#It deserves to be carefully preserved and studied not in a collection where it could possibly be damaged or lost forever

[grimmgrinningghouls]

FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU

[her-world-on-fire]

"Did you just kiss me?" {Draco Malfoy x Reader}

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Word Count: 3,583

A/N: Vaisey will be reader's ex-boyfriend.

Prompts: 12a. "it was open and i read it."  10f. "Did you just kiss me?"

hii! if u are taking requests, could i get angst #12 from the 150 prompt list with draco x pureblood!reader? where she broke up w her boyfriend bc he cheated but she's forced by her parents to attend his party on Christmas (all pureblood families were invited). draco is there and comforts her but her ex approaches them and fluff #10 occurs? sorry if it's too specific🥺

"You're going and that's final."

I looked over the protective cover staring back at me. I ran my hands through my hair and groaned in frustration. This was the last place I wanted to be. He was going to be there without a doubt. My parents were forcing me to attend a Christmas party, all the pure-blood Slytherin’s were to be in attendance. No exceptions. For weeks I tried to reason with her, but she would not have it.

All it took was one look from him and I was right back where I started. I spent weeks avoiding him as best as I could. Almost every corner I turned, he was there. We shared the same classes and walked the same hallways. Even harder were all the whispers that followed.

"Poor thing."

"What happened?"

"I heard he cheated with Pansy Parkinson!"

I was just leaving the library. I had intended to study for a couple more hours but as I stared at the pages, nothing made sense anymore. The lines on the page didn't look like words anymore. I returned the books before putting my book bag over my shoulder. I sighed as I got up from my chair, trying to adjust after sitting for so long.

As I reached for the door I ran into Terrence Higgs. He almost blocked the door, preventing me from getting out. He was Vaisey's best friend, the two of them grew close being on the qudditch team. "Fancy meeting you here." I spent every Wednesday in the library, and I had not seen him once. He laughed almost nervously, "Where are you off to?"

Immediately I knew something was going on. Terrence almost never made conversation with me. I had overheard that he wasn't overly fond of me. He only spoke to me if he had to, or if I asked him a direct question. I moved to the door once more, "I was just about to head back to my dorm." He stepped in front of the door, "You know I was hoping you could actually help me."

I narrowed my eyes, "You want me to help you?" He nodded unconvincingly. "With what?" I watched as he looked around and stuttered, "With um," He pointed to the book under my arm. "Potions."

"Right." I stepped away from him and left the library. I made my way to the dorms. I planned to go to mine but I figured I would ask Vaisey if there was something wrong with Terrence. As I walked up the steps to his dormitory, I heard a familiar giggle. Pansy Parkinson's laugh was coming from his room. I tried to come up with possible reasons. Maybe they were studying. Pansy Parkinson was in a relationship with Draco Malfoy. There was nothing to worry about.

I reached for the door, and the giggles stopped. I opened the door and found her under Vaisey. He looked up, his head moved away from her neck. His shirt was unbuttoned, I didn't say anything. I closed the door and made my way down the stairs. I heard the door slam behind me. "Y/N." I kept walking, there was nothing he could say that could possibly justify what I saw. "Wait!"

I stopped, and turned to look at him. He has hastily tried to button his shirt. He had missed a button, making it uneven. I shut my eyes, trying to keep the tears in. "How long?"

"It's not-"

I didn't want to argue, and he wasn't going to give me answers. He reached for my arm, but I pulled away. I kept walking. No one else was in the common room, but somehow in a matter of hours, everyone knew.

I was dreading the party. For the first time in two years, I was going without him. I didn't tell my parents what happened, but they pieced together that we weren't together anymore. I looked back at the protective covering, and unzipped it slowly. Velvet. Jade green.

---------------------------------------------------

I arrived to the party a few hours late. I didn't want to be there any longer than I had to. I approached my mother. She was speaking to the host. I greeted them both and then went to the kitchen. Most were gathered in the living room beside the fire. I had forgotten how lonely these functions were. I looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of anyone I knew.  No luck. I poured myself a drink to pass the time. I looked at the clock. 9 pm, another 2 hours and I was clear to leave.

I heard the clink of glasses, the host was going to make an announcement. I rounded the corner and stood by the living room. Everyone gathered in the living room. I started to feel uneasy, he was here. I tried to keep my eyes fixated on the floor. I gently stirred the drink in my hand, keeping my eyes on the liquid inside.

"No. I am not going to tell you again Draco."

I heard harsh whispers beside me. He scoffed, and his mother joined the group in the living room. He stayed by the kitchen, leaning against the marble countertops. I acted like I didn't hear the exchange. Draco's body language said everything. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his face had a scowl on it. Odds were he was forced to be here too. 

It was the perfect opportunity to get the younger generation together in hopes of preserving the pure-blood line. That's what all these gatherings were for. It also gave the hosts a chance to show off their elegant mansions. The rich loved to boast, they loved the competition.

We had attended the same gatherings for as long as we could remember. We shared the same classes, and were even in the same friend group. Draco was the seeker for the qudditch team. We were well acquainted. We just hadn’t spent much time together since we were both preoccupied.

The host was making the traditional announcements. Thank you for being here, and so on.  I sighed and looked at the clock again. It had only been 5 minutes since I last checked. Draco chuckled to himself, "I know the feeling." He looked over, "You mind?" I shook my head and he came and stood beside me. He was dressed in an all black suit. He had gold cuff links and black dress shoes. His fingers had several expensive rings wrapped around them. "These are terribly dull." I remarked, and he nodded in understanding.

Even though neither of us mentioned it, we were sharing the same thought. I'm sorry this happened to you. I looked up, the host was still going on with her announcements. I couldn't help myself, my eyes scanned the room. I inhaled deeply as my eyes caught him. Draco followed my gaze. I quickly looked down and took another sip of my drink. I heard him shuffle beside me. He pulled out a small silver flask. His eyes invited me in. I smiled and brought my cup forward. I watched as he poured from the flask. "Thank you." I said gratefully, I couldn't imagine how I was going to get through the rest of the night.

I took another sip. "Would you like some company for the night?" I asked, normally I wouldn't be so forward. It didn't hurt to ask. He chuckled, as he slipped the silver flask back into his suit pocket. "I wouldn't mind it."

Soon the host dispersed the group and they all moved back to their groups. Draco and I settled in the kitchen. We sat on the chairs by the counters. We talked for the rest of the night, helping the time pass much faster.

"Crabbe didn't say much after that." He said pleased with himself. We both laughed, even gaining some attention from those passing by. Soon after Draco looked down at his watch, "If you'll excuse me for a moment." He got up and disappeared into the living room. Spending time with him made me feel normal again.

I had other friends but they had been walking on eggshells. They weren't sure how to approach me. They treated me like I was fragile, and granted I was. But it was nice to just forget about everything, even of it was for just an hour or two. It was almost midnight by now and the party was still humming vibrantly. I heard footsteps approach, I was expecting to see Draco.

Instead, it was Vaisey. I got up from my chair, I was having a good night. I was not going to let him ruin it. "Just wait." He held out his left arm in front of him. "I'm not going to try anything I just wanted to give you this."

"No. No more gifts no more letters, please. I just want to move on."

"This one is different. Just take it, and I won't bother you anymore. You can decide if you want to talk to me, on your own terms. Just please." He stepped forward slowly and brought a gift forward. It had a silver wrapping paper, and a sterling green bow. I took it and he backed away slowly. "I'll give you some time to think." He retreated back into the living room. I sighed and placed the gift on the table.

I stared at it, the smart part of me said to just throw it away. Don't open it, just get rid of it. But part of me wanted to know. Why was this so special he had to hand deliver it? Curiosity got the best of me. I carefully pulled back the green bow, and the silver box came undone. It fell in cascades. It was a collection of small boxes. I opened each one, and they came with part of a letter. The flaps of each box had photos of us collected over the two year period we were together. My eyes brimmed with tears, I looked back at the frozen pockets of time. We were so happy, so in love. Or at least I had thought.

Pictures of us at games together, me wearing his jersey, his name painted on my cheek. I exhaled as the tears flowed steadily. My heart ached. I wanted this, I wanted to be happy again. I wanted to be in love again. But it just wasn't possible, not with him. I pieced the letter together.

I can't express how truly sorry I am. There was nothing that you did wrong. I was selfish and impulsive. I should've never agreed to meet with her. But you deserve to know. You deserve to know it all. So I'm going to tell you the complete truth. It started when you went to the library to study for O.W.Ls. After our game I went to celebrate with friends. One thing lead to another and I got drunk. Pansy came on to me and I didn't stop her. That was the first time we slept together. It continued until you caught us. In total, we were together for 6 months.

The letter kept going but I couldn't keep reading it. So many different things were running through my head. 

“The first time we slept together...”

“For 6 months...”

I left the letter and the gift on the table. I walked outside of the mansion. Once I got outside I moved to the back of the property. My legs gave out and I finally felt it all. I had been trying so hard to keep it together but this was the last straw. I couldn't do it anymore. I let out a sob and felt the tears stream down my face.

He said it wasn't my fault but his actions said otherwise. I wasn't there and he decided I wasn't enough. I continued to sob. The gravel was digging in, but I couldn't bring myself to move. The cold wind showed no mercy. The air ambushed me, making me feel cold. I heard the door to the mansion close. I kept quiet for a moment, not wanting to draw attention to myself. I heard the footsteps against the gravel. They got closer and closer.

I looked up and found Draco looking back at me.

"It was open and I read it." Draco held up the gift, and the accompanying letter. I couldn't even be upset. He was going through the same thing I was. I sighed and wiped my tears. "I'm so sorry." He dropped down and put the letter and gift on the floor. "You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for."  I couldn't help myself. I cried even harder.

He pulled me into him and wrapped his arms around me. "It's going to be okay." He held me as I continued to cry softly. After a few minutes it died down. He pulled back and pulled out a few tissues. He had anticipated what happened when he got back and grabbed a few. I took them and cleaned myself up. "I'm sorry, I'm not usually like this."

"It's okay, really. I understand." And he did. As he read the letter, it was clear for him too. He took off his jacket and placed it over my shoulders. I went to protest but he shook his head and reassured me he was fine.

"Let's get you out of here."

-----------------------------------

I decided I needed to thank Draco in person. It was the least I could do. I decided the walk would help clear my head. It wasn’t very far, only about 10 minutes. When I arrived at the manor, the gates opened before me. I kept walking to the manor. Once I reached the front door I was greeted by Narcissa. She had always been fairly kind to me. I can only imagine it was due to my lineage. “To what do we owe the pleasure dear?”

I laughed a little, “I just wanted to talk to Draco for a moment, if that’s okay.” She nodded and opened the front door. “He had to go and fetch something in town, but he should be back soon.” I should’ve written him to see if he was going to be busy. It had slipped my mind. I hesitated walking in. “I can just come back another time-”

Narcissa put her hand on my shoulder. “Oh nonsense! You’re welcome wait here.” I didn’t want to seem rude. I hadn’t really spoken to her last night, it seemed only fair. She lead me inside into the kitchen. “I’ll get you a cup of tea.” She gestured for me to sit, so I did. She took a cup from a cabinet. “I can’t help but have overheard what happened.”

I tensed up, this was the last thing I wanted to talk about. Of course she knew, it was her son’s girlfriend after all. “Draco was so torn up about it. You both seemed better last night. I’m glad he has someone like you.” She placed the cup of tea in front of me. “Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy.”

She asked me a few questions about my parents, but nothing to invasive. I was beginning to regret staying when the front door opened. Narcissa called to him, and he made his way to the kitchen. He looked a bit surprised. “I just wanted to talk to you for a moment.” He nodded, and I stood. I thanked his mother again. He motioned for me to follow him. We walked to the stairs, “Sorry, for just showing up. I should’ve written to you first.” He shook his head, “It’s not a problem.”

He opened the door to his room. I walked in and he shut the door behind us. “I don't know how to thank you." He sat down on his bed. "I'm sure I'll think of something later." He chuckled. We talked for a couple of hours, continuing some of our previous conversations.We were going to be returning to Hogwarts in 3 days. “Perhaps we can catch the trolley together.”

Draco had been left in an unfortunate situation. Most of the friends he had were shared with Pansy. In the ride back home he was stuck with Blaise and Pansy. Neither of them had spoken a word. He didn’t want to have to relive that.

---------------------------------

Draco had kept to his word. We started spending a lot of time together. His presence became comforting. Of course whispers began to follow us again. I tried my best to ignore them. Pansy glared at me in the hallways, as if I was the reason their relationship fell apart. I found it amusing. Her and Vaisley truly deserved each other.

Draco and I were sitting in the astronomy tower. We were studying for a test, but I noticed he was awfully quiet. He was just staring at the wall, a blank expression on his face. “Draco?”

“I think I’ve finally figured out how you can repay me.” Draco stated, making me sit up. Curious, I closed my book and leaned forward. I did say that he could ask for a favor. I almost thought he had forgotten about it. “I’m all ears Malfoy.” He laughed, "Let's have a proper first date." I blinked in shock. I had thought of Draco romantically. But I didn’t anticipate anything to come from it. We had both just gotten our hearts broken, and here we were testing fate. I bit my lip, as I thought over the consequences. Draco tried reading my expression.

“You know I would love to.” 

He decided to keep the location a secret. I tried getting information out of him, but he wouldn’t budge. “But I don’t even know what I’m supposed to wear.” He thought for a moment. “Something warm.” It wasn’t much, but it was something. We arrived at the common room and he walked me to my dorm. “I’ve got some things to attend to, I’ll send an owl soon.” He placed a kiss on my forehead before going back down the stairs. I opened my door and sighed. I looked at my closet and pulled some warm clothes. It was still snowing pretty heavily, but spring was almost upon us.

I got ready and kept an eye out for any owls. A few hours later I heard soft taps on my window. I opened it to find Draco’s owl. I gave him a treat before he left again. I opened the letter.

I had more to do then I intended. I sent a car for you.

Draco

I folded the letter back up and left it on my dresser. I made my way to the gates and sure enough, there was a car. My mind was drawing a blank. As I looked out the window, I watched the snow fall.  It was mesmerizing. The ride wasn’t long, only 15 minutes. Once the car came to I stop I thanked the driver. Once I opened the door, I looked in awe. It was a small cabin. It was decorated beautifully. Warm yellow lights wrapped around it, the walls were covered in a thin layer of snow. Draco was standing at the door, he came and met me in the snow. “It’s beautiful.”

“I’m glad you like it.” He opened the door and we were greeted by warmth. He closed the door and hung his coat by the door. He took mine as well. “Thank you.” He lead me to the kitchen. There was an array of sweets and hot chocolate. I looked at him in shock, “You did all this?” He nodded. “I wasn’t sure what you were in the mood for so I got an array.”

No one had ever done something so kind for me. I looked at him in awe. “And I got these too.” He showed me an array of movies. “This is perfect.”

We settled on a movie and moved to the couch. It was right by the fire place. He put in the movie then came and joined me. He took a blanket and placed it over us both. I moved closer to him and he smiled. He moved his arm and invited me closer. Once I did he put his arm around me.

After the movie was over he revealed another surprise. Gingerbread houses. It was something I always wanted to do. I remember mentioning it at the Christmas party. “I know its a little late but-”

“I love it.” I was so happy he remembered such a small detail. Shortly after we got started, his house fell apart. I couldn’t help but laugh, he had managed to set all of this up but the gingerbread house was what got him. “What are you going on about?”

“How did you manage that Draco?” He walked over ad smeared the wall of my gingerbread house. He licked his finger and smirked, feeling proud of himself. “Just like that.” I stared at him for a moment and watched as his eyes trailed to my lips.

He moved closer, the tension between us grew. I thought about how happy he made me feel. I thought about how he had been there for me. In an impulse I leaned forward and closed the space between us. Draco responded to the kiss almost immediately. We broke away and he smiled, "Did you just kiss me?" I laughed and rolled my eyes, going to pull away. He responded by pulling me in once more.

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[k1nky-fool]

In Loving Memory of Old Friends

Mirio Togata birthday fic

Platonic one-shot with my OC Shizune Kiokuro as his teacher.

Rating: Teen

Warnings: not beta read, bittersweet angst, mentions of death, Kirishima and Ururaka share a braincell.

Taglist: none, but feel free to PM me if you want to be tagged in one-shots for specific characters.

Mirio usually had a birthday party. For the past two years of high school, he would host it at his house and invite his whole class, plus some other friends he'd met in his work study. The occasional pro hero would stop by with a gift, but usually had to leave fast because of a busy schedule. 

Last year he remembered Sir Nighteye arriving when the party was beginning to slow. He dropped off two gifts. One from him, and another from the pro hero Spectre, a stealth hero that nobody knew who she really was, but supposedly Mirio had already met her. Tamaki had managed to get one of the small restaurants that Fatgum sponsored to cater the party, and the BMI hero himself stopped by to say hello. Several of his teachers had also made appearances. 

Though, this year, Mirio didn't plan a party. A lot had happened this year, and as much as he hated to admit it, the whole thing left him tired. This year, Mirio was content just having a night in with a friend or two. 

Most of the 3rd year dorm had gone home for the break. But as soon as he arrived back in the commonroom, he was met with a surprise. 

"Happy birthday, Mirio!" The group cheered. It wasn't many, but he knew everyone there. Tamaki and Nejire must have planned the surprise get together. Midoriya, Ururaka, Asui, and Kirishima tagged along as well. And of course Aizawa had brought Eri along as well. 

The last person he noticed took him a bit longer to recognize, but he did. The pro her Spectre, or Ms. Kiokuro as his class knew her as. His instinct was to feel bad that he forgot her so easily, especially since he knew her well, but he had to remind himself thats just how her quirk works. She worked at the Nighteye agency, which was actually where he met her in his second year. She even showed up with him last year, but of course he didn't remember it until now. 

