#i have two thoughts to end this in terms of Agatha's sentences

[galaxysharks]

This won't leave my head and I'm sleepy, so I shall simply write it and cast it into the world. Buckle up, fellows, we're going to need face claims for a lot of cosmic entities. I'll post a reblog later with the ones I like.

Also @this-girl-in-dead-fandoms, here you be, because I enjoy providing pain for the blorbos

Judgment

Agatha twisted and struggled, snarling threats and insults as she was dragged. HOW!? How was this possible!? She was a Ghost! A spirit! She was meant to be untouchable!

She couldn't even determine if the force holding her was a being or not, but whatever it was, she couldn't do anything.

After what might have been an hour, she had grown tired and her voice was strained, she quieted, allowing the mysterious force to take on all of her weight.

As if waiting for her, her vision cleared, and a....room of sorts melded out of the fog.

"well, are we finally deciding to behave?" The words were spoken in a cacophony of voices, some whispering cheerfully, some sobbing, and more still screaming in terror.

Agatha whipped her head as far as she could, turning to face the noise. Immediately, she flinched as her mind desperately tried to interpret what she saw. It was as if one eye was being assaulted by flashes and patterns, while the other could never catch the being.

Groaning in pain, she closed her eyes. Even still, she could sense the presence of truly unlimited power. The kind she knew she couldn't defeat. The kind like Rio. Half a dozen, at least, she felt her body being stretched and compressed, atoms being rented apart and reformed in the wake of cosmic runoff.

Suddenly, it gave away, and she collapsed to the floor, barely noting that she was no longer restrained.

"Peace, Kin, the Trial begins shortly."

"Shall we assume tangible forms, brother? It would be hilarious and inconvenient for her to keep passing out!"

"valid observation, Chaos. Yes, assume comprehensible forms. Open your eyes, Agatha Harkness"

Hesitantly, she did, and around her, a thin circle of brilliant pink flames, holding back the force of the cosmic entities. She glanced around, peering into the direction of the voices.

Stood before her was a massive being. Twenty feet tall, at least. It appeared to be conjoined men made of perfect, chiseled stone. One side pristine and polished, the other crumbling and repairing before her. The single pelvis and legs were knelt, bringing them closer to her eyeline. From there, the torsos split off separating before rejoining at the shoulder, leaving a gap in which there appeared to be a star, continuously shifting through its lifecycle.

Around her were more beings. A woman made of starlight, a being of sand that first appeared a child, but rapidly aged and collapsed, before reforming again, Rio, but she was taking the form of a swarm of locusts, clinging to a small tree sprouting from a skull. Though imperceptible, something in Agatha told her that the space between them, their absence, was another entity in of itself.

And then there was him. Pale flowers braided into his hair and draped in a fur lined robe. It was Nicky, her little boy. He was carefully cradling parts of the insect swarm, but he looked straight at her. The flames around her flicked in time with his breaths, it was all she could hear.

In. Out. In. Out. In.

Agatha desperately reached for him. But he caught her eye just before they would have crossed the circle, lifting a hand and gently waggling a finger at her. He pulled it to his mouth, and shushed her, motioning her to wait.

"Agatha Harkness. You have altered the fate of your reality, you have disobeyed the laws of existence, you consume power unearned, and you disrupt the natural cycle of time and space. You will be trialled by the Living Tribunal. Your sentence is absolute"

Agatha felt her mind reel as the voice was a memory, but an expectation, and a constant. Outside of her ability to recognize time.

"Agatha Harkness, speak if you must, but your testimony is set, there will be no negotiation" this voice came from everywhere, and inside her head. It was the star woman.

She felt her being tear and replace as the final entity formed. This one deceptively plain. She appeared a young woman, but with molten gold dripping down her face, blinding her.

Agatha has to know, fuck whatever happens to her. " How is he here? What have you done to him!"

The star woman became infuriated, launching from her placement. "INSOLENT WRETCH--". Her movement stopped, frozen, as the woman with the golden mask glanced over to Nicky.

"Settle......Infinity......Nicolas Scratch Is.....An Anomaly......Made ......From What One Who Did Not Know......And One That Could Not......He Has Been Ascended.......He Is Love"

Agatha looked to her son, and realized that Rio had shifted forms, she was now her more typical skeletal figure, standing with her hands perched proudly on Nicky's shoulders as he leaned into her.

"Agatha Harkness.......I Sentence You......."

[nincompoopydoo]

CAUGHT IN A CROSSFIRE

— GARDENIAS AND GRIEF ; PART 5 / ?

PAIRING: Theseus Scamander x Female!Reader WORD COUNT: 2.7k SUMMARY: Weary nights are meant for crying and confessions about the past. A/N: Finally, it’s here and I adore this side of Theseus he’s so sweet oof. WARNINGS: Crying! These two being idiots! MASTERLIST ; MASTERPOST

Theseus tends to abandon his study. The thought of spending hours on end within a confined space of four walls seems to further constrict his need to let his mind run free and perhaps wild to a certain extent. The living room has become a space for his work for the past few years he has lived here. A desk permanently situated against the wall and by the fireplace. Though still confined, it thoroughly beats the study in terms of space, more windows for air to drift through.

You were silent during dinner. In truth, you were silent for most dinners, only speaking when you offered to wash his plate. He tried to deny it, but you were insistent, in need of moving your hands. You were naturally slow-moving, but far too fast at the same time. You could never sit still, constantly wanting to move around to distract yourself from the collapsing world around you—An odd reminder of his mother. A letter was sent to her at the sudden prompting of how your ways reflect the only woman he ever admired. Theseus cannot help but admire you as well. Though quiet, you manage to captivate with merely small gestures; the simple, absentminded curve of your lips, the brushing of fingers as you reach for his empty plate in his grasp and the sway of the stray strands of your hair in the gentle wind from the kitchen window. Now, in the evening glow, you are shamelessly lounging on the couch, immersed in the pages of an Agatha Christie book: The Mysterious Affair at Styles. One of the only muggle books he owns.

You are already near to the end, pages to your right thinning within your grasp with every passing evening. Three evenings to be exact ever since he offered the only book you were allowed to read to pass the time. Magical books were out of the question, and you were understanding enough.

Theseus has to force himself to look away at the sudden realisation of his gazing towards you in the light of his embarrassment. His eyes flicker to the mess of parchments and documents laid across the surface of the table, attempting to suppress the sudden emergence of agitation towards the clutter. He decides to lay his focus on the letter in hand—the last letter from your brother. Jagged lines with every stroke of a letter, he imagines the tremble of your brother's fingers as he wrote to you from the front lines in Somme during the early days of October.

We live our days in a landscape of mud, not knowing when will be the last. I cannot recall what it is to have dry clothes, dry boots, or a dry place to rest.

A sentence that paints the brutality of war, shed of innocent blood in outrageous environments. Your brother’s description is detailed, specific, probably to distract himself from the bitterness of his circumstances. Yet, he doesn’t seem regretful. He was more in awe of what the war had become along with his imagination of what the Somme must have looked like in the summer before the war began.

It is proof that a simple letter can withstand the weight of a thousand men.

Theseus cannot help but be perplexed by the way the letter is structured, odd gaps between sentences and words. As if hiding a secret within. He has gone through the letter a hundred times, even repeatedly casting the Revelio charm, but nothing to no avail. Yet, he cannot shake off the feeling that causes his gut to twitch.

“Are you alright?”

Your voice is near and soft as it travels across the place. He feels the brush of your hand grasping the bend of the chair against his back as you manoeuvre to his side. A touch of warmth against his shoulder blades through the fabric of his linen shirt. His eyes flicker up to see you peering at the mess of his desk. You catch his eye and he clears his throat. “Yes, I’m quite alright.”

You hum, shifting to prop yourself against the edge of the desk, hands arranged on your lap. “You seem tense, I could sense it from the living room.” you smile, another hum of amusement. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He eyes you for a moment, his gaze lingering at the crinkle of your eyes and how they reflect the yellow hues of the candlelit by the edge of his desk. You seem to have been calm for the past few days in comparison to the first time he met you. Yet, as he watches you with pursed lips and in the process of thoughts, he notices the persistent worry flickering in your gaze. You still keep your distance as you should be, but is it your closeness or just human warmth that he craves?

It was then when Theseus knew you could never say no to you.

He finds himself shifting his fingers as he holds your brother’s letter, rotating it towards you.

“Tell me, does your brother always write like this?” He asks, index finger directed towards the odd line breaks between paragraphs.

He watches how the crease between your brows deepen as they furrow in deep thought or perhaps confusion. You reach for the letter, bringing it to level with your eyes.

You hum. “That is strange. ”

Theseus blinks. “Have you not noticed this before?”

An odd shift in your expression, eyes turning away from the letter within your grasp. They flicker to the ground, your lips curved downwards as you speak with a sense of hinted bitterness.

“I must admit, this is the first time I’m reading this.” You vaguely wave the letter in the air in a gesture directed to it. “I couldn’t bring myself to open the letter all those years ago.”

After a pause, he realises the situation he must have carelessly forced you in. He forgets to be cautious with you sometimes when having only spent so little time with you, but he feels like he has known you forever. It may be a natural trait of yours, but it seems you possess the ability to read him like an open book.

“I’m sorry.”

Moments pass. Then, a flicker of a small smile and deep breath. “Don’t be. I believe it’s time I finally read his last words to me.”

—

You fell asleep in the armchair by the fireplace, close to his desk. From bewildered and odd questions on the case to soft hums of different pitches and finally silence. Theseus had been rambling on about the details of the case and theories on the possible importance of your brother’s letter merely because you insisted although he really shouldn’t be.

Nothing was figured out about the odd paragraph breaks so far.

When silence was the only response to his sudden question to you, he turned and craned his neck to spot your shut eyes, head lopsided and leaning to your right with the letter within your loose grasp.

Theseus stretches his arm to gently prod your shoulder. No movement. No reaction. For a moment, a dread that you might be dead creeps into his mind. He prods you once again just to be sure. A hum followed by a sigh—Relief.

Now, what to do?

He doesn’t dare to wake you. You seem like the type to be resentful when woken up from a deep sleep. So, he carefully ambles to your room, pulls the blanket off your bed and winces as he does from the prominent dull pain in his lower back—hunching over scatters of papers for hours can never be good.

He finds you in the same position as before. Perfectly still, yet you still seem troubled. Perhaps, it’s the constant crease of your brows.

As he attentively arranges the blanket over you with care, he catches a whiff of a scent from you—Gardenias. Like the ones from the flower stall just down the block. A pleasant smell billows through the air as he strides past the stall from the muggle bakery across the way during the mornings of every Saturday. A fleeting moment of peace and perhaps freedom. A time for no responsibility whatsoever.

He leaves you and returns to his desk with a gentle creak of his chair, sparing one final glance to your sleeping figure, your hair perfectly catching the hues of the nearby dimming candlelight, a quarter left of melting wax.

Your scent seemed to have attached itself to the fabric of his shirt, lingering within his surroundings. It influences some sort of calmness in his once heavy chest and aching head.

Theseus decides he can only truly feel at peace when with you.

—

The morning sun peaks through the intricate patterns of the lace curtains. The rays seem to catch your once shut eyes, forcing them to peel open against the pouring light. You blink, blurry gaze adjusting to your surroundings as you stifle a quiet yawn. You recognise the wallpaper that lines the walls of the living room, realising you’re tucked in the Chesterfield you had settled in the night before and under the checkered blanket from the guest room.

You don’t remember that being there.

As you shift in your seat, an aching and dull pain shoots across the length of your back, forcing out a hiss from your pursed lips. Then, you see him, Theseus, sprawled on the settee with his legs stretched out to rest against the scrolled armrest and arms folded across his abdomen. An odd position to fall asleep within a settee that is certainly unsuitable for a man his size, legs practically hanging off the edge and neck crane in such a way you figured must be uncomfortable.

Still, you can’t help but notice the resemblance of the sight before you to a painting, crafted by the hands of a master. The gentle light perfectly carved shadows against the structure of his still expression and the way his locks seem to curl even more from worn off pomade.

Maybe, you’ll sketch him someday.

But for now, you’ll let your weary eyes linger on the sight of his figure in secret, memorising every curve and angle in hopes of conveying them through the strokes of your pencil within your grasp as you begin to drift back to sleep once more.

—

“Trouble sleeping?”

The voice startles you. Once a lone figure lingering by the kitchen table in the dark, your teary eyes were watching the way the nearly bare branches of the trees wave in the shallow wind. Hands gripping the edge of the countertop and by the sink, an empty teacup with a teabag yet to be brewed with boiled water is now left untouched. Another nightmare, nearly unbearable. You found yourself stumbling out of bed and into the kitchen, weary feet padding across the parquet while attempting to stifle your sobs. You needed to catch your breath.

At the sound of a familiar voice, you let your eyes drift to Theseus in his striped pyjamas with an almost empty glass of water within his grasp. You can barely make out his expression under the gentle glow of the moon and the nearby street light through the mist of the night. You merely hum, tugging your dressing gown closer to your chest as you attempt to blink away your evident tears.

You hear him shift closer to you, now standing by the other end of the table. “...Everything alright?”

You spare him a glance before shooting to your bare feet, a bitter laugh escapes your lips like a cough. “Why is it that you always see me crying whenever it’s dark?” You beam at him, it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You’re referring to the night of the attack, the night he met you.

Theseus carefully places the glass on the table, it clinks as he does, and settles to lean against the edge beside you. Shoulder brushing shoulder. Your heart flutters, wondering if your cheeks are as red as they are burning.

“Perhaps the night is meant for crying.”

Another hum, he turns to you to find the twitch of your lip. His head stays, watching the way your tear-stained cheek glints under some external source of light through the tiny kitchen window as you stare ahead, still watching the wave of the bare trees.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

A sigh. It’s heavy. You let yourself slouch even more as you blink towards the ceiling as if to conjure some sort of memory. “What is there to talk about?” You nearly snap, swallowing thickly, eyes trained solely on your feet once more as if in deep thought. You’re wondering if speaking would do any good in helping with your daily night terrors because you seem to have taken the role of a frazzled lady, laced with exhaustion from insomnia.

Yet, Theseus is patient with you. He listens, unlike the others in your life.

With a purse of your lips, you begin to speak in a mere whisper.

“December 1911, my mother went missing.” A pause, you can feel Theseus' eyes still on you, but you don’t turn to meet his gaze. “No goodbye, no letter. Nothing. The police were no help. My father so strongly believed she fled to America that he took it upon himself to travel across the Atlantic. He left in Spring, onboard the Titanic. We never saw him again.”

Another pause, a gentle yet trembling huff escapes your agape lips.

“It seems that I’ve been cursed. I keep losing the ones that are close to me.” You finally turn to Theseus to see a certain benignity in the way he looks at you. “I should have stopped my father from leaving. I should have known of my mother’s emerging loathe towards my father...I should have been there for my brother when he needed me most.”

Guilt. He hears it in your tone and the way your gestures weaken with every word spoken and every thought of your past. He understands what it means to be in your position, though not to the extent of agony you must have dealt with within eight years. Theseus has his mother, but when it comes to Newt, he barely visits or writes.

Merlin, it must have been years since he saw his brother.

“Guilt, grief and loss is...all part of living, but you mustn't blame yourself over matters you had no control over,” He says quietly and before he can even begin to think it through, he finds his hand clasped around the curve of your shoulder. “What has passed has passed. Time will only heal. Now, you must take care of yourself.“

You merely scoff through sniffles. “How can I care for myself when my brother is out there, involved in some supremacist and seditious group?”

Your expression doesn’t reflect his. Theseus is serious, a slight crease between his brows. “We’ll find your brother. I promise.”

Then, you smile. Soft and sweet. His hand suddenly feels heavy on your shoulder.

He must have realised it too, his touch so intimate, as he immediately yet hesitantly pulls it away for it to sit within his lap.

And just like that, it’s gone. The spark, the warmth. Whatever that was.

You spot the teacup by the sink, a reminder of your initial purpose. You turn to him, still holding that same smile. “Do you want some tea?” You ask, ambling towards the kettle, carefully pouring the gentle steaming water into the cup. Theseus spares his own nearly empty glass of water before turning to you once more, lips matching your smile. “I would like that very much.” He says with affection.

Then, a whiff of Gardenias as you sway in your stance, reaching for another cup from the rack. Vague and pleasant. He wonders if it’s your favourite.

“Do you like Gardenias?” Theseus blurts regretfully, yet you blink and spare him an amused look.

“Yes. I’m quite fond of them.”

Theseus simply nods and the conversation ends, leaving you to wonder over the possibilities and reasoning behind his sudden question, yet you don’t address it.

The two of you end up sipping tea, sitting at the dining table until the wee hours of the morning. Too awake to sleep and too tired to draw yourselves back to bed.

TAGLIST:

@crumpets-are-better-with-jam

[free-pool-trash]

happiness - peter maximoff

yay a new peter fic <3 i was feeling a little unmotivated for a few days (since our boy wasn’t in episode 8 at all :/) but im back 😎 although im back in school so i might be on and off for a while 😩✋🏻

!!!it’s not a songfic those lyrics at the start are just my inspo!!!

word count: 5k <3 😳

warnings: maybe swearing but i dont think so i cant remember, peter being sad, angst, but mostly fluff, WandaVision spoilers maybe??? I pretty much made up this plot so idk, endgame spoilers, reader was an avenger, kissing but it’s not graphic😽 probably some mistakes yk how it is

feedback is appreciated <3

tagging: @enchantedcruelsummer (should i make a peter maximoff taglist? let me know and I’ll do it)

masterlist

haunted by the look in my eyes that would’ve loved you for a lifetime

leave it all behind

& there is happiness

Loneliness had always been something that plagued him. That and a plethora of other negative emotions.

There wasn’t a day that went by where Peter Maximoff wasn’t made to feel like a loser. Admittedly, he’d never held himself to a high standard, he grew up thinking that he’d never fit in anywhere and eventually that thought mutated into a lifestyle as he began isolating himself from the world around him, either far too good or heartbreakingly not enough to be a part of that crowd.

He liked spending time with himself. Nobody else knew him the way he knew him, and still, he found nothing but an overwhelming hollow space where his deepest most important hopes, aspirations, dreams and self discoveries should have resided.

Peter had always put this feeling of exile down to the fact that he was a mutant, it was the most likely explanation, right?

It was only when he’d decided to join the X-Men that he finally came to the conclusion that maybe the rest of the world wasn’t the problem, nor was his mutation the problem, but that he himself was the problem. For even in a school full of people exactly like him he was still the same loser that he was in his mother’s basement.

And he was under no illusions that that was exactly what his teammates saw in him; nothing. No potential. Just a space holder to bring the numbers up.

Super speed was incredible. That’s how Peter acknowledged jobs well done, he praised his speed but never himself. He just saved Charles and Erik from a room full of armed guards? No that wasn’t him, that was simply his speed. He saved an entire mansion full of people from a potentially fatal explosion? Nothing special, Kurt probably could’ve done the same.

Forget all of the good deeds and saved lives because the bottom line of it all, to him at least, was that all he was good for was cheeky one liners and hopeless kleptomania.

His life took a turn for the worse when he found himself being mind controlled in an alternate universe. And even then, he was playing the part of someone that wasn’t him, the thought humbled him, reconnected him to his roots and reintroduced him to his life long philosophy that he’d never be anything more than a social pariah. Not even an alternate reality could accept him for who he was. There wasn’t a warm welcome and despite not knowing what was going on, the definition of “imposter” or the weirder, “recast”, still shot to kill.

He settled on the notion that he was an inter dimensional waste of space. At least in WestView he could be blissfully ignorant, let the real him be drowned mercilessly in favour of being an integral part of someone’s life- to feel important, even if it wasn’t real.

When WestView fell apart he was completely lost. In every sense of the word. In a new world with no way home and as it turned out, nobody was looking for him. Although he didn’t expect anyone to care, it still stung that nobody did. He always hoped that one day Erik would step up as a father figure for him, this; getting kidnapped and smuggled into a different dimension, seemed like the perfect moment for that epic father son moment, but it wouldn’t surprise Peter if his father has yet to notice his disappearance.

But then, seemingly out of nowhere, he came into contact with a beacon of hope. A guiding star that might possibly lead him to an existence consisting of something other than misery and self loathing.

It offered him a choice; return to being the self proclaimed loser he was known as or start fresh as someone new and mysterious, with first impressions yet to be made and conclusions about him yet to be drawn. Peter had known himself to be rash in the past, when it came to making decisions he had the tendency to act impulsively, never putting too much thought into how his decisions would affect his life in the long term. The choice before him now is no different, he knew exactly what he wanted going forward, however selfish the choice may have been, the second he realised it was an option his heart was set on it.

That previously mentioned beacon of hope arrived to him in the form of a girl, in the form of you. An ex-avenger and close friend of Wanda’s, you were hired by S.W.O.R.D to help them clean up the more ‘sensitive’ fallout that the fall of WestView brought about. Obviously, they were sticking you- the only other avenger with magik- on babysitting and rehabilitation rather than letting you go after your best friend who had gone completely off the rails. Having said that though, you didn’t want anyone else handling him.

You hadn’t watched WandaVision, nor were you even aware that any of it was going on until it had reached a boiling point and you got a call from Monica Rambeau, she’d begged you to come and wait on the edge of town while she went in and act as her eyes on the outside along with Jimmy Woo.

That’s where you stayed until the hex broke down.

As soon as the barrier came down the base you manned was overrun by an armada of terribly confused and distressed citizens, Monica and Wanda were not among them but in their places stumbled in Darcy and the man playing the role of Pietro.

Jimmy appointed himself to Darcy, who in all honesty seemed relatively unscathed by the situation while you made a beeline for the dirty blonde charading as your former, dead teammate.

Peter was, to put it simply, completely enthralled by you as soon as you’d strolled over to him and in the moment he’d put his almost magnetic attraction to you down to the fact that you were the first friendly face he’d seen upon breaking free of Agatha’s possession.

But one thing in particular struck him; you’d asked him his name. You hadn’t immediately assumed him to be some knock off Pietro, as everyone else had. You acknowledged that he had his own personal identity and despite how often he caught himself hating the person he was, he found that when it was torn away from him that he wanted it back. The simple question you posed gave him the opportunity to regain his identity.

“Peter. My name is Peter.” He answered you, almost unsure of himself and you found your interest in the man piqued even further.

He remembered with perfect clarity the way you’d offered him a grin, tilted your hand, extended your hand and said, “Well it’s nice to meet you, Peter. Come on, I’ll be your babysitter for the next while.” There was something about the way you’d laughed after saying the words and the slight, yet unmistakable, glint of mischief in your eyes that had him captivated from the get go.

With you came a whirlwind of new emotions. After only a few weeks of knowing you, Peter noticed he wasn’t as lonely as he had been back home. He didn’t hate himself half as much either, he wasn’t entirely free of self deprovative tendencies and maybe he never would be, but undoubtedly, he likes himself more in this world than he ever had in his last. He thanked you and your determination to make him “a functioning member of society” for that.

It didn’t feel belittling, the way you helped him. You hadn’t dragged him to your favourite mall every weekend just to taunt him about how he couldn’t stop himself from stealing something. Even the very first time, when he’d sped away from you and returned within a second adoring a pair of freshly stolen sunglasses. Your only reaction had been to laugh and casually place your hands on both sides of his face.

“At least remember to take the tag off next time, speedy.” You’d muttered, subtly pulling the tacky stickers off the arms of his shades. No, you weren’t dragging him sight seeing or forcing him to help you go clothes shopping because you thought he was a loser who needed reforming you were doing it because you were a true friend who wanted him to succeed.

The pair of you seemed like two peas in a pod. Which to be fair, you were. Peter Maximoff intrigued you in every sense of the word. He was new, quite literally other worldly, he was kind, he was funny, he was perfectly mischievous and completely wonderful.

What caught your eye the most was the way he held himself, as if he wasn’t entirely comfortable in his own skin. It became apparent to you that he lacked confidence with the phrases he usually tacked onto the ends of his sentences. When you’d invite him to hang out in the beginning his response would always be something along the lines of, “Sure. If you want me to.” But the excitable puppy dog eyes told you that he was dying for someone to want him to tag along some place.

There was a certain understanding between you. You were both more than accustomed with the harrowing feeling of being alone and even though you’d never exactly voiced those thoughts with each other, you couldn’t deny that his was a spirit kindred to your own and he felt it too.

Since the Avengers has disbanded, one of your best friends, Natasha, was dead and your other best friend, Wanda, was gone completely off the rails and the people chasing her wouldn’t let you anywhere near her or even attempt to help pull her out of her darkness. You were being kept as a wildcard in case they needed her taken down. Peter was no stranger to the feeling of being cast aside and so he quickly responded to your frustrations, and in doing so, forced himself out of his comfort zone to be there for you. To his complete shock though, you’d been so appreciative of his efforts.

You never failed to thank him for the little things he did for you, always complimenting his mutation when he’d use it and giving him the recognition he never received at home. The friendship he formed with you was so… two sided, again, something he wasn’t accustomed to before. It didn’t involve him giving everything he had to offer and receiving nothing in return, you matched his energy meticulously and never left him hanging.

In a series of firsts, he didn’t wonder whether or not you genuinely liked him, never feeling the need or want to question it as you’d left him with no reason to doubt.

As he walked around the mall with you now, his mind brought his attention back to the question you’d asked him rather casually a few nights ago. You were both lounging on your couch, watching some ridiculous reality show (a favourite of yours and Peter’s) when you’d turned your head to look at him, a thoughtful look on your face. “Do you think when S.W.O.R.D figures the technology out to crack into other realities, you’ll go back to yours?”

The question had taken him aback for a second, in all honesty, he hadn’t thought about going home, not when he was with you at least and considering he’d become your roommate about three weeks after he got out of WestView, the thought of returning to his old life had barely crossed his mind.

Being an ex-Avenger you were fairly well off, you lived alone in a two bedroom apartment in New York that you’d bought to be closer to Stark tower. Peter had nowhere to go and aside from having a spare room to offer you’d also been sort of lost in the current of the busy city with everyone you once loved in the area either dead, on the run or busy elsewhere.

While the question hadn’t crossed Peter’s mind, it had crossed yours on several occasions. He’d been staying with you for six months and the moment you realised that he was becoming one of the most important people in your life, the thought of him leaving you too weighed on your mind but at the end of the day you wanted him to feel happy. He deserved to feel happy and if going back to his reality brought him that happiness then you’d support him.

“Dunno,” he’d replied, turning to face you, chucking a handful of popcorn at you when you looked incredulous at his response, “To be honest I haven’t really thought about it, m’way too busy babysitting you anyway.” He joked, effortlessly dodging the few pieces of popcorn you attempted to throw at him.

For the last few nights, the question haunted him, but it wasn’t just the question that was bothering him. You were at the forefront of his mind as he replayed the past six months of his life which also happened to be the best six months of his life. WestView put him through hell but coming out the other side of it and meeting you felt like heaven.

He weighed up the pros and cons of returning to his native timeline. The cons: he’d have to leave you behind, he’d go back to being the loser who nobody took seriously, his talents would be downplayed and disregarded and he’d inevitably end up revisiting his lifestyle of solitude. Then there was the pros: he’d get to reunite with his pac man machine. He couldn’t manage to think up anything else.

If he stayed he’d have everything he ever wanted and needed. You’d be there and he knew you always would be, besides he couldn’t leave you knowing that you needed him. If he left who would wake you up when you had night terrors about the catastrophe that your reality was still recovering from? There would be nobody there to comfort you when you woke up from the nightmares, reliving the deaths of Natasha, Tony or Vision and the experience of being snapped out of existence? If he wasn’t there to make you laugh when you were about to cry then who would be? In his heart of hearts he knew you had a huge support system at your disposal, he’d met most of them. Even though he was well aware that Sam visited you as often as he could, that Bucky wrote you letters on a monthly basis and sometimes tagged along with Sam on his visits, that Stephen Strange appeared in your apartment whenever the urge struck him, that the literal god of thunder invited you out for beer whenever he was visiting Earth, that the little spider-kid, also named Peter, swung by your apartment at least once a week to tell you all about school and his good deeds. Despite knowing all of this and knowing all of these people loved you dearly, Peter wanted to be your main source of support, he didn’t want to be someone who came and went, who’d love you then leave you. He wanted to be with you through anything and everything and the feeling that you’d love him for a lifetime had him satisfied with the decision he was about to make.

If leaving his old life meant he could stay here, with you, and experience happiness for more than a fleeting moment then he’d simply; leave it all behind.

“I’ve been thinking about what you asked me the other night.” He spoke through a mouthful of curly fries. You were sitting in the food court of the mall when he decided to let you in on his desire to stay with you indefinitely.

You raised your eyebrow, “You? Putting thought into an answer? Peter, I think I’m starting to become a bad influence on you.” You told him teasingly, taking a long sip of your drink as he rolled his eyes humorously.

“You’re a terrible influence which is exactly why I’ve decided to stay here and put you on the straight and narrow.” The glee you felt at his statement was undeniable, your eyes lit up and your lips curled upwards.

“You’re staying? Really staying?” Your smile was contagious, Peter’s face now painted with a wide grin as he nodded his head.

In a moment of weakness he frantically added, “Y’know only if you want me to though. If you don’t that’s completely cool.” He rushed through the words, feeling more embarrassed when the fond look on your face never faded.

“Of course I want you to stay. You mean a lot to me.” You reassured him, a gentle smile on your lips as you reached across the metal table, intertwining your fingers with his.

Peter squeezed your hand gratefully, holding it in his grasp securely and allowing his smile to return to his face, “I know. You mean a lot to me too.” It was somewhat of an understatement, he was starting to understand that you didn’t just mean a lot, but that you meant everything.

His resolution lifted a huge weight off your shoulders that you wouldn’t be losing yet another best friend. You were glad he’d be with you when everything blew over with Wanda, the two of them definitely had the potential to develop a beautiful sibling relationship and they both deserved that. Of course, Peter would never replace Pietro and having known them both it was obvious just how different the two men were, the only thing they had in common being their powers and last name. Still, he and Wanda would still be able to work on it. He didn’t hate her after WestView and you knew Wanda well enough to know that she was kind hearted and she’d be more than willing to give him a chance. When she eventually comes back to her senses, that it.

As the months went on, life with you and Peter seemed to only get better. You never stopped laughing, your nightmares died down and Peter had taken on a whole new lease of life. Yourself and Peter were the perfect example of meeting the right person at the right time, you balanced each other out and accentuated the other’s good qualities.

Peter could now say with complete confidence that he was happy and what’s more is that he was finally sure that he was making someone happy.

Up until nearly eleven months of living together your relationship had been purely platonic, save for the constant flirting but flirtation pretty much ran in yours and Peter’s blood. Peter wasn’t going to lie to himself, he’d fallen for you the second you’d peeled the security tags off his stolen sunglasses.

You, on the other hand, had been fighting with yourself because yes, you love Peter but you couldn’t have told him when there was the possibility he’d eventually leave and now so much time has passed and you’ve got such a good thing going you didn’t have it in you to ruin it.

However, all of that changed when your original Maximoff best friend came knocking on your door.

Wanda was on the run. She’d caused an amazing amount of chaos but Stephen Strange and S.W.O.R.D were hot on her trail and now she needed a place to lay low with the twins. She figured there was no place more reliable to go than to the always open arms of her best friend, who conveniently had a divinity for earth magik and could muster up a protective barrier without raising suspicions. And that’s exactly where she found herself; outside your door.

You’d been chasing Peter around the apartment when you heard the knock on the door. Peter was on the opposite end of the kitchen to you, using the bar as a shield from you. “You better get that.”

“Oh you’d like that wouldn’t you?” You glared as you spoke, it was his own fault really. What sort of idiot jumpscares a witch while she’s mid-meditation? He’d frightened you so badly you accidentally blasted a ball of your signature green energy and ruined your favourite couch throw pillow. When you were ready to pounce on the scared speedster the knocks sounded again, more frantic this time.

With one last glare towards Peter you stomped towards the door. Your anger melted away completely when you saw her. Her hood was up and she looked completely exhausted, two small hooded little boys by her side.

“Wanda…” You breathed out, relief flooding your system at the sight of her alive. She didn’t get a chance to speak before your arms were pulling her against you tightly, hugging her as if your life depended on it. Wanda returned in your embrace, allowing herself to relax for the first time in nearly a year, she sniffled against your shoulder, holding back tears as she realised how much she’d truly missed you.

Billy and Tommy watched in confusion as their mother cried into your shoulder. They didn’t know who you were, all their mother had told them was that they were going somewhere safe.

It was the yell of one of the boys that caused you and Wanda to separate, “Uncle P!” With that you felt a familiar rush of air across your leg but instead of Peter appearing one of the kids was gone.

You shared a perplexed look with Wanda, although your confusion was for different reasons.

“Hey hell raisers!” Peter responded, catching the mini speedster who all but threw himself at him barely regaining his balance before the other child had flung himself into the hug.

“Wanda? Those two… are they...?” You started, at a loss for words Wanda cut you off quietly, her tone as disbelieving as yours.

“My children? Yes. Is that…?” You nodded your head numbly, anticipating the end of her question.

“Your fake brother? Yeah.” Quickly, you realised you and a wanted woman catching up with the door wide open wasn’t ideal and you ushered Wanda inside, shutting the door when she walked in.

“Hey.” Peter greeted her simply, as if he hadn’t been used as a meat puppet in her altered reality. It wasn’t in his nature to hold any grudges.

“Hi?” Wanda replied, her voice still twinged with confusion.

“Peter, will you keep an eye on the kids for a bit? Wanda and I have some catching up to do.” You asked him with a nervous laugh, just thankful that Wanda was too tired to argue with your suggestion.

Peter ruffled the boys’ hair and gave you a grin, “Only if you stop trying to kill me.”

You rolled your eyes as you began to lead Wanda into your bedroom, “You’re on probation, jerk.” You called over your shoulder.

Once you were securely in your bedroom, the door locked and sitting comfortably you fixed Wanda with an amused look, “I’d ask you what’s new but I’m not sure I even wanna know.”

Wanda gave you a sad smile while she shook her head, “No, you probably don’t. I will tell you tomorrow, I don’t want to get into it tonight. I’m so tired.” She admitted, her voice overcome with sadness.

“I’ll pump up the air mattress and you and the boys can sleep in here for however long you need. I’d offer you the spare room but that’s where Peter’s been staying and I don’t think empty food containers are the kind of decor you’d be into.” Wanda nodded, squeezing your hand gratefully.

“So his name is Peter?” She asked, curious about the man Agatha had used to trick her in WestView.

You nodded in confirmation, “Yeah. Peter Maximoff, actually.”

Wanda’s brows came to a furrow at that, “Maximoff? So he’s a relation?”

“Yes and no. Peter is from a different reality but he’s still a Maximoff and he’s got super speed. So, and this is just my theory, while you’re not directly related he could still be your brother- if you wanted him to.” You explained, as gently as you could, not trying to push her too far but to nudge the idea in her direction.

Wanda, to your surprise, didn't seem to hate the suggestion, “What is he like?”

A genuine smile made it onto your face then, as you shot into your description of your roommate, “He’s caring, funny, a little bit of a kleptomaniac but he’s working on it. He’s understanding and moronically selfless, moronic in the sense that he doesn’t even realise he’s being selfless. Huge pain in the ass too.” Wanda had a soft smile on her face by the time you’d finished.

“You like him.” Was all she said and you let out a laugh in disbelief, standing up and opening the door.

“Go grab a shower. I’ll have Peter blow up the air mattress while I go introduce myself to my god sons.”

“I thought you’d at least wait until I actually asked you.” Wanda laughed as you walked out of the room.

Things moved fairly quickly after that. As promised you introduced yourself to Billy and Tommy as their god mother, which they seemed more than thrilled about and you assumed that excitement had to do with whatever description of you Peter had given them. Wanda and the twins were all cleaned and fed and had all but collapsed into bed, foregoing the air mattress and huddling together in your double bed instead.

“Where are you sleeping, mother Teresa?” Peter teased as he noticed your eyes drooping where you stood.

“On the couch probably. Or the air mattress.” You mumbled, cutting yourself off with a yawn.

Peter, unimpressed with your options, scoffed, “No way. Come on, you can bunk with me.”

Much like Wanda, you were too tired to argue and you let Peter pull you to his, surprisingly clean, room by the hand.

You both crawled into the bed, lying close together despite the amount of empty space on the mattress.

