#not relying on cards and stones and dreams to tell her what's going on inside her head?

[aserniccatnip]

Lady light. (Part 1)

So... Maybe there is already an AU like this one, please, say it to me if it is the case ! Or I might really think I actually had an idea all by myself... This story is writen after Ladybug but I might put some things from the others episodes, the diffusion order is killing me.

Warning : It's a Damian x Marinette au but it can alsi be a "Marinette doesn't need a man in her life because she's perfect" au base, Chloé will be redeemed. 

Part 2, Part 3, Taglist

___________

Sabine couldn't stop thinking of the accident, about the girl and her habit to say stranges things. She couldn't stop thinking about her daugther who was expelled, of her faded smile and her sadness. She tought about it for hours and hours. Days and days. Everyday she thinks about it and feels anger growing slowly inside of her, but luckily for her, Tom is always by her side and try to find a way to make everybody happy again in his little family.

But after several days of intense reflection, they came to the best solution possible for their daughter. Maybe for some they were making a mistake, but they still wanted to do everything to ensure the happiness of Marinette. It was their duty as parents.

To make sure they were not doing anything stupid, however, they once invited Alya home while Marinette was at Nadja's house looking after her daughter to earn some pocket money. Like any child invited to a parent's house without knowing the reason, Alya was stoned, but she knew how much Marinette's parents were angels. (She was always shocked that a man like Tom Dupain was able to be akumatized.) After drinking her cup of hot chocolate and her croissant, which melted delicately in her mouth, she tried to focus on the adults. "Why did you want to see me?"

Sabine looked at Tom, hesitantly and took a deep breath. "You are a future journalist and Marinette's friend, can you tell us what is her relationship with this so-called Lila Rossi?"

Alya looked at them in turn, understanding finally the reason for her coming, the parents anxiety after the accident that had occurred a month earlier was easy to see. She didn't blame them for seeking explanations when everyone had already turned the page on this unfortunate misunderstanding and moved on.

"Marinette doesn't like Lila since ... Since her arrival. She doesn't stop treating her as a liar and manipulator. I must admit that I think it's because she's in love with Adrien and Lila is in love too." Alya drank her chocolate, not noticing the shock of the parents right away.

Their daughter ? Treat someone liar just because they are fighting for the same man? It wasn't the Marinette they had raised. Suddenly, they wondered where they had failed in hee education. Marinette used to hate lies in the past.

"So ... do you think she really steals her family necklace?"

"Marinette? Never ! She has already done some unthinkable things, but I don't think she did that. "

"So this Lila has set up a trap for my cupcake!" Tom stood up, growling with a more than angry look. The two women looked at each other, almost afraid to see an Akuma appear.

"M. Dupain, it's impossible. Lila is very sweet and an adorable girl. She would never hurt a fly ! But ... I know two other people who also love Adrien and can be responsible for all that. Two incredibly mean girls for nothing. A bit like Marinette with Lila at times ... "

Sabine couldn't believe her ears: people were ready to sabotage the whole schooling of a girl just because, at the age of fourteen, she loved a boy? A model moreover? Someone who, inevitably, attracted the attention of others? No. All this was not correct.

"Thank you Alya, have some macaroons and thank you, once again, for your time." Smiling as she accompanied Alya to the door, Sabine slowly lose her smile and put her future plan into action. It was hurting her to do that. But Marinette happiness was the only thing that matter.

___

When Marinette returned home that day, she thanked Heaven for giving Ladybug a day off because she couldn't have saved anyone because of her current condition. Exhausted, she immediately climbed into her room and didn't notice that her parents were not at the bakery. It was only once in her room that she jumped, seeing her mother sitting on her bed waiting for her.

"Mom ? What are you doing in my room?“

"I wanted to talk to you about Lila Rossi. “

Marinette turned pale and her eyes were filled with anger, fear and sadness.

Everything she hated to see in her daughter's eyes.

"Mom, I don't want to talk about it... "

Her mother nodded and got up from the bed, showing her a suitcase next to her. "Marinette, your father and I love you, that's why we want to fulfill our duty as parents at best by thinking about your future and your well-being, which sometimes means making choices that don't please everyone immediately to our child. "

Marinette stepped back, shaking her head as she tried to flee, she was slowly beginning to understand and it scared her. Where was she going? Somewhere in Paris at least, right? Outside, she could hear the noisy horn of a car and the shrill voice of Chloe Bourgeois, her eternal enemy. She ran to the window, wanting to be sure. At hee back, her mother continued to talk to her.

"Marinette Dupain Cheng, you are going to live in New York with Chloé Bourgeois and her mother to realize your dream of becoming a stylist!"

The teenager could hear happiness in her mother's voice as she was about to realize her dream. But what would she do with Ladybug? Alya? Adrien? And ... Going with Chloe? Really ? It was to sign her death warrant.

"But mom... I love Paris! Everything is fine here for me. And everyone is here ! You, dad, Alya, Adrien and... "

"And Lila Rossi? No. You may have only fourteen years old but you have a gift and New York can show your gift to the whole world. This is a big opportunity. "

"But Chloé is worse than Lila!" She remained silent for a moment. Chloe was sticky, annoying and she was doing everything to annoy her but ... Lila? No, clearly, Lila was worse. "I can become a stylist here mom!"

"Don't discuss my orders, pack your bags, your father has prepared your favorite meal as a farewell dinner ... We will come to visit you during the holidays and every night we will call each other."

Marinette wanted to cry. No, she was crying. She cried at the thought of being away from her parents, at the thought of being in an unknown and far too big city whose language she barely knew. She was crying to say goodbye to Alya, Adrien, Nino, Juleka, Rose, her new friend Kagami, she was crying to disappoint Master Fu.

"Before leaving ... can I say goodbye to my friends ...?"

At the table, Sabine was silent: it was hard for her to play the bad mother. And Tom? He was trying to keep smiling even if he was going to say goodbye to his daughter. Fortunately, the Bourgeois made the promise that she would have a bodyguard and that they would keep them informed of everything. He was a proud father of his daughter.

"Yes, my cupcake, you can go ... But at 7 pm you have to be at the airport for your departure." He gave a nervous little smile. "The Mayor told me that you have a first class ticket. First class ! Do you imagine the comfort?"

He was the only one who seemed happy about it.

Sabine watched her daughter as she left the table to see her friends without even eating her last family meal. She knew she was making the right choice and if it wasn't the right one... She was going to fly to New York to take her home if she had to. But the Parisian air was no longer made for Marinette. She deserved better and Sabine knew it.

----

"You go away ?" Alya's voice was shaking with anger.

"Alya ... I'm sorry, I just learned it right now, my mother made that decision without warning me before today!"

"Of course, your parents send you to New York the same day they decided it without telling anyone? You know what? Maybe Lila was saying, you're selfish!" She hung up.

Marinette knew that most of the words her best friend was saying were angry, but she couldn’t help but feel hurt. The student had always tried to please everyone, to make all her friends smile, then hear that she was selfish? It was almost too much for her.

"You're a big-hearted girl, Marinette, she's going to calm down and she's going to realize her words." Tikki tried her best to reassure her, knowing how sensitive Marinette is.

Marinette smiles, sticking her little girlfriend to her cheek to thank her for her sweetness in such a moment then she put Tikki back in her bag. Marinette inhaled and went to Master Fu's apartment. 

For the others ? It was better that she was content to just write them a farewell letter, it was simpler, less painful.

"Master Fu?" Marinette muttered as she entered the miraculous guardian's apartment.

The old man smiled as he looked at her, but his smile vanished as he saw the sad look on Marinette's face, but also on Tikki's face. "Master Fu, Marinette is leaving for New York, she has no choice, her parents choose it for her..."

The guard didn’t know what to answer right away. But after a glass of tea, he put the horse’s glasses in the hands of the young woman. Marinette looked up at the old man with a lost face.

"Master ... But ..."

"You're the only person who can be the ladybug holder, I can’t replace you, I don’t want to replace you, so I'm sorry, but for now I have to rely on you to make the journey as soon as we need you here. I only trust you to fight Hawkmoth."

Tears rolled over Marinette's cheeks and she hugged him, taking advantage of that moment with him. Tikki was coming with her and that was something that reassured her in her situation.

Later in the evening, her father took the cards she had written for each of her acquaintances, even for Manon. She wanted everyone to know that she would miss Paris and that she wouldn’t forget them. She hugged her parents and went to the limousine to leave with Chloe and her parents. Neither Tom nor Sabine had the courage to accompany her to the airport without reconsidering their decision.

"So ... We're going to New York ..." Marinette tried to engage in a conversation with Chloe, smiling as hard as she could in her situation.

"It's ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, sharing an apartment with you ? Ridiculous!" She grunted, folding her arms and looking down at her. "Don’t you know ? My mother can’t come with us, so we're going to Gotham, I'm going into a dance school and modeling and you ... you're gonna try to survive before you come back here crying for your mama!" 

"But ... who will take care of us, if your mother doesn’t come?"

"An adult will live with us and we will have bodyguards to avoid having problems." Seeing Marinette's growing fear, she smiled. "You can always back off."

"If only I had a choice."

-------------

Inspired of @coke-and-candy​ and her little drabble about Sabine. You all should read it ! It’s awesome.

[hairasuntouchedaspartoftheamazon]

I feel like the SPN fandom as a whole, especially the fantastic people who make vids, songfics and aesthetics, are missing out on the near-perfection that is The Gaslight Anthem. GA is a rock band from New Jersey, and basically all their songs have this vibe of “I’m a little sad, could kill you, miss when we were younger, and I want to be loud”. I’m also of the belief that a decent amount of their songs fit SPN perfectly.

Examples(I also highly recommend listening to all of these, they’re great):

American Slang(Highly appropriate in my opinion):

“And they cut me to ribbons and taught me to drive, I got my name tattooed inside of my arm. And I called for my father but my father had died! While you told us fortunes, in American Slang”

“And here’s where we died that time last year, and where the angels and devils meet, and you can dance with the Queen if you need, and she will always keep her cards, close to her heart.”

“....and I called for my father but my father had died! And we called for our mothers but our mothers had died, and you told us fortunes in American Slang”  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oAqbnTKQBIY&list=OLAK5uy_np5CJdYInsAeogm56OsGNqLq0j1eBBzaI

Boxer:

“You got your pride and your prose, tucked just like a tommy gun somewhere in the smoke just in case you need it son, I heard it’s been a ride rougher than the last one, what’d you use to say, oh the harder they come”

“You took it all gracefully on the chin, knowing that the beatings had to someday end, we found the bandages inside the band, and the stitches on the radio, and there was something that was holding you down, and there were whispers that were driving you crazy and now you hunt the heart of this town, remember when I knew a boxer baby”

“And your tattooed knuckles oh how they grind down, try to be a man tough just like your father, try to settle down, more like a calm down remember them songs and the reasons we were singing for”

“And he, he says he just doesn’t miss her and he, hey says it’s somewhere in his framework, but I have heard you never really lose it do ya, do ya?”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DYMeWEGTOxA&list=OLAK5uy_np5CJdYInsAeogm56OsGNqLq0j1eBBzaI&index=7

Bring It On:

“...Blue eyes and spitfire, I saw you walking back and forth, about another boy, thinking that you may wanna leave, so give me the fevers that just won’t break, and give me the children you don’t wanna raise, and tell me about the Cool, he sings to you those songs, if it’s better than my love, bring it on”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J-ZN7NyPfb4&list=OLAK5uy_np5CJdYInsAeogm56OsGNqLq0j1eBBzaI&index=3

We Did It When We Were Young:

“There are no reasons to believe, I buried my faith in another plot,Where your heart and your claws will not find, And I don't feel you or recall, I put your bones out in the yard, For someone else to be called and caught by” “And I cannot hold a candle for every pretty gun,We were strangers many hours and I missed you for so long, When we were liars, lovers in combat, Faded like your name on those jeans that I burned” “But I am older now, And we did it when we were young, I am older now, And we did it when we were young”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vw8WPJHajEY&list=OLAK5uy_np5CJdYInsAeogm56OsGNqLq0j1eBBzaI&index=10

Old Haunts:

“And all along you knew my story, didn't you? And all night long I carried yours, Your blood was mixed with wine and robbery, baby, And left us always wanting more” “So don't sing me your songs about the good times, Those days are gone and you should just let them go, And god help the man who says "If you'd have known me when..." Old haunts are for forgotten ghosts” “Cherry Bomb, your love is surgery, Removing what you don't regard, And every breath felt like a funeral, baby, While you were packing up your car” “And with the window down, I hear you're tired now, You borrowed everything and wore all your old welcomes out, Well, shame on you, my love, you sold your youth away, Memories for sinking ships that never would be saved”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eoDKQT7vXNA&list=OLAK5uy_np5CJdYInsAeogm56OsGNqLq0j1eBBzaI&index=8

The Spirit of Jazz:

“The Cool is dead, baby, go on to sleep, Rest your weary head and love a better me, And in the morning we'll start over again,That's how they do it up on the screen” “Was I good to you, the wife of my youth? Not another soul could love you like my rotten bones do, So I will wait on the edges in between, These New York streets where you and I would meet” “For twenty-nine years we loved that line, And I would take it easy if I had your mind, But I'm a cannonball to a house on fire, And you're slow like Motown soul” “So what now, lover with your long black hair?, If I cut you open, baby, I can repair, Bandage your wounds with the salt on my tongue, And I'm the only one around here”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q9KOUAmZ12w&list=OLAK5uy_np5CJdYInsAeogm56OsGNqLq0j1eBBzaI&index=9

Wherefore Art Thou Elvis?(Tell me that this isn’t the Sam Winchester song, I dare you):

“I cut my teeth on the stone of a teenage romance, I was the salt of the earth, I was hard, The last of the independents” “And in the breath from my chest I was blowing kerosene, My lips and fingertips were stone, I wore my heart on my jeans, I sang the blues like the dogs left too long in the street, I still sing the blues with the dogs” “And I got half a mind to let it all burn up in this fire, I've had burning through my veins since I first learned to cry, I'd watch this whole night come down and never miss her again,I never felt right and never fit in walkin' in my own skin” “Now I got scars like the number of stars, My mind's full of vipers, I got the dust of the desert in my bones, Comin' through the amplifiers, And in the minor chord fall and the fourth and the fifth, It's a broken Hallelujah and a pain in my fist, I wash my hands like the man with the blood on his teeth, Over and over without relief” “Walkin' in my old man shoes, with my scientist heart, I got a fever and a beaker and a shot in the dark, I need a Cadillac ride, I need a soft summer night, Say a prayer for my soul, Señorita”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPdCP5f_gmk

High Lonesome:

“And Maria came from Nashville with a suitcase in her hand, I always kinda sorta wished I looked like Elvis, And in my head there's all these classic cars and outlaw cowboy bands, I always kinda sorta wished I was someone else” “There was "Southern Accents" on the radio as I drove home, And at night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet, It's a pretty good song, baby you know the rest Baby, you know the rest”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UErXgvNV3lw

