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thebestworstidea · 3 years ago

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The Green Knight’s Lady (4)

Sequel fic to “The Witch and the Green Knight” (on Ao3)

Warnings: undeserved redemption arc, graphic imagery and as of this chapter violence against minors.

Chapter 1: In which Rowan has Unexpected House Guests

Chapter 2: In Which They Try to Figure Out What the Hell is Going On

Chapter 3: In Which Remus and Rowan’s Stupidity Escalates to Treason (sort of)

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Chapter 4: In Which Life is Difficult

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The winter waned in a sloppy miserable way, kicking out with a few snowstorms like the flailing of a dying animal. Despite not really being bothered by the cold, D.N. practically hibernated, most often found in a window seat in the library, going through Rowan’s Mother’s books and being snarky about bad information about fairies. Rowan was fairly sure it was just a way to safely lash out. She dug out an old laptop and gave him access to the Netflix account. If nothing else it kept him distracted. Something Rowan had learned was that the fair folk did, as legend said, love stories.

And apparently, soap operas and romcoms.

Like herself, Remus seemed out of sorts in the late winter, though more in the way of someone who had woken up long before they wanted to. He’d gone into the woods and returned dressed in his more normal attire, also having brought back a few changes of clothing that was closer to D.N.’s size, and of a finer make than anything in the Baker house, despite Rowan’s sister’s cautious attempt to find a fabric the fae child would like. For the most part, the rest of Rowan’s family treated D.N. with cautious courtesy, and a certain level of ‘not be alone in a room with him’. Remus, by contrast, was treated more as a benign nuisance, though not without kindness. Frankly, that was more understandable than Rowan’s blase attitude. That didn’t stop a certain level of speculation as to why ‘Leif’ and his friend were staying with them.

“I’ve figured it out!”

Rowan balled a pair of socks and tossed it in her sister’s basket across the table. They were sorting the laundry by owner, and Rowan had made it her mission to find as many pairs of socks as she could.

“Figured what out?”

“What’s going on with Leif and the kid!”

“Have you now?” Rowan said dryly and a little nervously. Her sister nodded.

“It’s pretty obvious if you think about it. The kid is the spawn of the last fairy king.”

“What.”

“Look, it’s obvious that Leif served him, right? And we know he’s dead. So then Leif disappears for months and reappears with a kid? With scales? We know that Leif’s traveled outside Wickhills before- so clearly he knew where the kid was, maybe he was even the one who took him away, probably more of a Cronos eating his kids thing than a Arthur sent into hiding thing, and now he brought him back.” She pursed her lips. “You know, I bet Leif can change genders like a frog.”

Rowan started laughing.

“Leif might even be the mother-” she went on.

“Definitely not.” Rowan choked.

“But he is related. I’ve connected the dots.” she said smugly.

“You haven’t connected shit.” Rowan retorted throwing a pair of pants at her.

“I’ve connected them.”

As spring burgeoned forth, Remus agitated with the need to leave the house. It was clear he wasn’t used to staying in one place, even for a few weeks like this. Rowan could always tell when Remus had gone wandering in the night, because D.N. didn’t come down from the attic until he’d come back. It wasn’t as if D.N. was avoiding his so-called hosts, so much as he was totally avoiding the humans in the house as much as possible as if by pretending they weren’t there he could pretend none of this was happening.

When spring officially arrived Rowan made them clothing, a shirt of heavy green broadcloth for Remus, and a more delicate shirt of the finest white linen she had for D.N. The shirt he generally wore was made of undyed silk, and Rowan feared that the substance had come from the shroud- or rather bag- she’d sewn for the bones of the Serpent King. It was tricky to give them, as D.N. certainly wanted no gifts from her, and Remus wanted to gift her in return. But it was simply tradition, that for the first day of spring everyone had a new garment. So her green brother and erstwhile guest needed something new too, for luck. Honestly, Rowan thought he could probably use all the luck he could get.

It was a fine warm day in mid April, when leaves were finally starting to show, and only the most stubborn bits of snow were sticking around in the darkest shadows, when Rowan was working in her garden.

“Little tree! You’re wearing pants!”

The whippy rose vine Rowan had been arguing with slipped out of her hand as the twist tie sprang from her other, and she took the momentary break to glare at Remus, who had appeared in her personal bubble with no warning whatsoever.

“I wear pants all the time.” she retorted, giving him a half hearted shove.

“Yeah, but usually you have dresses over ‘em.” theatrically, he collapsed to the scrubby grass outside the garden and sprawled in the sun.

“Well, I learned that arguing with rose bushes in a dress doesn’t end well for the dress.” She grabbed hold again with her gloved hand, and pulled a fresh tie out of her apron pocket, lashing the thorny vine to the wrought iron trellis that kept most fae out of her garden. They could, in theory, pass under the iron arbor that faced the wood, wreathed as it was in plants, but until Remus it hadn’t been much of a problem. “How are you doing?” she asked quietly. He was looking better. He’d been kind of wan, a sickly sort of green rather than his normal healthy hue like a ripening acorn.

“Starting to feel my oats.” He responded, tipping his face into the sun. “It’s a good spring. I’d say that spring was happy about something.” in the distance, a door opened and closed.

“Seasons do seem to have emotions.” She agreed, and had to step delicately over him to get to the next bush, pulling clippers from her pocket and studying the bush thoughtfully, before pruning a few branches, and returning to tucking them in safely so they wouldn’t grab passers by too badly. That done she carried the trimmed branches away. D.N. emerged from the widdershins side of the house, having exited the front door and walked so he didn’t have to pass the rowan tree, even if he could do so under the protection of the porch. He glared down at Remus with frustration.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Having a kip?” Remus suggested, as Rowan stepped over him again to get back to the rose bushes.

“You should tell me as soon as you come back from the forest.” he said grouchily, not making eye contact.

“Well, not much is going on, so there’s nothing to tell you.” Remus shrugged.

“That’s good right?” Rowan asked.

“A secret unsaid is a secret kept.” D.N. muttered, not addressing Rowan at all. “What are you doing out there anyway?”

“Favors.” Remus sighed. “So many favors. I’m not exactly a favorite right now. People don’t want me to do favors for them, but I need the currency. Also fixing up my house.” he rubbed his hands over his face. “It’s kind of out of the way, so it might be safe enough. It’s nice enough to visit with my little tree, but…”

“We can’t stay here forever.” D.N. agreed. “It buzzes.”

“Yeah.” Remus nodded. “So I’ve got some improvements to make, and gotta reassert my territory. No one got near the tree, but I don’t have much around it.” he clicked his tongue “Fun and all, but I’m in a hurry.” he made a kissy face at them both. “But I’ll always hurry back to you.”

Rowan snorted, and D.N. rolled his eyes. He crossed his arms and cocked his hip, glaring down at the green-clad fae.

“I’m sure whatever you stay in is better than this.”

“Hey, owch. It’s a good house. We finally got the roof fixed last year.” Rowan glared, waving her clippers at him. D.N. leaned away.

“Well it’s hardly the hovel I’ve seen other witches live in,” he sneered at the Victorian style house. “But it isn’t anywhere I would choose to stay.”

“Sorry for not being a magical house.”

“Oh it’s full of magic alright. Human magic, thick and inelegant, like mud on the bottom of a pond.”

“I like mud.” Remus commented, popping up and bracing himself upright on his hands. Rowan noticed that his knuckles were reddened and split. Putting her clippers away again, she dug into her other pocket, coming up with a small, shallow clay pot, closed with a wide cork. She crouched down and grabbed one hand, dabbing the ointment onto the wounds. Remus obligingly offered his other hand when she was done.

“Why was this in your pocket?”

“It’s better to get the ointment on big jabs right away, and I’m doing lawn work.” she shrugged, and went back to her work.

After a while, Rowan finished her discussion with the rosebushes, and headed back inside without saying anything. Shortly after that, a car drove up hidden by the bulk of the house. Another short while later, it drove away again. Rowan returned to her garden, hooking her apron over her head again.

“Bloody busy-body is what she is.” Rowan grumbled to herself. “No need to come by every time, her tea hasn’t changed in over a year, if I wanted everyone coming by and bothering me all the time I’d start up a tea room in town and read palms and cards. It’s what I get for being helpful and offering to do a unique blend.”

“Can you tell the future?” Remus asked, popping up on the other side of the hedge wall of rose bushes, making Rowan yelp and clutch her rake.

“Like the weather.” She retorted. “Which is to say, not really worth anything.”

“You’re a useless kind of witch, aren’t you?” sniffed D.N. who had taken up a seat in an Adirondack style chair they had acquired somewhere, and everyone in the Baker family hated, which is why it wasn’t on the porch.

“Yeah, kind of.” she didn’t rise to the bait, and watched him stare at the woods. “You could go, you know.”

“What?”

“Nothing’s keeping you here if you wanted to leave.”

“Little tree-” Remus said, sounding hurt.

“Not you, you’re welcome any time. And for that matter, if he wants to go for a bit and come back, that’s fine.”

“I can’t actually. I have to ‘stay here’ until further notice.”

“Oh right. Fairy parole officer.” Rowan sighed. “Well you could probably get as far as the property line, or where our ‘official’ lot meets up with the woods.”

“It isn’t as if I’m desperate to wander in the woodlands, Witch, I just don’t want to be here. At all.”

“Boy, do I hear that.” she sighed deeply, pausing to look into the woods herself. The small leaves were misting the tips of the trees with color, and there was a smell of wet and rot in the air. It looked like a storm was building in the west. It would probably hit the before nightfall, gathering the dark in the clouds and making the night come that much faster in the growing spring day. Better to get her gardening done before it hit, so she’d only have to repair the damage it did, not do that and the maintenance. The plants were being especially springy this year, and she was tempted to put this down to Remus’s presence.

D.N. continued to watch her, as though she was some sort of reality TV show, while Remus sprawled in the scrubby grass next to his chair.

When the first cold wet gust hit, all three of them headed inside.

The storm was really having fun, so they were in Rowan’s room instead of the loft. Remus liked to hang out with both of them, so Rowan coming to work on whatever she was doing -some sort of project involving embroidery floss at the moment- and sit with Remus while Remus would root through her work basket, or bring out a pouch and do something himself- embroidery, or sharpening knives, occasionally woodcarving. Sometimes he’d sit behind Rowan and brush or play with her hair, braiding it into elaborate arrangements that she’d have to ask for help to undo.

Sometimes Danger Noodle would use Remus as a cushion or a backrest as if he was staking his claim. That night however, he’d pulled the beat up floral armchair Rowan kept next to one of her windows to a different window (further away from the dancing limbs of the rowan tree) and settled down with a book.

Rowan noticed that he would raise his hand and rub the back of his neck occasionally as if it were hurting. She nudged Remus’s leg and inclined her head at D.N. He shrugged.

“Are you in pain somehow?” Rowan asked, startling him into dropping his book.

“Kindly mind your own business.” Danger Noodle sneered.

“Are you cold?” Remus asked. “You do-” he rubbed the back of his neck “lots.”

D.N. growled under his breath, picking the book up.

“It isn’t important.” He told them.

“But it is a thing.”

“You never used to.”

He sighed, explosively. “Are you two going to leave me alone about this?”

“Well now I’m curious.” Rowan admitted tipping her head with a smile on her face that reminded D.N. far too much of Remus’s mischievous expression. If it weren’t for her obvious humanity, he would think they were siblings. “If you’re cold, I could get you a blanket, is all.”

“I’m not cold.” he rolled his eyes. “I’m a winter.”

She looked unimpressed. “So what’s with the lounging in sunbeams?”

Danger Noodle sneered at her, scales glinting in the lamplight.

“It's just a feeling. It’s like a cold hand on the back of my neck, it’s not squeezing but it’s there.” D.N. spread his fingers over the back of his neck. “Like something’s watching me, constantly.”

“Huh.” Remus and Rowan said in unison, heads tipping to the side. Danger Noodle glared, there was no way they weren’t doing that on purpose.

“Might be something?” Remus asked thoughtfully, looking at the corners of the room.

“I’d want to keep an eye on him, if it were me.” Rowan admitted.

D.N. sighed again, exasperated, then Remus perked up digging in one of the many pockets inside his vest. After a search he came up with a bag, tied firmly shut with cord. He climbed off the bed and went to kneel next to the armchair instead.

“I made this for you.” Remus opened the intricately tied knot, and from inside the bag, produced a scarf. It looked like heavy silk of some sort, dyed a beautiful saffron yellow, covered in single-thread embroidery. Vines twisted and twined along it, with a snake hidden among them. D.N. stared at it for a long moment, then recoiled.

“Are you out of your mind? Wait, never mind I retract the question.”

“I made it for you a while ago but…” Remus admitted. “You wouldn’t have taken it.”

“I’m not taking it now.” He stood up, tossing the book on the chair. “What makes you think I would even want it?”

“You’re not as strong now-”

Danger Noodle hissed, flashing sharp teeth, pupils narrow.

“-so I’m going to protect you until you’re stronger.” Remus finished as if he hadn’t just been threatened.

“I am still stronger than you.” the young fae said disdainfully, drawing himself up to his full, unimpressive height.

“Are you though?” Rowan asked, setting her project down and watching them.

“I am certainly more powerful than you.”

“Oh, that’s not even a question.”

“So what this looks like is Remus is offering you his favor to wear, showing that you’re his... I’m going to say ‘ward’, because you’re a kid.”

“I am not a kid!” D.N. retorted, stamping his foot like a child.

“And therefore under his protection. Displaying a connection.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that, but yeah.” Remus agreed.

“Which is why I’m not interested.”

“I don’t have to give you an oath to give you my favor.” Remus pointed out, he just stared up at Danger Noodle entreatingly. The room was silent except for the storm outside, and the faint sound of someone watching a movie elsewhere in the house. D.N. rubbed the back of his neck again, and Rowan shivered, like a gust of cold air had made it through the window. Her eyes shut and she saw dead branches against a milky sky. Blinking the vision away, she got to see D.N. throw his hands in the air.

“Uugh enough with the eyes. Fine. I’ll take it, but it doesn’t mean anything.” He accepted the scarf and looped it around his neck, spreading the folds upward to the base of his hair.

“It means you’re wearing something I made you.” Remus pointed out and rose up, gathering Danger Noodle into a hug, to which he submitted, to Rowan’s surprise. “Which makes me happy.”

“Mmgnh. Fuck off.” D.N. mumbled, face pressed to Remus’s bicep.

Rowan decided not to comment on how cute it was.

#willow is writing #the witch and the green knight #laoft recursive fic

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translations-by-aiimee · 3 years ago

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Dig a Grave to Dig Out a Ghost - Chapter 24

Original Title: 挖坟挖出鬼

Genres: Drama, Horror, Mystery, Supernatural, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 24 - Inside Story

"Sorry." Lin Yan mumbled to the boy's back. He wasn't sure why. No one could see Xiao Yu, which always made him a little anxious. Lin Yan hesitated and for the first time took the initiative to reach out and touch Xiao Yu's statue-like fingers and whispered, "It's lonely, isn't it? Of all the people in the world, I'm the only one who can see you and I treat you badly."

Lin Yan stared at the endless highway outside the window and sighed: "Sometimes I think that, if a person walks down the street but seems invisible, desperately waving and no one responds, desperately shouting and no one hears, this feeling will definitely drive a person crazy. When I sit alone in the study room, I often feel that everyone’s excitement has nothing to do with me. I can’t wait to rush into the crowd and shout that I’m dying alone. If there is a person, no matter who he is, just that he's willing to listen to me patiently, I would have held on to him with a death grip; a sad, loving and even desperate grip."

"But I can't tell anyone. No one wants to admit that they're lonely. They always put on a show to satisfy their pride. They show off their awesome life to others while crying behind closed doors. People are such strange creatures."

Xiao Yu lowered his eyes and grabbed Lin Yan's hand. He put it to his lips and kissed lightly, as if comforting.

Lin Yan turned his head silently. The children at the snack bar were making noise, and the street shop windows were covered with small heart-shaped papers of various colours. Lin Yan looked through a few of them, and some of them were written in highlighter about who they love and who they're waiting for. Some wrote blessings to pass the exam. They were notes of immaturity and youthfulness, the purest and most beautiful wishes.

Everyone had their own wish, whether it was simple or complicated. Their dissatisfaction with their lives making them write out their wishes on paper, hoping that one day the gods can see them. Lin Yan thought silently, people who don't know each other always shine brightly, but only when they are familiar with them do they know their weaknesses. Just look at him, his family was well-off and well educated, but he had never dared to admit that he didn't like girls; look at Yin Zhou, he's from a perfect family but only willing to be a prince in the virtual world; then there's A-Yan, who can't even be a normal person in the eyes of others. Lin Yan gave a wry smile, who would listen to their prayers?

Probably because of the high school student's whistleblower, a group of children at the next table were pointing at him. Someone said something about being a psychopath. Lin Yan smiled indifferently. He took a note from his pocket and wrote a line: "I hope I can successfully help Zhou Jintian find his father." He put the note under a piece of fluorescent paper with a heart drawn on it.

He heard about a child's wish today.

He, Yin Zhou, and A-Yan had snuck into the morgue to search for answers after finding the boy’s record. The old man at the door was basically deaf. Lin Yan yelled the three syllables of the kid's name so loudly and the old man didn’t hear him. A nurse doing some cleaning suddenly intervened and asked him if the child hadn't left yet. He put down the broom and said pitifully.

"I know that kid, his grandma and I are neighbours. His mother died a few years ago. His father was too busy with work to care for him. The child lived with his grandma. One time Jintian had a severe fever and his father came back to see him. Jintian never forgot about it. One day while his grandmother was not there, he fell off of a balcony on the third floor, thinking that his father would be able to accompany him to see a doctor if he fell. As a result, the child lived a short life. His internal organs ruptured and caused heavy bleeding, and he passed away after a few days after being sent to the hospital."

"The ashes are buried in the most expensive cemetery in our city. I went there on the day of the funeral. It's a pity that his father was on a business trip abroad. He didn't rush back to collect the body until two days after his son's death. He didn't see him in the end." The nurse sighed. "I heard that the child kept asking about why his father wasn't coming in his confusion. The doctor lied to him that he was already on his way. As a result, the child lay on the bed and looked out the window every day, and even kept his eyes open when he died."

This story made Lin Yan feel a little heartbroken, but A-Yan said that this kind of soul was easy to deal with. There was no resentment and didn't want to harm anyone. As long as he found the person he was obsessed with and burned paper in front of the grave and talked with him often, he should be gone. But the child’s ghost was the most simple and persistent. If that person didn't come, the child would turn into a grieving spirit after waiting for a long time, which was extremely difficult to deal with.

"G-Ghosts have more of a heart." A-Yan was rather lost when she said this.

Ding. Lin Yan's cell phone went off. Yin Zhou sent Zhou Mo's detailed address and contact information. He turned out to be a local, living in the most remote area of the city, about a three-hour drive away. Lin Yan swallowed the last bite of his spicy and sour noodles and threw the nuts in the soup into his mouth. He curled his lips and said to Xiao Yu: "Let's go. This time, the task is to help the kid find his father. It is much easier than dealing with you."

As he spoke, he grabbed his wrist and walked out, and couldn't help but blow a whistle and laugh as he drove, thinking that if only all the troubles were like today. No matter how bad his luck was lately, his family was always warmly affectionate.

Zhou Mo's family was at the fine line between the urban and rural areas. When he arrived at the destination indicated on his GPS, Lin Yan thought he had gone to the wrong place. In front of him was a rather imposing villa with a sign on the door of a European-style courtyard: private residence, outdoor surveillance. Lin Yan couldn't help being secretly stunned. For a man who owns such a house in this rich city, even if his child is hospitalized in the United States, he was rich enough to go back and forth every day. How could he not even get back to see his child for the last time?

He parked the car outside the courtyard. Lin Yan woke up Xiao Yu, who was dazed in the passenger seat, coaxed him and said: "I know you're upset when I drive you away, but this is something I need to do well, so don’t make trouble later, alright?" He leaned on the cushions and said casually: "I really understand the little boy's mood. When I was a child, my parents were also busy. I only go home once a week. I would cook my own food and sleep on my own. I was afraid of the dark and I always wanted my parents to suddenly come back."

"But I know my parents also missed me. Although they were busy, they didn't forget to buy a bunch of delicious foods every time they went home." Lin Yan changed his position and lay on his side, catching a strand of Xiao Yu's hair. He circled it around his fingers and said excitedly: "Although people and ghosts are different, a father-son reunion is always something to look forward to, right?"

Xiao Yu nodded. He pecked his lips on Lin Yan's face, and slowly said, "Let's go."

"Young Master Xiao, you're finally willing to talk to me. It's so hard to please you." Lin Yan muttered and opened the car door.

