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#I even got a library copy so like it has an old dust jacket and that added to the chill vibes even more
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I just read an actual physical book and it's the one I got for my birthday and? Gosh?? It's so good?? It's just a nice chill time with a princess that gets fed up with all the manners and court and etiquette stuff and runs away to volunteer to be a dragon's princess and she just has such a nice time cooking and organizing and doing magic, all while fending off so many princes that keep trying to 'rescue' her and just like.. she's so happy to finally get to do interesting things and make this dragon's home organized and I just feel so much for that ^-^ gosh I'm really happy I read that right now, that was a real nice time
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thetomorrowshow · 3 years
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Slower Than Words Ch. 23
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Hey..... a member of my household just tested positive for Covid-19, and I am displaying symptoms sooooooo hopefully that won’t affect posting but it has made this chapter a little shorter than I had wanted. Basically if the next chapter isn’t out on time that’s why.
cw: b a d parenting, references to trauma
~
Remus chewed on the end of his pen. Riley, Alberts, Robertson, Robinson, Richards, Allison, Reese, Arlowe . . . something that started with an 'A' or an 'R'. But what? Why couldn't he remember his own last name?
Logan was always saying something about brainwashing and trauma, but Logan knew his own last name! Stupid Logan Sanders and his calm explanations for everything in Remus's life. He didn't want someone telling him how he felt or why, he wanted to move on. He wanted to figure himself out for himself. He wanted out.
The trip to the library a couple weeks ago had been even worse than expected. Logan hadn't even let go of Patton, despite how uncomfy the kid looked. It had to suck to be twenty-something and have your dad drag you around by the shoulders everywhere you go.
Patton had only wanted one book, for some reason. There were so many books in that building, and Logan had pulled like a hundred from the shelves just to show him. He'd signed so quickly about the book that Remus couldn't keep up, but Logan had frowned and talked to the librarian for a few minutes, before eventually presenting Patton with a book—which was probably the one he'd been asking for. His face looked weird after receiving it, happy, but also seriously depressed. It looked pretty old, Remus had no idea why he'd wanted that book.
Rivers, Albright, Abbott, Ramsey, Russell, Reed, Rowell, Austen. . . . Nothing. Not even a smidge of anything. Well, if he couldn't remember his last name, what about the name of where he used to live?
The city came to him almost instantly.
Sharon.
Remus snorted. That was a stupid name for a city. Actually, he could remember joking about it with his brother, about how their mom shared it.
Energy flooded to his limbs with a suddenness, and when the bell rang from the door opening beside him he literally fell out of his seat.
“W-welcome to Chevron,” he said, straightening up. The customer nodded barely at him, making a beeline for the refrigerators in the back. Remus quickly wrote on the scrap of paper he'd been doodling circles onto so far: 'sharon – town and ma'.
Now he just had to figure out which state sounded the most familiar, and if Sharon was a city there. He'd spent days just driving around town with friends, he probably still knew his way around.
The customer paid for a few jugs of Gatorade, then left, dust puffing up behind his truck as he pulled out of the parking lot. Remus sat back down, scratching his mustache with his pen. He could google the city when he got home, then. . . .
Then he'd figure out how to tell Patton and Logan he was leaving.
-
Patton sighed, flipping through the first half of the book again. Summer, it was called. This copy looked almost identical to the other one. He closed his eyes and ran his fingers along the slightly indented title, like Virgil would. He'd had it for almost two months now, asking Father to renew the book instead of allowing it to be returned. He really wanted to finish it, after all.
Not that he could ever get himself to read past around the middle.
Patton's notebook was almost full now, but he couldn't ask Remus for another. Not after how much Remus was already doing for him. The pages were filled with studying mouth movements, bad jokes, and journal entries that mostly were about Virgil and what they'd do when they were together again. In tiny, cramped handwriting was a detailed recollection of everything Patton could remember that Virgil told him about where he lived—which wasn't much. It was hard to hold on to any memories from there. His therapist said it had to do with trauma memories being stored incorrectly, and said he might have flashbacks about it. So far, none had happened, but sometimes he wished one would—just so he could see Virgil again.
He wasn't good at drawing, but here and there in his notebook were vague sketches of Virgil. Some days, Patton woke up not sure what he looked like. He couldn't forget him. Patton would never forgive himself if he forgot the lovely mistiness of Virgil's eyes, the way his hair fell into his mouth and made him sputter, the stark paleness of his face against his black hoodie. . . .
Patton wrapped the hoodie around himself. He needed to think about something else, or else he'd start crying again. Crying made his head and ears hurt, which his doctor said would probably always be the case. So he mostly did his best to not cry, ever.
Patton cast his mind around for something new to think about, and landed on the trip to the library several weeks ago. The trip wasn't . . . optimal?
No. The trip sucked.
Father wouldn't let go of him, which just made him feel like a toddler having to be guided around. It was bright, and had a lot of people, and was a little startling, but Patton was sure he could have handled it. Why didn't Father trust him?
It wasn't just that. Father made him go to bed at a specific time every night, wouldn't let him have any say in what he ate, wouldn't even let him pick what to watch on the TV. It was . . . it was stupid! It was awful, it was embarrassing, it was demeaning! It made Patton feel worthless, like he wasn't even a proper member of society! He wasn't a boy anymore, he had even had a job back at the Haven, he wasn't helpless!
Maybe soon, with all that he'd been learning, he could prove to Father that he was capable. And if Father wouldn't believe him, well . . . Patton would have to make him.
Again, that anger was right at the surface, ready to spill out into the air. At least he had the book.
-
Somehow, Logan had let Remus convince him that he didn't need to go to every therapy appointment with Patton, so Logan was at home alone. For the first time in months. He was exhausted, but he did not have time to sleep.
Patton was hiding something. Logan was undeniably certain of it. And when Patton hid something, he hid it under his bed.
Logan didn't get up immediately. This was a matter of privacy, after all. He understood that he was likely being a little too restricting with his son, but who could blame him? He'd almost lost him. So if Patton was hiding something, it was likely best to know what it was. Patton didn't seem to realize the amount of danger he was in. It wasn't his fault, he was just a child. Children weren't supposed to worry about this sort of thing, it was their parents' jobs to care for them. So, naturally, he had to make sure that whatever Patton was hiding wasn't going to bring harm in some way. If it was, he could gently confront him about it, and explain why it was not acceptable.
With that plan in mind, Logan stood from his desk and made his way to Patton's room. His door was always open, even when he was inside—it made sense, all things considered.
The room still had almost precisely the same setup as Logan had put together, down to the making of the bed. He'd told Patton that he was allowed to customize his room and ask for personal items, but so far he had done neither of those things. The only difference was that the small closet now had a few more pieces of clothing in it.
Logan bent to his hands and knees beside the bed and peered beneath. Sure enough, there were items underneath the boy's bed: a battered blue notebook, the singular book that he had wanted from the library last month, the jacket that had belonged to the other other prisoner. Logan reached for the notebook, grunting when his back popped.
He pulled himself onto Patton's bed to open it. It was confusing, at first, some jokes in his son's handwriting, rather poor sketches of an unfamiliar face. Then. . . .
Oh.
That—that was bad.
Logan took a few deep breaths, then flipped another page, then another. More of the same. This wasn't good. This was not good at all.
These diagrams and instructions, clearly for lip-reading? These would get Patton taken away from him. These would hurt him. These would make Patton want to leave the safety of home.
These were dangerous.
~
Taglist: @enragedbees @gotta-love-alejandra @bunny222 @basiic-emo @patt0n-sanders @rosiepupper @fangirlgeekandfreak @dn-fan21 @that2000skid @remy-the-lemon-berry @itsadastraperaspera @xionbean @sanderssides-angst @hell-yea-we-gay-tonight @maybedefinitely404 @broken-pencils @thewhimsicallibrarytech @doomllily @hereissananxiousmess @judyismydog  @arodynamic-enby @at-that-one-nerd @therapysides @awkwardandanxiousfander @thekitchenpan @im-an-anxious-wreck @larkiaquail
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Chapter 1: Haunted Library
A school project brings you to the library and you meet a girl that ruins changes your life.
WC: 2.5k
TW: Blood, fire, a bit of cursing
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“Even scientists don’t know what happened to the wildlife within the woods. Many have started to speculate that this is the fault of mages.”
“I can’t think of anything else it could be!” The man on the left lets out a laugh that’s as fake as the greenscreen background. “I mean, what else could explain grass and trees turning grey?”
“Maybe chemicals, Tadashi.”
“Oh. Yeah, maybe that’s it.”
You turn the TV off and set the remote down. These people are supposed to be reporters, not theorists with too much time on their hands.
But you don’t have time to worry about that. The clock tells you that school starts in twenty minutes and you’re supposed to be meeting Midoriya by the station in five.
You mentally run through everything you’ll have to finish today; study for those tests tomorrow, contact that kid you need to tutor, do your homework, and you’d have to work some more on that English project.
You desperately needed a nap, but your teachers had other plans.
You sling your bag over your shoulder and open the door, getting hit by a blast of air that’s much colder than you thought it’d be. You grab a jacket as quickly as you can and hurry down the street.
The morning is cool, the autumn leaves being lifted by the soft caress of the wind. The sky is cloudy, but the sun peeks just behind the puffy clouds as a promise to see you once again in only a few hours. The streaks of blue that stain the sad greys in the sky make you smile.
You hear your name. “Good morning!”
The first thing you notice about him will always be his hair. Naturally green and always messy, as if he just rolled out of bed (considering his schedule lately, he might just have). It brings out his eyes and the splash of freckles that paint his cheeks.
“Good morning, ‘Zuku.”
“You came a bit later than you usually do…” He points out. “Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, I just got distracted by the news.”
“Oh! Anything interesting?”
“They were talking about ‘wildlife turning grey’. I bet it was just some chemicals or something like that.” He nods his head excitedly.
“Whoa, I haven’t heard of that! What else did the reporters say?”
“Something about it being the fault of mages. But they were speculating and hopefully just joking… Can you believe it?” He laughs and shakes his head.
The school campus welcomes you both and keeps you sheltered from the frigid wind that howls outside. The halls are familiar, yet still manage to be disappointingly plain. There are only a few people here, waiting outside their classrooms for their teachers to arrive or to be let inside.
When you and Midoriya step inside, you’re greeted by the ever so familiar faces of your classmates. Momo is trying to help Kaminari, Mina and Jiro are listening to music, Bakugo is yelling at an indifferent Todoroki - So, all in all, it’s a regular morning.
You haven’t known these people as long as you’ve known Deku and Bakugo, but they still know exactly how to bring a smile to your face.
“Did you choose the topic?” You ask.
“I chose vampires,” Deku says. “But if you don’t like it, then we could always do something different, you know? I was just interested in them and how they evolved in literature with time.”
“Relax, ‘Zuku. I don’t mind. I’m actually kinda glad.”
“You are?”
“Yeah! At least it isn’t boring. Plus, I honestly have no idea what else we could choose.” You admit. He laughs a little bit.
“Well, I’m glad you like it! I was thinking we could start by reading and analyzing Dracula. That was the book that really brought vampires into the public eye.”
You can’t help but admire how much he already knows. “Maybe we could stop by the public library tonight?”
“Oh yeah! We could go there on the way home.” He scribbles it down in his prized notebook and he taps the pencil against his lip. “Do you have any ideas for books we could read next?”
“Other than Twilight? No.” His face drops when you say that and you laugh. “I’m only kidding! Sort of.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing!”
“Good morning, students.” The voice of the principal crackles through the speaker. “Today is October Third-”
Deku hits his forehead.
“I completely forgot about that,” He groans. “I don’t think I’ll be able to walk home with you tonight.”
You blink. That’s… never happened before.
“Wait, what? Why?” You whisper. Professor Aizawa is watching you and you shift uncomfortably under his disappointed gaze.
“I have… a club meeting.”
“Huh. Okay.” Did Izuku ever mention signing up for a club? “I’ll be sure to grab you a copy of Dracula too. I can drop it off at your apartment.”
“Thanks.” He smiles a bit. “I’m sorry!”
“It’s fine, so don’t worry about it!” You insist. Your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
Izuku doesn’t notice.
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When the day ends, you wait by the wise, old tree that bends down to kiss the skin of the earth. You stand there for five minutes before it hits you.
He has a club meeting. Right.
You internally kick yourself and bid the tree farewell. The wind strikes the branches and causes them to shake as if it is saying goodbye to you as well.
The more you think about it, the clearer it becomes that Midoriya never mentioned a club or an after school program. He often told you what he signed up for and if he had plans to do something else. So why not this?
You shake your head, the leaves ghosting across the ground. You’re his friend, not his mom. If he doesn't want to tell you something, he doesn’t have to.
The path ends at the old library. The outside had yet to be polished the same way the inside was, so it looked less like a library and more like a haunted house, where ghosts drifted aimlessly between the shelves. The sign was missing a few letters and the wood looked like it could turn to splinters with a push that was just hard enough.
When you open the door, you’re greeted by the librarian and you wave to her before stepping inside. The lights make the place feel warm, even though there is no functioning heater. A few people are roaming around, others reading or typing away on their computers. The stairs are in the back of the room, and the classics section is on the second floor.
The section is empty. The other areas had one, maybe two people thumbing through the shelves. It feels strange to be alone, which makes the silence even more deafening.
You find the books that you need and hold them as gingerly as you can like you’re scared they’ll turn to dust if you apply just a little more force. Now, all you have to do is go to-
“Dracula, huh? Are you into that occult stuff?”
A voice. Right against your ear.
You leap away and hold the books to your chest. “I-I’m sorry?” You say as evenly as you can manage.
The girl looks innocent enough. Her light hair is drawn into two buns on both sides of her head and she has a wide smile on her face. She’s wearing a school uniform underneath an unbuttoned beige cardigan.
Even so, you can’t help but think her eyes are glinting with something other than joy.
“Oh, silly me!” She giggles. “I haven’t even introduced myself. My friends call me Toga.” She holds out a hand, her smile never faltering.
Her skin is so… pale. If you didn’t know better, you might’ve convinced yourself that you were talking to a ghost.
“Um… Nice to meet you.” You mumble, taking her hand and barely even shaking it. Her skin is cold, too. You give your name tentatively and pull your hand away. “If you’ll excuse me-”
“You’re really cute.”
You blink; once, twice.
“What?”
“You heard me, didn’t you? You’re adorable!” She giggles again. It feels like her stare is all over you, even though she hasn’t looked anywhere other than your eyes.
“Thank you, but I really must be going.” You insist.
“I have something to check out too! Why don’t we go together? That’d be fun, wouldn’t it?” Her eyes flash.
A hollow feeling settles into your stomach.
But your gut screams that saying no isn’t an option anymore.
So, you agree. It’s a tentative whisper that not even the walls could hear, but she does, loud and clear.
She perks up and laughs.
“Hooray!” She cheers, scooping up a random book from the shelves and dragging you along by your arm. Her grip is steel and her nails dig into your skin. You keep your mouth sealed, even if it hurts a little.
You look at what she’s wearing. There are no pockets in her skirt, and her cardigan is too thin to hide anything effectively, same with her blouse. There are no strange shaped lumps in her socks that go up to her knees.
So why were you so tense? Why are you afraid of this girl?
The last thing you wanted was to stick around long enough to find out.
“Are you walking home?” She sets her book right next to the self-checkout and doesn’t bother to scan it. You refuse to make eye contact with her, pretending to thumb through Dracula.
Should you lie? What if she saw right through you? If you said that you were walking home, would she follow you?  
“I’m waiting for a friend.” As soon as the words escape your lips, your hands start to shake. You hide them behind the books.
“Oh, that’s great! I can wait with you!” She smiles with her teeth and you shrink away.
“Not at the library… We’re meeting at a spot that’s kind of far away. It was nice meeting you, though, Toga-”
“I don’t mind!”
You freeze.
“Excuse me?”
“I really like you, so I’ll wait with you!” Her smile widens somehow. “I can’t let someone as cute as you get away from me.”
Your heart is pounding and you can feel that bile in the back of your throat building up.
“I can wait on my own.” You insist. “I appreciate the offer, Toga, but I’d prefer to be by myself.”
Her smile melts away.
There is no anger on her face. No sadness, no envy or rage. Her expression is just… blank.
But then she laughs. A laugh that teeters on the edge of insanity and mayhem. A laugh that makes your skin crawl.
She sings your name ever so lightly, a soft twinkle in her eye that makes your stomach twist even more.
Her hand shoots out and snatches your arm, her nails breaking through your skin. Blood starts to seep out of the cut, but she doesn’t mind it at all.
Her eyes seem just a bit brighter than before.
“I wasn’t asking you, was I?” She says simply, her smile far too wide.
You pull your arm back. Her hold doesn’t give. You try to resist even further. She’s strong, stronger than what you ever could’ve guessed.
Toga leaves the library, with you in tow. Your arm feels like it could be ripped off at any second.
“Where are you waiting for your friend?”
You stammer out a place that you’re sure she won’t know about. She’ll let go of you eventually, right?
But all she does is laugh and change her direction.
You look around, trying to find someone, anyone nearby. If you cried out for help, no one would hear. You try moving away, you try fighting back, but you can’t - your efforts are fruitless and that panic is building up in your chest once again.
She sighs your name. “Your blood smells so good… Did you know that?”
You have half the mind to question how she can smell your blood before you’re yanked toward her.
Her mouth hovers just above your neck.
Are those... fangs in her mouth?
But you don’t feel any pain. Her teeth never even graze your neck.
Because there’s a shout. Words you can’t understand, words that don’t sound like they’re from any language. But they’re said with such intensity that it feels like you’re standing next to a raging inferno.
And, in the next moment, you are.
There’s fire.
Fire that engulfs Toga’s entire being. Fire that makes you feel like you’re inches away from Hell itself.
Fire coming from Midoriya’s hands.
You’re yanked out of the way.
His hands are scorching. It will most likely leave a mark. Yet, right now, you don’t find that you care.
What you’re really concerned with is that your best friend just set a girl on fire with nothing but his hands.
“Are you alright?” His eyes bore into yours, only inches apart. Heavy breaths fan your face.
“When did you- How-”
He ignores your stammers. “Stay behind me.”
Where Toga once stood, there is only thick, bitter smoke and the dying embers of the flames. It doesn’t seem like anything else is burning, strangely enough.
How is this possible? What is happening?
He starts speaking. The words are fluid and fast, one sound blending into the next.
A gust of wind comes from his hands. It blows away the smoke and reveals that there was no one there.
Toga is gone.
There are no ashes or anything of the sort. Just shoe-shaped imprints left in the dead grass. You’re still bleeding from where she scratched you, but you feel no pain. All you can focus on are the questions swirling around in your head. On the fact that Midoriya just did… whatever that was.
Faintly, you hear your name. Midoriya’s facing you, worry etched on his face.
“Did she bite you?”
You shake your head. “All she did was scratch me.” Your voice is barely a murmur and you show him your arm. He nods, inspecting the cuts.
“You’ll be fine. All they need are a few bandages.” He lets out a long sigh. “That was too close. Toga is getting out of control lately, and it’s not just her-”
“Deku.” The words come out harsher than you meant. He flinches and turns to you.
“Yes?”
“What the fuck just happened?”
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This is probably the most self indulgent thing I've written yet! It was so much fun to do and I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it! Remember to drink some water and I hope you have a great day! 💕
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i am doing a Writing™!
Hello! I've been working at a little (or maybe big) fantasy story and I've finally got pen to paper and gotten a wee prologue done. This is my first real attempt at any kind of fiction stuff, so I imagine it's a shaky start.
Not entirely sure where would be best to post it with the original formatting, but for now here it is in good ol' Tumblrvision. I'd love it if you could give it a read, and if you have any pointers or feedback I'd love to hear those too!
So, without further ado...
A brisk chill settled once again upon the town’s market stalls as the sun dipped lower and lower below the horizon. In the night, hardly any of Parmslow was well-lit, least of all the old library that sat mostly uninhabited in the middle of the small settlement. Covered in dust, rows upon rows of lofty, ancient tomes seemed to stretch to infinity inside; visible only due to the one occupied desk which sat in the middle of the room. Upon the desk was a single oil lamp and a selection of books; mostly closed, for now. ‘Mygrin’s Guide To The Undead’, ‘Notes On Lycanthropy’ and ‘Prophecy of the Beast’ were some of the more noteworthy titles in the pile. Perhaps the most interesting book of them all, however, was the one without a title which lay open in the middle of the desk, currently being fervently scribbled into by a single dirtied hand.
The hand - and the book - belonged to one Jenn Azomort, whose work was not finished. Not yet.
“It has to be somewhere! It has to be something!”
Jenn furiously flipped through the pages of each book in sequence, making notes with the other hand and muttering to herself all the while.
“Not reanimated, far too large… and the growl…”
The words trailed off as Jenn struggled to make sense of what she had seen that day. Not in any book. Not by the looks of things, anyway.
“Unless… no. Surely it isn’t…”
Scrambling to one of the nearby shelves with the lamp in hand, Jenn traced her fingers along the row of books, until landing on the one with the widest spine. ‘The Beast-Hunter’s Companion’ by Oroth O’Kannock. Jenn slammed the book onto the desk and flung it open to a page near the back, titled “THE UNSEEN”. The page read as follows:
“Know this, dear reader: had I the resources (or the nerve) to confront these creatures myself, then I might even be able to find out more about The Unseen, but for the moment I do not. The Unseen is not a singular creature, rather a group of beasts who only exist in stories passed down through generations. It is thought that, should these beasts exist, then few men will have seen them and lived to tell the tale. That is why so little is known about them, and what few tales exist have likely been skewed by generations of storytellers.”
The Beast-Hunter’s Companion was by no means a popular book, or even a well-known one. Not widely released, it was a miracle the library even had a copy in the first place. O’Kannock was mostly disregarded as a mad old vagrant wizard, and his decision to write a book on beast-hunting left most readers perplexed. Why he thought he was qualified to be any authority on this topic was a mystery to most, but Jenn saw purpose in his writing. She treated it with the same respect as she would for any more widely-accepted work. This respect extended to O’Kannock’s belief in The Unseen. She’d heard tell of unexplainable, unknown monsters before, so it made sense that there’d be a few that aren’t catalogued.
“I have to be sure.”
With that, Jenn continued her forage through the pile of books before her, well into the night. Searching, hoping that someone else had shared her experience. This was because if no one else had seen it, she would need to go searching for it again. Today’s experience was too frenzied, too panicked to get a good look at the creature, so Jenn only had a few key features to go on. Even these, however, did not match up with any of the beasts catalogued in any of these books.
Beast-hunters make good money. The successful ones do, anyway. It’s a valued profession - towns, cities and villages all need to protect their citizens. To do this, a solid knowledge of how best to defend against the many ancient beings that roam the land is vital. That’s where the beast-hunters come in.
Most of them don’t actually hunt beasts - they discover, research and catalogue them; only harming if necessary for self-defence or research. The name was coined centuries ago, but it stuck around ever since. Now there are guidelines. Codes. Laws. Nowadays, government-appointed beast-hunters are more scientist than stalker. Jenn was one such hunter.
Jenn’s eyes began to grow weary from straining to read in the dimming yellow light, and her hand was worn out. Looking down at herself, she noticed - and remembered - the large gash in her stomach, no longer bleeding but still painful.
“Bugger.”
In her hurry, she had forgotten that her encounter with this beast became quite physical indeed. Her jacket was battered and bloodied, with three large rips slashing through the middle. Luckily, only one broke through to Jenn’s skin, but even that was enough to do some considerable damage. Jenn looked at the wound, then back to the books, and pondered for a moment.
“I should really get this sorted out.”
Reluctantly, Jenn rose from her seat and carefully put the books back on the shelves. All but one. After carefully placing the notebook in her satchel and dousing the lamp, Jenn lethargically meandered towards the library’s entrance. Before she got there, however, she saw the door creak open and a stout, old lady walk through it.
“Another late night, dear?”
Flustered, Jenn shoved her satchel behind her back and chuckled out a response, “I suppose so. Thank you again for the spare key!”
The librarian sighed and smirked at Jenn, barely discernible in front of the morning light which now shone through the open door. One vaguely apologetic hand gesture later, and Jenn had left the library and headed home for some much-needed rest.