’59 Sound:

“Well I wonder which song they're gonna play when we go, I hope it's something quiet and minor and peaceful and slow, When we float out into the ether into the everlasting arms, I hope we don't hear Marley's chains we forged in life, 'Cause the chains I've been hearin' now for most of my life” “Did you hear the '59 sound, Coming through on Grandmama's radio? Did you hear the rattlin' chains, In the hospital walls? Did you hear the old gospel choir When they came to carry you over?Did you hear your favorite song, One last time?”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zw3w1iKiq8M

Mulholland Drive:

“Did you sleep last night and do you remember dreams? Do I ever cross your mind and do you ever think of me? When you think about your life are there things you would reverse? I still remember holding you, just out of sight of her, In the deep, dark parking lot pressed up against my car, With your hands around my neck I felt the pounding of your heart, And the summer night was giving in to the lure of Autumn’s sway, I can’t seem to forget that night or how I heard you say, ohh and I’d just die if you ever took your love away”

“And I can still recall the hour when you first let down your walls, I thought I might've died right there floating up above it all, But it scared you love, to need someone, so you killed it all instead”

“And did you miss me when I'm gone? And the simple things we used to rely on? Who came to wipe your tears away? Who came to bring back your dignity baby? And who came to drive you around this town, Like I used to drive you all around with the radio on”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eR4-F-P-Y6Q

Film Noir:

“I'm all washed out by the side of the road, Broken bones Matilda left a note and a rose, Sayin', "Baby honey child, I've loved you so long, But you deserve much better than me."” “So I'm just burnin' all around all the miles in the road, And I'm never goin' back and I'm never goin' home, I've been gone too long, I've been less right than wrong, I lost so much blood in the fallin' out” “And I lit a fire that wouldn't go out, Until it consumed the walls and roof of this house, Until all I remember was burnin' away, And all I remember, you burned it away” “See, for ten long years I've been hustlin' around, Tryin' to wash the sins and the sweat from my brow, Just tryin' to find a better life for me and my own, Just some rest for these tired workin' fingers” “But nobody never gonna tell you the way, You gotta figure it out boys and suffer the rain, And the fools in the night and the heat of the day, When all you ever really wanted was for someone to understand”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8KS9Cz1HgVs

She Loves You(this just gives me lowkey Destiel vibes):

“And if all was well, And your heart could find the words, Would we be for better baby, Would we be for worse, And if there was a way, To navigate your seas, If tonight my true love (Dared belong to me)”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WHYY-_3Ft84

Boomboxes and Dictionaries:

“I took a drive today, I thought about you, I thought about a friend who passed And how much we just went through” “I saw the sun shine off the hood of a Cadillac, I thought about some things I said, And some I would take back, I thought about how fortunate I feel to be alive” “And if you're scared of the future tonight, We'll just take it each hour one at a time, It's a pretty good night for a drive, So dry up those eyes, dry up those eyes” “Because the radio will still play loud, Songs that we heard as our guards came down, Like in the summertime when we first met, I'll never forget, and don't you forget, These nights are still ours” “We should remember to slow down more often, And maybe we will, Now here's a lot of good things coming our way right now, A lot of bad has passed, But we survived the breakdowns, All is forgiven, water under bridges now”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V9zYLE6Em7U

Drive:

“In my head I am already gone, Side roads boarded up, decisions decided on, But in my nights there are restless hours, When 3 AM comes down and nothing else comes up “And the only thing we know, Is it's getting dark and we'd better go, And the only thing we see, Are the despairs of the day, And if you're too tired, Go to sleep my brothers, I, And if you're too tired, Go to sleep my brothers, I'm all right to drive” “And in my heart I'm the weary kind, I'm much tired to cry, Though it's sad enough for tears, It's been try, fail, try for years, And when the next year comes along, I don't know if I'll be home, I don't know if we'll survive”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ClWHlXWSG9M

Biloxi Parrish(This is totally a Cas song):

“I've been fumbling with your heart strings, And that's good enough for me, And if I've rained on one of your hours, Then I know I must been working,Try it on for size my darling, See what a man you can make of me, I will eventually haunt you, And you'll eventually be my queen” “And I'll be with you through,The dark so that you do not, Go through the dark alone, Or on your own” “I've been down Biloxi Parish, And that's all the same for me, I found that nothing truly matters That you cannot find for free, I love you more than can I tell you, When you pass through from this world, I hope you ask to take me with you, Or that I won't have to wait too long, But until then I'll be with you through the dark, Yes, until then I'll be with you through the dark” “And who else can say that about you, baby, Who else can say that about you, now, And who else can take all your blood and your curses, Nobody I seen you hanging around" “And all of our heroes were failures or ghosts, Burned out in brilliant explosions alone, And all of the blood and the sweat that they gave, Well, we took it all and we threw it away”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o2RSKSYIXKY

Here Comes My Man:

“And how much time do you think that we have? If I wanted to, I could start over again, Let the good night decide who she wants me to find, And I'll never let you drop another tear in my eye, Singing oh sha-la-la, oh sha-la-la, Listen honey here comes my man”

“So I packed up my things and I faced up my doubts, You know I think I will grow my hair back out, Nevermind what you think, Nevermind what you like, I'll take it out to the streets for somebody else to admire”

“Maybe time will tell you, Why I got so much hell to sell you, Please, please understand me, Oh you can't just dance around me, Maybe your work will love you, When I'm just not there to hold you, Maybe your pride can be your companion, Oh but I just won't be there to stand for it, Not one more minute will I stand for it”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nBkfHv6kc5o

Blue Jeans and White T-Shirts:

“We are the boys from Little Eden, We are the heart of Saturday night, We drink from the fountains off the fireworks, Sweat and bone for a better life”

“Still we sing with our heroes, 33 rounds per minute, We're never going home until the sun says we're finished, I'll love you forever if I ever love at all, Wild hearts, blue jeans, & white t-shirts” “Some things baby never told you, Some things papa done ain't right, Spent a lifetime just to get over, You always said my mama tried”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u3sQsWuDHrw

[spn-is-baee]

Lydia’s Legacy

Author: Me

Info: This is a story i am working on that’s none important and I wanna post the first chapter draft here to see what tips I can receive. Overall the story is based off a horribly vivid dream I had regarding a young witch and the coven elders/supremes.  

So, here’s my chapter one. 

Lydia rode the train from Amber Court to Lilac Lane. She didn’t know why but her familiar brought a note addressed back to here. The familiar sat around her neck, judgingly. She felt powerful with her partner around her neck; Dermon, the familiar, was large and a powerful serpent. He protected Lydia from danger or led her to new and exciting adventures her coven may disapprove of. This time it was more frightening.

Traveling wasn’t Lydia's favorite, but when Dermon brought a note from an anonymous source simply stating “Only you can,” it definitely sparked some interest into the young girl's mind. Though she knows she mustn’t travel without some kind of communication, she goes without those means. She feels the aura radiating off the note; the feeling of plea and desperation. Something about it should be secret. 

Hours on the train and still two stops to make. If it wasn’t forbidden in her coven she’d teleport to this place, she’d lose her means of power for life and be banished to mortal worlds. Something about this trip was anxiety ridden. Something was going to get her in trouble with the coven but she couldn’t figure out what. She had found a small pamphlet on her coven. This place wasn’t like others. Her coven was a large community of maybe upwards of 15,000 witches and warlocks. Her father and mother are high leveled witches working alongside the elders in top secret bunkers where only they would know where. Being in this coven meant giving up a normal mortal life and swearing your soul to the god and goddess of Wicca. This swearing gives people powers they couldn’t ever imagine, but there are laws and if broken there are some EXTREME consequences to ignorance. 

Lydia had scraps with the Elders, for mostly using small spells to attack her bullies or using her familiar to put fear into those who crossed her. Familiars must also be summoned with certain precautions. Most of which Lydia ignored. Her parents have begged the Elders multiple times that they’d get her under control and was only given minor slaps on the wrist. Lydia promised them the last sixteen times she’d stop doing such reckless things, but where’s the fun in being a good witch?

Watching out the window, one stop away from her destination. She wondered what her parents may think of her disappearance. The trees sag as the air blows by them from the train. Leaves thrashing around when picked up off the ground. The sky was dark though, maybe a storm was coming that Lydia wasn’t informed of? She ignores that thought and her eyes wander to a figure in the middle of a field they pass now. It gave such strong negative energy which caused Lydia to peer out the window closer, she watches as this figure raises its small petite hands. The fingers of this decrepit hand form and move into a spell, only used by outlawed or banned witches who avoided power removal.

This spell sent off a powerful blast of energy coming straight for Lydia's part of the train. Dermon slithers off her into his humanoid figure to cover Lydia as this energy crashes into the steel car. Lydia braces herself while being held protectively by Dermon. The energy tho wasn’t to destroy the car but it seeped through the cracks of the car and made their way to Dermon and Lydia. 

She moves past Dermon, his long arms reach for her to keep her from this entity. They grasp her arm and pull her to him, “S~stay.” 

“What is it?” Lydia’s smaller frame turns toward him, her face full of worry and wonder.

“S~something that s~shouldn’t be here,” Dermon hates to admit it but he didn’t know what it is, but something within him said to keep her away. His only job was to protect her and he couldn’t mess that up. 

“Dermon, let me see it.” She looks curious and strict, she wanted answers and if risking her life meant to figure it out, she would take the chance every time. Dermon simply shackles his head in disapproval. 

“Absolutely not, Mis~stress,” Lydia was annoyed with this answer and cast a simple protection spell over herself. She pushes Dermon gently to the side and goes toward this energy swirling around, “Lydia, no.”

She didn’t listen and continued to reach out to this entity. Almost instantaneously the energy hits her hand and swallows her whole.  The entity becomes black in color and Dermon rushes to get her out but is blasted backward into the adjacent wall. A groan escapes his lips and now he begins panicking. He knew he had no power to save Lydia, he may have just lost the only person he cared about. 

Lydia watches her familiar from inside the entity. She felt her heart drop with fear as her friend was thrown away from her. “What do you want from me?” She pleads.

No response. 

Suddenly a rush of power surges through her. Something she has never felt before. Her head flies back as her eyes light with a purple hue. Her body felt such pain right when she realized the power intensity. She lets out a scream so bloodcurdling, she thought her voice box may explode from the stress. Dermon hears her cries and yells for the entity to stop, though he knew they wouldn’t yield. 

As fast as it happened and as fast as they tried to move, the entity disappears without a trace. Lydia was unaware of her body being lifted into the air, her body felt paralyized. Once the entity dissipated her body fell to the floor of the train. Dermon rushes to her side.

“Lydia? Please respond to me, my s~sweet,” His voice cracked in fear, he loved Lydia so much and couldn’t bear being masterless. 

“I’m fine, Dermon. I’m alive.” Her voice was weak and she moved as though her bones were as stiff as stone, “Don’t sweat about me, I saw the entity throw you. Are you alright?”

“Miss~s, I am fine. I didn’t get engulfed by such a negative force. Are you feeling well? Shall we go return home?”

“No, I think the note had to do with whatever just happened.” 

“That’s ridiculous~ss,” Dermon looked at Lydia with anger, but Lydia saw fear in his eyes. 

“Dermon, who sent me that letter, you know it and won’t tell me?” Lydia sits up, her thick thighs bring her body up. She waits for Dermon's response but instead a horn and the abrupt stop of the train pulls her attention. She grabs her bag and races for the door, Dermon simply follows her out. She reaches a hand out back away from her toward Dermon. She doesn’t look to him, only creates this sad gesture to ask him silently to go back to his serpent form. He sighs but obliges to her request. He gently grabs her hand and kisses it gently as he turns back into his dangerous form. Slithering himself up and around her neck to rest while they travel.

Lydia's alternative style clashes with the cottage-core vibes of the village she arrives in. It evokes looks from everyone, not one of menace but curiosity. Most smile and move about their day. These witches were a part of her coven of course, though she knows the different separations of the powers happens. Her family's power relies on the energies and darker arts. Those from these more light and flower-ish communities are nature reliant. She always wanted her powers to be based on nature, but those who receive can’t choose. 

Her eyes caught those of another young witch, her age. The young woman's skin tan, not from the sun. She was naturally glowing a carmel color off her cheek bones. The girl's hair was bobbed and blonde. The ladies eyes were a fierce and electric blue. Lydia glazed at the outfit, Her shoes were elegant loafers that were perfectly rounded to fit her feet. The socks she wore were cuffed and edged with lace. The dress reached right below her knees, and the color of a dark denim. underneath this denim dress sat a puffy armed shirt in white to collide with her socks more flowingly. The girl smiled shyly at Lydia with a small look of flirtation. Lydia had never been one to initiate a pick up line, but this girl drew her in. 

She walked up to the girl with a small amount of confidence. Right when she stops in front of the girl, a small feline crosses between the two. All black, usually a sign of negative forthcoming, but Lydia never saw it as that. 

“Apologies for my familiar. He happens to be protective over me.” Her voice was soft and created this warm happiness in Lydia’s heart. Something she wasn’t used to. 

“No worries, darling. Very handsome familiar you have,” Lydia's longer hair falls in her face a bit as she gives a smug smirk toward the girl. She pushes the hair back and sees the girl give her a once over. Lydia follows the girl's eyes down her own body seeing her outfit. She felt straight out of a fan-fiction with her black ripped jeans, more rough ripped than most she sees on morals. Hers are self created. Then her over-sized black sweater hung low on her body as one shoulder slid down her arm to flash her very bright red bralette. 

Their coven community was very mortal styled. They weren’t in the 1800’s so they kept up with the style choices of modern times. Elders believed being dressed similar to morals created a safer hiding when they built up their communities. This helped keep moral witch hunters at bay.  

“Your style is very dark core, huh?” The girl laughed softly as Lydia seemed distressed over her outfit choices now, “You’re cute,” the honesty and bravery intrigued Lydia. 

“What’s your name?” Lydia stands up straighter and smiles at the girl warmingly. 

“My parents are kind of a wild card when it comes to name. I have what most people would refer to as ‘quirky,’” the girl giggles and looks around a minute almost as if to summon courage, “I’m Persephone, most call me Steph because it’s less flashy,” she seemed embarrassed by her name. It was perfect for her, she embodied the overall presence of the goddess. The story of Persephone and how she reacts or acts about things almost aline so far with what Lydia had seen so far. 

“I’m Lydia, keep my digits cutie,” Lydia hands the girl a slip of paper and winks. Steph smiles and nods. 

“I will, Lydia,” Steph turns and walks away disappearing from Lydia’s vision. She watched her leave with curiosity, something about that girl made her heart beat faster. 

“Don’t go around giving random people things~ss, Lyd,” the serpent hissed at her. 

“Quiet,” She silenced Dermon with one simple word. Had he hurt her enough to make her hate him now?

