#vex picks up a pen

[muscari-melpomene]

Want, and Need

Chapter 3 of Counterbalance!

"It's supposed to be his job," said Anti sharply, and Dark sighed like he was trying to keep his temper, shutting his eyes for a moment. Anti was standing firmly in front of him, arms crossed, and no way in hell was he about to back down. "You said it was Wil's job to take them."

"It's not good for him to be there so often."

"He loves it there."

"That's why it isn't good for him."

"And it's good for you?"

"Anti," said Dark, opening his eyes to glare, "this-"

"If you tell me the fucking manor sucking your soul out isn't my concern, I will start screaming."

"I was going to say 'not up for discussion', actually."

"You fucker-"

"Anti."

"Don't," Anti nearly snarled, a glitch tearing down his back and fizzling out his words, "don't you dare use that bullshit on me, Dark. Why the fuck have you been feeding the manor, and why the fuck didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't tell you for exactly this reason!" Dark threw his hands up and turned away, starting for the stairs. "I didn't tell you because you're only going to do this, and there's no point telling you anything else about it because you won't fucking listen."

Anti glitched out and appeared in front of Dark, shoving him back into the living room.

"Do not walk away from me-"

"What else am I meant to do," Dark gritted out, catching Anti's arm and pushing him away before Anti could shove at him again. "You're acting like a child."

"I'm the child? Wil's the one who hangs on your every fucking word, who can't understand that not everything's a part of his stupid little game-"

"-And the longer he's at the manor, the worse his delusions get-"

"William," said Anti slowly, "is not. Coming. Back. He's gone. Wilford isn't going to snap out of being Wilford, that's all there is left of him."

Dark was silent, watching Anti with cold, hard eyes. Anti stared back.

"And even if he did come back," he continued, ignoring the high-pitched ringing slowly building in the corners of the room, "he wouldn't know you. He wouldn't want you. He wants Damien and Celine. He doesn't want Dark. He never has."

"...And you do?" said Dark, all cold calmness now. "You want the shells of them, crumbled and mixed into a new mortar and plastered over the cracks of a broken body?"

"I want-"

"And what do you want with that body, Anti? Do you want it to abandon the power that sustains it, to lie helpless on the floor for you?"

Anti shook his head sharply, pushing away the image. "That's not-"

"Do you want it isolated like one of your victims?" Dark demanded, moving closer, "no ties, no escape? A doll to keep to yourself? Or perhaps you want this forever, fights every night because I dare to have a priority that isn't you and you need the struggle, the suffering, the pain my divided attention costs me- am I nothing but misery for you to have your fill of? When do your teeth sink in to my neck, then, when do I wake up to my last morning with you to see you grinning and sated?"

"Stop," said Anti, voice ragged as he grabbed at Dark's shirt, "Stop, stop it. Please stop it."

"Why should I?" said Dark, head held high. He didn't push Anti away.

Anti tipped forward, letting his head fall against Dark's shoulder.

"...Every time you feed the manor," Anti mumbled, "you get further away from me. It might as well be you getting tossed in that fucking basement. I hate it. I hate it, it's hurting you. You're tired when you come back, you're... less of you. More of it. It's gutting you to make more room for itself, because who you are isn't what it wants you to be, you don't want to be like it, I know you don't."

"How would you know that?" asked Dark. His voice was still cold, still impatient, but it was... softening. Just a little. Anti took a deep breath.

"I know you have nightmares."

Dark stiffened a little, and Anti kept talking.

"You're good at hiding it. Really good. But you can't pretend when you're asleep. I see your face move, I feel you get tense, like you want to run... and when you wake up, you look like you just got back from giving it a fresh body. It wants all of you, and you're afraid. And I don't want your fear."

"Why not?"

"I need you."

"You need to-"

"I need more than feeding," said Anti tiredly, shutting his eyes. "I need you. You next to me. Your arms. Your voice. Your terrible fucking interior design choices-"

Dark huffed like he was trying not to laugh, and Anti stored it away to feel smug about later.

"-your rants about the dumbass dog next door and the lemon window upstairs, your pretentious, stupid filing systems, you, Dark, I need you. I want you. And the manor wants to take you away from me, and I'm not going to fucking let it."

A long, quiet moment passed. Dark's hand pressed into the small of Anti's back, and Anti did not cry as Dark finally curled into him, holding him carefully.

"I need you, too," he murmured, setting his chin on Anti's head and stroking his hand up and down Anti's back. "I want you, too. And I... I don't want it. But it will kill me if I don't let it in."

"It'll still kill you if you do," said Anti miserably, and Dark sighed.

"...Maybe. Maybe it will. But there's time to figure that out, alright? I'm not dying right now, am I? I'm right here. With you."

Anti finally unclenched his hands from Dark's shirt, only to wrap his arms around his boyfriend's neck, pressing closer against him.

"...You're here," he agreed. Dark nodded.

"I'm not leaving you. I don't want to leave you."

"Promise," Anti demanded.

"I promise," said Dark, without hesitation.

...

Chase kept his eyes shut, and hated every second of it. But this was- this was important. This was important, and if Henrik tried anything Marvin was right there to set him on fire. Marvin was good at fire.

Chase tried to focus on that, on the memory of Marvin getting startled by his own damn cat and setting the ceiling fan on fire that one time. It was better than focusing on Henrik muttering to himself as he took notes on Chase's last answer.

"...Alright," said Henrik finally, and the frenzied sound of scribbling stopped, "there is... no evidence that the connection has changed. Decreased paranoia does not indicate it has weakened, it is simply the natural progression of increased security in the absence of an attack. All that remains is to-"

"Do we really have to do this part?" Said Marvin, and Higgins yowled. Henrik sighed, agitated.

"Yes, we do. It's the most important part of this check-in, you are well aware of that."

"Then- then couldn't I do it? This once?"

Chase frowned. Marvin sounded more worried than usual.

I should tease him about that later.

"Were you possessed by the anomaly?" Henrik snapped, "Chase has the strongest connection to it, he is our best avenue of insight. Don't let your emotions cloud your judgement, Chase will be fine."

Chase tried very hard not to think about the word 'possessed'.

"You don't know that," Marvin muttered angrily. Henrik sighed again, more pointedly this time. Chase was pretty sure Marvin would throw hands with Henrik if he wasn't so scrawny. Henrik wasn't much to look at either, but he definitely had the height advantage. Marvin did have magic, though, and an unmatched level of pure, unadulterated spite, and honestly Chase would pay to watch him kick the shit out of-

"Chase, I said focus," said Henrik.

"Always ruining my fun," Chase muttered. Marvin snorted, and Chase could feel Henrik holding back one last sigh.

"Reach out to him," Henrik commanded. This was the part Chase hated. He'd had his eyes closed through the whole questioning process to help disengage from his body, because if he was too present, too connected with what was happening around him, he wouldn't be able to...

...to feel Anti. And the others needed him to, needed any information on Anti they could possibly get. They needed him to do this, and it was all he could actually do for them, and damned if he was going to keep all of them trapped because it scared him. Damned if he was.

Chase took a deep breath, and reached out.

"Chase," said Marvin, half-frantic from where he knelt in front of Chase, "Look at me- can you hear me? Chase, can you hear me?"

"Why'm I on the floor?" Chase mumbled thickly, frowning stupidly at Marvin. Marvin was on the floor with him, holding him by the shoulders, looking ready to pass out with relief.

"Because you fell," he said, voice sharp with what sounded like anger but going by his expression was worry. "You went still, you started crying, and you fell-"

Marvin turned to glare up at Henrik, eyes glowing faintly green.

"You said he'd be fine."

"He doesn't look hurt," Henrik shrugged. "Chase, would you mind getting up?"

"Fuck off, Henrik-"

"He's miserable," said Chase slowly. Marvin looked back at him, frowning. Henrik tilted his head. Neither of them spoke. Chase swallowed. "Anti," he clarified pointlessly, "he's... he's miserable. Feels helpless. Angry, but not in a 'killing people' way. He's usually happy when he kills people, actually-"

"Chase," said Marvin, squeezing his shoulder, "we should get you to bed."

Henrik paused in his frantic note-taking to glare at Marvin.

"...Yeah, actually," said Chase after a moment, "that'd be... yeah. Sorry, Hen, I'll- I can write it all up for you later."

Henrik pressed his lips together, clearly frustrated, but nodded.

"...Alright. I had better pack up, then."

Marvin helped Chase off the floor, and Chase tried to shake off the last of the suffocating, cloying, helpless anguish that had rushed in on him from all sides. Higgins brushed against his ankle as Marvin guided him down the hallway and into the office he'd usurped and turned into- well, it wasn't really a makeshift bedroom anymore. It had been over a year. He was probably officially Marvin's roommate now.

"You're hovering," he told Marvin as the other herded him to the bed. The mattress felt softer than it had been that morning.

"You gave us a fright," said Marvin. Chase grinned up at him, and Marvin folded his arms.

"What."

"Knew you cared," Chase teased. Marvin went pink. Gods, he was so fucking easy.

Higgins jumped up onto the bedspread and curled up at Chase's feet purring loudly, and after a moment Marvin relented and sat on the edge of the bed.

"...are you alright?" he asked softly, and something flipped over behind Chase's ribs.

Not the time, Brody, really, definitely not the time.

"I'm fine," said Chase, only lying a little bit. "It's... they're not really my emotions, and I only feel him in- in my head for a moment, so... I'm fine."

"You were crying."

"Can't prove it."

"Chase."

"Marv," he said, taking Marvin's hand and doing his level best not to think about it, "I'm fine. I'll be fine. You should go make sure Henrik's not doing any bullshit out there, okay? I'll be fine."

