#i cannot put into words how little i want to read a conjuring of light

[valiantstarlights]

Lovely beings of the Dreamling tag, I need your help. 🙇‍♀️ I'm writing a Shadow & Bone Dreamling AU where Dream is the (sad wet cat) Darkling and Hob is the (soft dom) Sun Summoner.

It's inspired by this GIF set of Mr. Ferdinand Kingsley by the talented @issylra 🌼

The problem is: who do I put in the position of power? Both versions are very compelling and (to my lack of shame) I am a greedy hoe who wants both.

So! I have written samples for both versions, and I would like for you to read them and then vote which version you prefer. (Feel free to defend/explain/keysmash about your choice in the tags if you choose to reblog. 😊)

Both versions are under the cut! Please read them first before voting! (And thank you in advance for helping me. 🖤)

--

prompt: sharing a bed + assassins

--

(sad wet cat) Darkling Dream in the position of power

"The bed is large enough to fit both of us," Dream says, because it's true. He is just stating the facts. The inn is a day's ride away from the capital. Jessamy and Matthew will take turns guarding the door. Fjerdan assassins are on their tail and want them dead.

Facts are easy. Unlike his muddled feelings about the man in the room with him, facts are black an white. Safer to navigate. There are no grey areas about them.

"Yeah, I can see that," is Hob's reply. He has his hands on his hips as he regards Dream. "You sure you want to share a bed with me? I wouldn't want you to be scandalized when we wake up in the morning and you feel my--"

"Both of us need to rest," Dream interrupts before the image could fully form in his head. Hob on his side behind him, slow, sleepy hot breaths against his hair, arms around him, keeping him warm and safe... These thoughts have no place, no right to consume his waking mind. "And you, most of all, since you are the one they are after."

A lie. Fjerda has long wanted Dream dead as well, but Hob does not need to reminded of that knowledge and be burdened by it.

"I can take care of myself, you know," Hob tells him. A counter. A challenge. A fact. Dream remembers their first meeting, and Cain's broken nose. He cannot refute that. But he also cannot say that he worries still. Not because Hob is the Sun Summoner, but because Dream cannot bear to think of him being in peril in the first place.

"We ride at first light," Dream says, and sits on one side of the bed before lying down, still in his black kefta. His armor must always be donned. In place. No chinks in them.

Hob sighs and sits on the bed as well, before he extinguishes the balls of light he has conjured. His skills are getting better. No wonder Fjerda is getting nervous.

"Good night," Hob says in the dark as he lies down beside him. Dream can already feel his warmth, and their bodies aren't even touching yet.

Dream hums, and longs to close the distance between them.

He doesn't. He dares not.

But Hob does not care for things like propriety and personal space. Never had, with Dream. Hob closes the distance between their bodies as if it were as easy as breathing and not a daunting journey across the ocean that it is in Dream's eyes.

"Cold?" Hob asks next to his ear. "You're shivering."

Dream didn't even notice. He knows Hob can feel the quickened beating of his heart, but he doesn't notice himself shiver. The words get stuck in his throat for a moment before he says, "Sleep, Hob. We have another day of travel in front of us."

A non-answer. Hob always forgives him this, even when it frustrates him. And Dream knows he is frustrated, judging by how his arms tighten a little around him. Not so tight that it hurts. But just tight enough that Dream cannot wiggle away in the night.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Hob says in a sarcastic tone, his lips so close that it brushes against Dream's nape.

Sleep comes easy to Dream that night, and he cannot spare a thought on why that is, because first light comes, and with it, the imperative to escape.

But unlike what Hob assumed in the night, Dream is not scandalized by the shape of Hob's manhood that nestled innocently against the upper swell of his buttocks, just below his lower back that morning.

No. It only served to stoke the flame growing larger in the pit of Dream's stomach. One day, he is sure that the fire will raze all his carefully built walls and consume him utterly. He fears and anticipates that day in equal measure.

--

(soft dom) Sun Summoner Hob in the position of power

"Come, darling," General Gadling says, and pats the empty space on the bed beside him. "I won't bite."

Dream hesitates. He knows it is improper, for the General, for the Sun Summoner himself, to invite someone as dirty as Dream to share a bed with him.

Yet he wants. He longs to know what it's like to fall asleep surrounded by General Gadling's scent, and the man himself beside him. To wake up and trace his features while he sleeps. He had been looking so stressed lately.

Because of Dream? Because of all the trouble he caused?

The proper reply to General Gadling's order would be to firmly state that he would be fine sleeping on the floor.

"You're thinking too much again," General Gadling says, now rising from his comfortable perch to lead Dream towards the bed with his own hands.

Dream should refuse. He remains quiet and pliant, the nerve endings in his hands alight at the general's touch.

"I told you, didnt I? I won't bite." When General Gadling smiles, it's a smile fit for a rogue, but it's tempered by fondness. By gentleness. He has smile lines around his eyes. Dream wants to kiss them. "I mean, not unless you want me to."

An image of General Gadling biting his neck and sucking on the same spot, leaving a vivid mark on his skin, has Dream flushing.

"Do you, my star?" General Gadling asks. He has gotten closer somehow without Dream noticing. "Do you want me to bite you?"

"N-no," Dream lies.

"You don't sound so certain," Hob says. He tucks a strand of Dream's hair behind his ear, his touch lingering on Dream's jaw.

"We should sleep," Dream tells him, and forces himself to move away from the man and towards the bed, sitting on the neater side, back towards him. Dream hates that he wonders how many others shared General Gadling's bed before. He's so kind and handsome, a living saint, both in skill and in deed. Surely there have been others before Dream.

He is not so naive to think that he is the first, or the only one.

And yet, Dream is the one sharing his bed tonight.

No, not sharing his bed in a carnal way. Just sharing the bed. For sleep. Like how he and his siblings shared a bed. And meals. Sometimes even clothes.

And besides, it was only for tonight, while the otkazat'sya staff and the other Grisha find the ones resposible for the assassination attempt against Dream.

General Gadling sighs. "Very well. But please, go ahead. I have something I need to check on before I could join you."

'Something?' a traitorous part of Dream's mind asks. 'Or someone?'

"No," Dream says, when General Gadling moves towards the bedroom door. "Please. Stay." Dream bunches the thick blankets under his hands so he could force the stubborn, humiliating words out of his mouth. "I am... The attack has left me..." He looks up helplessly at the general. He could still feel the press of cold steel against the tender part of his neck, just under his chin.

If General Gadling had been a second too late...

"Oh, my sweet Dream." And now General Gadling has knelt in front of him and drawn him in for an embrace. Dream clings to him and, to his utter shame, starts to cry. "I should have made him suffer more."

Dream shakes his head. Dead was good. Dead means they can't hurt Dream anymore. But alive could mean that they could potentially hurt General Gadling. "I'm glad he's dead," Dream says quietly against the general's neck, in between hiccups. "I'm glad you're not hurt."

"I'm glad you are not hurt." Dream shifts as he feels a new sensation against his temple. Is...Is General Gadling kissing him there? Dream shivers as the small kisses makes their journey from his temple to his forehead, and then his cheeks. General Gadling seems to be unable to stop himself. His kisses are growing more heated, and Dream finds he does not mind. "I am glad you're still here with me."

With me. Not with us.

"Will you stay with me?" Dream asks him. General Gadling has stopped just before he reached Dream's lips, and now Dream can't look away from his mouth, slightly red from all the little kisses he bestowed Dream.

"As long as you want me to."

'Forever, then,' Dream thinks, as he moves to makes space for General Gadling, so they could both slide under the covers. When General Gadling wraps Dream up in his arms, he finds that he is finally able to breathe easier.

"Good night, General," Dream says quietly against the golden kefta, nuzzling it a little. He may not be allowed this indulgence, but for the moment, he does not care.

"Good night, my darling," General Gadling says, lips brushing Dream's forhead as he speaks.

His siblings warned him what would happen if he got caught by the Grisha. But they did not warn him about General Gadling, and the care he would show Dream. If the cage they mentioned is being caged inside General Gadling's arms, then Dream would choose it between freedom any day.

[zariasona]

I'm coming home.

Zariasona had been settled into her home in Duskwood for the night. The hustle and bustle of Stormwind and the political work she had so immersed herself in was relaxing to her, yet it was also taxing. The only thing she had to look forward to was going to the Manor to see her beloved Feylonis, and their precious daughter Leandra. Leandra, who was now age five, still didn't quite understand why her Minn'da was gone all day, leaving her home with Feylonis whom she came to call mom. Feylonis wasn't alone with Leandra all day, for the manor still had the head servant, Agnes Cooke.

Feylonis had just entered into the parlor, having just put the young Leandra to bed for the night. Plopping down on the couch she sighed heavily as she buried her face into her arms on the armrest of the couch. "I am so glad she's asleep now.." The Magistrix chuckled as she set down the book she had been reading. "I know. She was a little terror today. Refused to leave my side even when I came home. I think she's still trying to get acclimated to our life. It's a shame that-" She paused, not wanting to think about the recent passing of her husband.

"Dalah'surfal.. I know. But we will be alright. The person who killed him is in the stockades for life. And thank the Light for that." Fey had been quick to move to the floor before Zariasona, grabbing hold of her hands so that she could offer any comfort she could to her.

"I know, darling. It's just-" She sniffed, her gaze shifting to the ceiling. It was clear she was trying to not cry again. "I need to get back to work. I cannot let this stop me." "Oh come on Zari, You can't bury yourself in work every time something happens like this. You do this every time."

At that moment, a heavy pounding upon the front door was heard. It was loud enough that it echoed in the foyer, and came into the parlor where Feylonis and Zariasona sat. The silence was deafening between them. Thankfully, Agnes was still up for they heard the scurried foot falls heading towards the door.

The large doors creaked open, and mumbling could be heard between Agnes and another female who stood outside. "I'm sorry, you're who?" Another mumble of words came, and there was silence in the foyer. "Let me consult the Mistress. One moment." The door closed gently and Agnes was quick to stand in the entry-way of the parlor. Clearing her throat, she softly spoke. "M-Mistress. There's someone claiming to be your-" She fell silent, trying to conjure the words. Clear cut confusion was written all over Agnes' face.

"Spit it out already, Agnes. Who is at the door?" It was late, and Zariasona hated late night guests.

"Your sister."

"Impossible. Both of them perished. What is her name?"

"She says it's Kinadra, a sin'dorei of the Ebon Blade."

Zariasona was frozen, her eyes locked to Agnes. Feylonis peered up at Zaria with the same confusion as Agnes. "Surfal.. I thought you said your sisters perished? How is this-" "Send her in. Send her in now." The words were spoken so quick that they cut off Feylonis' words.

Agnes gave a quick bow before scurrying towards the door once more. As the large oak doors creaked open, both of the women could hear Agnes speak. "The Mistress will see you in the par-"

The black-cloaked figure pushed passed Agnes upon hearing it was alright to enter, not giving her the chance to finish. For a moment, a flurry of disorientation filled the woman as she sought out the room with the crackling fire. Within seconds, she was standing where Agnes had just been with her black hood covering her face, and water dripping down her form from the rain that just ended.

Zariasona was quick to lift herself to her feet, eager to see the face of the woman who claimed to be her sister. Feylonis moved just as quickly, planting herself just behind Zaria.

The hood lowered, and the straight black hair fell out of the hood with pointed ears springing to life. Blue lich fire eyes, and the same silken complexion that Zaria remembered her to have always had.

"Kinadra.." Zaria said nothing more and rushed to her sister to hug her tightly. "I thought you died." "I did." Kinadra's cold voice came. "But the Lich King brought me back. I now live under the banner of the Ebon Blade. And Zari.. I've come home. At long last, I have come home."

"Kinnie.." Zariasona hugged her tighter, and together the two sisters sobbed together before the roaring fireplace.

@daily-writing-challenge

[bakechochin]

Book Reviews - The Masked City

The Masked City - Genevieve Cogman - It’s taken me a long arse while to understand that fantasy books can generally be organised into two general categories: serious well-thought out fantasy that you can actually talk about with people, and oversimplified dumb fantasy that you forget about as soon as you’ve completed (which, more often than not, all share the exact same character archetypes and all follow the same general lines) -> I felt the need to pick a book from the latter category, and I remember this book’s predecessor, The Invisible Library, having some pretty sweet stuff in it (plus it was either this or I finally read A Conjuring of Light, and fuck that) - I’ve got to admit that the setting of this series is pretty damn sweet; whilst the idea of the Library seems somewhat less cool now that I’ve got the inter-dimensional library from Lost in a Good Book as a reference point, but I do value this book’s inclusion of original characters as its agents of literature as opposed to Fforde just cribbing off of pre-existing literature for his cast -> Whilst I will argue that there really is too much in this world, and the overall concepts that define it (specifically the Fae and the Dragons) are pretty generic, it’s the kind of stuff that has just enough in the way of defined rules to allow for a shit load of cool stuff, and the stuff that the book does include regarding the Fae and the Dragons is all really fucking cool - This book recognises the fact that it’s dumb - it’s got kung fu wuxia dragons in it for fuck’s sake - and so when things actually get underway and the magical Fae-ruled Venice is introduced, this book pulls out all the fucking stops when it comes to low-brow but fun entertainment -> There’s blending into huge crowds at Carnival, there’s action sequences atop gondolas, there’s enigmatic black-clad mask-wearing assassins, and there’s an operatic villain with a dumb name who monologues at the protagonist with moustache-twirling glee from his opera house box, and it’s all great fun to read - I do like Irene as a protagonist, even putting aside the whole obvious author self-insert vibe that she exudes all the fucking time; she’s cool and collected and gets shit done through some pretty radical magical ways (and hell yes am I happy to say that the Language gets used a lot more in this book, and the excuses used when Irene can’t use her omnipotent superpower make more sense in the context and aren’t just cop-outs like in the previous book) -> Also similarly to in Moons Over Soho, this book recognises that the side characters (i.e. hunky men one, two and three) are nowhere near as interesting as Irene (two of them are generically polite and chivalric fighter types and the last one is a supernatural hunk), and so they generally get shunted to the sidelines so that Irene can get shit done on her own - As mentioned above, this is very oversimplified and very dumb fantasy, and whilst I’d argue that Cogman writes the best books in that very niche subcategory, it still suffers from all the tropes that I would expect -> Pretty much all the characters speak in exactly the same informal chatty tone (inevitably with a few flippant references to literary convention thrown in, ostensibly to keep up the illusion that this book is about books but realistically because Cogman wants to create her own bibliophile utopia), the protagonists are all either unflappable effortlessly amazing badasses or brooding angsty arseholes, there will inevitably be some sexy magical folk sauntering about (this position would usually be filled by vampires, but in this book we’ve got the Fae instead), and against all odds the antagonist will be defeated via deus ex machina means - The pacing of this book is pretty buggered, but in quite an interesting stop-start way; the book begins in media res with shit hitting the fan in literally the first few pages, but then the book goes back to explain the stuff that had happened prior which slows everything way the fuck down, and though all the important plot-progressing things occur very quickly, all of the unimportant fluff leading up to the plot-important moments are really bloody slow - I reread my review of The Invisible Library to see what my criticisms were, and apparently I was vexed that the future books in the series would probably all only take place in one world when I was interested in the world-hopping malarkey, but since then I have changed my tune somewhat -> I reckon that settings that make a point of having pretty much everything imaginable in them (like the OASIS in Ready Player One) suffer in that the book’s content will never be able to encapsulate everything (and any attempt to do so will result in something like Kraken, with too much shit in too short of a book); the previous book introduced the idea that there are pretty much infinite worlds, but we really didn’t get too see many of them so they may as well have not been there, and so I thought that this book would opt to instead set its story in one world that has a smattering of everything -> That’s how this book started, but before long we’re jumping right the fuck back on the world-jumping bandwagon, which I’m not sure if I like or not - The book ended on a cliffhanger, with Irene’s fate being left unknown, but honestly at that point I couldn’t bring myself to care; in any case, the overall storyline of Irene and the Library isn’t really the most complex or memorable overarching plot (at least not when compared with the individual adventures), so whatever - 6.5/10

I have a load of other book reviews on my blog, check that shit out.

