#house of wind bookclub

[irisofink]

Secretely loath being a responsible adult, had my eye on an amazing house of wind bookclub sweater, yes the enchanted oddities one, finally it restocked, in my size, added to cart, and 25 or so shipping costs not to mention import taxes... And I let it go. Grumbling.

[sunnydaleherald]

The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Friday, August 9th

BUFFYBOT: (OS) Anya! BUFFYBOT: How is your money? ANYA: (laughs in surprise) Fine. Thank you for asking.

~~Intervention~~

[Drabbles & Short Fiction]

Back-up Plans by veronyxk84 (Spike & Clem, PG-13)

Who's a Good Kitten? by Anonymous (Angelus/Fred, M)

Scientific Inquiry by Anonymous (Angel/Spike/Maggie Walsh, E)

The Other Side of Corporeal by Anonymous (Angel/Darla/Drusilla/Spike, M)

Expectations by mmooch (Buffy, Big Bang Theory crossover, T)

Favours and Flowers by Diary (Angel, Fred, Supernatural crossover, G)

Dreamt of Drowning by Anonymous (Spike/Drusilla, T)

Willow tells Xander she's bisexual by Johanna6Cats (Willow/Xander, G)

The Taste Of A Heart Beating by Geliot99 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

[Chaptered Fiction]

Buffy season 8 " Wicked me", Chapter 8 by FreyStewart (Buffy/Angel, not rated)

Slayer & Rose Bride, Chapter 11 (complete!) by acpendra, Sparkle 94 (acpendra) (Buffy, Shoujo Kakumei Utena | Revolutionary Girl Utena crossover, M)

Darkness and Desire - Book - 01 - Hex Born, Chapter 7 by zxandris (Buffy, Willow, Tara, multiple crossovers, E)

Enter Sunnydale, Chapter 3 by Philister (Faith, Transformers crossover, M)

Further From Home, Chapter 2 by zombiesam (Buffy/Giles, E)

Who Are You Now? Chapter 2 by Mirrored_Illusions (Buffy, NCIS crossover, G)

School of Hard Knocks, Chapter 11 (complete!) by Melme1325 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

Rebirth: A Stargate Tale, Chapter 12 by Buffyworldbuilder (Ensemble, Stargate crossover, FR13)

2024 FaD Tribbles, Chapter 2 by mmooch (Oz, Harry Potter crossover, FR13)

What the Drabble? Vol. 2, Chapter 58 by VeroNyxK84 (Buffy/Spike, PG-13)

Tale as Old as Time, Chapter 14 (complete!) by honeygirl51885 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

Task Mistress, Chapters 2-4 by HappyWhenItRains (Buffy/Spike, R)

[Images, Audio & Video]

Manip: There is a Geppetto in the house! by KneeHighMischief (Puppet!Angel, worksafe)

Screencaps with lyrics: Lyrical, Chapters 1-11 by scratchmeout (PG-13)

Artwork: Spike by isevery0nehereverystoned (partial nudity, probably worksafe)

Artwork: they've probably had better dates... by mistyintherivers (Giles/Jenny, worksafe)

Artwork: a little buffy drawing by teenaween (worksafe)

Artwork: Joyce has invited him to bookclub before without a DOUBT! by tothetoonandback (Spike & Joyce, worksafe)

Fanvid: ► Dynasty [Buffy & Stefan] by WeCanTry (The Vampire Diaries crossover)

Fanvid: Cordelia Chase - Primadonna Girl by TheOverlookedOne

Fanvid: Forsaken: Buffy v Lestat ("Official Trailer) by Brendan Ryan

Artwork: My kinda ok #btvs #drawings ❤️ by Wolvyn Woods (Buffy, Faith, Tara, Willow, Spike, worksafe)

Fanvid: Buffy & Angel - I Dont Care (remake) by Angelus_Clips

Fanvid: Buffy + Angel She’s my wind by AshleyBurchettAJLeefanlove23love

Fanvid: Wesley&Lilah | Vampire Smile by 1SnoWhiteQueen1

Music video: Are You Afraid of Buffy's Goosebumps? - CRACK HORROR | Official Video | by Whalley Exchange

[Reviews & Recaps]

Video: LET'S TALK ABOUT BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER by I RAMBLE A LOT

Video: My thoughts on Buffy the Vampire Slayer by The Autistic Buffy

Video: Buffy 2.11 Ted by Jen Katz and Ryan Something

Video: BUFFY the VAMPIRE SLAYER already has me HOOKED by Ashleigh Burton

Video: The Dated Vision of Buffy’s 23rd Century Future by PanelHopper

Video: Analyzing Buffy: Do You Wanna Hear My Philosophy? | 1x01: Welcome to the Hellmouthby The Bronze

Video: Analyzing Buffy by The Bronze

Video: Same Time, Same Place-Slayer Sunday by Jane Talks Buffy

Podcast: Twice More With Irony - A Full MUSICAL Review of 'Once More With Feeling' by Beer with Buffy

Podcast: DORPCast 247 - Buffy und Angel by DORP

Podcast: Buffy 2.12 Bad Eggs by Once More: A Rewatch Podcast

[Search & Recs]

Looking for [Spuffy or Spike/OC] fanfic recommendations by Ok-Olive-4048

Art rec: Darla/Drusilla (not worksafe) by drea.d.art, recced by roselynnthornwood

[Community Announcements]

Video: Slayerfest '24 Readathon Announcement - Buffy The Vampire Slayer Readathon! by Rescues and Reads

[Fandom Discussions]

btvs is just a seven year long competition between buffy and giles to see who can be the most unhinged depressed bisexual by comradesummers

A large portion of the issue with spike’s soul by greensaplinggrace

the scoobies were really the worst friend group ever by latrodectal

Okay, so... The Body... by redhatmeg

Never Kill a Boy on the First Date Fashion Part One by theoverlookedoneedits1997

Genuine Buffy/Angel Question by annarowyn

it’s so important that in Chosen (7x22) [Buffy] didn’t end up with either [Angel or Spike] by fictiongods

buffy you cannot seriously be comparing what willow did to sleeping with spike by justsolas

My dislike for Ensouled Spike with Buffy doesn't come from a place of not liking their relationship or preferring Angel by mortalaf

i think angel would have been a 1000% better character if they just put him in more situations by not worksafe

Why I was more invested in Spuffy than Bangel by peppermintquartz

Who the fuck curses a vampire with ... by sympathischeufos

Buffy rewatch podcast with Juliet Landau continued by Dogs of Winter

Rewatch thoughts and questions continued by multiple posters

I have never fully understood this joke [Wesley's in Underneath] by AndrewHeard

Please I need closure, and can’t get a clear answer. Shanshu… by Altruistic-Salt-8303

Having a brain fog here but help… [the blood on Robin Wood's knife] by Trixieswizzle

Sometimes the recaps at the start of episodes skip some lines from the original dialogue. This is my favourite of those by Baron_Butterfly

Which antagonist did the most damage? by jdpm1991

If you guys were a vampire just chillin' in a graveyard late at night by Spyderwarp55

Totally forgot how they gave Faith an accent in the beginning by VisibleCoat995

Buffy's Complex Release: Emotion vs. Desire by Interesting-Tea3907

What is the best order to watch? by wildguitars

Who is your absolute favorite character in the Buffyverse and why? by hatcherry

Which unheard OMWF song would you most like to hear? by MonsterTournament

Who has the better nonexistent, faux-British accent? by nowlan101

A small and fairly insignificant question about the season 5 finale by nickel4asoul

How did Buffy not realize who Robin was? by bluish-velvet

AU Scenario Swap! Angelus Chipped & Spike Remains Evil by orchid-noogie

Reboot? by sluteeprncss

Who looks more like their actor in the comics? by jdpm1991

I'm so mad the Slayers didn't get a wage by Suitable_cataclysm

Tara's name by MissSpooky69

Graduation Day, the poison and The Mayor by yukeee

Video: Buffy and Angel- The relationship that should have been? In under 3 minutes!" by BingeTalkTV

Submit a link to be included in the newsletter!

Join the editor team :)

[kyndaris]

Plot? What Plot?

As someone who aspires to become an author that will someday get on a Best Selling List somewhere in the world, I read a lot of books. While it's not on the level of professional BookTok-ers or those running BookTube channels, I like to think I get through a decent portion of them during the year. Especially when my books of choice are usually 600-page minimum behemoths. AFter all, with the rising cost of books (they're about $24 now in Australia for a standard paperback), I need to ensure I'm getting my money's worth!

However, ever since I joined the bookclub at my workplace, I've been exposed to genres and books I might not have usually thought twice on. Surprisingly, most of them have been much shorter than the books I usually devour.

But the most recent book we've picked is Year of the Locust by Terry Hayes. And, quite frankly, I've mixed feelings about the book. Spoilers ahead for anyone who might want to read this book in the future.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not opposed to spy thrillers. Hell, back in 2013, I even bought I Am Pilgrim after seeing the title being advertised nearly everywhere in the London Underground while I was there third-wheeling my friend and her then-boyfriend's relationship (you know you're close if you can get away with hijacking a trip overseas to see a significant other).

Did I love it? Not...exactly.

Still, I gave it a reasonable 3 out of 5 stars!

Year of the Locust, on the other hand, is a rough 2.5 stars (rounded down on Goodreads in this instance).

And I know you must be asking me why. After all, it's a 600-page behemoth. So, it would be in my usual wheelhouse of books I'd like to savour in just shy of a month.

Unfortunately, while I find the writing and sentence structure decent, my main issue are the characters and the surfeit of plot. This is no A Court of Silver Flames where Nesta and Cassian spin plates in the House of the Wind (and by that I mean the training, the bloody 10,000 step staircase and all the unnecessary sexy times), and the plot, when it is remembered, is scattered unevenly throughout before it all gets rushed through in the last few chapters.

No, no. Year of the Locust suffers from what I like to call the Scarlet Nexus issue. It's where the writers (or writer in this case), think any and all ideas are great and insert it into the story as some sort of twist. And in Year of the Locust, the second half has this in spades: space spores which fast-track human into evolving a white carapace, giving them a 'ridgeback,' and heightening their aggression; an experimental cloaking technology affixed to a submarine that somehow makes it travel through time.

Like, why? Why couldn't this be a separate story entirely?

Also, did you have to power up your villain into some video game bullet sponge? Uncharted 2: Honour Among Thieves this is not. But if you blink, the difference between Zoran Lazarevic and Kazinsky are almost non-existent.

Perhaps my gut instinct at the start of the book should have warned me that Year of the Locust would not go the way I thought it would. Especially as it opened with a completely different adventure with Ridley Kane going up against the Magus (which would later be revisited again in Part 3 - most likely to pad the book out because it added little substance to the whole Ridley and Kazinsky dynamic in any shape or form) to highlight a secret technique the dastardly spy would use against our protagonist, one he would repeat in the final few chapters against Kazinsky.

Another thing that rubbed me wrong was how often Ridley, as he recounts the story sometime in the future, would tell the reader how deadly all his foes were. All the while underselling his abilities as a Denied Access Area spy. Rather, our protagonist is just an ordinary guy who once wished to be part of a submarine crew and has mastery of multiple languages like Russian and Arabic.

The other parts I felt added little to the actual plot were the foreshadowing dreams Ridley has, and which many of the supporting cast attribute to PTSD. Why can't intuition just be that? Did Ridley truly have to emphasise he could hear 'gunshots from the future?' It's not as if he was ever shown to be clairvoyant about other things in his life.

Oh, and don't get me started on how much of the book 'tells' the backstory of all of its characters rather than simply 'showing' it. Did we need to have several chapters dedicated to Kazinsky talking about his childhood of hunting for mammoth tusks? How did it add to his characterisation? Did Ridley really have to exclaim to the rest of the CIA that Kazinsky was expositing to hammer the exact same point home to the reader?

By the time I reached the end, I was praying for the story to end. Especially when typical tropes began being pulled out: like Ridley refusing to go back in time and only did so when his wife (when did he and Rebecca even get married again?) died in his arms. The writing truly could be seen on the wall.

Also, how did the spores manage to travel around the world? How much was on some asteroid ore? And if they could become airborne, why couldn't people get infected after Devil's Night?

All I can say after reading the book was that the author definitely needed an editor. One who wasn't afraid to tell the author to kill his darlings if he wanted to write something that might not have been a complete mess. Or, at the very least, split the plot in half and write them separately with different characters. There was absolutely no need to mush two disparate ideas into one book. Especially given how strange the tonal change would be.

Do I regret that I read this book? A little. There are a million other choices sitting on my bookshelves. And yet, I also think it's important to read books one might not always enjoy. After all, such things help widen one's understanding of taste. If you're lucky, though, you might just find a new genre you'd fall in love with. Or a new favourite author.

While I know some might argue there isn't enough time in our very short life spans to read books you don't like, it's hard to distinguish what you do and don't like without experimenting a little. If one reads only the classics, thinking they ought to like them because of how they've managed to stand the test of time, it may deter them from books entirely. Especially if the writing might be too pretentious or too dry.

Besides, what someone else might like but I might detest is all very subjective. There are many people online who have elevated Sarah J Maas to such heights I'd not be able to reach while leaving other authors, who might be just as good, in the dust.

In any case, I know for certain Year of the Locust isn't quite the novel I expected. While there are some reviewers on Goodreads who love the rollercoaster ride they were presented with, it is this humble blogger's opinion that the story would have been better split into two separate novels. Coupled with a good editor who wasn't afraid to leave certain threads on the cutting room floor, those two separate stories would have been more tightly written and given Terry Hayes the springboard to leap into a wholly different genre.

[adelainejdevyn]

Late for the Valkyrie Bookclub

Gwynriel week 2 day 4🌶

Gwyn knew she was late for her Valkyrie Bookclub meeting and that Nesta and Emerie would never shut up about it.

They were discussing the latest novel they had been consuming titled: The Kingdom of Gods. It was about the daughter of an ancient God that had been prophesied to be the hero of their world.

