#i haven’t seen it in decades and reciting it from memory

[mariamlaila]

she’s going out on a friday night. i’m on the couch watching the first season of spongebob and crocheting . we’re not the same

[moviemunchies]

...I really like this movie.

So in case you haven’t been on the Internet in the past decade, The Room was a film written, directed by, and starring Tommy Wiseau, a mysterious man of unknown origin with inexplicable wealth. It’s not a good movie. But it became famous as “the Citizen Kane of bad movies” and somehow achieved cult status. Tommy Wiseau tried to fight it at first, because he clearly imagined it to be an intense and personal drama, but over time he started selling it as a dark comedy. I don’t think anyone was fooled, but the fact is that it’s made a bunch of money now, and it’s a favorite with plenty of people who can recite lines from heart.

One of the movie’s stars, Greg Sestero, wrote a book about his friendship with Tommy Wiseau and the making of The Room called The Disaster Artist. This book was adapted to film by James Franco, who also starred as Tommy Wiseau, and his brother Dave played Greg Sestero.

[I’ve heard it said that James Franco wanted Johnny Depp in the lead role, but it didn’t work out. This is, I think, alluded to in the film where Wiseau tells Greg he can find Johnny Depp if he’s not available? Or maybe I’m wrong, I don’t know.]

I have yet to read the book--I put it on hold from the library and shall hopefully get to it in the next couple of weeks--but I’m told that Tommy Wiseau isn’t a huge fan of it, though he did approve of this adaptation well enough. The book contains a lot more speculation and theories as to Wiseau’s origins and how he got his seemingly limitless wealth, and Wiseau very famously doesn’t like to discuss those things. It also paints him in a much less flattering light. Mind you, the film also portrays him as really weird and often a rude jerk, but in the end it comes out a lot more sympathetic. I’ve seen some reviewers who have actually had some dealings with him (Allison Pregler comes to mind) say that it’s a bit too positive in that he’s portrayed as basically a lonely guy desperately trying to be friends with someone and follow his dreams. And maybe that’s true.

It’s still a very weirdly touching film?

Because this is a movie about people who desperately want to make it big in Hollywood, and how the entertainment industry is very selective in who it elevates to stardom. And yeah, that’s partly because of talent--Tommy Wiseau, from the beginning of the film, clearly does not have a lot of acting talent. But it’s also got a lot to do with meeting people’s expectations about what kinds of people are expected to be stars. Tommy Wiseau wants to be big in Hollywood as a hero, but there are very strict notions about what a hero should be like, and he’s told that he could very easily be a typecast as a villain or a monster, a role which he refuses--although he does do some very jerk things on his quest for stardom.

Also the man has no idea what he’s doing. Neither does Greg, but Greg at least realizes how out of his depth he is and can listen to people in the industry who know what they’re doing. Tommy Wiseau makes absolutely baffling choices to industry professionals, like buying obscenely expensive filming equipment instead of renting it, or shooting on a set of an alley when there’s a perfectly suitable alley right outside.

But in the end, even if Wiseau didn’t do the thing he set out, he still made something of worth that people enjoy watching. He made it. Not the way they said he could, not the way he wanted to, but he made it. So the film comes away being strangely uplifting, and that’s… an interesting way to take the story of making _The Room._

Something I should mention though, because I think it would be dishonest not to bring it up: this movie was around the time that James Franco was being accused of being, uh, well, sort of a douchebag in terms of sexual misconduct. And I fully get that in light of that, there are a lot of people who are probably not too thrilled about this movie, or anything James Franco’s made and I can’t really argue against that. If you feel that this movie isn’t worth watching because it was made by a massive douchebag, well, that’s probably fine. I’m not going to try to give you something about ‘separating art from the artist’ because I don’t even know how to have that conversation, and it’s very often used as a nonsense excuse.

Also Seth Rogen’s in this movie? And his name’s on the poster? I imagine because he was friends with James Franco--his role in the movie isn’t all that big, I think.

I think it’s worth watching because of the subject matter, the message, the performances, and the weird humor. And I have a nostalgic attachment to this film, because I saw it with my friend in theaters when I was in grad school. But I get that not everyone has that attachment.

And obviously, if you don’t know anything about The Room I can’t say that this movie is for you. I don’t know how you’ll come at this movie if you don’t know much about The Room. I suspect that you won’t be completely lost--the movie sets up enough, and during credits there are scenes of the actors in this movie side-by-side with the scenes in the original movie to compare them. Still, it’s a lot more rewarding if you have knowledge of The Room and its impact on the Internet. If you’re clued into that whole whatever, I would go so far as to say that this movie is required watching. If you’re not, you can probably skip this movie, because I don’t know that you’ll get anywhere near as much out of it.

But I have a lot of fun watching this movie. It’s weird, it’s funny, it’s uplifting, and it brings back good memories for me.

---

[bellshells]

Splitting Hairs

Yo, have this absolute vomit I wrote. It’s a Severus x OC I wrote because I hate myself. I actually have quite a few parts written if anyone is interested in reading them. So it’s set the year or so before Haz and pals attend Hogwarts, new DADA teacher comes and Sev is salty about it, until he meets her. Hope you enjoy <3

Word count: 2795 Severus Snape x OC

Next Chapter: here

Another year, another rejection. Severus sat silently in the staff room surrounded by his gossiping colleagues and tentatively sipped his tea. Sunlight streamed in through the windows and it stung his eyes, he had barely slept. He had analysed Dumbledore’s words over and over again as he sat upright in his bed, the fire feebly spitting out flames as dawn threatened to break. “Not this time Severus,” the bespectacled wizard had said patting Severus’ arm, “you will be missed too greatly in the dungeons for me to spare you to Defence Against the Dark Arts.” Severus only nodded before leaving Dumbledore’s office; his cloak billowed sarcastically behind him as Dumbledore frowned.

Severus had pondered that night, what he would have to do in order to prove he was capable to do the job. Would he have to tattoo the words ‘I am not a bad man’ on his forehead? Maybe take a blade to his Dark Mark and cut it out of his arm? The damn thing would only grow back anyway. Severus sat and silently cursed himself. Dumbledore had done the valiant thing in not disclosing who had in fact applied for the now filled position, but everybody knew. He could see them, whispering about the new professor who would arrive imminently with glances over in his direction. Let them look, he thought. He would much rather them look than talk to them.

It seemed his summer had been over in an instant, he had returned to Spinner’s End with the hopes of doing some much-needed renovations to his family home but preparing for his would-be change of department had consumed him. All day and most of the night he would sit in his high-backed chair and pour over book after book. It was highly unnecessary though; Severus had read those books cover to cover so many times he could recite them from memory. But still, it wasn’t enough. Somebody else had been successful and once again, Severus would have to concede. Minerva entered the room in a flurry of green robes, she was followed by Pomona who trailed in a little soil from her sturdy boots. Minerva stopped short when she saw Severus, her eyes softened and she offered him a sad smile, Severus returned a tight lipped almost grimace and Minerva nodded knowingly. She hurried Pomona over to the refreshments table, taking a cup of tea for both her and her friend. Severus had a soft spot for Minerva McGonagall, whilst in the beginning she had been very wary towards him, they grew to have a mutual respect which, over time blossomed into a friendship. She really was a lovely witch, albeit very nosy.  Like him, Minerva had faced great sadness.

It wasn’t long after the final gaggle of professors settled that the door clicked open for the last time. Professor Dumbledore swept into the room with a regal air only he could possess. Hot behind him, Severus could hear the click-clack of heels on the cold stone floor. The new professor stepped into the room hesitantly, she was young; maybe twenty-five? Surely too young to be the new DADA teacher. Severus felt like he had the wind knocked out of him. She presented herself to him politely with a warm, earnest smile. She was a whirlwind of red hair and green eyes and Severus felt sick. Her pale face looked up expectantly at him as she held out her hand for Severus to shake. He took it without thinking, her handshake was firm, and her touch sent electric pulses through his veins. She looked so much like her, he thought. If he let his eyes soften only slightly, he could almost pretend it was her, Lily. The new professor moved along the line of his colleagues shaking each hand with a dazzling smile. She wore a tight skirt cut just below her knee and a button-down shirt tucked in at the waist, the top few buttons unbuttoned to expose the top of her chest. Severus winced.

He hadn’t even caught her name; he was so bowled over by her resemblance to his lost love. In an instant he was transported back almost a decade, where he climbed the creaking staircase of on almost silent house save for the desperate cries of a baby. He had stepped over the body of his tormentor, her husband with ease; her body calling to him. And then, he saw her on the floor at the foot of a cot. The baby stood inside of it didn’t notice as Severus had fallen to his knees, he only wept for his mother- just out of his reach. The sob in Severus’ chest erupted into a howl of pain as he clutched at Lily and pulled her into his embrace.

He had no idea how long he had sat like that; the baby had long fallen asleep and Severus watched him, the lightening bolt scar brand new on his forehead looked sore. The baby whimpered in his sleep, Severus watched as the baby stretched his arms out and turned over. It was only the gentle tap Severus felt on his shoulder that reminded him he had to leave. Dumbledore surveyed the scene with a grave look on his face. He made his way over to where Severus sat with Lily and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Severus eyed Dumbledore as he tiptoed over to where the baby lay sleeping and picked him up wordlessly, carefully, so as not to wake him; and left. Severus knew that Dumbledore would be contacting Lily’s sister to arrange the funerals, so with great sadness, he lay Lily back on the ground. He took care to smooth her hair around her face, he picked her wand up from the floor and placed it in her hands that rested on her chest. Then he left.

“What say you, Severus?” Severus could feel the tears threatening to spill from his eyes as his attention was brought crashing back to the present. He was a master of disguising his emotions, in the blink of an eye his cold demeanour returned. He forced himself to look at Madame Hooch who waited for his response. “I must ask you to repeat the question, I’m afraid. It appears I was somewhere else entirely.” Severus said curtly. Madame Hooch was only too happy to oblige, she was asking whether he thought there was any truth in the rumours that the N.E.W.T.S were getting easier; and Severus gave a characteristically dry response which elicited both groans and chuckles in equal measure from his colleagues. But he couldn’t keep his eyes from her. His heart pounded loudly in his chest; he was sure everyone would be able to hear it. It was impossible to deny that she was an incredibly attractive woman, but he found her comments on testing here and overseas derivative, but- she looked like her. They must be some relation. Severus thought if he could work out when she attended Hogwarts, he might be able to place her and then assuage some of his concern. He had taught at this school for nearly decade, he would surely remember a fifth year who looked like her.

“I’m sorry professor,” Severus began, he had interrupted Flitwick mid speech regarding the importance of teaching second years proper duelling technique. Severus’ eyes burned into the new professor he didn’t know the name of yet. “I’m interested to know which house you belonged to whilst you were here. I’m terribly sorry but I can’t place you,” he said coolly. The new professor looked slightly startled as she took a sip of her tea, she the placed the cup delicately in the saucer resting on her knee. “That’s because you wouldn’t,” She smiled, “I went to Beauxbatons.” Minerva clasped her hands in delight; “Beauxbatons!” she exclaimed, “You must tell me how dear Madame Maxime is, I haven’t seen her in the longest time!” The new professor smiled kindly and told Minerva in detail of the last time she spoken with the Beauxbatons Headmistress. Severus’ body filled with quiet rage; she went to Beauxbatons? Isn’t that convenient. A school full of exceptionally beautiful young women? He could see it in her now, the way she trailed her hands up her thigh slowly to reach for her wand so Flitwick could inspect it. The way she gathered her thick red hair and pulled it to one side of her face; exposing her lock neck, her collarbone and oh so delicately the tops of her breasts. She was so sensual in her movements, he watched as the outer corner of her mouth twitched up into a smile and he felt something stir within him, deep in the pit of his stomach. He repulsed himself.

Severus stood unceremoniously and cleared his throat. “I must excuse myself, I still have quite a lot to prepare before term starts.” He mumbled and swiftly moved towards the door. Professor Dumbledore stopped him in his tracks with a hand, he gestured towards the new professor. “Of course, Severus, but would you mind escorting Professor Valentine to her quarters? She is to make use of Horace’s old rooms and they are of course, on the way to the dungeons.” He said cheerfully. The new professor, or rather, Professor Valentine stood and smiled. Severus’ jaw tightened as he flung the door open and waited for her to pass through.

Valentine.

Her name was Valentine. He threw Dumbledore a dark look as he slammed the door behind them making Professor Valentine jump. Severus kept swift pace down the Ravenclaw spiral staircase, he could see out of the corner of his eye that Valentine struggled to keep up. As the stairs became stone floor he slowed, his mind raced with all manner of things he wanted to say to her. He couldn’t stop himself stealing a look at her from the corner of his eye, she waked silently beside him; taking in the portraits which lined the walls and nodded at those who acknowledged her or flashing a brilliant smile if they spoke. “You don’t sound French,” Severus said, he surprised himself with his forwardness. He was embarrassed then, and brought his pace back up. Valentine smiled thoughtfully; “I’m not, I’m from Wales actually.” She answered. She’s Welsh, he thought. Yet she went to school in France. Still confused, Severus decided to pursue the matter. “May I ask why you didn’t attend Hogwarts then, Professor Valentine?” Without skipping a beat Valentine replied, “My father was working in France at the time, he thought it would be nice if we were closer together. So, I went to Beauxbatons instead.”

She’s lying, Severus thought. Whilst he never practiced his Leliglimency on his colleagues, he still had a strong sense for when someone wasn’t being truthful with him; especially when they were so close to him. They continued their walk in silence, Valentine stopped every now and again to inspect something on the walls or engraved on the floor. She always offered him an apologetic smile and a touch on the arm, and this annoyed him greatly. Not the dawdling, he was used to having to slow his pace when walking with others; but the way she touched him. She acted to familiar with him and it made him uncomfortable. Were she an old witch, short and stout he may have been able to overlook her terminal niceness, but Valentine made the breath hitch in his throat every time her side brushed against his. It was Lily, he knew it was. Severus felt he was being assaulted by his feelings, and here was this woman having she sheer audacity to go around looking so much like Lily Evans and…touching him. It was far, far too much for Severus to handle.

He stopped outside of Valentine’s door. A large-ish wooden door carved into an alcove in the castle wall. This part of the castle lead to nowhere but the dungeons and it was dimly lit, so if you weren’t looking for a door; you would miss one entirely. Valentine’s face lit up as Severus chivalrously opened the door for her, more out of curiosity on his part than anything else. He hadn’t been in there since Dumbledore had offered him these chambers all those years ago, Severus ultimately chose quarters adjacent to his classroom. She inspected the room excitedly; she moved her fingers deftly over the heavy curtains that hung by the big window. These rooms in this part of the castle were some of the last to possess windows and the view outside was very pretty. Her trunks and bags sat in the middle of the room; a desk rested against a wall with more bags atop it. A sofa sat invitingly in the middle of the room and better yet, her four-poster bed partially hidden behind it. Severus cleared his throat, still stood in the doorway.

“Oh Severus!” she exclaimed, “I completely forgot you were there.” Valentine giggled. Severus shifted his weight uneasily from foot to foot as she came towards him. “Would you like to come in?” “No,” he said too quickly. “No, thank you.” Valentine smiled at him and leaned a shoulder against the door frame, the light from behind her framed her silhouette beautifully. Severus swallowed hard. “Thank you for showing me the way down, I never would have found it without your assistance.” Severus nodded curtly and took every inch of her in. “Professor Dumbledore invited me to have a drink in his office this evening,” Valentine said matter of fact, “He said the other professors would be there. Are you going?” “I wasn’t going to; I have to prepare my ingredient lists to give to Professor Sprout first thing in the morning.” Severus muttered wryly. “Oh, of course.” Severus raised an eyebrow. Valentine looked sheepish before she said, “I was just wondering if you would collect me on your way. This castle is truly a maze, but if you’re not going, I’ll just see you-” “I’ll call on you at eight, Professor.” “Elizabeth,” she corrected with a grateful grin. “Elizabeth.” Severus nodded and turned his back. He continued down the corridor, it wasn’t until he heard Valentine’s door close a few feet behind him that he allowed himself to breathe. Why did he say that? Why did he offer to do that? He hated social gatherings with a fervent passion and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to refuse her.

He flew into his classroom and locked the door with a flick of his wand. He made his way through the lines of desks and into his chambers, he shifted the curtains aside which disguised the heavy wooden door. Once inside he unbuttoned his frock coat along with the top few buttons of his tight shirt. He skulked over to his drinks cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whisky and poured himself a generous glass, he then perched on the arm of the blood-red armchair that sat in the fireplace and rifled in the bottom drawer of his desk. Severus produced a packet of cigarettes and lit one, letting his head roll back and his eyes close. His heart was very heavy in his chest, so heavy he could hear his pulse in his ears. He knocked the whisky back and enjoyed the sensation as it burned his throat on the way down. Why was he torturing himself by volunteering his services to Valentine? He didn’t owe her anything and he certainly didn’t want to get to know her. She was too much like Lily and yet nothing like her at all. Her hair, her eyes, the kind features of her face transported Severus back to his youth; constantly fighting the urge to put his hands on either side of Lily Evans’ face and kiss her desperately. And yet, Valentine’s overt sexuality, her fashion and her subtle way of talking was nothing like any version of Lily he had ever seen. Severus was intrigued by this woman but also completely turned off by her. He wouldn’t be a man if he said he didn’t desire Valentine; but he was utterly devoted to his memory of Lily. He couldn’t understand why she would torment him so by looking so much like the woman Severus had lost all those years ago.

He stood slowly returned to his drinks cabinet and retrieved the whisky bottle, pouring another measure for himself. He held his glass in the air to toast; “Elizabeth Valentine,” he said to nobody and took two great gulps until there was nothing left. He set the glass back down next to the bottle and caught sight of the label, sitting wide across the middle of it.

Y Ddraig, it was called. Dragon whisky. Welsh.

[pearlsephoni]

When Immortal Meets Ineffable

Can also be read on AO3 

Rating: G 

Fandoms: Good Omens, The Old Guard

Pairings: Joe/Nicky, Aziraphale/Crowley (ofc)

Summary: Nicky's love for books has introduced him to many wonders, but he never anticipated meeting a pair of men whose existence seems just as impossible as his own. Or: a gay, immortal couple walks into an old bookshop owned by a gay, angel/demon couple. 

A/N:  The sign on Aziraphale's bookshop door is real, I copied the text from here lol And I owe my life to this 3D recreation of the shop Also this is my first time attempting to publish a fic on here, so pardon any formatting weirdness. More author’s notes can be found on the AO3 page!

Immortality was exhausting. It was impossible to build a normal life and settle down without sparking suspicion, so no single place could be “home” for very long. They couldn’t build a family, or climb the ladder of a career, or even build many friendships outside of their core group. 

Without the more…“standard” goals available to them, each member of the Old Guard ended up setting their own personal quests. Andy learned every language and style of martial arts she could. Booker challenged himself to try a new whiskey at every bar they visited. Joe was close to completing his goal of visiting every possible art museum in Eurasia, and would soon be expanding his scope to the world. And Nicky was determined to read as many of the world’s books as possible. 

But that wasn’t the only reason why he and Joe ended up seemingly visiting every bookshop in Europe. Living forever meant you had an infinite amount of time to lose and find things, and unfortunately for Nicky, his list of lost items included a near-first edition copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy. 

Books didn’t hold the same appeal for Joe, but he was still always willing to join his life partner in his visits to bookshops. What caused him chagrin wasn’t the visits, but the seemingly futile quest to find such a rare copy of a classic book. So when Nicky immediately tugged his jacket back on to head into London, Joe was a bit more reluctant than usual. 

“Hayati, wouldn’t we have better luck looking in museums for something so rare?” 

“I’m not just looking for La Commedia, my heart,” Nicky reminded him with a small smile. “I need a new book to read, too.” 

“Of course, and that’s why you are going to Waterstones and not another small, old bookshop?” That small smile turned guilty, and Joe couldn’t help letting out a sigh. “Do you have a destination in mind, or will you be wandering again?” 

“Why don’t you come with me and find out?” 

It wasn’t fair of Nicky to use his rare, broad smiles to win their smaller bickers, he knew it. But even a relationship with the love of his life wouldn’t have lasted almost a millennium without the occasional cheap trick. And it was so hard to feel guilty when his little tricks resulted in Joe’s hand warmly wrapped around his as they walked through London. 

As it so happened, he did have a destination in mind: A.Z. Fell & Co., an old bookshop that he remembered seeing on a random street corner in London. It had been closed the first (and last) time he tried to pay it a visit, all those years ago, and the sign on the door detailing the store hours simply raised more questions than answers for Nicky: 

Bookshop Opening Hours: 

I open the shop on most weekdays about 9:30 or perhaps 10am. While occasionally I open the shop as early as 8, I have been known not to open until 1, except on Tuesday. I tend to close about 3:30pm, or earlier if something needs tending to. However, I might occasionally keep the shop open until 8 or 9 at night, you never know when you might need some light reading. On days that I am not in, the shop will remain closed. On weekends, I will open the shop during normal hours unless I am elsewhere. Bank holidays will be treated in the usual fashion, with early closing on Wednesdays, or sometimes Fridays. (For Sundays see Tuesdays.) 

-A.Z. Fell, Bookseller 

“It’s a miracle this place is still running,” Joe muttered now, squinting at the wordy sign. Nicky was more interested in the sign hanging next to it, blissfully simpler and blessedly flipped to read, “Open.” The door was unlocked, and rang with a cheerful jingle as the immortals pushed it open. 

“Hello there! Welcome to A.Z. Fell & Co!” 

Nicky had barely been able to fully take in the warm, crowded space of the bookshop before his attention was pulled to a small, pale man dressed in a white suit. He seemingly appeared out of thin air from behind a small desk next to a bookshelf to the left. He had a bright, welcoming smile, and looked positively cherubic with his light blonde curls and rosy cheeks. “How may I help you today?” 

“Oh, I-” 

“We’re just looking,” Joe cut in, giving Nicky a gentle nudge. It was a reminder enough not to draw attention with their unusual search. “Wanted to see what we could find in such a unique shop.” 

“Lovely! Well, if you need any help at all, don’t hesitate to ask!” 

“Thank you,” Nicky replied with a smile, before wandering over to the cluster of bookshelves on their right, pulling Joe with him. 

He always lost track of time in bookshops. Even Joe, for all he insisted that Nicky was the reader, could get lost in the trinkets and random findings to be seen in an old shop. Maybe that was why, for all their battle-honed instincts and attention to detail, they didn’t realize someone else had entered the store until a new voice broke the comfortable silence.

“Angel!” 

“Ah, Crowley! What a pleasant surprise! What’re you doing here?” 

“Just wanted to see what you’ve got in stock.” 

“Really?”

“No, of course not, I was going to ask you to lunch.” 

“Oh! Well...that’s very kind of you, but I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t just close my shop in the middle of the day!”

“Yes you can, it’s your shop, if anyone can, it’s you.” 

“But I have customers! Like...like these young men!” 

Nicky, with a thousand years of life behind him, never thought of himself nor Joe as “young.” No matter how ageless they were, every year weighed on them, a burden that was only bearable because they didn’t have to weather it alone. So it didn’t occur to him that they were the “young men” the shop owner referred to, until the small, pale man suddenly appeared at his elbow. “Hello there! May I help you with anything?” 

A Genovese curse flew from his lips, followed by a grunt after Joe gently pinched him. Nicky smiled apologetically at the owner. “Sorry, ah...we’re alright, just looking.” 

