduate degree on hold, or, more accurately, he’s had it put on hold for him. When Celestino Cialdini retired from the university he hadn’t expected to get a new advisor who seemed to hate every aspect of his thesis, and the amount of work involved in a rewrite reactivated the anxiety Yuuri’s told himself he’s had under control for years.

What sweet self-deception that was. He’s been recovering at home, and Phichit’s his best friend from high school, and Phichit’s been the one sharing these little tidbits. “It’s the weirdest thing,” he explains. “Leo says the client insists on working over email and about once a week he gets told to make sure to re-publish the job. They keep calling it something different: Butler … Gardener. One week was Majordomo, that was an office highlight. I changed my email signature in its honor.”

Everyone knows about Greystone Manor. It’s a gorgeous two-hundred year old house half an hour out of town, spread out over several acres of land. Though the place is still kept in fine condition, the owners are more than somewhat mysterious. It’s the kind of place that gets brought up when people talk about New England ghosts, if only because it seems like the kind of house that’s supposed to have ghosts. Yuuri’s a double-major, though, history and art history, and he knows perfectly well that there’s no sensational stories attached to Greystone, at least, nothing like the rest of Salem. Maybe, he thinks, about the house’s reclusive owners, which seem to be a Russian family according to Phichit, they just want to be left alone.

Yuuri can certainly empathize with that.

“How long are you just going to mope around the house?” Mari wants to know. Mari’s been taking a more active role at the family business: according to their father, Yu-Topia’s the best Japanese food in all of New England, and according to Mari, someone has to bring it into the 21st century. Yuuri and Phichit aren’t convinced Mari’s the best person to respond to Yelp comments, but hey: at least they have a website now. Progress. “You could help out at Yu-Topia, you know. Start taking shifts.”

Underneath his skin, the thing that is Yuuri’s anxiety trembles. Waiting tables is the sort of job that requires handling people at their worst, sometimes. He did it in high school, developed what he thought was a set of impenetrable coping mechanisms.

Graduate school proved that hypothesis wrong. I wonder if they’ve got the original collection at Greystone, he thinks, pondering period architecture and 1800s American art. 

Greystone is out in the country, too; secluded, quiet. He imagines it’s beautiful in the fall, when the leaves change. Maybe this is why he responds to the job posting. 

Or maybe it’s something else. Maybe it’s a kind of fate.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, really,” are the first words spoken to Yuuri Katsuki when a blonde answers the door at about 7PM on a Thursday evening. Most of the family will be home by around dinnertime to meet you for an interview, a woman named Mila had explained over the phone. My older brother’s still in Europe for a few more weeks but it shouldn’t matter. 

This kid barely looks like he’s old enough to experience puberty. He’s shorter than Yuuri is, incredibly lean, with blond hair and an impressive scowl. “No,” says the blonde, without introducing himself. “This place will eat you alive.” 

He proceeds to close the door in Yuuri’s face.

Yuuri is nothing if not persistent so he knocks again.

“Who the fuck are you, anyway?”

“My name is Yuuri. Is Mila around?”

What happens next should be recorded for an anger management class somewhere: the teenager in front of Yuuri Katsuki proceeds to have a first-rate meltdown because they apparently share the same first name. Yuuri hears footsteps from the entryway, and watches as the blonde gets physically dragged away by a woman with brilliant red hair. Judging by the way the teen’s resisting, this is a pretty impressive feat of strength, done with idle ease. “Yura gets a little rabid sometimes,” she says with a bright smile, while the blonde hurls insults like Hag and Baba-Yaga and some other things in Russian that Yuuri can’t translate. “Yuuri Katsuki, right? I’m Mila Babicheva. We spoke on the phone. This is Yuri Plisetsky, and his bark’s worse than his bite. Come on in.”

Yuuri steps over the threshold, and kicks his shoes off in the entryway, a habit from home. Besides: he recognizes the original hardwood he’s just stepped onto, appreciates, even from here, the care that’s been put into maintaining the large wooden staircase leading up to the second level. 

This little gesture softens Yuri Plisetsky from an 11 on the rage scale to something more like an 8. Yuuri has earned his consideration somehow. Barely.

He’s led into a parlor where it almost feels like a crime to sit on one of the antique sofas. The preservationist in Yuuri has always felt conflicted over collections like this: part of him wants to preserve old pieces in museums, where future generations can inspect the craft and workmanship that went into everything made by hand, and another part thinks that these pieces were made to be used by families and in homes, that part of joy has to do with function.

