The Simpsons' front door opened before he'd fully knocked.
"Leo! Come in, come in."
Marge was in an apron over her strapless green dress, one oven mitt still on, a streak of flour on her cheek like a small white bruise. Her tall blue hair was pinned up tonight in a loose, hasty bun, a couple of strands escaping at the temples from the kitchen heat and clinging to the side of her neck. Her face was a little flushed from cooking and a little more flushed, Leo noticed, from opening the door to him.
The apron strings cinched tight around her back, pulling the strapless green dress hard against her hourglass body. The top of the apron rode up over the front of her dress and was being pushed forward by her chest. Her enormous F-cup tits filled the entire top of her dress, the apron only managing to half-cover them, the dress was low enough to show the line of her cleavage where the two heavy mounds pressed together. Leo could see, faintly through the dress and bra and apron, the suggestion of where her thick nipples sat, just slightly stiff already, from the kitchen warmth..
It was a classic homey look, but her body made it extremely sexy.
He handed her a bottle. "For the hostess."
"Oh, you didn't have to! Thank you, Leo, really."
"You look good, Marge. Like you've been working hard. I appreciate it."
She blinked, the color in her cheeks deepening by another shade, her hand coming up to the escaped strand of blue hair at her temple.
"Oh— well, it's— it's just a dinner, Leo, it's nothing—"
"Homer," she called quickly, "Leo is here!"
From the living room: "Mm-hm."
Marge's mouth tightened. "Homer."
"Mmmmm, is that pot roast?"
Leo followed Marge into the house, his eyes dropping to her back the second she turned.
The view from behind was everything the front had hinted at. The apron strings tied in a neat bow at the small of her back framed the heavy round of her ass perfectly, the green fabric of the dress stretched tight over each full cheek, the seam down the middle drawn taut into the deep crack between them. Each step she took made both heavy cheeks shift and roll under the fabric, the apron bow bouncing softly against her lower back.
The TV was on a football game nobody was watching. Homer was on the couch, one hand in a bowl of something orange, the other resting on his big stomach. He glanced up, processed Leo's face for a slow second, and raised the orange hand in acknowledgment.
"Hey. New guy."
"Hi, Homer."
"You want a beer?"
"Homer," Marge said, "he just got here."
"What? That's how you welcome a guest. You say hi, you ask about the beer."
Leo thought it was an improvement. The last time Homer was the one asking him for a beer, but now, he was offering a beer instead.
From the stairs came a thump, and Bart slid down the stairs railing to land two feet from Leo. He was wearing his classic red shirt and blue shorts.
"Sup."
"Hey, Bart."
Bart squinted up at him a moment, sizing him up again, the way he had in the gym the day the strike ended. Leo could see the kid mentally replaying the tripwire, the bucket, the marbles. The way he perfectly avoided them all. Leo could practically hear him thinking, 'This time I'm gonna get him.'
An invisible tick formed near Leo's head while he smiled. 'This little shit.'
"Mom says we gotta be polite," Bart said flatly.
"I'm sure you'll manage."
"I could've really rigged this house, man," Bart muttered, almost to himself, looking up at the handrail, the light fixture, the hallway carpet in front of the dining room. He shook his head slowly, like a retired general watching his war maps go to waste. "Mom made me promise."
"Probably for the best."
"Probably."
Lisa appeared from the dining room, pearl necklace glinting, a stack of index cards already clenched in one hand like she'd been holding them since sunrise.
"Mr. Depp."
"Leo is fine."
"Leo." She tested the word like a new flavor. "I'm so glad you could come. Dinner smells amazing. Mom made pot roast. And pie. She really went all out."
"Mm-hm," Marge murmured, passing them with a platter. "Go wash your hands, everyone, please. Homer — Homer. Homer. Table."
Bart groaned, following his mother. "Do I gotta use a napkin?"
"Yes, Bart."
"A cloth one?"
"Yes, Bart."
"Man."
From her high chair already set up at the end of the table, Maggie looked up at the commotion, pacifier bobbing. Santa's Little Helper wandered past her and settled under the table, positioning himself strategically below her tray.
…
They sat. Marge served.
The pot roast was, genuinely, excellent. It was falling apart, glossy with gravy, carrots at the edges. A basket of rolls steamed on the table next to a bowl of broccoli and a casserole dish nobody had identified yet. Homer hadn't yet picked up his fork. He had picked up a roll with his whole hand and was working it into his face.
