#*nodding sagely* homo

[italianbeato]

[nordickies]

not a request or question just wanted to say your art style is so pretty. it's clean and polished and colourful. the anatomy is always on point. i love how distinct all your faces are and they fit each character so well - you give them such variety and personality even though in canon they kind of just look the same. LOL. im not even a nordic fan but this stuff is top notch. its so fun reading your headcanons too i always nod along sagely like i know what its all about. also i desire your denmark carnally id put him in a blender no homo tho

Aah, I can't keep up with you anons why must you be so nice!! Big thank you - the fact that you went in such a detail about what you like about my art is heartwarming. Artists always love to hear that, the little things people spot in your work. I seriously can't thank you enough <3

I feel bad I only have time to answer your supportive messages, rather than being more active and drawing new pieces🙏❤️ It would just feel rude to ignore the encouraging messages. They just mean a lot to me and I want to personally thank everyone who takes time off of their day to send such messages 🥹 I couldn't be more grateful for people sticking around and genuinely liking my silly thoughts! No matter how unsensical they might be at times

[marukrawler]

💬😚

an excerpt from one of my bakubs fics, no homo.

“Wait. Did you two get together and not tell us about it?” Runo asked with a raised brow. She and Dan had broken up months ago so he was more than free to date whoever he wanted. If that person happened to be Shun, then good for him, but she figured they were on good enough terms to let each other know about things like that. Especially when the person he happened to date was another close friends of hers.

Dan regarded her question with equal amounts confusion, his eyebrows furrowed. “No?”

“Um, you’re holding hands? ” Runo pointed out, gesturing to their linked hands. In fact, Runo wondered why nobody had pointed this out yet. She couldn’t have been the only one to notice. Dan looked at his fingers still interlaced with Shun’s and rather than go into denial or be embarrassed about it, he gave an easy shrug.

“It’s not gay if we said no homo,” he reasoned as if it was that simple. Runo was stunned into silence, processing his words.

“No homo?” she repeated, confused.

“None taken,” Dan replied with a toothy grin.

Runo frowned at that. “That’s—that’s not how it works,” she tried again.

“Sure it does,” Ace piped in from his seat on the opposite couch. “Dan told us all about that ‘no homo’ phrase you humans use, and how it completely cancels out the implication of homosexual intent behind same-sex affection,” he elaborated with crossed arms and a sage nod, as if those two dumb words actually held some sort of philosophical meaning that Runo wasn’t privy to. It was even worse when Runo looked around to see Mira, Marucho, Baron and Julie nod their heads in a similar fashion, all seemingly in mutual agreement.

“A get-out-of-gay free card, one might say,” Marucho added with a raised finger. Runo vaguely registered the such a wise species comment from Baron as she was pretty much losing her mind.

[gigginox]

ranking my ocs based on who would most likely be on a pride parade float:

1. angel. theyre probably like sponsored to perform there or something also theyre a massive homo

1.1 playboy. hes up there w angel. cuz its his job

2. aphrodite. she'll take any excuse to have people look at her she probably forced her way onto the float

2.1 arthur. he's on the sidelines watching her toss people off the float so she can be up there by herself and deeply deeply sighing

3. magazine million. he's promoting his casino and also trying to get dilfs and/or milfs to fuck him

4. wulf. theyre apart of the leather lesbian motor brigade showing off their cool motorcycle and trying to pick up older women

5. florentine. as previously mentioned shes probably promoting doctor but shes not happy abt it

5.1 cerberus. shes also there and even less happy abt it shes barely restraining the urge to rip everything to shreds

6. altar. their organization has a float that she begrudgingly agreed to stand on just kinda frowning but nodding to let everyone know that shes NOT homophobic

6.1 rosary. in a hypothetical world where shes not being hunted down for resurrecting her dead brother she would be up there much happier than altar

6.2 january. would also be up there but only bc rosary is up there w her

6.3 crypt. its dead. even if it wasnt it doesnt like attending parades and things like that

7. sage. desperately wants to be apart of the leather lesbian motor brigade but doesnt know how to ride a motorcycle and is deathly afraid of it so they solemnly watch from the sidelines

7.1 sonia. doesnt know why sage is so sad watching the cool lesbians on their motorcycles but is happy to be there anyways

8. prometheus. on the top of a building or something looking down and thinking shes really cool but really she wants to show off her big muscles or something

9. chaos. has appointed herself as unofficial security and goes around telling straight guys hitting on lesbians to fuck off

10. cera. doesnt know where he is or what the hell is happening

[darkk-academic]

Chaos

[Part I] [Part II]

[Five Hargreeves x Reader]

Summary : A very chaotic reunion.

Warning : None.

Chaos isn't something Five Hargreeves would choose willingly. Ever.

He wants a break.

From being a child superhero, to getting stuck in the apocalypse, then the journey of being an assassin, and proceeding to prevent the aforementioned apocalypse.

Him and his mind have been on a never-ending marathon.

So pardon him if he wants to take a step back and just relax.

This road trip was supposed to be the first step.

Was. Because Klaus derailed his plan.

Although, he'd admit that it hasn't been entirely unpleasant, as he waits for Klaus by the car, he concurs that this trip so far is nice.

The green field stretching around him, the subtle caress of sunshine, the gentle breeze, the complete absence of Homo sapiens. It's all very relaxing.

There's a sound. The distinctive sound made by cows. A cow's moo, to be precise.

His gaze trails over towards the sound— cattle grazing peacefully. He smiles, taking a deep breathe—

And promptly chokes.

Chaos isn't something Five Hargreeves would choose willingly. Ever.

But that doesn't mean, Chaos would show him the same courtesy.

Because Chaos, it seems, has a taste for him.

Deceptive in the appearance, well mixed among the shades of brown, black, and white. There, amid the serene creatures, stands chaos incarnate—

You.

Don't, his mind warns.

And of course, he won't. This is supposed to be his retirement. Why would he want to turn that upside down? Ridiculous notion, really. He would not—

His mouth has a mind of its own because it has already parted and yelled your name.

His voice echoes. Your name echoes. And if he must be dramatic, then the time has come to a standstill.

In a blink, your head snaps in his direction.

You blink. Once. Twice.

A grin spreads across your face—and he's startled by the confusing thought that whether it's really the sun that's shining or it's just you.

"FIVE!"

And you're running. Hands wide open. His eyes widen—feeling like a man standing before a bull, red cloth in hand—You're running, running towards him.

You are closer. And closer. Closer—

You trip.

Five sighs. In a few long strides, he closes the distance between you two.

Hand gripping you above the elbow, he hauls you up. "Are you okay?"

"Okay? No, I am not!" You reply, though your expression remains ecstatic. "I am—I am—I am," your brows crinkle in thought.

"Are you—"

"Phantasmagorical!" You exclaim. Fingers curling around his arms, you shake him a bit. "I'm phantasmagorical because I've met you. Been soo long."

Squealing, you hug him.

His palm is on your back in an instant, supporting you as you stand on your tiptoes.

He breathes in, willing his muscles to uncoil. It takes a few seconds before he lets himself rest his chin on your head.

All too soon, you release him.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, lest he did something stupid like draw you back again.

"What are you doing here?"

"Where?" You tilt your head, nose scrunching in a way he has always found adorable.

"Among the," gesturing towards the surroundings, "Amish."

"Ah yes," you nod, in a sage voice, "For peace."

He quirks a brow. "Really?"

"No."

A smile threatens to curl at his lips. "Then?"

"So there's this husband-wife duo, and they were my neighbours in the city. And then they stole stuff from my house. So, they're not husband-wife duo but thief duo, which honestly I kinda respect—"

"So you came back to get your stuff back?" He queries, cutting off what would undoubtedly be a long ramble.

You nod in an absentminded fashion, before snapping out of it. "What? No!"

He exhales in exasperation. "Then why?"

"I came here to get Lila's kraken plushie—"

"Wait, Lila is here?"

"Yeah, we came together—"

"What's she doing—"

Your fingers snap his lips shut together. Literally.

"No Lila. Pay attention to me. I'm here." And as if to prove that you are indeed here, you start jumping in front of him, hand open like wings, chanting, 'eyes on me, eyes on me, eyes on me.'

As if his eyes are even capable of being anywhere but at you when you're near him.

Rolling his eyes, he grips your 'wings' and pulls you closer.

"I'm never not looking at you," his mouth seems to have found a mind of its own.

There's a flush rising on your cheeks, and he feels a twinge of pride at extracting such a reaction.

"As you should," you say.

His confidence abandons him in a sudden manner when you peer up at him through your lashes.

He looks away, stepping back. Clearing his throat. "Need any help retrieving the stolen item?"

"Oh, I got it back on the first day I arrived here."

"Then why are you still here?"

"Having a bit of fun with the thief duo."

"So, antagonising them, and being a general chaos," he surmises.

"Haven't I told you, the thing about chaos is that—"

"It's fair, yeah, you have."

"You know what's not fair?"

"What would that be?"

In response, you settle your hand on his shoulders, fingers playing with the hair on the nape.

He suppresses a shiver.

"Having figured out that the more the love, the more the chaos. And then not being able to confess, for almost two years. Because, you see, it happened after I caused a bar fight after telling a man that this other man was making goo-goo eyes at his boyfriend. And then a brawl started, and I thought, 'huh, look what chaos love can cause.' And then I realised that If I'm chaos, then love is you—"

"What?" His voice is a whisper.

"You are the fuse of my chaos. And I would really like to be the fuse of your love, which is only fair—"

"What?" His brain is lagging.

"I love you!"

"What?" White noise.

You huff, standing on your tiptoes, face dangerously close to his—his heart is travelling all around his body in a frenzy—and his eyes close.

His nose stings.

You… You bit his nose.

His eyes flutter open, fixing on you. Rubbing a hand over the ache. "You absolute menace."

"Your menace."

Well, that's just unfair. Especially that impish smile of yours. "My menace are you now?"

"No."

Oh, for fuck's sake—

"But I want to be," you continue. "Will you let me be?"

Maybe his response is a bit too quick when he says :

"Yes," relief apparent in his voice. Tugging you near him, enveloping you in an embrace.

"My menace, mine." He words it out loud to solidify this moment, sealing it in the space-time continuum by pressing a kiss against your temple.

You both sway lightly, finding a middle ground between chaos and calm.

But of course, being the magnet for all things chaotic that you are, it doesn't last long.

In a flow, the cows explode and then Klaus is shouting, Amish people chasing him down.

And you?

You are giggling in pure delight. "Oh, isn't this fun?"

He says nothing as he puts you over his shoulder, blinks into the car, and promptly deposits you on the passenger seat.

And as he drives, he glances at you and Klaus— rambling and laughing and causing a ruckus.

Chaos isn't something Five Hargreeves would choose willingly. Ever.

But, if it's you, he'd make an exception.