"Aw! Thank you all! I knew you wouldn't forget." He laughed. 

"Well we couldn't let you go all day without celebrating!" Nejire argued. "Now come on! Eri and I made cake." 

The group enjoyed the cake, and moved on to presents. "Mr. Aizawa helped me pick it out!" Eri offered hers first, which he couldn't argue with. 

He undid the wrapping and found a set of pins, all laid out on a homemade collection. All of them had a symbol of some kind of hero that Mirio had worked with. Including the new student heroes that were with him now. 

The Sir Nighteye pin caught his attention, and he still felt that hurtful pang in his heart, but shook it off.  "Oh wow, where did you even find all these?" 

"Ms. Spectre and Mr. Aizawa took me to the mall and we found all of the pins." Eri explained shyly. 

"Well I love them. Thank you Eri." He said. "Wow, you even found a Spectre pin. I didn't know you had merch Ms. Kiokuro." 

She smiled awkwardly, running a hand through a neon green mohawk. "Well, people like the idea of the unexplained, so I let a few people sell my logo. But Eri saw it and insisted, along with the Eraserhead pin." 

They went through presents one by one. Ururaka and Kirishima had a laugh when they realized they'd gotten him the same new Sun Eater figurine, which Tamaki was in a blushing mess about. 

Tamaki himself, and Midoriya pitched in together and bought him a video game he'd been looking forward to. He remembered telling them both about it, and they seemed to communicate a little better than Kirishima and Ururaka did. 

Nejire got him a box of various candies from around the world. Each one of them made him more excited to try the next one. 

Asui got him two tickets to an amusement park, to take someone with him. He had wanted to go for a while now, but didn't quite get the opportunity with his busy school and work schedule. 

Aizawa for the most part stayed back with Kiokuro. Both of them talked to each other as the party went on, but he did offer a gift. It was a nice and comfortable jacket, which was odd to receive in the middle of July, but it would be useful in the second semester. 

The only one that didn't offer a gift was Ms. Kiokuro, but he wasn't about to ask. Maybe she only had time to help Eri pick out her gift, and had to work a lot. He knew she'd been busy keeping her employing agency functioning, especially with Sir Nighteye gone. 

Now was not the time. He had a party to participate in. Mirio didn't want to be sad in front of everyone right now. 

Eventually the party died down. Eri had to go to bed, and the first years had to go back to their own dorms before curfew. Nejire and Tamaki bid him good night. 

Mirio made his way back to his own room. He was happy all his friends were here, even if some he wished could have been here, weren't. 

It hurt to say goodbye. And it hurt even more to be reminded that he would never see him again. Sir had walked him through his very first steps in becoming a hero, and now he walked alone. 

Mirio's attention was caught by a light tapping on his balcony glass door. He pulled back the curtain to see Spectre in her hero suit, leaning against the balcony railing. Suddenly he was reminded that she had slipped away from the party right after presents were done. And that this was a move she pulled frequently with Sir when his office door was locked and they were debriefing from a criminal incident. 

He opened the door, inviting her in. "Ms. Kiokuro! I didn't notice you sneaking off." 

She shrugged, stepping into the room and taking the voice changing mask off her face. "A perk of the quirk." She said. "I didn't want to leave so quietly, but I've been busy at the agency and closing up the investigation." 

The mention of it made his heart drop again, but he kept his smile up. "I figured. To be honest I'm amazed you've been handling it all on your own. I'd be more than happy to help you out at the agency." 

"I'll keep that in mind, but for now, I want to give you time to rest, Togata." Kiokuro explained. "I know it hurts. And you shouldn't have to rush the mourning process just because of the mess that happens because a loved one dies." 

"And what about you, then? You have to do all this alone because you just want to give me time to mourn. This is your time too, Ms. Kiokuro." Mirio objected. "Just because everyone forgets you doesn't mean you should have to forget him faster than everyone else." 

He was left surprised at his own outburst, but Kiokuro wasn't for some reason. She simply smiled, taking something out of her bag, and offering it to him. "This is for you." It was a small box, wrapped like a present. "It's a special gift, but I saw the way you reacted to the pins, and I figured you might not want to open this one in front of everyone." 

He cautiously took the present from her, carefully unwrapping it and noting that it was a picture frame, but there was an envelope covering the glass at first. 

"The note is just so you don't forget I gave it to you. Along with some choice words that you might want to remember." Kiokuro explained. "But really, I just wanted to give you something more personal to remember him by." 

Mirio set the envelope down on his desk, to see the picture beneath. The photo wasn't expertly taken. The scene wasn't entirely in focus, and the dim lighting in whatever bar this was taken in made the flash of the camera stand out. But he couldn't mistake who it was. 

The photo was of Sir Nighteye and Spectre, but both were more casual than Mirio had ever seen them. His hair was messy and his shirt was partially unbuttoned. Both were also quite a bit younger. Kiokuro looked to be in her early twenties, which meant Sir had to have been around twenty-eight. His arms were wrapped around Kiokuro's middle as she sat on his lap, hugging him around his shoulders and grinning from ear to ear. 

But what stood out the most in the picture was that Sir was smiling. More than likely laughing at something that was said as his attention was on Kiokuro. 

"I know there aren't many photos of Mirai, because he didn't like appearing in front of cameras. He was always really camera shy." She said. "Even if you searched for years, you probably couldn't find a picture of him smiling. And since you of all people know what it was like to see him smile, I figured you deserved to have something to remember him like that." 

Mirio was on the verge of tears, but was stopping himself from crying. "They couldn't even find a photo of him happy for the funeral." He remembered. 

"That picture was taken at the celebration of him finally being able to open The Sir Nighteye Hero Agency." She offered the context. "Centipeder was actually the one that took the photo. He took it right after I gave Mirai my application to work under the Nighteye agency." 

So that's what he was so happy about. Though there was something about this picture that raised a question for Mirio. Especially since she called Sir Nighteye by his first name. "He was more than just a friend to you, wasn't he?" 

It looked like Kiokuro was about to give him the slip when he asked her, but she stopped dead in her tracks. He could almost see her mind moving a mile a minute before she figured out what to say. "In some ways, yes. And more so back then, but not as much when he died. Since the beginning of this year, we kept our relationship professional and occasionally platonic." 

"But neither of those when this picture was taken." He meant to say it like a question, but it didn't come out that way. 

"Definitely not." She admitted. 

"Then why are you trying to handle this alone?" He asked. 

Kiokuro offered a smile. "I'm not alone, Togata." She said. "And neither are you." 

Mirio watched her leave from the balcony and hop down the railings with expert moves, preserving his memory of the conversation for as long as he could see her. 

It hurt to say goodbye to Sir. But maybe it wouldn't hurt as much to remember him like this. 

[crazyyanderefangirlfan]

The Rabbit of Night Raven: Chapter 1: Demons in high places. Pt 1

A collection of drabbles of Valerie and boys, the story takes place after the Diasomnia arc.

"Read pages 46-55 for tomorrow's quiz, otherwise expect immediate failure and remedial classes. You are dismissed" "Meow." Stated a familiar elderly teacher and his cat. One-by-one students were standing from their seats and filed out of the door.

"Gyaah! Finally, it's over. But studying all that sounds so boring." Cried a familiar black and blue trash cat as he slumped over the desk. He felt himself getting picked up by a soft pair of hands whose fingers began scratching under his chin.

"Aww. Don't be like Grim. If you want to be the greatest wizard, then you have to attend class." He felt the fingers gently bopping his nose before swatting them away. Valerie giggled at the sight of Grim feebly swatting away her fingers. She opted to cradle him to her bosom.

"Don't treat me like a pet henchwoman!" He cried but purred at the sensation of her fingers gently scratching his ears. The girl internally squealed at his cute expression.

"Are you done babying him now? Come on." A familiar voice called out to the girl and turned to the source, her first and best friends in Night Raven, Ace, and Deuce. The two boys were glowering at the monster who was engulfed by the girl's bust, but luckily for them, the girl and her monster did not notice.

"Yes, I am." She re-adjusted her bag and walked with them outside the classroom.

"So princess, we're heading to clubs; don't miss us too much." Ace teased and playfully pinched her cheeks. Valerie grimaced at the gesture and rubbed her cheek once he was done.

"I won't, besides at least I can take a break from your lack of brain cells." She smirked at their indignant expressions.

"Hilarious princess. But you still have to deal with Grim." It was Ace's turn to smirk but directed it to the vexed monster in her arms.

"What's that supposed to mean!? I am the great Grim, don't you dare say I'm unintelligent!" He was ready to blow a stream of fire towards Ace if it weren't for Valarie scratching his ears to calm him down.

"Grim, if you start a fight, I'll limit your cans of tuna for 2 months" She smiled, but the cat monster saw through the girl's mask, a sense of dread blowing a cold chill down his spine. Defeated, he let out a whimpering "Sorry."

"Great, now that's outta out of the way, we can text you when we're done." The atmosphere lightened up as Deuce's voice, with the girl returning the comment with a smile, "I have a new movie we could watch, maybe later tonight?" Deuce finished up, walking up to the girl, he places a palm on her shoulder.

"Jack, Epel, and Sebek can't come. They said they got caught up with some dorm stuff, so it's just us."

"Tonight it is." She remarked, giving the two a peck on their cheeks as she playfully walked out, causing the onlookers to eye the now blushing boys with an envious eye.

____________________________

The brunette happily hummed as she walked out of the school, and as she made her journey to Ramshackle, her thoughts drifted on how everything was now.

It's been months since her arrival in Twisted Wonderland, and honestly, she loved every second here. Don't get her wrong she missed her family and friends back home and wishes to go back. But she secretly desired for the crow to give up on his research if he did any that is, she loved it here too much, and it was beginning to feel like home. Surely her loved ones can live without her...

Valerie shook her head at the ridiculous thought. What was she thinking? Of course, they would miss her, she has to stop those ludicrous thoughts, she has to go home someday. 

"Valerie, we're here." Grim's voiced snapped her out of her head. Apparently, she was so focused on her thoughts, she nearly crashed into the gate.

"O-oh. Thank you, Grim. I didn't even realize we're here."

"Tch, honestly henchwoman, what will you do without me?" 

She laughed heartedly at his comment, but before she could step on the porch. She overheard a crashing sound. Both students froze. Valerie could feel Grim shaking in her arms from how loud it was.

"W-what was that!? I-I mean, I'm not scared, but where did it come from?" the poor monster tried to brush off his fear, but it was apparent on how violently she shook in her arms.

"It came from the back, let's go and check." He blanched at her words and started to squirm when he felt her move.

"Are you crazy!? I mean, I won't have a problem fighting it, cause no one is a match for the great Grim. But you? You have no magic!"

"I know hand-to-hand combat."

"Even so, you'll be obliterated!"

"Oh, look, we're here." Grim had to do a double-take on her words. Sure enough, they were in the back of the woods, and lo and behold, a large crater stood amidst of it.

"You have no self-preservation." She didn't respond. Instead, she peeked inside the crater. But the sight left both the girl and monster were dumbfounded on what they've discovered.

It was a young man, he appeared to be in his early 20's. His midnight blue hair was in disarray and matted with dirt, his bronze skin was littered with various scars and wounds. An ugly gash was near his forehead and bleeding profusely. His clothes consisted of a white dress shirt, a red vest coat, and khaki pants were torn and stained with blood. He was also missing his shoes.

"Oh my gosh!" The girl dropped the monster in her arms and rushed inside the crater and quickly hauled the young man onto her back, indifferent to the blood staining her clothes. 

"Grim! Go back to the house and tell the ghosts to prepare a medical kit, and hurry!"

"Are you seriously going to take him back with us!? What if he's doing some shady business? Or some kind of criminal?"

"Then I'll have the great Grim to protect me. Besides, helping others is the duty of a human being, regardless of their background." Grim sighed but did what she told him. Not before muttering 'how a reckless human she was' under his breath.

Valerie huffed as she tried to balance both her weight and the stranger's as she tried to get out, which proved to be difficult due to how deep the crater was, which caused her to slip from time to time. But thankfully, she managed to climb up and run full speed back to Ramshackle.

  ____________________________

The door was opened once she got there, and the short ghost came to helped her carry the man to the couch. The ghosts and Grim were waiting for them in the lounge, the medical kit was on the table.

"Jeez, who did he pissed off to get such a beating?" The skinny ghost commented as they watched the two placed the man on the couch.

"Thanks for the help, Bennett." The ghost merely tipped his hat and smiled.

"No problem, kiddo."

"Gerald, please go to my closet and get some clothes. An oversized shirt and a pair of sweatpants will do." The skinny ghost saluted and went upstairs.

"Wilbur, please fetch me a bowl of water, soap, and a towel from the kitchen." The stout ghost nodded and did what he was told. Valerie painstakingly proceeded to remove his clothes. She winced on the number of wounds inflicted on his body. What did he do to deserve such a severe punishment? 

Her heart stopped when she caught the sight of his right leg. It was gruesome, it was a third-degree burn, the skin was in a ghastly shade of black, the skin was so dry and leathery that flakes were falling off. She nearly cried at the sight of it, but she pulled herself together. Now is not the time.

Wilbur was first to come back with the things she needed. He winced at the sight of his leg. She sent him a grateful smile and began her procedure. She gently washed his body, thoroughly removing the dirt from his body, before she patted him dry. She carefully treated his wounds and wrapping them tightly with the gauze.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"So... Are you planning to tell the headmaster about your discovery?" Bennett inquired as he watched the girl sipped her tea.

The residents of Ramshackle were situated in the kitchen, discussing what to do about Valerie's unconscious guest, and whether or not he can be trusted. Valerie, currently sitting on the counter with a mug of tea in her hand and Grim on her lap, petting his fiery ears. 

"Of course I am, and knowing that crow. He'll probably milk money from him as a reward because one of his students saved his life. Because he's so gracious." She stated as she sipped more of her tea. The sarcasm on her voice was heavy when she spoke the last sentence.

"That guy will gladly take money for himself, and say it's for the school," Grim chimed in.

"But still. I'm bothered about not knowing who he is. He could be a dangerous criminal for all we know." Gerald voiced his thoughts.

"That's what I told her! But no! She refuses to listen to the Great Grim and decides to be a suicidal maniac." The monster exclaims while waving his arms for emphasis. She flicked his forehead. 

"Grim, we can't just leave him there. We live near a forest remember? Who knows what monsters are out there." The stern look she gave made him freeze. Before anyone could utter another word, an unfamiliar voice made Valerie dropped the mug from her hands and spilled the boiling liquid on the floor. Everyone's heads snapped towards the lounge.

"THE FUCKING HELL!? WHERE THE FUCK AM I!?" The sounds of crashing furniture, broken glass, and vulgar words filled the atmosphere. Scooping Grim on her arms, they all swiftly made their way to the lounge, to find their guest on the floor.

It looked like a hurricane pass through. Furniture was overturned, pieces of glass were littered around, and the man was on the floor flailing around like a fish out of water. The blanket that Wilbur provided for him was now acting as a straitjacket.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck! You've got to be bullshitting me!" He let out another flurry profanities, before noticing his bewildered audience.

"Oi Sugar tits, get me out of this."

They were truly surprised by the man, but for different reasons.  Grim was amazed by how fast he recovered and how he managed to get into that position. The ghosts and Valerie were... Appalled by his choice of words.

"Young man, you should not talk to a lady like that!" But he merely rolled his eyes, annoyed at the ghost's nagging.

"Whatever the fuck grandpa. So anyway, get me out of here." Valerie quickly snapped out of her stupor and gently placing Grim down before helping him. Carefully, she placed him back to the couch before untangling the blanket from his frame. 

"Thanks for the help, Sugar tits." Upon closer inspection, she finally noticed the details on his face but was too busy saving his life. He had lovely almond-shaped eyes with long lashes, his left eye was taffy pink, while his right was cornflower blue. His surfer hairstyle complimented his diamond-shaped face. From his sitting position, she can tell he could possibly be Azul's height. He had pointed ears, which made her briefly wonder if he was a fae like Malleus and Lillia. 

The man stretched his arms but winced. He finally took a good look at himself and let out a low whistle.

"Damn, the fucker did a number on me. But you did a pretty good job in healing me up Sugar tits, even if you did a fucking sloppy job at it." He remarked, flexing his fingers.

 Valerie frowned, what was with this guy? He was starting to remind her of one the pervs in and out of school. She counted in her head to calm herself, before asking the question that was in everyone's mind.

"Excuse me, sir, what's your name?"

He looked at her in disdain, as if she made a joke that so awful that she needed to shut up. She wondered if she insulted his pride, but, oddly he chuckled and slung his arm around her shoulder.

"Good joke Sugar tits. Pretending to know who I am hilarious." He gave another mirthful chuckle and brought his hands up to her head to play with her bow. But, she slapped them away before they could even reach. He sat there stunned, eyes wide and mouth gaping as if no one has done that to him before. 

Valerie's lips were pressed into a thin line, her expression was calm. But everyone in the room, including the heterochromatic male, could feel a shift in the air. The aura surrounding the girl was foreboding, and her eyes were locked on him, like a predator watching its prey to make a mistake and go for the kill. Finally, she spoke.

"No. I do not know who you are."

The silence was thick as fog, the noises within the house seemed more prominent as the rest of the residents stared at two, giving uneasy glances to one another. Grim, who has been with her since the beginning, has known what her anger is like. He shivered at the thought of her hellish gaze and silently prayed to the Great Seven to let this man survive.

Her opal-Esque eyes held burning fire as she stared down the man. Her body tensed up, legs twitching erratically, waiting for him to make any reason for her to kick him in the gut.