[writefightandflightclub]

I don’t like Mondays: Steven Grant x fem! Reader blurb

Summary: after Steven’s awful Sunday he was convinced was a Friday, can you make his Monday just a little better? 🥺

Genre: fluff, meet cute, hints of romance.

Author’s note: I had ZERO (0) intention of writing for Steven Grant, yet after the week he’s had I simply wanted him to have a happy moment. Maybe I’ll never write him again -this was a very quick one- but here he is! Let me know what you think! 🧡(Obviously I don’t have lots of characterisation to lean on yet, but considering I wrote 15k for Dieter before seeing the canon… this isn’t the silliest thing I’ve attempted 🙈)

Warnings: LIGHT EP 1 SPOILERS. Follows on from his on-screen Sunday, but otherwise not canon-heavy on the Moon Knight side (more so on the gift shop side 😆). Time skips, sleeplessness, distress, questioning reality, but not the major theme. Donna is rude (shocker!). Swearing. Coupla digs at museums, soz.

Rating: teen, but my blog is 18+ please and thank you! 🙏

GIF: by @tomshiddles

You march up to the counter in the gift shop, approaching the sad sack (affectionate) man behind the sales desk. He looks like an amalgamation of every moody indie Brit-pop frontman you had a crush on as a teenager - and you enjoy that about his aesthetic. His appearance is oddly comforting to you. Nostalgic.

He looks like he hasn’t slept since Jarvis Cocker was last in the charts either, judging by the heavy bags beneath his eyes, a few shades darker than his lightly-lined tan-brown skin.

Even as you approach the desk he looks as though he is struggling to stay awake; though he does perk up marginally as you sidle up and plant you palms flat on the counter.

“Hello! Are you in charge here?” you ask brightly, your tone full of enough energy that it seems to affront him, in his tired haze. Still, he does offer you an adorable half-arsed wave, which makes your heart involuntarily melt - especially as the motion jiggles the curls waffling delightfully across his forehead.

“Hiya. No. Chance would be a fine thing. That would be Donna.” His voice is softer than you would have expected. You quite enjoy that. It’s a gentle thing. Unobtrusive. Perfectly suited for a museum or a library, in fact. Ideal for intimate cafe conversations over text books and coffee.

His accent is different to what you may have conjured in your head too. A few degrees left of local. An unusual -though not unpleasant- twang which you can’t quite place.

“Great. Can I speak to her, please? To Donna?”

“Well. I wouldn’t recommend it.” His face crumples, brow and mouth collapsing with a weight, even as he attempts a soft breathy laugh. His manner is a little awkward, you note, -like he’s not entirely comfortable in his own skin- but endearingly so. Endearing enough that you glance down to his name tag, wishing to put a name to this new face.

Steven. With a “v”.

Steven with a “v” stiffens as you glance down, perhaps mistaking your interest with a desire to lodge a formal complaint about him.

“Reception sent me over here,” you explain briefly, hoping he can help. “I have something to raise about an inaccuracy with the latest exhibition posters.��� You gloss over the topic matter, not necessarily having an expectation one way or another that Steven will care about the dorky things which concern you. “There are seven and there should be nine and-” you waft your hand through the air “-blah blah blah.”

Steven’s eyes bug a little, and an unexpected smile inches over his face. He looks disproportionately happy about your complaint, for reasons you cannot fathom. “And you - a member of the public- would like to tell Donna how horrified you are with marketing’s distressing disregard for historical accuracy?” His grin is even wider now, the cloud of despondency temporarily shifted from above his head.

You clutch your handbag strap more tightly to your shoulder, and clear your throat softly. “Um. Horrified is a strong word. But something like that, yeah.” You try to read him. Is he being sarcastic?! You can’t always tell - you’re not good at that- but as you regard him you find his eyes soft and not cruel. His tone sweet and not bitter.

God. His eyes are as brown as cocoa. A brown which must be as old as history itself. A beauty effortless and timeless enough to exist as a relic on display within these walls, you think. You’re sure people would come from far and wide to gaze into them.

Quickly, you blink the thought away. Your friends are always telling you you’re a hopeless romantic. You’re finally beginning to see what they mean.

“I’ll get Donna for you. I’ll be back with you in two minutes, miss.”

You nod with gratitude and lean your hip against the counter as Steven crosses to the phone behind the desk, lifting the receiver and flattening those pretty curls to the side of his head. You watch a telltale gulp trail down his neck as he awaits pick-up, and you can practically visualise the stress coursing its way through his body as he prepares to submit his plea. “Hiya!” he says cutely, and you smile as you subtly survey his rather handsome side profile. “Alright, Donna? Yeah. There’s someone here to speak to you. Could you come upstairs, please?” There is a pause then - no doubt as he awaits Donna’s response - and you watch him hold the receiver slightly further away from his ear, as though voices are raised on the other side of the line. He looks nervously over at you and paints his face with a taut veneer of conviviality. “Okay, Donna. Well the lady is still going to be here whether I’m buried in inventory later or not. Okay?” He turns to you again, attempting to muster a bright smile as though he single-handedly stands between you and a forever tarnished reputation of the entire gift shop industry. You watch his spare hand disappear up his sleeve, and his fingers fidget with a frayed thread as Donna continues to chew him out.

“Okay,” he announces with weak fanfare, waving his hands in a circle like a shy magician with no reveal. “She’ll be right up for you. Two minutes.”

“Thank you,” you smile, and, as he stands on the other side of the counter he stiffens, his shapely jaw dropping open for a few strangled syllables to emanate - so unintelligible you think you’d need the Rosetta Stone to interpret them. Abruptly, his jaw closes again, and you realise, with displeasure, that it’s going to fall to you to carry the small talk on this occasion.

You suck at small talk.

“Mondays, eh?” you throw out there, followed by a gentle click of your tongue and an eye roll, which you’re sure may be too many embellishments. “Did you have a good weekend at least?”

“Not really,” he responds. “Seemed to fly by.” He massages his temple.

“They seem to go faster and faster, don’t they?”

He looks down at his shoes, his eyes suddenly as hollow and deep as tunnels. “You’re not wrong there.”

“What did you get up to?” you ask as casually as possible. What? He’s cute. You’re interested to find out more about him.

“You know. This and that. Got stood up. Ate some steak.” He nods his head gently, a weight settling on his brow as he hears his own words aloud.

Your head tilts in sympathy for him, and, since he looks so cut-up about it, eyes sheening wetly beneath those impossibly long lashes, you attempt to direct him towards a brighter view of things. “Oh no, that’s crap! Well, at least you got some steak out of it?”

“I’m a vegan actually, so, yeah. That wasn’t great either, to be honest.”

You smile awkwardly now, looking around the room and trying to reach for something else as a topic of conversation. However - thankfully - Steven continues talking, helping you out and confusing you further at the same time. “Went for a drive in the mountains, sort of. And somebody bought me a new fish. Gus 2. Both fins.”

Your mouth opens and closes wordlessly. He’s a little odd, isn’t he? Definitely unique. You like that. Sure, he’s somewhat sad, and a little self-deprecating, perhaps. But, even though you can barely make head nor tails of his weekend (or this conversation), you find yourself quite liking him. Enjoying his company. Enjoying the way he looks - very handsome in a bumbling, unassuming sort of way. Indeed, when he smiles about the new fish, a rare warmth blooms in your chest, flooding you all the way to your fingertips.

Steven with a “v” seems gentle and sweet and emotional. Reflecting that, he has kind features too. A softness despite the sharp angles and planes of his face. The kind of softness which should be immortalised in stone, you think, where history has instead favoured a host of gods and warmongers. You would prefer that his type of heart was more often celebrated.

You mull over his statements, trying to make sense of them. He scratches his head, as though he’s trying to do much the same thing.

The mountains he’d said? Was he in Wales or something? It’s not very mountainous round here - you’re not sure the office blocks at Canary Wharf count.

Regardless, whatever happened over the past couple of days, you get the sense his weekend had well and truly kicked him in the teeth, and you find yourself wishing for him that his Monday is somewhat brighter. Perhaps less teeth kicking too.

“How was your weekend?” he finally asks, shaking his head as though in regret that he’d neglected this reciprocal politeness for so long. He blinks bashfully at you; but you don’t get a chance to answer.

Instead, the woman who must be Donna -just has to be- emerges from a side door and steps up to the counter. Steven immediately tries to busy himself, turning to the basket of era-inappropriate Ancient Egyptian jellies on the desk in front of him and ineffectually rearranging them.

You smile broadly at Donna by way of greeting, and you nod towards the basket of sweets by way of an icebreaker. “Did you know gelatine wasn’t invented until 1682? Not sure the Ancient Egyptians would have had those.” You snort a laugh but Donna looks thoroughly unamused. Yeah. Oh well. Donna gave you the typical reception your unsolicited facts receive; but at least Steven seems to appreciate you. Indeed, Steven is looking at you in mild awe. In fact, he even drops the basket of snacks on to the floor as you seemingly fluster him, and -after exclaiming a soft “bugger”- stoops quickly and apologetically to gather them up.

“What can I do for you, love?” Donna says impatiently, tapping her heeled foot on the floor. “Ol’ Stevie here wasn’t bothering you, was he?”

At that, Steven taps his name tag repeatedly with his pointer finger. He does so tiredly, his mouth opening in a mere silent protest, as if out of habit by now more than anything.

So that’s how it is?

“Actually, Steven has been wonderfully helpful.”

Donna scoffs. “I find that hard to believe. A leopard doesn’t change its spots, does it?” Wow. You decide in that moment you really don’t like Donna. Her face drops when she sees you refuse to join in laughing at this man’s expense. “What exactly is it you needed me for?” Next, the woman stares down Steven with derision, as though he’s somehow to blame for this minor inconvenience, and deserves to suffer for it.

You don’t know this pair, but you can still almost hear the word she is transmitting to him silently via her steely glare - no Rosetta Stone needed. Inventory. Steven’s face drops as he receives it too, and as he shrinks a bit you conversely stand a little taller, feeling very protective of the man already.

“Well, Donna. I wanted to point out some inaccuracies in the exhibition poster. There are seven Gods represented, but there should be nine in the Great Ennead.”

Donna smiles thinly, folding her arms over her bust. She looks between you and Steven as though you are co-conspirators. “Did he put you up to this?” she accuses baselessly, wagging her finger between the both of you. “Are you one of his weird little friends?” Wow, again.

Okay. Well, you are not, in fact, one of Steven’s weird little friends. But perhaps you would like to be. At the least, you’d certainly prefer him as a friend than Donna.

“Excuse me?” you ask firmly, completely aghast and watching the colour drain from her face the moment she realises that she’s way off the mark. “No. In fact, I’ve never met this man before today. I’m simply a member of the public concerned with historical accuracy. You know. Even though we can’t count on our institutions for basic things like restitution of stolen artefacts to their country of origin, or divesting from those less than ethical sponsors, we should, at the very least, be able to expect basic historical accuracy, should we not? Or is that standard no longer important here either?” You fold your arms and jut out one hip for effect. “Must I inform the readers of my wildly popular weekly history column that accuracy is no longer important to this particular museum, hmm? And can I quote you on that, Donna?”

She gulps and then flashes you a rather desperate, rather wobbly smile. Meanwhile, you glance over at Steven, and his mouth is agape, his eyes glowing softly with blatant admiration following your mini tirade. His face splits with a cautious glee, and he looks primed to leap over the counter and high five you - at least, like he might if Donna were not there. She scowls at him then, as though she might punish him for failing to side with her. However, Steven simply juts out his chin in defiance. After all, what more can she threaten him with today? Putting him on inventory more?

Besides, he is soon done with Donna. His cautious but admiring study of you sends a further flush of heat to your already warmed cheeks. In fact, you feel warm all over, and you unfurl your woollen scarf suddenly from around your neck.

“My apologies,” Donna concedes. “I’ll pass your concern on to marketing immediately. Stevie-“ You glare at her. “Steven, will chuck you a couple of free tickets to the exhibition, won’t you love? To say sorry for the trouble.”

“Thank you, Donna,” you say, holding back a smug smile, and you watch her hurriedly walk out. You can tell she’s fuming.

As soon as she is gone you feel ten feet taller -only because Steven looks it, a momentary lightness and a relief from being trodden under her boot. You laugh brightly, and you shuffle forwards, coming to settle opposite him, across the breadth of the counter.

“That was bloody amazing,” he says in awe, and you flatten your palms on to the surface in front of you as you fold in mirth. “I’ve been saying for weeks marketing had done a shoddy job - and nobody listened to me.”

That’s a shame, you think. People should listen to this man. You think he must have plenty to say which is of value.

Mirroring you, Steven also tentatively flattens his palms against the countertop. “Actually. You’re amazing,” he gushes, and that flood of warmth surges in you all over again. “So amazing that I can hardly believe you’re real.”

Wow. That takes you aback. What a thing to say! To have said in such a heartfelt way. Steven looks away then, to the floor, as if he dare not look back at you, his face crumpling with a kind of torment you can’t fully comprehend. “Are you?” His voice is small. Pained, even. “Are you real?”

“Yes,” you state, with no hint of mocking, answering his question just as earnestly and plainly as it was asked. You slowly slide your palms across the surface of the table, inching your fingertips closer and closer to his own, until the very pads of your fingers contact his. The barest of touches, and yet it seems to make his breath hitch in his chest. “See? Flesh and blood, Steven. Not an apparition.”

You smile at him softly, warmly, and Steven looks down at your hands touching as though this is history itself in the making. As though this moment should be immortalised in stone. Captured and preserved so that time cannot slip away from him again. So he can know it was real.

“Do you like the Ancient Egyptians?” he asks softly, to which you nod encouragingly, urging him to go on. “Well. I have my lunch break in 20 minutes. I could give you a tour of the gallery if you like? We’ve got some cracking sarcophagi.” Your face lilts into a smile. “We don’t have a preserved Viking shit like up in Jorvik.” He scratches his crown of curls. “But I can whip you ‘round the highlights anyway.” He loses steam and confidence all of a sudden, blinking bashfully, his face tipping into a gentle, lopsided smile. “I mean. If you want to.” Then, with a start he adds. “I wouldn’t charge you or anything. It’d be free.”

Okay. Now you think he’s really really cute. “I’d like that, Steven.”

He looks happy when you say that. “Bloody brilliant. I’ll see you in 20 minutes then-” he extends his palm towards you, raising his eyebrows and waiting expectantly. When you don’t catch his gist, his smile switches sides, and he gently taps his name badge.

