#crow scribbles stuf

[daisyhooves]

is prometheus blind?

Yes Prometheus Martagon is blind. Theyre the eldest of their siblings and have been a psychonaut much longer than Azalea has.

This is the first proper drawing of them :]

They specialize in clairvoyance and often utilize it and time bubble on field missions. They use clairvoyance sorta how Raz uses it in RoR, using the sight of others to their advantage as their own sight itself isnt great. They also have herbaphony, but don't often use it outside of work for the family because they're not nearly as skilled in that psi power as Azalea is.

They'll get their own ref once I finish the refs and profiles for those who already have pages on toyhouse <:'D

[vintagehellfire]

Hi friend! Could you write fluff (or fluffy smut, if you desire where Reader hears best friend!Eddie telling Steve that he thinks Reader is the most beautiful girl in the world, but he doesn’t wanna ruin the friendship by asking her out? Maybe she decides to take the lead and just go for it hehe

xoxoxo @munson-blurbs 💚

Hi friend! Of course I can. I kind of uh let Jesus or the devil take the wheel on this to be honest so it is what it is.

505 |E.M x Reader

best friend!Eddiex fem!reader

Warnings: fem reader, smut, oral (m receiving), two idiots in love, fluff to smut but like fluffy smut 18+ mdni

Word count: 4.7k

Eddie Munson, best friend, metalhead, and absolute sweetheart found himself stuck with you since that one evening in the frigid winter where he took an elbow to the nose at a show. He wouldn’t have ever guessed that getting his nose broken by protecting you would lead to the best and most heart wrenching friendship known to his existence. That’s not to say he didn’t absolutely adore every second of it. You were the best partner in crime and yet the worst influence, always at the ready to suggest the wildest and most impulsive ideas. Everyone would agree the two of you were two peas in a pod, absolutely inseparable, but that never stopped your worries from pooling in the darkest recesses of your stomach. They would dig a deep pit and lodge themselves there so comfortably that you didn’t dare venture past the territory of friendship.

That’s where Steve Harrington came in - he was your confidant on all matters Munson. He had been trying to tell you to come clean about your feelings since the day you took a road trip with Eddie and convinced him to steal persimmons off of some poor farmer’s land. It was truly then that it clicked for Steve that the metalhead was smitten with you - Eddie was never a thief and as much as his jagged personality might make it seem like he’d get caught up with the law, it wouldn’t ever be for theft yet somehow all his perturbation slipped away when it came to you. Eddie could have sworn those were the sweetest persimmons he’s ever tasted and if everyone were being honest it was mainly because he was sharing them with you.

That brings you to today, relaxing on the couch with the frizzy haired man, your heels digging into his thigh as a movie plays in the background. Neither of you were particularly paying attention to it, it was mostly used to fill the silence if anything else. Eddie was scribbling away in his campaign notebook, busy trying to add some finishing touches before tomorrow night’s game and you were crocheting what you were hoping would turn out to be a mothman plush toy. When Eddie pried the information out of you, with you sheepishly admitting it was a mothman you were trying to create, he couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle. It could have been taken as an insulting laugh at how ridiculous you were but the reality of the situation was that Eddie was falling helplessly for you.

“Does this look right?” You broke the silence and held up what looked like some sort of skinned carnage of what used to be a stuffed animal. It was a genuine question and your nerves began to eat away at you over the answer Eddie would give. He slowly turned his head, curls cascading into his face and tickling his nose. With his left hand he pushed the hair out of the way to reveal the beautiful mahogany of his eyes. He briefly flicked over your expression before settling on the tangle of yarn, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips in an amused manner.

“Oh, sweetheart,” the man cooed out, “maybe if you add the fluff to it? I can’t really tell like this.” The crows feet in the corners of his eyes crinkled as a teasing smile split across his features. Suddenly the mothman wasn’t as important as you’d thought because you managed to get a smile from the man who held your heart in his hands, his dimples pronouncing themselves even more when you returned a lopsided tug of your own lips.

“Wow, you wound me, Munson.” You barked out in a laugh signaling to him that you didn’t feel insulted in the least - how could you when he was looking at you like that? As if you hung the stars in the sky for him. His gaze was burning into you, an impromptu staring contest taking place. It was something that was happening more and more lately and it had both of your insides swarm with bats though neither of you would admit it to each other. The moment you managed to peel your eyes away from his was almost like a resignation of sorts yet the tension remained. “So uh, when is Steve swinging by?” You try to change the topic, hoping that it might give an ounce of relief to the thick atmosphere. The metalhead across from you leans back into the couch, stretching out his back with a satisfied groan, one that leaves you salivating - what you’d do to be the one getting him to make such noises.

There was no hiding that with the noise that escaped the man prompted your eyes to trail downwards - denying that you’d set your eyes on the way the hem of his t-shirt rode up to reveal the trail of hair that led to below the belt would cast you as a liar, and lying was a sin- but honestly you’d be written off as a bigger sinner for the things you’d wanted to do to your best friend.

“He’s supposed to be here in,” he checks his little black wrist watch, his movement forcing you to readjust your feet, which in turn had his hand shooting to your ankle, steadying your movements, “I don’t know, now in theory. Harrington’s already late.” He sighs out. He couldn’t let you have that effect on him while you were here, he won’t allow it, and besides, he’s certain that you wouldn't want to entertain such notions in the first place,

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Just as you huff out your sentence there’s a knock at the door. “Well speak of the devil.” You smirk before trying to swing your legs off of Eddie’s denim clad thighs, his firm grip on your ankle stopping you. A deep blush coats his cheeks before he releases his hold, allowing you to get up and welcome Steve into the trailer. As soon as you do, there is no doubt that Steve shoots Eddie a knowing smirk that both of you chose to ignore. Neither one of you believed that feelings of the romantic sort were involved, and if they were, why ruin the perfectly forged friendship you both had? What good was it to complicate things if neither party reciprocated?

“Hey, lovebird. Still in denial?” Steve tutted while making his way towards the Munson kitchen a case of beer in hand with a few bags of microwave popcorn. Steve was the designated carrier of snacks and booze, especially since the incident after his breakup with college woman Maggie Thompson - he quickly started pining over her and they ended up dating for a good six month stretch, that was until she brutally broke his heart and he was left no choice, allegedly, but to force everyone to watch Dirty Dancing on repeat through the night.

“Fuck off Steve.” You shouted back, a smile still stuck on your face.

“You wound me, peach.” He calls back to you, opening the fridge and keeping the door propped open with his hip. His search for space to store the beer doesn’t last painfully long, but long enough that you have the chance to put away your eldritch horror and that Eddie gently tucks his notebook and pen into his room. It was a comfortable movie night routine after all - now it was just a matter of waiting for your second favourite chatterbox.

“Hey Eds?” Your head rounds the doorway of his room as you poke your head in, a low hum coming from the corner of the room that harboured his desk. “I’m going to run to the washroom, okay? Can you make sure King Steeb doesn’t burn the popcorn?” You ask him meekly. As his eyes fall onto you his facial expression softens and he takes a few steps, crossing the room in order to plant himself in front of you. Seldom you found comfort in what he does next - in fact your best friend was the only one who had permission to do so. His rough hand gently meets your elbow, his skin setting yours ablaze.

“Of course sweetheart.” He murmurs before you timidly stalk off to the washroom.

Eddie takes this opportunity to pad over to Steve, greeting him with a firm slap on the back and his signature dimples engraving themselves into his features. His smile softened his otherwise hard features and set jaw.

“Hey man, thanks for grabbing the drinks for tonight.” His voice rumbled out as he rounded the former king of Hawkins High, propping his hip against the kitchen counter.

“Don’t worry about it, man, I’m happy to bring something along since you won’t let me choose the movies anymore.” The younger teased, elbowing him gently in the ribs. “But uh, Eddie, while we have a minute… the two of you aren’t seriously in denial, are you?” He poses the question that everyone of your mutual friends has been wondering about, the one that’s been burning in everyone’s mind including your own.

“Jesus H. Christ.” Eddie hissed, hands coming to rub his face before dropping at his sides. “Between you and me, Steve,” a small hesitation finds itself wedged in just before the big confession, in part to make sure you were nowhere near, in part because Eddie needed a minute to collect himself. He’d never been so smitten before and god the pain he feels in his chest over it rivals even the pain of a broken heart yet, he’d rather feel that hurt than lose you forever, “I’m not denying anything. I think that our peach is the most beautiful fucking person on this goddamn planet, I forget how to breathe when they’re around. I can’t remember the last time someone took the air from my lungs like that, the last time I felt comfortable just existing.” Eddie rambled, his hands gesticulating wildly as he divulged his feelings. He was so wrapped up in his confession that he completely missed hearing your footsteps hurriedly walking over as to not miss anything, he missed the way they came to an abrupt stop as he called you beautiful, he missed the sound of your heartbeat that felt like it was in your ears at this point…

“So why don’t you go for it, man?” Steve inquired, prodding further into something that was simultaneously none of his business at all and absolutely his business. He couldn’t stand seeing two of his best friends miserable without each other.

“Because,” Was the pathetic answer that slipped past the plush lips of the older man, “Ruining our friendship would ruin me. No more feeling like I belong somewhere with someone just as strange as I am. Nobody that- man this is going to sound pathetic but fuck, Peach is just a breath of fresh air, they’re the highly anticipated crisp fall air that the end of summer brings, and they’re the beautiful turn of the season, bringing something different and new but so welcome. They’re - fuck Steve - they’re my heart, my soul, the very breath in my lungs, and christ even having the chance to share a space with ‘em is more than I could ever ask for, more than I deserve.” He sighs out. It’s then when you decide to make yourself known by clearing your throat gently.

“Uh, hey uh, I think Robin is here.” And with that, Eddie wishes the world would swallow him whole.

Throughout the movie you’re sat next to the metal head, squished onto the worn brown couch, Steve and Robin smushed together on the other end of it. This would have been a comfortable arrangement had it not been for what you’d overheard, though the issue wasn’t that it was uncomfortable, no, it was too comfortable. He smelled earthy with hints of smoke, his cologne overtook your senses and sent shivers down your spine, each vertebrae resonating at a seemingly different frequency, and soon the warmth spread to your chest. You shifted in your seat, thighs rubbing against Eddie’s strong ones as you tried to adjust your position. Giving up, you slung your legs across the metalhead’s thighs, training your eyes to his face as you did so. It didn’t escape you that his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed his nerves down. On his end, it was like swallowing nails, he couldn’t think and it was borderline painful what you were doing to him - how you could be so unaware was beyond him, and yet he tried to play into it, to be as normal as possible. His hand found your knee and he started drawing lazy little circles, something that he would often do to calm his anxieties - it was a reprieve of sorts to get lost in swirls and patterns - sometimes if he ended up lazily drawing them out in class he’d use them as dungeon layouts.

Whatever god Eddie had angered was not a forgiving one for as soon as he did that, you scooted yourself further up, leaning your body into his, gently resting your hand on his chest. You could feel his heart rate quicken with your delicate touch and it only got worse as you started tracing little patterns in turn. A heat crept up his chest and crawled its way up his neck, resting itself on the apples of his cheeks. The perfect shade for him, he should wear that colour more, you thought to yourself. Even in the dark glow of the TV screen, it was quite the discernable difference to his usual pale complexion and it looked good.

The more Eddie shifted under your touch, the worse his fate became and eventually it came to a point where the rebellious Dungeon Master genuinely thought that maybe it was the devil doing his bidding and in place of God because what god would allow you to shift your legs enough to press into his tented jeans. The man hissed and firmly gripped your knee, pushing your legs slightly further down his thigh. He prayed to Satan, God, Beelzebub, anyone who would listen really, that you didn’t notice the effect you had on him, but you had. In fact you had been intentionally teasing the man all night long, hoping to get enough of a rise from him to completely break him, to have him snap and make a move — what you hadn’t accounted for was how resilient he was.

As the night went on, you pushed the boundaries further until you managed to tangle a hand in his hair, your legs draped across his lap - you were practically buried in his side as if it were a little nest made perfectly for you. Eventually you shifted, tucking your legs under you but you remained pressed into the curly haired man, head finding a resting place on his shoulder, and your hand on his upper thigh. Occasionally you would shoot a glance towards Steve and Robin, the two were deeply engrossed in whatever was going on on the screen - the movie meant little to nothing to you given the positions you were putting yourself in. As you turned your head slightly to watch what their eyes were trained on, the scene shifted to something akin to a physically intimate moment between the actors - the scene sparking something in you.

With a slight tilt of your chin your lips brushed Eddie’s jugular and this time you felt the shivers run down his spine causing him to shift in his seat, which in turn made the fact that your hand was on his thigh so much worse. All in all, there was no winning for Eddie Munson, not in this regard at least but he would end up winning something, he just doesn’t know it yet. His eyes screwed themselves shut tightly and his breathing quickened yet he made no attempt to move.

About half an hour after the end of the movie, Steve and Robin left, citing off having work in the morning as their excuses, they left with little waves goodbye and bickering about which actress was hottest, making no comments about the position you and Eddie wound up in, and if they did notice, they had only given each other a small but knowing look, choosing to continue on instead of commenting on the obvious. It was not really anybody’s business but your own and soon you were going to have to address it. A beat of silence passed, the brown haired boy closing his eyes and tilting his head back so it hit the back of the couch. A jagged breath escaped past his lips and you caught on his in time, breaking the stagnant silence between the two of you.

“Hey Eds?” You cooed out, slithering off of his lap, trying to be discreet about what you were doing. You couldn’t have him tipped off and finding out about the plan you concocted. You watched his features intently, the way he swallowed the lump in his throat, the constricted hum that his vocal chords produced - the only sound he trusted himself with at the moment. Your hands found the insides of his thighs and you felt him stiffen under you as you slotted yourself between his legs, knees surely getting a carpet burn.

“I think you’re also the most beautiful person, I think you’re the fiery orange sunset that lights up the sky so brightly that you can’t help but watch, stare, and take it all in. If I’m the crisp autumn air, you’re the falling leaves, beautiful and underappreciated. You’re fleeting to most people’s lives in the same sense but I’d stay there if I could, if I’m so lucky as to be offered a place there. You’re my heart, my soul, the passion that lights a fire from under me.” This time his eyes snap open and he looks at you, lips parted, bitten and bloody from holding himself back all night. “And Eddie, I know you’re afraid of ruining our friendship, but how about I ruin it instead?” You breathe over his hips. “Let me take your breath away, for real this time, yeah?” You boldly decided to kiss the inside of his thigh, eyes trained on his face. If you weren’t just the prettiest thing, looking at him up through your eyelashes. His brain short circuit, acting like an overheated motherboard and his mouth ran dry as if he’d swallowed a kilo of sand all at once.

“I- y-yeah? Yeah…” He breathed out, licking his lips as he tried to answer you. He couldn’t believe you were reciting what he’d admit to Steve right back to him, maybe there was a god, maybe it was in fact the devil himself sent to tempt him in sin, maybe it was just everything he’s ever wished for and he was not about to let it slip away from him. A shaking hand raked itself through his hair, his other one reaching for your hand. This wasn’t real, was it?

You took his approval as a signal to keep kissing up his thigh, only confirming to him that this was in fact very real. You smooth your hands over the expanse of his thighs, kissing closer and closer to the tent in his jeans. Low whines releasing themselves from the back of his throat, and out into the open air for you to take pleasure in. You walked your fingers up to his bulge and carefully, delicately even, splayed your hand across it, gentle squeezing.

“All this for me?” You acted surprised, eyes trained on the denim.

“Y-yeah, sweetheart, all for you.” His rattled breath made its way to your ears, a hum of admiration releasing itself from the back of your throat. “Let me help you.” He cooed out, an ounce of confidence making its way back to the man. With that he elected to lift his hips as he undid the fly of his jeans, being careful to unbutton them first, and then drag them down his thighs. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen Eddie in boxers, but it was certainly the first time you'd seen him in such loose and thin black material, cock straining against the cage of fabric, begging to be taken care of with careful hands — and lips. You couldn’t help but salivate at his size, it wasn’t what you’d imagined with your hands between your thighs in the middle of the night, no, it exceeded that expectation.

