#nah let���s ruin her paragraphs

[quickspinner]

Month of Miracles - Moments of Wonder

Well my plans for this prompt month definitely tanked but that’s okay, I’m still gonna finish this Hallmark AU at least. I’m gonna try not to write a ten paragraph authors note detailing all my struggles with this piece and just say, I hope the intention comes through even with all the life interruptions.

Find the prompt list here!

Hallmark Movie AU Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 (end) | Read Month of Miracles on AO3

“Spaghetti?” Rose screeched. “Luka, nobody looks good eating spaghetti. She’ll be uncomfortable. Make something else.”

Luka looked at the ceiling for a moment and prayed for patience. “It’s not like this is a date,” he muttered, going to look through the pantry to see what else he could make. Rose’s pestering was making him nervous, and his hand hovered over several options before he shook himself and picked up a bag of rice. Casserole seemed like such a homely option but—

Not a date , he reminded himself resolutely. He didn’t want to make Marinette uncomfortable. She hadn’t agreed to a date, so it wasn’t one, and he wasn’t going to let Rose’s fantasizing make him treat it like one.

“Casserole?” Rose said doubtfully when he got out the pan. 

Luka groaned. “Out, Rose.” He grabbed the kitchen towel hanging on the oven rail and snapped it at her, making her squeak and jump back. She folded her arms with a pout. “Nope. Not gonna work on me,” he told her, flapping her out of the kitchen with the towel like a fly. “Get lost.” 

“I’m just trying to help,” Rose wailed as she backed away. 

“And stay out,” Luka told her shortly, and turned to go back in the kitchen. He leaned on the counter and sighed. He was a patient guy, and he liked Rose, and okay so she was right that he and Marinette would hit it off, but— enough , already. He was nervous enough about whether she would understand what he wanted to show her tonight, and not really sure why it was important to him anyway. 

Maybe it was lingering guilt for disappearing without any real explanation or apology to his fans. Maybe if he could make even one fan understand, he’d feel better. 

Orrrr maybe it has nothing to do with your fans and you just want Marinette to understand, Rose’s voice sing-songed in his head, because you liiiiiike her. Luka sighed. 

He did like her. He liked her, and he wanted to know her, and the only way he knew of to do that was to invite her to know him. He sighed again, and went back to his dinner preparations.

Marinette knocked on the Couffaines’ door with so many butterflies in her stomach that she wasn’t at all sure she was going to be able to eat. It had been easy to accept the invitation with Luka there in front of her, with his relaxed smile and calm presence, but by the time she got back to her grandmother’s house, her brain had gone into a panicked spiral of overthinking that had her feeling jumpy and on edge. She always put thought into her appearance, but she’d agonized over it tonight, afraid of looking too...date-like. In the end she’d kept her pigtails and kept her makeup light, and worn a slightly oversized cream sweater over red leggings. Easy, seasonally appropriate, not unflattering but not aiming to attract, either. 

When the door flew open, Rose’s excited, beaming face did nothing to ease her nerves. As Rose dragged her inside, bouncing a little, Marinette had an unsettling feeling like she had been caught in a trap of some kind, and it didn’t get any better when Rose introduced her to Luka’s sister. Juleka gave her a quick once over and smirked, and Marinette was struck by an urge to flee the premises.  

Then Luka was there, taking her elbow gently and somehow getting everyone moving to the table. He wasn’t dressed for a date either, wearing a slightly worn navy pullover with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and jeans that had seen better days. The look he gave her as he escorted her to the dining room said please ignore them, we both know better, and Marinette began to relax a little bit. That’s right. Rose might be scheming but she and Luka had already talked it out, and they knew where they stood. They were friends, and whatever he wanted to show her tonight had nothing to do with...with wooing her, or whatever Rose seemed to think was going on.

Dinner wasn’t fancy, either, and that made her feel better too. She managed to strike up a conversation with Juleka after Luka pointed out that many of the photographs on the walls were Juleka’s work. He turned all of Rose’s attempts to get them started on personal topics into casual conversation, and Marinette honestly could have kissed him just for making everything so... easy.

Not that she would. Not that he wanted her to. Not that she wanted to! Oh no, she was starting again…

Marinette nearly jumped out of her seat when a peppy tune blared out seemingly from nowhere. Luka put a steadying hand on her shoulder and gave her a reassuring smile while Rose pulled her phone out of her pocket, frowning. 

“Excuse me a second,” Rose said apologetically, “It’s work so I better see what they want.” 

Marinette had to blink for a moment. She’d forgotten that normal people didn’t take phone calls during dinner.

“Sabrina, what’s up?” Rose chirped, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin as she held the phone to her ear and slipped out of her chair to walk into the other side of the room—not that it really made a difference since they could all still hear her. “Well, finally, what took so long? So, what’s the big deal?” There was a pause, and Rose frowned. “Come down there? Why are you being so dramatic, Sabrina, can’t you just tell me?” 

That got Luka’s attention. He shot Rose an alarmed look, and Rose rolled her eyes at him. “Okay, fine. I’m on my way.” She hung up the phone and came back over to kiss Juleka’s cheek. “I have to go. There’s something up with the costumes for the children’s pageant and Sabrina’s making a big deal about it. I’ll come back after I find out what’s going on.” She grinned at Luka and Marinette. “Have fun without me.” She fluttered her hand and left the table, blowing a kiss to them all as she flounced out of the door.

Luka gaped after her for a moment. No, no, this was no good. Rose’s excited fluttering aside, she and Juleka were supposed to go do their own thing and get so distracted with each other that he could talk to Marinette in peace, but without Rose—Luka glanced at his sister, and saw her smirking at him. Luka tried to convey with nothing but his eyes that if she ruined this for him he’d never forgive her. Juleka just rolled her eyes and went back to eating. 

“Children’s pageant?” Marinette was repeating next to him in confusion. “At the library? I thought that was usually a church thing.” 

“Oh, it is,” Juleka smirked. “The church has one every year too, and Rose...Rose has a beef with it. Let’s just say they’ve had the same Joseph and Mary for the last three years and Rose doesn’t feel like it represents the proper Christmas spirit.” 

“Oh,” Marinette said, blinking. “Huh.” 

“Are you finished, Juleka?” Luka asked a little too quickly, standing up. “I can take your plate.” 

Juleka gave him a look that said she knew what he was doing, but she got up too. “Yeah. Thanks. It was nice to meet you Marinette.” She went to the stairs, but couldn’t resist a parting “You two have fun,” before she thunked up them.

Luka sighed, and took Juleka’s plate and his own to the kitchen. He nearly bumped into Marinette when he turned around, standing behind him with her own mostly-empty plate. “Oh, sorry,” he said, taking it from her automatically. “I didn’t mean to rush you, if you weren’t done.” 

“No, I’m good,” Marinette said, with a nervous little flutter of her hands. “I was done. Can I help you clean up?”

“Nah, Jules can get it later,” he said, opening the cabinet to dump the last of the food in the trash before he put the plate in the sink. “I cooked, so dishes are her job. Let me just put the leftovers in the fridge. Why don’t you come on into the great room while I do that?” 

He led her out of the kitchen into the two-story great room, with its huge windows and exposed beams and the large crackling fireplace. 

“Wow, this is lovely,” Marinette breathed, looking around.

