#the wizened librarian

[kabr0ztrousers]

Wizard school that, while one of the best in the land and where many renowned mages learned from, is hazardous. One hazard is the professors that can enact terrible punishments of any kind for rulebreakers.

Fem reader is a student that cheated on her exam and thought she got away with it as she and the other top three students are getting a celebration party put on by their professor.

The professor, a naga, tells the students that got the highest grades (a female drow, a male goblin, and a male tiefling) they can have their way with this cheating whore as a job well done.

Would like some degradation, rimming, smothering, suffocation, and spanking.

Kabr0z Writes Episode 108: Academic Misconduct

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

Find the A03 series here!

CWs: Noncon; group sex; physical restraints; forced oral sex; strangulation; barbed phalluses; pain; gratuitous fluids; it's another heavy one. Read to "and do remember to have fun" for the lore and skip the rest if it's too much

A/N: This is one that could 100% go for 2000 words just on the magical academy, but lore in general isn't sexy, and this is a smut series.

Remember, while there is the odd break from requests, this series relies on user input to keep things fresh, otherwise I'll just default back to giving oral service to various monster-people. Drop a request via my asks!

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The Academy of Doissetep was the best in the Seven Kingdoms, maybe the world. Nobody got in in nepotism, there's not even an applications process. Students were chosen by the Great Eye at the entre of the main hall and representatives sent to the prospective mages to notify them they had been accepted, should they desire to attend. Most did, the opportunity to study the arcane crafts with the best of the best drew in apprentices from all walks of life, even those who didn't realise they had any magical aptitude whatsoever. The Academy was the jewel in the crown of the Kingdoms, afforded autonomy and patronage by each of the kings, lest they lose access to the vast intellectual resources of the august institution.

The downside of this autonomy however was that the academy still held some rather archaic methods. Ritual, pomp and circumstance were preserved since centuries immemorial, but so were many of the teaching practices namely the practices used to punish wrongdoing. Minor offences would earn the lash, or a stint in the cells below the Academy for more serious crimes. Stories circulated every year around exam season about the fates of students who dared cheat at their papers, each more grim than the last. None of the faculty would confirm the rumours, instead offering wry looks and advice to work hard so their veracity wouldn't be tested.

You may not have studied as hard as you should. Your paper on Secret Histories was due in the morning. Ten thousand words, and you hadn't even begun yet. You scurried through the library, picking out every relevant book you could, leafing through them in a panic, sipping from cheap wakefulness potions as you went. You didn't need books right now, you needed a solution.

You looked around. The library was empty. The wizened old librarian snored at his desk, the loop of keys to the section forbidden to undergraduates was on his belt. A simple charm of pleasant dreams to deepen his doze, and you had them. Stealing into the gated section was simple this late at night, now to simply dodge the cursed tomes and find... Whatever miracle would help. Maybe a demon to write it for you? Some forgotten secret of Chronomancy to make a night last a month? No. You weren't that skilled, or that desperate. A slip of paper caught your eye. The spell written on it looked almost simple. You read the name: Grim Ali's Essay Writer.

Well fuck. That's going to help.

You copied the slip out onto some parchment, placing it back precisely where it was before returning the keys to the slumbering librarian and settling down into a forgotten corner of the academy. The spell barely required any reagents, nor did it need much knowhow. It was disturbingly complex magic, invoked with simple words and simple practice. The last few lilting syllables tumbled from your lips, and the quill danced to life. It was a blur of motion, writing out a complex historical account complete with references. Within minutes it sat before you. A ten thousand word essay on the Secret Histories. You skimmed it, it seemed fine. Better than fine, it was pretty good. Hell, the damn spell seemed to have a better grasp on the subject than you did. Of course, everything's neatly referenced and tidily formatted. You breathed a sigh of relief and sealed it into a scroll case, posting it into the drop box and collecting a receipt.

Now to wait.

Two weeks later, marks came back. You were amongst the top marks in the class. You and three others received invitations to a dinner with the dean of the academy, a slightly insane old wizard called Porthos Fitzempres. His parties were the talk of Doissetep, invites are closely guarded and rarely received. The party was that night, no plus-ones, just you four and the Dean himself.

You waited outside Porthos' rooms with the others. Antique fabrics and expensive incense painted the air. The door swung open revealing the wizened, silver haired man who ran the academy like his own small kingdom. Porthos beckoned you inside and bade you all sit before starting on one of his signature monologues.

"I'd like to start by congratulating our highest achievers. You who through toil and hard work have lifted yourselves to the highest eschelons. Certainly there is a long career ahead of you in the arcane arts, whether you decide to remain here in academia, or leave our walls and pursue a more practical vocation."

The four of you smiled at one another, silently congratulating each other for drawing such high praise from the grandmaster

"Indeed, it reminds me of a project I once undertook with a few of my fellows. We were faced with a problem. Magic can be bent to do anything your mind desires, from lighting candles, to snuffing out infernoes. Even, I'm told, applications not involving fire" you all laughed, he continued "As we saw it, it was only a matter of time until a student or students found some way to use magic dishonestly."

You shifted in your seat

"Certainly a spell of this type would not be easy to craft. It would require days or weeks of study by several accomplished magi, not something an undergraduate could produce in an evening before a deadline. Or, if they could then the deadline would be largely immaterial to them due to their obvious skill and talent. So, myself and some senior magi formed a cabal. We worked for a decade on one single spell. A trap, of sorts. To be created, then hidden where only a desperate student would find it, and only if they were looking to get ahead dishonestly."

A single bead of sweat ran down your back

"We were, of course, successful. A one-of-a-kind incantation that would write a whole essay for the user. The essay would seem correct, but would fall down under the slightest scrutiny. A mass of outlandish claims and garbled references, evident immediately to one schooled in the art."

You relaxed a little. He must be talking about a different poorly-hidden essay writing spell.

"We named it Grim Ali's Essay Writer."

Bollocks. He knew, didn't he.

You stayed in your seat. He was looking at you. You realised he'd been looking at you the whole time. Your eyes cast around you, at your classmates. They were staring at you too.

Porthos continued, as if to hammer his point home "It is important to remember in all things. Dishonesty is often a tool a mage must employ, but only when dealing with the sleepers. When one of us is dishonest, we betray not just ourselves, not just our college, but our entire community."

He flicked his wrist. A wave of heat spread across you, burning your robe to ash, revealing your pale skin, the soft rolls of flesh around your midriff and plush thighs. Showing your pendulous tits and your large areolas to your classmates. They looked at you hungrily.

"For the rest of you, Danso, Ferez, Pierre, please. Teach her not to betray you again. Do not think to be lenient, her crimes are severe, and we must disabuse such notions." Porthos stepped into his fireplace, melting into the flames "And do remember to have fun"

You tried to stand. Danso, the tall, slender Drow, cast an entanglement charm, binding you to the chair with whiplike brambles. The goblin Ferez and the Tiefling, Pierre set upon your naked body. Thorns dug into your skin as they hiked their robes up, exposing themselves. Pierre stood over you, his spade-tipped tail slipping around your neck, pulling your face into his balls. He filled your mouth and your nose with his musk, grinding his hardening rod into your face.

You felt a pair of small, clawed hands pulling your thighs apart. Danso was stood to one side of you so it must be Ferez. He was less bothered by foreplay than Pierre, his sharp claws making you gasp in another lungful of Tiefling stink as they left thin gashes on the delicate skin of your inner thighs. The tip of his already-hard cock was poised against your entrance, the pointed head parting the petals of your labia. Pierre lifted himself slightly so you could look the diminutive goblin in his large, red eyes before he thrust himself into you.

He was long, but on the thinner side. You gasped as he violated you, sliding himself into you up up to the hilt. He stayed a moment, looking at you. A sharp-toothed grin split his features as he slowly withdrew. Your gasp turned to a pained wail. Sharp barbs raked across your insides, ringing him in regular ridges. Every push in filled you, every pull out hurt. Your jaw was hanging open in a silent cry of pain as your eyes crewed shut.

It wasn't empty for long. Pierre's cock slid in as his tail tightened around your neck and his hand gripped the back of your head. He was going to use you as a sleeve. He slid your head up and down his shaft as stars bloomed behind your eyes from the squeezing of his tail. Every so often he'd release you to take a few more gasping breaths through the slime rising in your throat before driving himself back in, pressing into the soft flesh at the back of your mouth, leaving a few more drops of umami precum with every stroke.

Your mind swam, pain in your cunt, cock in your mouth, balls slapping your chin as your breath was being controlled. You felt your body respondin to the men using you. Your throat was filling with drool and slime, bubbling up into your mouth. Your cunt was dripping wet, trying to protect itself from the thorny goblin cock filling it.

Pierre pulled himself from your mouth. You felt a warmth in front of your face. You opened one eye to see Danso, her ass hovering above your face as Pierre rubbed the end of his cock on her cunt, painting her with the lubricant he'd got from your mouth before sliding himself into her. The tail around your neck pulled your face forward as she sat back. Her asscrack sealed around your face, your mouth pressed against her hole as the Tiefling pushed into her. You heard her gasp above you as he filled her, felt every thrust as she ground herself into you. Her juices mixed with yours, dripping onto your tits as they fucked above you. Pierre grunted, Danso sighed. He pressed into her, you felt him throbbing as she rolled her hips and held him in, taking all of his cum into herself before turning around, straddling you from the front and burying your face into her slick, open cunt.

Ferez jolted in you. You could feel him reaching his peak from watching the two others fucking over you. He twitched and gibbered as a fountain of hot spunk emptied into your cunt, painting your womb with virile seed as he shook inside you. The sharp barbs scratched at you, making you groan and accept the slimy Drow pussy. You could taste Pierre's cum as it leaked out of her, she pressed on her belly, forcing more of it out, dribbling it down your throat as she gyrated against you, humping her way to an orgasm on your face. You were covered in slick slime, feeling it cooling on your face, spiking your hair up at odd angles, flooding your mouth and nose. Danso pulled herself off you, fingering her cunt, curling her hand inside herself as she groaned and rubbed her clit. You could smell her arousal, the musky sweet scent filled your hazy awareness. Danso cried out above you, pulling her hand out of herself as she squirted onto you. The stream of clear, sweet smelling squirt covered you in another layer of liquid, getting into your mouth and your eyes.

The three other mages left the room, adjusting their robes as they did.

You lay there, sodden, scratched, bruised, leaking, covered in sex and shame.

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Sorry this one's late! I'm planning on a short one again tonight to keep pace, then back to normal service tomorrow. I'm also planning to make a new audio, vote in the poll below for what you'd want, because the only thing hotter than making an audio is obeying instructions while I'm doing it.

[eodred]

Boromir Week | Day 5: The People's Prince, Rivendell, Member of the Fellowship

Prompt filled for: @boromir-week

Title: Oromë’s Call

Word count: ~1.5k

Summary:

Beneath the shroud of a winter sky, the Fellowship prepares to depart Rivendell. While the elders speak of roads and dangers ahead, young Pippin’s eyes are fixed on Boromir’s war-horn — gleaming, unfamiliar, full of mystery. Curiosity leads to an unexpected conversation… and the horn’s first call, echoing through the valley, stirring not only the air — but hearts.

Note:

Italicized lines are quoted directly from Tolkien. I took the liberty of expanding the scene — looking at it from a different angle, so to speak. Because honestly, who’s to say? While the Professor was busy waving Aragorn’s sword in our faces, we may have missed a whole bromance blossoming between Pippin and Boromir. And how that cheeky little rascal managed to convince the big clumsy warrior to blow the horn.

AO3

It was a cold grey day near the end of December. The East Wind was streaming through the bare branches of the trees, and seething in the dark pines on the hills. Ragged clouds were hurrying overhead, dark and low. As the cheerless shadows of the early evening began to fall the Company made ready to set out. They were to start at dusk, for Elrond counselled them to journey under cover of night as often as they could, until they were far from Rivendell. "You should fear the many eyes of the servants of Sauron," he said. "I do not doubt that news of the discomfiture of the Riders has already reached him, and he will be filled with wrath. Soon now his spies on foot and wing will be abroad in the northern lands. Even of the sky above you must beware as you go on your way.’" The Company took little gear of war, for their hope was in secrecy not in battle. Aragorn had Andu ́ril but no other weapon, and he went forth clad only in rusty green and brown, as a Ranger of the wilder- ness. Boromir had a long sword, in fashion like Andu ́ril but of less lineage, and he bore also a shield — and one more item, which greatly intrigued the youngest member of their Company.

Young Peregrin Took, not yet of age by hobbit standards at his twenty-eight years, was known among his kin as an incorrigible rascal — the very sort of wide-eyed, reckless lad who, by some improbable twist of fate, had found himself in the middle of a grim and ancient tale. He was drawn to adventure with the same helpless fascination that a kitten feels for the flickering flame of a candle: trembling with fear and wonder, yet always stretching out a paw, spellbound by that dangerous warmth.

On many long evenings, Pippin often found himself seized by the cowardly thought of turning back — to the comfort and safety of the Shire. But each time such a thought arose, some new marvel would find him: a weathered map in Merry’s hands, examined with the gravity of a wizened librarian; the glimmering lights of Elven lanterns spilling like moonlight over Rivendell’s twilight paths; or the airy, ethereal song of birds not found in any hobbit field — a sound that stole the breath right from his chest. And always, his doubts melted away, replaced by the wide-eyed joy of a child standing at the edge of a world full of wonders.