[lady-divine-writes]

Kurtbastian fic - “Dreamscape - Chapter 5″ (Rated NC17)

Summary:

Snarky, conceited Sebastian Smythe is "recruited" by the U. S. Government into a project that uses psychics like himself to enter people's dreams and cure them of their nightmares. The scientists running the study are Dr. Kurt Hummel, himself an empath, who's not at all impressed by Sebastian's abilities, and Dr. Jesse St. James, using this project more to further his own ambition than to actually help people. Kurt hopes his research will help soldiers suffering from PTSD overcome their nightmares so they can better readjust to civilian life, but someone else has an eye on Kurt's project, an interest in using 'dream therapy' for a far more nefarious purpose.

Inspired by the movie 'Dreamscape'

Read on AO3.

(6140 words this chapter)

“Subject: Parapsychology at Stanford Research Institute (SRI) 1. The intent of this memorandum is to briefly describe the OTS - SRI parapsychology project including a listing of the American citizens tested … fucking shit! This is what I hate about places like this,” Sebastian murmurs. “All the Goddammed homework!” He blinks at the white lines and black typeface bleeding into impressionist beetles before his eyes. “This is gonna put me in a coma. I guess that’s how they’re going to get me to succeed with all this dream link nonsense. By knocking me out permanently.”

He squeezes his eyes shut till bursts of color snap behind his lids. He takes a deep breath in, lets it out, counts to ten, and opens his eyes again. He adjusts the page in front of his face and tackles the paragraph again from the beginning - the same paragraph he’s read about fifteen times already. But none of it makes sense. He chuckles at the irony of that. “So much for my propensity for medicine, huh, Dr. Hummel? Kurt …” He gives the name a try, lets it roll off his tired tongue in his husky voice, a stone’s throw from his after sex voice.

It sounds good, he has to say that.

Scholastic papers on any topic have never been his cup of tea. Technical jargon and inflated science speak? Pompous and unnecessary. Or maybe he’s struggling with reading this encyclopedia of parapsychology because it’s … Sebastian checks his watch and groans. He thought it was creeping up on midnight, but it’s well past two in the morning.

“Great.” He closes the prospectus and tosses it to the foot of the bed. He wants to get some frickin’ sleep and have this disaster of a day be over already. A couple of hours, that’s all he asks. But he’s never had luck sleeping in places that weren’t his own home, his own bed. As a kid, his parents could take him on the best vacation to the funnest place in the universe, and he’d be miserable because he couldn’t fall asleep in a hotel bed.

Thinking about his apartment doesn’t help – his own spacious room and his nice, cozy bed now under surveillance by the federal government and three hired guns in black suits, probably all named Vinny. He can get as pissed as he wants for Jesse tipping them off (since he’s determined he’s the mastermind behind that set-up) but, truthfully, they were bound to catch up with him sooner or later. He can admit to himself that he was getting too cocky.

Lucky he ended up here instead of prison.

Or wearing cement shoes and sunk to the bottom of Lake Huron.

His mom used to say that people are where they’re meant to be at any given time. Maybe his ending up here has nothing to do with him or the choices he made. Maybe this is fate. This facility isn’t a bump in the road to somewhere else, it’s where he was supposed to end up.

…

Nope. Fuck that.

If he had been thinking with his head and not his dick, bypassed Satan-tana and headed for the car in his vision … he’d still be here. But he might have spent the night with Kurt instead. Would tapping Kurt be an even exchange for what he’s going through now? What he might potentially go through?

Again, one of many questions he might never get the answer to.

Before Kurt left Sebastian to his own devices, he gave him a stack of paperwork to peruse – a detailed breakdown of the project, the outreach programs it currently serves, the trials, and the supporting documentation that goes along with it.

It was Kurt’s first step at keeping his transparency promise.

Sebastian thanked him for it, but dumped it on his bedside table, determined to glean the CliffsNotes version from various unsuspecting brains around the facility. But the document, chock full of classified(ish) information that Kurt gave him willingly, mocked him. Kurt was making good on his part of the bargain.

Sebastian, on the other hand, was being a stubborn ass.

He glances out the door into the hallway. He’d left it open on the off chance Kurt ended up down his way during one of the walks Sebastian suspects he takes at the facility late at night. Sebastian discovered, entirely by accident, leaving the door open formed a rift in the barrier that keeps psychic powers contained. He can’t actively read anyone’s mind, but it allows Sebastian to get an impression of Kurt in the building. But with his walls up, Sebastian has no idea if he’s awake or asleep, out and about or in his office.

If he ever crosses Kurt’s mind.

He probably does now that he’s participating in Kurt’s study, even if it’s in a purely clinical way.

That’s better than nothing.

“Mason …”

A woman’s voice echoes through his ears from the inside, and Sebastian stops breathing. He sits up, looks around, eyes searching out the corners of his room for any place someone could hide, but there’s literally nowhere.

“Hello?” he calls, then waits for a response.

“Mason … be careful! Don’t do anything stupid …”

“Mason?” Sebastian swings his legs over the side of his bed. Isn’t that one of the incest twins?

Sebastian rises from his bed and walks to the door. He leans out into the hallway, looks left and right, but he sees no one. He half expected armed guards stationed outside his room or at the end of the hallway, but it seems deserted. The facility probably relies on cameras to keep their assets from running off.

Or on Kurt’s memory.

And whereas he wants to remain bitter about the whole ‘big brother watching him’ thing, the thought of his vitals, his brain wave patterns, and his heat signature locked inside Kurt’s brain makes that impossible.

“Mason!”

The urgency in that voice forces Sebastian to take a step back. He definitely hears it louder out in the hallway. But it’s not aimed at his brain. It sounds like it’s traveling through the walls. Sebastian presses his palm against the wall and closes his eyes, waiting until the next wave hits. There’s a chance he can pinpoint the voice’s location if he can absorb its impact.

“Mason? Mason, please, be careful. What’s going on? Why can’t you answer me!?”

Sebastian smiles.

Bingo.

With his hand on the wall, the path to her location lights up in his mind. He starts walking, getting as far as he can before the image fades, then stops to wait for another one. Luckily for him, this woman can’t seem to stop talking. Sebastian hurries along the corridor the way he and Kurt came, in the direction of one particular room. A room he saw earlier on his tour.

A room behind a metal door that technicians needed a keycard to enter.

As curious as he is, Sebastian isn’t cool with the idea of hanging out in this hallway, in the open, waiting for someone to come out. If he isn’t on anyone’s radar yet, he should be soon. But as luck would have it, help comes his way, rounding the corner at the far end of the hall. The technician doesn’t see Sebastian duck out of sight, too caught up in a message on his phone. Sebastian watches the man cautiously, waiting to see if he’s heading for the room. He could blow past it, round the end of the hall, and run straight into Sebastian.

No one told Sebastian if there’s a curfew, but he’s certain stalking the halls at two a.m. is frowned upon.

Five feet from the door, the technician stops. He looks up from his phone straight in Sebastian’s direction. Sebastian is sure the man sees him, but he goes back to his phone. He locks his screen and shoves it in his pocket. Then he approaches the door. Sebastian barely blinks as the man pulls his keycard out of his pocket and sticks it in the keypad. With a click, the door unlocks, swinging open by itself. He slips the keycard back into his pocket and walks through the door. Sebastian visualizes the keycard before it disappears from view. He reaches out for it with his mind, holds onto it, and locks it in place. The man walks through the door but his keycard stays behind. After the door swings shuts, Sebastian rushes forward and plucks the card out of the air. He lets go of the breath he’s holding, his heart racing with adrenaline. Buzzing from this victory, he has to consciously calm down before he goes any further.

With his heart pounding in his chest, even an empath with less honed skills than Kurt’s should be able to sense him from a mile away.

Sebastian presses an ear to the door, listens for the sound of footsteps to grow distant, counts to five when they stop entirely, then inserts the keycard again. Sebastian takes a gamble that a safeguard on the keycards could keep them from being used twice in a row, and trigger security to boot, but the door clicks and swings open. A lengthy hallway stretches out before him, lit a blinding white, making the end barely visible. Is there a corner at the end that leads to a different room? Another door? An elevator? With the absence of shadows, he can’t tell. He tiptoes inside, trying not to make his presence known, but the linoleum floor amplifies the sound of his footsteps no matter how softly he treads.

The hallway turns out to be part illusion, and not as long as it seems when he first enters it. It ends at a corner but not a door, funneling directly into a dimly lit control room, reminiscent of the one he saw with Kurt, when he met Sam - the young man who has fantasies of an intimate relationship with Kurt. A wash of jealously rushes over him, especially considering the way Kurt scolded him for not showing respect, and he realizes he doesn’t do a good job at masking his thoughts too well. It’s a wonder Kurt can’t sense that he’s out of his room at this point.

Sebastian sneaks in, sticking close to the wall until he finds an area beside a vertical console away from the available light. From this vantage point, he can see the whole control room in front of him, plus the hall he entered to his right, with no fear that someone will sneak up behind him. Flat screens cover the walls from floor to ceiling, each displaying a series of images from various angles of two people - a young man and a boy, asleep on padded tables. Wires from electrodes attached to their heads lead to a console between them. In this way, they’re connected.

That must be the conduit that links one dreamer to another, Sebastian deduces. He risks a step out in search of the man and boy and finds them at the far end, separated from the control room by a glass partition, the walls surrounding them covered in grey, sound dampening panels. Outside the partition, a row of technicians sit, eyes glued to screens displaying pulse readings, blood pressure, oxygen saturation, and other vitals of both boy and man.

Kurt’s voice cuts through Sebastian’s thoughts and pulls his focus.

How did he not know Kurt was in there? Probably a side-effect of the tech they use to inhibit psychic powers. He’d better not be slipping …

“Myron’s vital signs are increasing.” 

“What else is new?” Jesse St. James mutters, twirling his pen between his fingers. “Is it serious?

“They’re escalating.”

“That’s normal. He always has a tough time. How’s Mason?”

“Showing signs of extreme agitation.”

“You should have let me go in with him!” a woman pacing behind them scolds, her fingertips pressed to her forehead so hard it creates a halo of white around them. That must be Madison, Sebastian notes. She looks almost exactly like the man lying on the table – the same lightly tanned skin, the same wavy dark hair, the same narrow, steep-sloping nose. Which would make the little boy Myron.

Sebastian looks at Myron’s sleeping face on the closest screen. He’s young, probably around eleven? Twelve? He looks frightened. There’s not an inch of peace on his face. His eyes shift behind his eyelids; his cheeks twitch; his lips, chapped and indented from being bitten, tighten in a grim line. His head jerks back and forth, beads of sweat gathering on his forehead.

He looks like he’s fighting for his life.

“The point of this exercise is to use the dream link machine and not your powers,” Jesse explains, monotone, as if he’s done it a dozen times already.

“That’s not the way we work! If you want to put someone under with your machine, pick a different guinea pig! We didn’t sign up for this!”

“Blood pressure?” Kurt asks one of the technicians, shifting the focus back to the two people who need it.

“200 over 174 and rising.”

“Pulse?”

“145. 147 now.”

“Brain waves?”  

“Erratic.”

Kurt turns on Jesse, a storm brewing in his eyes. “I told you we should have tried a different vessel for his first time out! Myron’s dreams are dangerous! I need to get them out of there!”

“Give him a few more minutes,” Jesse says, waving Kurt’s concerns away. “How’s the boy?”

“Pulse rate extremely rapid and rising fast.”

“Something’s wrong,” Kurt says, half out of his chair. “I’m bringing them out.” He doesn’t wait for permission, launching himself from his seat and heading towards the sleep chamber with Madison on his heels. “Sam! Disconnect them! Quick!”

“Right away, Dr. Hummel!”

Kurt reaches Myron in three strides and shakes him. Curled into the fetal position and hugging his knees, Myron cries out in pain. “Myron? Sweetie? Wake up. I need you to wake up now.” He puts a hand to Myron’s forehead and shuts his eyes. This fascinates Sebastian out of hiding. What is he doing? Searching for Myron’s conscious mind trapped inside the dream? Can he communicate with him that way?

Myron’s eyes fly open. Sebastian can see them through the glass – wide and frantic. They lock on to Sebastian’s and, in an instant, he finds himself inside a dark, spiraling void; a whirlpool spinning so fast, Sebastian feels suspended, with no air left to breathe. He hears a growl to his right, to his left, above him and below him. It’s low and sustained but steadily it grows, vibrating his ribcage, threatening to separate his vertebrae. He doesn’t see the creature so much as get an impression of it - tremendously large; scaly flesh boiling, pulsing, peeling from its bones; long razor sharp claws with skin caught underneath; rows of ragged teeth stained in blood.

Mason’s blood.

Bright lights and sharp noises flash inside his skull and those drawings on Kurt’s desk make all the sense in the world.

His body goes cold, the primitive parts of his brain switching to high alert, overriding reason in their effort to keep him safe. Whatever that thing is, he feels it in his mind and in the room with him, prowling around the shadows; its sinister, toothy grin widening as it prepares to make Sebastian its next meal.  

He’d bolt from the room if he wasn’t too scared to move.

Myron whimpers, scrabbling to grab hold of Kurt. He latches onto his arms, fingernails digging in as he squeezes tight.

“It’s alright, Myron,” Kurt whispers, rocking him in his arms. “Everything’s okay. You’re back. You’re going to be fine. I promise.”

“Mason!” Madison blows past Kurt and races to her brother’s side. “Are you alright? Mason, speak to me, please!”

But Mason doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t blink. Sebastian doesn’t know if he’s breathing. Sam runs his fingers through Mason’s hair, searching for the last of the electrodes, and shakes his head sympathetically.

“What’s going on in that kid’s head?” he asks, peeling the last of the electrodes from Mason’s scalp. “What’s he so scared of?”

Sebastian doesn’t see Madison glare at Sam in disgust because he can’t look away from Mason’s glazed eyes. Mason finally blinks and Sebastian gets another vision - one much crisper, less chaotic, the interpretation of this boy’s nightmare by an adult who is working to comprehend it but not quite there. But even this image, more fleshed out, simpler to conceive, more logical in form, less dictated by emotion, frightens the shit out of Sebastian.

Mason closes his eyes, and the image disappears.

Madison cradles her brother’s head, sniffling as she protectively pets his hair. “You have no idea.”

“Well, I’d say that was a bust,” Jesse groans, getting to his feet and heading for the white hallway. He passes within a foot of Sebastian but doesn’t see him standing there. “I trust you can follow up, Dr. Hummel. I’m tired. I’m heading to bed.”

“Absolutely, Dr. St. James,” Kurt says, but Sebastian hears Dr. St. Sucks! and he snickers in spite of himself. The expression on Kurt’s face changes. He becomes aware, lifting his head and peering into the room. He finds Sebastian in the shadows, stares straight at him. He looks anxious … and exhausted.

‘Go to your room. I’ll meet you there,’ Kurt projects into his mind. Sebastian nods. He heads for the hallway, leaving without question. But Kurt’s command reads like a compulsion, as if Sebastian didn’t have a choice.

And it was strong.

