#literary delight of the month

[rapha-reads]

I've read three Lockwood & Co books in two days (no, I'm not doing that fine, thanks for asking), and even though book 3, The Hollow Boy, just broke my heart in ten different ways, there's something that I find fascinating in the way Jonathan Stroud writes his horror. At first, when the team faces the Visitors, it's scary, obviously. Walking around the house or ground in the dark, al the ways a Visitor can manifest... Typical horror stuff. But then, with Lucy's Talent growing up, there's something that happens: the ghost isn't that scary anymore. Some are irritating and repulsive, but a lot are also, mostly, pitiful and compassion-worthy. Like, the Fetch at the end of book 3? Definitely made me tense rigid-spine and look around my room and over my shoulder when it started following Lucy in the department store. But when he faced Lucy in the room of bones, taking on Lockwood's appearance? I wasn't scared of him. Wary, yes, Visitors are still dangerous, but mostly feeling pity and gratitude. I had the feeling that the hollow boy wasn't really trying to hurt Lucy, but really to have a conversation with her.

Anyway, it's 4.50am. Should I start book 4 now? I want to delve back in immediately, these books are real page-turners! And now the real Locklyle angst has started, I'm deeply invested. I'm kind of surprised I never read them before, the first book is from 2013, that was exactly the period I was reading every single YA book I could get my hands on, especially fantastic/fantasy/sf (as always, then and now). Surprising that this series evaded me.

[baronessvonglitter]

Pretty Please

QZ!Joel Miller x f!bookworm!reader

Word count: 2.7K

Summary: your roommate Joel Miller is stressed out, and you offer a creative solution to ease that frustration

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, slight bullying (name calling - from Joel), reader is a bookworm and wears glasses, no age description for reader, Boston QZ, friends with benefits, oral sex (f receiving), soft!Joel, sub!Joel, dom/sub themes, edging, rough sex, unprotected p in v sex, Joel loves nerdy girls, reader is *shaved*, no use of y/n

Author's Note: I know that we all love a good strong DOM Joel, but I wanted to wade in the waters of the Ocean of Possibilities and see what a more submissive Joel would be like. Just like those CEO/investment banker types who visit dominatrices at the end of a long workday just to be treated like lesser than and hand over the reins of power for a bit. Maybe there's a part of Joel that likes being put in his place 🤫

JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST | FULL MASTERLIST

It's just past curfew in the QZ and you're curled up with a good book. The new (to you) apartment you live in came with a great collection of literary masterpieces and your only delight in this cold, cruel world is reading by flashlight, at least until your surly, sourpuss roommate Joel Miller comes home.

The front door opens and slams shut loudly, making the thin walls vibrate. You sigh. He's back.

Joel walks in, looking tired and cantankerous as usual. You quickly shut off your light but not before he sees it. "What have I told you about wastin' the batteries?" he puts his hands on his hips, glaring at you.

Not in a mood to argue, you mumble a quick "Sorry" and scurry past him, but he catches your shoulder. "Just 'cause I can get stuff doesn't mean I will. You need to be more careful with our supplies.. what's this stuff you're readin' anyway?" He makes a grab for your book which you quickly hide behind your back.

"Just some Shakespeare," you lie.

Joel narrows his eyes as if detecting your fib. Suddenly he pulls you toward him and takes the book you're hiding. Eyeing the cover, he visibly blushes and swallows hard. "What's a nice girl like you readin' trash like this for?"

You find it impossible to meet his eyes as your heart roars in your ears. He has your copy of romantic erotica, an old book written decades ago about a woman who trains her lover to be her sex slave. You think to yourself there's no way you can finish it now that he's judging you.

"All right, Bookworm. Out," Joel says, nodding towards the hall before he settles in with a stiff whiskey drink.

Sighing you go to your room. Ever since you moved in a couple months ago after your former QZ was abandoned, Joel has treated you like little more than an imposition. His seemingly affectionate nicknames of "Bookworm" or "Four Eyes" on account of your fondness for books and your need of eyeglasses, respectively, has you wondering if he even cares to remember your real name.

Putting your book away you contemplate another existence. In your story a young woman brings a powerful man to his knees. Had the world not changed so irrevocably, would you have had the fortune of living a life like the characters in your books?

A shower is in order. Once you wash your hair and shave your legs (with shampoo and razors that Joel begrudgingly smuggled for you when you'd politely asked) your spirits are lifted. Hair towel-dried, you put on an oversize tee and some panties and start down the hall where you bump into Joel. He takes a look at your sleepwear and you can see the blush creep up his neck. "Can you put somethin' else on? I can see right through your shirt."

You look down and see your nipples, two puckered points through the cotton of your tee. "I'm just going to bed. Besides, I can wear what I want," you say in an unusually defiant tone.

Joel gets quiet, his body language clearly showing he's getting annoyed. "I just don't want to see you half-naked, Four Eyes." His frustration comes through clear. "Don't you have anything else you can wear?"

You sigh and walk past him to your bedroom closet and pull out a thick flannel shirt. You change with your back to him, feeling his eyes on you like two burning holes in your flesh. His breath hitches, eyes glued to his old shirt he'd let you borrow a time or two. Something primal awakens in him, which he quickly squashes.

"I'm all out of clean pajama pants," you shrug.

"Find some," he says sternly. "That shirt's gonna ride up on you. It's inappropriate."

"No." You stand your ground. "I'm not changing again." You take a moment to look at him, really look at him. He looks stiff, the veins prominent in his neck and forehead. You imagine his warm flesh beneath your kiss, and part of you softens towards him. "You really need to relax. You look stressed."

"Yeah, like you really give a shit," he mutters, looking away.

Studying him more intensely you realize he's not frustrated because you're not obeying him. From the bulge in his jeans it's evident he's turned on by you. Joel Miller is a good-looking guy when he's not being a full-on jerk. Hell, he may even be good-looking then. You take the situation into your hands and approach him, your tongue gliding over your lips. "I could help you relax.. if you want."

Joel freezes and you notice his breathing quicken. "What.. what do you mean by that?"

"You're upset with my lack of 'decent' clothes because I'm a distraction to you. Even if you don't like me, you're still attracted to me."

He gets flustered and it gives you satisfaction to see how much power you have over him. "Maybe.. no. I don't want to. I mean it. I have no interest in anything like that with you."

"Really? Your jeans are having a different reaction."

He looks down quickly, embarrassed and a bit surprised. "It doesn't mean anything," he looks askance.

"Do you want to touch me, Joel?" You start to unbutton your flannel shirt.

"You're my roommate. It's wrong," he says, yet his large, strong hands are reaching into your shirt. His fingers are rough and calloused but damn they feel like heaven as he cups your breasts, runs his thumbs slowly over your nipples.

"Don't think anymore, Joel. Just feel. Just be here with me."

He's unused to following his purely bodily instincts, having to live on his survival instincts for so long. But your skin is so soft and you're so warm and clean from your shower. "God, I want you," he whispers.

You take the lead and kiss him, filling in the space between you. Joel doesn't hold back, cupping your ass in his hands and pressing you to his need, his bulge in direct contact with your clit. Your panties dampen in response. Realizing how far he's taken it, how far he wants to take it, he mumbles an apology. "S..sorry."

"No. No apologies. I want this. Don't you?"

"God yes," he growls, meeting your eyes. He watches, rapt, as you slowly unbutton your shirt and remove it. He's speechless as you go to sit on the edge of the bed, knees parted. You beckon him with one finger.

"I know you've always wanted this," you tell him. "You fantasize about eating me out, how good I taste on your tongue."

As he comes to you he wonders where the shy, docile woman has gone. But he likes this new version of you. "How do you know what I think about?" he asks as his fingers curl into the waistband of your panties. You lift your hips as he eases your panties off. What he sees makes him growl with yearning. "You shaved."

You rest on your elbows, satisfied with the look of sheer gluttony on his face. "A girl's gotta have some luxuries in these trying times.." you smirk and run your fingers delicately over your clit and your smooth folds. Joel moves your hand away. Keeping his eyes on you he laps his broad tongue over your delicate womanhood, then swipes his tongue side to side over your sweet little clit.

You moan loudly at the intimate contact, threading your fingers through his hair. Joel devours you, and the little moans he makes reverberate through you, fill you with vibrations. While he's sucking your clit he slides two fingers in, crooking them so they rub your G-spot, and this combination makes you squirm with delight until you're pushed over the edge. He doesn't stop there, lapping up your honey, holding your thighs as they quake around his head.

"I've wanted this for so long," he growls against your belly, kissing his way up, divesting himself of his clothes. He feels your body heat radiate against him and teases your opening with the tip of his cock, spreading your slick onto him. He kisses both breasts, nuzzles your neck before claiming your mouth again, lining himself up with you. Out of habit you remove your glasses but he stops you. "Leave them on," he whispers. "You look so damn hot, like a naughty schoolgirl.." He watches as you put them on again, your eyes big and bright behind the lenses. Keeping his eyes on you he lets himself sink into your heat, slowly, letting you get accustomed to his size.

"Fuck," you whisper in awe as he fills you, starts to move against you.

He revels in the feel of your soft body underneath his, the snugness of your cunt that dares to take every inch of him. "You're so beautiful," he whispers, taking in the clean scent of your freshly washed skin, the natural fragrance of your arousal. With each press forward he elicits moans, sighs, gasps. Your heart thunders within when you feel how deeply you're joined.

"I need more," you tell him. "Please.."

"More?" His voice is shaky with desire.

"Harder," you gasp.

A dark growl gathers in his throat as he sees this new side of you begin to reveal itself. "You sure you want that from me?"

You nod. "I want you to release all your stress out inside me. Just use me. Please." You look up at him with innocent eyes. "Just for tonight, Joel. Tonight I'm yours."

His body looms large over you. "That's a big request, y'know."

"And I can handle it. I'm a big girl."

He nods, excitement flowing through his veins. "If anything becomes too much, you tell me. Okay?"

Your heart flip flops when he tells you this. Despite this random hookup, he's proving to be a caring gentleman. "I'll tell you, I promise."

Joel can't help but smile and he kisses your forehead. "Good." With heavy breaths he uses all his strength to fuck you into oblivion. He takes out his frustrations on your willing, eager body, his thick, large cock plunging into your tight cunt. "I'm gonna fuckin' tear you apart," he mutters.

His rough way with you takes your breath away, makes you tremble. Joel doesn't hold back, ruts against you, mouth watering as he watches your breasts bounce with each thrust. "God, you're gorgeous," he mumbles, leaning in to kiss you.

You whimper as your mouths meet again, tongues dancing against each other. "Joel.. you're so fucking good."

Grunting in response, he presses against you deeper, harder. You gasp, your body accepting every movement, stretching you more than you thought possible. "You feel too good," he moans.

"You're in.. so deep," you sigh. "Just a little more, I'm gonna--"

"Wait!" he groans, pulling himself away from you. "You're making me.. almost.. I can't hold back," he breathes heavily.

"Shh.." you climb onto his lap. "Let me help you. I'll do all the work," you promise. "All you have to do is grab my hips or touch my breasts," you instruct him, lining up his cock to fit into you again. Joel watches himself disappear between your swollen pussy lips.

"God.. slow.. please," he grunts, grabbing hold of your hips, moving his hands all over your body, exploring every inch of you.

"Yes," you agree, sighing sweetly. "You feel so good.. I like seeing what I can get out of you, Miller."

He lets out a short moan, gripping your hips tightly, running his fingers up the insides of your thighs. His touch is ubiquitous as you ride him slowly and thoroughly. "Please don't stop.. please don't stop." He tries to make it a command but he's so caught up in you that it comes off as begging. "God I want.. please, I need.." he can't even finish his sentences for how much his lust and need has taken over him.

"I know what you need," you moan, moving faster, slamming your hips down on his. The sounds of your colliding flesh fill the room.

"God damn it!" Joel grunts, unable to continue his line of thought. He starts to growl and groan, gritting his teeth.

You smile, biting your lip as you watch him coming apart, completely helpless beneath you. "I'm gonna tame this beast," you tell him boldly. "No one else can do it but me."

"I won't let anyone else handle me," he growls, trying to say something more meaningful, but his brain is overwhelmed. He's just handed over all control to you and it's making him crazy. "Just.. please.."

You stop moving altogether, staying still. "Please what?" you tease him from finishing.

He's about to blow but he can't even get a full sentence out. "Please," he repeats, shaking now just from the feel of you. "Don't stop.."

You remain still. "Say, 'pretty please.'"

"No," he groans. "You.. you won't get me like that." But there's a hint of a smile on his lips.

"Oh," you pout. "That's a shame. I was getting so close and I know you were, too." You start moving slowly and teasingly.

Joel's breath is faltering, pulse dangerously rapid. "Not like this.. wait.. I'm gonna.."

You stop again, a stern look on your face even though you're utterly enjoying dominating this big strong alpha male. "No. You're not," you command him.

Only able to communicate in grunts and groans, Joel thrusts upward, needing the relief that would make you both find release. You gasp, your cunt clenching around him. It would be so easy to just let him keep going, but you hold your hips firmly in place. "'Pretty please,'" you remind him.

"I'm gonna cum. Please let me cum," he whines, desperate now, his fingers tightening on your flesh.

You remove his grip and pin him down. "'Pretty. Please.'" Your lips are millimeters from his, and you can see tears start to well in his dark eyes.

He's losing it now. He's right on the precipice, pain and pleasure mixed as one while you edge him. "All right, okay, I'll say it.. pretty please," he grunts out, voice cracking.

"'Pretty please with sugar on top,'" you smirk. "Say it."

Joel shuts his eyes in frustration. "Pretty please with sugar on top."

You give his lips a tiny lick. "Good boy." Sitting up again you start riding him. You've won but you're both going to reap the benefits.

"God, keep goin'," he moans, eyes still shut, breath labored as he pushes against your hips.

"I'm gonna fucking break you, Miller," you growl, riding him at top speed, without mercy.

Joel is at a complete loss of self, having lost any semblance of control. "Do it.. please," are the only words he can manage among incoherent sounds and grunts as he rises up to hold you.

You feel the friction between you like lightning as you satisfy yourself on his generous cock. "Joel Miller, you're such a good boy for me!" You move against each other in desperation, seeking the moment that will bring you to cum together. You feel him start to twitch and just then your climax hits like a tidal wave. You scream his name as you feel his copious release inside you. All Joel can say is your name, your real name, uttered in an entreaty of gratitude as he buries his face in your neck.

"Sorry if I got a little rough with you before.." he mumbles into your skin.

"I like your roughness," you tell him as you ruffle his soft grey hair with your fingers. "You had a lot that you needed to let out."

He lifts his head and softly kisses the side of your mouth. "Just so you know, I don't intend on stoppin' at just tonight. I have a lot of stress that needs releasing."

"Stressful times we're living in.." You trace his beard with your fingertips and he quickly moves in to kiss your palm.

"Damn right. And it looks like you did tame this beast."

You grin. "Does that make me Beauty?"

"Maybe that's what I'll call you from now on.."

"It's a lot better than 'Bookworm' or 'Four Eyes'."

