#Dusty Austen

[moviesandmania]

THE BEAST OF WALTON ST. is a werewolf! Reviews - trailer

The Beast of Walton St. is a 2024 horror film about two outcast women who defend their area from a werewolf. The movie was directed by Dusty Austen (Fiberburn) from a screenplay co-written with Athena Murzda. The Street Rat Studios production stars Athena Murzda (Fiberburn), Mia Jones (Rhyme Slaya), Aimee-Lynn Chadwick (Fiberburn) LaVail Duncan (The Beautiful Ones), James L Edwards (Trivial),…

[theliterarymess]

Came up in convo with the girlies so here are my ‘fancy’ editions of some classics from my pretty book phase in uni

[little-jana]

"Three Times is a Charm"

Pairing: Spencer Reid x reader

Genre: fluff

Warnings: awkwardness?, sweet kisses, use of y/n

Words: 3,5k

Summary: Meeting Spencer Reid was like stumbling upon a rare book—unexpected and thrilling. Our paths crossed not once, not twice, but three times in the most peculiar ways.

I didn’t mean to end up at that bookstore. It wasn’t on my list of errands, and truthfully, I didn’t even know it existed until I spotted the faded sign hanging above the shop door: Old Tomes & New Beginnings—Clearance Sale. There was something irresistible about it, the promise of stories hidden in dusty corners. My car could wait, and my to-do list wasn’t going anywhere. So, I pushed the creaky door open and stepped inside.

The air inside was pleasantly warm, and the aroma of vanilla candles mixed with the familiar scent of old books. I could almost hear the stories whispering to each other, nestled in their places on the wooden shelves. A small bell chimed as the door closed behind me, announcing my arrival. The shop was a maze of tall wooden bookshelves, most sagging slightly under the weight of the books they held, their spines worn from years of handling. It was the kind of place that invited you to stay for hours, to get lost in forgotten pages and dusty memories. And that's exactly what I did. I wandered, my fingers trailing along the spines, occasionally pulling a book down and skimming through its pages before deciding to leave it behind.

Then, my eyes landed on it: Pride and Prejudice —not a rare edition or a first printing, but a well-loved copy with a faded cover and yellowing pages. There was something about it that felt inviting, as if it had been waiting for me to pick it up. I reached for it, standing on my tiptoes, trying to stretch my fingers far enough to grasp the spine. But the stack of books around it was precariously arranged, and as I nudged it, the entire tower of books began to shift.

"No, no, no!" I muttered under my breath, trying to stabilize the pile, but it was too late. The books tumbled one by one, crashing to the ground with a series of loud thuds.

"Are you okay?" a voice called from behind me.

I froze, looking over my shoulder to see a tall, slightly disheveled man crouched down, his hands already gathering the fallen books. His brown hair was messy, and his glasses perched on the edge of his nose as if they might fall off at any second. He was dressed in a cardigan that looked like it belonged in an old library, and his slightly awkward but genuine expression caught me off guard.

"I think so," I said, still kneeling. "Though it seems the books have declared war on me."

The man smiled faintly, then held out a hardcover to me. "Here," he said. "This one seems to have missed the fall."

I glanced at the title. It was Pride and Prejudice. A knowing smile tugged at the corner of my lips. "You have good taste."

"Jane Austen is a classic," he said, a little too earnestly. "Not to mention a master at subtle social commentary. And Mr. Darcy’s arc... Well, it’s iconic."

I raised an eyebrow. "You really are a fan of Austen’s work, aren't you?"

He looked slightly embarrassed but managed to maintain eye contact. "Guilty as charged," he said. "I’m Spencer, by the way."

"Nice to meet you, Spencer," I replied. "I’m [y/n]." We exchanged a polite smile, and he moved to help me collect the remaining books. Once we were both standing, I found myself glancing back at Pride and Prejudice, wondering if I should buy it, but I didn’t want to seem too eager.

"You know," Spencer said with a slight hesitation, "I think Pride and Prejudice is the perfect book for someone who wants a little bit of everything. Romance, wit, social critique..."

I looked at him with a playful smile. "You’ve clearly done your homework."

"I suppose I have," he replied, looking sheepish.

Before I could say anything else, he gave a quick nod. "Well, I should probably leave you to the rest of your book shopping. Enjoy the rest of your day."

As he turned to leave, I couldn’t help but watch him disappear down one of the aisles. There was something about him—something intriguing, something different.

---

A week later, I found myself standing in line at my usual coffee shop, juggling my phone, keys, and a to-do list. It was a Monday morning, and the place was packed with people trying to start their day. The smell of freshly ground coffee beans and baked pastries filled the air as I anxiously checked the time on my phone, wondering if I’d make it to my meeting on time.

As I finally reached the counter to pick up my drink, I turned to make my way to a nearby table. That’s when I collided with someone. My coffee cup slipped from my hand in a perfect arc toward the floor.

"Watch out!" I cried, but it was too late. The hot coffee splashed across the table, narrowly missing the man standing in front of me.

He quickly stepped back, raising his hands in an attempt to shield himself, but the damage had already been done. I froze for a second, staring at the coffee stain spreading across the table.

"Oh no, I’m so sorry!" I exclaimed, feeling my face flush with embarrassment.

The man bent down and grabbed a napkin to start mopping up the spill. I blinked. There was something about this scenario that felt... familiar.

"Twice in one week?" I asked, still stunned. "Are you following me, Spencer?"

He looked up, his eyes widening in shock. "No! I swear, I’m not stalking you!" He paused, looking around at the busy café. "I mean, I do come here often, but I don’t think it’s quite the same thing."

I couldn’t help but laugh, the awkwardness of the moment suddenly lifting. "Same here. But I guess we just keep running into each other."

He gave a sheepish grin. "Maybe we’re just... fated to meet by accident."

I gestured to the table behind me. "Do you want to sit with me? It’s the least I can do since I’ve made a mess of your morning."

Spencer looked a bit hesitant but then shrugged. "Sure, why not?"

As we sat down and chatted, the conversation turned from the coffee mishap to our work. I learned he worked for the FBI—profiling, specifically—and was part of a team that investigated serious crimes. I couldn’t help but be impressed. His intelligence and passion for his job were evident in the way he talked about his cases, even though he seemed more humble than I expected.

We exchanged stories about our favorite books and movies, discovering that we had quite a few shared interests. Despite his shy demeanor, Spencer’s intelligence and sense of humor shone through. I found myself laughing more than I had in a long time, and before I knew it, hours had passed.

“Looks like I’ve kept you from your plans,” Spencer said, glancing at the clock and looking a bit guilty.

I waved him off. "No, I’m glad we talked. Let’s do this again sometime."

As we parted ways, I found myself secretly hoping that I’d bump into him again—preferably without any coffee mishaps. Gladly, we got to exchange numbers.

---

Two weeks later, Spencer invited me on a spontaneous picnic. I was hesitant at first; after all, Spencer wasn’t exactly the type to suggest spontaneous outdoor activities. But when he mentioned his favorite park and that he'd packed us both lunch, I couldn’t say no.

We met early on a Saturday morning, the sun barely peeking over the trees. Spencer had a basket in hand, looking as if he’d stepped straight out of a vintage romance movie. His cardigan, now unbuttoned, fluttered slightly in the morning breeze. He had a nervous energy about him, which I found endearing.

“I may have overpacked,” he said, setting the basket down next to a picnic blanket.

I raised an eyebrow. “What’s in there? Enough food to feed an army?”

“Well, no. Just enough food to feed two people who might be hungry after talking about random trivia for hours,” Spencer replied with a smile, clearly amused by his own self-awareness.

We settled down on the blanket, the sounds of the park around us—children laughing, birds chirping, and the distant hum of traffic—mixing with the peaceful vibe of our little picnic. Spencer unpacked the basket, revealing an assortment of sandwiches, chips, and fresh fruit.

“Did you make all this?” I asked, impressed by the spread he’d laid out.

Spencer flushed slightly. “Well, I mean, I don’t cook a lot, but I thought sandwiches would be simple enough. The fruit is from a local farm stand.”

“You’ve got good taste,” I said, picking up a sandwich. “You sure you’re not a secret chef?”

He laughed. “I think my talents lie more in... making the perfect cup of coffee and identifying obscure book quotes. Cooking’s not my thing.”

“I’m not complaining,” I said, taking a bite of the sandwich. “Everything’s delicious.”

For the next few hours, we talked about everything and nothing. We shared little-known facts—Spencer told me about his favorite historical figures and how fascinated he was by World War II espionage. I laughed and chimed in with my own trivia, telling him about random facts I’d read in articles or heard in podcasts.

Every so often, I’d glance over at him and see how deeply he was listening, his full attention on me. It was a quiet, comfortable feeling—one I hadn’t realized I needed in my life. I hadn’t had many deep conversations with people outside my closest circle, but with Spencer, it felt effortless.

