#my lawyer says i should say less though /j

[lawbyrhys]

Lawyer's Take on Judge Judy's Trump Trial Take

This is old news, but I have yet to address it on this blog. What do I think of Judge Judy's opinion on the NY Trump trial? Let's get into it.

For those who don't know, Judge Judith Sheindlin is not impressed with the New York trial and conviction of former president Donald J. Trump. She had this to say when asked about the situation in an interview with Chris Wallace:

"I would be happier, as someone who owns property in Manhattan, if the district attorney of New York County would take care of criminals who were making it impossible for citizens to walk in the streets and use the subway, to use his efforts to keep those people off the street, than to spend $5 million or $10 million of taxpayers’ money trying Donald Trump on this nonsense."

What do I think, though? I wholeheartedly disagree.

I think anybody who breaks the law should be held to account and prosecuted for their actions. I do not believe any of his crimes are "nonsense," but rather, they are serious offenses the honorable likes of Judith Sheindlin should grasp. I have immense respect for her and what she's accomplished in her career—I grew up watching her show and idolizing her work—but I can't get behind her clumsy perpetuation of the misconception that white collar crimes are somehow not as legitimate or threatening to the public welfare, and should take less priority in contrast to more overt crimes in a community. In my opinion, Donald J. Trump was and is just another criminal on the streets of New York, and I don't need to own property in the city to hold that opinion—a judge and jury already agreed with me 34 times anyway. To go a step further, I'm relieved the American people have cold, hard facts and can now make a more informed decision in November. I'm glad the DA "took care" of him, and I hold a lot of respect for how well the trial was executed. It was a brilliant display of professional, just judicial power, and I can't disagree enough with the notion that it was in any way, shape, or form, "nonsense."

I hold Judge Judith Sheindlin in a higher regard than this, and I believe she should honor herself and the rule of law more than to be nonchalant.

What do you think of all of this? Let me know!

[kammartinez]

Because I am a writer, and because I am a hoarder, my apartment is littered with notebooks that contain a mixture of journal entries and school assignments. Many pages don’t have dates, but I can tell which era of my life they correspond to just by looking at the handwriting. In the earliest examples, from elementary school, my print is angular, jagged; even the s’s and j’s turn sharp corners. In middle school, when I wanted to be more feminine (and was otherwise failing), I made my letters rounder, every curve a bubble ready to pop. In my junior year of high school, when it was time to get serious about applying to college, I switched to cursive, slender and tightly controlled.

Each of my metamorphoses was made in keeping with a centuries-old American belief that people—types of people, even—can be defined by how they write their letters. Now, though, this form of signaling may be obsolete. In the age of text on screens, many of us hardly write by hand at all, so we rarely get the chance to assess one another’s character through penmanship. Handwriting, as a language of its own, is dying out.

Over the centuries, the way people read that language has shifted. Until the 1800s, at least in the U.S., writing styles were less an act of self-expression than a marker of your social category, including your profession. “There were certain font types for merchants, for example, that were supposed to reflect the efficiency and the speed with which merchants work,” Tamara Plakins Thornton, a historian at the University at Buffalo and the author of Handwriting in America, told me. Lawyers used a different script, aristocrats another, and so on. The distinctions were enforced—by social norms, by teachers, by clients and colleagues and employers.

Men and women, too, were assigned their own fonts. Men were taught “muscular handwriting,” Carla Peterson, an emeritus professor of English at the University of Maryland, told me. They used roundhand, a larger script that was meant to be produced with more pressure on the quill or pen; women, by contrast, learned the narrower Italian script, akin to today’s italics. The latter style was compressed, says Ewan Clayton, a handwriting expert at the University of Sunderland, in the United Kingdom, in the same way that women’s waists might be limited by contemporary fashion. Eventually, women switched to using roundhand too.

The idea that handwriting styles might differ meaningfully from one person to another—and that those differences could be a means of showing your true nature—really took off in the 19th century, around the time that business correspondence and records started being outsourced to the typewriter. As penmanship was freed from professional constraints, it became more personal. “It was really believed that handwriting could be the articulation of self, that indeed the character of script said something about the character of a person,” says Mark Alan Mattes, an assistant English professor at the University of Louisville and the editor of the upcoming collection Handwriting in Early America.

Samples of “purely intuitive” (top) and “purely deductive” (bottom) handwriting styles from Talks on Graphology by Helen Lamson Robinson and M. L. Robinson

Graphological tendencies continued into the early 20th century, when researchers published studies proclaiming that readers could guess a person’s gender from their script with better-than-chance accuracy—as if students hadn’t still been taught that boys and girls should write in different ways as of just a few decades prior. Through the 1970s, scientists were plumbing handwriting for character traits; one study found that “missing i dots are related to the nonsubmissive, non-egocentric, socially interested person,” whereas the “number of circled i dots relates positively to the intelligent and sophisticated personality.”

Handwriting analysis moved further toward the fringe in the age of computer connectivity, when typing took over. “We are witnessing the death of handwriting,” Time proclaimed in 2009. Things have only gotten more digital since then. I now spend half of my waking life talking with my co-workers, and I have no idea what any of their writing looks like. Same for the subset of my friends who don’t happen to send birthday cards. One of my best friends is getting married next year, and I have never seen her fiancé’s handwriting. How am I supposed to know whether he tends toward deduction or intuition, whether he’s intelligent or socially interested, whether he’s an artist or a serial killer?

Let me be clear: Graphology is, as Thornton told me, “complete B.S.” Very few innate factors influence a person’s penmanship. Neither legibility nor messiness indicates intelligence. (Both claims have been made.) Handwriting can be used to diagnose conditions that affect a person’s movements, such as Parkinson’s, but you can’t learn anything about a person’s moral fiber by how they cross their t’s. What you can learn is how that person has been socialized to present themselves to the world, says Seth Perlow, an associate English professor at Georgetown. Doctors have a culture of sloppy writing; teen girls have a culture of dotting their i’s with tiny hearts. Girls don’t write that way because they’re feminine; they write that way because they’ve learned that tiny hearts are associated with femininity.

I remember practicing my letters as a kid when I got bored in class, adjusting the parts I didn’t like, adding and removing the belts from my 7s, the caps from my a’s. Testing out a new style was like trying on a new outfit in front of a mirror—assessing how it looked, knowing other people would see it too. Now, as handwriting becomes less and less enmeshed in our daily lives, Thornton told me, “there’s good reason to think this is not an arena for self-expression. It’s just something you have to learn and get away with as best you can.” If you want to assert your identity, and you want people to see it, you’re more likely to do so by sculpting your appearance, adding your pronouns to your Instagram bio, or updating LinkedIn so everyone knows you’re a merchant without having to decipher your chicken scratch.

In fact, many of the qualities that were once conveyed with a certain type of handwriting—literary bent or emotional openness, for example—may now be conveyed by the act of putting pen to paper at all. Perlow has studied the practice of posting photos of handwritten poems on Instagram, and he told me that it “conjures a feeling of personal authenticity or expressiveness or direct contact with the personality of the poet.”

Tech companies have even tried to sell that feeling, in the form of computer-generated “handwriting.” Services such as Handwrytten, Simply Noted, and Pen Letters allow customers to type out a message that a robot will then transcribe, using an actual pen, in any number of “handwriting” styles. (The robot-written letter is then mailed on your behalf.) But these tools run the risk of conjuring less a sense of personal authenticity than one of inconsiderate laziness. If a friend or family member sent me one of these cards, I’d be annoyed that they didn’t put in the time, or the work, to write out a message with their own, human hand.

Perhaps that’s really what handwriting comes down to in the digital age: time and work. My husband and I write letters to each other a few times every year, and it’s a grueling act of love. Figuring out what I want to say is an emotional and intellectual project. But after a few paragraphs, the challenge becomes mostly physical. The muscles of my right palm start to cramp up; my ring finger aches from where I rest the pen against it. I’d like to think my determination to write through the discomfort says more about me than the script I settled on a decade ago.

[kamreadsandrecs]

Because I am a writer, and because I am a hoarder, my apartment is littered with notebooks that contain a mixture of journal entries and school assignments. Many pages don’t have dates, but I can tell which era of my life they correspond to just by looking at the handwriting. In the earliest examples, from elementary school, my print is angular, jagged; even the s’s and j’s turn sharp corners. In middle school, when I wanted to be more feminine (and was otherwise failing), I made my letters rounder, every curve a bubble ready to pop. In my junior year of high school, when it was time to get serious about applying to college, I switched to cursive, slender and tightly controlled.

Each of my metamorphoses was made in keeping with a centuries-old American belief that people—types of people, even—can be defined by how they write their letters. Now, though, this form of signaling may be obsolete. In the age of text on screens, many of us hardly write by hand at all, so we rarely get the chance to assess one another’s character through penmanship. Handwriting, as a language of its own, is dying out.

Over the centuries, the way people read that language has shifted. Until the 1800s, at least in the U.S., writing styles were less an act of self-expression than a marker of your social category, including your profession. “There were certain font types for merchants, for example, that were supposed to reflect the efficiency and the speed with which merchants work,” Tamara Plakins Thornton, a historian at the University at Buffalo and the author of Handwriting in America, told me. Lawyers used a different script, aristocrats another, and so on. The distinctions were enforced—by social norms, by teachers, by clients and colleagues and employers.

Men and women, too, were assigned their own fonts. Men were taught “muscular handwriting,” Carla Peterson, an emeritus professor of English at the University of Maryland, told me. They used roundhand, a larger script that was meant to be produced with more pressure on the quill or pen; women, by contrast, learned the narrower Italian script, akin to today’s italics. The latter style was compressed, says Ewan Clayton, a handwriting expert at the University of Sunderland, in the United Kingdom, in the same way that women’s waists might be limited by contemporary fashion. Eventually, women switched to using roundhand too.

The idea that handwriting styles might differ meaningfully from one person to another—and that those differences could be a means of showing your true nature—really took off in the 19th century, around the time that business correspondence and records started being outsourced to the typewriter. As penmanship was freed from professional constraints, it became more personal. “It was really believed that handwriting could be the articulation of self, that indeed the character of script said something about the character of a person,” says Mark Alan Mattes, an assistant English professor at the University of Louisville and the editor of the upcoming collection Handwriting in Early America.

Samples of “purely intuitive” (top) and “purely deductive” (bottom) handwriting styles from Talks on Graphology by Helen Lamson Robinson and M. L. Robinson

Graphological tendencies continued into the early 20th century, when researchers published studies proclaiming that readers could guess a person’s gender from their script with better-than-chance accuracy—as if students hadn’t still been taught that boys and girls should write in different ways as of just a few decades prior. Through the 1970s, scientists were plumbing handwriting for character traits; one study found that “missing i dots are related to the nonsubmissive, non-egocentric, socially interested person,” whereas the “number of circled i dots relates positively to the intelligent and sophisticated personality.”

Handwriting analysis moved further toward the fringe in the age of computer connectivity, when typing took over. “We are witnessing the death of handwriting,” Time proclaimed in 2009. Things have only gotten more digital since then. I now spend half of my waking life talking with my co-workers, and I have no idea what any of their writing looks like. Same for the subset of my friends who don’t happen to send birthday cards. One of my best friends is getting married next year, and I have never seen her fiancé’s handwriting. How am I supposed to know whether he tends toward deduction or intuition, whether he’s intelligent or socially interested, whether he’s an artist or a serial killer?

Let me be clear: Graphology is, as Thornton told me, “complete B.S.” Very few innate factors influence a person’s penmanship. Neither legibility nor messiness indicates intelligence. (Both claims have been made.) Handwriting can be used to diagnose conditions that affect a person’s movements, such as Parkinson’s, but you can’t learn anything about a person’s moral fiber by how they cross their t’s. What you can learn is how that person has been socialized to present themselves to the world, says Seth Perlow, an associate English professor at Georgetown. Doctors have a culture of sloppy writing; teen girls have a culture of dotting their i’s with tiny hearts. Girls don’t write that way because they’re feminine; they write that way because they’ve learned that tiny hearts are associated with femininity.

I remember practicing my letters as a kid when I got bored in class, adjusting the parts I didn’t like, adding and removing the belts from my 7s, the caps from my a’s. Testing out a new style was like trying on a new outfit in front of a mirror—assessing how it looked, knowing other people would see it too. Now, as handwriting becomes less and less enmeshed in our daily lives, Thornton told me, “there’s good reason to think this is not an arena for self-expression. It’s just something you have to learn and get away with as best you can.” If you want to assert your identity, and you want people to see it, you’re more likely to do so by sculpting your appearance, adding your pronouns to your Instagram bio, or updating LinkedIn so everyone knows you’re a merchant without having to decipher your chicken scratch.

In fact, many of the qualities that were once conveyed with a certain type of handwriting—literary bent or emotional openness, for example—may now be conveyed by the act of putting pen to paper at all. Perlow has studied the practice of posting photos of handwritten poems on Instagram, and he told me that it “conjures a feeling of personal authenticity or expressiveness or direct contact with the personality of the poet.”

Tech companies have even tried to sell that feeling, in the form of computer-generated “handwriting.” Services such as Handwrytten, Simply Noted, and Pen Letters allow customers to type out a message that a robot will then transcribe, using an actual pen, in any number of “handwriting” styles. (The robot-written letter is then mailed on your behalf.) But these tools run the risk of conjuring less a sense of personal authenticity than one of inconsiderate laziness. If a friend or family member sent me one of these cards, I’d be annoyed that they didn’t put in the time, or the work, to write out a message with their own, human hand.

Perhaps that’s really what handwriting comes down to in the digital age: time and work. My husband and I write letters to each other a few times every year, and it’s a grueling act of love. Figuring out what I want to say is an emotional and intellectual project. But after a few paragraphs, the challenge becomes mostly physical. The muscles of my right palm start to cramp up; my ring finger aches from where I rest the pen against it. I’d like to think my determination to write through the discomfort says more about me than the script I settled on a decade ago.

[adiarosefandoms]

Spiderman No Way Home: Thoughts/Reactions Pt. 1

I actually gave you all seven days before posting my No Way Home fangirl scribblings, but here we go. Just to reiterate, if you have not seen Spiderman No Way Home, you DO NOT want to read this post. I swear, I am the last girl to lecture one on avoiding spoilers since I tend to actually seek them out like a fool, but this is a movie that if you love Spiderman, if you love the MCU, if you love Marvel, if to any extent you are interested in seeing the movie, you don’t want to be spoiled. You want to run to the theaters and watch it. Now with that said, enjoy my rantings.

GENERAL

You can see Dum-E in Happy’s apartment which is adorable. I don’t think we’ve seen him on screen since Iron Man 3 when Tony pulled him out of the water after the house was attacked and much of it fell into the ocean.

The blind lawyer with the red oval glasses in case you didn’t know, is Daredevil, whose real identity is the lawyer, Matt Murdock. It seems he took a break from protecting Hell’s Kitchen to help out Spiderman. And to please the fans, it’s the same actor who played Daredevil in the tv show. The alternatives would have been Affleck (shudder), or hiring a new guy, but many were pleased with the tv shows interpretation of the man without fear.

 It’s about damn time J. Jonah Jameson was added to the MCU, and there is no doubt that it was the right move to keep JK Simmons and his brilliant mustache in that role.

THE VILLAINS

Osbourn’s hoodie costume is a wonderful homage to the original Green Goblins look with the purple hat and tunic replaced with a loose hoodie. If I’m being honest, I may actually like this one more than the green suit of armor Defoe originally wore. Superhero movies when based off of a comic are held to an impossibly high standard, and the costumes of characters are iconic so recreating them, while still making them seem as realistic as they can be, is a very tall order. To many that means removing the spandex and replacing it with armor. And while I can definitely understand why they do that; I think I honestly would have preferred to see the Green Goblin flying around in those sweats than the armor he wore in Maguire’s first flick just because it looked so freaking good and right.

Fans were not impressed with the second Amazing Spider Man movie (I didn’t think it was all that bad, but maybe I’m the outlier.) One of the many thing’s fans took issue with was the blue skinned Electro who looked a little too alien and strange for a classic Spiderman movie. For this flick they got rid of the skin paint, citing it as an effect of the new world, and gave Electro a costume more accurate to his comic book counterpart. Though they still omit the triple lightning bolt mask, which may be for the best.

When listing their coolest villains Maguire talks about a “black goo from space” (Venom) and Tom talks about fighting Thanos on and off Earth. And then Andrew goes “I want to go to space. I’ve done nothing. I’ve only fought a robot rhinoceros.” The pure absurdity of the villains hits you full force and it’s great.

Electro and Sandman both talk about how they became what they are today. Electro fell into a vat of electric eels and Sandman fell into a particle accelerator. They then quip that they should be careful where they fall. A common comic book villain origin seems to be them falling into something and this hilarious exchange got a chuckle from the whole theater. If these people just put railings around their science experiments, there would be a whole lot less supervillains.

William Defoe deserves all the praise in the world for bringing to life the most iconic Spiderman villain, both in Rami’s 2002 flick and in this one. Every time I watch him I just get so amazed at how wonderfully he portrays a true comic book character who really shouldn’t adapt so well to the screen.

Two famous Spiderman villain lines are requoted in this film. The first is by Green Goblin, who says in Maguire’s first film “You know, I’m something of a scientist myself.” when he was introducing himself to Peter while dropping off Harry. The second is done by Doc Oc who says, “The power of the sun in the palm of my hand.” Though that one was said by Otto as a direct and intended callback.

[itsbenedict]

I just finished hosting a 15-person game of Mafia for some friends. One tradition we have for these games is that every death is accompanied by some themed narration, so for my game I opted to spice it up with some art on top. Had to draw it real quick since I didn't know for sure who was going to die next until it happened.

The game's theme was "JoJo's Bizarre Adventure", with the hidden subtheme that all the roles (stands) were named after They Might Be Giants (@tmbgareok) songs! A list of their powers, links to songs, and a recap of the game under the cut.

01) Mogis - 「Flo Wheeler」

02) TD260 - 「Working Undercover For The Man」

03) JGH27 - 「Good To Be Alive」

04) Raya - 「Stone Cold Coup D'Etat」

05) KK / Sahrimnir - 「Thinking Machine」

06) Spontaneous Combustion - 「The Statue Got Me High」

07) Leviwulf - 「Push Back The Hands」

08) DarkFalco - 「I Am Alone」

09) Deli064 - 「Doctor Worm」

10) Fedaykin - 「Letterbox」

11) Surge - 「I Am Alone」

12) Wikxen - 「Put Your Hand Inside The Puppet Head」

13) Minby - 「Where Your Eyes Don't Go」

14) Bel - 「(She Was A) Hotel Detective」

15) SnakeInABox - 「By The Time You Get This」

Bold roles were Jotunheim (Mafia), normal roles were Johnsburg (Town), and italicized roles were third parties. (Jotunheim is the realm of giants from Norse mythology! The mafia were, in fact, giants! And the town's job was to figure out who might be giants! And the two sides were Jo and Jo! JOKES!)

「Flo Wheeler」 was a town role with a power that was pretty dangerous to the user- if anyone happened to be watching or tracking when a kill took place at night, Mogis would look like they'd visited the target that night in addition to whoever actually did. It could potentially be used to catch a mafioso in a lie, but otherwise it was more of an obstacle for the town to overcome- a miller-type role.

♪ You can't do the time, therefore you didn't do the crime ♪

「Working Undercover For The Man」 was a third-party role working for the Speedwagon Foundation to perform a threat assessment. TD could win with the town, but could win and leave early if he could guess all the names or powers of every other stand in the game. He could scan a name every night, to help that along.

♪ Planning midnight raids / On our unsuspecting fans / While the roadies rig / The video surveillance van ♪

「Good To Be Alive」 was a spin on the usual town doctor role- normally, a doctor can target a player and prevent their death if they would die that night. But... JGH couldn't actually prevent deaths- just fake it. The dead would become ghosts, who couldn't vote and couldn't be killed but were still allowed to talk as if they were alive.

♪ Hello leg / such a shaky leg / Just barely more than decoration ♪

「Stone Cold Coup D'Etat」 was a third party with an unusual win condition. They had to recruit a certain number of people to a private side-chat- and then make sure all those people got killed. Plus, she could redirect anything that happened to her at night to her recruits. If the recruits figured out what she was doing and got rid of her, they'd get a boost to their power.

♪ The bark now commands the trees / The queen is overruled by the bees ♪

「Thinking Machine」 was a town role with a mysterious purpose that didn't seem to make much sense at first. Sah would get, every morning, a strange series of numbers and letters of uncertain origin. It was information, somehow, but how to use it?

♪ Tape has brightening arm connect (Wait, that didn't make sense.) / Self-paint lever itching does! (That made even less sense!) ♪

「The Statue Got Me High」 was a mafia power. As the song describes, the victim is enthralled by the monolith and forced to obey its commands, until their eventual death. That is, Spont could recruit a player to the mafia, but they'd die one night later- and if he wasn't careful, he could die and his recruit would flip back.

♪ And now it is your turn (your turn to hear the stone and then your turn to burn) / The stone, it calls to you (you can't refuse to do the things it tells you to) ♪

「Push Back The Hands」 was a passive ability that caused anything that would happen to Levi- a nightkill, an execution, some other power- to be delayed by one day, giving him some time to react. He'd be told who it was that targeted him, so going after him as mafia was risky.

♪ Screeching tires but never a collision / Endless day without a sunset provision ♪

「I Am Alone」 was a weird one. See, DarkFalco, who was mafia, didn't have a stand as such. She was the stand- and she was the stand of Surge, who was town. They were linked together in everything, meaning the mafia had to work to keep Surge alive on top of their own people. She could send messages to Surge at night to mess with him, though.

♪ Before you fire I should inform you / One of us is a double ♪

「Doctor Worm」 had no real special abilities. His ability was to be pretty good at playing the drums, a power that had absolutely no relevance in a game of Mafia.

♪ I'm not a real doctor, but I am a real worm I am an actual worm ♪

「Letterbox」 was a mafia ability that let Fedaykin pick another player, and offer that player a chance to deliver a private message to one other player of their choice. He could see the "secret" communications, though, and once per game he could edit the message before delivering it.

♪ I'll never know what you'll find when you open up your letter box tomorrow ♪

「Put Your Hand Inside The Puppet Head」 is a classically mafia ability, but in the hands of a town player: the ability to force another player to vote for another. Normally the manipulated person isn't allowed to say what happened, but there was no such restriction here- confusion's no good for the town.

♪ Memo to myself: do the dumb things i gotta do: Touch the puppet head ♪

「Where Your Eyes Don't Go」 let Minby pick someone else to watch him at night. If anyone visited him to target him with an ability, the person he designated would be told the names of those people. A nasty trap for the mafia, as long as Minby doesn't pick a mafioso to share the information with.

♪ Where your eyes don't go, a part of you is hovering / It's a nightmare that you'll never be discovering / You're free to come and go / Or talk like Kurtis Blow / But there's a pair of eyes in back of your head ♪

「(She Was A) Hotel Detective」 was a very powerful town role- Bel was the cop, and could scan another player's alignment at night, plus track or watch them. Except... not directly. She couldn't scan players- she could scan hotel rooms, and if other players didn't check into the hotel at night or give up their room numbers, her information was useless.

Here are the room numbers, in order: Levi (1) Snake (2) JGH (3) TD (4) Spont (5) Sah (6) Deli (7) Fed (8) Minby (9) Falco/Surge (10) Raya (11) Wikxen (12) Mogis (13).

(Oh, and Thinking Machine's codes were actually encoded versions of her results, and Sah would get a weaker version of her power if she ever died.)

♪ She's got her ear to the walls / And she's tappin' the calls / If you've got a secret, boy / Forget about it! ♪

「By The Time You Get This」 imbued its wielder with the incredible powers of... an estate lawyer! Which meant Snake could leave a will behind when he died, naming another player and casting a vote on them from beyond the grave the next day.

