#but does seem to be grief and avoidance adjacent

[bartonbones]

i would love to make a post connecting the bear, expedition 33, and severance as a cultural trend of shows focusing on grief but specifically the avoidance of grief and the difficult work of healing from it in favor of alternate worlds and work and creation, however, my fear is that it actually is NOT a broader trend and is more indicative of the media i, personally, am choosing to consume

[some-stars]

for today's poolverine-adjacent thoughts, i offer you: Major Character Death! please scroll past if you reasonably want to avoid this.

so most of the time i just ignore that logan is aging slowly while wade seems literally immortal, because most days i don't have the emotional bandwidth to deal with the implications. but i do have a longstanding soft spot for fic about grief and picking up after and finding ways to go on after having and then losing the love of your life. so sometimes i like to think about--they get a good ~200 years together, and it's the happiest either of them have ever been and they grow into and change each other and are so, so in love. and then logan dies.

and for a long time--decades--wade is just...not really in the world. sometimes literally (he spends a good eight years holed up in a cave mostly asleep, letting the sensation of starving to death become soothing white noise) and sometimes in the sense that he'll eat and get out of bed and maybe even find some kind of work to do, but he isn't there.

but eventually--because he is human, and this is what happens to humans--he connects with someone again. not in the same way (never the same way, it's never going to be the same) but he finds himself taking care of someone who needs help, or running into the same person often enough that he starts to respond when they try to start a conversation with him, or just--someone. somewhere. that buried rusting part of his heart creaks to life, the way he was sure it never would again.

and god, how badly i want a story about the slow agonizing process of coming back to life, realizing that despite knowing how it'll end, despite everything, he does still want to reach out and build that connection. and he can. his heart can do that, still. and how beautiful and horrible it is that he can feel this way again even though logan is gone. i want him to get to a place where he can tell his loved ones stories about logan, those centuries of funny and sad and sexy and stupid stories they made together. and i want him to have that again, with someone else. and then someone after that, and after that, and forever.

[thunders-warcats-stuff]

Canon Adjacent Jay and Bright's First Day Out

"Showing Off"

"Okay, the first thing I need to do is get an idea of how your senses work compared to mine.

We're at the top of the ridge that encloses our camp.

I'm going to close my eyes and you're going to tell me what you can hear, feel, smell, and otherwise sense around you as well as how far away it is.

Start whenever you're ready."

Jaypaw sat there, mouth half open in stunned shock. Was Brightheart actually going to teach him?!

He did his best to pull his thoughts together and inhaled deeply.

"ShadowClan lives closer to where the sun sets than we do. And not just because the stench of them is strong enough to scare a rabbit.

The tang of the pines tells me there can’t be much undergrowth, so the cats who hunt there must be good at stalking in open air and flushing out their prey.”

He turned his head in the opposite direction.

“I can smell the moorland from where the sun rises. The wind comes in a great unbroken sweep, undisturbed by trees.

The cats who live there must be fast and small to hunt in such open territory.

They don't even have the trees to hide them like we do and ShadowClan does. Makes me wonder how they deal with predator birds...”

Brightheart's breath hitched as if she were in pain and her paws shifted uncomfortably.

"Hopefully better than we did," she sighed.

"Who knows. Snowkit might be with us today if we'd asked them after the fire..." Brightheart trailed off, lost in thought.

Jaypaw decided not to say anything. She seemed distressed by the very idea, and it wasn't likely that getting her attention would go well. After a few heartbeats, Brightheart shook herself out.

"Birds won't hurt us here." She murmured shakily, voice cracking with grief. "I won't let you end up like Snowkit. Keep going, your report is interesting."

"RiverClan live across the lake, even if I can’t catch their scent. It’s hidden by the scents from the lake and the water-scent itself, which are stronger today because of the wind.

I *can* say that RiverClan will feel the coming rain first because the wind is driving the waves this way. I can hear them slapping against the shore."

"Well done, Jaypaw. Here's what I can tell."

She practically repeated everything he said, with a few extra details he hadn’t noticed. She couldn't tell the water-scent like he could, but she could tell him about the scents from the lake. She also noted several things about how WindClan and ShadowClan hunted, as well as where the Clan scents were fresher versus where they were weaker. When Jaypaw asked why she needed to know that, Brightheart said it helped her detect and avoid a patrol by when cats were most likely to be around.

Talking it out

“My sight were stolen from me,” Brightheart said quietly.

“I was stupid and cocky as an apprentice. We all were.

Bluestar wasn't herself, ThunderClan was breaking down, Firestar was doing his best to lead in her stead without the help, experience, or reliability of anyone else in the Clan…

it's a wonder we're still around to teach the next generation.

Longtail might tell you the same thing, though he was a bit older than me when he lost his sight.

We had to compensate for something we'd lost. You've been doing that your whole life, without ever needing to struggle for it.

Things like walking and not tripping or bumping into objects is hard, for me and Longtail both. I bet you use your whiskers to figure out what's in front of you. It took me quite a bit to learn to do that.

But what do you do when there's just open air? When a cat is moving too fast to sense? When the rocky ground cuts off too suddenly? Do you have answers for those yet?”

“No,” Jaypaw growled, hot with embarrassment.

“That's okay. Nobody’s perfect and whoever says they are is full of maggots.”

Jaypaw laughed despite himself.

“It's just something to work on when we train.”

[facetimebuddies]

OKAY whew boy. that episode was. not. as bad as i originally thought it would be.

TPTB certainly made a Big Choice to include a storyline about a man looking for his absentee wife’s replacement alongside a storyline about one of the main leads…… looking for his absentee dead wife’s replacement.

the abductor, going through so much grief, does something so horrific and vile he literally kidnaps a woman and her child in order to re-create the family he knows is completely lost to him.

I’M NOT SAYING GRIEF IS GONNA MAKE YOU GO AND KIDNAP A WHOLE ASS PERSON - this is not in any way shape or form okay but grief attacks us in ways we will never fully understand and at times we will never be prepared for. grief ruins lives and destroys any mental sanity we think we might have or be working towards. it’s always up to us to seek out mental help in order to avoid those pitfalls grief puts in our path. i’m just saying grief is rough, so very very rough and manifests itself in so many different ways.

eddie diaz never truly fully processed the grief he’s carrying around with him, grief at having left shannon, grief at ruining the one thing HE THINKS he had going for them, his marriage. he loved her. whether or not you think she was a shitty mother or wife HE LOVED HER DEEPLY this has been stated time and time again. he feels in his soul she was the one he was meant to be with and this all seems to be colored with some of kind of rose tint because she was not perfect nor was she perfect for him or even a perfect mother. but eddie himself doesn’t see that. he never has.

cue the grief he is so desperately clinging to. and then. suddenly right there before him is kim, the shannon look-alike who seems to be just like her in looks but nothing like her in spirit. and what does eddie do? he latches on and he thinks “yes, she’s come back. just when i needed her most (dealing with christopher getting older and needing him less - dealing with repressed catholic guilt - dealing with life / time continuing to move forward), she’s come back because she’s the only one who does.” he has a whole ass girlfriend he’s asked to move in with him, asked to move back out, asked to get to know fully in order to move forward with their relationship (LIKE A NORMAL HUMAN BEING WOULD) but nope. he regresses and sees shannon adjacent and thinks “fuck all that. i’m gonna get to know my dead ex wife’s lookalike instead.”

that is NOT normal behavior for someone who has processed grief or at the very least has been trying to process his grief.

ALL OF THAT just makes me so intrigued. i need to know where this is going and i am so so so so ready to find out.

[dammit-tazmuir]

Part of the thing is he WASN'T able to destroy the ships. He describes it as them slipping through his fingers, and "That'll teach me to hesitate." (Definitely the best takeaway there sir, no other lessons you should be learning or regrets you should have... 🙄)

As much as some part of him would like his followers to think of him that way, as far as he can and does reach, John isn't omnipotent. He resurrected our system, but it took time to get things up and running and become star-faring again. It took time to figure out the obelisk and stele system. It might have even taken time to create or modify the River to be what it is now, and likely took time to learn how to use it. (I say "it took time" like I'm not also over here screaming "time is Broken" but there's still a mostly semblance of it, ya know. And hell, it might have taken time to break it as much as it is during the events of the books.)

It does feel plausible that at least part of the reason he hasn't wiped out BoE yet is, or used to be, that by the time he found remnants of those who escaped with FTL tech, they'd spread out so far that he hoped to use some to lead him to the rest. Buuuut..... also, yeah, that still seems like something Augustine shouldn't be questioning. It's also possible that Augustine just doesn't get John as well as he thinks. He does tell Mercy earlier than this is, "as far as I can tell, purely symbolic retribution. John is never as sentimental as you think." Where we of course know that it's not purely symbolic at all. It's misdirected, but he very much is poisoning the universe to match his grief even now. But it's still curious.......

And now I'm wondering... What is "bewildering" about the cartography, specifically? That makes it sound like the patterns of John's exploration and expansion seem erratic or nonsensical to Augustine. Could it be that "the thing you've been looking for since the very beginning" ISN'T their descendants, nor even the feeling of satisfaction from making it feel like they've suffered Enough?

Could it be that there's something he can't do yet and is looking for a way to achieve, or like... Man I don't think it'd be something like the giant transmutation circle of FullMetal Alchemist but I wouldn't be surprised if it was adjacent. He can set theorems and forget about them, so could he be like, metaphorically weaving a net piece by piece or something? Or could he be... looking for a big enough power source for something, or ENOUGH power sources...

I occasionally remember that We Suffer said she can never recall a single instance of a Resurrection Beast attacking a planet like New Rho's and making it sound like RBs really are ONLY interested in necromancers, and how that conflicts with what John said about chomping down planets like a hot pie. It is possible that both things are true, and that it's less "they only attack necromancers" and more "they avoid attacking planets with flora/fauna/humans unless there are necromancers (those are their sister's babies!), but have no problem chomping down 'lifeless' smaller planets", and maybe the Lyctors just genuinely never noticed the distinction. But if that's not the case and I'm not misunderstanding We Suffer— especially if all planets regard each other with care the way Varun does Alecto, if it doesn't matter how far apart they were— then it begs the question of why he IS having the Lyctors kill planets. Is it only to make necromancy temporarily possible, or...

Hey, uh. Remember how John's eyes are explicitly described as "they looked like dead planets in the pitch of space, and the white ring was like dying"? Because I'm. Thinking about my theory about his eyes not being Alecto's (his gold came from her in the first place) but the result of MANY overlapping souls, the way Ianthe sometimes had tricolor eyes. And I've assumed in the past that was some of the ten billion— the ones he didn't feel deserved Resurrection— but now I'm like. Well. We know he did not eat the other dead planets in our system (right away?) because they've been hunting him all this time. But that description does say. dead planets plural. And that fully could just be foreshadowing / symbolic. But also what if he's been quietly swooping in and chomping down the lesser beasts the others kill. What if that's how his power has continued to grow rather than weaken. What if he's looking for enough to be ABLE to do a total reset again, if he was only able to do that the once and just wants people to think he could at any time, or what if he's trying to build up for Something Else. Maybe he's trying to "master time" like he says he ought to have and genuinely reset everything, or maybe it's something we can't even imagine yet.

I am fucking rambling and all over the place in this and I apologize but man. Many Thoughts. So many.

Today I witnessed some very interesting convo under this post and it reminded me of something. "There can be no such thing as forgiveness"... Tbh, John's understanding of forgiveness is very interesting to me. Especially this quote:

How do you want to know that? Own projecting? Your experiences? You never gave them the chance to do so! You never allowed them to forgive you...

Anyway, that leads me to another point... John one time says in regard to BoE that nothing would ever satisfy him. Nothing. I'll admit that I always read this quote as if he'd say he would want to kill his enemies:

But I recently re-read that ending scene before the murder of Jod and Augustine says the following thing:

Why is Augustine puzzling over it for five thousand years. It should be pretty simple, right? John does that invasion force to diminish Blood of Eden. But... is it? I think...

Hands down, John has god-like powers, he created a universe, and he was able to destroy ships with billionaires simply by reaching after them with his hand. I think it's hardly believable that he should be unable to diminish Blood of Eden in ten thousand years.

I personally think he's keeping "them" (as an organisation, not as people) alive so he can haunt them forever forever forever. (Nothing will ever satisfy him.) Forever or til he puts that "first-draft dream" of his to bed.

[trashywormeateroffics]

masterlist

hi!!! i love writing and marvel and being a fangirl. and my cats. and the sun. and flowers. anyways…. here’s my little fandom bubble. enjoy. 🎀🫶💗💘

series.

the right universe. (loki x female reader)

after y/n's life turns upside down, she's full of grief. somehow, one day, she manages to travel to the mcu, where she meets her favorite characters, including a certain god who seems willing to establish a friendship with her. suddenly she's enwrapped in this new world, where everything she loved in a screen is now reality. how will she react? will she be able to deal with the ghosts that haunt her? or will she let them consume her? will she be open to accept the love she is offered? read to find out!

one shots & drabbles.

marvel:

natasha romanoff:

i hate men

so… being hopelessly in love with your best friend and getting super drunk is not the best combination? who would’ve thought? (a bit of angst but mostly fluff and female reader)

bigger than the whole sky

inspired by the song “bigger than the whole sky” by taylor swift. you navigate the world after losing natasha on vormir. (angst, angst, angst, with a little bit of hopefulness cause i’m me and gender neutral reader)

hits different

in all the time you'd known natasha romanoff, there is one thing you knew for sure. there was no one like her. and if she were to leave, you'd never move on. a song fic. hits different by taylor swift. (angst and then fluff!!! and female reader)

loki:

who could ever compare to you?

you have a conversation with loki after he does some dumb things because of jealousy (a tiny bit of angst but mostly fluff and some little bit tiny bit of smut. perhaps smut adjacent. oh and loki x gender neutral reader)

bucky barnes:

ours

a comment makes bucky question your relationship and he begins avoiding you. tired of his behavior you confront him. (angst leading to fluff. female reader)

the great war

you get jealous and have a fight with bucky. inspired by the great war by taylor swift. (angsty with emotional fluff at the end. female reader)

i see the light

tony stark decides to throw a valentine’s day party, but the invitation comes with one rule: no date, no entry. when reader shows up to the party with no one by her side and tony doesn’t let her in, it’s up to bucky to find her and make everything better. (female reader friends to lovers yay)

steve rogers:

waited my whole life

no summary it’s just a little thing, fluffy and reader struggling to be open with their emotions yay:) (gender neutral reader)

[transpandaoctournament]

Transpanda OC Tournament Semi Finals

The rules of the tournament

Brief introduction to "Thank You For Existing"

CHARACTER BIOS BELOW DUE TO THIS BEING A TWO (or 4) AGAINST ONE POLL, MORE HAS BEEN WRITTEN ABOUT MAYA TO BALANCE

Pan Kokoro

“I’m Non-Canon and I’m proud!”

Kokoro is your typical filler character; Never appeared in a single chapter of her source, and only a single episode of the show adaptation. The problem therein lies that the peppy girl exists inside the main character’s mind, Pan Yu. Brought to the front just a couple of weeks before the series’s canonical ending, Yu’s wedding, Kokoro is determined to find the space where she fits in best! Can she assert her existence with so many people insisting she’s just a delusional Yu, including Yu’s fiance Bow Botella? Whatever the case is, she’s surprisingly comfortable in both forms she has. Pan Kokoro is the main character of TYFE part 4: Filler Turf.

Primary Inspiration: “The Girl” from the anime of Ranma ½

Plural or Plural Adjacent?: Plural

Art by @starredfishing, commission them!

Yuni Yoshinaga

“My name is Yuni Yoshinaga, and I don’t really exist.”

Born a timid, sweet, and quiet boy, Yuni was quickly mistreated for his rare heart-shaped pupils. To avoid abuse, he donned the personality mask of “The Demon Delinquent”. Years later, a major accident occurred. Yuni was medically mistaken for Mizuki Fujisaki, a well-liked girl with the same eye condition. Feeling finally free, Yuni dubbed “his” true self as “The Girly Force” to those aware while stepping into the role. Yet Yuni couldn’t shake off the “Demon Delinquent” personality mask. Why? He doesn’t actually exist…right? Yuni is the main character of TYFE.

Primary Inspiration: Masashi Rando from Pretty Face (And Chihiro Fujisaki from DR)

Plural or Plural Adjacent?: Plural

Art of Yuni Yoshinaga by: Sunnyside_Cakes

Maya St. Fleur

“I’m Maya St. Fleur, and I’m gonna blow your mind!”

An ex-demolition woman turned psychic therapist (and a zombie descendant), Maya is employed by a recap therapy organization. Despite this, she’s actually never faced her past grief of losing several close people, choosing to forget instead. Trouble strikes when she needs to attend her own recap therapy, due to an actual total memory loss accident caused by Yuni. With slightly different circumstances, will Maya finally build on her past events? Or simply continue to demolish what shaped her...? Maya is the main character of TYFE Part 1: That’s Life.

Primary Inspiration: Razputin Aquato from Psychonauts.

Plural or Plural Adjacent?: Adjacent

Art of Maya St. Fleur by: Sunnyside_Cakes

MAYA (Part 2)

"Yuni, is this just what you deal with from the day to day?"

Something... wasn't right. Maya had only gone to recap therapy cause her memories accidentally go plucked out. She got them back, she was herself, everything should be fine. But the... "she" she was during that recap keeps popping up when the others go through their own recap stories. Does changing a few things in this, really only simulation of the past, start following it's on continuity? This "continuity error" Maya seems so much more chipper and adventurous than present her. ...And what happens when the recap catches up to the present? What's gonna happen to them her?

Primary Inspiration: Razputin Aquato from Psychonauts.