Now, beneath the low arch of a fierce winter sky, Pippin’s gaze was fixed on Boromir’s horn.

The great, pale instrument swayed gently on a worn leather strap — a majestic relic of white, etched with curling silver patterns and ancient sigils that wound across its surface like sleeping vines. It looked, in Pippin’s eyes, like a slumbering beast — coiled and patient, as if it had lain in wait for centuries, lulled into stillness by the weight of its own silence.

In his mind, the young hobbit already heard its voice — not a hornblast, but a storm: a thunderous, deep-toned roar, shaking the very bones of the valley. His spirit longed to hear it, to touch it, to feel that magic for himself. Several times, while Boromir was deep in council and unaware, Pippin had reached out to trace the cold, smooth curve of the horn with trembling fingers. The touch sent a chill shooting up to his shoulders — and with it, a sudden doubt: What if he was wrong? What if it didn’t roar at all, but sang — high and clear, like an Elven melody?

He ran to Bilbo with this thought, half-laughing, half-worried. The old hobbit only chuckled, patted him on the back, and said with a knowing twinkle:

“It wasn’t made for music, Peregrin. It was made for war. Anyone who hears its call won’t be dancing, nor singing — I promise you that.”

Those cryptic words only stoked Pippin’s curiosity. Patience had never been a virtue prized among the Tooks. And so, seizing a moment when the rest of the Fellowship were checking straps and gear, he once again reached for the horn’s milky gleam.

But this time, a hand caught him — large, scarred, yet surprisingly gentle. Boromir’s fingers curled around his wrist like a blacksmith catching a wayward bird. Pippin’s heart dropped straight to his toes.

“Forgive me, little one. Reflex,” Boromir said, his voice low and warm, a hint of laughter dancing in his eyes. Pippin nodded with a gulp, cheeks burning scarlet, bracing for Gandalf’s inevitable “Fool of a Took!” — but to his astonishment, the wizard remained silent, seemingly absorbed in some mysterious business of his own.

“You’re curious about the horn?” Boromir asked then. His voice now carried a different tone — solemn and echoing, like footsteps in a marble hall. “It is not just a horn. It is a sacred relic of the House of the Stewards of Gondor. Let me tell you its tale.”

Pippin, the sting of embarrassment already fading, stared up at him with wide eyes, breath held.

And so Boromir told him — of Vorondil the Hunter, a great lord of the Third Age, who once hunted mighty wild oxen near the mysterious Sea of Rhûn. From one such beast, felled by his hand, this horn was carved — and from that day, it passed from father to son in the line of the Stewards, bearing through the centuries its ancient glory, through the howling of winter storms and the thunder of countless sieges. Each heir who took it up would sound it upon the path to their own deeds of honor and renown.

“And now, as the time has come to set out, my father gave it to me — that I might call for aid in a time of need, Boromir explained. “Loud and clear it sounds in the valleys of the hills and then let all the foes of Gondor flee!” 

He slowly raised the horn to his lips — and for a moment, it seemed as though the whole world held its breath.

The first note rolled out — low and mighty, like stone striking stone atop some ancient cliff, yet clear and cold as a mountain spring. A great wave of sound swept through the air, invisible and wild, crashing against the stone walls of Rivendell, echoing through the white-marble columns of Elrond’s house, and then rebounding, rolling back in thunderous ripples that touched every corner of the valley.

Something stirred in Pippin’s chest — deep and wordless — as if that solemn call had awakened a part of his soul he hadn’t known was sleeping. In the space of a single, drawn-out note, he saw visions flash before his inner eye: burning beacons atop high mountain peaks; a white city beneath a stormy sky; a thousand torch-lights flickering in the dark; mighty horses galloping into the wind — and far off, the wild crashing of waves upon ancient stone harbors.

But the bright swell of wonder was quickly dimmed by a sudden chill of dread.

Gandalf raised his eyebrows sharply, his disapproval unmistakable. Aragorn turned a cutting glance on Boromir, as keen and warning as a drawn blade. Even Merry frowned deeply, brows furrowed. Sam went pale to his roots and clutched at the worn straps of his pack. Only the Elves remained still — but even their fair faces flickered with a passing shadow, like moonlight brushing troubled water. Gimli muttered something gruff and unintelligible in Khuzdul.

Then Elrond spoke — softly, but with a calm authority that carried through the air.

“Slow should you be to wind that horn again, Boromir,” said Elrond, “until you stand once more on the borders of your land, and dire need is on you.”

Pippin shrank inside himself, as though trying to curl into the size of an acorn. “It’s my fault,” he thought miserably. “I asked him to blow it…” But Boromir only spread his arms wide, as if to take the blame on his broad shoulders with ease.

“Maybe,” said Boromir. “But always I have let my horn cry at setting forth, and though thereafter we may walk in the shadows, I will not go forth as a thief in the night.”

He nudged Pippin gently with his elbow, a wordless gesture that seemed to say, “Chin up, little one.” The hobbit straightened, and the heavy fog of guilt melted away like morning mist. In its place rose a sharp and aching sense of belonging — to something vast and terrible and beautiful. The echo of the horn still hummed in his chest, and suddenly he understood, with stunning clarity: they were not just setting off into darkness. They were walking toward something greater.

Something that made it worth sitting by campfires, listening to old tales. Something worth gazing at Elvish lights and taking Gandalf’s legendary scoldings in stride. For somewhere ahead, in the shadowed stretch of days to come, their shared fate was already stirring.

And perhaps, one day, it would speak not only in the mighty voice of mountains and horns — but also in the warm, clear laughter of a small hobbit who had always dreamed of hearing what a great, great horn might sound like.

[wsjyuyuyuau]

Can you do Featherbedder from Toontown; Corporate Clash please?

Name: Featherbedder

Series: Toontown Corporate Clash

Gender: NB

Status: Alive

Family: None as of Now

Flower Motif: Purple Owl Clover (Castilleja exserta)

Flower Meaning: Wisdom

Weapon of Choice: Spear

Associated With: Interdimensional Hero Club (Ally)

Hero Form Appearance: A combination of a wizened librarian’s outfit and YuYuYu’s Hero Form outfits. The undersuit of the outfit is a creamy white so it can serve as a palette for the brighter colors- and while the main outfit is fuchsia all around, it becomes a darker purple when you reach the lower half of the sleeves, the lower half of the pants, and the tailcoat. Accent colors include yellow, green, gold, silver, gray, black, and white. The shoes, gloves, cap, and tie all have patterns of owl clovers on them- and the only other accessory is an owl clover brooch on his left breast. The flower’s petal shape can be seen in the tailcoat and sleeves.

Full Bloom Gauge Location: Left Shoulder

Guardian: Adonia (Based on an Owl Harpy)

Favorite Food: Chocolate Mixe

Parallel To: None

Bio: The Featherbedder is a Bossbot Manager Boss who was introduced as part of the Hires & Heroes Update. They can be found roaming the streets of Drowsy Dreamland. They were first revealed during the COGS.ink ARG.

[lex1nat0r]

White Elephant: For Answer

AAR #23 & #24

Session reports from my ongoing Lancer game.

Characters (LL 3):

Raiju (They/Them, Hacker 2/Heavy Gunner 1/Nuclear Cavalier 3, Barbarossa 3) - HA Barbarossa “Counterproposal”

Sunshine (They/Them, Grease Monkey 2/Technophile 2/Engineer 1/Gunslinger 1, Pegasus 3) - HORUS Pegasus “Exchange of Affection”

Rook (He/Him, Walking Armory 1/Brutal 3/Leader 2, Balor 3) - HORUS Balor “Your Burden”

Daylight (She/Her, Technophile 2/Engineer 3/Ace 1, Vlad 3) - IPS-N Vlad “Look What You Made Me Do”

Magpie (They/Them, Hacker 3/Technophile 3, Goblin 3) - HORUS Goblin “Destructive Interference” (player not present for session #23)

NHPs:

Molotov - Via Sunshine’s Technophile talent - Projects as a small velociraptor - unshackled

Willow - Via Daylight’s Technophile talent - Projects as 1-2 squid - unshackled

Murgatroid - Via Magpie’s Technophile talent - Projects as a wizard? - shackled

Prometheus Antichiral - fork of a cascaded NHP from the Sanctuary Blue cloning facility - projects as a wizened old man - unshackled

Alex - library administrator, rescued from the RimTech corporate archive - projects as a librarian - shackled, currently in low power mode

Sisyphus - Via Sunshine’s Pegasus 3 - no known projection habits [ha ha ha you can’t see me] - shackled

Osiris - Via Magpie’s Goblin 3 - projects to seemingly puppet around Destructive Interference - shackled

Prev session writeup

With the recovery of the militarized printer cores, things are looking pretty good for Stefan's planned planetwide demonstrations. The Lancers agree to help out on the day of, which means Stefan owes them a favor.

After getting the list of places Stefan thinks are most critical to protests:

Raiju and Sunshine decide to hold the line at the MilAgro Enforcement Armory, to keep an eye on where any organized police or military response is going to come from

Rook oversees the main protest in the plaza in front of MilAgro corporate HQ

Daylight parks her Vlad in the clone housing district since that's the most likely target of reprisals

(Magpie is off-screen doing e-war stuff)

Once the protest kicks off things seem quiet but Rook notices increasing police presence in the plaza, Daylight gets word of mechs approaching the clone district, and when Sunshine and Raiju scan one of the green-striped helicopters traveling to and from the Enforcement Armory, they find that military equipment is being brought in instead of shipped out. Not wanting to get caught flatfooted, Raiju just blows one of the transport helicopters out of the sky.

Things kick off rapidly from there, though the opfor doesn't have the initiative they expected. A hurried broadcast by one Lucien Trulock indicates a faction of the MilArgo board supports the Guardian Fleet, and have thrown in with the Shield Frontier who have supplied equipment and mechs that are now marching out of the Enforcement Armory. Sunshine does their best to combat Shield Frontier propaganda broadcasts while helping Raiju slow their advance. Rook makes a hole in the constricting police cordon around the plaza to evacuate protestors, and Daylight starts conducting hit-and-run attacks on the mechs advancing on the clone housing, eventually bringing down a block of apartments to cover the evacuation of civilians.

In a second broadcast, Trulock triumphantly announces that the Shield Frontier has taken control of MilArgo's experimental land battleship the Argo and it's superheavy ship-class weapon is pointed at the Eye of the Tiger, which is being herded into range by Shield Frontier subline warships. The Lancers advise Captain Borrego to take the Tiger out of range of the Argo's main weapon even though that means it will take some hits from the Shield Frontier wolfpacks. But even with the Tiger safe, there's still the Argo to deal with...

Combat 4.2: Shipwreck

Sitrep: Behemoth Brawl (from Enhanced Combat)

OPFOR:

The Argo (Vehicle Behemoth)

Flight Deck x2 (produce T2 flying Cataphract Grunts)

Gun Emplacement x2

Point Defense

As the Lancers head to the battlezone, the massive enemy warning flashes on their consoles. This isn't the first time they've seen it - the same warning pops up when they get too close to a battleship. But this time, the warning flickers and is replaced with something else:

Shoutout to Magpie's player for taking a screencap of this because I did not

With that message of encouragement from Arjhet and Tehjra, the lancers engage.

Outcome: The Argo destroyed on round 7

(Tokens by Retrograde Minis (on the basic blank hex tokens that come with Lancer so they show up well), map by Interpoint Station’s Lancer sprites, VTT is Roll20)

Analysis:

Every Lancer GM, deep in their heart, wants to run something like a Behemoth one day. Despite that, I knew going into this that I didn't actually like the Behemoth Brawl setup. It's basically a damage check - can the Lancers do x damage in y rounds? I felt - and still feel - that it doesn't provide enough back and forth as regular sitreps. I tried to remedy that by providing two twists.

The first twist: Lottie Wisely, a reporter from Argus Syndicated Networks (seen above hunkered down on the top-left rocks) was watching the fight. The players decided not to interfere with her drones, which worked out well since they ended up winning the fight.

The second twist: the Shield Frontier is using hardcopy orders and intelligence, scrubbing as much of their footprint as they can from the omninet. The Argo had a signals room where a lot of this was stored. A PC (in this case Magpie) could dismount their mech and board the Argo to try to recover this intel, which they did, along with some MilAgro cultural artifacts that can be used as leverage to help resolve this attempted coup.

Despite all that, the actual fight got very same-y once the PCs destroyed the Argo's hardpoints. Behemoths was reduced to launching missiles at everyone within range 15, which is kind of a boring thing to do multiple times per round. It did destroy Destructive Interference, which isn't really impressive since it's a Goblin, but that did leave Murgatroid and Osiris bickering over whose fault it was.

The Argo's missiles are Knockback 1, which is kind of cheap especially as they can prevent an Apocalypse Rail from charging. There isn't really anything to counter Knockback aside from being flat-out immune to it. So overall I feel like the Behemoth statline needs to be reworked to work for me.

I think next time I run something on the scale of the Argo (and there will be a next time) it's going to be treated more like terrain than a specific thing to shoot at. Turrets popping out of armored blisters, on-board mechs deploying, maybe some fuckery with control points moving around, that kind of thing. I think I've been proven correct in my assumption that basically having one thing to shoot at doesn't work for Lancer.

Next Time: the new MilAgro?