“Yes, well…” The shop owner had a confused tilt to his eyebrows, at odds with his kind smile. “I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to be nosy, but...was that Old Genovese you were speaking?”

“You recognize it?” Nicky blurted out before he could stop himself. It had been centuries since either of the immortals had met someone else who knew the language. 

“Oh, I don’t know, it’s been a while since I’ve heard it.” A pink tint had risen to the small blonde’s cheeks, and his eyes now had a proud glint to them. “That’s very impressive, I didn’t think anyone spoke it anymore!”  

“No...neither did we.” He glanced at Joe, and was met with eyes that looked as disconcerted as he felt. 

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Please let me know if you need help with anything!” The shop owner cheerfully strolled back to the counter, where his friend - Crowley, Nicky remembered - was staring at him and Joe with what felt like suspicion, even through his sunglasses. The redhead murmured something to the blonde that made the latter glance back at them with another smile, one that Nicky returned before he quietly urged Joe behind another bookshelf. 

“What the hell?” Joe hissed as soon as they were out of eyeline of the shop owner. 

“Language, tesoro mio.” 

Joe’s words switched to old Maghrebi, but remained just as confused and indignant. “Nico, we haven’t met anyone else who speaks Genovese in decades, maybe even centuries, if we don’t count linguists.”

“I know.” 

“So how does an owner of an old bookshop recognize it?” 

“We’ve seen some books that are much older than what we usually see in a shop like this. Maybe he recognized it from a book?” Even as he uttered the words, Nicky knew the explanation was pathetic. The look of disbelief he received from his lover let him know he wasn’t alone in thinking that. 

“He said it’s been a while since he’s heard it,” Joe reminded him. “And he recognized it as it was spoken, not written down somewhere.” 

“What are you trying to say? That he’s another immortal? One we somehow haven’t dreamed of in all this time?” 

“No, of course not...but…” Joe peered at the shop owner and his friend through a gap in the books. “Maybe there’s something different about him. Maybe immortals aren’t the only strange people in the world.” 

“Even if that were true, Yusuf, don’t you think we would have run into one before? Our abilities have been noticed before, by people who didn’t know what to look for. We of all people would have noticed if there were other powers out there.” 

“Unless they do as much as we do to stay out of notice.” 

It was Nicky’s turn to peer at the odd couple through the books, except this time, the redhead, Crowley, was looking right at him. Or at least, in their direction. He jerked away from the bookshelf and immediately moved deeper into the shop, tugging Joe with him. “We can talk with the others about it later. For now, let’s buy something and leave.”

“Still determined to find your book?”

Nicky offered a sweet smile to Joe, but didn’t bother hiding the mirth in his eyes. “Of course, my heart.” 

He didn’t end up finding the book he was looking for, much to his disappointment and Joe’s quiet amusement. But he did find an old, old Italian Bible that stirred distant memories of a classroom reciting verses, and that was enough to justify the visit. 

Satisfied in his choice, he moved towards the cashier register, only to be pulled up short by Joe. Nicky furrowed his brows in confusion - for someone who had been so reluctant to come, Joe suddenly seemed very keen on staying. He glanced back at him to find those dark eyes trained on the men behind the counter, one finger to his lips. Battle instincts kicked in, and he obediently trained his hearing to the low muttering coming from the other men. 

“Now really, Crowley, it’s simply not possible! Even if the Almighty really did send spies after us, I would at least recognize them. I’ve never seen those men in my life!” 

“Then maybe they’re demons. We’ve always had better corporeal disguises anyway. Would explain why we don’t recognize them.” 

“Have you ever seen demons behave like that with each other?” 

“Like what?” 

“Oh come now, you must have felt it. The energy around them is downright bursting with love! It’s just like…”

“...Angel, like what?”

“W-well...like two people in love. Nothing at all like you demons behave.”

“‘You demons’? Might I remind you of who saved the most valuable books here, Aziraphale?” 

It could’ve been just another argument between an old couple, especially an old married couple. There was no mistaking the love and pure affection that drenched every bickering phrase between them. But where Nicky had thought “Angel” was a sweet nickname, the casual use of terms like “demons” and “the Almighty” stirred a deeper sense of suspicion awake in him...and a rush of exhilaration. The sensible majority of his mind told him there was no earthly way he was staring at an angel and a demon. Even if angels and demons were real, they wouldn’t own an old bookshop, or walk around dressed like a dandy or an aged member of a rock band. 

But a small part of him, the part of him that had him wandering to a church on calm Sundays and uttering panicked prayers over Joe’s body in the middle of battle, felt a thrill at the idea that he was staring at proof. Proof that his centuries of faith, his short-lived livelihood in the church, wasn’t in vain. When he finally tore his eyes away from the odd couple to look at Joe, he was met with a small smile of understanding under an unsure gaze. Of course his love understood what was running through his mind, even without a single word uttered between them. 

Nicky took a steadying breath before he finally nodded at Joe, giving his hand a light squeeze. The shop owner and his...friend (partner?) were still bickering when they approached the cashier, and Nicky caught snippets of something about a church, a bomb, a satchel of books, before the argument was cut short by their arrival at the counter. 

“Ah, gentlemen, hello again! Did you find everything alright?” the small blonde man - Azira...phale..? - greeted them with a wide smile, while Crowley simply stared at them with an unnervingly straight face. His gaze prickled at Nicky’s awareness, despite his best attempts to ignore him and return Aziraphale’s smile. 

“I didn’t find the book I was looking for, but you have many rare gems here.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry you couldn’t find it!” 

“Don’t be. We have visited almost every bookshop in Europe in search of it,” Joe snorted with a grin. “At this point it’ll take a miracle to find it.” 

Aziraphale perked up at Joe’s response, and glanced eagerly at Crowley...who returned the blonde’s hopeful smile with a stony stare. A moment of silence passed before the redhead finally muttered, “Sounds like you won’t be finding it any time soon.” 

“No, but that’s alright. Seeing all these wonderful little shops offers a special kind of joy,” Nicky murmured with a reassuring smile to Aziraphale. “You should be proud of this shop. It’s a lovely refuge in this city.” 

The owner looked a bit crestfallen, but brightened at Nicky’s smile and words. “That’s very kind of you to say! I’ve had it for quite a while, so it’s turned into a home of sorts for me. I’m so glad it feels that way to my patrons as well!” 

Crowley’s attention was back on Nicky, and even though he couldn’t see the redhead’s eyes, he didn’t feel as burdened by the scrutiny anymore. It felt somehow softer now, more of a mild annoyance as the transaction was carried out. Crowley had been so quiet throughout their visit that when he suddenly spoke up, the surprise nearly made Nicky drop the small paper bag containing his book. “Just out of curiosity...what book were you looking for?” 

“Ah...an early edition of The Divine Comedy in the original Italian. First edition, if possible.” 

“...Dante’s Divine Comedy?” Crowley repeated, skepticism practically dripping off his words. “You’re looking for a first edition from the late Middle Ages?” 

Nicky could hear the rustle of Joe straightening just behind him, ready to defend his admittedly-futile quest. He shifted just enough to hook their pinkies together in reassurance while he shot a small smile at Crowley. “More just seeing if it’s possible to find outside of a museum.” 

Crowley nodded, but he still had a small frown of disbelief on his lips as he wandered towards the bookshelves at the very back of the shop. Aziraphale watched him meander away with wariness and hope lining his eyes, a combination of emotions that made Nicky wonder what kind of history the odd couple shared to prompt that kind of response. 

“Nicolo,” Joe murmured, pulling him out of his idle curiosity. “We should be going. Andy will wonder what happened to us.” 

“Right...yes, of course.” Nicky smiled again at Aziraphale, who suddenly looked panicked at their impending departure. “Thank you again.” 

“Oh, are you leaving so soon? A-are you sure I can’t help you find anything else? I have other first editions that might interest you!” 

“Really, it’s alright-” 

“Here we are.” Crowley was suddenly back at Aziraphale’s side, tossing a book onto the countertop with a carelessness that became alarming when Nicky realized what he was staring at: an old, worn volume, the cover made of what used to be red leather, but was now faded into a dull brown. Pressed into the leather, and traced with gold flakes, were the words “La Commedia.” Nicky reached out to brush the worn cover, gingerly lifting it to reveal the title page, where he could read the publication date: 1438. “This...this is…” 

“Not quite first edition, but about as good as you’re gonna get outside of a museum.” Crowley’s voice was casual, as if he had simply found any old book. But his smirk was smug, the gravity of his achievement definitely not lost on him, especially when Aziraphale was staring at him in what could only be described as adoration. 

“How...how did you find this?” 

“Call it a little miracle. How much does a little miracle cost, angel?” 

“Oh, ah...well, the best miracles are priceless, wouldn’t you say?” 

Nicky’s gaze jerked away from the book to stare at Aziraphale in shock. “No, I’m sorry, I cannot in good faith take this without paying you.” 

“No, really-”

“Please, I insist-” 

The shopowner was strangely reluctant to give Nicky a price, but with Joe’s help, they were able to settle on an amount. By the time they left the bookshop, it was even later than they had planned on leaving, but Nicky was in such a daze of disbelief over his luck, Joe ended up being the one to call Andy. 

“Boss, we know, we’re sorry, but you’ll never believe- no, trust me, even Booker will get excited over this. We’ll be there soon, it will be worth the wait, I promise.” He laughed as he tucked his phone away, shaking his head fondly at Nicky. “Well, my heart, I hope this find is worth Andy’s wrath. She is not happy with us.” 

“Yusuf...who were those men?” Nicky was staring numbly into the bag, still not believing the impossibly old book he held in his hands. 

“What do you mean?” 

He finally looked away from his new treasure to meet Joe’s eyes. “Do you think...that maybe…” 

“What? That an angel and demon helped us find a book?” 

“Stranger things have been true.” 

“Perhaps…” Joe’s arm wrapped around Nicky’s waist, tucking him against his body to drop a kiss to his temple. “Whatever those men were, they were kind. I hope the bookshop continues to do well.” 

“Mm...thank you for coming with me.” Nicky’s smile was full of adoration, and earned him another kiss, this time on his lips. 

“Of course, hayati. Anything for you.” 

“Anything? Well, there’s another book I’ve been looking for-” 

“Buuuuut Andy and Booker might not approve.” 

After almost 1000 years, he should have been able to better resist the effect of Joe’s cheeky smile. But after almost 1000 years, Nicky wasn’t in the habit of denying himself the little joys to be found in life, especially when they came from this impossible man. 

[trustsalvatorewriting]

wasteland, baby! || kol mikaelson - chapter one

Summary: Kol makes a deal with the Hollow to revive the first woman he ever loved. Unfortunately, things don’t turn out the way he expects them to.

Word Count: 2,122

Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten

-

❝ my life's just a faded memory of what i can't have ❞

A marriage to a Mikaelson was unheard of. In the thousand years the Originals had been alive, they'd been focused on one thing and only thing only: survival. They moved, every few years or so, to a new city, doing their best to escape the wrath of their father, Mikael. When word reached Mikael of where they'd settled, it was Klaus that prepared the arrangements for their departure. They would flee without sparing another thought.

    Perhaps that was why Aniya was sat in the foyer, twisting at her rusted, bronze ring. Moonlight streamed through the curtains, and light jazz music bled from the streets. Truthfully, she wasn't supposed to be awake. Rebekah had brushed out her plaits and sent her off to bed not four hours ago. In another world, she might have listened.

    But Niklaus had given her the bedroom next to Kol's. She supposed it was some kind of punishment, though she wasn't sure who it was aimed at. Even when she'd stepped into the compound, dirtied and drowned in her own blood, the Mikaelsons had looked at her as though she were a stranger. To Freya and Nik, she'd even been seen as a threat. Some sort of vessel for the Hollow, whoever that was.

    It was Niklaus that demanded a 'head-dive,' though she wasn't sure what that meant. It wasn't until the bastard appeared in front of her and grabbed her head in his hands that she'd realized what he'd meant.

    It felt as though all of her memories were being pulled out of her head.

    There was no way to know how much he saw, nor was there any reassurance that he believed her in the first place. He was silent when his hands fell to his sides, his face void of any emotion. It was only after Rebekah had snapped him back into reality that he dragged her up the stairs and showed her the room she would be staying in.

    The room itself was beautiful, with two windows and a balcony that hung over Bourbon Street. When Aniya slept, she could hear the inebriated laughter of the people below - a far cry from the chanting she would hear a thousand years ago. In any other world, she might've slept with the same tranquility as an infant.

    Sadly, the soft jazz and laughter was quickly drowned out by the wails from the other room. They would come at two or three in the morning, like clockwork. Often accompanied by shattering glass and the name 'Davina,' falling from her husband's lips. In another world, she might have blamed him; but how could you expect loyalty from a spouse that couldn't even remember your name?

    It was two o'clock now. The foyer was across the compound, as far from Kol's bedroom as she could get. It was moments like this that she was thankful the ritual hadn't altered her hearing. Because for now, she could pretend. She could tell herself the only reason she was awake, was because she had drinken too much tea earlier that day and couldn't bring herself to sleep.

    She could tell herself her husband would wake in the morning and become worried when he realized she wasn't there. She could tell herself their marriage had lasted longer than two weeks before she passed, and the wedding rings they'd exchanged weren't made from their father's dulled swords.

    And in the early morning hours, she could tell herself she was happy with how things had turned out. That she was happy to be alive.

    "What are you doing here?"

    Aniya was met with the cold glare of her dear husband. The jazz music seemed to fade away, the sense of peace she'd felt disappearing in an instant. "I couldn't sleep."

    He seemed to scoff at that. A bitter silence filled the room as he crossed to pour a round of bourbon into a clear glass. He drank it immediately, lightly wincing at the taste before pouring another. Truthfully, Aniya hadn't expected him to come here. Usually he was locked away, and Elijah would make an effort to leave food at his door. Of course, he rarely moved more than a crumb.

    "You should eat." The statement went ignored as he drank another glass. "Rebekah says Originals can still die."

    "Death is temporary, darling." His voice was hoarse, the remark had physically pained him to say. Even the world 'darling' tasted like poison. "Trust me."

    The younger witch leaned back in her seat, pulling the warm blanket over her shoulders. Rebekah had only owned silk nightgowns, which were particularly useless when it came to warmth. She would have been given other clothes if she was meant to leave the house, but Elijah had made it a rule that she couldn't leave until she fit into modern-day society. That, of course, would start with her hair.

    Long hair had been popular in the New World. Every morning, mothers, daughters and sisters would twist each other's hair into beautiful plaits, decorated with flowers and herbs. Aniya had been making an effort to grow her hair out since she was a child. Now, her raven-black hair had grown past her waist, falling just above her hips in waves. Rebekah braided it into plaits each morning when she noticed how uncomfortable it made her.

    She still remembered the smile on Kol's face when he ran his fingers through her hair. He'd tried, once, to twist her hair into a simple braid. She could hear him cursing beneath his breath, and eventually cheating when he muttered a spell that embelished her hair with forget-me-nots and baby's breath.

    If she closed her eyes, she could still see the adoration in his eyes when he called her beautiful. She held onto that when she'd died. Truthfully, it was the only thing she'd had to hold onto, spending a thousand years in darkness. The thought would leave a smile on her face no matter how many times she thought of it; but now, the memory made her throat tighten. Perhaps she were better off in that darkness.

    "Why do you hate me?"

    The Original's glass clattered on the countertop. His eyes were trained on the decades-old bourbon.

    'Hate her?' He glanced at the strange girl. She was curled into a ball, bandages trailing up and down her arms and legs. His sisters had given her a choker to wrap around her neck, concealing the slash on her throat and the wound at the base of her skull. She'd refused to let Rebekah heal it, muttering something about a boy named Vihaan. Part of him wanted to believe her story -- to understand what had happened to her, and to comfort her; but no matter how hard he tried to dig into his memories, he was met with an impenetrable mist, and he couldn't bring himself to fight against it.

    Instead, he stayed behind it. Ran back to the memories he knew to be true, and placed a wall between the two of them. Whatever she was hiding, he didn't want to remember.

    "I don't hate you."

    "You're lying." Aniya looked up at him, her brown eyes seeming to challenge him. "We haven't even spoken since the night you found me."

    "Darling, I haven't spoken to much of anyone since the night I found you. Need I remind you Niklaus isn't exactly jumping for joy at the fact that I risked everyone's life in favor of..." He trailed off, then drowned his sorrows in whiskey once more.

    "Davina Claire." Even when it was Aniya herself, the name still managed to cut through to her very soul. "I've noticed. Who is she, Kol?"

    He winced, her words seeming to burn into his skin. "Someone. No one."

    "You're lying again, and not very well," She sat up. "Was she human?"

    "A witch," He kept his eyes trained on the windows, almost afraid of looking her in the eyes. "The Hollow was meant to bring her back."

    'After I killed her,' Kol wanted to add. Was that what he'd done with Aniya? Killed her? Had he gone to kiss her and murdered her in his efforts to be a good partner to her? Locked away his memories, and gotten a witch to lock away the others?

    "Why not bring her back yourself?" She said bitterly. "From what I remember, you were quite powerful."

    Kol's chest grew heavier the longer he spoke. "Nature requires balance. Witches are a gift to nature, while vampires are an abomination. Any ability I had to practice magic disappeared the moment I died."

    It came out harsher than he expected. He was a powerful witch. His mother's bloodline produced the strongest witches known in history - she'd created the spell that turned his siblings into vampires. Before he'd died, he'd even considered writing his own grimoire; write down all of the spells he created so he would be remembered by the generations to come. Perhaps if he'd kept it, he wojld have been able to save Davina. Taken her from the ancestral plane before she was punished any further. God only knew what consequences she was facing now.

    "Do you miss it?" She spoke softly, staring down at her hands. She ran a finger over the scar on her left palm, murmuring, "You never went a day without magic. No matter how useless the spell was, you were always practicing. You were like a child with your favorite toy."

    Finally, he set the glass down on the counter, taking a step closer to Aniya. "Did you?"

    She chuckled, "I did. But the magic I had before is different from the magic I have now. Whatever spells you put in front of me, I likely wouldn't be able to complete them."

    "Why not?"

    Aniya cleared her throat, her hand trailing up to the band around her neck. Kol's face was riddled with confusion as she shook her head, eyes beginning to scan the foyer before landing on a glass above the fire place. A wilted bouquet of red roses - likely a gift for Rebekah. Perhaps she could find a way to break his amnesia. To remember her, even for just a moment.

    She quickly set it on down the table, eyes fluttering shut as she began to mutter the spell beneath her breath. It should've been easy. It was a spell she could have recited in her sleep. The spell had been taught to children when they were barely old enough to read - if there was any spell she could do, it had to be this.

    "Sit cadunt folia," She whispered, hands floating above the petals.

    The Mikaelson boy sat in silence, watching the witch with intrigue. It'd always been his favorite past-time to watch witches perform magic. Though, this time, it'd been different. The longer she chanted, the more distorted she would sound. It was as though he was hearing her from underwater. Even his vision had begun to go, his sharp vision suddenly becoming hazy.

    Perhaps he'd had too much to drink.

    Fortunately, she'd stopped, unable to even begin the spell. When she was a child, she could feel the adrenaline rush through her bones. The feeling would have leave goosebumps along her arms, leaving her hyperaware of her surroundings. She could hear the wind rustle through the trees, could feel the ground beneath her shake at the slightest movement.

    Now, she felt nothing but embarrassment. She'd wanted the spell to work. Not just for Kol, but for herself. If she could continue practicing earth magic, she could turn away from the magic she'd been reborn with. The magic she had been sacrificed for.

    "It's all right. You're weak right now. The last thing you 'ought be doing practicing is magic." He'd said it offhandedly, his focus still on returning his vision to normal.

    "I wasn't sure you cared," she murmured, pulling her knees up to her chest.

    Kol glanced up at her, his vision beginning to focus. As she ran her finger over her hands, he couldn't help but sigh. It felt as though there was a part of him yearning to be closer to her. To comfort her, and tell her that he did care for the little witch despite every bone in his body that told him to stay away from her.

    "You should rest." He stood up, going to leave the room. "I'll have Rebekah make you some tea. It'll help with the insomnia."

    The Mikaelson boy disappeared down the hall before Aniya could say another word. Before he could catch a glimpse of the faint smile ghosting across the young girl's lips.

[skywalkersapprentice]

fic: a time to say goodbye

summary: Ezra isn't the only one facing the temptation of change in the World Between Worlds. Just minutes after facing Vader, Ahsoka falls through a portal seventeen years into the past and must relive her final encounter with her former Master without drastically altering the future.

But Anakin Skywalker taught her many things. How to push her luck was one of them.

relationship(s): anakin skywalker & ahsoka tano

word count: 2233 words

rating: t

(read on ao3)

Note: This started as a slightly incoherent tumblr post this weekend, but I’ve added many more words and most of them hurt. If you’ve read the original, hello, I’ve made it better.

Ahsoka runs through the stars after a boy seeking his Master and all she can see is gold.

The crack in the mask. The Sith-gold eye. That voice, once so familiar, now hauntingly twisted beyond recognition.

Her failure stabs at her like a second heartbeat with every step she takes.

Anakin.

Reconciling the man she knew during the war with the terrifying Sith lord she’d heard stories of had proved near impossible for months. The dark side had taken Anakin Skywalker and twisted him into something unknowable. In the Force, he burned like a terrifying slash of red-hot anger. When he spoke, it was cold and slow. He was nothing like the Anakin of her memories, who was bright in the Force like a star, enthusiastic and kind. She was grateful for the mask that Vader wore. It was easier to lift her blades against a faceless man.

But then, a strike to his mask at an opportune time, and-

He’d looked at her with Anakin’s eyes. He’d said her name in Anakin’s voice. It had been enough to make her reckless.

I won’t leave you, not this time.

She’s not so different from Ezra, running blindly after a voice and a chance to save his Master.

Ahsoka won’t get a second chance. Ezra won’t either. But if she were 17, with the opportunity to make things right…

The thought has barely crossed her mind when below her feet, a circle begins to glow. A voice from the stars stands out from the rest.

Ahsoka!

Ahead, Ezra is still running to find his Master. For the second time in a day, Ahsoka has been frozen by the voice of her own.

How are you? Where are you? Are... you okay?

In the space of a blink, the world between worlds dissolves around her in a rush of stars. When reality rebuilds itself, Ezra is gone and a shuttle ramp is opening ahead of her.

Something’s not right. Her skin feels odd, like she’s wearing it wrong. Her clothes fit differently than they had just a moment ago. She brings a hand up to her head, only to flinch at how small her montrals are. And her lekku-

She closes her eyes before the ramp can lower all the way and reveal their welcoming party. Her lekku are short.

They are seventeen years too short.

Of course the ancient plane of all worlds and times would bring her here. The day she spent so many years replaying in her head, wondering what she could have done differently to avoid the horrors to come.

Ezra runs toward his temptation, and she has fallen into her own. But just as Ezra cannot save his Master, there is nothing she can do here. It’s too late for Anakin, for the Republic. It is too late to right any wrongs, to prevent order 66. Any dramatic modifications would have consequences.

Why?  she asks the Force. Do you think this is a kindness? To watch and do nothing?

The Force, calm and silent, has no answers for her.

Always in motion, is the future, Yoda used to say. And many possible futures, there are.

“Let’s go,” says Bo-Katan from behind her. “We don’t have much time.”

