#i swear on my life its a real book i read it on a nook when i was like 9

[youcouldbewonderful]

im genuinely losing my mind I had a vague memory of a book I read when I was a kid but I can't find it for the fucking LIFE of me

[biographydivider]

Who wants some Grumpy Bruno fanfic? Me, I do. So I wrote some.

I've seen a lot of Stop Infantalising Bruno discourse recently, and I wanted to write a situation where he could be a grumpy, sleep deprived old man and still (hopefully!) be loveable. Because I personally love those little flashes of temper we get from him...plus, it gave me a chance to find some fun Spanish swears!

Also I've resigned myself to every single one of these having a book reference in them; my real life is either selling books or writing them so I guess I have them on the brain haha. You can check out more of my fanfic (and the translations for the Spanish that I got from Babbel.com) here.

“Spiders are some of the most eff…um, effic…some of the most…”                Bruno glanced over Antonio’s shoulder at the encyclopaedia. “‘Efficient’,” he said. “Don’t worry, kid; that’s a big word, even for me.”                Antonio smiled gratefully, turning back to the page. “Okay. Efffishant. Spiders are some of the most efffishant hunters in the animal ki..kingdom. They spin webs to…”                Another weeknight; another Family Weirdo Club Bedtime. Mirabel was nestled in a comfortable spot under the gigantic tree in the middle of Antonio’s room, Chispi by her side, while Bruno and Antonio were curled up together in the pile of leaves, cushions, extra bedding and general comfy detritus that made up the best reading nook in the Encanto. Bruno was half asleep, lying back against a pillow Mirabel had sewed for Antonio out of his oldest, softest, most faded ruana. Was this the seventeenth time he’d heard about how spiders catch their prey, or the sixteenth? Mmyeh, didn’t matter. Kid was getting better with his reading. Pepa was happy, Mirabel got time and space to knit so she was happy. Hence, Bruno was happy.                A shadow fell over the pair. Bruno looked up into the amber eyes of the most dangerous, unpredictable creature in the entire Encanto – including his sisters. And it was looking directly down at him.                “Um,” Bruno said warily, as Parce the jaguar edged a little closer. “H-hi, Kitty?”                “Parce wants to snuggle!” Antonio chirped, delighted.                “W-well, that’s great, kiddo,” Bruno said, edging up the cushion pile, eyes never leaving the big cat in front of him, “but Tio Bruno super doesn’t want to snuggle.”                It wasn’t that Bruno disliked cats. He just didn’t trust them. They had weird, intense stares – Parce was always watching him – and Bruno didn’t like human eye contact, let alone eye contact with a creature that could pick its teeth with his ribs. Plus, y’know, he was a rat guy. Rats and cats didn’t exactly get along.                Parce put one giant paw on Bruno’s stomach.                “Ah-heh…um…Antonio…?”                “Parce,” Antontio said – that big, innocent grin never leaving his face – “come look at the pictures with me! Look at the spider webs!”                Parce gave Bruno one last, long stare, before removing his paw and leaping over the pair in a single bound.                “Eep,” Bruno would have said, if he weren’t an incredibly brave and constantly stoic man. Which, you know. He was. Parce laid his massive head across Antonio’s belly and yawned, showing off a set of huge, white canines, before closing his eyes and dozing for the rest of Storytime. Bruno had to admit, it wasn’t his best work. His performance of the titular Frog in Oi, Frog! left much to be desired. As much as he loved spending time with Antonio, he kinda just wanted to get in his own bedroom – with his pets that wouldn’t turn on him in the blink of an eye and eat him alive – and have a good, restful night’s sleep.                And, of course, because he was Bruno Madrigal and his life was one big cosmic joke, he had sleep visions all night. Not about the jaguar, that was a blessing, at least. No; these were weird, twisted half-prophecies, showing him a mix of things from the past, blurred over with green, sandy film of time. Pepa in particular showed up a lot, that night – twenty-seven years old, in her soaked wedding dress with her hair stuck to her forehead, dancing at Dolores’ wedding far off in the future. Why was he thinking about Pepa? Everything was fine with Pepa. Wasn’t it?                Did Pepa still hate him for the wedding thing?                What if he did it again at Dolores’ wedding? What if he opened his big mouth and ruined everything?                Was that what the vision was trying to warn him about?                Shut up, Bruno. You need to sleep. Go to sleep…now. Now. Now? Please go to sleep…                In the end, Bruno estimated he got about two hours’ sleep. At five to nine, he finally gave up, dragged himself downstairs, poured himself the largest cup of coffee possible, and sat through Morning Briefing, not registering a word, barely noticing his family. As soon as the last syllable of ‘La Familia Madrigal’ left his mouth, he downed the last of his coffee, slammed the cup down, and hauled himself back upstairs to bed.                Low moods didn’t hit very often, these days. Bruno had been working on his coping mechanisms – meditating, getting fresh air, affirmations, blah blah blah. But when he was tired, they hit him all the harder. Add to that the fun of reliving the past and the future at the same time all night? Day was shot before it began. He buried his face in the pillow, curled himself up in his sheets, and prepared himself for a day of sifting through sickly green thoughts and not much else. Dios, he was tired. His head felt like it was about to fall off his neck and shatter. Couldn’t even sleep right. Tu es loco, ‘Brunito,’ he thought spitefully to himself. Loco, tarado, maldito…                About an hour later, the door creaked open.                “Hey, Bruno…”                “Not in the mood, Félix,” Bruno said, not lifting his head from the pillow, his voice muffled.                “Bro, I just gotta ask you if –”                “Vete a freír espárragos, Félix, seriously,” Bruno growled, propping himself up on one arm. “Que te folle un pez, I just want five minutes on my…uh…oh.”                There, standing in Bruno’s bedroom doorway, was Félix. Holding a scandalised Antonio in his arms.                “Félix,” Bruno said, scrambling into a sitting position. “I-I-I’m sorry, I didn’t –”                “It’s alright, Tio Bruno,” Antonio said primly. “I’m not allowed to copy bad words. Camilo taught me to say tresero, and Mamá said…”                “Okay, okay, hombre,” Félix interrupted, jostling the kid in his arms. “Hey, let’s just see if your sister can look after you today, ‘kay? Tio Bruno is…tired.”                “Félix…”                The side-eye Félix gave him reminded Bruno of his sister, which sent another spike of shame through his guts. “S’alright. Get some rest, bro.”                And they were gone. Bruno fell back against the mattress, pressed the pillow over his face, and swore some more. The really, really bad ones, this time. Well, it had taken a few months, but he finally messed up things with Antonio. The quirky, harmless image of Fun Tio Bruno had been shattered in the amount of time it took him to tell his Pá to piss off. There goes Family Weirdo Club. He’d never be asked to babysit again. He’d been doing such a good job with not using bad words around the kids, too. Stupid sleep visions. Stupid gift. Stupid him.                Somewhere around an hour later, just as his temper was starting to cool and congeal into a thick layer of self-pity (and sleep was still a thousand miles away), the door opened again. Bruno pressed his hands against the pillow still strewn over his face and let out a long, strangled noise somewhere between a scream and a sob. “Please,” he moaned, “I am exhausted, and I’m in such a bad mood, please just leave me alone to…”                Two gigantic paws hit the mattress with a thump. Bruno lifted the pillow away to find Parce staring down at him.                “Erm…h-hey, Kitty,” he gulped. “Félix send you to eat me for cursing in front of his kid?”                Parce titled his head this way and that, before hauling himself up onto the bed. The mattress groaned a little beneath the extra weight, and Bruno suddenly had images of shattered wood and feathers flying through the air. Bruno scooched up the bed, away from the gigantic cat, but Parce butted his huge head none too gently against his cheek with a deep, low ‘mmrow’. Something was tied around his neck; a green ribbon, with a scroll of paper tied to it. Bruno tentatively reached for it, snatching his hand away as soon as possible. Parce started kneading the mattress, staring into the middle distance, as Bruno unfurled the scroll with shaking fingers.                It was a drawing. A drawing of Bruno and Antonio, holding hands. Or, at least, Bruno suspected they were holding hands. Their palms kinda intermeshed. Bruno’s hair came down to his waist in long, grey scribbles, while Antonio’s manic smile went outside of his face. Bruno loved it instantly. Written in the corner in huge wobbly script, was a message.                ‘TIO BRUNO. GET WELL SOON. PARCE WANTS TO SNUGL WITH YO TIL YU ARE HAPPEE AGAIN. LOVE, ANTONIO MADRIGAL.’                In a neater, smaller hand underneath was written;                ‘Don’t worry, Parce won’t eat your rats. Unless you say more bad words. Come find us after your nap. Dolores xoxo’                Bruno felt his heart melt into a lump of warm, gooey affection. “So I haven’t totally messed up then, huh?” he asked Parce. Parce purred, blinking slowly. “Okay,” Bruno sighed, letting the drawing flutter to the floor and stuffing the pillow back under his head, “I guess you can stay and snugg—oof!”                Parce pressed his head against Bruno’s cheek again, so hard it moved Bruno’s head to the side, all the while purring even louder. “Pfffttt, ppfffbtttt, pff,” Bruno sputtered, getting a fine mist of jaguar hair across his nose and mouth. Parce didn’t smell like Bruno thought he would; like blood and viscera and abject terror. He smelled like…like a warm, clean animal. “Come on, now, settle down.” He reached up, haltingly, and held out his hand for Parce to love on instead. The big cat pressed his cheek against Bruno’s knuckles, eyes closed in contentment.                “Hey, y-you’re actually kinda cute, aren’tcha?” Bruno murmured with a small smile, his fingers getting lost in the thick, white fluff of Parce’s chest. Parce blinked down at him, eyes soft and full of affection. How had he ever thought this cat was creepy? He was just…well, intense. Plus, c’mon; it’s not like Bruno could complain about someone having a staring problem, now was it?                “Good Kitty, such a nice kittycat, yes you are…”                Parce turned around a handful of times in Bruno’s lap (“watch the paws,” Bruno winced, “watch the paws –!”) before settling down across his stomach, purring so loudly Bruno swore he could feel it in his bones. The weight of Parce across his torso was enough to help him relax, just a little bit – feeling the warmth and sturdy weight of this creature that had chosen, apparently, to spend time with him. Even if he was a screwup who swore in front of five-year-olds. “Thanks, buddy,” Bruno said with a yawn, reaching up to scratch behind one gigantic, spotted ear. Parce made a friendly noise in the back of his throat, tail twitching against the bare skin of Bruno’s arm, then laid his head along Bruno’s chest and closed his eyes. And, after a long moment, Bruno did the same.

[utterlyhopeful-fics]

Never Enough

A/N: Just a quick drabble my brain whipped up on this cloudy day...

MASTERLIST 

Angel Reyes x Reader

Word Count: 816

Warnings: angst, bit of heartbreak, language, asshole Angel, badass reader

*******************

The slam of the front door startled her glancing up from her latest read. Y/N remained tucked within a tiny nook on the sofa facing the haggard man. With no greeting to be heard, Angel booked it straight towards the fridge for a cold cerveza chugging all its contents in two gulps immediately reaching for a refill.

Her tone clipped yet passive; “You’re home late.”

“I’m not in the fuckin mood tonight, Y/N.”

An exasperated sigh fell through the thick air; “You never are nowadays.”

He clapped back in haste; “Didn’t realize you were my goddamn keeper.”

Calmly, Y/N placed her bookmark into the current page before meeting his penetrating glare. The wrinkles around his eyes were more prominent as his shoulders lethargically slugged.

“Just trying to make simple conversation, Angel. You know, that thing we used to do?”

The irritation spreading over his face was beyond recognizable knowing Y/N was pushing his buttons fast approaching his breaking point. He’d been riled up these past weeks, distant and cold towards her and for the life of her couldn’t understand why. His eyes closed timidly.

“Closing your eyes isn’t going to change anything. Nothing’s going to disappear just because you can’t see what’s going on.”

“Always the smartest bitch in the room, ain’t ya?”

His harshness slashed at her viciously leaving a brutal mark in its path. Defeat following shortly behind.

“Stop it…stop being an asshole...”

“Can’t change what God blessed me with.”

Her faint smiled faded thinking back to luckier times when Angel was excited to be home and encompass her in his toned arms. She nearly forgot what it was like to make love anymore. Angel didn’t touch her like he used to and his withdrawals were growing more and more noticeable. So, she took her shot and asked the question gnawing at her insides; “Is there someone else, A?”

His body froze in absolute fear processing her direct words.

“You accusin me of somethin, Y/N?”

“It’s the only rational thought I’ve had all day. I mean—I’m lonely in this damn house by myself and you come home only to act like I’m a freaking chore, something you shove aside until you’re in the mood…which might I add is never recently. I just want the truth.”

Angel remained stunned at Y/N’s audacity but didn’t shy away.

“Nothin you need to worry bout.”

“Quit bullshitting me.”

“It’s harmless flirtation…at best.”

Oh Angel…if only it was that innocent.

“Until it isn’t.”

Baffled, Angel looked up. It was as if Y/N read his thoughts. Sweat accumulated above his brow as his face paled in comparison to a few seconds prior.

“I didn’t have sex with her but…”

“I swear it’s always something with you.”

“I wanted to…I thought real hard bout it Gotta give a little credit.”

Her eyes shut reflexively as her breath quickened to a painful huff.

“Is—Did I do something wrong?”

She sounded jumbled, a characteristic out of sort for Y/N. Angel instantly hated himself for making his queen feel useless and neglected but not enough to comfort her. It was as if an invisible wall had been built virtually overnight.

“No.”

Y/N nodded partially believing him but unwilling to push further.

“What the hell are we doin then, Angel?”

“I don’t know.”

“I love you, Reyes. I always have. I hope you remember that one day.”

His cheeks flared with a scolding heat second to hell’s gates looking anywhere but at the beautiful woman standing in front of him. Her hands caressed over her jeaned thighs sighing overtly loud, finalizing her inner thoughts. Her fingers ran frantically through her hair, a tale tell tick of Y/N’s. Somehow the tears stayed at bay as she drifted towards his morose frame.  

“I’ll take the guest room tonight and be outta your hair by tomorrow night.”

She was met with unbridled silence and the aching sound of her cracking heart. Guilt consumed them knowing their final moments as a couple were fast approaching. Angel swept her into his arms one last time kissing her forehead tenderly. Like so many times before when shit wasn’t complicated.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t enough, querida.”

Y/N gulped hoping to hide her intruding unhappiness; “Me too, Angel. Me too.”

Hesitantly, she pulled back drinking in every imperfection of the idiotic Mayan. His eyes pooled of unfiltered emotion as Angel leaned in connecting his lips to hers. Y/N returned the feverish kiss clinging to the innocence of the shared moment.

His voice quivered, a side of himself usually locked in the deepest of depths as he spoke his final words; “Funny how you notice how beautiful things are just when you’re about to leave them…”