The owner’s yard was very delicately maintained, with various seasonal flowers in full bloom. He could smell the warm fragrance floating in the summer night while he waited outside the door. Not far away, there were many koi squeezed close to each other in a shallow pool, the sound of water splashing when they shook their heads and tails making people feel unspeakably calm and relaxed.

Lin Yan waited for a few minutes. A woman dressed as a nanny ran out of the villa and looked at him vigilantly through the hollow courtyard gate. Lin Yan explained that he had come because of Zhou Jintian, and the nanny ran back again. This time it took a full 20 minutes for the door to open. Lin Yan adjusted his shirt and walked across a path paved with pebbles. He rang the doorbell of the small building.

With a squeak, the Victorian-style heavy wooden door opened a gap, and a middle-aged man poked his head out of the door and hesitated: "You are?"

Lin Yan smiled politely: "My name is Lin Yan, a student at X University. You're Mr. Zhou, I came for your son Zhou Jintian." He said respectfully and handed over his student card. The owner checked in confusion, and after confirming that there was no problem, he opened the door a bit wider, but still had no intention of letting him in.

"My son just passed away some time ago. What do you want?"

Although it was backlit, Lin Yan still saw the typical businessman expression on the middle-aged man’s face; snobbishness, arrogance, and calculating. He only wore a purple bathrobe with a belt tied loosely around his waist. His chest was exposed and his body was slightly fat, but he could see that he had a good foundation when he was young. Now there was a bit of fat under his ears, so he didn't like to exercise, or his only exercise was golf.

A rich man covered in his armour.

"I'm sorry about your son. It's like this. I have a relative who's hospitalized in L Hospital. . ." The crystal ceiling lamp in the main hall of the villa was shining and blinding. Lin Yan tried to organize the thoughts in his mind, but the middle-aged man suddenly interrupted him. "You work somewhere, right? I paid all the money that should be paid to the school, the hospital and the cemetery bills have also been settled, and I don't owe anything to the commissary, so what are you doing here?"

Lin Yan hurriedly explained: "No, no, you misunderstand. It's not about money. I know this sounds ridiculous and you might not believe it, but your son's ghost is still in the hospital and he's waiting for you to visit him."

The middle-aged man's expression grew strange, and he held the doorknob as if he was about to close the door: "You're sick. What about my son's ghost? Jintian was buried long ago."

Lin Yan frowned. How could such a father exist? Hearing something about his son, even if it wasn't reliable, there was no way he could just immediately disregard it.

"This is the case; do you know why Jintian had an accident? He always felt sorry that you didn't get to see him before he died. Up to now, his soul has been unwilling to move on. He's attached to my relative's daughter waiting for you to come back. You may not understand, but a little girl being possessed by a ghost is in a dangerous situation." Lin Yan gesticulated anxiously: "Just like in the movies."

"If you don't go, Jintian's ghost will never be able to reincarnate. After a long period of time, not only will he suffer, but he may also harm others. When that time comes, for the safety of my relatives and her daughter, I'll have to disperse your son's soul." Lin Yan was in a cold sweat while talking. If he had said this kind of stuff a month ago, he would've thought he had brain damage. He thought he was cheating him out of some money, but what else could he say? Your son’s strong brainwaves caused a disorder in the hospital’s electromagnetic field, causing an innocent thirteen-year-old girl to develop hallucinations and die?

The middle-aged man frowned. He pulled his right hand back from the door frame and tightened the belt of the bathrobe: "Tell you what, I know about this. I’ve been busy lately. You can contact my secretary. Tell him how much money you want to send Jintian away, and I'll ask him to write a check."

"I said this has nothing to do with money. If you don't meet him, no money in the world could fix this!" Lin Yan really got angry this time. Was there something wrong with this guy's brain? How could he only think of money when it comes to his son?!

"Dad, what are you doing? Mom is calling you!" A five or six-year-old boy suddenly ran out from behind the middle-aged man, hugged his waist and acted like a baby. He saw Lin Yan standing at the door and started sucking his thumb, looking at Lin Yan with a pair of black grape-like eyes wide open. The middle-aged man lovingly picked up the child and placed him on his shoulders. When he looked at Lin Yan again, he put on an impatient expression.

"Who the hell do you think you are? Some mage? You're at my doorstep at night, talking nonsense, and I'm calling the police if you don't leave!"

"Who's been at the door for so long? Another bill collector? I've got no money, tell him to go the same way he came." The door was suddenly yanked open and a young woman in the purple bathrobe stood in front of Lin Yan with an imposing attitude. Her figure was slim, snowy breasts hidden behind a lace corset, and her sharp eyes were like a blade scraping Lin Yan.

Lin Yan's argument had been completely disrupted by the battle in front of him and he stammered: "Uh, I, I'm here about your son, Zhou Jintian. . ."

Before he could finish, the woman instantly changed her face and said in a high voice: "There's no end to this. How much money has been spent on the seed left behind by that yellow-faced woman? From the best hospitals to the most expensive graves; his son cut his own life short and didn't fight to survive, yet he's still shoving his way into our lives?" After speaking, the little boy was shoved in front of Lin Yan: "Okay, this is my son, he's the only one!"

After speaking, she didn't care about her husband's ugly face and slammed the door with a bang.

Lin Yan clenched his fists and stood in the dark doorway, chills in his heart.

He didn't know how he got back into the car, but when he looked out the window, he felt that the whole villa suddenly became ugly, and even the blooming roses in the yard looked like abscesses. He never believed that there were parents like this that existed. He thought that familial love was the warmest, strongest and most unshakable emotion in the world, but this time he really saw the indifference and coldness of the human heart.

Don’t test humanity, don’t, because it was simply unbearable. Lin Yan sat in the car seat and tried to slow his breathing, but his anger still grew, and all Xiao Yang's grieving and crying face appeared in front of him. How much did a child need to miss his father to have the courage to jump off of a third-story building? If his spirit in heaven knew what had unfolded here today, would he feel like his death was all for nothing?

Lin Yan slammed his fist heavily against the steering wheel.

A cold hand lightly touched his face. Lin Yan twisted his head and said hoarsely, "Xiao Yu, don't mess with me. I don't want to coax you now, I just want to beat someone up." He kicked the clutch hard and said: "Fuck this guy!"

Xiao Yu patiently tugged Lin Yan's wrist and wrenching his shoulder to make him face him. His eyes were vicious: "What do you want to do?"

"What can I do? Go back and let A-Yan find a way to make the little brat forget that he has a father!" Lin Yan gasped.

Xiao Yu shook his head, glanced at the outline of the villa in the night, and slowly said, "I'll do it."

"You mean. . ." Lin Yan looked at Xiao Yu blankly, and suddenly understood what he meant. After a long silence, he bit his lower lip and said, "Before this, I always thought I was kind, that there was nothing I couldn't bear, but. . ." Lin Yan stared at Xiao Yu: "I just want to be a fucking asshole! He deserves it!"

"Xiao Yu, I don't care what tactics you use. Before noon tomorrow, I want to see him come to the hospital to apologize to his son!" Lin Yan said viciously in the dark cab.

Xiao Yu squeezed his hand and whispered, "Don't worry."

#dig a grave to dig out a ghost translation #dig a grave to dig out a ghost #danmei novel #danmei #yaoi novel #yaoi #bl novel #chinese bl #chinese novel #english translation

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dylanhawth · 4 years ago

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[ LORENZO ZURZOLO, CISMAN, HE/HIM ] shh ! DYLAN HAWTHORNE, the TWENTY year old SECOND year ANTHROPOLOGY major from HARTFORD, CT is known as a TOURMALINE around here. HE was invited to join because HE PUBLISHED A COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES ANONYMOUSLY THAT GARNERED A BIT OF FOLLOWING AND RECENTLY STEPPED FORWARD AS THE AUTHOR, and now, they’re here to stay. HE reminds me of THE NERVOUSNESS OF A FIRST KISS, LEAVING SECRET MESSAGES IN LIBRARY BOOKS, DRIVING AIMLESSLY WITH THE WINDOWS ROLLED DOWN ON A WARM SUMMER NIGHT WHILE THE RADIO HUMS A PLAYLIST CURATED FOR YOU BY YOUR BEST FRIEND.

[ big ass bio ] | [ connections ] | [ pinterest ] | [ playlist ]

ooc.

omfg hello. i can’t tell you how excited and happy i am to be here. i was too nervous to apply for the last three months but i decided to stop being a Coward and just try. im SO happy to be here, it’s the highlight of my week tbh lmao. anyway i am mar, she/her, 24, est. i live in nyc and all i do is visit the planetarium and cry. i’m so fucking bad at these so im just gonna LIST things and hope you get the vibe. i am a pisces sun, scorpio moon. i prob have a napoleon complex a little bit lmao. my favorite social media site is goodreads and i get rlly sad when my friends rate books i love poorly dfljskdfs. i can touch my tongue to my nose. i eat a lot of persimmons. i have a favorite rock at my local park that i visit a lot. idk dfskjls. i’m v friendly tho so pls hmu. i send a lot of memes, and love making meme edits for the chars so im rlly sorry in advance if you guys hate that.

01. basics.

NAME. dylan h. hawthorne. ALIASES. dyl, hawth. AGE. twenty. HOMETOWN. hartford, ct. GENDER. cismale. PRONOUNS. he/him.

02. appearance.

EYES. green. HAIR. brown. HEIGHT. 6”0 BUILD. lean. BIRTHMARKS / BURNS / SCARS. a birthmark the shape of australia on his left thigh. TATTOOS. n/a. PIERCINGS. n/a.

03. habits.

ALCOHOL ? socially. SMOKING ? socially. HABITS. fidgets in chairs. cracks knuckles and back often. nervous laughter. chewing on pencils. talking to his plants. dogearing books. staring off into space and applying chapstick for a prolonged period of time. getting overly competitive about boardgames. stress cleaning. carries a book in his bag always. night owl. incredibly impatient when the internet is slow. creature of habit when it comes to menus, orders the same shit over and over again. LIKES. feeding the ducks at the local pond. the smell of the earth after a rainstorm. the way music sounds coming from another room. kissing. watering his plants. inside jokes. making wishes in fountains. discussing a recently finished book with someone. making handmade cards for friends on their birthday. fireworks. coming of age films. packages wrapped in twine. jogs. the way friday nights feels when you’re with someone you love. the feeling you get leaving the movie theatre. DISLIKES. being late. having too many coins on him. coffee with no sugar. when people speak loudly in the library. doing laundry. handshakes with too much squeeze. receiving voicemails. untidiness. golf. charles dickens. lectures with no student input. hot weather. confrontation. being caught in a lie. losing his umbrella. people who cheat during games. rainboots. bad table manners. humidity.

04. personality.

MYERS-BRIGGS. infp. ENNEAGRAM. the helper. ZODIAC. pisces. TEMPERAMENT. melancholic. ALIGNMENT. neutral good. ARCHETYPE. the lover. POSITIVE. empathetic. sensitive. intelligent. charismatic. easygoing. gentle. loyal. passionate. romantic. humble. supportive. gregarious. playful. diligent. NEGATIVE. deceitful. gullible. finicky. naive. obsessive. perfectionistic. secretive. timid. possessive. weak-willed. indecisive. cynical. indulgent. summary: basically, dylan is a love starved, people pleasing nervous wreck. big ass nerd who wants to be everyones friend, wants to be liked SO BAD. very charming and charismatic, comes off as fairly confident and comfortable at first. is able to make everyone feel loved and like they’re the most important person in the world, however lacks a backbone. is both romeo and juliet, and just as dumb as both of them too.

05. hc’s.

dylan was a football player in high school, believe it or not. he was rather good at it too, which is sort of jarring considering his pacifistic nature. however, he DID land on someone incorrectly at some point during his senior year, and broke their wrist. he quickly abandoned the sport altogether because of how guilty he felt.

touched on this briefly but dylan really… loves indiana jones lmao. like, it’s quite ironic given his absolutely inability to be a badass, and lack of suaveness. however, he admires indy’s lust for adventure. he also was obsessed with the mummy as a kid. both of these were incredible sources in his very irrational decision to sudden anthropology. however, he does really love and admire anthropology. his favorite ethnography is the spirit catches you and you fall down, which makes him cry like a little bitch every time he even thinks about it.

he’s the second oldest, but he is also baby. he is SUCH a big momma’s boy. he misses his mom so much. he writes to her often, and of course calls her even more. despite being six-foot tall, he still goes home and rests his head on his mother's lap, falls asleep as she runs her fingers through his hair. he often tries to find native english plants and flowers to press, and mail back to his mother in the form of bookmarks. has nEVER STEPPED ON A CRACK IN HIS LIFE, BABY.

just leaves a shit ton of notes in books in the library. some are riddles, some are poetry, some are commentary on the book, some are doodles. just depends on how he’s feeling for that book. he doesn’t tell anyone he does it, but he’s waiting for someone to connect the dots with his handwriting and writing style.

speaking of plants, his room is basically a big greenhouse. he has so many plants, and takes serious care of them all. he has a little humidifier in his space for them, marks down when he waters what plants, and has a label maker to label them all with a name. they are all named after shakespeare characters.

dyl is a doodler, so much so that he contributes to the school paper as a cartoonist. his cartoons are usually just random thoughts he has, but sometimes they get political and he works marxism into them. (this man loves marx.)

[ suicide implied tw, death mention tw ] he dresses like a victorian boy in love with his roommate who has recently died of scarlet fever and in his mourning, plans to disappear in the bog by the school by mysterious circumstances and become a ghost that haunts the college with his lover. like lots of gray and slacks and ties ands ties and sweaters, lol. also he has glasses that he never wears because he can never find them! catch him squinting in your classroom because he can’t see SHIT. too shy to ask you for your notes though, doesn’t wanna inconvenience you! but when he’s Out on the Town®, he fucking wears like, tacky patterned shirts that are expensive but ugly. someone please help him.

all about fun socks! he loves owning socks that have dumb little images on them. if you get him a pair of fun socks, he’d absolutely go nuts. his entire week: made.

he leaves his roommate limericks when he senses they are sad. tapes em to the bathroom mirror or leaves them in the fridge. also loves buying people presents. tiny ones. like haunted looking things from second hand stores, or your favorite chocolate. also is the sort of friend that has EVERYTHING in his bag, in case someone cuts themselves or has a headache. can be a bit of a mom himself. it’s the little things, y’know?

prob still in his emo phase. listens to way too mcr to not be lmao.

eco-friendly king, will not stand for you not recycling.

if you will allow him, he will attempt to have a secret handshake with you. he’s a child. is dying for someone to memorize the parent trap handshake and indulge him.

cannot sit still in a chair. fidgets an excessive amount, the bobbing of his knee and the squirming around. it just never ends.

bi. that’s the hc.

he’s a little bit in love with everyone he meets if you couldn’t tell, and it’s fucking disastrous.

he is based loosely off: patroclus ( the song of achilles ), ponyboy curtis ( the outsiders ), laurie laurence ( little women ), eduardo saverin ( the social network ), remus lupin ( hp ), oliver marks ( if we were villains. )

( @opalsmedia )

#opalsintro #intro #his background and things are in the big ass bio dfsklds but this is the gist of it lol

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batmanisagatewaydrug · 5 years ago

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*Victorian England little orphan boy voice* please sir, tell us a story. Any story you like. Just hopin' tho if ye please that it be gay? Thank you kindly sir. Thank ye

June I’ve had this sitting in my inbox for AGES with no idea what to write for you even though that’s absurd because EVERYTHING I write is gay so I’ve decided to just. give you the 4400 word first chapter to a possible future fantasy heist novel that I wrote the other day. hope you like it, I liked writing it.

Fen Davos was no stranger to being woken in the dead of night. It had been a hallmark of the neighborhood in which she had grown up, soothing as any lullaby, and was a staple of her current line of work. One did not last long as a guard in the Royal Palace of Deralia, not even a low-ranking guard, if one was not willing to jump out of bed and snap to attention at the oddest of hours.

Even taking that into account, it was not often that her wakeup call came from excitable urchins who had plainly clambered in through the window. Alarmed to find the ragamuffin child shaking her and leaning right into her face, Fen did the only thing that made sense at the moment: she swung a fist to put some distance between them.

“Oof!” The child hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, rolling and clambering back to her feet immediately to sulk. “Why’d you have to do that? I only wanted to wake you up, you big skunk. It’s an emergency out there.”

Fen knew that voice. Groaning, she slid out of bed and touched a hand to the globe of moon moths that stood on her night table. Startled, the insect began to flutter around their enclosure, filling the room with a soft white light.

The urchin girl’s mismatched eyes went wide, either marvelling at the splendor or adding up how much she could earn selling such a thing to a pawnshop. “Get a load of that! That’s fancy!”

She would be impressed by that, wouldn’t she? Fen had, when she was first promoted into the palace lodgings. She’d spent a fortnight worrying about the poor moths living and dying in that glass prison before it dawned on her that they were only little wisps of magic, not real flesh and blood creatures that could live and die. Grouty came from the same neighborhood, only a few blocks poorer; of course she’d want to have a good look.

Fen to a firm step to the left, putting herself between the moon moths and Grouty. “Focus up. Why are you here? Is someone from the neighborhood hurt?”

“Not exactly.” Grouty rocked back and forth on her heels with a sly look on her face. “I don’t know, wasn’t really that important. You’re probably too busy. Guess I could scurry off and grab a constable…”

“I’m not going to pay you for the pleasure of being woken up,” Fen snapped. Nevermind that she couldn’t have even if she wanted to; guards’ wages were doled out in the form of credit that was handled by the palace’s Master of Credit so that they never saw a single cold, hard coin. The idea was that they were more likely to live more virtuously if all their purchases had to be approved by someone else - or that they would at least have to pay for their guilty pleasures with their own coin. For someone like Fen, with nothing in the way of family money or extra income, that meant living an upright life indeed.

Still, she wasn’t without a few little luxuries. Knowing perfectly well that Grouty was unlikely to budge without bribery, she yanked open the drawer of her bedside table and withdrew a bag of sweet, soft caramels. She hurled it at Grouty, who let out a little yelp of surprise.

“There, you little louse. Now, for the last time, what’s going on?”

The urchin girl had already fumbled a candy halfway unwrapped, looking gleeful. “Lighten up, would you? It’s Maricelli, over at the theatre. She’s gotten in some trouble with a burglar.”

“You mean she’s been burgled?”

Nah, of course not,” Grouty said, teeth already caramel-bound together. “I mean some idiot tried to burgle her and she’s got him tied up to a chair with a crossbow pointing between his eyes. I don’t know what she needs you for.”

Fen sighed, then started on gathering up her boots, jacket, and sword. It was amazing, really, how the old neighborhood had a way of dragging you back.

A flying carpet for two across the city at such an unorthodox hour didn’t come cheap, but Fen consoled herself by thinking of it as an investment - as in, by not running the entire way on foot, she wouldn’t have to worry about her heart or lungs bursting from the strain, which was surely investing in her future.

The carpeteer let them off in front of the Perlicker Theatre, which proclaimed its name loudly with a sign that had been done up by some enchanter so that the words shone in a truly eye-watering shade of pink. After a few piteous early years of struggling for respectability the Perlicker had accepted its lot and proudly declared itself ‘The Best Worst Theatre in Town,’ becoming known for shows that featured death-defying fire stunts, incomprehensible musical numbers that frequently ended in nudity, and fake blood that could squirt fifteen feet into the audience - sometimes all at once, if you were lucky. Throughout the early evening the whole street was rocked by the laughter, screams, and music emanating immodestly from the Perlicker.

Peak hours were long over, though, and even scandalous entertainers needed their sleep. Fen followed Grouty around to the back door, where a low-rent guard nodded and let them into a stairway that led up to apartments reserved for the Perlicker’s best and brightest.

In the finest of these suites - a spacious arrangement with its own bathroom built in and a balcony that overlooked the theatre’s discrete maze garden - was Mericelli Rabineaux, sitting daintily cross-legged in a claw-footed armchair. She was wearing a gauzy floral robe, her purple hair in curlers, balancing a cup of tea on one knee, and, as promised, aiming a crossbow at a most unfortunate fellow who was bound and gagged with a variety of silk scarves in a chair that matched the first.

“Lovely to see you, Fen. It’s been too long,” Mericelli said with an unnerving calm. “I’d love to catch up, but I was hoping you might be able to help me with this teensy little situation first.”

Fen gave the man in the chair a long, hard look, and wasn’t sure whether or not she was relieved not to recognize him. Things would be messier if he were some unfortunate from the old neighborhood, of course, but at least she’d be in her element. Without that sort of advantage she wasn’t sure what would make Mericelli assume she was the right person for this job.

“No promises. I’m assuming there’s a good reason you couldn’t grab a constable off the street to handle this?”

Mericelli laughed in a showy way that belied no actual humor. “Naturally. This is no petty theft. We’re dealing with heartbreak! Betrayal! Scandal! The potential ruination of a perfectly good career!And worst of all, the potential to inconvenience someone irritably wealthy. Would you like to tell it?”