One foot in front of the other. She keeps her eyes on Artoo, waiting happily at the bottom of the ramp for her, takes perhaps a moment too long stroking his dome. But she can’t delay forever.

She looks up and there they are.

This Obi-Wan, a little greyer and sadder than he had been before she left the Order, but still with a gentle smile and nod for her. And next to him...

Blue eyes. A smile. Barely contained eagerness. Something in her chest cracks open.

This is not a vision, or a holocron, or a sliver of a man staring at her with Sith eyes. This is familiar. This is who she has been missing for nearly two decades.

“Ahsoka,” Anakin Skywalker from half a lifetime ago says, sincere and heartfelt, “I’m so glad to see you.”

She’s supposed to rebuff him here, to silence him and tell him of “another time” that can never be. There’s nothing in her that wants to.

It was foretold that you would be here. Our long awaited meeting has come at last.

Ahsoka decides. She’s carried regrets about this for too long. If this is a test of the Force, she’ll fail right here to keep him smiling.

“It’s good to see you too, Anakin,” she tells him. A deviation from the script, but the world hasn’t collapsed around her. The Force is calm.

Anakin Skywalker taught her many things. How to push her luck was one of them.

-----

In the war room, Ahsoka recites the information about Maul to Obi-Wan and Anakin from memory.

“I was able to obtain transmission codes from the Pykes on Oba Diah.” This time, she’s prepared for the wary look Anakin throws her way.

“What were you doing on Oba Diah?”

Then, she’d been defensive, thinking he was about to try and lecture her as a Master would. Now, Ahsoka takes the concern for what it is.

“Nothing you wouldn’t have done,” she assures him. A small grin tugs at the corners of her mouth at the familiar exasperated look she gets in return.

The confrontation between Bo-Katan and Obi-Wan goes about as well as it had the first time, which is to say, not at all. Ahsoka of seventeen years ago had carried deep-seated resentment towards Anakin’s former Master for his loyalty to the Council before anything else. She’d seen him as a representation of everything the Jedi were doing wrong, and it had infuriated her. But it doesn’t matter now. Just a few days from now, there will be no Council to be loyal to, no Jedi to protect the galaxy from anything. There is no point in resenting a man who is days from losing everything.

She never did find out what happened to Obi-Wan, beyond what was on Kanan's holocron. Given what she now knows about Anakin, she no longer wants to.

You wouldn’t, would you Anakin? Surely not him, too?

She knows the answer. It’s not something she wants to dwell on.

“You two certainly haven’t changed,” Ahsoka tells Anakin when Obi-Wan and Bo-Katan have left. This time, she means it not as an accusation. Stagnancy is a compliment when you come from a time where everything has changed for the worse.

-----

She falls into step alongside her old friend as he leads her to her surprise and wonders how, how can he be this happy, when his fall is imminent? Reports of Darth Vader were elusive, but could be traced back to the very beginning of the Empire. How is the man at her side mere days away from becoming the monster she met on Malachor?

But- it’s something she never noticed the first time around. The mania around the edges of his happiness. The shreds of normalcy that he clings to like a lifeline. A euphoria born of desperation. Ahsoka understands now, as they walk the corridors of the Resolute. For very different reasons, they’re trying to pretend they’re still the same.

When Anakin unveils his “surprise” for her, she walks around, looks at all the clones wearing her face that will soon be dead. The ache in her chest grows at the sight of a youthful Rex.

He really never learned how to stop calling her Commander. This time, she doesn’t bother telling him not to.

The sirens blare overhead, scattering everyone. To everyone else, they're a sign of an emergency. To Ahsoka, they’re a sign that she’s running out of time. Obi-Wan rushes in with news of the Coruscant attack, and she knows she has just minutes left.

“What about the Chancellor?” Anakin immediately asks. It takes everything in Ahsoka not to react to that because now, more than ever, temptation eats away at her.

She could do it. One sentence to start a chain reaction. The Chancellor is a Sith Lord, she could say, and everything would change. They would know, they could take action, they could-

The Force roils uneasily. No. This is not why she’s here. She is here perhaps as a cruel punishment for failing to stop Vader, but she has not been given a chance to fix this.

She bites her tongue, and stays quiet.

“We can be there within the hour,” Obi-Wan is saying. Ahsoka frowns. She has no desire to argue with Obi-Wan, who she will never see again after this, but she needs to get troops on Mandalore. Perhaps it’s time to take a page out of the Negotiator’s book.

“Master Kenobi,” she says, careful to keep her tone neutral. “Bo-Katan and her people are counting on the Republic.”

Obi-Wan has always been one to react to the tone in the room. Then, he'd met her accusing tone with condescending defensiveness. Now, he replies with a calm, “Ahsoka, surely you understand that this is a pivotal moment in the clone wars. The people of Coruscant need our help.”

Ahsoka thinks but doesn’t say, no. The Chancellor does.

“I understand,” she counters instead, “that Coruscant and Mandalore need help from the Jedi.” She turns to Anakin. “Aren’t there enough forces on this ship to handle both?”

Anakin narrows his eyes in thought. “I’ll…. divide the 501st! Make a new division under Ahsoka’s command.”

There you go, she thinks. They can sort out the rest from there.

Obi-Wan still makes his quip about Maul never staying dead as he heads out, and Ahsoka privately, fervently agrees.

And then it’s just the two of them, for the last time, in a moment she wants to freeze forever.

Perhaps it’s selfish. She knows exactly what this man is capable of. She could strike him down where he stands right now and alter the course of history. She could warn him of what he will do, in the hopes that he won’t fall this time. But the Force has not brought her to change the future.

She understands now. This isn’t a punishment, or even a test. It is a chance to say goodbye.

When Ahsoka faces Anakin for the last time, she gently inclines her head. Not quite a Jedi bow, but respectful all the same. “Thank you. For everything.”

He’ll take it to mean for the clones, the lightsabers, for having her back. She means it to encompass more than that.

That grin again. “That’s what friends are for.”

Friends.

Then you will die.

She can’t look at him like this, exactly as she remembers. She can’t look away, either. There’s an ache in her ribs as she carefully accepts her old lightsabers- they were blue for a time, a detail she’d nearly forgotten- and when she looks back at her former Master, everything she wants to stay gets stuck in her throat.

I miss you. Every day. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry it can’t be different now.

“I have… so much to tell you,” she says softly.

“Me too,” Anakin says. There’s an excited glint in his eye that breaks her heart. “You capture Maul, I’ll take care of Grievous, and with any luck, this will all be over soon.”

“Master Kenobi always said there’s no such thing as luck,” she makes herself say.

“Hmm.” His eyes are still kind. “Good thing I taught you otherwise.”

He begins to walk away- and this is it. In her memory, she quips a “good luck” for old time’s sake, gets one more smile, and then she loses him forever.

You abandoned me. You failed me. Where were you when I needed you?

“Anakin!”

This time, when he turns expectantly, Ahsoka takes five steps and flings her arms around him, lightsabers still in hand. He lets out a quiet oof, then a little laugh and his arms come up over her shoulders.

“Good luck,” she says into his tunic, and gives herself three selfish seconds.

One- to reach out for a Force presence she’s been missing for seventeen years, to find not a slash of anger and fear, but something bright and intense and, for the moment- happy.

Two- to let her expression finally break where he can’t see her, and finally grieve for the loss of one of her oldest friends.

Three- to convince herself to let him go.

When she steps back, she’s smiling again. Anakin hesitates for a moment. His brow furrows. But then he gives her that one last crooked grin.

And she loses him a final time.

In the space of a blink, the world shatters, rebuilds itself into a vast array of starry paths and she’s herself again, running after Ezra through the World Between Worlds as he seeks closure with his own Master.

“You don’t understand what you’re asking me to do!” he chokes out when she finally catches up to him.

“Yes, I do.” A kind smile. A cruel gold stare. Both a pain as fresh as an open wound. “You can’t save your Master… and I can’t save mine.”

One last thing she learned from Anakin- teaching a lesson often requires holding your student to higher standards than you hold yourself.

With the knowledge that she’s holding him to a standard she herself might never reach, Ahsoka tells Ezra, “I’m asking you to let go.”

[jaybear1701]

Chapter Summary: Scylla begins her new role as an “instructor” at Fort Salem. It goes about as well as you might expect.

“This is some shit.”

Raelle hadn’t voiced the massive understatement. Beth Treefine did. And, for once, Raelle agreed with the haughty High Atlantic. Beth’s Unit stood shoulder-to-shoulder to the left of Abigail, Tally, and Raelle in the small gym that would serve as their training ground for whatever forbidden Work they’d be learning. The walls felt like they were closing in. And Raelle couldn’t even begin to parse out the jumbling emotions that made her head spin as she watched Scylla, back in uniform, trading hushed, tense words with Anacostia and Izadora. 

“Isn’t Scylla, like, your ex?” Glory Moffett whispered out of the corner of her mouth to the Bellweather Unit’s right, brown eyes wide and round.

Heat prickled up Raelle’s neck.

Both Abigail and Tally shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

Beth’s head snapped toward Raelle. “Seriously, you dated a terrorist?” Her lips curled in disgust. “Why am I not surprised? You Cessions do love trash after all.”

Abigail grabbed Raelle’s wrist before she could launch herself at Beth and earn a month’s worth of demerits. “Shut your dirty, fetid mouth, Treefine, before I shut it for you,” Abigail threatened with a dangerous glare.

“Come on, Bellweather,” Beth scoffed. “Even you have to admit this is bullshit!”

“And what exactly is bullshit, Treefine?” Anacostia’s question boomed out into the confined  space. “Is following orders bullshit?” She stalked toward Beth, who stood at attention. “Or maybe it’s doing whatever it takes to crush our enemies once and for all.” Standing toe-to-toe with Beth, Anacostia stared her down. “Is that bullshit to you, Private?”

“No, ma'am.” Beth kept her eyes trained forward, fear of the Goddess in them.

“Good.” Anacostia walked down the line, glowering at each War College freshman. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” She paused briefly in front of Raelle before she continued on. “You’d do well to remember it.”

When she got to the last member of Glory’s unit, Anacostia returned to a position in front of the soldiers.

“For those of you who don’t already know, this is Scylla Ramshorn.” She beckoned Scylla forward. “Outside, she’s just another soldier. But here, she’ll be your instructor for the next few weeks. Treat her with anything but respect, and you’ll answer to me.” She moved to the side to stand next to Izadora.

The air thickened in Raelle’s lungs as Scylla stepped forward, fingers casually tucked in her pockets, a small smirk on her stupidly beautiful face. Except the smug smile seemed almost too stiff, a brittle mask tenuously held in place. 

Scylla cleared her throat. “I know this isn’t ideal for you,” she began, making eye contact with everyone but Raelle. “It’s not exactly a picnic for me, either. But the sooner we get through this, the sooner we can defeat the Camarilla.”

“How?” Abigail asked.

Raelle bit the inside of her cheek, while Tally stifled a groan. 

“Bellweather,” Anacostia growled.

“Ma’am, I mean no disrespect,” Abigail explained, even as she eyed Scylla with caution. “A ceasefire is one thing. I genuinely want to know how the Spree can possibly help us.”

“The same old military tactics won’t work against the Camarilla for the same reason you’ve never eradicated the Spree in two decades,” Scylla explained. Off several blank looks, she added, “You can’t kill what you can’t catch.”

“And you’ll catch them with what?” Abigail crossed her arms. “Your winning personality?”

Scylla grinned. “There’s always that.” She slid a hand into her right pocket and fished out a zippo.  “And this.” She flicked it open and lit it. Raelle’s lips parted as Scylla brought the flame to the edge of her jaw until it caught fire.

“Holy shit,” Glory gasped. 

The blaze consumed Scylla’s entire face for several seconds before it petered out, leaving a second version of Abigail, embers slowly fading from her hair. “Boo.”

Frowning, the real Bellweather stiffened. “What the hell?!”  

Dark memories of “Helen Graves” clawed at Raelle’s stomach, sharp and deep. “So, the key to defeating the Camarilla is, what, deception?” She couldn’t stop herself. It was infinitely easier to drop her filter when Scylla didn’t look like Scylla. “You’re definitely a pro at that,” she muttered, earning a jab in the ribs from Tally.

Scylla-as-Abigail blinked once, slowly. Still, she didn’t look at Raelle. Clicking the lighter once again, she burned off Abigail’s visage and returned to her own, blue eyes glowing as flames licked around her face. “If you can’t tell friend from foe, then you’re vulnerable.”

“You mean infiltrate them,” Tally said. “And expose them.”

Scylla smiled, genuinely this time. “Craven, I knew you were the brightest in your Unit.”

Abigail’s scowl intensified. “How are we supposed to infiltrate them if we can’t find them?”

“Who says we haven’t?” Scylla said in a way that unsettled Raelle, who thought back to the latest Camarilla massacre. Scylla had said she was sent to investigate, but had it been more than that? 

“So, does no one care that this Work is clearly outside Canon?” Beth unhelpfully pointed out.

Scylla regarded Beth with a look that could only be described as pity. “Canon is nothing more than a cage. Meant to keep you in check so you never realize the full extent of your power.”

Anacostia coughed into her fist and raised one brow at Scylla. 

“But I digress,” Scylla conceded. “Who wants to go first?”

No one volunteered. 

“Wow.” Scylla held up her hands, lips quirking sarcastically. “Don’t everyone answer the call at once, now.” 

“Collar, you’re up.” Anacostia’s bark was unusually loud in the awkward silence of the room.

Raelle schooled her features, even though she wanted nothing more than to glower at her former drill sergeant. Tally and Abigail watched her with thinly veiled apprehension. She followed Anacostia’s command and approached Scylla, who still refused to meet her eyes. 

“What Seeds do I use?” Raelle asked, affecting a bored drawl.

Scylla finally looked at her, and all the air squeezed out of Raelle’s lungs. “No Seeds.” She took in a breath that seemed to shake imperceptibly. “Mother Tongue.” 

Raelle’s eyebrows arched. “You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m doing standup?”

Scylla recited a short phrase, then repeated its serpentine staccato beats. Despite its brevity, it was difficult for Raelle to follow even as she subconsciously stared at the precise movements of Scylla’s lips. 

“Eventually you won’t have to say the words,” Scylla finished. 

“What do they mean?” Glory asked, her question startling Raelle. 

“In light shall I be cloaked ,” Scylla answered. “In darkness shall I be revealed.” Wetting her lips, she tore her gaze from Raelle to address Glory. “Our ancestors created this Work during the Burning Times. Fought fire with fire to escape from their oppressors.” Her attention returned to Raelle. “Like the Spree do now.”

“And how many die from it?” Raelle’s jaw tightened as she clenched her fists. 

Scylla’s stoic expression wavered, a crack in the facade, but she didn’t look away. “How many die from inaction?”

They started at each other for several beats, a game of chicken to see who would blink first.

“Um, hello?” An impatient Abigail interrupted, snapping them both out of their near-trance. “The Work?”

Scylla glanced at Anacostia before offering her lighter to Raelle, who made it a point to take it without brushing against Scylla’s hand. For self-preservation.

Raelle stared at golden zippo, recalling how she had seen it on the small locker Scylla had used as a makeshift nightstand; how Scylla never seemed to be without it. Now she knew why. She pushed open its cap. It took several sparks before it came to life. 

“Now, think about someone,” Scylla ordered.

“Who?”

“Anyone. Picture them in your mind.”

Raelle closed her eyes, but the only person she saw was Scylla. As if it could be anyone else. “Okay,” she said, hating herself for her weakness. 

“Good, now repeat after me,” Scylla said, once again slipping back into Mother Tongue. In light shall I be cloaked. In darkness shall I be revealed.

Raelle attempted to repeat the Work. Horribly. She tried again. And again. Tried to give shape to the words with her tongue and lips, to get used to how they felt in her mouth. 

“Now raise the flame,” Scylla said.

Opening her eyes, Raelle brought the lighter near her face. Its heat stung her jaw. 

“Don’t be afraid,” Scylla whispered.

Heart pounding, Raelle lifted her chin. “I’m not afraid.”

The challenge was clear in Scylla’s blue eyes.

Raelle drew her hand closer to her chin, but the flame was too much. It seared her skin, and she dropped the lighter with a yelp. It clattered against the floor as she cupped the burn. She wasn’t sure what mortified her more: the failure or the disappointment that flashed across Scylla’s face. 

***

In the breath between life and death, memories flooded Raelle’s vision, hazy and random like hundreds of fireflies on a summer night. Of her mom and dad. Warm smiles, tight hugs, joyous laughter. Of Tally and Abigail. Infectious optimism and steady leadership. Tough love from Anacostia. They blended and bled into her link with Abigail, whose own recollections centered on Petra, her five fathers, her Unit, Adil, and Charvel.

But in the center of the maelstrom was Scylla.

Raelle no longer felt pain from where the Camarilla’s arrow pierced her body. Instead, her chest filled with love and anguish, longing and regret. 

“Scyl.” She stretched out her arm, trying to grasp Scylla’s hand and coming up empty, a millimeter out of reach. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Scylla only smiled, a melancholy twist of her lips, sapphire eyes luminescent.

A burst of white engulfed Raelle, blinding and brilliant. Shutting her eyes tight, she felt fingers tightening around her left hand. She squeezed back. She’d never let go. 

***

Raelle absentmindedly pushed peas around on her tray, the tines of her fork scraping metal as she separated them from the sliced mushrooms. She wasn’t hungry, despite eating only half a bagel hours ago, her stomach still wound tight after that less than stellar training session with Scylla. Of all the Spree. It had to be her. The absurd coincidence reminded her of that old black-and-white movie her dad loved. How did that one line go? Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine. That was it. 

Someone nudged Raelle’s shoulder and waved a hand in front of her face, dispelling her line of thought.

“Hey.” Tally said, sympathy apparent in her warm brown eyes. “You still with us?”

“Yeah, of course.” Raelle nodded, putting her fork down. 

The crowd in the War College mess hall had grown since they arrived for lunch, as had the volume of chatter from the hungry soldiers, most if not all of them absolutely clueless about the extracurricular activities happening on campus.

“You’re thinking about her,” Abigail observed next to Tally on the other side of the table. 

“I’m not thinking about anyone,” Raelle lied even as her traitorous heart wondered where Scylla had gone with Anacostia and Izadora.

“You’re such a liar.” Abigail shook her head as she raised a glass of water to her lips. 

“Well, I’m thinking about her,” Tally chimed in. “She’s actually a decent instructor.” She shrunk underneath Raelle’s stare. “You know, all things considered.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “You’re only saying that because you’re the only one who was actually working that Work.”   

“One of the perks of linking with a 327-year-old?” Tally leaned forward as if she was sharing a deep secret. “Instant Mother Tongue.”

“Of all the people to impersonate, though.” Abigail speared a piece of pineapple and popped it into her mouth. “Hilary? Really? I thought you were over her and Gerit.”

Tally shrugged up a shoulder and deflected, “Who did you pick?”

“My mom,” Abigail answered. “Could you imagine her face?” She shared a chuckle with Tally while Raelle continued to sulk. “How about you, Rae?”

“What does it matter?” Raelle asked, knowing full well they knew she only had one person in mind. 

“It doesn’t.” Tally reached out and gently covered Raelle’s right hand where it rested on the table. “But, you know we’re here for you. You can talk about her, if you want.” 

“Why would I?” Raelle resisted the urge to pull away, not wanting to hurt Tally’s feelings.

“Because you still need to get your shit together,” Abigail said, tone creeping into overbearing Bellweather territory that still managed to set Raelle’s teeth on edge.

“My shit’s just fine.” Raelle clung to her obstinance. Had a knack for it. It was the one thing she could still control.

“Your shit’s a mess.” Abigail’s gaze flicked over Raelle’s shoulder and she did a double take. “And it’s about to get worse.” 

Raelle swiveled in her seat, stomach dropping. As if the day couldn’t get any worse. Her mother was now approaching their table. In uniform, no less, a hesitant smile on her face. 

“Raelle,” Willa greeted softly. 

Raelle gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached. 

“This must be your Unit,” Will said when Raelle didn’t respond, offering her hand to Abigail. “You’re Petra’s daughter. Abigail, right?”

Hesitating only briefly, Abigail stood and firmly took Willa’s hand and gave it a firm shake, once up and down. “Yes, ma’am.”

“She’s told me so much about you. I feel like I already know you.” Willa stretched a hand to Tally, who also rose to her feet to clasp it. “And you must be Tally. I knew one of your aunts. Mae? One of the finest soldiers I’ve known. She told me once that the Cravens received a dispensation from conscription.”

“Oh!” Tally’s brows shot up. “Yes, ma’am. But I… I volunteered.”

Willa blinked once. “You decided to serve even though you didn’t need to. Admirable. If only we all could have that same choice.” 

An awkward hush wrapped around them, a tense bubble amid the white noise of the mess hall.

“Well, it was nice to meet you officially, ma’am,” Abigail picked up her tray, awkwardly canting her head to encourage Tally to join her. “But we best be going.”

They reluctantly left the table, both eyeing Raelle with concern.

“I should go with them,” Raelle said, standing to collect her own things.

”Actually, I was hoping we could talk,” Willa said.

“Have you talked to dad yet?”

A hint of pain glinted in near identical blue. “No.”

“Then we have nothing to talk about.” Raelle got up and quickly deposited her tray in a receptacle. She made a beeline for the exit, hoping to catch up with Tally and Abigail. 

“Raelle, please.” Willa followed her outside into the afternoon heat. “I know you’re angry. And you have every right to be. But if you would just let me explain, you’d understand.”

“Understand what?” Raelle whirled around. “Why you abandoned us? Made us think you were dead? Sent Scylla to…” She stopped short. The last thing she wanted was to talk about Scylla. Didn’t want to even think of the possibility that Willa had deliberately assigned Scylla to train her Unit.

“Yes,” Willa said simply. “You owe me at least that much, girl.”

Temper flaring, Raelle stepped into her mom’s space. “I don’t owe you anything,” she snarled.

Raelle stalked away, emotions ablaze, a ball of pent up fury as she trekked across the grounds. She let the anger consume her, ignoring the sliver of disappointment that wrapped around her heart when her mom didn’t follow. Contrary to popular belief, she wasn’t dense. She had thought about Willa’s reasons nearly everyday. And logically, she understood.

Alder’s military system was slavery. There was no doubt about that. So many women had been forced to early deaths they didn’t choose, and the same fate awaited their daughters, and their daughters’ daughters. Her mom didn’t want Raelle to become war meat. Hell, Raelle didn’t want to become war meat. Perhaps in some twisted way, Willa thought she was also protecting Edwin, breaking his heart to keep him safe from the war. The Spree sought freedom to live their lives without fear of being hunted down and killed, like Scylla’s parents. But they were also murderers, just like the Army–both entities so mired in darkness that Raelle wasn’t sure they’d ever see the light.

She knew all this. But her heart still couldn’t get past the betrayal of it all, and the fear of everything she still didn’t know about the terrible lengths Willa had gone to in furtherance of her cause. It was easier to cling to pain and resentment, than to wade into brackish water and attempt to separate brine from the fresh. 

Her eyes began to sting and she stopped to suck in several deep breaths. She had wandered the grounds, unseeing, and somehow found herself at the base of her favorite grand oak tree. It stood massive and towering, limbs curving and snaking toward the sun, the silent keeper of memories and secret moments. Raelle braced a hand against its rough bark, pushing until it dug into her skin. She had to collect herself, or at least fake it as best she could, before her next set of classes, which included even more testing with Izadora. Or else she’d never hear the end of it from Abigail and Tally.