“How are you feeling about all of this?” Your soft voice broke through the silence and Peter turned his head to look at you.

“About Wanda?” You nodded your head, watching him intently as he rolled onto his side, facing you more comfortably.

Peter shrugged lightly, “I’m feeling ok. Just glad the twins still see me as their cool uncle.” You let out a small laugh at his response.

“Wanda was asking about you. Seemed interested in getting to know the real you.” You informed him, your heartwarming as you watched a hopeful look fall across his face.

A lull settled over the room once again and Peter caught himself staring at you. His eyes drifted over every visible part of you, reminding him of most of the points on his pros list for staying in your universe; your eyes, your lashes, your nose, your lips, you.

“What’re you thinking about?” The sound of your tired voice pulled him out of his thoughts and ultimately pushed him to bite the bullet and tell you how he’s feeling. With you curled up beside him, in his bed, fighting sleep just to stay in his company for as long as you could; he knew there would be no better time.

“Just about how happy I am to be here with you.” He answered you honestly, the butterflies in both of your stomachs fluttering in sync at his words.

You trailed a hand under the duvet and onto the bedsheets between your bodies, feeling around until you found his hand and gently intertwined your fingers. “I’m happy you decided to stay.”

“What you’ve all gone through in this timeline sucks- don’t get me wrong-“ Peter started sincerely, scooting closer to you and dropping his head back down on the edge of your pillow, leaving the pair of you practically nose to nose as he went on.

“And I hate that Wanda had to go through so much… but I’m really glad that it led me to you.” Peter swore in that moment, right after the confession left his mouth, that he could die right now and be completely content knowing that you now knew how he felt.

His heart stopped, and he thought that maybe he was about to die, when you gave him the softest, sweetest smile he’d ever been on the receiving end of and whispered, “I feel the same.”

Time moved in slow motion as he felt you moving your intertwined hands towards your lips, your lips pressed gently against the back of Peter’s hand before you brought them to rest against your chest.

It was a fact to say that Peter Maximoff had never felt intimacy quite like this before. But, experiencing it now, with you, led him to wonder how he’d ever survived without it. He wasn’t sure whether it was natural to crave more, especially when the affection you were showing him was so gentle, but he didn’t care as he let the impulsive side of him take over.

Not sparing another word, Peter closed the small distance between your lips and his. His free hand cupped your jaw while yours wasted no time in getting tangled in his silver hair.

His lips moved softly and surprisingly slowly over yours and he savoured the feeling of your hand holding his while your other got lost in his hair, your body pressed up against him, the way your jaw moved against his palm as you reciprocated the movement of his lips and the taste of your lips, promising himself he’d never let the memory slip from his mind for as long as he lived.

With complete clarity, Peter could say he had felt true, genuine happiness and he had no doubt in his mind that there was absolutely nothing Charles, Hank, Scott or anyone else from his original timeline could say to make him leave this happiness behind. Because in the process of forgetting his old life, he couldn’t deny that he has undoubtedly found himself in the position of a man who had so much more to live for.

[chrisevansjellybeans]

Ransom x fem!Reader

Warnings: none (yet) some swearing

Part One

You’ve never wanted to punch somebody in the face so bad until you met Ransom Drysdale. The smug, arrogant, jerk-face had been a thorn in your side since grade school. You both grew up in the Boston area, your parents sending you to the same private schools all the way through high school. You had run in similar crowds but no matter how much your mutual friends tried to get the two of you to get along you never could. For good reason though.

Your family owned and operated Cloak and Dagger Publishing, the direct rival of Ransom’s family’s publishing house, Blood Like Wine. Unlike you and Ransom, your families liked to keep the rivalry in business and not in life. Your father, Jackson Y/L/N and Harlan Thrombey were actually great friends who just liked to rib each other when it came to business, but were proud of the other’s success regardless.

But for some reason you and Ransom could never get to that level of friendship. And you weren’t in any rush to fix that.

Especially when he was pulling shit like this.

You groaned as you opened the door to your office only to see the smirking son of a bitch sitting in your chair, feet propped up on the desk and your favorite fountain pen twirling between his fingers.

“Maria, you’re fired.” You joked to your assistant who nervously looked at you from her desk right outside your door.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N! He just-”

“It’s fine. I know.” You sighed before walking fully into your office, letting the door close behind you.

“Good morning, honey.” Ransom’s voice was sickly sweet.

“Is it?” You snapped. You walked around your desk and pushed his feet off. “Get up.”

“You’re not being very kind to your guest, Y/N. What would dear daddy say about your terrible manners?” Ransom teased but stood up nonetheless. You glared up at him as he stood to his full height.

“Guests are usually wanted and invited, Ransom. Neither of which you are.”

“Honey, you hurt me.” Ransom feigned pain as he gripped his chest. You wanted to stomp your expensive Manolo Blahniks on his toes every time he called you that. It started your junior year of high school and maybe if it was anyone else you would have thought it was a term of endearment but he said it in such a condescending tone you knew it was anything but.

“What do you want, Drysdale?” You let out an exasperated breath.

“Is it so hard to believe that I just wanted to visit an old friend?”

“Ransom, please. Unlike some people I actually have work to do.” You moved around him and sat down, pulling out your laptop. You looked up at him as he watched you with intense blue eyes that made your stomach flutter, annoyingly so.

“I’m actually here for business and not pleasure, honey.” He smirked as he sat down at the chair across from you. “I’m here to formally and personally invite you to Bleeding Hearts.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Bleeding Hearts was the Thrombey annual charity gala that they hosted at Harlan’s expansive, hidden mansion. Your parents had been going every year since Harlan first hosted it and you had started going about five years ago. You would never tell Ransom, but you loved Bleeding Hearts. It gave you an excuse to wear a beautiful ball gown-albeit rented-and to feel like a beautiful princess like the ones you had read about growing up. Harlan always hired a full orchestra to play the most beautiful classical pieces throughout the night and it was like stepping into a time machine. You didn’t understand why Ransom had to come all the way down to your office just to invite you to something that you were already going to.

“I’ve already had Maria send in my RSVP and donation, Ransom. So thank you for the courtesy, but it really wasn’t needed.” You rubbed at your temples, a tension headache now forming from all this ‘excitement’ so early in the morning. And before you’ve even had a sip of your coffee.

“I know. And you gave a nice amount this year. Did daddy finally up your monthly allowance?” He smirked.

Just one punch. Just one and then I’ll be satisfied. Technically he’s trespassing, it could be called self defense.

“Goodbye, Ransom.” You blocked him out as you opened your email and began typing away. You got about two sentences out before you felt your laptop being shut against your hands.

“I wasn’t done.” Ransom whispered, you didn’t realize how close he was until you looked up. He was now leaning over your desk, one hand on your laptop and one hand on the edge of the desk closest to you.

“Shame.”

“I’m here to ask if you wanted to come...as my date.” You snorted out a laugh and laughed even harder as a look of annoyance crossed over his face. He stood up and straightened out his shirt almost nervously.

“God, you’re funny. Now please leave. You’ve already wasted so much of my time with this little joke.” You rolled your eyes as you opened your laptop again.

“I wasn’t kidding, Y/N.” His words were sharp and his eyes blazing.

“Neither was I. Get out of my office, Ransom. Or I will call security.” You glared right back at him.

Ransom looked like he was about to say something but decided against it. He tapped his fingers against your desk and gave you a mock salute.

“See ya around, honey.”

“Close the door on your way out.” You muttered.

You clenched your fists as he left your office, leaving your door wide open. You could hear him laughing his ass all the way down the hall.

Damn you, Ransom Drysdale.

“Y/N, I am so sorry. He just kind of walked in.” Maria rushed into your office, almost tripping over her far too high heels.

“Ria, it’s fine. I know how he is.” You waved her off, giving her a sympathetic smile. “Please, don’t worry about it.”

“Okay…” she said nervously. When you gave her another reassuring smile she relaxed her shoulders. “I have to say though, he is really sexy.”

“Maria.” You sighed. “Get out.”

“Sorry.” She squeaked before exiting your office, closing the door fully.

You leaned back in your chair and let out a long breath. How had today already been the longest day and it wasn’t even nine?

“Good afternoon, sweetheart.”

“Good afternoon, dad.” You smiled as your father snuck his way into your office.

You and your dad had always been close. When you were younger he called you his “little shadow” because you loved to follow him around throughout his day. You would sit in on meetings and you loved when he would let you pretend to lead the team briefings in the morning. It was only natural that you would follow in his footsteps and work for Cloak and Dagger.

Your father always pushed you to be your best. He didn’t let you take shortcuts to get where you were today in the company. You worked your way up and proved your worth and made your father proud.

“What’s this I hear of Ransom Drysdale stopping in this morning?” He sat down across from you.

You rolled your eyes. “Because he doesn’t have anything better to do than irritate me.”

Your father laughed as he slid in his glasses up to the top of his head and then pinched the bridge of his nose. “You two have been fighting like cats and dogs since you were kids. Will this feud between the two of you ever end? And can it be soon? I made a bet with Harlan that you two would finally stop by the time you were twenty-five.”

“Glad to see that my torture has been amusement for you and your little buddy.”

“Just teasing, sugar plum.”

“Please, let’s talk about anything else besides Ransom Drysdale. I’m begging you.” You gave him a warning look over the top of your computer.

“Fine by me.” He clapped his hands together and leaned forward. “How’s it going with Brooke Archer? Has she committed to C&D yet?”

Brooke Archer was an upcoming mystery novelist. Critics called her “the Agatha Cristie of our time” and rightfully so. You had read her first two novels and finished them within a day, completely entranced by her style of writing that had you guessing till the end. She was notoriously self-publishing but now that her books were blowing up she had finally made the decision to sign with a major publishing house. And your father had tasked you with landing her.

“I have a lunch meeting with her tomorrow. I think this could be the closing meeting.” You said confidently.

“Good. I’m proud of you, sugar plum.” He tapped his fingers on your desk. “And please text your mother back. She’s freaking out over what to make for dinner tonight.”

Confused, you pulled your phone out of your bag. You sighed when you saw that you had thirteen missed texts from your lovable but definitely eccentric mother.

“You’d think she’d know what I like by now.” You joked.

“What can I say, she’s a perfectionist.” You dad laughed before saying goodbye and exiting your office.

As you were typing out a response your phone dinged with a new message.

I hope you’re thinking about my proposal from earlier. Wasn’t kidding around this time honey.

Your thumbs hovered over the screen. How the hell had Ransom even gotten your number?

And like I said earlier, neither was I. The answer is no.

He responded only seconds later:

No ugly colors, don’t want to clash with my suit.

You had to give it to him, the man had tenacity.

You’re annoying.

Ransom only responded with a winky face. You shook your head as you exited his chat and went back to responding to your mother, barely noticing the smile that was covering your face thinking of that annoyingly handsome pain in your ass.

[theleagueof13]

I Don’t Really... Like Agatha? Sorry. This will be explained, I promise. I do like her, just in a different way.

This is going to be super controversial, I know it. 

Surprisingly, this started in Book 1. 

My first thought when I was introduced to Agatha was: I would not be friends with her. 

Like, okay, you’re goth and edgy and ugly and different. That’s cool. But, 

Let Sophie Go. 

Clearly, Sophie wants to become a princess and have a fairytale. That’s all she’s ever dreamed of, it’s in the first chapter. And Agatha wants a normal life in Gavaldon, which is understandable. 

So, she tries to “save” Sophie from being taken by the School Master. But the way I see it, Agatha is clinging on to Sophie because she’s the only friend that she’ll ever have, and if she leaves, Agatha will have nothing. Agatha even SAYS that Sophie is the only one who makes her feel accepted. 

This turns out to be a theme for the rest of the plot: Agatha wants her old life back with her friend. She even achieves that at the end, kind of. I don’t have a problem with that, you know? However, it’s not like Sophie was the darling of Gavaldon and her popularity transfers to Agatha in their friendship. Radley points out that Sophie is hanging out with a witch, so Agatha still has the same reputation. 

So, Agatha just plans on living the rest of her life as an outcast? Sophie makes her FEEL normal. She’s not actually normal in Gavaldon terms. In fact, she’d probably be scapegoated for a famine or wildfire or kidnapping the children, and then sentenced to death by The Elders. 

When she gets to SGE, she wants to return home... for WHAT? Sure, the students at School for Good tease you (and this time, you don’t have Sophie to back you up), and the teachers don’t have much faith in you.  I know what it feels like to be alone and doubted by everyone. Still though, this is a magical school, and Agatha can learn magic. Literally who would turn that down? Granted, Ever Girl classes are about beauty and grace, two things Agatha would fail in, but she is so smart.  If she focused on magic and spells and put her mind to it, she could easily become powerful. Just talk to Dovey, talk to August Sader, ask them about improving your skills beyond posture or smiling (also this could’ve been an amazing opportunity for Agatha to have scenes with her so-called mentors, but no, she speaks two words to them, they wink at her knowingly and when they die, we’re supposed to cry? Bullshit.) 

 Agatha has shown that she’s badass already. Why not become more powerful and prove the Ever Girls wrong? Instead, she wants Sophie to kiss Tedros so they can resume their friendship in Gavaldon. 

By the way, neither girl LIKES their school. That’s why Sophie was convinced to go to the School Master. She was like, damn, if we can’t switch schools and I can’t go to the Snow Ball, what’s the point? Fine, I’ll settle for Agatha. 

I don’t know, I think Agatha was selfish in holding back Sophie. Just let her flirt with Tedros, what’s so hard about that? Oh, you feel inadequate because you’ve lost Sophie’s attention? Grow a backbone (yes, I know that’s the point of the book). 

 Anyways, if you only saw through Sophie in the beginning, you would have known that the faster Sophie chases after her fairytale, the faster she’ll fail and put it to rest (after a world-ending tantrum, but it would’ve cut the page count in half. So I don’t need to read this much boy drama). 

The Glow Up

Everyone raves about this damn scene. Agatha becomes confident, yay! Inspiring to young girls everywhere. That’s established. Let’s move on. 

SGE is about subverting expectations, appearances vs reality, friends vs love. We know that. Except Agatha is just... 

When Agatha became “pretty”, and then realized her inner beauty shines past her looks, I thought she would KNOCK BITCHES DOWN. I was rooting for her. I thought she’d finally put Sophie in her place. 

This was destroyed when Agatha became like the Ever Girls she hated for the first part of the book. She develops a crush on Tedros, which was the defining feature of the Ever Girls: liking boys. Nothing wrong with that, it was just out of place. I understand that Tedros might have caught feelings after Agatha saves his life, that’s a trope we’re familiar with and it makes sense. 

What doesn't, is that Agatha reciprocates? She’s been grossed out by boys the whole book, what makes Tedros different? Literally what switch flipped in her brain. That she’s worthy of love? Girl, if you're “confident” now and suddenly dating a boy that you never genuinely got to know... Also, was Tagatha even considered a relationship? They don’t hang out until TLEA. I feel like Agatha was just excited to have a guy like her for once. They call each other “true love” based on what? We BEEN KNEW Tedros is dumb (okay, you picked her in all the challenges, that’s not real proof), and Agatha, do you even know his last name? 

^ if anyone’s watched the Witcher, Yennefer is very similar to Agatha and she gains her physical beauty after she’s finished with her training as a mage. Also, Yennefer is dating a hot guy with authority WHILE she’s still ugly. Love that for her. (This situation is different because Yennefer is morally grey, maybe evil, but I like this arc better than Agatha’s).

Lesbian Agatha? Simp Agatha?  What’s going on??

This started when I noticed on Goodreads that some people genuinely thought Agatha was lesbian. (Me being me, this went over my head).  

Like, okay I get it, Agatha MIGHT be a simp for Sophie. I do kinda get it. 

Throughout the book, Agatha repeatedly is there for Sophie even when Sophie treats her like shit (I don’t have to explain each example, right? We been knew.)

What stands out to me most was when 1. she literally turned into a cockroach and stayed up all night for weeks to help Sophie study 2. cheated and guided her in the Trial By Tale  (risking her life several times in the process). 

That wasn’t because she had a Good heart (though it contributed). It was because Agatha wanted to protect Sophie. 

The only reason I didn’t include all the times Agatha helped Sophie make Tedros fall in love with her was because she thought that Sophie’s kiss would send them back home, so that was theoretically for her own benefit (although we know that Sophie was just using Agatha). 

Also, I distinctly remember Sophie having a Regina George moment with Agatha where she was like “why are you so obsessed with me?!”. Because Agatha was being all “😔👉🏻👈🏻 we’re friends” and Sophie was like GET YOUR OWN LIFE YOU’RE RUINING MINE!!! 

Nitpicky Shit

This is irrelevant, when you come for me don’t mention this part because I’m not all that pressed. 

Agatha comes off as Not Like Other Girls. She says that everyone at School for Good are stupid/shallow RIGHT OFF THE BAT. Obviously Beatrix didn’t make a good impression, but come on. 

She hates that all the girls are obsessed with boys and looks. Just because you’re not interested doesn’t mean others can’t be. It came up several times and I was so irritated. Not to mention that Sophie was basically a carbon copy of Beatrix except that she’s nice to her. 

This is extremely SJW of me but I had to say it. Sophie is a typical bratty blonde. Agatha is said to be hideous, then finds out she was beautiful all along. I felt like this would’ve been better if Agatha had Real unconventional features. 

She’s tall, skinny and pale with big eyes. That is a textbook runway model and fits Eurocentric beauty standards. It’s not like making Agatha fat, short, and dark-skinned with acne is going to enhance the book, although it would be so, so nice.  

Might be editing this later on! I don’t know!

Disclaimer: Agatha’s still a good character, I still like reading about her. 

[rocket-remmy]

What’s New, Scooby-Doo?|| Agatha, Grace, Julie and Remmy

TIMING: Current PARTIES: @detective-keen, @silveraccent, @purelikeviolence, and @whatsin-yourhead SUMMARY: An old treasure map, four meddling (not) teens, and a dog. What could go wrong?

Remmy couldn’t help but feel a tad anxious as the bus pulled up to the Commons drop-off. The map was stuffed in their bag, as well as a bunch of different things people might need on a trek through the woods. Water bottles, snacks, a blanket, a flashlight, flares, extra shoes, a jacket, and, stuffed way at the bottom, a handgun. They shuffled off the bus inside a crowd of people, before breaking away and heading towards the fountain, where they’d all agreed to meet up. Moose by their side helped quell some of the fear, but it was still there. It was sort of always there, now. The distinct thought that maybe gathering up a bunch of people they didn’t know to go on a wild goose chase was a bad idea came up, but Remmy pocketed it, remembering that Julie was going to be there, too. And even though they hadn’t hung out much lately, Julie had defended them without even really knowing them the first time they’d hung out together, and the thought of her being there made their relief almost palpable. They sat down on the ledge of the fountain and dug through their bag for the map, unfolding it to reveal the contents. It looked like whatever it was was around the cliffs near some sort of peak or drop-off, but Remmy was no genius at reading maps, or having a sense of direction. When they looked up, they saw a figure heading towards them, and though their stomach clenched at first, they grit through the anxious feeling and put up a smile. This was going to be a good day, they’d make sure of it.

 Grace hadn’t been too sure what she was doing when she had agreed to go on a literal treasure hunt, especially with people who she didn’t know. It was odd, the amount of times that she had broken down her own barriers for the sake of letting other people in-- even if it was held at surface value. Grace checked her backpack 3 times before heading out the door, and even then, she wasn’t quite sure if she had everything. Still, it wouldn’t do her any good to keep checking, and so she forced herself out of the entrance of the apartment building, her legs having felt like jelly the entire walk to her car. The drive was short, and Grace was thankful-- Portland wasn’t large, not by usual city standards, but White Crest felt smaller and smaller every time she ventured out. After finding a place to park in the area that she had agreed to meet Remmy and the rest of the individuals who had wanted to go on the trip, she surveyed the area, hand held over her eyes. Once she spotted somebody who looked familiar, attached to a dog she had been made aware of, Grace held up her hand to wave, heading over to them. “Hey,” Grace said, trying to keep her gaze from going back to the dog every five seconds. “I’m Grace-- I agreed to go on on this thing with you, I mean the treasure hunt--” she laughed, moving her hand to push the hair out of her eyes. It was strange, as Grace had come across individuals in White Crest so far that were either normal in terms of emotions, or dulled. Now, she felt nothing. Maybe Remmy was good at hiding whatever it was they felt. “It’s nice to formally meet you--” Grace cringed at her words, but before she could finish her sentence, somebody else had walked up. 

 Well, this wasn’t milkshakes but Julie supposed going on a treasure hunt with Remmy would at the very least be entertaining. It’d been too long since she saw her buddy so she jumped at the first chance she got. It’s not like she had anything better to do with her time anyway. Although she was curious as to what other people had agreed on this hunt - maybe some more of Remmy’s friends? Julie was sure Remmy had plenty of other friends, they were just that kind of person. Nonetheless, they headed toward the meet point shortly after waking up. It was a little earlier than Julie would have preferred to be woken up but it was fine. Better to wake up and have something to do then to wake up and have nothing to do. Julie was doubtful that the treasure map would lead to anything truly… treasurable but she was interested in finding out what it led to, even if it might be a dead end. There was little thought of the safety of the whole situation (going out to explore unknown parts of the town) because Julie rarely felt her safety in danger. If there was one thing she was good at, it was being able to get out of tricky situations with herself intact. As she came closer she easily spotted Remmy with their mutt - her eyes narrowed at the sight that Remmy had brought Moose. A dog. But she knew he was trained and so he was considerably more tolerable than most dogs. “Sup, fuckers.” She greeted as she hopped closer to them. She smiled at Remmy before turning to the stranger, her smile dropping as she inspected them. “Is this everyone?”

 Agatha, while she was convinced that there were no such things as treasure maps, had decided that she would tag along, and traded her brogues for a pair of trekking shoes. She had packed a backpack with snacks, water, a first aid kit, a flashlight, a survival blanket, a map of the town and a compass. She left her bicycle tied to a lamppost with her bike lock and approached a group of three who seemed to be waiting for her. Well, arriving last was not really what she had planned. Waving cheerfully at the group, she smiled at the trio, then glanced down at the service dog with an even bigger smile. Focus. “Hey, I’m Agatha,” she introduced herself, still radiating with positive energy. “Were we waiting for more people?” She had a look at her watch, and figured that she was probably the last. She sat down on the ledge to have a look at the map Remmy was holding. “Okay, I was a bit suspicious, not gonna lie, but this does look like a treasure map.” And it looked old too. She wondered if they knew when it dated back to. “Where did you get it?!”

 The first person to arrive introduced herself as Grace, and Remmy was in the middle of saying hi when a familiar face caught their eye. “Hey! Hi!” they said, a bit excitedly. “It’s nice to meet you, Grace! Um-- like, formally. Or uh-- for real? Yeah! Hi.” Nerves buzzing just beneath their skin, they waved at Julie, giving a low chuckle at her. “Hey, Julie. Um-- I think we’re waiting for one more, the only person who said she can actually uh...read maps. So, we should probably wait for her.” They gave a sheepish grin, looking between the two. “Oh, uh-- Grace, Julie,” they said, pointing from the new comer to Julie, “Julie, Grace.” No that they knew Grace all too well, but from their conversation online, Remmy felt like they could be friends. They hoped nothing strange would happen here and scare Grace away. They just wanted a nice, normal trek through town. Using a treasure map. From a pie contest. Hmm.

 The last person to approach looked a bit older than the others, but her smile was all the same and the friendly greeting helped calm Remmy’s nerves. Moose watched all three of the newcomers arrive with practiced patience, his tongue hanging out as he panted quietly. “Welcome! Uh-- I think this is about it, huh?” They held the map out to Agatha. “I’m Remmy. The map bearer. I’m...not really good at this, but I think it says we have to head towards Dark Score Lake and uhh...a cemetery near there? There’s something marked there, right?”

 Grace looked at the new arrival, quick to be named as Julie. She didn’t miss the way that the woman looked at her with reproach, but instead of pointing it out, Grace smiled as Remmy introduced her. “I’m Grace.” Hadn’t Remmy just said that? She couldn’t get a read on Julie, but didn’t have time to sit on it too much, because another figure was bounding towards them. Grace was glad for the interruption. She despised small talk. Grace had gotten into the habit of not bothering to look at somebody’s body language, mostly because she almost always knew what emotions they were cycling through, but as she looked at Remmy, she picked up the telltale signs of nervousness-- not that she could feel any. It was replaced quickly by Agatha’s bouncing and bubbly manner. The difference was astounding and left Grace to reach up and press her index finger against her temple. “A cemetery?” Grace asked, an eyebrow raised. “Sounds like this is going to take us on quite the ride.” She grinned at Remmy, already feeling Agatha’s mood beginning to rub off on her. Better to be elated than to be down, she guessed. “So.. which way should we go?” She asked, tongue in cheek. She didn’t want to step on any toes, so from the get go, Grace decided to take the backseat and follow, rather than to try and lead. Though leading hadn’t ever been her thing anyways. 

 Julie curled her lip at the positivity from one of them, wondering who the fuck would have the energy to act like that. She stepped aside, moving closer to Remmy (unfortunately that meant closer to Moose). She looked down, mindful to not touch him. Her eyes darted from speaker to speaker, suspicious of the two strangers, naturally. She trusted Remmy but not these two, especially not the peppy one. “We can cut behind some of the businesses to get to the lake faster, if you want.” Julie wasn’t the most familiar with the area but she knew where the lake was in relation to where they were. Although, she wasn’t looking forward to going to a cemetery where they would run into lonely emo ghosts who are dying (hah) to talk to someone. As long as you didn’t acknowledge their presence though, they should be fine. Hopefully. Ghosts will do anything to get the attention they want. Needy fuckers. “What cemetery is it?” Julie asked, leaning over to look over Remmy’s shoulder, setting her chin on it. Depending on the one, they might either have to cross the lake or head into vampire territory. She wasn’t sure which she preferred.

 Agatha smiled back at Grace, with all the warmth she could muster before she turned her attention back on Remmy. “That is correct, and that is also correct. Not so bad with maps, are we?!” She clasped her hands together enthusiastically. “I brought a compass and a town map, just in case but I think your map is good enough for now,” still she took the compass from her backpack and put it around her neck. “That sounds like a great idea,” she replied with enthusiasm as Julie suggested cutting behind some shops to get to the lake faster. This was going to be a lot more fun that she would have thought. “Could be Jericho Hill,” she mused, thinking out loud. She went on, inspecting the map a bit closer: “Could be Gallow’s grove, honestly.” Her brows furrowed. No, that could not be right. Her nose wrinkled. She paused, took out the map she had in her backpack and fell silent for a good minute before she looked up and declared, with undying glee : “We are going to Gallow’s Grove. I hope everyone likes completely gloomy cemeteries.”

 “Well…” Remmy started, “at least it’s daytime, right? No uh--” glanced at Julie, her head on their shoulder, before looking back at Agatha, “--no weird things around during the day, right?” A grin, before they picked up their bag and slid it back on, nudging Moose along, falling in stride with Julie. The sounds of the bustling town faded as they cut across the fields behind the building, and Remmy glanced around at the other three with them, feeling a quiet sense of peace. Even though they didn’t know the other two, it felt almost comforting to have them around. Both Grace and Agatha seemed like good, normal people, and maybe that was all Remmy really needed right now-- something good and normal. “Thanks for coming,” they said to Julie after a moment, “I know it’s not milkshakes, but I’ll defs buy you one after this.” They turned back to Agatha, leading the way. “Once we get to the cemetery, what does it say we do? Or uh-- go? Can you tell? I couldn’t really figure it out. It looks kinda like it’s pointing to a house type thing...but there’s not like, uh, houses in cemeteries, right?”

 Grace listened to the group as they spoke, only able to pick out pieces of the locations that they mentioned. She had taken a look at a town map, maybe when she first arrived. Most of Grace’s time had been spent looking up where to get the best chowder from her desk at work, however. Not knowing the people in front of her, Grace didn’t want to make them uncomfortable, but the way that Agatha was getting excited, Grace couldn’t help but exert the same energy, “I don’t think I’ve ever used a compass,” she admitted with a sheepish grin. Grace tightened the straps on her backpack after the blonde confirmed where it was they would be heading to. “Cemeteries are usually quiet, and the only reason people find them gloomy is because they probably have somebody buried there, otherwise it’s just a bunch of stones.” Grace shrugged and looked at Remmy as they began to speak. “There might be a tomb? Maybe the groundskeeper’s shack or something.” Grace knew little to nothing about White Crest’s cemeteries, but if they were anything like Portland’s, then maybe she was right. “We could just look for bigger structures when we get there?” Grace suggested, her voice sounding a little too high and peppy for her usual disposition. 

 Gallow’s. Julie’s brows raised at the mention as she glanced over at Remmy but gave nothing more than a telling smirk. She definitely knew how to get to Gallow’s, having been there before but they were in luck that it was daytime, otherwise she’s sure as hell wouldn’t do much to stop hungry vampires from attacking anyone other than Remmy… and Moose (although they would stay away from both of them). Turning as Remmy spoke to her, she gave a small nod, genuinely in good spirits to be hanging out with Remmy. Even if there were two weirdos being taken along with them. “Yeah for sure, don’t sweat it.” Although, she would prefer milkshakes on their next outing. Come to think of it, she hadn’t eaten since she fell asleep. As Remmy mentioned the map, Julie recalled what she had seen. It was probably a mausoleum. Great. The vampires will love their resting places to be opened to sunlight. This was going to be lots of fun. As she looked over at Grace, she found it weird how upbeat you sounded. “You okay? You sound very happy to be going to a cemetery.” She looked over back to Remmy. “Jesus, Remmy, where did you find them?” She muttered, trying not to be too vocal about her thoughts concerning Grace and Agatha. It was too weird for Julie - she’d expect some ambivalence, potentially fear from either of them at the thought of going to a cemetery. Especially Gallow’s. Did they not know what they were getting into? All she knew was she wasn’t going to be pulling either dumb ass from harm’s way if they walked into it. She might push them towards it if they kept up this cheery routine. It was getting annoying.

 "Nice observation," Agatha looked up at the sun, wrinkling her nose. "We have about 10 hours at least before the sun goes down, and the vampires come out," she said the last part with the most ominous tone to her voice. A diabolic laugh probably would have been too much and so, she refrained herself. Apparently those stories probably had gotten to Remmy's ears and they had stuck. Oh well, she was not here to argue about how stupid it would be for vampires to live in cemeteries when basements are a thing. Realistically speaking. Or at least as realistic as you could get when talking about myths. Grace then said something about never using a compass and Agatha was more than happy to get it off her neck to hand it to Grace and explain the basics to her. "Simple, right?!" She listened, stayed quiet and waited for their suggestions on where it was they were heading. "Could be, although I'd bet on a mausoleum. Lots of families have those in the area, although I'm not sure there's still a lot of these standing. That's a pretty old cemetery, and pretty big too," she paused. "But since mausoleums stand out it cannot be that hard," looking over her shoulder at Remmy and Julie, she grinned with genuine kindness. 

 Oh, good. Agatha knew about the supernatural. That was a relief. Remmy looked back over at Julie and shrugged. “Internet,” they answered simply, before observing the interaction between Grace and Agatha. They all seemed genuinely excited to be here and Remmy’s anxiety was dissipating more and more. Even as they approached the cemetery and pushed the gate open, they couldn’t help but feel that excitement rubbing off on them. Moose must’ve too, because he gave a small bark as they headed inside, sniffing the air. “Come on, whatever happens, it’ll be fun,” they said to Julie, before giving her a little nudge. “Better than sitting around doing nothing, right?” They scanned the area, trying to pick out any sort of larger building. “Anyone see anything?” they asked, coming to stand near Grace. “I don’t think I mind cemeteries, either. They are always kinda quiet, huh?” Before shrugging and heading up the path. “What’s the map say? I think it looks like it’s a little farther in.”

 Grace wasn’t sure what to say in response to Julie. She knew she sounded far too upbeat, but all in all, for whatever reason, Grace hadn’t had any issues with cemeteries to begin with. In Portland, she and Renee would grab breakfast burritos and sit on the hill overlooking the largest one in the city. She didn’t suppose it brought back great memories for everyone, based on the way that Remmy was reacting. At Agatha’s words, Grace blinked, but was unable to ask for clarification on the point made about vampires before she was being shown the compass, instructions pulled from Agatha’s lips. Grace thought back to her conversation with Blanche about the lighthouse. People surely believed in anything around here. “Oh, a mausoleum! Maybe.” Grace hadn’t ever seen any in the cemeteries in Portland, so she had forgotten they existed. “If anything, we could always split up and look.” The gate didn’t look half as ominous as Grace had expected it to, and as she stepped through with the remaining members of the little tour group, Grace looked to Remmy as they spoke. “They’re quiet, which is great for me.” She hummed absentmindedly as she took a step further, gaze flitting from plot to plot. “I can’t see anything just yet,” Grace said over her shoulder as she crouched down next to a dirt and vine infested headstone. “Nobody’s seen you in awhile, huh?” Grace muttered to herself as she got to her feet. She wondered how long it’d be before she’d go to visit either her Grandmother or Renee. 

 Julie snorted as they mentioned they enjoyed the quietness of cemeteries. She wanted to know which ones they went through. Anytime she crossed through one she kept her head down and walked through as fast as possible before a ghost could try and make itself known. God forbid she ever makes eye contact with one. Even just giving one the time of day would attract a bunch more and Julie would never have enough time to listen to a ghost bitch and moan. At Grace treating a headstone with kindness and cleaning it, Julie couldn’t help but side eye the whole thing. Girl… “It’s probably for a good reason.” Julie muttered knowing not everyone who was buried was a good person and deserving of being visited. As if to voice her thoughts she set her sights on a fallen pinecone and punted it into a headstone. Dead whiny fucks. She didn’t dare lift her gaze as they continued to walk, knowing well enough that they were drawn to her just as she was to them and if they were to make eye contact, she’d have to ignore them the whole fucking trip.  Julie threw her hoodie over her head for good measures, blocking out her peripheral vision. Impatient as she was though, she picked her head up. “Are we almost fucking there?”

 Agatha had been walking ahead of the rest of the group, stepping on a bench to see things from a pedestal. “Guys…” One mausoleum stood taller than the rest of them, and while it was in a poor state, like the rest of the tombs here, it stood out. If they had been in a video game, this would have meant that this was their goal. What could go wrong with trusting video games logic? “You okay Julie?” Jumping off the bench, she joined the rest of the group, her cheerful demeanor replaced with worry as she looked at the woman. She then glanced at Remmy, who seemed like they knew her best. “But to answer your question, I think we should head over there. This is where shit happens for sure,” she had literally no proof of that, but considering the instructions on the maps and their lack of clarity, it would do. Leading the way once again, she made her way to the mausoleum. “Mmmh, looks like that door hasn’t been opened in a while,” she observed, as she started to pull on the handle, with no luck.

 Remmy paused to wait for Grace when she knelt to brush off the dirty grave. Julie’s comment could’ve been true, but Remmy knew Julie was more prone to looking at the darker side of things rather than the brighter. They didn’t really blame her for that, though. Everyone was different. When Agatha led them up to the mausoleum, Remmy came up behind her, examining the door. “Here uh, lemme try,” they said, before shuffling around, looking over their shoulder at Julie, then tugging on the door. It was definitely stuck, but all they needed to do was put a little of that getting hungry zombie strength into it and, boom. The door opened with a loud, forceful crack and Remmy stumbled back a little. “Must’ve uh-- just been stuck,” they said with a grin, before peering in. It was empty and smelled musty, spider webs and dirt lining every inch of it. “Uh, so….now what’s the map say?” 

 Grace followed after the group after brushing dirt from her knees. The words that came from Julie weren’t necessarily wrong, and Grace knew that, but they still didn’t sit right with her. She didn’t know this woman, however, so she kept her mouth shut. It was easier to let Agatha’s curiosity get the better of her than start an argument over something that was… technically true. Grace looked at the door with eyebrows raised. Just before she could open her mouth to ask how they’d get it open, Remmy was trying the door with a force that she hadn’t thought could come from them. Surprised, Grace took a step back and looked over them with astonishment before wiping it clean from her features. “You’re strong,” Grace said as she took a step around Remmy, into the doorway. There were spiderwebs scaling the ceiling, at least, as much as Grace could see. Before going in much farther, Grace turned her attention back to the group and looked from face to face, trying to gauge their reactions from Remmy’s strength. 