..................................................................................

A/N :

And here is part two.

Hope you guys enjoyed this.

Thankyou! ❤

[ @slut4fictionalcharacters28 It's here. ]

[savage-rhi]

“Don’t get used to this. It won’t be happening again.” - Sage and anyone you would like to put in! Surprise me 💙

@fxstcr Thank you for sending this in hon. I hope you like it! 💙

Sage could be a coward at times, especially when it came to BTs. Words couldn’t express how thankful he was when Fragile had come to the rescue and helped secure them both in a Timefall shelter while awaiting BTs and the deathly rainfalls to stop. Nonetheless, there was a tension between the two as Sage glanced from the entrance and towards Fragile’s direction. She was sitting beside the wall of the shelter, arms gently tucked around her knees as she stared outward, listening to the rain droplets bounce off the roof ahead. The sounds created a gentle echo, up until Sage cleared his throat. 

“I suppose a thank you is in order,” He started, only to get cut off by Fragile.

“Don’t get used to this. It won’t be happening again.” Fragile said firmly, getting a chuckle out of Sage as he sighed in defeat, shaking his head. 

“Are we ever going to let bygones be bygones?” Sage asked sincerely. 

“As far as I’m concerned, you’re just as bad as Higgs.” Fragile said bitterly. 

“Speaking of which,” Sage said as he raised his brows at her. “I heard you’re still looking for him. Word down the grapevine is you want revenge for what he did to you.”

Fragile went silent, looking downward at her knees as Sage sighed. Despite their less than friendly relationship, his heart went out to her. When news traveled about what happened to Middle Knot and what Fragile had done to save South Knot city, there were a plethora of rumors that circulated among porters and the like. Most of which believed Fragile was in league with Homo Demens, and merely saved South Knot because of a guilty conscience. In any case,  many believed that Fragile was a monster. She did stupid things with the wrong crowd and ended up getting a stupid prize in the end. Sage nonetheless didn’t believe it. Fragile, despite her tendencies to be quiet and mysterious, never gave him the impression she was one for terrorism. He himself had a higher chance of pulling a stunt like that. 

“I could help you get him, Higgs.” Sage offered with a shrug.

“And I suppose you’d want compensation for that?” Fragile asked, looking his way. She didn’t look amused in the slightest, but Sage could tell her interest was piqued. 

“Obviously,” He huffed. “If you’re good at something you never do it for free.”

“I thought a man like you would be more willing to help him out.” Fragile countered as Sage held up his hands in surrender.

“You got me there,” He chuckled. “Nonetheless, I don’t care for Higgs. You have no idea the kind of crap he’s done to screw me over personally. We share a common enemy. You saved my ass back there with the BTs, and I want to help you kill him.”

“I have no intention of killing Higgs,” Fragile said bluntly, taking Sage aback as he glanced over her, imagining what her Timefall ravished body looked like.

“Not even after everything he’s done?” Sage asked out of bewilderment. A calm silence filled the shelter as Fragile nodded. She let out a huff, then shook her head as she contemplated it over with herself. It would be so easy to kill Higgs, but much harder to enact the kind of revenge she sought. 

“I’m not wired like him or you,” Fragile said in her defense. She decided to leave it at that, and Sage respect her decision. He went quiet afterward, contemplating what he was going to do after getting out of the Timefall shelter. Surprise overtook his expression when Fragile spoke up. 

“If you help me with Higgs, we can work something out.” 

“Really?” Sage asked, seeing her nod. 

“You got nothing to lose, and neither do I.” 

**A link to my ko-fi account. If you enjoy my content and want to support me getting my monthly medication for fibromyalgia and arthritis, I would be eternally grateful. It is NOT a requirement however! All my work is free to read!**

[birbleafs]

[fic] Strange Creatures

Series: Artemis Fowl Rating: G Genre: Friendship & Humour, Post-series Character(s): Beckett Fowl, Myles Fowl, Mulch Diggums, Juliet Butler, Holly Short and Artemis Fowl II Summary: Mulch Diggums finds himself abruptly enlisted by the Fowl twins, Myles and Beckett, to create the best Eldest Brother’s Day gift for Artemis, much to Holly and Juliet’s amusement. A/N: Here’s my full piece for the Artemis Fowl Fanzine: A Fowl Mood! It was really fun to be part of this project - many thanks to the mods & fellow contributors for all their hard work. Thanks also to my bro Digi for being a wonderful beta ♥  There are still some leftover merch for sale if anyone’s interested. This fic is set a few years after The Last Guardian, without taking into account the events in The Fowl Twins (as I’d finished writing it last July). Fic can also be read on AO3. _______

“What strange creatures brothers are!” -Jane Austen- ~.*.~ Mulch Diggums was once again on the run and back to his old habits of skulking among dastardly rich Mud Men, pilfering trinkets and valuables from their homes. And once again, word of his not-quite-earnest—or legal, for that matter—endeavours soon reached the LEP’s ears. In fact, his current whereabouts had turned up as a flashing blip on Foaly’s screens when the centaur had been running one of his routine surveillance sweeps of the surface. That, however, is another story altogether, one that Foaly would happily indulge in if you let him. But Captain Holly Short is a busy elf—short on time and even shorter with patience. So alas, Foaly’s tale would have to be shelved. For now, at least.