This last question was directed at the man tied to the chair; Mericelli even jabbed the crossbow a little in his direction for emphasis. He was looking a little queasy from the odreal, and the appearance of Fen - a strapping young woman, armed with a sword and an expression that said she wasn’t very fussed about using the sword on someone if it meant getting back to bed sooner - had done very little to put him at ease. He shook his head as well as he could.

“Fine. It’s about those,” Mericelli said. She nodded at a hatbox on her coffee table, overflowing with handwritten notes and pressed flowers the like. Groaty, who’d never met a personal possession she didn’t want to put her hands all over, descended on it at once, pawing through the papers with abandon.

“Gosh, this still reeks of perfume!” she announced. “The really hideous-smelling kind that you know must be expensive!”

“My former lover is a man of good breeding, not good taste or sense,” sighed Mericelli. “I always urged him to try a new scent, and every time he’d return with something more offensive. I found that charming, for awhile.”

Fen looked between the actress, the burglar, and the box of letters and thought she could see the equation answering itself as plainly as if the numbers were floating in the air before her. “Good Brights, please don’t tell me you’re blackmailing him.”

“Me? Blackmail him? I would never! Unlike him, I have no need for other people’s money,” Mericelli sniffed. “This a cowardly preemptive strike, according to our friend Mister Burglar, because the little gibbon is afraid of me doing something to ruin his wedding.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because he broke up with me a week ago by sending me the newspaper announcing their engagement.”

“It’s right here!” Groaty piped up, waving the offending clipping with obvious glee. “I remember hearing the newsmongers talking about this. ‘Lady Ifi Suwayama to Marry Sir Edwin Nicely in Surprise Ceremony.’ It’s all very suspicious on account of how sudden it was and how much more money her family’s got than him.”

“I can’t stand rich people,” Fen said with feeling. “I still don’t understand why I’m here, though. You clearly handled the burglar all on your own.”

Mericelli looked solemn, drawing her robe more tightly around herself as if the diaphanous flowers could protect her from what was coming. “There will be more, though. Neddy is a nervous boy, and once he’s got an idea in his head he can’t shake it until he’s done everything in his power to get rid of it. At risk of sounding like some fainting damsel, I am afraid of what he might do to me if he’s gotten the idea that I’m dangerous to him and his new bride.”

And I want you to fix it, was the unspoken end to that sentence. That had been Fen’s role for as long as she could remember, ever since she’d been old enough to toddle and hold a bottle and started getting left in charge of other children around the neighborhood. When you were flat out of luck and couldn’t out a single step in the right direction, good old Fen Davos would always be there to figure it out. She’d spent her whole childhood running herself ragged to fix other people’s messes, then grew up and decided she might as well get paid for it.

There could be no getting paid to straighten things out between Mericelli and Sir Nicely. Fen would have to be very discreet indeed, as it would look unseemly for a palace guard to be meddling in the affairs of actors and high society. She was pretty sure she couldn’t get all the way fired, not with her track record and connections, but there was every chance she’d get demoted back down to the city beat. No more cozy room of her own in the palace, that was for sure.

Mericelli gazed at her imploringly, the effect greatly magnified by her smudged black eye makeup making her appear extra tragic.

“Fine,” Fen said. “But let’s show Mister Burglar out before we give him any valuable information.”

He was small and wiry, as many of the best burglars were. Unfortunately for him this also made him extremely easy to pick up for somebody built like Fen, which is to say, the opposite of small and wiry. She untied him and hefted him easily, holding him by the seat of his pants and back of his neck before he could so much as squirm.

“Better luck next time,” Fen told him. “Don’t hit the pavement on your way out.”

Easier said than done, considering the way she tossed him over the balcony. The good news was that the burglar - who had some experience with this sort of thing - managed to aim his fall so that he landed on the heaps of trash set out behind the Perlicker, which had a bit of a cushioning effect. The bad news for him was that this trash drew stinging possums by the dozens, and they were fiercely territorial critters.

Don’t worry, he didn’t die.

As soon as he’d topled out of sight Mericelli put aside her teacup and crossbow and got to her feet, stretching so dramatically that you’d have thought she had spent a century in that chair. “Goodness, that was unpleasant. I really do appreciate you getting over here in such a hurry, Fen, you’re a pal. Can I get you any refreshments? I’m about to ravage some instant ramen, personally.”

They reconvened around the table jammed in the tiny corner kitchenette, over which a small facsimile of a chandelier twinkled. It seemed every inch of the place shimmered or shone in some way, every surface festooned with cast-off pieces of costumes, wigs, dancing shoes, masks, and outrageous costume jewelry, interspersed with candles, empty cups, and old magazines. It was an impressively ostentatious sort of clutter, and suited Mericelli well. She was much more at ease now that the burglar had gone, bustling around fixing up eggs and a mix of spices to dress up the cheap noodles.

“I have no excuse for not inviting you over sooner,except that it’s been one thing after another. Ned was taking up a shameful amount of time for awhile, and of course there’s always work - shows almost every night, choreography to learn and costumes to fit during the day. I suppose I don’t have to tell you how that is; the guard must keep you busy. You got the cactus I sent when you were promoted to the palace, didn’t you? Did you think it was funny? I thought it suited you better than flowers, and it lasts longer anway. And that’s all going well? It must be. You look good, definitely better fed than I’ve ever seen you. What’s the food like up there?”

“Can’t hold a candle to your ramen,” Fen said as a bowl was set in front of her - chipped, secondhand, with faded images of saccharine puppies gamboling around the rim. “You look nice. Purple hair suits you.”

Mericelli, seated now at the head of the table, preened happily. “It’s lilac, actually. Isn’t it something? You’d be astonished how often they make me dye it some fiendish new color. Pretty soon I’ll have to go blue and green again, for the Mermaid Festival, and before that I spent practically forever with silver hair for The Widow of Salamander Street.”

Groaty momentarily paused slurping up her noodles and looked thoughtful. “I liked the posters for that one, they were scary. Only you’re too young to be playing the Widow, though.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t realize you were a discerning theatrical critic. I’m playing the Littlest Fairy in Springtime Follies now; is that better for you?”

“You’re too old for that!” Groaty protested.

Fen raised an eyebrow. “You do the Follies here? That’s a children’s story.”

There was just enough reproach in her voice to make Mericelli look ever so slightly ashamed of herself. “Yes, well, we’ve made some changes. Fluffed up the songs a bit, added some conflict and drama and the like, threw in a few jokes. Not much actually happens in the original, if you think about it.”

“Not much needs to happen,” Fen said stubbornly, “it’s a lovely poem about doing good and helping others.”

“Exactly, and now it’s a lovely poem about doing good and helping others that happens to have a bit of racy stuff added in for flavor. I have a very suggestive dance with the flock of satyrs, it’s great fun!”

“Thrilling. Not that I don’t want to hear more about you defiling nursery rhymes, but why don’t we talk about your Nicely fellow now. Namely, how you think I can help.”

Mericelli’s face fell immediately, but as always she was able to collect herself and carry on. “Of course. First point of order, I’d like his letters kept somewhere safer, because I may need them if he tries to force me out of the city.”

“Is that likely?”

“He didn’t just send me the newspaper,” Mericelli said. “There was also a very long, rambling, painfully insincere letter about how he’s cherished our time together but feels he has to grow up and do the responsible thing by marrying a woman wealthy enough to let him be a kept man. He unsubtly suggested that it might be best for me to leave Brighthaven altogether, on the grounds that it would be terribly embarrassing for both of us if certain details of our relationship were to get out. You know how the upper crust are - they get terribly fussy about their children mingling too much before marriage, and I have enough of his awful attempts at erotic poetry to potentially call his whole wedding off.”

“Gross,” Groaty said vehemently.

“Seconded,” Fen agreed. “What about you though? No offense, but I thought actors were supposed to list scandals on their resumes. How does this hurt you?”

“Well, the sex part certainly doesn’t. But I’m afraid that in the course of our relationship I may have shared certain other intimate secrets with him, pertaining to my profession. I said some things about certain senior members of the theatrical community that wouldn’t reflect kindly on me at all, and could possibly keep me from ever coming near a leading role again if they were feeling petty. And I may have revealed one or two things about a few of the… less advertised events we put on here at the Perlicker. Those could get the whole place shut down, if I’m not mistaken.”

She delivered the monologue well, with clear eyes and hardly a quaver to her voice, but Fen could see how much the idea of it distressed her. Her work, her art, was everything to Mericelli, and she’d spent years taking undignified, unmemorable roles to get as far as she had. The Perlicker may have been a hotbed of ill-repute and tackiness, but it did command a certain kind of glamour and the dependable audience that Mericelli craved. The idea of having her entire career yanked away so soon after her star had finally started to rise had her more scared than she could admit.

“Right, then,” said Fen. “Here’s what we’ll do. You don’t panic, okay? I know someone who knows everything that happens in this city; I want to talk to her before we decide how worried we should be. He might just want his bad poetry back.”

“So I’m just supposed to live with burglars letting themselves in at all hours at my former lover’s behest?” Mericelli demanded.

“Absolutely not. If you trust me to, I’ll take them with me now and move them to the safest place I know later today. Groaty? You’ll need to run over to Ardessa’s and let her know I’ll be stopping by. Tell her I need a favor and that she’s probably not going to like it.”

Groaty pursed her lips, thinking it over and weighing it on her mental scales. “That’s a pretty big ask. You know how cranky she gets about same-day appointments. What’ll you give me for it?”

“What about this delicious meal I fixed for you, little ingrate?” Mericelli asked.

“Nah. That just covers me getting Fen in the first place, ‘cause you made me do it in a hurry and promised you’d pay me back later,” Groaty insisted.

“Alright, a week of baths here in my own tub. I’ve got fancy soap for bubble bath and everything.”

“Urgh, a week? What do I want that many baths or?”

Fen was feeling wildly out of her depth here. She didn’t want any of this showing up in her credit records, not to mention she didn’t think the Master of Coin would approve of her using palace funds to bribe a little urchin girl.

“How about this, then?” Mericelli went to her coffee table and fished around in the mess of handkerchiefs and playing cards, coming up with moonstone brooch painted with sinister black spiders. “I wore it when I was playing the Widow. Pawn it, wear it, put it in our slingshot, I don’t care. It’s yours.”

“Geez, that’s great! I’ll go hang around Ardessa’s right now, so I can get her first thing in the morning!” Groaty snatched the brooch up eagerly, immediately disappearing it into one of the many coats that comprised her shapeless gray coat. She slurped down the last of her ramen and hurried out the door, giving Fen and Mericelli an awkward little salute as she went.

“I should be on my way as well,” Fen said quietly, getting to her feet. “It will be sun up soon, and there will be questions if I’m not accounted for. Get some rest, alright? I’ll let you know as soon as I know anything, I promise.”

She gave her old friend a hug, during which Mericelli squeezed Fen a little extra tight, then departed with the incriminating hatbox tucked under her arm. She considered finding another carpeteer but ultimately decided against it. Saving money never hurt, and in any case she needed a chance to think. Prestigious as working at the palace was, there was nothing like a walk through the streets of Brighthaven in the wee hours of morning to really get the brain working. Fen had told Mericelli not to panic and she meant it, but she would personally be planning for the worst case scenario so that she could be twelve steps ahead if it arrived. Already there were more moving parts to this than she liked, and she had a gut feeling things would only get more convoluted.

By the time she got back to the palace she was tired in body and mind. She nodded to the guards on the gate, who gave her an odd look but didn’t make a fuss about it, and headed straight for the most secure place she could currently access. Ardessa’s tower was the ultimate goal, of course, but a princess’ chambers would do until then. No one stopped her there, either; everyone was well aware of the young princess’ special fondness for Fen.

Twelve was already awake when Fen entered her room, hunched over her workbench in pajamas and a pair of enormous magnifying goggles and tinkering with the mechanical innards of her latest cuckoo clock.

“Hello, you,” the princess said vaguely when Fen hugged her from behind and kissed the top of her frizzy head. “This is awfully early. Would you like some breakfast?”

Someone had been around with a tray, fat blue pancakes and fresh fruit and bacon done perfectly crispy. Fen helped herself to a few grapes as she kicked off her boots, then had a heavy seat on Twelve’s canopy bed.

Twelve wasn’t her given name, of course, but the Deralian royal family were sticklers for tradition and only had so many names to go around. Twelve’s given name was shared with two of her eleven older siblings, several aunts and uncles, and innumerable distant cousins, so being referred to by birth order had honestly seemed more affectionate to everyone involved.

Her family did cherish her, truly, but they were also large and sprawling and had quite a lot on their royal platters, but given how far removed she was from any chance of ever sitting on the throne she did tend to slip through the cracks from time to time. Twelve’s parents had long since lost their patience with arranging for etiquette lessons and politically advantageous marriages by the time their last child was of age for such things, and as such she was largely left to do whatever she liked so long as it didn’t embarrass the family too badly or cause any international incidents. For the most part Twelve was perfectly content to spend this freedom in pursuit of increasingly niche hobbies.

There were a few downsides, of course, namely practical ones: when it came to protecting the line of succession, the palace guards started cutting corners somewhere around number six. Still, even the worst-protected princess enjoyed security miles better than the average person.

“I need to hide this here for a few hours,” Fen said, sliding the hatbox beneath Twelve’s bed. “Sorry, it’s a long story. I’m trying to help a friend.”

Twelve spun her chair around, pushing her goggles up to get a better look at her girlfriend. She was concerned by what she saw. “Helping friends is always a yes from me, but you look exhausted. What have you been doing?”

“Had to get across town to help clean up after an almost-burglary,” Fen said, yawning through half the explanation.

“Good Brights, is your friend okay?”

“She’s fine. The burglar had a rough time though.”

“Ah. Atta girl.”

“You know I hate to ask for favors,” Fen said, “but I still need to do a few more things today to wrap up the loose ends. Could you tell the Captain you need me all day, to stop her harassing me about it?”

“Only if you’ll get a few hours of sleep before you go. Uh uh, no arguing about it!” Twelve said, swiftly anticipating the next words out of Fen’s mouth. “The sun’s not even up yet. You can at least have a nap before you go running off to be dashing and noble and heroic.”

Fen lay back on the bed, smiling as she shut her eyes. “Not hardly that exciting, goose. I’m doing what’s right, that’s all.”

Twelve clucked her tongue. “Get under the covers, would you? Get comfortable. I’ll go see about getting you the day off.”

She dropped a kiss on Fen’s cheek and disappeared into the hallway for a bit, having some word or other with the other guards about a dire need to requisition Sergeant Davos for the day in order to have her run some very important personal errands. No one was likely to question that too closely; the last time Twelve had requested Fen’s presence for personal reasons neither of them had left the princess’ room for a solid day.

By the time Twelve returned Fen had dutifully crawled under the covers and was already half asleep. Fen could hear her girlfriend taking great pains to move as quietly as possible and slide into bed with as little jostling as possible, and it made her smile into the pillow. Twelve was not particularly graceful or stealthy by nature, but it was sweet how she tried. She wrapped an arm around Fen’s middle, cuddling her close and planting a kiss on her neck, and Fen exhaled contentment. It took a lot to quiet her mind and put a pause to her planning, but falling asleep cuddled up with Twelve worked better than any sleeping potion she’d ever tried.

#a writing #trans-zatanna

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v-thinks-on · 5 years ago

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The Valley of Fear

Part 5 of The Man Who Sold the World

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In the weeks that followed the debacle of the second Scandal in Bohemia, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson came to a somewhat uncomfortable truce. They spoke amicably about anything other than the case at hand or any other that Watson may have been investigating, the topic of which was avoided at all costs. The doctor was left to pursue his practice alone with no input whatsoever from Holmes, who instead dedicated himself to housekeeping and music, which left him restless and frequently irritable.

It was early in the afternoon, nearly a month later. Watson was sifting through that day’s mail while Holmes watched from where he lay, strewn across his own chair in a fit of boredom that threatened for the worse. Amidst all the bills and advertisements, Watson came upon an old fashioned envelope. It was nothing special, at least it wouldn’t have been in 1887, but now it could not have been mistaken for an ordinary letter. Even the feel and weight of the paper were different.

Watson tore the envelope open to reveal a page of thick well worn paper bearing a familiar cypher. Holmes craned over to get a glimpse of the seemingly random string of numbers - and one letter - intercut with three words; “Douglas” followed by a repetition of “Birlstone.”

“What do you make of it?” Holmes asked, unable and unwilling to hold his peace any longer.

Watson put down the letter and gave him a reproachful look.

“Look at me, Watson, I’m wasting away. My mind begs to be used!”

Watson let out a sigh. He could feel this was not going to go his way. Still, he tried, “We can’t risk letting him get away again. Another man is dead, and the longer it takes to catch the culprit, the more victims will follow.”

“I can help,” Holmes insisted. “You know I am equal to it. For me to stay here and stagnate would be unfair to the both of us - in Moscow or London it’s the same. This is no life for me, my dear Watson, please understand.”

Watson heard the ultimatum as though it had been spoken aloud; if he did not allow Holmes to work with him, he would leave and that would be that. It stung badly to hear it aloud, even though Holmes had said it with a little more delicacy.

Watson had no choice, he could not bear to see him go, and Holmes knew it. There was no one else in the world who knew who he really was, who shared in his past. That alone may have settled it, but this was not just anyone; this was Sherlock Holmes, the dearest friend he had ever known, returned from the dead. No, he could not let Holmes vanish again.

Still, he reluctantly handed the letter over to the waiting detective.

Holmes glanced at it for a moment before rattling off, “Antique paper” - he sniffed it - “ink too, but still fresh. He was careful not to leave any prints, clearly a forgery - look at those horrible Greek e’s. It’s a standard book cypher, based on an old almanac, if I recall.” He turned back to the doctor and offered, his tone just shy of condescending, “So, what course of action do you suggest?”

After a moment’s consideration, Watson said, “We ought to solve the cypher to be sure - I think an old edition of Whitaker's almanac should do the trick, but we’ll have to go to the library for that. In the meantime, did you see anything in the morning paper?”

“Very reasonable,” Holmes declared, his energy returned with a vengeance. “I haven’t had a chance to look at the paper yet, but that can be remedied quickly enough.”

Watson stood as Holmes reached for the morning’s news. “Mrs. Houghton may know more than the press, especially if the case has already made it to London.”

“Don’t count our intrepid reporters out just yet. And there are advantages to working independently from the official force.”

“There are advantages to working with them too,” Watson said before picking up the phone, cutting one conversation short with another.

“Dr. Holmes, I was just meaning to call you!” Mrs. Houghton exclaimed on the other end of the line. “There’s been another one, out in Sussex this time.”

“I’ve just received a warning about it. I take it Mr. John Douglas was found dead in Birlstone Manor?”

“I don’t think the place is called Birlstone, but you’re right about the victim. I got a call this morning from the country Inspector. Apparently Douglas was shot around eleven last night. According to Inspector Mason, it looks like someone planted evidence of an intruder, but the current theory is that it was someone inside the house. The whole place is set up like the others were, all Victorian, which is why I was called in and I thought you might want to come along.”

“There’s not a minute to waste.”

“I can drive you, I’ll be over in a few.”

They both hung up and Watson turned back to Holmes, who was still flipping through the paper.

Holmes put the paper aside as Watson returned to his chair. “It seems Douglas’s murder was not quite in time to make the morning press. Tomorrow, I’m certain there will be a full feature on the matter.”

“I’m sure,” Watson said, his smile a little smug with his victory.

They were interrupted by a knock at the door.

Holmes and Watson exchanged a glance, but neither was expecting anyone - it was impossible for Mrs. Houghton to have arrived so quickly. Finally, Holmes gestured for Watson to go ahead.

So, the doctor shouted, “Come in.”

The door swung open and banged against the wall.

“A letter for Dr. Holmes!” a small boy proclaimed from the doorway.

He couldn’t have been older than twelve, dressed like a page boy not dissimilar from the one Holmes once had. But his oily hair and rough skin suggested he was a homeless child who had been paid to play the role.

“I am he,” the doctor said and held out his hand for the letter.

The boy handed it to him and the doctor gave him a tip.

“There's more where that came from if you can tell me who put you up to this.”

The boy laughed and shook his head.

“How much did he offer you? I'll double it,” the doctor insisted.

“He said he'd double your offer if I didn’t say anything.”

“And how will he know what you did or didn't say here?”

The boy thought about it for a moment. “He said his name’s Fred Porlock.”

“And where did you meet him?”

“Camberwell, in front of the post office.”

“Could you describe him for me? And then you can go on your way.”

“He was wearing a big yellow jacket. He’s tall and old, with gray hair and a silly moustache that he kept twitching.”