♪ By the time you get this note / We'll no longer be alive / But our skulls are smiling still / At the thought of things to come ♪

So! Here's how it all shook out.

Day 1: The first day is always kind of a tossup, since no one has any information yet, and everyone's just trying to verbally stir the pot. Levi soft-claims his role right out the gate, warning town not to try targeting him or else. Mogis is executed, casting a vote on himself to save the town the trouble of dealing with Flo Wheeler.

Night 1: Spont uses the statue to recruit Wikxen, at the same time that Wikxen forces Snake to vote for Levi. So, now the usually-scum power in the hands of town is in the hands of scum for real. Bel scans room 3, and learns that its occupant is innocent. Raya recruits DarkFalco, and accidentally recruits Surge alongside her, to her surprise. JGH tries protecting Levi, to test if his claim was a bluff.

Day 2: Levi tries to push JGH on the basis of having targeted him last night, but everyone agrees to wait and see if Levi actually dies first. Votes circle around Wikxen and Raya for suspicious-seeming defensiveness on Day 1, and ultimately, when it seems like Wikxen's about to be executed, a small group of players flip their votes at the last minute and vote Raya out while she's asleep and can't defend herself. Rude! She was poised to win the game for herself and the town, since she'd convinced Falco that the mafia would benefit somehow if they were all recruited.

Night 2: The mafia kills Minby- and Minby opts to tell have Fed watch him, wasting his power. Lucky for town, though, Bel happens to scan room 8, confirming Fed is mafia since he volunteered his room number. Wikxen's coat contains a furnace where there used to be a guy.

Day 3: Wikxen forced Snake to vote for J, making him look bad- but Sah begins sharing his bizarre results from Thinking Machine, and Bel confirms that they're a log of her detective power. Then she points out that Fed is mafia, and the town falls in line behind the accusation with Sah to confirm.

Night 3: Spont uses the statue to recruit Bel, to keep any more problematic scans from ruining them. Bel, before being recruited, scans room 10, though- and now the town knows there's something funky with Falco and Surge, because Sah gets the results and knows what they mean. Due to their mismatched alignments, though, the encoded version is still misleading, so there's wiggle room. TD scans Spont and learns his role name.

Day 4: Spont concocts a daring scheme. He has Bel lie and claim to have received an incriminating result on him- so that Bel will be caught in said lie when Sah produces his own results. The plan is to frame Bel, who's a dead girl walking anyway, and clear Spont's name going forward. But the town talks themselves into explaining away the contradiction- even when TD reveals Spont's stand name, and Spont denies it outright and claims 「Combustible Head」, a fake vigilante (town nightkiller) role instead, the town explains away that, too. After a few more people claim, TD260 has completed his mission- his correct guess wins him the game and he leaves. Spont cleverly excuses himself by claiming that TD lied about his role to get him to claim his "real" one. Afterwards, the town ends up executing Deli064 instead, for some reason- poor Doctor Worm!

Night 4: The evidence vanishes from Bel's charred and smoking chair- because JGH tries to protect her at the same time the mafia are killing him! Bel is a ghost now, and the town never finds out her alignment.

Day 5: Bel not dying poses a problem for the mafia, because Spont was supposed to prove his own innocence by pretending to kill her! The mafia tries to misdirect by having Bel lie again, claiming to scan room 10 when she actually scanned room 6, Sah. Ultimately, though, the town is able to coordinate behind killing Surge and Falco, which- because they're linked- is a compromise option that both parties are happy with (when perhaps they shouldn't be).

Night 5: Since Bel is technically dead, Spont recruits again, grabbing Sah and removing the threat of scans entirely. If he'd recruited Snake instead, they'd have won on the spot, since only his will-vote prevented them from winning instantly due to outnumbering the town. We move on to a somewhat redundant...

Day 6: It's now down to five players- Spont, Sah, and Bel vs Levi and Snake. The mafia technically outnumber the town, but Bel's vote doesn't count, and Sah's going to burn the next night- so the town can still win by forcing a tie and then using Snake's By The Time You Get This power to place a vote on Spont. But that's if they can figure it out and get on the same page, and... they don't. There's no way there could be three mafia still alive, so the mafia are able to sow total confusion and ultimately get the town all voting for Bel... who's a ghost, and can't vote or be executed, which the town doesn't know because JGH died before he could fully explain. The execution defaults to Snake, and the mafia win the game.

[woman-loving]

I’ve been reading some articles about lesbian identities in Indonesia, from the late 80s to the 00s, and wanted to share some quotes that highlighted a couple trends that I’ve also noticed in reading about butch/femme communities in other countries.

1) There are different expectations about sexual distinctiveness and marriage to men are attached to butch and femme identities. There is a greater expectation that femmes will marry men, and femmes more often do marry men, though some butches do as well. Marriages to men seem to be for convenience or in name only, and women may continue to have female lovers.

2) Distinctions are made between real/pure/positive lesbians (butches) and other lesbians (femmes) who are “potentially normal.” This shows the flexibility of lesbian identity, where they can be gradations and contradictions in what it means to be a lesbian (e.g. a woman being a lesbian but not a “real lesbian"). The category has cores and peripheries, rather than everyone being equally lesbian or else completely outside of it.

3) There are disagreements between members, which cross butch/femme lines, about the meanings of these identities and whose lesbianism or community involvement should be taken seriously. The first passage describes femmes as engaging in a “more active appropriation of lesbianism as a core element of their subjectivity.” The boundaries of lesbianism can potentially expand or contract as people struggle to define it.

4) People don’t always meet the community expectations attached to their identity.

I think these passages help complicate the picture of what lesbian identities can look like, and some of these same tensions and debates are common features of lesbian identity in many different cultures. I also think these issues--the (differential) weight given to relationships with men, the notion of positive versus negative lesbians, and the active appropriation of lesbianism by peripheral members--are relevant to bisexual interest, since these questions also shape bi women’s engagement in lesbianism/lesbian communities. (And we can say that without claiming that any particular women in these narratives are “really bisexual.”)

Anyway, without further ado... (this first one picks up right in the middle of a passage because I couldn’t get the previous page on the google preview :T)

From “Desiring Bodies or Defiant Cultures: Butch-Femme Lesbians in Jakarta and Lima,” by Saskia E. Wieringa, in Female Desires: Same-Sex Relations and Transgender Practices Across Cultures, eds. Evelyn Blackwood and Saskia E. Wieringa, 1999:

“[...]negative lesbians. We are positive lesbians. We are pure, 100% lesbian. With them you can never know. Before you know it, they are seeing a man again, and we are given the good-bye.”

Father Abraham, who had entered during her last words, took over. “Let me explain. … Take Koes. Again and again her girlfriends leave her. Soon she’ll be old and lonely. Who will help her then? For these girls it is just an adventure, while for butches like Koes it is their whole life.”“Yes, well, Abraham, … my experience is limited, of course, but it seems to me that the femmes flee the same problems that make life so hard for the butches. So they’d rather support each other.”

“In any case,” Sigit added, ‘they have become active now, that’s why they’re here, isn’t that so?” And she looked questioningly at the three dolls behind the typing machine, Roekmi and my neighbour. The most brazen femme had been nodding in a mocking manner while Sigit and I were talking.

“So we’re only supposed to be wives? We’re not suited for something serious, are we? Maybe we should set up a wives’ organization, Dharma Wanita,[23] the Dharma Wanita PERLESIN? Just like all those other organizations of the wives of civil servants and lawyers?” …

“Come on, Ari,” Sigit insisted, “why don’t you just ask them? You could at least ask them whether they want to join?” Ari found it extremely hard. Helplessly she looked at the other butches.

“Do you really mean that i should ask whether our wives would like to join / our / organization?” One of the butches nodded.

“Ok, fine.” She directed herself to the dolls.

“Well, what do you want? Do you want to join us? But in that case you shouldn’t just say yes, then you should also be involved with your whole heart.”

“You never asked that of the others,” the brazen femme pointed out, “but yes, I will definitely dedicate myself to the organization.” Roekmi and the two femmes at her side also nodded. (Wieringa 1987:89-91)

The above example is indicative of the social marginalization of the b/f community. it also captures in it one of its moments of transformation. The defiance of the femmes of the code that prescribes the division of butches and femmes into “positive” and “negative” lesbians respectively indicates a more active appropriation of lesbianism as a core element of their subjectivity. At the same time it illustrates the hegemony of the dominant heterosexual culture with its gendered principles of organization.

Yet, however much the butches conformed to male gender behavior they didn’t define themselves as male; their relation to their bodies was rather ambiguous. at times they defined themselves as a third sex, which is nonfemale[…]. [...] [Butches’] call for organization was not linked to a feminist protest against rigid gender norms. Rather they felt that nature had played a trick on them and they they had to devise ways to confront the dangers to which this situation gave rise. Jakarta’s b/f lesbians when I met them in the early eighties were not in the least interested in feminism. In fact, the butches among them were more concerned with the case of a friend of them who was undergoing a sex change operation. They clearly considered it an option, but none of them decided to follow this example. When I asked them why, all of them mentioned the health risks involved and the costs. None of them stated that they rather preferred their own bodies. Their bodies, although the source of sexual pleasure and as such the object of constant attention, didn’t make it any too easy for them to get the satisfaction they sought or, at least, to attract the partners they desired.

From "Let Them Take Ecstasy: Class and Jakarta Lesbians," by Alison J. Murray, in Female Desires: Same-Sex Relations and Transgender Practices Across Cultures, eds. Evelyn Blackwood and Saskia E. Wieringa, 1999:

Covert lesbian activities are thus an adaptation to the ideological context, where the distinction between hidden and exposed sexual behavior allows for fluidity in sexual relations (“everyone could be said to be bisexual” according to Oetomo 1995) as long as the primary presentation is heterosexual/monogamous. It is not lesbian activity that has been imported from the West, but the word lesbi used to label the Western concept of individual identity based on a fixed sexuality. I have not found that Indonesian women like to use the label to describe themselves, since it is connected to unpleasant stereotypes and the pathological view of deviance derived from Freudian psychology (cf Foucault 1978).

The concept of butch-femme also has a different meaning in Indonesia from the current Western use which implies a subversion of norms and playful use of roles and styles (cf Nestle 1992). In Indonesia (and other parts of Southeast Asia, such as the Philippines, Thailand’s tom-and-dee: Chetame 1995) the roles are quite strictly, or restrictively, defined and are related to popular, pseudo-psychological explanations of the “real” lesbian. In the simple terms of popular magazines, the butch (sentul) is more than 50% lesbian, or incurably lesbi, while the femme (kantil) is less than 50% lesbian, or potentially normal. Blackwood’s (1994) description of her secretive relationship with a butch-identified woman in Sumatra brings up some cross-cultural differences and difficulties that they experienced and could not speak about publicly. The Sumatran woman adopted masculine signifies and would not be touched sexually herself; she wanted to be called “pa” by Blackwood, who she expected to behave as a “good wife.” Meanwhile, Blackwood’s own beliefs, as well as her higher status due to class and ethnicity, made it hard to take on the passive female role.

I want to emphasize here that behavior needs to be conceptually separated from identity, as both are contextually specific and constrained by opportunity. It is common for young women socialized into a rigid heterosexual regime, in Asia or the West, to experience their sexual feelings in terms of gender confusion: “If I am attracted to women, then I must be a man trapped in a woman’s body.” Women are not socialized to seek out a sexual partner (of any kind), or to be sexual at all, so an internal “feeling” may never be expressed unless there are role models or opportunities available. If the butch-femme stereotype, as presented in the Indonesian popular media, is the only image of lesbians available outside the metropolis (e.g., in Sumatra), then this may affect how women express their feelings. However, urban lower-class lesbians engage in a range of styles and practices: some use butch style consciously to earn peer respect, while others reject the butch as out-dated. The stereotype of all lower-class lesbians whether following butch-femme roles or conforming to one subcultural pattern is far from the case and reflects the media and elite’s lack of real knowledge about street life. […]

The imagery of sickness creates powerful stigmatization and internalized homophobia: women may refer to themselves as sakit (sick). An ex-lover of mine in Jakarta is quite happy to state a preference for women while at the same time expressing disgust at the word lesbi and at the sight of a butch dyke; however, I have generally found that the stigma around lesbian labels and symbols is not translated into discrimination against individuals based on their sexual activities. I have been surprised to discover how many women in Jakarta will either admit to having sex with women or to being interested in it, but again, this is only rarely accompanied by an open lesbian (or bisexual) identity. I have found it hard to avoid the word “lesbian” to refer to female-to-female sexual relations, but it should not be taken to imply a permanent self-identity. It is very important to try and understand the social contexts of behavior, in order to avoid drawing conclusions based on inappropriate Western notions of lesbian identity, community, or “queer” culture.

From “Beyond the ‘Closet’: The Voices of Lesbian Women in Yogyakarta,” by Tracy L Wright Webster, 2004:

Most importantly a supportive community group of lesbian, bisexual and transgender women is essential, given that these sexualities are thrust together in Sektor 15. Potentially, a group comprised of women from each of these categories, that is lesbian, bisexual or transgender, may prove problematic to say the least, given that the needs and issues of each group are different. Clearly the informal communities already in existence in Yogya are indicators of this. Any formal or organized groupings would certainly benefit by modeling on current, though informal organisations. In the lesbian network, transgendered women (those who wish to become men or who consider themselves male) are not affiliated, however many ‘femme’ identified women who have been and intend to be involved in heterosexual relationships in the future, are among the group in partnership with their ‘butch’ pacar (Indo: girlfriend/boyfiend/lover).

Organisations of women questioning sexuality have existed in Yogya in the past. A butch identified respondent said she was involved in the formation of a lesbian, bisexual and transgender network in collaboration with another Indonesian woman, who also identified as butch, 20 years her senior. The group was called Opo (Javanese:what) or Opo We (Jav:whatever), the name highlighting that any issue could be discussed or entered into within the group. Members were an amalgam of both of the women’s friends and acquaintances. The underlying philosophy of the group was that “regardless of a woman’s life experience, marriage, children…it is her basic human right to live as a lesbian if she has the sexual inclination”. The elder founding member of this group, now 46, married a man and had a child. She now lives with her husband (in name only), child and female partner in the same home. Although this arrangement according to the interviewee “is rare… because the husband is there, she is spared the questions from the neighbours”. Here I must add that it is common in Java for lesbians to marry to fulfill their social role as mothers, and then to separate from their husbands to live their lives in partnership with a woman. This trend however is more common among the ‘femme’ group.

From "(Re)articulations: gender and same-sex subjectivities in Yogyakarta, Indonesia," by Tracy Wright Webster, in Intersections: Gender and Sexuality in Asia and the Pacific, Issue 18, Oct 2008:

Lesbi subjectivities Since gender, for the most part, determines sexuality in Java, sexuality and gender cannot be analysed as discrete categories.[64] For all of the self-identified butchi participants, lesbi was the term used to describe their sexuality. This is contrary to the findings of two key researchers of female same-sex sexuality in Indonesia. Alison Murray's research in Jakarta in the 1980s suggests that females of same-sex attraction did not like the term 'lesbian'[65] due to its connection with 'unpleasant stereotypes' and deviant pathologies.[66] In 1995, Gayatri found that media representations depicting lesbi as males trapped in female bodies encouraged same-sex attracted women to seek new, contemporary descriptors.[67] The participants in this research, however, embraced the term lesbi as an all-encompassing descriptor of female same-sex attraction and as Boellstorff has noted in 2000, Indonesian lesbi tend to see themselves as part of a wider international lesbian network.[68]

The term lesbi has been used in Indonesia since the 1980s, although not commonly or consistently. Lines, les, lesbian, lesbo, lesbong and L, among others, are also used. Female same-sex/lesbi subjectivities in Yogya are not strongly associated with political motivations and the subversion of heteropatriarchy as they were among the Western lesbian feminists of the 1960s. By the time most of the participants in this research were born, the term lesbi had already become infused in Indonesian discourses of sexuality among the urban elite (though with negative connotations in most cases), and has since become commonly used both by females of same-sex attraction to describe themselves, and by others. Most learnt from peers at school and through reading Indonesian magazines.

However, public use of the term lesbi and expression of lesbi subjectivity has its risks. Murray's research on middle to upper class lesbians suggests that females identifying as lesbi have more to lose than lower class lesbi in terms of social position and the power invested in that class positioning. This is particularly in relation to their position in the family.[69] Conversely, her work also shows that lower class lesbi 'have the freedom to play without closing off their options.'[70] As Aji suggests, young females, particularly of the priyayi class may not be in a position to resist the social stigma attached to lesbianism and the possible consequences of rejection or abuse. Yusi faced this reality despite the fact that s/he had not declared herself lesbi. Hir gendered subjectivity meant that s/he did not conform to stereotypical feminine ideals and desires.

With so much at stake, many lesbi remain invisible. Heteronormative and feminine gendered expectations for females in part explain why lesbians may indeed be the 'least known population group in Indonesia.'[71] Collusion in invisibility can be seen here as a protective strategy. The lesbi community or keluarga (family) is what Murray refers to as a 'strategic community' of the lesbian subculture.[72] The strategic nature of the community lies in its sense of protection: the community provides a safe haven for disclosure. Invisibility, however, also arises through the factors I mentioned earlier: the normative feminine representations of femme, their tendency to express lesbi subjectivity only while in partnership with a butchi, and their tendency to marry. Invisibility, as a form of discretion, however, may also be chosen.

Gender complementary butchi/femme subjectivities [...] Due to the apparently fixed nature of butchi identities and subjectivities and their reluctance to sleep with males, they are seen as 'true lesbians,'[79] lesbian sejati, an image perpetuated through the media.[80] Similar to the butchi/femme communities in Jakarta, in Yogya, butchi are identified by their strict codes of dress and behaviour which include short hair, sometimes slicked back with gel, collared button up shirts and trousers bought in menswear stores, large-faced watches and bold rings. Butchi characteristically walk with a swagger and smoke in public places. In her research in the 1980s, Wieringa noticed that within lesbi communities in Jakarta the strict 'surveillance and socialisation 'may have contributed to the fixed nature of butchi identities.[81] In Yogya, this is particularly evident in the socialisation of younger lesbi by senior lesbi (a theme I explore elsewhere in my current research).

The participants held individual perspectives on butchness. Aji's butchness is premised on hir masculine gender subjectivity and desire for a partner of complementary gender. Yusi expresses hir butchness differently and relates it to dominance in the relationship and in sex play. The participants who told of the sexual roles within the relationship emphasised their active butchi roles during sex. As Wieringa suggests, this does not necessarily imply femme passivity as femme 'stress their erotic power over their butches.'[82] It does, however, indicate one way in which the butchi I interviewed articulate their sexual agency.

Femme subjectivities, on the other hand, are generally conceived of as transient. As many of the interviews illustrate, femme are expected by their butchi partners to marry and have children: butchi see them as bisexual. In public, and indeed if they marry, they are seen as heterosexual, though their heterosexual practice may not be exclusive. In the 1980s, Wieringa observed that femme 'dressed in an exaggerated fashion, in dresses with ribbons and frills...always wore make up and high heels.'[83] In the new millennium, the femme I met were also fashion savvy though not in an exaggerated sense. Generally they wore hip-hugging, breast-accentuating tight gear, had long hair and wore lipstick and low-heeled pumps. Their feminine representations were stereotypical: it was through association with butchi with in the lesbi community that femme subjectivities become visible.

[everydayescapeartist]

JB Fic Exchange Recs - AU Oneshots

Well, I’ve gotten through about half of the @jaime-brienne-fic-exchange fics at this point, which is both not nearly enough for my liking and also pretty impressive for me, lol. I wanted to get some recs out ahead of the reveal because the wealth of talent in this fandom should be celebrated and shouted from every rooftop...and here we are down to the wire.  Haha!  Obviously, there are SO many more awesome fics available, so take this as just a lovely sampling.  Thank you dear authors for sharing your talents with us all!

Bug Juice: Jaime and Brienne's Summer at Camp - THIS IS MY GIFT FIC!  READ IT NOW!  Okay, even if this wasn't my gift fic, I would absolutely love this fun romp of a fic.  My prompt was basically summer camp with JB flair and my author took that to such a level of creativity and snark, it was just beyond perfect!  This one is in Myrcella's POV...I didn't even know I needed this, but I really did!  She's watching the season finale of a reality tv show that's set at summer camp.  Everyone is riveted by Jaime and Brienne's will-they-won't-they, enemies-to-lovers subplot, Myrcella included, even though she does have a bit of insider knowledge naturally.  I love the way this is written like reality show segments, with Myrcella's brilliant reactions/commentary/texting of her uncle from her couch.  There are commercial breaks that will crack you up.  A very serious discussion about Capture the Flag is had.  The GoT show digs are fantastic.  Really, this is the fic you need to read if you like smiling for long periods of time and laughing potentially so hard you spew your drink.  Oh, and also if you enjoy a good ole reality show HEA.  Excerpt 1: “When Daenerys took over as Camp Director mid-session, I was worried,” Jaime says to the camera, running his good hand through his hair. “I have a complicated history with her father and she doesn’t trust me. The young Starks don’t exactly either, but Brienne has fought for me. She insisted that I am good at my job—good with the kids. She said that I am a good man.” Jaime’s eye twitches just a touch as he stares straight ahead, his face otherwise a mask of calculated neutrality. Myrcella picks up her phone, about to text her uncle to make fun of how sappy he is when the scene switches to Brienne. Excerpt 2: Brienne takes a long sip, eyeing Jaime skeptically over the rim as she lowers her cup. OMG, when are they going to make out? Just kiss him! Ugh, they better kiss or I’m going to lose my damned mind. “You keep it warm enough in here,” he complains with a sigh, brushing past Brienne, who slowly sets her cup down and turns to him. She wipes her wide palms on her shorts and watches his back as he struggles to shed his hooded sweatshirt. Excerpt 3:

“Nooooo!” Myrcella screams and falls off the couch. She lands on the ground with a thud. She scrambles to untangle herself from her blanket and clamour back up onto the couch to grab her phone. She sends Jaime a shouty text.

Score - Jaime, Brienne, and bar trivia!  Also, face-sitting goodness...what's not to love?!

Excerpt: “And because I was right and you were wrong, I demand you two go on a date.”

“Excuse me,” Brienne squeaked. Was Tyrion trying to humiliate her? How could he suggest something so absurd without a cruel intention?

To Jaime’s credit, he had the decency to look mildly embarrassed. He even blushed. “Stop it, Tyrion,” he said, annoyed.

“I’m serious,” his brother replied. “You two have been flirting all night. Do something about it or this trivia arrangement will not work out in the long run.” Privilege - Jaime coming up with ridiculous lawsuits so he can keep spending time with his lawyer, Brienne (and a couple not-so-ridiculous ones too).  This one is hilarious and clever and also very sweet.  Do yourself a favor and read it!

Excerpt: “Jaime. At this point, I have known you for eighteen months—”

As their drinks appeared, he tapped his mochaccino against her tea. “Cheers!”

“—we have never not been in court! Seven Hells, Jaime, last month you had me sue Stoneheart Press because you didn’t like the representation of Goldenhand the Just in their line of historical fiction novels.”

He took a sip of his coffee. Anyone else would look ridiculous drinking what was essentially a dessert in a three-piece suit. But not Jaime. Jaime just…looked good. “And you won all those cases, Tarth. You’re good. Occasionally graceless while dealing with opposing counsel, but good all the same.

I hope our paths will croissant again - the way to my heart is baked goods...no, really, my hubby's a good and generous baker.  So, any story where Jaime has baking skills is going to appeal to me.  That said, this one is sweet and funny and has some pining and dare I say it was delicious?  Go enjoy it!

Excerpt 1: “She didn’t hire me,” Jaime says. “She’s holding me hostage, actually.”

