svjetllost

[svjetllost]

"Yes, distract. Me, pounce." She jabbed a finger at Mantis, then at herself, like it was the most obvious plan in the universe. Which, in fairness, it kind of was. No time for complicated strategies when things were already blowing up. And while she wasn’t particularly worried about how this little mess would end, luck being kind of her thing, she still wasn’t in the mood to be singed, bruised, or temporarily dead. That crap aches the next day.

Without waiting for approval, she took off in the opposite direction. They were up against some gray-skinned, vaguely alien-looking guy, definitely not local, and definitely not someone who’d passed makeup and wardrobe. Whether he was some cosmic warlord or just the intergalactic equivalent of a guy with a temper problem didn’t matter. What mattered was putting him down long enough to stash him somewhere he couldn’t claw his way out of or vaporize them.

She climbed onto one of the metal containers nearby, crouching low, moving fast, silent. She was already behind him before he even realized she was gone. Just had to wait for the moment Mantis pulled enough of his attention, and when he shifted, just slightly, she made her move.

Domino dropped like gravity owed her a favor, knee slamming straight into the back of his head. She hit the ground and rolled forward with practiced ease, popping up in one smooth motion. One hard boot swung back, and she kicked him again for good measure.

"Time to relocate the alien trash. You get the legs." She called out without looking back.

Wade had advised Mantis to stay close to the woman known as Domino – she was able to navigate dire situations with incredible luck, somehow. The empath was unfamiliar with that kind of power, but she knew the galaxy was vast and full of surprises.

Her comment had slipped out in a rush of admiration, though Mantis knew it was no time for compliments. Domino's question confused her, but before Mantis could answer, an explosion punched the breath right out of her lungs. Hands moved to cover her head, and she blinked to regain her focus.

"That sounds like an optimal course of action," she cried, attempting to make herself heard over the noise. The empath rubbed her hands, warm under the fingerless black gloves. "I could distract him while you sneak up on him. Unless you have a different plan?"

Curiosity and interest shone in her gaze. If Domino had a different approach in mind, Mantis would like to hear it.

[svjetllost]

“Well, aren’t you easy to please?” she said, though there wasn’t much bite behind it. Truth be told, now that they were out, really out, not buried alive in the concrete tomb of District 13, she kind of got it. The sky above, the trees stretching out like they remembered how to breathe... even the cold biting at her face felt like a gift. She’d sleep out here, no problem. Wouldn’t care how frozen or uncomfortable it got. At least out here, she could take a full breath without feeling like she was choking on recycled air and buried guilt.

She kept walking, careful where she stepped. She hadn’t forgotten the cameras, or the neat little patches of earth wired to turn people into meat confetti. But they had air now. They had space. A sliver of freedom. And she’d gorge herself on it. She’d eat every last scrap they gave her and still come crawling back for more, already dreading the feel of metal walls and fluorescent lights closing back in.

“Instead of doing a little dance across the minefield,” she said, casting a look over her shoulder, “let’s head down to the river. It’s not far.” Maybe she’d swiped a glance at a map or two. Maybe she’d outright lifted a few when no one was paying attention. Not her fault, boredom made her curious.

“It’s far enough we’re not pissing off the guards at the entrance, close enough they won’t bother sending drones. Or maybe they will, just to remind us they’re still watching.” She eyed the trees, tall and thick enough to disappear into if the Capitol got twitchy with surveillance. “Still, we’ve got cover.”

She offered a crooked grin, something wild behind it. “Come on, little fish.”

a   little   shrug   ,   half   a   smirk   .   hard   to   get   to   where   she   was   now   on   SWEETNESS   alone   .   kindness   got   you   to   the   door   ,   cunning   got   you   in   .   if   you   were   johanna   ,   though   ,   it   seemed   that   ATTITUDE   could   take   you   all   the   way   .   there's   something   admirable   in   the   confidence   of   never   waiting   ones   turn   .

annie   was   no   actress   ,   but   as   it   turns   out   ,   that   wasn't   necessary   .   her   hollowed   eye   sockets   and   cheeks   and   a   permeating   sense   of   GRIEF   seemed   to   do   the   trick   ,   they   would   go   up   .   she   keeps   up   the   supposed   FRAILTY   ,   latched   onto   her   walking   partner   like   a   vice   .   white   knuckles   and   eyes   straight   ahead   ,   no   aim   to   mask   the   deep   sadness   that   overwhelmed   her   .

the   threats   don't   bother   her   too   much   ,   did   they   not   think   victors   were   the   best   examples   of   following   the   rules   to   STAY   ALIVE   ?   a   thought   that   stays   inside   :   they   were   smart   enough   to   not   step   off   their   platforms   ,   they   can   be   trusted   to   stay   where   they   were   meant   .   better   than   being   HUNTED   FOR   SPORT   and   shot   down   in   the   woods   .

sunlight   touches   her   skin   and   she   gasps   .   it's   cool   ,   not   the   WARMING   CARESS   that   she'd   been   imagining   from   inside   ,   the   wind   chilling   her   to   the   bone   .

she   lets   go   of   johanna's   arm   and   can't   help   but   smile   ,   wrapping   her   arms   around   herself   .   giggles   escape   her   ,   just   barely   keeping   herself   from   bouncing   about   like   a   kid   in   a   CANDY   store   .   "   i   swear   ,   i   forgot   what   the   sky   looks   like   .   "

maybe   people��  weren't   too   far   off   when   they   call   her   CRAZY   ,   but   she   can't   bring   herself   to   care   right   now   .

“   if   it   was   warm   ,   i   think   i   could   die   happy   .   ”

[svjetllost]

The air was warmer than it had any right to be. When he’d left for the stones, it was February, and though the skies had stayed clear, the wind had still bit through his coat and the hills were dusted white where the snow clung stubbornly to higher ground. But now, standing here, it felt more like late spring, the kind that flirted with summer. The wind was soft, the sky near cloudless. He might’ve blamed it on age, the strange sense that time moved differently in his bones now. He wouldn’t call himself old, not truly, but there were mornings when his joints ached with the turning of the seasons before the trees even noticed.

