#everything's green except the houses which r red

[neonblixtar]

acrylic on cardboard scraps

[pastara-cell]

FAVOURITE AU IDEA AAAA DAY 17 IVE BEEN WAITING IVE BEEN WAITING IVE BEEN WAITING I HAVE TWO ANSWERS BUT I’LL DO TWO SEPERATE POSTS BECAUSE IF I DO BOTH OF THEM IN THE SAME POST YOU’LL BE READING AN ENTIRE FIC AT THAT POINT

PART 1 (Double Life Au)

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Okay so, This is sorta similar to yesterdays thing, and also, I’ve literally posted about this, but now that I have my medication, i can ACTUALLY write it. TMF DOUBLE LIFE AU- Okay okay wait wait lemme recap then I’ll go into detail, because I dont want this to be a complete restatement of my older post, as its been more fleshed out since then.

So, for a recap, if you dont know what double life is, them it’s essentially the 3rd season in a mcyt series called “the life series/traffic life”. In this season, people are paired up with anothet person, their soulmate, and they take damage when the other person takes damage.

However, with that being the canon, many different headcanons and fan conceps have popped up for it, such as feeling everything your soulmate feels (Physically and mentally). I’ll only give one example because there are physically so many that i’d be here all day talking about them.

I would also like to take a second to say that i’m a firm truther in the fact that double life is an allegory for the fact that you cant be forced until love. Also, remember that soulmates can be platonic or romantic, or sometimes even enemies! (Not like im gonna make zailey soulmates, they could be platonic but Its just not my thing)

So what I proposed is that we take the tmf guys, and we throw them into the double life universe! This au was just a thought at that point, but I have it mostly mapped out now! So, heres a lil thing showing all the pairs ^^ (what no, I didn’t steal half these screencaps from rosypenguins and the tmf suffering bracket…LIESSS/silly)

(The letters to the side stand for what the pair is. R means romantic, p means platonic, q means QPR, and c means complicated)

Now im not gonna sit here and go over each pair, however, i’ll dump some headcanons for the au!! (If you end up using this au, which i totally dont mind, please change anything you want!)

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-The reason Drean is a confusing pair is because they dont know eachother, or atleast, not well. They’d probably not know how to properly talk to eachother at first. I could see this going from not knowing eachother, to platonic, to romantic, but any way works and they’ll be able to be interpreted as romantic or platonic

-Staisy QPR because yes.

-ran out of people to pair up, and decided “huh, okay then, sadie and maria” and tbh, why not. New rarepair. They go from mild dislike to loving eachother practically as soon as they bond.

-all the pairings in this are based upon canon friendships, my personal headcanons, and whatever I felt like putting together.

-Lia and Zoey are NOT friends in this au, well atleast not anymore. But they’re stuck together.

-Hailey and milly cause i need to see them interact more

-Milly and Elliot totally do a secret soulmate thing, like bigb and grian, but are super awkward about it. Hailey and jake know, and they think it’s hilarious

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Enough about the pairings, au facts time!!

-Drew is a past watcher. Take that as you will with your own watcher lore ^^

-Sadie is a listener, also take that as you will with your lore.

-Because I can and Because I will, Liam and henry live in the “relation-ship”. They’re the boat boys. No other pairing lives in the same houses as the original mcyts, Just those two.

-green, yellow, and red lives still exist. Yes they can die. Yes, my friends, this does mean angst.

-Will take place in the terrain of the double life map. Only things that are missing are the structures that were built by the mcyts, the cake does not exist, nor does pearl’s tower or anything. The relation-ship is there but thats an exception.

Mayyy update this, part 2 with my othet au may come out today or tomorrow, depends on how lomg it’ll take me to do stuff. ^^

[gaym0m]

Okay so l'm really sad cause this girl I have been kinda seeing (and like a lot) is moving states today so imma write that but as Ellie and Beth :) no maggot mommy sorry guys 😭

I'll probably do fluff later.

Warnings: angst, cuss words. Kissing? Gonna do 2nd person cause head hurts. R knows guitar in Beth's part. And just owns some in Ellie’s part.

Beth

Knowing Beth since before she started to learn about music and guitars was a joyful ride.

It was even better when you knew how to play the guitar.

Living just a few blocks from eachother's apartment buildings, meant the two of you would meet almost very day

Ellie wasn’t too sure about this at first but you grew on her (and kept her sister out of trouble while she worked which was really good for her)

But it really wasn’t meant to last

Cause if it was I tagged this wrong (I didn’t im sorry)

As soon as Beth was 18 and Ellie had enough money saved, they planned to move. Not only had Ellie found an amazing husband (this is actually a Jay haters group. But I guessss I have to say he’s nice at first), she had her tattoo business up and running.

Ellie had to go to LA for a bigger market

And Beth had to follow, already applying to multiple music schools and being accepted into most of not all

You? Even if you wanted to follow them (god you wanted to follow them so much it make you physically ill) you simply couldn’t.

You loved Beth so so much, how could you not? Her humor, her taste in literally everything, her voice. . . Truly the list goes on.

But you had been accepted to a school across country, full ride (this means tuition and living paid for those not in America 😔✊) and far from home

It was supposed to be a good thing.

You were all achieving your dreams

So why did it feel like you couldn’t breath?

Why did your chest ache and long for something you’d long since given up?

Because love sucks. (Which is why we all obsess over fictional characters)

The day came so much sooner than you were ready.

All three of you shared a teary good bye, but once Ellie had entered the car, Beth’s arms wrapped tightly around you.

Her face sinking into your neck (as it had a thousand times before after a fight with her mom or her mom vs her sister)

It was a quiet plead for comfort.

Comfort that after that day you wouldn’t be able to provide her.

Her tears soaked your shirt and your tears in hers.

No words were spoken, it wasn’t really necessary when you two knew each-other so well.

Too soon, you had to pull away. Tear stained cheeks flushed red, and green eyes looked dull while locking with yours.

Without much of a second thought, you both leaned in.

Finally Sharing the kiss you both (unknowingly) had been longing for.

It wasn’t how you wanted it, and it wasn’t Beth’s happy ending either

But it was a last hurrah, as your two stories broke off into different paths.

It was as comforting as it was painful, with ideas of what could have been.

Ellie

Ellie had always been a sweetheart, despite her mother’s neglect and her forced motherhood towards Beth.

That was something you admired about her from the moment you meet.

Being the same age as her and with little to no real responsibility except to school, you leant her a hand with Beth.

You parents weren’t rich, but they were certainly workaholics and comfortable.

Which meant while you couldn’t just move them into your house, you could certainly drive them around in your car.

Or buy them groceries when Ellie was running low on money.

It still made you laugh at the memory of her swearing up and down that she would pay you back or return the favor while Beth stood behind her quietly mocking her and sending you a playful wink (one which you’d always return with a smirk)

Ellie adored how well you got along with her sister, and just how much you were willing to go out of your way for them.

Even gifting Beth one of your older guitars for her birthday (you can’t remember who was smiling the widest, little Beth with her guitar feeling like a rockstar or Ellie, watching her sister with the warmest blue eyes you’ve ever seen in your life)

Looking back, that’s when you first fell hard for her. Very eyes so warm and welcoming yet so full of love, pain and everything else.

Like two vacuums dragging you in until you couldn’t breath.

In a good way

One of your favorite memories was convincing Ellie to give you a tattoo after watching her practice on fake skin.

She wouldn’t stop saying no until you compromised, if it looked awful when it healed, she owed you a cover up.

Spoiler alert, it definitely wasn’t great.

She did give you that cover up though

And it looked amazing

Almost matching with her beautiful vine design.

But maybe you waited to long

Or you read it all wrong

Because it was a random Tuesday when she dropped the bomb

She meet a guy. . . And she really liked him.

At first it felt like nothing, a stupid fling at best in your mind.

But one date turned to two then three then weeks of dating followed by months.

Yet your stupidly held on to hope.

Years passed, Jay was still in the picture and while you tried to stay sane you could feel yourself quickly deteriorating.

Beth was quick to notice, always offering a sorry smile when you two locked eyes while Ellie and Jay shared a loving moment.

Yet another year passed, one you spent overworked in order to push the tattoo artist out of your head.

A year which Jay spent pulling Ellie deeper and deeper.

The day you found out about their engagement sent you in a quiet spiral.

Just minutes from home, in a bar with shots lined up waiting for you to finish the last four.

Beth found you first, helping you up and home.

She knew she shouldn’t have told you, after all you clearly were struggling.

But she figured now was better than later.

“Ellie and Jay are moving to LA, and I was hired as a guitar technician with a bad going on tour in a month. .”

Talk about two birds one stone.

Your heart shattered further

Tears forming into your eyes and spilling down your cheeks until you had no more tears to give.

You knew better than to even imagine having a chance now.

Beth tried her best to be there for you, but she was also busy with packing and coming to terms with separating from her sister (and mother figure)

Meanwhile you distracted yourself. Pulling even more shifts at work, packing and shipping all your stuff out to NYC.

With no real tears left to cry, teary eyes and long tight hugs were exchanged between you and Ellie.

Her lips pressed to your cheek before she promised to keep in touch.

Then just like that she was gone

And suddenly you had more tears to cry

You had more pain

But you also had acceptance

And a new road ahead, and away from those you loved for so long.

Ahh sorry for the angst, I am depresso buttt i promise fluff tonight or tomorrow. For now send me ask if you’d like lol.

[talesofsonicasura]

Not A Plaything

Prologue: Unfriendly Meeting

Somethings aren't meant to be toys. A line that one should always respect. To cross it is to break those involved and leave the innocent picking up the pieces.

Can be read gender neutral or preferred gender.

'Toys make the world go around.' A phrase that those who craft goodies for children of all ages would probably agree on. Whether it was for the smiles or money, toys were made to bring enjoyment to these youthful bundles.

Dolls, plastic cars, playing cards, building blocks were just some of many flavors they came in. Size doesn't really matter compared to the quality. And there were some lines people would cross if they want the perfect toy. Yet, perfection has a price. One that can be seen as morally forbidden depending on how far a toy maker will go.

It can develop into a growing nightmare if more than a single crafter choose to dance with the devil. One company would soon become a hidden workshop of horrors, crafting monsters in exchange for blood. Products made from stolen lives and broken morals.

The thing about commiting taboo is that one day it will all come down. Play with the Devil then you better prepare to pay the price. Cause all dues shall be collected at some point. It was a single incident that led to the massive downfall of this dark company. The Devil's due paid in blood and death as nothing remain except for their sins.

Although, not everything would become forgotten. One tortured soul was given salvation in the form of a determined child. The Devil within the factory knew what these two meant to each other. And let both leave together as they were proof that hope still exists.

Something which expanded far beyond what anyone could imagine.

"Yo, I'm back!" It was a freezing cold day despite being spring season. A lone house sat peacefully deep in the forest, it's roof peppered by the sunlight piercing through the green canopy. It held a comfy aura to it from the two small gardens on each side, soft peach walls and multiple wild cats napping in a homemade shelter.

The two floor home did have oddities for the door frames alongside the hallways were strangely wider. Almost if to accommodate the needs of something large. It could be considered strange to even ominous for many people.

Well, maybe not for you as this been your home for at least a decade. Every wooden board, brick, and piece of plaster renovated by just four hands than a single crew. The wider frames were made to accommodate your housemate. Well, housemate was a loose term as the soft yet rapid thumps echoed through the home.

Enough warning to quickly put up the eggs alongside any other fragile thing. Why? You can thank the large colorful blur that knocked the air out of you for the seventh time this week. "I HAVEN'T BEEN GONE FOR MORE THAN A FEW HOURS!"

Holding you in a hug made of spring-like arms was a vibrantly colored giant jack-in-the-box creature. A large 15' toy whose body was mainly a light blue box that has the classic wind up handle on the back, golden shaped compartments on each side in the form of two stars, two rings, and a heart. Hidden spaces where the five blood red springs which serve as the giant's limbs came out.

Its rectangular feet alongside its large four finger furry paws were equipped with sharp yellow claws. Although they weren't as bad as the cubed head bearing large razor sharp teeth and slightly dilated eyes. Only 90s folk or crazy toy collectors would recognize the giant toy as Playtime Co's Boxy Boo.

Well, if it was a monster that looked ready to eat some poor person whole and not the cuddle bug here. You however knew him under a different title as the large beast gently continues to nuzzle you. "I only been gone for a few hours, Dad."

Yes, the giant toy was just called dad. The Boxy Boo churring up a storm as he hugged you is actually your biological father. Something that would seem impossible if he hadn't been a human made former lab rat by a mad doctor's toy company.

A shit show neither of you wanted to get caught in again. "Let me guess a nightmare about the factory?" He rapidly shook his head. "That Mayfair Watcher's Society podcast we listened to the other night?" He let out an amused snort at that one. "It's that strange reoccurring dream, ain't it?" Dear ol' Boxy Pops gave a small thumbs up.

For the past two weeks, your dad had been plagued with a weird dream. Piercing red eyes that lurk in the forest shadows. A bloody silver blade shone under a crimson moon as you and him were fleeing from something. It always ended the same way. Blurry figures of shadow and light destroying everything as they collide.

The dream scared him shitless every time despite how mild it was to the hell he gone through. You were obviously concerned for Boxy Pops as the nightmare sounds more like a warning. Anyone else would wave this off too if they were unaware that the toy victims of Playtime Co. were telepathically linked to something WAY BIGGER.

Your dad was still connected to 'him' by a tiny thread so whether these dreams were 'his' doing is up in the air. But it was enough to tell that this was a storm is on the horizon. You softly caressed the large toy's cheek trying to ease him.

"Don't worry dad. Whatever is going to happen, we'll get through it together. No matter if it's those bastards or something else entirely... They're gonna get steamrolled." You made his favorite snack, devil eggs, and the both of you watch Shazam together to help him calm down.

Boxy Pops' mind had been damaged ever since Playtime Co made him into a toy. At the start, your dad was closer to an actual father bear than the 'soft shy geek' from what your mother once quoted. Ready to strike anything that got near his cub and bring back questionable food. You helped him recover as many lost memories by reintroducing his favorite things.

Games, food, movies, music, comics to even his favorite animals like the wild cats. You taught your dad sign language so communication was much easier. Could he still talk? Sorta sadly. The bastards had twisted his kind soft voice to a heavily static radio that rumble like a car engine. It hurt for your dad to talk and it hurt your heart just seeing how cruel people could be.

For now, it was best for Boxy Pops to recover by lounging with the cats or help solve puzzles for his favorite videogames. You were going to gather as much info on Playtime Co. and make whatever is left burned to the ground. They hadn't paid enough in blood yet...

Let this be known that Boxy Pops is someone who has difficulty sleeping by himself. You or one of the cats stay next to him as he wouldn't rest with no physical reassurance. The factory fucked him up pretty bad and completely ruin Boxy Pops' previous life.

If he feels something is wrong then your father is quick to alert you. This includes light shaking, poking and licking if it's really urgent. Thus the large scratchy cat like tongue that ran across your face at 3 in the morning was enough to wake up in a sputtering mess.

Boxy Pops was on edge as his eyes were more dilated and arm springs hung back a bit for a quick launch. Something had him ready to slip into attack mode, not good. You immediately got dressed, packed emergency provisions, grab the travel pack, then load up both your shotgun and hand pistol.

The people who experimented on him were a relentless bunch. Folk who wouldn't stop until they get what they want or die. Five years on the move, faking your death, barely getting overseas illegally, making a new identity and build a hidden home by hand sums up just how bad they were.

The forest stood eeriely silent as even the wild cats were on edge. Every mother kept close to their kittens while the males look ready to fight off anything that got too close. Boxy Pops had a unique hand in this peculiar nature as all were hostile enough to attack any trespassers like an organized army. You seen wolves get taken out in minutes at how vicious and calculated the cats were.

Whatever been part of his transition into a toy gave Boxy Pops the ability to communicate with animals to an insane degree, especially felines. You stayed on guard as your dad follow stealthily behind. From where the cats were facing, the disturbance was somewhere up north which is boar territory.

Using his spring limbs, your father had leapt into the trees and kept watch from above. Despite his huge size, all of Playtime Co's experiments were extremely stealthy that even someone as big as him wouldn't make a sound. Traits that would make the most advanced ambush predators blush.

You kept your shotgun steady and night vision goggles on to look through the forest's darkness. It was too empty as nothing made a sound to the lack of fireflies that constantly hang out in these parts. You couldn't help notice the woods slightly shift the deeper you tread inside.

The birch trees somehow bled into dark oak, the ground brush now held thorns alongside foreign berries, and even the area's cool air felt more humid. A small snap of a twig was enough warning to aim your gun at the brush as an armed figure stood there.

It's peculiar inhuman shape and animalistic traits didn't spare it from a buck shot to the head. The body part exploding into bloody chunks as the headless figure hit the ground dead. You carefully approach the slain creature, not missing what looked like black blood stains on the flora.

The possibility of it not being a bear was obvious but this monster is unmistakable to any avid gamer. A Red Bokobolin specifically the Skyward Sword variant. It was easily recognizable from the thorn covered club, open fur vest, crude fur skirt covering tiger print underwear and worn brown boots. Since the Bokobolin's sad eggplant head was currently in smithereens, it had to be around 3'9 as Skyward Sword Link stood around 5'1.

"Holy fuck." You immediately raised your shotgun as Bokobolins were pack monsters. If there's one here then a squad has to be nearby. Legend of Zelda was something you played for your dad as it been his favorite series since childhood. Sadly large furry paws can't work a controller well unless it's a custom made one.

Your instincts were right as your night vision goggles caught even in more of them coming this way. "Did Playtime Co. decide to break trademark claims and bring videogame monsters to life? Or did I get bloody Isekai'd?"

You would ponder more once these monsters were dead. The second Bokobolin jumped from the brush had its heart blown apart by another buckshot. Your finger never leaving the trigger as you fired shot after shot. None of them were the archer variety so the only threat was crude clubs and boom...

You managed to duck in time to avoid the Ice Arrow from above and froze the spot where your head would've been. The one responsible was a Lizalfos but it's the Breath of the Wild variant! Large humanoid horned chameleons both in their wiggly lithe appearance and natural camouflage ability wearing metal armor unlike the more eel-like bandit desert lizards.

It was a silver coat, obvious white scales to blue stripes, which meant this son of a bitch is more dangerous than the others. You quickly shot the bastard down before it could let loose another elemental arrow. This allowed the sheer size of the Bokobolin army to charge in, 50 to at least 100, and show how bad the situation really was.

You would run out of ammo alongside room to fire long before even half these bastards were killed. Boxy Pops needed to show up NOW. Immediately dug into the emergency bag until you pull out the flare gun and fired a red shot high into the air. It's burning hot smokey stream made the horde pause in confusion.

An opening you were gonna use as you began to fire once more. Head, chest, legs, any way to slow them down until help could arrive. If the barrel went out, then it was quickly reloaded. The recoil of the countless buckshot from the shotgun had your arm practically screaming in pain as shells litter the ground alongside monster gore.

It was only a matter of time before the worst horror cliche happened...the damn trip. You fell on your ass as a shotgun shell had rolled under your feet like a sick joke. A big misfortune cause one of the Bokobolins took that moment to charge with its club raise high for a good smack.

You ready to intercept the strike using your shotgun when... "HYAAH!" An eeriely familiar howl of a young man had you quickly duck as a large steel boomerang brutally collided with attacking Bokobolin's face. Perfect opportunity to get a good distance from the monster and watch two blonde swordsmen run towards the horde.

A hand gently touch your shoulder was enough to pull up your goggles so making out the impossible sight wouldn't be hindered. What stood there with the steel boomerang in is the one and only BotW Link. A more accurate version from your opinion as the left side of his lean soft tannish 4'11 frame was marred by severe old burns.

The soft blue hue of his Champion's tunic, long soft blonde hair in a blue ponytail, light beige pants, brown travel boots, the soft blueish glow from the dark metal Sheikah Slate and those ocean blue eyes were realer in person. You kept your cool since you weren't the 'fangirl' stereotype, plus Zelda is more of your dad's thing.

That meant the blonde with the long blue scarf had to be Hyrule Warriors Link and the one wearing the multicolor tunic must be Minish Cap/Four Swords. "Is this a fucking Isekai???" Wild Link look at you like an alien in a conga line with martini in hand. "Kufryh Ryiko?" Oh no. No. No. No. NO. A BLOODY LANGUAGE BARRIER ON TOP OF THIS?!

"Fuck my luck!" You went to reload your shotgun and put the night vision goggles back on. Wild Link been distracted at the peculiar weapon before him that he didn't notice the blue Lizalfos emerging from the tree. That is until you pulled him aside and shot the bastard out it's hiding spot.

"Pay attention!" A loud very familiar roar tore through the fighting forces like shrapnel to a wall. Everyone but you froze as no one could see the source of the sound. They weren't looking above for Boxy Pops fell from the trees and crushed two poor Bokobolins flat under his large frame.

With a vicious roar he bit down on another monster, the beastie was so small that only its feets peek outta the toy's mouth. Your father swallowed the Bokobolin whole in seconds, much to its comrades' horror, and lunge at the rest. "Don't hit my dad."

The blast from your shotgun had shaken the three Links out of their daze as they quickly rejoined the fight. In seconds, the Bokobolin squadron shrunk to miniscule numbers. Your father's spring limbs were a three bladed halberd, every monster in range was gonna get hit either by his claws or springs.

Wild Link had swap his boomerang for a long sword as the boomerang didn't mesh well in close quarters. You blast off heads of any Lizalfos that showed up or Bokobolins who went to sneak attack the Links. The last low budget goblin met its fate gruesomely torn in half by Boxy Pops' jaws as this fight finally came to an end.

It wasn't over though for six more Links had joined the other three. The ones who are still adjusting to the absolute monstrous toy before them and the armed stranger who stood protectively in front of the beast. You moved your weapon to the side but never took a finger off the trigger. The moment felt perfect to test something. With your free hand, you sign to the group a single sentence.

"Care for a ceasefire?"

Yep, you ain't imagining what ya just read. I like to make bizarre, insane or crack crossovers sometimes. Shits n giggles that boggle the mind. Poppy Playtime with Legend of Zelda/Linked Universe felt perfect this time. This takes place at least two weeks after Twilight recovers in LU.

Yes, I'm also trying an actual hand at language barriers. Wild's line is gibberish but he was basically saying 'Weird foreign language.' I went with Boxy Boo for the form Reader's dad is trapped. One is because I like goofy jack-in-the-boxes, two I can make dad pun level nicknames such as Boxy Pops and three Huggy Wuggy or Mommy Legs didn't have what I was looking for in surprises.

Boxy Boo literally hides in his box body to sneak attack. I can write the killer jack-in-the-box trope on a Yiga or something as equally funny. As for the cats, since the toys never left Playtime Co's except when Huggy Wuggy escaped in that one ARG vid, there's no way to tell what else they can do inside a different environment.

Thus talking to animals alongside lethal common felines was made for Boxy Boo. Expect Time and every other responsible Link being so done with the bullshit I'm about to drop on 'em. Also I don't know which Link (not Wind obviously) would be the closest to Reader in a platonic or romantic way so it's up in the air.

That's it for now! Until next time folks, I'll see you back in Hyrule! Here's Boxy Boo, both monster and toy art alongside his wiki page.

[upalldown]

Summary '23

the banana prize: Sufjan Stevens – Javelin (grand prize)

the apple prize: Mitski – The Land Is Inhospitable And So Are We

the orange prize: boygenius – The Record

the grape prize: Blur – The Ballad Of Darren

the pineapple prize: PJ Harvey – I Inside the Old Year Dying

the watermelon prize: Olivia Rodrigo – Guts

the strawberry prize: Anohni – My Back Was A Bridge For You To Cross

the peach prize: Lana Del Rey – Did you know that there’s a tunnel under Ocean Blvd

the green leaf prize: Yo La Tengo – This Stupid World

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the rotten tomato prize: Ash – Race The Night

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the best album released by a veteran musician/band: Blur – The Ballad Of Darren

the best debut album: boygenius – The Record

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the best LGBTI album (lyrics): Troye Sivan – Something To Give Each Other

the best queer album (sound): Jessie Ware – That! Feels Good!

