~vern writes

*pops my head over your cubical wall* Oh, Hello. It’s 2:20am here and I’m heading off to bed but I thought I’d leave you a little something? I hope you like it. *wink*

***********

The bass was strong and steady. A consistent heartbeat that he felt at different pressure points on himself. The club was packed, bodies pressing into each other and the faint smell of sweat, alcohol and hormones consumed the place. There was something different about tonight, what exactly he couldn’t pin down but it seemed like everyone was full of wild energy. He walked steadily across the crowd towards their table, ignoring the flirtatious looks shot his way. When he arrived though, there was only Kevin. Something close to anxiety shot through him as he leaned in to ask, “Where’s Neil?”

Kevin pointed into the throng of people, “Nicky took him.”  

Andrew leaned over the railing and looked down at the crowd. Finally he spotted them at the dead center of the dance floor. The lights flashed warm colors across their faces and Andrew could see Nicky smiling and swaying to the relentless pounding of the bass. He had his hands on Neil’s’ shoulders, swaying him along and Andrew was almost amused by the sight of Neil’s confused look until Nicky’s hands suddenly slide down Neil’s chest to grasp his hips, pulling him closer. He turned around and shot Kevin an order, “Don’t. Move.”

He cut straight through the crowd, parting it with the promise of death clearly radiating off him. When he finally reached them, he didn’t hesitate in placing a hand on Nicky’s shoulder, turning him around, and punching him in the solar plexus. He would have hit the ground if Andrew hadn’t pulled him close, giving the impression of a friend sporting another who had too much to drink.

“What did I tell you? You know I hate repeating myself.” Andrew whispered into his ear.

There was no response besides Nicky’s sharp inhales of breath, struggling to both respond to Andrew and get away from him. There was a gently pull on Andrews right wrist, Neil having come up beside him and Andrew could almost feel him pressed along his side. He wasn’t, even in the middle of a mass of bodies all pushing against each other. Neil always managed to keep that distance he needed between them, so even know if felt like he was being eclipsed by him, Andrew could see their only point of contact were the fingers gently encircled around his wrist.

He stared at him and though he meant it as something hard, something furious, something threating, it must have come out in a different way. Neil stared right back at him but his mouth had parted slightly, his breathing was harsher and-

“Go back to the table and keep Kevin Company. Do not try this again.” And with that Andrew shoved Nicky towards the stairs leading to their table without a backwards glance.

Neil was still watching him, no, studying him and Andrew felt that now familiar prickle across his skin. Always being on the giving end of such a look, it had messed with him for months having it directed his way. Made his heart race a little bit as it did now, made him think of soft lips, calloused hands, fierce, slate blue eyes. The music changed to another sultry slightly slowed bass sound and without hesitation, he pulled Neil those last two inches towards him, clutching his waist with an unforgiving grasp. Neil didn’t mind. He never seemed to mind. Slowly, so slow it could barely be registered as dancing, Andrew began to sway back and worth. Neil’s hands automatically came up and hesitated on Andrew’s shoulders for a second before being placed on the back of Andrew’s head.

They have never been this close in public. Well, surrounded by people while this close in public. It didn’t matter, they didn’t give a damn about people normally and here, pressed together as their bodies swayed, the air heavy and intoxicating and the lights soft and in shades of reds, purples, and blues, they could be anyone; the only ones.

Heat. It’s too much heat. He’s burning and taking Neil with him and god, how do normal people stand this? Do they even know? Has anyone ever felt this before? No, probably not. It’s far to terrifying. Andrew watches small beads of sweat begin to appear on Neil’s forehead, his upper lip, his neck, slowly dripping into his collarbone. It’s too easy to just lean in and place his mouth on there, run his tongue along the erratic pulse, ghost his lips up his neck and jaw landing a breath away from Neil’s mouth.

“Yes.” Neil whispers.

But before Andrew can press forward, it’s Neil who rushes towards his mouth filled with a desperation and need he’d never shown before. They get lost. He’s falling. Down, down, down and no, not here. He gathers every inch of his will power, places the hand that somehow found itself inside Neil’s shirt at the base of his throat and presses, hard. The slight moan Neil lets out nearly has him pulling out a knife but he resist; barely. He tries again, forcing his head back. They’re both breathing heavily, chest, hips thighs still glued together. There is no question of desire, their hips still shifting slightly but not at all in a way that can be perceived as dancing.