When her anger had cooled from a boil to a simmer, Raelle rounded the tree, intending to settle between it’s exposed roots, only to receive an unexpected jolt when she found her spot already occupied.

By Scylla.

Because, of course, it had to be Scylla. Sitting under Raelle’s favorite tree. Their tree. Where they had stolen kisses from each other and made plans for the future. Where Scylla had once lifted Raelle and spun her in her arms, carefree and in love.

Raelle’s chest constricted at the realization.

“S-sorry,” Raelle stuttered out. “I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

Startled, Scylla dropped the pen she had been holding. It rolled into the gutter of the journal she had been writing in. “Raelle…” 

Crystal blue eyes widening behind a pair of black, wire-framed reading glasses. They reminded Raele of the ones Scylla used to wear late at night in her dorm room, studying thick tomes on mycology and necromancy while Raelle dozed on her bed after a long day in the rough room. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Raelle started to back away. 

“You don’t have to leave,” Scylla regained her composure and picked up her pen. “I can go.”

“No, you were here first.” Raelle turned to leave. “I’ll just….” Her heel caught one of the tree’s gnarled roots. She stumbled slightly, but managed to maintain her balance, if not her dignity, face red with embarrassment.

Scylla chewed at her bottom lip. “You know, it’s a big tree. And we’re big girls. We can both stay without bothering each other.”

Raelle almost laughed. They both knew that would be impossible. And yet, the way Scylla regarded her with no expectations, an open invitation with no pressure, it made Raelle want to believe they could do it. Co-exist. If not exactly peacefully, then at least politely. 

For the mission.

At least, that’s what Raelle told herself as she ignored all her survival instincts and sat on the ground, back against the crags of the trunk a few meters away from Scylla.

Silence blanketed them, not quite comfortable but not unbearable either, as a gentle breeze ruffled the branches overhead. Scylla’s pen scratched softly against paper, and Raelle stole a glimpse of Scylla out of the corner of her eye. The sun’s rays rippled down through the leaves, light and shadow flickering over Scylla’s gorgeous profile, head bent and dark hair swaying in the wind as she resumed writing.

Unlike Willa, Scylla made no efforts to address the unspoken tension between them–more massive than any proverbial elephant. Didn’t try to explain, or apologize, beyond what had already transpired between them in that prison cell so many moons ago. Raelle wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, or if it would even change anything, regardless. 

Her stomach sank anyway. 

Because unlike with Willa, Raelle felt remorse regarding Scylla, who had been captured and tortured because she had chosen Raelle over the Spree. Regret had burrowed inside Raelle’s heart the moment Scylla had pleaded with her in that horrible dungeon. Had transformed into a gnawing guilt that continued to fester long after Raelle callously dismissed Scylla anyway, wanting to break Scylla heart the way Scylla had broken hers. Raelle had no idea how to fix it, or if she even could.

“How’s your chin?” Scylla broke the stillness.

Raelle gingerly touched the healed skin. She’d almost forgotten it had been burned in the first place. “All fixed up. Which is more than I can say about Treefine’s hair.” She had no idea the High Atlantic could screech that loudly.

Scylla let out a soft chuckle. “It’ll grow back.”

“Not at the rate we’re going.” Raelle ran her fingers through the grass, tips tickling her palm.

“It’s only the first day,” Scylla said. “It gets easier.”

“Oh yeah? How long did it take you?” Raelle asked and then instantly wished she could take it back. Scylla’s parents had probably taught her, and here she was bringing up those painful memories. “Sorry, I…”

“It’s okay.” Scylla shook her head. “A while. I didn’t want to get burned. But, eventually, you get used to it. Learn not to fear it. Until you feel nothing at all.”

I’ve been burned before, Scylla had told Raelle that one time, deep in the cemetery in the woods. Both literally and figuratively. And Raelle had contributed to it. They’d both hurt each other, intentionally and unintentionally. Raelle’s heart throbbed against her ribs. She wanted to reach out, but knew she couldn’t. Not any more.

Before she could respond, someone called out Scylla’s name. A young woman with long, brown hair beckoned from a distance. Raelle frowned.

“I have to go,” Scylla removed her glasses, voice soft. Closing her journal, she pushed herself onto her feet and dusted off her pants. “See you around, Raelle.”

“Scyl, wait,” Raelle blurted out, scrambling to her feet. She didn’t know what possessed her, but she had to get this out. 

Scylla paused, head tilting slightly. 

“What I said back then.” Raelle licked her suddenly dry lips. “About being sorry we ever met.” Hot shame spread across Raelle’s cheeks. “I didn’t mean it.” 

Scylla’s expression shifted through a myriad of emotions–surprise, pain, and sadness conveyed in each subtle twitch of her mouth and crease of her brow–until the sea of her eyes calmed. Softened. 

“Thank you,” Scylla whispered before she quickly turned around and walked away. 

[chipsandcoffee]

Whouffaldi Fanfic

“You Sound Like a Song”

Post-Hell-Bent, fix-it of sorts, memory loss, confessions, angst, romance, eternal love, s10 spoilers, canon compliant (well technically at least), cameo appearance by Bill Potts

Also on AO3 at this link.

______________

He knew her name was Clara. He knew they’d travelled together. But that was all he knew.

The list of things the Doctor didn't know about Clara was so much longer and went so much deeper, prodding away at him from a restless corner of his mind. What was she like? What had they meant to each other? Why would he have wiped the memory of her from his mind? And the one question that troubled him most: what had happened to her?

He ruminated on these questions yet again as he slumped in a leather armchair in his office at St. Luke's University, absent-mindedly strumming his guitar. He often felt a sense of melancholy on these solitary nights. Nothing was sad until it was over, he thought. Then everything was.

He had spent a long time trying to look for Clara (being stuck on Earth for a number of years hadn’t stopped him, for he was based where she was most likely to be). Of course he didn't know who he was looking for (hadn't someone told him that once?), but he believed he would know her if he met her again, and she would surely know him. But it had never happened. And he’d never heard a word from her.

He'd eventually reached the most logical and painful conclusion: she was dead. She'd likely been dead all along, even before he’d erased her from his memory (he could tell he’d used a neural block, could feel the sensation of a hole in his mind where something ought to be). Maybe that was why he'd taken the drastic step of eliminating those memories in the first place: her death had simply been too painful for him to bear.

He obviously had no idea how Clara had died, but he had the painful feeling that it had somehow been his fault. Hers was probably another life cut tragically short because of him, just like too many other people he’d been close to.

Indeed, he��d experienced more than his fair share of loss over his long life, and the last few decades had certainly been no exception. River had gone to her inevitable death shortly before he’d arrived in Bristol (at least by his timeline). He’d also very nearly presided over the execution of Missy before rescuing his oldest friend and bringing her to St. Luke’s. But for reasons he couldn’t quite grasp, the very idea of Clara being dead made his hearts ache in a way nothing else did. Perhaps more than anything else ever had.

It was strange grieving for someone he didn’t remember. His grief after losing River had made sense to him, and he’d been able to move on from it (even if Nardole, devoted to River as always, continued to assume that any sign of sorrow from the Doctor was connected to his late wife). But he had a vague, shapeless sense of loss deep in his bones that he knew, he just knew, was the grief he was still carrying for Clara. He obsessed over the unknown and unknowable details of her life, their life, and her presumed death. 

His grief frequently bubbled up to the surface when he played his guitar. In fact, as he sat there in the shadows of his office, he realized that he'd once again started playing a variation of a song from long ago that he knew was called “Clara.” Bill was always curious about that tune, but he'd never told her its true title. How would he begin to explain the story behind it when he didn’t understand it himself? 

The Doctor suddenly recalled with regret that he’d been rather curt with Bill earlier that day when she'd teased him that that particular song was the only one he knew how to play. He thought maybe he should say something to her by way of apology when he saw her again. He also knew he was rubbish at such conversations, so he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and fished out the stack of dog-eared index cards that he relied on for such occasions. He'd had them for many years, each card a neatly-written sentence that he could use in tricky social situations (which for him was most social situations). One of his companions had probably made them for him at some point, but he couldn't remember who. He liked to imagine they came from Clara, that he still had something tangible left of her that he carried with him. He wondered if she would have liked that.

The Doctor put his guitar aside, ran his hand down his face, and started pacing around his office. All this brooding wasn't doing him any good. He needed a distraction. He paused, fingers drumming on his desk, as his eyes fell on his TARDIS parked in the corner following his last outing with Bill. He'd been thinking recently that the timeship’s interface stabilizer could use an upgrade; that would keep him busy for a while. But he’d need to get his hands on a few parts first. He considered his options. 

His favourite place to get spare parts for the TARDIS was at a marketplace on the planet Haligonia. Of course Nardole would give him grief if he found out that the Doctor had travelled off world, but Nardole was currently occupied with tinkering with the locks on the vault deep under St. Luke’s and likely would be for a while. The Doctor could be gone and back before Nardole knew he’d left. He rubbed his hands together, his decision made. He pushed open the TARDIS doors.

A few minutes later, the Doctor was strolling through the bustling marketplace on 48th-century Haligonia. The planet was a human colony, but the well-known market attracted shoppers of a variety of species from all over the galaxy. It was a warm, sunny day, and the breeze carried smells of local street foods as he made his way past vendors selling everything from the latest tech gadgets to exotic jewellery to flowers of every possible colour.

Soon enough he spotted the parts dealer’s stall. As he approached it he noticed there was a rather spirited conversation going on between the tall, burly dealer and a petite young woman. The customer was dark-haired and wore a black leather jacket with a well-worn satchel slung over her shoulder. Her clear voice stood out over the din of the market, and as the Doctor walked up behind her, he could hear her haggling over the price of something.

“Come on, this would've cost less when it was new than what you’re asking for it now.”

The dealer folded his arms. “Yeah, well life’s not fair, lady. And if you can find it new somewhere else, feel free to buy it there.”

“Fine,” she said nonchalantly, “I will then.” The woman spun around and began striding off, nearly walking into the Doctor.

“Sorry,” she said, glancing up at him. She did a double take and suddenly froze, staring at him, her strikingly large eyes becoming impossibly larger. She stood stock still for a long moment. “Doctor,” she breathed.

He peered down at her, knitting his eyebrows and squinting slightly. “Have we met?”

“Yeah, yeah we've met,” she said faintly, sounding dazed. She continued to stare at him, and now her eyes were starting to look distinctly watery.

The Doctor became increasingly concerned that this stranger might inexplicably burst into tears right in front of him, a prospect that he found rather frightening. He reached into his pocket for his social cue cards in a desperate attempt to find something to say that might diffuse whatever was happening.

He found one of his frequently-used cards, and recited, “I apologize for not recognizing you. I am a time traveller and I sometimes meet people out of order.”

The woman tore her eyes away from the Doctor's face to look at what he was holding. However, much to the Doctor's horror the card had only made things worse, as she had clasped her hand over her mouth and a tear trickled down her face.

“I, um,” he spluttered, his arms flailing.

The woman suddenly seemed to snap out of her emotional state and darted her eyes around the marketplace, as though searching for an escape route. “I'm um, I'm so sorry,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to smile. “Have a good day.” And with that she turned and strode away without a backwards glance.

The Doctor felt somewhat relieved that this problematic encounter appeared to have resolved itself. But he also felt responsible for upsetting this person, and he found himself chasing after her through the crowd of shoppers.

“You there,” he said, starting to catch up to her. “Are you okay?”

He thought she must not have heard him, because she kept on walking. But then she came to a sudden halt, and the Doctor had to stop himself from running into her from behind. After a moment’s hesitation, she turned around, her face somehow conveying trepidation and relief at the same time. The Doctor was baffled how she managed to do that. 

The woman heaved a long sigh. “I am so sick of hiding from you.” The Doctor frowned as she stepped towards him, the crowd swirling around them. “The reason I recognize you but you don't recognize me isn't because of time travel. It's because you’ve forgotten me.” She paused for a second and wiped away a tear. “You, um, you chose to forget me.”

The Doctor felt as though his hearts had stopped and that all the blood had drained from his face. His mouth fell slightly open. Some distant part of his brain thought he must look like he'd seen a ghost. To him he had.

“Clara,” he whispered. It wasn't a question. He knew somehow, he was certain who she was.

“Yeah,” she whispered in return, gazing into his eyes.

“You're not dead,” he blurted out, immediately realizing how ridiculous that sounded.

“Yeah,” she frowned. “Why? Have you remembered--”

“I haven't remembered anything. I'd just… guessed. That-- that you were dead.”

Clara looked into the Doctor’s eyes and he immediately felt like she could see into his soul, into every lonely, hopeless night he’d spent grieving for her. Her face grew concerned.

“Oh, Doctor.” She reached up and laid her hand on his cheek, and the Doctor surprised himself by not flinching under her touch. “I think we should talk.”

______________

A few minutes later, the Doctor found himself incredibly, miraculously sitting with Clara at a small table in the corner of a quiet cafe on a back street near the marketplace, a steaming mug of herbal tea in front of each of them. They sat in silence at first as they stole glances at one another and tried to figure out how to navigate this strange situation.

“I like your coat,” Clara started, nodding at the blue-lined black velvet jacket he'd favoured of late.

“Oh, um, thanks.” He felt himself blushing. He wasn't used to people saying that sort of thing to him. Another moment passed and he asked, “How did you travel here?”

“In my TARDIS,” she answered easily, as though that were something that humans did all the time.

“What?” He was flabbergasted. “You have a TARDIS? How?”

Clara sighed. “Oh, this is going to be a very long story, Doctor.”

Several cups of tea later, Clara had told the Doctor the story of their final days together: the raven on Trap Street, the Doctor pulling Clara from her time stream on Gallifrey (which partly explained the vague memories he’d had of being trapped for a very long time in his confession dial), and her escape in a stolen TARDIS (oddly with the immortal woman Ashildr).

Once Clara had finished her story, the Doctor sat in stunned silence, attempting to make sense of it all, of the extreme lengths he'd gone to for Clara. He tried to wrap his mind around the idea that he’d actually plucked this woman from her time stream right before her death. And here she sat, still time-looped. Still, in essence, alive.

“You know how to fly a TARDIS?” It probably wasn’t the most important question, but it’s the one that popped out of his mouth.

“Yeah,” she laughed, her eyes twinkling, and the Doctor thought her laugh was perhaps the loveliest thing he’d ever heard. “I picked up a thing or two in the years we travelled together.”

The Doctor was impressed. “So how long has it been for you since you last saw me?”

“Oh, um, I'm not sure anymore. A while back I stopped keeping track of how long it’d been. It was--” She paused, lowering her eyes, a hint of pain crossing her face. She cleared her throat, met his eye again and continued, “I figured that was for the best. But I guess it must be close to a hundred years now.”

The Doctor raised his eyebrows slightly. "I think it's almost exactly the same for me."

The corners of Clara's mouth quirked up. "Yeah, that's just the way things seem to go with us. We've always been… connected, somehow.”

“What have you been doing all that time?”

“Oh you know, flying about a bit, watching the odd star being born, saving the odd planet.”

The Doctor couldn't help but laugh at Clara's jokingly casual tone, and he marvelled to himself at this amazing woman. But there was an important issue that Clara hadn’t yet explained.

“So why don’t I remember you, Clara? Based on the type of amnesia that I experienced, I’m guessing that I used a neural block of some sort?”

Clara’s face turned serious and she glanced down.

“Um, yeah, you did.” She gave a puzzled frown. “It's weird though, I saw you shortly after the neural block, and you seemed to remember a bit more than you do now. At least some of what had happened on Gallifrey.”

“Ah, well it's not uncommon in the early stages following a neural block to be left with some disjointed shards of memories. Over time, if the brain can't process those fragments, they're forgotten. It's sort of like forgetting a dream shortly after awakening.”

“Right, okay.”

The Doctor searched her face. “Clara, why did I use a neural block to forget you?” 

Clara looked upwards as if searching for inspiration on how to respond to the Doctor’s question, tears threatening in her eyes again. She took a deep breath.

“It wasn't meant to be you, not at first.”

“What do you mean?”

“You, um, you were going to use the neural block on me. You thought I'd be safer from the Time Lords if I didn't remember you.”

The Doctor frowned in confusion. “So what happened?”

Clara lowered her eyes. “I used your sonic sunglasses to reverse the polarity on the neural blocker when you weren't looking.”

“You what?”

“I didn't want it to go off on you, I just didn't want you to use it on me.” She began to raise her voice while a tear spilled down her face. “I didn't want you to use it at all, I told you what I'd done!”

Her voice broke and she paused, catching her breath and wiping her face. The Doctor felt a rush of sympathy and heartache for her. He realized that as difficult as it had been for him to live with his missing memories, Clara had suffered too, in a different way: she'd had to carry around the weight of everything they'd been through, while he had been blissfully ignorant.

Clara continued, speaking more quickly as she got through the rest of her story. “So. You didn't know at that point what would happen when the button on the blocker was pressed. That's when you suggested that we both press the button together, knowing that one of us would forget the other, but not knowing which one. Better than flipping a coin, you said.” Clara dropped her gaze and her voice fell to nearly a whisper. “And I guess you kind of lost the coin toss.”

The Doctor watched Clara for a moment, her head bowed. Then he found himself leaning forward and placing his hand on hers. Clara looked up at him, surprised at the contact.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“For everything, I guess. For forgetting you. For trying to make you forget me. I'm sorry that you feel bad about what happened with my memories, because it wasn't your fault, Clara. We knew the risks and we pressed that button together.” 

She squeezed his hand, a hint of relief on her face.

“You didn't say why I thought one of us needed to forget the other,” the Doctor continued. “But I think I'm starting to understand. Everything I did, the confession dial, the extraction chamber, my plan to hide you away and make you forget me.” The Doctor felt his hearts stirring as he now wrapped Clara's hand in both of his. “I think I would have torn the sky apart for you, Clara Oswald. And I think I knew that.”

A sad smile crossed Clara's face. “And I would have done the same for you.”

The Doctor and Clara gazed silently at each other, her small hand wrapped in his two, lost in the universe that was each other's eyes. 

After a while Clara swallowed, leaned forward, and spoke in a quiet voice. “Doctor, there's one more thing I still haven't told you. When you and I were on Gallifrey, we sat together in the Cloisters, and I told you something important, something I'd never told you before.” Clara took her free hand and laid it on top of his, her eyes round and sparkling. “I told you that I loved you. That I'd always loved you and I always would, and that I wished I'd told you a long time ago. That maybe if I had, things would have turned out differently.”

The Doctor had been surprised by many things Clara had told him that day, but somehow her declaration of love wasn't one of them. He’d known it, felt it, from the moment he'd met her in the market outside.

“And how did I respond?” he whispered, scarcely breathing.

Clara gave another sad smile and shook her head. “You didn't. That was the moment you got the service hatch open and, well, we had to keep running.”

“Ah,” was all he could think of to say.

“Yeah. We’ve had a lot of bad timing, you and me.”

As if to emphasize the point, the cafe owner at that moment walked by their table and turned off the “open” sign in the window, pointedly clearing his throat as he did so.The Doctor glanced around and realized that he and Clara had been alone in the cafe for quite some time.

“I think we’re being kicked out,” Clara whispered loudly, her eyes twinkling.

“Looks like it,” the Doctor replied with a crooked grin.

Outside, the Haligonian night had fallen, and the streets were nearly empty. The planet's two champagne-coloured moons shone overhead, and the air felt damp and cool after the warmth of the day. The Doctor and Clara wandered together through the town for a while, swapping tales of adventures and wild escapes, their bursts of laughter ringing through the stillness of the evening. The streets and laneways they walked eventually gave way to a green, park-like area on the edge of town where the scent of blossoming trees drifted through the night air. The Doctor wished they could keep walking forever, but as his TARDIS came into view in the moonlight, he was reminded that their magical day had to come to an end.

They walked together across the dewy grass and stopped near his blue box, standing in an uncertain silence, the only sound a nocturnal bird calling in the distance. Clara finally spoke. “So what happens now? Me and you, what do we do now?” The hint of tears glistening in her eyes told the Doctor that she probably already knew the answer.

“Oh, Clara. I don't even need my memories to know that there’s nothing in this universe I’d like more than to travel with you again. But I said today that I would have torn the sky apart for you all those years ago, and I know in my hearts I still would. And that you’d still do the same for me.” 

He took a step closer to her. “Everything you’ve told me, everything I can see and feel now tells me that we were amazing together. But also that we were dangerous. And I don't think there’s any way to stop that from happening again, because of who we are, and because of--” He paused and took a deep breath. “And because of how we feel about each other.”

Clara looked down and nodded, a tear falling to the ground. “Yeah,” she whispered.

The Doctor tenderly placed his hand on Clara’s cheek, and she looked up at him. Clara had told him so much that day. Now there was something he felt he had to tell her, something that was burning within him. He wasn't going to let the opportunity pass him by again, not this time.

“Clara, I never got the chance to respond to you in the Cloisters, and I know a lot of time has passed since then and I’ve forgotten so much. But I know, I’m certain of one thing. I loved you, Clara Oswald. I loved you-- I love you with both my hearts. And I always will.”

Clara smiled up at him, even as another tear rolled down her cheek. The Doctor wiped away the tear with his thumb, feeling dizzy with the emotions swirling inside him. He found himself slowly leaning towards her, feeling a pull as irresistible and inevitable as gravity, as Clara ran her hand up his arm. Their lips met in a soft, heartfelt kiss. To the Doctor it felt surprisingly natural, right, perfect. It felt like the long-awaited conclusion to a conversation begun 100 years ago.

The Doctor stepped back and took Clara's hand as he stood there smiling softly at her, warmth and contentment infusing his body. She smiled back at him, all dimples and shiny eyes.

“I’m really glad I got to see you, Doctor.”

“I’m really glad I got to see you too, Clara Oswald.”

But his smile faltered as the reality of his situation sunk in. Clara frowned.

“What’s wrong, Doctor?”

He released her hand and sighed. “My neural block, Clara. I don’t know what'll happen when I leave tonight. Seeing you today, talking to you, learning all about you, about us. I don’t want to forget any of it, not again. But my brain has blocked my memories of you for a very long time, and I'm afraid it'll do it again.”

Clara’s face was filled with concern. “There must be something we can do.”

He shook his head and half-shrugged his shoulders.

Clara’s eyes lit up. “Hang on, I have an idea.” She tucked her hair behind her ears and opened her satchel. After some rummaging around, she pulled out a small cardboard box and opened it. “I carry these around with me. They still come in handy for all kinds of things.”

______________

Bill started packing up her things as the day’s tutorial with the Doctor wrapped up.

The Doctor was sitting behind his massive desk, continuing to flip through the book they'd been discussing. “And don’t forget that your research paper on laser-cooled ions is due tomorrow.”

Bill rolled her eyes good naturedly. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it.”

“Good.” The Doctor tried to look stern, but he had a feeling he wasn’t quite pulling it off. Tossing aside the book, he stood and picked up his guitar from the chair where he'd left it, wandering around his office as he played the song that he now knew was named for the woman he loved.

Bill paused as she walked towards the door. “Don't think I've heard that version before. It's, I dunno, cheerier.”

The Doctor smiled to himself. “Good night, Bill.”

“‘Night, Doctor. See ya tomorrow.”