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the best Mercury Prize nominated album (acc. To me): Young Fathers – Heavy Heavy

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the best US record: Sufjan Stevens – Javelin

the best UK & Irish record: Blur – The Ballad Of Darren

the best Canadian record: Fucked Up – One Day

the best Australian & New Zealand record: Kylie Minogue – Tension

the best European record (except the UK & Ireland): Fever Ray – Radical Romantics

the best Latin American record: Kali Uchis – Red Moon In Venus

the best African record: Genesis Owusu – Struggler

the best Middle Eastern record: --

the best Far East record: yeule - Softscars

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best records by genres

ambient: yeule – Softscars

americana: Lucinda Williams – Stories From a Rock n Roll Heart

art rock: Django Django – Off Planet

avant-garde: --

bluegrass: Chris Stapleton – Higher

blues: Van Morrison – Moving on Skiffle

country: Rodney Crowell – The Chicago Sessions

country/rock: --

alt. country: Jenny Lewis – JOY’ALL

dance: Carly Rae Jepsen – The Loveliest Time

disco: --

dub: --

dubstep: Skrillex – Quest For Fire  

electro: Kelela – Raven

electro-pop: --

electronic: Fever Ray – Radical Romantics

electronica: Anohni – My Back Was A Bridge For You To Cross

experimental:  Yves Tumor – Praise a Lord Who Chews but Which Does Not Consume; (or Simply, Hot Between Worlds)

folk: Sufjan Stevens – Javelin

folk-rock: Wilco – Cousin

folk/pop: --

alt. folk: Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy – Keeping Secret Will Destroy You

funk: Janelle Monae – The Age of Pleasure

garage:  The Hives – The Death Of Randy Fitzsimmons

grime: --

grunge: Foo Fighters – But Here We Are

hardcore: Fucked Up – One Day  

hip hop: Danny Brown – Quaranta

house: --

indie pop: Water From Your Eyes – Everyone’s Crushed  

indie rock: Yo La Tengo – This Stupid World

indie/folk: boygenius – The Record

jazz: Alfa Mist – Variables

lo-fi: The Mountain Goats – Jenny From Thebes

metal: Metallica – 72 Seasons

noise-rock: --

pop: Jessie Ware – That! Feels Good!

pop-punk: Paramore – This Is Why

pop/rock: Sparks – The Girl Is Crying In Her Latte

alt-pop: Baby Queen – Quarter Life Crisis

post-punk: Squid – O Monolith

post-rock: Explosions In The Sky – End

prog: --

psych-rock: Osees – Intercepted Message

psychedelia: --

psychedelic: The Lemon Twigs – Everything Harmony

punk: Be Your Own Pet – Mommy

r&b: Jamila Woods – Water Made Us

rap: slowthai – Ugly

reggae: --

rock: The Rolling Stones – Hackney Diamonds

alt. rock: PJ Harvey – I Inside the Old Year Dying

shoegaze: Slowdive – everything is alive

singer-songwriter: Lana Del Rey – Did you know that there’s a tunnel under Ocean Blvd

soul: Sampha - Lahai

synthpop: Mitski – The Land Is Inhospitable And So Are We

techno: James Holden – Imagine This Is A High Dimensional Space Of All Possibilities

trip hop: --

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the best debut albums of the year

boygenius – The Record

Grian Chatten – Chaos For The Fly

Alison Goldfrapp – The Love Invention

Blondshell – Blondshell

Yaeji – With A Hammer

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the worst albums of the year (the worst albums that succeeded to be in the database - the bad of the good)

Ash – Race The Night

A Certain Ratio – 1982

Matt Maltese – Driving Just to Drive

Empire State Bastard – Rivers Of Heresy

Graham Nash – Now

Black Honey – A Fistful Of Peaches

UpAlldown - the key for good music

AC Öncel

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"Marijuana Trial of 5 Men Opens," Windsor Star. July 7, 1933. Page 5 & 6. ----- Mounties Tell Story of Sandwich West Raid; Seeds and Vegetable Matter Exhibits ==== The story of a raid by eight Royal Canadian Mounted Police officers on the premises of Michael Rainone in Sandwich West Township was related before Magistrate J. A. Hanrahan in the county police court Tuesday after-noon as trial got under way of five men charged with possession of marijuana.

The accused are, Michael Rainone. his son, Herman Rainone; Robert J. Bezaire, Ross W. Gray, and Julien Bolsmier. All five pleaded not guilty. Their defence counsel is Cecil R. Croll. W. E. Kelly, prosecutor for the Dominion Department of Justice, represents the Crown in the case. The trial will be resumed at 3 p.m. Thursday.

OFFICER EXHIBITS SEEDS Highlight of the opening day of the trial was the submission of evidence in the form of seeds and vegetable matter by Sergeant G. R. Johnson, R.C.MP. of Toronto, who for the past seven years has devoted his en-tire time to investigation of plants under the Narcotic Drug Act.

One exhibit was a green tin bread-box tied with a cord sealed by red sealing wax which Sgt. Johnson said he found in Rainone's house, located 140 feet south of Tecumseh road near Rankin avenue. It contained a multitude of seeds and vegetation which "gave off a terrible stench" when he opened it at the time of the raid, the Mounted Police officer testified.

Constable Cyril A. Lazelle identified a red tin can formerly used as a tobacco tin, which he said was found containing green vegetation substance on the warming closet of the cook stove in the Rainone kitchen.

"SPICES FOR SPAGHETTI" He testified that Constable William S. Ramsay remarked, "You are in the business," and that Michael Rainone replied, "That is what you think, but it is only spices for the making of spaghetti."

Rainone, a ruddy faced man with greying hair, sat stolidly in the prisoner's box with a bored look on his face during the testimony. Of the four other accused, Bezaire is the eldest although a young man, and the others are youths. These showed a lively interest in the testimony. According to witnesses all were making their home in Rainone's house, a two room shack with an upper floor reached by a ladder through a hole in the kitchen ceiling.

In cross-examining witnesses, Mr. Croll sought to emphasize the confusions and extreme disorder of the premises, pointing out that there was a little of everything on the place, Sgt. Johnson, however, maintained, that although the interior of the house was ill-kept there was not a great amount of disorder indoors.

A series of sealed packages containing what Sgt. Johnson described as seeds and green leaf substances were filed as exhibits. The material in the packages was gathered by different members of the raiding party in their search of the premises, Sgt. Johnson stated. TOBACCO AND CHAFF Sgt. Johnson identified the property of Michael Rainone, a light brown overcoat a pocket of which he said contained tobacco and green leaf chaff. When a fin was found containing ground up leaves on top of the stove, Mr. Johnson said he arrested Michael Rainone for possession of marijuana.

When he arrived at the premises, Sgt. Johnson said Michael Rainone was the only one of the accused there, but there were two women, one a girl just over 16 years, sitting on a chesterfield in the living room. The raiding party was at the place somewhat over two and a half hours, he said, and during that time all the accused except Bolsmier arrived at the house and were placed under arrest. The witness said that the first time he had seen Boismier was in the courtroom. Bezaire arrived 20 minutes after the officers had arrived. Gray about an hour later and then Herman Rainone arrived on the scene. Herman was questioned by Sergeant R. L. Woodhouse, Sgt. Johnson stated.

BOX IN LIVING ROOM The green box, from which a foul odor had issued when opened, the witness said, was found on the floor of the living room between the chesterfield and a radio.

Sgt, Johnson, under cross-examination by Mr. Croll, said that there was a great deal of filth such as rotting manure in the yard, but some semblance of home-like things in the house, such as ornaments atop the chest drawers.

In conversation with Michael Rainone, Sgt. Johnson testified that the accused told him "he collected bread and cigaret butts from restaurants." "That's a new one on me," ejaculated Mr. Croll.

OTHER WITNESSES William Taylor, a bus driver for the S. W. & A. Railway Company, who owns a home on Tecumseh road near the Rainone house, testified that he had known Rainone and his son for some time and that to the best of his knowledge Bezaire and Gray lived at the Rainone shack. He wasn't sure whether Boismier also lived there but said he had seen him frequently about the place. Mr. Taylor said that Rainone had cultivated his land last year and had started cultivation this year.

Edward E. Beals, a real estate man who said he owned 3,000 lots in Sandwich West, testified to the purchase of the property by Rainone. Thomas Green, registrar of deeds for Essex County, testified to the ownership of two lots by Michael Rainone at the scene where the raid took place, that Rainone was the registered owner and had acquired title in 1941. A. W.Spurgeon, photographer, identified numerous photographs he had taken of the house and property for the R.C.M.P.

The raid was conducted on June 12 by the R.C.M.P. officers headed by Staff Sergeant A. W. Anderson. Officers who took part in the raid, who have yet to testify in the trial, include Corporal Woodhouse, Constable Ramsay, Constable Roy S. McLeod, Constable Randall B. Hara, Constable B.Murray Lamb and Mr. Anderson.

The charges now being heard are a follow-up on the arrest and conviction of J. L. Brooks, of Victoria boulevard, Sandwich West, for the sale of marijuana. He was sentenced to three years in the Kingston penitentiary and fined $900.

[m58]

two from John Grey

THE UNTHINKABLE

I’m all alone,

in my apartment,

and thinking the unthinkable.

It’s

XV&* young couple xv&*re kissing

x#3@ xv&* sight for older eyes,

X#3@ nothing incidentxv&*l. x#3@ remember times

long xv&*go x#3@ ooo!y found ooo!mselves

x#3@ your midnight visitor x#3@ your skin is xv&*s cold xv&*s stone…

xv&*rrived xv&*t such moments,

xv&*s xv&* drop in temperxv&*ture

xv&*s bloodstxv&*in xv&*ppexv&*rs

xv&*t ooo! behest F() his own pxv&*st devilry.

bexv&*ring ooo! pxv&*st’s iniquities,

becxv&*use xv&* kiss, becxv&*use even within hxv&*s visions,

brexv&*thless shxv&*pe, but welcome phenomenon

deep cxv&*ve F() xv&* mouth, exv&*ger to be ooo!re.

even xv&* thought cxv&*n get xv&*t you for his nightmxv&*res exist

from ordinxv&*ry life, glides towxv&*rd ooo! bed-bound cripple,

hollow eyes, If svelte impervious to wexv&*ooo!r, In ooo! xv&*bsence

in ooo! icy drizzle, inspiring, inimitxv&*ble,

is xv&*n experience xv&*pxv&*rt

is fxv&*r more thxv&*n is style's first commx#3@ment

No xv&*ttendxv&*nt fxv&*ults or fissures.

No closing his eyes, no drifting into sleep,

F() you being here with me.    F() your nxv&*me x#3@ fxv&*ce

old hexv&*rts, to reminisce    Old mxv&*n, on your bxv&*ck,

performs xv&*n xv&*utopsy on his memories.

plxv&*stered everywhere Sheer white is coming,

so vulnerxv&*ble,  hxv&*t would even survive

ooo! one clench,     ooo! one mouth-lock,

ooo! wxv&*y you conserve spxv&*ce.

ooo! wildest blizzxv&*rd    ooo! wires to ooo! crexv&*ture you were

ooo!n you obey.   Ooo!re's something xv&*bout

ooo!y remxv&*in visible

to be xv&*dored.   tremble in dxv&*rk wind…

turns ooo! sky to flxv&*kes F() snow,

we hxv&*ve this strxv&*nge  whxv&*t you’ve been thinking.

when ooo!ir lives       when young,  where xv&* hexv&*rt should be,

yet, even xv&*s ooo! xv&*ir fills,

You contxv&*in everything necessxv&*ry     your fxv&*ce is twisted.

That just about covers it.

FROM MY TIME IN KANSAS

My heart strains like a shoehorn,

fitting love the size of number 15 feet

into the narrow gauge of your penny loafers.

I was born weird like Chagall’s violets –

the skin around my mouth had a mauve tinge –

and I made sounds…

            green sounds

            blue sounds.

And in a backwater,

over the tracks,

in the farmers’ ghetto,

            hammered and bruised

            until the wires in my neck almost snapped –

the wretched shack,

the dead cat by the fire

the railway carriage frozen in rust,

all the feelings departed for some better world

except, that is, for despair.

Houselights scorch with sulfur heat,

randomness sips wine,

salutes the fading stars,

predicts the past with total accuracy.

I ramble through my works –

I am a haunted house in which all the ghosts are afraid of me –

my chair is a pipe that my skinny ass smokes –

I fall asleep in a river of mirrors –

            posing dramatically,

            surrounded by fish vomit –

bad nights sit like a stone on my brow.

My demons defeat me in drunken battles,

their sideways glances versus my belly of dread,

my stars are spilled peas on tarmac.

my pain is a magnetic field,

and I drink whiskey from the horn of a goat

            (one that’s still attached)

but forgive my uncontrolled mumbling –

it’s merely rain on a dry river bed.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Red Weather. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Rathalla Review and Open Ceilings.

[partyinthemysterymachine]

on an entirely different subject (and one i haven't talked about in ages but been thinkin about lately :< ),

i legit have no fucking idea what to do with mt. silver. like according to 3 year old notes i sorta named him Red (hahaha like the pokemon trainer. it's like there's a connection here) and i know that he and Glitch butted heads a lot since they're both heavily ingrained into digital technology/video games/evolution thereof/etc, and mt silver/red only, like. kinda "popped up" around the time of creepypasta days (which is why he's called that) but is sort of unidentifiable. like The Eye.

but like. my intention for mt. silver was that - like many other Gifted like Glitch with Polybius (or is it Polybius with Glitch? 🤔) and The Eye with found footage/feeling watched - mt. silver was supposed to be responsible for something, for a phenomenon. and that was supposed to be, like. gaming creepypasta, or actual rogue gaming glitches that are. Concerning. rumors that aren't actually rumors but you'll never see anyone able to recreate it and screenshots are called "fake" and simply become urban legends, etc. but GOD. chinhands. my notes for mt silver are so OLD and i never really was able to articulate how i wanted him to work. drives me nuts

tho i think that might just be a case of assigning too many entities to things that don't need it. like. Glitch literally has the digital world all but covered, except for a whole shitload of stuff he DOESN'T have covered, LOL. obviously Glitch can't be everywhere and in everything at once, that's not how it works. since the Polybius calls the shots around here he's basically fucking around in someone's encrypted spreadsheets one day and uploading UFO dashcam footage the other and idk. just for funsies, makes a JUST DO IT meme edit of The Eye's newest footage of stalking some poor drunk college kid thru an open field. then uploads that to youtube. just for a laff

folds arms. but yeah. Glitch and mt silver/Red were definitely going to be at odds and i think that was sort of a Polybius intention/doing, too. like. Glitch and Red would have been "jealous boyfriends" of Polybius (or so acted like it). god it's so weird and it's so hard for me to try to articulate. but. whatever i do with mt silver/Red, and maybe i won't keep him on the Gifted list, i sure as hell know Bobby Jane doesn't care much for the tech Gifted, doesn't understand them, and they make him very very nervous LOL. and i guess The Eye sorta falls under the "tech Gifted" list but. yanno. gestures. semantics. potato potato, etc

Glitch is cute tho. :< i mean he's. got some Trevor Philips vibes. but he's. i like him :( definitely a favorite with Bobby Jane and Jolene. and to think i'd started tryign to round out the Gifted and some other character aspects and uhhhh... Unconventional Gifted (like The House and The Realtor (who come as a "pair" kind of like Glitch and Polybius but there are a lot of asterisks and addendums and asides to that, so)) and R's trucking company, and THE TWIIIIINSSSS dgkdgkdfgklg but HRGHGH

also just. Smiling Man in general. Marone. how the fuck Marone fits in. how the fuck they actually all met, how long they've known each other or about each other, who hasn't met who, like. i had The Candle Cove Bar and Grille visualized as somewhere up in the butt-ass mountains as one of those local dives/trucker grub stops (see: R (aka The Roadrunner)) and it'd be a pain in the ASS for a city slicker like Bobby Jane to hike all the fuckin way up there in an 8 hr drive just to have his chain yanked on by Bakul for 5 more hours and then be sent back with information that could have been solved in a phone call and this is just the WORST job in the fucking world and i keep getting the feeling poor Bobby Jane here works for the government so on top of being a government official of some kind he's also that very Smiling Man of r/LetsNotMeet fame and he's kind of obsessed with the green scarf his ex gave him a year before they broke up and it's totally not weird at all to wrap it around and smell it and Jolene totally knows that about u bro and it's weird and listen.

he is under. so. much. stress. ALL the time. and he's got Fox/The Voice all up in his ass and head (i mean he's up in everyone's ass and head but that's beside the point) and this one time he literally got down and almost back home and it's been like 16 hours driving and The Voice is like "lol hey wait can you go back bc i need you to find The Stairbuilder in the woods it's kind of important rn" and Bobby Jane's just like. literally i will fly to italy and i will kill you myself right now and he doesn't know how he got saddled to be the Gifted "ambassador" or "leader" (very very loosely used) for North America but he's SO up to here with it rn,

[hogwartsfirebolt]

cw: wizarding war, and the violence it ensues.

The year bled.

It bled great gouts of wizards, beacons of hope shining bright red at the tip of their wands. Led them to their deaths, in the battlefront that had taken their friends and family, yet remained unsatisfied.

The year took his Hagrid, took his Ron, the year flung a sword into Harry’s survival instincts and turned them inside out — backwards, all wrong. He lived and breathed for his days on the front, inhabited the outermost trench for longer than anyone was allowed, his wand glowing green more often than red.

Voldemort’s tooth — sharp, a snake’s poisonous incisive — hung on a thread, rested against Harry’s throat, had for the better part of the season. Yet the war raged on.

There’d been a time when things had been simpler.

“Will you be resting this fortnight?” Hermione had asked him when she’d served, a few days earlier. She was at a safe-house, now, replenishing her core, drawing energy from the underground streams that pulsed with golden magic so she would be ready to return to the fight. It was was everyone did, every couple of weeks, what their warlord had ordered.

Harry’d not been to a safe-house in three months. He’d not known anything but carnage in all those days, was beginning to suspect that the inexhaustible nature of his core didn’t extend to his body, definitely didn’t extend to his mind.

“Where are they getting this strength? These numbers?” Ron had asked, the night before a Death Eater had torn his head right off his neck.

They still did not know the answer. It happened everyday, at the strike of dawn: dozens of Death Eaters arrived at the front, and it didn’t matter that Harry sliced right through their ranks like a sword, there were dozens more the next morning. And they still did not know the answer.

It was not simple. Nothing was simple.

“They must have found a way to clone their soldiers. It can be done — they have Voldemort’s knowledge on soul-splitting.” Kingsley had written, in the letter Harry had received two days earlier. “Soon enough they will press at their advantage. I trust you will know what to do. Do not fail me.”

There was no “soon enough”. The advantage was already being pressed, every waking second, on multiple fronts. Harry spent his days blocking them with his magic, with his body, and his nights fighting against their secret weapon, they one they seemed to reserve for him only — the mind games.

“They impersonate us?” Arthur had asked, when he’d brought health potions the previous week.

“They show up as you, or Molly, Gin, R-Ron. I’m not sure what they want, they seem to be trying to extract information, but not on our lines, not on our manpower. I don’t know what I have that they want.”

“Don’t trust anyone.”

The days cut him, and the nights suffocated him. He got approached by group after group of imposters, wearing a different face every night. People Harry loved and hadn't seen in months. Those ones didn't hurt as much. Not like it hurt when it was people he had loved and lost.

Arthur had told him not to trust anyone. Some nights, he didn’t even trust himself.

He was going mad, sending away whoever it was that wore Cedric’s body, that showed up in his mother’s face, that slipped into Sirius’ limbs like they would into a coat. People he trusted, people he loved, and whose memory would forever be tainted by this, in his mind.

The night Draco Malfoy showed up, Harry thought it was another mind trick. Then, he realized that it broke the pattern. He’d never trusted, never loved, never even tolerated Draco Malfoy.

But there he was. He showed up, nose bleeding, broken arm cradled against his chest, miserable, everything Harry raged against. His tears shone bright silver over his cheekbones, down his jaw, carrying magical energy, draining him.

“Please,” he said. “Please, I don’t know where else to go.”

Harry didn’t trust him, he shouldn’t help him. But he did. He mended the fractured bones, cut his own palm with a knife and gave him some of his magical energy, poured it right into his gaping mouth. Saved his life.

Malfoy stayed.

Something like guilt, if he was still capable of that, draped itself across Harry’s shoulders as he fed him their food, let him drink from their goblets, gave him their healing potions.

He didn’t trust him. He didn’t trust himself.

Malfoy talked, at least, which was useful.

“Portraits.” He coughed, shivery from the core-loss. “They all have hundreds of them, their magical energy split. Not their souls, that’s not sustainable, it’s their magical energy. And they take them out, give them life. There’s an energy source, and an ancient spell, a rune ... I wasn’t told, but I saw, she performed it in front of me. Please, I’ll tell you. I ran. I need your help.”

Harry didn’t need to ask who she was.

“I can fight. I can help. Please. Please, they killed my mother.”

And there were the tears again, but crystal clear, no longer carrying Malfoy’s power. Harry had successfully stopped the drainage.

“I shouldn’t.”

“Please. Write to your general, I’ll say anything, I hate her.”

There had been a time in which Malfoy’s desperation would have made him feel at an advantage, would have made him laugh, prod at the wound. But that time was long gone, desperation was the only thing he knew now, as well, and there was no winning. It was a winless fight. Malfoy was too human, too scared, not an instrument of war.

“No. We don’t know he’s telling the truth, I forbid you from sheltering him.” Kingsley’s letter said.

There’d been a time when things had been simpler.

But the war raged, the weeks blended into each other, and the pain, renewed as it was every single day, numbed him.

Harry was human. Harry was scared. Harry was an instrument of war.

He sheltered him anyway.

“One wrong move, and you’re out. You have one chance.”

Malfoy nodded, weeping right there in the trench, in his blood-stained clothes. Harry couldn’t afford to distrust him, was too busy staying alive.

And Malfoy did not fail him. In the morning light, dozens of Death Eaters Harry had killed a million times marched into the battlefield, and Malfoy fought next to him. Harry’d not had anyone watch his back in months, and it made for a nice change.

At night, they fended off the imposters, and Harry fed him his own magical energy, watched him grow stronger with it. His core was inexhaustible, he knew. He didn’t have to send Malfoy away to regain strength, he gave it to him, every single night.

It was forbidden, but it was also the only thing that seemed right in the vortex of destruction he’d been living in.

“She keeps an artifact at the Manor. It looks like a prophecy, is kept under lock and key inside her chambers. I saw it, she made me clean it once. I think it’s the source of all this. I think if you destroy it, this will be over.” Malfoy said, three weeks after they’d been fighting side by side. He looked stronger, energized, and if Harry closed his eyes, he could feel his own magic inside Draco’s corestream, like an extension of himself.

“How?”

He felt Draco prodding back, felt him extending his energy so it circled back to Harry, so it flowed freely between them.

“There’s no time to look. Burn down the manor.”

The discovery that they could access each other’s magic should have been monumental, yet felt like nothing at all. They’d known, they’d experienced it every night for weeks. An intimacy unlike any other, between enemies, between allies.

“I thought I forbid you from taking him in.” Kingsley’s letter said, when Harry proposed the idea. It didn’t feel like a reprimand. It felt like a father, telling a child off for keeping a stray kitten. “I have sent reinforcements to the front, come to headquarters. Both of you. We’re burning the house this week.”

The plan was to march off to Malfoy Manor the morning after they arrived at headquarters. Instead, they slept for three days straight.

They were in different rooms, but Harry only had to close his eyes to trace his energy back to Draco, and it soothed him.

They’d been enemies. They were human, they were scared. Now, they were allies. Now, they were one, more than they were two.

“I think we can read each other’s minds.” Malfoy said when they woke up, except he wasn’t anywhere in the room. The voice had come from Harry’s head.

“So it seems.”

They found each other in the kitchen, had breakfast, made vague conversation, not a single word spoken out loud.

“Is the war ending?”

“Once they stop multiplying like crazy, we can beat them, and stop fighting. Live our lives, maybe. But I don’t think the war will ever end, Draco.”

He wanted to explain that he felt like he would carry it forever, but he didn’t have to. In the space between thinking it and wanting to communicate it, he already had.

“I know.”

For the first time in months, when Harry searched inside himself, he didn’t feel empty. There was energy, magic, there was someone else with him, in the space that had existed between his anger and his grief.

“Also, I can do wandless now," Draco added.

“Yeah, that’s on me.”

“Do you think this means we are …?”

“Yeah.”

They showered.

After, they apparated to Malfoy Manor, didn’t even have to touch to do it together, the crack of the spell going off in unison, turning heads once they arrived. The entire Order was there, and, in front of them, the house aflame.

The Manor bled. It bled tendrils of black magic that dissipated into thin air, screamed, called to the tooth hanging at Harry’s neck. He wrapped his fingers around it and held it tight — his trophy, his burden.

All that was left of the enemy army were twenty wizards that scuttled out of the blazing house like fleeing rats. She wasn’t amongst them. Somehow, Harry knew she’d died trying to protect her energy source. He knew that he would have, and soldiers weren't so different.

He and Draco took care of the survivors, both their powers pulled into a single explosion of green.

“Wow.” Hermione said, standing next to Harry.

“We think it’s over.”

“You two are …”

“Yeah.”

“Permanently.”

“Yeah.”

“You know that’s forbidden.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

The year had bled, had been an open wound. Then it had been cleaned and stitched, messily, but closed. It ached. It bore the name of the friend Harry had loved the most, his other half. It would never go away, it would scar.

But it was healing.

Harry reached out with his magic, and felt Draco meet him halfway.

-

Written for @drarrymicrofic prompt "forbidden"

[wandsolsen]

Champagne Problems

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: In which Wanda rejected your marriage proposal, inspired by Taylor Swift's song Champagne Problems.

Warnings: pure angst, cursing.

Word Count: 1.8k

↳ Please, be aware that English isn't my first language, fell free to tell me if there are any mistakes.

You booked the midnight train for a reason, you wanted to contemplate your pain with your head against the train window.

The reason for your suffering had a name, Wanda Maximoff.