To be honest, Gwyn was more interest in the pairings of the book, and if the main character would end up with the devestatingly handsome servant of a Death God or with the Centaur that was currently her teacher. She hoped the upending choise would somehow involve a hot threesome, just as Nesta had logically suggested.

Currently however it was pretty tough for Gwyn to think about book tropes, pairings or plot, with Azriel's cock in her mouth. She moaned as she looked up at him from her position on her knees. The shadows around him twisted sharpy as he exhaled a shaky breath.

He sort of looked like a beautiful Death God himself, Gwyn thought, taking him deeper into her mouth. The taste of him ungodly on her tongue.

---

Azriel had lost his goddamn mind, he thought as he threw his head back. His black hair was damp and his throat was exposed to the closed air in a nook on the stairs of the House of Wind.

“Oh,” he panted and looked down, his scarred hand woven between auburn locks, “Gwyn.”

The Valkyrie batted her eyelashes up at him, and took his cock deeper in her mouth. He must have lost his goddamn mind. 

Do you wish to fuck me, Azriel? She had asked him one night as they flew from Velaris to the House. He’d almost dropped her from his grip as the question settled. When she giggled he knew she had been drunk, or tipsy enough to poke his cheek, Well?

She was lonely she’d said as they landed on the balcony of the House, the lights soft and the stars bright as they gazed down at the odd pair. And you are my good friend, who else can I trust with this experiment? 

Azriel was sane enough to admit to himself that he hadn't wanted another male to touch her intimately. And that he was lonely enough himself to consider her offer. 

When he'd said yes, he hadn’t known that Gwyneth Berdara would be the death of him. He pulled her up by her hair now, and pressed her back to the staircase as he kissed her mouth. Their kiss was wild and open-mouthed, and she tasted like honey. Her long fingers dug into his flying leathers, the strings unable to unfasten at the speed of which she wished they would.

Azriel picked her up, and her legs wrapped around his waist. He was too large for this small staircase, and his wings hit painfully against the stairs above him, but he only could think about how soft Gwyn’s skin was and how perfect she felt against him and how her hands- 

“Now.” She demanded, freeing his length “Now, Az.” 

Azriel was not going to argue with her. He sunk into her carefully, aware that his size brought some discomfort along with pleasure. Gwyn moaned, shaking in his arms. She gripped onto his shoulders as she wiggled on to his length, her nails digging in. Azriel saw stars behind his shut eyelids. She was going to be the death of him, he thought again, as he thrust into her. 

“Cauldron,” she was muttering, “Oh, I am close-” 

Azriel did not change his pacing, knowing well that he was exerting the magical amount of pressure on her body that would have her shatter with pleasure. Gwyn surged forward and kissed him passionately, her tongue teasing his lower lip. He growled against her mouth as she clenched around him, before he stilled completely. Gwyn’s eyes were glazed with desire as she looked at him, one of her hands had reached up, her knuckles softly grazing the inside of his wing. 

“Is this all right, shadowsinger?” She asked, and stroked his wing again. Azriel gripped her ass in his hands tightly and moved again, fucking her deeper, and slower than before. She whimpered at the changed pace. 

“That’s right, Berdara.” He said, as he bit her throat lightly, “Play with my body like you own it.” 

“Az-” 

“Oh, you are almost there, aren’t you, little Valkyrie?” He muttered, as he felt his own orgasm approaching, “Be a good girl and come for me, then. I’ll eat your pussy clean afterwards.” 

Gwyneth shattered at his words and he couldn’t help but spill inside of her as she grazed his sensitive wing with her nails. Azriel rested his brow against hers, both of them breathing hard, the sound echoed around them. 

Azriel blushed as he pulled out of her and felt his seed dripping down her thighs. His scarred fingers were there instantly, gathering the gleaming liquid up and then pushing it back into her. He could not, for Cauldron’s sake, understand this intense instinct that took over him in that moment. 

But Gwyn only gasped and said, “Let’s meet in the training ring tonight, Shadowsinger, I wish to ride you in the night air.” 

Gwyneth Berdara was going to be the end of him.

Author’s note: 

Curious to see which book the Valkyrie Bookclub is discussing? Check out Union of Souls and The Kingdom of Gods on my Wattpad page!

[blnk338]

this isnt a question really but i just wanted to tell you that those 3 co workers who commented on the latest chapter of rwys was me & my work friends and it is very much still all we talk about.

we’ve decided to start a bookclub to read new chapters that come out together & i just wanted to say thank you (again) for writing it because now we have this whole new thing to bond over and talk about and its so nice to have something at work thats just for us <3

please tell them all i adore getting comments like this-- i didn't think i'd ever get such a nice group of readers and seeing people get hyped about it-- at work, nonetheless-- is amazing

you guys are so cool!! i really hope you continue to enjoy, and just as a little treat, I'll give you a few snippets of rwys42 (unedited, be warned)

Gesturing back to the counter, you motioned to the half-empty and full glasses of ice water. “Go ahead and cool off while I get myself cleaned up.”

“I used your shampoo,” he replied, eyes switching from the counter back to you. “I know, I can smell it on you, sweetheart.” Simon nearly melted into a puddle with the tender name, lips pulling slightly. Giving him another peck, you slid out of his grip and started for the stairwell. “I think the laundry should be done in a few, I should be out sometime after that.”

Nodding, you disappeared while he turned to the cat on the floor who, while still fully laying down, stared at him, slow blinking. Taking a spot beside him, back to the lower cabinets, Simon cautiously reached his hand forward once more. Fingers reaching the softness of PB’s fur, the little thing chirped and peeped his head up, rolling over so his belly was facing Simon. Running up and down his back, Simon’s digits moved up to Peanut, scritching the top of his head while the cat stood up, stretching, then taking the few steps over to the man.

Reaching forward, the Brit stopped the fan oscillating to just sit on their pair, the cat happily putting his paws up onto Simon’s thigh. A collection of small sharp pains jabbed into his thigh, the man immediately jumping and looking to where PB had put his paw. The fuzzy thing, comfortable and happy, had begun to kneed at Simon’s meaty leg. Even with his reaction, PB still tried to paw at him, lips curled in their usual cat-way.

Letting out a breath after the realization, Simon went back to rubbing his face and scratching behind his ears—he even took the two-hand approach by scritching his cheeks, essentially holding the cats head in his hands while they both stayed cool under the constant breeze. PB was sounded practically motorized by the time you stepped back into the kitchen, eyes crinkling down at the sight. “I didn’t think you were a cat person.” Simon’s head snapped up to you, blinking a few times before PB let out an abrupt meow, asking for more lovins. Finding his words momentarily, your boyfriend slowly stood from his seat, much to the upset of your cat, who still mewed up at him, scanning your freshly-washed features.

---

Simon adored these little parts of you that he got to see up close. He loved watching your micro-expressions twitch with each new thing you pulled out. You knew what would go bad in the estimated time that you’d be away from home—it wasn’t a calculation, it was a guess in the wind, but there weren’t any perishables. Jars of jams and a few tubes of tomato paste sat on the wall of your fridge, plenty of sauces, too, but no milk. Juices were absent, as well. He wasn’t sure if you were much of a juice person, he didn’t remember what your fridge looked like when he was here before, he was too enamored with how you looked and sounded at the time to pay attention to something as small as that.

But what he did take note of was how much of your house was kept to a good-enough ‘t’. Military procedures tended to make it’s outputs neat, natural, but you had your own personality to things. Yes, the counters were clean, the sink was wiped down, but the cabinet of snacks and non-perishables were in a gentle disarray.

Your living room worked, but the blanket was always thrown haphazardly, and there were never any permanent decorative residents on your coffee table. From your laptop to a book you were reading at the time, then two, then three, maybe even four, if you were feeling ambitious, then a stain from a mug of something. Looked like coffee, could’ve been tea. Maybe a Ribena, though, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever actually seen you drinking one before.

His eyes scrolled back over to you, cat still in his arm, the free hand rubbing up and down his furry belly, watching you set out a few things on the counter, scanning them. You liked solutions, even when things weren’t problems.

It was interesting to watch the gears turn in your head as you pieced things together. Even for the most domestic, one could say mundane, but perhaps not, events, you took things at several views. Back-ups, you liked back-ups. Always being prepared was another, maybe ‘solution’ wasn’t the word he was intending to think of. Maybe all of the words were mere synonyms of each other used to describe you.

[partfae]

Also the fact that Bryce really hasn’t had a close female friend since Danika died… let these two poor women hang out please. We already know Bryce loves romance books, let her join the House of Wind bookclub with the Valkyries. Hunt and Ithan and Night and Day are great but Bryce desperately needs a close friend and she and Nesta have already clicked. Fuck it at this point give the Dusk Court to Bryce, the Valkyries, and the Band of Exiles! Make Lucien High Lord so Bryce can focus on being queen! Get everyone the IC hurts and discards somewhere better!

HOFAS spoilers

.

.

.

If Cassian or Rhysand do anything to keep Nesta from actually exploring her and Bryce’s connection in ACOTAR 6 I’m gonna lose it. SJM please you are setting Nesta up to have the most insane anti-hero to hero arc ever girl, like you can’t tell me that the wind whispers her name and the creatures under the mountain and in the Prison and below the sea FEAR her and then relegate her to a side character in Elain’s book I will CRY

All this to say I need Bryce to get Nesta a cellphone and a gun and set her loose

[acourtcfmuses]

“Why did you recommend that book? It was terribly sad.” Gwyn leaned forward, placing the book on the table before leaning back in her seat. When the three Valkyries started this bookclub, Gwyn was under the impression it was solely going to be the smutty books that Nesta and Emerie gushed about constantly. Yet, not one steamy scene in that book, just unadulterated pain. “Please tell me the next book is going to have a happier ending.” which as if on cue, the House of Wind dropped a book in her lap. “This better be happy or I’m taking an axe to your brickwork.” she warned the house. // @ofblackskies​ (Nesta)

[bookofmirth]

I agree with the majority that Azriel is not fit to be a ruler of any court but do you think Elain could be connected to the 8th court somehow? I know Nesta is the one with the tattoo but I guess I'm just confused why people would think Elain would be the one to revive the 8th court and not Nesta. Thoughts?

You mean the Dusk Court, right? I know that this theory is floating around but I honestly don't know that much about it. I still prefer analyzing what we already have over making predictions about what could be! So I don't read a ton of theory stuff. I prefer meta.

I have no idea what this theory actual entails which means I might not even answer your question, really 💀but...

If there were to be another court, that feels like a completely new story line. We already have a ton of stuff going on in this world? (thanks @evalinashryver @xnightwolfx @kat-renae and @hellacioushag for helping me remember these)

The fallout from Nesta, Gwyn, and Emerie doing the Blood Rite which could reignite the Illyrian uprising that was just swept under the rug.

We have Vassa's curse

Jurian and Vassa?

Koschei going after the trove for what goal?

There are three mortal queens still, with unclear motives

Speaking of, there is a fourth Dread Trove item

We have the Valkyries and Illyrians potentially teaming up (so we'll see more of Nesta and Gwyn, likely)

We have Lucien and his Daddy Helion reveal

Eris trying to off Daddy Beron to become High Lord of Autumn

Speaking of daddies, who is Gwyn's?

We have the elucien mating bond that has to be dealt with

Tamlin still beasting it (which does matter, the Spring Court is currently vulnerable)

Whatever Mor was seeing in the woods at her house, plus whatever she is up to when she goes to Vallahan

Beron & Co. getting access to Velaris

Azriel and his whatever the hell feelings with Mor

Az's mom? Mommy issues?

Azriel's Broadway debut

Mor coming out for really real!

What are Elain's powers?

Is Elain sus? What is she sneaking off for?

Az and Lucien and Elain having Healing and Growth

It just seems like a neat theory that doesn't really need to happen? It's not like we are starved for plot lines or questions about the characters. There are seven courts because seven is an important number (thanks bookclub for reminding me of that).

I'm assuming that the Dusk Court would take the place of the Middle? If we look at the map, that's weird placement. The order from south to north is 1) the Middle, 2) Dawn 3) Day 4) Night. This is probably a silly detail no one else cares about except for @rayonfrozenwings but the lack of symmetry is weird? Dusk should be in between Day and Night???

I don't mind the idea and aesthetics of another court! But yeah, I'm not sure what would tie one sister to it over another, let alone when it would happen in the first place, given how many unresolved plot threads we have right now. And I really, really don't see how it could be tied to any of the ships - e*riel because like you said Az would be a shitty High Lord, nessian because they already have the House of Wind and a good friend group in the Night Court, or elucien because Lucien is already heir of Day.

[mxvladdy]

A Break

Part Trios. More fluff more plot! part 4 will be out eventually, I’ll still bouncing some ideas around with it as I write. 

Chapters: 1-2-3-4

Steam wafted up at him, reddening his already pink tinged cheeks. It scalds the very tip of his strong nose. The contrast between his thermos and the frigid tundra air around him was violent, but worth it for the subtle aromas wafting up at him. 

Smiling indulgently into his cup he took a small sip savoring the light fruitiness of the blend. It was an interesting mix of flavors, like nothing he would have found at home. Yet very reminiscent of it. The dried pear was crisp and sweet, a gentle tribute to fall as winter beat around him. The blending of it with the smokey molasses taste of the hojicha had him groaning in delight. His sweet tooth was sated by the slight undertones of chestnut and caramel. It hit the back of his throat just right warming him. You had described the tea perfectly. Sweet, strong, and complex. 

Just like you. Hanzo flushes pink under his scarf recalling that absolutely radiant smile you had when presenting him with the small tin. A parting gift before his flight. Your newest house blend you said brightly tucking into his pack. It was humbling to think that he was important enough in your life to inspire such a unique gift. Let alone the idea of it gracing your shop’s walls. 

Tucking himself deeper into the small alcove Hanzo took in the snowy plains. Finding his center he breathed deeply enjoying the sting of the cold air filling his lungs as the sun rose in front of him. The howling of the wind around him creates a drone as it hits the half wall protecting him.  At first, he had marked this nook as a tactical sniper nest, it’s unencumbered view advantages if an attack came. After a few visits, he came up just for the peace it held. The resplendent view was always enough to soothe his frayed nerves after long bouts with his teammates. 