  She stares at him for a moment, and then realizes he’s joking, and he laughs uproariously at the look on her face. 

“I’m good at my job. Why’d she hire you? ” 

Excerpt 2:

When Jaime comes back to work, he teases her again, though lightly, and she assures herself that whatever she felt in his apartment that evening is something that he can’t possibly reciprocate and nothing is ever going to come of it, so they can just be coworkers and it will be fine. She scrubs the kitchen countertop very aggressively when he comes to help her with a batch of coconut cake and hopes he doesn’t see her blushing. Thankfully, he then spills coconut flakes all over the kitchen floor and she has to get the broom and by the time she comes back her heartbeat has slowed down properly. She tells herself she’s being very, very stupid. The stupidest, really. Absolutely top tier stupidity. 

On Paper - Addam is wingman extraordinaire, guiding is best friend through some unintentional sandwich wrapper flirting.  

Excerpt:

He knew better than to bring a date to Tarth’s. It was a surefire way to ruin a good thing in case of nasty break up.

Bringing his best friend along should have been safer. Less risky.

It would have been if his best friend wasn’t Jaime Lannister, that’s for damn sure.

Meet Me Cute - J & B are bodyguards to Sansa and Margaery and are forced to be around each other following their charges’ meet cute and all that follows.  This is told through multiple POVs and is so fun!

Excerpt:

“Margaery, can you tell Jaime to stop using ‘our’ when referring to me,” Brienne replied, opting not to engage with him directly.

Margaery sighed and turned towards her girlfriend’s bodyguard. “Jaime… why does Brienne hate your guts?”

“Not what I said.”

Jaime shrugged, “Don’t know.”

“Don’t know?” Brienne exclaimed, snapping her head up to glare at him. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t have a clue,” Sansa chimed in. “And Jaime has told me a lot about you.”

“You shush,” Jaime said. Sansa simply laughed.

vellichor - This mesmerizing story of a world-renowned violinist and a used-bookstore owner is told via before & after segments that reveal the development of the characters and of this beautiful relationship.

Excerpt:

So he does not let himself falter as he surveys the audience, sketching out a half-bow before lifting the violin and settling it against his shoulder. His bow is still loose in his right hand, and it trembles when he goes to raise it, the scars protesting a motion he has done a million times.

Those watching will see his hesitation as part of the show, the spectacle—a prolonging of his grand return is what the articles will say tomorrow morning. They will not see the terror that jolts through his body, the fingers of his left hand pressing harder against the strings. They will not see his eyes wandering over to a box on the left side of the hall, the box where a few people he has carefully chosen sit, leaning forward along with the rest.

They will not see how he searches for a tall woman sitting among them, nor will they see the ache that takes hold of his heart when the spotlight blinds him and he is unable to push through the curtain of brilliance to see if she is there.

[mxchellesworld]

𝟑 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐝 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟑

𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐱 𝐂𝐚𝐭 𝐀𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬; 𝐏𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐞'𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none :) mentions of smut as a joke but very fluffy overall 

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 | 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

***

“Y/n is our girlfriend”

You turned your head to look at Cat. She looked at you with a smile then turned back to face Penelope. You bit your lip to keep back a squeal as Penelope moved to let you guys inside. Her intoxicated brain just needed a moment to process before she was pulling each one of you guys in for a warm hug, saying her congratulations and awes. 

“Hey Pen could you give us a sec,” you said patting her shoulder. 

She quickly nodded then turned around and started yelling at Luke to put down her unicorn mug. 

“So girlfriend,” you said looking between them. They shared small smile and looked back at you. A glimmer in each one of your eyes. 

“Sorry we couldn’t get the collar but I think the title should suffice don’t you think princess,” Spencer said jokingly. 

You playfully punched his shoulder and scoffed. He grabbed his arm in fake hurt as you responded, “You are so funny Spence, I am splitting at the seams. But does this mean I get part ownership of the lounge?”

They laughed and Cat grabbed your shoulders leading you to the dinner table filled with drinks and snacks, “Ok lets not get ahead of ourselves angel. How about a compromise and we get you your very own chair in the office?” 

You nodded with a laugh, “You drive a hard bargain, I’ll take it.” 

“I’m so glad you’re not my lawyer,” you heard Spencer whisper. 

Picking up one of the many decorated paper plates, you started adding on the many treats available. Cookies shaped like Christmas trees and little gingerbread people filled the platter.

Taking in her apartment you noticed it was very her. Walls full of art and trinkets places in little nooks. The she took a colorful take on the holidays with her rainbow Christmas tree that had a star bright enough to be seen from the ones above. 

You looked over to her couches and saw a familiar head of hair. 

“Abbie?!” you called out. 

She gasped excitedly and walked over to you, wrapping her arms around your waist. She had on a pale blue dress that was low cut and showed off her cleavage nicely. 

“Wait are you here with Luke?” you asked her. 

“Uh huh, we’ve been seeing each other ever since that night we went to the club. He’s so sweet and god does he know how to fuck,” she said sighing dreamily. You let out a laugh and congratulated her. 

“Who are you here with?” she asked. 

“I am here with my now official partners,” you said sticking your thumb back to point at Cat and Spencer. Cat had her palm to her forehead as Spencer happened to drop the equally festive napkins all over the floor. 

“So you guys are boyfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend?” she said taking a sip of her eggnog. 

“Mhm,” you said with a grin. 

“I’m glad you’re happy Y/n. You deserve it my love,” she leaned in before continuing, “But if they hurt you again I will not hesitate to kick both of them in the throat.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less Abs, thank you. And the same goes for you. If Luke does anything stupid I’ll get his ass fired,” you said, knowing you had no authority over it. 

You watched as she turned to walk back and Luke wrapped his arms around her. They giggled in a kiss then he turned giving you a killer smile and a wave. You waved back and sighed. Good for Abbie, you thought, she deserves someone like him. 

The music playing got cut off and you heard Penelope clear her throat, “Alright now that we’re all here I have to make a toast.”

Spencer and Cat walked over to you with glasses of champagne. You took one in your hand and rested your head on her shoulder as Penelope continued her rambling. 

“I have so much love for everyone here. Except you Luke, you have got to learn that I am the superior. But especially you chocolate thunder, I hope you stay the night,” she said with a wink. 

“Love you babygirl,” you saw Derek say blowing her a kiss. 

“Alright P, wrap this up,” the fit blonde from the bar said. 

“Right sorry J, ok where was I? You guys are all so amazing and it makes me warm inside seeing your lovely faces all in one place. Thanks for being my family and bringing in new members. I love you, ok now have fun. Cheers!”

You all laughed and raised your glasses taking a sip of your drinks. The music turned back on and everyone went back to their conversations. Cat and Spencer introduced you to the rest of their ensemble of attractive co-workers. 

The fit blonde, J, which you now found out is short for Jennifer. She was in a relationship with the other brunette Emily. You met Matt who used to work at the lounge as security but now retired to be at home with his wife and kids. Then Tara who happened to teach with Spencer. She had walked into the lounge one day and was pleasantly surprised to see the usually reserved professor tying a girl up. 

That was a story you couldn’t wait to hear at the girls night which you had all planned. 

As the night winded down those who had kids or significant others at home left. The few of you who stayed helped Penelope pick up some of the cups and plates that were littered over her living room. Once you were all cleaned up she wanted to keep the night going and insisted you all played a game of never have I ever. 

You all settled around her kitchen counter and instead of consuming more alcohol you all decided to take bites from a cookie to signify you had done it. 

“Ok I’ll go first, never have I ever gone skinny dipping,” she said with a giggle. 

You, Abbie, Luke, Morgan, and Emily took a bite from your cookies. Cat and Spencer looked at you questioningly. 

“Let’s just say I had a good time in college,” you said making everyone laugh. 

Luke spoke up, “Never have I ever been dommed in front of others in the lounge,” he said with a smirk. 

“You little shit,” you mumbled taking a bite from your cookie. Across from you Jennifer also took a bite, red in the cheeks. Emily proudly put her arm around the shorter blonde. 

“Never have I ever had sex in a public setting,” Abbie said. 

You saw Cat and Spencer take bites of their cookie. Your mouth dropped open as they tried to hide a smirk. 

“Close your mouth angel, you’ll catch flies,” Cat said winking at you. 

_

Once it reached 2 am the game was long over and you were ready to go home and face plant into the mattress. You looked over to Spencer who was talking to Derek . He looked down and put his arm around you, tucking you into his side. Derek smiled at the sight then motioned for Spencer to call him later as he walked over to Penelope. 

“Ready to go home pretty girl,” Spencer asked quietly. 

“Yes please,” you murmured. You could feel how heavy your eyelids were getting. 

“Alright let’s get you some water. A car will be here in 10 minutes,” he said after a few clicks of his phone. 

He pulled out a chair from the dining table and walked around the kitchen getting you a glass of water. He took a seat next to you and rubbed your thigh comfortingly. Across the room you made eye contact with Cat who was talking to Emily. She gave you a smile and mouthed ‘love you’ which you mouthed back. 

Spencer cleared his throat, “She cares about you a lot and so do I. I’m sorry it took us so long to realize and make everything official. We really want to keep you around as long as you’ll have us,” he said softly. 

You noticed the way he was able to express his emotions the best out of the two of them. Nonetheless the reassurance made your insides flutter. 

You turned your body to face him. You pushed some of his curls behind his ear before you responded. “I know. I understand, it was probably hard to bring in someone else to your usual dynamic. I’m glad we’re starting this new chapter though. I love you guys more than you could imagine.” 

He intertwined your hands and pressed a kiss to the back of it. The moment was broken by his phone chiming, signaling the car was outside, ready to take you three home. 

He pulled you up by your hands. Cat noticed and made her way over to the both of you. You said your goodbyes to everyone and walked to the door. The chilly December air made your skin prickle. Once you got in the car you sighed at the warm heater blasting in the compact space. 

Cat took both your hands in hers and rubbed them together bringing warmth to your cold digits. Spencer’s soft humming to a tune in his head helped lull you to sleep. 

They shook you awake as the car stopped, helping you out of the car and the small walk up to their apartment. Once again you sighed at the familiar scent of their candles. Something you would never get tired of. 

Cat helped wipe off your makeup as Spencer did his favorite task of dressing you in his clothes. He slid an old college sweatshirt over your head and kissed your hairline when he was done. The room was in a comforting silence, the small glances and eye contact was enough to convey the words and emotions filling your hearts. 

When they were done taking care of you, you crawled up their bed and pushed away the extra decorative pillows. Snuggling into the now thicker comforter and waited your favorite people to join you. 

You turned to face Cat and she happily laid in your arms. Taking in the scent of your coconut shampoo. Spencer’s arms were long enough to wrap the both of you in his loving embrace. 

As the rhythm of your heart slowed down to an even beat, you still felt nothing but fondness in your soul. 

𝐚/𝐧; 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐮𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬, 𝐢'𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐝 𝐨𝐟. 𝐢 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐮𝐲𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐧𝐝. 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 :)

[sapphire374]

Soy Sol: Chapter 8 (Long Story Short, It was a Tough Day)

Wattpad Link

Ch.1 / Ch.2 / Ch.3 / Ch.4 / Ch.5 / Ch.6 / Ch.7 / Ch.9 / Ch.10 / Ch.11 / Ch.12 / Ch.13 / Ch.14 / Ch.15 / Ch.16 / Ch.17

Simón approaches the doors of the Jam and Roller. He pulls out a set of keys from his pocket and selectively picks the one with the J&R emblem engraved on it. He’s surprised when he grabs the doorknob and is able to open it without unlocking it himself. He walks in cautiously. “Is anyone here?” No one answers. Everything seems to be intact. He wonders maybe Pedro forgot to lock up last night?

He keeps walking around and gets a little startled noticing a person sitting in front of the main desk in the office. He shakes his head and rubs his tired eyes. Sitting there is Ámbar, crying in her arms.

“Linda que paso? What happened?” He worriedly rushes by her side. “It’s official, no one’s buying this place. No one wants it. Vidia is planning to tear it down and sell the land on its own.” More tears begin to cover her face. This place grew to be extremely close to Ámbar’s heart. After everything that happened with Sharon, the only constant in her life was the Jam and Roller. Being able to skate help relieve her from her anxieties and at least have one moment to be alone with the world. When she got offered the position to be manager, she couldn’t be more thrilled. Putting her heart and soul into setting up events for the gang and making sure everything was in place helped her feel more in control with her life. She was able to calm down the mess that surrounded her and pick up the pieces one by one. Hearing the official news coming from their lawyers was earth shattering for her, it was too surreal.

Simón didn’t know what to do in this moment. He ‘can’ say things will get better, but he doesn’t want to give her false hope, doesn’t want to sugarcoat it. He feels that saying an advice in this instant would only make things worse so he does what he knows best, he hugs her. A quiet display of showing you’re there for that person, always.

When they hear Pedro enter the cafeteria with Delfi, Ámbar and Simón get up from their chairs and go back to work. Ámbar wipes away all the tears with her sleeve and tries to put more makeup to cover her puffy skin.

After two hours pass by, Luna enters with Nina. “Wow Luna I can’t believe he stood you up,” Nina replies. Simón overhears Nina’s comment and hurries over to Luna’s side. “Is this true? Matteo stood you up?” Luna starts trembling and tries to find the right words to say but nothing comes out of her mouth. “I-I- …... okay how do I explain this. Yes, he left me alone all night till the restaurant closed. When I was sitting on the bench in front waiting for my taxi, he arrived. He tried to explain to me that he lost track of time because Viviana was bothering him on filming more scenes for their music video. Basically, it’s all mess. This whole relationship has turned into a mess. He lied to me by not telling me he was going to be with Viviana. If he had told me, it would’ve been okay, but he didn’t, which is why I’m upset. If you lie to someone about being with another person that means you don’t want them to know, which most of the time indicates you’re hiding a secret.” Luna sighs from her mouthful of words.

“Luna, I don’t want to make it sound worse but you’re right. If he lied to you about being with Viviana, there’s a chance he’s hiding something. There’s no necessity to lie about filming with a coworker…. Unless he has feelings for that coworker. Sorry you have to go through all of this.” Simón hugs Luna and tries to console her. “Amiga, remember these are all assumptions we’re making. We don’t know the full truth so maybe he was keeping everything a secret for a reason. We are still missing parts of the story,” Nina advised. “I don’t think so Nina. I think I should just start moving on and start focusing more on me and you guys of course. Oh, that reminds me. How are those wedding plans going Simón?” Simon widely opens his eyes in shock and covers his mouth with his hand. “No no no nooooooo”

“Que paso Simón? Why are you so upset suddenly?” Luna asked.

“Ámbar and I have been so caught up with issues pertaining to the Jam and Roller that we completely forgot to prepare the wedding and plan everything out.”

Luna lays her hand on Simon’s shoulder, trying to comfort him. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore because I can help with whatever you guys need.” “Yeah, me too,” Nina tags along.

“Also, what issues do you guys mean when ‘pertaining to the Jam and Roller?’” Luna questions.

“You’ll find out soon, and by soon I mean around…. now.” Simón states while staring at the clock.

Ámbar leaves the office carrying a clipboard and heads to the stage of the cafeteria. “May I get everyone’s attention! I have some disappointing news to say. For a while, Simon and I have constantly tried to negotiate with Vidia, in hopes that this beautiful place stays as it should. Sadly, our wishes were not met and Vidia has officially announced that it will be tearing this place down and selling the land. Sorry to be the bearer of this awful news, I wish I didn’t have to. I wish that the Jam and Roller can stay for generations and generations on. This place has been the spot where many of us have shared experiences together and won a few competitions. It deserves to stay here, but the owners disagree.”

Everyone gasps in astonishment. Some covering their mouths, some leaving it open, some having visible tears coming out. Everyone reacts as if the place was already completely gone and become a deserted land. Eric (Jandino) enters the place. “Hey guys what did I miss?” Everyone’s red puffy faces glance towards him. “Oof tough crowd huh?” Nina is the first to respond and make the situation a little less awkward. “The Jam and Roller is going to be teared down.” Eric stays speechless and just nods in response.

“This can’t be the end of this place. Are we really going to give up so quickly? Vidia tried to sell it and we were able to convince them not to. This time could be the same,” Luna exclaims.

“This time is different though because the investors don’t need this place anymore and no one wants to buy a skating rink since it’s ‘old fashion’ and ‘not modern.’ This place was in the market for months. Simón and I hoped someone would buy it but no one did. The only way for us to even have a chance to keep it is if someone purchased this place,” Ámbar refuted.

“That shouldn’t be so bad. All we have to do is find someone who is rich and has a kind heart,” Luna proudly states. “Luna are you insane? Where we are we going to find a kind, rich person? This isn’t a cartoon where stuff magically appears out of nowhere to help and save us. Yeah, that’s right Mickey, I’m talking about you and your “musketeer named Toodles,” we all know that’s fake.” Jazmin argued in front of her tablet camera.

“You are right... well on the first part. But I have an idea, maybe I can afford it!” Luna confidently states.

Ámbar gently brings Luna’s hopes down again. “I’ve already checked how much I have in the bank from the half you gave and doubled that and it’s still not enough for the place Luna.” Luna pouts, facing the ground. “Oh... well I guess never mind then.”

Delfi comes up with an idea. “Hey what about Matteo? He is rich now from being a star and all.” She then points to the man in sunglasses who had been staring at Luna ever since he arrived. Luna didn’t realize it till now. “If that’s what you guys want, I’ll buy it. How much does it cost?” Ámbar walks to Matteo. “I’m showing you in secret, so you don’t get embarrassed with your net worth not being enough,” Ámbar explained. “Oh please, it can’t be that bad.” Ámbar show’s him the clipboard and points to the bottom. Matteo begins to sweat. “Oh…... um guys I can afford it but then I’ll be broke with no where to live.”

“Great! I guess that means the Jam and Roller is saved then! Yay!” Jazmin yells out. “Jazmin we can’t force Matteo to do such a grand gesture either,” Gaston responds. “And why not?”

“Jazmin are you really asking that question after he said he would be broke?” Gaston added. “Yes, I don’t see the problem.” Gaston shakes his head and covers his eyes with his fingers from annoyance.

“You guys, it’s hopeless,” Ámbar announces and walks away, heading straight to her office.

Nina walks over to Luna’s side. “Why aren’t you so sad Luna? I mean of course I wouldn’t want you to be sad, but I thought the news would be devastating for you since you love this place so much.”

“This place isn’t getting teared down. At least not under my watch. I will find a way to keep this place the way it is. I will just need to do some research,” Luna persists. “Luna you never seize to surprise me. Whatever help you need, I’m right here,” Nina chuckles.

Eric approaches Nina and tries to comfort her. “Yeah, I bet this must be awful news for you guys. I know I wasn’t here long enough but one thing I know for sure is that this place is certainly magical.” Gaston views Eric close with Nina and he immediately rushes over. He places his arm around Nina’s waist. “Your Corazon will really stop going wowow if you keep flirting with my girl!” “Gaston!” Nina is shocked and tries to calm him down from his jealousy burning his own skin.

“Guys I think I’m going to head home. It’s been a rough morning and I barely got any sleep,” Luna waved goodbye to the gang. Gastón gestures over to Matteo letting him know Luna is leaving. Matteo runs over to the parking lot.

“Luna wait, can you give me a second to explain everything.” Matteo calls out to her. “Matteo, you’re the person I least want to talk to right now.”

“Luna I’m sorry. I’m sorry for arriving extremely late and standing you up. I’m sorry for not replying to all your calls and messages. I’m sorry I lied about the video with Viviana. I didn’t tell you though because I was worried you would get upset and think I remotely like the girl,” Matteo confesses.

“Hah so you’ve even noticed that she’s been extremely close and has been flirting with you,” Luna attested.

“What no? It’s not like that at all. You’re just jealous.” Luna turns around and displays a furious expression, this is the moment when Matteo noticed he had chosen the wrong set of words. “Jealous? That’s what you think of me? Maybe you’re just too blinded by fame to realize she’s constantly glued to you. Haven’t you noticed that when she talks to you, she gradually grows closer and closer to you and whenever you two go out she tries to hold your arm and pull you in tight. I’ve seen all the paparazzi videos so I know. Plus, she’s always calling you. She calls you more than your own manager does,” Luna argued.

“Oh please Luna, you’re just being delusional.” Matteo hears his phone ringing. He pulls it out and notices it’s Viviana calling him. “Yet I’m the delusional one, you have just become so full of yourself you can barely even notice what’s actually going on,” Luna walks away. “Wait, Luna please don’t go.” This time she doesn’t listen to him and keeps walking away without a slight turn of her head.

Luna’s Home

Luna enters her room and throws herself in bed. It’s barely Sunday and Luna feels a whole tornado of emotions have taken over her body. She doesn’t feel like doing anything, not even taking off her socks from wearing her shoes or wiping off her light makeup. She grabs her blanket and tries to fall asleep on top of her bed.

After an hour has passed, her mom knocks on her door and gently opens it. She sees her daughter sleeping and tries to lightly pat her. Luna’s eyelashes wiggle and brush against her skin. She slowly wakes up. “I brought you some breakfast, just thought maybe you haven’t eaten and were probably hungry.” Luna happily smiles. “Mom you know me too.” Monica smiles back too and hands her a tray of waffles with strawberries. Ah strawberries. The least she needed was to be reminded of “el chico fresa.” Her smile slowly disappears and turns into a frown.

“Hija, lately I’ve been seeing you all down in the dumps. Always depressed and never wanting to do much other than sleep. Are you okay? This isn’t normally like you,” Monica sincerely concerned, looks at Luna in the eyes.

“Everything just seems to be falling apart. Not just dealing with Matteo and I’s relationship ending but also the Jam and Roller too. Apparently Vidia is planning to tear it down and the only way for us to be able to have the chance to keep the Jam and Roller intact is to purchase it but none of us can afford such a high price.”

Monica nods and tries to conjure up an idea. Eventually one crosses her mind. “Luna, I’m shocked you didn’t think of this earlier, especially since it deals with your favorite hobby in ‘el mundo mundial,’” Monica says.

“What does skating have to do with this?” Luna laughs.

“Competitions. I know there’s some competitions out there in which the grand prize is a sum of money. Why don’t you guys enter one and try to compete.” Luna lets go of her fork and soon becomes energetic. “Mom that is genius!! Thank you thank you thank you!!!” Luna yells out and tightly hugs her mom.

“Well you know what they say, us moms are geniuses,” Monica chuckles. Luna hastily grabs her computer and retrieves to her bed. She opens up the laptop and begins typing and searching through. “Well Luna I guess I shall leave you to it. Glad I was able to help. Love you hija.” Monica kisses Luna’s forehead and leaves. “Love you too mom!”

After searching for hours, Luna is able to find a competition in which the grand prize pays most of the Jam and Roller price tag. When calculating the percentages, Luna notices that what’s left to pay after all the costs are taken up, is affordable for the whole gang. She jumps up and down all around her bedroom with content pouring out of her. The Jam and Roller finally has a chance to stay. Maybe things can even go back to old times when they all skated together.

[sapphire-wine]

narumayo shippers DNI (you, a Pearl role-player, are counted and exiled with the rest of them) /j

[Written after everything else: I *knoooow* this is a joke ask and I'm apologizing for this rant in advance and none of you are obligated to real this entire *essay* of personal mess.

However if it helps even one person with seeing certain aspects of an adult's behavior when they're young then I'll consider my service done. Because sometimes joking is not just jokes, no matter how much you want them to be. Sometimes isolated incidents are part of a larger pattern and it's sometimes up to you to see them because the adult will actively avoid letting you know.]

Me, about to take this opportunity to share a really personal experience that hopefully gives my opinion on narumayo. It has a lot of icky vibes in it despite not being too graphic and nothing really happening, but I think it will help describe the very visceral reaction I get seeing Maya and Phoenix be shipped in the original trilogy. I've long since stopped being embarrassed for this and usually talk to people about it, because you can't beat yourself up over things you don't realize or don't want to realize in the moment.