“I like it,” Luka shrugged with a self-conscious smile. “Great acoustics in here, actually. Just have a seat wherever you’re comfortable and I’ll be right back. Watch your step, we’re...not exactly neat freaks, if you know what I mean.” 

“It looks lived in,” Marinette agreed diplomatically. The furniture was all mismatched and...unique. Some of it looked so old and rickety that she wasn’t sure it was safe to sit on, and there were...boxes everywhere. Not really boxes, but old army footlockers, heavy-looking chests, and a dozen other things. They were mostly tucked in the corners of the room, leaving the floor clear for the enormous Christmas tree that took up an entire corner of the huge room. 

Marinette made her way to one of the couches as Luka went back to the kitchen. It looked like an antique, with an old brocade fabric that was slightly faded but otherwise in good condition, and sturdy enough. Marinette perched on the end of it, feeling a little awkward. She looked around the room. Despite the size, it was cozy, with a rustic air, much like all the other buildings she’d been in around town, and though she’d been being polite, her statement was accurate. It didn’t look so much cluttered as lived-in, as if this room was used a lot by the entire family. As she looked at the Christmas tree, she had to smile. The decorations were a bit...eccentric. Several of the ornaments on the tree were little bats wearing tiny knitted scarves or carrying miniature instruments that looked like they might have come from a doll collection. Music seemed to feature prominently in the tree, she realized. Many of the figures had instruments, not just the bats (there were spiders, too, she saw with amusement). Some of the ornaments were cheap, clearly mass manufactured things, but others were carefully crafted and looked like they’d come from far away places. Guitars weren’t the only instruments featured, but they did outnumber the others by quite a bit. Luka wasn’t the only musical one in the family, she concluded. His father was Jagged Stone, after all, and boy there was probably a story there, but she’d never dare ask. 

Her eyes widened slightly when Luka reappeared with an electric guitar in one hand. Marinette blushed, one hand fluttering up to fuss nervously with her hair. Surely he wasn’t going to play now? For her? 

Luka smirked a little at the expression on her face, and winked at her as he set the guitar down in a stand she hadn’t noticed. “In a minute,” he told her, and Marinette wanted to sink into the couch and disappear. Could she act more like a starstruck fan? Luka crossed to a funny looking cabinet that turned out to have a CD player inside. “You know Blue Lightning, right?

“Yes, of course,” Marinette said, blinking. It was one of the singles off his most recent album—his last album, she realized with a pang.  

Luka nodded as he put the CD he’d been holding in the player. “This was the demo I pitched to the label when I wrote it.” 

He pressed play, and turned the volume up. He walked over to one of the windows and stuck his hands in his pockets as the music began to play.

Marinette’s mouth dropped open. It sounded so...different. Of course a demo would sound different, she’d heard demo tracks before and they didn’t necessarily have full instrumentation or backup vocals, but...the whole feel of the song was different. Peppier, more fluid, less...angry. Still a rock song, but not so...gritty, or harsh, as the version she knew. 

Luka kept his eyes down as he switched off the CD player and closed the cabinet, and then went to sit next to Marinette on the couch. Only then did he look up at her.

“The execs said they loved it,” he told her softly, “but it didn’t fit my brand. They didn’t think it would sell. Later, they told me. When I was a bigger star, then I could put out something like that, but not yet.”

“That’s—” a shame, Marinette wanted to say, but instead she twined her fingers together and looked down. “Well, I guess they know what sells, right? It makes sense that you would take their advice.”

“That’s what I thought.” Luka nodded. “So I agreed to change it. And then in post production they ‘tweaked it’ some more, and…” He grimaced. “And then I had to go up on stage and perform it like that, and even though it made sense at the time, I just...hated it. When I complained, they told me I wasn’t bringing in enough sales yet to be such a diva and that if I wanted to make the music I wanted to make, then I needed to work harder.”

“It’s hard, isn’t it,” Marinette sighed. “But you have to make your bones, right? It’s the same with fashion. That’s just...part of the industry.” She glanced at him uncertainly.

“So they told me,” Luka gave her a wry smile. 

Marinette looked back at her hands. “Well, if it was making you unhappy, then it’s good that you left,” she said, but she said it without conviction, and she knew that he could hear it. 

Luka sighed. “Well. There was more to it than just that.” He got to his feet. “You’ve been to one of my shows, right? I think you said you had.” He picked up the guitar from the stand, and slung the strap across his shoulders. 

Marinette nodded. “Mmhmm.” She watched as he rummaged behind one of the chairs, pulled out an amp cord, and plugged it into the guitar.

“Good,” Luka said, sitting down across from her in one of the rickety-looking chairs. Marinette’s hands moved involuntarily before fluttering back into her lap. He lived here; surely he knew the hazards of the furniture. She curled her fingers under and tried not to fidget. He grinned without looking at her as he tuned the guitar.

“It’ll hold,” he said, as if he’d read her mind. “I promise nothing around here is as fragile as it looks.” 

“Right,” Marinette said, hunching her shoulders slightly. “Of course.” She didn’t know where to look, and she suddenly felt very stupid. Why was she here again?. 

“Just relax,” Luka’s deep voice soothed, and she glanced up, color deepening. He sounded like Luke Stone in that moment, with the smooth, musical tone of his voice. “Just listen. If you don’t understand when I’m done, then...then that’ll be okay. But I’d like to try and show you what I mean. The difference between Luke Stone, and...me.” 

He took a breath, blew it out slowly...and played. Marinette’s breath caught. It was just White Christmas, which she’d heard a thousand times over in a hundred different styles. Even so, it was beautiful, embellished with unique touches that face it the same evocative quality that had first drawn her to Luke’s—to Luka’s music. 

Apparently he was just warming up, though, because he took another deep breath, and the music segued into a different tune—one she didn’t recognize. 

It resonated somewhere deep inside her, touched a well of pain she’d been trying to ignore for months. Not only the music, which by itself was beautiful and seemed to vibrate in her soul—but the artistry. And when she looked at him— 

Luka’s eyes were half closed, and his face was serene, with just a slight wrinkle of concentration between his brows. His hands, rough and abused as they were, moved easily and gracefully, with a confidence that Marinette suddenly realized was familiar. She’d had that once, back when she’d been young and inexperienced and thought too highly of herself. Before she’d learned better, and seen how far she still had to go. 

She found that she envied Luka in that moment. It must be nice, to be away from all that pressure and just...create for yourself again. Not to be constantly questioning your instincts, because you only had yourself to please anyway. 

Her chest suddenly felt tight, and her eyes stung. She swallowed hard and tore her eyes away from him, looking down at her hands. She closed her eyes and put her hand on her heart, determined to listen until the end. 

It was so beautiful. Poignant. 

She recognized now what he’d been trying to show her with the demo track. She had been too distracted at the time by the other differences, but...there had been so much more feeling in the demo version. Because Luka had loved it, she realized. He’d been excited about that song, and by the time the studio was done with it, that enthusiasm was lost. He played the studio version well, with all the technical skill he possessed, but it lacked the passion of the original. If anything, it sounded angry because Luka was angry when he played it.

That’s part of the process, though. It’s just part of the industry. Editing is important, even if it isn’t fun. Of course you’re tired of a project before it’s finished. You’ve still got to see it through. You don’t just quit or give up on a project because you feel pouty that people told you what was wrong.