As the sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the park, we packed up the basket and sat together for a few moments longer. It wasn’t about rushing to the next activity but savoring the peacefulness of the moment. Just us, sharing a space without the pressure of anything else.

“You know,” Spencer said after a while, his voice quieter now, “I think I could get used to this.”

I looked at him, heart swelling with affection. “Me too. I’m glad we did this.”

He smiled, his eyes sparkling under the fading sunlight. “Maybe we could make it a regular thing,” he suggested, and I felt the warmth of his words settle inside me.

“That sounds perfect,” I replied, squeezing his hand, and for a moment, I couldn’t help but feel like everything was finally falling into place.

---

From that point on, our meetings became a little less accidental and a lot more intentional. We made plans to see each other every weekend, enjoying more quiet moments, long conversations, and shared laughter. Spencer’s nervousness faded as he became more comfortable around me, and I couldn’t help but fall even harder for him.

One day, after another one of our cozy park picnics, Spencer turned to me with that signature smile that always made my heart flutter.

“I think we’ve made it a habit,” he said, his voice light and teasing.

“Yeah,” I agreed, squeezing his hand. “A really good habit.”

We both leaned back against the blanket, the soft rustling of the trees above and the golden glow of the setting sun casting a warm light around us. For a moment, there was a comfortable silence between us, but it was the kind of silence that spoke volumes. I could feel the closeness between us growing stronger, like something was just waiting to happen.

Spencer’s gaze lingered on me, and there was a softness in his eyes that made my heart skip a beat. He seemed almost hesitant, his lips parted slightly, like he was debating something in his mind.

Without saying anything, I slowly leaned in, my heart racing, and before I could second-guess myself, I brushed my lips against his. It was gentle, like a quiet promise, and for a moment, everything else faded away. It was just him and me, the cool breeze, the sound of our breathing, and the feeling of everything clicking into place.

When we pulled away, I saw the same warm, amused smile on Spencer’s face. He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

“That was... nice,” he said softly, as if he was surprised by the simplicity and sweetness of the moment.

I smiled, my cheeks flushed. “Yeah. It was.”

“I think this might just be my favorite habit of all,” he whispered.

I leaned in again, this time not hesitating, and kissed him once more—this time a little deeper, a little more certain.

As we parted again, I felt like the world had shifted in the most beautiful way. With Spencer, everything felt natural, easy, like this was exactly where I was supposed to be.

We settled back into the blanket, hands intertwined, not needing to say anything else. The sun dipped lower in the sky, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like time was slipping away. It felt like we had all the time in the world.

[tonydaddingham]

right but like. the C+A was scrubbed off the sandwich board in ep5 after crowley had his little 'oh fuck' moment and after he sat his bony arse down to get sozzled on a boujee bottle of red. so don't tell me crowley wasn't idly miracling C+A into every dusty car window that went past and onto every chalkboard in the vicinity, chin in his hand sighing wistfully every bloody minute like a victorian widow, daydreaming about the funky angel currently zipping around whickber street and inviting people to his batshit jane austen convention because i won't believe you. he's not an ancient demon he's a 13 year old girl doodling "crowley fell <3' in his school exercise book

[evieelyzabethh]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐧𝐞𝐝

pairing(s): spike x demon!reader

summary: watching the man you love fawn over someone else is always hard, especially when you know you could love him better.

warnings: angst with a happy ending, later seasons Spike, soft Spike, the reader is a demon so old that no one knows your name and they call you Honey.

Spike was an actor, but William was a poet. This was easy to tell when watching Spike act as if he wasn't in love with Buffy. William would've written her a sonnet, presented her with a rose and some ridiculously expensive necklace. The image of a stone glittering around her neck would've inspired dozens of lines of prose, enough to keep her image alive in those fateful moments when she wasn't there to be looked upon. Spike looked. He watched. He stalked. It was his bad boy persona, the leather jacket hiding the heart that still beat out of his chest. Some things never changed.

This new apocalypse had changed something, though, that and the fact that Buffy had now come back from the dead a second time. You thought it would make her more formidable. A cockroach. Through apocalypse after apocalypse, thick and thin, even death, she was never really gone. Whether she was crawling, suffering, or drowning, she always came back. You liked Buffy, you were friends, or whatever she called the unhumans she hung around who wasn't dating her or one of her friends.

She kept you at an arms width ever since she found you back before her first death. In a bottle or a vase, something old and dusty that tipped over in the library and through smoke you materialized. You didn't remember much; you didn't remember anything. The collection of you took days, like assembling some million and one pieced puzzle. Pieces were lost along the way, Giles bet that somewhere between your brain being assembled and your bones hardening that your memory slipped through the cracks of the old hardwood flooring and was lost to the Hell Mouth beneath. He also said that if the memory was so heavy it sank, it wasn't worth remembering anyways.

This being said, it made since that she wasn't immediately open to letting you in and you were fine with that. You didn't know how to exist otherwise. Feelings were also lost on you, along with your name, and breathing, and speaking. You read a lot, after being placed in Giles' care, you only ever were in the school library or his personal library in his apartment, and being born again, you now had a broken vocabulary of unnatural and old English.

It was Willow who named you Honey. She told you hot tea helped with the healing vocal cords and that honey would hopefully act as a sticky cement so they would stay together. Lots of honey was what you consumed until your presence became synonymous with honey and then that became your name. Remembering to breath came soon after, it made your human company that much more relaxed around you. That and the fact that because you were so broken, you weren't deemed a threat.

Feelings came crashing after the fact.

Angelus' return took a toll on Buffy and Spikes appearance began your ascension. You had read classics before; Giles didn't exactly keep copies of Dr. Seuss or even Baum. It was all Bronte, Shelly, or Austen. Writers who taught you that humans love and to love is human and you didn't understand at all not until

"And who might you be, love?"

What are you wasn't the question and he called you "love". Could you be called love, was that something you could be. With how much honey you consumed, you probably were part honey, but even outside of that, when the humans introduce themselves, they say "I am..." so you said "I am Honey" to fit in.

But he called you Love.

You didn't doubt Willow, but you wondered if being Honey was a mistake, if being love was an option. To be love would mean to have love and how did one do that.

"I am Honey." you replied. 3 words that didn't even scratch the surface of what you wanted to say. Maybe speech was more lost on you than you thought.

A lot of time had passed since then. A few apocalypses, a more modern and appropriate speech pattern, plenty of feelings and more importantly, the knowledge that feelings couldn't be shared.

Being so far removed from everyone else made it easy to notice things that they didn't. You noticed her push him away. You had heard him confess. You had become friends after a while, and there were many moments when you would be in his crypt talking to him in between bottles of wine and blood, pigs' blood after he became aware of his feelings. He told you about her, he raved about her bravery, he retold her jokes. The affect she had on him was palpable, impossible to ignore. His lips spoke of Buffy, he cried tears that reflected Buffy, even when he looked at you, he was looking for pieces of Buffy. That was the only explanation for why he would look at you for so long. You weren't a genius, you weren't even a poet, but you knew better than to delude yourself. And yet

He looked at you.

He watched you. He saw you. He perceived you; and it was so beautiful.

He also told you of Dru. She would have moments of clarity when she would revert to the ghost of who she was before Angelus drove her insane. Moments when she would look at the stars, not because she was seeing things, but because she was looking at them. Like the haze of one thousand years had cleared and she was looking at the stars, not shiny shards of glass wedged in a rocky ceiling. She stopped echoing wishes, and she made them. He even told you her favorite wish. She wanted a pretty dress to go to a pretty ball. It was so normal and human. She wanted to exist and be a girl in her own time again, like it used to be. Maybe she also wanted to be human.

Sometimes, if you found the strength in you to stomach it, you liked to think he looked at you like how she used to look at the stars. Like Buffy was his pipe dream and you were what he really wanted.

It wasn't a stretch of the imagination. She was a slayer, and he was a vampire. She is a pipe dream. She was the false stars of shattered glass, she was dangerous to him, she would hurt him. She has hurt him.

Every time he told her he loved her, she told him no. A step worse than rejection, she denied he even could love her. Demons weren't capable of love; he was experiencing obsession. He wanted to own her, to take her, ravish her and leave her a husk of who she used to be then toss her when the infatuation faded. He didn't need to, she already was. Death did that to her, she didn't need Spike to finish the job. And obsession. If what Spike felt towards her was obsession, then what the hell was she feeling.

This all lead to today. An old show playing on the boxy television, sitting on a newly stolen couch, occasionally passing a bowl of popcorn between the two of you. The show was a cheesy vampire comedy where the main character had finally cornered the terrifying "Dracula" and staked him with a cartoonishly large stake. "Blood squirted everywhere, coating the main character with what was probably corn syrup, chocolate syrup, and red food dye.