“Oh, fuck.” You groan,bringing your mouth to hover over him, hot breath fanning his clothed member.

“Please don’t tease, sweetheart, you’re killing me here.” He lets out. It’s all you need to press your lips to him, mouthing at him. Your nose was slotted perfectly against his belly, open mouth trailing up to suck his tip through his boxers, saliva leaving a wet spot on his boxers. He hissed in satisfaction, his hands coming to tangle themselves in your hair, tugging gently. His choice of movement brought out a moan you didn’t even realise you were holding in but you were more than happy to let it escape, especially when Eddie’s reaction was to tug your hair a little harder, forcing you closer to his aching cock. You take advantage of the sudden movement and lick a stripe through the fabric before pulling back, hand trailing up, giving his balls a gentle squeeze before slithering your hand into his underwear. The skin to skin contact had the Dungeon Master hissing from pleasure, and the low sound of breath filtering through his teeth turned into a groan, much like the one you’d heard him make earlier. It was sweeter pulling them out of him yourself, a sense of accomplishment flooding you.

“You’re going to be good for me, yeah Eds?” You purred before doing the filthiest thing he could have possibly imagined you doing, As you pulled his aching cock from his boxers, you spit on him, using your hand to spread your spit.

“Oh fuck.” He choked out upon seeing that. He’d be a liar to say he didn’t imagine this before, to say that he didn’t think of your lips wrapped around his swollen head while you used your spit covered hand to jerk him off, but somehow this was so much filthier. “I’ll be so good for you, sweetheart.” His head hit the back of the couch once again, breathing getting heavier, deeper, his whole body becoming unbearably hot. You were in no better of a position. Sweat started to build on your forehead and you had barely touched the man before you, and if you were to bet on anything it would be that the heat you were feeling in between your thighs was a good indicator to how wet you were getting just from this sight alone.

Before long you decided to quit your slow teasing, licking your lips before sinking your warm mouth onto his length. You started by swirling your tongue along the mushroom head of his cock before flicking it over his frenulum, eliciting the most pornographic moan you have ever heard.

“Oh fuck, right there, sweetheart.” He cried out and so you repeated the calculated flick of your tongue before you circled it over his head, paying extra attention to his slit. He was leaking salty precum at this point, seeing stars that you had in fact hung in his vision. Without warning you hollow your cheeks before sinking your mouth completely onto his cock, taking it as deep as your throat would allow - his tip hitting the very back of your palette and yet you managed not to gag. You were convinced that the moans Eddie was releasing were enough to make angels sin - it was unlike anything you’d heard before and god you wished you could keep them bottled up. “God fuck, please don’t stop.” His encouragement egged you on, kept you wanting, no, needing to show him how good you could be to him.

You took him down your throat once again, hollowing your cheeks as you bobbed your head up and down his length, employing your tongue to flick across his head every time you came up. After a minute or so, you added your right hand, saliva dripping down it and onto his balls while your left hand decided to shoot down between your legs. You rocked yourself against it trying to chase your own high, your own impending orgasm, but you knew you wouldn’t get there off of just this.

Your train of thought got cut off by the buck of Eddie’s hips, apologies tumbling from his lips between pained swears of pleasure yet you keep going, taking it like a champ. His cock was reactive to what you were doing, getting harder and angrily leaking and every time you’d feel any ounce of precum drip from him, you lapped it up like it was your last meal on death row - so eager to taste him, so have him, to swallow every last bit of what he had to offer and for all Eddie knew you were eagerly sucking his soul out of his cock. He was on cloud nine with the way your warm mouth felt around his thick member.

You let your mouth pop off of him with a POP, a lust-drunk smile painted onto your lips as you sped up your hand movements, jerking the metal head’s cock faster and faster, pace picking up to get him as close to the end of the finish line as possible.

“Fucking - Jesus- Christ!” He cried out.

“You’re doing so good for me, babe, come on, please, I wanna taste you. Would you let me taste you, Eds?” You practically begged him, nearly sending him over the edge. You watched his muscles twitch before you sank your warm lips over his head,taking him only halfway into your mouth while your hand worked a steady pace on the other half of his cock.

“Jesus, can’t say shit like that, sweetheart. I’m- I can’t- I’m so close.” He babbled out. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t…” Before either of you could process what was happening, he shot down your throat which you happily swallowed down. You waited to make sure that he was completely spent before you pulled off of him, licking the remaining cum off your lips before daring to look up at him through your love drunk haze. Much like you, his chest was heaving and his eyes were glazed over in both lust and love, his lips swollen and pink as if he were biting them in order to hold himself back.

“You okay?” He uttered out quietly, tucking himself back in before sinking to the floor in order to be eye level with you. Being this close allowed you both to see how blown your pupils were, his irises nearly completely disappeared in his cloudy haze.

“Yeah, Eds, I am.” A lazy smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “Are you?”

“Never better, Peach.” He returned your smile, dimples pronouncing themselves infinitely more than they had been earlier.

“I love your smile, Eddie. And your silly dimples. I never want them to go away.” You admit drunkenly.

“They won’t so long as you’re by my side.” His eyes shifted away from you for a second, tongue darting out to lick his lips in careful consideration of what he was about to say to you. “I think maybe we should ruin our friendship.” He concludes. “Maybe we’d make better lovers.” His eyes flick up to read your expression carefully.

“Yeah, I think I’d like that.” You respond in a timid tone, soft, full of love. It’s an almost bashful sounding confirmation, something you’d been waiting to hear for a long time, and yet it felt new, it made you feel giddy, and it certainly didn’t help that you had only riled yourself up without being able to chase any relief.

“Mmm,” Eddie hummed before cupping your cheek. “Then how about we take this to the bedroom and we Christen this relationship in the most devilish way I know?” His touch is tender and as he leans into you, his lips brush against yours, gentle as a butterfly's wings. You can barely get a nod out before he’s helping you up and dragging you to his bedroom in order to find himself in his most dedicated place of worship for the night; slotted between your thighs.

—

a/n: Hopefully this is somewhat what you were looking for, Bug! It was so much fun to write and I got way too engrossed in it. I also realise I haven’t written smut in like 700 years so hopefully this is a good warmup.

Thank you, angel @munson-blurbs for requesting this little guy 🖤

[sailorfuncomics]

Pretty Soldier Sailor Moon Karuta (2/2)

な Naru is my closest friend に The ever-popular Shingo is always cheerful ぬ Did Luna become a stuffed animal!?

ね Studying English makes me sleepy!! の It's a quiet, carefree Sunday today

は "Present!" she says, raising her hand enthusiastically ひ Sailor Mars handles fire and crows ふ These two are very good friends

へ Transform! Sailor Mercury!! ほ Piping hot meat buns are delicious

ま Shopping with Mama み The crescent moon is Luna's trademark む Let's get that cavity filled fast

め Gone totally gaga over Tuxedo Mask も Hello, Usagi speaking

や Cheerleaders rooting on the baseball team ゆ Falling snow is so romantic… よ Stopping off at the same arcade as always

ら Scribbling on the wall is a great bit of mischief り Adding ribbons for a stylish touch る The transformation brooch I got from Luna

れ Rei is a terrifying young miss when she gets angry ろ Light just one candle for every year

わ A fun and thrilling trip を I'm always in a good mood after having a snack

[ask-de-writer]

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Science Fiction

SUBMARINE! 1812 an Alternate History

Chapter 6 : KRAKEN

(Part 3 of 5)

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

5462 words

© 2023 by Glen Ten-Eyck

All rights reserved.

This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

TUMBLR EXEMPTION

Blog holding members of Tumblr.com may freely reblog this story provided that the title, author and copyright information remain intact, unaltered, and are displayed at the head of the story.

Fan art, stories, music, cosplay and other fan activity is actively encouraged.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

“I am attempting to deliver a formal protest, to the President, about the conduct of the war. He has been refusing to see me.”

“Would you like to meet him, then? Nothing easier.”

“This seems fun,” muttered Jean in my ear. “May I follow along?”

“Please do. Come on then, both of you.” Trailing ambassadors in my wake, I made for Benedict Arnold, across the room.

“Uncle Benny,” I began, an innocent smile on my face, “I was working over the buffet when I happened on to the stuffed crow. I would like you to meet Sir Lional. You know, the ambassador from the Court of St. James?”

For a moment it appeared that I might be in danger of having my bottom paddled, as the President had done so many times in my youth ... Then he grinned.

“If ‘Cumsie’ here vouches for you, that is good enough for me.” I winced. I had not heard that nickname since I was ten.

The President held out his hand. Sir Lional took it and bowed stiffly. “May we speak privately, Sir? It is a matter of some delicacy.”

“I am here to meet with these folks, all invited. Speak openly or not at all.”

“Very well, Sir, if I must. This is a note from the First Lord of the Admiralty, Sir Robert Hood, himself, and signed by King George III as well. In it is a protest of the vile, stealthy means that your navy is using to destroy ships of the British Empire.”

“Is that all?”

“Basically, we are asking you to refrain from your ungentlemanly tactics.”

“I see. There is a reply. Tecumsah, may I use your back as a writing desk?”

“Yes, Uncle. Jean, you always carried a small writing case at the Academy. Is it still with you?”

“Indeed it is,” he answered with a mocking smile, “would you like to borrow it?”

“Yes, please. Uncle Benny needs it.”

Jean reached into his waist-coat pocket and produced a small writing case with a carefully trimmed quill, ink in a cut glass well, and a blotter.

“Thank you, sir,” said the President, opening out the note upon my back and scribbling briefly. He blotted the writing dry and handed the note back. Sir Lional read it, eyebrows raised in surprise and puzzlement.

“‘Tell it to Copenhagen?’ What do you mean, sir?”

“Your navy and army have never considered a more powerful weapon ‘ungentlemanly’ unless you were the ones on the receiving end. You used Congreve rockets to burn Copenhagen while staying out of range of their guns. Lt. Tecumsah, here, came to me years ago with the notion that Congreves could be made better. A whole lot better. He was right.

“We made some ships of the line armed with them. Two frigates and a Capital ship, the Maryland. You ran into them and you lost. We are now making even more and when you run into those you will lose again.

“I will entertain surrender terms.” President Arnold smiled slightly as he took a firm stance, arms crossed over his chest.

“This is a gross insult!” huffed Sir Lional, in a rage.

“Is it? I thought it plain fact.” Turning to me, he said, “Tecumsah, would you be so good as to get me Commodore Marks?”

I found the Commodore deep in converse with a lady that I knew to be the daughter of Delaware’s Representative of the Morning Council, intelligent, witty and politically savvy.

“Melinda, I beg your pardon, but the Commodore is needed by Uncle Arnold. It is sure to be interesting. Why don’t you come and watch?” I invited.

“Even more interesting than what you people are going to show later tonight?” she asked, head tilted in interest.

“Very much so.” I responded, offering my arm. She took it, and we went back to where Benedict Arnold was facing Sir Lional.

“Commodore Marks, I have heard that you have a present for me,” stated the President.

“I do, but I am not sure if this would be a good time,” began the Commodore, eyeing the furious Sir Lional.

“Please.” It was clearly an order.

“Very good, sir.” He raised his hand in signal to a pair of midshipmen who brought a long, large package into the hall and held it for President Arnold, who cheerfully pulled the wrappings loose. Sir Lional’s face went white as he watched the ornately carved board, painted gay blue and white emerge from the coverings. Gilt letters spelled out Admiral Hood.

“What is this?” he gasped.

“I have been lead to believe that it is the name-board of the late flagship of your Home Fleet,” said Arnold with a smile. “She had two hundred guns but never fired a shot at the ship who sank her. Lt. Tecumsah, I believe that you were responsible for this victory, our first of the war. How many weapons did you discharge to get this for me?”

“One,” I replied, thankful that the phrasing of the question allowed me to answer without a lie.

“Many witnesses say that the Hood was holed below the waterline, some submarine device,” hissed Sir Lional, trying to make me a liar.

“Under the circumstances, I was lucky to hit near enough for the charge to hurt her at all,” I replied levelly. True again, but misleading. We were the center of all eyes.

“I will not stay to be so affronted, both personally and as the representative of the King,” said Sir Lional in high dudgeon.

“Sir Lional,” commanded Arnold, “stay a while yet, or you will do your King a grave disservice. We are tonight, putting on display and making public our rocket missiles. If you fail to see with your own eyes what is laying your fleet low, and will soon be striking your home island, you will be remiss in your duty.

“Someone get the Ambassador a drink, I think that he needs it.”

To be continued

<== PREVIOUS ~~ NEXT==>

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Return to Science Fiction

[enby-freeman]

Hi heres some "Dr. Horrible AU Aftermath" art just for laughs.

The second image is: "When you have a date with darnold and cant even go because your evil scientist boss cant get over that he accidentally killed his almost bf and revived him as a robot and now you gotta watch the robot for him and its really awkward and good god you just wanted to have a nice dinner with darnold"

[corvuscrowned]

the raven finds him there

read on ao3 | written for @hp-fearfest‘s day 2 prompt: from beyond the grave. cw: MCD. thanks to @vukovich​ for the beta and the great eye for how to make things creepier.

The letters come every day, and they never make a shred of sense.

They are, at first, entirely unintelligible — tangled messes of scribbles and ink blots written on damp scraps of parchment, carelessly deposited on Draco’s windowsill as though carried by the wind.

Eventually, the letters begin to contain words. Mostly, the words are a combination of Draco, Here, and Please, written shakily, like they were penned through an earthquake.

Draco flinches every time his window is darkened by the letters’ harbinger: a massive raven with feathers of iridescent black. But his attempts at shouting and shooing never seem to bother it; it only blinks at him through glassy eyes before swooping into the black sky.

Here, the notes say. Draco. Please.

Draco. Please. Here.

Draco.

Please.

The notes are delivered with thin layers of mildew or dustings of earth. They come on shredded parchment, the backs of receipts, wrinkled gum wrappers. They speak volumes in their nonsense. Do you remember? one reads, slick with mold. Do you know? says another, splotched with dark, ruddy stains. 

Draco has grown accustomed to harassment, though it normally comes in the form of Howlers that kindly remind him he’s still Death Eater scum, that he’ll never stop being Death Eater scum. Those don’t bother him - not the way this does. Something in the desperate scrawl, the frantic pleas, the madness of the blathering makes its home at the back of Draco’s mind, leaves a constant chill just beneath the surface of his skin. 

Mine, one of the letters repeats, growing smaller and smaller until the words skitter off the edge of the paper. Mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine.

The raven begins to come multiple times a day, its talons stuffed with scraps of parchment, crumpled napkins, flattened cigarette boxes. Draco shuts his window, but the raven leaves the snippings in a pile on the sill. Draco stays with Pansy, but the raven finds him there.

I want to speak, one letter reads with a striking lucidity. I want to speak with you. I only want to speak. 

Hello? Another reads. Hello? Hello? Draco Draco mine mine mine.

Draco draws his wand when the raven next appears at his window, his mouth curled around a half-formed hex. But something in the beast’s vacant eye stills his tongue. 

He pockets his wand, grabs parchment and a quill, and writes against the wall.

I don’t know who you are, he writes. I don’t know what you want from me. But I’m begging you to stop. Please stop this torment. Please leave me in peace. Please don’t write to me again.

He rolls the parchment up. The raven takes it in its talons and flies into the night.

The last letter comes the following evening.

It simply reads: Okay.

The letters stop, but Draco can’t push them from his mind. When he tries to sleep, he sees the manic penmanship scrawled against his eyelids, scribbles of frenzy and desperation, codexes of need and intimacy that singe his every thought.

