#i read it so many times the binding broke and now the pages are held together by clips lol

[mercurybomber]

Vintage 1940s Wizard of Oz valentines

[maple-seed]

Thrown Blurb #4: Fanfiction

Word Count: 618

Author's Notes: Just needed a little levity after that finale, haha. Everyone can thank @gigglingtiggerv2 for encouraging this scene into existence in response to chapter 39.

Series Master List Loki Fic Masterlist

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

You were trying to get a rise out of him.

Loki refused to give you the satisfaction.

"Okay, so it's called 'The Numbers Don't Lie' and as you know, in this timeline Loki is human." You waved a sheaf of paper in his direction. You had printed it after he refused to read it on your computer. "And I'm on the timeline also, but in this one I'm very wealthy and Loki is one of several accountants I employ..."

Loki's eye twitched but he didn't respond otherwise. He watched the papers in your hand as you explained the plot of your little story.

"... and of course he's desperate to get her attention but he doesn't know how to deal with his feelings so he..."

Loki steepled his fingers. His eyes were drawn again to the pages in your hand. Were they... bound? You took the time to bind them into a booklet?

"... and then that's where his stamp collection comes into play..."

Loki bit his cheek. You were making a strong play here, he had to admit. He could tell you knew, by the gleam in your eyes. He wouldn't let you win this one. He tried to focus on his upcoming rebuttal.

"Finally, the issue is resolved thanks to Loki's expertise in tax law. They overcome their misunderstandings and confess their feelings and get together at the end." You triumphantly placed the story in front of him. "Ready to read it?"

Loki waited a moment to allow you to bask in your short-lived glory, then broke into a grin. "First, I have my own creative endeavor to share with you." Confusion cross your face. "What?" Loki stood. "As you may know, Skarde now has his studio in working condition. When Thor mentioned that you were putting your little fiction to paper," he heard you curse Thor under your breath, "I commissioned this." With a wave of his hand an easel appeared with quite a large canvas on it, which was currently concealed by a green cloth. "A portrait of your Asgardian counterpart." You came to stand in front of the canvas with your arms crossed. "You paid money to get back at me?" "It was entirely worth it, darling. Skarde's craftsmanship is unmatched." With a flourish he pulled the cloth away, revealing the painting.

The figure in the portrait was undoubtedly you, but a version that was wholly pathetic. She was dressed in peasant clothes, and poor ones at that. She was scrubbing a floor in some dismal dungeon, and her person was absolutely covered in grime. Her expression was mournful, and maybe a little wistful, as she gazed into the middle distance. Truly a wretched creature.

Your expression was incredulous. "I can't believe you did this." Loki smirked, reveling in his victory. "Surely you expected a response." "Yeah, but not this! I didn't think you'd drag anyone else into it. I just wrote a story! How many people have seen..." you gestured at the canvas, "miserable servant me?" Loki thought for a moment as he admired the work. "Quite a few, I imagine. But perhaps not enough. Should we put it on display for the public, you think?"

You stood for a moment with your mouth agape, then snapped it shut and whipped out your phone, typing furiously. Loki frowned. "What- what are you doing?" "Texting Thor." You kept your eyes on your screen. "Asking him about that Asgardian theatre troupe." He scowled. "Whatever for?" "It just occurred to me," you hit send and smiled up at him sweetly, "that my story is really meant for the stage." Loki's eyes widened and he held up a finger. "Now... now just hold on a moment...."

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[fantasyqueen502]

Mrs. Miller: Chapter 5

Summary- (Before the infection/apocalypse) A look into the Mrs. Miller finale moments with the ones she loves. How does Sarah remember her mother many years later?

Relationship: Joel Miller X Female Reader

Rated: PG Mentions and depictions of terminal illness/death

Word count: 1913

Author’s note: The finale to the Mrs. Miller series. I loved writing this series and thank you all.

Jolting awake from his head falling out of his hand perched on the arm of his seat, he groans from the pops and aches from the extended time in the not most comfortable chair in the world. Fishing for his phone, he flipped it open to his ear, silencing the piercing ring that woke him.

"Yeah?" he groans, rubbing the crust from his eyes in annoyance. "Put ‘er on." he nods, waiting a few moments. "Hey, baby girl," he smiles, hearing the voice of his entire world. "Are you being good?" he asks. "What kind of pizza?" he hums. "Fish on pizza?" he gasps. "Uncle Tommy is pretty gross," he chuckles, hearing an objection from his brother in the background. "Mommy’s still pretty sick," he explains the best he can.

"She’d like that very much." he chuckles, blinking away the tears of Sarah’s plan to visit Y/N in the morning with soup she and Tommy made so she could get better.

"Night, Night, Baby."

"I won’t." He hangs up, looking up at the sound of violent vomiting coming from the joined bathroom. "Y/N!" He calls receiving a toilet flush as an answer that she was alright. The door opens to the shuffling of feet, lifting up the blanket on her side of the bed, climbing in as best he could behind her, embracing her with warmth. She was smaller now. Thinner. Haven't managed to keep any food down for almost a week. "Hopefully get some sleep," he mumbles into her temple, punctuating the sentence with a lingering kiss.

"You 'member the fraternity party. Sophomore year." she asks.

"The valedictorian said yes to the wait list."

She slapped his arm that securely held her close. "You were so soft-spoken, it was sweet." She laughs. "Your face when I said yes. That Colgate smile," she swoons.

"I unfortunately remember," he grumbles.

"You sang with the guitar." She reminisces. "Joel 'Johnny' Cash." She hums, rubbing his forearm with her thumb.

"Mmmm."

"Sing for me."

So Joel ended the night with the soft southern lyrics "I keep the ends out for the tie that binds," he trails off, resting his chin on her shoulder. She giggles. It’s soft and breathy, but it still held the joyest wind chimes he could never forget. "Because you're mine, I walk the line," he mumbles. She reaches back, patting his head.

"Love you, Y/N."

"Love you, Joel." holding his clasped arms securely wrapped around her middle.

A month later…

Talking to some doctors Joel walks into the room where Sarah is reading "Green Eggs and Ham" to Y/N. Both were comfortable as Sarah was held snugly to her mother's chest. Raspy sounds for her to continue wincing at the tube in her throat while bearing open her eyes to take in her baby girl. Her hand feeling a messy braid between her frail fingers. She looks at her mom after reading each page. She nods, signaling for her to turn the page. "Looks like Daddy's breakfast he made." She laughs. "Once you get better, we can make banana pancakes."

Tears well up in her eyes. Struggled gurgles alert the small girl, her eyes wide with worry. "Daddy!" She calls.Y/N tries reaching to take the child's arm to tell her everything would be okay.

"It's okay, baby." He coos, lifting the girl into his arms. "Take her, Tommy." He orders, placing her in his brother's arms, and the two exit the room. Sarah's screams down the hall broke his heart. Joel rushes over, holding Y/N's cheek and trying to read her eyes, which fluttered and rolled unconsciously. Pushing the red button next to her bed for a doctor.

"I'm right here, Mama." He coos, holding her hand. "I'm right here." He chokes out. She grips his hand like a lifeline, he kisses the back of it. Her grip loosens. He doesn't look up even when the swarm of doctors rushed in, hauling him away and out of the room. He couldn't breathe after spotting his daughter and brother at the end of the hall. She slipped out of her uncle's hold and ran to her dad. He collapses to his knees, taking her into his arms. Sobbing into her hair.

"I want to see Mommy." She sniffles. "Is mommy okay?"

"I'm sorry, baby girl. I'm so, so, so…" he whimpers.

A couple of years later-

Gripping her pillow that soaked up her tears. Lifting her head, eyes meeting a picture of a family portrait at some department store. Sears she thinks the name was. In ugly Christmas sweater attire. The picture was taken unexpectedly. A half smile from Joel looking at the photographer. Tommy joked that he was held at gunpoint. She was small in a surprise frilly green dress and a big red bow on her head as she was the gift. And there was her mother. Mouth open, the moment was caught mid-sentence. Glaring at Joel, a blur of her hands, preparing to take Sarah back into her arms. She took the picture frame, tears falling onto the glass, and held it close to her heart.

~.~

"Sarah breakfast!" Joel calls up the stairs.

"Tommy!" He shouts catching his brother piling bacon onto his own plate.

"What?"

"This isn't for you."

" 'cuse me, big brother. Thought this was a family meal."

"It's for Sarah; now make yourself useful and help me."

"Help you what?" He says through his mouthful.

"It's Mother's Day." He reminds, a look of sadness washing over both their faces.

"Hurry up before Uncle Tommy eats it all."

"I'm coming." A voice returns. Coming down the stairs, there was a sort of gloom about the normally bright and sunny teen.

"Made your favorite. Banana pancakes." He smiles, placing a plate of three cakes before her.

"Thanks." She mumbles. Taking a seat, she began to take small nibbles, slowly picking the syrup-soaked breakfast around her plate with her fork.

"Here's the plan for today." He claps his hands together. "We're gonna do all the things Mama loved to remember her."

"What about school?" She mumbles.

"You're on the honor roll. Take a day to play hookie with your dad and uncle."

"Plus there's something we gotta show you."

~.~

Taking the tape from Tommy, playing it on the TV. The screen comes to life.

The camera turns on, pointing to the same couch the family of three were seated at. Y/N casually sitting cross-legged mirrors Sarah's same sitting position. Like mother, like daughter.

"Is it on?" Y/N asks the person off screen.

"I think so." Joel answers.

"The red lights are blinking." She points.

"You're so--"

"Young." Joel chuckles.

"Not old." She snickers.

Rounding the camera, young Joel plops down next to Y/N. Laying an arm across her shoulder.

"Hey, baby girl, it's dad."

"Still deciding on a name, hopefully we've chosen a perfect one." Y/N hums.

"This was two days before you were born." He reminisces.

"Got a CamQuarter from the baby shower and thought it would be great to capture memorable moments."

"Can't wait to finally meet you." She stands, turning to the side to show off her impressive baby bump.

"Eleven pounds, eight ounces." He hums. "Chunky Monkey."

Sarah snorts, pinching his arm.

"Ow." He wails dramatically.

"Why have we not seen this before?" She asks, looking between the two men.

"Wasn't ready." Joel says. "Hurt too much, but then I remembered you were so young. Thought you could get reacquainted."

Now in the car. Y/N points the camera at herself.

"Won't be long now until we see you, Sarah. Finally!" She laughs, sniffling with joy. "How many false alarms? Five."

"Five." Joel nods.

"Awww, sweetie." She coos, wiping away a tear from his cheek.

In the hospital room, the camera walks over to Y/N with a bundle in her arms.

"Here is Mama and baby Sarah." He says.

"Don't," she says, dropping her head to look at their sleeping baby. "I look awful."

"You look beautiful and did amazing." Leaning in for a kiss. "I'm so proud of you."

"Welcome to the world, Sarah Miller."

Joel coos zooming in on the contented face of the sleeping infant.

The camera pointed to the ground at fuzzy pink socks. Panning up and rounding the door frame into the nursery. Where Joel is being filmed unknowingly. Baby talking Sarah as he changes her diaper. She shrieks and coos, grabbing at her feet and shrieking happily up at her father. "All clean." He babbles, blowing raspberries on her stomach. The baby laughs again and again. Lifting her into his arms and turning, he freezes at the sight of the camera.

"How long were you standing there?"

"Enough to think you got lost on the way up here. You got daddy wrapped around your finger." She baby talks taking her into her arms. "Daddy's girl." She mumbles while kissing her cheeks.

Tearing his eyes away from the screen to his heart that sat beside him. Her laugh, how she smiled with her eyes. He swallows the lump in his throat. He didn't realize how much of

Y/N, Sarah possessed.

Filming over Joel's shoulder as he places a tower of cupcakes on the table and lights one cupcake with a candle.

Sarah bounces excitedly in Y/N's lap at the head of the table.

"Happy birthday, dear Sarah!"

"Happy birthday to you!"

"Blow out the candle." Y/N kisses her child's curly brown hair. She looks at her mama, then back at the candle. Opening her mouth wide, she took a deep, dramatic breath before blowing a wet raspberry onto the flame.

"Aaaawweeeewwwww!" Sarah exclaims in a mixture of awe, surprise, and disgust. Joel and Tommy chuckled at the captured memory.

Sarah grabs a fistful of pink frosting and shoves it into her mouth, in the process smearing it all over her face. Taking another handful, she smeared pink frosting across her mama's cheek. She grins down at the child who giggles at her work.

"This is my favorite part." Tommy bounces excitedly.

"What about Pop Pop, Sarah bean?" Tommy gets the camera ready as Joel takes a seat next to his girls. Sucking on her fingers, she looked up at the call of her name. Looking at her dad, who makes faces at her. "Pop Pop wants some birthday cake." He points to his brother. She squeals, giving a two-tooth grin. She wiped her frosting- and spittle-covered hand across Joel's face.

"Yay!" Everyone cheers.

~•~

"C'mon!"

"'ey!" Joel scolds out of breath reaching the tail end of the hiking trail. "Have some respect for the elderly." He pants. Looking up to Sarah handing him a water bottle. He takes it, guzzling it without complaint.

"You can't quit when you're so close to gaining bragging rights." She grins. "We can both rub it in Uncle Tommy's face."

The thought of Tommy sitting in the comforts of an air conditioned car. "Father daughter time" his ass he sneers, wiping the sweat from his brow, falling in step with his daughter.

"C'mon, you gonna check out this view."

"Wow." Joel gasped, looking out at the edge of the horizon.

"Thanks dad." She says catching him off guard.

"For what sweet pea?"

"You know." She shrugs off. Lifting his arm, pulling it over her shoulder. "HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY, MOM!" She shouts at the top of her lungs. She cupped her hands around her mouth like a megaphone. "LOVE YOU!" She laughs, catching the wide-eyed expression on her dad's face.

"Jesus." He breathes, holding her heart.

"I feel loads better." She smiles, gesturing with her eyes for him to follow suit. He takes a huge breath.

"HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY, MAMA!" He shouts. "I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!" He chuckles sadly.

"What would mom say right now?"

"That she loves us, we are crazy, and to stop screaming, before someone calls the cops."

Sarah laughs, smiling out at the setting sun.

(Let me know if I missed anyone)

Tag list:

@impala1967666

@minaxcarter

@blairfox04

@pedr0swh0r3

@thomasshelbee

@scoliobean

@starkleila

@d4rno

@finnsbubblegum

Series Chapter order:

Mrs. Miller

Mrs. Miller: Chapter 2

Mrs. Miller: Chapter 3

Mrs. Miller: Chapter 4

Mrs. Miller: Chapter 5

[mikiib]

The Magnus Archives: ALIEN AU (Part 1)

     So in short I had come up with an AU where the cast of TMA characters are set in the universe of ALIEN. They’re both my FAVORITE pieces of horror media I’ve consumed and so my brain figured- WHY NOT? So I have 13 pages and scenes in my brain that would take place in this AU. If this or the following posts that I’ll make inspire anyone I would LOVE to see what you come up with! In short this story has a mostly good ending.    

 Here’s a list of the things that ARE and AREN’T in this universe. 

- 14 Fears aren’t in this world. It’s fully immersed in the universe of the movie ALIEN/ALIENS. - The xenomorphs however have more powers- they can shape shift into anyone they ‘kill’. So if the alien hatches from the host but somehow the host survives then that creature can pretend to be that person. If they kill someone they can pretend to be them.  They still however take the main biological forms of the hosts they came from in regular form. - Queens are born when there is no other queen in near vicinity detected by the unhatched egg.  - The hatching of an egg takes a lot longer after implantation rather than a few hours like the original movie.  - The aliens acidic blood is still STRONG but not nearly as much. I nerfed that to a slower burn- if left on the surface for more than a few minutes it can still be JUST AS BAD as the movies version. - Cyborgs are a thing in this world- who is and isn’t a cyborg is up in the air- however you’ll find out if you follow the posts. - The aliens are weak to extreme heat and extreme cold. The younger they are the more vulnerable to both. Fire extinguishers and flamethrowers will be a big weapon in both firepower and as a melee weapons. - The technology is slightly more up to date compared to ALIEN’s 80′s tech, as there are in short video calls that can be held. -Mother (MU-TH-UR 4900) is the ships computer mainframe, and can connect directly to Elias with his acceptance of the transmission. Mother also monitors the crew and their vitals when they are under cyosleep. - They can quit. No bindings to ‘The Eye’ here. 

ARTIFACT RETRIEVAL VEHICLE: THE COEUS CREW: SEVEN

Captain and Scrivener (Archivist): Jonathan Sims (Age: 31)

  Executive Officer: Sasha James (Age: 35)

  Warrant Officer: Georgie Barker  (Age: 29)

  Navigator: Melanie King (Age: 27)

  Engineers: Tim Stocker (Age 33) & Martin Blackwood (Age: 27)

  Science Officer: Nikola Orsinov (Age: 30)

CARGO: OTHER WORLDLY ARTIFACTS UNDER STUDY COURSE: SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY MOON BASE: THE MAGNUS ARCHIVES 

-Everyone shares the role of being a Scribal (Archival) Assistants to Jon- no exceptions.  -The Magnus Archives is a space station on the Moon orbiting Earth.  -The cargo they carry is found from the ships that collect samples from uninhabited planets as well as statements from those who report to them their findings to investigate.  -The Admiral is the ships designated therapy cat to help the crew cope with isolation brought on by Georgie. -Elias Bouchard is the head of The Magnus Archives.