"That is totally unrealistic. Us vampires don't bleed, and he would've seen that stake from a mile away." he said while tossing a handful of popcorn at the screen.

"I doubt they had a way to turn him to dust back in like the 40's." he scoffed at your nonchalance.

"This is ridiculous. Us vampires need better representation on the telly, they're makin' us look like bumbling idiots." you can' help but laugh at his dramatics. In his rage, his hair had fallen out of place. It wasn't gelled like it usually was, a mistake he'll probably rectify in a few hours when the sun goes down.

"I didn't know you took such pride in being a vampire." He dramatically jumps to face you, a disgusted look on his face.

"Of bloody course I do. Why on Earth would I want to be human."

"Maybe Buffy would like you if you were human." For anyone else it would've been a low blow, but he lets you slide. That and the fact that beneath the mocking tone you took, you didn't laugh at it all that much.

"Would you want to be human, love?" There it is again. You should be used to it by now, but you still every time you hear it from him. Maybe because when it comes from him you want it. You had been on dates with other guys, some of whom confessed to you. The Scoobies told you they loved you multiple times before, even better, they all meant it and the feeling is mutual. Why is it still so much different with him.

"I don't know, I think it could be nice. I think life would be easier." He smiled.

"Why? You're not a vampire, you can frolic in the sun as much as you'd like." you shake your head.

"That's not it." What could it be? Spike wasn't often confused, as a matter of fact he was extremely self-assured, but he couldn't figure out what you were missing out on. He'd much rather be in you position than to remember every sin he's ever committed. You got the immortality and the powers with none of the guilt that comes with it.

"If I was human, I wouldn't be nearly as confused. I'd know more, I guess."

"But what if you never lost your memory? Knowing things wouldn't be an issue." If only knowing your name was the knowledge you were seeking.

"Knowing things wouldn't be an issue but there are some uniquely human things I can't experience because I'm not a human."

"Like what?" Being human at one point was interesting, it was so ingrained in Spike he couldn't imagine what it would be like for feelings to not be second nature. He never needed to understand them, feeling them was more than enough.

"I don't know because I'm not human. I don't know what I'm missing, but I'm missing something." Quit beating around the bush.

"What if you didn't need to be human and it just fell out?"

"What is so bad about being human that it fell out."

"Trust me, as a former human myself, there is plenty to hate about being human. They're puny and pathetic." He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the couch along then struck a match against a loose plank of wood. Bringing it to his lips, he inhaled the smoke and blew it away from your face, but the breeze from an open (broken) window whisked it towards your face anyway.

"But is that because you were human, or because you are you?" His gaze hardened at how quick the answer came.

"You think I was pathetic?" The fallen embers came onto his pants, but he paid them no mind.

"You think you used to be pathetic." Though this was true, a part of him felt offended. Even stranger, he didn't know which part.

"Because I was. I was human and emotional and a bloody mess, because I was human. Demons don't feel anything which is far better than feeling and getting hurt."

"But you aren't demon enough to know what it means to feel nothing!" You weren't a demon to him, though. It would've been easy for him to forget that you weren't one of those pesky humans had it not been for your distinctly not human scent. It was like whisky, rich and old and expensive. Too expensive to break open and drink because it grew more valuable with time. He'd do anything for you not to go to waste.

"And if you want to feel so badly, you can't possibly be that much of a demon!" To waste you would for you to be human. They're too fragile. They die. Spike longed to be a demon because at his core, he was a coward. He didn't want to die. Judging by how much you yearned to be human, you feared loneliness more.

"Why do you love Buffy so much." Ah, the point.

Spike was many things. A bastard, one of those British nancy boys, a coward, a freak. A thing he prided himself the most on was his intellect. He was insightful, he could be emotionally intelligent when he wanted to be. This was the important part.

A part of him knew his best friend loved him. A part he profusely ignored because he was only emotionally intelligent when he wanted to be. He could admit that he was intellectual and intelligent and at times wise, he believed those to be self-evident truths, cornerstones of his Spikeism. He's the brooding, yet insightful, bad boy with a heart of gold who does the right thing when it conveniences him. He's an actor and this was the character he's had centuries to build, and he'd be damned it cracked because then he'd be proving that he was never anything more than William "The Bloody Bad Poet".

Maybe self-hatred was the root of it. The inescapable need- no instinct, to kick himself in the ass at any possible opportunity, was why he ignored you. It had to be some sick penchant for pain, or the belief that he wasn't deserving of good things, because if you were nothing else, you were good to him which meant you deserved better than him.

But altruism doesn't fit into the paradigm of Spike. Altruism is William's thing which made this so much more horrifying. William loved you. Spike loving you meant nothing because he didn't really mean it. The stage kisses and the dramatized sex scenes were suffocatingly filled with false passion, more passion than humanly possible. Spike loved hard, William loved deeply, and both loved you. It couldn't be undone, but it could be forgotten.

"I don't know." Those 3 words didn't even begin to scratch the surface of why he "loved" her.

"But all I know of love comes from you, I learned it from you, and you don't know why you love her?" You wanted to cry, and you hated it. If you could take it back, you would. You wished you had shut your mouth and watched the stupid show that was still playing as you had this argument.

"Love isn't something you explain." He put distance between the two of you, standing up and walking away from the couch in search for a bottle of alcohol. He wasn't planning on you following him, following closer than the tail of his leather duster.

You threw the alcohol before his hand even grazed it, smashing it against the concrete walls of his crypt. Positioning yourself between himself and the makeshift table that used to be a grave, you stood your ground. Blinking back tears because the second water hit that cement you were done for.

"Then show me. That's how I learned before." He clenched then unclenched his jaw. Buffy was all over him, but you were inside of him. The air he breathed, the blood in his veins, the force making his heart beat was you and it always had been. "Show me."

He was scared.

"What if you don't understand." He was stalling. For too long he hadn't been allowed to have anything. Dru was never his because Angelus had ingrained his way into her very being. Buffy was never realistic, and even if she was, she was human. One day she'd die, and he'd move on long before that date anyways. You were so attainable, and you were willing to be his. What if he fucked up. He has, right in front of him, sharing breaths mere inches from each other, everything he had ever wanted, and he didn't even have to fight for it. Handed to him on a silver platter was the key to the universe, but he could find a way to fuck it up. He always did.

"You don't know that." He held your head in his hands, rubbing his thumb over your cheek. His world in the palm of his hands. What if he dropped it.

"You love me?"

"I didn't even know what love was before I met you." You whispered it and he shattered. He kissed you, as if he could pull the sound from your lips so that your confession him that could replay forever in his mind. Like he was sealing some sort of promise so you couldn't take it back.

"I love you." He said in between kisses. "I love you so much it hurts." He kissed you on the forehead." I love you so much it makes me feel alive again." He kissed you on your right cheek, "Longed for you like the sun and cherished you like the stars, I love you.", then on the left.

He looked you in the eyes before kissing you again. As if he wouldn't be there to say it again, as if you could somehow forget it, he said it once more.

"I love you."

[soulofapatrick]

Enchanted Pages - Jameson Hawthorne x Reader

Summary: Jameson joins you in the Hawthorne estate library

Words: 1.3k

Warnings: none

Notes: I hope the anon requesting Jameson likes this! It was fun to write!!

Y/N's POV

The Hawthorne mansion library is a sanctum of wisdom, a hallowed ground where the scent of aged paper and the soft whisper of turning pages permeate the air. The room is vast, its shelves towering like ancient sentinels guarding the knowledge within. The mahogany bookcases stretch from floor to ceiling, each shelf adorned with leather-bound tomes that seem to hold the secrets of centuries.

I sit settled in a plush armchair, my fingers delicately tracing the embossed spine of a weathered classic. The soft glow of antique lamps casts a warm hue on the room, highlighting the ornate patterns of the Persian rug beneath my feet. The crackling fire in the hearth adds a touch of comfort, its flickering dance a silent companion to the tales contained in the countless volumes that surround me.

My gaze sweeps over the library, absorbing the grandeur of literature that spans genres and eras. Shakespeare stands shoulder to shoulder with Austen, while the poetry of Frost beckons from a distant corner. History whispers from dusty tomes, and the works of philosophers, both ancient and modern, share space on these sacred shelves.

The sheer magnitude of knowledge captivates me, and a sense of awe settles in my chest. Here, in this haven of words, I feel a connection to the countless souls who sought solace, inspiration, and escape within the pages of these books. It's as if each volume holds the echo of the minds that once dared to dream, to question, to imagine.

I had choosen a book at random, its spine cracked but well-loved. As I open its pages, the scent of history mingles with the musky perfume of aged paper. The words transport me to another world, a realm where time is fluid, and reality is shaped by the strokes of a writer's pen.