Marge bowed her head. "Let's say grace."
Homer kept chewing.
"Homer."
"Oh. Right. Right." He swallowed loudly. "You, uh. You do it, Lisa."
"Bart should do it."
"I did it last time."
"You did not."
"Fine." Bart cleared his throat, folded his hands, and bowed his head. "Dear God. We paid for all this stuff ourselves, so thanks for nothing."
"Bart!"
"Amen," Homer agreed around another roll.
'Amen,' Leo also agreed. 'What a good prayer.' Leo also felt like everything that was done was thanks to his actions alone, not some God. I guess Bart gets a point for that one.
…
Marge insisted on refilling Leo's plate before her own. Leo made a point of complimenting the food loud enough that Homer grunted in agreement on autopilot. Marge's cheeks went a shade pinker.
Lisa waited through exactly two courses of small talk before she pounced.
"Leo." She set her fork down, straightened her spine, and pushed her little stack of index cards an inch forward like she was opening a sales pitch. "When you taught our class during the strike. You were, um. You were really good."
"Thank you, Lisa."
"Really good. Like, you handled a long-division problem and explained it so so well."
He just smiled. Leo felt like any normal person outside of Springfield would have been able to explain the same thing to some little kids.
"So. I was wondering. My school has a gifted program that doesn't actually have any gifted curriculum, and my teacher gave me a worksheet about nuts last Tuesday, and I—" she paused, "—would it be possible for you to tutor me? Not just help with homework. Real tutoring. Custom question lists. Advanced material. Whatever you think I can handle."
Homer said, "Mmmm, gravy," and poured more gravy on his gravy.
Leo picked up the card. It was color-coded.
Leo turned it over in his hand.
'On the one hand, I'd be giving up two afternoons a week to teach some little kid.'
'On the other hand: her mom is Marge. And Lisa is the smart one. The kind who notices things. If anything is ever going to tip off someone in this family to what's happening with her mother, it'll be Lisa first. Better to keep her attention pointed somewhere I'm controlling. Something like tutoring.'
'And, if I occasionally want the venue to be this house instead of mine, I've got a legitimate reason to be at the Simpsons house a couple afternoons a week. Which means legitimate reasons for Marge to be around while I'm here. The idea of having her underneath me in her husband's bed sounded very nice. Mmmm,' he thought about it then realised she also had a second kid also. Leo's thoughts drifted.
"Yeah," he said. "I can do that."
Lisa did not move for a full second. "You can?"
"Two afternoons a week. We start Tuesday and keep it basic. I figure out where you actually are, then we accelerate. Sound good?"
"Yes."
"One condition."
"Anything."
"Bart joins."
That was not what Lisa wanted nor expected.
"Oh," Lisa said, very carefully. "I mean. I appreciate the thought, but Bart and I are at very different levels, so I don't want to slow your curriculum down, and also Bart wouldn't actually enjoy—"
"I'm right here, man."
"—I am just trying to protect your time, Leo—"
"I can do separate lessons. Same afternoons. There will only be a little bit of overlap. Bart first, you join near the end, and then Bart can leave and it'll be solely your turn. He doesn't need to do your material, and you don't need to wait around for his." Leo set the card back down. "Good for everyone."
"I don't want tutoring," Bart said.
Leo saw that Bart had potential. And if he was going to be forced to spend time with Lisa he might as well just throw in Bart too.
'Think of this as an investment, Leo.' He told himself. Whether it really would end up actually being a positive one or a waste of time was still undecided.
"Bart. It'll be good for you." Marge's voice was quiet.
Bart looked at his mother. Then at Leo. Then at the ceiling. He thought about how cool Leo had been in the gymnasium. He also thought about how much he hated schoolwork and studying. 'Ughh.' He scratched his chin.
"…Fine. But no book reports."
"Deal."
"And no pop quizzes."
"No promises."
Still seated at her chair, Lisa was annoyed that Bart got to ruin her sessions with Leo, but at the same time she was happy she would at least get her tutoring in some form.
…
Lisa recovered quickly. She always did.
"Leo." In her hand was index card number two. "Can I ask what exactly my mom does for your company? Because she hasn't really… I mean, she's mentioned it, but not, like, specifically."