 “Oh, you’re sooo strong.” Julie mocked under her breath as she passed by Remmy, shooting them a knowing look. As she took the place in, she realized it was different than most mausoleums she’s been in. It was darker the further down and Julie wasn’t one to fear the darkness so she continued walking ahead, having lost sight on the map and more interested in exploring the area. However, she remembered that Remmy was here - along with the dog so she turned, only to see what they were doing. The whole feeling would have been unsettling to any normal person but Julie had seen worse than this. It was far too ridden with cobwebs to be a place where vampires stayed during the day. Then again who knows if they were trying to create an aesthetic of sorts. Vampires were just those kinds of people. She brought out her phone to scroll through it as she waited on the others only half listening to them.

 Grabbing the flashlight in her backpack, Agatha then turned it on and started having a look around, inspecting the place as if it were a crime scene. Quite frankly, the place might as well have been one. It was one hell of a mess in here. The scent of dust, spiderwebs was everywhere, as well as a musty smell. You would have expected the place to be silent but the wind could be heard inside, whistling through stone. Strange, she thought. There was no sun coming through. She looked over at Grace and raised an eyebrow. Apparently she and Agatha were the only one surprised with Remmy’s strength. “You’re going to tell us where you go to the gym or…?” Kneeling down, she had a look at the name on the tombstones, to see if she recognized the family name. After all, with her mom being the former sheriff, they used to know a lot of the White Crest families. However, the name on these did not ring any bells. “Honestly, I don’t know where we are supposed to go next. There seems to be a path leading from this place to… I don’t know. Maybe it’s a tunnel but…” There nothing here, she left that part out. Standing up, she aimed her flashlight toward the walls, which would be when she noticed an engraving in the stone. A similar one could be found on the map. “Remmy, that was on your map…” The sound of wind grew bigger when you got closer to the symbol, and while she didn’t see how, she could guess that whatever path there were searching for was somewhere, close.

 Remmy gave a sheepish grin to Julie and shrugged. “Uh, I mean-- I used to be a soldier. That uh-- that must be it.” They followed Julie inside and squinted against the darkness, before Agatha’s flashlight illuminated the inside. It was relatively small, just large enough to fit the lot of them. Lining the walls were plaques where bodies were stored, and there was one large tomb in the middle of the place. Agatha went over to the far wall, pointing her flashlight at it, where there was something on the wall. “Huh...weird…” they muttered, coming over and examining it. They looked at the map, then to the engraving. “It’s the same thing. What do you think it means?” They glanced back at Grace and Julie, as if they would be able to present the answer.

 Well of course that explained it, Grace thought. Remmy had been a soldier, of course they were strong. Still, she was impressed, and she made no move to hide it. Grace crossed her arms over her chest as she watched them look around. Agatha seemed like she knew what she was doing, so she sidled up next to her. “It looks pretty narrow,” Grace said as she looked over her shoulder at the other two. This was quite the treasure hunt, she had to admit. Though, wasn’t it better than holing up in her apartment with the same book she had read over a dozen times? The contradiction of her actions for moving to White Crest in the first place were not lost on her. Grace followed Agatha’s gaze to the engraving on the stone and looked at it. “I don’t know, I’ve never seen anything like that.” Grace reached out and padded her index finger against the wall and traced the pattern. “It looks like whoever did it, it took them a long fucking time.” Grace straightened up and looked between the three. 

 Julie sighed, kept in place because they were all busy looking at some symbol on the stone. “It means keep going,” Julie bluffed, still on her phone with her arms crossed. “So are we going to keep going or stop here and look at the wall until it gets dark?” Maybe they were scared - it seemed reasonably so, going into further darkness with people you don’t know and seemingly only one way out. Still, wasn’t that part of the whole excitement? Julie glanced up at them, wondering if she had anything to fear from Agatha and Grace. She knew better than to assume they were “normal” if there was anything she learned from this town was that the people here were more often unnormal than normal. However, Julie felt confident in her ability to evade trouble no matter how unexpected it may come for her so she had no reason not to continue on this treasure hunt.

 Agatha looked over her shoulder to watch Julie, who was looking like a teenager who got dragged on a family trip. “Are you sure, Nancy Drew?” Yes Agatha still had her collection of Nancy Drew books, including the secret code activity book, and no she was not ashamed of it. She was pretty sure Julie would hate this, but that was kinda a compliment in Agatha’s mouth. “Alright, well the wall seems a bit…” She approached her palm from the nearest stone, and started pushing it. She expected some sort of struggle but the stone looked heavier than it actually was, and instead of bothering with the rest of them, she gave one kick in the whole, and hoped (way too late) that the others weren’t granite, and that this meant going to the hospital for being a stupid bitch. “Ta-dah, a doorway. Good job Julie,” she nodded in appreciation. Pretty and clever? “Let’s go?” She offered with a shrug, leading the way with her lamp.

 The wall crumbled in front of them, and Remmy felt that little rush of excitement again. “Wow! Neat! Who woulda thunk, huh?” they asked, looking back at the other two. Grace looked a little nervous and Julie looked bored, but Remmy wasn’t going to let that get any of them down. Remmy paused to dig through their backpack and pull out a few flashlights, passing them around. “Ready?” they asked, before heading into the tunnel and shining the light ahead. After a moment, they looked over for Agatha and the map. “Well...what uh, which way do we go now? It looks like there’s more than one tunnel to follow.” And although Remmy and Julie didn’t have too much to fear, they weren’t sure the others could say the same. Getting lost wasn’t going to be a good idea down here, and Moose wasn’t exactly a tracker dog.

 Grace jumped in surprise as the wall crumbled before them. She glanced between the group. Agatha’s energy continued to rub off on Grace, but her own uncertainty about the situation as getting the best of her. “Ready for what, more cobwebs?” She joked and took the flashlight from Remmy. Grace shone her flashlight at the map, careful not to hit anybody in the eye as she did so. “I think we go that way?” She said as she looked up from the map, then to their surroundings. “See that object there on the map? It’s on that wall--” She pointed to the wall with her flashlight, then back to the map. “They’re almost identical.” Okay, so maybe Grace wasn’t entirely horrible with directions. Or maybe she just knew how to look for context clues. Grace took a step forward after she directed the flashlight at the floor, checking to make sure there were no traps. Didn’t treasure hunts usually run into those? “It looks like there’s another door,” Grace said as she approached the end of the walkway. 

 Now things were getting interesting. Julie was first to step through the door, eager to see where it would take them. Lo and behold it took them to a fork in the path. Julie had not a clue what was the right path and turned back to see if those who had read the map would be able to figure it out. “Yeah, the map should tell us where to go next.” Ideally since it was a map it wouldn’t get them lost but who knows. Julie looked behind the group to where they had entered and chose not to think about that. Leave it to Julie and she would have taken any path as long as it kept them moving but unfortunately she had to wait once more. 

 “We could always split, but I’ve seen enough movies to see it not end well,” Agatha wrinkled her nose. The map was not exactly professionally drawn, and it was hard to get a good idea of where they were meant to go. Grace was however a lot more adventurous than them. Agatha directed her flashlight toward the door Grace claimed to be seeing, and followed behind her. “I swear to God, if that door is locked,” and expecting it to be so, she almost fell over. Stumbling into a new tunnel, she heard something crack under the heel of her shoe and grimaced. What exactly could make such a crunchy sound here? 

 Remmy was beginning to feel nervous. Could the other hear those noises, too? The low groaning up ahead? They glanced over at Julie as they stepped into the new tunnel, and then Agatha was opening the door. Remmy tried to hurry forward, to suggest they open it first, but the loud crunching of bone made them stop. The quiet groaning stopped, too. “Uh...must be real old,” they said, ushering everyone inside. Could the others see the red eyes watching them, too? They gave another glance to Julie. “Maybe we should just keep moving?” They suggested, putting themself at the front of the group, Moose trotting beside them, glancing at the map. “We’re almost there!”

 The door opened and Grace followed Agatha through it, arms coming to wrap around herself. The sound of the bone that crunched underneath Agatha's foot made her wince, but she wonders if anybody else knew what it was. Grace nodded at Remmy’s words as she followed them further down the hallway. There were bones littered everywhere, and the air was growing cold. “Is anybody else freezing?” She asked in passing as they walked, keeping her voice low-- why, she wasn’t sure. 

 Julie was ready to jump in any direction and so she entered with confidence not even paying any mind to the sound. She knew what it was but was more interested in what laid ahead of them. Her hand reached out to touch the nearest wall, curious about these tunnels. It wasn’t like Julie to get scared but something about this was giving her just the slightest sense of unease. She wasn’t sure what it was though and glanced back at Grace whose tone seemed to be not as excited as it was back then. Was she scared? Probably. Underground tunnels would do that to you. Dark, ominous. One way in and probably only one way out - if that. For now though it seemed the best thing to do was to follow the straight path of the tunnel. As she kept ahead, Julie felt it was safe enough to ease her discomfort. She allowed herself to feel the dark in her hands not strong enough to turn it physical nor to create any darker shadow than there was but just enough to give Julie the peace of mind that if anything did happen that might threaten her or Remmy’s lives - she was still in control. “Maybe you should have brought a warmer jacket,” Julie threw over her shoulder as she dropped her hand back to her side. “You guys don’t have anything in those bags of yours? Like… food or something?” Julie has to admit this was working up her appetite.

 Working as a homicide detective, Agatha had gotten used to a lot of things, but that did not mean that she found stepping on bones a pleasant Sunday activity. Cringing, she wiped her shoe against the floor. Even if she found it stupid to be scared of cemetaries or morgues, this place looked like a horror film set. Still, she managed to tell herself that the tunnel would have been not scary at all with proper lighting, and so she followed behind the others. Another silver lining of this would be telling the medical examiner about this place. Agatha wondered who those bones belonged to, and what else they would find here. Holding her flashlight tight, she went by Grace’s side, figuring that her company might reassure the other woman. “It will be fine,” she assured her. Other than perhaps rats and insects, she doubted they would cross anything’s path in here, and much like Julie, she was starting to get hungry. “You want something sweet or something salty?” She asked, her backpack now against her stomach. Searching through her things, she pulled out a lunch bag and handed it over to Julie. 

 Snacks were being handed out now, and Remmy glanced around the rag tag group. This was gonna be fine, right? There wasn’t anything down here that would, like, hurt them, right? Their skin crawled a moment as the moaning increased. Moose’s body stiffened and his ears went back, but Remmy kept him reigned in. The red eyes were still behind them. “Umm, maybe we should pick up the pace? We probably uhh...wanna be outta here before nightfall, yeah?” They stopped and went around to the back of the crew, waving their arms, trying to usher them all along faster, glancing back over their shoulder. Forms began to show in the shadows, crawling slowly after the group. Their noises getting louder. How could the others not hear? Did Julie hear them? “Uh, yeah, hey, so-- maybe we should um-- run.” They said, shoving against Grace and Agatha, hoping Julie got the idea as well, as they took off down the hall. 

 Grace looked to Julie, confused why anybody could be hungry when they were in the dark trenches of the unknown, but her own stomach growling made her look to Agatha’s backpack with vague interest. “I didn’t think I would need a jacket, I don’t know,” Grace finally responded to Julie, casting her a sideways glance. She looked to Remmy, then back to Julie, and finally to Agatha when she heard the deep groan. Grace turned around and peered into the darkness, trying to gauge where the noise had come from. There weren’t any pipes that she could see, but it didn’t mean that there weren’t any. Why did it suddenly smell like a morgue? Grace opened her mouth to speak, but focused on Remmy as they began to usher them forward. “What--” Grace asked, reaching up to cover her nose with the back of her hand, “what is that smell?” It smelled like a decomposing body, and she wondered if they had walked upon a horror house. Before she could investigate it any further, she was being pushed forward, Remmy’s hands at her shoulders. She followed the directions, despite being confused. She took off alongside Remmy with an urgency that matched the other two, the nerves suddenly draining the color from her face as she ran. “Why are we running!” Grace called out, breathing heavy, focusing on not tripping over the clutter of leaves, vines, and bones at her feet. 

 Julie just grabbed whatever she felt first in the bag before tossing it back to Agatha. Unwrapping it she started walking again but noticed Remmy coming close as if trying to rush them through it. It was fine with Julie to hurry through things but Remmy seemed the type to enjoy the moment. Then again given the current environment, most people would want to get out there as fast as possible. “Dude, what gives -” Julie shrugged it off, still eating before catching the slightest movement out of the corner of her eyes. Julie knew what could lurk in the dark and while she wasn’t terrified, she knew better than to put herself in a position to reveal herself as anything more than human in front of anyone. Remmy already saw part of what she could do. She didn’t really want them to figure out what else came with it. Not that she didn’t trust Remmy but - okay maybe she didn’t trust Remmy. Trust was hard, okay! Either way Julie wasn’t quick to get the memo until she caught one coming out of the shadows. She had no idea what the fuck it was and offered a menacing look before jogging behind the others. Julie knew better than to try and scare the others by saying she saw a humanoid figure with missing limbs and red eyes so she went for… “I think I saw a big rat. Maybe the food attracted it. My bad.”

 Agatha covered her nose. She knew that smell. She knew that smell too damn well. Okay, as soon as they got out of here, she’d have the WCPD back in here. Clearly there was a corpse, somewhere, or maybe several corpses. And according to Julie, there were rats in here too. Fucking perfect. Sure those two things sometimes went hand in hand, but that did not make it more okay. “I’m pretty sure that’s not the food they came here for,” she commented, following behind the rest of the group without asking any questions. No way she was staying alone in the dark with a bunch of rats having maccabe snacks. No way. “Remmy, do you know where we are going right now?” She tried not to talk too loud as she called them out, and she hoped that they had heard her. Whatever they were searching for better be worth all of this because she really did not like that she was fleeing a possible crime scene right now. 

 “Yes!” Remmy exclaimed, “rats! I saw uh-- giant rats! And those are like-- not things we wanna mess with!” They hurried everyone along until they couldn’t see the red eyes following them anymore, down a hallway and around a corner, before realizing that they didn’t know where they were going anymore. “Uhhh, yeah, totally!” they lied nervously, pausing to glance around then back at the map. “It’s um-- here!” they splintered off to head towards what looked like a door, sliding it open-- only to find pale, fanged faces staring back at them. Remmy cried out and slammed the door shut, turning to look back at the others. “Uh-- not that way, actually. Um-- this way,” they pointed, walking back through the group and grabbing their hands to usher them away from the door with the scary monsters behind it. And as they came upon another hallway, a chill creeped in-- one that even Remmy felt-- and their breaths began to billow in front of them. A loud clattering up ahead could be heard. Remmy paused. “Do-- does anyone else hear that?”

 “Rats?” Grace yelled out, “we’re running from rats?” She had lost it at the sight of a mouse in her apartment, so much so that a neighbor had knocked down her door at the screams, and now she was getting logical about rodents? Grace huffed as she followed Remmy, trying to ignore the burning in her calves, as well as her ankles. “You don’t sound like you know where we’re going!” Grace yelled out after them. She didn’t need to feel Remmy’s emotions to tell that much, despite not being able to feel it at all-- the nerves from the other two was enough, however, to know that there was confusion around them, and outright fear. Grace nearly rammed into a wall, but managed to push off of it in enough time to follow Remmy in their new direction, before coming to a stop just behind them. The door slammed before she could reach it, which made Grace wonder what Remmy saw, because she saw nothing, but smelled death. “Hear what?” she asked as she reached out towards the grimy wall, her hand coming into contact with something sticky and sopping wet. She quickly rubbed her hands against her jeans. “What is that smell?” Grace knew what it was, but she didn’t want to be right, didn’t want to come across decomposing bodies, didn’t want to see death etched in the ground at her feet. Grace swallowed thickly, the smell of death filtering into her nose. 

 Julie just hoped they didn’t catch up to them and by the time turned back, there was nothing in sight. She wondered for a moment if they were lost and then remembered there was a map. She didn’t really understand how they could be lost but nonetheless followed the group into a hallway. “Are we going the right way?” Julie supposed they were but had her doubts. “Can’t you guys check the map?” She was about to say something sassy but heard a noise up ahead and took note of how she could see her breathe. “Where the hell are we going?” She muttered as she stepped forward, wanting to see what was up ahead and not really afraid to confront it. It might be those red-eyed fuckers but so what if it was? If this was the way out, then there was no choice but to go straight to the source of noise.

 Can’t you guys check the map? Agatha’s eyebrows raised, and she had to prevent herself from being unpleasant with her reply. “Weird smell, weird noises, this is great,” she said instead, blocking the flashlight between her cheek and shoulder to examine the map. Truth was, with them having run around like that, she had no damn clue as to where they were, but if she were to take a wild guess, from what she was observing, and what her compass was telling her, she would have said that they were… “Here.” Totally winging it, she thought to herself, cringing internally. But hey, if she was right, this would be great. All she knew was that she needed to be out of here. The atmosphere of the tunnels alone was certainly eerie, but she couldn’t stop thinking of the graveyard of the sort they had stumbled upon. And unlike others, it took her more than an old creaky house or a swampy basement to get scared. Proving that ignorance was truly bliss. “We need to head this way,” she sounded pretty damn sure of herself, but she rarely didn’t. 

 When Agatha finally set them on what seemed like the right path, Remmy felt a little wave of relief. It was, however, staunched when they saw a shimmering form up ahead. It wavered, disappeared. Remmy turned to look to see if anyone else had noticed, before leaning over to murmur to Julie. “Did you see that, too?” they asked under their breath. It shimmered back into life, in the same spot, and Remmy stopped, prodding Julie. “There!” Oops, too loud. They looked at the others. “Uh-- a doorway! Look!” And there one was. And it looks different from all the other doorways, with a large arch above it and those same engravings they’d found upstairs in the mausoleum around the threshold. That was promising, right? Remmy went to head in when a voice stopped them. “None shall enter!” rang the small voice-- a very distinct child’s voice. Remmy paused, looking around, but no one else had reacted yet. “This is my castle! And my stone treasure! On guard, ye trespassers!” Something swung by Remmy’s face, but when right through. They spun on their heel-- only to find themself face to face with a child. Except, they could see right through them. And the kid was floating about three feet in the air. “Ah, some sort of ghostly fiend, I see!” the kid spat, swinging around what was once probably a wooden bat in life. Remmy blinked, dumbfounded. The ghost-child frowned deeply, then pointed his sword at Julie. “I know you can see me, too, shadow monster!” he said in his attempt at an intimidating voice. It was more like a puppy trying to bark. Remmy looked back at Julie and shrugged. 

 Just inside the room, they could see the chest. It was covered in dust and grime and cobwebs, untouched for decades. Maybe even centuries. Remmy wondered what could possibly be inside. The ghost-child phased through them to stand in the doorway again, hands on his hips. “I will guard this treasure with my life!” he shouted, pointing the sword at all of them. Remmy didn’t know what to say-- if they spoke, they risked looking crazy. If they didn’t, would the ghost get mad? “Let’s um-- let’s just take it easy and all go inside real slow, yeah?” they said, putting their hands up. Hoped that wasn’t as weird as it sounded, to either party.

 “I think the map is only useful if you’re following it to begin with…” Grace muttered under her breath, loud enough so anybody could hear. It wasn’t that she cared-- she didn’t know what was happening. Her heart rate was abnormal and there was sweat beading at the back of her neck, dripping down the back of her shirt, leaving her shivering. Despite their situation, it seemed as though Agatha had found where it was they needed to go, and so she followed blindly. Did she really have a choice? She was stuck now, and the only way she was going to get out of here was if she followed them. Grace’s eyebrows furrowed at Remmy’s sudden burse, and she looked towards where Remmy had motioned. The doorway lay before them, and Grace felt her heart sink. It looked like both Remmy and Julie were focused on something, but Grace couldn’t tell what. She decided to ignore it, because as long as they weren’t running, there was no threat… right? She swallowed thickly, trying to get rid of the taste of death at the back of her throat. The room looked as though it hadn’t seen the light in what could’ve been eons, and she was careful with her steps as she looked at the chest. It was just like on the map. She couldn’t believe they actually found something, especially with all of their running. Grace looked to Remmy, “but it’s right there?” She hesitated before taking a step forward, closer to the chest. It looked like any old chest. “There’s no lock on it,” she observed as she knelt down close to it, interest piqued. “I can’t believe we actually found something,” Grace said as she turned back to look at the group. She reached for the lid and heaved it upwards, revealing an assortment of rocks. “It’s not… gold, what are these?” She asked, eyebrows furrowed. 

 Oh hell no, Julie was not going to have to deal with a child much less a ghost one. Rolling her eyes she fought the urge to argue back with it. However she couldn’t help but feign a move toward the ghost, trying to get the kid to flinch. However as they entered the room her attention went to the chest and… of course it was disappointing. A bunch of rocks. “Looks like some kids lame ass rock collection.” Julie scoffed as she crossed her arms. As if on cue she heard the child’s annoying voice. It was easy to tune out but then she saw him shut the lid and lay down on it. “Oh come on…” she muttered as she rolled her eyes, looking over at Remmy seeing what they would do. Julie had no patience for children and even less for ghosts. It seemed though that he wasn’t willing to get off the chest now, using his own energy to keep weight on it. Julie tried to tip over the chest with her foot. “Get off,” she mumbled as his weight was more than she was expecting. 

 Agatha didn’t interject with what Grace had to say because negativity was really not needed right now. Instead she put the light of her lamp below her chin and gave Grace a force smile, nose scrunched up and all, as if to say Don’t. “See, I told you it was the way to go.” Oh Agatha please, she told herself. She had absolutely no clue of what she was doing, but this proved one thing, sometimes, you could just be lucky. She approached the rest of the group, although as she looked over Julie’s shoulder, she watched the chest’s lid close shut, and she couldn’t help but be startled, jump a little and cover her mouth to muffle a scream. Would rats be drawn by screams ? Probably not. Who knew? Not her. "Are we really going to fight this chest for a bunch of old rocks?" Her brows furrowed. She hadn't even gotten to see what was inside and she was curious. Sighing, she tried to assist Julie, with no goddamn idea of what was truly going on here.

 Agatha and Grace didn’t seem to see the child, but Remmy knew Julie did. She was even talking directly to him. Remmy gave an innocent smile when he slammed the lid shut. They looked between everyone. “Uh, well-- maybe they’re special rocks!” they said, eyeing the ghost. “Rocks that...mean a lot to someone. And they’ve been here...where it’s safe so that the wrong people don’t get their hands on them.” When the ghost perked up as they spoke, they took that as a good sign to continue. “But we’re, you know-- good people, right? Whatever this treasure is, we won’t misuse it, will we? We’ll cherish, and um, well--” they looked at the boy with a big smile, hoping this worked-- “treasure it, pun intended.” He chuckled at first, then laughed a little harder. Then he burst out laughing, rolling around so much he toppled from the chest-- allowing Agatha and Julie to finally open it again-- before floating up and away. “Okay,” he said in his sing-song voice, “but if you’re mean or not nice to my treasure, I’ll come haunt you all forever!” Remmy grabbed the map from Agatha as they all dug into the box, and turned to the boy, hushing their voice a little. “Here, I think this is yours,” they said, before reaching in and taking one of the rocks and holding it out to him as well. “We’ll guard your treasure now, and make sure everyone knows how great it is. Okay?” he seemed forlorn, at first, as if he were about to cry-- but then his hands took the objects Remmy was holding out to him, and he smiled, big and bright. “Thank you,” he said, “that’s all I wanted. And also! I made a special, hidden door. It’s behind the chest. You all can get out faster that way. I would use it when my mom would call me home.” Remmy grinned. “Thank you,” they muttered. “Okay. Bye funny people! Remember what I said!” And when his outline disappeared, Remmy couldn’t help but feel a little sad.

 They turned to look back at everyone, before grabbing a few of the rocks. They looked relatively normal, though they were smoother and had funny patterns inside the stones themselves. And, somehow, Remmy knew they were special. When they looked up again, they pointed to something on the map.

 Grace yelped as the lid to the chest shut. She wasn’t sure what had happened, maybe one of the hinges was loose? She folded her hands in her lap as she rocked back on her heels. She twisted around to look at Remmy as they spoke, and it seemed far too encouraging to be for any of them. She wondered if Remmy just really liked rocks. Grace stood up and dusted her hands against the backs of her jeans. She looked down as Agatha and Julie were successful in re-opening the chest. She looked on at the rocks with a tilt of her head. She still wasn’t sure what was special about them. Grace wasn’t blind to the fact that Remmy was suddenly speaking to the air, their hands outstretched with a rock in their palm to nothing. She bit her tongue, not sure what was going on-- she couldn’t discount that there was something going on, especially with what she had already been through. She looked at the rocks in Remmy’s hand, interest baited her, “what are those?” She wasn’t sure what was going on, or why Remmy had spoken to the air, but she wanted to know what was so special about the rocks that they’d go on a treasure hunt to find them. Grace was curious, to say the least. “Should we get out of here? Look at them where we’re not being threatened by killer rats?” She asked, half-jokingly.

 A way out? That was good to know. This trip had run its course. Julie reached for a rock, turning it over in her hand before putting in her pocket. She wasn’t really one to carry things like that but eh, it would be nice to have something to remember this trip. Moving to the chest, Julie pushed it away, surprised the ghost runt was telling the truth. “Hey, seems like this is the way to go.” She pointed at and glanced over at Remmy who was well aware. She gave them a knowing smile before looking at everyone else. This was definitely a lot weirder than she had anticipated but hey, at least they got some lame rocks at the end? She winced at her own thoughts. It was definitely time to go home before she started to feel touched by some stupid ghost’s rocks. 

“We could have arrived through here the whole time?!” Agatha exclaimed. All this had been a lot of fun, and she had grabbed a rock as a souvenir of their adventure. Had they arrived through the exit door, it might have not been as enjoyable. She wondered if the rest of them had had as much fun as herself, or if they would admit to enjoying their little trip. The memory of those bones was however feeling like an itch in her head, and she wouldn’t take too long to report it, starting with animal control. She doubted anyone would be thrilled by the idea of working among rats after all. “Well, this was fun. We should do it again sometime soon!”

 As everyone dispersed, Remmy couldn’t help but smile. They climbed up the back stairs and found themselves almost on the complete opposite end of town that they started in. Not only had they had a good time, no one had gotten hurt, and they’d made a few new friends-- at least, they hoped. Agatha was nice and not afraid to take control, and Grace was sweet and seemed new to all this. Both of them seemed like great people Remmy wanted to get to know more of. And Julie, of course, was her usual self. Not that Remmy minded. Her casual demeanor and grumpy attitude was kinda cute, after all. She reminded them of Luce a little. And, even after all of that, they’d been able to help a ghost move on, even if just a little. All in all, it had been a good day. Maybe things really were looking up. 

“C’mon Moose,” they said, patting him on the head, “let’s head home. Figure out what’s so special about these rocks, huh?”

[nimiumcaelo]

“Indeed, Miss?” -- Chapter 8

Chapter summary: And so it begins. Florence Craye pays a visit to the Wooster abode with Aunt Agatha stepping in as chaperone. Rosalyn is somewhat jealous.

Chapter 8: Miss Wooster’s First Suitor

Overall, I believe that Miss Wooster was charming throughout the affair, albeit in her bumbling, vacant way. She does not often intend this, but her simple ingénue manner around handsome men seems to be exactly what they find attractive. Perhaps that is why Miss Wooster found the ordeal so unpleasant in the end.

He had arrived a quarter of an hour later than he was expected and Miss Wooster sat on the settee twiddling her fingers absentmindedly whilst she waited. Mrs. Gregson was acting as chaperone. When the young man finally deigned to arrive, I opened the door and let him in, announcing a Mr. Florence Craye. He was a tall, willowy individual with bright blond hair and a noble countenance. Miss Wooster and I had had the chance to make his acquaintance previously, and I found that my former dislike lessened not at all upon finding he was one of the “suitable young gentlemen” Mrs. Gregson had selected.

Miss Wooster, to her credit, straightened herself and smiled. I removed myself to the kitchen to begin preparing tea.

“Good afternoon,” the young gentleman said. “Bertie—Mrs. Gregson.”

“Ah, Florence, darling, do sit down,” Mrs. Gregson cooed. “We are so pleased you could find the time to join us.”

“Oh, yes, absolutely,” Miss Wooster added. If her voice was a touch more bland than was usual, I do believe I was the only one who could notice.

“How was your literary meeting, my dear?”

“Oh, it was great fun, Mrs. Gregson, but terribly long-winded. They’re thinking of adding a new clause to the group’s constitution, which would let the members, instead of the board, vote on which books to include in that month’s recommendations column. I was one of the primary instigators,” he added importantly.

“Lovely, lovely. Bertie, here, has several friends in literary circles, too.”

“I do? Ow! Yes, I do! It’s um—what were their names again?”

“That interesting fellow in New York? I believe his name was Todd.”

“O-oh, Rocky! Yes. He’s a real brick, Rocky. I wonder if you’ve ever read his poems, Florence?”

“If I have I can’t recall. What has he written? Is he a modernist?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Miss Wooster said, “but he’s a real corker with words. Penned something about being today and not tomorrow and all that rot. Not much of one for clothes, though.”

There was a tense pause.

“Oh?” Mr. Craye uttered delicately. “How do you mean?”

“Just that he hardly ever gets out of his pajamas. I say, I’ve seen that man crawl out of bed at two in the afternoon and then simply put on a sweater! Poor Rosalyn just about fainted.”

“How very… unique of him.”

At this point, I re-entered the room with the tea-things, breaking up what may have become a brawl between Mrs. Gregson and Miss Wooster, the former of which was glaring at the latter with such venom that I wondered Miss Wooster did not clutch her breast and pass away. As it was, Miss Wooster spotted me and relief flooded her features.

“Oh, wonderful! Would you like a spot of tea, Florence? Aunt Agatha?”

I handed the teacups to their respective recipients.

Miss Wooster sipped at hers, then attempted to change the subject. “Speaking of friends, I got a letter the other day from Ginger. You know Ginger, don’t you, Florence? Pale sort of filly with pointed elbows and legs too long for her? Looks charming in riding breeches but awful in a swim-suit?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Craye over his teacup. “I know Ginger. I was engaged to her, once, if you recall.”

Miss Wooster, conscious now to the fact that she had touched upon a nerve, smiled sheepishly. “Ah. Yes, well. Love’s tides, what?”

“Quite. You said something about a letter?”

“Oh! Yes. See, Ginger ran away with this secretary chap and they biffed off to Italy for their honeymoon—but guess who they ran into?”

“Who?”

“Gussie and Matthias!”

“Who?”

“You don’t know them? Oh, well, Gussie’s another pal of mine and Matthias is her fiancé.”

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Gregson interrupted with a withering glance at Miss Wooster. “Florence might like to tell us a bit about his upcoming book.”

“You’re writing another one?” My sympathies were with Miss Wooster on this point.

“I don’t know, yet. I’ve thought about it, but there’s always the issue of how much societal criticism one can put into a children’s book without it becoming droll.”

“Societal criticism? What of?” Mrs. Gregson inquired politely.

Mr. Craye evidently felt, on this point, similar to Sherlock Holmes about his work. At Mrs. Gregson’s prompting, he began rattling off myriad reasons why, to his knowledge, the practice of regulating prices was something to be desired in this our fair country. He informed Miss Wooster how, over a holiday, he had become acquainted with an interesting young gentleman who was very favourable towards the cause of socialism. The young gentleman, it was told, had persuaded Mr. Craye towards his cause and the two had parted on the best of terms—as, Mr. Craye put it, “comrades.”

Miss Wooster valiantly attempted to follow along with this half-soliloquy, but her knowledge on the topic of government structures is somewhat lacking. She put in an “Oh?” and an “Ah.” every third sentence or so, yet it was obvious that she was grasping only the blunt points of Mr. Craye’s speech.

“Do you understand, then, the tenets of socialism, Bertie?” Mr. Craye asked at the conclusion of his tirade. “It is of the utmost importance that you do. I shan’t think I could live with myself if I had let you get away without true knowledge of the world.”

“Oh, ah—well, that is to say—I rather think I do?”

Mr. Craye sighed. “Bertie, Bertie, you have so much potential; it nearly makes me weep. There is so much that I could do with you, if only given the time.”

“Oh, ah, yes, rather.”

“I’ve always thought that is the way with spouses,” Mrs. Gregson put in. “There is quite a gratuitous amount of time spent together and each one ends up understanding the other so well, in the end. It is a beautiful prospect, is it not, Florence?”

“It is, Mrs. Gregson. I quite agree.”

Miss Wooster ducked her head and swallowed down the rest of her tea.

~

It was only after I had closed the door on Mrs. Gregson for the evening that Miss Wooster allowed herself to unbutton.

“Rosalyn!” she cried, collapsing on the settee. “I apologize for being rotten to you earlier! I take back all I said—you’re the most delightful person I have left to me, anymore!”

“Thank you, miss,” I said, setting beside her a small whiskey and soda. (Mrs. Gregson had searched the flat for any alcohol before she left, though she neglected to search in all of the cupboards.)

Miss Wooster, agog, grasped at the drink like a dying man to a priest’s hand. “Rosalyn, you utter brick. You wonderful, beautiful, amazing person. How did you hide it?”

“Mrs. Gregson, miss, does not know about the cupboards in my room. I assumed it might be prudent to relocate several items before she began her search.”

“It bally well was. Good Lord,” Miss Wooster moaned, downing the whiskey and soda quickly. “I could kiss you right now.”

“Thank you, miss,” I said. It was not her fault that I was so besotted.

Miss Wooster stretched herself, then sighed. “Do you think Florence’ll pop the question?”

“It seems likely, miss.”

She sighed again. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing for it. I don’t fancy you’ve got any more of that stuff tucked away?” She wiggled her glass meaningfully.

“I shall fetch the bottle, miss.”

[carryonsimoncarryonbaz]

Chapter Nine of Can’t Find My Way Home is posted! Read the whole fic at Ao3!

Chapter Nine

Baz

I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to be in a cramped economy seat. I’m reveling in it. I’m basking in the notion that Simon had us moved because he wanted us to be closer to one another.

Which we are. He pushed the armrest up out of the way almost as soon as he was seated. He’s leaning up against me, the warmth of his body soaking into mine, his head resting on my shoulder.

I think he’s nuzzling my neck.

“’M glad you still smell like this.”

“What?” I keep saying that today. I’m almost sure I’ve tumbled into some alternate dimension where Simon actually craves my companionship and I’m incapable of articulate speech.

He nudges my shoulder, face still buried in my neck. “You smell the same. As you did at school. I always liked it.”

My heart thumps in my chest. I think it’s these small admissions, more than the kissing even, that make me concede this is real. I’d never have had the audacity to dream these up.

I’ve answered more than my fair share of questions today, most of them inadvertently. I have a few of my own for Simon. I’m not sure I’m as brave as he is about asking them though.

I rub circles on the back of his hand with my thumb. I like everything about this seating arrangement. The way his leg is pressed against mine, how he’s leaning into me, the way our fingers intertwine. Christ, did he just kiss me?

He’s trailing kisses just below my ear, in the middle of a crowded flight. My eyes dart over his head to look around, but no one is paying us any mind. It probably just looks like Simon’s passed out on my shoulder. I should . . . I don’t know what I should do.

I close my eyes and let my head tilt back. I’m should just let myself enjoy it, I think.

Simon

He tenses for a moment and I wonder if he’s going to pull away. But then Baz sighs ever so softly and lets his head fall back. I can’t help smiling against his skin as I feel the tension seep out of him.

This is more like it.

I let my lips skim down his neck, breathing in the scent of him, feeling the racing of his pulse against my mouth.

I wonder if this counts as distraction.

Baz

The arrival of the drink cart puts a stop to Simon’s exploration of that surprisingly sensitive spot behind my left ear.

Probably a good thing. I was ready to grab his face and snog him senseless. I’ve lost all sense of self-control when it comes to him. Too many years of pent-up longing.

Simon doesn’t let go of my hand when he lifts his head to give his order to the steward. I miss the solid weight of him on my shoulder instantly.

There are snacks, so his attention is instantly diverted to the little packet of Biscoff cookies the steward hands him. I don’t know how Simon does it but somehow he manages to get two for himself from the drink cart bloke. I narrow my eyes at the man, but he’s already moving down the aisle.

I can be as territorial as Simon, it seems.

“I love these.” He’s already torn into the first packet and a small shower of crumbs drifts over his shirt, the tray table and my arm. Simon crumples the empty packet and starts in on his second one. I watch, because I can now. His Adam’s apple bobs in that familiar way and I’m mesmerized by the sight of it.

