#happy typewriter underground day

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Fic Preview: Except Perhaps in Spring

Dear @formerlyir,

I’m your Secret Santa! I’ve so enjoyed getting to know you in 2020, and I look forward to many more chats and Snippets Mondays. I guess now you know why I was so cagey with you about what I was working on for the exchange! ;)

It’s been a lot of fun working on a story just for you, but December has been an eventful month for me, and in the end it got away from me a little. So here’s a taste of your story, “Except Perhaps in Spring.” I hope you have as much fun reading it as I’ve had writing it.

Happy New Year!

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As she would maintain for many years afterwards, Peggy hadn’t wanted to go to the pub in the first place.

It wasn’t that she disapproved of such amusements. She liked a stiff drink as much as the next field agent (though not, perhaps, as much as Colonel Phillips, who kept a bottle of bourbon at the back of his middle desk drawer for “medicinal purposes”).

And she appreciated that the boys from the 107th invited her along on their madcap outings—not out of a misguided sense of chivalry, or some crack-brained scheme to charm her out of her knickers, but because they genuinely enjoyed her company.

Along with their fearless leader, the three biggest troublemakers of the group were in London for one night to accept an award on behalf of the 107th. Dugan, Barnes, and Morita had been invited to accompany Steve to the award ceremony, but not to any of the PR opportunities that followed. While Steve spent his afternoon posing for pictures with various elected officials, his boys would spend theirs loitering around the SSR’s London headquarters, trying to convince Peggy to come out on the town with them that night.

Peggy was in no mood.

It had been raining in sheets all day, and her umbrella had already given out on the walk in. The cavernous underground war room was freezing: everyone was wearing scarves and gloves at their stations. 

Peggy’s office—little more than an alcove with a door, really—had sprung a leak during the night, which meant she’d arrived that morning to find a stack of finished paperwork completely drenched. Aside from shoving her desk against the wall and putting a rubbish bin under the steady drip, there wasn’t much to be done.

Thanks to some especially severe belt-tightening, there was no comfort to be had even in a hot drink: the coffee was dismal sludge, the tea in the communal bucket had been stewed to within an inch of its life, and there was, naturally, no milk or sugar to be found anywhere on the premises.

Peggy had spent most of her day hunched over her typewriter, re-typing a twelve-page report that Colonel Phillips would undoubtedly skim for two seconds before it would disappear into the SSR’s vast storehouse of files, never to be seen again.

So when the invitations started, Peggy’s polite-but-firm no, thank you was already locked and loaded, and her aim was true.

She hadn’t counted on the boys being either bored or bold enough to try their luck again as a trio, wedging themselves into her office three abreast, with Dugan as the filling in the sandwich.

“I said no, gentlemen.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard this song before,” said Dugan, grinning. 

“Me too,” chimed in Barnes. “‘Her lips said no, but her eyes said—’”

“On your bike,” said Peggy curtly.

“She’ll change her tune when we tell her who’s coming,” said Dugan. “Won’t she, boys?”

His companions gave solemn nods.

“Yep,” said Morita, drawing the word out. “She’ll come around pretty quick when she hears that we convinced him.”

Peggy glared at each of them in turn. 

“All right,” she said at last. “Who is it?”

“Me, of course,” said Howard, shoving his way in between Morita and Dugan. “See? I told you she’d be excited.”

“Thrilled,” Peggy deadpanned.

“I think she thought we meant someone else,” said Barnes.

“Someone taller,” Dugan agreed.

Howard feigned indignance. “Taller, maybe, but I can guarantee I’m a better dancer. Did you know there’s a leak in your ceiling?” he added helpfully.

“Right. All of you, out.”

The unholy barbershop quartet reluctantly took its leave.

It wasn’t the first time they’d implied that there was something between her and Steve. She didn’t appreciate them doing it in earshot of her office colleagues, though she was certain there must be talk already: Steve’s last visit to HQ had ended in a legendary bust-up between them, after she’d interrupted him with Private Lorraine, mid-embrace.

She wasn’t only angry that he’d kissed someone else. She was angry that he’d kissed a woman he barely knew, after he’d made himself out to be a different sort of man. She’d felt foolish for believing him, for liking him, when he’d told her he was waiting for the right partner.

She was angry that he’d had the nerve, afterwards, to try and brush it aside, pretending it hadn’t meant anything. If a kiss like that didn’t mean anything, how many others had there been? And how many more would there be while they were apart?

(And, though she’d never admit it, she was angry that Steve appeared to be a decent kisser.)

Then, to add insult to injury, he’d brought up Howard’s one-sided flirting—as though she had any control over the invitations and innuendo men chose to pitch at her day after day, as casually and aimlessly as they dropped their litter in the street.

If that was all it took to drive Steve into the arms of another woman, then perhaps it was best that they remained separated by the English Channel for the time being.

*

Peggy applied herself to her work, ignoring any further overtures. As much as she appreciated the inclusion, she didn’t want to spend her evening sitting in a smoky pub, drinking cheap beer and bellowing herself hoarse. She wanted a warm bath and a warm bed. There was only one person she was interested in inviting to join her in either, and even if she hadn’t still been a bit cross with him, the chance of her seeing him at all on this brief visit grew more remote with every hour that passed. His itinerary included supper with Senator Brandt at his hotel, and was liable to be a late night—the senator’s aide had also arranged for a room for Steve at the hotel, presumably to avoid cutting their evening short.

She was grateful Steve would have a chance to get a decent meal and a good night’s sleep while he was in London, even if it meant she wouldn’t get to see his preposterously good-looking face in person. She knew from the dispatches that he was doing gruelling work, and that he often passed up opportunities for respite so that other men could take leave.

By six, it seemed as though the boys from the 107th had all cleared off at last, along with the rest of the office. Peggy slipped into the women’s locker room to change clothes. Transit to and from home in uniform for women was allowed, but not precisely encouraged—and the uniform had a way of making a person more approachable, which was the very last thing Peggy wanted just now. 

She quickly tidied her hair, and reapplied her lipstick and a small dab of eau de toilette, before donning her trusty navy shirtwaist dress. It was slightly threadbare at the cuffs and collar, but still serviceable, and a decent fit, even if it wasn’t as stylish as one might wish for. Peggy knew that plain outfits were a small sacrifice for such a worthy cause—but she still longed for the day when she could have a new dress every season, with features and embellishments, in colours so rich her mouth watered at the thought.

Daydreams of pleated skirts and pockets carried her all the way back to her desk, where she collected her hat and gloves, and tried to revive her sad umbrella. If her office ceiling was any indication, it was still pouring outside, but she knew better than to risk bad luck opening the thing indoors.

Just as she’d started to don her Mackintosh, she heard Barnes’s customary “shave-and-a-haircut” knock on the open door behind her.

She didn’t bother turning around. “For the last time, sod off!” She didn’t often use that kind of language in a professional setting, but if they weren’t going to accept a polite refusal, then—

“Yes, ma’am,” said a familiar voice.

She spun on her heel.

Steve was leaning against the door frame, hands in his pockets. His dress uniform jacket was tucked under his arm, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His tie had come loose, his collar unbuttoned, and his hair was mussed, tumbling boyishly over his brow. 

He looked, in short, half-undone and entirely ravishing.

All of the sensible reasons she had for keeping her distance suddenly seemed small and remote in comparison.

“Steve,” she said, unnecessarily. “Hello.”

“Hi.” The warm smile he gave her suggested that he hadn’t taken her dismissal personally, at least.

Peggy had imagined this exact scenario an embarrassing number of times: the two of them, in the office after hours, all alone. The fantasies ranged from fairly chaste (teasing, light flirting, an innocent kiss or two) to positively filthy (Steve’s hands roaming her body, his mouth open and demanding against hers).

Looking at him now, her preference was decidedly for the latter option.

Oblivious to the turn her thoughts had taken, Steve asked, “Rough day?”

“Not really, not—” Not anymore, she wanted to say, but clamped her mouth shut just in time. “I didn’t know you were coming in.”

“I’m not here—not officially. I was just gonna leave this on your desk.” 

He jiggled a small brown paper packet at her. It took her a moment to recognize it as the portion of sugar from a ration box.

“How on earth did you manage to hang onto that?”

“We’re still getting it in the K-rats. And I like to save mine for a rainy day.”

“It certainly is that,” she conceded, glancing up at the ceiling. “Are you sure you won’t miss it?”

A different sort of man, a smooth operator, would have taken the opportunity to feed her a line: not as much as I’ll miss you, or, how about you just owe me something sweet? But Steve just shrugged, and tucked the packet gently under the corner of her desk blotter.

Peggy was both touched and exasperated.

She knew that in combat, even with no experience, he could be confident, creative, and quick-thinking. He was almost certainly capable of applying that approach in other situations too. But he hadn’t—at least, not with her.

She wanted one romantic overture from him. Just one. A single, unmistakable gesture, something that couldn’t possibly be attributed to kindness or friendship or sheer accident. 

She felt she deserved at least that.

Still, he’d come halfway across town, to bring her less than an ounce of sugar that he’d probably gone hungry to save. It wasn’t a passionate kiss, but it counted for something.

And so she smiled, and thanked him, adding, “I’m glad I was here to accept it in person.”

“Me too.”

“I thought you had supper with the senator and his cronies.”

“I told him I had an early start tomorrow. I think he got enough of my time.” His tone made it plain that he would rather have spent his day getting shot at by HYDRA. “I told the guys they ought to ask you to come out with us tonight. I’m sorry they bothered you.”

“No, it’s fine—I mean, yes, they did, but—” Being half-in and half-out of her coat meant that instead of breezily waving his apology aside, she wound up flapping her sleeve at him, ineffectually.

Obligingly, Steve stepped closer, and held her coat up by the collar.

“Oh,” said Peggy, letting him slip the coat over her shoulders. “Thank you.”

It was a simple gesture, one any kind person would make, and Steve was nothing if not kind. There was absolutely no reason for her heart to be racing, she told herself sternly.

His hand still held her collar; she turned, drawing the circle of his arm around her shoulders, as though they were about to dance.

Up close, she could see the faint dusting of freckles across his nose, the speck of a mole on his cheek. Details that the artists who depicted Captain America always seemed to miss, slight imperfections that belonged only to Steve Rogers. She was strangely tempted to brush her fingertips over them, to prove that they were real, that he was real. 

His eyes were wide, his gaze clear blue and bottomless, and she suddenly felt in danger of drowning.

A hard pellet of water hit her cheek, making her jump.

“Don’t tell me it’s raining in here, too,” said Steve, glancing up at the ceiling with his hand outstretched.

“It’s London in March,” she observed, stepping out of the line of fire. “It’s raining everywhere.” She emphasized the point by buttoning her coat and hooking her umbrella over her arm.

“Can I walk you to the train?” His look was hopeful. 

“Actually,” she said, against her better judgement, “I think I will come for a drink, after all.”

Steve beamed. “Swell.”

(TO BE CONTINUED...)

[beerecordings]

Umm is it possible to ask for different ipliers/septic egos accidently walking in on a Jim Jim religion meeting?

hahaha okay okay a goofy piece for a funny prompt. credit to the anon who suggested that the Jim twins would think JJ stood for Jim Jim, an idea which then progressed into us all joking about the twins starting a JJ-based religion (posts about it are tagged Jim Jim Jameson lol). so here’s a slightly crack fic but still a funny and sometimes cute look at the way the Jims interact with the others. a quick piece, slightly ridiculous hahaha <3

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“Burgers? Who wants burgers and who wants hot dogs? Cheese? Who wants cheese? You know what, Derekson, just get me a list of everybody and what they want.”

“Wilford, sir, that’s not a spatula.”

“No? Then what is it, my dear boy?”

“Looks like somebody’s Wall-E DVD, Wil.”

Chase chokes on his soda and tries not to laugh aloud, though all he ends up doing is spitting Dr. Pepper out of his nose.

“Chase!” gripes Marvin, shoving his lawn chair away. “Gross!”

“He’s out of his fucking mind,” wheezes Chase, trying to keep it down.

“They all are,” hisses back Marvin, but he’s laughing too. Chase can see it in the shine in his eyes.

“Hey, shut up, man,” laughs Bing.

“You shut up,” shoots back Marvin.

“No, you.”

“You are two to one here, Bing-a-ling,” teases Chase, grinning.

“Aw, come off it,” chuckles the robot, sitting back. “Pass me a beer, will you?”

“You can’t drink liquids, Bing.”

“I like the aesthetic!”

“Wilford!” Edward is boxing Wilford away from the grill, trying to keep him from using Eric’s glasses as his second impromptu spatula. “I am grilling, you are absolutely one hundred percent banned from anything involving fire.”

“Now, see here, Bim,” growls Wilford.

“I’m Edward, Wilford. Google, tell Wilford he’s not allowed on the grill!”

On the other side of the space between the three houses, a head with shining black hair turns only slightly, and a smooth voice sounds.

“Wilford,” calls Google. “I have yet to see the darkness. Do you think he is in pain, stuck in his room?”

Wilford’s eyes flicker, distracted, even a little unnerved. He puffs himself up after a moment, dropping Eric’s glasses into the grass as if they were never in his hand to begin with. “What, my blackbird, stuck in his bedroom? I shall carry him if I have to. And we will sit on the grass and drink this cocaine soda everyone is always raving about!”

“For the last time,” groans Edward. “There’s no cocaine in Coca-Cola anymore!”

But Wilford is already hurrying off towards the house behind the peach trees, whistling to himself as he goes.

“Thank you, Google,” calls Ippy, sighing deeply, and across the yard the android raises a hand in silent acquiescence, his attention still on Jameson’s rapid signing. Something about American tea, as far as Chase can tell. He laughs and sits back against Bing’s legs, sprawling his own boots out in front of him and finishing his soda with a quiet sigh. There’s beer for his brothers but, like the residents of these three houses, he won’t have any. He’s supposed to be happy while they’re visiting this mess of a – would you call it a family? – and he won’t let old habits get in the way. He casts his eyes quietly around the yard, almost sleepy with the comforting laziness of the little vacation. Jackie is the center of Shep and Host’s attention, telling an enthusiastic story about a burning building that turned out to be a drug front he busted back in Brighton, Henrik is exchanging a birdie back and forth with Bim as they wait for Ippy and Eric to come back for doubles, and Marvin is right here, kicking Chase’s foot for fun while Google discusses Earl Grey in a monotone behind them.

“This is weird,” says Chase.

“Yeah,” says Bing.

“But not so much in a bad way,” adds Marvin, and they exchange grins over sodas and beers, warm in the sun and the scratchy California grass.

“Okay, I got everybody’s order, right?” calls Ippy, flipping a burger. “Host, you – oh, no, here you are. The twins, where are the twins? Hey, who knows what the twins want? Where are they?”

“I saw them going down into that little, uh, door?” says Chase, pointing at a pair of wooden doors sticking out of the earth by the third house.

“Oh, yeah, an old shelter,” sighs Ippy. “They hang out down there sometimes. I should get them, maybe, uh – ”

“Aw, no sweat, doc,” says Chase, clambering to his feet. “I’ll see what they want. You focus on getting the meat just right.”

“Thanks, Brody.”

Chase tweaks Marvin’s ear teasingly as he passes and steps towards the doors across the way, setting his feet and pulling them gently open. He steps down into the concrete basement and finds that it’s actually been decorated quite nicely for an underground bomb shelter – thick rugs are layered across the floor, leaving a little patch of space in the corner for a heater, and a pair of electric camping lanterns surround the twins where they’re sitting in the middle of the shelter, working on –

“Um,” says Chase. “Is that Jamie?”

Both twins let out shrieks of surprise and the first leans hurriedly down to blow out the candle of his lantern. It is, however, still electric. He groans in despair and flops down onto the rug, hiding the papers and pictures that litter the floor in his arms.

“Intruder!” wails the second, covering his eyes with his hands. “Jim’s fortress is breached!”

Chase is too distracted to reply by the pictures of his brother, which he now sees are not just littering the floor, but also covering the walls. Some of them are hand-drawn, hurried stick figures with mustaches and black hats, while others have been printed off from the internet, showing Jamie’s smiling face in sepia brown or grey and white.

“Uhhhhhh,” says Chase. “I, uh. What is this?”

“Nothing,” promise both twins, grabbing each other for support.

“Chase! Chase!” Feet patter down the stairs, bringing wild laughter with them, and Jackie and Shep appear with Jackie’s hands wrapped around the biggest toad Chase has ever seen, struggling in his hands. “Look at this fucking toad!”

“He just snatched it right off the ground,” howls Shep, who has always found anything Jackie did to be hilariously funny.

“I thought you’d appreciate more than Henrik, who slapped me for trying to make him pet it,” giggles Jackie, shoving it into Chase’s face. “He’s perfect and he – what the hell is all this?”

Shep and Jackie go just as quiet as Chase did, staring around the walls.

“Did you marker a mustache onto your puppy?” asks Shep, pointing at the stuffed animal in one of the Jims’ arms.

“Why does your computer have a livefeed of Jamie eating a hot dog?” asks Jackie a little more dangerously.

“Okay, fine, you have caught Jim!” cries the first one. “Jim is celebrating the great Jim Jim with knick-knacks and cute pictures.”

“His name – ” Shep pauses to sigh and smack his own forehead. “Boys. We have talked about some of these obsessions. The last thing you ‘celebrated’ was that three toed-sloth you saw on Planet Earth.”

“She was perfect!” howl both twins in sync. “Perfect, she was perfect! She just wanted a mate, Silver Jim, she just wanted a husband! She could swim, Silver Jim! She was a sloth with three toes!”

“Are they going to like, uh. Hurt and/or kidnap Jameson?” asks Jackie, touching Shep’s arm.

“What, the twins? No. They’re harmless. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Well, not on purpose. They once tied a string around one and then it died because they didn’t know how to feed it and they cried until Eric brought them popsicles, but that’s just the twins.”

Jackie steps politely over the babbling twins and carefully turns off the livefeed of Jamie.

“Jim likes JimJim!”

“Why is he leaving tomorrow?”

“Freedom of worship, Silver Jim! America!”

“Okay, okay,” cries Silver, waving his hands to quiet them. “Sh, boys, it’s okay, hey. Don’t fuss. Look, Jackie found a toad!”

The twins sniffle and turn their attention to the toad, instantly excited again.

“Oh! Like in Frog and Toad!”

“Like in Rango!”

“Like in the Princess and the Frog! But a toad! Can Jim have it, Mr. not-quite Jim Jim, please?”

Jackie shrugs and hands them the toad. “What are you going to call it?”