Now alone, the Doctor played for a while longer before setting his guitar down. He relaxed into his favourite armchair and reflected on how different things were for him since his trip to Haligonia a few weeks earlier. He could still remember much of his wondrous encounter with Clara, though some of the details were growing hazy, almost as though the whole thing had been a dream. Sometimes he thought maybe it had been a dream. But whenever that unsettling feeling arose, he would do as he did now. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small stack of index cards. Some were old and dog-eared, but some were new. All of them had the same neat handwriting, and now he knew whose handwriting it was.

He picked out the new cards. The one on top read, “Clara is alive and doing well. She wants you to be happy.” He gave a contented sigh. The next two were his favourites.

“Clara loves you. She always has and always will.” 

“You told Clara that you love her, and she will always cherish that.”

He smiled even as his eyes felt wet with tears (perhaps he was malfunctioning). He gazed at the cards for a long time, his fingers running lightly over the words.

He knew her name was Clara. He knew they’d travelled together. He knew she was still out there, exploring the universe. He knew they'd loved each other deeply and truly, and they always would.

He also knew that nothing was sad until it was over. And he and Clara would never be over. Not in his hearts, not ever.

______________

Thank you for reading! This is my first fic and any feedback would be very welcome and appreciated!

[kewltie]

contains: slavery, caste system 

Quirkless. Lesser. Lesser than humans.

The thick metal collar goes around his neck and closes with a secured beep. "Be good to your new master, Izuku," the Headmaster instructs. "You're the pride of our academy so try not to shame us. Always remember your lessons and oath."

"We serve at the behest of those who greater than us," Izuku recites solemnly. A mantra that was beaten into him since he was taken from his mother's arms by the DQA when he was only just eight years old and deposited in one of its many training academies.

"Good, good," the Headmaster says, looking particularly pleased with himself. "You're quite fortunate that you're benefactor is such a high profile character that you might be able to pay off your contract debt in ten years or so."

"Yes," Izuku agrees, even though he wouldn't have acquired such a debt if he wasn't stolen away and forced to learn at the feet of adults who claimed to know better. Claimed they were there to help him because he is quirkless. Useless. He must be taught to serve society better.

"Will they--," he swallows the flash of nerves for a moment, "may I know who is to be my new master?" The Headmaster grins, eyes twinkling brightly against Izuku's shadowy apprehension. "I have no doubt that you may already know his name."

"A public  figure?" Izuku murmurs thoughtfully. A politician or an idol perhaps? Someone whose name and face is spread everywhere enough that even locked away in the fortress of the academy Izuku would still be familiar with him to recognize who he is. "A celebrity then?"

The Headmaster snorts in amusement. "Close enough," he answers. "In his line of work he might as well be with the way the media and his legion of devout fans like the sink their teeth into him if they could." Izuku blinks, mind racing as he connects the dot. "A prohero?!"

His eyes widen and lower jaw dropping in surprise when the Headmaster gave a short nod. "I believe he's around your age, so young still but a prodigy they say. Having broken into the top fifty ranking in only two year after his graduation from U.A, now he’s among the top ten. His performance had truly been impressive.”

Izuku's heart stops.

U.A., the school Izuku had once dreamed of going to before it all came crashing down. In another life, in another world it would have been his alma mater, but this is his reality now. Now, he can only glimpse of those heroes on TV and thinks of all the could haves, would haves.

That should be me out there, his younger self had thought with a yearnful heart as he pressed his hand against the screen of the TV, but the academy was no place for broken dreams and fanciful wishes. It carved out every weakness of his and crushed it under its firmed teaching.

Izuku may have outgrown those childhood fancies, but he never stopped looking toward the sky like a bird with clipped wings. If he couldn't be one of them then he wanted to know everything about them. News clippings, scholarly journals, and books, he had devoured it all.

"I know you always did have a fondness of the proheroes scene," the Headmaster comments idly like Izuku's earlier obsession with heroes, though argue by his handlers that it had truly never gone away, wasn't a topic of heated contention throughout his years at the academy.

"This is the best match up we could ever hope for. You're one of our most brightest students--one I, dearsay, haven't seen in decades," he says, looking fondly at Izuku as though Izuku hasn't been dragged into his office so many times for corrective behavior measure.

Izuku has always been a good boy, but never an obedience one, his former teachers would often lament about that fact. It's precisely why although Izuku had had broken so many grounds and records at the academy, consistently ranked at the top of his class, but finding him a proper sponsor was hard.

On paper, he was perfect, if choosing to ignore his long disciplinary paper trail, but once the sponsor had met him in person and saw all the cracks of his polished submission in the rigid of his shoulders and eyes unwilling to fall to the floor, they knew right away--there was something terribly wrong with him.

Like, how he was a failure for being born quirkless so they had to carefully train him up with the best money the government could buy in hope that one day he could serve their best and brightest. Even then he'd failed to live up to their expectations of him.

"This pro-hero," Izuku says slowly and carefully. "Does he know of me?" Will he also be disappointed when he meets Izuku like all the rest?

"He specifically requested you. He was very insistent about it," the Headmaster responds, and then he frowns. “Rather forceful actually. Wouldn't take no for an answer. I'd even suggested going through our catalogues of other Lessers first before he make up his mind, but he nearly rip my head off." His frown deepens as his face pinches at the memory. "Such a crude behavior indeed. I almost wanted decline if it wasn't for his reputable reputation as a hero."

Izuku's eyes widen. "He asked for me personally? Who is he then—tell me?!" he demands, taking several steps toward the Headmaster with hands extended out as thought he was going to shake the answer right out of him. 

"Izuku," the Headmaster snaps, eyes narrowing in contempt. "Calm yourself! You’re not a child anymore. You're a representative of this elite academy, so such ill manner does not become us!”  

Izuku freezes, quickly dropping his hands to his side once more. "I--" His gaze fall to the ground as heat rises to his cheek. "I deeply apologize, sir. I don’t know what came over me like that." He quickly falls back, putting enough distance between them to regain his composure. 

The Headmaster sighs. "I know you're excited because this may be your last chance at getting a benefactor after so many fail sponsorships, but do not forget your place, Izuku." 

Izuku’s mouth dries and there’s an awful twist in his guts as another lecture starts rolling in. 

"It's with your head bowed, eyes down, and on your knees at the feet of your master. You're incredibly brilliant and talented student, but no matter how good you are you're still a Lesser," he explains as though Izuku hadn't heard it a hundred times before. "You'll never amount to anything spectacular compare to the rest of us. Such is the plight of the quirkless." 

Izuku bristles, hands clenching and unclenching at his side but he holds his tongue. If he says the wrong thing again, it'll cost him maybe everything. 

It only takes one chance. That's all he need. A reason to get out of the academy's iron grip and its intense scrutiny so he'll have room to breathe and plan his way out of these shackles that bind him.

Freedom on bent knees and a collar around his neck. Oh, the irony.

"I keep that in mind, sir," Izuku murmurs, plastering a smile that he doesn't quite feel on his face. "When will I meet my new master then?"

"Now," the Headmaster says with a wave of his hand toward the exit of his office. "I'll take you to him right this instance."

Izuku jerks in surprise. "So soon?!" he asks. Though he'd long accepted his fate is not his own, but he hasn't been mentally and emotionally prep for a meeting with the man whose name will be carved onto his collar. 

The Headmaster purses his lip unhappily. "He wants to meet you right away even though I'd insisted we give it a few days to prepare you first, but he's--" he scrunches up his face in annoyance, "extremely vocal about what he wants. Twenty billion yens will get you a whole lot of favor it seems."  

Izuku chokes on air.

Twenty billion yen?! "Is that--" Izuku starts and then stops, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. "I-Is that how much he'd paid for me?" 

The Headmaster frowns, scratching his chin as he steers Izuku out of his office. "It's how much he's sponsoring you for." 

"Ah, I see," Izuku replies, even though he doesn't see how is that any different. No matter how they may have prettied it up, it's still an exchange of money for a service and in any other world that would be frown upon but here's it's a way of life for the quirkless. 

The Headmaster escorts him through the winding halls of the academy where several students--their age vary as young as seven to even older than Izuku at twenty-seven--roam unrestricted in the hallway during their free period. 

The campus is a sprawling education complex.

They're always learning to be good, better, for their master. Everything is for their master. From basic domestic skills like cooking and cleaning to learning violin first hand under a maestro, and then there's math and physics. The education here varies and complex.

It's all in service of their master in the future. They must be mold to be whatever their master needed. Trained to be the best so they can serve to the best of their abilities as companion, assistant, and consort. They have to be everything and nothing at all.

Coveted by those who only saw value in the rarity and the novelty of owning a Lesser, Izuku and his kind are ornament pieces meant to decorate the arms of their master but once their master get bored of them, they're quickly discarded and are no longer of any worth.

They are consider a priceless treasure up until the point when they're not anymore. To be treated like a commodity, with no inherent worth until others deem it so, is not the way Izuku wanted to live.

But nobody had given him a choice in that regard. Him and thousands of others like him. 

"We're here," the Headmaster says as they stand outside of one of the private VIP rooms where they often entertain special guests visiting the academy. It's a place Izuku had been to many times before, presented to potential sponsors like a piece of meat to be sold.

There's a price on Izuku's head, a price on the head of all the students here. It an arbitrary number, but it's important enough that people have live and die by it. Izuku knows his worth and it has little to do what anyone else think, but it all comes back to money in the end.

Money from sponsorship that lined the pocket of the academy, money that kept Izuku and others collared and trap in their gilded cage and it is ultimately money that brought Izuku right in front of this door to meet the man who will decide his fate. Izuku puts on his warpaint.

He wears an indomitable smile on his face as though it was carved from stone as the Headmaster pushes the door open and leads him in. His eyes flutter shut for a moment and he breathes as he steps forward onto the battlefield with nothing but his wits to guide him through.

The room opens up to marble titles lining the floor, lights cascade down from a crystal chandelier hanging above, several muted grey accent chairs surround a glass coffee table, the walls are painted white on white, and even the rest of the decor stay resolutely neutral in colors. 

It's simple, clean cut, and modern. And it left Izuku feeling cold and bereft every time he walk into this room. The only jarring difference this time around is the other person in the room beside him and the Headmaster. His presence alone immediately takes up all the space in Izuku's head and leaves him startlingly breathless and dazed with confusion.

Domineering is a word, Izuku would use. All-consuming is another. It's like stepping into a vortex and getting swept right up in the eye of its storm. A furious red storm that Izuku had been caught in since he was a child, fallen under its spell with a single infuriating glance. It's those same pair of eyes that had looked at him with contempt and scorn back then as though whatever they found of him it was sorely lacking. 

The man doesn't rise from his seat and didn't offer a single word, but Izuku knows him, knows him like he knows his own heartbeat. The slope of his shoulders, the wide expanse of his back, the hard plane of his chest, every inch of him Izuku had a glimpsed of on the TV screen, he’d committed it all to memory.

It been more than ten years since they have stood right in front of each other, Izuku had changed since then but so did he. He's taller. Bigger. His presence more pronounce and dizzying in way like he'd finally grown into the great person he always boasted to be.

But then again, he wasn't ever boasting. He had meant every word of it. Believe it like it was a certainty that carried him through every one of decision and action. Izuku have always admired that decisive nature of his and here he is again, appearing before him like a dream made real.

The Headmaster lowers his head slightly in greeting. "Zero-san, I have brought him just as you requested," he says, stepping aside to let Bakugou Katsuki have full view of Izuku like he hasn't been boring a hole in Izuku's head since the moment they'd walked through the doors.

All the training that got him here, he had things he been primed to say, it all went out the window the second Izuku had seen him because nothing had prepared him for this, for reuniting with his former childhood friend again after more than a decade. Bakugou Katsuki is the one person he would have never expected to come here, let alone if it’s for Izuku. The last time they had seen each other, they’d parted with a lot of tears and vitriol thrown at each other.

“—I never want to see you again, you useless nerd! I hate you, I fucking hate you. Go away!”

The marks left over from that fight had never truly healed. Years later, he still carried those bitter words to into his dream, always wondering if he had another chance maybe he could have mended their tattered friendship again. Now, staring into the eyes of the nightmare that had haunted him ever since then, a strange mixture of wariness and curiosity warring within him.

“K-Kacchan—?” he asks, moving in stuttering steps as though he was pulled forward.

“Izuku! What are you doing?!” the Headmaster hisses, scandalized tone leaking into his voice, but Izuku found it was impossible to heed his words. “Stop that now!”

He takes another step and another, and then the collar around his neck constricts and sends a jolt of electricity throughout his body, dropping Izuku to the floor in shock. Izuku’s trembling hands fumble at his collar as he desperately tries catch his breath.

Out of the corner of his panic stricken eyes, he catches the sound of heavy footsteps as Katsuki makes his way to the Headmaster in three long strides. He grabs the Headmaster by the collar of his shirt and shakes him. “What the fuck did you do him, you bastard?!” is the first thing Katsuki says, and it’s so, so fierce and cutting that the words cut through the air like lightning.

Izuku recoils, fear taking hold of him for a second.

The Headmaster’s mask of composure doesn’t slip one bit, not even in the face of a top twenty rank pro-hero. Wordlessly, he carefully removes Katsuki’s hand from his person and smiles reassuringly. “Zero-san, it was just a precaution to control him in case the Lesser acted out. Don’t worry, he’s fine,” he promises, his voice slipping into a melodious and soothing tone.

Right away, Izuku can feel the earlier rise of panic and anxiety stirring inside of him is quickly disappearing under the Headmaster’s emphatic quirk. As a level four, the Headmaster has masterful commands of his quirk that let him use his voice to inject emotions into everyone nearby. It’s one of the many reasons he was left in charge of the Lesser Sponsorship Program because he could easily defuse any complicated situations if it arise to that. “Your merchandise remains unharmed,” he is quick to assure Katsuki, instilling as much calm as he could in those words that Izuku’s head is fuzzy with warmth, choking on a sweet toxic scent and if the Headmaster had asked, Izuku would have walked into fire for him.

But Katsuki is not Izuku, he isn’t defenseless babe against such a measly mind altering quirk. Katsuki snarls, shoving the Headmaster abruptly back. Hastily, he wraps a hand around his biceps, nails digging into his skin as he winces in a pain but whatever he did, he sobers up quickly after that.

A level four quirk user going up against a level six, who had been training and perfecting his power since he was young to able to use it at professional level and fight for his life and the lives of millions of other, is a joke in many ways.

The Headmaster is completely outmatched this time.

“Cut that shit out or I’ll blast a fucking hole in your head,” Katsuki bites out, vicious and meaning every word of it. Both of his palms are crackling with intent.

For once, the Headmaster acquiesces as he steps back and fixes his shirt. He remains cool and unperturbed, but the slightest tremble in his hands says otherwise. “I apologize, Zero-san, if I offended you somehow,” he offers, and slowly the tense air around them clears out.

Izuku can finally breathe properly now as thought a spell was lifted from him.

“Yea?” Katsuki sneers. “And who said you can put a fucking collar on him?! I didn’t tell you to do any of that shit.”

“Sir with all due respect, it’s standard procedure to assure the safety of our clients. We put it on every one of our Lessers when they’re meeting with their potential sponsor for the first time and during their probationary period,” the Headmaster explains as calmly as possible against Katsuki’s rising anger.

“He’s quirkless! What the fuck can he even do to me, huh?! The day I let a loser like him get the better of me is the day my old hag of a mother stop nagging me about useless shit,” Katsuki spits out.

Before Izuku can even let Katsuki’s jab against him sink in, he is drag up from the floor by the arm. Just as he got both feet planted on the ground, Katsuki’s hand reaches for him, his palm hovering right over Izuku’s throat. Eyes wide with shock, Izuku can feel the heat emanating from Katsuki’s touch and he quickly squeezes his eyes, mentally preparing for the pain to come.

It never did. A crackling pop erupts near his ears and he hears nothing else except for the burnt smell of metal teasing at his nose.

He gingerly opens his eyes to see whatever remains of the collar on the floor and Katsuki already retreating several steps back with a scowl on his face. Pawing his hands clumsily at his throat as though to make sure it’s real, his neck feels strangely bare and light for once.

“You won’t be needing this anymore,” Katsuki asserts, but it wasn’t aim toward Izuku.

“That was unnecessary, Zero-san,” the Headmaster rebukes, but he moves no actual move about it. Izuku casts a quick glance at the Headmaster beside him and sees while he’d managed to keep his voice even, he is clearly shaken by the Katsuki’s abrupt and forceful action.

Izuku has no doubt the Headmaster has every reason to be terrified.

Even at eight, Katsuki was rated by the Bureau of Quirk Testing to be a level three, making him leaps and bounds ahead of kids their age. Under the Number System, the government gives the most benefit and support to those people with higher quirk level. In a caste like class system where society value those with active overt quirk that are flashy and useful, Katsuki was already set apart from everyone else a young age. He was already overpowered and talented back then, but it was untrained and wild.

Now, seeing tit up close and personal, the way he had blasted the collar off of Izuku without leaving a single singed mark on him, it was so precise and in control that Izuku can’t help the swell of admiration rising up in him. Their years apart had done wonder for Katsuki’s burning talent. While Izuku was learning to get on bent knees and serving his future master properly, Katsuki was honing his skills and fighting villains in order to keep their world safe. The difference in their two diverging paths is a bitter pill for Izuku to swallow.

He digs his nail in palm as he curl right fist, but his expression doesn’t change. Katsuki’s entire series of action remain a puzzling mystery to him. Izuku knows Katsuki, of the young boy who was once his friend and then nothing at all, but that was back then; he doesn’t know of the man who stands before him now.

Katsuki is silence for a moment, his eyes unflinchingly rakes over Izuku as though he prying apart Izuku piece by piece to see what he is made of. Izuku shrinks into himself unconsciously under the intense scrutiny.

“Fuck this shit,” Katsuki declares finally, breaking the stilted silence, “we’re getting out of here.”

Izuku’s jaw drops in surprise. “W-What?”

“Wait—sir, you can’t take him yet!” the Headmaster interjects quickly.

Katsuki’s head swivel toward him with a glare. “Didn’t you get the money I wired to you?” he demands .

“Well, yes, but there are still paperworks for you to sign,” the Headmaster answers. “And I would like go over our ninety days grace period in case you any sort problem arise or you find our Izuku lacking during that time.”

“No need. Send it all to my lawyers,” Katsuki instructs, and before the Headmaster can get another word wedge in, he takes Izuku by the hand.  “Come on.” He drags Izuku forward with a forceful tug. “This entire place creep me the fuck out,” he says, cursing a storm under his breath as they leave behind a disgruntle looking Headmaster, who clearly never dealt with such a whirlwind in the likes of Bakugou Katsuki.

Izuku quietly lets Katsuki drag him of out the room and into the wide hallway, and leads him out across the campus without any further exchange. They didn’t speak much or at all in the VIP room previously, but the things he wanted to say and ask were things he doesn’t know if he could.

It’s all very, very different now. They’re not kids anymore; Katsuki who stands at the pinnacle of society while Izuku is just a lowly Lesser. He doesn’t know what he can hope to expect from this version of a much older and mature Katsuki.

He can only hope to find out in the following days, that is if Katsuki doesn’t send him back right away once he realize Izuku is not what he wanted.

In their silence, they march through one of the big botanic gardens where most of the students congregate in their free time and in their hurry they stir up enough commotion with Katsuki’s recognizable face and fame, and then there’s Izuku’s notoriety.

Loud whispers swirl around them as they make their way the garden.  

“Is that Ground Zero?!”

“Wait, what is he even doing here?”

“—and with Midoriya of all people?”

“Did nobody warn him that Midoriya is a defected goods with how many sponsors he had turned over?”

“How much you bet Zero will send him back here in a week.”

“Not even. Watch, it’ll be just three days.”  

Izuku grimaces. They haven’t step off the academy yet and the rumors are already running amok. Izuku’s stellar reputation in the academy precedes him once more.  

“Ignore those fuckers,” Katsuki hisses, tightening his hand around Izuku’s own as they make it pass the garden and enters the main pathway toward the visitor plaza, where the entrance and exit is tucked away in. “I’ll kick their ass for spouting bullshit if I didn’t want to get out of here as soon as possible. The longer we stay here the more I want to blow up this entire place up.”

Katsuki’s hatred for this place is made obvious, but then why did he even come here in the first place? Is it really for him? But, then why? What did Katsuki even want from him? All these questions dog his step and confuses him even more. But in that moment he realizes there’s something even more important that he was forgetting.

“Kacchan, wait,” Izuku calls out, pulling to a stop.  

Katsuki’s arm is yanked back and he too halted in his spot because of Izuku. “What now, Deku,” he snaps, turning around with an impatient expression on his face.  

“I have to clean out my dorm first,” Izuku tells him, shifting his foot nervously. “There are things I want to get.”

Katsuki clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Just leave it. Whatever you need I’ll get buy it for you later.” At Izuku’s frown, he sighs. “What other useless things do you even that is important enough to stay at this cesspool any longer?”

Izuku bites down on his lower lip, pauses, and looks away. “My mother’s mementos,” he answers finally.

A beat, then. “Fine, we’ll go get your stuff first but after that you’re coming home with me,” he states, like it’s an unshakeable true. “No more fucking detour, you hear me?”

And that’s all it take, just those few words is all the assurance he need that maybe this wasn’t some cruel joke after all. Home. With Katsuki. He is going home with Katsuki. Katsuki wants him enough to take him home. For what reason, Izuku doesn’t know yet but he takes note that Katsuki hasn’t let go of Izuku’s hand since they’d walked out on the Headmaster.

Katsuki’s hand rough, full of calluses and little cuts and scars, but it’s warm and he holds Izuku’s with immeasurable care. Though Katsuki’s words hadn’t been kind, his hands speak for what couldn’t be translate into words.

This he will trust. In this he hands over his fate to Katsuki, so please, please don’t disappoint him like the rest of the world had. Katsuki has him by the his heartstring and Izuku hopes he doesn’t regret it.

[stusbunker]

Feels Like the First Time

A Supernatural Fan-fiction

Featuring: Sam Winchester/ Rowena Macleod

Written for @spnkinkbingo​

Square Filled: Amnesia

Word Count: ~3400

Summary: Rowena takes Sam seriously and indulges them both.

Lovely Banner made by @thoughtslikeaminefield​

Warnings: 18yo+, memory wipe, smut, multiple orgasms, hinted public sex, size difference, magically enhanced sex, annoyed as hell Dean.

^*^*^

He sensed her presence before she said a word, a subtle tingle that started at the base of his neck and sank down his spine, pulling his shoulders back and head up. Sam stood tall; his eyes darting about until he was reassured what the instinctive alarm meant. In unnatural quiet, Rowena had draped herself against the doorframe, amused yet calculating as she watched them ready the ingredients. He couldn’t help but swallow at the sight of her, coiffed and elegant, something so out of place in his boots-on-the-ground, blood-under-the-fingernails kind of life.

               “Hello, boys,” Rowena purred, decadent eyes sinking into his very being.

               “Bout time you showed up,” Dean grumbled, dropping the spell book he had been using onto the table beside the muslin mat. Sam rolled his eyes at his brother and gave her a knowing shrug.