Before I can really get into it, the rhythmic click of polished shoes on the library's hardwood floor interrupts the quiet symphony of the written word. A familiar scent wafts towards me, a subtle blend of cedarwood and a trace of old books—Jameson's unmistakable fragrance. Without looking up, I feel the magnetic pull of his presence drawing near. The rustle of pages and the soft creak of the chair next to me signal his arrival. Jameson, with his tall and lean silhouette, leans against the bookshelf. His dark eyes, reflecting the wisdom accumulated through countless narratives, are fixed on the pages before me. 

”Finding solace in the tales of the past?" he inquires, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. His voice, a velvety timbre, resonates with the same richness as the literary treasures that surround us. 

I glance up, meeting his gaze, and invite him to join me with a nod. Jameson gracefully moves to the arm of my chair, a place that feels both familiar and intimate. His fingers, cool and elegant, find a stray strand of my hair, wrapping it around his digits absentmindedly. It's a subtle gesture, one that transcends the boundaries of mere physical touch. Each twirl of my hair seems to weave a connection between us, binding us in a shared moment within the tapestry of the library. 

As he sits beside me, the warmth of his presence envelops like the embrace of a well-told story. The characters in the book come to life, their struggles and triumphs mirrored in the unspoken understanding between Jameson and me. The juxtaposition of the fictional world and the reality of his touch creates a beautiful paradox—a seamless blend of imagination and tangible connection.

Jameson's fingers, light as a whisper, move to ghost over my cheek. A shiver courses through me, a response to the delicate caress that seems to bridge the gap between fiction and reality. The characters in the book, once mere ink on paper, now witness a narrative unfolding before them—the story of two souls drawn together by the invisible threads of connection. His touch deepens, his fingers hooking under my chin with a gentle insistence that demands my attention. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he lifts my gaze, and suddenly, I find myself ensnared by his eyes—dark, fathomless pools of green that hold the weight of a thousand stories. Time seems to stretch, and the distance between our faces becomes negligible.

My breath hitches, caught in the delicate dance of anticipation. The paradox of our connection intensifies—the very real presence of Jameson Hawthorne and the fictional worlds we explore converge in this suspended moment. In his eyes, I see reflections of characters who have loved, lost, and found redemption, mirroring the silent tale unfolding between us. 

As our faces draw closer, the boundary between reader and character blurs, and I become a protagonist in a story that transcends the pages of the books that surround us. The library, once a haven of literature, transforms into a stage where the chapters of our own narrative unfold.

In the charged atmosphere of the transformed library, Jameson's voice, low and laden with an emotion I can't quite decipher, breaks the silence. "You don't know what you do to me," he confesses, his words hanging between us like a promise written in invisible ink. His fingers, delicately holding my chin, tighten ever so slightly, an anchor in this moment. In the depth of those fathomless green eyes, I sense vulnerability, a rare glimpse of the man behind the enigmatic exterior. 

The anticipation lingers, and then, with a tenderness that defies the rough edges of his life, Jameson leans in. His lips brush against mine, a touch so gentle it's as if he's unraveling the layers of his guarded self. The kiss is a revelation, a tapestry of emotions woven with threads of longing and a touch of sweetness that catches me off guard. 

I taste the rich complexity of him, a blend of desire and restraint, as if every stolen moment has led to this, a communion of souls beneath the watchful gaze of literary giants. His kiss tells a story—a story of passion restrained, of emotions laid bare in the quiet expanse of a library transformed into a stage for our intimate narrative. 

As our lips continue their passionate dance, each touch becomes a stanza in a poem of desire. The flame ignited by our connection dances through the chambers of my heart, casting a warm glow that reverberates through every beat. In this stolen moment, I become a keeper of Jameson's story, feeling the weight of the untold chapters that reside in the recesses of his being. The dance of tongues is a language of its own, a symphony of whispers and sighs that transcends the limitations of words. In the quiet library, our connection becomes a narrative, written not in ink but in the shared breaths and lingering echoes of our kisses. 

Then, with a tantalising slowness, Jameson pulls away. The separation is a breathless pause, and in that moment, I catch a glimpse of a blush colouring his cheeks—a rare vulnerability that adds another layer to the enigma that is Jameson Hawthorne. His eyes, still reflecting the fire of our shared passion, hold a depth that defies easy explanation. 

A tender smile curves his lips as he leans down to kiss the crown of my head. His lips press into my hair, a silent promise and a gesture that speaks volumes. The library, once a stage for the intensity of desire, now becomes a sanctuary of shared intimacy. 

He settles back next to me, the warmth of his presence a comforting embrace. A smile lingers on his lips as he presses them into my hair, and I feel the echo of our shared moment lingering in the air like the fading notes of a beautiful melody. The pages of the book in my hands wait patiently, as if knowing that our own narrative has become a story worth telling—a love story written in the quiet corners of a library that has witnessed the blending of passion, literature, and the tender moments that make life extraordinary.

                           ┈ ✁✃✁✃✁✃✁✃✁ ┈

TAGS: New Tag List Form

The Inheritance Games Masterlist

[roseygurl]

jobs i think the marauders & friends would have

james potter

- works at a sporting goods store

- he’s very knowledgeable and great at his job

- will definitely persuade you into buying something you don’t want or need

- “sir these nike airs will make you jump so incredibly high”

- always chewing gum and always getting yelled at for it by his boss

- hates working register, you’ll find him in the shoes section reading a magazine

- made the store playlist, he’s always on aux

- all his coworkers are really old but he still manages to get along really well with them

- has definitely grabbed a beer with the 50 year old cashier

sirius black

- movie theatre employee

- he hates his job so much. so much

- but he loves saying he works at a movie theatre because it sounds cool

- applied because he loves films and the smell of theatre popcorn

- works at the concession stand and steals extra large slushees (his go-to flavors are cherry and coke)

- he’s really bad at customer service but he’s naturally charming so it’s okay

- always has one airpod in

- coworkers love him because remus brings him food on his break that he shares with everyone

- never ever wears the hat that comes with his uniform because it’s ugly and makes his hair look bad

- definitely cries in the bathroom

remus lupin

- waiter at a nice restaurant downtown

- he’s actually quite rude but his dry humor and nice cheekbones charm people for some reason

- (gets horrible tips)

- has to wear a fully black outfit with a silly black bow tie, sirius thinks he looks handsome

- really good at bussing tables and rolling silverware

- steals fries from the kitchen

- sometimes they ask him to bartend and he really enjoys that

- the hostess girl adores him (sirius despises her)

- smokes near the dumpster on his break and then sits on the floor in the walk-in for a few minutes

- “can i speak to the manager?!”

- “ma’am i am the manager” (he’s lying)

peter pettigrew

- works at a gas station

- constantly forgets to check for ID

- free cigarettes for his friends

- actually likes stocking shelves because he doesn’t have to talk to anyone

- always scared the store is gonna get robbed at gunpoint

- sees people steal but never says anything about it

- he literally never sees his boss around, where is that man???

- usually closing shift, he hates it

- reads comic books up front all the time, sometimes he’ll have really long conversations with customers about x-men

regulus black

- works drive-thru at a burger joint

- customer service is on point but after 8pm he turns into the biggest bitch on the face of the earth

- he just wants to go home

- sirius and james always drive by to troll him and order shakes

- sirius is really good at doing the karen voice and has actually fooled him almost every single time

- big brother behavior

- his uniform is rancid and smells like burger grease

- always having one sided competitions with other coworkers that nobody is in on except for him

- he loves oreo milkshakes

- ends up having to train the new hires but he’s so terrible at it

- “idk i think this is how you do it but im not sure”

- bad at counting change on the spot, he’ll start tearing up if you give him coins

lily evans

- second-hand bookstore employee

- started out as a volunteer but they actually ended up hiring her

- she doesn’t get enough hours

- works next to a coffee shop so she always grabs a cappuccino for james after her morning shifts

- gets to wear cute outfits but has to wear an ugly gray apron

- decorates it with pins

- remus always comes to visit her and they bitch about rude customers together

- he ends up helping her move heavy boxes

- her boss is this sweet weird hippie woman who somehow knows everyone personally

- the dusty books give her terrible allergies

- that girl is always sneezing and sniffling

- will talk your ear off about jane austen

[songofpolaris]

Imagine: Scribbled notes

masterlist / navigation

-> pairing; reader x Remus Lupin

-> wc; 1.3k

-> warnings; fluff, autumn and mentions of smoking. if any of the previously mentioned sickens or disturbs you, please do not read.

-> a/n; i don't even know when I last posted a good old hopeless romantic imagine that I would normally use to fall asleep to.

Lattes, cappuccinos, mint tea, cinnamon rolls and pumpkin spice on everything you eat. Movie marathons, thick fuzzy blankets, rainy nights and cold morning air. Dusty books, poison ivy and poems. Autumn. 