Pink and orange lights from the rising sun bounce innocently off the crystalline surfaces of ice clinging to every surface. The rays twinkling on the snow in an almost celestial way. Further on the lights of the nearby fishing village shimmer to the north. A few boats were already setting out for the day. It was nice to be back.

The last time he had been to Russia had been for the family 'business'. A successful venture into expanding their arms trading routes with his late father. While not a leisurely visit by any means, the few times he had been allowed outside the hotel had been wonderful. Springtime in Moscow as he recalled was pleasant. The nip of the last vestiges of winter refreshing. The late season snow and frigid rains at night help to wipe the grime of the past year away, leaving the city smelling clean and virginal. He wished he could have stayed long enough to watch the city come alive.

Would you like it here in a small village? Or in a larger city? Hell, would you even like Russia at all? Hanzo takes another sip watching the last dregs swirl at the bottom contemplatively. Did you like the cold? Once you had commented that you had never seen fresh snowfall. None of any substantial quantity at least. It would be a nice thing to experience with you. Risking frostbite, he shucked his gloves digging out his com. His last internet search looking up at him. He closed it quickly, heartbeat quickening with nerves.  Perhaps he’d bring that up on a later date.

Instead, he got comfy opening up a new tab perusing “This year’s hottest vacation destinations”. They were all pretty sure-but lacking something. Neither of you are big on crowds, so perhaps nothing too close to tourist epicenters… No- he needed something quiet and out of the way. He could afford to spoil you easily. Hanzo laughs to himself, already hearing your protests at the amount of money he was thinking of spending. But you deserved it and so much more for his negligence. Yes, he decided then clearing his screen his searches for more private venues. One place jumping out to him.

It was unfortunate that his dreams of taking you home would never come to fruition. Hanamura was enchanting in the wintertime. During the better years at the castle, he and Genji would often take to the rooftops. Building snowmen and inappropriate mounds of snow where the staff could not reach. Then in the evenings would snuggle close under the kotatsu, eventually drifting off after a heavy snack. Hanzo’s smile turns brittle, a wistful sigh escaping him. Taking you anywhere near Japan would be risky. Even with the elders long since buried, and the Shimada Dynasty crippled. If he were to be recognized... 

No, anything that put you at risk was unacceptable. Looking back down at his com he nixed anything in the eastern hemisphere. Perhaps Scotland? He didn’t think he had a bounty there; not yet anyway. 

[Apologies Agent]    

Hanzo starts at the sudden voice in his ear quickly clicking off his com. As if she couldn’t see his search history whenever she pleases. “Athena,” He pressed his finger to his ear to respond. “How can I assist you?” 

[Sorry for interrupting your downtime. Your brother wished for me to inform you that he is waiting for you in the commons]

Hanzo gazed blankly out into the white abyss. “What?”

[Brother-commons-now] She repeats unable to hide the mirth in her tone.

“He’s in Nepal-” He argues dumbly pressing his finger harder against his ear.

[He wished it to be a surprise. So surprise.] She disconnects then, snarky voice blowing away with the wind. 

Biting back a smile he rose. It wasn’t unlike his brother to drop by unannounced. It has been his defining personality trait since birth. Heh, little shit. Packing up quickly, Hanzo takes one last look out over the last moments of peace he’ll have for the rest of the day. With a calming breath he steps off the ledge landing gracefully to the floor below with a soft womph. His mechanical legs absorb the impact with ease. Walking down the empty corridors his footsteps echoing dully against the metal walls. His teammates having already separated to go about their duties after breakfast. The thought of food making his stomach growl. 

Hmmm... Genji and his foolishness could wait a little longer. 

Changing directions he took a sharp turn nearly running into a crouching figure in the path. “Ah! Ms. Zhou, are you alright?” He hurries over to the young scientist. 

“Morning Hanzo! Ha, yes I’m fine.” She flushes righting her askew glasses. “Wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings- uneven tiling.” Pointing at the raised title that had tripped her. Wordlessly, Hanzo knelled helping to collect the scattered papers and tablets. As she rights herself.

“Where are you headed?” He asked offering to help her carry her belongings. 

“Kitchens; need some caffeine to function.” She chuckles leading the way. “Thank you by the way for the Oolong! I’m almost out, didn’t even know how much I was drinking till I was scraping the bottom of the tin. So I guess it's back to coffee for now.” 

Hanzo beams inwardly. The cold hiding his flush of pride. “I’m glad you enjoy it. I'll have to order more soon.” He makes a mental note to order more for himself too.

Mei arrives first at the doors to the kitchen and turns. “Would you like to join me? It’s been ages since our last get together.” Hanzo winces, chastising himself for his negligence. It had been quite a long time since they last spoke. She had been one of the first to warm up to him. Shortly after his arrival at headquarters, she had helped him move his extensive collection of literature to his room. From there they began recommending books and articles on their particular interests to each other. Soon their little get togethers became a regular thing and earned them the title of “Overwatch Bookclub” courtesy of Hana. Even though it was only a “club” of two, neither of them minded. 

He was about to agree to a bit of good company over breakfast when his com chimed. A very recognizable ringtone at that. Damn- he had almost forgotten. “Perhaps another time? Genji has stopped by and is as impatient as ever.” Hanzo bowed low in apology. 

Mei waved his apology off with a smile. “No, no worries!” She brightens clapping her hands together. “Do tell him I say hello!”  With a quick nod and another bow Hanzo turns back leaving the young woman to bustle about the kitchens on her own. He walks back up the halls slowly to the large commons. Warmth hits him hard wrapping himself in its comfortable embrace when he enters. The crackling of a large fire flickers bright yellow and red casting a cheery glow over the lone occupant. His brother sat beneath the sole window of the room. The large oval pane of plexiglass looking out over the glacial sea and cliffside. Genji faced towards it, long legs propped up on the small sill texting animatedly. Hanzo’s com lighting up once more obnoxiously.

“Aniki!” Genji chips turning his head to throw his scowling brother a lopsided grin. Hanzo relaxes nerves easing at seeing his little brother smile, his faceplate off and attached to his side. “Surprised!?” 

“I would have been more surprised if you had called ahead.” He chuckles placing his jacket and scarf neatly over the back of the chair, sitting across from his brother. 

Genji gasps, throwing a hand to his forehead. “You wound me! After all the trouble I went through to bring gifts…” 

That piques his interest. His dragons rumbling in excitement. “Oh? And here I thought Nepal was nothing but bitter winds and bells.” Hanzo shot back, eyeing the satchel slung over Genji’s chair expectantly. 

“Ha.Ha.” Genji replies sardonically thrusting a large heavy box in his brother’s direction. The parcel was clumsily wrapped, the paper wrinkled from its long journey. Even so, Hanzo smiles looking over at his brother for some kind of ruse.

“What is the occasion?” He slips easily into their native tongue. He peels at the tape slowly, more so to annoy his brother than to preserve the paper. The box underneath was old and worn, having been stored somewhere to age unloved. Faded watermarks and nicks littered the top cover. Some were old. Older than the others. His heart stops, throat clenching tight in realization. “Genji-” He knew this box. He knew some of the nicks in the grain. If he squints he could see the stain he made on the top right corner. Almost hearing the clatter of his tea set against the wood from all those years ago. His worn fingers trace over the grid top. The yew was just as strong and supple as when he was given it. The dragons painstakingly crafted into the sides of the box grinning up at him. 

It was a shogi board. It was his shogi board. His first and last gift from his mother. It was bittersweet to recall all the days he spent playing against her in her hospital bed. Connecting over it on the lonely days when Father was out and Genji was still too young to visit. “How?” He whispers voice cracking. He thought he had lost this forever, burned no doubt with the rest of his things when he fled. It had hurt to leave it, more so than any other valuable he had. 

Genji watched his brother rediscover the old game. Watching Hanzo's smile turn tender as he gets lost in a memory. Genji turns back to the window rubbing his neck unsure of what to do with this rare display of emotion. He hadn’t expected this reaction. He remembers playing it with him once or twice when he was younger. The few times he did was to humor Hanzo. He never really understood his brother's hyper fixation on it though. Video games were much more entertaining. 

“Well~” He starts sunning himself. “After a relaxing time contemplating my navel with my Master. I figured I could use a bit of exercise.” He glances over at his brother flipping him a roguish smirk. Hanzo scoffs rolling his eyes trying- and failing to hide the tears misting at the corners of his eyes. Genji turns back quickly to the window, giving him a little privacy to compose himself. “Just thought I would pop by, say hello and poke at what remains of the ol’ hornet's nest.”

Hanzo chuckles wetly too engrossed in his memories to really chastise his siblings' reckless behavior. He moves on autopilot finding the hidden compartment of the board to pull out the silk bag within. It had held out better than the board thankfully. Opening it he dumps out the hand carved Koma. The alabaster and mother of pearl pieces were blessedly unblemished. He thought he had lost this forever.

“Play a round?” He interrupts his brother’s prattling. “Perhaps all these years apart have made you a better player.” He jokes, wiping quickly at his eyes and clearing his throat. 

Genji laughs rising to the challenge. “Bet I could wipe the floor with you.” He drops his feet from the sill and rotates to sit properly at the table jabbing a finger in Hanzo’s face.

His brother scoffs, already setting up the board. “Please, no amount of meditation can train you to sit and focus long enough.” 

“Oh, it’s so on…” 

Hanzo stretches in his chair smugly hours later. The muttered curses of his brother sweet in his ears. 

“You cheat.” Genji pouts helping to clean up the board before getting his feet to flex his legs. 

“Hmph!” Hanzo chuckles leaning further over the back of his chair till the world turned upside down. “I do not need such tricks to best you.” He watches his brother putter around the small kitchenette. 

Genji returns mocking his brother in a high pitched voice. He flicks at Hanzo’s crooked nose before he could right himself in his seat. “Ya-ya-ya. Next time will be different.” Genji drops back in his chair depositing a few plates, cups, and a tea kettle.

“Doubt it,” Hanzo rubs at his stinging nose.” I am never second best.” 

“Up yours,” Genji says sticking his tongue out. “Keep teasing me and I’ll eat all the food I brought myself.” 

Hanzo quiets down still grinning. “Oh? Did you go to Mia’s?” 

“Ha! If I did I would have fed the deers your half.” Genji ducks out of the way of Hanzo’s kick to the shin. “No, after my little escapade I figured it was best to find a new vacation spot.” He smirks, turning his attention back to his rucksack searching for something. “Decided to take a little ‘hop across the pond’ to the states.”  

Hanzo raises a brow. Oddly large jump. Well-out of the two he was the more spontaneous one. Guess some things never change. “I see-” He waits, allowing the theatrics for once. Watching his brother’s movements turn feline, mischief radiating off of him. Uh oh.

“Yeah. Thought I’d mix it up from the big cities. Lay low somewhere a bit smaller.” He peers at Hanzo, eyes alight. “Went to this fabulous little coastal town. Touristy, but quaint.” An odd tingle starts up Hanzo’s spine, his dragons going worryingly silent. “Remember the taffy we used to get from our nanny? The red and pink wrapped ones we would sneak after dinner? Thought I’d try the local ‘saltwater’ taffy.” Genji chortles pulling out the last of his surprises. “Stuff almost undid all of Angie’s hard work.” The tingle picked up to a static like buzzing pinching at his shoulders and jaw. He knit his brows staying silent. He couldn’t- “Luckily, I found this amazing little tea shop down the corner. Figured a hot drink would soften the cement gluing my mouth shut.” 

Hanzo’s quib is lost on his tongue. His eyes locking onto the sapphire and gold tin. He couldn’t. Genji’s asinine tale is drowned out by the static building in his ears. The waves of sound mixing with the dizzying panic giving him tunnel vision. 

The aroma hit his gut differently than it did this morning.

“Brother? You ok?” Hanzo pulled himself out of his deluge of thoughts. Gaze flicking up to his brother’s. He eyes him worryingly. His arm outstretched holding a small plate out for him. One of your signature macarons resting on it. The little pink flower on top still fresh, not having wilted from the long journey.

“You know.”

“Yes.” Genji nods simply placing the plate down in front of him. The brothers say nothing as Genji prepares and serves the tea. “She seems lovely.” 

“How?” The archer hisses baring his teeth in frustration, white knuckling the table. He had been so careful. If Genji knew then who else could? 

Genji sat quietly breathing deeply through his nose thinking over the words forming in his mind. He has to choose what he says carefully, watching his brother descending mentally into a panic. Locking himself down. This isn’t what he wanted to happen. Damn, should have listened to Zenyatta. He is a private man rebuilding his life, my student. Give him time and space to grow. Ugh. It was too late to go back now anyway… 

“Mei-Don’t worry! She doesn’t know anything!” Genji catches himself quickly as the look of panic grows on his brother’s face. “She shared drinks with me a while back. Said you gave it to her. I know your taste in Oolong and that was not it.” He tries for levity. “You’re a grumpy old man of habit; who I know only imports from Japan. Seeing an American name had me curious.” He pauses taking a sip from his cup. It was really good tea, it matched his brother’s sweet tooth perfectly. On his little trip to the shop, Zen had gifted him a zesty lemon white tea. The smell itself was decadent and the flavor refreshingly tangy. “One web search later and a few wrong turns I found the place. You definitely have a type Aniki! Thought she was gonna put my head through the glass display case for flirting with her.” 

Hanzo chokes on air. “Flirt!?” His glare turning thunderous. The urge to throttle the cyborg rising.

“I had to know!” Genji laughs, arms raised in submission. “Between the tea name, and her staunch ‘I have a boyfriend’ I got my answer.” 

“No.” Hanzo corrects him jabbing a finger at his stupid polished chrome chest. “You had to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.” He almost felt bad the deflating look crossing his brother’s face. Almost. “Genji-” He sighs running a hand through his windswept hair. “I know you meant well but I can’t mess this up. I can’t.” He pleads. 