"I'll still call you those things, from time to time," he grins, and your entire body is warm from his smile.

You are delicate with him now, knowing this man will probably steal your heart just as you've already stolen his.

divider by @saradika 👑

[luimnigh]

so what is the meaning of omelas because I hear a different take every month

The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas is a narrative where you're asked to imagine this Utopian city, on the day of a summer festival. While it does detail the city fairly clearly, it tells you to imagine whatever you want. Whatever political system, whatever religion, whatever floats your utopian boat. Want an orgy? Sure, go ahead. Want drugs? Not LeGuin's cup of tea, but go ahead.

And then when the narrator comes to the conclusion that no, you can't imagine that, that your idea of a civilisation must have someone suffering, gives you this imaginary child in some dank cellar, suffering in it's own filth. That the child must suffer for Omelas to prosper, and that everyone in Omelas knows about the child from adolescence onwards. And most people react to this in disgust, but eventually come to rationalise it through one philosophy or another.

And those who cannot rationalise their disgust away instead walk away into places much less imaginable.

There are many takes on this story: as an allegory for the West's resource exploitation of the less-developed world. As a trolley problem, either to choose one of the options based on different ethical frameworks, or to imagine a third. As a treatise to always be vigilant to the hidden evils around you. As a metaphor for how we temper our views of other societies by weighing their good and their evil, while ignoring the evil of our own. Some take it to say that we cannot improve our society without destroying it, and the only way to assuage us of the guilt is to abandon society, or to commit suicide. Others as a criticism of abandoning society, that those who walk away do nothing to actually help. Some even criticise that the suffering child is unexplained, unrealistic, makes no sense.

But like, the point of The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas is best summed up in these lines that you might have seen before:

The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can't lick 'em, join 'em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else. We have almost lost hold; we can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of joy. How can I tell you about the people of Omelas? They were not naive and happy children – though their children were, in fact, happy. They were mature, intelligent, passionate adults whose lives were not wretched. O miracle! but I wish I could describe it better. I wish I could convince you.

Emphasis mine.

The whole point of Omelas is demonstrating this point. That literary criticism, the decision of what is art, what is important, focuses on pain, on suffering, on evil as the only interesting things, and ignores happiness. That the reader is not contented in imagining a perfect world, that they must find a flaw to make it interesting.

So it offers up a nonsensical suffering child, a dark secret all those in Omelas know of, and must accept the suffering of or leave.

It's pointing out a flaw in the way people think about art, about what emotions are important and meaningful.

And given how all the above takes focus on the suffering child, and talk nothing about the Utopia... LeGuin was spot-on.

[cecilysass]

Beacon (1/6)

Read on AO3 | Tagging @today-in-fic

A delight to write this as a secret Santa gift for @libbytxf whose work I've enjoyed so much myself. She enjoys slow burn, and this is as slow burn-y as I could manage. She has literary sensibilities, and I tried to weave those in. There's a very subtle Pride and Prejudice allusion, as she and I both are fans. I hope you enjoy this, Libby. I'm going to post a chapter a day; I hope that's okay!

Chapter 1

Mulder drives them through the last leg of the icy woods, wind rattling through the spindly trees hanging over them. It’s just early evening, but the rental car’s headlights are already slicing through the winter gloom. From the passenger seat, Scully watches sprays of snow dust blow off of the birch trees.

They round a bend and the trees suddenly disappear: a New England town appears from nowhere, lit with golden streetlights that bounce off the old-fashioned brick and clapboard buildings. Scully looks around with interest. At first it seems eerily still, like a postcard, but then she notices a few locals walking along the sidewalks, pulling their coats tight and huddling close together.

“Temperature is really dropping,” Mulder remarks, reaching down to turn up the heat. He brings the car to a halt at what seems to be the town’s only stoplight. “You bring some sweaters, Scully?”

Strands of glowing holiday lights hanging over the streets sway back and forth in the wind.

“Of course I did,” Scully replies, but wonders how many sweaters he expects her to have packed. Just what kind of case does he imagine this will be, a week before Christmas? There are suspiciously few details and she has a feeling there’s more he’s not telling her. It wouldn’t, of course, be the first time.

She turns to the window again to observe the little downtown. It vaguely reminds her of a full-sized version of a painted porcelain Christmas village her mother owns, every building conspicuously charming. All sharp edges blunted with snow, vaguely glowing with bulbs, the downtown is old-fashioned in a way that makes one think of Bedford Falls, of Jimmy Stewart.

“You’re sure we’re in the right place?” she wonders, peering intently out the passenger window. “This is the location of your ghost deaths?”

“Hellespont, Vermont,” Mulder agrees, nodding, tapping on the steering wheel restlessly. “Established 1785. We’re looking for the Beacon Inn, so keep your eyes peeled.”

The light changes, and he drives past a historic town hall. There is, honest to god, a grouping of rosy-cheeked children in wool caps singing in a formation on the front steps. Scully observes them closely as the car moves by. Electric candles in their hands, ruddy glow on their faces: angels we have heard on high.

“It doesn’t seem like the site of supernatural murder.”

“Well, Scully, like I said, the deaths haven’t officially been described as homicides,” Mulder says. “They’re all—”

“Yes,” Scully says. “Sudden cardiac deaths. You did say.” She isn’t in the mood for Mulder’s withheld key information and sudden reveals. “Which, as it happens, is one of the most common causes of death in the United States.”

“Three cardiac deaths in six months in one New England inn,” Mulder reminds her. “That’s a little uncanny. And my source says—”

“That it’s a ghost,” Scully cuts in again. “Some tortured soul who has made the journey back from the great unknown to attack with the power of coronary artery disease.”

“Sure,” Mulder says uneasily. She feels him glancing at her. “We both agreed this one was worth poking into, didn’t we?”

A slight pause. “Yes,” she says. “Of course we did.”

“Good,” Mulder says. His eyes bounce off of her again. “I’m mostly going off of what the source told me, the inn’s owner. There aren’t … many details. It’ll probably be too late tonight, but I’m hoping we can both run through the whole story with him tomorrow morning.”

She takes a breath, pushing back her irritation. “I assume we’re staying at the haunted inn.”

Mulder flashes her a placating grin. “It’s actually a much nicer place than what I usually book.”

“Besides the high rate of sudden death, of course.”

“Hopefully we can help them out with that,” Mulder says. He drums on the steering wheel again and serenades her. “‘Something strange in your neighborhood. Who you gonna call, Scully?’”

Scully smiles tolerantly and turns back to the window. She’s unable to stop herself from peering out to watch the people milling around downtown Hellespont: cozy scarves pulled over their faces, shopping bags over their arms, hand in hand with significant others. Ordinary lives that seem increasingly distant from her own.

“I, uh, know you’re probably eager to be finished up before the holiday,” Mulder adds. “Get back to your mom’s.”

Scully nods slowly, her gaze still out the window, unable to respond right away. Yes, she is eager to be back with her family for Christmas, and yet it’s also the very last place she wants to be. Her sister absent. Her sister never coming to Christmas again. Her mother’s dull-eyed grief. It might be better to turn her energy to ghostbusting after all.

“What are you doing for the holidays, Mulder?” she asks the window, keeping her tone light and conversational. “Going on an adventure? Going skiing with the Gunmen? Hot date?”

“Hot date, for sure,” he says. She turns to look at him, and he’s picking some sunflower seeds out of a bag he’s stashed in the console.

“Ah, then you must be eager to finish the ghostbusting case up, too.”

“Oh, I’m not worried,” he says. “You know we tend to wrap these cases up fast and tidy, Scully. We’ll be back to family and holiday love in no time.” Just as she is about to give him an incredulous look, he gestures out the window. “Oh, look, there it is,” he says suddenly. He’s pointing to the ornate sign outside a Victorian house perched on a hillside. “Beacon Inn.”

***

There is ice coating the uphill walk to the Beacon Inn, and Mulder resists the urge to offer Scully a steadying arm. She might refuse it, and that would needle him, even though it has nothing to do with him. Well, it might have something to do with him. But mostly, he thinks, it isn’t about him at all.

He’s aware that Scully’s grieving this holiday; this first Christmas without her sister. He sees it in the slump of her shoulders when he mentions time off coming up, the way her eyes focus on some unseen place at work, the way he finds her sister’s file left sitting out, thumbed through yet again. Still raw, still unsolved.

His own sister’s case has haunted him for more than twenty years. Everyday he has to grapple with what it means to still not have justice and to still be seeking even the barest minimum of answers. Does Scully fear the same for herself? Does she look at him and see a bleak future? This recent interest of hers in religion: it troubles him. He knows she’s started going back to Mass, after the stigmata case, the case with Kevin Kryder. It’s like she’s searching for something to hold on to, any port in a storm.

He doesn’t know what it portends.

In quiet moments he’s studied her across the office. Every day he half expects to hear her say she’s giving her notice. He wonders if he shouldn’t encourage her to.

But what would the work be like without her? What would the basement be like? Who would he talk to about his ideas, his theories, his weekend? He’s not quite selfless enough to urge her to walk away.

This case—haunted deaths in bucolic New England—has sat in his “maybe” pile for weeks: intriguing, definitely, but with a distinct odor of “junior high ghost story.” After observing Scully for one listless morning last week, he pulled the file out again, spread out the pages, and began putting together a slideshow.

She’s always one to find her purpose in work. They’re alike that way. And Vermont in the snow, a haunted inn—there’s a certain ambiance to this one, right? He knows he’s charmed by this sort of thing, so she might find it charming, too. At very least she’ll be able to complain about having to tolerate junior high ghost stories.

And he thinks she does like complaining about that, sometimes.

At the root of it, it’s just plain selfish. He can’t stand to be in the office and see that expression on her face anymore. Anything is better than that. So over the river and through the woods to the haunted inn they go.

He turns to look at her now as they approach the front steps. She’s wearing her long black trench. Her cheeks are pink from the cold; her expression is perfectly neutral. She notices his stare and looks back at him quizzically.

The case has yet to engage her full attention, he can see that perfectly well. But they’ve only just arrived. There is plenty of time to pull her in. On any case it sometimes takes a while for her to pluck at the thread that interests her the most. She always finds something, her own distinctive way into the labyrinth. It’s one of the things about Scully he likes the very most.

Stepping gingerly around piles of snow-crusted lumber and plaster debris around the front porch, they glance at one another.

“Under construction.” Scully gestures to a tarp over the front of the porch.

“Apparently they’re doing some remodeling,” Mulder agrees.

“Some remodeling,” calls a voice from inside the slightly-open door with an audible huff. “Tactful understatement. Did you hear what they said, Duncan? They said you’re doing some remodeling.”

The door, which is adorned with a fat evergreen wreath with bronze ornaments, cracks further open, and a slight white man in his late forties, clad in a thick wool sweater, an apron, and wire frame glasses, sticks his torso out. “Agent Mulder?”

“Yeah, hello,” Mulder says, stepping over piles to approach. “I’m Agent Mulder, and this”—he gestures with a sweeping arm to Scully, who steps next to him—“is my partner Agent Scully. You must be Duncan Macneill?”

“Just Duncan, please,” the man says. “I am the co-owner of Beacon Inn. As well as manager, cook, historian, night watchman. Come inside, please. It’s bitter cold.”

He beckons for them to follow him, and Mulder and Scully step inside after him. Immediately they’re greeted with a blast of warm air and the woody, aged smell of a historic house.

As they wipe their wet feet on a woven mat, Mulder carefully eyes the lobby, which is really a living room. It’s rustic, cozy, a mix of antiques and newer pieces, with somber historic portraits on the walls and some quirky mismatched furniture scattered with brightly-colored pillows. There is a giant glowing Christmas tree festooned with large red velvet bows. Mulder’s no expert, but it looks like a lot of care and love has gone into decorating.

“We’re so sorry about the mess outside,” another voice chimes in. A round-faced Asian man about Duncan’s age sits behind a desk across from the door. “It’s just inhospitable, isn’t it? I keep telling Duncan we need to wrap the project up, but it drags on and on through the seasons.”

“The new exterior will be worth it,” Duncan proclaims confidently. “Although I admit, it has taken a while.” He winks at the man behind the counter, then turns to Mulder and Scully. “This is the inn’s other co-owner… my partner, Banoy Borja.”

Mulder walks over to shake Banoy’s hand. “Agent Mulder—and my partner, Agent Scully.”

“So nice to meet you,” Scully says with a smile.

“Oh,” Banoy says, stepping back to look them over. “I’d reserved two upstairs bedrooms, both singles. Should I prepare the Beech Bedroom instead? It’s got a queen.”

“It’s fine,” Mulder says quickly.

“Two singles is perfect,” Scully adds.

“Different kind of ‘partner,’” Duncan stage whispers to Banoy.

“F.B.I. partners,” Scully clarifies quietly.

“Right, I just thought maybe both...?” Banoy explains.

“No,” Mulder says emphatically. “No. Just F.B.I. partners.”

“Ahh, of course,” Banoy says, his eyes flickering between them. “My mistake.”

Scully spins abruptly towards the porch again. “Your renovations look quite extensive,” Scully says, changing the subject. “Are you building on to the house?”

“No, no. The porch was falling apart,” Duncan says. “We’re modernizing it, rebuilding, but this is New England, so naturally we have to adhere to the town’s historic preservation code. And of course we want to maintain the inn’s Victorian exterior, too.”

“We had a tiny bit of trouble,” Banoy says. “It can be tricky. You know. Historic preservation commissions in small towns.”

“It’s all resolved now,” Duncan says, waving his hand dismissively.

Scully nods, but Mulder notes her eyebrows are drawing together the way that she does when she’s thinking about something.

“We’re going to want to ask you both some questions about the recent deaths,” Mulder tells them. “But … maybe not tonight.”

Banoy looks stricken. “Yes, of course, but please—” He lowers his voice and looks around nervously. “Just make sure that there’s none of that talk about death in front of guests.”

Mulder discreetly glances from side to side and sees no one else around but the four of them. He nods understandingly. These are touchy topics. “Sure, of course,” he says. “‘Maybe we can talk tomorrow morning, somewhere quiet? Mr. Macneil, you were the one to contact us—does that work for you?”

“Duncan, I told you,” corrects Duncan. “And yes, Agent Mulder. Why don’t we have coffee and pastry in the kitchen? Say 9-ish?”

“Duncan loves to talk about the ghost,” Banoy says with an affectionate eyeroll. “You’ll never shut him up. But let’s get you checked in and settled. You must be so worn out.”

“Grab the bags while I check in?” Scully says offhand to Mulder. He nods automatically. It’s a well-established system by now. Mulder turns for the door as Scully speaks to Banoy.

When he comes back in, Scully is still chatting with the two men about the inn’s renovations. Mulder’s eyes narrow as he drags their bags by; some detail has obviously attracted her interest there. Which is good, really. He wants to see her involved in the case. If it’s important, she’ll update him later.

He decides to take their room keys and go ahead with the bags upstairs.

Upstairs, he’s met by a long narrow hallway with six doors, three on each side, historic brass lanterns outside of each one, producing an uneven amber glow. It’s atmospheric. He likes it, New England boy that he is.