For some people, this is the time to hide away and complain that the sun is nowhere to be found while sitting in their houses all day, doing nothing. But not for you. No, for you, this is your time to shine. The leaves are showing your favourite colours each morning on your way to work and the customers come in with hair that’s blown in each and every direction by the winds outside. They smile, grateful to have a place to recharge at for a bit, and are always that tiny bit more thankful when you hand them a warm cup of coffee and a neatly wrapped book. Your autumn brightness lights up their seasonal darkness. 

There is also always a switch in customers when this change of season takes place. The summer blonds in flowy dresses leave and the autumn brunettes with thick sweaters take their place. 

There’s only one person who keeps coming in, every week, when you work. He’s tall and dark and handsome and all the other cliche book descriptions you wish you could use for someone in real life. But he’s also introverted and not perfect looking. He has scars and messy hair and doesn’t seem to act like he’s anything other than himself. 

As you stand on your toes to put the new book series on the shelf, you hear the bell ringing from the door. The door itself creeks enough for you to hear that someone has come in, but the boss won’t fix it for reasons no one can quite comprehend. Something with nostalgia and how the youth keeps on fixing things that do not, ever, need fixing. 

“Hello! I’ll be with you in just a moment, just let me put this down.” You greet whoever just came in still standing on the tip of your toes, clumsily balancing three books under your left arm while placing another one on the shelf. 

“That doesn’t look like it’ll be done in a moment and if it is, it won’t be because all the books got to their place, y/n.” A low voice answers. You smile as you realise it’s him. 

“Delusion is a fine way to work, Remus.” You answer as you try to get even higher on your toes.

You hear footsteps hasting your way as you fall back, realising gravity actually still is with you. However, two arms envelop you before you hit the ground. They slowly push you back into your normal standing position, still hugging you from the back. 

“It’s also a way to break your toes or get a concussion, genius.” Remus whispers into your ear. You huff and turn around. His arms leave you and you feel the absence of them immediately. 

Remus kneels down and gathers the books, then easily places them on the havened book shelf. His curls fall back from his eyes and the strong jawline gets shown off more than ever. ‘How is this specimen real?’ is all you manage to think. As he looks back at you, you clear your throat and walk up to the register. While walking, you raise your hand to your cheek. It actually feels hot. Is it hot? You let your hair fall into your face to cover up the cheeks, which feel like they might actually be looking like tomatoes. 

You duck behind the register to grab the only delivery made this week, which could only be for him. This man reads a new book every week and buys a new one each time he comes into the store. So far, the only week he didn’t come in was the first week of spring break, which later turned out to be because he broke his leg and physically could not make it to the bookstore on his own. 

“Emma by Jane Austen this time?” You ask as he comes up to you. He nods.

“I love you for this! It’s actually my favourite book.” You tell him while wrapping it. 

Now, a blush comes up on his cheeks. He picks on his sweater awkwardly while starting to lean onto the counter. While looking away he answers; “I know, you told me last time.”

You ignore the awkward change of behaviour and push your hair back out of your face. You couldn’t hide that heat in you even if you did try, so why would you. You look at him questioningly. 

“You remembered?”

“Of course I did. Anyway, even if I did forget the conversation, I have a list of books you recommended to me.” He says it like it’s the most normal thing on the planet. Sure. Everybody is this attentive. Every single person on this planet is this kind of attentive. 

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I care about your opinion and trust it.”

“Can I see it?”

“Why are you only asking questions suddenly?”

You lay the neatly wrapped book in front of him, tilt your head and look at him. 

“Can I?” Is all you say, still keeping a hand on the book. He looks down at the book and then focuses onto your eyes.

“No.”

“Why in the world not?”

Remus shakes his head. His glasses are crooked and he smells like cigarettes and peppermint. There’s only a register between the two of you that’s really just 17 inches broad. That gives you a good sense of someone’s smell when they lean up to it. 

“Fine” he reaches into the pocket of his trousers and takes out a folded piece of paper, “but don’t start thinking I’m a stalker or anything now, alright?” He says as he hands it to you. You nod and unfold the paper. On it, titles are scribbled and quotes stand behind the ones he has read.

“What are the quotes for, smokey?” You ask jokingly. Not that it reflects how you feel in any way, shape or form. Truthfully, you’re tearing up and trying to hide it with a stupid comment. 

Remus seems to hesitate answering this question. Though the weird nickname always does make him show that lopsided grin of his. 

“Unless it’s a state secret, you can tell me.” You add.

“They’re quotes I see you in.”

“But these quotes…Remus”

“Yes, y/n?”

“I know you have read these, but have you?” You say perplexed. This can not be real. Outside of the store, you two have run into each other some time and each time it was amazing, but it didn’t feel like he thought much more of the two of you than just people who sometimes coincidentally run into each other and talk about books outside of that. The quotes seem to think otherwise. And they’re all ones you love and annotated yourself.

“Y/n, please say something. I swear I’m not some obsessive person, I just really enjoy spending time with you and thought this would… I don’t know. Give me more to talk to you about? Understand you better?”

You laugh. How can someone think this is going to make you see them as anything less than amazing. Less than wonderful. Less than perfect. You move around the register and then you’re standing right in front of him. His chin actually hits the top of your head when you stand closer to him. You move back and move your hand to the back of his head. 

“I’m going to stand on my toes again, alright? So you just hold me.” You whisper as you stand on your toes and your lips slowly, delicately touch his. His arms wrap around you. You have never been more steady than this.

“It's such a happiness when good people get together.” Jane Austen - Emma

taglist; @calamitoustide @innerloverpainter

[bouncingbluebeast]

((Inspired by @notmymamasboy doing the prompt with Raze Darkholme!

Anyone who wishes to is free to join in with their muse as well :] ))

[gaslightgallows]

I regretfully demand 2) If you don't find me, you'll find the things. You'll touch what my hand touches. : Crowley and Muriel, bookshop bay-beeeeeeeeeee

“Those don’t go there,” Crowley snarled, suddenly appearing at the door of the basement with a case of bottles.

Muriel, formerly 37th level Scrivener, jumped, though not as much as they would have only a few days before, which they were rather proud of. As the nice human lady at the record shop put it, ‘Mr. Crowley’s bark is worse than his bite.’ Muriel wasn’t entirely sure what that meant; all the information they’d ever seen about the demon Crowley indicated that he favoured snakes over dogs, and Muriel was reasonably sure that snakes didn’t bark. But they had yet to see either one up close.

“What doesn’t go where?” they asked.

“Those books. They don’t go there.” He jerked his chin at a dusty corner shelf, far away from where Muriel had started to shelve the items. “Over there. That’s where he kept them.”

“But…,” they started, as he set the case of alcohol down on a chair and snatched the books from Muriel’s hands, “wouldn’t it be better to—“

“Better to what?” The slitted yellow eyes glared at her.

“Um.” Muriel twisted their fingers together and debated trying to take the books back. “Well, better to put them where people can find them? Like, putting books by the same author together? Or maybe books that are about the same things should go together?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “People? You think the point of this bookshop is for people to come in and buy books?”

“Well,” Muriel said, with a nervous gush of a giggle, “that’s what a shop is for… right?”

“There are a million other places for people to buy books from, these days,” the demon retorted. “Amazon, for one.” He wouldn’t take credit for Amazon anymore, but online bookselling had significantly cut down on Aziraphale’s foot traffic, and the angel had been so pleased. “This shop doesn’t sell books.”

“So, it’s like… a library? Ooh, or an archive!”

“Yeah, sure, call it whatever you want, just don’t sell anything. And make sure it’s an archive of stuff where only you know where to find things. That’s the important bit. Makes the customers annoyed and less likely to come back.”

Muriel smiled broadly. “Great! I’ll just go, um…” Their eyes lighted on a stack of volumes of poetry that a recent customer had been prevented from purchasing, due to an inconveniently missing wallet and a sudden cold feeling on the back of his neck, as though a large reptile was glaring at him from the shadows. “I’ll just go put these with the cookery books.”

“Sure,” Crowley sighed, “that’ll do.” He looked down at the books in his hands, and for a moment, held them a fraction of an inch closer to his chest.

One by one, he sifted through them. There was the Alanson copy of Milton’s Paradise Lost (originally owned by the grandfather of some pioneer of surgery, printed in 1711, that was still missing its cover), a second American edition of C.S. Lewis’s Perelandra, and a wallpaper-covered copy of Jane Austen’s (Jane! Austen!) Love & Freindship from the 1920s. The Lewis and Austen books, he shoved into the shop’s most uninviting corner shelf, in between a natural history of octopuses and a manual of traditional wood carving. But he hung onto the Alanson.