So it was that Mulch found himself abruptly cornered by an LEP Retrieval squad in his own home—well, he was house-sitting at the moment, but hey, same difference—just as he was settling into a nice, warm mud bath. That’s the thing about the LEP. Always with the atrociously bad timing, never an ounce of tact. So much for being role models, upstanding fairies of the People. The last thing Mulch saw and heard was a deafening blast as the bathroom door burst wide open, and the zipping sound of a fabric-like netting whirling tight around him. There was a flurry of movement as he struggled in the velvet darkness enclosing him, before he found himself promptly hauled back to Haven City and into the dimly-lit interior of a drab holding room, sitting once again before Captain Short. “Holly! Mon chéri… Compadre!” Mulch cooed, tuning his natural dwarfish charm up a notch. “How’s my favourite elfin lady today?” “Cut the chatter, Mulch. I’m sure you know exactly why you’ve been detained.” Truthfully, Holly didn’t have any hard evidence for Mulch’s arrest this time—not yet, at least. But Mulch had hardly ever been innocent, even when he wasn’t actively committing a crime, so it wasn’t too difficult for her to pretend the LEP knew of his most recent of illegal endeavours (which they didn’t). Besides, she’d lost a stupid bet during a party several weekends ago, and—well. You reap what you sow. Holly made a mental note to never take another sip of a certain centaur’s home concoction of sim-alcohol, recreational study or not. Anyway, back to the plot: She had lost a bet and now she had to pull this dumb prank on Mulch in return for a favour for a certain Mud Boy’s family. Holly could almost hear said Mud Boy’s tired sigh of disapproval upon hearing of his friends’ latest shenanigans. Still, she’d also promised Artemis she would visit the twins soon and she figured this was a nifty way to kill two birds with one stone. Technically, it would be two Fowls and a dwarf. Holly chuckled at her own joke, certain that Artemis wouldn’t have appreciated that quip at all, figurative murder or not. Before Mulch had a chance to explain his innocence this time, Holly began listing down the years he’d have to serve, the cell block they had carefully picked out for him this time, the terribly cold draft they had made sure would pass into said cell every night. And just as Mulch was about to get suspicious, Holly shifted gears and offered a compromise instead. Even though he was still confused and rightfully wary of the sudden turn of events, Mulch tentatively accepted Holly’s deal. And soon, he found himself whisked away on a shuttle topside, piloted by the Captain herself. “So where are we headed?” Mulch asked once he’d settled comfortably into his seat. “Now that it’s just you and me, Captain… I’m allowed to be privy to the details of said ‘deal’, right?” Holly was tempted to reveal the truth then, but she figured it’d be funnier if she let the dwarf discover it for himself. Mulch was a crafty one, after all—it wouldn’t take him too long to realise what was really going on. She only gave him a knowing smirk and murmured ominously, “All things in good time, Mulch.” * From the E1 shuttle port at Tara, it was a quick jaunt to the Fowl Manor. Holly could already hear the voices of the twins drifting over the wind as they made their way past the last cluster of Artemis’ fairy roses and to where the twins and their nanny Juliet Butler were seated by the fountain in the courtyard. Seven-year-old Beckett Fowl was the first to glance their way; Holly could’ve sworn the child had canine-like senses, what with the way he had whirled around at their near-silent approach. He was the very picture of innocence as he bounced up to them, his radiant curls and bright-eyed stare reminiscent of an eager golden retriever puppy. “Holly’s here! And S’Mulch Dinggus!” Beckett squealed happily as he launched himself at her. Holly embraced him warmly, before waving a greeting to Juliet who stood patiently behind the boy. The dwarf tutted, unimpressed at the butchering of his name. “We’ve been through this the last time, little Mudskipper. It’s Mulch Diggums.” “That’s what I said,” Beckett giggled, turning back to look at Juliet. “S’Mulch Dinggus. Funny he can’t remember his own name.” Before Mulch could get a protest in edgewise, he was interrupted by a small, polite cough. He turned and saw a bespectacled, raven-haired Mud Child appearing by Beckett’s side. Myles Fowl had the same piercing blue eyes as his free-spirited twin, but unlike his twin, he was the seemingly more precocious and finicky of the two. He looked every bit the likeness of his eldest brother, Mulch noted humorously—from the meticulously pressed suit and tie to the neatly-combed dark hair. Heck, the kid had even perfected the infamous Fowl glare to an art form, crystalline and frigid as an Arctic winter. “You’re finally here as summoned, Mister Mulch,” Myles greeted solemnly. He ignored the wet, icky sounds of Beckett blowing raspberries beside him. “Took you long enough.” “Summoned?” Mulch frowned, before a thought struck him. He grinned toothily at Holly. “So that’s what this is about, eh, Captain Short? ‘Detained’, my hairy as—” “Language, Mulch,” Holly said, stepping on the dwarf’s toes all while matching his grin with a serene, innocent smile of her own. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry I had a Retrieval squad jump you back there in the house. But it’s not like you were likely to be agreeable and come quietly if you knew the Fowl twins had extended an invitation and personally requested for your…er, assistance.” “Is not invitatitions,” Beckett chirped as he chewed on a piece of purple beeswax crayon. “Arty said summons would do in the tongue of magicks, so we summons S’Mulch!” He gave a sagely nod, his mouth stained and flecked with purple now. Mulch gave Holly a look of disappointment. “Frankly, I’m hurt you think I’d even pass up the chance to humiliate my favourite Mud Boy, and what’s more, by teaming up with his own cute brethren. Okay then, little Fowl nuggets. What dwarfish advice would you need this time?” “First of all, we’re not nuggets,” Myles said coldly, just as Beckett clucked like a gleeful hen and made flapping motions with his arms. “I assure you that we are still one-hundred percent Homo sapiens, even if Beck has gotten very good at animal mimicry of late.” “I see this one’s got a great sense of humour,” Mulch observed drily. “Definitely Artemis’ brother.” “A-hem. As I was saying...” Myles scowled at the interruption, and Mulch held up a placating hand in apology. “Secondly, Beck and I, we thought it through for many weeks—Well, I did anyway. However, we weren’t able to make any significant progress in the lab even with Professor Primate’s expertise—” “Not quite sure where you’re going with this riveting story, kiddo,” Mulch muttered. “But I’m still listening, if that helps.” “—and after several failed attempts, we have conceded that we need help from someone with the right skills. Skills we do not yet possess.” Myles paused, his young face pinched with doubt. But his hesitation was fleeting, and he met both Mulch and Holly’s curious expressions with a determined gaze once more. “We want to throw Arty the best surprise Eldest Brother’s Day when he gets back,” the boy said. “So, would you please honour us, Mister Mulch, and teach us how best to make—” “Flatulence!” Beckett crowed as if on cue, punching a fist victoriously into the air. “Please, brother. Not this again.” Myles groaned. “You boys want me to teach you how to let a mighty rip?” Mulch asked, incredulous. “No, that’s not it!” Myles cried, exasperated. “Beck has gotten it all muddled! He means the fettling process used in pottery, not the crude effusion of intestinal gas!” He tugged frantically at Beckett’s sleeve, trying to stop his twin from belting out his favourite self-composed tune called A Song of Gas and Fire, to no avail. For two whole minutes, the group was forced to listen to Beckett’s high-pitched singing of “Pbbthh, pbbthh, rattle-boom! Gas and fire, gas and fire! Heave-ho, the window’s blown!” “Thanks, little Mudskipper, for that, uh, delightful performance,” said Mulch, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes once Beckett had finished his song. “I gotta say, you sure are a natural. But there’s still something I don’t really get. Why would you need my help for the surprise? Like don’t get me wrong, kiddos, I like you two enough. But what’s wrong with Holly or Juliet here, or even Butler himself? If anything, they’re better suited at picking out the mushy gifts...” He trailed off, thinking hard. “Well, I trust the Big Man’s taste for the sentimental, at least.” “Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence, Mulch,” Juliet deadpanned, with only the slightest roll of her eyes. “It’s true Butler had some good suggestions for gifts, but this is a Fowl twins initiative, so we figured we’d let the kids decide on their own. Besides, Beck had other ideas.” “My ideas the best ideas!” Beckett chanted, beaming brightly. “We decided that we want to make Arty a sculpture for Eldest Brother’s Day.” Myles supplied, glancing at Mulch once again. “We know that Mister Mulch is highly attuned to the necessities of good clay work by virtue of his biological make-up— “S’Mulch is good with muds and gas! I wanna learn how to blast clay backwards too!” “—therefore, you are best suited to teach us how to sculpt and—” “And flatulence!” Mulch tried his best, he really did, but he couldn’t hold back his laughter any longer. He didn’t know which was funnier: the thought of the twins gifting Artemis Fowl, ex-criminal virtuoso and menace of the People, a squishy caricature blob of his miniature being or Beckett performing a pompous and fartastical symphony of A Song of Gas and Fire for his dear eldest brother. Either way, he was rightfully tickled and the twins were in luck. Unbeknownst to many, Mulch had spent some time dabbling in pottery and sculpting with clay when he’d lived amongst the celebrity Mud Men; he had chalked it up as weird hobby of sorts.  “You Mud twins are hilarious,” he said, once his laughter had subsided and he’d managed to straighten himself up again. “All right, I’m sold on this crazy venture. I’ll help with the sculpting of a masterpiece for ol’ Arty-boy.” From the corner of his eye, he caught a glance of Juliet’s smug expression. Her lips were curved into a wide Cheshire grin as she tapped Holly’s shoulder expectantly. The elf only groaned, before she reached into her back pocket to fish out a single gold coin and slipped it into Juliet’s fingers. Mulch frowned at the exchange, throwing them his best hurt-puppy look. “Running a betting pool on me and for only a single gold coin? I’m affronted, ladies.” “You only wish your crooked mug is worth half a penny,” Holly shrugged. “I’m being generous because Juliet’s a friend.” “Aww, I knew you were a big old softie inside!” Juliet sighed happily, reaching forward to teasingly pinch the side of Mulch’s face. “Now that that’s settled, someone can finally knead clay with the kids and get some work done before Artemis gets home from his conference this weekend.” She quickly stepped away, disappearing into the nearby garage for several minutes before she returned carrying a craft box packed with an assortment of smaller items inside. “These rascals had me running to art stores all over Dublin the past two weeks looking for all kinds of overpriced play-dohs, and yet hardly asked if I could help them to sculpt!” She grumbled, not quite unkindly, as she shook the items out from the box, laying them out on a patch of grass before them. Holly looked over at Juliet in surprise. “I didn’t know you were into sculpting.” She thought of all the hours the young woman had spent whooping over her favourite wrestling matches on TV as a teen. “Never pegged you as the artistic type.” Juliet snorted. “Pfft, me? Nah, I don’t sculpt. That’s more a pretentious Artemis thing.” “Why would you expect the twins to ask you to teach them, then?” “Well, I’d like to be asked first, at least! I took the time to buy all these fancy play-dohs for them, didn’t I?” Mulch leaned forward in interest, looking over the packets of “play-dohs”. He spotted several labelled as Creative Paperclay—at least Juliet managed to get some of the good stuff. He grinned toothily as he rolled up his sleeves, feeling a spark of excitement at getting to work with clay again. “Okay then, kiddos. Let’s get cracking and moulding.” * “What’s this Eldest Brother’s Day thing you Mud Men celebrate like anyway?” Mulch asked. They’d made their way from the courtyard into the Manor basement where Artemis had set up a work space for Myles’ messier experiments and tinkering projects. The group stood now before the large experiment bench. Juliet covered the top with a large plastic mat, and turning the craft box over, shook packets of Creative Paperclay and several plastic and wooden crafting tools out on the bench. At Mulch’s question, she turned and gave him a strange look, brows furrowed. Then she let out a short laugh when she realised he was actually being serious. “Silly fairy,” she snickered, glancing over the top of Myles and Beckett’s heads before she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper: “There’s no such thing as Eldest Brother’s Day. It’s just something the twins came up with but I’m not going to ruin it for them and tell them it isn’t actually a thing. I’m not a monster, you know.” “We know it, Juliet,” Beckett said suddenly, blinking up at her with those large blue eyes filled with mischief and daring. “But Artemis’ a simple-toon—” Myles giggled at his twin’s use of their brother’s old nickname, even as he fought to keep his expression stoic. “—and simple-toons need Eldest Brother’s Day. So we celebrate.” Beckett finished with a nod, as though he’d just gifted both his human and fairy nannies with his brand of enlightenment. “Riiiight,” Mulch said, shaking his head. He figured some things were best left unasked and unexplained, especially when dealing with incorrigibly irreverent Fowl children. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for that impromptu alliteration (it was the playwright blooming within him, he was sure of it) and turned back to the project at hand. The twins had already decided early-on the sort of sculpture they had wanted to create. After ruminating over it weeks before, Myles had settled on recreating a 5-inch figure of Jayjay the silky sifaka, the fluffy white lemur whose whimsical escapades were often included in the bedtime stories Artemis read them. Beckett, on the other hand, had chosen to fashion an honorary tribute to Artemis’ late Syrian hamster, Lady Maeve, poised upright on her hind feet in an impassioned stance, gnawing away at a two-headed wyrm. Once the twins had sketched out their preferred designs on paper, Juliet pinned the sketches up on the cork board on the wall for easy reference. Then they got to work. Mulch placed two cups of water on the bench, and proceeded to show the twins how to gauge the amount they needed for their sculptures and how to knead the clay to warm it up and make it more malleable. “It’s a bit like baking extravagant pastries,” he said as he cut a block of clay into various-sized pieces. “You roll the individual shapes out like this and then stick them together to form a whole creature. Like an animal jigsaw puzzle, so to speak.” “They aren’t edible or taste any good though, not like pastries,” Holly added quickly when she noticed Beckett staring a little too longingly at the piece he’d been kneading. She tapped his fingers away just as the boy lifted the clay to his mouth for a quick nibble. “No tasting?” Beckett asked mournfully. “No tasting.” The elf shook her head. “But I do have some special treacle and espresso power bars from Haven City. It’s much better than consuming bland clay. I’ll let you have a bite later when we finish sculpting Lady Maeve, okay?” It seemed like a good bargain, so Beckett closed his mouth and chewed at his lower lip instead, rolling his clay pieces under his palms with renewed fervour. They continued shaping their pieces. Mulch showed the twins how to score the ends of the individual pieces they’d made for the limbs with a plastic knife. Then they connected the scored ends of the limbs to the body, blending the seams and smoothing it down carefully with their fingers and dabs of water. They continued in a similar fashion for the heads, noses, ears, and tails. Once the twins were satisfied with their sculptures, Mulch carefully placed the pieces on a cool, clean shelf to gradually dry and set over the next 24-hours. When they returned later to check on their work, the twins found the dried sculptures were now off-white and grainy to touch, quite unlike the squishy beige blobs they had been pinching and moulding with their hands the day before. “And now for a good splash of colour to make your pieces really pop,” Mulch said, dumping several tubes of acrylic paints and brushes on the bench with much more flair than necessary. He had a paint brush stuck behind one of his hairy ears—it helped him feel attuned with the art connoisseur in him. “Jayjay has a mostly pure-white coat,” Myles mused as he picked out a few choice colours, “but I think a gold accent to his fur tips, ears and tails would bring out his features more.” “Gold, huh?” Mulch looked over the boy’s chosen colour scheme with approval. “Good aesthetic you got there, Mudling.” “A very Fowl aesthetic for sure.” Holly couldn’t help the quip, her eyes twinkling with mirth. Artemis would certainly appreciate the touch. “Lady Maeve wants to be purple like rain,” Beckett declared solemnly, having been uncharacteristically silent for five whole minutes. “Purple? But Beck, Lady Maeve was a golden long-haired Syrian.” Myles tilted his head towards his twin. “If you paint her fur purple, Arty might not recognize her.” Beckett’s attention, however, seemed to be two steps ahead of the conversation. He’d already dipped his brush with paint and was dabbing streaks of purple all over the hamster’s body. “The Lady requests a cloak of purple rain, so purple she shall be.” The adults could barely stifle their chuckles while Myles groaned once again in defeat. He decided it was probably for the best and turned his attention back to painting his lemur. It was nearly noon when the twins added the last dabs of paint, after which Mulch proceeded to spray a coat of clear acrylic varnish over the sculptures to preserve and seal the colours. Then, he stepped several paces back from the bench to marvel at the fruits of their labour. “We have finished at last.” Myles’ voice was soft, awe pooling in his eyes. Hesitantly, he turned to Juliet and Holly, and then glanced back at the dwarf, searching for reassurance. “What do you think, Mister Mulch? Will Artemis like it?” Mulch rubbed at his beard thoughtfully. Both sculptures looked very much like what you would expect of two seven-year-olds’ valiant attempts at artisanal clay work. “Hmm.” He clicked his tongue lightly as he paced around the work bench, reaching into his inner art critic for the right words. “Now, Myles: Despite the crooked tail, you did a fairly good job at carving the fur textures on your lemur. Plus, adding gold accents to the white fur is very innovative and makes Jayjay glow nicely under the light. A very regal and classic touch overall.” Mulch came to a dignified pause before the second sculpture, rubbing his palms together as if in deep thought. “As for Beckett’s recreation of Lady Maeve: It seems far more… robust than the original, almost challenging anatomy and even physics itself. But the bright mixes of purple and gold contrasts nicely with the green and gore of the flailing wyrm, adding a surprising dynamism to the entire piece. All in all, two very good attempts, my young apprentices.” Holly and Juliet were already sighing halfway through Mulch’s needlessly opulent commentary, but even they agreed with the dwarf’s final assessment, much to the relief and delight of Myles and Beckett Fowl. * When Artemis Fowl the Second arrived home from his two-week long conference on Wildlife and Biodiversity Conservation, he was surprised to be greeted only by an unusually silent living room, devoid of the typical sounds of playful bellowing and childish laughter. Leaving Butler to unload his luggage from the Bentley, Artemis wondered briefly at the absence of his two brothers and Juliet, their sitter, before he noticed a strange sort of rumbling noise and vibration coming from somewhere below him. Curious, he headed for the basement, moving cautiously towards the noise. It was there that he found the twins asleep and cuddled around a familiar rotund shape sprawled upon an old velvet sofa. The fairy had his head thrown back against the cushion and was snoring rather noisily. “Ah,” Artemis said, eloquent as ever. He steepled his fingers together, taking a moment to process the scene before him. “Arty…? Oh, you’re finally back.” Holly’s soft voice broke him out of his reverie. He turned to see his old friend curled up on a second sofa, blinking the sleep from her eyes. “Welcome home,” she yawned a greeting. “Juliet’s in the kitchen fixing up some snacks, I think.” “Hello, Holly. It’s good to be back among familiar faces again. It seems that I’ve missed quite a party while I was away…” Artemis trailed off when he caught sight of the strange creatures placed on Myles’ experiment bench. “They’re supposed to be a surprise for you when you returned. For Eldest Brother’s Day.” Holly explained when Artemis raised a delicate eyebrow. He lifted up one of the sculptures for a closer inspection, his forehead creased in confusion at what looked to be a purple rodent gnawing on a plump string of green linguine—Beckett’s. “Eldest Brother’s Day?” Artemis echoed. He reached for the second sculpture—Myles’ lemur—before walking over to take a seat beside Holly on the sofa. Holly stretched her arms as she sat upright. “It’s kind of a long story.” “I expect so. Do enlighten me, if you will.” “Well, let’s see...” Holly began, brushing the side of her cheek with a finger. “Once upon a time, there were a pair of twins who, Frond only knows why, admired and looked up to their chaotically unhinged older brother greatly.” Artemis gave her a slightly wounded look, pressing a hand to his chest in a show of mock offense. “I’m appalled, Holly. You of all people know I prefer calculating to chaotic. There is a method to my madness, after all.” “Ever the theatrical misunderstood genius, aren’t you?” Holly rolled her eyes, even if she couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped her lips. She nudged his shoulder playfully with her own, a show of affection. “Myles and Beckett adore you immensely—you know that, right?” Artemis beamed, warmed by Holly’s laughter and the comfort of being close to friends and family once more. He watched his sleeping brothers, curled closely towards each other much like two peas in a pod, before he turned his gaze back to the sculptures in his hands. “I know,” he said softly, still marvelling at the twins’ recreations of Jayjay and Lady Maeve. And for the barest of moments, in the quiet that stretch comfortably between them, Artemis Fowl knew that this may only be the start of the first (of many) Eldest Brother’s Day he would experience, but it was already a very good day nonetheless. And he was content. —End—

