#heres some fanfic written by me

[abbyhaslongshorts]

Lighter

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Gn!reader

Author's note: Hello!! So, this is my first fanfic I'm posting! I was compelled to write a vent piece one fateful Sunday a few weeks ago and of course Mathew Murdock had to be my source of comfort. It is edited, but if there is any mistakes message me and let me know. Hopefully you enjoy and find at least some comfort when reading!

Summary: You are no longer alone. Matt Murdock is by your side, hand in hand, ready to share the weight of the past with you.

Content: Catholic guilt, guilt, Christianity, comfort brought to you by Matt Murdock.

Sundays growing up had always begun the same. Wake up. Ignore the yelling. Ignore the dreaded weight of guilt nagging in the back of your mind. Brick by brick, it would weigh you down. Feet dragging as you get dressed in your Sunday best. 

If church was supposed to be a place of comfort and peace, then why had you always felt the opposite of that? Instead, it was silent chaos in a place of refuge. Walking through the heavy wooden doors, minutes before the priest and the clergy would walk down the aisle, the guilt, responsibility, and pent up rage would begin to pile on your shoulders, waiting for you to collapse under the weight of it. Even if the church caused pain, its familiarity would wash over you; the smell of incense, the colorful lights bleeding through the stained glass, and the redundancy of mass.

As time passes, the priest's words would mull over in your head, then be thrown to the side like a used rag. There is only so much you can do to avoid the extra weight that would inevitably fall upon your consciousness.

Then on one fateful morning, there it was, the light separating you from the darkness. The dark veil crumbled, suddenly you could sit up straight and breathe easier. You had found your savior in the depths of hell. That crushing burden of responsibility and guilt was now shared. You no longer had to endure it alone. He no longer had to endure it alone. Each stitch sewn into his skin and each smirk he threw your way intertwined your hearts with one another. His unfocused hazel eyes would comfort you through opaque red lenses as you walked into the old church that smelt of incense and wine. Hands clasped, both of your hearts bare, set on the foot of the altar that is your love. Soothing fingers circled your pulse. He would flash you a soft smile as your heart rate briefly increased. He squeezes your hand lightly to let you know that he is there and you both are no longer alone. 

It’s not easy for either of you to be there, stand in a church that housed haunting memories; in the church that housed the love of your life during his darkest times. But you are there together, and both of your shoulders have never felt lighter. 

Mass goes by faster. You sit with him, shoulder to shoulder, hands never leaving each other. A playfulness falls over you, perhaps even getting comfortable in the colorful house of God. You kick each other's feet as quietly as possible, sometimes trying to make the other slip up while singing a hymn, or suppress giggles as he tells you that a person on the other end of the church farted.

He often says you saved him, that you are the angel that guided him back from the depths of hell, but he saved you too. Your fallen angel, Matthew Michael Murdock, saved you from the overwhelming loneliness and guilt that had built up over a lifetime. Your St. Murdock, on his knees for you, bringing justice to those who can’t do it themselves, welding the name of a figure you both once feared.

So now when you find the time in between jobs and patching up the devil to make your way to church, you're not alone. Matt Murdock is by your side, hand in hand, ready to share the weight of the past with you. The bells chime, and the organ begins to play, yet you have never felt lighter.

[scorpiusmalfoylovesoscarwilde]

NAH NO ABSOLUTELY NOT TELL MEEE TEEEELLLLL MEEEEEEE WHY I WAS PEACEFULLY SCROLLING TIKTOK AND I SEE ONE COMMENT SECTION FLOOODEEDDD WITH SHIT LIKE "astoria greengrass hate club lol" "astoria haters ⬇️⬇️⬇️" "I can't stand astoria" WHAAATTT WHAT THE FUUCCKK WHAT ARE YOU EVEN ACTUALLY FUCKING TALKING ABOUY WHTA THE VBGAGSJSLW I CANNOT EVEN COMPREHEND WHAT THE FUCK YOU ARE ON ABOUT IM GONNA FUCKINGFHFHFJFUFKM WHAT DO YOU EVEN MEEAAANN SHUT THE FYCK UPP OH MY GOD WHAT WHAT DID SHE EVER DO?????

anywayz number one astoria greengrass defender love her so much I will skin your whole body with my teeth if you try and fuck with her that is MY GIRL <3<3<3

[jammyjamster]

when the rarepair you really enjoy is actually rare and therefore it has little to no fanfictions

[kasieli]

somewhere in the shadows | chapter one

Some initial A/N: Hello my near and dear friends! Welp, here it is — my new spark of creativity. I’ve been playing Hogwarts Legacy and there was just a sudden urge to write a fanfic, ya know, so here I am. I have more detailed and important author’s notes at the end, but I just wanted to paste a little blurb here. Anyways, please enjoy this short and sweet introductory chapter! (And once again please make sure you read my other notes at the end!)

***

Eleanor Laverne learned first hand that pleasant morning that there were, indeed, 142 stairwells in Hogwarts castle. Even though she woke up at the crack of dawn to brew some tea and prepare herself in her overwhelmingly blue common room, she felt like a first year frantically dashing through all the hallways and corridors and stairwells in the maze that was her new school.

Wonderful — her first day, and she’d show up to class after it already finished with her legs feeling like pudding.

To be fair, it was technically her first year here — she was just starting on the fifth year curriculum. Still, she was sure that someone of her 16-year-old stature looked quite appalling racing through the halls in comparison to that of a puny first year. Well…on the bright side, at least she could out run them and their short, stubby legs.

She glanced around, positively sure she passed the same portrait of a lady in an impossibly puffy pink dress who was, at this point, snickering at her valiant efforts of getting spectacularly lost. The watch on her wrist read 8:13, her first class began at 8:15, and at this point, she might as well have admitted her defeat on getting to class on time. After all, she had absolutely no clue where in the castle she was. She could have been on the opposite side of the school for all she knew.

She must’ve been rushing forward with her head on a swivel for a moment too long because she abruptly met something before her with a thunk. In doing so, all of the books that were, moments ago, held safely in her grip, splattered gracefully over the stone floor.

Splendid. 

She was already late — she didn’t need obstacles, either.

But the obstacle turned out to be another person as she heard a surprised, “oof!” and the sound of footsteps plummeting forward.