The man studied her face to know if she's joking or not. Once he confirmed she genuinely doesn't who he is, his curled up in amusement.

"The name's Amane Mania." She sighed, at least one problem is out of the way...

"So I'm guessing you want your reward huh? So what do you want? Money or a fu-"

Amane didn't get to finish and suddenly collapsed on her. Stunned, she peered behind him to see Bennett with a cane on hand and a mildly irritated look on his face.

____________________________

"I could have done it myself," Valerie grunted as she carried the unconscious man again, but this time to one unoccupied but clean rooms of Ramshackle.

"I know you could, but I couldn't stand his attitude anymore," Bennet grumbled.

"Yo, Val we're h-WHO THE FUCK IS THAT!?." Ace exclaimed. She turned to find her friends gaping at her in shock, more specifically at Amane.

"Guys! Don't be so loud, I don't want to wake him up." 

"H-Hang on I'll help you." Deuce scrambled to get to the stairs with Ace following behind, once he got there. He grabbed his legs and began to make their way through the hall.

They came across one the doors and she gestured Ace to opened it. Once they were inside, they dropped him on the bed and Valerie covered him with a blanket. Quietly as they could, they walked out of the room and made their way to the now cleaned lounge.

"Okay who the fuck was that? and why does he look like he went through a war?" Ace questioned.

"Grim and I found him in the back of the woods. He was laying on a giant crater and I brought him to get fixed up. Then he woke up and started to call me Sugar tits-"

"He called you what!?

 "And Bennett him in the head. You guys know the rest."

Deuce took a deep breath and tried to organize his thoughts, before speaking.

"Valerie. You mean to tell us you brought a stranger to your home, who doesn't seem to have any respect towards females and healed him?"

"Yeah, that's it." He sighed.

"Valerie, as much as I admire your selfless nature, but you should be careful with strangers. Especially when you get people like that and don't know their intentions."

"Come on guys. You witness me took down people five-times my height. I can take care of myself."

"What he means Princess, we don't know what kind of magic he does or what he's capable of using." Ace injected.

"Well in that case. I'll just use a potion on him to make him feel weak. Professor Crewel already taught us that so I know I can make use of it."

The boys could only glance at each other in worry.

Amane felt a throbbing pain when he woke up.

Grunting, he sat up and held his head. He hissed when he grasped the side where the was gauze wrapped. 

"What the fuck was that?" He mumbled, before taking note of his surroundings. 

He was in a bedroom and spotted a first aid kit near his bed. He gazed down at his body, he was sporting a black shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants.

He tried to get out of bed but hissed when tried to move his legs. The pain was agonizing. He pulled up the right part of the pants and perceived how heavily it was wrapped.

He clicked his tongue. The bastard really went all out, and he was going to bring the pain back tenfold.

The sound of the door brought him out of musing. The girl was back with a tray of food, two boys one had ginger hair and a heart mark while the other had blue and a spade mark, and a weird cat monster of her shoulder. There was clear mistrust on their eyes when they stared at him.

"Glad to see you awake." she offered him a smile and placed the tray on his bedside. He scanned its contents. An egg and chicken fried rice. He knitted his brows and faced her.

"You ain't gonna poison me, are ya?"

"If I wanted you dead, I would have just left you in that crater." She asserted. She sat down on a chair next to him with boys leaning against it, and the monster stretched itself on the bed.

"Besides." The monster spoke, a male by the tone if it's voice. "She's too much a goody-two-shoes to let anyone die. Unless they pissed her off too much." Amane raised a brow on the last part but said nothing.

He took the bowl and brought the spoon to his mouth. He hummed it was pretty good. He began to devour the whole thing, finally realizing how hungry he was. He placed the bowl back once he was finished.

"You're a pretty good cook, Sugar tits." He licked lips in satisfaction. The girl, surprised by how fast he finished the food, narrowed her eyes. The boys scowled at him.

"Could you just ask me my name, instead of calling me that?" The exasperation in her voice was transparent. He raised a brow, but his lips curled in a teasing grin.

"Why should I? When that name fits you so well." Eyeing at her ample bosom. He snickered at how red her face is. She was so fun to tease and seeing the looks on those guys was priceless.

"Ow! The fuck!?" Pain shot through his body, clenching his teeth, he found her adding pressure on his wounded leg. All with an innocent smile on her face.

"Oi Sugar tits quit that!" He let out another string of curse words when she pressed harder.

"You know what she wants." The ginger boy's deadpan voice rang out. Another yelp of pain came out when he felt she dug her nails on his leg.

"Okay! Okay! What's your name!? Fuck." He sighed in relief when she stopped but glared at the still smiling girl.

"Ugh. What's you're name?"

"I'm Ace." The ginger started.

"Deuce." The navy waved.

"It's Valerie, and this little guy is Grim."

"That's the Great Grim, Henchwoman!" She playfully stuck her tongue out, while Grim growled. Valerie returned her attention back to him.

"So. How are you feeling?"

"Besides having a helluva headache, and nearly losing my leg. I'm good."

"That's great. Cause you need your all your sanity on what comes next." This confused him greatly. He was about to ask what she meant when the door slammed open.

 There stood a man in rather extravagant clothing and a crow mask. As soon as his eyes landed on Amane, he visibly froze. Mouth hanging wide.

"No.." He whispered

"Long time no see Crow shit."

"Sir, are you okay? What wrong?" Deuce glanced at Amane who looked like he wanted to laugh. He ignored his students.

"You look tacky as usual." He flinched at his words.

"I see you’re as rude as ever."

"As if I care. You old crow." 

"The nerve! What would you're parents say about your attitude?'

"Probably nothing."

"Such insole-"

A loud cough broke their dispute, and turn their attention to the sole girl in the room.

"Headmaster, don't you think instead of lecturing him about how to respect authority. Shouldn't you be focused on his well-being?" She gave him a pointed look, the man coughed.

"A-ahh. Yes, of course." He cleared his throat.

"I see Ms. Kemonohito has taken good care of you. It warms my heart to know my students are capable of such compassion and selflessness. Ah-huh huh!."

Aman arched a brow while the other four just sighed, already too used at this display. Crowley quickly regained his composure.

"So please tell me, how he ended up like this?"

She told him everything from the beginning. Crowley nodded once in a while. After she finished, he had a contemplative look on his face, or at least she assumed it was one with the mask and all.

"Hmm, how strange." He turned his attention to students.

"All of you come with me for a moment." Crowley quickly stood up and made his way to the door, gesturing his students to follow him. They all stood up, silently following him.

"What was that about? You know him or soemthing." Grim questioned.

"Do any of you know who he is, or at least his family." He finally spoke, the serious tone in his voice startled them momentarily but shook their heads. Crowley frowned.

"Oh dear, this quite a predicament. To think he’ll be back here in school." He muttered under his breath.

"Just what so great about his family?" Ace prodded.

"The Mania family is an old crime organization who ruled Twisted Wonderland before Crewel was born. Though they are disbanded and faded in history, their influence is strong. They have many businesses, and still manage to have loyal followers who will gladly do anything for them, and he was a former student here as well."

This information floored them. To think this guy was part of a mafia group and to top it all that. Now Valerie understood why he looked surprised when she said she didn't know him. She jumped when Crowley called her.

"Ms. Kemonohito, I thank you for saving his life. I'm so proud of having such a benevolent and caring student." He cried once more earning annoyed looks from all four of them.

"Seriously. How old is this guy?" Ace grumbled. 

"However, due to his critical condition, and lack of phone. He will remain in Night Raven until he fully recovers." He gazed at Valerie, she frowned. She knew what comes next.

"Which is why you, Ms. Kemonohito will let him lodge here until he recovers. I cannot ask the dorm leaders due to their duties, and the infirmary is full due to the last Magift practice."

"I have no choice do I."

"Unless you want me to cut off the dorm's budget, then no." She sighed.

"Fine, I'll do it." He beamed.

"Wonderful! I shall inform him right away." He went back inside. Grim glared at his back.

"Grrrr. This again, whenever something happens we always get the short end of the stick! Why can't he be useful for once in his life!"

"The day he's reliable is the day I go back home."

Which she secretly hoped that it never happened. They returned to the room, Crowley was already finished explaining to Amane about the situation, who couldn't decide whether to be annoyed or amused.

"I can assure that Ms. Kemonohito is a gracious host such as myself, will surely make feel right at home!"

"Oh, I'm sure she'll be a great host. Huh, Valerie." The way he said her name, made her instantly wary of him. Even more when he turned to her.

His smile was borderline sadistic, and his eyes held a mischievous glint in them. Valerie felt a shiver up her spine, oh Great Seven, please save her soul. She can already tell that this guy won't make it easy for her. Ace and Deuce scowled at him and formed a wall between them.

"Splendid. I'll be off then." With a flourish, he vanished.

_____________________________________

"Still a weirdo I see." Amane stared at the spot where Crowley vanished.

"Yeah, you'll get used to it," Deuce assured, scratching the back of his head. He turned to Valerie.

"So. Still up for that movie?" She perked up at his words, but before she could say anything, Amane beat her to it.

"Umm. Hello~ Are trying to exclude me? How standoffish of you Ms. Kemonohito. What would that crow say once he learned that you are being unkind?"

He had raised a single brow and propped his face to his hands, all with a shit-eating grin on his face. Ace fumed.

"Hey! You don't own this house asshole! She can do what she pleases!"

Amane turned to him, sporting a bored look on his face as he studied him. Seconds after, he had a lecherous smirk on his face.

"Why hello~ I didn't get a good look at you earlier, but now I do, I gotta say you're pretty hot. Say, after I recover, why don't we booked a love hotel hot stuff~" He purred as he licked lips and eyed at Ace's bottom with such fiery hot intensity.

Ace flinched at his words and shivered when he stared at him with such hunger. Amane then turned his attention to Deuce, who also trembled at his wanton gaze.

"You're not so bad too handsome. Maybe we should do a three-"

Valerie coughed loudly to get everyone's attention.

"Uhh...Why don't we get set up the movie here, Ace go and help Deuce get the projector, while I get some snacks. Grim, you stay here."

The boys briskly walked out before sprinting away from the room. Valerie trailed after them, ignoring Grim's protests. She found them hastily getting the stuff, both having shaken expressions.

"What the actual fuck was?" Ace was carrying an extension wire and mini wireless speakers.

"How...How could someone be so...Shamless." In Deuce's arms was the laptop.

After getting everything they needed. Wordlessly, they made their way upstairs and found Grim struggling to get out of Amane's grip, who was squishing his pink paws.

"Aww, aren't you a cute little piece of shit~"

"Fgua! Put me down ya weirdo!"

"Ahh. So mean."

Ace snickered at the sight, he would have laughed if Deuce didn't nudge his ribs. After setting up everything, Deuce showed them the movie. It was a comedy, Cater suggested it to him. Then he pressed play.

It wasn't even twenty minutes, and Amane began to make licentious and snarky comments about the characters, and the general plot of the movie. He called them out from their costumes to their acting. The boys covered Valerie and Grim's ears whenever he made a perverted comment.

"Dayum~ Look size of that guy. Bet he's packing something bigger." 

"Seriously? How the fuck people find that funny? Even burning trash has better humor."

"How much longer is this movie. It's fucking boring!"

As much as boys wanted to beat the shit of him, they can't due Valerie holding a vice grip on their arms, a silent plead to not to do anything stupid, lest they get in trouble. They grudgingly oblige but cast resentful glances at him. After the movie, the boys were very hesitant to leave her but assured them she'll be fine.

"I dealt with overblots. I can handle a rich boy."

That didn't reassure them but eventually left because she reminded them of  Riddle's curfew. After waving goodbye, she was headed to her room, when...

"Oi Sugar tits! Bring me another pillow!"

_____________________________________

(A/N: I decided to make this a two part chapter)

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas20 Day 11: Hybrid, once again

It’s so late and I’ve had a day of... futility, so I’m pulling out some Hybrid, which is just the biggest fic I’ve ever attempted and makes me feel slightly woozy. This is a selection of scenes I’ve worked on, with the first one following on from last year’s snippet, for context

A lot of this is set-up to how Alice actually becomes friends with the Cullens and the lead up to her relationship with Jasper. I also love Alice and Cynthia and their gay dads. A lot of this will be changed or rewritten for the Official Version, so I figure it deserves to be immortalised before I start my tear-down. 

Have a great day, I’m off to bed <3 

NSFW NSFW NSFW. (The most graphic section is marked, but there are implications dotted throughout. Use your best judgement.)

Trigger warnings for body dysphoria (minor)

(AU in which Alice is the daughter of a vampire-human hybrid, who was raised in an abusive home, and ends up in the care of her father and his husband in Forks. Hybrid biology is a little different - or rather, expanded - from canon. This was basically my attempt at expanding the Twilight universe beyond vampires and werewolves and examine the idea that humans are really the worst. At this point in the story, Alice has arrived in Forks, had a less than welcoming experience with the Cullen kids and met Dr Cullen in a professional capacity.)

--

It took me the best part of an hour to walk home from the Cullens. My head was still soupy, the Cullens’ home was outside of town, and I had no idea where I was going.

Oh, and it was dark.

And then I had to lie, and tell Dad and Simon some guy had mugged me, since they were freaking out. I had been gone two hours in an unfamiliar town, and had come home with blood on my clothes. Thank god, my hoodie managed to cover up most of the bandage on my neck.

They had promptly freaked out even more, and called the Chief of Police to report the incident I completely faked, whilst I went upstairs for a shower, peeling off the bandages to get a load of the wound. Angry black sutures ran from an inch or so below my ear, to where my neck joined my shoulder in an uneven line. It made me feel a little woozy, in all honesty. And it would be almost impossible to hide from everyone.  Maybe I could wear a scarf, and claim I wasn’t used to the cold?

And the bruise on my back was impressive, even for me. It was already darkening, and I had no doubt that it would only get worse overnight. An experimental jab to my ribs made the room spin, which made me want to cry. If there was one thing I hated more than anything on the planet, it was broken ribs.

I somehow managed to shower and change into a pair of loose pyjamas that covered all evidence of my injuries without blacking out. My head wouldn’t clear, and when Simon brought up something for me to eat, I could hear the slur in my voice. Dr Cullen must have drugged me.

It took forever for me to find a tolerable position in bed, and I ended up sleeping on my stomach, my arm cradling my ribs. My dreams – thankfully, just dreams – were soupy horror replays of Jasper’s attack; the scrape of his teeth, the tearing, the warmth of my own blood…

… how good it had felt.

When my alarm finally went off after what felt like an hour, I was sleep deprived, grumpy, and in complete agony. I could barely clamber out of bed. I wriggled out of my pajamas, and stared at myself in the mirror. The bruising covered my side was varying shades of black and blue, spread over my shoulder, ribs and back, down to the base of my spine and hip. There was a little swelling, but nothing really worth mentioning.

I ended up finding a button-up dress that I could get into with minimal discomfort, that covered up the bruises, and some of the stitches. Adding a sweater covered the rest up, and I spent nearly half an hour layering concealer and foundation over my pinched and pale face. I swallowed a handful of Advil to help the pain, before I limped downstairs.

Other than a quick reassurance that I was fine, Dad and Simon didn’t bring up last night’s ‘mugging’, and within an hour, I was limping awkward across the Forks High car park, in what felt like a new adventure in pain.

My ribs were probably fractured. God, I was kidding myself. They were definitely fractured. I just needed some decent pain-killer and medical tape, and I’d feel better. This wasn’t exactly a new experience, but it didn’t mean that they were any less uncomfortable, or I was any less miserable.

Luckily, everyone seemed to have lost interest in me as ‘the new girl’, so I limped through the halls without being stared at, or interrupted. Swinging open my locker, I gratefully shoved my bag inside – even carrying it by hand put too much weight on my back and ribs. I’d have to swap books after each class so I could carry them comfortably. Another cherry on top of my awful, hideous day.

Suddenly, there was another person beside me, staring intently. If my nerves weren’t already made of adamantium, I probably would have jumped or shrieked in surprised.

“Good morning,” Edward said.

“Morning,” I said, turning from digging through my books, trying to disguise the stiffness of my movements.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked politely, and I wanted to laugh at his slightly-creepy attempts at small talk. That isn’t a question you normally ask someone you just met, out of nowhere. Did they just not socialize with anyone who didn’t consider A Positive a main course?

“Sure.”

“You should sit with us at lunch,” Edward said in a flat tone, watching me with the sort of look my doctors had always used. It had unnerved me then, and it irritated me now; made me feel like an experiment all over again. If I hadn’t been wounded, I would have accepted the inevitable dislocated fingers and slapped him.

Dislocated fingers are easy to pop back into place.

“Can’t wait,” I said dismissively, mentally praising myself for taking the higher ground, and turned back to my locker, hoping Edward hadn’t noticed how awkwardly I was moving.

Edward watched me rifle through my locker before sighing and walking away, looking pained. I had to resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him, instead slamming my locker and shuffling to my first class.

--

Lunch was bad. I got a sandwich, and limped to the Cullens’ table, where they all stared as I sat. Quite frankly, every time I took a seat, the world around me swam before my eyes.

I took a seat at the end of the table, ignoring the glances that the Cullens were shooting me as I opened my soda, and unwrapped the sandwich.

“Is that for our benefit?” Rosalie asked boredly, nodding towards the sandwich, with a vague sneer of disgust on her face.

I shook my head. “Only for mine,” I said dully, studying my food. It hadn’t occurred to me that my lunch would smell terrible to them, only that I needed to eat so I could take some more painkiller. I hadn’t even really paid attention to their trays – I could see now that they were dotted with cans of soda, fruit, and packaged snacks. Nothing that would smell especially offensive to them – Mom had once told me that it was the preservatives and ingredients mixed together that were the worst to vampire sense; that, and that they could smell decay much faster than humans.