His interview consists of an awkward conversation between Mila, Yuri, and one other man she introduces as a cousin. “Georgi Popovich,” she explains.

Georgi seems to be in a bit of a mood. “Don’t mind him,” Yuri grumble-whispers, forty-five minutes in. “He’s …” 

“He’s what?”

“Uh. He. It was a bad break-up.”

Yuuri Katsuki decides, right then and there, that Yuri Plisetsky is the last person on earth who should ever discuss relationships.

As it turns out, the job’s a little bit of a dream come true: the Russian cousins are well-aware of the heritage of their house and the collection of furniture and artwork that it houses. Yuuri’s led to understand that managing the business of the estate in terms of mundane, business-related activities like taxes and repairs is work they’re not able to keep up with on their own. Beyond that there’s managing and scheduling staff: a monthly housekeeping service, and the people who maintain the grounds. We’ve had some issues, Mila explains. Mila does most of the talking. It’s important that we find people we can trust.

Sure, trust. Trust makes sense to Yuuri. He’s been involved in Yu-Topia’s bookkeeping enough that he thinks he understands how to keep things organized here, but to be honest, that’s not what has him decide that this is something he wants. It’s the history of the place, the prospect of doing an inventory, of maintaining all of the little pieces that dot even this one room. There’s a Faberge egg sitting on a shelf in the corner, for instance, and Yuuri’s caught himself almost having a heart-attack every time he re-evaluates it and arrives at a conclusion that it’s probably an original. “This all sounds great,” he says carefully. “Why have you had so much trouble finding someone?”

Yuri Plisetsky is about to speak up when Mila Babicheva knees him by accident. “It’s our schedules,” she says, apologetically. “We’re practically nocturnal.”

Georgi sighs heavily. Yuri snorts. Yuuri Katsuki considers his schedule at college: panic-writing on his thesis until four or five in the morning, and then subsiding almost entirely on coffee. “Well,” he says, “I guess I could do an evening shift?”

Mila’s got a mega-watt smile. “That’s the spirit!”

Later, when the door closes behind Yuuri, and he’s sent safely home, Yuri Plisetsky narrows his eyes at her and mutters: I bet he doesn’t make it two weeks.

This is how Yuuri Katsuki finds himself taking a job that runs from about 7PM to 3AM most days of the week, except on the days when he’s got contractors to schedule (”assuming you’re even still here by the time they show up for appointments,” Yuri says, to which Yuuri can only frown, puzzled, and ask “well, why wouldn’t I be?”). He’s given free reign over the house with the exception of the bedrooms up on the second floor, private spaces that belong to each of the three cousins who live in the house. Usually none of them are around when he shows up and lets himself in, but gradually over the course of the evening they invariably appear. 

He’s in the library on the third day on the job, trying to come to terms with the fact that nobody has ever catalogued its contents. Project number one. Particularly incredible is the fact that there’s so much American occultism captured in one section of its shelves: terrific, first printings of books that are worth a small fortune now, all originally published in the second half of the 19th century and the first part of the 20th. 

Georgi Popovich walks in and almost knocks Yuuri over. “Sorry,” he apologizes hastily, sounding rather like there’s something stuck in his throat, and he’s working on putting together a quick retreat when Yuuri realizes it looks suspiciously like he’s been crying. “Didn’t think anyone would be here …”

“No, it’s fine, I can go work somewhere else,” Yuuri offers, and then he does something that he’ll catch himself regretting in the short term. “Are you okay?” He asks. 

Georgi Popovich stares at him, and then says no, and then bursts into tears.

Yuuri spends the next hour of his life comforting a Russian man older than he is about this breakup he’s apparently had with a woman named Anya. Georgi says some of the strangest things Yuuri has ever heard someone say about their ex, things like I just thought she could change, and don’t you think people can be together forever and Yuuri tries his best to be comforting. “It sounds like you’ve been too focused on this other person, Georgi,” he attempts to advise. “… and what you could do for them. Maybe it’s time to practice being just Georgi again for a little while?”

On the fourth day of his job he discovers Georgi back in the library. This time he’s set up a canvas and some paint. “You were right,” Georgi tells him. Yuuri can’t tell what it is he’s supposed to be painting, but he recognizes the style: it’s headed in a direction that’s very symbolic and romantic, dreamy. Klimt, Yuuri thinks, when he sees that Georgi’s got some metallics included in his supplies; golds and silvers and bronzes. It reminds me of Klimt.