He stepped forward, uncertain of what he was meant to do. Part of him was ready to turn back and lay his hands on the stones once more, come what may. But then he saw someone walking toward him.

Jamie squinted, cursed himself for leaving his glasses tucked away in the leather pouch at his belt. He still hadn’t taken to wearing them regular, though he ought to. So instead, he moved ahead a few paces, still close enough to the stones to feel their pull. The figure came into view slowly, the shape turning clearer, until—

A woman.

He froze where he stood, the breath caught sharp in his throat. What business would a woman have out here alone? It was strange enough that he’d found himself alone to begin with. But the thought left him quickly, chased away by the sharp, impossible ache that bloomed in his chest as she came nearer.

Claire.

His Claire?

His heart thundered, unsure if it was truth or madness, or perhaps a mercy sent from some ancient God who'd heard him plead in silence all these years. And then she spoke.

Her voice. Her voice.

He couldn’t move. Could barely think. He just stared, as if he could hold her there with nothing but his gaze, afraid that blinking might banish her like mist under the morning sun. “Claire…” he breathed, her name falling from lips that had only whispered it in dreams for too long. “Claire.” He said it again, steadier this time, as if saying it might make her real.

He moved toward her, step by step, until the space between them vanished. His hand rose, hovering near her cheek before he dared to close the gap, fingertips brushing her skin. Warm. Solid. Real. “Claire,” he said once more, and then his knees gave out beneath him. He sank to the ground before her, not from weakness, but from the weight of too much feeling, and the simple, unbearable truth that she was here.

The longer she stared, the more convinced she became that she had seen movement between the hulking megaliths. Instinctively, her feet urged her forward, her mind torn between wishing to warn whoever was visiting about the dangers of the circle, and simply allowing fate to take its course. No one had been there to warn her when she’d first taken a stumble through time and space, but, then again, Claire wasn’t sure she’d have believed them either. Mrs. Graham had tried to warn her about her fate, and Claire had waved it off as the ramblings of a superstitious Scot.

She never would’ve imagined her marriage to Frank would fizzle, a thread being pulled and pulled until it eventually snapped. It was no fault of his, she acknowledged, but it didn’t change the unbidden wave of disgust she felt each time she saw his face—Black Jack Randall. The same unfortunate countenance that her husband shared with his ancestor.

She had been cruel to Frank, she knew that. Her attitude had been wholly unfair to the man who had allegedly searched for her, who had been left in the dark about what happened to his wife and ridiculed about her whereabouts, but life was unfair. If she had a choice, she would’ve stayed with Jamie and let the world stay clueless about what happened to Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Randall. She would’ve happily spent her final days on the battlefield with the love of her life, but life rarely went the way one wanted.

Such reminiscent thoughts served no purpose now, though. Both of her husbands were dead. Perhaps she was cursed, destined to be alone, to atone for whatever sins the gods deemed her guilty of. Both of the men she loved had died, centuries apart, and there was nothing she could do but move forward. For Jamie, for Bree. For herself. Yet the act of forgetting and moving on seemed an impossible feat, and the memories of her time with Jamie still haunted her day and night.

As she neared the bottom of the hill, Claire felt the air change again. The familiar buzzing shifted and the thrumming sensation wavered. Slowly, the sounds of the world around her began to bleed back into focus, but as she got a better look at the figure between the stones, there was no denying it—someone had traveled through them.

Hesitantly, she pushed forward, wrapping her arms around herself as she pressed on. She had come this far, and perhaps seeing the circle one more time might provide an added layer of closure for her. Like she had with the Fraser clan marker, she might as well say goodbye to the very stones that had brought her so much joy and grief alike.

Claire stopped dead in her tracks, the rhythm of her heart growing erratic at the scene unfolded in front of her. It had been years. Decades since she’d last seen him, since she’d lose the better half of her heart, but it was unmistakable. She'd know him anywhere. He was older, as she was, but he still harbored that gentle ruggedness to him, the curly mop of hair and sharp jaw that had captured her heart all those years ago.

“Jamie?” Her eyes flooded with tears. Claire didn’t dare to blink, didn’t dare risk the visage of him vanishing with the tears that spilt from her eyes. But her lip trembled and her fingers itched to reach out and grab him, to make sure he was real and to make sure that she never lost him again. “Is... is it really you?”

[svjetllost]

His place is anywhere he pleases. Wherever he chooses to settle or linger, he does so without question. And truthfully, there are few foolish enough to dispute that. Most—his kind included—haven’t the faintest idea what he even looks like anymore. There are stories, of course, whispers passed from one corner of the world to the next, twisted into myth. And anyone with the slightest shred of wisdom keeps their distance from the Mikaelsons.

Now, the man seated across from him is a different matter. An old friend once, long ago. Close, even. Close enough that when things inevitably fell apart, the end was... unpleasant.

“Tourism. Sightseeing.” His answer is dry, laced with sarcasm as his gaze drifts from the table to the oblivious humans around them, clueless as to the monster in their midst. If they knew, truly knew, they wouldn't be so quick to laugh or clink their glasses in celebration.

“I had some business to tend to. And, well, I found myself a touch parched, so I thought I’d pay this charming little establishment a visit.” The implication is clear enough for his companion.

“Now, as much as I’ve enjoyed our delightful reunion, I trust we won’t be making a mess of things tonight. I’d hate for this to get ugly. You remember, don’t you? I’ve never been one to fight fair.”

for now, there is an easy, almost placid expression on thor’s face. he doesn’t quite smile ——- the eyes always give it away, and his are not ones alight with contentment ——- but he doesn’t appear as displeased as he feels, either. sitting across from klaus, his elbows meet the table, hands clasping together between them.