Marvin hesitated just long enough for Higgins to meow impatiently.

"Fine," he said, dropping Chase's hand to stand up, "alright, I probably should see him out... I'll bring you some tea, alright?"

"Thanks," Chase hummed, giving him a smile. Marvin nodded sharply, and left. As soon as the door shut behind him, Higgins climbed up to settle on Chase's chest, purring loudly and nuzzling his head into Chase's shirt.

"Good kitty," said Chase, voice cracking halfway through. He took a deep, shaking breath, burying a hand in the cat's fur. "Good kitty. Thank you."

[parsimonius]

sigh. I wrote more Polin. Obsessed with Colin and Pen…

It’s a problem really. Here’s a snippet from my favorite letter from this fic;

“

Dear Pain in the Ass,

If I was not enjoying my time with Kate on my honeymoon, just believe that I would have tracked you down myself, you idiotic buffoon.

I am unsure why you are running away with your tail between your legs, but leaving without informing me or your younger siblings was quite rude and inconsiderate. The only reason I am not ignoring you so that you can wallow in your self pity is because Kate stands behind me. She believes you a fool, but a good natured one. Her words—not mine. I believe that you are playing a far too dangerous game. I am unsure what your plans are when returning, but best be prepared. Mama is not too pleased you have run off again.

If you wish to play around in Greece or Italy, or wherever you think will accept you, it is fine by me. Just be aware that you will be back in time for Francesca’s debut or I shall drag you by your wick myself.

Our family is doing quite well. I hope you are as well. You know I only wish the best for you, even if you are quite vexing. I hope your travels will give you the peace of mind you are searching for. When you return, I hope you can finally find a nice woman to settle down with. Do you have any in mind? I can get some interviews set up with Mother, if you wish for her to pick your girl instead.

It is quite hard to think of anyone beside your side but Miss Penelope Featherington. Perhaps it is because all my memories of you have been at her side. I’m warning you in advance—that can not continue. I know you mean well Brother, but Miss Featherington needs to find a wealthy and happy man. Your friendship puts her off the market. Unless you intend to marry her, I suggest you tone down your familiarity with her, so that other men do not get jealous.

I hope you take my advice to heart. I do not wish to see you suffer for the same mistakes that had almost befallen me.

Sincerely,

Anthony

“

[certifiedlovergirlsstuff]

my favorite art piece

pairing: knight!steve harrington x fem!princess reader

wc: 777

warnings: none. tis' a clean story.

summary: knight and princess talk about the visiting duke over oil painting.

A/N: another story to my knight!steve series. alone together is the first one but you could read either one standalone.

masterlist

“was hoping i’d find you here. was beginning to worry you climbed the palace walls again and i’d have my head chopped off.” a male voice entered your quiet art room.

barely a glance over your shoulder you knew who was stepping behind you. the gentle clang of his armor and weapon reverberated off the high ceilings.

“i’d never let them do such a thing. can’t waste a pretty face away.” the smirk evident in your words.

the footsteps and clanking stopped just over your right shoulder, “they don’t write sonnets about this face for nothing, princess.”

an unprincessly snort left your nose, “oh do they? you must recite some to me one day. would adore to hear.”

steven hummed, “what is your focus on today, princess? you mostly paint when stressed.”

focused brush strokes paused, ignoring the way your heart beat just a bit faster that he knew something so small about your ticks. “not always. it’s just when… inspiration hits me. and perhaps it may be when i can’t control something.” resuming practiced strokes, a band of fury hidden beneath a poised grip.

“might i inquire what has you… vexed?” steven took two steps over, now in your peripheral.

shades of periwinkle and indigo mixed, “if you must. but mind your words.” speaking slowly, fully concentrating on your work.

“would this have anything to do with a certain duke? one who happens to be visiting for the week?” you ignored the gentle venom of the word duke.

“lord hargrove’s arrival has been known for many days. though his intentions of travel have not been stated until the day of his arrival.” seeing shades of red while adding spots of white.

“i’m guessing-“ “marriage! lord hargrove is here for my hand in marriage. in request of my father and his, for the good of our kingdoms.” stains of paint dripped down the canvas in tears.

“marriage,” steven repeated, you could imagine the slight snare on his face at the word.

“yes, marriage,” a deep sigh from overuse of the word, “to a man i don’t know and is expected to wed in the spring. no choice in the matter.” rinsing your brush in the murky paint water, tapping it against the lip before pressing it onto a cloth.

“not quite fair to expect that of you.” steven grabbed a stool close by to be placed beside you. he was now sitting shoulder to bicep.

you couldn’t help your scuff, “i’m but a woman. they only tolerate us cause we can be sold like sheep and breed like a calf. a single syllable from our lips can bring us death. seen not heard.” your once melancholy painting transforming into a brutal storm, one that brings sailors to the ocean floors.

dropping your brush beside your easil, you finally turn to sir steven. his back straight with knees bent at the perfect angle, a slight spread to the long limbs. forearms resting on thighs while mindlessly tugging at his fingers, head dipped with untamed strands of hair flinging about.

you spoke before you could stop, “let me paint you.” speaking quietly not wanting to disrupt the peace.

steven’s head picked up and met your wondering eyes, “pardon?” a pinch to his brows.

you cocked your head, “let me paint you. would cheer me up.” standing to your feet in search of a spare canvas.

“princess-“ “please? i wish to paint the face people pen poems and sonnets about.” trying to feed his ego.

you heard the deep sigh but saw the little smile before he could wipe it away, “your wish is my command, princess.” starting to move before you rushed over and rested a palm on his shoulder, “stay. the lighting is perfect.”

he peered up, long lashes framing normal brown eyes that held something special. his patches of silver armor cool under your warm palm. “just sit like before, but keep your head up.”

“am i getting a portrait done by the lovely princess y/n l/n? i must be the luckiest man alive.” his sword clicked off the wooden stool leg.

you started collecting more oil colors, “i would say so. and i would also say i’m the luckiest princess alive since i’ll get to stare at you while detailing my work to perfection.” 

satisfied with your supplies and making sure they stay put, you begin your simple outline in black chalk. the simple task is a distraction from your loose words and hummingbird heart.“quiet flattered, princess.” princess said in a low tone that forced you to suppress a shiver. “only the best for my favorite knight.” saying the words only to yourself.

[unicyclehippo]

top 5 moments of your fave character from each cr campaign

oh u DO think my memory is better than it is but i will give it a go

1. c1 - everything vex has ever done. when vex rises up out of the ocean on her wedding day, furious, & summons a bow made of light & pike gives her a golden arrow to shoot sylas……h-hot. woman hot. delilah WAS a bitch. i am a twin myself & that whole deal was..a lot for me. do not go far from me. there’s a kind of loneliness that only twins get to feel & vex&vax nailed that.

2. c2 - beau with her shitty strength steps back into the room w the laughing hand & hauls her BROTHR her CAPTAIN her FRIEND onto her shoulders & gets him out of there she goes BACK for him she has no MAGIC she LOVES him she risks everything to get her hands on him & pull him away she risks an awful death she would die for any of them she means it she proves it she loves so hard her hands are in fists all the time she can’t let people see what she wants she can’t let people see that she wants she takes her bloodied hands& picks up her FRIEND & gets him OUT she LOVES him.

3. also c2 jester cupcake moment. i think it’s the only moment in cr where everything just….clicked. to me, that’s THE jester moment. everything stripped away. that’s CHARACTER baby that’s the good shit.

4. c3 laudna in the tree matt giving up his seat for her to speak to imogen for the most brutal like. ten seconds ever. laudna hunger of the shadow the first time. Marisha does this thing where she like. visibly dissociates for like. i don’t rmbr. i want to say fully forty minutes but that might just be me having felt it so powerfully. ten minutes ? the way she diminishes her presence, hides at the table, sits SO perfectly still. my heart aches.

5. exu calamity laerryn BLIGHT. who has done more in the history of exandria? who has changed the world more than her? NO ONE. NO. ONE. who had the power the skill the vision the LOVE to do what she did, to see avalir move not only over the face of the world but between every world? That ALONE would put her into top tier. & then yeah ok with a single spell she broke the pen that wrote the runes of protection across the world & shattered the ancient tree but who hasn’t wanted to kill a tree that was killing their friends? everyone would do that. it hurt her friend it hurt her husband (ex) it KEPT her BEST FRIEND in its BRANCHES who she has tried EVERYTHING to save. so yeah FUCK that tree! & then when everything went to shit she SAVED the world. she SAVED THE WORLD. laerryn literally has done the most anyone has ever done. & in some ways she did succeed in making it so that people could travel between realms im just saying she very much did succeed at that even if there were a few consequences

[thedeafprophet]

🤝 for josie on a bad pain day?

🤝 - Some help performing a basic task

That Which Pains You

Loathing as she was to its prescence, it was an unwanted fact that The Percipient Scientist dealt with frequent boughts of pain and aches, that of which could often interefer with her tasks and frustrated her to no end. That doesn't mean she has to deal with it alone.

Word count: 950

Rating: Teen

Tags: Chronic pain, comfort

Relationship: September of the Calendar Council/Original Fallen London Character

Also on ao3

Even the quick movement of Josephine's wrist as she moved to pick up the pen was a sore reminder of her physical limitations that vexed her so. Pain and stiffness radiated up her hand, like a pulse of electricity surging through an unwanted conduit.  Even as she tried to open and close her fingers to relieve the pressure, she could almost feel the grating sensation of the tendon as she moved.