Eventually, he climbs out of bed and does what he always does when he can’t sleep. He goes to Harry’s grave.

The night is still and cold, and a rolling fog seeps through Godric’s Hollow. Harry always had simple, obvious tastes; Draco found it charming, if a bit droll, while he was alive. Now, it made things easy: a dozen red roses at his grave once a week. 

Draco places the bouquet on the fresh mound of earth, not yet grown over with grass. Harry would know how to help. Harry would know what to say. He always did. 

Draco stands, brushing earth off of his trousers. When he straightens, he meets the inky black eye of the raven, perched on Harry’s tombstone.

It holds a scrap of parchment in its beak. 

Draco takes it in trembling hands, unrolling the sullied, ink-stained note to read the words penned in familiar handwriting.

I’m sorry, it reads. Goodbye. 

crow’s fearfics

[kanene-yaaay]

Go to Sleep

Kanene’s note: Gosh, having a schedule is weird. I just wanna post everything I already wrote and ramble non stop about it asdfgtyujkigfdo. XD

Well, this was suppose to be a drabble, but it’s very long so sdftyujikgfred. I hope you like it!

Warnings, fun facts, random things and stuff:

* This characters don’t belongs to me! They all belong to Thomas Sanders from the serie Sanders Sides.

* This is a SFW tickle fanfic. If you don’t appreciate this kind of content, please, look for another blog. There are a plenty of fabulous arts in this site!! ^w^)b

* This is Lee!Virgil with Ler!Roman. Around 1.500 words.

* Sorry for any spelling, pontuation and grammar mistakes! Any and every advice is very very welcome! \(-w-)/

* Listen a bit to the birds today. Changing the way you think is not a bad thing. Drink water, sleep, eat and love!

[~*~]

Roman growled, missing by a few inches the button of his thunderous, infuriating alarm before finally hitting it. Staring and blinking lazily at the numbers his brain struggled to discern and recognize, only to confirm it was really time to wake up and start the day. He grabbed his pillow and squeezed it with all the strength he could muster, rolling from one side to other on the mattress, trying to wake up his body as quick as his mind and almost falling from the bed a reasonable number of times during the process.

 He got up, yawing, stretching and humming as the first lyrics of the day stuck on his head, hand rubbing at his eyes as he followed the kitchen’s direction with slow steps and tired sways on the beat of the song.

 Two dark, wide eyes stared right back at him, their owner completely frozen on the spot with his hand inside the cabinet, probably already holding some sort of a snack. Roman also stopped mid-step, gears running inside his mind, gaze locked on the other, his brow progressively furrowing.

“Virgil,” he began, voice slightly hoarse “What the heckty heck are you doing up? It’s barely seven in the morning!” Virgil only stared back, slowly closing the cabinet’s door, as if afraid the movement would startle the other. Roman proceeded to get some eggs and other cold ingredients from the refrigerator for the breakfast, his words growing more awake and vivid as they spilled with no filter or whatsoever from his lips. “You got an early shift again or something? Those are absolutely hellish. A bunch of people exhausted, tired and glaring at you as if you are the holder of all their problems and their solutions can only be achieved by being insufferable pieces of- Urg. I can’t believe they would give you one right after you got the night one. Damn, I didn’t even see you arriving here yesterday!”

 He turned his attention back at the other, looking for a kind of frustration in the place of the still startled, wide gaze which continued to be directed at him. Virgil nodded slowly, stepping away and putting some physical distance between him and the confusion on Roman’s features.

 Then, between the strings of sleepiness that clouded his brain, it clicked.

 Suddenly more details on the other’s behavior started to become clearer: the way Virgil’s hair was messier than his usual ““style”” (Roman scoffed mentally, thinking that if he rolled his eyes any harder they would never come back to his normal place again), his wary, yes, but way too much slow movements, the way he seemed to be unable to stop blinking at every millisecond and, above it all, the final piece of the puzzle.

 Virgil wasn’t wearing his pajamas.

 “YOU DIDN’T!” Roman gasped, as if Virgil’s life choices were a personal attack. “YOU DIDN’T GET ANY SLEEP LAST NIGHT!!” A turn of heels and he was again fixating his glare on the other, his free hand accusingly pointing in his direction, receiving an annoyed hiss as immediate answer.

 “Shut up!” Virgil snarled, practically growling back at him. “It’s fucking seven am don’t be so freaking loud.”

 “Don’t change the subject! Why didn’t you go to sleep?”

 The one being questioned just snorted, half amused. “Bold of you to assume I’d ever sleep in my whole life.”

 “That is it.” Virgil didn’t even have the time to wonder the meaning of his friend’s sentence before the aforementioned picked him up, resulting to a not very contained shriek escaping from his lips and his hands not much gracefully – or gently, although since they were keen on just jumping on each other out of nowhere to play fight Princey would be fine - meeting his friend’s face.

 “Roman! What the he-”

 “Did you just SLAP me? My beautiful face?! Before my own beautiful eyes??” Virgil Storm always got, even if he would never admit this out loud, surprised with Roman’s capacity of doing a series of offended incoherent noises which evolved to words before being carefully metamorphosed in weird noises all over again, and in the end still managing to form comprehensible sentences. His surprise did nothing to quell the grumpy snark immediately flying from lips, though.

 “And I’m going to do it again if you don’t let me go in this exact instant.”

 “You go and try to help and that is the acknowledgement you get,” The one wearing pajamas with little crows printed on it huffed, mumbling in a lower tone as he noticed the sharp gaze being thrown in his direction. “fucking unbelievable.”

 “I still can hear you, Princey. You’re literally carrying me.”

 “I sTiLL cAn HeAr yOu-OW! Ow! Ow!” The sentence was interrupted when the sleep deprived one punched Roman’s shoulder. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

 “Let me fucking gAAH!” In a way his wish was granted, one could say as they watched his protest being cut as Storm was impolitely tossed on his bed, Roman quickly following his friend on the mattress, arms hugging him from behind, and physically preventing him from escaping his current soft predicament. “Prince, you’re dead.”

 “Shhh, no talking. We’re sleeping.”

 “We are not. You are being a pain in ass and I am about to defenestrate you.” Despite his fervent protests, his sharp, flaming glare began to lose its heat, his body not doing any actual effort to free himself from the other’s – strong, good - grip, muscles starting to relax against the great warmth involving him in a comfortable and secure blanket.

 “Sure, sure, mister Grumpy Pants, you can do that when you wake up.” He tightened a bit his hold around Virgil, yet being the most careful as possible, actively ignoring the annoyed hiss his friend gave him. His hoodie was really fluffy at the touch, slightly remembering his stuffed animals he frequently hugged to sleep.

 For a moment, everything was pleasantly quiet. The one with smudged makeup, since he hadn’t time to get it off before being trapped by his roommate and best friend, felt the tiredness becoming sleepiness as the seconds went by.

 …That was until an electric sensation shot across his spine, leading him to almost jump in the same place 

 “S-stop nuzzling me!”

 “Hm? Oh sorry.” Virgil pressed his lips tightly closed, preventing the wobbly giggles to escape as Roman speaks, not realizing how close his mouth was from the base of his neck, every breath sending tickly shocks across every nerve. “You’re just too much sooooft.”

 Roman opened an eye when realized that no snark remark from the other followed his words, the figure in his arms shaking too much to be asleep. A frown painted his feature as he readjusted the position of his hands, trying to get a bit more of balance to look at Virgil’s face when suddenly a high-pitched yelp escaped, cutting the air and immediately catching their attention.

 “Did you just squeal?” He questioned as his glare assumed a playful shine seeing a blush spread on his now frozen friend.

 “It was NOT a squeal! It was a yelp.” Virgil’s words came so fast that they almost tripped on themselves. Roman snorted, a smile taking over his face. “Get off me!” and, in the moment the one wearing a hoodie tried to pry his hand from the spot on his right side where it was resting, the pieces finally clicked in the right place and his smile quickly submerged, giving space to a smirk.

 ‘No WAY Doctor Doom and Gloom is ticklish!’

 However, the red lover only blinked as the true personification of innocence and naiveness, his hand firm in its place, fingers starting to slowly move, light pokes being delivered on the sensitive skin. “But why that, Knight Mare? It’s cold and all I could ever want is just to hug my bestest friend!”

 “You already hugged me, now go aWAY!” His voice trembled in the last second, the exact moment his thumb experimentally scratched the spot right under the lowest ribs, leading a surprised squeak to leave Virgil’s mouth.

 They both stared at each other, gleaming, filling their wide eyes.

 “No.” Virgil said, trying to squirm away but finding himself stuck between Prince and the wall. Roman didn’t even attempt to hide his smug grin, anymore. This was going to be so much fun

 “Don’t you dare! Don’t you freaking dare!!” His friend only laid down again, now carefully, yet firmly, pulling him one more time against his chest, growling playfully. Years and years fighting for the Tickle Monster title on his family, battles and battles against Remus only sharpening his skills, which showed by the way his fingers seemed to find every single weak spot on Virgil’s skin, wiggles, scribbles, pokes and scratching exploring everywhere. “No! Nononono! You fucker, you moron, you bitch, you-” A few chuckles cut his curses as he one wearing pajamas squeezed his side a couple of times, the tip of his fingers also teasing his ticklish stomach. “Roman!!”

 “No, no, my so dear, so ticklish, friend. Roman is no longer here, this is…” He paused for a dramatic effect, basically beaming at the giggly giggles and wiggly wiggles from the other. He shoved his face on his neck, the next words vibrating almost as bad as the spidering on his ribs. “The Tickle Monster!!”

[maturemenoftvandfilms]

The Secretary of Agriculture

CHAPTER FOUR: The First Time

Featuring U.S. Secretary of Agriculture, Sonny Perdue

I'm a congressional intern attending the Congressional Summer Intern Lecture Series (ILS). The Lecture Series brings prominent professionals and influencers in their respective fields to speak to summer interns about a variety of topics, from policy discussions to advice about pursuing a successful career in Washington, D.C. and around the world. This year's speakers of interest were Agriculture Secretary Sonny Perdue, Senator Cory Gardner and Minority Leader Kevin McCarthy.

On Monday, October 21, 2019, Agriculture Secretary Perdue was the first Lecturer to speak and I sat right in the middle of the room with a full view of him. God how I wanted him. He was not just handsome--the man was hot. I looked at every line, every wrinkle on his face and guessed by the crow's feet he was in his mid to late sixties or early seventies. Built like a stereotypical suburban granddad, on the one hand, with white hair wrapped around his bald head, clean-shaven and strong-chinned. On the other hand I could tell he took good care of his body. He was the husky in shape type. His shirt was tight around a well-crafted chest and tucked cleanly into slacks that hugged his thighs and ass. Damn. What a fucking man.

I didn't take my eyes off the man as I did so. I wondered what would he think if he knew a guy like me wanted to fuck him. Just then, Sec. Perdue looked at me. In that minute I knew it--I could tell--he wanted me. I knew it instinctively, he had some latent homosexuality in him and he wanted me. I had to fuck him. After the lecture, even though we weren't supposed to, I walked over and greeted him.

"Hello young man." Sec. Perdue said, lingering by the exit door. He offered his hand as his blue eyes swept over me.

I had to snap out of my day dreaming because I was about to make a tent out of my pants. Well, one thing led to another and our conversation turned into how I would satisfy him if I got him into my bed.

I had to snap out of my day dreaming because I was about to make a tent out of my pants. I didn’t see his wife, and decided to make a bold move. I took the lounge chair next to him. He looked  at me, nodded, and we introduced ourselves. And yes, we both were attending the same trade show, so the conversation flowed easily. I found out that his wife went out shopping, and he was just relaxing  and trying to recover from the hectic day today.

Well, one thing led to another, and our conversation turned into how I would satisfy him if I got him into my bed.

"You really don't beat around the bush do you? He responded.

"Well sir, I was taught to say what's on my mind. I said.

"Well son, I feel the same way to tell the truth, life is too short to beat around the bush! He said.

"Well then, is there someplace we could go?" I said to Sec. Perdue.

"I think we could find a place." He said casting me a sly grin.

The journey to his hotel room was unbearable. Officials to dodge, people for Sec. Perdue to nod away. But once we hit the quiet hallway on his floor, Sec. Perdue's hands were on me as he steered me into what I assumed was his hotel room. I could only catch a quick glimpse of the large room and spacious bed before the lock clicked and Sec. Perdue was grinning at me again, his eyes blue and hungry.

"Fuck, you're hot, son."

I grinned back, moving toward him and plunging my tongue into his mouth. He moaned, suddenly weak and desperate; this powerful man, the United States Secretary of Agriculture, moaning as a simple intern kissed him. We began frantically pulling off our clothes. I didn't know if he was eager or just didn't have much time to "fraternize with the interns" before continuing on with his duties, but he wasn't waiting for any conversation. I certainly didn't mind.

As he slipped down his jockeys, I had to stop undressing, and stare at his wonderful dick. All 6 1/2 inches of it pointed at the ceiling, and was framed by his grey pubic bush. His ripe nuts were hanging low to his body. I was just staring at his young beautiful body. All my blood had to be in my 7- inch dick as I was harder than I could remember being in a long time. I placed the palms of my hands on his firm chest as he placed his hand on my hard dick, feeling and testing the size.

"Oh, yeah," he moaned, as he ran his hand down my tender, sensitive cock. I was afraid I was going to cream my underwear right then.

We sat on the bed at the same time hugged each other very hard before laying back onto the bed. Sonny spread his legs wide as I moved between his legs, my hands stroked their way up his inner thighs before I kissed the tip of his leaking cock. It throbbed as I held it firm at the base and began sucking it. As I developed a steady rhythm I felt his legs clasp around my back, I reached out and began playing with his nips as my mouth worked on his cock.

“I'm going to cum. I'm going to cum.” The old man warned. I wanted his load so I sucked and tongued his massive dick even more. “I'm cuming.”

And it did! I felt a strong stream of cum jetting form his dick. I swallowed and kept swallowing as Sonny’s cock squirted out his load. Then even as I continued to suck the last few drops of his cum out, the old man’s cock deflated.

Still wanting to fuck him, I did something that the old guy wasn't expecting. I pushed his legs up, moved my face closer to his ass, I stuck out my tongue and slid it through the sweaty hairy crack. The scent drove me wild, I continued licking him here for ages. Then I brushed my tongue against his hole a few times before sliding the tip of it in.

“Yes!” Sonny moaned softly as my tongue worked in and out, eating him.

I could feel his body quiver as my tongue plunged deeper into his ass hole. I could feel his asshole relaxing; I moved my tongue away from him so that I could finger his ass.

“Shit!” Sonny called out in panic when he felt the first of my fingers slip in his hole.

“What are you doing?” He cried out, but he didn’t make any effort to stop me as I slipped a second finger in.

"Just opening you up." I quickly answered as by now, I easily had three of my fingers in him.

A sure sign he was ready to be fucked. I moved up and pointed my cock head towards his butt hole, I pressed against him and the tip of my cock slid in.

"Ahh... shit,  you're killing me!" He cried out as I grabbed hold of his legs, sliding in further.

What a sight! My over-sized cock was stuffing itself into the tight hole of the United States Secretary of Agriculture! Not wanting to hurt him, I let him slowly adjust to me before I began to slowly fuck him. Sonny began moaning. It was very quiet, but with an encouraging note and every so often he would squeeze my dick with his ass muscles. I began to pick up the pace when I instantly hit the right spot as his cock came back to life. I leaned over and kissed him as I drove my dick deep into him. I broke our embrace and started planting kissing on his cheeks, forehead and all over his face.

"Fuck my ass!" The old man said in a choking, husky voice.

"Yeah... You like it. You want it. You love it. You were born to be fucked like this!” I said before kissing him again.

I known was getting closer as continued to fuck his hairy old ass. I wanted to fuck him for hours, but the pleasure mounted quickly and I couldn’t stop myself as his asshole felt too good to pull my cock out. I just fucked him harder and faster and extracted as much pleasure as possible knowing that the end was near.