I notice a crumb at the edge of Simon’s lip and I want to lick it off. Christ, I’m pathetic.

He turns to grin at me and it’s typical Simon—lopsided smile, food stuck in his teeth, that crumb precariously perched on his lip. I can’t help myself. I lean in and kiss him (just a brush of lips to his cheek) (I don’t want the remains of his biscuit in my mouth) (I don’t lick the crumb off) (I still want to).

He grins even more, and then his eyes settle on the lonely biscuit packet on my tray table. “You going to eat that?”

“You are incorrigible.”

“You like me anyway.” His face moves closer.

I most certainly do. I’ve been hopelessly in love with this idiot for almost a decade, and for the first time I don’t feel anything but elation at the thought.

A part of me is still frightfully mortified that he knows. But mostly I’m so fucking relieved at not having to conceal my regard for him anymore.

It was exhausting. Soul-crushing. Heart-breaking every single time I would think one thing in my head and then force myself to say an awful thing instead. Every time I would want to reach out to comfort him and make myself walk out of the room instead.

Simon squeezes my fingers. “It can’t take that much mental effort to decide if you want to share your biscuits with me.” He waggles his eyebrows in an utterly ludicrous fashion. He’s spent years trying to lift his brow at me and it always ends up looking ridiculous. I love it.

“Oh, fine, take them then, if you must, you insatiable muppet.”

He waggles his eyebrows again, but it looks far more suggestive this time. “I’ll share them with you.”

I’d share anything with him.

Simon

I don’t actually mean to eat all of Baz’s biscuits, but I do.

He just rolls his eyes at me. “Typical.” But there’s a smile on his face when he says it. I’m not used to Baz being all soft. I like it, don’t get me wrong. It’s just a bit jarring still. This Baz though, the one who’s sharp and soft, his edges blunted but still keen? I could . . . I could fall pretty hard for him.

I have fallen hard for him. I know it’s fast—forty-eight hours and then some—but when you’ve known someone for half your life, when their face, their mannerisms, their moods, are as familiar as your own? It’s less falling hard and more recognizing that I’ve been probably been into him for far longer than I care to admit.

Which brings me to the questions still lingering in my head. I’m thick enough that I only really came to terms with it the other day (probably in denial for far longer) (I just don’t like to think about things that perplex me).

Baz has known for a long time. I suppose I understand why he never said anything. I mean, I was dating Agatha. And I pretty much told everyone I hated him. Told him too.

He said it back, the wanker, even if he didn’t mean it. Maybe he did mean it. Maybe he hated me for hating him. I don’t know. I should just ask him.

How awkward would that be? No. I can’t really ask.

I want to.

I’m not going to ask.

So of course, I ask.

“Baz.”

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

He presses his lips together. He’s not even going to pretend he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. It’s this kind of behaviour that really throws me off. I know how to pester him, prod him, annoy the fuck out of him. But I’m a bit at a loss when he reads me so easily and follows my train of thought without even trying.

Baz sighs, closes his eyes and tilts his head back. “What would I have said, Simon? You were straight, last I knew, in love with the most beautiful girl at school, and you absolutely loathed me. Telling you would have served no purpose. You probably would have thrown me down the stairs.”

“I would not.”

“You say that now. I don’t know what you would have done, honestly, and I was too cowardly to risk finding out. It was easier to pine in private and aggravate you in public.”

I don’t really know what to say to that. Baz’s grey eyes are on me now and that crease is back on his forehead. The one I want to smooth away with my fingertips. Or my lips. Either. Both.

His fingers grip tightly to mine as his eyebrows draw even closer together. “When. . . how . . .” He stops, tilts his head back and groans. “I cannot believe I’m unable to string a single sentence together.” He mutters the words but I’m close enough to hear them.

I lean closer still, press my leg against his in solidarity. “What?”

“When the fuck did you stop being straight?”

Ah. I’d been expecting that. I’m not really sure of the answer myself.

It’s not something I actively thought about when I was at Watford. I mean, I thought about sex, of course, but not so much about my sexuality. I knew that things were ok with Agatha, that I loved her but not perhaps the way I’d always envisioned I should.

Intimacy felt awkward, forced. Not for lack of trying, but for lack of follow-through. Or passion, I suppose. It felt nice to cuddle, to kiss her, to have someone to hold. But neither of us ever pushed past that.

I missed that, when we broke up. I missed having someone to be with that way. Penny’s my best friend, and she’s a first-rate hugger, but it’s not the same.

I tried not to think about it at uni. Schoolwork doesn’t come as easily to me as it does to Penny. Or Baz. I needed to keep my focus on that. But I couldn’t help the fact that I was noticing people. Girls, yes.

But men too.

I mean, I’ve always had an appreciation for fit blokes, but I never really stopped to think through what that might mean. And then I found my gaze drawn to a bloke second year at uni. Fit. Tall. Darkhaired.

Yeah, he reminded me a bit of Baz. I can admit that now. Not as smart. Not as funny. But still enough to capture my attention.

Figured out kissing a guy’s not that different from kissing a girl. Fumbled around a bit. But nothing serious. Nothing long term. Not the time or inclination for that.

Baz is still staring at me and I realize I haven’t answered him. “Second year at uni, I think. I mean, I might have had an idea before then but I didn’t really think about it.”

There’s a tension that goes out of him with my words. “You didn’t know at Watford then?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Maybe that I had an inclination, but I didn’t let myself dwell.”

“Dwell? Dwell on what?”

On the way his fucking shampoo smelled. How he’d lift his jersey to wipe the sweat off his forehead on the football pitch. The way he looked so soft for those brief moments before he fully came awake in the morning.

The examples fill my mind. How the fuck did I not realize this years ago?

Fuck. I was such an idiot. You don’t have thoughts like that if you don’t fancy someone.

“On you, you wanker.” Baz’s eyes widen at my words. “On the way your hair would fall just so on your forehead.” I keep thinking of more. It’s like a dam of ideas has burst open in my brain.  An entire list of things about Baz that I find endlessly fascinating. “How fucking graceful you were on the pitch.” Fuck it all. “The scent of you.”

His lips quirk up at the corners. “You couldn’t have let me in on this back then? We’ve wasted quite a few years here.”

“Don’t remind me,” I snap. I’m not mad at him. I’m exasperated with myself. I’d tamped this all down, shut it away, until Ebb’s words had brought me up short.

“It’s alright.” Baz’s voice is soft. “You figured it out eventually, didn’t you?”

“That I did. Better late than never I suppose.”

Baz pulls me towards him and presses his forehead to mine. “Much better.”

Baz

I’d frozen for an instant, when Simon was speaking. I’d been paralyzed by the thought that he’d known when he was at Watford too. That I’d fucked it all up royally by being such a prick to him back then.

I did fuck it up by being a prick at school but it chilled me to consider he might have had feelings for me back then and I’d driven him off with my angst-ridden shitty coping mechanisms. Not that I’m letting myself off the hook for being a right arse all those years, but at least I didn’t break his heart.

I let him break mine.

But I don’t care. It’s worth the misery of those years to have this now. I wouldn’t have known how to cope if he’d returned my feelings then. I’d have fucked it up somehow, knowing me.

I came out eighth year, not because I really wanted to but because I needed to let Wellbelove know there was no chance of there ever being an “us.” I couldn’t lead her on like that. It wasn’t fair.

I wanted to let her down gently, to let her know that it was me, not her. Honesty was the kindest option. It was more considerate than humiliating her by shunning her affections publicly. She didn’t deserve that.

I can’t imagine how things might have been if Simon had made his realization earlier. I won’t. It’s pointless to go down the ‘what if’ rabbit hole. I’m eternally grateful for a second chance and mildly surprised I haven’t found a way to fuck it up yet.

I wrap my arm around Simon’s waist and lean against the window, pulling him so his body rests on my chest. He leans back into me, his head falling onto my shoulder again. It feels so natural to have him there. I kiss his bronze curls and breathe in the scent of him.

“I’ve never been so fucking grateful for shit weather.” I whisper the words into his hair. I can just glimpse the smile on his face. I rest my head on his and feel his body relax into mine.

I’m not sure which one of us falls asleep first.

[athina39]

Dead Apple Movie Report/Summary

as promised, here’s my reaction thread/summary/speculations/theories about the Dead Apple Movie!!! sorry it’s a day late orz

everything under the cut because IT’S LONG. the CR subs comparison is c/o Fayto-san!!!! i watched the movie in SE Asia, so it’s a different company who handled the subtitles/distribution (it’s ODEX).

here goes! (also a warning/enticement: i’m shamelessly biased towards chuuya and soukoku)

Extra Notes:

- we probably got ourselves perma-banned so many places yesterday (the restaurant where we had lunch, the coffeeshop we went to pre-movie, the foodcourt where we had our post-movie drink, the entire mall itself....) because we were..... quite wild haha

- we took up a whole row in the cinema and there was another group that had their own row behind us! they're chuuya fans too, which is always awesome. the girl behind me is educating her new-to-the-fandom friend to ship soukoku "even if dazai is an asshole", which is Big Mood.

- certain someones (lol) cough "walking dead show" whenever soda is onscreen;;;;; if only They Knew that was the actual theme of the show (more on that below)

- our group was the loudest in the squealing/shrieking ahahaha. and aside from the obvious chuuya and soukoku scenes, we were the loudest at: (1) ALL THE GIRLS (each time yosano/agatha/tsujimura/kyouka's mom appeared, there's guaranteed squealing; Kyouka is Best Girl); (2) akutagawa's Dynamic Entry & akutagawa's curl-up lol; (3) that scene in the OP with the pm dazai & ada dazai; (4) the backstab scene; (5) dazai's handcuff escape & pill swallow. we were also fairly loud at some of atsushi's scenes, but it was more out of laughter??? like.... tiger son, you're kinda unintentionally funny/narmy this movie;;;;

- the people behind us each time there's an atsukyou scene: "BUT. SHE'S. 14." / "she's cuuuute" / "but. she's. 14."

- drinking game: drink for (1) each time atsushi yells kyouka's name - you won't make it out alive within the first 30 mins. slightly easier version: drink for (2) each time there's an orphanage flashback. fast-paced version: drink for (3) each time the "CLAWSSSS" was repeated

Movie Itself:

- chuuya's dynamic entry is so cool, pink motorbike included. like 30% of movie budget probably went to the animation of that scene. it's also asdfghk;da that chuuya tooling/destroying buildings is like, part of his theme in this movie. also, it makes me excited to see a pm days!soukoku driving a car to a mission - they both drive like hell lol

- dazai's "hi, chuuya~" haunts me until now, like. stop sounding so sassy and flirty, gdI but then again, dazai's teasing voice when he talks to chuuya the entire time is sassy and flirty so. asdfhgla

- dazai's “It would have been interesting if Chuuya got struck with lightning instead.” made us shriek because pre-movie, we were discussing that the French term for lightning strike, "le coup de foudre" is associated with love at first sight

- dazai complaining that because chuuya arrived 5 mins late, dazai had to get hit 3 times & chuuya just rolling with that = old married couple vibe much;;;;

- on a more serious note - it's very interesting to see this side of chuuya - in his previous appearances, he was the type to immediately blow his fuse whenever dazai says something to infuriate him, but this time, while he still bickers with dazai, there's a serious edge to it? chuuya's about to deal with the cause of death of his sheep fa(r)m, after all.

- (also - wtf was that dude holding a gun to dazai's head doing??? he just allowed dazai, his hostage, to fucking talk in the communicator the entire time???? bro, you ok??? are you sure you're a villain??? it would be funny tho if the 3 smacks that dazai was talking was 1 smack per sentence that he said on the communicator - because he did say 3 hahaha)

- chuuya activating For The Tainted Sorrow wordlessly (come to think of it, he has never said anything to activate For The Tainted Sorrow? like, everyone else says their ability name....) and on a whole building range = fucking lit. i wonder how's the range/control for his ability... because he managed to knock every single one of the mooks (incl the Lightning User) on that building rooftop in like, 3 seconds. and he managed to do it *without* crushing his bike, which is also on the roof, so he's able to do fine-tune who can be affected.

- chuuya so very tsun-tsun and dishonest when he wants to "help"!!! like aside from destroying buildings, being married w/dazai and being beautiful - one of chuuya's themes in the movie is that.... he does things that others tell him to, in two ways. one is if it's an order/job - which he'll only take from his superior/boss. another is if it's a debt he has to repay.

- soukoku then meets shibusawa; dazai says that all the gems that shibu's throwing away are wasted and it would have made for a good gift to women. chuuya asks for shibu to return the sheep fa(r)m, but shibu says that the sheep won't return because they committed the (apple) suicide. (so the sheep are Ability users? at least these six?)

- in the crunchyroll ver, shibu calls chuuya (&dazai?) "boring guests", while in odex ver, he calls them "bored guests"

- upon hearing confirmation that sheep fa(r)m is deader than dead, chuuya activates corruption wordlessly and tells dazai to not stop him. dazai actually acquiesces to that order w/o mouthing off, so it's good to see that he actually acknowledges how important it is for chuuya to avenge the sheep fa(r)m, despite the events in 15...

- building with soukoku&shibu explodes....... and camera pans to dramatically billowing in the wind coat of fyodor as he watches the proceedings, and calls it great entertainment. (so fyodor has already seen corruption at work? hmmmmm)

- re: the ADA briefing re: shibusawa....... like. ranpo-san. if you already knew how everything will happen/end......can you like.......inform the rest of ADA too......

- the fog events where a fog appears then disappears after a *few minutes* leaving behind a corpse of an Ability user started 3 years ago. the info that they have on shibu is that he's 29, he's an ability user, he goes by "collector", and he's the person responsible for the fog events

- also laughing at how... the meeting kunikida & tanizaki went to, to meet with the Special Ops agent... so shady hahaha. though apparently, this is the first time that the "calling card" of a stabbed, juicy apple is left behind.

- tanizaki: "why an apple?" / kunikida: "how should i know?" asd;sfha;ds why is that your main concern tanizaki, there's a dead person there in front of you hahahaha

- (flashback to bar lupin - dazai asking soda if he knows about apple suicides & soda replying that it's cinderella..... and dazai saying that soda is really interesting because of that.....dazai, your definition of interesting.... is if people don't know cultural/literary references? and soda's an aspiring author at this point??? do you sure??? and dazai giving such motives to snow white ahahaha, the definition of overthinking....;;;)

- dazai gets ambushed by ango in front of bar lupin after dazai took the pill (that would supposedly eventually act as an antidote) (like.....how the fuck did dazai end up hiding that pill in his mouth for that long and he kept on talking a lot and it didn't slip or melt wHAT) & ango says that dazai's the one who brought shibu back to yokohama;;; dazai doesn't get captured by ango's team, bec that's when the fog appears

- (atsushi sleeps inside kyouka's closet???? like............why. i thought he had his own dorm room before??? and kyouka's apparently living (in the dorm???) that's quite far away from the agency itself, bec they had to walk a long way to reach the agency?? i was initially thinking it was like, just behind the office or just the next street over hahaha

- ADA budget apparently is spent on high-tech communicators (just use special satellite phones asdj;asd) and fancy gun storage. i'm a bit disappointed that there wasn't a flamethrower. also, the gun that kuni gave atsushi??? had so many fucking bullets.

- ango and his team is able to monitor the fog in yokohama so they're.... not in yokohama? do they have like an airship or something? the fog is apparently able to remove any non-ability users in the vicinity & separate the ability user from his gift. ango reveals that the HQ of the enemies is an abandoned tower called Mukurotoride in the middle of yokohama and i'm just.... did nobody ever think that an abandoned tower in the middle of a busy city isn't damn suspicious???? it's apparently been there for a long time ffs

- (atsushi has this one-track mind that because dazai saved him, then dazai must be good at all costs, which is. i'd love to say it's because he trusts dazai, but it's more like those fanatic belief, really. it would be great if the manga can explore this deeper - because atsushi's hypocrisy is a really interesting facet of his character. atsushi who doesn't even want to point his gun towards the enemy abilities in the beginning and who say that 'even if he's a villain, we don't know the type of person he is...' 'no matter how bad they are, there's no need to kill them', but when akutagawa says that bec dazai is an enemy now, he'll kill him, atsushi reflexively points a gun at aku...)

- ango's subordinates track chuuya (A5158) down and sends him a message to "pay his debt to professor glasses"

- bitch trio scene! shibusawa's theme of boredom bec he's apparently that much of a genius whose intellect can't be surpassed. dazai says that he's just like shibu before, bored beyond belief. when shibu asks dazai how he's surpassed it, dazai claims that he's going to show shibu and that shibu doesn't know what's dazai's true intentions. shibu shoots it down by saying that it's only dazai who thinks he's fushigi mystery. dazai says that shibu needs salvation.... by either an angel or a demon.

- and because call a demon and he'll appear, fyodor appears. who tells the two that they're the only ones who think they're being mysterious because they're pretty easy to read. (shibu then calls fyodor "Majin Fyodor-kun" ahhh). dazai claims that fyodor's the one most likely to betray shibu, which fyodor agrees with. shibu just says that there hasn't been anyone who surpassed his expectations, so he's looking forward to it.

- during the entire bitch trio scene, there's a focus on apples and a certain skull.

- aku telling kyouka that she now has the opportunity to kill him in an ability-less world asdfgh;lasd

- the PM apparently has made an emergency passage specially made to counteract ability user-attacks and can't be penetrated by the fog?? i wonder how they made it?? a nullifying ability from dazai??? hmm

- aku says that the fog is a "dragon's breath" & aku schooling atsushi on information gathering is asdfjg;asd (i wonder who gave the info to aku though....? probs mori haha)

- at this point, i'm gonna jump the explanations and go with - during this entire movie, shibusawa is already dead. he's a walking dead. except for That One Flashback, shibu is dead.

- shibu then welcomes the bitch trio to his collection room, Draconia. which is filled with crystallized abilities. the room has abilities that are bright red and dull red - apparently, all the ability users that is engulfed with the mist will have crystals in the room - once the ability user has been defeated by their ability, the ability will be crystallized and will become a bright red gem inside the collection room. the collected ability can then be taken and used by anyone who's holding the red gem.

- fyodor says that the collection is enough to make a devil jealous, while shibu says that fyodor sold him information about most of the ability users in his collection, which is how he was able to collect them. (remember in the Fyodor v A chapter - fyodor got himself captured so he can steal the notes/docs about Port Mafia members. *more on this below)

- Shibusawa: But how did you gather all that information? Fyodor: Every city is filled with rats. Dazai: Meow.

- that meow also haunts me hahahaha

- shibu then basically says that he's actually just looking for That One Special Ability to make the collection worthy

- akuatsukyou arrive at the end of the passage? but it's foggy, so either the fog is stronger, they're outside of the passage, or aku's lying about the passage being impenetrable by the fog asd;fasd

- Shibusawa: To me, people are nothing but machines of flesh, behaving in identifiable ways. But there is just one person I fail to comprehend. Myself. Dazai: Don't you have any friends? Shibusawa: I don't need friends. I understand everyone's mind, after all. I will surely go to the world beyond, between my lines, past the blank spaces. Dazai: You wouldn't be saying that if you actually had friends.

- this exchange is just so asdfgj'asds like pls you two

- akutagawa summarizes rashomon's ability as.... "to change a cloth to a blade and send it flying towards the enemy". i'm so proud of how aku's able to utilize that ability and create so many things (so demon armor is literally like a suit of blades??? damn son);;; (also, this brings to mind the saying "silk hiding steel" hahaha)

- aku defeating rashomon by slapping it towards the vat of lava..... damn son again;;;; aku going "just as planned", then rashomon apparently survives and aku changes it to "just as i expect from my own ability" ahahahaha.... and aku telling rashomon that he should quiet down and that he belongs in there (in his coat).... ahh bless him

- atsushi shattering the crystal on Byakko by shoving the blade inside its mouth.... is apparently Foreshadowing for something later

- chuuya complaining that he's being expected to go to ango's facility by one phone call.... but chuuya.... you still went..... ;;;;;

Chuuya: You've got some nerve, expecting me to answer your phone call like I'm on your beck and call. Ango: May we have some time alone? This is a government facility. You don't expect to get away doing something like this, do you? (referring to chuuya probs destroying a dozen doors in the process of him reaching ango's office) Chuuya: I'll be the one to decide if I do or not. Not you. Ango: You have a debt to me. Chuuya: No, you have a debt with me. Ango: What are you talking about? Chuuya: Don't act dumb. Do you think I'm stupid? It's about what happened six years ago. Ango: What do you mean? Chuuya: It was the government who sent Shibusawa into the Dragon Head Conflict. It was supposed to end the conflict that had engulfed all of Yokohama. But he never had any intention of maintaining peace. All you did was create more corpses. You sheltered him anyway, because he's a gifted that can help in protecting the nation. That's why, not only did you turn a blind eye to all the corpses he'd produced overseas, you covered it all up. Ango: All for the peace in this nation. Chuuya (grabbing Ango): Watch your mouth, professor glasses. If you hadn't sent him out, all six of my friends would be alive right now. Ango: Will you kill me? I wouldn't mind. I've been prepared ever since I'd decided to ask for your assistance. Chuuya (throwing Ango aside): It's a deal, then. I'll accept your job. And you'll pay with your life.

- back at the creepy beautiful castle:

- fyodor and dazai utter the "keikaku doori" line, which means shit is about to go down - apparently fyozai had made a team-up to sneak into the collection room w/o shibu knowing - dazai reveals that he worked to "guide" shibu in yokohama because shibu is someone that can't be touched because he has the protection of the government... which means that he'll just continue filling up his collection room with ability users and japanese gov't will just turn a blind eye to it, and therefore shibu must be stopped by other means - fyodor says that even w/o dazai meddling with shibu, shibu would create a fog in yokohama. - fyodor takes out 2 abilities. 1st ability can summon all ability users in the area and teleport them to a single place. 2nd can turn the abilities of the gifted who touch it into crystals. (was A a foreshadowing for this all along? A's ability is to change the lifespan of his subordinates to jewels....what is with fyodor and ability users re: gems hahah) - fyodor holds up the 2 gems so that dazai can touch it and nullify it

- (a side note: at this point, here are the characters who've been shown to still retain their abilities: Dazai, Chuuya, Fyodor*more on this later; Dazai because his nullification still works; Chuuya, because he still had that glowy red when he dealt with ango and cracked an entire office wall in the process)

- the logic is that, if dazai touches the 2 gem abilities... the crystals will be broken and the abilities will return to their "former state"*** (v important) and the ability to summon all ability users in one place (aka The Fog) will be cancelled and therefore fog will disappear

- fyodor offers the 2nd gem first... dazai touches it.... but instead of the abilities returning to their owners, the abilities escaped from the crystal shells inside the collection room and fused into one

- before dazai can work on dispelling the fog by touching the 1st gem, shibusawa stabs dazai in the back with a fruit knife. shibu says that he expected this, bec nothing surpasses his expectations. dazai just blandly says "i see... so this is where the betrayal happens", bec fyodor had supposedly locked the door to the collection room when they entered it, but woopsie, apparently not, because fyodor values entertainment

- dazai asks shibu what's his next step, but shibu says that his target is dazai anyway, so there's "no next"

- dazai says that he didn't expect a fruit knife to hurt this bad, so there must be poison in it

- shibu tells dazai that he can now taste the death he's longed for dearly

- in CR subs: dazai says: "How could you? This feels great" while in ODEX subs, dazai says: "What have you done? This doesn't feel great at all", which i think makes more sense

- fyodor says that "with the owner dead, the ability leaves him", and dazai "dies" and "no longer human" crystallizes

- (a side note: so it's confirmed that if ability user dies, ability leaves him.... but what happens to it next? is it transferred to a next person? how about its effects? the people that yosano healed... will their effects be gone and therefore the people will regain their wounds??)

- shibu holds NLH in his palms. shibu's very excited to see NLH crystallized because it very blue (as opposed to the red-gem abilities), the blue changes to red, gemblocking him.

- (presumably, NLH activates?? but.... fyodor held the two gems before and they didn't really activate.... but maybe they didn't because they were already active??)

- Fyodor: The merging ability (the 1st gem, aka: The Fog, aka Shibusawa's Ability) and the disabling ability (NLH). With the two contrary abilities becoming one, a singularity is born. Even with Dazai's special ability, what you really desire-- your lost memories-- will never come back.

- fyodor then says that he'll help shibu recover his memories, and slits his throat

- (joint orphanage flashback time!! c/o atsu and shibu as shibu regains his memories! shibu experiments on young atsushi by electrocuting him. shibu says that the president was mistaken about atsushi's ability, implying that atsushi's real ability isn't Beast Underneath the Moonlight. it's apparently a Very Special Ability, but atsushi's not able to use it properly because of his youth/inexperience. shibu says that even he isn't able to pull the ability out and collect it with his fog.

- in CR subs, shibu says that: "It's the only special ability that won the envy of all other gifted." // in ODEX subs, shibu says that: "It's a special ability that can grant the wishes of other ability users"

(a side note - if his real ability is an ability that can grant his wish, it's possible that atsushi probably read a picture book somewhere or got influenced into thinking that Tigers are Bad. his ability goes haywire, bec it was too strong and he was too young to control it, so atsushi's ability has formed into a tiger because atsushi needed something to blame. something beastly. something monstrous. he can't accept that he himself is the one who's hurting others, so he has formed his ability to turn to a tiger. the regeneration, the shounen power ups... they're not very "tiger-like" or it'd make for a very OP tiger, so his ability could be to make his wishes to reality, like "i want to heal!", "i want to be strong!" and the tiger is just the form that atsushi can deal with/can understand. you can even say..... that byakko is his fursona;;;; *gets kicked*)

(more side note: irl!atsushi wrote a story Tiger Poet, which features a man changing to a tiger....that is a poet... so he might have read that story and got an idea re: the tiger. there's a quote there, "We are all the trainers of wild beasts and the beasts in question are our own inner-selves.", which could be atsushi getting the idea of personifying his ability as a tiger so he can "tame it", aka control his ability)

- anyway, young atsushi didn't enjoy the electrocutions, the tiger takes over and claws shibusawa's face off, killing him

- shibu then says that the reason why he targeted atsushi to begin with is because he heard from a Russian named Fyodor that atsushi's ability is special (see the same contrast betw the CR and ODEX subs noted above)

- present time, fyodor then confirms that shibu died at that point. But. upon death, shibusawa apparently inherited a new ability - the ability to split himself (his soul? spirit?) away from his corpse. his body (aka, the skull that's been there the entire time) is the one who remembers death while his mind doesn't remember it and has retreated into a room (the Collection Room) to deal with his Feelings. (so it means that the shibu soukoku faced off in the beginning is walking dead shibu as well, because apparently shibu has gone for the gem collection quest after his death)

- a side note: so Shibusawa's Real/Original Ability is The Fog (1st ability can summon all ability users in the area and teleport them to a single place....and presumably "pull" the ability away from them). after dying, he got the ability to separate his mind from his corpse (redefining mind over matter), presumably given to him by fyodor?. he then gets the ability to turn abilities into crystals, presumably given to him by fyodor too?, then because he's basically a ghost wandering around earth, he tries to find a reason for "existing" to fulfill the void, which leads him to gathering abilities (*more on this later)

- the abilities continue fusing to each other, creating a huge mass. dazai's "dead" body is sucked into that mass.

- fyodor comments that dazia is quite greedy, because even in death, he intends to watch the city fall into destruction. fyodor then says that as congratulation for their anniversary of being friends (LOL; also - they've known each other for a year already? or is fyodor gigglesnorting here and considering that very same day as the start of their friendship?), he'll tell the dead dazai the reason why he managed to keep his ability in the fog.

- a "2nd" fyodor appears, the personification of his ability. he looks exactly like him. they say the "I am crime. I am punishment. Did you know? Crime and punishment are close friends." line ahahaha

- fyodor merges with his ability

- the mass of abilities that sucked dazai in changes for to a dragon

- fyodor reveals that the dragon is the form of the chaos of special abilities. (remember that "original state of abilities" that fyodor said above? apparently, it's a dragon)

- the singularity anomaly readings are over 9000, more than the events 6 years ago (aka, the opening scene). ango checks on chuuya's location to see if he's on his way

Ango: Chuuya-kun... Dazai-kun is almost certainly eliminated by now.Do you understand what that means? (implying that if chuuya ends up using corruption, there's no dazai who'll nullify it, therefore he'll also die) Chuuya: I don't care. Ango: Are you sure? You haven't taken your reward... My life. Chuuya: Don't get cocky, asshole. You were a just lowly infiltrator six years ago. It's not like anyone would have listened to you if you had opposed their plan to use Shibusawa.  (Chuuya lowkey implying that he actually doesn't blame Ango all that much, despite all his talk earlier) Chuuya: This is nothing but that idiot's plans. That Dazai is still inside there. No doubt about it. I need to give him a smack, or I'll never get over it. I'm hanging up.

(can i just say.... chuuya.... even though he has no proof of it whatsoever, he believes that dazai's still alive and waiting for him. ango, who can see the readings of the ability users, knows that dazai's dead. but chuuya----he doesn't need that kind of logic. unconditional trust is here, folks. also, the theories about chuuya actually being able to read dazai's plans/motives??? hell yes)

- chuuya's in a plane approaching the castle (so confirmed that ango's office really is floating over yokohama??? or at least not near it?)

Tsujimura: We're approaching the target. Chuuya: You're that chick from way back. Tsujimura: I'm Tsujimura. Are you really going? Chuuya: Yeah. Tsujimura: It's no use. No human can defeat it. That thing is a monster beyond human comprehension. Get overconfident and fight it, and you'll die. (lowkey spoilers about chuuya being beyond human, thanks bones) Chuuya: That's not a reason to chicken out and go home. Do you know when it's all right to chicken out and go home? Tsujimura: I do not. Chuuya (jumping off the plane): There is no such time.

(chuuya's badass way of removing his gloves and jumping off and his hat and coat flying off???? the whole cinema SCREAMED)

- chuuya chants the "grantors of dark disgrace" line and corruption activates

- chuuya lands on a building, breaks it down to chunks and launches them at the dragon (with dazai inside hahaha)

- extended battle scene with chuuya just battling a dragon, which is the force of a fuckton of ability users' abilities combined, and nailing it. like. just. think about it. the dragon is formed by the force of all the abilities. and there's like, more than 128 of them (as per the initial briefing with ADA). chuuya actually defeated the force of that many ability users. fuck.

- chuuya jumps down to a huge-ass building, floats it and uses it to beat up a dragon. a building is being used as a baseball bat to hit a dragon. the sheer scale and ridiculousness of how powerful he is??? amazing.

- chuuya ends up ramming the building to the dragon's mouth. that's how the fight ends. he makes the dragon choke on AN ENTIRE BUILDING.

- chuuya then yells "DAZAIIIIIIIIIIII" as the dragon explodes (while he's still in corruption mode)

- chuuya reaches dazai, who's inside the dragon, and chuuya (still in corruption mode) punches dazai in the face

- the punch is apparently the key needed for dazai to bite down on the pill, releasing the antidote to the poison (if only romeo and juliet knew about this method...)

- dazai lives. chuuya coughs out blood from using corruption for too long.

- they float in the air and dazai. just. softly touches chuuya's cheek, disabling corruption.

Dazai: You believed in me and used Corruption? I'm so touched I could cry. Chuuya: Yeah, I did. I believed in your disgusting craftiness and refusal to die.* Dazai: That was a somewhat violent way of waking Snow White. Chuuya: You're the one who planned it by hiding an antidote in your mouth, knowing I'd punch you.

...JUST.

dazai's voice.

chuuya. admitting that he believes in dazai. in ODEX subs, it was "i believed in the fact that you wouldn't die", which is extra doki in that ----- even though they've said "i'll kill you" to each other so many times (even in the beginning of the movie) and even though chuuya knows about dazai's double suicide longings.... he still believes that dazai wouldn't die.

and just. dazai implying that he's snow white. and chuuya just rolling with it????? dazai implying that chuuya's the prince who woke up snow white. and chuuya just rolling with it????????

this is high-level flirting i CANNOT

and chuuya KNOWING that him being here is part of dazai's plans and him being here anyways knowing that (even though he had mentioned about dazai's plans always toying with him---)--------------- i CANNOT

Chuuya: Let go, asshole. Dazai: (*dazai presses down on chuuya's head to prevent him from moving*) Don't move. The fog hasn't cleared. I don't want to have to protect you from your special ability in this situation. Chuuya: It's still not over? Dazai: No, it's just beginning. Chuuya: Shit. I can't even move a single finger. (Chuuya collapses into Dazai's thigh, his face/chin landing on Dazai's upper right thigh/hip) Dazai: I predicted things this far. But the rest is on them.

and of course. the lap scene. the scene that killed everyone in the cinema. just. there's no words that can bring it justice. the fuwafuwa atmosphere. the shoujo music background during the floating then the lap scene. the sound of dazai's hand patting chuuya's head. the body placements. the camera angles. that pic in the magazine???? oh boy the actual scene, the extended scene is 10000000000x gayer.

just think.

dazai. who shoved atsushi off when he fell on him.

dazai. who had chuuya fall on his crotch and legs and just. let him stay there. like yes, the point is that dazai has to keep on touching chuuya so he can nullify chuuya's ability and therefore not have his powerful ability have a separate form that can fight them. but they didn't have to stay in that position, did they? i mean, chuuya can't move but dazai could have shoved him off, right? he could have touched him using anything else but keeping him between his legs and patting his head/hair right.

.............BUT WAIT.

dazai.

before he "died".

he.

already nullified the ability to form abilities to crystals. the only ability left is shibusawa's fog, which can trap ability users in one place and extract the ability from them (and just that. the abilities shouldn't be trying to hunt down their "owners" anymore, because no more moon crystal power. right???)

so.

dazai........didn't really have to keep touching chuuya then?

.......is that so. huh.

.....i see.

sasuga dazai.

(i mean even that conjecture is incorrect - as in the Fog can also make abilities fight their owners, aside from just extracting them..... did dazai really have to touch chuuya like that????? .....he really did, huh. i see. sasuga dazai)

.........also. the ability, even if given form, only attacks the owner. (except for that lol-worthy case of rashomon and the tiger having different ideas and attacking each other). so if dazai, as he says, really hates chuuya and wants him to die...... he can..... just let the ability kill chuuya, right??? he doesn't *have* to protect chuuya from it, right? his keikaku that will allow him to use the antidote pill is done, right....? ....ah, but he has to protect chuuya... i see.... sasuga dazai) (unless dazai thinks that chuuya's ability would also hunt him down, in which case.......... dazai, you think yourself that important to chuuya that his ability will hunt you too, huh...... i see.... sasuga dazai)

....also.

dazai.

saying that this is within his predictions, while he's holding the collapsed chuuya to his thigh. still with his hands on chuuya's head. dazai....... why are you predicting that chuuya will end up in your lap. more importantly, why does your predictions END once you have chuuya in your lap. you're leaving the akuatsukyou children to fend for themselves and didn't predict the next parts because you got chuuya in your lap already. .....i see. sasuga dazai;;;;

(a sidenote. from above. fyodor sold the port mafia's information re: ability users to shibusawa. the ability users that shibu knows about will be in the collection room, their abilities getting taken from them. chuuya has his ability The Entire Movie. he didn't lose for the tainted sorrow, at all. so.

- chuuya's ability too strong and can't be extracted, just like atsushi - OR chuuya's ability not in port mafia records - OR chuuya's info is there, but incorrect/incomplete - OR chuuya's info is there, fyodor kept chuuya's ability's information and didn't sell it (a good theory for fyoya fans???) - OR collection room can only get abilities from humans?

(signs point to the first one....... but the other options are also hmmmmm)

- fyodor planting a broken crystal of shibusawa's original ability crystal on the skull's head (it looks like a goddamn horn) so that shibu becomes the "point of singularity" in lieu of the dragon bec dragon is dead. fog continues.

- shibusawa realizing that all his plot?? at collecting abilities? is just his way of trying to cope with the fact that his real thirst lies with atsushi. no really. he just really, really, really wants to see atsushi again.

- another sidenote: AGATHA IS A QUEEN. also, we're laughing about how Agatha is in command of EU. (no brexit in BSD world, apparently) (but also crying a bit because..... Verlaine and Rimbaud and the Trancendentals could be part of the clock tower order??? because there's 12 Transcendetals, there's 12 #s in a clock and they're from france, therefore europe, therefore part of EU therefore----)

- THAT FUKUMORI BACK TO BACK SCENE. MOTHER OF FUCK. mori having faith in dazai's keikaku..... but he's wrong.... because dazai's keikaku had already ended a few minutes ago, with chuuya in his lap. (but really. so mori can't 100% predict dazai, apparently. because mori thinks that it's still within dazai's plan, but dazai says it's not anymore, so.) also. mori being able to kill the ability-elise but not doing so because of the power of cute??? wow, just wow.

