#to do that or largely/entirely not be able to do it / be unwilling to do it; gasp; what's its goal/effect & do they pursue/achieve that

[unproduciblesmackdown]

also a special shoutout for real like wendy epic ableism moments when she stops talking directly to winston and expresses this is b/c he communicates too incorrectly (here too literally or whatever, once again whether he misinterpreted her or she misinterpreted him, it's put on him) and thus he doesn't deserve that

[astraystayyh]

Israel doesn't want to repopulate Gaza, you loveable dummy

Seriously, find one Israeli on this site who'll say otherwise. And no, quoting Ben Gvir doesn't count (assuming you even know who that is) anymore than quoting, say, Rudy Giuliani would count for anything, even though he supposedly spoke for the president of the USA for a time.

Hamas has 136 hostages. Including women, and actual literal babies, assuming they're still alive, that is. This could all have ended weeks ago if they'd fucking returned them. Israeli society would physically march on Benjamin Netanyahu's home and remove him in a coup if the hostages were returned tonight. But as long as they have Israeli people, and are unwilling to negotiate their return, that's an ongoing war crime. Is Israel evil for being a bull in a China shop trying to get back a "mere" 136 innocent civilians? Maybe. But Hamas started this and they can end it, they just don't want to. Please, justify that.

Hello, since you asked for one Israeli, here, I'll give you multiple statements:

Hundreds of activists at an Ashdod gathering in late November called for the reestablishing of Jewish settlements. “Let it be known that you support the appeal to renew Jewish settlement throughout all of the Gaza Strip. The nation is waiting for you”— Yossi Dagan, head of the Samaria Regional Council.

Israel “should fully occupy the Gaza Strip”— Heritage Minister Amichai Eliyahu, of the far-right Otzma Yehudit party.

An Israeli real estate firm pushes to build settlements for Israelis in Gaza. “Wake up, a beach house is not a dream” reads the ad.

Israeli Knesset member Limor Son Har Melech posted a video of herself in a boat with other settlers off the coast of Gaza. “Settlement in every part of the Gaza Strip … A large, extensive settlement without fear, without hesitation, without humiliation. This land is the land that the creator of the world gave to us.”

Israeli Settler, Daniella Weiss says Palestinians who live in Gaza, have no right to stay in Gaza.

An Israeli soldier saying that Israelis should start “investing” in Khan Younis.

Also why would the words of Ben Gvir not count? He is an elected minister, his words hold weight and they expose Israel’s clear intent to make Gaza inhabitable for Palestinians so that Israelis could settle in there— by destroying the infrastructures, making the health system collapse entirely, bombing entire residential neighborhood, Israel is trying to ensure that Palestinians wouldn't be able to return back to their land, because there is nothing livable left there.

And I'm glad you bring up all of this ending if the hostages were returned— Hamas tried to strike up a deal for the return of ALL the hostages, in exchange of the release of all Palestinian prisoners. Israel refused. You know why? Because this has never been about hostages and their safety for Israel.

There is a reason why Israel shot its own hostages when it mistook them for Palestinian civilians, waving a white cloth. There is a reason why the IDF called to shoot indiscriminately on Oct. 7, knowing that it could kill some of the hostages too. Because Israel wants to kill Palestinians, to "thin out its population" (or maybe we shouldn't take into account the says and actions of Netanyahu too ://). This is why it targets schools and mosques and hospitals and ambulances and refugee camps. Israel knows that if it does get all its hostages back, then there would be nothing to “justify” its genocide in Gaza (although, as UN Secretary-General said : "Nothing can justify the collective punishment of the Palestinian people. The humanitarian situation in Gaza is beyond words")

Israel is the only reason why the hostages aren't fred yet. THEY are unwilling to negotiate the return because they don't want to stop this genocide. What good is a five days ceasefire only for the bombings to return? Do you even realize how psychologically traumatizing it is to have a countdown of when your massacre would resume? The only acceptable deal is for Israel to establish a permanent ceasefire, something that it refuses to do. The only one to blame is Israel.

And you say Israelis would instigate a coup to oust Netanyahu, that's nice, then what? Will you return the land to its rightful people? Will you give back Palestinians their rights unequivocally? Will you call for the dismantlement of Israel that was built on massacres? The reason why Israelis are angry at Netanyahu is rooted in the unresolved hostage situation. Just because you don't support Netanyahu doesn't mean that you aren't a zionist who finds the murder of more than twenty thousands Palestinians justifiable. A young girl had her leg amputated with no anesthesia on the kitchen counter of her home and you talk about “Israel being a bull in a China shop”? You consider the targeted attacks on civilians as careless actions by Israel? It actually astonishes me how inhumane some of you can be.

And here is what Dr. Refaat, who was targeted and murdered by the IDF btw, had to say about this matter:

Whether it's Netanyahu or someone else, it does not matter because Israel as a whole is an occupation, one built on the bloodshed of palestinians.

And it is funny how you choose to distort history whichever way you like it, to regard October 7th as an isolated instance that happened out of the blue. Hamas didn't start anything, Hamas was created in response to the indiscriminate and careless shooting of palestinian civilians in the first Intifada, that was decades ago. October 7th was a resistance to an ongoing colonization, Israel started this when it displaced and murdered palestinians on 1948. None of this would've happened if Israel did not colonize Palestine. It has been 100 days of this ongoing genocide, wake up and stop deluding yourself into a reality where Israel is the victim.

[leth-writes]

Yandere batfam x reader part 4!

The cafe, Little Spoon, was extraordinarily quiet for this time of day; last time you had been the line had been out the door to get a drink, let alone sit at the tables and enjoy a meal. Yet, you supposed the complete lack of jobs and the constant villain attacks had created the perfect storm to kill most small businesses. In that light, you were happy such a small cafe was able to stay open, especially with the encroaching giants in the area. Sitting at the table, picking at your bagel with your head down, you felt shame. Having dumped your entire life story out for TIm and Jason to pick at, you felt weirdly hollow.

It felt like someone had scooped out your insides with a dull spoon, and you stared despondent down at your mangled bagel. Jason was texting again, and Tim was staring into the distance, lost in thought. You got the feeling you were the subject of his reverie. It felt weird, seeing them both so lost in their own worlds, especially after the intense way they had stared as you explained your reasoning behind choosing their family.

You didn’t know what to do now, and shame radiated through your core at facing the victims of your crime face to face. No matter how much you had apologized, and how much they had promised they didn’t mind, it still felt hollow, like you wouldn’t ever be able to make up for what you’d done.

“Well, I sicked Barbara on your landlord; if he’s got any dirt, she’ll dig it up.” Jason sighed as he plopped his phone down on the table, leaning back in his chair. “It’s probably a mafia connection. We’ll have to alert the … authorities.” Tim pondered, still half lost in thought and staring out the window. The idea of your landlord, the very one who had indirectly put you in this situation, and who you still hadn’t seen, having some sort of criminal connection had never crossed your mind; you couldn’t believe it was even possible. Hell, it was the type of thing to happen in film, not in real life! Yet, the more you thought about it, the more it made sense; it would explain the constant patrolling from the bats the last little while, you supposed.  You stared at Tim’s face in profile, noticing the sharp turn of his thin, high nose and his full, pink lips. You couldn’t believe you were soulbound, destined to have some sort of relationship that only time would reveal. You weren’t sure what your next steps were, but you felt guilty enough to do whatever Tim and Jason would suggest.

Jason abruptly stood up, making meaningful eye contact with Tim. “Hey, I’ll get you a coffee. Want anything else to eat besides that poor bagel?” He questioned you, a half-smile gracing his chiseled face. You shook your head mutely, unwilling to ask for even more. Besides, you weren’t feeling hungry, the anxiety killing any appetite you may have. Tim had turned to look back out the window, so you occupied yourself with glancing around the small room. The only other customer was a young Asian woman, maybe mid-twenties, with choppy black hair ending at the nape of her neck and flaming her face in floaty whisps. She was looking down at her phone, small mouth upturned into a smile, with her chocolatey dark eyes locked onto her screen. She was giggling slightly, evidently at the response from whoever she was texting.

As you attempted to get a closer look at her screen, both out of boredom and curiosity, Jason crossed your line of sight and sat a large porcelain cup and saucer in front of you. “Here,” he started, “It’s hazelnut. Drink up, then we can leave for the manor so you can meet the others”. You took a small sip as he sat down, looking behind you toward the door. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t really feel comfortable going to the manor. I can’t impose on your family, not after everything I did…” You responded, taking another sip of the rich, thick drink. Jason huffed playfully, rolling his eyes and smiling. “I told you it’s fine. You aren’t the first and you won’t be the last, but you’re definitely the cutest,” He smirked as you hiked your shoulders toward your ears in embarrassment. “Listen, the least you can do is meet the others. I’m sure they’d love to get to know you for who you really are, they’ve been curious for ages,” Tim turned toward you, staring earnestly into your eyes and gently gripping your free hand. 

“I… I don’t know…” You said hesitantly, pausing to take a large sip of the drink and glance out the window. What did you have waiting for you? Your apartment was empty and the neighbors weren’t exactly great company as of late, and the constant rejection while looking for work was definitely taking its toll. You yawned, overcome with a wave of sudden exhaustion. Your adrenaline must have crashed after it spiked earlier, you supposed. Through the fog of the exhaustion, you found yourself nodding along to their gentle affirmations as they led you out to the car that was now parked in front of the cafe. If you were more conscious, you would’ve questioned it, but the exhaustion wiped you out and you ended up passed out, laid over Tim’s lap as he ran his hand down your back and whispered reassurances.

Getting in the car was the final mistake that sealed your fate.

[watcherintheweyr]

'Rhaenyra is a bad mom bc she knowingly gave birth to bastards and she knew how much danger they'd be in!!!!'

1. She had no way of knowing those babies wouldn't pop out looking exactly like her, beforehand. And unfortunately she couldn't stop at Jace. The throne needed an heir. Driftmark needed an heir. And a spare was needed as well, given the sheer rate of Targaryen children dying untimely deaths.

2. She had to provide heirs to the throne, and to Driftmark. If she hadn't, society wouldn't have blamed Laenor, they would have blamed her- which makes her position even more unstable, bc then she 'can't fulfill a woman's duty' so why would men think her 'able' to fill a 'man's role' by ruling the kingdom? And she and Laenor tried. He was either unable (meaning infertile or impotent, or unable to get it up), or unwilling. (And they did try. We dont know what they tried but Rhaenyra is shown to be clever in the show so honestly i have no doubt she attempted what Margaery suggested with Renly.) Laenor was in on the entire thing. He was aware of every part of this. He wasn't duped, he wasn't cuckholded- it was a plan greenlit by him, bc this way he and Rhaenyra would both have their heirs and a family. This cannot in any way shape or form be compared to Cersei cuckholding Robert (fuck Robert Baratheon tho), seeing as Robert was **not** at all aware that his children weren't his, and wouldn't have been OK with that.

Either way- she chose not to maritally r*pe her husband and put him through more trauma after it was clear their attempts weren't working. Yall are always so upset for Alicent (rightfully so, bc show!alicent was maritally raped, even if it wasn't considered as such in that time), but you... WANT Rhaenyra to do that to Laenor? Hello???

[And no. Rhaenyra did NOT rape or coerce Criston Cole. The actors, writers, and directors have all stated their sex was consensual and 'an act of love.' It was Rhaenyra going to someone she felt close to and trusted after feeling abandoned and unwanted and betrayed. In that scene you literally watch, as after Cole tells Rhaenyra to stop undressing herself, she moves aside so she isn't blocking his way to the door. The director states that the moment they show Cole folding and setting down his cloak was him choosing his desire over his oaths. And Criston Cole has known Rhaenyra since she was 14. He knew damn well the sort of person she was- and she was not the person who would have harmed him for saying no. She was an intoxicated and emotionally vulnerable 19 year old- Criston was in his late 20s to early 30s. And it's explicitly stated in ep.9 that the ONLY person a Kingsguard cannot refuse is the king. In ep.7 Criston disobeys a direct order from Alicent when she wants him to mutilate Lucerys. Criston Cole was not assaulted. Stop trying to assign Aegon's sins to Rhaenyra so that you can feel better for supporting him.]

3. In the books, the rumors of their bastardry at large halted when all of Rhaenyra's boys' cradle eggs hatched. The ONLY people who continued to try and raise issue were the core green faction. But the realm at large *did not give a fuck* why? Because every actually relevant party claimed those boys. Repeatedly and without flinching. Laenor claimed and loved those boys even face to face with Alicent's bullshit. Corlys claimed and love those boys- he was proud of them, and it's been stated by the actor in the show that Luke was his favorite- that given the... events of ep.10, Corlys will be out for blood. And Viserys repeatedly insisted upon their legitimacy- because Laenor and Corlys claimed them, because he knew that by forcing Rhaenyra to marry Laenor in order to repair the damage his insults caused House Velaryon, that he had backed her into a corner.

Rhaenyras boys are remembered to history as Velaryon. Even **Green supporters** noted that they were good, capable, intelligent, and **worthy** princes. That their deaths were unfortunate *for the realm.*

Legally, those boys are legitimate. They cannot be proven illegitimate without Laenor renouncing them, and he never did. Furthermore, trying to declare children illegitimate due to their appearance is a stupid, dangerous precedent. The fact that it's people who have no ties to House Velaryon pushing these rumors and pushing for disinheritance makes it even worse, because they're meddling in the succession of a House that *is not theirs.* if that became a standard, imagine the feuds and conflicts that would erupt- lords pushing for the children of rivals to be declared illegitimate all for the sake of trying to grasp and steal land, power, and influence as a norm? The realm would tear itself apart. Not to mention the sheer danger that would place women in, in Westeros.

Furthermore, even whilst usurping her, even while calling her children bastards, the Greens also imply Laenor's homosexuality was inherited by the Velaryon princes- that they would use Rhaenyra's 'promiscuity' and Laenor's 'predilections' to turn the Red Keep into a brothel- ironic, considering that's more what Aegon would've done. So even while claiming that Rhaenyras children are bastards that shouldn't inherit, they try to state that what the boys inherit or learn from Laenor makes them unfit for the throne. They can't keep their own damn story straight- because their usurpation was never about what is moral, what is right, or the greater good. It was about greed. Power. Sexism.

It doesn't matter what those boys looked like, especially seeing as Rhaenys had dark hair in the books. What matters is that Corlys and Laenor and Viserys claimed them and declared them legitimate, and that they **never** deviated from that.

As for Vaemond, he was a second son. And he waited until Corlys and Viserys were dying and too ill to stop him to make a grasp for power. Youre not supposed to look at that and feel hes in the right. Youre supposed to look at that and see a man consumed by greed, and literally trying to bury Corlys' will and intentions before the man is even in a grave. He was NEVER Corlys' heir- he just wanted power. It wasn't about his House, or their legacy, it was about him.

(And before yall start shit about Rhaenyras boys stealing Laena's girls' inheritance... Rhaena and Baela are *TARGARYEN*. Not Velaryon. Their claim was to the throne or to any holdings in Daemon's name. NOT to Driftmark.)

Rhaenyras boys being betrothed to Rhaena and Baela tied up any issue of 'Velaryon blood.' Baela would have been queen consort of the seven kingdoms at Jace's side, and they very clearly adored one another in book and show. Rhaena would have been Lady of the Tides- which she never would have had a chance for, without Rhaenyra (and Laena) making those betrothals. She and Luke were also canonically very close- and in show she's very encouraging of him whenever he looks nervous or uncertain. They had a bond.

Rhaenyra stole nothing. She gave those girls more. And she loved them- they were the only daughters she got to have, seeing as the Greens treachery caused the early death of baby Visenya. If she hadn't loved them, she wouldn't have trusted Rhaena to look after Joffrey or give her Morning's egg from Syrax. She wouldn't have immediately invited both girls to the table when she was queen, which is something her father did not do for her until much, much later. He allowed Rhaenyra's voice to be silenced too often when she was first made heir. Rhaenyra did not repeat that hurt to her girls or her boys.

Anyways, moving on.

You lot do also remember that Rhaenyra herself has Velaryon blood, right? Jaehaerys I's mother was Alyssa Velaryon. Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya the Conquerors' mother was Valaena Velaryon. It's not immediate, but there *is* Velaryon blood through *all* of Rhaenyras boys.

Ultimately, Rhaenyras boys were only in danger because of the core Green faction usurping the throne. If they hadnt- no succession crisis or rebellion could have truly threatened Rhaenyras boys- because none of them would have had dragons. All of Rhaenyras children loved one another- her sons by Daemon would not have turned on her sons with Laenor (and Harwin). They were a true, loving family- possibly one of the healthiest and most close knit one House Targaryen ever boasted.

And another thing... 'her having babies with Harwin was stupid, she should have picked someone Valyrian!'

Here's the thing. Rhaenyra had to be careful as hell choosing who would father her and Laenor's heirs. She had to choose someone who was physically close, and who could be trusted. Someone who wouldn't try to publicly claim those boys in boast or jealousy. Someone who would keep their mouth shut and had no ambition of their own in regards to the throne. Do you really think Vaemond Velaryon (as I see him suggested a lot) would've kept his mouth shut? That he wouldn't have tried to use this to blackmail Rhaenyra and Laenor for more power and status? Do you think Rhaenys would have ever fought for or supported Rhaenyra if Rhaenyra had tried to have Corlys sire her children? And flying to see Daemon in Pentos and having a purely Valyrian child 9 months later would have made things look even more suspect.

Furthermore... she chose someone who cared for her deeply. Who clearly had a positive relationship with Laenor. She chose someone so she wouldn't have to traumatize herself- she took power over her body in a way almost no Westerosi woman has ever been able to. They were a family unit- Rhaenyra, Laenor, and Harwin. Those children were loved and cherished by two fathers and their mother. They were raised never doubting their mothers love, nor their father's- either father. They were raised and educated to be true, good princes of the realm.

Rhaenyra fought like hell for her children. She was an incredible mother. Yall just believe everything the Green faction says without looking at it critically, and that's unfortunate as hell.

[utterlyotterlyx]

The Fox and The Fawn

High Lord Eris x Rhys!Sister!Reader x Azriel

Part Five

Summary - After an intense meeting at the boarder, Eris and Lucien return home tight lipped and unwilling to ruin the night, and you discover something you thought was impossible.

Warnings - angst, fluff, Rhys being a grade A prick, our favourite found family back at it again, drinking, mentions of sex, some Eris background, Lucien being a meddler, a little trip down memory lane

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four

HAPPY 600! 🥳

Be careful.

Eris would ensure he was. For you, he would contain his fiery rage, he would conform himself to the mask he had to wear around those from the Night Court. He would do anything to make sure he returned home to you.

Part of him was glad that Lucien had coaxed him away the moment he had secured you inside Fir Manor in the arms of Nesta and Elain, if he saw those rounded eyes of worry, he was sure that he may not have been able to walk away from you.

Sweat coated his brow as his weight crunched at the leaves and fallen branches beneath his feet. Of course Rhys had chosen to meet where Autumn met Winter, Kallias cared little when the High Lord of the Night Court would prowl onto his lands, and Rhys wouldn't dare to stand in Summer or Spring after what he and his Inner Circle had done to both of those courts.

The air had turned cold and the ground frozen a few miles back, the cold shrill of Winter swarmed around Eris and Lucien, and they were glad that they had made the smart decision to shroud themselves in their fur lined coats for what was sure to be a frosty meeting indeed. Though, Eris was glad that he had chosen the Winter boarder to say his piece, it meant that he was as far as possible away from you.

They had winnowed most of the way, hounds in tow bar Willow who had refused him to stay with you, coiling up on the porch and watching her master disappear into the forest. Lucien had groaned when they had landed at the foot of a rather large hill lined with an array of snow-kissed trees, Eris had smirked at the sound but willed his brother onward.

"Promise me that you won't let him get under your skin." There was still an ocean full of unspoken words between the two brothers, ones that voiced Eris’ regret and longing, that voiced all of guilt and desire to make things right.

In a way, it was easier for him to convince Lucien of his true nature now that they had something in common bar their looks, it was the shared need to protect you, to let you grow into your own person and watch on as you drove down your own path.

Eris frowned softly, he couldn't exactly blame Lucien for thinking that such a thing was possible, he hadn't exactly played the role of a loving brother or male in general. "I won't, Lucien. There is nothing he could say or offer to make me even consider it." That being handing you back over to the Night Court.

It wasn't something that he needed to say, neither of them wanted to even think about it as they continued upward.

"I know that you have no reason to trust anything I say after everything I've done to you," Lucien fell to Eris' side and glanced sidelong at him, not knowing what was coming next, "But I hope you can believe me when I say that I won't let any harm come to her. I have abided by every decision she has made, all I wish for is her happiness. I want her to grow and build her own life. All I can do is gently nudge her in the direction she is hesitant to follow, but I would never make her do anything she didn't wish to."

There was a pause, a comfortable silence as Lucien came to a certain realisation and grinned, "You feel something for her, don't you?" Eris felt the heat rise to his cheeks, the cold of the air making the redness more prominent on them, Lucien laughed, "I knew it from the moment you fought me to sit next to her at that dinner," his smile faltered and he stopped walking, he examined his brother, the one whose entire façade faltered the moment he noticed that you were around, "After everything that's happened, y/n deserves a chance to find her own passions away from the influence of anyone."

"I know that-"

"I wasn't finished," Lucien rolled his eyes and continued the ascent, passing Eris who trailed him by a step, "Despite everything, I do believe that she's better off here, with you. It's like you see her like how Nesta, Elain and I do but in a slightly different way, you see her in the way she deserves to be seen, in the most candid and gentle way possible," Lucien looked to Eris with understanding, "She deserves that, to be seen and understood and listened to, to be involved in every conversation, to be able to show everyone who she really is.”

The conversation died at the exact moment when the Vanserra brothers reached the apex of the mound, spotting the three Illyrians through the break in the trees that coiled around their figures, as if in warning to stay far far away.

The mask.

Right.

Rolling his shoulders, Eris was ashamed to drown his soul in the brutal essence which he often forced himself into, and he never wanted you to see just how bad it could be. Whisps of his breath floated from his lips, curling upward and freezing in the air.

"Thank you for waiting. Lucien couldn't keep up," the namesake scoffed in response as the pair approached the boarder, thanking the Mother of that intact shimmer which told them that the wards very much still up, and very strong. Eris folded his arms over his chest, finding the nearest tree and leaning on its rough bark before drawling, "You got me here, Rhys. Better start talking."