“Jameson!” cry both twins at once, happily petting the toad’s head as it croaks.

Jackie, Chase, and Shep exchange glances.

“Well, we’re heading out tomorrow,” says Chase.

“And I’m driving back to my apartment in the city,” adds Shep.

“Pretend we never saw this?” Jackie suggests.

“Yep,” answer Shep and Chase together, and the three of them turn and head right back up the stairs, passing a confused Ippy with two plates of hot dogs, who gives them one odd look and then continues down.

“Boys!” he hollers a moment later, and Chase, Jackie, and Silver all burst into laughter and hurry away, sitting down around Jameson, who wants to know what exactly is so funny?

“Nothing,” they all promise, ignoring Google’s eyeroll and Jamie’s indulgent smile. “Just another obsession of the Jims, haha.”

“Well, they go through three of those a week,” sighs Google. “Don’t get too excited. Whatever it is, they’ll be over it in a couple days.”

Perhaps that is usually true.

But not this time.

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

“Okay,” says Ippy, surveying the room besides the kitchen, blinking slowly. “This has officially gone too far.”

Host laughs rich and low, covering his mouth and leaning against the doorway, apparently endlessly amused by this newest interest of the cameramen’s. Eric giggles weakly, glancing around, but there’s a light of alarm in his eyes too, and it only makes Host laugh harder when he senses it, halfway collapsing against the doorway.

“Why is typewriter Jim laughing?” complains the second Jim, pasting another picture in a scrapbook labeled ‘the greatness of JimJim.’

“Is this a fucking cult?” asks Host. “I’ve seen worse but this one is certainly the cutest.”

“Jim is not cute!” protests the second Jim, while the first asks, “Oh, Jim, would you like to join Jim?”

“No, honey,” laughs Host, striding away. “I leave more patient men than I to deal with this.”

“Host,” grumbles Ippy, before sighing and turning his attention back to the Jims. “Boys, this isn’t a cult, right?”

“What’s a cult?” asks the second.

“Jim thinks the word doctor Jim is looking for is religion,” pipes up the first helpfully.

Edward turns around so he can swear without them hearing. Eric laughs again, relaxing the more he looks around and stepping over to sit down with the twins.

“Come on, Ippy. They’re just having fun.”

“Worshipping Jameson is not an appropriate way to have fun,” protests Edward.

“They’re scrap-booking.” Eric holds up the little book, which is, admittedly, rather well-made for a Jim project.

“And making a documentary!” exclaims Jim, holding his computer out to Eric, where iMovie is open to several very shaky shots of Jameson sitting on the couch or talking with the others or, on one screen, cooking omelets and turning occasionally to smile at the eagerly narrating twins.

“And making a documentary,” repeats Eric fondly, ruffling his hair. “It’s just arts and crafts.”

“There’s a poster of Jameson made out of sticky notes on the wall!”

“And look how good they did at putting the notes together!”

“Thank you, sweater Jim,” say both the twins politely, smiling.

“Eric, it’s creepy. They don’t need to learn to be obsessing over other people.”

“You let them stalk Mark for two months.”

“Oh, yeah, cause that was hilarious,” laughs Ippy, throwing his head back. “He was so confused. Fuck Mark!”

“Fuck Mark,” repeat the twins eagerly.

“No! Don’t swear, guys, I know you’ll start doing it at work if I let you do it at home,” sighs Ippy.

“Jim would never swear in front of the petting zoo animals!” cries the first Jim.

“And Jim would never swear while helping with the news!” adds the second, indignant.

“See how responsible they are! Ip, let them be. I’ll make sure it doesn’t get too creepy. Like, uh. The hairs in this scrapbook aren’t actually Jameson’s, are they?”

“Yes, from Jim Jim’s mustache,” answer both twins, beaming.

“Well, why don’t you let me have that,” suggests Eric, carefully unstapling the plastic bag with a few stray dark hairs at the bottom.

“You two will be the death of me,” says Ippy, shaking his head.

But they do look damn sweet when they’re smiling that big.

“Okay, but no filming Jameson when he’s not looking anymore.”

“Okay, doctor Jim,” promise the twins.

“Jim will do it when Jim Jim and doctor Jim are both not looking,” whispers the second.

“They’ll never suspect it,” agrees the first in a hush. Eric laughs, tidying their scrapbook materials a little.

“You could even learn BSL like Jamie, maybe,” he suggests.

The twins light up like fireworks.

“BSL!” repeats the first one, clapping his hands together.

“JIM CAN SPEAK AS THE GREAT JIM SPEAKS,” screams the second at the top of his lungs, and this is enough to startle Bing, who was about to ride his skateboard down the stairs. He yelps in alarm as his board slips beneath him, and a moment later he comes crashing hard down the stairs and lands in a heap of sparking parts at Ippy’s feet.

“The death of me!” repeats the doctor furiously, waving his finger around accusingly. “All of you! This whole house! This whole clearing! I’ll die at thirty-four! You’ll have to bury me! Have fun with my funeral expenses, you complete bastards.”

“Bastards!” repeat the twins.

“Look bastards up in BSL!”

“Look Jim up in BSL!”

“Look everything up in BSL!”

Ippy has the distinct feeling he’s being made fun of, just a little, but even Bing is laughing, and all he can do is try not to smile as he heads back out the door.

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

“Can’t you move a body a little more quietly?”

Wilford hauls the heavy tarp across the pathway and grunts, flicking a little blood off his fingers. “Well, you could help!”

“Why would I do that when I have you to do it for me?” purrs back Dark, following him down the pathway towards the car.

“You just like to feel like you’re manipulating something,” scolds Wilford, pausing just to boop Dark’s nose. In protest, Dark vanishes back into the void and leaves Wilford with nothing but a sulking shadow drifting around his feet.

“And now you’re a smoke kitty,” coos Wilford, dragging the body farther down the path.

“Just hurry,” says Dark, re-appearing in a masculine form this time. “You know I prefer for the twins to stay sheltered and I don’t want them catching us again.”

“Catching what?” asks Jim, standing in the trees with his camera.

Wilford swears colorfully and Dark dissipates back into shadow on instinct, spitting out curses of his own.

“Now, see here, Iplier,” says Wilford. “It’s quite rude to be sneaking up on a fellow.”

“That’s Jim, Wil.”

“Oh. What in the name of Burt Reynolds are you two doing out here so late at night?”

“Oh! We’re filming for a documentary for Jim Jim.”

“They mean Jameson,” Dark tells Wil.

“Who’s Jameson?” whispers Wilford.

Dark sighs very deeply.

“He is the great Jim!” cries the second Jim, rising from the bushes like a Peanuts character on Halloween.

“The great Jim,” repeats the first Jim solemnly.

“He’s that little old-fashioned…” Dark waves his hand, trying to find the right word. “Jackson. You’ve met him.”

“Oh, I know who you mean. The British chap with the truly excellent mustache. But he’s not even out here, what are you filming?”

“Well, he is not here. But Jim has heard is very fond of hedgehogs. So Jim is trying to find some!”

“Are there hedgehogs in America?” whispers Wilford.

“Fuck if I know,” answers Dark irritably.

“Would you like to join Jim in the search for hedgehogs and ultimately the eternal worship of the great Jim Jim?”

“Don’t look so hopeful, you little miscreant, you know I avoid engaging with you at all costs,” growls Dark, but the twins just giggle.

“They used to be afraid of you,” teases Wilford.

“Shut up,” snipes Dark. “I could make them afraid in about two seconds.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“But you won’t.”

“The real question,” interrupts one of them – Dark can’t tell them apart. “Is what are Dark and pink Jim doing out in the forest late at night? Jim is a very good reporter, you know. Jim uncovers mysteriousnesses.”

“I think you mean mysteries,” says Dark. “And we’re, uh.”

Wil and Dark glance at the body in between them.

“Returning a lamp to the store,” finishes Wil.

Dark closes his eyes. His exasperation has set in so deep he can feel it in his broken spine. He’s going to kill Wilford. But then again, he thinks that about three times a day and never seems to make good on his threat.

“A lamp,” says Jim.

“A lamp,” repeats his brother.

They stare down at the wrapped corpse.

“That checks out,” says the first.

“Jim is an investigative journalist so Jim can tell,” agrees the second.

“Just get out of my sight,” snaps Dark, advancing on them with shadow cloaking his set shoulders, and the twins shriek in equal parts fear and excitement and go darting back into the underbrush.

“You’re it, Mr. Dark!”

“Run, Jim! Run!”

Dark crosses his arms over his chest and turns to glare at Wilford.

“I could scare them if I wanted to.”

Wilford just smiles and picks up the body again, pausing only to give Dark a quick kiss on the cheek.

“I know you could, little ghost. Hey, should we be worried they appear to be worshipping Jacksepticeye?”

“Should I be concerned you told me you worshipped the Pillsbury dough boy while you were drunk last week?”

“Oh, no, the body is slipping! Let me just – ” He picks it up and slings it over his shoulder, sprinting towards the car and away from any further questions. Dark rolls his eyes and drifts back into the shadows, following peaceably after him.

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

Google blinks awake to a pair of eyes staring back at him.

Check that. Two pairs of eyes.

“Boys,” he says levelly. “I’m charging. This had better be an emergency.”

Jim and Jim exchange looks.

Carefully, they push a crumpled pamphlet with Jameson’s face drawn on it in crayon beneath his nose.

“Join our religion?”

Google gets out of bed in one swooping motion, drags them both out of the house, and, ignoring the shrill cries of “why, cruel computer Jim?” and “persecution! Persecution! Persecution!” dumps them both bodily into the lake.

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

Everybody gets to hear about it at one point or another. The Jims’ amicability for JJ, taken a little too far, is occasionally annoying, but nevertheless remains largely harmless. In the name of the great JJ, they pick up more than one of his hobbies – taking care of injured animals, painting with watercolors, dressing in black and white – and develop rudimentary BSL that actually turns out to be really helpful on the days when the twins are distressed and won’t talk out loud. Most of them learn to tolerate it with amusement, though Host never stops thinking it’s one of the funniest things they’ve ever done and Google makes sure they learn the consequences of being too irritating. Bing and Eric bring them craft supplies and trinkets from the store that remind them of JJ, while Ippy entices them to eat their vegetables and sit still through examinations with made-up stories about how tough and healthy Jameson is. On Christmas Eve, as a reward for being good all year, Ippy asks Jameson to Skype with them for a little while, and he’d never seen the twins so excited and yet so well-mannered at the same time, even managing to use first-person pronouns for themselves once or twice, eager to impress JJ.

“Good signing,” he congratulates them, looking soft and snuggly in the Christmas Eve pajamas he and his brothers all exchanged for the night.

“Thank you thank you thank you!” sign the twins eagerly, and Ippy chuckles, blowing on their hot chocolate to cool it before he brings it to them.

“You must have been dedicated,” says Jameson, and when they don’t understand, he substitutes the word “good.”

“Good!” chirps Jim, clapping his hands together. “Good! We have! We have!”

“You will tell Santa to bring us gifts, then?” asks his brother eagerly. Ippy smiles and takes a sip of the chocolate, checking the temperature carefully.

JJ laughs. “How will I tell him? Did you write letters?”

“Yes, we did. But I bet he will believe it if Jim Jim puts in a good word for us!”

“That’s sweet,” chuckles JJ, keeping his hands slow. “But I think he will listen to you too! I’m just little old me.”

“Yeah,” says Jim cheerfully. “God.”

Ippy spits the hot chocolate out and races over to slam shut the computer before he can see Jameson’s reaction.

“Boys!” he hollers. “Too far!”

Iplier hears a thud as, up the stairs and narrating this story to himself, Host laughs so hard he tumbles right out of his bed.

[coolmarriagerecords]

On Chronophage

By Zachary Lipez

https://zacharylipez.substack.com/p/notes-on-the-mekons-chronophage-and

Chronophage are a band from Texas. They have been around for three years. Chronophage consists of Parker Allen (they/them) guitar and vox, Sarah Beames (she/her) bass and vox, and Cody Phifer (he/him) drums. For the new record, Parker’s brother, Casey Allen (he/him) plays synth. That’s all I know about Chronophage. The internet shows no interviews and, besides punk zines I don’t own (and presumably critics on Terminal-Boredom forums), the music press outside of Austin has ignored them. I first heard about the band from MaximumRnR, which listed their debut, Prolog for Tomorrow, released in December of 2018, as one of the best albums of 2019 (you can do stuff like that when you’re a revered punk zine). Because MRR is famously *cough* averse to cover any band that even flirts with problematicism, I don’t have to worry about my ignorance of Chronophage’s individual members potentially allowing me to big up fascists. Maybe it’ll turn out they’re Maoists (an ideology MRR is less worried about) but I guess we’ll cross that bridge when/if we come to it. Anyway, I had never even heard of Chronophage (a small miracle unto itself considering the underground’s ready access to publicists and music writers- such as myself- who love few things more than being the first to “discover” a band.). But, even while my sense of aural adventure is a bit rusty since the days of having to risk $8.99 on albums based solely on cover art and/or vibes in the air, I just knew Prolog for Tomorrow was going to scratch an itch. Maybe not an immediate itch but, when you keep as many itches on file as I do, you can afford to trust your instincts. Especially when those instincts have already been validated by some punk weirdo in Oakland who’s probably still mad at the Go-Go’s for firing Margot Olavarria fifteen years before they were born. My instincts served me well because that hypothetical punk weirdo was right! (About both things.)

I’m not sure how to describe Chronophage. I’m not a major fan of the comparisons, to Swell Maps or the Messthetics comps, that the punks made. I don’t dislike either point of reference but knowing Chronophage supposedly sounds like both doesn’t affect how I hear the band. Prolog for Tomorrow’s inner sleeve art has “Curse of Chronophage” scrawled, which may be a reference to The Curse of The Mekons. Or maybe not. I’m trying not to project my bullshit on the band. Matter of fact, Chronophage don’t sound anything like the honky-tonkin’-Mekons. Not because Chronophage aren’t honkys tonkin’ but because, historically speaking, American bands aren’t as hung up on sounding American as English bands are. The album art for Prolog is reminiscent of much of the (actually) cut and (actually) pasted Pavementisms of the ��90s, which in turn was lifted directly from The Fall and all that band’s adherents. Like early Pavement and The Fall, Chronophage are full of hooks, some overt and many buried under transient skronk. But, unlike all the obscurist indie Chronophage shares a typewriter with, the basic template on the album, if there’s one at all, is “folk punk.” I suppose? At least the sense of that genre is present, if dependent on an expansive notion of both “folk” and “punk.” Minus any busking grotesqueries in the “Wagon Wheel” vein, there’s the strum and twang of barely distorted guitars, every string visible in the mind’s eye, maybe in need of tuning or maybe just playing those jazz chords I hear so much about at music critic parties. While only three musicians play on Prolog, horns and keys go in and out of the songs like a C Squat marching band showing up to support the potluck. Adding to the offhand spontaneity of the proceedings, there’s intermittent cowpoke yowlings, some very live sounding drums, and at least one poetry reading. There’s a real anarchist house party vibe but just when it feels like Chronophage are going to lose their train of thought or, worse, ask to borrow the touring band’s kick drum pedal, another fragile and plaintive power pop chorus arrives in time to keep me from retreating to the kitchen to bum beer off strangers.

If we’re going to (re)subscribe to my initial thesis that there are certain sounds made by certain bands that provide a messily alluring alternative to the pat and disingenuous cleanliness of overculture, therefore making a prickly honesty worth striving for (even if that striving lends itself to either self delusion or a romanticizing of failure), then Chronophage are what we’re talking about. Even if on their new album, The Pig Kiss’d (out on November 23), they kind of fuck a significant amount of my thesis over by showing that they do, in fact, know what they’re doing. Whatever. I deserve it. The whole mythology around The Mekons as a band finding dignity in the face of drunken ineptitude was a fib. While not having the chops of The Texas Playboys, and certainly often drunk, The Mekons, by the mid-’80s, were writing and performing songs as subtle and dynamic as any non-boring rock and roll, not to mention post-punk, band could aspire to. Because perfection is so oppressive, its absence will always be its own inherent virtue. But even better than not being able to play your instruments is being able to play them real pretty, but throwing some ugly in anyway. Just to show all the aesthetic bible thumpers that heaven isn’t always the hot shit it purports to be.  

The Pig Kiss’d is a sharper, more streamlined, proposition than Chronophages’s first record. The guitars, thankfully still mainly free of any distortion mush, ring out as cohesive riffs. Even while the lite-funk chunka-chunkas still occasionally approximate Desperate Bicycles covering Steely Dan (an under-appreciated subculture band influence… a lot of people don’t know that Big Black’s name was short for “Big Black Cow”), and the snare underpinning gives them a decidedly peace punk punchiness, the riffs now transform into razor-like, no wave leads instead of the decays into noise (or just silence) prevalent on Prolog. While the previous album positioned voices as hesitant souls in conversation, Chronophage’s dual singing is now consistently commanding. Not to say that either Allen or Beames are preoccupied with auditioning for American Idle anytime soon, but they both have cool, heavy-on-personality punk voices, ranging from conversating chill to accusatory growl, which the mix now accentuates. I’m not going to pretend that I don’t miss the feeling of a sinking ship, barely kept afloat by the bodies of oogles under the hull, but I’m also glad for a recording that doesn’t sound like the studio engineer is holding a personal grudge against the drummer. Of course, in no longer sounding a mess, Chronophage runs the risk of just sounding like, you know, a rock band. Of which there are plenty. Luckily this ain’t the case. The desperate, weird energy of Prolog for Tomorrow is still abundant. It’s just put in the service of songcraft more than ADD-infused mood. If there’s a newfound, almost psych, expansiveness in the songwriting, it’s a psych fueled by strychnine over any slouching towards bliss. And when the songwriting contracts, we get instant classics like the album closer, “Name Story,” which could be an undiscovered New Model Army a-side. So much does “Name Story” sound like a lost hit that I had to write the band and ask if it was a cover. (They responded that the aim was to sound like New Order… which is amazing.) Still, by contemporary indie standards, Chronophage sound like countrified First Wave of Black Metal-ers running through the American songbook. By contemporary post-punk standards, which can be applied now that New Order are on the table, Chronophage don’t sound contemporary at all. They sound out of the timeline; Richard Lloyd skipping post-punk entirely to jump headfirst into college rock, making that nerd rock hip, and vice versa. Lightning striking itself. In the face. Repeatedly. And by folk punk standards, if we’re bothering to still apply it, Chronophage continue to sound like the only true freaks in a field of future beer reps.Like I said, I don’t know much about Chronophage. While writing this, I exchanged emails with Parker but, preferring the mystery, I only asked about pronouns and whatnot. Maybe they’re apolitical. Maybe they are Maoists. Maybe they’re neither but still find my chronic naysaying abhorrent and dull. For all I know, they all campaigned hard for Pete Buttigieg and all the proceeds from The Pig Kiss’d are going towards having Chronophage Brand hostile architecture benches placed near the homeless encampments in Austin. Guess we won’t know for sure till the album comes out. But this feels like opposition music, and, more importantly (to me) it feels like music that speaks to a refusal to simply be grateful for the crumbs handed to us. Nit picking, as it were. If not exactly “dignity in the face of drunken ineptitude” then, in the face of endless war and empire and an oligarchal insistence to smile more, Chronophage make a sound that- equal parts sweet fury and sweaty sweetness and spilling over with a feisty, chaotic grace- approaches dignity. If the next few years are great, then great. We can play Chronophage at the cookout we’re all invited to. And if the next four years are instead a happy faced atrocity exhibition, at best a grinding exercise in defending cops, creeps, and landlords for the sole reason of the other side’s cops and creeps and landlords being so much worse? Then Chronophage’s sound will prove to be the kind of correct that’s too sloppy to be smug. Even under austerity, the anarcho-freak punx got bops. So even as COVID, the ice caps, or capital’s poptimist truncheon bear down on us, threatening to tickles our little chins, let us, at least, enjoy this thing.

https://zacharylipez.substack.com/p/notes-on-the-mekons-chronophage-and

* The cassette version of Th’Pig’Kiss’d Album will be available soon on Cool Marriage. Check this blog for updates. 