“I’m cumming. I’m cumming!” Sonny suddenly yelped as another orgasm hit him, shooting more jism onto his belly and my chest.

During this, his ass muscles contracted spasmodically as a woman's vaginal muscles do at orgasm which brought on my own. I was yelling something profane, nearly screaming and I came, punching an enormous load deep into his daddy bowels. I shot spurt after spurt into him while he cried "Yes! Yes!" as I slowed my pace and finished him off with gentle strokes.

Suddenly I was getting dressed like a madman as now the fantasy was done. Sonny was still lying on his back, breathing like he was having an attack with his cock was surprisingly semi-erect.

"Thanks... I enjoy it." He said.

"You want my telephone number. Maybe when you're in town you could give me a call and stop by?" I said as I reached for a pen and quickly scribbled my phone number on a piece of the newspaper.

"Yea, maybe I'll call you."

[un-beel-ievable]

[You got a package! It's a gift box that's wrapped in a cute paw and snowflake pattern print, with a simple white box to hold it all together. Inside is a bunch of knickknacks and what seems to be handcrafted charms, which includes several animals like cats, puppies, crows and even a tiny narwhal. There's also some fancy-looking chocolates and a letter stuffed away in a corner, the envelope itself has doodles of roses and sunflowers scribbled on with glitter-gel pen.]

[The handwriting is neat, yet somewhat childish. Emoticons, pencil stars, and sketchy hearts are all over the pages of the letter, alongside the occasional doodle of a certain ginger-haired man and a dark-haired male with puppy ears on him. Overall, the letter is cute and looks like it belongs to some kind of aesthetic board.]

To my dearest "Rain-e" Cloud!

Good morning, sweetheart! (Or, uh, good evening if this package arrives a bit late ^^;;) it's your lovely little puppy here, ready to brighten up your day even when I'm not there! Anyways, how are you? Have you been eating well? Did you get enough sleep recently? Are you going outside more often like I told you to? If you are, then don't forget your mask! I don't want you to get sick. :(

Ahhhh, just listen to me rambling on. Well, you know what they say; like mother, like son. ^^;; But besides that!! I got you something-- actually, um, it's multiple somethings. I don't know how long it would take for the rest of my gifts to arrive, but I sure hope that you'll get this one first! (It would sooo awkward if it didn't..)

Remember the Arts N Crafts class that I took a few weeks ago? Well, feast your eyes upon the fruits of my labor! It's a bunch of cute animal charms!! I, uh, got a bit carried away with making them, but I hope that you'll like it! Look, I even made Childe's narwhal and your little crow friends! ♡

You can use them as whatever you want!-- phone charms, keychain charms, bracelets, and earrings. I made them multi-purpose so you can have a lot of options! Pretty nifty, right? :D

Winter break is almost here, as well as Christmas! Not going to lie, I'm very, VERY excited for the holidays to come! My exams has been tough.. T-T so when I come home to you for winter break, please give me headpats and cuddles~ Save my tired soul, my angelic cutie! ♡

Oh, and speaking of Christmas, Mama Akamiya has been wondering when she will meet you! :0 She wants to know the darling thief who stole her eldest son's heart, and basically demands you to come over for Christmas Eve! Sorry if this is all too sudden, we've only been dating for a while now, but what Mama Akamiya wants, she always gets... T ~ T (Don't worry about it tho! Mom is super sweet, and she's gonna love you! I just know it ♡)

Also.. I know this is a bit silly, since we call each other almost everyday and we attend the same university, but... I really, really miss you, y'know? Sunflower do need sunshine in their lives, but they also need lovely little rain clouds too! (And yes, I will keep making those rain puns. ;P)

So, uh, please keep waiting for me! When I come home, I'll give you many love and kisses to make up for the time I'm not there until you'll get sick of it!! (Not literally tho. Your safety and comfort is always my #1 priority. ♡)

Anyways!! Keep an eye out for the rest of my gifts! Everyone in the Akamiya household went all out for this year. Especially Reina and Rini! I think they might love you more than me LMAO. :D

Your Sunflower Prince,

Akamiya Ren ☆

(PS: I think Xiao's and Julie's packages are next!! I don't know what Xiao got for you, but Julie has been playing with rope and colored beads before exams started, so I think those things are related to her gift!)

(PSS: Also Childe says hi. :D)

[A shoebox sized package shows up on the sender's doorstep several days later. It's wrapped in pastel yellow paper that's been vandalized with numerous doodles of sunflowers and delicate looking finches, and topped with a neat lilac hued bow. The box's contents include a hairclip topped with a crocheted sunflower (the flower has been carefully secured to the hairclip with lengths of yarn in a hue that's identical to the yarn that's been used to craft its petals; it's clearly a handmade gift), a lilac crocheted cat plush that matches the ribbon that's been used to adorn the box, and several packages of konpeito candy. Hidden beneath the plush body of the stuffed cat is a golden envelope addressed to 向日葵王子 (xiàng rì kuí wáng zǐ) (translation: sunflower prince). The letter it holds reads as follows:]

亲爱的向日葵王子 (qīn ài de xiàng rì kuí wáng zǐ) (translation: dearest sunflower prince): If the care package was a ploy to get me to send you your Christmas gift early, it won't work, Akamiya! Bribery doesn't work on me! I won't be bought so easily by your sweet words and heartfelt gifts— ...just kidding. If that were true, I wouldn't be writing to you right now. Damn it, Ren, why do you have to be so sweet? T_T I don't know how you could expect me to not give into you...it's so unfair. Hmph. If it weren't obvious already, your package arrived safe and sound in the mail the other day. I've told you this before: you don't have to give me anything, you know. Your presence in my life is already a gift in itself, and I know I don't tell you this enough...but I really am grateful for the opportunity to love you and be loved by you. ...but don't get me wrong, it's not like I hate the gift or anything. Thank you for the present, Ren...it's really, really pretty. Almost as pretty as you. I can't believe you made all those charms yourself —I would have believed you if you told me they were store-bought. The little narwhal charm modeled after that massive plushie Ajax won at the arcade is really cute...it looks just like the real thing. I still have no idea how he managed to win all those prize exchange tickets...what a showoff. But he did look pretty cool, I guess... The next time you sign up for an arts and crafts class, do you think...you could reserve a slot for me too? The idea of taking a class with you sounds pretty fun... It'll definitely be more fun than attending archery club with Ajax...he's an actual nightmare at it —he was this close to shooting me the other day. How the club president hasn't kicked him out is beyond me... I hope you like the Christmas presents I got...or, well. Made for you. I started crocheting again recently, and Ajax took it as his cue to impulse buy an entire store's worth of yarn. He wants me to knit him a scarf or something...but I thought making you a Christmas gift would be a much better use of the yarn. It's not perfect, —it's been a while since the last time I made anything that wasn't just a sad, unfinished square— I know...but I was hoping that you'd be able to keep me with you whenever we can't be together so let me know if you don't like it, okay? I'll get you something else. The konpeito is for you to share with your family, by the way. I know it's probably not as good as the candy you can get in Japan, but they were selling some at the university's Christmas carnival, and I couldn't help myself... Speaking of your family...you're really serious about me visiting them on Christmas Eve? I...I mean...it's not that I don't want to, I'm just...nervous. I didn't think I'd be meeting your mom this soon, and I haven't even finished getting gifts for all of your siblings yet, and I don't have anything to wear— I'm not sure when you'll receive this...but you're probably done with your exams by now, right? You keep telling me to take better care of myself, but I hope you've been taking your own advice. I'll be really mad if you aren't >:c I'm not there to nurse you back to health if you fall ill...so you have to take care of yourself for me, okay? I worry about you. If I find out that you aren't looking after yourself like you should...I'm not going to give you any headpats or cuddles the next time I see you! That's a threat, Akamiya! I mean it! I don't. Call me when this reaches you! And promise me that you'll come home to me soon...I miss you. Oh, and one more thing... I love you, Ren. Always yours,

Raine

P.S. Stop making rain puns, dork. P.S.S. Bye, Ajax.

[swarmkeepers]

Concept: post-canon epistolary/multimedia look into Cheese’s Trapper Keeper

He’s got spells in there, sure, but there are also a bunch of letters and other notes. It’s one of the only things he took with him when he left Cannon Court (he wasn’t necessarily planning for that to be the last time he was in that house, but he’s also not going back).

A part of him knows he owns a ship now, or at least has his name on a bunch of Ramble paperwork, and he does keep some stuff in his quarters in the crow’s nest on the Harvest Moon. But the important stuff is still kept in something he can pick up and run with, just in case—old habits die hard.

Cheese hasn’t been able to actually talk to Spaulding since the pool in the Sternwood, so he writes letters to him every day on their mission—he wants to give them all to him, like a big bundle of journal entries, if they find him. When they find him.

He feels like he’s a totally different person from the one that Spaulding knew when he left, and sure these brothers always crit on insight checks on each other but it’s all the little things, all the little parts of life Spaulding missed.

He starts really trying to write one note to Spaulding every day the first day that the Harvest Moon sets off for the shores of Sylvare—“we’re gonna bring you back, buddy, you’re gonna be okay when we find you, and I have a ship now and you’re gonna get to sail like you always wanted to, and I’m gonna get to learn magic with you, and we’re gonna go on adventures together just you and me! And my crew! I have a crew now! Love, Cheese”

Cheese was a paper hoarder when he lived in Cannon Court and so there end up being a lot of scraps of the rest of the crew’s stuff that they abandon stuffed in that binder too

(Bob scribbling down songs in gorgeous cursive, Myrtle scrawling out mixed drink recipes and leaving wet splotches all over the paper from dripping on it, crumpled up paper from Marcid’s accounting, a copy of a map that Jack’s shared with Cheese for captainly decisionmaking. At one point Sunny signs a page in Cheese’s binder like it’s a middle school yearbook, a big “HAGS” in loopy letters for “Have a great sea voyage!”)

More feelings and friendship under the cut!

There’s a night when there’s just an absolute ton of other people’s crap stuck into Cheese’s spellbook and there’s no entry to Spaulding from that night. The next day’s says “I’m so sorry I forgot, we just had a whole day, and we sacked an outpost and had a bonfire on the beach!! I wish you were here but it was so fun, Jack and Bob had a sea shanty sing-off and Sunny looted some of the bodies of guys we, uh, killed, and we’ve got some maps and we’re on our way!!! Love, Cheese”

There are also nights when there are no entries to Spaulding because they’re bad days. They get attacked by merfolk which makes Myrtle pissed, and a couple of their hurled tridents have splintered open holes in the hull that are filling the lower decks with bilgewater, so now Cheese has to spend the whole night methodically casting Mending over and over again.

(His Trapper Keeper got soaked with seawater and Cheese has to rewrite a bunch of spells into it. A few of them were the really old ones he knew, with notes in Spaulding’s handwriting from back when they were learning magic together before his brother ever left on pilgrimage. Marcid finds Cheese curled into a ball and sniffling sitting against the mast, hand shaking too much to rewrite the spell, and just picks him up into a big hug when he does. Cheese tells himself that they’re going to find Spaulding soon, and there will be more spells they can write together.)

Cheese doesn’t know Sending yet so he writes letters to Ayda, sending them back on other Leviathan-bound ships when they meet in port or just using them as reminders to himself about what to ask her about when she occasionally and randomly teleports and appears on the Harvest Moon’s deck for a chat.

Their letters are all long strings of bullet points trailing off into spirals of subpoints nested under subpoints under subpoints, explaining their tangents in minute detail because it’s so cool and interesting even when they maybe forget what the original conversation was about. Bullet points are how Ayda’s brain works and Cheese also finds a whole bunch of gel pens he shares with Sunny to color-code them to make them work for his brain too.

Cheese peruses his brand new spellbook but he’s still copying spells into his Trapper Keeper because that’s his and it’s safe. Ayda’s also very intrigued by what she calls Cheese’s “use of alternative vernacular verbal components” and teleports to the Harvest Moon for long interested chats about it. They start writing papers about it, casting Magic Missile/Baby You’re A Firework/Missile of Magic?/Sparkle Darts off the side of the ship into the night to test out different names for it to see if they work the same. Cheese carefully tucks a copy of the draft into the folder he’s using for his letters to Spaulding, “I think you’d wanna see this! Love, Cheese”

It’s a long few months of sailing from outpost to outpost, filling the hold of the Harvest Moon with treasure that makes Jack and Marcid nod approvingly and Myrtle mix a martini to toast. Cheese keeps learning, keeps writing, never forgets that this is a mission for something more important than just treasure, never gives up on finding it.

The last entry he writes for Spaulding says, “I think this is the one, we’ve raided a lot of outposts but this feels like the one they sang songs about when they came back. We can see some warehouses and a couple of small boats and we’re gonna go in tomorrow night. See you soon!! Love you, Cheese.”

[lepus-arcticus]

OMENS: CHAPTER SIX one | two | three | four | five trigger warnings apply

HORIZON POLICE STATION 3:20 PM

Hugh sat with his elbows on the desk across from Scully, fingers interlocked in front of his mouth, his brows knit in pensive, tortured reflection.

They were alone in the dim, chilly police station, and the rain outside had begun again in earnest, all the more livid for having given up this morning’s skytime to the sun. The station had been a schoolhouse in a previous incarnation, and green chalkboards still lined one wall, a faded, dusty black-and-white photograph of Truman lurking crooked above them. Theo was off somewhere, chasing down a rogue preteen who’d gotten ahold of a can of spray paint, leaving Scully with a set of keys and instructions for the finicky coffee maker. Not that she needed it with all the caffeine swimming in her blood already, or the jolt of pissy adrenaline that bickering with Mulder always gave her.

Scully hugged her elbows against the cold, letting the revelation settle between them.

“You’re sure?” Hugh’s voice was soft, unsteady. “You’re sure she was pregnant?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” Scully said soberly. Anna’s body, or what was left of it, was still in the next room, piled like compost into a biohazard bag in the fridge. Maybe it was because of the nightmare, or because this might very well be her last case... but it had affected her more than she would have expected. The absolute carnage of it, the impossible task of trying to arrange the raw-hamburger heap of torn flesh and skin into something readable, something that might give her any insight into what happened that night.

From what little she could ascertain, the characteristics of Anna’s remains would, hypothetically, match the tearing patterns of beaks and talons. But she still wasn’t ready to admit that crows could have done this. It was too sensational, too extraordinary to believe.

She thought of Anna’s pale face, marred almost beyond recognition, cold and lifeless below her on a surgical table that had previously only ever seen ailing family dogs and diseased sheep.

Anna’s pale face, above her in the night, screaming, tortured, falling apart.

In the painstaking process of sifting through the meat, she’d almost missed the cluster of soft, tiny bones, a small ribcage, the shards of a miniature skull. Anna had to have known.

She shivered, willing the image away.  

“Mr. Daly…” The man was frozen, blank, completely unresponsive. Scully looked him over⁠—his hunched shoulders, his three-day beard, the dark circles under his eyes⁠—and her heart went out to him. It was almost inconceivable that she’d found him so unnerving at their last encounter. She reached out and gently touched his arm. “Hugh…”

He shook her away, a muffled sob rising from his throat, and cast his eyes downward. “Please don’t make me look at her. I can’t bear to see her,” he said, and the utter defeat and devastation in his voice humbled Scully further.

As she watched him try to pull himself together, try to wrestle with the demon of his grief, something expanded and softened within her. She couldn’t help it. She’d never been able to; something about growing up with her father’s stoic, expressionless mein meant that she could hardly bear it when grown men cried.

“Hugh… there’s no need to look at Anna’s body. You don’t have to see her. Theo, Rhiannon, Marion… they’ve already given us a positive identification.” He sucked in a breath, then let it loose. “But if you can think of any reason, any reason at all, why Anna might not have shared the news that she was pregnant with you… we need to know. I need to know.”