It was clear that Rhys was on the brink of losing his sanity, his eyes were cold and distant, more onyx than their usual violet hue, his wings were furled around his sides, and Lucien nor Eris could tell if he meant them to be intimidating. He appeared to them dishevelled, messy black hair, a certain paleness to his skin, an unhinged glare in his eye.

"I appreciate you taking the time to meet with us," he motioned to Azriel and Cassian, the latter of which looked more broken than Lucien had ever seen him, no doubt reeling in the loss of his mate, "I hope we don't keep you for long."

"Tell me what you want, Rhys. I don't have time for pleasantries," Eris plucked an invisible thread from the stitching of his coat and looked toward the High Lord.

The fake politeness was doing little to convince Eris of anything other than that Rhys surely was the most manipulative male he had ever come across, he stole that crown right from Beron's decaying corpse.

Resisting a snarl, Rhys exhaled deeply, unclenching his fists as he began a perfectly practiced speech, "My sister is not quite herself at the moment, I fear that she has made the wrong decision in residing in your court, her mental state has always been rather brittle," he took a step toward the boarder, his toes kissing the edge of that shimmering glare, "Give her back to us so that I can ensure that she receives the proper care."

"If y/n desires to return to the Night Court then she can, I'm not stopping her from doing whatever she wishes," Eris replied flatly, completely unphased to the words that were making his blood boil in his veins, did Rhys really have the gall to suggest that you were insane?

Azriel spoke then, realising that there was no realm of possibility where Eris would willingly give you back, "You stole her from the Day Court. Some would call it war-inducing."

There it was, the threat, Eris smiled, "Is that what you want? Another war?"

"I will do whatever is necessary to ensure her safe return to her home court."

Lucien moved to Eris' side, his muscles contracting with anger, "The Night Court is no longer her home," his voice was stoic and unnerving, his gaze daggered between the three Illyrians, "Eris did not steal her, she decided with her own strength to walk away from you, and she is already better for it."

Then, Rhys grinned, his power rattling against the wards around the Autumn Court, "I think you'll find, Lucien, that y/n belongs to me, she is property of the Night Court, her blood is a powerful tool that we can use to solidify our line. Since she is unmated, with no claim to her hand, it does mean that as long as she breathes, she is mine."

The words were a statement, and Rhys' voice did not falter. It was an old tradition, one marred in hatred and sadness. You were the daughter of a High Lord, and when he died, the archaic responsibility of marrying you into a suitable line fell to Rhys.

"I do suggest that you hand her over, I would hate to decimate your court, Eris. Especially when you've been working so hard to rectify the tyranny of your father," Rhys' hand drifted over his heart in mock sympathy.

There was no way in Hel that Eris would ever do such a thing, and he knew that there was no easy way for Rhys to willingly wage war on another court after what Prythian had only begun fully recovering from.

It was risky, but he couldn't let Rhys think he had him pinned to the frozen dirt like a snow fox to a bunny, "Rally your armies then, Rhysand, because there's no reality that exists where I would ever hand her over to you," then a feline smirk consumed his face, he ran his hand through his hair of fire and struck hard, "It seems to me that you only wish for her return so that no one learns what she is capable of. I intend to let her find out, and perhaps when the others realise too, of her story and what you've done, we may have High Queen on our hands."

Darkness exploded from him, his arms elongated into talons, his wings grew and creaked at the stretch like leather, he roared, an inhuman sound that sent shivers prickling down Eris and Lucien's spines; and even Azriel and Cassian had to step back with wide eyes at the sight of it.

Bingo.

With a graceful bow, Eris turned on his heels, beckoning his growling hounds whose hackles had raised to the skies, "I wish you a safe journey home, Rhysand. Send Feyre our collective regards," he called over his shoulder, not even flinching at the roar that flew threw the air.

They had what they wanted, the reason for Rhys' insistence, he knew that you had the power within you to be granted the highest honour of their world, and he had worked his entire existence to stop that from happening.

If Rhys wanted a war, then that's what he would get. Eris would rain hellfire over Prythian, and he knew for a fact that you would stand beside him smiling the entire time.

Eris and Lucien couldn't have been more relieved to be back at Fir Manor, the warmth of the estate shook their frozen bones back to life and they bristled off the jagged edges left by the words exchanged with Rhys.

Stones clunked together under their feet, but a hand on his arm stopped Eris moving to the house that was glowing with the essence of you. Golden light emitted from the windows and kissed the cobbled path before it, and girlish laughter drifted from the open windows along with the most divine smell.

"Before we go back in, I have to ask you something," Eris tensed and turned to his brother, his hair was unbound down the back of his fur coat, his mechanical eye surveyed him inquisitively, "Did you mean what you said back there? You'd go to war for her?"

Eris could had scoffed at the question, he removed his arm from his brothers grip and turned to the manor, smiling at the sight of you, Nesta, and Elain all dancing before the window, the neck of a wine bottle in your fingers and a sweet melody falling from your lips. Elain was cradling Willow in her arms who looked thrilled to be involved whilst Nesta had her own arms wound around your waist.

"Would you go to war for Elain?"

"Without question."

The sound of Eris' message being received was enough, but he spoke, "I have a feeling it won't come to that though. Call it a hunch."

Lucien hummed, not quite sure of what Eris meant, but followed after him as he paced down the path and up the porch steps, flinging the door open and grinning at your startled state as you fumbled to hide the wine bottle behind your back, "You're back," you whispered to him, the strap of your form fitting green dress falling over your shoulder which you didn't move to lift as you gazed at him.

His face was prickled with cold, his cheeks flush from walking into the heated manor from the wild winter winds; Eris shrugged off his coat and lay the garment over the arm of one of the armchairs of the seating area, pulling his sleeves up to expose his forearms, "I'm back."

"I'm here too, just in case anyone wanted to know," Lucien all but rolled his eyes at you as he passed, pressing his lips to Elain's forehead who fell into his embrace with Willow still firmly swaddled to her body, "Who's been cooking? I could smell it from outside," he delved deeper into the house despite Elain's scolding telling him that dinner wasn't ready yet.

Nesta followed the pair with a groan, taking the bottle of wine from behind your back and muttering something about saving the meal from Lucien's paws, leaving you and Eris alone.

Fiddling with your fingers, you took a step toward him, noticing a strand of his hair fall over his face and watching as his fingers moved to rake it back, such a thigh-clenching thing to witness. "How was it?"

"It was fine," his eyes still held a cold glare to them, one that was waning the longer it was fixated upon you, "We got what we needed."

"Which was?”

The nerves radiating from you were making even Eris feel nervous, he tiled his head to the side and took a step closer to you, his hands at his sides, "Not worthy enough to talk of now. Let's have tonight as a newly formed found family, and tomorrow, we can talk. I'll tell you everything you want to know."

Another step forward was taken by you, the hem of your dress swaying at the motion. You were so close to him that he could feel your warmth seep into his bones, so close that his cold breath made your own cheeks flush red.

It felt natural, to close the gap and fling your arms around him, to bury your face into his chest and deeply inhale his scent like you needed that to know that he had come back to you. There was a single beat where Eris just stood there frozen to the ground, but he slowly ran his fingers up your sides until one of them rested around your waist and the other cradled the back of your head, his nose rested atop of you, his lips ghosting at your hairline.

"I was worried," you admitted, squeezing him closer, thinking that if you didn't tell him that then he would think you weren't appreciative of the position he was now in.

Eris chuckled, it was low and rough, swirls of fire danced around your figures and his thumb rubbed small circles into the back of your neck, "You can't be rid of me that easily, Fawn."

The scampering of steps made you pull back from him, and he yearned to hold you again without a care about who would see and what they would say. Lucien entered the room once more holding a beautifully decorated cupcake in his hand, a raised brow on his face and fighting a smirk once he noted your closeness, "These cakes are amazing, y/n."

"Thank you, Lucien," you swayed back and forth on the balls of your feet, your eyes drowsy with drunkenness.

"I sent for dinner for your three, why are you cooking?" Eris asked, confused, only a fool would turn down food from the Autumn Court chefs.

Nesta shrugged, plopping herself down on one of the deep rooted chairs, licking her fingers free from icing, "Elain sent them away, says she can do better."

"Which you're now all ruining thanks to her cakes," Elain's hands were on her hips and she pointed to you, her apron was coated in flour, her hair was strewn up and messy, and it was clear that she was busy cooking before you and Nesta had pulled her from the kitchen to dance, "They are rather lovely, y/n. You should be thrilled."

Eris' heart fluttered as you turned to him, a hopeful glint in your eye, "Would you like to try one? I think you'd like them," he couldn't speak, he couldn't find the words really.

The firelight made you look ethereal, the golden flames danced in the glistening pools in your eyes, so pristine that he could see himself in them, "I'm afraid that I don't have much of a sweet tooth," your smile faltered, "I'm sorry."

The gaze he felt on his face was enough to make him warm the blood in warning to its owner, Lucien coughed, red faced and watering eyes and you turned to him with worry before he strained the words, "Sorry, crumb," a lie.

"Okay," you whistled, not at all noticing the silent daggers drifting between the two Vanserra brothers, which was odd considering how observant you usually were, perhaps it was the wine floating to your head.

Maybe you were letting your guard down and didn't feel the need to be watching everyone anymore.

Eris watched you retreat into the kitchen with Elain, waiting until you were out of view before he readied himself for Lucien, "I cannot remember a time when you denied yourself a dessert."

"Things change."

"Not with you they don't," Lucien stared after his mate, his eyes full of love and desire, full of possibility and thoughts of the future.

When the news had spread of Lucien and Elain's mating, Eris was truly happy for them, out of everyone he knew his brother was the one most deserving of that happiness, of that type of love. Eris couldn't say the same for himself, he didn't think he deserved any light after the things he had done, after the atrocities he had inflicted over the course of his existence. Having a mate was something he could never allow himself to dream of, everything he touched turned to ask, his fire and mask too cold to allow anyone close enough.

Eris had depleted his worth, he never let anyone touch him, he would cower from it like a wounded animal. Even when he laid with the courtesans, their time together was restricted to just sex, no kissing, no holding one another, just unsatisfying sex that made him bathe in self-loathing whilst his partner relished in the feeling of being fucked by fire.

There was always a part of him that felt unworthy, his father had gone as far to tell him so, multiple times. Every touch sent him spiralling into memories, ones of mutilation and marring, but when you had touched him, when you had wrapped your arms around him and held him close, he didn't feel the need to shrink away or unwind you from his body. All he wanted to do was keep you there forever, and that, that was something remarkable on its own.

You may have been Prythian's darkest secret, but he found you to be the only thing worth fighting for.

His salvation.

It wasn't long after dinner that you had disappeared from view.

It didn't take Eris long to embark on his search from you, excusing himself from the table that had long since gone quiet without your teasing stories of your upbringing and playdates with the High Lord beside you.

Eris didn't think that you would remember your visits to Autumn when you were a child, thinking that you were too young to retain the memories that he had held onto tightly. You were such an innocent little thing back then, and he remembered his wonderment when you had seen the orange ring in your eyes, displaying his own fire to compare the two and enjoying the sound of your giggles far too much.

He was sure that there was talk of a union between the two of you, he remembered the hushed whispers and beaming smiles of pride as both sets of parents gazed at the two of you playing in the corner with Lucien and Rhys adjacent. Though, neither of your brothers could steal your attention away from the other.

It was what he had held onto all of those years apart, in the moment when the light began to dim and the abuse began to accelerate, in the times when he wondered where you had gone. There were gaps in his mind, like memories had been stolen and locked elsewhere because he couldn't truly remember the last time he had seen you before the time he had caught a glimpse of your wingless figure wandering the halls Under The Mountain.

Eris wandered down the halls of the manor, following your scent that clung to the walls, absentmindedly pondering where exactly he would place a portrait of you in the vast home.

The sound of gentle whimpers entered his earshot and he stopped in his tracks, turning his head to the side to listen harder. He knew that the whimpers were coming from you, they weren't scared ones, but ones of pain, and his heart raced in his chest at the mere thought of you being in any form of pain under his roof.

Knocking softly on the door to your room, his old room, the grandest chamber in the entire manor, he waited patiently and listened to the shuffle of your feet and the soft padding of your companion before the door opened to reveal your strained features and a certain hound peeking around the wood, "You left."

Turning from him, you winced, leaving the door open enough for him to let himself inside, "I get these knots under my scars, it feels like I'm being stabbed, and I just need a minute when it starts."

Eris had heard of it, of the pain residing in the bones and muscles of clipped Illyrian females, sometimes so severe that they believe a new pair are pushing their way through the marred crescent moon scars, and breaking a little when they realised that it wasn't the case.

"It's been happening more recently, I think it might be stress related," you huffed out a laugh. It wouldn't be surprising, you had gone through enough to have permanent knots twisting at your shoulders, "Mor or Azriel usually tend to them," your voice was full of longing as you perched on the edge of the chaise lounge before the roaring fireplace. Willow had hopped up onto the plush piece of furniture, spinning in three circles before settling her head into your lap. Eris made a note to scold her for that later.

The tattoo on your arm shone in the golden embers, swirls of shadow and fire intertwining and dancing around your bicep, "I can help."

"Eris," you winced softly as you turned your head to him, "I couldn't ask you to do that, you've done so much already."

"You're not asking," he moved behind you, his fingers hovering over the sheer fabric of your dress that was transparent enough for him to see the muscle contorting under your skin, "If all I can give you is some relief, then I will."

A moment passed as you thought about it, but you nodded, giving him permission to unlace the strings holding the back of your dress together and pull the straps over your shoulders.

Eris' fingers were warm against your skin, you sucked in a breath at the contact, you felt fire spread across your surface as his gently wound his fingers into your flesh, "I want to try something." When you said nothing, he took it as a sign of agreement, he allowed his fire to flow into his fingertips, the heat of them unwinding the knot in your muscles instantly, withering the demon under your skin into the abyss, "Better?"

"Much," you glanced over your shoulder, "Thank you," your eyes were dazed and you smiled at him, your own fingers running down the space between Willow's eyes and down her long nose.

A question had been poking at him the moment he had seen it, the tattoo that glowed in the light, the one that when you looked at it for a moment too long seemed to dance, "That tattoo. It was a bargain?"

A solemn nod, "Yes," you confirmed, "Between Azriel and I," you gazed into the fire and sighed, but you didn't move away from Eris when he took the seat beside you, "We promised that we would always look after one another, that we would never feel harm at the other's hand."

You smiled sadly, "Azriel and I weren't so different, we were both raised by people who didn't particularly want us, burdened with a power we didn't understand. I think we understood one another in a way no one else could, we knew what we needed and when, we basically knew each other better than we knew ourselves," your voice trailed off, "At least, I thought we did," tears pooled on your bottom lids and you blinked hard to rid your vision of their blurry infliction.

Eris watched you shudder, the loneliness and betrayal worming its way into your soul like you had realised the gravity of it all.

Shuffling closer, Eris' thigh brushed against your own, his fingers millimetres away from yours and he gave into his desire to touch you as his index finger curled around your little one. A simple action to show that he understood, and more a singular moment, you let your guard down, the walls tumbled and you felt his power wash over you, kissing your own and sewing together the brittle remnants of your essence.

The room shifted, the world tilted, and you felt a sensation you had never felt before. Looking down, you found black flames licking up your fingers, they danced up your arms and across your connected digits to curl around Eris.

Neither of you moved, you both simply gazed at it, his fire and your darkness moulding together to create a wonderous crackle of flame that didn't burn either of you. It was softly calling out, and you raised your entwined fingers to inspect it carefully.

It was meant to be terrifying, but the personification of your darkness felt more childlike than anything, it was excited and new, and it nestled itself onto both of your limbs.

"I've never seen anything like this before," Eris held your palm atop of his own, his fingers smoothing over your pulse as his eyes found you, examining your face, namely your eyes where the fire in them burnt brightly.

Eris should have cowered away from you, but he loved your touch more than anything, and no matter how fleeting it may be, he would bathe in it for as long as he possibly could. "Neither have I," you tilted your head, realisation was littered on you, "But I've read about it. It's called Carranam, I think." The look in your enlightened eyes told him of the rarity of such a thing.

"You really are a clever little thing, aren't you?"

A sidelong glance and smirk later, you drawled, "You don't even know the half of it, High Lord."

Author's Note

Here she is!!!

Hope you love this and are going just as feral as me right now 🫶🏻

Taglist

@mybestfriendmademe @jesskidding3 @rosewood-cafe @fandomarchiveilyd @brujitafantomatico @crazylokonugget @mai-adaptive-dreams @magicstrengthandcourage @acourtofmoonlightandstars @ysmttty @lilah-asteria @circe143 @xyzmeh @paleidiot @namelesssav @amberlynn98 @acourtofbatboydreams @azrielsmate3 @ivy-34 @mp-littlebit @honeysuckle-daydreams13 @iamjimintrash @ifonlyiwerefiction @pirana10 @donttellthecats @padbaeamidla

[death---dealer]

'come back' this 'why dont you just quit' that SHUT UP ART TAKES TIME and i'M GOING THROUGH STUFF. I swear I'm working on stuff for other characters Caesar is my comfort CHARACTER THO.

Before the Sun.

Caesar was teetering between deep sleep and a lucid state, the fluttering of his eyelids were indicative of that. A soft smile tugged its way onto your expression, fallen with slumber itself as you had only just woken up a minute prior. The Ape King was vulnerable, or at least so you thought as your stare studied the way Caesar was resting on his stomach, his shoulders rising and falling with an inclined pace of drowsiness. It was rare in and of itself to see the broad body of him sleeping, every carnal and primal intent seeped out of the very tips of his fur the night before casting in you in a naked hue beside him.

He never slid his entire large frame on your side, save for the usual arm that was spread against your roused body, ultimately keeping you pinned between the rippled muscles under his thickened furred forearm and the animal hides that helped cushion the nest below on your back. 

It was hard to see the angles of his face much to your displeasure as the dawn had yet to crest itself into the shared bed bringing with it the first morning light that played shadows of delicacies against Caesar’s already sharpened features. Instead, you found your fingers dragging against the grain of Caesar’s furred arm, upwards towards his bicep, never admitting that you longed to have him awake but that was the intent deep inside of your dozy train of thought. 

There was a grumble of a baritone from the Ape beside you. “You… should be sleeping…” “I could say the same.” The retort you had was quick as if you anticipated his words, a smile of acute fondness taking hold against the edges of your lips. Caesar processed your words slowly, hearing the infliction you had used and without even looking towards you, he was able to deduce that you had been smiling. Something he himself desired to see. The Chimp was still lingering in a dream-state as he rolled his gaze open just long enough to make minor eye contact that cause you to yearn to see the green-gold of his irises looking at you and only you as if it were the first time making such intimate contact in the first place. It felt ardent and aggressive, the way that your heart fluttered against your ribcage with his next words, the deep richness like silken honey enough to keep you captivated. “Hm… Council meeting… This morning. Must… Wake soon.”

The words made sense but you were unwilling to waver to them as did Caesar as you were pulled inwards towards him. As if the 'C' shaped position he held his hand against your exposed skin, exploding the nerves to the point of exasperated goosebumps, was gravity itself and you found it difficult not to help the equation by rolling and bringing your face into his neck. You could almost feel the movement of the ripping muscles of Caesar's jugular as he adjusted his head for your placement, always happy and fulfilled to let his face press into the crown of your head as you puzzled your expression into his neck. Eyelids fluttered shut at the impact that felt so natural.

His scent was indescribable as usual to your waking nostrils which then began to tangle happily with the dreams that you imagined were ingrained in some deepened part of your subconscious. Deeply stuck with notes of the Muir Woods, the vines snaking up the trees and musk as if Caesar had accidentally rubbed his shoulder against dampened foliage and the tiny droplets of moisture were still clinging to the frayed tips of his fur.

All so inviting and all too alluring as your eyelids fluttered shut in drowsed bliss for a split second longer than you would have liked as you wanted to do nothing more than admire Caesar before he needed to trudge himself out of the nest to begin his day. Shoulders strong and wide, gait paced and sure. Green and golden catapulted irises that were so intent and detailed on all aspects around him that it was a spectacle itself to watch Caesar scan the Colony in search of answers that bore no inquiry to being with. All things that translated and transcended all attention from Apes and Humans alike in his presense.

“It’s not morning yet…” Your voice is barely above a whisper as Caesar chortled in response, a mixture of innate affection from your teasing phrase and the way that your breath catapulted against his fur, sinking in from the proximity your face was to his thickened neck into his skin below and shattering against it like fire against an ice sheet. Canines peeking out momentarily which captivated your faltering gaze before they rested shut permanently, consumed by the warmth that Caesar always provided along with the shield of protection that always lingered around your Mate.

"The Sun's not even up..." That tapered off with a slumber filled yawn against Caesar's fur, a few strands letting them case between your lips as you beckoned your body closer to the Ape and entangling yourself further much to Caesar's adamance to wake sooner rather than later.

Feeling you soft against his harder body coated with pristine and thickly dense muscles, the ricochets of your breathing along his neck and down the scape towards where his shoulder fused all tempted him to linger, to stay and bide time that was meant for a meeting. Caesar could spare a few moments, maybe even minutes if you wanted to be more persuasive.

You could feel the pressing of ovals against your side as his grip on your tender and naked flesh became more possessive and coated with intentions that were fluttering against the horizon just like the Sun itself. He'd wait to get up until it had risen. Despite it being a Human Technicality. Caesar would have it no other way as he grunted quietly, fusing your body against his to keep warm for the rest of the pre-dawn morn.

[suuuupernovaaa]

Summary: Azriel thought his love was dead.

Warnings: Mentions of violence, torture, blood.

Alive, his shadows whisper to him. She’s alive.

His wings cannot carry him there fast enough. Snow and ice tear at his skin as he flies over Velaris, and sweeps in through Rhysand and Feyre’s front door.

His chest heaves with strangled breaths as he lands in the foyer. “Where is she?” he demands, rough and loud, even though he can’t see anyone. He hears them upstairs, rushing around and whispering.

“Your room, come,” Feyre says, appearing at the top of the stairs, her eyes frantic and her dress bloodied. He clears the large staircase in three bounds, and follows passes Feyre in the hall.

His feet come to a halt at the entrance to his room, and he takes in the sight of her lying on the bed. Two healers attend to her, one on each side.

Her hair, normally so gold it nearly glows, is matted and dark with dirt and blood. There are wounds everywhere, cuts and scrapes on her pale face, exposed neck and arms, and her dress, the same one she was wearing when she disappeared two weeks ago, is dirty and torn.

She’s missing fingernails, part of her right ear is cut clean off, and blood drips from her nose.