Plural or Plural Adjacent?: Adjacent

Art of Maya St. Fleur design by: ragingwoodcock

[anarmorofwords]

covered in you (5 times Eugenia watched Kamala dance, and one time she couldn’t bear it)

playlist (based on fic and vice versa, tho sometimes loosely/only some parts of lyrics apply)

it's a songfic of a kind? lyrics are from "ivy" by taylor swift

read on ao3

warnings: angst, mentions of homophobia, racism, grief

circa 13k, rating: mature (nothing explicit, but I just feel safer about this rating, read at your own risk kiddos)

notes: i will not be taking any questions at this time.

I.

I'd meet you where the spirit meets the bones  

In a faith forgotten land

Sometimes heartbreak enters your life disguised as happiness. Genie knows that, knows all too well how easily what once brought light into your world can shatter like glass. She’s still nursing the wounds from the shards, unable to forget them even for a moment, not with the reminders always present around her.  

Particularly obvious now, as she enters the sparkling tearoom, feeling more than noticing the curious glances that follow her. At least they don’t stare right away, she thinks, moving through the crowd with her head held high. There’s been enough cowering already, hiding and avoiding people’s eyes.  

You’re not the one who should be ashamed, her mother repeated over and over, and deep down, some wild part of her believes that. A part that knows nothing of propriety and behaviour, that shows teeth not to smile but to bite. The question remains, whether that part can ever come to the surface, or will it just stay dormant, tampered by the rules around her.

At the corner of the room, a group of ladies around her age converse over their tea, and she can see them leaning towards each other as soon as they spot her. Like vultures eyeing their prey. It makes her heartbeat quicken, thoughts racing to asset her appearance.  

The pale blue dress she’s wearing is new, but not too extravagant, in the closest shade to white she could find. A compromise necessary to avoid drawing even more attention. No one needs to know that the pearls in her hair belonged to Barbara, other than her mother, who’s glassy eyes followed her movements as she tucked them into place.

She’s just starting to feel self-conscious in her solitary position amongst the guests when a voice sounds to her right.  

“I’m not the wisest choice if you’re aiming to climb the Enclave ranks, but shall you not mind the libertine’s company, I will happily extend a dance invitation.”

Eugenia turns quickly, smiling before she fully realizes it, taking in a well-known young man in a glittered plum vest and frivolous coat.

“Asking your friend’s sister to dance seems hardly a libertine behaviour, Matthew. Beware, or people might think you’ve matured and abandoned your scandalous ways”  

She lets her playful tone match his, and he chuckles, extends a hand and leads her to the adjacent room. The younger Fairchild might have a bad reputation, but so does she, and he’s a family friend - the relief at seeing a familiar face washes out any qualms she might have had about the offer.  

They enter the ballroom, and she surveys the guests, made bolder by the presence at her arm - Matthew smiles easily, charming as always, and despite the heavy scent of alcohol that accompanies him, it brings her comfort. She part wishes this could be something else – a hopeful girl and a sweet, awed boy, hand for the taking held by one ready to offer.

Except, for all his attempts at being helpful and attentive, Matthew looks right past her, the golden armour of his smile reflecting all the light in the room so no one can see past it. He’s familiar, and yet so distant, which is probably unsurprising – she would barely recognize the girl’s she used to be a few months prior, and she hasn’t talked to him in far longer. As he falls into place, he seems like a mere reflection of the boy she knew, seen in a distorting mirror.

Sometimes still, the past flashes behind her eyes when she sees her brother’s friends – it's easy to recall a time when they were just annoying children in the crowd, not yet taller than her, with lopsided smiles and unruly hair. A time that feels like a part of a different life, covered with a gleaming veil of sentimentality. Though, out of them all, Matthew had always been the one that seemed to belong there the least, gaze always too sharp and serious, even in his mocking façade.  

She supposes they both changed, sees the familiarly dimmed glow of his eyes, whatever real feelings hiding behind it comfortably tucked away, not belonging among a dance set.

It’s a quadrille, and soon her eyes drift to the other girl in their set, brown skinned and gorgeous, clad in a subtly embroidered lilac dress. She’s dancing with Thoby Dawndale, so Eugenia doubts she is as delighted as she appears, but the warmth of her smile seems unmistakeable, and irresistible, and she can see how poor Toby cannot tear his eyes away from it. The girl is either actually smitten with that josser, or a fantastic actress. Either way, Eugenia’s intrigued.  

First notes of the dance snap her out of her thoughts, and she falls into it, the familiar movements, the joy of being part of the music, in a small way. Some girls in the other sets cast her jealous glances – she knows what Matthew is to them, a forbidden fruit that they’re forced to be frightened of, but nevertheless long for.  

Yet her eyes keep wandering to the girl next to her, something about her gentle smile and the surrounding air of elegance helping Eugenia feel at ease. She’s always taken pride in her dancing skills, but this girl seems like she could be a match for her, and the prospect is weirdly exciting.  

Perhaps they could become acquainted.  

It’s been so long since something as simple as a thought of having a friend brought her joy - she’s leaning into the feeling like a flower to the sun.

“What is it that interests you so much about the Inquisitor’s daughter?” Matthew’s whisper startles her a little, and she almost stumbles in the process; she’s too surprised to feel embarrassed about him catching her staring.  

Her kind eyes. The way she seems to be one with the music, and watching her feels like admiring a painting in a gallery.

“That’s the Inquisitor’s daughter?” She asks instead, bowing her head a little to make sure the words don’t reach the girl in question. It’s not exactly that she’s surprised, but it’s something to say that dodges his question. Because, frankly, she doesn’t have an answer for that.  

She’s heard about Ariadne Bridgestock before, another girl who fell ill to the same sickness that took Barbara. She’s also heard about her hospitality to Grace Blackthorn after Tatiana Blackthorn’s arrest, but never paid it much attention – still, she has a vague memory of the girl being mentioned as a placeholder of virtue, kindness and good social standing. Suddenly she’s not sure about approaching her, not sure whether someone like that would want to be seen as much as talking to her.  

But then again, she’s helped Grace, and she’s got a smile that feels too genuine for the Enclave, and way too kind to join in on the vicious gossiping.

“I didn’t know who she was. I was just admiring the dress.” They both know it’s a lie, but Matthew only raises an eyebrow, and continues, unbothered. Despite the investment in the conversation, he executes every step of the dance with an effortless grace.

“From the few times we met during her engagement to Charles, she seemed rather sweet. Bright, too, more than her own father - or my brother – gave her credit for. Though apparently not enough to avoid agreeing to marry the latter.”

He adds the last part quietly, almost in a murmur, but she still gives him a stern look in response. He’s joking, of course he is, but he will never understand being in a similar position, and Eugenia knows better than to judge an unmarried girl for her choices, whatever those might be.  

When the dance ends, Matthew takes her arm and leads her past the row of chairs by the wall to the room with refreshments, and a wave of excitement goes through her when she sees Ariadne heading that way, too.  

“Matthew, I trust I can count on you to introduce me to Ariadne? Without bringing up the unfortunate case of her failed engagement in the process?”

“Give me some credit, dear Genie. I’m afraid her father doesn’t like me much - by association, although I cannot ascertain whether it’s my association with a bohemian lifestyle or my mother that irks him more. But since I do not see the man in question around...” - there’s a spark of mischief in his eye, and it’s genuine for a change, reminiscent of the one she can recall from childhood. “- I’d wager it can be arranged.”

Upon entering the room, Matthew fetches her ice and offers to hold the cup, like a proper gentleman – she would comment on that if she wasn’t so preoccupied with searching the crowd for a sign of Ariadne. It might be silly, but she’s a little desperate, clinging to the hope that her intuition is right - this time.  

She almost chokes on her drink when she catches a glance of pale silk at the corner of her vision, and then Ariadne is standing next to Matthew, politely exchanging pleasantries. All of her seems to sparkle in the candlelight, from the delicate dress to the thick black curls and soulful eyes. Round and so dark, looking at them for more than a moment feels like falling. Weirdly, there’s nothing frightening in the feeling.  

Just as she’s about to subtly kick Matthew, to make sure he remembers what the goal here is, he gives Ariadne his brightest smile and turns his head back to Genie, saying, in a dramatic voice:

“I don’t believe you ladies have been introduced before. Allow me, then. Miss Bridgestock, this is Eugenia Lightwood, my dear friend’s sister.” Younger one, Eugenia almost adds, but then she stops herself. People don’t need the differentiator anymore.

“Genie, meet Ariadne Bridgestock, the daughter of our beloved Inquisitor.”

Ariadne’s eyes glimmer at Matthew’s theatrics, almost as if mocking her father doesn’t bother her at all. Which seems to clash with the image of polite obedience that everyone paints her as, but it leaves Eugenia all the more curious.  

They exchange courtesies, and then Matthew’s gently disengaging himself from her arm and bowing in an almost caricatural manner, before slipping out of the room, and she’s suddenly facing Ariadne on her own.  

Very well.  

She can do this.

There’s something a little hesitant about Ariadne’s gaze, but also curious, and for a moment Eugenia fears she’ll want to ask questions.  

Instead, she smiles.

“You’re Thomas’s sister, then?”

“Indeed. Do you happen to know my brother?”

“I suppose owing someone your life could be seen as some degree of acquaintance, yes.”

Oh, of course. Thomas helped with the antidote, and Ariadne was amongst the people it saved. She pushes away the thought of those who didn’t last long enough, of her sister, and smiles at Ariadne.

“For once my little brother is known for something other than his group of raggers.”

Ariadne scoffs softly at that.  

“Oh, I’ve heard of them, too. Your brother however... Well, he paints a rather striking picture, what with that posture of his – I can assure you that’s what he’s mostly known for, amongst the young ladies I usually have the chance to spend time with.”

“That’s fair, I suppose. But I must ask you not to ever swoon over my brother in my presence. It makes me feel rather ill.”

Ariadne laughs at that, the sound bright, falling around Eugenia like a soft spring rain. The tension in her arms melts away a little.

“Trust me, I do not intend to swoon over your brother. Or any other gentleman – I find it frightful enough that my mother forces their existence into every conversation.” She frowns then, slightly. “As if it isn’t possible to engage oneself in a far spirited conversation without ever mentioning the opposite sex.”

Eugenia feels herself smiling at the steady fire that accompanies those words. There’s a prickling need under her skin to keep it burning, to get a closer look at the flames, no matter how dangerous it might be. She’s always been the most reckless one in her family.  

So, she cocks her head to the side, and asks, with an indulgent smile:

“Such as?”

Ariadne’s startled for a second, but she quickly regains her bearings.

“How much do you know about ancient myths?”  

“Not nearly as much as there is it know, I imagine.”

It’s a good answer, if she’s going by the elated expression on Ariadne’s face - she gestures for Eugenia to accompany her to the sofa, and they sink into an easy conversation amongst soft cushions.

It doesn't take long for Ariadne's passion to come to the surface, the last shreds of careful politeness evaporating as the evening progresses. She stops once, eyes widening suddenly, to suggest she's boring Eugenia to death - it couldn't possibly be farther from truth, which Eugenia hurries to assure her of.

Still, Ariadne resumes her story slowly, a blush blooming on her cheeks.

It all seems suspiciously nice. Too nice, if she's being honest, and despite dreading it, Eugenia eventually finds herself asking the one question that's clouding her current joy.

“Won’t your parents be upset with you for associating with a person of my standing?”

Ariadne tenses a little, and for a moment Eugenia sees it all slip, Ariadne’s gentle voice drifting away from her at the reminder of their harsh reality. But then Ariadne smiles again, only the smallest bit of uncertainty visible in her eyes.

“I take care not to upset them often, so they’ll be more understanding when I do. Or rather – I save risking their anger for special occasions.”

“And what would those be? Entertaining those shunned by the society to prove the goodness of your heart?"

Ariadne scoffs then, and leans closer, her eyes intent and lit up by mischief Eugenia’s never seen there before.  

It suits her.

“Why of course it’s to bribe wonderful company into spending time with me.”

Wonderful isn’t exactly a word Eugenia has heard in association with herself, lately, and it confuses her immensely. For a second, she looks for sign of mockery in Ariadne’s voice, and when she finds none, she answers, letting a vulnerable note slip into the words.

“I fear you’re alone in such assessment of my character, then, but I cannot say I mind.”

Maybe it’s that sentence itself, or her suddenly small voice, but Ariadne pauses at that, and touches her shoulder briefly, with a concerned look.

“I cannot change the way they think, but it is wrong, and so damaging. One could expect people to revaluate some things, when their calling is a fight against blood-thirsty creatures that has them risking their lives on a regular basis. Does it matter so much what one does above that - and with whom - when we’re all protecting the world from a plague of evil?”

Eugenia opens her mouth to say something, but the words ring too true, and it stuns her a little. From this perspective, she finds it all even more maddening, more pointless. Noting her silence, Ariadne continues, softer now.

“We pride ourselves on being so ahead of mundanes, and yet still succumb to their most pointless rules.” A hint of resigned bitterness echoes in her words, and Eugenia wants to reassure her somehow, despite how futile of a notion that is.

“It has only got worse lately, it seems.” She says instead. “I once overheard my aunt Tessa say she’s worried about the low demon activity causing Shadowhunters to lower their guard, and I’m afraid she was correct.”  

They both sigh at that, and for a moment Genie fears the solemn mood managed to kill the conversation.

“Overheard, huh?” Ariadne asks suddenly, her head tilted a little. There’s that spark from before in her eyes, and it sends a shiver of excitement down Eugenia’s spine.

“Oh yes. I suppose I am ill-behaved, after all. Just not the way I’m condemned for.”

“I’d gladly witness more of that.”

“As soon as I have the chance-”

“Well.” Ariadne starts, voice lower now, thick like caramel. “We do have an otherwise terribly dull supper ahead of us.”

And it’s right there, that fire, making her brown eyes even more hypnotising, and it dawns on Eugenia that Ariadne is nothing like what people see her as, so easily fooled by her charming smile. She knows how to play this game, how to disguise her claws from view while the audience is there, only to use them to her own desires. It’s exhilarating, and Eugenia wants more of it.

II.  

oh, I can't  

stop you putting roots in my dreamland (…)

my house of stone, your ivy grows  

and now I'm covered  

in you, in you  

The invitation isn’t exactly a surprise, but it still makes her heart skip a bit when she takes in the elegant cursive. It’s the first time she sees it, but somehow, she knows it’s Ariadne’s handwriting, the careful strokes of letters feeling oddly familiar.  

She’s asked to a tea party at the Inquisitor’s house, and for once in a while, a social event isn’t making her anxious. Usually, the mere concept would terrify her, but with Ariadne there, she can’t quite bring herself to care. Besides, it’ll be way more difficult to gossip about her in a small group, so the other girls will probably have to sit there, smiling forcefully, severely uncomfortable.  

That is, for a change, a nice picture.

Her mother must notice the excitement, when she helps her pin her hair – but she refrains from addressing it. They both realize how fragile this is, perhaps able to collapse under the weight of words alone.  

And, well, there’s been enough collapses in their life, lately.  

****************

“Eugenia!” Ariadne’s hurrying to greet her before she’s fully entered the room, subtly pointing to the young ladies already gathered in the room with a sorrowful face. Eugenia tries to fight back a smile, but as soon as she sees it mirrored on Ariadne’s face, she knows it’s in vain. She takes in the room, all beige wallpapers and sofas from what she can only guess is the most expensive fabric available in England. Ariadne’s yellow tea dress seems to be tinting the room a warmer shade - a little sun illuminating flowers on the walls.

“That dress really brings out your eyes.”  

She finds herself saying, because it does, and that feels worth acknowledging.

“What a coincidence, I was just about to say the same thing to you.”

“Well, I beat you to it. You’ll find I quite like winning.”

“Of course, you do.” Ariadne mutters, and then they’re seating down, Eugenia politely greeting the other four girls already waiting at the table.  

The conversation is quickly resumed, which she soon finds to be a regrettable development, as it turns out to be about Grace Blackthorn. Wicked, dangerous, vain – many words fall from the lips of the gathered girls, and all make Eugenia’s insides twist. Some are said with a conviction that frightens her a little, some flatly, like a well-worn pair of shoes that simply serves a purpose.

Still - she’s glad the conversation isn’t about her, for once, but it doesn’t seem fair, or just, for Rosalind Wentworth to be preaching her opinions on the lack of fighting skills of a girl who’s just broken free from the grasp of literal demons. Just as she’s about to comment on that – her already fragile position be damned - Ariadne chimes in.

“We really ought to consider what Tatiana did to her, though. Training or not, the mere fact that she endured living with a woman cooperating with demons makes her just as much a warrior as the rest of us.”

Eugenia smiles a little into her cup, but Rosalind seems unconvinced.

“But aren’t you afraid? She might yet turn out to be Tatiana’s protegee – it would serve us right to jail her, as a means of minimising the risks.”

“My father and the Consul didn’t deem any further precautions necessary – would you like to take your complaint up with them, Rosalind?”

That finally does it.  Rosalind leans back in her chair, cheeks flushed. Eugenia distantly thinks Ariadne would make a splendid politician, had that been an option.  

At least one of the other girls at the table – her name’s almost certainly Dorothy – looks relieved at the turn the conversation takes, and Eugenia remembers not all of them truly believe what they say, though it does little to comfort her. Intention changes nothing about the effect of their words. She would know.

Someone, thankfully, suggests they discuss end of year preparations at their households, and soon the room’s filled with merry laughter and spirited exchange of stories. At first, Eugenia’s hesitant about mentioning her mother baking with them – and judging by the look on Rosalind’s face, rightfully so – but Ariadne listens to her with fondness and interest that overshadow the fear.  

After what feels like forever, and is simultaneously way too soon, it’s time to head out, but she lingers while Ariadne bids her guests farewell, not yet wanting to exit the warm pull of the other girl.  

It’s a fantastic decision, as it turns out, because the moment the last girl steps out of the house, Ariadne turns to her with a wide, slightly crooked grin – unlike any she’s usually showing in public – and then takes her by her hand and leads her out of the room.