“Ehm…” he shook his head slowly. “I don’t know why Anna would have kept this from me. I really don’t. We weren’t… actively trying to become pregnant or anything, but there were no... I mean, we were married. There were no… precautions taken, either.

He wiped at his eyes and placed his hands face-down on the table, breathing deeply. “Miss Scully… Agent Scully. Back at the farm… yesterday. I am such an ass. Such an intolerable ass. I’ve been an utter mess since Anna…” He shook his head. “Forgive me. I beg of you.”

She pulled her lip between her teeth. “You’ve been under a lot of stress.”

“I should have never spoken to you in such a disrespectful way… I’m so sorry. You’re here to help me.”

Scully, almost unconsciously, let one of her hands fall lightly next to Hugh’s. They were farmer’s hands, scarred and calloused and square, and she found herself appreciating the sheer masculinity of them. “It’s okay,” she said after a moment, and meant it.

“Have you ever… lost somebody? I mean, like this? Unexpectedly? Tragically?”

Scully looked at her hands, then back up to his face.

Hugh’s red-rimmed eyes remained on hers, bright with spent tears and deep with acknowledgement. “What happened?” he asked.  

“It’s a long story,” she said, quietly. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he said, under his breath. “I’ve seen my fair share of unbelievable things, Miss Scully...”

She took him in, all of his unsophisticated honesty, the unpretentious poetry of his voice, like a peasant prince in a fairy tale. “It’s, um… it’s Dana,” she said mildly. “Call me Dana.”

“Dana,” he said. “Please. I can’t be here. Not with… not with her in the next room. And I’m in dire need of a coffee. The Half-Moon’s just fifteen minutes north, can I buy you a cup? It’s the very least I could do.”

Just then, her phone shrieked from her pocket, shrill and unpleasant and demanding. She slid her hand from beside Hugh’s, fumbled around for the wailing hunk of plastic, looked back at the man across from her… and ended the call.

“Sure. I could use one too.”

KICKING HORSE B&B 3:30 PM

The rest of the drive back to Rhiannon’s was silent, save for Neil Young’s nasal crooning and a few distant, ominous rolls of thunder. Mulder’s mind was doing somersaults. He tried to worm his way into Marion with a few tentative questions, but she was quiet and resolute, determined to keep him in the dark, and he knew better than to push her until precisely the right moment.

Kicking Horse stood tall and proud over the wheat and wildflowers, the lake like a silver coin in the distance. Mulder eased the truck up the driveway and killed the engine. Immediately, Marion reached over and yanked the keys from the ignition, throwing the passenger door open and clambering out. He followed her up to the porch, where she unlocked the front door with shaking hands, mumbled a goodbye, and practically sprinted back to the truck. Before Mulder had a chance to organize his thoughts, the truck growled back to life, and she was already driving away.

He watched her disappear into the fields, and then opened the front door.

The house was dark with the coming storm, the watery afternoon light stretching shadows across the walls. “Hello?” he called, shrugging off his trench and hooking it onto the old brass coat tree. At the sound of his voice, Hypatia’s long white face appeared from the top of the stairs, and she barreled down to greet him with a low whine. She writhed in excitement, mouthing at his hands as he knelt to unlace his shoes. “Get outta here,” he scolded, brushing her away.

As he stood up and toed his shoes off, leaving them in a muddy jumble at the entrance, he noticed a slip of paper on the hall table, bright against the dark wood. He picked it up. An old receipt for fertilizer, a note scribbled onto the back. The handwriting was an unfamiliar loopy scrawl, barely legible.

Fox, Dana - If I’m not back before you, please make yourselves at home. R

Mulder crumpled the note and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, fishing out his cell in the process. He thumbed star one on the speed dial, and stood, gnawing his lip, anticipating the soft, staticky bleed of Scully’s voice over the line.

One ring, two, and then it disconnected abruptly. She must still be at the station.

He didn’t like it, any of it⁠—the fox, Abel Stoesz, Marion’s tear-stained, panicked words on the highway. Scully, clearly affected by the results of the autopsy, likely in the middle of questioning a man who made her uncomfortable. A man who, despite the lack of evidence pointing towards him, Mulder was beginning to think of as a suspect.

Get a grip, he admonished the part of himself that wanted to run to her, find her, make sure she was okay. She was the most capable woman he had ever known, and cancer didn’t negate that.

He checked his watch, and decided he should probably eat something. Hypatia trotted after him as he moved into the kitchen and plucked an orange from the bowl on the countertop. He dug a fingernail into the rind and peeled it off in one go, unsuccessfully searching for a garbage bin before tossing it into the sink. The dog stared at him.

“What?” he asked, and she turned tail and paced off into the conservatory. He figured he didn’t have anything better to do until he could get ahold of Scully, so he followed her.

The conservatory was quiet, save for a few lyrical pings of rain against the curved glass. The air was rich and heavy and alive, sweet and spiced with the scent of nectar and herbs. Mulder pulled in a deep and cleansing breath, and padded along the cool tile in his socked feet, munching sections of his orange, surveying the greenery. Next to a potted rose bush, a thick vine of near-ripe tomatoes climbed up a rickety trellis. A box of rosemary sat next to a planter of sage.

As he leaned in to better inhale the green fragrance of it, he received a sudden, unbidden image of his father’s mother in the garden in Quonochontaug, her knees caked with dirt, her wide-brimmed hat casting her face into shadow. Samantha running towards her, braids whipping in the wind, half-bloomed peonies tucked into the breast of her overalls.

He was lost in the memory, turning it over and smiling sadly to himself, when something caught the edge of his attention.

The barest wisp of movement from the kitchen, barely discernible out of the corner of his eye. He turned sharply, but there was nobody there. His nerves tingled. The dog stared up at him with warm, steady eyes.

A deafening crash of thunder overhead startled him, and then a moment later, a gentle rush of rainfall obscured the sky. Mulder shook himself out of it. He finished his orange, sucking his fingers clean, and returned to the kitchen.

The dog followed, watching.

He walked past the island and into the dining room, trailing his fingers along the worn surface of the table. The fireplace yawned in front of him with a mouth that was cold and black and empty. Without Rhiannon, the house seemed to take on an energy all its own, and Mulder found himself with the unshakeable sensation of being watched. Of being noticed.

The sitting room was dark and crowded with mismatched furniture. There was an overstuffed floral couch bearing a cluster of beaded pillows, a wooden rocking chair wedged into a corner and piled with quilts, a Victorian loveseat squatting under a lace-curtained window. Mulder located a vintage glass-bellied lamp and switched it on, making his way over to the wall of books.

He lingered over the contents, wary of Hypatia’s stare from her chosen perch on the couch. Outdated veterinary texts were wedged in between leather-bound photo albums and volumes of poetry. The collected works of Shakespeare were arranged in a tidy row, sandwiched between Interview With the Vampire and The Six Pillars of Self-Esteem. 1984, The Story of O, Jane Eyre. Mulder narrowed his eyes, trying to make sense of Rhiannon’s scattered reading habits.

He eased a fat photo album from its place on the shelf and let it fall open, balancing it in the crook of his elbow. The pages were black, old-fashioned, the photographs held in place by small, ornate brass corners. His eyes fell on a faded snapshot of a little girl, around 9, freckled and smiling in the sun. Her hair formed a boisterous marmalade cloud around her cherubic face, and she was missing a front tooth. The photograph beside it showed a woman swooping in to scoop her up, and Mulder realized from the striking resemblance that this must be Rhiannon and her mother. He thumbed through the pages, watching Rhiannon grow.

Rhiannon as a gangly teenager, sitting on the porch railing, her skinny legs dangling. Rhiannon astride a horse, hands knit into his mane, bareback and barefoot. Rhiannon in taffeta on her way to the prom, with a young, blond, beaming man hooked by the elbow. The first man, in fact, that Mulder had seen in the album at all. He looked familiar, and as Mulder studied his face, he realized it was Theo, football-thick beside Rhiannon’s thin frame. Mulder recalled the look they’d shared at dinner the night before.

On and off, maybe? Divorced? Hopelessly and painfully in love, but never managed to sack up and just make it work?

Mulder closed the album with a grimace and slid it back into its spot, tipping out the next one. The first page featured a yellowed clipping of an obituary.

Morgana Elizabeth Bishop Morgana Elizabeth Bishop, 53, of Horizon, Montana, departed this earth suddenly on Thursday at her home. A practicing midwife for 30 years, she was well-loved and well-regarded by the citizens of Glacier County, many of whom she helped to bring into the world. Born in 1932 to the late Agnes Bishop, Morgana spent her life in service to the community of Horizon. Morgana is survived by her daughter, Rhiannon Bishop. Funeral services will be held at 7 p.m. on Sunday at the historic Kicking Horse homestead.

The photograph above it featured a woman that looked like an older version of Rhiannon, with a few more lines around her eyes and a sallow, sunken look to her cheeks. 1932... 53… the obit must have been from sometime in 1985. Rhiannon most likely would have been in her 30s. Mulder turned the page, and was surprised to see a jump in time.

Marion peered up at him from the cusp of 16, already tall, her arms crossed on the porch of Kicking Horse. Her smile was tight and wary. “1991” was looped in white chalk beneath the photograph. Mulder fingered the corner of the page, intrigued, and continued.

Hypatia as a puppy, her nose hooked over Marion’s shoulder as Marion pressed a kiss to her ear. Marion’s long braid reaching the small of her back. A candid shot of Marion and Theo washing dishes in the sink. A rueful-looking Rhiannon opening a present at Christmas, a pine lit up behind her.

And then Anna appeared. She posed on the porch with the half-grown dog, teenage-chubby and extensively freckled. Anna and Marion in the barn. Anna and Marion laughing and posing in front of Marion’s Chevy. Anna in the grass, sleeping, a book tented over her face, with Hypatia curled beside her, snout resting on her thigh.

Mulder turned another page, and found it blank. No photos of Marion graduating from the police academy, or in her uniform, like you might expect any proud foster parent to display. None from Hugh and Anna’s wedding. None of Hugh at all. A good third of the album remained empty.

The wind knocked against the window, and a chill ran down his spine.

He realized with some confusion that he’d been humming something, and stopped himself.

The water is…

But then he heard it again⁠—a small, thin voice, shifting in and out of his periphery. But no, he wasn’t exactly hearing it… but he could sense it, could almost even make out a tune.

… cannot get o’er….

He shook his head to break the spell. It was probably the rain, the thunder, the winds. Turning his attention back to the album, he studied the last photo of Anna, looking for shadows of turmoil, hints of anything.

There was a flicker of light in the corner of his vision, and his eyes jolted upwards. He went still, suddenly aware of his heartbeat, of the hairs on his forearms. On the couch, Hypatia flattened her ears and whined. Nobody was there. He willed himself to calm down. He was just getting spooked. It was just his imagination.

Or was it?

“...Anna?” he tried out loud, his voice cracking. He ran through the lore in his mind, looking carefully around him, holding his breath, his stomach twisting itself into a fist. Places could hold memories, energetic signatures. Spirits repeating their earthly paths, walking hallways and doing the dishes. Spirits reaching out for help, for closure.

He glanced down at the photograph one more time, and then he saw it again, in the corner of the room. Not quite a shadow, not quite a light, not quite a shimmer, but something that somehow contained all three. If he looked at it straight on, it disappeared. Hypatia keened. The surface of his skin prickled.

He slowly replaced the photo album, and moved towards where the glimmer had been. “Anna, are you here?” A glimpse of movement in the hall, drawing him onwards, drawing him upwards. He pursued it, the floor creaking under his footsteps.

The rain picked up outside, falling harder, faster. His heartbeat followed suit.

He tiptoed up the stairs, slowly, the faces of the Bishop women following him from their frames. Brotherless, fatherless, sonless. He was beginning to suspect that it wasn’t necessarily a design choice.

In his periphery, the glimmer seemed to slip into Scully’s room. He followed it in, his hand resting instinctively on his sidearm. The bed where they’d laughed the night before was still rumpled, which struck him as strange. Scully was usually tidy to the point of absurdity. No matter how seedy the motel, she’d unpack completely, hang her clothes up, make the bed before the maid could get to it.

Hypatia whined uneasily behind him, and he turned to her. She pawed at the threshold of the door, but would not follow him in. Her ears lay flat and quivering against her head.

Mulder looked once again around the room. With a swell of guilty curiosity, he slid the top drawer of the bedside table open. Scully’s folded pajamas, a pair of stockings still in their packaging, a makeup bag, a black journal, an extra clip. He touched the journal lightly, as if he could absorb her thoughts through osmosis.

And there it was again, that wisp of something in the corner of his eye. He slid the drawer shut and followed it out, moving slowly, carefully through the hallway. Past the tiny bathroom, past the faces of the dead, all the way to the base of the spiral staircase that led to the tower. He hesitated, just for a moment, and then began the climb, an unexplainable sense of dread burning hotter and hotter in his chest.

Hypatia was at his heels, trying to get in his way, blocking his path, whimpering. And then, without warning, her demeanor changed, and she began a low, persistent growl. Mulder glanced back at her. Her lips were peeled back to bare her long, white teeth, her body locked in a tense crouch. He stared at her a moment, palmed his gun, and continued.

There was a door at the top of the stairs. Mulder jiggled the handle with his free hand. Locked. Hypatia snarled and yipped, but didn’t advance. Mulder dug in his pocket for his lock pick. Just as he was about to withdraw it, there was a voice from the bottom of the staircase.

“Fox.”

Mulder jerked in surprise, almost drawing his gun up. Rhiannon stood, arms crossed, at the base of the staircase. The dog cowered behind her.

“That door is locked for a reason,” she said, frost edging her voice. Shame and suspicion crept up his neck. “This is my house. Please respect my boundaries.”

Mulder nodded and pressed his lips together in a small smile. “Bad habit. Sorry.”

Rhiannon retreated and he returned to his room, immediately trying Scully’s cell again. The call was cut short. He flung the phone hard down onto the bed, and dug into his duffel bag for his laptop.

Something wasn’t right.

[enby-freeman]

And a whole new ref for Nym as the old one wasn’t particularly my favorite with how it turned out. Glasses included this time, pose a lil better. Love one messed up Gordon. 

[spoookymuulders]

Firebolt

Read here on ao3 word count: 1931

JJ looks around for a moment, like she’s trying to find an actual healing potion to give to Hotch. She settles for taking a single cheeto out of the bag in front of her and holding it out to him with a grin. Hotch takes the offered cheeto slowly as JJ wiggles in her seat and rolls a d10.

 “That’s a three, plus.. Um.” Hotch squints at the piece of paper on the table in front of him.

    “Plus two.” Garcia says gently, leaning over and pointing to the correct stat.

    “Plus two. So five.”

    Reid remains quiet for a moment before clasping his hands behind his tri-fold and giving Hotch a smile.

    “It’s just a door.” He says pleasantly. Hotch squints at him from across the table disbelievingly.

    They’re gathered around the table in Rossi’s dining room, their dinner long since finished. They’re two - (in some cases four) glasses of wine in, and because it’s Reid’s birthday, Garcia had convinced everyone weeks ago to let him DM a game of dungeons and dragons for the team.

    Also because it’s Reid’s birthday, the smell of still-baking birthday cake had hit him as soon as he and Garcia opened the door and he had known immediately that this wasn’t just another family dinner like Garcia had said. Rossi had made them all old-fashioned spaghetti and meatballs with his mother’s recipe, as per the birthday boy’s request, and Reid was pretty sure his ears were a brighter shade of red than the homemade marinara when they brought the cake out, all singing at the top of their lungs.

    Garcia had also spent all week helping everyone make characters for tonight. In all honesty, part of her (quite a large part, really) is hoping that they all fall in love with the game and it becomes a regular thing. Something fun and silly to do to wind down after a case, because God knows they need it.