Neil’s eyes are shut tight and Andrew takes a moment to watch his face. He looks broken apart, as if Andrew simply tossed him off the roof and is now holding the sharp pieces in his hands. He glances at the fingers still at the base of Neil’s throat, amazed that they aren’t covered in blood. He wonders if he ever looked this way and was angry that he couldn’t answer that with a clear no. Finally Neil opens his eyes and… would he ever stop staring at him like that? He looked at him as if Andrew was the beginning and the end of everything. As if there had never been anyone before; as if there wouldn’t be an after. Andrew couldn’t have this. He didn’t want this. But if that were really the case he wouldn’t be here, surrounded by hundreds of people and only really seeing one person. They’re just standing here now, holding on to each other like life lines and Andrew places more space between them though not without reluctance. Neil blinks and it’s as if the world comes rushing back to him. He pulls away slowly and finally they let go of one another.

“You aren’t a bad dancer.” Neil states.

He isn’t smiling, but he’s not smiling in the way that Andrew knows he actually is on the inside. He gives him a flat look and the corners of Neil’s mouth raise the slightest bit.

“One hundred and twenty-three.”

Andrew turns away before he can see a real smile on Neil’s face and starts to head towards the stairs before pausing. He glances back at Neil, who’s right at his back waiting for him to move forward. He tosses Andrew a questioning look and fuck it, it’s been a strange night already. Andrew reaches for his hand, lacing their fingers together tightly and begins to pull them through the crowd.

When they get to the stairs, he calls back, “one hundred and twenty-four.”

He doesn’t have to turn to know Neil is beaming at him.

Jules Verne and the Moon

Jules Verne used to wear a top hat, under which he kept an infinite number of stories. Some of them he wrote, others he told, and others just stayed there, under the brim of his hat. Mr. Verne wrote his stories in notebooks that were scattered all over his house. Some of them, including the elegantly bound volumes containing the stories that had already been published, were kept upright on his desk by one very special bookend—a small porcelain sailor. He had dark hair and red-painted lips curled up in a perpetual smile. He was dressed all in white and carried a large rucksack on his shoulders.

The bookend was nothing special per se. It was a trinket with no financial value, but Mr. Verne was very fond of it. He liked to imagine what might be inside the sailor’s rucksack. He liked to picture the sailor pull out a large wicker basket, long ropes, and a pumping device, and reveal the rucksack to be a hot air balloon. Sometimes, Mr. Verne liked to imagine that the rucksack was full of stories just waiting to be told.

Mr. Verne had no way of knowing just how close to the truth that latter fantasy of his really was.

* * *

The small porcelain sailor had a secret. In his rucksack was an incredibly long web of stays and shrouds, made of the sturdiest ropes. He would pull it out at night and use it to visit the Moon. He would climb the web nimbly and arrive at the top with no hint of a short breath, and the Moon would be waiting for him.

Lately, the sailor had been making his night climb more and more often, because the Moon was going through a rough time. She was terribly, horribly bored. It was the kind of boredom that sticks to one’s skin. She had nothing to do and nobody to see, except for the same old things and the same old celestial bodies.

It had been fun, at the beginning of Time, to influence tides and moods, but even that had long since lost its appeal. It had been fun, in the beginning, to have a say on happenings of the supernatural kind, but that world was always the same, too; on All Hallow’s Eve, spirits and demons paraded by in the same old fashion, year after year.

The available company left a lot to be desired. The stars were vain, narcissistic, and paranoid. All they talked about was how beautiful and resplendent they were, and how horrible it would be when the day came that they would grow cold and explode or, even worse, become black holes. As for the Sun, besides sharing the same fixations and idiosyncrasies of the other stars, he had eventually revealed his fickle male nature and had long since lost all interest in the Moon. She had come to terms with it, but the Sun’s absence from her life also meant that her already limited social circle was now practically non-existent. Gods would stop by to chat from time to time, but she didn’t comprehend their worries and could not understand the things they talked about.

The Moon was bored of a heavy boredom, and soon that boredom became sadness. She couldn’t understand where that sadness came from, until one night she said to the porcelain sailor,

“I think I know why I’m sad.”

The little sailor sat astride his shrouds and listened intently.

“Why?” he asked.