Oh gosh! Your name! You hurriedly introduce yourself, and you see a contentedness settle over Steven’s face as he echoes it back to you, already looking far less despondent than he had when you’d first walked in.

“Okay,” he smiles. “See you in twenty minutes?”

You nod.

Maybe you’ll pick him up a coffee. You wonder if the barista in the cafe will recall what he favours. After all, you don’t want him falling asleep on you. You imagine he’s much more interesting whilst he’s awake.

“Okay,” he repeats with satisfaction. “See you then. Laters, gators.”

At that choice phrase, your face splits in an unexpected smile, your whole middle tightening as a giggle is pushed up from your chest. You think on your feet, for a fitting sign-off of your own. “In the Nile, crocodile.”

It’s cheesy. It’s a dad joke, basically. But Steven’s bright laugh fills the whole gift shop, and for that reason, you don’t think there’s a single better thing you could have said.

While his Sunday he thought was a Friday had been looking grim, you hope you’ve already made his Monday look a little better.

He’s certainly brightened your day in return.

[randomshyperson]

The Scarlet Witch Prophecy - Chapter 10 - The Fifth Year (Part Four)

Summary: As the youngest daughter of Howard Stark, you have ordinary expectations for your years at Hogwarts. Little do you know what adventures await you when your destiny is intertwined with the legendary Scarlet Witch.

Warnings: +16. Adaptation of the Harry Potter Saga, Magical Thematic, Prophecies, Mentions of Violence, Torture and dark magic, Language (swearing and minor/major offenses), manipulation of will, Underage kissing, insinuation of smut with minors, Smut (overage), descriptions of death, aggression, obscurity, angst, fluffy, soulmates analogies. Chapter Warnings: Dark magic, violence, magical torture.

A/N> I really hope i don't put this fic into another hiatus, but i got a feeling i will. The only I can promise is to finish it. Hope you all like this chapter.

Series Masterlist ||  Read on AO3 || All Works Masterlist

Part X - The Fifth Year (Part Four)

You walk beside Headmistress Harkness in silence, deeper into the dungeons of the castle.

She leads you to a wooden door, and then you enter a large stone room, which you imagine to be an office for the study of ancient runes, as you notice the symbols around the room, carved into the rocks and the corners of the walls.

"Professor, what did we come here for?" You ask with your arms folded across your chest, feeling your body shiver slightly at the creepy atmosphere in the room.

"I am going to help you reach your true potential, Miss Stark." She declares simply and waves her wand.

You feel your body being pushed until you are in the center of the room, your arms uncrossing and stretching out at your body's side, but soon there are thick iron chains conjured around your ankles and wrists.

Letting out a surprised exclamation, you look at Harkness in fear, but she is muttering softly, and walking around while touching the runes with her wand, and the symbols light up a purple glow one by one.

"Professor, what's going on?" You question trying to struggle against the chains, which seem to get tighter with each movement. You let out a grunt of pain.

"Stop fighting." She orders as she turns to you, her gaze assessing your face. "It's almost time, it will be painful if you resist."

"What are you talking about?"

But Agatha didn't answer and walked back behind you. You deduced that she was touching the runes on the walls at your back, because you could hear the rustling on the rocks, and then she came back into your field of vision.

She rummaged through her pockets, and pulled out a small watch.

"Now, now, you're almost late." She remarks, and looks back at you with a little smile. "I bet Erik asked about Pietro."

You frowned, but Agatha looked away, moving to the cabinet in the corner of the room. She returned with four candles in her hands, and deposited them around you.

You watched her use her wand to make the candles stand perfectly still in the four corners, and then light itself. You felt your heart race. Agatha was going to do a ritual with you. Of what exactly you had no idea. And judging by the events, it couldn't be good.

"Professor..."

"Quiet." She interrupts earnestly, one finger raised in the air while she looks back at the clock. You wriggle uncomfortably, and it takes only a moment for Agatha to let out a sigh and turn to you. "Let's get started."

You were about to ask again, but Agatha raises her wand toward you and mutters words you don't recognize.

Your vision dims for a second and then you think you are having another vision, but you cannot understand exactly what it is.

It looks like the nightmares you had with Mephisto, but everything is quieter. You can only hear your own footsteps, but it is as if you were walking on water.

The shelves in the ministry are completely empty, and the image is dull.

This time you are not looking for something. You are calling out to someone.

You walk and you walk, and then you come to the center of a room. And you choke when you see yourself.

But your face is completely bloodied, and you are whimpering in pain.

"I found you." The voice is Mephisto's, but you don't see him anywhere. Your bruised self is dying, and you begin to feel desperate, but when you try to scream for help, what comes out are the words. "Where is it? Find it for me!"

"I don't know." Your self whines. "And if I did know I wouldn't tell you."

"Filthy half-blood!" The voice that is your accuses, and then there is a red light and your bruised self screams in pain. It is the cruciatus curse, and it only stops after a moment. "I have no time for your lies. I'll end it at once."

You gasp and are back in Agatha's room, falling to your knees.

"What was that?" You manage to ask as you try to calm your breathing, grumbling in pain as you realize that the sudden movement has made the chains hurt your wrists.

"That was just what it took to get Wanda away from the castle." Agatha replies as she lowers her wand. You frown in confusion, but the woman is getting closer. She makes a motion with her hands and you feel a sharp pain on the tip of your forehead, and you grumble.

A little blood trickles down her face, but it doesn't hurt that much, and you figure it's just a small cut. Ancient runes are not your specialty, but it's not hard to imagine that she just drew one on your skin.

"What do you want from me, professor?" You ask half breathlessly, feeling your body weak. Agatha is muttering some incantations, and you feel as if your energy is slowly being drained away.

When she stops, you can barely keep your eyes open.

"Now we will wait a little while, dear." She says as she kneels in front of the candled square she created. "Wanda needs time to get to the ministry."

You shook your head, feeling your vision go blurry and your mouth go dry. Agatha sighed before she stood up, and you were surprised that she brought you water.

"I don't want you to collapse now, we're not even halfway through it." She declared as she forced the small bottle against your lips. You grumbled, but she held your chin tightly and forced you to drink.

It wasn't water, but it didn't taste bad.

"There you go, drink it all." She guided and only when the item was empty she pulled away. With a flick of her fingers, the bottle disappeared and you gasped as you felt a wave of heat pass through your entire body.

It was a potion of vigor, and although confused and frightened, you had no physical discomfort.

"What did you do to me?" You questioned between teeth. Agatha moved around the room, grabbing one of the books from the bookshelf. She muttered something about making sure she was doing everything right, before she stopped standing in front of you.

"Isn't it obvious, my dear?" She retorted with debauchery. "And I thought you would be smarter, but perhaps the hat was wrong."

Agatha crouched down again, and put the book down on the floor in front of you. You looked down to notice that it was open on a page that contained a map of England.

Before you could ask, she was forcing your head down, and you grunted in pain. When your blood dripped onto the paper, she let go.

"Thank you, dear." She declared without looking at you. "Now let's find out how close they are."

You gasp in surprise when your blood moves on the paper, circling around the lines of the map. Agatha makes a noise with her mouth in contentment.

"Ah, judging by the speed, I'm sure they used the thestrals." She comments. "I suppose Miss Quinn joined the quest in the end."

You look at the professor with confusion, but she is already raising her fingers to your forehead.

"Let's take a peek." She declaims, and you feel your skin burn where she touches it. Your vision dims for a second before you see the sky.

You are mounted on something, and you look around to see all your friends mounted on thestrals, flying beside you. You want to ask what is going on, but soon realize that you are just watching.

"Are we far away?" Gamora asks beside you.

"No! Just a few more minutes." It is Tony who answers from the front horse. He looks upset, all of them do in fact.

You want to shout to ask, but your vision dims and you are back on your feet.

Agatha lets out an impatient sigh as you pant in pain, trying to understand exactly what is going on.

"It's a pity." She mumbles to herself and you force yourself to ask.

"What is it?"

"Mephisto takes no prisoners, Miss Stark." She replies. "I hadn't expected your friends to interfere, it's really a pity. Perhaps you should already pick out a dress for the memorial ceremony."

"What are you talking about?"

"In reality it's your fault of course." She declares with a mischievous giggle and you stare at her in confusion. Agatha sighs humorously, as if what she is telling you is obvious. "Silly girl, the cloak of course! The legendary invisibility cloak that you lent to your dear brother."

"What?"

Agatha rolled her eyes.

"It's not funny when you don't know what I'm talking about." She commented impatiently and leaned against one of the pillars of the hall, her arms crossed. "But I think we have time until they reach the ministry, so let's talk a little."

You think the effect of the potion is wearing off too quickly, but you force yourself to keep your gaze on Agatha.

"The story is much simpler than you might imagine, of course." She begins. "I needed to find a way to help Wanda unleash her power completely, and you were the solution to all my problems." She says with a nostalgic chuckle, and you look at her wide-eyed.

Your vision is darkening again, and Agatha notices by your tired expression, so she lets out a laughing exclamation and moves around the room. When she returns, there is a wooden compartment in her arms, which she lays on the floor. You notice the dozens of small glass jars, and she forces you to drink another one.

"Dear, Dear, there you go. There's no reason to look so pale, you just need a little encouragement." She smiles at her own pun, and you move your head to push her touch away, making her laugh before turning away.

"Where was I? "Oh yes, in the beginning." She asks rhetorically, her posture amused. "I'm going to assume that Erik told you about the nature of Wanda's powers, dear, it would be sad to know that he didn't after so much."

"He did." You grumble and Agatha smiles.

"Oh, great." She says. "Well, of course he said what I told him, of course. But he couldn't know everything. He wouldn't approve of my methods. As a father and as a wizard I suppose."

You sighed lightly, your body was shaking, like a fever, but the potion was keeping you pain-free.

"Professor..."

"Don't interrupt!" She cuts off quickly, but her tone is amused. "What an education you've been giving at Hufflepuff, my goodness. Maybe the hat should have sent you to Gryffindor, you would have learned better about manners."

You clenched your jaw and Agatha giggled a little before continuing.

"I told Erik that you two should stay apart, and he bought that story like the fool he always was." She comments with amusement and you feel your stomach sink.

"Was it you?"

"Don't make that face, honey." She says. "I couldn't risk you getting in my way."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Agatha sighs impatiently.

"Your bond, Miss Stark!" she retorts as if it were obvious, "I needed to shape Wanda's progress according to my agenda. If you were around her, you could develop the bond and your abilities would be a problem."

You looked at her with confusion and Agatha took another look at the map before looking back at you.

"They are arriving, shall we take another peek?"

"Tell me what you want to say!" You ask, but the witch just ignores you while touching your forehead again. You gasp in pain, but this vision is quicker.

You see a dark concrete, and a tall door. And then Agatha brings you back.

"Great, they're at the ministry." She mumbles as she releases you, you gasp helplessly, your head weighing down. But Agatha brings another vial of potion to your lips. "This is going to get a lot worse before it gets better I'm sorry to say, Miss."

You motion for her to take the bottle from your lips, but she insists that you drink it all and only backs away when you do.

"What do you know about my bond with Wanda?" You question next, feeling the elixir kick in again.

"Everything." She states simply and you look at her. "How it was made, how to break it and how to improve it."

Agatha draws her wand toward you again and you widen your eyes.

"Let's make sure she remembers why she''s there, dear." She speaks before bewitching you.

You watch yourself being tortured again, but now the shelves are full.

When you return, you fall flat on your face on the floor.

Agatha approaches with a grimace, pulling your hair to make you look at her again, and you grunt in pain.

"Do you need another potion or can you stay awake?" She asks.

"Fuck you."

Agatha laughed and let go of your hair, you managed to keep your head away from the floor by millimeters.

"I'm being so nice and you so badly behaved."

"You chained me to the ground." You retort with indignation.

Agatha rolls her eyes, crossing her arms as she leans against the pillar again.

"This is only to keep you from disappearing." She comments causing you to raise your eyebrows. "Oh, right, I forgot that you have no idea what I'm talking about."

You grumble in pain, but don't interrupt.

"As I was saying, I know all about your magical bonding, dear." She says. "It took some time, but I managed to figure it all out. And that's exactly why I kept you away from Wanda this year."

"Why?"

"Because I want Wanda's magic for myself, of course."

You let out an exclamation of surprise and anger, but before you could say anything else, your body tensed all at once, and you felt your heart soar as if it were racing.

"W-what's happening?" You muttered in confusion, feeling the adrenaline wake up your senses. Agatha looked at you intently, moving away from the pillar to look at you more closely. She touched the side of your faces, assessing you.

"You can feel the danger she is in can't you?" She asked with fascination in her voice and gaze. You gasped, feeling the room getting smaller. "It is absolutely magnificent to witness such power."

"What did you do?" you ask with difficulty. "Where is Wanda?"

Agatha laughs as she walks away. She moves around the room again and you think she is going to go back to her original position, but she makes a motion with her hands and floats in the air. She sits down with her legs crossed and stands at the same height as you.

"Sorry, Miss Stark." She says with her palms up and lying in the air. "We've reached the part where it's going to become very painful."

The candles around you float at head height, and the flames light up, but they are blue. You also notice the runes glowing on the walls.

"Please." You plead but Agatha doesn't answer you, all she says are words in a language you don't recognize.

When she falls silent, you wait for the pain to come, but all is quiet.

"It's done." She announces with a sigh.

"What's done?"

"Now she can become a scarlet witch for good."

"Professor what..."

But your voice dies in your throat as you feel a sharp pang in your chest and gasp breathlessly. A whistle hissing in your ear, and a sharp pain takes over your entire body in the next second.

You don't need much to deduce that Wanda is suffering.

"Stop it!" You beg as you hug your own body, feeling your skin burn. "Please stop hurting her!"

"Focus, Stark." You hear Agatha's voice in your head. It's hard to push through the pain to pay attention.

"Let me go!" You plead but you have the impression that it is only in your thoughts. You know that your body is screaming in pain. "Let me save her! Wanda!"

"Pay attention, girl!" It's Agatha again. "You never needed to be with her to protect her. Concentrate. Don't let her get hurt."

Agatha's sentence echoes in your head for many minutes, until her voice replaces the pain.

You open your eyes, but cannot see the room. There is a golden light all around you, and it takes a moment to realize that it is your hands and eyes that are glowing.

"What?" you gasp in confusion but your body is shaking again and you can taste blood in your mouth.

"Not yet, honey." Agatha says and you realize she is still in the room. You blink, trying to see her, but all you can see is the light. You can barely feel the chains, but they are still on your wrists. "Just a little longer. He needs to use the curse."

"Professor, what's going on?" You try but there is no answer. The pain returns and your body hangs forward, but you rest your hands on the floor, panting. "Please help me."

"Help yourself." Says the woman. "What will make the pain stop?"

"Wanda." The answer escapes in a sigh and you can barely keep your eyes open.

"Then go to her."

And then your vision dims.

You think you are falling into a portal key, because it feels the same. But you land before reaching the ground.

Everything is muffled, and you look around to see spell lights.

You see your friends dueling wizards you don't recognize, in a place you know as the Ministry of Magic.

You know because it is like your childhood memories, on the rare occasions when you were with Tony and your father in search of some package.

But it's empty now, except for the wizards fighting.

Your friends are losing, you know by the way the masked men are surrounding everyone in the corner.

But you're not looking for that.