Her chest rises and falls - alive, but asleep. He falls to his knees at the end of the bed, and weeps.

—

As I drift slowly towards consciousness, I expect to wake up in the same place that I have been since I was taken. A dungeon, cold and wet, strapped to stone table that is soaked with my blood and the blood of the poor souls before me.

Soon after I wake, he’ll return, with knives and chains and instruments of torture, and he’ll remain until I drift off again.

As the light begins to fill my eyes, I brace myself for his footsteps.

But they don’t come.

Beneath me is not unyielding stone, but a soft bed. Gone is the scent of blood, and I hear no screams.

I smell home. I smell him.

My eyes open slowly, and I’m so tired I can barely do it, but I need to see if it’s true.

He whispers my name when my eyes finally open, and I slowly turn my head to see him there, sitting next to our bed.

For two weeks, I did not cry. I endured in silence, unwilling to give my captors the satisfaction, picturing the very golden eyes that stare into mine now when it got very hard to stay still.

One look at the devastation in my mate’s eyes is my undoing, and I let out a choked sob as the tears begin to flow.

He’s upon me then, pulling me gently into his arms, and I grip him as tightly as I can.

“You’re safe. You’re safe with me, with us now,” he whispers to me, and I feel his shadows enveloping us, as if to hide me from any further danger. Welcome back, they seem to whisper.

It takes a long time before I stop crying and take inventory of my injuries. “How long have I been out?”

“Two days.”

My body feels okay. Sore, very tired, but I don’t feel anything broken beyond repair. At least, physically.

I reach up to touch my right ear, missing its pointed tip. “Ouch,” I hiss as my fingers brush the bandage.

“I’m so sorry. I’m… so sorry,” Azriel says, and I shush him in an instant.

“Absolutely not. I’ll never blame you and I won’t be able to heal if you’re blaming yourself. Do you hear me?” I glare at him, and he glances over my body once, pain deep in his eyes. “Do you?”

He meets my eyes and nods. “Yes.”

“Good. Now please, help me stand up.”

He makes to protest, and I lift my hand.

“I was not allowed to walk or even stand the entire time. I’ll walk now. Just for a moment.”

He supports me then, a grim expression on his face as he helps me into a sitting position, then standing. It hurts, but also feels so good to use my muscles this way. I groan, leaning on Azriel’s strong form for support.

Through the bond, I can feel how scared and exhausted he is. I want to tell him to lay down, to rest, but I’ve known my mate long enough to know he won’t.

We emerge from his room out into the hall, and I gesture towards the library down the hall. It has a large balcony where I can breathe fresh air, and it’s a short walk.

My legs feel stronger with every step, and when the cool night air hits me, I take in a deep breath, savoring the freshness of it. I close my eyes and let my chest fill with it over and over.

“The air in the dungeon was so stale. It smelled rotten, of piss and death. If you’d let me, I’d sleep on this balcony tonight.” I look over at Azriel, whose face is hardened.

“You need to heal, in a soft bed,” he replies.

I smile. “I know. Maybe camping, when I feel better.”

He nods curtly, and I lean my head on his shoulder. I feel his guilt then, deep and painful, as his shadows creep out to wrap around me as if to offer support.

“You need to process your feelings, Azriel. Work through them and release them. You are not to blame for what happened to me, and I need your help to heal myself.”

He looks down at me, almost startled by my words, and a shadow crosses his expression once more.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he replies simply, his voice thick with emotion.

I reach up and cup his cheek, trying not to grimace at the missing fingernails on my hand. They’ll grow back.

“I was not ready to leave you. They could have broken me, if I hadn’t had you to return to. Thinking of being with you again is all that kept me going. Without even being there, you saved me.”

He closes his eyes and presses his cheek into my palm, and a single tear escapes and slides down his golden-brown cheek.

I press a soft kiss to his lips, and he sweeps me up into his arms bridal style, and carries me back to bed.

Tomorrow, I’ll greet everyone else. I’ll thank them for saving me. I’ll cry and hug my family.

Tonight, I’ll sleep safely in the arms of my mate, wrapped in warm shadows.

[alpaca-clouds]

Solarpunk is not archievable under Capitalism

Okay, let me make one thing very clear: We will never have a Solarpunk future as long as we live under capitalism. Again and again I will find people, who have fallen in love with the idea of Solarpunk, but are unwilling to consider any alternative to capitalism. So, please, let me quickly explain what that just is not gonna work out that way. There will be no Solarpunk under capitalism. Because the incentives of capitalism are opposing anything that Solarpunk stands for.

So let me please run over a few core points.

What is capitalism?

One issue that a lot of people do seem to have is understanding what capitalism even is. The defining attribute of capitalism is that "the means of production" (e.g. the things needed to create things) are privately owned and as such the private owners will decide both what gets created through it and who will get a share in any profits created through them. The ultimate goal in this is, to generate as large as a profit as possible, ideally more and more profit with every year. In real terms this means, that most of those means of productions in the way of companies and the like are owned mostly by shareholders, that is investors who have bought part of the company.

While capitalism gets generally thaught in schools with this entire idea of the free market, that... actually is not the central aspect of capitalism. I would even go so far to argue something else...

The market is actually not free and cannot be free

The idea of the free market is, that prices are controlled by the concept of supply and demand, with the buyer in the end deciding on whether they want to spend their money on something and being able to use that power to also enact control on the supplier.

However... that is actually not what is happening. Because it turns out that the end consumer has little influence, because they are actually not actively participating in the market. The market mainly is something that is happening between multimillionaires. It is their demand (or the lack thereoff) that is the influence. Investors, mainly. Which is logical. In a system, where the power to buy is deciding, the person who can spend multiple millions is gonna have a lot more power, than the person who has twenty bucks to their name.

Hence: 99% of all people are not participating in anything resembling a free market, and the remaining 1% are not interested in such a system.

Money under capitalism

One thing everyone needs to understand is, that for the most part money under capitalism is a very theoretical concept. It might be real for the average joe, who for the most part will not have more than maybe ten grand to their name, but it is not real to multi millionaires, let alone billionairs. Something that is going to be thrown around a lot is the concept of "net worth". But what you need to realize is that this net worth is not real money. It does not exist. It is the estimated worth of stuff these people own. Maybe houses and land, maybe private jets, maybe shares in companies and other things. These people's power and literal worth is tied to them being able theoretically able to sell these assets for money.

In fact a lot of these very rich people do not even have a lot of liquid money. So money they can spend. In fact there are quite a few billionairs who do not even own a million in liquidated money. The money they use in everyday life they borrow from banks, while putting their assets up as a security.

Why capitalism won't abolish fossil fuels

Understanding this makes it quite easy to understand why the capitalists cannot have fossil fuels ending. Because a lot of them own millions, at times billions in fossil fuel related assets. They might own a coal mine, or a fracking station, or maybe an offshore rig, or a power plant burning fossil fuels. At times they have 50% or more of their net worth bound in assets like this. If we stopped using fossil fuels, all those assets would become useless from one day to the next. Hence it is not in the interest of these very rich people to have that happen.

But it goes further than that, because politicians cannot have that happen either. Because the entire economy is build around these assets existing and being used as leverage and security for other investments.

Why capitalism won't build walkable cities and infrastructure

The same goes very much for the entire infrastructure. Another thing a lot of people have invested a lot of money into is cars. Not physical cars they own, but cars manufacturing. So, if we were building walkable cities with bikelanes and public transportation, a lot less people would buy cars, those manufactoring factories becoming worthless and hence once more money... just vanishing, that would otherwise be further invested.

Furthermore, even stuff like investing into EVs is a touch call to get to happen, because the investors (whose theoretical and not real money is tied to those manufacturers) want to see dividents at the end of the quartal. And if the manufactuerer invested into changing their factories to build EVs for a while profits would go down due to that investment. Hence, capitalism encourages them not doing that.

Why capitalism won't create sustainable goods

A lot of people will decry the fact that these days all goods you buy will break within two years, while that old washing machine your grandparents bought in 1962 is still running smoothly. To which I say: "Obviously. Because they want to make profits. Hence, selling you the same product every two years is more profitable."

If you wonder: "But wasn't that the same in 1962?" I will answer: "Yes. But in 1962 the market was still growing." See, with the post war economic boom more and more people got more divestable income they could spend. So a lot of companies could expect to win new costumers. But now the market is saturated. There is not a person who could use a washing machine, who does not have one. Hence, that thing needs to break, so they can sell another one.

The market incentive is against making sustainable, enduring products, that can be repaired. They would rather have you throw your clothing, your smartphone and your laptop away every two years.

Why workers will always be exploited under capitalism

One other central thing one has to realize about capitalism is that due to the privitization of the means of production the workers in a capitalist system will always be exploited. Because they own nothing, not even their own work. Any profit the company makes is value that has in the end been created by the workers within the company. (Please note, that everyone who does not own their work and cannot decide what happens to the value created by it is a worker. No matter whether they have a blue collar or a white collar job.)

That is also, why there is the saying: All profit is unpaid wages.

Under capitalism the profits will get divided up under the shareholders (aka the investors), while many of the workers do not even have enough money to just... live. Hence, good living standards for everyone are explicitly once more against the incentives of capitalism.

Why there won't be social justice under capitalism

Racism, sexism and also the current rise of queermisia are all a result of capitalism and have everything to do with capitalist incentives. Because the capitalists, so the people who own the means of production, profit from this discrimination. This is for two reasons.

For once having marginalized people creates groups that are easier exploitable. Due to discrimination these people will have a harder time finding a job and living quarters, making them more desperate and more likely to take badly paid jobs. Making it easier to exploit them for the profit of the capitalists.

A workforce divided through prejudice and discrimination will have a harder time to band together in unions and strikes. The crux of the entire system si, that it is build on the exploitation of workers - but if the workers stopped working, the system would instantly collapse. Hence the power of strikes. So, dividing the workforce between white and non-white, between queer and straight, between abled and disabled makes it easier to stop them from banding together, as they are too busy quaralling amoung themselves.

Why we won't decolonize under capitalism

Colonialism has never ended. Even now a lot of natural ressources and companies in the former colonies are owned by western interest. And this will stay that way, because this way the extraction of wealth is cheaper - making it more profitable. Colonialism has never ended, it has only gotten more subtle - and as long as more money can be made through this system, it will not end.

There won't be Solarpunk under capitalism

It is not your fault, if you think that capitalism cannot end. You have been literally taught this for as long as you can think. You never have been given the information about what capitalism is and how it works. You have never been taught the alternative mechanisms and where and when they were implemented.

You probably look at Solarpunk and think: "Yeah, that... that looks neat. I want that." And here is the thing: I want that, too.

But I have studied economics. Literally. And I can tell you... it does not work. It will not create better living situations for everyone. It will not save the world. Because in the end the longterm goals are not compatible with a capitalistic system.

I know it is fucking scary to be told: "Yeah, change the world you know in massive ways - or the world will end." But... it is just how the things are standing.

You can start small, though. Join a local party. Join a union. Join a mutual aid network. Help repair things. Help people just deal. Our power lies in working together. That is, in the end, what will get us a better future.

[mal3vol3nt]

the reason people get mad and upset over aang not killing ozai is because they can’t or are unwilling to understand what it really meant for him to be the last airbender

a lot of people don’t truly acknowledge what aang went through when they talk about him. it was a genocide. an ethnic cleansing. a GENOCIDE. and i think that’s because so many people are just incapable or unwilling to wrap their heads around how tragic and isolating and unchangeable something like that is.

i’ve seen countless people say they wish aang had found other airbenders hiding away somewhere. and while i totally get wanting that to happen for the happiness of the character (hell, even i have thought about how heart wrenching that utter relief would feel for him), i’ve also seen those takes associated with people saying they just find it hard to believe that none of the airbenders survived. that none of them were able to escape.

and that’s the thing that annoys me because genocide is a real fucking thing that has happened and IS currently happening in the world (just look at palestine, congo, sudan). it shouldn’t be so hard for people to suspend their belief into thinking it could happen in a fictional piece of media. this disbelief that a genocide can be real results in people being unable to fully sympathize with a character who is stated several times to be the definite, unchangeable sole survivor of his people’s genocide. and i’m not saying it’s wrong to want there to be airbenders who lived, but in canon it’s clear that none of them did. and the ones who did canonically escape were hunted and lured by the fire nation to their demise. and if we’re going to discuss characters and the intents behind their actions, aang’s character development is heavily, heavily heavily guided by his guilt and grief over his lost culture and people. but a lot of people still can’t wrap their heads around the canonical genocide he survived, meaning they can’t fully comprehend why aang would choose peace over a violent end. and considering atla is a western show with a largely western audience, its even more evident that this gap in people’s ability to understand and sympathize with aang is emphasized by their western intrigue toward violence. people don’t just misunderstand aang’s dilemma—they wanted him to kill ozai because seeing him do that would have been cool and interesting and satisfying.

but aang’s decision to spare ozai’s life was made due to his status as the last airbender. prior to meeting the lion turtle, i think it’s safe to say that he had resigned to what he had to do. that is to say, he was likely going to kill ozai despite the pain that was going to cause him. he was going to give up a part of himself, his humanity and the last remainings of his culture, to be the avatar the world needed. but he was then gifted the ability to energy bend, offering him, but not cementing, another option. aang still had the choice, and we saw in the fight that aang was so very close to killing ozai even with this new ability. but he couldn’t. because although killing ozai would have been a pretty justifiable thing to do, it would have fully finished off the air nomads. aang was the only living human who held onto their beliefs. if he were to push those values aside to end the war, the war would have ended the same way it started: with the death of the air nomads. and it may sound “cheesy” or overly dramatic or whatever to some people, but aang’s entire story arc has, arguably, been him trying to fit in a world that seemingly has no more room for the air nomads. not only is he 100 years in the future, but this future has none of his people around and war is everywhere. violence is basically required to survive. death is everywhere. greed has corrupted nations. everything the air nomads stood against made up this world, and aang, as the avatar, had no choice but to save it. for him to have given in to what everyone expected of him—violence—he would have ultimately eliminated air nomad values from the world. and the world would have not cared. aang’s victory would have been celebrated, but aang would have felt even more grief than before. he would have let himself and his people down. and balance would have never been achieved because the air nomads mattered. they were part of what kept the world going round. no matter how much the current world he was fighting for called for violence and death to achieve an end, the air nomads still had a voice through aang. they were still around because of aang. aang’s existence and dedication and love for his culture kept the genocide from being official.

and in my opinion, air nomadic values coming out victorious in a war that nearly wiped them clean (except for aang) is much more of a meaningful and satisfying ending than violence ending with violence.

and if you wanna call aang’s decision selfish, then fine. but i personally think it’s more selfish to expect a survivor of genocide to keep giving and giving and giving for a war that took his people from him until he has nothing left of himself to give. i think that is far more selfish. aang may be the avatar but he is also human. just as much human as his people were, and the leaders he was fighting against, and the millions of people he ended up saving, and just as deserving of having some sort of agency in the decisions he makes. call me crazy ig

[bookwyrmbutch]

First Time on The Land

It is an eight hour drive to the Land, and I’m anxious the entire way. I’ve never liked meeting new people, and I’m terrified that my wife and I had wasted a ton of money on what would inevitably be a miserable experience.

But when we arrive at the gate, my anxiety is thwarted by a parade of helpful womyn who guide us through the check-in process. I drive through the Land at 5 miles per hour, and wherever we look, there are womyn. They're busy unpacking or talking to one another, but when a car comes by they all wave and smile, shouting "welcome home!" The Land itself is beautiful, a pristine forest with a blanket of ferns covering the ground. Everything is green except the asphalt walking path that shimmers with leftover rain. As we get further in, tents pop up everywhere, nestled side by side. Plastic flowers are staked into the ground, and clotheslines strung between the trees bear Pride flags and handmade tapestries that flutter in the breeze. All of this is woven so seamlessly into the natural forest that I can’t quite believe it’s temporary.

There is an opening ceremony before the first concert. A womyn stands onstage and sings, and hundreds of womyn join her. “I am open, and I am willing, for to be hopeless would seem so strange. It dishonors those who go before us, so lift me up to the winds of change.” I am already crying and I know if I lift my voice with them that I will sob, so I keep my head down.. I’m not ready to be open.

The next day we wake up to a choir of women singing in the morning chant circle, and BMG starts in earnest. Womyn of all backgrounds volunteer to share their knowledge in participant-led workshops on writing, poetry, drumming, quilting, whaling, massage, salsa dancing, indigo dyeing, lesbian history, Nordic runes, plant identification, body painting, detransition, butch identity, and more. There is an archery range, a movie tent, and a large vendor space where womyn sell their wares. Shuttles driven by volunteers trundle up and down the dirt path, ferrying womyn across the land. The days pass in a flurry of activity, both of us exhausted but unwilling to rest. We try to do everything, much to the amusement of the older lesbians watching. They know what we don’t, which is that being here is enough of an event by itself, and the conversations we’ll have before and after these workshops are as valuable as the workshops themselves.

I’m continuously stunned by the generosity on display. One womyn cooks breakfast for two hundred, and another makes lunch the next day. We overhear a womyn give a stranger her spare air mattress. My wife tells me she has a headache and a passerby gives her an electrolyte packet and an apple. A woman offers me a comically huge blunt during a night concert, and another shows me where she stores her food when I compliment her ciabatta.  Everywhere we go, womyn stop to talk. In workshops, I stand up (tits out!) and speak my mind, and womyn listen. I smile at everyone and say “good morning” to whoever I pass. And at some point I notice... I’m not anxious. I’m talking to strangers all day and it feels wonderful.

At the closing ceremony a womyn sings to us again, and everyone joins her. “I am open, and I am willing…” This time, I’m able to join in on the second chorus.

Sunday is bittersweet. My wife and I wake up early and cry into our oatmeal. We decide to take a walk before going back to our tent, unable to face packing up. I could sense the fear - absent for five glorious days - waiting for me outside the gates. Once we’re all cried out, practicality takes over and we pack our things, load the car, and head out. 

Two womyn stop us at the gate. 

“Are y’all coming back next year?” one asks. We say yes.

“Good, because I know your faces now!"

The other pipes up, “Faces? I’m going by breasts!”

The knot in my chest loosens as I laugh, and we drive home.

We have our wristbands, our sunburns, and a new labrys necklace. We carry a warmth, a brightness, in our chests. But a few days in, the feeling disappears and I can feel my walls going up again. That unconscious tension in my gut. A week after re-entry, my bruise from archery fades, and with it the feeling of being on the Land that I could once call up so easily just by taking an extra-hot shower, or a long walk outside. Now as I write this, I can hardly remember the person I was this summer. She’s waiting inside me to make her appearance again. 

There are times I feel her stirring: when I connect with other womyn like me. When I feel grounded and at peace with myself. And sometimes I can feel her revolting when I try to duck back under the yoke of other people’s expectations. I’ve seen what life can be like without that now, and I can never really go back. It feels like there will always be a part of me waiting under the trees.

Thank you @nansheonearth for challenging me to write about my experience on the Land, and for helping me find it in the first place.

[preservationofnormalcy]

[Director Council 9/11/24 Meeting. 5/7 Administrators in Attendance]

Attending: 

[Redacted] Walker, OPN Director

Orson Knight, Security

Ceceilia, Archival & Records

B. L. Z. Bubb, Board of Infernal Affairs

Harrison Chou, Abnormal Technology

Josiah Carter, Psychotronics

Ambrose Delgado, Applied Thaumaturgy

Subject: Dr. Ambrose Delgado re: QuantumSim 677777 Project Funding 

Transcript begins below:

Chou:] Have you all read the simulation transcript?

Knight:] Enough that I don’t like whatever the hell this is.

Chou:] I was just as surprised as you were when it mentioned you by name.

Knight:] I don’t like some robot telling me I’m a goddamned psychopath, Chou. 

Cece:] Clearly this is all a construction. Isn’t that right, Doctor?

Delgado:] That’s…that’s right. As some of you may know, uh. Harrison?

Chou:] Yes, we have a diagram.

Delgado:] As some of you may know, our current models of greater reality construction indicate that many-worlds is only partially correct. Not all decisions or hinge points have any potential to “split” - in fact, uh, very few of them do, by orders of magnitude, and even fewer of those actually cause any kind of split into another reality. For a while, we knew that the…energy created when a decision could cause a split was observable, but being as how it only existed for a few zeptoseconds we didn’t have anything sensitive enough to decode what we call “quantum potentiality.” 

Carter:] The possibility matrix of something happening without it actually happening.

Delgado:] That’s right. Until, uh, recently. My developments in subjective chronomancy have borne fruit in that we were able to stretch those few zeptoseconds to up to twenty zeptoseconds, which has a lot of implications for–

Cece:] Ambrose. 

Delgado:] Yes, on task. The QuantumSim model combines cutting-edge quantum potentiality scanning with lowercase-ai LLM technology, scanning the, as Mr Carter put it, possibility matrix and extrapolating a potential “alternate universe” from it.

Cece:] We’re certain that none of what we saw is…real in any way?

Chou:] ALICE and I are confident of that. A realistic model, but no real entity was created during Dr Delgado’s experiment.

Bubb:] Seems like a waste of money if it’s not real.

Delgado:] I think you may find that the knowledge gained during these simulations will become invaluable. Finding out alternate possibilities, calculating probability values, we could eventually map out the mathematical certainty of any one action or event. 

Chou:] This is something CHARLEMAGNE is capable of, but thus far he has been unwilling or unable to share it with us. 

Delgado:] You’ve been awfully quiet, Director. 

DW:] Wipe that goddamned smile off your face, Delgado.

DW:] I would like to request a moment with Doctor Delgado. Alone. You are all dismissed.

Delgado:] ….uh, ma’am. Director, did I say something–

DW:] I’m upset, Delgado. I nearly just asked if you were fucking stupid, but I didn’t. Because I know you’re not. Clearly, obviously, you aren’t. 

Delgado:] I don’t underst–

DW:] You know that you are one of the very few people on this entire planet that know anything about me? Because of the station and content of your work, you are privy to certain details only known by people who walked out that door right now.

DW:] Did you think for a SECOND about how I’d react to this?

Delgado:] M-ma’am, I….I thought you’d…appreciate the ability to–

DW:] I don’t. I want this buried, Doctor. 

Delgado:] I…unfortunately I–

DW:] You published the paper to ETCetRA. 

Delgado:] Yes. As…as a wizard it’s part of my rites that I have to report any large breakthroughs to ETCetRa proper. The paper is going through review as we speak.

DW:] Of course. 