She'd done all she could to wade off the flare up - she'd practised stretches, equipped her braces, took frequent breaks - but it seemed even she couldn't wade off the aches and pains forever. It was coming close to the end of term, countless papers and tests to mark, all needing to be returned in a timely manner, all alongside her other work...well, it was no wonder she'd over extended herself.

Josephine sighed, weary and exhausted.

It wasn't the pain that got to her on its own, even though it was an ever present reminder of the lingering weakness she didn’t even know the origin of. No, it was the complete and utter frustration at being unable to perform something she did almost every day. The rest of her body thrummed in painful agreement her traitorous hand, and Josephine half regretted getting out of bed this morning, even if she knew it would have driven her mad to stay. She'd tried to work at the desk for ages, but eventually ended up propping herself up in bed to try and wade off the exhaustion.

Her struggle, it seemed, did not go unnoticed.

"Are ye doin’ alright there love?"

September had looked up from his own writing, the two of them in their usual cohabitance of working near one another in peaceful silence, simply enjoying one another's presence. September’s brow was furrowed in that way it got whenever he was concerned, and the fondness Josephine felt at his expressiveness was almost enough to wade off the building frustration.

"It's fine it's just-" she reaches her other hand up under the bridge of her glasses to squeeze at the bridge of her nose. Josephine's struggle with pain was no secret to September, even if it had taken time for Josephine to speak with him on the subject.  "I have come to yet another impasse with my physical limitations, and I have come no closer to understanding why, and I need to get this work done less I fall behind, and I can’t even pick up the pen properly, and I don't-"

She takes a deep, centred breath. She would not cry over something so benign, so common, so frequent. She wouldn't.

In the midst of her beginning ramble, September had put his work down, moving to cross the room and settle down beside her. He reached his hand out and gently took her hand in his, as Josephine worked to keep her breathing level. She didn’t know why she felt so overwhelmed so quickly, like the mere acknowledgement of her suffering was enough to shatter the dam that kept the flood at bay.

September's thumb rubbed soothingly into the pad of her hand, helping ease the tension, before lifting her hand to place a gentle kiss along the knuckles. He offered an arm out for her to move closer to him, a solid weight against her.  It didn't make the pain go away, but somehow, the support made it seem more distant, as if a glass had been placed between. 

A few moments passed in peaceful silence, before September gently moved and turned to look at Josephines work.

"Aye, how bout' this love, ye tell me what you need written n’ marked, and I c’n be yer hands for ye til’ it's done."

Josephine blinked at him, processing the suggestion. It was a solution, sure, but-

"But don't you have your own work to complete? It would hardly be fair for you to fall behind because of me." Something in her bristled, at having to accept help, of having to rely on anyone, even if the idea of not having support also hurt. 

"Ah well, ah ne'er particularly get anythin’ done in time anyway, and yer time limits are always more pressin, aint’ they?" He smiles at her. "Ah dinnae mind, really. N’ it'll give me even more time tae spend wi’ ye."

That was.... touching. Appreciated. Josephine almost felt like crying again for altogether a different reason.

"That would be... amenable. I think, given the circumstances I am working in." She reaches to read through the previous exam page she had been struggling with. "I don't expect you to be well versed in the topic, but I do hope you'll be able to follow along with my direction."

It's not a quick process, by any means, not as it would have been for Josephine on a good day of her own accord. But it was process nonetheless, as September filled out the pages to her directions to a key (with an added commentary here or there). As time passed, Josephine's trepidation at having to let someone else do the work for her, September never once passing commentary on the subject, only ever being fully supportive. 

She did trust him, afterall. She could trust him with this. 

By the end, Josephine was able to finish this set of paper with September's help, and he helped gather the papers for her in a neat organised pile, even if Josephine did have to remind him of which coloured folder they went into. A nice bath and a peaceful evening were next on the agenda, if Septembers’ hopeful gaze and offers to help were anything to go by. 

Well, she could be amenable to that too. If it was offered, anyways. 

[dreamersbcll]

“60/40”

i want a hundred of your time. you’re mine.

—————————————————————————-

Art was subjective.

Through any flick of the brush or stroke of paint, anything could be created. Anything could be interpreted. Perspective. It was all about perspective.

Tara had it. She knew how to draw on the inside and the outside. It was easy for her to decide what lines to remove and which to cross. It was quite simple when she had a straightforward rule.

Nobody touches Sam.

Bathed in neglect and sin, Tara was a rabid dog. She bit down, held on, and refused to give in. Too many times had she been the dog with a bird at the door of someone who didn’t want anything to do with her— especially with Sam. But that didn’t matter now. She was reunited with her big sister. And she wasn’t going to let go.

She couldn’t help that her hackles rose each time she saw Sam interact with someone that wasn’t her. She frothed at mouth each time she watched her big sister touch someone that wasn’t her, and she could feel her teeth sharpen each time Sam uttered I love you to anyone but Tara.

Tara knew how to create art. She was good with a pen and pencil. She excelled at oils and pastels. But the most underrated tool was what she could do with a knife.

It wasn't easy following in her big sister’s footsteps. Sam had a knack for violence and a lust to create. Some saw it as destruction, ripping people apart until nothing was left. But Tara knew better. Her sister was an artist, her canvas the bodies of the vexed and deplorable.

She wanted to be her big sister so bad. All she ever wanted was for people to look at her and say— Tara is just like Sam.

The planning took a long time. She was an architect, a creator, and a designer focused on concocting her own piece of art. She observed Sam noticed how the vein in her jaw jumped when she clenched it or how she dug her fingernails into her palms when angered. She learned how to subdue a body properly and carve it out from the inside out.

Once she felt prepared, all she needed was a victim. Someone to take a clean apart, turn it inside out, and make it new again.

So it really was a no-brainer on who to pick once Rebecca wandered into Sam’s life. For Sam, it was an immediate friendship. But for Tara, it was immediate aversion.

In all fairness, Tara tried. She did give it a chance. The girl was just too… boisterous. Too loud, always taking up all the oxygen in the room, leaving Tara uncomfortably breathless. Rebecca took everything- Sam’s time, energy, and power; and left Tara an exhausted and quiet big sister. When Tara wanted more love or attention, Sam couldn’t give it, as she was exhausted from giving her all to her fruitless friendship.

And Tara couldn’t allow that to happen anymore. She wouldn’t allow any more days of little conversations, nights staying up waiting for a too-drunk big sister to come home. Rebecca didn’t love or appreciate Sam’s creativity and heart as Tara did.

Rebecca would never see it coming, what Tara would do next. That was how the world worked—you had to leave before you got left or caught.

So when the girl wakes up in an abandoned warehouse, her wrists bound and her mouth gagged, she doesn’t understand. Typical. The arsonist never realized that they left a trail of gasoline for anyone to ignite.

——

Tara chuckles, watching the girl writhe under her restraints. She did such a good job making sure that the knots wouldn’t shift like Sam taught her. God, Sam was going to be so proud of her budding little artist.

Eventually, Rebecca spots Tara standing in the shadows, her dark eyes shining with lust. The girl flips her body around desperately, foolishly believing that Tara is actually here to save her. The absolute gall this woman had.

Padding out of the darkness, Tara stops before her little hostage, tilting her head. She couldn’t help the grin that grew across her face, a real Cheshire cat grin. Everything in her felt red-hot and alive, and it took more restraint than she would care to admit not to carve up her canvas now. She instead bent down and ripped the gag out.

Flopping like a caught fish, Rebecca gasps for air, her face crimson. She looks up at Tara with wide eyes, tears bubbling over and down her cheeks. “Why are you doing this? Why, Tara?”

Tara cocks her head, circling her prey, enjoying the chase. “You know what you did,” she hummed.

The woman shakes her head robotically, almost comically. She pulls against her restraints, Tara’s grin only getting more significant as she struggles. Finally, she stops pulling, tears pooling onto the cold concrete below her. “No, I don’t! What did I do? Why are you hurting me?” she wails.

Shrugging, Tara looks at her nails, bored. She forgot how much she hated monologuing. But she supposed she owed the girl an answer. “I’m not hurting you. I’m showing you what happens when you take what is mine.”

“What did I take? I didn’t take anything!” Rebecca shouts, pulling at her wrists again.

“Sixty-forty,” Tara whispers, her voice cold and sharp.

Rebecca stopped struggling and cocks her head in confusion. Tara could practically taste the blood on her tongue, her mouth salivating in anticipation of the kill.

“What? What does that mean?” Rebecca whispers, her eyes wide.

Tara bends down, roughly grasping the woman’s chin. She forces Rebecca to look her in the eye, as this was her artwork, and she was the artist. She was the mastermind. Everything would happen the way she wanted it to. “Look at me. It’s the time- look at me. There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Clearing her throat, now with the attention of her hostage on her, she continued. “Like I was saying, that’s the time you took from me. You took sixty percent of the time I should have with Sam and left me forty. I’m not too fond of that. No, it should be ninety-five, five. Or better yet, one hundred to nil. Do you understand?”

“You’re hurting me because I hung out with your sister?” Rebecca cries, her tears leaking onto Tara’s hand.

Pulling her hand back in disgust, Tara wipes her fingers onto her jeans. “Hey. No, no. I’m making art. I’m creating—Sam’s mine. I’m showing her that I'm capable of creating gifts to win her back. You’re just collateral, I suppose,” she muses, shrugging.

“Please let me go.”

And that’s what she heard it. That voice. The voice that soothed every fear and fed every need. The voice that spoke reason, and gave honesty. The one thing Tara could always fall into, and follow home.

“Oh sweetheart, don’t let her go Tara. Show me. Show me your love. Give me your heart,” Sam purred, circling the two. Tara looked up at her sister, grinning maniacally, her eyes dark.