[xiomarawinters]

two can keep a secret [nate/xi]

It hadn’t been a New Years’ Resolution, but rather a quiet determination that Xiomara Winters was going to enter the new year with her best foot forward. She’d gotten dressed, showered and eaten at least one thing every day of 2016 so far. She’d even gone to fetch the fucking mail every day, held a two minute conversation with their Muggle neighbour and, most importantly, she’d started writing again.

She’d started sleeping in her room again, dragging her mattress back up to her bedroom had been an effort and a half but it meant she could sit on it and look at her papers and think. Next to her mattress was a cup of coffee, her slippers, and a stack of parchment, filled with ideas and notes she’d think about late at night. 

Xi rose with the sun that morning- which wasn’t saying much, this was England after all, but at least she was awake. Rubbed her eyes, looked in the mirror, tied her hair back with a hairband, slipped on a sweater, headed downstairs with her parchment and coffee mug. She went for the kitchen first, getting the coffee ready before slipping to the front door to get the mail again. Xiomara sorted it, like a normal fucking human being, putting aside vouchers for cheap food. She was about to go back to her papers when she noticed a letter at the bottom of the stack, addressed to her.

Xiomara frowned, instantly noticing the flowery handwriting of her Aunt Rita. She turned it over- of course Rita wouldn’t bother adding a return address. Xi knew where she lived, where she worked. Xiomara considered tossing it straight away, but this was the first contact Xi had had in... Close to a year. She missed her aunt. As fucked up and toxic and horrible as she was, Xiomara missed her. So Xi took a knife to open it, sliding the letter open and frowning again when she read it.

Dearest Xiomara,

It is lovely to correspond with you again. I have sorely missed reading of your escapades in England, about how you’ve found this interesting little country and the state of wizarding affairs here.

I trust you’ve been well. Your mother and I do regret the lack of contact we’ve had from you. We were all rather worried about your apparent disappearance.

Thankfully, while I was chasing a story up in Nottingham, I heard from a source that you were seen in The Caves with one Nathaniel Pinnock. I wasn’t sure this source was correct, because I hardly imagined you frequenting such establishments, however I simply must confirm with you-

Is it true that you and Pinnock went to a clandestine, underground party before Christmas?

Of course, given the nature of the situation, I would be more than happy to financially compensate you for a response to this letter. Given the high profile nature of the line of questioning, I’d be more than willing to negotiate compensation upwards of two thousand galleons. 

Given that you’re living in Muggle London, I’m assuming that you’re attempting to hide from something. I do hope we haven’t given you any reason to think that you need to hide from us, but it does beg the question- are you hiding with someone else? Is that someone else Pinnock? If it is, why is he hiding with you? Did something happen that night? Is-

She couldn’t read the rest. It made her physically ill- Xi had to grip onto the kitchen counter to stop herself from swaying. Everything about that letter, from her Aunt’s feigned concern, the fact that Rita knew where she lived, her attempt to fucking bribe her niece again, that someone might have seen them that night at The Caves...

Xi left the letter on the bench, walking around the counter to pour her coffee, hand shaking. She stared out the window at the destruction she’d caused in the back. Sipping her coffee, trying not to think. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t give her that. IfYouThinkAboutItTooMuchYoullExplode.

Xiomara left the letter on the counter, turning on her heel and picking up her papers to head for her typewriter. There was a spot of sun by the window she worked in front of and Xi basked in it, lining up her paper and starting to write. She didn’t write to Rita. She didn’t even think about it. Didn’t linger on the letter that bitch wrote. She wrote about Quidditch, because that was what she was setting out to do, dammit. No one was going to fuck with those plans.

She was writing with such determination that the clack-clack-clack of keys masked the sound of Nate walking down the stairs. But she did catch him out the corner of her eye when she adjusted her paper. He did his best to help, Xiomara could tell. He was trying to be sensitive about it but Xi knew he was treating her with kid gloves. She didn’t mind. She needed it. She needed gentleness. Anything more and she’d break. You’ll explode. “There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen.” Xi commented, flexing her fingers and having a break to have a sip of her own coffee. “We need to work out how we’re going to tidy up the back without the neighbours noticing. The glamours are fading. Yesterday Mrs Button told me she saw a few potted plants that had fallen over.” 

[swansandslayers]

Some fantastic Newtina fics I recommend.

Putting this under read-more since this is gonna be a pretty long list. Some of the fics listed on this post can also be found in previous posts here and here but I thought I would a bigger post for anyone interested. 

Obviously there are a lot of fics out there that I haven’t comes across, so anyone wants to add their own favorite fics/writers, or just to add their own work to this list, feel free to do so. :) And I may make more of these in the future if I have the time/energy.

Hope you guys enjoy reading these as much as I have. :)

Unplanned Beginnings written by cutenewt. Newt has locked himself in the case and hasn’t left for three and a half days. Tina is worried sick and calls his brother for help. Neither of them could have predicted what happens next though.

A Photograph of A Scamander written by cutenewt. Tina’s photographs decorate her and Newt’s new flat. As she gets used to living in England, Tina finds that the Scamander reputation is an odd one. It does not help when Theseus invites himself over for supper one evening.

What Thunderbirds Do written by gnimmish. Newt knows more about the mating rituals of most of his creatures than he does those of actual human beings - though that may not be such a bad thing.

Little Things written by littlemsbookworm. When people ask her “What is it like being married to a famous magizoologist?” she always takes a long time to answer.

Rewrite The Stars  written by cutenewt. In which Newt cares for Tina… although she is most certain that this isn’t necessary.

An American Auror, a British Magizoologist and A Parisian Sewer Monster written by gnimmish. Theseus helps a certain American auror deliver a strange beast to his brother, encounters the distinct and horrifying possibility that his brother has somehow attracted a girlfriend. One shot. Also contains some Theta as well.

Maybe A Little Family written by returntosaturn. AU in which Credence lives and Newt cares for him. Tina visits, and thinks perhaps she could make the visit permanent.

Really As Wonderful As You Seem written by Bellarsam_Chrisjulittle. Tina Goldstein has been living in London with her newly married sister, Queenie, and her husband, Jacob Kowalski, for two months. Newt Scamander is living in London after his book was published five months ago. Both receive an invitation to attend the Midsummer Festival that the Ministry throws. Though both are reluctant, both attend...and their lives are changed forever.  Also contains some Theta and Jaqueenie as well.

Good things happen when you meet strangers written by HufflepuffleMarauder. When Tina and Leta first introduce each other their conversation causes them to reflect back on previous memories with a fresh eye. After all, good things happen when you meet strangers. Also contains some Theta and Jacqueenie as well.

the stars go waltzing written by weatheredlaw. Queenie smiles. “I am happy.” She supposes it’s good that only one Goldstein sister can read minds. Also contains some Jacqueenie as well.

In the Stacks written by Kemara. "Parabolas" - the expansion of this fic - is now in progress! Tina Goldstein's first semester of college isn't going all that well until she meets a fascinating exchange student in the library.

Parabolas written by Kemara. An expansion of "In The Stacks." Tina Goldstein's first semester of college isn't going all that well until she meets a fascinating exchange student in the library. Also contains some Jacqueenie and Theta.

with all the light written by abbyli. Weeks ago, the Minister had come to Theseus with a mission to gather up a team of Aurors to go to Russia and infiltrate an underground group of Grindelwald’s followers. Naturally, Tina had been at the top of the list of candidates. Also contains some Theta and Jacqueenie.

A foggy night in London written by ravenpuff1956. Tina has been informed by a contact, that instead of being in Paris, Credence and the circus are instead in England. Also contains some Jacqueenie.

history and context written by weatheredlaw. Every time he comes back, things get a little bit bigger, a little bit bolder, until it all threatens to spill over at once.

Just This written by gnimmish. Newt and Tina try and fail to get some rest in the aftermath of The Crimes of Grindelwald.

Beneath the Surface written by ArdeaJestin. Both for her and for himself, he has to proceed in gentle touches, observe what she responds to, and ultimately make her understand that seeking the warmth of another body isn’t selfish, just the most irrepressible act of nature there is.

Find Me Where the Wild Things Are written by sakurazawa. 1929, a year and a half after the disaster at Pére Lachaise, and Tina Goldstein is at the end of her options. Haunted by dreams of Queenie, missing Newt, she’s searching for any action that might make a difference. But MACUSA has withdrawn all forces from Europe and refused further involvement in the hunt for Grindelwald, stymying her attempts to find her sister.

One Thing I’m Sure About written by HarmonizingSunsets. A letter arrives for Newt and Tina from Grindelwald. Newt knows they have to face him, but is afraid that nothing will be the same for them after. Confronting him again means risking it all, including the relationship they now have. Tina reassures him.

A Selfish Wandering Tourist written by Eilwen. It's OK to be a little selfish. Newt wanders into a bakery, attends a book-signing, tends to his creatures and meets with Tina to discuss the future of their relationship over sandwiches. Also contains some Jacqueenie.

A Silhouette Against Blue Light written by Eilwen. Outtake from 'A Selfish Wandering Tourist'.

Give Me Shelter, Be My Escape written by Bellarsam_Chrisjulittle. After the traumatic events in Paris, Newt finds Tina at a very low point, trying to escape her guilt and worry. By remembering a kindness she had once done for him, he is able to return the favor - and erase all doubts from her mind about his feelings in the process.

What Tina Gives Newt written by Bellarsam_Chrisjulittle. Takes place right after Newt, Tina and Queenie have said goodbye to Jacob. Everyone is affected with exhaustion, grief and sadness over what has happened and what nearly happened over the past few days. But the healing begins when Tina shows Newt just how selfless and lovely of a giver she is.

As Long As You Follow written by returntosaturn. He draws his rough fingertips over her bare knuckles in a certain kind of wistfulness that makes her hearten but straighten. In a new, sudden wave of sobriety she can see that he is made for these landscapes. His bronze and green and goldenrod are complimentary to the spring palette of the mountains and the old city at its feet.  

We Stood Tall Together written by returntosaturn. He curses himself for allowing his stubborn, unbridled empathy to impede even his grief, the only element that still remains within his grasp.

If I Can't Give You Words written by returntosaturn. He find himself restless, not in want of breakfast, unable to leave her side for the beasts in his case lest she wake up and find herself alone. So he settles at the chair at his desk, faces the wall tacked with sketches, strips of notes and scrawled reminders of this footnote or that, and the black, shining, well-oiled typewriter and its keys like taunting jaws.

Something Just Like This written by njckle. A collection of newtina AUs.  

a moment of apricity written by njckle. Newt returns to school. Although, he's a few years too late and on the wrong continent.

Our Midnights written by hufflepuffsstrikesback (nadvaa). Tina earned a weekend off before she had to go back to MACUSA. After a night spent together, Newt asked her out on a vacation. Finally, they have a little private time to get to know each other and to explore what they've been ignored before.

The Feeling Eyes written by hufflepuffsstrikesback (nadvaa). Tina is an undergraduate student working on her dissertation. Newton Scamander is four years her senior and currently chasing his doctorate degree. She needs him for her dissertation, and he needs her for his upcoming project. After working with him for quite some time, she realizes that he actually fun to be around.

Yours written by gnimmish. Not long after the events of Fantastic Beasts, Tina receives a missive from a certain magizoologist. Everything about it confuses her.

Maybe a little... written by EpochApocrypha. It had been happening all her life, she was always showing up where she was least wanted. This time though, her heart paid a heavy price for such a hard lesson learned. A bit of Newtleta as well here.

This Strange World written by @turnerflowers. Newt and Tina Scamander had the ideal marriage to a stranger’s eye. They were both young, healthy, and shared the kind of love that some could only dream of.

Playing in the Snow written by @timeladyjodie​. The group of Newt, Tina, Jacob, Nagini, Theseus, and Kama had been at Hogwarts for a week after the incident at the amphitheater, planning and scheming for what they should do next.

Somebody Waits for Me written by LittleLonnie. Tina returned to America to continue her work for MACUSA. Surviving four years in a place now full of tainted memories and far away from loved ones. Until one day she is offered a chance to leave it all behind to continue her life in Europe where she left her heart.

a grand canyon in the corner of your bedroom written by fakelight. “I couldn’t wait,” he says, hesitantly, haltingly. “For it to be published. I couldn’t wait.”

Catharsis written by hidetheteaspoons. Following the events of that horrific night, Newt provides his companions with the comfort they need to begin the process of healing. During this time, Newt meets with Tina and confronts his feelings for her head-on, while Dumbledore prepares the group for the next phase of the war against Grindelwald.

Also recommend the works of @silvertonedwords, @albinokittens300, @katiehavok, and @ravens-and-writings. All have written a list of awesome fics to read.

[mediawhorefics]

Get to Know Me Tag

So, I was tagged by @hereforlou and @noellehenry which I guess means I really gotta do it! Rules: answer 21 questions, then tag 21 people who you want to get to know better. (yeah I’m never gonna tag 21 people but still, let’s try this.) 

Nickname: technically Marie is a nickname. 

Zodiac: Cancer

Height: 5′5 (and a half if we’re being technical)  ‍

Last Movie I Saw: Last movie I saw in theatres was Mary Poppins Returns. I think the last movie I actually watched must have been You’ve Got Mail on Christmas Eve... I’m going to see Colette tomorrow tho which I’m super psyched about. 

Last Thing I Googled:  I.... can’t remember but probably something about Toulouse because I’m thinking of going next weekend. Or it was one of the songs from the lighthouse au playlist... I was fiddling with it this morning and looking up lyrics. 

Favourite Musicians: 1D (and subsequent solo projects esp. Niall & Harry’s stuff) // Placebo // David Bowie // Leonard Cohen // King Princess // Hozier’s recent stuff // Troye Sivan // I quite like a bit of Fall Out Boy if the mood strikes // I’ve been getting into Sufjan Stevens for the first time this fall // Queen // I do enjoy some Velvet Underground but I have to be in the mood for it // I listen to a lot of movie soundtracks/intense instrumental stuff as well but that’s a whole other category in itself......

Song Stuck In My Head: I’ve had Relax stuck in my head since I watched Bandersnatch. Or On a Melancholy Hill by Gorillaz because it’s part of our pre-show playlist so I’ve been listening to it twice a day for like five weeks now...  

Other Blogs: I have a couple. My main and this one are the two I use most often. This one esp. I have like.... a marvel sideblog that I’m seriously considering deleting. 

Do I Get Asks: Not as often as big blogs but yes? Everyone who messages me is absolutely lovely as well so I’m quite happy :) 

Amount of Sleep: I can function as long as I get at least 4h, but ideally 8-9h. I get 6-7h usually. 

Lucky Number: 8

What I’m Wearing: I got home from work so I’m no longer wearing my vaguely 80s waitress cosplay look I had on today. Instead, I swapped it for the glamorous star wars pyjama bottoms and harry tpwk black hoodie on top combo. No socks tho I’m a bit cold so I might get some.  

Dream Job: Writer. Obvs. 

Dream Trip: I find this question so difficult because for years and years and years my dream trip was always Scotland and now I’m in Scotland 24/7 and just living my dream trip every day and it’s amazing. I’m too boring to have another dream trip as big as this one. But I guess Italy/France are the two destinations I’m looking at atm. I really want to go to Prague soon as well.  Anywhere in Europe that’s not too expensive tbh. In terms of a bigger/longer trip, I really want to go to Australia/New Zealand next. 

Favourite Food: I straight up would die for Indian Cuisine. 

Any Instruments?: lol. no. def. not. 

Languages: Fluent in English & French. A tiny tiny tiny tiny tiny bit of Spanish. I can understand a lot of the basics/simple conversations. Currently trying not to lose all of my Old English though idk if it counts since it’s a dead language. Still, adding it since it’s my ~target language atm.  

Favourite Songs: I mean... It obvs changes all the time but atm : Running to the Sea (Röyksopp ft. Susanne Sundfør) // Pussy Is God (King Princess) // Holy (King Princess) // Mouvement (Hozier) // NFWMB (Hozier) // John My Beloved (Sufjan Stevens) // Visions of Gideon (Sufjan Stevens) // The Way (Zack Hemsey) // I Found (Amber Run) // Girl Crush (Harry Styles) // Medicine (Harry Styles) // Woman (Harry Styles) // The Last of the Real Ones (Fall Out Boy) // 

Describe Yourself as Aesthetic Things: piles of books on the floor, all shades of green jumpers, the sound of a storm through your window at night, wool socks, foggy nights, hot chocolate with whipped cream, roaming empty art museums while listening to sad music, the sound of a typewriter, etc

i’m going to tag @statementsue @helloamhere @setsailtomorrow @painting--words @twoghostsacoustic @hrrytomlinson @emperorstyles  

[futuresandpasts]

Futures & Pasts | MRR #421

As seen in Maximum Rocknroll #421 (June 2018): coming full circle from my very first column which also featured Melbourne’s foremost Fall freaks the Shifters, plus some crucial ‘80s post-punk reissues via Louisville + New Zealand & the new Northwest DIY crash-pop cassette wave. 