Genji frowns leaning forward in his chair. “I just wanted to see what made you so happy…” He hadn’t seen his brother this relaxed-ever. The past months had brought such a change in him. At first, Genji thought that he had finally gotten comfortable with the team. His ever present scowl had relaxed into a more contemplative frown. Still had a ways to go, but at least he's more approachable now. Team dinners and game nights had gotten a new member too. But then he started disappearing for days on end. Not on any missions, not that Genji knew of. His brother's roster was always clear when he disappeared. He assumed that it was old ‘family’ business or loose ends somewhere. But every time Hanzo came back he seemed...lighter. Happy. It was nice to see him treat himself as a person instead of a tool. “I was so excited to see that something, someone brought you some happiness. I apologize for imposing on something so private.” 

Hanzo couldn’t bear to keep eye contact. “I don’t deserve it.” 

Genji huffs indignantly shaking his head. “Nonsense,” Reaching over and squeezing Hanzo’s strong hand. “Redemption comes in many forms, and living a full life is part of it. You deserve a full life Hanzo, truly.” 

A war of emotions crosses Hanzo’s face. They have argued about his grief, guilt so many times before. “I-” Hanzo blinks owlishly, meeting his brother’s stare. His younger sibling’s face a mask of defiant obstinates. Daring him to argue his worth. “Thank you.” He concedes covering Genji’s hand with his free one and squeezes it back. He didn’t deserve this, but he’ll take it for now.

“Excellent!” Genji’s grin returns to full blast moving back to the box of sweets. “I’ll keep it between us- well- and Zen. But you have to tell me allll about her.” He waves his serving knife threateningly. 

Hanzo chuckles, pulling the cookie and suspiciously tiny slice of cake towards himself. It looks like he was here for the long haul.

At least there were snacks. 

[darkesttimelinestuff]

7,713 words

Mature

Men make houses. Women build homes. –Proverb.  

Come come, come out tonight. Come come, come out tonight. –Sherry, The Four Seasons  

***

Oh, Halloween. How it coaxes all from their shells, a come-hither seduction of ghouls and their admirers. Whether one chooses to be a witch or a princess, a criminal or a cowboy – to paint their face and knock on doors, to drink until they are but pumpkins, mouths filled with their pumpkin guts – it is all done under the otherworldly spell of the undead, the souls that ascend from their place in the basement to play marionette games with the dolls who inhabit the first floor.

Fox Mulder has, over the years, made an exceptional doll. Spock, then Captain Kirk, then Spock again. Several years of him doing nothing but sitting alone and staring out the window, ignoring the pull of a fairy costume resting in a trunk in the attic. Even then he had been a prime target; Halloween souls feed on elation, but will take misery in a pinch. His misery tasted sweet like a tootsie pop. The saints love tootsie pops, all the waiting and the work. The sinners prefer Reeses.

There were others when the memories began to fade. Han Solo. Han Solo. Paul Stanley from KISS, though his first girlfriend ended up wearing most of the makeup. Han Solo. Doctor John Watson, although years later he would grit his teeth and mutter I should have been Holmes. Serpico at a Hoover party, the last one he went to. No one got it. Then Han Solo every year he chose to celebrate after, and by then he finally had Princess Leia at his side.

The halloween of 2016, he slips into his finest costume yet.

Fox Mulder. Hopeless romantic.

On one arm, he carries a bag that is filled with good wine, cheap wine glasses, and assorted fruits, cheeses, and fancy chocolate. He has convinced his partner that the actual contents are a P.K.E. meter (a psychokinetic energy meter, for those who have not seen the documentary Ghostbusters), a thermographic camera, an audio recorder, sage, a lighter, his gun.

On the other arm, or underneath it, is his partner. Who is unsure about such open gestures of affection while they are technically on the clock, even after all the years of steaming up their steakouts, but is not stopping him, and is possibly even snuggling back as the October chill descends.

“This is not a love story, Scully,” he warns, pulling her closer as they follow the long, winding pathway up their destination. Her body heat is his favorite temperature, even when it’s ice cold. “It is a story of lies, obsession, betrayal, and murder.”

“I think I’ve heard this one.” She bumps his arm with her shoulder and smiles up at him, her lips wine deep under the bright moon.

Their shoes are silent on the stone and disappear under the layers of fog that curl and cozy around them like amorous smoke. He tugs her closer still, filling his nose with the woodsy scent of her shampoo.

“The early 1960s, Scully. Free love was just a storm a’brewin in the air, and sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll were waiting on the doorsteps  of American counterculture, waiting to be invited in. Doo-wop was still a prominent feature on family radio stations. The Beatles had yet to write their own songs, and Paul McCartney wouldn’t smoke his first joint until 1964. It was a wholesome time, Scully. You would’ve loved it.”

“I loved Rubber Soul,” she argues.

He rubs her shoulder. “But it wasn’t all sock hops and sweet Jackie Kennedy. We were fighting a war with Russia, a war of discovery, and losing to the success of Sputnik. The U.S. invaded Cuba, got their asses kicked, and were the laughing stock of the world. In the veins of America, in the buses and lunch counters, the streets and in the schools, thrummed the blood of a movement. The Civil Rights movement. The early 1960s was a time of immense change.”

They were getting closer and closer to the scene where it all took place: a sprawling, overly-windowed ranch style home, its angular roof sloping into flatlands. In the quiet darkness, the cars and the rest of the world all celebrating miles behind them, the house appears white, almost bleached. But when the sun comes out it will reveal its truth: baby pink painted wood.

“And situated in all of this madness, this time between tumult and revolution, hatred and love, was a woman named Sherry Battersea.” She hmm’s. That means Mulder, I love your stories. Keep going.

He does.

They arrive at the front door – solid mahogany, undistressed. The steps leading up to the porch are made from brick, unhassled by the years of disuse. With the moon hanging overhead, vines creeping onto the roof, and the glare of (assumed) white bathed in midnight blue and the shadows of trees rustling above, it looks absolutely– “Isn’t she beautiful?” Mulder whispers, moving his hand to Scully’s waist.

Precisely.

***

It’s all a bunch of phooey, if you ask him.

Didn’t expect that, did you?

He spent weeks finding the right place. The runner ups were all either too far away, too haunted, or not haunted enough. He wanted something with history, something still alive in the hearts of believers – but nothing verifiable, and nothing with a real reputation.

He wanted a pretty lie. Most ghost stories, he will begrudgingly admit, are indeed pretty lies.

He found the Battersea house on a subreddit dedicated to paranormal encounters, and this one hadn’t even managed to get twenty upvotes. He was number twenty. The Battersea home is in Virginia, which heavily swayed his opinion in its favor, and from the pictures posted the years of abandonment had not left it dangerous, which put it above two other options off his list. Making love to Scully while the roof collapses over their heads is a fantasy he put to rest many moons ago, about the time he realized they could just do it on a bed.

They roam the house with their flashlights, Mulder’s low voice playing in her ear as he finishes his story. “Sherry’s husband returned from war, but he never returned to her. She made this home for him and he wouldn’t even grant her the decency of staying the night.”

The biggest draw of the place had been its pristine condition. No graffiti stains the wood-paneled walls; the rooms were all intact. The interior design is a certified blast from the past, from the richly carpeted floors and textured rugs to the lucite furniture, pops of neon that splash under their flashlights. It is colorfully but rather tastefully decorated. It reminds him a bit of a movie set, which is another place he has been thoroughly laid by this woman.

As they move through the house, however, he realizes with mild disappointment the utter lack of haunting thrill. Nothing shifts in the night to give them pause. No dirt or dust to brush away, no holes in the walls or rot in the furniture. It doesn’t even smell old. It all feels more like a vacation home, some sort of themed romantic getaway, and they’re wading behind the scenes with the power turned off.

It’s not what he planned, but he’ll take it.

“Miss Battersea was a fashionable lady, keeping up with the times faster than they could come to her. She had a leopard skin pill-box hat before Jackie O had a leopard skin pill-box hat, and was dead by the time Bob Dylan could think to write a song about it.” Oh, that long, mid-century sectional couch. It might be white or a gawdy turquoise color. Whatever it is, he’s going to have her there. “She was a smart woman, too. The head of all of her many bookclubs. All of the books you see in here are hers.” His runs his beam over behind the couch, where the entire back wall is lined with books, and they move along. “And there are more in the den.

“She did everything she could to make her husband love her. She danced to his favorite records. She cooked for him and did his laundry. She cut her skirt an inch shorter with each passing trend.” They stand side by side, halted in the kitchen doorway. He turns his head and lets his eyes dip into her blouse. “I’ve been very appreciative of your new work wardrobe, by the the way.”

“Mulder,” she chastises, pulling her shirt down for better access. He laughs loudly at that, places his hand on the small of her back and leads her through the kitchen.

“She was driving herself crazy, trying to make him love her the way she loved him. And oh, did she love him, her sweet Maximus Battersea.” More wood paneling, and modular, pastel appliances that appear as if they haven’t aged a day since their prime. In the middle is a solid island with a geometric vase of dead flowers. This is where he’ll lay out all the food. Should’ve gotten flowers, he mopes to himself, but remembers that Scully doesn’t have a lot of patience for them. “They were high school sweethearts, and when he was 18 he was drafted off in the Korean War.

“Something was wrong when he came back. He got a job at some juicing plant working the machines, but showed a savvy for bossing people around that made itself known to the owners. He moved up quickly to supervisor and then warden. He and his little wife then bought this house, and Sherry made it her life’s work to take good care of it. Not a speck of dirt to be found.” Even to this day. They both marvel at the cleanliness.  “Dishes were done as soon as they were used. Food was on the table for when he got home, still hot enough to serve. But he never got home to her at night. He would spend his nights at the bar, and then he became a favored customer at the Grand Major Hotel.”

“Oooooh. I would’ve killed the bastard,” Scully whistles, opening up a cabinet and standing on her tiptoes to peer in. He steps in behind her and lifts her up, chuckling when she screams and elbows him in the chest.

“Hmm, I know you would,” he mumbles in her ear, smacking a little kiss underneath it. All the glassware in the cabinet, chipless and clean as a whistle, clinks and jingles while she moves her hand through it. “You’re a jealous monster. So was Sherry Battersea.”

He’s making some of this shit up. He doesn’t know if she liked to read or if she was all that beautiful a woman, but the details make the story. “I’m not jealous,” Scully snorts, and he bites her neck as punishment for her blatant lie while dropping her back on her feet.

He wonders, as he pins her against the counter, if she’s caught on to his plans. He sets the flashlight down in front of her and snakes his arms around her from behind. “One night, he did come back to this big old house. But he was with someone else.”

“Oh, I would’ve killed him,” she repeats, tilting her head to get his lips on her neck. His nose brushes her cheek and he grins; she definitely knows. “I would’ve killed her.”

“And that’s what she did,” he says, kneading her hips. “They were on the couch, still mostly in their clothes. She snuck up from behind, and with all the power of her rage, she pushed one of her many bookcases right on top of them, crushing them to death.”

“I would’ve waited until they were naked. More humiliating.”

“Jealous. Monster.” Mulder says fondly, breaking away to grab her arm. “Now they say that Sherry Battersea remains in this house, long after she was convicted and put to death. She gave her life to building a home. It’s fitting that she give it her death as well.”

“And that’s what we’re here to investigate?” She says, narrowing her eyes.

“We’re here to say hi to old Sherry,” Mulder lies, urging her along. Neither of them are scared, despite of their previous history with ghosts. He’s not sure if Scully even remembers. That house had not been a pretty lie. It had only been filled with ugly truths.

On their way up the stairs, pausing at each creak even though the foundation is craftful and sturdy, a tune plays in his head. “Sherry… Sherry baby…” he sings, letting his voice go comically high. It’s too loud in the quiet house surrounded by nothing, and Scully turns around to slap a palm over his mouth.

“That’s a bad Frankie Valli impression,” she says, arching her eyebrow. “Want me to make it better?”

He kisses her palm. She takes it away and continues her charge up the stairs. When she’s far away enough, he finishes the line in his ghastly falsetto, voice cracking.

“Sherry, won’t you come out tonight?”

Come come, come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight.

***

In the den on the other side of the house, a lightbulb flickers. The glow it casts under the lampshade is a soft, pinky red, the color of a deep blush. The winds caress the house with the sigh of a new lover. There is a soft scritching noise, a click of a record sliding into place. Static, and then…

Sherry, Sherry baby! Sherry, Sherry baby!

***

“I was listening to particle physicist Brian Cox on the radio the other day, talking with Neil deGrasse Tyson,” Scully says, sipping coffee from her thermos. She shivers a little in her suede jacket and Mulder regrets not finding somewhere a little warmer. Temperatures are at an all time high this fall in Virginia, but it’s still uncomfortable. He plans on warming her up anyway. “He’s a Professor at the University of Manchester and works on the Large Hadron Collider at CERN. You’ve probably listened to him before on a podcast. He tackles a lot of different concepts in science fiction. Frankenstein, for instance.”

“Corpse reanimation is my favorite,” Mulder says. “I know a lot about it.” She pets his hair and hands him her mug. He drinks from it gratefully. Another thing to regret. He hadn’t brought his own mug.

“Specifically, he was saying that ghosts could not exist because of what the collider tells us. You know what it does. It essentially uses a network of very complex, high-powered magnets – the largest, most expensive machine in the world – that are continuously switched on and off to send particles flying at almost the speed of light. The purpose of it is to find out what everything is made if. The particles collide and emit smaller particles, which we can observe, along with their interactions with other particles.”

“We used it to discover the Higgs Boson particle, which tells us how particles get their mass. The God Particle. It was a discovery over half a century in the making.”

“Mostly, yes. The argument was that if ghosts were real, they would emit particles that should be detectable in the Large Hadron Collider, and those particles would be able interact with the particles that make us up.”

Mulder’s silent for a moment, thinking. “What if the LHC isn’t powerful enough to detect those particles?”

“Mulder.” She licks her lips and angles her body towards him on the couch, looking into his eyes. Incredulity is still her best look. “This machine has been able to reconstruct temperatures and states of matter that only existed a microsecond after the birth of the universe, before it changed states. It is a very powerful machine.”