For Tara, she knew she was safe. For Rebecca, she thought she was saved.

Looking up at Sam, Rebecca smiled, her face softening in relief. “Sam! You gotta help me. Please, please let me go. Tell your psycho bitch sister to let me go!”

However, those were the wrong choice of words. If the woman was even the slightest bit smart or had a shred of intelligence, she would’ve realized her mistake. She doused herself in blood and threw herself into the lion’s den.

Soft and calculated, Sam speaks. “What did you call her?”

Tara shivers at her big sister’s voice, sweat trickling down her back. It was the same tone that she heard in New York before the knife was plunged through Detective Bailey’s eye. The detached cruelty that Sam could slip on and off so quickly, forgoing her humanity.

She wants to master that skill one day.

As if sensing the reality of her situation, Rebecca sobs, snot running down her face. “Sam, please,” she softly begs, hiccuping.

Her big sister tilts her head, shaking it slowly. Tara could feel her heart bursting at the seams, her love for Sam overflowing. Sam tutted softly and, instead, kicked the girl swiftly in the ribs. Swallowing hard, Tara’s heart thumped, her hands twitching, waiting for a command.

As Rebecca moaned in pain, Sam turned back to her sister, her pupils dilated. “Tara, continue. Show me your love,” Sam orders, stepping back, allowing her sister room to work.

Tara grinned, looking down at Rebecca. She took her switchblade out, unsheathing the blade. “You heard her. It’s time to continue now,” she purred, her eyes glazed in passion.

All that could be heard was hollow screaming echoing off of an empty warehouse and the clattering of knives onto the cold pavement. Soon, the screaming stopped, and Tara stepped back, admiring her work.

Sam wrapped her arms around Tara’s shoulders, pulling her in and holding her down. “I’m so proud of you, baby. You’re such a good artist,”

Tara hummed. “I’ve had lots of practice,”

Her big sister’s eyes lit up in wonder. “Show me,” she softly growled, commanding Tara to her will.

And Tara obeyed. They were finally together. She wasn’t selfish. She just wasn’t sharing.

Sam was hers. Tara was Sam’s. That was it.

[elwenyere]

My Father’s “Norton Introduction to Literature,” Third Edition (1981) 

Certain words give him trouble: cannibals, puzzles, sob, bosom, martyr, deteriorate, shake, astonishes, vexed, ode    ...     These he looks up and studiously annotates in Vietnamese. Ravish means cướp đoạt; shits is like when you have to đi ỉa; mourners are those whom we say are full of buồn rầu. For “even the like precurse of feared events” think báo trước.

Its thin translucent pages are webbed with his marginalia, graphite ghosts of a living hand, and the notes often sound just like him: “All depend on how look at thing,” he pencils after “I first surmised the Horses’ Heads / Were toward Eternity —” His slanted handwriting is generally small, but firm and clear. His pencil is a No. 2, his preferred Hi-Liter, arctic blue.

I can see my father trying out the tools of literary analysis. He identifies the “turning point” of “The Short and Happy Life of Francis Macomber”; underlines the simile in “Both the old man and the child stared ahead as if they were awaiting an apparition.” My father, as he reads, continues to notice relevant passages and to register significant reactions, but increasingly sorts out

his ideas in English, shaking off those Vietnamese glosses. 1981 was the same year we vượt biển and came to America, where my father took Intro Lit (“for fun”), Comp Sci (“for job”). “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” he murmurs something about the “dark side of life how awful it can be” as I begin to track silence and signal to a cold source.

Reading Ransom’s “Bells for John Whiteside’s Daughter,” a poem about a “young girl’s death,” as my father notes, how could he not have been “vexed at her brown study /  Lying so primly propped,” since he never properly observed (I realize this just now) his own daughter’s wake. Lấy làm ngạc nhiên về is what it means to be astonished.

Her name was Đông Xưa, Ancient Winter, but at home she’s Bebe. “There was such speed in her little body, / And such lightness in her footfall, / It is no wonder her brown study / Astonishes us all.” In the photo of her that hangs in my parents’ house she is always fourteen months old and staring into the future. In “reeducation camp” he had to believe she was alive

because my mother on visits “took arms against her shadow.” Did the memory of those days sweep over him like a leaf storm from the pages of a forgotten autumn? Lost in the margins, I’m reading the way I discourage my students from reading. But this is “how we deal with death,” his black pen replies. Assume there is a reason for everything, instructs a green asterisk.

Then between pp. 896-97, opened to Stevens’ “Sunday Morning,” I pick out a newspaper clipping, small as a stamp, an old listing from the 404-Employment Opps State of Minnesota, and read: For current job opportunities dial (612) 297-3180. Answered 24 hrs. When I dial, the automated female voice on the other end tells me I have reached a non-working number.

-- Hai-Dang Phan

[frozenjokes]

To Keep // 5

Prev/Next - Ao3 Link

After three days of prep, Cub decided to wait four more just to make sure he’d be home when Cleo returned the next week. A simple plan, intuitive really; keep Cleo under the impression nothing abnormal was happening here, and she wouldn’t rat him out. Hopefully. He really didn’t think they would, not if they believed Cub was staying smart and safe. They didn’t even want Scar dead by the looks of it. All great news! With the extra time, Cub could also return to his neglected starter base among a bunch of other half-finished projects. There were so many chores that had built up in his extended absence as well, stuff Cub had simply forgotten in his one track mission. Lots to do, lots to do.

Lots to do.

Lots..

Cub found himself staring at the list he had made for himself.

Get up. Get up.

Go on.

Cub did not get up. His normal, usually reliable source of motivation seemed to have run dry, replaced only with a hard ache. He opened his mouth. He closed it. The length of the list wasn’t the problem; usually for him, a lack of things to do was far more stressful. A long list had a certain security to it. It had goals, it had things to look forward to, and between the lines held surprises and welcome interruptions by the other ghosts. But when Cub looked at his list, he found he didn’t care. Projects that, a month ago, had his mind buzzing, felt static now, his prior excitement replaced so entirely with a sick disinterest. Maybe if he bugged another ghost, he’d find some inspiration? Cub willed himself to his feet.

He did not move.

He didn’t care about them, either. The apathy fell so heavy, it almost frightened him, almost, but he didn’t quite have the sense to be afraid. He cared- well, he cared enough to think of Cleo, but only how she might hinder him. How she might stop him. What would he do if she tried? If she told the others? He didn’t like his first impulses; biting, tearing, ripping- Cub set down his pen, pinching the bridge of his nose instead. When had this gotten so bad? How had he not noticed? Had he really not paused his pursuit of Scar until now? And all because he was concerned about being found out. Cub rested his head on the desk where he sat with a soft thump.

This was different from his other fixations. This felt different. He’d been angry before, yes, if his friends forced him to take a step back. To take a break. To breathe. He’d been upset to be stopped, even in his most self destructive fixations. But he’d never been violent, and if the thought ever arose, he’d never acted.

But this wasn’t..this didn’t feel like..

Cub closed his eyes, searching for a phantom presence he hadn’t noticed before. For a voice at the back of his mind- voices maybe; not all of his parts came from the same vex. But there was nothing. No separate being, no out of place thoughts or malicious attitudes; just him. It was all just him. He didn’t feel possessed. How would he know? Did it even matter?

Something deep inside him wanted whatever was inside Scar, and it was not going to be stopped. Cub was not going to be stopped. He wanted Scar.

He should really write this down. Leave it somewhere, for someone to find.

Cub did not pick up his pen.

///

“Hey, Cub, do you have a minute? I had a question about a redstone project, a few, actually, and I was wondering if you could take a look?” Impulse opened the door to Cub’s starter base, considerate, considering it still didn’t have a completed roof. Given a sky opening, most ghosts just flew right in. Last time Impulse had stopped by, Cub had told him there was no need to use the door, but apparently old habits died hard. Cub looked up from his desk across the front room, his notes still open under his hands, mostly unwritten in. Impulse looked nervous, not unusual for a new ghost, but he hadn’t looked so uncomfortable last time he came. Last time. That was recently, wasn’t it? Ah, maybe Impulse felt awkward because Cub hadn’t said anything. It took him a moment to muster up the motivation to speak.

“Sure, did you have a time in mind?” Cub noted the sluggish way his head and shoulders turned. He should really write that down. He glanced at the pen, resting untouched for days on his desk. Impulse stood stiffly in the doorway, still looking unnerved. Cub wondered absently, why. He didn’t remember doing anything particularly unusual. It was Impulse’s turn to be silent for a long pause, which under normal circumstances, Cub wouldn’t have minded, but he needed to get back to his notes.

“I did. Last evening, actually, is what I was thinking,” Impulse maintained a lightness in his tone, but it was clearly forced. Even still, there was no hostility there, no, just something else Cub couldn’t quite place. Cub blinked slowly, glancing to the hole in his roof. The sun was up; it was probably around midday. Ah.

“I forgot,” he said simply, turning away. In all honesty, he was completely uninterested; in redstone, in leaving, in Impulse and the way he might be feeling… He should write this down. Cub frowned, looking back at his notes. Scar’s journal still sat open on his desk, and he realized with a jolt that Impulse might recognize it. He moved quickly- but not too quickly- to close it, and put it away in one of the desk’s drawers. He made a movement to pick up his pen, but stopped short, instead turning back to face Impulse. He was staring. Had Cub forgotten to speak?

“I forgot,” he repeated, hoping Impulse would be satisfied enough with the answer and leave him be.

“You’ve been sitting there for a while, Cub. Are you okay?” Impulse’s expression was unreadable, but if Cub had to guess, there was probably some amount of concern there. Wouldn’t be the first time a ghost had felt that way. Won’t be the last.