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reflectivereading · 3 years
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Ravenpaw‘s Farewell
I loved the Warriors series as a kid. I’ve always been a cat-lover and picked up the first book, Into The Wild, at the book fair once I saw the beautiful art on the dust jacket. I loved it. I flew through the those first three books in a matter of days and eagerly awaited the fourth book, Rising Storm, to be published. It was the first book I ever waited on, although now as a Song of Ice and Fire reader, the wait was a short one (10 years and counting). I devoured the first series as they came out as well as the second series, the New Prophecy. I got my friends hooked on the series, I played the silly New Prophecy Quest Game on the Warrior-Cats website, and was a member of the early internet fandom.
However, time flows ever onward and my interest waned with the third series. I never continued and I’m not sure if I even finished it. Over a decade passed and although I saw occasional fanart or posts about the series, I never went back. That part of my life was over.
A few days ago, on my YouTube recommended feed, I came across a video about the Warriors series and learned that there were no longer 18 books and a handful of super editions, but over 70 books!!! Naturally I browsed the Wikipedia to see what had come out. I knew my time with new characters and new plots was over, but I was intrigued to discover that Ravenpaw had gotten his own book. The old cats and the old forest were such a part of my childhood, I couldn’t resist. What had happened to the jumpy young apprentice from Into the Wild?
I picked up a copy of both his manga, Ravenpaw’s Path, and the novella, Ravenpaw’s Farewell, from the library. I read them both in a single evening.
The manga was simplistic, as I expected. Its a children’s series after all. The conflict was simple. Set between the first and second series, rogue cats take the farm from Ravenpaw and Barley. Ravenpaw and Barley get help from Thunderclan to get their home back. Although I enjoyed the read, I felt like Ravenpaw was not really the protagonist in his own story. The plot of the middle and later volumes revolved heavily around Barley’s subplot with his family, and in the end was resolved by Barley, not Ravenpaw. Still, the story was well-focused and did not meander (I’m talking to you, G.R.R.M.).
Ravenpaw’s conflict in the manga revolves around his choice to forsake clan life and become a barn cat and also a subplot where Barley’s brothers attempt to turn Barley against him. These conflicts, involving themes of belonging and trust, resonate well with Ravenpaw’s character given his history of betrayal by his mentor, Tigerclaw, and being so distrusted by his own clan as to be forced out. Its natural that Ravenpaw would struggle with finding his place and in trusting his best friend.
These conflicts arise again in Ravenpaw’s Farewell. Its a little unfortunate that they return for this novella, because it feels a little repetitive. Set years later, well after the second series, Ravenpaw returns to what’s left of the forest. He meets Barley’s sister, a character from the manga, and two of her kits who want to become warriors. To Barley’s chagrin, he leads them to Skyclan and fights his final battle among the warriors there. Ravenpaw reminisces about life in the clans, prompting Barley to wonder if he regretted leaving. They fight about Ravenpaw’s rightful place and are briefly on the outs with one another, leaving Ravenpaw to doubt whether Barley really cares about him.
One would think after so many years and a manga directly addressing these issues, Ravenpaw would have moved past them. Even at the book’s finale, Ravenpaw’s place remained in question (although his relationship with Barley was repaired). This, however, is my only complaint and I would not say it detracts from the story or its themes.
In totality this book was a real nostalgia-trip and I teared up more than once. After over a decade away from the series, following Ravenpaw to the remains of the Thunderclan camp brought back as many fond memories from my own childhood as it did for Ravenpaw. I think when we all grow up, there is a point in life when you realize you can never go home again. For me, it was when I went off to college. My parents separated and sold my childhood home. Also, my favorite spot away from home, a secluded fishing hole owned by a family friend, was closed and abandoned. I visited some years later. At my old home, the trees had all been cut down, replaced by an unbroken expanse of grass. At the fishing spot, the road and buildings were overgrown and the sapling I often sat beside as a kid had grown into a tree. Ravenpaw’s experience in the Thunderclan camp and with the kits who so resembled his old friends, Firepaw and Graypaw, were poignant displays of this old-home nostalgia, and were comparable only in weight to the poem The Wanderer: a poem in which an old warrior, who has outlived his time and his culture, muses about the world that has passed him by.
Nostalgia permeates the book, giving richness to an otherwise low-stakes plot. I think the book is well served by the low stakes, however, because it allows for greater focus on Ravenpaw’s life, relationships, and legacy.
Altogether I really enjoyed this trip to the past and seeing the resolution to Ravenpaw’s story. It was a satisfying end to the character and a pleasant, if tearful, return to a book series I was immensely fond of in my youth.
------------------------
As an aside, I wonder if this book, one of Victoria Holmes’ last for the series was a little farewell of her own, especially given her fondness for Ravenpaw’s character. I also wonder whether the nostalgia in this book would have the same impact on younger readers as it does on us older fans - perhaps if anyone reads this far, they can let me know.
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Several Times Scully Got Locked Out Of Her Motel Room In Her Scanties (First Time Smut Ensues) Chapter One
Space (Season One)
They sat on the city steps in the midday sunshine awaiting another of Mulder’s mysterious informants. She, eating a sad little excuse for a sandwich: cucumber-dampened white bread encompassing roast chicken lovingly Saran-wrapped and pressed into her hand after Sunday lunch at her parents’ house. An awkward lunch, during which her father had accomplished the stellar feat of not asking her about her work once. I should have cheered everyone up by asking if anyone had heard from Charles lately, Melissa had joked, darkly, over the phone afterwards. 
The sandwich stuck in her throat a little as she swallowed, and out of nowhere, everything felt so… insufficient.
Was this really her life now? Crackpots and conservative suits and no sex since Jack? Reading journals alone on Friday nights and eating her mother’s leftovers?
She was still stashing a fastidiously initialed brown bag in the Bureau staff kitchen fridge each morning, as she had been in the habit of doing at Quantico. 
Dana Katherine Scully, you’re hardly a schoolgirl anymore, she told herself. 
Perhaps it was time to graduate to lunch in the cafeteria, like one of the big kids. 
Mulder nibbled on his inescapable sunflower seeds. Rental car cup holders. The top drawer of the basement desk. The bottom drawer, and the middle. Even loose, once, inexplicably, in her suitcase when she arrived home from a three-night case in Iowa. They were everywhere, pervading her entire life with their woody scent and their easy charm just like the man who unceasingly consumed them.
He was close, now, his knees spread wide and swinging with casual rich-kid confidence as he began to lose patience with his anonymous NASA tipster. Scully kept her stockinged legs primly pressed together, her well-lined heavy linen skirt draping over her kneecaps, preserving her modesty. His fingertips brushed her own as he handed her the informant’s note, and she was glad of the excuse to break his gaze, to look down and away from his face; the inevitable thrill she was coming to know so well shooting through her body from tip to toes. 
When the Space Program whistleblower did arrive, it was a she; a development Scully could well have done without. Especially one as… developed as this. 
Long and lean, blonde, finessed; Michelle Generoo looked exactly like the full-sized version of the girls Scully imagined Mulder growing up with on Martha’s Vineyard, summering in Rhode Island, picnicking on lush lawns by sparkling waters while she herself played hopscotch with scavenged pebbles on Navy base blacktop, or avoided cracks in uneven paving slabs as she skipped along in hand-me-down pleated skirts and fraying hand-knitted sweaters. This was probably exactly the WASP-y horsewoman type Mulder’s parents had always envisaged him marrying, with her tweed jacket and her long silky locks and her mirror-lensed aviators. 
Not a squat, pale, Irish Catholic Navy brat with full cheeks, wiry russet hair and stubborn freckles that were probably popping exponentially with every second spent sitting in this sunshine. Who still brought homemade sandwiches to work.
Michelle Generoo: Mission Control Communications Commander for the Space Program in Houston. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me now, for I must have sinned, and am being punished with the early-afternoon arrival of Fox Mulder’s ideal woman, sent from heaven to enact my own personal hell. 
Scully hated this feeling: this creeping sense of little sister inferiority. It was the mid-semester first day at a new school all over again, having been transplanted with her father’s latest deployment; Bill laughing and joking with the jocks or the prettiest clique of girls he could find, she hiding with a book in the library. It was enviously watching Melissa tame her curls into elaborate braids when all she could manage was a stubby ponytail with lumps at her crown, aged seven, twelve, twenty-nine. 
What was it about prepubescent inadequacies that made them so infuriatingly unassailable? Successfully reinterpreting Einstein and near-perfect pistol qualification scores had only ever compensated for so much.
At the mention of a fiancé - a Shuttle Commanding astronaut fiancé, no less - Scully relaxed somewhat. For once, she was glad that Mulder’s particular obsession with certain matters of the universe was a little less than impressive to the casual observer. 
Mulder disappeared off into the city on some unspecified errand, and sent her back to the Hoover Building to arrange flights and accommodation, agreeing to meet her at the airport.
On the plane, he seemed disappointed when she didn’t want to read his brand new copy of NASA: A History of American Space Travel, and peppered her with trivia instead.
“Did you know, all twelve men who walked on the moon agree, the surface smells like spent gunpowder?”
“Oh really,” Scully said. “And what did the women say?” 
Mulder looked a little uncomfortable. Having made her point about why she might, perhaps, feel a little excluded from his spaceboy enthusiasm, Scully pondered this fact.
“They can’t remove their helmet on the moon; there’s no atmosphere.” She countered. “How do they know what it smells like?”
“From the dust left over on their spacesuits,” Mulder was clearly happy to be able to inform her.
Scully frowned at him. 
“You think they’re so cool, don’t you Mulder?”
He looked personally injured. “Scully, how can you be the one person in the universe - a physicist, no less - who doesn’t think space travel is cool?”
She turned her torso in her narrow seat to face him.
“Mulder, when I was five years old, for Apollo 11, I was just as excited as you are now. My older brother and sister and I followed the news of the mission; we watched the moon landing just like everybody else. Bill and Melissa dressed up as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin for Halloween that year; they made me be the Stars and Stripes so we could all pose for photos together. I had to stick my arm out and wobble the flag. We were just as space crazed as anyone. And over the years, as the missions continued, I read everything, I mean everything-” Mulder nodded, he could surely believe that of Scully at any age - “and I found out some trivia of my own.”
Mulder titled his head, curious.
“You know, a spacesuit is a sealed environment. It has to be airtight, right?”
Mulder nodded. 
“And spacewalks last between five and eight hours on average.”
Mulder was listening intently.
“Well, there’s… nowhere to… go. When you have to go,” she gestured euphemistically. “And in a zero-gravity environment - or any environment, in fact - you don’t want to just relieve yourself inside the suit.”
Mulder frowned.
“So they wear these… things. It’s called a MAG: A Maximum Absorbency Garment,” she enunciated carefully. “You just… let it go, and it… absorbs it.”
Mulder looked perturbed.
“So basically, underneath that cool, space-exploring exterior,” Scully continued, “you’ve got a bunch of highly trained, hero-worshipped men - and now, women - floating around wearing adult diapers.”
Mulder swallowed hard.
“You know, I have a little brother. Charles. When he was still wearing Pampers I would watch my mom changing him, and I’d smell those foul odors and witness the frankly terrifying contents in some detail, and I just - I could never look at astronauts in the same way again after I found out about the MAG. I don’t know, it just ruined it for me.”
Her partner sat back quietly in his chair, more than a little disturbed.
Scully smiled at him weakly, and decided to take a nap.
On the tarmac in Houston, the cabin lights, dimmed for landing, switched back to full brightness as the seatbelt indicator dinged off. Mulder sprang out of his seat, already reaching up for the overhead bins to retrieve their luggage. 
Scully sat calmly with her forest-green briefcase on her lap, not willing to pointlessly stand for ten minutes while the passengers in rows A-R filed interminably slowly up the aisle, huffing and checking her watch as though that would change the physics of the aircraft and hurry anything along. 
No, patience had always been her friend; she would await her turn peacefully, could wait for anything forever, so long as she knew for certain it was coming to her.
Alighted, they bypassed the checked baggage carousels, Mulder carrying the suitcases and Scully toting only her leather satchel. The pair walked to the Lariat desk, where Scully hung back, and Mulder flirted with the smiling clerk working the night shift.
In the car, Mulder questioned her again about the arrangements.
“Intercontinental, Scully? It’s probably the furthest possible airport from the Space Center.”
“...and all requisitions would let me book at such late notice. The flights into Hobby were almost double the cost. It would be a waste of taxpayers’ money.” She signalled right, checking both directions. 
“Are we heading further North, Scully?” Mulder asked, checking the constellations through the windshield.
She tsked and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “It’s late. If you want to make all future travel bookings, be my guest, Mulder. But as it stands we’ll stay up here tonight, drive down for our eight-thirty a.m., and stay down there from tomorrow.”
At the mention of the morning meeting with Lt. Belt, Mulder brightened, and stuck his head back in his book for the remainder of the journey to their motel. 
When they arrived at the Spring Creek Mercury Motorlodge, she threw him a look. A warning shot. 
Don’t say a word, Mulder.
The motel took shabby to a whole new level: the paintwork was more chips than oil-based matte; the blown bulbs outnumbered the working ones, the woodwork of the bare-bones portico looked like it should have been condemned alongside the Rosenbergs.
The sign on the office door declared, ‘Desk open 7 a.m. - 10 p.m. ONLY ring bell outside of opening hours for ABSOLUTE EMERGENCIES.’ 
Scully checked her watch. It was approaching midnight. A handwritten Post-It stuck at an angle underneath read, ‘Scully booking, rooms # 8 & 12. Doors open. Keycards inside.’
“Always nice to experience that famous Southern hospitality,” Mulder deadpanned, peeling the note from the glass. They moved along the walkway, counting up as they went.
The door to number eight was propped barely ajar with a rotting two-by-four. Scully could see the square of exposed woodwork where an old lock mechanism had been removed: replaced by a newfangled electronic keycard system. She ran her eyes over the crumbling porch roof and thought, Really? This is where they chose to invest their refurb budget?
Mulder pushed the door open for Scully and held her gaze as she stared at him momentarily. He looked like he was about to follow her into the room. 
“Thanks,” she gulped, taking her suitcase from his hand.
But he stayed put outside, grabbing the handle to pull the door shut, double checking their plans for the morning. “See you at seven-fifteen then? All checks complete and ready to strap ourselves into the command module?” He grinned.
Scully dropped her case onto the bed and sighed. He was going to be insufferable tomorrow.
***
After showering, hanging up her burgundy pantsuit for the next day, then losing a fight with the room’s overactive heater, Scully unravelled the tightly rolled pink satin pajamas from her suitcase. You get fewer wrinkles if you roll rather than fold, her mother had taught her. 
Stepping into them, she could already feel herself perspiring lightly, and wondered if it would be better to do without the pajamas or the comforter. Her mind flashed to the various possible emergencies that might see her fleeing her room in the middle of the night: a fire, a tornado, an intruder. 
Keep the pajamas, lose the comforter, she decided.
But she suspected she’d need more to keep herself cool. She remembered passing an ice machine a few doors down, and grabbed a metal bucket left on the dresser for just such purposes, tucking her keycard into the breast pocket of her nightwear as she went.
She was so warm and the ice machine was so close, she didn’t even bother with shoes as she tiptoed the few feet along the walkway. The machine hummed and clanked as she lifted the front and noisily plunged the bucket into the crisp, dry cubes.
Ice.  
The Arctic Ice Core Project. Alaska. A sparsely appointed supply closet. Mulder crouching down to her level and hissing his balmy, furious breath directly into her face. 
I don’t trust them. I WANT to trust you.
He’d been angry and sweaty and ripe, and it had been the two of them against the others. They’d made what felt like a binding pact, whispering conspiratorially; sealing it with their laying on of hands.
If she’d been asked prior to that about the most intimate part of a person’s body, she might have given the same answers as anyone else. Reproductive organs her studies had given her medical names for. Mammary glands meant for feeding young but warped by western culture into symbols of sex and shame. Perhaps the cushiony swell of the gluteus maximus, so favored by jocks, and creeps in bars. 
But she’d finished that case on the Icy Cape with the discovery of more than a new species of worm; she’d learned for the first time about the deep, heady, overwhelming intimacy of touching another person at the back of the neck. 
Jesus, she’d already been so wet when he’d grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back to inspect her spine. She feared her unguarded gasp had given her away. And when he’d brushed aside her hair and lain his whole palm against the nape of her neck, awaiting the telltale wriggle of the homicide-inducing parasite, it was she who had squirmed beneath the hot, unrelenting pressure. 
Oh god, what he’d be able to do to her with those big, strong, capable hands. 
Alaska at that latitude had average winter temperatures of less than zero degrees Fahrenheit. November on the North Slope saw little more than three hours of sunshine a day. They regularly experienced impenetrable blizzards that could freeze a person to death in under an hour. 
But when Dana Scully thought of the Icy Cape, all she could feel was searing, blazing, pulsing heat. 
She filled the ice bucket, slammed the machine shut, and carried her personal cooling system back to her room, balancing it on her hip like an infant as she swiped the keycard for entry.
She got a red light.
Furrowing her brow, she swiped again.
Red.
Again.
Red.
Sighing her frustration, she ran the card through the slot several more times, resting the bucket on the floor and jiggling the handle as she tried over and over for green, listening for the buzz of the latch electronically pulling back.
Nothing.
She threw her hands up in the air and tried twice more to no avail.
She looked about her for assistance, finding none. No one was about. She started off towards the office and slowed as she reached the door. She re-read the sign.
ABSOLUTE EMERGENCIES.
Well, she couldn’t get into her room. Surely that was an emergency. She pressed the bell and waited, but no one came. She pressed again, and again, nothing. This was ridiculous. She tried once more with the bell, and after two minutes, sighing furiously, strode back along the walkway, her bare toes starting to go numb. She’d successfully cooled off, at least.
She continued past room eight, doubling back to try the lock three more times then kicking the door with great vexation before jogging up towards number twelve, wrapping her arms around her breasts to warm herself. The ice bucket stood sentry, dripping condensation.
She lifted her knuckle to knock on Mulder’s door, then hesitated slightly. She stole a glance down at her pajamas. They were not thick, and clung to her curves, puckering at her bare nipples. Mulder had seen her wearing far less - had checked her for mosquito bites clad only in what her maternal Grandmother would have called her smalls on their very first case - and remained professional, but that had been a rare exception, borne of her neophyte panic. She worked so hard to be taken seriously, to be seen as a colleague and an expert and a peer, and not as a sexual object. It was hard to project an air of authority in pastel pink satin with your breasts announcing themselves to anyone within five hundred yards. But Jesus, it was freezing out, and she had to be up and dressed in less than seven hours. She wasn’t about to spend a frostbitten night out in the cold and give herself hypothermia for the sake of avoiding a little embarrassment. She was a fully grown woman; Mulder, a fully grown man. They were both adults here. They could be mature about this.
She knocked, hugging her chest again afterwards.
Mulder opened the door still in his shirt and tie, although his jacket was hung over the desk chair in the corner. The NASA book lay face down, open on the bed. He chewed on one of his infernal seeds.
“You okay, Scully?” he asked, frowning. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Couldn’t get back into my room,” Scully explained, huffing. “I went out for ice and my… the keycard doesn’t work.”
“You should ring the bell for the owners,” Mulder suggested, unhelpfully.
“I did,” Scully said, pointedly. “No answer.” She looked up at him and pressed her lips together apologetically. “Can I come in?”
“Of course, of course,” Mulder said, standing back to let her enter. He stood with his back to the door after it was closed. “You can sleep in here; it’s no bother. I’ll crash on the floor.”
“Thank you,” Scully said, perching on the desk. Mulder sat himself on the end of the bed and gazed over at her.
“You cold?” he asked.
Actually, Mulder’s room was as toasty as hers had been, and her toes were already thawing out.
“Warming up,” she said, thankfully.
“Just that you’re… hugging yourself,” he explained, gesturing at her arms, still clamped across her unsecured bosom.
“Oh,” she said, self-consciously, but let her arms drop slowly to her sides, gripping the edge of the desk with both hands for security. “I’m not… wearing very much, is all.”
“Oh,” he echoed softly, his eyes scanning the length of her nightwear all the way to the floor and back up again. Yes, she was certainly feeling some heat once again.
“What you are wearing is… very nice though.” His eyes settled on her own for a few seconds, then flicked down to her breasts, and she inhaled sharply, silently, she hoped in retrospect. When he looked back at her face, her mouth was hanging slightly open, and she caught herself, licking her lips for discipline, her chest heaving. He looked down again. 
She felt her cheeks burning, and averted her eyes to the book on the bed, a change of focus for her mind, which was racing with thoughts of candlelight and shower-wet hair, of thermal shirts and platonic supply closet fumblings: Mulder and his fingertips the common denominator in these scenarios. 
She forced herself to look back at him. He was comfortably staring now, his face giving nothing away, but she knew he was quite aware she’d seen him appreciating her exposed form. He was leaving this up to her.
She wrestled with her conscience.
She shouldn’t do this. They were partners. It was against Bureau policy. It was unprofessional. It could ruin her career if it ended badly. Worse, it could come between her and Mulder, drive a wedge between them and prise apart their newly cemented friendship. 
But…
She thought of Oregon and hands and Alaska and ice, and she knew what she wanted.
You’re hardly a schoolgirl anymore...
She stood up slowly, wordlessly taking a few steps towards Mulder on the bed. Yes, they were both fully grown, and she had some very adult ideas about what they could do together.
She paused one or two paces from his knees, and held his gaze for a moment. She let her lips fall open once more, her breathing labored, and she saw his breath was keeping pace with her own.
She thought of Michelle Generoo, and of her own jealousies and insecurities, and second guessed herself momentarily. She’d always suspected she wasn’t Mulder’s type. Yes, he had moments ago brazenly taken in the sight of her nipples brushing against the silky confines of her pajama top, but he was a red-blooded straight male, and they had been right there, still standing at attention from her time out in the cold. And yes, he was looking at her intently now as she crossed the room, the propulsion of months and months of unverbalized, unresolved sexual tension at her back, but his expression was blank, and he might be nervously wondering how the hell he was going to abort this mission.
There was one way to be sure. He had done his fair share of looking; it was her turn to be brazen.
She dropped her gaze to his lap, seeking a different kind of green light.
In the dim glow coming from the slightly open bathroom door, she found exactly what she was seeking. The bulge that tented Mulder’s pants cast a promising shadow. She was go for launch.
She took another step, and found his eyeline once more.
His pupils were dilated, his lips pillow-soft and pouting, the ridge growing noticeably larger even in her peripheral vision.
She reached down for his left hand and brought it to her breast, pressing it against herself over the pajamas.
“Make me see stars, Mulder,” she whispered, breaking into a lazy smile.
His momentary expression of disbelief gave way to a grin, and he looked up at her with reverence. She let go of his fingers, dropping her arm to her side once again, and his palm moved with feathery softness over her breast, centering her nipple in the smoothest spot, where you’d clutch a baby’s fist, or a prized possession. The heat of his hand radiated through the satin, the friction of skin on fabric even more erotic than direct contact. Their gazes were locked. His mouth fell open a fraction, mirroring hers, and he raised his other hand to work both breasts, his fingers held up and away from her body as he traced circles with her hardened peaks against his deep volar arches. She closed her eyes and moaned, low and soft, letting her head fall backwards. Her knees went limp, and Mulder steadied her with one hand, docking her at the hip.  
His grip sent shockwaves to her core, her pulse now strongest between her legs. She knew she was already leaving a damp mark on her pajama bottoms. 
She lifted her head back up and looked down at Mulder, still seated on the edge of the comforter. They panted together in the quiet, each awestruck by the other, and Scully reached up to her top button, deftly pushing it through the opening with her delicately manicured fingertips. She did not avert her eyes from Mulder’s as she worked her way down to her waist, finally letting the shirt hang open at the front. 
She took his left hand once more and tucked it inside the front panel, his massive palm easily encompassing the entire fleshy mound there. He squeezed her hip gently, cupping her and pulling her towards him at once, guiding her between his knees. Checking her eyes for continued consent, he brushed the center of her shirt to one side and revealed half of her chest to his vision for the first time. 
“Oh, Scully,” he said in a hushed voice, and - permission silently granted by Scully’s hungry gaze - lifted his mouth to her nipple and latched on, sucking, circling his tongue around her hot, pink bud. She moaned again and grabbed the back of his head, twisting her fingers into his hair, her nails scratching at his scalp.
His mouth broke contact with her delicately pale skin, and he pushed the satin from her shoulders, letting it whoosh to the floor.