You sat down in one of the seats, feeling the hurt in your chest burning hard just for thinking about her. The train wasn't too much crowned, however, it wasn't all empty. There were people talking and people sleeping, you were not sure which was worse.

People looked at you, certainly worried about how miserable you were.

You finally rested your head on the train window, looking at the view from the outside. Unintentionally, you remembered Wanda's hand holding yours as the two of you danced on the dance floor.

Wanda smiled at you, and she looked happy. But she wasn't, at least, not complete. Not happy enough to say yes.

However, nobody could ever have thought that she would say no.

You felt the tears coming out, your mouth trembled as you remembered. Your heart was made of glass and she let it drop it.

You had prepared a speech, but when you got down on your knees, you didn't find the expression of emotion and excitement that you had imagined she would had. Instead, you saw Wanda's body tense and fear in her green eyes.

You were speechless.

She didn't even let you ask, she ran away, leaving you there, on your knees and crestfallen on the dance floor.

You were so broken that you hadn't the strength to reach out to her, Wanda's love escaped beyond your reaches.

You saw the pity look that your family and friends gave to you. You had told them that you were going to propose Wanda that night, you couldn't keep it a secret.

You had bought Dom Pérignon and one of your family members had already popped the bottle in an early celebration, it was humiliating.

"Maybe it's just one of her...What does she call? Oh, yeah," Steve remembered before anyone could answer him. "her champagne problems." Steve was trying to calm you down, but he wasn't succeeding.

Fuck Wanda, you thought, your veins filled with angry. Fuck her and her champagne problems.

But even with all the fury you were feeling, Wanda's picture was still in your wallet along with your mom's ring.

You didn't hate her for leaving, you could never hate her.

You remembered the first time you made Wanda blush, it was in November.

You both met in college, and you thought you were the luckiest person in the world for having Wanda as your roommate. She was organized, friendly and didn't ask too many questions, everything a person could want from a roommate.

"Someone said to me that this door was once a madhouse." You said to her, wanting to make small talk.

"Well, it's made for me." Wanda made a joke, and you chuckled.

"A beautiful and intelligent woman like you in a madhouse? I find it hard to believe."

"Beautiful people do have problems too." Wanda's face was getting flush.

"I know, I know." You said. "I just wanted to praise you because, well, you're definitely one of the most beautiful girls on the campus."

And there it was, Wanda's face all red and her shy smile on her lips. You felt your heart beating faster than usual at that moment.

"So do you?" You continued.

"Do what?"

"Have problems."

"Just champagne problems." She answered.

"Champagne problems?" You asked, with your furrowed eyebrows.

"Yes, nothing meaningful or worth mention," She explained. "when compared to the others issues around the world."

"Well, champagne or not, they're still problems."

She thought about your words for a moment, but didn't say anything. Wanda continued to devalue her own problems, claiming that her issues were insignificant and there were worse things in the world.

Wanda was very reserved in the beginning, it was usually you who started the conversations. It didn't take long for you to fall in love with her.

I mean, how could you not? She was gorgeous and caring. Wanda was kinder than the most people you had ever met. She was a dream girl, with her hair loose and long, her sweet smile and her funny laugh. The way she was always up to help someone in need, and how she tried to empathize with everyone.

Wanda was absolutely flawless.

You only asked her out on a date when you were sure she wouldn't reject you.

Now, seeing from afar, you could see how stupid you were. You should have waited, just kneeling after knowing for sure that she would say yes.

But that's the problem.

You had sure that Wanda would say yes with tears dropping from her eyes. Then, your song would have played, you would have kissed her and held her hand tight while dancing. Your friends would have cheered with joy, and Wanda would have hugged you with a radiant smile on her face.

You let out a breath of pain. You now lived with only wishes. Because she dropped your hand while dancing, instead of holding tight.

Just champagne problems, she would say, about this dramatic situation.

You had a black Chevy that Wanda loved, she enjoyed riding in your car, even if you never go anywhere special. And when the car stopped running and you decided that was time to buy a better one, Wanda didn't let you. Often you saw her on the passenger seat murmuring whatever song was playing on the radio.

Nevertheless, the Chevy wasn't going anywhere. Just like your relationship.

Feeling tired of sitting there in this hurt, you left the train and went to the nearest hotel that you could find, you didn't want to come back home anytime soon.

You lived in a small town, your failed marriage proposal was probably spreading in the mouth of people like a disease.

Your turn on your phone, there were many messages and missed calls from your friends, but no one of them matters to you. Except one.

There was one voicemail from Wanda. Just that. She didn't send you a dozen messages like your friends, just a voicemail.

You set down on the bed, before listening to her voice for the last time.

Hey, Y/N, it's me, Wanda. I think I owed you an apology for leaving you out there standing. I-I can't do this, I'm sorry.

Wanda's voice was trembling, it sounded like she was crying. Why was she crying? She left you, not the other way around.

You didn't know it was possible for your heart to break more, but it did. The sound of her painful voice would haunt you forever.

I really can't give you a reason, I guess I never was ready for commitment. Sometimes you just don't know the answer until someone gets on their knees and asks you, you know?

There was a long pause, so long that you thought the message was over. However, Wanda's voice filled the room again:

You deserve someone better than me, you always had. Someone who is not fucked up in the head like me, someone who will never hurt you like I did. You'll find a real thing out there, she will pick up the pieces of your broken heart and she will patch up your tapestry that I shredded. She will be so perfect that you will not remeber me, or all my champagne problems.

Your vision was blurred because of the tears that fall uncontrollably from your face.

Ours... your friends called, they all are worried about you, please contact them.

There was another long pause.

I lov...

Your heart started to race at the words she was about to say, but Wanda gave up halfway, as if realizing that the words were not true.

Goodbye, Y/N.

And that was it.

Four years of relationship saying goodbye in a voicemail of less than five minutes.

Your throat burned from holding on to crying for so long, you wanted to scream until your vocal cords burst.

You loved her more than anything, and she left as if it were nothing. As if your love meant nothing.

You took the picture of Wanda that was still on your wallet, and tore it into several pieces before throwing it in the trash.

Eventually, the sleep caught you while you were crying in the hotel bed, similar to a friendly hug in the midst of so much pain.

━━━━━━ ᗢ ━━━━━━

You heard that Wanda left town, without looking back, on the same day that she rejected your proposal.

Wanda's sweet perfume was still impregnate, along with your memories with her, in every room of the house that the two of you used to live. You didn't manage to stay there, it didn't take long for you to sell the house and buy an apartment in the city center.

You sold your black Chevy, there was no one around to stop you.

You also sold Wanda's things that she left behind, you didn't want anything to remind you of her. Because after the end of the day, you were still mad at Wanda. For leaving, for didn't give you a good reason, for making your waste four years of your life.

"She would've made such a lovely bride, what a shame she's fucked in the head." That was probably the last thing that someone spoke about Wanda, before another big gossip emerge in your town and they eventually forgot the humiliation that she put you through.

At first, you stayed in your new apartment with your heart broken, just watching futile reality shows and eating junk food. Steve, your best friend, was there all the time giving you emotional support, even though he didn't always know how to say the right thing.

But eventually you had to face reality, after all, you suffering or not, life still went on.

It took two years before you were ready to fall in love again. And two years since you had heard from Wanda, you didn't know about her even on social media, since she had deleted them all.

It was as if Wanda had simply disappeared, little by little, she became a myth in your life, a ghost that haunted you from time to time. Not even your friends and family mentioned her name.

Sometimes you wondered if she really existed, if you haven't invented her in your head.

It was in a bar outside the town, that you met Natasha Romanoff. She was self-confident and carried a death look in her eyes, rigid on the outside, but soft on the inside. She had short red hair and was not very fond of wearing jewellery.

Totally different from Wanda.

Natasha was fun to be around, it was easy to understand her because she was always honest with you.

You started to date her on the very first day of summer. Then, after spending all the four seasons together, you started to carry your mom's ring in your pocket and Natasha's picture in your wallet.

And when you got on your knees, she didn't leave you crestfallen on the dance floor. She said yes, and held your hand tight while dancing.

However, in the end, Wanda was wrong.

You still remeber all her champagne problems.

[luluwquidprocrow]

(the three-part folding mirror)

the denouements & the snickets, olaf, r, olivia 

teen

15,985 words 

The year the schism gets worse is the year one of the quarterly information costume parties is held in the grand ballroom on the third floor of the Hotel Denouement. 

@lyeekha won my commission in the @asoue-network fandom against hate raffle and asked for the denouements, so i put together some shenanigans with the denouements and the snickets, with slight ernest/lemony kit/dewey frank/jacques, and a few other associates hanging around ~ 

some minor warnings – language; smoking; brief mention of murder; referenced parental death; identity anxiety about being seen physically and personally 

title from i am alone by they might be giants 

10:59 PM—The Ballroom—East Drink Table

Kit skirted the perimeter of the crowded ballroom, stopping at the side wall by the drinks, one eye on the table and the other on the dance floor. She couldn’t put her back to it. Not now. There was a tall, potted boxwood nearby, unreasonably lush, almost slouching against the decorative golden pillar beside it. She picked up one of the wineglasses, the only signal she could think of to properly get his attention. She’d have to find Lemony as well; where was he?

The plant coughed.

“J,” Kit whispered, “listen to me.”

A few of the branches parted, and Jacques’s blue eyes appeared out of the green. “What happened?”

Kit breathed slowly. Her free hand curled into a fist, crinkling up the fabric of her dress. She swallowed. It did not help. She gripped the glass. Beneath her feet, the floor gave a slight shudder as the clock out in the lobby readied itself to chime the hour.

“Someone in this very room has—”

WRONG!

7:25 PM—Above The Lobby

It was Saturday night, and Saturday night always meant one thing—Guess The Guest.

Ernest stood in the small alcove situated around the gears of the hotel clock, far above the lobby, and looked down. Like any other night, the sleek gold and red lobby was filled with people, loitering around the front desks and the fountain and each other before they made their way up to the grand ballroom on the third floor. Well, the ballroom was different. This was a work event, as Frank had so brilliantly labeled it on their schedule, so no one was a regular guest tonight. Frank, who had never appreciated the joy in making up grandiose lies or exaggerated half-truths about the strangers who came in and out of the hotel, certainly wouldn’t appreciate the thrill in watching all of his associates in costume and trying to guess who was who, either. Dewey thought the game was slightly mean, because Dewey was just too kind for this sort of thing.

It was good that Ernest was not Frank or Dewey. Not right now, anyway. Ernest knew how to get joy out of the little things.

He watched a flash of green scales move erratically through the lobby, a cheerful voice calling enthusiastic greetings that echoed all the way up to the ceiling—Montgomery. There was a reason he did undercover work so sparingly. Two women in nearly identical butterfly costumes by the door, one purple and one white, hand in hand, standing close together—Ramona and Olivia. It was nice to see them together. A woman with a deep blue dress that swept around her like a wave—Josephine, here alone. Ernest had it on good authority that the Anwhistle brothers weren’t coming. Another loud voice, but deeper, following the confident swath a tall figure in black cut through the crowd—Olaf. Ernest turned away, in time to catch a glimpse of a long red cape shifting from behind one pillar to another around the edge of the room, carefully avoiding Olaf—aha. Kit. Which meant another one was nearby. Not that the Snickets had arrived together, because none of them ever did, but where there was one there was always at least one other, ready to make a decent amount of trouble. (Ernest liked trouble. The little things, of course.) And there, near Ramona and Olivia, Lemony Snicket, a figure shaped in grey shadows.

The alcove door opened. Ernest knew exactly who it was, so he didn’t give him the courtesy of turning around, keeping his eyes on Lemony. Grey was a fitting color on him, on the long line of his shoulders, his legs. Ernest’s stomach flipped over, once.

“It looks like a full house tonight,” Frank said, standing beside Ernest. He adjusted the sleeves of his jacket and folded his hands behind his back. “I wasn’t sure.”

Ernest leaned a hand on the alcove railing. “Takes more than a murder to stop a party, I suppose,” he said.

Frank didn’t reply, but Ernest knew that for once he agreed. The double murder in Winnipeg two months ago had, like any other sudden, suspicious death they’d dealt with over the years—Ernest shuddered and flexed his fingers—barely made a ripple in VFD, except that after the funeral, everyone had closed ranks significantly tighter.

This worried Frank; this did not worry Ernest. Very little truly worried Ernest, at the end of the day. That, of course, only made Frank worry more, but Ernest couldn’t help that. Frank would find something to worry about if Ernest was still on “his side”. Ernest had much more pressing commitments than the heavy, idle worry that everyone else shuffled between themselves without any results, and it wasn’t that he’d be found out. It was change. The real kind of change, not the noble one, not the fragmentary one. Change Ernest could see.

He shifted his hand on the railing once more. If he kept thinking about it, he was going to argue with Frank, and they’d rehashed the argument so many times the past few months without any resolution that it was better, Dewey had eventually insisted, if they just didn’t talk about it at all. So they wouldn’t. Ernest stood next to his brother, and the silence dragged out between them, punctuated by the soft ticking of the clock gears, and they wouldn’t talk about it. Not at all.

“Ernest.”

Almost.

“Frank,” Ernest said back, in the same critical tone, tilting his head to the side and giving his brother a look.

Frank shot him a flat and unimpressed stare in return. At least he still did that. “Promise me you won’t do anything—” he paused, his face pinching in an aggrieved sort of way before he settled on a word. “—rash tonight,” he finished.

Ernest laughed. “I don’t intend to do anything rash, Frank.” Of course not. You couldn’t carry out a pre-established plan rashly.

“I should hope not. I—”

The door opened, again. Dewey burst into the alcove, all smiles as always, and stopped on Frank’s other side and leaned over the railing, gazing into the lobby. Like Ernest and Frank, he wore the muted red manager uniform, because somebody had said it was the “host prerogative” to not dress up for a costume party. Somebody had felt bad about it when Dewey was disappointed, but somebody had still not relented, and there they were, a matched trio, everything outwardly perfect.

“Everyone’s costumes are so beautiful,” Dewey said. “Who’s that, in the big blue dress?”

“Josephine,” Ernest and Frank said at the same time.

Ernest raised his eyebrows. Frank, stooping so low as to actually guess the guest? Even Dewey blinked at him in surprise. The tips of Frank’s ears went slightly pink, but he didn’t say a word.

“Oh, Frank, you left your name tag downstairs again,” Dewey said. He pulled the name tag from his pocket, the slim gold rectangle glinting briefly in the soft light of the alcove, and pressed it into Frank’s hand.

“Thank you,” Frank murmured. But when Dewey turned away, Ernest saw the tag disappear from Frank’s fingers, most likely slipped up into his sleeve. None of them wore their name tags with regularity—the black ‘manager’ embroidery on their jackets was really enough—but Frank’s kept showing up places, and Ernest and Dewey kept giving it back to him, every time. Ernest didn’t quite know what to make of it. He wondered about asking Frank about it, but he didn’t want Frank to take it as another argument. Ernest didn’t actually enjoy arguing with Frank. About small things, sure, like Dewey’s stupid poetry and Frank’s inane hotel schedules, the sorts of things brothers argued about. But Ernest was sure Frank would make it into another one about VFD.

Dewey was studying the lobby, one hand on his chin. Ernest watched him go from one friend to another, then stop when he got to Kit’s red cape sweeping towards the stairs. It was an unusual color for her, but Dewey, whether he thought it was nice or not, knew how to identify someone from the pieces they let slip through too. Kit was straightforward about everything, and the way she walked, determined and with an endpoint in sight, was no different.

Ernest and Frank exchanged a quick glance.

“So,” Frank drawled, “when’s the wedding?”

“I look best in black,” Ernest put in. “Take that into account, Dewey.”

“I look best in blue,” Frank said. “Take that into account.”

Dewey’s face went its typical six shades of red, flushing through to his ears as well as he jumped back from the railing and sputtered, “What—we’re not—we haven’t even—I don’t—Kit’s not—you two are impossible.” He stormed out of the alcove, shutting the door with a slight snap behind him, because Dewey had never slammed a door in his life.

Ernest enjoyed a brief chuckle with Frank before his brother fell silent again. The lobby crowd was thinning as everyone made their way to the elevators or the stairs, or to the bathroom, or, perhaps, to some clandestine hallway somewhere else. Ernest could see the ring of neatly-trimmed boxwoods lining the lobby now. He wasn’t sure, but he thought there was one more than usual, sitting right inside the door.

He leaned forward, squinting. “Did we always have a boxwood there?” he asked.

Frank moved his head down a fraction of an inch and considered the lobby. “Of course,” he said. Then he straightened his sleeves one more time, and left the alcove.

7:35 PM—The Lobby

Among the Snicket siblings, there was an ongoing discussion about the best hiding place. Kit preferred the quiet, professional approach. She stood behind newspaper stands, put her face into books and brochure racks, stayed in the shadows of a store awning. Lemony was difficult about it. He thought the best place to hide was the least likely place someone would look for you; the place you wouldn’t look for yourself. He took dangerous perches in train station windows, seats in restaurants he vocally hated, or sophisticated and cramped corner cafes that had never heard of a root beer float.

Jacques, meanwhile, with a lifetime of hiding experience, always liked to hide in plain sight. People barely ever remembered what was right in front of them as long as it appeared relatively normal. And there were a number of options—a large potted plant could be overlooked among a dozen other potted plants, people received packages every day and wouldn’t notice if there was one more oversized box, every city park lost track of how many statues were supposed to be there, even a regular man in a fine suit crossing the street or driving a taxi was expected and forgettable. Another boxwood was just another boxwood sitting in a free space in the empty Hotel Denouement lobby, slowly making its way to the ballroom for optimal eavesdropping. Another volunteer in costume was just another volunteer in a lion costume borrowed from Bertrand, for the moments tonight when Jacques had to communicate information to an associate.

That was the point of the party, after all. Jacques couldn’t deny that everyone liked dressing up—he liked dressing up, a little—but the main objective for most of them tonight was the passing of relevant information that had happened in the three months since the last official gathering (not counting the funeral). It should have been at Winnipeg, as they usually were, the organization taking over the Duke and Duchess’s sprawling, sparkling mansion, the couple’s easy laughter flowing from room to room. Jacques didn’t blame Ramona for not wanting to do it after what happened there. He doubted she’d actually been in the mansion since, although it was entirely hers. But the Hotel Denouement was a suitable replacement. It was too public to ever lose its neutral position among both sides. No one was going to get killed here, Jacques was certain. But he was mildly worried something else would happen. He didn’t know what. But something.

Especially considering Lemony was here. Not that his brother was a troublemaker—Jacques would never say it out loud, at least—but because Lemony wasn’t supposed to be at the hotel tonight. He had told Jacques that he was going to be with Beatrice and Bertrand, who were working on plans for an upcoming assignment. This meant two things—one, that Lemony had lied to Jacques. But Jacques had counted on that. He had assumed, however, that Lemony meant the three of them were finally going on a date and hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Two, that if Lemony never did anything idly, without a specific purpose, then he was here for an unknown reason. Something else was going to happen, Jacques was certain. Something Lemony wanted to be here for.

First, though, he had to get the boxwood he was hiding in from the lobby to the ballroom upstairs. The pot was significantly heavier than Jacques had counted on.

8:05 PM—The Ballroom—Main Doors

Every time they all got together, Frank was so amazed at how many of them there were. Despite some noticeable gaps—Beatrice’s overbearing presence, for one, which Frank was happy to do without for an evening—the grand ballroom had barely any free space. Every available and noble associate was here, and it filled Frank with a sense that everything was going to be alright. All these people, including himself, doing what was necessary to keep the world quiet. Tonight would be fine. Ernest wouldn’t do anything regrettable; Dewey would forgive him about the costumes and the gentle ribbing; the meeting would pass without incident. Tomorrow would come. Sometimes Frank almost thought that it wouldn’t. Typically when Ernest was being difficult, but tonight even he seemed to agree that the organization—their organization—was impressive.

He spotted a potted plant by one of the drink tables, a boxwood that matched the ones lined around the room and back in the lobby. One branch was bent out of place. Frank would have to have a word with the person responsible later. But he should fix the branch now.

Everyone he passed on his way across the room gave him a quick nod, a brief smile. Frank returned it as that familiar buzzing started under his skin, like it tended to in groups. He shrugged it aside. He gave the controlled smile of a manager with everything in place, and no one said a word.

All of a sudden, his view of the boxwood was blocked. Through the mass of associates came Olaf, head to toe in a suit and mask of black, spiky fur, smiling with all his teeth, unceremoniously pushing a woman in a silver dress painted like a large, rocky moon aside on his way towards Frank. Frank steeled himself. You never knew what you were going to get with Olaf, if he would try and charm you with a reckless humor or annoy you with a joking cruelty. It was one of the many reasons Frank had never particularly cared for him.

“Ernest!” Olaf exclaimed when he got close. He hooked an arm through Frank’s. “Lovely to see you, wonderful party.”

The cold, dark hand twisted its way along Frank’s insides. It gripped down through his chest, put a film over his eyes that made the room seem distant and wrong. The party continued around him, Olaf was still talking into his ear, and Frank couldn’t hear any of it. The name tag pressing into his wrist up his left sleeve didn’t help. Just because it was his didn’t mean it was him. His name meant nothing if no one was going to care about who it was, about what made Frank instead of Ernest or Dewey. No one should need evidence to tell the difference. No one should make a mistake between the three of them. How many times would it happen?

Time was still passing. Frank blinked once, twice, until Olaf’s voice filtered back in and the noise of the ballroom swelled up once more.

“—incredibly delicious, I have to say, but, to be frank with you—ha! This champagne has seen better days, which one of you is responsible for this travesty?”

Frank smiled, a little turn of the corner of his mouth, the professional smile of all three of them. If Olaf wanted Ernest, alright. Frank would be Ernest. “Frank,” he said. The word sounded like it couldn’t possibly have come out right, but Olaf didn’t break his stride, so it must have.

“That does not surprise me in the least,” Olaf said. “Meanwhile, allow me to take up one single minute of your time,” he continued, and pulled Frank into the shadows by the door. Frank’s stomach gave a terrible lurch as the stark terror he woke up with every morning came back, riding over the dissonant gap he still felt between his body and his brain. What did Olaf want with Ernest? Had Olaf found out about him? Frank had covered up for Ernest before, but would he be able to keep doing it if more people knew?

“Have you thought about it any more?” Olaf asked, leaning close.

The sheer relief that Olaf didn’t know battled with the swooping fear that Ernest was doing something new Frank didn’t know about, and with Olaf. He remembered, with startling clarity, the last time he talked to Kit, when she told him that Olaf had been spouting dangerous ideas about the organization and trying to rope in as many people as possible. It was one of the reasons, according to the rumors Frank had heard elsewhere, why he and Kit had ended their relationship. What was he trying to get Ernest into? Ernest needed absolutely no encouragement, and neither did Olaf. He had to say something.

“I have,” Frank said. It was the safe answer when you were pretending to be someone else.

Olaf grinned again, big and excited, which was a terrible sign. “And?”

“No,” he said, because it was also the safe answer, and the faster Frank could untangle Ernest from whatever trouble he was into this time, the better. “Sorry to disappoint,” he added, with the cool tone Ernest used.

Olaf frowned. “Really? I must admit, I am a little surprised. I mean, I know you weren’t entirely on board, but you’d given it a shot before, and I was hoping you’d come around again.”

Before? They’d talked before? Frank thought a series of incredibly inappropriate words Beatrice was always using that he would never say out loud.

“But!” Olaf pivoted quickly, in his speech and his actions, spinning on his heel away from Frank and shrugging broadly. “Who am I to bend your arm about it! I’ll keep you in mind, though, in case.” He showed all his teeth, his eyes glittering. “And keep me in mind, next time you have anything else worth sharing, will you?” He flounced off again, tearing through the crowd.

It took a few minutes for Frank’s heart to go back to where it was supposed to be from where it was thundering in his throat. He put his hands in his pockets and gripped the fabric, something real and his to hold onto.

Anything else worth sharing. Since their apprenticeships, Frank and Dewey and Ernest had been tasked with organizing a great deal of information, mostly about the history of the organization, but sometimes, and especially as they got older, the very information that was passed along between volunteers. It was part of the reason Dewey had started building his personal archives in the basement. He liked the business of collecting facts. Of course all three of them were still being given that information. Of course Ernest still had access to every single piece of that information. Ernest, collaborating with Olaf, Ernest, sneaking around behind Frank’s back, Ernest, who had promised, at the beginning of all this, that he wasn’t going to jeopardize their positions by doing something stupid.

Ernest, what are you doing?

8:40 PM—The Archives, In Progress

Dewey was not hiding. He liked parties a great deal, and he loved people, but like his brothers and everyone else, he too had his own appointment to keep tonight.

His just happened to be in the basement.

He still sort of felt like he was hiding, especially the further he went into the archives. But things always needed organizing, and while he waited, he had to do something to keep his hands busy. He searched for a set of organization accounting records for five minutes before realizing he’d already shelved it, last week.

So Dewey was nervous. Plenty of people were nervous. Olivia went around all the time being nervous and no one gave her any grief for it. But Olivia didn’t have a sister to give her any grief for it. And Dewey didn’t mind, not really. He loved it when his brothers teased, because it meant they were getting along. But this time it was slightly personal. Because he was meeting Kit, and he was nervous.