STORYLINE: 

     The story starts after they’ve collected the last of the artifacts required on the list to retrieve. They’ve been in cryosleep for over 6 months and only need 3 more months of it till they’d arrive to their destination. Everyone wakes up on their own time, Georgie first, along with Melanie and Martin. Followed by Tim, Sasha, Jon, and Nikola, they gather at the dining table of the living quarters. Martin makes everyone their preferred meals, seemingly the most nervous. This has been Martins first time aboard THE COEUS, and his banter with Sasha and Tim prove while not the best at his job there, he makes a mean meal out of the ‘rubbish space food’ provided. Melanie comes back after taking a look at their current location frowning, letting the others know they aren’t even close to Earth yet- not even in their solar system anymore. In surprise they turn to Jon, who himself has only been Captain on ship for only just before this crew was assigned to him. He gets up to check out whats going on, many of the others follow him, much to his disgruntlement as they basically fill the small room. Mother has intercepted a transmission of unknown origins and under contract of their jobs they must check it out. Curious to know more about their new course Jon calls Elias, who informs them it will be a 2 week set back on their schedules course. Jons not exactly excited about this but Tim’s quite happy to be informed it does give them quite a large bonus since it does seem confirmed of unknown (non-human) origins. 

     Once they arrive to their destination, Melanie sets the ship into motion for landing. She reads off all planet signs to the crew on. It’s a nearly isolated dwarf planet of 600 kilometers in diameter (372.823 miles). The surface on landing will be 23 degrees celsius- much warmer than expected but it does seem to be orbiting a sun fairly closely. They prepare for landing and Martin and Tim are set to get the ship in position. Martin and Tim talk together as they prep and make sure the landing legs will be fine against the surface of the planet. While they do so Sasha pops in announcing she gets to go with Jon and Melanie to investigate the source of the spooky transmission on foot. Meaning also she gets a bigger cut in the bonus than them. Tim and Sasha razz at each other but stop when sparks are spat in Martins face for wiring something wrong. He curses and Sasha comes over to help see what's wrong, pulling on gloves. She laughs a bit and gently teases him to choose a different degree to lie about next time he wants a new job as she fixes the wiring for him. Martin shushes her, claiming he didn’t expect them not to do background checks, nor did he expect to be given a position on one of the biggest damned cargo retrieval ships known. While he worked originally as a simple warehouse organizer at The Magnus Archives sister base on earth he had needed cash to help support himself after his Mother had moved out. Tim wraps an arm around Martin, claiming he’ll shield Martin from Jons prying eyes if anything goes wrong on this detour. They laugh a bit before the radio goes off from Jons office room. He’s complaining about the lights not turning on in there and would be thrilled if someone did their job correctly when fixing it before he gets back on the ship. Tim radios him that they’re on it before they tease Martin more on his obvious crush on Jon before Sasha is then called up to suit up. 

     Georgie is helping the 3 suit up properly, making sure their heart monitors are secure and attached to their neck to get an accurate pulse. Jon seems to be struggling most with the suit up, this unlike the other two, being his first time in a suit outside of the initial training. Sasha after having her camera feed double checked helps Jon out. And while Jon doesn’t say anything about it, it’s obvious Sasha should’ve gotten the job as Captain. Melanie the entire time rattling on about how excited she is to document her findings of a foreign transmission. 

     They land with ease, nothing going wrong as the planet, while rocky with a constant rain, is also somewhat flat. They make their way to the source of the transmission. Tim and the others are now watching from the ship- cameras live feed and audio coming to them as Georgie talks with Melanie about all the kind of things they could find on the ship to study. Nikola reminds everyone that without the items and everyone following the procedures for quarantine, no one is touching the items that may be brought back. The conversation dies out into aww when they see the space ship the signal is coming from appear on camera. Melanie is excited as Sasha and Jon start to look for a way in. Jon reminds them to stay close to him at all times as they enter the ship- its obvious he’d rather none of them go in here due to how degraded the place looks. Everything seems to have been heavily melted in random patches, but the ship itself seems to be made of a biological element of some sort- comparing it to a ribcage almost as they walk through it.

     As they traverse the ship they stumble across multiple dead alien bodies. They aren’t fresh but they also don’t look years old. Melanie goes to take a closer look at them but Jon quickly pulls her back from them, yelling about how obviously unsafe it is as well as the fact that she just broke formation rushing off into a different room. They both get into an argument about what should be done with the bodies, and how far their investigations should go. At this point the feed is hardly coming through via camera, but the audio makes it back to the the ship roughly. Sasha goes on without them as she’s getting closer to decode the transmission. it’s a warning of sorts is what she can gather. Looking at the bodies it may have been an illness of some type, each of them dead from some type of acid but she finds one with an open chest- like an explosion. she gets closer to one, that seems to shift out of the corner of her eye. She tries to let the others know but she realizes that they can’t hear her over their arguing, and she’s almost certain she’s lost on the foreign ship. So instead she brings herself closer to the alien body before something crashes behind her and she stumbles back, tripping over something, and screams as she bashes her head on the back of her helmet. She gets up and looks around and sees the shadow of the creature run off and she chases after it.

     That got the attention of the others as not only with the scream but Tim tells them her heart rate is spiking drastically. Jon and Melanie cry out for Sasha and she stops after meeting a dead end. She sighs and tells them she’s fine, she just fell and admittedly was just chasing after shadows. She turns around however and suddenly her heart monitor on the ship starts to read dead.  PART 2 

[jadoue1999]

Wanda and the life she deserved (she’ll make sure of it) Chapter 8

Summary: In honor of the amazing bob that is ¨Agatha all along¨, this chapter is from Agatha’s point of view! Find out how this century old witch deals with the event of Westview and how Peter ended up wearing the damn necklace in the first place! (Still pissed we never got an explanation for that) Please enjoy!

Previous parts: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, chapter 9, chapter 10, chapter 11, epilogue

Chapter 8: Agatha all along

Agatha had felt it in the air, a disturbance. A pulling force seemingly ripping through anything that should normally stop it. Similar to what created Westview, but this one was more contained, and a lot further. She did what any sane witch would do in her situation and rerouted the spell. A classic. Not interfering with anything, just taking what’s already there and changing the landing point. She didn’t have to wait long, soon, a young man with silver hair dropped on the stone floor. Agatha looked at the newcomer with amusement, Wanda couldn’t have done that, could she? Had the witch been so lost in grief that she ripped away a version of her brother? As the stranger stirred, she quickly hid in the shadows, first impressions were important after all. He cracked his eyes open and gripped his head in pain, the landing had to have been rough. She let him look around her dark dungeons, it was all about timing. She walked forward, slowly coming into view of the man.

“Well,” she started, amusement coloring her voice, “I see Wanda is getting desperate.”

The stranger eyed her with suspicion, slowly trying to get up to his feet. “Where am I?”

“I didn’t bring you here if that’s what you mean. Your unhinged sister did.”

“Lorna?” Agatha felt that the stranger had wanted to say another name, but it was apparently painful. Good, she could play with that.

“No dear, your twin,” she paused, reveling in his surprise and shock, followed by anger. She scoffed, “well, not technically, but details, details.” 

The man rose up to his feet quicker than anyone should be able to. Check for superspeed, definitely Wanda’s brother. He was still a little disoriented, so it wasn’t hard for Agatha to pluck him mid-step and bind him to the walls. The magic in the vines would be enough to contain him. She smirked as a series of curse words left his lips as he fought his bonds. Knowing there was no need for show now, she quickly casted a mind control spell on the man. 

Only for it to dissipate as soon as it reached him.

The witch frowned and tried again, to no avail. She tried reaching into his mind, only to find his thoughts flying at a thousand miles. She couldn’t get a grip, no matter how hard she concentrated. She opened her eyes to find that a migraine was now piercing through her skull. She tried her best to ignore it as she smirked. “Well, aren’t you a little problem?”

“My life’s purpose,” snarked the man.

Oh, he had spirit. She loved when they fought back, it made it all worthwhile when they finally broke. 

“Now, Pietro-“

“Name’s Peter.”

“Peter, you get to be the lucky guest star of the show,” Agatha announced, smugness in her voice. “Not only that, but I’m also going to give you a very secret mission.” The speedster glared at her, clearly not interested in her proposition. Tough crowd, I see. Nevertheless, she continued. “You see, I need information about a certain someone, you’ll be my eyes and ears.”

Peter scoffed at her plan, “not gonna happen, lady. You see, I’m part of a team, and they’ll notice I’m gone and when they do, they’ll-“

Agatha quickly casted a spell to stop his rambling. She found great satisfaction in seeing the man trying to talk. The panicked look on his face when he realized that no sound was coming out would definitely be a precious memory to look back upon. She walked over to the altar and opened the Darkhold. The spell book had to be containing tips or tricks to deal with speedsters. After a bit of looking, she found the few pages concerning this special type of power. She quickly read through the many tips and warning before finding what she was looking for.

“Hm,” scoffed Agatha, narrowing her eyes at the mutant as she closed the book. “I think the thing you need, is something much more tangible than a simple spell. Your brain is too fast, I need something real to make it last.” 

With a wave of her hand, a necklace appeared in her hand. It looked simple enough, there was about a dozen wooden beads with white shells. Agatha plucked a hair out of Peter’s head and began chanting in a language he couldn’t understand. The jewelry began to glow purple, Peter stared at it, uncertain of what was happening. Then, the witch took a step forward and that’s when he started struggling. Panicking is more accurate. All she could see was a moving blur, but it didn’t matter. She tightened the vine’s hold on him, the pain momentarily immobilizing the speedster. Those few seconds was all she needed to hook the necklace around his neck. She let his voice return as the memories of Wanda’s brother assaulted his mind, his screams echoing off the walls. It didn’t take long for the spell to take over him, Agatha released his bonds and led him upstairs. As they walked up the stairs, his clothes changed from a silver jacket and a band shirt to a black jacket with a purple Hawaiian shirt. 

She walked him outside, in front of Wanda’s house and nudged him forward with her magic; giving him the autonomy to fulfill his role. 

Agatha smirked as she watched Wanda welcome him into her home, her plan would work; she would get her answers.

...

 The contact had been lost. Ever since Halloween night, Agatha had lost her eyes and ears into Wanda’s house. She assumed she had casted him out or returned him to his dimension.

Imagine her surprise when he appeared out of nowhere, literally. She had been there for the twins, but the game had just become much more interesting. She eyed him carefully, noting how the necklace was still in place. Even though she couldn’t understand how he was still there, she acted like nothing was wrong. “Well, hello! I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” she held out a hand, “I’m Agnes, your neighbor to the right, my right not yours!”

The speedster didn’t seem to recognize her, which she was ever so thankful for. The memory spell she had casted back when he arrived was still doing its job. She had originally come for Wanda’s children, but getting her brother too was quite tempting. She quickly made her choice and turned to Wanda, faking worry. She proposed taking Tommy and Billy to give her a break, something Wanda seemed to find scandalous. Agatha reassured her; it wouldn’t be a problem. Plus, she could use her brother for repairs. 

She quickly got what she came here for, but the speedster refused to come. A flash of anger flared through her, she needed Wanda at her most vulnerable, how dare he try to foil her plan? 

Still, benevolent as she was, she let it slip. She had the boys anyway; she’d take care of him later. 

...

 Saying the twins were worried about their mom was an understatement, she could hear their worried thoughts all the way in the kitchen. Agatha was fixing them sandwiches, her neighbors were still at risk of suddenly joining her, she had to keep up the facade a little longer. Screaming from the outside distracted her from the boys. Not that they needed a caretaker; they were sitting on her couch, watching TV while eating the food she had just given them. 

“I’ll go check up on your mom, alright? I’ll be right back.”

Wanda was with the woman she had banished a few days ago. The screaming she had heard had now seemed to turn into a heartfelt conversation. Not good. She quickly shooed away the lady, leading Wanda to her house, she beamed on the inside. Finally, she would learn her secret, finally she’ll get her powers. She’ll drain her of everything she got, yes and once that would be done, she’d-

“Thanks Agnes, I don’t know what was up with her,” said Pietro. 

Oh, that simply wouldn’t do. How did he keep appearing at the most inconvenient times? She put up her friendly neighbor facade, but inside she was fuming. When asked about the twins, she assured them that they were fine. For now. Knowing she wouldn’t get Wanda at the moment; she reminded the troublesome speedster of the tasks she needed him for. She glared at them as she watched them walk away. Still, not everything was lost; she still had the Minimoffs in her grip. Time to get to work.

“How’s the show going boys?” Agatha cheerily asked. She didn’t listen to their answers as she placed a hand behind each of the boy’s head. She quietly muttered her spell, smirking as the twin’s bodies slowly relaxed and their eyes closed. Once she was sure they were fully asleep, she took each of them in her basement, shoving them into a cell. A noise upstairs startled her, but she grinned when the newcomer spoke.

“Agnes, I’m here!” Pietro’s voice echoed. She quickly walked up the stairs. 

“Oh! You arrived just in time; I just discovered a leaky pipe in the basement. I really don’t want mold growing down there!” She laughed and gestured at the man to follow her. Excitement building in her stomach as all the pieces slowly fell into place. After him, she’d only need Wanda. 

As they ventured down the stairs, she could feel his anxiety growing. She assumed his subconscious also remembered his previous incursion in the basement, but she couldn’t be sure about it. Still, Agatha could feel his senses on high alert as they reached her lair. 

At that, Pietro spoke up. “Where are my nephews?” he asked, slowly getting more aggressive after each word. 

“Indisposed, at the moment I’m afraid,” Agatha replied. With a flick of her hand, he was levitating in the air, restrains on his hands and feet. The lack of contact with any surface made his struggling useless. She approached him, eyeing him curiously. He was definitely still under a spell, there was no Peter present, only Pietro. Nothing he was wearing seemed out of the ordinary. Agatha looked at the necklace on his neck with suspicion, something was... different. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. The jewelry was the same original piece, nothing had been changed. Then why did she lose contact? She wondered. Then it clicked.

“Oh, that little witch,” smirked Agatha. “She changed the spell. Well, we can fix that.”

She went to remove the necklace, but a burning sensation made her gasp. She looked at her hand in shock, there was no bruise, but it was definitely hurting. When did Wanda learn to protect her spells like that? She brushed her hand against her shirt, trying to get rid of the sensation before looking at her neighbor’s not brother. He seemed oblivious to what had just happened, the necklace apparently wasn’t hurting him. That meant that Wanda probably discovered his real identity, but why keep him around if he was a fake? That could only mean one thing: she was so lost in grief that she had kept him at her side even knowing it was a trick. 

“Now Pietro, your nephews might be here,” she started, catching the man’s attention, “but that doesn’t mean they’re safe.” Agatha approached the speedster and gripped his chin. “That depends entirely on you. You see, I need a lookout, someone to make sure that I will not be disturbed when your sister gets here. You happen to fit the part nicely, with your superspeed. No one can run from you.”

The man scoffed, “how do you know I won’t just tell Wanda and she’ll take care of you?”

“Your sister might protect you from my magic, but that doesn’t apply to her children. One wrong move on your part and they pay the price.” 

She let him consider her offer, already knowing his answer. It’s not like he had much of a choice. Either he played sentinel, or she would keep him here and make things even worse for Wanda. Shutting his eyes, he reluctantly agreed. Agatha smiled as she released him, he was about to leave but she spoke up. “If you happen to catch anyone, you take them in the attic. You stay with them. I might not have control over your person, but you’ll find it impossible to leave this house unless I want you to.” 

The speedster was gone in a flash. She wished she could have taunted him with the truth, but she was fairly certain his sister’s magic wouldn’t have let it. With the power she possessed, she doubts he’d even remember if she told him he was from a different universe. 

The sound of her doorbell pulled her from her thoughts. Wanda was here. Time to get this show on the run.

...

Notes: Agatha is very fun to write and since I only wanted one chapter in her point of view, you get a chapter that double the usual lenght! Thank you for reading, reblogs and comments are always appreciated!

[commanderserwin]

lucky

↦ characters: erwin smith, reader [soulmate au]

↦ request: 

↦ a/n: ah yes, childhood romances! also i realized that you were looking for some fluff, and i was like: “oh, but let’s make it into soulmate!au-ish, and angsty!” i’m sorry in advance, i hope you like this still! i will make it up to you and write a cuter one, i swear! 

a. a timer for when they shall first meet.

b. a timer for when the other dies. 

The timer started ticking when you locked eyes with Erwin.

For a moment, it felt like it was just the two of you against everyone. His eyes felt so familiar even from afar, and you knew it was him. It was the boy whose name you would always whisper yourself to sleep because that's how silly childhood crushes were. They made your heart flutter every time they're near you, they make your hands clammy, as the words tumbled out your mouth whenever you would talk to him.

He felt the same way as you did, even as children. He would thank how destiny worked that day as you picked the last spot beside him for class. Then it continued, and he knew instantly it was you. The soulmate— it was how adults talked.

It was how the timer talked and how destiny worked its magic.

He didn't mean to look down on your wrist during that day, but when you looked down to meet his, both of you smiled widely that the muscles hurt around your mouth as you checked their time.

His timer went off when you sat beside him; and your timer went off when you sat beside him.

"Are we...?" You asked, leaning on his shoulder as the teacher discussed loudly, scribbling on the board.