Marge's fork paused halfway to her mouth.
Marge's reaction notified Leo that she had left the explanation up to him.
"Your mother does a couple of things for us," he said easily. "Brand-facing work, mostly. Eldian, my company, is running a new line aimed at women in her demographic — moms, homemakers. There are a lot of investors who are interested in this type of thing, and our company wanted someone local who actually fit the audience to come in and be part of the creative side. Sitting in on planning, giving us feedback on the look and feel of the materials we make, helping us work out what's going to land here and what's going to feel off."
He took a sip of water.
"And she's good with the logistics side too. Scheduling, prepping the space, turnover between sessions, keeping the day moving. My people like working with her. She makes their job easier."
He kept it casual. "Part-time, but steady and real work."
Bart looked vaguely disappointed that there still wasn't a hat.
Homer said, "Mmmm, brand feedback," with no idea what any of those words meant.
'And the thing is,' Leo thought, watching Marge stare very deliberately at her plate, 'she's actually sharp. He'd noticed it more than once over the past week. Marge was actually a really competent person.'
'Maybe I start using her for the things I actually need help with. Not just modeling. Real work.' He continued to wonder about the idea.
While he did that, Lisa was nodding slowly, absorbing.
"Can I come with her one day?"
Marge's head came up.
"To see it," Lisa went on. "The office. The space. Wherever you guys actually work. I'm curious. I've never seen a real workplace that wasn't the power plant on Take Your Daughter to Work Day, and that was… well, not representative." Her face was earnest. "I want to know what working looks like when an adult actually likes it."
Marge's cheeks went red. Her hand went to her pearls.
"Oh, sweetie, I— I don't know, it's— it's really more of a closed set, with the shoots— I mean the sets, the, the meetings, it's not really a kid-friendly kind of— um—"
She trailed off, the flush climbing to her ears.
Lisa took in her words. Her eyes stayed on her mother a beat longer than they needed to, noticing the color of her face, the stumble in her voice, the way her hand kept fluttering to her necklace.
Lisa turned, looked at Leo. Waiting.
Leo smiled easily at her. "Your mom's right. Most of our stuff isn't really a drop-in environment. But if you're serious about it? Further down the line, once we've done a few tutoring sessions," he threw in words she liked, "and I know where your head is, maybe we set up a proper shadowing afternoon. Not promising anything tonight. But if you still want it then, we'll figure it out."
Lisa beamed. "Deal."
Marge exhaled.
…
Homer pushed his chair back first. He had technically been pushing it back for the last ten minutes, in small shoves. It was like he was drifting back toward the couch but without admitting he was.
"Marge," he said, plate licked. "That was amaaaaazing, Marge."
Marge softened a little. "Thank you, Homer."
"Is the game still on?"
"You are excused."
"Woo-hoo!"
He was gone before the words finished. Bart's eyes tracked his father's path back to the living room with envy.
"Can I —"
"Fine. Go." Marge interrupted his request.
Bart was off his chair so fast the chair rocked. He gave his uneaten broccoli on his plate one last look before fully leaving. "See ya, broccoli, wouldn't wanna be ya."
Lisa watched them go with the specific expression of a young girl whose brother and father had just confirmed everything she privately believed about men.
Marge didn't bother stressing anymore about keeping them here. She had enjoyed the dinner. She felt like she had accomplished what she had wanted already. She watched Leo as he was about to serve himself some pie as dessert.
"Oh wait, Leo! I forgot the cranberry. It'll be good with the pie too — I'll just be a second." She glanced down at the high chair. "And let me get Maggie down, she's been in there long enough. Come on, sweetie."
Marge lifted Maggie out of her high chair and carried her into the playpen nearby. After that, she left the room.
And then it was just Leo and Lisa at the table.
Lisa's index cards were back in her hand.
"Okay, Leo, since you're waiting, I had a few more things I wanted to ask about pacing. I know we haven't even started yet, but I have specific questions, and I don't want to take up the whole tutoring slot on Tuesday asking them."
"Shoot."
"Okay. One. Do we do one core text per week or per unit. Two. When you figure out where I actually am, are you going to tell me, or just adjust the material and not say, because I'd like to know. Three." She paused, actually a little shy now. "If I hit everything on a week's list ahead of schedule, can we do bonus material? Not as homework. Just because."