Your attention is on the girl in the center, the bright red light surrounding her hands.

Your body immediately relaxes at the sight of her, and you walk on.

Wanda is also struggling. Her energy escapes from her hand towards the black-clad sorcerer, who has a devilish grin on his face, but who seems pleased to see so much power.

You lift your hand to touch her face, and then the sound returns.

The effect of your touch on Wanda's skin is immediate.

Her magic explodes in her hands, creating a force field that pushes Mephisto and the walkers meters away.

The leader lets out a laugh as he falls backwards, while his followers stare at the scene with confusion, surprised by the sudden blow.

Wanda falls to her knees, and you stoop down to the level of her face, raising your hands to your face.

"Wanda? Can you hear me?" You call out, but it is as you thought, she cannot. Neither she can see you. But something makes you believe she can feel you. You sigh watching her try to pull herself together.

Mephisto stands up and waves for his followers to stand still.

Wanda stands in front of her friends. You swallow dryly, and stand beside her.

"Your protector is here, isn't he?" The man questions with a murderous look on his face. "I can feel it."

"Where is she?" Wanda asks angrily, but the wizard continues to smile.

"Do you really think I would risk exposure to steal your girlfriend from the castle, Miss Maximoff?" The wizard retorts. "You are as foolish as your father."

Wanda raises her hands again. You feel your body tingle.

"I won't ask again." She says and Mephisto's gaze flashes with irritation.

"It is I who will not repeat myself, miss." He strikes back and points his wand toward Wanda in a quick motion. You see the green light approaching in slow motion, and your feet are already moving forward.

The Death Curse hits you in the chest, but all you feel is the tingling in the back of your head, and all they see, is a golden light.

"This is getting embarrassing for you." Wanda teases the wizard, and you want to smile, but you are feeling your connection grow weak, the atmosphere begins to glaze over.

"I've had enough of games." Mephisto speaks impatiently, and moves his wand toward the fountain in the center in the hallway. Water pours out of the marble and rises to the ceiling, forming a three-headed serpent. "I'll just drown your friends and eliminate a few names from the list of blood traitors."

"No!" Wanda says as she throws an energy ball at the sorcerer, but he deflects it with ease. The water Hydra moves and Wanda attacks again.

You think the water will reach your friends, but the ministry's Floo powder fireplaces are lighting up and the order's wizards are coming out of there.

Mephisto's smile fades. His followers begin to duel, and he forms a shield to stop Wanda's attacks while turning to look at the incoming aurors, as you watch Hydra's enchantment being controlled and undone.

It is satisfying to see Mephisto choke in surprise as the rest of the Ministry officials begin to Apparate and use the floo powder net to arrive on the scene.

You see the expression of pure shock when the Minister of Magic sees the sorcerer, before Mephisto apparates and disappears.

There is an immediate commotion afterwards, the aurors of the order preventing the walkers from fleeing and the rest of the officials looking on at the scene of the fight with confusion.

The atmosphere is getting stuffy again, so you turn to Wanda again, and she has tears in her eyes as she looks around.

Erik reaches her within the next minute.

"Darling!" He says hugging her with concern, but Wanda sobs and he pulls away looking into her eyes. "What happened?"

"I couldn't find her, papa." She cries. "I looked everywhere."

Erik shakes his head.

"Wanda, Miss Stark is safe." He assures you and you frown. "It was a false vision dear, she was never here."

Wanda gasps in confusion, you want to touch her but can barely keep yourself watching.

"But i saw..."

"I know dear, but it wasn't true." Erik interrupts, "Let's go back to the castle, I'll tell you everything. But breathe, okay, she's safe."

Wanda nods, and you feel her exhaustion invade your body immediately. The aurors of the order help your friends, and you watch Erik help Wanda walk to the fireplaces, and the realization that she is safe is enough for you to surrender to the darkness.

//-////-////-////-////-////-////-////-////-////-////-//

You know something is different the moment you open your eyes.

Maybe the way all the sounds invade your ears at once, and you grumble, trying to figure out if you have a headache or just reject the sudden gain in consciousness.

There is no pain, though, you notice.

There is only softness and lightness.

You blink a few times, and understand that you are lying on a bed. Straightening up, you eventually identify the room. It is an infirmary, but it is not Hogwarts. You frown in confusion, and straighten to sit up.

It looks like a hospital room, and there are other beds a few meters away, but they are empty. You also notice the "get well soon" balloons and the gift wrappings and food baskets on top of the cabinet at the end of the bed.

When you notice the sleeping figure in the armchair next to you, you gasp in surprise.

"Wanda!" You call out with a mixture of shock and relief.

The girl opens her eyes sleepily and then widens them when she realizes that you are looking at her curiously, babbling about what had happened and if she was okay. All Wanda does is let out a tearful laugh and jump at you, her arms around your neck as she hugs you tightly.

"Hey, is everything okay?" You ask fearfully, letting your arms encircle her waist and pulling her into bed with you. Wanda buries her face in your neck, and you want to close your eyes to enjoy the feeling of having her so close, but you are too curious to know about everything. "Wanda?"

"Fuck I was so worried." She sighs against your skin before pulling away, and you frown, looking into her watery eyes. You reach out to caress her face and she smiles as she leans into your touch, one hand rising to yours on her cheek.

"What happened?" You ask and she shakes her head slightly.

"A lot." She says. "But everyone is fine. You...merlin...you're here."

Wanda rests her forehead against yours and you both close your eyes.

"Where else would I be?"

She doesn't answer, just presses your lips together in a sweet but firm kiss. You feel your whole body shiver all at once, and gasp in surprise.

Wanda pulls away with a sigh and hugs you again, and you decide to give yourself over to the feeling, inhaling her perfume as you bury your face in her hair and feel your whole body relax all at once.

"Finally!" Your brother's voice startles you slightly, but you don't have much time to absorb his sudden presence in the room, because soon all your friends are entering as well, and Wanda is breaking the embrace so that your brothers will hug you and then your friends.

As soon as you hug everyone, and receive pats on the shoulder and questions about how you are feeling from the adults, you intertwine your hand with Wanda, who remains sitting next to you on the bed. The feeling brings you an instant sense of safety.

"Can someone tell me how I got here now?" You ask just as Carol Danvers turns away from you and stands next to Erik and Fury, who are in the corner next to Mantis and Harley, all squeezed around your bed.

"What's the last thing you remember, YN?" It is Tony who asks and you frown.

"The room with Professor Harkness, I think." You say feeling your stomach turn. Wanda's touch tightens a little, and you appreciate the sensation. Many flashes pass through your mind at once, and you use your free hand to massage your forehead lightly. "I think I remember a spell... Professor!" You exclaim suddenly looking at Erik, remembering the schoolmistress's words. "Agatha, she was the one who planned everything... the ministry, the prophecy! She knew everything and...!"

"Calm down, miss Stark." The professor interrupts with a nod. "We already know about what happened in the dungeon."

"Oh, okay." You mumble clumsily. "H-how did I get out of there?"

Erik exchanges a look with Wanda before turning back to you.

"Your last memory, Miss Stark, what would it be? Do you only remember talking to Agatha?"

"If you call torture talking." You mumble clumsily, and Wanda squeezes your hand hard, making you bite your tongue. "Hey." You say to her, but she doesn't let go of the grip. She says nothing, and you sigh. "Yes, professor. I just remember being within the spell. And then I woke up here."

Erik clears his throat and you think this is the time he's going to ask everyone to leave, but he hasn't.

"Well, then we have to update you on some important things, miss." He says as he puts his hands in his pockets. "I believe Doctor McCoy would prefer to talk to you first however, and he is looking at this small crowd with a certain disapproval."

You frown at the phrase, but there is a man dressed in aqua green approaching the bed and beckoning your friends to stand back. It's the healer in charge, you read the little plaque with the name "Doctor Hank McCoy" on the coat as he asks everyone not to be so on top of you.

"Good morning, Miss Stark, it's very good to see you awake at last. How are you feeling?" He asks as you approach, you squeeze Wanda's hand as soon as she makes mention of getting up. She gets a slight flush on her cheeks, but ignores the doctor's gaze and continues sitting next to you. Hank realizing that the witch won't move away, decides to approach you from the other side of the bed, a metal stethoscope in position on his neck and hands.

"I'm fine." You say with a smile.

"Let's make sure you are." He says as he places the object against your chest. "Take a deep breath, please."

The check is quick, and a little awkward as everyone is looking at you. Doctor Hank grabs a wooden clipboard as soon as he's finished.

"You've recovered almost completely, that's impressive." He comments sounding pleased and you look at him curiously.

"Was I sick?"

Hank gives a little laugh and then frowns, realizing that you really were curious. He clears his throat.

"Are you experiencing memory loss?" He asks looking at you intently. You swallow dryly, pulling away slightly as you feel the blue orbs analyzing you so intently. "It's a common symptom for this type of magical occurrence, of course, though it's a more recurring one in patients who have experienced the cruciatus curse."

"Doctor?"

Hank straightens his body again, putting his hands in his pockets.

"What is your last memory of the ritual, miss?"

"Ritual?" You ask confused.

"The bonding ritual, Miss Stark." He clarifies. "Your family members explained to the team that you were in the custody of a dark witch and went through a level five rated magical binding ritual against your will."

"I..."

"Doctor McCoy, please." Erik interrupts with an embarrassed smile. "We haven't had a chance to talk to her about everything. Perhaps some less technical language."

"Oh, yes, of course." Hank agreed with a smile, and his posture became much friendlier. "What exactly do you remember, Miss?"

"Only to be caught in a spell doctor." You reply. "My professor, she used some runes on the walls and tried to keep me trapped. It was... quite unpleasant if you ask me." You recount feeling really uncomfortable. "I didn't really understand what happened."

"Don't worry, we know what happened." Hank says. "From a medical point of view at least." He jokes and Erik smiles, but you are too nervous to do so. "Sorry, but the room is too crowded. Why don't you all wait outside while I talk to Miss Stark?"

Your friends let out a disgruntled exclamation together, but Carol and Fury are already pushing everyone out.

"She can stay, right?" you ask quickly and Doctor Hank gives a chuckle.

"I wouldn't try to keep you and Miss Maximoff apart anymore in any manner at all." He comments and you look at him with confusion.

Erik also stays in the room, standing at the end of the bed. Wanda strokes your hand with her thumb as the doctor speaks again, and you want to pay attention to his words rather than her touch, but it is a difficult task.

Hank sits on the edge at the height of your knee.

"You have undergone a magical bonding ritual, Miss Stark." He begins. "More precisely, through a kind of spell to strengthen a magical bond that already exists in you. In this case, your bond with Miss Maximoff."

The doctor adjusts his glasses slightly as soon as you nod in understanding.

"That kind of spell is very dangerous by itself, Miss." He says. "But it is even more so when done without the consent of those involved."

Hank gropes his pockets and then takes out his own wand, extending it into the air with a smooth motion. You watch intently as two golden figures resembling two people appear in front of you.

He also draws a thread connecting them at chest height.

"What we know about natural protective magical bonds, Miss, is that they act as a string of energy between the bodies of the witches who are connected." He narrates as he signals the golden magical wave with his finger. "That string stretches, and bends, and can only be broken in three ways. With the length of the magic contract, the withdrawal of the spell, or the death of one of the witches. And in this third, if the witch to whom the link refers, dies before the other, the other will suffer the same fate, since the link remains intact."

"Doctor, I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I already knew that information." You comment clumsily, but the adults don't seem annoyed, they just giggle. You are surprised to realize that you know Wanda thought it was funny even without looking at her.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry, I'm getting there." He hits back with a chuckle. Hank makes another motion with his wand, and this time, an energy rune appears between the figures in the center of the link, and you frown as you recognize the image.

"It looks like the one Professor Harkness drew on the floor." You comment.

"It's exactly the same." Hank says. "This is rune needed for the power release spell. Ancient magic, very powerful." He counters. "It was common for witches to use this kind of spell in the wild, before magic societies were fully formed, since no one learned how to grow their own power through study and practice. Other methods were used before the schools of magic existed."

"What did she do to me, doctor?" You ask fearfully, understanding where the conversation was going. Doctor Hank exchanged a look with Professor Erik.

"Well, Mrs. Harkness wanted to rush things, I believe." He says. "You see, magical connections are very unstable magics, Miss. Especially if done between living things." He adds and moves his wand again. The rune multiplies and lands on the chest of each of the figures. "The ritual that Agatha performed served to stimulate the full magical potency of your connection all at once."

"But what does that mean?"

"It means that after that night, she merged your magic and Miss Maximoff's magic as one." Hank clarified and you frowned, trying to understand exactly what that signified. Seeing your expression, Professor Erik cleared his throat and approached the side of the bed, close to Wanda.

"What will happen now, Miss Stark, will be the peak of a magical bond." He says with a worried look, and you look at him curiously. "You two will both present new powers, and you will need to learn how to control all of them."

You ran your fingers lightly through your hair, sighing.

"You still haven't told me how I ended up here." You grumbled slightly impatiently. The teacher hesitated, but then told you.

"Agatha underestimated the power of your bond with Wanda." He said and you were about to question what that meant when he spoke again. "The ritual served to potentiate the Scarlet Witch's magic, using your body as a bridge for contact, since through the connection between you, she was able to force Wanda's magic to evolve."

You looked at Wanda, but she was looking at your hands entwined together.

"Is everything okay with you?" You asked her immediately, and she raised her eyes to you. Nodding in agreement, she gave you a shy smile. You wished you were alone with her.

"Agatha wanted to use the bond just to stimulate Wanda's magic to its full potential, and she knew she could use your magical bond to do that." The professor then added. "But, I don't know if you remember, Miss Stark, as we talked about earlier in the year, there are limits to what the human body can handle. Just like you, Wanda didn't even come of age yet. Her magic simply wasn't ready."

"And that's when the magical bond between you two interrupted the spell." The doctor added and you widened your eyes slightly. He waved his wand so that the illusion of the figures shattered. "You see, Miss, you have a protective bond with Miss Maximoff. The minute the spell became strong enough to injure her, your magic merged with hers, and all was restrained. The ritual was immediately interrupted."

"You may not remember, but Agatha took you to the ministry." Erik said next and grimaced slightly. "Well, not exactly brought, but projected you. She was the one who set up the visions in Wanda's head so that she would see you wounded and fight Mephisto again. All the danger she was going through triggered the bond. And then she could project your consciousness to Wanda, giving her the power to face Mephisto in a duel."

"I don't remember that." You mutter, scratching the back of your neck lightly.

"Don't worry." Hank adds. "It was a very intensive magical exhaustion, I'm sure your memories will gradually come back. If not, Miss Maximoff can help you." He jokes and you frown in confusion, but the doctor is already getting up. "Well, I need to check on other patients, I'll come visit you later. Try to eat something before I get back, okay? You should still be here for a few days, until we're sure you're fully recovered."

You thanked the doctor before he left. Erik cleared his throat.

"Do you have any other questions?"

"Many sir." You say making him laugh lightly. But then you sigh. "But I wanted to stay with Wanda for a while."

Erik nods in understanding, and exchanges a look with his daughter before turning to leave.

You straighten to lie down and look at Wanda and she mimics your movement, but looks up at the ceiling.

"Wanda?" You call out and wait for her to turn her face toward you. A sense of lightness and assurance immediately invades your chest at having the green orbs stare at you. "How do you feel?"