At the end of the hallway is another impressive Christmas tree, twinkling with white lights and draped with swaths of crimson velvet. The wooden floor boards, worn smooth by years of foot traffic, creak underfoot as he steps down the hall. He discovers his and Scully’s rooms are side by side.

Just before he tries to go inside, he stops. He looks back and forth, up and down the hall.

He has the strangest feeling he’s being observed. But there’s no one there. No one he sees, anyway.

Look at you, going full on junior high ghost story, he thinks to himself. He reminds himself that Scully probably thinks he’s always full on junior high ghost story. She probably thinks her career has turned into one big junior high ghost story after another.

He unlocks his own room first, stepping inside only to get a quick lay of the land: a simple star-patterned quilt on the bed, another faux brass lantern, an old-fashioned washing stand with a pitcher, and a framed silhouette of a young woman with her hair up above the dresser. There’s no adjoining door.

He puts his bag next to the bed and goes next door to unlock Scully’s room. Her room appears to be essentially identical, a mirror image of his own, except for the quilt is a slightly different star pattern, and the silhouette above the dresser is a young man instead of a woman. He looks at the silhouette for a moment, trying from idle curiosity to decide whether he can make out if the man has a mustache.

He wheels her bag inside and sets it next to her bed, too.

He’s locking up Scully’s door, about to go back downstairs to find her, when he again has the unmistakable, creeping sensation that someone is watching him.

Come on. It’s just one of the other guests Banoy mentioned, he thinks, his eyes still firmly trained on the key in the door.

With a slowness and caution he couldn’t fully explain if asked, he turns his body towards the far end of the hall.

And that’s when he sees it.

When he sees her.

What he sees certainly appears to be a her, anyway: a woman standing at the end of the hall staring at him.

His first impulse is to reach for his phone to call Scully, to insist she come up and see, but he isn’t sure if he should move. Instead he stares back at the woman stupidly, his mouth hanging open, his hand still holding the key to Scully’s room.

The woman is wearing a long white empire waist dress and a piece of fabric drawn around her like a shawl. She has dark hair parted in the middle and curling around her face. Her expression is hard, uncompromising, calculating.

And she is transparent—there’s no other word for it, that’s what she is. She’s entirely without solid substance. Ephemeral. This fascinates Mulder. He can peer through her body to make out each point of light spangling the Christmas tree at the end of the hallway behind her. If he stepped forward and put his hand out to touch her, would it go through? A very reckless part of him would like to try.

Standing contemplating her in frozen wide-eyed fear and wonder, he wonders what to do now. More than anything he wishes Scully would come up the stairs right this second, would stand here and witness this with him.

Before he can decide how to react, the woman, much to his alarm, takes a step. Towards him. Mulder hears his breath hitch, feels the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“My love,” she whispers, ever so softly. Her voice doesn’t sound ephemeral at all. It’s husky and tremulous. “How I miss you.”

All at once, Mulder remembers the danger associated with this case—what’s happened to the victims who had reportedly seen the spectral figure. The adrenaline of fear courses through him more powerfully.

“My love,” she repeats almost tenderly, holding her hand out towards him, her fingers beckoning. “Come to me. My love.”

Mulder moves his own hand in alarm, and looks down at his chest to see his left palm instinctively covering his heart in protection. He’s breathing a little fast for sure, but he feels no other symptoms, no impending heart failure.

When he looks up again to see the woman, he’s staring at an entirely empty hallway. There’s no one there. He’s alone, clutching his vulnerable heart.

***

[redgoldsparks]

Podcasts I love and recommend

I spent a truly extraordinary amount of time listening to podcasts this year, including my perennial faves and some new discoveries! I wanted to write up a bit about each of the ones I recommend the most highly, and give them some of the same attention and love I put into my book reviews. Recs below the cut. (This post brought to you by my patreon).

MATERIAL GIRLS- This is, hands down, my favorite podcast of all time. Friends and scholars Hannah McGregor and Marcelle Kosman take on a new pop culture subject in each episode and examine the material conditions and historical setting that made their subject of the week zeitgeisty. They bring an expansive feminist lens, different types of critical theory, and tons of humor to each topic. I feel like I am slowly getting a media studies degree one episode at a time as I listen to this show. Some of my favorite episodes tackled Jurassic Park, Dopamine, Twilight, Taylor Swift, Bridgerton, and Queer Eye. I have guested on this podcast and also support them on patreon so I can get all of that sweet sweet bonus content! (This show uploads full transcripts but they lag behind the audio episodes in updates). 

GENDER REVEAL- Journalist, writer, and now small-press founder Tuck Woodstock interviews trans folks on a wide range of topics. A characteristic episode includes some deeply intimate or tender moments mixed with wild tangents, extreme silliness and irreverence. I listen to every single episode and also back them on patreon for the extra episodes; some recent conversations that have really stuck with me include Colby Gordon, a founder of Early Modern Trans Studies; trans historian Susan Stryker; Jewish anti-Zionist comic author Solomon J Brager; writer Lucy Sante; and multimedia artist (and friend of mine) Shing Yin Khor. This podcast gets a special award for recommending more books that I actually end up reading than any other podcast. This year alone I’ve read at least 6 books by authors Tuck has interviewed (I Heard Her Call My Name, Heavyweight, Hijab Butch Blues, Transgender History, Boys Weekend, Practical Anarchism, Falling Back in Love With Being Human) and I have more on my TBR (The Prospects, When Monsters Speak). (This show also uploads full transcripts). 

PUBLISHING RODEO- This is a new fav! I discovered this podcast over the summer and binged all 44 available episodes in about a month. Hosts Sunyi Dean and Scott Drakeford are friends and fellow Tor authors. In 2022, they both released debut novels in the same genre, in the same year, with the same publisher, to very different results. They are remarkably candid about the nuts and bolts of their publishing deals, and in each episode interview another author, usually one early in their publishing career, on signing agents, selling books, the size of their advance, resulting royalties and more. I have learned so much about the publishing industry from this show- I’ve sold 3 books, and yet it turns out there’s still loads I don’t know. I’d recommend starting with the intro episode in which Sunyi and Scott introduce themselves and then you can jump around to any interview which interests you. Their recent conversation with Chuck Tingle was especially delightful. (This show also uploads full transcripts). 

PRINT RUN PODCAST- Another new discovery, also about the publishing/writing industry. Hosts Laura Zats and Erik Hane are both literary agents at a small agency they founded together. They discuss current events in the book news world or focused single subjects, often for early career writers. Because this show is more focused on current events, I haven’t dived super far into their back catalog, but listened to a handful of episodes from the past two years and plan to continue listening as new episodes are released. Laura and Erik also have a very cool patreon special bonus offering- they will critique query letters and first pages submitted from listeners. I haven’t written a query letter since probably 2017, so the refresher course was extremely valuable! I’d recommend the episode The Books That Made Us as a good starting point in this show. (As far as I can tell, they do not release transcripts.)

FIC CLIQUE- This is an old favorite I have recommended before. In a standard episode, the three hosts Nic, Reid, and Brenna each bring one fanfiction to read and discuss book-club style. In the past year, I’ve been particularly enjoying some of the mini-episodes that break this format. If you want to give it a try but you’ve less interested in hearing people talk about a fandom you aren’t in, I’d suggest the episodes on Mapping Fannish Migration, Books and Fandom, and Genre and Subgenre in Fanfiction. (As far as I can tell, they do not release transcripts.)

FANSPLAINING- Tragically (for me), this beloved long-running show wrapped this summer with its final standard format episode after 9 years and 200+ episodes. However, there’s still more to look forward to! Fansplaining has shifted to become primarily a publisher of fandom related journalism, and they’ve been releasing audio versions of each article along with the text, generally recorded by the author. I find these so charming, almost like new mini episodes of the show. Find a full list of their articles here; I especially loved the recent ones on The Beatles RPF fandom (still going strong!) and Bringing Fanfiction into the Classroom.  (This show has full transcripts).

SHELVED BY GENRE- In this show, the three hosts re-read popular sci-fi or fantasy book series and record long rambling episodes which both summarize and analyze their current texts. When I say they ramble… most episodes are over 2 hours, some pushing 3 hours. I started on this show when they began reading the Earthsea series by Ursula K Le Guin, which I have read multiple times in past years. I skipped their episodes on Gene Wolfe, who I haven’t read, as well as some movie and horror focused episodes. But I happily dived back in for the unit on Mercedes Lackey’s Last Herald Mage Trilogy, which was perhaps the first book with an out queer character I ever read; the queer host on the show, Michael, similarly remembers this as a foundational queer text from his teen years. I am very happy that the next author the hosts plan to discuss is William Gibson, who I might re-read to keep pace with the show. I recommend checking out their 40+ back episodes to see if there’s something you are interested in! (As far as I can tell, they do not release transcripts.)

STUFF THE BRITISH STOLE- I found this 3 season podcast sometime in the middle of the year, hosted by an Australian journalist following the trail of objects (or sometimes animals or people) the British stole during the height of their colonial reign. The episodes generally run 35-45 minutes and feature interviews, history, and usually live records of the host seeing the item, whether it’s currently in a museum, a private collection, a random high school, or the site of a foreign grave. You can jump around to whatever topic that interests you, but I can definitely recommend the episode Blood Art as one of very few in which an item is repatriated! (As far as I can tell, they do not release transcripts.)

LIVE LIKE THE WORLD IS DYING- A Margaret Killjoy and a group of queer anarchist friends rotate the hosting of this show. Once a month they release a “This Month in the Apocalypse” update which I started listening to in November and plan to keep up with going forward, but probably won’t listen to back episodes of as it’s very current-events focused. However there are other conversations/interview style episodes released between the monthly updates. Two recent interviews that really stuck with me were Spencer Sunshine on his zine “40 Ways To Fight Fascists” (which I subsequently downloaded and read) and Henri Feola on their zine “The Veil Between Worlds is Plexiglass”, which chronicles some of their experience spending 96 days in jail after being arrested protesting Atlanta’s Cop City and the police murder of Tortuguita, a protester defending the Weelaunee People’s Forest. I have a friend in Atlanta who was arrested at the same protest so I’ve been following this case; this conversation felt important and needed, as I expect there will be even more arrests of protestors in the coming years. (As far as I can tell, they do not release transcripts.)

BORROWED AND BANNED- The Brooklyn Public Library released this 7 episode limited run podcast on book bans, book challenges, how it’s affecting teachers, students, librarians and authors. I was one of several authors interviewed for the show, and you can hear my interview as a separate bonus episode; but I highly recommend listening to the whole thing because it’s a very close and personal look at these national issues- which I expect to get worse under the Trump administration. (This show has full transcripts).

SOLD A STORY- This is a 10 episode limited run podcast about how a misinformed educational specialist’s incorrect idea of how children learn to read damaged the literacy of a whole generation of school children. This podcast explores different research on reading, how sweeping educational policies like Bush’s “No Child Left Behind” impacted schools and how textbook companies pushing expensive reading-kit book sets have all negatively impacted schools. The later episodes contain messages and voicemails from parents, teachers, and students reacting to the show and some hope of change on better educational resources. I’ve probably made this sound dry but it’s genuinely a very emotional journey- as someone who really struggled to learn to read, I found this show riveting. (This show has full transcripts).

THE REDEMPTION OF JAR JAR BINKS- This 6 episode limited run show is hosted by Dylan Marron, better known as the host of Conversations with People Who Hate Me and for his role as Carlos on the podcast Welcome to Nightvale. Marron was the target of a fair amount of internet hate himself, which made him interested in how people express hate towards public figures online, and why. This led him to investigate what is possibly the first ever case of cancellation online: the rage directed at the character Jar Jar Binks in the Star Wars prequel series which began releasing in 1999, and how that hate destroyed the mental health of and nearly ended the acting career of the young Black actor who voiced and helped develop the character. Marron is a deeply compassionate interviewer, and a good researcher. He finds and talks to fans who built “kill Jar Jar Binks” websites in the days of the early web, he interviews the actor, Ahmed Best, he interviews folks involved with the production on the Star Wars prequels. I am a lukewarm Star Wars fan at best (lol) but I loved this podcast. (This show has full transcripts).

WIND OF CHANGE- I picked up this 8 episode limited run podcast because it was researched, written and hosted by Patrick Radden Keefe, the author of Say Nothing, one of the best nonfiction books I’ve ever read. In this show, Keefe digs into rumors of the CIA using cultural productions, especially pop music, as propaganda weapons against the Soviet Union during the Cold War. In particular, he’s interested in one song, “Winds of Change”, by German rock group The Scorpions which became an anthem of change shortly before the fall of the Berlin Wall and then the end of the Soviet Union. Keefe is friends with someone who does a lot of recruiting of ex-CIA folks and has also written a whole book on the CIA, so he’s not without background or connections on this subject; but the question he most wants an answer to might not be one he can ever answer. This was gripping and intriguing, and made me think a lot about soft power and propaganda more generally. (This show has full transcripts).

[aziraphales-library]

Hi,

Could I ask for some roommate fics? A little pining is great but I'm not a huge fan of too much angst.

There is one roommate fic I remember that I'd love to find again, it was set during lockdown, and azirphale was a virgin but was talking to Agnes on zoom with plans to date. Crowley offers to teach him about sex, and it gets physical, even though they're straight buddies ..of course. 😏

Thankyou

We have a #roommates tag. Here's the one you're looking for and a few more to add...

Not a Mounted Dildo but a Fuck Machine by NaroMoreau, summerofspock (E)

Aziraphale and Crowley have lived together for three years when lockdown goes into effect. When Aziraphale meets a nice girl on Tinder who he thinks is his perfect match, he's delighted. There's just one hurdle: that pesky virginity thing. Lucky for him, Crowley has always been there for him. He's helped Aziraphale with every other problem through the years, why not this one?

Tinder Dates Gone Wrong by OceanLace (E)

Aziraphale decides to take a risk and brings a man home but doesn't realize that his roommate and best friend had the same idea. Things don't turn out the way either of them were expecting but end up exactly how they wanted.

Principles of Proximity by Cannebady (E)

Crowley's plan is to get through grad school in one piece and then live his bachelor dream life. With a less-than-wholesome upbringing and no real human ties to speak of, he's made a life for himself. It's just fine, actually. And he's fine too, while you're at it. Enter new roommate, Aziraphale, who just might teach him the benefits of putting down roots.

…And They Were Roommates by Mimsynims (E)

“You know… I just remembered that Richard and I were going away for a few days next month.” Something devious came over him. “Richard paid for it, but the booking is in my name.” Crowley quickly caught on to what he was getting at. “Ooh, I see. That’s convenient.” He grinned. “For us." When Aziraphale's boyfriend Richard (Dick) breaks up with him, he and his roommate Crowley hijacks an intended couples' vacation and uses it for themselves. Lines that had started to blur even before their trip gets even more blurry - which perhaps isn't the best thing when both are hiding a crush on the other (and communication isn't their strong suit).

make it with you by NaroMoreau (E)

PAID RESEARCH OPPORTUNITY: A romantic couples study!! ------ Aziraphale and Crowley are broke roommates who are struggling to keep up with rent and a harsh landlord. After Crowley loses his job and Aziraphale's bookshop hasn't managed to make enough profit, they'll resort to anything to save what they love, and when they come across with the idea of a paid study for couples... Because some ideas are good until they aren't.