“the world is a very big place. you could enjoy your drink anywhere.”

now a smile follows; full of teeth and spite. only the one it’s directed at would be able to see its shine as false. otherwise, thor looks perfectly friendly, welcoming, despite his words betraying the notion.

“i think we are both well aware it isn’t the drink itself.” a quick glance around them; fellow guests who are none - the - wiser enjoying their own drinks, conversations, the music. nothing is amiss and they have no reason to suspect the contrary. no one is even paying them any mind. thor’s eyes drag back to klaus, hands dropping, fingers idly tapping against the table. “even we don’t have the time to go over the number of other things about you that have a habit of fraying nerves, so let’s skip going down that list, shall we?”

releasing his hands as well as a breath, thor leans back into his seat. visibly, his body relaxes, but anyone who knows better knows better —— at a moment’s notice, he can be ready. “what brings you here, of all places?”

[svjetllost]

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐀 𝐘𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄 .    (  a collection of  mixed action prompts.   adjust phrasing as desired.   potentially mature content within.  )

[ 1. ] sender steps between receiver and an aggressive stranger, voice low and steady: "walk. away."

[ 2. ] sender teaches receiver self-defense, hands firm on their hips as they adjust their stance.

[ 3. ] sender presses their forehead to receiver's, voice breaking as they murmur, "i don't know how to fix this, but i'm not leaving."

[ 4. ] sender shoves receiver out of the way of a projectile.

[ 5. ] sender combs their fingers through receiver's hair in the aftermath of a traumatic event, whispering words of comfort.

[ 6. ] sender whispers, “i’ve thought about this all day,” before pinning receiver against a wall for a searing kiss.

[ 7. ] sender wipes away the receiver’s falling tears with their thumb and whispers, “i’m here."

[ 8. ] sender patches up receiver's wounds, hands trembling as they whisper, "you can't keep doing this to me."

[ 9. ] sender shoves receiver into a hiding spot, hissing, "stay here or i’ll kill you myself."

[ 10. ] sender finds receiver drunk at a party, sighing. "let’s get you home."

[ 11. ] sender is discovered sleepwalking by receiver.

[ 12. ] sender steals receiver’s weapon and presses it to their own chest, daring: “go ahead. prove me right.”

[ 13. ] sender ‘accidentally’ flashes receiver while changing, purring, "see something you like?"

[ 14. ] sender whispers, "you’ll ruin me," before biting receiver’s lip hard enough to draw blood.

[ 15. ] sender takes over while receiver is giving themselves stitches, promising to handle it.

[ 16. ] sender frantically grips receiver by the shoulders, "don't you dare close your eyes."

[ 17. ] sender fixes receiver’s crooked [ tie / jewelry ], teasing, "nervous?"

[ 18. ] sender shakes receiver out of a nightmare, comforting them in the aftermath. "same nightmare again?"

[ 19. ] sender brings hot tea and medication to a [ hungover / ill ] receiver.

[ 20. ] sender invites receiver to dance with them, insisting, "what? this song's perfect."

[ 21. ] sender leaves a single rose on receiver’s windshield with a note: "you’re being followed. smile."

[ 22. ] sender pins receiver’s wrists during a sparring match, grinning, "yield."

[ 23. ] sender playfully steals something from receiver, initiating a chase. "come and get it, then."

[ 24. ] sender drapes a blanket over receiver, accidentally waking them. "sorry, go back to sleep."

[ 25. ] receiver returns home only to find sender already there. "finally."

[ 26. ] after a pleasant night out together, sender asks: "can i kiss you goodnight?"

[ 27. ] sender wipes the blood from receiver's face, murmuring, "let's get you cleaned up."

[ 28. ] sender shoves receiver against a vending machine to dodge security, breathless. "act natural."

[ 29. ] sender wakes receiver in the throes of a nightmare, reassuring them, "it's okay, it's not real."

[ 30. ] sender purposefully antagonizes receiver, hurling insults; "what are you gonna do about it?"

[svjetllost]

"Is that really what you want?" The words slipped out rough, bitter, not quite controlled. He felt like he was unraveling, like whatever thread had been holding him together was finally pulling loose. Maybe it was everything he had endured, all the things he had survived, only to stand here and wonder what any of it had been for.

Maybe it had all been meaningless. A mask he wore so well it started to feel real, until it wasn’t. Until now. "Tell me then. What do you want from me?" He was close, too close. His voice low, tight, his jaw clenched to keep from shouting. Anger was easier than breaking down. Easier than letting her see the part of him that felt hollow and exhausted, ready to fall apart.

His hands were trembling. He kept them at his sides like that might stop it, like that might keep him standing. The thought of dropping to the floor, of just collapsing under it all, clawed at him. But even if he did, would anything change?

No. Nothing ever did.

"I don’t have answers. I can’t help you. I can’t help myself. I can’t help anyone. So what is it you expect me to do?" His voice cracked, just slightly. Not enough to fall apart. Not yet. But it was close. Too close.

qverdia asked: tell me the truth. /finnick? / MEME - always accepting!

[svjetllost]

The plate was set on the wooden table where Claire had just finished brushing out her hair. It was the same place she always stood when dressing for the day, and he watched her there now, unable to help himself as he stepped close, arms slipping around her from behind. His lips found the soft curve of her neck.

"Always hungry," he murmured, and it was not just the food he meant.

There was a possessiveness to it, aye, but not the sort that wished to cage her. It was simply the truth of how he felt. He could only ever breathe easy when she was near, when he could see her, touch her. And leaving her for a day, even if she was safe among the clan, never sat well with him. Claire had a way of drawing chaos even when she meant none.

"That sounds like something that will keep you busy. Something to make you feel useful. I ken well how you hate idleness." He kissed her cheek, then stepped back, taking up the plate and handing her a piece of cheese, before helping himself to some bread and meat.

"We’ll need to arrange for grain. A few animals too. I’ll likely bring back some sheep with us." He took a bite, already sorting through the tasks in his head. The stables first, then speaking to the men, gathering what he’d need for the journey. It would not take long if the weather held, but still, every day away from her stretched longer than it should.