Leo took a slow sip of the wine Marge had served him earlier.
"Hmmmmm. One — per unit. A week is too short for a real text. Two. I'll tell you. You won't learn if you don't know where you actually are. Three. Maybe."
Lisa wrote that down. Actually wrote it down. In a notebook she'd had under her plate the whole dinner.
"Okay. Okay. Last thing, and then I swear I'll stop." She leaned forward. "Do you have a…," she paused, "not a test, but like… an assessment. Something I can do tonight. So Tuesday we hit the ground running."
Leo glanced toward the door. He debated something.
"Give me your notebook and your pen."
Her eyes lit up. "Okay!"
"I'll write you four questions. You can actually do them right now. In your room so you're not distracted. Don't look anything up. I don't care if you get them right or wrong. When you're done, bring them back. If I'm still here we'll go over them, otherwise just have them ready for Tuesday."
Leo took the pen, wrote four questions in under a minute and slid the notebook back to her.
She was already up. "I'll be right back — right back!"
Her footsteps hit the stairs at a pace that was not quite running but not close to walking.
Leo exhaled through his nose.
And then it was quiet.
From the living room came the low roar of a crowd Homer was pretending he'd been watching all along, and Bart's voice cutting in with something mocking, and Homer's "D'oh!" in response. The refrigerator hummed on the other side of the kitchen wall.
Leo sat for a moment with his wine glass.
Then he stood, stepped around Bart's abandoned chair, and walked his way out of the dining room.
…
Maggie was in a mesh play-ring on the tile near the window, pacifier bobbing, a single Cheerio already in her small fist. She tracked him with wide blue eyes as he crossed the kitchen. Pacifier bobbing. She made no comment. She watched him the way she watched everything in her life. With calm, complete, silent attention. He passed her at a polite distance.
The pantry door was half open. A narrow slice of yellow light showed a pair of bare calves up on tiptoes.
Leo pulled the door the rest of the way open and stepped inside.
It was a deep pantry, deeper than he'd expected. Seven feet, maybe. Deep, but still very narrow. Maybe three feet wide. Shelves floor to ceiling on both sides. One bare bulb overhead that flickered when the refrigerator on the other side of the wall cycled. Canned tomatoes, boxed pasta, a pyramid of Duff cans that was clearly Homer's doing. The whole room smelled like dry goods and Marge.
She was up on the ball of one foot, stretched full length, her other heel off the floor entirely. The strapless green dress had ridden up the back of her thighs from the reach, the bottom had risen high. High enough that he could see the full length of the back of her thighs, all the way up to where the bottom curve of her ass began to swell out from under the fabric. The dress had pulled tight across her ass with the stretch, the cotton straining over each round, heavy cheek, the hint of a panty line in the middle of both of them. The top of her apron was pulled against her chest from the front and the knot pulled tight at her lower back. Her fingers were fumbling against the top shelf, an inch short of the cranberry jar.
'Could not have posed her like this if I tried.' Leo missed having a camera when with her.
"Marge."
She startled and dropped onto her heels, spinning. The pantry did not allow for spinning. She tripped forward.
Her chest hit his first. The heavy, soft weight of her tits under the apron pressed flush to his chest and squished outward against him on either side, the front of her apron the only thing keeping the spill of her cleavage from popping out the top of her dress. Her hip turned into his. Her bare shoulder came up under his jaw. She tried to step back and the shelves caught her. She tried to step sideways and his body caught her. Every version of moving ended in more of her pressed against more of him.
"Oh — Leo, I — I didn't hear you come in —"
"You were taking a while."
"I'm sorry, I can't quite reach — if I just — let me just squeeze past —"
She tried the left. Her front dragged along his. The curve of her hip caught on the front of his jeans. She made a small sound. She tried the right next. His other side was equally occupied. The shelves were not going to move. He was not going to move. The top of her apron brushed his chest twice, the points of her nipples, stiff under bra and dress and apron, dragged across him very obviously.
'She isn't going anywhere I don't let her go.' Marge dropping onto him had made it easy for Leo to keep her there.
Marge knew trying harder would make the position even worse.
'Oh no. This is embarrassing'
Her hands had ended up flat against his chest. She hadn't put them there. They'd been caught between them when she turned. She looked down at where they were. Her small and flour-dusted hand against his dark button-down shirt. She didn't move them because she didn't know how to move them without more of her sliding against more of him, nor if it would even get her out of the tight spot.