For the first time since meeting Kurt Hummel, Sebastian is wary of him.

***

Knock-knock-knock.

“Sebastian? Are you awake?”

Sebastian is definitely awake. He’s been staring down the door to his room since he returned, and now he’s debating whether he should answer or not. He doesn’t know why he shut his door in the first place. Didn’t he want Kurt to end up in his room? Why the freak out?

The further away from the sleep chamber he got, the clearer he began to think. Kurt didn’t compel him to do anything. What Sebastian read as a compulsion was more of a suggestion – one that Sebastian wasn’t in a frame of mind to reject. He was acting on instinct, frightened to his core. After getting a glimpse into Myron’s mind and the terrors that lurk there, Sebastian felt vulnerable. Kurt’s suggestion tapped into that.

Kurt was taking care of him. Sebastian should be grateful.

Sebastian has to admit, as often as he uses his skills, he abuses them more than he strengthens them. He’s taken for granted that he’s always been the big dog.

Kurt bruised his ego … but unintentionally so. In no way does he read like the kind of man who would take advantage of his abilities.

Kurt knocks again.

“Sebastian? Are you in there? Are you alright?”

“Yes.” Sebastian clears a lump from his throat. “I’m here. And I’m fine.”

“Can I talk to you?”

“Yeah. Sure. One minute.” Sebastian hops off the bed but he doesn’t hurry to the door. Unintentional or not, bruised ego or not, he may have underestimated Dr. Kurt Hummel, and that feeling of being wary refuses to go away.

“Man up,” he mumbles to himself. He takes a deep breath and opens the door. There stands Kurt – as fresh and glowing as if he just stepped out of the shower and not a child’s worse nightmare.

“Hey.” He smiles at Sebastian as if he’s picking him up for a first date. It’s a smile that disarms Sebastian, lowers his defenses without any of Kurt’s power applied.  “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” Sebastian says, mildly concerned that tonight’s experience may have left him with only a four word vocabulary. If he says sure one more time, he’s going to punch himself in the throat. “I don’t have much in the way of furniture, but there’s a chair …”

Kurt walks in, bypasses the straight-backed wood chair Sebastian indicated and takes a seat at the end of the bed. “I’m certain you have some questions about what you saw tonight? Concerns?”

“No, not a lot of concerns,” Sebastian admits, closing the door behind him. “I guess I’m more confused. To tell you the truth, I’m excited by the work you do here. It’s intriguing.”

“But …?”

“But …” Sebastian joins Kurt, dropping on the head of the bed “… I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m the right guy for this job. What went on that room … it looked intense.”

“Our sessions with our clients don’t normally play out like that. Believe it or not, Myron is one of our most extreme cases right now.”

“Why? What’s wrong with him?”

Kurt leans one hand on the mattress, a few cracks beginning to show in his cheerful façade. “He’s a troubled little boy with a lot of anxiety. His father was in the military, on his final tour of duty in Afghanistan, terrified of coming home and re-assimilating to civilian life. A week before his discharge, he’d been part of a convoy that came under attack. He and his team defended themselves against an unseen assailant. In the process, he was injured – the kind of injury that gets you sent home even if you’re not already on your way out. During his hospital stay, he found out that their attackers were children. Five of them – the eldest thirteen, the youngest eight. And they’d killed them all.”

“Jesus.” Sebastian’s mind fills with his last memory of Myron – wild eyes searching for protection, clinging to Kurt with hands and nails for dear life, and that whimper of total defeat. How did Myron know? Who would lay that information on a kid? If that’s what Myron is going through, Sebastian can’t begin to imagine how his dad’s doing. “So, what happened to him? Is he in your program, too?”

Kurt’s eyes leave Sebastian’s face. They don’t focus on anything in particular – a space behind Sebastian’s left shoulder that’s as uninteresting as the rest of the room. But what’s left of Kurt’s veneer disappears. “No. The day after he got off the plane, after he was reunited with his wife and son, he put his service revolver in his mouth. Myron walked in on his father when he did it.”

Sebastian tries to swallow, but the weight of that reveal is too much to get down. “And … the monster? With the teeth and the claws and the …?”

Kurt’s smile returns, and with it, hope. “You saw that?”

“Yeah. What’s that all about?”

“Myron doesn’t know how to put into words what exactly that monster is to him, but I have a few theories.”

“And those theories are?”

Kurt surprises Sebastian by reaching out and putting a hand over his … the hand with the scars on the back. “I don’t want to keep you up any longer. I really need you bright eyed and bushy tailed when we start working together tomorrow.”

“I’m pretty much ‘0’ for one when it comes to sleep tonight, so if you want my eyes bright and my tail bushy, please answer my question. Because otherwise my imagination is going to go off on a bender, and I might not sleep again till January.”

Kurt sighs. It takes an unexpected amount of effort. “If I tell you, do you promise you’ll go to sleep?”

“The only real way to ensure that I’m going to get any sleep is to bed down with me, Doc. But yes. I promise.”

Kurt chews the corner of his lip, deliberating over what to tell, how much to tell. “I don’t think Myron believes his father shot himself. Even though he saw it with his own eyes, he can’t. His father was his best friend. His hero. How could this man who meant everything to him do something like that, especially if it meant leaving Myron and his mother alone? So, in order to cope with the pain, he created this monster. He lays his blame on it, believes it killed his father. Or has him trapped somewhere. It seems to switch from nightmare to nightmare. His brain wants to rectify the situation – let Myron come to terms with the truth and grieve. But it’s gone on for so long, this monster has become real to him. It terrorizes him every night in his dreams.”

“That’s … that’s just awful.”

“Yes. It is. Myron needs help. Specialized help. He’s suffered through this far longer than any kid his age should have to, as have hundreds of adults and kids like him.”

“What do I do, Doc?” Sebastian asks, the words slipping out of his mouth before he’s aware of them. “How do I help him?”

With his hand still on Sebastian’s, Kurt squeezes gently. “Get some rest. I want you in peak condition when we start working tomorrow.” Kurt moves his hand away, and when he does, Sebastian longs for it to return.

“There’re those words again, Doc,” Sebastian says, walking Kurt to the door when he makes to leave.

“What words?”

“You want me.”

Kurt stops outside the doorway. He shakes his head, that disarming smile making a comeback. Sebastian humors himself by thinking it’s because of him.

And that Kurt can’t bear to leave just yet.

“I’ll have someone come get you around noon,” Kurt says. “We’ll start with some exercises to sharpen your skills.”

“Ooo, what did you have in mind? Are you going to toss balls at me and make me stop them mid-air? Or do you want me to extinguish fires with my mind?”

“Not exactly. But I’m sure you’ll find them riveting.”

***

“Red,” Sebastian says, blowing a frustrated breath through pinched lips.

“Good.” Kurt nods in approval when Sebastian correctly predicts the color of the circle printed on the card he’s holding. Hidden behind a low partition, Kurt puts that card back inside the pile and chooses another.

Sebastian stares at the partition painted the same dull eggshell color as most everything in this place and does his best to keep from falling asleep.

“Green.”

“Good.”

“Blue.”

“Excellent.”

“Yellow.”

“Magnifique.”

Sebastian perks up. “Parlez-vous francais?”

“Oui. Concentre.”

Sebastian props his elbow on the table and rests his head in his hand. His mind begins to wander. So many questions, they keep piling up. So many thoughts clogged his brain while he slept.

So many nightmares that were and weren’t his.

“Green.”

“No.”

“Purple.”

“No.”

“Brown.”

“I don’t even have any cards that color. You’re not concentrating.”

“Why should I? I’ve done this a thousand times! It’s boring!”

“I know this seems mundane after having used your skills successfully all these years, but this is where we need to start. You need to hone what you’ve got and work up from there. Entering someone else’s dreams is a delicate process. When you enter the dream state, you’ll be interacting with different thought centers, sensitive thought centers. You’ll need to adapt, conform. We don’t want you lobotomizing anyone because you’re too full of yourself to take this seriously.” Kurt’s tone drifts, becomes somber. Without giving Sebastian space to ask what’s up, he lifts another card. When Sebastian doesn’t acknowledge its presence, Kurt clears his throat. Sebastian rolls his eyes. He stares at the wall intently. And then he grins.

“Yes.”

“Yes?” Kurt flips his card over, revealing the blue circle on the opposite side. “There are no words on these cards.”

“I mean yes, I think you’re hot. Isn’t that what you were thinking?”

“Not in the slightest.” Kurt puts the card on the bottom of the pile and puts up a new one. “You’re grasping at straws. Stop trying to read my mind.”

“Should I? I mean, the point of this is to link my brain with someone else’s. Isn’t that what I should be practicing? Wouldn’t that be the easiest way to read the cards? By looking through your eyes?”

Kurt looks past the partition, meeting Sebastian’s smirking eyes with his own steely glare. “No.”

***

Hot water covers Sebastian’s shoulders and races down his back, but it does nothing to relax his muscles. He hadn’t recovered from the morning’s right hook to his pride, but he got to spend over two hours getting it stomped again … and at the hands of Kurt Hummel. Sebastian was rusty. He used his skills daily, but mostly to cheat at card games and pick up ass. The things Kurt asked him to do, things that were easy for Sebastian as a teenager, weren’t quite so simple anymore.

He hadn’t wanted to be a part of this project to being with – not another psychic study, not again. But now he worried that Kurt would regret bringing him on board.

Sebastian dunks his head under the spray and lets the water fill his ears. Kurt. He just met the man 24 hours ago and he occupies Sebastian’s every waking thought.

That’s got to be unhealthy.

Sebastian doesn’t know which of his three motivations for staying are the strongest – preservation of life and limb, doing good for others, or getting underneath Kurt’s skin.

Nah, he knows. It’s definitely getting underneath Kurt’s skin. But that’s because Kurt has already gotten underneath his.

Hence the shower. After their training session, Kurt told Sebastian to go back to his room and prepare to give the dream link machine a try. Take a nap, he recommended. Grab a bite to eat. Meditate. He has five hours before Kurt hooks him up to the tech he’s devoted so much of his time to developing. He’ll be covered in electrodes, lying on a leather chair while Kurt watches over him – silently hovering at the outskirts of his mind, monitoring his emotions.

The thought has given him a tremendous hard on for the past thirty minutes.

Thwak!

Thwak-thwak!

Sebastian lifts his head out of the water. The off-kilter twang of a guitar playing outside his bathroom door jolts him to reality. Sebastian turns off the water, throws on a towel, and storms into his bedroom. The only person he can think of who would come into his room without an invitation is Jesse St. James, and Sebastian is in no mood to deal with that asshole’s crap.

“Hey! Douche canoe! How the fuck …?” Sebastian stops short when he sees the man sitting on the end of his bed, hunched over his guitar, picking out a tune.

“Oof!” The man grimaces when he plucks another sour string. “When’s the last time you got this thing tuned? You could shatter glass with some of these notes.”

Sebastian swears he’s too tired for this shit - for this intruder messing with his things, and for his eyes playing tricks on him. Because the man he’s seeing, sitting on his bed, is a ghost. He has to be. There’s no way he can be real. Sebastian rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes to erase him from his corneas, but he doesn’t go away.

Holy and shit! It’s actually him.

“Jesus Christ! Blaine Motherfucking Anderson!” Sebastian chuckles. “Well, I’ll be. How long’s it been?”

Blaine scoffs. He doesn’t look up from the instrument on his knee. “Not long enough. You still play?”

“Not really.” Sebastian edges forward as Blaine attempts to tune the guitar. He never expected to see Blaine Anderson in his room of all people, and even if he had, this isn’t the stiff and chilly reception he expected to receive. Suddenly, he has an overwhelming urge to get Blaine out of his room. “It’s more of a relic. The facility brought it over when they grabbed some stuff from my apartment. I guess they thought it was important to me or something.”

“Fascinating.” Blaine abandons his attempts at tuning, stands up and shelves the guitar.

“What are you doing here?” Sebastian asks, aware that he’s confronting this man wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. “I don’t remember you being a part of the psychic skills project back in high school.”

“They were pretty elitist back then - not just looking for talent, but for kids with parents that could fork over thousands in donations. At the time we were tested, I was marked at having half of your psychic ability, but my trust fund was only a third the size of yours. But things change.”

“I guess they do.” And in the case of Blaine Anderson, boy, do they ever! He looks every inch the same dapper young man Sebastian remembers from Dalton. Sebastian even had a minor crush on him at the time. But there’s something odd about him. Wrong. “Hey, why don’t I throw on some clothes and we can go grab a pizza? I hear there’s a fairly decent place here on campus. We could shoot the shit, reminisce about the old days back at Dalton.”

“Why?” Aside from that response, Blaine disregards him, taking a slow, unsolicited tour of Sebastian’s room that makes his hair stand on end. Admittedly, Sebastian doesn’t have much in the way of stuff. He has his clothes and shoes, his toiletries, and a handful of books. But he also has the pictures from his walls. And Blaine examining them makes Sebastian uncomfortable.

“Isn’t that what people usually do when they bump into an old friend?”

“Were we friends?”

“I don’t know. Were we?”

“As I remember it, the great Sebastian Smythe was pretty much out for himself at Dalton. I wasn’t. I tried to be the good guy – everyone’s best bud. But that didn’t get me where I wanted, where I deserve to be. So I took a page from your playbook and guess what? I’m a success. This might not be Carnegie Hall or Broadway, but I’m a rock star here, and I did it by looking out for the only three people in the world I care about - me, myself, and I.”

Are you sure it’s not your sparkling personality? “What do you mean rock star?”

“That dream link stuff? I’m the only one here who can do it. I’ve got it on lock. That’s why Dr. St. James gives me free reign of this place.”

“Oh yeah? What about The Wonder Twins?”

“They’re not around anymore.”

“Why? What happened?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“Obviously not if I’m asking you.”

Blaine smiles at Sebastian’s growing irritation with the warmth of a venomous snake. “They had to carry Mason away in a basket.” He pauses for dramatic effect, letting that one sink in. When Sebastian’s face drops in shock, he continues. “Yeah. Seems his ordeal in Myron’s dream fried his brain. He’s completely catatonic. And his sister … well, his sister is pretty much useless without him. She didn’t have any real skill anyway. Astral projection? I mean, what use is that?”

Sebastian grits his teeth, seething over Blaine’s remark about Madison. He can still feel her in his head, her constant begging and pleading with her brother a scar on his subconscious. But he plays it cool. Blaine is trying to rile him up. Sebastian refuses to give him the satisfaction. “Dr. Hummel seems to think I can do it.”

“I had a one-on-one training session with Kurt this morning …” Blaine drops Kurt’s name in a way that skewers Sebastian straight to the bone. “He tells me you want to help Myron. That’s sweet. I, for one, don’t give a shit about that kid and his daddy issues, but it’s nice that someone does.”

Daddy issues, huh? Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. “You’re a regular humanitarian, aren’t you, Blaine?”