Dr. Holmes nodded in thought. The moustache must have been fake, his hair could have easily been dyed, and it wasn’t so difficult for an experienced actor to play a man taller or shorter than himself. There wasn’t much he could glean from the description, but at least the boy had seen his face, if he could find him again.

“Did he say anything else?” Dr. Holmes attempted.

The boy shook his head. “Just to bring you the letter as fast as I could. He seemed pretty nervous about it, kept glancing over his shoulder like someone was following him. Are you spies?”

“No,” Dr. Holmes said, though he couldn’t help but smile a little at the suggestion. He handed the boy a sizable payment. “Where could I find you if I had more questions?”

“I’m usually in Camberwell,” the boy said, already running out the door.

If he hurried, Dr. Holmes could probably follow the boy on his next errand, perhaps catch a glimpse of the so-called Mr. Porlock for himself, but the chances of success were low compared to the risk of delaying their journey to the countryside.

“I doubt it would come to anything,” Holmes said, startling Watson out of his reverie. “We would do better to search for answers in Sussex than London.”

“How on Earth do you do that?” Watson exclaimed, caught entirely off guard.

“I’m relieved to find I can still surprise you on occasion.”

“Yes, I fear I’ve become entirely unaccustomed to your tricks.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t mastered it. It’s rather superficial.”

“I suppose I occasionally give Mrs. Houghton a bit of a shock, but I never intend to.”

“You’re much too modest, my dear Watson.”

“Am I?” Watson asked pointedly.

Holmes let out a barking laugh. “A distinct touch, Watson, a distinct touch.”

Watson smiled with his victory as he tore open the envelope the boy had delivered. Inside was a short note from one Mr. Fred Porlock announcing his resignation as turncoat. It had been hastily written, but holding the note and the cypher side by side Watson could see that they had the same distinctive features, forged and genuine.

“It’s a shame,” Holmes remarked, greatly subdued. “Porlock was the first man to turn informant on Professor Moriarty despite the grave risk. He didn’t have the courage for it in the end, but I shall always remember him for having taken the first step. And here he has been reduced to yet another agent playing his role.”

“Perhaps it’s not all in vain,” Watson suggested. “There may be some record of his presence at the Camberwell post office by which we can trace him, and that boy could serve as a witness - if we can find him again.”

Holmes just shook his head. “I fear our Mr. Porlock is long gone.”

As loathe as Watson was to admit it, Holmes was probably right.

They both sat ruminating in silence for a little longer until Mrs. Houghton arrived en route to Sussex.

“This may be our chance,” Mrs. Houghton declared as she waited in the doorway for Dr. Holmes to gather his things. “We’re pretty certain it must have been someone in the house - it doesn’t look like anyone escaped - and they’re all clearly in on it. Really, I don’t know what they were thinking, setting it up like this.”

“I’m afraid they very well know what they’re doing. I doubt the man behind these crimes is among the suspects, but perhaps he has made a mistake that will lead us to him. After all, no chain is stronger than its weakest link, we just need to apply the necessary pressure. Shall we?” The doctor gestured toward the door.

“Mr. Holmes, will you be joining us?” Mrs. Houghton asked with a glance at the doctor.

“I would love to,” Holmes answered with exaggerated politesse, “but I fear the decision is our dear doctor’s to make.”

The doctor gave a reluctant nod and they all made their way out onto the street.

It was nearing evening by the time the three detectives arrived at the old manor that served as the stage for the latest crime. They wound up a long driveway lined in old beech trees and parked in front of a large vegetable patch that encircled the house in place of an outer moat. Beyond that was the inner moat, still full of muddy water, surrounding the grand old manor house. As Mrs. Houghton had explained during the drive, the drawbridge that lay open across the moat was the only way into or out of the house, and it was raised at night.

A stout middle-aged man in plain clothes greeted them as they stepped out of the car. “Inspector Houghton,” he called out, “There you are! Inspector Gregson said you had gone into the city to find a specialist.” He gave both of the amateurs an appraising glance with a measure of disapproval. “We still haven’t found anyone tromping around in muddy trousers. At least one of them is lying, and the whole lot of them are pretty suspicious if you ask me.”

Mrs. Houghton nodded along as he spoke. Then she waved the amateurs forward - “Inspector Mason, this is Dr. Jonathan Holmes, and his friend, Sherlock Holmes. Dr. Holmes has been working with me on the case from the start and should be able to help us get to the bottom of it.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” the doctor said with a tip of his hat.

Holmes, in turn, stepped forward to greet the inspector with an outstretched hand, which the Inspector hesitantly shook. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I don’t suppose you’re related to the late Inspector White Mason? I am quite familiar with his remarkable work in the Birlstone Manor case, but I didn’t know a penchant for detective work ran in the family.”

“My father was an officer and his father before him,” Inspector Mason explained with equal parts surprise and pride. “It’s good to hear that at least some word of my family’s work has gotten around.”

“The case your ancestor pursued was a very noteworthy one, not the least so in its parallels to the matter at hand. I believe you are quite right, and we intend to find out what’s going on.”

The doctor stepped in - “Shall we go in and see for ourselves?”

Inspector Mason startled and stared at the doctor as though he did not know what to make of him.

Holmes laughed. “Very well, we should not keep our dear doctor waiting.”

Watson was, to his credit, not disarmed by Holmes's smile as he passed, leaving the doctor and Mrs. Houghton to follow after. They exchanged a glance, but the doctor found little sympathy; Mrs. Houghton was on the verge of laughter herself.

Inspector Mason led them over the drawbridge and into the manor. The entire house was an antique, from the architecture, to the walls, to the furniture. It had not even been wired with electricity as the Baker Street flat had been. The various trappings lying about that should have given some insight into daily life in the manor looked to be as old as the house and could have once belonged to a country gentleman, but there was little evidence they had been used in the last century.

At the door they were greeted by a butler who, at first glance, looked as prim and proper as any. However, upon closer inspection, his clothes were not quite the right fit and he was more muscular than any butler the doctor had ever met. And then there was the tell-tale sign of a concealed weapon at his hip.

“What can I do for you” - the butler hesitated and what remained of his air of prim composure disintegrated into discomfort - “gentlemen?”

Holmes deferred to Watson with a glance, and so the doctor answered, “The scene itself first, if you will. And then we will need somewhere to interview everyone.”

The butler assented and led them a short way into the study. By the time they arrived, he and Holmes were in the midst of an avid conversation about football, of all things. They lingered at the door while the doctor followed Mrs. Houghton inside. Inspector Mason went off to attend to his own business.

The room had been emptied of its grizzly inhabitant, though some of the blood remained to emphasize the tape outline that marked where it had been. The familiar clues were there; the muddy footprints by the window, the bloody track on the sill, and the lone dumbbell sitting in the corner. The sawed off shotgun had no doubt been taken to ballistics already, assuming it had been present at all.

“Forensics finished up here a while ago,” Mrs. Houghton explained. “They've taken everything back to the lab to be analyzed, we'll get the report in a few days. If you want, I can show you all of their photographs of how everything was when they arrived. They removed the corpse, obviously, and a shotgun which we're taking to be the murder weapon unless they tell us otherwise.”

Dr. Holmes nodded. “Do those footprints match any shoes in the house?”

“The one on the sill was clearly made by one of Cecil Barker’s slippers, it was obviously faked. Someone dipped the slipper in blood and pressed it there, but we're still trying to figure out who. We haven't found the boots that made the muddy prints on the floor.”

“This is truly a marvelous piece of work,” Holmes remarked, having joined them at last. His eyes shone with enthusiasm. “It's a shame your people have mucked about the scene so thoroughly, you haven't left us much to work with.”

He examined the scene, his eyes flitting this way and that, performing calculations the doctor could not even begin to fathom, as familiar as he was with the detective's methods.

“We haven't been ‘mucking about,’” Mrs. Houghton replied, with only a touch of humor to soften her otherwise sharp tone. “The forensic scientists have done their job and now we're doing ours.”

“Things have changed a lot,” the doctor attempted to explain, “The police have picked up a lot of your old methods and they’ve got the resources to more than do them justice. There's even new technology-”

Holmes cut him off with a wave, “No matter, there's enough left to draw a few conclusions.” He rounded on the doctor with an impish smile, “You have your methods, what do you observe?”

The doctor frowned. Though Holmes’s prompting questions had helped him begin to learn to imitate Holmes's deduction, now the detective's tone grated. Would he always have to prove himself - and then not even be Holmes's equal.

Still, the doctor had his pride. He examined the ground until he had gleaned enough to say, “These tracks are clear thanks to the rain a few days ago. I believe they include some of the dark mud we passed by the station in town, perhaps he arrived by train. They go straight from the door to those distinctive marks behind the curtains. Then, after some time, he stepped out and there was some sort of scuffle” - he followed the footprints around the room as he narrated - “And they end here by the body.”

“Excellent!” Holmes exclaimed, and for an instant Watson glowed with pride. “Though, of course, we both knew all that before we so much as entered the room. What do you see?”

The doctor’s smile quickly went flat. Two could play at this game - “What do you see?”

“Aside from the drops of blood on the floor made by the slipper as it was being carried to the window to make that print, a candle that is only barely burned - suggesting that there was only a brief interview between the victim and the perpetrator - and of course the missing dumbbell?” Holmes answered with a smirk and turned to Mrs. Houghton - “I take it your forensic scientists removed the card bearing the initials 'V. V.’ and the number, ‘341?’”

She nearly jumped in surprise, but quickly regained her bearings. “Yes, of course, it's in for handwriting and materials analysis. I think they're also sweeping it for fingerprints.”

“It must have been laid down after the crime was committed - see how the blood is smeared here” - Holmes pointed at a roughly rectangular spot on the ground that fit the description. “Shall I go on, or do you want another crack at it?” he challenged the doctor.

The doctor considered the facts and his surroundings for a moment before he responded, “That the candle was only briefly lit reveals little. It could have been lit any time today or even in the past week, especially if someone in the house was involved in setting up the scene. People nowadays use torches or even cell phones to the same effect. The lamp wasn’t even used, suggesting that for anything longer than a few minutes he must have had a different source of light that’s no longer in the room.” He turned to Mrs. Houghton and asked, “Was there anything here earlier?”

She shook her head.

Holmes stepped over to the candle and examined it. “It’s new and can’t have been lit more than a few days ago,” he pronounced.

Dr. Holmes frowned. “That still doesn't mean-”

He was interrupted by a pair of sharp knocks at the door. Without waiting for an answer, the door swung open and banged against the wall to make way for a rather excited young man who must have been none other than Mr. Cecil Barker, the friend of the Douglas’s who happened to be staying with them at the time of their misfortune. He was breathing hard as though he had just returned from a long dash and his pants legs were splashed with mud that could have easily come from the road leading up to the house. He glanced between the detectives gathered in the room.

“Just in time,” Holmes remarked.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Mr. Barker said, paying Holmes no heed. “I have news!”

Mrs. Houghton stepped forward. “What is it?”

“We- they’ve found a bicycle, his bicycle! He left it behind, not far from the house!”

“We may as well have a look then, shall we?” Holmes declared as though the matter was decided.

The doctor, however, turned to Mrs. Houghton, “Would it be possible for you or Inspector Mason to look into the bicycle, perhaps determine its origin? I would rather get a start on interviewing the witnesses, if it is all the same.” He shot a pointed glance at Holmes.

Mrs. Houghton followed his gaze. “You’re sure you’ll be alright?”

“There is no cause for concern,” Holmes answered. “We’re quite accustomed to working together.”

“At least, we once were,” the doctor could not help but add.

Watson regretted it as soon as the words left his lips and for an instant he saw a look of deep hurt cross Holmes's face, but it was gone as soon as it had come, replaced by a smile he may have only fancied was a little forced.

“Don’t worry,” Holmes insisted in his easy way, “we’ll manage.”

“If you're sure…” Mrs. Houghton said and allowed Mr. Barker to lead her out of the room.

And so, Holmes and Watson were left alone. Watson was about to apologize, but Holmes spoke first.

“What now?” he asked, watching Watson with steely gray eyes and a sharp, critical air.

Watson hesitated, suddenly uncertain, “Well, I was thinking of interviewing the witnesses first…”

“Yes, you said as much. Who first? You seemed to have a plan.”

Watson glared at him, but he didn't really have much more of an answer. The doctor had just planned on hearing the witnesses’ stories and going from there. Was it not Holmes who had always cautioned against theorizing too much before the facts of the case were known? Watson elected not to dignify Holmes with a response and instead led the way out of the study and called for the butler.

The butler promptly arrived and greeted Holmes with a smile.

He seemed ready to resume their conversation about football when the doctor interrupted in his closest imitation of Holmes’s exaggerated politeness, though it came out a little sharper than the original, “Pardon me.”

The butler turned on him with a somewhat uncomfortable, “Sir?” that was a tad more aggressive than was proper.

“We’re finished in the study,” the doctor explained, “Do you have somewhere prepared for us to interview the witnesses?”

“Will the dining room be sufficient?” the butler answered stiffly.

The doctor nodded and answered with a smile, “It’ll do quite nicely, thank you.”

The butler exchanged a glance with Holmes, who merely shrugged in an intimation of innocence, before leading them to the stately dining room that would serve as their base of operations for the next phase of the investigation. The room was rather sparse aside from the requisite period appropriate decorations. The table bore a few small scratches and stains that indicated a few meals had been eaten there recently, but not many. Mostly, it seemed to be a set piece like the rest of the house.

The butler made to leave with a sharp nod to the doctor and an easy wave to Holmes, but the doctor motioned to detain him.

“While you are here, we may as well interview you first.”

With another glance at Holmes, the butler nodded and took a seat across from them at the table.

“For starters, I don't believe I ever got your name,” the doctor began.

“You can call me Ames.”

The doctor frowned - that was a point against the butler. “Your full name, please.”

Holmes cut him off with a dismissive wave before the butler could refuse to answer and asked all too casually, “What was Mr. Douglas like as an employer?”

The doctor shot Holmes a glare, but accepted the line of questioning. “It was Mr. Douglas who hired you?”

The butler nodded. “I met with him personally.”

“And what terms were those?” the doctor pressed.

“That’s between me and my employer.”

Holmes nodded in agreement. “Of course. All we need is to know is what you observed on the night in question and then you’re free to go.”

“Now wait a minute, Holmes!” the doctor exclaimed. “That may be all you need to know, but I have a few other questions I’d like to get to.”

“Really? And what essential questions did you have in mind?”

The doctor took a deep breath and tried to forget his insufferable companion.

At last, he turned to the witness and asked as cordially and professionally as he could, “If you don’t mind, I would like to begin with your own history, starting with your name please.”

Holmes made a noise of impatience, but did not interrupt. He had leaned back in his chair to watch the proceedings with the air of a critic observing a piece by an artist for whom he had very low esteem.

The butler considered for a moment, but seemed to take pity on the beleaguered doctor, “My name is Phillip Cole. John suggested I take on the name Ames while I worked here.”

“Do you know why?” the doctor asked with a glance at Holmes.

The detective continued to judge his performance in silence.

Mr. Cole shrugged. “Maybe he thought it fit the theme of the place better.”

They would come back to the question of Mr. Douglas, instead the doctor continued on in order - “Mr. Cole, where are you from?”

“London. I’ve lived in the city for most of my life,” Mr. Cole said.

“I wouldn’t live anywhere else,” Holmes put in with a wistful smile.

Watson tried to catch Holmes’s eye, but he was staring off into space with a distinct air of melodrama. Knowing him - a former spy no less - it was probably just an act, though Watson could not fathom to what ends.

The doctor forced himself back to the matter at hand. “Where were you employed before coming out here?”

“I was a bouncer at a bar in London.”

“How did you meet Mr. Douglas?”

“He came by the bar a few times, asked me a lot of questions, though he could have just asked for a resume” - Holmes chuckled - “eventually he offered me this job.”

“And what does your job entail?”

Mr. Cole shrugged. “Mostly delegating things to the maids and the rest of the staff. Mr. Douglas tells me what to do and I pass it along.”

“You don't have any prior experience as a butler,” the doctor remarked.

“None whatsoever.”

“Do you know why Mr. Douglas hired you for the job?” the doctor asked as delicately as he could.

“I guess he just wanted the extra pair of hands.”

“You said he specifically sought you out.”

“Maybe I looked the part.”

“I see…” the doctor said, torn between hiding his disbelief and pushing for a real answer.

Holmes seemed to have no such qualms and gave the witness a skeptical look.

“Well, he did seem nervous, the past few days especially, like he knew what was coming, but I'm no bodyguard,” Mr. Cole insisted.

The doctor had gleaned enough about Mr. Cole for the time being, so he turned to his late employer. “What was Mr. Douglas like?”

“You mean aside from all this?” Mr. Cole gestured at their surroundings.

The doctor smiled. “Yes, how would you describe him?”

“He seemed pretty normal otherwise, always stopped to chat with me when he had the time. Not afraid to speak his mind either. He got into a fight at the bar one time, didn't do too poorly either. He wasn't one to back away from a fight.”

That seemed to match the original rather closely, but that could have been the man himself or the butler’s invention.

“Did you know anything of his past?” the doctor asked.

Mr. Cole shook his head. “I didn't ask and he didn't say.”

“What about the other members of the household? Mr. Barker and Mrs. Douglas?”

Mr. Cole chuckled darkly. “If they weren't having an affair, well, I can't fathom what else they’ve been up to meeting in secret in the dead of night. John seemed to know it too, or at least suspect. He and Cecil were best friends until Ivy entered the room. Your little tiff earlier had nothing on the fights John and Cecil have and I for one can’t say I blame the man. Cecil practically lives here, no clue why John lets him.”

“How was the relationship between Mr. and Mrs. Douglas?”

“Seemed normal enough, I suppose. She is a lot younger than him, closer to Cecil’s age. She seemed to care about him in her way, always worried about him when he was out.”

“What happened on the night of Mr. Douglas’s death?”

“Nothing unusual, I don't think…” Mr. Cole trailed off in consideration. “They did have a woman over for dinner.”

“Did you get her name, by any chance?”

“Mary, I think.”

Watson tensed. It could not be the same, she would not go under the same name, this was the wrong case. And yet, Watson had also heard her posing as Miss Irene Adler in disguise.

“Did you get her last name?” He asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

“It started with a 'W,’ I think, Weston, no, Watson, that's what it was!”

Mary Watson.

Dr. John Watson blanched.

He remembered his dear, beloved wife, wasting away while he - a doctor, for goodness’s sake! - could only stand by and watch. Unlike Holmes, he had seen her die, the coffin he buried had not been empty. This- this was a mockery of her memory, the only thing of her he had left.

His fists clenched.

“Is everything alright?” Mr. Cole asked from a great distance away. “Do you know her?”

Watson forced himself back to the present and shook his head in an attempt at a coherent answer.

“Could you describe her to me?” he asked, his voice still a little choked.

“Sure,” Mr. Cole answered sounding anything but. “She was well dressed and all - not bad looking. She was small with short brown hair…” he trailed off as he searched his memory. “Very sure of herself. She was nice enough, but she almost acted like she owned the place.”

Watson nodded. That was her. She could have easily cut her hair and dyed it or worn a wig. She had used that name on purpose - it could not have been anyone else. He did not doubt that she had kept in character as she had when the doctor met her. It was unlikely that she had let anything slip. But still, he had to try.

“How does she know Mr. and Mrs. Douglas?” the doctor asked.

Mr. Cole shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”

“You must have heard something,” the doctor insisted.

Mr. Cole hesitated, but obliged, “I didn't overhear much, I wasn't eavesdropping. They seemed to be friends, if a little distant, maybe a bit awkward or something, but I didn't see anything.”

“Did you overhear any of their conversation?”

Mr. Cole glanced at Holmes before answering, “I don't think so… just small talk. If you don't mind my asking, what does this have to do with the murder? She left long before John - well - died. I saw her out myself.”

“An excellent question,” Holmes said and turned to the doctor with a pointed look.

The doctor glared at him. “It has everything to do with the case!”

“Do you really expect to gather anything from that line of questioning?” Holmes asked, but some of the edge in his voice was gone.

Still, the doctor bristled, even as he tried to focus on the witness. “If you don't know anything more about-” he did not want to honor her with the name she had falsely claimed, “her, we may as well continue on to the crime itself. How did you spend the remainder of the evening?”

Holmes was mercifully silent as Mr. Cole answered, “Well, first John asked me to raise the drawbridge. It was down later than usual because of their little dinner party and he seemed a bit nervous. After that, I went to put away the dishes,” he said with a chuckle.

The doctor gave him a questioning look, and he explained, “When John told me to get out the silver for dinner, I thought he was joking. But no, there really was silver. It was in a pantry all the way on the far side of the house. When I went to take it out, it looked like it had never been used, it was badly in need of dusting. But they cleaned it up in the kitchen and used it for dinner.”