Delgado:] Ma’am, I’m sorry, that’s not something I can–

DW:] I’d never ask you directly to damage our connection to the European Thaumaturgical Centre, Doctor. 

Delgado:] Of course. I see.

DW:] You’ve already let Schrödinger’s cat out of the bag. We just have to wait and see whether it’s alive or dead.

Delgado:] Box, director.

DW:] What? 

Delgado:] Schrödinger’s cat, it was in a–

DW:] Shut it down, Doctor. I don’t want your simulation transcript to leave this room. 

Delgado:] Yes. Of course, Director. I’ll see what I can do.

DW:] Tell my secretary to bring me a drink. 

Delgado:] Of course. 

DW:] ...one more thing, Doctor. How did it get so close?

Delgado:]Ma'am?

DW:] Eerily close.

Delgado:]I don't–

DW:] We called it the Bureau of Abnormal Affairs.

Delgado:] ....what–

DW:] You are dismissed, Doctor Delgado.

[marblemoovt]

Bake A Wish - John Price/Reader

Masterlist

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: Fluff with a smidge of angst

Summary:

You bump into a man and his daughter at the grocery store. The kid is really insistent you join them for dinner.

------

She’s been on a tangent about her father, who you assume she’s hiding from, for ten minutes now. From what you’re able to gather, he works in the military. 

Unwilling to dampen her excitement, you crouch down and listen to every word. “Is that so, little one?” you say, propping your chin up with your hand. 

She nods, brown strands flying everywhere. “Mhmm. And he’s super handsome, too! A lady called him a dill, but Daddy’s not a pickle! She was so silly.” Your eyes widen, and you slap a hand over your mouth to barricade the gurgle in your throat. A fucking DILL.

Note:

This has been sitting in my wips for over a month but it's finally done!! I apologize if the quality feels sporadic throughout the fic. Writing consistently is just something I can't seem to do and my motivation/inspiration has been in a slump lately. The amount of fluff fics I've written that involve baking is ridiculous, I didn't realize that's the activity I default to lol.

I've never written for John before, so I'm still trying to get a feel for his character.

Anyways, thank you @yeyinde for introducing John Price to me. I was debating on not tagging you but I can't be a coward forever.

Happy Reading! ヾ(•ω•`)o

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

John holds the hand of his six-year-old daughter, Rose. The little munchkin is a ball of energy, and he fears the consequences if he were to let her run wild. “Don’t let go of my hand, ok Rosy?” Rose grins with more mischief than a little child should have. She attempts to run away, and John scoops her in his arms.

“I’m too big to be carried, Daddy!” she squeals, arms flinging around his neck to stabilize herself. The scent of her strawberry shampoo tickles his nose.

“You have to promise me you’re not going to do that again,” he says. Rose holds out her pinky, and he accepts her promise. Her finger looks tiny and frail compared to his. He sets her down and ruffles her hair despite her whinging. “Do you remember what we came here to buy?” he asks.

She claps her hands with glee and exclaims, “Cookies for Santa!!! Because Daddy can’t bake, so we have to buy cookies from the store!” John smiles, but he can’t help but feel the sting of her bluntness. Kids are way too honest.

“What kind of cookies do you want to get?” he asks.

“Not chocolate chip. Everyone uses chocolate chip.” She strokes her chin, imitating the gesture she’s seen her father do whenever he has to think hard about something. “Candy cane cookies!” She ponders over it for another minute before nodding her head. “I bet Santa’s never gotten candy cane cookies before.”

“I don’t think they sell those, rosebud,” he says, and she frowns.

“I guess they’re too special to sell in a store,” she laments, her enthusiasm wilting a little.

John crouches down to Rose’s eye level. “Why don’t we look at all the cookies they have and pick one afterwards?” he suggests.

“Ok,” she sighs, holding her hand out for him to grab. Large, calloused fingers swallow her hand whole, and John wonders how much longer it will stay like this. Her brown locks are a few inches longer than last time, but the beaming smile on her face when she sees him remains constant. He blinks the heat away from his eyes and leads Rose to the snack aisle. 

There’s an entire shelf dedicated to cookies, some of them themed for the holidays. But the snowflake shortbread cookies further deflate Rose. She droops when they come across sugar cookies in the shape of Christmas trees. John silently curses the corporate companies for manufacturing every winter holiday cookie except for a candy cane. He squeezes her hand, and his heart aches when he catches Rose biting her lip. Tears are on the verge of spilling, but she will not cry. He actually can’t remember the last time he’s seen her cry. The thought bothers him more than he wants.

John spots a box of rainbow cookies on the top shelf. He releases her hand to grab them, “What about these?” When he turns around, Rose is gone. The box tumbles to the ground. “Rose?” His eyes sweep the shelves. Rows of cookies and other snacks, but no sign of her. “Rosy?!” He begins jogging through the store, checking every aisle before moving on to the next. Icy claws grip his chest, and all of his senses are on high alert. He fidgets with the dog tags around his neck and has to remind himself that he’s not on duty.

Sharp laughter slices through the pounding in his eardrums; a high-pitched fit dissolves into familiar giggles. Rose. He flexes his clenched fists to relieve the stinging in his palms. He pinpoints the sound to the baking section and sprints like a madman. Sliding to a stop, he spots her at the other end of the aisle. His body sags against a shelf, and the air enters his lungs with ease once more.

“My Daddy’s amazing! He can shoot bad guys from reeeeally far away,” Rose brags to a stranger crouched in front of her. That stranger is you.

A faint giggle grabbed your attention. Twinkling lights accompanied by the pounding of tiled flooring. A little girl beelined straight toward you, veering to the side to hide behind a display of chocolate bars. She covered her shoes with her hands to dull the blinking, peering around for someone. She spotted you holding a bag of flour and asked if you bake. Her eyes lit up when you confirmed that you do. 

She’s been on a tangent about her father, who you assume she’s hiding from, for ten minutes now. From what you’re able to gather, he works in the military. 

Unwilling to dampen her excitement, you crouch down and listen to every word. “Is that so, little one?” you say, propping your chin up with your hand. 

She nods, brown strands flying everywhere. “Mhmm. And he’s super handsome, too! A lady called him a dill, but Daddy’s not a pickle! She was so silly.”

Your eyes widen, and you slap a hand over your mouth to barricade the gurgle in your throat. A fucking DILL. You don’t have the heart to correct her. Correction: You’re too busy trying not to collapse on the floor in a fit of laughter. The misunderstanding is best left alone, but your curiosity is piqued. What does this man look like?

“Rose!” A voice booms from the other end of the aisle, and the child hides behind you. You stand up and shield her with your body, eying the stranger with a frown. Brown hair with silver streaks, and his eyes—fuck, you wish the sky would be that blue instead of grey. He approaches you two, and when Rose makes no further movements, you stick your arm out to block him.

“Who are you?” you ask. He must be at least six feet tall, with broad shoulders, and built like he could beat you into a bloody pulp if he wanted. 

He mirrors your frown, eyes flickering to the brown hair peeking behind your figure. “I should be asking you that. Who are you, and what are you doing with my daughter?”

You narrow your eyes. “How do I know you’re not some pervert who kidnaps children?”

He chuckles; the low rumble sends the butterflies rampaging against your stomach walls. “Sweetheart, I could say the same about you,” and he crosses his arms—his thick and muscular arms. The way his biceps bulge underneath his sweater…. You bite your lip. The metallic tang in your mouth grounds you. You swipe a tongue across the fresh wound, and the sting helps you regain a few brain cells. 

Turning to Rose, you ask, “Is this your dad?” and squeeze her hands. “You can tell me if it isn’t, and we’ll find a nice employee to help you.” You talk slowly, enunciating each word with care. Rose glances at the man behind you before settling on your face. 

She cups her hands around her mouth, and you lean in, her warm breath tickling your ear. “Yeah, that’s my dad. What do you think? Super handsome, right?” she whispers. You glance at him and huff. A fucking dill, indeed. 

“Rosy, stop bothering the nice stranger,” her father says, gesturing for her to come to him. She skips over and fails to dodge his hand. Rose groans and buries her face into her father’s stomach as he ruffles her hair. You avert your eyes and ignore the heat that prickles the back of your neck. Wringing your hands, you stare at the floor as their laughter echoes in the aisle. You hardly know these people. Plus his wife must be somewhere in the store, ready to pop out at any second. 

“The ‘stranger’ has a name,” you speak up, introducing yourself. You keep your eyes trained on the shelf of sprinkles above his right shoulder as if the plastic bottles of sugar will stop you from falling.

He holds out a hand for you to shake. “John, John Price.” Firm warmth envelopes your skin and dissipates far too quickly for your liking. Sparks of electricity fizzle before they get a chance to light your nerves on fire—and you want to burn.

“Heh, P as in Pickle,” you snicker, making the mistake of meeting his gaze. Your arm drops to your side, and your bones turn to lead. The sky must be grey because all the blue was stolen and contained in his eyes. There’s no coldness, no ice, only calm ripples of water. The gentle drag of the ocean as the waves lap against the shore, inviting you into its depths.

John raises a brow. “An odd observation, but yes.” He smooths Rose’s hair to no avail. Baby hairs and cowlicks in all different directions are a continuous reminder that he’s been meaning to learn how to style hair. 

Rose beams at him with her toothy grin. “Cause Daddy’s a dill!” she adds.

John’s confused expression quickly morphs into one of horror. “Where did you hear that?!” He narrows his eyes at you. 

You throw your hands up in surrender. “Don’t look at me. This is the first time we’ve met.”

Rose tugs on his shirt and says, “That lady who used to babysit me. She also called you a fox, but I told her you’re a man.” Your eyes widen, and your shoulders tremble. John runs a hand through his graying hair, and you rip your gaze away because witnessing that felt illegal. Every time you look at him you notice another thing that attracts you.

John sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about her. I love Rose, but she can be a handful at times,” he says, whispering the second half. His head tilts forward, and now all you can focus on is how his moustache frames his mouth. Plump and pink.

Your lips crook upwards in a slant. “It’s not a problem. She’s an entertaining conversationalist.” You find yourself drawing nearer to his face, wandering from the shore and deeper into the ocean—oblivious to the current that will pull you under.

Rose tugs on your shirt and asks, “Why don’t you join us for dinner?” You pull away with a sharp inhale, processing how John’s eyes flicker to your lips. The little girl gazes at you with a hopeful smile, but you look to her father for confirmation. 

“Rose, you can’t invite people you barely know to your home,” he reprimands, and her smile flatlines. It’s probably for the best. At the current pace, it’s like you’re in a sappy romance novel! John shoots you an apologetic smile, but you wave your hand and shake your head in understanding. 

Rose pouts and stares at her shoes. She shuffles her feet, and the lights twinkle with each tap. “But then there’ll be someone who can bake cookies,” she says, looking up at him with puppy eyes. John winces.

You notice him wracking his brain for a response and decide to help him. “They sell rolls of sugar cookie dough; next to the puff pastry,” and you jerk a thumb behind you. Sometimes you buy a roll or two when you feel particularly lazy but crave cookies. 

John mouths a “Thank you” and holds Rose’s hand. “C’mon, rosebud. Let’s buy some, and you can make your candy cane cookies.” 

Rose perks up at the mention of cookies, her shoes now fighting to match the brightness of her eyes. “Wow! They sell everything here!” She drags him to the pre-made dough section. Well, she tries to drag him. Rose is less than half her father’s size. It reminds you of those cartoon characters that try to move a comically large boulder. Blue eyes meet your gaze one last time and wink at you. 

Did. Did he just?

You stand there, unblinking, staring at the corner they disappeared behind. 

Holy fucking shit. He did. 

You don’t register going through the checkout and packing your things in the car. With a blink, you’re in front of the steering wheel, key in hand. Where were you...? Home. You were on your way home. Slotting the key in the ignition, you start the engine and begin the drive home. For once, the clouds have gone, and the world mocks you with its clear skies. You don’t think you can stand to look at the colour blue for a while. It’s a good thing you’re sitting right now. 

The drive itself is unremarkable. You go through the same streets, pass the same buildings, pull into the same parking lot, and park in your usual spot next to a truck. You admire the muscular arm resting on said truck window. Funny. Guess that sweater is popular around here. Large hands run through brown hair flecked with grey—John.

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

You creep out of your car and circle around to the apartment building, abandoning your groceries.

Just a few feet. Just a few feet, and you’ll make it to the door. Conscious of your steps, you slink across the pavement and concrete. You wrap your hand around the handle, and the tension bleeds from your shoulders. 

“Are you playing hide and seek, too?” a voice from below asks. You jerk and pull the door instead of pushing. A loud rattle echoes in the vicinity. Who decided it was a good idea to make doors out of glass? A sadist who likes to watch people open doors incorrectly, that’s who. You glance down. Long lashes frame blue eyes that stare into your soul. Your fingers itch to adjust the cowlick in the disarray of her hair. You spot a few leaves clinging to her locks. Was she hiding by that bush beside you?

“Are you hiding from your dad?” you ask Rose, scooting behind the potted plant when she beckons you closer.

Rose shrugs and peeks around you. “Daddy was taking too long. I’m waiting to see when he’ll notice I left.” 

Your brows pinch together. “That’s not safe, Rose. You should stick close to him. What if something bad happens to you?”

“Don’t worry, I have a lot of uncles, and they taught me how to beat up baddies!” She punches the air a few times. Her face pulls tight in concentration before loosening into a grin. She shrinks behind the bush and brings a finger to her lips.“Now shhh, we have to be quiet.”

Boots thud against the pavement, the strides between each step growing shorter. “Rosy! Where did you run off to this time?” There’s a divet to his tone beneath the loudness, like the warning tremors of an avalanche. “I need to put that girl on a leash.” There’s a smile in his tone, but it stretches taut like a rubber band, ready to snap and whiplash you with his increasing agitation. He runs a hand down his face and sighs, eyes darting across the rows of cars. 

You can’t watch this any longer. You move to reveal yourself, but Rose beats you to it. She tiptoes behind her father, giving up halfway and slamming herself into him. 

“Boo!” Rose screams, voice muffled by his shirt. 

John stares at Rose and shouts half a second later. “Ah!” Half a second too late.

Rose pulls away with a sullen frown. “I didn’t scare you, did I?”

John crouches down and pets her hair. “No, no, rosebud. Was so afraid I forgot how to talk,” he insists. 

Rose gives him a scrutinizing look. “Liar,” she pouts. John leans in and whispers something into her ear, scratching her smooth cheek with his beard. She giggles and squirms, pushing his face away with both her hands. He deliberately rubs their cheeks together, and it causes her to laugh harder. 

Once again, you’re watching the two of them from afar. Heat pricks your skin, and your gaze steers toward the door. You should be able to slip unnoticed if you’re quiet. Standing up, you wince as your joints pop. You might as well hang a giant neon sign to denote your presence. 

John’s voice glues your feet to the ground. “Let’s bring everything inside, then you can bake your cookies,” he says. You press your back against the wall and exhale through your nose. No big deal. You just need to wait until they head inside first. Your palms dig into the stony material of the building. As if with enough force, you’ll be able to reorganize your atoms and disappear into the walls to escape dying from embarrassment. 

“I have a surprise for you, Daddy!” Rose’s voice draws nearer.

You are a wall. A silent, still, and formidable wall.

“Did you find another pretty stone?” John asks, tone laced with amusement. 

You close your eyes, but the ocean will not leave you alone. The waves lap at your feet on the shore, and you shrink away. Stone presses hard into your back.

They won’t find you. They’ll walk past you and go inside. Your erratic heartbeat fragments your thoughts into mismatched puzzle pieces. You can’t think with all this drumming and adrenaline.

“It’s pretty, but it’s not a stone.” Rose runs up to you and tugs you from your hiding spot. “A special guest for dinner!” she presents you like a prized animal. You stumble, and your eyes snap open in fear of hitting the ground. Strong arms rush forward to steady you. You lift your head, and your mouth dries.

Cerulean eyes pull you into their depths, crinkles forming at their edges. John’s accent caresses your ears, and you tamp down the unintelligible noise that threatens to destroy your last shred of dignity. “I didn’t know you lived here too,” and the corners of his lips twitch.

You force your tongue to articulate, the words scraping like sandpaper up your throat. “Neither did I—that you also lived here! Cause I know that I live here because I live here!” A shaky laugh warbles out of you. “I wasn’t following you because that would be creepy—and I’m going to shut up now.” You seal your lips together before you can dig a deeper hole for yourself. His hands are still on you, fingers wrapped around your arms. Your blood sings at the contact. 

“Do you think Daddy’s handsome?” Rose blurts out. Flames lick your skin, and your mouth becomes reminiscent of a goldfish. 

John’s fingers dig into your arms, and it’s not until you flinch that his hands drop to his sides. “That’s not a polite question, Rose,” he rumbles. It’s low, a warning. But when you’re a kid, you’re not afraid of anything.

Rose places her hands on her hips. “But you were like this in the car on the way home too! And when I asked you what was wrong, you told me I was too young to understand. I’m not stupid, Daddy. I’m six.” She stomps on ‘six.’ And you watch as this little girl brings this burly man to his knees. 

John sighs, “Not here, Rose. Please.” 

But Rose refuses to yield. “Why not? You both like each other, so why can’t we have dinner together?” she asks.

John rubs the back of his neck, the muscles in his arms flexing. “Would you like to join us tonight?” he asks, eyes flickering between your face and the parking lot behind you. 

“I’m afraid Rose will kidnap me if I don’t say yes,” you joke. 

Rose grumbles, “Just because you’re right doesn’t mean you have to say it out loud.” She grabs your hand and tugs you to the entrance. “Daddy can bring the groceries inside. I want to show you my toys!”

You dig your heels into the ground and say, “I need to bring my things inside as well. It’ll only take a few minutes.” Rose’s smile falters, and she reluctantly lets you go.

“Don’t worry, Love. I can take care of that for ya,” John offers

You fidget with the keys in your pocket. “Are you sure?” You’re not worried about him stealing your car. He can’t exactly hide if you two live in the same building. Besides, you want to believe that the kindness in his eyes is genuine. 

“Wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t,” he reaffirms. 

“Ok,” and you hand him your car keys. His fingertips graze your palm, and you shiver. God, you’re pathetic. Rose tugs on your arm, and you trail after her. She leads you up a few flights of stairs before stopping on the third floor, where you also live. Except she walks to the opposite end of the hallway, away from your apartment. She pulls a key out of her pocket and unlocks the door.

Rose drops your hand and runs inside, returning with a stuffed animal in her arms. “This is Mr. Bear. Daddy got him for me!” Mr. Bear is wearing tactical gear and a bucket hat. Frayed threads stick out of his body along the seams, and small patches of fur have fallen out. She cradles the stuffed animal close to her chest and rests her chin atop his head. 

You nearly melt on the spot. “That’s very sweet of him,” you say.

“Sometimes, when I miss him, I just need to squeeze Mr. Bear tight.” She gives you a demonstration.

A familiar warm timbre greets your ears.“I love you, rosebud.” 

You grin and say, “Your dad reminds me of a bear.”

“Yeah! He’s big and cuddly. But his face turned red when I told him,” Rose mumbles the last part. She straightens up and tugs on your arm. “Oh! And these are my action figures!” 

You walk into what you assume is her bedroom. It’s not as chaotic as you thought it would be. Her bed is in one corner of the room, with a collection of stuffies sitting along one side. There’s a shelf with knickknacks and picture frames. Your eyes land on a photo of John holding a small bundle in his arms. It looks like the picture was taken without him knowing. His eyes are wide, staring at the tiny hand wrapped around his thumb. 

There’s something that’s been bothering you, but you don’t think it’s your place to ask. Rose startles you when she starts barking out, “Hold your fire! We can’t alert the enemy of our whereabouts!” You whip around to see her sitting on the ground with a mini soldier in each hand. The large tub behind her is open, the lid propped neatly against its side. You sit next to her and watch the ‘mission’ play out. She hands you a soldier and assigns you the special position of super spy. Now a successful job rests on your shoulders.

Thanks to Captain Rose, your team retrieves the files, returning without a single casualty. Although you had a close encounter with the enemy’s Captain Pickles, which began some sort of enemies-to-lovers arc. You don’t know. She’s six. She reasoned that the power of love triumphs over all. Rose begins cleaning up, setting the toys neatly in the bin before snapping the lid shut.

“Did you learn all that from your dad?” you ask.

Rose shrugs and picks up Mr. Bear. “Daddy never tells me anything about work. It’s classified. Sometimes I watch TV. There’s a show where one of the characters looks just like him, but Nana doesn’t let me watch much 'cause it’s not for kids.” Dear lord. Could you imagine being sandwiched between two Johns?? 

“Rosy? Want to bake your cookies now?” John shouts from the corridor, snapping you out of your fantasy.

“Yes, please!” Rose replies. She grabs your hand and gives you a toothy grin. “You can be my assistant. Daddy’s hopeless at baking.” She leads you to the kitchen, where some bowls and a tray are on the table. Rose lets go and skips to a seat, plopping herself down. Mr. Bear is seated on the chair next to her.

You sit at her other side and ask, “What kind of cookies are we making?” There are no cookie cutters in sight to give you a clue. 

Rose clasps her hands together. Her feet swing beneath the table. “Candy Canes! Santa will be so impressed that he’ll grant my wish for sure,” she answers.

You don’t know what a six-year-old would ask from Santa, but you sincerely hope it’s fulfilled. Perusing the items on the table, you notice a vital ingredient missing. “Do you have food dye?” you ask. 

Rose strokes her chin. She hops off her chair and walks up to John. “Daddy, do we have any food dye?”

John’s head peeks out from behind the fridge door. “Sorry, Rosy. I don’t remember,” and there’s a sheepish grin on his face. 

Rose hums and grabs a stool, tottering to the drawers. “I forgot. You went away for a while. I think Nana left some the last time we baked.” Your eyes snap to the fridge when you hear a thud. An apple rolls across the floor and stops near your feet. You pick up the fruit, thumb brushing over the bruise blooming underneath its skin. “I found red!” Rose waves a small bottle in her hand and dashes to show you. 

You set the apple on the table and praise Rose. Her chest puffs up, and the smile she gives you is dazzling. She hops onto her seat, clutching the bottle to her chest. 

John walks up to you two. “Here’s the dough,” and he holds out the cylindrical tube but changes his mind and leaves it on the table. The only seats left are the ones across. He picks the spot in front of you. 

“Thanks.” You snap the tube open and remove the packaging. “Alright, Rose. We split the dough in half, and you’ll colour one part red.”