Kit was—well, normal. Like Dewey was normal. He loved his brothers, but Frank was high-strung and made it everyone else’s problem, Ernest was often disagreeable for the sake of it, and with the Snickets, Jacques was always hiding in furniture and Dewey didn’t think he’d ever seen more of him than one hand and possibly an eye at a time, and Lemony was wonderful but sometimes too cryptic and morbid for Dewey’s taste. He liked things a little more sensible, comfortable, pleasant. And Kit was organized, reasonable, quiet when other people were reading, cool under pressure. She let herself get lost in books and people she cared about, underneath all the professionalism. Her smile was a careful, slow thing, something private she only showed you if she genuinely liked you. And it meant a lot to be on the receiving end of that smile.

His brothers didn’t get it. He wasn’t involved with Kit, and he wasn’t going to ask her out, because you didn’t do that with Kit. If Kit wanted to spend time with you, that was her own choice. She never did anything she didn’t want or she hadn’t thought through first. That she wanted to spend time with Dewey, specifically, to see him, and no one else, was nice. It made the whole of him feel all tingly and weightless. He wanted their meeting in the archives to be as nice as that feeling.

Dewey grabbed a set of Agatha Christie translations he kept on hand for when things got boring (rarely, but Beatrice got bored easily, and if you gave her a translation she sat down for a while to prove she could read it) and walked to the next aisle to shelve them. His foot snagged on something in the middle of the floor and he stumbled, hugging the books close to his chest so they didn’t fall. He turned around to see what it was, and found Kit blinking up at him with wide eyes from where she sat on the floor, a thick book open in her lap, her long red dress pooled around her on the floor. Her dress had an off-the-shoulder neckline, but most of her shoulders were covered by the matching red cape pulled around her. In the wide diamond of skin left between the cape and the top of the dress, he could see the sharp edge of something black around her collarbone, a point of the nearly-finished tattoo she’d been getting done. The red sleeves disappeared into short white gloves, with her hands folded together at the bottom of the book pages. Oh. Dewey’s heart pounded for a horrible, exhilarating moment, his mouth going dry. He swallowed once, twice, a third time.

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling wryly, closing the book and sliding it gently back in the middle shelf. “I got distracted.”

“Oh, no, that’s completely understandable,” Dewey said. He folded himself down beside her, crossing his legs, still clutching the books to him. “Happens to me all the time. What were you reading?”

Kit smiled again, and it was that slow, beautiful smile, her eyes lighting up. “Have you heard,” she said, “about the cookiecutter shark?”

Dewey had absolutely heard about the cookiecutter shark. “Isistius brasiliensis,” he said. “It can travel in schools, and it bites little circular sections out of fish, like a cookie cutter. Have you heard about the brownsnout spookfish?”

“Barreleye fish, has mirrors in its eyes. Toothless upper jaw,” Kit replied easily. “Anostraca.”

“Fairy shrimp, they swim upside down,” Dewey said. He leaned forward, grinning. “Sometimes even found in deserts. Frilled shark?”

This was his favorite game, with his favorite person, in his favorite place. Both of them were librarians, or librarian-adjacent, so he and Kit dealt in information, not only about nobility but about the rest of the world around them. And the whole world was so fascinating, and there was so much to know and share, so how could you not try and see who could stump the other first?

“An eel-like living fossil, with six pairs of gill slits. Chaunacidae.”

Dewey scrunched up his face, thinking. “I think you got me there,” he admitted.

“Sea toad,” Kit said, looking pleased, “and coffinfish. Deep-sea anglerfishes. The sea toad has fins that can be used as leg flippers.”

“Really? Wow.” Dewey made a mental note to check that out later. He hoped, on the scale of unsettling sea creature to pleasantly spooky sea creature, that it was somewhere in the middle. “So besides oceanic intrigue,” he said, “what else is going on with you?”

“I’m supposed to get something from Frank tonight,” Kit said. “But, I also came to give you this. From Bertrand,” she clarified, and then picked through the seams of her dress, which revealed themselves as hiding at least ten different pockets.

When he had the time, Dewey wanted to study clothing design. Kit and Beatrice always found the place for so many pockets that you could never see from the outside, and Dewey wished he had the same capacity in his slim manager’s jacket and trousers for all the things he wanted to carry around. Poetry; chocolate-covered pretzels; the pencils Kit always left behind; spare buttons; sturdy rope, in case he needed it; maybe a mini chess set. He’d have to work on it. Maybe he could hide them in shoulder pads, or his shoes.

Kit pulled out a book from a side pocket. Dewey finally put the Agatha Christie down, piling it in a neat stack between them, and took the book. It was the one Bertrand had spoken to him about last week—Undercover Underwater: Diving For The Truth, a truly terrible murder mystery novel he said Dewey had to read to believe. He was greatly looking forward to it.

“That was awfully sweet of him,” Dewey said, running his thumb over the cover. He looked for a place to put it, and then just put it on top of his book stack. It felt a little sacrilegious, if it was as bad as Bertrand said, to put it on top of Christie, but he didn’t want to misplace it. “Thank you very much.”

Kit shifted on the floor and put her back to the bookshelf. “Did you hear the Anwhistle brothers finished building that marine research and rhetorical advice center?”

“Yes,” Dewey said. “I guess that’s why they aren’t here tonight? Josephine was all alone when I saw her earlier.”

“They should’ve celebrated with the rest of us,” Kit said. “What a massive architectural achievement—and I wanted to hear about the leeches, too.”

“Yes!” Dewey exclaimed. “Have you seen them yet? I haven’t.”

“No,” Kit said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Not in person. Ike gave Lemony one of the earlier ones as a paperweight some time ago but I haven’t been able to see their recent work yet. I hear the teeth are impressive.”

“Cookiecutter shark impressive?”

Kit grinned. “Potentially.”

Dewey laughed. He wished he and Kit could go see them, together. For the scientific curiosity. For spending time with someone who really, really wanted to see him. No, for the oceanic intrigue, of course. “You know—” Oh no. He hadn’t intended to actually start the sentence, but it was out, and Kit was looking at him expectantly, and Dewey was rapidly losing all handles on the conversation. His face was heating up. Everyone else made talking to people whose company they enjoyed look so easy, but the words jumbled together in his mouth. “We should—go? I mean—not right now, but, soon, we could—to the research center—for the leeches, for, for science.”

Pink colored Kit’s face under the freckles along her nose. “For science,” she said. Then—“Not a date,” she added firmly.

“Definitely for science,” Dewey insisted. “Oceanic intrigue, and everything.”

“Yes,” she said, blinking quite a few times. “That would be fine.”

They stared at each other for the longest minute of Dewey’s life.

“We should probably get back up to the party,” he said. The archives were feeling much, much too close, all the books and shelves pressed up against him, the point of Kit’s tattoo still peeking out from under the edge of her cape.

Kit nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

8:55 PM—The Ballroom—Near The Piano

Next—Jacques had to find Olivia.

He abandoned the boxwood by the east wall, for the time being, out of sight near the piano, where a man with a white half-mask played a pleasant Beethoven sonata while a woman in a sharp, pointed gold suit argued with a man dressed as an octopus with a hat. They did not notice Jacques, even in his own costume, but he noticed them. He noticed everyone in the room so singularly. He’d almost forgotten so many people could be in one place at the same time. You spent a lot of time alone, hiding in small spaces, you got used to yourself.

Olivia was easily identifiable. Nothing she did could ever disguise the tightly-wound nervous energy coiled inside her, not the shimmery white butterfly wings curled over her shoulders or the mask of purple flowers on her face. Something always gave her away. Tonight, it was her hands, twisting together as she talked to someone in a large, leafy tree costume, so consuming Jacques couldn’t make out the face. He scanned the crowd, trying to locate Ramona in her reversed purple wings and white mask. He saw her making her way towards one of the drink tables. Ramona wouldn’t leave Olivia alone for long.

The tree left soon after, and Jacques made his way over to her, getting a decent amount of elbows into the side along the way. “Olivia,” he said, when he stopped in front of her.

Her eyes passed over him and onto the rest of the room, like she was staring straight through him. Jacques frowned. He’d certainly said something. He’d certainly moved, Olivia was right in front of him. People moved around them without sparing him a second glance; someone said a cheerful hello to Olivia and she returned it. His voice dried up in his throat, like if he tried to speak he’d never make a sound. When was the last time before this he’d spoken out loud? No one expected him to talk, in his line of work. When had he done it? No, perhaps she simply hadn’t heard him.

He cleared his throat a few times. That was a sound. That was undeniably a sound. Jacques existed here.

He touched his hand to her wrist. “Olivia?”

Olivia jumped nearly a foot. She turned her head from side to side frantically, and Jacques gave her a short wave.

“Oh!” Olivia pressed her hands against her chest and laughed, breathless. “Oh, Jacques, you startled me. How are you?” she asked, as unfailingly kind as always, as if he hadn’t just frightened her. She looked like she wanted nothing more than for Jacques to tell her the long, substantial answer, instead of the polite one. He almost did. But Jacques was here for business.

“Fine,” he said. “And you?”

“Alright,” she said, still smiling. “Ramona’s gone to get some champagne, would you like to join us?”

“Not tonight,” he said. “I have a message for you.”

Her bright smile faltered, her hands seizing together again. “I see,” she said quietly. “What is it?”

“We’d like you to take up the outpost at Caligari Carnival.”

Olivia blanched. “The—the hinterlands?” she repeated. Her voice trembled. “That’s, ah, terribly far away, isn’t it?”

“It is a distance from the city,” Jacques conceded, “but not far.” It was far from Winnipeg, though. It was very far. Eventually, Ramona would be back there, at least in some capacity. Things would be different, especially if Olivia was wanted in the hinterlands permanently.

“Jacques, I really—I don’t—I’ll think about it,” she said finally. “I promise, I’ll think about it.”

An assignment from headquarters was not exactly optional. Her eyes darted somewhere behind him, and Jacques knew who she was looking at. She and Ramona had just gotten together only recently, before the Duke and Duchess’ deaths. Any kind of love was difficult within the confines of their organization, but the solace here, Jacques thought, was that she and Ramona were both there. They would never be that far away. They might see each other a good deal less, but they would see each other.

“You can take your time to leave, if you wanted,” he said.

“I’ll think about it.” Her voice was firm. “But, thank you for letting me know, Jacques.” She gave him her soft, breezy smile again, and slipped off through the dance floor.

Jacques watched her go. They would see each other. That was an invaluable thing, in their line of work. Being seen. Sometimes even the best person you loved with your whole being couldn’t see the part of you that mattered. To be seen when you disappeared from the rest of the world—that was worth holding on to. It would be difficult. But he had no doubt Olivia and Ramona would do it.

The floor rumbled, like it always did before the lobby clock chimed.

9:00 PM—Room 687

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Does the clock always sound like that? Like it’s saying wrong?”

“Incessantly,” Esmé sighed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I think Frank’s responsible. Heaven forbid he goes an hour without reminding everyone else how little he thinks of their decisions, you know.”

9:00 PM—The Ballroom—North Drink Table

The hotel was not Winnipeg. But right now, that was exactly what Ramona wanted. The modern angles, the warm, well-lit ballroom, the dark corners and firm rigidity of it all currently felt homier than the soft, open pinks and whites of the Winnipeg mansion. She was glad to have another excuse to avoid it and the constant questions. Tonight, she was going to see her friends, and dance with Olivia, and drink champagne, because Olivia said every occasion was cause for celebration and champagne, and Ramona was going to have a good time. She picked up two champagne flutes from the table and took a sip of one in the careful way her mother taught her, so she didn’t leave lipstick on the glass. Her heart stuttered as she saw the press of plum purple streaks on the glass when she pulled it away. The hotel clock was chiming, sounding like a heavy, distorted vibration of a word. It was right. The lipstick was wrong.

Who had done it? Everyone wanted to know. The firestarters? Likely, but they had been quiet for some time, and Ramona wasn’t going to point fingers without evidence. Some older enemy? Ramona didn’t know enough about whoever that was to consider them. Someone new?

She didn’t want to think about it. Her parents were dead, and she’d found them, and she didn’t want to think about who could have done it or why they did. It wasn’t going to change that it had happened. Ramona wasn’t looking for answers. She was looking for—

An arm slung around her shoulders, jostling her and the champagne, which sloshed around in the flutes as she lurched forward. Scratchy fur and outrageous cologne bore down on her, and she knew exactly who it was.

“My dear duchess,” Olaf said, squeezing her tight. “How have you been?”

Ramona found it in her to roll her eyes. Some people didn’t like Olaf, which she completely understood. There was something about him though, as brash and outlandish and obnoxiously tactile as he was, that had to make you laugh sometimes. She felt comfortable, close to a friend. “Just peachy,” she said. She offered him the other champagne glass; she could get another for Olivia. “Champagne?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Olaf said. He hooked his free hand around both glasses and set them back on the drink table. “Look, I wanted to give you my sincerest condolences—” And he did look sincere, sliding around in front of her, his hand still on her shoulder, the joy immediately gone from his face and replaced by an uncharacteristic seriousness. She was struck by it, by how glassy and shiny his eyes were under the dark of his mask. “I’m sorry about your parents, Ramona.”

Her mouth wobbled at the edges. She knew Olaf could understand. They’d had similar positions in the organization their whole lives—their parents their chaperones, their time split between assignments and society, the safety that existed in his manor as well, its own controlled pocket of the world, like Winnipeg had been, like the Hotel Denouement was, too. She thought of the Count and Countess, still alive. She hoped they’d stay alive.

It wouldn’t do to cry at a party. Ramona picked up her flute again and took another small sip. “Thank you,” she said.

And just like that, he straightened up and pulled away from her. Some of the mirth found its way back into the shape of his mouth and his arm found its way back around her, this time a tight grip at her waist as he steered her back into the crowd. Ramona felt slightly less consoled than ten seconds ago. Easy come, easy go, with Olaf. “I hate thinking about you all alone in that big house,” he said with a sigh. “All that room, all those things—remember when I knocked into that vase in the hallway?”

“Very vividly,” Ramona said.

“A glorious time!” he crowed. “Well! At least you’ve got all of us, haven’t you. What are your friends if not your family, et cetera, et cetera.”

But he still understood. That was what made it so important to be here tonight. What were all the people in the room, the friends she’d grown up with, people she knew and loved, if not her family as well, just as much as her parents had been? They were more than associates or volunteers, stepping in around her not to fill a void, but to offer back some little part of what had been taken from her. Her throat tightened up as she thought about it. Everything they did was hard, but it was also so special. Ramona wanted to hold it close to her and never let it go.

“And what wouldn’t one do for one’s family, am I right?” Olaf continued. “So, if you ever need me for anything—a shoulder to cry on, although certainly not in this jacket, or, say, a partner in crime, or a willing participant in any daring assignment you might come across otherwise—do not hesitate to let me know, okay?”

“Of course.”

“I mean it.”

Ramona stumbled to a halt as Olaf stopped abruptly. He looked down at her with a gash of a grin. “People like you and me, we’ve got to stick together, duchess.” He gave her a squeeze one more time and then finally let go, dashing away.

Goodness, but he was rough about things. Ramona gave herself a shake, trying to collect herself back into order. She stood up on her toes to try and see where he’d gone. She didn’t get much more height, already being in heels, but she did manage to see him already making grandiose hand gestures across the room to those white-faced triplets Ramona had seen once or twice. They were younger than she was, still in their training. The three of them stared at Olaf with three immaculately raised eyebrows. Ramona chuckled a little, dropped back down, and went back for Olivia’s champagne glass.

9:40 PM—The Ballroom—Center

Over an hour had passed, and Frank hadn’t seen any sign of Ernest. He had better things to be doing than keeping track of Ernest, and yet here he was. He couldn’t have gone far—the hotel was enormous, but it was a hotel. The whole world contained on nine floors. You couldn’t disappear from it.

Frank edged his way through the dance floor, searching for him through three separate groups of associates doing three slightly different versions of a circle dance. A snake and a tree frog whirled past, a phantom with them, a tangled shape of dark greens and blacks and bright blues and exuberant laughter. When they’d gone, Frank found himself in the center of the floor and face to face with Dewey, coming towards him from the other direction, his cheeks pink.

“Are you alright?” Frank asked immediately.

Dewey blinked. “Of course,” he said. “Just dancing. Is everything okay?”

He should have known, but Ernest had him on an edge he hadn’t expected to be tonight. He tried to look apologetic but wasn’t sure how well he succeeded. “Have you seen Ernest?”

“Not since earlier,” Dewey said. “Oh, and Kit was—”

“When you see him, could you tell him I’m looking for him?”

Dewey’s shoulders drooped down. “If I see him,” he said. “Then I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you,” Frank said, and he meant it. He smiled at Dewey until he smiled back, and then Frank moved past him, pushing back into the crowd.

He hadn’t meant to be short about it, but Frank’s worry never came out like he wanted it to. It became biting irritation instead, or a slow-simmering temper he never let boil, or professional, distant orders about hotel business, or a refusal to talk at all in case he said the wrong thing. More often than not, he still wound up arguing with Ernest. He didn’t argue with Dewey, but their conversations were so much more stilted than they should have been lately.

But it was because he feared Ernest was going to slip away from him one day and never come back. Realistically, it was unlikely. After all, Ernest was still here. Indecision entering their home hadn’t taken him away from it. But what if that changed, one day, and it was Frank’s fault, because he reacted too quickly or too slowly? And Dewey—Dewey was so sweet and so kind Frank thought the world might crush him. He had to keep them close, and he had to keep them safe. It would’ve been so much easier, though, if Ernest wasn’t so difficult about it, if Dewey understood that Frank didn’t want anything to happen to him, if they would listen.

Frank glanced at his watch. It was getting late. He’d look for Ernest on the way, but for one small hour, Ernest was going to have to wait.

9:59 PM—The Floor Behind The South Drink Table

Through typical party events, The Herpetology Squad (Plus Hector) found themselves on the floor behind one of the drink tables.

“So how do you tell them apart?” Gustav asked, stirring his drink with a spoon. “Because, and I do feel terrible about this, but I can’t do it. We’ve known them for ages, and I can’t do it.”

“Frank is taller,” Monty said immediately, and very confidently.

“What, no, he can’t be taller, they’re triplets,” Hector said. “Do genetics work like that?”

“Hey Haruki,” Monty called around Gustav and Hector, “do genetics work like that?”

Haruki leaned into Hector’s shoulder and considered it. “I’m really not sure,” they said. “But, I always figured, Ernest was kind of quiet, and Frank was kind of stern, and Dewey was kind of, well, kind.”

“But that seems so reductive,” Gustav pointed out. “You can’t just identify a person down to one base trait and leave it at that. And I say this as a screenwriter and director. You need to be creative.”

“All your characters sound exactly the same, though,” Hector said, frowning. “Or, like, so different, I don’t think you’re keeping track of them between scenes.”

“Oh, that’s awfully rude,” Haruki said.

“No, he’s right,” Gustav said. He hung his head into his hands, his glass tipping sideways through his fingers. Haruki reached over and grabbed it, twisting their arm around and up to slide it back onto the drink table where it’d be safer. “I always thought they did, and now I know for sure. I’ll have to renounce film making and go back to herpetology. Or, submarines. I can’t disparage your honor too, Monty.”

“Oh, Hector, you hurt his feelings,” Monty said. He patted Gustav on the back consolingly. “Gustav, you write wonderful scripts. I loved the, the Werewolves In The Rain.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I can’t handle a drunk Gustav,” Hector said, closing his eyes. “Gustav, I’m sorry. To be fair, I only watched—what was it—” He waved his hands around. “—the one with the—you know—”

“Vampires In The Retirement Community,” Haruki said.

“And it was once. And—hey, weren’t we talking about something else?”

10:10 PM—The Short Hallway Between Rooms 40-45 and 46-49

Unassigned numbers within the Dewey Decimal System were not the trouble they appeared to be to a hotel based on it. They still existed in the hotel, no matter how much Ernest had protested that it made no sense to have rooms that had no theme or purpose in a hotel whose very purpose was theme—Frank and Dewey’s rebuttal was that it made no sense to nonchalantly remove numbers out of their sequential existence because they didn’t fit in neatly otherwise. They existed. They didn’t have themes, even this stretch of ten, which had been previously designated but was now just a blank space between encyclopedias and magazine publications, which left the rooms relatively blank and boring, typically unnoticed and unused, but they still existed.

In the brief, dark hallway between the two sets of unassigned rooms, Frank could sit on the bench against the wall, and he didn’t have to think about family or the hotel. Frank sat featureless in the shadows and thought about himself. Usually, it meant he felt better about everything. But tonight, with the worry set aside once more for now, all he felt was that chill through his insides again, when Olaf mistook him for Ernest.

He took the name tag out of his sleeve and turned it over in his hands. Frank was a man in a manager’s jacket, with a face that looked like two other faces, someone who could be anyone. The name tag did nothing but identify him without caring who he was. What was it that made Frank himself, the imperceptible, innate existence of him that mattered? His love for Ernest and Dewey? Visible. His organization? Trivial. The fear he was going to lose everything? Meaningless and a weakness, in the face of everything else. It was hard to say for sure. He had gone his whole life getting mixed up with Ernest and Dewey and it was exhausting to keep trying to prove he was real when it felt like the world was rubbing him out. He leaned his back against the wall.

He heard Jacques before he saw him, like always. Exact, economical footsteps, nothing extraneous, the tap of his expensive shoes on the rugs, the swish of his jacket. Everything measured, as it had to be.

Jacques appeared around the corner, that bent piece of the boxwood plant stuck in his hair. He seemed to brighten when he saw Frank, like Frank’s presence set something off inside him. Frank watched him. What did Jacques see, when he looked at Frank? What was it that made Jacques notice, over and over again, over other people? How was Jacques so certain that when he looked at Frank right now, at that moment, that Jacques was looking at him?

Jacques sat down next to him on the bench. Frank had seen him in a mask earlier, something terrible and orange, but it was gone now, and he faced Frank fully. He was inches away from Frank, and Frank could see every part of him, even in the dark—the calm, if tired, resolution in the set of his jaw, the way he waited, still and patient, as if he could do nothing else. He had the darkest eyes of his siblings, a steady and unchanging deep blue.

“That which is essential is invisible to the eye,” Jacques whispered.

Frank let out the breath he’d been holding. How long ago had he said that to Jacques? “I initially said that to insult you,” he said.

“It was deserved,” Jacques said. “And I never forgot. Do you know how I always know it’s you now?”

“Enlighten me.”

He put his hand against Frank’s jacket, resting his fingers against the fabric to the left of the buttons. Jacques kept it there, and he didn’t take his eyes off of Frank for anything, not even when the heartbeat under his hand sped up. Frank felt almost split open to the core. He always did, every time. Jacques saw whatever it was. The man who was always hiding knew exactly who he was, because he looked.

“How very sentimental of you,” Frank managed. His breath hung between them. He traced the side of his thumb over the collar of Jacques’s shirt, just below the skin. If he moved his hand just a centimeter he’d be able to feel his heartbeat as well.

“It’s the truth,” Jacques murmured. “Sentiment is—dangerous. Truth is immutable.”

“Do you know how I know it’s you?” Frank said against his mouth.

“How?” Jacques asked.

Frank finally pulled the branch out of Jacques’s hair. “You do terribly stupid things.”

Jacques laughed, and the sound vibrated all the way down through Frank’s throat.

10:19 PM—Room 366

Frank had to be somewhere. Kit was not overly concerned with finding him, but she would rather do it sooner than later. She worked from the ground floor up, combing through the hallways but finding no sight of the Denouement, until she was on the third floor again. The faster she found Frank, the faster she could, maybe, go back to talking to Dewey. About completely professional things, of course. The fact that she felt different when she was with Dewey was simply because he was pleasant, welcome company. He wanted to look at leeches with her, for the delight of science. They expected nothing from each other but a nice time.

She immediately pictured Beatrice waggling her eyebrows at her, if Kit had said that out loud. Not that kind of nice time, she thought, but the mental Beatrice kept laughing joyously at her.

“He’s a nice person,” she grumbled to the empty hallway. He was calm. Regular. Okay. The exact opposite of everyone else, Beatrice. Could she go five minutes without them all picking apart her romantic life? This was why she wasn’t interested. This was why it was strictly nice. There were other, more important things that needed her attention.

The door to Room 366 was ajar, and Kit, who had naturally been trained to investigate the suspicious, investigated the suspicious. She slid herself carefully through the gap in the door and into the dark room. She’d been in there a few times to know it was an absurdly comfortable meeting room, with plush chairs and a bookcase that spanned the length of the far wall. A figure sat against the side wall, reaching up and tapping ash from a cigarette out the open window. For a moment, they looked like a blank, featureless shadow, until a light outside the window shifted and Frank—no, Ernest’s face resolved itself in front of her. The tip of the cigarette burned bright orange against his fingers.

“I heard about you and Olaf,” he said. “Would you like an apology, since I’m sure you’ve been getting enough I told you so’s?”