Y/N retreated towards the stairs; Angel watched her shadow retreat up the stairs surrounding himself in nothing but torturous stillness. One day he would be enough…be worthy of her love but today just wasn’t that day.

~~~~~~~

Tags:  @twistnet  @angelreyesgirl89 @carlaangel86 @imagineredwood @gemini0410 @mayans-mc @reaperwalking @prospectfandom @emmaveale123 @peaky-marvel @kind-wolf @scorpio4dayzzz @starrynite7114 @penny4yourthot @thegirlwhowritesfics @star017 @threeminutesoflife @woahitslucyylu  @summertimesadnesswithadashofsass @blessedboo

[my-happy-little-bean]

The Bookkeeper (Masterlist)

pairings: logicality, prinxiety word count: 37.4k general warnings: implied major character death(s) (that occur outside of the present story, though they are technically “alive” in the story – it’s magical), mentions of minor character deaths (i.e. parents, grandparents), existential crises, mild swearing, mild NSFW content, brief mention of past homophobia *see beginning of each chapter for specific warnings

summary:

"fray and far fables" has always been considered by its patrons as ‘magical’; the books always seemed more vivid, their spines seemed to breathe — every story seemed like it could be real, through and through. logan fray wishes this was not the case.

buried in his research, logan finds himself caring less and less about his magical inheritance, and more interested in unraveling a single question: what is the meaning of art in a meaningless life?

however, this is not helped by the store’s familiar and magical bookkeeper, roman, who—with the help of the store’s dedicated customer, patton morgan—is determined to convince logan that there is beauty in art and, hence, life: by opening one book nook at a time.

--

this beautiful art was made by the wonderful @cyan-silver, who i gush about more in the a/n!

[read on ao3]

Chapter 1: Wuthering Heights

Chapter 2: Red Rising

Chapter 3: Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea

Chapter 4: The Starry Night 

Chapter 5: The Signature Of All Things

Chapter 6: 50 First Dates

Chapter 7: The Dispossessed

Chapter 8: Nihilism and the Death of Art (I)

Chapter 9: Nihilism and the Death of Art (II)

Chapter 10: One Last Time, Please

Chapter 11: The Midnight Forest 

Chapter 12: Epilogue

author’s note under the cut! :)

a/n - hello friends! and welcome to me, briefly resurfacing into the writing world with my annual big bang fic!

this was a very different type of fic to what i'm used to writing, but it is a story that means a lot to me! and i hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it!

the most special-est of thanks to @cyan-silver! she made such a beautiful piece for this story that is rich with details and small easter eggs i hope you appreciate as much as i do after you read it! she went so beyond what i ever could've imagined, so pls don't forget to show her some love!

and shout out to @ts-storytime and everyone who is part of it! once again, it’s a fantastic way of sharing so many stories in this universe — i’m happy to contribute to one of them!

[bedbellyandbeyond]

Only Vampires

(Story Post)

Nari wasn't sure why he trusted these two vampires, but he wanted to know what they knew and so he followed them to their home. They didn't live more than a block north of where the library stood. They must've lived there a long time to afford such a big house, but then again, he had no idea what the housing market was like here. Either way, any active and diligent vamp over 100 years old could secure themself considerable wealth if they tried. Nari himself hadn't focused on capital during the majority of his life though, but he still did well for himself. The front doors of the house were very big, with stained glass windows, but Wesley and Everett took him around to the back door which was average sized and let no light in. This wasn't an issue right now as it was an hour to midnight, but he guessed that any daytime travel came through here, so they'd grown accustomed to it.

Inside was a small mudroom with another door at the other end. Nari waited for Everett to take off his shoes before he removed his own because wasn't sure what the traditions were in this country, but he was only further confused when Wesley took his shoes off but Everett kept them on. “Um, shoes on or off?” Nari had to ask. Wesley wacked Everett's leg with his loafer. “Shoes off, please.” Nari was relieved and did as told. “Alright.” “I'm not sure why we adopted that,” Everett said, reluctantly removing his footwear and then promptly putting on a pair of slippers. “My family always wore their shoes inside, his family wore shoes inside… Not to mention, it doesn't matter at all what Wesley wears.” “It's for our housemates,” Wesley said. “We have several housemates from across the world, you'll find Nari. The general consensus has been shoes off. We do our best to be accommodating.” He then proceeded to pull out a set of wheel slippers and socks and maneuvered them onto his chair. Nari thought for a second and then raised a hand. “I hope you don't think I need somewhere to stay. I'm well established.” “No, no,” Wesley said. “We just like to help anyone when it comes to library matters. As you may have noticed, it is not very accessible to all vamps of all shapes, abilities, and colours. We like to help anyone find the knowledge they need.” Nari nodded. “I see. So you steal the books for them.” “I told you, we borrow them,” Everett said as he led them through to the main hall. “Evie does think of himself as a modern-day Robin Hood of Knowledge, though,” Wesley said. The main hall was a lot more modern than Nari expected for a house apparently full of vampires. It was open concept with a lovely kitchen with granite counter tops. Further on was the living room and stairs, both up to the next floor and down to the basement. An elevator had also been installed beside the stairs for easier access to all floors. Nari’s hosts took him down to the basement, which was set up as a games room and study. There was pool, and darts, and even a pinball machine on one side. Some lounge chairs, a sofa, and a set of bookshelves on the other. There, they found another pair of vampires, one with her nose in a book, the other passed out on the couch, an open book on his chest. “Ah, glad some of you are here,” Wesley said going over to the reading nook. “Inaya, please meet Nari. We met him at the library.” The conscious vampire got up and smiled. She wore a hijab and had big round eyes framed with detailed eyeliner. She offered a hand to Nari. “Nice to meet you. Are you looking at a room?” “No, no, I’m just getting a little extra help with my research,” Nari said shaking her hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve never met, well, a vampire like you.” “A hijabi vampire?” Inaya chuckled. “Me neither. That’s why I’m here.” “To find more?” Nari asked. “No, to learn about being a vampire,” Inaya said. “I didn’t know anything about them really until I was turned, and I didn’t have any other vampires around to teach me. Figuring out how to be a vampire and muslim at the same time is difficult. Blood is haram, you see.” “Ah.” Nari nodded. “Have the books been helpful?” “Some, yes. Wesley seems to know how to find me good reads,” Inaya said. “I’ve tried entering the library on my own, but it’s always been a hassle. They always find some excuse not to let us in.” “I understand,” Nari said rollimg his eyes. “It's a different excuse each time.” Everett went over and kicked the end of the couch to wake its occupant. “Rise, Jeremiah! Meet our guest!” Wesley frowned. “Evie, let the boy sleep. He's probably been studying tirelessly, the poor kid.” It was too later however and the sleepy vampire stirred and sat up, rubbing his eyes. The book he had been reading fell off his chest and onto the floor. The bang made him curse and scramble to pick it up. “Shit, it better not be busted… These old ass books…” “Language, Jeremiah. You know the rules,” Everett scolded. “Shit, sorry, Ev,” the vampire huffed. “Not my fault you woke me up.” “I have half the mind to discipline you,” Everett said, crossing his arms. “Yeah, that’ll look good, you pasty old Brit beating my black ass…” the young vampire mocked. He noticed Nari. “Who’s this little mosquito?” Wesley put a hand on Nari's shoulder. “This is Nari. We're helping him in his research.” The other got up and offered a hand to the newcomer. “It's Jez, but these old farts insist on calling me by my whole name like they're my damn mother or something.” Everett huffed. “Seriously, if you don't straighten out your language, I'll—” “The entire concept of vulgar language is inherently racist,” Jez interrupted, his entire diction changing just to prove a point to old Everett. “My use of swearing is not abusive, but instead cathartic, emphatic and idiomatic, forms of swearing that are not meant to offend anyone. For you to tell me what words I can and cannot say is a blatant form of oppression and reduces my abilities to cope with pain or misfortune.” Everett frowned, his lips pursed. “Fine. But could you tone it down just a bit?” “No.” Wesley came up behind Everett and patted his back. “Relax. We're all adults. Anyway, where's Paolo?” “He's in his room,” Inaya said. “Probably working.” “Ah, okay. Nari can meet him later,” Wesley said approaching the coffee table. From out of nowhere, he pulled out a book and offered it to Inaya. “I found an Arabic tome with stories from Turkey in it. I’m hoping it might help you.” “Oh! Maybe!” Inaya took the book gratefully. “I appreciate it, Wes!” “Where did you pull that book from?” Nari asked, a bit dumbfounded. “The library?” Wesley said, a little confused by the question. “No, I mean… I didn't notice it on your person before,” Nari said. “Oh! It's pocket magic,” Wesley said. “Easier than carrying them around.” “Pocket magic is some real basic level shit,” Jez said, eyeing Nari. “If you don't know that, what abilities do you have?” Nari shook his head. “…I never learned vampire magic. Well, except a blood purifying spell I found the other day.” Everett placed his hands on Nari's shoulders. “Oh dear, so you've just been going about your life with all the cons and none of the pros to the whole vampire thing? Sounds miserable!” Nari frowned. “I didn't know I could learn any of it…” “You absolutely can!” Everett said. “We will show you the basics.” “Honestly, it's fine…” Nari said. “I don't plan on sticking around long, and my partner has enough magic for the both of us…” “Your partner knows magic but you didn't know you could learn it?” Inaya asked. “They didn't try to teach you?” “He’s not a vampire,” Nari said. “He doesn't know what I'm capable of doing as one.” “What is he, then?” Jez asked. “A dragon?” “No, he's a wizard,” Nari said. “A wizard?” Wesley inquired, his voice a little concerned. “Like, a human wizard?” “Uh, yes,” Nari said. “The magic isn't the same, though he's convinced he can learn vampire stuff…” Everett started shaking his head. “Do you always engage in romantic relationships with humans?” “Yes.” Nari frowned, reading the negative energy coming from his acquaintances. “You say that like it's bad. Are you going to tell me we're not supposed to do that? It's taboo or something?” “No, it's fine! I mean…” Everett put his hands on Wesley's shoulders. “He was unturned when I fell for him…” “But we weren't trying to reproduce, that’s for sure,” Wesley said. He placed a hand on Nari’s arm. “It’s no wonder you’ve been having trouble… You can't have children with humans. It never works.” Nari clenched his jaw. “That's not…My information came to a 1-in-8 chance that a vampire can complete live birth.” “It's more complicated than that,” Everett said, pulling out one of the books be grabbed. “It's likely the one successful time out of eight, their partner was another vampire. The odds are much better with two vampires. Like, 1-in-3.” He opened to a page that displayed a large family tree on it. “Any time in history that a vampire successfully completed a pregnancy, both parents were vampires. Any pairings with children from one unturned and a vampire were from before the vampiric parent had turned. Or, there has also been the occasional time a vampire sired a child with an unturned person, but it is rarer.” Nari frowned and sat down on the couch. “But…I… Isn’t there any magic that can help?” Wesley shook his head. “Not that we've found. Your best bet is to try with a vampire.” “But I don't want a child from someone else…” Nari said. “I want one with Diederich.” “I'm surprised you even date unturned,” Jez commented. “It's sad stuff watching humans grow old and die all the time…” “Diederich isn't just any human, he's immortal too,” Nari said. “He knows really powerful skills and spells.” Jez rolled his eyes. “So, easy fix. Just turn him.” Nari shook his head. “No, I can't do that.” “I could teach you,” Everett said. “Or I could do it.” Nari glared. “No, I don't want to turn him. I wouldn't do that to someone.” Everett sighed. “Nari, I don't know what to tell you. Your goal is to have a baby with your partner. Both of you need to be vampires for that to happen. That's all there is. We don't have any other advice.” Nari looked down at his hands, his eyes brimming with tears. “So, all those times I tried… Complete waste of time...” Wesley rubbed Nari’s shoulder. “You didn't know…” He looked to Everett. “Would you give us a moment? All of you.” “Of course, love,” Everett said, kissing Wesley on the forehead. “Come along now, children.” “We are not your kids,” Jez groaned as he got up reluctantly and followed Inaya and Everett upstairs. Once they were alone, Wesley sighed and rubbed Nari's arm. “Before you turned, did you have any children?” Nari slowly and sniffled. “Yes… My son, Tae-seok. He was just a baby when I turned…” “Is he alive?” Wesley asked. “No… He passed away around the turn of the millennia…” Wesley sighed. “When did you start trying for another baby?” “We tried for several years when Tae-seok was young… But his father, Eun-young, died in a factory accident when Tae-seok was still a child. I didn't try again until well after my son passed away too.” “With your current partner?” Wesley asked. Nari shook his head. “No, my previous relationship. It was an accident… But I wanted it to work out. I had a little hope.” “I'm really sorry, Nari,” Wesley said. “It must be difficult to hear about the circumstances of your pursuit… And I'm sorry about Evie. He thinks turning people will always fix everything. It doesn't.” “But he's right though… If Diederich were a vampire, we'd have a much better chance,” Nari said spreading his hands. “If he were turned, we could try…” Wesley shook his head. “I can tell, you don't want to do that. It sounds like your experience with being a vampire has been more negative than positive and you don't want to subject someone else to that.” “I don't. Diederich is… He’s so lovely, and he's happy…” Nari said. “I don't want to take that from him.” “I understand. It isn’t easy. I don't always love being a vampire either… And I certainly wouldn't make that decision for someone else,” Wesley said. “You do realise that if you did manage to give birth to a baby, you'd be choosing a life as a vampire for them too?” Nari blinked. “Yes, but… I…” He paused. “…With Diederich, since he's unturned, I thought that they might not be…” “Well, even if you could reproduce with a normal human being, you’re a vampire. Your kids would be vampires.” Nari grit his teeth. “…I guess I just…you know, if I could have a baby again, I didn't care what they were… But now just saying it, that’s sounds so incredibly selfish… To subject my own child to the exact same curse I've suffered for their entire life…” Wesley rubbed Nari's knee. “I think you need to think about your situation and talk to your partner. Really work out what path makes the most sense for both of you, and any possible children in the mix. What's best for everyone is what is important.” Nari nodded slowly. “Yes… I just want to be with Diederich… I should go…” Wesley checked his watch. “Where are you staying? Evie can drive you over.” “It's okay, I can walk…” “No way, this time of night, any drunk vampires tumbling out of a bar will want to pick a fight, and while I'm not saying you can't hold your own, you don't know much magic and vampires around the library know their stuff.” Nari sighed and told Wesley his hotel. “I do appreciate you guys trying to help me… You’re honestly the nicest vampires I've ever met.” “Aw, it's nothing,” Wesley said going to the elevator. “Each of us understands the difficulty of being accepted in the vampire world. But we've been very lucky and those who have should give.” “So, is this sort of a boarding house for vampires using the library?” Nari asked. “Sort of… We keep the rent super cheap though because the house was paid off many, many years ago. Our housemates just split utilities. Evie and I cover the taxes and insurance.” Wesley smiled. “If you ever need somewhere to stay, we'll be here. First month is free for long term. Of course, we won't charge you if you just want to come over and visit.” Nari nodded. “That's more than generous, thank you.” They rode the elevator together and met with Everett at the back of the house. “Good talk?” Everett asked, spinning his car keys. “Yes, I think so,” Wesley said. “Inaya and Jeremiah are back in their rooms, then?” “Yeah.” Everett unlocked the door. “Alright, Nari. We won't keep you any longer than you'd like. Wes said you needed a ride, yes? Come along.” Nari blinked. “When did he tell you?” “Come on, now.” Everett placed his hands on his hips. “You really do need a rundown on basic magic. You could teach toddlers mind connection.” “I really don't know anything, then…” Nari frowned following him out. Wesley waved as they left. “Hope to see you soon!” Nari waved again before going to the garage with Everett. “You should consider coming back tomorrow night,” Everett said, unlocking the car. “Jeremiah will teach you everything you need to know.” “I might take him up on that. At least I'll have gotten something out of this trip.” “Well, there you go. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” “Hm… Yes, I suppose.” “Oh, and you still have to meet Paolo! He’s Asian like you too! Wouldn’t guess from his name though, would you?” ���You really don’t think before you speak, do you?” “Hey, respect your elders.” “Sorry, grandpa.”

[fleckcmscott]

Out of Sight

Summary: Y/N has an unexpected dash of inspiration. Arthur doesn't require much convincing.

Warnings: Swearing, Smut

Words: 4,221

A/N: This fun little request comes from @sweet-nothings04​​. You're wonderful and I hope this meets your expectations. Thanks for the request - I can't imagine ever writing this without it! 🙈 Special thanks to @jokerownsmysoul​ for agreeing to beta!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

Words didn't often fail Y/N, but the admission left her foggy, reminiscent of what she'd experienced after tipping over in a wheelbarrow race at a school fair. Her foot swung back and forth as she sat on the counter. Fiddled with the phone cord and twisted its beige, plastic curls around her fingers. Were there signs she'd missed? Was her gut right in insisting she was a terrible friend?

"Marriage counseling?" she repeated.

Arthur stopped filling his bowl with sandy, pecan cookies, alarm encroaching his features. She waved off his concern, mouthing "not us" before she spoke into the receiver. "I'm so sorry." With a grimace of understanding, he patted her knee and ducked out, sweets in hand. No doubt he'd ask her to elaborate. Not that she had anything to share. Not yet. "I had no idea you and Robert were having problems."

Patricia laughed lightly on the other end. "Neither of us have our bags packed." A whistle came from the background. Vague cheering. Then mild cursing about how terrible this season's Gotham Guardsmen's picks were. She sighed. "The little green monster's dropped-in since your wedding. Don't get me wrong. I couldn't be happier for you if you were my own sister."

Y/N wished Patricia was within arm's reach instead of all the way in Burnside.

"Next month we'll have been married thirty-five years," Patricia continued with a rare nostalgia. "We're a team, Robert and me. But we've both let things go, gotten old. I'd like the spark back before we lose the kindling."

Pursing her lips, Y/N bit back her qualms. Rebutting the steps Patricia had taken was uncalled for, and doubly so when she needed her support. Besides. Y/N understood them. She'd climbed them once, too.

When she'd begun to figure out the direction in which the weather vane of her life pointed, the comfort and confidence she'd shared with her ex-husband had started to wither. Transformed over the years into an awareness that her childish belief in love being enough was inaccurate. It was natural, she thought in hindsight. They'd wed at seventeen and twenty-one. But divorce had been uncommon back then, particularly in a small town in the Bible Belt. The night she'd moved in with a friend (a tactic to delay confessing defeat to her family), Jeff suggested they speak with a professional. Though her heart had known it was over, she cared for him. She couldn't deny them the chance to salvage their union, no matter how remote.

A solitary counselor was available, a disadvantage of rural living. The man claimed to be a pioneer in couples therapy, having begun his practice in the thirties. One forty-five-minute drive later and they'd found themselves squished into a leather loveseat in a smoky, cramped office. Diplomas and certificates covered the walls, the veracity of which she couldn't verify. Dr. Ellis's puffy pink cheeks and offer of sweet tea had been kinder than his approach.

Fountain pens and worksheets were provided with the mumbled instruction to answer honestly. But the questions had not fit her situation. They were for women who desired to be happy homemakers. To plan meals and do the weekly shopping. To nurse children and have dinner ready by six. Responsibilities and life stages that had given her mother purpose - a purpose that mostly eluded Y/N. Every comma and quotation mark inferred fault. And Dr. Ellis had read her responses like a disappointed teacher.

Somehow the filmstrips, accompanied by a crackling LP, were worse. Mr. Provider and Mrs. Housewife were featured. He consistently came home on time. She always wore an apron. The narrator's spiritless voice contrasted with the cheery soundtrack while matching Y/N's mood. A lively ping! cued them to advance to the next still, a duty switched between her and Jeff to practice teamwork. At least the sidelong looks they shared could still connect them.

The slides, the homework, the speeches. They all pointed to one problem: her. Her parents were a model couple. Didn't she know encouraging her husband in his livelihood was her job? That his main obligation was to invite her to share his success? She had to mend her ways. Make herself more attractive. Be grateful he displayed his affection by returning to her after a long day at the office; he could just as easily hang out at The Rusty Boot.

Not a little indignant, she'd stared at Jeff's profile. Downcast eyes betrayed his regret and assured she'd maintain composure, for his sake if nothing else. She fixed her focus on Dr. Ellis and gave the situation a good, long think. Jeff had never questioned her ambitions. Who the hell was this jackass to judge?

She'd covered Jeff's hand, rubbed his knuckle with her thumb. "You're the expert here, doctor. But isn't it possible neither party is at fault?"

"Mrs. Thompson, I've heard that misconception from many of my clients. It's never led anywhere positive. Now-"

"But what if they're both good people?" she interrupted, hanging onto diplomacy by a thread. Her resolve stayed, even as her volume lowered at the prospect of wounding the man she'd loved as a girl. "Good people who've grown apart?"

Dr. Ellis took what she'd learned was his usual position on the corner of his cherry desk. "You're mistaking natural sex differences for incompatibility. Not every husband allows his wife to work outside the home." His paternal smile hadn't diminished the sting of his words. "If you want your marriage to thrive, I'd advise a little more maturity. And I think I have just the book to help you."

Twenty tons of silence festered on the ride home, louder than the pulse beating her eardrum. Distress distracted her from noticing the run in her stockings. And it was drizzling. She cracked the passenger window of the Lincoln Continental, anyway. Closed her eyes at the bite of raw air against her overheated face.

"Look, I don't agree with what that guy says," Jeff started. He pulled at the gearshift and flicked the turn-signal. "Not when it comes to you."

As the car came to a stop, she swiped at her eyes. "I'm not going again." The press of a napkin to her palm prompted a mix of appreciation and annoyance. For his courtesy and that he'd detected her tears. "Do you even like being married to me?"

"Y/N-"

"Please." She flinched at his attempt to embrace her. "Don't spare my feelings."

Headlights from a passing car flashed in the cabin, revealing his stretched lips. He raked back his thinning hair. The quiet shake of his head when he moved to gaze at her was a relief. "I miss the girl I fell in love with."

She offered a slight shrug and pulled the corners of the tissue. "I don't like it, either."

His rapid blink softened her posture, along with the recognition that the dream they'd had was also out of reach for him. "I'm proud of the woman you've become," he said. "Even if she's not what I need."

"I don't want to be a lawyer's wife." A quiet laugh bubbled up. "The oral arguments are terrible."

He checked his blind spot and put the sedan back into drive. "I'll file the papers tomorrow. We can tell your parents and sister together. If you'd like." After some seconds, she'd slid across the bench seat and put her head on his shoulder, heartened by an affinity she'd nearly forgotten.

Counseling techniques must have evolved, Y/N considered. Perhaps Patricia would find help instead of blame. If not, tips in women's magazines were a tacky if economical alternative. She'd have to check the breakroom at work for forgotten issues.

She hopped off the counter and poured herself another cup of decaf. "Let me know if we can do anything. And how it goes."

"The first few sessions were great. I picked up a few booklets. 'Modern Marriage,' 'The Complete Woman...' Oh!" Paper shuffled as Y/N put back the milk. "'Enrichment & Exploration: Tips for Bedroom Fun.' I tried reading it with Robert the other night, but he left when I mentioned massagers and blindfolds."

"He's sixty," Y/N snorted. "Give him time."

Peeking around the corner, she spotted Arthur in his writing nook. He stood to stretch, then grab his lighter and pack of Stuttons. The low sit of his pajama bottoms was enough of a temptation for her to tuck her lip. An unexpected spasm tickled her abdomen. "Brief me on the blindfold chapter."

~~~~~

Nervous anticipation had kept her feverish for hours, ever since she'd bid farewell to Arthur with a "Save a smile for me" on her way out the door. His clumsy smooch lingered as she changed the date on her rubber stamp. While she cleaned the office refrigerator, she spent a good sixty seconds pressing a cup of expired yogurt to her flush cheeks. When the shoulder strap of her canvas bag gave out, she shrugged rather than cursed and settled the tote in her lap. With her plan in mind, the corners of her lips refused to relax .

After working the grand opening of the Gotham Mall, Arthur had the workshop she'd registered him for, a beginners' seminar for stand-ups. He'd be home right around six. That would give her thirty minutes to change into her mini nightdress with the ruffled hemline, dab musk oil behind her earlobes, and put on an LP. Dinner would be delayed - neither of them would be in the mood if they were too full. If she remembered correctly, they had a pizza in the freezer, the good kind with the real pepperoni and rising crust. She just had to figure out if she should wait in the bedroom or lounge on the sofa like a poor-man's Lauren Bacall.

As she unlocked the apartment, however, there came a muffled phomp-phomp-phomp. The unmistakable sound of a sink plunger. Fuck. This was the third time this month. Pushing through the door, she hoped the super had called a different plumber. It had taken ages to clean up the stray sediment left behind by the last one. Upon entering, Arthur's plaid bag came into view, next to his keys on the counter. A glance into the kitchen confirmed he was trying his hand at the repair. 

"Hey." Y/N hung her coat, glad her consternation was hidden by the wall. "What happened to your class?" she asked with deliberate playfulness. "Did they decide you were too advanced?" She crossed her arms and moved to the doorway. Tried to hold onto the tendrils of fading arousal by taking him in.

A pleased chuckle. "The instructor left a message." Phomp-phomp-phomp."It'll be rescheduled."

"I know you were looking forward to it." The rolled-up sleeves of his shirt and flexing biceps were having the right effect. She ambled towards him. "Let me help."

"It's fine. I had to do this a lot at my old place." The set of his jaw tightened as it gave it another go.

They went through the litany of usual questions. Arthur contently reported the mall had gone well, except for a couple of teenagers who'd given him grief at the start. ("Nothing serious. They were just kids.") Her nine-to-five had been quite low-key, she explained, and had allowed her to catch-up on a backlog of paperwork. ("With the new judge, we keep having to file motions for correction.") But when he asked about this evening, she mused and tapped her fingertips on the counter. Horny, annoyed at her thwarted plan, yet nevertheless itching to seduce him

Water streamed as he turned the faucet's handle, followed by his satisfied hum. He tidied up, then washed to his elbows. Grabbed the nearby dish towel and pivoted on his heel to face her. "What is it?" he asked at her lack of response. He wiped his hands a little harder. "I thought you'd be glad I'm already here."

Seeking to allay his concern, she scooted next to him with a gentle nudge. "You know I am. You've been running through my head all day." She scrunched her nose. "I just had this idea for a romantic evening and wanted to surprise you."

"Oh." Pink colored his chiseled cheekbones and his eyes softened. "You still could. I'd like that." Ardor sparked anew in her belly. Unfurled as he leaned into her, grin cutting across his mouth and straight into her heart. "Would ten minutes be enough?"

Her toes curled. His enthusiasm for her, for them, had a habit of sending electricity up her spine. "Better make it eight," she pronounced.

A sharp nod and a pat to her bottom later, he dashed off. Once the bathroom door shut, Y/N rushed to rummage in his workbag, delighted when she found her prize. She scurried to the stereo and put on one of her soul records. Adjusted the volume to a suggestion instead of distraction. Though the genre wasn't his favorite, it never failed to induce the swivel of his hips. Unbuttoning, unzipping, she made her way to the bedroom. Yanked off her tan skirt and jacquard sweater before carelessly tossing them in the nearby chair.

She'd just gotten settled on the foot of the bed when Arthur sauntered in. Clad in his white briefs and wrinkled socks. "That was five," she said and wadded her pantyhose to hurl at him.

He dodged it easily, stepping forward to gaze at her with hooded eyes, their clear green darkened with need. He licked his lips. "I think it was four." Without further preamble, he knelt between her legs. Scrambling up the bed, she kicked subtly against his hold on her calves. Bit her lip on a giggle as he crawled over her lap to smother her with kisses. She rested on the headboard and nabbed his red and gold Carnival tie from under her pillow.

He quirked a dark brow. "What, you want me to wear it?"

Before any reservation could resurface, she smoothed the broad neck of the tie over her eyes and secured it loosely at her temple. Hesitation floated through the air. Threatened to pierce the veil of desire that enveloped her. She wondered what he was waiting for. If he was wearing that wolfish grin he saved for the bedroom. Or if a modicum of anxiety had spawned. She had sprung this on him without prior discussion. The muffled music from the living room switched to the next song. She attempted to peek under the bottom of the makeshift blindfold, tried to make out more than a vague shadow in the muted light.

But then he sunk into her. Wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pressed her into the mattress. "If you're uncomfortable, tell me," he murmured into her mouth. "Please."

The implication of his request, albeit more loving than licentious, wracked her with want. She couldn't halt her shudder. Blindly, she reached to cup his face. "I trust you," she promised. To both him and herself.

His round nose dragged down the underside of her jaw. "Where'd you get this idea?"

The caress of his smile on the crook of her neck caused a delicious heaviness to settle in her center. "A pamphlet."

"On what?" He tugged at the knot between her ample breasts. Fondled her through the thin satin. "How to make your husband high-strung?"

She carefully skimmed the rigid bulge in his briefs with her knee. "It was actually on how to loosen him up," she retorted. He always loved it when she paraphrased one of his jokes.

Every hushed kiss, every whisper of him against her flesh was magnified. Forced her to concentrate solely on him, to pay attention to each move he made. His humid, hot breath teased her nipple, prompted it to pebble with a twinge. When she released an embarrassingly desperate whimper, he snorted lightly and slipped his palm to the middle of her back. Following his lead, she arched into him. His soft curls brushed her as he laved her areola, swirled his tongue around it, her skin coming alive at the contact. Weathered hands that had so eagerly learned how to touch her groped her neglected breast, rolled its peak between slender, nimble fingers. She fisted the pillow, tipped her head, and grasped his shoulder with a cry. "Arthur..."

Getting her going usually wasn't difficult. Especially when she'd been thinking about making love for an inappropriate number of office hours. But the suspense of not seeing where he'd next pet her, of every caress being a discovery, had her core already pulsing for him. The intrigue was a treat. The best case she'd ever worked on. His strokes walked a path to every clue.

His fingertips skimmed her inner thighs. Groaning, he hooked them under the waistband of her bikini, tugged until she lifted her rear. He pulled them off hastily. With a gentle pressure, he encouraged her to open herself to him. She did so gladly, splaying her legs without a hint of self-consciousness. The relatively cool temperature of the room hit her hot, swollen folds and she quivered.

Then there was an odd sensation at her clit. Scratchy. Rough like a canvas. And was that a corner? After a few seconds it was clear it wasn't doing it for her. And she didn't think Arthur was trying to wipe away her slick. Reaching down, she found a twisted bedsheet in his fist. She was relieved he hadn't run to the kitchen for ice.

"Not good?" he asked.

She softened the blow. "You feel better."

The pad of his thumb trailed over her patch of springy hair, a faint tease that sent a dizzying current racing through her limbs. She strove towards him but he didn't oblige. Rather, he took her hand and placed it on her labia. Guided her to dip within her inner lips. A short moan left her, at the sensation and the sound of his increasingly labored breathing, tinged by his deep voice. "You look like sex," he blurted.

Laughing, she halted. Whenever something brazen spilled from his mouth, however left-footed, she adored it. She clasped his sides. "What does that mean?"

"If I'd seen you in a magazine," he started, moving to settle over and straddle her. His hard-on grazed her abdomen, leaving a damp trail of his arousal in its wake. Even as she wondered when he'd taken off his underwear, her muscles tensed and she gasped. Playful pecks met her cleavage. "You'd be pasted on every page of my journal."

Her reply slipped out before discretion could take hold. "We better buy a Polaroid." A stitch of reluctance before she added, "Just keep them in your desk."

He uncurled her fingers and pressed her palm to his chest. "Touch me," he whispered, pleaded. Her pulse quickened. With an unhurried deliberation, he guided her over the peaks and valleys of his body. The lean pectorals she loved to nuzzle after a weary day. The freckled indent of his sternum. Downward, to the slightly loose skin around his navel, then the soft, toned curve of his abdomen.

Unable to resist, she stretched to chart the ridge of muscle leading to his groin. "You make me so wet."

He let out a bashful giggle, edged with excitement. The instant he rasped his next words against her forehead, she knew he was doing his damnedest to rival her. He pushed her hand to his erection. "You make me so hard."

She followed the bulging vein from base to tip, encircled him with a firm grip. The vibration of his harsh grunt rumbled through her and he jerked forward. Released her wrist to stroke her vulva and flick back and forth along her aching nub. Focusing on the satiny feel of his flesh, the heaviness of his length, she felt petite. Feminine. Powerful. Her hand glided between his legs, cupped the sensitive skin with care. His practiced rhythm faltered. The elbow beside her ear trembled.