Rose cocks her head to the side. “We don’t paint the cookies?”

You shake your head and say, “There’s an easier way to make them look like candy canes.” You hand Rose a wooden spoon and tell her to mix the dough while you add the dye. Once half the dough is red, you take equal parts from both bowls and roll them into noodles. Putting them together, you twist them to form a cane. You curve one end, and the result is a near-perfect replica of a candy cane. Rose marvels at the sight, face inches from the table’s surface. 

There’s a streak of food colouring on her face, and you grab a tissue for her. She’s engrossed in the cookie, picking it up and turning it over. Out of impulse, you wipe the stain on her cheek and her laughter tinkles throughout the room. She complains about being ticklish between her giggles. A low sigh draws your attention. You look over to John, who’s watching you with his head propped up with his hand. “What? Do I have something on my face?” you ask.

There’s a softness to John’s features. He looks at you like you’re holding his heart in your hands, squeezing the pulsating organ with every cookie you form. “Do good looks count?” It’s barely audible, but you hear it. His elbow slips from the table, and he clears his throat. “Just been a while since I’ve seen her so happy.” He folds his arms across the table, a wall of muscle to create a false sense of distance. 

You gesture your head at Rose. “Make a cookie with her; have fun together.”

John stares at the table, stroking his chin in a familiar fashion, but remains silent otherwise. You chew on the inside of your cheek and resume forming the cookies. The squeal of wood scraping against wood pricks your ears. John squeezes himself into the space between you and Rose. His shoulders brush against you, and he is radiating heat. “What have you got there, Rosy?” he asks.

Rose looks at him with furrowed brows. “A candy cane, silly. Here, I’ll show you how to make it,” she answers. Rose does a quick demonstration, but John still struggles. Somehow he’s managed to mix the parts to create pink. Rose shakes her head, lips tugging into a frown. “My hands are too small; can you help him?” She turns to you. Long lashes frame her doe eyes, and you can’t bring yourself to say no.

You glance at John to find he’s staring at you. Shifting in your seat, you say, “If you don’t mind…?”

John maintains eye contact. “I’m all yours,” and the smile he gives you is bashful. You fight the warmth rushing to your cheeks, but it’s like trying to douse a flame with gasoline. The heat intensifies, and you grab a tissue to wipe your clammy hands, muttering an excuse about the dye staining your skin. 

You focus on the table, resisting the temptation to turn your head and meet the gaze burning into your face. “You take equal parts of each dough and roll them into logs.” You pause to make sure he’s following along. “Once they’re the same size, you can twist them together to form a cane.” John is about to mush his cookie as children tend to do with playdough; always mixing the colours. You grab his hands to stop him. His fingers twitch against your palms, but he doesn’t recoil. “Like this,” and you twist your cookie, rolling it some more to flatten the cane.  

“You make it sound so easy,” John huffs.

You shrug your shoulders. “It’s not too bad once you get the hang of it.”

John shakes his head. “Give me a pistol, and I can field strip and reassemble in a few minutes.” He holds up a warped cookie. “This, this I can’t do.”

You bump your shoulders together. “I’ll have you baking like a pro.”

John grins; it’s boyish and charming—it pulls you in like a flower reaching for a ray of sunlight. “Is that a promise?” he asks, lashes framing an expanse of blue. And once again, you are hopelessly lost at sea. 

“Only if you’ll invite me over again,” you quip.

“Is this flirting?” Rose asks. Her head pops up behind John’s shoulder. “If Daddy won’t invite you, I will.”

You smile as John buries his face in his hands. “Thank you, Rose,” you say.

She returns the gesture with a wide grin. “You’re very welcome.”

You continue making the cookies in silence, gaslighting yourself into thinking that the numerous brushes against your hand are accidental. 7/10 times you’re grabbing something, John also happens to be reaching for the same item. The cookie under your palm flattens into a pancake when his body leans ever-so-slightly into yours. Thankfully this is the last cookie, and you place it on the baking tray with the rest.

Rose insists on putting the tray into the oven herself, and John watches her like a hawk, hovering behind her in case he needs to step in.

Once John’s certain the apartment won’t burst into flames, he rolls up his sleeves. You eye the veins along his arms as subtly as you can, wincing like a child caught in the act of misbehaving when John speaks. “Can you please help Rose clean up? I need to get started on dinner,” he asks.

“Yes, Chef,” and you give a mock salute. “Alright, Rose. I’ll wash all the dishes in the sink. Can you wipe the counter?” you ask her.

Rose straightens her back and nods. “Affirmative,” she replies, marching to grab a towel. 

You begin collecting the bowls and utensils, plugging the drain afterwards to fill up the sink. A few drops of soap and a mountain of suds form. With a sponge, you begin scrubbing away at bits of dried-up dough and red dye. In the corner of your eye, Rose is reprimanding Mr. Bear on how he needs to pull his weight too and that it doesn’t matter if he’s not heavy because he’s full of stuffing. 

“You’ve got an adorable soldier,” you say, turning your head to John, who’s heating a pan on the stove.

John watches Rose with deep affection. Those are the eyes of a man staring at the purpose of his existence. “She’s a trooper, alright,” and the smile on his face is lax.

“What’s on the menu tonight?” you ask, adding more soap to your sponge. The remaining traces of dye are giving you grief.

“Fish and chips; one of Rosy’s favourites,” John answers.

“Daddy makes the best!” Rose pipes up.

John shakes his head, and the base of his neck flushes. “She’s exaggerating,” he says.

You smirk, “I’ll be the judge of that.” The chuckle your words elicit from John fills you with a pleasant buzz.

“I have to warn you. I aim to please,” and the lilt in John’s voice encourages you further.

“Yes, you certainly look the type,” you say, eyes trailing up and down his figure. John’s body trembles under your gaze. “Is it just you and Rose here?” You don’t know if he’s divorced, but you don’t recall seeing a ring on his finger.

“She’s dead,” John says. Concise and well-practiced. The plate in your hand slips and splashes into the sink with a thud, shattering the silence. You look over at John, but his back is to you. Shoulders hunched and head low. “Died during childbirth,” he adds, and the slight wobble churns your stomach. You should have known. Should have guessed from how the pictures on the walls only contain two subjects. Rose only ever talks about her father and grandparents. How could you be so fucking blind?

You crush the sponge in your hands, and bubbles seep out between your fingers. An apology is on the tip of your tongue, straining under the weight of your rapid thoughts. Day one, and you’ve already stepped on a mine. A phantom pain aches in your chest, grieving the loss of a love you never had in the first place. John says nothing. Continues to fry the fish in silence. Pops of oil like the rounds of a machine gun, but not loud enough to drown out the hammering of your heart.

Rose breaks the silent war. “I cleaned the counter. Can I check on the cookies?” she asks.

The apology dies on your tongue, and you tear your eyes away from John’s back, missing how the tension bleeds from his body. “Of course,” you say, placing the last dish on the drying rack. “Do you know how?”

“Nana showed me the buttons because I accidentally turned off the oven before,” Rose replies. She hands you her towel, and you lump it in the sink with yours. Rose walks up to the oven, and John moves to the side. You hang back, grappling with the temptation to steal a glance. You’re not sure what’s worse: John catching you staring or the disappointment of him not staring back. In the end, you decide to focus on Rose. She awes at the cookies and beckons you closer. You shuffle towards her, sticking close to the opposite side.“We should leave extra for the reindeer and elves who want some too!” 

You smile and pat her head. “Next time you can buy peppermint extract so they’ll taste like candy canes too!” you suggest. Rose’s eyes widen. She looks at you like you have the biggest brain in the world. Your confidence skyrockets, but a quick peek at John sends you plummeting back to Earth. You can’t read the expression on his face, and it worries you.

“They look so good! Santa will definitely grant my wish!” Rose’s comment piques your interest.

“What’s your wish?” you ask, crouching down to her level.

Rose glances at her father before lowering her voice. “I can’t tell you with Daddy around; it might make him sad.” Your jaw slackens. What could a child wish for that would make their parents unhappy?

Dinner is served, and the seating arrangement remains unchanged. True to John’s words, Rose devours her dinner. She even asks for seconds. “I’m a growing girl,” is all she responds with when she notices your amused expression.

The conversation consists of small talk. You learn they moved into the complex two years after you did. It’s honestly amazing how you didn’t run into them earlier. John doesn’t talk about his job, but he asks you plenty of questions about yours. You’re happy to answer. Glad to have something to talk about that won’t prod old wounds. Before you know it, you’re cracking jokes, and John is struggling to breathe. His laughter is intoxicating, and like an addict, you crave another dose. Rose watches the entire interaction with a broad smile, nibbling on her food as her eyes ping pong across the table.

John leans forward and hangs off your every word. Every ounce of his attention focused solely on you. You pause mid-story, caught up in the softness of his features. Before he can ask you what’s wrong, your phone vibrates in your pocket. You pull out the device to see it’s a text notification. The time on the screen reads 9:30 pm. It’s getting late, and from the way Rose slumps in her chair, she should be in bed soon.

“I should go. Rose looks like she’s about to pass out,” you say.

“M’not sleepy,” Rose argues, rubbing her eyes.

John rises from his seat. “I’ll clean up. Rosy, why don’t you say goodbye to our guest?”

Rose gets out of her chair with Mr. Bear and holds your hand, leading you to the entrance. John steps forward but stops himself. He turns to collect the dishes, and you walk away, feeling the heat of his gaze lingering on your back. 

As you’re slipping on your shoes, you ask Rose, “Now that it’s just us, do you want to tell me your wish?” She glances behind her. The faint sounds of porcelain clattering against metal travel along the corridor. 

“You can’t tell Daddy, but I don’t want him to be lonely. He doesn’t cry at night anymore when he thinks I’m sleeping, but he still looks like a raccoon in the morning,” Rose says, pinching an invisible zipper between her fingers and dragging it across her lips. You copy the gesture and even go as far as to mime turning a key and tossing it over your shoulder. You have a sneaking suspicion, but you don’t want to get your hopes up. 

Unlocking the door, you reach for the doorknob. “Wait,” John shouts, stopping you in your tracks. He jogs up to you and holds out a reusable takeout container and your bag of groceries. “I made too much. Take some leftovers with you.” You peer inside, and there’s a generous portion. How much did he cook?

“I’m tired. I’m getting ready for bed,” Rose suddenly announces.

John chuckles, “I thought you weren’t tired earlier?”

“That was earlier. I’m tired now.” Rose walks off to her room, mumbling to Mr. Bear. The only snippet you catch is something about ‘having a moment.’ You take the container and bag from John, fingertips touching. He doesn’t let go, and you’re left standing there awkwardly.

“Don’t feel bad about what happened earlier,” John says, withdrawing his hands and shoving them into his pockets. 

Earli—oh. Your cheeks tingle with warmth. You clear your throat and bring the container close to your chest. “I didn’t mean to pry, I just wanted….” You pause.

“Wanted what?” John asks, and his eyes are wide and pleading. He waits and doesn’t push. Watches as you chew on the inside of your cheek and avoid his gaze.

When you finally gather the courage to look at his face, tender eyes observe you. Does he feel the same? A wave of confidence washes over you, and you decide to take the risk. “To know if I have a fighting chance,” you say.

The corners of John’s lips boomerang up and then back down. His eyebrows draw together, and he almost looks… scared. “Love, I work in the military. I’m a single father. I don’t have much to offer,” John rasps, the words constricting his chest like a vine of thorns. His throat bobs, and he closes his eyes, steeling his body. Because bracing for impact is a natural human response in an attempt to lessen the damage of an imminent crash.

You smile softly. “And if I said I didn’t mind? That I’ll wait for you to come back and become Rose’s favourite while you’re gone?” John’s eyes snap open wide. He stares at you like you’re some sort of mythical creature; a being that can’t possibly exist in this world. Here is a man with his own baggage, who carries a burden on his shoulders that you will never comprehend. And you want to learn how to love him anyway. His expression softens, and he gravitates toward you.

“When I saw how you handle Rose, I didn’t think I could like you more than I already do,” John says.

Your ears perk. “You like me?” you ask. You didn’t think the attraction went both ways.

John rubs the back of his neck, and his cheeks flush. “Might have seen you use the elevator a few times… regularly,” he confesses. “I’ve liked you for a while.”

“And you never tried to say hello?” you tease him, placing a hand on your hip. The pain that flashes across his face is brief, but it stops you from continuing. You decide to change the topic. “Can I kiss you goodbye?” Your face engulfs in flames. “On the cheek, I mean!”

The pink dusting John’s face darkens. “Only if I get to kiss you—on the forehead,” he clarifies.

“Deal.” You place a quick peck on John’s cheek, his skin an inferno against your lips. He cups your face and leans in. It’s soft and leaves you tingling from head to toe. A laugh bubbles in your chest. You slap a hand to cover the dopey grin spreading across your face. “Sorry. I'm just really happy.”

John’s thumb caresses your cheeks. His blue eyes are sparkling. “So am I, Darling. Goodnight,” he says, leaning forward to plant another kiss. You close your eyes and make a content hum, basking in his warmth. 

John opens the door for you and leans against the doorframe after you step out. The hallway is relatively dark, and the lights from the apartment bathe him in an ethereal glow. A smile graces his features, and the current that threatened to pull you under has settled into gentle ripples. “Night, John,” you reply, waving goodbye. 

A smug grin stretches his smile, and he winks at you. “See ya later, Love.” 

You skip to your apartment. The door behind you doesn’t click shut until you disappear from sight. You head to the fridge first to store the leftovers. You find a note when you put away your groceries. Fishing out the paper, it reads: ‘Rose’s bedtime is 10 pm.’

The clock on your stovetop tells you it’s 9:50. 

Where did you put that expensive bottle of whiskey you bought years ago?

Bonus Scene:

John tucks his daughter into bed, pulling the blanket to her chin. “What else did you wish for, Rosy?” he asks. It’s become a tradition to figure out her Christmas present. He makes sure to ask her right before bed when he’s certain she won’t remember the conversation in the morning.

Rose snuggles into her pillow, hugging the stuffed bear close to her chest. Her voice is muffled and thick with sleepiness, but he hears it crystal clear. “A little sister.”

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

End Note:

Happy early Valentine's Day! I can't wait to consume the Valentine-themed content for all the fandoms I'm in. Not related, but I saw a cowboy ghost render on IG and I think I'm going to have to go back to writing something for him ¯\_( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)_/¯

Time to drop off the face of the Earth for a month or two again.

I'll see you guys at my next hyperfixation! (。・∀・)ノ

Reblogs are appreciated!

[fatherramiro]

so the thing about 1899's overarching themes first and foremost is that we don't know fully what they would've been, given that we got 1/3 of the story before cancelation. the other thing is i think a lot of the show would've revolved around the concept of how trauma freezes someone in a moment, and how in order to fully free themselves from the cycles they find themselves in, these characters need to let go and heal from/grow past their respective traumas.

in episode two, eyk tells maura, after asking if she's ever lost someone, that when someone you love dies "they can move on, you're stuck." if we break down the individual stories of the characters on the ship, they are all stuck in moments of trauma. jérôme is there because he cannot forgive lucien's betrayal. similarly, olek is there because he's seeking revenge after a vicious betrayal as well. ramiro and ángel are fleeing persecution and abuse that culminated in ramiro having to kill someone to protect them both. ling yi is racked with guilt over accidentally killing someone in her attempt to find something better. tove's family is frozen in a moment of extreme violence and trauma (and, depending on the timeline, iben's descent into religious fervor could've started from a traumatic event even before that.) eyk drinks to cope with the traumatic loss of his entire family. everyone is stuck in their worst selves as a result of these traumatic events. everyone is struggling to move forward. they're all stuck in these memories, as well as stuck literally in an eight day time loop where they will never get the chance to fully heal because they'll all die before that's possible.

and of course there's daniel, stuck in a loop because he can't let go of his wife and willingly subjecting himself to the pain of losing her over and over in an attempt to change what's happening. elliot is a literal ghost in the machine because his mom couldn't let go of him. maura describes henry as being incapable of letting go of his wife, and what little we know of ciaran is that he's angry that he was passed over for his sister. and of course maura -- the architect of the simulation, who cannot let go of her pain so she wanted to forget instead. this is a show where pain is written into every code in the simulation, and until daniel wakes maura up, that is just inescapable for everyone. maura is now left to face reality, a reality in which we don't know if her son is alive or the status of her husband. but she's now tasked with fixing the situation she created as a result of being unable to move past her own grief and her own pain.

the other potential themes of the show -- what makes a person who they are (and if their nature is inescapable), what is fate versus what is choice -- are all tied to this too, because we see moments where the characters are able to confront these demons and show glimpses of who they could be beyond these terrible events. two scenes that i think really illustrate this are the final scenes krester and tove have together in episodes four and five. krester throws tove's trauma back in her face in an ugly manner despite the fact he's the one who refuses to try and heal from what's happened to him (as evidenced by him helping to abduct and murder elliot), while tove is the one who finally says that she's had enough of that and she tries to leave her terrible situation and find a way to resolve the conflict tearing her family apart. krester, unable and unwilling to move on, does not survive much longer; tove makes it to the end of the loop, into the archive, and survives until the simulation is deleted. if tove had stayed with her parents and krester, i don't know if she would've made it that far.

as with all my analysis, there's no easy conclusion given that we simply do not know what would've happened next, but im very confident in saying that a large part of this show, beyond cosmic discussions of science and religion and who created the universe, is about how pain traps us in loops of our own, and that to free ourselves we need to confront our pain and our trauma. obviously, the show would've likely had a bittersweet read on that, but this is one thing im fairly confident in discussing about the series.

[jakecockley]

- el niño que creció sin amor -

✧ pairing: namor/k’uk’ulkan x gn!poc!reader

✧ summary: namor visits his mother's grave. in search of comfort, something he did not expect, he heads to you. only in your arms, does he let himself truly breathe.

✧ genre: fluff/soft comfort/bit of angst/sfw

✧ fyi: reader is of ambiguous race (can be defined however you want, but they are a person of color) and they're an artist! they also know yucatec mayan, a little fluent in it, thanks to namor

✧ warnings: a lil sad, other than that ur good

✧ author’s note: it’s kinda weird how I always do fluff, but I just love bringing out the soft side of characters like namor. I haven’t seen much fluff/comfort topic fics abt him. I don’t think I’ll be able to get over him soon ☠️ this obsession will last for monthsss. alsooo english isn't my first language so sorry if u see a few mistakes!

Who was he? 

Was he a man? A god? they wondered, for the first time when they laid eyes on him. 

No man looked the way he did. No ordinary man had those sharp ears that pointed up to the clouds nor those white wings on his ankles that made him fly to the skies themselves.

His visits to their pueblo were a rare occurrence. He never entirely spoke whenever he emerged from the waves in the night and shook the water from his wings. He kept to himself, making his way to his mother’s burial, pushing the large leaves from the trees out of his way. He’d stand there for a while, contemplate the past or murmur a few words in his native tongue. He’d come to let himself think, away from the waves, noise, and duty. He liked to remember all of what he liked to do with his mother: whenever they’d race or play with the sea life, amongst others. He’d remember when his mother would rise to the surface, only to look at the past life she left behind. Her land. Her home. It meant everything to her. So did it to Namor.

He was constantly worrying about his people, how the time they had was running out by the day, and what would happen once the surface world got its hands on what they wanted below. Namor could not allow his kingdom and its people to be discovered. Yet all those thoughts and worriments faded whenever he thought about you, a surface dweller. To his surprise, you were someone he’d come to care for. Maybe if he went to you, he'd feel peace.

With a simple brush to the dirt as a farewell, Namor took off, heading to your home.

- Your home was a simple one. It was a small house just near the coast, away from the city and its bustling noise. You liked the peace here, you didn’t have to worry about the big things anymore, and finally let yourself breathe. 

You loved it, even more, when your lover would arrive at your doorstep, just as he did right now.

Those wings of his always give it away, you thought with a chuckle. His wings sounded like a rattlesnake’s rattle, buzzing, when they flapped. It added to the intimidation he had and you found it fitting, as he was the feathered serpent god to his people. Setting your paintbrush aside, you sauntered over to the door, opening it and finding Namor looking not quite like himself. Before you could speak a word to him, he abruptly wrapped his arms around you, and buried his face between the juncture of your neck and shoulder, unwilling to meet your eyes. Without hesitation, you returned the affection, rubbing a hand on his back soothingly for comfort. 

The two of you walked to your bedroom, no words spoken, not until a minute passed with Namor in your arms, limbs entangled with one another.

Only then did you ask him.

“What’s wrong?” you murmured to him, playing with his dark hair as he laid his head against your chest. He felt warm against your body, surprising for a man always submerged in water. 

He’s silent for a moment. 

You looked at him, staring into those keen, dark eyes you've admired for so long. Your hand caressed the side of his face lovingly, the thumb brushing his cheek. 

You hummed, a small, sweet smile forming on your lips when you noticed Namor careening into your touch. Taking advantage of the comfort he was in, you slowly leaned down and planted a kiss on his forehead. 

Namor's breath softly hitched, eyes cast down, lashes barely grazing his skin. He felt your forehead touch his own when you scooched downward.

He hoped to the gods that you couldn't hear the way his heart thundered against his chest.

You weren’t the best comforter, but for him, you’d try. You whispered softly to him.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, in yakunaj.” 

His breathing stilled, like he was alarmed of something, but in a second it passed. His eyes looked up to your own.

He smelled like the ocean and its salt, a muskiness to him that you grew fond of whenever he came. Your man of the sea.

“I visited my mother’s burial place. I thought going to her would help me think,” he told you, gaze casting down, “ba'ale' ma' bin beya'.” 

The moonlight peeked through the slits of your curtain’s blinds, casting a soft white glow on the outline of his brown skin. 

He traced the curves of your body with his hand, going over the dip and rise of your waist and hip. You figured it was to distract himself a bit. 

You didn’t mind that at all. 

It was rare to see Namor like this. Quiet. It wasn’t like him, but you understood why.

Usually, he always had a snarky reply up his sleeve or a comment on whatever he could tease you on.

But tonight, this was different. Not the first time, but different.

“I worried more for my people. I don’t…” His words faded, but you finished them, knowing what he’d say.

“…want them harmed.”

Namor gave a small nod.

The ends of your lips stretched to express a sad smile.

He did not think he was enough to protect them.

You knew of his past.

How his mother died, outliving her, and he was the one his people were dependent on. He led them and grew their civilization over the many years.

His people were precious to him, everything to him. It was that trait of love that you adored, the fierce protectiveness and his willing to go beyond whatever means necessary to keep his people safe and out of harm’s way.