It was the truth, so...why did watching Luka, and hearing him play, make it feel like such a lie?

The studio was wrong, she admitted to herself. Even if it was an objectively better song when they were done, even if the sales numbers said they were right...what they lost along the way was so much more precious than perfection. 

Luka’s song ended softly, but on a questioning note, without really concluding. He looked up at her, and then came over to sit next to her on the couch, his expression concerned. 

She wasn’t sure why until Luka reached out, and wiped away the tear trickling down her face with the rough pad of his thumb. “Are you okay?” he asked gently.

“Yeah, I’m—” Marinette began, trying to smile, but she couldn’t finish. Her face crumpled and she buried in her hands before she began to cry in earnest. 

Luka put the guitar down, and came to sit beside her. His hands curled around her shoulders and tugged her to him. Marinette yielded, letting him pull her close. One arm wrapped around her back and one big hand gently cradled her head, guiding it down to his shoulder, and he held her, swaying gently, while she hid her face in his shirt and wept. 

“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” Luka said apologetically, and Marinette shook her head without lifting it. He held her for a long moment, until she finally managed to pull herself together and pull away from him, sitting up and wiping at her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” she muttered, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, I was enjoying it so much, I can’t believe I just...lost it like that, ugh.” 

“It’s okay,” Luka soothed, putting his hand on her shoulder. He squeezed and rubbed it lightly. “Do you feel better?” 

“I...think I do, actually,” Marinette gave him a quick smile. “Thank you.” She was still embarrassed, but she meant it. It felt like a pressure valve had opened somewhere inside of her, and while nothing had really changed, it all felt just a little bit less oppressive. “I think I understand, at least a little. Why you left. But…” Marinette pressed her lips together, like she wasn’t sure she wanted to go on. Luka squeezed her shoulder again lightly, waiting for her to continue.

“I just...was quitting really the only way? Wasn’t it your dream? Wasn’t it worth fighting for?”

Luka swallowed and drew his hand back. He folded his hands together between his knees, looking at the floor, and hoped he could say what he wanted to without sounding like a pretentious drama queen or a weakling. 

“What happened between us just now,” Luka began slowly, “Luke Stone could never do that. I didn’t mind the work, or the hours, or even the touring. It’s just, the more we ‘refined’ Luke Stone’s image, the less it felt like me, and it put up this...wall between me and the rest of the world. It wasn’t just the label interfering with my music, it was the image they wanted me to project. The brand. It was harder and harder to be somebody different off-stage, because after a certain point, there’s really no such thing as off-stage. Jagged, you know, he can turn it on and off like that.” He snapped his fingers. “He tried to help me, he really did, but...I just...wasn’t connecting with people the way I needed to, for the music to really flow. I felt so alone, and unhappy, and I was still making music but it wasn’t mine, anymore. It was just something I did to keep the label happy. Finally I decided that clinging to the dream for the sake of the dream wasn’t very smart if it didn’t actually make me happy, and it was more important to be me than to be a star.” Luka glanced up. Marinette was staring at him, her eyes huge in her pale face. He felt himself beginning to blush and dropped his eyes again. “So I told Dad I was done,” he went on quickly. “He was disappointed, but he understood. I finished out my contract and came home to figure out what in the world comes next.” 

Marinette was silent for a moment. Luka swallowed nervously, and was trying to think of a graceful way to end the conversation when she finally said, “You’re really brave, Luka.”

He blinked, the words he’d been about to force out dying on his tongue. “What?” he said instead.

“I think it takes a lot of courage to admit that,” Marinette said quietly. “Even to yourself, let alone actually making the break and leaving it all behind. I’m glad you did it. I loved your music, but…” She reached out hesitantly, and slid her hand over Luka’s. He released his clasped hands to turn his fingers up to lace with hers. “I’m glad that you did what was right for you, instead of…”

“Flaming out and becoming an alcoholic drug addict?” he asked with a sardonic grin. Her hand was so small in his, he couldn’t help noticing. 

Marinette giggled. “Something like that. I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. You really didn’t have to rehash all of that for me.” 

Luka shrugged and repeated, “I wanted you to understand.” She had no idea how bad he wanted her to understand. He was grateful and relieved that she did...and at the same time, it was a little frightening. Things might have been simpler if she had scoffed and blown him off. Then he wouldn’t be sitting here, holding her hand and looking into her soft, beautiful eyes, feeling like all of the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. 

Marinette bit her lip, and his gaze dropped to it. “I should...if it’s okay with you, I think I should go home now.” 

Luka shook himself back to reality. “Of course. Are you sure you’re alright? Will you be okay to get home?”

Marinette nodded and tried a smile. It mostly looked steady, so Luka smiled back. He stood up, still holding her hand, and drew her up after him. “Thanks for taking the time to listen to me, Marinette.” Luka let her hand slide out of his. “It actually feels good to be able to explain it to someone.” 

“Thank you for sharing it with me,” Marinette told him, and they didn’t say anything more as Luka got her coat and held it for her. 

Once she was gone, he barely made it back to a chair before his knees gave way. He rubbed a hand over his face and then leaned into it, sighing. That had been…intense. All of it, not just Marinette, but...playing like that, when he hadn’t played for anyone but his family in so long, and trying to help her understand...he hadn’t realized how much it would take out of him.

He was still sitting there when Rose burst in. “Marinette!” she cried, looking at Luka with wide eyes. “Where is she?” 

“She went home,” Luka mumbled, leaning back in the chair.

“What? No, I need her!” Rose exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “Why did she leave? What happened?”

“Nothing happened—” Luka began, but a voice from the doorway interrupted him.

“He made her cry,” Juleka smirked. 

Rose whirled to look at her, while Luka glared at her over Rose’s head, but Juleka just grinned wider when Rose turned back and began to hit Luka in the arm over and over with her tiny yet surprisingly hard fist. “You idiot! You did not! You made her cry? What’s the matter with you?” 

Luka put up his hands in defense. “Rose,” he whined. “Look, I told you this wasn’t a date, and it’s not going to happen—”

“Who cares about your pathetic excuse for a love life?” Rose roared, hitting him faster. “You can’t run her off, I need her! The pageant’s going to be a disaster!”

“Wait, what?” Juleka frowned, coming into the room. 

“That’s what Sabrina was calling about!” Rose exclaimed. “The costumes that were in storage—they’re a disaster! Moths or rats or water or all three, I don’t even know. And here I made friends with someone who designs and sews and then like a bonehead I had to set her up with your stupid socially inept—”  

“He played for her,” Juleka broke in, and Rose stopped hitting him long enough to look at her. It took a moment for the words to sink in, and then Rose’s eyes widened. She turned back to Luka and he flinched. “You did not!”

“I did,” Luka admitted, running his fingers through his hair. “I really did,” he realized, feeling suddenly weak again. He covered his mouth with his hand and tried to pretend like he wasn’t suppressing the urge to scream. 

“Tell me everything right now!” Rose demanded, grabbing a fistful of his sweater and dragging him out of his chair and over to the couch. She sat down next to him with a determined expression. Luka looked up at Juleka pleadingly, but she just grinned. 

That’s for eating all the cookies, she mouthed, and left before Luka could make a rude gesture. 