I wrote about the debut cassette from Melbourne’s the SHIFTERS in the very first column that I did for MRR three years ago, which gives me all sorts of complicated and confusing feelings about the passage of time. And as evidence that sometimes it takes awhile for historical wrongs to be righted, that criminally limited tape is now finally available in its entirety as an LP on the new French label Future Folklore, following the two songs that resurfaced on the Creggan Shops 7” courtesy of It Takes Two back in 2016. The SHIFTERS’ stark, repetitive minimalism and shambolic charms always owed more than a little bit to the FALL in their early years, and revisiting the material from the cassette now just a few months after Mark E. Smith’s passing only reinforces the psychic connection between the lackadaisical post-punk twang in “Captain Hindsight” and the cracked melodies of something like the FALL’s “Your Heart Out” from the Dragnet era. “Creggan Shops” is as close to a contemporary successor to those brilliant first two MEKONS singles as I’ve come across, from the tense interplay between the melodica and a creaky violin, to the scritch-scratch guitar, to the nonchalantly harmonized dual vocals, all sounding like they’re perpetually on the verge of coming undone. There’s way more at play here than blatant UK DIY worship, though—it’s not a huge jump from the homespun, pastoral pop of ‘80s Australian DIY legends like the PARTICLES and the CANNANES to the SHIFTERS’ raggedly melodic “Colour Me In,” and “The American Attitude to the Law” sprawls into a lengthy VELVET UNDERGROUND-addled haze, if only LOU REED had written songs referencing “drinking cough syrup to fall asleep” instead of heroin. One of the best releases of 2015 when it first came out on cassette, and this vinyl version is definitely going to be tough to top in 2018. (Future Folklore, futurefolklorerecords.bandcamp.com)

YOUR FOOD were an early ‘80s quartet from Louisville, Kentucky whose off-kilter, stripped-down art-punk mirrored the similarly self-styled approach of other DIY groups from that era who existed outside of major cities. Their only proper recorded output, 1983’s self-released Poke It With A Stick LP, was just reissued by Drag City at the behest of fellow Louisvillian David Grubbs (formerly of SQUIRREL BAIT and BASTRO, among others), and it’s pretty essential stuff for anyone interested in the chapter of American weirdo post-punk that took shape just before “college rock” became the dominant underground cultural force in the mid-to-late ‘80s. “Leave” and “New Pop” both layer simple, endlessly repeated basslines, obliquely narrated vocals, and trebly stabs of guitar into spartan drones that share the jaggedly danceable sensibility of what was happening a couple of hours to the south in Athens, Georgia with bands like the METHOD ACTORS or PYLON, even though YOUR FOOD were way more likely to switch up to a frantic, thrashy punk fit at a moment’s notice (see the last thirty or so seconds of the otherwise choppy and COME ON-esque “Cool/Cowtown”). There’s a sharp-cornered, chaotic shamble to “Here” that isn’t too far removed from RED KRAYOLA’s late ‘70s post-punk incarnation, and there’s even some touches of UK DIY-style naive jangle in “Corners” before it collapses into noisy abstract guitar squall mid-song. Totally freewheeling and ramshackle bent-punk bliss! I’ve seen a few references to the fact that MRR “refused” to review the LP when it originally came out, so hopefully I’m doing some small justice to Poke It With A Stick here 35 years later. (Drag City, dragcity.com)

I’m most certainly a card-carrying member of the Flying Nun fan club, but I’m also always really happy to see some renewed attention being given to some of the darker and more obscure corners of the late ‘70s and early ‘80s New Zealand underground, beyond the Flying Nun roster and the bands typically associated with the whole storied Dunedin sound. NOCTURNAL PROJECTIONS have often (and rather unfairly) been termed the Kiwi JOY DIVISION thanks to the combination of some deeply propulsive basslines and Peter Jefferies’ dramatically icy baritone vocals, but you could just as easily connect the dots between their take on bleak and razor-edged post-punk and what dozens of other UK-based bands like the SOUND or the CHAMELEONS were doing more or less concurrently. The two 12” EPs and one single that they released before splitting up in 1983 have been impossibly difficult to track down for quite a while (at non-collector scum prices, at least), and the consolation prize has been a selection of songs from those releases that made it onto a 1995 CD-only collection called Nerve Ends in Power Lines, plus a handful of roughly recorded 1981 demos that were excavated for 1998’s Worldview 7”. After all of the recent vinyl reissue campaigns focused on long out-of-print records by some of the most beloved New Zealand groups (who generally happened to be backed by Flying Nun in their day), NOCTURNAL PROJECTIONS have been long overdue for a similarly comprehensive treatment, so endless appreciation is due to Dais Records for stepping up to remedy that situation with the new Complete Studio Recordings anthology, collecting every song from the three original releases on one remastered LP. Even at their darkest and most desperate, like on the sinister, industrial-decay clang of “Another Year,” NOCTURNAL PROJECTIONS never slipped into the sort of over-the-top goth pretensions that were de rigueur in the age of 4AD’s ascendency, and vocal delivery aside, the slashing and anthemic “In Purgatory” honestly has more in common with MISSION OF BURMA or HÜSKER DÜ than, say, BAUHAUS. Highest possible recommendation, and an excellent counterpart to Superior Viaduct’s recent reissues of Peter and Graeme Jefferies’ more avant-garde/experimental post-NOCTURNAL PROJECTIONS project THIS KIND OF PUNISHMENT. (Dais Records, nocturnalprojections.bandcamp.com)

TRASH ROMEO are a very new duo from here in Portland featuring two people who have been in most of my favorite local bands over the last couple of years, including GOLDEN HOUR, the BEDROOMS, and CONDITIONER. Everything about their debut cassette Moving in the Summer brings to mind the pre-internet, early-to-mid ‘90s romance of mail-ordering singles from paper catalogs and building up imagined realities of geographically-centered scenes that you’d only ever read about. Alex and Danny both rotate between guitar, drums, and vocals, crafting sparse crash-pop with a hint of basement punk snarl that picks up a few loose threads from the parallel riot grrrl-adjacent musical universes of Olympia and Washington D.C. The haunting opener  “Cheryl Blossom” juxtaposes delicate-yet-tangled melodies with some darkly angular AUTOCLAVE/SLANT 6 flashes, and sugary sweet TIGER TRAP-style harmonies are at the center of “Night Terror,” while “Teen Vogue” recalls the raw, minimalist lo-fi punk of EXCUSE 17 or even KICKING GIANT at their most raucous. Simple, direct, and deeply personal anthems for loners and outcasts everywhere. TRASH ROMEO definitely make me feel a major nostalgia for some of the formative reference points in my young teenage musical upbringing in the 1990s, but it never seems like they’re simply reproducing specific cultural signifiers from the past in a modern context—in 2018, you could say it’s the difference between posting digital scans of pages from an 1992 issue of Sassy magazine on your blog, or choosing to make your own zine with only a typewriter, a glue stick and a photocopier at your disposal. Also worth mentioning: their first show was their tour kick-off show and they were the only band that played it, which just might be one of the most amazing and punkest moves I’ve encountered in a long time. (trashromeo.bandcamp.com)

[mollymauk-teafleak]

The Seal Lullaby: Chapter 8

Completely forgot to post this morning!   (Also, I have a ko-fi now so if you like this fic, maybe consider kicking me a few bucks? You have no idea how much of this story has been fuelled by the pineapple iced tea from the cafe in my local Waterstones)

As always thanks so much to @minky-for-short (genuinely do not know what I would do without this lady) @childofdustandashes @oversaturated-ocean @purearcticfire @arya-durin-51 @kilocurican @hollywoodx4 @brainypaperbullets @lookatvanessasface and all the other lovely people who keep me sane every day

Eliza had never liked sleeping in, she’d always felt like the day had been wasted if she spent most of it in bed. Her dreams were always light, the slightest touch of sunlight on her eyelids enough to wake her, almost like on some subconscious level she was afraid of missing out. Alex, in contrast to his wife, slept sparingly but deeply, his body making sure to get the most out of what few hours he gave it to rest. He and Eliza fought a near constant, playful war over her trying to push him into bed earlier and earlier every day, changing his alarm clock when he wasn’t looking to give him a few hours more, but he could never quite seem to shake the instinctive schedule of a hunting animal.

This made the situation they found themselves this morning a familiar one; Eliza’s eyes fluttering open, already bright and alive and awake, twenty minutes before her six o'clock alarm which she had even on Saturdays, while Alex kept on snoring softly.

She woke up with her head pressed to Alex’s chest, her legs knotted around his hips, some of her hair having wandered into his mouth. They always fell asleep in such a hopeless tangle. Part of it was the fact that they usually just fell asleep minutes after fucking hard enough to put dents in the wall behind the bed where the posts smacked rhythmically into it, part of it was Eliza being an unashamed blanket hog and Alex needing to cling to every scrap of warmth, part of it was his anxiety running like an underground river through the pit of his stomach reminding him that if he woke up in the grip of a nightmare, which he often did, he’d need her close. Either way, untangling themselves in the morning usually took some time.

Eliza didn’t mind today, she had no plans to be anywhere but here. She’d discovered that loving someone as acutely as she loved Alex brought with it a strange enjoyment of the smallest things. She’d never thought she’d get so much warmth and delight, strong enough to feel like a miniature sun radiating between her ribs, simply from watching anyone sleep.

He just seemed so content and relaxed, in a very rare way for her poor Alex. His chest moved slowly, surely, like bellows, making Eliza think of the workings of some great ship, of mechanisms and gears and weights. But then she carefully shuffled closer to him, felt his cool skin, such a warm colour but those few degrees lower, a discrepancy she associated with comfort in a peculiar kind of way. Not the comfort most people thought of, blankets and fires and heat, but the comfort of having cold water run across irritated skin or a breeze when the weather was suffocating or ice running down a parched throat. That was her Alex all over, not what anyone would expect but that only made what she felt for him sink deeper.

Eliza heard the blood rushing through his body, the picked-up rhythm of his heart, still faster than hers even as he slept. That was one thing their children had inherited from their daddy; she always noticed the flicker of surprise across the nurse’s face right at the very beginning, when they would press the stethoscope to her skin, against the little swelling that no one would notice but her and Alex, and find the second heartbeat buried inside her. They’d recommend relaxation, certain foods or medications, murmuring about foetal distress, but eventually they’d cotton on that it was just the way they were. That faster than average heartbeat would still be there a month later, nine months later when they could listen to their heartbeat without the interference of her skin, a year later, two years, five years. Eliza had felt it yesterday morning when she’d squeezed Philip in a hug before he left for school, when she’d straightened Angie’s tie after she’d tied it too tight, when AJ had been refusing to wear his raincoat and she’d had to wrestle him into it, when her youngest, sweet little Jamie, had been feeding just a few hours ago and his little form had been pressed to her.

The same quick, lively rhythm in every chest. And here it was now, under her palm, echoing through Alex’s ribs. It was like a little lifeline, a thread, connecting all of her family and her mornings were always brightened by feeling it.

Eliza lost track of the time as she lay there listening to Alex’s heartbeat and watching him sleep, not asleep herself exactly but somewhere in between where she couldn’t feel the minutes slipping by and couldn’t be touched by anything but what was right in front of her, blurred into half reverie, half reality. The only way in which she was even vaguely aware of the day progressing was the room slowly building with light, filling up with an increasing tideline of the pale, translucent sunlight of the later morning. It was as if, even in Eliza’s wildest dreams when anything and everything became a possibility, all she wanted was to be here in bed with her husband next to her. A simple desire maybe, but Eliza could not be more content. How many other people could say that what lived in their dreams matched their reality so perfectly?

The peace was broken before restlessness could set in, the room finally growing too bright for Alex’s oversensitive eyes to remain closed against. Eliza was shifted with him as consciousness found his muscles first, tension flexing its way through them, then his mouth as he made a low growling sound, almost like he was annoyed at being woken up, then finally his eyes, screwing up and snapping open.

“Morning,” Eliza whispered, her voice cracking with its first spoken word of the day, a smile growing on his face at how cute he looked when he was sleepy.

“Hey,” Alex grunted back, wriggling his arms free and stretching them high above his head, joints popping all the way down. Once he had full control over his body again, he could smile back, entwining his body around her and pulling her over so she was on top of him. Eliza gave a sleepy giggle at finding herself draped over him, happily snuggling in so her mouth was pressed to the hollow of his neck. She breathed in his scent, the slight tang of salt and the dark musk that reminded her of night time, something of the acerbic smell of his typewriter ink, a little of the dust from his beloved old books. And more than a little of her, her own perfume from the countless times every single day their skin brushed together until it was an indelible part of him.

“I missed you,” she found herself saying in a low, gentle voice.

“While we were asleep?” Alex asked, surprised and bemused, “I didn’t go far.”

“I know,” Eliza felt a little silly, blushing and glad that their position hid her face.

Alex’s hands found more energy, coming up and running down the ridges of her spine, “You know what? I missed you too.”

Eliza shivered happily, kissing at the side of his head along the line of his hair. Suddenly, she didn’t feel silly any more. Alex took that away from her, giving her the power she’d never had until she met him, to say whatever she felt in whatever way she felt like it without needing to check herself or feel ridiculous or shy. He took all those bits of her and loved them just like any other.

“Were you watching me sleep again?” Alex hummed in happy puzzlement, revelling in the memory of her dark brown eyes, always reminding her of the colour of ancient trees, which had been the very first thing he’d seen when he woke up.

Eliza grinned, putting more agency in her own muscles, lifting herself up to kiss at the bridge of his nose now, slowly meandering her way down to his lips, “Can’t a girl watch her man sleep?”

“I’m not a man,” he pointed out in a playful tone, eyes bright.

“Either way,” she snorted, her kiss at the corner of his mouth becoming a nip as if to chastise, “You’re mine. And I reserve the right to enjoy the simple pleasure of watching you en repose.”

“I am yours,” he hummed, looking infinitely pleased by that fact.

Eliza grinned down at him, her hair falling in a curtain down one side, catching the sunlight and shining with an almost ethereal glow, the kind of colour scheme Alex had only ever seen on the palettes of watercolour artists. It put such a deep, cavernous need in him, to hold her and pin her above him. To suck and lick and breech and explore with his fingers, press and stroke and pinch and rock her until she couldn’t take anymore and pushed him away. Eliza felt it crackle through the air between them, as clear as if he’d said it aloud as if there would be words for a feeling so profound. She started to smile, her body shifting in an unspoken answer to his unspoken question.

Of course, it was as soon as their lips came together that the door swung open.

“Mama!” AJ’s voice, somehow so loud and full for such a little thing, having inherited his father’s name, volume control deficiency and short stature, “Pops!”

Eliza gave Alex a smile as their kiss broke, neither of them holding any annoyance. This was just part of their life. The need would still be there, as healthy as ever, the next time they found themselves alone.

“Good morning, sweethearts,” Eliza rolled off Alex, beaming genuinely at her two youngest; AJ looking ticked off, his black hair in an electrified cloud around his face, Jamie sporting a sparser and somehow neater version, along with his perpetually anxious expression.

“Jamie’s hungry,” AJ informed them, shaking the hand his tiny brother was clinging to as if in evidence, “Woke me up.”

“Like you aren’t a little nightmare when you’re hungry,” Alex propped himself up on his elbow, smirking.

“He doesn’t mean it, baby boy,” Eliza chuckled a little at the very grown up look of indignation on AJ’s face, “Come on up.” She patted the bed, smoothing out the blankets, having a sneaking suspicion that this very invitation was why AJ had brought his little brother along rather than asking Philip, who also shared their bedroom, to take him.

AJ was a funny little thing but he worked hard to hide a soft, generous heart. Eliza could tell he was going to grow into a brilliant older brother, a brilliant person. She was very, very glad she’d persuaded her husband to name this baby after him- AJ being a way of not getting little Alex confused with big Alex- she didn’t think any of their children would turn out to be so suited for it.

Jamie hadn’t quite got the hang of walking yet, he moved his legs in too big of a circle, plopped them down too heavily. It was only the irresistible desire of wanting to walk around and devotedly follow his older siblings that had gotten him on his feet so quickly. The slippery material of the seashell patterned onesie he wore wasn’t making the task any easier, AJ had to half carry him over the short distance to the bed, giving him a little too enthusiastic of a boost that left him sprawling across his mama’s lap.

“Oh!” Eliza righted him quickly, knowing Jamie was an easy crier and burst into tears at the slightest provocation. He soothed in seconds once she had him in her arms, “Hello, my little angel.”

Alex scooped up AJ in turn, wrapping his arms around him and kissing his mussed-up curls. None of their babies ever got within his reach without getting a flurry of kisses and a tight hug. AJ pretended to grouch, maintaining the ‘too big for cuddles’ stance he’d been occupying recently. But it only took two seconds for him to start hugging back, his arms just about long enough now to wrap entirely around his Pops’ waist.

Eliza smiled, the sight of them warming her through as if this morning hadn’t already been perfect enough. She got Jamie all settled, hiking the old shirt of Alex’s she wore to bed down off her shoulder so he could feed, one arm supporting him, the other resting against his head, one thumb stroking his silky baby hair.

“Hungry, huh, little man?” she murmured, feeling him cling onto her for comfort and warmth, burrowing instinctively into her softness as all the tension melted away out of his little bones. The knowledge that she was who her little boy turned to for this, that she could do this for him, it was enough to make a few happy tears seed behind her eyelids.

Alex grinned at her, from behind the forest of his little namesake’s hair. She saw the request in his eyes, he didn’t need to say it. Something was missing.

“Go on then,” Eliza beamed at him.

Excitement flooded his face and he shifted, disturbing AJ who had almost drifted back to sleep. He didn’t even need to leave the bed; the walls of the cottage didn’t take much to cross.

“Hey!” he hollered, knocking his fist against the wall for good measure, “Mama and Pops’ bed, front and centre! Ten hut!”

It was a drill they were all familiar with. Angie turned up first, cocooned in her duvet so she looked like a giant marshmallow with legs poking out, “Alright, alright, I’m here…” She hopped up in between Alex and Eliza, leaning against her dad.

Philip wasn’t far behind, looking like a sleepwalker, only able to make vague grunts, falling face first across everyone’s legs and not moving, like that was all he was prepared to do. He’d gotten so long and so lanky in such a short space of time, like the roly poly baby fat had been transferred directly to pure height and muscle and sinew. His feet hung off the edge of the bed.