“I do hope you can afford to stay a little longer.” Is all she offers as means of explanation, and her determined step all but rejects the possibility of a negative response.  

Eugenia feels the warmth of their joined hands travel through her body – perhaps it’s her memory failing her, but no friend had ever managed to awake similarly intense fondness in her. It’s a little overwhelming.

The huge ballroom they enter soon is fashionably furnished; huge windows bracketed by maroon curtains letting in the distant glow of streetlamps. Ariadne quickly lights a few candlesticks, and their light reveals the colour of the walls to be light pink – most of all though, it falls on a pianoforte that Ariadne promptly seats at. She smiles and cocks her head.

“Any requests, my lady?”

Eugenia feels herself draw a quick breath, the words doing something suspicious to her stomach. After Augustus, they should sound like mocking, but weirdly, the feeling doesn’t seem negative. New, perhaps, and slightly puzzling, but not bad.

“Whatever you feel like playing.” She manages, and then the music fills the room, washing her confusion away. Ariadne plays a ballad, something with "stars" in the title, and she’s doing so flawlessly. The music carries around the room so smoothly it feels like a part of it.

It’s entrancing, beautiful, and Eugenia is so invested she barely realizes when the song ends. But as soon as she does, she’s stepping closer, not hiding the awe from her voice as she exclaims warranted praise.

"That was so beautiful. You’re brilliant, Ari!”

It’s a bit of a gamble, to use that nickname unprompted, but Eugenia’s never been one to shy away from risks, and it feels right to address Ariadne in a way that’s as unique and informal as possible.

Except Ariadne pauses before facing her again. The flickering light of the candles makes it difficult to read her expression, but if nothing else, it’s... uncertain.

“I like that nickname.” She starts carefully. “But... would you care to hear what my birth name is?”

Birth name. Of course. She doesn’t know exactly how old Ariadne was when Bridgestocks adopted her, but she surely wasn’t an infant. It never occurred to her that they changed her name. It should have.

“As long as you want me to know it.”

“I wouldn’t offer otherwise, would I?” A small attempt at nonchalance, and then a deep breath. “It’s Kamala. That’s the name I was given by my parents.”

Eugenia cocks her head to the side, and repeats it, letting the sound roll off her tongue easily.

“Kamala.”

“Could you please call me that? At least in private? There aren’t many people I can share this with. Ari is a nickname everyone can know – and I want this one to be just for you.”

Oh.

“Of course. And thank you - for trusting me with that.”

The words seem to wash away any lingering doubts on Kamala’s face, and she smiles easily in response. It’s that smile that draws the next words from her mouth, before she fully decides on speaking them.

“In this case, might I ask you to call me Genie? I think Eugenia is far too serious a name.”

“You do not wish to be seen as serious?”

“Whenever I can avoid it.” She says with a wink, and feels that wild thing inside her roar in delight, a step closer to taking control. Kamala eyes her curiously.

“In that case... What do you say I play for you, and you can dance? It’d paint a lovely picture, if the last ball is anything to go by.”

She clears her throat then, eyes fixed on the keys. “Besides, I’m sure a lady floating alone around an empty ballroom cannot be taken seriously.”

It’s true. And it sounds delightful, if a little silly, but-

“I have an even better idea. What about two ladies dancing in an otherwise empty ballroom...” Eugenia pauses dramatically. “...with no music?”

When Kamala doesn’t respond, Eugenia steps closer, pulling her from the seat and clutching her hands tightly.

“I can be your partner. I can, uhm, dance the male parts. It is a remnant of the time I attempted to teach Thomas - the poor boy has all the grace of a log."  

Eugenia says with a smile, and she’s grabbing at Kamala’s hand and positioning them properly. Kamala tenses when her hands land on her waist.

“Kamala, dear, please say yes.”

“I... shouldn’t.”  

Eugenia scoffs.  

“I hardly think anyone will see, and worst of all, they might find it silly – but a dance practice couldn’t possibly hurt.”

Kamala looks ready to protest further, biting down her lip, but then she takes a deep breath and draws closer - the sudden movement pushes the air out of Eugenia’s lungs.  

She needs to catch up on her training.

Kamala really is as good as her, and Eugenia finds herself giddy at the way they move smoothly through the dancefloor, somehow finding rhythm despite the lack of music. There’s something hypnotic about it, the way dresses tangle together amongst graceful motions, their shadows flickering on the walls. It’s a testament of her innate skills and years of practice that she manages to follow the steps despite completely losing herself in the gossamer pattern of candlelight on Kamala’s face.

Eugenia distantly wishes her hands were free so she could brush away the tiny strands of hair that fall into her eyes.

Silence is only disturbed by the gentle click of their heels, but it’s almost like an actual ball - and all the better for the lack of prying eyes around. The relief must be reflected on her face, because Kamala smiles softly at her, but there’s a hint of something else there, hesitant, or fearful even. As if she is scared to bring it up, knowing it’s a topic Eugenia loathes.

And it’s a lovely sentiment, truly, but it’s also frustrating – she wishes Kamala felt comfortable with her, fully at ease. Without much thought, she spins her, nearly sending them both to the ground, and is rewarded with a surprised laughter.

Which quickly pushes her to laugh, too, and before she knows it, they’re both dissolving into a mess of chuckles and smiles. There’s something inexplicably satisfying about the glimmer of joyful tears in Kamala’s eyes, turned to crystals by the candlelight. Making Kamala laugh feels like something that could become a hobby, and for once it’s the kind she could gladly spend hours practicing.

It’s a strange thought – Eugenia quickly shakes it out of her head, and gives Kamala another smile, forcing herself to ignore the heavy mood of dusk cloaked in silence.

“I told you it would be fun! I learnt some of these steps with Anna – my cousin. She dances with women frequently. You must have seen, she’s quite difficult to miss.”

Frantic rambling is her strong forte, and seems like a good way of brightening up the mood - and Anna is a topic as good as any.

Or maybe she isn’t, because Ariadne tenses and averts her gaze.  

“I do know how effervescent Anna is. In fact...” Suddenly pulling away, Kamala fumbles with the rim of her sleeve.  

“Genie, I-. I feel like perhaps I ought not to tell you this, but I trust you can keep it to yourself, and, well, Anna’s lifestyle is hardly a secret-”

“You want to tell me something about Anna? My cousin Anna? What does-” Eugenia stops then, feeling her eyes widen.  

Oh.

“By the Angel. So that’s why you- Charles- I mean- Oh dear, Matthew would be so surprised-” Kamala stills then, withdrawing even further, and Eugenia realizes her mistake immediately.  

“Oh, no, please, do not worry! That isn’t what I- I mean, I would never tell him. I won’t tell a soul, you can be sure of that. It’s simply – he couldn’t understand your engagement to Charles, and I knew there was more to the story. Now it all makes sense.”

Kamala is still eyeing her somewhat cautiously, and then finally asks, because for some reason it’s not obvious for her.

“Are you alright with that?”

Eugenia scoffs before she can stop herself, and then lets her hands fall on Kamala’s shoulders, forcing her to meet her eyes.

“Of course I am. I do not understand, in fact, why people would be against it, although I realize that’s very much a common occurrence.”  

Kamala stares at the floor. Her voice is bitter when she speaks again, and quiet, resigned to a degree Eugenia never heard from her before.

“You’re ruined for falling for a man, and I would be for being with a woman. It is a game you cannot win; no matter what you do.”

She’s right, Eugenia knows she is. No matter how badly her instincts itch to offer some comfort, she cannot bring herself to lie.

Kamala clears her throat then, and straightens up, the armour of a regal posture back in place.

“I didn’t intend to put you in a sour mood. I simply... needed to be honest with you.”

There’s something about her tone now, the intentional way she speaks those words, that confuses Eugenia, but it’s far too elusive to grasp. So she takes Kamala by the arm and leads them back to the tea room. Maybe it’s a shock of that revelation, but her heart beats rather frantically in her chest as they walk in silence. Despite trying, questions arise in her throat, and finally, she breaks the silence.

“Well then. You and Anna?”

“That’s a thing of the past, I promise. It... It wasn’t pretty, the way it ended. Anna probably never mentions it.”  

Eugenia frowns.

“You do not have to explain yourself. It wouldn’t bother me if you were somehow still engaged with my cousin.”

Except, when she thinks about it, it does. Bother her. A little. It is an unwelcome thought, one she plans on facing later on, because she does not have a problem with Kamala loving women like that, and she’ll be damned if she hurts her by accidently suggesting that she does.  

Later, though. There are more pressing matters at hand now. It wasn’t pretty. There’s something about the way Kamala winces when she says that that has her wanting to sit her in a chair by a fire and prepare a warm beverage - her mother says tea is good for a broken heart.

“I can’t help but wonder, I suppose. Did your parents- Do they-?”

“They don’t know, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m a Desi girl in London raised by British parents - that’s enough of an anomaly."

"Oh. I thought Shadowhunters didn’t pay much attention to skin colour?”

Kamala sighs, like she’s tired jut by the prospect of the answer. “Not as much as mundanes, sure. But they do care, Genie. They might respect other Shadowhunters – especially from Asia - but they’re seen as Others. Different. Fine to visit and be visited by, but temporarily and on neutral ground. Fine as a part of another, faraway world, or as long as they can blend in with this one. Other than that... I’m a crack in their world as it is, Genie. They can still squint and pretend not to notice. But living like Anna does... That would fracture it irreperably.”

It feels so wrong, it inspires in Eugenia a sudden urge to protest, as if denying it would somehow help. My family would never. Mother always said- But it’s not about her family, is it? And it’s not like they aren’t part of the Enclave either, depsite everything.

“That is.... terrrible." She’s a little at loss for words here – none can make any of this better. “I am so sorry. I assume, if they didn’t know- Who- I mean, was there anyone you could talk to? You must have had quite the blue devils, afterwards.“

“Oh.”

Kamala blinks. “Yes, I- It- It was difficult, but I learnt to manage on my own. It’s inevitable when you live with secrets like this – hiding becomes your second skin.”

III.

your touch brought forth an incandescent glow

tarnished but so grand

She reassesses her reflection again, white lace and beads lining the cleavage of a pretty peach dress gifted by aunt Tessa upon her return to London. Normally, it would feel like charity, but this is different. It’s family, not any less so for the lack of blood bonds between them. And judging by the fond look on her mother’s face when she first saw it, it is just as much a heart-warming gesture towards Eugenia, as it is a testimony of years long friendship between the two of them. It’s almost as if the fabric itself was laced with love - it will undoubtedly bring much needed comfort during the night’s party.

Or rather, “an event filled with so much artificial behaviour we could well be meeting at a theatre”, as Kamala put it in her last letter. Sure enough, despite the widespread joy at defeating Belial, political tensions are higher than ever, and Kamala is very much aware half of her father’s guests that night will be there only to maintain appearances. While they both understand it’s warranted, it won’t make for a pleasant environment.  

The topic made its way into most of their recent letters – which there are plenty of, since they have started a regular correspondence that has Eugenia racing barefoot down the stairs first thing in the morning, her mother noting her lack of proper attire with a fond shake of her head. There is no use denying how much the letters excite her.

Still, it doesn’t even come close to the joy she felt at the prospect of seeing Kamala in person – between her parents’ busy schedule and Eugenia spending some overdue time with her brother, they haven’t had many occasions for that lately, and whenever those happened, something felt a little off between them. Eugenia would worry, if those moments weren’t soon followed by correspondence, as fond as ever, filling her heart with overwhelming joy.  

So she tells herself she is just imagining things. Maybe she grew so fearful of tragedies she is seeing their signs everywhere, without a reason.

***************

The man she’s dancing with is being obnoxiously touchy, the girls in the corner most decisively talking about them - and her eyes automatically drift to Kamala. As usual, she's like a lighthouse amongst the waves of hostile whispers and not at all subtle stares.  

Also, the most beautiful girl in the room. Not that there’s anything surprising about it, really, but it still tends to catch Eugenia off guard. The pink gown Kamala is wearing is heavily embroidered with flowers, both at the bodice and the bottom of the skirt, and as she swirls through the ballroom, Eugenia is almost sure she notices pearls sewn into the pattern. Matching pearls rest between her collarbones, a contrast to her deep brown skin – skin that's always soft and warm to the touch.  

Yet it all fades to nothing once she catches Eugenia’s eyes and smiles at her. For a moment, it’s almost paralysing, and then a familiar spark of excitement fills her. It’s always there when she thinks of Kamala, but right now, with the memories of the last time they danced in this ballroom springing into her mind, the feeling’s so intense, it borders on... nervousness.

Which makes no sense, because Kamala has become her safe heaven, the one person she feels most at ease with. She reaches for the memories to feel that comfort again, but it’s not quite what she finds there.  

They are instead laced with an unfamiliar desire to repeat that day, a vivid memory of Kamala’s playful eyes, their dancing silhouettes almost merging together on the wall, the soft touch of hands. She feels her cheeks flush when she realizes which parts of that evening she particularly misses, but before she can fully comprehend her own thoughts, the dance ends, and a voice startles her out them.

“Would you like some fizz?”

It’s Kamala. She’s standing next to her, two glasses in hands, a searching look on her face. Eugenia almost winces under this scrutiny, afraid it’ll reveal the cause of mysterious sensation currently plaguing her sooner than she herself can decipher it.

A frantic shake of her head seems to be enough to make Kamala abandon the sparkling drinks and draw even closer, hooking an arm around her elbow.

She shivers slightly, even though, despite the late winter, the room is well heated.

“Walk with me.”

Kamala’s voice is almost a whisper in her ears, dulled by the sound of her quickened heartbeat. She’s tugging her gently towards somewhere. Somewhere, hopefully, with less people, and less noise, where breathing comes easier.

The ballroom is a blur on the way outside, and only when panelled walls are replaced with the greenery of the winter garden, the world around Eugenia seems to come back into focus. Kamala releases her hold on Eugenia’s arm in favour of softly putting her hands on the sides of her head. The stars peeking behind the plants around them make her look almost ethereal, which is. By the Angel. Not. Helping.  

“Breathe. In and out. What’s wrong?”

It’s a good question, and Eugenia wishes she could have a good answer for it. Or, if she’s being honest, any answer. The deep breaths are barely helping, so she glances at her feet, struggling through her panic to compose an answer.

“I-… I think I might be, uhm.”

Like you, though not quite. Desperate to dance with you more often. Longing to touch you the way people accuse me of being touched by Augustus. Falling in love with you.

None of these responses make it out of her lips. What does is a confused whine, a pathetic attempt at expressing thoughts bubbling inside her mind. Because she’s never felt this way before, and if it all means what her overwhelmed brain tries to tell her it does, she’s scared. Maybe that’s why these thoughts have been kept at bay until know.

But, she realizes, they’re not new. Through wild late-night thoughts scribbled inside letters, knowing smiles across ballrooms, and lingering hugs that occupied her thoughts long after they ended, it’s all coming together. Looking back, that suspicion now ringing in her heartbeat has been there for a long time, forced under the surface of conscious thought by fear and fear alone. And here, under a shadow of a linden tree just outside a ballroom, the fear’s finally out in the open. She refuses to let it beat her - them – she has an inkling of a suspicion that all this refers to a plural, that it always had.

As in response, Kamala takes a step closer, the fabrics of their dresses rustling against each other. Her hand circles Eugenia's waist, and her whole body seems to be burning from the touch - she realizes the shivers earlier had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with Kamala's intent gaze on her. Her brain supplies a vague memory of that first day, thinking of the fire inside Kamala, that she only got a glimpse at and yet was mesmerized by from the start. She's only know realizing just how close she longed to get to it.

“Genie.”

She can feel the shift between them, a buzzing feeling sparking to life in her at the sound of Kamala’s voice, her tone – once she’s never heard before, low and desperate.

It’s that pleading note that has her lifting her eyes, meeting the dark gaze she knows so well. There’s something new there, though, something both firm and delicate, that draws her in, and she leans even closer, her hand coming up to Kamala’s face.  

Before she knows it, her lips are parting under the soft touch of Kamala’s, and they’re kissing, slow and a little awkward at first. It takes her a moment to find the rhythm and angle that’s comfortable, and she draws closer yet in the process, losing herself in Kamala’s embrace until their bodies are pressed so tightly together, she feels as if they were sharing a heartbeat.  

Her hands are moving now, cradling Kamala’s cheek and neck, slipping into her hair, messing up the careful updo with delirious satisfaction. The kiss is still gentle, but more rushed, like they’re both desperate for more.

Just as she thinks that, the sensation is gone, and she chases Kamala’s touch when it vanishes from her lips.

“Wait.”  

Kamala is panting, and Eugenia reluctantly opens her eyes, letting the outside world back in. The sounds of the party cut through her mind alongside it, a reminder of exactly where they are, and why this is an absolutely terrible idea. Still, she doesn’t take her hands away from Kamala, just moves them to her neck instead, one thumb resting against her collarbone. She’s quite pleased that Kamala’s hands have also stayed on her waist, relaxing just enough to put a little space between them.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do this.” Kamala murmurs with a soft smile.

“In fairness, I have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do this, so I suppose I couldn’t be expected to so much as guess your thoughts. I am not exactly capable of thinking clearly in your presence.”

It’s a ridiculous statement, and she’s rambling, but Kamala only laughs at that, which in turn means Eugenia cannot quite stop her own lips from curving into a smile. It seems she’s not entirely in control of her own faculties - the way Kamala’s eyes shine in the moonlight causes her heart to skip a bit and her mind to feel both too loud and blissfully blank.  

Kamala rests her forehead against Eugenia with a contented sigh, which somehow allows her to finally take a breath. For the first moment this night, it’s rid of tension.

“Would you like to continue this somewhere... less exposed?”

Eugenia grins at her. She’s not exactly sure what "this" entails, but if she’s being honest, she’s more than keen to find out.