She shook the dizziness from her head and steadied herself, only to find a brunette boy peering over at her with a wince. “What was that for?” he asked, and she wanted to laugh as if her sprinting spree was intentional.

“Sorry,” she grumbled, bending over to reach for the book closest to her. 

8:14. Bloody hell. On her first day.

“Wait,” the boy began slowly as she heard the click of his shoes against the floor nearing her. “You’re the new fifth year, aren’t you?”

His statement beckoned her gaze, and she soon found herself gaping at this obstacle-turned-boy who happened to be a Slytherin student with quite possibly the sweetest face she’d ever seen. She didn’t believe in stereotypes but…for a Slytherin…he looked too…nice.

He reached out to hand her a few books he managed to pick up before someone called, “Seb! Come here! Defence Against the Dark Arts is about to start!”

She didn’t think her eyes could get any wider.

Defence Against the Dark Arts! That was the class she was looking for! Meaning…this lovely-looking Slytherin student that so happily picked up books for her after she nearly knocked him flat on his nose…was her classmate. What a truly memorable first impression — on her hands and knees picking up books and papers because she couldn’t simply watch where she was going.

“I suppose this is your class, too,” he said, offering her a hand to get up. She took it without any thought and stilled at the difference between his warm touch and the cold marble floor.

“It is.” She quickly released his hand and brushed off her robes.

He chuckled, and she noticed a sprinkle of freckles over his cheeks as he smiled. “Got a tad lost, did you?” 

“Perhaps,” she huffed, “let’s go.”

His bright smile was disarming. “After you.”

Never, in her whole life, would she ever expect to feel glad for nearly running someone over. But here she was, her heart racing at a surprising speed perhaps by her brisk morning jog or by downright embarrassing herself in front of her new charmingly freckled classmate, letting out a satisfied sigh as she found her very first victory this morning.

She checked her watch. 

8:15. Brilliant.

She was on time.

***

A/N: Alright folks, strap in because you’re in for a ride. I’m just kidding, but there are quite a few creative liberties that I have chosen to take, one of which is age. I have chosen to have Sebastian and Anne get held back a year before starting Hogwarts due to their parent’s death, while also raising the default age by 1 — so first years would enter around 12, and 7th years would be 18-19 by the time they graduate. (To be honest, having a 15 year old take something as life altering as the O.W.L.S seems crazy to me). Also, the way Hogwarts Legacy modeled their characters makes it seem like they’re at least 17-18, so, you know, with my unbridled creative liberty, I did just that. 

This makes Seb 17 at the beginning of the year, while most of the other students are 16. I don’t know their actual birthdays, but I imagine Sebastian to be 18 before the term ends, and the MC 17. Listen, I know it’s completely wrong, but just bear with me for the sake of this story.

Other things to note: this goes pretty much in line with the main plot of the game, and, because of that, I’ll probably skip writing scenes like the beginning dragon attack, etc. etc. but it will be referenced. Also, I know that this technically takes place in the late 1800s but this is a fan fiction and I know nothing of the wizarding world (or anything, really) in the late 1800s, so most likely it’ll read like the current writing it is and there may be contraptions or what not in this fanfic that might not have even existed in the 1800s. I dunno.

Lastly, Sebastian and the MC have so much witty banter between one another, and if there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I love witty banter. Plus, I think that there are some options that could have been taken towards the end that could have…(positively?) affected the ending of his relationship questline. At the end of the day, I am truly just imagining an alternative ending and what could have happened, had they given Sebastian a different path. Plus, you know, some innocent romance, too, because why the hell not. Don’t tell me you didn’t ship your MC with him. He’s so flirty! Also, if you would like me to post this anywhere else like fanfic or wattpad, let me know! Anyways, I’ll stop rambling now. Thank you for reading and see you next time! Xoxo ~Cass

[assaily]

Wip Game

Rules: Post the names of all your works in your WIP folder. Let people send you asks based on those titles and any that especially intrigues them, and then respond to them. Lastly, tag as many people as WIPs you have.

Thank you @littlerit and @rockinlibrarian for the tags!

I have a lot of wips so i’m just gonna do a couple more recent ones. And they're all tua, they're all about Five.

1. Hide the Morning from the Stars - The thing that started this one was a line I heard that went, “I just wanted to be loved!” It another one of those post-everything Five acclimating to a peaceful life poorly type fic. The siblings are pretty caught up in rebuilding their own lives, as you do, and so Five proceeds to have the loneliest first year of retirement ever. This one also leans pretty heavy into something @mangoshorthand posted or reblogged a few whiles back about Five struggling to reconnect with Grace because she reminds him of the Handler. 

2. Howling still counts as a wip because i cannot go a full 24 hour period without thinking about it. It’s just sitting in my brain, simmering in all the juices. I’m working on this one constantly. Like all the other wips are on a constant rotation, but this is the big fat star they inevitably orbit.

3. Selkies and Shit - my attempt at mermay masked author but i haven’t gotten very far with it. I don’t even know how to describe this one. The kids were selkies, the Handler was a pirate who was keeping Five and Lila’s skins, and everyone in the world had forgotten all their memories from more than six months prior. No one knew why, but it had something to do with the Moon being missing and the ocean being tide-less. 

4. Planned Obsolescence - that fic where the Commission put a kill switch in Five in case he ever defected and then it slowly kills Five when he defects to be with his family. Here’s a tid bit from that one.

5. the delicate parts of us - it’s... a wing fic. anyone remember that really gory wing eruption scene in Haibane Renmei? yeah, i watched that as a kid and this isn’t the first time i’ve been inspired by it. Kind of dumb, actually, but mostly about Five asking for help.

6. And an untitled post-season 3 fic about Five being human trafficked and saving some kids and generally having a bad time and then a less bad time when his family shows up.

Gonna tag @mangoshorthand​, @sharkneto, @clementineofmine, and @in-a-slanted-outhouse. Participation isn’t mandatory, only if you want to, and even if you weren’t tagged. 

[excavatinglizard]

I'm gonna be REALLY OBVIOUS mckirk + things you said under the stars and in the grass

Hey here you go this stuck in my brain and wouldn't leave :) sorry :)

Uhhh tw discussions of death

[recording trancript, Stardate 2265, 12:01:39, duration, 02:18]

[A low hissing, like the wind through grass. Laboured breathing. Sobs.]

“My dad died in space.”

“I know, Jim.”