While he was a captivating visual, one she missed, her imagination was determined to compensate for her lack of sight. Breathless moans spun her fantasies. Perspiration tickled her nose, woodsy and sweet, conjuring memories of his taste in her mouth. Then all at once he was inside her, going down on her, sucking at her while fucking into her. Impossible feats that nevertheless caused a fever in her brain. "Oh, god," she mewled. Her wanton writhing hastened. She ground against his thigh. "I want your cock in me."

He took hold of himself as she held herself open. The blunt tip of him slid just inside her entrance, a drop when she needed an ocean. She grabbed his hips and thrust upward, hissing as he stretched her completely. "You're fucking tight," he uttered through clenched teeth.

She smoothed her palms over his back, memorized each notch of his ribs. The odd angle of his distended shoulder. The strong tendons at the nape of his neck. He crushed her closer, until her mouth bumped his clavicle. She nibbled lightly, licked the salty sheen of sweat from its hollow, drawing her name from his lips and rapid bucks of his pelvis. "Fuck me," she said, a command and an appeal.

A creak came from above. She followed his taut arm to find he'd clutched the headboard. It occurred to her, then, that her inability to see had been liberating for him. Enough to let go of his inhibitions, to give voice to the bawdy, wonderful things he'd said, to not worry about his appearance.

She reached to swipe her clit steadily, relentlessly. Tears pricked her eyes as she became weightless. Her frame seized, and she came with a choked cry. She sniffled and laughed into his neck, overwhelmed by him. The way he made love to her as if he sought to erase her earlier trials and replace them with the present.

His throaty, punctuated groans, his fingernails digging into her ass divulged his approaching release. She ran her foot along his calf, relished in his body as its angles pressed into her. He balanced himself on his knees, snapping into her at an erratic pace. Then all at once he moaned sharply and went rigid, cock twitching. She cradled the back of his head while his essence marked her walls, closed her eyes when he sprawled on top of her.

Raking her hands through his loose waves, she swallowed thickly. Although she'd always enjoyed sex, exploring this way hadn't been conceivable with anyone else. Allowing that match to light, allowing herself to fan that flame had been unthinkable. She'd felt inadequate. Unable to live up to others' demands, especially her own. There'd been too many boxes to check. Revealing herself in that way would have been a demonstration of trust she wasn't quite ready for.

Being an established woman on equal footing with her partner wasn't something she'd believed possible. She'd been content to go without and find meaning through her work. Arthur had helped her augment that. She could be tough as old leather or delicate as gossamer without concern he'd see her differently. If expectations were left unmet, their easy discussions and compromises promised they'd never become resentments. They supported each other - authentically and as themselves.

For the first time, she knew she was loved for who she truly was. And she wouldn't have to change to keep it.

Choppy panting gradually ceased, replaced by leisurely, happy sighs. He skimmed her flank, then the curve of her hip. She tickled his midriff gently, only stopping when he reclaimed her lips and slid his tongue against hers. Tenderly, he loosened the knot at her temple. She blinked at the orange, evening light invading her eyes. When his came into focus, they were still dilated, a tad sleepy. And so full of affection her breath caught.

Cheek propped on the heel of his hand, he raised his eyebrows. "How was it?"

"You have to ask?" she chuckled, swatting his backside.

A stray lock tumbled towards her as he bent closer. "I wanna hear it."

"Wonderful." Her thighs tightened, keeping him within her. "What I've been craving all day."

His smile was a slow build, equal parts shy and deservedly smug. Then he stared at his tie. "I- I don't know if I'll ever be able to wear that again."

She snorted and looped it around his neck, secured it with a half-Windsor knot. "You're a professional, Mr. Fleck. You'll manage."

He rolled to her left and yanked open the nightstand drawer to riffle through its contents. "What else is in the pamphlet?"

"Hey!" She batted him half-heartedly, boosted herself on her elbow, and spooned him. "What if I had a surprise hidden in there?"

Undeterred, he huffed. "It wouldn't beat this."

"Patricia told me about it." He stilled and slanted his gaze her way. "I can get a copy."