This is very long and I apologize for being very personal on main. TW for harassment, sexual implication(?), general creepy and slimy man

The long story short is, any adult that willingly and actively tries to get into a relationship with a teenager ("legal" or not because if you would date them at 18/19 when they're barely legal you would likely date them at 17) is not a good person.

So, I've been wanting to tell this story for a while just as kind of a warning tale, because a lot of it I only recognized in hindsight as fitting together.

When I was 19, I became friends with this older guy who joined my job. He was working on a project and I offered to help him with it, running a machine that could either be run with one or two people. He would drive me places and we would hang out both at and outside of work and I thought it was cool. We would make fun of some of our coworkers for things and he could make me laugh until I cried. He would tell me that I was so sure of myself at a young age and it takes some people a long time to get to that level.

He would also say things to me that in all honesty should have made me uncomfortable, and many times did (he would tell me how many women he slept with, etc.). But for the most part I took it as jokes, because I thought that was what our friendship dynamic was. I would joke that I was reporting him to HR, and he would freak out. I thought the freakout was funny and part of a bit.

He would occasionally tell people that I'd "seen the inside of his room" with no context implying that we slept together. He would tell me that he was "a very attractive man" and I wasn't "appreciating" that. He once tried to get me to come over to his apartment during finals week and when I refused, less than an hour later he was telling me about a "tinder date who fell asleep on his couch."

Nothing happened. Except when I officially shut down his advances by saying I had a boyfriend (which was a lie but I had lightly been seeing a friend at the time), he started becoming extremely cold and distant. He started demanding my professional time to help him with his project more and more while not talking to me personally, at the expense of me learning other techniques. To the point where he was emailing my boss telling him that I wasn't doing my job and that my boss needed to email me to force me to work that day (because he made it as though the machine would not be run if I wasn't there despite there being two people assigned that day and I had originally emailed him to see if he could cover for me). It was an incredibly slimy move to try to force and bully me to do something because he couldn't get with me personally. Luckily, my boss was extremely understanding and knew me, and I was able to talk to him and leave that specific project.

I've left out many details, both because I don't remember them and because I don't know how to fit them into a post like this.

Basically, what I'm trying to say is that saying narumayo should be canon especially during the original trilogy just does both of the characters a disservice, at least by US standards. I don't know the culture in Japan and I'm not going to pretend I do. Narumayo would ruin Phoenix's character (for me) because instead of being a funny lawyer man who is incredibly smart, he becomes a slimy man who preys on teenage girls. I don't want that for either of them. The characters, especially Maya's, are much more deserving of a better fate.

I focus on Phoenix in this because it's the job of the older person to make sure lines aren't crossed. Do I think Maya had a bit of a teenage crush on Phoenix in the first game? Maybe, but that's entirely different than an adult actively encouraging a relationship with a teenager.

Maya being in a relationship with an adult so young, whether it works out or not, would make her sick. I know it would, because looking back on the interactions I had with that man and the things I didn't want to think about at the time, made me sick. I used to say I was 17 around him and eventually he would tell me I had to stop because "it was making him uncomfortable the things he was saying." But why would you say things to a 19 year old that you wouldn't say to a 17 year old? And thinking of Maya as *actually* 17 in the beginning of the series is what makes it so awful for me.

I just associate such awful situations with an adult and teenage ship outside of the general illegality. It's a measure of grooming and a power dynamic that's always going to be there. You're at different stages of life and it's going to be so evident especially at that young age. I say it's on the responsibility of the adult to not get in that situation, but there are enough adults out there that won't do that, and you have to look out for yourself.

Anyway I think the connection I made was a bit incomprehensible but I hope what I'm trying to say comes across.

[smol-and-grumpy]

Light My Fire - CH01

Pairing: CEO!Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: She always thought her boss was an ill-tempered man, but when he presents her with a proposition she can’t quite deny, she gets to know him better. It’s not bad, right? Because all she has to do is being fake married to him for six months, sounds do-able, right? Right.

Warnings: There’s none in this. Maybe a sprinkle of angst.

WC: 2567

A/N: So here we have a new series. If you know my writing, you’d know that I always write such a slow build. This one won’t be any different. Please share your thoughts with me, I’d love to hear your feedback. 

Beta’d by @deanwanddamons <3

SERIES MATSTERLIST

Shit, shit, shit. 

She’s going to be late, so fucking late! 

Y/N hastily slips into her shoes, does a final check of her reflection in the mirror before she gets out of her apartment and hires a taxi. It’s not like she can afford it with the high rent in the city, but she can’t risk getting late into work because her boss would be beyond pissed and she’d like to avoid being at the receiving end of his wrath right at the start of her week. 

She’s still panting when she sits in the taxi. If she hadn’t been lost in thoughts and wanted to finish reading her damn novel while she drank her coffee, maybe then she wouldn’t have spilled it all over herself and wouldn’t have had to change into something else and she wouldn’t have been late. 

Mr. Winchester will be so pissed.

He’s known for firing people, exchanging them for someone who would be gone in under a week's time. She’s actually surprised that she made it this long. It’s almost a year now that she became one of his office assistants and while it’s a good job and a good paying one too, she thinks it’s fucking challenging. She needs that job and she can’t afford to get fired. Jack, her brother, is still in college and she needs to help him, since she and Jack — well, that’s all the family that’s still left. 

She quickly types out a text to Jack when she sees the taxi rounding up to her office building. 

 Y/N: Cross your fingers. I’m late. I hope I won’t get fired.

J: Oh, no. I’m crossing my toes, too! You got it, sis!

 Alright. She takes a deep breath, gets out and pays the driver before she takes the elevator up to her floor. 

Arriving on the floor, she already hears someone yelling. The voice is deep, gravelly, it can only belong to one person that she knows of. He’s also the only one who’s allowed to yell around here, actually. 

Walking over to her desk, she sits down and starts up her computer. She hopes that by acting normal, nobody would know that she’s thirty minutes late, and she doesn’t even have a good explanation should someone ask. She couldn’t even lie about it because she’s an awful liar.

Mr. Winchester hates tardiness. She once watched him firing someone who was five minutes late. 

She doesn’t know what’s wrong with Mr. Winchester sometimes. Like, he’s all professional but every time she has to work with him, he acts all grumpy. After a year of repeatedly watching him being his grumpy self around her, she can’t help but think that he doesn’t really like her at all. But again, if he doesn’t like her, why didn’t he fire her already?

“Go away! You’re fired!” 

Oh god, it’s not even 9am and he’s already firing people. She sees Adam walk past her desk, his head low. Awe, that’s sad. She quite liked Adam. How long has he been here? About seven months? God, she wishes that she had the balls to stand up to that jerk Winchester.

Mr. Winchester walks out of his office and right into her view. She ducks her head, pretends to look occupied, which she actually is because she’s now logged in and skims through her emails. There are several of Mr. Winchester from this morning and she looks at the time stamps. 6.45am, 6.57am, 7.12am, 7.34am, 8.01am, 8.02am, 8.03am, 8.04am, 8.05am, 8.06am, 8.13am, 8.16am, 8.24am, 8.26am. 

Shit.

She’s going to get fired for sure. Say bye to your college degree, Jack.

His footsteps echo in the quiet office and it comes to a halt at her desk.

Uh-oh.

Y/N doesn’t dare to look up.

“Where were you?” Mr. Winchester snarls. 

“I— uh,” She stammers, and then she looks up at him. His suit is neat, the scruff a little longer than usual, and he looks tired because his eyes aren’t as green as they usually are, which is a good thing because she always tends to get lost in them if she stares at them for too long, “I’m sorry, sir.” 

“I want to see you in my office,” He hisses, “And while you’re at it, get me a coffee, alright?” He turns around, walks back, but stops and tilts his head back again, “Please.” With that, he’s off into his office and slams the door shut. 

Hey, at least he said please, right?

Ruby looks up at her from her computer, “My god, what’s wrong with that guy? Can you believe that he’s one of the hottest bachelors of the year according to some magazines? The voters surely haven’t ever seen him like this.”

“Shush, Ruby,” Y/N says, “What if he has bat ears?” Really, she wouldn’t be surprised if he has.

Ruby does that locking motion with her hand on her lips. 

“But someone surely has got out of the wrong side of the bed.” She says, and adds, “I thought he spent the weekend in Vegas for that meeting? Didn’t it go well?”

“It did, apparently, but who knows,” Ruby shrugs, “Anyway, if I were you, I would go grab that coffee quick, Y/N. I don’t want him firing you.”

“Shit, right!” She gets up and storms into the break room to get the coffee and speeds back on her heels to Mr. Winchester’s office door, almost trips once but she managed to  save herself gracefully.

She knocks and enters, and to her surprise, someone else is in the room as well. 

Sam Winchester, the company’s lawyer and brother to Dean Winchester. 

Sam stands by the window, looking out into the streets while her boss is hunched over his desk, his forehead on his arms. 

Something’s wrong and she’s afraid to ask what it is. So instead of asking, she steps in, “Your coffee, sir.”

“Huh,” Mr. Winchester looks up from his desk, “Yeah, thanks. Please take a seat, Y/N.”

Hesitantly, she walks closer, clears her throat as she sets the coffee on his desk, and sits down, “Mr. Winchester, please, whatever it is, I promise that I won’t make the same mistake again. My being late today was really an accident, I spilled coffee over myself and had to change my clothes, it’ll never happen again, please. I need this job.”

“Jesus, Y/N, relax!” Mr. Winchester groans, and Sam Winchester looks at his brother with amusement in his eyes, “My head’s hurting. Shut up, please? You won’t get fired, I promise.”

“Oh,” 

“In fact, I have a proposition for you.” Mr. Winchester stands up and walks around to her side of the desk, leaning against it, “I want you to be my fake wife.”

She frowns, thinks that she hasn’t heard him right, “What?”

“Look, I’m not really happy about it either,” He starts to say, and she frowns some more for fucking good measure.

“Wow, thanks,” Y/N huffs out, “What a great compliment.”

“No! Christ!” Mr. Winchester rubs over his scruff with his fingers. The scratching sound is loud in the otherwise quiet room, “I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“Why do you want me to do that?”

“Yeah, why, Dean?” Sam cuts in and he starts to chuckle, which prompts Dean to send his brother a glare. 

“Shut up, Sammy.”

He turns back to her, “Look, the meeting in Vegas went well, alright? I got Chuck Shurley to let me buy shares of his company. The thing is, after the dinner, we went for a drink, and next thing I know, I was married to his fucking sister.”

Y/N really tries not to laugh, “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Winchester scoffs.

“So, did you get ordained by Elvis or something?” 

“Y/N! Jesus! Focus!” He yells, which made her flinch, “I’m married and now she wants at least a quarter of what I own if I want to annul the marriage. She fucking set me up, but I can’t really prove it.”

“Amara Shurley is a very beautiful and rich woman,” She shrugs, because it’s true. Every guy wants to be with her, she wonders why Mr. Winchester doesn’t. 

“Your point being?” He raises an eyebrow at her, “Just because she’s beautiful doesn’t mean that I have to want to be with her, does it?”

“No, sir. But I’m wondering why you want me to pretend to marry you when you are already married?”

“We can show Amara another marriage certificate, one that says that we married a month ago, right Sammy?” Mr. Winchester asks his brother, but his eyes are on her. 

“That’s right. It’s already signed by all parties. All you have to do is sign it. I’m waiting for the court dates as we speak,” Sam Winchester says and shows her the apparent very important piece of paper.

There are signatures of Mr. Winchester. His brother and Ruby as witnesses. Ruby? Fucking Ruby? Oh my god, and she didn’t even warn her!

“Ruby’s your friend besides work too, isn’t she?” Mr. Winchester asks. 

“Yeah,” Y/N nods.

“Good,” Mr. Winchester says, and adds, “What do you say? Would you do me the honor of becoming my fake wife?”

Her mouth stands slightly agape, she blinks, “This is stupid. Why would you do that? It’s not even legal, is it? Why me?”

“I’m pretty desperate, as you can tell,” Mr. Winchester answers short. And it hurts. It hurts damn bad. Not that she expects anything less. And then he goes on, “Look, I know that it’s a big breach into your privacy but I can guarantee you that you’ll get rewarded for it. I’ll pay you double and you don’t even have to work while you’re married to me.”

But she likes to work! Well, yeah, sometimes he can be a dick but she actually really likes to work. She doesn’t say it, though. Instead, she asks, “How long do we need to be married for?” 

“Six months.” Sam Winchester cuts in.

“Six-what?!”

“Yeah, that’s the only way it won’t look suspicious.” 

“Ah, great. Because we don’t want that, do we? We don’t even live together! I don’t know you! This is going too far.” She’s mad. Can’t lie about it.

“Y/N, please. You’re the only one that I know who doesn’t get irritated by my mood. You know how I like my coffee, you know where I like to eat out, you know my schedule, you’re the only one who really knows me here!”

Sam Winchester clears his throat.

“Calm down, Sammy, alright!” Mr. Winchester rolls his eyes. 

She bites her bottom lip, thinks hard about it. It’s not like she can not not agree to it. It’s double pay for six months! Jack could finish his degree. But she asks anyway, “What are the conditions?”

“I have the contract ready, too,” Sam Winchester says, and hands it to her, while she begins to read it, he goes on, “You’re going to live with Dean as of today,” The younger Winchester says matter of factly.

“Today?” She stands up so abruptly, the chair screeches along the floor, which makes everyone in the room flinch, and Mr. Winchester’s hand goes to his temple. “Sorry,” She whispers.

“Yeah, today. You’ve been married for one month, think it’s time you move in together, no?” Sam grins.

“Okay, and what else?” Y/N crosses her arms over her chest. 

“Monogamy.” The taller Winchester smirks, “No sex or flirting with anyone else for the next six months.”

“What?” Mr. Winchester scoffs, “You didn’t tell me that, Sammy!”

Sam Winchester just shrugs, “I mean, it actually goes without saying. You’re married, that’s what married couples do when they’re in love, being faithful. At least in the first six months I’d hope so.”

Mr. Winchester rubs over his scruff again. He does that a lot when he’s thinking. After a short while he looks at her, “Okay, I can do that, can you?”

How can she say that it's a piece of cake for her because she doesn’t have a healthy social life anyway? All she’s been doing is working and sleeping for a year now. But of course she doesn’t say it. Instead, she says, “I can,” and looks at her boss smugly and he cocks her an eyebrow.

“So that we’re clear, you’re going to act like a lovey dovey couple for the next six month.” Her boss’s brother states.

“Yes,” Mr. Winchester and her say it in unison.

“Great,” Sam Winchester hands her a pen, “If you could just sign here and here, Y/N.” He points to the places on the certificate and contract.

She signs the documents and the taller Winchester puts it away into his case. “Right, I’ll see you guys around,” he calls out before leaving.

“So, Mr. Winchester—”

“—Please call me Dean. We’re married now.” He lets out a tired chuckle.

“Right,” She sighs.

“Look, I’m sorry about it, alright? I’m not out to make your life miserable but maybe if we work on it together it’ll be half as bad as it seems right now?”

“Maybe, yeah.” She agrees. “So, what do you want me to do?”

“You go home and pack your things. I’ll send Gabe to pick you up and bring you to my penthouse.”

Penthouse. How fancy. 

“And don’t worry, the rent for your apartment will be covered.”

“Okay,” 

She walks out of the office with a weird feeling in her guts. When she arrives at her desk Ruby’s grinning.

“You fucking knew!” Y/N hisses at her friend.

“Oh, come on,” The other girl huffs out, “What’s so bad about being married to the hottest bachelor in the business world?”

Well, Ruby’s actually not entirely wrong, but he’s her boss. It will always be awkward. 

“Ask me again in six months, will you?” She says, shuts off her computer and is about to leave when Ruby eyes her, “What?”

“Where are you going?”

“I have to go pack my things.”

“Why?”

She sighs, “Well, I have to go live with him now.”

“You what?!” Ruby damn near squealed.

“Shhh!” She hushes her friend and looks around, smiles when she sees Donatello looking over here with one raised eyebrow, “You know that you can’t talk about it, right? You probably signed a contract.” She doesn’t really know it but given how Sam Winchester is good at what he’s doing, she guesses that they cover Dean’s ass thoroughly. Not that she wouldn’t mind covering that ass herself...

Focus, Y/N! 

“Yeah, I signed something. I didn’t read it  because damn, that young Winchester is yummy. I’d like to climb him like a fucking tree.” 

Great.

“My god Ruby, you should always read what you sign!” 

“In my defense, I was lost in his dimples, okay? Anyway, it’s good if you live with him, no? You can see if he really has a stick up his ass when you walk in on him showering or something like that.”

“Oh my god, I need to leave.” She grabs her bag and walks to the elevator when Ruby makes kissy faces at her. She sticks out her tongue and in that moment, Dean walks out of his office and frowns at her. 

Monday has just started fucking great, hasn’t it?

CH02

[shmegmilton]

Hey! Just been looking through your blog and saw some of your posts re: Jumel, Burr and Alex Jr. While it’s true Chernow told the story in his biography and that’s where the popular idea that he was her lawyer came from, the story has apparently been repeated by Burr biographers long before Chernow wrote his Hamilton. There’s a book called ‘Aaron Burr and the Literary Imagination’ by Charles J Nolan (1980) who mentions the story in Chapter 1: ‘The Man who Killed Hamilton’, he gives his source as ‘Aaron Burr: Portrait of an Ambitous Man’ by Herbert S Parmet, published in 1967. I don’t own the latter book so I have no idea who he gives as his source but it seems that this story has been in currency for a long time regardless of whether it’s true or not.

     Yeah, I’m aware it’s been around for a while. My first intro to the myth was in Vidal’s book on Burr in the 1973, which implies Vidal got it from the 1968 book, I imagine. As for the 1980 book (which I haven’t read), from whatever instantly accessible info about Charles J. Nolan I can find on Google, his Staff Page on the USNA website says that he was more-or-less exclusively an English & Creative Writing professor. Granted, you don’t NEED a degree is history to enjoy it, study it independently or even write a book about it, but none of his credits imply anything about him having a background with history and/or historical research.

   Also, judging by the title (Aaron Burr & the American Literary Imagination) I assume that it’s less of a Burr biography and more of an essay on all of the different Burr interpretations in fiction books, plays, etc. Nancy Isenberg has a whole section covering the topic in her Burr biography, as well. If that’s the case, if Ron Chernow got his information from this 1980′s book, he’s either grossly irresponsible with his research, or an idiot. Which means that it was probably the 1968 book, or a book printed before that.

-

    But the thing about those historians in particular (ie. pre-1960s historians) is they have a “pass” for lack of a better word; they did what they could with the info that they had, which was mostly unvetted newspapers & washed biographies written either by direct descendants/family members that had an agenda (“make them look as great as possible”), or by third parties with their own agenda. There wasn’t “standards” for research, no one was under any obligation to be truthful--not to mention, it’s hard to be truthful in the first place if your only sources aren’t truthful themselves.

As much as a hate the Hamilton play, the way Lin Manuel Miranda writes his obsession over “legacies” makes a good point; the Founding Fathers cared MORE about their legacies than historical accuracy. Case and point, this is why we didn’t know about Thomas Jefferson & Sally Hemings, or the fact that Alexander Hamilton most likely DID own slaves until relatively recently--because over the last few decades, historians have finally been getting unrestricted access to historical archives that were hidden to “protect” these people’s images. ‘History is written by the victors’, or however that saying goes.

-

This poses a problem for Chernow because, if he DID get his info from one of these books... that kind of diminishes his credibility, doesn’t it? Because any professional in any sort of field SHOULD know, as a general rule: the older your sources are, unless it’s a first-hand account or written documents, the less likely they are to be accurate.

This is why peer-review is an important step in a lot of fields; academics every few decades will double-check these older books or studies alongside the new information we know & realize that they’re incorrect, or that the conclusion is different than what we thought it was.

This is why we don’t think recognize outdated information like ‘humans only use 20% of their brain’, or ‘homosexuality is a choice’ as fact anymore. Because we double-checked and now we KNOW it’s wrong. Ergo, no academic who wants to be taken seriously is going to cite 3rd party books that are 30, 40, 50 years old/clearly outdated. Unless you’re Chernow, I guess.

-

    But the BIG issue I have with the “Alexander Hamilton Jr. was Jumel’s divorce lawyer” myth (you mentioned seeing my other posts before, so you probably know that Jumel’s biographer discovered that Alexander Jr. was a real-estate broker who temporarily took ownership of her property during the divorce so Burr couldn’t get to it, which means this myth is most likely a misinterpretation), is that even though he may have sourced this from a book (not that we’ll ever know because HE never sourced it).... I have yet to see it repeated in any Burr biography before & since. Which should be a red flag, but Chernow’s confirmation bias was too great, I guess.

The two OLDEST biographies on Aaron Burr that we have, Memoirs of Aaron Burr (1837) and The Life & Times of Aaron Burr (1858) don’t even mention Alexander Jr. or much about the divorce proceedings at all. Aaron Burr: A Biography (1938) also doesn’t mention it at any point when discussing the divorce.

Some Burr biographies that I’ve read before & since Chernow’s book was written (May 2005) that ALSO don’t mention it are:

Aaron Burr (Milton Lomask, 1980)

Burr, Hamilton & Jefferson (Roger G. Kennedy, 1999)

Fallen Founder: The Life of Aaron Burr (Nancy Isenberg, 2007)

The Heartbreak of Aaron Burr (H.W. Brands, 2012)

The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr (Susan Holloway Scott, 2019)

American Emperor (David O. Stewart, 2011)

War of Two (John Sedgewick, 2015)

I haven’t read many biographies on Alexander Hamilton, but my current theory is that this myth originally started in one of his biographies because:

Judging about how Chernow wrote Burr, he didn’t care enough about him to read more than two pages, let alone an entire biography about him.

Like I said, no other Burr biography that I’ve seen verifies this information, so unless he’s an idiot it’s virtually impossible for him to have sourced this from a Burr book.

-

So, yes, while you’re 100% correct that Chernow isn’t the originator of this myth, he still perpetuated something that a majority of SERIOUS historians seem to be in agreement is unverifiable/false, to an audience of thousands of people & now that’s all you see when you type in Eliza Jumel or Alexander Hamilton Jr. into Google. It’s obnoxious, and he’s obnoxious.

[somedrunkpirate]

Ineffable Husbands but it’s a Noir Detective Story

The Angel Of Greenwich, my @do-it-with-style-events​ fic has started posting! The first chapter is up now :D

“Well, you see, Mr Crowley. It would seem that I have been framed for murder.”

— — — — — — — —

A Noir murder mystery set in the 1920's with art from @tayasigerson​. Private Detective Crowley has to find the truth about the body found in a bookshop, while trying not to fall in love with the man who hired him. His success might be doomed from the start.

Read on ao3 or continue reading below! 

Crowley takes a slow drag from his cuban cigar.

When he breathes out, the smoke momentarily obscures the man sitting in the chair in front of his desk. His shoulders are hunched and his eyes are flickering from the window, to Crowley, and back again.

This, in itself, is not unusual. There are few men with the ability to not appear anxious within these quarters. But what is out of the ordinary is the way Crowley found himself— affected, lets say, by the stranger’s presence. There is something about those golden curls and sky blue eyes that captures his interest immediately. Like there is strength there, beyond the tartan patterns and soft wool, a sense of power one might be lucky to have revealed to you, in the right circumstances.

The man’s gaze locks with his, and Crowley takes another drag, a shiver coursing down his spine. Obscured in the dark, Crowley lets his lips curl.

It is a rare occurrence indeed for the Devil's curiosity to be piqued without a word of a case uttered.