Mori: Fukuzawa-dono. Fukuzawa: What a coincidence, Mori-sensei. Mori: Are you having a problem? Fukuzawa: I've just had a glimpse of a solution. Mori: Excellent. Is it not at times like these that your daily actions speak? (They attack each other's abilities) Fukuzawa: I thought you only used your scalpel. I'll be careful from now on. Mori: No mercy, even for an endearing girl. The lone swordsman, Silver Wolf. You are indeed full of sin.* (CR: you are indeed guilty; ODEX: you are indeed, full of sin) Fukuzawa: That was nothing but a demon. Elise: Hey, Rintarou! What the heck are you doing, leaving me behind?! Mori: It's the real Elise-chan~ Fukuzawa: I think she's a demon either way.

- the akukyouatsu v shibu fight continues, with shibusawa basically saying, "ATSUSHI THE LIGHT OF MY LIFE" in repeat. the reference re: tiger v dragon is brought up. shibu says that he's not bored anymore bec atsushi's there.

- the tiger and the dragon are enemies. (more on that here: http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TigerVersusDragon) apparently, because the dragon represents all the abilities fused together, the tiger is the opposite (......so..... tiger = no abilities? hmmmmm. no wonder fyodor wants him. it's the fulfillment of his goal of a world without abilities, then?). shibu says that atsushi's ability is the opposite of all the abilities, the most special ability of all. atsushi's ability crystallizes, but before shibu can take it, atsushi grabs and says "that's not an ability, that's me!"

- (side note:

- i wasn't expecting that atsushi (whether it's the beast underneath the moonlight or the possibility that his is an ability that takes the form of his desires/wishes) would be the opposite of all the abilities. i would think it's more of dazai's or someone who can erase an ability, but. MC powers? - then again. all of shibusawa's info came from fyodor. so it's also highkey possible that this is all Fake News from fyodor)

Shibusawa: I understand everything, now. Why I'm here, why you appeared before me, and what his words mean... You... You must be the angel who saves me.

- shibu proving dazai right that "an angel" saved him, though technically a "demon" saved him "from death" before too....

- atsushi kills shibu for the second time by crushing his skull

- AGATHA. BEING DISAPPOINTED. THAT YOKOHAMA IS SAVED. because. "The scent of a burning nation goes well with tea." AGATHAAA

- at the end of fighting, chuuya's propped up against the wall of rubble (YOU KNOW THE ONE). his hat apparently landed a few feet away from him. (did dazai drag him there so he can be near his hat? did dazai look for the hat?? did the hat get magically pulled to where chuuya is??).

akutagawa appears.

chuuya asks what the hell is he doing here, then says that the idiot dazai is safe.

akutagawa..... bows to chuuya.

like damn.

akutagawa "DON'T YOU ORDER ME, YOU FOOL" ryuunosuke, bowing down to chuuya. a+++++++++

but then akutagawa starts to leave chuuya behind ahahahaha

and chuuya goes..... what, you're just gonna leave me here when you see i can't walk what. but seriously, his line is: "Oi. Lend me a shoulder."

(so.... dazai and chuuya were together till daybreak, in time for chuuya to wake up, for the spoonDI cover to be shot, for them to have matching bruises on their lips in that photo, huge smiles in their faces, for dazai to change clothes, for chuuya to be unable to walk.......... i don't to say they banged in the rubble, but they totally banged in the rubble.)

- dazai basically saying that, welp i did this keikaku and harmed so many things! - atsushi: but dazai is helping yokohama!!! - Dazai: Do I look like such a good person?

- atsushi.... i want to say it's your trust or that it's your naivete, but...... are you sure you have eyes lol

- dazai reveals that he hopes that shibu managed to fill his boredom and loneliness..... dazai, stop projecting your issues on others. stop helping others with your same issues achieve happiness.... do it to yourself first please.....

- as the ending song plays... we have this scene from ango:

Ango: Given the complexity of the three masterminds' motivations, we still don't have a full picture. Dazai-kun's the same as usual, and demon Fyodor's intentions are impossible to comprehend. But, beyond all the scheming and lying, the incident may fundamentally be very simple. How is a man like Shibusawa, so intelligent that others look like alien creatures to him, to act, to be destroyed, or to be saved? To be one of three aliens in the world, in isolation and loneliness... I can't even imagine it.

.....like, given the movie. it really is a good summary. all these genius aliens.... they actually have such simple thoughts.

- shibu did all of that, but he just really wanted to see atsushi again. - fyodor did all of that, but he just really wanted to be a bitch and have fun. (and maybe kill all ability users eventually) - dazai did all of that, but he just really wanted to try an apple suicide and be saved just like snow white.

.....one of it is not like the others, ahahaha;;;;;;

- chuuya looking beautiful in the ending scene, as he talks with mori

Chuuya: Were you aware of the trick, Boss? (*referring to dazai not really dying? and using that antidote pill?) Mori: Dazai-kun was acting on his own, and I expected he would need your help. As a forerunner. Chuuya: So I was an opening act? Mori: Dazai-kun decides the star. (in ODEX: Dazai-kun was the one who decided on the star.) Chuuya: And what do I get in return? Mori: The return of order in this city. Chuuya: The peace of this city, huh? Mori: Good work. Chuuya: You don't need to thank me. It was your order, so I'm just doing my job.

- asdfgj;asd - mori #1 soukoku shipper confirmed. like. even if he has that much faith in dazai's plans (see above), he also has a lot of belief that dazai's plans will work if chuuya's there to help.

and that "dazai decides the star"/"dazai decided (on you) being the star.... and chuuya....... just rolling with it. he's not ok with simply being an "opening act" ahhaahh. and mori knowing that dazai made the plan with chuuya having the starring role. and chuuya Knowing that too.

and here comes chuuya's concept of "reward" again.... does this boy get paid.......

chuuya's reward being yokohama's peace???? is he really part of the mafia??????????? a pure boy. someone give him the yokohama peace prize.

- second to the last scene is fyodor still creeping on them:

Fyodor: Everything is but entertainment. But in order to end this world, rife with crime and punishment, I really do need that book. The blank novel sleeping in this town.

(so Book's location is confirmed to be in Yokohama at this point)

- final scene with ADA doing business as usual and atsukyou going out for a mission? to buy crepes? to buy chazuke? idk

[jessethejoyful]

another bit

Hey look another chapter! This time we focus on miss Agatha and her history with Simon and Penny bc I love them

Ao3 link cause I'm on my phone - https://archiveofourown.org/works/15488646/chapters/36482463

word count: 2027

AGATHA

My parents didn’t explain anything to me until the day Simon came to stay.

We were in Grade Four together, but he’d completely disappeared from class for a whole week. Teacher hadn’t said much about his sudden absence (“Simon will not be with us for a little while; he’ll be back soon.”), so I just sort of… accepted it. So did everyone else, for the most part.

Some of the other kids liked to make fun of Simon, because we were ten years old and he could barely speak in full sentences. The most common nasty rumor was that the school had finally realized Simon was too stupid to be there and kicked him out.

I smacked one of the girls who said that.

But one afternoon, a week later, my mother came to talk to me as I was getting home from school. Helen, my nanny, had gone to make me a snack while I changed out of my uniform, and Mum came into my room and sat on my bed.

“Come sit, darling,” she had said, patting the spot beside her on my sheets. “I want to talk to you about something.” I did as she told me, hopping up beside her and leaning my head against her shoulder.

She took my hand. “You know your friend Simon, from school?”

I frowned up at her. “Yeah. I miss him, when is he coming back? Do you know?”

There was a pause, before my mother said, “Well, I do, actually. We’ve been going through some paperwork with his social worker… and he’s going to be staying with us.”

I remember I didn’t understand. “Until he can go home?”

My mother sighed. “Simon doesn’t really… have a home anymore. I don’t know how much he’s told you, Agatha, but his mother died when he was born. And now his father…” She rubbed her face, looking perturbed. “He went a bit mad and tried to hurt Simon. So the system took Simon away from his father, to keep him safe. Does that make sense?” I nodded, but I still wasn’t sure about the situation. “So Simon is going to be living here with us, now. He’ll be apart of our family. Like a brother.”

This was where it clicked. I still didn’t know how to react, though, so I just nodded again. She smoothed my blonde hair back from my face and smiled sadly. “Don’t worry too much, darling. Just think of it like an extended play date. Having siblings is wonderful, you’ll see.” Another nod, and my mother kissed my forehead. “Go ahead and change. Simon will be here this evening.” She got up and left, closing the door softly behind her.

While I changed, my mind was whirling. I was too young to really understand, I think. It took me several years to uncover the full truth of it; that David had tried to kill Simon, and had been abusing him for years before that. Simon didn’t tell me until a few years after he started living with us, which was fully understandable. That was also the reason Simon had always been so quiet at school; he’d grown afraid of speaking, because his father would hit him if he mumbled or muttered, so he chose not to speak at all.

At the beginning, having Simon living with us was difficult. He was like an injured cat, prone to lashing out, but also keeping to himself a lot. I remember keeping my own distance for a long time, talking to him when we were with my parents but starting to avoid him anywhere else, and especially at school. It had gotten out to the other kids what had happened with his father - though not the full brunt of it - and they used that against him too. While before I had been quick to defend him, by that point I was afraid of being made fun of too.

So I left him to his own devices.

As it turned out, his own devices were punching anyone who tried to pick on him. Before we moved to Grade Five, he got into six different fights. And he never won; the kids would team up on him, because they knew he’d throw the first punch, three or four against one, and then claim it was self-defense after they’d kicked the shit out of him. He was small back then, skinny and knobbly, and he never had the upper hand.

At home, when my parents would gently scold him for the fighting, he would just sit and stare. He was so despondent around us. I don’t think he really knew what to do with himself. He was so sad, and afraid, and he knew that my parents had taken him in, but he couldn’t contain the mess that was going on inside of him.

It wasn’t until we got to Grade Six that I was ready to make amends. The guilt had been gnawing at me for two years, shame over abandoning my friend when he needed me most, but I had just been a kid too. Simon reminds me of that now and then, when the guilt rises up again.

We were a few weeks into term, and the fighting had been getting worse - my parents were at their wits’ ends on what to do with him, coming home with a broken nose every other week. He’d tried to bite the court-recommended counselor they sent him to, so that quickly stopped. But I saw him, one afternoon after class, cornered in the courtyard by a few bullies.

I could recognize by then how he looked before he was going to swing: shoulders hunched forward, fists clenched, chin drawn in to his chest. He’d grown half a foot over the summer, his torso had gained mass, and I knew this fight would be different. He might win, for once, but he’d be in far worse trouble.

I’d just started across the lot when one of the other kids actually threw the first punch. It was one of the bigger boys, a tosser named Danny, and I guess he figured he had the advantage with his two cronies there, but they were both weedy and small, like rats. So I raced over, screaming and shoving myself between Danny and Simon, who both stopped swinging when they noticed me.

“Oi, Agatha, what’re you defendin’ him for?” Danny snarled, taking a step back. “Simple Simon’s just gettin’ what he needs.”

“Eat a bag of dicks, Danny,” I spat back, using a phrase I’d heard an older kid say at the store a few weeks previously, even though I hadn’t really known what it meant. I jutted out my chin, daring him to hit a girl, and he seemed to actually debate it before falling back, hissing.

“Not worth it,” he growled, turning. “Guess freaks stick together.” He and his mates slumped off, while I turned to Simon, who’d gone quiet. He was looking at me like I was some sort of aberration, eyes wide. He was bleeding freely from his nose, and there was a cut on his cheek, unbidden tears streaming through the blood and mixing together. I pulled my handkerchief from my pocket and stepped up to him, dabbing at his face when he didn’t shy away.

“Why did you help me?” he asked in his muted voice. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.

I answered simply. “You’re my brother.”

From then on, things with Simon improved dramatically. We stuck together like glue, and the fighting stopped altogether. He was incredibly protective of me, and the others weren’t as willing as Danny to hit first. They’d still lob insults at both of us, spitting rude comments at us in the halls and on the grounds, but their words didn’t touch us when we had one another.

I started going to therapy sessions with Simon, with a nice lady named Dr. Ebb who had stuffed goats shoved in every nook and cranny of her office, and who always gave us biscuits. Simon didn’t say much to her at first, but with some urging from me, he slowly started to open up. And once he started talking, it was like he couldn’t stop. Things continued to improve.

When we got to our upper years, my parents sent us to a good boarding school together. This was where we met Penny, who wound up being my roommate, which was a real experience. She was brusque and unexpected, pointedly asking all sorts of insensitive questions that for some reason didn’t bother us, but endeared Simon and I to her instead. Because she wasn’t being mean; she was genuinely curious about us and our admittedly odd relationship (She asked if Simon and I were dating, which I took to mean that she had a crush on Simon - but then she asked me out, and I gently declined, and nothing changed between us. She was the first person I told that I was asexual).

The three of us became inseparable. Penny and I had a kind of unspoken agreement between us to take care of Simon, who was prone to falling apart at random times. The fighting did stop for a long time, but there was a point during our eleventh year that he cracked a bit.

While Simon had fixed a lot of his speaking problems, and was more or less normal, a person doesn't go through trauma like he did without some lingering wounds. Small, invisible ones. Like a wicked stammer when he was nervous, or when he came across a dead bird and went into fits. There was a group of boys that took notice, and took stock, and went out of their ways to set Simon off because they thought it was amusing.

The summer before that year, he’d had another growth spurt, rounding off at just over six feet and getting even broader in the shoulders - so when the boys came after him, even four on one, he ended up on top. Victorious, nose broken, cut by a switchblade, and covered in bruises, and booted into detention for several weeks. He started doing Skype sessions with Ebb. He grew quiet again.

Penny and I stuck by him through it all - me quietly supportive, Penny loud and angry about the boys getting away with just detentions, not even as long a sentence as Simon, because he'd won. She wanted to pummel them herself, but Simon and I both talked her out of that.

One of the best things about our school, though, was the programs it offered. It was a fairly prestigious school, so it had a lot of variety and specialization in its courses of study. Simon was able to explore his interest in art, and he found a lot of peace in drawing and eventually animating. And it was clear to everyone that he had a real talent for it, so my parents gave him everything he needed to pursue it, all through high school and into uni. Penny joined him, though she followed sculpting instead of drawing, and our room always smelled like clay.

Meanwhile, I was a little sad to watch them go off to classes without me. I'd tried drawing, but it became quickly obvious I had no clue what I was doing. Which was fine, I only really tried because I wanted to be with Simon and Penny. So instead, I followed my passion for science into the biology courses, and saw less of them during our junior and senior years. But they always made the effort to include me outside of class, and we spent a lot of time in mine and Penny’s room, them sketching and creating while I made flash cards and studied very hard.

I was ecstatic when we found that the university we all wanted to attend had a good veterinary program and art program. I didn't want to admit it, but I was terrified of going off completely alone to school, though I did end up getting my own apartment while they split one. I got a dog. Everything fell into place. 

[iamarosegarden]

At Watford

Day! One! Of! The! Carry! On! Count! Down! Get! Pumped!

(it’s not actually the first day, i’m postin early cus i won’t have time tommorow, sorry)

ah, yeah, this is my first time participating- my first time writing a fic for carry on, actually -i hope y’all like it!!!

ao3

Sumarry: “I mean, honestly, his boyfriend seems more like a ‘chosen one’, ya know,” Eric continued, looking over Ben’s shoulder at the guy who was always staring at Simon, then lets his eyes drift back to Ben, who was looking at him already. They’d only had half their classes today, and in all the ones Eric shared with Simon Snow, the hot guy with the black hair was staring at Simon. Which, Eric could get, Simon was attractive (like, damn), but you had to call it at some point, and Eric was calling it. They were banging.

“Yea- What? His- his what? His boyfriend? What?” Ben sat up straighter in his seat, a look of amused and confused shock on his face

.“The guy… with the black hair… who’s always staring at him? I assumed they were together…”

“What!? No, no no no. NO. Oh my god, no. They- they’re like enemies. Oh my god,” Ben, who was also very attractive, rocked back into his chair, his fist now pressed against his mouth to keep in laughter, a few locks of hair falling onto his forehead with the sudden movement.

-or, the one where we see what i imagine other students at watford think of simon and baz

Eric arrived at Watford late, he was a fifth year his first year going there. Almost immediately when he stepped onto the grounds he was pulled toward Ben via the crucible, barging into an astrology class with his duffel bag still slung over one shoulder.

It had been incredibly awkward.

Mages that were other species, and that came from outside the old families weren’t as rare as most people were led to believe, it was just that more often than not they were either turned away, or just left undiscovered (there were several people from his pod that had magic, but had no idea how to use it, and could never get trained). But more and more were coming to Watford, especially with The Mage’s more inclusive acceptance rules. Eric himself was a selkie (the first to ever attend Watford).

His roommate had asked several questions about his pelt, which, was incredibly rude. So they got off on the wrong foot. Half because of all the questions, and half because Ben was slightly bitter about suddenly having a roommate after four years with a room to himself.

A week after arriving, his schedule was finally sorted out. They’d done a few placement test so that he could possibly avoid taking classes with a bunch of twelve year olds. Luckily, Eric (apparently) had a natural affinity for Advanced Spell Work and Astrology. The only classes he ended up taking with first years was mythical zoology.

He was glad his dam had made him and his littermates enrol in normal school  so he wasn’t going in completely blind. It was kind of like he was going to a different, magical, high school.

He had lunch with Ben, which was good, because Ben was one of the only people he knew. And because it meant he could grill him about Watford politics.

“So… he’s the chosen one?” Eric twisted around in his seat to face the table where Simon Snow was sitting. His roommate grabbed his shoulder and jerked him back around to face forward. Presumably so Eric wasn’t caught staring.

“Yeah,” said Ben, and it came out like a sigh.

“Really? I mean he seems great, like, nice and all that, smells like magic, definitely a fighter. But not really- not really ‘chosen one’ material?”

“Yeah,” Ben was resting his face on a fist, staring at the space above Eric’s left shoulder- at Simon Snow. Hypocrite.

“I mean, honestly, his boyfriend seems more like a ‘chosen one’, ya know,” Eric continued, looking over Ben’s shoulder at the guy who was always staring at Simon, then lets his eyes drift back to Ben, who was looking at him already. They’d only had half their classes today, and in all the ones Eric shared with Simon Snow, the hot guy with the black hair was staring at Simon.  Which, Eric could get, Simon was attractive (like, damn), but you had to call it at some point, and Eric was calling it. They were banging.

“Yea- What? His- his what? His boyfriend? What?” Ben sat up straighter in his seat, a look of amused and confused shock on his face.

“The guy… with the black hair… who’s always staring at him? I assumed they were together…”

“What!? No, no no no. NO. Oh my god, no. They- they’re like enemies. Oh my god,” Ben, who was also very attractive, rocked back into his chair, his fist now pressed against his mouth to keep in laughter, a few locks of hair falling onto his forehead with the sudden movement.

Eric was starting to think all mages were attractive, or maybe that was just him being super pan, a term he had to explain to several people (which he was used to). He was not used to the completely unveiled disapproval and disgust. Apparently mages hadn’t moved as forward with that type of thing, what with the ‘old families’ and separation from the mainstream.

“No, they’re together. I mean, seriously, all the staring? The Longing LooksTM? You have to see it,” Eric said, leaning forward across the table toward Ben, who glanced around to make sure no one else was paying attention to them before he burst out laughing.

“No! No way, there's literally no way. Baz Pitch-” he thrust a thumb over his shoulder at hot-long-black-hair-guy, “is the first son of one of the old families. There’s no way he-” he leaned toward Eric and lowered his voice (oKay, that’s okay, Eric had to resist the urge to lean back (or forward)) “there’s no way he’s gay. Besides, Simon has a girlfriend.”

“That blonde chic? But… she looks, like, dead inside when she looks at Simon. And Baz? Well, maybe there’s no way he’s out, but he’s definitely gay,” Eric leaned back, “I can tell.”

“You can tell?” Ben leaned back as well, so that he wasn’t hunched over the table, but still leaning toward Eric, with his forearms on the table, his voice flavored with amusement, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

“Yes, I can tell,” He paused, settling back into his seat, reveling in the look of interest on Ben’s face. This was probably the longest- longest interesting- conversation he’d had with his new roommate since they’d been cast together by the crucible. “My theory is that the nemesis thing is so his family doesn’t figure out how gay he is for the chosen one, and Simon helps make sure it’s a secret by fake-dating Agatha.”

“Okay, okay sure, Eric. That’s totally what's happening right now, Simon and Agatha are definitely faking their dramatic on-off relationship, so that no one finds out Baz Pitch: Heir of the Grimm-Pitch family, and Simon Snow: Heir to the Mage, are dating,” Ben said, leaning into his arms and sliding them onto the table to rest his head on them, hiding a sly smile in his elbow as he finished his sentence.

“Hey, I’m not saying you have to believe that's what’s happening, I’m just saying that’s what’s happening.”

That was the first time they talked about Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, and weather or not they were dating.

*

The twentieth time they talked about it they were in Advanced Spell Work class, which came after Spell Linguistics and Spell Postering in first and second year, and Spell Work in third year and Spell Work 2 in fourth year. (The class was basically for anyone who had already completed those courses and needed practice so it was a mix of fifth years and upward.)

The classroom looked more like a college classroom than Eric was used to, and it took him a while to perfect passing notes. Simon was sitting in the front row, and Baz sat one row behind him. Simon stood with his wand in front of him, flicking his wrist and muttering “Olly Olly Oxen Free,” with increasing amounts of  frustration as he failed to make the invisible ink on the paper in front of him visible.

Simon Snow was about to go off.

That’s what everyone else was whispering, and Eric could see where the analogy came from. Simon’s magic was pluming out of him like smoke, just not in the direction he wanted it to.

It made Eric especially uncomfortable. As a selkie, as a creature of the sea, he did not appreciate fire, and right now it smelt like he was about two inches away from a blazing campfire.

Simon’s magic acted like smoke too, it clogged up your lungs and made your mind slightly hazy. It contrasted sharply with Eric’s own magic, which he’d been told felt like currents shifting the sand at the bottom of the ocean.

So yeah, he was uncomfortable, and he was really, really hoping Simon didn’t go off, because he’d heard several stories about what happened when he went off. It was like a bomb, like a wildfire, it was explosive and super-heated and dangerous. The air was sizzling with Simon’s magic and Eric found himself scooching closer to Ben in order to get away from it. That didn’t work, of course, but it did ease his nerves slightly because Ben’s magic felt like the dirt you got underneath your fingernails when you gardened. Which wasn’t the ocean or even water but, it also wasn’t fire, so that was a step up from what Simon was putting off.

When Eric had first seen Simon, he’d thought that Simon looked like a beach, but now he was more inclined to say Simon looked like a forge, his eyes and hair were not the sea and the sand, they were the hottest fire and melted bronze.

“Use your words, Snow!” Baz barked from where he was sitting, his wand already neatly slipped back into his sleeve.

Simon turned around to glare at Baz, and Baz met his glare head on, forcing Simon to focus on the task at hand, which was not decimating everyone in the classroom. Simon’s glare softened as he turned back to the paper and spoke clearly “Olly Olly Oxen Free,”

Nothing. Eric took another half step toward Ben, his arm- and his arm band (his magical instrument)- coming up so that he could cast a Take Cover or a Raise the Practical Barrier or some other protective spell so that at the very least he and Ben weren’t burnt up.

“Simon, use your damn words,” Baz grit out, leaning over the seat divider/desk to say it closer to Simon’s ear.

Simon let out a deep breath, before rolling his wrist and saying “Olly Olly Oxen Free.”

The magic in the room rushed toward Simon’s wand and then out of it. The words appeared on the papers and all around the room, draws opened, their contents being placed neatly on Simon’s desk. People had to get a hand on their wallets when they started to come out of their pockets. Several people yelped as tampons flew out of bags, along with other trinkets that were intentionally hidden from view.

By the end of it Simon’s desk was cluttered with people’s belongings, and he hadn’t even used all the magic in the room. The rest of it slowly trickled back into Simon, who started fidgeting.

“Mr. Snow, please take a break outside. Mr. Pitch, go with your roommate,” the Professor said, and Simon quickly got up and went out the door. Baz followed after him in a leisurely manner, his steps slow and refined, just like the rest of his actions.

Immediately after the door closed behind them Penelope Bunce Raised her hand. “May I go the the washroom?”

The professor just gestured to the door, and by the time she put her hand back down Penelope was already out of the room.

“Please check your pockets, and if you are missing something make your way to Mr. Snow’s desk,” said Ms. Waigaud, her voice stiff with annoyance. Nearly everyone stood up and shuffled toward the pile of trinkets, notes, wallets, and tampons.

Eric sat back down in his seat and when Ben followed suit he leaned over to talk to him, “So, you’re gonna tell me, that’s not what’s happening right now?”

Ben turned to look at Eric and Eric grinned at him. Ben let out a long breath through his nose before looking back to the front of the room, where people were still collecting their belongings from Simon’s desk. “That’s not what’s happening right now. Simon just got back with Agatha. And in my math this girl and Baz were flirting. There’s still no way.”

“Oh Ben. Oh sweet, sweet Benny Boy. We both know you’re in denial, and that I’m right. Baz just talked Simon off from the edge, tell me that’s not some supportive boyfriend shit right there.”

“Oh Eric. Oh naive, naive Eric, who wants to see love in the most ludicrous of places. Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch is not ‘banging’-” he put quotations around ‘banging’ because he was quoting Eric. “-the chosen one.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Eric said, patting Ben on the shoulder.

*

The one hundred and fourth time they had a conversation about whether or not Simon and Baz were dating, it was the beginning of their sixth year, which meant it was the beginning of Simon and Baz’s eighth year.

“Hmmmmmm,” said Ben.

“Hmmmmmm, what?” said Eric.

“Hmmmmmm, Simon doesn’t look so good,” said Ben, his eyes on something above Eric’s shoulder.

“Hmmmmmm, that’s because Baz still isn’t here,” said Eric, glancing above Ben’s shoulder.

Then they both looked away from their respective above shoulder spots and met eyes.

“You… might actually be right,” said Ben.

“So!” Eric slammed a hand down on the table, as his other hand came up to support his chin, “You finally admit that I was right all along.”

“No, I still don’t think Baz and Simon are dating. I’m just saying that he’s probably wondering what Baz is up to, with them being nemesis and all.”

“And I’m just saying that you should cut the crap and recognize the truth.”

“The truth,” Ben replied with a straight face, obviously not recognizing the truth.

“The truth,” Eric replied with conviction.

Ben rolled his eyes and started eating his breakfast. “I seriously don’t think you’re right, but it’s a nice thought, Eric,” he said around a mouthful of eggs.

“It’s not a thought, it’s the truth,” said Eric before taking a bite out of his roll.

“I’m pretty sure it’s just a thought,” said Ben.

They continued to eat in silence for a bit, before Eric said, “We could probably settle this by just hanging around them and seeing if they slip… well, if Baz slips. Simon just lets it be known he’s obsessed with Baz and hopes everyone thinks it’s because he hates Baz.“

“But why would we hang around them? We don’t know them at all. Snow doesn’t hang out with anyone but Penelope and Agatha and Baz, and Baz doesn’t hang out with anyone but those two old family kids in his year. No way we could worm our way into that circle of people, they’d see out ulterior motive: trying to figure out if they’re fucking,” countered Ben, before shoving a full strip of bacon into his mouth.

“Ugh, true,” said Eric, then under his breath, “damn it.” He them proceeded to shovel scrambled eggs into his mouth like there was no tomorrow.

“This is why you’re the muscle, and I’m the brains,” said Ben, pushing his empty plate away from himself.

It was right about then that Baz threw open the the dining hall doors.

Eric squeaked and choked on the eggs he was swallowing, having to grab his glass of water and down it to dislodge them. “Oh my god,” he whispered when he finally got the eggs down. “Oh. My. God,” he said, turning to Ben with a grin on his face before whipping around to look at Baz as he stepped through the doorway. “Oh my god,” he said, turning to look at Simon’s reaction. “Oh my god, Ben, look at Simon,” he said, with a giddy laugh that Ben was tempted to call a giggle.

Ben does look at Simon, who seems extremely relieved that Baz is alive. Which, honestly, did not bode well for Ben’s ‘they’re not dating’ stance.

Baz continued to walk through the hall, looking like a returning hero. He passes Ben and Eric on the way to his table, and then sits down. He just… sits down, like he hadn’t been missing for the first couple months of classes when he’d never missed so much as a day before. Ben is both impressed and slightly disappointed.

Everyone in the hall slowly started talking again, and Ben twisted to face forward. Looking at Eric, he finds it hard to be disappointed, because Eric looks absolutely stoked. “Oh my gooooooooood, Ben. That- that has to prove it to you. Simon’s been worrying about his boyfriend for weeks, and he’s super relieved to have him back. And- oh my god, Baz just sent Simon another Longing LookTM. Ben, they are so in love.”

“That’s so not what’s happening,”

*

The one hundred and eightieth time they talked about whether or not Simon and Baz were dating, a dragon was attacking Watford. It was a very painful reminder that Simon Snow was the Chosen One, the main character of their narrative and their only hope should the Humdrum decide to drain Watford of it’s magic, or burn the whole school down with a dragon.

They’re pulled out by a “your attention please” to the drawbridge along with all the other residents of Mummers house, to see Simon snow and Penny Bunce standing in front of a dragon, a terrifying thing, with scales redder than blood, huge fan-like wings, and eyes like a cat.

Eric was terrified, because if the dragon didn’t burn down Mummers House, then Simon going off would, and Eric’s pelt was in Mummers house and if either of those things happened then he would never be able to join back up with pod or ever go back into the ocean again and- and he just couldn’t do that. He couldn’t! He expressed this to Ben, who didn’t seem to understand the severity of the situation.

“I mean, that won’t happen! And even if your pelt does get… damaged, then that doesn’t mean you can’t ever go back in the ocean, I mean, humans can swim and- but yeah! It probably won’t even come to that, I’m sure,”

“You don’t-’ a frantic breath, “you don’t get it! Water feels wrong in this skin, too sticky, too- it’s just wrong and- and I can’t- I wouldn’t be a selkie anymore, I’d just be… I don’t even know what I’d be.” Eirc was pulling at his hair with one hand and gripping Ben’s forearm with the other, his features pinched in distress, “I might die, or go mad… I’d rather die,”

He was thinking more like a seal, then, than a human.

“Eric, calm down, Simon’s got this, everything will be fine,” Eric opened his mouth to object, or to freak out more, but Ben grabbed the hand Eric had on his forearm, and firmly said, “everything will be fine,”

Eric didn’t believe him, that much was obvious, but he did calm down a bit. And turned to watch Simon as he ran forward to the dragon. Simon had slain a dragon before, during his first year, surely he could slay another.

They watched as the thing blew fire at Simon, who looked a bit like a dancer as he threw himself to the ground and out of the way, the ribbon of flames curling back into the dragon’s mouth. The dragon tried to slice Simon with it’s teeth when it was done spewing fire, but Simon rolled away and back onto his feet, scrapes left in the earth by the dragon’s teeth stark against the lawn. The dragon snorted in anger, smoke leaking out of it’s nostrils like an old cartoon, before it lunged at Simon, snapping it’s jaws.

Simon swings his sword at it’s neck, the light glinting off it and making it look especially menacing as it catches beneath the scales of the dragon, who takes off again, Simon going with it, dangling from his sword like an acrobat and swinging up so that his knees are tucked beneath its jaws.

He’s struggling to get the sword out when Baz pushes past them on the ramp, flicking his wand out of his sleeve and casting a “Hear ye, hear ye,” before yelling at Simon, his voice carrying across the whole lawn.

“Simon! Don’t hurt it!” Don’t hurt it? Don’t hurt it!? The thing was about to burn down Watford, burn down everyone’s lives, and Baz was yelling not to hurt it?

Simon seemed to agree, turning away from Baz to focus on getting the sword out.

Baz yells again, “Simon! Wait!” he’s approaching the edge of the ramparts, “They’re not dark creatures!” He leaped up on top of the wall, then out over the building in front of the moat, and then… takes a running jump off the building. Ben flinched, but he still couldn’t look away, Eric squeezed his hand in comfort. Baz is floating over the moat and onto the lands on the other side. It’s incredibly graceful. Eric forgets his panic for a small moment, looking between Baz and Simon as they look at each other the sun shining off the dragon’s scales to cast Simon in an odd, fascinating light.

The Dragon turns to look at Baz, looking like it has forgotten it’s panic for a moment at well, it’s wings slowing from a frantic beat like a heart attack to a steady thump as it tilts its head at Baz, sparks jumping out of it’s mouth and sizzling small patches of grass beneath it.

Baz runs toward the thing, stopping in front of it in a spell casting stance.

Simon yell “Baz! No! You’re flammable!” Eric and Ben can barely hear it from their place on the drawbridge, the pumps of the dragon’s wings making large gust of wind that whistled in their ears, attempting to drown out Simon’s words.

Baz’s hear ye hear ye must of worn off because his reply is nearly drowned out as well. “So is everything!”

“Baz!” Simon yelps, still hanging off the dragon’s neck as Baz raises his wand.

Eric’s hand tightens around Ben’s as the first line of Baz’s spell begins. “Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire, and your children are gone,” it’s the first line in a common pest spell, and for a moment Ben’s panic swells up to Eric’s level, who’s basically petrified watching what’s going on, but then Baz continues. “Ladybird, ladybird fly away home, your house is on fire and your children shall burn. All except one, and her is Nan, and she hid under the porridge pan.”

He’s trying to cast the whole nursery rhyme. Nursery rhymes are very powerful spells, pumped into people’s brains as children and then stuck there for the rest of their lives. Ben is tempted to help Baz with his spell, but as soon as he goes to begin the words, begins to focus on something else other than Simon Snow and that stupid dragon, his head is forced to snap back to Simon, his your attention please still in effect.

He has to use his peripheral vision to look at Eric, and judging by the look of frustrated anguish on his face he’s in the same boat. Forced to be a specter of this doomed battle by Simon’s spell.

“Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire, and your children shall burn,” the dragon’s wings slow even farther, until it’s landed in front of Baz, one bloody puff of breath, and then their only hope at saving Watford will burn, and they’ll be forced to watch as Simon tries to kill the thing because he doesn’t have the time or the mind to undo his spell, probably couldn’t even if he tried.

“All but one, and that’s little John, and he lies under the grindle stone.”

Simon slides off the beast’s neck, taking his sword with him as he falls to the ground, he looks around and sees us all watching, stuck in place and watching like gobsmacked sheep. Even Penelope Bunce, whose magic is like a never ending well, is stuck staring.

“Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire, and your children shall burn. All except one, and her name is Aileen, and she hid under a soup tureen.” The dragon stamps it feet, looking behind it, like it actually wants to leave, like the spell is working, but then is hisses and spreads it’s wings wide in frustration. Baz lifts his voice louder. “Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire, and your children shall burn,” the dragon shakes it’s head and starts to turn, and yes, it definitely wants to leave, but it’s torn between Baz’s spell and whatever the Humdrum has done to it. Baz’s wand arm is shaking, visible even from where they stand, but he keeps going as Simon moves to stand behind him.

“Ladybird, ladybird, fly-” Simon places his hand on Baz’s shoulder, and Baz’s arm stops shaking, his voice hitching louder mid sentence, the faint smell of smoke in the air coming from something other than when burnt grass, “Away Home.”

The dragon shudders and lurches back. Yes! Maybe they’re not doomed after all. Thank god for Simon Snow and his huge reserves of magic, because he’s somehow shared it with Baz, who is actually a decent spell caster. “Ladybird, Ladybird, Fly Away Home!” The Dragon heaves itself up into the air and backward, and as it turns around, flying home, Simon’s spell finally breaks it’s hold. Everyone starts clapping and shouting, applauding the chosen one and his roommate as the dragon disappears, flying off into the distance.