[blackjackkent]

Tolna Tome-Monger of Sorcerous Sundries, I hope you are prepared for the absolute juggernaut of combined nerdery that is Hector and Gale coming to talk to you about magical history.

"Literature department. Can I help you?"

She's whispering, which Hector immediately finds charming. Reminds him of the head librarian in the monastery, a wizened little old woman who happily listened to Hector chatter away about his latest discoveries in the ancient tomes he read through every day. He lowers his own voice accordingly.

"I'd be interested in any especially rare tomes you might have," he whispers back.

"Bold!" she says softly with a bright grin. "You might've heard that our library has a collection other shops would lack the skill to curate. Between us - even Master Lorroakan was reluctant to house them in his tower. The pen is mightier than the magic wand, apparently." She gestures around her dramatically. "They're locked away here for their and our customers' safety. Our finest reserve includes the 'Tharchiate Codex,' 'The Annals of Karsus: A Netherese Folly', 'Sights of the Seelie', and 'The Curriculum of Strategy.' Do any of those interest you?"

Ultimately the one they're interested in is The Annals of Karsus, but Hector's curiosity about the others is immediately roused as well. He is definitely bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet as he asks about each - rather in the way Karlach did when she found out they could go to the circus. (She is standing watching this unfold with affectionate bemusement - but loving seeing him so excited about something.)

"The Tharchiate Codex," he says politely.

Her eyes widen and she leans forward slightly. "Interesting choice..." she whispers. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you might have 'The Necromancy of Thay' in your possession... I'd advise tremendous care with the 'Tharchiate Codex.' The cost of unlocking its mysteries is... onerous."

(A/N: Oho! Hector does NOT have The Necromancy of Thay, as he smashed that book into tiny pieces back when we found it in the Blighted Village. (Gale was NOT happy, and even less so when a bunch of shadows emerged from the smashed book and one-shot him.) But I will have to keep this in mind for my other playthroughs where I kept it.)

Hector decides to let that pass for now, and asks next about 'Sights of the Seelie.'

"Its author was a spectacularly talented halfling," the bookseller says soberly. "She was, allegedly, able to establish contact with members of the Seelie Court. Can you even imagine what wonders the fey pantheon might've revealed? Incredible!"

What about 'The Curriculum of Strategy'?

"You've heard about the Red Knight, I trust?" she mutters intensely. "Devout strategist, made exarch of Tempus. This treaty is a compilation of her own design, kept here on the Material Plane for the benefit of us mortals. Quite rare."

Hector is listening to all of this with rapt attention, his eyes very wide. Finally he comes to the main point of their visit. 'The Annals of Karsus: A Netherese Folly.'

"It is said," the woman intones softly, "to be written by Lord Karsus himself, the Netherese arcanist who attempted to replace the goddess Mystra, failed, and was banished for the attempt. Great magical knowledge lies within those pages - but not many can withstand it."

"That's it," Gale hisses excitedly. "That's what I need."

Narrator: The Annals of Karsus would no doubt have much to say about the crown's true nature - if only you could read them.

Well, Hector probably can't, but Gale certainly can.

"Sounds perfect," he whispers. "How much for me to buy it from you?"

She lifts her eyebrows, visibly startled. "Buy?" she says warily. "Books as temperamental as these are not on sale. They are secured in our vault, where none can harm them, nor can they do any harm. Consider yourself lucky to have learned of such a book's existence. And then forget about it - the Annals of Karsus are best left unread."

She's probably right, in the grand scheme of things - but they do need that book, which Hector is mildly glad of, because it means the correct thing to do here is to indulge his suddenly desperate curiosity to see that vault, which would be a thoroughly ill-advised choice in any other circumstance.

[PERSUASION] "Isn't it your job to share knowledge, not keep it locked away?" he asks earnestly. "At least tell me where the vault is..."

She tips her head to one side, studying him. Perhaps she sees a kindred spirit in him, the side of him that has been so buried under violence and pain of late, the boy from Silverlight Monastery who eagerly devoured every historical tome in the place and always hungered for more. But if she does - it is not enough to sway her from her implacable certainty that the books are not to be troubled. "Customers like you are why I prefer the company of books," she says wearily. "The only way to gain access to the vault is through my office. And before you ask - no, you are not allowed in there either."

Well, Hector and company have long since learned that locks are only a temporary annoyance if they really need to be somewhere. But as Hector prefers an honest solution if one can be found, he asks, "Surely there's some amount of gold that could convince you to part with the book?"

She narrows her eyes at him. "Psht. I already told you," she whispers fiercely. "It is locked in our vault. And with good reason. Imagine if a tome so dangerous were sold to someone with such poor comprehension."

Behind him, he hears Karlach swallow a snickering laugh, and resists the urge to grin himself.

"Thank you. I've learned more than enough," he says politely and turns away.

"You certainly has," the bookseller hisses at his back. "Even simple knowledge of these tomes is enough to stimulate most."

------

"That was cute, Hec," Karlach says with a wide grin as they walk away from the counter. "I don't think I've ever seen you that excited before."

"The collection of wisdom and knowledge that woman clearly has in her possession," Hector says. He's still visibly energized, his fingers twitching excitedly. "You were right, Gale. This place is incredible."

"I told you," Gale says with a soft chuckle. "A collection of magical lore with no equal on this plane of existence, I dare say - and certainly well worth our time to explore even in less dire circumstances. But... we will still be pursuing the Netherese book, yes? In spite of her objections."

"We will." Hector nods. "One way or another, I'll see to it that we find what you need."

"I might have to pick up a few books too," Karlach puts in.

Hector raises an eyebrow at her. "Sudden interest in magical lore?" he asks mildly.

She smiles playfully. "No, but I've got a very vested interest in anything that gets you excited. Or stimulated, as that woman put it."

Jaheira snorts. "Yes - it is well known that such books are tremendously romantic, is it not?" she says dryly. "Then again..." She shoots Hector a sideways look and then laughs. "I forgot who I was speaking of."

[flyshy]

Random fantasy stuffs go booom

I was bored and someone suggest writing by word association, this is what came out. No rhyme or reason and most definitely no editing but I think it's not bad.

Words: 782

I tugged at my librarian’s cloak, its wool scratching my neck like the rough rope of a hangman’s noose. Dramatic, I chided myself. But the air here always felt thicker, older—It made small things seem large.

A day of exploring the deepstacks, I mused to myself, the dissonance of how boring the actual activity was compared to the lore around it often left people irritated. Me as well, when i'd first started at least.

I had been a page at the library, a year ago, when they first told me I'd be exploring the deepstacks. The deepstacks are essentially another dimension, powered entirely by some magical phenomena the library had been built around. They hadn't always ben the deepstacks—originally being sandy caverneous labyrinth, but as the library grew more and more cemented in the local legend, so too did the deepstacks, change, morph, and come to be.

Explorer, charters as they were usually called, was one of the most sought after positions in the entire grand library. Based on legends of those who'd found treasures and knowledge that shattered notions of the laws of magic as a whole. Adventurers like Great Orgis, or the minotaur Messidas.

That was what I believe I'd been assigned. The day went off without a hitch, and without a single great treasure to shatter the age either. The section I'd been assigned was entirely composed of specialized vegetable collections, and their use in a long dead culture's cuisine.

By the end of the day I hadn't been enamored by the job any longer.

Nowadays though, it was really fine. Peace and quiet usually, unless you got assigned with a yappy team. Not many in the library were. It was relaxing, a time to think, and not too bad all together.

Except… today something felt off. I felt eyes on my back, my libraian's cloak felt constricting. The cloth still chaffed at my neck, and I couldn't help by stare at the spots of darkness. Something was off, it felt as if they were moving.

Quietly, I mentioned the darkness to the fellow librarian, but they didn’t seem to take notice. The deep shadows of the stacks were ever present, yet today somehow those same dark corners—corners which had been extant for longer than I could most likely conceive—they felt off.

I turned back to the librarian shadowing me today, an old wizened man named Georgio—he had been working the stacks through my entire lifetime—He was quiet by nature seldomly making conversation. The lack of response wasn’t uncommon.

But what I saw on his face was. Georgio looked pale as parchment— he looked to me as well, eyes wide and bulging

In a hurried hushed whisper he hissed “son, something has happened”, A gasp and cough shook Georgie as he suddenly began spasming “run boy, return to the main floors” he fell to the floor. I could barely control my legs, I began sprinting.

“tell them...” he called after me, the words mangled into a deep rasping voice “tell them, I’m back”

Tick … tock… the clock hand snapped. Echoes filled the room even as I kept sprinting past the door and into the next layer. The floors of the stacks were confusing at the best of times and I had no time to think now, so I simply ran.

The first door I found, dark rough wood, more than twice my width, I hurled myself through. The room I came into was innocent enough, it appeared to be a study. But i felt the air whoosh past my ears as the dark door slammed shut behind me. There was no safety here. Tick.

Trying to find the most human looking door I scanned each option. The key to leaving the stacks was to return to reality. The further you entered, the less and less tethered to the physical laws these rooms became.

I decided on a pleasant screen door, I could even see through it, indicating a full working system of photons in the room. Tock.

Suddenly, the study began shrinking in on itself, seconds ticking by I lunged for the next door, cloak snagged on a intruding shelf but I managed to rip myself off, leaving just a torn tatter of fabric behind.

Through this door the next room was an exterior. And my the grace of magi there was an exit, marked by a fellow librarian whenever they had discovered it a great hand talisam stood guardian over a steel door.

without wasting time, something was obviously wrong with the stacks, I had to report back to the head librarian, I ran through the door. Ti—

the clock halts.

And you return to reality.

[davidpwilson2564]

Bloglet

Friday, February 9, 2024

On the Spectrum music channel, Benjamin Britten. I like the fact that it doesn't have ads. They're playing "Gloriana." I remember it from college. A little info window often accompanies the music. This tidbit: Benjamin Britten was made a Lord. Well, Andrew Lloyd Webber was also. Britten's lover, Peter Pears, ended up living in Greenwich, Connecticut (this was after Britten's death; he took up residence with choral conductor Dick Vogt). He answered the phone with "Pears here!"

When I was doing some research (during my music librarian years) I stumbled on a story about Britten. He had a falling out with someone as a collaboration was in the works (was it Auden?). Britten received a letter (I think of apology) which he ripped into little pieces, put in an envelope and mailed back. There is nothing so scary as an angry poove.

Seiji Ozawa dies. 88. I remember seeing him, on the East Side, a few years ago. His hair completely white. Wizened, looking a little old Japanese lady. Think of all the hours he spent on airplanes. Amazing that he was able to do so much continent hopping. And almost thirty years with Boston. An amazing career.

to be continued

[chaotic-historian]

Historical Baes Post #1

Okay, so, apart from being Louis XIV’s birthday, September 5th is also the Danish flag day for all lost and deployed troops. As such, I thought today would be a good time to introduce you all to a new historical Danish military hero each year. This year it is my Best Man, Commodore Iver Huitfeldt.

If you go to his wikipedia profile, it’ll be very short and concise, so let me give you a slightly more emotional account of his final hours on the 4th of October 1710:

It is 8 in the morning, all the ship’s captains have gathered on the flagship of general-admiral Gyldenløve, to have a short status meeting. Just a few days earlier, the entire Dano-Norwegian fleet had been forced to sail out towards Danzig on the orders of King Frederik IV, but less than halfway there they’d been intercepted by storms and forced to seek shelter in Køge Bay, a quite closed-off bay in eastern Denmark. Here they’ve anchored up without plan or purpose, and Commodore Huitfeldt is deeply concerned with this. Almost twenty years earlier, he was present at the battle of La Hogue in 1692, where the French lost their main battle fleet because the English managed to trap them in a bay frighteningly like the one the Dano-Norwegian one is in right now. Huitfeldt has chosen to anchor in a carefully planned position, ready to sail out at any time. His concerns are dismissed. The Swedes, Gyldenløve says, are docked in Carlscrona. He has sources.

But, just as they step out onto the deck to head back to their ships, there is a shout. A sea of masts can be seen on the horizon, and although their nationality cannot be determined yet, Huitfeldt is worried. He hastens back to his ship to prepare, and he is right. It is the enemy. Far from being in Carlscrona, the Swedish general-admiral Wachtmeister heard of the Danish navy’s misfortune with running into a storm, and got the clever idea he would jump them while they were weak. He almost succeeds.

In the nick of time, before any orders are even given, Huitfeldt’s ship Dannebroge sails out to meet the Swedes, alone. Two ships, Mars and Beskiermeren follow behind her, none of which ever get close enough to fire at the enemy. Dannebroge, and Iver Huitfeldt, are facing the entire Swedish battle fleet alone. Wachtmeister’s fleet keeps its course, thundering towards the disheveled Danish navy, which is in utter chaos, desperately trying to get into battle order in the bay, and its lone protector. At the last moment, Huitfeldt’s clever position forces them to break their course and engage him. For more than an hour they ceaselessly fire at each other, one ship against a line of almost 35, but the wind is against the Dannebroge, and the muzzle fire of her raging cannons is blown against her own tackle and side. Soon, the flammable hemp ropes catch fire, and it spreads too fast to be put out. There is 450 men aboard, and one of them is the Commodore. He has a beloved wife and four children at home in Norway, the eldest, a boy, is 12, the youngest, a girl, is just 2 years old. He is 44. His ship is on fire.