At first, Y/N assumed he'd contradict her. That he wanted to keep their escapades private. But once a few seconds had passed, Arthur acquiesced with a smirk and snatched a nearby tissue. Wiped himself off and tossed it in the woven wastebasket. He reclined beside her, hands folded behind his head. "Okay. Just don't give away my whole act."

~~~~~

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[olderjustneverwiser]

Everything's Just As It Should Be (Draco Malfoy)

Well, I wrote another one. I guess you technically don't have to read my first Draco fic (which you can read here) but it may make a little more sense if you do. Also, I think it was a good fic, so you should read it.

Told you I wanna write everything about these two. Suggestions?

Please, let me know if you like it, and enjoy!

Early mornings have always been Draco's favorite time of day. 

Ever since he was young, Draco would wake before everyone else. In those few moments before the world would start its day, he'd lay in his bed with a book in his hands, or sit near one of the few windows in the Slytherin common room and watch as the fish and merpeople swam in the Black Lake. It calmed him; letting himself be alone with his thoughts before facing the day always made them feel more bearable. 

Although, he isn't alone in his bed this morning, and he feels better than ever. Today, he's joined by you. 

It's not like this is the first time you have been in his bed. When the Slytherin dorms got too cold or life simply got too lonely, you'd creep into his room and he'd always be there with open arms and a cramped twin bed. It is the first time you have ever been in his bed like this, though. You being his, and him yours in ways he'd deemed impossible. Finally.

He'd been having nightmares the past year, but last night, a particularly terrible vision haunted Draco's dreams. He dreamt of you, writhing and screaming in pain in the Hogwarts courtyard, being tortured by none other than Voldemort himself. He woke in a cold sweat, gasping for air, and he found himself walking down the hall to your bedroom, asking to stay the night with you. After talks of his nightmare and a confession of love from him, followed by a reciprocation of feelings from you, Draco found himself in a situation he'd given up on long ago. The two of you together, a sweet, fumbling mess of lips and limbs and whispered 'I love yous.' 

Sure, it didn't go exactly how he'd once thought it would, but he'd rather just chalk that up to young lust and inexperience. It was perfect, all the same. 

It was inevitable, really. Six months have come and gone since that night in the manor, and the two of you have spent everyday together. You'd stayed at the manor that night, and the very next morning, asked him to come with you. He packed his belongings and left without so much as a second thought, a weight he had been carrying on his tired shoulders finally being lifted as he charmed the lock on the towering double doors. The manor was too dark and quiet; had too many awful memories attached to it. Draco has nothing but fond memories of your home, and you've been making new ones every day. Reading together in the nook near the large bay window in the drawing room. Him playing piano while you make them tea. They're all little moments, but spending them alone with you meant everything to Draco.

You sleep with your back to him, and Draco wants to reach out to you to make sure you're real, that this isn't some sick joke. His fingertips play with the tendrils of your hair, so not to wake you. He takes this time to admire you and give thanks to whoever may be listening that you're here with him. Once he'd taken the mark, he was sure he'd never have this. Especially with you.

He realized he had feelings for you that stretched far past the line of friendship back in third year, but his pride and adolescent stupidity prevented him from voicing them. After fifth year came and gone and there was nothing telling him that you may have feelings for him, he became colder; tried to bury his feelings even more than normal. And by the time sixth year came, well, Draco knew that was it. There'd be no going back and no happy ending for him. He pushed his feelings down for you as far as they would go. He told himself he was doing this for you; to protect you, but he knew the truth. He was just a coward. Even if both of you did make it out alive and Voldemort would be defeated, there's no way you'd want him and everything he came with. 

But, by what Draco could only describe as a miracle, here you were.

He recognized his feelings quickly after moving in and spending so much time with you. He knew they were always there, but with no Dark Lord or battles to be fought, they came bursting to the very front if his mind yet again. Draco sensed you had an inkling of interest in him as well (or at the very least, hoped) but still, he kept his distance, kept his guard up just in case you came to your senses and left, but you never did. And now that you've promised him that you love him too, he's sure you're here to stay.

You've loved him this whole time, and Draco could kick himself for wasting all this time being too scared to tell you he loved you.

Draco shifts to look at the small clock on your bedside table and it reads just before seven. You're still fast asleep, snoring softly, and Draco actually misses you. He thinks it's a bit ridiculous to miss someone that is right next to him, but the longer he thinks about it, it's not ridiculous at all. 

He traces a finger down the soft skin of your back until he reaches your hip, and quickly withdraws his hand as you shift in your sleep, but he can tell he's woken you up. You roll onto your back and slowly open your eyes, giving him a sleepy 'g'morning' and the smile he's thought about everyday since he realized what his feelings for you meant, and he swears his heart has never felt so full or known such peace. You look so damn lovely like this; small rays of sunlight peeking through the curtains and landing on your face, hair framing your face like a halo, and for a quick second Draco almost forgets to breathe.

He answers your good morning with a soft kiss, and by the way you push against him and grip his bicep, he knows this is real. This is what he wants for the rest of his life. 

Early mornings have always been Draco's favorite time of day, but he knows he never wants to spend another one alone ever again. 

[dansedan]

I threatened on the Disco Writer’s Nook server to share my notes from this latest fic, but since they’re wildly incomprehensible and kind of silly I thought maybe I’ll just... chuck ‘em on here instead, under a readmore where they can pass by easier so uhhh xX WeLcOmE To My TwIsTeD mInDXx !!!1!!

(warning for LONG LONG post- I write full sections and asides from the universe that aren’t even in the damn fic within the same notes document a lot... I’m also insufferably pretentious on notes I KNOW and I cull it on the final as much as I can, as well as mild possible spoilers for a fic I haven’t written in the same au-timeline-thing I suppose and NSFT stuff)

(also a lot of this gets discarded because it’s so stupid and I write it at terrible brain moments)

"Por la mañana me di a la estúpida tarea de esconder mis cigarros por los rincones de la casa. Los encuentro, claro, pero fumo poco, fumo menos, hago esfuerzos por mejorarme de una vez."

meditative cigarettes and quitting fic.

Harry smokes less than he drinks, because he smokes to keep sharp and he usually wants to be numb, down to zero, space-based. but after going tee-total and opening up on his quest to actual-human-persondom he finds himself chainsmoking constantly. A concern in his volition is raised, a thought project ruminated on, and strategems laid out.

Harry grasps at the first half at a low point in his attempts to get better without anyone knowing or helping. He wonders about Kim's life, Kim's control. The electrochemistry in him fantasizes about a free-wheeling party-boy sort of Kim, still cool, still quiet, but free and soft and in control of his lack of control- the aviator, the flying ace, at the mercy of the elements and gliding by by choice- lands on the question of the one-per day, the Kim he knows, who takes what he needs with trepidation and preparation.

The truth is that last one- Kim was a social smoker, an after-dinner-if-the-date-is-pleasant smoker, an after-sex smoker, a bumming-cigarettes-to-gague-his-interest smoker (it all started with a boyfriend) but police work and his neverending stint in Juvie drove him to once-per-day, a creature of obsession. He used to heavily resent it- until Harry came along and joined the ritual.

"bebiendo mate con el ademán gracioso de los novatos. Es lo que hago ahora cuando siento ganas de fumar, dijo, con una sonrisa."

Kim and Harry not so close together- the idea of Kim and Harry not knowing everything about each other, because that's just not how you survive, but somehow Kim aching to be up-to-date on Harry all the time.

Harry and his funny little excursions around town. Kim visits and finds cigarettes hidden around the house, smells them in fear of finding drugs, or Harry has to awkwardly shuffle around for one when Kim invites him to smoke. Harry tries to join a book club, starts cooking lofty meals for his yoga class, tries being vegan for a week, checks out a bunch of books on the history of the Coupris Corp (SUZERAINTY ERA MARK OF AUTHENTICITY BABEY) as a way to help him wean off substances but also off Kim. They want each other but they know they need to stand on their own </3

Harry starts going to this novelty/gourmet supermarket and buying one new thing every paycheck like furikake that says it has lead on it and mate and all that. He spends his ex-drinking, smoking money on it.

Harry makes Kim huevos rotos :'-)

You're barely holding it together- how the hell did you get to this newsstand? Is it a newsstand? This structure- round, metal, iron-wrought frame and squat stature- was once a newsstand. How do you know it isn't? What is it now? You feel yourself point someplace on a menu you can't see past the dew of heavy crying- the clerk does not react, he's seen you like this- slam your wallet on the counter. You receive a paper parcel slightly larger than your fist, long. It's warm through the paper, and you can feel the dryness of a light dusting of flour passing through it. Food.

Your legs and arms are moving on their own again, wallet shoved this way, steps stumbled past the other, clumsily bringing whatever it is to your mouth and feeling crumbs fall into your beard- like a shark. That's one of the first things you remember, the beautiful old ultraliberal woman, like a shark, on her boat. The joy of your first- no, second- idiom. The first was up on Marvel Hill where you can't live. Kim said that. Kim's gonna be there, when you do it like a shark and don't stop any of this on your way to work and you stop crying so nobody thinks you did what you're avoiding doing. Is there anyway you can forget the frittte? There's so many locations in your mind, what kind of man are you, remembering the placement of a store that's meant to vanish and appear out of convenience like it's a fucking pitstop (would a flask not be enough? A single habit to get rid of, easy- but you're never easy).

You feel dark-dark-light-darkness and then light again, and smoother flooring and your coat being too warm. You're at the precinct- fuck, you're at the precinct- and it's late, real late, but you are here and there's too many people to fuck up here and at least you aren't crying. Your red face and eyes blend perfectly into too many years and days of red and puffy eyes to call attention. Perfect, perfect- god bless the innocence (or is innocence god? You can't forget- Remember- something.)

"You're late, shitkid." At some point Jean appears beside you. He's walked the other way and stopped- he's grimacing- but more importantly you see his left arm raise and still and clench itself, like a restricted movement, natural instinct. "You smell like shit- is that fish?" You do not know if that is fish because your throat hurts so bad already that you cannot know if you've been swallowing bones for this past hour (minute? Minutes? The walk feels like forever and never enough. You're swearing like a pig now that you're standing, how adequate.) 

You want to say it's agony, the end of days, the end of you- you want to say reprise, and sorry, and oh god I didn't want to see you please I don't deserve it Jean please leave and go away from me and also please oh god please hold me up I don't know what I'm doing but I'm trying to be better but I ate this thing that might as well be sawdust and I do not know what time it's been for several days.

Instead you say "it's my GOD-GIVEN RIGHT, VIC" and you move along like a fucking idiot.

"An image arises in your mind's eye-- a baby, dirty, hideous, its skin mottled and raw and red, peeling, stretching almost impossibly. The baby cries from pain- in it's brief stay on this earth it has already suffered more than some men do in their entire lives. He is built for it- thick skin, quite literally. He is being held by a slight, pale, ugly nurse- a nun in bloodied white rags with a terrible smell of herbs permanently attached to her. The scene is a caricature of mother and child- the hideous thing, held up to her chest, is drinking from an amber bottle, clouded over. In ten years, the contents of this bottle he will be legally too young for-- is this the reason you became the way you are? Are you just born-and-bred this way, surviving off of alcohol where most people had blood and human kindness?

-- It's not. The little pastiche you've thought up for yourself is half propaganda and half racist idiocy. Despite what the supposed "race-realists" may say, not everyone from the Insulindian is thrown on the bottle the moment they're weaned from the tit. In truth, you were barely even medicated, and those bitter, herbaceous spirits are not the cause of your current addiction. It's still on you harry, it's always still on you.

"Wake up- time to listen to the radio.

You love the radio. You really, really love the radio. You think the radio was the greatest purchase you have ever made- drunk you was horrible, and traumatizing, and entirely undebatably subhuman, but he did buy this radio, and by god fuck if that isn't his saving grace (a story comes to mind- a Dolorean allegory from your childhood- about a selfish rich woman and a lazy cheating bum both ferried up to heaven by a single onion that she'd given him during their lives as charity. You choose to ignore the part where they fight and fall back into hellfire). It's the thing that broke you off from your mazovian monk-like refusal to buy anything for yourself other than flour for a week after THE HANGED MAN, it's what got you into cycling and hanging out with the neon eyebleed catsuits crew, it's what reminded you that public libraries exist and nobody will ask you why you're in there reading about suzerainty-era motor carriage manufacturing and the homo-sexual underground. It's the greatest thing since communism, since disco, since-- since-- since cigarettes and kebabs and- and--

... And idolizing someone to the point of crucifixion. Which you aren't supposed to be doing.

Good thing the radio cranks up real loud! 

"You've read everything in this section- theory, history, photography, even, notably, the single romance novel, comically bad, about a middle-aged Vespertine businessman travelling north to the harbour where he had experienced his first teenaged love-- and the young, strapping man he gets to know there. (There are boats involved- it's very biblical). All in all, you read it twice,  meticulously rewrote its horrifyingly vague and unsafe sex scenes (in pen, inside. Not like the librarian's gonna check it) and masturbated at your efforts, winning you a very sore wrist and about 30 minutes of crying because you remembered being in a bookshop with Kim in Martinaise while you were remembering what books were, and then remembered Jean's apartment having a secret stack of equally terrible heterosexual novels bequeathed to him by an ex that you made fun of him for (rabidly, for years).

"Harry's apartment is no longer clean, but not as dirty as before, and its stalwart light-green walls seem, in the summer light, less queasy and foreboding than what they are now, almost dainty in the contrast of the sparse few frames and piles of knickknacks on the floor. 

Believe it or not, this is good-- sometimes, life with Harry makes you feel like a zoologist, intricately analysing an animal's pile of leaves and refuse and knowing, despite all human standards, what these habits mean for the foreign species. And for Harry, mess like this is good. It means he's kept busy by any one of his million little projects,  picked up and put down at a dizzying speed and constancy, each one increasingly out of left field in

Kim and harry talk about the radio, kim thinks about it "radio, what's new? Radio- some-one still loves you"

Harry talking abt agenda + library bc you can't smoke + planning for dinner with Kim :-)

Gotta go to the library so you don't chainsmoke

Gotta shower to go to the library 

Don't wanna shower bc executive dysfunction

Grab a smoke before you shower 

Oh wait you've been chain-smoking fuck (insert meditation on sharp vs smooth)

Hide all your cigarettes around the house feeling pathetic about it

You still don't feel like showering

But you just chainsmoked and you know you'll do it again because you JUST hid your smokes and the hiding spots are fresh in your mind

Birdbath (why are you so fucking dysfunctional that you can't shower like a normal adult) 

Introspective rubber ducky selfhate momence

Rubber ducky encourages you through the power of nihilism and Kim

Thought project gain

Go to library and need comfort so you're going thru all your usual shelves (insert le funny homo shelf joke here) 

What does he read about? Smoking? Idk

Kiiiiiim. Kimmy kim kim. Think about Kim

Maybe he reads recipe books to woo kim

        INSERT EXISTENTIAL BROTH EPISODE HERE to talk about how you've never actually seen Kim cook (he told you it was good soup, clearly lying, you told him it was broth, and that you could teach him how to make soup out of it if he wanted...)

(broth episode was another note, inserted here: 

ANOTHER harry coping fic. Miserable housebound weekend nights because he can't party but the house is horrible to be in and he keeps dunking his hands into more and more ice water and taking like half-body cold showers and he's like "maybe this is bad for my skin!!! I gotta get out holy shit" and he's like uhhhh fucking. Can't go to work. Let's go to the supermarket. And then he's almost there and he's like OH FUCK NO THERES ALCOHOL AT THE SUPERMARKET and he straight up bolts out of there and muscle memory gets him to a shady ass butcher shop in some random immigrant neighborhood and he buys so much fish because of a failed check and he goes home and basically he makes so much fish stock. He makes just so fucking much fish stock and Kim comes to pick him up the next day and panics because it genuinely smells like the dead in there but it's just harry making fucking. fish broth or something. Just harry coming up to the door in his work clothes with way too much cologne on and a thermos of fish soup like "uh... Do you want some Broth kim?" And Kim can't fucking cook but he takes some Broth anyway and he's trying to figure out why harry would do that but harry is being a little edgy about it and Kim is like oh god I need to help him a little and they have a sit down about it and he's like wanting to say "hey if you need somewhere to go I'm here for you" but it's hard and I don't even know if he ends up actually saying it. Okay bye)

Talking about the sexiness of supermarkets and how they make reptile brain go brrr

Think about alcohol vs smoking. Think about kimmy kim kim (insert european drinking joke here)

Have that get stuck in his head. Kim kimmy kim kimmy kimmy kim kim. Kimster. Kimbo. Kitsy. Kitty. Cutie. Oh god no fuck oh god I need to stop.

He goes home and still rlly wants to smonk

You hide the cigarettes around the house. It feels stupid, and you know you’ll be embarrassed having to pull the Jamrock Shuffle in your own apartment, that you’re a grown adult who could just *buy another box of cigarettes* whenever you wanted to, but you feel like it helps. Drag the killing thing away from the crappy little animal even for a couple moments more, let yourself get tired out like the old man you are below all the disco scaffolding. You can’t really bring yourself to shower, but you drag the radio into the bathroom with you and wash yourself in the sink. You try to be good about it- stay away from the mirror, really lather up and clear away the sweat that’s caked to you throughout the night and morning, feel the warm graze of the water on your skin. You brush shampoo through your hair and work it in in cycles, focus on the humming feeling of the bristles on your scalp, trying not to think of much of anything, just the smell of the cheap powdery soap and of what clothes you’ll wear today, try to settle into a better memory of this instead of picking at the shame you feel about how hard it is for you. ducking your head into the stream of the water in the sink and forgetting everything except the whishing, scratching sounds of cleaning.

Being clean feels good, and being dressed again feels maybe even better (knit sweaters are a revelation- who could’ve known polyester satin wasn’t made for seaside winters), so by the time you walk your way into the Jamrock public library the morning’s incidents are nigh-forgotten. The dry warmth of the old library is a reliable balm- the yellowed fluorescent lighting washing out the rows and rows of slate-grey plastic bookshelves lined up like soldiers over prerevolutionary tile, with its woven edges and dark, jeweled pinwheels of color, stretching out endlessly full of books, reels, and the rare intricate portrait hanging overhead. Before them, long wooden tables dotted with mismatched lamps, flickering in and out of use, occupied by antsy juveniles and sleeping hobos. It feels effortlessly like home, like a shared worldly past that welcomes everybody- and maybe that just means that it's generic and a little overdue for renovations, but you love it as it is.

Shuffling through the tall shelves of books, you weave through mindlessly to find your favorite sections- the history (both common and infra-cultural, with a surprisingly competent collection of industrial works and a predictably miserablly little shelf of homo-sexual underground interest), the art, and the meager offerings of political literature. You can hear your off-tune humming echo back to you somewhat feebly off the high, painted ceiling, done up in some lame facsimile of early Dolorian excess (therriers, noblewomen, forget-me-nots crowding the edges of each filligreed panel, dead-eyed faces in doleful expressions, pale and empty smiling). You've got all of daylight ahead of you, which is more than enough time to browse around as usual before you have to get yourself home and start cooking.

You turn the corner smoothly into the very back of the library, into a wider set of dusty and anachronistic wooden bookshelves-- history trends unpopular, considering the fact that all the books within are horrifyngly outdated due to a miserable municipal budget, maybe that's for the best. There are better places for students to get this information now, like the private library a couple blocks away at the Cycle Universitee, or from library dial-stations tuned in from the south, where the Bibliotheque Nacionelle Des Travailleures is run by Coalition-approved volunteers. The first thing to catch your eye is the pillar of works of infra-cultural expression and documentstion- essays and short stories from New authors, studies and zines on Disco, and of course, the particular political darling of the 20s, the homo-sexual underground.

You've read everything in this section- theory, history, photography- even, notably, the single commercial romance novel, comically bad, about a middle-aged Vespertine businessman travelling north to the harbour where he had experienced his first teenaged love-- and the young, strapping man he gets to know there. (There are boats involved- it's very biblical). All in all, you read it twice,  meticulously rewrote its horrifyingly vague and unsafe sex scenes (in pen, inside. Not like the librarian's gonna check it) and masturbated at your efforts, winning you a very sore wrist and about 30 minutes of crying because you remembered being in a bookshop with Kim in Martinaise while you were remembering what the world was, and then remembered Jean's apartment having a secret stack of equally terrible heterosexual novels bequeathed to him by an ex that you made fun of him for (rabidly, for years). You shudder, now, at the sight of its cracked spine looking you from the middle sill. Its gaze feels hefty and judgemental, and you do not like it.

There are  

KIM CHAPTAAAA

"you'd like him to take care of himself. You'd like to be there to do it for him when he can't"

"He opens the door, and immediately there are a million little things that test you (hell, with that thick-knit sweater he's wearing, any weakness in you would have him writhing on the floor in seconds). The half-up style of his now-so soft looking auburn hair, split across to reveal the pale white of his nape between the raised collar of his sweater, the kind wrinkling of his open smile upon seeing you walk in, the light, jazzy music of the radio backing his belly-deep laugh and the heady smell of incense in the room are all exhilaratingly Harry to you.

What to do with jean:Standalone fic for him?

Starts when he sees Harry with the eyebleed crew and he's the one who goes up to him like "WHAT IN THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING SHIT KID" and harry is like. Oh god oh fuck jean uh let's be... Cordial! Optimistic! (What jean sees is one of his signature pauses but like. Yeah it's the skills talking) and he's just like "oh it helps me stay sober and make friends, I found out about it on the radio🙂" and Jean is like holy fucking shit this is absolutely insane.

            1) bc Harry used to be so repressed he was basically homophobic with his macho act

            2)bc Jean originally didn't believe the amnesia thing but then when Harry genuinely did shit like this and never told him (which, if it was a cruel joke he would've tried to make it very public and obvious and drag jean into it to embarrass him)

            3) because JEAN was his friend and why the fuck does he just. Run off with random people with a radio ad instead

            4) because he's doing so well. He's like, fully at the sort of "this-side-of-pudgy" bear level that's hot enough to get him positive attention over the damage of the alcohol and he's wearing the sort of clothes that show it and he's got all these crew buddies where Jean is stuck with his hellish depression workouts where he sometimes works until he pukes and then feels like shit about self-harming like that. (what he doesn't know is that Harry is basically doing that same exact shit just he's using his swag alcoholic skills to lieeeeee about it. rip)

Maybe harry apologizes in their conversation about the romance novels. Like it blurts out.

eventually add in the previous consideration fic you were thinking of &quot

starting with bitter porno kimbo/viccy catfight bullshit

"no that's pathetic and he'd never go there." dynamic where kim cares quietly and jean is bitchy about Harry

then "no, he's dealt with harry so much already, I can't imagine." so it's all concern for him

and then that backslides into "how could I comfort him? how could he understand my need for comfort? "

we stan a mildly nonaccepted himself Jean so he's like "WAIT UH GAY THOUGHTS ABOUT THIS GUY TOO? FUCK FUCK FUCK"

gotta make it panic horny. it's a Dan Gat fic. how would kim look.... yknow......

since the only other guy who's been like that with him has been harry -> third wheel dynamic going to ->

horny ot3 dynamic. old men doting on him because it's his fantasy and he gets to be the pampered one goddamnit

end somehow

THIS IS THE EXACT DYNAMIC WE'RE GOING FOR Jean liked Harry premart and Harry was unbearably machismo repressed homophobic bullshitero man (I need to decide if he was stupid enough to be like AS LONG AS IM ON TOP IT ISNT GAYYYY or smth sex/intimacy related like that maybe he just kinda. ""comically"" hit on Jean or said suggestive shit to him but never fully acted on it) and then he comes back from Martinaise all loyal puppy dog or whatever for Kim and Jean is like "??? OKAY SO I GO THROUGH ALL THIS BULLSHIT AND HE TALKS SO BIG ABOUT LOVING MUSCLE DUDES AND NOW HES GONNA FUCK THIS GRANDPA?" but then he's like self-aware enough to know that's stupid.(Jean's problem is that he looks for wounds on Kim and not Harry, so he's all like "damn this bitch stole my mans when he's actually good...." meanwhile Harry is like Very Obviously Self Harming All The Time and not even really with Kim so often rip)

Harry wants to reach out and ask him about his thing with Kim because he has memories of Jean either being gay or being less homophobic or just having Gay Energy that he was an asshole about or whatever plus it just feels natural to work through shit with Jean but he stops himself because he's like "well DRINKING also felt natural that doesn't mean we should do it..."

maybe they get into it because Jean makes an offhand comment about "stop ogling kim" and harry is like (computer warmup noises) and jean just kinda forces him to spit it out RE: meme description

Harry's whole deal with avoiding Jean is "some things are unforgivable and I'm fairly sure I've done things bordering on that to you for so, so long, and now I don't even know what they were or who I was when I did them, to me that person is dead, and I know then that I can't apologize to you thoroughly, genuinely, and I don't want to insult you by presuming that I ever could, at this point. I don't want to insult you by assuming I can just go back to what we were before, to each other, without an apology or an actual understanding of what went wrong. I can't speak for certain about his mind-my mind- but at least in some part that guy killed himself because of what he did to you, and to everyone around him, sure, but mostly to you. And now I'm here, and it feels horrible to try and go against that and push myself into your life. It feels horrible to see I've done something to you worth killing myself over and then still insist on coming back to bother you beyond the grave"

And Jean's response is "you thought everything was bad enough to kill yourself over! And you're still alive, you're still him, and fuck, yes it'll take a long ass fucking time for me to ever really forgive you, but you were my best friend and you're still fucking alive- I see you every single day, Harry, do you know what that's like? To see your best fucking friend every single day and watch him flinch and try to act like he doesn't exist every single time he sees you? Fuck you and fuck what you wanted before, *I* never wanted you dead, and your little stunt here with pretending you're finally fine and then keeping everyone at an arm's distance is just another, slower grave you're digging" etc etc "if this is the upswing at last, I’d better be there for it.**”

Jean is a frat boy that you do not expect to be a frat boy. He unironically gets along with mack and chester. He's only just started to grow out of it through dealing with Harry's horrible downfall

sequel to geste drole des debutantes but it's just a 3 chapter PWP masturbation fic..... of Kim and Harry after the dinner and then SHOOKETH SURPRISE IT'S JEANGST YEARNING TIME!

Kim trans.... Good for him...

Stroker shit

He wants to fuck Harry basically

     ...slow tease? Or fast and desperate?

Dry kissing

Hair pulling...

Youre hard, and you're wet, and you can't help but think of that smile on his face as you left and you want him to taste it, to get on his knees for what he's done to you and swallow it all down, feels the soft brush of his beard on your thighs.

 Harry also trans... Good for them good for them...

Handkink shit

Wants kim to absolutely wreck his shit

... He's new at this

Slow....

Jean

Jeangst

Want to wreck harry's shit... Mouthfuck stuff maybe

Power bottoming?? Idk