Now everything really was perfect. Alex attempting to hold as many of his children as he could possibly manage, Angie nodding off against his shoulder, AJ plucking at one of Philip’s curls, Philip semi unconscious and blissfully unaware, Jamie soothed and safe in her arms. Eliza leaned back against the pillows and just basked in it all, in the low chatter, the harmony of so many soft breaths, the more tangible warmth of the blankets and sunlight and the much purer, richer warmth of having the people she loved most in the whole world close by and safe and happy.

Eliza couldn’t imagine how any dream could possibly be better.

-

Eliza found herself drifting a little, some daydream state coming and settling on her shoulder like a bird, its song in her ear distracting her and carrying her off until it took Angie coming in and lightly tapping her mama’s arm to bring her back.

“Sorry, honey, I was off on some other world,” she blinked fast, shaking herself a little and rapping her knuckles lightly against the counter like she was trying to keep herself grounded with the noise and the thud.

“Well, welcome back,” her little girl gave her a wry smile in return. There was so much intelligence in that smile, so much awareness for a girl who was only seven.

Eliza kissed her forehead, right on the galaxy of freckles that ran up from the slant of her nose and across her cheekbones, the ones she’d predicted from the very first time she’d held her baby in her arms. She didn’t think she’d get enough to rival Philip, who was covered from head to toe, his face and across his shoulders and down his arms, the tops of his legs. They bothered him sometimes, she’d seen him looking in the mirror with a tight, unhappy expression, she’d heard from a regretful Maria that some words had been thrown at him at school. So, Eliza took every single opportunity she could to tell him how she admired his speckling, his decorations, repeating as often as it could come up naturally that they were unique and special and beautiful. She would kiss them whenever he wore short sleeves and prayed to god that he’d find someone when he was older who would love them just as much as she did.

She didn’t think Angie would face the same issues, her freckles were just a slight spatter compared to Philip’s torrent. Like whatever or whoever had constructed her daughter’s face had been compelled to add a finishing touch, taking a paintbrush dripping with the most gorgeous earthy brown and lightly tapped the edge to form the spray over her golden skin Eliza admired now. Poor Philip must have had more of a Jackson Pollock type.

“How’s the homework going?” Eliza asked, her hand resting on Angie’s thin shoulder. She was built from wire, her little girl, mind and body and soul.

“All finished,” Angie replied, leaning into her mother’s touch and wrinkling her delicate nose a little, her eyebrows that were already slightly joined by a light bridge of more flaxen hair knotting together fully, “Emily Dickinson is weird.”

“Weird?” Eliza grinned bemusedly, “Do tell, baby girl.”

“Well…” Angie struggled to hop up on the counter, needing a little boost from Eliza to really get there, “We have to research a poet for school so Pops gave me her book. And she’s really good, I like it, but she’s so sad. Like really lonely?”

Eliza nodded slowly, remembering that she had a cup of coffee in her hands. She loved the smell of coffee, it reminded her of cool mornings with howling winds and rain that she knew she didn’t have to go out in, of Alex’s warmth and hardness pressed against her under cosy blankets, of Alex himself, just Alex.

“She was a bit of a recluse,” Eliza agreed, nodding, “Lived alone in her room most of the time. If I remember correctly, people used to gossip about her, say she was a ghost.”

“Really?” Angie blinked curiously, eventually nodding, “Yeah. They seem like the kind of poems a ghost would write. If they could hold pens.”

Eliza laughed, her light, golden, ringing laugh that all her children treasured, “Yeah…she wasn’t though, people just didn’t understand her. She was a genius and a little bit different, sure, but people have a way of twisting things they don’t understand.”

Angie swung her legs, her expression thoughtful and relaxed, “People do that a lot with clever artists, don’t they?”

Eliza’s eyes flickered from stirring the coffee, up to her daughter’s face, “They do, honey. It’s never really fair but people seem to prefer demonising and gossiping to making the effort so they can understand those who are different.”

Angie didn’t quite understand all the words her mama used but she got enough that she didn’t press for an explanation. She did have one question that was sitting uncomfortably in her chest.

“Do people do that with Pops?” she murmured.

Eliza blinked, a little startled, having to swallow back something that rose in her throat before she could answer, “Your father isn’t lonely, baby girl. He has all of us.”

Angie considered this, looking down at her knees, still sporting blooms of scabs from where she fell down the other day while teaching AJ how to skateboard.

“He doesn’t seem sad,” she agreed, her voice quietening under the weight of something she couldn’t even name, “But…I read little bits of his stuff? And that seems sad. And angry. And kind of lost?”

Eliza tapped her nails against the side of the mug, the ringing sound doing nothing to break the building, obtrusive quiet, “I suppose it does.”

There were copies of the four anthologies of Alex’s that had been published so far sat there with un-cracked spines on one of their bookshelves, advance copies were sent to them though Alex flatly refused to read his own writing. They came in stiff, grand looking cardboard packages with the equally ostentatious logo of Jefferson Publishing, were opened, the cover briefly glanced at then abandoned on the bookshelf closest to the door where they were opened. The idea that their children might go looking in them, see their father’s name on the side and get curious enough to open and read, had never occurred to Eliza. Or maybe it had and she’d been too scared of it to look any closer.

“But…Pops isn’t a ghost, is he?” Angie pressed again, sounding less and less sure with every word.

Eliza shared her doubt. She knew what Alex was, he wasn’t a ghost. But what he was sat just on the fringe of an impossibility. Enough that Eliza herself still reeled from it.

“No, honey, he isn’t,” she eventually nodded, wincing internally as it became clear she’d left too much of a pause, “He’s your daddy.”

Angie nodded too, mimicking her mama, though her little heart was still troubled. She’d rather not hear any more.

“So,” Eliza cleared her throat a little, firmly banishing the awkwardness through sheer force of will, “Did you come just to discuss the merits of gothic poetry with me? Or can I do anything for you, baby girl?”

Angie giggled, having the indelible ability of small children to shrug away bad vibes with so little effort, “I can’t find Pip, mama.”

“Philip?” Eliza hummed, “Is he not in his room? In the fort?”

The Hamilton kids had used the few days of genuine sunshine that summer to collect as much driftwood as their collective arms could hold and cobble together a rough but surprisingly sturdy shack at the bottom of the garden. Philip had done most of the construction, begging a hammer and nails from Alex, which he did get but his father firmly drew the line at him using the bandsaw. Angie had carefully painted it and sanded down the rough edges. AJ had collected shells and rocks for the wonky path that led to the lopsided door. Jamie, seeing as manufacture began only a few weeks after he’d taken his first steps, sat underneath the aging apple tree and amused himself by waving a twig in the air, like a tiny foreman.

“No, I looked there,” Angie hummed, shaking her head so her bob bounced, “He’s not in any of them. Not in the living room either.”

Eliza frowned though she wasn’t worried. Philip was nearly ten, he could look after himself. Perhaps Alex had sent him to the store, they’d been doing that to try and give him some burgeoning sense of independence, knowing that every pair of eyes in the village knew him and would look out for him.

“Here,” she said gently, sliding the mug over to Angie, it had been far too long since Alex had drunk something, “Take this through to Pops, okay? He’ll know where Pip’s got to.”

Angie took the coffee carefully, “Okay, mama.”

“Hey,” Eliza said softly before she turned to go.

Angie turned around, tilting her head curiously.

Eliza kissed her cheek, “I love you, sweetheart.”

Angie flushed a little, her vague little smile growing into something genuine, “I love you too, mama.”

Both of them felt better for that as they parted.

Angie was careful not to spill any of the coffee as she made her way up the stairs, every floor in the cottage was an obstacle course of raised edges and buckled runs that the lot of them had carefully memorised and mapped out but it did no harm to be cautious.

There was an unspoken rule in their house that only mama could come and go through Pops’ office as she pleased, the children had to knock. Not like they were ever denied entry, as soon as Angie rapped her knuckles against the dark wood, she heard her father’s voice, “Come in!”

It was just a small reminder that this was where he worked, that he was usually busy whenever they entered and they needed to respect that.

Sure enough, when Angie pushed back the door, her father was dropping his phone down on the desk with a heavy and resigned thud, slumping in his chair and rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

“Boy, am I glad to see you, my angel,” he sighed, looking exhausted but the wry, crooked, alive smile Angie knew was still there.

“Why?” his daughter smiled back, her grin deepened and lengthened by his use of her special nickname, coming and perching on the end of his desk. She winced at how it croaked in protest and shuddered but she never worried that it would break. This old thing had held taller mountains of paper than Angie herself.

“Well, because of this,” Alex grins, taking the coffee cup and holding it to his chest like a talisman, breathing in the scent of it and feeling nerves that had withered and shrunk back like coral in no sunlight coming back to life and flooding with colour and ideas.

“I aim to please,” Angie shrugged, nudging his leg with one leaf-patterned sock.

“And secondly,” Alex continued, after a generous sip, “Because I really could use someone who can make me smile.”

Angie grinned, feeling awfully proud that she was considered someone who could accomplish that. People at school, teachers, other kids, all she ever got back from them was that she was ‘quiet’. ‘Reserved’ was another word they were all fond of, it had appeared several times on her otherwise glowing report before the summer. A kind way of saying the other word they passed around in more hushed voices when they thought she couldn’t hear. Antisocial. Weird. Outcast.

She only prayed they didn’t say those things in front of her Mama.

But her Pops saw her as someone who could make him smile. And he was who she chose to believe.

“Why do you need to smile?” she grinned, thinking that if she asked for a sip of his coffee he’d probably give her one. That was the kind of thing her Pops liked to do for her, little things to make her feel grown up, like a co-conspirator of his. Like they were best friends as well as father and daughter.

“Because,” Alex rolled his eyes, a diluted version of the frustration she’d seen on his face when she walked in reappearing in the valleys and lines of his face, “My publisher is being a word Mama quite rightly reminds me not to say in front of my little ones.”

Angie giggled, deciding to rest her feet on his knees so she could prop her face up on her hands. At this age, it felt like her body always ached and felt just a little too heavy to lift sometimes, like after only eight years her skeleton had just had enough. Mama would rub her shoulders on an evening and kiss her whenever it hurt, promising that it was just growing pains and wouldn’t last.

She knew all about her Pops’ clashes with his new publisher, Mr Jefferson. He was one of the best in all of New York, she’d heard Grandpa say last time they’d visited, but he and Pops seemed to disagree on just about everything under the sun, right down to having spent two hours on the phone last week bickering about font sizes. At the dinner table, as they’d all been amusing themselves by listening to their father pace in the hallway, snapping and exasperating and gesticulating wildly despite the fact that the man he was arguing with was thousands of miles away, Pip had asked why Pops didn’t just find another publisher. One who didn’t grate on him so much, who he’d never been reduced to calling a ‘pompous blowhard asshole’ (Eliza had given him a stern look for that one, Alex had gotten one of his own when he’d finally wandered back in). Mama had just sighed and rolled her eyes and smiled in that enigmatic way she did sometimes and said that, despite appearances, daddy and Mr Jefferson actually did work very, very well together.

“He’s an idiot,” Angie said grandly.

Alex grinned, the laughter lines that ridged his face filling in the way she’d seen them do a million times, “Damn right, angel.”

“Yeah,” she shrugged, her smile became mischievous, “But you’re an idiot too, Pops. So, it all works out.”

Alex paused for a moment before he busted out laughing, the whole of his wiry frame shaking with it, making the battered old chair he sat in creak and screech, almost as if it was laughing along with him.

“I love you, angel, you know that?” he beamed a little softer now, but with more sincerity, running his hand along the desk, shining not with polish but with overuse, until it rested over hers.

“Yeah, I know, Pops,” Angie nodded, “I love you too.”

It was a few moments of companionable silence as Alex drank the coffee down to the dregs with his usual reckless enthusiasm before Angie even remembered why she’d come in here in the first place.

“Oh!” she piped up, “Have you seen Philip? I can’t find him anywhere.”

Alex frowned, his pupils flickering from side to side as he thought, “Ah, not since breakfast. I thought he was doing homework in the dining room.”

Angie shook her head, “Not in his room either. Or the fort. Or the kitchen.”

He worried his lower lip idly, “Huh. I haven’t sent him to the store or anything…you know what, I bet Jamie pulled him in to helping him finish that Lego thingy he was building.”   

“Probably,” Angie hummed, though she had already poked her head into Jamie’s room and found him still napping peacefully. But something told her not to give her father this particular scrap of information, he was already starting to look seriously worried, eyes narrowed and lips tight. Philip would be somewhere. No sense in scaring her daddy. Her brother would be somewhere.

“I’ll go help them. Last night they were trying to put a plane’s wing on the front of it cos they thought it was the nose,” Angie hopped down, her expression back to cheerful and relaxed.

“Yikes,” Alex’s worry faded too, taking his cue from his daughter. If she wasn’t worried, then he saw no reason to be. She was safe, she was happy so he was satisfied, “You go sort them out, angel.”

“I will, Pops,” Angie kissed his cheek before she left, feeling a tickle. His usually trim goatee was encroaching on his upper jaw, he needed to shave. Or rather, he needed Mama to remind him to shave.

Angie hadn’t gotten an answer to her question. But she’d made both her mother and her father smile and that was something of a success.

Alex and Eliza finally got their moment to be alone later that night, after all the children were asleep or at least, in the case of Philip and Angie and maybe even AJ, the little rascal who seemed determined to grow up before his time, in their beds. Alex could guess what each one of them was doing as he wandered down the hallway, pausing just a little outside each door he passed; the door decorated with pictures cut out of old National Geographic’s behind which Philip was probably scribbling away at the desk, writing in the black moleskine notebook which had been his favourite present from his last birthday, sipping the glass of spiced milk Alex had pressed into his hands along with a forehead kiss before he’d run upstairs. Jamie would be asleep for sure, he knew that, he’d been watching fondly as Eliza had tucked him in after his last feeding with his cuddly blue duvet pulled right up to his nose. And AJ would be in the last bed, the one closest to the window so he could look out of it and daydream, holding his torch between his knees and a book in his hands that he’d never get around to reading because his head would start to nod within ten minutes and he’d fall asleep with his cheek pressed to the windowsill. Alex could trust Philip to pull the blanket over his shoulders so his little namesake wouldn’t wake up shivering at least. The lines that would be pressed against his face, Alex could do nothing about.

Behind the next door a few steps away, decorated with twisting vines that Eliza had helped her daughter paint one rain soaked Sunday and carefully pencilled quotes from much loved books, The Hobbit, Harry Potter, The Velveteen Rabbit, Winnie the Pooh, Alex could guess Angie was sitting cross-legged on her bed, blanket pulled up like a tent over her head, whatever book she was up to right now spread over her knees. He hoped it was the collection of Emily Dickinson poems he’d recommended to her. There’d be a glass of lavender and honey milk (she was allergic to cinnamon) on the side table which she’d grope for every so often without taking her eyes off the page. And she’d be smiling. They’d all be smiling, his boys and his girl.

So, Alex could head to bed smiling.

His smile only grew wider when he walked into the warm , dusky gold glow of his and Eliza’s bedroom, seeing his wife curled up in the leather wingback over in the corner, the one so used it was cracked and worn and turned calico, reading in the lamplight. She looked up curiously when he walked in though it only took a moment for her to grin back. Alex wondered for a moment at the profound joy he felt at the decidedly simple fact that his wife and his daughter had the same expression when they were lost in a book.

“Hey there,” Eliza brought his moment to an end, raising one eyebrow, “You okay?”

“A little better than okay, I’d say,” he smirked slightly, wandering over, deciding to just go ahead and discard his t shirt as he did, leaving him in just the black shorts.

“Good,” Eliza bit her lower lip and allowed herself to eye him shamelessly as he approached, the way his muscles rippled under his skin, the way the angles of his body cast shadows in the odd lighting.

The differences between who he had been the first day she’d met him and who he was now were so obvious in that moment. He was more filled out in the lower half, clearly eating and eating well every day when Eliza was pretty sure she’d been able to see his ribs as she’d handed him his first bowl of chicken soup. He didn’t shift and fidget constantly, like he was held in a constant readiness to brace and fight, he was relaxed. His shoulders actually slumped!  Like his paranoia had finally retreated enough for him to be bored, like the restless, anxious energy that had buzzed through him for the first few years of their relationship had fled. He looked sure of himself. He looked safe.

“Good?” Alex smiled crookedly, seeing the expression cross her face, the deepening and darkening of her eyes.

“Maybe even a little bit better than good?” she teased lightly, casting her book to the floor so both her hands were free to hold his face once he came within reach, pulling him down and pressing her lips to his. Now they were finally alone, they both realised that the ache for each other that had swelled within them that morning had only grew and intensified under their ignorance, without their knowledge. Leaving them with this fire, the one they could taste in that first kiss, as Eliza hummed against the silky line between Alex’s goatee and his lips and he tasted a faint tingle from the toothpaste she’d just used before bed.

What was the point in waiting any longer?

Alex pulled away for air, though as his hands dipped down he realised that Eliza was wearing an old shirt of his, one from a concert he’d never been to for a band he’d never heard of but he’d fallen in love with it at the thrift store, with nothing underneath and that stole what little breath he had. She giggled as the blush ran from his cheeks, down his throat to his chest; she’d known he’d like that. There was no resistance from her as Alex took her hands and led her over to the bed.

Alex thought for a moment, tried to follow which of all the things his body was screaming at him to do to her, for her, with her, it wanted the most. Once he’d decided, he ran with it and Eliza was right on his heels, as soon as it became clear from the way he lay prone on his back against the pillows and ran his tongue over the back of his teeth, where his head was at.

Alex groaned softly as Eliza swung a leg over him so she was perched on his chest, his head caught between her thighs, what he wanted so close, enough that he felt the hairs on his skin stand to attention and his mouth fell open in desire. His hands, fluttering in his excitement like flustered birds, found a perch on the backs of her knees, thumbs rubbing the soft flesh alive with nerves. That and the rest of it, feeling his warm breath against her flesh, disturbing the wetness gathering there at a furious pace, the light in his eyes, the hunger in them he made absolutely no effort to hide, drew such a low, rapturous moan from Eliza that shook Alex so deeply it felt like the resonance of the universe.

“Can I?” he emphasised the whine of desire in his voice, knowing she loved it.

Eliza took a shivering breath and gathered the hem of the t shirt in her hands to hike it around her waist, letting him see all of her, every rose pink, shining inch of her. That sufficed as an answer, she felt.

“Remember to tap my thigh if you can’t breathe,” she reminded him, taking a moment to reach down between her thighs and stroke his cheek. She was only too aware of how he could push himself too far, forget his own, more basic needs while chasing their lust.

Alex snorted, his teeth flashing at her in the gloom, “You think I’m scared of drowning?”