“I mean, I was born out there, in the cold and the dark. I guess I always figured I’d die out there too, right back where I started. Instead, I’m—”

“You’re not dying on me, kid. You’re not done yet.”

“Bones…”

“Fuck that. Fuck that, Jim, I’ve dragged you back and I dragged you to space and I—”

[sounds of grunting, a heavy object being moved]

“I’m not letting you go, yet. We need you, Jim. I need you. You’re the strongest person I know, and I’m getting you the hell out of here.”

“No, Bones.”

“what?”

“Not the strongest. I’m just a coward. It’s always been you.”

[A single sob, muffled.]

“Ok. Ok.”

[recording ends.]

[star-mum]

Okay OP nation I have some (maybe controversial) statements about the Straw Hats and I need y’all to listEN FIRST OKAY- HEAR ME OUT

Boyfriend: Zoro and Franky

Husband: Usopp and Sanji

Girlfriend: Nami

Wife: Robin

Luffy: Aroace king

[cal-cium-the-nerd]

The dangers of ADHD: one moment I'm peacefully writing fanfiction and the next I am deeply engrossed in MoL wikia drama after noticing the soul perception page has been modified and checking its history

[blackbutler-readerinsertsandjunk]

Peter after getting his S/O pregnant, pumping his fists in the air and cackling and feeling oh so virile: FUCK YEAH AM I A MAN OR WHAT?! Peter when his baby is born, sobbing his eyes out: OH MY GOD THEY'RE SO FUCKIN SMALL WHAT IF I BREAK THEM???

[pinkypastal]

The batfam fandom's fatal flaw is taking fanon concepts that whare never meant to be canon nor a take on canon, treating them as canon, and judging the characters off them. In this essay I will-

[firendgold]

If you're still doing the choose violence ask game: 2 (👀), 9, 10, 22 ?

I got such a rush from finally answering the first ask that I'm doing this for as long as people send me questions. So here we go again!

2. a compelling argument for why your fave would never top or bottom

anon, I'm at work. I'm seeing this at work. :'D

Okay, serious face. Albus Dumbledore is probably my fave if I have to choose between him and Harry on this blog. I just have to figure out why he would never...

Bottom. Albus would never, I'm sorry. He won't. He can't. Like, maybe when he was having his whirlwind summer romance with Gellert, he bottomed every single time they fucked because he was so in love and this was his equal and his partner and so what if he was a little rough and distant sometimes in the bedroom, and always wanted to top and tug his hair and hiss out orders? This was The Man The Universe Had Crafted For Him, and he would absolutely bottom for him every time... and then the summer of 1899 ends. And Ariana dies. And Aberforth breaks Albus' nose. And Gellert fucks off to go be a fascist.

And Albus, alone and heartbroken, resolves to never trust someone that completely again, never love someone that same way, and never let anyone get into a position of power over him where they might be able to use his knowledge and talents for ill. That means physically, emotionally, spiritually, psychologically... carnally. So he has sex with plenty of other people, and even falls in love with a few of them, but he is in control at all times. He never bottoms again.

That's all I've got for that one.

9. worst part of canon

So the first answer that came to mind is posted here, but for fairness' sake I'll try to come up with another worst thing. (That's not related to ships, because I'm trying really hard not to be THAT violent on the violence ask game.)

I think... that if That Woman was going to introduce international schools, students and characters in the middle book of the series, she should have done more with them than having them vanish after Goblet of Fire, only to come back for either fake romantic tension and one line of exposition about the Hitler allegory Dark Lord of the Before-Times (Krum, Deathly Hallows) or to be married off to a Weasley for an aesop of It's Not About His Looks Now That They're Jacked Up (Fleur, Half-Blood Prince). I'm not saying Fleur and Viktor HAD to be best buddies forever with Harry, but it is weird that they have this unique bond that no other young students have had with each other in hundreds of years, they even lost one of their fellow champions, Dumbledore gives this very moving speech about remaining connected and not letting darkness and prejudice sever new ties, and then... nothing. No side adventures in France or wherever Durmstrang is, no communication from either side, nothing.

Feels like a huge letdown in hindsight.

10. worst part of fanon

Oh, no. That's not fair. There's just so many.

If I had to consolidate what I currently don't like about the HP fandom/fanon into a few lines, I think I would say that I hate the pureblood/Dark side apologism. I do believe in nuance in characters. I do believe redemption and/or walking different paths is an important theme in Harry Potter, and I think it's fascinating to explore that with any and every character you can think of, even characters I may not personally like. But I really, really hate the way the fandom has taken that and twisted it into this idea that we were sold a lie at the start: that the British magical government was fine the way it was, and so was the society around it; that Dark magic Isn't All That Bad, Really, and there are actually Good and non-prejudiced things about a few rich bitches passing down their knowledge and secrets and slurs for generations within the Family, and keeping the Family "Pure" is cool actually, and none of this has any relation to real life ideas about miscegenation and classism and racism and eugenics, what are you talking about?

It's just so worrying. As a minority, when I see people on tumblr/twitter/AO3 gleefully agreeing that we need to eat the rich and fix society and eradicate all the horrid -isms and -archys ruining all our lives, then watch them turn around and write a 200k epic where Dumbledore was the evil one for locking the Horcrux books away and championing marginalized members of society, Hermione is just uppity for wanting to make necessary changes to the darker parts of magical society that That Woman was literally pointing out for a reason, and Tom Riddle is only bad because he took the good segregationist pureblood ideas and added murder to them... and when that fic gets thousands of comments agreeing with them full stop with no examination of any of that... it makes me anxious, at a minimum. The same thing is happening now with Grindelwald now that he's actually a figure on the screen and not just some dude mentioned a few times in the book series: same apologism, same justification of atrocities, same good-guy-blame-games, same blorbofication even.

On the one hand... fiction doesn't always directly reflect or affect reality. On the other... this unironic pro-pureblood meta is a pervasive concept that has popped up in thousands of fics written by thousands of fanfic writers. It's happened for years, and it keeps happening, and I see very few fans speaking out against it or even acknowledging it as a problem. So that makes me ask myself, who actually is willing and able to examine the injustices of our society and build a better imaginary society through the lens of HP fanfiction, and who's okay with the prejudice in the HP world as long as it's coming from the faves they're attracted to?