"Soulmates." The boy answered, grinning as he leaned down to answer you. His blue eyes blinked as he heard himself say it, and his heart rambled as you said it faintly with him.

But what do children know? Soulmates were soulmates. It could be platonic or romantic— however people want to define it. It doesn't always have to end romantically, but it was what you wanted because what do children know?

They know the concept of love-- for parents and friends, but not for anybody at their young age. They could easily profess their love for each other but as children grew older, the concept of love becomes heavier, becomes deeper, becomes dangerous.

And love lurked everywhere that you looked, but it wasn't him.

They weren't your soulmate. No matter how hard you pushed it, and it seems silly because you already know who your soulmate is. The only problem is where your soulmate is. But the distance between you two grew wider as school comes to end, and your mother migrated you two further inside the Walls.

The distance grew wider, and it became harder to overcome it.

So when you found yourself walking through the gates as you tried to will destiny once more by going back to the school to teach, you couldn't believe your eyes that he was there on the plaza. 

Looking back, he was a little child— but he is all the man that he is.

His green coat fluttered towards the wind as he met you halfway, gently pushing people away as you cleared a path to meet him. His mouth opened and closed and you tried to read his lips but it was all for naught because he said it once more when he finally was inches away from you.

"Are we...?" He asked, fiddling with his bolo that he also wore when he was younger.

"Soulmates." You finished, smiling widely as you pulled him to a hug, relishing the fact that you found him again after all these years.

His arm wrapped around yours, and you looked down to where his other arm was but he only leaned on your cheek to hug you tighter, "A titan bit my arm off."

"Oh!" You chuckled, nodding on his chest as you pulled away. His blue eyes scanned yours while you exhaled loudly, blood rushing into your veins as you looked him right at the eyes. "That's... a story. Should we... talk about it?"

"I'm afraid I'm running out of time," Erwin said, cupping your cheek as he pulled away. He tapped on his coat, and there shows the Wings of Freedom— that you finally realized what he was. "But we could talk as I go."

"Mission for the Wall?" You asked, tucking your hair away as Erwin placed a hand on the small of your back to lead the way.

He silently nodded, smiling briefly.

It was a shame that he was going away right after you have met him. But it was better than nothing, it was better than lingering on the childhood crush you have on him— and now it blossomed to one more serious. It was just a meeting, and it all felt natural as if the strings binding you two together tightened as your steps synch with each other as Erwin held you with his hand.

His silly childhood crush— his soulmate, and he's finding it hard to meet your eyes.

It was good that you haven't looked at your timer, because he knows what it'll show. It will show his time and he wasn't sure if wants to learn how much he has left. He couldn't stomach it or he knows that you couldn't too. Erwin knows your time by heart, years and years that you have and he's afraid that if you look at the one on your wrist, it'll only show a fraction of an hour.

"Don't look at my timer," Erwin stopped you in your tracks, holding you by the shoulder. His hand traveled down to your wrist and in question, you only raised a brow. "Promise me."

"Erwin?" You asked, shaking your head at him. His timer was ticking for years already so it wasn't an issue. At some point, it stopped. Then it ticked again, and after it has happened so many times, it was better to leave it alone because you know his time will come back. Always. "Okay. But you should know, you've got years left last time I checked."

"When did you check?" Erwin asked, rubbing his ticking timer on your wrist as you wrapped a hand around your own timer.

"Last night," you replied, feeling your timer tick on his skin. Erwin shakily breathed, letting his guard down before you. "Are you... okay?"

"Yes," Erwin nodded, "Have it stopped before?"

"Yes, so many times," you smiled proudly as he patted his heart, " But you always come back."

"Always?"

"Always."

You didn't realize that you have walked towards the gate already, and the whole Survey Corps has mounted their horses. Erwin looked back at them, raising a hand as you shyly whipped your head to the waiting soldiers.

"I have to..."

"Of course!" You exclaimed, sending him off as Erwin froze in his steps. You caught his hesitation but you only squeezed his shoulder as he looked down at you with a small smile. For a split second, your Erwin was scared. So far from what he showed just minutes ago. And it made you scared, but you have to push it all away or else you would think of the inevitable. "Just remember you always come back, Erwin."

"I will come back," Erwin repeated to himself, breathing deeply as he clasped his hand with yours, squeezing it tight while you offered a sincere smile at him.

It has been years since he's seen you and he wished he had the courage to walk towards you for all the years that he's missed it. He looked back at his troops, as they all watched intently as their Commander stayed frozen.

"What do you do?" Erwin hurriedly asked, turning his body towards you. His eyes scanned your face rapidly, chest panting because that's something he missed to ask. Just one more detail, he just wanted to know.

"I'm a teacher," you answered slowly. He didn't speak as he listened, his eyes asking for more as if to keep you longer with him. "I teach at the school near here. I'm about to go in, actually."

"Are they good kids?" He asked, placing his hand back on your back as he pulled you to him sideways.

"Very good kids," you nodded against his shoulder as you both watched the audience— the troops, and they didn't shy away their eyes.

"Did somebody find their soulmate during your class?"

It made you laugh.

"Unfortunately, they aren't lucky like us."

It made him laugh.

"I'll find you at the school and we could talk over dinner?"

"I'd like that, yes."

Erwin rubbed your back, as he looked ahead. He looks like he wanted to ask more, but one man finally called for him, and his time was over. Behind your back, he looked through his wrist where your time ticked on his skin. Years.

Maybe he could share those years with you.

Erwin pulled away, cupping your cheek in a farewell as he looked back once more, watching you wave widely as the other onlookers cheered for their mission. You did the same, waving your hands crazily as he mounted his horse, the rest following as they tightened their hold on their horse's reins. His voice boomed above the noise, and he looked back momentarily at you— then he was gone.

That one stare, and you carried it inside your classroom.

The children greeted widely, as they took their books out as well, flipping through the pages while you rummaged to get your coat off. The sun graced the classroom beautifully— just like how your day started off beautifully.

He always comes back.

You folded your sleeves back up, showing your wrist as you caught a glimpse of his timer. It was a promise, and it was nothing to worry about. His timer ticked years, and you finally found the reason why his always stopped and would resume. You pushed it away, reassuring yourself that his timer would still be years.

You turned your back to the class, scribbling on the board as the children read together, their small voices fleeting through the room. You read along with them, carrying your book as you wrote on the board, holding the chalk perfectly.

Then it ticked.

His timer ticked on your wrist and you broke his promise.

It felt like a punch to your gut as you watched the numbers go down.

2 minutes: the timer when the other one dies and the chalk from your fingers fell to the ground as the children read.

1 minute: and your mouth dried because it has never been this bad before. It felt too suffocating and you moved your mouth still to read along with the children.

30 seconds: you breathed heavily, nervously flipping through the pages as the timer went down.

20 seconds: No, Erwin was supposed to look for you when he comes back. It was supposed to be dinner to talk about the times you've missed— starting from the day you moved away and years that are left. Erwin was your friend, the person at the end of your destiny.

10 seconds: somebody squealed— two girls squealed as they showed the timers on their wrists go off. The timer when they shall first meet. The girls held hands as they cheered right in the middle of class.

"Soulmates!" The girls cheered.

5 seconds: "Erwin," you whispered to yourself as the children erupted into laugher.

0:00: shock came— and it glued you to the floor. The taste of blood on your tongue made you turned your back to them, as you wiped it away on your lips. You breathed shakily, feeling the tears fall down your cheeks as Erwin's timer on your wrist stopped.  

The girls held hands in the middle of the class as you faced them with puffy eyes while you forced yourself to smile. You even clapped your hands together as they sang, the lesson long forgotten as they cheered all together.

"Lucky."

[divinerivals]

A late night in the library

Warning: NSFW CONTENT

Shortly after dinner that evening they parted ways. Cassian for a night out with his brothers and her to the library. She was close to finishing a book and he learned, albeit the hard way, not to disturb Nesta Archeron when the end of a book was in sight. It was best to leave her alone and when she finished, Nesta would come to their room. Undressing as she went into such vivid detail of the stories she read. Did he remember them all? No. Not a chance. She read through books as quickly as he could fly from Velaris to the Spring Court. Keeping up with all the stories was impossible, but he tried. For her, he tried and always will. Cassian knew her better than anyone. Though she made sarcastic quips about him not keeping up, Nesta appreciated the gesture. It meant more than words to her. That he would stay up and listen to her go on about what she loved and hated about each book. Tonight was unusual for her.

Upon entering their room he noticed she hadn't retired for the evening. He knew with only five chapters remaining she'd have finished hours ago. The room was dark and barren. No figure laid in bed waiting for him to curl his wings and arms around. The hour was late as Cassian turned away heading for where he knew she would be. At least he hoped. The general commander wouldn’t know what he would do if his mate wasn’t. Perhaps she had fallen asleep in her chair reading. It wouldn’t be the first time Cassian found Nesta fast asleep with a book in her lap.

He strode quietly into the library. Moonlight shining through the elongated windows illuminating the room, casting a soft glow. His feet drifted as if he was in a trance walking past all the books and shelves. Some thousands of centuries older than him and some younger than that of his mate. If Nesta was to be found where he left her, she would be in her favorite chair next to one of the large windows. The fabric was plush and smooth when you ran your palms over it. The color was a deep vermilion like the reddest of wines. In the light of the moon, the color appeared as dark as the inky night sky. Cassian glanced over towards the area. No one was there.

“Nes?” He called out moving slowly towards the chair. Hearing no response nervousness began seeping into his bones like a slow poison.

Cassian settled into the chair, it was still warm and her scent everywhere. Sitting into the enormous chair he realized why she liked it so much. It was as comfortable as their bed and he understood why he constantly found her here. With feet tucked under herself, head resting in the corner of the chair. Running his eyes over the small ornate side table sat a small candle still lit. Briefly, Cassian watched the fire dance wildly around its glass home before moving to the mug on its left. The mug he realized was earl grey and half gone. Wrapping his hands around the half-drunk tea, Cassian could still feel warmth in the porcelain. Behind the candle and the teacup laid a new stack of books. Cocking his head to the left he noticed there were new reads at the top. Books labeled, A Cruel High lord, Wickedness of a High Lord, The High Lady of Nothing. Relief replaced the growing nervousness knowing what occurred.

Nesta finished the book and started new ones. As his fears dispersed he could feel her presence in the library and knew she’d return soon. Foolishly he smirked picking up the first book A Cruel High lord. Leaning back into the chair like it truly was his bed welcoming him. Cassian opened the book to a random page. Hazel eyes briefly scanned the well-worn pages slightly frayed at the edges. Whether it was due to old age, various readers, or both, he couldn’t say. He found himself reading an excerpt about a mortal girl. Of her kissing a High Lord of the day court while she held a dagger to his throat. His mind drifted off to Nesta. Straddling his hips and doing the same. Preferably tied to a chair like this High Lord, Cardan Greenbriar. With a name like that he’d assumed the guy would be in a Spring court, not a Day.

“I thought I felt you near,” Nesta spoke up from the shadows as she stepped into the small alcove.

Cassian snapped the book shut looking up to her, “Hey to you too,” grinning while placing the book back on the stack.

Tucking her new book into the crook of her arm, placing a hand at her waist, “You’re in my seat. Move it.”

That grin on his strong features growing at her command. Folding his arms across his chest, Cassian crooned, “You know sweetheart. I don’t think I will.”

Nesta rolled her sea storm eyes sauntering over to him, “Fine,” if he wanted to play games so would she. What her mate didn’t know was she was already a step ahead.

Nesta's gossamer gown hugged her womanly curves so tightly it was like a second skin. He swallowed thickly as his darkened gaze trailed from her hips up to her breasts. The cut of her gown barely kept his favorite playthings in check. The way she smirked, Nesta knew it too. Mother damn him, he only wanted to bury his face in between those glorious mounds of tissue. like he was burying his head in the softest pillows. The mere thought of her breast in his mouth, made his cock twitch. Hell, the simple thought of Nesta did. Nesta moved with the utmost grace as her hips swayed with every movement approaching him like he was sitting atop a throne. Cassian, seeing her move before she made it, unfolded his arms resting them on the chair and welcoming Nesta into his waiting lap.

Her hair pulled into a tightly braided crown granting him full access to her neckline, “This is nice,” he murmured hotly against her ivory skin causing goose flesh to rise. Pressing a chaste kiss below her lobe, he wound his arms over hers pulling Nesta to his chest. Even his wings inched a little closer to her.

Nesta leaned into his touch with a soft hum, “And this is different. Is Nesta Archeron showing affection?” He teased reaching up to undo her perfect braid, watching with domesticated ease as her hair flowed out in soft waves from its confines. He adored the way her honey-colored tresses fell and framed her face.

“Prick.”

She could feel his fingers tenderly run along her arms in soothing strokes as his lips continued their endless exploration of her neck down to the decolletage of her midnight blue gown.

“Such language sweetheart.."

Gathering the fabric of her deep blue gossamer gown, Nesta twisted in his lap. In doing so broke the tender embrace they briefly shared. He didn’t mind it, in true Cassian fashion, he preferred her this way. The way her hair fell loosely around her face, dusting the tops of her generous breasts. How the blue-grey in Nesta’s eyes brimmed with both fury and passion at him, pink lips pursed out in agitation. His arms dropped one against the swell of his back. The other on her thigh slowly pulling the skirt up. Cauldron boil him; he wanted nothing more than to take her right now in this damned library. Ravish her against the shelves, the windows, in this very chair. The area didn’t matter. When Nesta looked like she would eat him alive, Cassian was irresistible to it, a moth to a flame. She pressed up against his chest like a cat looking for affection.

Bringing her lips mere inches from his own. Sharing breaths as she purred low and wanton, “Don’t like me so crass?” she teased, “Pity,” Nesta pulled away reaching for the book that was in her arms moments ago, Holding it by the binding she shook it in front of him, “And to think I had a gift for you?”

“Oh?”

Holding the book in her hands stretching her arms as high as she could, Nesta rolled her hips into him. Teasing her love in the best way, the wicked way. Cassian let out a feral groan feeling her clothed core against him hardening with every moment. She had him pinned where she wanted him. He wasn’t a fool, he knew the flirty games she played. Fisting a hand in her soft tresses pulling Nesta to his lips, Kissing with such intensity he was sure there’d be a bruise. Neither of them, he knew, didn’t care. The hand on her thigh quickly slid up her womanly shape, curling around her arm as he freed the book from her grasp.

“Too easy,” he laughed against Nesta’s mouth, flicking his tongue over her wet lips, “This apart of those books,” he nudges towards the stack.

“You tell me,” she breathed, “ I saw the book in your hands when I approached. You were reading it.”

He snorted, “Was not,” as he opened to the first page realizing his mate had as much as a filthy mind as he. Bless whatever smut books she reads that instilled this idea. Inside the cover was nothing but a pair of black lace underthings. Cassian looked down at the book to his mate repeating the gesture a few times.

Chewing her bottom lip Nesta waited for his reaction. Her heart pounding at his wordless response. She thought he would be interested. To have her here in this room she loved so much. When she felt him enter the library, Nesta thought it was a fun idea. Many of her books had couples give themselves to one another in forbidden places. All he could do was glance at her undergarment and back to her. She almost gave up. Readying to stand and find another room to sleep for the evening. Cassian closed the book with an audible snap. The sound echoing in the stillness of the library. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a small knife lifting it to their eyes copying his opposite fist holding her garments.

“These,” he said roughly gripping the black lace, “Are mine now,” shoving them in his pocket, “If you take them I’ll tear them off of you with my teeth.”

“Is that a challenge?” She questioned, brows raised.

He smirked hazel eyes burning with amused desire, “Try taking them and find out,” a devious glint shined in her eyes while Cassian pushed back her skirt revealing her uncovered core. A single-digit reached down into the apex of her thighs teasing her entrance with a lazy stroke eliciting a mewled moan from her, “you’re a wicked woman Nesta. I love you all the more for it,” he growled against her neck running his tongue from her jaw to collarbone while his finger rubbed over her increasingly slick folds. Pulling away Cassian held the knife in front of her handing it over by the hilt, “Yeah, I saw some of that book. If you’ve read it you know what I want you to do.”

Wrapping a hand over the hilt, Nesta took the simple knife. Cassian brought a second finger to her clit in slow ministrations, “What if mm...I.... cut you?”

Sliding his fingers into her heated index, curling upward stroking her velvet walls, “Fire of my life,” his voice thick with lust, “No better way for me to go than your mouth on mine and some part of me inside you. Even if you meant the kill.”

A wicked smirk that would make the most seductress jealous crossed her high fae features. Nesta did as her mate requested. Raising the blade to his throat while he continued pumping her. Nesta gripped his shoulder, nails digging through the fabric of Cassian's shirt as she rode his fingers. Keeping the steel blade steady Nesta leaned up, running her tongue along the seam of his mouth pushing through taking the access they both craved. Lips against lips as their teeth and tongues collided in a heated dance. He'd bite and pull her bottom lip and she returned the favor. The hand on his shoulder reached up for his wing, Nesta splayed her hand against the veins. Moving her palm in fluid motions of the warm, smooth wings, silky as her skin. Cassian groaned into her mouth at the touch, her lips vibrated to the sound. Cauldron this woman would destroy him.