Kit sighed. “I really don’t want to talk about it.” But she shut the door and walked over, sitting down on the floor beside him. She took her own pack of cigarettes out of one of her dress pockets and accepted Ernest’s lighter to light one. She never carried her own.

“He did,” she muttered, giving the lighter back. She brought her legs up and wrapped an arm around them. “Tell me, I told you so. Not in so many words, of course, but I knew he was thinking it.”

“Ah,” Ernest said. “The disappointed look of, I’m not going to say it, but I’m going to think it, in your general direction. Which is worse.”

“Exactly,” Kit said. “At least argue with me so I can tell him he’s wrong.”

Ernest breathed out a long line of smoke. “Yes.” She thought he was going to say something else, but when he didn’t, Kit pressed on.

“He acts like it was my fault,” she said. “Should I have known better? I—” It was a harsh thing to admit, but she and Ernest didn’t do this to lie to each other. “Yes. Fine. But he acts like I can’t be left alone now to make my own decisions. He keeps following me, hanging around.” She slouched against the wall. “My own brother thinks so little of me.”

Ernest hmmed. “Well—”

“Do not. Do not say I’m short. I’m not short. Jacques has one inch on me, Ernest. Esmé is short. I’m not short.”

“Sorry,” Ernest said, laughing.

“Say it,” she said, and pushed her elbow into his side.

“Ow—Kit, you are anything but short.”

“Thank you.” She took her elbow back. The two of them sat in silence, blowing out small circles of smoke as the cigarettes smoldered down. “What’s Frank disappointed about?”

Ernest waved his hand with the cigarette dismissively. “Frank’s disappointed he can’t find a tie that matches the custom paint in the lobby,” he said. “It doesn’t take much for him. I was five minutes late, I didn’t give him the mail on time, I missed a meeting, and he just—” He did an obviously perfect impression of Frank’s unimpressed stare.

Kit snorted. She had to admit, Frank did look like that a lot, even if you caught him in a good mood.

“If he wasn’t so difficult,” Ernest muttered, “he’d be almost bearable.”

“Wouldn’t they all,” Kit sighed. “Brothers.”

“Brothers,” Ernest agreed.

10:25 PM—The Ballroom—West Hors d’oeuvres Table

Dewey stood at the hors d’oeuvres table, away from the crowd of his friends, surveying the food. At least, with everything going on, there was always good food to look forward to. It was awful to glare at it like he was. He’d felt so good after talking to Kit, and now he was glowering at little rows of canapes like they were the source of his problems.

He wasn’t usually upset with his brothers. No matter what they did, he knew they had their reasons, and Dewey loved them regardless. But sometimes they really were impossible. Frank’s quiet temper and Ernest’s secrecy and indifference had driven such a wedge between the two of them that when Dewey suggested they didn’t talk about it, it had seemed like the best idea at the time to get them to go forward. Otherwise, he’d been worried that Frank was going to say something he’d regret, because he wasn’t going to change Ernest’s mind, and Ernest might’ve done something terrible. Dewey didn’t think he was capable of something truly terrible, because Ernest was his brother, and he knew Ernest. They both believed in a right way to live, just in different ways, so Dewey respected him. You couldn’t let anything change that. But he was still as worried about Ernest as Frank was, and he had just wanted the arguments to stop.

But it had led to Frank and Ernest almost refusing to talk to each other, ninety percent of the time. The other ten percent was pleasantries or conversations that skirted the edge of an argument, which was worse. Dewey particularly hated it lately, when he was asked to pass messages between them, typically from Frank. He wasn’t a messenger system, he was their brother, and he was, in fact, if either of them cared to remember, the oldest. But they treated him like someone to protect because he wasn’t as forceful as them. He frowned down at a section of tiny shot glasses of—he picked one up. Gazpacho. It looked so charming and Dewey couldn’t even appreciate it.

What it came down to was, the schism couldn’t come between him and his brothers if they didn’t let it. Just like his current irritation couldn’t come between him and his brothers if he didn’t let it. He considered it, because he was angry, but he didn’t let it change anything.

He found a narrow, palm-sized spoon from one of the other hors d’oeuvres and poked at the gazpacho with it. He thought, for a moment, about the Anwhistle brothers, sitting in their brand new marine research and rhetorical help center, probably having a lot of fun together talking about fungi and grammar. Gregor and Ike were two of the most different but most companionable people Dewey knew. Nothing got between them. They probably didn’t forget who was the oldest. Who was the oldest out of them, anyway? They probably didn’t let it matter.

Oh, Dewey was letting it get to him. He piled some of the gazpacho onto the spoon and took a bite. He wished Bertrand had been able to come. Bertrand would’ve loved the appeal of the gazpacho as well. Bertrand didn’t have a single sibling to complain about and he would’ve enjoyed the gazpacho wholesale. He could’ve stood around with Dewey at the table, and maybe they’d have brought in Lemony, too, and talked about flavor profiles. Lemony, who was legitimately the youngest of his siblings, commiserating over cold soup about how they never stopped trying to protect him either. Who could possibly think Lemony of all people needed protecting, too? There was always that quiet, competent energy around him.

Dewey finished the gazpacho and put the jar on a passing hotel attendant’s silver tray. Where was Lemony, actually? He was sure he’d seen him earlier. Dewey remembered, because it was the first time he’d seen Lemony in a long while. Wherever he was, Dewey was sure it was probably more enjoyable than here.

10:32 PM—The Ballroom—Dance Floor

“Josephine,” Olaf said, sidling up behind her, “Jo, angel of my eye—”

“The correct word for that expression is apple,” Josephine interrupted. She did not take her eyes off of her plate of puff pastry. “We’ve been over this.”

He continued, persistent as ever, his smile stretched like candy. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me, angel of my apple?”

“No.”

10:45 PM—The Elevator

The night was passing by, and Kit still hadn’t found Frank. She’d made it all the way up to the ninth floor with no sign of him. Was he the type to be on the rooftop sunbathing salon? Unlikely. But she should check, just in case.

She had her hand against the rooftop door when the elevator dinged behind her. Kit turned to look. The elevator doors parted, revealing the gold-walled interior with rather harsh lighting, and there was Frank, standing with his hands folded behind his back. He caught Kit’s eye and gave her a slight nod. “Kit.”

“Frank.” She stepped into the elevator beside him and pushed the button for the third floor. As the doors closed, she smelled smoke for a moment, and her heart leapt before she realized the cigarette smoke must’ve clung to her gloves. She tugged them off and stuffed them into one of her pockets.

“I heard the Anwhistles finished the research center,” Frank said, as the elevator started to move down.

“Yes.”

“And the mycelium—are they still working on it?”

“As far as I know, yes.”

Frank sighed. “Do you have any concerns?”

“Some,” Kit admitted. There was no denying it was dangerous. Necessary, but catastrophic if it ever got out of hand. “If anything happens, it can be dealt with.”

“Good,” Frank said, decisively. Silence dropped through the elevator, the hand counting down the floors moving slowly from eight, to seven, to six. Frank raised an eyebrow; Kit realized she’d been staring at him. “Is something wrong?”

“I was under the impression that there was—” More, or something else entirely. It was Kit’s understanding that Frank was to give her a list. There was usually only one kind of list that mattered in their organization, and unless she had radically misjudged the ages of the Anwhistle brothers after personally knowing them for years, they wouldn’t be on that list. “—something more specific,” she wound up finishing.

Frank looked at her with his impassive, unimpressed mask. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

The hand moved again, six to five to four. Kit had the strangest sensation that she was missing something. She should’ve been given that list, not subjected to a brief interrogation, especially about something she was already aware of. The smell of smoke flitted in front of her again.

Disbelief shot through Kit like an arrow, pushing the air from her lungs. She felt like the floor was dropping out from under her. She didn’t want to believe it. She couldn’t. She stared at the man in the elevator, and he stared back, cool and collected. It couldn’t be. Because that would mean—but the longer she looked, the more certain she was.

“Frank quit smoking,” she said quietly, “but you didn’t.”

The corner of his mouth turned down. “I—”

Kit slammed her hand against the stop button on the button panel, and kept her hand there, boxing him in against the wall even after the elevator had halted, the counting hand stuck between four and three.

“Don’t lie to me, Ernest.”

One Month Ago—City Headquarters

It wasn’t like there was, say, an initiation ceremony or anything. They’d been through that already, there was no need to do one again. You knew what you were getting into this time, you were just, “changing sides”. And it was so subtle that it barely mattered. Nothing about Ernest’s life really changed otherwise. He ran a hotel with his brothers. He ranked tea brands with Dewey during lunch. He played loud music in Room 784. He carried a lighter in his pocket that he used for other things. He went to headquarters, sometimes as himself, sometimes as Frank, never as Dewey. He acquired messages, and took his sweet time delivering them or delaying them, spaces of time where nothing changed, either. He almost wondered what the point had been, until he overheard Frank spout off some noble patter again. At least he wasn’t like that. At least Ernest knew better.

And since nothing had changed, no one knew. Not even the “firestarters” knew there was another one, namely because Ernest hated the name and disliked a great deal of them, but also because Frank made him be so careful about it. He thought a few people in VFD suspected, or at least suspected someone of switching, because everyone could feel something was happening and they were trying to pinpoint a source, and it was only a matter of time before someone suspected a Denouement. Triplets were naturally suspicious. But it wasn’t like they could do anything, even if they ever had proof—how often did anyone know which Denouement they were talking to, anyway? It was likely Ernest could exist like this for the rest of his life.

The thought almost stopped him on his way into the city headquarters. Day after day of calculated, performative nonsense without an end in sight. Age sagged through him. His bones were too heavy and to move them another step was impossible. He kept walking.

What had made Ernest change? That, exactly that. Change. He’d lived in VFD for practically his entire life, and nothing was different there, either. There had been no great strides made towards the nobility they all talked about, only tiny little steps that were easily set back. Ernest watched his friends and his family get sucked in by this big, dramatic fight that never ended, a fight none of them had ever initially had a part in. He’d learned that you couldn’t achieve “nobility”, whatever that even was, by a bunch of absurd spy behavior and kidnapping, or by coded messages and age-old discussions that went nowhere, or by acting like information weighed more than your life, by pretending any of that was normal. None of it did anything. Ernest was going to find some way to make something happen, to make what they’d lost worth it, and if it meant Frank thought he was a traitor, fine. He’d do it even if Frank didn’t appreciate that Ernest was doing it for him.

The note for Frank that he’d intercepted said that there was a file under the fifth floorboard of the back staircase in the city headquarters. Frank was supposed to give it to Kit.

He made his way to the back staircase. It went up to the observatory, which no one had used since Esmé burned that spot into the rug with her telescope out of protest. The corridor and the staircase were, predictably, deserted. Ernest slowly lifted the fifth board, but it came away without resistance, so he pulled it up all the way and saw the slim folder waiting inside. He took it out, replaced the floorboard, and sat down at the bottom of the stairs. He opened it.

He wanted to crumple the folder in his hands but he made himself breathe and look at it. It was the upcoming recruitment list. There were some he recognized faintly, distant associates, long-lived families in VFD, but a majority of the names he’d never seen before. New families to carve apart. He flipped through the pages—addresses, dates, times. A few photographs. Ernest closed his eyes and held them shut tight. When he opened them, he was still looking at the folder.

Of course none of it mattered, he thought bitterly, shoving the folder into his jacket. He could intercept or stop a thousand messages and there would still always be more. There would always be more children, more fires, more lies, and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stop it.

Ernest leaned the side of his head against the banister. He thought about Olaf, suddenly. He’d been trying to corner everyone lately, Ernest among them, talking his ear off about big ideas that Ernest agreed with, but Olaf had a habit of taking an age to follow through with them. Ernest did not have the time to wait an age. He’d shared some information with Olaf a few times, on the off chance that it would spur him into action, but Olaf had hidden it away, for “later”, and it obviously had not helped.

Maybe the only way you could fight a long game was to play the long game back. Maybe that was what Olaf was doing. He was on to something, at least, with his words. Maybe Ernest could try again. Maybe he could learn to wait. Maybe the payoff would be worth it. Maybe.

Ernest stood up. He didn’t at all feel like going home, but he wasn’t going to stay at headquarters any longer.

The staircase creaked. When he looked up, he saw Lemony Snicket at the top by the observatory door, standing like he’d always been there.

“What are you doing up there?” Ernest asked.

Lemony watched him carefully. Ernest got the distinct feeling that he was being appraised. He shivered. When they were younger, you could look at Lemony and see the gears working in his head, like watching—yes, like watching change take shape and form and meaning before your eyes. Lemony Snicket was going to do anything, lead them all anywhere. Ernest hadn’t been foolish enough to believe a twelve-year-old in a brown hat was going to demolish VFD from the ground up. Then Lemony had disappeared, and in the years after resurfacing at sixteen, he looked less and less like that powerful, mythical figure everyone had worshiped and more like he’d seen too much. Ernest sympathized.

But here, Ernest finally saw it, that hunger they’d all talked about. In his eyes, bright blue in the shadows. Physical change, a juggernaut of determination. Ernest’s breath caught in his throat.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Lemony said softly. “Do you think we could talk?”

10:50 PM—The Elevator

Damn.

The disbelief on Kit’s face was gone, replaced by a blazing, dangerous fury, the threatening and exacting professionalism she hid inside her on full display. She wasn’t all that short, Ernest thought, inanely. He wasn’t going to be able to bluff out of this one. She knew. It was significantly more terrifying than Ernest had imagined it would be. How stupid could he have been, to forget about the way that cigarette smoke would cling, to think Kit Snicket wouldn’t notice. “Kit—”

“How long?” Kit demanded.

“Does it matter?”

He could see that it very, very much did. Kit was already disgusted over dating Olaf; that she’d spent so much time with Ernest when he wasn’t on her side was going to eat her alive, Ernest knew. He winced.

“It wasn’t personal,” he tried.

She glared at him. “What were the names Frank was supposed to give me?”

That, he was going to hold on to. They’d already burned the papers, anyway, up in the observatory. No one was going to get that list now. “I guess you’ll never know,” Ernest said.

Her hand clenched on the button panel. She stepped closer. For a wild and uncontrollable second that seemed to spin out into eternity, Ernest imagined she was going to kill him.

“The elevator is going to start again,” she said lowly. “We’re going to walk out into the lobby. You’re not going to make a sound. We’re going to go to headquarters.”

Ernest didn’t like what he was going to do next. But he was always going to have the upper hand for one distinct reason.

He swallowed and straightened the edge of his sleeve. “Who’s going to believe you, Kit?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Regrettably for you, I am at a distinct advantage,” Ernest said. “You and I are the only two people in this elevator. You did think I was Frank. Who will be able to figure out who was who when you try and tell on me? Who can really know for sure?” He hesitated, but it was true. “Why, I could be Dewey, even.”

Kit slapped him across the face, her cheeks flushed a fierce red. The force of it stung hard, knocking Ernest’s head to the side. She removed her hand from the wall and stepped back.

“Does it help if I’m sorry?” he asked, gingerly rubbing the side of his face.

“You aren’t,” Kit said.

Ultimately, it was true. He wasn’t. He was sorry he’d been caught more than that he’d done it. Ernest regretted nothing about what he’d decided to do. Not in his line of work; and Kit was the same, too. But he was sorry he was going to lose a friend.

Kit didn’t have friends, though. You were with or against Kit Snicket, and she always made that abundantly clear. Ernest touched his cheek again, and then lowered his hand.

“I’m not,” he said. He took the elevator key out of his pocket and put it into the lock on the button panel, watching Kit the whole time. She watched him back. The elevator slid into motion, settling down on the third floor.

The doors opened.

11:00 PM—The Ballroom—East Drink Table

“Who?” Jacques asked.

Kit turned slowly back to the dance floor. Was one of them still here? Had she been followed out of the elevator? She locked eyes with a Denouement across the room. Which one? Was it Frank? Was it Ernest, again? Was it Dewey? The clock was still rumbling under her feet. The glass trembled in her hand and she felt almost sick, anger and shame and fear churning through her. She was in a nightmare and she couldn’t shake it off. The triplet held her eyes for a long moment and then walked away.

“Kit.” Jacques had a hand on her arm; he must’ve gotten out of the boxwood. “Who?”

But she couldn’t get the words out, not here. Ernest was right. She was at a disadvantage when she couldn’t prove it. If she pointed the finger now, what would be done? What could be done? How could he do that to Dewey and Frank? To put them in the position where they’d unknowingly cover for him merely by existing? Did they know at all?

What would she do if her own brothers—no. She couldn’t even think it. Kit couldn’t fathom the idea of her brothers doing anything like this.

“We have to find Lemony,” Kit said.

11:02 PM—The Ballroom—Main Doors

Frank still couldn’t find Ernest. He did not have the time for him to be hiding like a child; where was he? Frank had looked everywhere over and over and was back in the same ballroom again, scanning through the associates for what had to be the hundredth time. He caught Kit’s eye—and stopped.

There was cold and intense fear looking back at him. It was unbearable to have it directed at him, and Frank turned away after a few seconds.

Ernest. A thousand possibilities ran through Frank’s head, each of them worse than the last. He had had enough. Frank strode towards the main doors, just as he saw Ernest making his way out of them as fast as possible. Finally. Frank followed him out into the hallway and grabbed onto Ernest’s arm, whirling him around.

“I asked one thing of you tonight,” Frank said.

“Don’t do anything rash,” Ernest repeated. He wrenched his arm out of Frank’s grasp and put his hands in his pockets. “And I didn’t, thank you.”

“Apparently I wasn’t specific enough,” Frank said. “When I said that, I clearly meant, don’t do anything stupid that’s going to compromise the family and our position in it. What information have you been giving Olaf?”

“Who said I was?”

“Olaf.”

“You know, that hurts a little, that you’d believe Olaf over me.”

Frank’s jaw clenched. Fine. Olaf was less important, anyway. “Then what did you do to Kit?”

Ernest raised an eyebrow. “Did I do anything?”

It was agonizing, seeing such a carefully blank mask on your own face staring back at you. Frank didn’t hate him, but he came close. “What have you done, Ernest? Do not lie to me.”

Something fractured through Ernest’s expression. “I just—miscalculated,” he muttered. “She found out.”

“She found out?” Frank echoed, his heart skittering in his chest. It had finally happened, and Frank couldn’t protect Ernest this time. Kit wouldn’t keep this a secret, not by a long shot. By morning—by midnight, because nearly the whole organization was already here—everyone would know. And Ernest didn’t seem the least bit concerned about it. “Ernest—”

“It’s fine,” Ernest said coolly. “Considering she can’t prove it.”

The world detached from Frank’s consciousness. Kit’s fear made a sudden, terrible sense. Ernest had used him as a shield between himself and the organization, on purpose, he’d positioned Frank and Dewey as pawns whose only use was whatever Ernest wanted. Frank could feel his hands shaking. They didn’t feel like his hands.

Ernest sighed. “Don’t look like that,” he said. “You’ve pretended to be me, that’s the only way you would’ve found out about Olaf. Don’t act like you didn’t use our face as an advantage too. That’s what we do. That’s what this family does.”

Anger burned through Frank, hot behind his eyes. That had been different. A sharp fury that had been building somewhere inside him all night snapped apart. “You are not a part of this family.”

He regretted saying it the second the words were out. Of course Ernest was still his brother. That was an immutable fact. But Frank was so tired of trying to hold onto Ernest when Ernest so blatantly didn’t care. He wasn’t looking at family, he was looking at a stranger, who stole his face, who used his name, who threw it around like it meant nothing, who denied everything noble and proper and real. It wasn’t how a brother was supposed to act. But it was how Ernest acted, and now Ernest was staring at him with an open, wounded expression, something Frank hadn’t seen since they were children.

Frank ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t—”

“No.” Ernest’s jaw trembled for a second, his mouth pressing into a thin, flat line. “I don’t think I am.” He took one step back, a hard glare in his eyes, and then walked away from Frank.

11:20 PM—The Rooftop Sunbathing Salon

Ernest hadn’t figured on Frank being angry, because, primarily, he hadn’t figured on Frank finding out at all. He hadn’t figured on Kit realizing what he was doing, either. Well, that was on him, but Frank didn’t need to be so—he didn’t have to say—

Shit, Ernest thought, breathing hard. He came to a stop in the dark, empty hallway some floors up from the ballroom and let himself think it, pressing his palms into his eyes. Shit, shit, shit. He’d have a brother after this, sure, a family member who stood by him and ran a hotel with him and played nice, but he didn’t know if he’d have his brother. He would have an associate, like everyone else, a found family of people who loved on conditions, not a family. Not his family.

He had to find Lemony. Just because he’d been hiding all night didn’t mean he was exempt from this.

Lemony disliked heights, open spaces, and decently-sized bodies of water, which was why Ernest found him on the roof, sitting on one of the pool chairs, his mask discarded beside him. He was studiously avoiding looking at the pool or the ocean or the night sky, dark and enormous above him. The rooftop salon was never used at night, but there were small lights along the edge of the pool and the railing, giving off slivers of stark white light. The brief anger Ernest felt downstairs evaporated the longer he watched Lemony not-watching the world around him. He wanted to say a million and one things to him, but the one that came out was, “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“What do you know about exposure therapy?” Lemony offered as a response.

“Enough to know you probably shouldn’t use it for heights,” Ernest said. “Among other things.”

“Point taken,” Lemony said. “What would you say if I told you I was now too frightened to move?”

“That you brought it on yourself,” Ernest said, but he didn’t mean it. He walked over and sat next to Lemony on the pool chair. Ernest stole a quick glance at him again, brief and fleeting. To look consistently was dangerous; Ernest always had to make a distinct effort not to touch.

“Your sister found out,” he said. “Not about you, but about me. She also hit me.”

Lemony’s head shot up. “What?” He reached out, his fingertips lightly brushing Ernest’s jaw as he turned his face towards him. They trailed warm over his right cheek, where his skin still smarted from Kit’s hand. Here in the dark, Lemony’s eyes were so bright again, full of concern, directed right at him. Ernest held himself so still, barely breathing.

Falling in love, if you could call it that, with Lemony was what Ernest personally considered the most ill-advised thing he’d ever done, even after lying to Kit. Lemony loved other people, and it was clear in everything he did, in the way he looked when they weren’t there. But Lemony understood what Ernest wanted, and Ernest craved that with a destructive ache.

Really, who else were they supposed to fall in love with but each other? They didn’t know anyone else. No one was going to get this life but them. It was probably why half of VFD had a crush on Beatrice, honestly. It was terrible, but none of them seemed to be able to stop doing it. Ernest included.

“You—” Lemony’s hand jerked back, shrinking down between them onto the chair. “What happened?”

“She knew I lied,” Ernest said. “About the information and about being Frank. I got out of it, but—she won’t trust us again, I think. And Frank—probably won’t trust me either.”

“I’m sorry,” Lemony said. “I didn’t mean for—”

Ernest shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. It wasn’t. He and Lemony had both just wanted something, desperately. Ultimately, they’d still succeeded, in the end. They had. Change he could hold in his hands had happened. He still felt hollow about it all, everything drained out of him, but he didn’t regret doing it. Not at all. The hurt would go away and he’d do it again. “What we did—that mattered.”

“It did,” Lemony whispered. “But I never like the cost.”

“Why did you do it?” Ernest asked softly.

Lemony smiled ruefully. “I guess I didn’t want to stop trying.”

The real, noble answer, Ernest thought. Why the “firestarters” and Ernest would never get him. He raised his hand. Slowly, without looking, he put it on top of Lemony’s. Lemony turned his hand over and gripped Ernest’s tightly. He knew that the way Lemony would try from this moment forward would be different than the way Ernest would, and he wanted to have this moment while it lasted.

Ernest stood, tugging Lemony up with him, and let go of his hand. “You should go back downstairs,” he said.

11:30 PM—The Ballroom—South Drink Table

The party would be over soon, but you’d never know it, the ballroom still thronging with people. But most of the dancing had died down, and Dewey was taking mental stock of how clean up would start. He found one of the attendant’s silver trays and picked it up, estimating how many glasses he could fit on it.

Frank came back into the ballroom and made a beeline for him, pale. Dewey’s shoulders tensed up yet again. What had happened now?

“I can’t believe it,” Frank muttered, grabbing a wineglass.

“Whoa, hey, hold on.” Dewey took the wineglass back and set it off to the side. “What happened?”

“He—” Which meant it was Ernest. Again. Dewey’s patience with both his brothers tonight was wearing extraordinarily thin. “He’s been passing information to Olaf this whole time.”

“To Olaf?” That was not what Dewey had been expecting. A flare of worry burned through him and curled his hands around the tray. “But—”

“No,” Frank said. “This time, I’ve had enough. I’m tired of covering up for him, and he’s going to have to deal with this mess himself.”

Olaf was certainly a threat in one way or another, but it seemed a disproportionately vicious answer for Frank. Dewey frowned. “Did something else happen?”

Frank looked so—frantic, was maybe the word, a terrifying energy breaking out of him in quick bursts of anger on his face. He looked at Dewey, and the emotion seemed to cage itself back in.

“He was found out,” Frank said quietly. “About being a firestarter.”