"Just promise me you’ll stay within the grounds. There’s no need to wander into town."

His voice held no sharpness, only care. She was known here, even liked by many, but that did not mean he trusted every soul within the walls. And beyond them, well, she was still an Englishwoman, and not all would overlook that.

There were those who watched with quiet judgment, who still did not understand what she was or why he had taken her as his wife. And where there is judgment, there is gossip. Most of it harmless, but it only takes one whisper, passed from mouth to mouth, to end up in the wrong ears. And there were plenty of ears he did not trust.

Maybe it was caution. Maybe it was the life he had lived, the years that had taught him to look twice before trusting peace. But he would not let her come to harm, not if he could help it. "You’ll promise me you’ll behave then, aye?"

His tone softened, a smile tugging at his mouth as he reached for her again, pulling her gently by the waist until she settled into his lap. The plate of food sat untouched on the bed beside them.

His arms wrapped around her, and for that moment, he let the rest of it wait.

“Mm. Sounds like a normal occurrence around here." She smirked, raising her arms above her head as she stretched out the last tendrils of sleep from her limbs. Claire wasn't sure she wanted to imagine the pair as boys. They already proved to be a chaotic duo in their adulthood so to add the vigor and recklessness of youth to the equation sounded like a recipe for disaster.

The thought of a younger Jamie, however, piqued her interest. He was strikingly handsome now, all sharp angles and gentle strength. There was a reason the women of Leoch were fond of him, and even Laoghaire had admitted to loving him since they were children. As the thought of Laoghaire crossed her mind, a sour taste rose in Claire's throat and she pushed the idea away.

“You're going out again?” His words caught her attention, but by the time the question had left her lips he had disappeared out the door like a phantom. She couldn't help but think of the spirit Frank had seen the night before she'd gone through the stones. He'd said it was a tall figure with red hair and a traditional kilt and while that description could've fit half the men in the Highlands, Claire had a feeling it was Jamie. Her Jamie.

While she waited for his return, Claire slipped out from underneath the quilts and made her way over to the window. She wrapped her arms around herself as the pane gave off a light wave of cool air. The sky was clear enough and she supposed it would be a good day for the men to go out. Though a part of her selfishly wished the Scottish winds would carry in a raincloud to the hills, just in the hopes that she might spend a day inside with Jamie. But they couldn't be idle forever. The men had business to attend to and Claire herself still needed to figure out what she was to do with herself.

But before she could dwell on the weight of her decisions, Claire felt Jamie's presence sweep back into the room and she couldn't help but smile. She felt the apples of her cheeks flush at the sight of him. It was strange how giddy she felt whenever Jamie was around. She'd nearly convinced herself she'd outgrown romance and girlish delight before she'd gone through the stones, but she would never been so glad to be proved wrong.

"Hungry, are we?" She teased, with an arched brow. Pushing away from the window, Claire closed the gap between her and Jamie and watched as he held the platter in his arms. “Since you and Murtagh are going out today, I was thinking of helping Mrs. Fitz again in the garden again. She mentioned wanting to plant more garlic and cabbage before winter settled in. After everything's she's done for me, I figured some gardening is the least I can do."

[svjetllost]

the wilderness has three queens — one to be a butcher, who will unleash death. one to be a hunter, whose crown will weight heavy. and one to be a prophet whose ideas will change history.

prints + merch + commission info pinned

[svjetllost]

"Oh please, you’ll live." She turned the page with a flick of her fingers, eyes scanning lines that had half-faded and bled together over time. Some of the ink was barely legible, other sections looked like the book had been left out in the rain and then dragged through a battlefield. It was old, yes. Useful? That remained to be seen.

Her voice didn’t lift as she continued. "So, is there a reason you’re here? There always is with you. You don’t lurk without motive, so go on. What is it this time?"

She didn’t bother hiding the edge in her voice. Maybe it was Rio. Maybe it was just the past clawing its way to the surface again. Their shared history always left a sour taste in her mouth, and whatever storm she was currently trapped in certainly wasn’t doing wonders for her mood.

The truth was, she needed to shift the odds back in her favor. All this stumbling around in the dark, reacting instead of controlling, it wasn’t who she was. She couldn’t let what happened with Wanda happen again. Not ever. She finally looked up, expression flat.

"Are you going to help, or are you planning to just stand there and breathe theatrically?" Her eyes narrowed just slightly. "Because if you're just here to be irritating, I promise you, I can do that better. And louder."

blkhcrt asked: that was a little uncalled for. (agatha)

[svjetllost]

He stood by the table, hands tucked behind his back, fingers nervously curled into the sleeves of his shirt. It looked like food. Maybe. Sort of. He wasn't entirely sure. It was small and round, resting innocently in the middle of the plate, and honestly, it could have come from space. That wasn’t a joke. It very possibly was from space. And if it wasn’t, well, it still didn’t look like anything he’d ever seen in a vending machine.

His eyes shifted across the room. Still just the two of them. No backup. No one to make eye contact with, to silently ask hey, should I eat the alien marshmallow thing or not. He slowly reached out, fingertips brushing against it. Squishy. Soft. A bit sticky. Probably not a weapon. Probably.

"Yeah, so… what is this?" he asked, trying for casual and not quite landing there. "Is it gonna work with my…" He gestured vaguely to his stomach, searching for a word that didn’t make him sound like a child or someone very concerned with their gut health. "Digestive system?"

As soon as it came out, he regretted it.

He should’ve just eaten the damn thing. Quietly. Like a normal person. Without saying anything else, he picked it up between two fingers, brought it slowly to his mouth, and took a small, uncertain bite. It was fine. Or maybe it wasn’t. Either way, he nodded once, determined to pretend it tasted amazing.

No way was he going to insult a god. That seemed like a very clear, very universally bad idea.

othunderous asked: eat this. @ bob reynolds / MEME - always accepting!

