#fortunately it seems to have mostly just damaged some boxes I was keeping to use for Christmas present packaging

[softdedue]

Mmmmmmmmmm moved some stuff in the closet by the hot water heater and it was all damp and covered in mold!!! Brothers sisters and siblings, we have a leak!!!!

[noladyme]

The Wife - Chapter 1

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. As rumors spread that Mr. James Delaney had returned to England – making a dramatic arrival at his father’s funeral – you might imagine mothers throughout London, rushing to present their marriable daughters to the man. They did not; and for three very good reasons. First; James Keziah Delaney was clearly damaged from his travels, and not a little dangerous. Secondly; it was the general opinion of the better society that Mr. Delaney had inherited his mother’s madness. Thirdly; Mr. Delaney was not single. In fact, he was very much married.

TW: angst, violence, blood, smut (6573 words)

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. As rumors spread that Mr. James Delaney had returned to England – making a dramatic arrival at his father’s funeral – you might imagine mothers throughout London, rushing to present their marriable daughters to the man. They did not; and for three very good reasons.

First; James Keziah Delaney was clearly damaged from his travels, and not a little dangerous. Strange reports were made of late night magic rituals, and more than once the gentleman had been seen with red stained hands – though it was unclear whether the stains stemmed from blood, or the powders he would use to draw markings on his face.

Secondly; it was the general opinion of the better society that Mr. Delaney had inherited his mother’s madness; and no one wanted to risk a familiar connection with a woman who ended her days in Bethlem Royal Hospital – in common tongue, Bedlam Insane Asylum.

Thirdly; Mr. Delaney was not single. In fact, he was very much married.

---

Rosalind was seated in front of the small fireplace in her room at Mrs. Owen’s boarding house, fiddling with the garnet ring she wore on the long finger of her right hand. The fire had long since gone out, but she hadn’t the stamina or even will to get up and feed the dying embers with more wood. As it was, the cold she felt streaming through her veins went well with the chill of the room.

In her hand, she held a letter sent by Mr. Thoyt; the lawyer of her late father-in-law. She’d read it twice; and then once more, just to see if she had not been mistaken.

To; Rosalind Beauchamp c/o Mrs. Fanny Owen

Dear Madam, I sincerely hope this letter finds you well, as I received information that your absence from the funeral of your late father-in-law, was due to an ailment of some kind. Had you attended, I had a seat saved for you in the front pew, where it would have been proper for the heiress of Mr. Horace Delaney to be seated. Alas, I had to take the seat myself, as to not leave it unused; and make the fullness of the pews in the church seem uneven.

Rosalind rolled her eyes at this. There was no doubt in her mind that Thoyt would have filled the seat right next to her, if she had been there; claiming that would be proper, as he was the executor of the elder Delaney’s will.

I should like to extend the well wishes of Mr. Thorne Geary, who has asked if it would be in your wish to promenade with him one of the coming days. I counsel you to accept his visit; as you know he has only your well-being in mind, and bears warm sentiments towards you.

These sentiments Rosalind was well aware of; and was in fact doing her best to avoid the man, so she would not have to spend another drawn out visit, avoiding the topic of widows and widowers remarrying.

It is my hope that your ailment is not of the heart, for I fear I have rather disturbing news to pass on to you; and would not want to make you even more frail. I must inform you that James Keziah Delaney has returned to London. He arrived at the funeral service shortly before the minister began his sermon. These past ten years have changed him much, but it is indeed him.

James. After 3 years as a scorned wife, with a runaway husband, and then 7 more as a widow; he’d returned. A hard knot had formed in her stomach as she read on.

My dear, I urge you to avoid any contact with Mr. Delaney. He is, I reiterate, very different than the gentleman you knew; and from the looks of him, more beast than man. I will be happy to offer any legal aid you might need to separate from him, and fight for your inheritance. James Delaney was proclaimed dead 7 years ago; but as he has been gone for so long, I am sure we can find some legal way to proclaim you continued sole heiress of the Delaney fortunes – among them, the rights to the area in America known as Nootka Sound. I should like to call on you at your earliest disposal. With regards; Robert Thoyt, solicitor.

Rosalind’s hands were shaking, as she held on to the letter. She got on her feet, gazing at the intricately decorated chest in front of the bed in her small room. It had been a gift from her father-in-law; one that he had purchased on one of his many travels. It was the only gift she had ever received from the man, that hadn’t been given out of some sense of responsibility to her. She laid down the letter on the bedside table, and walked over and opened the chest. Moving around gloves, fabrics, unfinished embroidery works, and small boxes of beads and trinkets; she reached the bottom of the chest, where a for years untouched muslin gown lay, next to a veil of fragile lace. She pulled out the delicate dress, and laid it on the bed. It still had a dark stain on the front, from where the minister had spilt wine on her, as her husband and she had taken communion together after being wed. Once outside the church, James had stroked his index finger over the red stain – which was just over the left breast, and smiled. “It matches your lips, Rose”, he’d said; and her distress over having her wedding gown ruined in such a manner, left way to happiness. The way any woman should feel on her wedding day. She hadn’t realized she was crying, until another stain disgraced the muslin; one from a tear.

It was all too much to believe. This man, whom she’d cherished with a naïve and young heart, had suddenly reappeared, after being proclaimed dead. She had to see if it was true; if it was truly him.

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Owen stepped inside; her large figure filling the doorway. “Lunch is ready, miss Beauchamp”, she said. “Thank you, but I will be going out”, Rosalind said. Mrs. Owen smiled brightly. “Will you be meeting Mr. Geary, then?”, she asked. “I will not”. “Mr. Thoyt?”. Rosalind had become a master at keeping her composure in regards to her nosy landlady; but today she was a little less inclined to be polite. “It is a private matter. Please call a carriage for me”, she said shortly, and the stout woman recoiled slightly at her tone. “Right away, miss”.

After the door closed again, Rosalind stripped off her plain, cotton day dress, and put on a dark blue gown; more suited for an afternoon visit. She shrugged off her inclination to wear the red gown. That would be too much. Her dark grey jacket, a purse and a capote to match, finished her ensemble. Her boots weren’t much to speak of, but they kept her feet mostly dry; though the soles were wearing thin.

The carriage was waiting for her outside the boarding house. She asked the driver to take her back to her former home.

---

Chamber House was even more dreary than when she’d been there last. The smell from the river running behind the house struck her nose, and Rosalind felt a chill go through her body. Trying to open the metal gate, she had to lean against it; putting her whole weight on the rusty thing. It made a loud screeching sound, when it finally opened.

The garden in front of the house was unkempt, and the windows on the bottom floor had been boarded up. For a moment, she considered leaving, as the building seemed abandoned. Maybe Thoyt had been mistaken, and the man at the funeral was an imposter. Smoke from the chimney let Rosalind know that someone was inside, but she had also heard stories of mudlarks roaming empty houses for warmth and the occasional cat that could be made in to dinner. This wasn’t a place for proper ladies, as countess Musgrove would say, but the countess was hardly a proper lady herself, and Rosalind had business to attend.

She went up the few steps to the door, and took a deep breath, before knocking on the door. There was the sound of a dog barking, and then some shuffling around, followed by a voice muttering at the dog. The door opened, and a slight, tired looking man appeared in front of her. “Brace…”, Rosalind greeted him quietly. The old butler stood seemingly dumbfounded at her arrival. She looked up at the sky. “It seems about to rain. May I please come in?”. “Of course, ma’am", Brace muttered, and stepped aside.

The grand hallway was less grand than it had been, years before. The house seemed dark and cold, and Rosalind did not feel inclined to take of her hat or jacket, when Brace reached for them. “I won’t be staying long”, she said. “I just came to see… Is it true? Is he back?”. “He is…”, Brace said with a nod. “This last week". “And you didn’t feel it necessary to inform me?”. Brace looked at the floor in front of him, and fidgeted with the hem of his tattered jacket. “He is changed, Mrs. Delaney…”, Brace began. “Miss Beauchamp”, Rosalind corrected him. Brace recoiled at this, but kept his expression as indifferent as possible. “Yes, miss”.

Rosalind walked towards the sitting room with as much calm as she could muster. “Is he here?”, she asked. “No”, Brace replied. “He is… on business. I don’t know when he’ll return”. “I’ll have to wait, then”, Rosalind sighed. Brace stepped in front of her. “Ma’am… Miss”, he said. “You shouldn’t. James isn’t… He is not the young man you knew”. “And I’m not the girl he knew either”, Rosalind retorted. “In any case, I need to speak with him…”. Brace must have seen the determination on her face, because he stepped aside, and let Rosalind enter the room.

It was dark, and smelled of a mixture of spices, whiskey; and wet firewood and ashes – only slightly taking away from the smell of the river. The furniture was the same, though damaged from the moisture seeping through the walls from the Thames. A large grey dog rested by the unlit fireplace, and lifted its head slightly as she entered. Though it had made its presence known earlier, it seemed to be more bark than bite; and simply let out a huff, as she seated herself on the sofa. It raised its eyes to look at her, and she smiled slightly at it; feeling like she got a sort of smile in return. “Tea, miss?”, Brace asked. “No, thank you”, Rosalind said. “Good. We don’t have any”, the butler smiled. “And from what I remember, you prefer coffee”. His expression had warmed, since he’d apparently accepted that Rosalind had no intention of leaving. She suspected he was trying to soften the blow of whatever she was about to face. “That sounds lovely. Thank you, Brace”.

After the butler had disappeared, Rosalind took some time to get reacquainted with the room in which she’d spent many hours, years before. Seated on this same couch, she’d kept her father-in-law company, as he rambled about his business and how everyone was trying to cheat him. She’d had tea with uninteresting ladies from all over town, who all came with well wishes after the wedding, combined with insincere regrets upon the departure of her husband, so soon after. The same night, in fact. A whole year she’d managed to keep her sanity in the house, which became draftier and drearier almost by the second. When his son had up and left suddenly, the elder Delaney had gone into a strange bout of melancholy; almost seeming to feel guilty about the fact. Rosalind did her best to keep up the façade of a good wife and daughter-in-law, but found it harder and harder to keep up with Mr. Delaney’s moods, and when the letters from her husband stopped, she found no reason to stay in the house any longer. She would visit weekly, but never for long, as the old man seemed rather indifferent to whether she was there or not, and mostly stared into the fireplace, and muttered to himself.

Horace Delaney had made sure she received an allowance to keep up with expenses; but 4£ a month did not stretch far. In the end, Rosalind had taken up work as a chaperone and occasional tutor to young ladies in the south-east of England – never straying too far from London.

Two years after leaving the Chamber House, Rosalind received a letter, letting her know that her husband was suspected dead in a shipwreck. The news hit her painfully hard. Deep down, she had always hoped that James would return to her one day, even after he was thought of as dead; though rationally, she knew better. She’d dreamed of him often. He was always at a distance, always out of reach. It was agony to miss him so. Now, he had returned, and as it was, clearly not for his wife.

Soon after, her visits became rarer. The elder Delaney more or less ignored her when she came, and more than once, he’d asked Brace to tell her to leave, while she was still in the room; so he could get back to work. She’d attended Zilpha's wedding, but the two had never been close; merely friendly acquaintances, with a dead brother and husband in common. Once Zilpha had passed, after a sudden disease that made her seem old beyond her years in just weeks, Horace made it clear he had no wish to see any kind if family; so for two years, Rosalind had stayed away from Chamber House.

Until today.

Brace returned with a tray of coffee and biscuits that looked hard enough to crack a tooth on. Out of sheer politeness, Rosalind picked up one, and dipped it in her cup of coffee, to soften the treat. Brace threw a biscuit at the dog, who gulped it up without much trouble chewing it. Rosalind dropped her biscuit on the floor herself, and the dog got up, and slowly walked over to eat it. It lifted its head, and looked at her; and she timidly scratched it behind its ear.

Suddenly, it turned its head, and looked towards the hallway. The door opened, and a gust of wind blew through the house; making it sound like the building was whimpering, as it passed through the cracks in the walls. A dark figure stepped into the hallway; the sound of his boots loud as canons. A long coat covered his broad frame, and he wore a hat; pushed forward on his head, and hiding his face in shadow. “Brace! Coffee…”, he ordered; his hoarse voice leaving very little trace of the raspy, warm one Rosalind remembered. Brace hurried to greet his master, and took his hat and coat. Rosalind sat very still, with bated breath and beating heart. “In the sitting room, but… sir, you have a guest”, Brace said. “I’m not inclined to receive anyone. Tell them to go away”. “You will want to see her… Maybe”. Rosalind got on her feet, and slowly turned to face the doorway.

James Delaney had indeed changed. Gone was the young gentleman, with the boyish charm and nervous smile; and instead, there stood a bearded, brute man, who had danger and darkness written all over his expression. A scar ran from his brow, and down over his eye and cheek.

Yet, she could not find a flaw on him. He was even more striking than the day they’d met. Love and pain streamed through her body. James took one look at his wife; nodded, and let out a breathy grunt. “Rosalind…”, he said. “James…”, she breathed; trying to keep her composure. Rosalind felt as if she might faint at any moment. She regretted coming to see him, and unsure what had been her reason. But now she was here, as was he; and internally, she struggled not to throw herself into his arms, or attack him with the fire poke.

Rosalind sat back down, and James took his place in what had been his father’s chair, opposite her; looking at the dog. He took a biscuit, and threw it in the air. The dog caught it, and gobbled it down. Brace went over to the samovar, and looked at Rosalind. “More coffee, miss Beauchamp?”, he asked. James eyes flew towards Rosalind, and then down at the ring adorning her right hand; and something hard ghosted his face. She immediately regretted not having worn gloves. “Yes. More coffee for miss Beauchamp, and then maybe a cup for your master, hmm?”, James said. “Of course, sir. And I’ve prepared a cod for dinner. Atticus brought it”. James replied with a grunt, and Brace poured coffee for them. “Will you be staying, miss?”. “No, thank you Brace. My landlady is expecting me at the boarding house”, Rosalind said. Once again, James gave her an unreadable, hard look.

Brace stood uncomfortably by the fireplace, before finally pretending to remember something he had to see to, and scuttered off. James and Rosalind sat in silence for a long moment. Trying to calm herself, Rosalind took a sip of her coffee. “I was told you died”, she said quietly. “I did”, James replied, and drank the entire content of his cup in one go. “You’re a widow, miss Beauchamp”. Rosalind’s cheeks flushed red. “It was easier to use my maiden name…”. “To separate yourself from my father, or me…?”, James grunted. Rosalind looked down. “To start anew”, she whispered. “I had to start over, after you left”.

James seemingly ignored that last sentence. “You did not attend my father’s funeral”, he said, his eyes fixed on something on the far wall. You did not attend our wedding night, Rosalind wanted to reply; but thought the better of it. “I felt indisposed”, she said meekly. “Too indisposed to say a last farewell to the man who has been keeping up your expenses these last 10 years?”, James challenged. “Whom you were set to inherit this house and the rest of his fortune from?”. “I am not kept”, she retorted. James eyes flickered. “I felt indisposed to sit through a sham of a service set up by a lawyer, who had no love for the deceased; and to then have to avoid the wandering eyes of every man in the room, hoping to get his hand on said fortune. And me”.

James raised his brows at her, making the scar on his face even more prominent. “You’ve had suitors, then?”, he asked. “I’ve been a widow, not a nun”, Rosalind retorted, an angry edge to her voice. James’ lip twitched into a slight smile, which was gone as soon as it had arrived. “But never remarried…”, he said. “You know I didn’t…”. “You could have gone to France. Stayed with relatives there. They could have found a suitable match for you”. “I have no family to speak of in France. And I’ve never met any of the few I have”.

With a loud bang, James put one foot up on the ottoman in front of his chair, and pulled off his boot. “So, is that why you are here? Because you want to be married?”, he asked, and took off the other boot. “You said my husband was dead. It seems that is not an option”. Rosalind did not understand why uttering the words brought her as much pain as it did; but she felt something break inside her when she did. “Then why?”. “I need to know where I stand. Dead as you may be, here you are; and my situation is much different than I thought it to be”, she said. “It is clear that I am no longer the heiress of this… grand house, and your father’s holdings. To add to that is that, legally I am bound to you; and you to me…”. “I will keep up with your expenses”, James said, interrupting her. “How much was my father providing?”. Rosalind bit her cheek, and looked down again. “4£ a month”, she whispered.

James eyes widened. “My father only granted you 4£ a month?”, he said. “That is not much money for hats, lace gloves and whatnot”. “Don’t insult me, James”, Rosalind said. “You know full well that I couldn’t care less about hats and gloves”. “Do I? I have not seen you in ten years”, James shrugged. “And who’s fault is that?”, Rosalind hissed. “Hmm”, James muttered. “How have you been making a living? I take it you have had to take on employment? There aren’t many ways for a gentle woman to make money. I hope you have not been forced to solicit yourself”. His voice was cold, and his eyes traced her figure. “You are cruel…”, Rosalind said. “And you are not first to have uttered those words. Though; vicious and evil are more common, when I am spoken of". James took a sip of his coffee, and studied her face for a reaction. Rosalind kept her composure, surprising even herself at her ability to do so.

“You should know I have received a letter from Mr. Thoyt, your father’s lawyer", she said. James met her eyes again, narrowing his own. “He has offered me legal aid in regards to claiming your inheritance”. “Which you will accept, of course". James said. “No. I will not. It is not my inheritance. I didn’t even truly want it, when I thought you were dead". He looked down at her feet, and she instinctively pulled them backwards, and tried to cover them with her skirts. “You could have used it", James said. “I don’t want your family’s money. That was not why I married you".

James got on his feet abruptly, making it clear it was time for Rosalind to leave. She stood up, and walked towards the hallway; clutching her purse. “I will provide you with 15£ a month. I do not want you taking on employment with anyone anymore… no matter what it is”, James said. “Why do you care? Very few people know I am your wife; and I do not use your name”, Rosalind replied. “I will not be dragging it through the mud”. “Call it taking responsibility for my mistakes”, he said. “Is that what I am?”. Her voice was shaking at this point.

James met her eyes, and let out a short, audible breath. “Take yourself to a shoemaker, and have him make you some better boots”, he said. “The ones you have on, are almost worn out. Have them send the bill to me”. “No, thank you. I shall mend them”, Rosalind replied. She went to leave, but James put a hand on the doorhandle; and blocked her exit. “You will buy new boots, and I will see that your current accommodations are suitable”, he said, looking seriously at her. “You don’t know where I live”, Rosalind said. “I will find out”. There was no doubt in his voice, he was merely making a statement of fact.

James opened the door for her, but before she could exit, he stepped outside, and looked across the garden, and turned his head to gaze down the road; almost as if making sure no one was watching them. When he finally stepped aside, Rosalind walked down the steps; and turned to face him one last time. “James…”, she said. “Rose…”, he replied; making her breath hitch. His eyes warmed for a second, before he stepped back inside, and closed the door.

---

Rosalind had a strange dream that night.

She was walking along the shore of a muddied lake. A way out in the water, with his back to her, stood a broad-shouldered man with markings on his skin. He wore no clothes, save a cloth to cover his privates. A dark gravelly voice was speaking strange words she did not understand, and when she called out to the figure in the water, he turned around. He was the one speaking, but the words were sounding as if they were coming from somewhere very close; not from where he was standing.

She closed her eyes in fear, and when she opened them again, he was standing right in front of her. It was James, but he had a painted face, and his eyes were black. She closed her eyes again, and covered her face. A strong pair of hands grabbed her wrists, and pulled them down. “Look at me”, James said. “No… You’re dead”, Rosalind said. “Am I? I am here now…”. “You left me. And then you came back as someone else”.

She opened her eyes again, and saw James as she had seen him earlier that day. No paint on his face, and bright blue eyes. “I was always here”. He put his index finger on her forehead, and then just over her left breast. “And here…”. When he removed his hand, a red stain marked her nightgown. “It matches your lips, Rose”.