“I’m fine. Just busy with work.”

“You haven’t been working.”

Cub stared. Impulse stared back. Well.

“I don’t know what you expect me to say. Respectfully, it’s not any of your business what I do with my time. You don’t know me, Impulse, so excuse me for being blunt, but I don’t like to be confronted about my work, regardless of what I’m doing. I’m sorry I forgot to meet you, but I’m not interested in interventions.”

Impulse took a step back, raising his hands in a placating gesture, “I’m sorry, Cub. I didn’t mean- that was stupid. I’m sorry. I, uh.. I think I’ve just had this on my mind for so long I just lost track of myself. I should have approached this differently.”

“It hasn’t even been a day, Impulse.”

“Well, about that.. It’s been more than that, actually. Two days- two and a half, I guess. I came to see you the other day when you didn’t show up, and I noticed you hadn’t moved. I mean, you weren’t moving. You were so still, and I just started watching- well, there’s no good sounding way to say this, I watched you for a long time. Hours, actually. You did not move. You didn’t even read your notes or pick up your pen.”

“What of it?”

“Cub.”

“I’m serious. Why does it matter? I lost track of time. I’ve had a lot on my mind. What’s the problem? I don’t care that you’ve been watching me, or that you’re concerned, or anything. I don’t care, Impulse.” Hurt flashed across Impulse’s face, then a deeper anger, neither of which evoked any reaction from Cub. Hm. He should really write that down. Still, he did not move, but to his light annoyance neither did Impulse. “If you have something to say, then say it.”

“Fine. Fine. I know this is about Scar.” Cub froze, but did not speak, so Impulse continued, seething, “I came down here yesterday, and I was going to speak with you, but you didn’t notice me from the ceiling, so I saw your notes. His journal. Real subtle putting it away, like I wouldn’t notice,” Impulse spat, “So, are you going to tell me again it’s none of my business? I gave you the benefit of the doubt, y’know. I thought maybe something happened, I don’t know, you were acting so off, but maybe this is just the way you are. What do I know?” Cub was silent for a long while, letting each word sink in. Some old, instinctive terror lit a fire in his lungs, but he forced himself to stay still, to think.

“Have you told anyone?” he heard himself whisper, cringing inwardly at the fear that slipped through. Impulse recoiled in disgust, and Cub did not blame him.

“No. So this is a secret then? No one knows?” Impulse sounded so deeply relieved, Cub thought he’d forgotten his anger, but when Impulse opened his eyes, they were still blazing.

“No one knows,” Cub spoke carefully, tiptoeing. He felt his claws itch. His teeth ache. His wings twitch. He did not move. He couldn’t ruin this. “Are you going to expose me?”

Impulse narrowed his eyes. “I wouldn’t. Not if it would risk the crew finding out. They can’t know about this . If- if you-“

“For fuck’s sake, I’m not going to tell them. I don’t want anyone to know, least of all you four,” Cub felt his body, almost tensed against his will, relax. This was fine. This was going to be fine. Apathy blanketed back over his mind, thick and all encompassing. Cub wanted to be afraid. He should be afraid. He should write this down. He closed his eyes. He’d feel better after the weekend was over, and Cleo was gone, and he could pursue his research at zero risk. Well, little risk with Impulse, but he looked so genuinely disgusted with the entire situation, Cub felt confident enough he’d stay quiet. After all, ghosts talked, and they didn’t always pay attention to who was around. It made sense Impulse didn’t want to say a word. While Cub certainly wished he hadn’t found out , out of all the ghosts on this island..

“Does Cleo know? That journal.. I don’t see how you would have gotten it otherwise.”

The question caught Cub off guard, but it really shouldn’t have. Cleo was close with the Boatem crew. It was one thing to be betrayed by a half-stranger, but another entirely for her. Cub frowned. If he didn’t tell the truth, Impulse might ask Cleo out of a lack of trust, and regardless of what Impulse wanted, Cub would be in hot water. But if Impulse knew, would he confront her anyway?

“Cleo knows as much as you do. Which is to say, that I’m looking. I was trapped somewhere, and needed their assistance to escape. The journal was an attempt to placate me. To satisfy me enough to keep me from returning.”

“You said you’d stop? And you haven’t?” Impulse challenged. Well, that wasn’t what Cub had said, but perhaps it was better that was what Impulse believed. He wanted to believe it, the desperate look on his face made that fact clear.

“Yes.”

“So you lied.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you two were friends. What’s your problem? Why are you doing this? Can you not just kill him? I have to assume he’s still alive.”

“I don’t care, Impulse. I don’t care anymore.” Cub turned away, a note of finality in his words. Impulse still didn’t move.

“Anymore?” Impulse hissed, accentuating Cub’s irritation.

“I have work to do. Get out,” he huffed, not bothering to see Impulse’s reaction. This conversation was over. Cub felt Impulse’s anger on his back, but did not move, and eventually he heard Impulse’s footsteps leaving before the door slammed shut behind him.

Good.

///

The weekend was tense.

Cub hadn’t even realized Cleo had arrived until she checked in, at which point he was so full of unspent energy at the idea that tomorrow, tomorrow, he could finally pursue Scar without concern, it wasn’t difficult to feign productivity. Given the Impulse incident, he suddenly found the motivation to fix up his roof anyway, and Cleo seemed pleased to see him acting as he normally would, which is to say, often cryptic and a little odd, but fairly motivated. He pushed down a surge of bitterness that Cleo likely wouldn’t have thought anything of it to see him sitting doing nothing, even over the course of a couple days.

Perfectly normal Cub behavior, Impulse, nothing to look into.

Cub was so angry, even when he had no right to be. He knew he had no right to be. Maybe that’s what made the anger so distressing. It was so constant, so overbearing, so unlike him. And he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop, and he wasn’t going to tell anyone either.

But that was okay, because tomorrow he would find Scar. Cub would find him, and take everything he wanted.

[notmuchtoconceal]

Canto XXIV

CIRCLE EIGHT: BOLGIA SEVEN

The Thieves

In the turning season of the youthful year, when the sun is warming his rays beneath Aquarius and the days and nights already begin to near

their perfect balance; the hoar-frost copies then the image of his white sister on the ground, but the first sun wipes away the work of his pen.

The peasants who lack doffer then arise and look about and see the fields all white, and hear their lambs bleat; then they smite their thighs,

go back into the house, walk here and there, pacing, fretting, wondering what to do, then come out doors again, and there, despair

falls from them when they see how the earth's face has changed in so little time, and they take their staffs and drive their lambs to feed--so in that place

when I saw my Guide and Master's eyebrows lower, my spirits fell and I was sorely vexed; and as quickly came the plaster to the sore:

for when he had reached the ruined bridge, he stood and turned on me that sweet and open look with which he had greeted me in the dark wood.

When he had paused and studied carefully the heap of stones, he seemed to reach some plan, for he turned and opened his arms and lifted me.

Like one who works and calculates ahead, and is always ready for what happens next-- so, raising me above that dismal bed

to the top of one great slab of the fallen slate, he chose another saying: "Climb here, but first test it to see if it will hold your weight."

It was no climb for a lead-hung hypocrite: for scarcely we--he light and I assisted-- could crawl handhold by the handhold from the pit;

and were it not that the bank along this side was lower than the one down which we had slid, I at least--I will not speak for my Guide--

would have turned back. But as all of the vast rim of Malebolge leans toward the lowest well, so each succeeding valley and each brim

is lower than the last. We climbed the face and arrived by great exertion to that point where the last rock had fallen from its place.

My lungs were pumping as if they could not stop; I thought I could not go on, and I sat exhausted the instant I had clambered to the top.

"Up on your feet! This is no time to tire!" my Master cried. "The man who lies asleep will never waken fame, and his desire

and all his life drift past him like a dream, and the traces of his memory face from time like smoke in air, or ripples on a stream.

Now, therefore, rise. Control your breath, and call upon the strength of soul that wins all battles unless it sink in the gross body's fall

There is a longer ladder yet to climb: this much is not enough. If you understand me, show that you mean to profit from your time."

I rose and made my breath appear more steady than it really was, and I replied: "Lead on As it pleases you to go: I am strong and ready."

We picked our way up the cliff, a painful climb, for it was narrower, steeper, and more jagged than any we had crossed up to that time.

I moved along, talking to hide my faintness, when a voice that seemed unable to form words rose from the depths of the next chasm's darkness.

I do not know what it said, thought by then the Sage had led me to the top of the next arch; but the speaker seemed in a tremendous rage.

I was bending over the brim, but living eyes could not plumb to the bottom of that dark; therefore I said, "Master, let me advise

that we cross over and climb down the wall: for just as I hear the voice without understanding, so I look down and make out nothing at all."

"I make no other answer than the act," the Master said: "the only fit reply to a fit request is silence and the fact."

So we moved down the bridge to the stone pier that shores the end of the arch on the eighth bank, and there I saw the chasm's depths made clear;

and there great coils of serpents met my sight, so hideous a mass that even now the memory makes my blood run cold with fright.

Let Libya boast no longer, for thought its sands breed chelidrids, jaculi, and phareans, cenchriads, and two-headed amphisbands,

it never bred such a variety of vipers, no, not with all Ethiopia and all the lands that lie by the Red Sea.

Amid that swarm, naked and without hope, people ran terrified, not even dreaming of a hole to hide in, or of heliotrope

Their hands were bound behind by coils of serpents which thrust their heads and tails between the loins and bunched in front, a mass of knotted torments.

One of the damned came racing round a boulder, and as he passed us, a great snake shot up and bit him where the neck joins with the shoulder.