“I need stories. The universe needs stories, and so do I, and nobody ever tells me any.”

“I always tell you stories,” said the sailor, slightly miffed at the lack of acknowledgment.

“You do, and I’m very grateful,” said the Moon gently. “But yours are true stories, about things that you see happening from the window by your desk. I want made-up stories.”

“Why on Earth would you want made-up stories?” asked the sailor. From a traveler’s perspective, he couldn’t comprehend how anyone would prefer fables to stories of real, authentic adventures.

“Because I’m the only one who doesn’t have any,” said the Moon. “People write stories about me, inspired by me, but they never tell those stories to me. And frankly, even if they did, I wouldn’t be interested in stories about myself. After all, _I _know me quite well.”

The porcelain sailor was confused. “What kind of stories would you like to hear, then?”

“I don’t know,” said the Moon. “Any kind, really. Made-up stories, sure, but they should also be about those things that I don’t know about the world and that not even you can tell me.”

“Such as…?”

“Such as…do _you _know what’s at the center of the Earth?”

“I don’t know,” admitted the sailor.

“What about under the sea? Do you know what’s under the sea?”

“No, I don’t.” The sailor thought about it for a moment, and then his eyes sparkled with an idea. “But I know someone who does. Would you like to hear a story about what’s 20,000 leagues under the sea?”

The Moon lit up. “Oh, yes!” she cried. “I would like that very much!”

“Good,” said the sailor, and he prepared to climb back down. “Wait here.”

* * *

And so it was that the porcelain sailor’s rucksack really did begin to fill up with stories. They were Mr. Verne’s stories, and the man couldn’t figure out why his notebooks were methodically emptying themselves of any words he had ever written.

His publisher, Mr. Hetzel, had begun to ask for new chapters. When the first demand came, Mr. Verne said that a family emergency had required all of his attention and kept him away from writing. When the second demand came, he blamed a bad cold he had never caught. When the third demand came, Mr. Verne gave up.

“I don’t know what to tell you, dear Hetzel,” he said. “I can’t explain what’s happening. The words are literally disappearing from my pages. I go to bed with papers full of ink, and when I get up the next morning, I find they have gone blank.”

Mr. Hetzel remained unfazed. “Ah,” he said. “You are not the first to tell me this. Most of my authors are in a panic.”

As it turned out, it wasn’t just Mr. Verne’s stories that the little sailor was stealing, but also the stories of Mr. Verne’s friends. He would climb into their folders and notebooks when they came to visit, and he would steal the words from their pages. The Moon was loving it. With each night that went by, she shone a little brighter.

The brighter the Moon shone, the more confused Mr. Verne became. He wasn’t making the connection, of course, but he was more and more baffled with each passing day. Every morning, at precisely 7 o’clock, Mr. Verne would get up, make himself a cup of coffee, and start writing. He would write all morning and all afternoon, and when evening came, he would close his notebook, cook himself some dinner, do some reading, and then go to bed.

For two more weeks he did this, until finally, exasperated, he decided one evening to hide the notebook he had written in that day.

“I must be going mad,” Mr. Verne told himself as he stashed the notebook in his kitchen’s pantry, in-between rice and beans. “Perhaps I only believe that I have written, when I really haven’t written one single word all day.” Nonetheless, he still decided to hide the notebook for good measure.

The next day, Mr. Verne got up, made himself a cup of coffee, and retrieved the notebook from the pantry to write. To his surprise and absolute delight, he found his words still there on the pages, where he had left them. He was elated, and that day he wrote more than he had written in weeks, and that night he stashed the notebook in a different cabinet, just in case, in-between the jars of coffee and sugar. He went to bed a happy man.

Much later, Mr. Verne awoke abruptly in the dead of night. Everything was dark—or darker than it should be with a clear sky and a full moon outside. He sat up in bed, wondering what had torn him so brusquely from the first peaceful sleep he was having in weeks. Then he heard it again, the sound of banging and rummaging about from somewhere in the house. Mr. Verne hesitated. If this was a burglar, he wasn’t sure he could take him; after all, he was an aging writer, not a boxer. Still, what if it was the thief of words, having come to look for more stories to steal?

Mr. Verne realized how absurd that idea was even as he got out of bed and grabbed the heavy ceramic bowl of his bedroom’s basin. Brandishing the dish, he made his way through the otherwise silent house. The noise came from the kitchen. Swallowing past his fear and racing heart, Mr. Verne walked on.