“What happened then?” the doctor pushed things back on track.

“I was putting away the silver when I heard someone frantically pulling at the bell - the house is full of bells and pulls so that John or anyone else can call me from wherever they are. I ran to the front of the house where I met Mrs. Allen - she’s the housekeeper. We found Cecil and Ivy arguing at the door to the study. At first I thought they were having a lover’s spat, but then Ivy shouted to us that John was dead. She said she had called the police and that there was nothing to be done, but I insisted on seeing for myself.” He shook his head like a man who now knew the error of his ways. “What I saw, well, I'm sure you've seen the pictures. I'm not ashamed to say it will haunt my nightmares for years to come.”

The doctor nodded. He remembered how the presumed Mr. Douglas had been found, he saw the body. The sight of a man with his face blown in had lingered in his nightmares even long after he knew the victim had earned his fate.

“Did anything more happen before the police arrived?” the doctor asked.

Mr. Cole shook his head. “It wasn't long, it's a short drive to town from here, though it doesn't seem it.”

“I believe that is all,” the doctor said, “Thank you very much for your cooperation.”

“You're welcome, good luck to the both of you,” Mr. Cole said and stood to take his leave.

“Please ask Mrs. Douglas to join us.”

Mr. Cole nodded and left them alone once more.

Once his footsteps had faded out of earshot, Holmes asked, “You mean to say you couldn't tell he was a bouncer? You must have seen how he stood at the door, blocking it as he invited us inside, the scrapes from fights with unruly patrons, and of course the 'concealed’ weapon.”

“I had my theories,” the doctor said.

“But only one fit all the facts.”

“I don't know,” the doctor exclaimed. “There are many other explanations I could think of, and many more I'm certain I couldn't. So much of this case hinges on who the suspects really are, I wanted to hear it from him.”

“You think our criminal mastermind would let something slip in an official interview?”

“One of his employees might. And no one can keep a story perfectly straight. If you ask enough questions they’re sure to make some sort of contradiction.”

“As is an honest witness. You won’t get anything directly tying the culprit to their crime this way, just loose suspicions.”

“Perhaps that’s all you see, but somehow I’ve managed by it,” the doctor retorted. “What method do you suggest?”

“Perhaps something a little more subtle, that’s all,” Holmes said with an enigmatic shrug.

“I’m a detective, not a spy!”

Holmes's gaze turned sharp and Watson readied himself for a retort, but suddenly the detective let out a harsh barking laugh.

“A distinct touch, Dr. Holmes,” he said with a mirthless smile.

The doctor frowned, but did not feel nearly as bad as he knew he should have. Instead of apologizing, he turned to face the door and wait for the next witness to arrive.

She did not take long to announce herself with a steady knock at the door.

Holmes was silent, so the doctor said, “Come in!”

The door swung open to make way for a middle aged woman whose dress and worn hands declared her to be the housekeeper.

“Good afternoon,” Holmes greeted her, his easy congeniality returned as though it had never gone. “Thank you for taking the time out of your busy day to answer a few questions for us.”

“Not at all. Mrs. Douglas sent me down ahead of her and said she’ll be ready soon,” the housekeeper explained.

“Let's get to it then,” the doctor said, “Do have a seat.”

She sat down and the questioning began. Holmes said little, only interrupting every so often to make some conversational comment that threatened to draw the witness away from the inquiry altogether. But they did not last long and on the whole he was a silent observer, even going so far as to feign boredom with an occasional yawn.

As far as the doctor could tell, Mrs. Amy Allen, as she identified herself, was just as she seemed to be. She told them that she was an experienced housekeeper from London who had been hired by Mr. Douglas to do a somewhat unusual, but well paying and otherwise reasonable job. Dr. Holmes believed her, though a background check would confirm or deny the sentiment.

She was reluctant to say too much about her employers beyond that they were generally polite and agreeable. When pressed, she acknowledged that there were not infrequent disputes between Mr. Douglas and Mr. Barker, but did not dare speculate about their cause.

Her testimony about the evening of the crime corroborated Mr. Cole’s account. She had met her employers’ dinner guest and identified her under the same alias. After dinner, Mrs. Douglas had gone upstairs and suggested Mrs. Allen turn in as well. She had heard a door slam, but no gunshot. Like Mr. Cole, she had been summoned by the ringing of the bell and had found Mrs. Douglas and Mr. Barker arguing in front of the study. She had also entered the study briefly and found the same grisly scene.

“After that I helped Mrs. Douglas upstairs. She was so shocked she could barely cry. I offered to keep her company, but she said she would rather be alone, so I returned downstairs to wait for the police to arrive,” Mrs. Allen concluded.

Her story matched the original sequence of events well, but she was, by all appearances, innocent. At the very least, the doctor doubted there was much more to be gained by questioning her more now. He reflexively glanced at Holmes, but the detective appeared lost to the world, his eyes were half shut, out of boredom or in thought the doctor did not know.

So he relied on his own judgement and said to Mrs. Allen with a smile, “Thank you very much for answering all of our questions, you're free to go.”

Holmes seemed to startle into awareness, but it was a little too forceful for the doctor to believe it.

“Yes, do have a nice afternoon,” he said as Mrs. Allen stood to leave. “Those petunias will bring some nice color to that patch by the windows.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, and then she let out a peal of laughter. “You must have seen them on your way in. I do hope so, you have to come by and see them this evening when I've planted them. Good afternoon to both of you as well, and good luck.”

With that, Mrs. Allen took her leave. Mrs. Douglas greeted her at the door and took her place at the table.

“Good afternoon,” the lady said as though there was nothing good about it, but she remained composed.

The doctor could not tell whether her voice carried some undercurrent of antagonism or just the pain of loss. Did she, like the original Mrs. Ivy Douglas, know her husband - if they truly were married - to still be alive and feared for his freedom, or was she completely in the dark as the housekeeper and butler seemed to be? Or was she but another actress in yet another murder staged as a piece of macabre theater?

And what of Holmes? The doctor glanced at his companion. He seemed to have roused himself from his pretended rest and was now hunched forward, examining Mrs. Douglas with a curious air. The doctor wondered what Holmes found so intriguing, but prepared himself for the worst. As unfortunate as it was, he had a much easier time of things when Holmes was feigning disinterest, even if it was a little unsettling not knowing what he had planned.

The doctor greeted Mrs. Douglas with a solemn nod. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yes, a real tragedy,” Holmes said, almost dismissively.

Mrs. Douglas looked taken aback, as anyone would be by the detective’s tone and piercing gaze. But she asked without a hint of trepidation, “Have you found anything out yet?”

“We are doing everything we can,” the doctor answered, “and we hope that your testimony could help shine a little more light on what happened. No trifle is too small to be of use.”

“I fear there is little I can add. Have you spoken with Cecil yet?”

“What information do you think Mr. Barker will provide?” the doctor asked.

“I didn’t see anything; Cecil wouldn’t let me into the study, said it was too terrible. And he’s known John for much longer than I have.” She spoke in a very matter-of-fact, straightforward way, though her expression remained clouded.

“He’ll have his chance,” the doctor assured her. “Now, can I have your legal name?”

She gave him a look of confusion, but answered all the same, “Ivy Douglas.”

“And your maiden name?”

“Blackmore. Why? What does my name have to do with the case?”

“It’s just a legal matter and good practice to ascertain the identities of one’s witnesses. And where are you from?”

“Newton Abbot, in Devon, though I haven’t lived anywhere long,” she said with a dark chuckle. “As strange as this all is” - she gestured at the house around them - “I’ve really settled down since I married John-” her face fell.

She busied herself with her handkerchief and the doctor gave her a moment to recompose herself.

When she seemed ready, the doctor asked, “There was something unusual about your marriage?”

“I know this isn’t what you’d call a normal household. But I never thought anything like this would happen, John just had some peculiar tastes, that’s all.”

The doctor gave her another moment to recover before moving on, “You said you moved frequently. What for? Work?”

She shook her head. “You could call it youthful restlessness. I lived hand-to-mouth for a while, doing odd jobs or just living by what people were kind enough to give me.”

“How did you meet Mr. Douglas?”

She hesitated, drawing her handkerchief up to her face as though to preserve her appearance of self-possession. “I returned to London to try and get my life together. I was staying at a hotel and he happened to be staying there too - he had returned to England looking for a fresh start too. We met at the hotel bar and it wasn’t long before we were married.”

“And how did you meet Mr. Barker?”

“He’s an old friend of John’s from America. He moved back to England not long after we moved in here and since he’s been around more than he hasn’t.”

“What do you know of Mr. Douglas and Mr. Barker’s pasts? You said they knew each other from America?”

“They tell all kinds of stories of California and their time in Silicon Valley. That’s where they both made their fortunes mining virtual gold.”

“And that’s where they were before they came to England?”

“Yes.”

“What about their lives before then?”

“John avoided talking about his life before he went to California, but I could tell he was afraid of something from his past. He’s had nightmares and once I heard him murmur the name ‘Bodymaster McGinty.’ I asked him about it, but he refused to say any more. A few times, he mentioned a ‘valley of fear’ that he was afraid he would never escape, but that was all he would say about it. I can only assume that’s what happened.” Mrs. Douglas let out a small gasp and ducked behind her handkerchief once more.

She seemed to know her story at least, but whether it came from her or her husband was anyone’s guess. “Do you know why your husband had such peculiar tastes?” Dr. Holmes attempted.

“I always supposed he was just old fashioned,” she said with a shrug.

“Was there anything else that struck you as unusual about your life here?”

She shook her head.

“Mr. Cole and Mrs. Allen mentioned you had a guest last night, who was she?” the doctor asked.

“I think she’s a friend of John and Cecil’s - I don’t know her. Mary Watson, that was her name. Do you think she may have been involved? They did seem a little wary of her, but I was only there for a little while before I went upstairs.”

Before Dr. Holmes had a chance to continue questioning her about the night of the murder, there was a knock on the dining room door.

“Yes?” the doctor called out, perhaps a little impatient.

It was Mr. Cole with Mrs. Houghton in tow.

Dr. Holmes let out a sigh of relief and waved her inside at the same time as Holmes said, “Just a moment, Inspector, if you would be so kind as to wait outside until we’re done.”

She remained standing in the doorway, watching as the argument unfolded.

“What? Why?” the doctor demanded.

“Why do you feel the need for official oversight? You were doing plenty well on your own, weren’t you?” Holmes gave a dismissive wave and his tone suggested it didn’t really matter how well or not Watson was doing.

“What are you playing at?” the doctor snapped. It felt like Holmes was just making argument for argument’s sake.

“I just don’t appreciate your implication that we need official supervision,” Holmes retorted. The nonchalant way in which he said it only served to feed Watson’s ire.

“I let you come along to help! But you’ve done nothing but critique my methods and obstruct my investigation. Mrs. Houghton and the other ‘officials’ have done more to contribute than you have.”

Watson glimpsed a flash of hurt in Holmes’s eyes, but it was gone before he had time to fully register it, and then Holmes was on his feet, towering over them all. Watson could feel a subtle undercurrent of powerful emotion radiating from him - his hands seemed to shake by his sides - but Holmes kept his tone perfectly casual. “I refuse to work under these conditions. If you don’t think you need my help, then so be it - see how you do without me.”

And with that, Sherlock Holmes slunk from the room.

#v writes #Sherlock Holmes #H/W #The Man Who Sold the World

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getoutofthewater · 5 years ago

Text

@dbhrarepairs Tuesday Day 2: Highschool AU / Unrequited

[Gavin/Leo]

Rating: G

Warnings: None

Words: 2,266 [AO3 Link]

Notes: Leo’s visit to Carl is based on Indig0’s beautiful short [Let Down]

He went over his calculus homework as he waited for the usual tap on his window, calculus was fucking useless but he needed a decent grade if he wanted to stay in the wrestling team, and Elijah had already told him he wasn’t going to help him cheat, the prick.

Gavin turned on his desk lamp, glanced at the window, it was getting dark and that idiot hadn’t arrived. Gavin frowned without meaning too, Leo was not a creature of habit, he’d start something and leave it half done because a moth or similar distracted him, but he always came on Thursdays after his ice skating lessons. He’d done so since they had met in 7th grade, and from then to now at 16 It had never failed, not even that time Leo had broken his wrist trying out a jump that was too hard for him yet, the idiot still climbed up to his window instead of knocking at the door like a sane person.

If Gavin wasn’t there when he arrived, he’d come in and just live it up in Gavin’s bedroom as if it were his own, Leo had no shame, Leo didn’t really think before he acted and maybe that was the only reason they were friends, anyone who actually spared a thought to their actions wouldn’t walk up to Gavin and just start making conversation. Gavin had a total of 3 close friends, Tina who was his friend because they had known each other since they ate crayons, Elijah because he was his cousin and Gavin was going to live with him and his Aunt and Uncle for the foreseeable future and Leo, because Leo was a fool.

“Mom says she’s leaving dinner for us in the fridge” Elijah knocked at his door “You and Leo can come get it whenever, I’ll be working on my robot”

His cousin looked like a sleep deprived, sickly raccoon, same creepy long-fingered, clammy human-like hands and nocturnal habits. Gavin had been living with him for years now and he still wondered if Elijah actually slept, or ate, or did anything else that normal people did. His cousin looked around the room “Where is he?”

Gavin shrugged “Who knows, I’m not that idiot’s keeper”

“Did you have fight?” Elijah asked, this was unusual, his cousin usually avoided conversation as much as he could (unless it was about code or robots or computers) Gavin could relate to that (not the robots part), maybe it was a family trait like the coffee addiction.

“What did you do?” Elijah asked

“Nothing” Gavin huffed, at least nothing he was conscious of

“You should ask Tina what was it that you did” Elijah said

“Why the hell are you fixating on this?” Gavin said irritably

“He’s always here on Thursdays” Elijah unlike Leo was very much a creature of habit “He’s often here, but he never fails on Thursdays, mom even counts him for dinner, he was here even when he broke his wrist or last year when he got mono”

Leo’s mom had come to retrieve him 3 times ‘I don’t even feel that bad,’ Leo had said before falling asleep immediately, drooling his mono infected spit right into Gavin’s pillow covers.

“He must have forgotten” Gavin said “He’s busy with school and shit,”

“I’d ask Tina to make sure if I were you” Elijah said before closing the door to Gavin’s room.

Gavin finished his homework, glancing at the empty window far too often for comfort, he had the dinner his aunt had left in the fridge while Leo’s share remained uneaten; he prepared to go to bed putting on the old hoodie and sweats he wore to sleep. Once there he checked his email, nothing new, checked the social media accounts that Leo and Tina had made him open. Leo had no new posts.

“Did I do anything?” he texted

“U r using your words!!! Must be important” Tina replied

He usually only communicated through emojis Tina and Leo could read like hieroglyphics

“Did I do anything?” Gavin texted again

“Did you?”

“Tina…”

“What u mean?”

“Did I do anything, as in worse than usual?”

“Well you DID punch Connor in the stomach for NO GOOD REASON, and you told Mr. Anderson he stank of booze to his face, and you did throw your coffee right to Richard’s head, everyone knows it was on purpose by the way, and you pushed Simon out of your way, you can be such an absolute bully sometimes, that kid looks like a dying victorian child”

… Tina is typing

“I don’t give a fuck about any of that, I mean to Leo and shit”

Tina stopped typing and restarted again

“Not that I know of, why? Did he say anything?”

“He didn’t come today”

“Oh shoot!” Tina texted back “It mustn’t have gone great with his dad then”

Phck, Gavin had forgotten that was today.

Leo had gone on and on about how his mom was going to take him to meet his dad for the very first time this week, he was some famous, rich art geezer or something. Gavin didn’t fucking understand why Leo was so eager to please someone who’d never showed one iota of interest in knowing him. Gavin and Leo had met at a time when Leo still talked and asked his mom about his dad often, he worried about his dad often, waited for any signal of his dad often, wondered why he wasn’t good enough for his dad often, and Gavin knew he still did all of that only he didn’t say it aloud. It wasn’t good that Leo wasn’t currently sitting at Gavin’s desk babbling away about how awesome and incredible his dad was, staying up until 1 am because he had to tell every single detail of the day to Gavin as soon as humanly possible.

Gavin got up not even bothering to change out of his pajamas “I’m going out, Elijah!” He shouted as he went down the stairs, he thought he heard a muted response from his cousin. His uncle was on a business trip, and his aunt wouldn’t return from her shift until late in the morning. He went to the garage for his bike.

He pedaled through the suburb streets, it was a cool, quiet night, and Leo’s house wasn’t far. When he got there Leo’s room was dark, there was a light on in the kitchen and another in his mom’s music room. Gavin circled the house trying to find a way to go up to Leo’s bedroom window, just like Leo always got to his. He tried to stand on the porch railing to get on the ceiling. The railing gave up under his weight, but no fucking problem he had enough upper body strength to get himself up, how mad would Leo’s mom be about him destroying her house was something he didn’t bother to think about.

“You better get the fuck out of my fucking property motherfucker!,” Lorelei Martinet came out of her house charging like a viking warrior, holding a baseball bat in one hand and her cellphone presumably with *91* dialed already, in the other “I have had a day, and I’m eager to hit something, I’ll fucking end you!” she wasn’t one to ask someone to do something for her if she could get it done herself

“Miss Martinet” Gavin said sounding a bit strangled, the rain gutter was starting to hurt his hands rather unpleasantly, but if he let go he’d probably impale his leg on the splintered wood of the broken railing and there would go the wrestling team for this semester.

“Holy Fuck, kiddo!” Lorelei huffed “What the hell are you doing, I could have beaten you to a pulp,”

“Is Leo home?” he asked, trying to sound as casual as he could, hanging from the ceiling like that corny ‘hang in there’ poster the school nurse had in her office, he’d never felt more fucking stupid

Lorelei huffed out a laugh “hang in there” She said and Gavin thought that the rumors of Leo’s mom probably being a witch were true, she must be reading his mind, just like her to make fun of him, like mother, like son “I’ll bring you a ladder” she added

Gavin waited for what seemed like hours but wasn’t even a minute, with his hands killing him until he felt the relief of his weight being taken by the metal ladder “It’s late, don’t even think you are going back,” Lorelei said firmly “I’ll text your aunt to tell her you are staying over” she said, in a tone that meant it wasn’t optional.

“Fine” he said getting onto the ceiling, you had to have common sense enough to know when your opponent was much more powerful than you, especially if they were a witch

He knocked on Leo’s window, noticing that his nightlight was on; he could be such a kid at times. There was no movement in the bedroom and Gavin thought he may be sleeping, or maybe wearing his headphones. He got his phone out

“I’m outside your window, dumbass”

Finally signs of life, the glow of Leo’s phone, and then the idiot himself moving under his weighted blanket, Gavin’s phone lit up with a notification

“It’s open”

For fucking real, Gavin thought, pushing up the window and walking to the pile of blankets he assumed to be Leo. He pushed them down putting all his weight on it

“What are you doing?!” Leo’s muted complaint came from under the covers

“Checking if you are alive, dumbass” Gavin replied

“Not for long if you keep crushing me!” Leo said finally coming out of his blanket, his hair was messed up, and his eyes were puffy and red

“You sick or what?” Gavin said, getting on the bed and scooting until he could sit with his back against the wall

“Are you in your pajamas?” Leo asked sleepily

��Are you?”

“Of course I am, I’m in my house trying to sleep” Leo said “Weirdo!” Leo curled under his blanket again

“Aren’t you going to tell me how it went with your old man and shit?” Gavin said, kicking gently at the blankets, feeling he was really bad at this

“There’s nothing to tell” Leo said

Leo having nothing to say was bad news. There was a sleepy silence in the room while Gavin sat on Leo’s bed watching the teal-green sparkles from his nightlight twirl on the walls.

“If you are like cold, I’ll share my blanket” Leo said eventually, holding the weighted blanket up for Gavin to get in.

Gavin lay on the bed next to Leo, it wasn’t awkward, they had been having sleepovers for what seemed like forever, only it was usually Leo in his room and very rarely the other way around. Gavin vaguely realized, as much as a 16 year old could, that he was selfish, careless, letting Leo do all the work.

“You okay?” Gavin forced himself to ask after a while

“I don’t think he liked me at all” Leo said, sounding defeated “I just felt so stupid all the time, he asked me about school and the things I wanted to do, and I told him about going exploring abandoned places and whatever, and he just– Everything I do and like felt so stupid and small and pointless“

“He sounds like a prick” Gavin said derisively “Don’t worry about that fucker, he gives you money, right? Who cares about anything else?”

“I just” Leo said “I just wanted him, I don’t know, I knew he wouldn’t like love me or anything but I thought he may like me a little”

“Fuck him, who gives a shit about that crusty prick” Gavin said “Your mom loves you”

“I know” Leo said sounding more like himself

“I love you,” Gavin said, “Not, not like your mom does, but I do” he said awkwardly because he meant it and he’d probably not be able to say it again in years, but even Gavin with his atrophied emotional intelligence knew Leo really needed to know people loved him today.