“Absolutely. In fact, I’m going to do you a solid, for old time’s sake. Warbler to Warbler.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“I’m going to go down to the lab right now and order up your basket.” Blaine backs away, heading towards Sebastian’s door, smile growing so wide it splits his face in two. Like the monster in Myron’s nightmare. “You should lock your door, you know,” he says, jiggling the knob. “You wouldn’t want just anyone walking in here. Never know who’s around, day and night. Oh, and about Dr. Hummel … you may wanna back off with the flirting and the inappropriate remarks. You’re only embarrassing yourself.”

“You think so?” Sebastian says, a searing hatred roiling in his stomach and shooting up his neck.

“You’re punching way above your pay grade. You know it … and he knows it.” Blaine winks and clicks his tongue – a habit from back in high school Sebastian found conceited … and obnoxious. Apparently some things don’t change. “See ya around, Smythe. It’s been a blast seeing you again.”

“Likewise,” Sebastian says as he watches Blaine Anderson slip out his door and disappear into the hallway.

[chezzkaa]

Numb pt 5

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Lumberjack AU Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader WC: 3200+ Warnings: graphic depictions of violence

Your bag hits the floor with a loud thud, but it’s nothing in comparison to the beat your heart sings too. You’d hoped it would quieten once Ryan wasn’t around, but the sound that rushed through your chest had followed you home. Up the snow banks and stairs, and through the lodge until it stands in front of you. Granting it your attention, it sings for a few more minutes before eventually fading with the nervous smile you put out of your mind. Absent fingers dive into your pocket, pulling out two small, smooth and dark stones, passing them across one another in your hand. Flashes of the gold inscribed against their surface sees you calming, tight giddiness in the centre of your chest relaxing. It doesn’t dim the smile, but it’s enough to think straight.

Then your phone is pressed to your ear, waiting for the distant rings while you continue to fold the stones. Your best friend’s voice greets you after the click, making your heart leap and the smile on your lips widen into a grin.

“Hey Y/N, what’s up?”

You try and sound as flippant as possible, suppressing the excited stretch of your lips. “Oh, hey Lauren, how’s life-”

She cuts you off, familiar with the tone and willing to take none of your teasing. “What’s his name?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Y/N. What’s his name?”

“How rude,” you hedge through a smile, “my energies are struggling in this new environment and my stones need charging, and you think I’m all foggy because of some-”

“Shut up, Y/N. I know damn well that your energies are fucked, I can feel it all the way from here. Stick your fucking stones in the moonlight, damn it. But don’t you dare try and get out of this. What’s the fuck’s name?”

“Ryan,” you cave, the eager blip fluttering in your chest seeing you glare at the stones, abandoning them on the windowsill in the hopes bathing in the moon will help. “Stupid fucking things, I swear ever since I’ve moved they’ve been acting up. I tried using them the other morning, right? And nothing, absolutely nothing. They’re not even touching the weird fuzzy whatever-the-fuck thing is going on and making me feel kinda out of it. But oh my god dude, he’s amazing. His eyes are so fucking blue, Loz, and oh my god his fucking smile!”

“Spill, spill! So help me, Y/N, if I don’t get every juicy detail I’m gonna fly to those mountains and-”

But you don’t give her to opportunity to finish, pouring your heart into the phone line, agonising over every description, every flirtatious smile, and every heart skipping laugh. “His puns are fucking terrible.”

“Marry him,” she demands, “marry him right now.”

“I’ll make sure to propose as soon as I get to work tomorrow.”

“Wait, he’s your coworker?”

“Lauren,” you fold the words over slowly, feeling her excitement vibrate against your cheek, “he’s practically my boss.”

“YOUR BOSS?! Fuck, Y/N.”

“I know!” you throw yourself sideways, splaying across the couch and grinning at the ceiling. “Trust me, I know. But hey, enough about me. My face is gonna fucking split if I keep thinking about it. Speaking of bosses, how are things with you? How’s Trevor?”

It’s her turn to gush, voice quickening with her enthusiasm. “Dude. DUDE. Cus of you guys moving and shit he decided to take me out. We got all dressed up, and I mean dressed up. Heels, black lipstick - I looked like I might kill a bitch. And bitch, I might. But he picks me up and we’re driving, right? And he pulls into a burger joint. My favourite burger joint. So we’re sat there in this grease filled room surrounded by people in pj’s while I’m in this fucking expensive dress and he’s in this hot as fuck tux and bow tie, and Y/N?”

“Don’t tell me,” you giggle, “you fucking loved it, right?”

“I FUCKING LOVED IT.”

---

It takes a while for you to start moving, slumping off the couch and to your knees. Shuffling towards the fireplace, it's as simple as lighting a match; last night's set up of tinder and newspaper catching almost instantly. Lost in the hypnotic flames and the comfort your best friend is always able to provide without even trying, the room is engulfed in amber; warmth wrapping its arms around you as you wander to the kitchen, flick on the kettle, and get a cup ready. Scrounging up what the herbal ingredients you’ve stashed inside the island counter, you’re careful when measuring out quantities, muttering under your breath before starting your tea. A few quick stirs and deep inhales levels you, the feeling of the floor far more solid beneath your feet.

It's only once you draw your bag closer that you stop, tea pressed to your lips and fingers coming across something smooth.

Drawing the folder out of your bag, you stare at the file. It’s worryingly large. Jam packed with stapled sheets and post it notes, paper clips so heavy the top threatens to fold under the weight. Turning it over in your hands, you come to face the case printed on the front before you drop it like you’ve been stung. Your palm burns, recoiling away as the energy that’d started to smoulder diminishes. Still, the title glares from the floor, demanding your attention as it screams.

Case no. 30574208 Head in Charge: Det. Insp. J. Dooley Lumberjack of Motbury Active: 2016 -

It’s not the whole file - but it doesn’t have to be; because you can already see the first name poking from beneath the discoloured card. Can already see the smallest section of a lime green coat littered with tiny frogs, caught in the corner frame of a photograph. Can already feel a painful sting encasing your neck uncomfortably. A sharp pain that shoots through the centre of the back of your skull, harsh and demanding.

You’re on your feet in an instant, circling it as though it’s going to lash out with quick, erratic steps. But it doesn’t. It stays deathly still, like the bodies you’re sure remain buried within it. Just photos, sketches blotched with trauma and cross hatched with wounds while the real things rot in the morgue.

As quickly as you were moving you’re stopping again, cold despite the heat that leaves you suddenly sweltering, skin slick with sweat beneath the numerous layers plastered to your body.

You know what will happen when you pick it up again. It’s going to consume you, you think reproachfully, discarding the offending fabric that has you struggling to breathe, shedding and strewing it across the living room. It’s going to destroy you, just like last time. And just like last time, you won’t be able to help them.

You’d realised what being a detective meant a long time ago, and you’ll never forget. Never be able to ignore the fact that for you to do your job, people had to die. Names had to stack up so you could find the pattern, so you could ram their faces beneath the suspect and hope for some crack in their facade. Hope that one would die covered in stains, or with fingernails chock full of DNA. And when you’d come to rely on a tiny body still clinging to the crime that had seen it taken too soon, you’d been sick. So violently that you’d shaken for weeks. So violently that everything you ate came back up, so you just stopped eating.

And you could feel it. Feel every sharp wound and tattered bullet hole, limbs so restless that you’d wanted to scream.

Never again, you’d sworn, never fucking again would you pray that the next body would be more broken than the last for the benefit of another. You don’t care if one death could save the many. It didn’t fucking matter if that tiny, tiny person held the key to stopping the next body arriving on the coroner’s doorstep; because a life had still been lost. You’d hoped for it, you’d felt it, because it’s what you needed to do your job.

A shock of pain shoots through your scalp as your hand swipes through your hair, the old habits of stress already seeing you pull too hard. Gingerly withdrawing your hand, the clump of hair caught between your fingers is enough to spur you forward. Snatching the file from the floor you toss it on the counter, completely intent on storming into the station and ramming it down Dooley’s throat.

But you stop as it falls open, the photo staring at the ceiling far too familiar to ignore. You approach it as though it’s explosive, peering at the treeline you see outside your window every morning, covered in red markings and arrows. Taking it in your hand, you flip the photo over and read the notes jotted on the back with a falling stomach and burning palm.

17/04/2018

Body, male 10 yo (no. 6). Found 500 meters past tree line. Footprints entering. None leaving. Within vicinity of victim 3 and 5. Wounds consistent. Small incision at base of neck. Lacerations.  

You recognise the handwriting. Jeremy’s scrawl had always been all over your notes, and the later he’d stayed at the office, the worse it had gotten. The curves of his ‘g’s and ‘y’s are clumsy, ink smudging as he’s forced his numb, tired fingers to write down another death. Number 6. And now you have to look, have to see the body that’d reduced him to such sloppy functionality. The body found just beyond your treeline only a week before you’d moved in.

It’s the lime green coat again, tiny frogs leaping across the thick, puffed fabric donned by a smiling little boy. Mousey blonde hair sticks out at every angle, but he doesn’t seem to care, brown eyes wrinkling in delight while he laughs. You don’t want to look at the picture behind it, but you do. Taking in the tiny body curled in the snow, knees tucked into his chest. If he wasn’t wearing the coat, you wouldn’t be able to tell it’s the small boy from before. Tom, you tell yourself. Number 6. Tom.

You’ve seen a lot in your professional career, seen more vile, disturbing acts of violence than many can even dream of existing. Felt them prickle across your skin and scratch in your veins, itchy and raw. But this was more perplexing than it was nauseating, but it’s more certainly both of those things. Because rather than a beaten face covered in blonde and bloodied hair, there’s simply nothing at all.

The neck just… stops.

The wound is there, granted. But it isn’t messy. Blood and gore doesn’t coat the snow, nor does it soil the jacket. But it’s not a clean cut, either. Tattered around the edges, curling, bruised and blackened. Sagging.

And they’re all the same. As you search through the file’s contents you can’t find a single child with a head. Every body found in the same position, curled up as though they were sleeping. Found in the woods directly surrounding your home.

No wonder this place was so cheap to buy.

Curiosity burns intense over your concern, sitting heavily on one of the stools surrounding the island and shifting through the papers. The more you try to understand, the more confusing the case becomes. No matter how many times you fold it over in your head, you can’t comprehend the information you’re taking in. Only able to feel the pinch at the base of your skull, and a terrifying calm that numbs your chest and makes it harder to breathe.

And honestly it sounds more like an urban legend to scare children into behaving, or scare parents into disciplinary action. Because it just doesn’t make sense.

At first, it seems, the police force was inundated with complaints. Petrified townsfolk calling in as a snow storm rages through the night, the sound of knocking hammering against their doors. None dared answer. A group of kids messing around, you assume. And you notice that Jeremy had thought the same. Or perhaps a lost traveller caught in the harsh weather and seeking help. But there were no one there in the morning. Porches untouched by the snow but tattered by something, deep grooves tracing the frames of the entrance with vicious brutality. Camera’s cut out and sensory lights left undisturbed.

And then the trail of death started. Livestock, in the beginning. Bloody, brutal maulings that eventually left sheep with lolling necks and a glaringly absent skull - as though the bone has been sucked from the skin. But what bothers you isn’t the carnage, nor the senseless violence that has an animal killed and unused.

It’s the damage, the aggression once the creature was obviously dead. You can see it; can feel just how frenzied it all was. It’s not the first time, either. Every case you’ve witnessed like this leaves you with only one thought. Passionate, you’d argue. Angry. But the closer the timeline gets to the current date, the cleaner the kills become. Until they stop all together.

And the kids start disappearing.

The first one was just as messy as the livestock. Beaten and bloody, a pile of skin the only remnants of a face. But eventually, even that too disappeared. Like whoever it was, was getting better. Getting into the rhythm.

Your stomach twists, staring down at the file you’ve scattered across your counter.

It’s going to consume you, a small, defeated voice whispers in your head while you collect the pages, taking them to the scanner and copying the file before arranging it back the way you’d found it. It’s going to destroy you, just like last time. And just like last time, you won’t be able to help them.

You head for the car once you’re done, not bothering to wrap up against the cold.

---

The station isn’t fancy, barely recognisable as a place of authority when nestled between the other buildings. But regular shop fronts don’t normally have this many patrol vehicles lined up out front. 2, you correct while your foot meets the curb, only 2 cars. The late night doesn’t both you, and neither does the sterile atmosphere you step into. It’s a small space that offers a short line of chairs before the room is cut off by a reception desk, sliding glass protector open wide. Behind the divide you can see what you assume to be the staff room dotted with couches, and offices and files on the opposite side.

The door shuts gentle behind you, and with it’s quiet click you can hear the frustrated voices approaching the room. You don’t wait for them to arrive and beckon you forward, already moving to the reception and leaning against the ledger.

“I’m serious, Michael,” comes Jeremy’s exasperation through the walls, “I swear I just fucking had the damn thing.”

“Obviously not, asshole,” replies Michael smugly, “otherwise we wouldn’t be turning the station upside down.”

“I don’t get it. I had it at Jon’s, had it when I got into the car…”

“So you must’ve lost it on the way in this morning.”

“But I didn’t do anything else with it!” cries Jeremy, finally rounding the corner with his head hung in defeat.

“You must’ve,” insists Michael, coming into the room moment’s behind him. “If the boss finds out, he’ll be pissed.”

“I am the boss,” Jeremy groans into his hands, oblivious to your presence.

Michael, however notices you, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What do you want?”

You go to respond, but Jeremy interjects. “The damn case file before my fucking head explodes.”

“Not you, idiot,” laughs Michael, nudging his superior’s hands from his face and motioning to you. “You’re lover.”

“Gross.” Your nose wrinkles distastefully, as does Jeremy’s when he finally spots you. It doesn’t take long for him to beam, despite the teasing. “Never in a million years.”

“I’m way out of your league,” he insists around a comedic frown, “I’m arguably too good to be talking to you. But I will, because it’s weird seeing you back in a police station and I’m concerned.”

It’s your turn to laugh. “Don’t get used to it. I just wanted to return something I picked up by accident earlier today.”

“If you pull out this missing file I swear Jeremy is gonna fucking come.”

Jeremy’s expression agrees with Michael’s off-hand joke, the file you pull out of your bag seeing him light up. “Oh thank fuck! I thought I’d lost it, I was about to fire myself!” He takes it eagerly, holding it to his chest with a sigh of relief.

“Don’t leave your shit lying around next time,” you scold, “especially something as important and weird as that.”

He’s nodding until he realises the insinuation of what you’ve just said. Even Michael turns to you, the pair studying you critically. “How would you know it was weird?”

You shrug, seeing no harm in answering Michael’s question honestly. “You think I wasn’t going to look at it?”

“You said you’d never look at another case,” says Jeremy slowly, concern and excitement creating a strange, bubbling concoction in his chest.

“I didn’t really have a choice,” you admit ruefully, rubbing the back of your neck. “But it looks like you’ve got a serious problem to deal with. They all look… very angry.”

“Angry?” His brows furrow, casting Michael a quick glance before snatching a pad and jotting the word down. “What do you mean by angry?”