Fiction Master Post | Month of Miracles

[gingerwritess]

OKEY BUT whats up with eliott and morgannnn

oooh i love these two so goddamn much

good lord

one pure blue prince and one snarky potts-stark we must prOTECC

for anyone just tuning in, Elliot is you and Loki’s son, a pure lil bean, and this is Morgan Stark who he’s grown up with and stuff is happening and yeah check my masterlist for more background :)

also i recently realised that people who use screen reading have to sit through paragraph breaks of asterisks and that must be SO ANNOYING so i will no longer use that, i’ll just use a few hyphens to hopefully get the break over with quick and easy!

――――

“What’re you gonna do, Stark? Gonna call daddy to come save you?”

Holding her snow gloves just out of her reach, Mike Burts leers down at Morgan.

Why is it that the bullies are always so big??

“Maybe I will,” Morgan spits back at him, giving one last jump to try and grab her gloves. “He’d kick your ass and make you thank him for it, dickhead, give me my gloves back!”

“Don’t think so,” he sneers, tossing the gloves to one of his stubby little cohorts behind him. “Aw, well, if daddy won’t come help, you can always call your little blue freak!”

Morgan casts a quick glance around—good. Elliot’s nowhere to be seen, at least for now.

“Don’t talk about him like that,” she warns, a hand slyly slipping into her pocket.

“Like what? Like he’s a freaky, frozen mutant?”

“Seriously, Burts. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Oh, I’m so scared,” he says sarcastically. “Don’t want to piss off the little popsicle’s girlfriend, do we.”

A thin layer of metal encases her hand. “Last chance.”

“I’m not scared of your little monster pet,” Burts hisses in her face. “What’s he gonna do, call Jack Frost on me? Oh no, I better keep a heater close by—”

In one quick, barely noticeable movement, Morgan aims her hand towards the ground at his feet, firing a blast of something roaring up to his face.

Harmless, she and her parents are aware, but Burts and his goons don’t need to know that.

He squeaks in fright. “What the—”

“Get the hell out of here,” Morgan orders. Her hand, wrapped in red and gold metal, is smoking. “Leave me alone, and if I hear you say one more thing about Elliot, I swear to god I’ll break your toes one by one and feed them to you—”

“Morgan!”

“Run,” she hisses, a smug grin on her face as he pales. “Run away and don’t look back.”

“What’s going on?” Elliot runs to her side, slightly out of breath. “Is—is he bothering you?”

Morgan gives him a quick smile—that’s sweet of him—but she doesn’t miss the slight tremor in his voice.

“Nah, I got them taken care of.” She jabs a thumb over her shoulder at the guys huddled a safe distance from her now. “They’re all bark, no bite.”

“That’s good,” Elliot says, thanking the norns above and whoever else is listening that he didn’t have to get pummelled by anyone today. “Are you, erm, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Nothing hurt but my pride.” She flashes him another smile.

“You’re lookin’ pretty smug, though.”

“Okay…so maybe my pride isn’t very hurt…”

Elliot laughs, not in the slightest bit surprised. “Mmhm, that’s what I thought. That’s good, though, I’m sure they deserved it.”

Blowing an unruly curl of dark hair off his forehead, he leans over and takes her books out of her arms to carry them for her, a soft smile turning at his lips.

Morgan nods, warmth spreading through her chest like a wildfire.

Your little blue freak.

“They deserve worse, but yeah.”

“No gloves?” Elliot asks as they walk towards the doorway, backpacks slung over shoulders and jackets zipped tight.

“No,” she sighs, wrapping her chunky scarf snug around her neck. “Burts took them. Don’t bother,” she adds when Elliot’s eyes narrow, “let them have them. They’re…big, Elliot. Don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t want them to get away with that,” he replies, glancing at the group of laughing boys behind her. “At least tell your parents. They can do something about them, right?”

“Sure.” She smiles, tugging her beanie over her ears. “What about you? No scarf, no hat? Your ears are gonna freeze off.”

“Today’s a warm day,” Elliot answers with a small smile.

Morgan glances out the window—the snow has to be past their knees by now, icicles hanging from every rooftop, plus a wind chill to freeze the skin right off your limbs?

A warm day. Right.

“Whatever you say, frosty. Dad said he’s already heating up the milk for our hot chocolate, let’s hit the road.”

Elliot likes the snow. This ice, this coldness. He feels at home, unthreatened—and he gets to walk Morgan home.

Purely for safety purposes, Tony had made perfectly clear, only to ensure that his baby doesn’t get caught up in a snow storm or slip and break herself on some ice.

“I’m fine,” she’d laughed at the proposition, but only once.

There wasn’t much opposition to the little arrangement from either party.

“Shit.”

Easily floating over the icy sidewalks, Elliot gives a quiet laugh—as always, when she cusses. “Language.”

“It’s cold,” she groans, shoving her bare hands deeper in her pockets. “Those shit—stupid-heads who took my gloves are gonna pay for this.”

“Please let me watch.”

“No, don’t encourage me!” She laughs and shoves him in the shoulder with hers—not that it’d knock him off balance. Elliot manages to make walking on ice and through snow look like a literal walk in the park. “C’mon, you’re supposed to talk me out of fights. Be a good escort.”

“Fine,” he chides, plucking off his right glove and handing it to her with an exaggerated, swooping bow. “Don’t fight anyone, take my glove instead. I have two, we can share.”

“You have two for your two hands, idiot,” she laughs, cheeks pink against the wind. “But thank you. I accept your most gracious offer, your majesty.”

“Good. Put it on, you’re gonna get frostbite and I don’t know how to treat that yet.”

She does, blowing a lock of hair out of her face and she wiggles it onto her half-frozen fingers, giving her hand a couple squeezes to warm up her knuckles.

“Much better. Thanks, Elliot.” She glances up at him, a smile crinkling the corners of her eyes.

Elliot can feel a smile on his own lips as he nods—and quickly looks away, cause her nose is pink and her eyes glowing under the thick wool beanie, and she’s warm.

“What about this hand?”

Ice crunching under their boots, she holds up her other hand, the one left ungloved, and wiggles her fingers in front of him.

“This hand’s gonna get frostbite,” she hums, dropping it back between the two of them. “And then my dad’s gonna kick you out of the city.”

Elliot laughs—even though he doesn’t doubt that she’s not joking. “Here.” He takes off his other glove. “You can have both of mine, I really don’t need them—”

“No, absolutely not!” She pushes the glove back into his hands. “Put that back on, you need at least one. I don’t want your dad hating me either.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “Are you sure? I really don’t mind.”

“I’m positive. Put your glove back on.”

He does, sceptically, but he does. The threat of frostbite isn’t exactly a joke…

They walk another block in a comfortable silence, listening to the snow crunch and the wind whistle, each with their one bare hand hiding deep in their pockets.

Morgan shivers again.

Elliot glances down—she’s taken her hand out of her pocket, clenching her fingers into a fist and shaking it, trying to keep the blood moving.

Her hand is just there against her thigh, cold, trembling, empty.

His fingers twitch slightly—then he catches himself.

That…would be weird. That would be wrong. Not to mention how Tony would wring his neck for even thinking of doing—doing that, ruining every chance of ever seeing each other again for good.

The streetlight ahead of them seems to be broken again, red lights flashing every few seconds.

That’s definitely a sign, Elliot decides.

They step off the curb to cross the street.