No mortal pen--however fast it flash over the page--could write o or i as quickly as he flamed and fell in ash;

and when he was dissolved into a heap upon the ground, the dust rose of itself and immediately resumed its former shape.

Precisely so, philosophers declare, the Phoenix dies and then is born again when it approaches its five hundredth year.

It lives on tears of balsam and of incense; in all its life it eats no herb or grain, and nard and precious myrrh sweeten its cerements.

And as a person fallen in a fit, possessed by a Demon or some other seizure that fetters him without his knowing it,

struggles up to his feet and blinks his eyes (still stupefied by the great agony he has just passed), and, looking round him, sighs--

such was the sinner when at last he rose. O Power of God! How dreadful is Thy will which in its vengeance rains such fearful blows.

Then my Guide asked him who he was. And he answered reluctantly: "Not long ago I rained into this gullet from Tuscany.

I am Vanni Fucci, the beast. A mule among men, I chose the bestial life above the human. Savage Pistoia was my fitting den."

And I to my Guide: "Detain him a bit longer and ask what crime it was that sent him here; I knew him as a man of blood and anger."

The sinner hearing me, seemed discomforted, but he turned and fixed his eyes upon my face with a look of dismal shame; at length he said:

"That you have found me out among the strife and misery of this place, grieves my heart more than did the day that cut me from my life.

But I am forced to answer truthfully: I am put down so low because it was I who stole the treasure from the Sacristy,

for which others once were blamed. But you may find less to gloat about if you escape here, prick up your ears and listen to what I say:

First Pistoia is emptied of the Black, then Florence changes her party and her laws. From Valdimagra the God of War brings back

a fiery vapor wrapped in turbid air: then in a storm of battle at Piceno the vapor breaks apart the mist, and there

every White shall feel his wounds anew. And I have told you this that it may grieve you."

Translated by John Ciardi

[muse-soup]

Releases 5 chickens labeled 1,2,3,5,and 7 into the castle.

The aide's quiet afternoon was interrupted by a sound at once familiar and entirely out of place.

"BA-GOK!"

Was that... a chicken?

Starchbottom shook his head and went back to his work. There was probably just a window open somewhere; why would there ever be--

"BOK BOK BOK!"

There it was again. Hastily setting his quill in its stand, he turned in his chair and scanned the room. By all appearances, he was alone.

"...Hello?" he called hesitantly. There was no reply.

Feeling uneasy now, he turned back around and picked up his quill again. His hand paused midair, hovering over the inkwell, and his eyes darted back and forth as he listened.

"BOK!"

"Aha!" he cried, throwing the quill down on his desk and standing in a swirl of green fabric. Still, there was nothing there.

He didn't buy it. Setting his jaw in a firm expression, Starchy made a slow circle of the room, carefully peering behind curtains and under furniture.

"Where are you?" he grumbled, opening the lid of a nearby ottoman. Suddenly, there was a sharp tug on his cape.

"Ack--!" he spluttered, swatting blindly and snatching the garment away as he spun back around. At long last, he was face to face with his adversary: a chicken, labeled--

"Three!?" he whined. "What do you mean, 'three'!? There's more of you!?"

Chicken Number 3 looked at him blankly.

"BOK!" came a cry from outside the door.

Thoroughly vexed, Starchy tucked Number 3 under his arm in practiced fashion and went to answer the door with a long, drawn out sigh.

"BOK BOK!" clucked the chicken at the door, labeled...

"Seven. Of course there's seven. I'd be completely stupid to guess otherwise," the poor fellow deadpanned. He scooped up this bird as well, and with a chicken under each arm, he went in search of a place he could safely pen them up while he searched for the others.

Little did he know, he was going to be searching for quite a while for two "missing" chickens. So it was that he would find himself behind on an afternoon's worth of paperwork.

[pareeksarveshkr]

Thoughts, Words and what ?

I pick up the pen mostly in grief, a little less in joy, and a lot more time in sorrow, so that all this could be washed away, could have never put the things in words as the tongue just knows where it should take a little extra fold and not allow the words to come up on the mouth. The whole tussle inside the brain just wants to stay there sometimes and never come out. The paper might burn to ashes, the acid in the words may be so strong that it may just kill a whole joyed human.

Yes there may be some people in the world who can just churn you up, extracting all the poisons of words to come up, to the point making you ooze nectar, but amongst all this the debris lying around may just try to creep in, and affect the process, but given that the churner is strong it just tries to prove the best and might succeed sometimes and maybe always determination is high enough.

A little does the sea know what’s the next thing getting up ahead, as the vexing just continues, the churner gets affect a bit but a lot depends on the marine to save it or not, to engulf it the whole or leave a room for letting the events happen further.

Words, I always thought were useful and useless at the same time, they can make stuff and break it, can increase the gap and may even bridge it back, but does it really happen that way, I still wonder, worder how? without words or what, in nothingness and if in nothingness, something is wondered, it it truly wondering or just a distant gaze at the infinite, not trying to find if there happens to be a horizon in real or not, horizon, but that again is just a word, isn’t it ?

[readingthroughtheapocalypse]

Started reading 04/10/23.

Louise Erdrich’s ‘The Sentence’ is a delightful book that blends the ordinary w the extraordinary, exploring profound questions about life, death, and our connection to books. Set in a small independent Minneapolis bookstore (in fact, in a fictionalised version of the author’s bookstore Birchbark Books), this novel takes us on a ride through a year of mystery, grief, astonishment, and introspection.

The story centres around Ojibwe bookseller Tookie and her most vexing customer, Flora, who lingers long past her earthly existence, haunting both Tookie and Birchbark Books. Tookie had survived years of wrongful incarceration through her intense passion for books, and now finds herself at the heart of this enchanting mystery. Her quest to unravel the haunting while navigating the ups and downs of a year filled w emotional turmoil forms the crux of the narrative.

Erdrich’s storytelling is magical, infusing each page w warmth, humour, and a deep sense of wonder. Tookie’s humorous asides about the quirks of bookstore/bookseller life and her interactions w colleagues (Pen is my favorite) made me laugh and feel right at home in the cosy bookstore setting.

‘The Sentence’ also raises profound questions about our responsibilities to the living and the dead, and even our responsibilities to books themselves. These themes are artfully interwoven into a plot that kept me engaged and guessing throughout. While there were moments when the story’s pace felt a tad too leisurely, and the POV of other characters felt incessant and broke up the flow of the story, the emotional depth still more than compensated fr it.

One of the novel’s standout features though is its ability to capture the essence of a year filled w challenges and change, particularly all that the year 2020 brought (hullo covid). Erdrich masterfully portrays the emotions and experiences of her characters as they navigate a world in transformation.

Overall, Louise Erdrich’s novel is a touching reminder of the power of storytelling and the enduring spirit of small bookstores (as Tookie dryly quips, “Small bookstores have the romance of doomed intimate spaces about to be erased by unfettered capitalism”). As a bookseller myself, I found this book to be relatable in the best way and truly enjoyable. If you’re seeking a novel that will transport you into the world of bookstores and bookselling and make you feel right at home, ‘The Sentence’ is a definitely one to pick up.

[mushr00mbl0b]

This is a Grumbo fic 

If you’ve seen this before, it’s because earlier it was attached to the post that inspired it. This is a version that isn’t a reblog T^T. Also this is 99% fluff and 1% angst. There is no smut. Without further ado, let’s get into it.

    It was a calm and quiet night. A soft and cool breeze herded the air where it liked, a faint whisper, warning the few hermits that were awake of the storm that would soon come. Though a decent amount of clouds covered the vast expanse of stars above, you could still see the stars on occasion when little spaces opened up. Not only did the wind cause the lantern a little ways ahead of Grian to sway to a silent song, it also stole a few loose feathers off of his striking wings and flipped the pages of his journal on occasion, much to his annoyance. As the weather toyed with his messy ginger hair, he sat on the roof of his home, one of his legs hanging off the edge and swinging in the open air, the other tucked beneath him. Somewhat hunched over the notebook in his lap, he scratched eagerly onto the pages, barely managing to etch in the words to explain his excitement over what he had come home to.

    He had just been coming back from a late mining trip, battered a bit by the wind as he flew, when he noticed that the large rock near his home had gained yet another strange item atop of it. This massive boulder, lovingly dubbed by Grian as “The Entity”, had stolen most of his water wheel. You would’ve expected him to be a bit vexed at this, and of course he was to some degree, but he was more ecstatic than anything. He had set up camp here specifically to study The Entity, and now it was interacting with him, or his house at least. The little bird man could feel his heart doing jumping jacks inside of his chest as his writing hand began to sweat, the pencil slipping from his grip on occasion. As his muscles ached from filling three pages with chicken scratch, he realized he may need a break. He set his pen down on the page momentarily and laid his head back on the copper shingles behind him, taking a long and drawn out breath and trying his hardest to settle his racing heart. He rested for a moment, looking up as a couple of clouds separated, a gorgeous array of galaxies peeking out, far-off worlds he’d never fully get to know. The milky way shone brilliantly, as if someone had painted the sky tonight just for him.

    Seemingly out of nowhere, a harsh gust of wind attacked him, one so frigid that the cold seemed to soak right through him and tickle his bones. A chill ran up his spine as the cold air made his hairs stand on end, the lantern in front of him now swinging wildly, the flames within it threatening to spill out and lick his knees. He looked up again to find that clouds were beginning to hide the night sky from view, the wind picking up rapidly and the smell of rain much more heavy in the air. Maybe the storm was coming sooner than everyone thought. Thud–he looked over the edge of the roof to find that his notebook and pen had fallen into his lawn. Thunder boomed out overhead, shaking the house and causing Grian’s heart to drop, almost as if it had fallen and joined his notes on the ground. With a shaky sigh, he prepared to go get his notes and head in for the night, standing up on the roof’s edge and spreading his wings. As he glided down, he noticed the vault door moving a bit, groaning and creaking as the cogs and gears in the mechanism worked, the gap between the door and the wall growing steadily. Mumbo stepped out of the vault once the gap had widened substantially, and he glanced around nervously until he met eyes with Grian, who now stood on the ground in front of his home.