Lunch passed slowly – Edward and Bella chatted quietly, and every so often one of the other Cullens would make a comment, but mostly we sat in silence. I picked at my lunch, and felt my back throb in pain, before the bell finally rung, and they all moved to collect their trays and bags.

I was irritated – why invite me to eat at their table for lunch, when it had been awkward, uncomfortable, and no one had talked?

Whatever. I struggled to my feet and silently left, pausing only to dump my tray, and headed to the library to hide out until the end of the day.

//

Bella was staring at me as I changed out of my gym clothes, the two of us the last ones in the locker room.

“Is that where Jasper…?” she asked as I tugged my shirt on, my jacket following. My back was a rainbow of black, purple and green; so bad that I’d been forced to wear dark colours – you could see the marks through lighter-coloured fabric.

“Uh huh,” I said. “Brick wall, meet spine.”

“They’re pretty worried about you,” Bella said as I carefully shouldered my bag. “Carlisle and Esme want to see you again.”

“They don’t have to worry about me,” I shrugged and winced, regretting the movement. So, I didn’t quite have my full-range of movement back just yet. “I’m fine.”

Bella watched as I gathered my stuff. “They still need an explanation.”

“They’ll be waiting awhile – they clearly told you everything,” I said flatly. It was unspoken, but they clearly expected me not to say anything about them and their secrets, yet they were blabbing my secrets around.  

“You owe it to them, you know everything,” she informed me snootily.

I whipped around, enough for the pain in my back to flare hotly, which just made me madder. “I owe them nothing,” I snapped at her. “They clearly can’t keep their mouths shut when they don’t know anything, so why would I tell them more? And don’t sit there, all high-and-mighty, Bella Swan. You know nothing.”

And I stormed off.

--

Bella clearly ran and tattled on me to Edward, because after school, I saw the Cullens glaring at me as I walked towards the bus. Well, Edward was giving me Death Glares

//

Dr Cullen finally cornered me for a physical, telling Simon to bring me over on Saturday morning. I nearly threw a fit, even though my dreams the night before had made it clear that I wouldn’t be getting out of it easily.

My dreams about Jasper were getting more and more vivid, and the idea of physical contact was so unbearable, I was jumping and flinching when Simon and Dad were getting too close to me. Which was a problem, since Simon was a hugger.

I was sick to my stomach when Simon took me over, clutching the smoothie he’d made me for breakfast. I was wearing loose yoga pants and a t shirt under a sweatshirt to keep everything covered.

Dr Cullen hissed as he saw me in my underwear – the webbing over my chest, the bites on my throat and arms, the angry scar at the back of my left leg, the angry marks on my rib cages.

“What on earth happened to you, Alice?” he asked.

“Hard life,” I shrugged, crossing my arms over my chest. “Can we get this over with?”

“Of course,” Dr Cullen nodded.

—

More than one morning, I’d woken up from my dreams about Jasper with my hand between my legs, sweaty and panting and absolutely ashamed – even sick to my stomach.

All of the Cullen children had made it clear I was their friend out of necessity, rather than interest, and that Rose and Edward barely tolerated me. The idea of a genuine friendship with Jasper was a pipe-dream, let alone an opportunity to recreate my dreams.

Even as my inner-voice pointed out that they weren’t dreams.

And besides, sex was something that was not a good idea. At all. I wasn’t a virgin and I hadn’t been in years. I still had terrors and flashbacks to those terrible, monstrous experiences, I couldn’t imagine it being good, let alone as pleasurable as my brain claimed it would be. In the harsh light of day, I didn’t want anybody touching me.

And who would even want to, with my skinny, scarred body. The curves I had were easily hidden by my clothing.  Short hair. Sour disposition. I’d be alone forever.

It was raining, which suited my mood perfectly when I arrived at school. With the Cullens’ tentative acceptance of me, at least at lunch, I had isolated myself even more from the rest of the student body.

There had been entire days when answering roll call and greeting the Cullens at lunch where the only words I spoke. My personal best was eight words.

I drifted from class to class, finally getting to the cafeteria and claiming my lunch. A soda, an apple and a brownie – there was no way I was going to even pretend to eat the runny tuna salad or the luminous orange mac and cheese.

I hadn’t said anything to Dr Cullen, but I knew my physiology was not coping with my current diet. I was tired and sluggish, eating just two meals a day. In the hospital, I’d had free access to as much milk and as many snacks as I needed. Now, I had to pretend I was normal, and was failing kind of badly, since Simon found the amount of food I packed away at meal times ridiculous.

“Hey,” Emmett nodded at me as I arrived at the table.

“Hey,” I said, taking a seat next to Bella, and opened my soda, and pulled my homework out.

It was the most painless way to fill in the lunch hour – reading was rude, and no one wanted to talk. So, schoolwork.

“You going to eat that?” Rosalie interrupted me.

I looked up. I’d drunk half the soda – revolting diet raspberry had been the only flavor left – and picked at the brownie over the half an hour, but none of it held any interest.

“Probably not,” I said, turning back to my math homework.

“You should.”

Why was Rosalie still talking to me?

“It’s pretty gross,” I said, not looking up. “I’ll eat at home.”

“Bella eats it,” Rosalie said, gesturing at Bella’s empty tray.

“Rosalie,” Edward scowled, as Bella blushed prettily at being the center of attention.

“Bella clearly has a less discerning palate,” I said, closing my books and standing up. “If it’s so important to you, you can eat it, Rosalie.”

And I flounced off.

//

For some unholy reason, Simon and Dad had decided to have a pre-Thanksgiving cocktail party for their co-workers and friends. I stayed out of the planning and decorating, spending my time buried in my homework and ignoring everything around me.

Why Simon decided to invite the entire Cullen clan and Bella and her father, I have no idea. Maybe some misguided attempt to help me socialize. God, I hoped not.

But that meant, the afternoon before Thanksgiving I put on one of the dresses Simon had bought me – with tights – and went downstairs to help set up.

The Cullen kids seemed less than enthused to see me, though Edward was clearly pleased to see Bella.

“I’d apologise, but it wasn’t my idea,” I said as I walked past Emmett and Rosalie with a tray of glasses.

“This will be fun,” Emmett said cheerfully. “We never get to see humans in their natural habitat.”

—

Jasper found me sitting in the kitchen, staring out at the backyard.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I replied, standing up. “Do you need something?”

“No. It just gets a bit much, so many people in one place, with alcohol. Overwhelming,” he shrugged.

“I get it,” I said. “I mean, I can’t imagine what it’s like for your gift. But I get being overwhelmed.”

He offered me a crooked smile. I smiled shyly back, and began stacking dirty glasses. What to say?

“Carlisle is worried about you.”

Apparently, the topic at hand was me.

“He shouldn’t,” I said, as I began to pack the dishwasher. “I’m okay.”

“Esme too – she’s desperate for you to come over to our place so she can attempt to mother you to death,” he continued.

I thought of Mrs Cullen almost longingly for a moment – how sweet and kind she was. Nothing like Mom – Mom had never been warm and fuzzy. Mrs Cullen seemed like she’d be a good mom.

“She’s sweet, but I’m okay, really.”

“Don’t lie to an empath, Alice. I know exactly how you feel.” The ghost of a smirk played at his mouth and I turned to finish gathering up dirty cutlery.

“So how do I feel?” I asked, looking over my shoulder.

Jasper met my gaze. “Like starlight – bright and beautiful, but distant. There’s sadness and longing, ferocity and loyalty, all hidden behind a very tall wall.”

//

Within fifteen minutes, I was being pressed into the couch, with the delicious weight of Jasper on top of me. Somehow, I was down to my tank top, and I was nearly positive the first few buttons of my jeans had been undone. Jasper’s mouth moved down my jaw, to my throat, and I sighed in delight. My hands slipped down, fumbling to get underneath. As my fingers grazed the hard flesh of his stomach, I heard him moan against my throat and I smiled.

“We should stop,” he murmured in my ear.

“Why?” I asked, choosing that moment to shift, aligning our hips, and hitching my knees up. He groaned, pressing me even harder into the couch, one hand tangling in my hair as he pulled me into a scorching kiss.

The sound of the back door opening was very distant, and it didn’t register properly until Simon’s cheerful voice broke the moment.

“Having some good, wholesome fun, kids?” he said.

Jasper only just barely managed to climb off me at human speed, and I half fell off the couch.

Simon was standing there, clutching a bag of groceries, looking amused. Cynthia was standing beside him, her jaw on the floor. Mostly likely because one of the famous Cullens was in her house, making out with her sister.

--

When Dad roped me into helping with the washing up, I knew he and Simon were going to corner me. And they did.

“Alice,” Dad said carefully, as I started wrapping up the leftovers. “Simon told me about how he found you and Jasper Hale this afternoon, and we wanted to chat with you.”

“It won’t happen again,” I said, my eyes firmly on the bowl of leftover couscous.

“That’s not what we’re worried about, sweetheart,” Simon said. “Though, yes, we might need to make some rules about boys in the house. But Alice… how long have you known this boy?”

I frowned, and looked over my shoulder. How did I explain that I knew Jasper, had known him for years? That with our gifts, the second we had met, this had been inevitable.

“Since I met him at school,” I said carefully. “It kind of happened.”

“You’re smart, Alice, and … we’re only saying this because we love you and we don’t want you to get hurt. But it’s only be a couple of weeks, and what I saw this afternoon looked very serious,” Simon continued, giving my father a Look.

“Honey, with the horrible things that happened to you, we just don’t want you to rush into sex and a physical relationship,” Dad finished. “Sometimes it can seem like it might make the hurt and the fear go away, but it doesn’t if you rush into it.”

Oh god. This was horrifying. “Jasper and I weren’t… we aren’t…” I managed, before taking a deep breath. “We aren’t having sex. We aren’t planning on sex yet. He knows I have issues.”

Simon and Dad exchanged looks. “Okay,” Dad said finally

//

NSFW

//

I was trembling slightly as Jasper settled between my thighs, kissing me softly. I was aware of everything – my nudity, Jasper’s nudity, the scent of flowers and fabric softener from my bedding. The coil of warmth in my lower stomach, the circles Jasper was gently tracing on my hip.

“How are you feeling?” he murmured. I could feel him, cool and impossibly hard against my thigh, and I let out a shuddering breath.

“I’m okay,” I managed. “Just nervous. It’s going to hurt.”

“Oh darlin’,” he pressed a kiss to my lips. “If it hurts, I’ll stop. If you want me to, I’ll stop.”

I nodded. “Can you help me a little?” I whispered. “Just a little.”

“If you’re sure?” he said and I nodded. He kissed me deeply, one hand sliding down my thigh to guide my leg around his waist. The warmth in my stomach spread, and the fear seemed to fade. I found myself rocking against him slightly, making indecent sounds.

It didn’t hurt too badly; not like the other times, but I didn’t want to think about those. Proportionately, it was always going to be slightly awkward and uncomfortable the first time around. I knew it would get better, I had seen how good at this we’d become.

That thought just made me press closer to him.

“You’re so warm,” he groaned in my ear, kissing a trail to my neck. I gripped his shoulders, smirking to myself as he began to lick and suck at the juncture of my neck; a vampire with a neck fetish.

//

As I came back down to earth, panting and loose-limbed, Jasper moved about me, carefully but more erratically than before, his eyes darkening to pitch black. And without warning, he flung himself away from me, standing halfway across the room in less than a second.

“I need a moment,” he rasped, panting, his gaze firmly on me. Fuck. He looked like a god, standing there, his blackened gaze firmly on me. I wasn’t sure if it was his gift, the way he looked, but the warmth was building in my stomach again.

//

My mother always talked about vampire mating practices, and made it sound monstrous. Brutal sex, a violent bite to mark each other, and the bond settling over you, like invisible manacles. Cold and vicious, it was meant to be the ultimate unbreakable claim.  

In reality, it was nothing like that; his fingers stroking me, his arm around my waist, and then his mouth on my breast, his teeth biting down as I came apart in his arms, and then the soft lap of his tongue as he closed the wound.

//

Jasper slipped out before dawn with a deep kiss that I felt in my toes, his gaze glued to the throw I had hastily wrapped around myself, so that the neighbours wouldn’t catch me hanging out of my window naked.

“Dad and Simon won’t be home for hours,” I murmured as I leant in for another kiss. “Stay.”

“Alice,” he groaned, nuzzling my cheek. “Don’t tempt me. You need some sleep – and if I stay, there won’t be any sleep. I’ll see you later.”

I scowled but nodded, kissing him one last time. “Go.”

He jumped from my window, and I turned around. I needed clean sheets, a shower, and some sleep.

I just couldn’t stop smiling.

Jasper’s bite stood out on the side of my left breast, raised and pink, though it was already healing. It would fade into my skin over the next day, little more than a shadow against my skin until I touched it and felt the ridges of his teeth-marks. Finally, a bite mark that didn’t make me feel disfigured, or one that would be awkward to cover up. The memory of his teeth in my skin made me shiver; how his teeth were so sharp that it didn’t hurt, and his soft growling purrs, as he licked the wound; the slight sting of the vemon, his lips and fingers grazing the closed wound with such gentle love…

I tumbled back into my bed, with clean sheets and wet hair. I did feel different. I felt peaceful, secure, and loved. I felt human for the first time in a long time.

And I slept without nightmares.

I dreamt, as well, of Jasper getting home and Emmett’s whoop of amusement, and subsequent teasing. Of Edward losing his shit over the idea of a vampire having sex with a human. Of Carlisle being vaguely concerned, Esme looking amused, and Rosalie pissed off that they’d acquired another human pet. She’d be even more of a delight after this, I knew it.

“Wake up, sleepyhead!” I jerked awake to Simon knocking on my door.

//

[scapegrace74-blog]

Help! I’m alive.

A/N  I’m doubtless going to regret saying this, but the Saorsa-sequel is coming along nicely, so I’m getting this Jamie POV story in the Metric universe out of my head and onto the screen.  It takes place about six months after Satellite Mind.  Previous fics are available on my AO3 page.

The song by Metric that inspired the title and a few lines is here. 

In the months since they became roommates, Jamie felt he’d come to know Claire Beauchamp quite well.  He wasn’t the world’s leading expert (that title likely belonged to Geillis), but he could give anyone in the London Metropolitan Area a run for their money.

He knew, for example, that she was never on time for anything.  It didn’t seem to matter when she set her alarm, Claire always ran from their flat with her hair half-dried, a cereal bar tucked hastily into her purse, and a slipstream of manic energy trailing behind her.

She read ferociously, and many books at once.  Flat surfaces collected still-lives of her textbooks, several novels, a poetry anthology - all dog-eared to mark her place.  Some women shopped or went to the nail salon.  Claire’s idea of stress relief was to curl up in her favourite corner of the sofa with a mug of tea and a good book.

She worked hard; harder than anyone he’d ever met.  When she wasn’t on shift at the Royal London, she was attending her first year lectures in medicine. When she wasn’t at school, she was studying.  And when she wasn’t studying, she was likely asleep.  She slept like a rock dropped into deep water, often dozing off in front of the tele or at her desk.  He wished he could carry her to her bed when this happened, just to offer her a glimpse of what life would be like if she permitted even the flimsiest pillar of support.  It would have broken the terms of their tacit agreement, however, so he watched over her slumber, waking her only when absolutely necessary.

She loved eighties music, anything with a synthesizer and a beat.  He could hear it, blasting from her headphones as she bent over her assignments or playing softly from the wireless speaker in the kitchen as she prepared dinner, her feet shimmying unconsciously over the hardwood floor.

She was a perfectionist.  It didn’t matter the subject, she needed to excel at it.  Soon after moving in, he caught her watching along to his rugby broadcast with a frown creasing her brow.  “What is it?” he asked, curious.  “Nothing.  Just wondering why that wasn’t a foul.”  Within weeks she had a favourite team (coincidentally, his team’s arch-rivals) and knew the players by position and name.  Rugby nights when neither of them were working became a fixture in his calendar.  A side-effect of this drive for perfection was that she took criticism unreasonably hard.  A mentor at the hospital suggested she work on her suturing technique, and she sulked for an entire weekend, muttering profanities beneath her breath.

But for all his knowledge, Jamie couldn’t yet fathom why Claire had exiled romance from her life.  She wasn’t a prude or ascetic - she had a bawdy sense of humour, especially after a few drinks, and her aesthetic, though minimalist, had room for little self-indulgences.  Nor did she appear conflicted about her sexuality - he’d caught her appreciative glances in his direction from time to time, usually when he was wearing his dark blue fireman’s uniform.  While some might call her aloof, he saw deep rivers of compassion and generosity beneath her carefully detached exterior.  When he made a joke (usually at his own expense), there was a flicker of self-awareness a moment after she laughed, as though she had caught herself breaking an unwritten rule.

Whatever the cause, Claire Beauchamp had locked away her heart for safe-keeping, and was doing her best to forget where she’d hidden the key.

That particular morning he’d taken advantage of a last-minute shift cancellation to go for a long run, following the Regents Canal towpath for miles before finally looping back through Whitechapel.  It was unseasonably warm for September, and he entered the flat a soaking mess, toeing off his sneakers and stripping down to his boxer-briefs on his way to a well-deserved shower.  Claire had lectures on Tuesday mornings, so he had the place to himself.