****************

They sneak through the house as quietly as possible, Kamala stepping into the ballroom just long enough to ask Grace and Alastair to cover up their disappearance. Despite her usually nonchalant demeanour, it’s obvious that Grace will do anything for Kamala – quite literally, which is why they agree Alastair takes on the role of her impulse control.

Eugenia is trying her best to remain patient, but it’s a losing battle – as soon as Kamala re-emerges from the ballroom, she’s all but dragging her away.  

Once the doors of Kamala’s bedroom close behind them, Eugenia presses her against them, crushing their lips together. She’s already missed this. The softness and heat of it, the delightful feeling of being so close to each other.

She draws away after a moment, lets herself finally breathe, knowing Kamala is here, in her arms, and not going anywhere. For a moment they just stare at each other, and then Kamala reaches out to stroke her face gently, a reverent gleam in her eyes.  

“I didn’t dare to hope that you could possibly share my feelings.” She says in a whisper.

“I still cannot wrap my head around you wanting me, too.”

Kamala chuckles at that, and says, with a fond shake of her head:

“Dearest, you’ve occupied my heart and thoughts ever since we first met. I’ve long given up hope that it could be reciprocated.”

“It is. Kami, I- It's scaring me how deeply I’m attached to you, after such a short time, but it’s no use denying it, I suppose. I’m all yours. I have been for far longer than I can actually recall.”

Kamala’s hands fall back to her waist then, and pull her closer, until they’re barely a breath away.

“I really want to kiss you again.”

In lieu of a reply, Eugenia just surges towards her, bringing their lips together. This time when her hands go around Kamala’s neck, she doesn’t stop them from pulling out hairpins and letting thick strands fall down. They feel like silk when she curls them around her fingers, just as she's dreamed of doing for weeks.

The restless sensation from before is back, urging her to take more, get even closer, though she’s not quite sure how.

Her body seems to have some ideas though, so she stops thinking and lets the instinct take control, hands moving on their own accord. Her fingers swipe at the pearls on Kamala’s collarbone, and then move to take them off.

As soon as they are free again, they drift back up, the now exposed collarbone burning under the touch. The kiss deepens then, and when Kamala slips her tongue into her mouth, Eugenia’s almost sure her knees are about to give way.  

But before they do, Kamala pulls away, just briefly.

“How far do you want to go?”

Oh.

“I’ve never... I’ve never been with anyone, like this. But I want everything.”  

The confession makes Kamala close her eyes for a brief moment. When they open, they look impossibly darker, any hesitation gone and replaced with a decisive spark. She leans in and Eugenia closes her eyes, anticipating a kiss, except-  

Except the featherlight touch of Kamala’s lips lands on her neck instead, and then continues up to her ear, a trail of heat that spreads through her body.

By the Angel.

She shudders when she feels a ghost of a breath on her ear, followed by a whisper.

“If you want to stop at any time, just tell me.”

She’s past words now, but she nods frantically, hoping it gets the message across. Judging by the fact that the kisses are resumed, it does, so she lets her hands go back to roaming Kamala’s body, bolder now.

She has never appreciated the current fashion this much, she thinks, as her finger trails down Kamala’s neck and along the hem of her dress, the fabric thin enough to let her nails dig lightly into the skin underneath. It earns her a moan, and she grins, a burst of satisfaction cursing through her veins.

Then Kamala’s grip on her waist tightens, hand sliding down, and she was wrong before – for all she cares, the gowns don’t matter at all. In fact, they would be better off on the floor – which, it occurs to her, is only a matter of time.  

The thought is making her a little dizzy, so when the top of her dress is off, she’s relieved to sink to the bed, hands never leaving Kamala’s body. She’s trying to follow Kamala’s lead, but even though she’s taken off countless gowns in her life, now her fingers tremble at the fastening. It finally gives way just as she’s about to rip it off. The corset, pads, petticoats – why on Earth are there so many elements? – consequently fall to floor.

It’s only then that she stops for a moment, taking in the sight - Kamala smiling down at her in nothing but an elegant chemise. Eugenia reaches out, draws her hand up her shoulder. Touching the soft lace feels like the most devastating thing she’d ever done, and yet, she doesn’t stop there.

Soon Kamala kisses her again, pushing her farther onto the bed, straddling her waist. Her skin seems on fire even through the fabric of the chemise.

Eugenia distantly thinks this night might just turn out to be her downfall, but it doesn’t seem to matter – she’s so, so ready to burn.

IV.

clover blooms in the fields  

spring breaks loose, the time is near  

what would he do if he found us out?  

crescent moon, coast is clear  

spring breaks loose, but so does fear  

he's gonna burn this house to the ground

Shortly into April, London is graced with a sunny day, so unusual for early spring. Without hesitation, Eugenia arranges for a picnic - after her family decided to replace the forest landscape of Alicante with the gloomy London, she’s started appreciating any opportunity to be out in nature. Picnics however, have always had a particularly special place in her heart, warranted by the fond memories of family outings in her early childhood.

Nothing can bring back that particular joy, the vibrant colour of those carefree days when her family was still whole, but as she looks at Kamala, seated on a blanket with a bouquet of flowers in her lap, the grass seems almost as green as in her memories.  

“He did pick beautiful ones, didn’t he?”  

Kamala says as she looks up from her attempts at making a flower crown – it is already looking fantastic, and Eugenia is both amazed and slightly offended at her beloved’s manual skills. The flowers Alastair brought her are indeed beautiful – carefully chosen to match, stems long enough to comfortably weave them together.

“I almost bribed him into making the crowns, but he claims he doesn’t know how to.”

“Liar.” Eugenia says with false outrage. “I am certain Cordelia forced him to make them for her.”

They both know Alastair can, in fact, make flower crowns, just as well as they know he’d rather be found dead than admit it.

She looks over at where him and Thomas are wandering around the park, under the pretence of picking flowers. Their hands brush from time to time, and it’s as close to open affection as they can be granted in public, which makes her smile. Thomas seems happier than she’s ever seen him, his gestures animated, eyes bright, and even though her heart clenches with a reminder of years he spent closing himself off, without her even noticing, she's relieved to see things have changed.

She figured a picnic would be a nice opportunity for the four of them to spend time together outside of the privacy of their homes, as well as a chance to be together in broad daylight. The secluded corner of the park creates a delusion of freedom she desperately wants to immortalize.

Once she’s done with it, Kamala asks her closer and places the flower crown on top of her head, and then lays back to “admire the view”. Eugenia's muscles almost hurt from smiling, which is probably the reason behind her next words falling freely from her mouth.

“If I could make you a crown out of something, it would be stars.”

Kamala chuckles. Her smile’s carefree, the sun playfully dancing in her eyes where it breaks through the tree branches.

“Stars? Dear, I think you’re getting ahead of yourself.”

“But stars suit you.”  

“Do they?”

“Yes. They’re as otherworldly beautiful as you are, and they light up the darkness, don’t they?” Eugenia frowns slightly, lost in thought. “Or maybe you’re one of those Greek muses you told me about.”

“Says a girl who’s most certainly a changeling.” Kamala mumbles, though Eugenia supposes it’s just to distract her from the blush creeping up her cheeks.

“You do realize those were regarded as malicious, evil creatures, darling?”

Kamala groans in response and covers her face. “I was aiming for magical and impossible.” It comes out muffled, though not quite as much as the next words. “But malicious? Sounds about right, too.”

She laughs when Eugenia throws a handful of grass at her.

“Alright, alright, I am joking. Well then, which muse am I?”

Eugenia thinks for a moment, recalls the stories. The wind pulls a single strand of ink hair onto Kamala’s face, and that invisible touch seems to relax her features, eyes falling closed.

“The one that inspired the musician.” Eugenia says, quietly, barely aware that she’s staring. The sun seems to be blurring the world around into a kaleidoscopic image, Kamala the only sharp element in its centre. “I’m no musician, but if I was ever to create art, it would be for your sake.”

Kamala smiles and reaches out a hand to squeeze hers.

“Everything you bring into my life is like art, Genie.”

************

The man’s gaze is hungry, falling, again and again, to the rim of Kamala’s cleavage, and some dark part of her recoils at it. She isn’t sure which feeling brewing inside her chest terrifies her more – the bloodthirsty desire to gauge his eyes out, or the burst of satisfaction at knowing he will never get more.  

That maybe he has her twirling in his arms, perfectly polite and pliant, but Eugenia is the one that sees the crooked smile that has no place in elegant ballrooms, but comes to life on late night walks through the garden. She is the one whose hands got to untie that corset, let the delicate fabric of the dress fall to the floor. It is a bitter consolation, as it comes with the reminder of the confines of their relationship.

What they have might be bright and strong, but it's always going to be hidden, stolen time and abandoned rooms and garden paths cloaked in shadow.  

As they sneak out and stumble into Kamala’s bedroom a few hours later, Eugenia thinks she could learn to live in the shadows, for this.

But there’s an edge to Kamala’s kisses today, an urgency to the words she whispers – they don’t want to separate for long enough to light any candles, so her face is barely visible in the shadows – still, it seems to be wet with tears.  

Before Eugenia can comment on it, Kamala curls around her and closes her eyes, and silence envelops them. Sleep comes soon, too soon maybe - and the morning arrives right after.

Kamala wakes up first. Her movement pulls Eugenia from sleep, too, but they remain silent, letting the day crawls inside the room like a gloomy shadow. Their picnic from just days before seems like a faraway dream, and Kamala seems distant, too, extinguished.  

She sits up amongst the sheets, and Eugenia shivers at the sudden lack of warmth. Kamala’s silhouette is outlined against the backdrop of the dawn light filling the bedroom, hair sticking wildly in all directions.

Eugenia reaches out, just to touch her warm skin, tracing idle patterns on it in a hopefully relaxing manner.

Kamala exhales slowly, though it somehow makes her posture even more hunched, as if she was trying to disappear under the weight of this tension.

“I’m scared.” She says in a small voice Eugenia almost never hears her use.

“Father is restless lately, and harsher towards me. He knows he lost much of Enclave’s support, and, well - it doesn’t bode well for the upcoming elections. I fear he’s turning his attention to me to gain a sense of control. It’s almost impossible to get out of the house without a proper excuse.”

She’s almost shaking now, but Eugenia thinks it has little to do with goosebumps appearing on her skin. “Thank the Angel for your cousin’s invention, because I wouldn’t even dare send a letter right now.”

The last part comes out breathless, choked, and then it’s like her resolve crumbled completely, body shaking with barely contained sobs. Eugenia props herself on one elbow and reaches to cup her cheek, forcing Kamala to look at her.

“Sweetheart.”

Her gaze shines bright with tears. It’s unsettling how small she looks, how fragile. Eugenia takes one of her hands and brings her down on top of her, hoping a tight embrace will ease the panic somehow, as it usually does to her. However temporary, it’s the only solution at hand. It doesn’t stop the steady flood of words falling from Kamala’s lips – it's not supposed to. She’s only hoping they’ll be less scary if they’re muffled by their embrace.

“What if he sees us? Sees me leaving, sneaking out, getting back late at night? Genie, he would never forgive me – I-, I heard what he was saying about Anna. That they should send her off to the Iron Labyrinth, that she’s corrupting our youth. He would send me away in a heartbeat.”

Eugenia bites her lip until it draws blood, trying to keep herself from saying false, worthless contradictions. In the following silence, her grip might be becoming too tight, but if the way Kamala clings to her is any indication, she supposes neither of them minds.

After Augustus, she thought the only way to survive going forward would be to harden her heart, to build walls around it that could never let anyone in.

Yet Kamala found a way to creep inside, slowly but surely warming the cold stone, reminding her hearts aren’t meant for imprisonment.

So she holds on, strokes her hair gently, murmuring reassurance mixed with nonsense, until it all turns into three words she’d been holding back from saying, but she knows are present in her every move and thought.  

They deserve to be said out loud – Kamala deserves to hear them. Somehow, that’s enough to finally make them come out of her lips.

“I love you.”  

It’s barely a whisper, and yet it seems to echo through a suddenly quiet room.  

Kamala stills for a second.

“You do?”

“Yes. I am not saying that in order to bribe you into promises.” Promises aren’t something they can afford, both as Shadowhunters and as what they are together. “But I want you to know that, here and now and for as long as can – I love you.”  

Kamala shifts to face her, eyes still red-rimmed, though almost obscured from view with the mess of tangled hair. Eugenia reaches out to brush it away, heart breaking at the sight.

“i love you, too. Despite all the obstacles we face, it sometimes seems like I’m far too lucky to know you, yet alone love you." She smiles sadly. "Maybe that’s why we cannot have more – it would be too much.”

Eugenia’s distantly aware she’s also crying now.

“We deserve that, my love. We deserve everything the world doesn’t want to grant us.”  

She plants a kiss on Kamala’s forehead, and then draws her close again, until Kamala’s nuzzling her neck, and for a moment, everything seems almost at her fingertips.

V

my pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand

taking mine, but it's been promised to another

(…) I'd live and die for moments that we stole

on begged and borrowed time  

so tell me to run  

or dare to sit and watch what we'll become  

and drink my husband's wine

For once, Kamala is genuinely happy during a dance, undoubtedly because of her dancing partner. Alastair himself seems to scowl less than usual, too, and Eugenia almost wants to laugh at the number of stares they’re earning – of jealousy, desire, and both mixed together. God, if they only knew.  

But they won’t.  

No one will ever know. The thought is like a pang in her chest – why is it that she could not be seen at Kamala's arm, why would that cause people to stare? Who decides it’s fine for Alastair to hold her while dancing, but Eugenia's love is an anomally?

Those same people who decided Augustus damaged you, a voice in her head whispers, and she knows it’s right. It’s no longer something she can ignore, part of her growing more and more desperate to rebel against it.

“They’re a sight, aren’t they?” Thomas’s voice brings her back to the present moment. The soft, almost reverent look in his eyes is still new to her – he rarely lets it show in public, and even when they're in a small group, her brother seems to shy away from making his love visible.

"Indeed they are. And to think we managed to be so lucky despite father's genes."

Thomas laughs at her.

"He did end up with mum, even after his questionable advances, so maybe we're just as lucky as he is."

***********

As agreed, she finds herself at the balcony halfway through the party, almost vibrating with the need to have Kamala close again, for just one moment throughout the whole evening of pretending.

But the moment she sees Kamala's face, her heart sinks, and she freezes at the spot. There's a juvenile urge in her brain to run away, to cover her ears with her hands and scream stubbornly, anything not to hear whatever news have Kamala looking like that. Her usually proud stance is crooked, uncertain, as if she was hunching under a weight of the upcoming conversation.

As, practically against her own will, she takes a few steps forward, everything in her recoils. It's almost too familiar a feeling, the dreadful anticipation, so much so that she realizes she's shaking only when Kamala's hands reach to grasp hers.  

“Genie.”  

Her eyes glisten.

No.  

No, no, no. Not yet. She wants to protest, draw it out, as if this way she can keep reality at bay, like a too early wake up call. Wants to pull the duvet over her head and sink into the blissful warmth of obliviousness, to be dragged from under there kicking and screaming.

Instead, she meets Kamala's eyes, and, for once, it doesn’t bring her comfort. It’s a sharp feeling, sharper yet for the steady blow of realisation spreading through her veins. She finds her voice, somehow, despite the numbness that follows.

“Which one?”

They’ve been through this. Hours of dissecting the potential suitors, exchanging gossip they managed to collect. Sometimes it lead to emptying wine bottles with their friends and laughing hysterically at their attempts to lighten up the mood with ridiculous jokes.

More often than not, in tears and whispered confessions, messy kisses, and increasingly desperate ideas for a way out. But there was no escaping it – Kamala's father had strictly demanded she be married off, and they both knew nothing could be done about it.  

“Frederick. We just talked, and he already has an agreement with father."

Eugenia closes her eyes and inhales sharply.  

There.  

Finally, a name for the fear that accompanied them throughout all this, her nightmares personified at last.

Kamala walks over to the balustrade, her gaze set on the lights of the city in the distance – a landscape that became their comfort, the symbol of a safe heaven. Now not even the night can provide cover - they're out of places to hide.

Kamala takes a deep breath, its shaky quality betraying the tears not visible in the darkness, and continues, quietly.  

“We have decided to move to Idris after the wedding. I convinced him that London holds too many memories. It wasn’t a lie, exactly – I just didn’t mean what he thought I did. He is under an impression that I want to get away from the horrors of this city.”

She laughs, a bitter sound, so unlike the bright and warm one Eugenia is used to. “I just don’t think I could stand living amongst the ruins of us with someone else.”

“I wish we had more choice. Then I would have chosen differently – I would have chosen you, you must know that. But... I need to choose myself first, finally have a chance at being my own person. Running from father and lowering my head will not grant me that freedom. Frederick will. He’s understanding enough, and gentle, and he’ll be a good father-

Eugenia feels the need to say something, to disrupt the shaky stream of words coming from Kamala’s lips before it blows them both away, but she cannot quite force any sound through the tightness in her throat.

“He is quite taken with travelling, too. Promised we would go to India, one day.”

Oh.  

“I’m- I’m so glad you will.” It comes out hollow, but deep down, she is. This was a dream for Kamala, and she is truly happy, even if she can’t bring herself to show – or feel - it just now.

“This is it, then?”

“Genie.” Kamala crosses the distance between them in two swift motions. Although they’re hidden from view by the wall, it’s still risky, but Kamala’s hands come to cradle her face. Her touch is featherlight, but suddenly Eugenia’s not sure she can stand without it.  

“You must know.” Kamala is so close she feels the words more than hears them, the sound barely audible.

“I know.” she says, voice breaking at the small phrase. “By the angel, I know.”  

A tear falls from her eye along with that last word. Because it’s true, and that’s probably what makes it so much worse. She knows this isn’t a choice either of them wanted to make. She knows they are worth fighting for, but the dice is loaded, as it's always been.