“But it still hasn’t answered everything,” he points out, shrugging his shoulders. “I mean, we still know nothing about dark matter. And dark matter is called dark matter because we know nothing about dark matter, only that it could explain why galaxies might contain less mass than what we’ve calculated.” He nods at her, taking another sip. “Maybe all that extra mass is a bunch of ghosts. Bet you never thought of that.”

“Mmm. Your souls in the starlight.” He scoots closer to her, slowly sliding his arm behind her on the back of the couch. When he leans forward, she says, “Mulder, maybe we should split up.”

“What?” He says, not pulling back. There’s enough light coming in from the windows that he can see her clearly, her noble profile shadowed and unshadowed as he moves towards her. He smells her perfume… and pine sol. “Now why would we do that? Last time we split up during a case like this you shot me.”

“I didn’t shoot you. You shot me.” So she does remember. She’s still talking when his lips are close enough to brush hers. “But how are we gonna catch this ghost sitting down?”

“Well, we don’t have to be sitting down.” He kisses her, a chaste, sweet little thing. He pulls back an inch and kisses her again. And again. And again. “We can.” Kiss. “Stop sitting.” Kiss. “Anytime you want.”

“Mulder.” Kiss. “Where’s the ghost?” Kiss. “Where’s Sherry?” Kiss. She’s folding under his body weight, falling back into the remarkably undusty cushions. She cups his jaw in her small hands and kisses him for real, chasing the flicker of his tongue with her own. She stretches one leg behind him, lets the other fall off the couch.

He groans and shifts so that he’s nestled between her thighs. There is – so much he loves about kissing Scully. In a lot of ways he’s learning her all over again after the time they’ve spent apart. Her face is thinner, he can trace her bones with his fingers, but not that sickly thin it had been the day she walked out. Her hair got its shine back. She tastes like a day at the office, her coffee and Cliff bars and the Burt’s Bees lipstick she wears during the cold weather.

But. Kiss. Her hands are bunched up in his shirt, very much like she’s prepared to rip it off of him. But this is is going too fast. Kiss. He forces himself to break away, taking his hand out from under her blouse.

Trying to control her breathing, pupils dilated, she lifts her chin and licks his lips. “So you want me to shoot you this time around?”

He laughs and moves off of her, giving her space her to sit back up and fix her wrinkled clothing. He winces and struggles to rearrange his wayward dick. Men’s pants are so tight now. He misses the freedom of the 90s.

“I uh. So here’s,” he pauses, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Here’s the thing. There is no ghost.”

She blinks slowly. He wants to move a lock of silky red hair out of her eye, but keeps his hands to himself as she thinks things through. “You brought me to an abandoned house to… what? Make out with me?”

“Well, no. I mean yes. But I have…” All these years and this stuff still makes him tongue tied. “Libations. And… mood music.”

She raises her eyebrows, but her eyes are softer. “The Monster Mash?”

“The Prince version, yeah.” He leers at her. “It was a graveyard smash.”

“Oh my god,” she groans, letting her head fall back on the cushions.

“Think about it. The way I see it, Halloween is our holiday, right? Mr. and Mrs. Spooky.”

“No one ever called me Mrs. Spooky.”

“I did. All the time.”

She smiles. “I guess it beats the time you set me on fire for Valentine’s Day.”

“I don’t want to kill the adrenaline here,” he says, partially damning himself for ruining it so early. He lost a good amount of blood to that kiss. “There could absolutely be a ghost here. I’m just saying this isn’t my most reliably sourced case.”

“Are any of them?” She sighs, but she reaches out to pat his shoulder. “Go grab us some libations and make me forget this conversation.”

He ducks down to kiss her cheek. “Yes ma’am.”

Taking his bag of goodies to the kitchen, he pulls out the wooden cutting board he brought along to serve everything  and all of the bags of pre-cut cheese, crackers, fruit and meat. He hums while he works. Hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm. And it starts over, the notes twanging loudly in his mind. It is almost as if he could hear it being played through the walls – he feels it from the outside, rather than in his head. He blames it on his massive erection. He takes out the wine glasses and fills them up high enough to placate Scully and make his mother roll in her grave. Vineyard folk are serious about their wine.

He gets a good look at the kitchen as he works, transported back into a time he doesn’t know very well. The cottages on the Vineyard never kept up with any particular trend, opting instead for the timelessness of colonial whitewash and brown trim. They changed out maids and nannies like they’d change the air filters, and neither Teena nor Bill put effort into upkeep. Neither cared much for fidelity either he grimaces, and immediately feels bad for doing so.

If there is any truth to the tale, he aches for people like Sherry who gave their all and never knew when to take it back. He gets it. Sometimes you fixate on people. He had been a victim of it more than once, and now he’s the one waiting for the one he loves most to come back home.

He grabs the cutting board and the wine glasses, balancing them carefully, anchoring the stopped bottle in his armpit. The second bottle of wine and the dessert he’ll save for later are left on the counter. He hums his way back to the living room, his woman still sprawled out on the couch, waiting for him, and he forgets about Sherry.

Behind him, in the kitchen, there’s a flutter in the cabinets, sounds of gently moving ceramic. A pleasant, almost feminine noise, like tinkering laughter. Then there’s the pop of a cork.

The bottle moves, sliding to the end of the island. Then it rises into the air, bobbing up and down as if being carried by invisible hands.

Over the sink, the bottle upends. The glug-glug-glug of sweet red flows into the pipes. Just one glass’s worth.

The air is warmer, somehow.

Like a full body flush.

***

He sweeps her over the creaking floorboards, her cheek pressed to his chest. The cold has left them. His phone sits on the sleek, white coffee table, and his Elvis tunes play, his Dylan, some acoustic hits. She nuzzles in closer and hums along to Roberta Flack, Sinatra, that Cher song they both like so much.

“Why don’t you believe in the ghost, Mulder?” She murmurs, a little sad.

“I don’t know that I’m against the idea of her existing,” he says into her hair, closing his eyes. They turn. Sometimes he dips her, sometimes he spins her, but they spend most of the time just like this: as close as possible, eyes closed, careful not to bump into any of the furniture. “I just need more proof these days.”

“Well,” she says. “I’ll believe for the both of us then.”

He lifts his chin from her head, surprised. He pushes her away to search her face. “You believe in Sherry?”

“You had me with that dark matter point,” she shrugs. “If souls… did exist, they would most likely exist as a form of matter we haven’t discovered yet.”

“Dana Scully, but you are tipsy,” he chuckles, pulling her back to him. “If you believe, I believe. Sherry Battersea is alive and with us.”

“Why’d you bring us here if you didn’t think it was haunted?”

He thinks about this, rubbing his hands up and down her back. “We’ve got a long way to go, don’t we Scully?” She looks up at him, cocking her head. “You haven’t…. Moved back yet.” His thumbs caress her waist. “Into our home.”

Her face falls. “Mulder–” she tries to step away, but he holds onto her, shaking his head.

“It’s okay, Scully. Scully, I’m not mad. I’m not asking you to do anything before you’re ready.” He presses a kiss to the center of her forehead, smoothing his hand down the length of her hair. She closes her eyes. “But I thought maybe… if I could recreate… not an exact replica of the good old days, because we were always getting our asses kicked, but something tonally similar, it might help. Show you that I appreciate you and that… I miss you, and that I’m so fucking grateful that…”

She saves him by wrapping her arms around his neck and bringing him in for a slow, mind-melting kiss.

There are none of the cobwebs that decorated all those places in their youth, not like he’d been hoping. The shadows that float across the room are all accounted for. There is no fear. It is not quite like the old days, but he remembers this: holding her hips as they move above him in the dark, the rise and fall of her upturned breasts, the underside of her chin when she tosses her head back and gasps. She rides him into the couch, the sweltering sheath of her body spreading warmth from his cock to the tips of his fingers and toes. He watches her face in the shadows again, how her expressions undulate in the moonlight. She still keeps her apartment, but she’s come back to him in every way that matters.

In the kitchen, a bottle breaks. A tray of dark chocolates hits the wall at full speed.

“Did you hear that?” Scully breathes, furrowing her brow but not stopping, refusing to stop their decades-old rhythm. His hands slip around to grip her rear and he shakes his head. Wind rattles the windows, a howling, devastated screech that neither Mulder nor Scully can relate to.

***

“…Mulder,” Scully frowns, her nude form wrapped up in a fleece blanket he’d brought in from the car. She sits on the floor in front of the middle bookcase, running her fingers over the titles. “You said this place was abandoned, right?”

He’s dozing on the couch, KO’d from sex and the little bit of wine they’d had. “Mmm,” he rubs his cheek and yawns. “Yep. No one lives here.”

“I just find it odd that a place that’s been abandoned for so long shows so few signs of disrepair. In fact…” she runs her hand over the books again. “This place is cleaner than my own. You’re absolutely sure no one lives here?”

“It’s condemned,” he says. “Government says it’s no longer fit to live in.”

“That’s… weird.” She pulls out an old pulp romance novel and flips through the pages. “It seems perfectly habitable.”

“It might have something to do with the plumbing. There are all sorts of strange, outdated Virginia laws that classify a place as livable –” he’s cut off by a sharp yelp and a thud. He sits straight up and peers over the couch. “Scully?”

“I’m okay,” she groans, massaging the back of her head. “A book fell and hit me from the top shelf. But it hit me hard. Jesus, it feels like I got pelted with it.”

He climbs over the back of the couch to join her on the floor, and she laughs when he pecks and pats the top of her head.

“I have just the thing to make it better,” he says, standing back up.

“Again? So fast?” She sounds impressed. Excited. He shoots her a look.

“I was offering more wine, Scully. But ouch.” Her cackling follows him into the kitchen.

The sight that greets him freezes him cold. That extra wine bottle rests in a million shiny pieces, and what was once a glaringly yellow wall bleeds dark red with the wine streaking down to the sideboards. “Scully?” he calls out hoarsely, approaching the scene with caution.

“Shit!” she screams. His stomach drops with fear and he darts back out into the living room to find her huddled under hundreds of fallen books. “What the hell?”

“Scully!” He drops to his knees beside her, throwing book after book off to the side and clutching her face in his hands. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Not bad, but I’m beginning to see why this place might be condemned. The bookshelf just rattled and all the books fell off. Maybe there’s something wrong with the foundation.” He helps her out of the pile and they both move away, far back from the shelf.

“Rattled?” he asks, alarmed. “Like it was being shaken?”

“I thought it might be coming from the walls,” she posits, but that doesn’t sit right with him. Anxiety begins to gnaw his stomach into pits.

“You don’t think,” he starts and stops, biting his lip. He wants to put his clothes back on. The chill is coming back. “You don’t think that…”

“Think what, Mulder?”

“That… something was trying to push the bookshelf? On purpose?”

She looks at him, startled. “What? Like a ghost?” He nods his head, shrugging, and she angrily clutches the blanket around herself, turning her back to him to pick up her clothes. “You just told me you didn’t believe there were any ghosts here.”

“You just told me you did,” he argues, following his own garment trail.

“Mulder,” she whines, pulling on her bra. “I don’t actually – I was just…”

“You were lying?” He asks, pausing with his shirt over his head. The hurt catches him off guard.

“I wasn’t lying, I just… I’m so…” she sighs, doing up her fly and buttoning up her shirt. “I never know how you’re feeling these days, and…” she doesn’t finish. He nods slowly, a hot wave of dejection flooding his cheeks. There are traces of ancient anger he wants to pull from, that’s the easier path, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

“I never needed you to lie to me, Scully, and I certainly never asked you to,” he says roughly. He turns away from her to pull on his underwear, jeans, and jacket. He ignores her attempts at  apologies and walks in long strides to the kitchen. “Come look at this,” he calls to her flatly.

Just when he thinks he’s pushed past the resentment of her leaving and the guilt at having made her leave, all of the other feelings are brought to the forefront. The shame. The fragility. He’s spent the last several months trying to prove to her that he can make it on his own – that his need for her doesn’t stem from an inability to function without her, but the irrefutable fact that they work so much better together – and the whole time she’s been… what?

Seeing him as a fucking child? Wearing kid-gloves in all of her interactions with him, holding back her opinions in fear of setting him off? Oh, Jesus. Is this why she won’t move back? She thinks he’s not ready?

“Here.” Side by side, they stand in front of the stain on the wall, mindful of the smushed chocolates and shards of glass.

“Maybe they fell?” Scully guesses weakly, at least having the decency to look contrite.

“They fell? At fifty miles an hour?” Maybe there is some anger he can pull from. “Unlikely. Didn’t you tell me you felt like that book had been pelted at you?”

“Yes but Mulder that could be anything. You said yourself the house was condemned.”

“Yeah, but–” he bends down to inspect the chocolate on the floor,  picking one crushed morsel up to show her. “This looks… this looks like it’s been stepped on, crushed by something. What kind of foundational issue would cause that?”

She looks at it and sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Let’s split up,” Mulder says. “Take the top floor. I’ll take the bottom. It’s what we came here for anyway, right?” And he leaves her alone in the kitchen.

***

The den drastically departs from the design ideal of the rest of the house. Under his flashlight he spots leather rock chairs, worn and overstuffed, plain walnut bookshelves and orange shag carpets. He looks through the books and the desk drawers, searching for anything personal. Photos, journals, receipts kept, anything that might give him any insight into Sherry Battersea and the lonely, lonely house she kept. No luck.

There is a large stack of records sitting next to a hefty Champion record player, dressed in supple red leatherette. He flips through them. The Big Bopper. Fats Domino.  The Lennon Sisters. More and more of the same ilk – an Elvis Christmas LP he’s pretty sure is the real deal, and which he shamefully considers sliding under his coat. He then inspects the player itself, lifts the arm to see the stack of singles underneath it. He lets the arm fall back into place.

It begins to play.

He yelps, stumbling backwards and collapsing onto the rock chair as the music plays loudly enough to fill the house.

Sherry! Sherry baby! Sherry! Sherry baby!