What he found when he stepped past the doorway disconcerted him. There was no one there, at least no one that could be seen in the dim light that the pale moon cast into the room. The kitchen’s cabinets, however, were open, and that rummaging noise could still be heard.

“It must be a mouse,” Mr. Verne thought. He quickly retreated to his studio to get the oil lamp on his desk and, once he had it lit, made his way back to the kitchen.

If Mr. Verne thought finding his kitchen’s cabinets wide open in the middle of the night was a strange sight, he was not at all prepared for the scene that greeted him when he finally went to investigate. There, amongst the jars of tea and cookies, was the bookend that usually stood so patiently on his desk, guarding his stories. To Mr. Verne’s utter dismay, the small porcelain sailor was anywhere but immobile; it walked about in a near-frenzy, shoving aside packets of food and spying behind condiment bottles.

Mr. Verne pinched himself hard. He cringed at the pain that shot up his left arm. He stared at the little sailor, and it was a long time before he could finally find his voice.

“What are you doing here?” he said. He thought it was a fair question to ask.  

The small porcelain sailor froze. He turned around slowly and stared at Mr. Verne in complete shock. “What are you doing here?” he retorted, annoyed. “You should be asleep!”

“You woke me up,” said Mr. Verne, trying not to think about the absurdity of a porcelain trinket talking back to him.

“Well, go back to bed!”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Mr. Verne hesitated. “Because you’re here and you shouldn’t be, and I would very much like to know what’s going on.”

The little sailor huffed. He put his fists on his hips and glared sternly up at Mr. Verne. “Where is your notebook?”

“My notebook?”

“Yes! The one I’ve seen you write in yesterday, and again today. You haven’t placed it in the desk’s drawer for two days now, and I need it! Where is it?”

Mr. Verne stared. The little sailor was getting more and more agitated. “Well, it’s not here,” he said, because it wasn’t. It was in another cabinet, one that the porcelain sailor had not opened yet, but Mr. Verne wasn’t about to tell him. “Why do you need it?”

“For the stories.”

You’re the thief?” Mr. Verne was appalled. “Do you have any idea of the grief you’ve caused me?”

The little sailor had the good grace to look contrite. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I did it for the Moon.”

“What do you mean?”

Mr. Verne listened as the small porcelain sailor told him everything. He told him about his longtime friendship with the Moon, and how sad and bored she had been lately. He told him of the Moon’s appetite for stories and of how much she appreciated Mr. Verne’s tales in particular.

“_Journey to the Center of the Earth _is her favorite,” said the little sailor.

He then proceeded to inform Mr. Verne of the Moon’s sadness returning now that she had not had any stories for two nights in a row.

“And that’s why she’s not shining very bright tonight, even though she’s full,” said the sailor.

Mr. Verne was stunned. He took the whole tale in and mulled it over for a few minutes. He was humbled by the Moon being such a big fan of his storytelling, but he was also in trouble with his publisher.

“If you steal my stories, my career will soon be over,” he said. “And so will that of all the other authors you have stolen from.”

The little sailor grimaced in pain. “But what else can I do?” he whined. “The Moon needs stories.”

Mr. Verne thought about it. “What if I wrote short stories just for her? I’ll give you one every day and you can take the pages up to the Moon and read it to her.”

The little sailor’s porcelain face lit up. “Oh, would you?” he exclaimed. “Would you really?”

“I would be happy to,” said Mr. Verne, and he really would be. After all, how often did you get to write for the Moon? “But in return, you have to leave my other stories alone, and those of my author friends.”

“Agreed!” the little sailor proclaimed happily.

Mr. Verne regarded him sternly. “Do you promise?” he asked. “Do you promise you will only take the stories I give you?”

“I promise.”

The little sailor extended one small porcelain hand, and Mr. Verne shook it with his pinky finger. Then he took out milk and cookies, and he penned a story right then and there at the kitchen’s table while the small porcelain sailor sat by and watched, munching on a chocolate-chip cookie that was bigger than he was. Once the story was done, the little sailor took the papers and disappeared to the study, where he then proceeded to once again climb his web of stays and shrouds.

Mr. Verne went to bed, and as he burrowed under the covers, he noticed that the Moon was shining just a little brighter.