She woke up in a jolt, and held her hand to her chest. Looking down, she saw a red stain on her nightgown, just over her left breast.

Getting out of bed, Rosalind walked over to the washbasin, and splashed her face with the cold water. She rubbed at the stain with a moist finger, but all that did, was make it more prominent, and her nipple harden from the cold, damp fabric now covering it. She walked over to the window and looked outside. Across the street, she saw a dark figure; looking up towards her. She didn’t recognize the face, but the menacing glare she thought she could see from under the rim of the persons hat, made her instantly move backwards, and out of view of the window.

The bed felt cold and unwelcoming when she got back under the sheets.

---

As she finished her breakfast the next morning, Mrs. Owen came into the dining room, holding a medium sized parcel. “This came for you, miss. Might you have a secret admirer?”, she said. She handed Rosalind the parcel, and a letter. “And your mail”. Rosalind thanked her, and went up to her room, to examine the parcel, and read her letter in private.

Inside the parcel lay a pair of half boots, in soft, yet sturdy leather. They would keep Rosalind’s feet dry and warm, and it was clear they had not been cheap. There was no note attached to the gift; though gift might be the wrong word, as James seemed to see her more as a responsibility to take care of, rather than someone to bestow presents upon. She threw the boots in a corner, unable to define her emotions – anger or sadness, she was not sure. After a few moments of frustrated groans and a few stray tears, she walked over, and gingerly picked up the boots; dusting them off with her hand. She set them down on top of the chest.

Rosalind turned her attentions to her letter. The writing was in the blunt and crude, yet feminine hand and wording of countess Musgrove.

To; Rosalind Beauchamp c/o Fanny Owen

Dearest friend, It has come to my attention that you have recently been made aware of some rather disturbing news. An acquaintance of mine has informed me that your apparently not so late husband has returned to London. It seems to come at a terrible time, as you were so close to inheriting somewhat of a fortune; at least enough to attract a new husband. Am I mistaken in thinking Mr. Thorne Geary has taken an interest in you? In any case, please call upon me for tea this Friday afternoon, so we might play a round of cassino, and discuss your plans for your now much changed future.

Sincerely; Genevieve Musgrove, countess.

Rosalind let out a very unfeminine and impolite noise. She would rather take an ice bath of lime, than sit through another afternoon of the countess and her friends gossiping and filling their gobs with sweets. None the less, she was obliged to attend, to stay in Musgrove’s good graces; and have a chance for another employment with her. And it was not like she had a husband, who could give her a good excuse to stay away.

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Owen stepped inside. “You have a visitor, miss”, she said, a mischievous smile on her plump face. “Perhaps the green gown, for a promenade?”. “Mr. Geary, then?”, Rosalind sighed. “Indeed. And he has mentioned on many occasions, how lovely the green goes with your ten”. Rosalind cocked a brow at her landlady. “May I trouble your maid for help with preparing? I am finding myself out of sorts”. Mrs. Owen nodded, and left the room. Soon the young maid entered. “Please, will you fetch my blue gown?”.

---

Thorne Geary was waiting in the sitting room, politely smiling at Mrs. Owen; when Rosalind entered. “Miss Beauchamp! I came to enquire upon your health, after your absence from the funeral service”, he said. “Mr. Thoyt let me know you wished to call upon me; but I am quite sure I did not respond affirmatively”, Rosalind said. A dissatisfied expression ghosted Mr. Geary’s face. “Alas, I believe we have matters to discuss”, he said through an insincere smile. “Will you do me the honor of promenading with me?”.

A little while later, Mr. Geary and Rosalind were strolling along the lanes of Hyde Park. “Your gown is quite fetching, miss Beauchamp”, the gentleman proclaimed. “Almost as fetching as the green you wore when I last called upon you”. “I am unsure whether that is a compliment, or an insult”, Rosalind replied. Geary cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable about her response.

“It was quite a shock to see James Delaney at the funeral”, Geary said. He was holding his arm in such a manner, that Rosalind was invited to take it. She ignored the gesture. “I am sure it was”, she muttered; and moved her body to put a little more distance between them. Geary stepped after her, and the smell of the herring he had obviously eaten earlier hit her nose. Rosalind detested herring. “I am sure it came as an even greater shock for you, my dear Rosalind”, he said. “Please, Mr. Geary. I do not think we are quite close enough acquaintances for pet names”. “Are we not family? In-laws?”, Geary smiled. “Now, more than ever, it would seem, as you… husband has reappeared”.

He gestured for them to walk down a smaller lane, away from curious ears. “Ever since we first met, I’ve felt a close connection to you”, Geary said. “And, then when my dear Zilpha passed… well, I must admit, I hoped we might build on that bond”. Rosalind felt bile rise in her throat. “Mr. Geary…”, she began. “Thorne, please…”, Geary insisted. “Mr. Geary!”, Rosalind said firmly. “This conversation is highly improper, and I beg of you to stop”.

Geary sighed, and looked down. “You know of my sentiments towards you. Those have not changed, merely because that savage, who forced matrimony on you years ago, is back”. “You do not know him”, Rosalind said quietly. “Neither do you. From what I am told, your courtship was very brief. There were even rumors of you being in unfortunate circumstances…”. Rosalind stopped in her tracks. “Gossip mongering, Mr. Geary? So much for close connections”, she said.

Geary stepped over to a bench in an alcove, and gestured for Rosalind to sit. “Please, miss Beauchamp… for I insist on still calling you that, and not Mrs. Delaney, if you will not let me call you by your first name”, he said. They sat down together; Rosalind aiming for sitting as far from her companion as she could. “I, of course, am well aware that your chasteness can never be questioned. You are beyond doubt the kindest, most virtuous woman I have had the pleasure to meet. Even as my betrothed walked up the aisle to become my wife, I could not take my eyes off you…”. “You should stop speaking”, Rosalind said. “Please, let me get this off my chest!”, Geary said. His voice was not pleading; but hard – and Rosalind was reminded of how her sister-in-law had wilted from a lively and smiling favorite in London society, to a grey ghost of her former self, after she married. In this moment, Rosalind knew that Mr. Geary had been the one to make his wife such.

Geary took a firm hold of her hand, and when she tried to pull it away, he grabbed her wrist; and continued his speech. “Delaney is mad. I have spoken to more than one sailor, who have told me stories, I cannot repeat in present company”, Geary said. “He should have stayed dead, and let you keep the inheritance. You and I could…”. “There is no you and I, Mr. Geary”, Rosalind tried.

Geary’s hand around her wrist tightened. “I know I am not a very wealthy man, but you and I… we both married in to the Delaney family; and we saw how that mad old bastard brought shame on the name”. “Perhaps we should have helped him, instead of standing by?”, Rosalind muttered; trying to keep herself calm, as the man held on to her. He leaned in closer, and his hot breath hit her face. “No… He got everything he deserved; and sired two wretches, who continued to do the same”. “How can you speak of your wife in such a manner?”. “She was a barren fool…”.

Rosalind finally pried herself free from Geary’s grasp, and stood up; but he grabbed her by the arm, and forced her to sit again. “Let me go”, Rosalind whimpered. She was sure to have marks on her arm after his manhandling her. Geary looked at her intently. “I can do much with the money I can make from selling that plot of land in America; and with you as my wife…”. “I am already married, sir!”, Rosalind sneered. “Are you? Delaney was back for more than a week, without letting himself be known to you. It wasn’t until Thoyt wrote you, that you knew. He hasn’t taken you in; you are still living in that boarding house”. A vile grin, which Geary clearly thought came across as calming, spread across his lips. “But, never mind that. That can all be taken care of”. “What is that supposed to mean?”. A knot had begun forming in the pit of Rosalind’s stomach, and she was shaking.

“You speak ill of my dear sister, and now you have intentions on my wife”. James appeared in front of them; a dark look about him. “Let her go”. “You interrupted our conversation, Mr. Delaney”, Geary said. “Is that what you were doing? Conversing? Or plotting my demise…”, James retorted. “In any case, you have your hands and mind on what is still mine. Release the lady”.

Rosalind tore herself from Geary, and got on her feet, moving away from the bench; and towards James. He gave her a look of dissatisfied confusion, and she went to stand next to him, her eyes on the ground. “You should have stayed dead”, Geary sneered, and got on his feet. He stood taller than James, but in no way seemed as dangerous as him. “Is that what you tell my sister, when she haunts your nightmares?”, James asked. Geary recoiled at James’ words; and James half turned towards Rosalind. “I will escort you back to your lodgings”, he said, and turned his back to Geary. Rosalind followed his lead, and they walked down the path. She felt Geary’s eyes on her back as they went.

---

They walked in silence. Rosalind struggled to keep up with James’ long strides; and after a while, she stopped, and went to sit on a bench at the side of the lane. “I have things to do. If you need to catch your breath, then be quick about it”, James said. “You don’t have to escort me. Go about your business”, Rosalind retorted. “And risk the predators setting on you? Come now, we have eyes on us”. Rosalind looked around her, seeing no one but ladies, gentlemen, and the occasional governess taking a child on a stroll. “What eyes?”.

James narrowed his eyes for a moment, as if making a decision of whether to tell her more, or hold his tongue. In the end, he settled for continuing. “Your Mr. Geary made it clear”, he said. “He is not my Mr. Geary. I’d prefer to avoid the connection all together”, Rosalind retorted. “Hmm”, James grunted. “He made it clear, as I said. I am to be taken care of. There are evil men who are out to kill me”. “And my sore feet put you in danger?”. James seemed taken aback, and slightly amused at her retort. “Perhaps you should have worn your new boots”, he said, and stretched out his hand for her to stand. Rosalind was about to take it, when she saw that James had removed his glove. “Come…”, he said; and with her heart in her throat, she took his hand.

It was as warm as she remembered, and his touch sent the same shivers down her spine, as it had those many years before. As she stood in front of him, everything around Rosalind disappeared; and all she could see, was the man in front of her. She breathed him in. Musk, fresh tobacco, grass, dirt, coffee – and that undefinable thing that was merely him. “James…”, she whispered. James expression hardened, and his eyes became dark. “No… None of that. Do not make yourself a weakness”, he said. “And do not let me become one, either. You are too good for that”. “But you…”. James let go of her hand, and his face grew almost saddened. She looked down at his hand, and saw that the tip of his index finger was red. Rosalind let out a soft gasp; and when she opened her mouth to speak, he was already walking down the path again. He slowed his pace, so she could keep up; but did not speak to her for the rest of the walk.

Once back at the boarding house, Mrs. Owen met them in the door. “Going out with one gentleman, and coming back with another… Really, miss Beauchamp”, she said in a chiding voice. “Not a common occurrence, then?”, James said. Rosalind had to will herself not to slap him. Mrs. Owen raised a pair of cold eyes. “I beg your pardon… This is a proper establishment, sir!”, she exclaimed. “And who are you?”. “Her husband”.

Mrs. Owen looked stunned, and for once, she didn’t seem to know what to say. “You are… Well, that’s… You are recently wed, then?”, she asked. “No”, James said shortly. He looked at Rosalind one final time, before turning around, and walking away.

---

[mattholicguilt]

cats in the cradle by Duck_Life

Fandoms: Supernatural [Gen, No Archive Warnings Apply] Words: 1,745

Tags: Claire Novak & Patience Turner, Cats, Psychic Abilities, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Friendship, Found Family, claire novak will see a stray animal and be like, is anyone gonna project onto this, and not wait for an answer

Summary: Claire helps Patience hone her abilities. Patience helps Claire track down a cat.

Written for SPN Women Week Day 1. Prompt: "skills"

Bub is missing again.

“Bub” is the name of a mean stray cat missing a chunk from his ear. Claire’s been leaving cat food out for the ugly old thing for weeks now, and whenever he doesn’t come running she panics.

So, for the third time, Patience finds herself enlisted in the search for a cat that Claire doesn’t even technically own. “If it’s gonna bother you this much every time,” Patience says, “why don’t you just take it in? You know, get him his shots, a collar, a microchip.”

Claire makes a face at her before turning back to look at the road. She’s been driving around the neighborhood slowly, scoping out every shrub and checking under every parked car. “Bub doesn’t want to be chained down,” she explains. “He’s a free spirit.”

Alright, well, Patience is too tired to unpack that right now. She lets it lie and looks out the passenger’s side window, alert for any signs of movement. “Maybe he was never a stray at all,” she tries, “and his owner finally tracked him down and brought him home.”

“Do you know that?” Claire asks.

Claire’s always asking if Patience knows things— what happened on Jody’s date last weekend, what Dean’s middle name is, whether or not Alex is the one who ate the last ice cream sandwich in the freezer. Patience keeps trying to explain that she can only see the future. “Psychic” might be a misnomer— her abilities are precognitive, not telepathic.

She basically gets previews, little spoilers about what’s to come. And though she’s been working at it, she can’t seem to get her psychic abilities to do the kind of reading and divination her grandma could do. She gets glimpses with no context, no backstory.

Missouri Moseley could walk into a room and feel every ounce of heartbreak, grief, hope and faith in the people standing there. Patience can barely pick up on it when Alex and Claire are pissed at each other.

Still, Claire brings her along whenever the cat goes missing. Seems to think her ESP can home in on missing animals. Patience keeps telling her otherwise, and yet here she is, once again. That’s the trouble with having no social life and no better plans.

Maybe she should join a book club.

Claire rounds the corner, eyes darting around for any sight of the mangy cat. The first time Bub vanished from Claire’s sight, all the neighbors seemed intent to help. They explained they hadn’t seen the cat, but hoped Claire would find him soon and offered baked goods and platitudes in the meantime.

But these things have an expiration date. You can only lose the cat so many times before the routine gets old and the neighbors lose interest.

“My educated guess ?” Patience sighs. “The cat’ll come back when it gets hungry. Just like before.”

Claire makes a tch sound and mouths “educated guess” under her breath. Apparently, because Patience is psychic she’s supposed to be omniscient. “So which is it?” Claire says. “Is he back with his ‘real’ owners or is he going to come home when he gets hungry?”

“Don’t be a jerk,” Patience says. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m helping you.”

“... Yeah. You are,” Claire says, ducking her head. “Sorry.” Her eyes scan the road ahead, looking for the telltale streak of a cat darting out from under a parked car or vanishing around a tree trunk. Still nothing. “Hey, Patience the Pet Psychic,” Claire says. “You should write that down, that’d be a great children’s book.”

“Very funny,” Patience says, rolling her eyes. She’s silent for a few moments and then says, “Cla-aire the Monster Slayer.”

“That doesn’t really rhyme.”

“Sure it does.”

When the sky darkens and the streetlights flick on, Claire drives them back to the house, Bub-less and dejected. “I’m sure he’s fine,” Patience tries.

Claire bunches her shoulders, the collar of her leather jacket looking like a cat’s raised hackles. Maybe, Patience thinks, that’s the connection— Claire in many ways resembles an angry cat. She and Bub might be kindred spirits.

“I’m just tired,” Claire says, yanking the keys out of the ignition. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Patience considers pointing out that Claire could at least ask instead of just assuming , considers reminding Claire that she has her own life outside of playing “pet psychic.”

But she doesn’t actually have anything to do tomorrow. Or the rest of the week. And as futile as it feels riding around looking for a runaway cat, it is something to do. And it makes Claire feel better.

And… straining her psychic muscles to pick up on any trace of the old tomcat is at least better than doing nothing and letting her abilities degrade. Over the last year, she’s been trying to find ways to train her brain, shape her psychic visions into something useful.

Jody’s supportive, but she, like most people, doesn’t know anything about being psychic. Kaia’s got a fraught relationship with her own special skills and usually chooses not to talk to Patience about seeing the future, and Alex is so entrenched in nursing and hunting that the few “normal” moments she gets at home are devoted to unwinding and relaxing.

Which makes Claire Patience’s most ardent supporter in developing her psychic abilities. A very grouchy, blonde and mostly clueless Yoda. What she lacks in background knowledge she makes up for in persistence.

“Hey, Patience, guess which hand?” Claire will ask, holding the last fortune cookie behind her back. “Hey, Patience, what number am I thinking of?” Claire will ask, perched on the arm of the couch. “Hey, Patience, heads or tails?” Claire will ask, flipping a coin to catch it in midair.

That’s not how it works. That’s not how any of it works— Patience can’t predict things at will. Her psychic visions operate on a schedule of their own, with no concern for Patience’s own convenience or comfort. One minute, she’s watching shitty reality TV while Alex nods off on her shoulder. The next, she’s watching Jody narrowly avoid being bitten by a vampire.

It’s a lot different from just guessing a coin toss. Still. Patience can’t help but think that her grandma would’ve passed all of Claire’s little tests with flying colors.

That night, Patience doesn’t dream about anything— at least, not anything useful. She has an anxiety dream about being lost in Aldi, roaming the aisles with increasing frustration. But nothing about the future. Nothing about Bub the cat.

She’s pouring herself a bowl of cereal when Claire stomps inside, the porch door swinging shut behind her. “Still gone,” she says darkly, grabbing the cereal box and her own bowl. “Food hasn’t been touched.”

“Claire,” Patience says, “why don’t we just go to the SPCA? You can get yourself a cat that’s not, you know—”

“What? Not damaged? Not a lost cause? Not hard to love?”

Whoa, Patience wants to say. “A cat that’s not missing ,” she finishes. “We can get him his shots and a collar and everything.”

“I don’t— I don’t just want some random cat,” Claire says. “I want to find Bub. I want… I want to find him and bring him home. I have to bring him home.”

“I know,” Patience says, and just like that she does . She does know.

She knows everything, feels everything, the aching loss in Claire’s bones that’s both recent and so, so old. Memories of Claire hitchhiking and stealing and conning her way through the country, desperately chasing a mother who was desperately chasing a dead man. Jimmy Novak’s voice in her head, his face seen through Claire’s eyes, Please, Castiel, take me. Just take me. Again, his forehead pressed to hers, Take care of your mom, okay, bub?

Bub.

Patience looks at Claire. Sees her, in a way she hasn’t been able to see anyone before. “Bub… ‘bub’ is what your dad used to call you.”

Claire squints at her. “Uh. Yeah,” she says. “Wait, I didn’t… I didn’t tell you that.”

“No,” Patience breathes, meeting her eyes across the kitchen, “you didn’t.”

Slowly, a grin spreads across Claire’s face. “Holy shit , Patience, you just… ? You just did that. You, like, read me.”

“I, uh, I didn’t know. That I could do that,” Patience says, caught between marveling at this new development and feeling self-conscious at intruding on Claire’s emotions and her past.

Claire doesn’t seem put off at all. She’s actually bouncing with excitement. “We gotta test this out. Oh my God. It’s like a whole new Pokemon evolution for you.”

“It’s not really. Like that. In any way.”

But Claire is already humming the Pokemon theme song. She grabs her car keys. “Alright, well, let’s go look for that cat. I’ve got a good feeling about today.”

“I read you, Claire, that doesn’t mean I can read the cat,” Patience reminds her.

“Yeah, yeah, but you can still help me look,” Claire says. “I don’t need your third eye, just the two on your face.”

“That’s… yeah, fine,” Patience acquiesces. To be honest, she’s buzzing with the knowledge of what she can do with her powers. If Claire’s happy to be her test subject, she’ll spend all day with the girl. “Just let me grab a coffee.”

“Ooh, me too. Wait!” She wiggles her fingers toward Patience. “Do you Know how I like my coffee?”

“Half-and-half. And enough sugar to kill you,” Patience reels off. “But that’s not because I’m psychic. I’ve just seen you fix yourself coffee before.”

“Y’know, I think the line between ‘psychic’ and ‘observant’ is thinner than you might think.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Patience says, and then pretends to stumble backward toward the table, overacting the part. “Oh, oh, I’m having a vision… I see you … making coffee for us…”

Claire rolls her eyes, but she dutifully sets her keys down and busies herself with getting the travel mugs out. “That’s not gonna work for everything, you know.”