She gives you a short smile, and straightens up to turn her whole body toward you. It's uncomfortable to hold your hands like this, so she lets go, but raises her fingers to your face, tracing your features.

"I feel different." She confesses. Every touch of her fingers is warm and comforting. "What about you?"

"Different too." You reply, resisting the urge to close your eyes. "But a good different."

Wanda smiles, shaking her head in agreement. You are silent for a moment, Wanda using her thumb to caress your cheek tenderly, and you let your gaze on her mouth.

"Why were you almost crying when I woke up?" You ask next, and her body tenses before she sighs. You look into her eyes, waiting.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you." She mumbles and you shake your head, bringing your faces closer together. Wanda sighs and brings her hand to the back of your neck as you press your foreheads together. "I can't talk about it."

"Show me then." You ask and she closes her eyes just before you close yours.

The visions hit you in the next second.

You see the false memories Agatha implanted in her, they were images of you being tortured in the ministry, your screams echoing among the corridors. You feel Wanda's desperation, her helplessness, the way her heart squeezed and the despair at every door she opened in the ministry and could not find you.

You gasp when you see the duel with Mephisto again, feeling your own touch in Wanda's magic, the way she had never felt so powerful, every cell vibrating.

A surprised sigh escapes when you see Wanda being carried back to the castle, as she feels her whole body tired but cannot close her eyes without hearing from you. You feel her tears when Professor Erik lets her see the state of the dungeon where Agatha imprisoned you, and the yearning when she sees your blood on the chains and on the floor.

The anger when her father tries to send her to sleep, and she insists on going to the hospital with your family, and the way her body shakes when she sees you on a stretcher unconscious.

Your own image scares you. The deep wounds on your wrists and ankles, made by the iron chains you have broken. The rune cut on your forehead, bright and red, and the blood that dripped down your nose, ears and mouth.

You feel the way Pietro's tight embrace, or his words of affirmation, assuring her that the healers will heal you, helps Wanda relax, but you also see how it's not enough. How all Wanda needs is for you to be at her side.

The feeling of fear and insecurity that lingers in Wanda's chest during the days she lies beside you in bed, waiting for you to wake up. Unsuccessful in sensing your thoughts even when she tries to sneak up on you during the nurses' shift change.

And then the sense of relief when seeing you open your eyes.

You gasp out the memories, feeling yours and Wanda's tears too.

"Oh, my love, I'm so sorry." You ask in a hoarse voice. "I should have woken up sooner."

Wanda lets out a tearful laugh, shaking her head.

"It's okay." She assures. "I'm just glad you did."

You smile, bringing your fingers together to take a strand of hair from Wanda's eyes and place it behind her ears.

"I will always be by your side, Wanda." You say. "I promise."

Wanda sighs, opening her eyes again. You use your thumb to wipe away the tears that have trickled down her face.

There is a moment of silence, and then your heart soars at her words.

"I know about the prophecy."

You look away before looking at her again.

"I'm sorry." You say. "I should have told you."

"Yes, you should have." She retorts seriously, but she doesn't sound angry. "But it's over now. And now everyone knows."

You widen your eyes, and probably sensing the way you've grown anxious, Wanda firms the touch of her hand on the side on your neck, murmuring lightly.

"Don't worry, eventually everyone would find out." She says and you swallow dryly.

"H-how did they know?"

"That's why Mephisto was in the Ministry." She explains. "He was looking for the prophecy in the mystery department. Steve found it first."

You swallowed dryly and Wanda continued to tell.

"I think he hesitated to tell Tony for a moment." She says. "But then he did. And then everyone knew. My father told the order as soon as you were admitted."

"How did Tony take it?" you asked fearfully and Wanda sighed.

"Better than I did if you ask me." She grumbled and you smiled shyly. "He only calmed down when they poured some potion for him. And well, I broke Dad's nose so it didn't really go down too well."

"Wow, you did what?" you ask in surprise, and Wanda grumbles, tucking her head into her pillow. You giggle, digging into her hair with your fingers. "I want to see that one."

Wanda chuckles against the cotton before looking back at you. She shows you the memory next. Everyone around the St.Mungus waiting room when Steve arrives accompanied by Erik and he tells everyone the truth. You see Tony squirming and being calmed down by two nurses, and you can feel Wanda's irritation and indignation as she looks at the "I was doing the right thing" expression her father has on his face. And how the feeling explodes in her chest when he comes to say he was trying to keep her safe and she just punches him in the face.

You gasp out of the memory with an impressed laugh, moving from the image of Erik with a bloody nose to Wanda with flushed cheeks, impacted by the way your laughter makes her heart soar.

"I can't believe you punched your father in the face." You tease with amusement and Wanda laughs lightly, reaching out to rest her arm on your waist. Her hand caresses your back gently.

"If he hadn't kept us apart none of this would have happened." She mumbles bitterly and you sigh.

"He thought he was helping." You retort but Wanda just hums. You let out an exclamation next as you remember something. "Wanda, you didn't tell me you were having nightmares! Are they still happening?"

Wanda sighs, denying with her head.

"No, not since the ministry." She says. "Papa hasn't figured out what they are, and now we can't count on Professor Harkness to help us find out. But since I fought Mephisto at the ministry, they've stopped."

"Why didn't you tell me about them?"

"Because they were about you." She retorts as if it's obvious. "I didn't want to worry you anymore. Not when all I do is cause you problems."

The confession catches you completely off guard. And Wanda's guilty tone breaks your heart. She is looking down at the sheet and you let out an incredulous laugh.

"That's so very far from the truth, my dear." You say as you catch her chin between your fingers, and make her look at you gently. "You have no idea how good you do me, do you Wanda?"

"I..."

"It' s okay, now I can show you." You interrupt with a shy smile, bringing your lips together in a gentle kiss.

Everything feels more intense now. It's a simple touch, but it warms your whole body. You leave your fingers at the nape of her neck as you slide your tongue against hers, and you both sigh with the touch.

It feels so good to kiss Wanda, it warms your whole body from head to toe, but remembering that you are in a hospital bed, just as a familiar warmth begins to form at the tip of your stomach when Wanda's hand squeezes the fabric of your shirt and her tongue moves against yours slowly, you sigh as you break the kiss.

You smile at the image of Wanda's swollen lips and ajar, dark eyes.

"Why did you stop?" she asks breathlessly, her voice husky. You raise your eyebrows in amusement.

"Baby, our families and friends are in the next room." You clarify and Wanda mumbles, coming closer to rest her forehead on yours. Her hand squeezed the fabric before adorning your t-shirt, her fingers on your skin making you shiver slightly. "Behave."

Wanda giggles mischievously, pecking your lips before moving away. You feel your body relax completely as you gaze into her emerald eyes, but the moment is broken when your friends are back in the room.

Ignoring the hissing and the giggles, you tuck yourself into bed so that Wanda can snuggle up next to you.

Things are going to be different now, you know. But something tells you that as long as you have Wanda's hand in yours, you'll be fine.

//-//-//-//-//-////-//-//-//-//-////-//-//-//-//-//

Tag list> @imapotatao / @aimezvousbrahms/ @ensorcellme/ @helloalycia || @mionemymind / @abimess / @stephanieromanoff / @yourtaletotell / @tomy5girls / @justagaypanicking / @thegayw1tch / @idek-5 // @myperfectlovepoem // @helloalycia // @ENSORCELLME // @AIMEZVOUSBRAHMS // @drpepperobsessed // @sighsam // @olsensnpm // @sxfwap // @table57 // @madamevirgo // @causeitswhatjesuswouldfreakingdo // @emptysince18x // @xastrydx || @yuhloversxx || @ymzki-haruki || @wouldirunofftheworldsomeday || @lostandsearching || @lezzzbehonesthere || @musicinourlips || @chaekhan || @diaryoflife || @nervoustrack || @aquamarinescarlet || @cristin-rjd || @idamaemann || @fortunatelynerdylight

[writeblrfantasy]

excerpt from fate of smoldering ruin: a mourning dance

context, elys just buried his father and mordi is trying to put a smile back on his face. i am in love with everything about this scene and i feel like that ao3 tag "i wrote this for me but you can read it too" lol. just. mordi's longing and devotion but also resignation are so prevalent here and just. hngg im in love with how i portrayed it

also, i am pleased to inform you this is not the only mourning dance in the trilogy :)

“Do you know what the Moon Court does in the event of a death?” Mordi asks quietly. He doesn’t wait for Elys’ denial. “We dance.” Mordi smiles for the first time today, picturing it. Few of the farewell dances he participated in were celebrating the departure of those he knew closely, but the Moon Court doesn’t care. All are family among the Mages. “Our funerals are a celebration of the life, not a sadness of the death.” After a silent day’s ride of indecision and overthought, he holds out his hand.

“You never did collect that dance,” Mordi says, his voice thick in his throat. “You promised you would hold me to it. It was your birthday wish. And when kings make promises, they deliver to their people.”

Mordi’s heart is beating so fast he’s glad Elys doesn’t have heightened hearing. However, one long look at Elys’ eyes tells him this was no mistake. Elys has never looked so impossibly fond, so grateful. Not at him. It draws heat to Mordi’s cheeks that slowly travels down the length of his body. Elys’ stare does not waver in its intensity.

Of all things, Elys says, “you are not my subject, Mordi,” with a similar emotion cloying his voice. He presses his palm into Mordi’s. He is warm.

“That does not matter,” Mordi murmurs in his ear, drawing him close. Closer than he’ll have Elys again for a long time, perhaps forever. He savors every second. “You are still my king,” he says, and there have never been truer words. He stares into Elys’ emeralds long enough to make sure he understands—as much as Mordi is letting him see. “Dance with me, my king.”

Mordi still remembers the steps. It’s not a lively dance, exactly, and they have no music to guide them but Mordi’s sole memories, but it’s a fast dance. Elys picks up the patterns quickly—he is not a royal for nothing. They spin and spin, twirl just to watch Elys’ robes swish.

It doesn’t take him long to find sunlit tears making rivers on Elys’ cheeks. “Do the mourners cry as they dance?” he asks, smiling.

“Sometimes,” Mordi says. “The Moon Court teaches positivity. Hope. A trust that the light will always come back to us.” A pause. “And it is the safe resting place for those who cannot find the light any longer, who are convinced it is gone from their world. We have each other to guide us through the darkness. We are family, and for someone we all carry a guiding light. Some lanterns are brighter than others.”

Though it uses up a great portion of his Moon Magic supply for the day, what with it being day and sunny, Mordi releases one hand to conjure a sphere of moonlight in his hand. Elys’ eyes blow wide with awe, and Mordi works hard on keeping the grimace of effort from his face. It doesn’t help his stores and his energy that he hasn’t been sleeping much, or well. He will sacrifice anything for Elys.

They’re still dancing; Elys has kept them in the rhythm of the steps. Mordi holds his eye, keeping the moonlight alive a little longer, and says, “I will always be your lantern, Elys. Whenever you need me.”

He does not add that the lantern metaphor is usually reserved for lovers. Elys will have no way of knowing, and perhaps Mordi wants to pretend things are different, keep the memory of Elys smiling and nodding as proof that Elys wants him in that way.

In another world, another life, it would be so. In this one, all Mordi has are dreams and fantasies.

The moonlight in his hand flickers and finally snuffs out, exhausted. “Thank you, Mordi,” Elys says softly, his eyes dancing with mirth and his tears dried, and Mordi is warm all over.

ASH AND SHADOWS TAGLIST (LMK TO BE ADDED/REMOVED) @faithfire @magic-is-something-we-create @47crayons @muddshadow @worldbuildng @writing-is-a-martial-art @shaheenarnitipsyart @nikkywrites @ren-c-leyn

[wolvesandpetals]

Loki x Sylvie Post-Finale Fanfiction (Angst, Rated Teen) Part 2 of 2

Part 1 is here:

She never knew it would hurt this much when the person she loves is right in front of her, but she can't reach out and touch him; when she is still her, he is still him, but everything else has changed, like an invisible lever in an old theatre changing the scenery in the background, bringing them both to the part of the play where they are hopelessly lost.

[[MORE]]

All it took was one single moment, one single decision, and everything feels irrevocably broken now. It makes her contemplate on the true nature of relationships, how fragile they are, and how easy it is to shatter them- and her.

The smoke is slowly clearing, and all that seems to be left is a man who is doing his best to keep his distance from her, physically and emotionally.

She can tell from the way he stands with his arms crossed, or his fists clenced when his hands are by his side, that he really doesn't want to hold her hand. How can something so simple as the touch of his fingers be so vital to her existence that it feels like something has been ripped out from inside her?

She wants to reach out and touch him, but she is scared that if he pulls away outright, any hope of reconciliation that she still has left will shatter into pieces.

And she really needs this hope. It's the only thing she still has left. It's the only thing that keeps her going.

---

He looks like a man with a mission.

They spent quite a long time together, running from the TVA, running towards the citadel at the end of time, hoping to achieve their goal of bringing down the one behind the curtains.

But that was her mission, and he was there for her. She was the one behind the wheels, he was the one keeping the sails afloat.

Now it's different. Now he has a defined goal, a glorious purpose.

She's seeing him in a whole new light now, and not just because he has switched to Asgardian leather and metal armors.

As far as she is concerned, she is better off doing it all alone. One woman army, nobody to get in her way, nobody to screw up her plans. Nobody to blame her if it all goes to shit.

Or so it was, until two months ago, when Mobius decided to enlist her help in fixing the multiversal madness.

She has never really worked with people before, and it's weird, to say the least. She never considered herself a team player, but she is finding herself hating the idea less and less lately.

And she swears it has nothing to do with him. Not the fact that they are working together, and seeing his face first thing in the morning brings her a sense of calm that she quite can't explain. Or the fact that their rooms are next to each other and it makes her feel secure enough to finally get some rest at nights. Or that this whole arrangement has kept them on talking terms, when they had gone their own separate ways otherwise.

Nothing to do with that at all.

---

Humans are stupid, and the biggest evidence of this is how they decided that two extremely powerful Gods skilled at magic, enchantment, and defeating an evil extra dimensional cloud that swallows everything it touches, should be delegated to the role of research. "You're clever. You're good at reading people. You can put yourselves in the shoes of the bad guys, no offense", they said, but really, what they meant was, "We can't trust you out in the field much." She knows it, he knows it. She just doesn't know why he's complying.

That's how they find themselves researching every single day.

She likes to think he's not the only reason why she's studying in the library instead of in the comfort of her room, but that'd be a lie.

At first, he chooses to sit at a separate table. But she keeps going over to his to "get his opinion" on something in the file she's reading, and finally, he gives in. Their current arrangement consists of him sitting in the chair in front of her, to the left, prim and proper, while she hoists her feet up on the table.

He falls asleep on the desk one night, face smacked against a file, the tiniest bit of drool forming at the corner of his mouth. It would be a hilarious sight, if her heart wasn't feeling what she can only describe as longing.

They should probably talk about it, like mature adults, but neither of them know how to do that.

All she can do right now is gather the courage to run her fingers through his hair. The touch is hesitant at first, as if one wrong move would make him wake up and push her back to square one. Slowly, she relaxes, letting her fingers dance on his scalp.

He stirs in his sleep. "Please Sif. I'm sorry. Don't cut off my glorious locks, please."

Now this is a story she must hear when things are better.

If things are better.