He was gazing up at her again, and she leaned down to kiss him now, finally allowing herself to experience in the flesh that which she had longed for, imagined, fantasized about for some time. Their lips met; wet, fervent, ravenous. Their shared craving drew them together, suctioning them to one another at the mouth as though they could consume one another entirely, and meant to. His salted breath mingled with her own, and their tongues tangled and danced. He ran his hand up her naked back, and her breasts pressed against his collarbone.
He pulled away, and she held the side of his face tightly to her bare chest, breathless, eyes closed. 
“Scully,” he ventured, “are you sure about this?” He looked up at her with his soft, beautiful, hazel eyes. She didn’t know what had possessed her for so long, being able to resist those eyes all these months.
She straightened up, and took his hand once again, reaching behind herself to slide it down the back of her waistband, over her rounded ass, and into the molten cleft of her body. She spread her thighs as his fingers found her desire, parting and probing her on their voyage of discovery. He dipped a single digit inside her body, and she exhaled on a low moan. 
“I’m sure, Mulder,” she murmured, smiling again. “Take me to the moon and back.”
He relaxed a little, his shoulders dropping, “Oh is that the game?” he teased, “Space puns?”
She shrugged playfully.
He smiled wide at her, or she thought he did; it was hard to see with her eyelashes fluttering closed. Her head dropped back once more as he pumped into her, his thumb resting fortuitously against the base of her perineum, that dark, forbidden, blissful spot. She felt alive, animal, raw. She let her breath come out ragged, allowed her rasps and moans to escape unbridled. Mulder paused his efforts for a second or two, leaving two fingers curled inside her, using his free hand to yank down her pajama pants. She helped, kicking them loose from her ankles as he grabbed a handful of her ass with his spare hand and pulled her toward the bed, reclining face up on the mattress and encouraging her to crawl on her knees up to his shoulders and sit back. Only then did he remove his fingers from inside of her, and her body sucked at them as he did, protesting their departure.
Scully was giddy with want, and Mulder looked up at her just then with such veneration that her heart burst with renewed affection for him. She’d never been made to feel more worthy in her life. This was so Mulder. She had not specifically realized it before, but this was how he often made her feel, in his best moments. 
At the insistence of his hand pressing gently on her lower back, his fingers sticky with her own yearning, she lowered her sex to his mouth. 
As soon as his velvet tongue met her clit, she cried out, almost lifting herself up on her knees at the shock of it. He held her steady, lapping at her hardened bundle of nerves with the flat of his tongue, softly at first, then applying more and more pressure as she sunk further down onto him, his chin pressing up into her heat, her slick juices gliding her inner walls against his light stubble. Oh Jesus, it was divine, and she called out his last name as she rode his face, her breath hitching in her throat as her trajectory was set to climax.
Scully chanced a glance downwards and saw that he was watching her in her ecstasy. 
She was wanted. She was valued. She was enough.
She smiled down at him, not halting her movements, and reached up to pinch her own nipples with her dainty, expert hands. Mulder groaned his pleasure into her body, sucking and licking and holding her down so she could not get away.
“Fuck,” she gasped, and was lost; her face lifted to the heavens, her body and mind spinning and soaring in concupiscent formation, her voice clamorously invoking two thirds of the Trinity with various, stertorous monikers as she rocketed into her own private orbit.
Mulder massaged her hips and kept his chin tilted up into her as she twitched and panted and called out for God, and she felt her inner muscles contracting around his way-past-five-o-clock shadow. The humid air of his heavy breath rushed from his nose, tickling her pubic mound as his lips remained clamped over the hood of her clitoris. She exhaled the last of her shudders and sat back on her haunches, resting on his solid pectorals, running her tongue over her lips, wetting them with exhausted delight. Mulder’s chin glistened in the dim room, drenched, and she laughed, reaching down to wipe him off. 
He let her, but then caught her by the wrist and held her soaked palm against his mouth, kissing it, hard, and smearing the residue of her arousal all over his lips once again. He licked them clean, unblinking.
She buried her face in her other hand and laughed shyly. 
Mulder chuckled along with her, resting his hands on her still-spread thighs, his thumbs dipping close to her parted labia. She bit her lower lip and looked him in the eye once again, unable to hide her happiness.
“Luckily, out here, no one can hear you scream,” he joked, a question in his eyes suggesting he was worried he might not get away with this, and she pushed him away teasingly but giggled as she climbed off the bed. She picked up her pajama pants from the floor.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Mulder asked her as she stood up.
“I’ll be right back,” Scully responded, flinging the bottoms over her shoulder and sauntering off to the bathroom, looking back at him to make sure he was getting a good look at her receding form. “Don’t move.”
She glanced down at the enormous bulge in his pants once again, and knew she needn’t worry. He wouldn’t be going anywhere with that thing.
She returned a few minutes later, now wearing the satin pants, and sporting a dark gleam in her eye as she crept across the carpet towards him. When she reached the bed, he leaned up on his elbows and reached for her to pull her onto the bed, but she shook her head. Instead, she reached for his belt buckle and deliberately undid it, sliding the leather through the metal loop before reaching for his fly. As she unzipped his pants, Mulder lifted his hips, and his erection bounced up, pushing the flaps of the zipper to either side, straining against his boxer briefs. This was one shuttle she wouldn’t mind watching blast off, and she was ready to fire up the booster rockets. 
She helped him remove his pants, then tugged at the waistband of his underwear. He removed it and lay himself back down on the bed, looking almost anxious. 
“Mulder,” she reassured him. “Relax; I want this. I want you.” She whispered the last part, lowering herself to kneel at the foot of the bed. 
His manhood loomed large, worryingly large for such a petite person, but Scully had never met a challenge she didn’t want to face. And face it she did; this hard, quivering invitation to wantonness inches from her mouth. He smelled like the Mulder she had come to know, only stronger here; that musky, spicy pheromone blend that brought her to her knees - now, finally, literally - and she breathed him in with abandon. 
She gripped him in her hand, taking his tip into her mouth, sweeping her tongue around the head of his cock as he exhaled forcefully. She slid her closed palm up and down the base of his shaft, letting her saliva drip down to lubricate her ministrations, then working him further into her jaws so that the top of his penis rubbed just against her soft palate. She bobbed her head against him. He filled her mouth easily, and she thought of all the times she’d surreptitiously stolen a glance at his lap. Her curiosity had been satisfied, and then some. He was every bit as big as she’d always suspected, and her small oral cavity made for a snug fit as she worked him into a frenzy on the bed.
He clutched at the covers and murmured her name, encouraging her efforts all the while. He slowed her at one point, just managing to explain through his moans that he wanted to enjoy it a little longer, but his thighs were soon flexing again and she accelerated her pumping with her fist, sucking a little harder, working the tip of her tongue against his popping veins. 
Mulder reached out and grabbed at her shoulder, clumsily pushing her back. “T-minus... T-minus five seconds and… and counting…” he sputtered, and she risked another tongue swirl, another deep thrust towards her throat. 
“Scully!” Mulder choked out, and she pulled her mouth away. She kept her hand in place and he wrapped his own around it, working his erection skillfully as he delivered his impressive payload over their ten conjoined fingers and down onto his stomach. A coy smirk plastered itself across Scully’s face as he collapsed back onto the bed.          
She raised herself from the floor, rolling her neck from side to side, and grabbed the box of tissues that was sitting on the nightstand. She held them out and sat on the mattress, one foot tucked under the opposite thigh, her breasts sitting proudly on her chest with the pert insouciance of youth. 
Mulder cleaned himself up and aimed the balled up tissues at the wastebasket, missing. He sighed, but didn’t get up, so Scully laughingly dragged herself over and retrieved the errant missiles, dropping them into their intended target. She returned to the bed and lay herself down in the crook of Mulder’s arm. 
He kissed her temple, a peck, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, then lifted her chin with one finger so that he could plant a full kiss on her mouth. She breathed in the scent of herself on his lips, their musky scents intermingling on both their tongues. 
“Wow Scully,” he smiled. “That was fun.”
She nodded, grinning herself. 
“Although, it was a bit of a close encounter, if you know what I mean,” he said, and she buried her face in his shoulder and laughed, any residual worries she’d had about this changing the fundamental nature of their relationship flying away on her huffing breath and disappearing into the vacuum of the mattress. 
Mulder lifted his head. “Oh god, it’s past two,” he announced. He must have been checking the display on the alarm clock. “You should get some sleep Scully; you gotta drive us down to the Space Center in the morning.”
“Hey, it’s your turn,” she whined, sitting up and pulling the covers back to climb beneath. Her pajama shirt lay forgotten on the floor. Tornadoes and fires be damned, she’d already had her ABSOLUTE EMERGENCY for the night. It was too hot for more clothes, especially with Mulder’s intense body heat so close. And she did intend to hold him close tonight. And other nights, if he wanted her. 
“Talk about a waste of taxpayer’s money, Scully,” Mulder droned, sitting up and shaking himself alert. “The two of us sharing a motel room while another sits empty.”
“Oh,” Scully replied sleepily. “Believe me, I’m demanding a refund on my room.”
“Demanding a refund, Scully?” Mulder queried, now folding his pants and setting them on the chair by his suit jacket. “You weren’t happy with the level of service you just received?”
She squinted one eye open to look at him. “Mmm, you? You did good, Mulder. I’ll be sure to leave a generous tip for you at check out.” She patted the mattress next to her.
“I’ll be right there,” he assured her, disappearing off into the bathroom. 
She was asleep before he even turned out the light.
***
Scully had witnessed Mulder ejaculating for the first time at the Spring Creek Mercury Motorlodge, but she genuinely worried she might see an impromptu repeat performance when they arrived at the Space Center the following morning. Walking to their meeting, they bantered for the benefit of their NASA escort, Mulder practically bouncing off the walls and once again bombarding her with facts and figures.
“You remember all that stuff?” she asked, wearily, suppressing a yawn.
“You never wanted to be an astronaut when you were a kid, Scully?”
“Guess I missed that phase,” she sighed, mouthing ‘adult diapers’ at him behind their guide’s back.
She couldn’t help but make fun of him for his adulation of Lt. Belt, either. “Didn’t you want to get his autograph?” she teased as they left the Space Shuttle Program Director’s office, and when Mulder caught up with her he tapped her lightly on the ass in retaliation.
At some point in the afternoon, Mulder slunk off and made some phone calls, and when they drove to their accommodation after the successful launch that evening, it wasn’t the motel Scully had booked but a ritzy hotel with bellhops and room service. They finally made it back there in the middle of the night, following the complications with the mission and Lt. Belt’s questionable press conference.
At the reception desk, Mulder retrieved two keys, but when he held one out to Scully and she grasped her forefinger and thumb around it, he didn’t let go. She looked up to meet his smoldering gaze. 
“What’s the matter Houston; do we… have a problem?” She managed to keep a straight face, just about.
“What do you say we waste some more taxpayer’s money tonight, Scully?” he grinned, his voice hushed, seductive. “Maybe we can cross... the final frontier?”
She halfheartedly rolled her eyes at his pun, but her insides were already aflame. She drew her mouth into a tight, shy smile, and nodded her agreement.
nb. I want everyone to know that I watched the Falcon 9 launch and I managed to refrain myself from using the phrase ‘good orbital insertion’ in this fic. And that was a struggle.
AO3 link here.
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leviosarpg · 5 years
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Congratulations, SNOOZE! You have been accepted for the role of AMADEUS AVERY! Snooze, where do I begin with this app? When I created Amadeus I knew I wanted depth, but Snooze, you gave me so much more depth than I could have ever dreamed, I mean for goodness sake, you gave me an entire diagram! Your app genuinely captured me from beginning to end. From Amadeus’s relationship with his sister, Isolda, to his fascination with Ancient Runes, I was beyond blown away with how you managed to flesh Amadeus out into a fully actualized person--a living, breathing wizard. But what put this incredible app over-the-top, was your incredible second para sample. Despite bringing so much depth to Amadeus, you still manged to highlight his cruelty in a way so gut-wrenchingly perfect, know I will remain in complete awe for the rest of the night.
Your faceclaim change to: Keith Powers has been accepted. Don’t forget to send in your account to the main and complete the items listed on the CHECKLIST!
THE PLAYER
name/age/pronouns/timezone: Susan (though I prefer Snooze); 18; she/her; PST
THE CHARACTER
desired role: Funny story! Amadeus was actually not my first choice. I was trying to figure out who to apply between Bishop, Odin, and Silvanus. I got my Amadeus inspiration from brainstorming for Bishop, because I was asking myself, what kind of dude is Bishop listening to? Then I got into a rabbit hole and tada! Amadeus app.
Here’s the thing: Amadeus is nothing like any character I’ve played/written before. I tend to be attracted to characters who stand in the middle, who are struggling with a decision, torn between two sides, who don’t want to check the option boxes presented to them and who seek to make their own paths. But Amadeus grabs my attention. He grows up with a solid foundation and he’s sure of himself. He knows exactly what he’s doing. What happens if things deviate from his plans? He may be smart but he’s only eighteen. There are things he doesn’t know and situations he hasn’t experienced. His relationship with Seneca is so, so intriguing because how in Merlin’s name can a person like him has feelings? I’m also a sucker for secret/forbidden romance, so there’s that. I want to let him suffer and make mistakes — I want to see his growth and how the war and certain secrets will change him. He’s a volatile little guy. Anyway, read on!
gender/pronouns: he/him; cis-male
extracurriculars: In addition to the pre-selected ones, Amadeus is also in Astronomy Club, Charms Club, and Dueling Club,
para sample:
Note: The first sample I have no specific year in mind — it could be Amadeus’ fifth, sixth, or seventh year. The second one takes place in the summer of Amadeus’ fifth year.
Also! To prevent any confusion, since I wrote the app non-chronologically, Isolda is Amadeus’ little sister. They are eight years apart. Isolda was kidnapped in the summer of Amadeus’ fifth year, and he was the one who tortured and killed her kidnapper afterward.
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Amadeus dressed in the dark, glancing at a mirror that only outlined the dark silhouette of his body, as the sun has yet to rise this early in the day, and he broke the unbearable silence by humming quietly a tune whose origin he could not recall. His mind was still groggy from the ten-hour sleep he’d indulged in yesterday. Stifling a yawn, he snatched his wand from the nightstand and whispered a Reducio to his trunk.
When he was about to leave, the door to his room cracked open, letting in a sliver of darkness against the grey carpet of the floor — the hallways had always had a tendency to cloak itself in pitch-black shadows, even darker than his room. A small figure entered.
“Where ar’ya goin’,” Isolda muttered, her words slurred together because she certainly shouldn’t be up at this time. Amadeus frowned, turned on the chandelier light with a wandless wave, and kneeled down to see her face-to-face.
“Hogwarts, of course,” he replied. “I would’ve stopped by your room before I leave, you know that?”
She nodded, though she didn’t seem convinced. “Papa said the same when he was going to Turkey, but he didn’t.”
Amadeus sighed; his father may be a great man, but he never remembered his promises. He hoisted Isolda up and tucked his left arm underneath her legs so that her face was buried in his neck, then he walked to her room. His nerves tingled while going upstairs, but his parents, he thought, were still deeply asleep and thus unlikely to appear and shake their heads at his physical display of care. It was a shame that Isolda was born into a culture of rigidity. She was too emotional for her own good.
She was already sleeping when they arrived, so Amadeus laid her gently on her bed and pulled the blanket over her. He fished from his pocket a small set of papers, upon which he’d copied numerous alchemical formulas from Hogwarts’ library. Surely she would have a grand time looking through them until Christmas.
After that, he called for Milsy, their house-elf, to make sure that his notes to his parents would be delivered when they breakfasted later. Shrugging on a suit jacket and a hat, he left the Averys’ premises with his miniaturized trunk and apparated away.
Amadeus stopped by Hogsmeade Post Office to drop off several contract packages for his father, then he headed to Borgin and Burkes. The air was so foggy and saturated that he felt as if he’d just swam the Thames.
“The Tome of Cleopatra,” he demanded upon entering. The man working behind the faux-wood table pursed his lips and sniffed his rat-like nose twice, but Amadeus only needed to lift his eyebrows to kick the man into gear. Anyone who didn’t recognize him may as well sign a death warrant — a social one if he was in a good mood or a literal one if he wasn’t.  While waiting, he eyed a pair of gilded cufflinks sitting in a glass box on a shelf. Diamonds decorated their surface, glittering brightly despite the dust that had settled on the box. They were certainly expensive and a fitting gift for someone he knew. He may have to lift some curses, but that shouldn’t be too hard. Small, probably unnoticeable, easily excusable price, perhaps …
No, no. Amadeus let the temptation slide. He should not be so careless — nor should he, for that matter, assume that the action would be appreciated. The man returned, slamming the thick book on the counter, and Amadeus felt dread creeping up his spine.
Merlin helps me, how can I go through this whole thing?
He slid the pouch of Galleon over and left with the tome. Seeing a beggar on the side of the road, he spat on the old woman’s face, then, for good measure, kicked her can of coins as far as possible. He wanted to make other people feel as miserable as he suddenly was.
The damn book. These damn feelings. This bloody muggy weather. What rights do they have to make him feel like a failure? Nothing! He was fucking Amadeus Avery! His throne sat on a wealth of power and money and he knew how to keep and better them. The economy of Wizarding Britain lay in his palm. The rich magic of this planet was his to command. He was not a failure.
Platform 9 ¾ was, as expected, empty, with only a couple of stragglers here and there and two shady individuals whispering near the ticket station. The Hogwarts train was here though, and its doors were unlocked, so Amadeus entered and claimed a cabin for himself. On the cabins of the Gryffindors he carved a mild curse of bad vision, created a few weeks ago, and hoped that it would kick in at opportune times during Quidditch matches, though there was a large chance that he guessed the cabin wrong or that the curse would have already petered out by then.
Satisfied with his task, he returned to his cabin and lay down on the bench, drifting off to a quick nap.
————————————
Trigger warning: Violence, gore, death, vomiting, torture
Money changed hands, and Amadeus stepped inside the cell where Isolda’s kidnapper was sleeping, resting, so peacefully that Amadeus felt his hatred burst out like a cobra springing to tear apart its prey. The man shifted on the stone floor. Amadeus gripped his wand tighter and thought, if you know what’s good for you, you will wake up now, a clumsy attempt at Legilimency, but he didn’t care for it had succeeded. The man’s eyes snapped open, deranged and red, and a half-smile tugged on the corner of his chapped, bloody lips.
“What’s this?” he spoke, voice hoarse and tinged with amusement. “Come to kill me?”
He stared down at the wretched piece of shit that didn’t deserve the mercy of the Dementors with his back straight, his voice steady, and he said, “Yes.”
The man mustn’t have expected a direct answer, as his expression faltered for a moment, but he went on, “Yeah, let’s do it then.”
“Not yet. Petrificus Totalus.”
The spell hit true. Amadeus shrugged off his suit jacket and set it on the floor; then he rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, unhurried, for he had all the time in the world, all the while he flickered brief glances at the kidnapper to gauge his emotions, which had become more muted, more cautious, and, to Amadeus’ pleasure, more frightened.
Amadeus placed his wand on top of his rumpled suit, popped a collar button open, and kicked the man’s stomach hard. The man’s back slammed into the wall with a satisfying crack. Amadeus kicked again, this time to the man’s chest, and heard the pleasant sound of ribs breaking. He went on, and on, and on, lost in the vesuvian rage, in the rhythm of grunts and the thudding of soft flesh. At one point Amadeus straddled the man’s body and started punching his face, aiming everywhere he could—cheeks, nose, mouth, forehead.
“You think you can insult an Avery and leave unscathed?” Amadeus shouted, panting from the physical exertion. “You touched my sister, filthy mudblood, and I will make you fucking beg to be killed by the end of this.”
He stood up and backed away a few steps, grabbing his wand.
“Petrificus Totalus, Petrificus Totalus, Petrificus Totalus,” Amadeus intoned.
The man’s muscles seized tighter, tighter, until he was shaking and sweating and the veins in his neck were bulging, until several loud snaps rang loud, the sounds of ruptured muscles and tendons, and Amadeus felt the delicious, ugly glee in him morph into a grin. He released the spell, but the man remained in the same position, cursing, pleading, tearing up.
“Crucio.” A roar of pain; the man’s body arched up.
“Crucio.” Nonsensical babbling for mercy; empty promises to do whatever the Averys wanted. Too late.
“Crucio.” Eyes rolled up; a drooling mess; broken whimpers.
Amadeus paused. He breathed. He calmed his pounding heart. He’d gone further than he had ever been, and his fingers were trembling, maybe from the magical drain, maybe from the bleeding knuckles, maybe from the horror that was beginning to overcome his fury. But—Isolda, he thought. The rational part of his mind was yelling at him to stop, retreat, recalculate, for he, frankly, didn’t know where this was heading toward, didn’t know if he would jump off that cliff of indecision and into the chasm of immorality, passing the point of no return, staining his hand with the blood of another.
So Amadeus delayed. He transfigured all his buttons to thin needles, then he crouched down and held up the man’s hand. The hand that dared take away Isolda.
“Ennervate.”
This was the part he would not remember, the part that would appear blank were he to search for it:
Amadeus lined a needle to the tip of the man’s index finger and pushed it in steadily, watching life, awakened by pain, returning to the man’s dull eyes. The man screamed, wildly, uncontrollably, all his self-control gone. Amadeus kept on going: middle finger, ring finger, pinky. Deaf to the howling, he repeated the procedure to the other hand, half of his mind a far distance from reality while the other half drew on courage from hatred. Afterward, Amadeus stabbed the man in the stomach with the knife in his pants’ pocket, once for every hour Isolda was missing, methodically, as if hypnotized. He switched to the thighs once he ran out of space.
Finished, Amadeus moved back and took stock of his handiwork. The darkness of night hid the worst parts, but somehow he could still make out every bruise, every cut, and every bit of blood that littered the man’s body. The man yet lived.
“Merlin,” he murmured.
He pointed his wand to the man again.
You’ve got to mean it.
He’d done this before, a dozen times, but only to kill insects or to pretend to kill Isolda’s monster in the closet, never to a human.
You’ve got to be calm. I don’t care if you’re in the middle of a five-way duel, find that moment of silence in your head.
He reminded himself that this—this was worth it. For Isolda. For the Averys name. Or, if not, to end the man’s suffering.
Aim, draw on your willingness to kill, and be swift. Like snapping your fingers.
“Avada Kedavra.”
A flash of green, and then, the end.
He put on his suit jacket and cast an illusion over himself. Money changed hands, from a quivering grip to a hesitant palm, and Amadeus apparated back home. All of the lights were off, and he stumbled down the hallway, noisily, but only one elf appeared. She asked what he needed, but he didn’t reply, so she followed him as he opened the door to his room, crossed the bed, pushed forward the bathroom’s door, planted his hands on the sides of the sink, looked at himself in the mirror, and saw, as reality closed down on him like a strangling noose, the wretched face of a murderer and the wide, panicked eyes of a teenager yet to be of age.
He threw up. For a while.
“Milsy,” he called after his stomach stopped churning, throat still burning from the acid and nose thick with the scent of vomit.
“Yes, Master?”
“Get me some warm milk.”
“With three spoons of honey, Master?”
“Yeah.”
The house elf went away.
Now facing his reflection alone, Amadeus glared at himself, as if disgusted with his inability to contain the appearance of shock, and he said, “It was a good kill.”
Then, again, with more bravo, “It was a good kill. Your first one too.” He paused. “You need to learn that sooner or later, so it doesn’t matter either way. Father did it when he was eighteen. Mother when she was twenty. Everyone does it.” Not to mention it was a befitting punishment for taking away Isolda for thirty six hours.
And so he kept on going, muttering to himself, repeating what he’d said, making it a mantra, making it his truth, a truth that he, perhaps, could live with.
OTHERS & EXTRA (OPTIONAL)
FC: Keith Powers!
Extra Content!
Disclaimer: I’m 100% down to change some details of what I wrote below, since a lot of them involve my cursory interpretation of the rest of the characters. Also, I try to explore his relationship with Seneca as much as possible, but I don’t want to delve too deep until I talk to Seneca’s writer & discuss some details.
BIOGRAPHY (Intro, Hogwarts, Tom Riddle): An imaginary piece of writing by Amadeus, briefly exploring his past and his years at Hogwarts. Note that this represents his perception of the world around him and does not necessarily reflect reality, especially when he boasts about his accomplishments. This is how he wants people to remember him.