You Can Stay At My Place (And We Can Fall in Love) by IneffableToreshi (E)

Anthony Crowley is an art student with a heart of gold and a broad assumption about himself and his own (apparent lack-of) sexuality. When he meets literary student Aziraphale, he thinks he's found a great friend and possibly the perfect roommate. But when an exceptionally idiotic idea turns into Aziraphale reluctantly agreeing to pretend to be Crowley's boyfriend, Crowley rapidly realizes that he may not have been nearly so asexual as he originally thought...

10,000 Hours by AnnaTheHank (E)

Rich playboy Anthony Crowley has finally broken the last straw. He's been disowned by his grandmother, and turned away by his family. With no money and no where to go, he heads to the old family cabin to lay low until it all blows over. Romance writer A.Z. Fell has been given use of her publisher's cabin to get away from the city and work on her newest book-her first erotica. Neither expected the other to be there, but there they both were. And AZ finds that Crowley's vast knowledge of sex may just make up for her own lacking knowledge when it comes to writing her book.

- Mod D

[noxturnalmoth]

Literary Service

Summary: Life is a cruel mother but a great teacher. In Noxus, where life is but an afterthought, war raises its people with an iron fist. Whether they like it or not. So when one is courageous enough to escape, they learn to take all that life has to offer, even if it has to be by the skin of their teeth. What would happen if the scholarship that provided you with an escape made you encounter a man as great with his words as he is with hiding the festering wounds in his heart? And what if he was your teacher?

Warnings:

Word Count: 6,724

Masterlist: here

Chapter 2 - The Art of War

"You can call me Mr.Marlowe or Professor Marlowe, no casual naming shall be used when talking to or about me. I will be your literature professor this year, and should you find yourself unlucky, for the remainder of your years in this major aswell." His voice no louder than the noise of the chattering surrounding you, yet commanding silence as soon as its gravelly drawl bounces in the large room. High ceiling carrying his voice, the sound wrapping around each student and inspiring total obedience. His gait was slow, deliberate like a predator waiting on its prey, and with his gaze on you it certainly felt as if you were his next meal. You remember his warmth the day prior, although his pale skin was as cold as fine porcelain, and the gentleness of his touch. You also remember the burning orange eye, scalding as the flames that destroyed your home long ago, the bright iris glowing in the middle of a sclera as black as the obsidian freezing the rolling rage deep below your skin. He was an entirely different man in the class, all traces of softness gone, instead stood a comandeering presence; a relaxed and practiced straightness elongated his spine, prolonged by strong squared shoulders.

His eyes leave you as he drags them lazily over the rest of your class, a hand caressing his desk as he walks around it, sitting himself nonchalantly in his chair as he fishes a flash drive from his briefcase. When he turns the class computer on and turns the projector on, showcasing a list of titles, you brighten up. When you arrived in Zaun and were cradled back to health by your benefactors, you couldn't move for a month and searing pain took you as you walked for the next two. So you decided to use the time you had before class to do some research, entering your name in the Zaun Tech site and entering the student space. There were displayed your name, origin, major, and some messages from the board and teachers were in your message box, mainly congratulating you and welcoming you to the school. One was out of the ordinary though.

First year litterature students,

as I do each year year, I have compiled here titles that you can, if you so wish, browse through at your leisure. The mind, like a blade, needs sharpening and the long summer break leaves it dull. So hone your reading lest you wish to complicate your back to school with warming up the slow inner mechanisms of your heads.

And if you find this to be a hassle, do not come whining to me about being unable to follow my class as I will not wait for you. You should read at least one book to spare both yourself and I some extra work.

Welcome to the Zaun Technical College,

S. Marlowe.

And attached to it was a list of ten books ranging from classical litterature, to science-fiction, horror, gothic romance, young adult, poetry and even military strategy. The last one was no stranger to you, and although the other books had been delightful reads from the depth of your bed with your left leg and back surrounded by braces, your thoughts compiled into your notebook, something about the Art of War brought an uneasy sense of relief to you. It was waters you had sailed through before, and reading through the book felt more like gazing at memories you'd rather forget, with all its words engrained in your head, the book quickly discarded before you devoured what remained.

Mr. Marlowe walked back in front of his desk, leaning against it with his hips held by its edge as his wiry form crossed both arms and legs. "Although the list was not mandatory I hope you have read from it. Who amongst you has read through at least half of it?" His voice all but sneers, a dark irritated edge hardening the curve of his eye as he looked to the handful of hands spearing the air. "And I don't suppose anyone has read all of them."

He says, words clipped and cold, rattling through the rest of the young people surrounding you. But his face tenses into a surprised frown as you raise your hand, his eyebrows softening in the early afternoon light. His tight sneer calming into a relaxed slight smirk, his head tilting to the side.

"Did you now? Then I suppose I will hear a lot from you in this class?"

He croons teasingly, his eyes disbelieving, the tumultuous seas of his stormy ocean eyes softened by the glow of something fonder. And as you place your arm back on your table and fiddle with your fingers at the sudden attention from everyone in the amphitheater, you nod a single assured shake of the head that has him huffing. Although from how he relaxed, it was something more akin to a genuine laugh than a mockery, but this man didn't seem to be the type to do the former so you could only theorize.

The class falls into complete silence as he snaps his fingers towards the first title, The Divine Comedy, an echoing sharp sound that sends your atoms in a frenzy as you straighten. A couple of classmates scramble to explain the book's plot, its genre, its author Dante Alighieri, and its publishing date in a messy and unstructured heap of words. An almost bored nod shakes Mr.Marlowe's head as he listens to the rushed and simplified explanations from students that either read through an explanation of said book, or simply skimmed it. Another snap of his fingers rang, slicing through the meek scrambling voices like a seamstress' scissors through silk. The next title, The Mask of The Red Death by Edgar Allan Poe, was described by mumbled answers forced out of students' mouths followed by yet another snap. The Shining, snap. The Hunger Games, snap. Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, snap. Again and again, until the last book. Your face screwing in discomfort at obvious fallacies and poor research or reading comprehension as your classmates presented the tomes compiled in the professor's list. The atmosphere became heavy as the last snap rang, students looking at each other and whispering in rushed and scared voices from the display of power from the tall, lithe and commanding man. His dark clothes sucking up all the light in the warmly lit cream colored room, wordlessly ordering attention towards his form, eye lidded, body relaxed yet seemingly ready to pounce, although at what you had no idea.

"The Art of War by Master Sun Tzu, sir." His head tilts as a heavy exhale leaves his lungs and a small rictus makes its way to his sneering lips, slicing through his face like a butcher's cleaver saws flesh and bone. Dissatisfied nonchalance replaced by something akin to patient curiosity, nothing but the slight shift of his shoulders and the light unclenching of his hands and jaw to prove the change.

"The Art of War or Sūnzǐ Bīngfǎ, was written approximately in the 5th century by Ionian born Noxian commander Master Sun Tzu. It contains 13 chapters, each devoted to a certain skillset or as he called them 'arts' and their applications in military strategy and tactics. Another Ionian born Noxian warrior, Sir Shenzong of Song, used The Art of War to create his anthology: the Seven Military Classics. The original is mostly known for the quote 'know thy enemy' although one of those most revered amongst Noxians is: 'When the enemy is relaxed, make them toil. When full, starve them. When settled, make them move'."

You recite, words flowing from your mouth before your brain could follow, it was an easy yet impossible task to speak those words that were carved into your flesh many years ago. But as you look back up, your ashamed gaze heavy and dragging your head down into a bow, your eyes find Mr.Marlowe.

His face had relaxed, jaw unclenched, arms holding him in a backwards lean against his desk as the teal of his iris drinked in your form, like small sips from a tumbler full of expensive whiskey. The intensity of his gaze was akin to a sandstorm in the burning deserts of Shurima, but it was not violent. No, it was inquisitive, your words had been too smooth and calculated, as if repeated time and time again, your body had stiffened in a strained familiar manner, eyes blank; and you knew it. Just like he'd uttered his commands yesterday, your body reacted to the book similarly, bone deep obedience dripping from your very being yet no weakness in sight, a perfect little carved wooden soldier albeit worn by time and use. Your lips purse.

"Piltovan priest Jesuit Jean Joseph Amiot translated it and published the final version in 1772, although it was republished in 1782. The Demacian Lionel Giles also published his own annotated version in 1910."

You trail off, hands cupping over one another in an attempt for comfort as your classmates eyes pierce through you like poisoned daggers. The acrid taste of what feels like bitter judgement slowly pooling in your stomach before being soothed by three, slow methodical claps coming from the man at the front of the room.

"You lot should take notes into how to properly present literary works like.."

He tilts his head at you and you reveal your name, voice tight at uttering it around so many people whose attention was placed solely on you. Mr. Marlowe nods and repeats your name, using it to end his sentence, finality ringing like a blacksmith striking his hammer onto glowing metal.

The rest of class is spent with the svelte man describing the syllabus, his office hours and explaining what his teaching method entailed. He was harsh, expectant, refused to push deadlines unless catastrophic events struck, but he would never refuse to help and re-explain as many times as needed and was just in his grading. Soon came the time to leave and as you stood up, one hand holding your table and the other your crutch, you felt the throbbing pain of earlier's rushing make its way through your weary bones. A quick look at your phone showcased the hour, your next class would be in quite a while but with how unfamiliar you were with the campus and your limp you knew it'd take longer than it would've, had you been able bodied. Your spiral notebook and pencil case were soon back in their place in your messenger bag as you made your way out of the room.

"Could I steal you for a moment before you get to where you need to be?"

The gravelly yet deceptively soft voice of Mr.Marlowe made itself known as you turned. Eyeing the now sitting man, one hand elegantly holding a pen as he wrote down notes while the other held his head up, at his words you felt a pull and, unable to resist it, one foot stepped forward.

So you made your way towards him, body reacting before you could even process the words, like a sailor succumbing to a siren's song. Yet again the man had puppeteered your body, it was vexing and terrifying. A heavy weight in your stomach as you struggled to figure why he had such control over you. Were you such a well trained beast that you obeyed orders blindly even from a stranger, or was it just him. But if it was, why was it that he could wipe your mind of all the constant, loud, parasitic noise; how did he do it, and most importantly why did it look like, albeit he was in control, he was as surprised as you were. Maybe it was his gentle touch and patient words from yesterday? It couldn't be that, at least not entirely, because he had broken you out of your violent, monstrous rage before that. Your face sours in thought as you lose yourself in the noise yet again, body straight from your feet to your head as settle into the classic Noxian stance, body searching for any familiarity to comfort itself from your confused train of thought.

"At ease."

And yet again, all the tension in your muscles ebbs away like seafoam on jagged boulders, piercing the saltwater surrounding them. Your eyes trail to the sitting man who was still preparing his notes, his handwriting an elegant cursive flowing from his pen with practiced ease.

"You seemed to want to correct a lot of what your classmates said."

He sighs as he leans back, pen settled on the ink covered paper, arms draped over the arms of the chair, and his eye staring at you with a calm curiosity you were not used to.

"Well a lot of their facts were shallow, and I suppose they just didn't organize their ideas properly at times and it felt messy. They also got some informations false. For exemple The Mask of the Red Death is a gothic novella, not a fantasy. And Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone was published in 1997 unlike what they said, the movie though was indeed released in 2001."

Voice steady yet almost meek you explain the reasons of your tension during class, one hand rubbing at your nape as a hum vibrates the air around you. Mr.Marlowe was softly swerving to side to side on the office chair, right elbow planted on one of the arms as his hand holds his chin, eyes pensively staring through you, a small smile making its way on his scarred lips.

"You did read them all then. Something I have stopped expecting after some time as a professor. There is chance for us yet."

He nods absentmindedly and leans forward, elbows on the desk as his hands fold together to hold his chin, the crows feet cornering his eye slowly erased as a sigh pushes its way from his throat as if it was escaping his lungs, rushing out of him.

"How have you been fairing since yesterday? I hope rest came easy after such an episode, gods know the remnants of inner demons can still drag you back to hell."

Your eyebrows furrow at that, not only had he helped you but he also took it upon himself to oversee your state afterwards. It was strange being given such attention, and although kind people took you in when you arrived in Zaun and nursed you back to health, you still couldn't trust such gentleness blindly; the voices in your head growling and hissing in distrust like a pit of starved vipers. But even through the loud fussing, you still couldn't find it in yourself to lie or hide such informations from him, at least out of respect for his earlier kindness.

"I immediately caved in to sleep, sir. Unfortunately it seems I exhausted more energy than I believed and slept through my first two classes."

You hear a sharp intake of breath and, looking up, see his eye narrow, eyes raking up and down like clawed beastly paws trying to rip at your carefully crafted façade. One which showed more control than you could actually execute over yourself, your life, or others.

"Then I believe I should be glad you've decided to show up to mine. Another class of uninterested young adults would have frayed the last of my patience for the day."

His voice almost purrs, dark and playful, like the slow rumble of thunder under rolling black clouds, a flash of chipped teeth in his smirk serving as the lightning punctuating his sentence. His gaze was analytical, each part of you picked apart and pulled back together but from the twitch of his eyebrow it felt like he didn't find whatever it was that he was looking for.

"I have also taken the liberty to contact the board about yesterday, you will not be held accountable for your episode as I have made it very clear that what happened was beyond even yourself."

It was your turn to inhale, a sharp hiss leaving you as your lungs expanded and your spine strained at the movement, eyes narrowing at the man sitting in front of you in question. Lips pursing in thought as he threw you off yet again, why was he doing all of this, what were his intentions and what did he want in return?

"I don't wish to sound ungrateful, but why sir?"

His eye closes as he shakes his head, two strands of tar black hair spilling over his forehead like ink in water.

"People like us are rarely seen in a good light when our demons take a hold of us and twist us into a monster. If we do not have each other's backs, who will?"

His hand rakes through his hair, placing the strands back in place. Your heart was heavy, as if the blood pumped through it was lead, your stomach churning as one piece of the puzzle was revealed to you, people like us. He was like you, different yes, but he knew the horrors of the world as well as you did and came out alive, born anew. Before you could let your train of thought bring you back to the recesses of your mind you look at the clock and wince at the time that has passed.

"I will not keep you any longer, do not rush to class you'll need your energy for it. I will see you on thursday."

And with that, you leave, only answering with a nod as you grip your crutch and bag tighter, your throat too closed up for any words to leave your mouth. The rest of the day goes by fast after Mr.Marlowe's class and luckily you can rip your mind away from the thoughts of him. It may have been hidden, but you shiver at the thought of the eye beneath the eyepatch, the scars marring his face like paths leading to the gates of hell. It was as if it still looked at you, through you, even through the thick leather it pierced you like a hunter's bullet pierces his prey. At home later, a boiling shower akin to the ones you were given in Noxus cleared your mind of the nagging curiosity slowly growing stronger. Food was simple and rest was back to the usual terror filled nightmares, cold sweat carving into your skin like water eroding stone.