               “A bit surly aren’t ye? What’s a matter Dean, flask dry already?” Rowena bated, holding her hair to the side as she unwrapped the belt on her coat. Beneath it she was dressed in a rich maroon blazer, accented with gold, her tiny waist pinched by a matching pencil skirt. The cream-colored blouse was only a shade darker than her porcelain skin. Sam couldn’t help but wonder what was softer the satin or the parts of her it covered. Quickly, he pulled himself out of his thoughts and his eyes off their witch-to-the-rescue to help finish preparing the ingredients for the spell.

               Sam couldn’t get his hands to work properly, they were thicker now, the joints moving sluggishly. But, eventually, he had the dry ingredients diced as Rowena mixed the mucus and moss. Dean seemed to teeter over them, unsure what to do as he waited, constantly blowing or patting at his hair.

               “Alright, side-by-side you go,” she instructed with a curt nod. She paced in front of them as they settled in place, shallow bowl in her left hand as she began to recite the spell. She stopped in front of Sam first, eyes wide as she continued to chant, when he didn’t understand she beckoned him lower with a quick tug at his neck with her free hand. With a cackle from Dean, they both bent over, allowing her to cover their foreheads with the tar like concoction. At least, it didn’t smell like anything worse than a mud mask, Dean thought.

               Once Sam and Dean wore matching bands of sludge over their brows Rowena finished the spell, voice rising in pristine Latin. The moment the final word was spoken, they both fell to the floor, unconscious. Rowena daintily stepped over their bulk of muscle and limbs, to return her ingredients to their containers. She left the hunters where they lay and made her way to the library.

               An hour later, that is where Sam found her, sipping on Dean’s hidden stash of Scotch, reading. Being back in his own body again magnified every sensation, from the weight of his footsteps to the fit of his clothes. Though mostly it was the hunger, the raw aching need to touch and to take, to fill and be filled. Sam needed her and now that his hands were again his to control; he didn’t hesitate. Without a word he fell to his knees at her feet, hands resting beside her delicate shoulders on the wooden chair. If she was shocked by his antics, she didn’t let on. With a silent plea and panting breaths Sam huffed out his desperation with hazel intensity.

               Carefully setting her glass down, Rowena reached up, and crumbled the remnants of the spell from his face. Her tiny fingers were cold yet soothing, and Sam leaned into her touch, eyes closing in submission.

               She leaned forwards, rubied lips gliding passed his until she spoke hot and dark into his ear, “I don’t suppose you’d like to thank me in private?”

               Sam’s whole body shuddered, and a strangled groan was the only audible sound before he cupped her face and kissed her senseless. She broke away and snaked her hands behind his neck, locking him to her as she rubbed her nose against his. With matching grins and general disregard for Dean who was also righted, but stumbling out of the dungeon, they tucked away in Sam’s room for the foreseeable future.

               Hours later, they lay naked in each other's arms, Sam’s fingers threading through Rowena’s bright hair as she walked her nails over his chest. They sighed in the contented warmth, a mutual relief in ending up there at last. She was silently pleased that he was the one to instigate it after all his inane posturing, but he was a Winchester after all. Rowena nipped up his jaw as he faced the ceiling, lids heavy above a blissful smirk. His dimples were simply scandalous, of course she had to bite each one once they popped up again. Sam’s hand left her hair, sinking to drag her hip tight to his side. It simply fell back, teasing the cleft of her backside, one massive hand encasing her.

               “I can’t believe that actually happened,” Sam said softly, devilishly down his nose to her.

               “Don’t tell me you need a reminder already, Samuel, I’m too sore for that yet,” Rowena warned, eyes melodramatically aghast.

               Sam chuckled, and leaned down to kiss her forehead. “No, just, it’d been a long time comin’.”

               “Really now?” Rowena deadpanned. “I wonder why, Mister High-and-Mighty…”

               Sam swatted her ass, dragging her on top of him as he feigned innocence. “Well, you are completely out of my league.”

               Rowena’s bottom lip popped out in consideration before she nodded. “True, poor boy. What will I do with one such as you?”

               She began to rock along his reawakened cock, graceful glides of her supple skin against his, nails digging into his upper arms as she looked him over. Sam hummed appreciatively as she sank down onto him, hot and swollen. “Thought you were sore.”

               She raised an eyebrow in return. “I thought you knew better than to question me. I take what I want,” her teeth were tight over the last word, before she leaned forward and kissed Sam again. His hands gripped her ribcage, thumbs tracing beneath her perfect tits as he thrust back into her. She arched backwards with cantered grace, letting the depths of her magic pull their bodies into a final crescendo. It was maddening how amazing it was. Sam crashed in a state of euphoria that seemed too much for his mind to process. Maybe it was Rowena’s lingering magic, maybe it was just her, but Sam no longer believed Heaven existed on the other side of a sandbox.

               “Oh gods,” Rowena fell forward with a hearty moan, her chest firm and comforting, a slender smothering Sam welcomed. He nuzzled the edge of a nipple, pinning her narrow waist in a hearty hug.

               “That was—” Sam sputtered.

               “Aye,” Rowena agreed, smiling easily as she took her turn to play with his hair.

               “I don’t know about you, but I don’t think we can top that,” Sam sighed, delighted and dazed by their coupling. “Maybe it was because it was our first time—"

               “Hardly,” she tatted.

               “You know what I mean,” Sam stared at her suddenly serious, perhaps even a little self-conscious. Sam looked up at her with those puppy dog eyes that she couldn’t stand. “I’d do it all over again.”

Rowena gave a noncommittal reply before slinking her legs together and dropping to the floor. She dragged the comforter back onto the bed to cocoon inside as her body temperature evened. She let Sam hold her tight, finding his hand over her elbow oddly soothing as she drifted off with Sam’s natural furnace adding to her warmth. She awoke with the crack of dawn, and sinful inspiration.

^*^*^

               “So, she’d just bail on you? Kinda harsh,” Dean patted Sam’s back as he sat alone in the kitchen.

Sam turned to his brother in confusion. “Who bailed? What are you talking about?”

Dean stared at Sam and then shifted his weight on his feet and leaned in to really focus on him. “Rowena? Witch? About yea-high?”

“Rowena? Why would Rowena be bailing on me? I haven’t seen her in weeks,” Sam laughed awkwardly. “You okay, man? Still drunk maybe?”

Dean swallowed a mouthful of scalding hot coffee and choked. Once he could get the words out, he came back at Sam, “Trying to play it sly, really?! After the fucking show you guys put on last night. I think I went deaf in this ear trying to drown you guys out.”

“Dude, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam tried not to laugh, but Dean’s absurd aggression over the impossible implication of hooking up with Rowena made it difficult.

“Listen, you don’t want to admit to getting walked out on, fine. But I have just one question. Carpet match the drapes?” Dean’s eyebrows pitched over his mug. Sam stood up without an answer, shaking his head at his brother’s asinine inquiry.

^*^*^

               Their next case, Rowena appeared out of the woodwork, sashaying into the crime scene with credentials from Scotland Yard and a mean streak a mile long. The locals were falling all over themselves with ma’ams and manners. Dean was not amused, especially when Sam’s voice dropped and got exponentially clumsier whenever she glanced his way.

               “Why are you here?!” Dean snapped once he was left alone with her at the morgue.

               “Hello, Rowena. Nice to see you again. Thanks for getting our heads back in our bodies after we blundered it up! Like always,” Rowena retorted, doing a horrible mockery of Dean’s voice.

               Dean sighed, waiting for her rant to run its course. He read over the medical examiner’s report before pulling back the sheet on the latest victim, noticing intricate tattoos on the insides of each wrist.

               “Seriously, what’s your angle? This case barely hit our radar, what’s it to you?” Dean pressed.

               “I’m not the culprit, if that’s what you mean to say!” Rowena primped, tisking at Dean as he continued to look over the body.

“Got something to say, spit it out,” Dean snipped from across the room.

Rowena shrugged dramatically. “It’s nothing, dear. Just a wee bit of ectoplasm along the nasal passage and defensive wounds along one side of the body. But I’m sure a lifelong hunter, a professional of your caliber, noticed such things.”

Dean double flashed his phone’s flashlight up the guy’s nose to find Rowena correct, his head slumped in defeat. He called Sam at the victim’s house, in the process trying not to let Rowena out of his sight. “We got ecto on the vic.”

“Vengeful spirit, huh,” Sam thought aloud. “Okay, well, meet back at the motel? Figure out who we gotta burn?”

“Sounds good. Hide the china though, Glinda hasn’t gone back to Oz,” Dean lamented.

“Whatever you say,” Sam agreed.

^*^*^

               Rowena appreciated a man that could handle physical labor, watching Sam dig the rocky grave was quite a sight. Especially since he was always more the studious type, though she knew firsthand what kind of power his body held. And she wasn’t done with him. The air seemed to hum around them as they watched Dean set the bones on fire, Sam glancing down at her as she reached up to his hair, pulling away dead grass from his efforts. Her dark eyes reflected the flames and Sam lost all sense of control, he crashed into her, mouth open and hands tugging. Dean didn’t even bother complaining, he just walked away as Sam pinned her against a tree. He let Sam walk back to the motel for that traumatizing visual.              

^*^*^

               Their third first time was after a long case when Rowena hadn’t been able to counteract the aftermath of another witch’s botched spell. Visibly shaken over her unexpected shortcomings, Sam held her tight as she tried not to cry. His large hand trailed over her back in languid motions, warm and soothing.

               “You did what you could, no one blames you,” Sam murmured.

               “I bloody should be able to clean up after an amateur, Samuel. I���ve been doing this for so long, maybe I am getting rusty,” she trailed off, not meaning to continue the trail of thought aloud.

               “Hey, look at me?” Sam demanded, pulling her face up towards his with a whisk of his fingertips over her jaw. “You are as sharp as ever. Don’t let someone else’s mistakes take away from what you are.”

               “And what’s that, hmm?” Rowena hummed, eyes sparkling against Sam’s intense affirmation.

               “The most badass witch I have ever—” Sam huffed until his face broke open into a grin of a much younger man. “You’re amazing, you know that. I don’t have to tell you.”

               She tightened her fists into his shirts. “But it sounds so much better when you say it, dear.”

               Sam wiped away a stray tear that had escaped her controlled façade, thick thumb tracing her sharp cheekbone until they fell into a breath of a kiss. Tender and timid.

               “I didn’t figure you’d be a gentle one,” Rowena teased, pressing against him in urgency. They moved in a trance of silent adoration and gentle longing towards Sam’s room. There, they went slowly, lips and hands exploring each other in layers. The hunger grew in his eyes as he saw each fresh strip of flesh, pale and ageless against her overstated lingerie. He kissed down her taut stomach, stubble burning as he tore away the delicate fabric keeping him from tasting her at last. He sank between her thighs as a pilgrim at a prayer rail, gracious and pleading. Swearing oaths and praising her name. She fell apart flushed with emotion; uncertain she could continue such games.

               Sam tucked her into his side, holding her close as he sank into her. Filling her without his lips, eyes or hands ever leaving her skin. She writhed beneath him, keening every version of his name, shaking as he grunted into her hair, sweet nothings that meant more than anything had before. His hand splayed over her heart as he found his release, her name a promise on his lips.

               She woke him with her twisted smile teasing him until he opened his eyes, her nimble fingers dwarfed by his length. He lay back and watched her work, yesterday’s makeup fading onto a somehow younger looking face. Her ancient eyes couldn’t fool him though, they poured out the things she hadn’t said, giving Sam much more than the sweet pulse of her tongue could offer. His throat bobbed as he clenched his jaw, straining as she took him deeper, cupping his balls as her wordless syllables pulled him over the edge in the still morning air.

               Rowena climbed up his body, leaning back against the pillows in signature refinement as Sam groaned and stretched his waking limbs. He kissed her cheek before heading to relieve himself, lingering on the sight of her in his bed. She drank in his proud smirk before burying herself back into his sheets. He woke her late in the morning, with a strong cup of tea and a shy smile.

               “So, Dean’s gone for a few hours, running errands. I don’t really know what you do for fun, but I was kind of hoping we could spend some time together?” Sam stood with his hands in his pockets, waiting for Rowena to blow him off completely.

               Gracefully she set her cup on his desk. She stood, tugging at the neck of his tee shirt so it fell to the back of her knees. “Sam, my idea of fun is precisely what you’ve spent your life fighting against. I’m a witch. You’re a hunter.”

               “What are you saying?” Sam crossed his arms over his chest, straightening to his full height. “Are you telling me that you didn’t want this?”

               “No!” She said firmly, turning away. “Perhaps--- it was just all just well and good. Truly, the best. But—I’ve not been honest with ye. And I don’t think you’d want me taking up your free time if you knew everything.”

               “Rowena, what did you do?” Sam relaxed as she dropped back to his bed, looking almost childlike in his shirt, hands gripping the edge of the mattress.

               “It was something you said, the first time. The real first time, a sheoid,” she leaned into each word, eyes pleading for his patience.

               “What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam sank beside her, anger and curiosity battling within him.

               “Last night wasn’t the first time I’ve shared your bed. You said you wished we could do it all over again and I thought—” Rowena couldn’t help but smile at the memory, but her voice stumbled once she saw the pain in his eyes.

               “You tricked me,” Sam sighed.

               She turned to face him, pulling his hand into her lap, snugly in her own. “Just a wee memory patch, I can take it away if you’d like?”

               “How many?” Sam said evenly, glaring slightly into her eyes.

               “How many patches or how many bouts? You need to be more specific,” Rowena teased, tongue clipping each word out.

               Sam’s eyes bulged, inhaling deeply through his nose. “Both.”

               “Just two patches, but it was quite a few rounds. I dare say your stamina is—” Rowena started to gush, blowing out her appreciation as she watched Sam squirm.

               “You’re gonna fix my memories, but I need to know one thing before you go digging in my head again.” Sam pointed at her with his free hand.

               “Alright then, out with it,” Rowena rolled her eyes, leaning back to rest on her hands, crossing her bare legs at him.

               “What made you stop? You could have kept leading me along, having your way with me and wiping the slate clean. But something was different today. Why?” Sam’s voice pulled her apart, his eyes intense and knowing. He challenged her in a way only he could and she hated him for it.

               She chewed on her tongue before making a pathetic offer. “I could just leave them lie. You’d be none the wiser and I could be on my way.”

               Sam shook his head at her, the air thick as she felt the remnants of her emotional walls drift away on the breeze.

               “You! You, stupid moose. You come in here with tea, proper strength and sugars and then you stand there, like you do. Tall and offering up your day, like some doaty loun.” Rowena groans and presses her hands to his temples, frustrated she kept going.

               “Because I’m done pretending, Sam. I don’t want you to forget. Satisfied?”

               Sam held her wrists, and searched her eyes, before he could say anything, she kissed him. All of her inhibitions and pretense left on the floor beside her gown. She kissed him like it would be the last time, but he didn’t let her go. He pulled her onto his lap until neither one could breathe.

               “Do it.” Sam leered out of the tops of his eyes. “Before you make me forget again.” He winked at her then. She began muttering under her breath, nails digging into his scalp as she peeled away the layers dulling his memories. It was over in less than a minute. Sam’s eyes slammed closed, too many sensations flooded his system as he remembered pulling splinters out of his knuckles, unspoken for sore muscles and jaw falling into place along their lost timeline.

               “There. Good as new?” Rowena waited for Sam to reply.

               “You fixed us. Why would you hide that?” Sam wondered aloud. Rowena tried to shrug it off, standing as she collected her clothing.

               “Hey—I’m not mad,” Sam pulled her back to him, holding her waist as she stood between his feet. “Don’t do that ever again, but I’m good, if we're good?”

               “We as in—” Rowena grumbled.

               “Us,” Sam nodded infectiously, dimples pulling her from her shell. She rolled her eyes and huffed defiantly.

               “Fine. You want a fecking hen, Samuel. You have one. Happy?” Rowena pushed him playfully.

               “Yup,” Sam pulled her back with him, popping the p. She giggled against his lips as he tucked her hair out his way.

               Later that day, Dean returned, startled to find Sam and Rowena reading on the couch together. She had her hair back and barely any makeup on, but the way Sam was looking at her, Dean didn’t point out the shift. A glib ‘finally’ his only celebration.

^*^*^

[purplesurveys]

816

Gonna do a before and after of one of the first surveys I took when I was FOURTEEN. Fucking wild that I’ve been doing this for nearly a decade. Kinda my way of celebrating the fact that I’ve just been reunited with my old blog, which Tumblr has apparently changed the URL of. Baffled by the move but still stoked, and @a-zebra-is-a-striped-horse​ is absolutely the coolest person for being able to find it haha. Let’s gooooo 1. Are you registered to vote? No. I still have 3 years to go. < That’s so precious. I’ve been a voter for four years now. I registered the second I turned 18 and I remember being very excited to make it to the presidential elections because only a handful of people from my high school batch were 18 by the time of the elections. 2. When days go by, do you cross them off on the calendar? Only when I’m counting down for something. < This still sounds like something I would do, but I don’t really get to anymore because I have digital calendars on my phone and laptop now. 3. Are you currently counting down to something? If so, what? Summer vacation! 4 days left! < Again, so cute. There’s no countdown that exists because I honestly don’t know when it will be okay enough to go out like normal again, but I am waiting for Covid to go away or at least for a vaccine to be available.

No #4? 5. Ever got injured at work? What happened? Nope. < I sprained my ankle at one of the parking lots in school, while walking to my car. Worst thing was it happened in front of an ongoing rally, and I heard their chants slightly falter when they saw me fall. I tried to play it cool, but my foot clearly felt fucked and someone had to hold my arm as I hopped to my car.

6. What color is your roof? Brown. < Stop pretending like you have a roof, Robyn. The house has always had a rooftop.

7. Do you use MySpace or Facebook more? Neither. < I was still far too young when MySpace peaked so I never did get to participate in its glory days. I definitely use Facebook a lot more, then and now. 8. Last time you sharpened a pencil? When I took a diagnostic test last Monday. < Sometime in 2019 when I was still heavily into coloring and I bought several coloring books and a pack of coloring pencils. I loved coloring and wish I kept it up, but it was just a bit of a hassle for me to sharpen every ten minutes or so. 9. List all the people in your phone under T: Zero, zilch, nada. No phone. < A high school batchmade named Dani, a college colleague named Kate, and a couple of aunts and uncles whose contacts start with Tito and Tita.  10. How old were you when you got into text messaging? I once had a super obsessive text problem when I was 11, I think? < That would be the first time I got hooked with texting, but I got my first phone when I was 7 and was already texting by then. Mostly my parents and grandpa, but still. 11. Do you pay rent to your parents? No. < No. They’ve already told me they won’t pressure me to do so either, but out of gratefulness for taking care of me for 20+ years I have absolutely no problems covering some of the bills when the time comes. 12. What do you think of Obama’s new healthcare bill? I don’t know a lot about it. < Honestly, still same. That’s another country’s politics altogether and we have enough issues in our own nation as it is. I do pay attention to US issues that are more universal like LGBT issues, police brutality against black people, Trump as a person...but not the more in-depth ones like healthcare or student debt. 13. How many icons are on your desktop? 34. < Exactly half of that. 14. Do you spit or swallow? Get outta here!!! < Still can’t relate. 15. Ever wrote something on a bathroom wall? Nope. < Eugh no, public bathrooms are so nasty. I don’t usually touch anything in them other than the faucet. I’ve written on other things though, like the desks in school. 16. What’s your definition of a slut? Uh. < Someone who often has casual sex with a lot of people, is how I understand it. 17. If you use the word “slut”, do you apply it to men who do the same thing as what you listed above? Nah. < I don’t really use the word. 18. Do you dye eggs for Easter? I did once, in a children’s party. < Yeah, just that one time at my second cousins’ place when they were in the mood to paint on eggs and invited me and my siblings. 19. What did you do on the first day of spring? Never experienced spring. < We don’t have spring. 23. Are you currently crushing on anyone? No. < Yes. 24. What color hair did the last person you kissed have? NKSB. < LOOOOOOOOOL I spent like two minutes puzzling over this like who tf is NKSB??? Eventually realized this just meant ‘Never Kissed Since Birth’ oh my god 14 year old Robyn you were SO uncool. Anyway, her hair is black. 25. Do you stand up to say the pledge in school? We don’t have a school pledge, but we do recite our country’s pledge and yes, we stand up every time we say it. < Not anymore in university. Everyone just kinda does their own thing in college and we’re never gathered as one student body for anything, except for graduation. 26. Do you like your eye color? God no. It’s so boring. < I mean yeah it is a bit boring, but we kinda have no choice. Unless you go to West Asia which is nearing Europe as it is, nearly all Asians have brown eyes and black hair. 27. What brand of orange juice did you last drink? Zesto. < That’s the only brand of orange juice I’m okay with drinking, even eight years later. 28. Pens or pencils? Pens. < Still feel the same. 29. Last skirt you wore and why? My school skirt, because I have to go to school. < Omfg again, this is so precious. The last one I wore was my denim skirt, but it’s also been a while since I wore that because one of its buttons has since popped out and I never got around to having it fixed, leaving me with no skirts. 30. Last time you wore heels, what kind were they? A prom I went to. I actually have no idea what kind of heels they are so I’m just gonna say old-women heels. < They were stilettos, you dumbass. I also wore a pair of stilettos the last time I wore heels. They’re my favorite kind, so. 31. Shoes you wear the most? My Keds. < My pair of Onitsuka Tiger sneakers. . 32. Favorite quote at the moment? “YOU DUMB BITCH! I’M NOT HOLDING A MICROPHONE! ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID?” - CM Punk < Holy crap, I do not remember this quote at all and had to look it up on YouTube and – no regrets. Watching it made so many memories come rushing back lmao that clip is hilarious; Punk is the greatest. Right now I don’t really have a favorite quote. 33. What was the last magazine article you read about? I forgot. < It’s from the website version of the magazine, but the last article I read covered a viral Facebook post wherein someone had photoshopped the faces of The Big Bang Theory boys onto the traditional graduation photos of my university out of boredom. Article is here for anyone who wants to see how well the pictures turned out lol. 34. What do you think about communism? I don’t know enough about it. < I completely support the progressive youth orgs, especially the ones in my university, that are aligned with communist, socialist, and Marxist ideals. They speak the truth more than any other orgs, so I don’t shy away from defending them or promoting their ideals, especially on social media, even if it puts me in danger. 35. Are you planning on going to college? If so, which one? Of course. I want to study in Ateneo. < CAN WE CANCEL 14 YEAR OLD ROBYN?????? What a disappointment omg. You were always meant to be in UP, you weirdo. 22 year old me takes that appalling statement back lol I can’t even begin to imagine spending my college years in Ateneo. 36. What’s your favorite flower? Ugh I hate flowers. < Peonies and roses. 37. What’s the nearest beach? I think it’s like…600 km away + a 2 hour boat ride. < No it is not. There’s a beach I come back to in Nasugbu and that’s only 100 km away. 38. Ever been to Florida? Nope. < Still nope. 39. How old is your brother’s best friend? He’s probably 9 as my brother’s 9. < I don’t know if he has one and I don’t really care anymore. 40. What type of car did you ride in last? A Kia van. < Sksksksks this was referring to the school bus I used to ride omg :( I was last in our Vitara, when I had to go to the hospital to get some tests done back when I still had a pesky fever. 42. Are you excited for summer 2013? Fuck yeah. < I honestly don’t remember how it ultimately went, but apparently I was excited for it so that answers the question. 43. What class were your parents (ex. class of ‘75)? They’re the same age so batch ‘89. < There we go. 44. Are you in debt right now? For what? No. < Kinda-ish? I promised my sister I’d pay her for helping me out with iMovie (I wanted to make Gab a video for her birthday, but had never done it before), but I haven’t had the chance to do it since I only have big bills at the moment. She’s asking for ₱200 but I only have ₱1000s in my wallet, so I can’t pay her for now. 45. If you’re old enough, do you have a credit card? If you’re not old enough, do you want one when you’re older? I definitely want one. < Yep, still want one. Though I’ll need a crash course on how to use it because my parents never really taught me how cards work. 46. What color is your phone? No phone. < Apple calls it space gray but it’s really just black. 47. Have you ever had someone read a text message they weren’t supposed to see? Yes. < Yes. That person was me, and I accidentally read a text from my dad meant for only my mom when I was 5 because I had stubborn fingers that would click on anything. 48. What’s the minimum age you think someone should have a cell phone at? 10. < Holy cow, that’s a nope for me. I’d say 12 or 13. 49. Would you ever work night crew? Sure. < Yes. I’ve seen my girlfriend’s mom do it and honestly I find it pretty badass, especially because while everyone is stuck in traffic trying to get to work by 9 AM, she’s cruising down the highway on the opposite lane with no problem, to be home by 9 hahaha. 50. How old is the last person you texted? 41. < 22.