A car honks and Morgan, one foot shooting out from under her, grabs hold of his bicep, hard.

“Ice!” She shrieks, holding onto him for dear life as her feet scramble for traction. “Sorry, sorry!”

Nearly dropping her books, his hand lands on her waist, firmly settling her back on balance.

“I’ve got you,” Elliot laughs, trying to grab her and keep her upright. “I’ve got you.”

What a spectacle they must have been, the two of them slipping and scrambling in the middle of the icy crosswalk, half-laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, half-frantically trying to get out of the road—

“All good?”

She giggles, breath leaving her lips in a little puff of frozen air. “Yep. Sorry, I’m not a snow princess like someone I know.”

He just laughs again—that seems to be all he’s capable of, in her presence. Laughing awkwardly, nervously, giggling like an idiot when he shouldn’t be.

And…his hand is still on her waist.

Move. Move them.

“We’ve gotta move,” she laughs, snapping her fingers in his face. “You can let go of me now, I can stand by myself…”

“Right.” He clears his throat with another awkward little chuckle, hands snapping away from Morgan’s waist. “S-sorry.”

Ungloved hands back in their pockets, the walk resumes—this time, a surge of warmth keeping Elliot’s skin from freezing blue. A warmth he finds specifically trained in his arm, the little spot where she’d grabbed onto him to keep from falling.

Morgan just walks beside him, the tiniest smile turning at her lips, her nose rosy against the chilled wind.

He should say something, right?

“So, um…”

She looks over at him and he stutters.

“S-snow?”

Snow??

That’s the best he could come up with?

A laugh falls from her lips and Elliot silently curses his father for apparently not passing along the whole ‘silvertongue’ trait.

“Lots of it,” she agrees, glancing around the snow-covered city. “Does it snow in Asgard?”

He clears his throat and nods. “When w-we want it to.”

“That’s so cool.” A dreamy glaze passes over her features - Elliot finds himself staring. “You’ve gotta take me there someday. Y’know, when you’re the king-in-training or whatever.”

“No way,” he laughs, grateful for a familiar topic. “I’m not even ready to start thinking about that.”

“Sure. Whatever you say,” she grins. There’s a skip in her step, now.

“I can bring you along sometime soon,” he calls after her when she skips a few steps in front of him. “Once we’re all settled, you can come stay at the palace with us.”

Morgan comes to a stop and waits for him to catch up, a beaming smile on her lips. “I can’t wait.”

Side by side once more, she nudges him with her shoulder.

And nervous awkwardness swallows the two of them whole again.

That damn hand of hers is out of her pocket.

They’re close, really close to each other, to the point where he can feel her warmth radiating - and they’re almost home. If anything’s going to happen, it’s now or never.

She clenches her hand into a cold, trembling fist by her thigh, letting go after a moment.

Warm? No, she’s burning. 

His knuckles brush against hers, just once, cautious and quick, and she hurriedly snaps her head to look away from him - her cheeks beet-red, she tries to bite back her giddy grin.

Don’t say anything, she screams to herself. He’ll do it, he’ll do it—

Elliot pretends to slip a tiny bit. There. Now it could’ve been an accident.

Won’t she say something?

She’s still beaming, the tiny skin-to-skin touch apparently going unnoticed, and Elliot can’t help but give it another try.

This time, with a bit more intent.

She makes sure her hand is open, swinging invitingly between the two of them as they walk, and she almost jumps with a start when his fingertips brush her palm.

Elliot searches her face out of the corner of his eye, waiting for the disgust, looking for any signs that he went too far, that this makes things weird.

And he finds nothing.

Pinky fingers wind around each other, and Elliot holds his breath.

Her grin is clearly visible, peeking out from behind her scarf, her cheeks flushed and pink from what might be the cold but maybe, just maybe, the fact that her little finger is wrapped around his, interlocked and silently assuring him that he’s not crazy, that he didn’t just dream this all up.

They cross another street, only a few more blocks from home, and this time Morgan moves.

She lets go of his pinky finger and lets her hand fall into his, fingertips brushing his palm as he curls his fingers between hers, slowly intertwining until Elliot can’t breathe - palms press together and she give his hand a tight squeeze.

“Can’t let me get frostbite, right?”

Elliot swallows thickly. “Right,” he whispers. “Is—is this okay?”

Morgan turns to him with a nervous giggle, eyes twinkling and cheeks burning. “As long as my parents don’t see, this is perfect.”

The very air around them seems to change, heavy and excited with the possibility of such a dense secret.

“Perfect,” he repeats in a whisper. “I-I won’t tell.”

Clutching at each other’s hands, holding onto each other tight enough to keep all the warmth between them, Elliot can’t stop from grinning.

“Hey, Morgan?”

She’s glowing. “Yeah?”

“You’re, um, really warm.”

Another laugh from her warms his heart. “Is that a good thing, frosty?”

Elliot gives another giddy giggle, glad that those guys had taken her gloves, glad that he gets to walk home with her, glad that she hadn’t pulled away when their hands first met.

“Perfect.”

――――

feel free to send me ideas!!

if you enjoyed…what if i linked my venmo…haha no i jest…no obligations….just in case….u don’t have to ha ha…….unless… ??

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[bookofmormonmemes]

wassup yall it’s been forevys but im officially halfway through this abish book here’s some pros and cons

cons:

battle with exclamation points continues, now a new contender has entered the fight: ellipses. these are luxury resources and kc grant is ruining the economy

the most sudden unearned underwhelming unsatisfactory kiss scene ive ever read. we love our androgynous blacksmith babe but they kissed just in the middle of a paragraph completely out of nowhere with no dramatic tension or buildup at all and im upset

her dad’s Conversion Vision also feels pretty out-of-nowhere and also way too neat & tidy? he just comes in like “I had a dream that there’s only one God and everything we’ve ever been taught is wrong, come on let’s go change our entire lives” and abi’s like “ok lit.” we stan a ride-or-die daughter but cmon, gimme some CONFLICT, some INTERNAL CRISIS OF FAITH. I WANT A GODLY WRESTLE!!

it’s racist. the racism is dressed up pretty but it’s there and it sucks. the nephites are white which is automatically a loss but madam grant consistently portrays that whiteness as not only more civilized and righteous but also more attractive??? abi’s living with this nephite family and this one boy walks by with blonde hair and green eyes and she’s like “these nephites were like the colors of the rainbow...such variety...” and it’s. it’s gross.

androgynous blacksmith babe is Lost At Sea. i know from reading the summary of the sequel book that he survives and they get married but for now I Miss Him.......

what is the plot. where is the plot. when is the plot. there’s so many random things happening and she’s ending up so many different places, i have no idea how or when she’s possibly gonna end up where she’s sposed to be. tally marks of “days without my queen” stretch across the wall. ammon has yet to be introduced. where are my children. what is happening. how can i go on

pros:

HER

HER

S H E E E E

she is how i can go on

at one point she goes to help gardening and when asked what she’s doing she replies “i am sitting in the dirt”

the moment she’s free from Societal Expectations she goes right to climbing trees and killing random peccarys in the wild

apparently lots of research was done on the flora and fauna and geology of this place! enough to have detailed beautiful descriptions of different flowers and rocks but not enough to know quetzals are green