Somewhere in the abscesses of his mind a silken voice whispers a warning. But he has not come this far by heeding such things. Crowley leans forward, out of the shadows and lets the orange glow of the street lanterns outside grant him an otherworldly appearance.

The man shivers.

Crowley grins. ”Well, my good fellow. What brings you to Hell?"

“To— To Hell’s Kitchen?” the man asks, cowering a little further. His eyes are now divided between Crowley and the exit, as if he’s gauging how long it would take to scurry out to safety.

“If you wish to call it that, sure,” Crowley allows, making a wide gesture with his hands. “Whatever we’re cooking up in here, it is not the kind of thing men like you usually involve yourself with. So I ask again. What brings you to my office, Mister…”

“Fell,” Mr Fell says quickly. “I run a bookshop in Greenwich Village.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

He would have expected something more… elevated. His wealth is easily visible in his clothing—the quality, the details, the custom fit —though only for those who know how to look for it. He does not advertise his means, but it is clear to Crowley that he is a man living in excess. At least compared to the majority of New York’s denizens. Mr Fell huffs. “Yes, quite.” He straightens a bit, puffed up and defensive, though subtly so.  “It is a lovely neighbourhood.”

Already, this man is full of intrigue. Crowley allows his grin to widen, leading forward further.

“I’ve heard quite a few things about that Village of yours. Is there anything about its… reputation, that causes you to seek out my help?”

“No, no,” Mr Fell shakes his head effusively. “No, at least. Not quite.”

He falls silent and takes a shuddering breath, and with it his shoulders hunch again.

A car passes by and he flinches. The headlights illuminate his face for but a second, yet it is enough to see deep stains underneath the man’s eyes, accentuating an expression of horror mixed with a sense of shock.

It tells a tale of having discovered something horrific beyond measure, Crowley knows the look very well. But what the nightmare entails depends on the person. For one, it is adultery, for another it is standing at the edge of destitution. There is only one reason why wealthy men come to Crowley; they are too ashamed to bring their problem to the police.

Mr Fell shakes his head again, and takes a deep breath. He leans forward with another furtive glance to the window, the orange glow a shimmer in his hair, and then catches Crowley’s eyes.

At once Crowley realises this is not a case like any other. This is no upper city smuck trying to hide his trysts from the public eye, or an insecure husband wanting his wife followed down the streets.

There is no shame in his expression. Only terror, desperation and utter determination.

Mr Fell takes another breath, licks his lips, and says, “Well, you see, Mr Crowley. It would seem that I have been framed for murder.”

— — — — — — — —

A slight drizzle has begun to fall from the sky. Crowley curses under his breath, thinks momentarily of the recent death of his trusty umbrella, and works quickly to secure the multitude of locks that guard the front door of his establishment.

One of the locks takes some abuse in order to close. Crowley slams the old thing into place until he hears the tell tale click.

“I am truly sorry I cannot answer all your questions at this time,” Mr Fell is saying. “But they did not want me to leave for long. It is better to take you with me.”

Crowley turns to see Mr Fell folding open an umbrella. They fit under it perfectly, standing a little closer together than propriety demands. Mr Fell doesn’t seem to notice.

“I assure you I will provide you with all the information once we are in less of a hurry. He should come—“ Mr Fell interrupts himself when they are suddenly engulfed in light.

Crowley snaps his head around, blinking in the face of it.

Headlights.

“Ah— There he is. He’d hidden himself, I see. I suppose in this neighbourhood he did not want to be obvious.”

A police car drives slowly out of the alleyway opposite from Crowley’s office.

“The cops let you come here while a body lays in your shop? How in the hell did you manage that?” asks Crowley, trying not to sound as shocked as he feels. The New York police force has made it quite clear that they do not want Crowley to touch any of their cases with a six feet pole, never mind involve himself while the blood is still fresh.

Mr Fell huffs, and bounces a little on the heels of his feet. “I asked,” he says primly. “But they only agreed with a chaperone, so I wouldn’t scurry away. As if I would!” He sounds hilariously flabbergasted at the idea, as if it hadn’t even occurred to him. “I want this to be solved as much as anyone. It is my shop, after all, and of course justice must be served.”

Crowley makes a non-committal noise and the car pulls up beside them. If this isn’t all performance, no substance, Mr Fell’s additude promises a lucrative case for him. As opposed to the adultery cases that take no more than a couple of hours to prove that yes, indeed, your spouse has a lover. Or even the minor white collar crimes with clients more stingy than you would think of people wearing a three-piece suit.

The most important ingredient of a case with long working hours, as a murder inevitably will end up being, is the emotional investment of the client. And Mr Fell, at least, seems to be invested. Now it is just hoping he is not because he is trying to cover up his sins.

Mr Fell opens the passenger door of the car—the sound brings Crowley back from his thoughts.

Crowley slips in the back quickly, taking a moment to look at the agent driving: young, overworked judging by the bruises under his eyes, and harried.

“Thank you, sir,” the agent is saying to Mr Fell. “We ought to be back as quickly as possible. I am still not sure—“

“My lawyer will arrive not too long after we return and clear it all up with your superiors,” Mr Fell interrupts— not impolitely, just with a quiet certainty that seems to calm the young officer a fraction.

Crowley personally doubts the reality of Mr Fell’s promise. He wonders if Mr Fell truly believes that he can hire a private detective without drawing the ire of the force. The rich have thought stranger things to be possible, Crowley supposes. If he’s lying, however, then he’s proven himself to be good at the art. Interesting. Investigations are easier when the people involved portray their truths in their brows and eyes, if not in their clumsy words, but Crowley likes a challenge.

“Alright then, sir.” The officer says and begins to drive. His eyes flicker to the rearview mirror, falling onto Crowley’s figure. “And apologies for not introducing myself. I’m officer Pulsifer, detective in training. You are—“

“Anthony J Crowley, private detective,” Crowley says, with a sly smile. “I assume you know of my reputation.”

“Yes, sir,” Pulsifer says, “I’ve read the articles on the Pen-diamond case, and of course the disappearance of Kelly Donovan. Your work is highly inspiring, sir.”

Ah. A fan in cop’s clothing. Crowley suddenly knows why Mr Fell was able to take such unorthodox steps.

“You flatter me,” Crowley says, “it is rare to hear such positivity from men of your… kind.”

Pulsifer looks away, but his shoulders straighten as if to bolster himself. “Your methods are effective, sir. The Mummy of New Jersey, for example.”

Crowley barks a laugh and says, “Oh that one, that’s been a while.” He shakes his head, chuckeling. “Don’t let your superiors hear you say anything of the sort in the future, Pulsifer, if you want to make Detective one day.”

Pulsifer seems unable to find a response and the drive continues in silence— or at least, verbally so. Mr Fell seems unable to sit still, wiggling in his seat and tugging at his sleeves. Occasionally his eyes flicker to the mirror, and catches Crowley’s gaze only to look away again when caught. Crowley doesn’t hide his staring. He’s supposed to solve a case after all, and Mr Fell is one half of the puzzle.

After one too many glances, Mr Fell’s eyes narrow at him, lined with suspicion. Crowley raises his eyebrows in question. If Mr Fell is regretting his choice already, he much rather have it out now, saving him another altercation with the Detective of the week.

They hold eye contact for a moment, and then Mr Fell harrumphs under his breath, shaking his head a little, and begins to stare out of the window with intense concentration. Crowley doesn’t follow his lead, and continues looking at Mr Fell with the same intensity, as if he could tease out the mysteries just by watching. He doesn’t come up with anything conclusive, and yet he cannot drag his eyes away.

The rest of the travel proceeds in much the same fashion—Crowley looking, and Mr Fell quite purposefully not looking back. Neither of them are willing to budge first.

“Sirs?” says Pulsifer, hesitantly. “We’ve arrived.”

The car has stopped driving. God knows how long they’ve sat there.

“Ah, thank you Pulsifer,” says Mr Fell smoothly. “Your service was most appreciated.” He leans over to shake the agent’s hand, and steps out of the car.

In doing so, Crowley is finally released. A huff of breath escapes him, and he pushes the door open with a deviant click. Once outside, thick raindrops fall onto his brimmed hat. He imagines taking it off and letting the water wash out his strange thoughts, but he casts that idiotic idea aside as well.

“Mr Crowley?”  

Mr Fell is looking at him, his head tilted to the side. “Are you coming?”

The question pushes Crowley back into his surroundings and he realises that the rumble of noise is more than the rain: it is a crowd of people. About three dozen onlookers form a half circle around the front of a building— the sign above is only barely visible between their battered umbrellas. Some have grabbed barrels and boxes to stand upon and get a better view.

They’re at Garden Street, his mind provides belatedly. He’d subconsciously recognized the tell tale Dumbbell tenement buildings of the East Side, and the vague smell of the docks being brought by the wind. A strange place to open a bookshop, and even a stranger place to live for a man like Mr Fell. He sticks out as much as his shop does: the rows of tenement apartments suddenly broken up by one large family sized, three story home. He can just see a tree peeking behind the building, meaning there is some sort of garden behind it as well.

Crowley has the vague sense that if the body had been found in any other building on the same street, it wouldn’t nearly have pulled in the same crowd.

“It has become quite the spectacle,” Mr Fell says with a sigh. “The body has already been carried off. I’m not sure why they linger yet.”

“Tragedy attracts, Mr Fell,” Crowley says, omitting ‘certainly when it occurs in conjunction to people like you’, as offending his client at this juncture would not be beneficial. Instead he says, “You must know that, or all the books you sell are children’s tales.”

“Fictional tragedy is quite a different thing.” Mr Fell huffs. “Haven’t we seen enough of it in the real world? I do not understand why—“ he trails off. “Well, no matter. Maybe this is a tragedy that can be solved. I just wish they would have some respect for those who have left us.”

“Don’t condemn the people for their curiosity. Now, you plan to sneak me in?”

Mr Fell’s eyes widen. “Sneak you in?”

“If you haven’t heard, the police do not appreciate me stepping in on their territory. What do you propose?”

“I am going to ask, Mr Crowley,” Mr Fell says and promptly walks towards the shop.

Pulsifer had already started to shoulder-tap his way through the gathering, but his progress is incremental. Mr Fell only has to clear his throat once the crowd part like the sea before Moses. Crowley falls into step behind him, as the people close ranks once they pass.

A hush goes over them as the source of their gossip enters their vicinity. Only a few watch with suspicion— at least, few look with suspicion at Mr Fell. For Crowley, of course, suspicion combined with intrigue is predetermined. Some gasp and whisper ‘The Devil is here’. But the man implicated with murder is welcomed with a hint of relief. “I told you he wouldn’t have left for London,” someone murmurs, though the anonymous voice is shushed quickly.

Mr Fell stands before the shop with his hands clasped behind his back, smiles a sunlight smile at them, and wishes them a good evening.

At that, the crowd slowly begins to disperse.

Crowley does a splendid job not gaping at him.

“And now, we will ask the officers to let you aid in the investigation,” Mr Fell says brightly.

In the moment, Crowley cannot help but believe that if Mr Fell wanted anything, the universe would make it happen.

— — — — — — — —

And it does.

The traditional “What is the meaning of this?!” when Crowley shows up near New York’s finest is smoothly transitioned to a “Just stay out of our way,” as Mr Fell manages to convince the detective that it is no issue for Crowley to be here. He enacts a politeness infused verbal sleight of hand involving concerned looks, earnest eyes, and some kind of high society magic.

Because, as Mr Fell explains, they have taken away the body, after all. They were even already starting to wrap up for the night! So there shouldn’t be any harm in a second pair of eyes. A guest couldn’t mess up a crime scene that was about to be reopened anyway. And besides, the best agents of New York are so skilled that they surely couldn’t have missed anything important. This is merely a precaution to make doubly sure even the little details are in order, don’t you think so Detective?

“Everything is in order. We don’t miss things, Mr Fell,” Detective Mulligan grinds out. “You’ll see. You’re wasting your money on that slicker. If you are as innocent as you claim, you should trust us to handle it.”

“I do so, Detective Mulligan, but you must agree that Mr Crowley has extensive knowledge about… the darker side of this fine city. If my suspicions are correct, then his aid could be a boon to all of us. You must have heard of the recent burglaries. There is trouble breeding in this area, and according to the papers, the officers have had difficulty finding leads. I only wished to provide aid, Detective. I know that taking on consultants is outside of your budget, but it is within mine.”

Crowley hides a smile with his hand. Well well, that answers why Mr Fell approached him. Perhaps his client has a theory of his own.

Detective Mulligan grunts and then throws a glare at Crowley. “We’ve searched the place top to bottom, but if there is anything you learn, you come to me. You hear, son?”

“Of course, sir, right away sir,” Crowley says mockingly, and salutes. “I’m always prepared to aid the valiant warriors of justice.”

Detective Mulligan glares some more. Mr Fell sniffs disapprovingly. Crowley grins at them both.

This is going to be delightful.

Mr Fell and Mulligan continue to speak— though it is not much of a conversation, and more Mr Fell attempting to ask questions on the investigation and receiving only grunts and huffs in return. Crowley, who has prior experience with the detective, knows to ask the crime scene these inquiries instead. A wall has much more to say than Mulligan in his most verbose of moods.

The bookshop is very much a bookshop: tomes of all shapes and sizes line the walls, and bookcases form a small maze, only broken up by a circular space in the middle of the room, the wooden floorboards lovingly engraved with bohemian looking patterning. The shop is cosy, if dusty, and clearly beloved by its owner, but the totality of the decoration isn’t to Crowley’s interest. Though later those details might become of import, as of now, his focus is the entrance space right before the door, where a large gold and red carpet not only welcomes new clients into the shop, but has welcomed Mr Jones into the afterlife. The carpet is drenched in blood: a large stain about one third of the carpet marrs its graceful weave.

Crowley clears his throat. “Mr Fell?”

“Yes?”

Mr Fell turns away from Detective Mulligan, at full attention. Detective Mulligan glares behind him.

“As you said, the officers have been very… expedient in their process, so I cannot inspect the body myself. But if you won’t mind, could you describe, as detailed as possible, what the body looked like when you found it?”

Mr Fell goes a little pale and swallows hard.

Crowley keeps his voice calm and neutral. “Did he lay on his stomach, or on his back? Was his head towards the door? Did you see any obvious wounds?”

“I—Uhm,” Mr Fell says, wringing his hands together nervously. His eyes take on a bit of a glazed effect, as if he’s looking deep into himself as seeing what is before him. “He was on his stomach and—yes, towards the door. As if he was leaving. His wounds were—on his back. It was, there was so much blood. His coat was brown, like a barn owl, but now—it isn't anymore. I knew he was gone.”

“Did you see what kind of wounds he suffered?”

“No, I—I’m not sure. I didn’t come closer. I panicked.”

“Did anyone else see the body up close?”

Mr Fell’s eyes flicker to the Detective, and then to Officer Pulsifer. “The police, of course, maybe a few other people as well. I’d left the door open, some of the youths were walking in.” Mr Fell’s lips twist with disapproval. “Curious little buggers.”

Crowley turns to Pulsifer. “Any specifics of the wounds that you saw?”

Pulsifer straightens to attention. “He appeared to be stabbed many times, sir. We believe he--

“Officer.” Detective Mulligan’s voice interrupts Pulsifer with force. “The details of the case shall not be shared with outside parties unless I say so.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry sir.”

“Mr Fell, where are your business records?”

“In the office, but shouldn’t you wait on my Lawyer until--”

“If you are cooperative, and give me permission now, we all do not have to work through the night. If you are innocent as you claim, there is no harm in it. I only want to ensure there are no financial motives to this crime.”

Mr Fell presses his lips together, but at length he sighs. “Oh well. Have at it. My office is the second door to the right.”

Detective Mulligan huffs. “Officer, you keep an eye on the Devil. If I come to find items missing, your head will roll.”

“Yes, sir.” Officer Pulsifer replies.

Before Mulligan steps through the aforementioned office door he stills and turns again. “And, stay away from the negatives. We do not want another Powell situation.”

“Yes, sir.” Officer Pulsifer repeats, flushing, and taking shuffling a little further from the camera laid to rest on a table off to the side.  

Crowley becomes aware of a shadow on his six. He sighs and attempts to focus once more. But there is another set of footsteps behind him, and Mr Fell joins him by his side, bouncing on his heels and his hands clasped together. He is looking at the blood with wide eyes of sadness.

Crowley suppresses a sigh, knowing his questions will likely exacerbate the emotions. One of the reasons why he prefers cold cases is that when he speaks to people, the balm of time makes them significantly less… fragile.

He takes his detective journal out of his pocket and branishes a pencil, writing down the date and time in the corner. He then clears his throat and schools his face into one of sympathy— but not too much. His expression must be cool and calm, to convince the client that they have nothing to worry about: he has it under control.

“If you will pardon me, but I have to ask. Who was the victim?”

“Hmm? Oh— Yes, you are on the case, I see, that is right.” Mr Fell shakes himself a little bit, and drags his gaze away from the carpet. “Mr Jones— Greg Jones if I’m not mistaken. Something with a G in any case. A very pleasant fellow. I am terribly sorry to see him gone, and in such a way too. It is unbearable to think about.”

“How did you know him?”

“He was a patron of the store. He came in for the first time, what would it be, eight months ago? To get a book for his oldest daughter’s birthday, I believe. I should have the record somewhere.” Mr Fell’s eyes flicker to the side, presumably where those records reside in the office. Crowley makes a note of it.  

Mr Fell continues, “He returned the very next day, to my great surprise, as I do not have much of a children’s section, so I had sent him along with a collection of Greek myths. But apparently the young of today have a fascination with the gory, so the book was well received. His daughter’s approval inspired him to explore my collection for himself, and became an avid collector in a scant few weeks. He was one of those rare patrons I could recommend anything to and he would enjoy it thoroughly. Enthusiastic, very much so, though a little uninformed at times.”  

Mr Fell pauses, a hint of a smile ghosting his lips. “He once asked me for the original print of Gilgamesh, and I had to explain to him that this shop does not carry any stone tablets, but I could order the oldest translation I could find on paper.” He chuckles a little, shaking his head, but then trails off with a soft sigh. “He was a good man. He did not deserve this.”

“My condolences,” Crowley says, a little distractedly. Enthusiastic, he was? Hmm. “He had a daughter, then, any more relatives?”

Mr Fell’s eyes widen and he slaps his hand over his mouth, anguish coming over his features. “Oh god, the children! His wife! Have they been informed?”

Crowley redirects his attention to Pulsifer, who is very obviously not trying to get caught eavesdropping. “Have they?”

“Yes, sir. An officer has been sent to tell the family the tragic news.”

“How did they respond?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir, I wasn't there.”

“Pity.”

Mr Fell makes an affronted sound. “Mr Crowley, do you consider the sensitivity of their situation before you prod your nose into private matters? To hear such news as that, it is not to be witnessed by strangers.”

“Prodding my nose into all kinds of matters is in fact my business, Mr Fell. If you are innocent, as you say, would not the next logical suspect be someone close to him, within the family perhaps?”

“You do not mean to accuse the wife?”

“I do not accuse anyone without the evidence, Mr Fell, evidence I cannot have if I do not ‘prod’. The response of the wife is important: she might be aware if her husband thought he was in danger. He might have acted nervous or paranoid in her presence. She might even suspect a cause, or be one herself. Gambling debts, enemies in business, spousal conflict, family tensions. All private matters are of much interest if you wish to remain a free man.”

Mr Fell’s expression of impropriety lessens in gradients as common sense falls onto his shoulders, hunching them with its weight. “This is all just truly horrid, but you are right. I’m not aware of any enemies or nefarity within Mr Jones’ life. He works on Wall Street so there is money to his name. But not so much as to inspire such an act, I would assume. He was an accountant in one of the high offices. He rarely entered the stock market itself. It was much too loud for him, he said.” Mr Fell shakes his head. “I can’t see how such a timid and sweet fellow could have invited his own murder. He does not seem the type to involve himself with things of that nature.”

“You never know someone as well as you think,” Crowley says. “We all have secrets.”

“Secrets dark enough to be killed for?”

“That is exactly what we are going to find out.”

Crowley leaves Mr Fell with a perturbed expression on his face. He is able to take down some details of the scene before another officer bounds down the stairs. Subtlety is truly not their strong suit.

“Nothing much changed sir,” the officer hollers towards Mulligan, who peeks out of the office with a binder in his hands. “Though the new window has been put in, looks like they’re about to start painting. Other than that, same as a fortnight ago. Bit more dusty.”

“No sign of disturbance?”

“Not that I could find sir, but it is very dark up there and a flashlight can only do so much. There is no electric light installed.”

“What happened a fortnight ago?” Crowley asks. The officer seems about to answer in pure reflex, but a glare from Mulligan silences him.

“A burglary,” Mister Fell says, completely impervious to Mulligans’ now redirected glare. “Someone broke into my home.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Through the second floor window?”

“Yes, climbed in with ladders and tossed the place.” Mr Fell huffs. “It was only luck that saved me. I was away for a family dinner that had run late, so I stayed over for the night, only to return to find my home in ravages!”

“What was stol—”

Mulligan steps in with a grunt and says, “You can continue on your own time, Mr Crowley. We are busy. Now, Mr Fell, you must delay the construction of your room for the rest of the week, so a team can return in the morning and search with light.”

“Oh,” Mr Fell says, lips falling into a pout. “I have been waiting for days now and—“ He stills abruptly, a blush blooming on his cheeks. “I’m terribly sorry. Of course I shall delay, a murder has occured! It is just that I had planned to move back home again this weekend, and for a moment I forgot that—  You must pardon me for my momentary crassness, the reconstruction has been one of the most frustrating experiences in my life till thus far— though I suppose I should not complain. Mr Jones’ fate is so much—“

Mulligan interrupts him gruffly. “Thank you for your consideration, Mr Fell.” He lumbers up to the table, letting the binder fall heavily on the oakwood. “Now, is this the order?”

“The order?” Mr Fell carefully avoids the carpet to come towards Mulligan. “Oh yes, the order. Indeed. I tried to cancel the--”

Crowley lets the conversation become more like a radio play in the background, tuned down as to barely hear the words. He’ll have time plenty to ask Mr Fell about his business practices, but his time on the crime scene is limited. Certainly in this state. He assumes Mr Fell is not going to keep the carpet for long, judging his pale complexion every time he looks at it.

He walks around the carpet. There are scuffs on the floor, and part of the carpet is bunged up like someone slipped on the corner, but there is little he can do with it, as it just as well could have been one of the many people stomping all over the scene.

But there is something about the stain that tugs at Crowley’s attention. It’s a warped oval, approximately the size of a small man all on its own. With his magnifying glass, Crowley tries to find more stains in the red edge. It is a troublesome endeavor in the low light, but Crowley finds no evidence of discoloration. He hums to himself and then tilts his head up. The ceiling is pristine. The floor around the carpet is also spotless; even if the blood was displaced by people walking, there at least would be smears left behind.

Crowley clears his throat and asks out loud, “Where is the blood?”

Mr Fell and Mulligan snap into silence.

Crowley turns to them, revels in their respective confusion, and raises an eyebrow.

“Ehm, sir,” Pulsifer pipes up, reluctantly. “The blood is on the carpet.”

Crowley only just succes in swallowing a laugh. “Thank you, officer. You are not, wrong, per se. But where is the rest of it? The stain is large, but it is only one. If the victim was stabbed multiple times, as you said, wouldn’t there be a spray, as well as a stain?”

Pulsifier and Mulligan respond in exact opposite manners: the first gapes in obvious revelation, whereas the other locks his jaw and crosses his arms in stubborn denial.

“The ceilings are high, Mr Crowley,” Mulligan grinds out.

“Excellent observation. Maybe the act was not done in an arch.” Crowley pauses to mimic the movement, “but rather in straight lines. Which would be a good theory, only that then there would be variations in the blood stain, and there still should have been more on the floor. Mr Jones would be hit from behind, but it would not kill him instantly, he would move, kneel. The subsequent stabbings would be from different angles. But the stain is uniform, as if it happened all at once.”