Whoops my hardcore dom revenge fantasy has slipped into a getting bossed around by the guy I thought I disliked for taking away my partner UHH.... LETS NOT UNPACK THAT....

Some idiot makes like a homophobic stupid "ah the fucking lieutants off scissoring or something" comment and then jean is like "oh god what if that but sexual instead"

Gym shower...

Jean has a big dick too bad bitch

When harry du bois ruined his life, thinks satelitte-officer Jean Vicquemare- he might at least have had the decency not to also curse his dick. This shit was weekly and only getting worse, now that the shitkid didn't constantly smell like despair and carrion had scored a threesome with a bartender's manual.

[unicyclehippo]

Prompt???? : M9 goofing off in a bookstore while they wait for Caleb to make a purchase. Seeing how many books they can stack in someone’s arms / balance on someone’s head.

the day is beautiful and inviting with expansive blue skies and a playful wisp of a breeze that tugs at skirts and hair and sends children laughing, running after lost hats. it’s the kind of day she should be spending riding, or lazing beneath the endless blue, or doing something fun like starting a fight. but instead she is inside. following caleb around a bookshop.

‘you know you do not have to be here, beauregard. in fact,’ he says, and glances up from the book he is perusing, clearly displeased. ‘i would rather you weren’t.’

‘rude.’

‘you’re sighing. constantly.’

‘i’m bored.’

‘pick a book.’

‘no. fuck you.’

‘beauregard,’

‘caleb,’ she returns, mimicking his tired tone. ‘can’t you just—‘ she lowers her voice, waves a hand. ‘y’know? see if any of them are magical?’

it’s caleb’s turn to sigh. ‘i have done that. not all books regarding magic seem to be that. in fact, some are disguised. and i am looking for books on other topics as well.’

‘smut?’

‘no.’

‘it’s okay if you are. hey, hey!’ beau waves to the bookkeeper, an aging man, human looking, with a kind round face, a mop of dark hair, and a knitted sweater.

‘mornin’,’ he greets her, voice low and kind.

‘got any books about—‘ beau waggles her eyebrows suggestively. ‘for my friend here?’

caleb rolls his eyes. returns his book to its shelf and picks up the next one.

‘oh yes, certainly,’ the knitted sweater man nods. ‘a fairly substantial collection, actually. in the back room, left hand side. please enjoy—and if you need help finding something in particular, i’ll be right here.’

beau blinks. ‘dude,’ she nudges caleb, ‘this guy is nice.’

‘ja, some people are.’

‘like, really good customer service.’

‘ja.’

‘impressive, right?’

‘no,’ caleb tells her. ‘many people are good at their jobs.’

‘hmm. i dunno. seems...suspicious. i’ll be right back.’

caleb must hear something in her tone because he reaches out toward her, surprising her by grabbing onto her wrist before she can leave. ‘please,’ he asks quietly, ‘do not get me kicked out from this store.’

‘mhm, yeah, sure, no worries.’

it’s short work to find jester—she is where beau and caleb had left her, waiting outside the tailor’s shop for the alterations to her cloak and dresses, kicking her feet as she drawing, tongue peeking out from between her lips as it always does when she’s concentrating.

‘jes! jester!’

‘beau?’

‘hey, come on, come with me,’ she calls, running up to her friend. ‘me ‘n caleb went into this bookstore and the owner is really nice—‘ beau grins when she sees the look of mischief, of delight spark in jester’s eyes. ‘plus, there’s smut.’

jester claps her hands. ‘okay, okay, i’ll be right there! hold on!’ she packs up her things quickly, pokes her head in on the slightly frazzled tailor who had banished her so they could work in peace. ‘i’m going to the bookstore! i’ll be back!’

‘wonderful,’ the tailor mutters, and, ‘thank the gods.’

jester hooks her arm around beau’s, dragging her along despite it being beau who had come to fetch her. ‘what kind of set out are we talking about?’ she asks, rapid-fire. ‘are there nooks? do we have to distract the owner before we can move stuff around? what kind of price tags do they have? how many customers are in there? is caleb nearly done? what quality of smut is it?’

beau grabs as many of the questions as she can, trying to answer them, head bent toward jester’s as they plot and scheme.

‘uh...no price tag that i saw, looks like one of those places where he just says a number.’

‘classic.’

‘yeah. old school. haven’t looked at the quality yet, i was hanging with caleb and he was looking at, like, alchemy and herbs, shit like that.’ for a moment, the girls just look at one another, knowing very well that caleb’s interest is in neither of those things but in what scant information they might lend to what nott has asked for. ‘mm. the smut is in the backroom—‘ jester sniggers. ‘and if you need a distraction,’ beau flexes. ‘i can do that for you.’ approaching the bookstore, beau jogs ahead to open the door for jester, waves her in.

jester wiggles her fingers as she steps in, makes the little bell above the door jingle.

‘ah, you’re back!’ the owner notes, with a wide, earnest smile. ‘and with a friend.’

‘hi!’ jester nearly skips forward, eyes shining. ‘i’m jester!’

‘jester, very very nice to meet you,’ he stands, shakes her hand as vigorously as she shakes his. ‘bertram brummen. are you a reader, miss jester?’

‘oh yes, i love to read. i have read tusk love, and the scent of the sea, and shallow breaths, and beau read the courting of the c-crick,’ she stumbles over the word, and even from this distance beau can see the flash of displeasure. ‘she read the good bits out loud for me but mostly it was super boring.’

‘ah yes, a bit of a dry read,’ he agrees. ‘that’s what happens when an historian tries their hand at prose.’

‘i don’t know, maybe just a bad writer.’

‘you may be right. but,’ he removes his hand, finally stopping shaking jester’s, and waves around at the shop. beau is happy to see that she hadn’t been paying much attention and it actually is a bit of a warren once she looks past the large front room. plenty of space for jester to work her mischief. ‘please, take a look around, and if you need help finding something please do not hesitate to ask.’

‘thank you!’ jester nearly squeals, and she reaches back blindly to take beau’s hand and drag her deeper into the store.

for some time, beau is put to work rearranging the books so the spines face in toward the wall, turning them upside down or stacking them in complicated patterns that mean pulling one out will threaten to make the others fall as well. she flushes hot when jester steps up behind her, dark eyes examining her work with a critical stare before beaming, dropping an affectionate and sweet kiss onto beau’s shoulder.

‘good work, beau!’ she hisses, so as to not draw brummen’s attention.

‘thanks. what are you up to?’

jester points and beau follows the line of her finger to where caleb is seated at a small reading table, a near life sized sculpture of him made from stacked books with orange and red and brown covers.

‘holy shit. you did that?’

‘mhm.’

‘amazing,’ beau mutters, earns herself another beaming smile. ‘uh, i’m almost done here.’

‘good! because caleb is picking the books he wants to buy and we should leave.’

‘agreed.’ beau shoves the last few books a little more haphazardly into place—and for a second she swears on the other side of the shelf she sees a green cloak and hood and, within the deep cowl, a smile curling over thin lips.

it’s definitely time to go when they hear a muffled ‘nein, das ist nicht gut, das ist—jester,’ the wizard hisses, scooping up the books he wants. ‘why?’

‘because it’s fun, cay-leb. look—i made a frumpie too!’ she directs them both to the much smaller stack of books on the floor that, despite the squareness of the books, she has somehow managed to arrange just so and it actually does look a bit like a cat.

brummen doesn’t seem to have noticed, at first, taking caleb and jester’s money—who did, somehow, manage to also find a few books for herself—and making polite good-natured chatter as he wraps the books in brown paper and sets them into the haversack at jester’s instruction. something niggles, tickles at beau for her attention and it isn’t until the others are headed for the door that she lifts her eyes to a familiar carving of a road and archway on the shelf behind brummen’s head.

‘she brings him so much joy,’ brummen says, and nothing about him has changed, except that his dark eyes are filled with such affection as beau has never seen before. ‘do you think she had fun?’

‘you—i—yeah, she did.’

brummen’s smile grows. ‘good. i can’t wait to see what she made for us.’

‘oh it’s good. real good. she’s a master at this shit, so,’ beau shrugs, just goes with the oddness of having this conversation.

‘give her this, would you?’ he asks, eagerly, rifling in his desk and holding out to her a pen. smooth dark wood with a delicate warm metal nib. ‘for any masterpieces to come.’

[thecorteztwins]

These are all scenes from my longass ALT-MARAUDERS FIC PITCH and you don’t need to read the whole pitch because it’s huge and a fic in itself, but basically what’s going on is Xavier ordered Miss Sinister, Madelyne Pryor, Pyro, Haven, and the Shaws to work together as a crack team accomplishing bringing “home” mutants like the Marauders but probably also other stuff too. I don’t really care what their mission is though because it’s about their relationships. Also it looks like ALICE is now the adopted team baby, at least for Madelyne and Haven (maybe Pyro too, I like to think he looks out for her) sorry I don’t make the rules OH WAIT I DO AND I SAY SHE’S TEAM BABY honestly she really fits the theme/the team, given her history? So I’m down for it. Tagging @sammysdewysensitiveeyes since you showed interest in it and since it’s got YA BOY PYRO and @hexiva since you asked about it too, though no obligation to read it, or to read all of ‘em! I feel like you might like “Scientists” though, Hex. CONTENTS A Box Full of Darkness - Sebastian/Haven Canvas - Madelyne/Alice Scientists - Claudine/Haven Like An Old Married Couple -  Group Parties, Pleas, and Promises - Pyro/Shinobi Sea & Sky - Madelyne/Haven Awkward - Pyro/Sebastian Stories - Madelyne/Pyro Out of the Frying Pan - Sebastian/Shinobi Nightmare Dressed Like A Daydream - Pyro

*** A BOX FULL OF DARKNESS "Do you care at all for poetry, Mr. Shaw?” The ship had a small sitting room that also served as a library, shelves lining three of its walls. The wood, the carpet, the small chair, the atmosphere, all made one forget that one was at sea, and not in fact in the nook of some old college’s study. One had to wonder who had chosen the books. ”No, Ms. Dastoor, I can’t say it has ever appealed to me. Most of the arts do not, particularly the ones that are not visual in nature. I do not see the point of endless stanzas and pentameters to say in metaphor and allegory what could be said much more clearly and succinct in a single sentence of plain simple prose.” ”Then I hope you shall forgive me for sharing a bit---it reminded me of you, you see.” There was one in her hand. ”Ah, what was it? Something from the Decadent movement? Or perhaps some pretencious Bohemian lampooning the upper class from which he came himself? Dare I hope for Ozymandias, perhaps, and will it be Smith’s or Shelley’s?” He was smirking slightly. Perhaps he thought he was being funny. Or it might just be his face. ”You seem to know much about the subject despite a disinterest in it. I rather admire that you took the time to learn,” and she did sound genuinely approving, encouraging, “But, no---Mary Oliver, someone much more recent, and much more recently deceased. I am paraphrasing her here so that my meaning, my reason for seeing you in this, is not confused: Someone once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.” He smiled wryly, “Is that how you see me, Ms. Dastoor, a box full of darkness?” “No,” she said, her gaze rising back up from the open pages to meet his, her large dark eyes unreadable as they drank him in, boxes of darkness in themselves, “And I do not agree that evil and suffering---if we must use ‘darkness’ to mean those things, which I also do not agree with, but is what I believe Ms. Oliver may have meant--is ever a gift, no matter what we may get out of it through our own power to come back from it...but I believe you see it this way, do you not?” There was no accusation in her tone, no disapproval. There seldom was. She was only asking, only observing. At least, Sebastian thought, that was what she wanted to seem like. He always suspected her motives were more, and that she was simply trying to disguise the fact she was trying to needle him, rather than making it pointedly obvious as, say, Emma, might. Coward---but then, he knew that of her. “Perhaps in less poetic terms, yes. I’m a practical man, Ms. Dastoor. I used to work in a steel mill. I saw how heat and pressure forged the worthless in the valuable, how the smelting process pulled the precious iron from the rest of the ore and shaped it through force into something useful. The same can be said of people---and I do indeed say it. You have heard me. Is that the darkness of which you speak?” ”The steel you speak of and the shapes it was forced into were valuable and useful...by the definitions of what the humans shaping it needed and wanted. But ore and iron and metal and stone, all these have no intrinsic value, or lack there of. There is no objective difference in the value between steel and granite, glass or diamond, gold or plastic. Thus, too, I believe that when it comes to people, you are deciding what is valuable according only to your standards. But is there objective worth to your perception of strength over your perception of weakness, beyond what is merely your perception?” And yet again, her voice was calm, not accusing, merely observing and asking. Sebastian returned, just as calm, if slightly smug, “Is there objective value in your perception of kindness and morality, Ms. Dastoor, beyond that it is merely your perception?” “I believe it has practical applications, but I have also never claimed an objective standpoint in our discussions, have I? Whereas you have, if I am recalling corrective,” Again, there was nothing aggressive in her tone. She was polite as could be. “I have and I do, but if I am to have it be put to a test of authenticity, I must require you to subject your own beliefs to the same scrutiny. It is not fair for the burden of proof to only fall on my shoulders.” Still also calm, still slightly smirking in his turning around on her. “That is quite true. I apologize,” she relented, ”But, to my original point---while I may disagree with Ms. Oliver’s sentiment, is it not one that appeals to you, one that you share?” Sebastian, too, relented with his smirk becoming a smile, “Yes.” The smile widened, knowing and amused,

“And despite your claim of not sharing the poem’s sentiments, I believe you see me as your box of darkness---and you are excavating me in search of some gift.” He put one hand in his suit pocket and began to depart, though he turned once, the smirk returned, and said, “Do let me know if you find it.” *** CANVAS “It doesn’t matter anyway,” said Alice, interrupting Madelyne’s angry rant, “I’m not real.” Madelyne Pryor had just explosively dragged the girl away from Claudine, insisting that the child shouldn’t have to see that...that...MONSTER...at any point on the voyage home. And if Haven hadn’t stopped her, she’d have ensured that Alice wouldn’t have a chance to, by KILLING the other woman, whom Madelyne now realized was aptly named “Miss Sinister” for fare more than her looks. She might still do it... But first--- “Don’t give me that!” Madelyne suddenly rounded on the girl she had just been comforting, been supporting, been swearing she’d never have to see her abuser---that was what it was to breed and clone someone just for the sake of their violation, abuse, beyond abuse!---again. But Alice had hit a nerve. And for the same reason Madelyne Pryor had so much empathy for her, she now had ire too. Madelyne’s snapping did, at least, stop Alice from crying. She’d been about to start, but the shock of Madelyne’s sudden change halted her in mid-tear. “You’re made of real flesh and blood, right?” Madelyne demanded rhetorically, “And you have thoughts and feelings right? Well you're real! The flesh being shared doesn't make it less real, just not unique. So you’re no less real than someone’s identical twin. And even they’re not really copies, because they have different personalities. So the only way you could be a copy---which you’re not---is if you had the first Alice’s same genes AND same thoughts and personality and everything! And you don’t, right” “Um,” Alice sniffled, a little afraid to correct the woman, who was so fierce whether she was defending Alice or berating her (or at least, it seemed like that was what she was doing...Alice wasn’t sure), “Actually...actually...I get all the memories of the previous Alices, so...so....I am a copy, actually...” “Oh,” Madelyne felt her argument just get ripped out from under like a trick rug someone had pulled. Her empathy came flooding back from the girl...and shame for shouting at her. Especially since she knew who she had REALLY been shouting at. “Well...” Shit, what did she do now? She’d just as good as told the girl she WAS a copy! How did she salvage this now? Come on Maddie, she told herself, What did you need somebody to say to you when you found out? “Listen, Alice,” she put her hands on the girl’s shoulders, firmly but gently. Her tone matched. “Yeah, you’re a copy. So am I. But we’re still real people, for all the reasons I said. No one gets to treat use like Claudine---or Colcord---treated you. No one should, anyway. It DOES matter. Being a clone, a copy, it doesn’t make you less alive. And so what if you’re a copy? You’re still YOU. You become more and more your own person with every moment you’re alive. Think of it like...like...” A Xerox. It was what she had compared herself to when she’d told Jean what she was. A Xerox that lost a lot in translation. What memories she’d had were either lies manufactured by Sinister...or worse, remnants from Jean that had bled into her mind when the Phoenix brought her to life. “Think of it like a Xerox machine, okay?” she said, more gentle than ever now, voice soft, and little tears of her own welling up, “When it first comes off the copy machine, yeah, it’s a duplicate...but then you can draw on it. You can write on it. You can crumple it up or throw it in the bin, or you can paint over it until it’s something new entirely on the paper. It’s up to you. It won’t stay a duplicate for long though. Either you can change it...or someone else will. But it’ll happen either way. And you know what?” Madelyne put a hand on Alice’s face, looking into her eyes, “I bet you can paint a real masterpiece.” *** SCIENTISTS “Are you alright, Claudine?” Madelyne had whisked Alice off. Haven had been going to do that originally, but since Madelyne had stepped in, Haven would leave it to her. She didn’t need to be the hero every time, and Madelyne...Madelyne had much in common with Alice. She might be better for Alice. And Alice might be good for her. But Haven’s next concern after Alice and Madelyne was Claudine. Claudine was the victimizer, yes. She had done awful things to Alice, to the Alices before her, to the other children. She had also been a victim too, and no one else here had pity for her now that they knew what she’d been besides that. No one else but Haven. “No moral outrage, Radha?” Claudine smirked slightly. She’d retreated to her lab, and it was hard to tell if she’d been expecting Haven to follow or not. “Of course,” said Haven calmly, “It horrifies and revolts me that those girls were bred only to be used as their hosts, their entire personalities, their souls, displaced for yours. Horrifies and disgusts me. Just as it horrifies and disgusts me, on just as deep a level, that the same was going to happen you if you did not escape in such a way.” “So because I was in danger of something terrible happening, you can excuse what I did?” Claudine sounded curious, mocking somehow, tapping one red-pink nail against a porcelain cheek. “Not excuses,” said Haven still calmly, “But I understand. And I still care if you were hurt just now.” “It’s more than that, isn’t it though?” said Claudine, still sounding amused, “You want to see if I’m wracked with guilt or not, if I hate myself. You want to see if I’m remorseful or tortured like you, like you want me to be maybe. Like you hope I am because it proves I must have some good in me, and you can comfort me and feel good about that. And if I’m not remorseful at all, you want to see why that is, if it’s because of Sinister or if it’s just me. And then if it’s just me...you want to figure me out too. Like you do with dear Sebastian.” Haven blinked, her sole sign of surprise, “That’s quite a lot of conjecture, Claudine. But...you are not incorrect, no. We do like to divide things neatly into victims who could do nothing, who had no power, and the victimizers who are wholly monsters...but that’s not wholly true, is it? Sometimes, the victims can do something. And sometimes, the only thing they can do is a monstrous thing. They’re caught in a Catch 22---either they don’t do the one thing they can, and thus will feel they are to blame for what happened. Or they do it, and they must live with the guilt. I can’t tell you if you were right or wrong Claudine, because---” “---sometimes there is no right or wrong, because the entire situation was wrong, and that’s not your fault.” Claudine finished, “I’ve heard how you talk with the kiddies, Haven. Like those little ones we pulled out of the fight pit. Or the one who pushed his friend forward at the flesh market so he’d get taken instead. You’re just oh so understanding, aren’t you? Seeing things from all sides.” “I would hope so. I certainly try to be. But, I admit, I’m not seeing something right now...why do you say that with what sounds, to me, as a mocking tone? Am I misinterpreting you, Claudine?” “A bit. I’m not mocking you, really I’m not---but I am teasing a little. It’s just so funny, you know?” Claudine’s index finger was next to her smiling mouth, “How you’re always thinking, always watching, and how I’m the only one who notices. What do you think the others would think, if they knew?” “I’m afraid I’m still not understanding you, Claudine. Would you mind helping me by putting it a bit plainer?” “Ever so polite. Come on now, Haven---as well as you know people, you must know they don’t like being put under a microscope. Everyone likes the IDEA of someone who “gets” them, who knows just what they’re feeling and what they need without them ever needing to open up all their vulnerable little insides like clams willfully tearing themselves out of their shells...but when it actually comes along, they don’t like it. Especially if it doesn’t feel earned, or specific to them. Because when they say they want that, they’re thinking of a partner, a lover, one single person who knows them that well because they’ve been with them that long, and love them, just them, that much. But telepaths like me, we get all that without having to see them as special at all. We don’t have to love them or spend time with them to KNOW them. We don’t have to open ourselves up in exchange. That’s why people don’t like us. And that’s---” She stepped close to Haven and bobbed her fingertip just above the other woman’s nose, “---why they wouldn’t like you. Oh yeah, you’re great when you’re sensitive and empathetic and all that, when you just know when someone needs a cup of tea or a shoulder to cry on...but it’s only to a point. Underneath all that soft silk and sweet words, you’re a lot like me---a scientist. We see the data. We gather it. We examine it. We analyze, we classify, we theorize. People call Xavier creepy these days but I think he’s just finally being honest.” She picked up Haven’s right hand, and raised it up, Haven allowing her. “So,” Claudine met her eyes, still smiling, “When are you going to be honest too?” Haven smiled back, with kind sincerity as always, “May I be honest now, Claudine?” “Of course.” Haven put her other hand on top of Claudine’s, sandwiching the unnaturally pale paw between her two soft brown ones, “Everything you say is accurate. But it’s also a deflection. You could have told me that you just did not wish to talk about Alice, you know. I would not have pried or pushed you. You know I never do.” Claudine laughed, and it was the laugh of someone who had just been proven completely correct. *** LIKE AN OLD MARRIED COUPLE “We’re going to need you to go undercover for this mission,” Xavier explained to the team, “It’s been decided that Sebastian and Haven will do best in this environment. Naturally, you will be outfitted with image inducers, and provided with all the false documentation required.” He slid a folder across the table to them, explaining, “You will be posing as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. King.” “King. I’m sure you thought that was very clever, Charles,” said Sebastian, picking the folder up and perusing it, “And I see our first names are...Abraham and Lakshmi. Is that a reference to something?” “Lakshmi is the goddess of which Radha is an aspect,” Xavier explained, “And Abraham...well, that just sounds slightly like Hiram, your middle name, or so I thought. I thought it might help the pair of you remember your identities, without being obvious to others.” “Well, thank you Charles. It’s good to know you put a man on the Quiet Council of whom your opinion is so low you think I can’t remember two names for a single night,” said Shaw, getting up and taking the folder with him, without excusing himself. The rest of the team follow suite, save Haven, who of course said the politest of goodbyes and thanked him for arranging the false identities. clever, and our first names “We’re leaving in the next five hours, so there’s hardly any time to prepare,” Sebastian said, plainly speaking to Haven even though he was looking ahead, not at her, “Ms. Dastoor, come with me so that we may discuss the details of our ruse.” Pyro watched the pair like a hawk as they went in a different direction from the rest of the crew. “Jealous, Pyro?” Claudine quipped, “I confess, I didn’t think Sebastian was your type...then again, he does have a certain resemblance to Dom I suppose...” Pyro was in no mood to play, however. “If he touches her I’m a-toast him from the inside out, see if his stinking GUTS are fireproof!” he proclaimed, a small jet of flame emanating from his wrist-shooter for emphasis. “Husband and wife...what’s Xavier thinking?! And she’ll be all alone with him and have to keep up the act if he does anything!” “Don’t sweat it,” Shinobi assured, “ I know my dad. She’s like ten years too old for him to be interested.” Pyro looked confused, “Isn’t she YOUNGER than him?” “Yeah,” said Shinobi. A look of disgust came over Pyro’s face. “Don’t look shocked,” Madelyne told him, “Don’t forget, he dated someone under ten once.” And that garnered...about the expressions you’d expect. Even from Claudine. “Me, you idiots! I was making a joke!” Madelyne clarified, seeing their shock and horror on their faces, “I’m technically like twelve years old max! God, you people...”  

Meanwhile, Sebastian and Haven’s conversation in the former’s ship office was not far off. “With all that covered...” Sebastian finished as the last of their act was hashed out, “I have to bring us to what will likely be the most difficult part of this for you. Ms. Dastoor, I am not sure what the norms are for married couples in public in your country, but at some point in the evening...I will most likely put my arm around your shoulders.” “I understand,” said Haven, with the solemn gravity required for such a thing. “There will hopefully be no need for anything else, but if dancing occurs, there is a chance that a hand on your waist will be required as well. Can you allow and “act natural” this without displaying any discomfort?” "This will be tolerable if need be, Mr. Shaw, though not preferable. Will your hand be on mine, outside of potential dancing?” Sebastian cracked a smile, amused, “Husbands and wives don’t hold hands, Ms. Dastoor. I’m shocked you’ve never noticed that. It’s far too intimate for a married couple.” “I’m afraid you lost me, Mr. Shaw. Too intimate for a married couple? Is this a Western peculiarity?” “Men don’t slap their wives bottoms, Ms. Dastoor, “Sebastian explained, “They slap the bottoms of waitresses and flight attendants when their wives aren’t there. Does that help illustrate it better? “Yes, I think I see, Mr. Shaw.” “We probably haven’t had sex in the last 25, 35 years. At least not with each other.” “Thank you, Mr. Shaw.” “ Our marriage bed is as dry as the Sah—” “Thank you, Mr Shaw.”           It was the first time that Sebastian had ever heard Haven cut him, or anyone, off. He would have taken offense from someone else, but he actually liked this, and smiled. He found it amusing he’d managed to get under her skin enough to prompt such a, for her, dramatic reaction. He’d have to make a note of this. *** PARTIES, PLEAS, AND PROMISES These Krakoa portals were truly a godsend. For many mutants, that was because the X-Men and other agents of Krakoa could now come to them easily and bring them to a safe place. For others it was because it enabled them to keep contact with their family and friends while also not having to leave what they felt was at last a place they could belong. But for Pyro and Shinobi...it meant bar-hopping from Manhattan to Moscow to Mexico! to Bulgaria to Bangkok to Taiwan to Timbuktu! In Manhattan, a cute guy with a nose piercing bought them beers and guided them through the city with his friends, boyfriends, and cousins til 5 AM when the guy’s cousin decided she really wanted spahgetti, so they all went to her house in the Harlem projects where she made them some and then they watched 90s hip hop music videos together. They stayed til 10 AM, then hopped a portal to Mexico, and went to a resort strip, where they got piss drunk again by doing shots with a guy covered in tattoos who might have also been involved with the cartels---Shinobi said he knew him from his dad’s black market business---and then Pyro got in a fight with the bouncer while Shinobi snorted molly in the bathroom stall. Got drunk again in Shanghai, fell off the bouncy dance floor, made friends with some Ukrainian tourists and went back to their hotel, walked in on an orgy, and when in Rome... Next thing they knew, they were in downtown Tokyko, drunk again, running on foot from the Japanese police, each of them holding a marijuana plant in a pot, laughing uncontrollably. Shinobi grabbed Pyro’s hand and they phased through a wall, only to fall down through thin air into an underground parking garage. Their potted pot plants shattered as they hit the concrete, and this just made them laugh more despite their own bruised tailbones as they lay there between a couple of cars. Eventually, when the giggles ran out, Shinobi slurred, “Man, I’m so glad...so glad our last night is awesome.” “Wha?” Pyro said, not sure he’d gotten that right. He was pretty boozy right now, after all, “What’d you mean, last night?

"Well, I, uh,” Shin said, obviously uncomfortable, “I decided...if I can’t hang out w’you anymore...gonna make the last time a good time.”

”Wh--” Pyro started, then his expression soured, “It’s yer dad, isn’t it?”

No answer.

”I knew it! He told you...tol’ you you couldn’t...be mates with me no more...that it?”

Shinobi mumbled.

”Listen Shin...forget him! You a grow...grown man! Y’don’t have to do what that old douchebag says! He’s just a...just a cunt, a right cunt, y’know? Fucking cunt...” Pyro wobbled back and forth, so vehement was he in his support.

”Well, we’re workin together now...” Shinobi said weakly.

”Yer workin WITH him though not for him! And why’re you even doing that? C’mon, he he wasn’t any good to you why should you do anything for him?”