“Aaah I see you bringing Jody’s suit to the dry cleaners next week. I also see you driving me to the science museum.”

“Hilarious.”

Patience smiles at her. It’s nice to have someone else get excited about her powers. It’s nice to be allowed to be excited about this, to learn a new skill and have it mean something good to someone besides herself. She doesn’t feel like a freak or a failure. She just feels… like a psychic.

She feels like her grandma would be proud.

[tf2workbench]

Dead Ringer for love

The Spy’s invisibility watches have been in a state of equilibrium since 2017, with all three of them used roughly equally. That doesn’t mean that old wounds over the Dead Ringer have healed.

Dead Ringer (*) Cloak type: Feign death. When taking damage with the watch out: become invisible and gain resistance to the triggering attack. Gain a 3-second speed boost and clear afterburn/bleeding. Drop a corpse (of yourself or of the teammate you’re disguised as) as if dead. (+) +50% cloak regen rate (+) +40% cloak duration (-) -50% cloak consumed on feign death (-) Cannot be activated below full cloak (-) No cloak from ammo boxes (-) Loud, distinctive decloak noise

What we have here is a watch that doesn’t make you invisible on command - it only works when you take damage, and when it does that, it also fakes your death. Devious!

I should begin by saying that the Dead Ringer brings in the whole psychological game of are-they-really-dead. The impact of this uncertainty is almost impossible to measure without detailed playtesting, so I want to focus instead on the mechanics of the watch.

With its hefty 75% damage resistance to whatever attack triggers it, the Dead Ringer is often seen as a get-out-of-jail-free card. That’s not strictly true - powerful attacks can still kill you - but it does let you escape dangerous situations and force the enemy to spend more time hunting you down. Fortunately, since it only works at full cloak and can’t be recharged by ammo boxes, this is at least predictable. But it can certainly be frustrating to have to track down the same spy over and over again, which good Dead Ringer spies can definitely pull off.

On the other hand, the Dead Ringer can’t be used without alerting someone that there’s a spy in the area. The other two watches can keep you invisible until it’s killing time, while the Dead Ringer - true to its name - sounds the alarm that there’s a spy about. Whether this is a bad thing depends on the psychology of the opponent: do you want to make them paranoid, or be completely undetected until it’s too late for them?

I would suggest that this paranoia, coupled with the Dead Ringer’s ability to turn a fatal situation into an advantage, is part of what makes the watch frustrating to opponents. It’s not nearly as bad as it used to be, when skilled spies on ammo-heavy maps could come back again and again and again, but it can still be a thorn in your side.

I’ll also cautiously propose that this annoyance also stems from how easy it is to spot a Dead Ringer. Experienced players can easily spot a fake death: just look for the spy who runs straight toward you, takes five damage, and dies. It can very easily be used to get behind enemy lines in this way.

I believe that this acting is a skill that spies should learn, so I don’t want to impose more mechanical restrictions on when/where the Dead Ringer can activate. I know that I always let myself take a little more damage first, act as if I’m caught out, and then cloak, to make it seem like I’m really dead. But even the best actors are often foiled by the Dead Ringer’s telltale signs, mostly caused by inconsistencies in how the game depicts the death. On feigned deaths, Dead Ringer spies do not:

activate on-kill effects for some weapons, like the Holy Mackerel;

give ammo, instead dropping a fake box that disappears when touched;

play a last hitsound (note: enable last hitsounds from your advanced options);

appear as dead in the overhead team profile;

change the scoreboard or other counters, like strange weapons;

trigger revenge kills.

There are other indicators, but these are the big ones. For experienced players, it’s easy to touch the ammo box, or just have last hitsounds enabled, to eliminate all of the guessing. I would suggest that, to bring in that element of mystery and intrigue, these incongruencies be fixed. It may be unfair to change the scoreboard and other informational game elements, but the mechanical errors should definitely be ironed out. The Dead Ringer is a fascinating weapon, one which affects everyone a little differently, but I believe that it should provide a more convincing death than it does now. That change would shift it from “oh, I know that spy is faking, now I’ll have to watch out” to “were they really faking?” That thought is part of what makes the Dead Ringer a wholly unique experience to play with and against.

[hawkland]

Destiel fic recs #3 - the (mostly) longfic edition!

It’s been a while since my last rec post - mostly because I’ve been wallowing in a number of longer fics (50-350k!) so it’s taken me a while to have enough to talk about in one post (and boy do I talk a lot, here!)

With these longer fics, I do sometimes have some caveats with my recs - or at least reasons why they might not appeal to every Dean/Cas reader. But note that if I didn’t overall strongly recommend reading the fic I wouldn’t include it in my recs here at all, so any quibbles I bring up are minor compared to my overall enjoyment of the stories. Just, I don’t want someone to commit to a long read without knowing what they’re getting into and why it might not be their thing.

I’m still not into reading complete setting AUs at this time, but a lot/most of these are canon-divergence AUs, often written/set at the end of a season and giving an alternative take on what happened next. I love those kind of stories, as it’s often so interesting to see how fans thought of what might happen in the next season (especially when it’s better than what we actually got.)

Onto the recs & discussion behind the cut!

The Sinking Ship by UnfortunatelyObsessed (114k). This is a story that ripped my heart to pieces (in a good way!). I stayed up all night to finish reading because I simply couldn’t stop once I started on it and it gave me a massive fic hanger from all my emotions. Season 14 divergence, imagine if Dean did go into the Ma’lak box to trap Michael under the ocean with him forever...and once there, he discovers that Cas has stowed away with him. Because of course Cas would never leave Dean to such a fate on his own.

I loved literally. Every. Damn. Thing. About this fic. Cas telling Dean stories to pass the (endless) time. Their small intimate moments while realizing they can never consummate physically while trapped in the box but finding every other way to express their love. The absolute heartbreak that had me SOBBING when Michael fights for control of Dean and destroys everything they’ve built together and Cas thinks he’s lost Dean forever. Sam & Gabriel & Rowena & Claire & Jack doing everything they can to devise a plan back home to try to save them both while keeping Michael trapped. Also even just the wonderfully sensitive portrayal of aroace Jack still closely bonded with Claire and Maggie and just. And just. This is a story I’ve already re-read just to savor how much I loved it and its portrayal of everyone in TFW 2.0 and their extended family, it just hit my id in all the most incredible ways and I have nothing but absolute love for this one.

Beautiful Chaos by anyrei, mugglerock (141k). Season 9 canon-divergence, in which Dean doesn’t simply abandon Cas to fend for himself post 09x03. Instead he sets Cas up in a kind of squatter’s nest in an abandoned building near the bunker so he can keep tabs on him and help him out. 

This fic definitely gets the award for FILTHIEST, HOTTEST, SMUTTIEST Dean/Cas (and Cas/other) I’ve read in, like, ever, for human!Cas turns out to be a rather insatiable sex fiend/cock slut and Dean is too up his own repressed ass to easily give Cas what he wants/needs. It is dark at times, Cas ends up in some very unsavory/non-con situations, and the authors do mention that they tried to hone in on endverse!Cas’s characterization more than what we saw in Season 9...so you might roll with it, you might not. I adored their original character Jerry the tattoo artist in this, and like I said it was seriously hot (if you are good with total bottom!Cas and Cas with others, I know those are not everyone’s cuppa). I did have a few minor issues. For one, the last chapter felt a bit rushed and hand-wavey, but clearly the authors weren’t fond of the canon conflicts of season 9 & 10 (Abbadon, Mark of Cain) and just wanted to be done with them. Can’t say I really blame them. And I did have to laugh a bit at Lebanon, Kansas apparently having such a bustling gay bar/tattoo artist/etc scene being someone from a butt-fuck nowhere American small town myself. But, SPN was never all that realistic in how Lebanon was shown (and yes I’ve spent too much time roaming around it on Google maps), so if you can suspend some disbelief this is an awesome hot/angsty/occasionally heartbreaking read.

These Forsaken Lands by destielpasta (53k). I came upon this story when looking for fics that dealt in some way with the aftermath of Godstiel. This is a wonderfully atmospheric late Season 9 “fill-in” case fic (post Meta-fiction) where Cas ends up in a small town that had been visited by Godstiel...and while initially residents have reaped much good fortune, there has suddenly been a wave of deaths/bad events and he is determined to find out what happened and set things right. He calls upon Dean for help, but Dean is fighting the Mark of Cain and it’s going to take a lot to get past its control and find a way out for both of them. Together they work on repairing an old church while trying to repair each other and their damaged relationship.

I loved this story for how well written it was, really invoking a gothic small-town/Americana atmosphere. The original characters blend in very well with the case-fic at the center of it, and the author deals really well with Cas at a very fragile point when he’s running on borrowed grace and trying to navigate Dean’s MoC-enhanced anger. It’s Dean/Cas but actually much more of a Cas character study, so I highly recommend it to my fellow/compatriot Cas-girls who love a good wallow in his head.

Mixed Emotions by Tierra469 (50k). Canon 12 “parallel” fic that then goes canon-divergent with the season finale. I actually stumbled on this while in the mood to read some Cas/ or & Mary fic after enjoying their interactions in Season 12 (don’t hate me). This is sort of two fics in one. The first half focuses mostly on filling in the gaps with some critical S12 Cas episodes, especially Cas & Mary’s developing friendship (and one night of something more). But of course Cas’s feelings for Dean (and vice-versa) are always there, and when Cas figures out a way to get his powers fully back, the question is if Dean can open himself up to be vulnerable - and express love - the way Cas needs for this to work.

This was an interesting fic in a lot of ways. I loved the author’s take on angels’ connections to their vessels and grace, it was very consistent in a way the show sometimes/often wasn’t. Cas is very Cas in not understanding privacy and personal boundaries (so he does some questionable things, admittedly, which might squick some readers). The smut is fucking HOT - though I will caution at one point it involves Cas temporarily in a younger (NOT underage) female vessel (and the story does point out Dean’s discomfort with this and some of the consent issues involved, I don’t want to spoil too much). I wanted the Mary plot resolved more than it was, but I still recommend this story strongly for the quality of the writing and unique/well-developed take on angel lore and mechanics that was quite different from what I’m used to reading.

We Are Either Here Or Not Here by petramacneary (54k) A post-season 12 fic that goes on a different tangent to how Cas returns, and what happens in the meantime. Particularly, it offers a different take on what apocalypseverse!Cas would be like—as Mary makes her own way back from that world with AU!Cas as her prisoner.

What I loved about this story: first off, BAMF!Mary is awesome here. Dean is so heartbreaking, not quite knowing what the fuck to do with this different Cas who at times is just a painful reminder of who/what Dean’s lost...but then becomes a chance for Dean to say and express some of the things he always was afraid to in the past. And when (real/our) Cas finally returns, there’s some very interesting stuff that happens with both Cas & AU!Cas and Cas & Dean that I don’t want to spoil. (And let’s also just say that when real!Cas and Dean finally get together it’s AMAZINGLY awesome. Like, hot Impala!sex. So is the artwork that goes with this story.)

You Can Keep Holding On by NorthernSparrow (353k) The longest fic I read this time around and probably the one I have the most mixed feelings about, but a while on I do keep thinking about parts of it so I do rec it with some caveats. This is a canon-divergence after the end of Season 11. Dean & Sam find Cas after he’s been blasted out of the bunker...to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Mary isn’t in this one except for a brief appearance/visit, which Dean thinks is Amara’s gift to him. Life seems good for a while, they’re enjoying dealing with mundane problems for a change, but then Cas seems to be pulling away from the brothers, spending less and less time with them at the bunker, taking a mundane job at another Gas ‘n Sip, and clearly preoccupied by something else. Or is it someone else? Dean is worried yet finally ready to accept that Cas maybe has a girlfriend, or a boyfried, but then it turns out that is not at all what Cas has going on. It’s something far more serious than that.

Honestly I almost stopped reading when the reveal happened - it’s a subject that’s very sensitive to me from personal/family experience and not something I usually like reading in fic (especially if there is a sad ending.) So I admit I jumped ahead to read how it would end first before committing to finishing it. And I am glad I did, because the author handles the subject matter with a realism and obvious knowledge of experience as well, not how I often see it in fanfic. There are a lot of emotional ups and downs but it’s nice seeing Dean in his momma-hen/mode, and Sam is so so good in this one! I think I enjoyed Sam’s characterization here most of all! And the author has a really cool/well developed angel/wing lore that hit my wing-kink pretty hard. I do think it could have all been edited down a bit - I found myself skimming parts, especially in the last third, just to get on with things. But it’s definitely a story you can disappear into for a good long time and I’ve bookmarked the author’s other works to read later, so again, I do rec it even with a few caveats.

A few shorter fics, too, just because I don’t want to forget about them...

Eleven Erogenous Zones of a Fallen Angel by almaasi (15k) Pure gratuitous wing!kink for me :) Cas uses the last of his grace to manifest his wings...but then is stuck with them in his human form and not even able to use them to fly as he used to. This presents a lot of awkward problems to deal with but also the excuse for Dean to help him keep them clean :) I did say wing kink, right? :D :D I loved how Cas seemed confused about the pleasure signals he got from bathing vs. sex vs. grooming and all of that. It’s sweet and hot and has my favorite kind of caretaking Dean in it.

Fossil Tracks by SegaBarrett  (3k). Dean & Sam & Cas and dinosaurs. How can you go wrong with that? One of the SPN stories from the Id Pro Quo collection I really enjoyed reading (and didn’t write myself, lol).

[nobodyfamousposts]

Dolls AU: Mama

Well, it’s been a year since “Mama’s Day” and it seems prudent to answer the as of yet unasked question of just how Chaton started calling Marinette “Mama”.

Enjoy!

____________________

Chaton liked his Creator. He liked her more than he could really explain.

She was nice and kind and cared about him lots. She made things for him to have for his very own. She talked to him and hugged him every day. She made him a little bed of his own. And the Box—which was both a blessing and curse sometimes.

She let him take naps on her. She recognized his preferences and adjusted to them, making a floor pillow in a sunny spot when he wanted to nap in a sunbeam or a place for a little blanket nest in a dark corner of his Box when he didn’t feel up for anything. She seemed to read his moods. Not perfectly, of course. It’s taking time for them to be able to communicate properly.

She couldn’t always take him with her, which made him sad, but she found ways around it. She sometimes took him to the Guardian to look after him (who was nice even if he kept asking Chaton questions he didn’t understand and wanting him to try yucky drinks). And when the Guardian wasn’t available and she had to leave Chaton in her room, she went out of her way to make sure he had things to entertain himself with when he was alone.

But he always liked it best when she was there. Even if she admonished him or didn’t let him touch something.

She was the best Creator he could ever want. And he cared about her lots, too. He was always happier when she was around.

His feelings for her felt bigger than his whole body, and he wished he could put a name to them. He wanted to, though.

But what name would fit? Was there a single word that could indicate all of his feelings? The joy of hearing her call out a greeting to him when she was returning after a long day at school? The satisfaction at seeing the pride in her eyes when he learned something new? The relief of her holding him and reassuring him of her safety after an akuma attack? The way her hands seemed to mesmerize him as he watched her work. The simple feeling of contentedness of sitting with her as she rubbed a hand across his head. The desire above all to see her happy.

What word could say all of that?

He decided to search for the words so he could share them with her. Mostly through the “enter-net” in her “compute-her” since he was still too new to go out alone and he didn’t want her to know what he was doing.

He found a lot of words.

“Thank you” and “Gratitude” for appreciation for her kindness.

“Care” and “Concern” for her wellbeing and wanting to see her healthy and happy.

“Happiness” when she was there. “Lonely” when she wasn’t.

Then there was the big one. “Love”.

Did he love his Creator?

Looking up more on the subject, he felt he did. But it was too big. Too vast. Too vague to really hit upon his feelings for her.

He learned that he could love someone. He learned he could love many people. He learned he could love in different ways.

But how?

He didn’t understand it. His only examples were from the “enter-net” and from the Creator herself.

The Creator, who loved everyone, it seemed. She loved her friends. She loved the people downstairs. She loved the pink floaty thing he had to share her with. And she certainly seemed to love the boy whose pictures she kept on her walls.

That’s a lot of love. But she was big, so it makes sense she has a lot more love in her than he did. Because right now, he only loved her, and he didn’t even know how to explain that. He couldn’t find the answer, no matter how many days he spent thinking about it.

If the Creator noticed, she didn’t pry. She simply assured him that he could talk to her if he needed anything.

Everything came to a head one particular day when he’d had enough of thinking and decided he needed to go out and actually find the answer.

He made it about as far as downstairs where the Creator and the two other people were making something that smelled good and he got distracted.

It wasn’t his fault! The cookies were so big and tasty-looking! And they smelled delicious! It was too tempting! And it was only one. It wasn’t like they would miss it, right?

He had made his way onto the counter and over to the pan where the items of ooey gooey goodness were. But he was only limitedly aware of the change in temperature the closer he got to the pan. And even less aware of what that change meant.

Not until he touched the pan and a burning pain lanced through his hand.

Without thinking, he cried out in hurt and alarm. His “voice” wasn’t like his Creator’s or the floaty thing’s or even any of the other people he had observed. It was more of a feeling, a pulse of alarm spread empathetically. So fortunately, those who lacked magic or a strong empathic ability couldn’t feel him, so he remained undetected by the big man or the small lady.

Unfortunately, both the Creator and the floating thing were nearby and fully felt his cry.

Within seconds, there was a thunder of footsteps as the Creator rushed into the room.

“Chaton!” She gasped, reaching out and taking him into her arms. She checked him for any injuries, whispering to him and questioning what happened.

He raised up his hand to her, showing the spot where he touched the hot pan.

She looked over the spot he showed her, frowning in consideration. “It’s not burned at least, and no lasting damage from what I can see. But I bet that hurt, huh?”

He nodded, gazing up at her with little tears of magic pooling in his eyes.

“No no, none of that!” She said, wiping away the magic with a piece of cloth she grabbed from nearby. “You need that magic to keep yourself sustained.”

Finding out he cried magic was….not a pleasant experience. And certainly not something he wanted to repeat. He had certainly worried Creator as she stayed by him for hours trying to replenish what he had lost.

But it hurt though!

“I know it hurts. But I’ll take you upstairs and heal your hand.” She assured him as she stuck the cloth in her pocket for safe retraction and disposal later.

It wouldn’t hurt for long then, at least. And it was already helping just to be this close to her.

“Marinette? Did something happen?” The other woman asked, entering the room.

“It’s nothing! I just…uh…” She glanced around and then down at Chaton who was now trying very hard not to move like she’d instructed him to do when someone else was around. “I just accidentally left Chaton downstairs and he ended up a little too close to the pans.”

The woman frowned at that. “You know that isn’t safe! You need to make sure to leave your projects upstairs or at the very least away from the stove. They could catch on fire!”

“I know, Mom! And I’m really sorry. I just got caught up in helping and misplaced him. So I’m going to take him upstairs right now!”

With that, Creator held Chaton carefully in her arms as she made her way upstairs. Both leaving before they could hear the woman’s questions of when the doll had gotten there as she hadn’t recalled seeing him when she had taken the pans out of the oven…

Once in the safety of her room, Creator set Chaton down on the desk where they could see each other on an even level as she checked over his hand.

“You can’t touch the stove or pans when they’re hot or this happens, Chaton. You could have been hurt worse.”

He lowered his head. He hadn’t meant to get burned. He just hadn’t known it could do that. He would bear that in mind for next time. And be more careful.

“I was really worried about you. Mom was right that it could have been worse.”

…Mom?

“I’m just really glad it you’re safe. I’m still new at using magic to heal, but I can fix this up at least.” She said as she allowed her magic to spread over the cloth of his hand where he had touched the pan, numbing the pain as well as repairing and restrengthening the threads.