Eric immediately tears his hand out of Ben’s and casts a “Raise the Particle Barrier,” swinging his arm in front of them as he says it. He’d been trying to cast it the entire time Simon and Baz had been fighting the dragon, so after it left he couldn’t stop himself from casting it, even if they no longer needed it. A light blue half circle made up of hexagons appears around them. He’d also been trying to cast a spell to bring his pelt to him, but his instincts kept him from shouting “bring back what once was mine,” and bringing his pelt out into the open where anyone could snatch it.

Eric and Ben turn to each other just as Baz turns around, Simon’s hand still on his shoulder, “As you were,” he shouts, pointing his wand at the school. Well, maybe they did need it. Eric’s shield is immediately shatters by the force of the magic, but neither of them feel compelled to leave like the rest of the scattering students, so he counts it as a win.

They both duck behind one of the drawbridges’ support beams to watch the aftermath. Eric’s hands shaking slightly with left over adrenaline and panic.

“Told you it’d be fine,” Ben says, trying to lighten the mood. Eric snatches at the light dialogue readily, immediately replying in a teasing voice.

“You always were better at divination than me,” he says, giving Ben a small smile.

“But, are you really okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Eric wipes at his eyes, brushing away a few tears that had gathered in the cornes. “I was just really scared for a little bit, I think I might have to find a new spot for my pelt… but I’m fine. I’ll be all right after I process everything.” A change in tone, “But right now I just wanna talk about the new evidence for my case: Simon and Baz are obviously boyfriends,”

Ben was used to the fast change of tone, and knew Eric would talk to him if he needed to, so, he replied, maybe a bit too quickly “that’s so not what’s happening right now,”

“Again: new evidence.” Eric said, poking his head around the support beam to look at Baz, Simon, and Penelope as they started walking toward the bridge.

“We should leave before they see us lurking in the shadows discussing their nonexistent love life,” Ben said, poking Eric in the shoulder to get him to turn around.

“Oh yeah, probably. Let’s go to the dining hall. I need some ice cream after that,” Eric said, straightening up and stepping out onto the bridge.

“I was gonna say we should go back to class but… I agree,” Ben said as he followed Eric across the lawn.

When they got to the dining hall Ben open sesameed the door open with his pen (that was his magical instrument, a pen, Ben hated it because he thought it was boring, but Eric thought it was cool) and then spelled it closed behind them.

The dining hall was empty after lunch until the end of seventh period when the cooks started preparing dinner. There was a lock spell on the door that most students couldn’t undo until sixth year, and by then most students had learned to pack snacks for go without food or they’d just accepted that the hall was off limits during the day.

Eric strolled toward the kitchen door like he’d done this a thousand times while Ben spelled the door shut. Ben followed to find him at the freezer, digging through the cups of ice cream (you know, the ones that came with a shitty wooden spoon).

“So, we got vanilla, chocolate, chocolate vanilla swirl, neapolitan, and sherbert,” He said, emerging from the freezer with a smile on his face, “pick your poison,”

“Ummm, I’ll take neapolitan,”

“Gross,” Eric said, even as he turned to retrieve it from the freezer.

“It’s not gross, it’s a delicious blend of all the classic flavors,”

Eric slammed the freezer door shut and tossed Ben two cups of neapolitan, “Ugh, that’s a really nice description, but it’s still gross,”

Eric started peeling off one of the paper lids while he walked toward the kitchen door, tossing it in the trash situated right by the end of their normal table before walking to their normal spots. Because even though they had the whole hall to themselves, they had to sit in same seats they always did.

“So, what was that evidence you were talking about?” Ben asked as they both fell into their respective seats.

“Oh! Yeah! Get ready for the not-dating-theory to get debunked!” He cleared his throat, and put on a more serious voice, “Exhibit A. He called him Simon which-”

Ben tries to cut in, “Everybody calls him Simon-”

Eric just keeps talking over him, on a roll now, “-is significant if you consider the fact that Baz usually calls him ‘Snow’. Now, we’ve already had a discussion about why it’s important that he calls Simon ‘Snow,’ but let’s review;

“Theory one is that he uses it because everyone else calls Simon ‘Simon,’ and wants to, as Simon’s boyfriend, separate him from the majority. Theory two is that he uses Simon’s last name rather than his first in order to put distance between them as ‘nemesis’. To be honest, it’s probably a mix of the two.

“What just happened is evidence for theory two, Baz, out of fear for his bf, slipped out of their usual act and called him Simon

“Exhibit Two,”

“You mean B,” Ben corrected, opening his ice cream as Eric looked at him in confusion, “you were using letters,” he explained, licking off the lid, pretending not to notice how Eric’s stare intensified, “Also, have you ever considered that, I don’t know, they’re just friends. Or, even that they are exactly what they appear to be, which is two kids who hate each other but are roommates,”

Eric gave him a blank look, “I’ve considered it, yes,” he replied.

Ben gave him a look that said, ‘I am only going to argue with you after you've finished your rant about how gay they are for eachother.’

“Exhibit B,” Eric began enthusiastically, pausing to stick out his slightly orange-tinted tongue at Ben, “Is that Simon listened, he stopped trying to kill a dragon while on said dragon’s neck and in mortal danger to listen to his boyfriend!” he scooped some sherbert onto the shitty wooden spoon and shoved it into his mouth before gesturing wildly with the spoon, ice cream still grasped in his other hand. “I mean, who does that Ben!? Who does that! And! And!”

Eric had lost all the faux-seriousness and was now trying to reign it back in, unsuccessfully, “Exibit C. Where was Agatha?” He exaggerated the confusion in his voice, raising an eyebrow up to his hairline, “Everyone is expecting her and Simon to get back together, and now would have been the perfect time, her ex-boyfriend-soon-to-be-boyfriend-boyfriend has once again heroically saved Watford. But where was she? Watching them from afar on the ramparts, because the whole relationship was fake from the beginning and they’re trying to ease people off the idea that Simon Snow is straight.

“And finally, Exhibit E. That weird thing where Baz’s voice suddenly got louder and more ‘magically saturated’-” Eric put quotations around ‘magically saturated’ because he was quoting their third year Spell Work textbook (“the magical saturation of one’s voice is how much magic the user is using while casting, there is no scale for this, but it is a term you will need to know to describe other’s spell casting” - page 235), “when Simon put his hand on his shoulder? One can argue that that was One) out of anger cuz its his nemesis Simon Snow touching his shoulder or Two) some freaky magic shit happened. OR THREE) he got stronger knowing that his boyfriend was supporting him. I suspect a mix of theory two and three because Simon is the chosen one but also, like, Exhibit A and B and c are already proof enough so the suspicions origins of Exhibit E are excused.”

He smugly sat back in his chair and ate more ice cream, leveling Ben with a challenging look as he waited for Ben’s rebuttal.

“You done?” Ben asked.

Eric nodded happily.

“Exhibit A is null because he obviously used Simon just because Simon responds to that name better. Exhibit B; ummm, he probably just wanted to know what the heck Baz was doing so close to the dragon. Exhibit C. Agatha just wasn’t ready to get back together, like, god, she doesn’t belong to Simon, not everything she does is relative to him,” he gets a bit heated, stabbing a accusing finger at Eric, “you sexist,” Ben pauses after that, and can’t help but laugh at Eric’s distraught face.

“I… I’m not sexist! It’s just that all Agatha dose is be his girlfriend,” Eric defended, slowly bringing a scoop of ice cream to his mouth.

“Wow,” Ben said, trying to keep a smile off his face as he ignored Eric’s squawk of objection, “wOw, Eric. I can’t believe you, a feminist, would reduce this girl to her boyfriend,” he spooned some of his own ice cream into his mouth to punctuate the sentence.

“Pfft,” said Eric, “I’m not- I know she does stuff that doesn’t relate to Simon, but I’m just saying, that usually when they break up, they get back together after Simon does something, and IF THEY’RE FAKE DATING LIKE I SUSPECT, then they would follow that pattern closely. So I’m not really talking about Agatha when I say ‘where was Agatha,’ I’m talking about the strategic soap opera that is Simon and Agatha’s fake relationship, not Agatha Agatha. She’s super cool, she won that riding competition for the school last week,”

“I feel like you’re just trying to cover up your sexism,” said Ben.

“I feel like you’re trying to avoid disproving exhibit E because you don’t have a rebuttal,” said Eric.

Ben stood up and tossed his empty ice cream cups in the trash. “That’s so not what’s happening,”

“Suuuuure,” said Eric, following Ben and throwing his empty cups in the trash.

Ben nodded as he opened one of the Hall’s doors open for Eric. “Exhibit E is complete garbage because you yourself admitted it was probably because his Enemy was touching him,” Ben said after Eric walked past him, letting the door fall closed.

“Come On. Beeeeen, you have to admit that was some super freaky magic shit,” Eric whined, starting to walk toward the stairs that would lead to their sixth period.

“That’s so not what’s happening,” Ben replied, bumping his shoulder with Eric’s.

*

The two hundredth and tenth time they talked about weather or not Simon Snow and Baz Grimm-Pitch were dating was at the Leavers Ball.

Ben and Eric were sitting together at one of the table’s off to the side, Ben complaining about being unable to land a dance and Eric mentally whining about how he couldn’t ask Ben to dance without the other boy freaking out about people seeing.

Ben took another sip of his punch, trying hard to keep himself from slumping back against the chair or table, because while that posture was more comfortable it would make him look ridiculous while in a suit.

Meanwhile, next to him Eric had already leaned back in the chair and kicked his feet up on the table. Because Eric was like that, he wasn’t afraid of looking ridiculous, so he didn’t.

“This punch has not been spiked, american movies, you have let me down,” Ben said, hoping to spark some kind of conversation so that they weren’t just sitting in silence while girls and boys in their best dresses and suits danced (if you could really call the awkward sway-sway-step that most people were doing dancing) past their table.

Eric snorted. “The Leavers Ball is nothing like normal high school dances so I’m not really surprised it isn’t living up to movie expectations,”he replied, pushing his chair a little farther from the table so that the edge wasn’t digging into his caves.  

Ben rolled his eyes, taking another sip of his punch before setting it down on the navy tablecloth. “Do you know where Baz is?”

“Why would Baz be here? His boyfriend’s not coming, and his friends don’t really hang with him after everything” Eric said.

Ben looked at Eric in surprise, “he’s coming, he told the headmistress he would. I’m surprised you haven’t heard,”

“I can’t keep tabs on the lovebirds at all times,” replied Eric, his eyes scanning the room as a new song came on.

Ben cocked his head, as if doing that would help him hear the song better, “Is this Into My Arms?” he asked just as the lyrics started.

“Yes,” answered Eric, even though Ben no longer needed an answer.

Ben snorted and then they fell into a comfortable silence, watching the people on the dance floor. Ben’s eyes drifted up to the ceiling, where the decoration committee had strung up streamers and fairy lights. It was surprisingly nice.

He hears something thud onto the floor, and turned to look at Eric. His feet were no longer on the table, and he was sat up straight in the chair looking at the dance floor. Ben had just started to follow his gaze, bewildered, when Eric reached out a blind had and began to slap at Ben’s arm.

“Ben,”

“What?”

“Ben, look,” a slow grin began to spread across Eric’s face as he said that, and Ben braced himself as he turned to look.

Baz was on the dance floor, in a nice suit, with his a hand on Simon’s waist, who is also in a nice suit , and has one hand clasped in Baz’s and the other on Baz’s shoulders.

Eric was right.

“Oh my god,” whisper shouts Eric, “I was right,” he goes back to slapping at Ben’s arm. “I was right,” he repeats.

“Aleister Crowley, you were right,” says Ben, as Baz pulls Simon closer.

[impracticaldemon]

Nalu Fluff Week 2017 Within the Law Chapter 3: Lawful Tresspass

fanfiction by impracticaldemon

Author's Note:

This is the final chapter for Within the Law. This chapter is packed with flirtation, love, lust, raw emotion and thwarted need. Also, legal terms.

Hope it's fun!   ~Impracticaldemon

Lawful Trespass Prompts: Texting; Fairy Tales (at least in concept if not final design)

Lucy's interview with Makarov & Vermilion—the law firm also known as Fairy Tail—had been on the Wednesday. When she'd gotten home that evening, she'd had no difficulty avoiding questions, since her father was at work, as usual, and the servants were all very much on her side and knew where she'd been. Not that they had a huge staff, but even four people seemed like an awful lot for a family of two adults and no small children.

That night, after eating a solitary dinner while trying to catch up on some reading for class, Lucy couldn't seem to focus on anything. The people at Fairy Tail had fully caught her attention, and they were far more interesting than what she was studying. She finally left her Trusts text book open at "constructive trusts"—the case law seemed to be all over the map, as the courts had gotten especially creative with this one—and threw herself down on her bed to stare at her comms lacrima.

You were speaking with him four hours ago. What on earth is wrong with you?

It was strange—she felt like she was fourteen crushing on a guy two grades up, not a competent young woman of twenty-three with one university degree already behind her. Her eyes traced a familiar pattern above her. When she was much younger, she and her mother had painted the stars making up the constellations of the Zodiac on her ceiling in phosphorescent paint. Lucy couldn't actually make out much right now, since she had lights on, but it didn't matter—she knew them all by heart.

The lacrima in her hands chimed, indicating a text message. Her eyes went wide when she saw the sender: Grand Moff Dragneel. She snickered at the name, but her stomach did an odd kind of squeeze-hop.

)Hey there! )Did you make it home okay? )So are you there or what?

Lucy scrambled to sit up and send back a quick affirmative.

)Great! Look there's something I've got to tell you. )Erza and Gray both reminded me. )Forgot you didn't know. Anyway I'm here now can I come in?

Lucy stared at the last few words.

)Lucy? Back window seemed best.

She ran to one of her two bedroom windows and looked out—and down. Now-familiar cotton-candy hair looked almost white in the intermittent light of the moon. Natsu raised an arm and waved. Lucy unbolted and opened the window. Then she shook her head and raised her lacrima in order to send another text.

)Natsu what are—

She never got to send her text. Somehow—she had no idea how—Natsu quickly scrambled up the fieldstone exterior of the house and swung himself in the window. He grinned at her as though guys climbed thirty-foot walls like that all the time.

"Hey cool—nice room!"

Lucy backed away slowly, lacrima clutched tightly in one hand.

"Natsu. What the hell?"

Something in the way she said his name got through to him. He stopped moving and stood awkwardly just inside the window. Lucy examined him closely, but there was nothing especially weird about him. Cargo pants hugged his hips and then fell loosely to meet black canvas sandals—and how on earth had he climbed in those? His tight navy t-shirt outlined a muscular chest and showed off a flat, well-defined stomach and strong arms. I should be freaking out right now, not… staring wistfully.

Natsu scrubbed the back of his head. "Right, right, sorry. Yeah, um… okay. This isn't usually my thing, you know?"

"Which part?" Lucy asked dryly. "The vertical ascent—and possible unlawful entry—or something else?"

Her guest (or possible trespasser), laughed. "Hey yeah, I guess I should've asked if I could come in, huh?" He looked thoughtful for a moment. "You know, it's nice to meet somebody who knows the difference between unlawful trespass and break-and-enter. People watch way too many American cop shows."

"Technically, you could be charged with home invasion," Lucy replied, "since you knew I was here."

"Maybe," Natsu conceded, "but you'd have a hell of a time showing that I entered with any intention to commit an indictable offence—"

"We still haven't even established whether you broke in, let alone your reason for breaking in. I mean, I opened the window voluntarily when you announced your presence. Though I'd argue that I didn't expect you to be able to scale the wall, so it's not the same as opening a door."

"But—no, never mind. Anyway, isn't the whole home invasion thing more of a factor in sentencing—like, it aggravates the crime?"

Lucy considered briefly, but her knowledge of criminal law was starting to fail her. Still, her memory was exceptional, and they'd covered the topic at some length at the end of first year. Murder might be more exciting, but a future client was a lot more likely to be charged with assault, or break-and-enter.

"I think you're right. But you may still be unlawfully in a dwelling-house."

"Still requires intent to commit an offence."

"Presumption of intention of commit an offence goes along with the break and enter …or just being there unlawfully."

"Rebuttable."

"Oh for crying out loud, Natsu!"

"Oh?" The pink-haired man took a step further into the room and put his hands on his hips. "Does this mean that you're conceding the case, counsel?"

"Give me a break! First—no. Second—what case? Third—you specialize in corporate law, which we both know isn't nearly as exciting as it sounds! You're an expert on voting rights for minor shareholders, not some kind of, of pink-haired Perry Mason! When is the last time you even opened the Criminal Code?"

"In reverse order, Ms. Heartfilia," purred Natsu, eyes gleaming, "just last week; don't mock Perry Mason—even if he's at least fifty years out of date, fictional, and American; so what?; your case against me for breaking and entering (or maybe unlawful trespass with intent); and finally, where's your proof beyond a reasonable doubt?"

Lucy stamped her foot, torn between annoyance and growing amusement. "What case?!" Then she added quickly—because she was a sucker for a debate—"But just to make it clear: please leave immediately. Ha! Now, if you stay, you will clearly be unlawfully within this dwelling, since you have no right to be here. And that means that you are now presumed to be here with intent to commit an offence."

"Aw, Lucy, no fair!" Natsu hopped up onto the window sill. "It was just getting fun. Do you really want me to leave?"

Lucy shook her head, set down her lacrima, and gestured him back inside. Was that some kind of weird flirting or something? Because… it was fun and just very slightly sexy, which makes no sense. She pulled her desk chair around and sat down. "I'm still confused, so don't get too much closer unless I tell you it's okay. Why are you so up on basic criminal law anyway?"

Natsu looked slightly sheepish, but snagged a handsome leather pouffe and perched on top of it like a very unusual Little Miss Muffett (though not one who would be afraid of spiders, and minus the curds and whey). "I'd rather not go into that right now," he said loftily.

Lucy rolled her eyes. "Is this the part where I say 'Curiouser and curiouser?'"

"Um, give me a minute." Natsu frowned slightly.

"You know Perry Mason but not Alice in Wonderland?!"

"I was getting there!"

"So you and Gray are both into old-time detectives and mysteries? I mean—Poirot? Isn't that what you called Gray earlier? How many people know Agatha Christie these days?"

"The shows were pretty popular for a while," muttered Natsu. "Besides, it's obvious that you know them too."

Lucy sighed. "I read… a lot." She wanted to ask, What's your excuse? Hot young lawyers don't sit at home reading the classics—do they?

Natsu had obviously lost track of the conversation. He was staring at a display case. "Wow… is that a—"

"Yes."

"Signed?"

"The card is. By George Lucas and Mark Hamill."

"You have an original, signed light-saber? I thought that was impossible!"

Lucy shifted uncomfortably. Her father was very, very wealthy. It had been an amazing gift, and she did treasure it—but she'd wanted something from Carrie Fischer. Princess Leia had been her idol, even though the original Star Wars movies had first aired long before Lucy was born. However, she was pretty sure that her father had delegated the purchase of a suitable eighteenth birthday present to one of his staff. She couldn't blame whoever it was for not knowing her very well, given their boss' temper when it came to "fraternizing" with his daughter. Besides, it was a light saber. Her father probably would have chosen jewelry.

"Just lucky I guess," she temporized.

Natsu started to look around the room with more interest than he had before. When he started skimming her book titles, she cleared her throat.

"Natsu—did you really come here to discuss Star Wars?"

"I would have if I'd known!"

"… Really not the point."

"Oh right." He turned and gave her a serious look. "Um, this is going to sound weird, okay? But Erza—"

"—and Gray—" murmured Lucy, remembering his original texts.

"—thought you might wonder."

This was getting annoying. "Natsu, spit it out. Is the firm a front for drug smuggling? Money laundering? Arms peddling? Cheating the tax system—well, any more than most?"

Natsu's eyes grew wider and rounder with each preposterous solution. "No! Of course not! And my clients know that although I set up, um, tax-efficient corporate structures, I'll never get them into tax avoidance problems, let alone tax evasion!" He paused, considering, and Lucy waited, her earlier annoyance having faded into a strong desire to giggle.

"The thing is," her odd visitor said slowly, "our clients find out pretty fast what we will and won't do. We're not afraid of a challenge, but if we think a client is screwing around with the law, then they become an ex-client pretty fast. Especially if they just want our firm's name on a few deals to make them look more like upstanding citizens. Anyway, not many people can stand up to Erza when she's mad." Natsu's grin suddenly returned. "She's had to deal with some pretty strange characters, but somehow we always keep our retainer, even when we cut them loose."

Lucy was intrigued. "You mean that when the drug dealers try to get M&V to set up a structure for their money laundering—or even for a legit deal just to get some credibility—you somehow find out who they are and send them packing? And keep the initial fee?"

"Well sure. Gray's gotta be good for something, even if he is a seriously nerdy guy."

"Says the man with a 'Type A' original release Star Wars poster," Lucy teased.

Natsu turned slightly pink, but laughed. "Well yeah, but Star Wars is cool, right? Gray's into computers and gaming and stuff."

"I've been known to play video games," Lucy told him haughtily.

"Okay, but I'll bet you play stuff like MarioKart and maybe some Legend of Zelda—you seem like you'd be into Link, somehow."

Lucy reddened. "What do you mean, 'into'? Yes, I like MarioKart and yes I like Legend of Zelda—so what? They're good games. I used to play a lot of the Fire Emblem stuff too, for that matter. I haven't actually played much of anything lately though because of my—" Lucy stopped short. She'd almost told Natsu about her book. What was it about this guy? "...Because of my courses."

Natsu had been nodding affably. There he was, sitting cross-legged on something that looked like somebody had turned a Jigglypuff into a soft, round footstool—an awful thought, but then again, at least Natsu matched!—and, and… Lucy cursed her brain. Normally she could be calm and logical when presented with strange situations. But an attractive guy with pink hair sitting on her favourite pink pouffe and talking law with her—apparently she had an unknown weakness. When was the last time she'd wanted to kiss somebody?

"The point is," her weakness said at that moment, since she'd stopped talking, "that you like Nintendo. See? I had you pegged for a Nintendo girl."

"Ugh. It's dumb to generalize like that."

"Okay, fine, but hear me out. I'm not saying that Gray doesn't play Nintendo, because he does—there isn't much he doesn't play, because he's a competitive bastard."

"Whereas you would never play any of his favourite games just so you could beat him," Lucy slid in smoothly.

"Right—what?" Natsu looked completely taken aback, and then shook his head at her. "That was—"

"Slick? Accurate? A brilliant character analysis?"

"Stop i!" Natsu put his hands over his ears and pretended to pout. It didn't last long. "Fine, okay? Maybe. But—"

"Look, are you ever going to tell me what Erza said to tell me? Because, you know, school tomorrow and… stuff."

"My point is that Gray plays those online multiplayer games where you pick some dorky fantasy or sci-fi guy and go beat on people. I mean, that's geeky, am I right?"

Lucy crossed over to Natsu and sat down in front of him. She was going to pretend that she'd done it on purpose to scold him, but the truth was that it had been half-unconscious.

"Natsu," she said, looking up into his green-grey eyes with a serious expression. "Look me in the face and tell me that you don't play Overwatch. Tell me that you have never spent hours figuring out exactly how to beat whatever character Gray likes best." She leaned closer to him and raised her eyebrows. "Well? On your honour as somebody who has collected all of the key Star Wars miniatures and probably has the AT-AT sitting in his living room on an end table instead a bowl of fruit."

There was a noticeable flush of red high on Natsu's cheekbones.

"Wow," he said, "you're good. And of course I can beat Gray at his dumb online games—sometimes, anyway. Maybe not at League of Legends unless I'm lucky and he has a lousy team. But did you see how much money those guys make these days?"

"Yeah, even my father's taken an interest—strictly from the perspective of exploiting the heck out of it of course. But now I want to know two things. One, what are you here to tell me?!" Natsu winced, and Lucy realized she'd spoken rather loudly. "And two, when do you guys ever, you know, work?"

"Oh it all sorts itself out," said Natsu airily. "Besides Gray had to agree to a percent—" he stopped abruptly.

"A percentage? Of what?"

Natsu waved his hands a little frantically, "Um, I wasn't supposed to mention that. So, about why I came?"

"A percentage? Come on Natsu… I'll die of curiosity… He looks so serious but it turns out he has a stripping habit and can play League like a pro—wait, that's not it is it? And is the Law Society okay with it?"

Lucy felt Natsu's warm hands on either cheek, and he lowered his face toward hers. She almost forgot to breathe. Why am I okay with this?

"You're really amazing Lucy. I've known it for a while now."

"For… a while?"

"Yeah. For example," the green-grey eyes flickered to her desk. "I know that you write late into the night, after you put your law books away. I know that you're always kind to people, even when you're having a bad day. I know that you forgive people, even when they hurt you."

Lucy pulled away from Natsu hands. She felt a combination of angry and afraid and… very confused.

"Natsu, what the hell? And it had better be good, because you're freaking me out and I'm seriously contemplating calling the police."

"Right, right… I'm sorry! I have personal space issues, according to Erza."

"Some people call it stalking, Natsu."

"No, no! Nothing like that! Honest! Argh - wait!"

He seemed genuinely upset, so Lucy stayed where she was.

"Make it good. Don't mention Star Wars, books, or games …or Gray, unless he's the one who told you to spy on me."

"No, that was gramps."

"The senior partner of M&V—Makarov Dreyar? He got you to spy on me?"

"Yeah. Well, he did say we'd been keeping an eye on you, right? See, supposedly your mum used to be pretty involved with the firm and its founding members—like, a protégée of Makarov's, you know?"

"No… I didn't know." Another thing her father hadn't told her?

"Oh. Okay then. Well, she gave it all up to marry your dad. According to gramps, they really might have, you know, loved each other, but it really wasn't a great fit. Unfortunately, their families were all for it, especially his. I think there must have been something funny about the whole set-up, but gramps won't talk about it. All I know is that he had Gray keep an eye on the Heartfilia companies—well, once Gray knew how. I mean, not even the Ice Princess was born knowing how to dig up the goods on a multinational organization that has limited partnerships holding shell companies holding blind trusts."

"I take it he's good at it now?" Lucy asked the question just to be polite. She disliked talking about her family, especially her parents. She was feeling… sad.

"Yeah. I'm no slouch either, of course. Took both of us—and some, um, judicious pressure by Erza on the right people—to get a good picture of things."

"And is any of that relevant right now?"

"Well, yeah… because, um, Fairy Tail has kind of an unusual structure."

"Uh-huh."

"We're all partners."

"Wait—seriously?! That just can't be financially viable! And why doesn't anybody know that? And what about the Law Society?"

Natsu shrugged, and Lucy could tell that he was honestly disinterested in what the Law Society thought. "Basically, profit is a factor for us, but it's not the main one. Whether a firm has all partners, or partners and associates is just a question of business model and profit-sharing, right? Thing is, when Makarov told you that we're like family, it was true. That's how it is. Some people work harder than others and earn more—that's no different from a regular firm that has the partners vote on bonuses, right? Some people are allowed more of the profits than others because of seniority, or special duties… Anyway, people don't leave too often."

Lucy was silent, still trying to get her head around a large firm with all partners and no associates. You'd really have to trust your partners, she decided.

"But my mother left?" she prodded at last, when Natsu didn't continue.

"Yeah, and that's the thing. She still had her share in the partnership when she left."

"But… there must have been a buy-out clause?" Lucy asked, puzzled.

Natsu shrugged again. "I think there was. I think they all hoped your mother would come back, or work part-time, or something. It's all a little weird."

You're all a little weird, Lucy thought.

"Is it resolved now?"

"I don't know. Maybe. But if you join us then gramps thinks we're vulnerable to your father's manipulation again. At the same time, he loves the idea."

"Why?"

Natsu gave her a strange look. "Because you're Layla Heartfilia's daughter dummy! I mean, didn't I just finish telling you about the whole 'family' thing?"

He had indeed. Lucy let her head drop softly against Natsu's knee. He was probably startled, but—just as she'd expected—a warm hand came down on her head to stroke her hair.

"So you came to tell me all this? They couldn't have told me all this sooner? And… that means you were lying earlier about not knowing who I was."

"Uh, well… kind of? I never said that I didn't know you. Anyway, gramps didn't want to get into it while you were still learning the ropes, you know. But there's a slight problem now."

"What's that?"

Natsu sat in silence for a while and Lucy was too comfortable—or had too much to think about—to move. Finally, Natsu gently tipped up her chin. His eyes were almost entirely grey now, and had lost their cheerful good humour.

"I kind of… like you." The blush on his cheeks darkened. "Um, a lot. You might have noticed."

I've only known him for about five hours, Lucy thought frantically to herself. What am I supposed to do now?

Natsu cleared his throat. "I totally understand that you can't feel the same way after, well, not very long, anyway. Plus…"

Lucy found her voice again. "Plus I'm pretty sure that a partner dating a summer student is frowned on by the Law Society."

"Probably—those guys don't like anything." Lucy saw him scowl and suspected that Natsu and the Law Society weren't always on the best of terms. "We totally have to watch our steps. But that's not the point. The point is that gramps and Erza are worried about it. We do have to follow the Law Society rule about not admitting you as a partner until you're qualified as a lawyer. And until you're a partner, you're an employee. And right now you're going to be mostly my employee."

"And you're telling me all this now?!"

Natsu looked away and scrubbed at his hair. "I, uh, didn't exactly tell them how I felt. They just figured it out."

"Especially after you said you'd be helping me find a place to live?" Despite being both flushed and flustered, Lucy was beginning to see the funny side of the situation. "Oh Natsu… You told them not to worry about me because we were getting together on the weekend to look at places, didn't you?"

"Well of course! They just took it wrong!" He frowned at floor. "Stupid Gray was laughing at me. But honestly—I didn't mean it to sound funny!"

"You just wanted to be friendly."

There was a long silence.

"I wasn't going to try anything, Luce, honest!"

"Luce?"

"It suits you."

Lucy pursed her lips, her analytical brain ticking over and fighting a losing battle with her heart and strangely overactive hormones. At length she said: "So, the burning question right now is whether I might like you back? And either way, am I willing to risk taking a job working for a firm in which you are a partner? Especially when both the senior partner and the managing partner are ambivalent about the situation…"

"They're not! They think it's hilarious—well, gramps does and Erza kept muttering 'how cute! how cute!' and then threatening to kill me if I hurt you."

"I still think it may be against the Code of Conduct somewhere," frowned Lucy.

"And… she's back to the Law Society!" Natsu looked frustrated now.

Lucy took a deep breath and put her hands on Natsu's face. His eyes—now mostly green—went very wide. "To hell with the Law Society!" With a strange, half-drunk feeling, Lucy closed her eyes and brought Natsu's lips against hers. It didn't surprise her at all to find them very warm and very sexy—just like the rest of him.

Natsu relaxed slowly against her, and his lips parted slightly, returning her kiss. Lucy moved her hands from his cheeks to his shoulders. Careful not to break the kiss, Natsu slid off his seat onto the floor so that he could wrap his arms around her. She could feel his solid chest against her breasts now, and his blunt-fingered hands on her back and in her hair. She couldn't believe what she was doing, but for once she told her cautious self to shut the fuck up.

Time passed, and the kiss deepened. They got better at it as they went along, until the first gentle pressure of lips was something entirely different and much more exciting. Lucy felt as though all the nerves in her skin had come alive at once. Somehow she'd ended up in Natsu's lap, and she was very good with that.

"Is this… okay?" Natsu mumbled at length, when they paused to breathe. He leaned his forehead against hers. "I hope it's okay."

"Me too," Lucy said vaguely. "It's all your fault for talking law to me."

"Torts."

"Not just for dessert anymore!" Lucy giggled at the old, old joke.

"Mens rea."

"I think so."

"What?"

"I think I understood and intended to commit the actus reus."

"So you are fully guilty of kissing me." Natsu tugged lightly on a lock of soft golden hair. "I don't think that's a crime though."

"I just figured that you couldn't take advantage of me if I took advantage of you first."

"What if I only want you for your lightsaber?"

"That's my line."

Natsu blushed. Lucy figured she'd been red from the start, so it was only fair. She took the opportunity to ask a question.

"So… did Gray really win millions by moonlighting in an online computer game tournament?"

Natsu eyed her warily. "Maybe. Why?"

"You're right, that's pretty geeky—or is it nerdy?" Lucy smiled at Natsu, for no other reason than that she was happy.

"I was on his team," Natsu muttered.

"Sorry? You'll have to speak up—I missed what you said over the sound of me laughing at you."

"Nintendo baby."

"Try me at MarioKart, Pepto B."

"Hey! What?! No—Luce!"

"Seriously though, when do you guys sleep?"

"When we can. Well, I do. As for Gray, well… the ice never rests…"

"So he does play hockey?"

"Of course. Fortunately, we figure that he was replaced with a robot years ago, so he doesn't pass out from exhaustion as crucial moments."

"So you don't play hockey?"

Natsu looked embarrassed. "They kicked me off the team partway through the first season, two years ago."

"Should I sue for wrongful dismissal?"

"Um… no. There may have been some—slight—cause." Natsu silenced her next question with a kiss. This time one hand slid under the back of Lucy's shirt to caress the soft skin of her back and waist, and there was no further conversation for quite a while.

They parted, very reluctantly, at midnight.

"You're a failure as a study partner," noted Lucy, examining various hickeys with a combination of embarrassment and satisfaction. "I still don't understand constructive trusts properly."

"Nobody does," Natsu assured her. "But if you're worried, gramps could talk to Prof Porly about it?"

"Prof… Porly?"

"Well, apparently she and Makarov go way back."

"I'll pass on the intervention. I'll bet Gray understands constructive trusts."

Natsu gave her a severe look. "You really know how to hurt a guy, don't you?"

Lucy sighed. "Sorry, Natsu. But… I've been trying to make a difficult decision…"

Natsu could sense that she was serious, and took her hand. "Tell me."

"I'm going to turn down M&V's offer."

"What?! No—Lucy, you belong with us!"

"Natsu." Lucy leaned up to kiss him quickly on the cheek. "It's just for the summer. I can find something else. Maybe work for one of the profs instead of at a firm."

"Because of me?"

"Because of us."

All pretence of joking had already dropped from Natsu's face, but now he looked especially unhappy. "I wish you wouldn't do this, Lucy. And it's not… it's not necessary."

"It is for me."

Natsu studied her. Two years of keeping an eye on her had given him insight into her moods. He'd classify this one as "smiling but stubborn".

"I feel like a total jerk. If I hadn't said anything… we could've at least been friends, you know? And you could've worked at Fairy Tail with a clear conscience."

"Until I ripped your shirt off…"

"Would you?"

Lucy laughed. "You look so hopeful!" Then she shrugged uncomfortably. "Which kind of proves my point. I just… can't have both, Natsu. Please don't make it harder."

Natsu looked down. After a short time, he nodded. "I understand. I'm sorry I messed things up for you."

"How? By existing and being the person that—gods know why—I want to be with?"

"Oi! That wasn't exactly flattering!"

"Your self-confidence can take it."

"Okay, Luce. So… you'll go out with me, then?"

"Yes."

"And you'll join the firm as soon as you're qualified?"

"As long as Erza and Mr. Makarov still want me, yes."

There was a longish interval that didn't involve words.

"Goodnight, Natsu."

"Night, Luce!" He swung himself onto the window ledge.

"Wait—Natsu!" When he paused, Lucy asked the one question she'd forgotten earlier. "How did you make it up here—and in sandals—and how are you going to manage a thirty-foot drop?"

Natsu smiled a little. "You'll find out when you join Fairy Tail, Lucy Heartfilia. Until then, well—you're the one who said she could be patient."

He was gone on the final word, and there was no terrible crunch of broken flesh and bones.

We'll see, Natsu Dragneel. I'll bet I figure it out before then. I've done a lot of reading about Fairy Tail. And at least one place mentioned "magic". Maybe it wasn't such a cracked theory after all.

Smiling to herself in a way that she hadn't in years, Lucy got ready for bed.

[END]

A/Note: I hope you've enjoyed this quirky little brain-child of mine. All comments and reviews are very much appreciated, and thank you for all your support through likes, kudos, follows and faves!

~Impracticaldemon

Tags: @nalufever  @shell-senji  @sabinasanfanfic  @walk-tall-my-fr1ends @kazama-hime @nalu-natic @naluloverforever @strawberrysweetlove35

@eliz1369  @very-x-vice @hakusaitosan @ftfanfics @fic-writer-appreciation

[youmightfindyourself]

What follows is a version of a lecture given to the students of Columbia University’s writing programme in New York on Monday 24th March 2008. The brief: “to speak about some aspect of your craft.”