---

Doctor Strange joins them very briefly, very rarely, but the tension between him and Loki is hard to miss. It's worse than the current situation with her, and that's saying something.

"You don't really like Stephen, do you?"

Something inside him seems to shift, but he masks it behind a non-chalant look immediately and just arches an eyebrow at her. "He's Stephen now, is he?"

"Well, that is his name." She shrugs. "What do you call him?"

"Strange", he spits the word out with an amount of irritation that indicates there definitely is a story there. "That is his name", he mimics.

She can't help the smirk that spreads across her lips. "What did he do to you?"

"Nothing", he lies, ignoring the horrifying flashbacks of thirty minutes of endless falling. Not a single soul must ever know a mere human got the best of him. "What can he do to me? I'm a God among those mortals. He just irks me because he is so pompous, and arrogant, and he ceaselessly uses magic to toy with others."

She pretends to think deeply. "Now where have I seen that before?"

He scoffs. "You mock me, but I am nothing like him. For one, I am not rude."

"He seems fine to me", she declares decisively.

It's the first time in months that he gives her a cheeky grin. "That's because you're rude too."

---

They are still just containing the threats to their world, instead of finding a way to fortify the barriers between worlds and stop the threats from coming.

"Shouldn't we have a plan to seal off the other worlds from ours?" She asks him one day.

"They are working on it." He tells her, and then with a look of worry, adds, "I hope."

There are debates on what to do at the Avengers tower and at the TVA. Nobody seems to agree on what the best course of action is, but everyone seems to be following the general instructions of Doctor Strange.

During one such meeting, a Minuteman makes the mistake of voicing out loud how she wondered if things would be better if they were running according to their old boss's plans.

Sylvie feels the guilt wash over her once more.

"No", Loki tells them all firmly. The determination in his voice takes her completely by surprise. "Evil is evil. Lesser, greater, middling, makes no difference. The degree is arbitrary. The definition’s blurred." She catches him steal a glance at her direction. "We couldn't have left a dictator in charge just because it's convenient. Listen, I'm the bad guy. I've done horrible, unspeakable things. I thought humans needed to be ruled. I wanted to rule. But even I know that it's not right to take away a person's life completely. These are innocent people. You are innocent people. You have families back home, parents, children", a pause and a softening of his features, "-love. A whole past, a whole future. That man had no right to take it away from you."

His powers of persuasion are foreign to her, and it's mesmerizing to watch. Her enchantments cannot hold a candle to how he is able to just talk people into doing what he wants, thinking what he thinks, seeing what he sees.

"He who remains had a plan. One, singular plan, from one, singular man." There is absolute conviction in his voice. "It's not the only way. We'll find another way. A better way."

She has never known what it is like to have someone see you for who you are- broken and flawed, and defend you- even your well-intentioned actions that yielded different results than what you expected and hurt them in the process. She suspects it has been the same for him, a lifetime of not having anyone have his back.

The warm feeling inside her is brand new. What is the name of this? Comfort? Relief?

Happiness?

---

This will be their first time out in the field in a long time, and she feels a little sick to the stomach.

He notices. "Are you alright?"

The concern in his voice tugs at her heartstrings. She nods. She has faced way worse, she shouldn't be so nervous about this, but she is. "I've never done this before."

"We can always just kill him and blame it on the Chitauris", he suggests with a serious face.

"I heard that", Peter yells from the other room, where he is doing whatever it is that teenagers do to prepare for battle.

She shakes her head in disbelief. "I can't believe we're babysitting."

"I've done this before", he assures her, and it surprises her to picture him being entrusted with such a serious task. "The trick is to conjure up illusions that keep them distracted enough to not cry."

She laughs. "You're thinking of infants. This one is a little older."

"I'm over a thousand years old, Sylvie. They're all infants to me."

Peter joins them, mask covering his face so that he doesn't reveal his identity. "So what do I call you? Loki and Loki? That's confusing. How about Loki and Lady Loki? Or is that offensive? I'm not suggesting women are inferior, because they're absolutely not..."

"Does he come with an off switch?" She whispers in horror as Peter rambles on.

Loki grins. With one wave of his hand and a flash of green, Peter's own webbing shoots out and seals his mouth shut.

---

Things are fine but not fine at the same time. He's right there beside her, but not there at all. They have their banters, they have their stolen glances, but they haven't had a meaningful conversation since that first day when she got back. She's been putting it off for a long time, but she knows they really do need to have the talk.

She corners him in his room one evening while he's tinkering with a temporal collar. She takes a seat in the chair next to his bed and rests her hand on the table, leaning her head against her palm, before switching position and crossing her arms and legs. Everything about her posture screams uneasiness. If he notices- he probably does- he doesn't say anything.

"You defended me that day."

He briefly looks up from the task at hand and gives her a soft smile. "Of course."

She blinks. "I don't understand." Her hands involuntary rise up to rub her temples. "If you can justify my actions to them, then how can you still be mad at me?"

"I'm not mad at you", he says without missing a beat.

"Rubbish", her words come out angrier than she intended. This frustration is the result of the months of status quo they have had. She has to know now, one way or the other. "You're distant. You're guarded", she accuses. Then her voice breaks, as she feels a part of her break all over again with her next words. "You don't hold my hand. Why? Tell me."

He abandons the collar and focuses his full attention on her. Staring straight into her eyes, he answers her. "You know why."

"I wouldn't be asking if I did. Look, if it's because I chose the mission over you-"

"-Of course it's not that." He says decisively. Then a sad smile clouds his face. It's the same look he had when she accused him of conning her to gain the throne. "Do you think I'm the type of man who would want a woman to abandon her life-long ambitions just because she has met someone?"

She knows he isn't. But it still doesn't answer why he is so cross with her. "What is it then?"

He pauses for a moment, trying to decide whether he wants to bare his soul out to her once more or not. There are two ways he can go from here- choose to not let her in again and save himself from the hurt, or trust her again and open himself up to potential pain.

Who is he kidding? Pushing her away- keeping her away- doesn't hurt any less.

There were a thousand things that had to go wrong to bring two Lokis from two universes together. A connection like that, it doesn't just happen.

And it doesn't just go away. The pain is constant, it's a part of him, pounding like a second heart every second he has to stop himself from reaching out for her hand.

This has to come to an end.

He takes in a deep breath, bracing himself. "You didn't have to send me away, Sylvie. I wanted to stop you from making the same mistakes I did. But in the end, I didn't care what you chose. I just wanted us to do it together."

She never even imagined this could be the reason for his hurt. All these months spent thinking he hates her for her choices, and now it turns out he is hurt simply because she chose to do it alone? "I'm sorry." She says sincerely. "I just wanted you to be safe."

"And I just wanted to be there with you till the end." He confesses. His eyes shimmer with the emotions he has kept bottled in for so long. "You go, I go."

She doesn't know what to say to that. She has never been good at articulating her feelings. Tears stream down her cheeks at the realisation that even after everything, he is still there for her.

She didn't cry even back at Lamentis when they thought they were going to die. She doesn't let anyone see her cry when she is sad or scared. That's all she has known her whole life. She's used to it by now.

This is new. These are tears of relief. Comfort.

Happiness.

Tentatively, she crosses over to the bed and sits by his side.

It's quiet for a few minutes. But unlike the months of tension so thick she could cut it into splices with her daggers, this is comfortable silence. The kind they had before it all went wrong.

"Did you even miss me?" He whispers.

"What kind of silly question is that? Of course I did." Her shaking hands grab his, and oh how she missed this.

He intertwines their fingers. His eyes draw closed. Bliss. That's the only word for this feeling.

He opens his eyes again and studies her. She's staring back at him, teary-eyed, but with a hopeful smile. "Really? Because you have a really unique way of showing it. You didn't even come looking for me."

"I didn't know how to face you", she tells him honestly. No tricks, no enchantment, no treachery. Not with him. "I didn't know if you even wanted to see me." Her voice grows quieter, dropping to a timbre that perfectly encapsulates her deepest fear. "I thought you hated me."

"Hate you?" He is shocked that she thinks that is even possible, specially after seeing him these last few months. "Sylvie, I'm working with the Avengers. The Avengers. Do you know how much I hate them? They are my nemesis. They're self-righteous, condescending, and so completely dull. Every second with them makes me want to rip their hearts out. Why do you think I'm here with them?"

She thinks she knows. But she needs to hear it anyway.

"It's because of you." He lays it all out on the table. All cards on deck, win or lose. "You've been running away. I have been the one who has been here, trying to hold down the fort, working to fix everything. Because that is what one does when one loves-"

Shit. The word slips out before he realises it.

Their eyes go wide in unison.

"Sylvie, I-"

"-Don't you dare take it back now." She warns him. "I-" She doesn't know how to say it either. They make such a great pair, both equally daft at saying how they feel, like they are teenagers, not Gods who have lived for centuries. "I've been running because I didn't think I could bear the burden of knowing I found you and then I lost you. I don't want to lose you. Not now, not ever."

He kisses the back of her hand, before letting it go. He cups her face, gently caressing her cheeks with his thumbs. "I don't want to lose you either."

She leans in closer, until their foreheads touch. She can feel his breath on her face, warm and soft. That is exactly how she feels inside. "You won't", she promises. "You go, I go."

---

(Quote on Lesser Evil from The Witcher. Thanks for reading!!)

[stufftippywrote]

a suggestion

For @anonprecious on Twitter, who requested a Nielan kiss "as a suggestion" many moons ago. This takes place during the Sunshot campaign, so Mingjue is not yet Xichen's "da-ge."

The Sunshot Campaign has been hard on him.

This Lan Xichen can tell in a single glance. Even if he were meeting Nie Mingjue for the first time and not another in a series of a thousand strategy meetings, he’d be able to tell. The others, maybe not, because Nie Mingjue holds himself so upright, conducts his affairs with a practiced stiffness that discourages anyone from looking deeper. But the signs are there, as he leads the meeting, even if Lan Xichen is the only one who can see them - an exhalation, the grip of his hand on the table loosening, the circles of grey under his eyes.

The strategy session mercifully ends, and the other young military leaders make their way out of the room with all the tireless enthusiasm of youth. Lan Xichen remains. Nie Mingjue sits on a bench with his head low, propped up on one weary palm. He lets out a heavy breath. Lan Xichen approaches him carefully, as though he was a cobra that might strike if disturbed. But Nie Mingjue only looks up at him, and if anything there's relief in his eyes when he sees who's there.

"Xichen," he says, the name breaking halfway through as his voice gives.

"Mingjue-xiong," Lan Xichen returns. Nie Mingjue's shoulders slump. He would never slouch like this in front of his soldiers. It gladdens Lan Xichen's heart to know that this upright general can relax in front of him. He drives himself hard, and he deserves to be able to relax somewhere, with someone. Luckier still that Lan Xichen is that someone.

He steps forward and eases himself onto the bench next to Nie Mingjue. "When was the last time you slept?" he asks.

Nie Mingjue shakes his head and mumbles.

"How about your last meal?" Lan Xichen prods gently.

"I ate." Nie Mingjue evades his gaze.

"When?"

"This morning."

Lan Xichen wants to laugh. This serious, justice-minded man can be as stubborn as a toddler. "Well, you're eating again tonight," he says. “Come to my room, I’ll have dinner brought in for us.”

Nie Mingjue shakes his head, but there’s no conviction in it. “I need to look at these maps,” he says, even as he lets Lan Xichen pull him up and away.

He follows Lan Xichen through the passageways and tents like a guilty schoolboy, and they come at last to Lan Xichen’s quarters, a remarkably lovely room for the temporary nature of it. There’s a low table, some ornaments, an incense holder. Lan Xichen finds a stick and lights it, letting the soft perfume disperse into the room. “Sit,” he urges, and Nie Mingjue follows. “And remove your armor. We won’t be attacked tonight.”

Nie Mingjue grumbles a little at this, but he pulls off the heavy breastplate and belt, letting them sit unceremoniously beside the cushion where he sits. As he does, he can’t help letting out a little groan of relief. Lan Xichen hears it and tries not to smile.

He has food brought; the two eat in relative silence, though Lan Xichen tries to lighten the mood with a few observations about the state of the camp, the little dramas by the younger soldiers that play out under his nose. Nie Mingjue is not really listening, or at least he has nothing to say in response. He just eats -- trying not to appear rushed, though his bites are ravenous -- and “mm”s an assent once in a while. It’s fine. Lan Xichen is just happy to have him there, not behind his desk or hunched over a scroll, peering at faded characters in dim light.

When he’s finished, Nie Mingjue of course tries to get up and go. Lan Xichen is there, with a hand on his arm, tugging him back down. Nie Mingjue glares at him, taken aback. Lan Xichen scoots closer to him, pulling his cushion to sit side-by-side with him, and lets his hand wander down from arm to weathered hand. “Stay for a while,” he urges.

“I have things to do,” Nie Mingjue protests, but Lan Xichen shakes his head gravely. He’s learned from years with his brother that sometimes a protest is also an admission. Nie Mingjue wants to stay. He just needs Lan Xichen to insist.

So he does. “I told you, no one will attack us tonight,” Lan Xichen tells him. “You might as well stay and put your worries aside for a time. I can play for you if it will help ease your mind.” He conjures the silver-blue xiao into being in one hand.

Nie Mingjue looks at it, then at him, and shakes his head firmly. “I don’t need music,” he says.

“A game, then?” Lan Xichen gazes at the shelf, where a worn go board and two pots of stones sit. “Or would you prefer a drink? I can fetch some wine for you…”

“No, no.” Nie Mingjue waves a hand, dismissing both the suggestions. “I need--”

“--to go back to work?” Lan Xichen finishes. “Don’t you think you’ve worked enough for one day?”

“People are fighting and dying while I--” But Nie Mingjue doesn’t have the strength to continue the sentence. He pulls his hand out from under Lan Xichen’s and hides his face in it. “I have to carry on,” he says, his voice muffled. “I have to be strong.”

It’s almost comical. This man, who is the essence of strength to so many people, worrying he cannot be strong. Lan Xichen, not for the first time, envisions taking him in his arms and allowing him to rest there. He wants to be that haven for him. But this moment isn’t about him, and hope is a dangerous creature. He lifts his hand to Nie Mingjue’s back, just daring to stroke it gently, and shakes his head.

“What you have to be is healthy,” he corrects. “What good is a Mingjue-xiong who can barely read a map because he hasn’t slept in days? Without eating, will you have the strength to carry your sword?”

“I’ve eaten,” Nie Mingjue says. “And I can’t sleep.” He sounds weak. Defeated. Lan Xichen’s heart aches.

“Then release your tension,” he advises. “Surely you have a preferred way to do that.”

Nie Mingjue pauses, looks up. “Yes,” he says cautiously, “Battle.”

Lan Xichen almost wants to laugh. “Not battle. Something to calm the spirit and release the resentment. Meditation.” Nie Mingjue scoffs. “Or take to the woods and hunt game. Challenge one of the soldiers at camp to wrestle you. Whatever it is. Do what you need to do so you can return to that war table with your mind and body whole. But leave that saber alone for the night.”

How Lan Xichen despises that saber. It’s a priceless, high-level spiritual weapon, but every time Nie Mingjue wields it, it takes a piece of his soul. Lan Xichen remembers, long ago, a gentle, serious boy who nonetheless loved fiercely -- loved his brother, loved his friends, loved the trees and the sky. Loved justice, and he still does, but his love used to come with a brash grin and a light in his eyes. That saber, and this war, have crushed that.