Pulsifier nods along with wide eyes. “So what if he was not? What if he had been pushed to the floor first?”

Crowley tilts his head. “Good idea, Officer. That would be more consistent. The perpetrator would stand over the victim, and be stabbing downwards. His wounds would be directly bleeding onto the carpet, slowly and uniformly enlarging the circle. Though he would need to have not been moving during the attack. There are no signs of him crawling to get away.”

“So he was hit on the head first, then stabbed,” Detective Mulligan says gruffly.

“Was there signs of a head wound?”

“I am not at liberty to say.”

Crowley looks at Pulsifer, who is very much avoiding his gaze, and then at Mr Fell, who is looking green around the gills.

Detective Mulligan closes the binder with a defiant slam. “We are one here. All that is left is for you to come with us and to answer some questions at the precinct.”

“Is that necessary to do now?”

Mulligan ignores his protests in his customary brutishness and starts to nudge Mr Fell towards the door, hand almost closing around his elbow.

“It is almost past 1 o’clock,” Mr Fell adds, flustered. “Surely this can wait.”

Crowley is about to step in— stupidly so, he’s treading on thin ice, but there is something about the way Mr Fell’s eyes widen that has Crowley unable to stand by and do nothing. But he is saved by the arrival of a man, busting through the doorway.

“Hold on a minute!” he says loudly. “Are you arresting my client?”

“Sir! Watch out! The blood!”

Pulsifer’s warning comes only just on time as the man redirects his feet from landing in the middle of the stain, to only the edge of it. Crowley flinches inwardly as he leaves a dirty footprint. But the commotion has drawn Mulligan away from Mr Fell, who cleverly takes the opportunity to slink away from the entrance, coming to surreptitiously hide behind Crowley instead. Crowley writes down ‘improvised shield’ in his notes for later charging fees.

“What is the meaning of this!” Mulligan shouts. “You are trespassing a crime scene!”

Crowley snorts quietly— it is interesting to be on the other side of this for once.

“I assure you, I have more legal rights to be here than you can imagine,” the man says. He puts his leather briefcase on the floor and takes off his hat, revealing a middle aged man in a suit that has seen better days, and a beard that has never seen a proper barber. His eyes are bright, though, and his bushy eyebrows are raised in a manner that betrays utter confidence. “Now, do you have sufficient evidence for an arrest?”

Mulligan, in the face of the second smooth talker of the evening, forgets to protest the stranger’s presence and instead goes on the defensive. It is a mistake. “It is the first few hours of the investi—“

“Is my client a suspect?”

“Naturally, he is. A body was found in his establishment.”

“And who called the police to report it? My client! Have you any cause to contain my client until his questioning, on account of a notion that he will attempt to flee, or otherwise refuse to cooperate?”

Client, ah—The lawyer. The cast of characters is complete.

Pulsifer pipes up before Mulligan can. “So far, Mr Fell has been nothing but helpful.”

The lawyer claps his hands together, victorious. “There you have it. There is no reason not to let the questioning be on the morrow, fresh and early. It is preposterous to think that at a time such as this, the truth would be interpreted in its full honesty.”

“Mister—

“Shadwell, Witch hunter by night, Lawyer by day. Though I do not charge over-hours in any direction.”

He holds out a hand. No one takes it, but it does not fluster him in the slightest.  

Crowley turns to raise an eyebrow at Mr Fell, who seems to be watching the proceedings with amusement, judging by his badly repressed smile.

“Mister Shadwell,” Mulligan says through gritted teeth. “Mr Fell would only be asked preliminary questions…”

“Mr Fell, at this moment, is not under arrest, and has no need to be contained, and has promised to be cooperative and come tomorrow morning….” Shadwell trails off expectantly.

“I promise to be co-operative and I shall come tomorrow morning,” Mr Fell says immediately with fervour, and then adds slightly too innocently, “I can bring scones?”

Shadwell continues with a smile, “So therefore we are going to leave this discussion here. It was very good making your acquaintance, Detective.”

Mulligan makes a grunting noise that would be more appropriate in a zoo than in a bookshop-turned-crime-scene, and stomps out without another word.

Pulsifer, who seems to have realised that he did not do his boss any favours, hesitates a beat too long before following him out, allowing Shadwell to zero in on him.

“Now, you there,” he says. “Thank you for showing your superior that my client is nothing but trustworthy—“

Pulsifer swallows hard. “I don’t think I said—“

Shadwell ignores him entirely. “You have done me a great favour, and in return I will teach you some tricks of the trade. You want to become a detective, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I have participated in many investigations in my day, both in the pursuit of murderers of the human persuasion, and otherwise.”

“Otherwise, sir?”

“Monsters, cursed children, witches, the like. Did you know that witches can be recognized by the presence of a third nipple? And that is not all, mobsters too, have a proclivity towards deviant nipplage. I think it is due to their fundamental evilness, as creatures of the dark their bodies change to meet it. If you learn how to look, they cannot hide their horrid nature from you!”

Crowley clears his throat. “Don’t fill what little brain the city has allocated to the solving of crime with that kind of drivel. Disregard it immediately, Pulsifer.”

“Do not listen to the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, good officer, what he says has no credit whatsoever. This is why I advised you against involving him, Mr Fell! He does not even know about the nipples.”

Pulsifer swallows, tugging at his uniform collar as if he’s feeling faint, and takes a step of retreat towards the door. “Thank you, for the advice, good sirs, but I must be going, Mulligan will expect me to do the paperwork for today so—” And then he quickly slips out of the door.

Crowley snorts, that might just be the cleverest thing the officer has said so far. Maybe not all hope is lost for him just yet.

While Shadwell seethes to Mr Fell about Devils and Witches and other such nonsense, Crowley reviews his meager notes. The first hours of a sudden investigation are never to his satisfaction. It has been a while since he’s done an investigation on this scale, but even if it wasn’t as intriguing as it is turning out to be —even if Mr Fell himself hadn’t been like he was —Crowley has no choice but to jump on the opportunity.

“I know, Mr Shadwell, but I do believe this is best for the case,” Mr Fell is saying, his sentence tumbling into a deep yawn. “Assuming, of course, that Mr Crowley wishes to continue.”

“Yes, I’ll take the case.”

The relief on Mr Fell’s face is almost too bright to look at. “Oh, thank you. You have proven yourself very astute, what with all the blood and stains and such. I assume I’ll have to sign something.”

“Indeed.”

Crowley takes out the paperwork and makes a few adjustments now he knows more about the case. When he is done he gives it to Mr Fell, who promptly gives it to Shadwell to read over.

“Why 70% upfront?” he asks, with narrowed eyes.

“Standard procedure with framing cases. If I end up discovering that your client, in fact, is trying to use my labour to cover it all up, I shall give my information to the authorities. With this measure, I won’t be completely without wages, as the officers will not reward me under any circumstances.”

They work out the details for another 20 minutes, with Mr Fell occasionally yawning in the background. Eventually Shadwell reaches over to shake his hand and the deal is done.

Mr Fell gives him the money without complaint, only asking “Are you safe with all that on you?”

Crowley merely smiles, showing his teeth. “I can protect myself.”

“Oh, of course,” Mr Fell says, eyes flickering away. “You must be—You do have—in your occupation.”

“Indeed.”

Mr Fell yawns again.

Where Crowley would rather stay and ask more questions, a small part of him twists at the sight—his eyes are getting puffy, and he’s starting to tremble a little bit. So without his explicit permission, his mouth begins to speak, “ I have all I can glean from the scene without light, and it is getting quite late. I propose to make an appointment for tomorrow. After your talk with the officers?”

“That would be perfect,” Mr Fell says, brightening up a little. “At what time would be preferable?”

“Interviews such as these tend to be long winded, so I would say late afternoon, to be certain.”

“Alright. Is there some place with passable tea where we could meet? That way if I am done earlier, I could wait for you in comfort.”

“Finnegan's should be agreeable. Just on the corner of Washington Square Park.”

“I shall be there.”

Crowley snaps his journal closed. He takes one look around the room, and then another longer look at his client, who flusters a little under his gaze.

“Well, then,” Mr Fell says. “Until tomorrow.”

Crowley sends him a sideways smile, and tips his hat. “Indeed.”

He carefully steps around the stain and exits the bookshop. Mr Shadwell’s continued complaints following in his wake only to be cut off when the heavy door falls closed.

Crowley sighs. It's still drizzling and the air is cold enough for his breath to puff out in gentle clouds of mist. Even  with his hands  stuffed deep in his pockets —the folded up bills a comforting sensation between his fingers —the walk home is not, say, pleasant but necessary nonetheless. He goes over the events of the evening, organizing his impressions into a new web of clues. He has the name of the victim, at least, which is where he would normally start. He knows he will not. He could blame the alleged framing for his unorthodox approach— but he can’t deny that there is a more subjective affliction pushing him to start his path with someone else.

The web grows and grows as the maze of New York expands under Crowley’s feet. Dark alleys and broad streets filled with secrets of one kind or another; a large mirror to the smaller network of this particular case. Relationships, motivations, interests, ambitions, all connected to the death of an alleged good man, in the shop of a presumed other. Crowley lights up a cigar and smiles. Tomorrow will be a day of hunting for knowledge about the man: the centre of the web and the centre of his mind. Curiosity a hungry spider tugging on a singular thread.

Who is Mr Fell?

[theladyofdeath]

Alone in the Ashes {5}

A Court of Thorns and Roses fanfction, characters belong to Sarah J Maas. Modern au. Revolves around Nesta x Cassian, Feyre x Rhysand, and Elain x Azriel. Other characters appear throughout. Based on multiple prompts sent in by anons tbr below.

Warning: Mature content. Alcohol abuse, verbal abuse, sex, language, eating disorders.

For summary & chapter index, click >  Alone in the Ashes {Acotar}

Word Count: 4.9k

A/N: Dinner at the Archeron’s, part 1.

Comment to tell me what you think, or to be tagged! x

“Let me tell you this: if you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it's not because they enjoy solitude. It's because they have tried to blend into the world before, and people continue to disappoint them.” ― Jodi Picoult, My Sister's Keeper 

Azriel sat on a bench in the middle of the courtroom. 

Mila was with Rhysand, out for breakfast, before he had to go into work.

It had been a long week. After Amarantha had shown up at his apartment after being released from the hospital, she enlightened him that she would have a hearing, and was not expecting good news. 

You fucking overdosed, again. Mila found you, couldn’t wake you up, and went to your neighbor’s house...A four year old! Azriel had spat at her. You have fucking drugs in a house with a toddler! It’s not your fucking four year old’s responsibility to save your ass.

Amarantha hadn’t said anything back. She simply nodded, and brushed it off.

They’re going to send me to jail, Az. To prison. For a long time. Amarantha almost seemed guilty at that, but the haunted look in her eyes didn’t last long. She was shaky, jittery, unnerved. Her mind wasn’t really there. Her mind was still on whatever it was she was recovering from. 

Now, he watched as Amarantha sat before the judge. 

He didn’t feel guilty, felt no remorse, as she was charged.

Possession. Distribution. 

When I get out, she’s going to be a young adult, at the least, Amarantha had told him as they sat around his kitchen table, four days earlier. Believe it or not, Azriel, I do love my daughter.

Azriel shook his head, but had nothing left to say. 

I want you to take her, Az. Care for her. I have told them as much, social services, through my lawyer. That you are her only relative, and that she’s close to you.

She was selfish, cruel, and Azriel had been forced to put up with way too much of her shit over the years.

But he couldn’t have Mila going into a home. 

“Twenty years in the Velaris state prison,” the judge said, at last. “You will be detained straight from here. Mercifully, I will give you a moment to say goodbye to your family.” 

The judge dismissed the courtroom, and a pair of burly cops followed Amarantha to where Azriel stood. 

“You didn’t bring my daughter?” she asked, brows raised.

“As someone who just lost twenty years of their life, you don’t seem too bothered,” Azriel muttered. “And, no, I didn’t think she should have to watch her mother be dragged away. Again.” 

Amarantha shook her head. “At least bring her to visit me?” 

Azriel didn’t respond. “I have to go meet with cps and make sure Mila isn’t thrown into the system.”

Like we were. 

Much to Amarantha’s protests, Azriel turned his back to her and walked out of the courtroom. He didn’t know why he hated Amarantha more: because she was a selfish bitch, or because she reminded Azriel of his mother.

It was an addiction. Azriel understood that. It was called an addiction for a reason, it was hard to shake, hard to stop, hard to get rid of. But, it still pissed him off. It all pissed him off, unbearably. 

Azriel had been eleven when he got home from school and found his mother, unconscious on their living room floor, again. Only that time, she hadn’t woken up. After that day, he was forced into the foster care system, tossed around from home to home and eventually placed with a couple, and Amarantha, none who could care less about him. 

All because of that damned, selfish addiction his mother had.

That Amarantha had. 

His meeting with cps hadn’t lasted long. Amarantha had told them about him, she was honest about that. Perhaps in some way she did care about Mila, even if she didn’t show it.

They did a background check on him. The only thing they found was a few speeding tickets and that one time he spent the night in jail, at seventeen, because he’d had too much vodka at a party. 

“Look,” Azriel said, once they said they had heard enough and would give him a call. “I love my niece. And she needs me. She knows me, she trusts me, she’s stayed with me for half her life. You can’t put her into foster care. I was in foster care, it’s...you can’t put her into foster care.”

The woman behind the desk smiled softly at Azriel. “I’m just the interviewer, but I will pass the case along, and they will give you a call soon, I promise. You’re Mila’s only relative, aside from your foster parents, but they don’t wish to have a part. You have no criminal record. You have your own home. I see no reason why they would not leave Mila in your care. When they do call, and they approve of her staying with you, there will be paperwork to fill out. We will have you back in the office at that time. Until then...comfort that child. She just had her mother taken away.”

Again, Azriel added, silently, for the hundredth time that morning. 

“Thank you,” he said, attempting a smile as he stood and left the office. 

Azriel made it to his truck and shut himself inside. His eyes closed in the silence. Deep breath in, slowly let it out. Repeat once, twice, three times.

He had to go get Mila from Rhys so that he could go to work. Azriel had to get to work himself, work on the garage at the Archeron’s. 

All he wanted to do, though, was sit in silence for a minute. Five minutes. Ten. 

Fuck addictions.

Fuck substance abuse.

Fuck it all. 

Azriel leaned his head back against the truck seat and ran his hands through his hair. He thought of his mother, then realized he could barely remember what she looked like. He remembered the dark hair, like his, the hazel eyes….he could also remember she always had dark shadows beneath her distant eyes, that she was way too thin. He remembered the way her hands shook.  

He couldn’t remember what she looked like when she smiled. 

Azriel put his car in reverse and left the courthouse.

He kept the radio off. 

~~~~~

“You’ll be there tonight, right?”

Nesta had said yes every day since Elain asked at the beginning of the week. “Yes. Seven?”

“Six, I thought we could have drinks while dinner is being made,” Elain beamed. “Oh, Nesta, I’m so excited. So is dad. Feyre’s bringing Rhys along. Oh! Is Tomas excited? We can’t wait to meet him.”

Nesta froze. Tomas. She had completely forgotten. “Oh, I-”

“You’ve never brought a boy home,” Elain continued. “I mean, this is monumental! He must really be special.”

“About that-”

“I hope he likes chicken. He does like chicken, right? I mean, everyone likes chicken. What’s his drink choice? Bourbon? Rum? Or, is he just a beer kind of man?”

“Elain-”

“Oh, I’m so happy, Nesta. This house deserves a little party. For once, it won’t just be me and dad.” Elain sighed. It was the first time Nesta had heard her become excited in quite some time. “I’ve got to run to the store. I’ll see you at six, right?”

Nesta’s eyes shut. “Right.”

“Okay, bye!” Elain beamed, hanging up.

Nesta was left sitting in her apartment, groaning. “Fuck!”

Tomas had left. To go where? Nesta had no idea. He hadn’t called, but he texted a few days before saying he was leaving town. Even if he had been in town, the chances of him going to a family dinner were slim. He wasn’t the family dinner type.

Nesta dug through her purse for a cigarette, but the box was empty. She had to make a drug store run before she completely lost her shit. 

There was one on the corner that she made it to in five minutes, and after fueling the tobacco industry, which even she didn’t happily endorse, she was walking back home, a cigarette between her lips. 

“Do you ever have a good day?”

Nesta twirled around.

Cassian was walking toward her, sweating, his dog on a leash. 

“You look pissed,” he went on, “literally at all times.”

“And you have a way of sneaking up on me when I don’t want you to,” Nesta drawled. “Which is always.”

Cassian chuckled. “Well, whatever it is today, hope it gets better. The drink offer still stands. Come over if you wanna get hammered.” 

A thought entered Nesta’s mind, but she quickly pushed it away. No. She would not become desperate. She would go to dinner, alone, and tell Elain and her father that there was no Tomas, not anymore, that even Nesta drove away a worthless bastard like Tomas Mandray. 

She would endure their disappointment and answer all the questions they had. She would absorb their sympathetic glances and be told, Don’t worry, a man will come along some day by her father, just as he did when she was in high school. 

The thought made her want to vomit.

“You’re free tonight, then?” Nesta blurted.

Cassian stopped midway up the stairs, on the landing. He turned around, brows raised. “Coming for a drink?”

“Eh - no. I was wondering if you wanted to go to dinner,” she grounded out, attempting to sound pleasant, but fully realizing she was not. 

Cassian blinked. “Dinner? With you?”

Nesta nodded, slowly.

She needed a shot.

Or two.

Cassian grinned, hazel eyes glowing. “Yeah. Alright. That sounds...interesting enough for a Friday night.”

Nesta scowled. “Be ready at five-thirty.”

Cassian’s grin widened as he nodded, turned back around, and walked his dog up the stairs. 

Nesta had a feeling she should go back to the drug store and get a bottle of tequila.

Which is exactly what she did.

She would need it.

~~~~~

“Mor and Amren will both be here tomorrow afternoon,” Feyre called from the bathroom, where she had just finished drying her hair and was applying her makeup. “We should all go out tomorrow night.”

“Yeah,” Rhysand agreed, his voice quiet from his bedroom. “We should.”

“Have you heard anything else from Az?”

“No,” Rhysand said, and she could hear him sigh. “I can’t believe Amarantha….what a bitch.”

Rhysand had his own reasons for hating Amarantha, on top of her putting Mila in harm’s way. They had dated for a little while the summer after high school, even though Amarantha was a few years older than them. She was a bitch then, too. Amarantha moved on from Rhysand fairly quickly, her drug problem got significantly worse, and then she got pregnant. 

“Poor Mila,” Feyre agreed, putting on a pale, pink lipstick. “At least she’s got Az.”

Rhysand agreed and met her in the threshold of the bathroom. He looked impressed, eyeing the gray sundress she wore. It reached halfway down her thighs, the fit loose, but hung low enough across her breasts to catch an eye. 

“You look nice,” he smiled.

She shook her head, unable to stop a smile of her own. “You say that like I hardly wear anything cute, ever.”

When Rhysand didn’t answer, she punched him in the shoulder, and he laughed, and that tingly sensation filled Feyre to her very core. It had been happening more within the last week. She would catch Rhysand, watch him when he wasn’t aware, and find him attractive, want to run her fingers through his hair, across his skin. She would lay awake at night, pleasuring herself, and it would be his body, that chest covered in ink, that she would picture. 

And he had no idea.

And she would keep it that way. 

“I do prefer you in your scrubs and sweatshirts, yes,” Rhysand grinned, eyes mischievous. “But, the dress looks good.” 

“Thanks for coming with me,” Feyre said, zipping everything back up into her makeup bag. “My dad always liked you.”

Rhysand nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets, humor fading. “Of course.” 

Feyre pushed past him, her shoulder brushing along his arm, as she hurried into her room. “Should I wear sandals?”

“I assume they’ll come off the minute we walk through the front door, so does it really matter?” Rhysand asked, following her and dropping himself onto the side of her mattress. 

“Yes,” Feyre said. “It does.”

Rhysand chuckled. “Fine. Yes, sandals.” 

“Brown or white?”

Rhysand pretended to think about it for a long time. Too long. 

“You are the worst at helping a woman get ready,” Feyre laughed, bending down to observe the shoes in the bottom of her closet.

Rhysand snickered, but he didn’t deny it. His eyes lingered as he watched her bend over. “Wear the black ones.”

Feyre gave him an intrigued glance before pulling on her black sandals and looking at herself in the floor length mirror. 

She turned to Rhysand, brows raised. “Good enough to impress my father, whom I haven’t spoken to in months?” 

“Well,” Rhysand began, eyes soft, “I think you look beautiful. Who cares what he thinks.” 

“You’re too nice to me.” Feyre meant it as a joke, but her voice came out quiet. She had a feeling her cheeks were turning pink, but she hoped that they weren’t, or that he didn’t notice.

He was watching her, his gaze unwavering. 

And then he sucked in a breath, stood, and smiled. “Well, ready? We should get going.”

Feyre nodded, that feeling still flying about wildly in the pit of her stomach. “Ready.”

“Alright. Let me get my shoes and my wallet.” 

He left, and Feyre finally let out the breath she felt she’d been holding.

The way he was looking at her…

She didn’t think she was imagining it anymore. 

~~~~~

Elain had a long list of things to do that day and she had managed to get through them all. Now, she was at her final stop, a flower stand outside of the grocery store. Her reusable bag was tossed over her shoulder, full of goods that would make up their feast. Now, she needed to arrange a beautiful centerpiece. 

“A dozen tulips,” she smiled, once the owner had asked what she would like. “Pink and white, please.”

He nodded and gathered a bundle before wrapping them up and handing them over. Elain paid, thanked him for the beautiful flowers, and stepped to walk away.

“Lain!”

Elain spun around, smiling at Mila, who was running toward her, Azriel close behind. 

“I didn’t see you today,” she said, wrapping her arms around Elain’s legs. “I missed you!”

Elain had spent every day for the last week playing games with Mila while Azriel worked. She was a great kid - kind, funny, polite. Elain enjoyed her time with the little one.

“I’m sorry I was gone. I had a lot of errands to run today. My sisters are coming over for dinner tonight. It’s a big dinner.”

“Ah, Rhys mentioned that,” Azriel said, taking Mila’s hand to keep her from straying on the busy sidewalk. “We weren’t there too long, today, anyway. Had some stuff to get done this morning, unfortunately. Took longer than expected.”

Elain nodded. That may have been the most he’d said to her at one time. Azriel was distant, she noticed, not having to speak unless spoken to. He hadn’t said a word to her all throughout high school; but, then again, she hadn’t spoken to him either.

They were from two different circles, two different worlds. 

“Well, I hope everything is okay,” Elain replied, quietly.

“I like your flowers,” Mila’s little voice popped up, before Azriel could respond. “They’re sooo pretty.”

Elain smiled and knelt down so that she met Mila at eye level. “Which ones do you like better? Pink or white?”

“Pink!” Mila said, then stuck out her foot. “They match my shoes.”

Elain laughed, softly, as she nodded. “You’re right, they do.” She pulled a pink tulip from the bouquet and handed it to Mila. “Bring this home with you and put it in a nice big cup of water. Make sure it gets sunlight, too.”

Mila’s eyes went wide and she threw her arms around Elain’s neck, who laughed and patted her back, trying not to lose her balance.

“I will,” Mila promised, smiling at the flower, her flower.

Elain stood back up to find Azriel watching her, curiously.

“Well,” Elain began, cheeks heating. “I’ll see you on Monday, then?” 

Azriel nodded.

“Okay,” Elain breathed. She turned back to Mila. “Bye, Mila.”

“Bye, Lain,” she smiled.

As she turned to walk away, Azriel called out, “Elain?”

She turned around.

He was rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. For the flower. And for watching her, too.”

Elain nodded. “You’re welcome.”

She walked away, wondering if he was watching her walk away, but too nervous to look back and find out. 

On the walk home, her mind wandered. She wondered what their story was, why Mila was staying with her uncle. They seemed to have a strong bond. She wondered what had happened to Mila’s parents. 

Azriel didn’t seem like a horrible person, either, no matter how intense he seemed to be around her. She remembered the first conversation they had, when he told her that he remembered her from high school, and what he remembered her for. Cheerleader. Valedictorian. She was perfect, goody-goody Elain Archeron, top of the totem pole. 

Oh, how far she had fallen on that totem pole. 

She wondered what Azriel thought of when he looked at her, wondered if he truly got to know her what he would think of her, then. But she wanted to know him, wanted to dig inside of his mind. He was mysterious, a notorious rebel - at least, he had been. She didn’t think much had changed since high school. He was still mysterious, still unreadable. 

And utterly handsome. 

Elain got home and started marinating the chicken before finding one of her mother’s old vases and setting the flowers inside with water. She set it in the middle of the table, took a step back, and smiled.

Even with one pink tulip less, it was breath-taking. 