The only choice they really have is whether or not to destroy themselves in the battle for the impossible. And maybe, if it was just her, she’d risk it, the angry creature inside her mind is already longing to be set free. But if there’s anything she dreads more than losing Kamala, it’s seeing her defeated, surrendered, having lost herself – that is too great a cost.  

Kamala plants a kiss on her hair, and then leans her forehead against hers, and Eugenia can’t tell if her hands are shaking or if she is, but the world itself seems to be tilted, perhaps permanently.

Yet the chatter and music inside go on, insusceptible to their pain.

“I’ll come tonight, if you want me to. To- to say goodbye.”

*************

Both of their necks will be covered in bruises by the morning, and for once, it doesn't matter how they'll cover it. Nothing matters, except for the sloppy kisses that taste of salt, and half-delirious words of love falling between them.

The room seems to be out of reach of the passing time, seconds ticked off only by Kamala’s fingers stroking her skin. She bites her lip when she realizes the touch paints a symbol of a marriage rune, over and over, above her heart. Her mind suggest a silly idea of having the fingers replaced by a stele, but instead, they go away.

Don’t go, she wants to say. Just a moment longer. But she's aware, the need for one more moment won’t ever vanish. They have always been on borrowed time, and much like a dawn sharply forcing them apart in the morning, that time ends at last.  

She’s always known Kamala was the stronger of them two – apparently enough so to turn at the doorstep and vanish into the London night without ever glancing back. It’s easier this way.

She must get back inside, because soon she’s amongst well known walls, feet carrying her to the bedroom upstairs, to the safety of soft sheets and closed doors. It’s the same path, the same escape route she took after last time, except then, she wished for solace.  

Now it overwhelms her.

She slumps to the bed and buries her nose in the sheets, inhaling the faint notes of jasmine still present there. It will fade away completely, soon, she knows, so she scrambles to pull the sheets closer, to wrap herself in them, immortalize the scent somehow. But they’re cold and slipping through her fingers, and no matter how frantically she tugs at them, the fabric falls around her – empty and lifeless.  

“Genie.” Her mother’s voice cuts through the deafening silence in her head, and she realizes she’s shaking.

“Oh, a stór.” There are arms around her, and she is full-on sobbing now, a raw and striking sound.

The room echoes it like a botomless well, and she's falling inside it.

Kamala grew inside her, like ivy covering the frame of her bones, and now the stems wither, leaving barren dirt in their wake. She needs to learn to grow around the empty space left by her absence, and hope the memories will be enough to fill the blanks, to still have those spaces belong to Kamala without suffering the hollowness of them. She’s not sure she’s up to the task.

+ I

and the old widow goes to the stone every day  

but I don't, I just sit here and wait  

grieving for the living

It’s a late summer wedding.  

And it’s beautiful, the Accord’s Hall decorated richly with heaps of flowers, beige and dark yellow and literally sparkling gold, because that is apparently what people do, when they have a fortune to spend and a convenient ability to forget, even for a moment, about their disdain for the Downworld. Anyone who could afford an invitation and money to come is here, and Eugenia badly wishes she wasn’t - she only came here at Kamala’s request.

The Enclave is eager to wipe away the terror of the past few months with a celebration, and what better reason for it than seeing the Inquisitor’s daughter happily married, a personal new beginning marking the new era for them all. The man himself seems momentarily forgotten, in favour of much needed hope. Some are already talking about babies, a generation to fill in the blanks in their orders – it makes Eugenia sick in so many ways, she’s desperately clutching at the fine silk of her dress to keep her hands from shaking.  

Fantastic timing. What a joy. Beautiful match.

Whenever a piece of conversation reaches her, her lungs tighten, and soon enough she finds she’s barely breathing. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe, despite Kamala’s pleas, she should have never come here.

But how could she have said no?

The letter was a surprise, and it stung. After so many weeks of reaching for Kamala and finding empty spaces, of them slipping through her fingers, it brought back a barely deserted feeling of anticipation, and a following disappointment. A phantom feeling of looking for the pen, hand stopping at the door handle, leaving the window open.

A reminder that there were still things she wanted to tell Kamala.

But that is the issue, isn't it. There will always be things she will want to tell her. They’ll die on her tongue, a flower deprived of a chance to bloom, turning to ash and leaving the bitter taste on her lips.

The ceremony seems to drag for forever - Thomas grabs her hand at one point, and only then she realises she almost tore her dress with nervous tgging. Then her brother pulls out a line of wooden beads from his pocket and discreetly hands it to her, and she starts to run her fingers over them, hidden in the safety of her family seated around.

It feels like mockery, the gentle way sun dances on flower petals around her, reminiscent of the spring day a reality ago. People smile, and music fills the hall, and she closes her eyes when Frederick kisses Kamala, and somehow, then, it's over.

Or, at least, part of it is.

It's easier to blend in and let her thoughts float away during the reception. Thomas, Alastair and Grace take turns keeping her company, suggesting a glass of water or a walk when she needs it, making sure it's somehow bearable.

Until, of course, the first dance.

Frederick and Kamala command the attention of the entire room, though it's difficult to tell whether it's because of their role this evening, or Kamala's breathtaking appareance. Frederick seems enchanted by it, just as everyone else, and Eugenia cannot even blame him.

He leads Kamala onto the centre of the damcefloor as the music fills the room.

She wonders if, in another life, in a different world maybe, this could be them.

She wonders whether the universe would ever let their paths not just cross, but intertwine.  

She wonders, as Frederick places his hand on Kamala's waist, if he'll take to kissing the beauty mark hidden underneath the fabric there in the mornings, discover that it's the one spot that makes Kamala ticklish, marvel at the laugh it can draw out of her.

She wonders if there will be anything left of her heart if she watches this until the end.

She turns at the door, because if Kamala's Eurydice, they've already lost, maybe that day when she first turned at the sound of her voice, and now she can only do that, watch as they're pulled apart. Their eyes meet through the crowd, the smallest liminal moment between having and losing, and she knows they’ll always belong to each other more than to any other person, no matter what the society or runes on their body will say about that.

It would be hilarious that the balcony is the only available sanctuary, but there she stands, in the warm August evening, facing away from the lights of the inside, and she's far from wanting to laugh.

"Genie?" Thomas's voice, so careful.

Again, they're careful and holding their breaths, and she hates that she actually needs it.

"Please don’t."

She can feel him opening his mouth to protest, but her misery must be showing, because he stops.

Instead, a moment later she glimpses his arms on the railing next to her. Silent, unmoving, just a steady presence.  

She’s staring stubbornly into space, trying not to see the damned stars. The same stars that were once enhanced by Kamala’s smile.

Now their comforting quality is lost, the light sharp instead, cutting through her consciousness with unwelcome reminders of distance.

She remembers when she was still a child, and dreamt of picking up a star straight from the sky, of racing up the tall tower of Alicante, convinced she’ll be right amongst them, able to touch their bright light. The following, crushing realization that they’re impossibly far, even though her eyes fooled her into believing they’re right there.

“Will they ever feel just like stars again?”

Her own voice sounds foreign to her ears, so small and pained. It hadn’t sounded this way since Barbara.  

“It feels like I’m constantly tripping on the debris of what we had, what we were. Yet I cannot decide what scares me more: living amongst the memories or losing them altogether. I never- I never thought you can miss someone who’s in the same room as you. And yet I miss her so terribly.”

She feels a tear run down her cheek as Thomas’s arms go around her.

Her hand moves to her collarbone, stroking the skin just underneath it, but she knows there’s nothing there. The marriage rune Kamala’s touch painted on her skin was as impermanent as the moment it belonged to.

************

"Is she... How is she?"

It’s a silent agreement that Alastair talks about Kamala whenever they meet in public, and she asks all the burning questions when he visits Thomas. Though, in fairness, it’s usually just one question – Alastair knows there’s more hidden behind it. He answers them all, and shakes his hand when she attempts to thank him with a shaky smile.

“It’s the least I can do, Genie.”

The honeymoon is a grace period, nothing more. Neither of them will be able to keep from running across each other forever – and frankly, Eugenia doesn’t think she would want to. But she’s woefully unprepared to navigate this, to handle this new uncharted land - terrified of tumbling through the hollow places she used to confidently step on.  

“You’ll learn to be happy.” People around her say, as if it helps.

She knows she will. She learnt to laugh again, after Barbara, and smile, with genuine joy, but so many times those laughs were cut too short by the absence around, her head stopped halfway in turning to share the joke with her sister. She is tired of that, of the ghosts living in her heart.

They're haunting all her days, random moments that catch her off guard.

She finds herself eyeing the window at nights, opening up her mouth to buy a bouqet of roses, reaching for a quill when she’s woken up from an absurd dream.

There's one way she can imagine capturing those ghosts, banishing them away from her mind, if only for a moment. And so paper becomes her most loyal confidant.

***********

There is a space in my mind, a desolate place far away from all others, where we still happen. I wake you up with a kiss, you groan and ask if we can’t linger for a moment, and I say we can, because there is not a single reality in which I can refuse you. And then your arms come around me and you tug me close, and we’re content to stay like that until the day truly needs us to rise.

It all happens in a nondescript room that belongs to us, whose only characteristics are that it’s filled with you - the jasmine scent of your perfume forever plastered to the sheets, your favourite book of poetry constantly moved from nightstand to the desk and back again, the embroidery you decided to finish for me, because the uneven lines were giving you a heart attack, proudly hanging above the dresser.

You push me into a lake in summer, because you want to see my dress clinging to my body, and when you say just that I blush terribly, and drag you to some place under trees, hidden from view, when I can get lost in your touch. It's autumn and we go for a walk, and somehow it’s not the sun that’s painting the park golden, but your hand carefully clutching mine.

We get to visit India, just as you dreamed, and you get to rediscover yourself through the past, and I get to be by your side. You teach me hindi as you recall what you remember of it.  

But no. It’s August and there’s someone else who hears you talk about your day, and I sit at the desk alone, miserable.  

I wonder, wonder, wonder... All of this wondering has your face.

“What is this?” Thomas asks on one of the quiet evenings of early autumn.

“Nothing.”

He moves closer to the desk, eyeing the paper.

“Is it to Kam-”

“No.” The speed of the answer is enough of a betrayal, so she rushes to explain.

“That is- yes, it is to her, but it won’t be sent. I haven’t even written it with such intention - I simply longed to let it out somehow, all those thoughts, without burdening her further.”

“Genie-”  

“Don’t.” She shakes her head, once, then again, too preocuppied with keeping the tears at bay to manage a longer response. When she finally does it, it’s a simple truth she refused to acknowledge all this time.

“I should have known better, Tom. I got ahead of myself, and painted pictures of a future we would never get to have, and now the dreams I have to bury are threatening to pull me underneath and- And it’s all my own fault.”

It’s there again, a flickering moment of doubt – would she be better off if this never happened? Happier, if they were only ever friends who didn’t wish to have what the world deems forbidden, but what made her heart sing? Would she had one less heartbreak to add to the growing collection if Kamala didn't somehow, impossibly, look at her and found someone worthy of adoration?

But deep down, she knows the answer. It was worth it.

It’s just the rule of life, she thinks.  

Sometimes wanting more leaves you with less.  

tag list (lmk to be tagged/removed): @thefoxandthefound @andreils-bitch @mariflorenceisabella @chaos-and-starlight @ohcoolnice ​ @alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer ​ @monalo4 @stxr-thxif ​ @shadowqueendiangelo @annabeth-clace @jennyleedream @life-through-the-eyes-of ​ @sapphic-in @yozinha-z @pastwhereourfeetcouldtouch @wannabe-warlock @littlx-songbxrd @hidethebreakables @writeforjordelia @cant-think-of-anything @time-is-the-stuff-of-dreams

[slaygentford]

professor antonius sorry if this is a stupid question but do you have any advice for someone who like. has never Got poetry. ik ik there’s tons of diff styles and aesthetics and what not but im missing something. i have several collections and i enjoy reading them but i feel like so much goes over my head until i read someone else’s analysis and i’m like o okay ,

This isn’t stupid I bet just no one ever walked you through close reading. Also I get this question ALL the time so I'm going to actually give a real answer for once wow. Also nobody reblog this because I don't want people like,. You know how this website is. People with their opinions. And I am too smart and good at my job to be like, made subject to that frankly. anyway So close reading is basically about tensions. Tension is stuff that doesn’t match up and it leads to two questions: WHY is that tension here, and what does that tension DO. Here is a picture

Dutch masters nice. This is called landscape with the fall of icarus. What tensions do you notice here. Well one I would say the fact that there’s this super pretty pastoralish scene and then on the bottom right icarus’s little leggy is sticking out of the water cuz his wings melted and he fell in! Like these things don’t fit together right? So what does that DO? Well it shuttles icarus off to the side, literally. It forefronts daily working life w that guy and his horse and makes icarus kind of a side note that no one in the painting seems to be noticing. So what conclusions can we draw about that? Maybe that we don’t notice extraordinary things happening. Maybe that mythology isn’t that important after all. What do u think?

Okay let’s look at a poem. I literally rn have Forrest gander open and I just reread beckoned

At which point my grief-sounds ricocheted outside of language.

Something like a drifting swarm of bees.

At which point in the tetric silence that followed

I was swarmed by those bees and lost consciousness.

At which point there was no way out for me either.

At which point I carried on in a semi-coma, dreaming I was awake, avoiding friends and puking, plucking stingers from my face and arms.

At which point her voice was pinned to a backdrop of vaporous color.

At which point the crane's bustles flared.

At which point, coming to, I knew I'd pay the whole flag-pull fare.

At which point the driver turned and said it doesn't need to be your fault for it to break you.

At which point without any lurching commencement, he began to play a vulture-bone flute.

At which point I grew old and it was like ripping open the beehive with my hands again.

At which point I conceived a realm more real than life.

At which point there was at least some possibility.

Some possibility, in which I didn't believe, of being with her once more.

okay, meaty. wow. I like this poem im just now working through this collection. anyways so what's some tensions. Well I think personally one is this repetition of "at which point" (look out for stuff that is repeated btw or just anything that seems to be drawing attention to itself). I think at which point is interesting not just cuz it keeps being repeated but because (jeopardy theme while I let you think about it) because it's like the middle of a sentence? like the first line starts "at which point" and that's like, a phrase thats supposed to connect stuff and it's just like... the beginning.

TENSION: first line and each following line (except the last) starts in media res, with the inciting incident unmentioned, which is weird.

what does this tension seem to DO? well it's kind of confusing cuz idk what happened at first. the incident is withheld from us. What can we CONCLUDE from the incident being withheld from us? maybe that the incident itself is too hard or even IMPOSSIBLE to put into language (which the first line kind of alludes to)?

and now I have more questions which are adjacent: why IS "at which point" repeated? what's the effect of repetition? does it gain or lose impact? does its meaning change as the poem continues? does the incident to which it refers change or stay the same? much 2 consider.........

okay so. 1) tension where? 2) tension why? 3) conclusion what? obv some stuff is like BLATANT juxtaposition like in the painting which is easier to parse. other times you have to forage in the text a little for tension by looking for repetition, or weird rhyme, or form, or where a line breaks, or an object that seems important. keep asking "why" and "how" and don't be thinking like, x MEANS that y. always b asking questions.

[majimemegoro]

random selection of evidence for dead okudera/spirit village theory *spoilers for frozen roar storyline in y5*

In Japanese folklore, mountains are associated with death, and often represent either a) a space between the world of the living and the dead/the spiritual world, or b) LITERALLY the world of the dead/the spiritual (Hori, 1966)

It is always snowing lightly on the mountain, but the snow never accumulates. Despite the switches between night and day, time does not seem to work normally on the mountain.

okudera first appears right after this sequence of events: 1) saejima drives his snowmobile at high speed into a rock, getting thrown and likely hitting his head as he is knocked unconscious for several seconds (a likely point for entering the realm of the dead/intermediate space between the worlds of the dead and the living??); 2) saejima awakens and fights a bear twice the size of a regular bear; 3) saejima says that he “can’t” die, and then passes out. okudera first appears shortly after. so okudera (and yama-oroshi) both first appear in circumstances where saejima is adjacent to death.

the scenes right after the snowmobile crash features a lot of rotating camera work, and also feature POV shots from the perspective of the antagonist, the bear. this kind of cinematography is not often seen in the series, and suggests an untethering of perspective... as though saejima’s soul were coming detached from his body

It is not entirely clear whether okudera’s former hunting partner died or disappeared. Though he is 99% certainly dead by the time of the story’s events, the ambiguity surrounding the circumstances of his death and disappearance point at a blurring of the lines between life and death.

The Okudera story is overtly focused on trauma, loss and grief - things that would tether the dead to earth.

okudera is repeatedly attacked by Yama-oroshi but is never killed. This repetitive playing out of a painful event is reminiscent of the myth of Sisyphus and certain concepts of purgatory

after being mauled by yama-oroshi the first time, Okudera refuses to confirm to saejima that he is alive; he will only way that he is “more or less” alright

while on the mountain, Saejima can seemingly recover from injuries sustained at the hands (or claws or horns) of wildlife by consuming the raw meat of those animals. This is not how healing works in real life, suggesting that Saejima is not really sustaining physical injuries in the usual sense, but is rather sustaining spiritual injuries of some kind that can be counteracted by taking the spiritual energy (the ‘raw meat’) of other animals/spirits

It is not clear when or how the suspension bridge leading across the crevasse was repaired. In fact, the timeline of the story leaves no space for this to occur. Yet the bridge goes from being broken to being fixed.

Okudera is suspiciously resilient with regard to physical injury, seemingly able at times to bleed profusely for hours on end without passing out. He appears to suffer pain from this, but his functioning is sometimes not hindered, again suggesting that the ‘bleeding’ is not precisely physical and does not obey the laws of medicine.