Her hips writhed against his fingers as he repeatedly thrust them into her core. A thumb trailing over folds before pressing hard along her clit. A guttural moan escaped her lips mid-kiss just as her hand gripped the hilt of his blade tighter, pushing into the smoothness of his skin, but not breaking. The harder she panted the faster his fingers worked. Nesta’s fingers continued moving along the veins of his wings. Like she was trailing delicately over an aged map she’s used hundreds of times. By now he was painfully hard with the sinful touch of her digits over his wings, her cunt squeezing around him, the mewled moans, and her damn voluptuous breasts pressing against the solid muscle of his chest, begging for his touch, Cassian was utterly loss into a blissful world of Nesta.

“Cass,” she spoke out in low panted breaths just below the lobe of his ear.

“Nes,” he growled onto her skin.

“Give me more of you,” Nesta demanded

Pulling his fingers from within her, Cassian reached up grabbing a fistful of hair exposing Nesta's neck. Dragging his tongue from her collarbone up to her jawline tasting the sweetness of her skin. The opposite hand roaming over her body up to her breasts grasping so roughly Nesta gasped in surprise before glaring.

“That’s not nice,” he growled lower this time, more feral.

Nesta’s hand on his wing dropped to thick waves of his hair copying his movements. Manicured nails scraping against his scalp. Carefully she angled his neck to avoid cutting him with the d blades fine tip. The action causes Cassian to drop his hold on her tresses and fill them with her heavy breasts. Fingers digging into the soft tissue through the fabric of her gown as Nesta leaned over biting and sucking the nape of his neck.

A hand dragged from his inky black hair down and down until she reached the softness of his pajama bottoms, sliding down to grasp the treasure she sought. Nesta wrapped a warm palm around his shaft, working in slow strokes listening to Cassian’s groan and feeling his hips jerk under her weight. She’s always known how hot her body ran when she called the shots, but this she held all the control. The blade at his throat her opposite hand on his cock. The general commander was hers to command.

“Now,” Nesta tossed the blade to the ground as it fell with an audible clank, “You know I take what I want. She helped pull his pants down exposing his hardened member. A wicked grin pulled at her plump lips while running a thumb over the head. She switched hands sucking her thumb of his saltiness. Cassian had to resist all urges to not come at the moment. She looked every a bit a feral goddess. Blue-grey eyes brimming with lust, cheeks tinted pink, lips swollen and red, and her long hair fallen wildly around her face. Cauldron bless the high power who gave him Nesta as a mate. Who shared his depravity or in the least entertained it.

Nesta's entire body sang with a fiery, ache for him. Wasting no time, her knees braced tightly against his thighs in the large chair, she hiked her gown up positioning herself over him. In one swift motion, she slid her soaked core onto his length taking him to the hilt. She was tight and warm around his cock, her walls conforming perfectly to him, like a glove. They both groaned in unison becoming one.

Immediately Cassian stripped himself of his shirt. Discarding it to the ground. Nesta splayed her hands across the solid muscle, as she began to move. Slender Hips rocking against muscled ones. Cassian reached behind pulling down the zipper of her dress, loosening the fabric. Nesta quickly pulled her arms from the sleeves letting the gown fall to her belly. He filled his hands with the heaviness of her breasts. Squeezing and kneading the soft tissue, taking her pert nipples in between his thumb and forefinger. She could feel his nails digging into her tender flesh. Cassian took her breast in his warm mouth. His tongue trailing over her mounds then flicking over her nipples, as he sucked her breast. Hands winding their way into his thick, sweat riddled locks pulling him further to her chest. Cassian's opposite hand slid under the gossamer fabric gripping her ass cheek. Rocking her harder and faster over his cock as she rode him.

Nesta threw her head back, moaning louder with each thrust and each suck of his mouth on her. Her sounds of pleasure echoed through the stillness of the library. Nails raking down to his slick back feeling the ripple of muscle move beneath her touch. Cassian's wings brushed against her arms as if begging for his mates attention. She knew what that meant. By the wing touch, the ragged breaths, and the way her hips shook they were close. With a wet pop, he pulled off her breast. Firmly gripping her waist she knew what he needed. Nesta quickly pulled herself off him turning in his lap before settling down and taking him deep inside again.

This way she felt him inside her more as she bounced and rocked over his cock. Cassian's hand found themselves at her breasts. Using them to hold her tight against his bare chest while he pounded her from this new angle. Cassian loved the weight of her soft mounds as her breasts bounced wildly in his grasp. He fondled her chest with hasty roughness that had her crying out in mewled responses. She tossed her back, resting on his shoulders. The sound of skin slapping against skin and her breaths ragged and high pitched repeating a chorus of mmm, Cas, fuck, faster echoed in the heady air. With each quickened thrust he could feel himself hitting her core. He could feel her inner walls squeezing his cock tighter and tighter with each movement.

Nesta’s hips quaked as the heat from within pooled out from her belly spreading through her. By the erratic thrusts, she could tell Cassian was nearing. Her arm looped around his neck. He sucked and kissed at her neckline, throaty groans vibrating her ivory skin while continuously working her breasts.

"Wing," she rushed out.

With urgency, he enclosed his wings around them as Nesta reached it with her spare hand. Her digits working the veins of his wing. She knew just the right spots to make him spill inside her. Three more thrusts, her vision blurred when she cried out his name like he was her savior. Just as he growled into her flesh.

Nesta’s arms fell to the armchairs, resting her head to his shoulder. Cassian let go of Nesta’s breasts, pushing her sweat riddled hair from her face and kissing her cheek. His hands moved down to meet hers. Entwining their hands together. His thumb running soothing circles over the back of her hands while coming down from the high.

"Have I told you how amazing you are?" He questioned. His voice laced with exhaustion and tenderness.

"Every day. But please," she yawned loudly, "enlighten me."

"I will. In the morning when I'm fucking you again."

That earned his favorite thing to hear from her, laughter. From the cold, cruel nature everyone sees of Nesta. Her laughter would surprise them. Whenever that honeyed sound came through, he swore he fell more in love with her.

"You're ridiculous."

"For you. I'm ridiculous for you, Nesta," he paused and then reached for her breasts. Touching with care before bouncing them in his hands, "and these. I'm ridiculous about your fun bags."

She snorted, climbing off him, "Don't ever call my breasts fun bags again if you want to touch them," she slipped her arms back in her dress. Cassian stood pulling his pants up. He walked around to her back zippering the gown. He turned around walking to his shirt and knife picking both up. The knife he pocketed and the shirt he kept in his hand returning to Nesta.

"You're no fun," he said, lowering himself to the floor, Cassian lifted her gown. Wiping away their combined juices with his shirt.

She looked down at him fixing a pointed look. It only made Cassian grin like a damn fool, "Out of all the men in the world. Why in Cauldron did I fall in love with you?"

"Because you're irresistible to my charm?" she rolled her eyes, laughing that beautiful laugh again, "Come on. I'll carry you to bed."

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

a/n: Over the next week or so I am transferring my fics to tumblr. I kinda prefer the tumblr platform and I am on here more than ao3. So some of the fics I will be posting, yes you may have seen before, like this one.

Taglist: @slightlyrebelliouswriter23​ @hizqueen4life​ @clockworkgraystairs​ @b00kworm​ @negativenesta​ @sjm-things​​ @whataboutmyfries​​ @justgiu12​​ @illyrian-bookworm​​ @thesirenwashere​​ @forbiddencorvidae @vanessa172003​​ @thewickedkings​​ @sleeping-and-books​​ @thefolkofthefic​​ @yafandomsdotnet​​  @alittledribbledrabble​ @iminsanenotobsessed​ @figuredihadanodustollensofalife​ @df3ndyr @awkward-avocado-s @maastrash @knifewifejude​

want to be on my taglist? let me know!

[midshipmank]

These Violent Delights Review (contains spoilers)

Where to begin with this book? I finished it almost two weeks ago, but I put off reviewing it because I had a lot of thoughts about it and a lot of ranting to friends to do before I felt calm enough to write an actual review. I personally dislike rant reviews and didn’t want to be the author of one. And it’s not like I hated this book! It had so much potential! I still think the concept was great! But I had so many craft problems with this book that I actually started writing notes and using page flags to keep track of everything that bothered me. I don’t normally do that!

So here we go. TLDR: Brilliant idea, terrible execution.

I split my page flags into 3 categories while reading: language, character, and gang-related (which ended up becoming worldbuilding in general). All of these informed my thoughts on what I found to be the biggest problem with this book in the end, which was the fact that it was a retelling. Or rather, it was supposed to be. This book is marketed as “Romeo and Juliet in 1920s Shanghai,” but it really, really does not want to be Romeo and Juliet. It is fighting that framework with everything it’s got. It makes me think that the idea of retelling Romeo and Juliet, regardless of setting, was probably the original inspiration for the book, but it definitely outgrew the play. The author needed to just let the retelling go and let the story be free.

What really firmly convinced me that this should not have been a R&J retelling was actually the author’s note in the back of the book. Gong talks about how, though there was no blood feud between two gangs at this time, she tried to keep the story as true to history as possible. So she lists all of the groups that were vying for power in 1920s Shanghai, all of whom were featured in the story in some way. And that’s exactly the problem. From a political perspective, Romeo and Juliet is a very simple play. There are only three groups with power: the Montagues, the Capulets, and the Prince. In 1920s Shanghai, there were always at least four (counting all the foreigners as one group) and, with her added blood feud, there’s always at least FIVE. If you have three other powerful groups running around causing problems, it pretty much takes all the intensity of your blood feud out of your blood feud. With everything else that was going on with the Communists, Nationalists, and foreigners, whenever the blood feud between the gangs came up, I was always sort of like, “Why is this here? It feels so pointless. What could it possibly add to the story?” All it really did was slow everything down because the gangs refused to work with each other, and add a layer of ~forbiddenness~ to the main romance. The actual plot of the story, about a British businessman unleashing a madness-inducing insect upon Shanghai, had literally nothing to do with the blood feud.

It would have made more sense to insert Roma and Juliette into two of the existing powers of historical Shanghai, and, indeed, Gong almost did: Roma could have been part of the “foreigners” block, like Paul Dexter. But for some reason the White Flowers were treated as separate from the foreigners for reasons I don’t totally understand. In the author’s note, Gong talks about how the Russian refugees in Shanghai never actually held much power, but that there was a reason she made them equal in power to the Scarlet Gang in this story. She doesn’t ever actually give that reason. Basically, as I read the author’s note, I kept thinking, “Then why didn’t you write about this? Or that? Or that? Why did you add all this stuff, when the actual history is more interesting?”

The other things that made this feel really unlike Romeo and Juliet are all character and gang-related. The thing that makes Romeo and Juliet WORK is that the characters, even when foolish and impulsive, COMMIT to the foolish and impulsive decisions they make. And those decisions have MASSIVE consequences. In a short series of fatal moves, they bind themselves to their fates. But halfway through this book, in the middle of yet another argument about what should be done (if anything) about the madness, I stopped and thought to myself, what has been done? What have these characters actually been doing? I was halfway through the book and it felt like nothing had happened. Sure, people had died and guns had been fired, but what were the consequences? Had anything actually CHANGED? It was at that point that I began to add page flags and take notes. I was tired and frustrated by the endless pages of characters waffling around Shanghai, having the same arguments over and over, and not accomplishing anything. This book was paced like it was written by the seat of Gong’s pants during NaNoWriMo, and then never underwent any significant structural edits. (The meanest my rants about this book ever got was after I finished it and described it to my twin as “sound and fury, signifying nothing.” But that’s still what most of it felt like.)

One of the best examples of what I mean is a persistent problem I had with Juliette that was both character- and gang-related. Basically: there’s a point in the book where she thinks that everyone in Shanghai can recognize her on sight (and indeed, this does happen) because she’s the heir to a very powerful gang and she dresses in American clothes. So far so good. But on another occasion, she raids some place in pursuit of the Larkspur with Roma at her side in front of at least a hundred witnesses, and then….nothing. She doesn’t find the Larkspur, and later when talking to one of her cousins, she worries that her cousin might have learned about what she did. But then she thinks, no, it’s not possible that anyone knows I did that with Roma! And she’s right. SHE’S RIGHT. She waved her gun around and shouted in front of at least a hundred people, and was clearly working with Roma while she did it, AND NO ONE FOUND OUT. Things like this happened over and over with Juliette. Normally I’d love an interpretation of Juliet who’s so hot-headed and driven, but she got away with SO MUCH without ever being recognized or experiencing any consequences. In the end, my suspension of disbelief broke. Juliette’s antics, and consequently all the rest of the gang-related drama, became melodrama. It made me roll my eyes. I just couldn’t believe it anymore. This whole thing with Juliette wasn’t the only gang-related thing that frustrated me, but it was the biggest one.

In an effort to give Gong the benefit of the doubt: Romeo and Juliet can be read quite melodramatically. Maybe this is the effect she intended? Maybe she wanted us not to take it seriously?

But that brings me to my next point: at times, this book seemed to take itself TOO seriously. I got this impression mostly from the language. My initial reaction to the prose was, “Wow, this is so beautiful!” Eventually, though, it mostly just seemed purple. I kept wanting to cut sentences in half. It was like it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be a normal YA book or if it wanted to emulate William Shakespeare. So in the end, it mostly just seemed like an overwritten YA book in which the characters spouted needlessly flowery lines that just sounded silly. Again, it became melodrama. This was actually the first thing I started page-flagging.

The problem with the language wasn’t just silly though; it also had a detrimental effect on the plot and characterization. At times, the book was written in third-person omniscient and at times it was in third-person close. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that, but with the confusion of the plot I described above, it became difficult to keep track of who knew what. There were two separate times in the book when the characters discovered something about the monster and I thought, “Wait….didn’t everyone already know that?” One of these times was within the last twenty or so pages. I’m trying to stay calm right now, but it was unbelievably frustrating for something that had been obvious since the first page to be realized by one of the main characters at the very end of the book. I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw the book across the room. But it is very pretty, so I didn’t.

The detrimental effect the language had on character was mostly that I never felt like I knew any of the characters. They’re fond of reminiscing dramatically on the past, but all we ever get are random details and no actual story. I kept waiting for a flashback that never came. I’m not a huge fan of flashbacks, but this book really, really could have used one. Both Roma and Juliette are very poetic about their shared history, but it all rang hollow because I felt like I had nothing real to grasp onto. They played games by the docks and killed each other’s loved ones? That’s pretty much all I got. By the end of the book, I still had no idea why they even liked each other. It’s mentioned several times that they thought they could end the blood feud, but, given how the blood feud pales in comparison to the actual history of Shanghai, that didn’t seem like much. The blood feud is not Shanghai’s biggest problem historically or in this book! So why should I care?

So we come back to the main problem of this book not feeling like Romeo and Juliet. It doesn’t want to be Romeo and Juliet! It is begging to be something else! The real causes of turmoil in Shanghai at this point in history were the foreign powers and the workers’ strikes. Gong says that herself! She made the foreigners the villain, which I think was a very good choice, but the workers’ strikes and growing Communist party just ended up feeling like set dressing. Background scenery. It added nothing to the plot but a red herring. In the authors’ note, Gong says that if she had followed history more closely, there would have been strikes in every chapter. I can understand why that would seem overwhelming, but if she didn’t wanted to include the workers’ strikes, then maybe….this should have been set….in a different time period….because this time period….has too many political elements….for an R&J retelling to work…. Just a thought! Or maybe she should have tossed R&J, which is the option I prefer, because the actual history is, as I have said before, much more interesting than a fictional blood feud between gangs.

In an effort to not be entirely negative about this book, I do have a mild interest in reading a comparison of this book with The Beetle by Richard Marsh. The Beetle is a Victorian novel and, like many Victorian novels, it’s about Britain’s fear of reverse-colonization, or being infiltrated by one of the countries’ they’ve invaded. In The Beetle, the infiltration comes in the form of a scarab from Egypt that carries some curse. I don’t remember all the details, since I read the book several years ago, but I found it interesting that this book had a similar concept of foreign invasion via insects. I think it would be interesting to compare the two, especially since they have opposite perspectives on British imperialism.

So, in summary: I think the idea of this book was great. I would have loved to read a retelling of Romeo and Juliet set in 1920s Shanghai that worked; unfortunately, for a variety of craft problems related to pacing, worldbuilding, characterization, and language, I don’t think this book worked at all. It wanted to be so much more than a Romeo and Juliet retelling, and the author should have let it.

Am I going to read the second book? Maaayyybe. I might get curious enough about the backstory to see whether she puts it in that book. But if I do read it, I’m getting it from the library.

[rune-writes]

Family Album

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

Cloti Fall Festival 2020 by @clotiweek Day 2: Tradition

Word count: 2269

Rating: T

Warning: none really, but there are mentions of the Nibelheim Incident and Cloud’s mother’s death. Not anything too graphic though.

Summary: Cloud was cleaning the storage when he came across an old dusty book on the shelves. As he pulled it out, a small square paper fluttered by and landed on his feet. It was a photograph of a little girl with long ebony hair and bright ruby eyes sitting in front of a piano.

Read on AO3. 

~*~*~*~*~

Cloud was cleaning the storage when he came across an old dusty book on the shelves. Blackened and burnt, it stood out among other thick, heavy volumes and an abandoned computer set, fraying around the edges with a hint of red leather underneath. A little haphazard in the way it was placed, as though whoever had unpacked their moving boxes had dumped its contents with no regard of what was inside. 