Mulder clutches for the back of the chair and watches in terrified fascination as the entire den comes to life. The lamp flicks on and casts the room in its soft pink light, turning brown into different shades of red. Warmth trickles in from the air vent and all in his body he feels the electric hum of a machine coming to life. He knows instantly that means every other room in the house must be waking up in the same way. Scully he thinks, attempting to jump to his feet.

He’s knocked back on his ass. “What the–” he tries again, and the shag rug slithers out from underneath the desk, coming at him like a cautious snake.

Sherry! Sherry baby! Sheeeeeeeeeeeeerry bay-ay-by! Sherry, can you come out tonight?

“Scullllllaaaay!” He shouts, but he’s no match against The Four Seasons bleating from the – not from the record machine, but from  – everywhere, what –

Why - don’t - you - come out? Come out! To my twist party! Where the bright moon shines!

The rug does just that, rises up, twists back and forth like wringing water out from a cloth. Still moving slowly it comes up to his feet, and he brings his legs up and hugs his knees close to his body, expelling an embarrassing squeak that would give Frankie Valli a run for his money. The rug continues its ascent, sliding up his legs, like – like a caress - gentle – warm – not like a rug, but like –

Like a human.

Mulder kicks his legs out with as much force as he can muster and the rug drops to the floor with a muffled poof. Then he’s leaping out of the chair and throwing open the door, giggling crazily when – he swears he feels it – something invisible tugs at his shirt, at his pant legs and hands.

He runs out out of the den into the open hallway like a scene straight out A Hard Day’s Night, and it’s just as he suspected. All the lights are on, and the Battersea house is thrown into full technicolor, much more vivid than he could have imagined. The lucite chairs are the brightest reds and blues he’s ever seen on furniture in his life, the sofa and the tables and the cleanest, starkest white. The light from the bulbous chandelier sparkles and spins. That pine sol scent – and then something else – Shalimar? – the alien-looking Philco television set on its tall thin stand, some old Gunsmoke episode. Then the channels flip and flip and it’s the Twilight Zone, and he’s being shoved by the air over to the couch. “Scully!” He yells again, laughing, merrily going along with the phantom guide. How is this for proof of a spirit world? This has got to be the single strongest case for the existence of poltergeists ever experienced. “Scully! Come here!”

“Mulder!” Scully screeches, straight from the gut.

Three gunshots go off.

His laughter corks in his throat, his heart drops to his stomach. Mulder races into the kitchen, faster than the grip that vies for him. The wine has been scrubbed from the walls, the glass swept from the floor. Something delicious simmers on the stove, and as he darts past the island he notices a bottle of vodka and a carton of orange juice pouring into a metal mixer. No body performs the action. They float in the air and the liquid comes out in steady, even streams.

That’s his drink. He shudders and hops up the stairs, taking two at a time. Scully’s voice has died out but he can still hear it pounding in his head, along with the never ceasing with your red dress on! Mmm you look so fine! and his ragged breath. “Scully!” He yells again, throwing open every door as he comes to it. The towels in the bathroom, the shower curtain, all rip themselves from their places and slither and slide after him, licking at his ankles and tripping him up. Gold and copper tubes of lipstick chase behind him, leaving behind perfect lip imprints on the walls.

When he gets to the bedroom, he finds Scully bound and gagged to the four poster bed, screaming into the pillowcase stuffed in mouth. “Scully,” he hisses, falling to his knees in front of her, pulling out the gag and deftly untying the knots around her ankles and wrists.

“That crazy–” she coughs and struggles underneath him, making it impossible to get her unbound. “That crazy bitch –” “Stop moving–” but she won’t, she’s writhing and wrestling until he has to cover her with his weight, yelling at her all the way. “Crazy fucking bitch!” She screams. When she’s free from her ties she shoves Mulder off of her and hops to her feet, tearing through the bedroom like a hurricane. “Where the fuck did she put my gun–”

“She took your gun?” Mulder panics, ripping through the room with her. “Scully, did you–” he sees it, three bullet holes in the corner of the ceiling. “Did you shoot the house, Scully?”

“You bet I fucking shot the house!” She screams. “Aha!” She pulls out the gun from the nightstand, cocks it, and tries to run out of the room.

“Scully,” Mulder grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her to him, ignoring her struggling. “Scully, I’m thinking this is an extremely malevolent, extremely powerful poltergeist. You cannot shootpoltergeists–”

She whips around, turning on him and backing him into the wall. “Malevolent? Did she drag you by your hair into the bedroom and tie you to a bed, Mulder? You look suspiciously unharassed.”

He licks his lips and stutters. “Uh, no. That has not been – that has not been my experience.” She raises both eyebrows and crosses her arm, waiting for him to continue. He rushes on. “I think Sherry’s still here, trying to take care of her husband.”

Scully steps back, eyes widening in shock. Her mouth opens and closes. Slowly, quietly, she asks, “Are you saying… the… poltergeist… is trying to seduce you?”

“And kill my mistress? Yeah,” he huffs a laugh and wraps his arms around her stunned and silent frame, letting his body relax against hers for just a minute. He’s getting too old for this kind of exertion. “Oh, god. You scared the shit out of me, Scully.”

“Sorry to cause so much stress, Mr. Battersea,” she grumbles, burying her nose in his neck. He nuzzles her hair and she lifts her head, slotting their lips together in a sweet, relief-filled kiss. If she’ll forgive him his affair with the carpet, he’ll forgive her everything. She pulls back, shaking her hair out of her face and straightening out her shoulders. “Now how do we get rid of this thing? What’s all in that bag you brought?”

He freezes. Shit.

“Mulder, no,” she says, horrified.

***

They slink down the stairs, Scully first, gun first, just in case. The breath of the house is soft, deceivingly calm. The music has been shut off. No objects float in the kitchen, the stove is turned off. Nothing tries to pull Mulder out of his clothes, or Scully into a closet.

“I think our little display back there pissed her off,” Mulder says grimly, staying close behind Scully.

“You’re my husband,” she bites out, straightening her shooter’s stance. “I kiss you whenever I want.”

They pause before entering the living room, looking at each other.

“That’s where it all happened,” Mulder whispers, nodding his head at the door. “If we go out there…”

“Should we just make a run for it then?” Scully asks, biting her lip. He bites his lip, too, and they meet each other’s eyes. He nods slowly.

They take off, pounding their feet against the hardwood and running as fast as they can, Mulder’s hands barely grazing Scully’s shoulders, but they never stood a chance. Floorboards are snatched almost from under their feet; chairs and tables go hurtling through the air. They drop down, Mulder curling his body over hers and shielding his head when bronze ornaments chuck themselves off of their stands, decorative mirrors drop to the floor, sending their shards flying.

From every molecule of the house, Frankie Valli’s falsetto warps into a deep, unsettling baritone.

Come come. Come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight.

“Say a prayer, Scully,” Mulder groans, wincing when a piece of glass whizzes past his head and scrapes up the back of his hands. She begins to frantically mutter one under her breath, but it’s useless. The storm doesn’t stop.

“Sherry,” Mulder tries. “Sherry!” He says louder. The music ends, but the the violence doesn’t. “Sherry, I know you were hurt!”

A woosh of a sigh is expelled from all the air vents. Objectiles drop straight to the floor. Mulder takes a deep breath and rolls off of Scully, who chokes and coughs into her arm.

He keeps going, not exactly sure what he’s saying. “Your husband was a selfish man who didn’t treat you the way you deserved. You loved him. You gave him everything. You cleaned up every mess, you paid every bill, you did everything he asked of you and it still wasn’t enough.” He swallows, pressing his bleeding hand to his stomach. “He still wouldn’t come home to you.

“It wasn’t your fault, Sherry. People who love you don’t do that to you. People who love you know that you aren’t perfect and come home to you anyway.”

The house is so quiet it is almost as if his soft, soothing voice has lulled it to sleep, and for a moment he thinks it has. Water drips from the air vents, from the windows, single, silent tears of condensation.

Crumpled next to him, Scully is sniffing. He glances at her, worried, but she’s smiling through her tears, sliding her hand through debri and dust to wrap around his. He smiles back, surprised to discover that he’s crying, too.

But she’s suddenly yanked away, screaming as those invisible hands drag her by her ankles and toss her onto the couch. “Scully!” Mulder yells, getting up to run toward her.

He’s tripped by an orange shag carpet.

“It’s not you, Sherry, it’s me,” he whimpers, frantically wriggling as the carpet begins to roll up with him inside of it. He groans and drags himself across the floor with his hands, carpet and all. The Philco set buzzes past him in the air and he shouts. “Watch out, Scully!”

He doesn’t see where it lands, but it the sound it make is a sickening smack, a bludgeoning soundtrack. “Scully?” No response. “Scully?”

He groans, dragging himself with agonizing slowness until he’s at the couch. Propping himself up his arms, his legs still wrapped in the rug, his mouth waters in fear and his stomach tightens at the sight of her, pale and silent, with one patch of bloody red hair staining her temple.

He checks her pulse, is relieved to find it faint, but still there. He kicks and pounds inside his trap until it’s beaten slack and stupid, and lifts himself onto the couch.

“Scully?” He lightly touches the spot where she’s hurt and she jerks her head and groans. “Oh, thank god.”

“Take me to dinner next time,” she winces, feeling the wound for herself and hissing out when she brushes the most tender part. She sits up, he pulls her hair away to give her better access. “I probably need to go to the hospital for this.”

“Well let’s try and get you there, partner.” One hand on her back, the other on her shoulder, he tries to help her up, but is interrupted with the sound of… “Scully. Scully, shit.”

“What?”

“Scully, the bookca–” SLAM.

***

She hauls him out of the dead and empty house, panting with the exertion and the throbbing pain in her head.

“I think–I think she went back to sleep,” Mulder yaps manically. “I think that put her to sleep. Reenacting the – the crime.” “We’re not dead, Mulder,” she grunts. Another foot down the driveway. “I just wish we were dead.”

“I think we better call an ambulance, Scully,” he says, resigned. “I don’t think either of us can drive.”

They call the ambulance and wait. Scully plops down beside him, wincing as the morning sun reflects off the ugly pink wood and cuts into her blurry vision. “This sucks, Mulder,” she sighs, squeezing her fists into her eyes.

“God, I know. This was a terrible idea. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“How are you going to help me move with two broken ankles?” She sighs again, shaking her head. “I’ll have to hire somebody now.”

He beams at her.

***

All the spirits rejoice and return to their graves for their year long sleep.

***

Girl, you make me lose my mind!

[chelsfic]

Part 4 - Trustfall - August Walker/Reader - Mission: Impossible Fallout fanfic

A/N: I’m not sure if this is quite the tone I was going for, but almost every time I set out to write something it turns out differently than I originally intended. For better or worse! I really hope you enjoy this little chapter. There’s action and angst to come in the next part!

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

You wake the next morning with all the awkwardness and mortification it is possible to feel. Your arms are twined around August’s middle and your bad leg is screaming from being folded underneath you all night. There is an unmistakable drool spot on August’s t-shirt that you are choosing to ignore. 

To you, August seems just as cool and collected as always. He stretches, reaching his arms over his head, deliciously exposing a few inches of his stomach as his shirt hitches up. You don’t notice. His eyes flick to the clock on the wall and he huffs a resigned breath before violently cracking his neck. The blatant masculinity is positively overwhelming.

You clear your throat, “Uh...sorry about that. I didn’t mean to fall asleep here...with you.”

You slowly unfold your leg and hiss against the pins and needles, the painfully cramped muscles. August watches you with an inscrutable expression.

He grunts a noncommittal response, effectively ignoring your poor attempt to address the sudden, confusing intimacy of the previous night. You look back at him, at his unreadable face and realize, with a sinking stomach, that he plans to just pretend it never happened. 

He observes your nervousness with cool calculation. At least that’s how it seems to your eyes. You can’t possibly know that his thoughts are racing. That he’s recalling, relishing the feel of your small body pressed against him, the perfect trust that seemed to exist between you when your eyes drifted shut and you slept without a thought for the locked door that stood between you every night prior to last night. 

“Alright, then,” you chirp, needing to fill the silence. “I’m gonna jump in the shower…”

You trail off. As August shifts forward in his seat to stand up he lets his hand just graze over your shoulder in a comforting caress. It’s there and gone before you have time to process it. But it was definitely there. 

Maybe he wasn’t going to pretend last night didn’t happen.

***

In the days that follow neither of you brings up the strange night you spent holding one another. But the magic of that twilight hour seems to have had a healing effect. The air in the house is lighter. You feel the easing of the tension you’ve been unconsciously carrying around in your shoulders. And there are the touches. It feels natural. Right. That night had unlocked an intimacy between you that wasn’t quite forgiveness. It was more like an acknowledgement of things to come, of the possibility of things. 

Your fingers sliding together as he passes you a soapy plate to dry. The brush of your fingertips along the nape of his neck when you pass him sitting in the living room. And one night when he returns home very late with a blackened eye and a cut over his eyebrow. He walks through the front door and makes a beeline for you, sitting on the couch in the living room. He kneels before you on the floor and winds his strong arms around your waist, pressing his face into your soft stomach. You move your hands in soothing circles over his trembling shoulders. 

Things are...changing. And you want them to. You find yourself looking forward to seeing August at the end of the work day. Driving home with a smile on your face. And you worry when he stays out late...working. You feel the blossoming of possibility between you and you can see in his eyes and feel it in his touch, that he feels it too.

Of course things are bound to go wrong.

***

You’re running late, you don’t even have time to shower properly. You just stick your head under the shower spray to wet it and then throw your hair in a bun. Better than nothing. As you’re rushing out the door you hear August’s quick steps on the stairs. By now you realize he only makes noise when he wants you to know he’s there. Otherwise he’s capable of moving with ghostly silence.

“Y/N,” he calls, “you’ll be home late tonight, right?”

He’s dressed in a crisp button-down shirt and dark grey trousers. He must have business today. When he’s staying in he tends to dress down in denim and t-shirts or sweaters. At first you had found the sight of him in casual wear to be jarring--now it is the other way around. When he’s dressed for business you know there is the possibility of danger. You feel your heart in your throat at the idea of August being hurt and you wonder when that started, feeling protective of him.