So instead of going back to sleep, you read, preparing homework that you had weeks to finish to occupy and cool your frenzied mind. You were not late for or missed any class that day and the day went quite well, a soft and gentle smile stretching across your lips at the prospect of your life being so tranquil now as you walked to the college's grand library. A beautiful carved stone building topped by a glass dome, the inside showcasing rows of tables and immense bookshelves stretching for what seemed like miles on end. By the time you left to return to your dorm, all of the homework you were assigned was done, neatly pinned together in small files. In thursday's literature class you gave back the homework given on monday as you entered the room, hands brushing Mr.Marlowe's as he hummed in surprise, taking the neat file.

"I didn't expect anyone to be so dedicated, yet it's no surprise that if someone had to be it would be you."

A twinge of delight colors his dark voice, brightening it enough for you to hear it. And somehow, and without your consent, your body preens at the praise, as if you were a cat being pet lovingly by its master. The mere thought bringing both discomfort, and something bitter and unknown, it was envy but not in a way you knew. It was more raw.

"The grand library is the prime working environment, I finished my homework before I knew it. It was as if I was possessed."

You chuckle softly, remembering how after entering the library everything felt more like a blur as you excitedly worked over your assignments, finishing them quickly yet not rushed. The man nods softly.

"I'm glad it felt that way, the library is indeed a beauty and it's a shame not more people see it the way we do." You agree quickly before making your way to the same desk as last time, crutch laid on the ground and necessary material set on the desk as more students poured into the room, the class soon beginning.

"As explained monday, our first semester will be focusing on Demacian literature from the previous century, its themes and its growing influence over the mentalities in its homeland and all over Runeterra."

The man says pacing as the presentation is projected over a blank screen, his long fingers holding a remote and pressing to change slides whenever Mr.Marlowe finished explaining it and its contents.

"We will begin reading The Stranger by Albert Camus in class, but I expect all of you to have it by monday to facilitate all the aspects of our work together. You are also encouraged to get the rest of the books annotated in the syllabus list for the semester so you don't need to worry about getting them later."

His voice drawls, eyes raking through the crowd lazily before he opens the book and starts reading. Voice spearing through the warm air of the class like the blades you held once upon a time ripping through the flesh of your enemies, innocent or not. Minds compelled and coaxed into listening by the dark velvet of his tone, like children entranced by the pied piper, leading them to the ends of the world. He was focused, not a word fumbled, pacing guiding you through the words with impeccable timing, voice changing just a smidge when he needed to voice a character, different yet still very much him. Sometimes his eye would trail off, mouth still speaking the words etched onto each page as if he carved them in the bedrock of his mind. And sometimes, you would catch him, nodding in what could only be described as reverance, a certain admiration at his perfected reading; as if he channeled the very essence of the author through his being and offered it to his students, wrapped up with a bow made of his voice.

And you took the gift, cradling the words in your heart and drinking in Mr.Marlowe's timbre as he uttered the sentences inscribed on the pages. As he comes to a stop the slow tap of his closing book resounds through the room, sounding more like a bomb than a pile of pages bound together by a string.

"What can you tell me about this book that makes it so different than usual Demacian tomes?" He leans against his desk, legs and arms crossed like on monday, teal eye tracing a line through the class like the horizon separates the sea and the sky.

"Demacia is known for being a nation of strong morals and honor, which could be a good thing but their pride also serves as a fault. They see themselves as judge and jury more often than not. But Mr.Camus, in this book, describes a man lacking any passion, any grief, any honor or morals. He is empty, some thoughts even make him seem nearly despicable. He is flacid, takes no initiative, he's like driftwood in the ocean, impassible and flowing wherever the waves bring him, he seems more like an object than a human."

You say, voice strong yet a slight waver concludes your explanation and Mr.Marlowe nods an appreciative hum coming from his throat.

"Indeed. Whereas traditional Demacian behavior is usually confident, morally strong and leaning towards an almost impossible sense of self-righteous justice, Camus here depicts a man at the complete opposite. It doesn't mean he is actively trying to do wrong, no, that would require effort that our protagonist has no intentions of giving. Whether he can or cannot is something I will let all of you theorize. He is indeed empty, a shell with human shape but lacking anything that would make him remotely human in a philosophical sense. He does not even grieve his deceased mother."

You absorb every word, pen gliding on paper as you write all that is discussed. "While his lack of grief could possibly be explained by depression or any other psychological cause of the like that could hinder his emotional response, he also shows no contentment. None at spending time with his friends, none at doing anything at all, no motivation whatsoever in seeking contenment either. He seems to be in a stagnating state of disinterest at everything in the world, even more so towards himself, albeit self-centered at times in his reflection."

A Teal eye cuts to you, dragging you to the depths of its self contained ocean. "What do we call this lack of motivation and drive, this lack of want or need to feel anything pleasurable or good?"

His voice questions, voice seemingly darker, hands braced on each side of his hips against the desk. "Anhedonia, sir." His chest grows in a heavy, quick breath, that almost sounds like a hiss as he releases it. As if a vicious serpent crawled out of his body, but no bitter venom came at you, only the vision of his stiffened shoulders and hands clenching a little more over the edge of the desk.

"Indeed."

His voice is back to its usual controlled drawl and his body relaxes as class continued, ending just short of 2 minutes after the appointed time. As students rush out, you take your time, not wanting to get pushed and trampled as you limped your way out, you've learned the hard way since becoming disabled that not many care for proper etiquette and you would have to look out for yourself alone.

"Not only are you extremely well versed in military strategies and tactics, able to recite excerpts of ancient manuals with practiced ease and explain them clearly and in their entirety. You are also very attentive at every new project you are given. I applaud you for your dedication."

A soft gasp escapes you as Mr.Marlowe's voice shakes the empty room, stopping your slow walk to the exit. "You must be one of the more passionate students I've had the chance to teach."

Your back screams at you as you turn towards the man, slowly pacing towards him as he talks, and a small smile stretches on your face. Your heart once again warming at his praise, drinking it like a drunkard does alcohol.

"I am here because I love reading and writing, I love thinking, I love seeing all the ways we can show our humanity through literature, the good and the bad. Why would I not pay attention? Why would I not want to dig deeper within the pages until I can find the hidden meanings?"

He chuckles, a short soft sound leaving his throat before he can wrangle it into submission. "The Noxian determination is without limit I see. Maybe your ethic will spur on your classmates into taking less time to wake up from their holiday filled stupor. I, for one, would appreciate that very much."

His legs cross in his chair as he writes down, notes and pages filled with cursive shaped black ink. He sighs softly and a page turns, his eye tracing over your face pensively before he clasps his hands together in a relaxed manner.

"I would like to make an inquiry. It would be an indulgence for me to ask, but I figured that it wouldn't hurt to try." You tilt your head at his words.

"What is it, sir?" Clasped hands tighten and cheek twitches almost lost to your keen eye had you blinked.

His hands separate and he holds his pen again, writing a succession of words on the blank page, the cursive becoming intellegible as he turns the paper your way.

The Odyssey by Homer

You bend softly, a wince stopping your descent, and grasp the paper.

"I would like you to, if you wish, read this book and come to see me during office hours to discuss it. Take the time you need, do not rush yourself, I am simply asking you to indulge me. Not many students have your passion, or at least they hide it quite expertly, so it is a refreshing sight. I would like to share some time sharing knowledge with a like minded individual rather than simply entrusting it upon someone."

His words sink in, he only wished for someone to be as interested in litterature as he was? Coming from a man with such a strong, comandeering aura, it felt almost childish. Yet you couldn't bring yourself to refuse, the books you were given in the list were nothing short of great and if they were anything to go by, you'd guess the rest of his picks were just as pleasing to read.

"Of course sir, I'd be honored. I've finished all of my assignments for the moment so I'll try to read and analyze this book over the weekend. I could come.."

You trail off, thinking about how you wanted to make good of your free time to read and maybe read again the book he proposed to give a discussion worth his expectations.

"Next friday, at around 5 p.m?"

He caps his pen and tidies his desk. "That would be perfect. I'll be expecting great things in your report, but especially that you enjoyed my recommendation." His voice is soft as he places his books in his briefcase. Coat plucked from the back of his chair as he rose up.

"If it's anything like what you put in the summer list, I know I will." You nod a respectful goodbye and wish him a good weekend as you walk out, heading to the library to get the book so you could read it in the comfort of your bed.

At home, before sleeping, you slip in the comfort of your bed and open The Odyssey, notebook and pencil next to you so you could take pauses and note your thoughts and ideas. Falling asleep after hours of reading as your eyes trace the words written on the pages. Nightmares waking you in the dead of night and making it impossible to fall back asleep. You decided to continue and opened your book back up, realizing that reading will at least soften the anguish provided by the nightly horrors you face. Friday wasn't anything special, and at night you tucked yourself into bed with your books again. The epic of Odysseus, king of Ithaca, and the trials and tribulations he had to face exciting you, pulling at your heartstrings and lulling you to sleep. Saturday and sunday were spent all day reading, book clutched in your hands as you ate and did your daily chores, even taking it for grocery shopping or to get the books Mr.Marlowe wanted for class. Monday's class went fast.

"I am done with the book but I want to read it again to see what I might've missed." You utter to the tall man as his fingers click on a laptop's keyboard and he hums. His face lifting a bit to look at you.

"Be careful, you'll make me raise my expectations." He teases, voice light and you huff out a laugh.

"Whatever expectations you throw at me I'll put all my might into exceeding." It was his turn to chuckle as you smile.

"I know you will." And with that you leave, evening routine continuing until friday.

The whole day was spent pacing in your dorm, you sat in bed, then in one of the chairs near your small kitchen, then back on your bed. It was as if you were a starved, caged lion, the prospect of discussing the book with your professor warming you from the inside out. You were making someone proud, and it was not by accomplishing deeds of great violence and being a glorified mass murderer in an army originating from the depths of hell itself. No, he was proud solely because you were passionate about the subject he was teaching. It was as simple as that. So when the time came to leave, you went to the building his office was set in with a metaphorical pep in your pained step. After asking around at the reception you walk towards the left corridor, stepping in its empty space while windows let in the golden light from the setting sun. You straighten and knock three times, a hummed "come in" making you turn the doorknob and shuffle inside. The smell of tobacco immediately hitting your senses as you close the door behind you. Turning around you see Mr.Marlowe at a big mahogany desk, decorated with carved mythological figures, pouring over files as he smoked a cigar. The window was wide open, probably to not to imbibe the room with the smell, although it seems that was too late. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with books of all sizes, some thicker than others, and to your left were a small coffee table and a maroon velvet covered couch, the same maroon velvet that was on the seats and backrets of the chairs facing the grand desk.

"Ah, there you are. I will not lie that I've been expecting you, even since before the appointed time. Take a seat."

Your body obeys him again, slowly setting yourself on one of the chairs you sigh at your unwilling reaction before setting your crutch down andfishing for your notes in your bag, left leg stretched to the side of the desk. When you came back up, his papers had been discarded in neat piles on the side of his desk and one of his hands held up his head, his eyepatch discarded.

"I won't lie that I've been pacing all day too, sir. I read the book three times in the span of a week so I could be as thorough as possible and I couldn't wait to get to you."

Your voice softly declares with a smile as you open your notebook and he chuckles, waving his hand for you to begin. Words fall from your lips, at first hesitant and unsure but at his gentle stare, the burning eye somehow coaxing you with warm kindness instead of burning you with scalding anger, your voice turns more confident and, with time, even excited. He nods and quips as you decribe all your notes, lending them over to him, your hands accompanying your words in frantic movements. It was as if your mind turned off, his approving gaze, encouraging words and small smirk enough to spur you on. By the time you're finished, almost panting after gods know how long, you notice just how satisfied Mr.Marlowe looks, almost proud. And your insides shiver in delight at that, his approval causing reactions in your body and mind that you didn't even know you could have.

"Needless to say you liked it?"

You nod as you drink from a water bottle he handed you and he chuckles.

"A life of violence can do multiple things. Leave you dead, leave you unable to move on, or leave you with a thirst for all that humanity has to offer. I'm glad to see you are the latter, as am I."

Your eyebrows furrow and your head tilts, eyes appraising the man in front of you. His teal eye, the other being similar to a topaz cushioned on black velvet, the scars on his face, the grey hairs caressing his temples, the black shirt, slightly opened at the top. He wasn't acting any different than usual, but maybe it was the proximity or the fact you were alone with him in his office that made his words ring so much louder. The remnants of the class' energy not here to protect you from the comandeering aura of the man in front of you, who looked to be observing you just as much as you were observing him. Two predators in the wild, but one was always going to be the prey, and as his eyes picked you apart yet again, you realized it was you. It was terrifying, someone wanting to know and see you, because no matter what he had seen you knew he'd probably turn in disgust and shun you if he knew and saw everything that you were. A monster. Your nightmares never failed to remind you that fact as they stopped you from getting more than 5 hours of rest per night.

"You left."

His voice takes you away from the spiral of your own mind.

"What do you mean, sir?" Your voice shakes and he sighs, stubbing out his cigar as the smoke escapes his mouth.

"I look at all of my first year students' profiles, it helps me decypher their motivations, ways to push them to do their best. You are from Noxus, and gods know leaving this hellish place is hard if you aren't a noble. Actually, you would know too, wouldn't you?"

The bottle crinkles as you hold it tight, fighting off a sneer as you look away in shame.

"What if I do?"

"Then I'd say your crutch is a consequence. And that the episode you had that day was but the surface of the deep painful abyss left behind by the war, filling every crack of your broken mind with unfathomable darkness."

Breath stuttering, your eyes find his, but you don't find disgust, no you find gentle understanding.

"And what do you want from me then, sir?" His eyebrows furrow and he leans forward.

"For you to see that you can and deserve to heal."

He rises, chair creaking at the loss of his weight as he walks towards one of the bookshelves, perusing the selection until his long fingers grasp a tome. Your body is tense, shaking slightly as he approaches you from the side, gently placing a book in front of you as he leans back on the table.

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

"Why?"

You try as hard as you can to keep your voice from cracking while looking down, in confusion or from the whirlwind of emotions currently clashing in your heart you do not know. And although your voice stays steady, the grit in it is unusual enough for Mr.Marlowe to sigh as his hand finds your chin and turns your face to him gently.

"So you can indulge me some more, I enjoyed our discussion today and would love to have more if you'll have me."

His voice purrs low, a softness to it that you would think impossible to be directed towards you.

"That's not.."

Your voice chokes out, that's not what I meant, was what you meant to say. But it seems like he knew with how his grip on your chin slightly clenches, bringing you back to Earth before your mind sunk back down into the ocean of self-hatred that was your soul.

"You will come next friday, same time. If you haven't finished the book by then, we'll read it together, but I will still listen to what you have written about it."