[svjetllost]

The glass scraped low across the metal, ice shifting with a clink as he pulled it toward himself, fingers wrapped casually around the rim. He didn’t answer at first. The remark earned nothing more than a slight tilt of his head and the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Oh, am I bothering you now? Do you own the place? Perhaps the table?" He knew full well that wasn’t the issue, but he was in a generous mood. And when he was in a generous mood, he liked to play. He leaned back, lifting the glass halfway to his lips, voice smooth as the liquor he sipped.

"I’m simply enjoying my drink. If that offends you, feel free to find another corner to sulk in." To the untrained ear, it might have sounded civil. Almost pleasant. But beneath the words, beneath the polished tone, something sharper waited. A quiet challenge.

"Unless of course it isn’t the drink. Perhaps something else about me has frayed your nerves. What could that be, I wonder?" His smile widened, all teeth and no warmth. He didn’t need to raise his voice. The tension did the work for him.

othunderous asked: go find someone else to bother. @ klausy / MEME - always accepting!

[svjetllost]

She gathered what supplies were needed, no more and no less, and they set off again, another task awaiting them before midday. There would be time for a brief meal later, and then the lessons would begin.

She did not resent the long days. There was comfort in motion, in purpose. To remain busy was to leave less room for wandering thoughts, and far less room for weakness. At the end of it all, she welcomed sleep, though it rarely came without a price. Nightmares waited for her there, vivid fragments twisted from the place she once called home.

"I am grateful for your help," she said as they made their way to the next floor. The private rooms were in the west wing.

"They are not to my taste."

Her voice held no judgment, only truth. She had seen enough taverns in her life to never need to see another. Wherever they were, they offered the same: noise, drink, foolishness, and men who believed their hands had the right to wander. Yet, some small part of her, distant and faint, could admit to a longing. The kind of longing that came when she saw others invited to such mundane things. A dinner. A walk.

She knew well the paths the novices took. She knew which ones used the old servants’ corridors, which ones returned past curfew, which taverns they favored, and who they favored with their company. Not because she wished to expose them—not yet. But such knowledge was never without value.

You could never know when the balance might shift. And you could never afford to be unarmed when it did. Perhaps it was fear, though she would not name it aloud. Fear that a single mistake would be enough to see her cast out. Fear that she might lose the one place that had felt, however faintly, like safety.

"I was merely making conversation," she added, her tone light, though her expression gave little away. They reached the doors, and she opened them, waiting for the other to pass before stepping in behind. The room was large, well-appointed. Tall windows opened onto a narrow balcony, the pale curtains stirring gently with the breeze. Light spilled across painted walls and worn carpets, the air still and quiet.

"I am curious what they believe they gain from such places," she said, her voice quiet, her eyes sharp as they scanned the room. "Though perhaps that is the point. Perhaps there is nothing to gain at all. Only distraction."

And distractions were a luxury she had never allowed herself.

moiraine   rather   doubted   anyone   would   dare   address   either   of   the   aes   sedai   in   such   a   manner.   if   anyone   bore   no   reverence   for   the   institution,   they   would   have   long   departed   the   tower,   rather   than   trouble   themselves   with   defiance.   still,   perhaps   it   was   the   influence   of   scholarly   parents   that   made   different   kind   of   thinking   take   root   in   her   mind,   than   a   seed   either   of   her   uncles   might   have   plant   in   her   —   one   of   benefit   of   a   doubt   &   one   respect   for   another.   they   were   but   sparks   beside   the   full   sisters,   insignificant,   yet   they   didn't   need   to   be   cruel,   especially   considering   the   vast   array   of   origins   from   which   they   had   all   emerged.   &   power   did   not   demand   unkindness,   though   many   seemed   to   forget.   moiraine   never   wanted   to   become   that   herself.   ❝   well...   i'll   show   you.   &   if   eadyth   sedai   asks,   i   wasn't   there.   ❞   moiraine’s   smile   returned,   however   cautious   &   unsure. 

she   brushed   her   hands   against   her   apron,   then   gathered   clean   cloths   &   the   bucket   of   water   she   had   prepared   earlier,   readying   for   the   task   ahead.   liandrin’s   next   words   prompted   her   to   glance   once   more   down   the   empty   corridor   before   murmuring,   ❝   do   they   now?   ❞   &   she   even   managed   to   sound   faintly   surprised.   of   course,   she   knew...   had   known   it   from   the   very   first   day   —   but   then   deemed   it   wiser   not   to   risk   discovery   of   using   her   little   trick.   yet   this   time,   as   she   shook   her   head,   the   answer   was   genuine.   ❝   i   have   not...   not   that   it   sounds   particularly   appealing.   ❞   if   ever   she   were   to   break   the   rules,   it   must   be   for   something   worthy.   &   the   plan   would   need   to   be   clever   indeed,   for   she   had   no   intention   of   being   cast   out   of   the   tower.   the   wheel   had   granted   her   the   rare   grace   of   escape   —   from   cairhien,   &   from   the   weight   of   the   damodred   name.   how   foolish   indeed   it   would   be   to   forfeit   it? 

still,   she   regarded   the   blonde   girl,   arching   a   single   brow.   amusement,   laced   with   warning,   flickered   behind   her   gaze.   ❝   are   you   suggesting   we   land   ourselves   in   trouble,   liandrin   guirale?   i’d   not   have   thought   grim   little   taverns   quite   to   your   taste.   ❞   it   wasn’t   the   nightlife   itself,   though   other   ideas   —   whispering   &   persistent   —   had   more   than   once   tempted   her   toward   the   crowded   city   streets.   to   obtain   certain...   items,   with   intentions   just   as   troubling. 

[svjetllost]

"Ah, an entrepreneurial mind, as always." He smiles, slow and real. She’s always had that itch for change, he can feel it on her like heat under the skin, coiled tight and waiting to unspool. She was built to move, to strike, to run, whatever the moment demanded.

"And who do you imagine playing this middleperson of yours?"