[willpowerbutch]

Willpower Butch: In Profundis

Dawn clambered over the LA quarantine like a wearied soldier storming a hill – the hill that has become the burning bosom of the Gay-Transgender. Since NASA identified God in the night sky, flying toward earth to assess His children, society has been thrust into a state of nihilistic chaos. The Christians rejoice, and the Gay plot on how to turn Him over to their wickedness. The Transgenitalists, banned from public restrooms, desecrate suburban streets with their bodily fluids in an expression of protest, making neighborhoods where once children could freely get hit by cars while playing Pokémon Go into a biohazard.

(God, who is due to arrive this summer, is shooting through space right now.)

Morning threw these degenerates into relief as they staggered over the pavement of Duplass Avenue and into oncoming traffic, waving stolen underwear on long strips of decrepit building vinyl: the art gallery spinsters who invented Mitski; adults who cosplay as memes; “grandfathers” who loiter in the Youth Bibles section of book stores; and, most troublingly, the bodies of fallen straights, levitating up through the storm drains on the wands of gay necromancers – in short, the entire Green Party – were only the first denizens I encountered along the harrowing road to James Franco’s homo-cidal circus. Everywhere, there were the remnants of bar food and suspicious in-laws. All this was the plutonic vision which greeted my trusted correspondent and I as we strode heterosexfully down the block.

Paragon Shag beside me had not been the same since our eviction from the House of Those Motherfuckers Who Wear Sandals. Only the whiff of pedicure oils on a passing European businessman would send him into such extravagant declamations on the aesthetics of marginalization that I would be impelled to beat the fuck out of him.

“Shag,” I spoke unto him as we arrived at our destination, the Villa de Hermaphrodita, that crypt of human bipedalism. “What is this stench wafting from your chest?”

“Deodorant,” said he.

“I fear for you, Shag. You are aware that deodorant is a witch’s brew intended to inculcate children into the homosexual lifestyle.” He knew as I did that those who use it too much become ravenous beasts, mere British culture journalists, addicted to the scent of Orientalism and male crying.

“Precisely so. We cannot allow ourselves to be overtaken by those limping nancies. With this, we shall confuse their predatory instincts.” And just then, a furious piss communist passed us by, navigating by the odor of listless pretension to James Franco. “You see?” said Shag, turning to me suddenly. He took my arm in the manner of the Romans, up to my elbow. “We are brothers, Mr. Butch, and not in a YouTube Red sort of way, nor in the sense that two different-looking male roommates claim to be, nor in the manner of college boys who make out at strangers’ house parties and tell everyone that it’s part of their fraternity hazing ritual, nor like bohemian male friends who have a large age gap in a hot way, nor indeed like the Quakers, who we all realize developed oatmeal as a gateway to eating spunk.”

He spoke prettily, and I could do nothing but convert my doubt into glorious masculinity. We had come to investigate Franco, after all, whom we suspected of creating twinks to try to turn himself gayer.

We entered the villa -- and there he was, directly before us, barefaced and shockingly confident for a man who looks like a toilet squeegee, licking chocolate off the thighs of a servant boy. James Franco: provocateur of the Gay and war poet of their slick uprising against biological persons.

“Wow,” he greeted us running a hand through his hair. “This is, like, crazy. I haven’t been tag-teamed by two bears since I was on the set of Milk. Did you come to see how I kidnap women and transform them into twinks to make myself gayer?”

We were speechless before this display of arrogance, but Franco’s attention had already been diverted. The servant boy’s epaulet had come unbuttoned.

“Well,” said Franco, hooking him by the shoulders, “the evidence is piling up, huh?”

“Sir?”

“Tell me,” Franco mewled in a squalid attempt to sound erotic, “while you’re existing in a state of, like, untroubled happiness because of straight privilege, do you ever wonder how it feels to have ornery fetish sex with glamorous-yet-blasé strangers every second of your life like the Gay-Transgender are expected to do?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, now you’ll have nothing but time for that, man – as the newest member of the Heterosexual Circus.” Turning mercurially, as if astonished to discover that Shag and I had not moved, Franco addressed us. Raising his arms, he shouted, “Birth is Death! Reason is Treason! Empiricism is Imperialism!”

We could not bear to witness the poor boy’s torture by being forced to be bad at dancing in front of gay perverts. As Shag and I shuffled back onto the street, idly kicking the shit out of a taxi that had parked on the sidewalk, I was emasculated by a notion unrelated to the sweating power of my manhood: that we had not heard the last of these frightful slogans.

*******************************************************************************************

It did not take long for us to find a trap door at the other side of the villa, under a cypress tree. It was locked, but not for a man. Reducing it to smithereens with a mere touch of my beard to it, we descended into a lively disco club where, clinging to the shadows, we moved about curiously. There was in one of the dance-floor cages a sight which startled us.

“Gayflame!” called Shag. “Reddie Gayflame!”

“It’s just Sexchaynge now,” she whispered above the music, on the verge of tears because her body was undergoing a dramatic change.

“But, Sexchaynge,” Shag advanced fretfully, leaving enough distance so as not to be endangered by her femininity, “I thought you were a Gay as well.”

“I was, but I gave it up. You see, I believe in doing things as hard as I can, like Hugh Dancy -- but I knew that I would never be the gayest of all. Not while Ben Whishaw still has a career as an international sex fae... So, why not become a transgender instead, I thought to myself, since there’s less competition?”

Shag nodded sagely.

“Anyway, there is somebody else here that you ought to meet. Follow me.”

My correspondent and I were led into the adjacent hallway, where loomed a misshapen yet familiar silhouette. Suddenly recognizing it, I cried out, “It is the Lord of Lust, the fluent horizontal dancer ‘himself,’ Ben Whishaw! You fiend! You devil!”

But when the vampire stepped into the light, it turned out to be only Twinkathee Charlotterampling, who is merely probably an insatiable fairy.

He threw himself into Paragon Shag’s arms, weeping. “I knew you would never go back to Italy, so I came here to find you. Oh, please say that we can stay together, Daddio. Listen, I can even help you out: Gay Franco isn’t only turning women into twinks, he is then cloning the normal homos! Next, there will be enough fit gay guys to have sex with each other, and Franco will be our only option. Then where will I get any action with men who don’t look like a rejected Muppet? It’s a direct assault on bottoms, and not the fun kind, like when Benedict Cumberbatch gets turnt on Corvo and tries to turn my ass into Christmas lights,” spoke Timpani, gulping. “It’s against my huwoman rights.”