LETTERS I WILL NOT SEND, WORDS I WILL NEVER SAY: Short, non-chronological pieces that Amadeus “writes” (the exact mechanics are explained in PERSONALITY section) and burns as an outlet for his emotions for Seneca. Amadeus only pens these when he’s overwhelmed with feelings, so they may seem excessively sentimental.  
PERSONALITY: Self-explanatory.
HEADCANONS: Things that I can’t fit into other categories. This part may seem really messy because I was jotting down thoughts as I go, so I apologize in advance!
THE DIAGRAM: Because I got lost in Amadeus’ complexity. It’s in a separate photo submission.
————————————
BIOGRAPHY
Introduction
August 15, 1942
As the heir of the Illustrious and Ancient House of Avery, it is traditional that I record the events in my life for future generations to peruse. For this is merely the first draft, I shall save the typical long-winded introduction for later and get started on the story.
My parents are a good match, perhaps the best there has ever been in the Avery line. My mother is Calista Avery, the Averys’ Matriarch, and my father Sivert Solberg, heir to the prominent Solberg line in Norway. They met during the Autumn Ball of Marseilles and was engaged three years later, in 1925. Their marriage was a winter one, brilliant and luxurious with six hundred and eighty two guests from Britain and Norway. Sivert adopted our name as per traditions of marrying a Head of a family, and I was born about two years later in the summer solstice of 1928. I should have had two sisters, but my mother miscarried once, so now it is only me and little Isolda, who is eight years younger than me. She will be attending Beauxbaton three years from now, and we are, naturally, very excited, for our private tutors have affirmed that she has talents in Alchemy. I was jealous of her for a while — Alchemy, after all, is the field of famous wizards such as Nicholas Flamel and Albus Dumbledore. But I later realized that her work would bring her to the shadows, to the edge of the crowd, while I, heir and a genius myself of the Dark Arts, would have the spotlight. I have stopped my unwarranted competition with her since and have fully devoted to train her to be worthy of the Avery name.
But enough about my sister. My name is Amadeus Avery. I have no middle name, for I am in the shadow of no one but myself. The Avery name is powerful, the Avery blood more so, and I plan to be the greatest Avery to have ever lived. I was born June 22, 1928, a day brimming with magic and, coincidentally, also the birthdate of the 5th Head of the Averys. My birth was a hard one, for I was my mother’s first child, twelve hours in total, a sign, apparently, for my stubbornness and determination. I grew up in a household of emotional detachment — not apathy, I must clarify, as I always know that my parents love and want the best for me. Public and private gestures of affection are much frowned upon, and we show our care through indirect means — material goods and gifts, the sharing of secrets and inner thoughts, criticisms and advice (how else could we maintain the image of a perfect family?).
My parents have had rough times — the aftermath of the first miscarriage when I was six, for example. My mother shut herself from my father, and he, frustrated with the isolation, left the country for two weeks, during which he had a tryst with some Ukranian lover. My mother, too, went out more frequently to meet with, I had guessed, her own lover, and sometimes my tutors and I would be the only inhabitants of the house. The Lestranges and the Rowles had had a grand time with the gossip then, I remember. At some point, I’m not sure when, my parents properly talked with each other (thanks to my uncle’s insistent; I have mentioned, of course, that my family does not explicitly express emotions) and the issue was resolved. Their connection and loyalty, strangely, only grew stronger. Perhaps the bad streak in their history motivated them to shine even brighter than before. Isolda’s birth when I was eight smoothed over the last of the scars, though I knew they could never forget their first daughter, Leona Avery.
Up until six I was showered with toys and magical trinkets, with bedtime stories of the founding of the Dark Arts and the beginnings of the Averys in the Fertile Crescent. We are part of the Sacred Twenty Eight, but such title is inconsequential, for the Avery name has, for the better part of the Wizarding World’s history, though not without ups and downs, garnered much reverence from the general populace due to our natural inclination to the Arts of Old Magic, recently defined as the Dark Arts by the more ignorant. My first accidental magic occurred when I was seven months old — hunger had compelled me to call upon all the chocolate cakes reserved for a party later — and after I learned to speak, my paternal granduncle, the former Norwegian Head of Law Enforcement, came down to teach me the basics of manipulating magic. Afterward tutors taught me, only the best in London, among which are a former assistant to Nicholas Flamel, Vice Chief of the Auror Department (my maternal aunt), a descendant of the Gamp family,  and the reigning Champion of European Dueling Tournament (though she only started when I got into Hogwarts).
I mastered the curriculum of Hogwarts’ first year when I was nine, and after that I branch sideways instead of forward (it was later explained that my physical body needed to catch up with my magical prowess; balance and harmony are important in the making of a strong wizard like me). We possess two libraries worth of tomes — one in the current Averys mansion and one in our ancestral home in Babylon (formerly known as the Babylonian Society of Ancient Magic). Books are not my forte, as I learned better with practical demonstration, but they nonetheless are an incredible source of knowledge. I delve into the arts of occlumency, legilimency, necromancy, ritual magic, blood magic, bone magic, runic magic, demonology (rather too obscure and unstable to be feasible, sadly), various branches of hex- and spellcrafting, ancient Egyptian and Roman curses (those people have a fascinating imagination, I must admit), and the lighter sides of magic such as arithmancy and charms. When I entered Hogwarts, I was not a master in any of those fields, but I knew enough to be one of the top students, and my sheer power was often enough to overwhelm my opponents.
Hogwarts
I have been aware of pureblood politics since I could read, but to be thrown into such a large body of students was a nasty surprise. Slytherin, the microcosm of pureblood society, was filled with intricate schemes and power plays between noble houses, a network that I at first found it hard to engage in, for the Averys had never been terribly friendly or popular. We stand above everyone else — because we are, indeed, better than most — and the purebloods, with their fragile egos, often take offense to our supposed arrogance. It is the Lestranges, the Rowles, the Malfoys, the Blacks, among many others, whose voices are heard and frequently recited. I struggled for two years to gain a footing in their network to no avail until I realized that I did not have to do so. I am Amadeus Avery, and I need not their acknowledgement. As soon as I stopped participating in their games, I became respected. They value me because they understand my importance, because they see my influence despite not being the top of their food chain. And so I gained my footing in pureblood society by refusing to acknowledge its presence. My parents were proud, and that Christmas they gifted me a brilliant case of jewelry stones for me to practice my blood curses on.
In school I focus on the Dark Arts, Charms, and Ancient Runes — the rest are unimportant to me, though I maintain respectable grades. I am far too busy with my projects nfor silly creatures or, Merlin forbid, divination. Astronomy is decent, but the subject is impossible to enjoy because the Blacks are so disgustingly vocal about their naming traditions. The teachers are merely satisfactory — none of them seemed to appreciate my talents in Dark Magic. Their responses typically fall into two camps, wariness or jealousy. Horace Slughorn is slightly better than most, as his Slug Club provides immense networking opportunities for like-minded individuals. It is where I developed a friendship with Tom Riddle — rest assured that I shall expand upon this remarkable person later.
I discovered the joy of inter-house rivalry in my second year when I became Beater for Slytherin’s Quidditch Team. Ivon Blaine was particularly entertaining. He’d always been weaker than me in all aspects — save for some lucky instances on the Quidditch field, of course — and I wholeheartedly enjoyed taunting him. He’d always been so easy to rile up, so easy to manipulate, and I, who had recently discovered my sharp tongue, was only too thrilled to test it on him. Gryffindors have always been so embarrassingly brash and physical — it is absolutely nauseating how they publicly display their affections and weaknesses out in the open air, as if they are desperate to be hurt. The duels were mere exercises to me, though they had the side benefit of elevating my reputation. Ivon became predictable as time passed, however, and I stopped enjoying our little games. I had better things to worry about — Grindelwald, for instance, and Tom Riddle’s vision. Though riling up Ivon no longer brought me as much joy as it did before, I am still rather entertained by his reaction whenever I speak to him.
Bishop Vermeer is a Ravenclaw that I respect. I met him during my fourth year while preparing for my OWLs and was impressed with his intelligence, which rivaled mine. He listens more than he speaks, but his interjections are always insightful and helpful to me, and so I come back to him as a friend, always, for his ears. We work on projects too, mine more often than his. I think he is too smart for his own good — he is never swayed by my honey sweet words, even though he sometimes pretends he does, and I am both disappointed and pleased by that. Had he been more weak-willed, I doubt I would have respected him as much as I am now. It is a shame that he is not more zealous about Riddle’s cause, but when the time comes, I have faith that he will side with us. If not — well, I would not wish to face him, out of respect for our companionship.
Tom Riddle
He was a bit of an underdog, I must admit, and him being quite mum about his origins except when absolutely necessary (at least during his first year at Hogwarts) hinted at his blood status, though now I dare not think about it, for his legilimency skills far outstrip my occlumency. His cause gripped my attention the moment he mentioned it in the Slytherin common room, and I remember being vocally supportive of it, for, with the current politics surrounding Grindelwald, I recognized immediately that his ideas would bring us far. Tom Riddle is a revolutionary who will usher in an era of greatness, of pureblood culture and appreciation for real magic, not the childish stuff that Hogwarts teaches. I intend to be at the forefront of this movement alongside Riddle. I will make a name for myself.
You may wonder why I am not the leader. First of all, I have no wish to make an enemy of Riddle — we may match in dueling prowess, but he is, I am reluctant to admit, hard to outwit. Furthermore, he has a better hold on the purebloods than I do — as I have said before, the Avery name is respectable, not popular. Riddle has a way with words that is gently persuasive and malleable. He knows how to push buttons. Let him lead the movement and I be his loyal soldier. The position is prestigious enough that I can contend with not being the top. His ego and mine sometimes clash, but I try to keep to his good side more often than not. We share details of our projects, though he tends to work alone rather than in a group, and he absolutely detests me offering help.
I suppose I shall mark this as the temporary end of this biography. I intend to update this as frequently as possible.
————————————
LETTERS I WILL NOT SEND,
WORDS I WILL NEVER SAY
My grandmother, a famous jewelry collector in her nineties, gave my father a ring of blue zircon, who, in turn, passed it down to me. It sat in a drawer back in my room, only to be worn during Christmas balls. The ring was thick and ostentatiously ornamental, heavy on my middle finger every time I wore it, and I complained all the time until I was five and learnt the art of formal presentation. The ring is a sign of power and a reminder that my parents are of two famous lines, and it often sat next to the Avery heirloom ring on my index finger, glinting, mesmerizingly blue, always distracting me when light shines at the right angle. Tonight, when I saw you, when I looked into your eyes, I thought of my ring, and I wished, for but a brief millisecond, that we were better, that I was better, so that I might, perhaps, be brave enough to —
[ … ]
I did not see you today, but I was frightened for you, for us. Charms class ended early, so I was traversing the hallway, sketching in my head a new design of some anti-apparition wards, when thoughts of you filled my mind. I remembered our kiss yesterday even though I tried not to — at least, not until I was safe in my dorm. I couldn’t help smiling. Then, Tom Riddle rounded the corner, and I froze. My heart dropped, my mind emptied, and I willed my face to express something close to pleasant surprise. You cannot imagine how fearful I was. It isn’t close to my fright for Isolda when she was kidnapped, but it is certainly high up the list. Had he been searching in my mind, we would have been discovered, and the fallout, though may seem inconsequential at first, could only be catastrophic to me. Everything would have been ruined, and the choices I would have to make were unimaginable. But he wasn’t searching, thank Merlin, and I would have known if he was. I am entertaining the thought of avoiding you for a while until I could calm down. I know I may hurt you, but you must understand that I have to control myself, I have to set boundaries, or else I —
[ … ]
You were worried today, and I am not sure why. Had you been anyone else, I would have attempted to persuade an answer out of you, but strangely I complied with your request not to pry. You have no idea how much control you have over me, and I am frightened. I cannot see our future, though I must admit that I always strived not to think about our future; there are too many complications there that I cannot resolve, and I cannot bear the thought of you absent from my life, much as I loathe to admit such weakness in myself. I want to enjoy the present and only the present. Sometimes, you are the only outlet for my emotions. Sometimes, we are strangers. Sometimes, you scare me to death with your glances and your smiles and your kisses. I have thought about breaking things cleanly between us, because the stakes are becoming higher and higher, and yet I never manage to do so, because to break cleanly is to admit that there is something to break, and because I simply —  
[ … ]
Sometimes I believe my parents are clay figurines carved with human features and charmed to be alive. Their expressions are stiff, their emotions strained, and they always seem most at ease with blank countenances and frigid glances, with careless words and calculated touches. I remember vividly that they barely touched Isolda when she was returned to us, a mess of a child, eyes red and dress muddied. My mother touched her hair, and I could not tell if she was too frightened to do more or if she simply detested public displays of affections so much that she would ignore her own child’s trauma. I was the one who scooped Isolda up in my arms and soothed her cries. I tried my best anyway. No one has ever done such things to me. You may wonder why I am telling this story, and here is why: I noticed that you were distraught today. You were hurt, and I hurt for you, but I could do nothing to alleviate whatever burden you were shouldering. I was too busy struggling with my confusion toward you. I do not know what to do. I do not know what we are. I asked myself how I could grow to care for you when I was not built for such emotions, how I could be in —
[ … ]
For a moment I feared that our secret was exposed, but we both performed well the role of casual acquaintances in class today, don’t you think? I am relieved that despite certain progress in our … companionship, we are still capable of maintaining a facade of normality in front of the masses. Tom Riddle, I think, suspects I am hiding something, but he cares far too much for his pet project to figure out. He’s never been too invested in our personal lives. If worse comes to worst, I could still tell him about my projects on developing possible resistance to the Killing Curse and mass-producing Inferi through a variant of a demonic rune design, neither of which, unfortunately, are straightforward enough for practical use, but they certainly will satisfy his curiosity. On a side note, I wish so fervently that I could buy you a better gift for your birthday, but alas, I could only lie about my expenses for so much, and the size of your gift could not be too large. My wish manifested in my dream three nights ago. In it we were happy, had been for months, and I, on that brilliant winter day, like a bloody muggle, horrifyingly, was on my knees —  
————————————
PERSONALITY:
Amadeus is …
Arrogant: He believes himself to be better than everyone else due to his magical might and his bloodline tracing back to the beginning of civilization.
His arrogance doesn’t quite manifest in speech (like, say, Draco Malfoy) but in his body language, his stance, the way he looks at people, the inflections of his tone. Taken alone, his words may seem casual and respectful, but coming from him they could be the worst insults.
He doesn’t care that people are weaker because of their circumstances. He cares that people are weaker than him, period.
Hypocritical: He criticizes the actions and personalities of other people but does not admit to himself that he sometimes shares those characteristics and does similar things.
For example: He thinks displays of affection are a weakness, yet he treasures his moments with Seneca and loves Isolda. He claims that he doesn’t care about Venus’ (or Odette’s) popularity, but he is actually jealous that they, along with the Lestranges and Rowles, have the ability to influence a crowd. He preaches that you reap what you sow, but when confronted with the consequences of his actions, he will never admit his faults. He believes Olive Hornby ridiculous for being contradictory in her actions (a guilt-ridden bully), but he is a creature of dichotomy also.
Judgemental: The number of people he respects or gets along with is small due to his tendency to either be critical of their differences (compared to him) or be jealous of what they have that he doesn’t.
Obstinate & Ambitious: Once he has a goal, he will never budge from it — for instance, nothing can shake him from his desire to be the best Avery there ever has been. It is difficult to change his mind about anything, including first impressions of people and ideologies.
Cruel: He is cruel not because he wishes to hurt (unless under certain circumstances) but because he is naturally unsympathetic to most.
But he is also …
Passionate: Though he is raised and tries to be otherwise, Amadeus is a passion-driven individual.
He loves magic and the Dark Arts, loves its instability and its potential for good and bad, and he delves into research with a furious fervor, never stopping, always wanting to have more, know more, always wishing to break the limits and go beyond what is known.
His jealousy comes easily. Amadeus grows up thinking he has the world in his palm, so he’s jealous of anyone who seems to be better than he.
He absolutely adores Isolda, at least once he gets over his jealousy, and he showers her with love and affection to a level that would be frowned upon by his parents had they known. He thinks she is too soft to be an Avery — she was born to be compassionate, and the rigidity of his parents hurts her, so he will lessen that pain for her in any way possible.
As an unintentional consequence of his love for Isolda, he also comes to like her pet hippogriff (a species of smaller size, fitting to live in a mansion) despite his vocal denouncement of anything creature-related.
He has deep affections for Seneca Montague — love, perhaps, though he’d never admit it — and despite his best efforts to contain these feelings, they are too much to keep inside, always threatening to spill out, and he has to compartmentalize his feelings, sometimes unsuccessfully.
Clever: He has a different brand of intelligence, but his mind, full of knowledge, always proves to be useful.
He may not be the best strategist, but he can process information incredibly fast and skip to a conclusion in lightning-speed. He works best under pressure and during duels.
He has an instinctive grasp on spellcrafting and runic magic, though he tends to lean toward the latter. He’s like a genius computer programmer or an engineer. He knows the pieces and he knows how to put them together; when they don’t work, he could easily tweak a bit here and fix a bit there to craft better rune diagrams for long-term curses and charms.
He cannot, for the life of him, read theories, but after a single demonstration, he can understand even the most complex alchemical concept
He figures out a way to compartmentalize his feelings for Seneca so he will not have to acknowledge them:
In the moments he shares with Seneca, he will not think of the repercussions. When he is not with Seneca, he will try to put him out of mind.
Sometimes when he feels too much, he would put his feelings on paper — using a quill charmed to inscribe his thoughts — and then he’d burn it. The reasoning is that if he makes it physical and then destroys it, whatever that is bothering him would stop existing. He doesn’t read these paragraphs, nor does he physically write them, so it’s easier for him to deny his feelings.
A downside to this compartmentalizing method is that his mood can swing widely from hour to hour, and often he wonders if it would someday break him. It works for now, so he doesn’t care much.
He is proud of …
His dueling skills: He has lost to no one except Tom Riddle and occasionally some members of the Harbingers & Liberation.
His runic diagrams: They are his own creations, and he is proud and thrilled to see them in action, no matter how destructive they could be.
His knowledge: He is well-versed in the rules of Wizarding economy and pureblood politics, and he was taught to keep up the prominence of the Avery name. Magically, his knowledge is shallow but extensive, and he frequently reads (or tries to read) to gain more information.
The murder of Isolda’s kidnapper: He tortured her kidnapper before finally killing him. It was his first kill and first usage of the Killing Curse on a human at the age of fifteen. Deep down, he’s horrified at his actions, but he successfully convinces himself to be proud because he could never admit that he feels guilty — a feeling that does not exist in the Avery household.
And he hates …
Nothing, which is what he would’ve said to himself, but in reality:
The isolation of the Averys: He envies those who can participate in pureblood politics and loathes that he is often pushed to the sides. He may pretend that he doesn’t need them, that the Averys doesn’t need to be a participant, but he is, nonetheless, lonely, because he doesn’t belong properly in any community.
The rigidity of his parents: He thinks his parents are too stringent with their emotions and believes Isolda is harmed because of that. Subconsciously, he blames his parents for his cruel nature and doesn’t want Isolda to live through his loveless childhood.
A subject that belongs in neither categories is his relationship with Seneca, which he loves and hates at the same time. He likes Seneca beyond the boundaries of friendship, but he hates defining what they are. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s aware that he’s making a mistake, perhaps the best mistake in his life, and he’s waiting for the inescapable fallout.
HEADCANONS
What’s his attitude toward muggles?
He believes in all of the stereotypes: they are dirty, primitive, stupid, and ignorant of the true beauty of magic.
He’s actually really into classical music (once he finds out about it through William Brown, unintentionally) but he wasn’t aware that most of the composers are muggles
What does he do in his free time?
Runic projects; finance planning/investment with his father; whatever Riddle wants him to do at that time;
His relationship with Ogden:
Good relationship until the end of 6th year when Ogden approaches Amadeus about an apprenticeship in Ancient Runes. Anyone would’ve been ecstatic, as it’s a rare occasion that a sixth year would be offered such opportunity, but Amadeus was angry. He couldn’t believe Ogden would offer him such a lowly career option, and he has a sneaking suspicion that Ogden wants to supervise his work more closely to prevent him from “falling” to the darker (and purer, in his opinion) forms of magic. Their relationship has been tentative since then.
His runic experimental room arguably shows more aspects of him than his dorm, which is often under the scrutiny of his dorm mates
Amadeus stopped bullying Ivon in the aftermath of Isolda’s kidnap. The taste of real violence and death has dulled the entertaining value of sharp words and silly duels. Amadeus turns his focus to bigger targets: necromancy, darker runes, deeper & more ruthless manipulations using money that will keep him in power. He’s also more focused on Riddle’s cause, and his runes projects also take up more of his times.
Wisdom and Power, to Amadeus, go so hand-in-hand that he’s never thought that it is more Ravenclaw than Slytherin. A trait he shares with Gryffindor is how passionate he can be, though no one really knows this except Bishop & Seneca. People do know that he hates easily though.
Motto for anything too sentimental is: React first, break down later
He was taught that “Power amazes, but money drives the world.” Despite this, he’s more attracted to raw power than wealth.
Doesn’t do well with criticism, especially from people he doesn’t care about.
Will initiate duels when called for.
He can convince himself to believe in false things.
Physical marking:
A horizontal scar on the side of his neck: A kitchen house-elf once went insane and injured him as a kid with a knife; said house-elf was killed but the knife was cursed so the scar doesn’t go away. Amadeus always illusioned it or wear clothes with collars.
Amadeus doesn’t quite remember this, but the incident is one of the few times that both of his parents touch him — keeping the wound close, healing, using salve, but he was too out of it to recall properly. He was seven.
Doesn’t have a fear of knives, but if someone is to lay the blade of one on his skin, that will kick in his fight-or-flight response and (depending on the situation) he will react.
Fashion:
He’s big on fashion
Style: Expensive, trendy but not gaudy, wear accessories to show off wealth (cufflinks, rings, modified ties, shoes, etc.)
Boggart:
Its form varies; but the two forms he’s faced is the burning of the Averys mansion (signifying the end of the line, which would be his fault) and the body of Isolda (recalling the kidnap incident).
Wand: spruce wood, 12-inch, dragon heartstring core
His spells are powerful and flamboyant, often attracting the attention of other people.
Amadeus has a sweet tooth.
He also cannot hold his liquor. He’s a touchy drunk.
He produced a Patronus once, during his fifth year, a hippogriff, unsurprisingly, but he hasn’t tried again since he killed Isolda’s kidnapper, telling himself it is unnecessary while actually thinking that he can’t do light magic now that he’s killed a wizard.
House Elf Treatment:
The Averys aren’t cruel but they do think that the elves are beneath their notice. The Averys, powerful as they are, does know that house-elf betrayals can be destructive, so they strive to inspire loyalty
He’s got no sense of self-preservation:
Because he thinks he’s invincible. Also he gets excited when faced with a challenge.
Likes to write but dislikes reading:
He actually doesn’t hate reading. He just has a very specific taste for a writing style & anything that doesn’t fit the bill makes him bored. He especially hates translations because they’re so dry.
He’s bad at defense magic - he likes to be on the offense & doesn’t guard himself much
The three P’s of Amadeus: Proud, Powerful, Private
He loves to low-key taunt people he dislikes, especially back when he was still harassing Ivon, and he lets his tongue lose when he’s angry. He also speaks his mind when he’s in the company of people he trusts.
He’s very ignorant when it comes to his emotions. This is by choice, not because he’s dense.
He (lowkey) admires Dumbledore because of how powerful the man is, and he secretly wishes that they are on better terms. Their ideologies, unfortunately, create a barrier between them.
To him, wisdom is …
Tom Riddle: knowing how to play the field, how to manipulate, how to be in the spotlight and claim it for yourself
Knowing everything - hence his attempt to branch out laterally
Naively, he also thinks being wise means never makes a mistake
Amadeus is verbose in writing but succinct in speech, touch-starved yet would never initiate body contact:
The Averys household is emotionally distant but not apathetic. Amadeus grows up understanding that display of affection is a bad thing, but sometimes he mistakes this with emotions are bad. His parents’ love for him is measured with material goods—their meanings, their quantities, their qualities—though of course, their meanings are exceedingly easy to misinterpret. Writing is an outlet of emotions in the Averys household—letters to their parents when they are abroad & when Amadeus is in school, notes delivered by house-elves (their mansion is very big)—thus, Amadeus shows himself more in writing, though it always seems to be otherwise. He masks his sentiments with pureblood politeness on paper, and only those close to him (his family) could read between the lines and understand.