His grip leaves your chin with what almost felt like a caress as you grab the book. Heart pounding, head turning and stomach churning. Who was he, and what did he want? Your mind yells at you against following him in the dance he wishes to lead, warning you about bad intentions, about darkness both your own and his, about violence and pain. But as you look into his eyes and remember his praise and gentleness, your mind and body separate, the latter operating without a pilot as it itches to answer.

"I'll do my best not to disappoint you, sir." Is what you utter, obedience bleeding into the inner hatred you hold towards yourself, burnt into every fiber of your being. And as he brushes his hand over one of yours, brows furrow, tears almost threaten to leave your eyes and your throat closes up.

"I don't think you ever will."

prev || m.list || next

[howlingday]

Arcs Don't Get Cancer

A sad Shark!Faunus Jaune story.

Weiss: Ruby Rose, how many times do I have to tell you to stop using my hairbrush?!

Ruby: But Weiss, it's cushy to hold onto~!

Weiss: And I told you over and over again to buy your own!

Ruby: But Weiss~!

Blake: (Hears knocking, Answers) Hello, Ren.

Yang: If you want, you can use my hairbrush.

Ren: Good evening, Blake. Is your leader with you?

Ruby: That's Zwei's dog brush!

Yang: Never said it was for my hair~.

Blake: ...Yes, she is. Are you looking for her?

Ren: No, but... Have any of you seen Jaune?

Blake: Not for a while. (Turns) Has anyone seen Jaune?

Weiss: I haven't.

Yang: Nope!

Ruby: We've been pretty busy with missions this month. Shouldn't he be with his team?

Ren: He should, but we haven't seen him and we're worried.

Blake: Where did you last see him?

Ren: He was walking out of our dorm.

Ren: Just after you left for your mission this month.

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The following may be disturbing for some readers. Literary discretion is advised. I'll allow you time to prepare before clicking "Keep Reading". Once you are ready, you may continue...

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Jaune awoke to a burning, itching feeling in his arm. He groaned, desperately trying to fall back to sleep, but the darkness would take him no longer. Now, there was only the light and the horrors it revealed around him.

"Good morning, Mr. Shark." A man said with a smile, but there was no joy to be shared in it. No, the grin on his face was as empty of emotion as his lab coat was of color. "How is your recovery going?"

Jaune could only whimper in response. That was all the strength he had to do anymore.

"You'll be happy to know that your pain is not in vain." The man gave a chuckle, clearly delighting in his own wit. "Our company's product, of which your contribution plays no small part in, has brought comfort to patients in hospitals and clinics all over Atlas. At this rate, we'll be able to expand and help people in other kingdoms!"

A chill ran up his spine as his mind ached. How could his bones do the things they say? There were no medicinal properties to the fingers, toes, and rib he's had surgically removed. Though his body was numbed to the furthest extent it could be, he could still vividly remember the cracking, the snapping, the ripping done to his body as more and more of him was taken under the knife.

"Doctor?" A woman in lab coat called from the end of the room. Jaune looked to her direction and saw the bloody bandages that were used to patch his wound. "Here are the X-rays you requested." The woman approached with a clipboard, extending it to the man. She had a giddy look on her face. "It seems our hypothesis was correct! His bones replaced themselves~!"

There was a beeping sound that increased frequency that Jaune only took notice now. It was his heart that was beating so fast. Even as his skull throbbed with the pain his brain recalled, he understood the coming fear of his body being harvested over and over again. All to make lien off his suffering.

"Doctor," The man chided, "please remember your bedside manner when in the same room as a patient."

The woman pursed her lips with a blush while the man opened the folder, smiling at the sheet in front of him. He brought it over to a hanging board, placing it snugly against the blank surface. Flicking on the light, Jaune saw the horrible truth in the woman's words.

He felt his broken hand burn as he looked on to the small, regrowing bone in his finger. The pain resonated in his toes, where too he had been harvested. His heart beat like a drum as his chest blazed like an inferno at his broken rib being replaced.

"Doctor," the woman whispered, thinking Jaune wouldn't be able to hear her, "what would have happened if they didn't grow back?"

The man hummed for a moment, looking back to Jaune, who shut his eyes and tried to fall back asleep, hoping this too was just a horrible dream. He didn't even try to keep his voice low. "Then we clean up shop. All our research purged, and all medical equipment disposed of."

"And the patient?"

"Silence." The woman covered her mouth. The man pulled the X-rays free and slid them back into the folder. "Take these to the director. He'll want to see the results for himself." The woman hurriedly exited from the room. The man walked up to Jaune, dragging a finger along his thigh. "Hm... The femoral will be tricky, but the reward will be so worth it." He then left without saying another word.

Jaune felt hot tears pour from his eyes, his spine completely iced over with fear. He wanted to scream at the injustice of his body being ripped apart for a suspected cure, but he feared whatever intentional punishment that would be brought down on him. As he grit his teeth, he had one thought...

'Save me... Ruby...'

Fun Fact! In 1992, "Sharks Don't Get Cancer," a book written by I. William Lane and Linda Cormac was published with the claim that shark cartilage, due to the rarity of sharks developing cancer, could hold the cure for cancer. However, sharks do get cancer, and this fact has been known for almost 150 years, yet companies still harvest shark body parts from living sharks to this day. As a result, Sharks Don't Get Cancer has been more devastating to sharks as a species than JAWS, which inspired newfound fear of sharks. Worse yet, the method of harvesting include cutting off shark body parts before tossing the still alive shark back into the ocean to drown.

[veliseraptor]

November Reading Recap

Dead Astronauts by Jeff Vandermeer. Either I'm not smart enough to follow this book or it's just not terribly coherent as a novel, and either of those is equally possible, to be honest. I am finding that I like Vandermeer's earlier work on the whole more than his later work, though.

I'm Afraid You've Got Dragons by Peter S. Beagle. A fun romp. It didn't blow me away, or anything, but it was a lot of fun.

The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle. I remain most attached to the move adaptation of this novel, unfortunately, so that's always in my head when I'm reading. But despite that, or maybe because of it, this novel still delights me. It's like a warm blanket.

Catching Chen Qing Ling: The Untamed and Adaptation, Production, and Reception in Transcultural Contexts ed. by Cathy Yue Wang and Maria K. Alberto. I was very excited to read this book! I was thrilled when I saw that a collection of academic essays on The Untamed was coming out. Not all the essays in the collection are created equally, naturally, but I particularly appreciated the ones about the morality police in the fandom and the one focusing on (the violence of) translation to English. What I missed from this specific volume was more analysis of the text itself as a literary object, but that wasn't the remit of this collection, and I certainly hope that more studies will be forthcoming.

Cassiel's Servant by Jacqueline Carey. Mostly this book made me want to reread the Kushiel's Legacy series; I'm not sure if that is praise or an enticement of this book itself. I wasn't enchanted with it on the whole, though that might be because Joscelin was never the character I was most attached to. I would read the shit out of an alt POV from Melisande.

Golden Witchbreed by Mary Gentle. Finally finished this book after stalling out on it for literal months. It was interesting! Conceptually and in execution. It did feel very much like it was written in the 80s (which it was), though without the kind of objectionable stuff I would've expected. A review of it did describe it as having a "leisurely opening" which I would say is accurate.

Devils Kill Devils by Johnny Compton. I really liked The Spite House so I definitely wanted to pick up this one, and while I liked the former more this was also a really fun take on vampires unlike what I've read before. I'm picky about my horror (I'd say I don't like most of what I read) but I'll bestow the "horror I actually liked" crown on this one.

Persians: The Age of the Great Kings by Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones. For a book that was really emphasizing that it was going to lean on Persian sources rather than Greek ones for a less Greek-biased version of Persian history, it certainly felt like the author ended up relying a fair amount on Greek sources. That being said, I learned more about the (early) Persian Empire than I have before, so it was edifying in that way, if not a particularly outstanding book.

Blood of the Old Kings by Sung-Il Kim, trans. Anton Hur. I'm very glad to see that this book is apparently the beginning of a series and not finished, because while I enjoyed it as a whole the ending felt a little rushed and far too neat for me. So hopefully that will be complicated in further volumes, which I probably will read. The use of dead necromancers to power an empire is, on its own, a very neat worldbuilding conceit, and I think that (interesting worldbuilding) more than character is the appeal of this work to me.

Remnants of Filth: Vol. 5 by Rou Bao Bu Chi Rou. I continue to really enjoy this one despite the fact that the initial lure has abated somewhat in the course of the plot. I'm excited to see where this goes - this volume included a plot twist I definitely didn't see coming, which is always fun. It's not my favorite danmei I've read but it is a standout.

Don't Fear the Reaper by Stephen Graham Jones. I don't know quite why I keep reading this series when I'm not really a slasher fan and it is clearly tailored toward the slasher fan. I mean, it's certainly meant to have broader appeal as a horror novel, but it is a slasher first and foremost, and I'm just not that into that subgenre. I think it's because I want to be into it. I can recognize a good book when I read one, though; just not for me.

I Was a Teenage Slasher by Stephen Graham Jones. On the other hand, the above all being said: I actually really enjoyed this one! It was certainly playing with a lot of the same tropes but in a more, idk, playful sort of way that I enjoyed. Definitely heavy lampshading, so if that doesn't work for you then this book won't. But for me at least, it did what it was trying to do.

The Stars My Destination by Alfred Bester. I'm looking forward to hearing what people in my book club have to say about this one. I will say that the rape felt unnecessary and it definitely read like sci-fi written in the 50s by a man. I don't think I can say that I liked it. I'm not sure I can say I hated it, either, but I definitely didn't like it.

Vita Nostra by Marina & Sergey Dyachenko, trans. Julia Meitov Hersey. I've had this one on my shelf for a long time and it was good to finally read it! For someone who says she doesn't read a lot of 'magical school' books I've certainly read a lot this year, but this one is probably the most interesting and definitely the most inventive of what I've read. Not necessarily my favorite, but I'm fascinated by what the author is doing. I know there's a sequel, and I'm torn on whether I want to read it or not; I'm curious where the author would go, but I'm also satisfied with the story as it's left at the end of this book.

Drowning Sorrows in Raging Fire by Priest. Possibly my favorite danmei I've read, and at this point I've read a few. It's not going to trigger my fic writing brain, I don't think, but that's mostly because it already gave me so much of what I wanted. It's very, very good in terms of the story it's telling, the themes of monstrosity and human weapons are right on point for what I like, and the plot is pretty damn tight and good at not sprawling the way some danmei is prone to. Fucking fantastic. I can't share the translation I read, but it's being published by Rosmei in English starting in January 2025.

---

I'm currently reading Challenger by Adam Higginbotham for a little bit of nonfiction (my first in a while, you may notice); after that I'm not sure what I'm going to read. I'm traveling at the end of this month, so it'll be a little dependent on what's on my Kobo/if the sequel to Feast of Souls by C.S. Friedman arrives in time/what books I find that I want to read at my parents' house.

[samwisethewitch]

In Defense of Fluffy Bunnies, or Witchcraft in Times of Burnout

At the very end of 2023, I used my Christmas bonus from work to buy myself a tarot deck I never would have purchased six months earlier.

This deck was from a creator whose work I had really enjoyed in the past, but when I had looked at it earlier in the year, I'd had concerns that it was softening the meaning of some of the more "difficult" cards in the tarot. For example, The Hanged Man is replaced with "The Patient Witch" and Death is replaced with "The Broom." I'd had concerns that replacing these cards, which are traditionally associated with more dire or upsetting readings, meant the creator was trying to whitewash tarot into something cute and fluffy, sacrificing a lot of its depth in the process.

The deck is The Cozy Witch Tarot by Amanda Lovelace, and I'm so glad I gave it a try. This deck has an incredibly kind and gentle feel, but it is absolutely capable of giving serious readings. The depth of the tarot hasn't been compromised at all by Lovelace's changes, and her version's greater emphasis on agency and personal empowerment is exactly what I need in my practice right now. I use this deck to read for myself almost every day.

So what changed? How did I do a complete 180 in my thoughts on this deck in only a few months?

I've always been very opposed to "love and light" or "fluffy bunny" witchcraft. For those who aren't familiar, these are both terms used online (usually negatively) to describe witches who only do "light" or positive magic. According to the Witchipedia, "Generally, the 'fluffy bunnies' have based their practice on only the most delightful aspects of their spiritual path or romanticized, fictional Hollywood or literary accounts of witchcraft or Wicca." From what I can tell, this term came out of Wiccan Internet forums in the 1990s, and it refers to someone who dons the aesthetics and mythology of Wicca or witchcraft without actually engaging critically with magic theory. Fluffy bunnies also tend to focus on feel-good magic, at least according to stereotypes.

Similarly, "love and light" witches are known for only focusing on the lighthearted side of witchcraft. In an opinion article for The Wild Hunt, Storm Faerywolf writes that, "On the surface it seems harmless enough: a philosophy of love, kindness, non-violence, and a concerted practice of positivity." This type of witchcraft is very closely tied to the "spiritual but not religious" movement and borrows a lot of concepts from New Age spirituality, like crystal healing, the Law of Attraction, and chakras. While fluffy bunnies are very much a product of the 1990s, love and light witches are very much a product of the New Age boom of the 2010s.

I've been very vocal about my dislike for both of these types of witchcraft on this blog in the past, and I still 100% agree with Storm Faerywolf, who says in that same article: "But to assert that pain, and fear, and even anger are somehow less important than our joy, our courage, and even our love, is to do a grave disservice to our collective mental and spiritual health... groups that embrace this mode of thinking have effectively ensured that they can mutually avoid anything that might challenge their cultish mindset. Angry over injustice? You’re just living in a lower vibration. Afraid of contracting a deadly virus? You just don’t trust Jesus enough."

I think accepting and working with challenging emotions is an important part of what it means to be a witch. Spiritual bypassing and cries of "good vibes only" do more harm than good. But for a while I got so caught up in rejecting anything even remotely fluffy or love-and-lightish that I ended up with a magical practice that, to be honest, kind of made me miserable. And I don't think I'm the only one.

I spent a lot of 2022 and 2023 wrestling with injustice, both in my spiritual practice and in my personal and professional life. My practice is inspired by witches like Starhawk and Christy C. Road, and politics play a key role. Most of the spells I did in 2023 fall into the category of justice magic, including breaking family curses and hexing rapists. At the same time, I was working a series of direct services jobs that saw me working closely with homeless teenagers, domestic violence victims, and people battling addiction, just to name a few. And that's not even getting into my personal life and recovery as a queer, disabled survivor of abuse.

And let me tell you: By the end of 2023, I was fucking exhausted. I was beyond burnout. And I didn't even want to do magic anymore, because magic had become just another part of my life where I had to face the injustice and harm happening in the world around me.

I was in desperate need of some fluffiness, some love and light. And that was when I bought the Amanda Lovelace tarot deck.

I knew something had to change. In my burnout, I desperately needed to be tenderly cared for. I needed my spiritual practice to be a source of peace and comfort, not a drain on my energy. I needed to get out of the dark for a bit so I could remember how to see the stars.