'His chest is warm. He's breathing slow. He seems so much taller now that he's this close.'
"Let me help," Leo said quietly.
"Oh — no, I'm fine, I just need to —" Marge had forgotten the original reason why she had come into the pantry. She thought he was referring to getting out.
"With the cranberry jar. We still need it, right?"
"Oh… yes."
"Marge. Since you can't reach it. Let me lift you."
She went very still.
"…Lift me?"
"Just an inch or two. Your hands work better up there than mine."
His own hands were already settling at her waist. They were right over the knot of the apron, where the dress was pulled tight against her ribs. His fingers nearly met around the front of her, his thumbs settling on the softness of her stomach, his palms wrapping the warm narrow part of her where it flared into her hips. She could feel the warmth of his palms through two layers of fabric. Her breath hitched under his hands. "Ready?"
'Nobody has put their hands on my waist in… I don't know. Years. Homer doesn't. Homer puts his hand on my hip sometimes, in his sleep, by accident.'
"I — okay. Okay."
He lifted her.
She came up into the air in a slow, steady rise. Her hands shot to the top shelf to steady herself. The motion lifted her boobs right past his face. The front of her apron dragged up the front of his shirt as she went. The full, heavy underside of her tits slid up over his chin for one startled second. He could feel the weight of them through every layer. She heard herself inhale sharply, louder than she'd meant to.
Leo looked up but could only see the huge view of her underboobs. 'God she's heavy in the right places.'
"Do you have it?" He asked.
"I — yes, I —" She fumbled the jar off the shelf and cradled it against her chest with one hand. "Yes."
"Coming down."
He lowered her.
He took his time. 'Slow. All the way.'
She felt every inch of it. The pantry was narrow and her body, coming back down, had nowhere to go but against him. The front of her dress dragged slowly down the front of his shirt. The apron that barely contained her huge boobs rolled over his chest, her stiff nipples catching twice on the way down. Her stomach grazed his. The mound of her hips drew down past his hips. Her thighs slid along the fronts of his. Her apron slid slightly up at the waist. One of the straps of her dress slipped a quarter-inch off her shoulder, exposing more of her collarbone. Somewhere on the way down, about the time her lower stomach was passing the front of his jeans, she felt something firm, hard, and unmistakable press against her, dragging up from her stomach to a much lower place before her feet finally hit the floor, and her brain went entirely, briefly, blank.
'Oh.'
'Oh, no.'
'Oh, that's — that's because of me.'
Her feet touched the floor.
His hands were still at her waist.
Leo didn't move. He didn't say anything. He let her sit with what she just felt.
She didn't ask him to move them.
She looked up.
And then they were just… looking at each other.
It went on too long.
It went on long enough that the pantry bulb flickered once and neither of them noticed. Long enough that the refrigerator on the other side of the wall cycled off and the hum that she'd been using as a reason not to speak went away and the silence it left was much worse. Long enough for her to see, properly, up close, the color of his eyes, and the fact that he wasn't smiling his usual charming smile, the one she'd seen at her front door. That smile was gone. What was on his face now was something quieter and more patient and much, much worse for her.
They continued to stare at each other, bodies close, pressed against each other.
'He's going to make me do it or make me not do it.' She realized.
'And she's right,' Leo thought. 'I do not move from this spot until she does. If I close the gap she gets to tell herself it was me. If she closes it, it's hers. She owns it. And the next time I'm anywhere near her, she remembers that she did it.'
The jar of cranberry was clutched between them at her chest like a small glass shield that wasn't working very well.
Her eyes flicked to his mouth.
Back up.
She caught herself doing it, flushed deeper, and did it again anyway.
'This is the kind of thing other women do. Not me. I'm the one who makes pie and gets cranberry from the pantry. I'm not — I'm not a woman who —'
'He works out. I can feel that through his shirt.'
'Homer is in the other room. Lisa is upstairs. Maggie is ten feet away. Ten feet.'
'His hands haven't moved.'
"Leo," she whispered. It was almost inaudible.
"Yeah."
"The kids are — Homer is — Maggie is right on the other side of that door. Lisa could walk in any—"
Marge didn't know Lisa was upstairs now. Leo didn't bother telling her.
"I know." Is all he said.