Shinobi looked shocked, then angry, demanding, “How d’you know that?!” "Pfft, I’m not as thick as your old man thinks, you know! I can pick up a hint or two! Especially when it’s you telling me.” Shinobi looked shocked again, and Pyro, still swaying in place, clapped him on the back and explained, “Ah, I don’t expect you to remember but you’ve said a few things when you were as full as the back of a plumber's ute.Don’t worry, weren’t nothing too personal, no specifics, so don’t look so scared alright?” Pyro knew how it was to want to keep some things private, things that hurt, and even drunk he was trying to be sensitive to that, sensitive as someone like him could be. He continued, “And anyway, would have still guessed. He’s such a right bastard to everyone, can’t imagine him being some warm old papa bear behind closed doors. “He’s---” Shinobi started, about to tell Pyro about just how horrible his father was, and then remembered how ‘sympathetic’ Warren had been, and instead went back on the defensive, “Well it’s none of your business!” Pyro shrugged, not deterred, “Sure it’s not but I’m a journalist, so what do I care? It’s been my job to go where I’m not wanted. And you can do what you want, Shinobi me mate, but you can’t expect ol’ St. John to just keep his trap shut on anything, you know that. Calls it likes I see it, me. Thought you liked that.” There was a sobering silence between the pair for a moment, sitting on their butts in the silent garage while the noise of the Tokyo nightlife sang beyond the concrete walls of what they were missing. “Don’t...don’t tell him I said anything,” Shinobi said at last. Pyro promised him he would not. For he heard the plea in his new pal’s voice. *** SEA AND SKY (Context: Happens just after THIS) “Haven?” Madelyne arrived to the rescue, praying she wasn’t too late. She’d thought she was when she saw the wreckage, but she also saw Haven within it. And she wasn’t lying there like a body, she was sitting up, kneeling over...something. “Haven, thank god! Are you injured? Stay right there, I’ll come over and help---oh dear lord.” As Madelyne had begun to move forward, she’d seen what Haven was kneeling over, its half-charred head in her lap. “Is he---” “Yes,” said Haven, calmly, sadly, distantly. Madelyne didn’t ask how; it was obvious, the explosion killed him. She’d thought his powers would protect him from that kind of thing; it must have been specialized to combat that. Freaking Pierce. She didn’t bother to question how Haven was alive, but if she had, she’d assume maybe it was something also designed only to kill humans and Haven had been in a safe place during the explosion and then found Sebastian’s remains after. Something like that. “Alright, come on,” she said gently but firmly, taking Haven by the arm, trying to pull her up, “There’s nothing you can do for him now. He’ll be reborn on Krakoa by the time we go back to pick him up anyway. Wait, what are you doing? Haven, put that down, that’s disgusting!” Haven was carrying the...torso. She was tenderly cradling the great hunk of lifeless meat, needlessly supporting the neck and head as one would for an infant. The sight out Madelyne in mind of a bizarre Pieta scene. Madonna of the Charnel House.             “Haven, he’s dead!” “I know, Madelyne, I know. But isn’t it...wrong to just leave a body here? I know he will have a new one on Krakoa, but it still feels obscene to leave the old one unburied, unconsecrated, uncared for.” “Haven...” Madelyne started, not sure what to say. And she thought of something she never had before. What had happened to her body? Her first one? The original? The one that died at the end of Inferno? She’d come back first as a being of pure psychic energy disguised in a human form, a very solid ghost, essentially. That was all she was for a long time, walking and talking and fucking, all while TECHNICALLY still being dead. It was only recently that she had really become flesh and blood again, Jean Grey’s DNA spliced by Arkea into the body of a woman named Ana Cortes, altering the physical appearance of the young Columbian into that of the redhead and allowing Madelyne Pryor’s consciousness to take up residence in it...meaning Madelyne was still, as ever, occupying a body that wasn’t really her own. And her first hadn’t been her own either, just a copy of Jean’s, but she wondered now, what had been done with it? Knowing the X-men, they gave her a perfectly proper funeral. Maybe they even cried. But she wished, perverse as it seemed, that they had thrown her out with the garbage, had the HONESTY to treat her in death as they ultimately had in life, than PRETEND that they really saw her as a loss. She knew they didn’t. Even the ones who knew her FIRST, Rogue and Psylocke and Longshot, who had met her BEFORE they met Jean, even they had wanted that witch instead of her at the end.... “Yeah, okay, just...just put it somewhere it won’t...rot,” she said uneasily, “And we’ll call Sebastian when he...when he wakes up. See what he wants to do with it.” It should be, Madelyne felt, his choice, and Haven agreed. When he did get the call, his reply was firstly being rather disgusted they had kept it, and then, without any emotion, said they should just thrown the “damn thing” overboard. “Funeral at sea then,” said Madelyne as she turned off the phone, “You want to do the honors, Haven? Since it was your idea.” Not like anyone else wanted to be a part of it. Well, except Shinobi, who had suggested launching it like a cannonball and then having Pyro set it aflame in the sky.  They thought they were funny. “Would you mind helping me terribly, Madelyne?” Have asked, “I’d rather lower it down gently, and if your telekinesis could that, I would appreciate it...but I also understand if you don’t wish to touch something so gruesome, even psychically.” “I’m not squeamish,” Madelyne smirked. As she performed the task, she noticed Haven was silent. “You’re not gonna...say a few words, or anything?” “Mr. Shaw has told he isn’t religious, so I don’t think he would want it. And he isn’t...well, he isn’t dead. So what does one say, really?” “Hell if I know,” said Madelyne, “It’s funny---I’ve been dead a lot, you’d think I would be an expert on it.” As she began levitating the chunk of meat that once house Sebastian Shaw’s mind and soul, if he had the latter, she continued, “I never even thought about what should be done with my body...which isn’t really even mine now actually, don’t ask...I guess cremation is most appropriate. Fire, you know. It’s kind of my thing, whether I like it or not.” “I’ve always wanted a sky burial, myself,” said Haven. “I’ve never heard of that,” Madelyne sounded very interested. The word ‘sky’ had piqued her interest as a former pilot. “It’s a practice among my mother’s people, the Zoroastrians, as well as many other people, such as Tibetans. The body is placed on a mountaintop to be decomposed naturally by the elements and the animals. In Ancient Zoroastrianism specifically, it was placed on the Dakhma, the Tower of Silence, to be desiccated by the sun and consumed by birds of prey. I realize this sounds ghastly to a Western point of view, but--” “No, no, I get it. You’re just...going back to nature, becoming a part of everything else again, right? That sounds like your kind of thing.” Haven smiled at her, “It is.” Below, the body gently broke the surface of the waves, and Madelyne released her hold, allowing it to sink. “I guess that’s sort of what we’re doing here. Just with fishes instead of birds. Me though...that’s not for me. I don’t want to be a part of everything. Not when I’ve fought so hard...to just be ME.” *** AWKWARD “Hey! You got a problem with me, fuck knuckle?!” Calmly, Sebastian turned his head in the direction of the insult just hollered at him from the the far end of the deck, “Why, several, Mr. Allerdyce. Though most of them stem from the back you quite clearly have a problem with ME.” The Australian was drunk, but Sebastian knew from experience that the scrawny little bastard didn’t need THAT to be rude and belligerent, in particuliar rude and belligerent to Sebastian. Sebastian could ALMOST appreciate the balls on him, if only he could back them up. But without his fire to intimidate---and it could not intimate Sebastian---he really was just like one of those irritating little rat dogs peeking from ladies’ purses to bark challenges at true canines. “You’re damn right I do!” Pyro returned, “For starters, you’re---” And then continued with a really rather impressive listing of all his opinions on just what made Sebastian Hiram Shaw, Black King of the Hellfire Club---er, Trading Company---just such unbearable company. Sebastian listened in a detached, blaise manner, quite unruffled by the display of uncouth unruliness, and ready to simply throw the fool overboard should he come close enough to grab. “And on top o’ all that, yer a homophobe to boot!” What. Sebastian blinked. Nothing else had surprised him in the entire rambling rant, but this? This he had not seen coming. “Come again, young man?” “You heard me! Don’t think I don’t know why you’re always tryin’ t’get between me and your son! You don’t want him catchin’ the gay any worse than he’s got, eh?” Sebastian stared at him for another moment. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched, and he turned away, and put his fist up to his lips, as though stifling a cough, “Excuse me.” Did that fucker just laugh?! Pyro wondered. “Excuse my boot up yer arse, you old dicknob! Listen, it’s 2020, and you can’t get away with---” He is laughing! He was indeed. Pyro had not been prepared for this. “Hey...hey what’s so damn funny, huh?!” “Nothing, nothing,” Sebastian waved a hand, but it was clear from his voice he was still trying VERY hard not to laugh again, “Please, do go on about my bigotry. After all, I’m very conservative when it comes to sexual practices, as I’m sure you know.” Something begin to click in Pyro’s intoxicated mind. Something that suggested...he might have made a mistake here. And an admittedly pretty hilarious one. “Oh god yer in the fucking Hellfire Club, “ he muttered, dragging a hand down his face, “Of course you don’t care about that...” “Well, it was funny though,” Sebastian said, and the bastard was actually SMILING, “Thank you, Mr. Allerdyce, I haven’t been that tickled all week. But, no, I know about my son’s egalitarian predilections with regards to sex and gender----he inherited them from me, after all.” Oh. Oh god. Of all the things Pyro HAD NEVER WANTED TO KNOW OR IMAGINE. A moment ago, Sebastian had been planning to throw Pyro overboard. But now? Now Pyro was considering just doing it to HIMSELF. *** STORIES       “And then I got to Cambodia and let me tell you---food is great. People say don’t ask what’s in it but me, I got to ask---it’s my job, see---and yeah, they eat things ‘Mericans never would, or most Aussies, but I say, why’re we judging? We eat pigs and those’re way more intelligent than spiders or half-hatched duck eggs, seems we’re the savages for that, y’know? Not that I’m givin’ up pork any time soon but you know what I’m saying?” Pyro and Madelyne were sitting on the ship’s edge, watching the sun go down over the water, sharing a few beers, talking about what they’d done before all this. “You don’t look like you ever ate pork in your life, string bean,” replied Madelyne, “ But yeah. You say Cambodia? What part?” “ Senmonorom, capital of Mondulkiri Province.” “No kidding! I dropped cargo off there once!” Madelyne exclaimed, “When I was a pilot! Spent the whole rest of the day there since I had the time. Couldn’t understand a word but I loved the---oh no, hahaha, I loved the food!” “Ha! I’m sure it was just noodles you got, love.” “Mmm...pretty crunchy noodles, then...” She paused, and looked pensieve, more serious, “It’s crazy. I can really remember the texture. Not the taste though. He must not have known what it tasted like.” “He?” Pyro asked. Madelyne was suddenly sober in more ways than one, as she explained, looking away, “I never went to Cambodia. I never flew that plane. That cargo never existed, and neither did whatever I ate.” “Well, y’don’t need to lie to me get me to like you, Madelyne.” “No, you don’t understand---they’re not lies. I mean, they are, but---they’re not to me, I---but they are---I hate them, but I forget that they’re not---” She was clutching her hair now, and  looked distressed. “Whoa, whoa, hey there mate, what’s the matter?” Pyro placed a hand on her back, trying his best to calm her down, something he wasn’t great at even for himself, “Listen, Maddie...I been through some crazy shit. And I heard crazier on Krakoa from people. We mutants...or, people who are, I dunno, mutant-adjacent like you...we live weird lives. You don’t GOTTA tell me but I’ll believe you.” Madelyne took a  deep inhale, “It’s not that. I know you’ll believe me. It’s just...I never really talked to anyone about it, you know?” Pyro was uncomfortable now. He braced himself. He didn’t like going deep, he wanted everything to just be fun and casual. But he wasn’t going to run away or brush it off either. He owed his friends better than that; when he’d been on his last legs with the Legacy Virus, his friend Avalanche had been everything. He knew their value. Madelyne, too, needed to amp herself up for this. “So you know I’m a clone, right? Of Jean Grey?” “It’s come up, yeah.” “I was grown to full adulthood in a...in a vat, basically. But Sinister---the man who did it---didn’t want me to KNOW what I was. Would spoil the plans he had for me and...for me and Scott. So he gave me some false memories. Mostly I had “amnesia” but I could remember being a pilot. To explain the memories of flight and fire that I got from Jean----what memories don’t come from him, are from her. Well, the Phoenix actually...it’s complicated.” “Yeah, I’m getting that. That’s rough, buddy,” oh god he sounded like an idiot, “ But in my book, you still went to Cambodia.” He was answered with an eyebrow quirk from his friend, and so he elaborated, “Look, I’m a journalist, and I’m a writer, and I...I write stories. Even when it was something true, I’m still making a story about it. And when I make it up entirely, it’s as real a story as when I wrote the one about the real event. Ah fuck, I can’t talk, can write a damn novel but I fuck up all the words when I try to SAY it...look, Maddie, what I’m saying is,” He put a hand on her shoulder, “When I met you, it wasn’t who you are now, or who you were when you came out of that vat. It was some human bird running with the X-Men in Dallas. Yeah, I noticed you looked a hell of a lot like Jean and I thought that was who you were the whole time. Then I saw the broadcast they made, where you talked to your husband---shit, wait, he married you and Jean, what the fuck---telling him to find your baby---oh fuck I’m just realizing why you’re so mad at him, holy hell--before you gave up your life to save the world. That’s who I remember. And your memories, real or fake, well they’re a part of you, they’re your stories. Stories...they make us who we are. And even if they were made up, who you are, what you did, isn’t. You’re a story, yeah. So are we all. Fuck I’m really mangling this but you know what I--- oh.” Madelyne was hugging him. Holy shit. Well, he must have done something right, then. Damned if he knew what, though, he thought he’d fucked it up royally with that Trump-level rambling. And when she released him, she looked up at his shocked face, and said, “St. John?” “Y-yeah?” “Eat some damn pork. You really ARE a string bean.” *** OUT OF THE FRYING PAN Sebastian Shaw was indeed generally immune to explosions. And also to fire. He simply absorbed the thermal energy, rendering it harmless to him, if annoying. Afact that a certain Australian had exploited mercilessly. But Pyro was not here now, and so he could not stop the blaze that Shinobi was trapped in, that Sebastian had escaped but Shinobi had not yet. He’s not out yet, Sebastian thought nervously as he watched the blaze, waiting, Must be unconscious, must have hit his head, the fool, idiot boy, told him to stay in super dense form, stupid stupid stupid child He’d burn to death, if smoke inhalation didn’t get him first. He would die, and be reborn on Krakoa. It would be fine. And the suffering, the death, would serve him right, for being so foolish as not to listen to his father, to do the sensible thing and stay dense, why had he let himself get caught there? If you were weak enough to die, you deserved it, deserved it for KEEPS. Sebastian could say that, and admit it applied to him too. He would not DENY the second chance given to him by Krakoa, but nor would he pretend that Emma didn’t earn his death by virtue of being ABLE to do it. If you could do it, if you did do it, then it was within your rights to do it, was how Shaw saw things. Right of power was the only right that mattered, and you did no favors by RESCUING someone, you only prolonged their weakness. Any moment now, he thought, Any moment...if he’s going to make it out, it will have to be soon. There was a horrible cracking as a wood beam crashed down into the flames. The building was coming down. And Sebastian Shaw’s feet were suddenly moving. But was it by his deliberate decision? Or his own accord? He didn’t know. He sprinted into the structure, careful not to let his body bash through what supports remained---it might not hurt him but it would crush Shinobi if the boy was still alive---heedless of the fire, though the smoke stung his eyes, and he knew he was not immune to the effects of breathing it. If he was going to do this foolish, stupid, NEEDLESS thing, he had best do it fast. He scanned the room through the gray haze, and caught a glimpse of purple obscured by some rubble. He tossed it aside, digging through it like a terrier on the scent of a rabbit, until he found his boy, unmoving but still breathing, and hauled him from the wreckage. His body hair sizzling against his heat-proof skin, the sweat turning to steam the moment it left his brow, he gathered the limp form of his son into his arms, and ran from the flames, this time not caring about the beams he knocked aside, ran right through as though they were as intangible as Shinobi could be. When they were out, and a safe distance away from the blaze, Sebastian laid his son down, and waited for him to wake up. As soon as Shinobi did, as soon as his eyes opened, and he began to speak, and to realize what had happened, to start to express his shock at the fact his father had just saved his life at risk to his own... Sebastian’s fist landed against the boy’s ashy face. And again. And again. Until Shinobi was dead. He left the battered corpse where it was, and begin making his way to find the other Marauders, and tell them they needed to head back to Krakoa when most convinient, that Shinobi had died and would be waiting there. And when they arrived and picked him up, Sebastian knew he would have the good sense to say nothing to anyone. And he’d have a talk with him about the importance of handling oneself in such future situations. He really did try with the boy, dammit, but there was just no teacher like experience, he supposed. And painful experience worked best. *** NIGHTMARE DRESSED AS A DAYDREAM

"Look it’s the Marauder!” everyone cried out in awe and admiration as Pyro entered the party. His grim, stoic expression, his majestic stride, were in contrast to the lascivious frivolity around him of the swimsuit-clad crowd, but this difference only made the girls come swarming to him faster. He accepted their fawning adulation, but only cooly, as it was just his due. He was, after all, the handsomest, most power, Supreme Mutant, and this was all normal and natural. It was only when he began passionately lip-locking with Jean Grey on the hood with Jean Grey that-- Wait, what? This was wrong. This was so wrong. It had to be a dream, but even then it was WRONG. He’d never had a dream of this kind about a woman in his life, let alone Jean Grey. And if he was going to, why would it be JEAN? That felt extra wrong, given that he was pals with Madelyne now, was this some kind of weird-- “GET OFF ME!” cried a man’s voice, and Pyro broke away from the embrace, looking up. Some several dozen feet away, Fabian Cortez struggling with an amorous Avalanche, who seemed to have been engaged with the same activity with the redheaded ‘Supreme Mutant’ as Pyro just had with Marvel Girl...and Dom was wearing the same outfit Jean was. “Oy, what in the--” Pyro started to demand, when suddenly a huge head ---Mr. Sinister’s head, specifically-- erupted from the ground. It was bedecked by yet more scantily clad girls, with a throne on top it in which sat Claudine, being accosted by them, and she looked as confused as Pyro and Fabian were, confused and horrified. Then the rain began, endless rain, and Pyro was all alone, all alone in the mud as the rain came down, rain and pain, so much pain, coming from parts of his body he’d never had in his life, his womb, his-- “All right, that’s quite enough of that!” the voice of Emma Frost echoed throughout all of existence, and the lights came back on in the world again as Pyro woke up. “Freakin’ kids,” he muttered, as he realized what had happened. There was a baby telepath in the latest batch of rescues, and the little bugger had gotten their dreams all mish-mashed together. Happened more than once before. Grunting, he turned over, and went back to sleep...though a little uneasy this time. He wondered, who had that last part come from?

[elven-ariaera]

Read the New Leaf Diaries first here!

Start from NH Diaries part 1: Permanent Island Getaway

Day 7

Kitt moved in this morning. It felt so good to have her back in my life. I did not realize how nostalgic I would get already, but no matter what, I am sticking with my plan to move forward. Citytown is behind me, and Islandtown is my future.

I got a free tee-shirt in the mail from Dodo Airlines. Audie didn’t seem to care much about it and gave me a lecture on fashion. I guess she does know what she’s talking about. Maybe I should pawn it off on some poor unsuspecting fool…

Until then, all I can do is think about my life choices while wearing this dumb dodo shirt…

That night a terrifying thing happened. A tarantula appeared and tried to get Audie! Luckily for her, I had a bug net in hand. I crept up next to the little sucker and swiped my net! …Only to miss and get bitten by the arachnid. Luckily she dragged me back to my house and all was well again. 

You know, that’s a reoccurrence that I could never quite figure out. Whenever I am bitten by a spider or stung by bees to the point of passing out, I always wind up back in my home. Who is taking me there? Is that you, Antonio? 

Day 8

I caught a Whale Shark! I thought about doing a little more fishing after my excellent finds two nights ago and my word I’ve done it again! Sure it was the most ridiculously heavy thing I’ve ever had to reel in — I’m surprised the line didn’t snap — but I did it!

I brought it to Blathers to give it a nice new home in the museum. Let me tell you, finding a plastic baggie big enough to bring it in was its own challenge. He told me some interesting tidbits about the gentle giant. Learning can be fun sometimes!

Is that an actual option?

I had also been working on a garden for a while now and I must say it is really coming along! I’m so pleased… That’s it. There’s no punchline. Not everything in life is a joke! Can’t I just have a moment of serenity for once in my life?

Oh, I had nearly forgotten! Stitches finally moved in! I’m not sure why he was the last one to move in when I asked him first, but I guess he had a lot of things to unpack. I visited him to welcome him to the neighborhood as he unpacked and he was very persistent about cleaning the back left corner of his home… Even though the entire floor was coated in dirt.

In other news, Audie and I have continued to bond and I’ve learned some things about her. She might not be as innocent as I initially thought…

I didn’t realize you played Smash Bros too!

But then we got to chatting about movies and it turns out she’s writing one. A rock-opera to be exact. While I was genuinely interested, its plot was a little hard to follow…

Really, all the neighbors and I have been getting along rather well. I jumped in on a conversation between Bud and Kitt, though, and it seems they have rather opposite tastes. Literally.

All these wacky shenanigans that go on in this town, I swear, it’d make for some kind of sitcom. I actually just received a cartoonist set from Kitt earlier, perhaps I’ll try my hand at it sometime. For now, these journals will have to suffice.

Day 9

I had gotten a new room expansion for my house the other day and it seems that word spread quickly! Audie has been dying to come over and see the place since the first day, but now she has sort of been inviting herself over. 

It’s not that I don’t want her over, she’s easily become my best friend of all the island’s residents that live here. I simply want to gussy up the place before she comes. Still, she remains persistent… Is this what Antonio felt like about my persistence? 

…Man, what a great feeling to be loved and admired so much.

I headed over to check in on Stitches today seeing as he was still new to island life. He seems to be progressing rather quickly and is already doing stuff.

On another note, he keeps insisting that he has bug friends who live inside the floor and whisper things to him while he sleeps. Should I be concerned? 

Mabel dropped by today to set up shop in the town plaza. I always enjoy her selection of clothing to pick from. She’s also quite the trooper — It rained practically all day today, and still, she stood outside waiting for potential customers. I do think I was the only one though…

She just stands there… Menacingly!

Later that night Audie insisted on coming over again. I did explain to her that I was waiting for the renovations on my new room aka extension walk-in closet to be finished before anyone saw, and she seemed to understand, so we went back to her place to chat for a while. I found it a little ironic that she didn’t want me to snoop around her house yet she kept trying to persuade me to invite her over to my house… Does she have a secret shrine of me? 

…That would be so sweet! She’s the best friend I ever had!

We later went on a late-night stroll and things got real. I told her about my previous fishing escapades and she kept freaking out. It seems she has a severe case of ichthyophobia. 

Day 10

The resident’s hall was under construction and they have now finished and revealed the new and improved plaza. It looks magnificent! Nook had even gotten new help from off-island. He hired Isabelle, my assistant from back home. I guess Citytown isn’t doing so hot without me… 

Now I have no quarrel with Isabelle under normal circumstances, but I can’t help but feel that Nook is trying to replace me. I am your island representative, not her! Don’t you dare get any ideas…

Ugh, Isabelle, you make it so hard to hate you when you act so precious!

Anyway, it’s clear that I’m still the favorite of the residents. Stitches came by and gave me a house-warming gift even though he was the one who just moved in… Still, it was much appreciated.

I dropped by the town hall today to carry on business as usual, but of course, Tom Nook just had to rave about what a great help Isabelle would be. I mean, sure, she did let me change the flag because of my magnificent artistic potential, but that doesn’t change anything! I’ve got my eye on you, Isabelle…

Btw, the flag looks fabulous. 

Other business included the construction of a suspension bridge. Of course, most of that money was coming out of my pocket, but still, if it could save me from a pole-vaulting accident, I’d gladly pay the majority.

I decided to look for more resources to sell off-island and the dodo’s brought me to a wonderful place. They brought me to an island filled with rare hybrid colored cosmos growing all over! It was truly a sight to behold! My garden would look absolutely stunning with some of these added in the variety! Why haven’t these dodo-brains ever brought me here before? Oh…

In addition, I think my talk with Audie yesterday night helped her overcome her fear of fish. But I still don’t think she understands how fishing works…

Day 11

I still needed to make some money for that suspension bridge, so I thought a little bug catching and tree shaking would do the trick. Kitt called out to me, asking if I was having a fun time bug catching. She then apologized for assuming, and though she did assume correctly, I appreciate her earnest apology. 

We also opened a campsite today! To think, the future resident of my town would soon be here! Nook was very persistent about persuading people to settle down here, and I couldn’t agree more. I wonder what kind of animal they would be? I wonder if maybe… No. Certainly he wouldn’t be there…

Enough stressing myself out over the thought of my future resident. I also took another mystery flight from Dodo Airlines to see what magnificent isle they might bring me to today. Yesterdays “Hybrid Island,” as I am thoughtfully dubbing it, was a sight to behold. How could they ever top that?

In short, they didn’t. They brought me to an island where every fish in the river was a black bass. Every. Single. One.

I hate you all…

As awful as that experience was, I had to be grateful that the ocean fish were not all sea basses. Ugh. I shudder at the very thought of such a place even existing. Still, I complained to their manager. I had already booked a Nook Miles Ticket in advance, so their flight tomorrow had better be good!

All the neighbors today kept stressing out about the Happy Home Designers committee and I just couldn’t understand why. They give you nice presents if you do a good job decorating your home, right? Well, when speaking to Audie, she presented it to me in a whole different way. I’ll never look at the Happy Home community the same way again…

A friend of mine had invited me and another chum over to his island later that evening. It was a delightful night filled with picnics and hide-and-go-seek.

I also met someone. Roald. His eyes were so striking, I could not look away. With that and his chiseled features, one could easily… No. Stop it. You are a one-anteater kind of woman! Someday he’ll come back. I know he will. Until then, I must resist the sweet temptations of this gorgeous hunk of penguin. 

Oh, you lift? I can tell…

Day 12

Today’s the day~

We have a guest at the campsite! Oh, I can’t wait to meet them! I’m so excited that I had to write about it the first minute I got up today! This lucky fellow isn’t even aware that they’re going to be our future resident! Ooo, I’m so excited! I have to go! I’ll write more when I get back tonight!

I don’t want to talk about it. Ugh, but I have to vent somewhere, don’t I?

Our guest today was Graham, the hamster. Ugh. I do not like Graham. Why? He’s such a wannabe poser! He claims he’s a celebrity and uses corny terms all the time. He greeted me by saying “Bonjourno!” and later exclaimed his excitement by shouting “Guten Tag!” First — that’s not even the same language as you were faking before, second, you’re not using that phrase properly! Don’t think I’m not onto you, hamster.

To make matters worse, he doesn’t even refer to me by my name. He just calls me “Hey, you!” Do you even know who I am, pal? I’m more a celebrity than you’ll ever be!

Ugh, after that nightmare finally ended (for now,) I needed a bit of joy in my life. Stitches was the perfect friend to brighten my day. But then I screwed that up too — I thought it would be cute to give him a stuffed Panda Bear, and then I remembered he is a stuffed bear. Oh, my dear sweet Stitches, I am so very sorry.

Then Gulliver washed up on my shore again. Even he is aware of my excess loads of free time so, of course, I had to help him…

I decided it was time to just take a breather and use that Nook Miles Ticket I had. I looked the pilot dead in the eyes before we took off and said, “I swear, if you bring me to black bass island one more time, it will be the last thing you ever do.” Needless to say, he brought me to Bell Rock island today. I went to the island with 5,000 bells and came home with 87,000. I am one satisfied customer.

By the way, how does that work? I understand when I chip away at a rock and things like stone or clay fall from it, but bells? Perhaps bells are actually a type of stone valued so much by the animal people it’s used as currency? You see, I could accept that, but the fact that sometimes it flies out of the rock wrapped in little bags, it just baffles me!

Well, with all my profits from that trip I managed to pay for another bridge. Audie and I were discussing how this would benefit us by not having to use the vaulting poles anymore.

Also, Kitt hurt my feelings today too. She said that my style was basic. She could see I was a bit upset by this, so she covered it up by saying she meant I wore basics well, but I knew what she really meant. I’m starting to remember why I let her move from Citytown…

Yeah, well, your hat doesn’t match your jacket!