Dewey had counted on it happening. It seemed unlikely that it would be able to remain a secret forever. It still hurt to hear. Things wouldn’t be the same as they had been, if people knew about Ernest. Dewey imagined the division between the three of them only growing larger, and he didn’t know if he’d be able to do anything about it if it got too wide.

Something broke in Frank’s expression again, and Dewey startled—it looked like guilt. “Don’t defend him,” Frank hissed. “Dewey, he’s going to get away with it. He’s going to ruin what we’ve worked for, what you’ve worked for in the archives—do you want all of that information in the hands of the enemy?”

Dewey clutched the tray. “Ernest isn’t the enemy,” he said, darkly. The agitation from earlier at the hors d’oeuvres table shot back into him.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Frank said. “I—”

Dewey slammed the silver plate down on the drink table. A real, genuine slam, like he’d never done before, the glasses around it rattling. Frank stared at him, gaping a little.

“He’s still here,” Dewey said. “That’s enough.”

“Dewey—”

“That is enough.��

12:00 AM—The Lobby

Jacques had never seen Kit so unsettled. Even when she’d been arrested she’d kept her composure. But she stood beside him in the empty lobby, tapping her foot against the floor, her arms crossed over her chest. He still couldn’t get out of her what had happened, but it was obvious from her face in the ballroom that whoever betrayed them had to be one of the Denouements. It was a sobering realization, the worst possible outcome of the schism that had been building for too long. One of three identical triplets being a traitor complicated matters, although it was easy to figure out which one it was that had done it. Things were going to change after tonight.

He took a small, brief moment to appreciate that Kit actually wanted to stand next to him and acknowledge him as her brother. Lately, he’d gotten the impression that she couldn’t stand him. But now she needed him, and it was a relief to Jacques to still be needed by his siblings. He never thought he did that successful a job of managing to keep them all together.

The elevator dinged, and Lemony stepped out, adjusting his jacket. The only evidence he’d been at the costume party was the mask tucked under his arm, because his suit was as plain as ever. 

“Finally,” Kit muttered, and she ran over to him, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly, something none of the siblings had done since they were children.

Lemony froze, and then hugged her back. He met Jacques’s eyes across the lobby.

Jacques knew it, immediately. Lemony had played a part in what had happened tonight with Ernest. It shouldn’t have surprised Jacques as much as it did. Lemony had held a perilous position in the organization for years now, and this wasn’t the first time he had wound up disagreeing with Kit about recruitment. But it was the first time it had involved other people. That made it dangerous.

Lemony shook his head a fraction of an inch. Part of Jacques relaxed. The three of them might still be okay. He wondered, with a slight jolt, how the Denouements would fare. 

Kit pulled away from Lemony. “Where were you?”

“Did you know the rooftop sunbathing salon has night lights?” Lemony said. Jacques couldn’t help but chuckle as he walked over to his siblings. “Very pleasant. I recommend it.”

Kit rolled her eyes, and she led Jacques and Lemony through the lobby and out of the hotel.

“I’ll drive you both back,” Jacques said. “It’s on my way.”

“You brought the taxi?” Lemony asked.

“Regrettably,” Jacques sighed. “I still seem to have it.” Headquarters refused to take it back for some reason, even after Jacques insisted he didn’t need it. It had been six months since the initial assignment with it and he was still driving it, and probably would be, for the foreseeable future. He took his keys out of his pocket.

“I’ll drive,” Kit said.

“You will not drive,” Jacques said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly,” Kit said, snatching the keys out of his hand and walking briskly out of his reach. “Jacques, did you say something about hives? There aren’t any bees nearby.”

“Trees?” Lemony said. He jogged ahead a little and caught up with Kit’s pace. “They do look particularly lush this time of year, now that you mention it.”

“No one is in a rush, and Kit, give me my keys you are not going to drive—” His siblings raced ahead of him down the front drive, and Jacques ran after them into the night.

1:55 AM—The Ballroom

Olivia and Ramona stayed on to help the Denouements clean up. Ramona had insisted, saying that it was no trouble at all, and she owed them for being so kind to host the party. She was very good at insisting; Olivia had never seen anyone able to resist the charm of Ramona cheerfully demanding she was going to help and they were going to have to deal with it. She hid her smile in the champagne flutes she was stacking on a tray as Ramona talked with one of the triplets on the other side of the ballroom. She picked up the one rimmed with half-rings of Ramona’s deep plum lipstick and giggled.

She’d have to tell Ramona about what Jacques told her, of course. But for once, Olivia wasn’t all that worried about dealing with it. It had been an extraordinarily pleasant night otherwise. Ramona was happy, some of the glow back in her face, so Olivia was happy too.

All the glasses were stacked, the plates piled together, the tablecloths folded up, the lights finally dimmed. There was only one Denouement left in the room, and he stopped Olivia and Ramona on their way out. “Olivia, could I speak with you?”

“Of course,” Olivia said.

“I’ll wait for you outside,” Ramona said, squeezing her hand, and she disappeared down the hallway, the hem of her dress sweeping the floor behind her.

Some people expected Olivia to be able to tell the Denouements apart, and some people expected her to be as clueless as most others as to who she was talking to. It wasn’t terribly hard to tell them apart, because Olivia liked to pay attention, but what she could never remember what when she was supposed to know and when she wasn’t. Here, she knew the one in front of her was Frank, most definitely. There was a weight to the way Frank carried himself, not like he assumed he was in control, but like he assumed he had to be.

“What is it, Frank?” Olivia asked.

He hesitated, which was rare for Frank. “When was the last time you saw Miranda?”

Olivia blinked. Had she misheard him? “What?”

“Miranda,” Frank said again. She hadn’t misheard. “When was the last time you saw her?”

Miranda?

“I—I don’t know,” she said quickly. “I—” When was the last time she saw Miranda? Years and years ago, wasn’t it? Shortly after they’d been taken. Olivia hadn’t minded. Miranda was older than her, not by much but by enough, and enough that they weren’t kept together. Miranda had thought it a chore to look after her, and Olivia hadn’t liked being seen as a chore. She wanted a sister, not a babysitter. So she’d been okay when Miranda was gone. They went to different classes, made different friends, passed each other in the hall without saying a word until their apprenticeships, where Olivia was shuffled around from chaperone to chaperone and Miranda—went where? What had become of her?

The questions spun through her head, dizzying, but they kept coming. What did Miranda look like, now that she thought of it? Had she looked like Olivia at all? Would she recognize her own sibling, like she could easily identify the Denouements? Would she know Miranda if she saw her in a meeting, on the street, at one of these parties, if she was an enemy? But what made a person wasn’t appearance—how did Miranda act? What made Miranda, in the way Frank’s quiet made him? How could she not know what made her sister? Miranda was her sister and it hit Olivia, squarely in the chest, that she didn’t know a single thing about her.

She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, her gaze darting across the floor. How had she gone all this time without thinking about her? How could she not know? How much had she forgotten?

“I’m sorry I asked,” Frank was saying. “Olivia. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Olivia whispered. She took one step back, then another, almost hitting the edge of her dress with the point of her heel, and another, then made herself turn around and leave, back downstairs, through the lobby, anywhere else but there.

Olivia hurried out into the night with the front doors banging open after her; the humid air was sticky on her skin, sitting heavy in her lungs as she tried to inhale. She saw Ramona past the front archway, leaned back against her car a way down the front drive, her shoes beside her and her feet in the grass, the shape of her soft and fuzzy in the heat. Olivia tore off her mask and scrubbed her hand over her eyes, wiping the tears on the side of her dress.

There was a weight on her shoulders, more than just the heat. She had the horrible sense that she was going to turn around and see Miranda. Olivia wanted to leave. She wanted to leave the city, she wanted to go somewhere she’d be away from this. She wanted to take Ramona—would Ramona go with her? She had her own things to care about besides the violent anxiety shaking Olivia from the inside out. She had a duchy to take care of. She didn’t deserve to have to deal with Olivia.

We’d like you to take up the outpost at Caligari Carnival. The carnival was miles from the city, out in the hinterlands, flat and desolate blankness. Maybe she should go. Maybe that would be better. She would be away from the city and be one place where no one had to bother her and she couldn’t bother anyone else. Maybe.

Olivia squeezed her eyes shut again, and when she opened them the tears were gone and Ramona came into focus, all of her slender and beautiful in the moonlight. Olivia ached to look at her.

She went over to Ramona and slid her hand into hers, tucking her face into the smooth skin of Ramona’s shoulder. “I want to go somewhere else,” she whispered.

“Hey,” Ramona said, her other arm coming up and folding around Olivia, drawing her close. “We can go anywhere you want.”

Behind her, through the open front doors, Olivia heard the hotel clock starting to chime again.

[empressgreyofphoenix]

Fiery Kisses

Jerome Valeska/female reader

Rated: R (18+ only)

Shout out to @cannibalgh0st as always for inspiration as well as the anon who pitched this idea in the first place lol. Also, shout out to @violentvaleska for their assistance in helping me with this story. Enjoy!

Autumn nights in Gotham City usually came with dark, dreary skies mixed with heavy rains and moderate winds. Tonight was no exception. The rain hit your bedroom windows so hard that you were almost afraid that it would break them. Still, it was relaxing to watch the waters pour down onto the lighted city below.

Fall was your all-time favorite season. Everything about it was spectacular; changing leaves, the cool temperatures, Halloween, pumpkin-flavored everything. The energies that hung in the air at this time of year were like magic, and you cherished every moment. You smiled as you took a small sip of the apple cider tea in your hands. Mother Nature went all in when she created the seasons. Especially this one.

But even though you were enjoying the view, you wished that you could enjoy it alongside that crazy, adorable redhead of yours: Jerome Valeska. He loved this time of year more than anyone—Halloween, especially. The whole "spooky season" thing was something he couldn't get enough of. You wondered what his Halloweens were like during his time at Haly's Circus. Did his mother, Lila, let him dress up? Did she allow him to go trick or treating? Did she even let him eat candy? Knowing how much of a god-awful person she was, it didn't seem likely for her to let Jerome have some fun, even for one Halloween night.

You sighed as you looked up at the clock above the fireplace for the tenth time in a row. It was almost 11 PM. Jerome was still in a meeting with his fellow members of the Maniax, a group founded by politician Theo Galavan to bring madness and mayhem to Gotham. But Jerome said the meeting would only take an hour. That was at 7 PM. What the hell was taking so long? Why wasn't he back yet? The impatience inside of you grew with every passing second. Theo is taking up all the time Jerome could be using right now to give you his endless supply of kisses and cuddles while making you laugh with his silly morbid jokes.

There was a growing temptation to go and fetch Jerome. But he said this particular meeting was important, so it probably wouldn't have been a good idea to interrupt it. But you missed him so much, and he should be here with you, enjoying the rainy weather and snuggling up by the fireplace. You walked from the window and laid down on the satin-lined bed in your green baby doll nightgown, taking Jerome's pillow into your arms. It smelled like him, like spiced apples and cinnamon, which gave you autumn vibes.

Dammit, he's the one you should be hugging right now, not his pillow.

You had just decided "to hell with it" and got up to walk down to the meeting room and make Jerome come to bed when you heard footsteps approaching the bedroom. "Finally," you sighed.

The door swung open as Jerome strolled into the room with his Cheshire cat smile on full display. He had on his blue pajamas under his red velvet robe. He loved wearing that robe around the house, and with good reason. It was incredibly soft.

He gave you a big, wet kiss on the cheek while taking you into his arms. "Mmm, baby doll, I missed you something fierce!" Jerome said as he lifted your chin with his finger. However, you snatched away from him and sat back at the foot of the bed with your arms crossed.

"Hey, what gives?" Jerome said; he seemed confused about why you were upset, even though the reasons seemed obvious.

"You spent most of the night at that stupid meeting. That's what gives. You promised me you'd be back at 7." The glare you were giving him would've probably set fire to a lesser man. Jerome frowned, which was rare for him. At any other time, he has that big grin plastered on his face 24/7. But he was smart enough to know that this wasn't the time for smiles. His lady was angry, and it was not wise to fan the flames of her anger. He walked over to the bed and knelt before you, pouting his lips like a puppy.

"Dolly, I'm sorry. I kept trying to cut it short. It was torture hearing Theo drone on about the next gig he's got lined up for us. Thankfully, Tabs convinced him to wrap it up, so here I am!"

"Would've been nice if she had thought of that sooner," you mumbled.

Jerome chuckled as he met you at the foot of the bed and spread your legs to get closer to your face. You managed to smile as you wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him closer and give him a long kiss on the lips. His scent was sweet and intoxicating; every time you'd get a whiff, it was like falling under a spell that would make you forget whatever Jerome did to make you mad in the first place.

"Well, I won't let it happen again. No matter what Theo says", Jerome replied. He ran his long fingers through your hair with a big smile. "I'm done letting him eat up my time with you."

"You better be. Otherwise, you'll be sleeping outside. Or worse: in Greenwood's room. I doubt you'd want that." Jerome scrunched his nose and shook his head vigorously. The thought of sharing a bed with that disgusting cannibal nutjob made his skin crawl. "Absolutely not! Don't even joke about that!" he countered. You giggled and wrapped your arms back around his neck. Watching his reactions was funny and cute. "But babe, I thought you liked jokes. You never miss the opportunity for a good joke."

You both started laughing out loud. This was another reason why it was hard to stay mad at Jerome. He could always make you laugh even when you didn't want to. It was frustrating at times, but for the most part, laughter could solve your disagreements very quickly. Jerome kissed you again, this time with more tongue and lip biting. God, he was a fantastic kisser. His lips were soft, and his breath was usually incredibly minty. And you loved running your fingers through his red hair and hearing him purr like a cat.

"Mmm, Dolly, you are just a treat. Have I told you that?" Jerome growled, taking a nip at your earlobe. "Many times," you chuckled and looked back into his eyes with a sly grin. "But I don't know if you deserve any treats tonight, with you being late and all. Why I might even go straight to bed."

Teasing Jerome was so much fun for you. Because that would cause him to bring out his more assertive side, that was when he was at his sexiest. That's when he'd treat you like the spoiled girl you were. Jerome cocked an eyebrow and held your chin with his thumb and index fingers, still smiling. "You know, if you keep acting like that, then I'll have to do something about that little attitude of yours." His tone was seductively stern, and you were living for it. You devilishly grinned as you pressed your lips to his ear, whispering, "Go on. I'd love to see you try."

Jerome looked into your eyes once more as he quickly moved you up further onto the bed, lifted your bottom, and pulled down your panties, tossing them to the side. The playful, almost mischievous smile he had and his dominant but romantic behavior turned you on even more than you already were. And much like his kissing, Jerome's performance as a lover was breathtaking. His body and size were great, but his dedication to pleasure you properly was the cake's cherry. Warm, vibrant energy was present when you made love as if there was no one else in the world except you and him.

Jerome kissed you from your cleavage, down to your belly, and right between your legs. He then held both your legs and hungrily kissed the inside of your thighs, biting his lip when he got to your sex. A whimpering moan escaped from your lips as you felt Jerome's hot breath on your folds.

"This'll remind you of what happens when you're being a teasing little brat," he whispered. Then, you felt the long upward lick of your folds, repeating the act slowly to drive you mad with anticipation. And it was working like a charm. Your moans became louder and needier as he slowly tasted you, making sure to drag out the tease as much as possible. He loved the way you tasted. It was like a sweet, mildly salty nectar that he couldn't get enough of. He enjoyed watching you shift and squirm in his hands as he hit all your good spots. The sounds you made were addicting as well.

"Do you want some more, babydoll?" Jerome said. God, that sexy smile of his makes you melt every time. "Mm-hm. Please, can I have more? It feels so fucking good, you whimpered.

"That's my good girl," he remarked. Then he started licking much faster, focusing more on the clitoris. The moans and whimpers got louder, so much that you were slightly worried that someone would hear through the walls. And just when you thought it wouldn't get any more intense, he slid his index and middle fingers inside of you, thrusting in and out while tasting you simultaneously. And it just made you wetter and wetter with every lick and stroke.

Jerome moaned with greed as he was licking sweet nectar from your folds while you ran your fingers through his hair and pulled him closer towards your sex. Every move he made sent ripples of pleasure throughout your body. Side to side, up and down, circling. Just how you liked it. You breathed heavily as you started inching closer towards orgasm. Jerome seemed to have sensed that since he lifted his head and looked up at you, grinning as he saw how aroused you were so far. He ran his thumb up and down your clit while still thrusting his fingers in and out of you. You weren't the only one who got off on being a tease.

"Please, Jerome. I want to come for you, and I can't hold it back anymore. Please, can I come?" you begged him. Jerome loved hearing you beg, and it invigorated him. He smiled as he continued to use his fingers to play with you. "Of course, Dolly. You've been such a good girl for me tonight. Go on and come for me."

He suddenly began licking you again, harder and faster than before. At first, it felt a bit intense, and you tried to push away a bit. But Jerome reached out and held both of your arms down, preventing you from breaking away. "No, Dolly. You wanted this, remember? Just sit back and come real good for me", Jerome said. He got back to it before you had a chance to respond. The fire was burning hotter and hotter until it had finally reached its peak.

The orgasm washed over your body like a wave as you squealed loudly with pleasure. You twitched with each lick Jerome gave to your now swollen clit. Jerome moaned as your nectar flowed from your sex and into his mouth. It was immensely delicious, and he licked up every bit of it. He started slowly kissing your thighs once more when he heard a sound.

The sound of you snoring.

Jerome looked up to find that you were now sleeping, apparently completely wiped out from that mind-blowing orgasm he had given you.

"Uh, Dolly?" Jerome asked. He tried gently shaking you awake, but to no avail. He quietly chuckled as he gazed upon his beautiful, slumbering lady. "Well, I guess I don't know my own strength," he muttered with amusement.

Jerome then laid on top of you with his head resting on your chest and arms around your waist. It was his favorite position because he would always fall asleep to the sound of your heartbeat.

This was the happiest Jerome had ever been. He was free of his mother, and he became friends with a man promising to make him a star. In his arms was the most beautiful, loving woman in the world. Jerome would make good on his promise to free up enough time for you; he just hoped he wouldn't put you in another coma with his pleasuring skills next time.

And with that, Jerome closed his eyes and fell asleep. The fireplace died down until it was dark in the bedroom, except for the lightning outside—a calm end to a fiery evening.

The End.

[thedistantdusk]

Arcadia, Chapter 4

Well! What could happen next to our star-crossed investigative pair? Yeah idk, man... somehow, this fic got a lot darker than I intended. Anyway! Thanks again to the same folks, without whom this story wouldn’t be possible. None of this story is safe for work, and this chapter is no exception ;) 

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

D A Y + F O U R

She’s not sure when she wakes up. Her eyes blink open in the bleary morning… that foggy gap between night and day. Blue-green light streams through the windows, coloring the bedroom like it’s underwater.

He’s the first thing she notices, all warm and curled beside her. Harry… her Harry. A sad smile graces her lips as it all comes flooding back. Mike. The tulpa. The shower. Harry…

But together, all of those things are uncomfortable. Bits of it were nice, but the whole thing makes her stomach churn. It’s much easier to—

She presses her bum against him, hoping that wakes him up. Hoping he takes the hint. Harry heaves a deep breath, but doesn’t acknowledge her. Ginny bites her lip and wiggles back. Again.

Finally, he responds. But not how she’d hoped.

“Let’s… not jump to starting that up again,” Harry murmurs into her ear, his voice graveled with sleep. “Ok?”

She whips around, brow furrowed. “So you’ve suddenly become unattracted to—?”

He barks out a humorless laugh and reaches for his glasses. “We both know that’ll never happen.” He takes her in, reclining on the tufted headboard; she can’t help but feel flattered by the red patches that bloom on his cheeks. “Erm…” He clears his throat. “Could you get a dressing gown, actually? I really want to have a serious conversation and…”

He’s never been able to concentrate while she’s naked, has he?

“Sure.” For some reason, her skin prickles as she rises to her feet to pad across the carpet. Exposed. She feels exposed, even though Harry’s probably seen her naked more times than she has. Because this time, it’s not so much that he’s seeing her body naked— it’s that he’s about to discuss things she’s tried very, very hard to deny.

Ginny emerges from the closet in a white dressing gown and gives Harry a little twirl. “Happy?”

His lips curl in a tired smile. “Not… exactly. But I’m hoping to change that.”

“Oh?” Ginny settles in the desk chair. She’s not keen on this conversation, but some part of her recognizes it’s long overdue.

Harry begins by clearing his throat again. “So. Erm.” He places his fingers in a steeple and studies them. “As I… admitted last night, I’ve never stopped loving you. It’s been an awful, awful five years, but frankly it would’ve been worse if we’d stayed together, under those circumstances.”

She opens her mouth to object, but he raises a hand to forestall an interruption.

“Let… let me finish. Because after Percy died...” He shoots her a significant look. “You changed. Ok?”

“That’s not exactly fair,” she snaps, peering at her painted toenails. “Of fucking course I changed. If I didn’t change, I’d be a bloody sociopath. Is that who you wanted to shag?”

Harry heaves a deep sigh. “No. And I’m not going to let you get away with twisting things… again. Ok? Please, just let me finish.”

She presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth. For fuck’s sake, why does she already want to cry?

“You changed,” Harry continues, “and I really don’t blame you for it, but you refused to talk about Percy, or that night, or- or honestly, even anything remotely sad! Ever!” He pauses to collect his thoughts; guilt stabs at Ginny’s stomach. She wasn’t aware this frustrated him quite so much…

“You threw yourself into schoolwork,” he adds, blinking at the far wall. “You lost interest in things you loved. We still had sex, but it was…” He winces. “Unattached. It was… it was like it didn’t even need to be me there, in particular.” His eyes flit back to hers. “I tried to talk to you about it loads of times, but then when you joined the Unspeakables, you just used that as an excuse.”

Traitorous tears drip down her cheeks. She brushes them away to defend herself. “I was already interested in joining up before that,” Ginny insists, her voice warbling. “You weren’t there that year, Harry. You didn’t see what it was like at Hogwarts. The Unspeakables were putting out all this… this rubbish misinformation about you and about muggleborns, and—”

“—All of that is well and good,” Harry interrupts, “but the fact is that you became a different person after Percy died, and after nearly a year of living with that, I’d had enough.” He shrugs. “And even five years later, you’ve never sought help, as far as I know. Professional help, from someone who knows what they’re talking about. Not the type of help you find at the bottom of a pint.”

He’s right, of course. It’s like a stinging slap in the face, but he’s bloody right.

“So!” Harry clears his throat again. “As much as I… enjoyed last night, that can’t happen again if we don’t fix what split us up before. You’re still convinced you killed Percy. Until you’re not? This”— he gestures between them— “can’t work. Full stop.”

Ginny swallows and stares into her lap. “I’m not responsible for my brother’s death,” she whispers, emotionless. It’s a mantra, an oath, one she’s so accustomed to repeating that it’s turned foreign and unfamiliar on her tongue.

“Oh, I’m aware,” Harry says, spreading his palms. “The whole bloody world is aware, Jenny.” He sucks his teeth. “But you aren’t.”

There’s a pause. Ginny bites her lip, tempted to launch the spring-loaded denial she’s learned through years of counseling. But this time, it doesn’t come.

Because Harry knows better.

Shit.

That fact settles in the pit of her stomach; what are the chances, really, that she found herself trapped and playing house with the only person on earth who knows better.

“I was the last to see him,” she mutters, eyes downcast. “I told him he’d never replace Fred. I was drunk. Stupid. Stupidly drunk.” She grips her head in her hands, but the words don’t stop. They’re shooting from her, spurred by years of grief and regret and bursting forth like a steam engine.

“My stupid fucking temper,” she continues, every syllable dripping with self-loathing. “Ruining everything. And then he goes and—” She makes a flailing gesture. “Offs himself. Right on my mother’s fucking birthday! The day before your parents—”

“I know,” Harry whispers, his voice pleading. “Ginny, I know. But please, love, it’s not your fault. It’s never been your fault.”

She can’t breathe. She can’t breathe. It’s too much to say it aloud, to admit it, to let the waves of regret wash over her. There’s a scuttling of movement as she blinks ahead, gaping like a fish out of water. She’s not even surprised to feel Harry wrapping his arms around her and bringing her back to the bed. To feel his lips pressing to her temple as her body wracks with sobs. And she can’t do anything but lean into him. She can’t do anything but surrender, completely. To indulge in feeling raw and vulnerable and alive.

She doesn’t know how long it takes to come to. It’s not until she’s clinging to his chest that she draws a deep breath.

“You never told me any of this,” Harry says softly, mournfully, his hand playing with her hair. He loves her hair. He’s always loved her hair. With a final sob, she admits— if only to herself— that she misses letting him love it. She misses how he’d bury his face in the crook of her neck. How he’d inhale deeply, right at the crown of her head, and blink down at her with a dreamy smile.

She misses him.

Fuck. She misses him. And not just shagging him… but the whole bit. The late-night snacks and discussions on quidditch plays and heated debates about the best brand of toilet roll.

“What… what if I agree to work on it?” she finally whispers, eyelashes thick with half-dried tears.