Pushing open the bathroom door, he was assaulted first by a fragrant mist that hung thickly in the air.  Cherry blossom, his mind supplied, while his eyes strained to identify its source.   Standing with one leg balanced on the bathtub’s edge, wearing nothing but a mint green towel (Christ, since when were towels so small!) was his roommate, applying lotion to her milk-white skin.  They both froze.  Traffic ceased its ceaseless crawl outside their building.  The waters of the Thames stopped flowing.  The universe itself took a break from its endless expansion and contraction as Jamie and Claire stared at each other in their tiny Spittalfields bathroom.  

“Sorry!” he exclaimed when he finally found his tongue, heavy and dry in his mouth, exactly where he left it.  He backed slowly into the narrow corridor, his eyes never blinking until she was once again out of his sight.  His heart was beating like a hammer, a runaway train confined within his ribs.

Claire eventually exited the bathroom, wearing the modest robe he was accustomed to seeing, instead of yards of extravagantly beautiful flesh.  He was still in his boxer-briefs, struck dumb by shock, although some latent instinct of self-preservation had him pick up his sweaty top and hold it loosely in front of his groin.

“I had no idea ye were hame, Claire.  I would ‘ave knocked a’fore openin’ the door... that is, I wouldna ‘ave opened the door, had I kent ye were in there,” he babbled.

“My morning lecture was cancelled,” she explained.  “It’s fine, Jamie.  No harm done, and nothing you haven’t seen before, I’d venture,” she smiled shyly.

“Aye.   That is, nah!  I mean, aye, but no’ you!”  He trembled, wishing the ground would open up beneath his feet and eat him alive.

Claire giggled, but seemed reluctant to move.  He needed to get into that shower while his blood was still flowing in his veins.  Everything else, including his dignity, could wait.  Why wouldn’t she move?

“Weel...” he began.

She laughed again.  “Jamie, I can’t get past you.  This hallway is too small and you’re too large.  Your shoulders... your shoulders are too large!”

Grunting in acknowledgement, he pushed his sweaty back against the far wall.  Claire scurried past him like a cornered animal.

Inside the bathroom, everything smelled like her.  The mist that had touched her skin now settled on his own, like a second-hand caress.  Already hard enough to pound nails, he bit into a fresh (really, preposterously small) mint green towel to stifle his groan.

Jamie Fraser now knew two more things about Claire Beauchamp.  He knew what she looked like mostly naked, and he knew he’d never wanted anyone as much as her in his entire life.

[sillypandalover91]

I adore Baxter and even though this guy is fan dubbing him, I absolutely LOVE this voice and am therefore HC him sounding like this.

https://youtu.be/eN0o2n7xDKc

And now for an extra HC that no one asked for but it goes with the one where Alastor likes buying Angel'a merch like the good boyfriend he is:

He is a HUGE fan of Angel's. It all started when he was looking around in a book shop, searching for something to inspire him when he stumbled upon a video tape set of something called The Lady Science Collection. The synopsis on the box claimed that it was some of Angel's best work and that it would be sure to leave any scientist more than satisfied with the contents within.

Curious, Baxter bought it and has been hooked and crushing on Angel ever since. He goes so far as to buy as many videos as possible, or at least he tries to.

Some asshole that goes by the username DeerGentleman34 keeps winning most of the items Baxter is after. What's worse is that it seems like he is being targeted personally.. that or this DeerGentleman is really some horny bastard who has perverted intent with his beautiful Angel.

With misplaced chivalrous feelings fueling him, Baxter creates a device that messes with the binary code on the website. This is outside of Vox's and Velvet's interest so they don't enforce his rule on that part of the web, leaving Bax to do what he wanted so long it didn't blow out the rest of the web.

The next time he bids on an item, he sees that DeerGentleman34 is there also trying to win a body pillow and poster set of Angel possed like a pinup girl and dressed in black lace lingerie and a doctor's coat coquettishly falling off his shoulder's.

What makes this something an absolute must have for any self respecting collector of Angel Dust memorabilia is the fact that this was the first and last time he posed without shoes. His bare feet and legs were only covered by sheer black thigh highs and you can see the heart shaped pads of one of his paws as the other had a red soled high heel clinging to his toes.

As for Angel himself, why, he looked like his best friend had told him the funniest joke he had ever heard because his high spirits could be seen clearly in his lucid eyes.

"I need this," breathed both Baxter and his rival from opposite ends of Pentigram City as they poised themselves for the bidding war.

It's a long one.

Emotions were high.

Bidders slowly backed off as soon as the price fell too far out of what their wallets allowed until it was only him and DeerGentleman34. They paused and allowed the timer to tick down until there were only seconds left.

"Yes, that's right, you imbecile," murmured Baxter as he saw DeerGentleman34 submit a seemingly final blow of 300k and 1 dollar that would have bested his own. "Angel's smile is mine!"

Baxter slammed his gloved claw down on the execute button to activate the program that created a lag for the Deer who thought he deserved this bounty more than him and submitted his own final bid of 300k and 2 dollars then promptly covered his eyes when the screen went black and a pixilized loading image of an imp couting money popped on.

He peaked between his claws and gasped when his username DrAngler44 was shown to be the winner of the lot.

Giggles escaped him as he stared at his spoils being carefully packaged for instant delivery. The chat exploded with both praise and disgruntled curses but Baxter paid it little to no mind. He was far too light with elation that his plan had worked. He found a way to beat DeerGentleman34.

The package was delivered via imp magic and in a puff of purple smoke, his carefully wrapped treasures were delivered right on his courier basket.

Almost reverently, Baxter unwrapped the package starting with the poster. He heard the chat in the background ping with demons begging him to see his treasure as he carefully placed the poster inside a glass frame.

It was even more beautiful in person. The print was obviously of the highest quality and Baxter drank every inch of the masterpiece once he hung it on the wall. He studied it carefully until his eyes landed on the signature at the bottom corner.

"Oh my Satan!" Baxter pushed up his glasses and stared at the neat script.

Anthony Ragno

His face burned. Angel's real name was a sign of authenticity. There were only three if these prints left in existance here he thought he was getting a collector's edition of a reprint! But then did that mean...

Baxter ran back to the box and pulled out the body pillow and stared at Angel's- Anthony's cheek.

There, preserved by magic, was the imprint of Angel's kiss in red lipstick.

He swallowed and hovered his finger tips over it. Angel had actually kissed this pillow. This was his lipstick. That was his handwriting.

He needed to sit down.

Burying his face in his pillow, he couldn't help but giggle again. The giggles turned to laughter. Laughter turned to cackles as he quickly took pictures of both items to show what they really were and uploaded it to the chat.

Baxter hugged his pillow and watched with all the self satisfaction of a demon who screwed someone into handing over their soul as the chat exploded once again. He saw DeerGentleman34's username show that they were typing something out but after a few minutes of the ellipses showing and disappearing, Baxter turned his attention to stare fondly at his pillow.

"I am going to treat you like the treasure you are," he told it. Shame long lost, Baxter leaned into Angel's face and rubbed their noses together.

Sighing happily, he turned to the chat one last time to turn it off when his blood suddenly went cold.

DeerGentleman34 had finally typed out his message.

It didn't bode well for Baxter at all.

DeerGentleman34: You are invited to the Radio Tower, my good fellow. Everyone, stay tuned.

[agilneanrose]

Saltwood Hold

The portal’s sound was nothing that she’d ever get used to, it made her skin itch and her stomach twist until she was positive she would vomit. She never did but the threat was always there to worry her. Was it actually the hum of magic or just what her body sounded like as the magic dismantled her and put her back together somewhere else?  Just the thought made her shudder. 

“Welcome home Lady Sunshield.” Folcard’s gloved hand found her arm as he passed a warm and slightly damp rag to her with the other.  Folcard, Captain of the house guard, had been apart of the Sunshield house when it was nothing but a collection of people within Duskwood attempting to help those that could not leave.. survive. He deserved Saltwood hold and the peace that came from his wife and children.  He deserved the village and the respect they gave him as a leader in the community... what he did not deserve was her vomiting on him.

“Thank you Sir Folcard.” She peeled her eyes open and brought the cloth to her mouth. At once Beth, one of the medics from the village, stepped close to check her health. Not that they were worried she was ill but the portal had been banned from use since the scourge attack on Stormwind and the check was to make sure that Rose was not bringing the infection to them. 

“The village has its festival this week. Everything is decorated for ‘love is in the air’ and you should see it before you leave.” Folcard spoke, watching her carefully as he tried to distract her with the information she would have asked for anyway, eventually.  She had the urge to moan and drool with the inspection but she decided she wanted to live today. There was a soft cough to hide a laugh at her thoughts and once Beth cleared her she stepped away from the portal.

“I promise you I will see to the village before I leave.  There is much to do but there is always time for love festivals. Perhaps we could convince Adamar to come and allow them to dunk him.” The children always liked dunking Adamar, he was so good at being humble and playful. She talked and walked, the knight keeping pace with her. “I need to attend to .. well..” She peered his way, a frown tugging to life. “Mister West states that Lord Sunshield’s body is in the keep - uh..  preserved but hidden.”  

“ I see.” 

“So I am here to see it unveiled and we will make sure that a proper burial is set up. I do believe Sir Korvock offered to say words when we were ready.” Silence eventually found them both as they walked until she paused mid-step to study the keep’s interior. “You’ve put everything back…” She whispered. Her stare moving over the hallway with its paintings, and the banners that had been cut down were not set into place once more.

“I did.” He said firmly. “And the next to remove them will meet my blade. Never again, my lady.”

“Never again.” She agreed, resuming the path she did not want to take but one that must be walked. It was not right, him laying up there as if forgotten. It wasn’t right and she was ashamed of herself.  When they reached the room she hesitated in the doorway, unsure where the body would appear but also preparing herself for the sight. He had been murdered, decapitated.  “Forgive me ..”

Folcard knew she was not speaking to him and remained silent.

“Papa can you hear me?”  They were odd words, words she almost choked on, but they were the words that West said she must speak to release the spell. As the magic shelter fell free, a dome of ice revealed itself. The body inside was fully encased and preserved - he was wearing the clothes that he had worn to their last dinner. She waited, frozen.  Folcard put one hand on the small of her back and pressed. 

She moved forward, stepping into the room and closer to the ice block. 

“Folcard?” 

“Rosemarri?”

“Summon Mister West please and as soon as he steps through that portal? Kill him.”

“Pardon?” He gawked at her. 

Her body hit the ground, knees first, and then over she went. Folcard remained in the doorway, a wary expression contorting his features. Something was wrong and he couldn’t decide if it was wrong with the room or the ice block.  His sword drawn in a way that most assuredly his bold wife would laugh at him for, he wiggled it in the air just past the door’s frame before he stepped in.  Waited. Then another step.  He was fine? He was fine.  He took a knee beside the downed noblewoman and curled his arm beneath her head, drawing her fragile body upward but then he froze. His body still. Cold. 

The face within the ice block had turned their way, dead black eyes stared unseeing at the two on the floor. Whoever that was… it was not Lord Sunshield. @huck-west

@theoldlord @honorablecombat

[arcticdementor]

The last few weeks have been a profoundly radicalizing experience.

Before the COVID-19 crisis entered into its current phase, it was reasonable to argue that the post-2016 counter-disinformation effort was based on good intentions but had serious flaws and was entering a state of diminishing returns. The Internet and social media, in destabilizing traditional gatekeepers and spreading lies and half-truths, had created a dangerous vacuum that was being filled by malicious actors. You could disagree with the details of the diagnosis and prognosis, and disagree even more with the proposed treatments, but the underlying assumptions themselves at least could be said to have validity. But what a difference a few weeks makes.

The COVID-19 fiasco is revealing, in a very short period of time, that much of these assumptions are totally wrong. And continuing to act on them is not just misguided but harmful. Doing so compounds the costs of the failures that we have witnessed and hampers efforts that – however imperfect – provide alternatives to them. Why?

…

It is difficult to express how badly almost all legacy “expert systems” simultaneously underperformed during the initial phases of the crisis. Here is a tiny sample of this failure, a failure whose human consequences grow by the day as a cold, inhuman, and utterly ruthless killer relentlessly searches for new targets.

…

It is an exaggeration to say that fringe weirdos on social media often were more well-informed than people that exclusively evaluated mainstream sources, but not that much of an exaggeration as most would think. And that is not accidental. As Ben Thompson noted, the global COVID-19 response depended on an enormous amount of information developed and shared often in defiance of traditional media (which underrated and even mocked concern about the crisis) and even the Center for Disease Control (which attempted to suppress the critical Seattle Flu Study). The response still depends primarily on transnational networks and often must operate around rather than through official channels.

Taken together, all of this is astounding in both its scope and simultaneity. And it makes a mockery out of the cottage industry developed over the last few years to preserve our collective epistemic health.

…

But as we have seen, these institutions are perfectly capable of unraveling themselves without much help from Russian bots and trolls and Macedonian teenagers. And if the fish rots from the head, then the counter-disinformation effort becomes actively harmful. It seeks to gentrify information networks that could offer layers of redundancy in the face of failures from legacy institutions. It is reliant on blunt and context-indifferent collections of bureaucratic and mechanical tools to do so. It leaves us with a situation in which complicated computer programs on enormous systems and overworked and overburdened human moderators censor information if it runs afoul of generalized filters but malicious politicians and malfunctioning institutions can circulate misleading or outright false information unimpeded. And as large content platforms are being instrumentalized by these same political and institutional entities to combat “fraud and misinformation,” this basic contradiction will continue to be heightened.

The cardinal sin motivating all of this is worrying about whether we trust institutions without asking if these institutions normatively deserve trust, whether it is possible for trust to emerge in the absence of agreement about underlying causes of social problems, and most importantly how subjective trust in authorities can be achieved without objective action.

…

Don’t think carefully. Trust expertise. Sit down and go back to watching television. You’ll only make things worse if you do anything. Many of these op-eds – which now have aged horribly in very short periods of time – emphasized public cognitive deficits in evaluating risk. But a novel virus – in a climate of partial and often distorted information – is not so much a problem of risk as much as it is an issue of uncertainty. Uncertainty nonetheless requires bold action, even if action must occur in conditions where even post-hoc information may not fully reveal all of the relevant decision parameters. And more importantly, responsibility is not equal. The nature of the modern ‘risk society’ is such that the impact of individual actions are swamped by those of large institutions and risk is often systematically passed off to society’s losers.

…

Western society fetishizes the appearance of leadership even as actual leaders recede into a malfunctioning technocratic machine that prunes individual agency and leaves behind only a phantom limb sensation of what once was, Hobson and Bristow explain

…

But is there an alternative to this? What can we do? This post will not give a pat answer, but it will once again reference Thompson’s observation about how the Internet fulfilled much of its original promise and other more traditional information management systems underperformed.

…

What it means is that in the next crisis, reliance on legacy institutions alone to save us is a collective suicide pact. Tradeoffs are inevitable in any complex endeavor, and as Thompson has argued we need to tilt the balance further towards opening up control of information transmission and communication in spite of what we have painfully learned about the false promise that technology will save us from ourselves. This is not about salvation, it is about survival. Reframing the question offers much clarification about possible answers and takes us away from debates that have become stale and uninformative.

We need only look back, as Thompson does, to the origins of the Internet to see that beneath the hyperbole about digital life washing away everything else is a basic concern for survival and resilience under severe strain. And this is the best place to start before we do anything else. In the long run, we must repair or rebuild the legacy systems that failed. Starting over from scratch is simply not an option. “Year Zero” approaches are tremendously destructive and attempts at creating planned societies ex nihilo do not work. But in the short and near term we must create alternatives. These alternatives can over time help us make older systems better. And, quite frankly, building robust alternatives may provide legacy institutions with the incentive to either rise to their obligations or be rendered irrelevant.

Waiting for them to get better on their own or hoping they will change without being prodded is like waiting for the authorities to tell you the right time to stock up on quarantine supplies. Don’t bet your life on it.

[squaaash]

something familiar

a fic inspired by this lovely drawing by @sidetrek because the idea just would not leave me alone

Read on AO3

Summary: Aziraphale is laid out on the couch, seemingly asleep. This is not shocking.

What is shocking, however, is the giant black snake coiled around him from head to toe.

Anathema and Newt drop by the bookshop and make a startling discovery. Aziraphale and Crowley are just trying to have a lazy Saturday morning.

Keep reading:

Aziraphale and Crowley had recently developed a tradition on Saturday mornings.

The past winter had been particularly cold and bitter, and Crowley often had a bit of an issue keeping warm. His cold-blooded origins weren’t helped by his lanky form and bony extremities, so he enjoyed spending his nights snuggled up against his space-heater of an angel.

Aziraphale woke one morning to very peculiar sensation. He felt almost swaddled. The gentle pressure and weight elicited a pleasant feeling in his chest that warmed him to his very core.

He opened his eyes to find a large serpentine head resting on his sternum, still dead to the world, with an incredibly peaceful expression on his face. Crowley has shifted forms (likely without waking, Aziraphale surmises) and successfully coiled himself around Aziraphale’s entire body, the end of his tail brushing against his ankles as it lazily swung back and forth. The warmth in the angel’s chest grows. He can feel the love radiating off of the sleeping serpent, and does his best ensure that he feels the same in return, extending his contented aura outward and brushing his thumb gently over the snake’s head.

But then Crowley wakes and the lazy Saturday morning spell is broken. The serpent’s eyes widen, and suddenly they’re peering out of Crowley’s human face instead. He’s lying flush on Aziraphale’s front, his arms and legs wrapped soundly around him. Aziraphale would find himself endeared by the blush rising on the demon’s cheeks if it weren’t for his absolutely shamefaced expression.

“Sssorry, I didn’t mean to–”

Aziraphale rests his hand on Crowley’s cheek, running his thumb across his cheek before carding his fingers back through his hair. Crowley closes his eyes, sighing pleasantly at the sensation.

“Don’t apologize, my love.”