[unpack-my-heart]

Unpack My Heart With Words – Updated

Chapter 5 of my Hamlet/Theatre Reddie AU. The chapter is called When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.

You can read it on AO3 HERE or I’ve pasted it under the cut.

Preview:

“Heh. I suppose,” Eddie responds. “I remember reading King Lear when I was at RADA, when I was convinced that I’d be the one reciting the lines, rather than instructing people how to read the lines. My Lear is based on someone from my past.”

Richie feels sick.

“Oh?” the interviewer probes, “I imagine you don’t think favourably of them, then? They’ve got to be a pretty painful relic, surely?”

Richie watches the on-screen-Eddie pause. Eddie’s eyes close before he responds.

“Quite the opposite, actually. Thank you so much for having me”

Tag List:

@constantreaderfool @xandertheundead @violetreddie

The road Richie lives on is small and unassuming, a forgettable cul-de-sac. He’d moved there with Sandy, as soon as he got the email confirming that he’d ‘read Hamlet’. It hadn’t lasted. They’d broken up less than a year after they’d bought the house. She’d accused him of cheating on her, and he hadn’t denied it. He hadn’t cheated on her, of course, but it had given him a very convenient way of avoiding having a conversation he’d been putting off for several months prior. I’m still in love with the boy (man?) that broke my heart over a decade ago doesn’t roll off the tongue particularly well, nor is it all that believable. So they’d split. Richie had taken on sole tenancy of the small townhouse they rented, and Sandy had left him and moved back in with her parents in Bath, leaving him in Stratford-Upon-Avon on his own.

The road Richie lives on is small and unassuming, a perfectly pleasant and quiet area of a perfectly pleasant and quiet town. That’s why, when Richie was stumbling down the street pissed out of his mind at 3am after trying (and failing) to drink Ben under the table, and singing (or howling) along to Prowlin’ from Grease 2, a large number of people peered around their curtains and glared at him. He paid them no mind. He fumbled with his keys, dropping them six times, before his uncooperative fingers finally managed to shove the key into the lock and turn it. The stuffy, gaping black maw of his hallway stared back at him. Scoffing, and swearing at everything and anything, Richie managed to turn on all the lights in his living room and kitchen, and flop onto the sofa, without breaking anything – limbs and extremities included.

Richie smacked his lips. His mouth tasted like someone had been using his tongue as an ash tray for the last four hours, before telling him to gargle with white spirit. In short, it tasted like ass. Not that Richie remembered what ass tasted like. It had been far too long. His laptop sat, screen open and inviting, sat on the coffee table. Richie tugged it towards him, before lifting it over to his lap by the screen. He almost missed Sandy shrieking ‘if you lift it like that, the screen will come off in your hands and you’ll be fucked’. Almost.

The machine booted up, whirs and purrs breaking the silence. Richie’s fingers worked on autopilot, his alcohol-hazed brain taking several seconds to catch up.

Google: Edsss kaspbrK

Did you mean: Eds Kaspbrak?

Did you mean: Edward Kaspbrak?

Yes. Yes he did mean Edward Kaspbrak. Richie supposed he wasn’t allowed to call Eddie Eds anymore.

Edward Kaspbrak, 486,972 results in 0.0003 seconds

Richie’s eyes lazily scanned the first few lines of results. The first page was Eddie’s staff page on the RSC website. The second was Eddie’s twitter. The third was an article from the Edinburgh College of Dramatic Arts student newspaper. Richie clicked on it.

“The ECDA is super stoked to announce that the opening night of the student production of the Phantom of the Opera, directed by our very own Eddie K, …. Blah blah blah blah Eddie blah blah blah successful blah blah blah” Richie mumbled out loud to himself, heart tightening in his chest.

Backspacing out of the page, Richie clicked on the next article. This one was from four years ago, and was a review of a production of King Lear that Eddie had directed. Richie skimmed the article, before clicking on the embedded video interview at the bottom of the page. Eddie’s face fills the screen. He looks younger than the Eddie Richie had seen earlier that day. His face is smoother, and his mouth isn’t set in a harsh line. His eyes are soft. He looks happy. Richie feels sick.

“So,” the interviewer begins, “Tell me about this production. Your Lear is particularly arrogant and unlikable, and unlike other productions that I’ve seen, I actually don’t feel like your Lear had any redeeming features at all. He’s just … consistently unlikable. That’s a pretty bold move for someone’s debut RSC directorial job, right?”

“Heh. I suppose,” Eddie responds. “I remember reading King Lear when I was at RADA, when I was convinced that I’d be the one reciting the lines, rather than instructing people how to read the lines. My Lear is based on someone from my past.”

Richie feels sick.

“Oh?” the interviewer probes, “I imagine you don’t think favourably of them, then? They’ve got to be a pretty painful relic, surely?”

Richie watches the on-screen-Eddie pause. Eddie’s eyes close before he responds.

“Quite the opposite, actually. Thank you so much for having me”

Eddie leaves the frame, and Richie doesn’t listen to the interviewers cursory wrap up. His ears are ringing too loudly.

Richie backspaces, before blindly clicking on one last link. It takes him to the announcement of Eddie’s appointment as Artistic Director in the newsletter of the Royal Shakespeare Company. Richie can feel bile swelling in his throat.

The Royal Shakespeare Company is privileged and pleased to announce that  Edward Frank Kaspbrak has accepted the position of Artistic Director. Edward replaces Claire Van de Camp, who wishes her successor success. Edward joins us at a particularly exciting time, and his first production will the semi-centenary celebration of the Royal Shakespeare Company, a milestone marked with a production of Hamlet. We wish Edward a long and happy tenure with us, and we all look forward to working with him for years to come

A few words from Edward himself: “I’m delighted to join the RSC as Artistic Director to celebrate the momentous semi-centenary anniversary of the company. I am a man of few words, so I’ll leave you with the words of a wordsmith more skilled than I. And so, all yours. I am all yours, RSC, and I will serve you as long as you’ll have me.”

The last words force the bile that had been bubbling in Richie’s throat to surge up his oesophagus. He scrambles to his feet, laptop falling gracelessly to the floor, and scrambles to his bedroom. He pulls an inconspicuous wooden box from under the bed, upending it so white envelopes come tumbling out. He spreads them all out on the carpet, before he grabs the one marked 15th April 2019. He opens the envelope. Two pieces of paper fall out, and he stuffs one back in without looking at it. He unfolds the other piece of paper.

15th April 2019

And so, all yours

E

The paper is fragile – It had been recklessly torn in half, before it has been painstakingly sellotaped back together. Richie couldn’t count how many times he’d stared at those four words.

– X –

When Richie had first started receiving the letters from Eddie, he had become almost incensed with anger. He’d vented to Stan, ugly, venomous ranting.

“I fucking hate him, Stan”

“No you don’t”

“Yes I fucking do. He abandons me to chase some stupid fucking selfish dream in Scotland, and then has the audacity – the fucking NERVE – to write to me, to plead with me to forgive him?”

“That’s not what the letter says, Richie”

“Wow. Fucking Wow. I thought you were supposed to be on my side? You know, your best friends side?”

“You haven’t spoken to me for three months, Rich. I thought you forgot who I was”

“You’re being fucking ridiculous”

“Richard? Can I have a word, s’il vous plaît?"

“Uh, sure, Jacques”

Stan disappeared down the corridor, without so much as glancing over his shoulder. Jacques was stood behind Richie, holding the door to his office open with a gracious arm. Richie walked inside.

“What’s all this ruckus, Richard?”

“Nothing, Jacques. Just – just personal stuff, s’all.”

“Are you arguing with master Stanley about Edward?”

Richie felt himself stiffen.

“How did you know?”

Jacques sits back on his chair, and folds his arms across his chest. His scarf flutters slightly in the breeze coming from the oscillating fan on his desk.

“Did you know that I told Edward to apply for the Edinburgh school?”

“No.”

“Did you know that I convinced him to go when he was reticent to leave you?”

“No.”

“Well, I did. Send some of that rage my way, if you must, but please do leave master Stanley out of it, he really isn’t at fault here”

“He’s been writing to me. I want to burn them.” Richie blurts out, without really meaning to.

“Spoken like a true dramatist”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, you’re being melodramatic”

“With all due respect, Jacques, you have no idea what you’re talking about” Richie snaps, in a tone that he’d probably regret later when he’s being disciplined for being mouthy to a member of staff.

“Perhaps. But perhaps you also have no idea what you’re talking about”

“Now you’re just not making sense”

“You’re nineteen, Richard. Things have a way of working out. Don’t burn the letters. Don’t send your memories of him up in flames. You’ll regret it.”

“Can I go now?”

“But of course”

As soon as he wakes up, Richie decides that he’s not going to rehearsal. This is partly because he’s hungover, but the hangover was nothing worse than he’d ever experienced after getting pissed after the opening night of every other production he’s ever done. It was mostly because he couldn’t bear to look at Eddie’s face. Or, perhaps more accurately, he couldn’t take nearly twelve hours of Eddie refusing to look at him with anything other than scorn. Not today.

He contemplates ringing to tell Eddie that he’s ill, but he doesn’t have Eddie’s number. He thumbs over the ‘Eds <3’ contact in his phone. Eddie’s old number, of course. Richie had a new number, too, in fact, he’d had several new numbers in the fifteen years since he’d last text Eddie. He had, however, copied the ‘Eds <3’ contact into every new phone he’d has since 2019. He assumed that Eddie had probably also had several new numbers since they’d last talked, but that didn’t deter him.

Now, though, the sight of ‘Eds <3’ in his phone turns his stomach more than the whiskey in the tumbler on his nightstand does.

He decides not to ring anyone.

Instead, he clicks on the YouTube app, and types in ‘Edward II’.

He watches other people say the lines that he’d whispered to Eddie until he falls asleep, tear tracks marking his cheeks.

Richie wakes up several hours later. His phone is buzzing furiously on his bedside table like an angry hornet. When he picks it up, the screen reads ‘Unknown Number’. He throws the phone on the floor.

The buzzing stops, but almost immediately starts up again.

He doesn’t answer.

The unknown number calls back again.

He doesn’t pick up.

His phone buzzes again, but this time its three short buzzes.

A Text.

He grabs his phone off the stained carpet.

From: Unknown Number:

Where the fuck are you?

From: Unknown Number:

Today was a fucking disaster. Where are you?

From: Unknown Number:

How dare you make me worry about you.

Richie stares at the last text, shrouded in the dark comfort of his room, for what feels like hours.

[erinysceidae]

Legend of Zelda: Requiem of Power

Happy NaNoWriMo! 

Instead of actually participating, I am posting some things I’ve been working on.

 This is my Legend of Zelda fan fiction, which I want to finish, but I also want feedback on... I don't want to post it to AO3, or FF.N, because it’s just too big an audience, but I’ve got a handful of followers, many of which may or may not be Zelda fans or Fan fiction readers, so this should only reach a handful of people? 

If you do read this, comments are desired and critiques are heartily encouraged; I’ve done a lot of editing, but editing is no my forte, so I apologize for spelling errors.

Gosh, I am 34, I can not believe posting some writing is making me so anxious, haha.

Chapter 1 - The Boy among Ghosts

The sun was just beginning her journey into the pale, scorched sky; the holy valley held the shadows of night tight in her stony hands. Poes drifted from from memorial spire to monument headstone, occasionally stopping to chitchat with one and other, to themselves, or to no one at all. They went about their routine seamlessly, just like they had every day before for decades; some for centuries.

The golden light of morning slid over the cliff top and upon the stone relief over the entrance to the Shrine of the Fierce Goddess; the translucent desert marble glowed in the shadowy gloom. The entryway, still frigid from the windswept night, slowly illuminated as sunlight poured into the valley.

From the temple entrance a tiny green-clad Poe came zipping, whirling and giggling with glee. "Oh my Goddesses! So exciting-- so excited!" she squealed, embers spilling and spiraling from her lantern as she spun recklessly through the air.

The narrow valley was full of grave markers of all shapes, sized and materials. One specific mausoleum was the source of the little poe's attentions; an open gazebo of white marble, aged shrouds tied around the narrow pillars to block out casual peeping eyes and the twisting winds that managed to get into the valley.

"Wake up, wake up! It's time to wake up!" the Poe squealed, passing through the shrouds and diving toward a makeshift bed. She grabbed the top blanket and yanked it away. 

The bedding below-- several layers of fraying woven grass mats-- was unoccupied.

"Oh land, life and law, he's gone!" she squeaked. "I lost the Prince!"

"Ghola? I'm right here," came a voice from behind her.

In the center of the small mausoleum, sitting calmly in lotus position, was a young Gerudo boy. His only scrap of clothing was a loincloth, but his ears were lined with golden hoops and studs, and a gold and ruby ornamental crown rested on his forehead. He rolled his eyes at the frantic poe.

"I thought I'd lost you!" The tiny poe, Ghola, squeaked, "she woulda killed me if I lost THE PRINCE!"

"You're already dead, you can't..." he started to explain, but stopped as he noticed that she wasn't listening. She continued to wail and lament her imagined punishment. 

He stretched his legs, leaned back and watched her gestures and flailings for a moment, before turning back to his meditations. Instead of returning to the lotus, he rolled backwards onto his shoulders and lifted his feet further and further over his head until his toes rested on the ground. As his weight shifted, the crowd slipped off his forehead, thin golden chains slithering to the floor. He grunted in frustration.

"But I found you! Yay! No one gets in trouble and we can both go see Maman!" Ghola concluded.

"Maman?" He swung his legs back over his head and pushed himself upward, landing on his feet. He didn't stay on his feet, however; gravity and his thin, gawky body conspired against him, and he landed unceremoniously on his rump.

"Ow! Every time," he muttered.

"S'cause your so tall. You were this tall once," Ghola said, sinking to a foot from the floor. She dipped down and grabbed the crown before rushing upward and draping the chains into his unruly hair, "But now you're this tall, big gangly Gangrel."

He ducked away from her tiny hands, quickly sorting out the chains and replacing the ornament upon his forehead. "Don't call me that in front of Maman," he said sternly as he grabbed his pants from the foot of the bed and pulled them on.

"Why, are you embarrassed? Gang-grel?" Ghola teased. 

"No, I'm not. I like my name, it's the only one I've got, but Maman ordered me not to leave the valley. Falon's ranch is definitely out of the valley, and 'gangrel' is not exactly a respectable name for a Prince," he snipped playfully, fastening his belt.

"Oh Goddesses, you're right! She's gonna be so mad if I mess up!" Ghola gasped, hiding her face in her hands. 

Gangrel slipped his boots on, shook his head, tossed the curtain aside and headed out of the gazebo. 

"Okay! I promise I won't mess up at all, okay? Gangrel?" Ghola said, bobbing confidently, then looking around the empty room. "Gangrel, where'd you go?! You need to eat before we go!"

"Are you coming, or not?" He called.

---

The Gerudo Prince ran his dark hands along the cool, softly glowing stone hall. Ghola floated along behind him, watching motes dance in the slim beams of light that drifted from the ceiling. To either side of the main hall stairways wound up to private chambers, long empty. There was an alter between the stairs, and beyond that a long torchlit hall, extending deep, deep into the mountain.

"Wow," Gangrel whispered, "I've never seen the temple lit up and open before. It's a lot bigger than I thought."

"The temple is way bigger than what you see here," Ghola said, lowering her lantern. "There are small prayer halls, sleeping chambers, store rooms and if you keep going down the hall you come to the temple proper. Those lanterns haven't been lit in like ten years. The Poes don't need them, and normals like you aren't allowed any further, so I wonder why..."

"Normals? I am the future King of the Gerudo, I can go where I want," Gangrel informed her.

"You're not a priestess, so no you can't. Only a follower of the Fierce Goddess can enter." Ghola gave a loud raspberry to the indignant prince. "The memories and memorials to Gerudo come and gone are locked within. The secret to entering the temple proper died with the last acolyte. She took up all her courage and for that the Fierce Wolf spared her, but then there was light, and She died. Her secrets were buried in no grave, lost to the dust."

"Ghola, are you... Wait, did you say wolf?"

The tiny poe spun in a circle and bobbed cheerily, "am I what? Courageous and amazing? Yes. I am."

"Y-you didn't really see a wolf, right? It was an illusion, or a dream... It had to be."

"Of course I didn't see a wolf, I wasn't there-- She was, and She did, but She's dead now," she said, twirling her lantern and throwing shadows across the halls. "Maman, there you are!"

Gangrel wasn't able to inquire further before a husky chuckle fell upon his ears as Maman materialized beside him. An enormous poe, easily as tall as the eleven year old Prince and-- lanky as he was-- many times as wide. Her tattered robe had once been of the same sage green as Ghola, but the centuries of ceaseless existing had faded her very essence, making her seem pale. A glimmer-y golden sheen of a crown, similar to Gangrel's own, rested on her shadow-hued brow.

"My Prince," she said, bowing low, "Sister Ghola."

"Maman," he replied, bowing lower.

She swatted the back of his head, nearly loosing his crown again. "A king bows to no one-- how many times must I tell you?"

"For as long as you are my Maman," he replied, looking up at her.

"Humility does not suit a king, you must be strong and stalwart-- but I can not be mad at you," she replied, her thin, bony hand brushing his hair back. "My handsome little Prince. You have said your prayers today, yes? You practiced the holy steps?"

"Of course Maman," he said.

Her eyes burned dim, and her face, though so dark as to be featureless at a distance, was full of concern, and sorrow, and agelessness. "You remember the tenets?"

"Of course, Maman."

"Speak them."

"The Three Goddesses created all," he recited. "They gave us life, the land and the laws. It is our duty to use our skills to protect these sacred things. Those with courage must do all they can. Those with wisdom must teach all they know. Those with power must protect all without. Strive to have these holy attributes. There is no sin in fear, only cowardice. There is no sin in foolishness, only ignorance. There is no sin in failure, only surrender."

"Hold them in your heart, my Prince, the kings of the past forgot them..." Maman said, placing her pitch black hand over his heart. She closed her eyes and began to chant. "Praise the Goddesses, creators of all--"

Ghola coughed, "uh, Maman? Focus."

"Hmm?" The ancient Poe intoned, looking between the two as though she had forgotten they were there. "Oh, my Prince, good morning, you have said your prayers?"

"I understand the importance of the tenets Maman," Gangrel said, hoping to get her back on topic, "but I'm sure you didn't call me here to hear me quote holy words."

"Yes, yes, I recall now. I have an important task for you-- and urgent task. One that will take you out of the valley, far into the desert. Are you ready to explore your kingdom?"

"O-out? B-but you said not to leave the valley-- not until I was an adult," Gangrel said obediently.

"I did, I did." Maman said, her glowing eyes narrowing, "and did you listen to me when I said that?"

Gangrel looked to the side, grimacing, "yes... I listened."

"Did you, Gangrel?" she said. "I know about the goatherd girl, Falon."

His dark cheeks blanched; shame pulled his gaze to the cold, dim floor.

"Oh no! I didn't tell, I swear!" Ghola squeaked, waving her arms. "I promised I wouldn't, and I didn't! Not even a little!"

"I know, I believe you," his eyes turned to the tiny green Poe, and he gave a small smile before turning back to Maman, "I'm sorry Maman. Yes, I listened to you, but I didn't obey you. I tried to stay in the valley's shadow, but once I got into the sun there was so much to see. I had to know what was out there. I made a friend-- and I trust her."

She sighed, a dry and dusty sound. "I will not punish you for curiosity, Prince. I forbade you from leaving for my own well being, as much as for your safety. I worry, greatly, for you my little, little Prince. The world is much bigger, and much harsher, than you know." Her wide, luminescent eyes closed. "I will not punish you for breaking my rules, but time will tell if you will punish yourself for the consequences."

"...Maman?" Gangrel asked softly.

"No, now is not that time," she said. She twirled in the air, summoning her own large, bright lantern. Blackened by time and soot, the lantern was of an older style, different from the oil lamps and candle cages most of the poes carried. Maman twisted the fasteners on the top and opened it, causing the light within to pulse and twist. Holding the lantern with one hand, she reached in with the other and pulled out a long, glowing, indistinct shape-- far longer than the lantern itself. She held the glow out to Gangrel.

"Those with Power must protect those without. Will you accept your duty as a Prince? Will you protect those less powerful?"

"I-I don't have power."

"You are the Prince of the Gerudo, Son of Dragmire. You do have power. How will you use it?" she thrust the light-obscured item toward him again. "Will you protect those who cannot  protect themselves?"

Gangrel reached for the proffered items, but hesitated and looked at his own hands for a long moment. 

He'd been barely a toddler when he'd last seen another Gerudo-- or so he had been told. They had dark skin and wide eyes, red hair and golden jewelry, just like him, the poes said. The Gerudo villages were always heavy with incense and song. They were happy and peaceful people; studious, strong and brave.

He wanted to say he remembered them; that he remembered something: flashes of color, certain smells, distant voices, anything.

He didn't. He'd never known them. If the words he’d heard outside the valley were true, he never would. He was alone in the world. A boy amongst ghosts.

He remembered fear. He remembered a bright, cold flash and being dropped into the sand, a warm, guiding light and then nothing but growing up in the Memorial Valley.

It made him angry. 

It made him furious; a burning hatred festering in his heart toward whomever had done it, whomever had ordered it, for those who had allowed it, for those who hadn't defended themselves, for those that had died and left him alone, for himself not fighting harder-- No.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Violence was not the answer. It was never the answer.

He prayed, for the power to restrain himself, for the courage to keep going, for the wisdom to know that the past couldn't be changed, but the future was open. He pushed the anger down, bottled it up and turned it away.

Opening his eyes, he reached and took the item from her, pulling it close and clasping it in both hands, "I will. I swear, on the sand, the wind and the water, that I will. I will protect those who can not protect themselves. I will be a Prince-- I will be a King-- that you can be proud of."

The glow abated and revealed, clasped in his hands, two swords. Just over a foot each, but so sharp they nearly sang. Etched on the base of the blade was the symbol of the Gerudo and several old Gerudo runes, which meant nothing to him. The hilts were simple time-hardened wood and metal, with long red clothes tied around the blade collar.

He turned his arms and looked at the shining, deadly blades. There was power within the metal. 

At his feet the dust began to prickle and sway.

The power to fight. 