    “Oh, there you are!” He called, his whole body relaxing noticeably as he walked towards his red jumper-loving friend.

    “Hey Mumbo, did the storm wake you?” Grian asked, though he already knew the answer. It was clear that Mumbo had been attempting to sleep before the storm jostled him, as he was still in his pajamas, shuffling out onto the grass in his slippers, his usually magnificent black mustache somehow disheveled, seemingly from tossing and turning.

    “Not exactly, I was having a hard time sleeping anyways.” He sighed, finally reaching the winged-fellow as he stooped down to retrieve his journal.

    “Why’s that?” Grian questioned, “Were you up worrying about something again?”

    “Sort of, yeah.” Mumbo muttered, “I’m usually up just thinking, but I was also a bit anxious when you didn’t come back before sun down. I knew you were fine, but I still couldn’t help but be a bit concerned.” He shifted his weight back and forth nervously as he said this, studying the ground as if there was something special down there.

    “Oh, well I’m sorry that I made you worry. It really wasn’t my intention.” Grian apologized, “On a lighter note, you won’t believe what just happened.”

    He began to explain The Entity’s latest activities emphatically, with Mumbo just listening to his ramblings, trying to not let it slip how crazy it all sounded. They headed over towards The Entity, the clouds overhead growing darker and angrier. There was no longer any chance of catching a glimpse of the night sky, but neither of them seemed to really notice as Grian directed Mumbo’s attention to the portion of the water wheel that stood atop the moss covered rock.

    “So you’re telling me that this boulder just walked over and took a part of your water wheel?” Mumbo interrogated, his eyes narrowed with suspicion as he glanced back and forth from Grian to The Entity, gesticulating wildly.

    “Yes Mumbo, that’s exactly what I’m saying, in fa-” BOOM–Grian was cut off by thunder so monstrous that it sounded as if the sky itself was breaking into pieces and falling, as the moon had in a previous life. Both the Hermits jumped out of their skin as the storm bellowed out its final warning, lightning threatening those below as it shot from cloud to cloud. The two looked at each other as if they’d just seen a ghost, silently agreeing that they should go inside sooner rather than later. Plop– a raindrop hit Grian square on the nose, and there seemed to be more where that came from, the sound of rainfall around them multiplying by the second. Suddenly, lightning struck the Earth only a little ways away, exploding brilliantly and dramatically, draining the little remaining color from both of their faces.

    “Run!” Mumbo yelped. Adrenaline racing through their veins as the storm started to unleash its watery wrath, they ran for their lives instinctively, both sprinting towards the open vault door. They managed to get into the shelter of the vault, but a heavy mist still blew through the gap that the door had once covered.

    “What are you waiting for, shut it!” Grian yelled as Mumbo ran to start up the mechanism that closed the entrance. After a bit of struggle, Mumbo pulled the lever, causing the cogs to spring into action, crying out as they dragged the heavy vault door shut. With a metallic thud, the rain was partially silenced, the hermits now fully shielded from Mother Nature’s rage. Simultaneously, they both let out a hefty sigh of relief, trying to keep their hearts from leaping out of their bodies and onto the floor.

    “Well, there’s no way you’re getting back to your house in this weather.” Mumbo commented, “Do you want to just chill out here for a bit? It’ll probably be a while before either of us get sleepy anyways.” He gestured towards the couch that sat against the wall on the right hand side of the room.

    “I’d much prefer a tour to be honest,” Grian jeered, “I’ve never seen the inside of your vault before.” He studied the room in awe, fighting the urge to take notes over what the interior looked like, or maybe even draw a sketch of it, as he had a feeling this would be the last time he’d come in here for a while.

    “Alright then, come with me.” Mumbo said, the joke going completely over his head. The base had almost everything a regular base did, but with an odd bit of spice due to Mumbo’s relatively, uh, interesting interior design choices.

    After the tour was said and done, the two navigated back out to the main room, plopping down onto the couch and sinking into it, Grian laying down on his stomach and stretching his wings, his head a few inches from Mumbo’s lap. A few pops sounded from them as the two chatted, the colorfully feathered appendages taunting Mumbo a bit. He found himself staring at Grian’s wings as the two talked, studying them and noticing that they look a bit unkempt and scruffy, as if they hadn’t been tidied in weeks. Grian couldn’t help but notice eventually that Mumbo’s eyes were glued to his feathers, studying every inch of them.

    “I know you’re not fully used to my wings, but the staring is a bit uncalled for.” Grian teased. Mumbo’s face ripened to a beet red color, causing him to look a bit like an off brand Mr. Potato Head. He began apologizing rapidly, tripping, stumbling, and practically falling over his words as he tried to piece together an explanation. “Calm down, Mr. Tomato Head, I really don’t mind.” Grian chuckled, “You can take a closer look if you’d like.”

    “Are you sure?” Mumbo stuttered, “I don’t want to overstep your boundaries.”

    “Yeah man, it’s fine.” Grian reassured, “You can even touch them if you want.”

    Mumbo leaned a bit closer, examining Grian’s wings somehow more thoroughly than he had previously, finding little scars peeking out from beneath the feathers, supposedly from accidents, fights, and crashes. Shaking a bit, he reached a slightly redstone stained hand out towards Grian’s wings, touching them as softly as possible, experimenting. They were somehow softer than he expected, though there was a very slight residue that came off of them due to the fact they’d obviously not been properly cared for and cleaned. He looked at the different layers, seeing how the colors faded from red at the base, to a small stripe of yellow in the center, and finally to blue expanding from the yellow parts all the way around the edges, covering most of Grian’s wingspan. He ran his hand up one of Grian’s wings, and started noticing little discrepancies within the feathers. Many were ruffled and turned in weird ways that looked like they were uncomfortable.

    “Why haven’t you cleaned your wings in a while?” Mumbo questioned, stroking Grian’s feathers softly.

    “I don’t know. I’ve just been really busy lately, I guess. I’ve been getting settled and studying The Entity, and I just haven’t really had time to do that kind of thing.” Grian sighed, not even bothering to pick up his head when he spoke.

    “Grian, look at me.” Mumbo commanded, using a stern tone of voice, one that Grian had never heard before. Grian lifted his head and propped himself up on his elbows, meeting eyes with Mumbo, and for a moment they just sat there in silence, staring through the windows of each other’s souls. “You need to take time for yourself. This looks like it’s actually painful, and I don’t want that for you.” Mumbo scolded, “Promise me you’ll take better care of yourself from now on.”

    “Only if you do, Mumbo. You know those bags under your eyes aren’t invisible, and they’re only getting darker.” Grian scoffed, “You’re always stressing over every project, barely keeping yourself afloat. It's not like the moon’s coming down on us or anything, not anymore at least. You need to actually let yourself sleep and you need to take a break every once and a while. Maybe then you wouldn’t be up late every night dreading tomorrow.” Mumbo sat there for a moment, twiddling his dark and still a bit bedraggled mustache, trying to process what he’d just been told. The air in the room grew a bit heavy, as the awkward silence that followed had weaved itself into the fabric of the oxygen they filtered.

    “Deal.” Mumbo sighed, going back to stroking Grian’s wings. Though the silence did not lift, it somehow became lighter, as if some uncomfortable weight had been taken off both of their shoulders. The two enjoyed each other’s company, trying to wind down for the night. Suddenly, Grian felt one of his feathers being straightened, as Mumbo began tidying Grian’s wings. He gasped at the unexpected feeling, reaching up and grabbing Mumbo’s thigh subconsciously. “I’m sorry, that was completely uncalled for.” Mumbo withdrew, “I’ll stop.” He removed his hands, as did Grian, realizing that he’d grabbed his friend without warning.

    “I’m sorry for grabbing you, I understand if that made you uncomfortable.” Grian atoned, “I can leave if you’d like.” Grian began to sit up, when Mumbo stopped him.

    “You’re alright man, it’s my fault anyways. I should’ve warned you.” Mumbo confessed, “I understand if you’d like to go home, but I would honestly enjoy your company. You don’t have to leave for my sake.” With a sigh of relief, Grian laid back down on the couch.

    “I guess if you say it’s alright. I really don’t want to try and brave the storm, even if it’s a short walk.” Grian sighed, “I didn’t really mind what you were doing, I just wasn’t expecting it. I honestly liked it, but you don’t have to continue if you don’t want to.”

    “I’d like to do this for you though,” Mumbo asked, “if you’d allow me.” Grian hesitated for a moment, weighing his options in his head. After a bit of debate with himself, Grian gave a silent nod of permission, granting Mumbo the approval he’d been seeking.

    Cautiously, Mumbo began straightening Grian’s feathers, weaving them back into the intricate pattern of his wings so that the wind would flow off of them more smoothly, surely improving their aerodynamics. The feathered fellow had forgotten how nice it felt to preen his wings, especially after they’d been weathered and worn for a little while. Occasionally during the process, Grian would let out little noises of content, the sound being prominent even over the storm outside, which had been long forgotten. It made Mumbo’s heart flutter a bit each time Grian made a little noise, butterflies exploring the new territory of his stomach whenever he was given hints that he was doing something right.