Crowley rests his cheeks against Aziraphale’s chest, still looking somewhat crestfallen. He focuses on the steady thump-thump of his angel’s human heart. “But I–”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Surely you’d rather not cuddle with a reptile.”

“I think you’re underestimating what a good cuddler you are in your serpentine form.”

Crowley tilts his head to better see Aziraphale, a look of quiet awe on his face. A look that reveals all his fear. That he doesn’t deserve this, that Aziraphale is simply humoring him, is too good for him, that he’ll misstep in his usual demonic way and Aziraphale will leave him and that’s just the way the world is meant to be.

Aziraphale kisses the doubt right off of Crowley’s face.

Slowly but surely, Crowley allowed himself to become comfortable sleeping coiled around Aziraphale in his serpentine form. On Saturdays, Aziraphale would leave the shop closed until the late afternoon so that he and Crowley could bask in the sunlight that streamed in through the front window and onto his well-loved sofa. (He knew that Crowley was particularly fond of the way that the golden light warmed his scales. On the rare occasion that Aziraphale woke first, he loved watching the serpent sleep, tracing his fingers along his spine. He rarely saw him so relaxed.)

This random Saturday morning in March, while rainy and dreary, should have been like all the others. Except for the fact that it wasn’t.

---------

Anathema Device knew that Crowley and Aziraphale were not… people, per se.

Their auras were tinged with something pearlescent and odd-looking that her eyes could never manage to focus on long enough to truly see what it was. Not to mention the odd little magic tricks they would perform now and again, under the impression that Anathema wouldn’t notice that there always happened to be a tray of fresh tea and little sandwiches on the coffee table whenever she and Newt would pop in for a visit. (She did notice.)

Not long after the failed Armageddon, Anathema had come across an unfamiliar contact in her cellphone saved under the name of “A.Z. Fell and Co.” Upon calling the number, Aziraphale feigned ignorance as to how the number came to be in her possession but invited her to stop by the shop anytime if she’d like to take a peek at his extensive library.

And thus, Anathema and Newt had a very odd new friend.

Whenever they were in London they’d stop by the shop, knocking on the door if it happened to be closed. (Anathema learned very quickly that the shop wasn’t for the purpose of selling books so much as storing them, but after a few trial runs to ensure that she was trustworthy, Aziraphale was more than happy to let her borrow to her heart’s content.) While bumbling and awkward at times, the man was sweet as all get-out and knew his books well enough to debate them to the earth’s end. Eventually, Anathema was dragging Newt into the city at least once a week to accompany her and discuss Aziraphale’s vast collection of literature, so it really should have only been a matter a time until they ran into his red-headed companion.

Except Anathema was fairly certain that Crowley was avoiding the bookshop whenever she and Newt were there. In fact, she was absolutely certain. Mainly because she once spotted him out the front window of the shop over Aziraphale’s shoulder as he was ranted passionately about Oscar Wilde’s Garden of Eros. He stopped in his tracks when he spotted the young couple on Aziraphale’s couch and slumped his shoulders dramatically, making an exasperated expression before turning on his heel and briskly walking away. So, yeah. Anathema could say with confidence that Crowley was avoiding them.

It all came to a head on a rainy morning in March.

Anathema and Newt had plans to be back in Tadfield in the early afternoon for Pepper’s birthday party, but Anathema had accumulated a rather large hoard of finished books and felt too guilty to hold onto them for any longer. She figured that Aziraphale didn’t really seem the type for a lie in and that popping in and out around ten in the morning shouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience.

Perhaps she should’ve thought that through.

Anathema can immediately tell that something is off. She’s holding a stack of books up to her chin so Newt knocks heavily on the door, knowing that Aziraphale sometimes can’t hear from his back room, but the door swings open easily. They exchange a look. Aziraphale generally does whatever he can to keep people out of his shop At All Costs, and leaving the door unlocked is… out of character, to say the least.

Anathema worries her lip between her teeth as she nudges her way past Newt, opening the door further with her shoulder, quieting his stuttered protests with a quirked eyebrow in his direction. Surely, if something was wrong, Aziraphale wouldn’t mind them letting themselves in. She looks back towards his desk, as they often find him wrapped up in his notes and annotations, but his chair sits empty. She’s only distantly aware of Newt following her timidly into the store until she hears a strangled gasp.

She whirls around and follows Newt’s wide-eyed gaze before squeaking in shock at the sight.

Aziraphale is laid out on the couch, seemingly asleep. This is not shocking.

What is shocking, however, is the giant black snake coiled around him from head to toe.

It appears to be sleeping as well, resting its large head on Aziraphale’s chest, slung over his shoulders and wrapped around his torso, winding around his right leg with its tail curled at his ankle.

“What the– I mean, well I can tell that it’s– But, I–” Newt whispers, struggling to form proper sentences. “What the fuck is this? Is he a witch? Is this a witch thing?”

“I mean, maybe,” Anathema hisses back. The snake, which doesn’t look like anything she’d imagine is native to the UK, is bigger and heftier than anything she’s seen in a zoo. The longer Anathema looks at it, she realizes that it’s giving off an aura of its own, intertwining with Aziraphale’s until one is indistinguishable from the other.

“Has he been, like, cursed or something?” A look of realization passes over Newt’s face, and he gapes anew. “Oh my god, is he dead?!”

Anathema narrows her eyes, studying the man carefully for the rise and fall of his chest. “I don’t think so.” She steps forward to look more closely, but her movement startles Newt and he throws his arm out, instinctually wanting to put himself between Anathema and the snake.

But all he succeeds in doing is sending her very impressive stack of books to the floor with a large crash.

A couple of things happen at once.

Aziraphale starts awake, clutching at the large serpent, still sluggish from sleep as he slurs, “Wha’s goin’ on?” Simultaneously, the snake’s eyes fly open, a brilliant gold hue, as it rears up protectively over Aziraphale, hissing in surprise and ready to strike against its perceived attackers. As people with just an inkling of self-preservation, Anathema and Newt scurry backward, but Anathema trips over one of the fallen books, taking Newt down with her when she scrambles to steady herself on his arm.

Anathema stills as she sees something peculiar in the snake’s eyes. It’s a startlingly human expression that looks almost like recognition before transforming into something akin to embarrassment. And then the snake is gone.

And red-headed gentleman is in its place, staring back at them with the same golden, serpentine eyes. Crowley.

What the fuck.

Unfortunately, the sudden appearance of a grown man on the couch sends (a still very sleepy) Aziraphale careening off of the couch and onto the floor with a pathetic sounding oof, from where he finally spots Anathema and Newt.

“Oh, lord. Crowley, dear, did you lock the door when you came in last night?”

Crowley sits stock still on the couch, his voice thin as he deadpans, “Obviousssly not, angel.”

Anathema regains her voice first, tentatively venturing, “So, you’re a snake?”

Aziraphale winces. Crowley maintains a carefully blank expression as he says, “Uh-huh.”

Something occurs to Anathema. Between the strange auras and generally peculiar behavior, it wouldn’t be the craziest conclusion to draw. “Are you Aziraphale’s familiar?”

“As in a familiar to a witch? You think that I’m a witch?” Aziraphale asks with an odd look on his face, not dissimilar to a parent trying their hardest to not let a child know that they’re displeased.

Anathema nods hesitantly.

Crowley sputters and then absolutely cackles. Aziraphale shoots him a thoroughly unimpressed look and he laughs even harder, tears streaming down his face. Eventually, he stops wheezing and wipes the tears from his face. “Oh, that was really good. Thank you for that, I’ll never let that go. A witch. Ha!”

“So,” Newt furrows his brow, “If you’re not a witch and a familiar, what are you two?”

Aziraphale exhales, looking rather chagrined.

“You know, I thought you said they knew?” Crowley asks, raising one eyebrow.

“Well, I thought it was fairly obvious.”

“It’s not actually–Hey!” Newt attempts to interject, only to be cut off when Anathema elbows him in the side. It makes her feel slightly guilty, but she has a desperate need to be in control right now, as there’s nothing she hates more than feeling out of her depth.

Aziraphale and Crowley exchange a look, seemingly have an entire conversation in a few moments without saying anything at all, each man wearing a combination of sheepishness and exasperation, until they appear to reach an agreement.

“Get up off the floor, angel,” Crowley tugs Aziraphale up off the floor to sit next to him on the sofa, before looking to Newt and Anathema. “Alright, kiddies, pull up a chair.”

They scramble upwards, not particularly interested in disobeying the unknown supernatural entities, no matter how many times they’ve shared tea.

“Well,” Aziraphale clasps his hands together, suddenly smiling pleasantly. “In the beginning, in the Garden, there was– Well, he was a wily old Serpent and I was technically on apple tree duty. And I–” He cuts himself off as Crowley sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I love you, angel, but you do this every time,” Aziraphale opens his mouth to protest but Crowley turns to their guests. “Anathema. Newton. This is Aziraphale, Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate. He is an angel in the literal sense. My name is Crowley. I am a demon, also in the literal sense. Any questions?”

It’s painfully quiet for a moment. Newt chuckles uncomfortably. Anathema shoots him an incredulous look. He stops. She needs to process this.

“So you’re, like, the snake? From the Garden of Eden?”

“Yup.”

“And you’re an angel? Halo? Wings? Harp?”

“Wings, yes. The halo and the harp are a bit of a stereotype, my dear.”

“And you guys are,” She searches for the right word, “Partners?”

Crowley snorts at her dumbstruck expression. “Yup.”

“Well, that’s…” Newt weighs his words, “Bizarre.”

“I suppose so, Mr. Pulsifer,” Aziraphale says, more to Crowley than Newt as he takes the demon’s hand, smiling sweetly at him. Crowley smiles back before averting his gaze to downward, clearly attempting to contain a much bigger grin. “Now was there something you two needed, barging in here on a Saturday morning?”

“Oh!” Anathema hops on from her chair to gather the books from the floor as she abashedly explains. “I was hoping to return these to you because we have to be a Pepper’s birthday party this afternoon, she’s a friend of Adam’s. We’re really sorry for intruding, but your door was unlocked, and that was so unlike you that we were a bit concerned.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale’s expression softens at that. “Well, I understand my dear, an honest mistake. Do pass our regards along to young Miss Pepper.”

“Of course! And would it be alright if we stopped back in tomorrow? I just finished The Cloud Atlas and I’d really love to discuss it with you.” She smiles hopefully, if somewhat sheepish.

“That would be delightful, Anathema.”

As they're making their way out of the shop, Anathema pauses and turns back for a moment. “And I’d love to see you around sometime, Mr. Crowley, and maybe we could all get to know each other better.”

Crowley quickly masks his surprise, settling on a subtly content expression. “Why, yes, Miss Device, I think that would be lovely.”

Perhaps now they would have two very odd new friends.

Once they’re sat in Dick Turpin once again, on their way back to Tadfield, Newt asks Anathema, “So, that all really happened right?”

“Mhm.”

“Giant snake?”

“Mhm.”

“Your book club buddy is an angel.”

“Yup.”

“And his boyfriend is a demon.”

“Seems so.”

“Right. Just checking.”

[cleverbroadwayurl]

Chiaroscuro Portraiture (Connor Murphy x Artist!Reader)

Word Count: 3070

A/N: Okay so I attempted to get this done because I felt bad about not posting so uhh if this isn’t what you wanted, please tell me and I will fix it. I tried to kinda do like what McEwan does in Atonement because let’s be real that fluffy language is amazing. But uhh yeah again: I do take criticism if it’s not up to your standards, just let me know!

Trigger Warnings: uhh kissing, language, Zoe being angry, IF I MISSED ANYTHING PLEASE LET ME KNOW

Taglist: @catatonic-kuragin 

Connor didn’t mean to take a shower at 1:30 in the morning. It just sort of happened. He didn’t mean to walk past Zoe’s room when the door was cracked, it just happened. And he definitely didn’t mean to eavesdrop on the events unfolding second by second. It just kinda happened.

Of course, the staying behind to continue to listen to the conversation was a conscious decision. He’d made himself comfortable, perfectly unseen in the hallway by you and Zoe, just outside the cracked door that emitted a sliver of light. You two had been doing this for years, since before eighth grade. God, was that right? You’d been best friends with Zoe for over 4 years? He shrugged the thought off as he lowered himself to the floor, choosing to sit—sitting wouldn’t attract attention, wouldn’t make any extra noise. It would swear him to secrecy, which is exactly what he wanted. While each sentence that left your lips was inaudible, Zoe was loud. She knew her entire house would be asleep, well, unless Connor himself didn’t feel like it. But she also knew that he wouldn’t walk over and tell her to shut up. Not with you here, at least. “Oh! I remember this!” she exclaimed, followed by bangs and crashes. “Your old sketchbook! I wanna see your progress! Show me!”

That’s right, that yellow book that was bound with little metal pieces. The special paper that never seemed to flap in the wind but could catch shading like nobody’s business. He could remember you sitting in biology at the large black tables, eyes squinted in concentration towards the back of the classroom where the windows were. He always assumed you were drawing the spidery veins of branches outside, noticing how with each passing cold day, they would get bleaker and bleaker, until he assumed you were drawing something that would look like broken glass on a page. But in the summer, at the beginning of the school year, the leaves canopied the trail that the track and cross-country assholes would take to “condition” for their meets. As the year would go on, the trail would be used less and less; around Halloween, it was always muddy, and then always covered in gross slush by the time Winter came along. He assumed you liked to draw in the footprints of the poor people who had to still use those trails after a particularly rainy day. He guessed it would make for a cool drawing, at the very least.

He could remember you doing that a lot, noticing in the fall light how your hair perfectly framed your face, the light hitting it in such a way that almost made you look more delicate than those glass figurines that his mom had collected when he and Zoe were babies. Your eyes would scrunch at the windows, getting that new twig barely notable by the passing eye, but everything to you. You must’ve drawn those same trees often—Connor didn’t usually pay attention to his classmates, but he could distinctly remember you sketching like that, day after day. That had to mean you did it often. So yeah, Zoe had a point; your art must’ve gotten better as the years went on and as you kept pulling it out to do a new study of some new art term Connor had never heard before.

Connor could also remember you in his house sometime over the summer, or was it last year, sketching something in the room. Zoe would always claim to be studying with you as he lazily made a sandwich after his hellish school day, and yet somehow still irritating Zoe. He could remember you trying to capture how the light just barely lit the room in a golden glow and attempting to get each curve and angle of the room just right. He assumed you used softer leaded pencils for the walls, giving it texture that it deserved. If Connor didn’t know any better, you’d be getting into some high class college for architecture, right angles so sharp you could swear it would prick your finger by just running it over the page.

And there was of course the library. You’d always sketch in the library. Sitting at the same table, you’d construct your artistry with nothing more than imagination, a pencil, and some special paper. He’d only been in there to get a book, any book, to convince someone that he was actually doing work and actually trying. Maybe do something for his mom for once, or perhaps himself. But you were there, carefully crafting your version of the bookstacks and cases around you. It was a solid 20 minutes of him looking before he could hear you uncap that special pen with the felt tip and black ink that could stain every piece of paper if you weren’t careful enough. The angles must have been perfect that time; pen is permanent. With another glance at the aisle Connor had been in, he spotted the book he needed: Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?. A nod to the librarian, and a quick glance back at you, he was off.

And then—

“Wait a second. Why are most of these done as portraiture? You hate drawing faces. And more importantly, why are they of Connor?!”

Connor misheard something. He had to have. When did you have the time, the effort, or even the means to draw him? Zoe was right, why draw him when he wasn’t anything special? Silence didn’t last long, Zoe’s demanding continuing.

“Some of these are dating like months, fuck, years ago?!”

He finally heard your voice through the cracked door as his eyes remained wide and trained onto one of the hardwood floorboards. “Zoe I can explain.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Zoe—”

“I’m serious, don’t go in depth about how much you adore my brother. I don’t want to hear it.”

Zoe bolted out of the room, completely missing Connor outside of her door as she did so. She stepped down the stairs quickly, stomping on every step as she did so, her steps almost percussive as her anger. The door nearly slammed in the draft that followed her speed, but Connor caught the white door with his foot, carefully making sure that it wouldn’t slam and actually wake up the whole house. With that same foot, he opens the door a little wider so he can actually peer in, curious about the sketches in question.

The only light that’s on is Zoe’s bedside lamp. There’s a soft glow around the room, similar to lighting a dozen candles and leaving them as the sun sets past twilight into dusk. The colorful clock against the pink shaded lamp says a harsh 2:06 AM. Had he really been out there for half an hour? His eyes shift to you, who is crumpled on Zoe’s bed. He doesn’t need to look closer to know, to understand that you’re upset. You’d just caused some kind of conflict between you and your best friend of however many years it’d been now. It probably looked like you betrayed Zoe, using her only to get to him. It’s at this moment that Connor decides to slowly step in, but is wary of the things that are on the ground.

Your sketchbook catches his eye, the beat up book open to a sketch of him, the shadows of his face darkened by a bold marker, the lights done by a hard leaded pencil. The date underneath the drawing is marked last week, showing off your progress beautifully. Connor can’t come up with any words at first. It’s…perfect, which sounded dumb to him. It perfectly took each aspect of Connor and threw it onto a page. If anyone looked at it, they would easily be able to tell exactly what Connor was like, exactly what his mannerisms were, and they would be able to easily distinguish one mood from another. It’s almost a brighter version of himself staring back at him, one who looks so confident but so lost. And Connor remained speechless, unsure of how to express his feelings.