    Prentiss had been the easiest for character creation. Garcia had handed her a character sheet and Prentiss had filled it out suspiciously quickly, shoving it back at the blonde with dwarf scrawled in the race and ranger in the class. She won’t tell Garcia how exactly she filled it out so fast or so well, but Garcia gets the feeling that somewhere in Prentiss’ apartment is a hidden jar full of dice. She’s wrong. There’s two.

    JJ had been fairly easy as well. Garcia had sat down with her over coffee one afternoon, a players handbook laid out in front of them, and JJ, not knowing anything about the game, had quickly chosen to be a goblin and a rogue. Despite Garcia trying to persuade her differently, JJ had remained committed to her goblin, and Garcia had been quite proud when JJ had rolled well for her stats.

    Morgan was a little more difficult - Garcia found herself explaining each of the races and classes to him multiple times until he finally settled on being a half-elf paladin. His reasoning being paladin just sounds cool and you’re already an elf so I can’t be that.

    She had helped Hotch create his character over lunch one afternoon, the two of them holed up in his office. He’d looked through everything with a serious, practical eye, eventually deciding he’d be a dragonborn fighter. When Garcia had commended him on his choice of race, he’d shrugged and told her the claws looked like they’d come in handy. But Garcia’s seen the photo of Hotch and Jack where Jack is clutching a thirty-year-old stuffed dragon like his life depends on it, and she knows that it used to be Hotch’s.

    Rossi, in his own words, didn’t really understand or care, but if it was for the kid, sure why not. The five each glasses of wine he and Garcia had had while creating his character had resulted in a most-of-the-time drunk human wizard, and Garcia found that oddly appropriate, because that was basically Rossi anyways, wasn’t it?     Garcia herself had made her character before helping anyone else, her excuse being that it would be easiest to show everyone her character sheet when she was helping them create theirs. Really, though, she just wanted to be a bard before anyone else could claim the role.

    “I.. Open the door.” Hotch says slowly.

    “No, let someone else investigate the door first! Someone with a better investigation stat!” Prentiss cries from her seat beside Reid. “Hotch, you’re gonna get yourself squished by a wall or something.”

    “I open the door!” Morgan jumps in, grinning broadly. Reid raises an eyebrow and Hotch waves a relenting hand.

    “Let Morgan open the door, then.” He says, still squinting at Reid as he sits back in his chair. Reid flips through his book for a moment, then looks up at Morgan as Prentiss flops her hands and sits back in her chair with a huff.

    “Alright. Morgan, make a dexterity saving throw.” He says. “Hotch, you make one, too, since you were right there.” Hotch sputters a little, but doesn’t argue. He and Morgan shake the dice that were given to them at the start of the night, both leaning forward as the two d20s clatter against the table.

    “Sixteen!” Morgan crows, patting the table. “Oh - plus one, seventeen!”

    “Twelve.” Hotch grumbles. Reid grins at the two of them.

    “Morgan, as you open the door, a bevy of arrows comes flying towards you from each side of the wall. You manage to drop to the ground just as you hear the click of the tiny doors in the wall opening. Hotch, you do the same but you’re not quite quick enough.” Reid says, rolling a die of his own behind his screen. “What’s your AC?”

    “My what?” Hotch asks, frowning at his paper.

    “Your armor class.” Prentiss says. Garcia points at it on his page and Hotch nods.

    “Sixteen.” He says proudly. Reid hums.

    “Okay.” He rolls another die and scrunches his nose. “Take five piercing damage.” Hotch grimaces and scribbles a number on his paper, frowning.

    “What’re you at?” Morgan asks, leaning over. He whistles low, then laughs quietly. “Five, not great.

    “Ooh! I have a healing potion!” JJ says eagerly, piping up for the first time in five minutes. She grins broadly at Hotch from her seat between Rossi and Morgan. “Spence, can I give him one of my healing potions?”

    “Sure.” Reid says, nodding. JJ looks around for a moment, like she’s trying to find an actual healing potion to give to Hotch. She settles for taking a single cheeto out of the bag in front of her and holding it out to him with a grin. Hotch takes the offered cheeto slowly as JJ wiggles in her seat and rolls a d10.

    “He gets ten points back!” She says brightly. Hotch smiles gratefully and tacks a one in front of the five on his paper.

    “Okay, what’re you guys doing next?” Reid says, leaning forward on his elbows.

    “Going through the door?” Morgan says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He loudly decides that he’ll go first when Reid asks. They settle on a marching order and Reid rests his chin on his fist, peering around the table at his friends as they chatter, smiling just a little.

    “What are our rations?” Hotch asks suddenly, tipping his head at his page. Reid hums, shrugging.

    “Usually things like bread, jerky, some cheese and grapes or other fruit. Some races get wine in theirs.” He tells Hotch.

    “Mine are cheetos.” JJ says happily, popping two into her mouth.

    “Honey, cheetos don’t exist in Faerun.” Garcia says gently. JJ huffs at her.

    “Fantasy cheetos!” She says indignantly, sticking her tongue out and tossing a cheeto at Garcia. Garcia catches it and munches on it. “I made them myself.”

    “How did you make them?” Reid asks, raising a brow. JJ shrugs.

    “I… Stole some of Rossi’s fancy cheese. And I baked it.” She says, grinning.

    “You stole my cheese?!” Rossi yelps, smacking the table lightly. “I cast firebolt on JJ.” JJ gapes at him, then pouts.

    “I’ll share my cheetos.” She says, using her best puppy-dog eyes.

    “This is a personal injustice and I’ll never forgive you.” Rossi declares, huffing loudly. JJ pouts more and he squints at her, leaning forward in his chair. Prentiss hides her snickering behind her wine, blinking innocently at Rossi when he turns his burning gaze on her.

    “Okay.” Reid says, waving a hand. Everyone looks at him and falls quiet at the suddenly serious look in his eyes. “You all file through the door and down a tiny hallway that opens into a big dining hall. There are two tables running most of the length of the room, piled high with forgotten food and dishes, as well as half-drunk goblets of spoiled wine. At the end of the room is a raised dais with a table and seven chairs at it. In each of the three chairs on the left and right are skeletons, and in the large chair in the center is a wight.”

    “A what?” Rossi asks, frowning.

    “A wight.” Reid repeats. “As you enter the room, it looks up from its spot at the table and smiles, then shoves the chair from the table and stands. I’d like everyone to roll for initiative.”     “Which one is that?” Hotch whispers to Garcia, leaning over to her. She puts the d20 in his hand and he thanks her, rolling it. They go around the table, telling Reid their numbers, and launch into their first real fight of the game. It goes surprisingly well, despite the one time Reid asks Hotch to roll a death saving throw and he squints at the doctor across the table. “If you kill my guy, you’re fired.” He says, his tone teasing. Reid just grins at him.

Hotch manages to roll a fourteen and gains back most of his hit points, much to his delight. He’s also the one to deliver the final blow to the wight. When Reid asks how he wants to kill the monster, he hums.

    “I wanna.. Chop its head off with my sword.” He says decisively. Reid nods and scribbles something in his notebook.

    “Okay. Hotch, you see this wight about to smash a chair over JJ’s head, and you run up behind it, swinging your longsword.” He says. “Its head drops to the floor and rolls away, and you take the chair from its hands as its body falls.” Reid grins around the table. “You guys just killed your first monster, congrats!”

    “I wanna kick the head!” JJ says suddenly. Reid laughs and nods. JJ beams at him and says, “I stand up and hug Hotch and then go kick the head as hard as I can.”

    “The head goes flying across the room and lands right in the middle of a silver platter.” Reid says, grinning when JJ laughs loudly.

    They play for a couple more hours, laughing and talking and drinking as they do. When they all part ways for the evening, Reid is smiling broader than any of them have seen him smile in months, and it warms all of their hearts. He accepts hugs from everyone and thanks Morgan for helping him load his gifts into the back of his car, then hugs his friend tightly.     “That was actually pretty fun.” Morgan says, patting Reid on the shoulder as they step apart. Reid grins and nods.

    “I’ve been telling you for years that D&D is fun!” He says, leaning against the car. He watches as Prentiss leads a giggling JJ out of the house and towards her car, holding the keys out of the blonde’s reach.

    “Maybe we’ll play again sometime.” Morgan says, squeezing Reid’s shoulder. He hugs the younger man again and heads for his own car, opening the passenger door for Garcia.

    They play a week later on the jet.

[vfdbaudelairefile13]

                                           Chapter Twenty-Nine:

                             The One With The Clever Escape Plan

By the time that Isadora and Duncan Quagmire woke up, they had absolutely no idea where they were. Isadora tried her best to make her eyes focus on the area around her, which wasn’t much considering they had been shoved into a slightly bigger space compared to the red herring statue. Isadora could hear the hustle and bustle of a small town outside wherever she was.

“Duncan?” she called out. Her voice was hoarse. She watched as her brother’s head turned to face her. She could tell he had been crying. “Are you okay?” she asked gently. He shook his head.

“Where’s Sunny?” he asked desperately. Isadora reached down trying to feel for their toddler friend. She could feel a lifeless body sitting on her feet, with their head skewed using Duncan’s knee for support.

“She’s here,” Isadora replied as she gently ruffled Sunny’s hair.

“Is the muzzle still on her?”

Isadora reached the tips of her fingers as far down as they would go. “I can’t tell,”

“Do you think she’s dead?” Duncan asked.

“I doubt it. They probably used the same dosage of knock-out drugs for her that they used for us,”

“So she could be dead?”

“Or…” Isadora suggested. “It’s just going to take her a little longer to wake up,”

Duncan looked towards Isadora worriedly. He couldn’t see around him any better than she could. A few rays of sunshine found its way into wherever Olaf and Esme had stuffed them. He sighed. “She can’t die…”

“She’s not going to,”

“Isa…”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Sorry? For what?” she asked confused.

“I just keep thinking if it were Quigley instead of me...you’d be better protected,” he glanced down placing his fingers on top of Sunny’s droopy head. “Both of you,”

“You’ve done an amazing job,” she tried to reassure her brother. “I should be apologizing to Sunny...I keep letting Olaf hurt her because he...truly scares me,”

“Hey, hey,” Duncan said as he could hear his sister begin to cry. “Don’t do that to yourself, Isa,”

“I’m supposed to protect her. I’m vastly older than she and I retreated to the corner of a cage while he proceeded to hurt her,” Isadora cried. “Who does that?”

“Someone who has a valid reason to fear a pedophilic piece of shit,” Duncan told her. “Sunny understands.”

“What if she doesn’t?” Isadora explained. “She’s young...what if it looks like I don’t care,”

“She’ll understand when she’s older then,” Duncan tried to reassure his sister. “But I’m pretty sure even Sunny can tell that Olaf is abhorrently creeper to you and Violet then he is to Klaus, Sunny, and I.”

Isadora slightly nodded, not truly responding to her brother. She could hear the sounds of birds. It sounded like ravens, no...crows. She smiled.

“We’re doomed, aren’t we?” Duncan asked.

“There’s always something,” Isadora replied. Although she was saying it more so to herself than to Duncan. If she had more room to move around, she would be pacing. It was strange, Isadora missed the cage. At least the cage was roomy. There was barely any space for the three children in wherever Olaf had stored them. “There’s always something,” she said again.

“Can you please stop saying that?” Duncan pleaded, wiping his eyes.

“Shhh,” Isadora told him. “There’s always something,”

“Isa...I’m serious. Stop,”

“I’m sorry, are you coming up with a plan to help us?” she asked crossly.

“...no…,” Duncan replied meekly.

“Exactly. I love you, bro. But all you’re doing is crying and that is not helping us. We have to get out of this damn thing,” Isadora said pounding her fists on the walls of the inside of the fountain desperately.

Duncan grabbed her fists. “Stop...that can’t be helping,” he warned. “We don’t even know if anybody will hear us...it’s not worth hurting ourselves for nothing.”

“I can hear people, though.” she cried desperately.

“That could be Olaf and his henchmen, though,” he explained.

She didn’t listen. She continued to hit the walls of the fountain vigorously. He harshly grabbed her fists. “You’re going to make yourself bleed...please stop,”

Isadora roughly extracted her fists from her brother’s grasp. She shook her head angrily. “We can’t give up! We can’t...this...this...this can’t be our life.” she cried, tears springing to her eyes. “Duncan...once he gets Violet…” she closed her eyes, wincing and grimacing in pain as she could hear Olaf’s voice. His warnings. His plans for Violet...his plans for her. She shuddered. “He’s going to kill you... and then he’s going to kill Klaus and Sunny.” she placed a gentle hand on Sunny’s head, wincing again. Worried that Olaf may have already accidentally murdered the toddler by a drug overdose. “He’s going to do unspeakable, horrible things to Violet and I…” she cried.

“Izzie…” Duncan responded. He did his best to wrap his arms around Isadora. “Isa…”

“I’m starting to think Quigley’s the lucky one,” Isadora whispered. She hoped that her words were soft enough that Duncan didn’t quite hear her. But She needed to say it out loud. She needed to speak the truth. Her freedom to use words to express herself in her way is all she had left besides Duncan and Sunny. Duncan’s grip around her tightened. She knew by his reaction that he heard her.

“Me too, Isa. Me too.” He admitted in a whisper. For only her to hear.

“This can’t be life...every time I sleep...I wake up hoping that this... this... reality is the dream but I wake up disappointed every day,”

“How long has it been?” he asked miserably.

“A week or two. I lost count after three days. They may have allowed us bathroom breaks and food breaks, but we barely got to see sunlight.”

Duncan released his grip on his sister. “You’re right,’ he said finally. “We have to do something. We can’t simply wait to be saved by Violet and Klaus. We have to help them.”

“There’s always something,” Isadora explained.

“Violet is right. There is always something,” Duncan said. “We have to think like Violet,”

“You’re right...we have to think like a genius to be a genius,” Isadora replied smiling. “She found us once...she can find us again.”

“True...but I feel like last time was easier than this time, I fear. I’m pretty sure we were in the same building as they were. With the bare sunlight we’re getting, I am assuming we are outside...but I doubt we’re anywhere near where Vi and Klaus are,”

“They have to be close,” Isadora cried. “We know he wants to kidnap Violet and murder Klaus,”

“How will they find us, though?”

Isadora sighed as she closed her eyes trying to think of a plan. It was too dark inside the fountain, so Duncan couldn’t see his sister beginning to smile but when he heard her giggling as if she had come up with an evil plan, he began to smile, too.

“You’re thinking something,”

“I sure am,” Isadora replied reaching into her pocket. “Fuck!” she yelled.

“What?”

“He took the ribbon again,” she muttered. “Do you have a ribbon, by chance?”

Duncan was confused. “Why would I have a ribbon?” he asked. “Why do you even need one?”

“The genius ties up her hair to think...why can’t I?” she asked as she felt Sunny’s head looking for a ribbon. Her heart shattered when she realized that Sunny didn’t even have her yellow hair ribbon.

“Good point,” Duncan said. “Wait...I may have a substitute,” He quickly took out his green commonplace book from his pocket. “I may have one...it’s thin but it might be long enough, I think.”

“It’ll have to do,” she replied as Duncan yanked the thin green ribbon from his notebook. Usually, these ribbons are used as placeholders for writers so they know what page they’re on like a bookmark holds one’s place in a book. My associate and I have several of these kinds of notebooks, all detailing the chronicles of rather unfortunate orphans. Let me tell you that I have tried to tie my hair with one of these things and it was difficult for many reasons. But as Duncan handed his sister the thin green ribbon, Isadora tied up her hair with ease and almost like magic, the conniving, cunning brain of Isadora Avi Quagmire was working at full speed.

“Duncan, do you have a pen?”

“Yeah, always. I’m a journalist...I’d be lost without one. Why?”

“Cause I’m a poet,” she replied taking out her black commonplace book.

“And Quigley was a cartographer,” he mentioned. “What’s your point?”

“Just give me your pen,”

Duncan handed Isadora the pen utterly confused. “I don’t follow. I know you’re a poet but why does that matter?”