What does he do? He looks back, if he allows her to drift and tries to beach her, he risks spreading the fire aboard his ship to the other ships in the fleet, and he will yield the way for the Swedes, who could then go in and lock the Danes in place and destroy them. This would be a disaster.

Iver Huitfeldt gives the order to drop the anchors. He and his crew stay on the ship and continue returning fire. When the gunners are forced to leave their cannons, they are said to have loaded them one last time, so that they’d fire themselves when the flames heated them.

At around 4 PM, the fire reaches the powder stores. Dannebroge explodes, taking with her 450 men, and one Commodore, who willingly gave up his life and inspired his men to follow him in order to save the whole fleet. With a burning wreck in the middle of the bay, the Swedes are cut off from all further attacks, and a day later they withdraw. Huitfeldt has done what he set out to do: he has saved his navy, and by extension very likely tipped the scales for the eventual victory in the Great Northern War.

[vbsvartalf]

A Crown of Violets, Roses, and Crocuses, Part I

The hour was late, or at least she assumed it was late. There were no windows where she’d bunkered down to read. It was a big room, musty and cavernous, lit with a single, long candle at the far end of her table. That she’d lost track of time in here was more an inevitability than a surprise. Any library, every library, all over the world, under it, and above it she would get lost in. Dusty shelves and rows upon rows of books and scrolls were more natural to her than sunlight and fields. She’d had adventures, or at least what she would call adventures, but they all led her back to one library or another. One could only learn so much on an adventure, they must, must be supplemented by research and study. At the very least, her adventures needed to be catalogued so that she could be a part of the research for future generations of scholars and knowledge seekers. That’s what had led her here, to Mikelburg.

It was not a hidden city, but it was a forgotten one. Supposedly its foundations were laid nine hundred years ago before and, judging by the age and decay and general rundownedness of the city, that estimate was far too generous. The world was an onion, layers and layers and layers of things to find and explore and discover. Mikelburg was forgotten because people mistakenly believed it had little to offer the big, wide world. She knew that wasn’t true. No place in the world had “little to offer”, that sort of phrase was a slur, a curse, an obscenity in anthropological circles. She’d come to the city with little knowledge of its size, or it’s make up. She was shocked at both.

The city was large, founded on gentle slowly sloping hill near the confluence of two streams with a wide green forest stretching on upwards behind them into the fog riddled mountains. There were old rings of stones scattered throughout the city noting the different levels of habitation as the city grew from a tiny, nameless hillfort to a town, to a city, to a capital. Half the city seemed to be ruins though, half dead, half alive. Wars had come to Mikelburg. Wars and more wars, then famines and waves of pestilence. The people of Mikelburg moved their capital to some safer location, on a higher hill with bigger river and more space to spread out. Still there were people that would not abandon the city and all its years. It was not an easy existence by all accounts, but the old folks have passed down a hardiness to their children that was evident, even hundreds of years later.

There was no central authority here either, no mayor or lord or council of whom she could ask questions. It was an imposition to be sure. But Patsimiel Yoshiyo was not one to be turned aside so quickly. Her time studying anthropology had given her one thing, and her elven senses had only sharpened and honed it: patience. There was no council she could talk to? She would ask the people on the streets. No lord who she could interview about the laws and customs of the land? She would ask the bakers and the sugarmongers, the fishnetters and the blacksmiths. She’d picked up enough of the language lately that communicating was no problem. Well, not too much. She’d talked with a cooper and kept confusing an offer from him to come inside and meet his wife for tea, for an offer that was not about tea. Thank the stars, most of the people spoke a dialect of Ten Towns she could speak and understand. The cooper and his wife pointed the young elf to the library.

It wasn’t much a of a library, a single-story building with one entrance and exit. The people of Mikelburg were an oral people with long waxing tales told by scops and troubadours in the light of fireplaces, but they interacted with enough outlanders and tradesmen from the northern that a library was more or less expected, even if it wasn’t well maintained or catalogued. There was a librarian, a wizened old man with a very short gait and a very sturdy cane. He was a delightful little man and was so enamored with her that she assumed she was the first elf he’d ever seen. His smile was as bright as the waxing gibbous moon. He led her to a private chamber where she could read and study and write in peace.

She yawned. She wasn’t tired, but she felt like she should be, surely it had been hours or even days since she’d entered here. The yawn was more an attempt to trick her body into telling her its secrets. Her mind had begun to wander. The candlelight was growing fuzzy, stretching and blurring at the edges; the light was getting dimmer and dimmer, shrinking and pulsing. The words on the page drooped and dipped on the page, they played and teased her. She would read a sentence, then read it again and find words that had been coy and hid from her gaze.

Her stomach gurgled. She might not be physically tired, but she was hungry. When was the last time she’d eaten? Had she stopped at an inn before she made a beeline to the library? She couldn’t remember if she’d had the tea with the cooper and his wife. Some tea would be very pleasant right now, tea and a few extra candles. Tea was the whetstone on which she sharpened her mind. Ever since she’d learned to brew it herself as a child, Yoshiyo had used it to stay up to all hours. She would hide under blankets with a lantern and read anything and everything she could. Once, she’d nicked a cookbook from her neighbor and read the entire thing in a single night. If only she could use that knowledge to make more than tea. She was certain that a tea and biscuit combo would make her at least a fraction more popular, at the very least not the one mocked and teased endlessly. She nicked books, borrowed scrolls, anything with words and knowledge. Now, as an adult, she could not remember half of the things that she read on those clandestine nights, but the feeling stayed with her and that was more important in the end.

She yawned again, this time it was genuine, stretching her jaw and her lungs to their absolute limits, one of the bones in her neck popped with weak pop. It must be late. She read one more line from the scroll, blinked hard, then read it again. Neither time she read it did it make sense. The words could have scribbles for all she understood them. She squinted and leaned in close to try a third time. Still no luck, the words dripped and slipped out of her line of sight like a waterfall. She sat back and sighed. She was done for the day. She’d learned her lesson. Reflexively, she looked at the candle, making sure it was not too close. She would not forgive herself another library fire. She sighed again, rubbing her face. Comparing languages and tracing certain stories back to their origins was fun work, but it was mind numbing too.

She’d read eight different renditions of “How the Fox Stole the Farmer’s Wife”. All of them only slightly different, but just enough to warrant different entries into her records. Some of them were translations of languages she didn’t know; others were original compositions with words borrowed from even older languages. There was something wrong about the order in which the library said they were written and recorded though, finding the ur-tale became the primary objective as Yoshiyo yawned a third time. But all of that was going to have to wait until tomorrow, or at least until she’d had some tea and a bowl of soup. Her dry lips and stomach mumbled in agreement. Soup would be very nice. There was an inn nearby, she remembered smelling cooking meat as she passed to the library. What was it called? The Whispering Cauldron?

She packed up her things, scrolls and scrolls and more scrolls with pens and wax tablets and sketch pads. Her pack was an unorganized bramble of chaos. She wouldn’t have in any other way. Her apartments were always orderly and organized, but her pack, like her mind, was wild and carefree. She wrapped her flaming red hair back into a loose ponytail with a leather strap from the bramble it had become over hours of absent minded pulling and tugging and. She shouldered her pack and sighed with that familiar weight. The little librarian was nowhere to be seen, but somewhere in the library she could hear the clack-clack of his cane.

The sun was still out, but it was dipping behind the mountains, exploding in pink and orange. She inhaled the smell of Mikelburg and closed her eyes. There were a few people walking the street, wrapped in cloaks to ward off the coming cold of fall nights. She could hear bits and pieces of conversation. It was a welcome change from the cavernous silence of the library.

She took a step and felt herself bump into someone rushing by.

She opened her eyes, catching just the barest glimpse.

The woman turned to look back. Her eyes were soft and round with irises of violet so dark they could have been a reflection of the primordial, starless sky. Her skin was silvery porcelain, her feathery, raven tresses was styled in an ancient elven style, one she’d not seen in…

Suddenly she was not in Mikelburg anymore. She was in another city, one far older with towers of ivory that stretched up into the sky and disappeared. There were singing voices all around her instead of the murmur of a crowd. There was so much light here: golden and silver. The very air was made of music, it touched her skin and sent waves of warm sensations through her body. She reached out to touch it. Her fingers moved slowly, through honey. She could see the light wisp around her fingers, tangible like a butterfly. And she was there. That same woman, raven black hair and violet eyes. She was looking at her again, but on her lips was a gossamer smile, so sweet and silky it made Yoshiyo’s knees weak. The woman, so familiar that her name was on the tip of Yoshiyo’s tongue, said something and touched her cheek. It felt like she’d been kissed by a cloud. It was dizzying. The air smelled of roses. She said something, but her words were wisped away a sweet wind…

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention…” the woman said. She smiled. There was a twinkle in her eyes, a reflection of ancient light. Did she know Yoshiyo? Did Yoshiyo know her?

Before Yoshiyo had a chance to say anything, the woman rounded the corner and disappeared. She touched her face where she’d been touched in the vision. She felt dizzy again and her throat went dry.  

Who was she?

Yoshiyo continued to the inn, looking back every few steps, trying to will the woman back within her field of vision. She stopped a few paces from the inn’s doors. Should she go back? Should she go find the woman? Chase her down and… and what? Her hands were shaking. A warmth that had nothing to do with heat filled her limbs.

She stood there for several heartbeats, unable to make a decision. Each moment she hesitated meant the mystery woman was further and further away. Finally, she gave up trying and went into the inn. The man behind the bar had hair redder than her and soft green eyes.

“Do you have any, any vacancies?” She asked mechanically, her mind racing in every direction but forward.

“Aye,” the man said, setting the clay mug he’d been cleaning down on the lacquered wooden bar top. “How many?”

“I, well I only need the one, I suppose.”

“No, how many will be staying?” he asked again.

Yoshiyo felt her cheeks go red. “Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m— it’s just me. I’ll be the only one. Just me.”

He looked at her, his brow creasing and folding into half a dozen lines. “Are you okay, lass?”

“What?” Yoshiyo shook herself, forcing her mind to pay attention to the one thing in front of her. It pulled at the reigns like a feral horse. “Oh, sorry. Yes. Yes, I’m okay. Just tired. I’ve been…”

“You’re the elf, aren’t you?” the publican asked, interrupting her. “The new one.”

“I suppose word travels fast in Mikelburg,” she swallowed. “Wait, what do you mean new one? Are there other elves in Mikelburg?”

“Just the one,” he answered, picking up the clay mug again. “Not many come this far north anymore, not since, well not since a very long time now. I’m sorry. I’m being impertinent. You asked for a room? I have a few. How long are you going to be with us?”

Yoshiyo swallowed. She could feel her cheeks growing redder and redder. She could not get the woman’s face out of her mind. The softness of her fingers on her cheek. “I’m not sure,” she finally said. “At least a couple of weeks. If that’s alright?”

The publican laughed and nodded. “A room paid and occupied for more than a night? Of course, it’s alright lass. What’s your name now?”

He reached for something under the bar. Yoshiyo flinched back reflexively but when he produced a key she relaxed. She stared at the key a long moment before accepting it from his large hand. “I’m Yoshiyo. And, and you?”

“Symon,” he said. “Owner and proprietor of the Whispering Cauldron.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you Symon.” She took a deep breath and steadied herself. “Might I get something eat too? Some hearty? And tea? Do you have tea?”

“Aye, I can do that for you, Lady Yoshiyo.”

“Oh, no. I’m not Lady Yoshiyo. Just Yoshiyo, plain and simple.”

“If you say so, Yoshiyo, if you say so.”

“There is one more thing I’d like to ask Symon, if you don’t mind indulging me.” She took another breath and felt her sense return to normal. She felt the warm the of the hearth and the eponymous cauldron. She heard a dozen conversations from all corners of the inn, smelled a dozen varieties of hay, stewed meat, bread, horseflesh, and beers.

“And what might that be?”

“When you’re done with your duties, if you don’t mind me asking some questions about your life in Mikelburg, nothing invasive or impertinent.”

“Have anything to do with what you’re doing at the library?”

She raised her eyebrow, uncertain.

“Word travels fast in Mikelburg,” he reassured her. “Like you said. I’d be happy to.”

“Thank you, Symon.”

She nodded to him and found an empty table near an empty stage. She unshouldered her pack and pulled out her sketchpad and a charcoal pencil. For the next half hour, as the inn filled with people and her soup and tea was delivered, as a minstrel came on stage and sang with the accompaniment of a lute, Yoshiyo drew the face she’d seen. She knew this face. She knew it but how did she know it? She drew it a dozen times, each sketch only increasing the mystery. She grew flushed. She knew this woman; this woman knew her. Yoshiyo had no idea how she could tell that, but she could. What was that vision? That place, that touch… 

Who was she?

[vanillelace]

✧ Hunt For Love — !

hi everyone !! this is lexi and i’m here with a fic for you.

‘Dash and Lily’ is a Netflix series, originally a novel written by David Levithan and Rachel Cohn.

i have decided to write a fiction based on this because i fucking LOVED the series so much. i will be sticking to the plotline, but a lot of changes can be seen + this will be in chapters.

i have provided FULL credits to the original creators. please don’t attack me for ‘claiming’ this as my own. i have just written my own spin-off for this. this would be completely David Levithan and Rachel Cohn’s ideas, but i have added my own.

i have clarified as much as possible. one last time, THIS PLOTLINE ISN’T MINE, I HAVE MADE MY OWN CHANGES TO IT.

i will most definitely delete this if this isn’t allowed. it’s my first time writing a spin-off so please forgive me if i do anything wrong!

let’s begin after that huge clarification.