Though this day was full of ups and downs, the final part of my story ends with the highest high one could feel. Later in the evening, I thought I should attempt to find the rumored Tarantula Island. I haven’t had any luck finding a specimen for the museum, so certainly I would be able to find one in a place literally named after the creature. But I did not find the island. However, what I found was even better. Love.

I got off the plane, and lo and behold, there he was. My precious, my darling — Antonio was there! I ran to his side, thrilled to see him, nearly jumping into his arms — but I controlled myself.

We talked and talked, catching up on life since we last saw each other. It turned out he was doing a survival training challenge, which is why he was out on the island. Typical Antonio. Still, his training was doing him wonders, ooh, those muscles!

He also noticed how much I have been toning myself as well, what with all this island hopping and hard labor Nook tasks me with.

He off-hand mentioned that he’d love to his island training full time, so I took the opportunity and asked him to move in with me— I mean, to Islandtown. After everything that had happened between us, I thought perhaps I came on a bit too strong, but he answered in the affirmative. Antonio, sweet, sweet, Antonio, is going to be part of my village once again!

Despite all the bad things that happened today, I can rest easy knowing my favorite animal is going to be with me.

Day 13

Graham was the first one to move in today, but Antonio will be here tomorrow! I’m so excited! Audie and I got together and talked about it all morning. It was funny because she was watching a romance movie the day before and had an inkling something special might happen!

But sadly, poor little Stitches was sick today! I immediately ran over when Kitt told me the news and brought him some medicine. He was feeling a lot better afterward, but I told him he should still rest inside for the day.

I proceeded from there to go to the Town Hall as Tom Nook had requested for my assistance — MY assistance, not Isabelle’s… Okay, Isabelle’s too. Ugh.

If you think for one second that I’m your task force you’ve got another thing coming…

Anyway, the two of them asked me to keep inviting new residents to live in our town. Easy enough! I knew plenty of people from back home who would love to live here! I called up my girl Whitney from back home and invited her to camp out with us here on the island. I figured we’d hang out a bit and then I’d ask her about moving in.

She was thrilled when I called her and came over immediately. We had such a good time catching up, it’s been so long! These past few days have been overwhelming me with emotion with so many familiar faces.

However, when I mentioned that Whitney should move to Islandtown, she didn’t say no, but she didn’t quite feel ready yet. I get it. Citytown is a great place. I mean, it’s less great now that I’m not mayor anymore, but it’s still pretty cool. I’ll invite her over again after she’s thought it over a bit.

Oh! With my garden doing so well, I decided to set up my own little flower shop right outside my house. I stood there for three hours today and not a single customer. Mabel, I applaud your patience and durability.

I was hoping to raise a bit of money through this stand to set up a bridge. You see, when I picked a spot for Antonio’s house to be, I didn’t realize he had no connection to the other parts of the island. It was imperative that I got this bridge funded and finished by tonight. Luckily I had some help from friends to donate enough bells for the project to be completed. It took a lot of hard work and a lot of fishing…

But it will all be worth it. Tomorrow, my prince charming moves to town. 

A Residents Representatives work is never done! With so many tasks to complete and more residents moving in, how will our solo human villager handle the heat? Read the New Leaf Diaries first here! Start from NH Diaries part 1: Permanent Island Getaway…

[fruitful-blogger]

Flipping the Script (Part 2)

Part One | AO3

It's the first day of school, Gurls, and we gotta meet some of the other cast! Roman is also breaking the patriarchy as one does.

           “…and that, my good sir, is why the patriarchy is a disaster.” Roman concluded with a nod as he finally sat in his seat. The teacher and other students about were staring, some with open mouths, and others just. Befuddled.

           The teacher fell into the former category.

           “That was… eloquent, Roman.” The teacher coughed. “But I am very lost right now.”

           A student raised their hand. “What the hell does that have to do with Trigonometry???”

           Roman opened his mouth only for a hand to cover it. “No, no, no more.” The star athlete silenced his desk neighbor. “That was stupid enough the first round.”

           The darker of the two swatted the hand away. “I was just saying that the system in place has…”

           His reiteration was cut off with the bell alarm, a loud digital tone that yelled out through the speaker system. “Ok class we start the laws of sine and cosine tomorrow. Please do practice problems one and four in chapter 1.” The teacher told as he looked to Roman and Logan cleaning up. “And please, Roman, save the patriarchal debates for Civics. I’m sure Veronica would love it.”

           “Oh, I will!” Roman defended as his backpack was grabbed by its loop. He was easily pulled across the floor and out of the classroom, where he spun on his captor. “Rude, but also hella good timing. Great for the whole dramatic factor.”

           Logan groaned as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I just… it’s lunch. We’ve barely made it half the day, and you’ve already given me a headache. New record. Congrats.” He spun on his heal to walk away, but Roman was following him. “…you have lunch now too, don’t you.”

           “Yup! Besides, who would you sit with besides me? The other tennis guys?” Roman replied cheerily.

           “Maybe. They at least know the difference between duce and advantage.” Logan threw. “They also won’t somehow decide Tennis is a pathetic excuse for a sport.”

           “Hey, I like tennis!” Roman added as he skipped ahead. “It’s scoring system is crazy enough to confuse the masses, and I can stand behind that. My problem is with some of the more archaic rules that are somehow still a thing, like rules on women’s outfits.”

           Logan adjusted his glasses. He’d taken a quick shower after the work out and now wore his normal day clothes. Because it was the first day of school, he hadn’t gone straight for the basketball shorts and sweats (yet) and instead had a pair of jeans that were a bit wrinkled from being thrown in his bag and a navy button up with the top buttons undone, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He had a fitbit on as part of his training regiment with a beaten pair of trainers on his feet.

           Unlike the uncultured swine that Roman had seen on TV (and met in real life a handful of unfortunate times), Logan wasn’t the stereotypical meat-head jock. Yes, he loved his sport and a few others, but he was in no way blind of the outside world. He was a really good student – probably would have been on the same level as Patton if he wanted to apply himself to it, but he loved tennis through and through. Outside of tennis, he was also the sports editor for the school paper and also liked to debate (usually about healthy lifestyles).

           Roman liked that about his friends. While, on a surface level, they all seemed to fit nicely into the typical goth, nerd, prep, and jock categories, they weren’t just that.

           Like now, as Roman stopped by his locker, he saw the bubbly genius bound down the hall towards them. “LOOOOOOOGAAAANNN! ROOOOOOMMMAAAAAANNNN!” Patton called, but, unfortunately, crashed on arrival. Logan was able to avoid most disaster, though, by jumping out to catch the other junior before he rammed into a hall garbage can. “Woah! Thanks, Lo! I underestimated the friction my shoes would have on this part of the floor!”

           “No problem, Pat.” Logan smiled as he righted the teen. “Are you headed to the lunch room as well?”

           Patton held up his lunch box with a grin. It was a pretty pastel blue with a picture of the solar system on it (though Patton noted that it was proportionally inaccurate, but it made a good learning tool at times). “Yeah! Virgil had to swing by the office, but he’s headed there now, too! Do you guys have lunch this period?”

           “We indeed do.” Logan nodded as Roman tossed the last of the books in his locker. Logan rolled his eyes at the mess that was there as he crossed to his own that he’d left open. Most of the locker was taken up by his tennis bag, so he kneeled down to grab the books at the bottom, stacked in a little organizer to make the most of the room. When he stood, he also reached into the top nook to pull out his lunch.

           Roman nodded as he hiked up his bag. He’d brought money for lunch but, if the menu sucked, he’d try to trade around. Logan always packed healthy but in excess (he burned calories like crazy), but Patton always brought extra sweets to share. “We should head down ASAP. The tables always fill up so fast.”

           The other two nodded as they headed to the lunch room. Patton paused as they approached long enough to dig some ear plugs out of his backpack and put them in. Roman and Logan noticed but did not comment – this was simply a thing. Patton was a Hypersensitive Person. In a broad sense, it made him, well, more sensitive to the world in a variety of ways. He could walk into a room and instantly pick up on the micro-signals that others gave off, allowing him to better notice emotions and read the environment. He was very in tune with the needs of others because of it, but, sometimes, the stimuli became a lot and he needed to diminish it. For him, loud noise was usually a factor. He used to hide in the library a lot, but he’d gotten earplugs from Roman before a movie once (the goth had seen them at the store and figured it was worth a go), and he always carried them now to help.

           It was good timing as the noise doubled once they entered the cafeteria. Students of all grades scattered about, most with lunch trays but a few with sacks or pails of food. Nobody understood how it was established, but the freshman always seemed to coagulate at one end of the room by the lunch ladies, then the sophomores, juniors, and seniors would separate towards the back.

           “Hey, Logan!” Logan looked as a student waved their hand. “Get over here! We got a table!”

           Logan nudged Patton and Roman and pointed to the table, which was only a third filled. The three headed over and set their stuff down, the faces there mostly familiar to the three.

           Lauren was the one to wave them over. She and her boyfriend, Kai, were already seated there while another friend, Elliott, was scribbling away at a notebook. Elliott had a saved seat down next to them, but the rest were still open.

           “Salutations, Lauren.” Logan greeted with a nod before looking to Kai and Elliott. “Hello to you both as well.”

           “Hi again!” Patton waved as he plopped down.

           “Greetings my colorful friends! Except you, Elli. LOVE the dress.”

           Elliott looked up with a smirk. The non-binary teen had actually come into the fold thanks to Roman. They’d transferred to the school last year and, not really knowing anyone, just kind of decided to approach the first person who looked mildly interesting. That person had been Roman, who, upon hearing their pronouns, dragged them to the GSA meeting. Roman had introduced them to Logan, Patton, and Virgil, who introduced them to Kai and Lauren. Nowadays, the teen was usually with the couple. Lauren and Elliott bonded over food, and Kai loved to watch all the B-rated movies with the teen that Lauren hated. “Thanks, Ro. Felt like a no-pants day, honestly.”

           “It’s very pretty!” Patton complimented as he pulled out his lunch. Sure enough, about six cookies fell out.

           Roman only threw down his bag before snatching his wallet. “Guard my things with your lives.” He warned as the others waved him off, them all having already gotten food. Roman weaved through the rows to the lunch line, greeting a few fellow drama nerds that he remembered from last year. A few of the freshmen who noticed him approach seemed to shy back, but Roman got that. He sometimes looked a little scary and out of the ordinary, but he loved that about himself.

           Besides, anyone who spent more than five minutes with the guy knew how much of a bubbly theater geek he was.

           Roman got into line as he spotted a familiar face. “Remy! There’s my favorite sleep-deprived zombie.”

           The figure turned, revealing glasses indoors upon his face. “EEEYYY It’s my favorite gay!” Remy threw as he tossed an arm over Roman’s shoulders. “Gurl, where have you BEEN all day? Like I had the trippiest morning in Mr. S’s class. I swear I thought the starbs guy finally spiked my drink.”

           Roman snorted as they got into line. “Gurl, that’s just Mr. S. You should know that by now.”

           Remy was a senior who was also the president of the GSA and on student council (if only to get the administration to put a Starbucks in the cafeteria). He was as flamboyant as they got, but he also was the king of gossip. He knew it all, even things people didn’t know about themselves. When Roman, a baby goth gay, and Patton, a nervous genius gay, had graced the hallowed doorway of the GSA that first time, Remy had adopted them on the spot.

           “Still, he nearly blew up the classroom! On the first day! That HAS to be a new record.” The teen threw as he grabbed a tray. “And don’t get me STARTED on Dot. I love that woman, I really do, but do you know what she did today? She let her pet MAN EATING PYTHON out in the wild of our halls!”

           Roman couldn’t help but laugh. “Python??? Dude, it’s a foot long, max, and she calls it Fluffy.”

           “Gurl, who’s telling the story? Anyway, apparently one of her kids wanted to hold it. TO HOLD THE BEAST! AND SHE LET THEM!!!” Remy paused to turn to grab a burger as he passed, gaining a few confused (and concerned) looks from the lunch ladies.

           Remy went on about this crazy ‘escaped demon snake’ until they paid and got back to the table. Remy decided to grace the juniors with his ‘gorgeous’ face, even as he could have sat in the senior section.

           When they got to the table, though… there were two Virgils staring each other down and hissing at one another???

           Roman had to stare and blink a few times.

           “What the hell?” Remy spoke.

           “Language!” Patton chided, not taking his eyes off the book in front of him. “And we seem to have an imposter! Virgil A came over here and started having lunch with us, but then Virgil B came in and noticed us. They’ve been hissing at one another since then.”

           “Well when I came back from the office to see this JERK…”

           “You mean when I came back from the office only for this PRAT to walk in…”

           Roman sighed as he looked between the two before grabbing both their wrists. They both yelped as they nearly fell, but Roman allowed their sleeves to fall. “This one is Virgil.” He lifted the arm that belonged to the later Virgil.

           “How can you even tell???” Logan asked, stumped. “I’ve been throwing questions at them for ten minutes!”

           “Ok, it has not been that long, but still.” Kai threw as he looked between the two.

           Roman grinned as he showed off the light pen marks on Virgil’s wrist that looked vaguely like a swirly. “I drew this earlier today when Virgil was distracted. He tried to clean it off, but you can still faintly see it.”

           Virgil blinked before grinning, turning to his double ganger. “Yeah, ‘Virgil,’ looks like your costume isn’t so perfect after all.”

           “Dang it.” He said as his voice shifted. He hissed a little before shoving his hands in his pockets and glaring at Roman. “Had to ruin me, didn’t you?”

           Roman shrugged. “Sorry, Dee, but good effort.”

           The person huffed as they fell into the chair open, shedding the preppy jacket and messing up their hair. They also took a moment to dig out some make-up wipes from their bag and an extra shirt. The purple polo was removed to reveal a black tank, which was quickly covered by the yellow flannel, left open. He used a few wipes to remove the contouring make-up, and soon a plum discoloration on the left side of his face was revealed.

           Demetrius, or Dee, was a bit of a wild card when it came to South Hamilton High. He was beloved by almost all the teachers (especially the biology teacher and her snake – he loved the snake to bits) because he was a good student and relatively trustworthy… until he pulled out his make-up bag. He was renowned for his ability to transform himself and others, and he just loved to pull harmless pranks.

           Virgil snorted as he sat. “Finally some anarchy does me good. No, you cannot use that as a platform for me to get the school spray-painted black or something.” He threw as he saw the look on Roman’s face.

           “Uhg, you suck.” He huffed as he dramatically downed his milk.

           Remy plopped down next to Dee as he nudged the dude. “Gurl, you will not BELIEVE the gossip I have.”

           “Oh, no, you should overhear what Samantha told ‘Virgil’ today…”

           “Stop impersonating me! I have a reputation!” Virgil threw with a hiss. Virgil and Dee had some mysterious past that they never really talked about, but they often butted heads whenever nearby. Really, a teacher’s pet and a prep would usually at least function in the same general vicinity, but Virgil and Dee where not that. It didn’t help that Dee and Virgil shared enough similarities that Dee only had to break out the contouring to get them to look identical as opposed to the wigs and lifts of most of the staff.

           “SHHH I have some important gossip about Samantha right now, Virgie.” Dee waved off as he turned back to Remy.

           Remy and Dee were besties over their shares in the gossip empire of not only the school but most of the town. “Don’t tell me it’s about Todd again.” Remy threw as he bit into a fry. “Seriously, that girl needs to dump his ass.”

           “Oh, but that’s the best part! She didn’t, but he did!”

           Remy choked. “No.”

           “YES!”

           “OMG SPILL!”

           Virgil groaned as he lay his head on the table. “This is only the first day what the fuuuu….dge. Fudge.” He amended as he noticed Patton’s stare. They may be in high school, but Patton kept their language clean.

           “Well, now that THAT is figured out,” Logan turned back to the group. “How is everyone’s first day been so far? Because, honestly, I’d rather be home watching TV. It’s the same drivel they all give every year.”

           “Pretty much.” Virgil shrugged. “Although Patton correcting the teacher this morning was entertaining.”

           “Well, I had to clarify that Hades wasn’t originally the villain of the Persephone story!” Patton nodded to himself. “The book was far out of print, and more recent evidence shows the potential influence of male translations of many of the stories.”

           “Down with the Patriarchy!” Roman, Lauren, and Elliott all said at once. Roman went to high five both.

           Patton nodded, still reading, as Logan rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone to scroll through some sports news. Virgil attempted to keep his composure as he ate, even as half the table began to chant “Down with The Man! Down with The Man!”

           Roman led the charge on that last one.

[my-happy-little-bean]

The Bookkeeper – Chapter 7

Chapter 7: The Dispossessed

pairings: logan/patton (logicality), roman/virgil (prinxiety) words: 3399 chapter warnings: mild swearing, arguments chapter summary: with one sunrise comes a sunset.

[read on ao3] [masterlist]

< previous chapter

—

For the next couple of days, Logan felt like he was walking on clouds. 

He glowed pretty much anywhere he went, leaving a dainty trail of blue magic dust behind each step. It felt as though the stars themselves were following him. 

Since the night of the movie, Logan and Patton have been inseparable. Each day was a new adventure that not only Logan embarked on, but Patton as well. Together, they pieced together the fragments of Logan’s question — not to the point where he was able to write about any of it (everything he came up with was too annoyingly optimistic with not enough patched holes to make something interesting), but really, he had little time to write much nowadays.

Patton consumed his vision at almost any given moment. When he turned to grab a book off a shelf, Patton was already doing it for him. When he rolled over to the middle of the bed after a restful night, Patton was there, softly snoring beside him. When he blinked, there was Patton, alongside the feeling of blossoming flowers in his stomach. 

And he found himself mere weeks before the university conference, but he couldn’t care less. All that mattered was that he was filled with a feeling — one of butterflies and light and the kind of magic that would flicker in a child’s eye, except now it’s right in front of him. 

On one of the afternoons in particular, Logan found himself flipping in and out of Virgil Aries’ book, idly writing and, soon after, crossing out any progress he made. He wasn’t necessarily stuck—he had many avenues to go down—but he was swarming with so much new knowledge, he didn’t quite know where to start. 

He levitated another book across the room with ease and brought it to him, just as the door opened.

“Heya, Lo!” Patton beamed. Logan felt his shoulders relax as he set the book aside. 

“Hello, dear.” He walked over to Patton and kissed his cheek. “How are you?” 

“Excited to see you!” Patton giggled. “What are you working on?"

Logan’s eyes lit up as he pointed to a few books on the counter, and lifted all of them into the air in a flurry of blue dust. Patton’s eyes went wide with awe as Logan let them circle around their heads, flawlessly flipping through each one and explaining the many ideas he had scrawled on sticky notes, which poked out of each book.

Halfway through his ramble, he heard someone clearing his throat behind one of the books. He frowned, swiping his hand downwards in the air and letting the book dip down in motion. 

Behind the floating book was Roman, arms crossed with a slight frown. Logan smiled sheepishly. 

“Ah! Roman, you’re up.” He quickly made a brushing gesture with his hands, and the books scattered back onto the shelves. “I hope I didn’t wake you, heh.” 

“I just rearranged the books yesterday,” Roman grumbled, but shook his head. “And you didn’t wake me, I sleep as soundly as Aurora herself.” 

Patton laughed, waving at Roman. “Hi!” 

Roman narrowed his eyes at Patton and gave him a tired, but present, smile. 

“Ah, Patton! Hello!” He let out a small yawn. “Just the person I woke up for.” 

Patton tilted his head. Even Logan frowned, equally confused. Roman stared at both of them, deadpanned, and sighed.

“It’s book nook day, remember? You said last week that you’d rather have it today…?”

“Oh!” Patton looked at Logan with a frown. “Oh, shoot, I’m so sorry. I totally forgot about the book nook. I know we had–”

“Do you guys have plans?” Roman cut in, face twisted with disappointment. Logan concealed his wince.

 “No, no, we can always postpone.”

 Patton’s frown deepened. 

“Are you sure? You’ve been looking forward to this opening ever since we booked tickets…” 

“Janus can give us their own tour at a later time.” Logan took Patton’s hand into his own and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Besides, we may still be able to catch the opening depending on how long you are in the book nook with Roman.” 

“Oh, not long at all!” Patton said, perking back up. Logan grimaced. Roman was steaming red, even without his magic. 

“I sincerely don’t want to interrupt.” 

Logan opened his mouth to protest before Patton’s eyes widened. 

“Hey! I have a nifty idea.” He turned on his heel to face Logan. “How about you come with us?” 

A beat of silence. Logan let the idea, and its implications, settle into his chest. It’s been...years, and it felt even longer than that. The last book nook he had been in...goodness, he didn’t even know what it was, but he knew it was his grandfather’s choice, because his grandfather was still around. 

Even Roman, all hard feelings aside, gave Logan a worried look. 

“I– I’m sure Logan has other things to do, Patton. Right, Lo? Don’t you have any writing to catch up on–” 

“No,” Logan blurted out. Roman and Patton exchanged glances. Logan straightened himself up, clearing his throat and smiling at Patton. “I...I would love to join you both.” 

Patton broke into a wide grin. Logan then looked at Roman, almost searching his face for any semblance of approval. Instead, he was met with a tight, almost bitter smile. 

“That settles it!” Roman clapped his hands together. “Time for an extra special adventure, then! I would never have expected it to be like this, but...well, here we are…” 

Roman flew past bookshelves and searched for possible books. As he did so, Logan felt Patton’s hand find his own. 

“Hey,” Patton murmured. “Are you okay? I’m sorry for kinda jumping the gun a bit there, heh.”

“No, I’m...I’m fine.” 

Patton frowned. “You don’t really have to come with us– I mean, I’d be thrilled, but obviously if you’re not comfortable…” 

“No, no.” Logan brought Patton’s hand to his lips in a soft kiss. “I will be okay with you.” 

Patton nodded, gently resting his head against Logan’s shoulder. Roman levitated a few books onto the front counter. 

“Okay, so we have a few options here.” He juggled each book in the air over his head as he described them. “We got swash-buckling adventures, architectural wonders– ooh, this one’s in a series of books detailing the adventures a guy who solves moral dilemmas in his living room and is helped by the physical manifestations of his personality– it’s lacked new installments as of late, but it’s still fun...” 

“Ah! Wait a moment.” Logan reached over Roman’s head and grabbed one of the books hovering in the air. He brought it closer to the eye's view and smiled. “How about this one?” 

Roman flew to rest on Logan’s shoulder, reading the title aloud. 

“Le Guin’s The Dispossessed. ” He glared at Logan. “Really? Kinda old, isn’t it?” 

“I suppose, though I remember my grandfather reading this one to me sometimes.” Logan turned the cover to read the synopsis. “ ‘An ambiguous utopia’...” 

“It sounds cool!” Patton said, grabbing Logan’s arm and pulling himself closer to Logan’s side. He scanned the synopsis alongside Logan. “All about the future and different planets and stuff– I don’t know if we’ve visited a sci-fi book before!” 

“Hmm, fine. I don’t know what I expected from Sir Geeks-A-Lot, but whatever!” 

Roman motioned for Logan to set the book open on the counter. He floated off of Logan’s shoulder and went to kneel on the pages, pressing his hands on the words below him. Roman looked down. His hands were starting to glow red, but ended up flickering in and out. 

“Come on… ” 

“Everything okay?” Patton asked. Logan looked over at Roman in keen curiosity, but Roman waved him off. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Roman kept his stare glued to the page, muttering to himself, “Maybe I just need a running start…” 

He cleared his throat. 

“ ‘ It was the most beautiful view Shevek had ever seen’, ” Roman read aloud. “ ‘ The tenderness and vitality of the colours, the mixture of rectilinear human design and powerful, profligate natural contours’... ”

Words slowly began to lift into the air and weaved themselves in Roman’s faded, but pulsing, red magic. Logan, almost instinctively, held close to Patton, whose eyes were fixated on the swirling words around them. In the corner of Logan’s vision, he swore he saw a skyline. 

“ ‘The variety and harmony of the elements gave an impression of complex wholeness as he had never seen, except, perhaps, foreshadowed on a small scale in certain serene and thoughtful human faces’. ” 

Roman squeezed his eyes shut and finished his excerpt: “ ‘ This is what a world is supposed to look like’.”

And when Logan blinked, he was no longer in his shop. 

Instead, he found himself standing on a hill overlooking a city skyline, double helixes of what he assumed were roads suspended in the air and circling some spires. A rising sun peeked through the tall building; and a faded, but ever present, moon eclipsed the sky, larger than life and persistent in the morning glow. 

But this city was miles away from where he were. The grassy hill beneath his feet was lush and soft, and swayed gently in the wind. He looked behind him and saw a glimpse of a forest that lined his vision, which was filtered in warm colours; a stark contrast from any city he had ever visited. 

And it was here , all of it. Logan reached his hand out and there it was: air from a different world. He was really here, in the middle of someone’s mind and creation. He was here. 

“Wow,” Patton breathed out beside him. “This is so cool.” 

“Le Guin has been known for her world building, grand and sprawling with rich imagery,” Roman hummed. He flopped on the book and exhaled slowly. “She was quite brilliant. Subverted a lot of typical speculative fiction tropes, especially for her time.” Roman smiled. “And she made these really good muffins…” 

Roman’s words were drowned out by Logan’s mind as he turned around slowly in his place, capturing each landmark in his mind. It was all real. He was really in Urras– Le Guin’s interplanetary utopia– and he was really in her book. 

“Lo?” Patton placed his hand on his shoulder. Logan jolted upon contact. “You’ve been quiet for a while...are you...okay?” 

“I’m...I…” Logan took a deep breath and faced Patton with a shaky smile. In the distance, he swore he could hear the voice of his grandfather lingering in the air and continuing where Roman left off.

“I’m here,” he finally said. “I’m really here.” 

“ Duh .” Roman laughed from where he laid on the book. “I told you, you’ve been missing out.” He smiled smugly. “Still think there’s nothing in books, Specs?” 

Logan shook his head, not answering Roman as he sat down on the grass beside the laid out book. Patton joined him, watching the sun rise over the horizon.

“I can’t believe it was real,” Logan whispered. It was an illogical thing to say– of course book nooks were real– but he hadn’t been truly immersed in one for so long. Their existence barely flickered in the back of his mind. 

“Just enjoy the view,” Roman murmured from beside him. For a moment, Logan thought Roman sounded almost proud – whether in himself or Logan, he couldn’t quite tell. 

They sat there in relative silence for a few moments, only interrupted by Logan conjuring up a sketchpad and a pencil for Patton when inspiration had struck him. But he relished in the quiet, in the whispering winds that carried a story Logan now knew better. He rested his head on Patton’s shoulder and soaked in the company, feeling an absence that was buried deep in his chest become full. 

“And what have you been up to these past few days?” Patton asked, snapping Logan out of his stupor. He hadn’t even realized that Patton and Roman were talking. 

He looked down to see Roman fiddling with his thumbs. 

“Nothing much.” Roman averted his glance from both of them. “I’ve just...done a bit of soul-searching, I guess you can say.” 

Logan furrowed his brow, but said nothing. Patton obliviously nodded along. 

“Right! That sounds fun!” 

“Yeah, heh. Gotta have something else to do other than cleaning the book nooks.” Roman sighed wistfully. “It’s not a bad gig though. Plus, if someone doesn’t visit them for too long, they start to get a bit grey, heh.” 

“Grey?” Patton tilted his head. Logan decidedly tuned into the conversation, intrigued. 

“Not exactly,” Roman said. “They just...well, they lose their soul.” 

Patton gaped. “They what?! ” 

“I don’t know if you ever mentioned this before,” Logan said, looking at Roman. Beside him, Patton mumbled a whole list of books he vowed to visit. 

Roman shrugged. “You never asked. Besides, it rarely happens. Reading the book is usually good enough, but visiting its nook kind of gives its soul a bit more of a kick.” 