OH YEAH SHE GETS A COOL SCAR ACROSS HER FACE, SHE ALMOST GETS ASSAULTED BUT THEN ABB (ANDROGYNOUS BLACKSMITH BABE) CONKS THE CHUMP OVER THE HEAD WITH A ROCK AND ABISH JUST ENDS UP WITH THIS WICKED EPIC KNIFE SCAR

afterwards they’re fleeing town and so decide to cut her hair and start new lives and!!!! aaaaahhh!!! 

abish: with this puckered scar from brow to cheekbone and this hastily knife-shortened hair, i must look horrid, at least jared sees past that and loves me anyway

me, a lesbian, imagining her, remembering that she was described as also taller than everyone, thinking about her, THINKING ABOUT HER: 

the nephite fam shes livin with is basically just parents & three toddlers and theyyyyyy’re cute

baby brother picks up an iguana and wants to keep it, dad is like No but abish is like Maybe...the lizard saga continues

there was a fun sweet sailor man whom i love, who tries to make small talk in the middle of a storm. just yelling “HEY YALL GOT FAMILY BACK HOME?” over the wind while bailing water off the deck. iconic

at another point some nephites harass her for being Different and she completely destroys them. goes in wrestling and “actually abish did most of the fighting; the boy just lay there in disbelief. it was only after two of the other boys joined in that abish felt her abilities being tested.” HER POWER!!!!

after this she feels all guilty and wants to go apologize but literally everyone else is on her side. like nah those creeps deserved it. good on ya for whoopin them

and when i say everybody? i mean EVERYBODY. A Proclamation Comes From King Mosiah. THE KING. saying “hey heard yall were being racist. cut it out. losers.”

the proclamation itself reads exactly like a modern bishop newsletter but in context it’s like, THE KING??? THE KING. imagine if you got in a fight with your school rival and then a nationwide statement comes out cosigned by russell m nelson and barack obama telling literally everyone that you were in the wrong here

she’s iconic

and finally. every page i turn is a page closer to ammon and the queen. hopefully. we’re halfway there folks. give me strength.

[chyrstis]

6, 7, 10, 34 for the fic writing thing?

Sorry about the wait! I’m determined to answer these while my mind’s not toast from grading or late hours, and finally have a good moment to do it.

6. hardest/easiest character to write for?

I still maintain that Adelaide’s hard as hell to write. Her dialogue hasn’t clicked yet for me at all, and it took me forever to figure out how to write her before.

Easiest is still Sharky for FC5, but John’s some stiff competition.

7. hardest/easiest verse to write for?

It’s hard to say, really! Saints Row was really easy to slip into back in the day, and FC5′s not too tough to work with now that I’ve had more time with it.

The hardest, though, was probably Mass Effect. I tried more than once back probably a decade ago, but never could get any further than a mess of a paragraph or two. It’s really for the best, though, because it would’ve been an angsty mess, and also wouldn’t have done my Shep any favors.

10. any writing advice?

If there’s a scene in your mind that you’re writing a story for, but it’s far off and down the line, start working on it now. Yes, there’s fun in working your way towards it and rewarding yourself with it when you finally reach that point, but if it’s so vibrant and clear right now that you’re at risk of losing it by waiting, do it. You’ll thank yourself later, even if you end up fixing it or changing it, because you’ll never entirely get that first spark of when it hits back.

And honestly, I’m a huge advocate for writing things out of order, because some ideas just won’t come to you in a linear format. In that case, write what’s clicking now, and work in reverse, or fill in the blanks.

34. a scene/paragraph you wrote that you’re proud of 

I’m sorry Sharky, but I really love this small bit in I won’t ask for much (but just this once I’d like you), where John’s irritated and pretty set on ruining your day. ...And arguing between them’s fun to write. What can I say?:

—

He did remember water. Coughing out enough to make him feel a little sick on recalling it. The part before that, when he was whooping it up, and kissing the hell out of his date, was a lot nicer to focus on, and he let his eyes slip shut as he leaned against the doorframe.

Yeah, that was much better. Better than the light searing into his eyes, and better than the asshole camped out on his doorstep.

“Boshaw.”

He cracked open an eye. Squinted right at John’s pinched, irritated face, and considered closing the door on him. “What?”

“You don’t understand the true extent of any of this, do you?”

“Nah, that’s what the whole enlightening thing’s for. Shit, Johnson, where the hell have you been?” he threw out, hating how the pounding in his head was only intensifying. “So if you could get the hell on with it, I could go back to spending my day how I want to. In bed, curled up and doing nothing, not out here listening to you tell me how I…” Sharky let the words trail off. “How I what now?”

“How you owe me,” John hissed, baring his teeth as the temperature in his tone dropped ten degrees and counting. “You. Owe. Me. For a boat. For a boathouse, and for an assortment of damages all tying back to your little alcohol-soaked ride through my property.”

Saying each word through clenched teeth, John paused, drew in a breath through his nose as he closed his eyes, then settled back into the same smile he’d initially greeted him with.

“Then when caught, you panicked, confessed, and forged an agreement with me to fix it. Is that ringing any bells now?”

[geek-patient-zero]

Part 1, Chapter 5

Or: Flavia Becomes an Actual Character

Blood War: Masquerade of the Red Death Trilogy Volume 1

Back in St. Louis, Dire McCann’s back in his office by 3 AM.

It had been a long, brutal evening. One filled with more surprises than he imagined possible. Both during the reign of the Red Death... and after.

As he kicks back in his armchair, feet on his desk, the story immediately flashes back to the Club Diabolique. McCann had spent an hour or so in a relatable work predicament: being trapped in a room with your boss while he’s having a temper tantrum.

The room cleared of his brood, Vargoss had spent more than an hour raging to McCann about his progeny’s cowardice. The detective and the Dark Angels had been the only ones who had attempted to save the Prince from the Final Death. Vargoss made it quite clear that in nights to come, the regulars of the Club would pay for their weakness.

“I’m charging everyone extra for drinks! And- And you know what? No more casual Fridays! You come here dressed to the nines or you stay downstairs with the pale human children! Oh, and those jazz men! They didn’t help me either! No more jazz for the rest of the year! Until then it’s 50′s high school prom music, played by the whitest people I can find!”

“But sir, what will you listen to?”

“I’m the Prince of St. Louis, Dire McCann! I obviously have a Walkman.”

Although the Prince didn’t address the issue, there was no question that the Red Death’s attack had frightened him badly. Vargoss had exerted the full power of his will against the monster, without success. The vampire knew he had escaped the Final Death by luck alone. And there was no certainty that the Red Death would not return.

Once the old man finally tuckers himself out, he commands McCann to come back next evening and bids him goodnight, retreating through a secret passage to his inner sanctum in the subbasement.

McCann suspected the vampire planned phoning the other Ventrue elders throughout the United States to warn them of the attack.

Either that or take a post-rage nap.

His exit left McCann alone with Flavia.

“Sir, I’m not good with sexy grieving women. Sir, Prince Vargoss, don’t leave me alone with- Ah shit...”

The other vampires and ghouls in the Club were already long gone by this point.

Tonight, none of them evidenced any desire to wear the Prince’s crown. The Red Death served as a grim reminder of the perils of leadership.

But then maybe there was another reason none of them tried to save Vargoss... Nah, they were just terrified. That’s the thing about this setting. Characters are always plotting against you and each other and having ulterior motives so during those rare moments where someone’s being sincere it’s still easy to be paranoid. Most of the time, you’d be right to be so.