"We can't — I can't —"
"Okay."
She didn't step back. He didn't step back. The pantry didn't allow for it anyway.
Her free hand, the one not holding the jar, came up very slowly, like it was being moved on its own, and rested open-palmed against the side of his neck. His pulse was steady under her fingers. That, somehow, made it worse.
"I shouldn't —" she whispered, like Leo was the one who brought up her hand.
'I shouldn't.'
'I shouldn't.'
'I'm going to.'
And then she kissed him.
It was her. She went up the last inch on her tiptoe, tilted her face up, and pressed her mouth to his. The jar was still cradled between them. Her fingers curled lightly at the nape of his neck. Her lips were soft and warm and made a tiny trembling sound into his for one second before she committed.
For four, maybe five seconds, Marge Simpson kissed him in the pantry of 742 Evergreen Terrace with one hand on the back of his neck and a jar of cranberry pinned to his chest. She made a small helpless sound into his mouth. Her tongue, briefly, touched his.
Then the refrigerator on the other side of the wall clicked back on and the whole pantry hummed and Marge pulled her mouth away like she'd been burned.
"Oh — oh no —"
"Hey." His hand, still on her waist, steadied her. "Hey. It's okay."
"I can't believe I just — Homer is — Lisa is upstairs right now, Leo, she could be back down any —"
"Nobody saw."
"I just kissed you in my pantry —"
"Marge. Breathe."
She breathed. Once. Twice. Her eyes were shining and the color in her face was doing something Leo had only ever seen during the Hooters shoot. Her free hand came down from his neck and pressed itself flat against her own mouth.
"I don't — I don't know what —"
"It's okay."
"It's not okay, Leo."
"Then we don't talk about it tonight."
She closed her eyes.
"…Okay."
"You go first. I'll come out in a minute. Fix your strap."
Her hand went automatically to her shoulder, found the fallen strap, slid it back into place. She looked down at the jar in her hand like she'd forgotten what it was for. Then at the pantry door. Then, for one last second, at him.
She squeezed past him.
Even that turned into her whole front dragging down his whole front again. Apron, chest, hip, thigh. She made a very small involuntary sound at the back of her throat that she absolutely had not meant to make.
The pantry door swung shut behind her.
Leo leaned back against the shelves, exhaled slowly through his nose, and adjusted the front of his jeans.
'She put her own hand on my neck.'
He gave it a slow count of thirty. He needed his boner to go away.
…
Marge was already back at the table when he re-entered the dining room, cranberry jar set neatly between the rolls and the bowl of broccoli, her hands folded in her lap. The color in her face reminded Leo of a tomato. She didn't quite look up when Leo sat down.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs. Lisa burst back in, notebook under one arm, pen behind her ear, cheeks bright with her own excitement.
"Okay I'm back, I finished! Was that fast?" she asked, hesitating halfway between pride and suspicion. "Are you sure you actually tried with these questions? They weren't as hard as I thought they'd be."
In truth, Leo hadn't really tried. He'd just needed her gone for a few minutes.
"Hand it over, let me see how you did," he said. "If they were easy that just tells me where to start."
She crossed to the table and pulled out her chair, already flipping to the page. Halfway down she paused, glanced up at her mother. Her eyes caught on the extra loose blue strands at Marge's forehead, the faint pink still in her cheeks, and her brow pinched for the briefest second.
'Hair's a little messy. Mom's cheeks are pink.'
Then Marge shifted the cranberry jar an inch to the left, distracted, and Lisa's gaze dropped to her own completed assessment on its own.
'She's been running around that kitchen for two hours and the oven's been on the whole time. Of course she's flushed.'
She didn't need to look at it any longer. She had a page full of answers in front of her and Leo was about to read them.
She slid the notebook across the table toward him. "I brought two pens in case one died."
Leo took the pen she offered him, opened to the page with her answers, and clicked it once.
"Four questions," he said. "Let's see how you did."
Across the table, Marge picked up her glass of wine with both hands and took a long, careful sip.
From the living room came another roar of the game and a distant, muffled "D'oh!" Maggie hit her spoon against the mesh of her play-ring in the kitchen. Santa's Little Helper finished cleaning up the Cheerios that had fallen under the dining table and padded off to find where Maggie had gone.
[A/N]: How many chapters should this fanfic be? Opinions?