Bear bile successfully cures Okudera from his illness, although bear bile has no real medicinal effects

The mountain constantly saps away the health of the player, as though remaining in the world of the dead for a longer amount of time makes it more and more difficult to return to life.

Saejima is probably wearing the clothes of mr okduera’s dead hunting partner.

Okudera is fixated on and repeatedly brings up the value of life and the importance of not killing except where strictly necessary

Though absent in the original Japanese, there is a point in the remastered translation where Okudera slips into a kansai accent. This is another piece of evidence suggesting that there is slippage occurring between spirits and bodies.

Near the end of the story, the other villagers know Okudera’s location when he gets injured. Nishina says this is because they were tailing him, but if they were physically present, they would have been able to help him and would not have had to send Saejima after him on the snowmobile. For some reason the villagers knew where Okudera was but were unwilling - or unable - to help him.

The old man at the shrine, Tendo, is literally possessed by literal mountain gods that demonstrate effectual power (causing avalanches, turning invisible, summoning avatars, etc.)

there are many parallels between the stories of okudera & his hunting partner and baba & saejima. this would explain why okudera, if a spirit, took an interest in them.

okudera is capable of standing on top of the snow, as though he were weightless, but avoids doing so around Saejima

it is unclear how saejima and baba get from the village to Sapporo. The time they spend getting down from the mountain is not depicted.

[soldrawss]

Ok, this morning I opened Tumblr, found your blog, started checking all your rottmnt tagged posts, found your big brother Mikey AU, CRIED FOR ALMOST AN HOUR as I red every post about it, drooled all over your gorgeous art, smiled like a crazy person reading all your Human AU posts, got up with the sun in my chest and more energy than I know what to do with and have been productive since then. I don’t know what to ask (or if you take asks) but I crave more infos about your big brother Mikey AU❤️

WOAH OK this was such an incredibly sweet ask and I’m SO HAPPY that my BBM au could bring you so much joy and ahhhh!!! Just thank you so much, this ask made my night <3 Here’s one of the many little stories I’ve written for the AU that I’ve sent to my friend @zacharandom (thanks for always reading my little emotional blurbs about these kiddos Zach~) Enjoy!

(I haven’t gotten into it yet (I will, it’s a separate ask I’m working on) But Leatherhead is a BIG part of the BBM au. Zach had asked if any of the kiddos had ever been to LH’s place, since LH always stays over at the Hamato’s, and I said yes, but only Donnie, and then this mini fic was born.)    Donnie and Mikey get into a 'fight'. And I say 'fight' because Donnie doesn't really know what else to call it. Because he doesn't pick fights, not really, not with Mikey. He doesn't go looking for them with Mikey like he does with Leo. Leo, who can take the worst of Donnie’s shitty teenage attitude and come out of it alright, wearing the worst of Donnie’s temper and anger like a bulletproof vest. Donnie can afford to hurt Leo cause Leo won't break because of it. He's safe to hurt. But it's different with Mikey. Mikey, who's so tired he can barely stand straight most days. Who has bags under his eyes like dark stickers, that not even doe-eyed and ever adoring Raph can peel away. And Donnie KNOWS better than to pick a fight with Mikey about it, it was mostly why he was trying to avoid the conversation altogether. Why he had hidden all the school letters and hacked into Mikey's phone to block all the emails and texts and phone calls from the school about it. He didn't expect Mikey to run into one of his teachers after work and basically blow everything Donnies worked so hard to avoid. He didn't want to skip a few grades. He didn't care what his teachers or his GPA said. He didn't CARE if they thought he was ‘wasting his potential’. He wasn't, and they had no right to complain about it to his big brother like they did. Donnie had TOLD Mikey that he didn't want to. Had gone all the extra lengths to take as many of the AP classes the adjacent high school offered, bargained and pleaded and BEGGED them. He’d do whatever it took, but he didn't want to move grades. He didn't want to quit the robotics club. He didn't want to go to school with a bunch of kids older than him and be the butt end of every baby freshmen joke in the book. He didn't want to be separated from Leo. He really, really, really didn't. And he had explained this all to Mikey. And he knew that Mikey KNEW this. But the teachers wouldn't stop hounding him, and Mikey was already so tired anyway, the weight of the world always seemed to be a weighted pressure on his shoulders that looked physical, with the way Mikey’s whole body sagged. Like every move he made was a conscious effort and pain. Donnie knew this, and he still yelled at Mikey about it anyway. And Mikey didn't yell back, cause Mikey never yelled back at them, but his voice was stern and tired and it just begged Donnie to at least consider talking about it. But Donnie’s 13, and the biggest jerk in the world because he doesn't want to talk about it anymore. And Mikey didn't deserve the one sided shouting match that was all Donnie, he didn't deserve the pointed "I can't believe you would take THEIR side, you NEVER listen to me!" And Mikey DEFINITELY didn't deserve the front door slamming in his face, the last words Donnie said hanging in the air behind him. "I HATE IT HERE!" It wasn't raining, but there was a misty cold hanging in the November air as Donnie sat at an empty park bench, somewhere in Flushing, feeling like the biggest loser in the world the second he ran away and oh,,, oh God. He ran AWAY. How could he run away? He didn't want to run away! He didn't want to run away from anything, especially if it was away from Mikey. Mikey, who deserved more than Donnie’s cold shoulder and heated words, but took it anyway, and he didn't even flinch as Donnie practically screamed at him. He just looked tired. More tired than ever. And accepted Donnie’s temper tantrum like he accepted every other bad thing that has ever happened to him. Like he thought he deserved it. And he was sad. Sad in a way that made Donnie want to throw up. Because he was one of the people who were NEVER supposed to hurt Mikey like that. But he did. He did and he ran away like a little kid and he felt so STUPID about it, jumping on the first bus he could and taking it to God knows what neighborhood and now he was sitting alone on some random park bench, the November cold sinking into his skin and thin shirt cause he didn't have the mind to grab a jacket on his way out and GOD what was he doing? He was cold and alone and probably lost and Mikey probably hated him and now- "Donatello?" Came a voice from behind Donnie, and Donnie whirled around on the park bench because he'd recognize that low and gentle voice anywhere and... Yup. There he was. Lieven Heather, or Leatherhead as Mikey always affectionately called him, standing tall and curious like. His long black hair pulled into a low bun, his green eyes leaf-like and bright, piercing through the dark park like fireflies, looking at Donnie like he was searching for an answer before he got the chance to ask the question and WOAH was Donnie not the emotional type, but he could have cried when he saw the familiar face.

Actually, he was already crying before, but crying because you’re happy to see someone and crying because you’re a jerk to your big brother are two completely different types of emotions, and Donnie tried to hide it either way by rubbing at his face with the back of his wrist. LH’s namesake leather jacket is HUGE on Donnie, but the 12 year old takes it without a fight because LH does NOT look like he's willing to negotiate, as he holds a bag of groceries in one hand and holds an umbrella over the both of them in the other, saying that his apartment is just a few blocks away, and it'd be best to get out of the cold. The tall man doesn't press Donnie for details, doesn't ask why his friend's kid brother is out at 8pm on a school night, all the way on the other side of the city, eyes red with something between tempered anger and grief and skin pale with November cold. Donnie is thankful for it. He doesn't feel like explaining himself quite yet. The second hand hurt from before is still raw in his chest, and even though he knows he's the one at fault, he can't really shake off the sinking black hole feeling in his chest. So the 10-minute walk is mostly silent. LH lives in a grey bricked building, on the third floor, and his apartment is exactly what Donnie would expect if he really thought hard about it. It was a simple studio, minimalist and uncluttered, but that seemed more because the place felt untouched rather than because LH was a particularly clean guy. All the electronics on in the kitchen where stainless steel and spotless, Donnie half suspected they were untouched because of the garbage can filled with dollar store Ramen noodle cups and forks in the sink. His grey walls were bare, and he didn't have a TV,  but there was a large bookshelf that covered the expanse of one wall, filled to the brim with thick books that looked like they belonged in the reference section of a library. There was a little queen-sized bed shoved in the corner, neatly made, and looked rarely slept in. The only sign of life in the little apartment that felt much too small for the nearly 7-foot man was the little desk that sat beside the bed, which was covered in astrophysics textbooks, notebooks filled with scribbled notes and a few orange study note cards that had Donnie's older brother written (metaphorically) all over them. Lh motioned to the chair at the desk with a nodded, "you can sit there if you want. I'll make some Valerian tea." "Valerian tea?" "Helps with stress." "I'm not stressed." "Right, of course not. Still tastes good." And Donnie doesn't really like tea, he'd much prefer coffee, or one of the energy drinks Leo sneaks him during school lunches because Mikey doesn’t buy them, but he knows better than to ask for that. He knew about LH’s anxiety disorder and underlying PTSD, from a past that Donnie didn't know any details about except from snippets he'd overhear here and there from the hushed late-night conversations LH and Mikey would have when they thought that Leo and Donnie and Raph were asleep, and he knew that caffeine wasn't something LH indulged in often because of it. The tea tastes fine though. It's hot, and burns his throat a little, but Donnie doesn't care enough to wait for it to cool down to enjoy it. Because it hurts, and Donnie figures he kinda deserves the pain. It's after a few quiet minutes, Donnie sitting at LH’s desk while LH leans against his kitchen counter, that Donnie reaches for a courage he doesn't usually possess and tells LH everything.

About the extra AP classes, and the nosey teachers, and the way it feels a bit too suffocating trying to be everything everyone wants him to be.

And how it all feels too lonely. He barely remembers his mom. He’s starting to forget dad. Mikey works all the time and Raph goes to a completely different school. If he moves up a few grades, then he loses Leo too. And he just can’t deal with that. He can’t deal with everyone, some way or another, leaving him. And how in some, backward, twisted way, it sometimes feels like people are trying to get rid of him. And he just can’t take it anymore. Donnie likes LH. He's smart and collective and cool and he's super nice to Mikey and he’s pretty much everything that Donnie wants to be when he grows up. And he's friends with LH. LH gives him pointers on his science projects and he teaches Leo how to punch a bully like its nothing and he's patient and understanding and helpful with Raph's temper and he's a godsend of a friend the Hamato clan didn't know they could afford after April had came into their lives and Donnie LIKES Lh. But he didn't think they were good enough friends for Donnie to deserve THIS. LH listened to him patiently and quietly. Nodding at the appropriate moments in Donnie’s tearful and half-hysterical rambling about his school and his GPA and how he didn't mean to take it out on Mikey and he didn't mean to run away but GOD he was so sick of everyone looking down on him like a little kid and like HE didn't know what was best for him and didn't have a choice in deciding HIS future. And he expects LH to get mad at him too, cause he was Mikey’s friend first before Donnie’s, and Donnie YELLED at Mikey, and Donnie WASNT going to sob like a child about it, but his head lowers and there's a stupid stinging in his eyes and he sniffs once or twice anyway when he mutters "God, I'm so stupid. Mikey probably hates me right now and is so mad at me." And he can hear LH sigh, and put his own cup of tea down, before walking over to where Donnie sat and crouching before his chair. "That's funny you think that, because when I texted him earlier, he sounded nothing short of scared out of his mind and relieved." "You texted him???" "Well yeah, of course. He called me shortly after you ran out, singing the same tune you are about how you're so mad at him and he didn’t mean to fight with you and that you probably hate him. That’s probably the only reason I even saw you, I wouldn't have known to look out for you if he hadn't told me to keep a lookout for you." And that, woah, Donnie felt a million times worse now because of COURSE, he didn't hate Mikey! Donnie wasn't even MAD at him. He was just being a stupid stubborn teen who took out all his frustrations and insecurities on the last person in the world who deserved it and boy oh boy, this whole thing was so stupid anyway.

“How about he finish our tea, wait for you to get a little bit warmed up first, and then get you back home so that you can tell everything you just told me to your brother. Because I think we both know how much he’d want to hear how you truly felt about this situation.”

And that... that sounded good. Because after his entire mini-rant, it felt like a shadow had been cleared from over Donnie’s heart, and now he wanted nothing more than to go home and hug his big brother for all his worth and apologize about a million and half times. Maybe more. Donnie hadn’t decided yet.

After they had finished their cup of tea, and LH had given Donnie one of his warmer college sweaters to wear before they took the subway back to the Hamato residence, where Mikey stood in front of the building, red-cheeked and shivering from the cold in a giant puff jacket and pajama bottoms, waiting for them.

Donnie didn't even wait, he ran the second he saw the familiar orange jacket that belonged to one of his favorite people on the planet and broke into a breakneck sprint, colliding into his older brother’s chest and waiting arms, and breaking into a choked cough when Mikey’s arms instantly wrapped around him like he always belonged there.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to run away!" Donnie rushed to say because he didn't want a second to go by without Mikey knowing that, but Mikey was already running a gentle hand through his hair and hushing into the crown of his head.

"Shhhh, shhhh it's ok, buddy. I know. I'm just glad you're home." And Mikey still had bags like bruises under his eyes, and looked on the point of breaking if Donnie hugged him too tightly, but he still smiled at Donnie with all the affection and warmth of the world when they pulled away, and Donnie couldn't fight the urge to spit out, "I don't hate it here! And I don't hate you. Ever! I'm sorry I said that. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry Mikey." And Mikey replied with a soft smile and an "I know, kiddo. It’s ok." But there was relief like a balloon losing helium in his eyes and shoulders, like he would have believed differently if Donnie hadn't said anything, and Donnie made the promise there and then that he’d do everything in his power to make sure Mikey never thought that way, even for a second, again. LH hadn't stayed over for the pizza movie night that Mikey offered as a silent ‘thanks for bringing my kid home’, so Mikey and Donnie saw him off at the subway station, and made the few blocks back to their waiting apartment and waiting little brothers with their arms around each other in a side hug. Neither one of them wanting to let each other out of their grasps. And there had been a promise to talk about it later, because Donnie was feeling a little more up for negotiation even though Mikey swore up and down that he’d back whatever Donnie decided to do 110%, but it could wait till another day, when both of their nerves and hearts weren't so tender and raw with emotion. Tonight, they would just sink into the weathered old couch that was softened by a million quilts, and out on a Mothra vs Godzilla movie, and squeeze themselves between an over-excited Raph, who couldn't stay still and just HAD to act out all the Godzilla fight scenes, and a relaxed Leo, who sprawled his legs over Donnie's lap despite Donnie complaining about it, but Donnie didn't make any effort to push him away because Leo kept keeping a wary and watchful eye on his two older brothers, probably knowing more about both sides than either one of them, and keeping his legs over Donnie was half for familiarity and half to keep him from jumping up and running out again and huh, maybe he wasn’t so relaxed after all. Guess Donnie had more than a million and a half apologies to make. Better round it off to a good 2 million, just to be safe. Because Donnie couldn't rightly blame him for keeping a careful eye out, but Donnie had learned his lesson. He wasn't running away again. He wasn't running anywhere if it was away from his brothers. Away from the only family he’s ever had. Because donnie was stubborn and stuck in his ways. And he wasn't going to quit the robotics club, and he wasn't going to skip grades and he wasn't going to leave Leo behind and he wasn't going to be left behind. Donnie wasn’t going to run away. Because Donnie wasnt going anywhere.

(one of the doodles I did for this particular story)

[homesteadchronicles]

Beyond the obviously SUPER COOL title of “sealscarred,” I want to know the nitty gritty details! As long as nothing is spoilery, of course: is it an actual scar, or is it more like a tattoo? Is its appearance magical, and does it always result in being crowned a royal? Does it move in families? Is there only one at a time? There are seven seals, right — is there a different scar for each one, appearing on different people? If not, which seal does Royan have? Is it significant somehow? How so?

HOO BOY, I was not expecting such an outcry about this but I am all too happy to share! Thank you for your interest, my friend. Let me dissect this, piece by piece. Buckle up, y’all, it’s gonna be a long ride:

Is a “Sealscar” an actual scar, or is it more of a tattoo?

For the most part, a Sealscar is more of an insignia inherently embedded in one’s skin. It is not necessarily raised, so a tattoo would be more accurate. Unlike tattoos (and the Earthfont runes, for that matter), however, Sealscars glow when in use and cannot be removed by any means.

While it’s true that most “Sealscars” aren’t actual scars, Royan’s is. This is because Royan was not born with his Seal, as all others are. Whatever happened just prior to this excerpt caused this Seal to appear.

Is its appearance magical? Does it move in families?

It’s genetics, actually! Seals are passed down through bloodlines, though it’s not guaranteed to inherit one. It’s quite difficult to do so, believe it or not!

There are rumors, though, that Seals can appear by other means. Some say great trauma can cause one’s dormant powers to awaken. Others say the proximity to a tear in the Veil can do the same. And the last theory is that contact with an otherworldly spirit can either grant or enhance one’s power.

Does it always result in being crowned a royal?

Not at all! In Royan’s case, he believes this because the old king - Sigurd, who bore the same seal as Royan now has - is now deceased. The old king’s heiress, Sigrid, has not yet undergone her coronation. Thus, the crown passes to Royan’s father - Magnus...for now. As Royan is Magnus’ oldest child, he will naturally inherit the throne. And even if he tried to contest it, give it to Sigrid as per her birthright, the people of their kingdom would want someone with a Seal on the throne. It’s more him believing this in fear and grief than anything else, although he has at least somewhat just cause to do so.

Throughout time, those with Seals have become military generals, folk heroes, wandering mercenaries, evil dictators, etc. It depends entirely on the person.

Is there only one at a time?

Now THAT is an interesting question! Technically speaking, no - there could be more than one in existence at any given time. In fact, there could be thousands of them! It was believed that, originally, everyone bore a Seal. However, there was a time - a long time - when Seals ceased to appear at all. After this, it seemed that only one of each ever appeared. Some say this is divine intervention for man’s powerhunger. Others believe it is mere coincidence. Scientists claim it is the adaptive method of the human body to avoid that which is unnatural to mortal man.