The following Monday, something dawns on him as he looks at Yuri Plisetsky, who evidently has a woodcarving hobby. Yuri’s currently carving a cat out of a big oak branch that fell down in a recent storm, and it’s a little frightening how effective he is with his knives and tools. 

Maybe they’re all artists of some type, Yuuri thinks distantly. “Hey,” he says, because he’s sorting through the bills for this month, neatly organizing them into a table of expenses. “How come you don’t go to Salem High?” One of his mother’s best friends is a woman named Minako Okukawa, who does a little bit of everything in the context of fine arts at the local high school. Yuuri recalls her as his terrifying dance instructor, the woman who coaxed him into taking roles in the high school’s musicals just so the dance numbers wouldn’t suck. Minako-sensei shows up at his family’s restaurant at least twice a week, and she already knows about Yuuri’s new job, and he’s pretty sure that if Yuri Plisetsky had ever set foot inside the school he would’ve heard about it from her. 

“Oh.” Yuri frowns. “I do online classes,” he says. There’s a momentary pause before he scoffs derisively. “Who’d want to hang out with those tools?” Yuri asks, like teenagers are the most uncool thing on earth, although he, himself, is one of their number. “Too much fucking drama.”

“Oh,” Yuuri murmurs. “… Well, what about your friends?”

“Shut up, I have a friend,” Plisetsky grumbles.

“Just the one?” Yuuri asks before he can quite help himself. Plisetsky promptly calls him a pig, but it doesn’t stop him from sneaking into the kitchen an hour later while Yuuri’s putting together dinner, and stealing some stir-fry. 

“Your cooking doesn’t suck, at least,” he grouses. Yuuri’s not sure when Yuri Plisetsky’s abuse became cute instead of terrifying, but he’s brave enough to offer a small smile. 

“Let me know if you ever need help with your homework,” he says politely. Yuri flips him off, which seems a very Yuri thing to do, around people he likes.

“Give me a hand, will you?” Mila asks, the following night. “Got a whole bunch of stuff to carry down from the attic.” 

“Sure,” says Yuuri, who hasn’t even considered that there might be even more stuff related to Greystone up in the eaves. He’s already living in a paradise of historicity; already his imagination runs away with the idea of what else might be stashed upstairs. Georgi and Yuri are tucked away in the basement, which Yuuri understands has been transformed into something of a gym. Maybe they’ll let him use it someday? He thinks things are more or less going well, although from time to time, all three of the cousins mention someone named Vitya, and the way they talk about him implies that he’s really the one in charge.

Turns out, Mila wants them to carry down four old trunks. She picks one up, prompting Yuuri to do the same, although it feels like he’s loaded up with a ton of bricks. They have to work together to get each trunk down the attic’s old ladder, and on the final trunk, the handle snaps. Mila drops it, cursing swiftly in Russian, and the lid snaps open, letting the contents spill out.

Yuuri’s looking at weapons that all appear to be at least a hundred years old, maybe more: a saber with an ornate guard, several silver daggers, and what looks like an antique crossbow. “Wow,” says Mila. Yuuri will realize much later how terribly unconvincing she is, but right now he’s too impressed to string facts together. 

“Wow,” he echoes, as he picks up the sword. “You know, I think this is an old Russian saber?” He drops it as soon as the word leaves his mouth and then scrambles to pick it up and put it carefully back into the trunk. “I should inspect these for you,” he says. “It might be like three hundred years old!”

“Oh,” says Mila. “… Yeah. Yes. That’s probably a good idea.” Mila thinks it’s a terrible idea, but it’s strange, the way Yuuri handles a sword that she knows belongs, in every possible sense of the word, including ones Yuuri cannot even imagine yet, to Victor.

Yuuri has made it exactly two weeks and one day before someone tries to fire him. He’s finished the list of books in the library and he’s moved on to the conservatory, checking on the 19th century piano. No better way to test it than to try and play, he thinks, and so he gingerly sits down and taps away at a little Für Elise from memory. He took piano and dance lessons for years, all the way until college, before finally giving them both up: performance isn’t something that sits well with Yuuri, even if he absolutely loves knowing the way any kind of art tends to come together. The piano’s mechanism is still good, although it’s out of tune, another thing Yuuri will need to hire a specialist to fix.

When he stops there’s a man standing in the doorway, transfixed. He’s the most beautiful person Yuuri’s ever seen, silver-haired and blue-eyed, and when Yuuri awkwardly stands up to go and introduce himself, it takes a while for him to seemingly snap out of his thoughts. 