Back to poor Flavia. The whole time during what McCann’s POV describes as “Vargoss’ tiresome outburst” she sat on the floor, holding the burnt remains of her sister’s jumpsuit, unmoving, devastated. McCann, the big softie, feels compelled to say something. They’ve never really communicated before, beyond her and her sister making suggestive facial expressions at him and him trying to ignore them, so he goes with a safe Klingon approach.

“She died fighting,” he declared softly, stepping within a few feet of Flavia. Sympathy was fine, but not stupidity. If the Dark Angel took offense at his words, the detective wanted enough room to defend himself. “It was an honorable death.”

“She died horribly, in pain and screaming, and would have pissed herself if that were a thing vampires could still do, but she died the right way according to your strange and self-destructive warrior culture. W-What are you doi-GAAAAAAH!”

In reality, he’d said just the right thing. She looks at him, her cheeks stained crimson, the narration reminding us that vampires cry blood instead of tears, and speaks to him for the first time ever.

“Your concern for my feelings is appreciated, McCann,” she said, in a mellow, low voice, with a surprising trace of a British accent. [...] She cast a quick glance in the direction of the secret stairs leading to Vargoss’ hideaway. “Sympathy is often in short supply among the Kindred.”

There’s another employer getting a bad Glassdoor review.

“The Prince always lavishly praised the services provided by you and your sister,” said the detective, nervously. The last thing he wanted to do was stir up trouble between Vargoss and the remaining Dark Angel. “He treated you with respect.”

“He even showed you respect when he left the room without looking at you. They say that a real man shows his emotions with his back. I believe that’s a Japanese saying. Maybe Korean? Someone somewhere in the world says that... Please don’t kill our boss.”

Then the narration gets pervy for a paragraph.

In a smooth, catlike motion, Flavia rose to her feet. She was, without question, one of the most beautiful women McCann had ever seen.

Down boy. There’s a time and a place.

She had platinum blonde hair, high cheekbones, and wide, sensuous lips.

I’m aware. Those exact features were described back in Chapter One.

Her white leather jumpsuit accented her full breasts, narrow waist, and long, long legs.

Yeah yeah, I get it, she’s hella fine.

Sex might no longer hold any pleasure for the Dark Angel, but her body defined seduction.

Oh for God’s sake, she was just kneeling in her sister ashes! She’s been crying for the past hour and she still hasn’t wiped the bloody tears off her face! Now’s not an appropriate time!

Flavia laughed bitterly. “Respect? Vargoss never truly cared about us. We were his servants. He enjoyed bragging about our skills because it reflected onto himself.”

She smiled sardonically at the detective. “You understand, don’t you, McCann. He does the same with you.”

Without thinking, McCann nodded in agreement. The Prince liked showing off. And he treated his associates as prized possessions to be displayed whenever possible.

Pros for Alexander Vargoss:

Not above entering dirty alleyways when the situation calls for it

Huge balls (metaphorical)

Confidence in his employees’ abilities

Owns a sweet nightclub

Casual Fridays

Cons:

Brags about how he’ll outlive you

Old man opinions about rock music

Likes Stalin

Hour long rants

Unsympathetic toward his employees’ personal problems

Treats his employees like possessions

Tacky fashion sense

As fun as talking shit about the boss is, Flavia without warning changes the subject to her backstory. She and her sister were born Sarah and Eleanor James (she doesn’t say which was which, but next book we're told she's Sarah) in 19th century England. They were traveling around Europe for their fifteenth birthday when a Kindred kidnapped them.

“Our blonde good looks, lightning-fast reactions, and notorious taste for cruel delights caught the attention of a traveling Assamite assassin. He arranged our abduction and had us brought to Alamut.”

I don’t know what to focus on here: that only one of those qualities has anything to do with being an assassin, that the two sexual ones are being used to describe fifteen-year-olds, or how racially charged this whole scenario is with the presumably Middle Eastern man kidnapping two white girls.

“A taste for cruel delights?” repeated McCann.

“What, did you torture small animals to death or something?”

“Did we- No!”

“Oh I know. You’d befriend other rich girls, than systematically ruined their lives by spreading rumors and framing them for major scandals.”

“No! Why are you assuming these horrible things about us!?”

“You’d make your guards beat up random peasants-”

“It’s a sex thing, you wanker!”

“Fawn and I dallied in what now has become commonly known as bondage and S&M,” said Flavia, chuckling. Her long tongue circled her wide lips. “As sisters, we often shared our lovers. Even after we were embraced.”

“...Not at the same time, right?”

“What do you me- Ew! No! Separately!”

“‘Cause I know a lot of men have twin fantasies, but when you really think about it...”

“Well don’t, because that’s not what happened!”

...Wait, what was that about having lovers after they were embraced? I thought Kindred had no interest in sex.

“Despite what you think, McCann, vampires can still enjoy sex. Especially if the stimulation is mental as well as physical.”

The detective took a step back. He definitely did not like the Dark Angel’s tone of voice. Or the hint of an implied invitation.

Hey, you’re the one who wanted clarification on “cruel delights.” Ask a horny question, get a horny answer, Dire.

At Alamut, the twins trained for ten years at a mountain fortress, presumably Alamut Castle. I like to think that after executing the weird pedophile that kidnapped them, the Assamite elders figured “Ah screw it, these girls are already here, let’s teach them to fight.”

“The Assamite elders marveled at our skills. We fought well separately. However, as a team, we were unmatched. It was there that we earned the title The Dark Angels.”

“Unlike some people, we actually earned our nicknames instead of giving ourselves one.”

“For the last time, my name really is Dire.”

They were Embraced at age twenty-five and served the clan for over a century. They worked for many masters all over the world and stayed together the whole time.

“Thirty years ago, we performed several minor executions for Vargoss. Impressed, I suspect, more by our appearance than our skills, he agreed to a long-term contract with the Assamite elders. In three decades, we never failed in our duties to our lord. Until tonight.”

“And that one incident with the True Mime, but that doesn’t count. You can’t kill a True Mime.”

“I doubt stopping the Red Death constitutes a failure on your part,”  replied McCann. “I don’t think a Kindred in existence could have dealt with that monster.”

Flavia nodded. “Perhaps. I hope to meet the Red Death for a second encounter.” She paused, her expression turning grim. “Fawn’s Death will be avenged. I swear it.”  

Sensing that Flavia’s done with her backstory dump, McCann does his private eye thing and, playing dumb, asks her if she knew what discipline the Red Death was using.

“I’ve never heard of a Kindred who could control fire.”

“Nor I,” said Flavia. “I suspect he travels on the Path of Evil Revelation.”

Paths of Enlightenment are what the Sabbat and other not-very-nice vampires use to control their Beast. If they stuck to the Humanity scale like the Camarilla do, then all their mass murder and mustache-twirling villainy would degenerate them into barely sentient blood-crazed monsters in no time. Instead they use Paths, many of whose morality could be, at best, described as “alien”, and at worst, “It is Right and Good to wear a cloak made from the hide of virgins, for it is in the nature of vampires to do so.”

I suspect a Path follower would be the source of the most obnoxious “We are The Dead, we are Monsters, we are Fueled by Blood and must Accept it” speeches one could imagine in the World of Darkness.