PREVIEW.

Hunt for Love.

—— na y/n x nct’s mark lee.

—— wordcount : 349 for the preview, 85 for the summary [less than i expected 😭]

—— warnings : nothing for the preview.

—— na y/n has always looked for love. her happy-go-lucky, easy-to-love brother, jaemin, has always wanted to put her out of her bubble, but has been unsuccessful on each minor attempt.

lee mark hates love, and anything to do with it. his heart has been broken, and he doesn’t want it to happen again. after 2 years of hating himself and his decisions, he makes a promise to himself that he will let himself love again.

what if their paths intercross, for better or for worse?

—— lexi’s words : hi there first time writing a fic so ya 😋 i just wanted to say none of this has ever occurred as per my knowledge, and any relation to characters in real life is NOT intended. the use of any celebrities names in this is not to defame them AT ALL. anyways this is something i wrote because i’m bored so… have fun reading! one more thing! the character’s ethnicities and nationalities ideas were given to me by my very very dear friend @notshyivy !! love you sweetie <3

── preview begins . .

mark was walking along the most familiar street he had, the path to the best library in the world — bibliophile. he greeted the wizened old librarian and owner, mr. thomas, who was a dear friend to him, and strolled up to the information desk. “hello, how may i help you today!” a blonde man with a slight mustache rolled his eyes at mark, with a voice that sounded like he had enough of helping out at a library and had much better work to do.

hint : he did not.

justin thomas, mr thomas’ nephew, absolutely despised mark lee. mark couldn’t think as to why. as far as he knew, he never shouted, oh no, he preferred keeping to himself. he always kept the books in the right place. no, the problem was that he was better at justin’s job than justin himself was.

mark rolled his eyes back at justin. mark ambled his way through the dear shelves of dusty and clean, ancient and new books, which offered a wonderful complement to the few amount of people, who, mind you, were as ancient as the books themselves, maybe even older.

his favorite section, he noticed, had a minimalistic christmassy notebook, which he was SURE didn’t belong in the young adults section. without looking at the book, he pulled it out, careful to not disturb his favorites beside the intruding book, and walked back to the information desk. “justin… there’s a book i’m sure isn’t supposed to be here,” he began, placing the book flat on a keyboard. “where does it go?”

“just- put it back there. don’t even bother telling me about that one. SHE told me to keep it there.” justin muttered, annoyed with the VERY helpful mark.

“who’s SHE-“ “never you mind. now put it back where it came from.”

just as mark was about to give justin a piece of his mind, mark breathed in and breathed out, invigorating himself. he walked away, and was just about to place the book in its undeserved location, when he noticed three, clear words.

‘DO YOU DARE?’

♡ ⊹ ° . ˚ ▿ · ° . ♡ ⊹

[the-angst-chronicles-fanworks]

DRACO’S WISH [PT 4/14]

<< | < | > | >>

WORD COUNT: 2817

PAIRING: Drarry

TAGS:

hidden identity

Down and Out Draco Malfoy

Pretty Draco Malfoy

Talented Draco Malfoy

Auror Harry Potter

Smitten Harry Potter

Harry Potter Being an Asshole (just for a while)

Angst

Fluff

Angst with a Happy Ending

Falling In Love

Torture

Skipping Meals/Hunger

Cold Weather

Libraries

Hot Chocolate

SUMMARY: Draco does a good deed and is granted a wish - 12 days of anonymity in a world that hates him CHAPTER SUMMARY:    Potter shows up and insists on buying Draco a drink

on FF.net

on AO3

STORY:

December 11th , 2007

Draco wakes to an absolutely frigid morning and cold sun in his eyes, but for once it doesn’t dampen his mood. He’s positively chipper as he hurries through his morning shower and pulls on his stiff, cold clothes. He manages to get his stove working and, though he’s skipping breakfast today, he boils plain water in lieu of tea. He just barely waits until it’s cool enough before sipping it from a chipped mug, enjoying the warmth it brings.

He briefly flirts with the idea of trying a warming charm for the apartment, but it’s not a serious consideration. Why potentially waste an extinguisher when he now has a perfectly warm library available to him instead?

There’s no reason to dawdle around his apartment so he doesn’t – he slips into the empty hallway and then down the stairs and out to the street. It’s a cold but quick trek up Knockturn and then onto Diagon where the harsh weather prevents him from spending too much time admiring the splendor.

The street is less busy today, likely as a result of both the temperature and the early hour, but it’s still lively. Draco thankfully has no run-ins with Potter today on his way to the library.

The warm, familiar smell of books and ink greets him as he pushes into the building. The librarian, sitting behind the counter today, looks up and nods to him in greeting.

“Good morning,” Draco returns with a polite smile. He makes a beeline, this time, straight to the back where he’d found the volumes on wandless magic yesterday. He’d just reached the section of the book dedicated to harmonizing energy, magic, and intent, when he’d had to leave yesterday, and he’s eager to return to it.

He spends several hours there, reading theory and running through the practice exercises in the book. They’re not spells, not really, just exercises to learn to handle his magic better, and they’ve nothing to do with heat besides, so he’s not particularly worried about starting fires. They are, after all, designed for beginners, and therefore start small. A pleasant result of this, he finds, is that he’s not exhausted or hungry after practicing. Well… okay, he is hungry because he’s always hungry, but he’s not more so than usual.

People come and go from the library, but nobody pays him any mind and nor does he pay them any. Despite the steady traffic, the library is quiet, and Draco is well able to ignore them all and descend into his study.

So his day goes, until just after the library clock strikes 2 o’clock. That’s when Potter and Granger show up. Draco doesn’t see them, but he hears their voices, easily recognizable from being so often on the wireless – Granger is chattering about wizarding law and magical creates, and Potter is humouring her with one-word answers. Draco’s head shoots up, pure panic searing through his veins.

He glances wildly around but doesn’t catch sight of them – they’re somewhere else in the library – and he’s already half out of his seat and considering how best to make a break for it before his mind catches up with him. He pauses, taking a calming breath. Right, he’s being a fool again. They won’t recognize him. To them, he’s just a stranger in a library.

Draco forces himself to calm down, tentatively perching back on the edge of his armchair. He flicks open his book again, his muscles still tense as he looks unseeingly at the pages. But minutes go by and nothing happens, and Draco feels himself relaxing again.

His fingers loosen their grip on the book, and he allows himself to sink further into the armchair and actually start reading again. It’s interesting stuff, the theory behind wandless magic and the changes that must be adjusted for when not using a conduit. He lips move along silently as he reads a passage about the delicacy of shaping and directing magic by will alone.

There’s an exercise here too, walking him through the steps to produce harmless sparkles and then working through controlling the amount, shape, and intensity of them. It’s not a direct, straightforward endeavor, of course, where one simply follows a series of instructions and achieves a result. This is more nuanced, the instructions more abstract, requiring interpretation and creativity to apply them.

But Draco has had a lot of practice working with his magic, and many of these concepts come easily to him now. He feels he’s progressing though the book faster than he would ordinarily, had he not spent so much time reaching into himself and trying to guide his own magic.

The text expects that it will take several days of practice to even pull one’s magic up far enough to get sparkles, but it’s infinitely easier than heating charms and Draco has them dancing around before him in a matter of minutes. Changing their properties is more of a challenge, one that Draco dives into with enthusiasm. He spends the better part of an hour learning how to make sparkles bend to his whim.

He’s having fun making little sparkle fireworks when he looks up and sees Harry Potter standing there and staring at him. He lets out a surprised squawk, the sparkles fizzling out unceremoniously.

Potter flushes and scratches at the back of his head. “Sorry about that,” he says. “You’re the bloke from yesterday right? The one I ran into?”

Draco’s mouth opens and closes uselessly, not sure what to say. Potter remembers him, from bumping into him in the street. Potter is talking to him. Normally. What the fuck?

The silence hangs, awkward, for a beat before Potter fills it. “I really am sorry you know,” he says, and it’s no less awkward now that he’s speaking. Draco casts about for something to say.

“I…it’s fine,” he settles on faintly. He’d said as much yesterday hadn’t he? He distinctly remembers babbling nonsense of that sort at Potter.

Potter shakes his head, scuffing his strange muggle shoes against the warm carpet as he peers at Draco again. “You ran off so quickly yesterday,” he says, surprisingly unsure. “I didn’t get a chance to offer, but I’d like to buy you a drink. To make it up to you.”

Draco frowns, opening his mouth to tell Potter, again, that it’s fine, but Potter heads him off. “I know you said it’s okay,” he says quickly, “but it would make me feel better.” When Draco still doesn’t answer, he tilts his head, gives him a beseeching look that makes him look a little like a baby Crup, and says “Please?”

“Umm…” Draco replies intelligently, clutching his book hard and holding ut in front of him like a barrier. He shouldn’t accept, he really shouldn’t. He’s already decided it best that he stay far away from Potter, no matter how cutely he’s behaving at the moment. If Potter remembers who he is, it will ruin everything.

But Potter is offering him a free drink that isn’t water, and maybe Draco can get him to throw in a bit of food that won’t deplete his meagre stash…

Draco’s stomach turns restlessly, reminding him of how perpetually hungry he is. He knows that he shouldn’t, but he can’t resist.

“Throw in a bagel and I’ll consider it,” he decides, and Potter’s eyes light up.

“Brilliant!” He says eagerly, bouncing slightly on his heels like an overexcited kid. He gestures at Draco’s book. “Let’s get that checked out and we can go,” he says.

He wants to go right now? Draco looks at him in shock, but he seems perfectly serious, still looking over at Draco’s book.

“Oh, erm, never mind that. I’ll just…” Draco trails off awkwardly, nodding toward the shelves. Potter waits as he gets up and re-shelves the book.

Potter takes his arm as soon as he’s finished putting the book away, half-leading and half-dragging him toward the front of the library. They take a small detour to the section on wizarding law, where Granger is browsing the shelves with single-minded determination, so that Potter can call his goodbyes. He barely waits for her reply before he’s leading Draco away again.

They walk down Diagon Alley for a way, passing half-a-dozen little cafes that Potter shows no interest in, and then turn off onto another little street. It’s also a commercial street, but it’s smaller than Diagon, quainter and quieter. It’s still resplendent with Christmas lights, but it has a different air; the quieter atmosphere lends a sense of magic to the air that catches Draco’s breath and causes him to gaze about in awe. It’s such a mundane thing to be excited about, something his younger self would not have even noticed, but now that his life consists of the drab, bland, dankness of Knockturn Alley, he doesn’t take such beauty for granted.

Potter draws them to a stop then, and he turns to see him watching Draco with a smile. Draco quirks an eyebrow, but Potter merely shakes his head, before turning and gesturing to a tiny shop.

“I know it doesn’t look like much, but they have the best drinks here. I swear it.” Potter says. He pulls open the door and holds it for Draco, who feels oddly flustered at the gesture. He ducks his head and murmurs his thanks before he steps inside, moving out of Potter’s way and looking around.

It’s tiny and cramped, with mismatched furniture, scrubbed wooden floors, and pale-yellow walls. It’s not fashionable at all, but it’s bright and warm and Draco likes it. A young witch is behind the counter, chatting with a wizened old man, and other than that the store is empty.

Potter steps up beside him and turns a warm smile on him. “What would you like to drink?” He asks, gesturing to the menu written in chalk behind the front counter. Draco looks over to it, but there are so many options – the board is covered completely with cutesy writing declaring the names of various drinks – that he can’t decide. Tea is a treat for Draco these days.

Potter is still looking at him expectantly, and he burns in embarrassment at failing such a simple task as deciding his drink. “Surprise me,” he hedges. Potter nods, starting to turn away, and Draco adds hastily, “but make it sweet!” He feels his cheeks flush again as Potter chuckles.

“Alright, something sweet,” he says, his green eyes impossibly soft. Draco has never seen those eyes look at him with anything but hatred, and having it now sends electric sparks through his body. Draco shudders, forcing the thought away.

Belatedly, he realises Potter’s saying something to him. “Sorry?” He asks. His face is going to be permanently red at this point.

Potter raises his eyebrows, but he’s smiling. “I said, why don’t you get us seats and I’ll get the drinks.”

Draco raises an eyebrow of his own and looks pointedly around the empty café. “That may be a hardship, what with this crowd, but I’ll try my very best,” he cheeks. Potter outright laughs at that.

“Alright, Mr. Sass, just go sit down,” he says. Draco smirks but turns to comply, while Potter approaches the counter. He hears, from behind him, the girl at the counter saying “Harry! Back so soon?”, and Potter answering with something too quiet for Draco to hear.

He chooses the little round table nearest to the front window and sits, looking out at the twinkling street. Once upon a time, he would have looked down on a place like this. Now, he barely feels that he belongs, with his holey gloves and tattered, baggy clothes. He privately thanks Potter’s apparently overly active sense of remorse that’s led to him being here.

Potter soon comes back, levitating a mug of something steaming, that’s topped generously with whipped cream, and a freshly toasted bagel in front of him. It’s soon followed by a platter of pastries that slides into place between them. Draco blinks at these and then looks questioningly up at him. “What are these then?” he asks. Potter flushes.