Cloud scrunched his brows and tilted his head to the side. He set his rag down and pulled the book out of the shelf, blowing the dust away and wiping the rest from the hard, crisp edges. It looked like it had caught fire a long time ago, but the binding was thick enough to preserve the overall shape. The scorched pages had grown musty, the edges set in permanent blackened curl. The front cover had nothing except an engraved border that had seemed to be embossed in gold once upon a time, but had now faded with age.

Curious of what such a book contained, Cloud gingerly lifted the cover. As he did, a piece of small square paper fluttered by and fell on his feet. Cloud reached down and picked it up.

A photograph? It was so old that the paper had grown yellow and the colors had faded. Upon closer inspection, he could make out a little girl, probably around seven or eight years old, that looked uncannily like Tifa. The same round face, the same ruby eyes. Her long ebony hair hung low down her back as she sat in front of her piano, facing the camera with a huge grin across her face.

A picture from before the Fire…

Cloud recognized the piano. He recognized the room. He remembered sitting by his windowsill every time a piano melody drifted in from the house next door, followed by laughter and giggles as Sara Lockhart taught her daughter how to play the instrument. Cloud’s fingers trembled as his gaze shifted back toward the book.

Lifting the cover once more, Cloud adjusted his position to get the best light possible in the dim storage. LOCKHART was spelled across the front page with doodles and scribbles of what looked like a deformed dog, a flower, and then three faces beneath it. Papa, Mama, and Tifa.

Cloud stopped short. It was Tifa’s family album. When he flipped to the next page, the first picture he met was of Tifa’s parents in their younger days. Probably around the time after they just got married. Brian Lockhart had his arm around his wife in front of their two-story house Cloud knew so well, their faces parting into small smiles. The next picture was of the small garden they’d kept in their front yard, to which Cloud often saw Tifa help her mother tend. Then there were many pictures of Brian—Brian going to work, Brian in the living room, Brian having dinner. There were not many pictures of Sara herself—at least not alone. She was always with someone, either her husband or one of the villagers. When Cloud spotted a familiar face, his hand went still.

His mother, in that brown dress and white apron, her blond hair tied back to a ponytail, stood shoulder to shoulder with Sara. The huge toothy grin plastered across her face seemed enough to brighten a room. She looked so young then—much younger than he was now. Had she even had him?

Cloud traced his mother’s face with his finger. The painful twinge to his heart every time he thought about her had gradually ceased, but sometimes, there were moments like this when her face was so visible that his mind brought him back to that fateful day seven years ago. When he’d stood in front of his burning house while his mother hung limp from a long steel blade, her face so pale, blood trickling out of the corner of her mouth.

Run…

Her mouth had formed the word, her voice was nothing more but a strained whisper and a choked gurgling sound; her gaze, scrunched up in pain, bore into his. His heart had seized, as though Sephiroth had stabbed his Masamune into Cloud himself. 

“Cloud?” The call was sudden and loud in the quiet stillness, pulling him out of his reverie. Cloud blinked in surprise, only to find tears had sprung to his eyes. “Cloud, are you here?”

Footsteps approached. Cloud hastily blinked away his unshed tears, slipping the picture of Tifa with her piano inside the photo album before shutting it close. Just in time before Tifa poked her head in, her hair swaying to her side. Her eyes narrowed, her lips drawing back in a frown at the sight of the still-disorganized storage. She stepped inside and folded her arms over her chest.

“Are you still not done? We’ve finished cleaning the bar.”

Cloud chuckled under his breath, willing his voice not to quaver and hoping it was enough to hide his mental disquiet. He placed the book back on the shelf and said over his shoulder, “There’s a lot to clean here, you know.”

That wasn’t a lie. This was their smaller storage room where they kept many of their old belongings, including their undamaged possessions Marle had retrieved from the Sector 7 Slum ruins while they had been away. She, and some survivors, had found the hidden entryway to Avalanche’s hideout. Everything they’d kept inside was unscathed, including Jessie’s computer set, Barret’s punching bag, and Tifa’s camera. Books had been scattered across the floor—the tremor from the fallen plate had probably shaken them off their stack. There was also a TV—but what good would a TV do with no cable or signal?

Those were some that now crowded the space in their small storage. After packing and moving everything to Tifa’s new bar at the new city of Edge, they’d dumped most of everything in the small room at the back. That was well over two years ago now. Neither Cloud nor Tifa had ever cleaned or organized the shelves since then.

Cloud wondered if the family album had been among those belongings found within their old hideout. If so, how had it reached the place? He doubted Tifa had gone back to Nibelheim. Had some traveler found it and brought it with him—and later by chance it had found its way back to Tifa’s hands? That would be nice if that was the case. He wondered if any of his mother’s belongings had survived the Fire. Cloud never thought to look.

He felt Tifa’s gaze on him, the annoyance transforming to concern. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

Cloud gave a shake of his head, averting his eyes away from the album and resisting the temptation to check if there were other pictures of his mother there. But his movements were too slow. Tifa had already followed his line of sight by the time he grabbed the rag from the shelf. He heard her quiet intake of breath. Saw, from the edges of his vision, her taking a step forward before stopping short and pulling back.

“That’s—”

Her voice wavered. Cloud glanced over his shoulder. Tifa’s eyes were wide in a mixture of surprise and apprehension. As though she’d forgotten the album existed. Her voice was quiet when she spoke next.

“Master gave me that—Zangan.”

She finally took that step forward, then another, then strode over to the shelf where the book lay between heavy volumes on computers, programming, and stage acting. She reached over and made to pull the album out, before she paused, her hold on the book faltering. But then she shook her head and set her jaws, gripping the book binding and pulling it out of its place.

The picture fluttered out again. Cloud grabbed it before it reached the floor. When Tifa accepted it from his held-out hand and her eyes finally landed on it, her body went still. One moment; two… Cloud was wiping the shelf with the rag when Tifa broke into a small, melancholy smile.

“I remember this,” she murmured. She flipped the book open, her smile growing by the inches at the sight of her doodles on the front page. “I remember drawing this.”

From the corner of his eyes, Cloud watched as Tifa slowly turned the pages one by one, absorbing every picture in that album that wasn’t burned. He noticed some pages were lost, while others were burned to a crisp they couldn’t even make out the pictures on it. Tifa drew a shuddering breath as she stopped on a rare lone picture of her mother sitting on a rocking chair, her stomach big and round in late pregnancy.

“A few years after I settled here, Master came by one day. Said he was checking up on me, and that he was glad I’d found a way to make my own living. We chatted for a while, catching up. Then he told me he had returned to Nibelheim and found it reconstructed with people living there, as though nothing ever happened.” One corner of her lips twisted into a hateful scorn. “None of our belongings should have survived. But somehow, Master found the book lying around in a ditch a little ways away from the house. It might’ve fallen off a cart or something when they were cleaning up the place.”

Tifa gazed at the picture of her mother. The picture beneath it had Sara holding a tiny bundle in a blanket, with Brian in a rare joyous grin as he looked at the camera. A tear rolled down her eye, and Tifa blinked them away.

“I never had the courage to look through it. So I stashed it among Jessie’s books in the basement.”

She turned to another page, and a quiet laugh burst out of her. She lifted her head. Cloud caught the twinkle in her eyes.

“Look, it’s you.”

Cloud’s eyes widened in surprise, his rag already forgotten while he listened to her talk. Tifa turned the album around and showed him the picture on the top right corner. A small square picture with Tifa and Cloud standing in front of his house. Tifa was grinning from ear to ear, wearing that white one-piece dress with the brown ribbon, one hand held high in a wave while the other clasped his.

“Look at the camera, Cloud!” Sara had said then. 

“Smile!” his mother had shouted. “Come on, Cloud, say cheese!”

When he had refused, the two women had only giggled among themselves. He remembered scowling and thinking it was such a pain to have to take a picture with the girl next door. What would the other kids say if they saw him? They’d probably jeer and mock him. He’d refused to look at the camera.

But then he’d felt her hand enveloping his and heard her say, “Come on, Cloud. Smile.” He couldn’t have smiled. Not when Tifa had been smiling so close in front of him. She’d only made his ears burn, and he’d turned his face away despite the two women’s urging.

Judging from the picture, Cloud should have been six or seven then. He couldn’t believe he still held a memory from so long ago.

“Here’s another one,” Tifa said, turning to another page and finding a group photo in what looked like a birthday party. There was a cake on the table, and they’d strung a banner across the living room. It read Happy Birthday, Tifa! Cloud had stood on the side, still with a frown on his face. But at least he was looking at the camera now.

“Seems like it’s my seventh birthday.” Tifa’s eyes drew back in reminiscence, nostalgia tinging her voice. “You were so cute back then.”

“I should’ve smiled more then.”

What were photographs if not preserving a moment in time? Had he thought that, had he known those days would come to an end just sixteen years into his life, he might have appreciated taking pictures together more.

Cloud had always thought they were a farce. That people should just live in the moment and let it stay in their memories. If memories failed to retain them, then those moments were not worth remembering. But who was he to say anything about it? He’d forgotten the most crucial parts of his memories. He’d forgotten his friend. He’d almost forgotten his mother. Cloud regretted now not having anything to remember them by.

“Should we make them?” Tifa asked then. “A family album.” He met her gaze, open and inviting, as she smiled a soft smile at him. “I got my camera. We should start making one.”

“Tifa—”

“Photography was a hobby of my mom’s. That’s why she took many pictures. This was only one of the many albums she had in store. The only one that survived...” She pursed her lips, keeping her sadness at bay. “That’s why when a traveling merchant came by the bar a few years ago and I found a camera among his wares…” She chuckled. “It wasn’t that hard to buy it.”

So that was why she always had that camera with her. On days off or break times, she would often go out with a camera in hand, taking pictures of Marlene, of Denzel, of people visiting the bar or just people passing by. They’d smiled at her and posed for her. She had even tried to take his picture a few times, despite his reluctance. Tifa always looked so happy behind the camera.

“Sure,” Cloud found himself saying. A quiet smile broke through his lips. “Why not?”

~ END ~

[sarcasmisakindofmagic]

And I, seeking safe harbour, found it between the pages of a book

Pairing: Santiago Garcia x fem!reader

Word count: 2,200

Warnings: Tom prefers the movie to the book. one (1) swear word. This is a yearning sort of fluff.

A/N: This is unbeta’d so please forgive any typos 

It started, as so many things did for Santiago Garcia, in a bookshop.

The bookshop of his childhood had been haphazard and dusty, second hand books piled high above his head; unending towers of adventures waiting for him to read. They had been browning at the edges, marginalia scrawled in a rainbow of colours in thousands of different hands - previous readers accompanying him on his journey and adding wry remarks to the story. 

His abuela had taken him there every Wednesday after school. It had just been the two of them, the cousins relegated to helping abuelo on the farm, but Santi as the baby could help abuela with the town errands. She always got him one book to add to his collection.

Le Morte d’Arthur was a favourite, the binding long since giving up the ghost. Pages held together by string and Santi turning each page with a gentle caress, weighting down each pile with carefully selected rocks - flat, nothing to tear the paper.

Santi had gone back to the bookshop once after Abuela died. The day before he was due to leave town to hit bootcamp. He handed a fresh copy of Le Morte d’Arthur to the volunteer behind the desk, complete with scrawled annotations and inscription.

There hadn’t been many bookshops on the tours he’d taken, occasional lingering moments of perusing the shelves. Frankie knew to leave him alone with the potential stories, a quiet nod and he’d be off to stake out a quiet spot. The whole team would find him later, passively guarding enough space for them to guard each other’s backs. Tom never got the message always hovering, making comments about how he always preferred the movies anyway, Santiago stopped looking for bookshops with him around. Will and Benny usually came as a pair. Benny burning off energy, as Will followed more placidly. Ironically it had been Benny who understood the most, Will losing himself to music more easily than the written word.

“Books, man, I could do that anywhere. It’s active, y’know? Music just happens to you, but i can lose myself in a book.” Benny had told him once, dropping a Du Maurier novel in his lap with a sly grin and only offering a shrug when anybody asked where he’s got an english copy in the middle of bumfuck nowhere redacted.

On the long flights where Benny literally couldn’t sleep, and Santi had too many possibilities running through his head, they’d swap books, making little notes and hiding dicks in the centre folds so they’d get bigger as the book opened.

Half their friendship had been little doodles of dicks, drawn at the most heartfelt and profound moments of classics. Oddly it completely summed Benny up.

The local bookshop was a hidden gem. After Colombia he hadn’t sought out the written word for so long the impulse to go in surprised him enough that he was inside before he’d really thought about it. The shelves inside were crammed full, small hand-painted signs letting him know the genre in which he found himself. There was no military precision to be found here, plenty of space to get lost and find a gem no one had wanted to read in years. The ghost abuela murmured approvingly in his ear, old advice echoing ‘Books need readers, nieto, always find a story that has taken someone on the journey before.’

Occasionally, there would be little stacks of books as new orders came in, the shelves too full to make room for the new arrivals. Regulars moved round them, or paused to run the pad of one finger down the spines, a momentary introduction to a potential new companion.

Hidden around a corner was a tiny café area, only enough to seat maybe ten people, it wasn’t advertised outside - Santiago had never seen every seat taken, though he certainly recognised the regulars by now.

There was the local Rabbi who would tuck himself in the corner with a hot tea and write, occasionally muttering under his breath in Hebrew as he wrestled his sermon into existence. Two students, who were not dating but should be, occupied the table with book wedged under the leg to make it stop wobbling. They were always in contact with one another, limbs seeking the other’s warmth. They didn’t have a schedule but were never in before noon and had only once been spotted on a Thursday. 

A young mum who sat by herself on Saturday mornings and absorbed the quiet, she’d once fallen asleep, resting her head on the shelves. Santiago had woken her at her usual departure time, to flustered thank yous, ‘her twins were at ballet classes and her husband was away-’. She’d been out the store and earshot before she’d finished speaking but a little plate with a huge slab of shortcake had been waiting for him the Saturday after, with ‘Thank you’ iced across the top. There had also been a card with a little boy and girl dancing ballet together impressively drawn in crayon, with capitalised signatures.

Santiago had it in a frame at his house and refused to explain it to anyone that asked beyond a bland, “It’s a thank you card.” 

Only Will had taken more than a beat to move on, absorbing the bright colours and wobbly letters. The clap on Santi’s shoulder and soft look had been enough. Will had never needed words to get a point across, but a gesture like the card? Will understood that well enough.

The boys all knew about you, heard stories about the book shop owner who could make Pope blush with a well timed smile and look in her eye. 

Abuela would have liked her, was the way he explained it to Frankie, blaming the hushed tones on the baby cradled in his arms, rather than the strength of his crush. Little Nina was as placid as her daddy and slept like a rock from day one, Santiago could have yelled his love to heavens and she would only have huffed a little and snuggled closer.

Frankie had only cuffed him on the back of the head and asked if he would pick up some Spanish children’s books for Nina. Santiago didn’t need the excuse to go in there, but he grabbed it with both hands anyway.

You’d been delighted to help, piling his arms high with options before whittling it back down again, selecting tough to rip cardboard and silly rhymes over the school year novellas.

“I’ll pick those up once she’s grown a bit.” He promised, eyeing the reject pile guiltily. “If she takes after her godfather she’ll have her own library soon enough.”

“I was the same,” you laughed, stacking the books neatly by age group and sub-genre, “I used to drive my mother spare reading the book the same day we’d bought it.” “Would you like to go to dinner?” Santiago asked impulsively, talking over the end of your sentence, flushing a little at how abruptly he’d blurted it out. “I’d like to hear about your favourite books.” Your smile made his stomach flip, as you nodded fumbling with the book in your hands.

“I’d like that.” You agreed warmly. “I have quite a few favourites though, it might take more than one.”

Will met you first; in the bookshop without Santi’s supervision. There had been a break in at the shop and Will only lived five minutes away, rushing to calm you down as Santi drove like a madman to get to you.

The shop was in shambles, shelves torn down and books strewn everywhere. Loose leaves littered the floor, glass shards gleaming cruelly in the glaring streetlights. Will had wrapped you up in his jacket, careful of the bruises and nasty gash on your leg, lifting you off the floor and out onto the sidewalk.

He didn’t leave your side until Santiago arrived, waiting until Santi had you in his arms before heading back into the shop to check out what needed fixing.

Frankie met the shop before he met you. His house had the biggest yard, opening out into the woods without anything fencing him in. Will commandeered the space, Frankie happily helping out with the book repairs. His hands had never shaken under pressure, always sure on the controls of the choppers. He learnt the art of bookbinding quickly enough, humming along to Will’s playlists, the two quietest members of the team content to let the music fill the quiet for them.

The first time Frankie met you was when he and Will showed you the shop. The shelves Will had built, now firmly fixed to the wall and floor - they’d prop up the walls before anybody toppled them again. The undamaged books were separated from Frankie’s repairs, in case they weren’t up to your standards. He was pulled into a hug before he could summon up an apology for the amateur job. A stream of thank yous echoing in his ear as you hugged Will just as tightly.

Santiago was smiling, bringing him into hug with a quiet cabron. He always knew when Frankie was overthinking something. You pulled Santi away, demanding Will give a tour of the new, improved shop. Happily calling for Frankie to keep up, you needed to know everything he’d done too.

Benny volunteered to stay at the shop during the day, doing the heavy lifting while your bruises faded. Santiago worked from home but couldn’t help hovering in the shop, too concerned for you and too distracted by all the books he hadn’t got a chance to read.