~~~~~

Nesta pounded on his door at five-thirty. 

When a second passed and he didn’t answer, she pounded on it, again.

“Hold the fuck on!” he shouted, then she could hear his heavy footsteps.

The door swung open and she rolled her eyes. He’d yet to put on a shirt, but he was wearing jeans and his boots. His hair was tied back and his eyes were amused.

“In a hurry?” he asked.

“Yes, we have to be at my dad’s in half an hour,” she muttered.

He lifted a brow. “Already meeting your dad, am I?” 

As he went to grab his shirt off the couch, Nesta sighed, “Look. I’m not….on the best terms with my family right now, and my sister has been going through a shit time. She was excited about me bringing my boyfriend, but he bailed a few days ago. I couldn’t tell her that I’d be coming alone, because that would just open a huge can of disappointment, which is basically what I’m known for in my family. So, I asked you to come along and take his place.”

Cassian watched her while the words poured out as he buttoned up his shirt. “I see. So...I’m your boyfriend, then?”

“Pretend,” Nesta added. “Obviously.” 

Cassian tilted his head. “And here I was, thinking you had finally come around and wanted to spend time with me.”

Nesta snorted. “Don’t come if you don’t want to. You know what? This was a mistake-”

She turned to leave but Cassian beat her to the door. He leaned against it, crossed his arms, and grinned. “Say you want me to come, and I’ll come. I’m great with parents.”

“What?” Nesta asked, exasperated.

His grin grew. “Say you want me to come, and I’ll come.”

Nesta shook her head. “I’m not saying that.”

The dark barked from the corner, sensing her tone from where he laid on his bed.

“Down, Bryaxis,” Cassian ordered, eyes still on Nesta’s. “Say it.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’ll please you,” Nesta snapped. “And I don’t want to please you.” 

“Fine, then I’ll stay here, me and Bryaxis will have a drink or two…”

He stepped away from the door and opened it up, gesturing for Nesta to leave. She wanted to slap him in the face, punch him in the balls, but all she managed to do was stomp toward the door, eyes narrowed.

And then she imagined Elain’s disappointment and her father’s endless string of sympathetic questions.

She stopped at the threshold and looked at Cassian, seething. “I want you to come,” she whispered. 

“What?” Cassian asked, pointing to his ear. “Sorry, can’t hear you.”

“I hate you,” she mumbled.

“Hmmm?” Cassian crooned. 

“I want you to come,” she said, over-pronouncing each word. “So grab your fucking keys.”

Cassian’s hand flew to cover his chest, right over his heart. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

“Fuck off,” she mumbled, before exiting his apartment, her middle finger raised high in the air.

Cassian’s laughter just pissed her off more. 

They got into his truck and he drove, the radio on a random rock-station. The sun was bright, although it would be going down soon. 

“So, if I’m playing the part of your lover, I should probably know a little bit about you.”

Nesta sighed. “Fine. What do you think is important to know?” 

“What did you do after high school?” he asked, eyes still on the road. 

“Worked,” Nesta said.

And when she didn’t say anything more, Cassian looked her way. “Mind telling me where?” 

“Odd and end jobs, mostly. The last few years I was a bartender, but I got fired this week.”

Cassian was quiet. Then, he said, “Sorry to hear that.”

Nesta shrugged and looked out the window. 

“What do you like to do for fun?” Cassian asked, hoping to take on a lighter tone. 

“Read,” Nesta said. “Drink.”

“Together?” Cassian asked, brow raised.

Nesta snorted. “Everything is better when you drink.”

“Agreed,” Cassian smiled. 

“I prefer we keep my current lack of employment a secret for the night,” Nesta mumbled. She didn’t want to give her father any fuel. 

“I can do that,” Cassian agreed. “Anything else I should know? How did we meet?” 

“At the bar,” Nesta suggested.

“At the bar?” Cassian asked. “How romantic.”

“Trust me, no one will be surprised,” Nesta said, under her breath. “Up here, first house on the right.”

Cassian pulled into the driveway and parked behind Rhysand’s car. 