The Path of Evil Revelations is an actual thing in the lore. If you don’t want to click the link, the story sums it up:

The Path of Evil Revelation was a secret discipline practiced by many members of the Sabbat. It taught that evil was good and that vampires were the agents of corruption. Followers of the path routinely dealt with demonic forces.

Though it’s less “dealt with demonic forces” and more “pledge servitude to the Lords of Hell.” To sum it up even more: You’re Evil, Obey Demons.

McCann then says that he once heard of a forbidden rite called the Body of Fire (presumably from a friend of a friend, right McCann?) and asks if she’d ever heard of it. She hasn’t, but- Oh goddamn it, more things I have to define. She says she only knows of Fires of Inferno, which she says is one of the “Paths of Dark Thaumaturgy” practiced by the Corrupters (a name for followers of the PoER). 

Despite Flavia using the word “Path”, Dark Thaumatergy isn’t a Path of Enlightenment. It’s blood magic learned from demons, unlike regular Thaumatergy, which the Tremere learned by doing mad scientist shit to other vampires. Honestly, origin-wise, I’m not convinced Dark Thaumatergy is the eviler of the two.

Fires of (the) Inferno is the Dark Thaumatergy version of regular Thaumatergy’s Lure of Fire, which allows a vampire to summon “unnatural fire” thought to be from Hell itself. Fires of the Inferno is green, definitely from Hell, and according to the wiki “has only one use: destruction,” meaning you shouldn’t make a campfire using it.

What we get from this is that while some vampires can summon a magic otherworldly fire, they can’t control it and use it as some kind of death aura like the Red Death can. And, y’know, considering that the guy’s not calling himself the Green Death, he likely isn’t using Fires of the Inferno itself. Whatever the case, Flavia says she intends to find out more.

She stepped closer to McCann. “You are an unusual human,” she declared. “Even for a mage, you are aware of too many of the darkest secrets of the Children of Caine.”

Uh oh! The Master Schemer isn’t as good at playing dumb as he thought!

Without warning, Flavia’s right hand lashed out at McCann, second and third fingers stiff and aimed directly at his eyes.

Ah yes, the Moe Howard Strike.

Luckily, our would-be Curly saves himself from a humiliating death by grabbing her wrist using super fast reflexes equal to her own. Wait, using...

Dire McCann, you dumbass.

Flavia laughed, a wild, untamed sound. “No ordinary man could move that swiftly, McCann. Nor stop me from making contact.”

McCann fell for the old “attack the hero in a way that reveals their powers” trick. He tries to backpedal by being all, “Well yeah, I’m not ordinary, I’m a mage!” while mentally cursing himself and realizing that Flavia’s more cunning than he assumed. Flavia’s not having any of his excuses. She got him.

Flavia shook her head, grinning. “No Kine could have halted that lunge. Nor any mage. Don’t worry. I won’t betray you to Vargoss. He pays for my fighting skills, not my thoughts.”

“What are you babbling about?” asked McCann, fearing the worst.

“The hell’s going on? The fanservice bodyguard isn’t suppose to be smart!”

The narration’s been coy so far about what exactly McCann really is. Now, Flavia tells him her theory.

“There are rumors,” said Flavia, “of certain fourth-generation Kindred with incredible powers of domination. They are called Masqueraders. Their minds are so strong that while they lie in torpor, they can reach out and overwhelm a mortal’s personality. They literally possess their victim, body and soul. In this manner, these Methuselahs again experience true life. Puppet masters, they masquerade in mortal form--eating, drinking, sleeping, making love. For safety, they endow their marionette with some of their powers. Enough perhaps for the person to claim to be a ghoul—or a mage.”

“So no, your name really isn’t fucking ‘Dire’.”

...Huh. That’s a doozy. Not what I would guessed, and not a concept I’ve seen in recent V:TM media.

McCann laughed, trying to appear amused. “What utter nonsense.”

Flavia smiled. “Protest all you wish, Dire McCann,” she said. “If you didn’t, I might be worried.”

Then, because this is a nerd book written by a guy, she french kisses him.

Slowly, seductively, she leaned forward and pressed cold lips to his. Her tongue, a sliver of ice, darted for an instant into his mouth. 

Despite her movements being deliberately slower than her attempted eye poke, and her now being well into murder-you-with-my-hands range, something tells me McCann didn’t try very hard to avoid her kiss here.

Also, McCann’s 6′4. Either she’s also really tall or she’s standing on the pile of ashes that were once Fawn to reach his lips.

“I would be very grateful for the patronage of a Methuselah.” Her lush body pressed against him, her taut nipples hard against his chest. “Extremely grateful.”

Hang on. He can feel her nipples through a leather jumpsuit and his own clothes? Can vampire nipples even get hard? Is it a discipline? 

McCann forced himself to remain quiet. He had said too much already.

Since McCann’s shutting the fuck up for his own good, Flavia decides now’s the time to say goodnight. She says that she has to go see Vargoss before he notices she’s not around and gets pissed at that too.

“Do not expect me to address you aloud unless we are alone.” She chuckled. “Vargoss prefers his bodyguards never speak. He enjoys the air of mystery it creates.”

“Although now that I think about it, since he hired us mainly for our looks and doesn’t want us to speak, I’m starting to think he’s just a pig.”

With that, the flashback ends and we’re back in McCann’s office. You forgot that most of this chapter’s technically a flashback, didn’t you?

McCann, sitting behind the desk in his office an hour later, furiously masturbated banged his head against it repeatedly yelling “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” vowed never to show sympathy to anyone ever again sighed heavily. The detective folded his arms across his chest. For all her grief, the Dark Angel had not stayed in mourning very long. He trusted Flavia not to reveal her suspicions to the Prince for as long as it suited her purposes, and not a second more. If not handles properly, the Dark Angel could prove to be as dangerous to him as the Red Death.

McCann’s POV doesn’t out and out say that Flavia’s right, but it doesn’t deny it either.

McCann finally shakes the Flavia incident out of his head and gets to work on finding out more about the Red Death, starting by making some calls. We also get this gem:

A careful man reacted immediately to any threat. And McCann liked to think of himself as very wise.

...No comment.

McCann moves some money around and issues instructions, and when he’s done he’s got teams of researchers studying both the Path of Evil Revelations and whether there are any Nictuku that match the Red Death’s description. Not much is said about these researchers, but hopefully they’re vampires or ghouls, or backed by such, or else McCann’s committing a serious Masquerade breach.

He believes that the Nictuku rising and the Red Death’s arrival are connected, and he opens his desk drawer to get the letters he read back in Chapter 2.

Aaaaaaaaaaaand they’re gone. Someone broke into his office while he was away and stole his letters.

McCann cursed, steadily, in seven languages, including two that had not been spoken on Earth for over three thousand years, until he was out of breath. Angrily, he slammed a fist into the side of the desk. Wood splintered, delivering a small amount of satisfaction along with a strong recognition that he was acting foolishly.

Careful and wise? Maybe. Mature? Eh, that’s up in the air.

He swears not to make the mistake of underestimating his unknown adversary, or adversaries, again. Chapter 5 ends with one last reveal:

It was then that he noticed, resting on the edge of his desk, almost like a calling card, a bright green sequin.

You think Rachel Young carries a jar of those around, or does she just tear them off her dress?