The dimensionless sex balloon’s discourse rained down upon me the spume of flaccid object permanence, and I was forced to rebuke him. “You skinny-jeaned Socratic, you purveyor of gay lies. Humans are not women. And the only right you have is to stop dangling your driftwood in front of every sailor you lay eyes upon. Knave!”

We resumed our progress down the hallway, the two of us and our limpid sidekicks, who stopped every so often to slather their tongues over errant broomsticks. At last, we cruised into a large room, which contained in its rear a glass chamber that held a strange, dark machine within.

“It’s the TRANSporner,” said Timpani Gayparade.

Turning to Shag, I asked, “What do you suppose it is, my macho companion? I cannot well understand the cartoon elf’s French.”

“It must be how Franco transfigures women into the Gay. My God,” Shag exclaimed, “it’s full of emo music.” Grabbing Gayparade’s weird jaw, he brought him into his line of sight so he could address him. “You – What else has Franco created?”

“He has an entire lab devoted to cloning the Gay,” Timpani laughed drily. “And it’s completely, like, impenetrable. Any man who goes in there is brainwashed into Franco’s horde. Only a woman could do it.”

“A woman?” we shouted together.

Twinkathee nodded.

“But we have so few in our warehouse. What if Franco merely kills them? We cannot afford to risk one,” Shag bemoaned.

“You see this?” Twinkathee peered up at Shag and shook his head despondently, pendulating his curls like Quentin Crisp’s spinal column. “This is only the first step. Once Franco masters cloning, the gays will be able to have orgies with themselves, and then they’ll spend eternity competing to see who can suck the most of his own dick. We can’t let God know that we ripped off twincest from Leviticus; he’ll think that we’re total fucking nerds. Shag,” Timpani huffed Frenchtastically, “I know this is the last thing you want to hear–”

“Silence, you animated meringue.”

“—but Ben Whishaw is the only homo who still dares to manufacture women. We need him.”

(A diagram of some of the unique anatomical characteristics of women.)

There was little sound then – nothing but the shaking swallow of breath and a distant applause, floating down from the circus where Franco was, variously, receiving his latest recruits. Tears of frustration had sprung up to rim Gayparade’s eyes. There was something accusatory in his gaze at my friend; such a look might have paused me in my celebrations of erectile power, if it had been produced by a man and not by a melancholy bagel fingerer.

Twinkathee lifted his chin, which surprised me because most homosexuals lose executive function of their necks by his age. “You know I’m right. And you know that you have to make him come.”

“He already has,” I interjected, “Whim Bitchaw, Colin Firth, Tom Tykwer, Patrick Stewart, and Judi Dench all at the same time. Oh, you mean come here.” I turned unto Shag, who shirked his eyes. “Why, Shag? What can this eroticized bungee cord mean?”

Slowly and with great shame, Shag reached into the pocket of his suit jacket, right above his heart, and pulled out a condom. “This – this is how we summon Ben Whishaw.”

“With a condom?”

I was surprised, but my skepticism soon changed to heroic terror as Shag tore at the wrapper with his teeth and emptied its contents onto the floor.

“Ben cannot resist the scent of a condom that is left unused. He will come now whether we want him to or not.”

Soon, Ben Whishaw came.

He came – in a flourish of glitter and sharpie tattoos -- attended by his insidious Cummunists: nudists brandishing firecrackers at uncomfortably-pretty busboys, male lingerie models, lions mounted by braless Valkyries, weeping Bavarian youths, the entire population of Barcelona, Michael Shannon, and a parade of cats, all singing “Cake” by Rihanna at the top of their lungs. BBC4 was empty that day; all the mouthwash Mary-Janes were on earth, rutting against children’s harmonicas, instilling fear in all but the most excellent specimens of manliness.

“Rejoice,” Ben Whishaw sang as his silky knees folded to the ground, chafing immediately. “Rejoice, you who have beheld the bawds of my bedchambers, the Greeks of old beachfront restaurants, the harbingers of fantasy sex tours like Ezra Miller’s career. I have come, and so shall you.” Swanning over to address Shag, he bit his lip. “Darling, I am here for you! What do you need, hot stuff?”

“Women!” he shouted manfully.

“What for? You aren’t still trying to figure out which hole is the mouth, are you?”

“Nay,” he replied, “my brother Butch told me. We need them to infiltrate Gay Franco’s hideout and destroy his cloning technology.”

“And you,” the hunch-hip padded towards me, “this is your brilliant plan? You send women to do your dirty work for you? What are you afraid of, big boy, and what can I do to ease that stress?”

“Naw, son,” called out Michael Shannon from afar, “do you want a garden salad with that skewer, or should I just serve you a knuckle sandwich?”

But Whishaw held up a slim, delicate wrist, jangling his fetish jewelry, silencing him. “I will say it to you strai—” he hacked painfully, “directly. I will give you my women, whom I had intended to use to lure fathers into a gay orgy, thereby undermining their paternal confidence. This, of course, would homosexualize the youth. But I will command them to join your cause instead... for a price.”

“Speak, elongated child!”

“Your beard,” said he.

I was struck silent.

“I need your beard,” he repeated, endless tears gathering in his eyes. “It’s for my play. The director is afraid that I’m not hairy enough to be Marilyn Monroe.”

“Why,” I puffed my chest, but it didn’t look gay or like breasts, “of all the evil perversions your kind have committed against man, this is the one that I shall never entertain to forgive.”

“That is the deal, Comrade Butch: your sublime brush for my women.”

There was no canon fire, there were no memorial barbecues where suburbanites play a game of subconsciously adulterous cat-and-mouse over the grill, for the sacrifice I made that day. Dear reader, it is a day that shall be marked forever with infamy, for that is the sin that hangs over whatever circumstance impels a straight man to give any piece of himself over to a queer Nancy. Do not mourn for Faust, do not pity Dante the Pilgrim for his travails in Hell; in the flash of a scalpel, I fell into a greater damnation than those dramatic homos could ever conceive.

*******************************************************************************************

When he had his ill-gotten prize, Ben Whishaw parted our company as he has left each of the tens of thousands of men he’s seduced around the world, with a lachrymose little smile, a wiggle of the ass, and a soliloquy on the transient beauty of tricking straight men into thinking you’re a woman until they’ve already removed their pants. Being a consummate phallic god, I was immune to his European witchcraft; Paragon Shag, I’m afraid, was somewhat awestruck by this coy display. But there was no time for either of us to dwell on his fabulous sorcery. The deal was done, and there awaited before us creatures yet almost as feminine as that enchanted nymph.  

“So,” I said, stalking around their strange mass, “these are the notorious ‘women.’” A slim shadow fell across my face, and a chill entered my heart. “Shag, what do you make of all this?”

He proceeded to inform me, “It is supposed that women were invented by the early Catholics, at the decree of the Pope.”

“The Catholics?” I interrupted him. “But what do those queers need from women? They themselves gave rise to the two cruxes of gay culture: old men who sort of cross-dress, and bottoms who think they can top.”

“Like Michael Kors,” added Shag, “but with less herpes.”

“So, what, by God, did they want with women?” Yet Shag could only shake his head. “Women!” I shouted unto them, for their ears ring incessantly from all the cock they swallow. “What are you for?”

They seemed to consider my question. “We like Shakespeare!” shouted one. “We create life, and we perpetuate culture,” replied another thoughtfully. Said the third, “We’re trying to eliminate baby-faced depressives from the gene pool.”

“Then you’ve certainly backfired on the Catholics.” I stroked the remnant of my beard and turned to Shag. “Sir, we should waste no time in bringing them to the safety of our suspicious roadside barn. Send Gayparade back through the TRANSporner and let us put a plug in James Franc’n’o in a firm and impressive way.”

Shag nodded apprehensively, taking the marionette by the elbow and helping him toward the entry port. “Fear not,” he advised the waif, “for soon you will have no rap career again. Iggy.”

“Iggy,” Gayparade murmured after him. “Iggy, Iggy.”

They came upon the threshold of the TRANSporner, its dilated cavern of unnatural lust that had given Iggy Azalea talent and genitalia so many years before. The twink gulped, appraising it, unsure of how to proceed.

“Timpani?” Shag inflected. “What is the matter?”

But the twisted, hollow-cheeked spaghetti said nothing, impelling Shag to grip him by the hair, repeating his query in a low growl.

“Oh, Paragon!” cried the gimp at unimpressive length, “I can’t do it, brother! Being a girl is bullshit!”

“Truly,” said Shag. “I’ve read Nietzsche.”

“I won’t go back into the TRANSporner,” he wailed. “I would rather die than look like an adult human.”

Shag leant down, menace in his eyes. “Then we must leave, Timpani, quickly -- before Master Butch is able to transfer sufficient power from his penis into his legs to follow us.”

“You mean...?”

“Yes,” my noble friend, my eternal companion responded, turning to me. “I am prepared to accept my animal nature, the amoral truth of my life: there can be no more good taste, because that is for the straights. I am a total gay forever.” And thus, Shag tore the bomber jacket from his shoulders, and it fell away like his erection, revealing a strapless silver gown and taffeta stole. Rising by fabulous vampirism, he glared down at me; nevertheless, I could discern a cold and implicit sadness in his gaze, the gaze of young man after the golden summer of 1914.

“Shag,” said I, my loins quivering, “get ahold of your senses. There is no future in the Homosexuality. Every country where gay queers establish their warrens, penises shrink. This is because the Nancy makes healthy public arousal impossible by constantly bringing up Madonna.”

But he had already vanished, along with Gayparade, into a vortex of passionate mid-century female friendships.

The silence that prevailed in his wake was deafening; it was interrupted, at last, only by the genital whir of the TRANSporner and the soft, incomprehensible chattering of the women. And after much prayer, my noble witness, I still cannot say which of us in that final instant had been more the queer Dorothy: Shag, his crystal-blue eyes darkened with looming cocks, cutting loose to spend his life spoon-feeding treacle to a preteen girl’s gay skeleton; or myself, at the realization that, more than my box of horse condoms, more than my brass knuckles, more than even my beard, I needed Paragon Shag with me. It brings me shame to confess this, but we live in such times as make masculine pride scarce, and I do not foresee Western civilization’s return to glistening worthiness until the metrosexuals have been pounded back into almond butter and adult coloring books.

I crossed myself, still in a state of disbelief, and turned toward the threshold of hell, where Sexchaynge stood waiting. She had pressed her cheek against her fist, and her gaze lifted to me sympathetically. “What are you going to do now, Master Butch?”

In a supreme display of muscular eminence, I diverted my erection away from the heart of the sun, boring it into the ground, quaking the earth with my righteousness. “I must pursue Shag, and I must put an end to his delirious transsexual rampage at any cost. Even at the cost of his life. Before he encounters God and offends Him with Sapphic literature.”