“You are the worst!” Eliza giggled, blushing in that way she did where her whole face went red, “Shut up!”

“Ah, I think you know one really good way to get me to shut up right now,” he raised an eyebrow, challenging her, making her shiver with his words as much as his actions.

“Oh my god…” Eliza rolled her eyes, rising a little on her knees, one hand holding on to the headboard, the other resting against her face, within her reach for when she’d need to bite down on her fist.

“Save it,” he purred, running out of what little patience he’d had and pulled her down to him, burying his face between her legs.

Eliza gasped, feeling electricity course through her from the exact instant he touched down. He started off slow, searching, running the flat of his tongue between her lips, back and forth in deep, measured laps. Only when Eliza was shivering and her chest was heaving and he could feel the tension ringing through her legs did he begin to pick up his pace and vary his pressure, craning his neck in a way that would give him an ache in the morning so he could press his face flush against her. He was soaked in minutes, jaw working and muscles snapping, doing everything he could think of, giving her every trick and twist he knew. After she was moaning and whining into her fist, he began to use his teeth to nip lightly, his lips to suck and pull at her, his tongue to penetrate but only after she’d earned it with the muffled, lusty sobs that dripped from her throat to the hot air between them until they filled his mouth with sweetness.

Eliza was in paroxysms, riding his face with determination and sheer delight, eagerly taking every drop of pleasure he so willingly gave her. He needed to shave, she realised quickly as his rough face and angular lines had her pulsing and pomegranate red against his mouth.

Alex was simply floating, thrown back to times of rare joy, the mornings when he’d slide into the water with a full belly and rested muscles itching for the freedom and expanse of the sea, the first time his mouth would fill with water and salt would flood his tongue and he’d feel like he was home. God those times had felt good but the taste of that unspoiled, curt salt, as beautiful as it had been, it didn’t even come close to how damn good Eliza’s vulva tasted. His hands roved up her back, scrabbling for her, wanting her closer even when it was physically impossible. He just wanted her, even as he had her, shameless and greedy, unwilling to relinquish his grip on this bliss after being forced to live for years without knowing it. He would always want her.

“Alex, oh Alex, more, God, right there, yes…oh yes…”

Eliza’s whole body rang with his name, like she was a complex, exquisitely carved instrument and he had been training for years. But she couldn’t climb forever. It became too hot and wild to keep a hold of, by all laws of physics and entropy it had to.

She came with an almost painful brilliance, throwing her head back and thankfully keeping the strangled cry of his name at an acceptable level thanks to her palm pressed to her mouth. She came once more, her oversensitive clit caught on his nose as she pulled away and left her arching and drenching him further. She whimpered and shuddered as she fell back, between his legs, hair in a dark cloud, eyes hazy, heart racing so hard she vaguely wondered who was beating that drum so loudly so late at night.

“Eliza?” the word drifted to her from somewhere far away, looping a rope around her wrist and pulling her back to earth, “Baby? You okay?”

“Yeah,” she whispered, her voice a satisfied rasp, “God, Alex, that was so amazing…”

Alex shushed her gently, not wanting her to try and talk when she was so exhausted, reaching down and finding her hand. Still, the smug and gratified smile he wore could light up a room.

They both needed some time to find themselves, just basking and giggling at how they were so tangled, Eliza basically using Alex as a pillow, her legs thrown over his chest and yet neither of them showed any desire to move.

“You are…really, really good at that…” Eliza mumbled, eyes closed, a dazed smile on her face.

Alex gave a low, sleepy rumble of laughter, “You shameless flatterer.”

“Well,” she snorted in mock defensiveness, “My brain’s broke. And whose fault is that?”

“Mine!” he cried delightedly, punching the air weakly and making Eliza dissolve into enough sniggers to shake the bed.

Eventually Eliza had her strength back and the hard bulge she could feel through Alex’s shorts, pressing against her tailbone, was giving her an idea for how to put it to use.

“This for me?” she wondered out loud, shifting her hips to work it a little, her heart giving an excited kick at the breathy gasp her movement drew from her husband.

“Eliza…” he whimpered, feeling his body throb, knowing she felt it too.

“Easy, baby,” she pulled herself up, tucking her legs under herself, tossing out her wild hair and giving in to her hand’s desire to pull away his shorts, “I’ve got you.”

She wanted to do so many things to him and from the way he trembled and the depth of the blush his skin that taken on, Alex would give an immediate and impassioned yes to all of them. Selkie Alex had been and continued to be enamoured with the whole concept of sex toys, items that existed simply for pleasure and fun and enjoyment. They owned more than a few, many of them picked for aesthetics or for a sudden exultant thrill to try something new and Eliza’s mind raced with how she could use them, the decedent array of ways she could have him writhing and panting and clawing at the sheets.

Sometimes there was a downside to too much choice. Or maybe she was just indecisive.

“Alex, if you could have anything in the whole world right now, anything to make you happy, what would you want?” she mused, her voice warm and playful, fingers teasing the thick, tight curls at the base of his erection.

The pads of her fingers kneading at him, transparent liquid already beading and running in a salty tingle down his length, Alex’s answer surprised no one more than himself.

“Falling asleep in your arms,” he panted desperately.

Eliza’s mouth opened a little in surprise, eyelids fluttering and her heart swelling for a slightly different reason. After a moment, her gaze turned fond and determined. There would be so many nights for all those other ideas, right now he’d convinced her.

Eliza pounced, straddling him and kissing him lustfully as her hand wrapped around his length, feeling him respond instantly to her touch, his moan hot against her lips. They made out with no haste, only a blissful, idyllic amusement, Eliza working him over with as much attentiveness as he’d given her, like for like, love for love.

Eating her out had brought him so close, she was relishing his cracked, relieved groan of release within two minutes, feeling heat speckle her wrist. After one last forehead kiss, she had him lick it off her skin and they were both finally done, collapsing into each other’s arms, the warm glow from their love making dispelling the need for blankets.

The ache for each other didn’t go exactly, just transmuted and flowed into a more embolus form, something at a lower ebb but would last much longer, never satisfied and guttering out, only fuelled by moments like this one, where they would fall asleep in each other’s embrace. The ache would come back, the hunger would always resurface. But this wasn’t hunger, this was satiation.

This was being mated.

Eliza whimpered softly in her sleep as Alex tried to extract himself, hanging on until the last possible second, only the fact that it was somewhere in the region of three am stopping her from waking up completely and protesting more firmly.

“Just getting a drink,” Alex murmured, his voice full of sleep, kissing her forehead and brushing back some of the hair that had fallen across her face, “Won’t be two seconds.”

Eliza’s face still crumpled in sleepy annoyance but a few more kisses, one for the back of her hand as he carefully placed it on her pillow, one for her cheek, once for her forehead again, each of them tasting of the reluctance in her body as it eventually let him go.

“Two seconds,” he repeated, even though Eliza had already been taken by sleep. Maybe the reassurance was more for himself. He did always feel an uncomfortable pull, even now when he’d been passing as human for years, when even he couldn’t deny that he was fully integrated, somehow moving out of Eliza’s sight still felt like tugging against a fishhook.

The thought, prickly and oddly shaped and awkward to hold, was discarded somewhere on the stairs well before he got to the kitchen.

The fact that the light was on made him jump, brought back a flood of old instincts that made his nerves crackle and stiffen, but it was gone in a second. Alex knew those footsteps.

“Angel?” he leaned in the doorway, now unsurprised to see his daughter padding across the tiles.

He’d kept his voice low and gentle, trying not to shock her, but it was kind of hard not to make someone jump when you came upon them in a kitchen in the early hours of the morning. And his little angel was kind of jumpy anyway, she shot up like a startled cat.

“Sorry,” Alex couldn’t help but smile a little, coming up with his hands raised in playful surrender, “Only me.”

Angie played with the hem of her sleepshirt, “You need to wear a bell, Pops.”

“Hey, you’re the one sneaking around,” Alex’s smile didn’t fade, coming up and holding her face as he kissed her curls, “What’s up, sweetheart, can’t sleep?”

She’d been having a lot of nightmares recently, his angel. Like a stubborn cold she couldn’t shake, most of the reason why she had her own room. It had broken both her parents’ hearts for so long until it became just part of their reality.

“No, I was just thirsty,” she insisted, indicating her glass of water as proof.

He studied her face for a long moment, looking for any trace that she was lying to him to keep him from worrying. But she met his eyes without a tremor, a small, tired, ghostly smile crossing her face.

“Okay, angel,” he murmured, answering with a smile of his own, “As much as I love to talk to you, you need sleep. Off you go.”

“Yeah, Pops,” she nodded, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, “I’m going.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too,” she skittered across the cold floor on the balls of her feet, curls bouncing.

Alex would never be sure what exactly made him ask his question. Maybe it had been nagging at him since Angie had poked her head into his office earlier that day. Maybe it was something that ran a little deeper than that, that had been festering for much longer than just one Saturday but he’d been ignoring it so reverently, he hadn’t even realised.

“Hey, angel?” he murmured, catching Angie’s attention, her sweet, freckled face turning to him, just on the fringe of the kitchen’s halo of light.

“Where was Philip? When you were looking for him earlier, did you find him?”

Angie paused, like she realised then that her dad’s supposedly innocuous question was anything but. Though the slight anxious shake in her voice as she answered was all her own.

“It was really weird actually,” One hand left the glass she clutched and rubbed at the bridge of her nose, Alex recognised it as her tic when she got scared or unsettled. She left a drop of water in the crease of her face, condensation from the glass but right now, in that second, it looked for all the world like a tear.

“Oh?” Alex frowned a little.

“Yeah, he was down on the beach. Wasn’t playing or anything though, he was just…standing there. Staring at the sea,” Angie’s eyes slid down to the floor, her voice quieted, “I had to call his name three times before he heard me even though I was right there. And he looked…he looked like he didn’t even know me?”

She waited for her father to say something to that but nothing came and all of a sudden it felt like the shadows around her were creeping closer, reaching for her, winding around her ankles. Angie turned and sped off, wanting nothing more than to be in her own bed with the invulnerable shield of her duvet pulled over her head.

And Alex was left alone, his heart hammering in his ears like the roar of a wave taller than the trees rushing at him to knock him off his feet and tear him in half.

And he could do nothing to get out of its way.

[clubpenguinheadcanons]

make way for some dumb headcanons

Just some headcanons for the PSA/EPF Agents and Herbert, well mostly Agent and Herbert (sorry not sorry). I am sorry for it being a long post though! Er before Operation Black Out cause I left after the EPF completely replaced the PSA :x  I put a keep reading since the post can be long.

Mission one is the first mission that any agent has to do. The thing is that for other agents there is a variation to it. For some, Aunt Artic got her typewriter “stolen” other times only one of her puffles ran away. It’s a way for her to test the new recruits and to see if they will do their job well. Typically if the agent is known to have a specific ability about them, she will purposely set it up to go against that. For example, Jet’s first mission wouldn’t have the puffles be at the highest peak, they would either be out in the ocean or in the mines. 

Sometimes that if Aunt Artic can’t do the first mission (don’t want cause too much suspicion), she would let Dot do them since she wasn’t a part of the PSA, which wouldn’t cause suspicion. as well that Dot has a billion disguises so she could just be any other penguin to be the victim. 

 Aunt Artic’s puffles are partly trained by the Elite Puffle Force. They aren’t on the force but were trained as if they were. 

Typically Agent does way more missions than what’s given in the missions we do. It’s just the other missions tend to be small/not important enough to highlight.

Agent tends to be a workaholic, to the point that other agents (Mainly G, the director, and Dot) would have to force them to take days off. 

Agent tends to give a friendly face to all penguins, yet whenever they are talking to Herbert, they try to give the sternest face they could. Sadly though it fails to be serious sometimes and goes into some sort of a pouty face. 

After Agent survived mission 2, they didn’t go near the sled races for like 2 months. 

Same thing happened after the Avalanche Rescue mission. They didn’t go near that place for another month. 

Honestly, sled racing isn’t one of their most favorite activities to do. Could have been before, sadly isn’t now. 

At first, Agent thought that G didn’t like them after mission 2. Like honestly, who sends an agent to a death trap like course to test drive a barely put together object? Took them awhile to warm up to G again. 

When G found out how this affected Agent, G began to think carefully when getting people to test his inventions. The dude may have a lot of intelligence, but sadly he doesn’t always have the best common sense. 

If Agent were ever to put their life into a “before and after” type thing, it would be before Herbert came to Club Penguin and after they did. Agent believed that defined their role for the PSA and EPF a lot. 

Agent has mixed feelings about Herbert. Sure, he is their enemy and must be taken down at all costs, but at the same time, without Herbert, Agent would not be that much of an important agent. 

Agent and Herbert typically “play” with each other as if it’s a cat and mouse game. Who’s the cat and who’s the mouse? Depends on who you’re asking.

They both love giving sarcasm and snarky comments to each other.  Yet neither of them will ever admit it. 

Not happy about this, Agent tends to have an obsession with Herbert. Whether it is about capturing him, or something more, Agent has taken over time with trying to find the polar bear. 

Despite Agent being surprised at first with seeing Herbert dance, they thought it was adorable funny. 

Agent will admit that they are surprised with how Klutzy and Herbert are, especially when spying on him and seeing that Herbert does play with Klutzy. 

Agent strongly believes that it was Klutzy that cracked the underground pool window in 2007. Trying to flood the underground so that there can’t be any more pool parties! Because of course, Herbert hates parties! This theory that was made after they caught Klutzy and personally met Herbert. (The pool party was in the Summer of 2007, while Mission 5, where you get Klutzy was in November 2007).  Sadly, no agent cares enough. 

Herbert knows about this theory they have, whether or not it’s true, Herbert likes to allude that he has the answer and will never tell Agent. Drives Agent nuts. Which Herbert loves to do.

Honestly, Herbert doesn’t know either, he believes Klutzy was with him at the time, but he isn’t so sure now. 

Klutzy will never tell. 

Herbert as well has a weird obsession with Agent. To him, it’s the first time he was ever /slightly/ challenged, scratch that, being challenged in general. The two of them seem to be evenly matched, well for Herbert, he believes he will be the one to win this. It’s just a process of waiting for Agent’s luck to run out. 

Herbert is so amused by Agent. Herbert sees how he just dwarfs Agent, and they just think they stand a chance against him! They are many times when Agent tries to stand tall and proud over Herbert and just fails. It takes everything to not laugh in their face. 

Yet Herbert does so anyways. He doesn’t care. 

There are certain quirks that Herbert sees in Agent that they find sickly adorable laughable. Such as how Agent was surprised with how strong Herbert is (gave the polar bear a confidence boost). Or how if Agent’s face isn’t at their default-stern face, they quickly go back to it. Which makes Agent go into some sort of pouty face. Which cracks Herbert up. 

Herbert will never talk about how his life was at the North Pole. He’ll just call it a cold place and that’s it. Anything else about it, he becomes dismissive.

Whether it is about the weather, his experience with his people, or both, Agent will never question it. 

The two typically don’t talk about the past besides past encounters, which to the two is somewhat relieving.

[shirtlesssammy]

First Blood : Recap

250 episodes. I can't believe we've already reached the quarter episode mark of Supernatural! Who am I kidding, they've got more than 1000 episodes in them, right?

Then:

The British Men of Letters are a menace and the family that hunts together, stays together, er, except for the whole mom leaving, the angel hunting Lucifer alone, and sons getting imprisoned in solitary confinement thing.

Now:

Mary sits quietly at a diner, sipping her coffee, when she gets a call from Castiel. He wonders where she is: Lawrence. Sensing Cas's distress, she asks what's wrong. "I, ah, need you to meet me at the bunker." *Click* Still working on that Chatty Cathy thing, I see. He wanders off screen, presumably to the bunker.

"Six hours ago, Sam and Dean Winchester tried to kill the president of the United States." An unknown government operative (UGO #1) briefs another unknown government operative (UGO #2) about the new guests in their secret, underground bunker. UGO #2 wants the full dossier on the boys. UGO #1: "Assault, murder, multiple accounts of desecrating a corpse." "The same corpse?" As UGO #2 learns the full details of the attempt on the POTUS's life, Sam and Dean are transported to their new shinier bunker, and locked away.

UGO #1 suggests they take care of the Winchesters the easy way, but UGO #2 likes to play with his prey before breaking them. They could connect to something much bigger. I like the calm 1950's Interrogator vibe UGO #2's got going on.

UGO #2 proceeds to talk with Sam and Dean, separately. He questions them about their motive for the attempted assassination. "You're going to talk to me, son." He then lets them know that torture doesn't work. You know what does work? Nothing. 

He's just going to let them sit, and think, and stare at the blank walls of their cells. They'll talk eventually. And no one is coming for them so they've got all the time in the world.

Sidenote: UGO #2 doesn't know about this motherfucker~

Meanwhile, Metatron Mick (and his cartoon beard) sits at a magical typewriter to relay the latest to the Home Office.

He's been trying to make inroads with American hunters, but he's not having much luck "Let me paint you a picture, of a world without monsters or demons, or any of those little buggers that go bump in the night; of a world where no one has to die because of the supernatural." Uh, dude, we like to watch our Winchesters so we'll just keep things as is. Thxkby. Ok, that's not what the hunter dude Mick is talking to is thinking, but he seems super impressed to me.

Actually, what he really says is gold all on its own: "You can take your offer, and you can shove it up your ass. I'm sure it won't be too painful, what with those soft hands of yours."

Back at the bunker, Mary is completely UNIRONICALLY angry at Cas -CAS!- for leaving Sam and Dean. <INSERT A THOUSAND GIFS OF CAS SAYING "I’ll go with you"> It breaks my little Cas-loving heart to watch this scene. Mary's emotional and projecting her own guilt on Cas. (Hmm, who else in that little family projects his issues onto others?) Cas is so demoralized he just takes it because he feels like he did fail the brothers.

Dean finds a loose screw in his cell, and starts the daily scratch on his wall. Man, with walls that soft, all he needs to do is ask for a poster of Raquel Welch and he'd be outta that place in no time! It's feeding time anyway. Dean's a-ok with the grub, but sadly, Sam did not get the kale smoothie he requested at the commissary.

Cas reaches out to Crowley for help, but Fergus is too busy drinking his mai-ti to expend any more energy on Sam and Dean Winchester. "Do you even care that they're gone?" Cas implores. "No." Crowley has full faith that they'll make it out ok; they always do. 

Mary consults John's journal (like, that seems to be the one thing that won't help the Winchesters in this new "humans are the real bad guys" world). Anyway, she hears a phone ring in Dean's room. It's Alicia, Asa Fox's daughter. They need help with a pack of werewolves. She's on the case! Very Dean of her ---if she can't solve the most pressing issue, might as well keep hunting for the sake of distraction.

