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  1. Public Bookmark 15

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    In which Polly trains bodyguards, has dinner with Mal, founds a spy network, and muses on the hierarchy of bees.

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    20 Jun 2018

    Bookmarker's Notes

    No more wars.

  2. Rec 31

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    There are no nightgowns, underwired or otherwise, in the Borogravian military. Somehow, Ozzer manages to find the next best thing while facing off against Zlobenian cavalry and ends up kicking their captain in the fork while wearing a petticoat.

    It’s close enough. Possibly too close, because when Mal sees her dripping wet from the rain and plastered in sheer white cloth, her brain blanks out and – for a moment – her instincts purr.

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    20 Jun 2018

    Bookmarker's Notes

    Ozzer’s real name is Polly – a solid, decent name that very much belongs to the barmaid she used to be. It’s nothing like the name of a heroine or a love interest should be. It’s too… steady. Rather like Polly herself: there’s no room for elaborate swooping over vowels or hissed pronunciation. She’s not a Mina or an Amata or, thank the gods, a Lacrymosa. Mal’s met plenty of those in her time, and not a one has had the magnetic steadiness of Polly. Her Polly. Nearly-her-Polly.

    Nearly-her-Polly, who’s a Jackrum in the making: a future sergeant whose tenacity could make gods quiver.

    Polly glances at her, sidelong. It’s not a pleasant look. Polly has an amazing ability to wield looks the way that most thinkers wield stakes. It’s breath-taking in a way that makes Mal want to look down just to check that nothing’s actually been shoved between her ribs. She doesn’t. She just grins at Polly unrepentantly until the girl rolls her eyes and looks away, pretending with some aplomb that she’s not, in fact, blushing.

  3. Rec *

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    “If he pokes me again I am going to snap his chopstick in half and put it down the garbage disposal.”
    --
    In which Dave's house has been taken over by Strider-splinters and he's pretty okay with that.

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    17 Jun 2018

    Bookmarker's Notes

    You decide this is an appropriate time interrupt. “So!” Leaning less-than-subtly between them, you snag a coil of apple peel from the mess and pop the end in your mouth. “You guys… making something?” The question falters as you cast increasingly dubious eyes over clutter on the counter. The array of equipment looks more like something from a science lab than a kitchen. Oh, god, you hope they’re not making a bomb in your kitchen. Again.

    “Yes,” Dirk says, at the same time as AR says, “Arguable.”

    “Okay, welp.” Wonky gold star, you tried your best, you’re not actually very good at being the responsible adult. You rescue another strip of apple peel and retreat to the cover of the kitchen table. Bro’s here; they probably won’t murder each other.

    “They’re learning to bake,” Bro says. The words are neutral but you can hear the suppressed laughter. “It’s supposed to be a cake.”

    “It’s going to be a cake,” Dirk says stiffly. “And I know how to cook. It’s a simple construction exercise following step-by-step instructions in a manual.”

    “Dare you to say that where Jane can hear you,” AR says.

    “I never said it didn’t require skill,” Dirk returns stiffly. “That’s why I got the directions from her in the first place. Where’s the scale? I think I’m going to have to measure this in grams.”

    “You’re supposed be measuring it in handfuls.” AR politely confines his chopstick-poking to the clipboard this time.

    “Her hands are smaller than mine.”

    “So standardize for volume.”

    “Why would I know the volume of her hands?” –AR opens his mouth and Dirk just keeps right on over him— “I’m converting from the height/weight ratio in order to make a general estimation and that’s faster in grams.” Dirk comes up with the scale, centers it on the counter. Placing a bowl of already mixed ingredients onto it, he zeroes the balance and begins weighing in flour with a small metal scoop.

    You’re no expert, but you’re pretty sure this is way more precision than is required for cooking. Bro would know, but you notice he’s not offering any advice. You frown at him. “And what exactly is your role in all this?”

    Bro quirks the hint of a smirk at you. His fingers trace the brim of his hat as he looks up toward the ceiling. “It’s their project. Just making sure the house doesn’t go down in flames.”

    You glance to where Dirk and AR are bickering over the appropriate amount of flour. AR keeps poking at the bag with his chopstick. “That sounds scarily plausible. I plause that outcome. What do you think are the odds of us surviving the cake experience unscathed?”

    To the side, there is a sudden ffffwhumpf!

  4. Rec *

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    Someone spots the Batman kissing Mild Mannered Reporter Clark Kent. Hijinks ensue.

    Series
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    15 Jun 2018

    Bookmarker's Notes

    "Poor guy," Dick commented, though he sounded more mirthful than sincere. He was lounging on the hood of the Batmobile, one arm behind his head, the other holding up his phone as he scrolled. And scrolled. The article had barely been posted two hours and there were nearly seven hundred comments, more rolling in by the minute. He'd been reading the more amusing ones out loud.

    "He'll survive. I thought you came here to report on the Bludhaven drug trade," Bruce said, not turning away from his monitors. Most of them were displaying resources for his ongoing investigation, but one had been dedicated to tracking the Gazette's piece.

    Dick snorted. "For all I found I could have texted you. I came because you got caught making out with your boyfriend on the front page of the paper." Dick grinned. "And after all the times you lectured me about keeping low-profile."

    "I never lectured."

    "Not out loud, but I can tell the difference between a normal batscowl and a lecturing batscowl. You get the lecturing one any time I get within five feet of a marginally attractive civilian," Dick informed him.

    "It doesn't do any good to endanger them by showing favoritism," Bruce said.

    "Which is why I flirt with all of them. And which is why it's hilarious that it's you in this situation, because I'm sure we all thought it would be me."

    "I'm glad you're amused by this," Bruce said, largely giving up on getting anything useful out of Dick for the time being.

    "So are you, don't lie. It's because neither of you is actually in any danger from it. I mean, I'd hate to be the guy that goes after you through Clark because he thinks he's some helpless civilian."

    "Well, we might avoid that for a while," Bruce said, eyeing the article feed. "Rising opinion seems to be that he's you."

    There was a dull thud as Dick fell off the Batmobile.

  5. Public Bookmark 19

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    An empress returns to the remains of her domain.

    A princess is there already.

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    15 Jun 2018

    Bookmarker's Notes

    The Condesce arches an eyebrow like she doesn’t know she’s torn to rags, like she doesn’t know that she rules nothing anymore, and the worst part is that you’re not sure either of those things matters. You watch Karkat’s wavering reflection shrink until he’s with the others, watch your ancestor look you over, and you wait for her to crack the moment.

    “But not like me.” The Condesce smiles like she’s explained it all, fins fluttering as she brushes back her hair. “I’m you, little princess. Blood to blood.”

    This time as she advances she brings herself within your reach, and you rake through what’s left of her regalia without a second thought; she’s close enough you can see the tiny drop of fuchsia slide along the gleaming prong, and your teeth nearly rip through your jaw as you stop the weapon there, take in the sick-pink scabbing along her ribs as you tilt to meet her eyes. She towers over you like your lusus never did, all tangled hellish hair and utter certainty, yourself more powerful than God Tier, and you have never wanted to kill anyone before.