“Because I’m going to send a message to our friends,”

“How?”

“With a pen and paper, duh?” Isadora replied sarcastically as she sketched out a note detailing exactly what was happening to the pair of triplets and their toddler friend. “It’s so dark...I don’t know how neat it is but I believe is legible,” she sighed. “How does this sound?”

She began to read it aloud but Duncan immediately interrupted her after the first line. “Ummm,”

“What?”

“Not to rain on your parade but you can’t send that out,”

“Why the fuck not?” she asked defensively. “Someone will help us!’

Duncan shook his head. “What if Olaf and Esme find it? What if his troupe finds it? They’ll hurt you...they’ll...they…” Duncan cried. One hand reaching out for Isadora’s shoulder, another reaching down to touch Sunny as if he needed to make sure she was still there. Tears flowed to his eyes again. “They told  me what they will do to you, Isa, if we don’t start behaving.”

“They told me, too,” Isadora cried. “But I don’t care! We have to send a message!”

“We will...just a secret message,” he replied. “You have the right idea...we just need to send out a message only Violet and Klaus will find and understand.”

Isadora nodded slowly tapping the pen to her chin. “I think I’ve got it,’ she said. “We’ll send it in multiple parts that way if those evil bastards find the note, they won’t think much of it,”

“Exactly!” Duncan agreed as Isadora began scribbling fiercely on the piece of paper After she had written a couplet, she stopped writing.

“Wait…” she said miserably. A wave of realization washing over her.

“What?”

“How...how are we going to give it out?” she asked, her heart sinking in her chest.

Duncan sighed as he looked around the small, dark space that he was trapped in. “I...I don’t know,”

“What if we waited ‘til bathroom break and threw it on the ground?”

“You think they wouldn’t notice that and who knows if it’ll get to the two people we need it to get to then,”

Isadora sighed. “We’re fucked,”

After a few moments of contemplation, Duncan replied. “Maybe not,”

Isadora looked to her brother. “What do you mean?” she asked a thick layer of hopefulness in her voice.

“Look up there,” he said peeking out of the small hole that happened to look like a beak. “What do you see?” he asked.

“A crow…” Isadora answered confused. “I don’t see why that matters. Although I do love crows…”

Duncan rolled his eyes. “That’s not just any crow...it’s a carrier crow,”

“You mean pigeon?”

“Same idea…”

“I’m not sure that I follow entirely,” she admitted.

“Let me see your note,” He held out his hand.

She handed him the small scroll of paper. “What are you doing?” she asked as he maneuvered his way closer to the opening. He got the note a little damp from the dew that was mucking up the small opening. He was disappointed to see that the opening was too small for him to stick his arm out entirely. Maybe that could get them the attention they needed. But alas, his and Isadora’s plan could still work cause he didn’t need his hand to fit out of the small hole. He just needed to be able to wrap the poem around the bird’s leg. He began to slowly reach his hand towards the bird’s leg.

“ Duncan Dylan, do not hurt that crow!” Isadora hissed nearly swatting his arm. She was still not entirely following what Duncan’s plan was.

“I’m not going to hurt the fucking crow,”

“What are you going to do then?”

“I’m going to use the note that you wrote and wrap it around its leg,” he explained as Isadora looked at him incredulously. She couldn’t believe her ears. “Maybe Violet and Klaus will see it and come get us out of here,”

“...yes...because when I see a crow... the first thing I do is check its leg for secret messages! ” she replies in a sarcastic hiss.

“It can’t hurt, can it?” He asked, rolling his eyes.

“You’re going to lose my brilliant poem,”

“Do you have any other ideas?” He asked.

“...no,” she admitted meekly.

“Then...trust me,” he replied. “You were mad a bit ago that I wasn’t coming up with plans now that I have...you’re still unhappy.”

Isadora nodded. “I trust you,” she replied, sighing. “Duncan?”

“Yeah?”

“If this works….you’re my hero,” she muttered.

“No, Isa,” he replied. “If this works, you’re my hero,”

Isadora smiled as she began working on her next poem. The two Quagmires took turns checking in on Sunny, who still slept in between them. They worried about the young toddler. Wondering what would happen to her even if she woke up. There was no way that those drugs were good for any of them, especially Sunny.

It felt like hours went by, Isadora and Duncan had nearly fallen asleep standing up. Both exhausted from the anxiety-inducing plan that they had come up with. They were both praying that their plan was going to work. Then to their shock, they each felt a small hand pull on their pantleg. They both glanced down, a drowsy Sunny lifted her head. To their horror, she still had the muzzle around her tiny mouth. She whimpered. They could feel her frantically trying to break it off her. Her muffled cries for help made both older orphans feel horrible. They both tried to reach down to help Sunny out, but there was no space for either triplet to kneel or bend down to assist the toddler. Sunny looked up at them with pleading eyes. She knew they were in a tight spot. Tears fell down her face as she thought about her previous life before Olaf...before the fire. She just wanted her parents back. She wanted her life back. She wanted her brother back. She also wanted Violet. She reached up to her head and cried harder when she realized her yellow ribbon that her father had given her was gone.

The Quagmires glanced at one another and tried to talk to Sunny. They told her of their plan and promised her the second that they could think of a way to maneuver around each other they would break that muzzle off her face. She nodded. She believed them, she just hated that she was unable to communicate with them. She took turns leaning on either one of their legs. Isadora continuously asked Sunny how she felt, she was worried about the drug's effects on the toddler. Sunny would answer to the best of her abilities. She tried to explain to them that she felt queasy and weak but there was no systematic way to communicate that to them. It didn’t matter how many times she tapped their legs to indicate ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions or answer their questions that pertained to number answers. She leaned her head on Isadora’s legs, her eyes rapidly looking around. Sunny didn’t know what death felt like...but she worried that she would soon find out.

___________________________________________________________

Esme bowed a few times towards the crowd. As she stood on the platform smiling.

Mr. Lesko, the man in plaid pants who had inquired about where Violet and Klaus would be living stood up nervously. He glanced towards Esme. “What happened to the old chief of police? I kind of liked that guy.”

She glanced towards the two orphans. Violet had half a mind to beat Esme senseless with her purple backpack. “He had a terrible umbrella accident,” she responded looking specifically at Klaus. She wasn’t even one hundred percent sure why that statement garnered the reaction it did from Klaus. But she didn’t care, she found it hilarious.

Klaus’ eyes went wide as he gripped Violet’s shoulder tightly, doing his best to hide behind her. Even ducking a little bit, seeing that he was taller than his older sister. Violet looked from Esme to Klaus with absolute confusion.

Even the crowd looked confused at Esme. “Shit,” she muttered realizing that she may want to change her story. It was fun to tease the orphans but she needed to make everything sound legit. “He also…” she replied in her disguised voice. “Swallowed a box of thumbtacks…” she tried.

“Ah,” the crowd collectively replied. Violet looked to the crowd as if they were all a bunch of idiots, she could feel Klaus shaking behind her in fear. Esme smiled at the two children who stood before her.

“We didn’t hire a replacement,” one of the elders explained confused.

“The agency sent me,” Esme replied quickly. She turned from the three elders to the entire town. “VFD, I bring you protection and style,” she said showing off her stylish outfit. Violet rolled her eyes in response. “Enjoy my fabulous officious outfit as I serve up piles and piles of justice.”

“We have to tell the Council,” Klaus whispered to Violet. “If Esme’s here...that means Olaf is here,”

“And if Olaf is here so are the Quagmires and Sunny,” she whispered back.

“Silence!” an elder warned.

“Yeah orphans,” Esme replied. “Shut your pie holes. Or...you’ll have to answer to me, ”

“But…” Klaus cried looking to the Elders.

“We can see your lips moving! Whispering is talking! And there’s not talking on the platform,” the second Elder explained.

“But this bitch is talking on the platform,” Violet hissed angrily.

Esme smirked. “Unless you happen to be chief of police,” she replied sticking her tongue out at Violet. “And if I were you...I’d watch your ugly little mouth,” Esme hissed softly at Violet. “I could always cut out that tongue…” she whispered.

“Unless you’re chief of police,’ the elder reiterated.

“And as your chief of police, I will make sure that all rule-breakers are severely punished,” she said smirking at the two children. “So I would behave if I were you,” she smiled again when her words affected Klaus just as Olaf told her they would. He began to shake even more than before. Gripping violet’s shoulders tightly that he made Violet wince in pain.

“That sounds perfect!” one elder replied.

“I am big fan of severe punishment,” she replied. “In fact, I will personally take care of people who break even the tiniest rule.”

To the two children’s horror, on the second floor of VFD’s town hall stood all five of Olaf’s associates, all in poorly crafted disguises. “Hear! Hear!” both white-faced women cried.

“I like this chief of police!’ The Hook-Handed Man replied half-heartedly.

“She’s very attractive,” The bald man commented.

“Aw,” Esme replied although she liked the attention, you can tell that she was grossed out by the bald man’s words. Both children were confused as to why she would be willing to date Olaf but think the bald man was disgusting. To the children and anyone with a brain cell, both men were abhorrently disgusting.

“I admire her for her capabilities,” The Henchperson of Indeterminate Gender noted.

“Yeah!” the crowd cheered.

Esme took several more bows as Violet and Klaus looked around the small town hall looking utterly defeated. Klaus still gripped Violet’s shoulders, using her as a human shield. “Grazie! Aw, so kind!” Esme replied to the crowd. “Grazie!” she bowed once more, this time she leaned closer to Violet and Klaus. Violet looked miserably back at Esme as Esme glared at both her and Klaus. “As you can see, we have eyes everywhere. And we are always watching,” She hissed at the kids.

“Give her back…” Klaus begged in a pleading voice. “Give them back…”

Esme smirked at Klaus. “Maybe we can strike a deal,” she muttered.

Klaus was confused by Esme’s words entirely. A deal? He thought. He nearly agreed on the spot until Violet growled towards Esme. Violet, being two years older than Klaus and much more chaotic and less naive than he was, glared at Esme. She had this sick feeling in her stomach that she understood what Esme meant by ‘striking a deal’. She feared it had the same exact connotation as Olaf’s offerings of a deal. This made Violet sick to her stomach. “ Back off, bitch face,” she warned, standing up as straight as she could. Making sure to keep Klaus behind her.

Esme smirked. “ You don’t scare me, little girl.” she hissed, the wicked woman wanted to simply punch Violet in her face. She couldn’t stand to look at the girl. All she could see was that treacherous bitch, Beatrice. Esme sighed angrily.

She glanced towards Klaus again. Esme may hate Violet for simply looking like Beatrice and she most definitely wanted to brutally kill Violet just for that alone. But when she glanced towards Klaus, she could see the child that Beatrice kept...the child she assumed Beatrice actually wanted. She met Klaus, the boy had a tendency to be a know-it-all, annoying pest, well at least, that’s how she and Olaf saw him. She couldn’t understand why Beatrice would keep that child. Why not abandon them all? Esme thought to herself. As she glared at Klaus, she knew she wanted to destroy him, too. But in a different way than she wanted to destroy Violet and even Sunny, who she could not care less for. She could be dead in the fucking fountain and Esme wouldn’t care. But Klaus was different. She wanted to destroy Beatrice’s little mommy’s boy in the worst ways imaginable. She gave a vicious smirk towards Klaus. She knew he was desperate to get his baby sister back, maybe just maybe, she could use that to her advantage. “We can chit chat later, orphan boy,” she whispered sending a chill down Klaus’ spine.

“ Over my dead body ,” Violet hissed viciously.

Esme gave a low chuckle as the crowd began settling down. She leaned in as close as she could to Violet. “That’s the plan, darling,” Esme hissed. She chuckled softly. “Well...at least that’s my plan…” She glanced towards the Elders and crowd making sure no one was paying her any attention. She twirled a strand of Violet’s hair in her fingers. “I'd watch my back if I were you, Snicket," she whispered.

The three Elders all hit their gavels down simultaneously. Everyone in the crowd instantly shut their mouths. Esme stood up straight, glancing at the children offering them a tainted smile. “Now, off you go! Good luck in your new home.” She teased. Her voice laced with a bitter-tasting venom as Violet and Klaus looked at one another. Both siblings walked off the platform, both glancing around the room of townspeople who were effortlessly tricked by Esme���s disguise.

“What do we do now?” The bald man asked.

“That’s the trouble with small towns. Once you infiltrate the police, not much left to do,” The Henchperson of Indeterminate Gender noted.

“Vandalism?” One of the white-faced women asked.

“The brats are responsible for cleaning up this town, maybe we could make it a little dirtier where they can’t foil the bosses plans.” The Hook-Handed Man replied as Esme simply nodded her head indicating for them to go do something.

Violet and Klaus walked out of Town Hall miserably, the man in overalls, who they had been told was named Hector, followed them. But the children didn’t say a word to him as they exited the building. They continuously looked behind them to make sure that Esme was not following them. Both orphans felt their hearts shatter as their minds were racing at top speed trying to figure out what Olaf’s plan could be this time.

[stupendoustrashmagazine]