Crowley fucking hated Paradise Lost. He made a point of making sure every copy that made it into the shop got stored under the lavatory sink with its dripping pipe. But this one had escaped him. Aziraphale had faithfully promised the previous owner in 1956 that he would repair the book and return it to them as soon as they paid, but the years went by and there was no payment, so it remained in the shop, half-denuded of boards and smelling strongly of dust and vanilla, the way old rag paper did as it decayed slowly over time.

He chafed the little book between his hands, feeling the crumbling edges and the imprints of the plump, deft angelic hands that had held it last.

A hand on his chest, reassuring him. Hands on his back, holding him in place when they ought to have pushed him away. Hands that always smelled of old dust and vanilla.

A snarl curled his lips, but it was a silent, half-hearted one.

He slipped the battered book into his back pocket and took it upstairs, along with the case of wine.

Want a Good Omens ficlet for your very own? The list is here, drop a # and a character/pairing in my ask box!

[yuri-alexseygaybitch]

Jane Austen was a product of her time and place and I can appreciate the value her literature has as both historical documents and evolutions in how novels were written but people who are obsessed with this dusty sexless grotesquely Engl*sh pining and "romance" shit in 2023 are freaks who need to have their heads examined

[torturedpoetsofpemberley]

For this week, I found this tweet on my timeline poking fun at the yearning present in Pride and Prejudice, which then led me to find this hilarious Thor meme. The beauty of Pride and Prejudice lies in the yearning that threads the story together. The first meme perfectly captures Darcy’s fumbling confession—filled with contradictions and intensity. His love for Lizzy is raw, unfiltered, and just…horrible let's be honest. Yet, this palpable longing is what makes their eventual union so powerful. Throughout the novel, Darcy and Lizzy navigate misunderstandings, personal growth, and repressed feelings. This yearning builds tension, making the ultimate confession a cathartic release for readers.

This subtle longing has set a gold standard for fictional romance. Darcy’s and Lizzy’s dynamic created an expectation for men in literature and film—a blend of emotional vulnerability and quiet strength. The way they dance around their feelings until they collide in honesty has influenced not just heterosexual romances but queer retellings as well. Stories like Alice Oseman’s Heartstopper or Casey McQuiston’s Red, White & Royal Blue echo this slow burn of connection, where vulnerability and self-reflection are key.

But beyond influencing literature, Austen’s depiction of love answers the question we have been asking from the beginning of this semester: Is Austen a feminist? In her works, love is never one-sided or exploitative. Her heroines demand equality and respect from their partners. Lizzy’s refusal of Darcy’s first proposal is revolutionary—not because she doesn’t love him yet, but because she won’t settle for less than her worth. Austen challenges patriarchal norms, presenting love as a mutual partnership rather than a woman’s submission. Her nuanced depictions of romance remain timeless, resonating with feminists of all eras.

These memes capture the essence of Austen culture. Like the author, they hold the perfect blend of humor, longing, and subtle social commentary. They distill the complexity of Darcy and Lizzy’s relationship into modern, relatable snippets, reminding us that Austen’s works are far from dusty relics of the past. Instead, they are endlessly adaptable to new contexts. Finally, the memes encapsulate the themes that define Pride and Prejudice: the tension between pride and vulnerability, miscommunication, and the transformative power of love. These memes show how Austen’s legacy endures—not only in literature but in pop culture—proving that her themes of self-reflection, emotional growth, and equality remain universal and deeply resonant today.

[thenefilim]

Review - The Beast of Walton Street (2023)

Two women must protect themselves and the rest of their city’s homeless population from a werewolf in writer/director Dusty Austen’s The Beast of Walton Street.

https://www.voicesfromthebalcony.com/2024/11/04/the-beast-of-walton-street-2023-review/

[cabeswaterdrowned]

Thank you @sergeantpixie for tagging me! rules: list 5 of your favourite books on a poll, so your followers can vote which book they think captures your vibe the best

But I decided to cheat and have it be 6 so that I can include 3 series and 3 stand alones, because that just felt right to me

Goodreads Summaries of the latter four books bellow (since the first two are a tumblr staple and a classic so I don’t feel the need)

The Diviners:

Evie O’Neill has been exiled from her boring old hometown and shipped off to the bustling streets of New York City—and she is pos-i-tute-ly ecstatic. It’s 1926, and New York is filled with speakeasies, Ziegfeld girls, and rakish pickpockets. The only catch is that she has to live with her uncle Will and his unhealthy obsession with the occult. Evie worries her uncle will discover her darkest secret: a supernatural power that has only brought her trouble so far. But when the police find a murdered girl branded with a cryptic symbol and Will is called to the scene, Evie realizes her gift could help catch a serial killer. As Evie jumps headlong into a dance with a murderer, other stories unfold in the city that never sleeps. A young man named Memphis is caught between two worlds. A chorus girl named Theta is running from her past. A student named Jericho is hiding a shocking secret. And unknown to all, something dark and evil has awakened…

Black Iris:

It only took one moment of weakness for Laney Keating’s world to fall apart. One stupid gesture for a hopeless crush. Then the rumors began. Slut, they called her. Queer. Psycho. Mentally ill, messed up, so messed up even her own mother decided she wasn't worth sticking around for.

If Laney could erase that whole year, she would. College is her chance to start with a clean slate.

She's not looking for new friends, but they find her: charming, handsome Armin, the only guy patient enough to work through her thorny defenses—and fiery, filterless Blythe, the bad girl and partner in crime who has thorns of her own.

But Laney knows nothing good ever lasts. When a ghost from her past resurfaces—the bully who broke her down completely—she decides it's time to live up to her own legend. And Armin and Blythe are going to help.

Which was the plan all along.

Because the rumors are true. Every single one. And Laney is going to show them just how true.

She's going to show them all.

Daughter of Smoke and Bone:

Around the world, black hand prints are appearing on doorways, scorched there by winged strangers who have crept through a slit in the sky.

In a dark and dusty shop, a devil’s supply of human teeth grows dangerously low.

And in the tangled lanes of Prague, a young art student is about to be caught up in a brutal otherworldly war.

Meet Karou. She fills her sketchbooks with monsters that may or may not be real, she’s prone to disappearing on mysterious "errands", she speaks many languages - not all of them human - and her bright blue hair actually grows out of her head that color. Who is she? That is the question that haunts her, and she’s about to find out.

When beautiful, haunted Akiva fixes fiery eyes on her in an alley in Marrakesh, the result is blood and starlight, secrets unveiled, and a star-crossed love whose roots drink deep of a violent past. But will Karou live to regret learning the truth about herself?

Blanca & Roja:

The del Cisne girls have never just been sisters; they're also rivals, Blanca as obedient and graceful as Roja is vicious and manipulative. They know that, because of a generations-old spell, their family is bound to a bevy of swans deep in the woods. They know that, one day, the swans will pull them into a dangerous game that will leave one of them a girl, and trap the other in the body of a swan.   

But when two local boys become drawn into the game, the swans' spell intertwines with the strange and unpredictable magic lacing the woods, and all four of their fates depend on facing truths that could either save or destroy them. Blanca & Roja is the captivating story of sisters, friendship, love, hatred, and the price we pay to protect our hearts.

no pressure tagging: @badthingtwice @snixx @pinkhysteria @telumendils @immaterial-pearl @quantummeep @undergroundash

[angelbreak]

Lost

Summary: Daryl takes Layla into the woods. She's convinced they're lost, he proves they aren't. Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Layla (female!oc) Pov: Layla Setting: Alexandria | pre-commonwealth Rating: All ages Warnings: slight gore? pretty much just fluff. Word count: 948

"Dixon, just admit we're lost." I sighed as I slumped against a tree and Daryl kept quiet as per usual. I tapped my feet against the ground as he glanced around, "Can I just fire a flare so Rick can find us or are you gonna continue to be stubborn?"

"We ain't lost," he grumbled as he looked at the leaves on the ground and the twigs snapped under his feet slightly as he began walking away.

With a huff, I pushed off the tree and followed behind him before mumbling, "Guess it's the latter then."

He didn't say anything in response, only held his crossbow close to his body as we wandered through the woods and I followed him blindly. We were supposed to be back at Alexandria by now and the sun was going to start setting soon meaning the walkers would appear soon after. I hadn't been prepared to be away from home this long and I was growing impatient.

After another 5 minutes of creeping behind Daryl and wondering where we were headed, I once again asked, "Can I fire the flare gun yet?"

I once again got no response and I was growing frustrated with the silent treatment he was giving me, "Dixon!"

"Shut up!" he held his hand up as we came to a clearing in the trees and I looked up to see a small shack ahead of us that I hadn't seen before, "We ain't lost. I was bringing you here."