Dean now has quite a few hash-marks on his wall. And while watching the episode live, Boris literally called it on Sam exercising about two seconds before we saw him start his calisthenic routine. So like Sam. Things are looking pretty grim though for our boys.

With time passing, and no hope of finding Sam and Dean, Mary and Cas meet up at a bar. Mary is sorry for her previous actions, but Cas still takes full blame. Poor bby. They have no leads. And Sam and Dean have been gone "Six weeks, two days, and ten hours." Oh, Cas. Cas then tells Mary about his inability to even solve a case. I know people are confused about how this is "Cas with his mojo back" but I think this speaks to Cas's mental state --and how human he feels. He has zero confidence in himself right now. He's no angel. He doesn't feel at home anywhere. He thinks he's still a hunter-in-training, and he's failing without his support system. And just like the man he fell from heaven for, he's going to take full blame for everything if he can't fix them. Mary suggests they take care of the case together, but Cas declines. "No, I'll only get in your way."

Chow Time. Only NOT! Sam and Dean are both DEAD!!! I love how they supposedly did CPR on Sam but he hadn't been moved. Lol.

In the morgue, the Dead!chesters are laid out. UGO #1 and #2 are arguing it out about what a waste keeping them locked up was, before turning off the lights and leaving.

Cas is alone in the dark bunker. 

Back at the morgue...*SURPRISE* Dean gasps awake! He's ALIVE! Praise Chuck! They're both alive! I was worried there for a mo. Just then the morgue doctor walks in and they ambush him for answers. Where are they? He doesn’t know. They steal his phone, and take off. Making it outside before any CCTV catches them, Dean calls Cas. “This is my voicemail. Make your voice…a mail” No answer!

Dean tries again, and again. Finally:

Cas: What?

Dean: Cas

Cas: Dean!?

Dean: Hey, buddy. Long time.

Us: SQUEEEEEEE

Dean quickly cuts to the chase and tells Cas they’re in Rocky Mountain National Park. Meet them as soon as possible, they’re kind of on the clock. *Click* Sam asks Dean if “he told him.” “Nope.” Hmmm. (Natasha: On a rewatch this hit me hard. They’re on the clock because they’re trying to escape, but also so that one of them can say goodbye forever to Cas before they die. God DAMN it, Winchesters.)

Mary walks away from a den of beheaded vampires when her phone rings. It's Cas! He tells her that he heard from Sam and Dean and she rockets her way to meet him in Colorado.

UGO #1 and 2 walk into the examining room to check out the Winchesters' remains only to find both bodies gone and a tapping sound coming from the body drawers on the wall. It's our bumbling doctor!

“Whoopsie daisy,” he might as well have said. The troops move out to the Benny Hill theme song. “These guys are killers. You got eyes, you pull the trigger,” UGO #1 orders curtly so that we all know the stakes.

Cas meets up with Mary and suggests backup – perhaps Crowley and Rowena? Mary scoffs at turning to the King of Hell and a witch so Cas thinks of someone else...t.b.a. (You know in the old days it woulda been Charlie. *mourns quietly to myself* *Boris joins in*)

Agents Surly and Affable hunt the Winchesters and rib each other. You’re out of shape! You’re mentally unstable! Bromance!

Cut to Dean and Sam – still hunted. Sam guesses that they've got about about an hour until dark, 6 hours to midnight. “Dean,” Sam says. “We've gotta talk about this.” Is “this” feelings? An escape plan? Stay tuned, kids. For now, they leave their big ole bootprints in the mud before wading into a stream. (Bobby would be chewing you out, boys.)

Back on the road with Mary and Cas, our guilt-fueled duo meets with Mick and Mr. Ketch. Mary is understandably NOT OKAY with this plan. “Suddenly the demon and his mommy don't look so bad.” Cas sticks up for his Crowley/Rowena plan and mentions that they helped take care of Lucifer.

Mick is impressed. “THE Lucifer?”

“Did you win?” asks Mr. Ketch. When Cas answers in the affirmative, Ketch lauds their success while he stares at Cas with his horrible, cold shark eyes...

“But, Sam and Dean were taken,” Mary interjects, pulling this recap back on course. They need help. And, huzzah, the BMoL are happy to help.

Mick notes that the American hunters have been a difficult barrier to their main goal in the U.S., which is to “make friends.” Right. Anyway, he goes on to describe hunters as “surly, suspicious, [and they] don't play well with others.”

“Well, that is accurate,” Cas notes.

Mick tells Mary that if word gets out that they helped save THE Sam and Dean Winchester then it'll help their cause with American hunters. Mary reluctantly agrees and tells them that her boys are being held in the Rocky Mountain National Forest – which the BMoL immediately identify as “Site 94”, a shadow-ops facility. They'll run a satellite scan of the area. The pairs depart, ready to find our boys.

Back in the woods UGO #1 and UGO #2, best buddies by now, find the Winchesters’ footprints. They're on the trail! The camera pans back to the Winchesters who are awfully close by. The boys hide behind a tree and tackle one of the soldiers who has trailed off on his own.

Dean picks up the solder's walkie talkie and has a friendly chat with the agents. “What we have here is a failure to communicate,” He says with relish. “’Cause we're not trapped out here with you. You're trapped out here with us.”

Dean and Sam find an old cabin and immediately take stock of what's inside. Sam lights a lantern, which seems like a really terrible idea. Dean grabs a bear trap. Yeah! Let's Home Alone this mother. The boys get to work and soon enough, the agents are upon them. They see the lantern illuminating the room, and someone passes in front of the curtain. Those wily Winchesters must be inside.

Once inside, the cabin appears empty. The soldiers stalk in and around the cabin when the Winchesters begin their attack. Soldiers are non-fatally shot and knocked unconscious and then we're down to two: UGO nos. 1 through 2.  UGO #1, the bigger jerk, gets trapped in Dean's Home Alone bear trap while UGO #2 gets cornered by Sam with a gun at his head. The boys walk away. Really, with that swagger they might as well be wearing sunglasses and walking away from an explosion.

“Who are you?” UGO #2 calls after them.

“We're that guys that saved the world,” says Sam Fucking Winchester.

Cas greets Sam and Dean in the woods. Sam gives him a giant moose hug before flying to hug his mom. Dean gives Cas a solid bro hug before joining the Mary Winchester hug pile. Cas looks on, happy to see his family together again.

Sam and Dean aren’t pleased to find the BMoL hanging out by the cars but there’s no time to hash it out - they’ve got to high tail it out of there. The people they left will call for backup. Mr. Ketch immediately gloms onto this, calling their mercy “a bit unprofessional.” They all exchange meaningful LOOKS of suspicion before getting into the car and taking off.

As they drive back home Mary's car cuts out suddenly. “It's time,” Sam says. Cas throws Dean a goddamnit what did you do look and they all get out of the car. Billie waits for them on the road. She reveals that Dean and Sam made a deal. Billie would kill them and then bring them back to life, thereby helping them escape. On one condition: Billie gets to kill one Winchester for good by midnight. Ding, dong, Cinderella.

In response to Mary and Cas’s looks of horror Dean explains that being locked in that solitary cell was worse than Hell. “You don't have to do this,” Cas grinds out. But Billie tells them that they made a blood pact, strong as the cosmos.

“Who's it gonna be?” Billie asks and Dean and Sam exchange sorrowful looks, ready to engage in a sacrifice-off. They're surprised by Mary, though, who offers herself. Billie magically pins down Sam and Dean and Mary, trembling, takes a gun and points it at her own head. DAMN IT, WINCHESTERS.

Mary tells them she loves them. And then Billie dies, stabbed through the heart with an angel blade.

Fuck yeah, Castiel

(Though I am genuinely sorry about Billie.)

I know the entirety of Tumblr has already done this quote but I'm including it for reasons, okay?

Cas heartbreakingly, emotionally tells them, “This world. This sad, doomed little world. It needs you. It needs every last Winchester it can get and I will not let you die. I won’t let any of you die. And I won't let you sacrifice yourselves. You mean too much to me. To everything. Yeah, you made a deal. You made a stupid deal. And I broke it. You're welcome.”

FUCK. YEAH. CASTIEL.

The Winchesters all look at each other. Because. Damn. (Boris: I want a 5 page analysis paralleling Cas killing Billie to Dean killing Death. Please and thank you.)

Cut to Mick typing away merrily on his magic typewriter. We learn that Mr. Ketch has “dealt with” everyone who knew about Sam and Dean's arrest. He's also made inroads with the American hunters. Great! Good job Mick.

Oh wait. He's talking about Mary.

God damn it, Winchesters.

Boris: Man, after this episode, this show needs to rename itself Natural. Barely a supernatural being around. But seriously, I don’t know if it was the hiatus or what, but I loved this episode. It hit all the right notes —enough to hand wave away the questions about Cas’s abilities. That being said, Andrew Dabb loves Cas, and we love him for that. This was such a strong episode for Cas. I think it’s really setting up the rest of the season for a major character development. Yay! We know he’s a Winchester, but it’s going to be so nice to see him realize he’s a Winchester (goddamnit, this better be the endgame.) I also have to give kudos to Mary’s story. Mary continues to have her own story and agency. I'm so trained to having the woman be a plot advancement or helper or foil for the main characters (not necessarily spn, but all tv/movies) that I'm just shocked and mad at her for wanting to find her own way... but I'm cool with her working with the BMoL because this is her path. She’s not just here to bake pie for Dean. They better not fucking kill her. And finally, and most controversially: Destiel doesn’t exist. Lolz.

There are no friendly quotes:

They might be the tip of some nasty-ass iceberg.

Chow time!

Sam and Dean, they're like herpes...just when you think they're gone, hello, the boys are back!

This is my voicemail. Make your voice...a mail.

The last two months we've been sitting around with our junk in our hands because you wanted to wait them out.

Maybe this is some slow your heartbeat kung-fu crap. 

[coeur-dun-pirate]

Bio and Rules

Rules:

I’ll try my best to answer reblogs and asks as quickly as possible, but no guarantees because my class load is pretty heavy right now. I’m usually pretty slow with replies. My name is Jess, so if you’d like to ask me something OOC, just refer to me by that and I’ll get right back to you! I’ll reply to most anything, including smut, angst, fights, etc. Just be nice to others is all I ask! I am in the American Central Time Zone, if that is helpful, but I normally reply in the morning or evening when I have the time to. 

Bio for Main Verse (Pirate au):

Name: Captain Félix Antoine Nihilon (though he prefers the last name Babote)

Gender: Male

Sexual Orientation: Pansexual

Age: 25 (Born June 18, 1657)

Hair: Pale blond, pooled in wild, fluffy curls on his head

Eyes: Blue/Green

Height: 5'11". He’s very lanky and tall, and he’s not heavy enough to hold his liquor too well.

Other details: Very thin and gaunt face, tanned skin (this is due to him being mixed-race, but to better conceal his identity, he claims that it’s due to his exposure to the sun). His eyes are crystal clear, owl-like and observant, and the centerpiece of his face. His voice is soft, but clear and calming.

Father: Lazare Nihilon-- a harsh tempered, French slave-driver. He is unforgiving and pessimistic. He meets the world with a glare.

Mother: Kinsalababote-- a wise, kind woman of the BaKongo people, and a slave under Lazare’s command. (Within BaKongo customs, last names aren’t given based on family, but instead are based on which groups of people that person chooses to identify with. So instead of a family last name, there is a lastname/suffix name given to the person based on who they identify as. The suffix name Babote corresponds to a group that does good deeds)

Born: The french slave colony of Saint-Domingue, which is present-day Haiti

Likes: The sea, above all things. He loves the wind in his hair and the sound of the waves and the rocking of the ship. He loves his crew like they are his family, and seeks out those he sees as misfortunate or lost to be a part of his crew, such as those with disabilities or those suffering from poverty. He loves warm weather. He is very particular to finding clothes that look nice on him (he’s rather vain). He loves music, and plays a flute every now and again to raise morale amongst his crew. He also has an incurable sweet tooth, and is a bit of a show-off when it comes to swordsmanship.

Dislikes: Slavery. He is entirely against it and spends most of his time out at sea hunting down slave ships and tracking slave trade routes. He also hates excess violence, and prefers to use evasion, defense, and trickery before resorting to more offensive fighting. He hates cold weather and isn’t too fond of people showing ownership over things like the sea or land.

Other: Although he’s the captain of his ship, he spends most of his time in the crow’s nest because he enjoys looking out over the ocean. He can speak multiple languages very fluently, such as English, Portuguese, French, and Kikongo. However, he isn’t very efficient at reading those languages. He tries to hide the fact that he was born as a slave, not because he is ashamed of his identity, but because his time as a slave was the most traumatic for him and he doesn’t like to be associated with it.

Background: Kinsala was kidnapped from her home in Congo and shipped to work on the sugarcane plantations on Saint-Domingue. She gave birth to Félix after Lazare had raped her, and Lazare demanded to name her child and gave him the name Félix, which meant “lucky”, as he thought the child would be lucky to survive in the harsh conditions of the plantation.

Félix did survive, however, as Kinsala took great care to shield him from the harsher field work and gave him as much of her food as she could to keep him growing. Félix learned French, but he grew up with the traditions and beliefs of the BaKongo, and he loved his mother more than anything.

However, as Félix grew, his father treated him the same way he treated all of the slaves, and Félix was regularly and horrifyingly beaten along with his mother. As he grew older and began to take on the workload of his mother, he began to resent his father. He dream of escaping from the colony with his mother.

One night, when he was 15, Lazare was in a rage. He battered Félix to the ground and beat Kinsala until she died. Blind with anger, Félix wrestled Lazare’s sword from his belt and stabbed Lazare to death with it. He took the sword and ran, stealing Lazare’s small supply boat and sailing off into the sea. He jumped from port to port, building a crew, until he was able to raid a French navy ship and steal it for his own. For 10 years, he built up his reputation, hiding his origins away and becoming a fearsome pirate.

The sword he carries with him presently is Lazare’s sword, which is why he refrains from using it as much as he can, because he is haunted by his past and doesn’t want to kill ever again.

Bio for old verse (FBAWTFT au):

Name: Felix Virgil Nihilon (Nihilo is the Latin word for “Nothing”, if you’re wondering C:)

Age: 31 (Born June 18, 1895)

Hair: White/Silver, pooled in fluffy curls on his head

Eyes: Blue/Green

Height: 5'11". He’s very lanky and a lightweight. He would lose so hard during a fist fight, smh

Other details: Very thin and gaunt face, pale skin, wears thick glasses. His eyes are crystal clear, owl-like and observant, and the centerpiece of his face. His voice is soft, but clear and calming.

Parents (both no-majs): William and Grace Nihilon. Both of his parents were complicated people: his father was heavily involved in crime, while his mother was a terrified woman who hid away in her home.

Born: Brooklyn, New York

Wand: 14.5", Hornbeam wood, Unicorn Hair, Rigid Flexibility, Carved lilac designs run down its sides

(Due to the Hornbeam, it is very disobedient to other users besides him, and will never project any of the unforgivable curses)

Ilvermorny House: Pukwudgie

Patronus: Unicorn (Not trying to be OP, this is the result I got on Pottermore)

Favorite Colors: Blues, Greens, and all pastels

Likes: Using a typewriter, despite his ability to enchant a pen or a quill. He makes excellent tea. He always decorates his small clinic with flowers. He enjoys nature, despite how little of it there is in the city, and spends a lot of time in Central Park. He loves holding casual conversations with others, and picking up clues as to what they’ve been through. Spring is his favorite season. He likes quiet people; he views them as a challenge or a riddle. In his free time, he paints, although he doesn’t think he’s any good at it.

Dislikes: Legilimens (he’s SUPER jealous of them), loud noises, isolation, cold weather, Grindelwald/his ideals, and the weird no-maj laws that MACUSA has. He hates when his appointments are unsuccessful, and blames himself.

Other: He’s bisexual, and also a huge dork that likes showing off how much he observes about others. He wakes up early and goes to bed early, but takes frequent naps. He’s got an enormous crush on Newt, but knows that it will never work and keeps his mouth shut. He can get lost in thought very easily, and is seen as spacey by his relatives. He’s also a huge cuddler so watch out.

Background: He was always the mediator in his family. His parents fought constantly, sometimes violently, and he had no other siblings to stand up for him. His parents never meant to hurt him, but he was always caught in the crossfire of their arguments and sometimes came to school with bruises on his face. As such, he taught himself at a young age to observe how his parents ticked, and how he could draw out certain emotions in them to make them happy and content with each other. He loved spending time outside, because he never had to say a word to make the flowers be kind to the wind. His parents were always proud of him, loved him a lot, and supported his magic, but the emotional pressure that they put on him to hold their relationship together was too much, and for a while after attending school he was a cocky little punk and spent life as a criminal. He didn’t want to exhaust himself over making other people happy, so out of spite he did the opposite: he used his knowledge of psychology to work his way inside the heads of mob bosses and hustlers and make their lives miserable. He rose to the top of the criminal foodchain simply by scaring and threatening his enemies into submission, even driving them to suicide. He never killed anyone as a criminal, and when fights became physical, he got beat up quite often. He was angry and manipulative, but still had a code of honor, and never picked on those who were weaker than him. During this time, his parents tried to re-establish contact with him, but he ignored them. Then, they were killed in an attack by Grindelwald fanatics. Torn apart by his own actions towards them and the suddenness of their deaths, Felix failed to find comfort in his empty title as criminal. He remembered how good it made him feel when he got his parents to hold hands again for a while, and he made the decision to reform himself, disappearing from the underground and using the money he had built up to buy books and materials to finish up medical school. He hid himself away in his apartment, finishing up his doctorate and becoming a certified healer and psychologist. He dyed his hair and worked full time until he had earned enough money to buy his clinic, lying low and working to become a better person. He now dedicates his life to understanding other people.

That’s all folks!

[bethestaryouareradio]

A Glamorous Halloween

“The farther we've gotten from the magic and mystery of our past, the more we've come to need Halloween. ― Paula Guran

Happy Halloween! Hosts Brigitte Jia and Joven Hundal start off the show with Trends without Ends reporter Jack Pawlakos shares tricks, treats, and tips for a great Halloween. This year around 179 million Americans plan to dress up and celebrate Halloween,. spending will tally more than $9.1 billion! Chelsea Pelchat, reporter for Past Present, takes us on an historical tour of the origins of Halloween. The Celtic festival of Samhain, another word for summer’s end, meant people would light bonfires and wear costumes to scare off ghosts. This was the day which Irish farmers believed that the dead could rise up from underground and walk amongst the living. Glamorous witch, Deborah Castellano encourages listeners to be crafty, cunning, and unafraid to want something fiercely through her book Glamour Magic: The Witchcraft Revolution for Getting What You Want , Glamour is your secret weapon—your guide to finding what you want and getting it, too, whether it is Halloween or just an ordinary Day. Have a safe, fun Halloween! Don’t eat too much candy! Booooo!