1. Macro Planners and Micro Managers

First, a caveat: what I have to say about craft extends no further than my own experience, which is what it is—12 years and three novels. Although this lecture will be divided into ten short sections meant to mark the various stages in the writing of a novel, what they most accurately describe, in truth, is the writing of my novels. That being said, I want to offer you a pair of ugly terms for two breeds of novelist: the Macro Planner and the Micro Manager.

You will recognise a Macro Planner from his Post-its, from those Moleskines he insists on buying. A Macro Planner makes notes, organises material, configures a plot and creates a structure—all before he writes the title page. This structural security gives him a great deal of freedom of movement. It’s not uncommon for Macro Planners to start writing their novels in the middle. As they progress, forwards or backwards, their difficulties multiply with their choices. I know Macro Planners who obsessively exchange possible endings for one another, who take characters out and put them back in, reverse the order of chapters and perform frequent—for me, unthinkable—radical surgery on their novels: moving the setting of a book from London to Berlin, for example, or changing the title. I can’t stand to hear them speak about all this, not because I disapprove, but because other people’s methods are always so incomprehensible and horrifying. I am a Micro Manager. I start at the first sentence of a novel and I finish at the last. It would never occur to me to choose among three different endings because I haven’t the slightest idea of the ending until I get to it, a fact that will surprise no one who has read my novels. Macro Planners have their houses largely built from day one, and so their obsession is internal—they’re forever moving the furniture. They’ll put a chair in the bedroom, the lounge, the kitchen and then back in the bedroom again. Micro Managers build a house floor by floor, discretely and in its entirety. Each floor needs to be sturdy and fully decorated with all the furniture in place before the next is built on top of it. There’s wallpaper in the hall even if the stairs lead nowhere at all.

Because Micro Managers have no grand plan, their novels exist only in their present moment, in a sensibility, in the novel’s tonal frequency line by line. When I begin a novel I feel there is nothing of that novel outside of the sentences I am setting down. I have to be very careful: the whole nature of the thing changes by the choice of a few words. This induces a special breed of pathology for which I have another ugly name: OPD or obsessive perspective disorder. It occurs mainly in the first 20 pages. It’s a kind of existential drama, a long answer to the short question What kind of a novel am I writing? It manifests itself in a compulsive fixation on perspective and voice. In one day the first 20 pages can go from first-person present tense, to third-person past tense, to third-person present tense, to first-person past tense, and so on. Several times a day I change it. Because I am an English novelist enslaved to an ancient tradition, with each novel I have ended up exactly where I began: third person, past tense. But months are spent switching back and forth. Opening other people’s novels, you recognise fellow Micro Managers: that opening pile-up of too-careful, obsessively worried-over sentences, a block of stilted verbiage that only loosens and relaxes after the 20-page mark is passed. In the case of On Beauty, my OPD spun completely out of control: I reworked those first 20 pages for almost two years. To look back at all past work induces nausea, but the first 20 pages in particular bring on heart palpitations. It’s like taking a tour of a cell in which you were once incarcerated.

Yet while OPD is happening, somehow the work of the rest of the novel gets done. That’s the strange thing. It’s as if you’re winding the key of a toy car tighter and tighter… When you finally let it go, it travels at a crazy speed. When I finally settled on a tone, the rest of the book was finished in five months. Worrying over the first 20 pages is a way of working on the whole novel, a way of finding its structure, its plot, its characters—all of which, for a Micro Manager, are contained in the sensibility of a sentence. Once the tone is there, all else follows. You hear interior decorators say the same about a shade of paint.

2. Other People’s Words, Part One

It’s such a confidence trick, writing a novel. The main person you have to trick into confidence is yourself. This is hard to do alone. I gather sentences round me, quotations, the literary equivalent of a cheerleading squad. Except that analogy’s screwy—cheerleaders cheer. I put up placards that make me feel bad. For five years I had a line from Gravity’s Rainbow stuck to my door:

“We have to find meters whose scales are unknown in the world, draw our own schematics, getting feedback, making connections, reducing the error, trying to learn the real function… zeroing in on what incalculable plot?”

At that time, I guess I thought that it was the duty of the novel to rigorously pursue hidden information: personal, political, historical. I say I guess because I don’t recognise that writer any more, and already find her idea of the novel oppressive, alien, useless. I don’t think this feeling is unusual, especially when you start out. Not long ago I sat next to a young Portuguese novelist at dinner and told him I intended to read his first novel. He grabbed my wrist, genuinely distressed, and said: “Oh, please don’t! Back then, all I read was Faulkner. I had no sense of humour. My God, I was a different person!”

That’s how it goes. Other people’s words are so important. And then without warning they stop being important, along with all those words of yours that their words prompted you to write. Much of the excitement of a new novel lies in the repudiation of the one written before. Other people’s words are the bridge you use to cross from where you were to wherever you’re going.

Recently I came across a new quote. It’s my screen saver now, my little scrap of confidence as I try to write a novel. It is a thought of Derrida’s and very simple:

“If a right to a secret is not maintained then we are in a totalitarian space.”

Which is to say: enough of human dissection, of entering the brains of characters, cracking them open, rooting every secret out! For now, this is the new attitude. Years from now, when this book is done and another begins, another change will come.

“My God, I was a different person!”—I think many writers think this, from book to book. A new novel, begun in hope and enthusiasm, grows shameful and strange to its author soon enough. After each book is done, you look forward to hating it (and you never have to wait long); there is a weird, inverse confidence to be had from feeling destroyed, because being destroyed, having to start again, means you have space in front of you, somewhere to go. Think of that revelation Shakespeare put in the mouth of King John: “Now my soul has elbow room!” Fictionally speaking, the nightmare is losing the desire to move.

3. Other People’s Words, Part Two

Some writers won’t read a word of any novel while they’re writing their own. Not one word. They don’t even want to see the cover of a novel. As they write, the world of fiction dies: no one has ever written, no one is writing, no one will ever write again. Try to recommend a good novel to a writer of this type while he’s writing and he’ll give you a look like you just stabbed him in the heart with a kitchen knife. It’s a matter of temperament. Some writers are the kind of solo violinists who need complete silence to tune their instruments. Others want to hear every member of the orchestra—they’ll take a cue from a clarinet, from an oboe, even. I am one of those. My writing desk is covered in open novels. I read lines to swim in a certain sensibility, to strike a particular note, to encourage rigour when I’m too sentimental, to bring verbal ease when I’m syntactically uptight. I think of reading like a balanced diet; if your sentences are baggy, too baroque, cut back on fatty Foster Wallace, say, and pick up Kafka, as roughage. If your aesthetic has become so refined it is stopping you from placing a single black mark on white paper, stop worrying so much about what Nabokov would say; pick up Dostoyevsky, patron saint of substance over style.

Yet you meet students who feel that reading while you write is unhealthy. Their sense is that it corrupts voice by influence and, moreover, that reading great literature creates a sense of oppression. For how can you pipe out your little mouse song when Kafka’s Josephine the Mouse Singer pipes so much more loudly and beautifully than you ever could? To this way of thinking, the sovereignty of one’s individuality is the vital thing, and it must be protected at any price, even if it means cutting oneself off from that literary echo chamber EM Forster described, in which writers speak so helpfully to one another, across time and space. Well, each to their own, I suppose.

For me, that echo chamber was essential. I was 14 when I heard John Keats in there and in my mind I formed a bond with him, a bond based on class—though how archaic that must sound, here in America. Keats was not working-class, exactly, nor black—but in rough outline his situation seemed closer to mine than the other writers I came across. He felt none of the entitlement of, say, Virginia Woolf, or Byron, or Pope, or Evelyn Waugh or even PG Wodehouse and Agatha Christie. Keats offers his readers the possibility of entering writing from a side door, the one marked “Apprentices Welcome Here.” For Keats went about his work like an apprentice; he took a kind of MFA of the mind, albeit alone, and for free, in his little house in Hampstead. A suburban, lower- middle-class boy, a few steps removed from the literary scene, he made his own scene out of the books of his library. He never feared influence—he devoured influences. He wanted to learn from them, even at the risk of their voices swamping his own. And the feeling of apprenticeship never left him: you see it in his early experiments in poetic form; in the letters he wrote to friends expressing his fledgling literary ideas; it’s there, famously, in his reading of Chapman’s Homer, and the fear that he might cease to be before his pen had gleaned his teeming brain. The term role model is so odious, but the truth is it’s a very strong writer indeed who gets by without a model kept somewhere in mind. I think of Keats. Keats slogging away, devouring books, plagiarising, impersonating, adapting, struggling, growing, writing many poems that made him blush and then a few that made him proud, learning everything he could from whomever he could find, dead or alive, who might have something useful to teach him.

4. Middle-of-the-Novel Magical Thinking

In the middle of a novel, a kind of magical thinking takes over. To clarify, the middle of the novel may not happen in the actual geographical centre of the novel. By middle of the novel I mean whatever page you are on when you stop being part of your household and your family and your partner and children and food shopping and dog feeding and reading the post—I mean when there is nothing in the world except your book, and even as your wife tells you she’s sleeping with your brother her face is a gigantic semi-colon, her arms are parentheses and you are wondering whether rummage is a better verb than rifle. The middle of a novel is a state of mind. Strange things happen in it. Time collapses. You sit down to write at 9am, you blink, the evening news is on and 4,000 words are written, more words than you wrote in three long months, a year ago. Something has changed. And it’s not restricted to the house. If you go outside, everything—I mean, everything—flows freely into your novel. Someone on the bus says something—it’s straight out of your novel. You open the paper—every single story in the paper is directly relevant to your novel. If you are fortunate enough to have someone waiting to publish your novel, this is the point at which you phone them in a panic and try to get your publication date brought forward because you cannot believe how in tune the world is with your unfinished novel right now, and if it isn’t published next Tuesday maybe the moment will pass and you will have to kill yourself.

Magical thinking makes you crazy—and renders everything possible. Incredibly knotty problems of structure now resolve themselves with inspired ease. See that one paragraph? It only needs to be moved, and the whole chapter falls into place! Why didn’t you see that before? You randomly pick a poetry book off the shelf and the first line you read ends up being your epigraph—it seems to have been written for no other reason.

5. Dismantling the Scaffolding

When building a novel you will use a lot of scaffolding. Some of this is necessary to hold the thing up, but most isn’t. The majority of it is only there to make you feel secure, and in fact the building will stand without it. Each time I’ve written a long piece of fiction I’ve felt the need for an enormous amount of scaffolding. With me, scaffolding comes in many forms. The only way to write this novel is to divide it into three sections of ten chapters each. Or five sections of seven chapters. Or the answer is to read the Old Testament and model each chapter on the books of the prophets. Or the divisions of the Bhagavad Gita. Or the Psalms. Or Ulysses. Or the songs of Public Enemy. Or the films of Grace Kelly. Or the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Or the liner notes to The White Album. Or the 27 speeches Donald Rumsfeld gave to the press corps during his tenure.

Scaffolding holds up confidence when you have none, reduces the despair, creates a goal—however artificial—an end point. Use it to divide what seems like an endless, unmarked journey, though by doing this, like Zeno, you infinitely extend the distance you need to go.

Later, when the book is printed and old and dog-eared, it occurs to me that I really didn’t need any of that scaffolding. The book would have been far better off without it. But when I was putting it up, it felt vital, and once it was there, I’d worked so hard to get it there I was loath to take it down. If you are writing a novel at the moment and putting up scaffolding, well, I hope it helps you, but don’t forget to dismantle it later. Or if you’re determined to leave it out there for all to see, at least hang a nice façade over it, as the Romans do when they fix up their palazzi.

6. First 20 Pages, Redux

Late in the novel, in the last quarter, when I am rolling downhill, I turn back to read those first 20 pages. They are packed tighter than tuna in a can. Calmly, I take off the top, let a little air in. What’s amusing about the first 20 pages—they are funny now, three years later, now I’m no longer locked up in them—is how little confidence you have in your readers when you begin. You spoon-feed them everything. You can’t let a character walk across the room without giving her backstory as she goes. You don’t trust the reader to have a little patience, a little intelligence. This reader, who, for all you know, has read Thomas Bernhard, Finnegans Wake, Gertrude Stein, Georges Perec—yet you’re worried that if you don’t mention in the first three pages that Sarah Malone is a social worker with a dead father, this talented reader might not be able to follow you exactly. It’s awful, the swing of the literary fraudulence pendulum: from moment to moment you can’t decide whether you’re the fraudulent idiot or your reader is the fraudulent idiot. For writers who work with character a good deal, going back to the first 20 pages is also a lesson in how much more delicate a thing character is than you think it is when you’re writing it. The idea of forming people out of grammatical clauses seems so fantastical at the start that you hide your terror in a smokescreen of elaborate sentence making, as if character can be drawn forcibly out of the curlicues of certain adjectives piled ruthlessly on top of one another. In fact, character occurs with the lightest of brushstrokes. Naturally, it can be destroyed lightly, too. I think of a creature called Odradek, who at first glance appears to be a “flat star-shaped spool for thread” but who is not quite this, Odradek who won’t stop rolling down the stairs, trailing string behind him, who has a laugh that sounds as if it has no lungs behind it, a laugh like rustling leaves. You can find the inimitable Odradek in a one-page story of Kafka’s called “The Cares of a Family Man.” Curious Odradek is more memorable to me than characters I spent three years on, and 500 pages.

7. The Last Day

There is one great advantage to being a Micro Manager rather than a Macro Planner: the last day of your novel truly is the last day. If you edit as you go along, there are no first, second, third drafts. There is only one draft, and when it’s done, it’s done. Who can find anything bad to say about the last day of a novel? It’s a feeling of happiness that knocks me clean out of adjectives. I think sometimes that the best reason for writing novels is to experience those four and a half hours after you write the final word. The last time it happened to me, I uncorked a good Sancerre I’d been keeping and drank it standing up with the bottle in my hand, and then I lay down in my backyard on the paving stones and stayed there for a long time, crying. It was sunny, late autumn, and there were apples everywhere, overripe and stinky.

8. Step Away from the Vehicle

You can ignore everything else in this lecture except number eight. It is the only absolutely 24-carat-gold-plated piece of advice I have to give you. I’ve never taken it myself, though one day I hope to. The advice is as follows.

When you finish your novel, if money is not a desperate priority, if you do not need to sell it at once or be published that very second—put it in a drawer. For as long as you can manage. A year or more is ideal—but even three months will do. Step away from the vehicle. The secret to editing your work is simple: you need to become its reader instead of its writer. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat backstage with a line of novelists at some festival, all of us with red pens in hand, frantically editing our published novels into fit form so that we might go onstage and read from them. It’s an unfortunate thing, but it turns out that the perfect state of mind to edit your own novel is two years after it’s published, ten minutes before you go onstage at a literary festival. At that moment every redundant phrase, each show-off, pointless metaphor, all the pieces of deadwood, stupidity, vanity and tedium are distressingly obvious to you. Two years earlier, when the proofs came, you looked at the same page and couldn’t see a comma out of place. And by the way, that’s true of the professional editors, too; after they’ve read a manuscript multiple times, they stop being able to see it. You need a certain head on your shoulders to edit a novel, and it’s not the head of a writer in the thick of it, nor the head of a professional editor who’s read it in 12 different versions. It’s the head of a smart stranger who picks it off a bookshelf and begins to read. You need to get the head of that smart stranger somehow. You need to forget you ever wrote that book.

9. The Unbearable Cruelty of Proofs

Proofs are so cruel! Breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain. Proofs are the wasteland where the dream of your novel dies and cold reality asserts itself. When I look at loose-leaf proofs, fresh out of the envelope, bound with a thick elastic band, marked up by a conscientious copy editor, I feel quite sure I would have to become a different person entirely to do the work that needs to be done here. To correct what needs correcting, fix what needs to be fixed. The only proper response to an envelope full of marked-up pages is “Give it back to me! Let me start again!” But no one says this because by this point exhaustion has set in. It’s not the book you hoped for, maybe something might yet be done—but the will is gone. There’s simply no more will to be had. That’s why proofs are so cruel, so sad: the existence of the proof itself is proof that it is already too late. I’ve only ever seen one happy proof, in King’s College Library: the manuscript of TS Eliot’s The Waste Land. Eliot, upon reaching his own point of exhaustion, had the extreme good fortune to meet Ezra Pound, a very smart stranger, and with his red pen Ezra went to work. And what work! His pen goes everywhere, trimming, cutting, slicing, a frenzy of editing, the why and wherefore not especially obvious, at times, indeed, almost ridiculous; almost, at times, indiscriminate… Whole pages struck out with a single line.

Underneath Pound’s markings, The Waste Land is a sad proof like any other—too long, full of lines not worth keeping, badly structured. Lucky Eliot, to have Ezra Pound. Lucky Fitzgerald, to have Maxwell Perkins. Lucky Carver, we now know, to have Gordon Lish. Hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable—mon frère! Where have all the smart strangers gone?

10. Years Later: Nausea, Surprise and Feeling OK

I find it very hard to read my books after they’re published. I’ve never read White Teeth. Five years ago I tried; I got about ten sentences in before I was overwhelmed with nausea. More recently, when people tell me they have just read that book, I do try to feel pleased, but it’s a distant, disconnected sensation, like when someone tells you they met your second cousin in a bar in Goa. I suspect White Teeth and I may never be reconciled—I think that’s simply what happens when you begin writing a book at the age of 21. Then, a year ago, I was in an airport somewhere and I saw a copy of The Autograph Man, and on a whim, I bought it. On the plane I had to drink two of those mini bottles of wine before I had the stomach to begin. I didn’t manage the whole thing, but I read about two-thirds, and at that incredible speed with which you can read a book if you happen to have written it. And it was actually not such a bad experience—I laughed a few times, groaned more than I laughed and gave up when the wine wore off—but for the first time, I felt something other than nausea. I felt surprise. The book was genuinely strange to me; there were whole pages I didn’t recognise, didn’t remember writing. And because it was so strange I didn’t feel any particular animosity towards it. So that was that: between that book and me there now exists a sort of blank truce, neither pleasant nor unpleasant.

Finally, while writing this lecture, I picked up On Beauty. I read maybe a third of it, not consecutively, but chapters here and there. As usual, the nausea; as usual, the feeling of fraudulence and the too-late desire to wield the red pen all over the place—but something else, too, something new. Here and there—in very isolated pockets —I had the sense that this line, that paragraph, these were exactly what I meant to write, and the fact was, I’d written them, and I felt OK about it, felt good, even. It’s a feeling I recommend to all of you. That feeling feels OK.

This lecture appears in her new collection “Changing My Mind: Occasional Essays” (Hamish Hamilton). © Zadie Smith

[andtheselkiesfour]

The Final Adventure

A Carry On Leavers Ball Fanfic 

words: 7,808

a/n: Big thanks to my irl friend Josie, who beta’d my fic, helped me when I got stuck, and didn’t get mad at me for dragging her into another fandom (okay, she got a little mad, but softened when I agreed to let her read some of my favorite fics). This is a normal 8th year fic, but I’ve obviously changed a bit from canon. i’ve also made the decision to post all the chapters at once.

Please like or reblog this so I’ll know if I should post more, and inbox ways I could improve (be nice tho pls I’m fragile).

ONE

x simon x

Going through the eighth year at Watford is optional. Attending the Leavers Ball at the end of term is also optional, but if you told this to certain people, they’d go to extreme lengths in order to convince you otherwise.

Penny is one of those people.

I was planning on going to the Leavers Ball anyways, but if I hadn’t been, Penny would’ve scared me into it. She keeps saying stuff like “it’ll be our final adventure at Watford!” and honestly, it makes me sad. She makes it sound like our promise to get a flat together is something she’s still thinking about, something that isn’t final. Of course, I wouldn’t blame her if she wanted to live with her boyfriend, Micah, in America instead, but I’m still trying to cling onto what sliver of hope I have.

Penny and Agatha are in the library, looking at pictures of dresses on Google Images, and I’m sitting in a chair beside them, reading. Penny’s usually not one to get dressed up, but she’s practically obsessing over finding the perfect dress. Agatha, on the other hand, seems like she’s got it figured out. Which means I’ve got it figured out, because finding a tie that matches the color of her dress does not seem like a difficult task.

“What about this one, Penny?” Agatha points a manicured finger at the screen, and Penny scrunches her nose.

“It’s too long! I’ll trip.”

“Not if you wear heels,” Penny shakes her head and scrunches her nose again, and Agatha frowns, dropping her hand. They continue pointing out dresses to each other and disagreeing for well over half an hour, and I’m so lost in what I’m reading that I don’t hear what they’re talking about. When I finally look up, they’re both already looking at me.

I clear my throat, “hey, do you guys think vampires are actually allergic to garlic?”

“I don’t know, why don’t you go ask one?” Agatha scowls, and I blink. “Have you even been listening to me?”

“Uh… no,” I’m nothing if not honest. Agatha throws her hands in the air and looks over at Penny. Penny just raises her eyebrows and leans back in her chair.

“I asked you if chartreuse is okay for my dress.”

“That’s… that’s red, right?”

“It’s yellow-green, Simon. Honestly. Do you even want to go to the Leavers Ball?”

“Yes! Yes of course, Agatha. Yellow is fine.”

She softens, “okay.  I’ll show it to you when it comes in the mail.”

“Looking forward to it,” I smile.

Penny rolls her eyes, “you guys are gross. I’m going back to my room,” she stands and slings her bag over one shoulder.

“We’re gross? Trixie and her girlfriend are probably going to be in the room once you get there.”

“Yeah, but they’re gross for different reasons,” Penny pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and stares at us. I don’t say anything, because I don’t know what she means and I’m too scared to ask, at least while Agatha is here.

After it’s silent for a few seconds, she sighs and turns around. We watch her walk out the door, then Agatha stands up and pulls her messenger bag over her head. “Walk me to my building?”

“Yeah,” I agree, putting my book away and reaching for her hand.

  x baz x

I’m on way back to the dorms after school when Dev spots me across the courtyard. I know he’s looking at me, and he knows I know he’s looking at me, but that doesn’t stop me from quickening my pace away from him. “Basil! Basil!”

I sigh and slow down considerably, and he hastens to catch up with me. He quickly falls into step beside me, his voice kind of breathy. I’m such a great friend.

“Mary Smith,” he raises his eyebrows at me and smirks, like that name is supposed to mean something to me.

“What about her?” I stop before going up the Mummers House steps and move out of Gareth’s way before he runs into me.  

“I asked her to the Leavers Ball,” Dev smiles, and I realize this must mean she said yes.

“That’s great; I’m happy for you,” and I am. I give him two pats on the shoulder, but pull back when he starts speaking again, far too excited for my taste.

“You know she has a twin, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are you going to ask Kaitlyn to the dance?”

I laugh, and shake my head, unable to contain myself, “why would I want to have the same date as you?”

He scoffs, “they’re different people, Basil. Alright then, who are you asking?”

“Nobody.”

“Nobody!” He throws his hands up in the air, apparently extremely offended, “you might as well just not go at all!”

“A date is not required.”

“Like hell it isn’t. There are loads of girls without dates yet. Why haven’t you asked someone out by now?”

“We still have two weeks. And besides,” I pause, making sure he’s looking me in the eyes, “a date. is not. required.” I start up the stairs, clearly done with this conversation, leaving Dev baffled and still quite a bit offended.

I hear him mumble “wait until I tell Niall,” but I honestly couldn’t care less. I know there are a lot of girls without dates, and I know most of them would say yes if I asked, but there aren’t any girls at this school that I would want to ask. There aren’t even any boys I would want to ask. Or could ask. There’s not a single soul that I’d like to hold hands with, or slow dance with, or scoop gross fruit punch into a plastic cup for. There isn’t a single person at this school that I’d like to go to the dance with.

Except Simon Snow.

TWO

x baz x

Even if Snow was girlfriendless and gay, there’d still be a larger chance of getting struck by lightning than me going to the ball with him. He kind of hates me. And I hate him too; I hate his stupid curls and his stupid golden skin, and the obnoxious way he smells like cinnamon and smoke. I hate how he makes my heart jump out of my chest sometimes, or how he can take away my breath just by looking at me a certain way, with so much annoyance and hatred.

Just as I’m thinking this, he walks into the room we share and falls into his bed. He lays there staring at the ceiling for only a moment before exhaling forcefully and throwing his elbow over his eyes. His shirt lifts up when he does this, revealing a golden strip of skin below his wrinkled white button-up and above his belt. I allow myself a glance at it, before returning my attention back to the notes sprawled out on my bed.

We try to ignore each other when we’re in the room, which usually works out for us. Though, it’s hard to ignore him when he keeps sighing at random intervals. After a few minutes of this, I put my pen down and look over at him.

“Will you stop that, Snow?” I squint at him, and he lifts his arm slightly, one eye peeking out from behind his arm. He drops it down again, and there’s a pause.

“Sorry…” he says quietly.

I spend a few more minutes annotating my notes before looking over at Snow. He had been so quiet I was almost convinced he left the room. But now, I see why he was so quiet. His cheeks are red and damp, and a tear is slowly rolling down his cheek.

I can’t think of a single reason why Snow would be crying. I should be crying, what with all this bloody homework I have to have done before tomorrow.

Knowing that he is crying merely a few feet away from me is making it impossible to concentrate on anything else. At least I know I’m not the reason he’s upset, although I have made him cry a few times in the pfast. After fifth year, I tried to be more conscious of my words, making sure that teasing him never crosses the line into hurting him.

“Snow, are you…” I start, trying to make my voice as non-patronizing as I can.

“No,” he replies before I can get the rest of my sentence out, his voice raspy.

“Excuse me?”

“You were going to ask if I’m okay. The answer is no. And I know you’re asking because you pity me, not because you care. So I’m not going to bother answering your next question, which is going to be ‘what’s wrong?’.”

“...That’s not what I was going to ask at all.”

“It’s… not?”

“I was going to ask if you needed the shower,” I sneer, standing up and making my way to my wardrobe across the room. This is a terrible save, because usually he showers in the mornings, but he must buy it because he just utters a small ‘oh’ from under his arm.

I just need to get away from his crying before I try to do something about it. Like hug him. If I tried to touch him, that would surely be the end of me, anathema ignored. Even if he didn’t kill me, I’d die just as easily of embarrassment.

There’s also the possibility of me making it worse, whatever is going on with him. I told myself to be more conscious of my words, but he makes it so damn easy to insult him when he’s pushing me. Sometimes I think he actually enjoys fighting with me. Then I remember he must, because for some twisted reason, I like it too.

I grab my stuff and shut the door to the bathroom. I marvel at the absence of Snow’s dirty towels on the floor, but notice he’s left the cap off his toothpaste again. I shake my head and smile before I recap the toothpaste, then turn on the shower head.

Once I’m in the shower it’s easier to think. My thoughts flow from Snow to the Leavers Ball like lava in a lamp. Sometimes the thoughts come together and I have to tell myself ‘no, bad Baz. That is not happening, and you know it.’

I end up spending way longer in there than I should, and the water goes cold.

x simon x

Once Baz is in the shower it’s easier to think. I stopped crying after talking to him, which is odd, but I’m relieved. Maybe I was just cried out and all dried up. I don’t enjoy crying, so I’m thankful I’ve stopped, but I still feel like something’s wrong. Something’s missing.

This is all wrong. So wrong. The way Agatha held my hand on the way to her building, like my hand was too big for her. Like we didn’t fit. The way Penelope seems to be spending more time talking about the ball than reading these days. The way nobody seems to be feeling scared about their future except me.

It feels like everyone has got it all figured out. Penelope and Agatha know exactly what university they want to go to and what they want to do with their lives. I don’t know anything, and I’m scared. I’m scared of being left behind.

It’s stupid. I know they’re not going to abandon me, but at the same time, why would they want me to stay in their lives? I’m a terrible mage. Eight years at Watford; by now I thought maybe I would’ve learned how to actually do magic correctly. It’s not the school’s fault, it’s mine. I’m a grenade, just waiting to go off. And Crowley, I wish I would go off already and get it over with.

x baz x

By the time I get out of the shower, Snow’s passed out. He’s not wearing the school pajamas he always wears to sleep. Instead, he’s still in his school uniform, lying almost the exact same way he was before I left the room. I wonder what he was doing the whole time and what he was thinking about.

I stare down at him, his freckles wet and his nose red, his hair mussed and falling into his eyes. His blanket has fallen on the floor sometime while I was gone. I hesitate, staring down at him, before grabbing the blanket off the floor and pulling it up to his chin.  He doesn’t stir, which is good because again, I’d die of embarrassment.

I clear the notes off my bed, feeling only slightly annoyed at Snow for distracting me from my homework. In all honesty, he’s always a distraction for me, even when he’s not there. And I can’t be mad at someone for being upset, because I highly doubt he’d make himself cry just to spite me.

Once I’m under my blankets, it doesn’t take long for sleep to pull me under too.

THREE

x simon x

“How do I look?” Penny twirls around once and then plops down onto Baz’s bed in front of me. She’s wearing a mint dress that goes just past her knees, and a matching silk shawl is wrapped loosely around her elbows. Her feet are bare; she’s left her shoes in the bathroom.

“Majestic,” I comment, as I loosen my green-and-black tie.

She snorts, “I’m not a horse, Simon.”

“You’re not? That explains a lot, actually.” This earns me a whack in the face with a pillow, one of Baz’s pillows, thrown at me in a low arch. I immediately retaliate with one from my bed, throwing it so it just barely hits her cheek, causing her glasses to become askew. She squeaks, then laughs, grabbing Baz’s other pillow and jumping up from his bed, towering above me. She starts pummelling me in the shoulder with it repeatedly, and I try to kick her away from me.

“Mercy, Penny, Mercy!” I gasp, trying to catch a breath in between fits of laughter.

“Don’t call me a horse!” she giggles, every word accented by another hit in the shoulder. It doesn’t hurt.

I hear our door creak open and we freeze, eyes wide, Penny hovering over me, her pillowed hand pulled back, ready to strike again, my foot pressed to her stomach, my hand reaching for the pillow. He clears his throat, and we turn our heads toward the door.

Baz has never seen Penny in our room. For eight years, we’ve been careful to have her out of the room before he gets back, but I’ve been so distracted lately that things like that have been regularly slipping my mind. The three of us continue to stare at each other, as if time is actually frozen. Penny is the first to break the silence.

“I’ll see you at dinner, Simon.” She lowers her head and walks briskly out of the room, accidentally hitting Baz on the way. He squints when she goes past, then lifts his chin a little higher and locks eyes with me. I lift my chin in response, matching his expression as best as I can, although I’m not exactly sure what his expression is. My eyes dart to the right, making sure my wand is still resting on my bed, should I need it. I hear Baz snort.

“Do you really think I’d waste my time hurting you over that,” he says as he crosses the room. I have the striking suspicion that the ‘that’ he was referring to is Penny.

“I thought you were at football practice,” I said dumbly, trying to come up with an excuse as to why Penny would be in our room, even though I know that’s a bad one. I decide to ignore what he said and grab my wand anyway.

“I was. Obviously,” I look down at his uniform and feel embarrassed. He turns towards his wardrobe, and I relax a little. “How did Bunce get past the gender barrier?”

“I don’t know,” I say truthfully, twisting my wand in my lap.

“You don’t know?” He chortles, then turns around with his pajamas in hand, “I hope you realize I have ways of finding out.”

“Well, if you figure it out, please tell me.” Baz shakes his head, most likely still not believing that I don’t know how Penelope gets in the room, then goes into the bathroom.

Not even a second later, I hear him shout my name. “Snow!”

“What?” I push myself off the bed and open the bathroom door. I look up at him, then my eyes follow where he’s pointing. There’s a pile of Penny’s clothes on the floor; her button-up, her tie, her socks, her skirt.

“Those aren’t mine.”

“I guessed,” he stares at me. “Well?”

“Oh, right.” I start picking them up, and I see him fold his arms out of the corner of my eye.

“Could we speed up this process, maybe?” He taps his foot impatiently, like he has somewhere to be. Stupid, annoying prat.

I stop what I’m doing so I can stand up straight and stare hard at him, then I drop the clothes back onto the floor. He scoffs, reaching the other end of the tiny bathroom in one long stride, arriving just a couple inches in front of me, still scowling. Now that I’m this close to him, I can see that a few strands of hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat from practice, and there’s a vein on his forehead pulsating.

“Anathema!” I remind him, before he tries anything. I can tell he’s annoyed, which was my intention, but he’s already tried to kill me a couple times and I’d rather not  make this the third.

“I could get Bunce in so much trouble,” he starts, ignoring me. “Don’t press me, Snow. If you press me, I’ll press right back,” he presses his hand to my chest as he says this, then pushes me out of the room and closes the door in my face before I can react.

“Are you just going to keep Penny’s clothes, then?” I call through it, a strange image of Baz in Penny’s clothes appearing in my head. I hear Baz let out an annoyed groan, and the next thing I know, the door flings open. Penny’s clothes come flying out at me and one of her shoes bounces off of the top of my head.

“Anathema,” I mutter, rubbing my head, but I know that he didn’t mean to actually hit me- at least, I don’t think that he did- and therefore the Anathema won’t affect him.

FOUR

x baz x

I wouldn’t actually rat out Bunce; I couldn’t care less about how it would affect her, but I know tattling would make Snow too upset. Besides, it’s more trouble than it’s worth, talking to the Mage, and I don’t think she’ll be coming back anymore anyways.

He’s been spending a lot of time with her lately, I’ve noticed. Snow always follows around Bunce like a puppy on a short leash, but usually Wellbelove is hovering somewhere close by. I haven’t seen her with them for the past few days.

Not that I spend all of my free-time stalking Snow; it’s just hard to ignore his bouncing head of curls in the hall or his boisterous voice on the lawn, and I notice things.

I look over at Snow sitting just a couple seats next to me. We’re in our Ancient Runes class, the only class I share with him. It’s a pretty pointless subject, considering nobody actually uses this magic anymore. But it’s a required one, and thankfully, a pretty easy one. I spend most of the class staring out the window and wishing I was almost anywhere else, with the monotone voice of the professor as background noise to my thoughts.

Snow is scribbling notes lazily with his fountain pen, occasionally looking up to see if our professor has broken his lecture to write anything important on the board (spoiler alert: he hasn’t). Sometimes he’ll furrow his eyebrows and stare down at his paper before scratching something out then writing furiously over it. How Snow can remain animated in a class as boring as this one is beyond me, but I’m glad he does.

I feel vulnerable staring at him in class, but he’s the most interesting thing happening at the moment. He’s always the most interesting thing happening, but now that my choices are limited to watching him or watching dust settle on the windowsill, this is even more true.

I look past him and see that Wellbelove is staring at me. Well, that’s odd. She notices that I’m looking at her and flushes. She dips her head down to look at her notes, and I do the same.

Oh Merlin. There’s ink on my hand and my notes are smudged; tiny little hearts are scattered in the margins. Is… is that why Wellbelove was staring at me? She couldn’t have seen what I was doing (I didn’t even see what I was doing)- she’s sitting too far away.  

After class is over and I’m almost out the door, I see Wellbelove rush from her seat towards me. “Wait- Basilton!”

There’s no chance for me to pretend I didn’t hear her- we’re the only people left in the classroom. I sigh and turn to her, “yes, Wellbelove?”

“I…” she takes her place in front of me and we end up standing beside the classroom door. “Y-you were staring at Simon. You’re not going to hurt him, are you?”

I laugh harshly, pleased with Wellbelove’s assumption. “If I was going to hurt him, wouldn’t that be only my business and his?” I start walking, hoping she won’t follow. Not much luck there.

I make long strides, and Agatha’s feminine legs struggle to keep up with mine. I can still hear her chasing after me once I’ve made it outside. Can’t she take a hint?

“Stand Your Ground!” I hear her cast, and I groan. Apparently taking a hint is not one of Wellbelove’s many talents. She circles around me, throwing her long blonde hair over one shoulder.

“What are you planning?” She demands, pointing her wand at my chest. I don’t say anything, not at all intimidated by her. She gets frustrated quickly. “Look, Simon is my b- my friend, and as his friend, it’s my duty to protect him.”

“Duty? He’s not a damsel in distress, you know- wait, did you say ‘friend’?” I smirk, not missing the way her voice faltered, like it pained her to say it. Did Snow and Wellbelove break up? Well, that would explain why he wasn’t as chipper as usual this morning before class. Usually he makes every noise possible while getting ready, but today, I actually slept an extra half-hour.

“I… That’s not your business,” Wellbelove mumbles sheepishly, shrinking back from me.