Her magic was still inexperienced, but she was getting better with the help of the pink floating thing talking her through it.

Soon enough, Creator was wrapping a cloth bandage around his hand.

“It’s probably unnecessary since you don’t bleed, but it’ll help it heal faster.” She explained, finishing the wrapping. “All done!”

And then she kissed the top of his head.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Chaton.”

He felt the warmth flooding through him once more.

“You’re getting better, Marinette! He should be well and healed by tomorrow!”

“Thanks, Tikki.” She said with a smile before dealing with the residual magic still in the cloth she had wiped Chaton’s tears with from earlier.

Really, tomorrow may be too much, because it already felt better. She really was strong.

Chaton barely gave notice though, too lost in thought.

It was the second time he heard that word. It stuck out to him.

___________________

Dealing with leaked magic was never easy, but it was necessary. The last thing they needed was another incident like a magic-induced trash kraken or a spillage of chaotic-based luck.

But Chaton had been pretty quiet afterwards…

She turned back to her desk, seeing the doll still sitting on the desk where she’d left him. He appeared to be looking rather subdued. She hoped he wasn’t still upset or hurt by what happened earlier.

“You okay, Chaton? Is something bothering you?” She asked.

He looked up at her, frowning uncertainly.

“Mom? What Mom?”

She blinked in surprise. “What?”

“You call ‘Mom’. What Mom mean?”

Was that was he was so concerned about?

“Well, a Mom is…” She frowned, thinking. “A…a female parent. They can also be called ‘Mother’ or ‘Mama’ or some other variant depending on the language.”

“Mama?” He tilted his head in curiosity, listening carefully.

“Like—like my Mom! She made me. She’s raised me.” Marinette smiled as she thought of her. “She’s been looking after me as I grow up. She’s taught me things—supported me when I was right and corrected me when I was wrong. She’s looked out for me and helped to protect me. She’s someone I love dearly because she loves me.”

He stared at her, his eyes wide in awe as he seemed to be absorbing everything she said. After a few seconds, he suddenly nodded.

“Like you to me?”

That got her attention.

“WHAT?!”

For Chaton, it couldn’t have made more sense.

Creator was talking to him like her Mama had talked to her.

Creator protected him. She made sure he was safe and healed his injuries.

Creator gave him kisses and hugs.

Creator made him happy.

“Are you…my Mama?”

And Marinette….

Marinette was at a loss.

Because she wasn’t! After all, she was still a teenager! And Chaton was magic! And she had no idea what she was doing!

“But…I’m not…that isn’t…I can’t be…”

“If you think about it, you kind of are.” Tikki interjected, cutting off her spiraling thoughts. “You made Chaton. You’ve been taking care of him—at least as well as you can given the circumstances. And he is in a lot of ways like an actual child. One you’ve been helping to grow.”

The kwami giggled.

“In a way, you are his mother.”

Marinette looked back and forth between Tikki’s knowing look and Chaton’s hopeful gaze.

“But…is it okay?”

What rules were there about this sort of thing? What made someone a mother anyway? Marinette hadn’t done anything to actually become a mother, so having it suddenly brought up to her felt like it was coming from out of left field.

She knew she was a caretaker for Chaton. But a Mother…?

Except…

When it came down to it, whose call was it, really?

“Do you…want me to be your mother?”

Chaton smiled, bouncing slightly.

“Give hugs and kisses! Pet me and make me things! Keep me safe and happy! Love you lots! Good Mama! Happy with Mama!”

Tikki giggled again. “I think it’s been decided, Marinette.”

Marinette rolled her eyes at Tikki but didn’t argue. She looked down at Chaton fondly.

Chaton merely smiled back up at her.

This…certainly changed things.

But then again, Marinette reasoned as she hugged Chaton close, maybe it was only putting a name to what was already there.

[aleator]

day 09 - royalty au (thor/tony)

Once every ten years, Ironfell hosts a grand tournament, and knights come from all over the kingdom to get a chance to face off against one another. It is a great honor to simply compete in this tournament, but for the lucky and talented knight who wins, he is permitted one wish he may ask the king to grant him.

Most winners wish to be granted a position in the royal guard, while others wish for a title and a plot of land, or for some fair lady’s hand in marriage. Tony has only presided over this tournament once, a few years into his reign as king, but he witnessed it several times prior under the rule of his father, King Howard.

Now it’s Tony’s turn again ten years later and the whole city is a flurry of activity and excitement. The tournament lasts for a week and many people come from far off to watch as well, not just to compete.

Which leaves Tony a very busy man in the weeks leading up to the tournament. Thankfully he has his council and advisors to help, but most importantly he has Thor, his favorite knight. Not that he plays favorites with the royal guard, of course. That wouldn’t look good for him and his attempt to be a fair and just ruler.

“You should have worn the red cloak,” Thor says first thing upon seeing Tony the morning of the start of the tournament. “Makes you look more regal.”

“Good morning to you too,” Tony replies, tugging at the clasp on his dark blue cloak. “How’s the crowd out there?”

“Excitable. It’s been a long year. The people could use some proper entertainment.”

Tony adjusts his clasp again, frowning at his reflection in a nearby mirror. “Then we’ll have to keep them entertained.”

Thor reaches out and gently takes Tony’s hand away from his cloak, then adjusts the clasp for him. Tony stands still while Thor does that, then looks at himself in the mirror again.

“Thank you.”

“Still would be better in red.”

Tony laughs and motions for Thor to follow him down to the main hall so they can get the celebration started.

The king traditionally gives a speech at the opening ceremony, so Tony opens the first day of the tournament with a rousing speech about honor and good fortune and courage, all the usual stuff the crowd likes to hear before they watch people do fancy tricks and hit each other with sticks. Then he’s led to his special box seat at the arena. With both parents now passed away, it’s just him and the head of his guard, Sir James, in the royal box with a few important dignitaries from neighboring kingdoms.

The tournament begins with much cheering and fanfare as the knights are introduced to Tony and the crowd. Some he knows are from nearby, others are from the outer edges of the kingdom, but there’s one knight he doesn’t recognize at all, a man in red armor on a pure white horse, whose only name given is the Lionheart.

The crowd is instantly abuzz with speculation on the secret identity of this mysterious knight, but the tournament does not stop even for gossip. The first day of challenges are mostly archery displays, with knights showing off tricks and skills more suited for showmanship than battle.

A feast for all ends each day of the tournament, so by the end of the first day the crowd is well enthused for its continuation. Tony does his duty as host in the main hall of the castle, though he can’t help looking around for the mysterious Lionheart, who does not seem to be in attendance.

“Who could this Lionheart be, do you think?” Tony asks Thor as his knight walks with him through the halls of the castle up to his chambers after the feast. “He seems skilled with the bow, but I’ve never heard of him before.”

“Perhaps he is foreign,” Thor offers, and Tony hums thoughtfully. While there is no rule banning foreign competitors, the few foreign knights who do join usually announce their presence, not hide behind a mask and a false name.

“He must not have a noble patron backing him,” Tony decides after a few moments consideration. “Why else would he not share such information?”

“Perhaps,” Thor says again, though Tony remains too caught up in his thoughts to pay him much mind.

“I suppose we will see how he does in the rest of the tournament,” Tony says at last. He nods to Thor as they reach the door to his chambers, and Thor nods back. “Good night, Thor.”

“Sleep well, Your Majesty,” Thor says, as he always says every night before Tony retires for bed.

The next few days were reserved for jousting matches, both individual performances against wooden dummies and one-on-one matches between knights. The real winner of the tournament would be the knight who triumphed in the melee on the last day, but lesser prizes would be given out to those who performed well in the jousts.

Despite the impressive display of skill from all involved, Tony can’t help being mesmerized by the red knight’s performance. Like with his archery, his talents on horseback and skill with the javelin and lance are seemingly unmatched. Much of the crowd seems taken with this mysterious knight, and Tony wonders if he’ll be the one to win the tournament overall.

“I would have thought your favor would be with Sir Steven,” Thor replies when Tony says as much the evening before the final day of competition. “He is one of your own knights.”

“Of course,” Tony says with a flippant wave of his hand. “But he’s curious, is he not? He disappears before every feast and only reappears at the start of the next day’s tournament. Why not join in the celebration?”

“Keeping his identity a secret must be more important,” Thor suggests.

“Well, if he does win the tournament, he’ll have to reveal himself,” Tony says with an un-kingly huff. Just one more reason he’s maybe secretly hoping that the red knight wins.

The next morning, as the knights prepare for the grand melee, Tony decides to hell with it and puts on his red cloak. Yet Thor is nowhere to be seen, and Tony walks down to the main hall alone that morning.

For the final day of the tournament, all the knights battle it out in the arena on foot with their preferred choice in weapon. Though it’s a free-for-all, the rules of chivalry still stand, and all weapons must be modified to prevent fatalities. Knights who have been defeated must bow out until there is only one man remaining--the true tournament victor.

The red knight strides into the ring with a simple war hammer in hand, which is a curious choice, in Tony’s opinion. A war hammer can do a lot of damage in battle, but it’s small and unimpressive for such a spectacle as this.

That doesn’t seem to slow the red knight down at all, for as soon as the battle begins he takes down his first opponent with ease. As the knights clash against one another and the crowd cheers, Tony only has eyes for the red knight, hands gripping the arms of his chair tightly with each close call the red knight has.

When the dust clears at the end of the battle, the last man remaining is none other than the red knight, Lionheart.

The crowd goes wild, everyone thoroughly taken by this mysterious challenger who appeared out of nowhere and swept the tournament. Tony stands and approaches the railing of his box as the red knight crosses the arena to kneel in the dirt before Tony.

“Rise, Lionheart, for you have proven yourself worthy on this day,” Tony says imperiously for all to hear. “Remove your helm and speak what you wish bestowed upon you as a prize.”

The red knight does not stand, nor does he remove his helmet. Instead, in his deep voice he says,

“I wish for your hand in marriage, Your Majesty.”

The sudden murmur of the crowd is so loud that Tony almost doesn’t think he heard the request right. Nobody has ever asked for anything like this before. It’s not as if he’s some poor nobleman’s daughter to be offered up in exchange for good standing. He’s a king! Such impertinence from someone who refuses to even share his real name.

Frowning, he motions for the knight to remove his helmet once more. “If that is your wish, then I bid you again, reveal yourself.”

This time the knight does stand, and the crowd seems to collectively hold its breath as he reaches up to remove his helmet. Instead of the mysterious red knight, now only Thor stands in his place, knight of the Ironfell royal guard.

“I told you red’s your color,” Thor says to him, and Tony lets out a surprised exclamation, gripping the railing of the royal box before he collapses from shock.

“I fear you might be right,” Tony replies, his laughter disbelieving but his smile wide. “I hope it’s your color too, since you’ll be wearing it a lot more soon.”

“Your Majesty?” Thor says, looking hopefully up at him.

“You won the tournament fair and square, and thus your wish will be granted.”

In yet another unkingly move, Tony hops the short railing of his spectator box and jumps down from the low platform his box sits upon, stumbling a bit on the landing. As is chivalrous, Thor immediately drops his helmet and hammer to go and catch Tony before he falls in the dirt. Then, somewhat less chivalrously, Thor kisses him soundly, all of the background noise of the tournament fading away as Tony loops his arms around Thor’s neck and kisses him back.

Perhaps, Tony thinks, the final day’s feast can double as a wedding.

[baphomet-media]

Getting Psyched - A The World Ends With You Retro Review

Genre: Adventure Subgenre: JRPG Developer: Square Enix, Jupiter Publisher: Square Enix Platform(s): DS Release Date: July 27th, 2007 Hours Played: 42 hours this playthrough

You’ve almost certainly heard of this game, especially if you’re into JRPGs. When a game advertises itself as being “from the team that made Kingdom Hearts,” I was sold instantly as a kid. One look at the game’s box art confirms that Tetsuya Nomura had a hand at this game with his distinctive bold art style. But the game itself was something that nobody at the time had predicted. The game has an urban fantasy story unlike much that had been told at the time. Furthermore, the game was made to push the DS to its limits and create a battle system that could only work on the DS’s two screens. Does this cult classic live up to the hype, or is it just a janky mess? Let’s find out.

Story

TWEWY opens by introducing our protagonist, an antisocial teen named Neku Sakuraba. Neku unexpectedly awakens in the iconic scramble crossing of Shibuya, Tokyo. To his surprise, the crowds seem to walk right through him, and a strange pin appears in his hand that allows him to read the thoughts of passersby. Neku quickly learns that he has been thrust into the Reapers’ Game, a seven-day death game where the Players are the recently deceased that must partner up to fight the Noise, hostile part-animal-part-tribal-graffiti creatures that seek to erase the Players. What’s more, each day Players must complete missions given to them by the Reapers within strict time limits while avoiding the reapers themselves. If they can make it to the end of the week, they might just be able to return to life.

Along the way, Neku will meet a chaotic cast of characters including Shiki, the headstrong seamstress who is eventually able to get Neku out of his angsty shell, Beat and Rhyme, a pair of street-smart siblings with heavy 2000’s skater vibes, Joshua, an abrasive, sarcastic, literal Christ figure who’s somehow a good guy? Or maybe he’s a bad guy? Or… maybe he’s a good guy again? On top of that, the Reapers themselves vary wildly from the contrasting duo of the laid-back Kariya and the high-strung Uzuki to the lone radical Minamimoto. The game does a good job of having a full roster of characters without overloading the player. Furthermore, while most characters seem wacky at first, they all have motivations and layers behind them that become clearer as you progress through the story.

Without spoiling anything, nothing is as it seems in the Reaper’s game, and multiple parties are vying for control for different reasons, meaning the whole thing feels like one big political intrigue story on top of an urban JRPG. Even on my most recent replay after having played the game countless times over the years, I was hungry to put the pieces together. While the main storyline mostly follows Neku’s perspective and doesn’t explain a lot of the behind-the-scenes interactions and motivations of the secondary characters, the game fortunately has a Secret Reports feature, which are written by a certain character who seems to know way more than they let on. These Secret Reports are near essential to understanding the game’s true story, and reveal whole layers to the plot and world that the main story doesn’t even touch on.

Needless to say, I loved the story of TWEWY. Everything feels perfectly crafted, leaving no loose ends, while still leaving the player wanting more. If anything I wanted to see more of Neku and his friends after the game’s conclusion just hanging out in real life.

Gameplay

TWEWY is a JRPG, but in the loosest sense possible. In the overworld, the player controls Neku, guiding him around the various streets of Shibuya on the touch screen or with the face buttons. Unlike in traditional RPGs, outside of story events the player must deliberately initiate combat with the Noise. By scanning their environment they can read the surface thoughts of passersby, but also reveal noise symbols in the environment. By tapping on these symbols, the player can queue up battles with the noise, and can even chain multiple battles together for back-to-back fights that multiply your drop rate.

In battle, Neku and his partner are sent to separate Zones, with Neku on the touch screen and his partner on the top screen. Neku fights the noise by activating the abilities of pins he has equipped, called Psychs. Each psych has its own activation method, from swiping on an enemy to tapping empty space, to scratching on the screen, to shouting into the microphone, and more. It’s up to the player to equip Neku with the best pins, though pins level up as they are used, becoming more powerful and sometimes evolving into even stronger pins.

On the top screen, Neku’s partner fights the noise by using the DS’s face buttons to move through a combo map and select certain finishers. By selecting the right finishers, you can charge your Sync gauge to perform a powerful special attack. Both characters share an HP gauge, damage to each character subtracting from each side. If you’re following along, that means the game expects you to control both Neku and his partner at the same time. This can be tricky for new players, but you quickly get used to it. Additionally, you can have your partner auto-fight with a customizable delay, meaning you technically don’t have to control your partner at all. However, if you really want to deal major damage and wipe the floor with the Noise on higher difficulties, you’ll want to master battling with both characters at once. When I first played the game in 2007, I found the parner battling to be too difficult to keep up with, but now that I’m older and more experienced, I find the combat to be incredibly deep and rewarding. Additionally, the game rewards back-and-forth control of Neku and his partner with the Light Puck mechanic. Essentially, when one character performs a combo finisher, the light puck is passed to the other character, and passed back when that character does a finisher. In this way, you can build up a damage multiplier based on how quickly you rally the light puck. This creates a natural back-and-forth flow of using Neku until his psychs discharge, then getting a few hits in with his partner, and so on.

My only complaint about battles is that in later fights on higher difficulty the Noise will attack so frequently on the partner’s zone that it’s difficult to get attacks off with them at all. Your partner has a limited block/dodge, but it only does so much and there’s often tons of Noise attacking at once. It’s not insurmountable, but it can be frustrating at times.

Outside of battle, the player must constantly keep up with a few things, food, swag, and difficulty. Both Neku and his partner can eat food and wear clothing purchased from many shops around Shibuya. Food offers an up-front bonus as well as a permanent stat increase once the food is digested by completing battles. However, you can only digest so many times per real-time day, meaning you have to prioritize high-calorie foods before smaller snacks. I found the digestion limit to be a bit too limiting. It can be removed in the post-game, but it still makes food hard to deal with for someone that is effectively bingeing the game.

Swag are articles of clothing that offer flat stat increases, but also have abilities that are unlocked by showing it to the right store clerk. Each clerk can unlock the abilities of specific clothing, and you can unlock more by buying enough stuff from them to fill up their Friendship Gauge. I thought it was fun to slowly make friends with each store clerk, and I felt bad that I couldn’t hang out with them or reciprocate some of their obvious advances, though I’m sure it’s assumed that Neku cherishes his friendships with them after the game’s conclusion. However, you can’t just equip any old piece of clothing to any character. Neku can’t just pull off a dress and cargo shorts right off the bat. Each piece of clothing has a Bravery rating, with characters whose bravery is below that rating being unable to wear the clothing. Fortunately, bravery increases as you level up, and can also be increased by eating food. By the end of the game, you’ll be able to have Neku and company wearing whatever clothing you want.

Lastly there’s Difficulty. The game has four main difficulty levels, being Easy, Normal, Hard, and Ultimate. You begin the game in Normal, but once you unlock a difficulty, you can change it on the fly from the pause menu. On easier difficulty enemies have less HP and deal less damage, but you get fewer XP and worse pins. The reverse is true on higher difficulties, with some of the best pins in the game being available exclusively as drops on Ultimate difficulty. To aid you in this, you can also change your level at any time. Unlike in a standard RPG where your level is immutable to the player aside from leveling up, in TWEWY you can freely choose your level from one to the highest level you have achieved. For each level below your max that you set your level, you get a multiplier for drops. This can be combined with the battle chaining multiplier to get ultra rare drops, some of which have less than 1% and even less than 0.1% drop chances normally. This gives the player an incentive to level up aside from just stat bonuses, and rewards players who go out of their way to engage in battles. As above, battles are largely optional, but it heavily behooves the player to battle as much as they can, not only because you get drops and experience, but increasing your level gives you more wiggle room for harder fights such as bosses.

There are tons more smaller features, but these are the main ones. I thoroughly enjoyed the vast depths of the game’s mechanics and found the difficulty settings to be really engaging and a novel approach to RPG player advancement while still affording accessibility. I was enthralled for multiple hours as I struggled to get the best gear, feed my team the best food, and equip the best pins to get as strong as possible. Until the very end of the postgame, it never felt like mindless grinding, as you can just breeze through the story on Easy if you really want to, but where would be the fun in that?

Presentation

TWEWY is probably best known for its vibrant and bold incredibly urban street-art-themed style, which shows in not only the art, but the UI, music, and writing. The character art is that hard-outlined and overdressed Nomura art style that fans of Final Fantasy and Kingdom Hearts have come to love, and the backgrounds are all vibrant and stylized to fit. The pixel art of the character sprites and Noise are all incredibly expressive, with Neku’s idle animation as he jams out to tunes on his headphones being one of my favorites.