He already knows her answer. Still, he asks, because he likes the way she says things, likes the way she thinks she’s hiding the sharp edge behind the suggestion. "I expect you’ve got more in mind. Other suggestions. So tell me, what needs to be done differently?"

Maybe he’s stubborn. Maybe he’s stuck in habits carved so deep they’ve become part of his bones. He can shift his face, change his voice, pass through cities like smoke. But some things… some things are too old to be unlearned. Too much of what he is is rooted in things that came before language.

"But I’m listening." He leans in slightly, not much, just enough to let her know he means it. "You’ve looked inside me. The way I’ve looked inside you." There’s no bravado in it, no seduction. Just fact. A quiet truth that most wouldn’t dare say aloud. "I trust you’ve got good ideas," he says at last, watching her. "So let’s hear them."

The invitation is calm. Open. But beneath it, something slow burns. He’s never minded change. As long as he gets to choose how deep it cuts.

gee whiz: for stack to stop fucking leaving her just to chase goddamn smoke signals down every rabbit hole. for her mama to come back. for the sky to come down on her. for remmick to stop sucking on her in her dreams like the night he tore her ajar.

a girl’s got simple requests.

❝ there needs to be a middleperson between you and the lowers.

❝ or they’ll think you’re touchable. ❞

she won’t approach head-on—he’s claustrophobic, old-blooded. she’s never alone; even far away from the hivemind, even hunting, lusting after others, he’s always stuck in her like a finger.

[svjetllost]

He recognizes the anger. The hatred. It does not offend him. If anything, it draws him closer to her. Even without being in the room in body, he steps forward in spirit, now standing beside the narrow bed. Close enough that he could reach out, touch her, touch them.

The boy. Her tracker.

He should have ended him long ago, severed that frail connection she still clings to. The boy binds her to the past, to the orphanage, to a version of herself that lived in fear, that believed she was nothing more than a nameless girl with a Shu Han face and no future.

"You don’t even believe your own lies," he says, quiet and certain. "It takes decades to become a convincing liar, Alina. But you will never be able to lie to me." She speaks to wound him. He knows that. And though he steels himself, the pain still lands. It always does when it is her. But the anger does not settle on her. He has long been incapable of directing rage at her.

"There is nothing more important to me than you. That is why I remain. Even now. Even when this is what I must see." His gaze flicks to the tracker, and his expression darkens, not with rage, but with something colder. He does not hate the boy for being there. He expects it. What he cannot abide is the frailty. So weak. So small. He cannot protect her. He cannot understand her. He never will.

"I will find you soon enough," Aleksander murmurs, the promise like velvet wrapping a blade. "And in time, you will come to understand. There is no one else who belongs at your side. Only me. Always."

He does not wish to leave. Not yet. Even in this form, he drinks in every detail. The line of her jaw. The rhythm of her breath. The way her fingers twitch when she thinks no one is watching. "I’ll leave you to it," he says, voice low with contempt and longing, "but when he touches you, think of me. Perhaps then, you might come close to feeling something at all." His shadows slither across the floor, curling like smoke, brushing over bare skin with the intimacy of a memory.

And then he is back.

Seated once again in the wooden chair by the window, still and silent. But the room she sleeps in is not entirely unknown to him now. Through its narrow panes, he had seen enough—the water, the shape of the docks, the slow sway of anchored ships. He knows where she is. Or close enough. And he will ride. Day and night, until he reaches her.

in   despair,   alina   turns   to   defiance:   a   habit   she   was   never   a   stranger   to,   yet   this   time,   it   carries   guilt   too.   for   she   coats   this   tryst   in   a   mirage,   nails   so   close   to   drawing   blood,   but   not   the   blood   she   wishes   to   draw.   pleasure   wanes   in   the   face   of   torment,   yet   still   small   whines   hitch   the   summoner’s   breath,   even   if   it   is   all   counterfeit.   it’s   treason   &.   she   KNOWS   it:   a   betrayal   of   the   vilest   kind,   to   lie   in   a   lover’s   bed   yet   still   dream   of   another.   a   guilt   so   red   it   will   stain   her   faithless   hands   for   the   cruel   eternity.

            it   is   worse   than   a   dream;   a   nightmare   so   peculiar   it   comes   at   nightfall   yet   doesn’t   end   with   sunrise.   it   is   a   vicious   claim   upon   her   whole   being   &.   she   finds   it   impossible   to   wash   away.

            still,   she   can   try.   so   she   does.

            ❝   i   abhor   you,   ❞   she   growls,   her   own   voice   laced   with   disdain   &.   carried   through   a   secret   tether   binding   her   fated   enemy   to   her.   ❝   i   would   rather   pretend   those   were   a   volcra’s   lips   than   yours.   ❞   his   gloating   ridicule   strikes   all   the   nerves   that   the   fire   of   her   mal’s   touch   hasn’t   already   —   she   is   less   girl   &.   more   force   now,   a   FERAL   THING   driven   by   passion   &.   prey-instinct   alike.   the   burning   flesh   of   her   writhing   silhouette   almost   glows   through   the   coat   of   sweat   when   her   mind   returns   to   her   body;   alina   brings   her   lips   to   mal’s,   shushing   the   caressing   whispers   she   had   heard   but   not   listened   to.   ❪   guilty,   so   guilty   —   you   foolish   thing.   ❫   a   kiss   like   a   promise,   &.   she   seals   it   while   flipping   their   joined   figures,   landing   victorious   on   top   of   her   north   star.   she   is   a   petty,   ugly   child,   she   knows   it   well   —   but   she   cannot   find   it   in   her   bones   to   care   now.   after   all,   she   has   all   eternity   to   atone   for   those   sins   alongside   all   the   other   ones,   past   &.   future.