Instead of answering his question you pose your own. “What do you think it is?”

“A wild animal attack, mostly.” Michael grimaces as the words leave his lips, seemingly upset that they have nothing else to go off.

But you’re shaking your head, dismissing the thought. “No way this is an animal.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, more out of curiosity than ill intent, “but who the fuck are you, exactly?”

“Shit,” mutters Jeremy, jumping in before you can introduce yourself. He holds out a hand to you with a broad, proud beam. “This is Detective Inspector Y/N of the L.D. FBI squad. We used to work together, she was my boss.”

“My god.. You’re legendary around here.” Michael’s eyes are wide as he offers out a hand for you to shake, his grip firm and eager. “I didn’t realise you and the woman Jeremy’s been raving about were the same person. I thought you retired?”

“I am retired,” you say flatly. “What’s he been saying about me?”

“Nice things!” interjects Jeremy rather quickly, his hand covering Michael’s face to shut him up. He struggles, grunting and pulling away with a yelp. But Jeremy pays the complaints no more mind, now looking at you intently. “Does this mean you’re going to join the team as an external source?”

“No, I’m sorry Jeremy.”

His face falls. “No no, I get it. I appreciate you bringing it back. I owe you one.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that.” He eyes you up suspiciously, not trusting the smile crawling across your face. “Actually, I know exactly how you can pay me back.”

[sageandwizard]

How to Create a Character

By Holly Lisle

No matter what sort of fiction you’re writing, you’re going to have to populate your story with characters, and a lot of them, if not all of them, you’re going to have to create from scratch. Unfortunately — or maybe fortunately — there is no Betty Crocker Instant Character-In-A-Can that you can mix with water and pop into the oven for twenty minutes. There aren’t any quick and easy recipes, and I don’t have one either, but I do have some things that have worked for me when creating my characters, and some things that haven’t. You may find my experiences useful. For what they’re worth, here are my Do’s and Don’ts.

Don’t start your character off with a name or a physical description.

I know this doesn’t seem logical at first glance — after all, you name a baby before you get to know him very well. Why wouldn’t you give your character a name and blue eyes before you find out anything else about him?

There are a couple of reasons. The first is that you have a lot of preconceived ideas about names and body types. Perhaps every Charlie you ever knew was a great guy, while every Barry you knew was an idiot. So when you decide to name your protagonist Charlie before you really get to meet him, he is automatically going to carry along a lot of baggage that you probably aren’t even going to be aware of — but that baggage will subtly influence the direction of your story, and perhaps its outcome. And that influence won’t necessarily be a benefit to your story.

In the same way, maybe your heart has been broken twice by redheads, or the gorgeous surfer you dated briefly who stole your credit card, did drugs in the back seat of your car and got your twin sister pregnant before dumping you and vanishing from your life forever. So you might be carrying a grudge against redheads or good-looking men, and you might have a tendency to make every redhead in your books a bitch, or every hunk a creep in disguise.

Second, if you have a name and a physical description right away — Jane Meslie, 37, blonde with bright blue eyes and great legs and a habit of flipping her hair out of her face when she’s frustrated — you’re going to be tempted to look no deeper that her appearance. When she gets into trouble, you’re going to fall back on that hair-flipping thing, and she’s going to do it so often she’ll be bald by the end of the book.

Do start developing your character by giving him a problem, a dramatic need, a compulsion.

Even if you don’t have the foggiest idea what your story is going to be about yet, you don’t know where it’s going to take place, and you haven’t found anything compelling that you’d like to say to an audience of more than one, you can do this. Say “My main character wants _____ more than anything else in the world.”

What does the character want? Love, respect, courage, revenge, a kidney for his kid sister, to find the son she gave up for adoption when she was sixteen? Throw something down on the paper. It won’t be written in stone and you can always go back later and change it. Or you can, when you create the character, bank him for a later book if he doesn’t fit your needs once you get rolling. In writing as in life, nothing you do is ever wasted. So go ahead and jump in. Your character wants something. If he’s like most people, he wants several somethings, and about the time you allow yourself to start discovering them, you’ll begin to find out where your story is going, and what it will be about.

He also wants to avoid something — and these things the character wants to avoid can be more compelling by far that the things he hopes to gain. What scares him to death? Humiliation, disfigurement, pain, terminal illness, poverty? What will he do anything to avoid? What has he already done to avoid his greatest fears? Give him something that will wake him up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, hands clutching his covers, body rigid with terror. If you want to really make your character come to life, choose something that terrifies you — you’ll find that when you write something that makes you shake, you’ll make your reader shake, too.

A rule of good storytelling is that the protagonist will confront the thing he fears the most and overcome it in order to win the thing he desires the most. This isn’t a hard-and-fast rule, and for every book where the writer followed it, you’ll find at least one where the writer ignored it completely. But overall, the most satisfying stories will at least approach this rule.

Don’t rely on crutches.

I’ve read a number of otherwise-decent writing books that have you start out creating your character by giving him a hook — some little device that characterizes the person. Nervous whistling, jangling car keys kept in the right front pocket, a complete wardrobe of blue shirts, the anxious stroking of a rabbit’s foot in moments of deep stress.

It doesn’t hurt to do this, but I recommend that you do it later rather than sooner — perhaps at about the same time that you name your character. Maybe even later — say when you’re in the middle of chapter three and you need your character to do something while talking to the bank teller that will make her wary.

And don’t mistake a few nervous tics and a jaunty saunter for characterization. Your own character is what’s inside of you — what you’re made of when things get ugly and hard; whether you’ll take something that doesn’t belong to you if no one is looking, whether you’ll tell the truth even if lying is easier, whether you’ll be faithful to you wife when presented with the perfect opportunity for a no-strings-attached one-nighter. Your character has nothing to do with whether you wipe your bangs out of your eyes with the back of your hand or always wear something yellow, and the same is true of the people you’ll be creating and writing.

Do empathize with your character.

This is sometimes easy. When you’re writing your protagonist, and he’s in deep soup, and you’re pouring your soul into his struggles and his angst and spending plenty of words and sweat making making people see that he’s a great guy in a tough spot, the empathy will be there. You’ll know who he is and you’ll care because you’ll see yourself as him in the same spot. In the dreams you’ve had since you were a little kid, you’ve been the hero. You know how the routine is supposed to go.

Sometimes empathy comes a lot harder, though, and I think it’s most important when it’s hard. Recently I had to write the toughest scene in my life, a scene where a woman that I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to make sympathetic over the course of a book and a half does something so utterly reprehensible, so unforgivable, that if I’ve done it right the readers will be praying for her death from that moment on. Given the choice between doing something right and doing something evil, she chooses the path of evil, and in the moment of her choosing lies the fate of her world and the rest of the story.

But her choice couldn’t come out of the blue. I had to build toward it. I had to make what she did understandable, and in order to do that, I had to be able to understand it myself. It was a truly terrible act, one of the most horrible things I am capable of imagining, and when I wrote the scene, tears ran down my face and I got queasy and I got cold and when I was through I went to bed and cried. I had to put myself in the place where that character was, and she was in hell, and she did a hellish thing — but she did it with my hands, and my mind, and my eyes.

When you write, you can only write those things you know (or the things you know will be the only things you write well, anyway.) So when you write the villain, you have to be the villain. You have to understand why the villain acts as he does, you have to know that if you were him in that situation, you would do as he does — because if you can’t do this, no one who reads what you have written will believe in the characters you have created. Empathy in those moments is an agony. You have to look into the darkest part of your soul and find the part of yourself that could be a monster, and you have to put that on the page for people to see. There’s no easy way past this, because your hero can only be as great as the evil he overcomes. If you can’t face the evil in yourself, you hero will only overcome straw villains, and your work will lie flat and lifeless on the page.

Don’t sympathize with your characters.

Empathy and sympathy are two sides of one coin — empathy is understanding, while sympathy is an affinity you share with your character that creates change, allowing the character to affect you. You must feel empathy for the characters you create, both the heroes and the villains, but you can never feel sympathy. In other words, you have to understand why your characters do what they do, but you can’t let that understanding tempt you to ease their suffering, or let them take the easy way out of situations, or experience sudden miracles that remove their obstacles.

Finally, do write from your own life.

This is no picnic, either, but it’s the single technique that has brought my best characters to life. I’ve found that when I take my worst moments, the painful, humiliating, disastrous, or simply dreadful ones that still make me cringe inside, and I change them enough to keep from getting sued, they make good fiction. And my responses, translated to the character, seem to live.

You can only write what you know, but you can take the fears and hopes and feelings you’ve experienced in a relatively mundane existence and translate them to a broader canvas with imagination and persistence. The fear you felt the moment your car almost slid over a guard rail or the elation you felt when you won first place on your 4-H project at the county fair translate very well into the fear your character feels on finding himself at the edge of a cliff with a sword-wielding army at his back, or the elation she feels on discovering the secret code that gives her access to the hidden passageway.

All paintings are done from the same basic set of colors, and all characters are built from the same basic set of responses and emotions. How you use these elements — how you mix them and apply them — determines whether you’ll end up with a masterpiece or something not even your grandma would hang on her wall.

I hope this list helps you get started and stay headed in the right direction while you’re developing your characters. If you’d like to do more with this, this link will take you to my Character Creation Workshop: Designing A Life; you’ll have a new character when you’re done.

[mbtizone]

Spencer Hastings (Pretty Little Liars): ENTJ

Dominant Extroverted Thinking [Te]: Taking charge of situations comes second nature to Spencer. Following Alison’s disappearance, Spencer often acts as the unofficial leader of her group of friends. She’s decisive, straightforward, overachieving, driven, blunt, competitive, bossy, extremely intelligent, and good at coming up with plans. Spencer has a hand in everything. She takes on internships, does charity work, plays on the field hockey team, and is a member of several after-school clubs, all while dealing with a cyber stalker. With everything she has on her plate, Spencer is proven to have strong time management skills. Spencer is motivated to get results. Spencer deals with all of her problems in an analytical manner. She’s good at taking control of situations, and is often depended on by her friends to “think” them out of the trouble they get into. When they find Emily standing over Ali’s grave with a shovel, Spencer takes her back to her house and burns her clothing, then leaves a note telling her mom they were at the lake house all night in order to provide an alibi. She remains cool-headed during times of crisis and can always think of a plan. She gives the orders and everybody else typically follows them.

Auxiliary Introverted Intuition [Ni]: Although Spencer lives in the world of facts and evidence, she also knows how to rely on her intuition. When Spencer has a hunch, she sees it through until she knows for sure. When she has a strong gut feeling about something, she pursues it with fierce determination. Spencer is good at coming up with suspects, as well as possible motives, and, once she is struck with the best theory, she latches onto it, sometimes becoming very stubborn and obsessive in her quest to prove it. A lot of the time, her intuition is great, but every now and then, she fixates on the wrong people or the wrong detail and can end up falling down the wrong rabbit hole. Spencer, more than any of the other girls, has a tendency to speak in metaphors. She is good at thinking several steps ahead, and often pokes holes in other people’s plans or theories because theirs tend to be more short-sighted and not as well thought out as hers. When Spencer has just one or two small pieces of information, she can formulate complex conspiracy theories based on a minuscule amount of evidence. In the doll house, Spencer doesn’t immediately realize that the blocks spell “Charles.” However, she sleeps on it, resulting in an “Aha!” moment. When she realizes that someone has called Emily from her phone after she goes missing, she immediately jumps to the conclusion that they’re being set up.

Tertiary Extroverted Sensing [Se]: Spencer has a good handle on her physical environment. She’s athletic and, in addition to being on the field hockey team, Spencer plays tennis at the Country Club. She has an eye for fashion and design, as noted by Melissa after Spencer renovated the barn. Sometimes, she acts on impulse, which can get her into trouble. Spencer is resourceful and can see opportunities in her environment to use to her advantage. When she goes over to Marco’s apartment to try to get him to drop the case and he refuses, she notices the flash drive on his table and swipes it. Then, when he calls her about it, she subtly threatens to blackmail him (Ni-Se). Spencer is unafraid to take risks and readily puts herself in dangerous situations in service of the plans she develops using her higher functions. Out of all the girls, she is the most dedicated to getting to the bottom of things, and is focused on exposing A by any means necessary. She doesn’t care if she has to break into an office or a house to do some sleuthing, or if she has to manipulate people to get information. Spencer is good at paying attention to her surroundings and is constantly observing. She is quick to react to things – such as when she hears noises while investigating and instantly flees the scene (sometimes before the other girls even have a chance to realize they’re not alone).

Inferior Introverted Feeling [Fi]: When Spencer is angry or upset, she doesn’t talk about it, she does something about it. Sometimes, she’ll throw herself into a plan to avoid her pain (Te), and other times, she’ll make uncharacteristically reckless decisions (Se). Other times, she’ll make dumb mistakes that she wouldn’t ordinarily make. When Spencer is upset about Caleb and Hanna, she drinks excessively, leading to her accidentally paying for drinks at the bar with Archer’s credit card instead of her own. Spencer doesn’t like to be a victim and she doesn’t want to think about the pain she’s feeling. In the past, she has turned to drugs as a coping mechanism. When Spencer is upset, she makes eye contact with Aria in the hall and turns in the other direction. She goes into the bathroom and hides out in a stall, but Aria follows her in, and Spencer pretends she isn’t there. When Aria insists that she knows Spencer is in there, Spencer maintains that she’s fine and tries to avoid talking to her. While Aria talks, Spencer remains silent, and Aria eventually gives up and leaves.

Enneagram: 3w4 Sx/Sp (Tritype: 3w4 1w2 6w5)

Quotes:

Spencer: I don’t think this is gonna come as any surprise to you. But I can be really certain about things. I like being certain, okay? Its where I’m comfortable. I am not happy in the grey places.

Spencer: A dream is an experience and an experience is real.

Spencer: I really don’t let myself cry in front of anybody.

Spencer: Why enjoy today when you could be worrying about tomorrow?

Spencer: I’ve been in the library so much I am on a first name basis with the homeless guy that sleeps next to the microfiche.

Spencer: Giving into a bully never works. Even if you give them everything that they ask for, it’ll never be enough. Your only choice is to stand up to them, even if it costs you something.

Spencer: If you think I’m going to let you hurt her, you’re underestimating me.

Spencer: I don’t want to be here anymore. Is that legitimate enough?

Melissa: For once in your life, stop trying to be the smartest person in the room.

Spencer: I decided I didn’t want to be the victim anymore. That’s not who I am.

Spencer: Is there something going on between you two? Aria: No Spencer: And why did you bring him to Emily’s last night? Aria: Okay, we had a slip. Spencer: A slip!? Aria: Well, technically it was two slips. Spencer: Oh my god Aria you said you were never gonna go there again. Aria: I meant it when I said it. Spencer: Are you forgetting about what he did to you? What he did to us? Aria: No Spencer: You couldn’t eat or sleep for weeks after you found out about that book. Aria: Okay, well he took a bullet for us, Spence. Spencer: Yeah, but that doesn’t change the fact that he deceived you for years!