22. your favorite part of canon that everyone else ignores

Happily, this is a harder question to answer because I've been finding so many like minds in the past 5 years who go feral over the same 20 HP scenes as I do. ^^ But give me a sec, I'll think of something.

...

Okay. Got it.

In order to answer this question, I have to go back to the first time I, young teenager, avid reader, recent reader of the HP series once book 5 was out, realized that Harry and Dumbledore had a much deeper relationship than just headmaster and student. The thing that made me latch on to them and project like crazy, basically.

It's the scene in Goblet of Fire chapter 36 where Harry has been rescued from Fake Moody and he's in Dumbledore's office with Dumbledore and Sirius. Dumbledore asks Harry to relay everything that happened to him once he touched the Portkey in the maze—and immediately Sirius tries to protect Harry from having to relive it now, so soon after it's happened. And then this scene happens.

Dumbledore stopped talking. He sat down opposite Harry, behind his desk. He was looking at Harry, who avoided his eyes. Dumbledore was going to question him. He was going to make Harry relive everything. “I need to know what happened after you touched the Portkey in the maze, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “We can leave that till morning, can’t we, Dumbledore?” said Sirius harshly. He had put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Let him have a sleep. Let him rest.” Harry felt a rush of gratitude toward Sirius, but Dumbledore took no notice of Sirius’s words. He leaned forward toward Harry. Very unwillingly, Harry raised his head and looked into those blue eyes. “If I thought I could help you,” Dumbledore said gently, “by putting you into an enchanted sleep and allowing you to postpone the moment when you would have to think about what has happened tonight, I would do it. But I know better. Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it. You have shown bravery beyond anything I could have expected of you. I ask you to demonstrate your courage one more time. I ask you to tell us what happened.” The phoenix let out one soft, quavering note. It shivered in the air, and Harry felt as though a drop of hot liquid had slipped down his throat into his stomach, warming him, and strengthening him. He took a deep breath and began to tell them. As he spoke, visions of everything that had passed that night seemed to rise before his eyes; he saw the sparkling surface of the potion that had revived Voldemort; he saw the Death Eaters Apparating between the graves around them; he saw Cedric’s body, lying on the ground beside the cup. Once or twice, Sirius made a noise as though about to say something, his hand still tight on Harry’s shoulder, but Dumbledore raised his hand to stop him, and Harry was glad of this, because it was easier to keep going now he had started. It was even a relief; he felt almost as though something poisonous were being extracted from him. It was costing him every bit of determination he had to keep talking, yet he sensed that once he had finished, he would feel better.

This is one of the best scenes in the entire book, the entire series. It completely refutes the fanon Dumbledore who is often cold, cruel, inflexible and unrelenting in his quest for whatever the author wants him to be inflexible and cruel about at the time. It shows that Dumbledore, the real Albus Dumbledore, is one of the few people who understands what Harry needs and is able to provide it to him, even when others who also care for Harry would rather protect him or shield him from what he needs.

Kid me was particularly taken by how gentle Dumbledore is with Harry here. It made me look back and see how in some ways this scene, this closeness, is the culmination of all the times they've met and spoken before.

(You can imagine how painful it was reading Order of the Phoenix right after this.)

But yeah, that's probably one of my favorite scenes that other people ignore or haven't talked about/drawn/written about much. Which is ironic, because the scene right after that where Harry talks about Voldemort taking his blood and Dumbledore's eyes do the triumphant "lol Voldemort just fucked up" gleam is probably one of THE most talked-about scenes in the fandom (even though to this fucking day in 2023 people still don't realize what the gleam meant, when even That Woman has clarified what it meant in INTERVIEWS).

...And for me, safely at the end of the questions, that's all she wrote.

[werewolfsmile]

With You - Ch 1

The English, Whipplocke (Eli x Cornelia) Mature Rating, graphic violence, period-typical racism, post-canon, canon divergent, found family, angst 3,530 words Read it on AO3

Separated from the man who brought her back to life, Cornelia feels the magic slipping further and further away. But after a terrible fever leaves her whole, she realises the magic is still there - and calling for her to respond.

Seeking the dream he knows to be a myth, Eli fights to ignore the loneliness gaping inside him and wanders the plains without purpose. But when a chance encounter stirs the memories and love he has tried to suppress, he finds a second chance at a purpose he had long thought past him.

Sometimes, to understand who you truly are, you have to go home.

She felt it coming over her on the voyage back across the ocean. At first it was just an ache in her bones, deep but persistent, like the way her bones ached after a full day in the saddle when she first arrived in America. Cornelia put it down to stress; after all she'd been through, her body was entitled to a few aches and pains. It was only natural that it would catch up with her like this.

By the time the ship docked and she boarded the waiting carriage, a cough had taken up residence in her chest. Fear fought to creep its way through her gut but she crushed it as soon as she felt it. She had no need for fear – what else was left for her in this life? She had faced her tormentor, her son had been avenged. She had discovered strength she never knew she had and overcome horrors beyond the stories written in English newspapers. She had felt love again – an impossibility, she had believed for years. Who could love one so broken and soiled and wretched as her?

Tâtačiksta.

Fear had no place in her life anymore. If this was to be the end – sooner than she had anticipated but inevitable nonetheless – then she would greet it with head held high.

The carriage journey was arduous and she felt her strength waning further. Cornelia found herself cradling the osprey skull more often than not, tracing her fingers over it and remembering the magic that had guided her through the wild west.

Perhaps there was no more magic left. By the time she reached her parent's estate in Devon, she was weak with fever.

Her father bellowed orders and her mother watched from a distance. The servants fussed and doctors prodded. Time slipped through her fingers like prairie dust until everything was a blur that made no sense.

It no longer needed to make sense. Cornelia was content with her life, resigned to this outcome. She closed her eyes and let the fever steal her consciousness.

For two weeks, the sickness ravaged her. Coughs and chills and vomiting, overshadowed all the while by the savage fire in her veins. Her parents made preparations. The servants whispered under the stairs. The doctors shook their heads.

Nothing to be done. Too far gone now, it's only a matter of time.

None of them believed it when the heat left her body. Cornelia did not understand when she opened her eyes and saw the familiar walls. She blinked in confusion, weak but yearning for answers. Was she not supposed to be dead? Why did death look like this?

Turning her head required near all of her strength, yet she did it. There, placed carefully on the bedside table, was the osprey skull.