There are several long seconds of silence. Nie Mingjue appears to be thinking. Lan Xichen can usually tolerate extended silence, but now, the quiet unnerves him. He has no idea how Nie Mingjue will respond. He sits as one would sit upon a cushion of pins, uncomfortable and itching to move.

But eventually Nie Mingjue seems to shake himself out of it, and catches Lan Xichen’s gaze with his own. There’s something soft in his eyes, and also something like interest. It’s a rare, unguarded look -- and it makes Lan Xichen catch his breath. “Do you have any other suggestions?” Nie Mingjue asks, and there’s something in his voice not unlike humor.

“Women?” Lan Xichen is hardly the person to suggest it, but he knows that’s a preferred tactic for many a soldier. “We could ride to the nearest town. Find a girl who’s willing.” Or for sale. Lan Xichen isn’t about to cast aspersions in the heat of war.

“Not interested.”

NIe Mingjue looks ready to check out again. Lan Xichen stumbles over himself in an effort to keep his attention. “Then -- then men, if that’s your preference,” he says.

But he gets a glare in return. “I’m not taking a stranger to bed.”

The words strike Lan Xichen funny. There’s nothing odd about them, surely, but between the lines there’s something to discover. First, that he didn’t immediately say he wasn’t interested in men, which is the reaction that question would get from many a soldier. And he made it sound like there was someone he’d consider -- someone he already knows. A bright spark of hope lights up in his chest. Is it possible? “Then--” he says. Carefully.

Nie Mingjue eyes him. This time it isn’t the angry glare, but a sort of caution -- as though he half-expects Lan Xichen to make some move. Again, that spark of optimism catches in Lan Xichen’s chest. Perhaps it would be okay if…

He leans in, lifts his hand to that weathered face. “If that’s how you feel,” he says, leaning closer to Nie Mingjue than he’s ever been, “then…”

He’s very careful as he presses his lips to Nie Mingjue’s closed mouth. Afraid to drive him away.

He isn’t driven away. Paralyzed, perhaps, as Lan Xichen pulls back again and gazes at him as beatifically as he can muster. Shocked, if the wide eyes and the slight part of his lips are anything to go by. But he doesn’t flee. Or pull back, or get up. He just stares, and slowly lifts a hand to his own lips.

“If you are interested,” Lan Xichen says, barely above a whisper.

And then Nie Mingjue lifts an eyebrow, and the corners of his lips twitch. “Really?” he asks, sounding incredulous.

Lan Xichen shrugs. “It’s just a suggestion.”

“A suggestion--” The words echoed back at him are devoid of any artifice. The Nie Mingjue before him is the boy Lan Xichen knew all those years ago. The one capable of so much love. Any shame or trepidation that Lan Xichen felt at offering that kiss vanishes. What he wanted to communicate, he has. Be the consequences what they may.

“Or we could play go,” he says, truly meaning it. Whatever he needs, Lan Xichen is willing and happy to give.

“Let’s do that.” Nie Mingjue says with some determination. Lan Xichen nods. Perhaps he feels a bit of disappointment, but not enough to regret what he’s done.

As he rises to bring the board and stones to the table, Nie Mingjue surprises him once more.

“Make your suggestion again afterwards,” he says.

[books-letstalkaboutem]

The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue Quotes that I Loved

This is just a list of quotes or excerpts that I highlighted while reading the book- literally all of them and there are a lot. I’m going to go ahead and say spoilers below just because there are so many quotes and while I don’t think the quotes actually spoil anything, I don’t want to accidentally spoil something for someone.

Some of the quotes might seem a little weird out of context but these are quotes that hit close to home, made me say “Hell, yeah, Addie!!!", quotes that made me laugh, and then basically all of the other quotes that I loved while reading.

I know that I didn't completely fall in love with this book like so many other people did, but it was still so beautifully written and there were so many amazing quotes in this book.

And just a heads up, I read this on my kindle, just in case the page numbers I list don’t match with your copy of the book.

Spoilers Below:

Quotes that Hit Close to Home

“Three and twenty, a third of a life already buried.” Page 39

“The day passes like a sentence. The sun falls like a scythe.” Page 41

“[...] and when she dies it will be as though she never lived.” Page 42

“I am so tired of not having choices, so scared of the years rushing past beneath my feet. I do not want to die as I’ve lived, which is no life at all. I—” Page 46

“[...] she swears sometimes her memory runs forward as well as back, unspooling to show the roads she’ll never get to travel. But that way lies madness, and she has learned not to follow.” Page 61

“His parents meant well, of course, but they always told him things like Cheer up, or It will get better, or worse, It’s not that bad, which is easy to say when you’ve never had a day of rain.” Page 97

“But then a night would go long, and a day would start late, and now he feels like there’s no time at all. Like he is always late for something.” Page 119

““I see someone who cares,” she says slowly. “Perhaps too much. Who feels too much. I see someone lost, and hungry. The kind of person who feels like they’re wasting away in a world full of food, because they can’t decide what they want.”” Page 140

““Life is so brief, and every night in Rennes I’d go to bed, and lie awake, and think, there is another day behind me, and who knows how few ahead.”” Page 167

““I mean feeling like it’s surging by so fast, and you try to reach out and grab it, you try to hold on, but it just keeps rushing away. And every second, there’s a little less time, and a little less air, and sometimes when I’m sitting still, I start to think about it, and when I think about it, I can’t breathe. I have to get up. I have to move.”” Page 177

““Small places make for small lives. And some people are fine with that. They like knowing where to put their feet. But if you only walk in other people’s steps, you cannot make your own way. You cannot leave a mark.”” Page 179

“It was such a lovely jar she had kept them in. But the glass is cracking now. The water leaking through.” Page 215

“Moments of joy register as brief, but ecstatic. Moments of pain stretch long and unbearably loud.” Page 225

“[...] you’ve never felt called to any one thing. There is no violent push in one direction, but a softer nudge a hundred different ways, and now all of them feel out of reach. Page 226

“[...] in wanting to live, to learn, to find yourself, you’ve gotten lost.” Page 226

“He lets it ring, holds his breath until it stops. He tells himself that if they call again, he’ll answer. If they call again, he’ll tell them he is not okay. But the phone doesn’t ring a second time.” Page 229

“He misses the structure, misses the path, misses the purpose. And maybe it wasn’t a perfect fit, but nothing is.” Page 257

“That he’d blinked and somehow years had gone by, and everyone else had carved their trenches, paved their paths, and he was still standing in a field, uncertain where to dig.” Page 283

“And those first two years, he was happy. He had Bea, and Robbie, and all he had to do was learn. Build a foundation. It was the house, the one that he was supposed to build on top of that smooth surface, that was the problem. It was just so … permanent.” 283

“Choosing a class became choosing a discipline, and choosing a discipline became choosing a career, and choosing a career became choosing a life, and how was anyone supposed to do that, when you only had one?” Page 283

““The vexing thing about time,” he says, “is that it’s never enough. Perhaps a decade too short, perhaps a moment. But a life always ends too soon.”” Page 333

“He is all restless energy, and urgent need, and there isn’t enough time, and he knows of course that there will never be. That time always ends a second before you’re ready. That life is the minutes you want minus one.” Page 421

“The world is wide, and he’s seen so little of it with his own eyes. He wants to travel, to take photos, listen to other people’s stories, maybe make some of his own. After all, life seems very long sometimes, but he knows it will go so fast, and he doesn’t want to miss a moment.” Page 438

Quotes that Made Me Laugh

“Henry loves his sister, he does. But Muriel’s always been like strong perfume. Better in small doses. And at a distance.” Page 120

““Sorry, Book,” she mutters, lifting the cat gingerly onto the back of the old chair, where he does his best impression of an inconvenienced bread loaf.” Page 248

““It’s Halloween!” defends Robbie. “It’s the twenty-third,” says Henry, but Robbie treats holidays the way he treats birthdays, stretching them from days into weeks, and sometimes into seasons.” Page 274

Quotes that made me say “Hell, yeah, Addie!!!”

“If she must grow roots, she would rather be left to flourish wild instead of pruned, would rather stand alone, allowed to grow beneath the open sky. Better that than firewood, cut down just to burn in someone else’s hearth.” Page 31

“[...]from this moment forward, her life will be her own.” Page 48

“There is a defiance in being a dreamer.” Page 117

““It has only been two years,” she says. “Think of all the time I have, and all the things I’ll see.”” Page 132

“It will take time, but time is the one thing Addie has plenty of. So she opens her eyes, and starts again.” Page 192

“But then Addie straightens, lifts her chin, smiles with an almost defiant kind of joy. “But isn’t it wonderful,” she says, “to be an idea?”” Page 261

Quotes that I Love

“[...] never pray to the gods that answer after dark.” Page 7

“What is a person, if not the marks they leave behind?” Page 15

“The things that last, even when memories don’t.” Page 16

“As if you couldn’t like one place and want to see another.” Page 23

“Books, she has found, are a way to live a thousand lives—or to find strength in a very long one.” Page 35

“The kind of place where time slips and blurs, where a month, a year, a life can go missing.” Page 39

“[...] attraction can look an awful lot like recognition in the wrong light.” Page 56

“The rise isn’t worth the fall.” Page 56

“Being trapped, buried alive, these are the things that scare you when you cannot die.” Page 57

“Funny, how some people take an age to warm, and others simply walk into every room as if it’s home.” Page 58

“Déjà vu. Déjà su. Déjà vécu. Already seen. Already known. Already lived.” Page 66

“[...]a lifetime of knowing brushed away like a tear.” Page 73

“[...] and it is sad, of course, to forget. But it is a lonely thing, to be forgotten. To remember when no one else does.” Page 77

“[...] ideas are so much wilder than memories, that they long and look for ways of taking root.” Page 77

““These days, everyone’s looking down,” muses Sam. “It’s nice to see someone looking up.”” Page 101

“Being forgotten, she thinks, is a bit like going mad. You begin to wonder what is real, if you are real. After all, how can a thing be real if it cannot be remembered?” Page 103

“If a person cannot leave a mark, do they exist?” Page 103

“Dreamer is too soft a word. It conjures thoughts of silken sleep, of lazy days in fields of tall grass, of charcoal smudges on soft parchment.” Page 11

“She considers the cut of their clothes, the absence of bone stays or bustled skirts, and thinks, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, how much simpler it would be to be a man, how easily they move through the world, and at such little cost.” Page 129

““I remember you.”” Page 135

“The darkness claimed he’d given her freedom, but really, there is no such thing for a woman, not in a world where they are bound up inside their clothes, and sealed inside their homes, a world where only men are given leave to roam.” Page 163

“She watches these men and wonders anew at how open the world is to them, how easy the thresholds.” Page 165

““I think there are many ways to matter.”” Page 179

“But ideas are so much wilder than memories, so much faster to take root.”” Page 210

“He is full of roots, while she has only branches.” Page 212

“Easy to stay on the path when the road is straight and the steps are numbered.” Page 229

“Outside the window, the day just carries on as if nothing’s changed, but it feels like everything has, because Addie LaRue is immortal, and Henry Strauss is damned.” Page 235

“[...]I didn’t want to live forever. I just wanted to live.”” Page 236

““There’s this family photo,” he says, “not the one in the hall, this other one, from back when I was six or seven. That day was awful. Muriel put gum in David’s book and I had a cold, and my parents were fighting right up until the flash went off. And in the photo, we all look so … happy. I remember seeing that picture and realizing that photographs weren’t real. There’s no context, just the illusion that you’re showing a snapshot of a life, but life isn’t snapshots, it’s fluid. So photos are like fictions. I loved that about them. Everyone thinks photography is truth, but it’s just a very convincing lie.”” Page 239

“God, it feels good to be wanted.” Page 256

“[...] And ideas are wilder than memories. They’re like weeds, always finding their way up.”” Page 261

“Homesick—Henry knows that one is supposed to mean sick for home, not from it, but it still feels right.” Page 262

“Dressing up, he thinks, is just like watching cartoons, something you enjoyed as a kid, before it passes through the no man’s land of teen angst, the ironic age of early twenties. And then somehow, miraculously, it crosses back into the realm of the genuine, the nostalgic. A place reserved for wonder.” Page 274

“Bea always says returning to campus is like coming home. But it doesn’t feel that way to Henry. Then again, he never felt at home at home, only a vague sense of dread, the eggshell-laden walk of someone constantly in danger of disappointing.” 282

“He doesn’t know what he believes, hasn’t for a long time, but it’s hard to entirely discount the presence of a higher power when he recently sold his soul to a lower one.” Page 284

““You can’t make people love you, Hen. If it’s not a choice, it isn’t real.”” Page 290

“He has asked the wrong god for the wrong thing, and now he is enough because he is nothing. He is perfect, because he isn’t there.” Page 290

“A life reduced to a block of stone, a patch of grass.” Page 299

“The present folding on top of the past instead of erasing it, replacing it.” Page 306

“She knows the paint will fade, rinsed off by a puddle, or simply wiped away by time, but that’s how memories are supposed to work. There—and then, little by little, gone.” Page 307

“Without the bells, the organ, the bodies crowding in for services, the church feels abandoned. Less a house of worship and more a tomb.” Page 311

“God is so large, why build walls to hold Him in?” Page 311

“Once you know about a thing, you start to see it everywhere. Someone says the words purple elephant, and all of a sudden, you catch sight of them in shop windows and on T-shirts, stuffed animals and billboards, and you wonder how you never noticed.” Page 314

“There is a freedom, after all, in being forgotten.” 325

“Memories are stiff, but thoughts are freer things. They throw out roots, they spread and tangle, and come untethered from their source. They are clever, and stubborn, and perhaps—perhaps—they are in reach.” Page 327

“They’ve been lucky, so lucky, but the trouble with luck is that it always ends.” 329

““You said it yourself, Luc. Ideas are wilder than memories. And I can be wild. I can be stubborn as the weeds, and you will not root me out. And I think you are glad of it. I think that’s why you’ve come, because you are lonely, too.”” Page 332

“She closes her eyes, reminds herself there are many ways to leave a mark, reminds herself that pictures lie.” Page 337

“She may not feel the years weakening her bones, her body going brittle with age, but the weariness is a physical thing, like rot, inside her soul. There are days when she mourns the prospect of another year, another decade, another century. There are nights when she cannot sleep, moments when she lies awake and dreams of dying. But then she wakes, and sees the pink and orange dawn against the clouds, or hears the lament of a lone fiddle, the music and the melody, and remembers there is such beauty in the world. And she does not want to miss it— any of it.” Page 342

“Luc’s smile darkens. “Because time is cruel to all, and crueler still to artists. Because vision weakens, and voices wither, and talent fades.” He leans close, twists a lock of her hair around one finger. “Because happiness is brief, and history is lasting, and in the end,” he says, “everyone wants to be remembered.”” Page 351

“It is a sign, when even gods and devils dread a fight.” Page 367

“And this, he decides, is what a good-bye should be. Not a period, but an ellipsis, a statement trailing off, until someone is there to pick it up. It is a door left open. It is drifting off to sleep.” Page 419

[seoracle]

DRIVERS LICENSE; i

Pairing: Bang Chan x Idol! Gender Neutral Reader

Genre: Fake Dating! AU, Angst, Lovers to Enemies(?), Occasional Pining, Comedy, S for potential smut(??)