The game’s music is unabashedly lyrical, covering a vast array of genres including JPop, Punk, and Hip-Hop, with many different styles of each. I loved almost every song in the game, though I found one of the overworld themes to be a bit grating at times. Other than that, the music is pretty great, and what’s even better is you can buy CDs of each of the game’s songs in the game to have your own personal sound test right from the menu, even going as far as to allow you to set the background music on the menu itself.

The game even has voice acting, though it’s limited mostly to battle quips and wordless expressions for cutscenes. I actually really enjoyed the voice acting and thought they nailed each character. I was honestly surprised at the audio quality the developers were able to pack into this game. The music was a very slight bit tinny through the DS’s audio chip as is to be expected, but barring that the vocals and voice overs were super clear and the instrumentation of the songs were well mixed.

Overall, the game’s presentation is about as good as it gets on the DS, giving even home console games a huge run for their money.

Conclusion

Honestly it’s hard to say anything bad at all about TWEWY. The game was a bit hard to approach at the time, but it’s aged magnificently. These days, I wouldn’t hesitate to say that it’s the best (at least non-Pokémon) game on the DS. Honestly though some might be turned off by the game’s quirks, I think TWEWY is a masterpiece that everyone with a DS should pick up and play. I can’t wait to see how the newly-released sequel stands up, but honestly the original is a tough act to follow.

Score: 10 / 10

[radramblog]

Every Boros Commander, Part 2

Where we last left off, I was shitting on Adriana, Captain of the Guard, who gives ACAB a pretty different meaning. Fortunately, most of the pickings this time aren’t quite as dire.

Depala, Pilot Exemplar (3rd most played as of writing)

Holy shit, a Boros commander with card advantage? It’s niche, but it was a first. Being limited to Dwarves and Vehicles does leave her with a problem a lot of commanders and tribes tend to have, which is being just a smidge under critical mass- but with the upcoming Kaldheim appearing to support Dwarves, and vehicles appearing to be a deciduous mechanic, I feel like it won’t be long before Depala is as powerful as her placement suggests. She is niche and mana-hungry, but basically the only Vehicle commander (and definitely the only Dwarf commander at the moment), so I suspect she’s here to stay for a while.

Tiana, Ship’s Caretaker (15th most played as of writing)

Tiana is possibly my favourite character lorewise in all of magic, frankly. She’s cool and cute and a massive dork and also someone who found her purpose in life, and frankly I love that for her. 

She’s also a really interesting commander to build around, seeing as she has a unique brand of card advantage that leads to the addition of old and weird cards, which I’m always a fan of. I should really get around to building a Tiana deck, to be honest, though I already have 10 commander decks with an 11th in progress, sooooo…

Firesong and Sunspeaker (4th most played as of writing)

I’m surprised to see F&S this high, but the first unique Buy-a-Box card did expand into an archetype previously unseen in the combination in the form of Boros Spellslinger (Dalakos would later return the favour as an Izzet Equipment commander). Previously, you had to go into Pauper EDH and play fellow Minotaur Blaze Commando for this kinda deck. Like Depala, F&S are heavily played despite being niche, though the also have the benefit of being a RW minotaur commander, if you want to play White instead of Black in that deck for…some reason? The siren moo of Boros Reckoner speaks to us all, I suppose.

Sylvia Brightspear and Khorvath Brightflame (17th most played as of writing)

The only partner pair I’m discussing today on account of their monogamy. Knights and Dragons make a weird combination, seeing as there are basically no other cards that help them work together rather than apart. You could almost run them as a goodstuff deck if you wanted, seeing as many of Boros’s best creatures are Knights or Dragons, but largely I think sticking to one or the other is probably for the best. With that in mind, the pair are actually the only real commanders for either tribe within Boros- the only other Dragon is something we’ll get to, and the only knight is…Adriana…so…. The buffs given by either pair are excellent, and not something that either tribe gets easy access to typically, so I can see the appeal of them in that slot. At that point, the extra commander is just a bonus.

Aurelia, Exemplar of Justice (21st most played as of writing)

Oh, another Aurelia, and she’s worse this time. In seriousness, her ability looks like its likely to be targeting herself most of the time, and Mentor just doesn’t do enough in this format. She has enough keywords and power to Voltron, but I’m not expecting much interesting from her outside of that.

Tajic, Legion’s Edge (18th most played as of writing)

Tajic has 4 separate lines of text for some reason, and only one (ok fine two haste is nice) actually matters. Having a damage prevention effect is nice in the zone, but it doesn’t apply to himself, so if you’re planning on turning mass damage one-sided you’re going to need to protect him still. And like, what else does he do? He’s not a good aggro commander at all, his last ability is a joke, why are people playing this card? If I was in a mass damage deck I’d just play Gisela, at least she does something on the off chance she survives. Probably no-one is gonna go out of the way to kill Tajic, at least. Beats out Aurelia for biggest downgrade, imo, even if Aurelia fell from higher.

Feather, the Redeemed (Number 1 most played at time of writing)

Feather is the most popular Boros commander, by over triple the next most popular. It’s not hard to see why: she’s a cheap commander that turns any targeted cantrip into a draw engine, she synergises with so many random powerful cards that you can build her a fair few different ways, and she’s a cool story character getting a card 12ish years after her appearance in the Ravnica novels. She does so much and is so interesting that it’s completely understandable that she’s as huge as she is. I’m still never going to build her though, even with my funky Japanese copies, if only because I’m too much of a hipster.

Gerrard, Weatherlight Hero (13th most played as of writing)

Kinda funny that Gerrard’s little text that made him work in the command zone until recent rules changes is now a strict downside. Gerrard has his niche, with a Second Sunrise in the zone unsurprisingly supporting Eggs decks rather nicely, and synergising with a lot of just random bullshit. I’d probably never build him, and it seems pretty easy to make it degenerate, but I’m glad he’s here and he’s certainly better than the first iteration of the character.

Haktos, the Unscarred (12th most played as of writing)

I’m kinda surprised to see Achilles this high, considering how recent he is. He reminds me a lot of Progenitus, oddly enough, as a commander that would be good at Voltron but can’t get buffed easily by traditional means. I think adding equipment on the off-chance that it fits his heel is a complete mistake, but things like Silverblade Paladin and Exalted cards do exist, so fair play. He’s pretty hard to kill unless you’re boardwiping, and even then damage-based ones probably miss, so I can see the value in that. But that mana cost hurts to look at- hitting 2 mana of 2 different colours on turn 4 was a pain back when I played Trostani, and that was a green deck.

Stet, Draconic Proofreader (No data available)

Okay look, I tried so hard to find a way to abuse this dork’s ability but there’s just no good way to do it. Stet sucks hard enough that even if you are playing with Silver-Bordered cards legal I just don’t know why you’d ever run it. His art is pretty funny, I’ll give it that. We got Alexander bloody Clamilton and Surgeon Commander in the same cycle, keep in mind.

Winota, Joiner of Forces (2nd most played as of writing)

Having menaced standard, Winota is still pretty decent as a commander, even without access to her 7-mana blue payload.  There actually aren’t that many beefy humans to cheat out in general, but considering how easy it is to enable her ability and the fact that she digs *6 cards deep* on trigger, I think you just kinda end up swarming the board distressingly easy with her deck. It’s shocking to see a card from 2020 in the top 5 like this, considering how the year has gone for the format in general, but like. 6 cards.

Zirda, the Dawnwaker (8th most played as of writing)

Look it combos with Basalt/Grim monolith in the command zone isn’t that neat. Zirda is pretty open-ended, but not especially powerful outside of the aforementioned combo. I find them much more appealing in the Companion slot, frankly. With that said, I do like that Boros is the colour pair getting access to Training Grounds in the zone, seeing as it works well with its other themes (Equipment mostly) and opens new archetypes (Cycling, etc.) up as possibilities.

Akiri, Fearless Voyager (7th most played as of writing)

Haha, Brion has more decks than Akiri. That’s probably since it only released a few months ago. Of course, I’m not including the other Akiri, so this is the first time we’ve seen her on the list. But apart from that, Akiri was somehow the first of these commanders to actually say “draw” on it. Her synergies with Living Weapon (and the recent equipment cards that do the same) are pretty sick, though her second ability will end up costing a lot of mana over time if you have to use it. I think its hilarious how much more value this gives you than Adriana for doing the thing Adriana wants you to do, at 2 less mana.

Also, she’s probably the best general for Kor tribal? I guess you could go Akiri/Black partner so you can play Orah in the deck. Someone build this! Kor like equipment, Akiri likes equipment, lets go.

It’s only just occurred to me that Akiri gives you more for attacking other players than Adriana does. Fuckin hell, man.

Bell Borca, Spectral Sergeant (25th most played as of writing)

Bell finally getting a card 15 years after his fictional death was a welcome treat, but the exile-related ability is frankly awkward and abusing it to 1 or 2 hit commander damage is pretty difficult. Still, having impulse draw in the zone makes him probably just the best generic #goodstuff commander. I’m surprised he’s as low as he is, but he only released a month ago (at time of writing) and we got an absolute stack of legends (including 2 other Boros ones and the partners) in the same set.

Reyav, Master Smith (28th most played as of writing)

Reyav is neat since he combines 2 of Boros’s more traditional archetypes, being Aggro and Voltron, into one damage doubling dwarf. I suspect his lack of play is again due to the other legends in the same set and that it only dropped a month ago, because there’s no way he deserves to be below Munda. Also, he’s 2 mana! The only other 2CMC Boros Legend is partner Akiri! How did that happen? I think he deserves better. You can suit him up and get dunking real quick.

Wyleth, Soul of Steel (16th most played as of writing)

Our final general is Boros’s second ever Precon commander, and the only one with flavour text. He’s got the space for it, considering how much work that second line is doing. I appreciate that Wyleth, despite being superficially similar to Akiri, plays pretty differently, as he prefers Voltron while she prefers spreading equipment out. I assume Wyleth would be a lot higher if the precon itself was included, but there’s no way of knowing how many people are playing just the base deck, so who knows.

A CHALLENGER APPROACHES!!!

Koll, the Forgemaster (no data available) This bloke got spoiled between me writing most of this and going to publish it. I can see a few easy combos with his first ability, especially seeing as Grafted Wargear is a card. Playing fairly though, his first ability feels kinda slow, and not being able to protect himself is a huge drag. The second ability feels kinda stapled on, as its a way of giving you a bonus since the first one doesn’t do shit for tokens. But like, just don’t equip them, lmao. Awkward, but has potential.

And that’s the lot of them! Uhhhh yeah that’s all I’ve got, stan Tiana kthnxbai

[makarov-my-beloved]

Watch Dogs: Legion x AmRev

@burgoyned Chapter 6 pumped out in an hour lol. Not sure if it's any better but feel free to share your thoughts ^^

Chapter 6: Keep Calm and Resist

André sat in front of his computer browsing through the information from the damaged Spiderbot. As he sat there pondering, Howe and Burgoyne chatted about the easiest road leading to Royal London Hospital. After hearing about increased Albion security in the streets (i.e. more fighter drones patrolling the streets), Bagley suggested a more covert way of reach the destination. “Best case scenario would just take a taxi there so that way you won’t be under the radar,” he said as he closed the map. “I’m up for whatever. You wanna come with me, André?” Howe asked the hacker. André shrugged. “I guess. I’m finding some disrupted data that needs to be cleaned up.” “I can take care of that,” Bagley chimed in. Howe looked at his phone. The time reads 10:15 PM. “If we head there now, there shouldn’t any workers present. Most likely security guards, but they can be taken care of.”

“Ok. We’ll be off. Don’t do anything stupid, Burgoyne,” warned André. The playwriter held his hands up yet said nothing. Both André and Howe left the Safehouse and walked into The Earl’s Fortune where they found the pub mostly empty except for a few patrons sitting at the lounge smoking and chatting. Clinton sat at the bar with Hanger discussing current events. The bartender looked up and smiled. “Y’all out for a night exploration?” “Of course. London looks beautiful at night. We’ll be back shortly.” “Sure thing. And do be careful Albion is everywhere tonight,” Clinton said. André gave his friend a reassuring smile before leaving the pub with Howe. Using his phone, the fighter flagged down a taxi. He climbed into the driver’s seat with the hacker in the passengers. Tossing his bag into the back, Howe began setting up the GPS route to the Royal London Hospital. “This shouldn’t be too long of drive….15 minutes. Sounds reasonable enough,” he said as he shifted into drive. “Methinks that the hospital is going to be heavily secured tonight,” André muttered while watching an Albion guard detain a civilian on the street. Howe looked over and shook his head. Around 10:30 PM, the men pulled up to the Royal London Hospital.

It was to be expected; guards patrolled the entrance of the hospital, including the driveway where ambulances are parked. Making his way towards the front entrance, Howe and André put on their masks and hid behind a brick wall. The hacker pulled out his phone and almost immediately pinged, directing the signal to a nearby ctOS fighter drone. We could use the drone to clear the guards. Hacking the drone, André began piloting it inside the main entrance where Albion guards are stationed and proceeded to take the guards down one by one. Howe watched with curiosity as the hacker pointed the drone towards a guard on the second floor before he prodded his friend. “I see the data machine look!” he hissed. There was a black box located right behind the guard which made the mission more convenient than they both thought. André shot the guard then flew the drone close to the machine. “Alright. Wait…” he stopped. Howe became confused. “What happened?” he asked. “Someone seemed to have cleared the data from the machine. The drone isn’t picking up anything.” “

“Do they know we were coming then?” “Not sure. But no data is coming from that box.” It was then Bagley pinged their earpiece. “It appears that someone has already hacked the data from the file server. I do believe there is backup storage stored somewhere on the other side. See if you can find something.” “Copy that. Alright.” André piloted the drone to the front of the hospital. There are several stories; each floor containing rooms of many patients as well as nurses and doctors working night shifts. Outside, the balcony floors were devoid of any sign of life, except for a few hospital workers. Gently flying the drone away from the windows, André finally located the backup file storage sitting on the fourth-floor balcony. “Second time the charm here we go…” He flew the drone towards the black box only for the phone to be suddenly disconnected.

Frustrated, André attempted to reconnect his phone back towards the drone. He successfully regained control only to see part of it damaged. “Oh God, who could it be now?” he groaned. Tilting the drone to the side, both men saw another fighter drone next to them. “What the...GET OUT OF HERE!!” André snarled and attempted to shoot it. He was unlucky. The other drone dodged the laser and proceeded to shoot the ctOS drone, destroying it. The phone signaled a loss of connection. Bagley pinged again. “It seems that someone has gained access to the backup storage. Looks like all the data are cleared from this location.” “DAMMIT!! Ok, what about St. Thomas could you check on that?” André said, giving Howe an incredulous look. The fighter shook his head. A moment of silence conveyed until Bagley spoke up. “Unfortunately I was unable to locate any data worth recovering from there. And don’t bother attempting Guy Hospital, that one was long cleared.” “Fuck! Ok, well appreciate your help, Bagley.” “Certainly. You should probably get back. Lord Germain has now issued a curfew at midnight.” Both men growled at that name. “We’ll be sure to head back,” André responded, tapping his earpiece. They both got up and walked towards their car only to notice a message clipped to their windshield. Howe took of his Ded Coronation mask, tossed it into the taxi, and started reading the note. André slid next to him. “What does the note say?” “It’s not a note,” Howe whispered. Staring at the paper, André read out loud the message:

Hey DedSec,

~~~~~~~~~C@N’T F1ND WH@T Y0U’R€ L00K!NG F0R? B€TT€R LUCK N€XT T1M€~~~~~~~~(8>

“DeFaLT”

“ ‘DeFaLT’? The Polish black hacker and well-known DJ? HOLY CRAP YES!!” André’s eyes lit up like fireworks. “Have you heard any of his songs Billy? He’s got helluva a collection.” His enthusiasm was not shared by his friend, who was staring at the paper with a blank expression. “William? Is everything ok?” the hacker asked, concerned. “Huh? Oh, nothing…it’s just…” Howe stopped. Defalt. Richard loves that man just like André. Even learned to hack like him. Could it be…? The fighter shoved the paper into his jacket before entering the taxi. André got into the passenger seat, head swimming with mixed emotions.

The drive back to the pub was extremely quiet. André wanted to continuously share his enthusiasm about his favorite artist but couldn’t since Howe was not in the mood to converse. They arrived back at The Earl’s Fortune. Few patrons still sat by the fireplace, conversing over the news while Hanger poured drinks to a few customers at the bar. Entering the passcode, Howe and André returned to the Safehouse where Howe tossed his bag onto the desk next to Bagley and walked towards the broken down train converted into a bar. Clinton, who was sitting on the leather couch tuned into his headphones while browsing his laptop, looked up and saw André standing there with a glum look on his face. He took his headphones off, placed his laptop on the couch before getting up to comfort the hacker. “What’s the matter? Got busted by Albion?” “No. It’s something else…” André said quietly. Bagley spoke up. “Every hospital record has been taken by someone. Not sure whom it may be, but it seems that person knows what we’re up to.” “A spy? Well well guess we’ll have to watch our backs,” Clinton said, sighing in disbelief. Howe finally emerged from the train and pulled out the note from his pocket.

“This is what I found on the taxi we drove. Looks like someone was playing ‘DeFaLT’ and got to us before we could.” Clinton took the note and stared at it. “My God it looks as if someone is trying to cosplay as an actual hacker, writing a note like that.” He turned it over to find nothing else. “Probably some kid on the street who thinks it’s funny to play games like this.” Clinton handed back the paper. “In any case, we’ll need to cover our tracks more discretely from now on.” Howe looked back at the paper. “We may have to. Although I do plan on paying a visit to the Royal Navy shipyard tomorrow.” “How so?” Clinton inquired. “I have a hunch….but I could be wrong….that my brother wrote this message. He could be trailing us.” “Richard? That guy hasn’t spoken to you in ages how could he possibly emerge from the shadows like this? It doesn’t make any sense,” André pointed out. Howe sighed. “Look, I’m going to the navy quarters to find out. Y’all wouldn’t mind coming with me?”

“Why certainly. Hmm, where is Burgoyne?” “He’s in the training room trying to ‘jack himself up.’ “ Clinton grunted. Bagley snickered. “As if that’s not the only thing he’s ‘jacking up’ on.” “DAMMIT BAGLEY!!” Clinton yelled as everyone burst out laughing. Exhausted, André slid onto his gamer chair before tossing his black DedSec jacket onto the table. His white shirt displayed the fox logo of DedSec in blue highlights, matching his black cargo pants. Stretching, André leaned back and closed his eyes. Who could be playing Defalt? Hmm...Mission Complete.

[spacecakes20]

Begin Again

(Chapter 8)

(Tagging: @sunnyxdazed)

Chapter 9: Sebastian, Sunflowers

It was quiet after Luna left. He hadn’t meant to spill so much to her, but she felt so easy to talk to, despite not knowing each other long. She was calm, and when she listened, she seemed to listen and understand. Nothing out of her mouth sounded judgmental. She even sounded impressed when she heard he was a freelancer and a self-taught programmer at that. She even cracked a joke to try and ease the tension.

      He felt a little bad about kicking her out, but his current project was so close to being finished. He would have to take a break from clients and commissions for at least a week after this. He deserved a break, and he knew he couldn’t survive on coffee and three hours of sleep for much longer.

      The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs to Sebastian’s room made him grit his teeth, bracing himself. There was no knock, because why would there be? Abigail never seemed to knock, so why would she start now. She usually would barge right in, plop herself on his couch, and go on a tirade of whatever was plaguing her mind that day.

      “Have you seen my charm?” Abigail said, jumping straight to the point.

      “Huh?” Sebastian looked from his computer; confusion clear on his face.

      “My good luck charm!” She sounded more exasperated, lifting his pillow off his couch and searching under it, “The one I got from the fortune teller last year!” She threw the pillow back on the couch in frustration, “I’ve got exams coming up, and I can’t take them without it.”

      Sebastian rolled his head back, giving it a satisfying pop. He exhaled slowly from his nose, “I’m sure you’ll be fine if you just study.” He said flatly.

      Abigail scoffed at that, giving him an eye roll. His violet haired friend was always the superstitious one. For a period of her tween-hood, she even believed herself to be a witch. Sebastian never questioned it; in fact, he’d found it quite charming. She didn’t seem embarrassed about her ideas and hobbies, and he found that admirable.

      “You’re no help.” Abigail jabbed, turning on her heels toward the door, “I’ll just ask Maru.”

      Oh, that’s right. Now was probably a good time to ask about that. “When did you two get so close?”

      That made her pause, hand hovering on the doorknob. She gave him a nervous smile, “Oh, uh…” Abigail’s voice trailed off before clearing her throat, “Turns out she likes collecting gems from the mines. For her experiments, ya know?” She said finally, “I keep her safe from monsters with my sword, and she gets her gems. A win for both of us!”

      That made sense, but he couldn’t understand why they’d try and keep that a secret. As if Abigail could read his mind, she elaborated, “You know how overprotective both of our dads can be.” She shrugged. “Rumors spread fast here so…”

       “Right.” He leaned forward in his chair, resting his chin on the back of his hands, elbows on his desk. Demetrius and Pierre could be considered protective. It made sense that their daughters would want to keep their trips to the mines a secret. With that said…

       “Is that all?” Sebastian asked. If it was one thing he knew about his longtime friend; it was that she was a terrible liar. He couldn’t help but feel that she was keeping something out.

       Abigail simply smiled, giving him a smug, “Yup.” She gave the doorknob a turn but looked back at him before taking off. She stood there a moment as if she was juggling the words she wanted to say in her head. Finally, she said, “You should try giving your sister a chance.”

       Sebastian didn’t answer. He simply rested his head on the back of his hands and sighed. He and Maru had an… interesting relationship, to say the least. Well, “relationship” was perhaps too strong of a word. They lived together and shared the same mom, but their bond stopped at that. To Demetrius, his stepdad, (and Maru’s biological father) she was the perfect child prodigy who could do no wrong. Meanwhile, Sebastian was the problem child who caused nothing but trouble. Their sibling rivalry did calm down as they entered young adulthood, but the damage had already been done.

       Abigail noticed his hesitance. She stood there, frozen for another second, before speaking again, “You’d be surprised to find out how much you two have in common.” She said in an almost sing-song voice. She left after that, closing his door with a click. He sighed to himself, running his hands through his hair. He looked to his computer and had to fight the urge to get up and take a smoke outside. No, no more procrastinating. He needed to get this done today. He gave out another sigh, took a sip of his coffee, and went back to work.

Sebastian felt the weight that lifted off his shoulder when he emailed his client about his finished project. Finally, he was free! For the time being of course. His small moment of victory was interrupted with the sound of his door being opened. Why didn’t anybody ever knock?

      It was his mother, Robin. She gave him her usual bright smile, “Hey Sebby!”

      He simply sent a small smile of his own back at her. He knew that look. She was going to ask him a favor. He just felt it.

      “Can I ask you a favor?” Called it.

      “What is it, mom?” 

      She gave him her signature smile, “Could you take this to Luna for me?” Finally looking to his mother’s hands, he noticed she was holding a Tupperware of food. Upon closer inspection, it looked like chowder. “I invited her to come over for dinner, but she said she’d be busy.” Robin shook her head, “That girl… I know she doesn’t have a kitchen, so I worry about her sometimes.”

      Dinner… It was that time already? The time must have escaped him. He stood to his feet, giving his back a stretch. It gave out a pop, and he winced. Perhaps a walk to the farm would do him some good. Besides, he couldn’t say no to his mother. “Sure thing.” He responded. He met his mom at the door, taking the container in his hands. It was still warm. She smiled warmly and gave him a "thanks," before pressing a kiss to his cheek.

      Once out of the house, Sebastian looked to the horizon. The sun was setting, and the sky was the perfect blend of pinks, blues, and orange. The view was making him crave a smoke, but he bit it down. He took in the fresh air and made his way along the trail that lead to the farm. The summer heat didn’t feel so bad now that the sun was setting. He wasn’t a big fan of summer, truth be told. It was hot, the air was heavy, and the sun was too bright. He also felt like it brought most people out of their houses. The valley felt the busiest during the summer.

      Sebastian was brought out of his musing by the sound of a dog barking. Snapping back to the present, he realized he had made his way to the end of the trail and was standing at the entrance of the farm. The source of the barking sat at his feet.

      “Oh… hey.” He greeted the dog awkwardly. It simply wagged its tail in response. Sebastian knelt down to scratch the pooch behind the ear. He heard the ground crunch before him, the telltale sign someone was approaching. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

      “Honey, what are you barking a—” Luna paused when she saw the sight. “Oh… Hello Sebastian.” She tucked her hands into her pockets and made her way over to him. Honey. So that was the dog’s name.

      “You have a terrible guard dog.” The words left his mouth before he could catch them.

      Luna only laughed in response, making Sebastian feel relieved.

      “Yeah, she is.” She shook her head in amusement, “I don’t think she has a ferocious bone in her body.”

      The two were silent for a moment before Sebastian cleared his throat. He stood to his feet and handed her the Tupperware of food.

       “Mom wanted me to give this to you.” He said simply.

       She eyed it curiously, before taking it in her hands. Her expression was unreadable. “Your mother didn’t have to.” She finally whispered.

       Sebastian merely shrugged, “That’s just how she is.” His mother was always like a mother hen to any of the younger residents. Well, mostly Sam and Abigail. Probably because they were all close in age with him and his sister. On top of that, they all grew up in the valley together. She was like everyone’s second mom.

        “Well,” Luna finally spoke, “Tell her I said I appreciate it!”

        Her eyes were full of so much gratitude they were practically sparkling. He had to look away. They were too intense. His eyes caught a few bee houses by a broken-down greenhouse. It looked like only one had been built. The others looked to be works in progress.

        “Getting into beekeeping?” He asked. More like blurted. He had meant to go home as soon as possible, but for some reason, his mouth was on autopilot.

        Luna’s gaze followed his, and she gave an embarrassed smile, as though she wasn’t planning on showing anyone her project just yet. “You could… say that.” She walked over to the bee houses, and for some reason, he followed. Perhaps it was only out of curiosity.

        Upon closer inspection, he noticed that she had also planted a few seeds.

        “I’m making a flower garden.” She said with a smile.

        True to her word, he did notice a lot of flower seed packets. The one he saw the most of were sunflower seeds.

         “You have a lot of sunflowers.” He mused. He’d only meant to say it to himself, but he caught her attention anyway.

         “Yeah.” Luna let out a light laugh, “It’s my favorite flower.”

         Sunflowers huh? Those did seem to fit Luna, now that he thought about it. He recalled her wearing a yellow sundress to the Flower Dance and remembered how much it complimented her. Now that he knew her a little better, he noticed she had a warm and inviting personality.

         “I’m going to place the bee boxes all around the flowers.” Luna continued, “I read that nectar collected from different flowers made different flavors of honey.” She licked her lips, perhaps caught up in a dream about the taste. He’d never been a fan of honey; or sweets in general for that matter. But for some reason, he didn’t have the heart to tell her that.

         “Sounds ambitious.” He said, impressed. He meant it. To think, just a few months ago he was so sure this city girl—who he hadn’t even met—would up and leave once she discovered farming life was too hard. Instead, she’s only a few days into summer, and she’s building bee houses from scratch.

         “It’s nothing, really.” She fidgeted with the tip of her curly lock, looking away at the complement. “But thank you.”

         He simply shrugged, his way of saying you’re welcome. She seemed to get flustered easily, he noticed. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a little comforting. To have someone who could get just as flustered as him. It was refreshing. 

         He let out a yawn before he could catch it. He hadn’t really gotten much sleep all week, and it was starting to show. Looking up, he could see the sun a lot less now. It was getting late, and his dinner was probably growing cold. He sighed, “I should probably get going.”

         “Tell your mom I said thanks for the meal.” Luna waved with a smile.

         He only took a few steps when he noticed Luna’s dog was following him. He leaned down and gave her a nice scratch behind the ear, “I’ll see you later too.”

         Luna smiled, giving her dog a gentle pat, “Sebastian’s gotta go, okay?” She said soothingly. Honey whined about that, but she managed to stay put. Sebastian gave another wave, making his way up the trail. He gave out a tired sigh and made a mental plan to sleep for the rest of the week.

[violetlunette]

Hey! It’s been awhile since I’ve written anything story wise, so I wrote a practice piece for a villain Mic thing I may or my not be working on. Also, this is just practice to get me in the game again and get  a feel for how I want to write this, so don’t take anything seriously. Feedback would be appreciated though. Also, no beta. I die like dumbass hero

WARNING! Rated M for cursing and um, “crude” context. Mostly language. (I’ve seen worse here, but still)

“I AM HERE!”

Mad Mic jumped back as the #1 hero landed with his triumphed laugh. His eyes widen to the size of saucers as his heart packed it’s shit, jumped out of his chest and ran to catch a ship to Bermuda.

It was the #1 pro hero of all time! The man who was the hope for the people, the admiration and envy of heroes—vigilante and pro alike—and the nightmare of villains everywhere. And he was here. Ten feet, maybe less, from Mic.

Not good. Not good at all. He was fucked. Oh, he was so fucked. He was fucked harder than he would if someone attached a dildo to a jack hammer and used it on his ass without prep or lube. Shit, he was so screwed.

All Might looked over at Mad Mic with his ever present grin that brought hope to the meek and terror to his enemies.

A tsunami of panic, terror, and fear filled the voice villain. His heart banged against his rib cage in a desperate, feeble attempt to get to safety before it was ripped out by those thick, muscular hands that were strong enough to bring down a building with one hit.

“Show’s over Voice Villain--”

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shitty, shitty, shit, maximus, shittious, shit--

“SHIIIIIT!!!”

Mic didn’t think about his actions. He couldn’t, so his body decided that it had to take it’s own actions if it wanted to remain alive, in one piece, and not smashed into the concrete. First it focused Mic’s Quirk at full volume on one single scream.

This scream was powered enough that it sent a surprised and unprepared All Might flying back, along with surrounding mail boxes, trees, several cars, bicycles, a good portion of the side walk, the road, and a dog named Fluffy.

“What the--?!” All Might was already in the air when the first letter left his lips.

The buildings in the direction Mic was facing shattered like fragile china glass the very moment the sound wave hit them. Surrounding buildings within a fair distance had their windows brake and their foundations cracked.

Around the villain people dropped to their knees, crying out in pain. Honestly the only reason their heads hadn’t exploded was because of the directional speaker around his neck, but even that was starting to short out due to the force of Mic’s voice. Mostly though it was due to a hidden narrative force that for some humanitarian reason kept them alive.

Mic had no time to process the damage or what he had done, for as soon as All Might was pushed back Mic’s body gave all control to his legs which ran like the devil had released it’s hell hounds to hunt him down and tear him to pieces.

Mic didn’t slow, even when he stumbled he managed to keep his pace.

The directional speaker’s short circuits shocked his neck which made it hard to breathe through an already sore throat.

“Dammit!!”

Not willing to deal with it at that moment he just tore the damn thing off and tossed it to the side. He didn’t see where it landed, but he didn’t care. He just needed to get away. Right now that was all that mattered.

However it was only so long that his legs could carry him before finally exhaustion made his limbs give out.

Mic fell forward, catching himself on his knees before he lurched forward panting, almost ready to heave his breakfast and lunch.

‘What the hell?’

Did all that just happen? Did he really just meet All Might? Okay, no he didn’t; he was there for like, what, two seconds (?) before Mic panicked and screamed like a little girl before running with his tail between his legs—thought of a clever tactic and roared like a powerful lion then used the opportunity to make a grand escape.

Seriously, what the hell was he of all people doing there? Was he just walking by, saw Mic and decided to say hi? Whatever the reason, Mic had gotten away and was--

“Sir?”

Mic screamed as a hand touched his shoulder. However his throat was shot, so all that came was a wispy cry.

‘Shit!’ Did All Might follow him?! No, that wasn’t his hand; too small. That was good. It belonged to another hero. That was bad.

‘Fuck!’ No he could still get out of this! He just had to—hell, he just—dammit, thinking of a plan would be easier if his brain would just cooperate!

“Hey, are you okay?”

Mic blinked his bright ruby eyes.

‘HUH?’

Wait, what was going on here? Why wasn’t this guy tying him up like a hog at a rodeo while spouting the usual hero speech and calling the police??

The hero frowned in concern.

“Sir? Do you need an ambulance?”

“I--”

Then he realized. The hero didn’t recognize him! But how could he not when—his hand brushed over his blond hair.

‘OH!’

Mic’s hair had fallen from it’s cool do and to his shoulders in frizzled, messy locks. On top of that he had also lost his glasses, which explained why the hero was blurry. He still had the leather jacket and costume, but the hero didn’t seem to notice.

“I—no. Nope. I’m… I’m fine? I’m fine.” he said through heavy breaths. “J-just a big villain attack up there and I wanted to get away, yeah?”

The hero bought his lie like a shopper too tired to compare prices.

He gave a sharp nod.

“Take it easy and try to get to safety.” he said. He seemed to be fairly distracted. Probably wanted to get some where else right away.

“R-right. I will.” It was hard to talk as his throat was very sore. He never realized that there was a limit to his quirk, but it looks like he found it.

The hero took no note of it though and ran off without giving Mic a second look.

Once he was gone, Mic leaned his full weight against the building behind him. He got away. He actually managed to escape All Might, several heroes, and even more police men. Sure he was bruised and a lot of bones and muscles were going to be hurting worse than hell in an hour, maybe less, but he still got away alive. He couldn’t believe it. It was so lucky he expected the universe to hit him with a meteor just to even things out.

When that didn’t happen however Mic forced himself to stand, not wanting to push things by being out in the open too long. His legs objected, feeling that they did their part, but he forced them to comply. He then tied his jacket around his waist and untucked his shirt to hide his belt. That one hero may have been too distracted to notice him, but there was no guarantee that he’d be as fortunate with others he might run into. People might notice the bruises, but most would just ignore him and he could lie to anyone who asked. Living in a world with constant villain attacks did have an advantage or two.

Still, without his shades or glasses it was going to be a hell of a trip home. His vision wasn’t super bad, but it was bad enough where he’d have to be careful where he stepped.

‘Let’s just try not to get caught now...’

“Mic!”

“!!”

[krispydefendorpolice]

Demon’s Bride Drabble

The Miraculous Awakens - Part 2

Okay the next part of my prequel to the Demon’s Bride main story. This takes place during Origins part 1 as you’ll see. I have to change it a bit because of Marinette’s changed history so it was kind of fun for me to reimagine how that day would have gone for Marinette.

Previous Next Drabble Masterpost

——————————

Marinette breathed as she followed the steps of the form she was practicing in smooth movements. She and her mother were in sync with each step mirroring the others until they came to a stop.

“Good practice Marinette. Go get ready for school while I put breakfast together for you.”

“Yes Maman,” Marinette climbed the stairs to their second story apartment to get ready for the first day of school. Despite being across the street from her new school her morning routine took her enough time that she was easily able to keep up her image of being an absentminded clutz. An image she had carefully cultivated since her family moved to Paris.

“Here’s some macarons for your class,” her Papa said handing her a pastry box as she entered the bakery.

“And your breakfast,” Sabine handed her a croissant with turkey and cheese for her to eat on her run to school.

“Thank you Maman, Papa,” she kissed each of their cheeks and made her way to the school.

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

Entering the classroom she saw that a majority of the students were classmates from previous years. Alix, Kim, Nino, Chloé and Sabrina were in the same class with her last year and Max, Nathaniel and Juleka had been with her the year before. Ivan, Mylène, and Rose were friends with some of the others and had often hung out together during group activities in the past.

There was one new girl sitting in the front row by herself while many of the others were talking in pairs around the classroom.

Marinette waved to Juleka as she walked over to the new girl and sat next to her. “Hi, I’m Marinette,” she introduced herself and offered her a macaron.

The new girl accepted, “I’m Alya.”

“Do you like superhero’s,” Marinette asked with a nod to the magazine the girl had on her desk.

“Yeah but I’m really interested in this journalist. Lois Lane, have you heard of her?”

“Well she’s simply amazing,” Alya continued when Marinette shook her head, “she was one of the first to interview the heroes in America. She’s done articles on Batman and Wonderwoman, she’s interviewed Superman on live TV. She’s my hero and I want to be a journalist just like her.”

Marinette smiled happily, “that sounds amazing. I’m sure you can do it.”

Alya returned the smile before the teacher called their attention back to the start of class.

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

After the morning was finished Ms Bustier dismissed the students with a reminder that those with PE would be meeting their teacher at the stadium while the rest would have a study period at the library.

Packing up her school items with the rest of the class Marinette noticed Chloé slumped at her desk and looking very disappointed.

“Are you alright Chloé?” Marinette asked stopping next to her desk.

During her first school year in Paris Chloé had been a particular kind of mean when dealing with Marinette. Marinette had ignored the behavior for a few months before she set the girl down and let her know that kind of behavior wasn’t going to fly with her.

Chloé still had a tendency to put on the entitled airs she had grown up using and her parents had modeled for her but it mostly occurred when she was feeling particularly vulnerable. Unfortunately most of the rest of the class was still too scared of her barbed tongue to see the hurt girl underneath and she was to scared to show them that side of her. It had the affect of isolating the girl even in the classroom.

“I’m just fine Dupain-Cheng. Everything’s perfect,” Chloé sat up and stated with a forced air of unconcern.

“Ok,” Marinette agreed, knowing better than to push in front of the class, “if you need to stop by the bakery later I’ll let my parents know.”

Chloé nodded but didn’t say anything else as she grabbed her designer bag and left the classroom.

“KIM!!”

Marinette turned to see Kim and Ivan in a conflict in the back of the class.

“IVan,” Ms Bustier called for his attention, “there’s no yelling in the classroom.”

“But Kim..” he started to say.

“Ivan go to the principal’s office.”

The boy grabbed his bag and stomped out of the classroom.

Marinette followed the students still in the classroom as they headed to their next class or the libraries.

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

Halfway through her study period Marinette was distracted. A low rumble and subtle vibration ran underfoot. Other students began to look around as it got louder and stronger. A loud crack drew attention out of the classroom.

Alya who was sitting next to Marinette the table was one of the first to run out of the library to find the source of the noise. Marinette followed behind her. They were stopped by students gathered on the second floor staring out the windows as a giant rock monster stomped away from the school.

One of the teachers from the nearby classrooms came out. “Everyone needs to go home. Get somewhere safe. Those that live in the direction the monster left you’ll gather in the auditorium. We’ll call your parents to let them know you’re safe.”

“Please go to your designated location...” she continued as Marinette turned to an excited Alya.

“I gotta check this out. If there’s a villain there’s bound to be a hero.”

Before Marinette could respond she was running off to chase a monster. Marinette shook her head and headed out of the school and towards her home.

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

Across the city an elderly Chinese man watched on the news as a stone monster marched across cars and bridges in his way.

“Master?”

“Yes Wayzz,” Master Fu responded.

“I felt Nooroo’s power. He’s active again.”

“Yes Wayzz, I can see that,” he gestured to the TV.

“What will we do Master?”

“Ah, Wayzz, I am much too old to be fighting champions of the butterfly. We will need to activate more Miraculi.”

“But Master, Nooroo is one of the five and we are missing the second. We only have myself and two others still able to call upon for help.”

“No Wayzz. Even if we were fortunate enough that you, Pollen and Trixx could rescue Nooroo it would not undo the damage that has been done. We would not be able to safely stay in Paris now that they have revealed themselves to the world.”

“Then who Master?”

The elderly man pushed to his feet and walked to a table in the room. Upon it sat on older gramafone. On the side was a latch that he opened to reveal buttons. Pushing them he answered, “We’ll need to call upon Tikki and Plagg themselves. If they have able holders nearby they should be able to save Nooroo and protect Paris.”

“But Master.”

“We have to trust in them,” he said as a red and black light hovered over the player. A small red creature that had antenna hovered next to a small black creature with cat like ears on top of its head.

“Guardian,” the small ladybug Kwamii said in her sweet voice, “what’s happening?”

“Is that Nooroo’s power?” The small cat Kwamii flew past the guardian and over to the windows facing the direction the champion had gone. The other two Kwamii followed him and stopped at the window.

“We think so, but it seems he has been corrupted,” Fu explained as he followed them. “We need you to find holders that can fight and rescue Nooroo.”

Tikki and Plagg nodded at each other before they closed their eyes and tried to sense the possible matches they had in this strange city.

Tikki was the first to gasp, her eyes flying open as she brightly smiled. There in her sense of magic were two bright balls of fire. Core’s of creation magic.

“My blood is here!!” She exclaimed in joy. “I have children of my magic here in the city.”

Plagg shook his head, “I sense children of my blood are living but there’s no one in this city that is a good fit for my miraculous.”

“That is troubling,” Fu said. “We need the both of you active at the same time, but if your holders are not a match for you or each other it would cause problems for them.”

“That’s true. I do sense someone who would be a best temporary fit out there that can help us take care of the champion for today. As long as I’m not bonding with them for a long time we should be okay. It takes years for a Miraculous to corrupt an ill suited core.”

“Do you think it wise Plagg?” Tikki asked.

“We have to save Nooroo now that we have a chance Sugarcube,” Plagg said. “He’s been lost for too long and we need to bring him home.”

“Okay,” Tikki agreed, “you’ll go to the holder and I’ll find my wielder. With the damage being done out there we’ll need all the magic we can get to restore the city.”

“Agreed.”

“We’ll keep the other Miraculi in the city secret until the champion has been purged and Nooroo rescued,” Fu said to them.

Tikki and Plagg nodded before grabbing their Miraculous gems and flying out the window towards the future heroes.

——————————

This looks like it might end up being between three and four parts. Not entirely sure as I try to look for natural chapter breaks around 1500 words. Except for a few Drabbles and the Miraculous Future chapter 1 (which was like 3000 words) most of my chapters are between 15-17 hundred words. Funnn~~~~

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[fleckcmscott]

Watch What Happens - Chapter 2

Summary: Arthur, an aspiring comedian, has struggled to find normalcy and compassion his entire life. Y/N, a hard-working paralegal and transplant to Gotham, has just been put on a case for the Wayne Foundation. When they meet, unexpected sparks fly.

Chapter warning: None

Words: 2,027

“Shit,” Y/N said. Her furious typing came to a standstill. “Patricia, do you have the wite-out?”

Patricia arched her brow at her from behind her own typewriter. “Did you hit the ‘v’ instead of the ‘w’ again?”

Y/N caught the tiny bottle her colleague tossed her. “Why can’t this guy have an easier last name? At least one that’s phonetic?” The feed roller clicked as she turned the typewriter’s carriage knob. Carefully, she extricated the paper without damaging it. “I can’t start anything with ‘Kowlinska,’” she said, carefully fixing her typo with the white liquid.

“I think it starts with a ‘K’,” Patricia retorted.

“Ha-ha,” Y/N deadpanned.

God, she needed break. She’d been working non-stop for three hours. Stretching, she stood and walked across the medium-sized room to look out the window. The streets were full. With a population of ten million, there was always plenty of hustle and bustle. The vendor on the corner was offering pretzels to anyone who came near him.  A little girl ran down the sidewalk excitedly, screeching and dodging trash bags all the way. Y/N smiled, thankful she was now in Gotham. The grime of the city, the variety of people - she wouldn’t trade it for anything. It was miles away from the small town she had wasted almost forty years in.

The sun was already on the horizon, ending the day too early for her taste. She still had a lot of work to do. A status conference on a jeopardy order for three children was tomorrow morning - that file needed to be prepared. The motion she kept mistyping needed to be completed. The shredding needed to be done. She enjoyed being busy, but this week had been more demanding than most. It would be another long night.

“Y/N? I’m getting some coffee. Want some?” Patricia asked.

Y/N turned to her and smirked. “If I drink it now, I’ll never get to sleep tonight, and then you’ll have to deal with me in the morning.” She shook her head and made her way back to her desk. “No thanks. I like you too much for that.”

“Sweet talker!” Patricia called as she walked off.

Y/N leaned back in her cloth chair, eyes roving over the woodwork of the ceiling. When she’d first started at Shaw & Associates, she’d found the intricate office decor intimidating. Fortunately, she’d grown up comfortably, and had been so most of her adult life. But she hadn’t been exposed to such opulence. Now, after a little over a year, she’d gotten used to it. And she was proud to be part of one of Gotham’s most prominent law firms.

Matt Stone, the attorney she worked with most closely, stuck his head out of his office. He was frazzled. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

She swiveled to face him fully and crossed her arms. “Do you have another present for me?”

“I do.” He approached and handed her an expanded pendaflex. It took both hands for her to hold it. “The Wayne Foundation case-”

Y/N’s eyes darted to his, corners of her lips turning up. “You’re letting me work on a Wayne case?”

“Which one?” Patricia interjected as she returned. She blew on the hot coffee she held.

“The case about the abandoned tenements in the borrows? The ones the Wayne Foundation wants to claim?” Matt nodded at the file, hands in his pockets. “The defendant filed a motion to stop it. Again.”

Y/N’s face scrunched up as she opened the file. “That’s odd.” Her fingers leafed through the stack of papers. “Didn’t you say before that they’re falling down? You’d think they’d want to be rid of them before someone gets hurt.”

“Maybe they want to keep the land as investment property. Then try to sell it off later.” He shrugged at her. “Look it over tomorrow. We’ll talk about it in detail next week.” At that, he spun to go back to his office.

Groaning, Y/N wheeled over to watch him as he took a seat behind his large, wooden desk. “That’ll be the third late night this week,” she said.

Matt waved her concern off. “Do you have something better to do?”

She rolled her eyes and scooted back to her work area. “Not being in the office is good enough.” While she didn’t have any plans, she didn’t want him to think she was endlessly available.

He offered an olive branch. “Well, I’ll owe you one.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Y/N said over her shoulder. “I’ll remind you at Christmas.” She caught Patricia’s eye, then. “I can’t decide if he likes me or hates me.”

Patricia chuckled. “Both. Definitely. Give me the Kowlinska paperwork. Unlike you, I know how to type.”

Y/N snickered as she passed it to her. “Thanks. I’ll finish tomorrow’s conference file.”