A strange, new feeling swarmed through Cornelia and a smile tugged at her face. Perhaps there was just enough magic left after all.

"I have no explanation for you," reported Doctor Houghton, when he examined her a month later. Cornelia's strength had been slow in recovering but she felt fit and hale now, chafing against the maids who urged rest over activity. Her mother echoed their sentiments, insisting she be evaluated by the doctor before she resume her normal activities.

"Was it not merely the influenza?" Cornelia asked and took a deep, testing breath. Her lungs felt clearer and stronger than they had in years.

"Ha! There was nothing mere about this illness, my lady. A fever as fierce and rampant as this should have killed you within a matter of hours – a day at the most. Two weeks – two weeks! – were you plagued by this. And yet you lived. I have no medical explanation, other than the mercy of God."

Cornelia turned her head to look out the window to the gardens beyond. Light rain fell upon the earth but it only seemed to make the colours more vibrant. Or was this simply how the world looked when one was granted a second chance?

"Furthermore, your other symptoms seem to have resolved."

She blinked, then turned back as his words registered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Forgive my directness, but … I have been treating you for many years now, my lady. Both you and your son."

She bowed her head, struck by the memories that flooded her mind.

"I have watched your illness progress through the years and I have noted how it affects you. Only six months ago, you were suffering shortness of breath and recurrent loss of energy, amongst all your other … afflictions."

Cornelia could not help the smile that curled one corner of her mouth. How amusing, the stark difference between worlds. Doctor Houghton claimed he was speaking directly yet still he voiced each word with deliberate care.

"To be quite frank, my lady, there is only one conclusion that I can come to. Your syphilis is gone."

Her head snapped up and she stared at the doctor as though he was mad or speaking to her in a dream.

"What did you say?" she whispered.

"Your syphilis, it is gone. I do not know how, nor do I understand how your body could recover so swiftly. But the evidence is there for yourself to see. Your chest, for example."

Looking down at her dress, Cornelia stared and wondered if this was not simply a hallucination of her mind. After all she had been through, surely she was entitled to a little madness. Yet she opened the bodice of her dress, pulled the heavy fabric aside, and regarding her skin.

No wounds, no open sores. Nothing but faded scars.

She took in a sharp breath, shocked.

"It is the same with the sores on the rest of your body, my lady. Completely healed. And your lungs sound clearer than they have in years. In addition to this, I have studied samples of your blood. There is no trace of the disease left in you. Indeed, if not for the scars, it is as though you were never afflicted in the first place."

In the space of a single afternoon, her entire world was thrown off-kilter. Cornelia struggled to comprehend, she questioned Doctor Houghton further. He answered as best he could but more often than not was left shaking his head in pure confoundment.

"If you would permit me, my lady, I should like to conduct some further tests. I believe there might be a correlation between the intensity of this fever and the resolving of your chronic illness. The ramifications, if proven, could alter modern medical science-"

"Please excuse me, doctor, I need some air."

Cornelia practically ran out of the room. She charged blindly through the halls that she had once grown up in, lost to the turmoil in her mind. It was only when the sweet scent of leather and oil reached her nostrils that she came back to herself.

The sitting room, the one devoted to her American memorabilia. Cornelia let her gaze trip over it all, remembering how she had arranged each piece as her strength returned.

She regarded it all in a new light, now. No longer were they but memories of a time so recent yet so far out of her reach. Now they seemed tangible, as though she could stretch out her hand and instantly be transported back to that place.

The osprey skull stared deep into her soul from its place among the other items. Cornelia let her feet lead her towards it, until trembling bare fingers picked it up and held it to her face.

Tâtačiksta.

She knew exactly what she had to do.

~*~

The Land Office clerk was a small, beady eyed man who seemed far too soft for this harsh land. Spectacles clung to the end of his round nose, threatening to topple at any moment. There was no gun on his hip, nor knife tucked away. He wielded only pen and paper – but right now, that was more than formidable enough.

"I'm sorry, sergeant. It seems that all available allotments have already been sold. Now, if I was you, I'd try lookin' into places a bit further south. I hear Oklahoma has some beautiful allotments."

This was no different to what Eli had been expecting. Since the first day he voiced his plan to another human being, he had been told he was a fool for dreaming. They'd never give it to him, not to someone of his skin. Never mind the fact that he served, as per the requirements.

Sometimes you gotta see a thing just to let it go.

Even so, he had come all this way. The least he could do was try.

"Not interested in Oklahoma. Only Nebraska."

"Well, I don't know what else to tell you." The clerk leant forwards, offering a sickly smile that belied how little he cared. "Allotments are all sold. There ain't nothin' here for you no more."

Eli stared long and silent at the clerk. He flicked his eyes to the ledger under soft hands, then across to the map with pins stabbed through it on the wall. He might not be able to read but he could interpret the signs, clear as any other.

"Seems you got a lot of green pins still on that map. All I want is to change the colour of one."

"I don't think you're hearin' me clearly. There's nothin' for you here! You deaf as well as dumb? That Homestead Act ain't for you! You want land? Well, I already done told you where to find it." The clerk leant back in his chair, gaze hardening. "Now I'm gonna have to ask you to leave, on account of you ain't got no business here no more."

It always stung his pride, even when he thought he was used to it. Eli had heard men speak down to him and about him like this for his whole life. Skin had a way of forming callouses where it chafed – but this was a callous that was never quite thick enough.

He let the moment stretch before he turned on his heel and walked calmly out of the Land Office. No point in spilling blood over something he had already known. Especially not in a city as ordered as this.

Lincoln bustled with life and people rushed back and forth, focused on their daily lives with no time for any other. Eli reached his horse and swung up into the saddle, feeling abruptly stifled in the open air. Too many people, too much activity. He never had developed a taste for city life, and he hastened to leave it behind him now.

The two men that followed did not go unnoticed.

They had been tailing him for a couple of days now, thinking themselves so clever and well hidden. Eli had known the moment they set foot on his trail; some deep rooted instinct that guided him. He had given them plenty of opportunities to approach but they had held off. He had a feeling he knew why.

Too many witnesses in a city like Lincoln. They were waiting for the isolation of the plains. Then they would come for him, to exact revenge.