He was taught the concept of formal presentation when he was six and learned how to check his speech. He became more succinct and direct or persuasive and round-about when needed.
Half of the time what he says isn’t really what he thinks/feels, but he has a habit of convincing himself that what he says is always the truth, so it becomes a falsehood in him that he never notices, and from this born his hypocrisy.
The Averys household frowns upon body contact except when absolutely necessary, and so Amadeus grows up, without noticing, touch-starved. He’s hyper-aware of the distance he puts between him and other people and the casual touches he received. He, therefore, treasures his moments with Seneca, but also are scared of them, of the body contact, of physical displays of affection that he knows nothing about. He’s always hesitant, testing the boundaries, reading the signs (sometimes over-analyzing them), always so scared that he’ll fuck up somehow.
His Runes Experiment Room:
Same wing that houses the Ancient Runes classrooms.
Approximately U-shaped
Left room is for the actual experiment, connected by a hallway to a sort of “office” on the right where all the theories/writings occurred.
Office:
Big blackboard filled with maths & diagrams
Big wooden desks filled with papers, very messy, on top of which sat …
Letters sent by Isolda
A pot of talking cactus, sent by Isolda
Lots of candy boxes ordered from Hogsmeade or sent by his mother
Two bookshelves overfilled with books; papers; chalks of different materials; boxes of preserved animal blood; rulers & measurement devices; bowls of different parts of different animals scattered around; a locked metal chest of rarer materials
When there are visitors, he puts everything personal to him in a trunk in the corner of the room
Two sofas for guests
Experimental room:
Kept clean & in pristine condition
Two Parts
A square part of the room in the middle, sectioned off by magic & physical means (eg: salt, powdered thestral fur, etc.):
This is where the floor diagrams occur, for more complex projects. Experiments here are frequently unstable.
The rest: There’s a trunk of gemstones + other objects for blood curses; there’s a long desk lining the wall with tools for carving, burning, melting, writing, and holding on top
He usually levitates the object or holds them by physical means as he carves runes on it
The long table is also used to deconstruct runes done by other people
People who have seen this room: Riddle, Bishop, Seneca, Ogden  
Attitude toward teachers:
Ogden: already mentioned
Dumbledore: professional admiration. Amadeus secretly idolizes him because Dumbledore is too Badass not to, though he thinks Dumbledore is too soft on Muggleborns.
Rakepick: doesn’t like since she likes the Gryffs
Edgecomb: likes her tattoos; on good terms because Isolda will be going to Beauxbatons; tries too hard not to ask her questions about schooling & dorming over there
Dippet: nice man, not useful but it helps that he likes Riddle
Fairbanks: likes her for various reasons. She went to Durmstrang is number one. She’s intense and, to him, she has a real appreciation for the true nature of magic. That she’s a Herbology professor irks him — he wishes she was teaching Dark Arts instead. Imagine the kind of spells she would’ve taught!
Isadora: annoying because of the homework
William Brown: muggle lover, ew
Sylvia: doesn’t care
Astrid: doesn’t like divination because he’s not a seer, but on good terms with Astrid because of her views
Binns: doesn’t care, except when his lessons mentions something related to the Averys
In summary: Amadeus is an ambitious individual who grew up in a distant household. He experiences lots of emotions despite being groomed not to. He is smart about many things except himself. He has the ability to rationalize his feelings but chooses to ignore them. He can exert great control over himself and he chooses his words carefully. He is proud and powerful and knows exactly what he wants — but what he wants may not be what he needs in the end.
Playlist: here
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sorceress-coffee · 5 years
Text
Trollhunters Episode 3 Pt. 2
This is the fourth installment of my DraalxOC (River) fanfic. I will link Episode 1, the previous episode, and the next episode (once it’s submitted), to each chapter. I will begin to post this on AO3 soon. Thank you all for reading!
Episode 1 
Episode 3 Pt. 1  
Episode 4 Pt1 
[Episode 3 pt. 1]
I wince at the thought of having to deal with an irritated Draal all the way home. I grab the satchel and start heading out, nodding to Blinky and Aaarrrgghh, pausing in the doorway, “I’ll see you tomorrow for training Master Vendel!” I then took off running to catch up with Draal.
[Episode 3 pt. 2]
Once outside of Trollmarket I slouch to the ground groaning. “What the hell did I get myself into?”
Draal snorts, noticing that I stopped, “You threw yourself into countless hours of studying and training with the old goat.” He lifted me by the hood of my jacket to sniff the gashes in the back. “So, you fought Bular and lived, with no training. I’d say impressive, but it appears to be shit luck.” He dropped me and continued walking.
I growl at getting troll handled, “Oh really? Why should I care if you’re impressed?” I smirk watching him walk, “By the way, that path leads to school, home is that direction.” I state, jabbing my thumb behind me.
Draal growls, turning around and stalking by. “I wouldn’t go the wrong way if you knew how to lead.” He was definitely irritated. I quickly fell in step beside him, heading up along the trail.
We walked in silence for a while until a sigh escaped me, “I’m sorry, for your father and the amulet. I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose both in one day.”
“I don’t need a fleshbag’s pity.” He growled out.
“I’m not pitying you Draal, I’m empathizing. Big difference.” I state. Even though I could understand his reaction, I didn’t have to like it. I paused as we got close to the house. “It sucks okay? I get losing a parent, I understand that pain. But losing a parent and what you believe to be your destiny in one go? I can understand your anger towards Jim  and not the ‘he’s a fleshbag’ anger, but the ‘he took everything from me’ anger.” I explained, copying Draal’s arm movements as I talk about him hating Jim.
Draal watches me carefully, calculating how to react. “You are strange.” He finally says looking to the house. “You empathize… you’ve experienced the pain; you don’t just know of it.” He states, watching the windows of the house.
“Why do you think I live with my aunt and cousin?” I ask, shrugging slightly. “I don’t expect you to trust or like me Draal, but I have a feeling we will be seeing each other a lot, and I hope we can be on better terms than today.”
Draal only hummed in acknowledgment.
I nod then turn to the house, “Thank you for walking me home, even if Vendel asked you to. Be careful getting back home!” I called out, heading to the house with a wave.
Draal lifts his hand in a slight wave before heading back into the trees, back to Trollmarket.
I greeted mom quickly, shoving my hands in the pockets of my jacket to hide them. “Hey mom, sorry I’m home late, I was at the library!”
Barbara smiled and waved it off. “No worries sweetie, how are your hands though? Jim said you burned them during your science class.” She held out her hands expectantly. I wince slightly and pull my hands out so she can inspect the bandages.
“They’re okay, the uh, nurse had stuff for burning, I’m supposed to keep them wrapped up though,” I explained.
She turns my hands over and nods, “The nurse did an excellent job. No painting tonight though. You’ll need to rest them.” She kissed my forehead letting my hands go. “Jim took your dinner upstairs, should be in your room.”
I grinned running up, “Thanks, mom!” I quickly run to Jim’s door, knocking carefully before entering and flopping on his bed.
Jim chuckles, “It’s been a day.” He pulls at the black satchel. “What’s this?”
I groan as I roll over, “My new magic homework. Apparently, I’m a sorceress, and have to train or ‘risk becoming a threat.’” I mock in Vendel’s voice sitting up, pulling out the books to show him. “So, while you’re stuck in the forge, I’m stuck in the Heartstone.” I tease, acting like it’s the worst.
Jim rolls his eyes, “Oh yeah, because learning magic is oh so boring,” he teased back, picking up the books and looking them over. “How are you supposed to read these? They’re in another language.”
I shrugged, “Vendel checked, apparently being able to read it has something to do with magic.” Points to the smaller book. “That one is about keeping King Arthur in line.”
He laughs, picking it up and flipping through it. “How’d you get home?”
I snorted, “Vendel had Draal, of all trolls, walk me home.”
Jim groans at the name throwing himself back on his pillow, “He wants to kill me, I swear he does.”
I smile slightly, “He’s had a rough few days, give him time, I think you might end up getting along.”
Jim and I stayed up for a while. I read him most of the book on ‘How to keep King Arthur in Line.’ I’d love to meet Merlin if he was this hilarious in person. We decided to try and sleep, training was going to be ruthless after all, we needed as much rest as we could get.
After school, as promised, Jim, Toby, and I headed straight for Trollmarket, excited to start training. We met with Blinky and Aaarrrgghh at the entrance and were quickly escorted inside. I broke off from the group as we reached the cavern with a glowing Daylight sign above it, waving as I head to the Heartstone to meet with Vendel.
“Hello, Master Vendel!” I greet him once I entered the cave.
He chuckled, “River, are you ready? We will be starting with the basics of identifying and sorting spell materials.”
I nod, “Actually, as I was reading, I realized a lot of the basics for magic dealt with ingredient distinction, especially minerals. I’ve been taking geology and I collect stones with Toby.” I pulled out a large black case, opening it to show Vendel the stones inside. “These are from my collection at home. I followed the classification guides and separated them accordingly. Toby let me practice with his collection as well.”
Vendel took the black case and studied the stones and ingredients closely. “I’m surprised you haven’t cut these.” He hummed and nodded. “Well done, you have sorted them properly.” He paused thinking, “Why don’t we check on the Trollhunter’s progress? It will give you a chance to assess how trolls fight.”
I nod quickly and follow him as we took a different route to the forge. We came to a large opening and I could hear Blinky and Jim talking. I walk over and look down and see that Vendel and I are in the stands of the Hero’s Forge. I pulled myself up to sit on the stone wall, legs hanging over the side as Vendel stood next to me, watching Jim get pelted with rocks by Blinky and a stray rock by Aaarrrgghh.
As Blinky was explaining the third rule of being a Trollhunter, hitting your opponents in the crotch, I caught a flash of blue from the cavern entrance, looking over to see Draal walking into the forge. “Ah! So, the Trollhunter’s training begins.” He states in an overly friendly tone, stalking towards Jim and Blinky, both growing nervous at Draal’s entrance. “I thought the great Trollhunter might accept my services as a sparring partner.” He bowed his head before hitting a fist against his open palm. “Part of your training regiment, isn’t it?” He asks, looking to Blinky.
“In due time, perhaps,” Blinky states quickly.
Vendel chuckles beside me, “Why wait?” He calls out, drawing everyone’s attention to us. I wave to Jim, Blinky, and Draal. “I am eager to see your charge demonstrate his mettle.” He states, leaning over the stone wall to peer down at Blinky.
Jim lifts his sword looking over it, “Actually, the sword is really made of, like, daylight.” He tells Vendel. I facepalm as he says this, shaking my head. Jim looks confused at my reaction, Draal smirked.
Blinky leans over to Jim, “He means your ‘mettle’: your ability to cope in the face of adversity.”
“Oh,” Jim said, realization dawning his features. “Yeah, I’m still working on the whole ‘mettle’ part.” He chuckled, “Plus, you know, SAT words.”
I smile as Jim jokes about his misunderstanding. Vendel chuckles, standing at full height again, “Let them spar,” he announces.
“No harm in it.” Draal states, his smirk growing as he heads to the opposite side of the forge while Blinky glares at him. He takes the side opposite of where Vendel and I are observing, grinning up at us.
I lean over to Vendel, “Are you two messing with Jim? I can’t tell if this is a joke or your way of getting him killed.” I frown, worried.
Vendel shakes his head, “Draal will not kill him now, we must wait for the Soothscryer’s judgment, he knows this.” I nod at his answer, relieved but nervous. “Though I cannot say he’ll walk away without injury.”
I huff, “This is not going to end well, Jim’s never been in a fight, let alone having actually punched someone.”
Vendel chuckles. “Begin.”
I watch as Draal charges for Jim. Jim was barely able to move out of the way as Draal curls into a ball, hitting the ground hard where Jim was a moment ago before rolling up the side of the wall near Vendel and I. As he lands, dust and debris are kicked up, obscuring the fight. Next thing I can see is Jim getting thrown out of the dust cloud, Draal stalking over to him. He punches Jim three times, knocking him back towards the ledge. Draal picks Jim up and holds him over the ledge, threatening to drop him.
My blood runs cold, I look to Vendel in shock, gripping the ledge tightly, my hands began to heat and the bandages around my palms burn away, the ledge I was sitting on shattered. Screaming as I felt the ledge disappear from underneath me, falling towards the forge floor quickly. I closed my eyes tight waiting for the impact.
Something hard hits me, but it’s from the side as if a boulder was lobbed at me. Suddenly I could feel all movements cease. I chance opening my eyes and all I can see is blue.
“River!” I hear Jim yell, the sound of metal boots running on stone.
I look up and see the boulder that caught me was actually Draal. He growled before setting me down. “Are you an idiot?!” He roared. “I knew you were untrained, but blasting yourself off a ledge?” He growls storming out of the forge.
I sit there in shock looking to Jim as he reaches me. “What happened River?” He knelt next to me, worried.
“I…” trailing off, looking over to ledge Draal was threatening to drop Jim over. “I thought he was going to drop you…” I looked back up at Jim. “I was scared.”
Jim frowned, “Well he wasn’t going to, said he could wait till I fell in battle… When you screamed, he dropped me on the floor as he took off after you.” He sighed hugging me. “Are you okay?”
I nod slowly, standing with his help I let out a groan. “I’m fine, other than getting hit with a living boulder.” I gave him a small smile.
Vendel came down from the viewing area, shaking his head as he approached us. “Maybe we should focus on controlling and channeling your magic instead. We don’t want a repeat of today during an actual battle.” He turns, waving for me to follow. “Trollhunter, you have much training to do.”
Jim frowns, hanging his head at his lack of skill. I pat his shoulder before following Vendel out. It was going to be a long night.
Once in his study, Vendel assessed the new damage done to my palms and rewrapped them while lecturing me on the improper use of magic. The rest of my night at Trollmarket Vendel and I researched ways to get my magic under control. I was growing weary of reading about the great sorcerers of legend. Groaning I flopped back next to a pile of books. “The only thing these people have in common in some sort of staff or weapon. Even the magic they use is different.”
Vendel tilts his head at my outburst and hums in thought. “Interesting.” He begins looking over the pictures and journals I had been reading for hours. “Each sorcerer quite literally forged their own means of channeling their magic.” He hands me a sketch of Merlin holding a staff with a giant emerald at the top. “All of which are accompanied by a stone, cut for power.”
I take the picture, looking it over. “So, I need to make a weapon or staff with a giant stone somewhere in there. Just any stone?” I asked.
Vendel shook his head. “These stones were made by the sorcerer, channeling their magic into a condensed form, similar to how water flows and turns to ice. This will take a bit of thought and preparation.”
I nod slowly. “I have to figure out how to control my magic enough to channel it into a crystalline state. The type of weapon will be important too, that could determine how I fight later on.”
Vendel gives a small smile and nods. “Yes, but for now, you need rest. It is late after all, and with your magic awakening not long ago your body hasn’t had enough time to adjust from your human habits, like sleeping.”
I nod, yawning before I could stop myself. “Also have to keep appearances up with mom. She’d lose it if she knew what was going on.” I grab all my books and pack up. “I’ll be heading out then. Goodnight Master Vendel.” I called, heading to the entrance of Trollmarket.
As I reach the top of the crystal steps, I spot Draal leaning against the wall that led to the canal, waiting. Waving to him, I smile. “Hey Draal, um… thanks for earlier… you know, catching me and all.”
He huffs, looking over my freshly bandaged hands. “Let’s go.” He shakes his head walking out into the canal.
I step out, looking at Draal confused. “Vendel didn’t ask you to walk me.” I fall in step next to him as we headed for my house.
Draal smirks, glancing over at me, “Would you rather I leave you defenseless at night with Bular running around?” he asked. “You shouldn’t use your magic after Vendel wrapped your hands.”
I huff crossing my arms over my chest stubbornly, “I can fight without magic just fine,” I stated, standing tall before mimicking basic lance techniques I had seen in an anime. “though, I would need a staff or something to do actual damage.”
Draal tilts his head at my demonstration, “Have you thought of training with a lance?” he asks.
I hummed as we continued, “Actually, I’m supposed to start focusing on forging a weapon to lace with magic, do you think a lance is a good option?”
Draal nods, “the motions you just used are lance techniques.” Draal explained different types of weapons, and how one would fight with each type until we made it to the house.
I look up at him, giving a toothy grin “Thanks Draal, your insight helped a lot, I think I know what I want to forge now.” He nods, a small smirk on his face as he turns to leave. “Draal,” I call out quickly, he turned his head back slightly to look at me, “I really am grateful for your help today, with the weapons and for saving me in the forge.”
Draal was silent for a moment before nodding, the smirk turning into a small smile. “Try not to launch yourself off any ledges for a while, I don’t think I’ll be allowed near the Trollhunter’s training after today.”
I shook my head laughing, “Yeah, probably not. Night Draal.” I called out before heading inside, going straight to bed after a stressful night.
Jim and I got up early, Saturday morning was busy for both of us. He had his first rehearsal of Romeo and Juliet today and I was going to go over my designs and ideas for my new weapon with Vendel. We headed out together and split up in the canals wishing each other luck.
I quickly ran down to Vendel’s study, waving to Draal as I passed him, excited to show Vendel what I came up with. “Master Vendel!” I grinned seeing him. “I know what I want to do!” I laid out drawings of a lance for him to see.
Vendel picked up the drawings and studied them, “A lance?” he hummed. “What are these scribbled in the shaft?” He pointed to the marking I drew in the staff.
“Crystalline veining,” I told him quickly. “that’s what I want to do with the magic I crystallize, grind it into a powder and lace it through the entire lance. No other sorcerer has tried it before!”
Vendel chuckle, “It would be very flawed, though I don’t see why it couldn’t work, you would be using a large amount of magic to do this though.” He continued to study the drawings before setting them down, a small smile on his face. “A flawed weapon, for a flawed sorceress, it’s almost poetic.” He states before nodding. “We will begin working on harnessing your magic in order to channel it into crystals.” He walked further into the Heartstone, waving me along.
We entered the core of the Heartstone and he motioned me to the center. “Sit there, now explain to me how you pulled your magic to the surface, you’ve done it three times now.”
I sat with my legs crossed thinking, “two times I was frightened, believing Jim was about to die, the third time I was defensive, when Draal met Jim and tried to pull the amulet out of the armor. Well… it was more of an overwhelming desire.”
“A desire?” Vendel question, “What for?”
I opened my mouth and paused, thinking for a moment. “To protect… I wanted to protect Jim, even if it meant getting involved in the fight.” I answered.
Vendel nods at my answer, “Try focusing on the desire to protect, shape that desire slowly, harden it, close your eyes and let it take form in your mind,” he instructed.
I nod and sit up straight, closing my eyes quickly. I recalled the moments I used magic in my mind, I focused on the feelings, the desire to protect. As I focused, I felt my flesh begin to warm. I slowly took a deep breath, keeping the feeling of fear from the events in the back of my mind, focusing solely on protecting. An image of a blue glowing stream weaving through my mind appeared, like water flowing from many pools to create a single flow. As I followed the stream it slowly led me to a large jagged rock, forming from the water of the stream. Instead of reshaping it, I let it stay jagged and messy. I focused on the stream, willing it to flow faster. The longer I concentrated, the faster the flow became, until the jagged stone was complete and overflowing, branching into more stones. I continued, allowing the overflow, pushing as far as I could go.
I snapped my eyes open as I felt a shove. Looking up I see Vendel towering over me. “Did…” I frowned seeing a look of concern flash across his face. “Did I do it wrong?”
Vendel chuckled and stepped back. “You did everything properly,” he states. “Though you’ve been in a trance for most of the day now. I began to worry when yelling wasn’t enough to pull you out of it.”
My brow knit in confusion, “Most of the day? It only felt like an hour, if that.” I looked down hoping to see the crystal in my hand after all that, but I held nothing.
Vendel studied my expression for a moment, glancing behind me. “River, as you adjust to using your magic, everything around you will begin to feel as if it’s racing by. You no longer exist in the humans’ concept of time. Your aging will be that of a Trolls’, Merlin is centuries old and still considered young.” Vendel explained my time lapse, causing me to frown. “Though I can’t remedy time, I can tell you to turn around.”
I looked up at him in question but decided to do as told. Turning, my eyes widened as they met the sapphire crystal I had seen in my mind, it ended up taller than my standing height. I looked around to see eleven smaller crystals as well, just as jagged and messy as the giant formation in front of me. “It was large in my mind but… I didn’t know it would be the same when formed.” I walked around it slowly, studying it. “Is it too much?”
Vendel laughed shaking his head, “One of the smaller crystals you made will be enough,” he chuckles coming to stand next to me, “this just shows how much magic you’ve been storing. We can keep these here. We may find a use for them as your studies advance. Choose a crystal and we can begin work on your weapon.”
I grin quickly looking over all the crystals, as I walk through them, I chuckled seeing one that has a similar formation to the crystals on Draal’s back. “I’m taking this one home,” I state before grabbing two more of similar sizes. “I’ll use one of these.”
Vendel nods as I pack the crystals in the black satchel, he had given me. “Come, we should choose a metal for the lance.”
“How about steel?” I asked, walking with Vendel to a weapons forge. “It’s the strongest metal after all.”
Vendel hummed in thought, “I don’t see why not, you’ll have to build your strength to wield it.”
I nod quickly in response. We began setting up the weapons forge, selecting the iron to create the steel, grinding the crystal I made into a fine powder. As we worked on the shaft hours went by. I texted mom to let her know I was staying with a friend to help with a school project, not a total lie, Vendel was friendly enough, this was an important project, and I was learning a lot.
Adding the crystal powder as Vendel instructed into the liquid metal took a lot of patience on my part. Working into the early hours of the morning we finally finished the shaft of the lance, cooling it off.
I slumped down near the table we used to hold the powdered crystal, exhausted. It was nearly nine in the morning. Vendel extracted the cooled shaft and began to polish it, chuckling as I was nodding off in my corner.
I awoke later in the afternoon, a long rod-like object sitting next to me, wrapped in cloth.
“I started working on the blade, you have an eye for weaponry River,” Vendel said as he was carving glyphs into a large crystal war hammer.
I groaned grabbing the wrapped weapon next to me, slowly stretching as I stood. “Thank you, Master Vendel.” I approached where he was working and saw several freshly made and sharpened blades on the table near the cooling vat. Each blade was slightly different, slightly flawed, and to me they were perfect. I grinned and hugged Vendel, excited about the weapon. Realizing what I did I pulled back quickly, looking down. “Um, sorry… I’m just… I’m really excited.”
I heard a chuckle, then a large hand was patting my head. “It is good to be excited about your accomplishments. Why don’t you try adding the blade to the shaft?” He nudged me to the blades before he continued to work.
I nod quickly, going to the table and looking over each blade carefully before choosing one. I unwrapped the staff, pausing to stare at it, seeing it fully polished, veins of glowing sapphire ran through it, similar to the pools of magic I saw in my mind. Smiling I slid the blade into place and secured it with a black leather strap.
“I added the enchantments to the blades so the lance will collapse when not in use,” Vendel spoke. “Go test it on the Trollhunter, he should be here soon.”
I nod, thanking him again before running off to find Jim. I found Jim and Toby heading into one of the Troll bars a determined look on Jim’s face. As I walked in after them, I saw him challenging Draal to a rematch. I sighed shaking my head. Something told me this wasn’t going to end well.
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ruvatia · 6 years
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Masked, unmasked
Anonymous asked:
Can I ask for a young justice nightwing that’s trying to convince reader (that was a good friend to him back in Gotham Academy) to join the team after they develop superpowers?
asdjhjasa I’m sorry I accidentally deleted your ask!
Pairing: Nightwing x reader (young justice) Word Count: 1,6k words Context: With a science experiment becoming noticed by the wrong people, you had discovered that you weren’t like most of your friends. And with the great detective Richard Grayson on duty of course he learns of your troubles and the aftermath of your rescue.
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“I’m just saying, I know of a place where you could be a lot safer than the studio you’re living in now!”
“Look, Mr... Nightwing, dude, hero guy.” you said, finally turning around. “I appreciate you and your team saving me from those guys. I really do. But I don’t intend on moving out anytime soon, there’s not many places I can afford and I am not letting anyone else pay my rent for me.”
“I’m not telling you to move out to another place in Gotham. I want you on my team.”
“No, I’m not moving out to Bludhaven eith---What.”
He chuckled and repeated himself. He always enjoyed surprising you, regardless of if he had a mask on or not.