Are there seven seals? Do they look differently on different people?

Yes and no. There are seven Divine Seals. These are the original Seals believed to have been borne by the first humans to walk the earth. However, at some point in time, the bloodlines became...tainted. By what is, of course, hotly debated. Some say the Nephilim, some say mankind’s sin, some say simple genetic malfunction.

Seven new Seals eventually surfaced: the Profane Seals. These Seals appeared the same way as their Divine counterparts, but they would manifest upside-down and provide powers adjacent to their sister Seals. For example, the Divine Seal of the Timekeeper (Acceleration) can speed up something’s growth or accelerate one’s healing, while the Profane Seal of the Timekeeper (Accretion) would reverse the effects of one’s healing, cause structures to erode, etc.

Generally speaking, the Seals look distinct from one another. The Seal of the Skywatcher looks completely different from that of the Lightbringer. But two people bearing the Seal of the Lightbringer? No, their Seals would look the same. They may appear in different places on their body, but that’s about it! 

The Seven Seals, along with their Divine and Profane variants, are as follows:

The Seal of Genesia, the Landmaker (Earth and Fire)

The Seal of Seleth, the Skywatcher (Wind and Lightning)

The Seal of Eveline, the Seawalker (Water and Ice)

The Seal of Cainan, the Lightbringer (Light and Darkness)

The Seal of Hasan, the Soultaker (Life and Death)

The Seal of Aeonir, the Timekeeper (Acceleration and Accretion)

The Seal of Inos, the Wayfarer (Astronomy and Dimensions)

What seal does Royan have?

Royan possesses the Divine Seal of the Timekeeper, thus possessing Dominion over Acceleration. Interestingly enough, his adoptive sister (and the former king’s daughter), Sigrid, bears the Profane Seal of the Timekeeper.

Is it significant?

I mean, in a book about a Seven-Sealed Vault, any Seal-bearing character is undoubtedly going to be significant lol but yes, it is significant both personally and universally! Personally, it sets Royan off on a journey to discover whether he is willing to embrace this newfound destiny or reject it entirely. Universally, it means that the world now knows of one person who can open a Seal on the Vault.

You see, only Divine Seals can open the Seven-Sealed Vault. Profane Seals have a...different purpose. Thus why Royan’s existence, coupled with the Vault’s discovery, sets Book One in motion.

___

Thank you for all the questions, my friend! If you want to read the excerpt that sparked these inquiries, click here!

[dol--blathanna]

🗺️👽 for Ameer?

Hi anon, thanks so much for the ask!!! I love doing these!! :)

🗺️ :

Does your OC like going on adventures? – Yes! Ameer was always the most adventurous in his family and enjoyed exploring new areas. Ofier is a very large country (canonically it was various different tribes and cultures in various different environments before it became unified as Ofier, so there were many places for him to go). When he grew into an adult, he flew the nest and travelled most of Ofier, whereas his family generally stay in one area and avoid travelling unless it absolutely can’t be avoided. He was always seen as quite odd by his sisters for his adventurous streak!

Have they ever discovered something really interesting and significant or are they just too busy getting lost? – Yes, though not always interesting in a good way! He’s met some very rare but very dangerous creatures while exploring – including an ancient, snake-like monster that lived deep in a cave in the mountains. He actually speaks about this experience in chapter 7 (which I haven’t posted yet) so I’ll hold off on too much description for the time being!

Where is their favourite place they’ve been? – He enjoyed visiting Nilfgaard a lot (before the events of Promises to Keep, this was the furthest north he’d ever been) but he also enjoyed travelling the steppes of Ofier, as it was so different to the mountainous foothills where he grew up – both in environment and in culture. This is where he found his first ever horse, which was called Mahra, so he has a soft spot for the steppes.

Least favourite? – Definitely Skellige. Although he enjoys travelling and has been to some of Ofier’s adjacent neighbours, the north of the Continent is very different to what he’s used to and extremely new ground for him, and unfortunately he hasn’t had many good experiences in this area, Skellige being the worst of them. He’s not particularly a fan of Velen either – but that’s largely because it’s cold, wet and miserable.

 👽:

Describe your OC as if they were an urban legend or myth! – This is such a cool one! 

Let’s say you’re a villager who lives along the mountain foothills of Ofier, talking to your friend about all the most recent village gossip. She says that apparently, one of the villages a few miles over got visited by the ‘mountain spirit’. You ask what she means, and she explains the story to you. Apparently, among the rural villages, sometimes a travelling man appears and asks for a room in which to stay for a month. He never gives his name, neither a given nor family one. He seems friendly and a little mischievous, but otherwise good natured. He smells of oranges and mountain jasmine, and he enjoys sweet food. When someone falls ill in the village, he tends to them, either with herbal medicine or with magic. That seems normal enough, you say, but your friend insists that as time goes by, strange things start happening. Neighbours swear that he’ll suddenly arrive at their door without ever seeing him approach, and without them even calling for help when their newborn child grows ill. A farmer claims that the mountain wolves don’t just ignore him, but seem to actively do his bidding. The pale widow centipedes never attack him, and he can climb into their nests to retrieve ingredients without getting even a single scratch. In the gleam of the moonlight, his eyes seem almost fox-like.

The elder folk say he must be a spirit of the mountain, your friend tells you. The mountain has sent a sprite – some sort of fae or friendly djinn – to help them, and such a blessing must be respected. But faes and djinns don’t just give blessings; they cast curses, too. Your friend lowers her voice and tells you about a group of bandits who roamed the mountain passes. They rode into the village and threatened to burn each house down if they weren’t given every ounce of gold the village possessed, giving the chief three days to gather the coin. The travelling doctor reassured the village he would deal with the problem. One by one, the bandits died off. Never with direct violence, but strange accidents. One goes too close to a pale widow nest, failing to notice it until the centipede jaws were around his neck. One falls down a ravine when he crosses a bridge, somehow not noticing it was broken. Two kill each other after somehow thinking they were each other’s mortal enemies. All were dead long before the third day passed.

You feel unnerved. It must have been the sun, you insist. They fell prey to the weather and environment, to mirage and heat-driven madness. When your friend insists that the mountain spirit cursed them all, you tell yourself that she’s always been a superstitious one. Besides, stories get twisted and changed while travelling by mouth along the mountain passes between villages. This mysterious doctor probably doesn’t even exist; just some tall tale invented to pass the time that got mistaken as truth.

When you return home, all thoughts of superstition leave your mind. Your mother tells you with tears in her eyes that your father has fallen prey to a snake bite, hidden in the long grass while he was hunting. The venom has taken to his body with frightening speed – without the right herbs or magic, he won’t last the night.

Before the grief has a chance to overtake you, your door knocks softly. Perhaps the village elders, coming to start preparing the funeral rites.

But standing in the doorway is a man you don’t recognise. In the low light, his eyes almost seem to glow and for a second, the pupils look more fox than person. He tells you he is a practitioner of magic, that he can cure your father of the snake bite. How he knew so quickly, where he came from, none of it matters as you usher him inside.

But as your friend’s words echo in your ears, you notice he smells of oranges and mountain jasmine. 

 This was really fun, trying to make an urban legend/myth for an aguara without making it too obvious! What a creative ask!

Thanks again for the ask, that was really fun!!

[angelofberlin2000]

Keanu Reeves May Be Pure, But He's Not Oblivious  

America’s most memeable actor is back in John Wick: Chapter 3, a movie that's in on the joke of our obsession with Keanu. He might be too.

Alison Willmore

BuzzFeed News Reporter

Posted on May 17, 2019, at 10:40 a.m. ET   

For a guy without any official web presence or expressed interest in things online, Keanu Reeves goes viral a lot. He's spawned memes when he's looked sad and other memes when he's looked happy. There's a Twitter account, 198,000 followers strong, devoted to "Keanu doing things" like wearing a fedora or hanging out on set with Sandra Bullock. Creepshot footage of the actor giving up his seat on the subway or rattling around the Bakersfield airport after an emergency landing has racked up thousands of delighted views. Reeves may have risen to fame as a Gen X movie star ("the most soulful while being the most stoner-bro," as the New York Times recently put it), but it was millennials who carved out a permanent place for Keanu in the internet boyfriend hall of fame, as an embodiment of inexpressible melancholy and a figure too pure for this world.

The fact that the actual Reeves — like any living, breathing human — is likely a lot more complicated than that has never gotten in the way of how he's been enshrined in the popular imagination, in part because Reeves has never seen fit to fight it. Reeves works hard onscreen, while barely seeming to notice the eyes (and cellphone cameras) that remain trained on him when he's off it. Where other stars attempt to actively sculpt and control their public image, Reeves submits to the sometimes intrusive attention with bemused acceptance, aware of but apparently unbothered by the fact that there's an outsize version of himself living in people's heads. When questioned about it, he tends to be kind: "Yeah, I guess that’s like an invasion of privacy. They didn’t ask me," he told Uproxx of the bus video, the existence of which seemed to be news to him. Then he added, "They were nice people. We were in it together. We had a nice car ride."

When Reeves went viral again last week, it was for something he definitely knew was being recorded. He was on The Late Show With Stephen Colbert, doing promo for John Wick: Chapter 3 — Parabellum, the preposterously enjoyable third film of the action franchise that's come to define this period in his career. Reeves, sporting some “I'm-between-roles” facial hair, talked up the stunts and how he was set to reprise his role as world-saving slacker Theodore "Ted" Logan in a third Bill & Ted movie, nearly three decades after the last one.

All of which led Colbert to coyly ask Reeves what he thought happened when we die — a ludicrously weighty question for the average talk-show exchange, but a perfect one for the bodhisattva of showbiz. And Reeves did not disappoint, answering simply that "I know that the ones who love us will miss us." It was both a perfectly shareable aphorism and a poignant reminder of his own experiences with losing loved ones, which are real and terrible and which were also outlined in a Facebook video that blew up to the point that the fact-checking site Snopes felt compelled to put together an entry on it, judging it to be "Mostly True."

Reeves is now 54 years old. The inhuman splendor of his youthful beauty (seriously, have you seen My Own Private Idaho lately?) has gradually softened into a more manageable gorgeousness that shows the touch of time while remaining a little unreal. The fact that Reeves isn't a kid anymore is, in fact, the whole point of the John Wick trilogy, which puts the actor in the eponymous role as a retired killer yanked back into violence after an arrogant Russian mob scion kills the puppy gifted to him by his late wife.

The John Wick franchise is the creation of Chad Stahelski and David Leitch, stunt coordinators turned filmmakers whose elegant action sequences make clear how often it's really Reeves there doing the work, having a swordfight on a motorcycle or slowly sinking a blade into a struggling foe's eyeball. His physicality is front and center, and it's both impossible (John should be dead a thousand times over) and extremely human (John bleeds, staggers, reels with grief). Like Reeves himself, John is at once larger than life and extremely to scale.

Reeves is famous for action. His biggest films are the Wachowskis' Matrix trilogy, those landmarks of bullet-time choreography and heady stoner philosophy for which his flat affect was perfectly suited, as well as Speed and Point Break. But he's always harbored a romantic streak too, even if it hasn't always been showcased well by leading roles (like his in 2006's The Lake House) that leave him looking lost. He's better as the losing corner of the love triangle in Nancy Meyers’ 2003 rom-com Something's Gotta Give, despite the grievous injustice of Diane Keaton throwing him over for Jack Nicholson. The John Wick films work so well not just because of their fight sequences and increasingly arcane assassin mythology, but because of the degree to which they're romance-adjacent. They're heartfelt films about grief, with John as a man lamenting the death of his love and losing pieces of the life they built together in each subsequent installment.

The further the John Wick series has gone on, the more it's curled around Reeves' own persona. The first was a comeback vehicle for Reeves that also happened to be about a hitman's comeback from normal living, and the second was a riff on contractual work obligations. By the third, John is as beset by admirers as Reeves was at that Bakersfield bus stop, only in the film they're affectionately trying to murder him. When he faces down two henchmen (played by Cecep Arif Rahman and Yayan Ruhian of the Raid series), they thank him for the honor of fighting him, and maintain a running commentary on his performance in Indonesian during the sequence. "He's getting slow," muses one as John peels himself off the floor, while the other points out that he is recently out of retirement.

The main antagonist in the new movie, at least physically, is a striver and self-declared fan named Zero (Mark Dacascos), who’s a devotee bumped up to the assassin big leagues. "I've been looking forward to meeting you for a long time!" he declares. "And so far you haven't disappointed!" Zero is a surprisingly funny creation who owes something to Sonny Chiba in Kill Bill: Vol. 1, in how he's introduced, and something to Anne Baxter in All About Eve, in how he's ready to destroy his idol and take his place.

But Zero and his team also feel like a meditation on modern fandom at its most intense, where people need the person they admire to live up to the image they've formed of them, with an implied threat as to what might happen if the object of their obsession doesn't manage this feat. Most of the characters in the John Wick movies are bewildered by John's efforts to get out of the game and live like a normie, but they treat him as a fellow professional. The baddies in John Wick 3, on the other hand, are fans who feel a sense of ownership over John because they've tracked his career so closely.

Reeves may have the most even-keeled relationship with celebrity of any A-lister working today, but in the beleaguered looks he shoots at his foes in this new movie, there's a hint of wry self-awareness. It doesn't feel accurate to describe Reeves as a reluctant movie star, not when he devotes so much of himself to what he does, and when he gamely participates in every aspect of the process. But in playing this reluctant killer, the actor does offer a glimpse of himself as someone who's aware that there’s a finer line between being loved by the public and being devoured by it than anyone would like to think about.

There’s a thrill watching Reeves in this role that’s related to how delightful it feels to see him turn up as what looks like himself in the trailer for Netflix's upcoming Always Be My Maybe — the rom-com loser and internet boyfriend all in one, mashing his face into Ali Wong's while muttering, "I miss your taste." We may like to treat Reeves as a kind of holy innocent, but just because he avoids artifice doesn't mean he doesn't know what's going on. ●

[weasleyimaginewheezes]

George x reader / Now or never (Part 2)

Original Request: This might be really specific but I’ve just had this idea for a while and I suck at writing but can you do an imagine where reader is Sirius black’s daughter and is the same year as Fred and George and her personality is exactly like Sirius and she falls in love with George but the war is going on and death eaters are coming after them but they protect each other and can it just be really angsty and fluffy? I’m sorry I just love your writing so much you’re so good at it (From anon)

Request: NOW OR NEVER WAS SO GOOD AND I LOVE IT PLS MAKE A PART 2 (From anon)

A/n: Here you go anon! Beware this part is pretty angsty. Set in HBP and I did do the death eater scene from the movie but not the part when they burn the burrow down because that scene annoys me and is pretty pointless. Gif not mine. As always I’m a sucker for a sappy fluff ending. Anyway, enjoy 😊

Word Count: 2.3k+

Warnings: Mentions of grieving. Angst and hurt. 

Part 1 | Part 2 

He was gone. Well and truly gone.

When Harry had told you, you didn’t believe him. Because your father had just come back into your life less than a year ago. He couldn’t be dead. Harry tried to comfort you but he was dealing with the grief himself, you told him to just go and he abided, not wanting to upset you further. You held back your screams of anger and sadness that bubbled up inside you until you were alone. You couldn’t hold back any longer as you got tangled up in your own thoughts. You needed George, the one person who had left. Your screaming dissolved into tears as a gentle tap sounded on your window.

A small unrecognisable owl was perched with a letter tied to its leg, waiting expectantly. You wiped away some of your tears and grabbed the letter, ignoring the pestering owl looking for a treat. You tore it open and your spirits were lifted as you read the letter from George. His kind words of sorrow and comfort weren’t enough to stop the welling up of tears behind your eyes however.

You packed quickly for the end of the year and went to eat early hoping that you could avoid the sympathies from most. Unfortunately for you it was the end of term feast which meant that the food wasn’t laid out until dinner actually begun so you sat and waited. As you did so, you reread your boyfriend’s letter and thought about penning one back until you remembered that you would see him the next day on the platform where he had promised to meet you. You tried your best to smile happily at the thought but it was soon overpowered by your grief.

Students piled in for the feast and although you were sat at the Ravenclaw table, Harry and his friends still came over to say hi and check you were okay before sitting at their own table. You nodded blankly before becoming quite surprised as Luna Lovegood sat with you smiling sympathetically. Dumbledore said a few words and finally the food was set out. Luna cheered happily as she dished herself some pudding, not even looking at the main course platter. Normally you would have smiled with her, laughed with her and you other friends but today you just wanted to eat and be out of the great hall as quickly as possible.

Sleeping didn’t come easy, your mind kept you awake reliving Harry’s words or your last moment with your father. It had been at Christmas, he gave you a small present which was a picture frame of him and you when you were younger. You both looked happy. You remembered his watchful eye whenever you were sat with George and his little jokes. How you wish you could hear one of those again. 

*****

The train ride back was long. Your friends tried their best to talk to you and distract you but it didn’t work. You missed the twins so much, they always had a magical way of cheering you up which never seemed to fail. Your heart felt heavy as you listened to the laughter and cheer of the compartment you sat in, it almost seemed impossible to feel that way right now. The only thing that made you feel hopeful was the thought of George’s arms being tightly wrapped around you and his lips on yours. So, when the train stopped you were the first one out of the door. Your eyes scanned the platform for George’s ginger locks and as soon as you spotted his towering figure behind Molly, you ran without a care towards him.

He grinned as you leapt into his open arms. Your head nuzzled into his shoulder as you breathed in his scent. His arms snaked around your waist and lifted you up before pulling back and smiling down at you, it became more saddened as he watched tears fall down your cheeks.

“Hey, it’s alright, love.” George kissed away the tears before he gently met your lips with a swift kiss. “I’m here.” And that was all you needed in that moment. George kissed your hands as he held them tightly, following his family as they led the way out of the train station.