What I've realized in the last few months is that yes, anger, pain, and fear are important in a balanced magical practice and a balanced life -- but joy, love, and comfort are equally important. And if you spend a lot of time in one part of your life dealing with pain and fear (like I do in my day job), focusing on love and healing in your witchcraft can help keep things balanced.

"Comfort" and "care" are definitely the keywords for my magical practice right now, and that means my magic looks a lot more fluffy than it has in the past. And that's a good thing.

[melodrangea]

Ok okay 😼 Marie when she realizes stein has a weapon child(basing off the last request and I think it’s obvious I see the mad scientist as a father 🫣🤭) and obviously how stein reaction to his child seeing Marie as a mom!

You can write it anytime! Take your time! Don’t rush anything and MAKE SURE TO STAY HYDRATED AND HEALTHY!🎆

thank you my dear!! I’m healthy and semi hydrated so I figured I met the conditions to write again lol

———————————————————————————

Marie with Stein’s Weapon Child

-I think this goes without saying but Marie was aware of you long before she started teaching at the DWMA

-she’s a death sythe and Stein is one of the best meisters in the world, meaning your existence isn’t exactly hideabke so she would’ve heard about maybe even in brief passing

-wether she knew you were a weapon or not before she met you doesn’t make much of a difference

-you officially met Marie when she came to stay with you and your dad while they were working on defeating Ashura

-and safe to say she fell in love with you within minutes

-you were semi down to earth like Stein but you were so sweet and just overall doteable

-finding out you were a weapon just made you two all the closer

-you took a liking to her fairly immediately, seeing her as a motherly figure with your own mother gone

-the three of you would train together after school in weekends (Stein even wielding both of you at once one time)

-Marie would be delighted if your weapon form was similar to hers, but even if it wasn’t she would love you the same

-but when Marie finds out you can also fight by herself!!!???

-she’s ecstatic, so so so proud of you even if you aren’t her child

-she wants to make sure you’re safe and healthy first and foremost, she won’t let you overwork yourself one bit 😤😤😤

-is a little concerned that a teenager can figure out how to fight on their own and she can’t but it’s whatever lol

-you would probably also grow a strong connection with Crona from him being over to see Marie so often

(you would totally threaten Ragnarok when he’s being a little shit)

-when you’re in the classroom you and Marie try to act like you two aren’t attached at the hip (but it’s a wee bit obvious she has a slight favorite)

-no one in class holds it against you though and it doesn’t mean Marie doesn’t love her other students just as much

-now getting onto Stein

-this man is shutting bricks terrified

-he barely understands his own teenager, let alone a woman his own age

-you two have your own way of speaking and suddenly you’re style is changing and his house is changing

-the man cannot cope

-once he gets over the first few weeks of “wtf is going on”, he settles in really nicely

-Stein may not say it but he really appreciates the relationship you and Marie have because sometimes he feels he is lacking as a parent in the emotional capacity

-he won’t admit it but he loves how much you two get along, it feels like he has his own small family, it makes his heart all fuzzy

-and when you start to notice that Stein likes Marie you are pushing it SO hard

-i mean accidentally “forgetting” something in Stein’s room so Marie goes to get it while Stein is sleeping

-slipping both of them gifts and pretending it’s from the other

-trying to get Stein to just freaking admit he like Marie

-and when they get together you’re happy as a clam, within a few months of the two of them dating, you start calling Marie ‘mom’

-she started bawling the first time you did, and from then on you three are an actual family

-if and when Stein and Marie get married she legally adopts you

-you three are an unstoppable team of badasses, especially when all three of you resonate

-the only problem is Marie trying to figure out how to tell you both the family is about to go from the terrifying three to the fearsome four….

-———————————————————————————

that’s all my dears!

I hope you thoroughly enjoyed

and per usual I am here solely for your literary pleasure

-Melodrangea <3

[actualbird]

Statistical Report of Marius/Luke Ao3 Literature (2024)

(aka, a pet project i've been working on behind the scenes for a while. if you'd rather read it as a PDF, you can check it out here, but i've copy pasted its entirety into this text post, beginning in 3...2...1...)

Introduction

Ahhh, Marius von Hagen and Luke Pearce…such wonderful characters from hit mobile otome game “未定事件簿 | Tears of Themis.” As love interests to Miss MC Rosa Qiangwei, they each are incredibly compelling characters with incredibly nuanced backstories, personalities, and dynamics with MC.

Also, there’s a small but dedicated community of shippers that want them to kiss and make out and be in love with each other. Hell yeah!

Welcome to the Statistical Report of Marius/Luke Ao3 Literature (2024), a report that aims to capture this community’s literary contribution to the MariLuke ship by crunching the data available to the public on Ao3! 

Before going into the data, there are some notes and caveats to this census that the author would like to make clear.

This report’s data was taken from the “未定事件簿 | Tears of Themis (Video Game)” fandom tag on Archive of Our Own. This means that all works outside of this tag or outside of this website (ex. Twitter thread fics or Tumblr drabbles not crossposted to Ao3, fanfiction only on other sites like FanFiction.net, Wattpad, Weibo, etc.) have not been included.

This report’s data is as of May 31, 2024 as a cutoff date. This was so that I wouldn’t have to endlessly update the data and go insane.

Works that did exist but have since been deleted as of May 31, 2024 are not included, as the author does not have an encyclopedic memory of fanfics that no longer exist on the site :( 

Now with all that said, let’s dive in.

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Number Of Fics Posted and Surge Periods

Now, let’s begin with the number of fics posted. As of May 31, 2024, there are 166 fics in the “Lu Jinghe | Marius von Hagen/Xia Yan | Luke Pearce” tag on Ao3. This number (and subsequently, this report) counts fics as they are listed in AO3 as unique fics, meaning that if it takes up its own little box in the AO3 feed, that’s one fic in itself. This does unfortunately mean that fics that act as a collection (i.e. each chapter is a different story) are only counted as one fic. This number also excludes podfics, because that’s basically the same fic in a different format.

That being said, this number is still nothing to scoff at. And things get even more delightful when we track down the frequency of fics posted month by month in a timeline.

The earliest MariLuke fic posted on Ao3 was “You are King” by itshaku on August 8, 2021, a mere 10 days after ToT’s official global release. The folks who posted the very first few fics in August 2021 laid down the foundation and bedrock of the Ao3 tag, and as ToT’s existence to the global audience continued, more and more fic started to populate our hallowed halls.

However, while that’s the earliest MariLuke fic as is recorded by Ao3 now, I happen to know that there was a fic that was posted even earlier. A fic called “Don’t Let Me Go” by sakurei. Both the fic and the author’s account has since been delated, but I knew this fic existed because I originally started this report in 2022. When I had first put together the preliminary data, I noted “Don’t Let Me Go” as the first ever fic, and then was disheartened to learn that it was deleted. Like, no…the sacred texts… All hope seemed lost until my dear friend Z Lukevonhagen suggested I search the link on the Wayback Machine, and lo and behold, a copy of the True First Ever MariLuke Fanfic On Ao3 had been unearthed. Thanks, Z!

In the month of October 2021, the Marius/Luke tag experienced its first fic surge. For the purposes of this report, any month with 8 or more fics posted during their duration is counted as a surge. Why is 8 or more the qualifier? That number was picked solely off of vibes.

A total of 9 new fics were posted in October 2021, though the I can’t find any discernible reason for this fic. After some digging, I found no relevant fan events that occurred in October 2021 that linked to any of the MariLuke fics. In terms of in-game happenings, the only thing of note here is that this is when the Symphony Of The Night event was running, but it’s not like Marius and Luke made out on screen during that event’s storyline (oh, how I wished though…)

Our next surge happened in August 2022, with a whole 12 fics posted, when the tag suddenly and beautifully got a sizeable influx of CN fics. CN fics take up 6 of the 12 fics posted during this time period, which is half of the month’s total fic yield. Thank you for your service, CN MariLukers !

Our next surge period lasted for a whopping 3 consecutive months, ushering a Golden Age for MariLuke fics, so to speak. Month by month, what happened was:

In October 2022, another surge occurred with a total of 11 fics. During this month, Twitter account Thirst of Themis had run a ToT Kinktober fan event, and a number of new Marius/Luke fics were created and posted in accordance with the Kinktober prompts. 

In November 2022, a total of 9 fics were posted, and this was mostly because of two specific singular authors’ hard work, as they published several fics all on their own in rapid succession and contributed to the surge. Ao3 author Litchire posted a whopping 4 fics during this period, along with Ao3 author ynfzymokaihewo who posted 3 fics. 

In December 2022, a total of 9 fics were posted, though this is the month where I couldn’t find any discernible reason once again. Maybe the holiday season just made us all fic-happy? Who knows.

After that, it’s smooth sailing for a while with average MariLuke fic yields for a couple of months.

Then, the Recession came. Followed by a Revival. Followed by another Recession. 

In April, 2023, only one (1) MariLuke fic was posted. Authors recovered in the following month of May 2023, but right after in June 2023, we all died once again with a staggering zero (0) new MariLuke fics posted. I assume we all went into hibernation or something. But that’s fine, because the next month in July 2023, the crops started flowering once more and the MariLuke harvest began anew.

Our next surge happened a couple months later, in November 2023, with 8 new fics posted. The culprit here is Thirst of Themis once again, for they had run a November prompts event, and 7 out of 8 MariLuke fics posted this month were in fulfillment of the event.

Now, we arrive at our latest surge and also our biggest one. In may 2024, the MariLuke Ao3 tag saw a whopping 28 new fics posted. This is undoubtedly the result of the fan event MariLuke Week (May 2024) for 27 out of the 28 fics were posted in fulfillment of the event’s prompts. The following authors participated in MariLuke Week, with their fic counts for this event placed next to their name:

xXILoveMyFridgeXx (10 fics contributed)

wtfhoney (7 fics contributed)

quarterweeb / theobscenfraction (4 fics contributed)

reptilianraven (3 fics contributed)

lukevonhagen (2 fics contributed)

Litchire (1 fic contributed)

Congratulations and thank you to the writers who participated in the event! You all contributed to the biggest surge in MariLuke stocks THUS FAR, and you should all give yourselves a pat on the back.

That concludes the timeline of MariLuke works up til May 31, 2024! Hit the showers, everybody!

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Full List of AO3 Users Who Have Written Marius/Luke Fanfiction

The Marius/Luke writer population is a small but mighty one, with a total of 45 unique authors who have posted a fic Marius/Luke fic on Ao3 as of May 31, 2024. Before going into the full list of authors, here are some important caveats to the list:

ON ANONYMOUS AUTHORS: As this report deals with how Ao3 lists data, all authors who have opted to post anonymously will be counted as one entity. I personally know that some anonymous authors are different users, but verifying this without making any fuckups would make my tiny pea brain cry. For this reason, anonymous authors are counted as one unique author, so if you’re one of these anonymous authors, congrats on being a part of a Marius/Luke hivemind!

ON AUTHORS WITH PSEUDS: An Ao3 user who has different posted fics within the Marius/Luke tag under different pseuds will be counted as one unique author. Despite saying in the last paragraph that the my personal knowledge will not be enacted to tweak how Ao3 lists data, I’m making one exception here because it literally only pertains to three Ao3 users in the ship tag, so this won’t make my tiny brain cry at all.

So without further ado and in alphabetical order, here our are heroes:

Authors listed under the Anonymous Label

ajing_1124

artistic_gemini

asukryo

autumnsparrxw

BlazingSunflowers

CandorArchives

chechevitsa

darkbreak

doridoripawaa

dxpiarchaive / keeyamii

Eden_of_Amour / suffering_meguca

EnnTea

floweringlight

friedchickenlord

Goryo_Wataru

i_o_u_e_a

itshaku

kombat_exe

ladyhaspran

layla_wp

Litchire

lukevonhagen

m3i_day

marcipancake

monocuri

osamurice

pvsiytemhaver

quarterweeb / theobscenefraction

reptilianraven

RikuMorimachisGirl

Rxzaliya

samandspam

snocchiato

Solaste

sondepoch

strayris

Szim

Tinowenn

ThirdLibraryOfYumenosaki

turnscote

wtfhoney

xeriacat

xXILoveMyFridgeXx

ynfzymokaihewo

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A Brief Glimpse Into Ratings and Tags

Before I looked at the ratings, I had a hypothesis that Explicit fics would take the lead because in majority of the MariLuke fics I’ve read myself, Marius and Luke are written to have incredibly active libidos. Lo and behold, when I did chart down the fics by rating, is is revealed that…

…statistically, we are horny. 

Not by a whole lot though! Fics that are rated Teen and Up comes in 2nd place by just a very small margin, so that’s a lot of fics that are accessible to those who don’t want to read Marius and Luke getting nasty.

In terms of Additional Tags, I checked out the Top 5 most frequented Additional Tags and charted them below.

The Top 5 most used Additional Tags are actually Fluff, Light Angst, Comedy, Humor, and Anal Sex. However, I reasoned that Comedy and Humor are the exact same thing, so I counted them as synonyms and added in the 6th most used Additional Tag: Established Relationship. 

Anyhoo, I think it’s really sweet to see that Fluff reigns supreme! And by a large margin, too. We love to write our boys having a wholesome lovely time. Of course, we also like just a smidge of narrative spice, which is where Light Angst comes in in 2nd place. That being said, I think it’s insanely funny that Anal Sex is in this chart. It is very out of place among the rest, LMAO.

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A Brief Segue Into The Popularity of Marius/Luke In Relation to Other ToT BL Pairings

As of May 31, 2024, Marius/Luke is the 1st most popular M/M ship in the Ao3 tag, overall clocking in with a total of 166 works. 

In addition to that, I think it’s interesting to note that the 2nd most popular BL ship is Marius/Artem, with 130 fics, while the 3rd most popular BL ship is Marius/Vyn, with 66 fics. Tied for 4th place is Artem/Male or Gender Neutral Reader, and Vyn/Artem, both at 46 fics respectively.

The reason why I think the top 5 BL ships are interesting to look at is due to Marius’ participation in 3 out of the 5 most popular M/M ships in the ToT tag. Given this, we can veritably congratulate him for statistically beating the heterosexual allegations. Marius really gave off vibes that made many different shippers go “oh there’s no way in hell he’s completely straight.”

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Accolades 

Longest Fic

As of May 31, 2024, the Longest Fic in the tag is [drumroll]...Losing Sight by pvsiytemhaver! This fic is actually primarily as ArtemRosa fic with MariLuke as an additional ship, and it currently clocks in at 90,109 words, taking the 1st spot as the longest MariLuke fic and the 18th longest fic overall in the general “未定事件簿 | Tears of Themis (Video Game)” fandom tag. Let’s take a look at the runner ups!

Here’s the list of the longest fics in the MariLuke tag:

Losing Sight by pvsiytemhaver (90,109 words)

the lips i used to call home (it was maroon) by xXILoveMyFridgeXx (58,185 words)

Five Points of a Star by xXILoveMyFridgeXx (25,494 words)

Risk of Pain by Solaste (25,157 words)

end of a decade (start of an age) by xXILoveMyFridgeXx (20,671 words)

Special shoutout to user xXILoveMyFridgeXx who consistently pumps out fics with gargantuan word counts.