A 10-pp. selection of poems

Personage The terrace offers a point. From this point a view. It's only a stop-off; it assumes the motion requisite for temporary stays will continue. The speculative friction required to stop those passing through would require planned extinction; would require war against generations of persistence across biome, suffering & misery magnified it remains threatened always. Building requires digging. Digging creates hollows to be filled. A move past botanicals—it doesn’t exist. A pulse in the web. Walk toward beyond the view: journey’s luck to close in on production. Pace picks up, dusk’s dis- appearing light invites one in: welcome.   Prelude Tonight the act of naming fell through the floor. We speak permeable solids inflected by light. Skull’s grid moves units indistinctly: windshield & palette cross paths, hatch an Ovidian shift, difixiones to devotio; the faux-gorithm teases pantheon from closet, traces flotilla’s down, hot air balloons, celebrating you or prairie fair. You’ll learn to kill that hunger for thunderhead drift. I follow shapes of your speech, attend to your syntax, taste your configuration; to keep up I sketch stick figure, code hypertext script cascading in style, the result of which confirms, again: we’re lost. Plot is a plait’d plat, flatland destination & another assemblage? I want aura to invite aural meiosis, aurora splitting into rural roads, for the bassoon quartet to be forgiven for plastic bag reeds on my direction, for aria to, moody, move into a different mode & travel out through spring’s open window; I want the racket splenetic melancholy, for dynamic accompaniment fit for unfashionable passion, the like. That state of exilium you described as a quantum between. Always pain hover triangulated. Frame Matisse with me, guilty stokes both— say the magnolia blooms shall remain & not at the expense of any other but they do not. Creek diverted, river dead: suck’d dry wax & cone though still dragonflies are purple, abdomen metallic sets of curvature & husk. Nearby: field of lightning. We walk through fjords of light forking down, resisting electrocution, naturally. The taste of our nakedness waking in early in your bed, black walnut leaves catching first October light. If I leave the house or library I sit on benches in Walmart or go to the Coralville mall alone, growing frosting in my chest & English ivy in my sinuses, scribble notes with my fork-tongue alone. Walk with me this once, again, into notional forest, ash-grey landscape dotted in umber, newborn beetles radiating, cobalt blue.   Skykomish in Summer In Goldbar Washington boys crossed river with driftwood staves feet slick-step between slime & rock, underbelly of serpentine but liquefied, algal nets stretch’d between toes, Like scales without edge—stiffened Cold after crossing they crawl’d up & into caverns allowing in fractions of sun but they felt cradled in a way shielded, intimacies there before they dove into round pools spun by spit current’s swirls, the bank of the cove gritty enough for a grip as they’d climb out out of sorts, alive they’d look at the congregation from which they just emerged tangle of nets, sunken conflagrations their bodies against the wake pressed a force there, quiet, endless, sound moving through medium beckoning, shape taking a form inky jar, turbine spat out from the bottom of an oil well.   Grass Cuts Nyanza Street. South Tacoma—we’re on A hill & approach it, tall grass, foreclosure. Blackberry brambles thick on the lawnslope purple, thorns & stickers, irritable touch. Boss climbs roofs with too steep a pitch; Hauls mowers from mud when I mire it Good in a ditch. His daughter today works with us, we weedwhack waist-high grass, rake clippings & tufts long enough to be hay in neat quadrants. They steam mornings we make it out as early as seven. A canopy borders the two-acre lot. I stare – emptying’s substance against nothingness of total inattention’s default setting. Metal asphalt shingles, roof’s pitch steep Low ground valley & everywhere: unhinged Botany thrives. Ivy plaits helices Around five-feet in diameter firs, in follow some twenty feet up when Jamie grabs a pitchfork. See something. It skitters through raked mounds, Goes through tunnels punctured By tines or cleat-roller aerating the lawn She shanks its body up against weed- blocker & brick. A metallic pling rings fades, she scoops it somewhere— this brought up her enjoyment killing, dressing, & cooking fowl. We move more grass I looking for insects, think of meat saws yawning day & night do they Day & night, fumbling—sound like chain saws or Colorado cattle feedlots, cottonwoods standing by during a drought, the sugar factory’s honey-butter burnt hair & soccer cleats left for week in a car. Mulch, juncos, midmorning sun on, sun off, Rake, return, pile, killing rabbits once we snapped their necks wrong, twice partial Breaks, botching it, both shaking we Shared an acute horror in our optics. Then we crushed their skulls with a hammer, But that’s when we lived near the volcano, when the halcyon sensation when standing at the bottom of Nisqually glacier, the sheaves of receding rose-grey gravel in aggregate felt like meteoroid field sent to grave resting place, armatures of old growth First & hemlocks in steep fractals jagged landings in glaciated river so thick with silt it looked an ash-blue sleeve. We take HUSKY 55-gal. trash bags of grass to the organic waste dump. We smell like gasoline & two-cylinder oil & grease. When I get home my house mama says Pew-whee! You smell like Marty; you smell like something that kills.   Shards What was it that came out the water in a sled a Wayward gesture young-&-stuffed Mess to common rendition Duchamp’s Pearl Neckless? In his version The sledgehammer fell square to carcass/shard/caress. You wanted/saved like anyone else wanted, A sequence of diadems, diamondic scales on A yellow python’s back. Be-figure, a mole Amongst slag pits, a slog truce from igneous slab. Bats tunnel boroughs, funnel rigmarole We keep one ray or dot of spun molybdenum— Torque at the end of the…—that glint relieves Grog, luster, a clutch lets cable go its single, slackening line. True fundament! come to the party— From up there, from below? Come beat through this bog’s Excrement, creakily swung skew joints, fallen centurions, Carve away gluttony,—an economic model Levels the field of every thistle’s purple demarcation. Remains disappear. Binary caskets Glisten polyurethane on oak grab it… If - you – get – to – the – place To – get – you – the – records: Prefabricated dirt tastes discard bottles, Skittling crevice, crick or face, collections Binding fractures. That which goes unseen. Make & model, blue castes. Signature mummies. Huffing. That kinetic thrill Pushing hammers through Masonite, Bulls snorting horns at a flag The very requiem of the horse’s eye A black so dark it blued the muscle in deafening Postures of grey fog: a way: body: yes, a shard, Blight-bit, a descending distend, steep bends— A weather system approaches Centripetally, a large unformed cat, To distillate—nothing—to pray to the grommet, One ventricle, alas���poor valve, the idea Of the river. The river. Is. Itself. Course vessel in a Losing resonance a tributary vacillation tip-toed beyond A materiality that is, is not, any old trick.   Spilling the Flour Began not thrush’s stamp, nor cardinal blue whistle but The sour flack going out, the waist line spilt. Emptying cylinders combed in sheet metal corrugate, Fill another vision, the conveyor belt muscle Persuasion. Sometimes a harvest sits like pheasants Before buckshot, freeze-frame, promise cannon— What will be. Corn stalks chopped at maggot root twist Wind crowing a parade, sans confetti, sans soleil. Platoon the distant mist, forgetting it’s metal multiplied In numbers not quantity. Not fog. That’s fire But the wound continuum in ears splits hair mimics a mime Brown cerumen flax spreads flat lays down in- To a line. Elements bind fetch needle & borrow thread Stitch from denim you see the voices hear. Spiders don’t mean to. Bats garner a wick of light Against normalcy of shadow. When is not Important. Con memory commemorate ingrown toe- Nail sunk into rib-line fleshed out for sake Of sake of being. Forsaken lake: equivalent to constrictor Vine, not theorem. Carpet moves imagined Equestrians run between alder beetles the abandoned Horses heaving in the meadow along the orange Vector. The chemilume incision furcates the dark shells Guarding liquefied innards, the many legs.   The Awful Cutlery Traveling by Greyhound between Dominguez- Escalante and Grand Mesa National forest, We’re full enough In the filled up four-wheel lurch on blacktop I-70 elegantly swung across Secluded Rocky Mountain scrag. “This shit’s too country” a woman remarks. You see what she means. The rosaries Of apricot, peach, cherry, and plum disintegrate Vineyard to vineyard to bottle To California, mid-stride Maybe she means. Maybe Damian The off-shore welder tells me about hanging above The water, rigged up, slung out, strapped in, Gluing thousand-degree metal to solid stack Rigs, working twelves till three months pass So he can go—“I go everywhere”—to complicate Home—“Love Alabama but I need to see it all The whole shit.” Dusk is a disk with a predictable arc. I’m here twenty years, this red land. From bottom canyon ditch combs Of bygone eon drag across mesa, leaving scar, Evidence of water, wind, shaggy coats left To bear, bear themselves, on other creatures Pitching, tent-by-tent, a story, a new story, old. The mother tells you, you & me, of Rocky Mountain Flats, the Climax Uranium Mill, A fire beginning with a crack, croaking a Groan to a glow, plutonium then, dizzied in dust, Vapored amoeba flung across the whole Front Range. Cows were the first to show up Without usual parts: eye, ear or triple-tongue. Do I believe anything I say anymore? Set that head against Plexiglas. Feel the chill— A lavender fork makes an albino tarantula Of sky, yet there’s a merge, the speech Corks off. Into each direction, asymmetry Between passengers a music nonetheless, The hiddenness behind tall sediment walls Now, this cutlery mass Stalking hungry movers, clawing at the dirt To reveal the intact pores of a distant femur.   Safe/Way Courtesy Clerk In the aisles of nondescription halogen baleen Sifts shop-cart rift-racket & geriatric dances. Old/new toothpick paradigm cues a mist/turn: Old is to new as young is to old, meaning Painting the urn in synthesizer blue still undoes. The unheard chambers are sweeter. Polyethylene is a mon-on- monomer ladder of Chain-stacks, bindings, writes the blurb We’re all in this together. Savings save you From it, from it you’ll be saved the lapse: Western tanager memorizes its own memory Launched in citrus beneath the varied canopy. Really: in this Safeway a woman chutes Hundreds of one-liters into the re/cycle Machine. She leans on cart rail, no wheel. Her child helps he laughed he threw them into The bin, the coins emerged. Someone said Music moves from a fix-point fence post, studded Down into ground. He’s right—what is there to do But do, bag up a customer’s purple cabbage Dreams stuff them sweet potato mush- Room into room, sacked. They’d blister From oxygen’s lack they’d try to make it, try To survive. Wouldn’t it be courteous To curtsy before bags bulge as balloons stuffed With vision? Even in tulip & rose section I Hand out the foxtail elixir, all the loot; were they Bodies turned down, turned into what now, soup? The day is butternut squash but wouldn’t A lizard do today let’s get all the gutter newts Recalling now how Scooby returned From a long drive he threw an iguana On the chopping block on the counter top In the apartment he was making soup He sawed off its head. What was inside The eyes? Nothing much. Eye cones con, resemble The black glass of a tick’s back. You’ll try To reach in & what — find out who looks back Tell yourself that’s you looking back. A gaze. Scooby ran cool water over the head, on it. Its jaw opened and closed again & again. “This is good soup that’s what happens After the head’s cut off.” What would the body Do after, what voice would reclaim itself, Would reconvene re — gather protest against scores Settled, dust made fall silk, unnoticed? What takes when taken back, how’ll things Exactly as they are be exactly as they’d been? What music shapes the marina, the guitar Rustling out a poison ivy arpeggio to become The place and the things of things as they are? How do you bargain or take the lead For the dreaded duet? The mouth opens cilia Tongue juts out pink premonition the sky boom Nitro’s paisley maize radished in the Word-Ward. Blue pollen doesn’t exist but when the man Who looks one-hundred buys the dyed-blue orchid & says “it’s for my” I cut him off & ask but He just laughs & says “it’s just a flower it’s just An empty bag” & walks out, away, toward Automatic sensor doors, glass partitions that open Like megafauna with a belly full of a world on fire.

[translightyagami]

"I don't think we need any more stuffed animals in the bed" for blight? 🤔

(so this is the AU where Light works at the bookstore Beyond owns like in this post i made ages ago)

Light had to admit that a week prior to kissing Beyond, hewouldn’t have thought them a hang-out type couple. He imagined calling infrequently,kissing after his shift ended in the erotic novels section, and Beyondcontinuing to resent having hired him in a habitual passive-aggressive flirtationthat never progressed. Instead, as Light closed the store down and prepared togo back to his dorm, Beyond invited him upstairs.

One thing Beyond mentioned in repeated prideful crows washis ownership of the bookstore’s building, which was two floors. Light assumedthe second floor was more storage, as even the backroom hardly contained halfthe purchases the trade-in desk received. Through that same cloisteredbackroom, Beyond led Light by the hand to a set of stairs blocked off with aflimsy metal chain. A sign, written in familiar scribble, told guests andemployees not to enter. Beyond winked as he unhooked the chain, letting it falland sway as he took the first step and tugged Light along.

“C’mon,” he said. “It’s late. Spend the night. Isn’t thatwhat they say in movies?”

“I don’t know.” Light slipped his hand from Beyond, grabbinghold of the rickety railing as they ascended through a hole cut in the ceiling.“We don’t watch the same movies.”

He peeped his head through the hole after Beyond disappearedthrough it and got his first look at the studio above the bookstore. Light wastaken aback to have such knowledge implanted alongside the spot in his brainreserved for the familiar clutch of the bookstore. When he was thirteen, hismother’s sock fell down while she was grocery shopping with him. Grey fabricpressed down into her shoe and revealed a small tattoo of a skull previouslyunseen by Light. The shock of the familiar being unfamiliar rattled in him inthe same way then as it did now.

Beyond grabbed his hand again and yanked Light’s startledbody into the still dark studio. Whatever illumination the place received cameonly from the moon spilled through a single double-paned window facing thecollege campus. As Light wandered toward that window, marveling at the courtyard’swell gardened hedges, Beyond flicked on first a tiffany lamp, and then theceiling light. At once the studio’s many fixtures and appendages were bathed inbutter yellow, all blue shadow chased underneath a lumpy couch.

It became clear to Light that the studio was actually asmall garret pressed into a triangle like two hands in mock-prayer. He stood inthe living room on a stained ornamental rug thrown over some reddish woodflooring that matched the support beams above them as well as, in hisrecollection, the construction of the bookstore. Various armamentarium—textbooksin assorted volumes and fields with none matching, several tools strewn inuseless configurations and an oddly numerous accumulation of stuffed animals onthe couch—competed for his attention along with the man hemming and hawing toLight’s side.

“Do you want anything?” Beyond spoke at the nervous volumeof an unpracticed, but eager host. “I’ve got tea, if you’re thirsty. Not reallymuch water, except for tap, but there’s a mineral water somewhere.” He left tofumble around the kitchenette, fridge door swung open and its paltry contentshalf-displayed. “Or are you hungry? I know you took a dinner break so probablynot. Would cake be attractive to you?”

Light turned around the room, assessing the amount of things Beyond stuffed into the space. “Whydo you have so many literacy posters?” Light pointed at a particularly agedposter of Alf, cat in one hand and a book on cat-cookery in the other, whichdemanded children read a book. “Oh, also, no thank you for cake. Whatever theyserved me at the corner store upset my stomach. The tea sounds good.”

“You shouldn’t go to thatcorner store.” Beyond shut the fridge and turned on the electric kettle,flicking around in a hanging cabinet until he gathered a white teacup, abattered green tin and a plastic package of sugar cubes. “They’ve got the worstsandwiches that they always serve to the university kids. Go to the one a blockover. Mello works part-time there, and if you’re nice, he’ll make you whateverboxed lunch you want.” The green tin opened and let out a potent perfume ofpeppermint tea. “Actually, he’s pretty skilled at making food in general. Don’ttell him I said that, okay?”

“Why not?” Half-listening to Beyond’s kitchen antics, Lightwalked over to the bookshelves, squat and tall, that lined the compartmentwalls. Were this not the shabby dwellings of his manager nee kissing partner,Light would call the room a study for how full it was of literary accoutrement.He thumbed over a worn copy of A Wrinklein Time, fingernail sticking on a label across the spine’s bottom that read“Property of A.” Before he could read whatever came after the letter A, thekettle’s piercing whistle pulled Light’s attention back to Beyond.

Two cups in front of him held triangle teabags that Beyondrearranged gingerly. He glanced behind his shoulder at Light, flashinguncomfortable smiles that reeked of satisfaction with what he saw. Instead ofrepulsion—Light’s usual reaction to the sight of another person’s contentment—warmthpulsed from Light’s chest through his torso when he met Beyond’s eyes. Beingthe subject of an emotion didn’t, for once, feel like nausea.

“Any sugar?” Beyond poured hot water into both cups, alittle sloshing off the rim. “I take about three, but that’s just habit. Backwhere I grew up, I got in trouble because I stole too many sugar cubes once.”

“I’ll have one cube.” Light examined the couch and itsoccupants—several brown furred teddy bears all subtly enhanced by carnivorous setsof fanged teeth. He gently set aside a bear in a blue sailor hat and took itsplace. “Who gave you these teddy bears? Are they, like, joke presents?”

Tea steam misted over Beyond’s confused expression as hebrought Light his cup. “I bought those myself,” he said as Light took the cup,settling back with it perched on his palm. “Do you think they’re ugly, orsomething?”

Desperation had a particular shrill ring to any sentence itinfected and so Light knew what he heard in Beyond’s voice wasn’t desperation.Whatever filled the words he said was indeterminately soft-bellied and unhappy,as though predisposed with knowledge that Light would pierce that now exposedvulnerability with another comment on the stupid bears. Silently, Light watchedBeyond move the teddies into a comfortable stack and take his place by them,adjusting one’s pink bow before hesitantly patting its head. He wondered howlong these bears had been on the couch, and who else had seen them. He wonderedif it occurred to Beyond that this was a strange thing to have, or if his baldsense of enjoyment made him immune to the idea that one couldn’t haveeverything they liked if those things were stuffed animals with full dentalinsertions.

Light sipped the tea and peppermint simpered down throughhis body to calm his troubled stomach. “No,” he said. “I don’t think they’reugly.” He took another sip and patted the sailor hatted bear he displaced. “They’rejust like you. Very strange. More than I expected.”

Beyond nodded, his sipping a solemn motion. “Bears cansurprise you,” he said. “But surprise aren’t always so bad, I don’t think. Iwas surprised how much I needed to hire you.” He didn’t hide his staring atLight, who turned his gaze from Beyond as heat flushed his cheeks. “Oh, sorry.I didn’t know that embarrassed you or anything.”

“Shut up,” Light snapped. “You did too know.” Shaking hishead, he set the cup in his lap and picked at a hangnail. A smile, uncalled forbut unstoppable, snuck over his lips. “I don’t mind surprises either. Why doyou think I kissed you back?”

“Because I’m the smartest man you know,” Beyond said and receivedan entire teddy bear thrown in his face.