“I want you on my team. Don’t think I didn’t notice how some guards seemed to just faint when they were around you. Unless you really are that charming.”
You blushed, but you turned away and started walking away from him. Thankfully he didn’t notice the pink that dusted your cheeks, but part of the pink was because you felt yourself breaking out in cold sweat because someone else had so easily figured out that you weren’t like the others. The fact that he was a pretty attractive superhero didn’t really help the anxiety creeping into your frame as you walked back home.
The moment you closed the door, your phone vibrated in your pocket before you could even sink down to the floor and let out the longest and deepest sigh of the century.
from, unknown number: Not very nice of you to just storm off like that, I have a heart too you know
to, unknown number: jesus christ am I going to have to file a restraining order for your masked ass
from, unknown number: my ass holds no mask, unfortunately
Rolling your eyes, you blocked the number. You knew it was useless, Nightwing being a very smart individual that used to be under Batman’s wing but you felt good for a few seconds. Your phone pinged the moment you rose from your work desk but you ignored it, simply taking the device in your hands without unlocking it and plugging it into the wall.
You raised your arms and stretched, declaring that you were taking a shower and then going to bed. As you closed the blinds before the lights, a smirking figure on the neighboring rooftop leaped back to his base.
The next morning, a familiar face greeted you with a pat on the shoulder. Blue eyes pierced into yours as you took in his bright smile. It was blinding.
“Hey there sleepyhead, didn’t get your morning coffee yet?”
“Urgh, Dick.”
“Yes, yes that is my name. Looks like you need that morning coffee ASAP.”
“I wasn’t calling--- You know what? inject caffeine into my veins until I bleed it when I get cut. Where to?”
Dick glanced at his wristwatch, then at you, and then at the college you were both attending. 
“Save me a seat and I’ll cover the goods.” he winked before dashing towards the nearest cafe.
The moment you arrived in class all the backseats were taken by the cool kids. So dragging Dick’s bag with you, you sat near the first window in the first rows. It would make your friend able to spot you faster too so it all worked out, you tried to convince yourself.
The moment you had taken your notebook out of your bag, your heard heavy footsteps, a pair going at an insane speed and another that was much more relaxed.
Your teacher, a slow, cold and sour old man opened the door and right after he took his first step into the class, Dick jumped through the frame and landed with both his feet. He spotted you and beamed your way, saying “just in time” before jogging to the seat beside you.
“Grayson. Almost late but actually present. What a pleasure to see you.” your teacher said as he sat down. “Alright class, open your manuals to the third chapter.”
“Got your favorite, as weird as it is.” He said, pushing a cup with his name on it towards your notebook.
“Look, you should tell me that after you’ve tried a matcha latte with a few shots of espresso. Tea has caffeine in it anyways.” you said, letting your fingers come around the paper cup. You felt the warmth of your drink through the foam and let out a long sigh.
“I could right now, if you’d be so nice to broaden my horizons.” he said, a mischievous grin creeping on his face. 
“No.” You frowned and pulled the cup closer to you.
That earned a low chuckle from him before you both returned to the class at hand. For the first time in a long while you weren’t going to need to copy your notes for this class.
You’d known the boy sitting beside you since high school, being one of the students that could keep up with him (in more than one way) naturally you ended up together a lot. You would be lying if you said you’d never felt attracted to him, or felt some twinge in your heart when you heard that he was dating Barbara Gordon. Not that you were surprised, she was just so.... Barbara. There wasn’t a single thing that those two couldn’t do. No weaknesses whatsoever, or at least not in your eyes.
Though when you learned that the pair had broken up a little while ago, for the first time you’d started to see your friends as something else than perfect. You saw them as actual people with flaws for the first time and as you discovered and acknowledged them you grew closer to both of them in the last few months than you have in the past few years. They’d noticed too, and now before you knew it there wasn’t a week where you didn’t see them at least once, despite being in different programs in college.
The moment you left class, you felt your phone vibrate inside your pocket. Nightwing had just sent the text he sent to you last night again, since you decided to leave the last message unread and unanswered.
from, unknown number; Really? Blocking me before I get to take you out to dinner?
to, unknown number; You never said anything about dinner and either way I wouldn’t be interested. Please leave me alone.
You sighed again, earning the attention of your friend beside you.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, a grin on his features for a reason that was unknown to you.
“Harassment, I guess.” you shrugged, readjusting the strap on your shoulder before shoving your phone back in your jacket’s pocket. “I think I need some food in me before I head to the library, do you have time to tag along?”
“I always have time for you. What’s this harassment story about?”
“Well, creeper keeps approaching me even when I’ve very clearly refused him.”
“C-creeper’s a pretty strong word.” he commented, avoiding your annoyed expression. “Have you tried listening to their side of the story?”
“No, and it’s probably a little rude to think so, but I don’t think that there’s much to it anyways.”
He raised his eyebrow at that. “Oh really?”
“Dude just wants me to join his...” 
You trailed off, trying not to give away the fact that the guardian of Bludhaven was texting you to join his team of superheroes and seemed pretty insistent. 
“G-gaming group! Yeah, he wants me to join this gaming group because they need a support main but he doesn’t know if I’d actually communicate and play effectively with his friends. Sure, I can fill and heal and resurrect them when they need me but who knows what we’ll actually do as a team.”
“Well, how would you know if you never tried a game with them? Maybe just try it, and add the good ones on your friend list.”
“The good ones you say...” you sigh in response, before feeling a hand come around your shoulder. “I don’t know how they work, Dick. And even if I did these people have probably been through so much together. You know how it is with cliques, they’re all super tight-knit and it’s really hard to get in.”
“Come now, there’s no need to say that. Worst case scenario they’re added on the fiend list and I teach them all a lesson with my mad skills.” Dick winked at you. “Besides, you’re a great friend and good company to have around, I’m sure you’ll fit in great.”
You chuckled, making him release a sigh he didn’t know he had in him.
“So, about that food... Got a place in mind?”
From, unknown number: Need some help being alone?
The text made your phone shine through your hoodie jacket. You had just finished your draft for an essay that you were going to give in a few weeks, and you raised an eyebrow at the message.
You had stepped out of your apartment to grab some snacks from the nearest corner store, and you were convinced that if something did happen you’d be able to defend yourself. If Nightwing wanted you on his team you’d be just fine against a few thugs.
You would not be fine against the Joker however. 
The man stood before you, smiling. He took a deep bow and then looked up at you in a swift movement, making you take a step back.
“Word on the street is that you’re quite the interesting little bird. Mind coming with me?”
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inexpensiveprogress · 6 years
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Bardfield Cookery Collection - Vol I - Eric Ravilious
This is the first part in a series of posts I have been working on about the cookery books made by artists of Great Bardfield. This first volume is on Eric Ravilious. 
Eric William Ravilious (22 July 1903 – 2 September 1942) was an English painter, designer, book illustrator and wood-engraver. He grew up in East Sussex, and is particularly known for his watercolours of the South Downs and other English landscapes, which examine English landscape and vernacular art with an off-kilter, modernist sensibility and clarity. He served as a war artist, and died when the aircraft he was in was lost off Iceland. ◊
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 Dust Jacket for The Country Life Cookery Book by Ambrose Heath, 1937 
The Country Life Cookery Book was published in 1937 and illustrated by Eric Ravilious. Country Life to some may just be the magazine, but at this point in  history they were a major publisher about architecture, craft and a style of country life that would appeal to the new middle and upper classes of Britain. The publications normally contained lots of high quality photography.
In the same year as the Cookery Book was published were many other books, here are a few others for adults: Where To Catch Salmon And Trout, Elements Of Stabling, Morning Flight A Book Of Wildfowl, Gun For Company, Victorian Street Ballads. For children there were: Skilled Horsemanship, The Golden Knight and Other Stories, Peter & Co, Knight in Africa and Rajah the Elephant... as part of the ‘Junior Country Life Library’. 
The books are countryside propaganda in the age of travel by train, omnibus, charabanc and car. They were promoting Britain in the way they wanted to see it. It is fair to say when people talk about the ‘Golden Nineteen-Thirties’ that Country Life had a great deal in the legend.
The Title-Page
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 Eric Ravilious - Title-page of the Country Life Cookery Book, 1937
We know Ravilious got the commission for the cookery book in July 1936 as he wrote in this letter to Helen Binyon: 
This book is now begun and begins to be promising. †
The wood-engravings follow a seasonal theme, month by month rather than chapters on food or following the text - this calendar style is like the other Ambrose Heath books for Faber & Faber that Edward Bawden had illustrated for the previous five years. Only 12 blocks were cut by Ravilious for the in the book, so with the title page decoration, two of the months (January & December) used the same image. One can only assume this was how many images they thought they needed and so how many images they paid for.
Having the chapters as seasonal months would also hurry the project along from the illustration front - as in April of 1937, nine months later, Ravilious wrote to Binyon:
I don’t believe Heath has written his text yet. ‡
But not having the text as a guide would mean Ravilious could invent the illustrations from his mind and use past works. He worked on the illustrations from July 1936 - February 1937 while taking on other commissioned work and finishing a series of watercolours. 
Below is the title page wood-engraving of a framed cornucopia, a wheat-sheaf and food produce. This illustration is a reject from another job. 
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 Eric Ravilious - Title-page (Harvest Festival), Wood-engraving for the Cornhill Magazine, 1936 
Ravilious was completing a commission for The Cornhill Magazine in the later part of 1936 and the project overlapped with the Cookery Book. So when one of the wood engravings was rejected by John Murray (editor of The Cornhill) he used it on the cookery book. I thought this engraving was a bit surreal and over the top until I discovered a drawing of it below. 
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 Eric Ravilious - Harvest Festival and Loaves, 1936
I’ve been drawing the bread table in the church - dead and fancy loaves, barley and corn, apples and eggs - and I  thought it too beautiful not to place on record. ♠
Having been rejected for one job Ravilious cut away the framed backdrop of the table and submitted the wood-engraving below for the Cookery Book project instead.
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 Eric Ravilious - Title-page (Harvest Festival), Wood-engraving for the Country Life Cookery Book, 1937 
Below is another woodblock based on the same image made for The Writings of Gilbert White of Selborne in 1938. It’s a new version and not an edited restrike. Likely cut in 1937 as the job was commissioned in May of that year and the book published in 1938. 
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 Eric Ravilious - (Harvest Festival), Wood-engraving for The Writings of Gilbert White of Selborne in 1938
January and December
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 Eric Ravilious - January & December, Wood-engraving for the Country Life Cookery Book, 1937
January & December is the block that is used twice in the cookery book. 
Ravilious would also find inspiration in the past. He owned a copy of The Frugal Housewife published by J Fairburn, 1838 and below is the meat guide on animals. I think this Ravilious woodcut is one of the defining moments in cookery illustration and helped re-popularise this old fashion key to animal flesh. The meat guide is now a typical image to see in cookery books to educate what meats can be gained from an animal. It is used three times in this book. He mentions the idea to use old cookery books below:
I’ve had what you would call a cleaver idea, and Mrs Beeton has been a help. †
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 Frontispiece - The Frugal Housewife, J. Fairburn, 1838
February 
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 Eric Ravilious - February, Wood-engraving for the Country Life Cookery Book, 1937
In the August of 1935 Edward Bawden and Ravilious went on a painting trip to Newhaven and in the wood-engraving above, the basket of fish emblazoned with the name of the town.
The idea for the wood engraving would also pop up again in another format, this time a print for Contemporary Lithographs, a company working with artists to make large runs of lithographic prints that would be cheap for the public to buy from the Zwemmer Gallery. Below is one of the watercolours from 1935 that could have been the inspiration for the commission. (The watercolour was also sold via Zwemmer Gallery).
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 Eric Ravilious - Newhaven Harbour, 1935 
The print that Ravilious completed is very similar to the Cookery Book print as the jobs overlapped. The official title of the print is Newhaven Harbour but Eric referred to the print as ‘Homage to Seurat’. Helen Binyon wrote that the print has a:
scene of sensitive clarity and beautiful luminosity ♦
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 Eric Ravilious - Newhaven Harbour, Contemporary Lithographs Ltd, 1937
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 Eric Ravilious - February, Wood-engraving for the Country Life Cookery Book, 1937
March
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 Eric Ravilious - March, Wood-engraving for the Country Life Cookery Book, 1937
A pig surrounded by the fruit of choice, apples, and to the left of the wood-engraving a garden sieve with berries upon it. The watercolour below comes from the same year as the Cookery Book’s commission, but is now one of the lost paintings of Ravilious, it was also damaged when last seen having had the top left corner ripped and creased. 
Trugs with Fruit is a lost watercolour by Eric Ravilious, damaged. In the corner it may have been framed and sold or just disregarded and thrown away, but it appears in the wood engraving in this commission for John G Murray, editor of the Cornhill Magazine. It was made for publicity for the Magazine but so far has only ever been seen on the compliment slips they had for a short time.
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 Eric Ravilious - Trugs with Fruit, 1936
April
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 Eric Ravilious - April, Wood-engraving for the Country Life Cookery Book, 1937
Rather like the Title Page, the wood engraving for April came at the same time as the Cornhill Magazine commission. Below is a watercolour, now presumed lost of trugs of fruit and the same trug appears in the wood engraving next to a glass of mint - these are red currents and mint, said to be the good sauces for Lamb.
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 Eric Ravilious - Trugs with Fruit, 1936
The wood-engraving below would have been copied from the painting and in the printing process it appears reversed, it comes with the same cornucopia from the title-page engraving. 
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 Eric Ravilious - Autumn Fruits, 1936
And here you can see the wood-engraving in use on the Cornhill Magazine compliment slip.
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 Eric Ravilious - Cornhill Magazine Complement Slip with Autumn Fruits, 1936
May
The wood-engraving for May looks to be the most original of all of the illustrations, I can’t think of having seen any element in past work.
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 Eric Ravilious - May, Wood-engraving for the Country Life Cookery Book, 1937
June
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 Eric Ravilious - June, Wood-engraving for the Country Life Cookery Book, 1937
The June illustration features a bee-hive. A variation of the image would be used two years later on The Garden Implements Jug that was also designed by Ravilious for Wedgwood. The bottom most vignette. 
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 Wedgwood Garden Implements Jug, 1939
July
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 Eric Ravilious - July, Wood-engraving for the Country Life Cookery Book, 1937
The wood-engraving for July has roots in many places. The finished wood block has a hat, cornucopia of pears, a hat on the backdrop of hills and cornstooks. In an early drawing for the wood-block the hat is in the same place (reversed when printed) but many of the other elements have changed.   
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 Eric Ravilious - Proposed July Block, Drawing made on tracing paper for woodblock, (reversed for printing), 1936
It is likely that the print Ravilious drew out was inspired by the Harvest theme of the month he was illustrating and he looked back on older work. Below the wood engraving from 1934 is one of many Curwen Press Stock Blocks. They are woodblocks and prints the press has paid artists to make so they can be used without the need to hire an illustrator for a job, so production times can be quicker and still have illustrated items.
The tree and setting of cornstooks reminded me of the drawing he made above and even the way the stooks flow uphill.
Eric Ravilious - July, Wood-engraving for the Country Life Cookery Book, 1937
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 Eric Ravilious - Curwen Press Stock Block 985, 1936
The booklet the block was used upon happened to be called Spectator Harvest, for the Spectator Magazine. 
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 Spectator Harvest, 1952
It was also re-cut in mirror image for The Writings of Gilbert White of Selborne in 1938.
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 Eric Ravilious - Selborne Tailpiece Volume 2, 1938
But back to the cookery book - the cornucopia below (that appeared next to a hat and a baguette) has been seen before in this post - in the wood-engraving in use on the Cornhill Magazine compliment slip.
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 Eric Ravilious - July, Wood-engraving for the Country Life Cookery Book, 1937
One above the other, it isn’t hard to see a link.
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 Eric Ravilious - Autumn Fruits, 1936
August
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Eric Ravilious - August, Wood-engraving for the Country Life Cookery Book, 1937
For the August vignette Ravilious chose to illustrate the garden of Brick House in Great Bardfield. Ravilious and his wife Tirzah had shared the house with Edward Bawden and his wife Charlotte from 1932 until 1935 when the Raviliouses moved to near-by Castle Hedingham. 
In 1936 Bawden painted the garden in the winter of the Cookery Book commission showing the wood gazebo that was up in 1932 as it was a wedding gift from Eric and Tirzah to Edward and Charlotte. The arches must have been added between then, around 1936. 
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 Edward Bawden, February 2pm, 1936
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 Eric Ravilious - The Garden Path, 1933
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 Eric Ravilious - August - Drawing made on tracing paper for woodblock, 1936 (reversed for printing)
September
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 Eric Ravilious - September, Wood-engraving for the Country Life Cookery Book, 1937
The illustration for September shows the game shooting season and a brace of birds, maybe a goose to the left and pheasants to the right in front of a country lane. Below is the original trace drawing for the block, reversed for printing. 
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 Eric Ravilious - September, Drawing made on tracing paper for woodblock, (reversed for printing), 1936
Followers of my blog would not be surprised to see that the illustration bears a similarity to another one, the wood-engraving for London Transport, this is confirmed in a letter to Helen Binyon again:
The jobs, cookery and Green Line advertisements - are all done and sent off and very glad am I that hard work is finished. ♣
Counter to the letter I can’t find another reference to them in print.
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 Eric Ravilious - The Shepard, 1936
The Shepard is one of the most lively engravings that Ravilious made for London Transport. The Sheep and their ears with the hillside up to the house are pleasing. The technicality of the halftone shading are some of his best. ♥
The Cookery Book’s version of the engraving is more detailed, I think because the printing was likely to be finer than the press adverts the London Transport one would be reproduced in.
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 Eric Ravilious - September, Wood-engraving for the Country Life Cookery Book, 1937
October
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 Eric Ravilious - October, Wood-engraving for the Country Life Cookery Book, 1937
October sees kitchen items, a jug, copper jelly mould stacked mixing bowls and baking trays with two jars of preserved items.
November
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 Eric Ravilious - November, Wood-engraving for the Country Life Cookery Book, 1937
The last work of a chicken farm and a turkey with wheelbarrow gives the Christmas feeling and may have been marked to have been the December illustration but January’s wood-engraving was also used as December.
† Eric Ravilious to Helen Binyon - 19th July, 1936 ‡ Eric Ravilious to Helen Binyon - 14th April, 1937 ♠ Eric Ravilious to Helen Binton - 6th October, 1936 ♣ Eric Ravilious to Helen Binyon - 17th August (1936)  ♦ Helen Binyon - Eric Ravilious: Memoir of an Artist, 2016 ♥ Robjn Cantus - A Journey of London Transport with Eric Ravilious, 2018 ◊ Wikipedia - Eric Ravilious 
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erlenmeyertrash · 6 years
Text
screw it i’m doin it
so this is a short lil blurb of an au i’m writing that i just figured i’d throw out into the void
please comment on/critique this (if you want!), especially/particularly the writing style! i don’t normally (see: ever) write in present tense, and i usually use a lot more dialogue and the sentences are much much much much shorter. i’m aware they can be ridiculously long; i was going more for stream-of-consciousness storytelling here with exposition of characters being pretty slow and/or more indirect as it progressed. this probably isn’t the final draft of this part by any means so if there’s anything you particularly liked, stylistically or story-wise, or anything you thought didn’t add up or flowed poorly, please let me know!!
He is seven when he first makes things move.
He is sitting on the grassy slope of a hill, knees hugged to his chest, watching his brothers play below. He idly hears their playful shouts but does not focus on making out the words; though they are rowdy, they’re also kind and protective, and he knows he won’t be bothered or teased for not joining in.
So instead, he focuses his thoughts on the daffodil to his left, standing at attention without a breeze to battle. He raises his hand above it, small fingers splayed but steady. A slow exhale.
Concentration.
A pregnant pause.
The petals quiver.
He exhales again, feels some strange outpouring from his palm, and the flower is uprooted and floats slowly into the air, tiny roots outstretched in all directions. He hears an exclamation but does not raise his eyes as his oldest brother races over and tumbles into the grass at his feet.
They tell their parents in a jumble of words, each of the other boys clambering to be the bringer of the news while Virgil blushes and stares at the toes of his shoes. His hair is ruffled and his mother makes his favorite dinner that evening. Later, in bed, staring at the ceiling, he lets out a quiet exhale, thankful he was not the first to be an outcast. Despite the chill in the air- a silent promise of autumn weather to come- his palm is still warm.
It continues to be the main story over breakfast; he earns a playful jab to the side, more hair ruffles, talk of how “it’s so early!” and that means “you must be a really powerful wizard, Vee” and when one of them asks if that means he’ll get to go to school sooner, their father laughs and laughs. No, he must wait. Virgil is fine with this. He fiddles with a flayed string on his sweater. He can wait. Not an Obscurus, not a Squib. A wizard.
Before he dons his mittens, his mother calls him into the kitchen. Smiling, she cautions him: don’t go telling the whole world just yet, Virgil, dearest. He nods, amber eyes wide, and she kisses the top of his head before sprinkling him with flour; he lets out a squeal and swipes at the white flecks now dusting his shoulders. She laughs and the sound is warmer than the sunlight streaking across the floors. Run along now. Don’t be late for dinner.
He waits by the hollowed tree with the yellow ribbon tied to the branch. She meets him there and leads him into town, down the cobbled road to the little ice cream parlor where she buys them each a scoop of vanilla. He holds his tongue and doesn’t try to make the spoon move of its own accord and grins as she shows him how to play the piano song she learned on the edge of the table. The only sounds her slender fingers make are muted taps, but they hear a blazing orchestra. There are bits of vanilla caught in her wild dark hair and they drip onto her jacket; he teases her, laughing, and she chases him all the way back to the woods. He hums his newfound melody as he ambles home, keeping time with the sunset dripping down blades of grass.
As time marches onward, he reads the Muggle books his father brings and learns about fairy tales and history and math and watches his older brothers practice their magic as they earn their wands year by year; he silently copies their hand motions with brittle sticks he finds on the forest floor. He learns more piano but meets the girl less and less as each autumn comes and trailblazes the woods as a lone explorer until the sun sets and shadows grow too quickly for him to roam very far. He practices making small flurries in the snow banks; sometimes it works and his world turns into a snowglobe, if only for a few precious moments. The brothers sleep in a dogpile at night, huddling tighter as the frost begins to cover the windows. The world outside is white and silent and frozen, but Virgil is warm as he is surrounded by six strong, steady heartbeats.
He blinks and somehow it is years later and he stands at a bustling station. A fluffy black cat winds itself around his left ankle and there are many, many other children surrounding him. One of his brothers grabs the hand not holding his trunk and drags him onto the train and into a too-crowded compartment, not that any of them mind. They all wave excitedly out the window to their parents. Virgil grips his luggage tightly, pale knuckles turning even lighter. The cat jumps onto his hands and meows loudly and he idly scratches her chin. He doesn’t think of his parents bent over the newspaper at the table early that morning when he had snuck downstairs because he couldn’t sleep. He doesn’t think of hushed whispers and worried glances. He doesn’t.
The train stops and they ride boats across a lake and Virgil’s brothers splash each other (but not him, never him, not when he’s afraid to look into the black, murky depths and keeps one hand on the bench at all times) and they’re ushered into a hall and then Virgil is sitting on a stool in front of everyone and he is suddenly terrified of magic.
He hears a strange word and one table starts cheering and he heads over there, as he supposes he should, and one of his brothers is already in this house so Virgil sits by him and ducks his head. These colors don’t seem to match, they’re too bright, this is a lot of pressure on him. He doesn’t do well under pressure, he thinks.
His wand is faulty; that must be it. That must be why his castings go awry, why the sparks that only occasionally fly out are the wrong color, out of tune. Ollivander must have been wrong, must have gotten his wand mixed up with one of his younger brothers’. At home he didn’t have any problems with magic. Nevertheless, he practices; he hides in the bathroom so he doesn’t wake his bunkmates and stares himself down in the mirror and whispers spells and loses sleep. The cat- Aeneid, a fitting name for her adventurous spirit- watches patiently with amber irises, her tail flicking from side to side. He sits with his brothers at meals; who would dare stop them? They are an inseparable clash of colors, bright and loud, and he can slip into the middle, unquestioned, unseen. He fits with them, in his home, not in some House with expectations of him beyond being the quiet brother they have all vowed to look after. They can teach him spells, revise his essays, and make sure all his Potions ingredients are labeled and organized- and they do. Don’t worry, Vee. You’ve got this. You’ve done it all before. Swish and flick- there you go!