 

And so it was that Jules Verne penned stories for the Earth and the Moon alike, and the Moon was never without a story again, for he continued to write for her even once he was gone from the Earth. When you see the Moon shining a little brighter, you should know that Mr. Verne and the little porcelain sailor have just told her a story that she liked very, very much.

END

© 2015 Sonia Lenardon - All Rights Reserved

Write something that takes place during the twenty-four hours before your protagonist boards a submarine to live underwater for three years.

Sunday sneak peek

There’s more of this, I just didn’t want to snip it so you get a RATHER LONG Sunday “six.”

Eventually, Oliver retires: he’s just turned forty-three and it’s long overdue. The catalyst is, like many of the catalysts in Oliver’s life, cringeworthy and embarrassing–his worse knee slips out of alignment when he goes to jump, and if Artemis Crock were anything less than what she is, he’d have fallen from a rooftop and crippled himself.

“Maybe I’ll go back out tonight,” is all Artemis says when she drags him back to the foundry. She has a strained look around the eyes, but otherwise doesn’t give much away; Artemis Crock very rarely gives anything away, at least for free.

They didn’t talk about the near-miss (“if we started, we’d never stop,” Felicity always says when they orient a new member of the team. “Although I will remind you that I took a bullet for the Canary one time, that’s absolutely essential information.”). Instead, Oliver spends the rest of the night going over inventory while Felicity coaches Artemis through a solo run of the city. Oliver thinks that Artemis is a better version of himself; she is at least trying to prove an entirely different point.

A few weeks after the rooftop incident, Oliver buys a little house a couple hours outside the city—a fucking ranch, no stairs, the most boring thing he could find—and he moves in without telling anyone, basically overnight. Felicity shows up on the doorstep about twelve hours later.

“Are you done sulking?” she asks. Oliver would bet that the car in the drive is crammed full of Felicity’s tech, and probably one-third of her current wardrobe. He hopes she packed the blue dress; she smiles more when she wears it, like she gets a charge out of wearing the color. “I’ve got a satellite phone on me, but I’d like to get the server set up sooner rather than later.”

Jules Verne, Bitch | Michael Kindt

Have you ever read him? I bet you haven’t because only recently have his works, his actual works, become available in English. From Wikipedia: “Verne is generally considered a major literary author in France and most of Europe, where he has had a wide influence on the literary avant-garde and on surrealism. His reputation is markedly different in Anglophone regions, where he has often been labeled a writer of genre fiction or children’s books, largely because of the highly abridged and altered translations in which his novels are often reprinted.”

I am fascinated by the art of translation. No, it isn’t a science, not even close. I am often surprised at how people view translation. It seems so straightforward to them, but it so isn’t. There is a foreign word and you make it the English word. Simple, right?

Not so fast, skippy.

Keep Reading

Sunday why do I even pretend this is six

The “Nyssa and Felicity go on a transnational expedition to find Sara after she goes on the run” fic.


“I’m not very brave,” Felicity blurted out, “In case you were counting on that.”

Nyssa laughed, but very quietly, and pulled Felicity alongside and the in front of her, so she was herding her onto the boat at the end of the pier. The air smelled like water and fish and the summer stink of zebra mussels breeding and dying along the waterline. “You’re brave,” Nyssa said. “You volunteered even though you don’t know what you’re getting into, and it’s not because you are a stupid girl.”

“I’m feeling a little stupid now,” Felicity said.

“A good sign for your sense of self-preservation,” Nyssa said. “That’s why you’re a better pick than that big man you put up with.”

“Oh, him,” Felicity thought about Oliver, how strong he was, and how bad he was and thinking all the way through before he made a move. “He has his uses.”

“Not here,” Nyssa said.

johnnyjacqobis  asked:

i have a question for you!! ok so one thing i admire a lot about your writing is it has this really quiet intensity, like everything is sort of charged and contained, is that something you do on purpose or does it just come naturally?? and what's the biggest difference in the writing you do for work and fandom stuff?

Thank you! It’s a combination of both, I think; I’m a pretty internal person, so that’s something I gravitate towards in writing, but over the years, I’ve worked to become a more succinct writer–I try to vary sentence lengths, have some kind of ebb and flow–and I try to figure out what a character thinks is essential even if it’s a hidden quality. I’ll try to marry more physical, outward moments to an internal narrative. That ends up looking like a very skeletonized description of someone’s posture or tone or clothing, or how they react to their environment.