He walked towards the shack and I noticed a walker near the front door but Daryl had shot it with his crossbow within a blink of an eye. He trudged over to the body, pulling the arrow out and a splatter of blood sprayed onto the door before he carefully opened the door, making sure no one or nothing was inside. I held my switchblade close to my body but I followed after him. Once he cleared the place, he gave me a nod and I closed the blade, sliding it into my pocket as I closed the door we walked in.

"Why did you bring me here?" I asked as I threw my backpack on the floor beside the door as he made sure the back door was locked closed. He motioned for me to follow him as he walked into a small hallway and I did just that. I saw him enter a bedroom to the right of the hallway and I crept in after. He sat down on the edge of the old and dusty bed that looked like it hadn't been used in months.

He pointed towards the corner of the room, "That's why."

I walked towards the corner he pointed to, seeing a stack of novels and art supplies before he continued, "Came here a few weeks ago. Know you like those books and shit but didn't know what to grab."

I smiled to myself as I crouched down, looking at the other novels and the various pencils with sketching paper that looked untouched. I picked up a few of the books as I scanned through them, seeing that they were classics by Jane Austen and J.D. Salinger. I looked at the bottom of the pile, picking up a book I hadn't read in years and my breath caught my throat.

"I used to read this book every night before bed," I mumbled as I ran my hand over the dusty cover to reveal the title of 'Little Women' by Louisa May Alcott, "I didn't know if I'd ever find it again."

"Good thing I got ya here then," he muttered from the bed and I looked up to see him nervously chewing the inside of his cheek. His eyes met mine as I gave him a thankful smile and his mouth twitched into the smallest smile I'd ever seen.

I dropped the book on the floor and looked at the art supplies, seeing a whole pencil case of colouring pencils along with some watercolour paints and paint brushes. As I sifted through the art supplies, I noticed there was a drawing on the ground of a small bird. I picked it up, admiring the work of the artist who was here before me. I placed it back where it was before looking over at the man on the bed to see him chewing the corner of his mouth nervously as he looked at me. I shot up from my spot where I was crouched down and bolted over to him, tackling him into the bed with a hug as he let out a grunt from the impact.

I wrapped my hands around his shoulders as I buried my head into his neck and after tensing for a long while, he relaxed and wrapped his arms around my back as I mumbled, "Thank you, Daryl."

"It's just some books and pencils, blondie." he muttered back, trying to brush off the caring gesture he had made. I pulled my head back to look at his face properly as I shook my head.

"It's more than that and you know it," I whispered with a smile, placing a kiss on his cheek. I didn't miss the way his eyes widened and he tensed ever so slightly but didn't make any effort to push me off. I pulled back to study his reaction only to find surprise and uncertainty with a hint of something unknown in his eyes. My eyes darted from his blue irises to his lips which were parted like he was going to say something, but nothing ever left his lips. Instead of probing him further, I nuzzled my head back into his neck as his breathing slowed and I let myself relax into him, feeling safe for the first time in years.

[stop-breaking-my-heart-dragonage]

[half agony, half hope] ch1: the night before, there was a thunderstorm

ch1 | ch2 | ch3 | ch4 Read on AO3

Pairings: Warden!Carver/Merrill Rating: M [for future sexual content] Summary: Merrill had every reason to reject Carver the night before the Deep Roads expedition, as much as it… Creators, as much as she didn’t want to. Carver left her home that night, and she hasn't seen him since. He has a new life with the Grey Wardens now, and Merrill's accepted that their friendship, and the chance to be more, has ended.

But, five years later, Hawke comes to the Hanged Man with some exciting news: Carver's coming home.

Note: I've worked on this long, self-indulgent, multi-chapter story of mine for what feels like ages. It's loosely based on Jane Austen's Persuasion; the basic premise of two people who were in love break up after a persuaded rejection then reunite years later, and the story title is a nod to it. It's set between acts 2 & 3, and Carver's a Grey Warden serving in Fereldan... because we need more fics with Warden Carver. So I hope y'all enjoy the first chapter!

Also HUGE thank you to @pi-creates for beta-reading and putting up with my nonsense in writing this fic!

-x-

A pretty evening, one not long after Merrill first left her clan to settle in the alienage of Lowtown, ingrained itself in her memory for the past five years. To think so much time had passed and yet she could recall it all verbatim.

No matter how many hours she sat before the eluvian, focus trained to repair the mirror with so little progress, or how often she distracted herself with the companionship of her friends in the Hanged Man over drinks and cards… there always came that moment.

It usually struck her when she spent too much time cooped up in her home, eyes sore and mana drained from every desperate attempt to make the eluvian work. That night would rush through her mind like adrenaline in blood.

The heavy onslaught of angry rain against her door, and the even angrier rumblings that shook all of Kirkwall. Gooseflesh that spread along her damp skin, prickled at the heat of fingers on her cheek. The way her breath caught. Heart pounded. Butterflies trembled in her belly.

Those soft brown eyes, reflective like a polished tiger’s eye stone, that peered down at her through dark lashes.

The scent of wet dirt and steamy tea, and something else so familiar that Merrill couldn’t describe it as anything other than as him.

“Merrill…?”

Five years ago, the Hawke brothers, as well as Anders and Varric, went on an expedition to the Deep Roads.

The night before, there was a thunderstorm.

Unassuming as it was at first, the air flowed with in an electric gust that carried the warning of the impending rain. They’d gone to the Wounded Coast in search of replenishing Merrill’s stock of embrium, elfroot, and what other herbs and greens she could find. She hadn’t expected Carver to offer his company for the trip; surely he had much to do before such an expedition, and he still chose to spend that time with her.

Kirkwall tended to be so dull and dusty that Merrill welcomed the rain, but Carver hadn’t shared her enthusiasm.

“Haven’t you heard?” he had asked, glaring up at the sky. “Fereldan dogs don’t like to get wet.”

“I thought it was cats who don’t like getting wet? I wonder why. It’s not like a little rain hurts anyone, unless it falls into your eye, I suppose. Or you catch a cold and die. But you’re not a dog and… Wait. Oh, that was dirty, wasn’t it?”

“What? No!” Her playful accusation made him trip over a loose rock. He paused. “…Not intentionally.”

“Then you do like to get wet?”

“Merrill!”

A giggle had bubbled up out of her at the way he blushed when he scolded her, biting his lip to suppress a grin. But one look at her and he was laughing, too.

Carver had the sweetest dimples when he smiled. She remembered them fondly, and had even poked them a few times. But only when he was extra grumpy and needed cheering up. To be the one who made him smile like that gave Merrill the strangest rush. She made him lose composure. She flustered him.

It was only fair; he made her heart race just the same.

The two of them spent a lot of time together back then, whether they were following Edgar all over Kirkwall, or just enjoying each other’s company over drinks and cards—which both of them were terrible at—in the Hanged Man. He hadn’t been the most talkative, especially when compared to his brother, but Merrill never understood the scorn he tended to receive within their little group.

Oh yes, he could be rather surly and grumpy, and he could bicker with just about everyone. But he was quiet with her. Kind. Awkward at times, but so was she. Carver was reserved in such a curious way, yet passionate when he allowed himself to be. Merrill hadn’t many friends when she first arrived, but she counted him as one of her closest. He made her happy, and… there was a loneliness in him that she recognized, and their friendship…

They hadn’t made it back to Lowtown before the rain hit with full force. Drenched, they ran through the muddy streets against the sharp onslaught of wind. Merrill laughed gleefully the entire way, splashing around in the puddles until mud slathered her feet and leggings. Carver followed close, less thrilled about all the mud, with arms raised above his head to shield himself as best he could. Many colorful swears were shouted.

They were both breathless by the time they made it inside Merrill’s home, a sad pair of sopping friends tracking water and mud on the wooden floor. She didn’t mind, though, and insisted he wait the storm out with her.

He initially refused to remove his shirt or pants even though the material clung to him uncomfortably. Merrill didn't have anything for him to wear, but she was hardly disturbed by the idea of seeing him undressed, and reassured him so. That didn't help, but eventually she coaxed him out of his shirt. He accepted the blue blanket she offered, quickly covering up by the fire. Humans were strange about their bodies, she learned.

Merrill made them tea and grabbed her own blanket. Together they sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, but Carver was quieter than usual.

“Are you nervous? About the Deep Roads?”

“A little.”

“You and Eddie will come back in one piece. Varric and Anders, too. If any darkspawn tries to bite you, you’ll just stab them!”

“Right.”

Maybe Merrill should’ve known. She missed things, sometimes.

Carver refused to look at her, instead staring into the fire, deep in thought. The way she watched droplets fall from his hair and run over his jawline, down his neck, one might think it was the most interesting thing in the world. It sort of was. Strangely.

Merrill bumped his shoulder with hers and tried to offer him an encouraging smile, but the contact only caused him to take a sharp inhale. He clutched the blanket around himself tightly.

“Merrill?”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve been thinking about some things. We’re leaving tomorrow, and I don’t know when we’ll be back. I… do you—I mean, have you ever...”