“So all books have a soul?” Patton asked, leaning forward. Roman nodded. 

“Yup! Stories are people, and people are stories — and souls keep both alive.” Roman smiled softly, looking up at the skyline. “There are multiple parts that make up a soul, which is why you’re able to open different kinds of book nooks in one book. Some books have souls with fragments of knowledge, fragments of adventure and exploration; there are even some books with a soul so powerful that it could breathe life into its author.” 

“ Wow ,” Patton awed. “So...souls are real.” 

“Of course they are, padré!” Roman flew off Patton’s shoulder and hovered in the air in front of him and Logan. He pressed his hands together until they glowed red and pulled them apart, revealing a lively scene of books opening and letting out pencils and scrolls, airplanes and a solar system, hearts breaking and forming and pulsing with light. 

“A good book has a soul that even those who are blind to magic can sense,” Roman continued, balancing each image in the air before they fizzled out. Roman pressed his hands together. “All I do is enhance them so they become physical manifestations. That’s why I usually only bring out landscapes. There’s very few books that have a soul of life. Not to say most books are bad, it’s just that it takes a lot of passion. And for myself, it takes a lot of energy. So I don’t get to do it very often, heh.” 

Logan perked up. “Is that the aforementioned ‘powerful soul’ then? Passion?” 

Roman nodded. “Mhm. An author can usually write one in their whole lifetime, and sometimes not even that.”

Logan’s mind raced, the new knowledge buzzing in his veins like a flame running down a sparkler.

A visit a day before the nook goes grey. 

A soul so powerful that it could breathe life into its author. 

Books that have a soul of life. 

Passion . You need passion; you need revolutionary, blow-the-people’s-minds-in-ten-years passion. You need someone who has spent all their life wondering and wondering, and then you can–

The gears in Logan’s head stopped turning with a loud click! Logan’s eyes widened. 

“So you can bring back Virgil Aries.” 

A beat of silence.

(A building falls in the distance. No one sees this, but it does, Roman knows it does, it does with a crash and it kills the budding life beneath it, it crashes against xylophone ribcages and reverbreates the sound of a heart shattering again, Roman fucking swore he’d never let his heart drop this far again but it does, it does with a rattling clang, it does with the force of the storms that passed over the home he died in, he died, he died without knowing– he died and came back knowing, but he can’t go back, he just can’t .)

“What are you talking about?” Patton stared at Logan with wide eyes as Logan stood up, pacing back and forth across the hill. 

“I…” Roman blinked, falling to the ground in a clumsier way than usual. For the first time in a long time, Roman looked lost for words. 

“I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it?” Logan continued. “I read Virgil Aries’ book everyday– sure, I don’t ever visit its book nook, sure, but that shouldn’t matter because Virgil Aries’ book is rich with his passion– it was his life’s work.”

“It wasn’t his–”

“Do you know what this means, Patton?” Logan ignored Roman and instead outstretched his hand towards Patton, who took it and hesitantly stood up alongside him. “It means that we can ask him questions — questions that maybe he never got to answer in his life– Patton , I could know everything. ”

“Love, I don’t think–” 

Logan pulled away from Patton and knelt on the ground in front of Roman. 

“Roman, please , we have to try.”

“I– I can’t just do this for some speech , Logan–” 

“This goes beyond just ‘some speech’, Roman. I– I could publish this, I could finish Virgil Aries’ work– with his permission of course, just– just imagine what we could learn from him if we just had a moment of his time. ” 

Logan felt himself vibrate with energy, catching a glimpse of his hands glowing blue in the reflection of Roman’s irises. Roman stumbled back, almost horrified, and turned away from Logan, shaking his head.

“The world can do without a couple of sad saps running around and placing seeds of doubt in people who are just trying to get by,” Roman said, bitterness dripping from his voice. 

Logan gritted his teeth. 

“Okay, Roman. Say nothing happens to my work. Say it goes nowhere. What if I just want to talk to him? Is that really so important to admit? What if I just want to talk to the person who built the foundation of my thinking. If you have the resources and energy you need to do this for me, why can’t you?”

“It’s more complicated than that, Logan–” 

Patton reached out for Logan. “Lo, I think you should just–” 

“I don’t understand, Roman.” A flash of blue darted across his vision. “All you do is open books and– and I don’t know, clean them?! I don’t understand how you can’t just do this one thing– just one thing for me–”

“I do a lot for you!” Roman snapped. Logan froze. 

Behind Roman, Logan swore a piece of the sky fell down onto earth. 

“I do a lot for you, Logan,” Roman hissed again. Logan heard the ground crack beneath him. “I force myself to sit down and listen to you go on and on about a question that goes against the very foundation of my being, yet I support you. I support you through and through, even if I know you know the answer. And I force myself to watch you use some– some stupid philosopher to guide your every purpose in such a small, short life– you don’t even know this person, how could you let them run your fucking life?!”

And suddenly, Logan heard the sound of buildings crashing. He tore his gaze off Roman to see the skyline crumble from miles away, then turned around on his heel to see the forests sinking down into the earth. He felt Patton grab his arm with a yelp, and then in the blink of an eye–

 … 

Logan jolted forward, crashing into a display table and falling onto the ground. Books tumbled down around him, crashing like the pieces of the sky that once filled his vision. 

“Lo? Logan, oh my gosh, are you–” 

Logan blinked, rubbing his head and adjusting his glasses. Replacing the skyline were shelves, and he was on wooden floors, not grassy hills. 

He was back in the shop, and everything was gone , just like that.

He looked up and saw the blurry image of Patton sticking out his hand towards Logan. He shakily took it and pulled himself up. 

“Where did– what–” 

Before Logan could finish, his eyes landed on the shelves behind the front counter. In one second, he saw a blur of red move behind the wooden shelves. He swore the red glared back at him. And in the next second, it was gone.

—

next chapter > 

[poledancingghostson]

you opened a damn can of worms this is your fault but i literally cannot stop thinking about Elle's first real winter being in Boston after living in LA her whole life and getting snowed in???? or first white christmas??? there is so much opportunity there??????

As someone who is also from LA and has always wanted a goddamn white Christmas, that connected with me, so here’s what that turned into! Have some Elle and Emmett Christmas fluff to start December off right!

***

Emmett’s ringing cell phone wakes him at 6am on Christmas morning. He lifts his head with a groan, reaching clumsily to where it’s charging on his bedside table. He picks it up and flips it open. “Hello?” he answers groggily.

“IT’S SNOWING!!!!!”

Emmett winces and puts some distance between his ear and the phone. “Good morning, Elle,” he says with a laugh.

“Oh, did I wake you?” she asks, sounding legitimately concerned.

“I mean, yeah, it’s 6am,” Emmett responds, laying back against the pillows. “How early do you think I get up?”

“I don’t know! You did tell me one of the first times we met that you never sleep!”

Emmett rubs his eyes tiredly. “Well we all need a break at least once a century, don’t we?”

Elle laughs. “Well I’m sorry to have ruined yours.”

“It’s not ruined,” Emmett smiles. “Not by a long-shot.”

“Good! Because it’s snowing, Emmett! And I wanted to call my mom about it, but it’s 3am in LA and I figured that was a little overkill.”

“Good instinct,” Emmett agrees.

“It’s, like, magical, Emmett,” Elle says, her voice dreamy and wistful. “Everything is sparkling and white!”

“Yeah, that’s what snow does.”

“Oh, you don’t get it. You’ve had it your whole life!” Elle complains. “It’s different for me, like… you know that song White Christmas?”

“Never heard of it,” Emmett replies sarcastically.

“Oh, shut up,” Elle laughs. “The point is, it was one of my favorite Christmas songs. Every year, all I wanted was to go somewhere where we could have a snowy Christmas. You know, make snowmen and have snowball fights and curl up by the fireplace and make hot chocolate with marshmallows… All the cliches. Dreaming of a white Christmas, right? Well, look outside, Emmett!”

“Do I have to actually look? My bed is warm!” He groans.

“I never knew you were so lazy,” Elle scolds. “You’re always on my ass to pull all-nighters but you can’t even take–what–three steps to the window? I mean, your apartment is tiny, it can’t be more than that.”

“Well, I’m not in my apartment, but point taken,” Emmett sighs, standing up reluctantly and pulling open his curtains.

“Why aren’t you in your apartment?” Elle asks.

Emmett leans against the windowsill. “It’s Christmas. I’m at my mom’s,” he explains. “Looking out the window now, by the way.” He squints out at the five star view: their back alley; littered and dirty and a little bit broken. Nothing like the streets around Harvard. Nothing like the streets that Elle is used to seeing. “What am I supposed to be looking for, again?”

“It’s snowing, Emmett!” She sounds so excited, so giddy, like she had the first time she’d aced one of Callaghan’s exams.

“That it is.”

“On Christmas!”

“I know!” Emmett tries to muster some of the same excitement, but, growing up poor in the Northeast, all snow meant was struggling to keep warm and pay heating bills and get to work or to school when the streets haven’t been ploughed. Besides, the snow in a city quickly turns brown, so the white Christmas look never really lasted very long anyway.

“Your lack of excitement is seriously ruining this for me,” Elle complains.

“I’m sorry,” Emmett sighs. “I’m trying, I swear.”

“Where’s your Christmas spirit?” she asks.

“It doesn’t wake up until at least seven.”

“Fine, you can go back to sleep now.”

“No,” Emmett responds, a little too quickly. “No, I’m already up.”

“Good,” Elle says. “That was actually a test.”

Emmett laughs and sits back down on the bed. “I passed, then?”

“Yeah, you did.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

The line goes silent for a while, but it’s not an awkward sort of silence. It’s rich and calm and natural. It’s the kind of silence that deepens a conversation, like a well-placed rest in one of Mozart’s sonatas. “I’ve been using your Christmas present, by the way.”

“Oh yeah?” Emmett grins.

“Yeah,” Elle says, a little dreamily. “You were right. Real time-saver.”

“I told you,” Emmett gloats.

“Why do you always have to be right?”

“I don’t know,” Emmett shrugs. “I just am.”

“It’s annoying.”

“Can’t help it!”

“Still annoying.”

Emmett laughs and shakes his head. “If you don’t like it, don’t call me at 6am on Christmas.”

“Fine. I’ll hang up then.”

“Fine. Hang up then.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Maybe.”

She doesn’t respond, but Emmett doesn’t hang up, waiting patiently for: “Emmett? You still there?”

“I thought you were hanging up!”

“No, you didn’t,” Elle sighs.

“No, you’re right, I didn’t,” he concedes.

“So you admit you were lying. And on Jesus’s birthday, no less. Shame on you.”

“You know, he was actually probably born in spring.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s really the point,” Elle says. “I think it’s more of a symbolic thing…”

“Those ancient Jews and their goddamn symbolism.”

Elle laughs. “Such a bias towards English majors.”

“To be fair, that’s basically all an English major is useful for.”

“You’re right. Let’s give ‘em this one.”

It continues on like this for a while: natural and easy. It amazes him that he’s only known her for a few months. Talking to her is like talking to a childhood best friend. There’s never a second of awkwardness or not knowing what to say. Like they’re already familiar with every nook and cranny of each other’s brains, even if he doesn’t even know what her middle name is.

At around 7, Emmett can hear his mom; up and bustling around the kitchen. “I should go. My mom just started making breakfast.”

“Okay,” Elle says sadly.

“What are you doing today?” Emmett asks.

“I don’t know. I’ve never not been home for the holidays. I was just going to read about some more cases that were resolved a hundred years ago, then call my family to say merry Christmas at some point.”

“You should come over,” Emmett suggests. “Celebrate Christmas with us.”

“I thought I was supposed to spend the whole break with my nose in a book.”

“Well, we all need a break at least once a century, don’t we? Even you.”

Elle hesitates. “I couldn’t put you out like that.”

“You wouldn’t be,” Emmett assures her. “My mom would love to meet you. I would love to have you around. And we always have way too much food, anyway. She always makes a Christmas feast meant for fifteen at least.”

“That rhymed,” Elle points out.

“I’m a poet,” Emmett laughs. “So, when should I expect you?”

“Just need a coat, then I’m on my way.”

Emmett grins widely. “Can’t wait.”

-

About 45 minutes later, there are bagels and cream cheese and scrambled eggs and a jug of orange juice laid out on the kitchen table, and he hears the knock at the door.

“Coming!” Emmett calls, rushing to the front of the apartment. He pulls open the door to reveal Elle, flushed and shivering from the cold. “Merry Christmas!” she says through gritted teeth, holding out an expensive-looking bottle of wine with a big pink bow plastered to the front.

Emmett takes it from her and raises an eyebrow. “Experiencing the wonders of a white Christmas, I see.”

“Yeah, when I’m out here freezing my butt off it kind of loses its charm, honestly.”

She’s wearing a bright pink peacoat and a fluffy white scarf and there’s snow falling around her head and landing on her blush-colored beanie. And there’s something about the early morning light and the halo of glittering white flakes… she looks beautiful. Even with the bright red nose that’s starting to run and the red-rimmed eyes, puffy from wind-induced tears, she looks so damn beautiful. “I don’t know,” Emmett says, beckoning her inside. “I think I’m starting to see it.”

“See what?” Elle asks.

Emmett turns to her and smiles. “The magic.”

***

AH HOPE YOU ENJOYED! I’m actually really proud of a lot of the dialogue in this so I hope you like it too! I’m getting better at these! Yay!

Here it is on AO3!

PS I am always open for requests so just send me an ask and I’ll comply ASAP! 

[theconservativebrief]

I haven’t read Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels, the best-selling, heavily acclaimed quartet of books that form the basis for HBO’s new My Brilliant Friend. (Each book will be an eight-episode season of the show; I’ve seen seven of the eight episodes of season one, based on the first book, called, well, My Brilliant Friend.)

I know, I know. This is horrifying. Didn’t everybody read those books a few years ago? And pass them along to their friends with hushed admiration and excitement for everything the mysterious Ferrante (whose real identity is — at least officially — a secret) accomplished? And feel the tremendous power of Ferrante’s evocation of a bygone era in Italy? Well? Didn’t they?

It’s not that I had anything against the books — I always meant to read them, I swear — and I present this fact as the basis of what I’m going to say next: Freed from the hype surrounding the titles, and the questions on Ferrante’s identity, and everything else, this new series is a knockout, excavating the core story of the books and creating a beautiful coming-of-age tale, brimming with nostalgia, sorrow, and humor.

(I also say this because critics who have read the books seem to believe the series is a good adaptation, but perhaps too direct of an adaptation. So take that for what it’s worth, book fans.)

I never felt like I was missing out on something having not read the source material. I always felt like I understood what it was people adore about Ferrante’s world. And for me, at least, it is a triumph of world-building, as potent and richly realized as any sci-fi or fantasy show.

As the girls grow into adolescence, new actors take over the roles. Margherita Mazzucco stars as teenage Elena. HBO

For its first season at least, My Brilliant Friend is the story of two girls growing up in a lower-class neighborhood somewhere in the Naples area. (And, yes, the whole thing is in Italian with English subtitles — but would you want this story told in English?)

Elena (played by Elisa Del Genio as a child and Margherita Mazzucco as a teen) is a bit quieter than her friend Lila (Ludovica Nasti as a child; Gaia Girace as a teen), who is the “brilliant” friend of the title, but we also know from the very first scene of the series that Elena will grow up into someone whose life has some degree of comfort, while Lila does not seem to have done so.

The adult Elena who worries for her friend narrates the series, which jumps from that first scene back into the 1950s and stays there, to chart the years the girls spend as children and teenagers, first coming to understand everything from class to sex to the brutal gender politics of their world. Lila might be the smarter of the two — though Elena’s intelligence isn’t to be diminished (especially when it comes to writing) — but she’s also the one growing up in the more conservative, regressive family. Early in the series, Elena’s family makes the decision to send her along to continue her education. Lila’s family does not. And from there, the story spins outward.

Even a cursory glance at the dust jackets of Ferrante’s books reveals that the story continues to follow the two women into adulthood and old age. But for this first season, at least, the pair remain young, still brimming with potential and possibility. The larger question the story raises is about the vagaries of fate, about how someone like Lila can be artificially held back by the accident of which family she was born into, while Elena receives more chances, even though both girls share a rough social class.

But it’s also about the strange, woozy discombobulation that is the connection between the two. Lila is impetuous and possessed of a slightly devilish streak, as likely to throw Elena’s doll into a creepy cellar neither girl wants to enter or to be fascinated by a local murder as she is to stand up for herself and her friend against the local boys. Yet the bond between the girls is unshakable, just one of those things no one could possibly dislodge. To its credit, My Brilliant Friend doesn’t try to answer why this friendship exists. It simply is, and there’s something both terrible and wonderful about that.

The girls also provide a handy window to the world the series is set in, and director Saverio Costanzo (who helms all eight episodes) turns the little plaza the girls’ shabby apartment buildings surround into a microcosm of the world at large. By the third or fourth episode, you’ll know every nook and cranny of the place, but Costanzo keeps finding new ways to illuminate how somewhere that seems big and full of adventure to two very young girls begins to feel like a prison once they grow older.

For as much as the series filters its point of view through the eyes of the girls, there’s another level of remove. This story is being told by the older Elena, after all, and the whole tale has a filter of nostalgia that retains just enough skepticism to avoid curdling into schmaltz. The tale might remember the crisp beauty of a New Year’s night spent on a rooftop — but it’s not going to forget the barely suppressed violence among some of the teenage boys who attend, or the way those same boys seem to represent an inevitable finale for Lila, who just might be doomed to end up one of their wives.

That violence also marks the one slight demerit against the show, which is to say that there are a lot of characters, many of whom are associated with various organized crime families and other illicit organizations, and keeping who’s who straight can be tricky since so much of the story isn’t about that but, rather, Elena and Lila’s interpretation of their world. (In a weird way, that aspect of the series reminded me of the limited focus of a very different HBO series, True Detective.) In this regard only, book fans may be at a slight advantage, since if you’ve forgotten who someone is in a book, you can always go back a few pages.

That is a minor complaint in the face of a series that gripped me from frame one, despite telling a very small, intimate story that occasionally amounts to two girls learning lessons about how the world works and little else. It made me feel sad for the loss of a place I’ve never been, and for people who never lived.

In one shot, Costanzo pans across a room of people watching a band perform on TV, nodding their heads to the music. Many of them are looking right out of the screen, right back at you, as though they are watching you, and you are watching them, and all of this might be real, just waiting somewhere to be discovered. It feels less like a TV show than a place.

My Brilliant Friend debuts Sunday, November 18, at 9 pm Eastern on HBO, then airs a second episode Monday, November 19, at 9 pm Eastern. It will continue to air two episodes a week — one on Sundays and one on Mondays — through Monday, December 10. The series will also be available on HBO’s streaming platforms.

Original Source -> HBO’s My Brilliant Friend adaptation is a knockout

via The Conservative Brief

[cathygeha]

Dark Alpha’s Lover by Donna Grant

Reaper #4

Summary: There is no escaping a Reaper. I am an elite assassin, part of a brotherhood that only answers to Death. And when Death says your time is up, I am coming for you...

 I answer to no one but Death. I am impenetrable, impervious, immortal. I exist to do Death's bidding and no one--not Reaper nor human nor Fae--can stand in my way. Except for the bewitching half-Fae, Catriona. She swears the magic in her family passed her by, but I know better. This woman is strong. This woman is powerful. And when her abilities surge forth, no one will be able to stop the Dark Fae from coming for her. Except for me. I want to keep her close. I want to keep her safe. I want lose myself to her, again and again...

Buy Links:

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Author Bio:

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Donna Grant has been praised for her “totally addictive” and “unique and sensual” stories. She’s the author of more than thirty novels spanning multiple genres of romance including the bestselling Dark King stories. The acclaimed series features a thrilling combination of dragons, the Fae, and Highlanders who are dark, dangerous, and irresistible. She lives with her two children, a dog, and four cats in Texas.

Q&A

Where do you get your inspiration? Everywhere. TV shows, music, movies, books, and real life.

How long on average does it take you to write a book? A full length book takes me 5-6 weeks total before I turn it into my editor. A novella takes 3 weeks.

What is your writing Kryptonite? I don't really have any. ::knocks on wood::  

What books have most influenced your life? I believe that every book I have ever read has influenced me in one form or another. They've shaped my thoughts and my actions. I'm one that believes a book comes into a person's life when they need it the most.

What is the first book that made you cry? I can't remember the title, but it was a western where the heroine was kidnapped by Indian's and she fell in love. It wasn't a romance because there was no HEA, but I bawled.

What was your hardest scene to write? It's different with every book. Mostly its the sex scenes because there is so much more emotion that goes into those scenes than in others, and I like to get it right.

What did you edit out of this book? lol. I write "that" a lot. I edit most of those out. And the use of names. I don't realize when I'm writing that I do it, but when I read over it, I do.

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Twitter: @Donna_Grant

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Excerpt

Chapter One

Galway, Ireland

January

Nothing was ever as it seemed.

There were more than humans walking this earth. The things seen out of the corner of your eye were real, even if your mind refused to recognize—or accept—them.

But Catriona Hayes knew of their existence, even if she wished she didn’t. They were Fae. Magical creatures that were so beautiful they seemed otherworldly—because they were.

The Fae had come to this world, seamlessly integrating themselves into the lives of mortals. But then again, when it came to beings with magic, they could do such things.

Cat blew out a breath and put the day’s earnings in the pouch before placing it inside the safe and shutting the door. She straightened and looked through the windows of the café and across the street to the pub alight with merriment.

There was a bit of wistfulness within her when she spotted three women walking into the bar with bright smiles. She’d never been that carefree.

From the first moment she could remember, her family had kept her apart from others. It wasn’t until she was older that she realized what made her so different—she was a Halfling.

Part human, part Fae.

Some might rejoice at the news, but she wasn’t most people.

The first time her grandfather had told her of her heritage, she’d laughed, thinking it was a jest. But as they’d walked down the streets of Galway, he began pointing out the Fae.

That was the day her life changed. At eight years old, she’d felt the weight of the world drop upon her shoulders. The burden had nearly brought her to her knees. And it had lingered, growing heavier with each passing year.

Yet she remained standing beneath it all. Only because of her grandfather. The man who smiled in the midst of the many storms life threw his way. He was what kept her composed and mindful of the dangers of living near Fae.

While she had been fearful of her grandfather’s revelation, her older siblings had embraced it as a gift.

Cat looked down at the counter and the top that covered it. Beneath the thick glass, next to the register, was a picture of her with her brother and sister twenty years ago.

Whatever gift having Fae blood had given her siblings had been taken away in a cruel twist of Fate several months ago when they were savagely killed.

Her brother had been murdered in a crowded pub, while her sister had had her life snuffed out on a train to London. No one had seen either attack. One moment, her siblings had been alive. The next, they were dead. It was how Cat knew the Fae were responsible.

Only beings with magic and the ability to veil themselves could have committed such crimes without a single person catching something on their mobile phones.

Ever since her family’s deaths, she’d been waiting for the Fae to come for her.

What was taking them so long? She and her grandfather—who she kept locked safely away in his cottage where no Fae could enter—were the only ones left.

A flash of lightning pulled her from her thoughts and reminded her that she needed to get home. She started toward the front, turning off the lights as she went. Flipping the sign in the café window to CLOSED, she walked out the door and locked it.

When she faced the street once more, she gripped the handle of her purse and looked around at the people. She knew the Fae could use glamour to disguise themselves, though most preferred to remain beautiful. That made it easier to pick them out, but it did nothing to lessen Cat’s dread.

She remained in the doorway as a couple walked past her. The man said something to make the woman laugh. Cat’s heart caught because she couldn’t remember the last time she’d giggled like that—never mind actually being on a date.

Cat squared her shoulders and turned to the left. Her cottage was toward the outskirts of Galway. She couldn’t wait to get home where she could relax.

“Relax,” she snorted.

There was no such thing for her. While others brushed their cares away with a pint of ale and loud music, she would eat alone at her house and sleep with one eye open.

Being half-Fae had done nothing but make her life miserable. She’d gotten nothing else from it. Her sister, Nora, had been able to move objects with her mind. Her brother, Domhnall, could grow plants.

For some strange reason, magic had passed her over altogether. No matter how hard she tried, there didn’t seem to be a smidgen of magic within her.

Countless times, she’d asked her grandfather what she’d done to not have magic. He’d never quite answered her. In his usual way, he would tell a story about all the Halflings who lived without magic.

But she always suspected that he was keeping something from her.

No amount of conniving or posing the question different ways ever gave her another answer, though. With every year that passed, she was more and more sure that her grandfather was hiding something.

Cat tensed when she walked past a Fae talking to a mortal female. His silver eyes, black hair, and sex appeal were the biggest clues to what he was—Light Fae. At least, it wasn’t a Dark.

The Dark scared her the most with their red eyes. She shuddered just thinking about them.

She turned the corner and quickened her pace. Thunder rumbled the same time lightning zigzagged across the sky. More rain was on the way, but if she were lucky, she’d make it back to her cottage before it came.

Suddenly, she stopped. She didn’t know what had caught her attention, but something told her to go no farther. Her gaze roamed down the street as people milled about.

There was something in the air that draped over everything like a wet blanket. It took her a moment to realize what it was—fear. She looked at the humans and saw that none of them appeared to be affected.

Then she heard the footsteps coming, quickly. She saw the man running toward her and looking back over his shoulder. He passed beneath a streetlamp, and she saw his eyes—red.

But it was the terror on his face that surprised her. She hadn’t thought there was anything a Dark feared, but whatever was after this particular Fae must be frightening.

Her head told her to run, but her body refused to move. She remained where she was, even as a man appeared out of thin air in front of the Dark.

The Fae slid to a halt, his eyes wide. The man before him had long, white hair that was pulled away from his face by three small braids on each side of his head.

She had little time to process that before she saw the light glint off a blade. The sword sliced through the air and cut down the Dark, turning him to dust in an instant.

Shock reverberated through her as she involuntarily took a step back. What kind of weapon did he have that could kill a Fae?

Because she wanted one.

He took two steps away before he suddenly halted, his body stiffening. Then he gradually turned his head to look right at her. She couldn’t make out his face because of the shadows, but she knew he’d seen her.

And then, he disappeared.

She took another step back and hastily looked around, but there was no other sign of the white-haired man. Yet she knew she wasn’t alone.

He was there. She was sure of it. Just as she was sure the Fae would come for her soon.

Somehow, she managed to stand her ground. If she were going to die, she would do it with courage. Even if she was shaking. She wasn’t going to run, no matter how much she wanted to.

She felt something behind her a moment before the sound of footsteps reached her. Cat whirled around, ready to face the unknown stranger. But it was a Dark Fae who walked toward her.

“Shite,” she murmured and turned back around.

“Hiya, darlin’,” the Dark called. “What’s your hurry?”

She walked faster and said over her shoulder, “Long day.”

“Let me buy you a drink.”

“No, thanks.”

She waited for him to say more, and when he didn’t, she gave a sigh of relief. It wasn’t until she was in her cottage that she slumped against the door.

Another day gone.

  Copyright © 2017 by Donna Grant and reprinted by permission of Swerve.