Harry sighs; his hands still haven’t left her hair. “If we both agree to work on it… because trust me, I’m not doing fantastic either.” He lets out a chuckle. “Do you know how weird that was, being the stable one for once? Anyway.” He waves this off and continues. “If we both work on it, with proper mind-healers…” He swallows. “I don’t see why we couldn't be physical. Eventually.”

She pulls back to give him a watery grin. “I love you,” she murmurs. For the first time in years, her chest feels full. Her heart warm. Like there’s a chance at something in the future that doesn’t involve work and sadness and takeaways.

But speaking of work.

“I’d erm. Like to keep things with us private,” she says, playing with a piece of lint on the duvet. “Especially from work. And my family. Because…”

The thought of Attica’s face, pinched in disappointment, is nearly enough to replace the progress they’ve made over the past day.

“No,” Harry agrees quickly. “That’s. Yeah. Especially from Ron.” He shudders. “Can you imagine how well that would go over?”

“Huh! That’s ridiculous, Harry.” She bats her eyes at him, her expression the picture of innocence. “You mean you don’t want my brother to know that you went down on me and promptly spunked your—”

He cuts her off with a laugh, tossing a pillow on her face. She pulls it off with a giggle before settling beside him.

“Didn’t think you noticed that,” he admits, trailing a finger down the side of her face. “I really hoped you were asleep.”

She stifles a yawn. “Mmm. Don’t have to be Hermione to put that one together. Clue one: you were down there, which you’ve always… enjoyed.” She sleepily raises her eyebrows. “Clue two, I’ve seen you do that before — more than once— and you always have this weird… sort of duck-walk to take your trousers off.”

Harry groans, his entire face the color of her hair. “Please, please, don’t stop on account of me.” He somehow manages a sarcastic drawl as he removes his glasses and places them on the bedside table. “Let’s continue to detail all the times I’ve finished too quickly.”

“Not just too quickly,” she corrects, kissing him on the nose. “I’m only talking about coming in your trousers, which you’ve also managed to do several ti—”

Harry snorts. “And how many times have you done it, then?” His green eyes dance with mischief. “Also more than once. As memory serves, our time at Hogwarts got a lot more interesting once you discovered the combination of my thigh and snogging. You just don’t have the equipment to make things particularly messy when—”

“Clue three!” she loudly calls over him. He has the grace to laugh as she turns so they're spooning, her bum pressed against his crotch.

“I… said I loved you,” she finishes, interlacing their fingers. “And that’s always… you know.”

Harry shudders; there’s a sudden rise of fabric against her bum. “Ok, speaking of embarrassing,” he admits, adjusting himself. “You’re actually going to have to erm. Stop saying that? For now? Because…”

“Trust me, Auror Potter,” she murmurs, dropping her voice to her best impression of Kingsley. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Unfair,” he complains, toying with a piece of her hair. “As you can see, I’m a bit of a mess. It still turns me on when you say you love me.”

“Yeah, well, it still turns me on when you breathe,” she mutters, her eyes growing heavy. “Reckon we can just be messes together.”

Harry chuckles before burying his face into her hair. “I’ll always be your mess. Jenny.”

[asstronauts]

Alphabet Soup

rating: t word count: 1.7k pairing: jemily summary: perhaps love is in the little moments more than the grand gestures. 26 times (among many) that JJ and Emily fall a little bit more in love with each other in the everyday, smaller moments.

read on ao3, if you’d prefer

---

A - alphabet soup

JJ bought cans of alphabet soup for the boys when Michael first began to read, but Emily quickly found it much more entertaining to spell out words like "boob" or "ass" or "sex?" punctuated with a poorly modified capital P in place of a question mark. JJ had to shut it down when Michael asked what a "tit" was, and Emily panicked and mumbled something about birds.

B - bedtime

They would often unwind by reading before bedtime, and JJ found that Emily read through many foreign literature books. The nights she would fall asleep to Emily stroking her hair and reading aloud in words she didn't understand were the nights she felt most rested.

C - constellations

It was clear that Emily didn't actually know any constellations besides the Big Dipper and Orion. But when she laid on the grass with Henry and Michael, she made up stories in the stars about great heroes and the adventures they went on, and the boys fell in love with the night sky.

D - driving

JJ insisted on driving everywhere without the help of smartphone maps, which had gotten them lost on several occasions. Somehow it felt alright, when she had one hand on the wheel and one hand on Emily's leg, the windows were down, and her hair was streaming in the wind and reflecting the setting sun. Somehow it felt alright to be lost with her.

E - errands

For whatever reason, JJ made running any errand seem like immense fun. Buying groceries, getting gas, even sending a letter felt like an adventure when she was there. They'd only gotten kicked out of one grocery store — when JJ had knocked over an entire display stand of candy bars after running and jumping onto a shopping cart. They didn't regret anything.

F - forehead kiss

JJ wasn't that much shorter than Emily, but when the brunette pressed her lips to her girlfriend's forehead, JJ would feel the need to bury her face in Emily's neck to hide her blushing cheeks.

G - graveyard

On that day, JJ just needed space. So Emily took her to the flower shop the day before and drove her to the cemetery that morning and left her alone until she was ready. In the evening, they didn't speak, just laid with one another on the couch until JJ fell asleep in her arms.

H - horror movie

It was a cheap jump scare, but it made JJ scream out and grab Emily's arm, prompting the older woman to laugh at her. JJ responded with a playful slap, and Emily had to kiss her to reaffirm her love. They didn't finish the movie.

I - ice cream

On a day off, Emily took the boys to get ice cream, and when they came home raving about how Emily had managed to stack five ice cream scoops on top of a single cone, JJ knew she was with the right woman.

J - jaw

Emily's knees grew weak whenever JJ kissed up her jaw and whispered in her ear. Her girlfriend caught on and loved messing with her, working her up into a complete frenzy, then saying the most unsexy thing she could think of. Emily hated it, but she also couldn’t help but to collapse into a fit of giggles when JJ planted kisses all up the side of her face and whispered something like "corned beef" in a seductive voice.

K - kitchen

JJ would use every kitchen utensil as a musical instrument during any spare moment in cooking — while the food was cooking, while the water boiled, while the oven was preheating. She would sing into a wooden spoon and shove it into Emily's face to finish the lyric, and the two would dance in each others' arms all throughout the kitchen.

L - letters

When Emily spent her time in Paris and London, she and JJ wrote each other scores of letters the times they weren't together. They'd both filled up an entire box of papers and knickknacks until they were reunited. Even after, JJ would sometimes write a letter addressed to Emily, drop it into the mailbox and tell Emily to check the mail, for no reason except to make her smile.

M - mugs

JJ had an entire cupboard dedicated to mugs for her tea, which Emily could never understand because she only seemed to ever use two of them: one being a lumpy mug Henry had made in a pottery store and the other being a Valentine’s Day gift from Emily with lovely ceramic boobs protruding from the mug’s body.

N - notes

Emily bought a massive pack of post-its and began leaving notes for JJ around work, bringing a smile to her face every time she found a little colorful message. Some were encouraging — you can do it, you light up my world, you're amazing. Some were cheesy — i love you, je t’aime, when you see this blow me a kiss. And some were...questionable — JJ had to hide the extremely accurate (and well-annotated!) drawing of her naked body before Hotch saw.

O - omelette

Most of the time, Emily couldn't cook without the risk of burning the house down, but for some reason, she made the most scrumptious omelette. Despite not knowing how to cook scrambled or fried or boiled eggs, Emily's omelettes were always perfectly cooked, with an impeccable ratio of egg to filling. JJ tried everything she could to make them the same way, but the boys always preferred Emily's omelettes on Sunday mornings. JJ wondered if it was something she learned during her time in Paris.

P - plants

Before JJ, Emily had never been very good at taking care of plants. They seemed to die with little to no warning. But JJ had taught her well, making little plant calendars and teaching her signs to watch out for, and one morning, JJ caught her talking to one of the plants. As she listened more carefully, she heard that Emily was talking to each plant in a different language — according to the plant’s country of origin.

Q - quiet

The moments after the boys were put to bed were some of the only moments of quiet JJ and Emily got alone during the day. No matter how busy or tired they were, they always intentionally took a few moments to just quietly be with one another, curled up in the other's arms, lying in the other's lap, or simply sitting side by side.

R - rain

They'd gotten caught in the storm on the way back to the office from lunch. Despite JJ’s coat held up above them, the pair was getting drenched anyway, and they gave up and decided to make out in the rain instead. They swung their hands back and forth as they splashed over to the BAU, arriving soaked to the bone but elated, as Hotch shook his head at their sodden clothing and dopey grins.

S - Sergio

Emily had arrived home early and found JJ dancing in the hallway with Sergio to "Can't Stop the Feeling" blasting on the bluetooth speaker. She lifted her ban on Justin Timberlake that day, which had previously been in place when in a moment of weakness, JJ had declared she would choose him over Emily if given the chance. (She’d taken it back for Emily's sake, but deep down she couldn't really decide.)

T - thermostat

JJ liked the thermostat to be set at no lower than 77 degrees, while Emily loved the room as cold as possible. The first few months that they lived together was a horrible battle of constantly changing from one drastic temperature to the next, before JJ finally agreed to keeping the temperature low as long as Emily agreed to cuddle with her any time she got cold. Emily did not, however, realize that this compromise extended to the workplace, where JJ would sporadically ask for cuddles throughout the day, and Emily would have to comply.

U - ugly pajamas

Emily loved her ugly pajama sets. One of her favorites was a bright green Grinch onesie in a ridiculous Christmas sweater. JJ hated it until Emily showed it to the boys, and Michael howled with laughter and asked for one for himself. From that day forward, Emily bought her ugly pajamas in full family sets, including accompanying costumes for Sergio.

V - vanilla

Emily didn’t quite mind JJ’s early morning jogs because her favorite moments were when JJ came home after, took a shower, and climbed back into bed to give Emily a warm embrace, flooding her senses with the smell of vanilla shampoo. Emily would roll over to nuzzle her head in the crook of JJ’s neck and plant soft kisses there, breathing in her favorite scent.

W - wine

Emily drank red, JJ drank white. And Henry and Michael loved to join in, pretending to be adults by sipping grape juice from their colorful cups. Perhaps their family had unconventional tea parties, but at least they always had massive amounts of fun doing family activities tipsy. These were the nights when it was almost difficult to tell the difference between Michael and Emily’s coloring pages.

X - X-Files

JJ didn’t fully understand Emily’s deep obsession with The X-Files, but after Emily convinced her that she wasn’t only watching for Gillian Anderson, the younger woman began finding the long rambles and discussions of extraterrestrial life more endearing and interesting.

Y - yarn

JJ really wanted to get the hang of knitting and give something special to the boys, but Emily kept distracting her. Any chance she got, Emily would hold the yarn balls to her chest as fake boobs, use threads of yarn as mustaches, and drum the knitting needles against any surface. It wasn’t that JJ couldn't finish her projects out of annoyance — it was that JJ couldn’t help but laugh and find her girlfriend irresistible, forcing her to set aside her work and wrap herself up instead in the brunette’s embrace.

Z - zoo

It was Emily's explosive childlike joy when she had seen the dolphins. She claimed it was for the boys’ sakes, but JJ had noticed the pure excitement in her eyes when they saw the sign and felt the way Emily had tugged on her wrist to rush to the stadium and grab seats right in the splash zone. And in the screams of laughter and the moment when both Henry and Michael clutched at Emily when the water washed over them, JJ knew she wanted to spend the rest of her life with this woman.

[alfredosauce50]

Island Escapade [Ex-con 2p! America x reader x Denmark] 10

Island Escapade - 10 - Swimming pools Content warning: A little soft-core. Dubious consent. Mature audiences only. Wordcount: 2, 510 The reader is referred to as she/her.

A/N: I was inspired by Kendrick Lamar’s “Swimming pools”

Allen could drink like it was his job. But throughout the whole of his career, he’d never felt this nauseous. The skidding of the boat, the churn in his stomach, watching you and Mathias—it was all too much. Thanks to the dim light on board, he could see everything as clear as day during the night. You were half-awake on the Dane’s lap, fighting to stay in control of your body with seven shots’ worth of alcohol in your system. Poor thing.

Mathias was talking about taking you back to his house, even. Something about tablets. Medicine. If anything, going to his place was the last thing you wanted. Allen knew that much.

And yet, he couldn’t find the motivation to do anything about it. Not while his head was filled with hot water, leaving his mind in a haze. Alcohol was his weakness, and he never dropped the habit of making bad decisions under the influence.

Just as he thought, he was still the same.

When the boat finally docked at the wharf, he never lifted a finger when Mathias carried you off. He wasn’t walking in the direction of your house either. And yet, all Allen did was stand on the beach, mulling over the heat that overwhelmed his body. A searing headache was pounding in his skull, but it didn’t quite hurt like the ache in his chest.

He was giving up again. After trying so hard to get his shit together, he was giving up again.

It wasn’t the first time, so why was he crying?

He’d seen the look in your eyes. The way you stared at him like he was the best thing in the world. It was hard to believe, but deep down, he knew Mathias wasn’t the only one. The only difference was that you trusted him. You trusted Allen. You wanted to be with him. But he was letting you go, letting you down all over again, letting Mathias become the one thing he wanted to be. Yours.

I think that I'm feelin' the vibe, I see the love in her eyes I see the feelin', the freedom is granted As soon as the damage of vodka arrive

After giving you some water, bread, and crackers, you eventually felt well enough to move on your own. A shower was in order after a night out in the club, but he wasn't entertaining the idea of any drunken accidents. So while you adjusted the temperature, he joined you in the cubicle. "You should've brought me with you if you were gonna drink," Mathias began, coiling two arms around your stomach.

"He doesn't know how much you can handle."

Pressing flush against you only made your heart pound like a drum. You could feel everything, from his wide chest and toned stomach to the space between his legs. This wasn't happening. "... I know my own limits, Mat. So maybe I wanted to get hammered," You murmured, tugging at his arms for him to let go. "It's fine. Allen's fine. He was looking after me before you came."

He released you, albeit reluctantly. "You're upset." His wet hair was slicked back, and steady streams of water were trailing down his face as he watched your frustrated expression. "Why?"

"Why?" You turned to him, in awe at how dense he was. It was becoming hard to believe it was just cluelessness. Entitlement sounded more like it. "Because I'm in the shower with you, that's why!" Mathias's eyes widened as you rose your voice. You shot an arm out to gesture at his crotch, but you really weren't much of an exception.

"I can see your dick, Mat. Don't you see anything wrong with this picture?"

He stared down at himself. When he glanced back up, it became clear to you he didn't—his stare on you was hard and unwilling. "... I'm just... I'm just trying to look after you. Can't I do that?" He responded, earning a huff from you. His deep frown spoke of untold regret, and you were sick of seeing it.

"You keep saying that, but you're pushing it. You could've stayed outside." Turning around to get some body wash into your hand, you lathered it all over your body. "Why are you so weird? Why am I so weird? Why am I even—" When you spun back around, your cheeks were flushed with a deep red. Whether it was from the alcohol or something else, Mathias didn't know.

"—why am I letting you do this?"

Deep creases formed between his brows. He knew the exact answer to that question, but he was too afraid to say it. "... I don't know."

"Yes, you do. You know everything. You just pretend that you don't." Digging a finger into his chest, you watched distress run across his face. If you were sober, you wouldn't even be saying these things. But the truth was finally stepping into the light, raw and unfiltered in the form of a drunken ramble. And you were onto him. "You knew what you were doing. Living with me, sleeping with me, it was all part of your little game to get me back. Well, guess what?"

Mathias's chest was rising and falling intensely at this point. While he breathed heavily, his heart was racing, threatening to burst out of his ribs. He could already predict what you were about to say, and yet, he was insanely nervous to hear it. "... What?"

"It’s working." Blood flushed his face until he was even redder than you—excitement, euphoria, love-sickness, it was all there. His eyes lit up with the most happiness you’ve seen him with, which spoke volumes when he was already a cheerful person. Was this it? Were you finally accepting him again? Not yet. "But if you think you won me over, you’ve jumped the gun. I���m not staying here. I need to get home."

You turned your back on him to keep washing. A deep pout scrunched up his face while he was left standing in a cloud of steam, heating up faster than the water from the showerhead. It’s working, you’d said. Lingering on the words made him burn up with lust so potent, he was left reeling. This was the part where he’d convince you to give in. Like every time you both got into a disagreement, he’d kiss you drunk and take you to bed to make up.

It was the oldest trick in the book, and it worked every time. No wonder he was getting hard. His body sensed what was happening. His mind just picked up on it a little later. And he’d act on it once you were both done with the shower.

"I'll walk you back," Mathias murmured by the doorway. He watched you gather the last of your things in the living room. He'd spent so long at your place, he couldn't bear the sight of you walking out on him. Not again. It became apparent that sleeping alone in his own house wasn't an option. "But can I ask for one last thing?"

There was a subtle droop to his eyes. His hands were by his side, clenched in fists, and his frown was growing deeper at every second you failed to say anything—your breath hitched as you forced the word out. "... Yeah?" One last things never ended well with someone like Mathias. You knew that better than anyone. But the thought never occurred to your intoxicated self.

You just wanted him to stop looking at you like this.

"Can I kiss you?" He took your wrist and held it gently. "Just once."

It wasn't desire he sparked. Rather, it was a harrowing kind of bittersweetness that made your chest tighten up. And so, a deafening silence followed, but only because it was so loud. He had you again, and you weren't pushing him away. Instead, you did something free from your better judgment, which was long burned away by alcohol.

You reached up to his face, giving him the green light. So he leaned down and pressed his mouth to yours. The force was enough to move your head back, so when he pulled away, your lips seemed to follow his. Led on by nothing but an ache that never went away, one kiss turned into two, then three, then a heated lip-lock you couldn't remove yourself from. And Mathias knew.

It was a sin in itself to keep going, but the thought merely got his blood pumping. Without parting, he picked you up and carried you to the bedroom. There on his bed, he pulled you onto his lap. Then, he kissed you until you'd have the taste of his mouth ingrained in your brain. You were breathless the whole time. And yet, the heavy panting never broke the thick ropes of saliva draping between your tongues.

He never let you get the air you desperately needed, let alone the chance to think. Mathias wanted you to lose yourself. He wanted you to feel the same hot yearning that had him in a chokehold.

He wanted you to make the same mistakes as you did in the past.

When you wrapped your arms around his strong neck, it became clear he was getting what he wanted. History was about to be repeated, and it would start with the growing tent in his boxers. If you didn't snap out of it soon, he'd have you naked in his bed and under him before you knew it. And to make up for all the time lost, a year's worth of it, a few hours of love-making wouldn't suffice.

"Just stay the night, eskler," Mathias whispered in your ear. "I miss you."

Having sex with him all night sounded more like it.

Breaking up with him would be history, and you'd be back to square one. Back to letting him do what he wanted, so long as he could put his hands on you. The man was a sex fiend. A bigger one than what Allen could ever be. And you were so foolish to not see it sooner.

Back in your house, Allen was raiding the fridge for anything to offset against the wooziness. He hated tearing through carbs so carelessly like this, but at least he wouldn't feel like complete shit. After scoffing down a packet of biscuits, he sauntered to his room and tried to take his mind off things. He never thought he'd willingly open Animal Crossing on your switch, but the cutesiness of it all made it worth a shot.

However, the longer he kept playing, the worse he felt.

Some island living he was going through. If only reality made it a permanent escape like the game did. In a month's time, he'd be out of here. The R and R he indulged in was about to end on a depressing note, and he'd be back to being a bum. What about you? Probably seeing Mathias again. He practically gagged at the thought. The sick churning in his stomach returned like an old friend, and it never stopped as he lingered on the earlier events that night.

But when he remembered what you told him, he had to hold himself back from vomiting on the spot.

Mathias loves kids, you'd said. And you know how selfish he can get.

That's why I had to break things off.

Allen paled with terror. What had he done? But the real concern wasn't that—it was what he failed to do.

He turned off the switch and scrambled outside. With nothing but a torch in hand, he ventured out into the dark, searching for a house he'd never been to. He didn't know what it looked like, but that never slowed him down. In fact, he ran even faster, tearing through the island like a madman to get to you. This was his last chance at redemption, his last chance at being there for you when you needed it. All the self-doubt had been staved off by this bout of desperation.

He could sulk later. For now, he needed to get to you.

Half an hour went by in fearful anticipation. He went house by house until he arrived at his destination. Without bothering to knock, he broke into one of the windows with his expert lock-picking skills. Allen didn't have time to worry about morals. Not that he stopped to second-guess anything. Not with you in mind. He just hoped he wasn't too late.

Rapid footsteps thudded down the hall, slowing Mathias' movements to a stop. He had his fingers looped around the side of your underwear, and he would've pulled it down if it weren't for what he heard. Before he could register the intruder as the resident ex-con, his damnation and your salvation, they slammed the door open. In stormed Allen, looking like Hell.

When he saw Mathias hovering over you, half-dressed and dazed beyond compare, something inside him snapped. Marching over to rip the man off of you, he threw a hard punch right across his jaw. "That's for beating me up for no reason," He hissed, pulling his hand back for another strong strike. "And that's—" Allen pounded his fist into his face, again and again, driven by a fury so hot, he had to wonder if he'd gone insane. "—for taking advantage of her!"

He was never satisfied until Mathias fell unconscious. Giving his hand a brief shake to get rid of the blood, he cast a softened gaze over your limp form. Immediately, his anger simmered down. You were okay. A little fucked up, but okay. Scooping you up under your back and legs, he carried you all the way home. While he did, you never let go of his neck. After tonight's fiasco, you've never been so calm. The smell of his cologne, the clinking of his dog tags, you couldn't mistake it for anyone else. And it was all you needed for a good night's sleep.

Needless to say, Mathias wasn't allowed in your house anymore. After getting beat up like that, he learned his lesson and backed off. Allen did call himself a criminal, and Mathias got exactly what he paid for.

It was just you and Allen again, spending every minute of the day together for the rest of his sentence. There wasn't much time left, so you needed to make the most of what you had. And on one of those days, you hoped to remind him how much you adored him. But at each passing day running across the burning hot sand and wading through warm waters, the adoration seemed to swell into something greater.

He was abnormal in every way he could be—from his personality to his looks—but the idea of being more than friends gave you hope that you could be normal too. That you could finally move on. Allen didn't have many aspirations in life, but he was beginning to look more and more like the answer to your future.

[flowerwrites06]

jeweled sea I — kth

Plot: A princess without a kingdom ends up in a pirate ship 

Pairing(s): Pirate!Taehyung x Princess!OC (Name: Angel) 

Rating: G | PG | M | R 18+

Type: Drabble | Oneshot | Two Parter | Series

Word Count: 5k+

Genre: Pirates/Fantasy | Fluff/Angst/Smut 

Tags & Warnings: drinking, mentions of trading people, explicit smut (in the next part), tiny bit of angst. 

Authors Note: another requested repost and one of my personal favourites! 

Endless horizons across the blue sea where all Taehyung could notice were the tiny islands perched in the midst of endless water and all he could taste were the salty winds. A whole year passed and every memory involved being on his favourite ship going who knows where. Their bellies full, pockets thick with gold but their bodies grew tired of the constant journeys. Which is why every year, pirate crews travelled to a remote island open to only them. Lawless, dirty, loud and full of scoundrels. But it was as home as it could be for the likes of them.

Taehyung stood at the quarter deck, eyes squinting a little in the sunny light beaming down on them, hot but a refreshing mixture with the coolness from the ocean. “How long till we reach the Severed Tail?” He asked his first mate, Namjoon who was manning the steer for the time being.

“We’ll be passing some secure waters.” Namjoon stared up at the sky for a moment. “It’ll take about a couple more days until we can reach there without any fights.”

The captain let out a deep sigh, looking over at his crew. It took no expert to realize that each member moved slower than before. Travelling for so long even for active souls like theirs took a toll on their energy and health at some point. “Alright. They’re strong. They can take a couple more days.” He patted Namjoons’ shoulder.

Walking over the deck side, he rested on his palms against the rough wood. A few cracks around the corners and he spotted a few barnacles growing on the sides but nothing that couldn’t be fixed. As the ship passed a small island, Taehyung could notice a grey cloud smoke exuding from a land hours from them.

“Must’ve been a terrible fire.” Namjoon spoke also noticing the thick smoke.

“I didn’t know fires could be seen from this far away.” Taehyungs’ brows furrowed, attempting to make out any kind of familiarity of the place but he never explored any corners past the Mermaids’ passage. Like Namjoon said, the waters were always full of security. Except this passage strictly belonged to the Pirate Guild so they kept their distance when they needed to. “Looks like a whole city burned down.”

His first mate hummed in response, focusing back in front of him again before smoothly turning right to keep following the passage. Pirates a couple of decades prior to them taking their own sails, created markers in the water made from the crushed scales of already deceased mermaids. It shimmered green in the daylight and glowed pink in the night. The trick was that only pirates with the Ocean Engraving on their hand could see it to ensure maximum security for their island sanctuary.

At the thought, Taehyung absentmindedly brushed over his. A simple mark of a fin given to only trusted captains and first mates.

“Captain!” One of the crew members, Jimin, called out to jolt his attention back. “There’s a person in the water!”