“Take solace,” Sexchaynge whispered. “I don’t believe it will come to that. Shag has become a gay slut, so you will always know where to find him...” She smiled sadly as I considered her words. “And lucky for you, sweet-meat sandwich, I know just the ‘man’ to get you in.”

To Be Continued

 About the Authors

In preparation for the BAFTA ceremony, Admiral Willpower Butch is studying how to act prissy and entitled by sitting in on liberal arts film classes. His former beloved companion, Paragon Shag, hasn’t been seen in public since he scandalized a group of children with a flamboyant Broadway medley at their school vape bar; now, he prefers the privacy of the abandoned crime scene he shares with Timpani Gayparade and his twenty-two hot brothers. Their secretary, international murder victim and street gastroenterologist Dead Summer Days, will never get into heaven, but he will loiter around the gate smelling of weed.

[chronicbatfictioner]

Theater of the Soul - Chapter 17

He could sense the tension in the air - even the bird boy was a little tense. There were people with white lab coats, and the nice lady doctor, who pricked him with numerous needles. It was only the boy's and the lady doctor's presence that made him reconsider punching them all and run away.

Well, that, and the fact that his legs still hurt a lot. It might not be a good idea to run while he could only hobble. The bird boy walked around a lot, and even if he'd walked slow enough to be caught up on, the too-much-walking still taxed his legs.

The boy would press his body onto his side while they were pricking him with needles, saying soothing things. At least they were in soothing tone, because his brain is too cloudy to know what they were talking about.

He has always had trouble sleeping, that much he remembered. Even under drugs, he would always be on alert - the smallest of noise would wake him up. Maybe it was due to the fact that he had never felt safe - living on the floors of the alleys of the city tend to sharpen one's instinct to the point of semi-paranoia.

This time, thought, he could tell that he was being drugged. But at least, the bird boy was there, holding his hand.

For the first time in his life, he succumbed to the blackness of sleep; knowing he would be safe. The bird boy would guard him, he was sure. Whatever it is they were trying to do by drugging him to sleep, the bird boy would make sure he would not be harmed in any way.

More bad news came from Dinah, just as Jason was about to be wheeled for the surgery. Tim, Barbara, and Dick eventually decided to hold their meeting while Bruce was holding vigil in front of Jason's surgical theater. 

Somehow, Bruce had even managed to joke, "this is the worst theater I've been in." 

And Tim really wanted to know what he would be thinking if he'd heard that his son was a suspect in a murder. No, that his son was the main suspect in a murder. 

"His prints and biologicals were found there - in the house where they had found Napier's body." Barbara said grimly, pointing out to the screen of her laptop that was showing police and Crime Scene reports.

"Okay, counselor, wouldn't that be obvious if he was detained there?" Dick countered. "Were they found on Napier's corpse?"

"They couldn't tell yet. They found the body decomposed, you know. Mummified, actually. I'm... not sure what to think of with the term 'mummified' and how... But I reckon the area he was found at was dry enough to make him mummify instead of fully decompose. They couldn't even determine time of death and put it on a very wide bracket of three months to a year." Barbara replied.

"The bright side is that I found clips that said Napier was alive by the time Danny met Jason three months ago." Tim showed them a clip from an info-tainment channel, showing Napier arguing with somebody out of sight right outside the Harley Club. "Supposedly - if the tabloids were to be believed, he'd left for LA right the next day. I haven't found anything from LA that can corroborate that." he admitted, a little begrudgingly.

"Right, I'll take that one, then. I've a friend who can poke out some alibis. You know him," Dick smirked at Barbara.

Barbara suddenly groaned. "Ugh... ick. Won't it be a little too obvious for you if you call him up and start asking about Napier?"

"He, who?" Tim wanted to know.

"Jason Bard, Private Investigator Extraordinaire," Dick smirked mischievously. "A.K.A. Babs' ex boyfriend."

"Oh," Tim winced. "Yeeeah, I agree. Might be a little too suspicious if you call your girlfriend's ex to investigate something involving your adoptive brother." Tim pointed out. "Other option?"

"There's Ralph Dibny, but if we ask him, he'll definitely report to Bruce." Dick huffed. "He and Bruce are like, BFWBs. Best Friend With Benefit - and said benefit comes in dollar signs."

"Victor Sage." Tim suddenly remembered. "He was an investigative journalist. He was really good and fair - he would expose either side of the suspicions fairly."

"...and place Jason in more stress?" Barbara said softly.

"Won't he be more stressed if he was to be named as a murderer when he couldn't defend himself? Jason is catatonic. He's not an idiot." Tim reminded them. "He's thinking, just not expressing. He'd talked to me once. Bruce had heard it, too."

Both Tim and Barbara landed their gaze on Dick, who was pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly.

"Alright," Dick finally decided. "Victor Sage. No punch pulled. We prepare ourselves for Jason's defense, right?"

Barbara nodded solemnly. "Always. I have Kate Spencer, Rachel Keast, and Jean Loring on speed dial."

"And all-girls squad, Babs?"

"Works for the heart, Dick." Barbara smirked. "If all else fails, go for the heartstrings. Orphaned, homeless, stardom, dumped broken and back on the streets... I'd cry if if were in the jury selection."

They continued chatting, plotting, scheming; interrupted only when Bruce finally came amongst them, looking gaunt and even older than his mid-30s.

"Did it work?" Dick demanded.

"Hm? Oh, the surgery itself was... 'easy', so Pieter said... the drama will begin once he wakes up." Bruce told them, sighing. "Alfred is waiting with him, in case he wakes up and get distressed." He did not imply anything, but Tim could sense Bruce's glare landed on him.

"I'll take over from Alfred once I'm done eating," Tim assured him, pointing to the takeout boxes Barbara has had on the table next to the laptop, didn't even realize that he has been devouring a box of noodles while talking. Dick, ever the mother-hen, had probably placed a box in Tim's hands and he'd started eating out of... well, it had smelled nice.

"He-- I would appreciate that, Tim, thank you." Bruce acknowledged. "Now, you kids maybe can fill me up on what schemes you've been running to prove Jason's innocence on Napier's death."

Dick dropped his fork halfway to his mouth. Tim nearly choked on his fry. Barbara just glared at Bruce.

"How." she demanded. Not asked.

"Diana Prince is a good friend of mine. She'd come here from Themiscyra under my parents' sponsorship." Bruce explained. "She had warned me that the investigation might hit too close to my home, and my son. And told me to prepare the defenses accordingly."

If Dick or Barbara had heard the same thing Tim did, of the words 'just don't tell me how the investigation going' that were not said, they did not show it.

"I'm thinking Kate Spencer, Rachel Keast, or Jean Loring on Jason's behalf." Barbara said. "They'll have to face... whoever's the DA in LA?"

"I think you can include Harvey Dent, too." Bruce said contemplatively. "He's... quite fond of Jason. And his position as a former Gotham City's DA would make him a formidable opponent."

"Whoa... that's heavy." Dick huffed.

"I'll consider Dent, if all else fails." Barbara replied, not detailing what 'else' might include. "The thing is, Dent defends crooks, too, nowadays. So I'm not comfortable with him."

"All lawyers would end up defending crooks at one point or another of their career, Barbara. It's a matter of how many hours they've booked. I'm presuming you'll co-chair with the Manhunter?" Bruce said. "I'd exempt Keats, though. Her link to Diana Prince - being from the same country - might be used against her investigation and us in general. Loring should be your last option - she would defend anyone with money and that could turn against you."

"Co-chair?" Tim echoed. "'Manhunter'?"

"Well yes, you didn't know Babs has a law degree?" Dick smirked at him. "Kate Spencer's nickname is the Manhunter, since she's pretty much vicious and relentless in proving some people's guilt."

"Of course I will. I'm partial to Kate, too, and just keep Keats and Loring as reserve. I might consider taking over Jason's custody temporarily while I'm at it." Barbara remarked.

"What for?" Dick asked, an eyebrow cocked in curiosity. "You're not even old enough to be his mom."

"Just for the simplification. If I have custody, all and any documents will be sent to me instead of Bruce. That way, nobody can imply 'parental ignorance' or neglect." she explained. "Sometimes when they're losing, the prosecutor would delay sending notices on new evidences, to rattle the defendant's defense."

"...so by sending them to Jason's actual legal guardian, Bruce, they would expect said notice to be actually lost." Dick clarified. "That actually kinda makes sense."

"Yes," Barbara nodded sagely. "I, on the other hand, do not let any envelope go past me and accepts my own mail. Their argument therefore will not be valid."

Tim sighed, "legal stuff hurts my head." he admitted at Barbara's glare. "Not like I don't understand them, I just... don't understand the necessity for scheming."

"I second that," Bruce agreed. "But then again, we're all law-abiding citizens here, so what do I know." he added blithely.

Barbara nodded slowly. "Hence you need the despicable breed that is Homo-Legalis to think dirty for you." she said with a smug smirk. "Think Jason would be awake by now?"

"Pieter-- Dr Cross said he should be fully sedated for at least three hours. So yeah, he could be starting to wake up now." Bruce looked at Tim expectantly.

"Pffft... alright. I know when I'm not wanted because the adults want to talk." Tim scowled playfully and dumped his empty noodle box into the bin. Bruce smiled. "I'm gonna keep Jason company, because at least he's still considered a kid. Like me."

[mindfulwrath]

Silver, Part IV

I am going to ship this man with literally everyone and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.

Words: 3559 Warnings: Typical Victorian no-homo-ing Part I Part III

Jasper had been thinking for a long time. Actually, he had been thinking the same thought, over and over and over again. It had not gotten him very far. He was still in the burnt-out husk of his room. He had managed to sit down on the bed, only because he felt his knees wouldn't hold him.

The thought was, Oh dear.

In fairness, it had gone through just about every conceivable permutation of tone, from flustered to frightened to despondent to delighted, round and round, back and forth, up, down, and sideways. His lips were still tingling. His face was still hot. His stomach was still slimy with shame. Rachel would be expecting him back at some point. She would notice immediately that something had happened. He would have to explain. There was no question of lying to her. She would know. She would know and she would be gravely wounded by it.

Oh dear.

Then there was Mr. Hyde to worry about, that manic man of mystery who had so gleefully whipped up the Society into a frenzy, so eagerly led the charge of violence against Moreau. He had, technically, saved Jasper's life last night, bringing down the creature that was out for his blood, but the action had seemed somehow removed from Jasper's existence. Hyde had killed the thing because it had been conveniently within killing range, and instantly afterwards had forgotten about both it and Jasper in favor of bigger game. Was he a jealous man? A dangerous man? He'd certainly seemed to take a vicious joy in violence. If Jekyll's face in the immediate aftermath had been anything to judge by, he certainly wouldn't be a happy one.

Oh dear.