Carver swore under his breath, and wiped at his face. When he twisted around to face her, the frown he wore was different. As if it were directed at her, but more… frustrated. Desperate.

“Look, Merrill, I want—I was wondering if you ever… thought about me?”

Yes. More than she ever should’ve.

By Andruil, she still did.

But confused, she had replied, “Sure. Usually, I wonder if I’ve said something wrong to you. I haven’t, have I?”

“No, nothing wrong, I just mean….” He broke their shared gaze to peer down at the wooden floor, and in a quiet voice, one much softer than usual, said, “…I think about you.”

“Oh? Good things, I hope?”

Stupid, stupid Merrill.

He smiled at her then, a small one. Those dimples revealed themselves.

“Yes. Good things. You—” Carver paused, staring at her before tilting his head. “Uh, you have mud on your face.”

“Oh?” Merrill moved to rub it away, though she imagined she had mud on more than just her face with how many puddles she splashed in. "Did I get it?"

"No, other side, uh," Carver hesitated before lifting a hand, and asked, “May I?”

Merrill hadn’t expected his gentle touch to make her nerves sing. His thumb started at her temple, smoothing specks of dirt away, all while Merrill peered up at him with big eyes. Heat bloomed across her cheeks when his hand moved to wipe away dirt by the corner of her mouth.

An inconsequential flash of light outside. Distant thunder.

The blanket fell off his shoulder, exposing part of his bare chest. Merrill's hands twitched, an urge to reach out and run her fingers over the thin, fine hair that grew there.

Carver had made her nervous before. Not in a bad way, of course, but in that she worried she’d said something wrong and offended him. That she'd done something to make him not like her anymore. But this nervous feeling was different. It pooled in her belly, and pumped her heart faster. She was all too aware of how close they were in that moment.

He paused his movements, but didn’t remove his hand. Merrill was supposed to say something; a thank you, a comment on how kind he was, or one on how she thought only dwarves grew hair on their chests; a note on how the glow of the fireplace bounced off his tanned skin and danced in his eyes beautifully, something.

But for once, even Merrill couldn’t find the words to ramble like she did.

Then Carver’s gaze drifted down.

Settled on her lips.

His brow softened. Mouth parted to speak, but no words came. His thumb caressed her cheek.

The realization hit. A gasp caught in her throat. Merrill shuddered. Their breaths mingled as he drew closer.

Slow. Cautious.

She didn’t pull away.

Those eyes, pupils blown, met hers with a silent question, one she didn’t know how to answer. She couldn’t think. The warmth of his hand nearly stung as the heat spread through her veins to pump her heart faster and harder.

The way he looked at her. Eyes fluttered shut. Deep inhale.

Earthy rain.

Him.

Carver’s nose brushed hers.  Her name barely above a whisper.

“Merrill…?”

His top lip, feather-light, grazed hers, ooh—

A clap of thunder.

A gasp, and Merrill jerked away.

Carver immediately leaned back, too.

“Oh, uhm, well,” she stuttered out, scrambling to her feet with the blanket pooling around her ankles. Merrill wasn’t just at a loss for words as her thoughts raced so dizzyingly fast, it was like she never knew words at all in that moment.

Carver had nearly kissed her, and Merrill couldn’t untangle why he’d want to do such a thing, but more so—she nearly let him.

Creators, she wanted him to kiss her.

Upon looking back, she couldn’t believe she’d been so oblivious, not just to his feelings but to the affection she held for him in return. That she wanted him to kiss her—no, that Merrill wanted him to hold her against his chest while he kissed her deeply, to feel his hands everywhere and to lay her against the blankets on the floor... it terrified her.

In that moment, she said nothing as it all washed over her. Carver remained on the floor, face scarlet with shame.

“I…” he seemed to be at a loss, as well, yet he found his voice before she did. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I thought—I should’ve—” Then he was on his feet, still clutching his blanket around him. He sighed, though it nearly sounded like a wince. “I should’ve asked if I could—I didn’t mean… shit.”  

More thunder roared outside, but neither noticed.  

Merrill stared at the floor, and managed out, “It’s okay.”

 They stood in silence for what felt like forever, only the drum of rain against the roof to fill the silence.

Carver shook his head and began to pace.

“I’m sorry,” he said once more. “But Merrill, I…” The more he struggled, the more exasperated he became. “I care for you. A lot. Very much. You’re probably the closest friend I have. Shit, sometimes it feels like—like you’re my only friend here and you’re… Maker’s breath, you’re brilliant, and funny, and beautiful. I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

She could hardly believe him, yet he spoke so sincerely. Not even she could mistake the meaning of his words. Wet heat prickled behind her eyes. 

“And I was wondering,” he continued as he drew closer. Merrill had to tilt her head back to look at him given how tall he was, blinking back tears. Something she never heard in his voice wavered his words; a trepid vulnerability as he asked, “Do you—could you ever feel the same way? About me?”

No matter how many times she replayed all of this in her mind years later, how she justified her decision, the regret still lingered inside her.

“I’m sorry, Carver.”

Merrill had every reason to reject Carver that night, as much as it… Creators, as much as she didn’t want to.

She could admit that to herself now.

But the Keeper’s voice whispered in her ear, admonishing such things with a tight fist wrapped around her heart. The Keeper would never approve, and her clan would have even more reason to despise her. To hold such affection for a human went against everything Merrill was brought up to know. Anything she might’ve felt for Carver couldn’t be real.  

It’s a keeper’s job to remember; she’s supposed to preserve who they are as the elvhen. 

Back then, she still held onto a thread of hope that if they could just see—if they would just listen to her and trust that everything she did was for the people, they would welcome her back with the love she knew they could hold.

But five years later, the clan still remained at Sundermount, and with more contempt of her than she could wrap her head around. The Keeper, the woman Merrill could closest call “mother,” made sure the clan remained cold. It killed poor Pol, and with his death came reality; the Keeper wouldn’t ever listen to her, and the clan wouldn’t ever welcome her back… not even if she did fix the eluvian, proved herself strong and clever and worthy of a keeper’s position.

Merrill spent too much time shoving those feelings aside to dark corners with plans of leaving them untouched. She told herself that she did care for Carver, but could not love him, not romantically. Even though he too was one of her closest friends, and he listened to her ramblings and never made her feel stupid for it. He explained human things that puzzled her and often helped her with things around her humble home. He went on scavenging trips with her and sometimes brought her things like flowers or pretty stones because they reminded him of her, and he thought she’d like them.

Thoughts of brushing the dark hair from his face as they sat there that night, of tangling her fingers in it as she kissed him… to push the blanket off his shoulders and confess she thought of him, too. Maybe she wouldn’t have been completely sure about a relationship, but if taken slow...

Merrill wished she had stopped him from leaving. That she'd grabbed his still damp shirt before he did, and asked him to stay... just a little longer...

But Merrill’s remorse didn’t stop there. She held her rejection of him close to her heart, but even closer she held the day after; the day Carver, Edgar, Anders and Varric left for the Deep Roads. She had intended to see them off, to wish them luck and say goodbye.

But Carver’s hurt was clear as he accepted her answer, and Merrill believed he wouldn’t want to see her. She didn’t want to make things awkward, and…

She should’ve gone.

Why didn’t she just go?

Carver left her home that night into the pouring rain and she hasn't seen him since.

Merrill had the chance to see him and the others off for the expedition and she didn’t go. She knew it’d be uncomfortable for both of them, and she had assumed… she assumed he’d come back. Carver would come back, and they would talk then. They would work it out. Remain friends. And maybe...

But he didn’t come back.

Edgar broke the news the night he, Anders, and Varric returned to Kirkwall. He stood there in her home, exhausted in every sense of the word, and told her Carver caught the blight. He was taken away by the Grey Wardens.

He didn’t know if he’d ever come back.

Merrill tried not to cry, not when Edgar himself was on the verge of tears, but it all overwhelmed her. The disbelief. The hurt, the regret. Anger drowned down by grief. The way Edgar, who wore his confidence well and always had his wit prepared, stood before her looking lost for the first time since she’d known him… not a single clever word on his tongue.

For three months, no one knew if Carver survived.

A terrible, awful three months.

It was only when Anders wrote to the Hero of Fereldan that they got their answer: Carver survived, and had agreed to serve under Warden-Commander Rosalie Tabris in Fereldan, at Vigil’s Keep.

Merrill wanted to write him. Wanted to talk to him. See him. Apologize. Tell him the truth, and…

No. It didn’t matter anymore.

To know he lived was enough.

Merrill could dwell on it all she wanted. Nothing would come of it.

Couldn’t.

Carver was a Grey Warden. He had a new life. Without her.

And Merrill lied to herself every time she was reminded of him: she’s okay with that.