Somehow this had turned into Benny painting little murals on any spare wall space and the edges of the shelves.

“Have you always painted?” You asked curiously,

Benny shrugged, scratching his chin and leaving tracks of paint over the stubble.

“Pops always had Will out back helping with the farm, he learned the woodworking with him. I helped momma round the house until I was old enough to help paint the stuff they built together.” He broke off to gently shoo Hades away from the paints, the shop cat meowing plaintively at his curiosity being denied.

“Come here puss, you don’t need a paint job.” You coaxed, clicking your fingers to entice him up onto the counter. There was no way your bruises were going to let you bend down to pick him up.

“Anyway, momma was an art teacher she taught me the basics, after that,” he flushed, “a friend helped me practice.”

You had to bite down on your cheek to keep from smiling or asking anymore questions. Benny’s friend sounded interesting but his expression screamed please-don’t-ask-questions.

“My mum could knit anything.” You said instead, finally convincing Hades to have a cuddle and scritching under his chin. “I tried to copy her one summer, ended up having to be cut free from all the wool.”

Benny laughed, all the tension leaving his shoulders at the image of you all snared up like a kitten.

“Me and Will used to track footprints through the house all the time, ‘til we did it with whitewash after painting the barn. Momma had us camped outside for a month before she let us back in.” Benny said sheepishly, a smudged green handprint marking the back of his neck as he confessed. “Pops snuck us in for showers, said he felt bad we’d got punished for chores.”

Hades leapt out of your arms, startled by your laughter. 

“God, I dropped a whole bowl of tomato soup on a cream carpet? Does that count?” You wheezed, leaning back against the shelves to try and stretch out the bruising seeing if the new position would help. Benny winced in sympathy

“Sorry. I’ll try to be less hilarious.” He quipped dryly. “And no, not unless you camped out for a month.”

The decision to marry you was the easiest one Santiago ever made. How on earth to actually ask you to marry him, turned out to be a harder thing to pin down. The ring went on half the trips you made for a year: down to Hawai’i on a group holiday, camping up in the mountains and even the near weekly hikes you took on Mondays, shutting shop up and leaving the town far behind.

It was an old copy of The Princess Bride that eventually spurred him into action. Santi was helping with organising the basement which was full of donations and books to be shipped out across the county.

Golding’s novel hit him square in the chest, the achingly familiar cover making Santiago’s throat tighten. Abuela had loved this book, taking great pleasure in dramatically clearing her throat to read it to him when he was sick. The grandpa in the story was replaced with Abuela as she told him the tale of true love: Inigo Montoya switching between Spanish and English and easily as he switched his sword hand.

He’d long been enamoured with pirates and fighting evil kings, but The Princess Bride had been the book to remind him to find something to fight for. Perhaps he’d been clinging to the doomed romance of Le Morte d’Arthur for too long.

“The Princess Bride? Santiago, this is true love - you think this happens every day?” You quoted easily, pressing a kiss to his cheek as you passed.

Santiago sent up a garbled prayer of thanks to Abuela, she always knew what he needed before he did anyway.

And so, Santiago Garcia asked the love of his life to marry him on a rainy Thursday in a bookshop. And it was perfect.

‘But I also have to say, for the umpty-umpth time, that life isn't fair. It's just fairer than death, that's all.’ -William Golding, The Princess Bride.

[make-it-mavis]

Homesick (prologue)

Next->

In Los Aburridos, California, off Route 83, in Litwak’s Arcade, inside a tiny wall socket, a disgraced, despised, thought-to-be-dead king paced.

Not in a hard set, back-and-forth motion, but in a wide, loose path, like an oval. The motion felt marginally soothing to him, having driven thousands of races on an oval track in his life. But the shape was the only resemblance. He was agonizingly slow, going only as fast as two legs could carry him. Aside from his shoes clapping against the floor and Litwak shuffling in the outside world, there was no sound at all. No screaming crowd, no roaring engines, no gamers laughing. There was no room for any of that in the lonely hole in the wall. 

The dead wall socket served as an abandoned cord station. It was cold, isolated, torturously quiet, and had barely enough electricity to sustain his physical form. It was also Turbo’s last safe haven in the world. It would keep him hidden from those who would punish him for his murderous crime. It would give him time to figure just how in the hell he would ever return to society and make something resembling a life again. But it would offer no distraction from the hellfire scorching his mind. And he knew that in a matter of minutes, he would be handed a hefty canister of fuel to only further feed the inferno. But most things were fuel in recent memory. Nothing was going to make him feel better. Really, it was the anticipation that drove him to pace.

Any minute now, she would show up. And she would bring him the truth of what became of the world he left behind, and of what that world did to her. Or, more to the point… what he did to her.

Ever since they had been reunited, there was something in Mavis he did not recognize. He had always known that she did not exactly have a happy life. He could recall even early in their friendship, the moments that her fear would seep through. In those moments, she would almost always react defensively, by fighting him or running away. Often, he would go to sleep with her and find her gone in the morning. 

But since being reunited, her night terrors had been different. She would shriek, and wake in a sweaty, terrified mess, but instead of running away, she would simply… break. Clutch onto him and not let go, weeping openly. Always refusing explanation. 

It seemed impossible for either of them to move forward in their partnership, criminal or otherwise, until they were both completely on the same page. So, finally, Mavis promised to deliver the truth, which, she told him, she already had in writing.

There was a faint flash down the entrance corridor when a static crack broke the relative silence and snapped at Turbo’s mind like a whip. He jolted and froze, gazing down the wide corridor at the wooden barrier that they had been slowly building to deter any possible wanderers from finding his hideout. It was tall enough to obscure her, but he knew she was there. And sure enough, after a brief pause, he saw Make-it Mavis rise up over the barrier, hovering with the feathers on her boots.

As usual, he felt an odd mess of emotions when he saw her. Mostly, he felt his heart echo sickly down through his stomach and guts. 

After clearing the barrier, Mavis lowered a short distance into the corridor, seeming almost reluctant to enter fully. When Turbo met her halfway, he noticed immediately that she would not meet his gaze. She was not angry, or even resentful. Just reluctant. A little sad. Maybe even afraid. 

Unsure of what to say, he breathed hoarsely, “...Hey.”

Mavis cleared her throat a bit. “Hey, T,” she said quietly.

She stood straight, rigid, one hand clutching the strap of her messenger bag and the other keeping its pouch close to her body. Jutting out from the top ever so slightly, he could see just the corner of a book. That must have been the truth she promised the night before, because upon noticing him eyeing it, she held it just a bit further away.

“You…” he spoke carefully, “you still wanna do this?”

“Yeah,” she said quickly, almost interrupting him. “Yeah, I do, it’s just…”

Finally, she lifted her gaze to his, but her eyes were so guarded, like she was one word away from turning tail and leaving. “Turbo…” she said slowly, “you’re really not gonna like what you read.”

He sighed through his nose, brow furrowing sympathetically. “I know. I never expected to.”

“And I,” she spoke just a touch louder, “I say some real mean stuff about you in this.”

Half a snicker escaped him. “Oh no. You’ve never been mean to me before.”

“Okay-- Yeah, okay, but this is different,” she half-smiled anxiously.

At that, she reached into her messenger bag and pulled out a ringed notebook that told a hundred stories with its appearance alone. Turbo felt a twinge of gravity in his stomach as he looked it over in her hands. Its cover was splattered with dry paint and bore many deep, scribbling scratches carved with a ballpoint pen. Many pages were dog-eared and a fair amount were stained and warped. Even the plastic ring binding seemed to be barely holding everything together.

Turbo wanted to make a smart remark to lighten the mood, but he was coming up empty. There was something in the way that she looked at the notebook that struck him silent. She had not yet offered it to him, instead keeping it close to her body and regarding it with a grave sort of disbelief.

“I just…” she shook her head a bit, “when I wrote this, I never… ever thought you’d actually read it.”

Morbid curiosity pounded Turbo’s brain, the kind that he was certain would bite him in the ass later. He was unsure what to say at first, but after Mavis did not continue, he prodded, “I mean… I don’t have to, if that’s--”

“No,” she interrupted, shoving it into his arms, “no, you really do. It’s-- it’s just easier this way. It’s all in there already, and I promised, so just take it.”

Turbo blinked, catching the ramshackle notebook. She interrupted him again before he could reply, her voice quick with anxiety.

“There. Take it. I gotta get back before they close the gates. Read as much as you want. I’ll come back once the arcade closes. Okay? Good. Enjoy. Bye.”

She turned, and just before she could get away, Turbo grabbed her by the wrist. It was enough to stop her from fleeing the emotional situation as she so often did, but she did not turn to look at him. Once it was clear that she would merely listen, Turbo realized he was not sure what he wanted to say. 

“Mav,” he finally said, “don’t think that I don’t know what a big deal this is. I know this probably goes against every digit in your binary to show me this. I get it. So… let me at least say thanks, before you go flyin’ outta here.”

Mavis sighed, but he could see from the curve of her cheek that she smiled for a moment. She said slowly and earnestly, “If we’re gonna be partners… If we’re gonna work together, then you gotta trust that I’m in it for the long haul. If you want proof that I won’t ditch you, then you’ll find it in that book… or some supporting documents, at least.”

Turbo could hear his heart in his ears, but he let out a slow breath and loosened his grip on her wrist. As his hand fell, Mavis caught it in hers.

When she finally turned her head towards him again, he saw a bit of a glisten over her blue eyes, and the saddest, sweetest smile he had ever seen. 

“Just make sure to read to the very end,” she told him, “and to trust me.”

Forcing out a small smile of his own, he nodded. “Yeah, yeah.”

For a moment, they lingered.

But after a single squeeze of his hand, Mavis flew back over the barricade, and another static crack indicated her departure. Silence closed in around Turbo again, but there was something about the book in his hands that felt so loud. As he wandered back into the station proper, he ran his fingers over the cover, one that had once been perfectly smooth, but after being exposed to Mavis, now bore a myriad of ridges and bumps and gritty textures. Stepping over the worthless junk strewn on the floor, he found himself a seat on one of the dusty old couches, and tucked one finger under the cover.

He paused, taking a moment to breathe and steel himself to whatever was to come. As he lingered, he could feel in his gut that the story he was about to read could quite likely change his relationship with Mavis. Perhaps even with himself.

But he had survived far worse than a book already.

Flipping open the cover, Turbo began to read.

[the--highlanders]

17. Explore

on ao3.

Somewhere in the library, the Doctor was calling for him.

The distant sound sent pinpricks of panic trailing over Jamie’s scalp and down his spine. Scrambling to gather up the books that were spread haphazardly across the floor before him, he piled a few thick volumes into his arms until he staggered under their weight. It might have been better, he thought, to have figured out where their proper places were before picking them up – but it was already too late. The teetering pile crashed to the floor in a flurry of yellow pages and brittle scraps of leather bindings.

It was hardly as if he was forbidden from coming to this part of the library, he told himself as the dust settled. Especially now, after everything. Surely they were a little beyond him leafing through a few dusty old books. But something about it still felt forbidden, like reading about the Doctor’s people was prying into his business behind his back.

He stuffed the books back on any shelf that would take them, grumbling indistinct curses as he looked down at himself and realised that bits of old leather and paper were sticking to the wool of his jumper. There was no way that the Doctor would not put two and two together. He could run off to some other part of the library, pretend the mess had come from some other books – but which ones?

It was too late for that, at any rate. The Doctor came wandering around the corner, and Jamie winced, screwing up his face against the gentle scolding he was sure would come – but when he opened his eyes again, all he saw on the Doctor’s face was surprise.

“Good gracious, what have you been doing?” he asked.

Jamie shrugged. “Nothin’.”

“It certainly doesn’t look like nothing.” The Doctor stepped closer to brush him down, tilting his head from side to side before focusing in on the haphazardly shelves books around Jamie. “What on Earth did you want with these old things?”

“Nothing,” Jamie repeated more insistently. “I havenae touched them.”

“Jamie.” There was the stern look he had been waiting for, if a more mild version than he had been expecting. “There’s no need to lie to me, you know. It’s rather obvious what you’ve been up to. I’d just like to know -” He glanced at the spine of the book and chuckled. “The Ancient and Glorious History of Gallifrey? Well, they’re not exactly your usual fare, are they?”

Somehow, the Doctor’s gentle curiosity was worse than any rebuke would have been, prickling him with shame once again. He had spent all this time sneaking around behind the Doctor’s back, waiting for him to be busy in a meeting with the Time Lords, tracking down the right part of the library over weeks – and for what? For the Doctor to be politely interested in what he had been reading?

“I was just interested. I didnae learn anything,” he added, as pleadingly earnest as if he was still trying to appease the Doctor. “I couldnae read any of it. The TARDIS didn’t translate.”

“No, I don’t expect she would,” the Doctor murmured, lifting one of the books to flick through its pages. “She wasn’t built with – well, with anyone other than Time Lords in mind, so she doesn’t usually bother translating Gallifreyan.”

“Is that what it is?” Despite himself, Jamie could not hide the eagerness in his voice. His fingers itched to pick up a book of his own, to trace over the letters with the new certainty that it was the Doctor’s native tongue, and he curled his hands into fists to resist the urge. “Gallifreyan?”

“Ye-es.” The Doctor frowned at him over the pages. “What’s gotten you so interested all of a sudden?”

“Nothing,” Jamie said hastily. “Och, I just – I spent all those years wonderin’ about ye, ye know. Where ye came from, an’ what your home was like. I told ye all about myself, but I hardly knew anythin’ about you.”

“Not for lack of trying,” the Doctor pointed out mildly. “You always listened closer than anyone, any time I talked about myself.”

Jamie’s cheeks reddened – then the weight of it settled over him, and he turned an accusing eye on the Doctor. “Ye knew!”

“Of course I knew. I almost told you more, many times, but – oh, I didn’t want to think about it, I suppose.”

“I never looked,” Jamie said. “I thought ye must have books about wherever it was you were from – about Gallifrey. But I didnae go lookin’, ‘cause I knew ye didnae want me tae know. But now I do know, I thought -” He fixed his gaze carefully on the floor, away from the Doctor. “I thought ye wouldnae mind me looking,” he mumbled.

“Of course I don’t mind,” the Doctor said. “But why did you want to? You’ve already seen Gallifrey.”

The question was so odd that Jamie could not help but glance back up at him, frowning. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well -” The Doctor shrugged, like it was obvious. “As much as I dislike them – when it comes down to it, they’re awfully boring people. History classes used to send me right to sleep, you know.”

“Ye can’t all be boring,” Jamie protested. “I mean – aye, the ones bossin’ us around, I don’t like them so much – but they made you, didn’t they? They cannae all be the same. But every time I ask if we can say a bit longer, ye say everywhere else is more interestin’.”

“Well, it is,” the Doctor said. “I already know Gallifrey.”

“But I don’t. An’ I’d like to. For you. We dinnae even have tae meet any other Time Lords, just -” Jamie shrugged. “Just see where ye grew up, or somethin’. If ye want,” he added quickly. “Ye don’t have to, it was just an idea -”

“You’re asking me to spend time on Gallifrey,” the Doctor said softly.

“I’m no’ really – we dinnae have tae -”

“To show you around.”

“Well – aye, maybe.”

“To enjoy it. The place I ran away from.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You know...” The Doctor fell quiet for a long time, and Jamie held himself stiff and tense, his heart pounding. “I didn’t hate all of Gallifrey, before I ran away from it.”

“Ye didn’t?”

“No. Of course, I was young and foolish, then, but -” He hesitated again, his expression almost pained. “I have been wondering about some of my old haunts. Whether they’re still the same.”

“What were they like?” Jamie asked tentatively.

“Oh, the usual sorts of things. Seedier parts of the cities, you know, where people used to -” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and Jamie felt oddly as if he was catching a glimpse of the Doctor as a defiant teenager – or whatever passed for being a teenager, amongst his people. “Touch. With no gloves on. They won’t tell you about that in those books.”

He said it so seriously, and Jamie broke into uncontrollable giggles. “Shocking,” he said, his mock-scandalised tone broken and patchy. “Still, they might not give us funny looks, there.”

“Perhaps not. Or I could take you to the mountains, where there’s nobody to give us looks at all.” Wistfulness had glazed over the Doctor’s eyes, his gaze drifting up towards the ceiling. “Just a few old hermits. We used to run up there, you know. Yelling and screaming. With nobody to stop us.”

“We?” Jamie said softly.

“Mm. All gone now, of course. Goodness knows where.” The Doctor shook himself. “I really wouldn’t advise reading those old books, you know. That is – it is the official history. I do think I’d be a better tour guide.”

“I thought ye always fell asleep in history classes.”

“I listened to the teacher while I slept.” The Doctor took his hands, twirling him around and whisking him out of the aisle. “Ah! I came to tell you. We’ve got a few days off until our next mission.”

“Took them long enough.”

“Yes, well, ah – it’s the perfect opportunity, isn’t it?”

Jamie stumbled to a halt, gripping the Doctor’s arms to hold him still. It was entirely rhetorical, he told himself firmly. Surely the Doctor didn’t really mean - “The perfect opportunity for what?”

The Doctor clutched at him in return, beaming. “Would you like to visit Gallifrey with me, Jamie?”

How long had he been waiting to hear those words, even before he knew exactly which form they would take?