It was going to be an interesting night. 

~~~~~

Elain was a natural planner, she was completely in her element.

Feyre caught her eye every now and then and smiled. It had been a long time since they all were under the same roof.

The front door opened and Nesta stepped inside.

She wasn’t alone.

“Cass?” Rhysand asked, looking back and forth between him and Nesta. “The hell are you doing here?”

Cassian smiled, arm flung around Nesta’s shoulder. She tensed, but quickly relaxed. No one could say anything more before Elain hurried in, carrying a tray of cut fruit. 

“Hi! You must be Tomas,” she smiled. “I’m Elain.”

Feyre opened her mouth to say something, but when she did, she came up speechless.

“You can call me Cassian,” he said, smiling in that charming way of his. “Tomas is my middle name, and Nesta prefers it. Apparently, Cassian is a shit name.”

Elain blinked. “Oh, well, nice to meet you, Cassian.” 

“You, too,” he said, before walking into the room and taking a seat by Feyre. 

As Elain went to finish up dinner, Feyre turned to face him. “What the fuck?”

“Long story,” he muttered. “Play along and I’ll fill you in later.”

Feyre had met Tomas before and she was perfectly aware that he and Cassian were two very, very different people. She also knew that her sister didn’t know Cassian that well, so asking him to come was her being desperate.

Feyre had never known Nesta to be desperate.

Nesta sat, too, although she didn’t acknowledge Feyre. Feyre didn’t care, didn’t think anything of it. Her and Nesta had hardly talked in years. 

Her eldest sister stayed quiet while the others chatted and ate Elain’s fruit platter. Half an hour passed before Elain appeared, once more, and invited everyone into the dining room. 

“Where’s dad?” Nesta asked, the first words she had spoken.

Elain’s smile faltered as they all took a seat. “I’m not sure. He said he would be here-”

The front door burst open, and through the opening of the dining room, they could see Isaac stumbling inside.

His brown eyes were wide when he looked up and met everyone’s stares. “I’m-I’m sorry I’m l-late.”

Feyre’s shoulders fell as she looked over to Elain. 

He was trashed. 

Her eyes were wide, her lips parted at the sight of their father, clearly disheveled, clearly drunk. “Dad, it’s family dinner night, remember?” 

“I know, I know, yes,” he said, hurrying into the dining room and taking a seat. “I-I said I’d be here. This looks delicious, Elain, you did wonderful.”

Elain cleared her throat and tried to smile. “Well, let’s dig in, then.”

Feyre loaded her plate with chicken and vegetables, looking around the table as she did so. Rhysand had moved closer to her, as if sensing her discomfort. Nesta was staring at her plate, empty. Elain was picking at a pile of broccoli. And Cassian didn’t know what the hell was going on. 

“You must be Nesta’s boyfriend,” Isaac said, looking at Cassian. “What was your name?”

“Cassian,” he provided.

Isaac shook his head. “N-No, I don’t think so.”

Cassian took a bite of corn. “Pretty sure my name’s Cassian.” 

Isaac looked confused, but he shook it off. “Nesta, I-I’m glad you came. I-I didn’t think you w-would.” 

Nesta’s mouth tightened.

The table fell into silence as everyone picked at their food. 

“What have you been up to?” Isaac asked, looking at Nesta, then to Feyre. “What have any of you been up to? I don’t hear from either of you anymore.”

“Just work,” Feyre said, so Nesta wouldn’t have to. “I broke up with Tamlin a while back. I’m living with Rhys in the city.” 

Isaac looked at Rhysand, eyes wide as if just realizing he was there. “Finally a couple, are you? That’s-That’s great. I always kn-knew you two would end up tog-g-gether.” 

Rhysand paused, but continued eating a second later.

“Just friends, dad,” Feyre said. 

Isaac scoffed. “Whatever you say. We all know w-what’s really going on.”

“Dad,” Elain breathed. “Could you not?”

“And what about you, hmm?” Isaac said, eyes on Nesta. His fork had a piece of chicken stabbed on the end, but he wasn’t eating it. “Are you living with this...Cassian?”

“No,” Nesta answered, shortly. 

“Still scared of commitment?” Isaac asked, leaning over the table on his fist. “She always had trouble with that. Never trusted anyone, pissed off at the world.” 

Nesta said nothing.

Her plate was still empty. 

“I think she’s doing just fine,” Cassian assured him. 

Feyre was still looking at Nesta, on the way she concentrated on the white porcelain disk in front of her. She couldn’t remember the last time they were all together, especially in the same room as their father. Nesta and her father never gotten along, but it had really gone down hill after their mother passed.

“Still making drinks for a living?” Isaac asked, as if Cassian hadn’t said a word. “That’s what I hear you do. M-make drinks.”

Nesta didn’t answer.

“You always get so angry that I’m not there for you,” Isaac slurred. “But here I am, as-asking about your life, and you’ve got nothing to say?”

Nesta slowly looked at her dad. “You’re drunk.” 

Isaac’s eyes narrowed. “I am not.”

Feyre shook her head, and just as she was about to speak, Nesta beat her to it.

“You really think we don’t know when you’re intoxicated?” Nesta laughed, humorlessly. “We’re not children. And we’ve seen you drunk plenty of times. Elain tried to prepare this nice dinner and then you come in here acting like a teenager who snuck into his dad’s liquor cabinet!”

Isaac shook his head, finally setting his fork down. 

Elain looked like she was about to cry. 

“You c-can’t talk to me that w-way,” Isaac said, voice quiet. “I am your father.” 

“Dad-” Feyre began, but Nesta held up a hand, cutting her off.

“I am a grown ass woman,” Nesta said, with a deadly calm. “You’re an embarrassment.”

“Me?” Isaac asked, brows shooting up into his hairline. He looked to Cassian. “Run now, son. This one is going nowhere with her life.”

“Please,” Elain breathed. “Stop.”

Rhysand had his hand on Feyre’s knee under the table to keep it from shaking.

“I think you should go up to bed, dad,” Feyre said, lifting her chin. “Sleep it off.” 

“No,” Nesta said. “Let him say what he has to say. Drunks always tell the truth.” 

Isaac stood and wavered on his feet. “Your mother...good thing she didn’t wait to see how you turned out.”

Elain gasped, and Isaac turned to leave.

But as he did, he fell to the ground, out cold against the hardwood. 

The room was met with silence. 

“Help me get him upstairs,” Feyre mumbled.

Rhysand nodded. 

Elain was in tears.

Nesta was fuming. 

Cassian was sitting in his chair, perfectly still. 

Feyre grabbed her father’s legs as Rhysand lifted him up from under his arms. As they carried him up the stairs to his bedroom, Feyre felt like she was in high school all over again.

Family fights.

Taking care of her drunk, passed out dad.

Isaac telling Nesta that their mother would be ashamed. 

Yeah.

Just like high school.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag List (to be tagged, comment or send me an ask!)

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@photofeesh

@mariamuses

@tswaney17

@amaranthas-whore

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@lord-douglas-the-third​

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@empress-ofbloodshed​

Prompts:

{ “I’m gonna fuck you so hard that you forget you ever met that asshole” - Feysand } -anonymous

{ “How about Nessian needing to fake date when they go home for the holidays?!” } - anonymous

{ “could u pls do like an elriel fic where azriel is like this mysterious bad boy and elain is a goody two shoes lik aaaaa i cant get that image out of my head” } - anonymous

[nosferatvpussy]

distorted lullabies [chapter VIII]

Word count:  5,459

Warnings: none

Pairing: Dracula x female reader

AO3 link

A/N: Not much Dracula in this chapter and I apologise for it! I'm trying to progress the story while keeping it entertaining. Still hope you can enjoy it. 

Also, as I was reviewing this I realised not everyone might get a reference I threw in there (you'll know when). If you're curious about what I'm referring to, just watch this clip at the 2:40 mark (do NOT watch it around other people).

____________________________________________________

My gaze crossed with his over the table. He took a knight between two fingers, hovering in the air in thought. The dull light of a cloudy day streamed in at our right, creating shadows on the chessboard and making the pieces look bigger than they actually were. My eyes flickered to the ticking clock next to the chess board and then back to his. He frowned at my smirk. The knight hung ominously over my remaining bishop and I raised an eyebrow.

“I taught you that,” Renfield complained, pointing his knight at me. “It doesn’t work on me.”

The clock chimed, signaling that his time was over. I gave him a toothy grin as he stared in shock at the sequence of zeros on display. With his clock zeroed, mine started counting down from 3 minutes. 

“Doesn’t it?” I giggled, plucking the white knight from between his limp fingers and placing on the square it had been before. I pushed a black rook forward across the chessboard very slowly, the prospect of victory swelling inside me and making me outright laugh at the defeat on his face. I knocked the knight I’d just placed with my piece, leaving nothing in between his king and my rook. Renfield pressed the bridge of his nose with two fingers and swore as I retrieved the downed piece. “Good luck getting out of this. Check.”

I clicked the button on top of my clock to finish my move. Renfield stiffened, shooting me a cold look.

“When did you get so devious?”

“Don’t be a sore loser. You won all the past matches! This loss will be good for you, you’ll learn humility.”

“Funny,” he said, although he didn’t laugh, shifting his calculating eyes back to the chessboard.

Renfield supported an elbow on the table, fingers resting on his temple, like he was conspiring against a prosecution. I blinked, trying to stop the smile that threatened to overcome my mouth. Were it not for the sterile environment and the annoying ambient music, I could’ve thought we were back at work. My phone buzzed on top of the table, attracting both of our gazes. 

“Is that Count Dracula?” He inquired, gaze focused on the chessboard again, doing an excellent job of sounding uninterested. 

“Of course not, it’s ten in the morning,” I said as I reached for the mobile. “Isn’t he supposed to be in his cof--uh, bed?” I corrected, glancing at the nurse, Margaret, sitting not far from us. She had her head buried in a magazine but every once in a while I would catch her leaning her ear closer.

“He’s got a regular bed, Y/N,” he murmured, rolling his eyes. 

I unlocked my phone.

“I know. It was a j--” 

“Oh, do you?”

“Are you twelve?” I snapped and Renfield giggled, only reinforcing my suspicion. “Time is flying,” I indicated the chessboard and Renfield stopped laughing. I blew out a breath as I read the text that had made my phone buzz. “Since when is Evelyn getting married?”

“She sent the invites ages ago.”

“She did?” I raised my eyebrows, trying to remember if I’d seen it in my pile of mail back at home. “We work in the same office. Couldn’t she have hand delivered it?” He shot me a look. “I see what you mean. She thinks she’s bloody Posh Spice.”

Renfield’s hand stopped mid-air, on his way to move a rook but changed his mind at the last second, tapping his temple again. 

“Who?”

“Oh, you’ll get on my case about Dracula like you’re a schoolgirl but don’t know who Posh Spice is?” 

Nurse Margaret snickered, raising her magazine to conceal her affected grin, only confirming my suspicion that she could hear snippets of our conversation.

“The Beckham girl, of course I know,” Renfield glanced at Margaret, furrowing his brow. “I was very absorbed in my game and wasn’t listening,” he uttered the last bit louder, staring directly at the nurse. Her face became as red as a tomato. She skittered up from the couch she’d been sitting on, moving swiftly towards the nurse station on the other side of the room. Once she was out of earshot, Renfield said, “Is Evelyn asking you to RSVP?”

“Do I have to?” I grimaced. “The wedding isn’t even in London. I don’t like her and I have to travel all the way to Berkeley?”

“You know you have to.”

“Maybe I’ll get the flu. An aneurysm, if I’m lucky!”

“Her surname is on our calling card, Y/N.”

“Damn it.”

Renfield just looked at me and I slumped down on my chair. It didn’t matter if I was winning at chess when I was absolutely being defeated in this subject. I couldn’t not go to Evelyn Seymour’s wedding, the only remaining direct descendant of Edward Seymour, one of our firm’s original founders in 1821. Her surname was first in line when talking about the most prestigious law firm in London, followed by Sterling and May. From birth, she had a seat reserved for her at the firm, her birthright if I wanted to get poetic about it. Although her surname didn’t instantly grant her power over the entire business, she treated everyone like it did and that was precisely why I didn’t like her. My arrogance was an easily dispensed front but Evelyn’s owed hers to bad parenting, if I had to guess. 

“I can’t go, obviously. I imagine all the other partners will be there, except me,” Renfield sighed and set the piece he had on his fingers to the side. He leaned forward, peering at me over his spectacles. “It’s only proper that you go to represent me,” he lifted a hand before I could protest. “Yes, you. Y/N, you’re my sole pupil I’ve taken in 30 years at that firm and only because the other partners forced me to,” he scoffed. “I was less than happy with this at the beginning, as you well know, but it’s the one thing I can be proud of in my many years of practise. As I’ve been told by many people, I’m uncaring, rude and outright despicable at times. I struggle to find many redeeming qualities in myself, although you seem to pick them out effortlessly. Somehow, under my tutelage you’ve grown to be a brilliant lawyer and, while all credit can’t be mine, I believe I’ve had a finger at shaping you into the person you’re today, which is infinitely better than me,” he cleared his throat and removed his spectacles, suddenly interested in cleaning its lenses on his shirt. “Regardless of what’s come between us, I will have nobody else representing me at that wretched woman’s wedding. It will serve her well, too, for spurning you for so many years. Let’s not spare her our spite, shall we? Do try and sneak a picture of her face at the wedding party when you sit at the partners’ table. It will do wonders for my recovery.”

I used my ring fingers to tap the inner corners of my eyes, containing the tears that threatened to spill over. 

“Damn you,” I sniveled and laughed.

“Yes, well. I had to say something to convince you to go. Did it work?”

That, that was the Frank Renfield I knew. He had to still be in there, whole. His eyes were just blue, without a trace of otherness behind them as he spoke, and I grappled onto that to remain firm on my quest against Count Dracula, no matter how unlikely the odds against me.

“Of course it bloody worked. Will you try to kill me again if I give you a hug?”

He put his spectacles on, summoning a serious expression although his eyes were still welled up. 

“Let me win this match and I’ll do it. No promises if I lose.”

“Do your best, then,” I smiled, gesturing to the board. 

He averted his gaze to each of our pieces, analysing their positions. I left him to his devices while I typed a text back to Evelyn.

“Do you have a dress in mind?”

“Um,” I made, scrolling the screen up to check when the ceremony began. A twilight wedding should be pretty. It wasn’t the easiest time of day to choose a dress befitting of it, though. Not too fancy and not too simple wasn’t something one usually found in London’s evening wear stores. “I might have to go and get one.”

“Wear purple. It’s Evelyn’s favourite colour and she’ll be wearing white on her wedding day. Imagine her face--”

“Christ, you’re a teenage girl. How have I never noticed it before?”

“I’d been reading celebrity magazines before you brought me my books. They got to me. I’m still not over their effects, it seems,” he shuddered.

I chuckled and sent the text to Evelyn, confirming I would be there.

“Purple it is then. It’s not like she doesn’t deserve it. I’ll see if Diana wants to go with me, I’ll make her wear purple, too.”

I put my phone aside just in time to see Renfield’s next move. 

“I heard that Evelyn’s fiancée is rich but not the most fetching gent. If you really want to send her into fits, take Count Dracula as your plus one. Checkmate.”

My mouth fell open as I watched him replace my king with a pawn. A pawn, of all things. I glanced between the chessboard and Renfield’s conceited grin, trying to find out how on Earth he managed to pull that off. Had I not taken that pawn into account? 

“Sneaky bastard,” I said, stunned. “I wanted a win!”

“Better luck next time, I guess. At least you get a hug as a consolation prize.”

I looked at him, shaking my head.

“I’ll take it but what I’ll not take is Count Dracula to the wedding, no matter how much I want to annoy Evelyn.”

Renfield leaned back on his chair, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table. 

“You’re still resisting him?”

“Please, don’t sound surprised,” I frowned. “You know I don’t take well to being underestimated.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t offend you like that,” he gave me a smile which disappeared a second later. “Frankly, I’m more surprised that he hasn’t just taken you for himself,” his voice grew thicker as he spoke.

“He won’t do that unless I give him consent.”

“And you think he won’t break that deal of yours if he grows tired of waiting?” he tilted his head like a bug.

I narrowed my eyes. His eyes had lost the bright shine that I was so used to seeing, especially when we were in court, and acquired a dreary gleam that immediately sent a shiver through me. I could only suppose that my refusal to take Count Dracula as my plus one was what set him off. From now on, I presumed that whatever I told him would be reported to his “master” so I had to choose my words with diligence.

“I’d like to think he respects me enough to keep to our deal.” 

Renfield chortled, a sound so unnatural to him that I almost doubted it came out of his throat.

“I do wonder,” he started between a few more laughs, “how is it that you manage to resist him. I thought it virtually impossible.”

“There’s a disconnect, I think, between mind and body for whatever concerns Count Dracula. My body responds in one way,” my mouth went dry as I thought about his mouth on my neck and I shook my head, “but I’m still quite capable of seeing what he is.”

“Which is?”

“I don’t have to explain it to you, do I? You told me that you have love for him,” I said and he nodded, “if that’s so, you love everything in him, even the worst parts. People love the whole while acknowledging the bad and choose to ignore it. So you know that he’s a manipulative monster who has killed hundreds, perhaps thousands of people simply for the fun of it and--” I interrupted myself before I got carried away by my bitterness.

I shut my eyes, taking a moment to allow the rising wave of emotion to settle. The tightening on my throat told me there was more than bitterness but I wouldn’t trouble myself with exploring what that meant. Not now in front of Renfield. 

“Y/N,” Renfield said my name with such gentleness that my eyes shot open and when I stared at him, I was met with the dark blue eyes I had grown accustomed to. He had leaned forward, an open hand extended to me over the table. I put my hand in his without a second thought. “I understand that it’s hard but do yourself a favour and surrender. Surrender with arms wide open or he’ll hurt you and those around you. Listen to me. He will. He might shower you with what you think is affection and perhaps you’ll find yourself falling for him,” he squeezed my hand in his when I started shaking my head in denial, “but at some point he’ll become impatient if you keep stalling and he’ll do it. There is no way out.”

“I know,” my voice didn’t come out, so I tried again, “I know.”

People were supposed to have choices. And while I didn’t want to be hurt more than I already was, I had to try. I had to be free of Count Dracula. If what Renfield said was true, how could I possibly be with someone who was just as willing to care for me as he was to hurt me? 

My phone rang. Recognising Zoe’s number, I grabbed it and stood up. My hand and Renfield’s were still joined and I used it as leverage to bring him into a hug, forcing him to stand up. He stiffened for a second but then his arms went around me, patting my back awkwardly. His heart beat steadily and I smiled into the hug.

“See you later,” I said as I stepped back, holding tightly to his forearms. “I’ve got to run to lunch with a friend.”

“It’s still early.”

“It’s on the other side of London,” I lied. “You’re doing better. Keep doing whatever it is they have you doing here.”

“Not like I have a choice,” he said.

I almost asked him if he even wanted a choice since he was a willing slave but decided against it by giving him a smile and leaving. 

________________________________________________

“News?” Zoe asked me as she organised vials inside her briefcase.

I rolled down my sleeve and let my hair down now that we were done doing ‘business’. I settled myself on a more comfortable position which wasn’t difficult since Zoe’s car was the epitome of comfort.

“He came by,” I said, putting on my courtroom face. Zoe whipped her head around towards me, frowning. “Out of nowhere. It’s not like I could have told him to hold on and call you.”

“Where did he take you?”

“We stayed in and watched telly.”

“Watched telly? That’s it?” She questioned, closing her briefcase and letting it slide to her feet, near the car’s pedals. I shrugged. “You swear?”

Her disapproving tone reminded me of my mother’s and I scowled.

“I have no reason to lie to you.”

“You have every reason to lie to me. Last time we met, you told me there was a bond between you two. Had I known this in the first place, I would--”

“Would what? Waste a perfectly good opportunity to capture Dracula because of a damned bond that’s not even my fault?” I raised my eyebrows at her and she pressed her lips in a fine line. “I’m not on his side. Or yours, for that matter. I could care less about the importance of your research, Zoe. I haven’t questioned the Jonathan Harker Foundation, have I? It’s shady business but it’s not my business. All I want is to be out of danger.” A tiny part of me questioned where would be the fun in that and I pushed it aside. That had to be the bond making its presence known. “We watched films together. Period.”

I stared at Zoe, waiting for her to chew on that.

There was no need for her to know about what happened halfway through Interview with the Vampire. Or about him carrying me to bed. After my encounter with Renfield, I wanted to forget how lovely it felt, sleeping on the Count’s arms. Dracula hadn’t done that for anyone’s benefit except his. I had to understand that.

“I don’t know if what I’m about to say will make you happy, considering-- nevermind,” Zoe shook her head. “With the samples you’ve been giving me, I’m close to synthesizing a pill that can possibly block his access to a person’s memories.”

“Possibly?”

“We’re still in initial stages of trials but it’s not like we can be certain of anything without the Count in our custody. However, I’m almost sure this pill will definitely work on you since it's being manufactured based on your genetic data.”

“Possibly and almost won’t keep him from killing me if he is able to read my memories.”

“We’re working on it, Y/N,” Zoe bit out. “One of the side effects, however, is short term memory loss. It only lasts for as long as the pill’s in effect but I’m doing my best to mitigate it.”

“What are the other side effects?”

“Heartburn, headache and mild paranoia, usually specific to loud sounds. So far that’s what we’ve got from our human subjects. None of those symptoms last very long either,” she paused, examining me. “Does Count Dracula trust you?”

“I don’t think he trusts anyone. I think he regards me… differently… than he does other people.”

“Why do you think that?”

I thought about the haunting sorrow I’d seen in Count Dracula’s eyes when he spoke about his late wife and how he immediately shut down after that. I doubted he had told many people about her.

“I just do,” I shrugged. “How long until you can give me this pill?”

“A month, if nothing goes wrong. You’d be willing to use it?”

“Can you get it ready in two weeks?”

“Two weeks! Why?”

I took a deep breath for what I was about to say.

“There’ll be a wedding, up in Berkeley. It’ll be in Berkeley Castle--”

“Huge place.”

“Exactly. I’ll take Count Dracula as my plus one. Everyone will be focused on the party and there’ll be plenty of opportunities for you to capture him--”

“We haven’t planned anything, Y/N,” Zoe interrupted, shaking her head vehemently. “It’s too soon. No, no. Absolutely not. We’ll get killed, not to say about the possible collateral damage with the guests. No.”

“We won’t get many chances like this,” the words stumbled out of my mouth in my hurry to get them out before I regretted this. “Berkeley is our best bet. Dracula will be distracted. I’ll do my very best to guarantee it. I’ll even pull a Sharon Stone if I have to. Just, please.”

“Y/N, no. I told you. It took months of planning until we could move on him and get him out of the sea. This has to be rehearsed. We would need a team of people infiltrated at the wedding, a deep knowledge of the property, not to mention contingencies set in place… It’s too much work for only two weeks.”

“I don’t care!” I slapped my thigh in frustration. “I’ll be hanging on his arm all night. If he senses something is off, I’ll know and we drop the plan. We’ve got to try.”

Zoe frowned at me.

“Why are you suddenly so desperate?”

I straightened on my seat and cleared my throat. 

“He’ll grow bored of me, eventually,” I said, remembering Renfield’s sudden sympathy. “There’s no way we can know when, so I’d like to be rid of him sooner rather than later. If we wait too long I might be having this same conversation with you in a few months except I’ll have fangs on my mouth. Or not at all, in which case I’ll be six feet under.”

If I was to take everything Renfield said into account, it scared me. However, I was more frightened at the idea of losing control over the bond. Losing control over myself. From day one, sordid ideas about Count Dracula drinking my blood had pestered me. Whenever I was around him I found myself captivated by him, almost beyond reasoning. Like I always had an unseen force pushing me towards him and consuming me with nothing except raw craving. Never in my entire life had I felt such forceful desire and it terrified me. The leash, as Count Dracula had put it so well at the museum, could break at any second and I wasn’t ready for it to happen yet.

“Get your phone,” Zoe said at last.

“What for?”

“To see if we can find clear pictures of Berkeley Castle’s grounds and decide on a possible course of action,” Zoe said matter-of-factly as she secured her hair on a ponytail.

The turmoil inside me calmed down, for the most part. 

“So we’re doing it?”

“Only, and only if I can have this pill done by then. If not, I’m calling it off.”

I flashed her a smile as I pulled my phone from my back pocket.

“I’ll take that.”

“Were you serious when you said that about Sharon Stone? About the Basic Instinct thing?” Zoe made a face but there was nothing in her eyes if not amusement. 

“God, no,” I said and she raised an eyebrow. “Last resort thing only, if it comes to that.”

Zoe laughed, shaking her head to the sides at me.

“I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Me, too.”

As our laughter died down, we dove into every website we could find that had pictures of Berkeley Castle. We struck gold when the property’s floor plan and aerial view simply popped up during our Google search. According to Berkeley Castle’s own website, wedding ceremonies usually took place in the Great Hall or outside on the gardens. The reception was almost always hosted inside the castle.

Zoe’s phone ringing momentarily interrupted us. Gaze still focused on my phone’s screen, she answered her own without checking who the caller was.

“Hello?” Zoe stiffened at once, listening to whatever the person on the other end of the line was saying. “Jack. Jack. Jack, calm down, I can’t understand you,” the voice grew loud enough for me to make out the words “friends”, “Foundation” and “suicide”. I remained focused on my phone, scrolling through pictures, like I hadn’t heard anything. “No, I didn’t know. Where are you? Okay, stay there. I’m on my way and then we’ll talk.”

After more reassurances, Zoe ended the call and looked at me.

“Go. We can do this some other time,” I told her. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. Fine. Well, no. No. One of my students at the Foundation,” she gestured to her phone, “needs me. An emergency. I have to go. Now, actually.”

She would’ve made a terrible lawyer. Terrible voice pitch when she lied and with the way she babbled, she would be eaten alive in a courtroom. I would’ve wiped the floor with her. From what I could tell, this was the first time I had caught her in a lie and I wondered why now. I could ascribe it to the dodginess surrounding anything to do with the Foundation but my intuition told me there was more to it. 

Prying would probably result in more lies. 

“Of course,” I said, flashing her a brief smile, “I understand. Call me when you can.”

______________________________________________________________

My ears buzzed inside the lift as I tried to keep my courtroom face on. I couldn’t wait to get home and sit in silence to cleanse my head from an entire day listening to office gossip.

“I’ve got this lovely dress,” Mallory was saying, “It’s this really beautiful champagne colour--”

“Isn’t that the one you wore to Jamie’s wedding?” Sarah asked.

“You can’t wear a dress you already wore before,” said Chelsea with a sneer.

Mallory furrowed her brows, looking anxious. 

“I remember the dress,” I intervened in Mallory’s defense. “It’s very pretty. You shouldn’t keep it hidden in your wardrobe, Mal. Wear it. I’m sure nobody will be rude enough to ask you about it,” I looked pointedly at Sarah.

“No,” Mallory countered and both women stared at her. “It’s another one. I happen to like the colour, is that a crime?” she asked indignantly. Sarah shrugged. Mallory eyed me, “Do you know what you’re wearing, Y/N?”

I’d gone shopping two days earlier with Diana during my lunch break. She’d pouted when I said I couldn’t take her as my plus one but immediately dropped the act in favour of a smile upon hearing the name Count Dracula come out of my mouth. 

“The Count? The one that gave you the hickey?” she’d whispered the last part during dinner at her house on Sunday.

“The very same,” I’d replied. Little did she know the extent of that hickey.

“Dating royalty, Y/N--”

“Drop it, Di. Will you do me the honours of going dress hunting with me? It must be purple.”

“Purple?”

“Evelyn’s favourite colour.”

“Oh, you’re evil!” She’d laughed. “We’ll find the perfect dress. You’ll look so gorgeous that he’ll faint when he sees you.”

Diana’s excitement over my love affairs had made me wonder if I was so much of a lost cause that any person remotely interested in me should be celebrated with buying an evening dress. On Wednesday, we’d browsed half the stores in Strand before Diana convinced me to hop on the tube towards Belgravia with the promise of gorgeous boutiques in which I would definitely find a dress to my liking. Diana got to flex her marketing muscles to persuade me into getting the one I liked the most, despite the steep price. She’d taken the dress home with her so I wouldn’t have to return to the office with it. 

“L/N?” Mallory touched my shoulder.

“Oh, sorry. I zoned out thinking about all the dresses in my wardrobe,” I blinked at her. “I’m not sure what to wear yet.”

“You should make up your mind quickly, then,” Sarah said in her usual brisk manner. “We’re one week away from Evie’s wedding.”

Evie, right, like they were friends. Of all the women, Mallory was the only one who could call herself Evelyn’s friend and, sadly, between her, Sarah and Chelsea, she was the one I most got along with. Mal and I had started our internships at around the same time and we’d suffered through college together, too. We barely talked now that she’d gotten close to Evelyn. I’d stopped being Y/N to her and became simply L/N.

The lift finally opened and we spilled out. Freedom! I thought, tightening my pace towards the lobby and putting as much distance between me and my colleagues. Through the exit doors, I could see the last rays of sunshine reflecting on the glass plated buildings that seemed to be a requirement at Canary Wharf.

“We’re renting an Airbnb together in Berkeley,” Mallory said, catching up with me. “Me and the girls. It’ll be cheaper that way.”

“Okay…”

“There’s a spare bedroom,” she continued, swiping her baby blonde hair that had fallen on her face in her effort to keep up with me. 

“Oh,” I blinked, stopping abruptly in front of the exit. Mallory nearly tripped over me. “You’re inviting me to stay with you guys?”

“Yeah,” she paused. “I know you aren’t fond of them but you can ignore what they say. It’s what I do half the time I’m with them.”

“Then, why do you spend so much time with them?”

“Trying to climb the ladder, professionally speaking,” she shrugged. “All of you guys were trained by one of the firm’s partners except me. All my efforts go unnoticed because of it.”

“Mal, you could’ve just kept talking to me if that’s what you wanted,” I frowned. “Renfield would--”

“Not a chance. Renfield doesn’t like anybody at the office except you.”

I acquiesced with a shrug. I loved the man but he wasn’t the nicest person to people.

“I’ll think about the Airbnb,” I told Mallory.

Me in a house full of girls when I had a vampire on my heels? Big no. But after years of distance from one of my best friends, I wasn’t going to simply dismiss her because I didn’t like the people she socialised with.

“You still like going to Camden for drinks? Peace offering?”

“Peace offering,” I grinned.

Mallory laced her arm with mine and led the way out. I frowned up at the sky, searching the rays of sun I’d seen moments ago but all I found was cloud upon cloud upon cloud. Hearing the rushing pair of high heels towards us made me cringe and stop on the sidewalk.

“Girls!” Shouted Chelsea. “Did we hear something about drinks?”

“I’ll get rid of them,” Mallory whispered to me in an exasperated tone before putting on a blinding smile and turning to face Chelsea and Sarah.

As Mallory tried to talk them out of it, a sleek black BMW slid to a stop in front of me. I had little more than two seconds to take in the tinted windows, dark enough to make me wonder if they were inside the legal limits, before the passenger's window started going down. The voices behind me quieted as the driver leaned across the seat. He had sunglasses on but I’d recognise that face anywhere. I bent forward, leaning on the car’s door.

“You had to get the flashiest car available, didn’t you?” 

“Oh, dear, no,” Dracula drawled. “The flashiest one was yellow. Black suits me better.”

“Um, Y/N… Who’s that?” Chelsea’s flirty tone made me roll my eyes.

“An impertinent client,” I said without turning to look at her.

“Is that what I am?” 

“Amongst other things that shouldn’t be spoken out loud,” I muttered.

“Your client?” asked Sarah. “L/N, are you breaking the code of ethics?”

“Renfield’s client,” I corrected, glancing briefly at Sarah. 

When I looked back at Dracula, he was grinning.

“Hello, ladies,” he waved at them, eliciting giggles. If I hadn’t known them for years, I wouldn’t have guessed they were adult women considering their behaviour. “Is that jealousy I see?” he said in a low voice. 

“You wish,” I retorted. In a whisper, I said, “It’s still daylight. Aren’t you going to burst into flames?”

“I might if you don’t get in the car.”

“Tempting. I’ll just stay here.”

“Stay, then. The sun will set in precisely seven minutes and when it does, I’ll get out of this car.”

“And do what?”

“Right now, throwing you over my shoulder seems appropriate.”

My knees quivered at that thought. I had to learn to stop baiting him into conversations like these. At some point, he would carry out his threats and I would probably enjoy it, which wasn’t ideal if I wanted to come out of this breathing.

“Um, Y/N?” Mallory’s voice was a gift sent from heaven to make me look away from the Count. “Do you want to postpone our drinks or--”

“Oh, drinks? Where are we going?” 

“There’s no we--” I glared at him.

He smiled innocently, surprising me that he was actually able to.

“Camden, I hear,” Sarah chimed in.

“Lovely Camden! Why don’t I give you ladies a ride?”

“I’m okay with that,” Sarah said, followed by Chelsea’s nod.

I already had a flimsy hold over my own libido, I wouldn’t attempt trying to control Chelsea’s and Sarah’s too. As much as I didn’t like them, I wouldn’t wish Count Dracula on them. With that in mind, I flung open the BMW’s door and threw myself in. 

“Maybe some other time, girls. He’s mine,” I announced, already regretting my choice of words. Turning to Mallory, I said in an apologetic tone, “Lunch tomorrow so we can catch up?”

She grinned at me, glancing briefly at Count Dracula, who was most definitely staring at the back of my head. 

“Sure,” she affirmed with a wink. “Bye.”

I was still waving at her when Dracula accelerated, leaving his parking spot. I stared out the window without registering where we were headed, waiting. Tension grew until I began feeling smothered. 

“What’s that about me being yours?”  

I shut my eyes and threw my head back against my seat. 

“Just… shut up.”

.

.

I know it's a bit mean that I ended the chapter there but I didn't have any time left to write. I'll try posting chapter 9 earlier next week (wednesday or thursday, maybe) to make it up to everyone.

Taglist: @rheabalaur​ @festering-queen​ @feralstare​ @girlonfireice​ @deborahlazaroff​ @thorin-smokin-shield​ @mr-kisskiss-bangbang​ @dreamer2381​ @apocalypsenowish​ @a-dorky-book-keeper​

[okaynicolette]

Lunch Between Friends - Liam x Jacob

Jacob pulled up to the lunch restaurant, unsure if he had the right place or not. It seemed rather crowded and also rather pink. After he found parking, which was not an easy task due to the Saturday brunch crowd of locals and tourists alike, he checked his messages from Liam again. Yep, this was indeed the right place. Jacob sighed, why couldn’t Liam be happy with just meeting up at a more adult restaurant, rather than something he read about in some food blog, he thought rather discontentedly. Walking to the front of the restaurant, which had bright pink umbrellas shading the sidewalk tables, he saw Liam leaning up against the gold and black painted wall (which was no doubt intended to be a tourist photo op). Jacob gave a light wave to his friend as he walked up, hoping that Liam was actually looking at him behind the dark aviator sunglasses he donned.

Liam arrived early to put his name down, knowing that this restaurant would be crowded at this time of day. It was a popular brunch and burger spot in Venice Beach and it was constantly full of trendy LA millennials– so of course, Liam loved it. Though it was a Saturday, he couldn’t help but check his work email while he waited for Jacob to arrive. He didn’t become one of the most sought after CFPs at his firm by taking weekends off, after all. Just as he sent one final email, he looked up and noticed Jacob walking towards him. Liam gave a head nod of greetings and said, “I put our name in with the host about 20 minutes ago, should be any time now.”

Jacob was thankful that Liam arrived early to put their name in– neither of them were very patient people, but Liam tended to be the more proactive one. Jacob would likely just suffer and complain. The two of them were roommates at USC for the last two years of school, so they knew each other very well. Nowadays, they tried to hang out as often as they could, but things got difficult since Jacob got his girlfriend pregnant right after his graduation. Liam was finishing school then climbing the corporate ladder at his job, while Jacob was learning how to be a father. Liam did his best to be a good uncle though, and Jacob was glad for that as an only child himself– his son, Isaiah, loved his Uncle Liam. From the time Isaiah was born until he was around six, Jacob and Isaiah’s mom, Aidy, lived together and had a fairly normal life. That was until about a year ago. Out of the blue, Aidy decided that she was disappointed she missed out on so much of her life and needed to “experience more”, which was apparently code for “sleep with other people”. They did their best, tried counseling for a few months, but eventually decided to go their separate ways. Jacob originally thought it would be easy because they weren’t married, but they both wanted full custody of Isaiah. The custody battle dragged on for months, when finally, in January, the court decided that they would have joint custody, with Isaiah going back and forth every two weeks. Jacob wasn’t taking it very well, though he tried to put on a good face for his son. He was grateful when Liam called to invite him on a spur of the moment trip, because it felt a little bit like old times.

Moments later, the host called to seat them and they headed into the restaurant. The inside carried the same millennial aesthetic as the outside with mismatched colorful vintage furniture and gold mirrors and picture frames lining the walls.  Jacob found quiet solace in the fact that Liam had good taste in food, which meant this whole Instagram-trap might be worth it. Once they were seated, Liam asked, “So did you book your flights?” He rarely beat around the bush, especially when he was nervous or eager. Something in his tone told Jacob that it was a bit of both.

“Yeah, I got them for the dates you told me and let Aidy know– not that she cared very much since it doesn’t affect her or Isaiah,” Jacob replied, unintentionally sounding bitter at the end of the statement. He was bitter, but he didn’t like showing it, even if it was just to Liam. “So, are we wedding crashing?” He asked before picking up the menu to try and find a decent lunch.

Liam laughed, idly skimming the offerings, even though he had already checked and double checked the menu before even deciding that this was the place they would be eating at. “I don’t know yet. I told you, it’s going to be a surprise for Nik– she doesn’t know I’m coming at all,” he replied, with a facade of excitement. Inside, he was beginning to worry about whether or not this was a good idea. Hoping that Jacob would have good advice, he asked, “Do you think I should tell her? I mean, I’m trying to be romantic and all that.”

Jacob was trying to read through the very long burger menu and make a decision about lunch, but everything sounded amazing since he accidentally skipped breakfast. “I mean if you want to be romantic, then showing up to surprise her at her best friend’s wedding is definitely that. It sounds like a fucking rom-com, for god’s sake,” he said, barely looking up. In all honesty, Jacob felt like the last person who should be giving advice on that sort of thing. He had been with one woman seriously for the last seven years and she had all but shattered his heart.

Liam sighed, setting down his menu. It was rare for him to let his guard down, but Jacob had seen him at his worst, so there was no image to uphold. “My friend from work, Riley, said that Maids of Honor usually have a lot of responsibilities. Do you think I’ll just be distracting her? Oh, and also the bride thinks I’m a dick, so that’s not great either,” he said, rather frustratedly.

Jacob decided on his food and set down his menu to face his friend. “Well I don’t know very much about weddings,” he began, again subtly playing the sad-heartbroken card, “but, like I said– it sounds like a rom-com. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the grand gesture and it’ll be fine. Also, you didn’t tell me Nikki’s best friend doesn’t like you!” He laughed a little bit, giving Liam a hard time. His attitude did rub people the wrong way sometimes, but that usually just meant they hadn’t taken the time to get to know him well.

Liam rolled his eyes as the waitress arrived to take their orders. Once she took their menus and left, he began, “She thinks I’m too showy or something. I get it, but like– she hated me from the jump, so what am I supposed to do?” He shrugged.

Jacob smirked, “Lease a Subaru, move to Arcadia, and become a high school guidance counselor, obviously.” The sarcastic response elicited a genuine laugh from both men. “Kidding, but who knows– This trip might show her friend that you’re serious about the relationship and she’ll get off your back,” he nodded, optimistically as the waitress dropped off their drinks.

“Damn, I never even thought of that,” said Liam pensively, realizing that Jacob had made a very good point. He was now somewhat reassured in his plan to go on the trip. “So how are you doing, man? I know these past few months have been shit,” he said somberly, genuinely feeling for his friend. Though Liam didn’t have any desires to be a father in the near future, he did love Isaiah like a real nephew, and was really disappointed to see how things turned out. He had even helped Jacob get a lawyer through his parents, but it was no use.

Jacob raised his eyebrows and sighed before responding. “It’s fucking lonely, dude. Like how do people our age even meet other people? I’ve gone out a few times with people from work, but bars and clubs… I’m just so not used to that scene anymore,” he shook his head and took a sip of his drink.

“Have you tried dating apps?” Liam asked, unsure of what to say to his grieving friend. Emotions weren’t his strong suit, but he was trying his best.

“If one more person asks me that, I think I’ll explode on the spot.” Liam said sharply. Just that morning, his mother had asked the same thing over the phone. Apparently it was time for him to get back out there again, or something.

Liam raised his hands up in mock defeat. “Alright, so no dating apps,” he resigned. “Well, weddings are a great place to meet people. Who knows– maybe we do score some invites and you meet someone there!” He said, trying to cheer his friend up. Just then, the waitress brought by their meals and topped up their drinks. “And if you don’t meet anyone, then I can always take you out. If you want to, that is,” he nodded, unfolding his napkin and setting it on his lap.

“I don’t feel a particular need to meet anyone, has anyone ever considered that?” Jacob muttered, following Liam’s lead and placing his napkin on his lap.

“You just said you were lonely, J. Even if it’s just a friend you meet, that would help! I know you have me, but it would be nice to have other people you can lean on right now and whenever, you know?” Liam explained before beginning to eat.

“I have friends!” Jacob said incredulously. “I have… Aidy?” He offered sheepishly, realizing that his social circle had been pretty nonexistent these days.

“Your baby-mama who you just got out of a five-month-long custody battle with? That’s your other friend? You might need this trip more than me, dude.” He chuckled and shook his head as he took another bite.

“Ew, God. Don’t call her that.” Jacob rolled his eyes, “But fine. I guess I do need to get out more. This trip will be good for that. And even if Nikki is super busy, the two of us can still go out and stuff, right?”

“Yeah, of course! It’ll be like a revival of the good old days– an Apartment 121 Renaissance!” Liam said excitedly, lifting his glass as if making a toast. Jacob laughed and lifted his glass to touch his friend’s. Their glasses clinked and Jacob felt slightly less hopeless than he had while he was driving in.