Knowing that the surface world could discover them ate at him.

You ran a finger across one of his pearl necklaces.

“Worrying is a normal thing, Namor. You are their king; they look up to you and they know you will protect them. You are K’uk’ulkan. A god to your people.”

There’s a long pause of silence afterwards, and you watched the tiny flicks of changes of expression on your lover’s face. You wait for him to say something or look at you, but nothing.

His tense body relaxes against yours.

“I know you will keep them safe; unharmed,” you added, grabbing his still hand that was at your waist. You planted a soft kiss on the back of it, then looked at him as you intertwined your fingers together.

“Níib óolal in yakunaj,” he murmured softly to you, but he knew you heard him.

You pressed your forehead against his once more.

“I love you,” you gently smiled.

-

They said he was a boy who grew without love.

But you were the person willing to give him the love he deserved.

✧ taglist: @slenderclaw @marc-spectorr @96jnie @taestrwbrry @caroldxnvxrs @namorsirens @smut4lifee @sunfairyy @layazul @duchcess @salimothmanlover @vampiredoll6-6-6 @aniia-x3 @eerievixen @deliciousfestsalad @astrospunutt @heart-an0n (didn’t let me tag all of u for some reason 😔)

✧ translations:

"in yakunaj" = "my love"

"ba'ale' ma' bin beya'" = "but it didn't"

"níib óolal in yakunaj" = "thank you, my love"

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[momolady]

April Fool's! Author April 2024 #1

I posted some of this on Patreon and it got some good feedback. But I wanted to share some stuff before I posted it. I found a file with a ton of old writing on it. If you were on Patreon in October you got to see some of this mess. For Author April I decided to share here so ya'll can see where I started. I've been writing since I was ten, but I started writing original works around the time I got out of high school. Anyways, this is Wild Adapter. It was from 2009.

I was barely 20.

This story is FIFTEEN years old. But anyways...

I found the old book cover I made for this story and I wanted to share despite how humiliatingly bad it is. I am already considering reworking it and making it a novel by rewriting, editiing and changing a lot. My bff even gave the news that she so loved a character from this story she considered naming one of her twins after them.

So like, maybe this is worth investing time and love back into, maybe it's worth revisiting my late teens early twenties and see if that idiot had something going I can finish. Let me know, would love to make this a journey to share next year!

Prologue

Fate leads the willing and drags along the unwilling. -Seneca

When I was little, my father took me to where he worked. He was a doctor for a special orphanage and some of his patients had been asking to see me. The entire time we were there, Dad never let go of me, and whenever he did he was so close beside me it was like he was my shadow. Dad had never been this protective of me before. At the park he let me run free as long as I stayed in his sight, but he never watched me like a hawk.

He showed me into a room that had four sets of bunk beds, and I found it odd considering the room was so small. Then there were six boys and two girls. The two girls clamored around me, held me, kissed me, cooed and giggled to me. The six boys watched me with curiosity. They were amazingly still and quiet, only whispering to one another for brief moments. They were watching me as if I were some sort of fascinating animal. It looked like they wanted to approach me but were afraid I’d run away from them if I did.  

One boy managed to gather up the courage to approach. He broke away from the group and kneeled before me and the other two girls. He held his hand out and I grabbed onto it almost instinctively. I don’t remember much about him, or anyone else in that room, but I did remember the boy’s eyes as he watched me. I can’t remember the color, only that they fascinated me, dazzled me. I was little so I was able to comprehend a lot more about emotions and sensations than I do now. I can remember a great burst a joy as he looked down at me. His hand tightened over mine and he pulled me towards him. I heard Dad shout, but I felt no danger. I felt safe. The boy clutched me tightly in his arms. I heard the girls coo and muse sweetly. The boy held me tight and firm. I wasn’t sure, but I believe he was crying.  I wanted to hold him. But my arms were too small.

Chapter One: The Empty House

I came home expecting the house to be completely empty. I could also see smoke rising from the chimneystack on father’s private lab where our backyard had once been. This meant I would have to make dinner then deliver it to him and watch him eat it to make sure he actually had something to eat that night.

Dad and I lived alone in a three story Victorian mansion painted mint green. The house itself was largely unfurnished due to that fact it was too big for the two of us. The house also had a screened in porch at the back and ivy growing all around it and up to the roof. It had been in my mother’s family for generations. Technically, according to family tradition, I was the heir of the house considering I was mother’s last living descendent. Dad and I joked about this. He said I could kick him out anytime and he could live alone in the lab. I said then I wouldn’t have to work and I could let my friends live in the house with a monthly rent. I would never do that though, even though Dad did practically live in the lab. The mansion was his home, our home. And we were the only things we truly had.

In back, where my swing set used to be, sat Dad’s private lab. I tried to keep it private for him, but every so often I went inside and became his lab assistant. To me it looked like the science lab of a high school, a well stocked high school lab at that.

During the seventies a garage with an apartment above it had been added back when my mom’s parents did use it as a boarding house. The apartment had been Mom’s room, keeping her away from all the hippies and beatniks her parents said. The garage apartment then became my brother Spencer’s when he turned ten. I hadn’t been inside it for over ten years. At least not since he and Mom died. In fact the garage itself became untouched save for storage. Dad and I parked out front then walked around to the back door and into the bright, yellow kitchen.

I was surprised though, that when I entered the house Dad was sitting at the table preparing the take out he had ordered from Lee’s Take Out Dragon of Fifth Street. We both stared at each other for a moment, as if we had no idea who the other person was. We then smiled awkwardly and went on with what we had been doing before.

I sat my school things in the closet and kicked my shoes off against my bag. I then wafted over to the dinner table and looked over the spread Dad had ordered. It was a rare occasion when Dad made dinner. It wasn’t that he was lazy or a bad parent, he just got wrapped up in his work easily. That, and he nearly burns down the house every time he attempts to cook.

He sometimes jokingly said that while working he would remember he had a daughter and come in to discover me five years older than he had last seen me. For me, I said he’d come in looking the same each and every time I saw him.

His hair would be shaggy, unkempt, and graying around the ears. His lab coat, uneven due to sloppy buttoning, yellowing at the cuffs and collar, and dingy from being worn without-end. His shoes untied, scuffed, and often times mismatched like his socks. His glasses smudged, lopsided, and duct taped to the point I had to force him to buy a new pair.

His face was unexplainably young and handsome for his age. Under his disheveled hair he had bright green eyes surrounded by long black lashes. He had a cute button nose and smooth cheeks with high cheekbones. He had dimples whenever he smiled and a round beauty mark at the corner of his lips. Despite his scruffy and unkempt appearance my father’s skin was always clean and unblemished furthering his youthful appearance.

I more than often thought my father was an ancient alchemist who had created a philosopher’s stone and was perpetually manufacturing an elixir that kept him from aging. If so, this answered a lot of questions about him. He was more knowledgeable than his age allowed and often spoke with outdated words and phrases. I also found myself hoping I had his good genes and was able to look that good at his age.

I looked up as Dad handed me a plate and fork. His dimples appearing in a shy, sheepish fashion in an attempt to get me to speak.

“You didn’t tell me you got a job.” He replied, sitting down in his chair.

“I‘ve had it for two months.” I answered, sitting at the opposite end of the table. Then for his benefit I quickly added on, “And it’s only part time so it doesn‘t affect my school work.” I smiled. “Not that I have much anyways.” I joked.

Dad’s eyes softened, making him look pitiful. “I still don’t like you working during the school year. Don’t I give you enough money?”

“You do, Dad.” I argued in attempts to get that sad look off his face. “But I need to get out of this depressing house once in a while. I need this job, Dad.”

“Are you sure?” He pressed.

“My school work is better than ever, considering I only have electives this semester.” I plopped a spring roll onto my plate. “Besides, I’m using the money you give me to start up a college fund.”

I could see a twinkling smile in his eyes. “Well that’s very smart of you, Mackenzie.” He was overly proud of me, especially during moments like these.

Dad was one of the only people who called me by my first name instead of a silly nickname. I had several. My friends called me Mac, Kenny, KZ, MC, and a number of other things. I suppose I had my darling friend Scout to thank for that. She had started the whole nickname craze back in fifth grade and ever since then I’m never, ever called by Mackenzie. Unless someone is angry of course.

“When do you go to work again?” Dad asked between bites of his fried rice.

“Um…tomorrow.” I answered.

Dad stopped shoveling fried rice and looked up at me in shock and awe. “But it’s Saturday.”

“I know.” I sighed, shrugging my shoulders. “But they need all the help they can get and I’m one of the few delivery people who actually work.” I grunted.

The place I worked at was a small collection of family owned business that, in recent years, had pulled together to form one industry that sold books, baked goods and other food, movies, games, appliances, and other such things. They called the place the Market. Not only that, they delivered, which was my job.

Also, I wasn‘t just working tomorrow because they needed me. I had a whole ulterior motive for wanting to work that day and working the one route everyone avoids on Saturday due to this very reason. Every Saturday a huge order of food, books, games, and everything and anything imaginable went out to a thought-to-be abandoned studio in the artist district downtown. And for the past month I had been working at the Market I had had to make a delivery to that building where I would be greeted by a voice through an intercom and two envelopes in the mailbox. One filled with the money to pay for the delivery and the other with a large tip for me. But it wasn’t the tip I was after.

The voice on the other end of the intercom was polite and nice, but I never learned his name, unlike with most people on my route, and I had never seen him. Since I already had an over active imagination it was going crazy at the prospects at what the intercom hid. I had already made up my mind to at least try and befriend the faceless voice, or at least learn his name.

Everyone at work had rumors about the place. There was one stipulating it was a crazy shut-in who was actually the second person on the grassy knoll, running since the assassination on JFK years and years ago. One was that it was what was left of Manson’s cult, in hiding until they receive word. Another, even more ridiculous idea was that it was a coven of vampires. Then again, a recent boom in the vampire craze had been going on so I chalked this up to the overactive imagination of fans.

While the first two could be considered plausible, although I doubted it, the voice sounded really young. And while I had never met the guy, he seemed sweet and nice, so I doubt he could be a killer at all. I could feel it in my gut that I was nowhere near harm standing there in front of his door.

The next day as I arrived at the Market I found one of my coworkers, and best friends, Dee Laughlin, sitting in the employee lounge sipping on a cup of hot tea. She looked up at me with her large hazel eyes and beamed.

“Good morning, Mac.” She greeted me cheerfully.

“Hey Dee.” I answered as I moved over to the snack machine to decide what to have for breakfast.

“Scout said she was going to be running late today.” Dee murmured, looking back briefly at her opened book before she shut it. “You know there’re same day old donuts and pastries in the bakery you can help yourself to.” She chose a job in the Market Bakery in order to loose weight. She said if she worked around the stuff long enough, she’d grow and aversion to it. Sure enough, she had, but in the process she had become addicted to the overly sweet coffees they also served.

“Nah.” I mused, placing a dollar bill into the machine. “I’m fine with this.”

“I just fixed some coffee too, so help yourself.” Dee mused as she looked dreamily back into her book.

“I don’t understand why you don’t just work in the bookstore instead of the bakery.” I chuckled, moving towards the coffee pot.

“I work in the bakery to have an aversion to pastries.” Dee laughed. “You know that. Besides, if I had a job in the bookstore, I’d never have any money. I have insurance and a car payments to think about.”

I nodded. “Well, what about Scout?” I asked as I poured my coffee into a yellow mug with a P on it. Scout loved the mug for this reason.

“Scout is a special case.” Dee muttered bitterly and snapped her book shut. “She rides her scooter everywhere she goes and with all the games and videos she buys she doesn’t have to go anywhere else.” She then watched me as I added creamer and sugar to my mug. “And what about you?”

I peered up from my brewing. “Me?”

“You’re Dad pays for everything and even gives you money for the week. Yet you’re working here.” Dee paused a moment to tie back her cropped, sandy hair into pigtails that jutted out from behind her ears.

“I work to get out of the house. I’m not like Scout in that department.” I breathed, taking a seat across from Dee at the table.

“And you deliver, the most brutal job to take! Why don’t you just stick to working in a specific station like Scout and I do?”

I told Dee everything. I enjoyed the deliveries and not having to stay in one place all day. I got to travel around and meet new people and see new places. I also got to drive, which I loved doing anyways. I got to drive in places, that during the right season, were straight from fairy tale lore. Doing the deliveries gave me a chance to escape the mundane life that had built up in the years of complacency I had gotten used to since the accident.

Dee nodded in approval. “To each his own.”

The door slammed open and a white blur whipped into the room followed by a cold gust and a bundled up Scout Theobald. After slamming the door back shut and shaking the freshly fallen snow from her shoulders, Scout peered out from between her hat and scarf  with her big blue eyes.

“It just started snowing like crazy for no apparent reason out there!” Scout blurted as she unwrapped herself from her thick jacket and scarf. She hung them on the coat rack and readjusted her beloved cap. She wore that hat religiously and she wore it proudly. She had received the hat from her favorite band’s guitarist when, in a moment of extreme ripping, had tossed his head so hard that the hat flung out into the crowd and into Scout’s eager fingers.

“You’re early.” Was all Dee and I could think to say to her.

Scout’s already thick bottom lip pouted out even further, looking like a slice of apple, as she frowned at us. “I saw this snow start up and decided to be early than never, or, God forbid, buried in that mess.” She peered out the window before she grabbed up a coffee mug. “I ain’t ever seen it snow this hard before.”

Dee and I both stood up to peer out the window. “You didn’t come here on your scooter did you?” Dee gasped, looking over her shoulder at Scout in awe and horror.

Scout shrugged, more snow falling from her curly, amber colored hair. “What else could I do?”  She took a deep sip of coffee.

“Take the bus.” I scoffed. “You could have gotten yourself killed in this weather!”

“It’s safer than a car.” Scout argued weakly but triumphantly. “The worst I could get is a cold.” She then laughed at the idea.

“Or pneumonia.” Dee snapped.

Dee and Scout had known each other longer than any two people should. They had grown up together, going through school in the same class since second grade. They had been together so long they could finish each other’s sentences. They sometimes even came into work wearing similar outfits. I was often jealous of how close they were. While I had met and befriended them in the fifth grade, at least seven years ago, I still felt like the third wheel. And even though they were my closest friends and confidants. I don’t think I have ever really had a best friend.

Scout pushed a stray hair out of her eyes then sat down at the table. “I never get sick.” She bragged proudly, putting on her Joan Crawford smug expression.

Dee and I sat down on the other end of her and decided not to argue with her. She had obviously survived the storm and like she said, she never got sick. She took a lot of personal days during the school year, but never once had she taken a day because of a cold or other illness.

“I’m glad I work in the bakery where it’s warm.” Dee breathed. “I know I’d probably die if I had to work in that weather.” Her and Scout then both glanced over at me. “Sorry Mac.”

“Sorry for what?” I asked. “They’ll probably make me work stock or cover a shift in a section today.” I turned back to the window. “There’s no way in hell they’re going to make us do deliveries today.” I turned back to my coffee and was struck by the realization of what I had just said. I wouldn’t be able to go to the studio today and try to make contact with whatever it was living behind those walls. I bit my lip and sighed disappointedly.

“Or they’ll just let you go home.” Scout grinned. “Or, you could take over my shift and I can go home.” If I had a younger sibling, I’d want them to be like Scout.

“Don’t be such a lazy mooch, Scout.” Dee scolded. “Although, it does sound tempting.” She sighed dreamily. “A hot cup of herbal tea, a good book, and the fire place. Oh, and my favorite tunes playing full blast in my new surround sound system. Sounds heavenly.” She cooed. “In more ways than one.” If I had an older sister, I’d want her to be like Dee.

“To you.” Scout sneered. “For me it’s a customized, wireless controller, bags of chips, cold sodas, the newest Slayers game, and a warm TV screen.” She took a deep sip of her coffee and added quickly. “All nestled snuggly in my bed and wrapped in several blankets.”

“Of course.” Dee snickered, wrinkling her nose. “If you had an opportunity like that, you’d never leave your home.” She glanced up at me and smiled. “What about you? What’s your dream wintry day in?”

“Well…” I thought for a moment. “I’d snuggle up on the couch with my favorite old blanket, pop in an old classic movie, then relax with a warm bowel of popcorn in my lap, a bag of chocolate chips at my right, and one of those huge jugs of chocolate milk on the floor.” I smiled dreamily at this thought. It had been a long time since I had a movie day.

Dee chuckled. “Classic literature, classic films, and…” She stared blankly at Scout. “Classic brain rotting.”

“Don’t dis it till you try it.” Scout swayed side to side, wagging her finger. She then glanced up at the clock. “Uh oh!” She finished off her coffee and jumped to her feet and strutted to the door. “Time to open shop.” She announced happily.

“You seem exuberant.” Dee mused.

Scout grinned goofily. “Of course! Today’s the release date of the new Vampire Hunter X game!” She gripped her fists close to her cheeks. “Innocent Blood the Second Dawning! I will literally be the first person to get their hands on it.”

“You enjoy that.” Dee sighed, patting Scout’s head as she left the lounge.

Scout turned to me before she left. “What’re you gonna do?”

“I’ll check my route and see what needs to be done. If there is anything serious I’ll get that done with. If not, I’ll tack it onto Monday’s shift.”

Scout nodded in agreement. “Just be real careful, Mac. If anything happened to you out there…”

I smiled softly. “Thanks Scout. I’ll be safe. Promise.”

Scout gave me another reassuring smile. “Alrighty then! Come see me anytime you want. We’ll lunch.” She then bounded out of the employee lounge and down the hall to her section of the Market.

I made my way slowly down to the delivery room. As I suspected, no one was there. All the other delivery boys must have seen the snow and said to heck with it all. I lifted up the delivery roster for my route. Sure enough, the studio’s order was on there. I checked the delivery number and found the box. There was a post-it on the front that told me to get the new game Scout had been rambling about earlier.

I’d get the game then head out to make the delivery then head home for a much needed movie date. I’d even make quick lunch plans with Scout.

I took the box with me to the gaming section of the market. Scout was surprised to see me after such a small break from one another and she happily got me the game. We made plans for lunch at noon, if weather permitted, at Dee’s bakery so we could get a discount.

I went out into the snow and wind, barely making it to my delivery car unfrozen. I was also surprised at how clear the roads were. They had probably salted them early that morning while Dee, Scout, and I had been talking.

I slowly made my way to the artist district, leery of black ice. The sky around the many studios and galleries was a dark gray from smoke billowing chimneystacks. It reminded me of a scene in an old movie depicting a very primal, coming-of-age city.

I parked out front of the old studio. As I approached the front steps, I noticed there was no smoke coming from the chimney. Perhaps the person who lived here was rich, considering how much he spent each week at the Market.

I pressed the buzzer and waited.

“Hello?”

I licked my lips and took a quick breath. “The Market Delivery. Mackenzie Bronwyn delivering.”

“Oh wow! You actually came!” He laughed. “Aw gee…I didn’t think you would be coming. Um…I didn’t put the money in the mailbox. Uh…” He stalled for a moment and I thought I heard people arguing and running around in the background.

“Uh, hold on one moment. The door is unlocked. You can come in and warm up while we get your money together.” There was a loud, stunning buzzing noise and a loud click. The doorknob turned ever so slightly.

I was so surprised I was actually frozen. Forgive the pun.

“Y-yeah. Thank you.” I turned my attention to the steely, icy doorknob. I swallowed hard and reached for it. Ice shattered as I turned the knob and pushed myself in. The door groaned lowly, like someone disappointed.

I stepped inside the large entrance hall, it was dark, but cozy and warm. I closed the door behind me and stood in the darkness. I dumped the box off the handcart and noticed I was breathing loudly. It was better than I expected. Not only did I get to have a few words with him, I was inside the studio. And from the sounds over the intercom, he wasn’t alone.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could notice some of the details in the hallway.

To my left I was a little surprised to see a shattered mirror. I bit my lip and turned away from it. I wasn’t sure to take it as a sign or as a piece of modern artwork. I decided to pay more attention to the right side of the hallway, which was a large white wall covered with crayon drawings and other random artistic scribbles. Certain sections were dated and signed even. I leaned closer and ran my hand over it, barely making out the signature of Dakota.

There were three other distinct signatures on the wall but I couldn’t make out the names in the dim light. I ran my fingers across the indention of one name, trying to decipher it.

“Here’s your money.”

I gasped, jumping at the sound of his voice. I gasped and caught my breath. “Gee! You scared me.” I chuckled, scanning the darkness to try and find where the voice had come from.

“So sorry.” He laughed. “Um, here.” Two white envelopes came out of the darkness towards me. Beyond them I saw a pale, moonlight hand and arm. “You can leave the box there if you wish.”

I knelt forward and plucked the envelopes from his fingers. As soon as I did, the moonlight pale hand vanished. I studied the envelopes quietly then looked back up into the darkness. I heard something shifting as if impatient for me to leave. I opened up one of the envelopes to make sure the balance was correct.

“Just get out of here!” A voice I didn’t recognize roared out at me.

I jumped and dropped the handcart. I rushed to pick it back up and once I had a grip on it I ran back out into the white snow. I stood there at the door, wondering what had made me move so fast. I pressed my palm against my face and ran my fingers limply through my hair. I barely glanced over my shoulder at the door, afraid I might see someone or something standing there.

The intercom buzzed and I jumped again. Clutching my heart I quietly answered.

“Yes?” I gasped.

“Sorry about that.” The familiar voice said. “He’s, uh, unfriendly.”

That barely answered one of my questions. There was more than one person living in the old studio. I turned to face the intercom, unsure if I should say anything to the familiar voice beyond the door. I furrowed my brow.

“It’s okay. I was intruding.” I answered meekly. “Thank you for your continued business.” I waved, even though I knew they probably couldn’t see me.

I quietly turned back to my snow covered car. And as I drove home I began to wonder more and more about the people living within the studio. Hidden away from the public eye in a giant safe. Were they a family? Friends? How many were living there? Why were they living there? All the possibilities built up around me like walls, forbidding me to think about anything else.

Chapter Two: Like a Dream

The snowstorm didn’t stop until late Sunday night. And even then the snow stayed piled up until next Saturday due to continuous light flurries and snowfalls that occurred throughout the week.

The snow was thick everywhere, except on the roads and where people had shoveled it away, But where it still stood, like on our lawn, when you stood on it, you could detect three distinct layers. The top layer was soft and powdery, the fresh snow. The second layer was the kind of snow you’d want to use to build snowmen, for snowballs, and typical winter fun. Then, the bottom layer was thickly packed ice that probably wouldn’t disappear until spring, or, if you used a jackhammer on it.