Another minute went by before he actually said something: “Fuck, that’s really good.” A sniffle practically erupts from you before you look up at him. The two of you make eye contact, and in a swift attempt to grab the book, it ends up in Connor’s slender fingers. He begins thumbing through the pages, his eyes grazing over each and every line, every erased mark, every place you’d used pen instead of pencil, each shading variation, each curl you’d drawn; every single time you chose to draw him in a different light than he could’ve ever imagined. None of them were did in color, almost as if you were preserving the pages, as if you’d scan them in and color them digitally so you could get the blending just right. His eyes flew over dates as he kept turning, pupils dilating at each new sketch; the first drawing he’d seen was dated a little over a year and a half ago.

Then there’s one he can place; it must’ve been an exam day or something in biology because he could see the trees behind him, each branch perfectly placed, almost like someone had altered a photo rather than drawn it out. The leaves were somewhat there, the lush summer branches fading away into fall. But they’re there enough that Connor knows this was drawn at the beginning of the year—only some of the leaves are shaded in to show their differing colors. Purple was done in a dark grey, a softer lead, while green leaves were almost stark white, done in a harder leaded pencil. They were outlined beautifully by a pen, or perhaps many different pens.

Then it hits him—you didn’t care about the trees. You weren’t getting the perfect pitch of the ceilings in the kitchen that sat downstairs, memories burning onto the sketchbook’s pages. You weren’t trying to capture the world in a new light. You had been trying to get him in different shadings—a test in chiaroscuro. He had to hand it to you, each sketch was done artfully, completely taking each curve of his face and each line flowing directly into another, but in such a way you’d gotten every little thought that had ran through his head on that particular date. Connor’s heart started beating a little harder as his hands got a little sweaty, eyes still trained on one particular drawing and the way the pen swirled on the page. He licked his lips before speaking up again, not even bothering to tear his eyes away. “All of them are actually, really fucking good.”

He heard you shift forward, Zoe’s bed making that too familiar creak he usually heard from the other side of the wall. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he finally looked up and locked eyes with you. It was obvious you were upset—which was a dumb thought, Connor realized. Of course you were upset. Your best friend just stormed out of the room and down the stairs because you’d been artfully drawing wonderful images of her brother. Pink surrounded the color of your eyes, your waterline more prominent than Connor had ever seen before. It was his turn to study your face, each contour in the dull light of the stupid pink lamp Zoe had gotten when she had turned 13. Your facial features cracked, a smile finally escaping through the blurry clouds that had been drawn up around you. “I mean, I’m not an art critic or anything, but I love them.”

“Oh.” It was a suppression of something, Connor couldn’t tell what—your eyes flicked to the floorboards. “Thank you.”

He nodded before stepping forward, wire bounded notebook being extended out towards you. You took it gently, almost as if the moment would be ruined by sharp, abstract movements. There was a moment of nothing, your eyes meeting his again, before you started going through the drawings just as Connor had. No words were exchanged, they didn’t need to be, as he sat down on the bed next to you, admiring your hard work. He hadn’t gone through all of them, that much was apparent even in the darkness. Your style changed as the dates became more and more present, almost grabbing Connor in a new way that he couldn’t even fathom—when he was in a bad mood, the lines were sharp, almost making him look stuck in an abstract world that consumed him. You had started to include white pencil to highlight the lights of his face and the darks that seemed to surround him at any given point. There was one that Connor had been smiling, the stark contrast of grid to fluid making itself clear. White colored pencil littered that page, giving his cheeks and overall vibe almost a sunshine attitude. He wasn’t even sure how you’d done that, how you’d caught him smiling so long that you actually could draw it out. Your latest date appears, only two days ago before you start to close the book.

There’s a moment of nothing, completely dullness except the yellow that blanketed the room. With another beat, he looks up, a newfound fondness of you completely taking over, heart ablaze like someone had used your sketchbook as kindling for something—anything other than numbness. It’s now that Connor realizes he was leaning into you, getting closer and closer until this very second—faces inches apart and eyes scanning, searching, almost fleeing around memorizing each color of your eyes. The pink is almost gone, and you start to lean forwards, eyes not deciding what they want to look at: his eyes or his lips. The space is closing more and more, the process expedited as Connor begins to mirror your actions, the moonlight outside now seeming like the only thing that’s illuminating in the room. Before proceeding, he pulls away for a second, deciding that maybe he was just misreading cues from you. You could just be trying to get up to find Zoe, soon leaving the house and out of Connor’s life. But he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want this to end, he wants to know the curves of your face, the way you look when everything is geometric and scheduled and when everything is fluid and free, the white pencil contrasted with the black marker, each level of shading on your face. He wanted to know you at your lightest and darkest, when the leaves are lush to the leaves die and make the windows look cracked from the inside. It’s another moment until he finally gets the grip he needs, asking you “Can I kiss you?”

You nod eagerly, hands already snaking around the back of his neck and pulling him closer. He resists for a second, a mumbled “I need a verbal yes or no. Otherwise I worry that I crossed a boundary,” escaping him.

“Yes,” is exhaled from you onto Connor’s lips, giving him full access to everything he didn’t know he needed or fuck wanted until this moment. There’s a level of softness to the moment your lips grazed his, the laziness of the night consuming both of you. Relaxation seeps into the kiss as it deepens, providing a sense of warmth that could only be described as rosy cheeks and whipped cream. It’s here that Connor realizes that his heart had skipped a beat, the pink organ working in tandem with yours, blossoming into something spontaneous and wonderful with you. Connor’s hands glide from where they were to your face, almost capturing the light you’re giving him, an ability to feel like the sun is inside of his hands as the kiss deepens further. Everything is synched—a puzzle finally put together by warm light and soft touches. Something erupts in Connor and he can only hope the same from you, it’s a sense of fluff, a sense of complete and total comfort and security, almost as if someone had come in here and wrapped you and him in a blanket as silent snow fell outside. It was heated, like a warm shower after a night in the rain, but soft, sweet, something fluttering from inside into the outside. It was almost like this was something long awaited, and better than expected; far better than expected.

Footsteps stomped up the stairs, and the air turned cold, a firm reminder that the world could touch them. Connor already knew what it was—Zoe was coming back from making hot chocolate downstairs. The darkness of the room returned, almost blinding to Connor as he attempts to smoothly get out of the room before Zoe sees and gets even more upset. Purples plague the walls, steps coming louder and louder as he practically stumbles out of the room, hoping that his sister wasn’t looking up as she went upstairs. With a sharp glide out of the room and into the complete darkness of the void, Zoe slipped in and began to talk to you about something he couldn’t quite hear.

Shuffling down the hall so he isn’t heard, Connor recounts the events in his head. Maybe that had been a bad idea. Maybe the warmth around you two as you kissed was just something to dwell on but never have. Maybe it was better this way.

Fuck that. He slipped into bed, covering himself with the covers, still imagining your hands around him, circling him with warm light that rivaled sunlight at the end of the first warm day of spring after a harsh winter in the Northeast. He attempted to get that from his blankets, but couldn’t. He craved that moment now that he’d had a taste of it, every contradiction, line break, finally forming into a continuum, an image of your smiling self depicted by the lines that finally painted a beautiful picture of life. He needed everything you offered: the darks, the lights, the curves, the edges. Connor craved it as he rolled over, eyes closing for the night, the last image in his head of you artfully crafting him on the page before smiling at him in that way you always do. His heart skips a beat before falling into a smooth rhythm, breathing following the pattern as the world washed away in the golden light that consumed him.

[forlorninquiry]

Random writing prompt: after LWJ returns from the Xuanwu Cave, him bidding farewell to his absentee father on his death bed.

Though the retreat was a burnt shell of its past self, Lan Wangji knew exactly where to go to. All news he received on his way back from the Xuanwu Cave indicated that he was losing precious time before all chance of making the final farewell to his father would vanish. Though he badly wanted to revisit and relive the moments with Wei Ying in that cave, he found he couldn’t stop thinking about how nothing kept him now from returning to Cloud Recesses to face what awaited him there. 

Gusu Lan was shrouded in a damp, cold mist that weighed heavily on everyone he limped past. He could feel their eyes on him, adding their collective sympathies to his burdens. Lan Wangji wished they would not look at him like at, or at all. What did they whisper to each other behind his back? Though the muted, dismal atmosphere was oppressive, Lan Wangji did not stop to rest - not even at the top of the stairs to the retreat when his leg nearly folded under him, exhausted and struggling to bear his weight up the final stair. It did not ease as he made his way slowly to the house of his father. 

Lan Qiren, holding a vigil over the lying form of his brother, greets his nephew with a lift of his head. Neither man spoke to each other, at first. The grim silence and exchange of melancholic glances hold all the meaning he needs and with an invisible hand wrenching his heart, he walks heavily into the room. Lan Qiren rises to his feet. With a heavy hand on his nephew’s shoulder, he murmurs softly that QingHeng-Jun already knew that Lan Huan would not present. Then, he withdraws to leave father and son alone. 

Holding his breath as though afraid of the simple act, Lan Wangji painstakingly lowered himself to his knees to sit on his ankles. His leg throbbed and raged with pain, but he told himself that he would take care of it later. Now was not the time for himself when there were others to tend to.

Amber eyes search the gaunt, once handsome face of his father. Like father, like sons… the similarities were normally easy to spot, but they were haunting to see now. Was this what he and Lan Xichen would look like if death came for them too early and too slowly to preserve their dignity? He is deathly pale, and his lips are ashen. For a brief, passing moment he feared that he was too late and he blinked away the stinging at his eyes. But his father’s eyelids trembled just before opening; his lips parted and he sucked in a breath with great effort. 

He cast his eyes about him before they came to rest on the face of his youngest son. Black eyes peered into amber ones, and for a long moment in silence a nameless emotion roiled in the older man’s eyes. “Lan Zhan,” he whispered after a seemingly endless moment. Lan Wangji wonders for a fraction of a second if he had to make sure which son he was looking at. Had he hoped to see one over the other, even knowing that the eldest of his sons would not be able to come?

The quiet was too fragile, but he responded in a similarly breathless voice. “Father…” 

His father strains to lift a shaking hand, but Lan Wangji quickly lays his warm hand over it in a silent urging for the older man to rest. The skin is cold under his. Whoever’s hand was trembling more, he does not know.

A wordless silence continues. The only sound that passes for a long while is his father’s labored rasps as he works to earn the breath to speak. Lan Wangji thinks with his eyes downcast at where his hands cover the other over his chest. He had spent the entire journey back to Gusu wondering what he would say to him. There was no chance to craft final words for his mother, and he was too young to understand what happened back then. But he had the opportunity to do so now for the other parent, whose life was cut short.

It felt inequitable to Lan Wangji that the sorrow he felt, and would feel, for the man who helped to give him life, who spent nearly all his life in seclusion, who became a detached and distant man, who held little emotional meaning to him would not match the sum of the anguish that consumed and remade him into a stranger of who he could have been after the death of his mother: the woman whose memories he preserved carefully in the deepest recesses of his thoughts like ice curating a creature that succumbed to winter’s cruelty. It made him feel guilty, warping and twisting at his carefully crafted veneer. There was more to remember for her, than for him. Was this due to some sort of failure of his own making? Did this make him a failure?

His father deserved better. He deserved the son he was closest with to be here, not him. But he isn’t here, Lan Zhan reminds himself with a rending tear in his chest as his eyebrows knit together, and Lan Xichen would not be here in time. Having to say farewell for him was a bitter burden that thus fell to him, and he worried that he would not be sufficient to ease his father’s spirit. He worried that he would be doing both his father and his brother a disservice. 

Looking back into the face of his father, he sees with shame that he had been seeking eye contact with his youngest son. His lips were moving, and Lan Wangji gripped his hand in his and leaned forward to converse with QingHeng-Jun.

Though he later passed along the final words specifically for the eldest son, whatever was said between father and the youngest was never repeated again. 

Outside, Lan Qiren waited with his arms hanging loosely at his side and his expressionless face tipped towards the sky. Some time later, he heard Lan Wangji slowly get to his feet and walk unevenly towards him. The door slid open and when it closed, Lan Zhan was standing beside his uncle. Lan Qiren turned his head to study his nephew, whose head was turned such that his black hair veiled his face. Though he was not close in heart to him, he understood him nearly as well as Lan Xichen did. Through the way his slow and deep intakes of breath shuddered, he could sense his nephew’s heartbroken struggle to conceal the intensity that threatened to break his calm mask. Perhaps there ought to be something said just now, Lan Qiren thought to himself, but he also trusted his nephew without question to make the beginning attempts to navigate the ways of grief. Later, there could be intervention. 

Lan Wangji seemed to grow still as he gathered the cracking pieces of himself. “He asks for you,” he said stiffly just before he starts to leave. Lan Qiren uttered a calm but heartfelt thanks, and once again placed a firm and grounding hand on his shoulder as he turned to the door. Before opening it, he took one last look at Lan Zhan and watched him stagger down the stairs. 

When he returned from the healers to the privacy of his own house and finally sat down on the edge of his bed, Lan Wangji allowed the deep wells of anguish to seep and push through the cracks that reappeared. That night, the mourning seemed nearly as endless as the streams and falls that carved the mountains he called home. 

[mittensmcedgelord]

The Truth Will Set You Free

The truth will set you free, but lieu of truth a different kind of lie can suffice.

Exhausted of vague plans and repetitious assurance, Mim seeks out Mikhaila in the hopes of getting answers no one else will give him. What he finds are more questions, ones with far sharper edges than he bargained for.

(This is so long. I am so sorry. This update has been sitting in my documents, waiting for @wandering-chronicler-blog to edit it for the 25th time before I posted. And somehow it kept getting longer. )

You’re a good human.

 You’re a good person.

 You’re as good as Morgan.

 You’re better than Morgan.

 It’s not that I’m not flattered, but I’m starting to think everyone is reading off of the same script. Igwe. Sho. Alex. Especially Alex. I’ve had that conversation with my brother so many times it’s starting to feel like part of the old sim. I used to think it was guilt over Morgan, but it isn’t just him. Almost everyone has the same thing to say to me. I haven’t spoken to Elazar yet, not privately, but the group emails and security memos were enough. It’s strange, to say the least. I haven’t been out of containment long enough to make that much of an impression, unless they’re all going by my responses in the sim. The Morgan I was in there probably deserved all the compliments I get. There are too many holes in that theory, though.

My sense of self-preservation is screaming at me. It picks threads out of the weave and tries to tie them together into something more solid. There was something in Alex’s office that hid his thoughts and brought me crashing down into myself. I can’t blame him. I’m a Typhon. I’m wearing Morgan’s skin, but I know what I am. He has every right to be afraid after what happened on Talos. It’s a reasonable, human response to a potential threat and I could ignore it if it didn’t feel like déjà vu. I’ve had that disassociated, claustrophobic feeling before. I didn’t tell Alex. If he’s going to keep things from me, I might as well return the favor. From now on, any new memories or feelings that surface are mine alone.

 I’m halfway down the shaft to the cafeteria when it finally hits me what that feeling was: The psychoscope. I put it on once. Only once. It was like having my thoughts wrung out of me until there was nothing left. I remember shaking, fumbling at the clasps to get it off. I blacked out at some point. That isn’t in any of my notes, though. All of the emails I found about psychoscopes are just Alex telling the people in the lab that I don’t need to wear one when I come down. I watch the lights, consider just hitting the button to take me back up to my room, and let it keep going.

 I’m walking out of the grav shaft mechanically. I’ve fallen into a routine again, even without the sim. At least it’s a routine of my own design. Every midnight I come down for udon and a can of coffee. I sit by myself near the vending machines. I listen to the other voices and absorb them. I know a lot of movies now. I know how to use chopsticks. I breathe in the collective consciousness of Talos 2 as if it could sustain me. Typhon feed on thought. In a way, I still do. I’m learning how to blend in. It’s a type of social mimesis, when you get down to it. I pick an employee at random, a young woman in a researcher’s uniform, and copy her affect. Before long I’m at ease, moving my fingers to a song I’ve never heard and humming. I look up from my noodles every few minutes, a second after she does, and stare expectantly at the nearly empty cafeteria. I’m not sure if I’m actually expecting someone, but I see Mikhaila out of the corner of my eye and something clicks.

 I need to talk to Mikhaila. She might not tell me everything, but she’ll tell me a different lie than the others. Maybe between them I can find the truth. I wish I could read her. I want to know why she tries so hard to look through me. Is it Morgan? Alex? Was she there when they put me together and did she see something they didn’t?

 “Doctor Yu,” she greets me as I sit down. One of the employees next to her, another researcher, looks away before leaving the table. His eyes never meet mine. I hear whispers. The people at the table are gone. Mikhaila continues to watch me. I’m shaking when I set the notebook down. My suit ripples along my hands like water and she’s polite enough not to say anything, though I see her clench her jaw. The weave is filled with her coworkers’ thoughts, hazy memories of a newscast about Talos 1 and the evacuation of earth to the martian colonies.

 “Still putting off your doctors’ appointments?” Her tone is accusatory. It’s a welcome change, though I wish it was from anyone but her. I don’t have to answer. I guess the look of shame is enough. Her lips tighten together and the corners of her mouth drop. Her eyes are soft. “You can’t keep doing that. You know there is a very good reason they schedule those.”

 She catches herself and bites her lip. Anger and embarrassment blossom across her face before fading. I wonder who she’s wearing. Whose skin got pulled on over Mikhaila Ilyushin’s? Her eyes move to my hand and I scramble to make the fingers divide into individual digits again.

 “And this is why you go to your appointments.” She drums her fingers on the table, spinning strands of gold thread where her emotions leave her. I touch one and pull it towards me, only for it to break. Mikhaila is staring at me, mouth open and a million silent words spilling out. I pick up my can of tea to make sure my reflection is still human. It is. When I look back up her jaw is set. “How many psi hypo do you use per day? On top of the water filters you have. Do you know?”