            ❝   or   are   you   here   because   you’ve   got   nothing   else   to   entertain   yourself   with   ?   ❞   she   retorts,   a   feisty   feral   thing   always   ready   to   bite   back.   ❝   nothing   but   wallowing   in   your   own   miserable   jealousy   ?   have   you   grown   bored   of   lying   &.   slaughtering   ?   ❞

[svjetllost]

Life went on, as it always did. Relentless, unchanging in its pace. Years had passed, aye, decades even, but still, that quiet hope lingered, like a candle flickering low in the wind. That she might come back to him.

And yet… there was a part of him, selfish and not, that didn’t wish it so. For all she’d told him of the future, her world, he kent she’d be safer there. Healthier. Free from war and hunger and the harshness of this time. If she came back… if she stood before him once more, it would stir him to life again, body and soul.

But that was the truth of it, he was alive, aye, but barely. A man going through the motions. Each day bleeding into the next, colorless and heavy, like walking through fog that never lifted. There was nothing left but to live on, to endure.

Now he stood before the stones. The same circle that had once taken her from him, and given her to him, both. He wasn’t sure what madness had brought him here today. Some restless pull in his chest, perhaps. Some foolish hope that he might call her through time, summon her as though she were just on the other side of a veil.

He kent it was folly. He could no more reach through time than fly. It was the women, the witches, who passed through. That’s what the old tales said. And perhaps they were right. Claire had always been the one with the knowledge. He remembered how she once spoke of storms, of the way the air would change, how there was electricity in it. He hadn’t truly understood the word, but he’d nodded all the same. He trusted her more than words.

The wind stirred then, and he felt it, the hum, soft and strange, brushing against his skin like the memory of a touch. He should’ve turned back, walked down the hill. But instead, he stepped forward. Toward the largest stone.

His hand rose, slow, and pressed flat to its surface. Cold and smooth. He almost laughed at himself, a grown man reaching for fairy stories and lost ghosts, when he felt it.

A pull. And then—darkness.

It felt like falling into deep water, where up and down ceased to matter, and all he could do was hold his breath and hope he surfaced. When he opened his eyes, he was flat on the ground. Sky above him, too bright, too blue. He groaned, pushing himself up, brushing the dirt from his clothes like it might shake off the strange weight pressing on his chest. He took a step forward, and stopped.

At first, it all looked the same. Trees, grass, wind. But then he turned, and everything was wrong. There was a road now, smooth and grey, cutting through the earth like a blade, and in the distance, things he could not name. Had he truly come through? Had he reached her time? Or landed somewhere else entirely? His hand twitched at his side, tempted to reach back for the stone. But no. Not yet.He would go on. He would look. He would face whatever lay ahead. This was no time for fear.

closed starter for @svjetllost

She had promised herself she wouldn't come back here, that she wouldn't spend the rest of her life chasing a ghost the way Mrs. Graham had warned her about. She had sworn to put the past behind her and finally move on. And she had, for a time. She had become a doctor, a mother, a widow, but there were days she missed being a Sassenach, being Claire Fraser.

She told herself that it was this inherent, underlying longing that had drawn her back to Scotland. Even though she promised herself not to make the journey back to Craigh na Dun, she found herself back in the country that harbored her heart. She'd visited the moor, the shops she and Frank had perused on their visit to Inverness, and even made her way to Lallybroch--or what was left of it. Claire had said her goodbyes to the past and was intent on leaving the remnants of her broken heart behind, but such things were easier said than done.

It should've been easy to climb back into the car, to drive back down the Wakefield's house and pack her things to go home. And yet, the siren song of the stones still called to her like a hymn on the wind. She sat at the bottom of the grassy knoll, mere kilometers from where she'd last seen him. The car was in park and the rain was beginning to speckle the windshield. As the droplets began to fall around her, Claire made no effort to rush home, even though she was sure Bree would be wondering where she was soon enough. Instead, she sat within the confines of the vehicle and let the earth's tears rain down around her, hoping that it would drown out the sorrows in her own heart.

It was useless. She could've sat there for hours, waiting for a sign, waiting for something, and nothing would come. He was dead. The love of her life had died two hundred years ago in a bloody battle that she had been powerless to stop. Even with the knowledge of history on her side, she hadn't been able to save those she cared for and it would undoubtedly haunt her forever. What would Mrs. Graham say if she were still alive to see Claire acting so foolishly? What would Jamie think if he knew she still sought him out and waited to see his apparition at every turn?

She was just about to give in, to turn the key in the ignition and drive off when she felt a familiar buzzing in her fingertips. It was the storm, she told herself. It was the dark clouds rolling in and bringing an electrical current with it. But she knew this feeling all too well. Claire had only felt this sort of buzzing twice before and both times had brought mind-altering changes to life.

Before she could think better of it, Claire had popped open the door and stared into the distance. She had to squint her eyes to make out the shapes of the stones amidst the drizzle, but she was positive that she could see movement through the mist.

[svjetllost]

Of all the weird, surreal things that had happened lately, and there had been a lot, this was, without a doubt, the strangest. Someone was holding his hand. Holding his hand. Out of everything, time skips, cosmic power struggles, being… whatever he was now, this was what felt the most alien. Someone being there for him.

It was honestly easier to accept that he might be a New Avenger now. Not that he really felt like one. Not without tapping into the other guy, anyway. Without him, Bob was just… Bob. The same as always. A little jumpy. A little unsure. But at least he wasn’t completely alone anymore. That was new. And honestly? That part might’ve been harder to adjust to than the rest.

Every day, there were people around. People who talked to him. Who asked how he was? Who cared. Not all of them were like Yelena; she was kind in a way that didn’t feel like pity, but even the rougher ones were still better than what he was used to. And that was saying something. “I know.” It was all he could say, really. She held onto him like it actually mattered. Her forehead near his, her voice soft, telling him it was okay. That he was okay.

It was such a simple thing. Stupidly simple. And yet… somehow, it worked. Not perfectly, not completely, but enough to bring him back to the part of himself that hadn’t cracked under pressure. “So, where’ve you been?” he asked, finally looking at her, trying for lightness. She had things to do. They all did. Real hero things.

Unlike him.