Fic With Most Kudos

Next on the list is the Fic With The Most Kudos, and this title goes to [drumroll]... “standard operating procedure (x4 speedrun) by reptilianraven” which…oh, that’s me. 

This fic is not solely a MariLuke work, but an NXX Polycule work that has MariLuke within it. Weighing in with 827 kudos, it takes the spot as the 1st most kudos’d MariLuke work, while also weighing in as the 9th most kudos’d fic overall in the general “未定事件簿 | Tears of Themis (Video Game)” fandom tag. Let’s take a look at the runner ups!

Here’s the list of the Top 5 Fics With Most Kudos:

standard operating procedure (x4 speedrun) by reptilianraven (827 kudos)

every breath you take, every move you make, peanut will be watching you by reptilianraven (735 kudos)

how Puppy Pierce© conquered the world by reptilianraven (705 kudos)

the existence of a top student implies the existence of a bottom student by reptilianraven (575 kudos)

making out with your bro for fun and for profit by reptilianraven (567 kudos)

(Thank you for the kudos ;^;)

Author With Most MariLuke Works Written

And now, for our last accolade… the award for the author who currently has a large chunk of the MariLuke Ao3 tag coming from their own fics wrought by their own mind. 

This title goes to [drumroll]... oh goddamn it, it’s me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being insane about them. I don’t remember writing this much for them, I swear to god. Let’s look at the runner ups!

Here’s the list of authors with the most MariLuke works written:

reptilianraven (24 works)

quarterweeb / theobscenefraction (quarterweeb) (23 works)

Litchire (15 works) and ynfzymokaihewo (15 works) tied for 3rd place

xXILoveMyFridgeXx (13 works)

wtfhoney (11 works)

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Conclusion

I love this ship. I love this ship so goddamn much, but if there’s one thing I love more, it’s the community of shippers who write for this ship. This pet project was started as a little love letter from me to the MariLuke writing community. So, thank you, MariLuke writers!! Thank you for putting your heart and soul into the works you create, thus fashioning a beautifully wide array of fics to enjoy and read, and thank you for showing your love for this rarepair!

Alright, this report is too damn long. I’m gonna go reread MariLuke fics now. Bye! Hope you enjoyed!

[moonsun2010]

In August 1894, at the end of a month-long stay to research his embryonic novel, Bram Stoker wrote in the visitors’ book at the Kilmarnock Arms on the Aberdeenshire coast that he had been “delighted with everything and everybody” and hoped to return soon.

According to new research, though, the feeling was not entirely mutual. Stoker, a genial Irishman usually known for his cheeriness, was experimenting with what would become known as “method acting” to get under the skin of his new character, one Count Dracula.

According to his wife, Florence, everyone – including the hotel staff, and the locals – was frightened of him. He “seemed to get obsessed by the spirit of the thing,” she later said. He “would sit for hours, like a great bat, perched on the rocks of the shore, or wander alone up and down the sand hills thinking it all out”.

Imagine seeing a 6'2 well built guy stalking the shore daily, you can't even tell him to stop scaring the locals

Text is from this The Guardian article. Honestly that's hilarious, though witnessing it in real life is probably something different. "[A] genial Irishman usually known for his cheeriness" makes me want to see a photo of him smiling so bad... David Skal's introduction for the excellent Something in the Blood (highly recommended if you want to read more literary analysis about Dracula) states that "There are no photographs of Bram Stoker smiling." :(( and then just shows a photograph of Stoker having the same posture I slump into 10 seconds into an exam.

As for the last sentence "[Stoker] 'would sit for hours, like a great bat, perched on the rocks of the shore, or wander alone up and down the sand hills thinking it all out'", I've never read Twilight, but I imagine this is exactly how Edward Cullen acts like.

[pynkhues]

https://x.com/lestatdelioncat/status/1858608673855336516?t=KsAra9iHb3aUiMDx21TF2w&s=19 I dont understand what Jacob meant by this and I definitely would argue that Louis isn't the most vampire but that Claudia is

Mmm, yeah. My interpretation of what Jacob’s saying there is that Louis has an enormous capacity for self-indulgence, and its because he has that, that he has to restrain himself so fully. That makes sense to me, I think we see that in 2.05 in particular between all the boys and the drugs, but I think we also see it in how he bottles things up until they explode out of him and he does things like murder the Alderman Fenwick in a pretty gory and performative way, and, y’know, swims the Mississippi to get at Lestat (in more ways than one!)

Does that make him more vampiric? I don’t know if I think that does, but it begs the question of what you think determines a vampire’s core characteristics? It’s an ever-evolving archetype, and has definitely gone through a lot of iterations in the last twenty years in particular, but I think if you’re looking at the origins in traditional gothic literature, Louis is in many ways the quintessential vampire.

So! Let's have a look at that.

The origins of the vampire

The concept of a vampire in literature was actually created in the same summer retreat that Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein in, which is a delightful little slice of history. You can read more about it here if you’re interested, but the nuts and bolts of it is that a freshly-divorced Lord Byron, his doctor, Dr. Polidori, as well as Percy and Mary Shelly, and Mary’s stepsister, Claire Clairmont (who was pregnant with Byron’s child, a child he really didn’t want), went on a summer retreat to Switzerland together, and basically just spent months reading each other ghost stories which ultimately culminated in Byron suggesting they have a competition to see who could write the best one.

Hilariously, none of them really wrote a ghost story – Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein, and Byron actually wrote two things, although he only finished one – a poem called The Darkness which is effectively a dystopian poem about the end of the world – and his unfinished project was a novel about a dying man who swears he’ll be resurrected to visit his friend after he dies.

It's this that’s actually taken up by Byron’s doctor, Dr. Polidori, who turns it into the 1819 short story, The Vampyre, with the lead character being heavily based on Byron himself.

In Polidori’s story, it features a man, Aubrey, observing his rich, sexy male friend, Lord Ruthven, who has superhuman strength and can’t be killed by bullets, and who seems to keep seducing women important to Aubrey right before they mysteriously die. Basically Aubrey slowly realizes through mounting dread that Lord Ruthven survives by drinking the blood of innocent women.

I’ve talked a lot about the Byronic Hero (and how I think Louis embodies the trope), so I won’t go too much into it here, but my point is that the original concept of a vampire is inherently built on those romantic ideas of class and wealth (which is important for reasons I’ll get into shortly), sophistication and intelligence, hiding in plain sight and seduction, and is generally understood to have queer subtext which many read into the relationship between Aubrey and Lord Ruthven (Ruthven literally seduces and murders Aubrey’s lover and his sister, isolating him to his companionship). He’s also inherently Byronic, being first started by him, and later based on him – Byron truly isthe I-don’t-know-if-I-want-to-be-him-or-be-with-him guy of literary history, haha.

Building on the origins and evolving the metaphor

It was the late 1800s though when some of the most genre-defining stories were published. The two biggest being Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu’s Carmilla (1871) and, of course, Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897). The genre had evolved already at this point, but the archetype actually didn’t change all that much. In fact, the vampire as someone who is rich, predatory and seductive became character traits that became metaphors in and of themselves, namely as a class metaphor. This was started with Lord Ruthven in The Vampyre, but it’s really expanded here, particularly in Dracula, who’s understood in the context of the 1890s to represent the solitary nature of monopoly capital that sucks the life from the labouring classes. He hoards his wealth through land and gold, and preys on the working class.

There’s been a lot written on this, so I won’t labour the point, but the understanding of vampires as symbols of aristocracy and capitalism has always existed, and I know that we joke about Louis being the first vampire capitalist, but it’s actually not true. Capitalism has always been a vital part of the genre, because class has always been a central tenet of classic gothic fiction, for better and for worse.

Wealth and class is also central to Carmilla. It’s set in the 1800s in Austria while the wealth gap between the rich and poor is increasing, and Carmilla comes from an aristocratic, old money family. She benefits from being rich, and she uses her social power as a rich aristocrat in order to seduce and prey on people in the lower classes. Again, the entwining of wealth and class is really prevalent, but interestingly too, Carmilla’s the most explicitly queer of all of these early vampire stories, with the lesbian relationship woven through it effectively textual, but Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu also posits two means of being turned into a vampire, which is kind of uniquely interesting to me.

One is the way we know – vampires turn vampires, but the second is that vampires are people who’ve been rejected by God, whether due to suicide, as explicitly stated in the book, or excommunication from the church for a sinful life. While this hasn’t literally carried forward much in the genre, I do actually think its still there. The elements of sin and quote-unquote ‘corruption’ are still threaded through most vampire fiction even today, and while hedonism is more common in modern vampires, there are elements of misery that feel pervasive. The idea that vampires are born either through being turned, corrupted or dying by their own hand is just one that I find really interesting, and I think also speaks a bit to elements of the Byronic Hero that the vampire is inherently steeped in as an archetype.

…And evolving some more

It was actually Anne’s books in the 70s that relaunched vampires into the stratosphere popularity-wise, and they did evolve in theme and metaphor as a result. Vampires are understood to be manifestations of current anxieties, which yes, in the 1800s was the rise of monopolistic capitalism, female sexuality and homosexuality, and in the 70s through 80s became metaphors for anxieties around STIs, the AIDS crisis, and addiction in particular, but these themes of class and misery never left the genre.

That said, the Vampire as an archetype in and of itself was also informed in this period really by the Milton’s Satan archetype which has gone on to form the modern concept of the anti-hero. I talked a lot about the Milton’s Satan archetype here in terms of Lestat, but the important thing to note is that it holds to the idea of a protagonist as a fallen angel who becomes a hero-villain, hedonistic, vain, proud and horribly, terribly human.

So, do I think Louis’ the most vampiric of the vampires?

Yeah, actually. In a lot of ways, Louis marries all the foundations of the traditional vampire. He’s as wealthy, intelligent, and seductive as Lord Ruthven was, but he really feeds into the late 1800s vampire as a symbol of the parasitic nature of monopolistic capitalism and landed wealth. He chooses to be solitary and rejects community, he’s using women’s bodies to keep his family in wealth, he’s hoarding and commodifying art and wishing death on artists to increase profit, he’s gentrifying San Francisco, he’s turned in a church on a night he likely would’ve commit suicide, tying back into Le Fanu’s idea of alternate ways of vampires being turned, hell, he’s even doing drugs with addicts in the sprawl of the seventies, using his social power over Daniel by flaunting his wealth to get him into a room with him.

And he’s a Byronic Hero. So he’s miserable while he does it, haha.

That joy in the hunt that Claudia has to me is more like Lestat’s, which I do think as I said in the Milton’s Satan / Fallen Angel archetype post is more tied up in the demonic than the vampiric, traditionally speaking. There’s definitely crossover though, especially as Milton’s Satan has informed the modern anti hero, and vampires are generally always anti heroes in modern fiction. I don’t think Claudia necessarily is a Milton’s Satan either – I’ve said it before, but I think she’s a true Gothic Heroine – but she definitely has some of those attributes of a fallen angel, particularly in the sense of hedonism and perversion of form and family.

In a lot of ways, it’s part of the fun with Claudia – she gets these elements of both Louis and Lestat, and gets to be her own thing too. Her vampirism is its own unique monstrousness, but I don’t think she plays as cleanly into the traditional vampire as Louis does.

I'll leave it there, because this is way more than you asked for, anon, haha, sorry. Hopefully it's interesting.

[sam-keeper]

The Black Cat (1934)

I came to The Black Cat through cartoons: Norman M Klein's 7 Minutes is a history of american theatrical animation--particularly its decline and fall, which he blames in part on the Hays Code. For Klein, while the code itself was never imposed upon animation studios directly as a tool of censorship, it encouraged economic censorship, which imposed a new orderly world upon cartoons. Anyway, I finished the book as we prepared our list for the year's halloween marathon, and it prompted me to look into pre-Code horror. Just what were black and white horror films like before industry leaders brought the hammer of censorship down on the medium?

Enter The Black Cat, in which Bela Lugosi and Boris Karloff face off as old friends turned mortal enemies, with the souls of a couple of dopey American tourists as prize in their deadly game. I fell in love with the film before even watching because I located a clip of one of the bonkers early reveals in the film and instantly latched onto the interplay between Lugosi and Karloff. Lugosi is searching for his lost wife, who he thinks Karloff has spirited away. Karloff finally relents and says he will take Lugosi to see her, bringing him deep into the derelict military fort he has built his home on. There he reveals Lugosi's wife, dead, suspended by the hair in a glass coffin. "I wanted to have her beauty always," Karloff intones.

Hell. Yes. This is everything I wanted from "pre-Code horror". And the rest of the film does not disappoint for insanity. Oh, sure, the "suggested by" in "suggested by a story by Edgar Allen Poe" tells you how faithful to literary classics it is, and its own plot is a bit scattershot and nonsensical. But while it doesn't show a lot of shocking gore on screen, it's not really short on depravity, and watching Lugosi and Karloff play off each other is delightful.

I think it's easy to write this era of horror off as well trodden cliches, and rather tame approaches to the ghastly and ghoulish. I fully expected the film to take place in a haunted eastern european satanic castle, for example. Certainly the foundation of the set fits that description: as I've noted already, the basement of Karloff's manor is an abandoned fort in which hundreds of men died during the First World War due to his machinations. Atop the ruin, however, perches the architect Karloff's brilliant modernist manor, a gleaming Bauhaus facility. Why, even the chamber where he does rituals in praise to Satan with other european perverts is in gorgeous art deco style! The film suggests that all this modernity is just the new face of very old demons and horrors (a more astute insight than maybe the film's creators were consciously going for). For its occasional choppiness and dated mannerisms, the sheer weirdness of this film is well worth seeing for yourself, even if it necessitates getting over the hurdle of our popular perception of this era's films. And what of the Code? The juxtaposition of modernist brilliance and depravity drives the film, and it's hard to imagine it having the same impact with, say, a competent police force, or no suggestion of Karloff's sexual predation. Horror films, it turns out, don't get better when you strip them of all menace and render them less deathly, more deathly dull.

And if that's not enough, I'll tell you that one of the diabolical duo--I won't reveal which one!--strings the other up on a torture device, rips off his shirt, and--no, I shan't say. It's simply too depraved. You'll have to see for yourself... if you dare!

Read more horror reviews all month for Halloween on my Patreon

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i love catch 22 too !!

^_^ !!! people have been recommending it to me for months now and i'm so glad i finally gave it a chance!

my to-read list is basically all the big classics from all the big names— titles that have stood the test of time to become ingrained in the literary canon and popular subconscious... other things on the to-read list include wuthering heights, crime and punishment, and the count of monte cristo, as a few random examples. i haven't had the energy and time to sit down and knock another title off the list since i read pride and prejudice last year, so i'm absolutely delighted that this pick ended up being such a blast to read. then again, i love messy tragedies, conversational narrators, and biting political commentary, so it's not the least bit surprising.

...but don't follow me just for my literary takes. this has been a mash blog punctuated by nautical nonsequiturs for almost a year now and that's probably not about to change anytime soon!