Bio: Deborah Castellano writes for many of Llewellyn’s annuals and writes a blog on PaganSquare about opinions on glamour, the Muse, and the occult. Glamour Magic: The Witchcraft Revolution for Getting What You Want (Llewellyn) is available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Llewellyn.  Her shop, the Mermaid and the Crow, specializes in handmade goods. She resides in New Jersey with her husband, Jow, and two cats. She has a terrible reality television habit she can’t shake and likes St. Germain liqueur, record players, and typewriters. Visit her at www.charmedfinishingschool.com.com.

Teens talk and the world listens every Tuesday NOON PT on the Voice America Kids Network. Produced by StarStyle® Productions, LLC and Cynthia Brian, these young adults know how to rock and express their unique views. Join the fun!

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[onetwofeb]

By: Carl Wilson August 2, 2017

One in a series of enthusiastic posts, contributed by HILOBROW friends and regulars during 2017, on the subject of our favorite squads.

*

WHY I AM NOT A NEW YORK SCHOOL POET

I am not a New York School poet, I’m a rock      critic, though I think I’d rather not be. Why? Well,      many days as a young man, younger and more man than I wished, I would go to the library on      Colborne Street with a series of questions that were the      same question: Where did this culture come from? This      meaning the one I most cared about, with punk rock,      late-night TV, David Lynch, comix zines in it, though I also      cared about literature or jazz, e.g., which weren’t      much in it, except by rare invitation. If you were a      young man you mostly found out the answers were      drugs, the Velvet Underground, the Weather      Underground, the Beat Generation. If you were lucky maybe      someone told you John Cage. (Dadaists and surrealists, bien sur, but that’s over in the other place.) Around when you were catching on that Andy Warhol’s banana pulled more      weight than John Cale’s viola, when you were not as young a man, or if you never were a      man, the Beat Generation would be making you      very tired, in aggregate though not every particulate, above all for the denouncing and      pronouncing, which the Republicans later heard about, and      yelled GOOD IDEA. Finally you found out, maybe from poems      copied for you by a woman you loved who was smarter      than you, about the New York School in the 1950s,      who were John Ashbery, Frank O’Hara, James      Schuyler, and Kenneth Koch (pronounced Coke like the coke-bottle      glasses). Optionally also Barbara Guest, Joe Brainard, Ted      Berrigan, and Bernadette Mayer, et al. All indifferent to denouncing and      pronouncing, yet (don’t tell the internet) not bored or evil but rather so beautifully exhilarated about      having washed up on Manhattan-which-was-still-Manhattan      from wherever (who remembered?) on waves of splattered      paint. In “The Morning of the Poem,” Schuyler told this story about      what it was like for them to meet (I took the line indents      out, it was too much): “When I first knew John Ashbery he slipped      me one of his trick test questions (we were      looking at a window full of knitted ribbon dresses): ‘I don’t think James Joyce is any good: do you?’ Think,      what did I think! I didn’t know you were allowed not to like      James Joyce. The book I suppose is a masterpiece:      freedom of choice is better. Thank you, ‘Little J.A. in a Prospect of Flowers.’” Joyce or no Joyce, their poems rejoice in      letting in brows of all furrinesses and their friends as characters (poetry will be sociable or not at all!), and exclamation marks,      kangaroos and Cokes, Kenneth or otherwise. If New Yorkers were      Dr. Seuss drawings, or Lana Turner were Popeye, or cherubs      were epistemology, Republicans never noticed and still don’t.      Women were seldom props for William Tell      practice; mercy, some of the poets were women, though more of their painter      friends were, and returning to figuration. A few were      even heteros. Granted, lots, whatever gender, were Ivy      League valedictorians and track stars for Mineola Prep. There are      dodgy tales about their dealings with LeRoi Jones, who      fled them into the arms of Amiri Baraka. Still, in some      insane time like 1952 or 1955 it seems they’d      already known not only about late-night TV and comix      zines (collages!) and that not as much literature would      follow, but also that queer shoulders would get sprung from the      wheel. So they held Stonewall some 15 years in advance, down      the hall from Uncle Wystan Auden’s apartment (he      left early) and celebrated all morning and mourned      all night. They were so sad that they wrote about      happiness, removing the transition between the two so the straights couldn’t prosecute it. And      wrote novels together, and ridiculous plays, very fast, that they      made each other star in. (Oh, the punishment      theaters now inflict for the crime of having written a      play! “Development”? No, no. Do it like this.) They glowered drunk at each other’s boy-and-girl-friends at      parties but always went to the parties (or not at all) and borrowed typewriters there, if they      weren’t over in the other place, because Paris-which-      wasn’t-exactly-still-Paris was their own time-travel destination. They      were the last pack of poets who wanted to be painters,      instead of rock stars. So if Frank O’Hara had lived past 40 (Fire      Island, dune buggy) maybe he would have run a Factory that built a better Brillo box. But I didn’t      come from that culture. Even though now the palaces give my      beloved little J.A. all the crackerjacks for being still here, so wistful and so bereft of blood      relations. I came from this culture (notice my      pronunciation), where you can say James Joyce was bad all      day long and nobody gets mad or exhilarated or      starts looking at ribbon dresses. It’s called SARDINES.

[k-histoires-blog]

Introduction of the admins

Hello everyone,

This is a new account all about K-pop, K-dramas, anime and what not. We will post fanfictions written by us, drawings we made, and a lot more. Please keep in mind that none of us is a professional in any way in writing, drawing etc. We started this account purely for fun and to connect and interact with other people in the world who enjoy K-pop, K-dramas, etc. This account is a creative outlet for us and critique and criticism is always welcome. We will try our best to listen to your complaints or tips and change our account/content for the better.

Never be afraid to leave a comment or ask us a question because that is why we started this blog. However, all of the admins do have a personal life and school/university so we will not be able to reply or post content all the time. We hope you understand this and support us anyway.

Another important thing to be addressed is the matter of plagiarism. We will NOT accept any form of plagiarism for the work we post here was made by us and nobody else. It took us hard work and time to create all the stories and other things, so if anyone decides to use (some) of our work, we will take action. If anyone sees content of ours on another blog - or somewhere else on the internet - without our permission, please report this to us and we will take action. Thank you in advance.

That said, we would like to introduce ourselves individually.

Admin Bluebell:

Hey everyone,

I am the admin called Bluebell or also known as the thick thighs enthusiast (I am looking at you Jimin, Jungkook, Jooheon, Wonho, Shownu etc.). My real name is Fleur and like the other admins I am Dutch. I got into K-pop, I think, at the end of 2015. The first group to spark my interest was EXO and since then I was hooked. My bias in EXO went from Chen to Chanyeol to Baekhyun and D.O. If I could listen to D.O. sing every day for the rest of my life I would be a happy girl.

However, after seeing a certain clip of BTS I started stanning them and my life changed forever. (cheesy I know). At first my bias was Taehyung, then Jimin decided to creep in my life and screw up my feelings but since about 7 months I have found my ultimate bias. It is the one and only leader Kim Namjoon. I could rant for nine years about why I love him so much but no one has that much time. I like a lot of other artists as well, such as BTOB (after BTS they are my favourite group), EXO of course, Monsta X, GOT7, Day6, Shinee, Block B, VIXX, NCT, Big Bang, MAMAMOO, EXID, Red Velvet, Twice, f(x), Girls Generation, Dean, Zion. T, Heize, Hoody and the list goes on and on.

I’m not a big fan of K-dramas but I am a big fan of (K)-movies. So if you have any recommendations or just want to talk about a movie with me, you can message us!  I also love reading books and especially if they were written by Neil Gaiman. So if you can always message me when you want to geek out about a book or series.

In terms of what I will be posting on this account, you can mainly expect stories and drawings. I know I am still lacking a lot in both of these departments but I will try my best to create interesting and good content. I apologise if my stories won’t be so long because I do struggle with that, but this will not stop me from trying. Also my drawings aren’t the best ever  but I am confident enough to post them!

I think that was all there is to know about me so I am looking forward to running this blog with my fellow two admins and let’s have fun whilst doing so!

Admin Boa:

I'm the admin with the 'second lead syndrome' so if you want to rant about why the second lead deserves the girl/ how unfair life is you've come to the right place!

My real name is Frédérique but everyone calls me Freddie. I'm 18 years old (20.11.1998) and I currently live in the Netherlands. My nationality is Dutch but I was practically born and raised in England.

My favourite actors include (not in this order bc I literally can't choose a favourite): Choi Tae Joon, Do Ji Han, Seo Kang Joon, Kim Woo Bin, Lee Jong Suk and many many more!!! My favourite actrices are Park Shin Hye and Kim Go Eun.

I also write fanfiction, badly. But I'll upload my fics anyways. They're mostly boy×boy. I don't write for a specific group because there are a lot of groups that I stan and they all deserve love and attention. My favourite boy group always changes because of comebacks lmao, but I'm very loyal to my favourite girl group f(x). My ultimate bias is SEVENTEEN's Mingyu (he's literally the definition of adorkable).

The underground rap scene also has a lot of music I enjoy listening to (for as far as I know it). My favourite Korean program is SMTM. I recently got into Chinese films so if you would like to recommend any, please do so! I love reading good books so a recommendation is never a bad thing!

If you want to know more about me or like talking about any of the above (and more) please don't be shy and leave a message! The more people to talk with the better!

My personal 'K-pop experience'

I got to know K-pop in 2013 (if we don't count PSY's Gangnam Style) when I watched SHINee's Ring Ding Dong. I found it really funny and different from what I usually listened to since it was something I'd never seen before. I started liking it because it made me laugh. In the beginning for me it just looked really stupid (no offense, I love SHINee and I love Ring Ding Dong but I'd never seen something of the like). I really didn't take it serious. It was only when I saw more and different K-pop groups and their concepts that I started to take K-pop seriously as a hobby. When I watched SWING by Super Junior-M with a friend, that's when I began to see K-pop not only as comedic entertainment, but also as a great music genre with crazy good choreographies.

My first ultimate bias was Taehyung from BTS. I decided that when I saw him in I NEED U. He was gorgeous. Although he's still my BTS bias, my ultimate bias changed about a year later to Mingyu and it has stayed that way.

Groups that I stan off the top of my head are: SEVENTEEN, WINNER, NCT, B.A.P, SHINee, BTS, GOT7, KNK, BLOCK B, DAY6, f(x), Brave Girls, TWICE, FIESTAR, etc.

I also like a lot of soloists including: Crush, DEAN, Jay Park, C.Jamm, BeWhy, and many more!

I'm also taking a course of the Korean language. I'm very bad at learning new languages but I'm trying this anyways! (I'm not very advanced and I forget a lot so don't expect much of it lmao)

This is what I like in short. If you'd like to ask about more personal stuff (within certain boundaries) you're always welcome to do so!

I probably won't post often since I have 0 skills, but I'll be here to chat if you'd like!!

Admin Ana:

Hi everyone!

I'm Admin Ana, best described as a procrastinating perfectionist who tends to abuse the passive voice in her writings a lot. I'm 17 years old, born and raised in the Netherlands and an avid listener to Korean music since June 2016. My hobbies include makeup, music, reading, writing and travelling. I started taking writing seriously about five years ago, and it has been one of my hobbies ever since. Besides writing, I also like to draw. Even though I haven't drawn in a really long time, I'd still consider it one of my favourite things to do. If I pick up the pen and muster up the courage, I might share some of my drawings in the future as well.

Among the three of us, I was the last to start taking a liking to Korean music and Korean dramas and in all honesty, I was a little sceptical about the whole thing at first. Despite my doubts, I decided to give both a try and after watching the first few episodes of Kill Me, Heal Me, I fell in love with all that the Korean entertainment industry has to offer. Besides Kill Me, Heal Me, I've also watched and enjoyed dramas such as Goblin, Strong Woman Do Bong Soon, W, Doctors, Moon Lovers: Scarlet Heart Ryeo and Chicago Typewriter. Frankly, even after immersing myself in Korean dramas, it still took quite a while before I started appreciating Korean music. Yet, after being introduced to BTS by my fellow admins, I was won over. Soon DEAN and EXO caught my eye as well, and ever since then, I've been a lost cause. In one year’s time, I’ve got to know a lot of artists. Some of my favourites include BIGBANG, Monsta X, Block B, WINNER and GOT7. I'm also an AOMG enthusiast.

On this blog, I'll be mainly posting my drawings and writings. If I feel like promoting a soloist, group or series, I'll do so as well. If you have a question recommendation or request, feel free to message us! I'd love to chitchat a little. If you want to talk or ask us anything on a more serious note, don't hesitate to message us as well.

[janiklandre-blog]

Tuesday, May 9th, 2017

Tuesday, May 9th, 2017  9:31 a.m. chilly days - back in the computer room, fighting endless distractions - lots of things I should be doing in my apartment, if I looked at all the things coming up on the screen I would never begin writing, answering mail from readers - that I much appreciate - then do find, like long ago when I had wonderful correspondences with individual friends - I then for the most part could freely write about things on my mind. These correspondences probably could fill a few volumes - as the correspondences of "known" writers do - letters by. It is already written about how email no longer fills previous functions - though of course now we do read endlessly about much harm and distress caused by emails found in computers. Manual typewriters coming back into style! For years it was 8 or 9 quite random people to whom these here writings went - carefully chosen to be out of New York and not in contact with any one close to me - and actually since I had that wonderful lazer printer right next to my computer I did print reams of them, now sitting in folders in milk crates under what should have been my dining table filled with the stuff I should be upstairs and get rid of it. It was people expressing interest in my writing that led to expanding this writing - and now somehow, without giving it too much thought - true for a lot happening in my life - I began sending it to people close to me - who actually would make up the major topic in my life, but cannot, since they are reading this. The dilemmas we cause ourselves. Early on Ken was telling me that in the most miniscule ways I was creating some sort of face book - but an old techno phobic woman - never had a business sense - found so little in my life to turn into dollars and cents - this here blog after some fashion has become what others seem to post on face book - kind of keeping people up to date on my doings - constantly careful of not stepping on toes - but still stepping on toes here and there. Enough of my musings. In the mornings the clock seems to move much faster than in the evening when I am tired. I do plan today to go for soup to the C.W. - in an hour I must sign out. Then do a little shopping, by 1 p.m. ready to close eyes for a while, with a little bit of luck falling briefly asleep - Napoleon it is said was a master of brief naps. Today off to my uptown library, four weeks ago I took out a book trying to read a book again instead of newspapers - the account of an Israeli writer who as a young man was a soldier in a Lebanon outpost  describing the utterly senseless dying of young men. Flowers of Pumpkin Hill is the title of the book. My memoir reading. The book is due and must be returned. I will combine it with a walk in Central Park. That's the plan. The trip yesterday. You heard from me from the Smith College library, a large library, Neilson Library, about to be closed for three years for renovation. I had used their guest computer before - on May 21st the library will be closed. My son has been going there to work on a history paper and found a lovely quiet desk at a window and he also has been meeting there with a friend - they found each other not that long ago and realized they had been class mates at an elite public school in New York, actually located in the Bronx, called the Bronx High School of Science. Quite often mentioned. The other man is working on a book and they established a little ritual meeting at the library and having lunch - now by the closing of the library to be rudely interrupted. Yesterday I joined the two at lunch - in Norhampton, places overrun by customers, nice place, the name of some couple, Alice? and ?? - I enjoyed the fish chowder and then my son walked me to the train - I fully expecting a delay - at 2:01 on the minute it arrived. Amazing. Many travellers. Comfortable. Slow. No bullet trains in America the country of cars. I got off in New Haven to switch to  Metro North - a fellow traveller knew the schedule - leaving, on time! - 4:42 p.m., soon after we had arrived. On this train the pleasure is that as a senior, read old woman, you can pay the conductor, no fine. For Amtrac my son went though a tedious on line reservation - it was $23 and then $11 on metro north. Metro North at times is faster running express, it was almost 7 p.m. by the time we crawled to a stop in Grand Central. This train goes underground on 96th Street under Park Avenue - 96th street became the dividing line between the Upper East Side and Harlem - for years two worlds - now what we call gentrification is crawling up into Harlem. On Sunday there was a review of a book (NYT book review) trying to explain the tremendous changes this city is undergoing. Not easy. As we were crawling very slowly under Park Avenue from 96th street to 42nd street where Grand Central station is, I was already standing by the door that also is a window and the scenario you get to watch is a scenario totally falling apart, another witness to the neglect of our rail system. At one time actually small colonies of homeless had settled in the crumbling nooks and crannies until they were evicted. But one pleasure for me again is that I get off the train and on a quick straight line walk to my subway, the number 6 train - while Penn stsation is a labyrint and none of the west side subways once I find them take me where I want to go. When long walks were still short I usually walked from the West side to my East side. I had texted thee friend that I was coming, I'm always happy to come home to a friend - in my refrigerator was what last Thursday my older son and I had taken home from dinner at the Ukrainian restaurant - Hungarian goulash and mashed potatoes - I often eat things cold, the friend insisted on heating it (I don't want a micro wave - a pan is fine) and it made a good dinner for me. I like to talk, she likes to talk, we had a lively time. When she left I lay down on my bed, was out in seconds and woke at 2 a.m. again to do a few thing - quickly then fell asleep again until 6 a.m. Among my many struggles is my wardrobe. There is for instance a thrift shop in Brattleboro, Vermont - with a big sign we only take good, clean clothing - and there are women my size there who share my taste in long skirts, long dresses and also tops I like - and not that long ago I would drive there by car and at very low prices renew my wardrobe a bit. Lately I have not been able to get there any more and I realize my denim jumpers are fraying at the edges, and so is a black, very simple linen dress that I bought many years ago in a store around here that of course no longer exists. I never wore blue jeans with holes in them but marvel how now women pay a lot of money for faded blue jeans with big holes and hope that before too long fraying dresses and skirts also will become an expensive style. Pre wrinkled is in vogue, straight hair is chic - once upon a time it was only curled hair - well, it is almost 11 - I've carefully omitted writing about conflicts in my life - stuck to the very neutral and possibly boring topic of trains in America - time to sign out. Adios, Marianne