Virgil knows he is not worthy of his House, but he hopes someday he is worthy of this outpouring of love. He is not brave, nor cunning, nor smart, nor hardworking, but he is protected, and that is enough. Little by little, the magic comes to him; an itch under the skin of his hands as he breathes in and out and some unseen power ebbs and flows at his command. His wand, though odd and imperfect, is a conduit for this force. He begins to think of it as a conductor’s baton and the magic soon flows like melodious music notes.
As he grows, as they grow (because they are simply fragments of a whole, interdependent beings, a unit that is more than the simple sum of its parts), as their last two brothers join them and for one grand year they all seven crowd the end of one singular Dining Hall table, his heart slows and his hackles smooth over and he settles in to a place he truly belongs- until he has the blaring epiphany over one November breakfast that this can not, will not last forever and it chills him to the core.
That night, heartbeat hammering against the icy fear that grips his chest, he silently sneaks out of the common room and heads to the library, a thousand compositions of stammered excuses drafted in his head as to why he is out so late. He sifts through the myriad of books until he finds one on protective spells and begins to commit them to memory on his own, one by one. He hums an old, nearly forgotten melody under his breath that reminds him of yellow and melting vanilla as he slowly moves his wand. He is a maestro, conducting a symphony of safeguarding, all the while shouldering the weight of knowing he can keep time but is powerless to stop it. His house colors are the rustic brown of well-trodden wood floors and lilac growing by the front porch, and though he is not a soldier, he will protect his house with his dying breath.
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nothingbythebook · 4 years
Text
First, an apology for the title slug. I know you’re all sick and tired of plays on A Love in the Time of Cholera. Still. There’s a reason we’re doing it.
Second… but really first:
i. A catalogue
I recently moved, and as part of the uprooting, I culled my physical books to the essentials. (Ok, I moved like 500 metres away, but hey, packing and thus purging was definitely involved.) Stress on the physical: thank gods for my e-readers, a library of thousands always in my pocket.
Still. I was pretty ruthless. Totally ruthless, actually. Goodbye, university textbooks. Goodbye, books from the “I was a teenage Wiccan” phase. Goodbye, big thick books that look good on my shelf and make me feel smart because I own them—but let’s be honest, I’m never going to read Infinite Jest. I tried. It’s unreadable. I read Gravity’s Rainbow—goodbye—and, frankly, wish I hadn’t, don’t remember what it’s about, and I’ll never get that time back.
Goodbye, all of Jeanette Winterson’s not Sexing the Cherry books. Goodbye, gifted books that missed the mark—goodbye, self-bought books that I read, don’t remember, will never read again. Goodbye, books I once loved but don’t anymore—that cull was the hardest.
What’s left was still heavy to move and comprises about ten shelf equivalents. But each of these books is loved. Important.
Like The Letters of Sylvia Plath and this little known book of the poet’s drawings:
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I don’t actually own Plath’s The Bell Jar or Ariel. How is this possible? Note to self: must buy. Response to self: this is how it beings, hoarding, pack-ratting expansion. Don’t do it. Response to response to self: Shut up. I want my Sylvia.
All of my Polish books:
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Some of these have travelled the world with my parents and me for almost forty years. The Polish translation of A.S. Lindgren’s Children from Bullerbyn (which used to belong to my dad’s sister, actually—she got it and read it the year I was born) and of Winnie The Pooh—the first “chapter” books I ever read. And, of course, Sienkiewicz, Mickiewicz, Orzeszkowa, Rodziewiczówna. Kapuścinski. The more modern poets: Zagajewski, Anna Świrszczyńska and Wisława Szymborska, not in translation.
This cultural heritage of mine, I have a very… fraught, complex relationship with. So much beauty, so much passion, so much suffering—so much stupidity, so much pain.
Governments do not define a national, a culture, or a people, I suppose. But in a democracy, they reflect the will and the hearts of the majority of the people, and, if the current government of Poland reflects the majority of the will and the hearts of the (voting) Polish people, they are repugnant to me and I want nothing to do with them. I am ashamed of them, of where I come from.
But I do come of them, from there, do I not?
Still. I keep the books. Including the one celebrating our first modern proto-fascist, Józef Piłsudski. History is complicated; ancestry not chosen.
Next, a shelf of all of my favourites.
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All of Jane Austen, of course. Most of Nabokov. Virginia Woolf, because, well, it’s complicated. Susan Sontag’s On The Suffering of Others, and E.M. Forester’s Maurice—I gave up Room With a View and the others. J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, not so much because I’ll ever read it again but because it was so important back then. Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange, because nothing like it has been written before or since. Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas—I mean. I had to keep it, hero of my misspent university youth. I put him right next to Charles Bukowski’s Women, which isn’t great, but which… well. It taught me a lot about writing. Then, Jorge Luis Borges’ The Book of Imaginary Beings, which always makes me cry because a) it exists and b) I will never write that well.
Edward Said’s Orientalism, the only book to survive my “why the fuck did I keep all of these outdated anthropology and sociology and history textbooks for 25 years” purge. Margaret Mead’s New Lives for Old, which wasn’t one of them, but a later acquisition, kept in honour of the woman who dared live her life, do her thing. She wasn’t the smartest, the brightest, the most original—but fuck, she dared. Fraser’s The Golden Bough and Lilian Faderman’s Chloe Plus Olivia, both acquired in my teens—the first gave me religion for a while, while I freed myself of the Polish Catholicism in which I grew up (“freed” is an aspirational word; I suspect the religions we are indoctrinated into in childhood stay in our bones forever—the best that we can do is be aware when that early programming tries to sabotage our critical thinking and emotional well-being), and the second showed me I wasn’t a freak, an aberration, alone.
Next, The First Ms. Reader and the Sisterhood is Powerful anthology—original 1970s paperbacks bought in a used bookstore in the 1990s when I was discovering feminism. Monica Sjöö and Barbara Mor’s The Great Cosmic Mother—I suppose another Wicca-feminism vestige. I will never read it again, but way back when, that book changed my life, so. Here it is, with me, still.
And now, back to fiction: The Doorbell Rang, my only Rex Stout hardcover, although without the dust jacket, and a hardcover, old, maybe even worth something, with protected dust jacket intact, of P.G. Wodehouse’s Psmith, Journalist. Next to them, The Adventures of Romney Pringle and The Further Adventures by Romney Pringle, the single collaboration between R. Austin Freeman and John J. Pitcairn under the pseudonym of Clifford Ashdown. Written in 1902 or so, both volumes are the first American edition. In mint condition. Like the P.G. Wodehouse—and The Letters of Sylvia Plath, and the unique, autographed, bound in leather made from the butts of sacrificed small children or something, Orson Scott Card Maps in the Mirror short story collection, which is next-but-one to them on the bookshelf—they were a gift from Sean.
A lot of the books on my shelves, here with me now, are a gift from Sean.
Between them, a hard cover Georges Simeon found at a garage sale, and then G.K. Chesterton—Lepanto, the poem about the 1571 naval battle between Ottoman forces and the Holy (that’s what they called themselves) League of Catholic Europe, which I will never read again, but which is associated with a specific time and event in my personal history, so I keep it. Next to it, The Collected Stories of Father Brown, in battered hardcover, which I re-read intermittently, and which are—well. Perfect, really. Then, all of Dashiell Hammett in one volume. Then, almost all the best Agatha Christie’s in four “five complete novels” hardcover collections, topped with two multi-author murder mystery medleys from the 1950s.
Looking at this shelf makes me very, very happy.
Next, the one fully preserved collection. Before the move, these books lived on a bookshelf perched on top of my desk. Now, they are here, their “natural” order slightly altered because of the uneven height of this case’ shelves. The top shelf is, I suppose, mostly reference and writing books:
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The Paris Review Interviews, Anne Lammott’s Bird by Bird, Neil Gaiman’s Make Good Art, Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style, and their ilk. At the end, a couple of publications in which I have a byline.
The next shelf, the smallest on the case, is a bit of a smorgasboard, but is very precious to me:
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Do you see Frida and my Tarot cards? Also an Ariana Reines book that I really should give back to its owner…
Next, my perhaps most precious books.
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Philip Larkin’s Letters to Monica and Nabokov’s Letters to Vera. Anne Carson’s If Not Winter: Fragments of Sappho. Four Letter Word, a collection of “original love letters” (short stories, they mean, pretentious fucks) from an assortment of mega-stars, including Margaret Atwood, Leonard Cohen, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Neil Gaiman, Ursula K. LeGuin… a strange assortment, really. But some lovely pieces in there. Some lame ones too—and I like that too. Even superstars misfire, every one in a while.
Then, Leonard Cohen, Pablo Neruda, Walt Whitman, Jack Gilbert, Vera Pavlova. Finally, Anaïs Nin’s Delta of Venus and Little Birds, and a bunch of battered Colettes. Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer right next to Colette, of course. Then, my Frida books.
The next shelf is full of aspirational delusions.
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Farsi textbooks next to Hafez, Rumi and Forough Farrokzad translations. I will never be able to read Hafez in the original Persian. But maybe? Life is long. Maybe, one day, I will have time. Then, Jung’s Red Book, Parker J. Palmer’s A Hidden Wholeness, Rod Stryker’s The Four Desires, Stephen Cope’s The Great Work of Your Life, Thich Nhat Hahn’s The Art of Communicating (I failed), The Bhagavad Gita (still trying).
As I said, the shelf of delusions.
The bottom shelf is aspirational/inspirational, and also, very tall.
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And so, that’s why my Georgia O’Keefe books are there, as well as The Purple Book, and Obrist’s do it manifesto. Perhaps there is room there for my leather-bound Master’s thesis, currently tucked away in the closet, right there, next to a course binder from SAIT? Then, all of my Spanish books, including Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s El Amor en los Tiempos del Cólera… which, also, one day, I will read in Spanish and actually understand. Life is long, right?
Next, not really a book shelf as such, but the top shelf of my secretary desk, where the reference and project books of the moment live.
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The Canadian Press Stylebook has a permanent home here, of course. And I’ve got two copies of Canadian Copyright: A Citizen’s Guide there, one for me (unread, but I’ll get to it, I promise myself, again), one for a colleague. Both snagged from a Little Free Library, by the way.
Almost done.
In the bedroom, the books of vice.
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A shelf of battered Ngaio March paperbacks, tucked beside them some meditation and Kundalini yoga books that I’m not using right now, but, maybe, one day, I am not ready to give up on this part of myself yet.  Below, a shelf of even more battered Rex Stout paperbacks.
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I read and re-read these books—as did their original owners—until they fall to pieces. They are my crack, my vice—also, my methadone, my soother.
Below them, space for library books, mine and Ender’s:
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I am finding Anna Mehler Paperny’s Hello I want to Die Please Fix Me unreadable, by the way. I pick it up, put it away. Repeat.
Will likely return it to the library unread.
Currently not on display: books by friends. Some here with me, some on the shelves in the Co-op house. There are a lot of those. Can one be ruthless… with friends?
ii. A reflection
Books, for readers and writers, are the artifacts that define us. When I enter a reader’s home, I immediately gravitate to their bookshelves. What’s on them?
What’s not on them?
What I’ve chosen to let go of, to not bring with me here tells me… a lot.
What am I going to do with this information?
xoxo
“Jane”
Books in the Time of Corona: what’s on my shelves and what’s not, and the story it tells First, an apology for the title slug. I know you're all sick and tired of plays on…
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vlindervin7 · 7 years
Text
Because Adam Parrish’s bisexuality is very important to me and I felt the need to write down the Feelings I was having. This has no plot, just so you know.        
AO3
It’s really you on my mind
He’s fifteen years old and tired. Sitting in front of the trailer he calls home, he lets himself feel it for just a second. Allows himself to acknowledge the heaviness pulling at his limbs, his drooping eyelids getting pulled down by some invisible power; allows himself a moment of anger and exhaustion. Feeling sorry for himself and letting his misery take over his senses isn’t something he necessarily likes to do. He knows his life sucks, there’s no use dwelling on that. He also knows there are people who have it worse and that he will get out of here. One day one day one day. It’s a song that replays itself inside his head when things get rough, when he feels alone and his father tells him he’s worthless, with his fists and words alike, when his mom looks at it all with pursed lips or ignores it altogether. When the trailer park is suffocating and the dust invades his lungs, makes it hard to breathe. Sometimes doubt creeps in and then it’s almost impossible for him to believe it will ever happen; he’ll be stuck here for the rest of his days, become a copy of Robert Parrish because it’s his fate, it’s in his blood and he’ll have a son sitting in the exact same position, singing to himself one day one day one day.
Snapping out of that depressing train of thought, he suddenly remembers the free magazine he picked up at the grocery store earlier. From the rack next to the entry, filled with daily news and picked up by the busy fingers of housewives and old people taking their weekly stroll. He’s passed it numerous times and never felt the need to take one with him, until today. He doesn’t know what came over him, just that he desperately wanted to pretend to do something normal. And why not?
He takes it out now, from under his thin jacket, unfolds it and looks at the picture of some actress he vaguely recognizes posing on the front.
It’s been so long since he read something just for him. He used to go the library when he was younger, used to spend full days there, befriending the old, sweet lady behind the desk, reading everything he could get his hands on. But when he realized there’s a way to escape this, that the world is so much wider than the name double-wide suggest, that maybe there’s a way for him to not only read about magical places and people going on adventures, but actually live those things and see them for himself, the library turned into the last item on his list of things to do. He picked up several jobs and poured all his remaining time and energy into studying and getting A’s; the library was forgotten. At times, when the night is too heavy to sleep and the walls are too thin to not hear what’s playing in the bedroom next to his, he thinks of the old lady with her white hair that gave him pieces of her chocolate sometimes and wonders what happened to her. If she still works there, if maybe at times she wonders about him too after he abruptly stopped coming, if she’s even still alive.
Now he opens his magazine and pictures the one his father reads and notices the stark difference between the two. He rifles through it, not particularly caring about the content or finding it exceptionally captivating, but enjoying himself nonetheless. Skimming through it, he abruptly lets it fall open on some ad, perfume he thinks, featuring a man, a car and the gray sky above. The man is leaning against his expensive, fast car, wearing expensive designer clothes. Adam’s enthralled by how casually powerful the man looks and by the quiet authority he radiates. Like nothing can hurt him, like he’s above pain. At first, it’s just the power that evokes Adam’s wonder, then he pays closer attention to the guy’s face; zooms in on his high cheekbones, the strand of dark hair falling on his forehead, his pronounced jawline. The way his clothes fit him just right, accentuating the right things, the right way and Adam is in awe.
There’s a mixture of several things going through Adam’s head, the most prominent being want. Which he shuts down immediately without realizing why and replaces with one day one day one day. He looks at the car again. Without giving it second thought, he rips the picture from the magazine and folds it carefully, stuffs it into his pocket.
The picture is burned in his memory now and he thinks he’ll use it as motivation, to try to become that person one day. Because that’s what he wants. That’s the want overpowering his thoughts. Being that man, radiating the same power, being able to dress like that, owning a car like that and doing it all as effortlessly as if he’d been born into it.
He takes it out sometimes, from under his mattress. He’s not sure why he feels the need to hide it like that, it’s not like there’s something bad on there. He just doesn’t want his dad to find it and realize that Adam wants to be that man, he tells himself. He doesn’t want his parents to know that that is his goal in life, he tells himself. And he tries not to think of the why’s to much. Why he decided on that picture, why he hides it, why it makes him want.
Years later he’ll realize that maybe it wasn’t just the power the man radiated and the effortless way he looked like money and success and was everything Adam wanted to be but wasn’t. He’ll think that maybe it was a mixture of those things, combined with the fact that he was extremely attracted to the guy, but just didn’t realize it. That the want to be him, could’ve easily also been the want to be with him among other things. He’ll think that there have been so many more instances in his life where he interpreted his own feelings wrong, or simply repressed them and twisted them so that he didn’t have to face the real thing. Subconsciously of course, until Ronan started looking at him and the pieces all fell in their place and he realized something about himself that had been there for a long time, but was never allowed out.
When he gets together with Ronan, he analyzes the feelings he had for Blue and he realizes they were just as real as the one he has for Ronan. Maybe they weren’t as strong, but they were there. And something clicks inside him, because he knows now that Ronan wasn’t the first boy he was ever attracted to, which is what he thought in the beginning, and he knows that he’s still very much into girls too, but that it’s all fine. He’s got time to find himself and figure out what that means for him. Which he does in great detail. Adam Parrish, a man of science, likes to understand things, approaches this objectively, eyes on his goal.
He doesn’t doubt his attraction or love for Ronan because he is absolutely sure that those things are there. He does not doubt his feelings for Ronan once. He just wonders whether he’s the only boy he’s ever liked or if there were others.
When he was younger, he didn’t give his sexuality much thought. He always thought he was straight so there was no real reason to think about it and anyway, living under his parents’ roof, the possibility of being something else than straight, stepping out of line of what his dad thought was right, wasn’t much of an option. He liked Blue, he had a girlfriend before that, when he was fourteen. She gave him his first kiss, but other than that it wasn’t anything exceptional. She was a girl from his school he had to work with one day. She was pretty and she smelled nice. She had a gap between her teeth and he remembers finding that charming. They worked on the chemistry project in the library, she kissed him one day, he liked it, she asked him to be her girlfriend and eventually she broke it off, no doubt expecting dates and time spent together, but Adam simply did not have the money or time to spare. He didn’t like her that much that it really hurt or anything, but it stung a little. Knowing dating just wasn’t for him, yet another thing on his seemingly endless list of one day, something he’d do when he got out of here.
If he was being honest with himself, he was a little disappointed. It’s not like he expected butterflies to fly around and the sun to start shining just for them, but the couple kisses they shared didn’t really do anything to him. That didn’t stop him from wanting more of them, though. Her lips were soft and brought him affection he had missed his whole life. The feeling of her hands on his hips warmed his skin in a way he was not familiar with, so even if real feelings were missing, he also definitely didn’t want her to break up with him .
He figured it was better anyway. He put her out of his head and forget about her quickly enough, only sometimes allowing her to open the doors in his mind and wondering that if he could’ve been able to show her a little more attention, she’d have stayed longer.
Then he met Blue and he really liked her too. Her originality and fire drew him in and did things to his head. It was easier with her somehow because he saw her in the company of Gansey, because she was pretty affectionate herself and wasn’t afraid to say what she thought or let him know what she wanted or didn’t want. She took his hand and it was easy to lay his head in her lap. It was nice and he knew that if he were to kiss her, it’d be different than the kisses he shared with his former girlfriend. He thought maybe he’d feel something else than simply that’s nice.
It was good. While it lasted.
Because of course it didn’t last. He was Adam Parrish, why would he be able to love someone the right way? Maybe love was a big word, but why would he be able to – to be enough? Because that was exactly what it was. He was not enough.
The words it’s not going to be you echoed through his mind for days on end and the fear that he would end up exactly like his father encased him, held him captive. When those words came out of her mouth, he knew. He just knew that if it wasn’t him, it’d be Gansey. Because of course. Of fucking course.
When he gets together with Ronan, everything is great and his anger doesn’t matter because Ronan has his own anger inside to match Adam’s. They get together and every touch, every word shared between them leaves a trace in his skin, strikes a match until his insides are burning with want and need and love. Finally he can feed his hunger. Ronan doesn’t mind if Adam kisses him fiercely, barely giving him space to breathe, all but attacks his mouth with his own. He doesn’t mind Adam taking of his shirt and tracing the warm skin, following the trail of his tattoo with his mouth. Doesn’t mind the hickies on his neck, the scratches on his back.
The physical aspects of the relationship is explosive and wonderful. But that’s not all. Ronan is the first person to ever be truly gentle with him, the first person that looks at him as if he deserves everything.
He makes Adam laugh harder than anything ever has, sometimes so much he literally cannot breathe, until he has tears in his eyes. Ronan knows when to crack a joke, make fun of Gansey, draw out a grin with force if he has to after a shitty day at work. But also knows when to leave it alone and simply let Adam lay his head on his lap on the couch and gently run his fingers through his hair when he’s feeling down. Because the truth is, while Adam Parrish has always thought of himself as unknowable, somehow Ronan Lynch has managed to know him.
He knows him. He understands him. Like no one ever has. And Adam realizes that, even if he didn’t notice before, he had always understood Ronan the same way. Back when he couldn’t stand being in the same room with him for more than five minutes before one of them made a biting remark. Even then, they’d understood each other on some level.
So, no. If there is one thing in the world he is absolutely sure of, it’s his love for Ronan. While figuring out his sexuality is definitely confusing, that is not. It’s the surest and realist thing in his life at the moment.
Once, when Adam was about ten, he had a friend. Called Jason. The boy had curly black hair, dark skin and piercing brown eyes that glittered in the sun and made Adam feel warm and fuzzy inside. It was the first real friend he’d ever had, or as real as fleeting friendship at that age can be anyway and Adam cared for him deeply. When Jason smiled, he had a dimple and for some reason having it directed at him, filled Adam with an indescribable pride. There was something about him that made Adam want to be around him as much as possible and never let go. Seen as Jason was his first friend, he didn’t think much of it and figured that’s just what friendship was.
The whole thing was over pretty quickly, Jason moved away. Adam is pretty sure he never even knew his last name.
When he thinks back to that now, he wonders if it wasn’t something other than just friendship. And then he thinks back to the first time Gansey had laid his charming eyes on him and shown Adam his electric smile and the feeling that had evoked inside him and wow. That’s a whole other realization.
Now lying on his small mattress above the church that’s his home, next to the boy he thinks of when he thinks of home, he wonders how he never noticed what really, was there all along. He thinks it’s probably a mixture of wanting to survive and homophobic bullshit shoved in his head by the people that raised him.
Now, lying on his small mattress above the church that’s his home, next to the boy he thinks of when he thinks of home, he lets himself feel and think and understand something about himself.
‘Why the fuck are you thinking this hard? It’s two in the morning’, Ronan mumbles into the crook of his shoulder, sleep already pulling at his senses, one hand wrapped around Adam’s waist.
‘I’m not.’ It’s a lie, automatically leaving his mouth. Adam spends his life thinking too hard, over analyzing every little thing. He’s never had to share the inner workings of his mind with anyone.
‘Yes, you are. You’ve got that little crunch between your eyebrows. That means you’re thinking too hard.’ But this is Ronan and, again, Adam is taken aback by how good Ronan knows him. The inner workings of his mind may be a mystery to most people, but Ronan has never been like most people.
He doesn’t say anything for a little while, lets the silence fill the room. Ronan kisses his shoulder and Adam can feel his eyelashes fluttering against his skin. Soft as a confession whispered in the dead of the night.
‘I’m bisexual’, he says then, finally, shattering the quiet.
And it’s out there. The nervous flutter in his stomach has nothing to do with fear or dread. He feels most comfortable around Ronan and this is nothing new really. It’s just that it’s the first time he’s ever said those words aloud, the first time he knows with a certainty they’re real. And that sensation is new to him, it flutters in his stomach, but a good kind of fluttering. One that’s as pleasant as the spring sun warming his skin after winter has gone to sleep.
Ronan makes a noise that could be interpreted in many different ways, but the way he pulls Adam closer to him and nuzzles his nose to his temple and drops a kiss on his ear, indicates it’s most likely one of encouragement and support. The gesture fills Adam’s body with warmth and his heart beats with the incredible love he has for this boy.
‘What brought this on?’
‘I don’t know. Just thinking back on my life. I have this ad in my car, for perfume or something. And I always convinced myself I kept it because one day I wanted to be the guy. But now I think I kept it because I was ridiculously attracted to him even though I didn’t realize it.’
Ronan lets out a small laugh. ‘Well, I’m fucking gay. I think I always sort of knew though.’
Adam wonders if Ronan has ever admitted to that before and he’s pretty sure he never has. He simply got together with Adam and that was enough for them. But here, in the safety and comfort of this room and each other, it’s okay.
He thinks of how Ronan used to hate himself so much and that, some of it at least, was tied to his sexuality. How he used to be so angry and scared and hidden from everyone. How self acceptance was a long and painful process for him. He thinks of how proud he is of Ronan, of how strong he is and of how far he’s come. To say those words without shame above the church he visits every Sunday. The church where he belongs but for a long time felt like an intruder, like he was wrong.