“Oh, so now we’re supposed to respect what is and isn’t someone’s business?”

She sighs. “You know, if you weren’t so… you… maybe more people would actually want to spend time with you.”

“Yeah? Like who?”

“Like me.”

I don’t mean to laugh, but that doesn’t stop me from doing it, anyway. “You? So that’s what this is really about? A social call? What, next are you going to ask me to the ball?”

Wellbelove doesn’t respond, just lowers her wand from my chest and stares at the grass.

“Merlin, you were! I can’t believe this! Well, I’m sorry to decline your offer, Wellbelove, but I actually planned on going alone. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble at all finding someone else at this school who would love to go to the ball with someone such as yourself.”

“Why do you always have to be so mean, Basilton? I’m sorry I asked, okay? Is that what you want? This was a… a mistake. I’ll just... leave.” Her voice is shaky, and if she starts crying, I’m going to feel like the worst person on the planet.

“Wait, Agatha… I didn’t mean to make you upset. I really do mean that there are plenty of other people who would love to go with you, if what you’re implying about Simon and yourself are true.” She nodded. “I guess you’re right….”

“Good. Now, undo the spell, please, and if this ends up affecting my ability to play football… then you’re really going to see how mean I can be.”

FIVE

x simon x

The thunder crackles around me, lightning illuminating our room through the window in rapid intervals like a polaroid camera. It’s the kind of storm that rattles windowpanes and makes you think there’s a war waging upon your doorstep with every boom of thunder.

I had dozed off with my face pressed against an open library book, and the thunder wakes me with a start, almost knocking me from my desk chair. My cheek feels sticky from what I assume is the result of my face being stuck to a page, but looking down at my book I realize it’s from the small puddle of drool I’ve created while asleep. It distorts some of the words on the already-yellow page. Gross.

After I stop gagging at my uncultured sleeping habits, I notice the windowpane is, in fact, rattling. Shit. I fully intended to close it once I saw the gray cumulonimbus clouds passing over the courtyard, but I was only really expecting a little bit of rain, not an all out flood.

No matter the circumstances, I pull the window close and assess the damage. The floor in front of it is soaked, and though it’s on my side of the room, I know Baz is going to be pissed when he finds out. I throw a towel over it, accomplishing almost nothing, then I decide that it looks suspicious and I dump a pile of dirty clothes on top of it. I can already hear Baz’s ‘I told you so’ tone about always leaving the window open, even though when it’s closed the room gets sticky and hot. The hotness may not bother him, with his constant chill, but I can’t stand it.

Mentioning of Baz, where is he? Surely he can’t still be in the catacombs when it’s pouring like this? I try to get a glimpse out the window when the lightning flashes, but even with the light, the rain is so heavy that it’s impossible to see anything.

I check the clock on my laptop and see that it’s close to midnight, which means I’ve been asleep for a good few hours, which means Baz has been gone for more than a good few hours. Where is he?

x baz x

There’s a lot to be said about someone who asks their dead mother’s grave for advice about a ball they hardly want to go to. I know she probably can’t hear me, but she’s the only person I’d want to talk to about all this. The only person I trust.

“Maybe you could take Fiona,” I say outloud to myself. “She’s young-looking enough to pass as a student. But what fresh ways of embarrassing me could she come up with?”

Because of this, I’ve been down here for far longer than usual. I usually leave once I feel full, but tonight I just feel like being alone. It’s quiet here, and nobody ever bothers me (except for Snow, but he hasn’t followed me here in ages). It’s almost peaceful enough that I could just lean my head against a wall and doze off….

I’m not completely asleep when I hear the first crack of thunder. I stand up swiftly, swaying with the quickness of it, and start walking back to the Mummers house.

I can see rather well in the dark, but the sheets of rain and the wind slow me down a little. My clothes must be ruined; I can tell I’m soaked to the bone because this is the coldest I’ve felt in a while. I fling open the door, not caring if I wake Snow up, focused on getting into something dry and warm.

x simon x

The door flings open and a flash of lightning backdrops a shadow that I don’t recognize as Baz at first, with his hair hanging like curtains in front of his eyes giving him the appearance of something from a horror movie. He stomps into the room leaving a trail of water behind him, and suddenly I don’t feel so bad about leaving the window open. His white shirt is clinging to him, and I can see through it to his pale torso. He looks like shit; I’ve never seen him so messy and uncomposed like this before.

I watch wordlessly as he shuffles through his wardrobe, grumbles something, then walks into the bathroom.

He’s back not even a minute later, and announces “Powers out.”

“I’m not surprised.” Only the plumbing runs on electricity at Watford; we use candles for lighting inside the dorms and the school buildings. The candles are magic and they don’t melt or need to be relit. I watch from the edge of my bed as he walks in front of me and opens a drawer to my wardrobe.

“What the hell are you doing?” I pop up and push the drawer closed, and he pulls his hands back in surprise, most likely because I was only a hair off from squashing his fingers.

He brings a hand up to his forehead and runs it through his hair, trying to slick it back. Most of it just falls back into his eyes again. I try not to laugh.

“I need a towel,” when he pushes his hair back the second time, I can see the whites of his eyes are slightly red, and I almost feel sorry for him.

“Oh,” I blatantly glance over at the spot by the window and then back up at him. “Er, I don’t have any more.”

He ignores me and tries to open my drawer again. “Hey! Did you even hear me? Stop trying to open my drawer.”

“Why, is that where you keep your skirts?” He smirks.

“No, because I don’t like you touching my stuff,” I say, frowning, my sympathy and patience for him leaving as quickly as it came. “And that was Penny’s!”

“Well, I don’t like you being in the same room as me, but you learn to deal with these things,” he retorts. I keep my hand pressed firmly against the drawer as he tries to open it again.

With a groan of frustration, he removes his hands and turns to me. Suddenly, his hand is on top of mine, and the cold wetness of his skin and the fact that he’s touching me leaves me too shocked to move. When he laces his fingers with mine, I yank my hand away and blink up at him.

Satisfied, he pushes past my socks and boxers, like I have a secret hoard of towels tucked away at the bottom of the drawer. My cheeks feel hot. With a soft “hm” he closes the drawer.

“I… I wasn’t lying,” I stutter. My cheeks feel really hot. I wish I could open the window without letting in the still raging storm, but I doubt that would help the storm raging in my stomach.

Baz crosses over me and produces pajama bottoms and a plain white polo from his wardrobe. My eyes follow him the entire way; he’s still dripping onto the carpet. “Snow, close your mouth. It makes you look ridiculous. Not that you don’t anyways.”

I feel sick, and I don’t know why. Maybe he hypnotized me or did some weird vampire magic that doesn’t require him to speak. Either way, I want it to stop. “I… I need some fresh air.” I sway, taking a step forward towards the door.

“It’s still raining. Or did you manage to forget? If anyone could, it’d be you.” Baz unceremoniously reaches behind himself and pulls his shirt over his head. He never gets dressed in the room, at least not when I’m around to see.

His torso is what you’d expect from someone who regularly plays football. He’s got muscle, but he’s still fairly lean, and he’s paler there than anywhere else. He doesn’t look bad, which isn’t really surprising considering how much pride he seems to take in his appearance.

All of this is so unlike him; the getting-dressed-in-front-of-me, the touching, his deep blue-water gray eyes looking red and glazed over to make a pale silver. Of course! The weird vampire magic wasn’t done to me, it was done to him! As much as I loathe Baz, I’d rather have him as a roommate than this imposter whose intentions I have no way of knowing.

My eyes widen as this creature throws the shirt onto his- no, not his- Baz’s bed, and I’m reaching for my wand faster than you can say Out, out, brief candle! Which I do, shrouding the room in darkness.

SIX

x baz x

“Merlin, Snow, what did you do that for?” I blink, my eyes adjusting to the darkness within a few seconds. I know Snow can’t see me, because he’s pointing his wand at least half a foot away from where I’m actually standing. He’s also holding it with both hands, his arms as outstretched as they’ll go without turning himself into elastigirl.

“What have you done with him? ...or to him, whatever,” his voice is resolute and final, like it’s definite that I know who ‘him’ is. I slowly pull on my shirt, careful not to make any noise in the process.

“Him who? What are you--”

“You know who! “ He shouts, his wand bobbing up and down with each syllable.

“Voldemort?” I smirk. “That’s not even the right fando-”

“See! Baz would never so blatantly break the fourth wall like that!”

“Baz-?” I start, but he cuts me off before I can even finish my sentence.

“Basilton Grimm-Pitch.”

“I’m… I’m right here?”

“RRRGGHH!!” Snow growls, pitching forward with a level of intensity and determination that I have never seen from him before-- and that’s saying something. He rams his foot into the edge of my bed and lets out a wail, dropping his wand and falling to floor.

I hastily pull my wand out of my trouser pocket and murmur If Only One Remembers to Turn on The Light, because for some reason, the only thing I can continue to think about while Snow is acting crazy is Harry Potter. The candles flicker again. He looks up at me like a wounded puppy, then hardens his expression and quickly reaches for his wand. He points it at me again, and stands, the toes on his left foot curled. “Don’t come any closer!”

I hold up both hands in surrender. “I haven’t moved a muscle since you ran at me.”

“Drop your wand!,” he says, and although it’s not a spell, I obey like it is, letting my wand fall unto the bed. “Where is he?” he demands again.

“Are you sure you haven’t got me confused with another Basilton Grimm-Pitch you know?”

“I won’t let you hurt him,” Snow pushes on, ignoring me. “and I’ll hurt you if you don’t tell me what you did.” He steps forward, and now his face is so close to mine that I can see each and every individual freckle on his nose.

“I didn’t… I mean, I am Baz-” he cuts me off by lightly pressing the tip of his wand into my neck.

“Don’t make me do this.”

“Simon,” I whisper, slowly moving my hand to push his wand down. His hand drops, and his eyes widen. I expect him to jump back, but he stays staring up at me. He’s breathing hard; I can feel his breath on my neck. Its warmness pools somewhere below my bellybutton.  

“So then… you are Baz?”

“Of course I am. And I’m very touched that you’d be willing to hurt someone for me, but you and I both know that you couldn’t do much damage with your wand.” I wait for him to protest, to spit at me and tell me to go fuck myself, but he doesn’t move.  “Who else would I be?”

“I just thought… I thought…,” he swallows, his eyes still wide.

“You thought…?” I try not to stare at his slightly-parted lips as I wait for his answer. He’s so close to me and I don’t really trust myself not to do anything about it, so I grab his elbow and push him back a little. Just a step; I don’t want him too far from me. He doesn’t flinch when I touch him, so I don’t move my hand.

He doesn’t respond. “Well, whatever it is, you thought wrong.”

Now he’s blinking, his eyes pinned to my chest, staring right through me. It’s like someone’s cast a Stay, Stay, Good Boy! on him. “Snow? Are you okay?” A-and I’m asking because I’m concerned, not because I- how did you put it?- ‘pity you’.”

He looks up at me as if he’s just come out of a trance. “I’m fine,” he squares his shoulders and I drop my arm before he realizes it’s there.

“I don’t think you are. Your face is really red, do I need to get someone-”

“No, don’t. I’m fine. I don’t want you running after me; if I needed something, I’d get it myself. I don’t need  you.”

“I never said you did…,.” I mumble, but he’s already walking away from me. I feel like our conversation is over, and now we’re going to go back to ignoring each other for the rest of the night. Now that we started talking, I certainly don’t want to stop. I never want to stop talking to Snow, but something feels… different tonight. I’m worried about him, if I’m being honest.

I emerge from the bathroom, changed into my jeans, feeling dryer and warmer. My hair is clumping together and falling in my eyes, but I guess I’ll just have to deal.

“Me and Agatha broke up.”

“I-- what?”

“The other day.”

“Okay?”

“She said it was because of you.”

I sit down on the edge of my bed, parallel to him. He’s sitting on the edge of his, too, his elbows digging into his thighs and his hands in his hair. I wait for him to look up at me, but he never does. I wonder if that would hurt more.

“I don’t know why she would say that,” I admit, thoroughly confused. Wellbelove didn’t speak to me until after the two of them had broken up.

“That’s all she told me.”

“Oh. Well… she did try to ask me to the ball…,” I offer, not wanting to keep any secrets from him.

“What?!” His head snaps up, and there’s more heat in his eyes than in all the lit candles in the room combined. I hold up my hands in surrender.

“I didn’t do anything, Simon. I don’t like her in the slightest, and even if I did, I wouldn’t do anything about it. It’s not honorable to pine after someone who's in a relationship, though, sometimes you can’t exactly choose who you fall for….”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.” He’s right. I shrug.

He sighs, then falls back onto his mattress with a soft thud, thoroughly breaking our brief moment of eye contact. “Man. This sucks. I’m going to the ball alone, and my ex-girlfriend is going to it with my roommate.”

I laugh. “Simon, I told her no.”

Simon sits up again, leaning forward towards me from his bed. He’s a little too close for my liking. “You did? But why?”

Despite this, I do nothing to widen the distance between us. “I told you. I don’t like her.”

And neither does he. But what he does do, is smile. I can’t help it; I smile too. “Well, this sucks considerably less, but it still sucks. I still have no one to go with.”

“What about Bunce?”

“She didn’t want to say she’s going with me then feel bad later when she inevitably spends most of the night talking to Agatha.”

I nod. After a moment of silence, I speak again, “I could go with you.”

“Um,” is all he says. Then he blinks and leans back away from me.

“I…,” I start, then stop again. I don’t know how to dig myself out of that hole. Thankfully, I don’t have to.

“You know what? Sure. My week has already been awful; what harm is this going to bring? And anyway, we won’t have to ever see each other again afterward.”

I nod, unable to speak, my stomach twisting for more reasons than one.

SEVEN

x simon x

“Sorry,” I say as I look down to tie my bowtie.

“Why?” Baz asks, already completely ready, waiting for me at the door.

“First off, for taking so long, second off, for us not matching. Agatha’s dress was… what did she call it? Chartreuse? Anyway, I thought it was an ugly color, but I didn’t tell her that.”

“It’s alright. Your tie is still crooked, though.” The usual snarky comments from Baz have returned, but this time, it’s not said with any snark at all. It feels weird. It’s like eating a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich without the peanut butter. Though, I suppose that’d just be toast.

“Rrrrgh!,” I growl in frustration, not sure exactly how to tie a bowtie. Or any tie, for that matter. “Can you just tie it for me?”

“Um…” Baz looks me up and down, then furrows his eyebrows. “I-- I guess, yeah.”

He helps me, his hands shaking slightly for some reason, then we’re ready to leave.

Though we’re not linking arms or doing anything to really draw attention to ourselves, some of the people look surprised to see Baz and I walk through the door together, including Penny, and especially Agatha. I hover awkwardly in the doorway for a bit while Baz goes over to the table filled with finger foods. Penny leaves Agatha for a moment to come talk to me.

“Hey, Simon...,” she begins, slowly. Then, all at once, “can I just ask--”

“It’s not a big deal.” I shrug. And it isn’t. And it shouldn’t be. We just walked through the door together; nobody should be reading too much into it. “I know I’m not going to be spending most of the night with you guys, so--”

“Hey, no, don’t even say that. I’m still here for you, no matter what. You were my friend first, okay? I’m not taking sides.”

I frown. “How can you even say that, Penny? How can you say that, when you ditched me for her.”

“Simon, we were getting ready!”

“All weekend?”

“It’s what girls do, Simon.” She rolls her eyes, and I hate that she decided to wear her purple glasses with her mint-green dress, and I hate how beautiful I still think she looks in her dress even though I’m angry at her. I hate that our friendship is falling apart at this very moment, and it’s all my fault somehow. Most of all, I hate that I’m not actually angry at her. I’m sad, and I just don’t know how to handle that.

So instead, I don’t. I walk away from her, pressing the ball of my palm into my left eye. This was supposed to be our final adventure at Watford. I was supposed to be making small talk with Penny and Agatha about our outfits and plans for the future, but instead, I’m walking away from whatever friendship I had with them and trying not to cry.

I bump into someone, and for the first time in forever, I’m glad to see that it’s Baz. “Simon? Are you okay?”

I nod, even though it’s a lie that I know Baz will see right through. “I’m fine, I just… Penny was.…”

He looks disappointed in me and I feel ashamed. “You didn’t try to talk to her, did you?”

I nod again.

He sighs and offers me the sour cherry scone I didn’t realize he was holding. “Here. I know they’re your favorite.”

“You do?”

“Mm-hm,” Baz says, offering no other explanation. Nevertheless, I take it and thank him, eating it in only three bites.

The loud, upbeat music stops, and for a few seconds, spare for the quiet chatter here and there, it’s quiet. Then it’s replaced by a slower song, which I wouldn’t know until later was “Anathema” by Twenty One Pilots (I always wouldn’t realize how fitting it was until much later, too).

“Come on, Baz. Let’s go dance,” I say grabbing his hand. He flinches, then slips his hand into mine, lacing our fingers together until we get toward the middle of the dance floor, where he then moves his both hands to my shoulders.

“Why? Why are you slow dancing with me? You hate me.” He practically spits the word out, but his voice is sad. I shake my head.

“I don’t hate you, Baz.”

“Since when?”

I shrug from under his hands. “I don’t know. Do I have to figure that out now? I just want to live in this moment.”

He nods. “Okay, Simon.”

“Okay, now it’s my turn to ask: since when?”

“What?”

“Since when have I become Simon to you?”

“You’ve always been Simon to me. You’ve always been a lot to me, actually, but I didn’t really realize what exactly I thought of you until fifth year.”

“I don’t really understand what you mean,” I admit.

“Simon.” He slides one of his hands up from my shoulder to my cheek. It’s cold, and I’m pretty sure he can feel my heart thudding heavily in my cheek. “Can I kiss you?”

I swallow. I don’t think I realize what I’m agreeing to once I say yes, but Baz certainly does. And as he kisses me, I don’t feel like the Leavers Ball was my final adventure at Watford.  

It’s only the beginning of a new one with Baz.

[blu-b]

So many Georgibeth moments in this week's episode but some of them were rather odd? Like why is Elizabeth suddenly so keen to leave Trenwith? She seemed well at home there. And the way she suddenly treats Geoffrey-Charles! Also, the kiss between her and George looked somehow fake LOL And what's all this about those magical drops and her turning to drinking? Thoughts?

​Ooooh boy, yes, thank you for that! This is probably gonna get long, and full of spoilers, so I’m putting it behind a cut at some point.

First of all, I’m talking about this solely from the character’s POV and I’m not going to try and understand or explain why Debbie H. made certain changes to the books that make no sense, for example altering the character of Elizabeth so heavily. Basically, my outlook is that those changes were made totally at random by the writers and what we see the characters doing on screen in terms of gesture, facial expression, underlying tones etc. is the actors trying to bring some sense into it.

So, let me talk about Elizabeth first, because I feel she is again getting some very unfair criticism mainly because people don’t understand her motivation.

Trenwith, by this time in the show, is starting to turn into dangerous territory for Elizabeth. Ross living so close by is not only a distraction for her, who still isn’t sure about her feelings for him. He’s also becoming a threat to her safety. Ross is very well known in the area, so any real or rumoured similarities between him and Elizabeth’s new baby are prone to spread like wildfire. Remember that instance when Jud said there were rumours that Ross is the father of Jinny’s child, because it looks like him? Talk like this spreads quickly. And Ross himself is a risk, too - Elizabeth probably suspects he has an inkling that the child is his, or that Demelza at least knows who the real father is. And Demelza has every reason to be upset with Elizabeth, so what if she goes blabbering to someone? What if Demelza outright marches up to George and tells him (for whatever reason)? Then there’s of course Agatha, and even Geoffrey Charles made a stupid remark about Valentine looking like Ross (although I doubt he did it out of spite).

George must never hear any of this, and thus Truro would be much safer for Elizabeth. Ross is less well known there, her new husband is far removed from the possibility of running into Ross at any given moment, and the chance for gossip is not as high. Of course she has to sell this to George, and indeed it’s his own idea that lets her realize that this is her chance. Naturally, she has to act a bit skeptical at first. 

“But what of Geoffrey Charles?”, she says, apparently thoughtful.

George, quick to take his own chance now that Elizabeth seems genuinely hooked, doesn’t breach the subject of boarding school again. There’s no need to, the boy can while away his days in Trenwith with Agatha for all that George cares. So he seemingly makes a concession to his wife by allowing GC not only to stay, but basically to do what he wants. And Elizabeth agrees, even though it costs her dearly (and Heida plays that really well). 

“I shall miss him, of course….” 

She means it, but she’s pondering her options.

Why is she suddenly so cold to Geoffrey Charles, people ask. She’s not! Elizabeth is playing a game. She fought so hard against the separation from her son and for nothing in the world would she leave him…..but Geoffrey Charles’ rebellious teenage streak endangers not only Elizabeth and Valentine, but GC himself. She acts this way because she seeks to protect him. Some may argue Elizabeth only keeps Valentine’s parentage a secret because she does not want to lose her newfound wealth, but there’s more: she’s genuinely afraid that if George finds out the kid is not only not his, but Ross’, he may well throw her out and get a divorce…and what of Geoffrey Charles then? Elizabeth wants to keep the Trenwith estate for her firstborn son, and that’s why she even accepts drastic measures such as bearing separation from him and acting ‘cold’ (“shake my hand, it’s what gentlemen do”, instead of a hug). She needs to signal George that she is ready to part with her child and has accepted all this educational bullshit about 'becoming a gentleman’, thus pushing all of George’s own 'gentleman issues’ buttons.

Anyway, now Elizabeth has to pretend-find a reason for her sudden temper, and Ross is a welcome scapegoat even though she probably knows Ross has nothing to do with this. She met Demelza on her own earlier when she, Elizabeth, was in the carriage. Every time she has met Demelza on her own, it was either without Ross’ permission or in Ross’ absence. Elizabeth is smarter than she looks, she knows about the missing ships and Dwight’s missing, she probably can add that all up and guess correctly that Ross has gone to France. In any case, even if she knows nothing and assumes Ross is behind it, she’s clearly not as upset as she pretends. Heida somehow manages to convincingly play someone who is unconvincing. LOL. I mean, even a blind man could see that Elizabeth was pulling an act.

Her sudden resolution (“The sooner the better!”) is just as fake as her anger, but again, she needs to do it because she needs to convince George that she is absolutely serious. So, where she previously only had a lukewarm kiss on the cheek for him, he suddenly gets the full treatment. George is, to say the least, surprised by Elizabeth’s sudden attack of passion (i.e. the kiss) but he doesn’t question it. He has learned to cherish whatever small token of affection he can get from her.

The ‘magical drops’. For one, I believe they’re meant to show Elizabeth’s increasing feeling of guilt towards Geoffrey Charles (the first time the drops appear, it’s right before a scene of a carefree GC at the beach) and how much the subject of Valentine is putting pressure on her (the second time the drops come into play is after the court trial when George sits next to her on the sofa). Basically the happier George gets and the more he settles into his married life, and also the more attached she becomes to him, realizing that she does indeed like him, the more afraid Elizabeth becomes that this bubble will burst when the truth about Valentine comes out. So the drops are there to calm her nerves and to keep her from accidentally blurting something out.

On the other hand, I’m also convinced that the drops will play a role later on in the series. They’re prescribed by a doctor. - Book spoilers, tw character death -

In the books, when pregnant with her third child, Elizabeth again looks for a way to induce early labour so as to convince George she’s just genetically prone to premature births. She gets prescribed a certain undefined ‘herb’ by a doctor and is advised to take it in the seventh rather than in the eight month for a number of reasons. In the course of the book she decides not to take it, but through some unfortunate circumstances she does take it in the end and delivers her child early; however the herb causes postpartum problems and she eventually dies of gangrene. 

- end of book spoilers -

I believe that the magical drops are going to replace that undefined ‘herb’ and at some point the doctor is going to mention that she must not take them while pregnant, because they can induce labour….re the rest of the story as above.

As for George….You know, it makes me so sad to see that people generally just recognize him as the bad guy and fail to see all of his layers and especially his motivations. Yes, he is the “bad guy” in this setting - then again, remember that the actual hero is also an actual rapist, smuggler, liar, adulterer and all in all a pretty shady character, too (I love you Ross, I really do, but….). Anyway, George is not your typical villain because be’s not evil simply for the sake of it. I have a problem with those deus-ex-machina villains who always pop up out of nowhere when someone needs to do the dirty work, and no one really knows why they’re so evil. For example, take the Black Jack character in Outlander. He is always explained away as “oh well, he’s a psychopath, that’s why he’s so evil”. Meaning he just enjoys being cruel, spiteful, evil, revengeful and generally shitty without a real reason behind it.

George is not inherently cruel. He can be when given reason, and yes he does quite enjoy serving revenge cold to those who upset him in the past (now isn’t that something we all would enjoy a little if we came into power and influence? There’s this one girl who used to bully me at kindergarten, if I was a judge and she came before me in court……*rubs hands*). But he’s not a murderous, insane psychopath who enjoys tormenting people for his entertainment. George is caught between so many factors - his uncle’s influence, for one, his own pride/ambition, for another. But he is not a bad human being through and through.

Let’s take the most obvious scene from the last episode, the one at court. George announces previously to both his uncle and to Elizabeth that while enforcing the law he also intends to pass fair judgements. That’s in line with his previous conduct, as we have never seen him accept bribes of any sort. Jack Farthing said somewhere that George usually plays a fair game when he can, because he likes winning by his own achievements and not through some third person twisting the odds in his favour. Consequently, when he receives the letter from Lord Godolphin, he’s at first pleased about the invitation (well-earned by his hard work and rise in social standing, in his opinion), but he quickly realizes that there’s more to it and that he’s being used. See how his expression changes in these two frames:

Immediately, he explains the matter to Elizabeth. And yet again she fails to realize the power she could exert over him. Just one word from her, one sentence - “Oh George, surely you would not do that….!” would be enough moral justification for him. He is looking to her for help. She’s his moral compass - it was her example that led him to try and convince Cary that being lenient towards people could actually increase the Warleggans’ popularity. He doesn’t have the innate moral instinct for right or wrong like Ross does, and he never learned to be kind or compassionate (being raised by Cary must be a tough fate), but he is willing to try, his aim being the standards that Elizabeth sets. He’s ready to do whatever she considers right and proper because he considers her the ultimate authority on these matters (further proven by the way the tenants on the way to church approach her with respect and thankfulness). Of course George doesn’t ask her openly for help, that’s not his way (and I doubt he could bring himself to do that because for him that would feel like admitting defeat - remember the wound cleaning scene? He’s used to fighting his battles alone, both literally and figuratively). But she says nothing, too caught up in her own web of lies and affairs to realize that she herself holds the key to making her husband a better man.

Someone like this Lord in question may have the power to bring George down from his new place in society, and that’s what he fears. Coming from such low roots and having climbed so high, it’s the one thing he really fears. But it’s not the only reason for this decision.

George does not know what to do. He has never learned how to compromise or how to find a middle way. He has also never had to stand in for his decisions, because he usually hid behind his money, his bank, his family. Between Elizabeth’s three men, he’s the one extreme while Ross is the other. Ross would have chosen to believe the victim, fiercely advocating punishment for the perpetrator even though they’re from the same social class; while George chooses to side with the more powerful fraction so he won’t lose his own new power. The only one with an ability to find a middle way was actually Francis. He passed punishment for the guilty without being too mild or too hard, and at the same time pleasing the authorities. Also, a funny sidenote is that George has only started to break the law after he became a judge.

Consequently, caught between his own moral conscience and the new expectations of the society he’s now a part of, he makes a mistake. He chooses ambition. And he KNOWS he made a mistake. It’s not like he can ignore it, or doesn’t have pity for the poor girl. The way he pronounces the verdict, he doesn’t even try to believe what he’s saying. His face looks like he’s ready to vomit.

Back home, he tries to gloss over his deed by focussing on mindless blather about how he was complimented on his robes etc., which appears totally superficial at first sight. But again he’s trying to get a reaction out of Elizabeth, either condemning what he did or backing him up by corroborating his reasons. Again, she does nothing.

This is world-class acting there and I just want to give Jack Farthing all the awards in the world for the way he brings out all these sublteties that make up George’s character. Some of it may be Debbie Horsfield’s achievement, but while the scripts have some detailed stage directions not only for George, there are also parts where there’s no direction at all and it’s all up to the actor. Coming from a screenwriter background myself (my niece is in the business) and having worked in theatre, I know that most times you’ll have actors who need very clear, easy directions, something like [he laughs maliciously], [she smiles brightly] or [she fusses with her hair], something like that. Debbie’s directions are sometimes pretty abstract, and you’ll need a really good actor who can work with something like [he has never felt like this before] or [how has she never realized this?] - I mean, how do you play never having realized something before?

So, yeah, all the praise to the man behind ol’ Georgie, he does a great job with this character and it’s the reason why I love George so much, because he’s arguably the most human of them all.

Sorry for this essay though…. 

[beselten-pitch]

Mutually Assured Destruction

Alternate last year at Watford fic, written by the previous owner of simon-and-basilton

Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / Chapter Nine / Chapter Ten / Chapter Eleven / Chapter Twelve / Chapter Thirteen / Chapter Fourteen / Chapter Fifteen / Chapter Sixteen / Chapter Seventeen / Chapter Eighteen / Chapter Nineteen/ Epilogue

Epilogue

SIMON

It had been months since the Battle of Watford, as they’d taken to calling it. It had been months, months that felt like hell and things worse than that.

Within the first month, the members of the Old Families that had been responsible for the attack had been tried by the Coven and thrown into a prison for mages while they awaited sentencing. The minors who’d been involved in the attack had been pardoned.

In the second month, the Coven turned to dismantling the Mage’s reign. Mitali Bunce, Penny’s mother, had become the new headmistress.

In the third month, Simon had wanted to die. Well. That had been true of the first months as well. But in the third month, Watford had finally been reopened for the spring term. The White Chapel’s smoldering remains had been rebuilt and the new teaching administration was in place.

Simon hadn’t gone back. They’d given him the opportunity to, of course—how could they not? He was the motherfucking Chosen One. (Because that had gotten him so far already.)

But he couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t be in that place. Never again.

Everyone else went back, though. Well—Agatha hadn’t. She’d disappeared sometime during the battle. Penny got texts from her every now and then, and she sounded happy in America. But everyone else had gone back to Watford. Everyone Simon had left.

They went back and it was quiet. He was quiet, at least. His mind was always too loud.

There were too many flashbacks, too many memories. Too many things missing.

Baz, stabbing himself.

Baz, bleeding.

Baz—

Simon couldn’t think about it. He couldn’t, and yet he couldn’t think about anything else.

The invisibility spell had dissipated along with Baz’s breaths. His chest had stilled, and Simon didn’t run. He couldn’t run. All he could do was wrap his arms around Baz’s cold chest and cry.

Fiona Pitch had ripped him off her nephew. Maybe, if he’d had his magic, he could’ve cast a healing spell strong enough to close the wound, repair the injuries.

Instead, he stood there, arms wrapped around himself, wanting to scream or run or do something. Anything. He couldn’t help, couldn’t save him, couldn’t stop the blood from pooling on the stone floor. All he could do was watch as Fiona poured magic over Baz All he could do was watch the wound slowly close, Baz’s eyes slowly open.

They healed him, but not completely. They couldn’t heal him completely.

Simon could’ve healed him completely, if things had gone differently. If he hadn’t been reduced to a useless, crying mess. If the Humdrum hadn’t drained him of everything.

 *

BAZ

Simon had never run from the Pitches. Because he was a damned fool, actually.

Whenever Baz called him that, though, he said, “At least I didn’t stab myself.”

Maybe it hadn’t been the best move. His father had called him melodramatic, his aunt had called him the biggest fucking idiot to have walked the earth. Simon had kissed him, right there in front of everyone. The bastard.

“You do understand that you could’ve died, don’t you?” his father had asked him the next morning. He was laying in his bed—his bed—in his room at Watford. They’d deemed him too weak to be moved back to the new Pitch house yet.

“That was, in fact, the point,” he’d replied, voice sour. It still hurt like a bitch. That was what you got for running yourself through with a sword, apparently.

He wasn’t entirely sure that he could’ve died, in all seriousness. But it was best not to say the word “vampire” around his father. Malcolm didn’t like to be reminded of his son’s shortcomings. Baz had once tried to avoid words like “gay” and “boyfriend” for the same reason.

“I hadn’t realized you were suicidal,” Malcolm had said.

“Not suicide, necessarily. It was a sacrifice. So Simon could get away.”

That was when his father had called him melodramatic. Which was true, but still.

Simon had been leaned awkwardly against the opposite wall throughout that conversation, looking as uncomfortable as you’d expect from someone who was standing in the same room as a man who had been trying to have him killed just 24 hours previous. A man who also happened to be the father of his half-dead vampire boyfriend.

That had been three months ago. Now, he’d recovered, mostly. Physically, at least. Vampires heal more quickly than other people do, so it hadn’t taken him long.

Mentally, he was a mess. But then, who wasn’t?

His family had agreed not to kill Simon, on account of the fact that he hadn’t intentionally destroyed their home, and because Baz was dating him. Simon losing his magic was a plus, because they considered him harmless.

Baz was pretty sure they’d considered disowning him when he told them that he intended to continue dating Simon, but he didn’t really give a fuck.

It was worth it. All of this, everything, it was worth it. Because it had ended here.

Here, with them together.

 *

SIMON

He hadn’t planned on coming here. Walking through the gates, seeing the rebuilt chapel, which had been nothing more than smoldering ruins last time he’d been on campus—it made his chest feel heavy, like he was still suffering the effects of smoke inhalation.

It’s been months. Five months. Get your shit together, Simon.

His common sense still had Penny’s voice.

The sky was royal blue, with the nighttime rolled out over the heavens like a canvas.  Stars dripped down around him, and he closed his eyes, tried to breathe.

Breathe, dammit.

So many memories. Baz, hating him. Kissing him. Loving him.

Before that, Agatha. Penny. So many people—he was wild with the thought of it, so many years soaked up into the soil of this place. The ground of the Watford School of Magicks was more holy and hallowed than that of any church he’d attended. Even the fancy churches with the spires and stained glass windows.

The music was filtering down and across the grass, making the night magical. Or maybe it was the magic that made it magical. Simon wouldn’t know, he couldn’t feel it anymore.

With a deep breath, he pushed his way through the doors and into the ballroom.

It wasn’t hard to spot Baz, looking casually elegant. He had his head bent close to Headmistress Bunce’s, and he was laughing politely. Simon had gotten to see his real laugh, the one where he threw his head back and sounded reckless, crazy—it was so much nicer than that carefully rehearsed chuckle.

He stopped halfway across the room and reconsidered. The phone calls, the emails, the meetings on weekends—he and Baz had been acting like boyfriends for months now, while he was in London and Baz was still finishing up the year at Watford. But actually being here, it took him back to a time before they shared secret kisses in their room. Back to the last ball they’d held in this room.

Back when the only thing he and Baz had shared was a room and a mutual hatred.

Standing there, he could almost go back. Back to a time with magic, with the Mage, and without Baz.

But that’s not real. That’s not real.

This is real.

He grabbed Baz’s shoulder, and he jumped. He turned. He smiled, took Simon’s hand.

This is real.

 *

BAZ

Simon was panicking in the ballroom, so they went outside. A few other couples had filtered out and onto the grass.

There were lightning bugs. It was beautiful, or maybe that was just the romantic in him speaking.

It made him think about the last time they’d stood on the Great Lawn and danced, after the Mage had confronted them.

So much has happened since then. So much, and yet.

And yet Simon still couldn’t dance worth a damn.

They swayed awkwardly across the grass, Simon with his head on Baz shoulder, Baz with his cheek pressed to Simon’s hair.

Beautiful.

Simon tried to lead, and Baz tried to lead, and they ended up conceding to move back and forth at random. That was how it was, anyways. Mutually assured destruction, because neither could win. All they did was lose.

Fuck that. We both win.

Of course they both won.

They both won when they moved to London, Baz sharing a flat with Fiona (“Try not to stab yourself today, huh?” “Shut the fuck up.”) and Simon with Penny.

They both won when a nosy waitress had glanced at Baz, Simon, and Penny sharing a table and said “So which one of you boys is the third wheel?” and Penny said, “Me, actually.”

They both won. And lost, sometimes, of course. That was the way it was.

But despite the losing—losing their temper, their minds, everything—Baz only had one thought in the mornings, when the sun poured liquid gold over bronze hair and blue eyes.

This is what happily ever after feels like.