~~~~~

It was past seven she left the office. Though Matt had told her to start working on the Wayne file tomorrow, she’d wanted to take a crack at it. Given the size of it, she thought she might sneak it home to peruse over the weekend.

She was happy to be entrusted with a case from the firm’s most prestigious client. And after working there for a relatively short time. It’s not that she was a fan of the Wayne family - they just happened to be wealthy. But it would be nice to work on cases besides the pro-bono family and child protection matters. She was good at those and was able to process them quickly, but reading reports of domestic abuse was wearing. This change would be good.

The small grocery store was fairly deserted when she entered it. She was relieved, not wanting to take too long. A bottle of wine, a bag of chips, and a frozen dinner for tomorrow would do. As she picked up each item, weaving through the disparate aisles, she smirked at herself. Was it pathetic that she was pleased with her basket of alcohol and garbage? Maybe. But she was fine with that.

Y/N sauntered down the frozen food section, scanning the bright TV dinner boxes. The regulars, macaroni and cheese, Salisbury steak, lasagna, were ones she’d already tried. She stopped when a new one caught her eye: Polynesian Style Dinner. Nothing like fried meat chunks in an unnaturally orange sauce. She’d try that one and pretend she was adventurous.

The only thing preventing her from grabbing it and heading to the check-out was the man standing in front of the freezer door.

She watched him. He hadn’t seemed to notice her approach or sense she was a couple feet behind him. She took the opportunity to inspect him. Well worn brown shoes, dark blue slacks a tad loose on him. The basket in his hand had marked-down pens, bread, and a bottle of seltzer. Continuing upward, she could see his tan jacket was well-loved, soft and clean. His longish, slightly dark brown hair had a slight curl to it, and it looked freshly shampooed. Even though she was in heels, he was a couple of inches taller than her.

After waiting to see if the man would realize she was there, she gently cleared her throat. “It’s hard to decide when there are so many choices, isn’t it?”

He slowly moved to look at her. She thought he hadn’t heard her clearly at first, but the corner of his mouth lifted.

She spoke again, starting to grin. “I think I’ve had every one of these. Want me to warn you off a few?”

A soft huff escaped him. She noticed his free hand join his other on the basket handle, squeezing tight. “No. I get these all the time,” he said quietly.

Y/N gave a short nod, then pointed at the door of the freezer. “Would you mind if I grabbed one?”

It took only a moment for him to open the door and hold it for her. He leaned against it lightly, some panache in his movement. The slight smile hadn’t left his face.

She let out a faint laugh and stepped forward to reach past him, and grab the dinner. “Thanks,” she said as she turned to look up at him.

His wide cheekbones and sharp jawline gave her pause. He looked a bit weary, maybe a couple years older than her. The clear, light green of his deep set eyes surprised her, a contrast from his dark, prominent brow. Those eyes were narrowing as she continued to stare at him.

“Sorry,” she said, blushing and averting her gaze. He’d caught her checking him out, and she felt bad for obviously making him feel self-conscious. “I didn’t mean to gawk at you. It’s been a long day and I’m a little dazed.”

He reached into the freezer and grabbed the same frozen meal. “It’s fine.” She thought she heard him chuckle.

She started towards the check-out, looking back over her shoulder. The man was headed the same way, but kept a respectable distance. As she placed her few items on the belt, she noticed him get in line behind her. He held his hands in front of him, head bent downward as he waited. Y/N paid quickly, giving him a small wave as she walked off. “Night.”

“Good night,” he answered.

Once Y/N was back home, she breathed a sigh of relief. Her answering machine was blinking. She played the messages and took her shoes off. They were mostly mundane: confirmation of a dentist appointment, her sister just calling to say hello and catch up. She was in the middle of opening the wine when the last message played.

“Y/N, this is Matt from the office.” He must be working at home, she thought. “Sorry I didn’t catch you before you left. You’ll need to come to the hearing with me tomorrow. I’m this is last minute, but you know the file well and it’ll make the process easier. Sorry to cancel casual Friday.”

She finished opening the wine and poured herself a double. “Now you owe me two favors,” she said to herself. Taking a long drink, she walked to the television, turned it on, and planted herself on the sofa.

The news was on. “Thomas Wayne has formed an exploratory committee to to test the waters for a potential run for mayor,” the reported intoned. “We caught up with Mr. Wayne outside of town hall.”

The picture cut to Thomas Wayne: well-dressed as always, slicked back hair. His wife and son were with him. “I’m the only one who can help Gotham. That’s why I’m considering a run for office.” He brought his hands up to his chest, gesturing for emphasis. “To help the people of this city. To give back some of the blessings I’ve been given.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. Even though she was only now starting to work on a Wayne file, she’d heard some of the legal maneuvers the foundation had taken. Yes, there were good intentions behind nearly all of them. But only a small fraction of those plans seemed to come to fruition. With that knowledge, she thought it was arrogant for him to assume he was Gotham’s white knight.

Deciding it was too late to think about politics, she let her mind drift to the guy at the store. She hadn’t expected him to be so handsome. He’d barely talked with her, as though he didn’t realize how good looking he was. And the way he opened the door with some flourish…  For someone who came across as rather awkward, he certainly appeared to have some grace. The juxtaposition was charming.

Taking another sip of wine, she chastised herself. He’d probably thought she was a desperate creep, staring at him the way she did. She was neither. She wasn’t even looking. But it had been a long time since she’d seen someone who’d piqued her interest at all.

The news broadcast ended and she flipped to Tonight with David Endochrine. Finally, brainless entertainment. She grabbed the folded blanket from the back of the sofa and snuggled down into the couch. She finished the wine and was soon snoozing, still dressed for work.

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​ @clowndaddyfleck

[swan--writes]

Don’t Leave Me

(I was listening to Easy to Leave by Mary Lambert while I wrote this.)

Damn, this was a hard one. Anyway, remember that woodworking reader who likes knives and goes to mortuary school from this fic? I’m making her an OC. The two stories aren’t really connected though, you don’t have to read Jealousy to understand this story.

Warnings: cursing, suicide mention, mentions of abuse

When Cerys Dormouth was sixteen years, six months, and four days old, she used spirit work for the first time. It was uneventful, just a Ouija board quasi-experiment that no-one in the Netherworld bothered to respond to. It was, however, an important, formative experience for her. Humans are funny that way. Still, it wasn’t until she was twenty-one that she begun doing her research, and she was twenty-three before she summoned her first spirit.

At the time, she couldn’t see the spirit, but she felt someone in the room with her. She would later find out she was something of a target in the Netherworld for a few months after that. Cerys was an easy mark for any ghost who needed a quick body snatch. In retrospect, she should have been much more careful with her wards and her words. By the time she was twenty-five, she had finally learned to avoid being possessed. She learned her way around banishing spells, and she kept at least one on standby every time she did spirit work. She researched which substances would react most effectively with every spirit she summoned, communicated with, and would eventually need to send away. This was fortunate because at twenty-five, Cerys set her sights on something much more powerful than a simple ghost.

When Cerys Dormouth was twenty-five years, eleven months, and six days old, she summoned the demon Beetlejuice. He was a little dirtier than she had imagined, but he would do.

Cerys needed a demon so she could gain practical insight into her assignments for mortuary school. She needed to have a power kick around to help with her witchy endeavors. Mostly though, Cerys needed someone – literally anyone – to make her side of the duplex feel like more than half a home. So, she let Beetlejuice stick around after the ritual.

Quickly, Cerys came to have fairly low expectations for Beetlejuice. Sometimes she would come home to find her apartment a mess. It would look like she had been robbed, though she knew that was impossible. Her resident demon would never allow that. Sometimes she would come home to find the place spotless. She just rolled with it. Once, she found Beetlejuice squirming around her floor as an oversized snail. He later told her that he enjoyed the security of his shell. As a result, she gave him virtual free range of her apartment. If she hadn’t, she knew that not only would he ignore her restrictions, but he would deliberately get all up in shit that he had no business getting up in, just to make a point.

So when Cerys first heard the rustling in her apartment almost two months after first summoning Beetlejuice, she didn’t think much of it. She didn’t know or particularly care what Beetlejuice did when she was sleeping, as long as he didn’t directly disturb her. Hesitantly, she stuck an arm out from her blanket cocoon and lifted her phone from her bedside table. 2:12 AM. No way in hell was she getting out of bed for Beetlejuice’s antics.

There was no way anyone could have broken into her apartment, or that anyone who managed to break in could do any real damage. And if Beetlejuice was making all the noise, she probably didn’t want to know what he was doing.

After just a few moments, the rustling subsided. Cerys closed her eyes and let out a soft sigh.

Not two minutes later, the rustling was back. This time, she was out of bed in an instant, shoving on her glasses and hastily pulling her thin black robe on over her pajamas as she padded out of her room on bare feet. It wasn’t because she felt a need to tell off the demon, or because she was actually concerned about an intruder. The concern that Cerys felt sloshing around in her stomach acid was for the low sound she had heard before the rustling. It was the rolling of a desk drawer.

The only place she didn’t allow Beetlejuice to access was the bottom drawer of her desk. Cerys had never told him that he wasn’t allowed to open it, she had merely used her woodworking skills to seal it shut during one of his trips to the Netherworld. The last time he went through her desk, she had ever-so casually strolled past her office door to see if he could open it. Beetlejuice seemed to have accepted that, for whatever odd Swedish reason, the bottom drawer was not meant to open and moved on. It had never come up between them – she couldn’t think of any reason it would – she never asked him about it, and any anxiety she had concerning it had evaporated over time.

Now that anxiety was creeping back into Cerys’s mind. She heard a crash and jumped, halting for a moment. As much as she hoped Beetlejuice had simply transformed himself into another large gastropod and she could go back to bed confused but otherwise unbothered, she knew tonight was unlikely to be that easy.

When she finally make it to her office, she stilled again and stared. The second drawer up in her desk had been pulled out completely, exposing the contents of the bottom drawer. It looked like the crash had been Beetlejuice losing his patience with reaching through the opening, opting instead to yank the bottom drawer out of place. He had separated the door from the rest of the drawer box on one side. Some of the drawer’s contents lay on the floor, others had been placed atop the desk.

The drawer’s contents had been scattered all over the office. There were keys attached to ribbons, feathers, a messy black journal, a scratched zippo lighter, baggies of pressed flowers, and several daggers. She hadn’t used any of these supplies in nearly two months. Cerys was reasonably certain that the lighter was dead. She considered snagging it and throwing it into the trash outside, just in case.

“What are you doing in here?” she asked, intentionally preserving the tired rasp in her voice. The more casual she came across, the better.

But Beetlejuice didn’t answer her. He was searching through a pile on the floor, clearly looking for something and becoming more and more frustrated that he couldn’t find it. His movements were rushed and jerky, and he didn’t seem to care about the mess he was creating. His left hand was closed around something, though Cerys couldn’t tell what it was. What she took the most notice of was his hair.

It had taken Cerys all of two days to learn that Beetlejuice’s hair was practically a mood ring. Most often, when she was around, it was the same shade of healthy green. Now it was extremely dark, different colors flashing in different parts of it. Red, yellow, purple, blue, purple again–or was that red? All against a layer of deep black.

She frowned and rubbed at the back of her head, tan fingers slipping through her short dark hair . When she took a step further into the office, she felt the cuff of her purple pajama pants dragging the faux-wood laminate floor. Beetlejuice didn’t even look at her. She tilted her head. “Beej, what’s–”

“You were gonna send me away.” His voice was bordering on manic.

“What?”

“You know goddamn well what I mean!” he growled.

She flinched. “What did you find?” Cerys asked carefully. Her stomach was beginning to twist itself into slow, deliberate knots. In a rush of stripes and lichen and righteous anger, Beetlejuice marched up to her and shoved his left hand into her face. In it sat a small curled strip of paper. Hesitantly, watching him, Cerys took the paper from him. It felt weathered between her fingers and her heart fell into her stomach with a splash when she realized what it was.

Her nervousness must have shown on her face, and Beetlejuice seemed to take it as an admission of some sort. Slowly, very slowly, the red in his hair was winning out. Every other color ceded and from his roots, an intense crimson begun to spread.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady.

“Oh, it’s not a banishing spell? Of course. I’m sure you were gonna use it to summon a fairy, right? What do I have to worry about? Your precious little pet demon.”

The mocking in his voice stung. “No, I mean I wasn’t going to use–”

“Don’t lie to me!” Immediately, Cerys went silent. “Where is it?”

She knew better than to ask what he meant. Beetlejuice had only found one part of two components. Cerys swallowed and stepped around the demon. She bent down at the edge of the heap of materials he had scattered on the floor and lifted a small glass vial.

The vial was cone-shaped and about as long as one of Cerys’s fingers. It was almost empty, but for about a quarter teaspoon of course black salt and a small moldavite stone. The vial was corked, and there was black wax holding the cork tightly in place. The scroll in her hand had once been bound to it by twine. It must have fallen off.

Beetlejuice was advancing on her now, forcing her to move backwards. “Haven’t I done everything you asked? I came when you called, I scared off your shitty neighbors, I tear myself apart every goddamn day for your stupid projects! I’ve done everything for you! You’re not gonna send me away!”