“Yeah,” you reply, pushing away the question you have no answer for, “it’s my book club night tonight. I’ll be home around nine-ish.”

“See you then,” he says and takes a step toward you before stopping himself. 

You stand there for an extra beat, feeling like he’s left something hanging in the air between you. Finally you offer him a half-smile and wave goodbye as you walk out the door.

Stupid, he thinks to himself. What is he thinking? That he’s your husband, hugging you before you leave for work? This situation was getting confusing and he didn’t have time today to be distracted by feelings that would be better off ignored.

He needs to think over his plans for the day, the night. He’s arranged for a meeting between two clients, money for information. Simple. The buyer is most certainly a Russian SVR operative although he is representing himself as a businessman in need of insider intel. The seller, whom August will be representing, is some low-level DOD engineer looking to live dangerously. August will be taking a substantial finder’s fee from the deal which he’s arranged for this evening in the house. It isn’t ideal, but the original location he’d selected had spooked the Russian. So, this is his alternative. And it will be fine. It’s a one-time thing and it will all be fine. As long as he is certain that Y/N will arrive home well after his client departs.

***

“So, on a scale of one to dead how much trouble would I be in if I didn’t finish the book for book club tonight?”

You’re perched on the edge of your friend Jen’s desk wearing a sheepish expression. Jen’s classroom is next door to yours. You both started teaching in the same year and had naturally become fast friends. It is a little comical given how different you are. Jen is a garrulous, spiritual star-girl who spends her weekends at psychic fairs and you are a snarky, introvert with a natural skepticism for anything that can’t be verified in a double-blind study. There is just something inherently compatible and complementary between you that makes the friendship work. You suppose it’s a sense of humor and the fact that Jen never really pushes too hard to break into your personal space. Other than constantly bemoaning your lack of a dating life.

Jen laughs at your comically shamed expression and shakes her head in mock disgust, “Y/N...this is like the third month in a row you’ve asked me that question.”

“Hey! At least part of that time I was in the hospital. You know I’m going to milk that excuse for as long as I can,” you reply. You really enjoy being in the book club--it’s just Jen and a couple other teachers and it pretty much comprises the entirety of your social life since well before the shooting. 

As far as Jen and the rest of your coworkers know you were in a bad car accident. The lie has become easier for you to accept with time. Now you can joke about it.

“Mmm...no, sorry that’s not gonna cut it anymore,” Jen scoffs. “But...you’re actually off the hook because it turns out that Maddy and Lisa both had to cancel tonight, anyway.”

You raise your hands in mock victory, “Just as I planned all along!”

Jen rolls her eyes, “You want to go out for dinner at Zorba’s anyway?”

“Nope!” you chirp. “Canceled plans? I fully intend to go home and finish this damn book.”

“Uh huh,” Jen’s voice is laced with skepticism. “Don’t think I don’t know the real reason you haven’t finished it. You have a secret boyfriend, don’t you? It’s the surgeon who fixed your leg! You’ve fallen in love and are going to get married and have little surgeon babies!”

“Good grief! Next book is going to be strictly non-romance! You’re delirious!” 

You walk toward the door that adjoins your two classrooms and force a laugh as you wave goodbye. You can’t help it. The little stutter you feel in your heart at Jen’s words. It’s ridiculous because August is basically a scoundrel despite how nice he’s been acting to you lately. But you can’t lie to yourself. You’re happy to be going straight home after work instead of heading to bookclub. In fact the little bubble of happy anticipation in your chest floats you through your day until you’re once again driving home with a goofy smile on your face looking forward to seeing the man who has somehow, incredibly, managed to carve out a place in your heart.

Tags:

@thorins-queen-of-erebor @viking-raider  @onceuponathreetwoone @angelic-kisses13 @afangirldaydreams @peeyewpeeyew @calwitch @scuzmunkie @amy-choices​

[justformyself2]

Notting Hill.

A/N: Wow, who also need a good story to be pumped for the apocalypse? raise your hand please!

Not really sure if you guys know about this story, but June 27,2020 is the date, look it up lol. You know what else we could be doing before going to hell once for all for lusting so much over John Krasinski? 

Sign this Petitions and donate if possible:

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BLACK LIVES MATTER NOW AND ALWAYS.

Well, now that i said what i said, let me finish by telling you, this is an important story for me. The past months have been extremely rough and i struggled like never before to fight for something i love to do not be consumed by dark thoughts, regardless of the past, i’m proud to be posting this right now, no matter how long it took for me and how minimal it may seem, goddamn i feel happy to create and write, and for you guys, in whatever you need to do, dream of doing, don’t let dark thoughts guide you into staying stuck, shine, do what you love, we all have the capacity.

This is my participation on my friend’s @lullabieswrappedinlies​​ rom-com writing challenge (go check her out, she is so damn creative and amazing)

This story is based on the movie Notting Hill and will be added on my masterlist. or tell me you want to be tagged if you want to keep up.

BEFORE YOU JUMP IN BE ADVISED

. Pairing: Reader x John Krasinski.

. It contains strong language.

. Click here for soundtrack of movie if you are in your feelings today

                                                   JOHN’S POV

“John, we will be ready in five.”

“Ok.”

I press the phone once again against my ear, listening to her heavy sigh. It is easy to mold her face into my brain with dexterity. The bushy eyebrows, casting a shadow under piercing blue eyes, seeking to grab my soul, she succeeding to combine it all with a condescending smile on her lips. Condescension which I have to kiss it off.

“Well, if you want to go, then go.”

Deep down, she was still trying, and I can’t take that for granted.

“I don’t want to go. I need to go, an enormous difference. It’s work.”

I aim to be the diplomatic debater, the mediator, and the opponent. She is better than me at being the third party, perfecting the act of passive-aggressiveness in chosen phrases, fuming through her nose on the other side of the line. An act I wish to interpret as a genuine breathed laugh with no second intentions; my five minutes seemed to multiply.

“Call you later?”

I say.

“Yes.”

She answers

“Love you.”

She hanged up.

                                                            --------

                                                      Y/N POV

“This book is so weird and sexist, holy shit.”

You put the phone down, and Nova throws another eighties romance book into the cardboard box with its copies.

“Language.” You sing at her in a scolding tone. 

“Sorry.” She sings back. “But you know I’m right. They are always pairing a young girl with some fifty years old, control freak who prey on them with their big, strong, tan hands.”

You giggle, and she looks satisfied.

Regardless of the narrative that anyone could quickly review, it was ‘in’ right now, as Agnes said, and what her bookclub wanted. “Un plaisir coupable.” she completed; the thin red lines that were her lips stretched in a laugh, causing her blue contacts to squint. 

Soon enough, the scavenging for the material began, and you found the yellow pages, delivered with weird smells, phone numbers, and addresses written on the inside of the covers, but still readable.

“They paid and are coming to pick them up tomorrow. It’s the only thing I care about right now. Also, don’t let her catch you saying that you hear me? I will help finish this then we can close before your mom shows up and kill me when she finds out you are here.”

You move from behind the counter, seeing the digital hour hit past ten pm on the laptop.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, she already knows.”

The unconcerned Nova grabs a box, and you grab another following her quick steps, twisting to the right almost at the end of the hall, entering a room that was once a decent private office before it became nonfunctional. 

The reserved bookshelf for Agnes club waited empty, a last-minute metal book rack next to the bay window. To create an illusion of a comfortable place for a book club, orange curvy chairs, which Alexis begged to be thrown out, along with the red Arabic carpet left behind with the chairs by the old owner. Every time you enter the space taking a deep, immediate, frustrated breath, Alexis wins a point.

You place the box down, looking at your niece.

“Kyle?”

You ask, and Nova hums softly, doing the stocking job.

 Kyle, more than a name it was first a banned topic usually discussed between a limited couple of sentences. His name was a warning, along with his unrequested presence at random, unannounced times. It became harder since Nova wasn’t at a manageable age anymore. It was tough at fifteen, and as the time passes by, sweetness gains the bitterness, and innocence, gone.

“Well, you know you will always have a second bed, Donkey misses you.”

You gain a laugh while she finishes her box.

“Oh God, can’t believe you still keep him there.”

You shrug impulsively, paying attention to your own hands, arranging the books and their horizontal titles on a pile.

“It was your favorite toy, why would I throw it away?”

“You know why.”

 A pause and a deep breath came from her, triggering the thought, long forgotten about, that people still expected you to be mourning over material remains.

“It’s okay to throw away with the rest of the others, it’s been a long time.”

Her auburn hair was now being tied in a bun. Your fifteen-year-old niece, holding a peaceful outside appearance, didn’t mind sounding more mature than you wanted to admit.

 “Good... then we can donate, not throw it away.”

“Even better.”

She agrees quickly, stomping on the empty cardboard box.

Nova turns out the lights as you awaited for her, leaning against the glass door on the entrance, blowing hot humid air into your cold fingers and watching over nothing other than a middle-aged man with a red beanie walking a Greyhound on the other side of the empty street. 

Notting Hill wasn’t known for its nightlife. It was almost a deserted city by eight and in the light of day, Portobelo Rode fruit market brings it to life. On weekdays, stalls and its hay baskets, packed with succulent fruits and greens, filled the streets along with shouted invites, half prices and sweet-soured smells invading each corner; on weekends the baskets shape-shifted to antiques of all kinds, genuine or handmaid, the crowd and the stalls multiplied in the small village. 

In-between buyers and sellers of what you could harvest or find in your gramma’s basement there was your store, a bookstore, one corner away from your home, squeezed in the middle of Linda’s cafe and a self-employed yoga instructor that recently rented Mr. Walsh’s house, a retired Navy who moved to Greenwich with his daughter-in-law three weeks ago; his red door house now held a big white plaque with ‘Sivananda Yoga’ written in cursive gold letters, phone number and social media included under the picture of a woman in the lotus posture.

“A yoga studio, nice!” Says Nova, coming closer to the four steps leading up to the red door.

You close the store and covers her shoulders with your arm when the icy wind started building up.

“We could try it someday, your mom-.”

“Hates trying new things.” She completed. “Don’t even bother.”

 “That is where you are the wrong baby. It may seem like this now, but I wish you could have seen your mom in her prior days. Wow... She was glorious.”

The feeling of wandering eyes aiming at your face became stronger as you carried her along the street under your embrace.

“Before my dad, I guess.”

A tiny part of your soul lighten up, recognizing itself in your niece’s words, but there was no place to fuel her fiery tone.                                                                                           

“To be honest, I don’t know, but people change Nova, everyone eventually, even the ones we thought we had figured out, including ourselves.”

“Whatever, I don’t want him back in the house again if she puts him back, I’m moving with you.”

The decisiveness in her voice sent bad vibrations along your back. 

Unusual memory mechanism. Alexis visited your mind, vivid as if you could see her across the street you were crossing, she waiting and shivering at your front door because you forgot the spare key in the store again. 

After the scolding she would show a rose-colored box from Fincher’s cafe under her arm, comporting the most amazing banoffee pie, your favorite pie from your favorite place. 

Fincher’s cafe, that was once located two blocks away from where you two lived was closed when the old owner went bankrupt and reopened in Queensway street, she would drive there every weekend to bring that rose-colored box under her arm and wait for you on the couch, once the spare key was in the fake birdhouse, with the TV turned on and the plates placed on the center table next to the wine.

“See, I don’t think that will happen.”

“How could you know? Didn’t you just said people change?”

“And love changes people, your mother has more for you than you could ever imagine and without measuring efforts. She wouldn’t make any decision that would hurt you, trust me.”

Nova quickly disengage from the conversation, staying on mute abruptly, leaving a temporary gap for thoughts of doubt to occupy. Your heart is worried, but a grown-up, worried heart shouldn’t be shown while trying to pass a sense of security. That included waiting for Nova to fall sleep before calling Alexis.

You climb the four steps and opens the blue door, face to face with smiling Rudolph from last Christmas, hanging by a thread along with Santa, waiting to be taken down as the feeling in the pit of your stomach.

“I ate at home so if you don’t mind I will go to bed now.”

Unreeling the red knitted scarf, the tenth big piece Alexis attempted to make at her knitting fase, Nova doesn’t look behind once. You watch her back as she went upstairs to the guest room, her special fort at five, and now her hideaway at fifteen, with fewer toys and Donkey, an old stuffed toy still sitting in the shelf waiting for no one in a room cleaned every week.

You dismiss the purple scarf from around your shoulders, the third big piece on your sister’s collection, not as good as the tenth, but it warmed you inside to observe her trying to hide a proud smile in seeing what she made wrapped around Nova and you.

A stupidly cold breeze hits the back of your neck before you turned around to close the door, the phone rings along with squealing tires of a black car on the other side of the street.

                                                           1

[mirukunofuwa]

Posting a snippet of my fluffy Deku WIP for the bookclub weekly prompt so i don’t feel bad about not posting ;w;

You felt the breeze at your back on your walk home, like a gentle hand guiding you back through your garden and into your house. You took a moment to check on the bread that was baking and the soup that was bubbling away, before returning outside to sit a while in the garden and stare up at the sky. 

When you laid back in the grasses that surrounded your home, every touch felt like a gentle caress, from the gentle wind to the ticklish blades of grass along the exposed skin on your arms. The sun pressed gentle kisses of gold to your cheeks and nose, warming your body from the outside in.

[ofdragonsdeep]

31 (Buckle)

Surprise extra ffxivwrite day! You get my cat being a stubborn teenager. This is technically another quick prompt from the Bookclub, and again is. Significantly more than 100 words, though we're not at "Star" levels of ridiculous this time.

Neither he nor Thancred held up well to scrutiny.

(m!WoLxHaurchefant)

The hum and bustle of the Rising Stones was quiet as the evening gloom settled over Mor Dhona. All but a small few of the Crystal Braves were otherwise engaged, and the remaining Scions spread out over the space. It did not quite feel empty, but it was far from full.