Spencer: The quitter did. That’s what you do, isn’t it Emily ? You quit things. When things are too much for you, you just throw in the towel. I mean, you quit the swim team, you quit Paige, you even quit Maya.

Spencer: Our familiers are connected. They’re more than just connected they’re tangled up like necklaces int the bottom of you jewelry box.

Spencer: How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard. Emily: What brilliant scholar said that ? Spencer: Winnie the Pooh.

Spencer: Did you ever play the game with the flowers when you were little, he loves me, he loves me not ? He loves me, he loves me not… The trick is, you just find a flower with the odd number of petals.

Spencer: I knew who I was when they found me. I knew that my family and friends would be worried. I just — I wanted to fold up and stop. I didn’t want to think anymore. Anne: You were overwhelmed. Spencer: Yeah, well, I wasn’t Spencer Hastings for almost a whole day and nobody else showed up to take the job, so, I guess I’m stuck with it. Anne: Because you’re the only person in the world that can be you. Spencer: You don’t have to rub it in. I’m sorry, this can’t be very entertaining. There are people here with real problems. Anne: Just like you. Spencer: Yeah. Just like me. I…I fell down. In the woods. When I was running, I fell down and I looked at the ground and I saw my hand and my sleeve and the little button on my sleeve and some dirt and an old acorn, and I said to myself, “OK, if this is the last thing I ever see, I can handle that. I’m done. I’ve had enough.” But it wasn’t the last thing that I saw. I just kept going. How do you keep going when the worst thing has happened? What do you have to change inside to survive? Who do you have to become? I’m sorry. I don’t expect you guys to understand. You don’t know me. [From her point of view, she sees Emily, Aria and Hanna sitting across from her] I’m sorry, but that’s true. You don’t know who I am anymore. And you can’t count on me.

Hanna: It probably is and were just sitting here like geese Spencer: Ducks Hanna: What? Spencer: You say like lame ducks, not geese Hanna: OK, well whatever they both quack Spencer: Geese honk…

Emily: Coincidences happen. Spencer: Yeah, all the time. They just grow on trees like coconuts, waiting for you to walk under them.

Spencer: With Ali, I keep peeling, I just always seem to find new layers.

Spencer: Uh, drugging yourself is the best alibi ever. Classic Sharon Stone movie.

Spencer: [about Mona and Jason]: Okay, he’s basically hugging a hand grenade.

Spencer: If she’s going to dip back into the A-bag to scare me off the decathlon team, she’s got another thing coming. Hanna: Is being captain brainiac really that important?

Hanna: Spencer, stop giving us orders. We’re not your winged monkeys.

Mona [to Spencer]: You’re like smart-smart. I always thought you were just book-smart.

Spencer: Hide and seek was my favorite game with Melissa. You want to know why? I always won.

Spencer: Melissa is a Hastings, we bounce back like super balls.

Spencer [about Jenna]: How can you miss her? She’s been gliding around school all day like a Thanksgiving float.

Spencer: Hanna, you have all the subtlety of a hand grenade.

Spencer: He’s your boyfriend, Aria. He’s not a baby squirrel. Aria: I was just trying to do the right thing. Spencer: Totally wrong. Look, I’ve been there, I’ve done that. Every time you baby squirrel Ezra, you’re taking away his nuts. Aria: You did not just say that.

Spencer: [about Aria and Ezra’s relationship] Part of me thinks this is really self-destructive behavior, but most of me just thinks it’s really hot.

Emily: [About Paige] Just some snarky comment about me being gay. Spencer: I will destroy her. Aria: Can I help?

Spencer: [On the phone] Where are you? Aria: What are you talking about, I’m right here. Spencer: [Hears sirens] Any firetruck you can here at your house, I can hear at mine– Oh my God! Are you in his apartment? Are you on the bed…?

Spencer: Mona is five feet of insidious snark with a side ponytail, and I just — I wanna grab it, and I wanna yank it really, really hard.

Spencer: I know every club. I came close to joining The Madrigals.

Spencer: “A” is being our ultimate “frenemy”, forcing us to get what we want, but knowing that when we do… Hanna: All hell breaks loose.

Hanna: Lying is not a crime. Spencer: It is when you’re giving false statements to the police. It’s called obstruction of justice.

Maya: So, I get your connection to Spencer. You both like to win. Emily: Winning’s great, but if I’ve done my best, I usually feel good about the outcome, no matter what it is. Maya: And Spencer? Emily: Spencer needs to win.

Hanna: Spencer, you do not need to know any more big words. You’re already scary enough to anyone under fifty. Spencer: I’m not scary! Am I scary? Aria: A little.

Spencer: I think we’re supposed to go to where we found Ali’s bracelet. Aria: That was in the middle of nowhere. Spencer: Actually, it was fifteen steps east of the half-point tree, which is 136 steps from the main road. Aria: You’re a freak, and I love you.

Spencer Hastings (Pretty Little Liars): ENTJ was originally published on MBTI Zone

[bruja-mistica]

Goddess Guidance Card for the Day | June 13, 2021 - Sunday "You have been indoors too long. Go outside and get some fresh air."

“Being cooped up is not the natural way for inhabitants of this exciting planet to live. Believe me, there’s plenty to see and experience when you exit your four walls and roof. A daily venture outside will not only revive your spirit and soul, it will give you hope and faith in this planet’s very existence and future…Don’t let another day go by without stepping outdoors into this most entertaining and exciting of environments.” Spend time in nature. Change to a job that allows for more connection with nature. Practice environmentalism. Recognize the need for balance in your life—for more rest and play.

I’ve been going through a little bit of a low right now, revisiting some old personal issues that I thought I had come to terms with. I have been spending a lot of time inside my house, almost a little scared to go outside. Relying on my partner to get us everything we need from supplies to snacks, etc. My anxiety and depression getting the best of me. I haven't been practicing my craft as much as I used to. To the point that I would think of putting away and getting rid of all my witchcraft tools. But recently, I started having dreams of deities with weird cryptic messages. I think they're calling to me, telling me it is time to get out of my shell and get my shit together. So I took out my dusty oracle deck and pulled out this card. If this doesn't confirm my thoughts then I don't know what will.

Cordelia

This Celtic fair goddess helps watch over the flowers that bloom in the spring and summertime. Cordelia is associated with the ancient sacred day, Beltane, which is celebrated on May 1 to welcome the Celtic summer season. Cordelia helps with celebration, courage, gardening and flowers, joy, life changes, and stress management.

The stones associated with Cordelia are carnelian and citrine.

Call upon Cordelia to help you thaw out any situation or relationship that seems cold and dreary. Call her whenever you feel stressed or trapped indoors.

To draw the attention of Cordelia and Her companions, the fey, into your life, take a dollhouse chair and glue any or all of the following items to it:

Thyme, straw, primrose, oak leaves, ash leaves, and hawthorn berries or leaves. Leave this on a sunny windowsill (preferably one with a plant on it) to encourage fairy guests, who will bring all manner of spring frolic into your home.”

[idornaseminary]

Chapter Twenty-Three: Beatrice and Natasha

Beatrice climbed the innumerable steps up from the Great Hall towards the divination classroom on the sixth floor, her mind wandering as she slowly ascended the spiral staircase leading up to the mystical tower. Dinner was good, as always in the first few weeks of the semester when the house elves were eager to sooth the nerves of the anxious first years. Stopping breathlessly at the heavy wooden door sitting in wait at the top of the tower, she closed her eyes for a moment and imagined all her worries melting away like frost in the first days of spring, leaving her mind fresh as a dewy meadow.

She gave the door a little push and stepped inside, looking up in awe at the ceiling which was charmed so Astronomers like herself could study the movement of the cosmos even when the sky was cast over with storm clouds. The sight of brown dwarf stars dancing with hypergiants around the endless vortex of space without the need for a telescope made her heart sing and long to tell her grandmother, Pania, about this place. Beatrice sighed and shook her head, inhaling the crisp clean air that filled the atmosphere of the room, enhancing Seers’ abilities.

She stepped away from the door when she heard some other students’ voices echoing off the stone walls as they walked up towards the classroom, noticing that there was already somebody sitting in the room with her, who stayed silent as Beatrice marveled at the heavenly display above their heads with disdain in her eyes. Bea offered a friendly smile to the imperious young lady who sat still as a statue, reading a book in her lap with a bored expression plastered across her pallid facade, deciding to sit beside her even when she noticed the lady’s Cucurrion pin gleaming in the light of Jupiter’s sixteen moons. She silently placed her books on the desk and tugged the sleeves of her jumper down over the cuffs of her button up shirt, slouching in her seat as she continued studying the projection high above their heads in the vaulted ceiling. The other fourteen or so students quickly filtered into the room, their mindless chatter and tedious gossip bouncing off the charmed walls as they settled into their seats. When Professor Levas came out of her office, all conversations came to a grinding halt, everybody’s eyes transfixed on the wrinkled, withered witch. “Good evening,” she said, voice barely above a whisper as she ambled down the stairs, leaning heavily on her cane before sitting on a stool in the center of the desk circle. “And welcome to Creatures and Divination. I trust you all had a good summer.” Beatrice smiled at the woman and gave a small nod, glancing at the girl beside her out of her periphery, curious what her specialty was. “As the best and brightest of your generation, you few Seers have gathered here tonight to develop your talents for prognostication together,” she said, gesturing around the room with her sickly, trembling hands. “This year, we will be focusing on those methods of Divination which require the aid of animals. Namely Ichthyomancy, Myomancy, Ornithomancy, and Ovomancy, among others.”

Natasha liked being alone in the Divination classroom, which was why she was happy to get to class early and find that there was no one else in the room, including the professor. She sat in her usual seat and opened one of her books, allowing herself to absorb all of the information she could from it. She heard someone else come in but didn’t look up, assuming that, as usual, they would leave her alone. It was much to her dismay when, instead of moving around her or even away from her, the quieter footsteps of the other person approached her, and stopped when they reached the table. She suppressed a groan, not particularly wanting to talk to anyone right now.

She didn’t bother to greet the newcomer or otherwise acknowledge their presence. It wasn’t long after that class started, and she closed her book, focusing on the airy Professor Levas as she started to speak. She could feel eyes on her occasionally, knowing that the girl next to her was looking at her. She didn’t bother to give her a look back.

Of course, it wasn’t long after that Professor Levas requested that they introduce themselves to each other because these types of Divination relied largely on cooperation and multiple understandings. She sighed and faced the other girl, putting on a gentle, charming smile. “Hello,” she murmured softly, extending her hand lightly. “My name is Natasha. And you are?”

“Beatrice Selwyn,” she said, grinning brightly in the darkened room, eagerly taking hold of her outstretched hand, unpleasantly surprised how icy cold her silky smooth touch was. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Standing up slowly like a turtle poking its head out of its shell, Professor Levas walked over to her desk and picked up a piece of parchment resting on the polished wood. “Because each of you is gifted in one method of Sight, I’ve decided that this year, you should be paired up with somebody who shares an opposing ability. As Seers, though you should be masters of your own craft, you should also be proficient in other fields of Divination as well. So, I’ve matched you up each with another student who balances your particular skills,” she explained, hobbling back over to the stool.

“Ms. Selwyn?” Professor Levas called out, craning her neck as she looked around her audience before settling on the petite Polynesian who sat with her hand raised above her head. “You’ll be paired up with a uhhh…” she rambled, casting a glance back down at the trembling paper in her hand, shaking like a leaf in late autumn, “Ms. Kraus this semester.”

She heard her name spoken after their introductions, as Professor Levas slowly explained what would be happening throughout the course of the year. She took a deep breath and glanced at the girl sitting across from her, realizing this would be her partner for the semester. “Well, I guess we’ve already met each other,” she said, an almost condescending smile toying at her dark lips.

“I suppose we must have different specialties, then. Might I ask what yours is?” she asked her. She was often curious about others in this craft since it was often considered imprecise and impractical, although she found it to be one of the most elegant and helpful forms of magic.

“Astrology and Athrimancy,” Beatrice said, smiling kindly at her as she crossed her legs at the ankle, trying to stay still though the raw magic flowing in the room made left her quite excited and unsettled. “My grandmother taught me how to use the stars to see not only where in the world I’m headed, but where, in the greater sense of life, I’m going. What’s your skill?”

“Crystal-gazing,” she informed her. Cartomancy was her true skill, but she knew that many people still found the cards to be something of Muggle legend, the types of things that people who used to pretend to be magical would use to ‘predict’ the future. She also had no intention of telling this complete stranger about her strengths, and by default, her weaknesses. “I am also someone competent in dream interpretation, but my successes there are not quite as high.”

She glanced around the room, hearing small snippets of similar conversations from the other pairs that had just been formed. She knew some of these people from her previous years, but many of them were older than her, only making her feel that much more smug for being in the class.

Beatrice nodded slowly and caught her bottom lip in her teeth, glad she had remembered to use her smudge-proof matte lipstick as she nervously chewed on the soft skin. Something about the impervious witch to her right left her feeling agitated. Deciding to push past the thought, for the time being, she turned her attention back to Professor Levas who had begun explaining their first section in the class on myomancy.

“Each pair will be given a mouse to take care of for a week. Record their behaviors, actions, eatings, excreting, and patterns of sleep,” she explained. “In addition, each group will have to prepare a report on the mice and a research paper about such behaviors and what they suggest about the future. You’re dismissed as soon as you’ve all divided the work,” she said, standing to leave while the other students gathered their materials together.

After hearing their instructions, Natasha focused her gaze on her partner and gave her a soft, charming smile. “You wouldn’t have any problems doing the project yourself, would you?” she asked her. She had no interest in learning about the behavior of mice, not having any interest in other animals whatsoever. Particularly not one of such low intelligence as a mouse.

She heard other students talking as they left, reminded now that there was a Quidditch game coming up. She didn’t have any interest in attending, but she also had a feeling she would anyway. It was sometimes entertaining, particularly when people stopped following the rules.

Beatrice paused as she was about to suggest they divvy the work up fairly with somebody coming to observe the mouse in the morning, and somebody in the evening. Maybe it would be easier to split the project in half. She shook her head and pasted on a quick smile, her stomach tied up in nervous knots that made her want to wince. “I’ll take Algernon here and you can do the research,” she said, holding her hand out. “Sound like a deal?”

She raised an eyebrow but nodded. “Alright,” she agreed, lightly taking her hand and just giving it a light squeeze. “It was lovely to meet you, Beatrice,” she murmured, her voice soft and still with the hint of condescension. She didn’t take long to leave after that, knowing that, as much as she would love to stay in the room, she had other things to do.

Beatrice had started to pack up her bags before she got a chance to say farewell to Natasha as well, and when she looked up, pushing back the curtain of hair that obscured her sight, she was gone. Going over to the professor’s desk where the last cage was waiting for her, she picked up the container with a little brown mouse inside, smiling down at the innocent creature when she was struck with an awful feeling. What if she was the mouse to Natasha? She looked up, hyper-aware of her solitary place in the room after everybody else had left, but couldn’t shake the sense that somebody, or something rather, was looking over her shoulder.