Cerys’s back hit the wall and she stared at the demon’s flashing eyes. “Of course I won’t–”

“Stop fucking lying to me!”

“I’m not–”

“This thing could exorcise me!”

“Why do you think I locked it away?!”

Beetlejuice froze.

For all his menace, he seemed entirely unprepared for Cerys to yell at him. They had fought before, tensions had risen, they had both raised their voices. But never had Cerys shouted back at him, and certainly never with tears stinging in her eyes. Not once in nearly two months had Beetlejuice seen her cry. He almost looked taken aback.

“You’re the first demon I ever tried to summon, it would’ve been stupid to not have an exorcism!”

“And what, you didn’t think to mention it?”

“I knew this would happen if I did.” Cerys gestured violently between them. Beetlejuice took a step back. “I knew that if you knew I had it, you’d think I would use it.”

“Well, aren’t you going to?”

“No! But what if you leave and I have to summon someone else?” Beetlejuice scoffed and turned away from her. She stared at him, shaking her head. Impossible, impossible man. There was a long silence before she finally made a decision. Cerys held the vial out to him. “Take it.”

Beetlejuice’s head snapped around and he locked his gaze on her. “…what?”

“Take it. I’m serious, do whatever you want with it.”

“How do you know I won’t use exorcise some other dead guy?”

Cerys shrugged. “You don’t need this to do that.” Beetlejuice didn’t move. “You don’t want me to have it, right?”

The demon’s expression was unreadable, his tone half as harsh as it had been moments before. “Don’t fuck with me, breather.”

“I’m not.”

“Don’t–”

“Take it, Beetlejuice.”

He flinched almost imperceptibly at the sound of the name. That was when she noticed the shakiness of his breathing. The slow fading of the red in his hair as it turned to black. The wet gleam of his golden eyes and how much deeper the bags under them seemed in this moment.

“Beej…” Cerys whispered.

Both their hands were shaking when he reached out. Slowly, carefully, Beetlejuice lifted the vial from Cerys’s fingers. He wrapped his chilled hand around it, clutched it to his chest, and heaved in a breath before either of them realized that he was crying.

For a full minute, Cerys could only watch in shock as he lowered himself to the floor. Beetlejuice did not cry. Demons did not cry. Cerys didn’t know it, but that phrase was playing unbearably loudly in Beetlejuice’s head, in an old, harsh, unforgiving voice.

Demons don’t cry. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be worthless, you’re a demon.

Demons don’t cry.

Cerys pushed out a breath and sank to her knees beside a shaking, sobbing demon. Beetlejuice was curled around his hand, around the exorcism, around his cold self. With as much feeling as she could hold in her body, Cerys wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He gave a startled cry, but relaxed into her almost automatically. She leaned sideways against the desk, curving around where the bottom drawers should have been, and he pillowed his head on her chest.

From this close, Cerys eventually noticed that he was trying to uncork the vial with his thumb.

Her words left her in a rush, in a breath. “Don’t you fucking dare.” He whined when she took the vial from him, slamming it on top of the desk.

“But–”

“You can’t leave, Beej.” She spoke softly, but with a vehement strength. “You can’t leave me. Not like that.” A few hot tears dropped from Cerys’s eyes and onto Beetlejuice’s forehead, and she let go of him for a moment. When he looked at her hands, he saw her tearing the paper he had handed her into two, then four, then eight frayed squares. She tossed them aside harshly.

“C–Cerys…”

She wrapped both of her arms around him now, cradling him against her. One arm returned to its place around his shoulders, the other draped across his front and hanging onto his waist. He clung to her waist. “Don’t go. Please don’t go,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Beetlejuice mumbled. “Demons aren’t supposed to cry, I–I’m sorry.” Cerys took her hand from his waist and ran it through his purple and black hair.

“Cry as much as you need to, just stay.” He leaned up and pressed his face into her neck, letting her silent tears fall into the hair she was still stroking.

“Okay.”

When Cerys Dormouth was twenty-six years, one month, and two days old, she kissed the demon Beetlejuice for the first time. It was wet and brief and a little messy, and more meaningful than any kiss she had ever taken or given before.

Buy Me a Coffee?

[iwants0up]

Wonder

Words: 3.9 k

Genre: Fantasy

Walking through the broken halls and crumbling walls of an old mansion, a young child marveled at the worn stone and splintered wood floors. There was so much beauty to be found to these innocent eyes that only saw what it could have been and dreamed of what happened to make such a place desolate and cold. It seemed, to the youngster, that a monster must have attacked,or an army, or both! Ah, how the soldiers of this fine place must have fought with honor! How steel must have hit steel! So magnificent, the battle was in their small mind, so glorious.

The child kept walking, stepping carefully around rubble and climbing over piles of broken away stone. The ceiling collapsed a long time ago in most places and the sun shone down on them, making them hot and sweaty as they picked their way through. They tripped at one point and righted themselves with a huff, brushing off their now grimy shorts. 

They then noticed something, a door that they previously would not have noticed if they hadn’t come to a stop. It was as grey as the surrounding rock and it looked to be water damaged, likely from the heavy rainstorms that often fell upon this area. They wandered closer, examining it as only a curious child would. Now, to give some insight, this child is no mere child. No small amount of understanding resides in this descendant of some far off mother and father. And this is mostly due to the peculiar nature of said mother and father and their less than normal outlook on the world and the people living within. You see, they are a pair of both genius and curse, and their child is a mixture of the two. A mixture that history and the ages have wished to have back.

A small hand pressed gently but firmly again the haggard wood, pushing oh so slightly as if to test how much pressure it can take. The doorknob was covered in cobwebs and a small spider sat watching the child curiously. Having been born in the magic of this place, the spider, as insignificant as it was, still understood the importance of this moment and watched calmly as a hand clasped the doorknob, never mind the webs or the spider, and twisted.

The door swung open to reveal a cavernous room, empty at first glance until you observe the small stacks of books lining the walls, black with grime and mostly eaten through by termites. The young one entered the room cautiously, taking in the room before exploring. They ran about, dusting off books and opening them, eyes scanning the words scrawled across ruined paper, or the words that weren’t eaten through, before putting the book down and moving onto the next one. 

They made their way around the room, reading and taking in these small fragments of information and story. In all this, the child failed to notice a small wooden box laying near a particularly large stack of books until they came right to it. 

They let out a small gasp of surprise and glee as they leaned down to pick up the box. Small fingers pried the lid of the box and reached inside to pull out an undamaged book. It wasn’t like the others, however, and was much, much smaller. It’s cover was fine leather, dull with the years but just as beautiful with its dark green color and the silver of its title and the decorative patterns bringing life and intrigue to the old object. The title, spelled out in intricate cursive, was ‘Wonder’ and the child breathed the word out loud with reverence. They sat on the floor, setting the box to the side and gently opened the book with barely contained excitement. 

Curse and genius, who would have thought that this would make a child of such curious and wanting temper. Blue eyes widened as they read, chapped lips mouthing the words carefully, imagination running wild within them. They quickly became oblivious to world around them as they read, and didn't stir for some time as the words and their meaning washed over them. It felt like they were brimming, overflowing with the well-crafted story they held in one hand.

It was a tale of a girl, young and magical. A wild child who was eager to learn and had no tolerance for doting behavior. As she grew she learned of the significance of her magic and how to control it. But as time went on, simply controlling it was not enough, she wanted to master it. Or, in the case of her magic which often seemed as if it had a mind of its own, be the master of it. And so she set out from the comfortable home she shared with her aging father and mother, and searched for a being of magic she had heard of in her village, a powerful being, a demigod. She followed the rumors to a house made of stone, so vast and beautiful some even considered it a castle. It was said that the demigod lived in this house, using their magic to fill the land with light and fortune, and rains when needed for the crops. They were praised like a god in the streets, and said to be of such extraordinary beauty that men and women fell in love with them upon first sight. Though the stories varied when it came to the demigod’s gender.

Our main character went to the house, walking up the rolling green hills and the small set of stone steps to the large oaken doors and knocked. The sound was surprisingly loud, and she jumped when she heard it. The response was just as surprising in that it was instant. The doors slammed open and a gorgeous woman in a long gown with raven hair in flowing braids and flowers weaved through it, striking green eyes that were filled with mirth, and skin pale like cream stood majestically, looking down at the girl who had traveled far to her doorstep. “Well, hello!” The demigod had said, smiling sweetly, “What can I do for you?”

And there the story ended; the child’s mouth fell open. “What?!” They cried, hoping this was some kind of joke. They saw that there were more pages, but all were blank. At this moment they looked up and saw a beautiful woman, hair flowing and white, eyes a searching green, skin pale like cream. But she was almost translucent, and the child could just make out some of the stacks of books through her body. But they knew who she was and stood so that they may bow low out of respect. “Demigod,” they whispered.

“Yes, young one, I am the one in that old tale, or what was written of it. But please, do not bow, I am no longer a god that should be revered.” She smiled a sweet smile, “As you can see I’m not all here.”

They straightened up, looking into the eyes described to be so happy and lovely in the book, now sad and yearning. “Why was the story not complete?” They asked softly, looking down at the book that they still held firmly in one hand. “And who wrote it?”

“Alfreda was the author, and it was not complete because she fell ill; she died within two weeks time. There was nothing I could do to save her.”

“Alfreda? You mean the girl who visited you?”

“Yes, sweet one, the girl who visited me, the girl who stole my heart.” Here the demigod paused, head turning up to gaze at the ceiling, which was not caved in like the roof of most other places in the building. “And the girl who broke it.”

“Why did you not finish it then?” The child wondered, looking back down at the book. “You could have told the tale she wished to tell.”

“But I could not have, you see, I am cursed.”

“Cursed?”

“Yes. By the gods I was forbidden to read or write, as punishment for my father’s wicked use of knowledge. But,” she sighed, “what’s done is done. All I could do after she passed was send it to a printer and pay to have him make the finest book out of it. I even asked that he add many blank pages, to signify what was lost. I then placed it in the box where you found it and put it in here... her reading room. It used to have two armchairs, a table and a rug where we would sit and she would read aloud the books she bought when she went into the village and recite poems she memorized over the years. We spent many a night in here... my only regret is that we didn’t spend many more.” 

“What happened... to you, to this place?” 

The demigod shook her head. “I was stripped of those memories long ago. They are locked away.”

“I don’t understand.”

She began to walk a slow circle around the center of the room, eyes still trained upwards. “I removed them, for one reason or another, and placed them in a prison of my own making. Not to be tampered with until...” here she lowered her gaze and looked the child over, “until someone worthy unlocks them.”

Her faded green eyes looked tired and the child felt pity bloom in their chest for the aged demigod. “How will someone be deemed worthy?”

“By how they read the story.” 

“What?” They held up Alfreda’s book. “This one?”

“Yes, that one.” She took a step closer, slender finger pointing to the forest green item.

“How is it supposed to be read?”

“With the ending in mind. That’s what she told me, at least, when she was writing it. I had asked what her purpose was in writing it and how she wanted the buyers of her book to read it. I only meant if she wanted it to be spread in groups,or read as a family, or poured over in solitude but she looked at me, and said with the voice of an angel, ‘I want it to be read as if the ending is clear. I want them to read it, and keep that ending in mind. I want them to live it as I did but one step ahead.’ And I loved her all the more for it.” The demigod did not cry, but her sorrow was clear and the pain was etched into the soft features of her face. “But I did not love her enough...” her voice broke and cracked like glass, “or she would not have been taken from me.”

Silence filled the room, thick as it set over the two of them. “I’m sorry,” the young one whispered, voice quavering.

“Do not be sorry, sweet one. You have given me a great gift; the gift of company.” After a long pause, she sighed and sat on the ground. “Tell me, how did you read it?”

They walked over and sat a foot or two away from the demigod. “I don’t know how to describe it,” they admitted. “But I could see it, every moment in my mind, and I sort of... hoped for the ending that seemed clear. Kinda like you said, or what she said, I felt as if I were living it and as if I knew something that I couldn’t possibly know yet. Like I knew what was going to happen before it did.”

Realization dawned across her pale face. “No... it can’t be you, can it? You are so young but then again I can sense the magic on you, a magic not of personal power but of lineage. The blood in your veins is historic.” Nothing else was said as the demigod pondered, combing through her vast knowledge and thinking on the muddled past of those lands, reaching as far back as she could in order to retreive some small sliver of information that eluded her. She could almost hear it, something Alfreda told her about the past that held no urgency to remember at the time but is now near imperitive to know. Another child at another time, just as quick to venturing as the kid sitting across from her.

The child didn’t mind the demigod’s mental absence as they went into their thoughts as well. Something deep in their mind was calling to them, pulling them back in time to a moment. It was so vague, blurry and nondescript. But there was something there, a particular second, maybe. Or maybe it was the feeling in the moment that was drawing them in. Not an emotion, but a feeling, an instinct. 

When the demigod roused, they were no closer too discovering what it was that was trying to get their attention. They watched curiously as she silently beckoned them to follow her out of the room, obeying with that familiar sense of curiousity getting the better of them.

The rubble moved to the side to get out of the path of the demigod and she led the way through the halls, down several flights of stairs to a circular room with a high ceiling and intricate carvings in the stone floor. “I remembered,” the demigod said as they stood in the center of the room, “why the magic in your veins is so important.” 

She went to the wall where a work bench sat, covered in dust and bottles filled with thick liquids you couldn’t tell the color of through the dust. “It is so important because it isn’t natural.” She picked two out after cleaning out a bowl that had also been sitting there and poured sparing amounts of each into the bowl. “You see, long ago, there were four families, all working together with witches to develop a special spell.” She twirled the bowl to gently combine the two ingredients. “A spell that would create a witch without magical blood running through their parents’ veins.” She seemed satisfyed with the mixture and turned so that she was facing the child. “But not just any witch. It would be a witch so powerful, they would be a unstoppable. Multiple of them, even. And they would all be linked by their magic.”

“And they did it,” her eyes seemed to glaze over as she once again thought back. “The four families split into pairs and those pairs would marry their oldest son and daughter with the spell preformed on them, potentially making a pair so powerful they could burn the whole world with the snap of their fingers. They managed to get the children born as planned, unnatural witches. The first pair’s children grew up with the knowledge that their marriage was guaranteed and also grew to love one another. The second raised them with the same knowledge, and the girl quickly fell in love with the boy, adoring him with all her heart, but the boy did not share her affections. His heart belonged to another and before their wedding, he ran to go be with them. The girl was so full of jealousy and greif that she called upon the magic at her fingertips and placed a curse on the boy and whatever children he may have. No one knows what the curse was, but it was said to be something so terrible the boy must have killed himself just to end his line so that no more will have to suffer. Except he didn’t. He went on to have children just as the girl married another and recieved the blessing of genius from the first pair and had children of her own. The families deemed her half witch child to not be suitable to marry the pure witch child of the other pair and so genuis and curse grew.” Her eyes lost the glazed look within them and they became sharp with self awareness. She locked eyes with the child before her. Her voice took on a note of awe. “They somehow managed to avoid each other for centuries... until your mother and father.”

“So I’m a witch?”

“Yes, the magic is buried deep within you, but yes.”

The child cocked their head to the side as they thought. “But what does this have to do with Alfreda and her book?”

“Alfreda was the descendant of the first pair. She always told me she would publish the book to find the one person who would ‘read it as it should be read’. She said that only a descendant of genuis and curse would be able to do so.”

“Why?”

The demigod sighed, “She never told me.”

“...So what am I supposed to do?”

“Unlock the memory of what happened to my home so that I may finally have peace. You are the only one that can.”

The child nodded solemnly. “What do I need to do?”

The demigod grabbed the bowl and took over to the child, holding it out for them to take. “Drink this. It will help reconnect you with your magic. Once you have your magic, concentrate on the runes on the stone floor, they will guide you in what to do next.”

They drank the mixture, handing the bowl back over to the demigod who nodded and stepped back. It felt like fire at first, then ice. Their whole body tingled with the sensation and they gasped as it almost became all-consuming. They could feel the pull back to that distant feeling once more and let themselves be swept back to that moment, sitting in their father’s lap and staring out the window at a what looked to be a figure standing on the edge of the woods. They felt drawn to the figure and had the urge to just run out to them. The feeling told them the figure was safe, was home. But they didn’t run out and the child watched as the figure walked away, taking with it that feeling of safety. And then they realized, that had been a dream. It hadn’t been real. But now the figure is very much real. The child looked in front of them and saw the figure all over again, but this time its hand was outstretched for the child to take. They took it.

Instantly they felt as if the were being pulled into another land, jerked forth through time and space. They looked about them and saw that they were in the same room but now everything was tinted a royal blue hue. And it looked different, cleaner, newer. No cobwebs in the corners or small piles of rubble. They went back up the stairs and through the hallways, getting lost in the maze that was the mansion. Everything was perfect, clean, beautiful. They heard the sound of a voice and followed it, tracking the noise to a room brightly lit by the sunlight streaming in through the open window.

A woman was laying in the bed at the center of the room, blonde hair spread across the pillow where she lay and blue/green eyes trained on the other occupant of the room, the demigod, who was pacing worriedly. But she was noticible younger, there were only a few grey streaks in her lovely raven hair and her face was full of love and kindness, if a bit pinched with worry. “Brea,” Alfreda sighed lovingly, “please calm down. I hate seeing you so strung up.”

The demigod, Brea, paused, turning to look at Alfreda with an apologetic look in her eyes. She hurried over to the blonde’s side and took one hand into her’s. “I’m sorry, baby, I just feel so useless.”

“I know, but it’s okay.” They held each other’s gaze and didn’t look away, at least not before the child watched the scene fade out and change into something else before their very eyes. Now the window was closed and the curtains were drawn and only a small candle brought light to the room. Alfreda still laid in the bed, but this time Brea was in the bed with her, holding the shaking woman to her chest. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay, my love. It’s just the fever, it will pass. You’re going to be okay.” The raven-haired demigod whispered into the darkness, her voice full of resolution and caring. “You’re going to be okay. I love you.”

The scene faded again and now the blonde was throwing up, her upper body hanging over the side of the bed, Brea holding her hair back as she comforts her. “It’s okay, baby. You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be fine. I’m here, I’m here, it’s okay. You’re going to be fine.” She sounded pleading, scared, but still so resolute. As far as Brea was concerned, Alfreda was going to live. She had too, right?

The scene changed, showcasing a sleeping Alfreda and Brea sitting in a chair by the bed, head in hands. “Please,” they heard her whisper. “Whatever Gods are out there, please!” Her voice broke with a sob. “I love her. Don’t take her away from me.”

Once more, it changed. It was only Brea now and she lay curled up on the bed in a fetal position, hugging the pillow that was once Alfreda’s and sobbing into it. She didn’t say anything, she didn’t have the strength too. She was too broken. Crying out to the heavens for an explanation wouldn’t fix anything.

And suddenly they knew, it was clear as day. There was no battle, no fight for glory or honor, there was just this. A broken woman who lost the love of her life and removed her memories in an attempt to keep going. Removed the knowledge of the weeks, months even that she spent crying in that bed. Removed the memory of just how much it hurt to lose someone who you loved with every ounce of your being. They didn’t need to see the rest, to watch as Brea cast a spell to take those memories and lock them away, but they still did. Curse and genius watched with sorrow as Brea did the only thing she knew to do. 

But then they saw her, Alfreda, standing white as snow, her face loving and sad. “My love,” she whispered. “I wish you could see how strong you are, how beautiful, what a wonder you are. I wish you knew how much I love you.” She looked at the child and shook her head, “You cannot give these to her.”

“Why?”

“There’s just not time.”

................

Almonzo awoke with a start in his bedroom, tears pricking at his eyes. He wiped them away harshly, throwing himself out of bed to run to his desk. He pulled out a pen and a notebook and turned to a blank page. At the top he wrote ‘New Book Idea: Wonder’.