“What?!”

“You heard me, I’m not fucking saying it again” Gavin said daring to look at Leo’s face “Don’t fucking cry! I’m not telling you so you cry, dumbass!”

“I’m not fucking crying” Leo sniffed “You really mean it, is not like you are only saying it to make me feel better?”

“Have I ever said anything to make anyone feel better?” Gavin said drily

Leo hugged him then, cuddling up to his chest, Gavin felt his face grow hot and he was glad Leo couldn’t see him blushing

“I love you too, like a lot,” Leo said into his chest “a lot, a lot, do you wanna go on sort of like a date over the weekend?”

“sort of?”

“No,” Leo replied “a date, date”

“We can bike to that abandoned amusement park you talked about the other day,” Gavin suggested “the one with that old merry-go-round”

“Don’t you think that would be stupid?”

“Do you think it would be stupid?”

“No… I think it would be super neat” Leo said softly “We can see if we can make the merry-go-round work” Leo added sleepily

Gavin didn’t have to answer to that, Leo fell asleep just as he usually did, all of a sudden and without warning, not surprising when he was tired and spent up from crying. Gavin drifted off to sleep as well, thinking the merry-go-round would be a great place for their first kiss; Leo was the type of sappy idiot that’d love that type of thing.

#dbhrarepairsweek #leo manfred #gavin reed #gavin x leo #leovin #detroit become human

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elizabethrobertajones · 6 years ago

Note

the teaser for the next ep is reminding me of something. I know they made Jack's first death a big deal, but this storyline is giving me major vibes of a second, maybe more permanent death coming up. Like when Cas almost died midway through s12 then actually died at the end :P

Oh my goodness, it was literally today that I scrolled back in my dash far enough to see the promo, even though I’d been expecting to see it already. I’d say “why is no one talking about this??” but this is what happens when you go a week without watching the episode >.>

https://televisionpromos.tumblr.com/post/182645919925/supernatural-14x14-promo-check-out-the-promo-for

*laughs nervously*

The possibility our dumb sweet boy burns up his soul and dies has been a thing since the moment Lily showed it was possible then promptly died herself. We also have the “Jack in the Box” unsubtle warning that’s so blatant it’s hard to imagine they’d actually just tell us that in an episode title then stick Jack in the box and that’s the whole story.

Jack’s “first” death if it is that was very uncomplicated and sweet and adorable and very much a growing up moment for him, like dying in that sweet sick Victorian child way of passing on into the light for some great adventure and getting to see his mom again and coming back almost, for the immediate moment, exactly the same… Obviously this is the cost that comes later, but like Cas said, death is almost more of a rite of passage for them, a way of growing up or learning loyalties or discovering new paths they have to take, rather than any actual final moment. For Cas especially, he took about five major deaths to get to where he is now… Like, Jack’s got a fucked up family for modelling all the ways one can die and come back and for it to be fine and just a life change :P

Anyways compared to the early seasons where Sam’s season 2 death left Dean and Bobby low-key terrified about what had happened to Sam for most of season 3, and Dean got attacked with holy water and silver knives for the first few days of re-life in season 4, by Jack it’s just like oh hey welcome back time for a party, and they’ve become really complacent about it, and even their lectures about not burning off his soul are all calm and parenty and Cas did it like they caught Jack bunking off school and he had to tell him that it was important to get his education, not like, OMG SCARY DARK MAGICS HAVE YOU IN THEIR GRASP, WHATEVER WILL BECOME OF YOU… Like, sure, Jack is adorable and harmless in personality, but their fear is entirely inner and the magic is all “natural” and based on his own soul and power rather than anything keeping him beholden to some unknowable evil or anything else which makes resurrection scary.

And we’ve seen a lot of different types of soulless people including ones who are aware they need to act with outward morality in order to survive in society and continue their lives, but we’ve also seen ones who were a pressure cooker and without a soul, went off the chain immediately, especially ones who had violence done to them. Given all Jack’s been through, it might be understandable that his placid surface layer is the soul and we get back to the nature debate of what exactly makes Jack up when the human soul stops steering and leaves us with whatever’s underneath.

Kinda feel like the promo is in no way showing us the full story or sequence of events, so until we have more it mostly seems like a weird conversation piece to me because it’s SO abstract about what exactly happened to Jack and what he did and why he and Rowena are going at it.

But it’s really scary to even think about him harming himself by using his powers because it’s teasing close to territory the show hasn’t really covered, which is the destruction of self and human souls… The likelihood is that they go to the Empty anyway despite Cas’s bargaining. Whatever happens to Jack, it’s unexplored enough that the show can make up a lot of new bullshit about it and it really depends on who does the making up that will make it seem well-written or a weird plot twist and convenient result >.>

#Asks #14x14 #season 14 spoilers #don't even tell me if it's a Buckleming episode #I can't handle that knowledge until closer to the time :P

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eurekq · 6 years ago

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got my full fanganronpa designed with names and backstories and personalities and everything... character info is under the cut! all the bios took about a week to put together so i hope you give them a look <3

basic premise: 16 fresh-out-of-highschool prodigies are invited to star in well-respected and widely-watched reality tv show, which takes place on a cruise ship. what they weren't expecting was for the show's 25th season to be a killing game! the students: TOMOKO KAITA: a peppy and outgoing astrology guru who can read your deepest flaws and strengths with just your date and time of birth. known worldwide for her extremely accurate personal horoscopes. despite this, she strongly believes in the ability of an individual to defy their fate through hard work and self improvement. she dislikes giving negative horoscopes, and does her best to focus on the positives that the stars hold in store. her smile brightens the whole room! she is intensly loyal to her friends, to the point of self-sacficing emotional labor. KENJI MINAMOTO: a formal and eccentric olympic fencer whose strange insistance on not wearing protective gear during practice (he believes it makes him better by giving him a stronger motivation to not get hit) has earned him many a scar over the years, and has left at least half of his joints in braces at any given time. he follows his own bushido-esque moral code, although he will not put himself above whapping the occasional really annoying person in the ankles. his épée is his best friend and he carries it most everywhere. most of the scars on his face and hands are actually from trying to put in his very sharp industrial piercings while drunk. despite his oddities, his lightfooted and elegant fencing has been compared by many to a graceful dance. HAZUKO KAGENO: a secretly sweet and polite orphan who took up puppetry as a child in an orphanage to amuse the younger kids. years of retreating into her puppets' personas has left her unable to communicate normally, and she prefers to talk through her puppets, her favourite being lady ravensdale, a proper lady in victorian fashion. she doesn't take very good care of her actual appearance, with long, tangled, split-ended hair and rips in her clothes. the only exception is her hands, which she keeps meticulously maintained and manicured, since they're the only part of her body visible during shows. her creepy smile and wide, glazed-over eyes are offputting to most she meets, but she is a truly kind and passionate person whose animated and lively puppet shows can bring a smile to any childs face. EISUKE ITOU: eisuke grew up sewing clothes for his younger sisters barbie dolls, and he particularly loved dressmaking. he gained exposure in his first year of highschool by handmaking gorgeous outfits for his class's booth at the school festival, and, through application to various junior fashion competitions, he was eventually noticed by a big-name designer in paris. however, he found learning french next to impossible and has spent the year prior to the game in relative isolation, unable to have any real human conversation. his pyschological state was fairly severely impacted by his long hours spent sewing and designing on internship with no company to get him by, and he is now debilitatingly socially anxious and finds conversation difficult and awkward. SHIN TOKUGEN: a silver-tongued and charistmatic human interest and general news reporter who specializes in getting personal accounts from those affected by newsworthy events. growing up billingual in english and japanese due to his american mother, language comes as easy as breathing to him. in addition to his mother tongues, he fluently speaks chinese, korean, arabic, spanish, and russian. news outlets pay hefty prices for his emotionally provacative and insightful interview stories, which covers all his travel expenses. he has a unique talent for getting complete strangers to reveal to him things that they might not even tell close friends. actual casual conversation with can be a little offputting, since it always feels like an interview, even when he's trying his best to not. MARIKO MIKAMI: mariko was a sickly child, and spent a large part of her elementary school years in hospitals. around the age of seven, she began folding paper cranes as something to do, and wished to live normally after she folded her 1000th. she soon recovered, and feels that she owes her life to origami. she is precise and calculating in everything she does, which shines through in her art: every delicate, artful piece of origami that she makes is creased and folded perfectly. she also dabbles in wet-fold origami. she's most famous for her dry-fold though, and her pieces are well known for their complex, precise, mathematical beauty. she refuses to fold paper cranes anymore, feeling that they are too sacred for her to touch after they saved her life as a child. a calm, slightly disconcerting smile is always on her face, no matter the circumstance; her manner is consistantly cool and polite. YUU IROIKE: yuu iroike isn't even his real name, and it's a mystery as to how show staff even tracked down his mailing address to get him on the show. he's a well-known public figure for painting huge, sprawling, colorful murals in tokyo, yet who he really is remains unknown. he paints faster than his murals can be scrubbed away, and has somehow never been prosecuted for vandalism because his graffiti is generally considered an improvment. he's sly, mysterious, and teasing in person, and gets a bit of an itchy trigger finger when he hasn't painted in a while. His skill with spray paint is so great that it seems as if the paint bends to his very will. MARIYA HAN: born and raised in rio de janeiro, mariya moved to her father's home country of japan at the age of eleven. inspired by the more vibrant trends in brazil as opposed to japan, mariya broke out of her mold at the age of 13 by experimenting with dramatic makeup and dying her hair blonde. she has adopted a delinquent-ish persona over the years due to general disapproval from teachers because of the looks she presents. her impeccable sense of all-around style has made her one of the very few half-japanese models to appear on the covers of magazines like kera and zipper. she has an uncanny sense of color and structure and is able to create attractive and stylish looks for almost any face. HARUMI HAMANAKA: harumi is a sweet and bubbly girl, if almost cloyingly so. her good luck is a fairly stable force (nowhere near as chaotic as komaeda, for example), generally acting in the favor of wishes of people around her. her mother intensly wanted for her to be on the show because of the exposure it provides, and this is what harumi attributes to her being selected. despite the way her luck operates, shes no doormat and in fact has an overwhelming force of personality, and her sweet demeanor can become rather passive aggressive if challenged on pretty much anything. MOMOTAROU KOBARA: momotarou, born into a rich family that fufilled his near-every want, made a name for himself in the world of collecting at the age of just eleven by, through luck and love for the series, collecting every pokemon card. from then on he set onto collecting just about anything non-perishable: pins, collectors set bandaids, vinyls, etc. he has exceptional luck in finding deals on ebay and other sites. he cant really be called a hoarder, since he likes to have just one of everything; he resells, gifts, or uses any duplicates. his mood swings between a dreamy, chilled out, flirtatious persona and periods of numb depression when it hits him that his whole life revolves around material possesions and that he has no real human connections. CHOUMI YUKIYAMA: exceptional among even her fellow shsls, choumi made her historic mark on ballet by becoming the world's youngest ever prima ballerina at the age of 13 and japan's first ever prima ballerina assoluta at 18. fans flock to her ethereal, angelic grace on stage as well as to the percieved sense of otherworldlyness surrounding her albinism. on the darker side of her popularity, repeated sexual harassment from fans and male dance partners alike has hardened her world view to make her not quite cold, but definitely reserved in her emotions. she adapts fairly easy to stressful situations and pushes through pain with almost no visible outward struggle due to her all too common experience with dancing through foot and ankle injuries. because of this she usually ends up taking initiative in difficult scenarios if no one else steps forward. she is also a quite talented hobbyist figure skater and is fluent in both english and russian. REN KIKUHARA: a fairly odd florist in that instead of ordering flowers to arrange into bouquets, every flower he sells is grown himself. although this means that his selection is seasonally and fairly regionally limited, he has an incredible talent for working with plants and can even sometimes coax out-of-zone flowers to grow. he's fluent in hanakotoba and is surprisingly good at flirting through flowers without it seeming cheesy, although he doesn't do it very often. people often remark that his bouquets often seem to have more love and life in them than store-bought ones. ren is a calm and kind soul and prefers listening to talking, with what he does say always seeming to be just the right words for the situation. JUN TENSEI: born jun harada, many believe that his spiritual connection is the real deal, but a few critics hold that he is most likely just an incredibly talented bluffer. the real truth about him is unknown, but many say that his seances do accurately reflect the personalities of their deceased loved ones and help them feel at peace. he is deeply religious, but not to any one traditional faith (although he does use traditional christian symbols such as crucifixes and items such as holy water on occasion). he believes strongly in the power of the soul and its ability to exist beyond death. his voice is soft and low, and he has a penchent for gentle teasing and riddles. he comes off as pretty shady to most, but he's fairly harmless. SARA KUROKAWA: a talented young woman from a long line of popular backalley tattoo artists. she combines traditional symbolism and youthful influence in her designs to make something new and more appealing for the younger generation, and is a huge proponent for tattoos being shown off for fashion rather than hidden away in the traditional style. sara does have (illegal) tattoos done by her older siblings on her arms despite the minimum age being 20, although her being homeschooled, looking older than her actual age, and having a tendency to wear long sleeves year round has led her to encounter few problems. she and her family are among the many who simply choose to ignore the statute requiring a medical license to tattoo. sara is a fairly rude person in a backhanded way, acts stereotypically catty, and enjoys making herself the center of attention, whether through her appearance (dyed pink hair and white contacts) or the things she says. the only two things that can break her shell and make her excited and genuine are tattooing and piano, which she has played from a young age and loves. SHOU KATSUKI (PROTAG): pushed to succeed in the game from a very young age, shou is japan's reigning chess champion, a FIDE-certified grandmaster, and went to international competition the year before the killing game. he played through to the finals with influenza, which worsened through the matches due to lack of treatment and culminated in debilitating pneumonia that left him in the hospital and unable to play for first. because of this, he's cultivated a sort of inferiority complex that he tries to cover for with self-confidence, which actually comes off as condescending rudeness. he has a natural talent for cause and effect analyzation and is good at planning ahead. he gets flustered easily over trivial things and is a sore loser, but tends not to crack under actual pressure. shou doesn't like to be associated with his family due to the intense pressure they put him under only to steal his winnings the second he began to succeed and thus prefers to be referred to by his given name, even by near-strangers. he does genuinely love chess, but his favourite board game is actually risk. (no one ever wants to play with him, though.) MIKI SHIMAZAKI: a child prodigy from a family of cheerleaders, miki learned to love the sport over years of family pressure. famous for winning back to back nationals from age 13 to present, she's well aware of the image of unintelligence and sexualisation that comes along with being a young girl in cheerleading, and these two topics are sort of trigger points for her. after a while she grew tired of people telling her that they were suprised she was nice and were expecting her to be a bitch, so she adopted a fake-nice, popular girl type persona to basically give people what they were expecting. miki trusts very few people due to the many creeps shes encountered, but her few friends are the most important thing in her life and she would stop at nothing to protect them.

#fanganronpa #dr #my ocs #fr #my art

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jenroseyokel · 6 years ago

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Awesome of the Year 2018: The Books

Happy New Year! ‘Tis the season for year end lists left and right as we attempt to figure out the best of everything from 2018. And of course, as a fan of books, music, and movies, it’s only right to get in on the list-making. Over the next week or so, I’ll be sharing my 2018 favorite lists. First up: books! This year, I set my Goodreads reading challenge at 40 books, and actually passed it. I’ve been setting arbitrary book goals for years, but I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve succeeded since 2007. Probably because of all the graphic novels and comic trades I read this year WHICH TOTALLY COUNT BTW. Ahem. Anyway. This isn’t really a best of 2018 list so much as a Here’s a Bunch of Books I Really Liked in 2018 list, split up into categories. I hope you’ll find something interesting here, especially if you’re looking for ways to spend bookstore or Amazon gift cards you got for Christmas… ;)

Newish Books by Rad Christian Women:

Every Arbitrary Book Goal should have a small correlated goal attached. This year mine was to make sure I read at least 50% women authors… and there have been a lot of GREAT new books from women writers in the past few years. If the “Christian women” section of your local bookstore makes you cringe a little inside too, check out these three wonderful books, all released in the past couple years:

Courage, Dear Heart by Rebecca K. Reynolds (NavPress, 2018)

Anyone who has read Rebecca’s writing knows she needed to write a book. She has a sharp mind, a poet's soul, a scientist's eye, and the most beautiful, tender heart. Also, she's an incredible writer who loves her readers with a love that radiates off every page. Buy a copy for everyone you know.

Wearing God by Lauren F. Winner (HarperOne, 2017) Girl Meets God was a formative book in my early 20s, and I’ve always meant to read more from this author, but somehow haven't. I finally picked up this one and oh man, for a solid month afterward I couldn’t stop thinking about it. With the eye of a scholar and the heart of a poet, Winner draws on personal stories, deep Biblical study, and a love of language to explore lesser known metaphors for God. Liturgy of the Ordinary by Tish Harrison Warren (InterVarsity Press, 2016)

Several years ago, James K.A. Smith’s Desiring the Kingdom helped me see liturgy in a new way, as not just religious practice, but the embedded routines that shape us. In this book, Tish Warren brings that idea to life as she walks through an ordinary day explores the holiness in our most mundane moments of living. You may not look at brushing your teeth or losing your keys the same way again.

Good Stories

This year, fiction reading was… all over the place? I don’t know if I read much that was OMG amazing, but here are a few that were fun…

The Fairyland Series 2-5 by Catherynne M. Valente (Feiwel & Friends, 2012-2015)

I am notoriously awful at finishing book series. I read the first Fairyland book maybe… two years ago? Yikes. Just finished the last one and wow, so fun. Colorful characters, a whimsical narrator, crazy locations, and a whole lot of heart make this Victorian fairytale meets contemporary fantasy a delight to read.

Til We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis (Harcourt, 1956)

Lewis’ contemporary retelling of the Cupid and Pschye myth through the eyes of Psyche’s jealous sister Orual. Second read for me, and even better this time around. Pretty sure this is Lewis’ storytelling at his best.

Strange Practice by Vivian Shaw (Orbit, 2017)

This was a year to embrace fun, nerdy reads. So there was the Star Trek spoof Redshirts (with a plot twist I totally saw coming... and I am not good at guessing plot twists) and my first trip into the Star Wars extended book universe (or whatever the heck they call it these days) and… this. A story about a doctor for the undead in London, trying to solve the mysteries surrounding a murderous cult and keep her monster friends safe. Not the greatest, but a fun Halloween read. I’ll get to the sequel eventually. (See also: bad at finishing book series.)

Poetry for Everyone

Another new reading practice this year: always keeping a poetry book on the bedside table. Poetry books are best for leisurely dipping in and out rather than reading cover to cover. If you think poetry is only for the ivory towers, give these writers a try and think again.

A Child's Year by Christopher Yokel (Independent, 2018)

Okay, I’m biased here, but hey! Chris quietly released a new poetry book into the world this fall, and I’m a big fan of Chris AND his poems. A Child’s Year is a season cycle, sort of like his last book A Year in Weetamoo Woods, but this time it’s anchored by a four part poem recalling the journey of seasons through childhood eyes. And according to our friend Kirsten’s 7-year-old son, he gets the experience right. ;)

The Jubilee by John Blase (Bright Coppers Press, 2017) For his 50th birthday, John Blase released his first poetry book, with a poem for every year of life. It’s rare for me to make it through an entire collection start to finish but these were just so good. There are poems about aging — the author’s and his parents’ — and poems that evoke wide spaces and natural wonder. There are psalms and parables, and meditations on dying and, yes, living. All of them finely tuned with wisdom, gentle grace, and a touch of humor in all the right places. How I Discovered Poetry by Marilyn Nelson (Dial Books, 2014)

When I heard Marilyn Nelson read her poem “Thirteen-Year-Old American Negro Girl” on the On Being podcast, I was captivated. And when I found this lovely hardcover in a used bookstore back home in Florida, I knew I needed to read more. This is a memoir in poetry about growing up in a black military family during the American Civil Rights era, told with gentle lyricism, warmth, and humor. Plus, the book itself is lovely with whimsical illustrations and family photos.

Comics!

I’m always on a quest to get more comics in my life. Plus knocking out a whole series in a couple weeks is a solid way to pad out your Arbitrary Book Goal.

Amulet 1-7 by Kazu Kibuishi (Graphix, 2008-2016)

After their father’s tragic death, Emily and Navin move with their mom to a strange old house that belonged to their great-grandfather… and so the adventure begins. In this fantasy series, the two kids find themselves in an underground world of demons, robots, talking animals, and a dangerous and powerful Amulet. A captivating and beautifully illustrated fantasy tale. Ms. Marvel 1-5 by G. Willow Wilson (Marvel, 2014-2016)

Y’all, I super want to be a Marvel nerd. But alas, I can't keep up, so I get my sister to loan books to me. Ms. Marvel is my new fave. A Pakistani-American girl from Jersey City has the power to grow, shrink, and stretch her body at will. So she’s trying to fight crime, keep up at school, and well, stay out of trouble with her parents. So fun. (Dear Disney: I really want this kid to show up in Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. before it gets canceled kthxbye.)