“Aye, I would,” he said, finally letting a smile break across his face. “I’d love to.”

[collecting-stories]

Secret Santa - Connor Murphy

A/N: Getting some things out before Christmas comes. Ah! 

It’s Christmas time and the reader got Connor Murphy for secret Santa. 

-

“It’s secret Santa, it’s anonymous.” Jared pointed out, looking passed you toward the sign for the food court. It’d only been ten minutes since he parked the car and you walked inside but Panera was really starting to call to him.

“No, it’s supposed to be a surprise to the other person, it’s not anonymous.” You replied, ignoring his longing looks and starting to walk again, “What if we got each other? And then I give him his present and it’s shit and he’s gotten me something nice.”  

“Knowing him he’ll have forgotten until the day of and end up giving whoever he got a joint.” Jared pointed out. “Or Wednesday Addams will have a freak-out and then no gifts.”

“Can you just help me?”  

“Alright, alright. I gotta buy a present for Evan anyway.”  

“You got Evan?” You asked.  

“Unfortunately.” Jared had been tempted to the name back in Zoe’s jar and pick again, not exactly wanting to tackle buying a present for Evan. He would have preferred Alana or even Zoe, he could have just gotten off with an itunes giftcard and a cheesy card.  

“Please, Evan is easy.” You had gotten Evan last year and given him a forest guide, plus when the weather cleared the two of you had taken a trip to the state park together. Connor had not participated last year.  

“Connor is easy too, buy him a joint or lay on his bed naked...he’d probably be down for both.” It was no secret that you and Connor had a thing going on. If you could call awkward flirting and pinning over each other from a distance a thing.  

You thought that going away to college would make it harder to keep in touch with everyone but somehow with Connor, it had become easier. While Evan had opted for in-state (closer to Zoe he claimed but closer to his mom you were sure), you and Jared had both ended up out of state, at the same college. Connor was “taking a year off” and working and yet you were certain he spent more time in your dorm than your roommate did. He drove the four hours up on Friday nights and stayed until Sunday evening, you texted him constantly and had managed to convince him to make a snapchat (“So I can see your beautiful face every day”). But you were just friends. Or something along that line, he hadn’t talked about wanting more and you were afraid that if you mentioned it he would want less.  

“Jared!” You hissed, glaring at him.  

“You could lay on my bed naked.” He smiled cheekily, earning an eye roll from you.  

“Keep dreaming.”  

“What about money?” It was what he was thinking about getting Evan and at least if you gave Connor money too then he wouldn’t get flack from Alana about his gift being impersonal.

“I was thinking something more personal than that. You’re not helpful.”  

“I never said I would be. Besides I thought you got me and that’s why you wanted to go out.” Jared pointed out.  

“I needed a car. You have a car.” You replied, shrugging.  

“I can’t believe you used me for my car.”  

“Jared, focus, presents.”  

-

You weren’t surprised when Zoe told you that Connor would not be joining the party. He had, according to her, had a blow-out tantrum over something Larry had said earlier and had locked himself in his room. And despite her warning not to go upstairs you did anyway, carrying your giftbag with you. Willingly choosing to take your chances on Connor when you could easily stay downstairs with the rest of the party.  

You knocked on his closed bedroom door, listening for his inevitable ‘fuck off’.  

“What?” Connor shouted, a harsh tone to his voice.  

“Is it okay if I come in?”  

“Tell Zoe I’m not coming downstairs,” he yelled, “this whole thing is stupid.”  

You waited for a minute, mulling over whether you should go back downstairs before finally deciding to try one more time. “Connor?”

“Go away.”

“I’m not here to drag you downstairs Connor, I got your name for secret Santa so, stupid or not I have a present for you,” you held up the bag as proof even though he couldn’t see it.  

While you couldn’t hear the sigh that escaped his lips you could imagine it. “Come in.”

“So, it’s not much, but,” you handed over the present as you came in, standing awkwardly at the edge of his bed. He was laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling and throwing a hackey-sac up in the air. He looked over at you, managing to catch the sac before it landed on his face and sat up, taking the gift bag.  

“I didn’t get you anything.” He mentioned, picking at tissue paper.  

“It’s not a big deal, I got your name so-“ You shrugged.  

“That’s what I mean. I got your name too.”  

“Just give me a joint or something, it’s really not that important. If you don’t wanna participate you don’t have to.” Zoe made everyone pick names at her friends-giving, which Connor also made himself scarce from. He didn’t want to be part of the secret Santa and he’d told her enough times that she should have known but she insisted that he take part.  

It didn’t matter to you that he hadn’t gotten you anything. Regardless of the idea, the intent of the tradition was not to receive. And besides, he had given you plenty. He stopped at Starbucks every Friday and brought you ridiculously overpriced lattes. He bought you packs of pens or notebooks or random things he found while stocking shelves at Target. He spent money on gas driving eight hours every weekend just to see you. No gift could top that.  

“Yeah but I still feel shitty about it now.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t get you a present?”

“I thought Zoe would tell you I wasn’t gonna do it.” He replied, fiddling with the tag, you’d written his name in pretty cursive.  

“Well too late for that, open your present, I wanna see if you like it.”

“Thought you said it wasn’t a big deal?”  

“It’s not.”

“Seems like it.” He mumbled, pulling different tissue-wrapped gifts out. It wasn’t much. A pair of socks with marijuana leaves on them, a dark grey sweater that looked warm and that Evan had weirdly known the right size for, a moleskine sketch-book and some watercolors that you’d spent way too much money on, and a set of Christmas themed scrunchies as a gag. He held up the pack of scrunchies, shaking them and watching the bells on the red one jingle.

There was a long pause, thoughtful even, as he looked over the presents that you had spent the weeks between Thanksgiving break and Christmas break mulling over. The green scrunchie in the pack was velvet and he tore the plastic binding them together so he could pull his hair back with that one. It was his favorite color and while he realized that it was just a stupid variety pack he recognized from a display at his Target, he knew there were two other packs as well. Maybe it was too much to be hopeful for but he sort of wished you had chosen that specific one because of the green.  

You were still standing there, waiting in silence. Watching him patiently. You gave the best gifts, he knew from experience. In third grade you made everyone in class ornaments out of intricately folded paper. You’d made him a snowflake and glittered the edges dark green and told him you hoped he liked it because you knew that was his favorite color. The paper was a page from your favorite book, you had mentioned when he attempted to make out as many words as he could. Tuck Everlasting, you said you’d been to the town where they filmed and it was right by the beach.  

He hadn’t said it then but he had thought about how fun it would be to go to the beach with you.

“Hold on,” Connor jumped up and went over to his desk. He made a show of rummaging through papers and drawers.  

“Connor,” You stayed in place but twisted your body to follow his movements.  

“I’ve got something I can give you.”  

“It’s really not a-“

“Not a big deal, I know, I know, just, just close your eyes.” He requested, turning back toward you.  

“Why?”  

“Just do it okay?”

You closed your eyes and waited for whatever might happen next. His footsteps were muffled by the carpet but you felt his hands on your upper arms. You could hear him breath and, as he leaned in, you realized you could feel his breath on your face. Just as you were about to open your eyes and ask what he was doing you felt his nose brush against yours and his lips press a kiss to yours. It wasn’t anything especially romantic or passionate. It was quick, a closed mouth kiss, just the ghost of the feeling of Connor’s mouth on yours and then he was gone. You opened your eyes and he was still holding your upper arms but he was looking at you a little more vulnerably than before.  

And you opened your mouth to say something intelligent but the only thing that came out was, “Oh, thank you.”

The nerves broke and Connor smiled, teeth and all, so close to laughter he let you go to cover his mouth, “did you just say thank you?”

“You said it was a present,” you dumbly replied, the heat of embarrassment warming your face.  

“No one says thank you after someone kisses them.”  

“Maybe they do if it’s a present.”  

“I don’t think so.” Connor teased. He undid his bun and then tied it back up, a nervous habit you’d picked up on from all the times he spent at your dorm.  

“Well next time I won’t say thank you.”  

“You might. I might be that good a kisser.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” You tried for even an ounce of sass but all you could muster was the same tone of awe you’d had since he kissed you. He had kissed you and your whole body felt like it was tingling with a wonderful buzz of happiness.  

“Who do you have to stack me up against other than Evan?” He joked, sitting back on his bed. He was trying to play it cool, doing a better job than you, though he was still filled with nerves. Had he read the situation right? Did you feel the same way about him that he felt about you?

“Oh god, Zoe told you about that?” You paled at the thought of Connor knowing about that kiss. A dare Freshmen year of high school.  

“Jared.”

“That’s even worse!” You groaned.  

“It’s not so bad.” Connor replied, “didn’t turn me off the idea of kissing you.”

-

I’m finally posting again and it’s still whatever I want...sorry, its the most I can do for now. 

[jojotier]

prodigal son, denied. 

(SPOILERS for ch197 onward in the manga for Koito’s backstory)

Before Heinojou joined the navy he had wanted to be an artist.

Heinojou had drawn plenty as a child, being easy-going and mild in temperament, but it wasn’t to be the focus of his studies. Heiji remembered having to be severe with the boy a few times, when he grew too absorbed in doodling petals and branches on the back of completed notebook paper instead of moving on to the next subject- but as he grew, he drew less and less. When he was accepted to the navy, he had stopped drawing entirely, dedicating himself fully to his military career.

Or so Heiji thought. He must have continued his art in secret because among the scarce items that had been delivered along with Heinojou’s waterlogged corpse was a sleek black sketchbook of European make.

For years, Heiji kept it underneath the altar, away from prying eyes and the gaze of Heinojou’s photograph. Brushing past it while dusting the dark wood of the cabinet, for those same years, Heiji had resisted the urge to slip the thin book out and open its stained cover. It was an artifact of a time that Heiji had not been privy to as his father; a secret that had been taken to his grave and delivered back with effusive, impersonal apologies.

Heiji tried to ignore its presence as best he could, telling himself that opening it could come when the pain wasn’t so raw. Telling himself that opening it would merely be digging salt into a wound that was only now beginning to scab over on the sides, years after. Loss did nothing to temper the fire in his blood, and it was that fire that licked along the edges of the hole where his oldest son had left, cauterizing it open. It was a void that would never fill, and therefore, the sketchbook must also never open.

But if he leaned too close, even beneath the cloying floral scent of incense he lit, there was the faintest breath of salt and gunpowder. It was a deceptively familiar scent- the scent of Heiji’s own fleet, riding through calm waters as he sat down to clean out his weapon. The last scents that Heinojou would have been wrapped in, underneath the overwhelming stench of iron blood.

It was the closest that Heiji would ever be to knowing his son’s last thoughts. That was the reason why, with the murmurings of a coming war scratching outside the closed window and Russian affairs to sift through outside the room, Heiji’s resolve wilted away.

Heiji remained in the room long after he was supposed to depart to meet his son for breakfast, cradling the ebony binding in his hands. The wooden floor grew harsh under his knees and the paper was sharp against the calluses of his fingers, but he was unable to stop himself from opening the sketchbook. The first page was adorned with several offhand lines of words- Heinojou’s name, a reminder to figure out a telegram system, and a few half-formed poetic thoughts that trailed off into the elegant bow of barren branches.

Thumbing the edge of a thin page, he turned, looking over the cross-hatched detail of several sceneries blending and crashing together like waves on the sea- the port of Kagoshima bled into the countryside of their misty summer home in Kuchinoerabu, rising high over the rolling waves of the deck of Heinojou’s ship.

From there, the pages held pencil sketches, then charcoal drawings, and then images shaded with the remnants of gunpowder when his son had seemingly run out of writing utensils. Heinojou had always had an eye for the natural world and he applied it here, even to the unnatural. Man-made metal and wooden structures were cut out of the mantle of the earth, encrusted with natural life and jewels of gleaming eyes from animal life. Memories were printed in layers on top of the imagined.

After a page occupied with a stylized sketch of a toddler Otonoshin, unshaded and shaky, the pages were wholly blank.

That drawing of his younger brother had been the last thing Heinojou drew; a plain set of lines, filled only with a few dried droplets of what Heiji hoped was saltwater and a single drip of rust. Heiji felt along the sharp edge of the page and found it stained similarly with the brown of dried blood- a papercut, the smallest and most human of Heinojou’s injuries on the day when he was pumped full of lead.

Heiji knew there was nothing beyond that point, but it didn’t stop him from fingering through the rest of the pages in the thin book; carefully trying to unstick the clumps where water had glued bunches of pages together in twos, in threes, with stains left from the ink running from upper pages and the diluted spatter of nitroglycerin. There was nothing more to see.

For a moment, Heiji mourned how cruel it was, to feel so close to Heinojou only after his death.

For another moment more, Heiji wondered what would have happened- how things might have been different if the night before Heinojou had been deployed, if when Heinojou had come to him, shaken, and told him I was not built for this, for fighting like this, for pulling the trigger- if instead of reassuring him with talk of honor, of things becoming easier with time, he had pressed this blank sketchbook into his hands and said, I’ll love you regardless.

Heinojou would have lived, possibly. A blight on Heiji’s reputation, a living monument to Heiji’s weakness for a sneering public- but alive. A light to the toddler he had died thinking about, the family that he had missed terribly even in the final moments when his breath bubbled away.

The scabbed over edges of his heart were split and yet Heiji knew, through the sharp ache, that he did not regret it.

Heiji sat in silence, staring at the back cover that threatened to fall through his fingers in brittle chunks. The whisper of the sliding door and the soft voice of his wife finally broke through the quiet many minutes later. “Heiji-don,” Hideko gently said. She waited for Heiji to wipe his eyes and close the book, setting it back in its hiding place before she curtly continued, “Will you please come and eat with us?”

It wasn’t much of a family meal with one seat empty, but Heiji shook his head to clear out the errant thought. He’d lost the right to think as such, especially after all these years. “... Of course,” Heiji said instead. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“There’s no need for apologies.” She shut her eyes and turned, leaving. Heiji sighed. He didn’t want to push, but… it had also been a long time since either of them acknowledged Heinojou outside of this room. Glancing again at the photograph of Heinojou’s smiling face, he stood and left.

Placing a hand on her arm once he caught up to her, he silently asked her to stop. Hideko did, but before he could say anything he was interrupted by heavy footsteps barreling down the hall. Heiji turned his attention to find a woman, hands shaking around where they balled up in the fabric of her sash around a piece of paper.

“Koito-don-” The woman said, bowing at the waist.

“Iruka-san,” Heiji acknowledged, “what happened?”

The maid was breathing heavily as she said, “The young master- he’s disappeared.” The color from her face faded as quickly as the breath in Heiji’s lungs. “The only thing he left was-”

Shaky black scrawl spilled onto a scrap of tea-stained paper. Heiji didn’t so much as read the letter as the words war and readiness branded his eyes, threatening ruin with a single line.

Otonoshin was trying to go to war.

Heiji needed to leave for the nearest recruitment office. It didn’t matter that there were dozens nearby, or that Otonoshin was likely lost somewhere among the hordes of recruits anywhere in the city-

Beside him, Hideko gave a gentle keen of heartbreak behind the hand sealing her mouth. She had been frailer, lately, as their loss continued to gain water weight from years’ worth of storms and grief; her voice passed through the gaps in her fingers in a high, barely suppressed cry.

His wife had already suffered unnecessarily from his failures as a father. That was the reason why, despite the fear and anger and litany of too soon, it’s too soon burning in his veins, Heiji numbly made his way to their telephone and made some calls. Rather than leave it up to chance and his own running, Otonoshin would be returned by the end of the hour, squirming and shouting in the hands of a seventh division officer. All Otonoshin would know was Heiji’s distant reprimand, devoid of either anger or warmth, drained onto Heinojou’s art.

Koito’s time would come soon enough.

Tsurumi, as always, was there at Heiji’s call with kind suggestions and a steady hand.

[stardust-22]

WHAT IF THIS HAPPENED (AU) CH.3/?

A/N: Hey y'all! I'm back and sorry for the delayed update cause I got sick earlier this week and still recovering. I'm still in awe, that a lot of people are still reading this. And I'm glad that you're still sticking around. So without further ado, here is chapter 3! 

SUMMARY: Caliban and Sabrina head for a detour. Prudence tries to find a cure for Dorcas.

CHAPTER 1 | CHAPTER 2 | CHAPTER 4| CHAPTER 5 |

CHAPTER 6 PART 1| CHAPTER 6 PART 2|

CHAPTER 3: THE TALK

SABRINA POV

After Caliban and I left Harvey and the gang at the school, we teleported our way back to the academy. As we approached the main entrance outside of the school, Caliban was about to head in until I immediately grabbed his hand.

“Princess if you wanted to hold onto my hand, just tell me.” Caliban joked with a smirk.

“No! I just wanted us to take a detour. Just follow my lead.” I said denying him.

Why must this guy love teasing me so much? Wait, maybe he’s still thinking about what happened earlier. Sabrina, get your head out of the clouds, I thought.

Needing to clear any unnecessary thoughts, I took Caliban by the wrist and we were walking toward the back of the academy to the garden. In the middle there is a big greenhouse. It was huge for a greenhouse, pretty hexagonal and private that no one will be able to see inside. It’s the perfect place for a private talk.

Once Caliban and I headed inside, I was still amazed every time I went in. I walked through the garden to the greenhouse feeling the sun shine down breathing life into me and the earth around me. Mother Nature so savagely took the earth growing it up the side of the greenhouse. Inside the greenhouse it’s magical, I feel blissful and complete. This was my getaway where I want to be in my thoughts and away from everyone else.