Other than that it was safe to drive on the roads because they salted it constantly. School had only been canceled three days that week and I had to work double duty in the Market. I did my deliveries then worked in whatever section of the store that needed my help. A lot of people took any excuse to be able to take off work, especially during such heavy, snowy weather.

On Saturday it had finally gotten back to a place of normalcy where I was back to being just a delivery girl. I received my delivery roster for my route and our supervisor told us that once we finished our routes we could head on home. He said his knees were hurting him and that meant another snowstorm.

I didn’t trust his knees, but I did trust the clouds enveloped sky and the way the clouds shaped together like a package of frozen cotton swabs. And it was also as if I could smell the bad weather coming on. In a way, it was the same as the day of the accident, something just didn’t feel right.

After examining my roster and the clouds I jumped into my car loaded with packages. There was an especially huge package that took up half my back seat that was headed for the studio. It was their largest one thus far.

I delivered all the other packages first then ended my route with the artist district and the old studio. I had to pull out my trolley cart to lift the giant box. It felt like one of the boxes in Dee’s room filled to the gills with thick books.

I left the handcart at the foot of the stairs and walked up to the intercom. I pressed the buzzer and waited a moment. There was no answer. I stared puzzled at the mesh screen of the intercom and pressed the buzzer again.

Still no answer.

I decided to examine the mailbox. Perhaps they had left me a note along with the payment. I pulled out the envelopes, but no note. I pressed the buzzer again. Still there was no one to answer me.

I pulled my scarf tighter around my jaw and neck as a cold breeze floated around me. I waited for a few more minuets then descended down the stairs and went to try and heft the box onto the stoop.

It was times like these I wished Scout was around. She possessed an amazing upper body strength. I had often heard her bragging that she could lift a little over twice her body weight.

As I managed to figure out a way to balance the huge box in my arms I felt a presence around me. I glanced up to see three rough looking guys standing around me. I gave them a cordial smile then went back to work, hoping they either go away or ask to help.

I wasn’t so lucky.

One of them grabbed my arm and pulled me forward. I was able to keep myself from being pulled into their crowd by pushing against the heavy box. With a hard kick I was able to make the box flip over and disorient the gang if only for a moment.

I ran, dashing into the alley between the studio and the tenement building beside it. I heard them chasing after me so I ran faster. I pushed myself out of the small wedge between the buildings and popped out in the back yard of the studio.

The small yard was littered with rusted exercise equipment, several bent and destroyed trashcans, and stacks and stacks of folded up cardboard boxes from the Market. I heard the gang behind me and I raced forward, praying someone inside would also hear them and come out to see what the noise was about.

The ground stopped suddenly, crumbling into a huge ravine where the sewer line ran for the artist district. I looked this way and that. I stared up at the windows of the studio. All the windows were closed and covered. I ran up to the backdoor and started poudning on it and screaming

“Let me in! Let me in! Please! Someone! Help me!” There was no sound from inside, no sign of life at all. I cursed and raced for the chain link fence separating the properties. Just as I was making way over the top I was pulled back down onto the icy ground. I foot came down against my temple and for a moment everything was black.

Just as they were forcing me deeper into the snow I heard one of them scream and I slowly came back to my senses. Their release on me became looser until none of their hands were even on me. I sat up from the snow to see a black shadow bashing one of the thugs across the head with what looked like a rusted free-weight bar. I winced, relieved someone came to my rescue, but afraid I had only gotten rescued by an even more dangerous animal.

The shadow kicked at a downed thug then turned to stare at me through the visor of his helmet. He was dressed from head to foot in black leather, every inch of his skin hidden away under a thick skin of shining black. He had large shoulders and a muscular chest. His arms were twice the size of mine and I could see the ripples from the muscles even under the leather. His hands were big but thin with long fingers, his right hand still clutching onto the rusted bar. His waist was slender and he had long, muscular legs.

He walked towards me and pulled me out of the snow by my shoulders. His head bobbed up and down, inspecting me.

“You okay?” He asked gruffly.

I felt like crying but something held me back. “Y-yeah.” I sputtered. I had half expected it to be the voice over the intercom. But I was wrong and disappointed and I suddenly started crying.

“Tha-thank you so much!” I balled.

His hand came down on top of my head and ruffled my hair. “Stop crying.” He huffed, sounding a little impatient. “You’re bleeding so you better get home.” He wiped a little blood away from my temple then rubbed his thumb against his pants.

I rubbed my eyes. “Bu-but…”

“Hurry up and get home.” He pointed in the direction of the alley. “Ya hear me?” He half threatened me with the bar. “Get!” He shoved me forward with his hand then prodded my back with the bar.

I wanted to turn around and thank him again, but I was too frazzled to even breathe. Only until I had gotten in my car and lost sight of the studio did I breathe again. I pulled my car over to stop and compose myself. As I did so I saw a red motorcycle fly by with a man covered in leather riding on the back. I was so relieved I smiled. Although, I had never expected my guardian angel to be a leather clad biker.

When I got home, hoping I could take care of the cut on my head before Dad saw, I was horrified to see Dad standing in the kitchen making coffee. He was smiling when I came in but that faded away with an instant and he magically produced the first aid kit and was rushing me to sit at the table.

“My God, Mackenzie! What happened to you?” He tied my wavy black hair back for me in a ponytail, then poured some rubbing alcohol on a cotton swab.

What could I tell him? I had to think up a believable story fast.

“I was making a delivery and slipped on some ice.” I laughed.

He wiped the swab over the cut and I hissed. Nothing stung like that. “Oh my poor girl.” He whispered, then putting some disinfectant on it. “Did anyone help you?”

I smiled. “Yeah. Someone helped me.”

“That’s good.” Dad then put some Neosporin on the cut and a little band-aid. “Where did you fall at?” He asked, putting the kit away.

“Um…the artist district, in front of the old studio.”

Dad furrowed his brow and looked at me as if he wanted to ask me something then he went back to placing the first-air kit back in the cabinet above the stove.

“Well I’m just glad you’re safe.” He kissed me on the forehead. “Please be more careful next time. Okay?”

I nodded. “Okay, Dad.” I then smiled reassuringly for his benefit.

“Oh!” I then quickly changed subject. “Would it be okay if I spent the night with Scout and Dee tomorrow?”

“That’s fine with me. But you girls be careful in this weather, okay?”

The next day, Sunday, I went back to the studio. I carried with me a gift of thanks for the man clad in leather, hoping he was a tenant at the studio. As I had made my way to the studio a thick snowstorm had blown up and by the time I had gotten there, I couldn’t see barely five feet ahead of me. Everything thing was white and swirling like a snow globe with too much glitter inside.

I raced through the snow, pressing against the wind as if it were a wall and finally I came up on the stoop where I was a little safer from the icy elements, but just barely. I pressed the buzzer, praying they would answer inside.

“Hello?” The voice sounded quizzical.

“Hi, it’s me.” I rasped. “Mackenzie. Mackenzie Bronwyn” I blurted. “Listen I hate to bother you but I came by with a gift for the guy who saved me yesterday.”

I was equally surprised to hear him blurt back at me. “What are you doing out here? You could have gotten yourself killed in this weather. Yes! Come on! Come in!” He sounded both angry yet concerned for me. The door made the loud buzzing and it was kicked open from inside.

As I walked back into the warm hallway I heard an angry wind howling out behind me and slam the door against my back. I squeezed the gift close to my chest and held in my scream. My eyes locked on the broken mirror, many eyes looked back at me.

I waited for what seemed like hours there in the entranceway for someone to great me. Finally I heard someone approach then stop suddenly beyond the line of darkness.

“Are you warm enough?” He struck a match and lit and candle. In the glow of it I just barely made out his soft features. He was young, a little older than me but still young. He had soft, white skin and dark hair.

“Yes, thank you.” I looked down at my gift and held it out at arms length. “I don’t know if he lives here or not but I just wanted to thank the guy who saved me yesterday.”

“That’s very kind of you.” He breathed softly. “Um…listen, Mackenzie…” His voice cracked. “Our power is out, and, um, I don’t know when it’ll it come back on. I’ll give you some matches and candles if you want them.

“If I have to I suppose…” I held my arms back to my chest. “Is the snowstorm that bad?”

“Something like that.” He murmured. “I made up a room for you that you can stay in until the storm clears up. Is that alright?”

I felt oddly at home yet unwelcome at the same time. “That’s very nice of you. Thank you.” I swallowed. “I’m sorry I intruded like this. I never expected to the weather to get this bad this quickly.”

“It’s alright just come this-”

“No way!” Another voice blurted. “She can’t stay here. You!” The new and angry voice roared at me. “You need to go!” I barely made him out in the candlelight. His brow was heavy and creased, his face covered with stubble.

“Dude! Don’t be so cruel.” The first voice snapped. “It isn’t safe out there for her to drive.”

“Well we can’t keep her here.” The second voice sneered.

“You don’t have to worry about her.” The first voice whispered. They probably thought I couldn’t hear them. But ever since I was a little child, I could always hear the faintest of noises. I was rather proud of my unnatural hearing ability.

Well, right now I felt rather uneasy over hearing this odd conversation. I was an outsider who could possibly be in on a deep secret the tenants of this old studio hadn’t let out to anyone except themselves. I swallowed hard. I wanted to leave then and there to stop their fighting. But outside the wind was getting louder and louder, and the sound of ice beating against the door was growing from faint, tiny tinks to the sound of loud knocking.

Finally, the second voice roared. “Fine! But don’t come crying to me when she sees you and goes running away screaming!” He stormed off and I heard a door slam and something shatter.

“Um…Mackenzie?” The first voice murmured. “Can you see well enough in this light? Or would you like the candle?”

“Yeah, I can see fine. I don‘t need the candle” I gulped. “I hope I’m not intruding or anything.”

“Not at all.” He laughed softly. “My name is Vegas.” I heard his hand slide across the wall. “You know. It’s funny really. Ever since you became our delivery girl I had this feeling about you.”

“Excuse me?” His words made my insides jump. I suddenly felt scared.

“Well, you know how you sometimes have this sixth sense about a person who one day winds up being your closest friend?” Vegas asked. “That’s kind of what I meant. Sorry if I scared you.”

“Oh.” I chuckled meekly. “Sure, sure.” I didn’t have the guts to tell him that I felt the very same way.

I heard a door click open and a ray of grayish light poured into the hallway. I also had a feeling that Vegas was hiding himself behind the door.

“Here you go.” He handed me the candle. “If you need anything use the intercom and call for me.” He said as I stepped into the room. “I’ll bring you lunch later.”

I suddenly remembered my thank you gift and held it out towards the shadows of the hall. “You take it.” I instructed. “You’re being much to kind to me.” I then quickly tacked on, “Its pie. I made it, so I can’t say if its good or not.”

I heard the paper bag rustle as he opened it up. “What flavor is it?”

I beamed and wanted to go back out into the hallway. “Apple. I learned how to make them when I did a temp job in the bakery at the Market a few weeks ago. I hope you like it.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Vegas chuckled.

I smiled and turned into the dimly lit room, closing the door behind me. Hoping for a miracle, I felt along the wall for a light switch. A single skylight flickered on, but it was so weak it was barely better than the glow of the candlelight. I opened the curtains to my window and stared out at the snowstorm. Everything was white, but at least it allowed more light into the room.

I stared around, only now noticing that all four walls were made up of shelves filled with books, comics, movies, and magazines. I had never seen such a massive collection in person before. All I could do was standing there and stare around.

I then got the courage to actually touch something. I pulled a book from the shelf and flipped it open. I then looked to the pile of blankets and pillows sitting by the door  and laid them out on the rug in the middle of the room.

I then picked me out a stack of books and magazines and curled myself down to read. But all I could do for the longest time was stare off into space and daydream. I was inside the studio, and I couldn’t have been more breath taken. But at the same time I trapped there, almost a prisoner. In a way, I was like a prisoner in a tower. Like Beauty from Beauty and the Beast, my favorite story and fairy tale.

Chapter Three: Life on Mars?

I had fallen asleep while reading, a common side effect for me. Although I was no longer on the big rug in the center of the floor, but lounged up comfortably on the large couch resting under the canopy of a bookshelf. I pushed the thick blanket off the top of me and stared at the clock sitting on the table beside me. It was a little passed five.

I figured Dad wasn’t worried, since I lied and told him I was spending the night at Scout’s house. More than likely he was holed up in his lab and unable to get out because of the storm. I then remembered Vegas and I saw the covered dish sitting on the table right beside the alarm clock. That explained how I ended up on the couch and it made me feel embarrassed but also impressed and flattered. Vegas was either a great gentleman or an even greater pretender.

It was then to my great dismay that I needed to use the bathroom. I had no idea where to begin. So when I blindly made my way out into the hallway I simply prayed for the best. I feel into a long, narrow hallway, but it creped me out so bad I didn’t try to find the door at the end. After a few more minuets of searching I suddenly stumbled into an open door and crashed onto the floor.

“Mackenzie?” Vegas gasped.

“Oh! So sorry.” I grunted as I lifted myself off of the carpet. “I was just…” I held my head. “The bathroom.” I muttered just above barely audible.

Vegas helped lift me up and placed me in a chair. “You okay?” He quickly stepped away from me and back into the shadows.

“Disoriented.” I managed to laugh. “Sorry again for falling into your room like that.” I tried to make out his silhouette in the dark in vain.

“It’s okay. I’m kind of glad you showed up.” I heard him stand up and walk back towards his door. “I had a talk with my brothers and we felt like you shouldn’t be kept in the dark like this.” The way he said you bothered me a little. It was like I was supposed to be in on the secret yet had no idea about it.

“But you said your power was out.” I chuckled nervously.

Vegas laughed softly. “If only it were that simple.” He took a deep breath. “I do hope you have an open mind about things.” He spoke softly and I could hear him moving about in the darkness. “I also pray you don’t scare easy. Here, take my hand.”

I reached up blindly in the darkness, finally touching something solid and warm. But it wasn’t what I was expecting. The palm of his hand was rough, like the calloused heel of a foot. The back of his hand was soft and furry and reminded me of Dee’s old Labrador. I looked up, trying to follow his arm and figure out this strange puzzle.

“Do I have your hand?” I asked, confused.

He half laughed, half sighed. “Yes. You have it.” He said as he helped me ease back up to my feet.

There was a click and fluorescent lights blinded me. I stared between my fingers at the oddly shaped figure standing a few feet before me at his open door.

“I am truly sorry if this bothers you.” Vegas murmured.

As my eyes became accustomed to the light I slowly became aware of the figure standing before me. I noticed that his outline was odd, rather shaggy. I rubbed my eyes, hoping the blur would take a much finer shape.

I became aware of pointed ears, jutting out from where ears normally were but to a length that they surpassed the head like an animal’s. And the shagginess didn’t stop at the head, it was as if his entire body was covered with thick, dark fur. But how could that be? When I saw him in the glow of the candlelight he had a milky white complexion and hair like a sheet if black satin.

I first stared down at the hand I was holding. The rough palm, in fact, looked like the underside of a dog’s paw. And while shaped like any normal hand, it looked like I was holding some Halloween glove for a Wolfman costume. My eyes trailed up the arm, growing wider the further up I stared. There I was, standing before a man-animal. At first, I thought of a werewolf. But the more I looked at him I didn‘t see a horror movie monster. His green eyes were certainly human, more human than even my own. But he was definitely not human. I recoiled and took several steps away. I wasn’t afraid, but I was shocked. His hand hung suspended in midair.

“Sorry. Again.” Vegas whispered, his hand falling back to his side. “If you don’t like it. We can all leave you be until the storm is over and you can leave.”

I suddenly found myself touching his outstretched arm. My hands worked up the shaggy black fur of his arm and onto his face, both my hands pinching his cheeks.

“Am I dreaming?” I muttered breathlessly.

“I believe you pinch yourself when you feel that way.” Vegas chuckled, a little surprised at my reaction.

I pulled my hands back. “Oops!”

Vegas rubbed his face where I had pinched him. “Quite alright.”

“How did this happen to you?” I asked, reaching out again and brushing my fingers through his shaggy, shiny mane. “How come you…“ I hesitated, trying not to think along the lines of horror movies. “Are you circus freaks?” My voice squeaked.

Vegas shook his head glumly. “I wish it were that simple, Mackenzie. But I’m afraid our tale is a bit more complicated.” He shrugged.

“How many more of you are there?” I asked, following Vegas down the now brightened hallway.

Vegas opened a door for me. “Didn’t you need to use the restroom?”

“Um…” I glanced over at him and blushed. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

“I’ll wait out here for you.” He said, turning his head away as I walked into the bathroom. I hurried myself as much as I could, but as I sat there I couldn’t help but feel I recognized Vegas from somewhere. His form, his shape, his eyes all seemed familiar to me.

I then went back out into the hallway and looked up at him, standing like a guard on the left side of the door. “I’m good now.”

He nodded and waved his hand for me to follow.

“So?” I asked again. “How many?”

“Four. My four brothers and me. You kinda met Lexington.” He spoke about the second, much angrier, voice in the hallway last night. “Sorry about him.”

“No need to apologize.” I examined Vegas closer. I now noticed that he wore some straight leg blue jeans and a red vintage tee shirt bearing a classic band’s logo on the front. “I can see why he was…hesitant.”

“Hesitant is a soft word to use for his actions.” Vegas breathed. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the family. You woke up in time for dinner.” He hesitated and glanced over my expression. “Only if you want to.”

“I think I owe it to you.” I said brightly. “I’ve seen you, I might as well see the rest of the family secret. After all…” I took a deep breath. “You were brave enough to reveal this to me.”

Vegas smiled. “I knew I was right about you.”

I couldn’t help but smile back.

It was funny how his face worked. While being wolf like in every sense, he had a very human face, especially around the eyes. His eyes were the deepest forest green, like my mother’s and brother’s eyes had been.

He then had a cute little muzzle, not exactly as long as a wolf’s but enough to protrude from his face. If he were bigger and hulked over, he would be exactly as I pictured the Beast from my favorite fairy tale. That’s where I recognized him!

It was then I also noticed his body shape. I suppose it was because I wanted to figure out who the leather-clad biker had been. But Vegas didn’t fit the bill. He had small shoulders and lean, but muscular, arms. He also had a thicker waist and longer legs. I was slightly disappointed.

Vegas glanced over his shoulder at me. “You’re quiet back there.”

“S-sorry! Just lost in thought.” I caught up to Vegas so I walked beside him. I could feel the fur on his arm against my own. Vegas was also quite tall and my head barely cleared his shoulder blade.

Vegas then pushed open a door and allowed me to step in first. The room became intensely quiet. I stared up at two more wolf-like boys. They were sitting at a bar on high stools. One had his back turned toward me and the other was staring wide eyed and worriedly at me.

“Guys, this is Mackenzie.” Vegas patted my back. “She’s going to be staying with us for a while.” He said cheerfully as we walked into the dining room.

I felt suddenly at ease. I raised up my hand and scrunched my fingers down in my cute, signature wave. “Hi. It’s nice to meet you.”

The one who had been staring at me was now grinning and leaping over the bar to greet me. “She likes us!” He was small, about my height, and extremely skinny. Unlike Vegas, he was a reddish brown with a white face, paws, stomach, and feet. He wore a black shirt with a video game logo on it and extremely baggy pajama pants. His tail wagged happily as he ran up to me and his bright hazel eyes sparkled.

“Delivery girl!” He reached his hand out and I took it in my instinctively, suddenly feeling nostalgic in doing so. “I’m so glad to finally meet ya in person!” His thin arms then wrapped around me and squeezed me tightly. He smelled like chocolate and his fur was so soft. He then pulled away and gave me a big, toothy grin. “I’m Dakota by the way. I guess I should introduce myself before I go around hugging people.” He laughed.

“Make that a note next time you go out.” I chuckled with him, feeling extremely welcomed by the cub of the pack.

I then glanced up over Dakota’s shoulder to see the third wolf approach. He was slightly taller than me, the top of my head could easily reach the bottom of his chin. He was a peppered gray with a white muzzle, a black paw and a white paw, then both feet were black. He wore glasses before his narrow, sky blue eyes. His mane was thicker around his face than Dakota’s and Vegas’. His hands were also larger even though he had about as skinny arms as Dakota. He had a shapely rear though and well toned legs. I also noticed he wore a button up blue polo shirt and tan cargo pants with bulging pockets.

He smiled politely and held his white paw out to me. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m Raleigh.”

I managed to pull my hands away from the gleeful Dakota to shake Raleigh’s thick hand. “It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for having me.”

“We should be thanking you.” Raleigh smiled at me with a wise glint in his eyes.

“Yeah! You bring us our supplies every week. I don’t know what I’d do with out my weekly game dosage.” Dakota cheered. “Doc was right about the Market.”

“Doc?” I was about to question but Vegas cut in.

“Yeah, before the Market we used to have to order from fifty other places and the shipping was eating up all our monthly funds.” Vegas then cut a glare at Dakota who had latched hold on my hand again. “Especially those video games and anime cartoons you love so much.”

Dakota shrunk back behind me. “I know, I know.” He sighed pathetically. “Crack would be a cheaper addiction, but my body is a sacred temple.”

“So you’re the gamer.” I asked as I joined them at the bar. “My best friend Scout works in the entertainment section of the Market and she’s a huge gamer as well. Every game I’ve delivered to you she’s gotten herself.”

Dakota’s already bright eyes got even brighter and wider. “Really?” He squirmed in his seat. “I just got the new Vampire Hunter X game and I’m almost half way through.”

“I don’t get what’s so great about video games.” Raleigh sighed. “I keep telling him he can get just as much fun and excitement if head read something other than strategy guides and comic books.”

I knew who always ordered the books. “So then I take it you’re the one who orders the brunt of most of the heavy novels that have been breaking my back.” I chuckled, thinking to the previous package and how I needed the special dolly to deliver it. “The real intelligent gent?”

Raleigh sighed and took off his glasses. “Someone has to be.” He had a twinkle in his eyes as he spoke. “I guess I need to apologize for that as well. I suppose I could order the paperbacks and be a little more gentler on you. But the hardbacks just last so much longer.”

There was a familiar buzzing that rang out through the house and the boys lifted their heads in anticipation. Vegas stood up from the bar.

“That’s probably the pizza.” He said. “I’ll be right back.” As he walked towards the door he stopped at the door and scanned the sheet of pockets that hung there and plucked what looked like a checkbook from one of the many pockets.

“Are the roads clear?” I asked.