Taehyung glanced at Jimin for a second before his eyes caught something just near his ship. A figure adorned in white clothing stuck to their wet skin, floating away on a piece of dark wood. “Stop the ship.” He waved the order to Namjoon before rushing down to the main deck.

Holding onto one of the ropes, the captain climbed down the ladder off the side of the ship. Carefully he placed a foot on the piece of wood trying to pull it towards him. The sea decided to be calm today which made the ordeal a whole lot easier. Taehyung grabbed onto the figures’ arm noticing her long hair matted to her face. He picked the form up so he could at least wrap his arm tightly around her waist.

Throbbing ache on his arm, he gripped onto the handles of the ladder tightly attempting to climb with the extra while the crew members tried to pull them from the rope. Once at the top Taehyung pushed the figure up before him and Jimin immediately grabbed onto her so the weight could be lifted.

Once the figure was in the ship, Taehyung easily jumped in himself. The entire crew seemed to crowd around the unconscious figure while Jimin had his ear on her chest.

“She’s still breathing.” The corner of his lips curled up before he placed one hand over the other in the middle of the womans’ chest.

After a few pumps, the figure convulsed in a fit of coughs, water sputtering out of the mouth before heaving in a breath. Body inflating and deflating from her breathing, reddened eyes flickered up. At the very sight of the crew, she jumped back almost hitting her head against the deck.

“It’s alright, it’s okay.” Jimin raised his hands. “You’re safe now.”

“Sa—” The woman hardly looked convinced as the crew members continued closing in on her. Her arms immediately wrapped around her shivering body. “Where—where am I?”

“You’re on board the Serpent.” Taehyung answered, hands placed on his hips as he examined the form. “And it seems we caught ourselves a little mermaid.” A few of the crew members chortled except Jimin nor the woman didn’t look impressed. Noticing their reactions, Taehyung immediately faced the other men. “Alright, all of you back to work!” He growled and almost instantly everyone moved back to their positions.

Jimin glanced at the captain apprehensively before helping the woman get up. “What’s your name?” He muttered.

“Angel.” The woman breathed out.

“Well, Angel—welcome board.” Taehyung smiled giving her a little bow. “You can be in the captains’ cabin so none of these idiots try something funny.” He gestured to the closed door just under the quarter deck behind him.

Angel stared at the pirate before nodding until Jimin led her towards the door so she could fully regain herself.

“You know, I heard somewhere it’s incredibly lucky to find a woman lost at sea!” Namjoon spoke up, leaning against the railing of the quarter deck.

Taehyung looked over his shoulder to his first mate. “Is it now?”

“Apparently it means you’re going to be offered something by royalty.”

“I’ve been offered a lot of things by royalty. Haven’t been good things.” The captain chuckled, glancing over at the closed door of his cabin. “Let’s move out!

-

Stomach swayed along with the back and forth of the large ship. It didn’t help that Angel opted to sit near the windows, watching how the majestic waves engulfed the bottom for a moment almost mimicking memories of her drowning. Then it flowed back to show her the horizon again. The sky still stood clear and bright as ever. Clothes began to dry uncomfortably against her parched skin, hair clumped together while a thick blanket wrapped around her chilled body.

The pirate Jimin expressed the utmost kindness by giving her some warmth while he rushed off to look for some new clothes for her to wear. Angel should have been grateful for being rescued but her chest still cramped. Constant explosions still booming in her ears, children screaming for their mothers, her own parents telling her to run as fast as she could to save herself.

Everything she ever knew. Gone.

Angel pulled out of her thoughts when the door of the cabin creaked open. Getting away from the window, she stood in the center expecting Jimin. Instead she saw a tanned male padded into the room with something in his hand.

Taehyung slowed his actions down as he saw the woman watching him. Door closed, he turned to face her, plump lips pursed. “Bit tricky to find clean clothes but Jimin managed to grab some of his from his trunk.” He handed the pile to Angel. “It might be a little big.”

“It’s okay.” Angel muttered, accepting the neatly organized pile with everything she needed from a soft shirt to some comfortable pants. “Thank you.”

“It wouldn’t be nice of me to let you drown.” Taehyung stated like it was obvious. “Is there a place I can drop you off? A house?”

Her heart sank at the mention of a house as she hugged the clothes to her chest. “My house was attacked.” Voice resorted to a meek tone.

“Oh.” He remembered the thick smoke radiating from the island. “How did it happen?”

As the woman took a breath to speak, she quickly stopped to mull over her words. They did help her from getting lost away at sea but pirates were never pegged as the most trustworthy of groups. “I lived in a small kingdom. There was an army marching in while I was sleeping so my—my parents told me to run away to save myself.” Her heart pounded a little but it technically wasn’t a complete lie.

Taehyung nodded, the severity of the smoke making a whole lot more sense. If it weren’t for their break, broken kingdoms were the first place to go. Vulnerable and ripe for the taking while the politicians argued for their power and the citizens were too worried about a revolution. “Do you have any relatives?”

Angel shook her head. None of her relatives would take her in after the territories was divided into separate kingdoms. She would be an unnecessary hassle probably married off the second she stepped foot into the palace. “I don’t know.”

“Right.” Taehyung averted his gaze in thought. “Well no reason to strand you back into sea. You can be a part of the crew.” He could already imagine the wandering gazes of his loyal but wild crew at the new member but it wouldn’t be too hard to put them in their place.

“Are you sure?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s no trouble. Besides my first mate says finding a woman at sea is good luck.” Taehyung smirked.

Angel couldn’t help but smile in return. She shrugged off the thick blanket, feeling a rush of chilly air cloud around her already shivering body.

Taehyung flicked off the naughty piece of hair flying over his red bandana. From the corner of his eye, he noticed how wonderfully transparent the white fabric was especially after being ruined in the sea. If he focused a little, the oil lamp light from the cabin could illuminate her curves. He watched her shrug off the thin robe leaving her a short sleeved dress. But then she stopped forcing his breath to catch in his throat.

Gaze flickered up to Taehyung who still had a close eye on her almost without blinking. “Uhm—I need to—change.” Angel murmured purposely unable to meet his curious orbs.

Taehyung quizzically looked over at the woman, glancing at the pile of clothes and her. Eventually his expression softened into one of realization, lips parting. “Oh—right…” He chuckled nervously. “I’ll leave you to it.” Backing away to the door, he curled the knob and created enough gap for him to slither through. “And uh—you can sleep here.” He gestured to the bed.

Truth be told, the woman was a little taken aback by the hospitality. Though she reminded herself to stay vigilant for her own protection, she still adorned a smile. “Thank you…captain.”

Taehyung hummed with a smile before closing the door and leaving her to her privacy.

-

Outside of the cabin, the moonlight cast down a silvery hue meshed with deep black blue creating a ghostly atmosphere to his beloved ship. As Taehyung turned around he immediately saw Jimin with a concerned expression. “She’s fine.” He reassured. “Go get some rest.”

Still the other male stood, plump lips parted and twitching as if desperate to ask more questions. “Where is she going to sleep?”

“In the cabin.”

“Where are you going to sleep?”

“Apparently not in the cabin with the way you’re staring at me.” Taehyung tilted his head.

Jimin pressed his lips together, trying to avert his gaze even though it was mostly forced. He knew the captain was a good man with strong principles. Subtle but they were present if one looked hard enough through the mischievious exterior. That didn’t mean he still didn’t worry for the womans’ safety.

The captain then sighed noticing Jimins’ apprehension. “You can keep an eye on the door if you’d like.”

Eyes immediately lit up at Taehyung’s words, forcing down a wider grin and breath of relief. “Thank you, captain.”

“Yeah, yeah…” He waved it off walking to the side to the stairs leading to the quarter deck. “Been doing everyone favors today.”

-

Finally her lungs could expand and take in the wide fresh air without having to gasp for water after hours of constant thirst. It was hot. New clothes stuck to Angels’ dampened skin except it was lot more pleasant than yesterday. Hat on her head made the sun less harsh on her eyes while she scrubbed away at the deck railings. Admittedly, the woman didn’t get flustered often. She was always trained not to be, in fact as it never looked elegant.

Though the burning gaze of each of the crew members almost piercing through her backside created a slight hint of discomfort.

For a while, Angel was able to ignore it and continue doing the tiny chore Taehyung set out during the morning. Except then the gazes turned to interactions. Or if one could call it that.

One of the members with an eye-patch and missing front teeth padded towards her, pretending that they were fixing ropes before awkwardly leaning on the deck. “Hats look nice on you.” He chuckled.

Angel gave a polite smile continuing on with the scrubbing. “Thank you.”

“I like hats. You know, my mum makes hats.” He breathed out.

“That’s very nice.” She grinned down at her working hand.

“I like your pants too.” His eye widened staring down at the womans’ bottoms.

Angel nodded in acknowledgement. “They belong to Jimin.”

“They look better on you.” He let out a small laugh. “It brings out the…” Hands raised make a gesture down her back. “…globe shape.”

“Man, I don’t pay you to let your one eye wander.” Taehyung announced a loud enough voice for the entire ship to momentarily stop what they were doing. “Get back to work.”

Angel couldn’t control the grin stretching out her lips watching how wide eyed the crew member had gotten from being called out. She watched him bow quickly and walk away to his original post. Though she could still feel a body padding closer to her until something brushed against her shoulder.

“Maybe you should come to the quarter deck.” The captains’ voice rung in her ears a lot closer than she expected.

Turning to meet his gaze, Angel nodded following up the stairs towards the quarter deck. A gust of cold wind flowed against her clothes and skin bringing the most refreshing wave of alertness. One of the advantages of being at sea is that no matter how hot the day is, the water bodes cool breeze. As opposed to standing on still land and almost dying in her corset due to lack of blood circulation.

“Have you been at sea before?” Taehyung broke through her calm silence. Though he absentmindedly watched the way her lips curled up at the feeling of the breeze.

“Few times.” Angel spoke in an almost dream-like tone. “My father owned a couple of ships and used to sail them out to look at whales.”

“Just look at them?” His brows furrowed.

“Mhm—he never liked hunting. Especially water creatures because my mother was always against it.” She had the strongest urge to hold her hands out and truly feel the wind brush across her entire body but she kept control.

“Ocean creatures are not one to harm without care.” Taehyung spoke almost in a solemn tone. So many pirates grew too confident, pretending they ruled the seas because they sailed a top it. They were always brutally reminded that the true Kings and Queens lay deep beneath the recesses of the ocean ready to teach anyone who had the gall to disrespect them.

Angel hummed in amusement. “That’s what my mother used to say.” Her mothers’ voice replayed in her head as she spoke, coaxing a small twinge in her chest. How she smiled through her tears before sending her off. How she saw her usually lively and bright body laying limp in a pool of blood.

“Hey…” Taehyung murmured under his breath, seeing the way her body deflated and eyes twitched. He reached out to touch her arm gently. It was difficult to realize from the way the woman held herself that she just came out of a traumatic experience. Losing one’s home forcefully and having nowhere to go. “Have you ever driven a ship?”

She looked over at the captain with a puzzled expression before shaking her head. “Why do you ask?”

Taehyung glanced behind him at Jimin who had been manning the wheel for the morning. “Come here.” He softly wrapped his fingers around her forearm, leading her towards the other male. “Take a break, Park.” He patted Jimins’ shoulder.

Jimin hummed in response giving a friendly smile to Angel before walking over to the deck to keep himself busy.

Angel eyed the captain curiously as he carefully pulled to stand in front of the wheel. “Are you sure about this?” She chuckled lightly.

“It’s not that hard.” He smiled, standing behind her. Taehyung could still smell tiny remnants of salt in the womans’ hair. “Our destination is only straight ahead.”

“You mean that trail?” She gestured in front of the ship. Two shimmery green lines to create a path in the ocean and disappearing a little into the horizon.

His stomach jumped hearing her mention the passage, turning his head to face her but the womans’ expression was casual. “You can see the trail?”

Angel looked back at him, a little confused. “Yeah—it’s the green path, isn’t it?”

“Yeah—yeah it is.” Taehyung didn’t know whether to smile in joy or peer further into her expression in suspicion. How would she see it? There was no mark at the back of her hands. Maybe it was somewhere else. Shaking himself out of a momentary daze, he focused back in front of him. “Yes, just follow the trail.”

Wrapping her hands around the wheel, Angel felt a heaviness to move against the smooth waves of the ocean. Thankfully the green passage was quite straight without any intense turns otherwise this would have been embarrassing encounter. A few moments passed before she saw his tanned hand rest over hers when a bend in the path came about.

“Try to move along with the waves while you steer.” Taehyung instructed in a soft voice with their lack of distance.

She could feel his hot breath cascade down her hair making it utterly difficult to concentrate on his instructions. But Angel heard enough to smoothly steer to the right following the bend of the shimmery green trail, looking magical under the shining sun. The ship almost peacefully moved like it was meant to welcome a straighter path as a stronger cold wind brushed her hair across her face.

Before Angel could fix it, Taehyung reached out and gently brushed the tresses away from her vision before lining it behind her again. The length went right down flowing to her lower back. He undid a small red cloth wrapped around his wrist before placing it behind her hair and tying a gentle knot to keep most of her hair pulled back.

Angel hummed, smiling while keeping her gaze on the passage. “Thank you.”

Taehyung smirked in response. He glanced over at the trail again to check if everything was in order before his eyes trailed down her long hair, unintentionally pausing just below the ends. “The pants do suit you.” He muttered before padding over to the side of the quarter deck.

Angel couldn’t help but let out the soft chuckle under her breath. Not the kind of pirate captain she expected. Though she’d happily tolerate this one over the others.

-

Another night fell and the Serpents’ crew finally saw the flickering lights of land civilization closing in on them. Angel stood at the deck, already hearing the loud laughter and cheering along with glass shattering mixed with the amazingly strong stench of rum. Even the crew members murmured amongst each other in excitement.

The ship docked with ease and a board immediately dropped for the crew to almost run out and greet still land again. She watched them already mingling in with the women dressed in frills, laughing in excited shrieks as they were grabbed by the hips. Eyes flickered over to the men singing in slurred voice near the docks, some sneaking under womens’ skirts but they only giggled before chugging from a bottle.

Every moment Angel caught, her feet planted harder onto the surface of the ship. Stomach twisting a little as she saw a few of the drunkards look her way and whisper to each other like mischievous bullies.

“We don’t have to go.” Jimins’ comforting voice rung in her ears. “I’ll stay with you here.”

Angel looked over at the male, grateful that he would sacrifice his time to rest on land for her. Except before she could protest Taehyung chipped in.

“Nonsense. You’re both going to enjoy the finest atmosphere of the Severed Tail.” Taehyung slapped Jimins’ shoulder playfully before flickering his gaze to Angel. “You’ll be by my side the whole time, little mermaid.” He held out his arm for her. “Come on.” He tilted his head towards the noisy dock.

Apprehension crawled down her spine, giving another glance towards the group of men who were murmuring but they seemed to disappear somewhere else. Angel let out a sigh and hooked her arm with his.

“That’s a good girl.” Taehyung muttered. “You’ll have a good time, I promise.”

The two had very different definitions of a good time. Considering hers did not involve this much noise and alcohol. Arm in arm, they walked through the thief infested streets of the Severed Tail, buildings ragged with obscene drawings, people exuding the most putrid of scents and eyes progressively fixating on her. It’s as if they could smell an outsider entering their place of lawless paradise.

She gripped onto Taehyungs’ shirt tightly, worried that someone might pull her away from him and the man would be too excited to notice. Angel saw the way he watched this place. Eyes lighting up in glee, a faint smile gracing his lips only getting wider as they approached an establishment. A tavern.

“Crown Jewel.” Taehyung muttered more to himself than anyone else as the most of the crew seemed to squeeze through the door. “Best rum known to man.”

Angel merely hummed in response unable to focus on anything with all the distractions creating havoc around them. Although at this point, it didn’t seem like they were creating havoc more so relishing in it like a walk in the neighborhood.

Walking into the tavern was no different. Except this time she heard more glass clinking and shattering, women dressed in just a thin cloth as a makeshift dress pulling a few men to an area behind the bar. Taehyung led her followed by the rest of the crew towards the private corner, as if emptied just for them.

The pair sat next to each other while the entire crew slumped on a few of the vacant chairs. In only minutes, a few girls came up and served them their goblets filled to the brim with a strong smelling liquid. The table kept shaking causing the liquid to fall over the cup. Angel rested her hands on her lap.

Almost immediately everyone went to drinking except for her. Taehyung chugged down his first glass like it was water and he had been suffering from thirst for days.

Looking around the crew, Namjoon took more careful but generous sips while Jimin took one sip and placed it back on the table.

She tucked her hair behind her ear, staring down at her hands. Now more than ever Angel wished she was just curled up in a bed and reading a book in peace rather than here. Perhaps it was a pretentious side of her. The people in the establishment looked happy, cheering and laughing along despite their antics looking utterly despicable.

Though the Serpents’ crew weren’t completely that way. Most of them were drinking and chatting along normally at the tables, Jimin was just as quiet as she was. Taehyung accepted another drink. She noticed around two empty goblets already with one full at the brim still.

“Drink something, mermaid.” Taehyung spoke, a slight slur developing in his tone. He pushed a goblet full of bronze liquid toward her side.

Angel gently pushed it away before shaking her head. “I’d like to be clear headed. Thank you.”

“This is not the place for clear heads.” He joked but left the goblet where it stood without bothering her further.

“Not the place for decency either.” Her eyes darted over to the men whistling her way, making inappropriate gestures. Angel shifted uncomfortably where she sat.

“Pay no mind to them, love.” He did not spare a glance at the scoundrels at the table a few feet in front of them. “They do those things from afar because they’re afraid.”

“Would you prefer them to come closer?”

Taehyung eyed the woman, only now noticing how she played with her shaking fingers and unsure of where to look. Severed Tail was not a place for delicate hearts and soft stomachs. It may be a safe haven for pirates but that meant not having laws in the first place to ensure that safety. Which meant who live within the law could not be granted that same safety.

“I’m going back to the ship.” Angel murmured, standing up from the chair and walking away from the group.

“Angel—” He saw Jimin from the corner of his eye trying to get up but not wanting to disrupt the relaxing atmosphere around them.

She tried to rush out of the tavern and to the safety of the ship as quickly as she could. But before even reaching the door, someone bumped against her shoulder causing her to stumble back. “Careful.” Angel murmured under her breath. No intention of the person hearing them but apparently she bumped into some kind of bloodhound.

The figure turned to meet her gaze. His clothed chest still glimmering with badges of all kinds but his face reddened and eyes bloodshot from the excessive alcohol. “You—”

“Sorry?” Angels’ brow furrowed as the male raised his pointer finger at her.

“I know you.” He padded closer to the woman until all her nostrils could catch was his rum infused breath. “You’re…your face.” He hiccupped. Then his eyes widened. “Your Highness.”

Her heart dropped to a pit, attempting to take a step but the man kept towering over her.

“You’re alive.”

“Leave me alone.” Angel turned on her heel to walk off but her arm was grabbed roughly to pull her back. Just as she looked back to protest, his grip clipped off her. Her line of vision now blocked with another figures’ back.

“The lady told you something, mate.” The captains’ deep voice vibrated through the rowdy air. In seconds, the tavern faded into a silence almost matching that for a royal banquet with a couple of people muttering to one another.

Now all eyes were on them and Angel wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball and hope she magically transported back to the ship. “Taehyung, it’s fine. Don’t cause trouble.”

“I’m not the one who caused trouble.” Taehyung eyes’ pieced into the other male.

Angel held onto his arm gently, walking closer to him until her nose almost touched his shoulder. “Please don’t.” She whispered. “They’re staring, I just want to go back to the ship.”

Taehyung kept his deathly gaze on the officer who tried to his make believe pride while being unable to stand straight. “You’re lucky she’s nice.”

The officer scoffed.

Reluctantly the captain backed away and let the drunkard stumble to the side. He turned on his heel to face her now. Their distance had been closed off so much that Taehyung had to lower his head significantly to meet her eyes again. “I’ll come with you. I think it’s we take our supply to the ship.” He looked behind him and the crew members excitedly got up to walk to the bartender.

“I thought you liked it here.” Angel attempted to take a step back but something seemed to stop her from moving a muscle.

“I like what they sell.” Taehyung shrugged, glancing over at the bar. “We could take it anywhere.”

“Oh captain!” One of the barely dressed girls squealed their way, standing near the bars. “Are you taking us with you too?! Like old times?!” The entire group surrounding her giggled so loud it could surpass the chortles of the men in the corner behind her.

Angel raised a brow gazing over at Taehyung who stammered a little. “You like what they sell.”

“Not tonight, girls.” He chuckled nervously, clearing his throat. Taehyung leaned in closer to mutter near her ear. “They’re for the crew.”

“Right.” Angel rolled her eyes. She turned on her heel to finally walk out of the tavern while Taehyungs’ men carried heavy barrels of that poison on their backs.

-

Despite not drinking a single drop of rum, Angel felt a headache slowly pounding through her skull. When she reached the captains’ cabin the woman opted to grab one of the books on the right shelves. Mostly history but it was enough. Sitting down on the bed with the wall rested on her back, her legs hung over the side a little before she curled them in.

It was difficult with men whistling, laughing and singing consistently but at some point the girl had been able to tune them out. Fully focused on the books’ contents as she read about the daring adventures of a pirate queen. Aside from the constant drinking and playing around with prostitutes, the life of a pirate was an accelerating one. The travels, the action, the adventure and the freedom beyond the horizon. It was everything a princess barely had.

She trained to defend herself but always living inside the walls of the palace. She went to sailing trips with her father but only in their territory. They were always left to observe the horizon rather than go beyond it. Here, on this ship, the world seemed to be endless. Vast with so many islands no one had even explored yet.

The burst of the door opening broke Angel out of her daze, head shooting up to see Taehyung laughing like an idiot. Adorable but still an idiot. As soon as the male caught eyes with her however he stopped quickly looking behind him with a pointer finger pressed to his lips, shushing the crew loudly.

Door closed gently, Taehyung padded closer and stumbled to sit next to her. “What’re you reading?” He rasped.

Rum infested her personal space causing her to wince lightly. “It’s a history book about a pirate queen…couple decades before.”

“Ah—Meifeng. One of the first members of the Pirate Guild.” He slurred through all his words but at least they were intelligible. “Lucky enough to meet her—week before she passed away.”

“What was she like?” The book obviously spoke of one side of the queen. Meeting her in person must have a different effect.

“Withered.” Taehyung chuckled. “Rum and crime for twenty years takes a toll on you.”

“I can imagine.” Angels’ eyes flicked up and down his form.

“Excuse me but I’ll have you know—” He hiccupped before raising a pointer finger at the woman. “I’m known to–the most handsome pirateinthesevenseas…”

Angel hummed, smirking down at the book despite losing where she was. While she focused back on the writing, Taehyung quietened down significantly. Though the girl expected with all that alcohol he must have passed out. After a few minutes, she felt something tickle against her temple. Glancing to the side she saw Taehyung brushing the hair away from her face. Despite the pleased tingle in her belly at his touch, she still had no intention of getting pulled in when his mind was literally drowning in poison. “Stop it.” She murmured shifting away from him a little.

Lips parted, Taehyung noticed how she immediately closed herself at his sudden touch. “I’m sorry.” He whispered. “Are you scared of me?”

“Am I concerned being next to a drunken man who can physically overpower me?” She met his gaze. “What do you think?”

The captain nodded in acknowledgement. A ship full of drunken men didn’t exactly scream safety for women. Relaxing back against the wall, he let out a deep sigh. “If it’s worth anything, I’d prefer to see you like and enjoy what I do to you.”

Angel scoffed in amusement. “You say that like it’s actually going to happen.”

“Is it not?” Taehyung raised a brow, leaning in closer. “Two young people sitting alone…no one to bother us…one bed…sitting so close together.” His nose nudged against her shoulder.

Angel let out a huff, trying to push herself off the bed as Taehyung chuckled.

“I’m joking, love. You are beautiful though.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Beautiful and intelligent.” He tapped on the book. “Almost like a princess.”

It was a vague statement but it still caused a jolt in Angels’ heart. She couldn’t hold off the information for too long. Especially since it didn’t seem like she was going to leave the ship anytime soon. “Taehyung, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Taehyung hummed, signaling for her to go on as he laid on his side. “What is it?”

“My home…is a kingdom—it’s called Owuhan.”

The captain laughed lazily shifting on the bed. “So you are a princess.”

“Yes—” Angel closed the book. “My father was betrayed and someone tried to take over the throne. They asked me to run to the docks where a canoe was while they took care of the problem but—” She absentmindedly scratched at the surface of the book, a burning behind her eyes. “I sailed out alone and the canoe caught a storm—and then you—” When she turned to face the male, his eyes were completely closed.

Light snored vibrated through his nose and his lips parted, a part of bandana covering one of his eyes.

The woman sighed, standing up and placing the book on the table. She turned to the male and reached out to pull off his boots from his feet causing a whine to pass Taehyungs’ lips. Placing them on the side, Angel moved to gently take off the bandana so his head wasn’t restricted. Grabbing the thin blanket from the end of the bed, she pulled it over his body and tucked it just over his shoulders. “Stupid, drunken pirate.” Angel spoke with a grin tugging at her lips.

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