“They’re – ah – something sweet,” he explains haltingly, scratching at the back of his head. Merlin, no wonder his hair was a mess. Still, it’s an exceedingly decent thing of Potter to do, and certainly not anything he’s used to.

“Thank you,” he replies, quiet but honest. Potter beams at him, and Draco smiles back as he sips at his drink, which he is delighted to find is hot chocolate.

“So…” says Potter, sliding into the seat across from him, “I never did get your name.”

Draco freezes – can he give Potter his own name? Will that break this anonymity he’s been granted? He’s not sure, and he doesn’t want to chance it.

“Emory,” he says, thinking of the dashing love interest in the romance novel sitting on his bed. “Emory Hughes.”

“Emory Hughes,” Potter repeats, smiling. “I’m Harry Potter.”

“I know,” says Draco without thinking, then clamps his mouth shut, eyes widening. Luckily, Potter doesn’t seem suspicious.

“I had wondered,” he says instead, laughing, and Draco is struck again by how handsome Potter is. He swallows nervously and, to distract himself, takes a pastry and pops it into his mouth. It’s good – incredible really – flaky, buttery, and filled with sweet cream. Draco can’t help his moan, closing his eyes in pleasure. Merlin, and he’d just wanted a bagel!

Potter has stopped laughing somewhat abruptly, and Draco opens his eyes to see him picking up his mug and taking a huge gulp. He then immediately flails, sputtering “Hot! Hot!” and dripping hot chocolate from his mouth and probably from his nose also.

The sight of Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, dribbling hot chocolate is too much, and Draco can’t hold in his delighted laughter. Potter manages to get a hold of himself, dabbing at his mouth with his serviette and blushing furiously as he glares at Draco, but that only makes Draco laugh harder. Potter glares for a moment longer, and then he is laughing too. “I’m not usually this clumsy, honest!” Potter defends once they’ve both calmed down.

Draco shakes his head, tearing his bagel apart and smirking at Potter. “I don’t know,” he replies, “first you bowled me over in the Alley yesterday, and now this.” He sighs dramatically. “I think you will just have to accept the obvious – you are an utter klutz”

Harry pouts. “I hope you’ll accept all of my flaws then,” he says, and Draco grins.

“If your flaws continue buying me hot chocolate and pastries, I might just be persuaded,” he returns easily. He sips at said hot chocolate to make his point and smirks at Potter.

“Such a hardship,” Potter says. “How will my flaws and I manage?”

Draco throws a crumb of toasted bagel at him. “How dare you,” he sniffs. “I’m a delight, I’ll have you know.”  

Potter gives him a once over, smirks, and says, “I see that.” Draco sputters, red-cheeked. Is Potter flirting with him? No, that can’t be possible, he’s reading too much into it. That’s just to be expected when nobody’s talked to him like a human in years, he supposes – a single modicum of human decency is shown to him, and he thinks he’s being flirted with.

Draco inwardly rolls his eyes at him self and pops a bite of bagel into his mouth. “Well, good to know those glasses are good for something then,” he says at length, far too late. Potter doesn’t call him out on it, though his green eyes are amused as he sips his hot chocolate.

Potter proves surprisingly easy to talk to, a notion that once would have sent Draco into a conniption. He’s always thought the man fit, but now as he sits chatting with him, he finds that his company is honestly pleasant as well. The afternoon passes faster than he realises, and by the time they get up to leave, the sun is hanging low and painting the sky bright with colour.

Potter walks with him back to the library, where he needs to meet up with Granger, and Draco is almost regretful as they arrive.

“Thank you, Potter,” he says, stopping just inside the library door.

“Call me Harry,” Potter insists. Draco frowns – that’s decidedly too weird. It’s not as though they’re going to see each other again anyway.

“Goodbye Potter,” he insists instead. Potter opens his mouth to argue, but at that moment Granger emerges from the stacks and catches sight of them. She makes a beeline toward Potter, and Draco nods a greeting at her and steps out of the way. He catches sight of Potter’s pout in the corner of his eye and grins to himself, feeling lighter than he has in years as he makes his way back to the wandless magic section.

[lex1nat0r]

White Elephant: Business As Usual

AAR #25 & #26

Session reports from my ongoing Lancer game.

Characters (LL 4):

Raiju (They/Them, Hacker 2/Heavy Gunner 2/Nuclear Cavalier 3, Barbarossa 3/Monarch 1) - HA Barbarossa “Counterproposal”

Sunshine (They/Them, Grease Monkey 3/Technophile 2/Engineer 1/Gunslinger 1, Pegasus 3, Black Witch 1) - HORUS Pegasus “Exchange of Affection”

Rook (He/Him, Walking Armory 1/Brutal 3/Leader 3, Balor 3/Gorgon 1) - HORUS Balor “Your Burden” (player not present for session #26)

Daylight (She/Her, Technophile 2/Engineer 3/Ace 2, Vlad 3/Nelson 1) - IPS-N Vlad “Look What You Made Me Do”

Magpie (They/Them, Hacker 3/Technophile 3/Drone Commander 1, Goblin 3/Hydra 1) - HORUS Goblin “Destructive Interference”

NHPs:

Molotov - Via Sunshine’s Technophile talent - Projects as a small velociraptor - unshackled

Willow - Via Daylight’s Technophile talent - Projects as 1-2 squid - unshackled

Murgatroid - Via Magpie’s Technophile talent - Projects as a wizard? - shackled

Prometheus Antichiral - fork of a cascaded NHP from the Sanctuary Blue cloning facility - projects as a wizened old man - unshackled

Alex - library administrator, rescued from the RimTech corporate archive - projects as a librarian - shackled, currently in low power mode

Sisyphus - Via Sunshine’s Pegasus 3 - no known projection habits [ha ha ha you can’t see me] - shackled

Osiris - Via Magpie’s Goblin 3 - projects to seemingly puppet around Destructive Interference - shackled

Prev session writeup

A few days after the destruction of the Argo the lancers meet with Stefan at MilAgro corporate headquarters to pick up the blinkspace data they were after. Rebuilding around Angelus Prime is underway and with MilAgro now mostly under the control of Stefan's faction the megacorp is gearing up to resist the Guardian Fleet. Lucien Trulock and most of the other Shield Frontier-aligned MilAgro upper management managed to escape and are probably looking for supporters but they're currently low priority. On their way out of the HQ the lancers are ambushed by Lottie Wisely, the reporter from Argus Syndicated Networks who covered their battle with the Argo, asking who these mysterious heroes are. Sunshine does the talking but Magpie steps in to end the interview when Sunshine almost reveals that the Eye of the Tiger has a blinkdrive.

Possible targets for next steps.

Back on board the battleship, the group discusses what to do next. They now have the complete set of blinkspace data but that will take time to interpret. The Tiger's systems can do it, but it will take time. The lancers decline to meet back up with the Horizon Collective or make contact with HORUS on Metahome, and after some debate decide not to take the data to Union on Cold Comfort. The question of how much to trust Union is still up in the air. From the data on the Argo they know the Guardian Fleet's next targets, but the Tiger sustained some damage in the fighting above Angelus Prime and while it's still fully functional it will be in real danger if it has to get into another space battle. The lancers decide to transmit the intelligence from the Argo to their allies in the sector and blink to Smogless for repairs.

Approaching the Rimtech shipyards above Smogless the lancers find ex-Director now Senior Administrator Prinzivalli running the dock they've been assigned to. After catching up with what she's been doing since getting her off of Sanctuary Blue the lancers finally defrost the refugees from Angelus Landing and take some R&R planetside.

(It is only writing this up now that I realize I have forgotten to determine if the NHP Alex wants to be dropped off as well or is willing to stay on board the Eye of the Tiger. For next time.)

During their planetside stay Daylight notices a Neuropa drone keeping tabs on her and Rook. Prinzivalli gets in touch, letting the lancers know that she has an urgent mission for them: the Rimtech shipyards are under widespread attack by Blackspine terrorists and Rimtech security can't protect them all. So she needs the lancers to come help. They scramble into orbit and get filled in: all the other strikes by Blackspine look like they're causing damage at all the other sites, but here they're trying to get into Rimtech's deep omninet.

Combat 5.1: Script Kiddie Showdown

Sitrep: Control + Terminals (from Enhanced Combat)

OPFOR:

Shattering Disease (T1 Veteran Witch, Hacker/Chain)

T2 Aegis x1 (Ring of Fire)

T2 Spacer Mirage x2 (Metafold Shove)

T2 Spacer Scourer (Supercharged) x3

T1 Witch (Chain) x1

(Tokens by Retrograde Minis (on the basic blank hex tokens that come with Lancer so they show up well), map by Interpoint Station’s Lancer sprites, VTT is Roll20)

Outcome: PC victory, 8 to 7 + terminals activated

Analysis:

Maybe this one was a little mean but Exchange of Affection only exploded after the sitrep was completed so it's all good.

The PCs took a lot of Stress and will probably go into the next combat with some lingering Stress, but Lancer giving characters two separate HP pools kicks ass because it allows a GM to mix up heat-focused and damage-focused sitreps without worrying about being too harsh.

Running a sitrep with no grunts physically pained me and these are going to be rare.

Because they activated the terminals (blinkspace monitoring devices to verify the integrity of Rimtech's omninet) the lancers are able to figure out what Blackspine was after - the location of a Rimtech deep space shipyard where they are in the process of building a battleship. What the lancers do with this information remains to be seen.

Next time: sabotage?

[dammit-neal]

M/M Romance, Arranged Marriage

Also available on AO3

Chapter 1: Simply Charmed

Precious moments of freedom. So rare. So beautiful when they present themselves.

Even if one has to jump over a fence and crawl through a hedge to get them.

"Young man, I'm afraid we don't cater to your taste here."

I looked over my shoulder at the matronly voice. She sounded morbidly disapproving. I looked around. Colorful flower prints carefully folded and stacked on tables. Dress forms and a sewing desk completed the picture.

Just my luck I landed through the window of a dress shop.

I cleared my throat. "Madam, rest assured, you absolutely do."

She sniffed at me, as I assumed she would. I didn't have Henry's magical way of charming any lady, no matter the age. I didn't have a lot of things Henry had. 

But there was one thing he was missing, that he would never get if I could help it. I summoned my most winning smile.

"I'm afraid I haven't introduced myself. Sir Philip Mallory at your service." Her glare lost some of its edge when I mentioned my title. My title. "Madam, I have a lady in my life and I want her to have the best. Word has it, your shop is where one can find the best."

The bell in the shop rang. Thank the good Lord, another customer!

"But it seems as though you are about to engage with another customer." I looked around eagerly. "I'll wait here and peruse these fabrics while I decide." And enjoy the sweetness of freedom.

Her glare hardened. "Young Sir, this is the back room. We don't allow our patrons into the back room. Come up to the front and we can talk about your lady all you'd like."

Oh.

"Of course." We walked through a long, dim hallway toward the front of the store. I would stay away from the windows. If Henry found me in here, I would never hear the end of it. 

"Why don't you describe your lady." It wasn't a suggestion.

"Of course!" I thought of Henry with a chuckle, "Dark hair, a delicate build, eyes a royal blue, the fairest skin in the land, marred only by a few freckles." I sighed heavily for good measure. "I love her dearly, and I want a frock that would do her every angle favor so the rest of the world can see her beauty as I do." 

"It sounds as though the rest of the world shouldn't need help seeing her effervescent beauty." Came a deep voice from the front of the store. "But I declare offense that you should find yourself so besotted with a lady and be brazen enough to declare as much with your betrothed within hearing."

I froze. Hand over my mouth, to stop any ungentlemanly phrases escaping, I looked up. Henry regarded me calmly, his amusement only evident in his royal blue eyes.

"I also wonder when you would have had a moment to chase this lady when we spent the past month in the country with your parents." Now he grinned outright at me, enjoying my embarrassment.

I heard the lady’s raspy chuckle from behind me. "Is this young man yours, Mr. Shawdun?"

He sighed and winked at her. "I'm afraid so, Mrs. Blethely." He looked back at me, and while his mouth still smiled, his eyes had gone dark. "I looked away for just a moment to purchase a trinket for him--by his request--and the moment I looked back, he was gone."

I looked down as the older woman clicked her tongue at me. "Naughty indeed." A small wizened hand reached for my shoulder. I shrugged it off. "It's a wonder you have patience for this young buck, Mr. Shawdun." She sighed. "But then, that's this young man for you. A troublesome--"

"I am standing right here!" Shame and irritation laced my words with venom. It was bad enough I'd been caught in a dress shop by Henry, but to then be chastised by some old sewing wench past her prime?! It really was unacceptable. "We're leaving."

Henry looked down at me smugly. "Are you sure? I'm certain the good Mrs. Blethely can find something suitable to your taste--"

I reached for the nearest heavy object--a hat mold-- and threw it at him. He jumped to the side and it sailed past his shoulder right into the mirror, shattering it. Mrs. Blethely gasped in horror. 

"I'm leaving!!"

"Apologize!" Henry's voice carried a warning, but I disregarded it. Of the two of us, I was the only nobleman until this unfortunate union, and he ought to remember that.

"Like hell! You'll apologize for me and pay for it! This is your fault!" I rushed for the door, but his hand caught my shoulder and turned me back around. I turned to look at him, ready to give him a good whack if needed to remind him of his place. His eyes burned at me, annoyance and anger mixing.