 “One or two. It depends on what I’m doing. More interaction with the crew means more hypo.”

 “You need them to be human.” It sounds like it’s a question, but her expression says she doesn’t want me to answer. She knows. I do. I run out, I stop being Morgan. I stop being Morgan, I become something else. Something that is going to have to actually feed instead of just drink a pitcher of tap water infused with psychotropic particles every few hours. I try to maintain eye contact, but her gaze is piercing. “You know what those hypo are, don’t you?”

 “I know. And I appreciate the irony of consuming typhon material in order to stay human.” I attempt a smile. It’s too wide. Too many teeth. I can feel how wrong my mouth is. Her fear moves beneath the surface of her face and I stop smiling. I come apart near her. I think Morgan did too, but in a different way. My hands move through the table. I don’t feel the bench under me anymore. Something whispers inside my head. I used to know the language it speaks, but now it’s nothing but a scratching noise and empty light. I nearly jump out of my seat when something slams against the table next to my hand. The can of green tea is crumpled in Mikhaila’s fist. The fear is gone. Anger. This one is anger.

 “You have no idea what you’re doing here, do you?”

 “Talking to you.” I run my tongue across my teeth, feel them smooth out and arrange themselves in order. My body is heavy, more solid than it’s been in days. I don’t like it. It has to stay this way until I leave, though.

 “On Talos,” she amends. “You have no idea what you’re doing on Talos.”

 “Alex said I was some kind of bridge between species. We’re working the details out.” I smile properly this time. It doesn't help.

 “When did you learn to write?” The question comes out of nowhere. She must have seen me taking notes on what she said. When I don’t answer the first time, she repeats herself. This time her words are bright, sharp. They burrow under my skin and give off sparks. I stare down at the notebook in front of me, the endless list of things that I think I know alternately underlined or crossed out. “You can’t use chopsticks, but you have Morgan’s handwriting. Do you know why?”

 “The cell lines?” Unsure. I sound unsure. She has a point and I don’t like it. I have to fight to keep myself as me. I imagine Morgan. I replay his voice in my head, telling Alex about growing a pair and committing. I replay his sense of self-assuredness and resignation. I take a deep breath as I straighten my posture. “Phantom memories aren’t the best studied side effect of Typhon modification, but they’re known to happen. It’s likely I only got a fraction of what Morgan knew from the experiment, the things that were important to him.”

 “You can’t fake his arrogance,” she snorts. “Morgan was arrogant because he was smart, because he worked hard to use that intelligence. And because he wouldn’t understand humility even if you installed it in him with a mod.”

 My thoughts are screaming. They warp everything in my vision, pulling away at the threads I try to carefully gather around me. My glove stops existing. She notices it, but her expression remains the same.

 “Ask Alex why you know how to write. And while you’re at it, ask him why he goes along with your insane desire to live in a simulation still.”

 “I don’t.” I hear the hum of the coral and, somewhere deep inside it, I hear my own voice echoed back to me. It sounds different than Morgan’s. Arrogance, but without the barbs. “I turned it off. Broke the clock. Reset my transcribe to sync with the station’s calendar. I spent too much of my life in a simulation already.”

 She smiles, but it isn’t kind. I’m getting the idea that Igwe’s Emotional Intelligence flashcards are full of lies. Every time I’ve seen someone smile, it hasn’t been happy. I don’t copy her. I feel my jaw tighten and my eyes lose focus. There’s empty space around her where the weave should be, those intangible threads that haven’t been made into solid coral yet. I can feel myself pulsing through them, my thoughts an invisible heartbeat for something much bigger than I am. And I can feel the threads tangle together. I exhale. She’s still smiling. I’ve decided I don’t like that expression. Humans have it all wrong. Animals bare their teeth to display a threat, but here they are thinking that it means friendship. The cards are lies.

 “What did I do to you?” There’s an echo in my voice, a crackle of static electricity. I shut my mouth and hope it was too quiet for the rest of the cafeteria to hear. It sounded like a phantom’s speech.

 “You? Nothing. Not this time. Not this you.” She regards me with the same rigid smile, the same bared teeth. Just once, the weave pulses around her and I hear the darkness move. “But maybe you should ask about the other ‘Mim’.”

 I want her to be lying. I want to tell her that she’s lying, that I know she’s saying this to hurt me because of some unfinished business with Morgan, but I remember the dreams.

 “You are so much like him, you know that? Maybe you can’t fake his mannerisms, but he’s still part of you.” She scoffs and glances at the table where Sho is. I should be over there with her, splitting a plate of eel rolls and talking about the latest batch of Fatal Fortress recordings I found. My feet won’t move, no matter how much I tell them to. Mikhaila turns back to me. “So quick to believe you’re a savior, that ends justify means. I’m sure they’ve told you otherwise. They always do. But how quickly did you believe them when they said you were the only one, the last great hope of humanity?”

 “Did anything I did in that simulation mean anything, anything at all to you?”

 There’s a pause. The world hums, gets desaturated. All I can hear is the first time I saw her outside of the sim and the way her voice sounded when she called me ‘Dr. Yu’. A thread breaks somewhere. My vision refocuses and, even though I know I haven’t shifted, I see the way I used to. There’s too many angles riding too close to each other. Starbursts of thought radiate around her, none of them hers. When she finally speaks, it’s deafening.

 “It meant that we tailored the testing variables right and adjusted your composition accordingly. You were a very receptive test subject.”

 “If you don’t like having a…” I stumble, my thoughts flicker away into the coral. I breathe in deep through my mouth and focus on Morgan. “If you’re so set against a Typhon based replica, why not just use an operator like April?”

 She doesn’t reply. Her eyes widen slightly and any emotion on her face disappears. As soon as I open my mouth again, she gets up and leaves. Her half finished dinner is left behind, along with her TranScribe. I shouldn’t have mentioned April. What did I think she’d do, sit back down and tell me a tragic story about a rogue operator? No. That wouldn’t be reasonable. I know she won’t tell me and that’s why I don’t follow her. I know enough to know that.

 I pick one of the blini from her tray as I wait for my body to forget Mikhaila’s presence. The threads are still moving, straining under the weight of my own scattered thoughts. I knew there were others. She told me nothing I didn’t know. So why does it bother me?

 I pick up the box of blini and stare at it for a while. I never learned Russian. I couldn’t have, not in the few weeks I’ve been awake. The Cyrillic letters come to me naturally. The names of the ingredients, the information, the slogan, and the Russian regalia are all familiar. I have never eaten blini. I never learned Russian.

 I don’t remember learning how to write either.

[jfklibrary]

Questions with Colleagues: Jim Wagner, Museum Specialist

The dress Mrs. Kennedy wore during the televised White House tour, broadcast on February 14, 1962, was recently replaced in the museum at the JFK Library with a custom-made replica. We sat down with Museum Specialist, Jim Wagner, to talk about Mrs. Kennedy’s clothes and the importance of preservation. 

Why is it important that the original dress from Mrs. Kennedy’s televised White House tour is taken off display and have this replica installed in its place? 

The dress that Jacqueline Kennedy wore on her televised tour of the White House is one of the more iconic pieces in our collection. It helps us to tell the story of her restoration of the White House, which is the project she was proudest of, and still endures. But the dress has been on display for a number of years, due to the high interest in that part of Mrs. Kennedy’s story. Our textile conservators have advised us that for its long-term preservation that it come off display. In order for us to still tell the story of Mrs. Kennedy’s restoration and the White House tour in particular, we thought it would be helpful to have an exact replica created so that we could continue to display it and tell that very important story.

We have a lot of Mrs. Kennedy’s dresses, but from a preservation aspect, why do they need to be changed out?

A lot of artifacts, textiles in particular, are very sensitive to the environment, to light in particular. We’re very careful in our museum with light levels, making them as low as possible, but high enough so that visitors can still see and study the objects. Over time, even a low light level is going to fade a document or a textile, and weaken the fabric. So, as time goes on, even if it’s a very low light level, that exposure is going to affect the fabric, and fade it and break it down.

It’s not uncommon to see facsimiles in the museum.

People are obviously coming to the museum to see the real thing, and our mission is to share all these wonderful historical materials in our collection with our visitors, but our mission is also the long-term preservation of our artifacts. This dress and President Kennedy’s handwritten inaugural address- those important artifacts will be here a hundred years from now, a thousand years from now, so we have to be very careful with display times. We often rotate Mrs. Kennedy’s dresses in the museum, so visitors will always see a dress- an actual dress that Mrs. Kennedy wore at a White House event, or during her travels as first lady, and they’ll also see original documents, but we do a constant rotation of originals, and in some cases where an artifact is important enough to be displayed for a longer term, it’s replaced with a facsimile or, in the case of the White House tour dress, a replica.

How do you keep the preserve artifacts in the collection?

We handle them very carefully- we wear gloves where we need to wear gloves, so that dirt, oils in our hands aren’t touching the objects or the artifacts. Things are stored in a temperature controlled, humidity controlled, dark environment when they’re not on display. They’re - in the case of the White House tour dress and many of the other pieces of Mrs. Kennedy’s clothing in our collection-  we store them in acid-free boxes with acid-free tissue, sort of filling out the form of the dress so they maintain their shape while they’re in long-term storage.

As a museum specialist, how do you feel working every day with these items?

It means to me and my colleagues, it’s a privilege and an honor to be entrusted with this collection, and to actually handle the objects. As you can imagine, it can be a real thrill to see these things up close and personal each and very day. It helps make the history real for us, which is why we’re excited about putting things out on exhibit because we think and we hope and we know that visitors get the same sort of thrill seeing the real thing, the dress that Mrs. Kennedy wore, or the speech that President Kenned wrote. It’s a privilege, and it also helps us and maybe our visitors, I hope – it reminds us that these were real people that wore these clothes or that wrote these documents- they weren’t just characters in history, they were real people and I think the objects help humanize them.

What does it mean to have this replica dress on display?

It’s a relief to have a replica, because again, preservation is a big concern of ours. And there’s so much interest in Mrs. Kennedy’s clothing – that’s one of the things they ask about most often. They wonder why there isn’t more of Mrs. Kennedy’s clothing on display, and the reason for that, as I said, is we always want to be able to display some originals, so therefore we continuously rotate, so visitors will always come here and see something that’s the real thing. 

But again, the White House restoration was the project that Mrs. Kennedy worked the hardest on, that she was the proudest of. The White House tour was a landmark moment in television history, so we always want to tell that story, and the dress is central to that. So it’s a relief that the original can get a rest from its long-term display, be put into storage for long-term safekeeping. But visitors will be able to come here and get a sense of the atmosphere when Mrs. Kennedy was filming the tour, what her dress looked like, what color it was. And I think what we’ll still do, for very special anniversaries or occasions, is bring the original out, so it’s not as if the original will never be seen again-- it’s just getting a well-deserved rest.

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: How the Cooper Hewitt Museum Reconciles the Old and New

A view of the Cooper Hewitt Smithsonian Design Museum lobby (all photos by the author for Hyperallergic unless otherwise noted)

When I wrote about my visit to the National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington, DC, I sought to relate what that museum means in terms of its place in our culture. I wrote about how it conveys a story of triumph despite overwhelming odds — which is the sort of story that seems to appeal to the general public.

As someone who has extensively studied museums in an academic context, I decided to embark on a kind of case study, asking one central question of some of this city’s most well-known art museums: What does this museum add to the culture of the city? Another way of asking this is: What is special about this particular museum? I want to ask this because I live in a city that has more than 100 museums, some of which, like the Metropolitan Museum of Art, have existed since the 19th century, and others, such as New Museum, were formed only 40 years ago.

The other end of the Cooper Hewitt’s great hall

I decided to visit the Cooper Hewitt Smithsonian Design Museum first, because it somehow feels both antiquated and technologically advanced. I wonder how it could be both simultaneously. The museum is housed in the former home of businessman and philanthropist Andrew Carnegie. The 64-room Georgian Revival mansion, built from 1899 to 1902, was designed by the architectural firm of Babb, Cook & Willard, and has a large private garden attached. According to the museum’s website, the house was planned to be used as a place where Carnegie, after his retirement, could manage his philanthropic projects.

Inside the Process Lab

The building now sits on the well-known museum mile, and has that Upper East Side feel of dynastically preserved wealth, redolent in almost every aspect of the building: the nest of serenely white plaster archways at the entrance; the great hall’s majestically high ceilings consisting of coffered, carved oak; the decorative plaster ceiling with raised strapwork design on the second floor; the intricate teak, parquet flooring; oak woodwork paneling; the carved wood railings of the grand staircase; and the stained glass tympanum and roundels over the entrance to the main floor’s reception room. The immediate impressions I have in the first five minutes I spend in the museum is of old world splendor, of inherited wealth, but also of meticulous care for the building and its contents. I imagine an array of specific cleaning and repair tools concealed in a room back of house, and a cadre of cleaners and restorers that have been sensitively trained to use them.

Installation view of The World of Radio (photo by Matt Flynn, © 2017 Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum)

Installation view of Models & Prototypes Gallery (photo by Matt Flynn, © 2014 Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum)

The Cooper Hewitt does a unique and contradictory thing with its displays. On the one hand, it presents design — that is, the creative and carefully planned fashioning of functional objects that seeks to make them aesthetically distinctive — as a crucial component of everyday life. On the other, it places antiquated objects in large vitrines as if to say that they have now passed out of everyday use and should be revered as art objects. These oppositional notions are resolved precisely by the subtle role the museum assumes as the arbiter of that transition from a useful tool to precious object. The Cooper Hewitt in essence decides whether a utilitarian object deserves to be preserved and included in its collection, which dates back 30 centuries and continues to accrue objects. Its Georgian Revival architecture seems to freeze the institution in time, and visually conveys to audiences that it exists outside of the current post-industrial, heavily digitized moment.

The “Open House” design by Matthew Mazzotta in By the People exhibition at the Cooper Hewitt

Yet, this persona founded partly on the museum’s wealthy provenance, and its affiliation with what is reportedly the world’s largest museum and research complex, present certain difficulties — the most obvious being how to appeal to contemporary audiences interested in technologically innovative design and new means of museum display. The Cooper Hewitt has largely solved this dilemma through a combination of clever exhibition choices and its new interactive technologies. Many of these were implemented during its $91 million, three-year renovation completed in 2014. For instance, visitors can now explore the digitized collection with 4K resolution touchscreen tables, or draw their own wallpaper designs in an Immersion Room. The Process Lab invites you to work on solving real-world design problems, such as creating new forms of efficient, eco-friendly transportation, and the famous Pen, a digital device conceived by Local Projects working with Diller, Scofidio + Renfro, allows you to electronically “collect” objects from around the galleries and save them in an online portfolio you can retrieve online when you return home.

The “Culticycle Prototype” by Tim Cooke and his collaborators in By the People

The museum’s exhibition programming also strives to be relevant to contemporary audiences. Earlier this year, By the People: Designing a Better America showcased contemporary, imaginative designs created to solve current problems, including a house that can be reconfigured into an outdoor theater, and buses transformed into mobile, fresh produce markets. Last year, Making Design displayed functional objects redesigned to serve aesthetic purposes, and seemingly decorative objects that had practical utility. It’s clear Cooper Hewitt is determined to develop an audience that appreciates the relevance of design to daily life. To couch this lesson in a populist language, the museum also has an ongoing Selects series begun in 2007 in which celebrities and well-known professionals talk about the design objects they personally own. This series has featured Ellen DeGeneres, David Adjaye, Thom Browne, and Maira Kalman.

The “Fresh Moves Mobile Market” exhibit designed by Growing Power, Hammersley Architecture, Architecture for Humanity Chicago, Engaging Philanthropy Inspiring Creatives (EPIC) and Latent Design and created by Tyrue Jones and fabricated by WM Display Group and collaborator City of Chicago and made for (as the client) Food Desert Action, in By the People

But the museum also does something else with its dynastic wealth: it launders it, making it palatable for a public that may be unaware of the origins of Carnegie’s fortune. Carnegie was an entrepreneurial savant who managed and revolutionized the steel industry — even using the extraction of raw materials to build his own home, the first in the nation to have a steel structure. However, he was also a brutal manager who had his steel workers laboring 12-hour shifts, seven days per week, and with one holiday per year, the fourth of July. He once lowered wages by 30 percent, thus provoking the Homestead Strike, and had his workers in such dangerous conditions that 2o percent of deaths among men in Pittsburgh during the 1880s were due to steelwork accidents. This museum hides that terrible history, allowing the image of Carnegie as a generous public patron to flourish even as the Cooper Hewitt museum flourishes. Unfortunately, this is very much typical of the story and treatment of inherited wealth in the United States: it is appropriated at severe cost to those whose own stories are often ignored, and that capital is converted into patrimony for a grateful public.

Installation view of The World of Radio (photo by Matt Flynn, © 2017 Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum)

Still, the Cooper Hewitt reminds us that what we invent and use today could constitute an aspect of the vast story of American culture’s development. The museum gives visitors a kind of contemplative oasis in which to see how design is not merely confined to fanciful constructions or items in a Hammacher Schlemmer catalog. At the same time, like several other great art institutions in the city (the Museum of Modern Art and Guggenheim come to mind) the Cooper Hewitt transmutes questionable inherited wealth into public patrimony. And this is a very New York story, one of palpable contrasts in this city of skyscrapers and gutters. The Cooper Hewitt is seated in the robber baron’s great palatial mansion, preserving the antiquated object while trying to anticipate our future needs.

Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum (2 East 91 Street, Upper East Side, Manhattan) is open weekdays and Sundays, 10am–6pm and Saturdays, 10am–9pm.

The post How the Cooper Hewitt Museum Reconciles the Old and New appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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