“Not really.” Dakota hummed. “But we have connections. We get whatever we want whenever we want it.” He said, grinning proudly.

“Don’t worry, Mac, we aren’t holding you here against your will. You can go whenever you want.” Raleigh said in a very serious tone. “But I wouldn’t recommended it right now.”

I smiled and shook my head. “I wasn’t thinking that. It was just surprising to me that pizza would actually deliver in ice age weather.”

Raleigh cleared his throat then removed his glasses and rubbed at the lenses with the hem of his shirt. “Oh, um, well, I was just letting you know.”

“Yeah!” Dakota chimed. “Mac probably doesn’t even wanna leave.” He grinned over at me. “Right?”

In all honesty, I did want to go home. I was really worried about Dad. But I couldn‘t tell that to Dakota, it‘d probably break his heart. “Probably not for a while.”

“Here’s the grub.” Vegas said, hauling in six pizzas, three boxes of breadsticks, and two dessert pizzas.

I stared in awe at the massive amount of pizza. “Do you always eat all this?” I gasped, staring at Dakota for the answer.

“Naw!” Dakota laughed. “We got this one for you.” He placed a whole pizza in front of me.

“I can’t eat all that.” I murmured apologetically, staring at the box.

“Really?” Dakota stared at me in disbelief. “I guess you were right Raleigh. Women really are more delicate.”

Raleigh tensed up and I’m sure if the fur wasn’t covering his cheeks they’d be bright red. “Dakota, just shut up.” He huffed and hid himself behind his box of pizza.

I smiled meekly. “Thank you very much for this. I really do appreciate the thought. You can have what I don’t eat.”

Dakota grinned another toothy grin, cheese stringing down from his jowls to the slice in his hand. “Okay!”

“What about Lex?” Raleigh asked.

“If he wants to eat he can join us.” Vegas growled.

I furrowed my brow and sat down the piece of pizza I had been chewing on. “Am I causing some sort of trouble I should know about?”

“Huh?” Raleigh gasped. “Oh no, you’re fine. It’s our other brother, Lexington. He’s being a complete jerk as usual.”

“The correct term is ass hole.” Dakota said between bites.

Vegas leered harshly down at his pizza. “He’s the one being a problem. He says that he doesn’t want you here. He wants us to make to make you leave.”

“Does he know I’m not bothered?” I asked. “I think you’re all fine! When you said all those things earlier, Vegas, I thought the worst. Like you were a coven of famous serial killers or something.”

All three of them snickered and Dakota went into a fit of high-pitched giggles. He had to drop his pizza and control a spasm of hiccups.

“Do you mind my asking why our appearance doesn’t offend you?” Raleigh asked, politely.

I shrugged, slightly embarrassed to give my answer. “Growing up I was obsessed with Beauty and the Beast.” I laughed, avoiding all of their reactions. “I know that may seem extremely silly but I think that might be the main reason.” I glanced up at each of their interested looks. I smiled meekly. “But I doubt that falling in love with you would undo this.” I meant his as a joke, but I had the sudden pain that said it was much more serious than that.To them, it actually meant something.

“So…” I muttered quietly and put on a forced smile. “That’s my silly reason.”

“I see.” Raleigh nodded.

After that, the rest of dinner was extremely quiet. I only ate three pieces of pizza and let the others pick at it. When all was said and done Dakota dragged to his room, which reminded me of how I last saw Scout’s room. There was a bunk bed against the wall with the door and across from it a huge entertainment system with a wide screen TV, several game systems, a DVD player and a fancy music system. Then, on a desk put right up to the bottom bunk was a laptop, speakers, and several game controllers. His walls were painted red and covered with movie posters, magazine clippings, and photographs. His floor was littered with his clothes, trash, and dirty dishes.

He had what I thought was a closet in the farthest corner of the room, but when he opened it up I was surprised to see row upon row of video games and cartoon show DVDs. I found myself thinking how completely opposite this home was from my very own, and I was surprised to be extremely jealous.

“Whoa.” I mouthed, staring up into the store like assortment.

“Yeah I know.” Dakota giggled. “Do you have a preference?” He asked. Then, upon seeing my confused stare, grinned. “What kind of games do you like?”

“Uh…Mrs. Pac-Man?” I muttered.

Dakota scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Fine. We’ll play this one.” He waved a fighter game before me then popped into the corresponding gaming system.

We played that for a few hours until Dakota started yawning loudly. He switched out the game for a cartoon and he curled up beside me on the bed. He fell asleep halfway through the movie, his head resting in my lap and my hand stroking his fur.

When I was sure he was dead asleep I moved him off my lap and covered him up. I turned off all his appliances and lights then exited the room quietly.

“Dakota asleep?” I heard Raleigh call from across the hall. His room was opposite of Dakota’s and I could look into his room as I turned around.

“Out like a light.” I chuckled. I leaned in his doorway and stared around at all the books. It was a little bit bigger than Dee’s own boxed collection. He had two walls of bookshelves, but they went from floor to ceiling and there were several smaller bookshelves cradled into corners. His walls were blue and he had a futon bed positioned between two corner shelves. He had a door on one of the clear walls that was cracked open and I could barely see his neatly organized closet inside.

“The radio said the storm is probably going to last another two or three days.” Raleigh said, looking at the radio sitting by his bed. “Do you think you’ll be fine staying here for that long?” He removed his glasses and sat them on his side table.

I could see the worry in Raleigh’s eyes and it reminded me of my father. “I’ll be fine.” I folded my arms across my chest. “It’s my dad I’m worried about.”

“Well…the phone lines are down. But I do believe Vegas has gone to leave your father a note.” Raleigh murmured.

“What?” I gasped, early tripping over thin air. “He’s gone to my house?”

“Yeah.” Raleigh seemed uncomfortable, like he had just released top-secret information. “He was worried about your father too. I mean, with you not being at the house and all.”

“Oh.” I bit my lip. “That was nice of him to worry.”

“Well, in my opinion, I think he likes having someone other than the rest of us to worry about.” Raleigh said as he stood up and walked towards me at the door. “We’ve been alone in this house for about six years.” He smiled. “I guess we just got boring to him.”

I nodded. “I suppose that it would get boring for anybody for that long.” I glanced over my shoulder, thinking I heard something moving at the end of the hallway. “Where did you guys move from?” I asked, looking back up at Raleigh.

“Somewhere…” He hesitated and looked away for a moment. “Somewhere very unpleasant.”

“Oh.”

“No.” He defended. “Don’t think that we don’t want you to know. I think you should know everything. But for now Vegas wants to give you time. It’s hard to explain. But trust us.”

“No. It’s okay. I owe you guys big time. No need to explain to me.” I chuckled. “I mean, yes, I would love to know. But it understand that it must be a hard thing to talk about. You guys took a big risk even showing yourselves to me.”

Raleigh smiled softly. “Do you know what an amazing person you are?” He asked. “For some reason, it’s easy around you.”

I wanted to ask him about what he meant but his head jerked upward and looked down the hallway.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Someone is home.” He muttered then looked back down at me. “Anyways, I need to get to bed.” He laughed. “If I don’t get more than eight hours of sleep I become psychotic.” His smile then faded. “Not that I don’t like talking to you!”

I shook my head. “It‘s okay. I’m gonna head on to bed too.” I reached out and patted his arm. “Good night.” I chuckled and walked down the hall.

“Good night.” I heard Raleigh echo as I made my way down the hallway.

As I passed the kitchen I heard someone moving about. I, of course, thought it was Vegas. I popped into the kitchen and sat at the bar casually. There was a box of pizza sitting open on the counter along with a glass filled with ice. I looked to the fridge, but I couldn’t see Vegas from the open door and the bright lights inside.

“Hey Vegas.” I called to him, making my presence known. “Raleigh told me you went to my house to give my dad a letter.” I said and looked at the open box of pizza, remembering Vegas had eaten a whole one plus half of mine then a box of breadsticks and half a desert pizza as well. “You didn’t need to do that.”

The fridge door closed and the wolf that stood before me was russet colored and much bigger. My jaw dropped and my breath caught inside my throat. There was no doubt in my mind that the wolf before me was the infamous Lexington.

His silver eyes narrowed upon me and he didn’t move from his spot before the fridge. I was welded to the spot as well. I felt terrified, remembering what the others had been saying during dinner. He was certainly intimidating by appearance alone.

I swallowed my heart back down into my chest and gasped for air. “H-hi there.” Which was perhaps the stupidest thing to say at this moment. I wanted tog et up and run away, but I felt that if I did, it would only make my situation worse.

Lexington was even taller than Vegas and stronger built to boot. He had broad shoulders and thick arms to match. His chest heaved in anger and his lips curled up over his fangs. His fur was a rusty brown and grew longer and wilder against the back of his head. His ears were longer too and jutted out like daggers from his head. He wore no shirt over his muscular chest but he wore a pair of ripped and faded blue jeans that smelled strongly of grease and gasoline.

I managed to catch my breath from the shock and I cleared my throat. “H-hi!” I sputtered out again. “I’m Mackenzie. You must be…” I hesitated, watching as he closed the fridge and push passed me like I was a spider dangling from the ceiling.

“Y-you’re Lexington, right?” I asked after him.

He turned and looked down at me from the other side of the island. I could see the contempt in his eyes as he leered at me. He tossed his head to the side and reached over the countertop of the island, lifting up the box of pizza. As he leaned over the island I noticed how slim his waist was and how long his legs were. I stared up at him as he sat upright again. Our eyes met and he stopped suddenly.

His eyes looked like mirrors, reflecting everything in their silvery surface. I couldn’t look away, knowing his gaze was meant to terrify me to my core.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He snarled.

“I-I was…the storm…” I stuttered.

“I meant here in the kitchen.” He snarled, ripping his teeth through the pizza like he wanted me to think he would do the same to me.

“Oh! Um…I thought you were Vegas and…” I swallowed. “I don’t know.” I muttered apologetically. As I said this he got up and moved towards the cupboards behind me.

“But I feel like if I leave I’ll, well, I’ll stay on your bad side.” I looked up at him, his back turned to me. “And I’d like to be your friend.”

Lexington turned back around and rolled his eyes at me. He pointed a long finger in my face. “You don’t belong here. You shouldn’t have even been allowed through the front door!” He barked and grabbed onto my arm.

“Hey!” I half screamed. “Let go of me.” I struggled against his strong hand.

Lex’s eyes flashed and he lowered his head slightly, talking to me in a low, almost sad, voice. “No one like you should be here. You don’t deserve this kind of punish…”

“Lex!” Vegas roared.

Lexington dropped his hand and leered up at Vegas. I jumped back a pace closer to Vegas and looked up at him cautiously then back up at Lex. His face had changed, his ears slicked back, a smirk curled his lips. He had started putting on his airs.

Lexington sneered sarcastically. “Well, well, well…” He hissed. “If it isn’t our fearless leader.” He stood so that he blocked Vegas and I from one another’s sight’s.

“Don’t you dare talk to Mackenzie like that.” Vegas snarled. “She hasn’t done anything to you.”

“Ha!” Lexington scoffed. “Yet.” He scowled down at me as he skulked out of the room. He shoved Vegas out of his way so hard I was worried for a moment.

Vegas turned back to me and stared at me apologetically. “I am so sorry about him. He didn’t say anything to you did he?”

I didn’t have to heart to tell Vegas that he did say something. Just before Vegas had interrupted him, it sounded as if Lexington was about to say: “You don’t deserve this kind of punishment.” I suddenly felt sorry for Lexington. Out of all four of the wolf-boys, I had a feeling the affliction hurt Lexington the most.

“No.” I murmured. “Nothing that was worth getting upset over anyways.”

Vegas nodded and forced a smile. “That’s good, I guess. Just don’t pay any attention to him.”

“Okay.” I nodded. “But, I don’t blame him for being defensive.”

Vegas frowned, a quizzical look to his eyes. “You don’t?”

I shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Vegas shook his head and faked a laugh. “Guess not.” He turned. “Well, I’m going to bed. So…” He hesitated, watching me with his overly human eyes. “Good night.” He muttered and walked off.

“G’night.” I answered and looked around the kitchen before I went off to my own corner of the studio.

[momo-t-daye]

“Uh, Professor, er, sir,” Harry stumbled over the seldom-used honorifics in his bafflement. “Uh, on your mouth…?”

“Lipstick, Potter,” Snape sneered, the expression all the more pronounced with the cosmetic assistance.

“Oh, uh, it’s, um, it’s black?” Harry hadn’t known lipstick came in anything other than his aunt’s subdued pinks or the vivid shades of red that Petunia considered sinful and salacious (and intolerably reminiscent of Lily to ever be permitted back into the precariously normal life of Number Four, Privet Drive).

“Very good, Potter,” Snape said sarcastically. “Twelve years old and you’ve learned your colors.”

That was pure nastiness and entirely unfair.

“I’m fifteen!”  Harry protested, which earned him a merely sardonic eyebrow. “Almost fifteen,” he amended.  “I’ll be fifteen on Monday.”

Harry longed to surpass Snape in sheer churlishness and considered pointing out that muggle men generally didn’t wear skirts.  Certainly not in Little Whinging.  Definitely not when Dudley and his gang were roaming the streets.

He’d seen plenty of oblivious wizards sporting spiffy new dresses as their muggle disguises at the Quidditch World Cup the previous summer (a lifetime ago, before Cedric was murdered and he hadn’t been able to stop it from happening).  But there was something peculiarly well-tailored and suspiciously well-worn about the Potions Master’s garb that suggested less “disguise” and more “daily wear”. He found that his brain was oddly unwilling to acknowledge the existence of Snape’s psychedelic cardigan. His mind kept trying desperately to wallpaper something sensible over the bizarre image his eyes insisted on perceiving.

“…nice skirt,” he mumbled.

“Thanks,” Snape drawled the false gratitude out with a smirk. “It has pockets.  Dipshit and Dumbass there were too excited to get on the road this morning and didn’t give me any time to do laundry.”

“Am I ‘Dipshit’ or am I ‘Dumbass’?” Sirius whispered loudly, grin gone well past manic.

“I believe Severus called me a ‘dipshit’ among other things for forgetting to take my Wolfsbane last year,” Remus replied thoughtfully, “So, Sirius, that probably makes you the dumbass.”

“I’m more of a hot piece of ass, but okay,” Sirius said with a wink. “Hi, Harry!”

“Hi, Sirius,” Harry said weakly, glad for the excuse to sidle past Snape.  “Uh, what are you doing here?” The Daily Prophet hadn’t said anything about Sirius being pardoned and news like that, while less of an urgent headline than Voldemort’s return, wouldn’t lurk about in the society pages or behind an advice column.

“Dumbledore told me to lie low at Lupin’s place,” Sirius beamed with an innocence so intense it could only be artificial.

“And, er, well, what with one thing and another, it really hadn’t seemed like a good time really to mention that I’d been, ah, evicted,” Lupin added, “…again.”

“Renting really seems like such a bother,” Sirius opined. “So I bought a house for Remus here.”

“Oh,” said Harry, who had witnessed Aunt Petunia compulsively twitching the curtains as she tried to discover how Mrs. Number Seven had eluded neighborly surveillance and, somehow, managed to sell her house to a person or persons unknown to the remaining residents of Privet Drive. “Isn’t that supposed to take a long time?”

“Building a home takes a lifetime,” Sirius said sagely. “Buying a house just takes money.”

Snape’s scornful snort brought Harry’s attention back to the least welcome visitor to Little Whinging.

“So, uh, why did you bring,” Harry gestured vaguely, unsure if the word ‘him’ could accurately encompass the snidest professor present, “Snape?” He’d rather noticed that Snape hadn’t lifted a finger to help Sirius and Lupin move any of the large boxes from the lorry into Number Seven.

“Severus knows how to drive,” Lupin explained gently. Sirius’ mouth opened, prepared to protest.

“Severus,” Lupin repeated, louder this time, “Has a valid muggle license to drive.” Sirius’ subsided.

“And I know how to hot-wire cars and lorries,” Severus added smoothly. “And,” Lupin echoed wearily, “ Severus knows how to ‘hot-wire’ muggle vehicles.”

“I’m learning to do that,” Sirius said helpfully, “I’m going to figure it out too.  I’ve nearly got it.”

“Talk is cheap, Black,” Snape scoffed starting to stroll in the last direction Harry wanted him to go, “I’ll believe you when I see some tangible results.”

“Wait!  Stop!” Harry wondered if he’d get in trouble for tackling a professor outside of Hogwarts.  It would be worth it, to try to alter Snape’s trajectory towards the front door of Number Four.  “Stop, stop, stop!”

For all Harry’s desperate scrambling, Snape maintained his lead.

“Please stop!” Harry begged as the professor hitched up his skirt slightly, “Use the bell!  You don’t have to kick the door in!” Aunt Petunia was probably at the door, surely she’d spied them across the street at Number Seven.

Snape kicked the door, already unlatched in Petunia’s nosy anticipation, open.

Aunt Petunia let out a shrill little scream.

“Hello, Piss-Tuna,” said Severus Snape, far more gleeful than he’d been even when Harry and Ron were facing the threat of expulsion after flying a car into the Whomping Willow. “You look as awful as ever.”

Piss-Tuna, Harry thought as his world tilted on its axis, Snape, Professor Snape, just called my aunt Piss-Tuna.  This can’t be happening.

“You—!” Her face was white, her eyes were wide, and Petunia Dursley, née Evans, practically growled in her outrage.

Harry found himself thinking that Brazil might be a very nice place to live. It was far away from Privet Drive, for a start.  He wondered what it would take to get there.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in, Tuney?” Snape’s foot had blocked the door from closing.  “I’m more than happy to have this confrontation on your front step if you’d prefer.”

“We, ah, brought some biscuits,” Lupin added. “Store bought. Assorted.  With chocolate.  Er, I’m, ah, we’re the new neighbors. So nice to meet you again.”

Petunia goggled at the lot of them.

She also stumbled back, which Snape seemed to take as an unspoken invitation.  Harry found himself dragged along in the professor’s wake, with only Sirius’ hand on his shoulder to steady him in the swift tide of strangeness.

“I can’t believe your taste in interior decoration deteriorated into this level of disgusting kitsch and doilies, Tuna,” said the man who decorated with floating dead things in jars. Severus surveyed the photos on the wall, on the mantle, on the little side table.  So many perfectly posed pictures of a happy family of three- mother, father, son- and a lock on the cupboard under the stairs. Narcissa had been absolutely right.

“Is that my jumper?” Harry jumped.  Petunia’s voice was high and thin and quite peculiar.

“You’ve really done a terrible job of raising Potter,” said Snape, and Harry bristled. Of course Snape wanted to criticize him, Harry had been expecting the criticism, but he loathed the thought of his two biggest critics were now sharing notes and combining forces.

“Not only is he, like the majority of students, a careless menace in the laboratory, but I have also wasted entirely too much of my already limited time deciphering his atrocious penmanship to correct insipid essay after insipid essay only to see the same flawed reasonings repeated week after week.” It was news to Harry that he was supposed to read the sea of spidery red notes Snape deposited on every essay.  It seemed rather unfair, given that Snape could fit five lines of text for every one line Harry wrote. The single “P”, or the occasional and welcome “A”, was more than sufficient in Harry’s view.

“That’s my jumper.” There was a touch of hysteria in Petunia’s tone now.

“He will be taking his O.W.L.s this year, his O-levels if you prefer,” Snape continued, demonstrating more confidence in Harry’s continued survival than Harry typically expected to hear from the Potions Master. “Unfortunately, his current record of scholastic mediocrity, his stubborn refusal to revise, and a peculiar incuriosity about magical theory does not bode well for his continued academic career.”

“You little bastard! That’s my goddamn jumper!” Petunia’s shriek derailed Snape’s momentum.  The unexpected profanity from his aunt made Harry’s brain stutter to a halt.

“Tuna,” Snape frowned, “We’re not here to discuss my sartorial decisions and I will never take wardrobe critique from you.  I only deigned to enter this suburban hellscape to discuss your horrendous failure to raise and parent Mr. Potter.”

“Biscuit, Harry?” Sirius offered, retrieving the tin from Remus.

“You stole my jumper!” Shockingly, Petunia’s epiphany failed to shatter glass.  Yet.

“Didn’t,” sniffed Snape.

“I thought it was Lily who stole my jumper!”

“She did. I just hid it for her.” 

“I bought that jumper myself!  I’d saved up!”

“Yes, I know.”

“It was for an interview!”

“We wanted to spare you the humiliation of being seen in public wearing such a hideous thing.  You even got that position, even if you didn’t keep it for very long.”

The biscuit was rather good, even without tea, and it was beginning to dawn on Harry that Snape and Aunt Petunia were more inclined to tear into one another than join forces against him. He felt oddly inclined to cheer for Professor Snape, despite the ranting about Harry’s scholastic shortcomings. Perhaps it was because Harry knew so little about his mother that every glimpse was a pearl he treasured.

“I want my jumper!” Did she learn that tone from her little Diddykins or had Dudley inherited that petulant demanding pitch from Petunia?

“And I want you to understand how your failure to nourish any academic inclinations Mr. Potter may have shown before the age of eleven may have rather dire consequences for futures beyond his own, but I fear we can’t all get what we want.” Remus handed Harry another biscuit before he could think to protest.

“Give me back my jumper!”

“Fine!” Snape finally snapped, fingers tearing at the buttons in wrathful haste.  “Fine, here!”

Petunia caught the cardigan with her face and a squeak.

Severus Snape looked like a stranger again, in the ratty, oversized band shirt, hair disheveled from the jumper’s passage.  Harry hadn’t seen the Dark Mark his professor had shoved under Minister Fudge’s nose in the Hospital Wing those few weeks ago, and he found himself oddly glad that the mark was concealed under a peculiar leather bracelet with metal studding.  A wand holster, perhaps.

“Are you prepared to face your shortcomings now, Tuney?” That dangerously silky tone was entirely familiar, and Harry took another biscuit before he was told to go serve detention during summer vacation.

“It smells like Cokeworth,” Petunia’s complaint was bitter, for she dreaded the day her neighbors discovered the lingering taint of the Cokeworth streets sullying their Surrey security.

“Hey,” said Sirius, who had gone oddly still.

“I wasn’t going to take it to Hogwarts, was I?” Snape said.  “It’s acrylic, you know that sort of stuff doesn’t hold up around magic.”

“Hey,” said Sirius.  “Hey.” His face was a rictus of delight, as pleased as Petunia had been put out. “Snape. Isn’t that, isn’t that my shirt you’ve got on?”

“Oh, oh,” snarled Severus.  “Not you too!”