    He got into a rhythm after a while, straightening Grian’s feathers and tidying his wings, so focused on preening that he hadn’t noticed how much closer the waffle-head had gotten to him. Grian couldn’t help but stare up at Mumbo’s concentrated expression, his eyelids growing heavier and heavier, as though they’d stolen the weight from his heart. It felt as though that large thumping organ he’d always known to be heavy and quick to fright had been replaced by some warm ball of fluff. Before long, he’d been swept up and away by his dreams. As Mumbo struggled to find another feather to straighten, he chanced a glance down at Grian, finding that the little bird man had dozed off. His head rested in Mumbo’s lap and his arms wrapped loosely around his waist.

[romeoandjulietyouwish]

so, I trained with emts for a few years and after seeing you make Vax an emt in modern au it gave me all sorts of ideas, and biggest, ofc sad one, is something that I found was pretty common with everyone there, Vaxs biggest fear would be some day during a shift hearing keyleths name, hearing her address, even the street name, her license plate number, her car model, the place she works, somewhere she regularly visits, of course he stays focused and tries not to let it cloud his judgment but there's always something in the back of his mind saying 'what If it's her?' and it gave me a just awful awful fic idea for one day it actually is her

When they get to the scene, Vax's pulse is already far too high. It's a car crash, he's been to dozens of them, but this one is too close to his apartment building for comfort, not to mention the bystander who called 911 mentioned a young woman who was bleeding pretty bad.

His only thoughts are of Keyleth, this has been his worst fear since becoming an EMT, that one day he would hear Vex's address or a description that sounds too much like Percy or any one of his friends names. The entire ride, Vax's leg jogged anxiously under him, nearly chewing through his lip.

His partner asked him what was wrong, but Vax shook his head, he wouldn't even put his thoughts into words. But when he jumps out of the ambulance with his med bag, his heart falls into his stomach.

That's Keyleth's car in the middle of the intersection, the passenger side of the car completely crushed by a black pick up truck that had clearly t-boned it. Ignoring his partner and the firefighters, Vax sprints towards the car.

Sure enough, leaned back in her seat, face bloody and bruised is Keyleth. As he yanks open the door she blinks slowly at him, "Vax?" Her voice is weak.

"Hi, Keek," he manages to give her what he hopes is a comforting smile. "I didn't expect to see you until tonight."

She laughs a little, and winces, "What happened?"

"You were in a car accident," he tells her, pulling out his pen light to examine her pupils. Satisfied that she probably doesn't have a concussion, Vax asks her, "What hurts?"

"My neck and my back," she tells him.

He nods, "Okay, can you wiggle your toes?" He peers down under the steering wheel and can see the tops of her toes moving against her shoes. "Good job," he praises her softly.

As he wraps the C-collar around her neck, she looks at him and says, "How bad is it?"

"I'm not sure," he admits. "But it's safe to move you from the car and get you to the hospital."

She smiles a little bit, "Yay..."

Vax chuckles, "I know, I know. I'll be right back." He radios for his partner to bring him a backboard and a gurney and together they pull Keyleth out of the car.

Vax's hand never leaves Keyleth's as they bring her over to the ambulance. When the doors shut behind them and it's just Vax in the back with her, she looks up at him with teary eyes.

"I'm glad it was you," she says softly. Vax squeezes her hand and nods. "I would be more scared with anyone else."

He kisses the back of her hand, "I was so scared, Kiki. I thought..." He shakes his head, cutting himself off. There's no need to put voice to his deepest fears. "But I-I'm glad it could be me instead of a stranger."

She smiles weakly and squeezes his hand, "I hate hospitals, Vax."

He chuckles, "I know, but we're going to Pickle's maybe she'll stop by and see you. And as soon as I'm off of work I'll come and I'll let everyone know what happened. I'll have Percy stay with you until I can get there."

Keyleth nods, "Okay. I love you."

"I love you too. Everything is going to be okay, I promise."

[cxnsolatio]

From the poem 'Jabberwocky', Carroll's perplexing but somehow fitting words echoed in Law's busy head in a sing-song manner to celebrate the miraculous achievement, as well as to vex him further for ever remembering them. O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! What other nonsense remained stored in the coffers of his memories, staining an intellect cultivated by far more serious writers? For all his absurdity, you would not catch Gogol exclaiming neither 'callooh' nor 'callay'. And of Carroll himself, why must Law remember the childish nonsense and not the mathematical logic he penned? 'Frabjous' indeed that he had a potentially romantic rendezvous with a woman. It was the kind of triumph minstrels recited to kings. The kind his crew would eternalise in song, once they knew their captain had a date.

❝ Yes, ah, splendid. ❞ He managed to squeeze out, temporarily devoid of eloquence, hand rushing to remove Aya's from his cheek. While the librarian had every right to feel unwelcome, even offended at how abruptly her display of sweetness had ended, Law hoped she remained neutral about it, commenting nothing of his sweeping or of the additional pair of seconds he permitted his palm to rest against the back of her hand, before returning to its rightful place in his denim pocket.

❝ Be a dear and wear something nice. Among my peers, I'm quite the fashion icon, you know? ❞ He said, from the height of darkened plumes sprouting from all around his neck, a wardrobe feature that made him resemble a vulture's young whereas his attitude was more akin to a peacock's. Hardly fashionable or iconic, and certainly not sightly. Were his neck or frame any slimmer, the vision would have been categorically pathetic. ❝ I shan't be seen with a raggedy-looking girl. ❞

Law stroked his goatee in silent contemplation. He, too, had to hurry and prepare himself for his date. Starting with his facial hair, was it perfectly trimmed and manly, the type a lady might fawn over? Where had he last spotted his finest aloha shirt, the one with the procession of tigers baring their fangs at each and every onlooker? He was certain all of his jeans were covered in cat hair, which he would have to painstakingly remove with a lint roller, maybe even mend with some thread, between a coffee and a cigarette while everyone else got ready for bed.

Before he could further contemplate upon the state of his looks and brave the unavoidable topic of his nether regions, Law grabbed his pocket watch and feigned interest in its ever-incessant dials. ❝ I'll come to pick you up whenever I come to pick you up. ❞ Unhelpful as always, he aimed to displease.

The watch returned to its place and he waved a stern finger over Aya's nose. ❝ No take-backs! Callooh! Callay! ❞ His face blanched out the very second the stupid words left his lips, now pursed as though he'd tasted the most bitter of lemon candies. Colour returned to his face in a profuse blush. Law covered his mouth with both tattooed hands, effectively muffling a shriek of horror. Damn Bepo and his adorable pleadings for Law to read him bedtime stories! Now his head was full of useless nonsense!

As he trudged away without so much as a goodbye, Law muttered all insults and curses he could think of. Effective immediately, children's literature was entirely prohibited from entering the Tang's library.

Law agreed with a continuous nodding one might deem almost enthusiastic by his standards. ❝ Ask you himself! ❞ He threw his hands up, as though fed up with either rotund denial or an incessant pleading Aya for certain had never voiced. ❝ Thank you! ❞ And reinforced his lie with a theatrical hand to his heart. Just a good man doing his best friend a favour.

Towering over her was easy thanks to their disparaging heights, not to mention the aid of Law's heeled shoes, still, he considered further coercion might be helpful, if not necessary to secure the positive answer he so desired to hear. Thus, Law pushed the wall with his arm and rested his forehead against it, eyes taking what was hopefully a piercing glance down as if they could nail Ayaka down to the floorboards of the library-ship's deck. As for his free hand, though, he half-pocketed it so as to give her space to move away, intimidation not synonymous with assault, thumb sticking out to bend over the fabric of his jeans, Law's best demonstration of patented coolness.

❝ As it happens, ❞ He began, tone secretive. ❝ I did tell him that. But you know how minks are. ❞ Law shrugged, seemingly not aware of how offensive he sounded. Not aware, because Law would care about offending the mink tribe. It was easier to chalk up his inability in seducing the fairer sex to blatant assholery than to admit its very existence.

❝ He is... Rather shy. ❞ At this, Law's voice did shake. His eyes closed and spasmed, as though assailed by a pang to his heart. ❝ Not good with women; a total lost cause! ❞ His eyes opened, no longer piercing but downcast, molten gold laced with honeyed sadness. ❝ Don't tell me you'll actually hurt his poor bear feelings! I say that is low, and mind you, that's one pirate's opinion. I'm not exactly speaking from a pedestal of humanity, now, am I? ❞

In a bout of utter forfeiture, Law exhaled. His head freed his tired arm so he could slap the wood. Appeasingly, at first. Then, most violently. As though he felt personally attacked, perchance mocked, by the apathetic, but not soulless, watercraft.

Aya would sooner say yes to Bepo than to him, and already she was refusing the false proposal. What chance did Law have, were he to admit it was *he* who wanted to take Aya out for ice cream? That, too, had been another of his brilliant ideas: Lami had loved ice cream. Therefore, it was well within reason that a girl just as sweet as his little sister would care for the treat as well. Selective blindness over his traits had been his only fault.

Law was about to turn on his heel when he noticed a loose strand of pink hair springing down from Aya's head. A curious case of rebelliousness, it felt like, the exclamation point to Aya's spoken rejection. Before he could even think it, Law's hand was already curling around the lock of fairy floss, to tuck it behind the mermaid's ear.

If he could not be the man who overcame the proverbial mouse, then, Law decided, he could still be a doctor and rip off the words from his tongue like he would a band-aid from a patient.

❝ I'll cut the bullshit for you, shall I? ❞ Like a band-aid, he'd vowed. But squirmy children still dreaded the moment the adhesive would come off, no matter how brief. Law ground his teeth and massaged the knot forming upon his temple. ❝ I am asking you out. ❞