"Temper, Mr. Shawdun. It wouldn't do to make a spectacle of yourself in front of the middle class, or they might think you were putting on airs." I knew I was really pushing his limit now.

"Apologize to Mrs. Blethely."

"She had it coming. She mocked me! And you let her!"

"You made a mockery of yourself without either of our help, you spoiled brat. Now apologize."

"You are not my keeper, Henry, leave me be!"

He was far taller than I, and bigger, and he was pushing both to his advantage, practically shoving my shoulder into the floor. "You will tell Mrs. Blethely you are sorry for making such a spectacle and breaking her personal items, or I will send the bill to your father."

My father. My father who had gambled away all we had. Who, in his search for a way out, sought out the first merchant who would consider me a viable wedding partner, a man who had everything except a title. They made a deal. All debts paid, and my father would never enter another card room. My father redeemed his debts by gambling away the last thing he had: me. 

My father could not afford the wine he drank or the chair he sat in. He accrued debt with every purchase, debt I would be paying in one fell swoop through this marriage. My father could not afford to fix this woman's mirror. Like me, he was reliant on the goodwill of the ever wealthier Shawdun family. I laughed bitterly. In the halls of the Young Gentleman’s Academy,  I could pull rank with my title to get all manner of favors. But in the real world, Henry held the purse strings to my life and success. I hated it. I hated him.

"I apologize, Mrs. Blethely." I muttered. Then I stomped on Henry's foot with all the weight and anger I could muster. He grunted in pain and his hold loosened. I ran from the shop.  

* * * * *

Author’s Note:

So here's the deal. I thought of this story, fell immediately in love with the premise and jumped right into writing it. Before I knew it, I was looking at over 20,000 words and was deeply in love with both of my leads. The entire story is written in first person from Philip's perspective (I'm not particularly fond of stories that go back and forth, but maybe I'll do a bonus chapter from Henry's perspective at some point.)

This isn't beta-read, so all grammar and spelling errors are my own, as well as historical inaccuracies, read the tags, I seriously didn't research shit before I started because I knew that if I stopped to research, I would get bored and discouraged. Just take it for what it is. Or don't. I'm not here to tell you how to live. 

I’ll be updating chapters once a week, so if you’re enjoying then look forward to it! Love to you all!

Chapter 1 dedicated to @calystarose and @ librarian-von-sassypants for encouraging me to publish this. Thank you guys ❤️

[spaceroadtrip]

The library

The library

Word count: 957

The library is dangerous. That’s what everyone whispers in the streets, in their homes, and in their hearts. It’s dangerous to stay in there for too long, and it’s even more dangerous to enter alone. But she doesn’t care about any of that. Because the library holds books, and that’s far more intriguing than any rumours of danger.

It’s easy to get lost in the library.

That’s what they tell she when she asks to go in alone. It’s easy to get lost between the shelves and walkways. It's easy to pass by the entrance only once and never find it again, not until the library sees fit to release you. She laughs at them, telling them not to be afraid. It’s just a library, she says to them, what could possibly happen in a library?

She still laughs, in her mind, as she steps through the glass doors. Her hand lingers on the handle for a moment. She pauses, teetering on the doorway and her choice. It would be all too easy just to turn around, to forget about the whole thing and just walk away. And yet … the rows of books inside are far too inviting and so she steps forward. The library is, after all, just a perfectly ordinary building filled with perfectly ordinary books. Nothing to be worried about at all.

 Now that she’s here, everything is different. Faint shadows linger around each corner, shades of the people within. The muffled sounds of battle, adventure, and love follow her every footstep. The noise is quiet though, just at the edge of her hearing. Maybe it's because a library is supposed to be quiet, she reflects. The strange sounds seem to respect that. Odd.

At first, she thought to browse the shelves for a few moments before leaving. Just a quick glimpse inside, so that she can say she’s been in the library and come out again. Her friends will love to hear that, and her family will thank all the gods they can for her safety. she would have a short trip inside and prove everything is fine. There is nothing to fear from printed words, paper, and ink.

The library, however, has other plans.

*

It isn’t clear how long she’s been here, trailing one finger along the spines of books, old and new. Sometimes a clock appears at the end of a row but the time changes every time she looks at it. Maybe it’s been years or only a few hours. She’s not certain and the ghosts aren’t helpful either. They dog her steps, flitting around her. Always just out of sight and always melting away as the light touches them. Sometimes she thinks she recognises some of them, down in the history and biography sections. It’s just her imagination, she decides, nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about at all.

A chair appears when she selects her first book. It’s red and leather and very comfortable. She sinks into it with ease. She tucks her feet beneath her and settles down to read. She’s in a library after all, and the books are meant for reading. Maybe if she reads enough the library will release her to the world she knows. But then, perhaps she will find she doesn’t want to leave after all. Perhaps.

She looks down at the book she chose; the blurb seems promising and the title is catchy. The cover is flicked open quickly, eager eyes ready for the first words of a new tale. Hunger eyes devour the first page and she finds herself leaving behind the chair ... and the library. She tumbles forward, falling through the black words and white lines into a new world. Tentative fingers reach out to touch it. But her flesh hand hits paper words. She sighs in disappointment: for one glorious moment, she had hoped that all the stories about the library were true. Perhaps they aren't but then, the library is full of surprises and surprises her even now. Her eyes flick back to the paper and she reads more. Faint, misty figures dance just beyond her reach and tell the tale in barely discernible movements. The library is giving her a gift and she accepts it.

 Soon enough she’s amassed a pile of books, each of them a door into a new world. The pile is heavy but her steps are light. The ghosts help her carry her stack of stories, directing her slowly towards the front desk. The echoes of stories are louder now as though she is closer. Maybe she is. The library directed her towards those stories she first heard. They were waiting for her, bound in a rainbow of colours and brimming with things all new, new, new. Brand new stories for her to devour. But now the library is ready to ease her out. That’s okay. She now has a reason to return once more, to seek the treasure trove of stories still waiting to be explored.

 At the desk, the wizened librarian stamps out her books. A young man sits beside the old woman, watching her with a knowing grin. He passes the librarian the stamp before turning back to his computer screen. Her books are handed back, and the ghosts swirl around her for the last time. She steps towards the door, swinging it open with one hand, and grasping her overflowing bag in the other.

 Warm sunlight greets her, streaming through the door. she hesitates on the threshold, not sure if she wants to leave. The library gives her a gentle nudge, sending down her the steps into the sunlight. It'll be alright, she thinks to herself, she can come back anytime to choose more books - more treasures - to take home. It'll be alright.

It’s easy to get lost in the library, that's what they always say. But they forget that by being lost in the library, the library will help you find yourself. Now she knows that she can find her heart among the seas of adventure hidden behind paper doors.

[captainsbabysitter-blog]

Stars Collide

Rating: Teenish for some swearing

Warnings: My sad attempts at writing bipolar disorder, child neglect, very brief reference to abuse

Pairing: Reference to future Chris/Phil

Length: 4091 words

Summary: So here’s the long-teased prequel of Christmas Cheer and I Couldn’t Leave Him, found here in my Double Trouble Masterlist. A young Chris deals with bouncing around the foster care system and starting his family of choice. Erin in name stolen blatantly from @gracieminabox and her Horizons Universe which if you haven’t read through her stuff I dunno what you’re doing.

~*~*~*~

The first memory Chris had of his mother was at the age of five, trying to rouse her from bed. Both hands were pointing up on the clock and they were supposed to go the playground that day, but she was still curled up under the thin blanket.

“Mama’s just really tired today, baby,” She mumbled. “Go play in your room.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but she looked so sleepy that the words died on his tongue and he went to the kitchen to get himself some cereal instead. The milk didn’t smell so good so he settled in on the couch with his bowl to munch handfuls of dry, off-brand Cap’n Crunch. Bugs Bunny and his over the top antics couldn’t quite quell the niggling thought that something was wrong.

It took a few days for her to bounce back, but bounce back she did in a big way. Chris came home from preschool to a strong smell of cleaner and the whole place was nearly spotless. A few steps in and he was met with a chiding, “Take your shoes off!” and the look in her eyes almost scared him. They were wide and alive with a kind of focus Chris couldn’t remember ever seeing in her before.

The pattern repeated. She’d be okay for a while- months sometimes- but something would always make her spiral. Sometimes she’d fly so high, but Chris hated those times the most. Those days, he’d often come home to his ball cap hanging off the doorknob with a bag that always had a jar of peanut butter and cracker. He didn’t understand the sounds that came from inside the house, but he knew he wasn’t supposed to go in so he ate the crackers and wandered around the neighborhood until one of the neighbors eventually pulled him inside for dinner and put him to bed in their guest room. On nights when they didn’t, he’d pillow his head with his hat and settle in wherever he happened to feel like it.

That’s how he noticed the stars. As he lay awake staring up at the sky, he marveled at the way it seemed to come alive with a billion points of light the second the sun dipped below the horizon.

One day, not long after his sixth birthday, he came home to find a strange car in the driveway. His hat was nowhere to be found, so he just shrugged to himself and walked in. The quiet murmurs of voices from the kitchen drew him in. A woman was sitting at the table with his mother, a notebook in her hands and she looked so serious.

His mom’s eyes were rimmed red and dried tear tracks streaked her cheeks, but she gave him a weak smile when she saw him there. “Chris, baby… Come over here.”

She lifted him up into her lap and held him close, face burrowing into fluffy curls with a shaky breath. He twisted in her arms to look up at her as he asked, “What’s wrong, mama?”

“I’ve gotta go away for a while, baby. I’m sick and I’m gonna go somewhere where I can get better.”

He wanted to say he didn’t know what she was talking about, but the last year was more than proof enough that something was wrong with her. The woman across the table watched him piece things together until he finally spoke again, “Where am I gonna go?”

“This nice lady? Her name is Beth and she’s gonna bring you to live with another family until I’m better. Then we can be a family again.”

“Your mom is going to help you pack some things so we can get going,” Beth added, her tone so much gentler than her expression. “There’s a foster family lined up for you already.”

That first foster home was okay. Not great, but okay. The Guillmette’s were nice enough, but they were one of maybe five foster homes in the area so their space and resources were stretched thin. He shared a room with five other boys, the room they were in large enough to fit three bunk beds, a couple dressers, and that’s about it. It was crowded, loud, no one had any privacy, and the process of everyone getting up in the morning was so rushed that Chris just waited until everyone else left the room before he even attempted to climb down from his bunk.

Between the sounds of the boys roughhousing and the three girls down the hall shrieking at each other for some offense or another, Chris found himself tucking away in the library down the road until the lights dimmed and the wizened librarian told him it was time to go home more often than not. He would ask his foster mother to pack him a lunch- almost always a peanut butter and jelly with an apple in his Disney lunch box- and he’d make his way to the library where his nose was buried in any book his could get his hands on.

It’s where he decided he’d be a scientist one day. He couldn’t even read a lot of the words in the books he pulled from the shelves, but illustrations of the stars drew him in and he puzzled through as much as he could for days on end.

He was there for nearly a year.

Really, he was excited to go back home. His mother was on a pill that helped her a lot and those days where she couldn’t move out of bed were mostly a thing of the past. Gone, too, were the days of him coming home to peanut butter and crackers on the door and the nights of tucking in at the neighbors’. Things seemed almost normal.

Until the day he came home and she was tucked away in her room. After a couple days, he gave in and called Beth; if she helped last time, maybe she could help now.

His second foster home wasn’t as nice. It was less crowded, but it was in the middle of nowhere on a huge farm and he was expected to help out with the chores every morning. The sun wasn’t even up yet the first morning he was roused from slumber to drag heavy buckets out to the animals. When the bucket spilled from his hands, sending feed everywhere, the other kids just stared at him. He had welts on his behind by the time he left for school that made sitting in class torturous.

The pattern repeated itself year after year. His mama would spend time at the asylum, get on her medication and get better, they’d both go back home and be okay for a while, but she would always stop taking her medication when she was feeling good for a while. It didn’t matter that her doctors always said she had to keep taking it.

Beth was replaced with Eliza who was replaced by Alice. It didn’t seem like his social workers stuck around for long before another fresh-faced, well-intentioned person would take the place of harried, overworked workers experiencing burnout long before they hit retirement. Chris didn’t really bother letting himself get too attached after Beth left around the time he hit the age of eleven. He never let himself get attached to his foster families. Inevitably, he’d be sent back to his mother or be bounced to a different house and he’d never hear from any of them again. The library of whatever town he lived in became his only stability.

Then came the day that changed it all. Eliza showed up for her usual appointment and asked to speak to him alone. He was twelve, and not really sure what to expect.

“Chris… I know we said you would be going home soon, but…” She bit her lip and tried to find the right words. “Your mother is being committed indefinitely. Do you know what that means?”

“That she’s not coming home this time,” he answered dully, brain not fully wrapping around the idea. “Am I staying here?”

“For now, yes. You’re going to be put up for adoption, and you might end up in a different home on a more permanent basis. Do you have any questions?”

“No, ma’am…”

It wasn’t until he hit his teen years that he finally made a friend that wasn’t a librarian. He was hidden away in his usual corner until someone settled in on the other side of the couch. Mousy brown hair, glasses with frames so large they practically covered her face, and a hand-me-down striped shirt that probably belonged to an older brother or cousin at some point scrunched up over her hands while she read.