Eli had little desire to spill more blood but he was pragmatic enough to know that what he wanted had nothing to do with it. The world was harsh, more so since white man had come. Blood would spill, one way or another. If he was fast enough, it wouldn't be his.

He left the city behind and headed north-west. As the miles rolled on beneath his horse's hooves and civilisation faded behind him, a loneliness crept up inside him.

It felt strange, to ride alone like this. It wasn't so long ago that he had travelled with a companion, a partner.

With her.

Eli tilted his head to the skies and tried to push such thoughts away. They had had their time together, short though it might have been. It had meant a lot to him – more than he ever told her – and he took comfort in the fact that it happened at all. Was it not better to have the memories of her with him? Was it not better to have found a love for the soft things in life again? She had taught him so much, softened the callouses over his heart with such care and respect that he had not even noticed at first.

He carried her memory in his heart, just as he carried the wheat seeds in his bag.

It took three days before the land became wild enough for his hunters to launch their attack. Eli had known it was coming, had felt the stirrings in the air and the tension creeping up his spine. So he left his horse in some scrub and waited behind a rock, rifle loaded.

The men were messy and impulsive. Clearly used to bullying their way through the west, they charged him with such arrogant bravado that he wanted to sigh in despair.

Eli did not spare the time. Even with brutes such as these, the slightest error could prove fatal.

He shot them in quick succession, his aim true as always. Blood stained the dry grass as birds took to the sky, screeching in alarm. Eerie silence fell over the land and Eli waited, letting his breathing calm before he stepped out and assessed the men.

Clean kills. They had little of value on them but he took their rations and money; no sense in wasting it. He found nothing to identify them but neither did he need to know who they were or why they hunted him.

Melmont.

The spectre that had haunted her for years now haunted Eli's steps. He did not mind, he had made that choice willingly. Better for the bounty to be on his head than on hers or Martha's. Eli's days had always been numbered. At least now that dwindling count could serve a greater purpose.

He left the bodies behind him and rode further across Nebraska. Through the Loup, despite the longing that throbbed in his chest. He let his eyes cross the land, absorbing every detail and committing them to memory. Then he turned south and rode for Kansas.

Days rolled into weeks that bore little meaning beyond survival. Wake, ride, sleep. Repeat. He avoided the main roads, all too aware of the bounty on his head. Not placed by any lawman but that made little difference out here. He pushed himself further each day, riding longer into the night. The stars seemed too vast and brilliant for him to face alone.

Sometimes he dreamt about her, about hearing her voice lilting in his ears. He dreamt of her smile, of her laugh that he had heard nowhere near enough. When he woke he could have sworn her scent lingered in his nostrils, but when he turned to look for her at his side, there was nothing there.

So it had to be. She could not have stayed here in such a harsh land, not when her illness was destroying her. Better for her to return to her own land and fade in the comfort of her family.

But not her home.

Home is here. With you.

As it was for him. So Eli roamed, listless and without purpose to tether him anymore. The wheat seeds in his bag reminded him of the hope she had for him, the desire for him to find peace and new life.

Yet there was no rest to be found. Not when the country of his ancestors was being torn apart. Not when his people were driven from their homes and forced onto hard scrabble. No rest, no hope. Nothing but weariness and restlessness.

How could he find somewhere to settle, when his home had travelled far across the ocean?

Eli did not go looking for trouble, though it could be said that trouble went looking for him.

Alone by his campfire one night, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His eyes darted up, scouring the darkness around. Nothing visible but he knew better than to doubt his instincts. There! The rustle of something moving rapidly through the grass, followed by panicked breathing.

Eli had the rifle across his lap and his body poised for battle as the girl crashed into view. Tears dripped down her face and she fell to her knees before him, begging incoherently.

Black hair, brown skin, bone earrings. She was Arapaho; he recognised her manner of dress and the cadence of her language, but could not speak it. Instead, he hushed her and signed to her. She signed back, hands shaking in terror.

Four white men hunting her, close behind.

There was no time for further conversation. Eli gestured to a nearby tree. The girl was quick to understand, needing only a small boost from him before she scrambled up into the branches. Eli took a moment to scuff her tracks before returning to sitting by his campfire. Such a tactic would never fool a fellow native but he had yet to meet a white man who knew how to read the signs of the earth.

The men arrived only a couple of minutes later. Travelling on foot and with various marks between them – scratches, bruises – they entered the light of the campfire with guns out.

Eli said nothing as he regarded them, rifle across his lap. Every nerve in his body was tense but he knew to them he looked still, relaxed.

"What's this then, huh?" spoke up one man with a rather deep, recent cut across his cheek. "What're you doin' out here on your own?"

"Not looking for trouble. Just passing through." Eli kept his voice calm and steady. The four men began to spread around the camp.

"Well. If you ain't lookin' for trouble, you'll tell us where the girl is!" The man bent down towards Eli but his eyes scoured the dark beyond. "We know she came through here, makin' a damn fuss. Now, she's injun. And you're injun. We all know how your lot stick together."

The men laughed and Eli waited for the coarse sound of it to fade.

"Girl went north," he said and gestured with his chin. "She's Arapaho, enemy of my people. Not exactly interested in asking for help from me."

"Ohoho, is that so!"

"Got no reason to lie."

"Yeah. Unless you're hidin' her!" The man stepped into his space and Eli's hand burned, tense and ready to seize his knife. "You sure she went north?"

"No place to hide her here," Eli shot back. "Longer you wait, the further she'll run."

"That's just what you'd like us to believe, right?"

The air crackled with tension. Nobody moved or spoke – and then the crickets fell silent.

Eli kicked dirt into the fire and it spat sparks, blinding two of the men. His right hand darted at the same time, whipping out his dagger and plunging it into the heart of the man before him. A simple flip of the rifle had the trigger falling into his left hand. He jerked behind the dead man on his dagger as a shot tore into the body, then fired in return. He thrust the dead man aside, rolled and came up with the rifle in his right hand again. The last two men shouted, outraged, and fired blindly. Eli fired twice and listened as the bodies hit the ground.

The silence of the plain was almost deafening. He took deep breaths to calm himself before looking up at the tree.

The girl climbed down, hands still trembling but now her eyes burned with fierce vengeance. She spat at the bodies.

Something shifted in Eli's chest when she looked back at him. There was no fear, no hatred of him like he had told the men. He signed to her, asking her name, and she signed back.