There was a balcony on the second floor, while in the middle of the greenhouse was a big fountain similar to the trevi fountain in Rome but more downsize.  

“Wow, I never knew such a place like this existed Princess.” Caliban starred in awed looking at the view but also looking at me.

“Well I didn’t take you here for the flowers, but I wanted to talk to you about a few things.” I said looking away from his stare. I continued to lead us towards the fountain to my favorite spot.  We sat down on the edge of the fountain getting ourselves more comfortable.

“Caliban, I wanted to thank you for trying to help save Roz earlier but also can I ask why are you helping me?” I asked him confused.

“Everyone has an agenda but you know what I said earlier about working together. I’m here trying to prove that to you.” Caliban said with a look of seriousness on his face.

“Also you know you don’t have to step in between a fight for me princess, you can do whatever you like.” He said with a smirk recounting the scene where I stepped between him and Harvey.

“1) I did that because I didn’t want you guys to kill each other. 2) In your dreams.” I said to him while rolling my eyes. Hopefully my blush was not prominent but he probably saw right through me, that jerk.

“Whatever you say my Queen but the offer still stands.” He said suggestively.

“Okay, enough of that! Onto important business now. I wanted to talk about us and our engagement, and what that entails.”

“So what do you suggest then?” Caliban asked curiously.

“I want us to be open to each other about everything. I don’t want any secrets we need to be able to trust one another. I also want to say that -I know it’s something we’ve briefly talked about -but I’m not sure if I’m ready for a romantic relationship so this would be a strictly political alliance.” I stated.

“I respect that. But Princess, you are more than ready then you think you are.” Caliban told me as his eyes stared inquisitively at mine.

“Well I don’t agree considering I’ve just broken up with Nick.” I countered back to him and challenged his stare. He gave me a half hearted smirk

“I understand and I’ll wait until you think you are ready.” He said kindly touching my hand. “Thank you Caliban that means a lot” I say “but now onto more pressing matters” at me saying that his mood quickly shifts to a more serious one. He nods his head and beings to state his terms        

“ My main agreements are us ruling equally. I will be the inforcer while you’ll be the voice of reason. I would also like for us to share a bedroom even if our relationship isn’t romantic, And I assume you are moving to hell? It’ll be much easier even if you choose to continue your studies in the mortal realm.” Caliban says confidently.          

“I think that’s reasonable. My conditions are that the earth will not be the tenth circle of hell, no enslaving people. I will still continue mortal school while also helping my aunties with the academy.  But yes I agree that it’ll be easier for me to be in hell that way we can reform hell, together.” I added.

“Okay, now we have to recite this spell in order for the agreements to become official.” I told him.

Sabrina and Caliban held each other’s hands as the incantation took place.

“Repeat after me.” I told him and then we both closed our eyes.

INCANTATION

Testor ego par non solum ut sint vobis in tua regina/regem socium,

sed in vita tua et iurare quia omnia

Judicia sit fecit utraque unum, et partes in consensu opus est.

Maledictum haec ego ad te anima mea sicut

et ego binding quamdiu ambo vivunt ejus

[I swear to be your equal

Not only as your queen/king but as your life partner in life

I swear that all decisions must be made together

and both parties need to be in agreement.

By swearing these things I am binding myself and my soul to you

for as long as we both shall live]

After he repeated the incantation, we both felt a tingling sensation. As I opened my eyes, I saw Caliban staring at me and I’m not sure why. I realized we were still holding hands and I let go of his immediately, looking away.

“Well that wasn’t that bad, right my Queen?” He said teasingly at me, always trying to get a rise out of me that’s for sure.

“So why didn’t you tell anyone that we were engaged sweetheart?”  He says smugly. I give Caliban a nervous look.

“I’m not sure on what everyone’s reactions are gonna be. I don’t know, Maybe we should keep our engagement on the down low for now. I also don’t want to see Nick’s reaction. We just broke up. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“You shouldn’t care about his feelings because of how he treated you Princess.” He says reassuringly and holds my hand.

----- transition back to the academy ---

Back at the academy, Prudence and Ambrose are  trying to find spells to undo on what happened to Dorcas.

Both were at the library in a blaze trying to figure out which spells would work and so far it’s been a tough one for both of them.

“Ambrose, my dear. Have you had any luck finding anything good?” Prudence asked Ambrose while she was pursuing a book that might be helpful on their search.

“I’m trying my love, but this Circe character has access to old magic I’m not sure if we’ll be able to find anything on it. What if we asked that Robin fellow? He’d probably know something about this type of magic.” He says to her

“No, we can’t ask that circus freak. I’m determined we’ll be able to save her Ambrose. Now come over here, here’s a spell that could work out?” She told him fiercely, confident in their abilities to save her. She already felt lost not having Dorcas and Agatha here like she lost a part of herself.

After many tries, the pair felt tired but still determined on not giving up. They each took a turn reciting spells to Dorcas. Eventually, Ambrose was stationed at the library scavenging for books while Prudence stayed by Dorcas, reciting spells.

As Prudence was reciting a spell to Dorcas, there were footsteps coming by the stairway. And there revealed Nick. He sat down on the stairs, looking forlorn and slightly agitated.

“Hey Nicky.” Prudence called out to Nick.

“Hi Prudence. How’s the spell casting over Dorcas going? Need any help?” He asked her.

“Thank you but no. It’s nothing that me and Ambrose can’t handle. One of these spells is going to work, I know it.  But enough about me, are you still feeling hung up on Sabrina?”

“I don’t want to talk about that. I’m still ashamed over my actions towards her and the pain I inflicted onto her and myself. But it’s better if we’re not together for now.” Nick assured Prudence.

“Okay whatever you say. Now please be a dear and let me concentrate on trying to get Dorcas back alive here?” She told him and recounted back to the page that she was reciting the spell.

Back in the greenhouse, Sabrina and Caliban were still discussing their partnership and the plan for the third challenge.

“Hey Caliban, we should put a rain check on this conversation since I still need to talk to Ambrose if he can help us.” I asked him to try to steer the conversation back to me.

“Yes my Queen. Whatever you say.” He said in a cheeky tone.

“Okay, then let’s head back! try to keep up I wouldn’t want to get lost” I hollered to him giggling to myself as I walked ahead to the entrance.

Caliban and Sabrina left the greenhouse and passed through the garden heading back to the academy.

[lsbaird]

The Devil’s Luck - Chapter Three Preview!

I’m a day late, it’s true, but hopefully you’ll forgive me. Today Etienne rallies to give it the old college try one more time, but he’s beginning to realize his target may not be quite so murderable as he appears...

It was the D'Grassa, in fact, that proved to be the next opportunity for dispatching Frey.  In the morning Etienne dined alone, again, as Frey was tied up over his breakfast meetings, where he held court with his tenants and resolved grievances between them.  There was a sticky situation involving a sheepdog and some geese, Frey had told him, and it would be quite boring for Elsa.  Etienne heartily agreed.  Not to mention, of course, that Elsa's presence at Chancelion was supposed to be something of a secret for a week, unofficial until her aunt had time to accept her niece's elopement, and the engagement was fixed.  Or, in terms of the Order, when Frey was dead and the Lady Elsa vanished into thin air.  

So Etienne made his way though another round of oatmeal and bland tea, and then retreated back to the library.  Maybe he couldn't steal the D'Grassa yet, but at the very least he could read the damn thing.  

But once he had settled in the window seat, Etienne opened the tome to its first illuminated page and stared at it without comprehension.  His mind was not on the Binding of the Archdemon, centuries past.  It was on the prevention of that same Archdemon's return. His easiest opportunity to do his sworn duty had ended in failure, but there were numerous other methods to be tried. After all, it was only the second full day of his stay.  

He had no idea how long he was there, lost in thought, staring out the window.  The rain had let up, but it had stripped all the autumn glory from the trees, and Chancelion's forests were skeletal frames with flecks of red and peach clinging to them. The timber hills, whose evergreen wombs birthed the hulls of Verlia's merchant vessels, were a dark-green smudge in the distance under a brilliant sky.  In the stone courtyard below, past the lacy ironwork points under the windows, tatty leaves chased each other back and forth like schoolchildren let off their studies, whirling into circles and then breaking apart.  The sudden sound of Frey’s voice scattered Etienne’s thoughts in a much less poetic fashion.

"I would have said my library lacked for nothing, but I see now what it most needed is here at last."  

Etienne started.  Frey was standing in the doorway, his eyes only for his betrothed, love lending him an added appeal that his already fine figure did not need.  

"Frey!"  Etienne said, even as he scolded himself for letting someone—a target, even!— sneak up on him.  He hurried to rescue the book that was falling out of his lap before its fragile binding could crash to the parquet floor.  "I didn't even hear you come in."  

"I could not bear to disturb you, in whatever thoughts you were having."  Frey smiled. "Dare I hope that I was in some small part of them?"  

Etienne liked nothing better than when Elsa could be honest and full of lies all at the same time.  It was so gratifying.  "Why, yes, I do confess that you did feature rather prominently," he said, and neglected to elaborate.  It wouldn't do to tell Frey that those lush, private fantasies had all involved Frey's murder.  "Did you think I would be thinking about the lawns, or the sparrows on the roof?"

"The mystery was so much of the appeal," Frey sighed, happily.  "I should have you painted just like that, tilted away from the frame, so I could always watch you daydreaming."  

Etienne put the book to his mouth to hide his expression.  He breathed deep the reassuring smells of old leather and parchment and felt calmer at once. "Really, my lord," he said, pleased with the teasing note he'd managed, "one would think your thoughts might be ungentlemanly."  

"They are," Frey said, with a dark little smile that made him look far too much like his Great-Uncle, "entirely ungentlemanly.  And if my lady insists on calling me lord, and thinking me so chivalrous, I might have to remind her that I was born a bastard, in a cattle barn, to a tavern wench."  

"So long as your elusive father was not one of the cows, I'm hardly concerned," Etienne said, lightly.  "After all, you are Lord Reichwyn now, are you not?"

"So everyone insists on telling me," Frey said.  "And he has come to ask his betrothed if she would like to go out for a ride."

Horse-trampling, being thrown from the saddle, neck-breaking, falling down a gully, drowning in a creek, impaled on a broken branch, oh yes.  All the things Etienne's dreams were made of. "I would adore the chance for some fresh air."  

Frey held out both his hands.  "As I hope you adore me?"  

Etienne had to rush up then, and take his hands, and be scooped up into another kiss.  It was an easier lie than saying yes, Etienne supposed, but he disliked how it set his lips buzzing and made his heart so loud.  A dull thump from the window put Frey off his affections, but not enough to release his lady.  "What was that?"  

"Ah, damn!"  Etienne said, with feeling.  "It’s the D'Grassa.  If I've broken the binding I'll never forgive myself."  The book, left teetering on the edge of the window seat in Etienne's wake, had toppled over onto the floor with its pages splayed.  

"Not to worry," Frey said, bending to pick it up.  "It's been all right for centuries, it looks like it can take a knock or two."

"Still, I hate to abuse a book—oh!"  Etienne broke off, because Frey, kneeling there over the book and looking so wonderfully vulnerable, had just given him an idea.  

"Something else wrong?"  Frey asked, looking at his lady in confusion.  

Belatedly, Etienne clapped a hand to his ear.  "Yes!  Ah, I've lost one of my earrings.  It was one of the pearls you had in my wardrobe for me. I hope it's not gone for good!"  

Frey put the D'Grassa safely on the window seat, and as Etienne hoped, went back down on his knees.  "Not to worry, it must be around here somewhere, as I saw you had it when I came in..."  

Etienne hastily took out one of his earrings and chucked it away in the direction of a distant bookshelf, while Frey flipped up the edge of the carpet by the window seat, peering at the floorboards beneath.  "This library eats things, I believe.  Just the other day I lost one of my pen nibs, and I was rather fond of how that one laid down ink...  Oh look!  Here it is."  

Etienne's hands froze on his collar, but Frey had only found the pen nib, not the earring.  "I hope then my pearl will turn up," he said, and as Frey went back to searching, Etienne yanked a length of fine, deadly wire from the net of stiffened black lace that rose up from his collar.  The handles were gilt toggles that looked like common decorations, and the wire whispered a high, thin note in Etienne's hands.  What would one more red line be, among the many already lacing Frey's body?  

Frey sat back a little to look under the cushions of the window seat, and then, Etienne sprung.  

It was beautifully simple.  The invisible wire looped around Frey's throat, drawn tight in Etienne's hands as the assassin used his entire body to leverage his force.  It was quick, elegant, bloodless.  With Frey's windpipe blocked, there was only a moment's silent struggle, like a fish dangling at the end of a line.  Frey's grasping hands reached out blindly for aid and knocked over the ink-pot on the writing desk, upsetting a candelabra and igniting the desk papers with a breathy roar.  The heat of the rising flames licked Etienne's face, relaxing the false curls of his wig.  Soon the conflagration would take the entire room, and Freyton Reichwyn Landry with it, along with all the Archdemon's desires.  It was a shame about the books, but it was a mission, Etienne's mission, and it must be accomplished at any cost.  

...except that it wasn't.  

Etienne did not, in fact, get much further than looping the wire around Frey's neck.  The rest happened with glorious brevity in his imagination, until Etienne pulled the wire taut, and it snapped. The unexpected lack of murder sent him staggering backwards a step, bewildered. The finest garroting wire in Ivanis City, specially made for him by a master craftsman in the tools of death, broken in two as though it were no more than a cobweb!  

Frey fell back on his heels with a surprised cough, and Etienne stuffed the broken garroting wire down into his bodice.  

"My lord?"  he asked, shoving his own annoyance aside to radiate mild concern instead, wondering if Frey had chanced to see the wire flickering in front of his eyes.  Perhaps he'd thought it only a stray hair, one of the ones that so often escaped from his queue.  "Are you all right?"  

"Ah—yes, I think so," Frey said, patting his cravat in some confusion.  "For a moment I thought...  It must have only been this pulling tight, though."  

"This?"  Etienne said thinly, bracing for accusations.  But Frey only pulled an object free of his waistcoat.  Twirling on the end of a silk ribbon was a miniature painting of Etienne dressed as Elsa, the one that had been sent along with his letters. Ephaseus had painted it himself for the ruse.

"I put it round my neck this morning, you see, and wound it twice as the ribbon was a bit long.  It must have just pulled tight when I bent over.  The locket's gold, so it's quite heavy."  Frey rubbed his throat, laughing ruefully.  "For a moment there I thought you were trying to strangle me!"  

"Aha ha ha heh!"  Etienne's laugh lacked any humor at all, at least to his own ears.  Surely Frey must know it was false?  "But why would I do that!  I haven't even gotten my ride with you yet."  By the time he got to the end of his protest, Etienne had managed a decent grasp on his facade again.  Still, the word ride came out in far more of a provocative tone than he planned. Frey looked startled and pleased and a little bit breathless at it, though the last was probably more from the near-strangling more than from his lady's advances.  "I mean," Etienne fumbled, and looked around in desperation.  "I, er—oh, look, there's my pearl!"  He hurried over to retrieve the earring, and to do what he could to repair his disguise. "Would you put it back in for me? I'm afraid you startled me so that my hands are shaking.  I wouldn't want it to be lost again."  

"Your least wish is my highest command," Frey said, and with a deftness that belonged to the card-player more than to the manor lord, Frey slipped the gold earring wire back through Etienne's ear, and admired it there a moment.  "I'm so pleased you like them, and your dresses.  This is another you're wearing today, is it not?  From the ones I had here for you?"  

"Ah, yes," Etienne said, trying not to squirm away from the things Frey was doing to his ear.  He detested being tickled.  "They really are lovely.  And the jewels...  You are too generous."  

"I'm nothing of the sort.  Chancelion's fortune is your fortune, and they are yours by right.  I've worked hard to bring the family wealth back here, and to provide things suitable for the lady of the house."  Frey's hand slipped down to Etienne's jaw, and suddenly it was worth the pain Etienne had gone through to have his beard yanked out with hot sugar tallow before the mission.  The least roughness would have been unfortunate, so close.  Damn the man for being such a warm-hearted suitor.  "It pleases me to see you in them."  

Etienne felt a flicker of surprise. "You chose my jewels and things?"  

"I did, though Tobias saw to the fitting of your rooms.  He said you would be more used to extravagance, coming from the southlands."

"Ah."  Gracious adoration, Elsa my girl, he told himself.  You are a woman in love with a rich, handsome man, remember. "It's… so kind of him," he finished, and for once was grateful to be kissed, because it meant not having to talk.  I am going to throw that accursed cherub in the duck pond when I go.

"I would give you all that and more," Frey said, when they parted again.  "But first, I think it best if you try that riding habit on for fit, and meet me down in the courtyard?  Say, a quarter of an hour?  I'll see to some hawks for us, and mounts."  

"I can think of nothing finer," Etienne breathed, kohl-darkened lashes fluttering.  

"Good."  Frey ran his thumb under Etienne's lower lip.  "Till then, my love."  He kissed Etienne's knuckles and then was out the door, whistling again, a besotted and happy man.  

Etienne sprawled back in a spindly chair not meant for sprawling in, his legs splayed wide and his skirts in disarray as he allowed himself one moment of utter and complete disgust with the world.  

"...Fuck."