The Legend of Wonder Woman by Ranae De Liz and Ray Dillon (DC Comics, 2016)

Weren’t we all mildly obsessed with Wonder Woman after the 2017 film? Another one I borrowed from my sister. A solid take on Diana’s origin story that’s accessible for comic n00bs (ahem, like me) who can’t figure out where to begin with beautiful art and a lot of heart.

The Classic I Finally Read

Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen I always try to tackle either a thick intimidating novel or an unread classic in the wintertime. This year, I worked on my Austen deficiency and discovered I relate a little too much to Elinor Dashwood.

What’s Next?

In the new year, I think my goal is less about numbers and more about reading widely. I liked the 50% women authors goal because it helped me actively choose to support women writers. This year, hoping to read more books by authors of color, explore some new ideas and genres, and hopefully do a better job reading deeply and taking notes. I’ve got my eye on Book Riot’s Read Harder Challenge too, perhaps as a way to dig into new things I wouldn’t normally notice. And yeah... perhaps a monthly reading life update is a thing I can do here on the blog. :)

If you’re curious to see the full list of What I Read This Year and follow along with me in 2019, feel free to follow me on Goodreads!

What were some of your favorite reads in 2018? And what are your goals for the new year? I’d love to hear all about it in the comments!

#art #books #reading #awesome of the year #readers of tumblr #reading list #favorite books #best of 2018 #readers are leaders yo

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dixbolik-lovers · 7 years ago

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Human Au Designs: Part 1

Admin Mawile: (●´∀｀)ノ~ Finally, after being sick with the flu for close to a week, I got these done! Since I typed up information about the characters too, this is going to be a massive post. It started out as just art of alternate designs, but turned into more of an information post. . .

And it’s broken into two parts. Sakamaki boys here, Mukami and Tsukinami in Part 2! Hope everyone enjoys~!

Part 2 Link

Sakamaki Shuu:

-Extremely lazy, mostly due to being so depressed he can’t find the energy to move. Pretty much like canon personality wise, if a bit less dark.

-He’s still been forced to study much more than is healthy, but he wasn’t anywhere near as abused. His depression is due to feeling worthless unless he’s hard at work, but having too much pressure heaped on him to function properly.

-Unlike canon, Edgar moved away instead of dying, but the trauma of losing his only friend still affected Shuu massively.

-His relationship with Reiji is still tense, but fortunately not murderous. Reiji is still highly jealous of the attention he receives from their mother, but the tension is eased quite a bit.

-Longer hair than canon, mostly due to being too lazy to get it cut. Reiji hates the style, but there’s nothing he can do to change it. It grows out until it’s long enough to get in his way, then gets chopped off almost completely short.

-His fashion is as simple as it gets. He wears loose, comfortable clothes that are easy to sleep in, and that’s about it.

Sakamaki Reiji:

-He’s every bit as neurotic, perfectionistic, and picky as he is in canon, but lacks all of the sadism and cruelty.

-Honestly, he’s kind of a nervous wreck. He’s busy all the time, has way too much responsibility on him, and basically works himself ragged trying to take care of a family with no present parents.

-He basically exists on extra caffeinated tea and willpower.

-Like in canon, he was pretty much ignored as kid, but instead of making him prickly and weird (well, I mean he still is those things but), it made him starved for attention. He’s absolutely fueled by praise.

-His hair is about the same length as canon, but styled differently. And he very much needs the glasses.

-Fashion wise, he’s about the same as canon. All overly proper and formal, almost to the point of making him look like a butler. Wears a lot of sweater vests, especially when it’s cold out, and is almost never seen without a tie.

Sakamaki Ayato:

-Has the same “I’m the best” attitude as canon, but with even less to back it up. Basically a big wimp underneath the ego he puts on.

-Had similar expectations put on him as canon, but to a much lesser extent. He wasn’t abused anywhere near as badly, and Cordelia’s motives were much more petty and small term, even if they hurt him just as much.

-He’s very proud of being a good big brother to Kanato and Laito, and does his absolute best to keep their attention and respect.

-Basically a huge dork who thrives on attention and praise. If you tell him he’s good, he’ll do anything you say. He’s silly and mischievous to an extent, but is deathly afraid of getting in trouble with his mother.

-His hair is shorter than canon, and he probably cut it that way so it would be out of his way during basketball.

-As far as fashion goes, he’s very casual and simple, and wears things that are comfortable and at least sort of in style. He’s got a huge ego and likes to look good, and can be kind of picky about what he wears.

Sakamaki Kanato:

-He’s a bratty, needy, attention seeking little leech who latches onto anyone who’s the slightest bit nice to him

-Like in canon, Cordelia horribly neglected him throughout his childhood. It wasn’t quite as bad, but ended in a child every bit as regressed and needy as he is in canon.

-He still has Teddy, and still adores the bear beyond belief. He’s also still a crier, and throws the same fits when he doesn’t get his way.

-Instead of being sadistic and violent, though, he’s like a lonely little kid who’s starved for attention. He’ll do almost anything to get people to be nice to him, and can barely take proper affection from being so unused to it.

-His hair is mostly like it is in canon, just cut a little bit shorter.

-He’s very picky about his fashion, and likes to wear nice things. He prefers cute, fashionable clothes, and likes things that look almost historical, like a little Victorian lord. He especially tries to look cute.

Sakamaki Laito:

-He’s still a happy-go-lucky pervert like in canon, but lacks a lot of the darkness that his canon self hides underneath the facade.

-Intelligent and highly manipulative, he’s smarter than most people give him credit for, and nowhere near as cutesy as he first seems.

-Cordelia still sexually abused him in his childhood, but nowhere near to the graphic extent of canon. He was mostly left alone and ignored, as Cordelia didn’t really have much use for him.

-Like in canon, he’s a horrible pervert, but is entirely on the masochistic side. He likes being pushed around and used, and is very, very open and lewd when it comes to what he wants.

-He has longer hair than canon, and thinks it makes him look handsome. He’s very picky about his looks, and takes good care of his appearance.

-Fashion wise, he likes flashy, high quality clothes and fancy things. He wears a lot of black, red, and fur, and actively tries to show off his slim figure. He’s very proud of how he looks.

Sakamaki Subaru:

-He’s just as angry and violent as he is in canon, but can do much less damage. As a human, the worst he can do is dent a wall, not crush it.

-Underneath the rage, he’s a soft little sweetheart with a rather sensitive nature. He still hates himself and sees himself as dirty and bad, but is quite a bit softer than he is in canon.

-His mother still flips between hating and loving him, and the resulting instability crushed his self esteem. He’s not a child of rape in this Au, but was still rather unwanted, and sees himself as a burden to his family.

-Like in canon, he’s a loner, but is much more open to affection than his canon self. He’s painfully shy and flusters easily.

-He has longer hair than in canon, and doesn’t do a whole lot to take care of it. He can’t be bothered with getting it cut, so it mostly just grows wild.

-His fashion has very little care put into it. He likes black and neutral tones, but doesn’t care about much else (except a slight preference for ripped, “tough” looking clothes), and does very little to take care of what he has.

#Diabolik Lovers #Dialovers #Sakamaki Shuu #Sakamaki Reiji #Sakamaki Ayato #Sakamaki Kanato #Sakamaki Laito #Sakamaki Subaru #Art #Human Au

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victorluvsalice · 7 years ago

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AU Thursday: As Long As You Love Me -- So What’s Your Deal?

So last week we had the first meeting of Victor and Alice in the As Long As You Love Me AU. Today, you get the other snippet I’ve written -- well, I say snippet, this thing is practically a rogue fic chapter. The main thrust is Alice giving Victor her backstory, with a Bart Curlish-type twist. We start out with the pair still on the road, Victor wondering how the hell his life has led him to being kidnapped by a murder lady, when Alice notes something. . .

"You're awfully quiet."

Victor jerked upright, blinking. "Oh. Ah – I'm sorry," he said on automatic. "I just – d-don't really know what to say."

"It was an observation, not a complaint," Alice replied. "I'm not much good at conversation myself." She nodded at the radio. "You could put that on if you like."

Well, if she was offering. . .Victor hit the button, and the dying notes of some pop hit filled the car. "That was our girl Taylor Swift with 'Out Of The Woods!'" a perky female voice chirped. "Now, a quick news bulletin – police are still searching for the missing son of cannery magnate William Van Dort. The victim, twenty-year-old Victor Van Dort, was apparently kidnapped on his way home from Spring Park two weeks ago. After an initial ransom demand, there has been no further contact with Victor or his kidnappers. Police are welcoming any tips, and Mr. and Mrs. Van Dort have put up a $5,000 reward for any information leading to his safe return. Now, let's pick things back up with NSync's 'Bye Bye Bye!'"

Victor did not think NSync capable of 'picking him up' and turned the radio back off. Alice gave him an amused look as he did. "So that's who you are. I was wondering why you brought up canned fish."

"Yes, well – most everybody knows Van Dort Fish," Victor said, feeling a touch awkward. "I think we're sold in every supermarket in the States now, and every one back in England too."

"That would explain why I don't know – I can't remember the last time I was in a real grocery store," Alice told him. "It's almost always those convenience marts you see at gas stations. Which honestly hold so much food they might as well be groceries. I've seen some selling fruit before."

"I don't know if I'd like fruit from a place that always smelled of gas," Victor admitted.

GURGLGUGHGUGHGURGGLE

Alice slowly turned her head and arched an eyebrow at his middle. "I think your stomach disagrees," she said. "That is a very loud sound to come from someone so thin."

Victor blushed. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I – I h-haven't eaten in two days."

"Two days? And you didn't think it worthy of mention?" Alice shook her head as she looked down the road. "Well, we've got to run into a rest stop soon. I'm a bit peckish myself if I'm honest."

Victor stared at her. "I don't get you," he blurted, unable to stop himself in time.

"We've only been acquainted for a little over an hour. That's not much time to 'get' anyone."

"Y-yes, but – you're being so nice."

Alice glanced over at him. "Would you prefer it if I wasn't?"

"No! No!" Victor said hastily, holding up his hands. "But – it's just – y-you've still got their b-blood all over you."

Alice looked at her arm. "Right. . .I've got wet wipes, I'll use those before we go in."

How could she be so nonchalant about running around covered in blood?! How could she be the type of woman to stab a man to death without a single thought and yet offer to let him listen to the radio? "I – I need to know – why did you go after them? Hugo and the others?"

"Because they were vile, wicked people who made their living off the pain of others."

"Most people would have reported them to the police after finding out they did snuff films," Victor had to point out.

"Perhaps," Alice allowed. "But I'm not most people. Besides, people like Hugo almost always have an 'in' with the police. Better to make sure he gets what's coming to him, rather than just hope."

"So – so you've done this before?" Victor said, aware it was probably the dumbest question he could have asked.

"Yes – I know it's not really obvious, but I'm quite skilled at ending lives now," she said with a smirk, adjusting her grip on the wheel. "I'm – well, I suppose the flowery way of putting it would be 'holistic assassin.'"

Victor blinked. "A – what?"

Alice gave him a truly vicious grin. "I kill whoever Wonderland tells me needs killing, and inevitably they are people who would make the world a better place by their absence."

And now she was being completely confusing again. "W-Wonderland?"

Alice glanced at his baffled face. "I'm explaining this poorly, aren't I?" She drummed her fingers on the wheel, then tilted her head, listening to some invisible companion. "Good point – I should start at the beginning and stop when I come to the end, shouldn't I? All right, Victor, let me give you a bit of backstory – perhaps then you'll 'get' me. Sit up straight and pay attention."

Victor shifted in his seat. "I'm listening."

"Thank you." Alice brushed a bit of hair out of her eyes. "Up until the age of eight and a half years old, I was a perfectly ordinary, if very imaginative, little girl. My father, Arthur Liddell, was Dean of Christ Church college in Oxford university; my mother, Lorina, was a homemaker – well, I say that; we were rich enough to afford a maid, cook, and nanny – involved in various charitable causes; and my sister, Lizzie, was a free spirit who loved to read and planned to travel the world one day. We were all very happy together – it was the best life a young girl could hope for." Alice let out a nostalgic sigh, before her expression warped into one of utter hatred. "And then, like a boil, Angus Bumby erupted into our sphere."

Victor frowned. That name was familiar. . .where had he. . .the news! Yes, there had been something he'd seen in passing while browsing the web. . . "The psychiatrist?" he asked, tracking down the scrap of memory. "D-died after falling in front of a train?"

"Ah-ah – that's closer to the middle," Alice gently chastised. "We'll get to that. When I first knew him, he was an undergraduate of my father's – studying psychology, yes. He came to tea one day and, after one look at Lizzie, became totally obsessed with her. He stalked her incessantly, attempting to convince her that they were meant to be. Nothing would deter him from her – not her own loathing of him, not my father's repeated threats of police action, not even a restraining order. And then, when it finally got through his thick head that she would never willingly return his affections, he broke into our house one cold November night, raped and killed her, and used my nightlight – an antique Victorian lamp – to set the library ablaze." Her grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Our entire house went up in flames that night. I was the only one to escape."

Victor's jaw dropped. Terrifying as she was, to know she had experienced such tragedy. . .and so young. . . "Oh," he whispered. "I – I'm so sorry."

"Not your fault – and brace yourself, it only gets worse," Alice replied. "I was so traumatized by the loss of everyone and everything close to me, save my favorite toy rabbit, that I just – shut down. Retreated to the depths of my mind, unable to face the real world. After a year in hospital to treat my burns, it was decided I would be removed to Rutledge Asylum to recover."

"Rutledge–" Wait a minute, she'd said that everything was fine up until she was eight and a half – which meant – "At nine years old?!" Victor demanded, stunned. "That's – that's absurd! Who commits a child?"

Alice went very quiet, then turned to face him. For the first time since he'd met her, she looked genuinely surprised. "You're the only person I've ever talked to about this who thought there was something wrong with my incarceration there," she said softly. "Everyone involved saw it as a necessary evil."

"Bullshit," Victor replied. He wasn't the type to swear much, but this felt like the right sort of situation. "Why didn't they ask one of your relatives to help?"

"Ah – I didn't have any," Alice explained, eyes back on the road. "Mama and Papa were both only children, and I was a surprise child born ten years after my sister. Mama's parents had been killed in a car accident before I was even conceived, and Papa's mother died when I was still a baby. The only one I ever knew was Grandpa Liddell, and he passed about two years before the fire."

Some of the fire went out of him. "W-what about family friends?"

"Well, my father was well-liked around Christ Church, but as you might expect, most of his work colleagues balked at taking in a catatonic nine-year-old," Alice said sardonically. "Mama's friends were much the same – willing to coo over what a tragedy it was, but not willing to do much about it. The maid and cook had already left for greener pastures, and our family lawyer was only interested in how much of my inheritance he could sneak away in a cloud of legalese. The only one who wanted me was Nanny, but she'd been left rather financially strapped by the loss of her job. She visited me now and then, but she simply couldn't afford to take me in. And when she did finally find another career. . ." Alice chuckled. "Well. It wasn't exactly child-friendly, let's put it that way. And no orphanage wanted a child who simply sat around staring at the wall – except for Houndsditch, but that's again getting ahead of myself." She sighed. "Simply put, Victor – I had no one. The only thing Littlemore Hospital could do with me was foist me on Rutledge so I wasn't taking up one of their beds."

Victor dropped his head. "I see. . .it's still terrible."

"It's the way of the world," Alice said philosophically. "I wasn't the only child in there. It isn't only adults who lose their grip on reality." She rolled her eyes. "Not that I would recommend a stay in Rutledge to anyone. I wouldn't say it was as bad as good old Bedlam in the bad old days, but – the doctors found me an interesting curiosity, the nurses considered me a nuisance, and the orderlies thought of me as an easy source of rough fun."

Victor blanched. "They didn't–"

"Not that kind of fun," Alice quickly corrected him. "Though there was a pair of twins who liked to push as far as they could in that direction. I think only the fact the whole place had cameras stopped them." She smirked. "They won't be tormenting any more young girls in their care, I can tell you that much."

". . .So they were the first?" Victor asked in a small voice.

"No – I sliced one of them with a spoon after they attempted to ruin my rabbit with porridge, but actual killing came later." She hit the turn signal and moved smoothly into the right-hand lane. "We've lost the track of our story – back to business. So I was committed to Rutledge, and proceeded to spend the next ten or so years insensible to the world. Eventually, Wonderland finally got sick of me hiding out within myself, kicked me in the arse, and dragged me forcibly back to heal my broken mind."

Wonderland again. "What is Wonderland?" Victor asked, absently twisting his hands together.

"An imaginary land I came up with on my seventh birthday," Alice explained, glancing at a passing sign. "Full of nonsensical creatures and people. I visited often in the year and a half before the fire, making up new areas and new residents – I lacked for playmates when I was small, so imaginary friends were often all I had. After the loss of my family, however, the place became corrupted by my growing madness. I didn't realize what had happened until the White Rabbit came to fetch me one stormy night. I soon discovered the Queen of Hearts – one of the realm's many monarchs – had turned into a worse tyrant than normal, morphing into a terrible tentacle monster and subjugating everyone across the various sub-domains. The only way to restore Wonderland to anything resembling 'normal' was to slaughter my way across it, killing her monsters and corrupted allies before taking on the Queen herself."

Victor bit his lip. "I see. . ."

"Trying not to ask if it gave me a taste for murder?" Alice teased, giving him one of those dangerous grins. Victor shrank back in his seat. "I wouldn't say that was the catalyst. Perhaps I became rather inured to the sight of violence, but I didn't intend to turn my Vorpal Blade on anyone from the real world. Even in Wonderland, I killed only because I had to – because the alternative was staying a comatose blob in Rutledge. The Queen was simply my own darkness and madness – slaughtering her made me better. Or, at least, sane enough to be discharged. Everyone else along the way – well, I could bring them back with just a thought. Doesn't really count as murder then, does it?"

Victor knotted up his fingers. "No. . .it's just – surprising your mind would jump to killing things as a way to save yourself."

"A bit dark, perhaps," Alice allowed. "But answer me this – did your childhood dreams ever include slaying monsters or battling in war?" She glanced at him. "Or seeing the end of some hated bully?"

The image of Gordon Tannen disappearing with a scream down the throat of Blue Ben swam before his eyes. He swallowed and pulled at his shirt collar. "Point taken."

"We're never as innocent as we like to pretend," Alice said with a triumphant smirk. The turn signal clicked on again, and she proceeded down an exit. "I've just gone ahead and stopped pretending. But when I was first released from Rutledge, I was still trying my best. My great hope was that, after killing the Queen and restoring my mind – mostly – I could put all the battling behind me and start a new life. So I was discharged to the Houndsditch Home For Wayward Youth, an orphanage for troubled and destitute children. It was a work/study sort of situation – I earned my keep doing chores and helping with the children, and I also received outpatient therapy from the proprietor." Her fingers tightened again on the wheel. "One Dr. Angus Bumby."

Victor blinked rapidly. "Wait – what? You – they never caught him?!"

"Obviously not, considering you knew him as a psychiatrist from wherever you heard about his death," Alice pointed out, making him feel rather an idiot. "I don't think they let convicted felons – let alone sex offenders – work with children. How he slipped through the police's fingers, I don't know. My only guess is that he had a friend somewhere on the force who could destroy any evidence of his involvement in the fire. Which would also help explain how he got away with his other activities for so long." She gave Victor a piercing look, filled with old but still-smoldering fury and disgust. "Houndsditch, as I later found out, wasn't really an orphanage. It was a training ground for child prostitutes. The supposed savior of the poor and lost hypnotized his charges into forgetting their past, then sold them on the black market to the vilest of the vile."

Victor's stomach lurched, sending a gush of bile up his throat. He swallowed it back with an effort. He desperately wanted to accuse of her lying, of making things up to justify her hatred – but the look in her eyes. . .the truth of her words was undeniable under the force of her glare. "Oh my God. . ."

"Yes, not exactly the philanthropist he always took pains to paint himself as," Alice said, as they came up to a light. She checked for green, then went left. "He had similar plans for me – he lured me in with the promise I could forget the fire and move on with my life, when his actual goal was to make sure I could never finger him for the crime by turning me into one of his empty-minded little puppets. He claimed there were men lined up and waiting for a 'raving delusional beauty,' but I have trouble believing I wouldn't have ended up as his personal sex slave." Her jaw clenched. "Lizzie and I look rather alike, you see."