When it comes to humans interacting, that’s definitely something I work at. I have a desk in an open office, where everyone works in the same room–except me, because my desk is behind a low wall, and no one can see me. I can still hear everything that goes on, which is marvelous for getting a feel for how people talk to each other.

I’m always worried my writing will sound melodramatic. I have really formal speech patterns and it’s a huge struggle to shrug off my neuroses so I can explore another character’s motivations. My biggest stumbling block is fulfilling an action. Which I don’t think anyone who has read my writing will be surprised by.

As far as writing for work: it depends! I write a lot of human interest journalism (which is very q&a, puff talk), but I also write about travel, food, and art. When I write about travel I almost always write about agriculture, and when I write about food I almost always write about the juxtaposition of formal cooking technique with “peasant food,” aka making really fancy versions of very plain dishes. (My people ran farms, so it’s my instant access point.)

Writing about art is different: I talk about history and influence, but I also look at how people respond to art on a visceral level. It’s not as academic as some art writing–the magazine I work for is not interested in thinking too hard–but my art writing has way more tension and honesty than anything else I turn in at work. (Also, I never get more than 800 words to work with, so my writing for work is a lot more straightforward–I’m hitting a short arc and a strict word count.) In one of my favorite assignments, I talked specifically about finding the uncanny in elements of the everyday, which is not so very far removed from how I write for fandom.

I’ve been writing for a really long time (and I’ve been working professionally as a writer for over five years). Every time I look back at old work I see parts I’m trying to develop and parts I’m trying to remove.

Thank you for asking such great questions!!!!!

earnmysong  asked:

oliver/felicity, be careful what you wish for or curtain!fic

“So were you planning on telling you me that you were getting me a china pattern? Because I appreciate the gesture, but I’m leasing a townhouse and I have never once in my life invited twelve people over for a dinner party that required matching plates.” Felicity waved the invoice in between Oliver’s face and the toaster oven he was probably in the midst of breaking—Oliver hated reading directions, but he also burned toast on the regular, so it was a vicious circle. 

“You liked them,” Oliver said. “Get that out of my face, please.”

She pulled the paper away, mostly because she was a little worried it would catch fire. “Are you sure you’re supposed to touch those coils? And yeah, I like them, but that doesn’t men I need to have the entire set. Or any of it, really. Not that I’m ungrateful. I’m just perplexed.”

“Ow,” Oliver said. Point for Felicity, she thought; touching those coils had been a bad idea. “If we’re going to get a house, we might as well have dishes you like. You can eat take-out off them and talk about how society warped your notions of adulthood or something.”

“You were listening!” She took pity on him and went to find a teabag to put on the burn before it blistered. “And what’s this about a house, mister?”

“A house,” Oliver said, like Felicity was an idiot. “It’s a building, and you live there. You watch HGTV, I thought you knew this sort of thing.”

“Don’t even try to out-funny me,” Felicity pressed a damp teabag into the burn and switched off the toaster oven before he burned down her kitchen. “I’m a professional. I just don’t know why we would be getting  house, and don’t you even try to say anything about equity to me, my net worth is completely stellar without adding homeownership to the deal.”

“Felicity,” Oliver interrupted. His version of interrupting involved putting his arms around her, which Felicity might have enjoyed more if he didn’t also have tea all over one hand; her blouse was new. “I meant a house for us. You and me. A home.”

“The ‘I no longer know what home is, let’s build one together’ card will go over a lot better if you haven’t already made a downpayment on something”

“I have not already made a downpayment on something.”

“Thank you.”

“I may have inherited something.”

“We are not attempting any kind of remodeling until you retire, I don’t care if you hire a contractor,” Felicity reached under his shirt and pinched Oliver’s stomach until he took a step back. “It’s a cute idea, I like watching ‘This Old House,’ whatever, but you just took on a new trainee at your other job and there’s no way I can handle that kind of stress.”

"You don’t want a house.”

“I emphatically do not want a house, Oliver." 

"But you like the plates.”

“I love the plates.”

He kissed her. Felicity forgave him for getting tea on her blouse.

A while after that, Oliver said, “are you sure you don’t want a house?’

“Oliver,” Felicity told him, “I do not. But If you want to move in, just say so.”