“You’re fired,” become the first words Victor Nikiforov ever says to Yuuri Katsuki, spinning on his heel to depart with some sense of urgency while Yuuri follows along with his heart in his throat. In just fifteen days, the house has grown on him; he’s gotten attached to the idea of being here, of helping Yuri and Mila and Georgi out. So far he’s uncovered a thousand little mysteries, histories he could spend a lifetime compiling. 

“No, please, listen – I just wanted to make sure the piano worked, and it’s in really good condition, it just needs some tuning, I think we got off on the wrong foot and I …”

“Okay,” says the man with silver hair, though he doesn’t turn around, and he doesn’t look back. “Not fired.”

“I see you’ve met Victor,” Mila says later. Met is the understatement of the year: Victor spends the next three days avoiding Yuuri at all costs as they move through the house in terribly separate orbits. Of course, that means they wind up running into each other in lots of incredibly inconvenient situations: in narrow hallways, trying to pass like ships.

What Yuuri doesn’t know is the conversation that’s had about him when he’s not around: Victor, you can’t fire someone just because you went into a trance, Mila says, as Yuri Plisetsky barks out peals of laughter and disbelief and Georgi Popovich looks off into the distance. Anya never went into a trance when I was around, he mutters, mournfully, which just makes the blonde howl louder.

Yuuri’s three weeks in when it happens, sitting in the library shortly after sundown when there’s a sound of breaking glass from down the hall. Because he’s an idiot (as he’ll hear later), he goes to investigate, picking up the beautiful saber he’s been working on dating and identifying, the one he and Mila found in the broken trunk full of some previous owner’s weapon collection. Why Yuuri thinks this is a good idea is beyond him: if there’s a robber, it makes more sense to call the cops. He makes a note that perhaps they need to register for a security system. 

At the end of the hallway are three grey-faced, sickly looking men, and they don’t ask questions before they charge.

Half an hour later, it’s somehow fallen to Victor to comfort Yuuri, who has purged the contents of his stomach twice because those three men were reduced into piles of ash and bone by his new Russian friends, and didn’t die like real humans, and Yuuri’s pretty sure he’s having a nightmare. Victor’s wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, struggling on the border of being coddling and firing I told you so style glares in Mila Babicheva’s direction. “W-wh-what were those things?” Yuuri wants to know. “Vampires?”

“Idiot,” Yuri grumbles, the way he always does, “Victor’s the vampire.”

It’s not exactly a helpful thing to say, considering Victor-the-vampire is currently draped around Yuuri’s shoulders just as much as the blanket is, protective and curiously cozy. Yuuri will later ponder whether or not he was being necked. Victor will later explain that he can’t help it, exactly: it’s how you smell. In the present, Yuuri all-but-leaps off of the couch, and he picks up the sword again, brandishes it against these crazy people.

“Yura, you’re not helping,” says Victor-the-vampire, who is looking at the sword in Yuuri’s hand as much as he’s looking at Yuuri. “Those were ghouls,” he murmurs carefully. “We get them pretty regularly.”

“Ghouls,” repeats Yuuri, from the nightmare-hell that is apparently his life now.

Victor glances over at Mila, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet ever since she and Victor burst on the scene, rushing past the one grey figure Yuuri’d been attempting to fight. “Has he always been able to hold her?” He asks, like Yuuri isn’t right there.

“I know, it’s weird, right?”

“Please stop talking about me like I’m not right here,” says the sensible part of Yuuri’s brain, followed by the part that still only lives in the wild landscape of panic: “… If you’re going to kill me, too, you should know my mother will be very, very upset.”

“It is entirely beyond me to cause you harm, I assure you,” says Victor, and Yuuri doesn’t know what it is about the way he says it that makes it believable. “Now, if you don’t mind, please return my sword, love.”

Love?

“Not until you tell me what’s going on,” Yuuri mutters. The grip on the saber’s all wrong; he grew up studying kendo at the Nishigoris, and it’s not for nothing that Takeshi went on to win all those championships, all those years ago. Still: he understands the gist of it, evidently well enough to kill something called a ghoul.

“That,” says Victor, “is a very long story. Why don’t I make us some tea?”

“Tea and murder,” says Yuuri, with a near-hysterical laugh. “Great.”