The burrow seemed a good distraction, with all of its inhabitants there was never nothing going on. As soon as you got there, you realised someone was missing and turned towards George. “Where’s Fred?” At your question George began to look sheepish and avoided your gaze.

“Oh well – you see,” George stammered and your eyes narrowed in on his own.

“You haven’t told her?” Molly who was already making preparations for dinner, scolded her son with a stern look. George shook his head lowly.

“Told me what?” You looked between Molly and George with a frown.

“Me and Fred aren’t technically living her anymore.” Your brows furrowed together in confusion as you questioned him. “With the business and everything we’re living above the shop. It will be easier.” He shrugged with a worried look that you might be mad at him for not saying anything.

“Oh.” Your voice was quiet as you realised you wouldn’t be able to sneak into George’s room to cuddle with him.

“But hey, why don’t you stay with us for the summer?” George smiled hopefully and your hopes picked up with his suggestion. “It will be a bit of a tight squeeze but-“ He shrugged again and his smile grew wider. “Anything for you, my love.”

“Really? Fred won’t mind?” Your lips raised higher into a more defined smile as George laughed.

“He’s gonna have to deal with it because I’m not spending any more time apart from you.” He pulled you closer and your arms automatically swung around his neck, your hands playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. He smiled widely as he kissed you tenderly.

“Okay, not in the kitchen come on.” Molly ushered you both out of the room with a kind laugh. George was happy to oblige as he pulled you upstairs to his and Fred’s old room. He pulled you onto his bed to cuddle and you laughed happily, forgetting everything that had been troubling you. George spooned you on his small single bed as he whispered excitedly about the shop. But before you knew it, your brain was blocking out his words as you thought back to the previous summer, seeing your father for the first time in 14 years and knowing now that you’d never see him again.

There was silence as George asked a question but you didn’t hear him. He became confused until he looked over to see you crying quietly. He immediately turned you around and held you closer, you cried onto his shoulder as he whispered words of comfort to you softly.

“It’s gonna be okay, you know when my dad-“ George’s voice was quiet as he held you but you soon pulled away to look at him with a tense expression.

“What? That’s not the same thing George.” You said, a quiet anger filling your voice. George hurried to backtrack on his words with a shake of his head.

“That’s not what I was saying, I just meant that it was hard for me too but-“

“But he came back.” You cut him off again, untangling yourself from his arms fully. He looked confused as you got up. He went to protest that that wasn’t what he meant before you beat him. “At least you’ve had your dad all your life George! Mine was in prison for half of mine and then when I finally got him back- he- he…” Your chest heaved with a loud sob as you broke down onto the adjacent bed. George hurriedly went over to you but you shoved him away. “Just leave please.” Your voice was full of hurt and constricted by the overwhelming emotion you felt. George didn’t try to argue and instead left with a promise of seeing you at dinner.

You calmed yourself down enough to move to sit on the small window sill. You observed the bright blue summer sky with the occasional cloud passing by with a sense of sadness. The outside atmosphere was serene and it would have made anybody happy but not you and not today. Your mind replayed the brash argument with your boyfriend and you had the overwhelming sense that everything was falling to pieces right in front of you.

Downstairs a forlorn George sat with his head in his hands as his mother gave him some words of advice. “Georgie, she’s just lost her father.”

“I know that Mum! I feel like she’s pushing me away and I don’t know what to do.” George sighed sadly as he looked towards the stairs, wishing that (y/n) was wrapped up his arms, protected from this cruel world.

“All you can do is be there for her. She needs you, she might not realise it now but she does.” Molly rubbed her son’s shoulder comfortingly with a sad smile before she went to serve up dinner. “Would you let (y/n) know dinner’s ready?” George nodded, happy for the excuse to see if his girlfriend was okay.

Your head rested against the window as you thought more about everything. George peered in through the door with a small knock and you had never been more grateful to see his face. You didn’t like fighting with George even if it was a small argument and more one sided. He smiled unsurely as he entered the room, gaining confidence as your smile lifted. You both went to apologise at the same time before giggling at each other.

“I am truly sorry, love.” George sat down on his bed still tentative towards you. You bit your lip as you hopped down from your spot and crossed the room to him, sitting in his lap with an apology of your own. He stroked your hair sweetly and kissed your temple as you snuggled up further into his warmth. “I was supposed to come and get you for dinner.” He laughed as you defiantly curled more into him.

“You know, I’m not actually that hungry.” You smiled up at George from where your head was rested on his chest and he laughed again, leaning down to kiss your lips passionately without objection.

*****

The summer that followed was brilliant. You stayed with Fred and George above their shop and helped them with the business. It was amazing as you witnessed their dream brought to life and all through their own hard work. You also took up some shifts at St mungo’s to start your own dream of becoming a healer and George was so proud. The pain of your loss tended to cloud most of your days but with George there to cheer you up it was hard to stay sad for long and if you didn’t feel like being cheered up, George was happy to let you cry on his shoulder and fall asleep in his arms.

Soon enough Christmas came and you agreed to spend it at the burrow. It was cosy and warm, the smell of mince pies greeted you as soon as you entered the home and everything was perfect. Most nights you spent in George’s arms laughing about the budding romance between the younger teens of the family and a good amount of time not talking as well which caused some protests from other members of the house especially when Fred was eating.

And then one night as you were beating George at a rematch of wizards’ chess a loud bang sounded outside and you jumped up terrified. “Georgie?” You turned around to meet his eyes and saw the fear behind them, that must have mirrored your own. He walked to you and held your hand tightly, walking with you to the front door. You watched as harry ran out to chase after Bellatrix and then Ginny followed. George became tense as he watched his sister run through the surrounding fire. Your anger burned fiercely, the woman who killed him was within your grasp.

You went to run but George’s strong grip pulled you back. You resisted, hitting him in your anger but he only held you closer. You screamed into his chest and Molly insisted that George take you back inside. You resisted more, tears falling heavily as you were taken upstairs and sat on George’s bed, your chest rose with panic and fear. George sat beside you and pulled you into his side with peppered kisses all over your face to calm you. His calming efforts began to settle you down as the commotion outside continued.

George kept his promise of protection as he held you tightly until he knew it was safe and everything outside had been handled. He moved to let you go but before he could he realised you were asleep, cutely snuggled in his arms. He relaxed himself as Molly came to check that you were both okay, George nodded surely before falling into a calm sleep himself.

It was a while as you both slept before you disrupted the peace, sitting up in a panic. You had a vivid flashback of everything that had happened and you screamed. George panicked himself before attempting to calm you again and holding you closer.

“Georgie, I- I- Can’t-“ You panted through your unsteady breathing as he held you close to his chest.

“Shhh, love it’s okay, I’m here and I always will be.” You nodded with the inkling of a smile and George just kissed your tears away before kissing your lips and cupping your face. And however, ridden with doubt and grief you were, you knew his words were true. 

Taglist: @blue-andbrxnze @queengirl56 @spinspinspin-spin-to-forget @rochelle-the-ravenclaw @justalovertoall @beaaa-banana @harrypotterlifejamesphelps @a9yearoldboy @miss-tipton-is-beautiful @shutupweatherby

(Want to be added or removed to the taglist? just message me :))

[hekate1308]

Wrong Channel

Crowley survival fix-it because... reasons. Enjoy!

“There he is. Oh Great One, not feeling so great now, are we?”

For a moment, just for a moment, Crowley is too confused to learn where he is and who is talking to him. The last thing he remembers is standing in front of Lucifer and plunging the knife into his gut so the boys can get away, and is that his heartbeat he can hear in his ears, the steady thump that’s been gone for centuries –

“Well? Have we found our bearings?”

He looks up at the –

Asmodeus. Another Prince of Hell. Wonderful. As if Ramiel wasn’t bad enough.

And not only that.

He’s in Hell, with many of those who once were his minions watching him greedily.

Furthermore, he’s not only alive – he’s human. He’s human and he’s in Hell.

He really didn’t like the first time around that happened, the last thing he wanted was a repeat.

“Are you not going to say anything?”

Crowley decides he’s too old and tired to play games. He’s always known a hopeless situation when he’s seen one, and this is about as bad... standing in front of Lucifer in an apocalyptic waste land when he can control your meat suit.

So he says nothing. Let them laugh, let them cheer, he’s done with the lot of them. He sacrificed himself to save the Winchesters, and that’s that. Whatever comes now is nothing but a boring epilogue nobody will remember or even learn about.

Asmodeus sneers. “So you don’t have anything to say to me? I could imagine there are others you’d like to speak to.”

Consigned to his fate as he is, Crowley doesn’t like the expression on his face. He remembers it from the mirror. He just had a terrible idea how he can torture him.

“You know what, my friends, I just thought of something. Why just amuse ourselves by torturing the King to death? We can as well lean back and watch as others do so.”

Crowley expects hallucinations, or perhaps one of the demons who were always against his rule, but instead, Asmodeus flicks his wrists and Crowley’s thrown back on earth.

Quite literally. He lands on an empty field and needs a few moments to catch his breath before he staggers to his feet. Asmodeus has put him in the same ratty clothes Lucifer once forced upon him, and to the hunger, disorientation and shock he feels ashamed of his appearance.

He shakes his head; that’s not important right now. Asmodeus has a plan, and they’ll be watching him.

Is he going to send hell hounds after him? His favourites, maybe even Juliet?

No; that’s not enough. Someone like Asmodeus would want to bring the worst sentence upon him that –

Oh. His heart sinks as he realizes. Of course.

Asmodeus expects him to go running straight to the Winchesters, and to them slaughtering him.

How unoriginal. And yet, not without a certain logic. The boys were the closest thing he ever had to friends. Yes, they hate his guts, but –

Something heavy settles in his stomach as he contemplates that Asmodeus might well go by his own interactions with them. He has no idea how long he has been gone, but chances are they have already run into one another.

A part of him, a weak, desperate part that almost only ever seemed to make an appearance when he was with the Winchesters, hoped they would mourn for him.

Seems like the opposite is true.

Well then. He won’t make it easy for the black-eyed bastards, now that he’s back on earth. True, he pretty much consigned himself to his fate, but here he is, and if him living on makes them angry, that’s at least a reason to carry on.

So no looking for the boys. Yes, he’ll be alone, but for his newly human emotions, it is a comfort to pretend that he could just show up at the bunker and they’d take him in.

First things first.

He desperately needs something to eat and drink, and it’s going to be dark soon.

Good thing he’s always been talented at solving problems. He soon locates a nearby city, and if he has to commit a few small crimes...

He was the king of Hell. Any attempt at trying to be a decent person is doomed to fail anyway.

Three days later, he’s on the road in a stolen car with stolen clothes on his back and stolen money in his pockets.

He spends a few weeks just driving around until he catches himself searching the paper for demonic or ghostly activities, as if he’s a pet dog trying to find his owners even though it knows they’ll just beat him.

After that, he forces himself to settle down in a relatively big city where he can live anonymously.

He eventually decides to become a business consultant – not too difficult considering he was the king of the crossroads once. A job is soon found, and then he... lives his life.

It’s perhaps not an important life, or even one that matters, but he has an apartment, a job and he even can buy the good Craig now and then when he’s careful with his budget.

He doesn’t think much about the boys except when he does.

His colleagues are neither too friendly nor too annoying, a balance he can live with.

He’s safe and comfortable.

And he’s never been more bored.

His evenings at home begin to remind him of those long senseless meetings in Hell where no one would get what he was talking about.

Perhaps because of that, he almost accidentally starts a side business catering towards hunters.

He really shouldn’t have gone to that cemetery at night, but how was he supposed to ignore news of a ghost in his own city?

Another hunter is already on the trail, and that is how he meets Lizzie.

“Fergus Sheppard” he introduces himself. Somehow, he has ended up using his hated first name again, and he can’t even say why. Maybe as a tribute to his Mother? To Gavin? Thinking about it hurts too much and it won’t change a thing, so he usually avoids the subject.

She studies him. “Not a hunter, judging by your clothes.”

He has kept the excellent taste of his demon days, so he just shrugs. “No, but I am... hunter-adjacent, you could say. I found the case and there was no reason not to get rid of the ghost.”

She nods. “Say, “hunting-adjacent” – does that mean you can get me some protection boxes? For the really strong stuff. Mine are all occupied...”

“I am rather good at procuring things” he assures her, and within two days, Lizzie has what she needs.

It just spirals from there. Lizzie tells other hunters, shares his number, and soon his evenings are filled with handling requests from hunters all over America.

He figures it’s still far away from what the boys are doing.

Either way, he feels better doing this than he has since he woke up human.

Lizzie calls him regularly. He’s almost ready to think of her as a friend, only she’d hardly be that if she knew the truth.

Yet it is somewhat comforting, hearing news from the hunting world.

Inevitably, the boys’ names fall. “I met the Winchesters today! Can you believe it, Fergus?”

“I’ve heard of them” he mumbles.

“You better have! They’re freaking legends! Anyway, they even had the angel with them – although he’s human these days.”

“Castiel?” he asks.

“Yes. Knew you’d heard more than you let on. Seems like he died not so long ago and was brought back human. Looked happy enough, though.”

He feels many conflicting emotions at hearing that – he has gotten used to that. There’s pain, and grief, just for a moment, and also envy and jealousy because Cas wasn’t brought back by some devil-wannabe in order to punish him, but apparently God himself popped back down and resurrected him and now he gets to live with Sam and Dean and no one even thought of looking for Crowley in this mess.

“Fergus? You’ve gone quite.”

“Sorry. I’m a bit tired.”

She laughs. “I forgot. You’re trying to take over your company, aren’t you.”

He jumps at the chance to change the subject.

Sadly, with his emotions all over the place and his side business growing daily, he has overlooked a certain possibility.

It’s a text like any other.

Hey, a hunter called Lizzie gave me your number in case I need anything. We need angel Feathers. Ready to pay.

He never asks for too much. Hunters have it bad enough with him forcing them to sell their house so they can kill monsters.

It takes a little longer to procure angel feathers instead of something more common like basilisk teeth, but a week later, their date is set.

He’s never had any misgivings of letting hunters in his apartment. It’s well warded, and there is nothing there to show who he used to be. So, really, the hunter who visits him has to have known him before... everything happened in order to recognize him.

Crowley freezes when he opens the door and Dean Winchester stands before him.

With his human reflexes, it’s small wonder he’s pressed against the wall in the next moment, a knife at his throat.

“Alright. Lizzie swears you’re legit, so I’m gonna take a chance and allow you five minutes to explain why your parading around in Crowley’s meat suit. And it better be a good one.”

“It’s rather difficult talking like this” he drawls.

Dean frowns and steps away.

Crowley wonders if the demons are still watching, and if they’re enjoying themselves.

If he were in their shoes, he would.

The open look on disdain in Dean’s face is almost too much.

He wonders when he became so weak.

“Look” Dean hisses, “I can bear the face, but if you keep imitating his mannerisms, I’m gonna cut your head off, no questions asked –“

That’s how much he is despised by the Winchesters. He offed himself for them, and Dean can’t even manage to hear him talk and move like himself.

Fine, then. This be the end.

He shrugs. “As you wish”. He’s using the old Scottish accent he spoke back in his first human life, and he forces himself to relax, to carry himself differently.

Dean squints at him (not quite unlike Cas would), then abruptly shakes his head. “Nope. That’s not it. You’re acting. Before, it was more...” he trails off and studies him. “Authentic...”

Crowley waits for the penny to drop.

“Crowley!?”

“In the flesh. Quite literally, these days.”

“So you’re human too?”

He nods. Undoubtedly, now comes the moment the demons have all been waiting for. Their former king being berated, insulted and degraded by the man he died for.

And Dean looks indeed annoyed as he strolls towards him, but instead of the expected blow, he chuckles and clasps his shoulder. “How long have you been back? Couldn’t pick up a phone, your Highness? Cas managed that just fine, thank God.”

“I – ahm – about a year” he replies, surprised it’s been that long.

Dean shakes his head as his hand falls away from Crowley’s shoulder. “I get you not wanting much to do with us, but still – one message would have been nice.”

“I’ll remember that” he says lamely. Because every time he imagined this scene (of course he did, even though he tried not to) he never pictured Dean being somewhat happy that he is back.

“Knowing you, you probably have some good alcohol lying around...”

“Craig.”

“Knew it.”

“So” Dean says after they’ve sat down at his kitchen table, “nice place you got here. And Lizzie says your business is booming?”

“I have been thinking about giving up my day job” he admits.

Dean nods. “She mentioned that too. Man, what an idiot I was. Fergus, too – Why, by the way?”

“Familiarity. So I would react to it appropriately.”

“Smart.”

“I do my best. I assume you still live in the bunker?”

“Yeah. Feel free to drop in anytime.”

Crowley would doubt his words, only that what follows next is an interrogation to make sure he has everything he needs. Does he have an anti-possession tattoo? How does he keep his place safe? Have the demons been after him? (That leads to an explanation about Asmodeus and Dean mumbling to himself about fixing Michael’s Lance soon) And anyway, is he sure he has enough money?

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry much about demons now” Dean finally tells him. “They got another civil war in Hell. Not everyone likes Asmodeus. Small wonder, considering they never realized what they had.”

Silence.

“Right” Crowley says eventually, “The angel feathers. Here –“

He gets them. Dean reaches out and nods. “Thanks, man. Some spells and their ingredients... Anyway, mind if I kip here tonight? I was going to get a motel, but...”

Crowley wouldn’t have believed that Dean trusts him enough to be unconscious around him, and yet he sleeps on his sofa that night.

“So” Dean tells him as they’re saying goodbye, “Don’t stay a stranger, you hear me? Just shoot me a text now and then so that I know you’re alright.”

“I will. Feel free to call if you need anything.”

Dean nods and leaves.

A few hours later Crowley gets a call from Sam and Cas, who need to hear him in order to believe Dean.

He doesn’t know it yet, but that phone call will start a chain of events that ends with him moving into the bunker six months later.