“Let me guess, saving lives? Hopefully not more interviews.” He chuckled, kind of. The media still didn’t know what box to put them in. Some articles were cautiously optimistic. Some made jokes. A lot were just confused. He didn’t blame them. He wasn’t even sure what to make of himself most days. “I haven’t really done much, as you probably guessed,” he added with a shrug. “Just sort of… hovering. I could be, like, the secretary or something.”

A weak grin. A joke. Maybe. “You ate already? We could grab something. You could tell me more about Clint.” He paused. “Don’t really know much about him. I know he’s the bow guy.” Another shrug. A little awkward. But genuine.

The world began its phasing shift from day to night, white clouds become painted with pinks and purples, orange hues take over the blue from afternoon’s light. High above the city with the sunset as their backdrop, it feels like they’re alone in the sky of New Avengers Tower. But for Yelena, they could be anywhere. All she sees is Bob, the center of it all.

Observant spring orbs flick down to Bob’s fingers when they toyed with his sleeves, watching them work a loose thread, stillness something he’s uncomfortable with, she's noticed — or it’s the change in focus her words have cast, a spotlight on him that render him so. Yelena’s wondering if they were the wrong ones to use in response to his apology, Bob seeking to claim ownership of New York's most recent destruction, and she's not used to being a source of comfort these days. But she'd meant what was offered — Bob did not need to apologize for his grief, for his momentary loss of control, especially not to her of all people. He’d seen but a glimpse of the bad things she’s done… and his had been repairable. The people that’d been voided were brought back, shaken... but alive. And he'd let her pull him back from the depths of complete despair by pulling him off of his Void self while trying desperately to fight back and win.

'Maybe you forgave me too easily.'

A twitch in the corner of Yelena's lips dimpled her cheek, a half moon of a smile, hand reaching out to cover his, not asking him to stop his self-comfort but to show him she's here too. “You know... it is actually quite difficult to earn my forgiveness, Bob. I do not give it easily or freely.” Memories stir with the admittance, her past path for vengeance clearer than ever now, taking it upon herself to free all the other Widows scattered throughout the world, and to exterminate the poison of the Red Room for good.

And... it'd included people that hadn't been directly involved with that at all. "I tend to hold grudges... like they are my little pets. You can ask Clint Barton. It took him a while to earn my forgiveness. We also fought, I had him on his knees, he cried like a little baby. So embarrassing for him.” A spin of the true tale, amusement for her own benefit, Yelena of course recalled that it was her crying to Clint about how much she missed her sister, and how he felt the same way.

Alexei's words ring in her head, imprinted on her heart. He did not copyright them, so... Yelena felt the need to express the words that'd saved her from drowning fully, for Bob to hear them too. She just hoped Alexei wouldn't catch word she'd relayed them to someone else or she'd never hear the end of it. "When I look at you, I do not see your mistakes.”

[svjetllost]

University in a bigger city wasn’t all that different from a small town. Sure, it looked louder, brighter, and taller, but underneath all that, it was still the same washed-out pastels and copy-paste fraternities desperate to drown in their own sameness. The only real difference? She wasn’t the only weirdo anymore. And that, surprisingly, was kind of nice. She still got stares, muttered comments that weren’t as subtle as people thought, but now, at least, she wasn’t the only one.

Of course, with him around, she was definitely the main attraction. The headliner of the freak show. “I can’t imagine there’s anything here you’d actually like,” she said, eyes scanning the rows of handmade booths. She didn’t bother looking at him.

Wooden tables lined the path, strung with fairy lights and signs in curly cursive inviting you to step right in, promising rare finds and unbelievable prices. Most of it was obviously DIY, with that charming level of imperfection that made it feel alive.

She browsed slowly, giving everything her attention, jewelry first, then vintage bags and worn-in leather jackets. Eventually, she drifted toward stacks of LPs and cassette tapes. She didn’t have much room in her dorm for anything big, but knick-knacks were different. Knick-knacks had a vibe.

Minimalism, in her opinion, was a tragic aesthetic. Every shelf, every ledge, every inch should be packed with stories, objects, layers. Bare was boring. An old woman shot a suspicious look toward BJ. Lydia didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, my father’s terribly ill,” she said dryly, giving the woman a small, solemn smile. “But the fresh air does wonders.”

Instant understanding. A flicker of pity crossed the woman’s face, and Lydia moved on, satisfied. If he was going to tag along, he could at least serve a purpose, like being mistaken for her senile old father. Fitting, really. “So,” she began, pretending to casually flip through records, “since you’re tagging along… How exactly did you escape your apartment? And your… what was her name? Rita?”

She glanced at him finally, one brow raised. “Shouldn’t you be crawling back to her by now?”

"Slow down!" He rushes after her, belly first, nearly tripping on his untied shoelaces as he flung himself down the steps. The crisp breeze tussles his nest of hair, making him even less presentable. The dirty suit, the black circles around his eyes, and a pair of perforated boots, his big toe peeping out from a hole in the toe box, give him the appearance of an eccentric bum or a party clown for hire. Neither is an unfair assessment; Betelgeuse has been both. Somewhere in the distance, an Alpha Beta Gamma kid in polo remarks about the pair, "Damn, they're letting anyone into college these days." "Must be a diversity admission." His friend reckons.

When Betelgeuse finally catches up with Lydia, he's out of breath, wheezing, and huffing like he ran a marathon around the globe despite his lack of working lungs. Everything he does is for the dramatics. "Holy shit, babes. Yer fuckin' Speedy Gonzalez over here! So what else they got at this market? Anythin' I might be into?" He has an inkling about what Lydia's looking for. A vinyl from a band that wears all black and puts coal-colored shadow on their eyelids. Metrosexuals that sing in a whiny falsetto. Betelgeuse wondered if she preferred her men effeminate or if she was a lesbian, using the sparkly epicene boys as a front. Tribadism was all the rage these days. And what's a bigger "f you" to rheumy-eyed Charles than that!