It all abruptly clicked together in Victor's mind. "He was the first. You pushed him into that train, didn't you?"

"Eventually," Alice confirmed. "I didn't realize who he was when I first arrived. Even without his help, I'd repressed a lot about the fire and what had happened immediately before. It took about a year's stay in Houndsditch and another trip through a rotting Wonderland – this time corrupted by Bumby's avatar, the Dollmaker, and the Infernal Train of forgetting he had me build – before I understood the truth. And then, when I did. . .I confronted him in Moorgate Station. I told him I would see him charged. And he laughed in my face. Said it was highly unlikely anyone would ever believe the words of a former lunatic. Especially mine against his. So when it looked like he would escape justice–" One hand came up and mimed a shove. "I decided to bring justice to him."

A lifetime of societal rules and regulations demanded that Victor be horrified – that he call the woman driving a monster, condemn her for declaring herself judge, jury, and executioner. But the only horror he felt was at the cruel twists of fate that had led her to do the deed in the first place. Damn it all, how could anyone blame her for wanting revenge? Tell her that someone like that – a rapist, a murderer, a – a child pimp – deserved to live? If he'd been in her place, Victor was almost certain he would have done the exact same thing, and damn the consequences. "Good," he said softly. "If anyone needed to die, it was him." He hesitated, then added, "But – why keep on killing, if you'd avenged your family and saved the orphans?"

"Because. . ." Alice pursed her lips and drummed her fingers on the wheel, contemplating. "Because when I pushed him onto those tracks, saw the train whisk away his body. . .it felt – right. Like my will and the universe were finally in line. And when I exited the station, I entered a world where Wonderland – the nicer version – and London had merged together. A world where I didn't have to go catatonic or wander about ranting and raving to see my friends, nor endure the East End's ugly scenery to go shopping or say hello to passing people on the street. A world that I could navigate on my own terms. I couldn't help thinking of it as a reward. Proof that the universe approved of my actions."

"I'm sure the police didn't," Victor couldn't help saying.

Alice grinned as they approached another light. "They didn't think anything at all of them. I was never caught. I fled, of course – I fully expected a manhunt for me to start before the day was out. But then every paper started reporting Bumby's death as a tragic accident. And when I did a little investigating. . .well. I'd already known there were no human eyewitnesses to my crime – the station had been strangely empty that afternoon. But I thought for sure the security cameras would have fingered me." Up went the point-making finger as they turned into a parking lot. "Except – right as we confronted each other – every camera at Moorgate mysteriously failed. A station-wide glitch. They were restored an hour later, but by then it was too late to see me. And none of the other evidence they could dig up could conclusively prove I was there."

Victor stared as they parked. "But – that's just a coincidence," he insisted, as much to himself as her. "You can't – you can't seriously believe that the universe covered your tracks for you."

"'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth,'" Alice replied. "Sherlock Holmes. I would have passed it off as a mere lucky fluke myself if, when I was trying to figure out whether I not I should return to Houndsditch, Caterpillar flew by and insisted I needed to take a different path. I followed him, and ended up at the lair of a few of Bumby's compatriots." She turned off the car. "I knew what Bumby did, but not where he did it or who with. How could I have found that place if I hadn't been guided there? But the clincher was these three men, all built like brick privies, promptly descended on me – whether out of anger, greed, or sheer lust – and I got a knife away from one of them and slaughtered the lot. Without even a bruise for my trouble." She pulled out her keys and spun them around her finger. "I'll give Bumby this – he was right that we all have a purpose. And mine is to destroy those who would otherwise get away with their crimes. To stop the other Bumbys of the world, in all their guises. Child slavers. Pimps. Rapists." She glanced at him. "Snuff film directors."

For a moment, Victor was back in that dark closet, listening to the meaty thwuks and thunks outside. "So you've just – wandered around, finding people to kill?"

"Not quite 'wandered' – as I told you, Wonderland tells me where I need to go, and who my targets are," Alice corrected. "My friends can be a bit cryptic at times, but they have yet to steer me wrong. Open the glove box and get me the wet wipes, will you?"

"What? Oh," Victor said, looking around and realizing they were parked in front of a diner. He fiddled with the glove compartment and got it open, handing over the package. He watched for a second as she pulled one out and ran it over her arms. "You – you don't kill everyone you meet, do you?" he asked hesitantly.

Alice smiled. It was – a surprisingly nice smile. "You're still here."

"But why?"

Victor regretted the words the moment they left his lips. Did he really want her to think about why he was with her in the car alive? His survival was dependent on the goodwill of a set of very vivid hallucinations, and if this provoked them. . .

"Because Cheshire says you're important," Alice replied, doing her face. "He wouldn't say why, but it appears your purpose and mine intersect for a while. And goodness knows I could use some company that doesn't originate from inside my own skull." She balled up the now-pink wipe and stuck it in her pocket. "Let's get some food in you. And then. . .where's your hometown? Or closest equivalent to, as you sound an expat like myself."

Victor surprised himself by laughing at that. "Yes, well. . .currently it's a little town called Hill Valley," he said. "Er – do you have any idea where we are now?"

"I wasn't paying that much attention to the names, but I know we're in the southern part of California. Where's Hill Valley?"

"Up north – if I remember correctly, Route 395 goes right through it," Victor told her.

"Excellent. Then we'll head north." She grinned at him, friendly with just a hint of danger. "And we'll see what happens along the way."

#as long as you love me au #fanfic #victor van dort #alice liddell #tw: death #mentions of a lot of it anyway #I don't know how this got so long #I just decided I wanted to fill in Alice's backstory in this verse #and well...#the reference to Out Of The Woods is intentional #still like that song and it also probably fits this pair #Bye Bye Bye is just random #the Hill Valley ref is deliberate though as you probably guessed #I decided randomly that yes this should still be in America #(if only because I'm American)#and after deciding that #well I just HAD to do my favorite BTTF town #Nell is probably always pestering poor George to come over so she can say she had a famous author round #I'll probably do at least the snippet where Victor kills Barkis in the future #this is a fun version of the pair to write for #Holistic Assassin Alice just comes surprisingly easily to me #queued

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reactingtosomething · 7 years ago

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Solo Reacting to Orphan Black: Ep 502, “Clutch of Greed”

The Casual Turn and Flee

Miri is doing weekly Reactions/thoughts/excuse-to-look-at-many-gifs for the fifth and final season of Orphan Black. Check out last week here and Liz’s introduction to the series here. See you next week!

***SPOILERS BELOW!***

SARAH: Even the closed captions are in on this—when Sarah is in disguise as Rachel, her lines read “Rachel: xxxxxxxx”

I do love Sarah calling Rachel out on her fakeness.

I think Sarah is right to want to keep Kira safe and out of Dyad. Clearly. But also this whole thing has been an exploration about autonomy, which Kira deserves too. Plus she’s Sarah’s daughter and telling her that she can’t do something or that she must do something is almost always going to backfire.

RACHEL: Why did two person spiritual breathing have to be pantless, Rachel?

Again with the fabulous cloaks!

I’m getting closer to believing that Rachel is a true believer now. Or at least that she believes that she is a true believer. But I would also completely buy it if it turns out to all be a con/strategy.

I like this new quasi Victorian/yoga instructor look:

HELENA:

Helena lying unconvincingly is great. “Nothing, nobodies”

I like the runner of neonatal vs. neolution.

So if the twins each have their own amniotic sacs, that means they’re not identical, right? I definitely expected them to be, like Sarah and Helena.

HELENA NO. No more giant ass needles for her, PLEASE. That was freaky.

COSIMA: I love her little salute of the stuffed bird

I am SO proud of Cos straight up saying no to PT. She’s in a place where he clearly has ultimate authority, but she doesn’t flinch.

ALISON: Ohhhhh no is Alison going to start drinking again? I mean I can’t blame her, obviously, but not good.

Again, very little Alison. She’s always a bit removed from the main thrust of things. But it looks like Donnie and Helena will bring a bit more of the main plot home with them next week, so we’ll get a more Alison focused episode.

MK: Oh, MK.

MK PRETENDING TO BE SARAH PRETENDING TO BE RACHEL!!!

(before the MK scene): Ferdinand is a great character. A good villain is essential. (after the MK scene): OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK OH MY GODDDDDD

Orphan Black’s violence continues to utterly shock me. My theory is that it happens rarely enough that the rare times it does happen, it’s that much more effective….Also it’s just fucking brutal. I was not prepared for this one.

MK dying does make total sense from a writing standpoint—we care about her enough for it to hurt, so they got the “This is the end and it’s Serious” effect without having to off a major character.

EVERYONE ELSE:

Nice panopticon ref, Felix

Ira is a stunted man, isn’t he?

WHO IS MUD TO PT?? Dramatically younger daughter? Even more dramatically younger girlfriend? Loyal disciple that he’s totally going to sacrifice to save himself down the line?

I spent the first half of this episode 30% sure PT did not exist. I’m still not fully convinced he’s not a big con.

Arthur Conan Doyle also believed in those fairy photos, so let’s not consider him the ultimate paragon of wisdom, ok?

I did not see the Kira tradeoff to S coming, very nice.

S’s loyalty is always to those she actually knows and loves already. Felix is much more prone to loving/protecting new clones immediately.

Donnie’s casual turn and flee is perfect

You would think that after all of this shit Felix would have invested in more effective locks than a screwdriver

Kira’s whole perception thing is fascinating and also possibly a plot hole, but maybe not—there are definitely clones who have died in the past. We know about quite a few of them. As a small child, was Kira just constantly feeling deaths and not understanding what they were? Was she a constantly emotionally disturbed child? Has the empathy gotten stronger as she grows up? Is it stronger when she knows the clone? Katya Obinger certainly didn’t have this kind of effect on her.

Moment of appreciation for Tatiana Maslany’s abs

Tune in next week for more thoughts, more clones, and maybe more abs? Hey, a girl can dream.

#Orphan Black #clone club #obspoilers #orphan black spoilers #Sarah Manning #Rachel Duncan #Cosima Neihaus #alison hendrix #Helena #mk #Mud the Neolutionist #Clutch of Greed #Miri #Reaction

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thoughts-of-a-coffee-addict-blog · 5 years ago

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10 Books I Read & Loved in 2018

#1 Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End by Atul Gawande

In Being Mortal, bestselling author Atul Gawande tackles the hardest challenge of his profession: how medicine can not only improve life but also the process of its ending

Medicine has triumphed in modern times, transforming birth, injury, and infectious disease from harrowing to manageable. But in the inevitable condition of aging and death, the goals of medicine seem too frequently to run counter to the interest of the human spirit. Nursing homes, preoccupied with safety, pin patients into railed beds and wheelchairs. Hospitals isolate the dying, checking for vital signs long after the goals of cure have become moot. Doctors, committed to extending life, continue to carry out devastating procedures that in the end extends suffering. Gawande, a practicing surgeon, addresses his profession's ultimate limitation, arguing that quality of life is the desired goal for patients and families. Gawande offers examples of freer, more socially fulfilling models for assisting the infirm and dependent elderly, and he explores the varieties of hospice care to demonstrate that a person's last weeks or months may be rich and dignified. Full of eye-opening research and riveting storytelling, Being Mortal asserts that medicine can comfort and enhance our experience even to the end, providing not only a good life but also a good end.

#2 The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah

In love we find out who we want to be. In war we find out who we are. France, 1939 In the quiet village of Carriveau, Vianne Mauriac says goodbye to her husband, Antoine, as he heads for the Front. She doesn’t believe that the Nazis will invade France...but invade they do, in droves of marching soldiers, in caravans of trucks and tanks, in planes that fill the skies and drop bombs upon the innocent. When France is overrun, Vianne is forced to take an enemy into her house, and suddenly her every move is watched; her life and her child’s life is at constant risk. Without food or money or hope, as danger escalates around her, she must make one terrible choice after another. Vianne’s sister, Isabelle, is a rebellious eighteen-year-old girl, searching for purpose with all the reckless passion of youth. While thousands of Parisians march into the unknown terrors of war, she meets the compelling and mysterious Gäetan, a partisan who believes the French can fight the Nazis from within France, and she falls in love as only the young can...completely. When he betrays her, Isabelle races headlong into danger and joins the Resistance, never looking back or giving a thought to the real--and deadly--consequences.

#3 Educated by Tara Westover

Tara Westover was 17 the first time she set foot in a classroom. Born to survivalists in the mountains of Idaho, she prepared for the end of the world by stockpiling home-canned peaches and sleeping with her "head-for-the-hills bag". In the summer she stewed herbs for her mother, a midwife and healer, and in the winter she salvaged in her father's junkyard. Her father forbade hospitals, so Tara never saw a doctor or nurse. Gashes and concussions, even burns from explosions, were all treated at home with herbalism. The family was so isolated from mainstream society that there was no one to ensure the children received an education and no one to intervene when one of Tara's older brothers became violent. Then, lacking any formal education, Tara began to educate herself. She taught herself enough mathematics and grammar to be admitted to Brigham Young University, where she studied history, learning for the first time about important world events like the Holocaust and the civil rights movement. Her quest for knowledge transformed her, taking her over oceans and across continents, to Harvard and to Cambridge. Only then would she wonder if she'd traveled too far, if there was still a way home. Educated is an account of the struggle for self-invention. It is a tale of fierce family loyalty and of the grief that comes with severing the closest of ties. With the acute insight that distinguishes all great writers, Westover has crafted a universal coming-of-age story that gets to the heart of what an education is and what it offers: the perspective to see one's life through new eyes and the will to change it.

# 4 The Great Alone by Kristin Hannah

Alaska, 1974. Unpredictable. Unforgiving. Untamed. For a family in crisis, the ultimate test of survival. Ernt Allbright, a former POW, comes home from the Vietnam war a changed and volatile man. When he loses yet another job, he makes an impulsive decision: he will move his family north, to Alaska, where they will live off the grid in America’s last true frontier. Thirteen-year-old Leni, a girl coming of age in a tumultuous time, caught in the riptide of her parents’ passionate, stormy relationship, dares to hope that a new land will lead to a better future for her family. She is desperate for a place to belong. Her mother, Cora, will do anything and go anywhere for the man she loves, even if it means following him into the unknown At first, Alaska seems to be the answer to their prayers. In a wild, remote corner of the state, they find a fiercely independent community of strong men and even stronger women. The long, sunlit days and the generosity of the locals make up for the Allbrights’ lack of preparation and dwindling resources. But as winter approaches and darkness descends on Alaska, Ernt’s fragile mental state deteriorates and the family begins to fracture. Soon the perils outside pale in comparison to threats from within. In their small cabin, covered in snow, blanketed in eighteen hours of night, Leni and her mother learn the terrible truth: they are on their own. In the wild, there is no one to save them but themselves. In this unforgettable portrait of human frailty and resilience, Kristin Hannah reveals the indomitable character of the modern American pioneer and the spirit of a vanishing Alaska―a place of incomparable beauty and danger. The Great Alone is a daring, beautiful, stay-up-all-night story about love and loss, the fight for survival, and the wildness that lives in both man and nature.

#5 Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn

Fresh from a brief stay at a psych hospital, reporter Camille Preaker faces a troubling assignment: she must return to her tiny hometown to cover the murders of two preteen girls. For years, Camille has hardly spoken to her neurotic, hypochondriac mother or to the half-sister she barely knows: a beautiful thirteen-year-old with an eerie grip on the town. Now, installed in her old bedroom in her family's Victorian mansion, Camille finds herself identifying with the young victims—a bit too strongly. Dogged by her own demons, she must unravel the psychological puzzle of her own past if she wants to get the story—and survive this homecoming.

#6 The Circle by Dave Eggers

When Mae Holland is hired to work for the Circle, the world's most powerful internet company, she feels she's been given the opportunity of a lifetime. The Circle, run out of a sprawling California campus, links users' personal emails, social media, banking, and purchasing with their universal operating system, resulting in one online identity and a new age of civility and transparency. As Mae tours the open-plan office spaces, the towering glass dining facilities, the cozy dorms for those who spend nights at work, she is thrilled with the company's modernity and activity. There are parties that last through the night, there are famous musicians playing on the lawn, there are athletic activities and clubs and brunches, and even an aquarium of rare fish retrieved from the Marianas Trench by the CEO. Mae can't believe her luck, her great fortune to work for the most influential company in the world--even as life beyond the campus grows distant, even as a strange encounter with a colleague leaves her shaken, even as her role at the Circle becomes increasingly public. What begins as the captivating story of one woman's ambition and idealism soon becomes a heart-racing novel of suspense, raising questions about memory, history, privacy, democracy, and the limits of human knowledge.

#7 The Woman in Cabin 10 by Ruth Ware

Lo Blacklock, a journalist who writes for a travel magazine, has just been given the assignment of a lifetime: a week on a luxury cruise with only a handful of cabins. The sky is clear, the waters calm, and the veneered, select guests jovial as the exclusive cruise ship, the Aurora, begins her voyage in the picturesque North Sea. At first, Lo's stay is nothing but pleasant: the cabins are plush, the dinner parties are sparkling, and the guests are elegant. But as the week wears on, frigid winds whip the deck, gray skies fall, and Lo witnesses what she can only describe as a dark and terrifying nightmare: a woman being thrown overboard. The problem? All passengers remain accounted for and so, the ship sails on as if nothing has happened, despite Lo's desperate attempts to convey that something (or someone) has gone terribly, terribly wrong.

#8 Eleanor Elephant is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman

Eleanor Oliphant has learned how to survive - but not how to live. Eleanor Oliphant leads a simple life. She wears the same clothes to work every day, eats the same meal deal for lunch every day and buys the same two bottles of vodka to drink every weekend. Eleanor Oliphant is happy. Nothing is missing from her carefully timetabled life. Except, sometimes, everything. One simple act of kindness is about to shatter the walls Eleanor has built around herself. Now she must learn how to navigate the world that everyone else seems to take for granted - while searching for the courage to face the dark corners she's avoided all her life. Change can be good. Change can be bad. But surely any change is better than. . . fine?

#9 The Light Between Oceans by M.L. Stedman

A captivating, beautiful, and stunningly accomplished debut novel that opens in 1918 Australia - the story of a lighthouse keeper and his wife who make one devastating choice that forever changes two worlds. Australia, 1926. After four harrowing years fighting on the Western Front, Tom Sherbourne returns home to take a job as the lighthouse keeper on Janus Rock, nearly half a day's journey from the coast. To this isolated island, where the supply boat comes once a season and shore leaves are granted every other year at best, Tom brings a young, bold, and loving wife, Isabel. Years later, after two miscarriages and one stillbirth, the grieving Isabel hears a baby's cries on the wind. A boat has washed up onshore carrying a dead man and a living baby. Tom, whose records as a lighthouse keeper are meticulous and whose moral principles have withstood a horrific war, wants to report the man and infant immediately. But Isabel has taken the tiny baby to her breast. Against Tom's judgment, they claim her as their own and name her Lucy. When she is two, Tom and Isabel return to the mainland and are reminded that there are other people in the world. Their choice has devastated one of them. M. L. Stedman's mesmerizing, beautifully written debut novel seduces us into accommodating Isabel's decision to keep this "gift from God." And we are swept into a story about extraordinarily compelling characters seeking to find their North Star in a world where there is no right answer, where justice for one person is another's tragic loss.

#10 The Queen of the Tearling by Erika Johansen

Magic, adventure, mystery, and romance combine in this epic debut in which a young princess must reclaim her dead mother’s throne, learn to be a ruler—and defeat the Red Queen, a powerful and malevolent sorceress determined to destroy her.On her nineteenth birthday, Princess Kelsea Raleigh Glynn, raised in exile, sets out on a perilous journey back to the castle of her birth to ascend her rightful throne. Plain and serious, a girl who loves books and learning, Kelsea bears little resemblance to her mother, the vain and frivolous Queen Elyssa. But though she may be inexperienced and sheltered, Kelsea is not defenseless: Around her neck hangs the Tearling sapphire, a jewel of immense magical power; and accompanying her is the Queen’s Guard, a cadre of brave knights led by the enigmatic and dedicated Lazarus. Kelsea will need them all to survive a cabal of enemies who will use every weapon—from crimson-caped assassins to the darkest blood magic—to prevent her from wearing the crown.Despite her royal blood, Kelsea feels like nothing so much as an insecure girl, a child called upon to lead a people and a kingdom about which she knows almost nothing. But what she discovers in the capital will change everything, confronting her with horrors she never imagined. An act of singular daring will throw Kelsea’s kingdom into tumult, unleashing the vengeance of the tyrannical ruler of neighboring Mortmesne: the Red Queen, a sorceress possessed of the darkest magic. Now Kelsea will begin to discover whom among the servants, aristocracy, and her own guard she can trust.But the quest to save her kingdom and meet her destiny has only just begun—a wondrous journey of self-discovery and a trial by fire that will make her a legend . . . if she can survive.

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