[sending-the-message]

The Campbell's by moonring_

I’ve always been proud of my granddad. He’s still alive, on an Irish farm that overlooks a small mountain. Every summer we bond by trekking up and down this mountain (which he owns might I add, no trespassing), and after every small ruin of a house, he loves to tell me the stories of who lived there, if he remembers them, what they did and how they died. As a teenager I loved these stories, I was always so interested in social history and how the old Irish folk lived. To top off the little annual cultural trips, (and what used to keep me up at night), he told me ancient stories the superstitious old folk once believed. These included orally passed down tales of fairies, ghosts, the banshee, and other creatures; of people offering their things to the fairies in order to be left alone and playing cards with the devil in a bet for their own souls. My story begins about one particular ruin up this mountain – the Campbell house, situated at the very top in between two bending oak trees. What I was simply told about it was the Campbells’ lived there during the time of the Great Famine (1840s); they had 10 children that all grew up and left for England or America in search of a better life, and were never heard of again. The parents then died, and the house left to the elements because they couldn’t find relatives. Now here it stands as a few crumbled walls nearly 170 years later. No Campbells have been in the area since, the neighbours have all died and that’s all we’ll ever know about them.

Right? Wrong. I needed to know more, I felt there was more to the story than this. You know when you just get a creepy but alluring feeling about a place? I had that. All other ruins had something more to them; an untold tale, a character. A naughty maid sleeping with the master of the house perhaps, or a fairy’s curse put on the family due to theft or disrespect for the ancient creatures. But this ruin was too old for any living person to know its secrets. Nothing was left of it bar old stone walls and crags in the ground where potatoes were grown, but I felt in my heart its untold mysteries needed brought to life. So this summer I went alone up the mountain to explore myself. I parked my car at my granddads place while he was away and began my journey. He always gets very uneasy when I go for a walk around the area alone (although I’m 21), but I guess he’s just protective of his granddaughter. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and I’ll be back in time before he comes home. It took me nearly an hour to walk through marsh land, barbed wire and sheep shite before I reached the enchanting ruins, but I soon began exploring the place. I really didn’t know what it was I wanted to find, but I looked under every rock, beside every wall to find some clue of the mysterious Campbells. And what did I find? Nothing. What did I expect really, there’s been no habitable life bar sheep and cows on this thing for 150 years.

As I was ready to give up and go home (my hands were freezing and wind was cutting my face), I noticed the Brannigan ruins opposite the Campbell ruins, and thought what the hell, may as well make a day out of it. This house was much better preserved, as relatives of the Brannigans had lived here right up until the 1950s. It still had a tin roof and some things inside, like an old stove, a teapot, a shoe etc - all typical things you’d find in an abandoned cottage. The place inside was much darker because it actually had a roof, so I took out my phone and started looking through all the cool little creepy things inside. As I looked at the beams above (must have been a thatched roof before it was tin), I noticed some papers wrapped up in cord perched between the beams and the tin. It was very high up, impossible for me to reach and hardly noticeable, but I began to get very excited thinking it was old photos or letters. I grabbed the table at the side of the room and bringing it to the middle, I got on top of it and was just able to reach the pile of papers. Lots of dust fell in my face though and I dropped them on the floor. When I had wiped myself down, I noticed I had really hit the jackpot.

Inside the folded up newspapers lay a diary. What better way to find out social history than a diary! I grabbed it and took it outside into the light, and running over to the big oak tree by the Campbell ruin, I opened the cord and read a story that has changed me ever since. This was no Brannigan diary, but the diary of Martha Campbell, wife of James Campbell, mother of 5 girls and 5 boys. This biography was a tale about their livelihoods, their downfalls, and their deaths. I thought Irish folklore was nonsense, but these letters still haunt me and made me question what is real and what is not.

I don’t have time to write out every single entry, and to be honest they’re not all exciting, not the first ones anyway. They start off as normal but they end, well, I’ll show you. The famine years were clearly hard:

June 5th, 1845

Praise the Lord my 10th child is born and I am well. He is named Henry James Campbell, a blessing to us and our home. Mr Campbell and the children are busy digging the first of our potatoes, and I pray to God they are healthier than the ones last year – a good to a half of them bad. We cannot starve for another winter, not with a new mouth to feed. My sister Bridget is off to England to find work, and my heart grieves for her well-being. She has not yet seen my new born and the likelihood is she never will. The twins cry because they are hungry and there is no consoling them. They have nightmares that we are cursed never to grow fresh food again. I wish they would stop with their terrible imaginations, it puts us all in an ill humour. The priest will soon be round with bread and stout to ease our suffering, but he has many a rounds to do as the towns folk are also poor and starving. Mrs McCullough tells me the fishermen are catching naught. We are heavily relying on this new batch of potatoes to fend us from death’s door.

But the Campbells had something dark stirring. There was only an entry every couple of months, but the entries during 1854 really sent shivers down my spine.

  December 15th 1853

Three years have passed since I buried my first born Thomas, but I feel he is still with me. I hear knocks on the walls and doors at night, I have dreams of him staring in through my bedroom window and the twins suddenly scream at the corner of the room and run crying. I have seen shadows in the field and I think of him. I feel he is protecting us. Mr Campbell does not believe me and thinks me wicked for imaging a ghoul like figure when there is only the living, a heaven and a hell. I have begun reading my Bible more often and I keep my Bible close at hand for two purposes. I often lose it then find it turned upside down or thrown across the room, but I also keep it for solace sake. I feel Thomas is playing games with me, he always loved to play. I will light a candle for him this Christmas.

  February 9th 1854

Now he believes me. Thomas has returned praise be to God. Although his presence gets louder and I now feel him constantly. The other children are too frightened to share a room with me, but I tell them they should not be frightened of their eldest brother. They say they see a cloud of darkness around me and I speak in an unknown language in my slumber. They have such wild imaginations, children. Thomas did frighten them once but I shouted at him for it. He sometimes hisses from the corner at them in the darkness and claws them while they sleep. He makes figures of wolves with red eyes and a handful of snakes in the bedsheets. He is awfully jealous for my attentions but all my children need disciplining. Even Mr Campbell is uneasy when spending time with me and would rather work in the fields. Does he neglect all his children? His firstborn son? I am content that all my children are returned home, why can my family not be.

  March 23rd 1854

He is thirsty. He is thirsty and he wants blood. But I love all my children. Why not me? I am his, he wants me to himself. He whispers to me at night. I cannot sleep for my mind is awake to his whisperings. My child. My dear. I long for death. My children long for death. They suffer. They suffer in an unprofitable world. I could ease their suffering. With a pillow. With a knife. Thomas will be with me always. The rest would never leave if I soothed them. If I eased their pain. I am almost convinced. I am a mother and my duty is to protect all my children. From the world. From themselves. From me. Oh Lord into your kingdom I commend my spirit. Show me the light for all I see is darkness and death.

  June 2nd 1854

They are gone. My children. Mr Campbell conspired against me and they are gone. They are banished from me and all I do is weep and pray. He sent them away to the farthest place from me so I may die with a broken heart. He says I am unfit, I have invited a spirit to harm our family and I am possessed with the devil himself. What lunacy, he should be tested not I. I still have my Thomas about me but my living darlings, they are departed for the sea. I tried to ease the twins of their sufferings. And my dearest Henry, he saw. He was ashamed, he cried. But I was doing the Lords work. For heaven is the goal, not this life. My darling angels all in heaven. With Thomas. Oh glory be to God in the highest! But now my heart will never mend and my wailings never cease. They are gone into the world to suffer, when I offered them rest. Thomas still whispers to me at night, and the Priest will not enter the house unless he is guarded with holy water. He empathises with Mr Campbell, he says I am mad and doing the devils work. They know nothing. They are not mothers. They will rue the day they took my babies from me.

  August 7th 1854

Tonight. Tonight I am a widow. Mr Campbell is not my husband, he is an imposter to sever Thomas from me. This I will not allow. My last child he will not take. The banshee will cry her terrible wail and I will be free.

  Here the entries end, and I was thoroughly freaked out. I ran over to Brannigans and put the diary back where I found it. I didn’t need to know the untold mystery. It should remain untold. My guess is the Brannigans found the murder scene at the Campbells and the diary, and took the diary to be kept and never found. I’ll never know what happened to Martha and to be frank, I don’t even want to know. I’m too disturbed. Maybe the neighbourhood know the secret and refuse to tell it, maybe my granddad even knows. But what I know is, I sure as hell will never come back up here alone. Some past mysteries should be kept in the past.

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Professionals and cons to taking an escorted tour whilst traveling

Gougane Barra, Eire • “It’s all approximately getting into the landscape,” manual Deidre “Dee” Harman advises as she wheels a 14-passenger Mercedes Benz minivan thru southwestern Ireland.

Truthful sufficient, and one of the reasons I opted to take an escorted excursion thru the island country I had already pushed in three instances.

I realize the ones rural landscapes switch from low but tough-searching mountains to dreamy rolling hills and meadows that seem poured from the melted greens in the crayon field.

but I also understand the frustration of looking to revel in such panoramas while driving at the “incorrect” facet of an apartment car at the “incorrect” aspect of the street. Never mind the hard u. S . A . lanes approximately 1½ vehicles huge and bordered by means of low stone partitions.

So now Dee is doing the driving — for me, seven other People and two couples from Tasmania — at some point of an eight-day excursion of the southwest and valuable west coasts.

With wit, she offers narratives on Irish records, meals, and subculture (“Enya has a fortress in Dublin, livin’ off her royalties from dentists and rest parlors’’). The palaver masks the truth Dee is a 3-year veteran of Eire’s volunteer navy, but her five years as a driving force for the Irish firm Vagabond Tours Ltd. is apparent as she wheels what she’s dubbed the “Vacation” around Dublin’s streets and people narrow u. S . A . lanes.

Indeed, she steers us up “Ireland’s bendiest avenue” to Healey Bypass, 1,100 toes above sea level. There she stops and lightly orders us out to stroll down the now directly pavement. “I’ll meet you partway down,” she calls and drives past.

Why Take a U.S. Escorted excursion? Maximum corporations offer a base bundle. The base excursion bundle will cowl Most basic desires such as travel between locations, lodge lodging, and meals. Of route in case, you need to do unbiased leisure sports, like nights out on the opera, subject matter parks, clubs, balloon rides and other things you may pay for that for your own. Typically the excursion operator will have special deals for you and will provide you with a discount. These are Commonly the excellent activities to do as others from the organization may additionally join you.

HOW An awful lot WILL I have to PAY?

The rate of your escorted excursion will depend upon a couple of factors. in case you are in the U.S. And take a U.S. tour package locally then you may pay less than a person from England doing the same experience because of the airfare. Some other expense is the motel accommodation. Fortunately, it is not as pricey as you might think with an excursion due to the fact the tour companies make offers with the hotels. Of path in case, you need room service, a complete frame rubdown, or pay movies you’ll have to fork out your personal cash.

While Must I TAKE AN ESCORTED tour? Whilst you Have to go will range absolutely from location to region and what you want to do. if you need to move snowboarding then move on Tours in Colorado in November however now not in June. Most of the agencies will allow you to recognize While the high-quality times are and you may additionally see which Tours sell out the quickest (the ones are Typically the high-quality ones).

U.S. Escorted Tours with the aid of Non-public Aircraft It is very easy to see a number of the use in a touch time on an escorted excursion. Most travelers document being exhausted after only a week of being on a bus excursion, but U.S. Tours by means of Private Plane will prevent treasured travel time. Discover the wonders of the West Coast or discover the East Coast on a splendid escorted tour customary in a Private Aircraft. The tour Hosts are surprisingly useful and will make certain there’s lots of time to have amusing and Discover at your amusement.

Escorted Tours – What Are you able to Count on? Gone are the times of booking your price ticket and heading to a distant places vacation spot and hoping for the high-quality, relying on neighborhood kindness, your vacationer’s cheques being familiar and lots of sign language for the subsequent three weeks. Hell, no! This is the prepackaged, pre-booked and prearranged generation and all you have to do are tick the bins, kind to your credit card info, e-book your annual go away and also you too may be looked after in New Zealand on a completely escorted excursion.

The ever-widening picks for vacationers now consist of 35 one of a kind classes of tourism; from agritourism to flashpacking to the A good deal extra ominous sounding, ‘darkish tourism’. at the lighter and greener fact, an escorted tour of New Zealand is in all likelihood to fall underneath one, or all the following areas; active, adventure and sustainable tourism.

All in a similar vein from rugged to low-impact, the 3 classes cater for vacationers who need a style (or philosophy) of the tour that mixes the factors of adventure, nature, and cultural tourism, with an emphasis on low-effect and sustainable tourism and the usage of local courses.

Escorted Excursions in New Zealand can cater for huge buses to smaller own family corporations relying on quite a number of things together with the quantity of time you have, your finances and your want for private space. A few tourism operators argue that escorted instruct Tours fail to incorporate the lively, journey and sustainable tourism factors due to the sheer numbers of people jumping off and at the coaches, hitting all the vacationer spots at the same time and not usually the usage of nearby publications.

The word ‘luxury’ is used in step with a variety of smaller (most of 12 humans) escorted New Zealand Tours and brings up visuals of pampering and pressure-unfastened tour. Those high cease (more high priced) Tours cover all of your planning info and feature a guide who – if they’re true – will have the entirety under manage and deal quickly with any little glitches that could otherwise stupid your excursion glow.

Any situation where a bunch of strangers get thrown collectively for 2-3 weeks may be of venture and an escorted excursion is simply the equal. Normally inside the smaller escorted Tours you may locate your self among nicely travelled humans with similar earning or active, retired people who’ve been dreaming of this experience for a long time. It’s far as much as the guide to apply their magic and manipulate the one of a kind personalities so all of us feels looked after, special and willing to take part.

information on an escorted excursion are In no way left to threat – bookings were showed months and months ahead and the guide will be rechecking the whole lot and making modifications where wanted. but you don’t see any of this and that is the splendor of these Excursions – cellphone calls and opportunity plans because of climate or organization requirements – all the mundane stuff is out of sight and out of thoughts.

So what are the expectancies of you as a traveller on an escorted tour? You have simply got to show up on time to meals, activities and pay attention to the day’s run down (Commonly the night before), so that you’re sporting the proper kind of clothes, footwear and many others and always, continually deliver your digicam! It is of route completely as much as you how An awful lot interplay you need with the opposite visitors and how with courtesy you can stop some of them from telling you their whole lifestyles tale.

if you’re a freakish organizer, don’t like surprises and want to realize the entirety right down to the minutest detail then the new Zealand escorted tour might be no longer for you. This excursion is for the traveler who desires to study, have new experiences and meet the locals at the same time as last in blissful lack of understanding of the dull tour preparations.