Red Feather. The men had slaughtered her family and kept her for sport. She had nowhere else to go, no family left anywhere.

Barely taller than his elbow. She was too young to be out on her own. Eli lowered his rifle and began to gather his things. No point in sleeping here anymore, not with four bodies to lure the coyotes.

His mind flashed back to another child at another time. The chance of a new life, a new family … refused. Eli stole another glance at the girl, who wiped tears from her face with sleeves that were too long for her arms.

He would not refuse, not this time. Warmth bloomed in his heart and he felt his soul come into alignment with a new purpose. He glanced up at the stars, tracing the patterns there as he suddenly ached, ached for her.

She was not here anymore and he would never see her again. But he could honour her memory and the love they had shared between them. With his horse saddled and gear stowed, Eli mounted up then extended a hand down to the girl.

He knew exactly what he had to do.

[blizzardfluffykpop]

so two things- I am about to spam reblog tbz fanfics- secondly- i may or may not have a full younghoon mafia au that i wrote last night- and finished writing this morning that needs to be edited-

[spikes-got-anger-issues]

Becoming obsessed with a new show is so insane like I'm not even finished with S1 of LR but here I am sitting with a 17,200+ word outline of a fic that isn't even half conceptualized along with five other +2,500 word outlines that also aren't half conceptualized and about 25+ fic ideas jotted down in my notes. I'm feeling completely normal about Lab Rats 🫶

[myreia]

Sand & Stone

Rating: G Pairing: Aureia Malathar / Thancred Waters Words: 1915 Notes: Takes place early in the post-ARR patches. Major spoilers ARR ending spoilers (for sprout friends). Headcanons running wild. Read on Ao3

Aureia finds him on the roof.

He sits with a knee pulled into his chest, his hands clasped firmly around it. The breeze rustles his hair as it sweeps through the air, carrying the scent of salt and brine. Sheathed daggers and an aetherometer lie beside him, the burnished goggles glinting in the sun. He straightens, tensing as she approaches—no doubt he heard her arrive. Stealth has never been her forte.

“Is this my call to action?” he asks, not looking at her. Though he speaks with his usual easygoing charm, she hears the hollowness beneath it. He puts up a good fight to pretend it isn’t there, acting as if nothing has changed. But a façade is still a façade, no matter how good it is. “Has Minfilia seen fit to request my aid once again?”

She exhales a slow breath and walks briskly across the rooftop. “Not quite,” she says, settling down behind him. Sweeping a lock of black hair behind her ear, she sits back-to-back with him and curls her legs beneath her. “I’m sure she will in due course.”

He makes a strangled sound, so quiet she almost misses it.

Shielding her face with a hand, Aureia casts an eye across the square below. Busy on a good day, Vesper Bay is now positively bustling with traffic. The Scions’ exodus from the Waking Sands is upon them and their final day has attracted a crowd. Porters scurry to and fro, weaving through the milling bystanders as they load the carriages. Y’shtola flits in and out of the chaos directing what she can. Papalymo and Yda, too—even Urianger has set aside his studies to assist. They are easily picked out in the crowd, their white clothes shining like beacons in the noonday sun.

“Besides,” Aureia continues. “I think our friends can manage it.”

She feels him nod and they fall silent. She hesitates, picking absently at her ringbands, the worn leather coarse beneath her fingertips. How long has she had them? It must have been during those early months in Ul’dah, not long before she met…

“Surely you didn’t come all the way up here just for me,” Thancred says. “The famed Warrior of Light has greater things to attend to than little old me.”

Aureia stiffens, her fingers threaded through the ringband. It’s been like this ever since the Praetorium. He’s done his best to avoid her, finding one reason or another to quietly excuse himself should they happen to be in the same room. Gods, she can’t remember the last time they looked each other in the face. Whenever she thinks of it, all she can see is Lahabrea. The way the Ascian stared at her through those familiar eyes, twisting the expression of her closest friend into one of malice and contempt before blasting her with enough magic to toss her like a ragdoll.

If not for Hydaelyn’s protection, she would have died. Even now, she bears the marks of the fight, her body bruised and burnt and aching. Despite all her training, she never felt more powerless. Magic is her domain, her area of expertise. But no matter how quickly or cleverly she wove her spells, the Ascian was always one step ahead. She barely survived and the incident has left her raw and broken, incapable of casting even the simplest spells. The moment she tries, she is thrown back into the arena, Lahabrea’s cruel laughter ringing in her ears.

Some black mage I am…

Aureia swallows the lump in her throat. She can’t bring herself to blame Thancred for her own faults. He is as scarred by those events as she is—if not more. She can’t imagine what it must have been like for him, to have his body overrun by another, to be complicit in nearly killing her even though he had no control over his own actions…

Seven hells, no wonder he can’t look her in the face.

“…Aur?” Thancred asks quietly, startling her out of her thoughts.

She scuffs a heel against the stone. “I came because I was worried about you. Historically, things haven’t gone well when you disappear for long stretches at a time.”

He chuckles and shifts his weight, pressing his back into hers. “I needed a moment,” he murmurs. “Leaving Thanalan is…”  

“A lot?” she offers.

“I was going to say momentous. This is our home. Of course Urianger has chosen to remain, but even so…”

“I know.” She releases her ringband and places her hand on the ground beside her. The stone is uncomfortably warm to the touch. The heat flares across her palm in a way all too reminiscent of handling magical fire. “I feel it, too.”

Thanalan is her home now. It surprises her how quickly she came to love the rugged sands and desert heat. When she first arrived in Ul’dah, she swore she would never step foot in it again. The city assaulted her senses with sound and smells, confounding her until she lost her way in the labyrinthine streets. Even making her way from the Quicksand to the western gate without losing her way was a challenge in and of itself.

She had never felt more alone in her life. Branded as refugee, ridiculed as a newcomer, and terrified every day that someone might trace her identity back to her Garlean sympathizer parents, she closed herself off. One month, she promised herself. Enough time to accumulate what gil she could by working odd jobs and purchase passage out of the city. It was clear that if Thanalan didn’t want her, she didn’t need Thanalan.

How that has changed. And the person responsible for that is sitting beside you.  