Jasper could still faintly smell the peppermint, especially when he closed his eyes. He could taste it lingering on his lips. A phantom handprint glowed on his face, phantom fingers gripping his own, strong and comely and impeccably graceful. He shivered at the heat in his chest. He shrank from his own mortifying awkwardness, looming up malformed and wolfish in his memory. What an ass he'd been, what a blind fool! And poor Jekyll, poor brilliant incredible Henry, doing his level best to maintain his impossible professionalism, so stunningly captivated, so beautifully enraptured, by him, by him, by ordinary, gangling, clueless Jasper!

Oh dear.

Jasper put his face in his hands. Every inch of him was squirming, pulled between extremes of guilt and fear and heady jubilation. It was too good to be true. It was too terrible to be real.

It was a damned difficult position to be in.

He laughed into his hands, because it was either that or cry, and he'd done his crying for the day. He also considered screaming, but that might have worried someone, or worse, drawn attention. The last thing he needed was someone walking in on him like this, asking him what was wrong.

Right on cue, there was a knock at his door.

Oh dear.

"Mm-hm?" Jasper squeaked, unable to lift his face from his hands due to the abominable blush coloring his cheeks. He heard the door squeak open.

"Mr. Kaylock?" Dr. Bryson said. "My dear boy, is everything all right?"

He shook his head. Pretty much nothing was all right. At least he was being honest.

"Should I . . . pretend I never saw you?" Bryson asked. "I am adept at pretending I never saw things. For example, I have already pretended not to see someone else fleeing very urgently away from this very same room."

Jasper fervently wished he could evaporate on the spot. It just kept getting worse.

"I shall take your distressed silence to mean that I should make a quiet exit," Bryson said.

"No," Jasper blurted. The last thing he wanted was to be left alone with his thoughts any longer. He might simply come apart, shredded from within by the opposing stresses.

"Ah," said Bryson. Footsteps crunched in the ash, and the door squeaked closed. "May I sit with you?"

Jasper nodded. Bryson settled in near him, but not too near. For a moment, Jasper had a sudden, striking, stupid vision of what might happen if Bryson tried to kiss him. It was so incongruous it almost made him laugh. What came out instead was closer to a sob.

"I'll be very quiet," Bryson promised, "unless you would like me to talk. Otherwise, I am here to listen, if there's anything that needs to be said."

Sniffling, Jasper managed to pry his face far enough out of his hands to speak.

"It's just," he said, "how d'you tell a girl you know has got a—a thing for you that you've kissed someone else?"

Bryson took a long breath through his nose, then sighed it back out.

"Well," he said. "Honesty is, as ever, the best policy, but its best implementation is via tact, which is a significantly more difficult proposition."

Jasper looked up at him, shocked more by his composure than anything.

"I . . . I s'pose," he said. "But I don't even know where to start."

"Have any . . . promises been made?" Bryson asked. "Any exchanges of . . . shall we say exclusive implications? With either party?"

"Well," said Jasper, rubbing the back of his neck, "no, not exactly. Not at all, really. It's been pretty obvious, though. From—from both sides. Both the girl and me, I mean."

Bryson nodded sagely. "And would you like to continue this courtship?"

Flushing, Jasper shrugged, squirming under the frankness of the question.

"Y-yeah," he said. "I think I might. Yeah."

"And with the . . . interloping party?"

The blush became furnace-hot.

"I . . . I dunno," he admitted. "I don't guess so. I think probably not."

"Ah, wonderful," said Bryson. He nudged Jasper with an elbow. "Open with that."

Jasper cracked a smile, then rubbed it off his face. He sniffled.

"What if she hates me, though?" he said.

"Then I suppose she will hate you, and that is her prerogative," said Bryson. "Thus far, from what you've said, you've been perhaps . . . unwise, but certainly not dishonest. The one is forgivable. The other, less so. Whether or not she chooses to forgive it is entirely up to her. The most that you can do is bring whatever you have to the table, and allow her to bring what she has, and if the two should happen to meet in the middle, then—wonderful! And if not . . . well, at least you've not wasted much time."

Jasper chewed his lip. Bryson nudged him again.

"Try not to go into it with any hypotheses," he suggested. "It isn't science, and if you treat it like it is, you will make things infinitely worse."

"I can't even imagine," Jasper said, shaking his head.

"And if it all goes immensely wrong, you can always flee the country," Bryson offered. "I'll loan you a balloon."

Jasper cracked up again. Bryson chuckled.

"Dr. Bryson?" Jasper said. "How d'you—sorry, not to sound rude or anything, but how d'you know all this?"

Bryson raised his eyebrows.

"Mr. Kaylock," he said. "Do you think I've never had any girl troubles in my thus-far storied life?"

"I—well," said Jasper, thrown for a loop. "Yeah. I sort of figured everybody at the Society was . . . a bit detached from all that stuff. Embarrassed at best, or clueless at worst, or just too busy for it. At least too busy for my—my girl troubles."

"My dear boy," said Bryson, shaking his head. He gestured expansively. "Life is a vast, complex, messy sort of a thing. It would be impossibly hard if any of us tried to face it alone. And it would be unbearably dull if we attempted to devote ourselves entirely to our science. We've got to do silly, stupid, unwise, ugly things from time to time, whether they involve girls or otherwise. It's what keeps us on the near side of mad."

"I guess," said Jasper. "Seems like things might be a lot simpler if it was just science."

"The only things in this vast and awesome cosmos that seem simple are things we don't understand," said Bryson. "Sometimes you learn a great deal more by getting it wrong than you do by getting it right, in life as in science. Sometimes mistakes are necessary to make any progress whatsoever. Sometimes, Mr. Kaylock, you've simply got to royally screw up."

Jasper snorted. A glob of snot came out of his nose and splattered across his mouth, and he hurriedly hid it behind his hand, mortified. Bryson handed him his handkerchief.

"Thanks," Jasper mumbled, wiping his face. "Sorry."

"I have over forty of them," Bryson said. "For just such occasions. You can return it at your convenience, preferably at a moment of significant symmetry."

"I'll keep an eye out," Jasper promised. "Um. Thank you."

"I do it all the time," Bryson confided. "You're right, most of the people here have all the emotional competency of a teaspoon. It's something about Jekyll, I'd wager. Like seeking out like, you know?"

At mention of Jekyll's name, Jasper went hot all over, burning from his scalp to his toes. He bit his lip to push the tingling out of it. It was a wonder his ears didn't spontaneously combust.

"Mm," he said. Bryson raised an eyebrow at him, but then judiciously looked away.

"You're welcome," he said. "And best of luck, my boy. Take care of yourself."

"Mm-hm," said Jasper.

With a final sympathetic wince and a pat on the shoulder, Bryson left him, shutting the door quietly behind him. Jasper put his face back in his hands.

"Bollocks," he mumbled.

It took far more whiskey than Lanyon would have expected for Jekyll to pass out in his chair, and he was loath to help Poole carry him up to bed for fear it might wake him. His apprehension proved baseless, however—Jekyll was sleeping the sleep of the dead, and Lanyon could probably have amputated one of his fingers without waking him. Nonetheless, he insisted on staying with him, at least for the first few hours, in case of complications.

"Complications, sir?" Poole said, frowning.

"The man hasn't slept in days and he's got eight drinks down him, Poole," Lanyon said. "Eight drinks at least, because I don't know that I believe his accident explanation, and he has been known to indulge in a bit of solitary wining in the dark."

Poole made a constipated expression and avoided looking at either of them.

"Very good, sir," said Poole.

Lanyon narrowed his eyes and folded his arms.

"Is there something you'd like to say, Poole?" he asked.

"I shouldn't, sir, it's beyond my station," said Poole.

"I'm asking you to," Lanyon said. He added, more softly, "Please."

Poole fidgeted for a moment more before hanging his head.

"I heard some sort of . . . argument," Poole admitted. "Between Dr. Jekyll and—well, someone. It was brief, but very heated. That's why I came to check on him, sir. I heard raised voices and then the shattering of glass."

"My God, who was it with?" Lanyon demanded.

"I'm afraid I don't know, sir," Poole replied, shrugging. "He was alone when I found him. I never heard the other voice, only Dr. Jekyll's. I thought it very strange, sir, very strange indeed, being that—well, only a few moments had passed, between when I heard the glass shattering and when I let myself in. I was very concerned, you see, otherwise I would never have barged in the way I did, sir. I was concerned Dr. Jekyll might have been injured in some sort of—altercation. But there was no one there, sir, not a soul, just Dr. Jekyll sitting in his chair and the front of his cabinet smashed. He was nearly insensible, sir."

"What do you mean, insensible?" Lanyon asked. "Don't spare me the details, Poole, I am acting as his doctor now."

"Well, sir, it was this way," said Poole, uncomfortable. "I thought at first he had hit his head, sir, or something of the sort. He had that look about him. Dazed, sir, mumbling all his words and speaking mainly nonsense. When I saw no obvious wound, I thought perhaps he'd been at the drink, sir, as you mentioned, but there was no smell of it on him at all, and no opened bottles anywhere that I could see. I don't know what had come over him, sir, but I know it didn't come away again until you arrived, and if I may, sir, I'm very glad it did. I didn't dare to ask him who he'd been arguing with. I was afraid he might. . . ."

Poole trailed off, leaving endless implications hanging in the air like yellow London fog. Lanyon looked back at Jekyll. He was lying on his side just as they'd left him, his hair mussed, his limbs askew. There were dark, blue-gray circles around his eyes. His cheeks were still flushed with drink, his nose red. Blood had seeped through the bandages on his hand, rusty and spotted.

He didn't look mad. He looked exhausted, worn through, used up, and drunk, but he didn't look mad.

Lanyon wondered if he really knew what madness looked like. He swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth and turned back to Poole.

"I imagine we shall have the truth out of him when he wakes up," he said. "In the mean time, it's best to let him sleep it off. Do try and keep the rest of the house quiet, would you Poole?"

"Of course, sir," Poole said, sketching his little half-bow.

"Good man," said Lanyon. "Off you go!"

Poole took his leave graciously. It became so quiet in his wake that Lanyon could hear Jekyll's breathing, slow and deep and steady. Carefully, Lanyon brought the room's chair to the bedside and settled into it. With one hand, he smoothed the hair back from Jekyll's forehead, as gentle as he could be.

"Oh, Henry," he sighed, an iron fist around his heart. "What am I to do with you?"

Jekyll made a soft noise in the back of his throat. Lanyon froze, two knuckles deep in his hair and petrified.

"Henry?" he squeaked.

"Mm," Jekyll said, without moving.

"Are you . . . awake?" Lanyon hazarded.

Jekyll did not respond, apart from a minor twitch of the face. Lanyon relaxed, and continued running his fingers through Jekyll's hair.

"Dreaming," Jekyll mumbled, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Lanyon could have slapped him. "Clearly."