“I’m Erin,” she offered when she noticed him looking at her. “You mind if I sit here?”

“Chris… Go ahead, I guess,” he shrugged and buried his nose deeper into his book.

After a while of silence, Erin piped up again, “What’re you reading?”

“A book on astrophysics…”

“So that’s what? Stars and stuff?”

“Pretty much.”

She wrinkled her nose. “But it’s so dark and cold up there. Fish are cooler.”

Now he knew he probably wasn’t getting back to his book. “We’re in the desert. Where the hell would you even find fish that aren’t in the pet store?”

“I’m not gonna be here forever, you know. Are you?”

“No. I’m gonna go to MIT and be a scientist. Study space.”

“Where’s MIT?”

“Boston. It’s a really hard school to get into.”

“Is that why you’re here so much?”

That made him look up again. “How do you know I’m here a lot?”

Erin shrugged and pushed her glasses back up her nose. “Because I’m here a lot, too. You sit here all the time. You can go back to reading now I’ll be quiet. Promise.”

That first day turned into several weeks of the two of them reading mostly in silence. The silence evolved into talking about what they were reading. Quiet discussions in the library turned into Chris reading through Erin’s short stories while she edited his essays. He helped her with science and math while she walked him through the finer points of Shakespeare.

Their sophomore year found them in the same school. Chris had been moved to yet another foster home that finally put him in the same school district as his best, and really only friend. All their classes matched up and their library sessions turned into partnering up for homework.

On one such day, Chris found himself curious in a more biological way. Erin had blossomed a little over the summer and her flat chest had swelled to a nice B-cup. Her hair was always pinned up in a messy bun and her glasses were still too big for her face, but… Something about her was really appealing to Chris.

“Hey Erin?”

“Hm?” She hummed as she gnawed her way through yet another pencil while puzzling over her current writing project.

“Can I kiss you?”

Wary eyes scrutinized him for several long moments. “Why?”

“I dunno… We’ve known each other for years and you’re pretty and easy to talk to and I just think it’d be nice?” He would have continued, but warm, slightly chapped lips were suddenly pressed against his, silencing whatever babbling ramble would have come out next.

It was nice, but something didn’t feel right. They pulled apart almost as quickly as they had come together.

“I don’t think that was right,” Erin said softly.

“No… Me either,” Chris agreed and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Are we… Did I fuck this all up?”

“No, Chris, you didn’t. We’re just not gonna kiss again,” she shrugged and went back to her notebook. “I figured that would happen.”

“What that I’d wanna kiss you or that we wouldn’t like it?”

“Little bit of both. And I don’t think you like-like me anyway. You’re too comfortable with me and when you like someone you act like an idiot. Like when you went out with that girl Andrea last year.”

The memory still burned. Clumsy kisses and shy hand-holding with Andrea crashed and burned when she found out he was a foster kid. Not a brand of heartbreak he was keen to experience again.

“And I take it you don’t like-like me either…”

“No, I don’t,” she agreed before her tone softened to barely above a whisper, “I don’t even think I like men…”

Stunned silence reigned as every thought process in Chris’ brain came to a screeching halt. He stared at her and Erin shrank in on herself as she waited for a reaction.

“No wonder you wanna get outta here,” Chris finally managed. When Erin’s head snapped up to stare at him, he offered up a weak smile. “Don’t worry… Your secret’s safe with me. Promise.”

“But… Why?”

“You’re still Erin? And I’m not exactly in the position to throw away my only friend over something like that.”

He wasn’t expecting the armful of Erin he suddenly had, nor was he really sure what to do. What he ultimately settled for was awkwardly patting her on the back. Before he really knew what he was saying, he added, “And you could always come to Boston with me. Boston marriages are a thing, right?”

So maybe he deserved that elbow to the ribs. And the muttered ‘jackass’ that followed. Not even for a second did he think that the following year, he’d be thrilled to have someone to commiserate with.

His name was Andrew and he was absolutely beautiful. Being sixteen and having enough hormones coursing through his system to strangle all sense from his brain, Chris spent a lot of time in class shooting the other boy longing looks that would have made Erin roll her eyes if she weren’t so busy making the same exact eyes at a new girl in their class named Emily.

“So I think I like men, too,” he announced one day during a study session.

“No shit, Sherlock. What was your first clue?” Erin countered without even glancing up from her history textbook.”You okay with it?”

“Yeah… I think so anyway. I know I can’t exactly tell anyone else. God, if I said anything to Bob or Annie, I’d be tossed out on my ass. Good thing I won’t be their problem in about a year and a half…”

Spending your whole life studying wasn’t too bad when the alternative was to be like some of his foster siblings. At least one of them spent his afternoons behind the dumpster at the local diner scoring whatever drug of the week he was on, and another was barely passing high school. The fourteen year old seemed to be on track to go into trade school in the future, but there was nothing wrong with that. He’d make more of himself than the others at least.

Another bonus was that even if his foster parents barely gave a shit about any of them, his teachers were acutely interested in his future. He kept his head down, did his work, busted his ass through science fairs and even went as far as to take a college class or two through the local community college his senior year. All to sit in Erin’s living room staring at the envelope in his hands, fingers shaking as he carefully ripped it open.

“Dear Mr. Pike… Thank you for your interest in the Massachusetts Institute of Technology’s astrophysics program. It’s our pleasure to inform you that you’ve been accepted… Holy shit, Erin I’m in!”

“You are! Chrissy that’s amazing!” She hugged him tightly, both grinning ear to ear before pulling back and picking up her own envelope from Wellesley. “Now it’s my turn… I’m… I’m in, too. We’re both going to Boston!”

The two of them laughed and hugged each other tightly. When they were done, each settled back onto the couch to read the details of their paperwork. Chris could barely focus on the words his eyes skimmed until he came to a later page. “Erin… I’m going in on full scholarship. Room, board, all that.”

“You’ve worked hard for it. C’mon, let’s fill all this out so we can send it back and keep our spots.”

The rest of the year was a blur. Nothing that happened down there seemed to matter to him unless it had to do with Erin and before they knew it, the two of them were packing up their belongings into Erin’s VW bus and preparing for a cross-country drive from Mojave to Boston. Erin’s parents seemed more at ease knowing Chris was going with their daughter.

“And you’ll call us when you get there?” Her mother asked anxiously.

“We’re stopping at a motel or two along the way and we’ll call you when we stop for gas,” Erin promised while Chris tossed the last of her stuff in. “And with Chris’ route, we should be there in about three days.”

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t drive us off the road, ma’am,” Chris adds, ignoring the dirty look Erin shot his way.

“Thank you, Chris. You two drive safe.”

The drive itself was dull. Music played over the radio and Chris spent most of their time on the road making sure they were following the route he’d plotted out. Any long stretch of highway was spent making plans for Boston.

“We’ll only be about half an hour away from each other, right? So we’ll meet up for homework and coffee? At least once a week, right?”

“At least,” Chris agreed. “And we can find a good library spot to claim.”

“Bookworm buddies unite! One day, when I’m a famous author and you’re the next Stephen Hawking, we’ll go back to Mojave and be superstars.”

“Why the hell would I ever go back to Mojave?”

“For me, mostly.”

“Assuming I don’t drive you away with my stunning personality between now and then, sure.”

If she rolled her eyes any harder, Chris was sure they’d come out of her skull. “If you haven’t driven me off in the last five years, I’m pretty sure you’re stuck with me, Chrissy.”

“You say that now.”

“I say that always.”

Boston was a whirlwind of activity once they got there. The first few weeks, they managed to break their promise to meet up. Chris’ program didn’t waste any time kicking his ass, and Erin almost immediately found herself suddenly the center of a lot of female attention (turned out those womens college rumors were accurate). They both had their hands full, but managed a phone call once a week.

Winter break found them bundled up in the corner of a cafe about halfway between their two campuses. Erin had her girlfriend McKenzie tucked into the booth beside her and Chris listened in entertained silence as the two of them regaled him with their chance meeting and Erin spent more than her fair share of time griping about her finals.

“What about you, Chrissy? Your finals go okay? You get any of your grades yet?”

He groaned and dropped his head to the table. “Even with your help, that literature class probably kicked my ass… I think I kept my grade up enough to keep my scholarship, though. Hopefully.”

“I’m sure you did. You sent me your final draft and I thought it was a pretty good read. About as good as can be expected from a physics student whose brain works faster than the mouth that has to trip along behind it.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

He ended up passing just fine and while Erin flew back home for Christmas, Chris stuck around in Boston. Spring semester started with three snowstorms, delaying the first day of all four of his classes until the second week. The extra time was spent getting ahead on the reading and his notes, hoping his professors would start from chapter one so it wouldn’t be time wasted.

That second week, he found a flyer in the library. Carl Sagan would be at Boston College the first week of February and MIT had a few tickets reserved. He made a beeline for the front desk and asked about securing himself one. No way in hell would he miss out on that presentation if he could help it and the second he had the stub in his hand, Chris raced back to his dorm to tuck it safely away in his physics book.

Now Chris wasn’t a vain man. He didn’t really have the luxury to be, but the day he was set to take the bus over to Chestnut Hill, Christopher Pike spent a solid half hour staring critically at his two button down shirts hanging in the tiny closet of his dorm. There ultimately wasn’t any real reason behind choosing the white shirt; it just seemed like the best choice. Chris shrugged it on and grabbed his wallet and keys on his way out the door.

Three hundred and thirty-eight acres is a maze when you’ve never set foot on the campus before. Chris grumbled to himself and stood in the courtyard as he tried to piece his way through figuring out where he needed to be. That process was interrupted rather rudely by someone else barreling into him.

“What the fuck?” He yelped while barely managing to keep from ending up on his ass. A second later, he was swearing up a storm as hot liquid seeped into the fabric of his shirt and burned his skin.

“Oh shit! God I’m so sorry I wasn’t looking where I was going!” If the guy wasn’t so cute, Chris probably would have decked him. “I’m really really sorry but I’m running late um… Here take my card and just call me later I promise I’ll pay to clean your shirt okay?”

Before Chris could even get a word out, the guy was off like a shot and he was left wondering if that had even happened. The still hot feeling of the coffee soaking into his shirt was the only proof he had that it was real. After he made his way into a bathroom and shucked off his white shirt, he debated what to do for about half a second then just stuffed the damn thing in the trash and zipped up the hoodie he wore under his coat to hide his bare chest.

He didn’t even think about the guy that ran into him until he was back home later that night. The card was tucked in his wallet with the name Philip Boyce and a phone number. From the caduceus on the card, Chris assumed this Phil must be a doctor or a med student at the college.

Would it be worth it to call the guy over a $2 shirt? He was pretty good looking from the brief glimpse Chris caught of him, so maybe he’d get lucky enough to learn he was into guys.

“Fuck it,” he muttered to himself and grabbed the phone. After a few rings, a voice answered on the other end. “Yeah, is this Philip Boyce? Um… My name is Chris. You, uh… You ran into me earlier? In the courtyard at Boston College?”

“Oh! Right. Yeah I’m really sorry about that I was late for class and the professor is a real stickler for punctuality. How much do I owe you for the shirt?”

“About that… I was thinking maybe… You could buy me a coffee sometime instead?”

“Absolutely! Wait… Do you mean like a date? Or just coffee?”

A quick beat passed where a million possibilities flew through Chris’ head at once. Would this guy be okay with it? Would Chris show up expecting a date and get jumped instead? “A… Whatever you wanna call it, I guess.”

“A date, then. I’m swamped this week, but what about next Saturday?”

“Sounds great. I… Guess I’ll see you then? Um… I don’t really know that area well I go to MIT so where should I meet you?”

“How about I go to you? There’s a cafe on campus, right? And probably about a dozen in spitting distance.”

“Yeah… I go to Forbes a lot. I could meet you there?” Chris offered, still not believing the turn the day was taking.

“I’ll meet you there at 3?”

“That’s… Yeah okay. 3. I’ll see you then.” The second the other line went dead, Chris dialed Erin’s number. “Erin? You’re not gonna believe what happened.”

Tagging: @auduna-druitt @pinkamour1588 @thefanficfaerie  @bookcaseninja @ravencourt @ussihavelovedthestarstoofondly @aishahiwatari @reading-in-moonlight @gracieminabox @its-life-jim @insane-sociopath @logicallythyla

[thornswithroses]

Updates

So, I feel that because I've been inactive for a while, I'd just mention a couple of life changes:

I am now a librarian at a community college. Public libraries have always had their problems--clueless administration, workplace bullying, increasing librarian responsibilities while never increasing librarian pay, skeleton crews due to low funding, patron entitlement, etc. Those problems were exacerbated once COVID-19 hit.

I left my old job of five years in a library in my home city. I worked a year at a public library in rural southern Oklahoma. I worked for a year at a public library in Houston. I eventually had to admit to myself that I didn't have the spark for public libraries like I used, so I'm back in my home city and enjoying academia

My black hair is going gray at the temples and sometimes I feel like a silver vixen, other times I feel like a wizened crone that always warns those meddling kids to stay away from that haunted village.

I enjoy fandom things still but I feel different about them in a way I didn't when I was in my twenties. It probably has a lot to do with how much I hate how blurred canon and fandom have gotten over the years and other complicated things I won't get too deep into here. At least not yet.

I am thinking of posting more of my art here. We shall see.