Aureia tilts her head and closes her eyes, half-leaning against Thancred. There’s something comforting and familiar about sitting here with him beneath a vibrant blue sky, basking in the sun as it beats down upon them. “This is good for us,” she says quietly. “The Scions, I mean. We’re exposed here. Ascians, Garleans… it’s only a matter of time before they try again. Mor Dhona will afford us some means of protection we’ve lost.”

“We’re not vacating completely, you know,” he replies. “Are you telling me that when they do return, you’re content to let Urianger take the blow?”

“Let them contend with Urianger, be my guest. I know who’s coming out of that alive.”

He laughs, a deep, shoulder-shaking laugh she feels reverberated through his back. A smile tugs at her lips, but as much as she wants to, she can’t give into it. Once again, they’re dancing around the topic neither them are brave enough to broach. She can’t let it go on like this. Though she has filled her days with work and missions, his absence is an ache in her heart. She needs to talk to him. Properly.

Aureia opens her eyes. “Than—”

“Aur—”

They stop, each biting back as they speak over each other. He sighs and shifts his weight, changing positions. His hand drops to his side and he reaches behind him, his fingers ghosting across hers.

“I never apologized for…” He trails off, fighting with himself as he searches desperately for the right words. “Aur, what I mean to say is that… I’m sorry for dragging you into this. This is my fault. Ifrit, Castrum Centri, the Praetorium. All of it. I never wanted to see you hurt.”

“I know. But it wasn’t your fault. You need to stop blaming yourself—”

He stiffens. “But—”

She seizes his hand. “Listen to me for once, all right?” she interrupts fiercely. “Every time you tell Minfilia that you’ve recovered and want to return to your duties, you’re lying to yourself. You can’t bear the guilt for something over which you had no control. If you’re going to move forwards, you have to acknowledge that. This is no easy life we’ve chosen for ourselves. What happens the next time something like this occurs? Or the next? You have to let it go.”

He makes a garbled sound, too taken aback by her ferocity to argue. “When did you become so loquacious?” he says with a shaky little laugh. “I swear, that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say. Maybe I should make you angry more often.”

She makes a face and twists around, craning her neck over her shoulder. “You have impossible standards for yourself, Thancred Waters,” she says. “Keep this up and you’re going to bleed yourself dry. Take it from someone who knows that all too well.”

A sober silence settles between them. “Your magic hasn’t improved, I take it?” Thancred asks.

Aureia pauses, her teeth scraping her lower lip. Magic has always been so personal to her, as natural to her as drawing breath. To lose her focus, her connection, her innate talent… It’s humiliating. So much so she has barely mentioned it. As far as Minfilia and the rest of the Scions are concerned, there’s nothing wrong with her. She is their Warrior of Light—unbreakable, infallible, and flawlessly reliable.

How wrong they are.

“Maybe I was wrong to think it was my calling,” she says, twining her fingers with his. “Did I ever tell you that when I was training at the Thaumaturge Guild, Cocobuki asked me what I would do if an opponent closed the distance?”

“No. This is the first I’m hearing of it. What did you say?”

“I told him I would hit them with my staff.”

He snorts with laughter. “The wrong response, I imagine?”

She can’t help but smile. “Quite. He berated me, called me a fool, and told me the correct response was to run away. It wasn’t a lesson easily learned. But considering my current situation, perhaps I should look into it. Until I find a solution for my predicament, I’m useless in the field—”

He turns sharply, the profile of his face cast in shadow. “Not useless. Never useless.”

Aureia’s breath catches in her throat. Slowly, she uncurls her legs and shifts her weight, drawing up beside him. With her hand still entwined with his, she rests her head on his shoulder.

He pauses, tensing with momentary panic. This is the closest they have been in weeks. “Speaking of solutions, I may have one,” he continues. “Or several. As Minfilia still refuses to give me work, I find myself with too much time on my hands. I could train you. If you wanted.”

Her heart clenches, warmth blossoming through her chest. “Thank you, Than,” she replies. “But this is something I need to do for myself.”

She glances up and her eyes meet his. The sun beats down, as brilliant as it is harsh, and she looks at him fully for the first time since the Praetorium. Though there is a part of her that flinches when she sees him and conjures a memory of Lahabrea, it’s easier now to deny it. She won’t let it control her. Lahabrea has taken enough from her. She won’t let him take this, too.

Thancred nods and wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “I know you will,” he says, resting his forehead against hers. “Don’t lose hope. You’re the most brilliant black mage I know. You conquered it once, you can conquer it again. It will come back, I promise.”

Aureia leans into him, fingers still threaded with his, and together they watch the shimmering waters of Vesper Bay.

[castelled-away]

Prince boyfriends with big egos who compete with each other for the throne/place as leader (Peter was the High King before Caspian’s family ruled Narnia in present times, so the question is: which 1 of them should be king now?) and have to get along for the sake of winning a war while simultaneously trying not to kill one another but in the end manage to see that there’s enough room for both of them on the battle field/castle & they can actually learn a lot from each other.

Also the fact that they’re both princes (or kings in Peter’s case) is nice bc I think in period dramas it’s always like a commoner x a royal person. Just look at BBC Merlin with Merthur, Argwen or Bridgerton with Eloise/Theo, Anthony/Siena or Benedict/Sophie. & I get the appeal of those forbidden/risky love ships bc they ARE pretty cool & bring diversity into the dynamic. BUT BUT BUT. Princes/Princesses who can relate to each other about the pressure of always being in the eye of the pubic, having to be perfect for your subjects & allies, constantly preparing for that 1 day when you’ll have to take up the mantle of the ruler & how you always have to put the peoples’ needs before your own as if you yourself weren’t a person with hopes & fears & emotions too🥺

ALSO the RIVALRY!!!! These 2 are both leaders & think they each know what’s best for their subjects. So, yeah, while they do relate to the expectations of the other’s position & so should by all means be fast friends from the start, they fight one another. Bc in order to get back on the throne they both have to prove how one of them deserves to be king over the other & also try to get the competition out of the way. Plus the whole thing with Miraz’ reign of shit over Narnia makes Peter think of Caspian as the big bad enemy bc he’s Miraz’ nephew.

And this right here is REALLY interesting. 2 characters from the same background & shouldn’t have any problems with each other possess a valid reason to actually have conflict. HECK YES ENEMIES TO LOVERS

Anyways, no thoughts (except for that whole essay, oops) just prince boyfriends with their man egos & underlying fear of replacement that they have to work through

Just Caspeter <3