“At least he hasn’t quit yet,” Georgi remarks later, which becomes the boundary of the moment Yuuri Katsuki began a transition from one job to another: the day he began to ease out of being Greystone’s Estate Manager, and ease into becoming one of Ex Umbra in Solem, where he’s eventually matched with a sentient weapon of his own, and taught the spells that will extend his life to be nearly as long as the vampires the organization was originally formed to hunt, though their prey takes on varied shapes of evil now: werewolves and malevolent poltergeists, bad witches, sorcerers.  

Vampires like Victor. I didn’t ask for this, he says, holding himself very, very far away from Yuuri after a fight that’s cut Yuuri’s cheek, terrified of the possibility of his own frenzy. He’s dug his nails into his fists so hard they bleed. 

When he comes to his senses later he’ll admit it’s a fate he wants for no one else; that he’s hated for his defection. 

I’ve never seen him like that, says Mila.

Victor is three hundred years old and looks at Yuuri in ways that take some getting used to: sometimes like he’s something Victor absolutely cannot wait to devour, but mostly like he’s the most precious discovery of all three of those centuries.

“It’s not like we could put out a listing asking for a secretary for a bunch of vampire hunters,” notes Yuri Plisetsky, a year later, when they’re traveling to Europe for an induction ceremony with Victor’s mentor, an ancient mage named Yakov, whose name is invoked by everyone but Victor with a healthy amount of fear and trembling. 

It turns out that Yuri Plisetsky is already almost sixty years old. “Yeah,” he snorts. “Remember that time you asked me if I needed help with my homework? You’re never going to live that down.”

It’s the perfect job. Yuuri doesn’t officially quit for three more years. “You can’t fire me, I quit,” he tells Victor Nikiforov, because he practically lives in Greystone now, he’s one of them, and, besides …

You can’t just run around marrying your vampire boss.

“See,” sniffs Georgi in the background, ruining what’s supposed to be a very important moment in the conservatory where they first met, exchanging engagement rings. “I told you a vampire could really love a human.”

“Georgi, Anya led the Boston coven and slept with you to try to get information on how to ruin Ex Umbra,” Mila says, placatingly.

“She sure was fun to kill, though,” Yuri whistles.

“I know that,” mutters Georgi, and though he’s not quite sulking there is an air of wistfulness around him. “I’m just telling you it was possible.”

since i had a question from an anon on the last one i’ll chime in with a little more world-building, out-of-prompt knowledge now:

Yuri, Mila, and Georgi are trained shadowhunter types, not vampires! 

Yakov leads the entire worldwide organization, of which Team Russia is, in this case, the East Coast American chapter

Yuuri becomes a shadowhunter type, although he’s more of a researcher than a fighter really

Victor is a vampire who got changed unwillingly in the 18th century. He’s got a very Angel-esque story in the sense that he probably did some Very Bad Things for a few years before getting out of the thumb of his sire and seeking revenge etc. So eventually he also joined the hunters, and the vampires despise him because of it

Anya is one of these vampires and seduced Georgi to try to get to Victor and Yakov. 

Mila and Yuri were really delighted to kill her for it, which is exactly when Georgi started to sulk and when they first posted a job listing for extra help around the house because SOMEONE was being MELODRAMATIC and not pulling his weight

“Majordomo” was totally Georgi’s suggestion for improving the listing after they fired the fourth candidate in two weeks

It didn’t work

At the start of the story, Victor’s in Europe doing secret things with Yakov fighting Big Bad Evils

Victor has classic vampire trope fits over Yuuri: Yuuri is gorgeous and entrances him; Yuuri smells so good Victor thinks he’s going to die a second time; Yuuri is precious and needs to be protected and anyone who insults him or upsets him will meet the dangerous end of Victor’s smile or the snarling flash of his fangs; etc.

Victor thought the concept of vampire bonds or vampire mates was all manipulative bullshit (thanks to his past bad experiences) until he met Yuuri

Every hunter in this organization gets a semi-sentient weapon (think like Dr. Strange’s cloak). Victor’s is the saber. Yuuri has a kodachi. Yuri Plisetsky has throwing knives. Mila has a warhammer. Georgi uses a staff. 

It’s unusual to handle someone else’s magical item; they usually don’t cooperate outside of the hunter they select.

Yuuri will live about 2-3x as long as a regular human once he finishes all the magic rituals to slow down aging, but eventually he and Victor will have to have the conversation about either you stop using magic or I have to turn you or I need to also die and that’s a choose your own adventure ending because I have no Word of God opinions

I think that’s it. On to the next one sometime next week probably!