In the back room, which had but a few moons prior been converted to something akin to a training area, Ar’telan was stood opposite Hoary Boulder and Coultenet, grimoire in one hand, the other held out to better command the egi he had summoned. A small group of Domans had gathered around them, watching with awe and interest as Coultenet did a few minor feats of thaumaturgy to test its endurance. The robes that the Sons of Saint Coinach had recovered from their dig site did not fit as well as they might, but the aetheric threads woven throughout the fabric were still more than enough for Ar’telan to feel the difference.

“These constructs are truly fascinating,” Coultenet remarked as the egi dispersed with a burst of heat and light. “To be so similar to the primals from which they are drawn, but safe and contained… A fascinating art to revive.”

“Assuming people want to get close enough to a primal to try,” Hoary added, and Ar’telan grimaced.

“I think I would avoid it given the chance,” he agreed, returning the grimoire to its bag, clipped onto the belt of his new jacket. “Thank you for the tests.”

“Any time, my friend!” Coultenet replied, and Ar’telan offered a slight smile as payment for their time.

F’lhaminn nodded at him as he passed the little bar, Moenbryda and Thancred clearly making use of it in a table off to one side.Thancred was far worse for wear than Moenbryda was, which was impressive given the constitution Ar’telan knew Thancred had for drink, but a sideways glance at Moenbryda’s half of the table also suggested she had not exactly been keeping pace with him.

“Oh, are those the summoner robes?” Y’shtola remarked, looking up from the documents she was staring at. Ar’telan nodded, and she got to her feet, examining the outfit with a nod of appreciation. “Y’mhitra has told me a little of what you have been doing. I hadn’t realised it had come so far.”

“It was luck more than anything else,” Ar’telan replied. “The Sons found some coffers in their site by the Crystal Tower.” Y’shtola nodded again, one hand raised to her chin in thought.

“Considering where they found the soul crystals, that is unsurprising,” she said. “Have you not the horn?” Ar’telan cringed, fishing the bright red contraption out of one of the jacket’s many pockets.

“It looks a little silly.” he said, but Y’shtola motioned to him to put it on, so he fastened the straps around the back of his head, adjusting the front until it sat on his forehead in a way that passed for comfortable. The horn channeled aetheric energies, he knew that much, but the vibrant red creation made him look like a particularly well-dressed unicorn.

“Fascinating. I have read a few studies on the subject of summoning, though nothing like as many as my sister,” Y’shtola said, reaching up to help Ar’telan adjust the horn. “They never did find anything quite so adept at focussing primal aether than these creations, though as I understand it a number of potential designs existed.”

“What on earth is that on your head?” Moenbryda said, leaning back in her chair to get a better view of the allagan miscreation.

“An evoker’s horn,” Ar’telan replied, feeling embarrassment sink into every fibre of his being.

“It is an Allagan artifact of immense power,” Y’shtola clarified, not that she had seen his response. “It aids in amplifying the primal energies that summoners call upon to command their egis.” Thancred squinted. Ar’telan wasn’t sure if it was to focus, or just because of the alcohol.

“Y’know what it looks like,” he started, and Moenbryda rolled her eyes.

“An ancient. And powerful. Artifact?” Y’shtola offered, her voice terse. Thancred made a noise that might once have been amusement, but just sounded like a sideways cackle.

“Could prob’ly’ve got one cheaper in th’ right alley in Limsa,” he slurred, Moenbryda gently confiscating the bottle he reached for lest he make the situation worse. Ar’telan reached up, but Y’shtola put one hand gently on top of his arm to stop him from just pulling the horn from his head.

“Thank you for your contribution, Thancred,” she said, shaking her head at his antics. “You are fine, Ar’telan. Perhaps if it bothers you a glamour prism may assist?”

“Y’mhitra said that might interfere with the aetheric signatures,” Ar’telan said. “Something about the weave having its own-”

“Gotta have somethin’ worth takin’ t’... th’ ‘lezen you’re after,” Thancred said, and Ar’telan tensed. He could feel Y’shtola try to pull him away, but he turned back around regardless.

“We are not-”

“Wha’, he’sh a slut f’any advent’rer in, in Eorzea, but not f’you?” Thancred said. Moenbryda grimaced. “M’be you need a bigger ‘horn’.”

The silence carried the same tension that it always did when he and Thancred argued now. Y’shtola had told him not to rise to the beat, that Thancred would regret what he said when he sobered up, to be the bigger man. But it stung. Stung that he hadn’t been good enough to repair things after Lahabrea’s meddling, that Thancred would rather trade jipes and drink himself into unconsciousness than try.

“Haurchefant doesn’t-” Ar’telan started, but Thancred waved a dismissive hand at him and looked away from his attempts to sign a defence.

“Thancred, I think you have had quite enough to drink,” Y’shtola said, hands on her hips, disapproval colouring every syllable of her word. Thancred snorted.

“Y’ know ‘m right. Goin’ up to Coerthas ev’ry hour he can. Might’s well kneel at ‘is desk an’-”

Ar’telan pulled the evoker’s horn from his head and threw it across the room. It hit the table in front of Thancred, scattering the remains of bottles that rested there in pitiful emptiness, startling Moenbryda.

“Maybe they are more welcoming than my ‘friends’ here,” Ar’telan said, jaw clenched, and turned and walked from the Rising Stones. The door slammed behind him on the cacophony of noises that his swift departure started, from Y’shtola calling after him to Moenbryda attempting to salvage the situation with Thancred.

He didn’t care. He was tired of it. Over and over again they tried to reassure him, but for all they talked, none of them could ever stop Thancred when he was deep in his cups. Maybe Lahabrea had been right. Maybe he was just another tool to them, a primal-killing weapon, a convenient servant, content to smile and nod at every job they gave him, no matter how grim.

The crowd in Mor Dhona parted around him as he stomped through Revenant’s Toll, the workers on their breaks from building the walls to the refugees to the House of Splendors vendors all aware from the lines of tension on his face that he was not in the mood for talking. He took the north exit, the purple-tinged gloom of the Toll giving way quickly to the sharp cold of Coerthas.

Was he proving them right? Gods, maybe he was. His linkpearl chimed in his ear, and he ripped it out and stuck it in one of the pockets that the ancient robe had so many of. He had stood against primals, mastered the trails of aether they had left indelibly on his soul in their wake, torn tiny pieces of them from the aether, and his reward was crude jokes and the reminder that he did not matter beyond what he could give them.

—

The night had set in quickly, and Ar’telan was too far down the road to turn back by the time the cool air cleared his senses a little. The snow crunched under his feet, his passage leaving deeper marks in what was left of the trail than he was used to, and the wind was howling at a wicked clip. He didn’t want to go back to the Rising Stones, even though he anticipated that Thancred would be out cold, because Y’shtola would have that look on her face that spoke of despair at his childishness. Alphinaud wouldn’t even know what the issue was, just tut at his outbursts. He could go on to Dragonhead - they were not expecting him, but Haurchefant would always find room for him regardless. He had his grimoire, but he hadn’t intended to wear the old robes for long, and had basically nothing else. Not even enough gil to get to the aetheryte. Well, if he walked he would at least make it by morning.

The snow drove itself with a wicked sharpness into Ar’telan’s face, the collar of the coat doing little to protect him from its ravages. The knights of Ishgard had long since given up on lighting the trail, probably glad for the inhospitality keeping out the nosy outsiders who might try to weasel their way in. The glimmer of the aetheric core of Ice Sprites took Ar’telan from the path more than once, hoping it was the distant glow of the Observatorium’s tower, or even the one at the border, but with the deepening snow he was not even sure where the path was.

In short, he was lost.

With a huff of effort and a poorly-concealed shiver, Ar’telan picked a direction and walked in it. He could barely see in front of his face in the snow, so he pried the tome from his side with stiff fingers and invoked fire. It was not enough to warm him, but the glow inherent to Ifrit-egi’s being would serve the twin purposes of letting him not fall into a chasm and keeping away hungry beasts who thought to brave the cold for a quick meal.

After more trudging through thick snow than Ar’telan had even wanted to do in his life, he found - not civilisation, far from it, but an outcropping of rock, shielded from the worst of the storm. He ensconced himself within it, calling the egi close to him to try and get some of the warmth back into his fingers. Piling the snow up around his sides kept it from becoming a slurry of water wherever the egi hovered, but he was still freezing. Allag’s summoners had fought in warm places, he supposed - Meracydia was warmer than this, and surely it must also have been before the Calamity that had devastated so much of it. Maybe they hadn’t thought of how to fend off the snow.

He was tired. Everything felt heavy after his hours of walking, and now the tension was gone there was an ache in every muscle that had stiffened in misplaced anger. Huddled in a miserable heap with the feeling leeching out of every extremity, he wondered if it would matter if he closed his eyes, just for a moment. He pulled the coat from his back and put it over his head, to stop the wind from sneaking in. The egi would keep him safe. The beasts wouldn’t be out in this weather. If he closed his eyes for just a moment, the snow would stop…

—

It felt like breathing through slurry. He could hear voices, but couldn’t make out the words. With more effort than he had ever thought to put into something so simple, he forced his eyes open, and everything was blurred and out of focus.

He couldn’t see his egi, nor feel its presence in his aether. Couldn’t feel his fingers either, for that matter, or indeed most of his limbs. He heard the voices stop as he managed something akin to a groan - a distant cousin, perhaps, a whispered sound from what was left of his throat. Most of the figures left, but one walked up to him.

“Master Qin. Can you hear me?” The curt tones and painfully Ishgardian accent of Camp Dragonhead’s lead Chirurgeon. Ar’telan had worked with him more than once, helping to heal the wounded knights brought in from defending Ishgard from her many enemies.

Ar’telan tried to raised his hands to agree, and found them unresponsive, so he made a vague noise of assent and nodded his head. The chirurgeon sighed, and a little blinking brought his face into something resembling focus.

“They found you out on the road to the Observatorium. You were lucky-”

“Ar’telan!”

Haurchefant’s voice cut the chirurgeon off mid-sentence, and with a flurry of sound and movement the elezen was beside him. He could feel, just about, Haurchefant’s hands taking one of his, but it was still heavy and bitterly cold.

“When they brought you in we thought you dead. What possessed you to do something so foolish?” Haurchefant said, worry lining every word. “Out in a blizzard with nothing but a coat - you could have teleported to the aetheryte, something-”

“Lord Haurchefant,” the chirurgeon said, and Haurchefant shook his head, attempting to regain his composure and failing most utterly. He did not look like a man who had done much sleeping recently. With effort, Ar’telan willed his hands to respond, and signed something that came close to sorry.

“I know. Don’t try to move too much,” Haurchefant said. “They said they found you before the frostbite could set in properly, but it was a near thing. By the Fury, have you any idea how worried I- how worried we were?” Ar’telan managed a weak, pathetic little smile. He wanted to explain - wished it was so easy as speaking, though even that would have been difficult even if his throat was not damaged. Felt very foolish for needing to explain something so embarrassing as the sequence of events that had led him to this shameful state.

“We have contacted your friends in the Scions,” the chirurgeon added, making Ar’telan grimace. “The runner should be reaching them presently, assuming they were not waylaid by heretics, as seems to be the flavour of the moon.” Haurchefant made a weary noise, a harried look on his face at the reminder.

“It will take you a few days until you can move about properly again,” he said, looking as though it pained him to say it. “Though the chirurgeons will stay with you, of course. Just… promise me you will never do something so foolish again.” Ar’telan tried to flex his fingers, and Haurchefant took his hand again, the warmth of him radiating through every digit, though not quite enough to stir them to action.

He nodded his head, and hoped that it conveyed a promise more than a yes.

[bookcub]

About me

@lunaloveboook tagged me, thanks!!! 

NAME: Carrie 

BIRTHDAY: March 6th

ZODIAC: *ugh* 

HEIGHT: 5′6″

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: ace 


FAVORITE COLOR: Red!!! 

FAVORITE BOOK: I always come back to The Name of the Wind and Beauty Queens 

FAVORITE ARTIST/BANDS: Don’t really have any. 


LAST MOVIE I WATCHED: Does Lemonade count because I just watched that for a class this morning 

HOGWARTS HOUSE: Ravenclaw!!! 


RANDOM FACT: I used to fence as a kid (not well) (with foils) 


WHEN DID YOU CREATE YOUR BLOG?: October 2014


DO YOU HAVE ANY OTHER BLOGS?: Yeah, check out @halfthealphabet @incorrectkingkillerquotes @iwasjustwonderingwhyyourehere and @live-between-the-pages 

WHY DID YOU CHOOSE YOUR URL?: I was supposed to be bookclub but I made a typo when creating it, and then realized it was already a url and this just stuck. And so I made my blog bear themed. 

Tagging @denizenhardwick @quillbit-reads @bluestockingbookworm @curiousthimble @daenerys-the-dreamer and anyone else who wants to do this!!! 

[e-antoinette-reading]

Finally reading my October book club pick and loving it so far! . . . From Graham Norton—the BAFTA Award-winning Irish television host and author of the “charming debut novel” (New York Journal of Books) Holding—a masterly and haunting tale of secrets and ill-fated love follows a young woman as she returns to Ireland after her mother’s death and unravels the identity of her father. When Elizabeth Keane returns to Ireland after her mother’s death, she’s focused only on saying goodbye to that dark and dismal part of her life. Her childhood home is packed solid with useless junk, her mother’s presence already fading. But within this mess, she discovers a small stash of letters—and ultimately, the truth. Forty years earlier, a young woman stumbles from a remote stone house, the night quiet except for the constant wind that encircles her as she hurries deeper into the darkness away from the cliffs and the sea. She has no sense of where she is going, only that she must keep on. With wistful and evocative prose, A Keeper is sure to appeal to “fans of sensitive character studies” ( Publishers Weekly) and brilliantly illustrates Graham Norton’s clear-eyed understanding of human nature and its darkest flaws. . . . #bibliophile #bookclub #grahamnorton #fiction #weekend #bookblogger https://www.instagram.com/p/B30HbP6gox8/?igshid=1h1vd8g9jiz0v