Power pulsed within him, with his heart beat.

The power to avenge. 

The sand gave the power shape, concentric circles of scales dancing around him, crackling with power.

The power to kill.

"No!" He dropped the swords to the stone and stepped back; the dust fell still. "No, I changed my mind, I don't want it!"

With a sharp flash of light, the blades returned to him, materializing in two scabbards hooked to a belt around his waist.

Maman sighed heavily, "it was never truly a choice."

"No, life is sacred, I must protect it, not end it! I'm not a killer!" He screamed, pulling the swords from his belt and discarding them again. 

"You made a promise to protect."

They returned, again.

"No, no, no!" he whimpered, this time trying to loose the scabbards themselves from his belt, "I won't be a murderer! I'm not a monster!"

Maman simply watched him struggle, her lantern distinctly dimmer now than before. "You must," she said, and nothing more.

Ghola flew to him, "Gangrel, calm down. Hey, look-- look at me-- look at this," she said, holding up her lantern.

Confused and struggling for composure, he looked the lantern; thin braided leather cords bound a cup of green glass; luminescent smoke drifting over the rim and inside a small, but bright orb of light rolled in slow circles. He stopped struggling with the scabbards and his eyes flickered between the lantern and Ghola.

"Hold out your hands," Ghola said.

Slowly, he brought his hands up, cupped in front of him. 

She set the lantern in his hands, letting the unnatural warmth from it soothing his shaken nerves. Floating up to his face, she set a tiny hand on his cheek.

"You don't have to kill anyone. Swords are not for killing, they're for protecting," she said, drifting beside him and stroking his hairline gently.

"I don't have anyone to protect," he whispered.

Gangrel went silent, his eyes falling to the lantern in his hands. It was small, but glowed with a fierce, courageous light.  

"For now, you just have to protect yourself," Ghola whispered. "Don't worry, I'll go with you. I'll protect you. I'm good at that."

The lantern was heavy in his hands; he'd known Ghola as long as he could remember. Though silly and somewhat carefree, she was the most lucid poe in the valley, always concerned with his safety and well being. She was protective to the point of annoying, always bugging him to eat more, not to climb on things, not to pick up wild animals and insects, and to not have any fun unless she was involved. Whenever he got out of her sight, he always ended up messing up, or getting hurt, and she would have to clean him up, saying nothing, but never forgetting.

"Yeah, you are," he admitted.

"You mustn't dally, you must go beseech the Goddesses for their blessings," Maman said. "The Great Goddess, the Merciful Goddess and the Fierce Goddess. The Desert Colossus, the Oasis Library and the Memorial Hall."

"He's not a priestess, he won't be able to get into the Hall proper," Ghola said.

"He is the Prince. I imagine the Goddess with make an exception for him," Maman said.

Gangrel stuck his tongue out at Ghola, also holding her lantern out to her; she raspberried back, snatching her light back.

"Children, this is a serious time. Please." She twirled, holding a length of cloth as she came to face him again. She wrapped the cloth over his head and shoulders, "this will protect you, from the heat of the sun, and the chill of the moon. Go now. Pass through the Memorial Hall and speak to the Fierce Goddess. Beyond the hall you will find the Haunted Wasteland. The spirit guide there can take you to the Desert Colossus and the Desert Oasis. Go now, and be safe."

Gangrel nodded, running his fingers along the soft, cool shawl on his shoulders, "I will return-- and I will keep myself safe without killing anyone, I swear."

"Do what you must."

[sleepyfan-blog]

Pre-Apple Hanahaki

fandom: Dreamtale AU

warnings: lying tw, manipulation tw, hanahaki disease tw

set in the same verse as this.

word count: 1,858

summary: A human confesses to Dream about how they feel for him.

"Dream... May I... May I speak with you?" A tall, fair haired human asks, shifting from one foot to another, looking both hopeful and deeply uncertain at the same time, their cheeks pinker than the rest of their face for some reason.

The guardian of positivity blinked a little bit in surprise - it was unusual for any of the villagers to come this close to the tree - but he nodded, walking over to them and asking "Sure! What is it that you want?"

"I... U-Uhm." The human responded, blinking a little and turning a brighter shade of pink, fidgeting with their hands a little before stuttering out - looking anxiously at Nightmare before responding "Could we... Could we maybe walk a little bit further away, please? I... Uhm was hoping to talk to you privately, Dream..."

Dream blinked a little bit in confusion and surprise - surely the villagers knew that whatever they told him, he told Nightmare, unless they were saying rude lies about the other guardian, right? Then again this particular human had only lived in the village for a couple of years now - having moved there from elsewhere. Dream was rather curious about what the rest of their world was like - but there was no way he would abandon Nightmare or the duty that they had been created for. "Okay..." He glanced briefly at Nightmare - who seemed to be fully immersed in the book he was reading and addressed the other "Hey, I'm going to be going on a walk with... Err..." Dream wasn't sure if he'd been told this human's name and he just didn't remember or if they hadn't had more than a brief conversation or two with this particular human.

"Oh! Sally. We... We met when I first came to the village and you were very warm and kind." the hu-Sally responded in a rush, looking a little bit upset before seeming to rally themself after a moment.

"Alright. Be careful, Dream." Nightmare responded, barely looking up from his book before he waved a hand at the both of them in a shooing motion "Go have fun."

Dream nodded and brightly smiled at Sally, starting to walk to the far end of the field. It was far enough away from where Nightmare and the tree were that the negative Guardian wanted to hear them speak. Dream paused at the edge of the field and asked curiously “What is it that you wanted to talk to me about?”

The human fidgeted with her hands for a couple of moments, before taking in a shuddering breath and sing really fast, voice rising in pitch a little as they watched him with a  startling intensity “W-would you go out with me? I really like and admire you and I would... w-would be so happy if we dated! E-even if it was just one date. P-please?"

Oh no. Not this again. Dream paused for a couple of moments before carefully reciting the line that he'd come up with for just this situation "While I am flattered that you think that you like me, I'm sorry but I must decline. I... It's not me that you like, but my... My positive aura. I didn't even know your name until you told me... S-so how could you like me in a romantic way, if we don't know one another at all?"

"I... I know it seems a little bit silly a-and impulsive. But I... I know that I love you, Dream. N-not that I'm attracted to your aura like you said. See I... I was thinking about you earlier - how warm, kind and wonderful you are to everyone you meet... A-and how anyone who held your heart - metaphorically speaking I mean - would be so lucky when I... I started to cough." Sally responded, pulling something out of her pocket. "I... I coughed out these petals while I was thinking of you, and how it'd be unlikely that you'd ever... Want me back." the human was holding a handful of crumpled up daisy petals, the blush on their face darkening further.

Dream's eyes widened in shock and dismay at the petals "Are... Are you sure you were thinking of just me? Oh... Oh no. I do know what this is - Nightmare can help you with it! But I... I can sense the positive feelings of others, and I know for a fact that you do not love me in the way that causes these flowers to grow inside of a sentient being." This was the sixth being to come in less than ten years, suffering from this strange magical affliction and the second human. The first being to claim that they were in love with one of the two of them, however.

"I w-what? No I... My... You... A-are you implying that Nightmare has something to do with the flower curse?" Sally sputtered, their eyes going wide in shock and distress.

"What? No of course not. From what we've been able to figure out of the curse, it stems from unrequited romantic love. Love is a neutral-positive emotion, and - well you probably don't want to hear more about it other than the fact that Nightmare's magic - the negativity - can kill the magical blooms that are feeding on your magic and soul." Dream responded, shaking his head a little as he silently wondered why that was always their first assumption when it came to this magical curse/illness thing.

"B-but does that mean I'll never be able to f-feel love again? I-I'd rather die than have that happen!" Sally responded, sounding and looking deeply frightened.

Why was that the second assumption they made about this? Dream could understand that the flower blossom curse was terrifying, but that didn't mean that the cure was so terrible. Resisting the urge to sigh and hide his face in his hands, the guardian of positivity patiently explained "No. His negative magic disrupts the hold that the curse has on your soul and magic, allowing you to heal. We don't know the source of the curse or infection, so we can't remove whatever magical seeds are inside of anyone. But the disruption allows the monster or human to recover from the damage done by the flowers, and nothing more. You retain your memories of whoever it is you're in love with, and you retain the capacity to love."

"O-Oh... How do you know this much about the curse, Dream?" Sally asked, their eyes wide as they allowed themself to be dragged by the positive guardian, clearly trying to digest this information.

"About a decade or so after we were first created by the previous guardian, a monster who had an active case of the flower curse came to us, begging for any kind of help that we could give them. They thought that an apple from the tree - from either side - would cure them. Which isn't true by the way. Both of us wanted to help them, and at first I tried healing the damage caused by the flowers... Which worked, but they still continued to grow. Nighty tried healing them as well, and after he did, the monster coughed up a bunch of dried petals. I checked the monster and they were no longer suffering from the active form of the flower curse.” Dream responded quietly. “I healed that monster of the rest of the damage and they went on their way…But in the past ten years or so, we’ve seen five - now you would be six… Which is unusual as last century we only saw four beings suffering from it.”

The human shifted from foot to foot, looking away from him and clearly uncomfortable. "I... Oh, alright. I don't want to die from this condition... Thank you for all of this information - I had heard that this emotional curse was something that you could fix, Dream... But I didn't realized that Nightmare helped you do so."

"Oh, if Nightmare couldn't kill the blooms, all I would be able to do is what I do now - which is to heal the damage that the flowers do. I wouldn't be able to kill the flowers- I could draw off the positive emotions of the person in regards to the person who they love... But that only delays the growth of the flowers, not kill them." Dream responded, shaking his head a little and sighing quietly, a small frown appearing on his face "I just... I just really wish that people would give Nighty equal credit for dealing with this strange curse, because he certainly deserves it."

"I... Ah... Uhm. Yes of course. I'll. That makes sense." Sally responded, shifting a little bit more as the two of them walked over to the Tree of Feelings, beneath which his other half was currently reading the book he'd been reading earlier.

"Nightmare can also cast a diagnostic spell, which will give us a time frame for how long your version of the curse has been active." It would also tell Nightmare how long the other might have left to live, if the other refused the treatment, as it was one of the things the two guardians were keeping track of.

The human jolted a little in surprise, their eyes widening as a look of genuine distress appeared on their face and they took a couple of steps back, even as Nightmare looked looked up at the both of them, a curious expression appearing on his face. "I... Uhm... AH... I think... I think I should go. Thank you for your time, Guardian Dream, and I apologize for t-taking up so much of it!" They started to run off at full speed, and Dream was unsure as to what to do.

"What was that all about?" Nightmare asked, a small smirk appearing on his face "I haven't seen anyone run from you like that in a long time. Just what the heck did you do?"

Dream told him what the human had told him - that supposedly the other had been thinking of him and coughed up a handful of daisy petals, and had decided to come and confess their feelings for him, finishing with "It's not as if I've interacted enough with them to actually have them fall for who I am? I think they... like more than a few of the villagers, just like my aura and confused it for love? But they really could be in love with someone else and suffering from that awful curse! They could be dying of it and I... I don't know why they ran off like that."

A contemplative - if slightly irritated - expression flashed across Nightmare's face before the negative guardian answered carefully "I'll go talk to them, alright? They could just be really stressed about the fact that they confessed to the wrong person, and I know that more than a few beings are kind of intimidated at interacting with the both of us at the same time. I'll check to make sure that they'll be okay, don't worry, Dream."

"Thanks, Nightmare!" the positive guardian responded, happily hugging the other tightly for a moment,  a small smile appearing on his face.

[rosewilliams1736]

In Case You Didn’t Know

Post Ep 83, possible Campaign 1 spoilers

The walk home from the temple was a quiet one with the light Whitestone breeze blowing unkempt hair in and out of their faces. Kima and Allura strode along the familiar path hand in hand, as the weight of the day and the exhaustion that had settled into their bones slowed their progress. Under any other circumstances, Kima wouldn’t stand for such a slow and purposeless pace, but her mind was still back on Viscan.

Her armor felt heavy on her shoulders as the memory of herself sinking past the icy blue surface replayed itself in her mind’s eye. The panic that she felt before began to creep back into her chest.

It wasn’t until she felt Allura’s warm hand squeeze her own that she returned her focus to Whitestone. Allura was looking down at her with a weary smile that fell far short of reaching her eyes. It was the first time in over a decade that Kima had seen a crack in Allura’s elegant facade outside of their private quarters.

After what simultaneously felt like both an eternity and an instant, they lumbered up to their small cottage and quickly entered the familiar space. Allura moved toward the kitchen with the intention to start a kettle and Kima set about removing her armor. Even with years of practiced movements, she felt as though she couldn’t get out of it fast enough, the pressure of the usually comforting.metal making her feel claustrophobic.

Her legs took on a mind of their own carried her to the washroom. The habit of her nightly routine set in and she felt herself begin to go through the motions. She dimly registered the sound of Allura speaking to someone in their living room, but didn’t have the energy to care who it was or what it was about. She only got as far as turning the water on for a bath before she stopped dead in her tracks. Allura materialized behind her and gently placed her hand over Kima’s and used it to turn the water off again.

“Perhaps we can go without tonight my love.” She said softly.

Kima gave her a curt nod.

Allura brought her hand up and cupped Kima’s chin. Her thumb came to rest on Kima’s cheek and her eyes flashed blue and a small gust of wind passed over Kima’s halfling form. The left remaining blood and salt that had clung to her face, hair and clothes disappeared in an instant. The wizard repeated the spell on herself before reaching out for Kima’s hand and leading her to the bedroom. Allura helped herself and Kima out of their remaining clothes and into more comfortable leisure wear. Kima was the first to collapse onto their bed, with Allura following soon behind her. They managed to get wrapped up in each other’s arms before exhaustion overtook them both.

Though they more than deserved a dreamless sleep, Kima awoke less than two hours later, flying into a sitting position with cold sweat covering her skin and her heart racing in her chest. Allura had the smaller woman in her arms instantly. “You’re home, you’re safe, I’ve got you.” She said gently as she rubbed soothing circles into Kima’s back.

Kima slowly started to relax in the familiar embrace, and as she got more comfortable, she shifted so that she and Allura were once again laying down, this time with her face pressed into Allura’s neck.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Allura asked after pressing a soft kiss to the top of Kima’s head.

Kima shook her head. “Not the dream, no.” She replied, her voice husky from sleep and disuse.

“Something else then. What is troubling that beautiful mind?”

Kima pushed herself up just enough so that she could meet Allura’s gaze. “I love you Allie.”

“And I love you.”

Kima’s face did not soften as it usually did when they shared this sentiment. Her eyes held a fear that Allura had only caught a glimpse of once or twice in the time that they had known each other.

“Kima what…?”

Kima cut her off. “Hang on, just let me…” She took a deep breath and continued. “Let me say this first.”

Allura nodded, giving Kima the go ahead.

Kima swallowed hard. “I’m not the best person. I complain, I bicker, I come home in muddy clothes and track blood across our floor, and I’m known to have a bit of a temper. I know that all of that can be hard to deal with sometimes, that I am be hard to deal with most of the time.”

By now, Allura had drawn her eyebrows together in confusion. “Kima.” She said again, though this time it was much softer.

Kima shook her head. “Let me finish, please?” There was a plea in her tone. “ I’ve seen a lot of bad things and participated in even more, but out of everything I’ve ever done, the worst is not making it clear just how much I love and care about you Allie. This world is full of shitty things and even shittier people. I’ve faced death more times than I can count and way too often I’ve done it without hesitation or considering the consequences. Today I realized how big of a mistake that was.” Kima gave Allura a small smile. “I love everything about you: the way you stretch in your chair after you’ve been reading for hours, the way you hum to yourself when we’re making dinner together, the way you can command a room with just your presence and a million other things I could spend hours reciting. You’re the most beautiful woman in all of Exandria and I’m sorry I haven’t said it as much as I should have.”

The confusion in Allura’s face faded and it was replaced with understanding. “Oh, my dear Kima, I know how deep your love runs for me. You have been telling me in your way for as long as I can remember.”

“I don’t… How?” Kima asked.

Allura smiled and brushed a lock of hair behind Kima’s ear. “Well, for starters, you always have a way of defending my honor even when it is nowhere near being in jeopardy. In fact, I believe I have lost count of all of the pub brawls that have come about for that very reason.”

A light blush appeared on Kima’s sun kissed skin and she quickly cleared her throat to draw attention away from it. “Every single one of them had it coming.” She grumbled.

“I have no doubt.” Allura replied, shaking her head good naturedly. “Would you like me to continue?”

Kima chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, considering her response before giving Allura a nod.

“Alright, then there is the fact that there has not been a single night that we’ve slept together that you haven’t placed yourself closest to the exit in case of an intruder. Or how you always save me the last helping of food because you know that I had probably missed a meal. You let me steal all of the blankets, even on the coldest nights…”

Allura was cut off by a pair of halfing lips that were suddenly pressed up against hers.

“Stop, I’m begging you. I’d lose my whole reputation if anyone found out that I am capable of being that sappy.”

“I assure you I would never let that happen. It will be our little secret.”

Kima shifted so that she could hold Allura’s gaze. “I love you.”

“And I love you. Now if you don’t mind, I think we could both use some sleep, fighting dragons is not as easy as it once was.”

“Damn right it’s not, but you gotta admit, it was fun being out there together again.”

Allura pulled Kima close and rolled her eyes. “It was certainly something.”

“Mmhm, you loved it.”

“For the love of Bahamut, go back to sleep Kima.”

Her only response was the sound of slow even breaths from the sleeping halfling beside her.

[confessionsofanoperaghost]

🎭 for the PotO meme

1. Does the name “Erik” get your attention, no matter where or in what context you hear it? ,,,,,,,,,,actually yes.  

2. Would you travel or have you traveled to certain places only because they were PotO-related? Which ones? I certainly would! And I have a long long list of places that are from my headcanon as well!  But sadly they are in Europe, Asia and the Middle East. Cost is a factor.

3. Would you see the musical by yourself because your friends or family weren’t in the mood to go with you? Have you done so already? I haven’t and I might. It really depends on how my relationship to the musical changes over the next 20-60 years. I’m not keen on most of ALW’s recent touch on the franchise and I’m worried about more and more or Maria Bjornson’s work getting dropped from the tour (and rumors say maybe from the Broadway and WE productions as well in time??). So, we’ll see. I will be happy to outlive ALW and bear witness to the various ways the The Really Useful Group shoots itself in the foot. But its so expensive to watch something that’s only going to break your heart--and not in the ways you want it to. So it REALLY depends. 

4. How often have you seen the musical?  I have seen it exactly once. It came to my hometown in 1999 (I was 15) and I spent every penny I could scrape together to get an orchestra-level ticket. And frankly I was unimpressed. I never went back. I feel bad for saying it. It might have been better for me if I had grown up with bootlegs, but I had only read the book and listened to the OLC. I literally didn’t know what to expect from the tour. I’m not sure.

5. How much PotO stuff do you own? I should just say “a lot of stuff I dunno, lol” but I suddenly want to think about this. 

My original deMattos paperback

A David Coward paperback

A Wolfe paperback (its at a friend’s house at the moment)

The “milestone collection” two DVD disc set with all the extras of the 1925 Poto with Lon Chaney Sr (my babe!!!)

The Cherik miniseries (as a bootleg copy on DVD...i paid good money for it tho, lol)

the 2004 movie cuz it was cheap as hell 

Original London Cast recording of the ALW musical on CD

This BRILLIANT book about the making of the 1925 silent film

An actual first run copy of The Phantom of Manhattan by Fredrick Forsythe (purchased for me on clearance as a joke.)

A cheap copy of Susan Kay’s book that a friend picked up for me. I’ve been asked to do a seething read-along. I figured I should probably own the book before I literally rip it a brand new shiny asshole on YouTube...

a weird, like, 14 pages long, full color, SUPER condensed version of the book with Greg Hildebrant’s drawings. This was the present our teacher purchased for the acting class that produced a weird 1970′s straight-play version of the story that no one seems to remember now (its not particularly good so don’t worry)

the “Barnes and Noble” deMattos hardcover edition that --because it started to fall apart right away--I have been using for art projects and pop-culture-based spells

A large locket with Lon Chaney’s Erik (and his Quasimodo)

one of Muirin007′s gorgeous prints

An adorable necklace made by MegLouiseGiry that’s got a slice from the book in it and a heart-shaped crystal (Poto Secret Santa 2017)

A Lon Chaney 1925 POTO T Shirt. And it glows in the dark! (I got his Quasi on a shirt too but sadly it does not glow in the dark)

a 17,000+ word Google document: a sticky rough draft of my Erik-life-story Phic that I may or may not have been working on for 2 decades.

similarly, a red and gold notebook stuffed with tangled notes and headcanons and bad phan poetry from the 1990s

A bunch of other books that look unrelated to the untrained eye (for research)

a 6 inch figure of Lon Chaney’s POTO dangling from a plastic chandelier that happens to be about to scale 

a thousand other items that may not look like references to Poto to the untrained eye... like: a red scarf and round-framed spectacles and an antique violin case and a choking kink and a skull mask and a dramatic red and gold cape and daddy issues and a balcony overlooking the sea and a black mask that covers the whole face and an attraction to the most beautiful hands........

6. Have you had dreams about the Phantom or other characters? Do you remember any in particular? I’ve only had dreams about Erik. Usually I am myself or Christine or some slurry of the two. Here’s the best one: 

Saturday, November 19, 2016. True Beauty.

There was the theatre. The wings and the lifts. Backstage lights. Curtains.

Joseph Bouquet spots the fiend in the catwalks and is--fast as lightning--slaughtered by the quickest of lassos. Other stagehands and security ascend to the tops, chasing a shadow they can barely see. Someone thinks they’ve captured his cloak only to find their fists full of nothing.They chase this shadow to the roof and find nothing but stars as the phantom killer slips away...down into the dark. 

Carved structure. The dark is black and warm. He feels near. Yes, Erik has come for you. A lucid dream, I am both player and played. 

I am playing you. 

You feel a dance. You cannot find your way out of all that warm darkness. Though she cannot see, she feels her maestro all around. Unable to retreat, unable to find light; she turns but I am already there... darkness and a warm, red, deep glow. She twists in anxiety and frustration--away! away! away!-- breathing as though she is counting her final breaths. Twisting and trying to find some cool air or a bit of sunlight.

Erik shows her that there is no escape from Erik. He is is every corner of her. 

She succumbs. 

 7. How many times have you read the book? Literally more than I can count. At 15 I had MOST of Chapter 13, Apollo’s Lyre, memorized (deMattos translation). Iv’e only read it in English and I have yet to read some of the less-recommended translations.

8. How many songs from the musical could you recite from memory? (Or just sing along to?)  So I have almost the whole thing more-or-less memorized EXCEPT that its ONLY the version as sung in the Original London Cast recording. So every single line that has been changed since then (or god forbid an unedited soundtrack where all the choruses of Hannibal are included, lol) I get wrong. But yeah i listened to that nightly for like 2 years of my adolescence and I can hardly listen to any of it now.  I burned places in my synapses.

9. Do you randomly quote lines from the book or musical in real life? Don’t you? Honestly, the most fun I have is calling up fun lines and needle them into my vocabulary throughout a regular day. Unless you do an obvious one your average person isn’t going to know.

10. Have you ever met up with another phan?  Yes but by the time I’ve me up with them its definitely about something more relevant than the Phandom that brought us together.