"Clearly," said Lanyon, equal parts annoyed and charmed. "Pleasant dreams, Henry?"

"Mm," Jekyll said again, shifting in his bed, leaning his head ever so slightly into Lanyon's hand. Lanyon rolled his eyes and carried on petting his hair, which was very soft.

For a time, this pleasant state of affairs continued on uninterrupted. Just as Lanyon was beginning to wonder if Jekyll had fallen back to sleep, he mumbled out something else.

"Always thought you had very attractive hands, Robert," he said.

"You are still drunk," Lanyon said, quickly muffling every other thought and feeling that threatened to well up.

"Dreaming," Jekyll corrected. Lanyon's fingers brushed a particular spot behind his ear and he melted. One amber eye cracked open and regarded Lanyon with catlike bliss.

"There is to be no dreaming with your eyes open," Lanyon scolded, yanking his hand back.

Jekyll's mouth curled into a smile and his eye drifted closed again.

"Dearest Robert," he sighed.

If there was meant to be anything else, it never came. Lanyon waited for several minutes, but it seemed that Jekyll really had dropped off again. Lanyon sat back and sighed, shaking his head.

"You poor fool," he murmured.

He wasn't sure if he was talking to Jekyll or to himself.

"Um."

Rachel looked up. Jasper was hunching in the doorway, rubbing his arm, staring at his feet.

"Oh, no," she said. "That looks like bad news."

"Um, sort of," he said. He shrugged. "Yeah."

"Well, the good news is, I've made cookies!" Rachel said, trying her damnedest to be bright. "And they're all for you. Did . . . did you lose much?"

"My notebook," said Jasper. Rachel had just opened her mouth to pour out her sympathies upon him when he kept talking regardless. "Um. Look. There's . . . there's something I've got to talk about with you. And it's sort of really important."

"All right," said Rachel, baffled and apprehensive. "What is it?"

He rubbed his arm. He shuffled in and shut the door.

"Um," he said. "I know there hasn't been, like, any . . . anything, with you and me, or anything, but I sort of was thinking I might like there to be, and I thought maybe you'd like there to be, too, um. . . ."

"Oh," said Rachel, heat rising from her chest to her face. "That. Um. That sounds good. Yes. I think that's the, um, the ideal. Goal. Sort of thing."

He looked up at her and flashed a sheepish grin, then rubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Hah," he said, and then cleared his throat. "It's just that, er, well, that being the case, um, there's something I really ought to tell you, because I feel like you . . . you deserve to know."

"What, is the werewolf-ness transmitted through kissing?" Rachel asked, cocking an eyebrow and folding her arms.

"What? No," said Jasper. His face went slack with panic. "At least—at least I don't think so. Oh God. What if it—oh God."

"I was joking, Jasper, I was kidding," Rachel said. "That's not a thing."

"Right," he said, sagging. "Right, no, yeah. Um. Well. So. Speaking of kissing, um."

"Yeah?" said Rachel, while her heart made a determined bid to kick its way out of her chest.

"I've sort of . . . kissed somebody who isn't you," he mumbled.

Rachel blinked. "Oh," she said.

"And it's not—it's not like it's going to be a-a-a thing, it's not going to be a thing," he assured her, his face the very picture of earnestness. "It just sort of happened, but it's not going to happen again, and I thought you really ought to know, but I don't want you to think that it's—that I've—that I'm not—"

Rachel leaned an elbow on the counter and propped her chin on her hand. Jasper was blushing so hotly it was visibly making him sweat. She smiled, fighting down the needling pain in her heart.

"My, you do get round, don't you," she said. "So who was it, then?"

Jasper's face went white. His eyes flicked to the window. He gulped.

"I—I dunno, I really shouldn't," he said. "I don't want to cause any—any problems, I don't want to get anybody in—in trouble, or anything. Cause any feuds, or—or anything like that."

"Nah, come off it," said Rachel. "You've said it's not a thing, it's fine. Besides, I'm already good friends with all the women here, I'm sure it won't be too much of an issue. And I couldn't possibly blame anybody for wanting to kiss your adorable face."

Jasper promptly buried said face in his hands. Rachel grinned and tossed a cookie at his head.

"Come on," she said, "fess up. Was it Miss Flowers? You're probably her type."

"Wsnt a wmn," Jasper mumbled.

"What was that?" Rachel said.

"It . . . wasn't a woman," Jasper said. Rachel's eyes got very big.

"Oh, wasn't it!" she cried. To her surprise, she was actually having a great deal of fun. "Was it Archer? I bet it was Archer, he took a real shine to you."

"Rachel, please, I really shouldn't," Jasper moaned.

"Nobody's going to care, Jasper," she said, waving a hand at him. "What happens in the Society stays in the Society. Everybody already thinks we're destroying their Good Christian Values, we've all pretty much decided to go for broke."

"What? No, that's not—that's not it at all," said Jasper. "It just—it can't leave this room, all right? Can you promise me that? I really, really don't want to get anyone in trouble, is all."

Rachel sighed, rolling her eyes. "All right," she said. "My lips are sealed. Now tell meeeeeeeee."

Jasper fidgeted. A shy smile tugged at his lips. He rubbed the back of his neck.

"It . . . it was Doc—Henry," he admitted.

Rachel went frigid.

"What," she said.

"Um?" Jasper squeaked.

"When?" she demanded. A lump was already rising in her throat, furious tears welling in her eyes.

"Just—an hour ago? I dunno!" said Jasper.

"What did you do? What happened?"

"I—it was—I don't know! It all happened really fast! We were talking and then I gave him back his coat and then, I dunno! It just sort of happened! It wasn't my idea!"

Rachel upended the entire pan of cookies. Jasper shrieked and dove beneath the nearest table.

"That snake!" she cried, her voice cracking shrill with the strength of her emotion. "That scheming bastard!"

"Rachel—"

She fled from the kitchen before he could see her crying.

[neverlearnedtoread]

Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

⭐⭐⭐; the amount of game blue had was actually top tier for a highschooler and the fact it was being used on simon ‘i traded all my smarts for oreos’ spier was an absolute crying tragedy

Oh?? 👌😉😏

cute love story, stakes weren’t really that high, teeth-rotting fluff

great sibling dynamics - no joke, I call my siblings boop too. I’ve done it for years, it just stuck. I’ve never read this book before

realistic high school characters / drama but still managed to be compelling and cute! (see the caveat for this in the third bullet point of the no.. section)

simon spier’s narration is heartfelt and adorable. we love a soft sweet babie MC (though he could stand to gain a few thoughts in his head. just a lil sheen of white matter)

No.. ❌🤢🤮

blackmail surrounding someone’s coming out. it was highly realistic and so uncomfortable, which is good, but check trigger warnings just in case that’s a real pressure point for you

being outed against your consent. see above

this is not a bad thing necessarily but this book sends me back to high school and not in a rose-tinted nostalgia way (like To All The Boy’s I’ve Loved Before does), but in a more “oh GOD i remember being that awkward/weird/overbearing/up myself/insert-other-oof-trait” like becky im sorry but i need to pour one out for ME after this book. rip to the babe i was in high school. she served me well but man, did she have some lukewarm takes 😬

Summary: Here’s the thing about high school - everyone likes to say they aren’t into drama, but no one is immune to the gut-clenching, overly emotional rollercoaster. Simon Spier, avoidance-master and quiet pushover, is no exception to this rule. While trying to stay under the radar, he forgets to log out of his email at the school library and ends up being blackmailed by “”Nice Guy”” “””Class Clown””” Martin about a secret penpal. Being shy, aggressively nonconfrontational, and possibly the most clueless boy on the planet, Simon feels overwhelmed juggling the ever-shifting dynamics of his friend group and his attempts at flirtation with the cute guy he’s been emailing every spare moment, all while keeping their privacy from the rest of the school. Thankfully, it’s a love story - so no matter how few braincells they have left, the protagonist will always come out on top 😏 (please, don’t clap)

Concept: 💭💭💭💭

I don’t like contemporary romances, but I like romance movies. Something about the format makes it cute and fluffy instead of boring and too-close-to-life, but I wanted to do my dues right with Love, Simon, which meant reading the book first. (And then I put it off for a year or more. Three cheers for doing it right??) Plus, the entire premise sounds cute. I like penpal stories! They’re so unrealistic but they have a special place in my Jane Austen-loving heart. *gesticulates wildly with a ferret* The inherent romanticism of penning a letter to your loved one and anxiously waiting for their reply is ingrained into the human psyche. I don’t have an essay I just know its true

Some spoilers under the cut!

Execution: 💥💥💥💥 I wanted what I got, and what I got was a short sweet book with a happy ending about two shy baby gays. There was nothing less and nothing more! And I gotta say, I really liked how down-to-Earth the narrative was. Like, there was no hidden meaning to parse out. Simon was so dumb so it really needed to be clear for the guy, you know? I read the middle part of this book when I should have been taking a nap and still figured out who Blue was before Simon did - that’s on a university education. *nods sagely* so thankful that going to college gave me the braincells I needed to be smarter than a 16 year old fictional boy

Personal Enjoyment: ❤❤❤ Let me preface this by saying that there was nothing wrong with the book. It was so cute. I rooted really hard for Bram. But the fact of the matter is it took me four hours to finish on a weekend in between work, and while I thoroughly enjoyed it for the reprieve from Big Brain Thoughts that I had to think, the fact it provided that fluff and nothing much more precludes it from being higher than 3 stars. I did not vibe with it, although I think you could really vibe with it, if you were closer to the source material. I have passed through that stage of high school. I remember it fondly and cringily in turn, but ultimately I’m glad it’s over. It was all in good fun, and I like it for what it was, but...it did not synch with my wavelength, and I did not shift to fit it, either. Finishing this book was the reading equivalent of a two-hour transit for me.

Favourite Moment: the part when bram comes to sit down on the amusement ride and simon finally knocks two brain cells together hard enough for a single coherent gay thought. the mastery, the poetic cinema of the reveal - i tell you the level. of game. this young man is working with. give him five years he’s gonna have mad pull. simon is a lucky boy. (do i find blue sexy or dreamy? no! do i think he has major game for a highschooler? yes)

Favourite Character: BLUE AKA BRAM HAD THE MOST FUCKING GAME OUT OF ALL OF THEM AND HE BARELY EVEN HAD ANY GAME!!! 😤 good lord am i glad you get to grow out of high school. bram was highkey romance the whole damn time and it. went. so. underappreciated - if bram was a romantic walk down the pier and fireworks show, everyone else was a half-assed netflix and chill with minimal snack options. the amount of wasted effort. the total tomfoolery. the sheer. tragedy. of it all. BOY HAD HIS NUMBER RIGHT THERE! FOR TWO WEEKS! *head in hands* im mcfreakin’ losin’ it yall...