Ronan shouldn’t have to give up parts of himself because others won’t accept him. He shouldn’t have to hide. He’s gay, but he also believe in god with an intensity that Adam saw reflected in his eyes the few times he has accompanied him to church.
Adam himself is not religious, but he respects it and can see the beauty of it in certain things. But more importantly, he’s aware of how deeply rooted it is in Ronan’s life and how it’s a part of him. Adam loves all parts of Ronan, wants him to be able to love all parts of himself too. He’s glad Ronan feels comfortable enough saying those words above his church.
‘I’m glad you finally figured it out. ‘M proud of you,’ Ronan mumbles then, almost asleep, saying things he maybe wouldn’t have said wide awake, but that Adam would’ve gotten anyway.
Adam plants a kiss on the top of his head and closes his head. ‘I’m proud of you too.’
And that’s how they fall asleep, entwined like vines and trusting someone, finally, to accept them for who they are.
They’re growing still. And discovering themselves, but now that they’re safe and relatively happy, most of the time, it’s a process Adam actually is kind of looking forward to. Maybe he doesn’t have to be unknowable. Maybe he can just be Adam Parrish, loved by his friends and boyfriend, safe, attending Harvard in the fall, bisexual, in love and proud. Of who he is.
Proud of being Adam Parrish. He decides he rather likes that thought.
Thanks for reading! Title from Chanel by Frank Ocean, because that song is almost as Bi™ as Adam Parrish is 
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wintermell · 7 years
Note
Jonsa in the library. I get Time Traveler's Wife feels from them. He's a librarian. But ya know, you don't have to get into the time travel bit. Just library jonsa is hot. So..
Hey there! I’ve never seen the Time Traveler’s Wife, so I just kinda rolled with the librarian thing. It’s almost 2, so please excuse the questionable quality, sorry! Please enjoy, everyone!
Send more prompts here.
Emily and Will (a jonsa oneshot)
It’s unusual for a public library to run 24/7, but since the university is only ten minutes away, Jon finds himself sitting at the checkout desk pulling the night shift for the third time that week. He’s not complaining for any reason. The only people who come in are stressed out, caffeine-filled college students who are desperately searching for extra copies of classic novels or a computer to print out their long-as-fuck reports.
Sure, it’s a little weird for a good-looking twenty-year-old kid to have a job at a place where most of the employees are fifty year old women (probably named Pam or Ruth). But he gets free hot drinks, wi-fi all night, and access to the woman he loves most in the world.
“Hey, Em,” he says as he opens up the aged copy of Poems by Emily Dickinson. Strange as it may seem, Emily has been Jon’s go-to author for the past ten years. He attributes it to his own mother’s love for the poet. When he was little, she would read Emily’s poems to him before bed.
Just as he’s starting to read, the door bursts open. Jon is certain he’s fallen asleep and started dreaming. The new arrival is a gorgeous redhead, wearing high heels and a short black party dress. She marches up to the front desk and starts rummaging around in her silver clutch purse. Triumphantly, she pulls out a yellow sticky note.
“Listen, I know how this looks,” she begins, “but I’m sort of a mess right now and I need a couple books.”
“We… um… yeah, we have those.” Oh, nice fucking job, Snow. Of course you have books, it’s a fucking library.
“Good, because I know it’s probably hell with finals coming up. I nearly forgot to stop by, but somehow sober me was smart enough to put a note in my purse so slightly-drunk me could remember.” She shakes her head and blinks. Jon can smell cigarettes and vodka on top of her lemony perfume. Alarms are ringing in his head.
“Are you okay? I can call the police if you need me to,” he offers. Unfortunately, he’s had to do it several times for other girls who needed to escape their crazy boyfriends. Suddenly he’s wondering if Beautiful Redhead has a boyfriend. Shit. He really hopes she doesn’t.
“What? No, I’m fine. Only had three drinks. I’m an English major and- well, you get the idea. Anyways, here’s the list.” She presses the sticky note in his hand. The writing is flowery and neat. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. Poetry of Robert Frost.
“Easy enough. I’ll go find them,” he says, ducking into the storage room. He could easily just pick out the old, torn-up copies that are out on the shelves, but for some reason he firmly believes that Beautiful Redhead deserves clean white pages instead of ugly, yellow, bent ones.
There’s a box labelled NEW ARRIVALS: CLASSICS & POETRY sitting on the floor. He opens it up and goes digging through. At the very top is a collection of Emily Dickinson poetry. Jon really does try to ignore it. After a moment of hesitation, he sets it aside. The books on Beautiful Redhead’s list are easy enough to find, and he brings them out with a flourish.
“Right, if you need to sign up for a card-”
“Already have one,” she says, handing him the little plastic slip. He takes it and examines the name. Sansa. The last name has been smudged and faded, but Sansa is all he needs. It seems poetic and sweet, the way it rolls through his head. Sansa.
“Yeah?”
God fucking dammit, Snow, you’re not supposed to say what you’re thinking.
“Nice name,” he says, setting to work on checking out the books to her. “You like Russian lit?”
“Nope, but for some reason one of my literature teachers is obsessed with it. Trust me, I had to fight tooth and nail through War and Peace,” says Sansa. She leans against the desk, and Jon tries very hard not to look at her cleavage, which is very obvious in her strapless dress.
“I read Crime and Punishment in my junior year. It was both a crime and a punishment,” he jokes. Sansa giggles, and he’s already mentally high fiving himself for making her laugh. Her cheeks stand out more when she smiles, while her blue eyes sparkle like sapphires.
“Oh! Emily Dickinson!” she notices his book, still open next to a cup of tea that’s probably turned cold.
“Yeah, I really love Emily,” he says.
“I can see. You’re on a first name basis with her,” Sansa teases. “What other poets do you like?”
Ah, son of a bitch. Soon she’ll realize he’s as boring as a wall. “Just her.”
“Seriously? Nobody else? What about Shakespeare, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Alfred, Lord Tennyson… any of them?” Jon feels like an idiot. He’s nearing his mid-twenties and of course he’s only ever loved Emily (and now Sansa- god, he’s a loser).
“I should totally read more. I’ve never been big on variety, which totally sucks, but-”
“Hey, don’t freak out. I’ve always liked Whitman and Frost best, but Emily is my number one bitch,” she says, then hiccups. “Maybe I had four drinks. I should leave before I totally embarrass myself in front of someone as cute as you.”
They stare at each other. She realizes what she’s said.
“Oh my god. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… just forget I said that, okay?” With a dutiful nod, Jon slips the spare Emily book to the side and puts the others in a plastic grocery bag.
“It was raining earlier, and I wouldn’t want the ink to run. Are you sure I can’t call a cab for you?” he offers. She’s already tapping out the number of someone on her phone called ‘the older brother’. Still not a boyfriend. Two mental thumbs up.
“I’ll be okay. Hey, what’s your name? Do you work here every day at one in the morning?”
“I’m Jon,” he says, “and yeah, I do.” Sansa reaches out and awkwardly shakes his hand. It sends shivers down his spine and an electric current to his brain.
“See you later, Jon.”
She disappears out of the door, wobbling a bit on her heels.
“Bye, Sansa,” he whispers. The Emily book is lying open, as if to yell at him to get his head out of his ass already.
“Sorry.”
And of course there’s no reply.
one week later
“Are you some sort of vampire, Jon?” Sansa asks with a laugh. She’s dressed in a white turtleneck and jeans with her auburn hair braided to the side. Jon sets aside his book and tea, offering the dorkiest smile ever.
“Either that or I’m the only one who’s willing to take a night shift.” The last group of late night studiers left half an hour ago. He’s spent the past seven days wondering if that beautiful redhead might show up again. Lo and behold, it’s her, in all of her “Emily is my main bitch” splendor.
“I hate to bother you, but I need a copy of the university’s level three French class textbook. You have that, right?” Jon nods and looks up the title before going to fetch it from the reference section. Sansa is interesting to learn about from her library checkouts. He knows that she loves classical literature - except Russian - and poetry, and speaks French well enough to be using an advanced textbook. When he sets it on the desk, her card is already in her hand.
“Merci beaucoup, monsieur,” she says with a perfect accent.
“I took German in high school,” he says with an apologetic shrug.
“C’est bon, je vous pardonne.” He grins and slides her the book.
“Due on the fifteenth.”
“I have some books to check in, too,” she says, and hands him Anna Karenina, Leaves of Grass, and another book with a title that’s covered by an old dust jacket. Jon checks in the first two, but can’t find a barcode on the third.
“Did the plastic jacket fall off or something?” he asks, reaching for a roll of masking tape. Sansa yelps and grabs his wrist.
Shit fuck shit fuck. Red fucking alert. Any physical contact might drive him crazy.
“No, it’s my copy! Please don’t tape it! I got it at an old antiques place, and I wanted to lend it to you so you’d have something other than Emily Dickinson,” she explains quickly. Jon stares at her, mouth hanging open like a goddamn idiot.
“You… for me?”
She releases her grip on his arm, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. They stand in a thick silence. Jon looks down and reads the title, which is printed in shiny gold letters. Shakespeare’s Sonnets.
“Sansa, thank you so much,” he says, “and I’m really sorry I nearly destroyed your book with masking tape.”
Sansa smiles and shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. Enjoy the poems. See you sometime, I guess?” She grabs her textbook and starts to head away, but Jon is quicker. He wraps his hand around the textbook, and she stops to frown at him.
“If you leave your book with me, we both know that you’re going to come back in a week to get it back. And when you do, you’re going to find a really shitty, awkward note in it that says something along the lines of ‘do you want to grab coffee and talk about poetry’, except thirty percent more awkward. What I’m saying is… can I save us both some trouble and just ask you now?”
He’s almost sure he’s blown it. Her face is unreadable as they gaze at each other. She bites her lip (even though he’d totally offer to do that for her), probably thinking of a good way to let him down.
“Go ahead,” she says. “Ask me.”
Showtime, Snow. He inhales deeply and holds out her copy of the sonnets.
“Sansa, the most beautiful redhead, would you do me the great honor of getting coffee and talking about poetry sometime?” Jon feels like a dumb, five-dollar Mr. Darcy rip off, and then Sansa smiles.
“It would be an honor,” she says, taking the book and tucking it into her bag. They grin at each other, which turns into fits of giggles. Jon’s eyes are completely bloodshot and his feet ache, but he’s never felt better.
“I’m definitely never going to forget this,” she says. Her fingers brush against his, and the next thing he knows, he’s kissing her softly in the middle of an empty library at two in the morning. She tastes like chapstick and lemon, and fuck, he wants to drown in her. The desk that separates them digs into his legs as he leans further into the kiss.
As he’s driving home that night, he can still feel it. With a dumb grin on his face, he unlocks the front door of his apartment. Both of his roommates are in the living room.
“Hey, Snow! Any news about that mystery lover of yours?” asks Robb. He and Theon are watching Lord of the Rings for the sixth time in a week. Since Jon didn’t give many details about his first encounter with Sansa, he feels the need to catch them up.
“Her name is Sansa, she smells like lemons, we made out at the library and it was the best day of my life,” Jon says. He’s still in a state of childlike amazement, and doesn’t notice the murderous glare that has appeared in Robb’s eyes.
“What. The. Fuck. Did. You. Just. Say?”
Theon glances back and forth between them. “Oh shit, Snow! Did you seriously feel up Robb’s little sister at a public library?”
“No way! I said Sansa, not Arya,” says Jon.
“He has two sisters, dumbass! Sansa’s the hot one with red hair!”
Robb is glowering at both Jon and Theon. Fuck it.
“Theon, the answer is yes. And it was worth it.”
The black eye was worth it too, he would later decide.
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grayisles · 7 years
Text
Prompt: Trapped inside a library
Prompt: Trapped inside a library.
 “You’ve angered the Old One!” Sam screams at his idiotic friend who managed to unleash creatures from previously regular literatures.
“What Old One?” Melony yells at Sam, panting. They have just ran from a group of bloodthirsty hobgoblins into a library, the very one where she caused the epidemic half a week ago.
“The Traveling Shovel who has been present ever since the dawn of murder.”
She doesn’t understand how a shovel could be the bane of various character’s existence, it’s hard enough to tell the difference between real people and story book characters. She doubts that past writers actually crafted an inanimate object to be the true villain of a “That is a load of-”
Sam holds up his finger, silencing her, before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just accept that you angered the Old One, and let’s try to find that spell book for advanced mages.”
“It’s called the Symphony, and I don’t see how going into a library with it dangerous books that will spring out mons-”
“Villains, beasts, henchmen, and the like.” Sam lists and Melony rolls her eyes.
“Whatever, at any moment.”
“Mel that only applies to books outside the barrier surrounding the library.”
“Why anyone would steal a book in the first place? The majority of books in this library are just spell books and regular stories.”
“For someone who has lots of raw magic you can be dim.”
“Hey!”
            The two maneuvers through twenty foot high bookshelves as Melony retrace her steps from before where she found the book that is the source of the city’s problem. This time at least, give it another week and something else could put people into mortal peril with the death toll increasing with each passing month.
“You know,” Melony calls out, “if all the antagonists that the protagonists face are in the real world, where are all of the heroes?”
Sam paused, contemplating on the question as Melony draws closer to the advance magic spell book section where the Symphony would be at. She takes out her father’s card, showing that he is a rank six mage to the scanner, and she gets access to go past the semi invisible wall surrounding the section. She holds her arm out so Sam can slip in, because the entrance is open until the person holding the card passes through the threshold completely.
“Did you say the whole spell?” Sam asks as he looks up at the bookshelves.
“Almost. I stopped when I saw it glowing.”
“There’s a reason why I call you a dimwit.”
“Oh shut up. I can do this without your help.”
“Right, so you didn’t need me when I blasted that hydra not even a block from your house.”
“Yeah.” Melony tersely said as she walks past her smug friend.
            The two walked on in relative silence and from the corner of Melony’s eye she sees a flash of a figure. A horribly familiar one, a spade.
“Sa-am h-how did it get in?”
“What-”
“The shovel! The Old One!”
“Mel, it’s the Traveling Shovel. It can enter anywhere, bypassing magic known and unknown to man.” He says, sounding calm despite the two being in a predicament.
“Great. Keep an eye on it, if what you said was true on the way here, it won’t attack if it’s victims are suspecting it. Come on, the Symphony is up ahead. It’ll be gone soon, and we won’t have to worry about a murder shovel.” Melony said, quickening her pace while keeping a wary eye on the spade lying on the ground.
 The sooner she finds that blasted spell book, the sooner that weird shovel will stop stalking her.
            Melony grabbed the book and frantically flips through the ancient tome. She recognizes the symbols on a page, the very spell that started this whole mess. She looks to the left to see Sam reading some pages from a random book; he is completely nonchalant compared to the danger outside. Her heart skipped a beat when she notices the shovel hovering next to her. Perhaps it went over the twenty foot tall bookshelf which is why she didn’t see it, and it slipped away because someone wasn’t keeping an eye on it. Despite the warnings Sam gave her three days ago when she couldn’t even complete the spell, he couldn’t muster the will to keep an eye on the spade when there are books around. The bibliophile could read up on whatever spell book after he helps her rectify this mess.
“It’s never a good sign to see the Traveling Shovel.”
            She was about to open her mouth but the spade struck her head twice, and she crumbed to the floor, blood gushing from wounds along with pink matter.
            Sam turns when he hears a heavy object fall to the ground. He smirked as he saw the bloodied shovel.
“As always your job is executed quite perfectly Traveling Shovel of Death; she never understood authors are cruel yet at times benevolent. This horrid game the two of us play all because he wills it. Now,” Sam riffles through Melony’s jacket, pulling out her father’s car, “I have a two dozen spell books to copy before the adults find out the source of another adolescent caused misshape. no one will be the wiser. Old friend, why don’t you go out to play? Perhaps the couple that was harboring her this time?”
He sees the blood covered shovel blink out of existence, going down the forgotten paths. It’s easier when the instrument of death is written to disappear and appear at different locations without explanation. Old One is powerful because it was one of the first tools used to kill, it’s shape changes, but the core is still the same.
He waves his hand and books fly off the shelves, he flicks his hand to the table that is in the center of the advance magic section. He pulls out miniature journals from his pocket, enlarges them, and sends them flying to the table as well.
Before Sam heads to the table to begin facsimileing the spells onto the journals, he looks down at the body. “Nothing personal Mel, you just had to go. You would have intervened with my plans when you got older again, but this time around, the little savor is no more. ”
He steps over the body to begin his tasks, and doesn’t turn around when the body erodes to silver dust. He’s familiar with the process of his arch enemy dying and rebirthing, always forgetting about her—sometimes his—past history the two have. Until his enemy reaches maturation, often times personality wise or magical, his enemy will remember the task. The only thing Mel’s reincarnate will remember is the face of their killer, and their old self’s final moments.
Sam doesn’t mind at all. He just needs to change his face again, and acquire another name. There are a few things that he keeps on his person, and there are times where he curses his master for even creating the two of them long ago.
The very least he can gather knowledge while he waits to find out where his enemy will reside in. Then he can incorporate himself into another family, befriend whoever the incarnate is, and make sure the thing does not reach maturity to begin the fight again.
  This came from a prompt from the library, and it was around the time of NanoWrimo. I read on a thread one year about the Traveling Shovel and I didn't know what that was. Looked it up and I found out that apparently the shovel that kills characters are the same shovel. It was a cool idea, so then my brain went, how would this shovel kill someone?
Thus magic world was born where the protag manages to accidently cause the death of herself when she read half a spell to bring characters to life. Except it was only the antagonists, and she  poured too much magic into the words, bringing out all the characters within a 10 mile radius to life.
Too bad the protagonist didn't know about their true origins like the antagonist. They went my the names Mel and Sam in this version, but their real names are unknown currently.
I plan on making this a novella later on.  
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hermanwatts · 5 years
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Sensor Sweep: Robert Heinlein, Poul Anderson, Marvel Universe, Ravage, Monster Manual
Culture Wars (Brain Leakage): Unsurprisingly, the debate concerning gender roles in Sword and Sorcery rages on…Morgan Holmes’ latest article on the subject offers a compelling look at the raw numbers, in addition to some more anecdotes and observations about the shifts that occurred in the publishing industry. If you’ve been following the argument with any interest, I highly recommend it.
  Robert Heinlein (Tip the Wink): This is the second of the Heinlein juveniles, a long and successful series of a dozen science fiction novels published by Scribner’s. These were originally envisioned as a series of books called “Young Rocket Engineers” but the idea was initially rejected by the publisher. Thus each of the novels has separate characters, locations, themes and plots. This one features Matt Dodson, who joins the Space Patrol to help preserve peace in the Solar System.
  Poul Anderson (DMR Books): The story in question is “The Tale of Hauk.” This novelette is widely considered one of Poul’s best Viking tales. Most of the onstage events occur in Raumsdal, Norway. Hauk is the son of Geirolf. Geirolf is an ageing Viking, nostalgic for the old days and bitter about the present. Hauk, a doughty fighter himself, is making his way more as a wide-ranging merchant than as a pirate. Geirolf disapproves.
  Comic Books (Paint the Monk): We’re closing in on the 100th issue of Marvel’s Conan the Barbarian and nearing the end of Roy Thomas’ memorable adaptation of Robert E. Howard’s “Queen of the Black Coast” story. This issue concludes the “Beast King of Abombi” quartet (#94-97), and only two stand-alone yarns remain before the double-sized Conan extravaganza published originally in July 1979.
  Marvel Universe (Jon Mollison): The world loves empty spectacle.  All the flat characters, meaningless drama, empty action, and bland dialogue in the world won’t bring down a film filled with lots and lots of splodey-splodey.  Aquaman was a DC movie with all that implies and even following on the heels weak sisters like Batman vs. Superman and  Justice League it nearly cracked the billion dollar mark.  Disney’s ‘live action’ remake of The Lion King looks like cold mud on a hot roof, and people still forked over half a billion dollars worth of tickets in the opening weekend.
  Horror/Poe (Classic Horror Blog): Arguably the most famous of Poe’s murder tales (and comfortably short for casual readers of literary fiction) “The Tell-Tale Heart” has become a cultural metaphor for the exposure of evil deeds. And yet its nuances are often overlooked. As much as it is a tale of wickedness brought to light, it is also a pocket-sized manifesto on the multifaceted human spirit and an indictment of cheap cultural definitions of insanity. Humanity, Poe proclaims, is not divided into obvious classes of good and evil, but contain within them impulsive elements of each them.
  Comic Books (Jon Mollison):)Last year, in an effort to pushback against the ensqualminating of comic book industry, I made it a point to back a number of kickstarters.  One such title earned a backing based solely on the involvement of The Legend.  The seven bucks for a single issue and spicy marketing would have put me off Ravage: Kill All Men entirely, but come on – Chuck Dixon.
          Edgar Rice Burroughs ( Recoverings ): Having just seen the color proofs for the dust-jacket of his new book from A.C. McClurg, Ed took to his typewriter to tell his editor, Joseph Bray, in no uncertain terms, exactly what he thought about it. Among other things, he said this: “… There is nothing of the atmosphere or coloring of Arizona in the foliage or background; in fact the whole thing is atrocious and if the picture can kill sales, I am confident that this one will.”
  Cinema (Tolkiengesellschaft): Just 20 minutes after the release of the Amazon trailer for the creative team of the Lord of the Rings series, we had the opportunity at Tolkien Thing to interview Tom Shippey, our Guest of Honour, about the trailer and the project exclusively. He is one of the 20 names presented in the video and had not yet seen the video himself. Together we went through the trailer piece by piece, which was analyzed by Shippey and us. Tom Shippey laughs loudly at our first question whether some names are still missing and remains silent.
      History (Frontier Partisans): Through the fall of 1866, the Lakota/Cheyenne/Arapaho insurgents in the Powder River Country made life miserable for the garrison of Fort Phil Kearny. Young raiders made constant attacks on the horse and mule herd, and ran off a good portion of the fort’s cattle herd. Work parties had to travel for miles to fell and haul logs for saw timber, or to mow hay for the dwindling livestock herds, and they were often harassed.
          Fiction (David J. West): So I pushed myself this early summer and finished up and LO, it was a bigger tale than I thought at first, so in addition to writing a novella that was set after the events of the book, I went back and rethought the storyline to #SAVANT and tweaked it a little. I like thinking of it as TRUE GRIT meets THE PRESTIGE.
            Paperbacks (Rough Edges): The latest volume in the excellent MEN OF VIOLENCE series is an All Review Special, featuring more than a hundred reviews of men’s adventure novels and series, ranging from classics of the genre to obscure little gems that you’ve probably never heard of. Editor Justin Marriot has assembled a wonderful book to browse and enjoy, and I guarantee you’ll learn a few things, even if you’re an expert on men’s adventure fiction. If you’re a newcomer to the genre, this book is a crash course on it. Not all the reviews are positive, either; some warn potential readers which books to stay away from.
        Robert Heinlein (Tip the Wink): Colonists on Mars: ever a popular science fiction storyline. This time it’s a good guys vs. bad guys with the Martians caught in the middle. It represents the first appearance of Heinlein’s idealized Martian elder race, which will reappear in Stranger in a Strange Land.
The Plot The novel is set in the future when Mars has been colonized by humans, but is administered by a governor appointed by the Earth government and the colonists have no political power.
  Star Trek (Bounding into Comics): Kate Mulgrew, who played the first female Star Trek Captain in Captain Kathryn Janeway in Star Trek: Voyager claims Star Trek: The Original Series is “extremely misogynist.”
In an interview with the Radio Times while promoting her upcoming documentary series titled The Space Race, Mulgrew responded to a question regarding a numbers of fans discontent with Star Trek: Discovery. The question noted that some people claim the dislike of Discovery has a “misogynist edge to the vitriol.”
RPG (Swords and Stitchery): The other day I was reading through the Advanced Dungeons & Dragons 1st edition  Monster Manual & came upon the gelatinous cube entry. Every single dungeon that I’ve played in has had a gelatinous cube or some variety of that monster  within it. Why?!
  RPG (Sacnoth’s Scriptorium): So, probably the rarest thing I have in my rpg collection, which has always been more of a working library than a collector’s set, is a copy of THE JADE HARE, an eight-page module by John Nephew.  Unfortunately, my copy got mislaid a while back and I’ve been looking for it, unsuccessfully, for the past year or two. Last night I turned it up again, in a somewhat unexpected context.
Sensor Sweep: Robert Heinlein, Poul Anderson, Marvel Universe, Ravage, Monster Manual published first on https://sixchexus.weebly.com/
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