Summary: Y/N has become an overnight sensation with ‘Drivers License’, Breaking records left and right...But what if the press gets wind of the ill-matched lovers and their company decide it’s the perfect attention ploy?

Word Count: 3.2K

Warnings: Swearing (a lot near the end), Drinking mention

A/N: this was meant to be a drabble... now it’s becoming a series...i���m sorry

“...and the winner of Inkigayo today is...Y/N with ‘Drivers License, Congratulations!”

You step towards the center of the stage and take the trophy and bouquet from a rookie idol, who flashes a bright smile at you, but you can see the envy in his eyes. You once had that same hunger and ambition that he seems to reek of, it’s a reminder of how far you’ve come.

Taking the mic, you begin to sing a more sultry and edgier vibe than usual, which seems to gather more screams from fans than usual. You remember what Seulgi taught you and gaze at the camera lens with a subtle pout, trying to capture the angst of the song in your gaze.

It feels ridiculous, feigning emotions you no longer feel, singing a song you begged the company not to put out in a corset fitted shirt that’ll leave your ribs sore and reddened. It’s pathetic and cliche, you quite literally sold your soul (well, heart) for fame. 

“Yeah, you said forever, now I drive alone past your street…”

Everyone behind you waves at the camera, signalling the show is ending. You leave last, taking several confetti bits for your scrapbook, which is the only thing keeping you from remembering this is all real. 

Backstage, Iris and San are waiting in your dressing room, they greet you with proud grins and slaps on the back. 

“Well, if it isn’t miss twelve...no, thirteen wins in two weeks.” San praises, enveloping you in a hug.

“Could be thirteen by tomorrow~” Hums Iris in a sing-song tone.

A groan leaves your lips, while slumping into an uncomfortable chair. You tune out their excited plans for your makeup and hair tomorrow, San says something about an end of year Award show.

All you want is to go home to your empty dormitory and sleep.

When you finally arrive to the ‘comfort’ of your ‘studio apartment’ (box room), it isn’t long before you strip down to your pyjamas and aggressively rub off the layers of makeup that seem to cling to every pore and fine line of your face. The cold air from the fan soothes the aching of your body from your strict workout routine. You stay awake until 4am, reading comments from netizens and replying to fans on your fancafe, it  was hard not to become obsessed with checking what people thought; whether they loved or loathed you.

[+184 -93] Y/N is talented, but they look devoid of emotion since last week...maybe singing a song so personal isn’t a good idea….what if the person it’s about hears it…..

User FYL**8 was right, it had become draining trying to convey emotions you’d long let go of. Your debut song was fresh and fun, it didn’t garner much attention but at least you hadn’t had to fake emotions and relive your first heartbreak.

Although the memories of the breakup didn’t hurt as much, the happiest ones were the most painful. The feeling of ignorance, thinking he meant forever and believing him completely...it was all so distant yet felt a fingertip away.

That night you slept with a heavy heart, remembering what it felt like when he’d hold you close and right and kiss you on the head to soothe your worries. Why did it have to end? Why like that? You try to drift into a nice sleep after another exhausting day but to no avail, thoughts of him are flooding every thought. Has he heard it? There was no way he hadn’t, he loved to check out every ranking song for inspiration or for another artist to add to his monthly playlist. 

Would he get angry? Sad? Laugh at your pathetic feelings? He was right in the end, when it came down to it you only shared your feelings when it was too late.

Stupid Christopher fucking Bang.

It wasn’t often you’d refer to him as Chan, you had met him when he only saw it as another name for himself that he hardly used. Back when his hair had been fluffed up curls that he couldn’t contain and his light freckles weren’t covered by BB Cream. When he didn’t belong to the world and only loved you.

After months of forcing yourself not to, you hastily search “Stray kids Bang Chan + Y/N”, Then “Stray Kids Y/N” and finally “Skz Y/N”. The results are minimal and far inbetween, mostly tweets from fans wishing for a collab and oddly enough one person making edited photos of you and them, which are so convincing you have to remind yourself you hadn’t met them.

Thoughts drift to his friends, the ones who didn’t know Chris was even seeing someone and had been for over a year. They tried to sugarcoat it, say they forgot, it’s hard to keep track when you’re training and all that. 

The sinking feeling you felt when Minho asked how long you’d been together, guessing a month at most. When you did reply, ears burning with embarrassment he coughed and muttered “Oh.’, That had stung.

Everything had seemed so perfect, until you opened your eyes and saw it for what it was.

You don’t end up sleeping much, two hours at most, Then it’s time to get ready and head to the Broadcast Studio for today’s event. All you know is it’s a show about giving advice, the reviews aren’t great but you aren’t allowed to turn anything down because fame is a double-edged sword that you can barely grasp as is.

Iris and San are already waiting for you when you get there, within minutes makeup is being patted into your skin and your outfit is laid out on the chair next to you.

“Sleep more, Y/N-ah, I had to use a double coverage concealer to hide your dark circles.” Iris said in a fretful tone.

“I try, it’s hard being famous.” You reply jokingly, flipping your hair the best you can. Iris smacks your hand away and frantically finds her hairspray.

Within twenty minutes you’re dressed and not one hair is out of place, San pulls you aside with an uncharacteristically stern face. 

“The company have specific goals for sending you here, they want you to delve into a story of heartbreak to comfort today’s victim, while keeping anonymity and remaining as vague as you can.” 

Of course, even a show about helping others is fictional.

You nod solemnly and prepare to go on air, sitting on a cushion next to a popular comedian who doesn’t bother to even look at you. A well-known Streamer is on your other side and you begin polite small talk, which seems to irritate the host.

“We’re on in 3,2….1!” A sharp click follows the director’s queue and the host bursts right into the introduction.

After you’re introduced it’s easy to tune out, you couldn’t give a shit about that stuck-up comedian and the actress to their right. Instead you think of how the fuck you’re supposed to conjure up an emotional performance with little to no time to prepare.

‘My ex-boyfriend hid me for almost two years’ no, not even worthy of a cheap gossip magazine. ‘I thought my boyfriend loved me, turns out he loved his career more’ Maybe...but you sound too needy. 

“Today’s guest is Lee Chaeun of Suwon! Tell us your story, please.” 

You turn to look at the guest who walks onto the set and sits at the head of the pillow mats. She’s clearly a young girl, her baby face is covered by face-framing layers of shiny black hair and her eyes are already glassy.

“Last year, I began dating my crush after years of admiring him from afar...Everything seemed so perfect until last week….He dumped me by text message saying he needed space and now he’s with someone new..” Chaeun bursts into tears and the host fakes a sympathetic face and passes her a box of tissues.

“Ah, you’re young...you don’t know anything yet. This is a normal phase for teenagers, men realise themselves and break girls down so they become beautiful women. It’s just a case of a little girl not wanting to grow up!” Chimes in the Comedian, who talks about his falsities as if they’re facts.

The audience erupts into laughter and the heartbroken teenager lowers her head in embarrassment. Which only makes you more enraged, Who told that guy he was funny?

“Chaeun has every right to be upset!” You exclaim, cutting through the laugher like a hot knife. “When a relationship ends when everything seems alright for one person, it's cruel. Being blindsided isn’t a joke. It hurts and she deserves closure, and to move on someday to a better person..What happened to her shouldn’t happen to anyone!”  You barely register a gentle hand on top of yours, far too surprised by the fact there are tears dripping down your face. Crying wasn’t an option, so you pull yourself together and apologise to Chaeun and the host you cannot stand.

“Y/N, You seemed personally moved by Chaeun’s story, have you experienced a painful breakup?” The host asks curiously.

“You could say that,” You begin with a wry smile. “I was with someone who lived a double life, they were completely different when they were with other people...Things ended when I was still planning for future dates...it made me realise how fake they were.”

The guests all nod and you squeeze Chaeun’s hand, she smiles at you seeming relieved that she isn’t the only one who has felt this kind of pain. 

Everything goes smoothly after that, other guests chime in and the actress that seemed snobby is openly discussing her ex vomiting all over her Valentinos. You can’t help but wonder if the company really suggested this, or if it was divine intervention (Choi San, your manager). 

You don’t feel so alone anymore, everyone is guaranteed several things, two being love and heartbreak of some kind. 

“Thanks to singer Y/N and actress Sojung, Chaeun was able to feel a little better...Thank you for joining us on ‘Help No Counsellor!’, Join us next week when…’

“Choi San, you sneaky bastard.”

He tries to act surprised but a shit-eating grin soon overtakes his acting, Iris shakes her head and zips her makeup bag closed. It isn’t long until you’re all at The Min’s enjoying red bean bread and warm tea.  “What does inept even mean? I’m assuming it’s a good thing because Wooyoung kissed me after saying it.” San mentions, his lips curving upwards at the fond memory.

“I’d have to agree with Woo, it fits you perfectly.” You reply, circling around his question while Iris tries not to choke on her food.

Fits of laughter die down when you spot a familiar face, Lee Mijoo. 

Her blonde hair flows down her back in loose curls and her soft eyes seem to enchant everyone, admittedly even you for a short time.Behind her is a slightly taller figure dressed in all black and your stomach drops.They don’t seem to notice your presence, so you decide to use this valuable time to hide behind a menu. 

San and Iris try to play along best they can, but it is quite distressing that all of this has happened so suddenly, with no prior warning. But he did bring you here, a lot. So it’s amusing to see his date ideas haven't changed. 

As he’s walking past you he pauses, and you want to shrivel into a hole and die, He’s clearly recognised you but can’t be 100% sure due to The Min’s menu covering your entire face. 

“Y/N?” 

Shit. You cannot hide from this.

Slowly taking the menu away and placing it down on the table you smile at him, maybe a little too forced but it’s the best you can do. His hair is blonde now, his curls are long gone but his smile is as genuine as ever. 

Stupid Christopher Bang and his stupid ‘I-totally-didn’t-break-your-heart’ attitude.

“Chan, nice to see you. Still obsessed with their double shots?” You humoured, he seemed grateful for that.

“Oh, absolutely...and I see you’re still not saving any bean bread for anyone else.” 

You laugh, it’s a bittersweet one at best but nevertheless it’s a laugh.

'Well it’s great to see you again, I’d love to exchange numbers if that’s alright?” 

Without thinking you nod and oblige him, much to your friend’s disappointment which is evident by their glares. Mijoo exchanges smiles with everyone, who could hate her? She was funny, kind hearted and beautiful in every aspect. 

When they finally leave to their outside seats you breathe a sigh of relief and sink into the chair.Iris strokes your hair and San grabs more snacks to go, the walk home isn’t peaceful. It’s awkward and silent, which only makes your head spin more. When you drop off Iris you know a lecture is coming, San hates doing it but you know he tells you what you need to hear, even if it hurts.

“Look, I’m happy you were able to brush off all the hurt today but earlier on you were crying about….this. Don’t give him the power to hurt you twice.”

“You’re right, thanks Sannie.” You reply, taking his arm and smiling at the warmth of his (Wooyoung’s) fuzzy coat. 

Once San leaves and you get inside, it’s a matter of minutes before you hop in the shower and get rid of all the hairspray and mascara that’s been making you itch all day. The warm water soothes away your nerves and the impending frostbite from being outside in the cold for far too long. 

Once you feel clean and somewhat scalded you step out onto warm fluffy towels (cheap warm fluffy towels with holes in them) and get situated for bed.

Just as you exit the bathroom your phone rings and you answer immediately, it’s probably Iris wanting you to play a new Among Us mod with her. 

“Iris?”

“Uh, no, Chris.” 

“Oh.” is your initial reply, why would he call you at midnight?

“Where you asleep? I’m sorry I’ll call back another ti-”

“No!” You interject, much too eagerly. “No...it’s fine. I’m not even in bed yet.”

“Oh” He sounds relieved, much the opposite of you.

“I just wanted to congratulate you...The song, it’s great. What’s it like actually singing one you wrote?”

“Great,” You admit with a smile he can't see, “It feels...genuine. I Couldn't stand the thought of giving the song away.”

“I can see why.” He replies in an unreadable tone.

“Did it make you uncomfortable? Me singing...about-”

“No, why would it?” He cuts in, he sounds slightly agitated.

“Look, Chan, I’m sorry. I should’ve texted you, well I did but you changed your number. But it’s my story too, okay? I needed to heal somehow.”

Minutes pass with no answer, as if he’s trying to think of exactly what to say without getting more irritated or to spare your feelings.

“When did I become Chan?” His voice comes out wavering,and it hurts you.

“That’s what everyone calls you now, you’re not just Chris the trainee anymore.” You reply in a gentle way, trying to ease the building tension.

“But to you, when did I stop being Chris?”

“Probably when you broke my heart,” You deadpan, before adding a ‘kidding’ and bullshit reason.

“You weren’t kidding, but you broke mine too. Don’t make me the bad guy.”

This had taken you aback, you had been in a perfectly happy relationship for almost two years and then he changed his mind, said he wasn’t happy and it wasn’t your fault. When the fuck did you break his heart?

“When exactly did that happen?” You query, “Before or after Mijoo?”

Chan lets out a dry laugh, “Don’t talk about what you don’t understand.”

“Well what does it matter? You never told me shit anyways.” You snapped.

“That’s because you wouldn’t fucking listen. Maybe to you it was all sunshine and roses but I was struggling, I changed and outgrew us. I didn’t want to but you were stuck in dreamland where we’d debut at the same time and live happily ever after. I realised it wasn’t going to happen and set you free so you wouldn’t be embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?” You bark,”Fucking embarrassed of what exaclty? I left that shithole you call your company by choice and worked my way up. I’m not embarrassed, but you should be. You’re a fucking sellout Christopher Bang.”

Before he can reply you end the call and throw your phone at the wall, it would’ve broken only for the forty dollar case the store assistant convinced you to buy. You burst into tears just like you had that night when it all came crashing down. He must’ve loved seeing you in pain, because he keeps doing it even now.

That night, you wish for everything to go back to a time before him and the heartbreak that followed.

It’s early on a Friday when you’re called into a board meeting with the CEO, Director and San, who looks like someone stepped on his clay masterpiece. You still haven’t been told anything and as the minutes pass by you wonder if they found out about you getting drunk at Club Suran several weeks back. What if someone saw San there too? What if–

Suddenly the doors open and in walks JYP’s CEO, followed by several others and finally Chris. He looks as confused as you, but you quickly look away before he spots you. Last night was still fresh in your mind and you didn’t need anymore reminders or conversations with him.

“Dispatch has sent us several photos of you two together, spanning several years.” Your CEO announces, an Executive pulling the photos up on the screen behind her. “Including one from yesterday.”

“That was a coincidence, we broke up a long time ago.” You admit, she seems satisfied with your answer and nods, which makes you remember that damned dating ban you have.

“Usually, we’d shoot down these rumours immediately...but this could be quite beneficial to both Stray Kids and Y/N.” JYP’s CEO adds, “Stock prices have shown a rise for both of your albums, and real time searches are at an all time high.” 

“I have a girlfriend.” Chan states, arms folded. “So that’s out of the question if you’re implying we fake a relationship.”

“Look Bang Chan,” Begins one of the Advisors, “It’s all for show, we’ll plan every detail and your girlfriend will keep her mouth shut if she knows what's good for her. Frankly, our sales aren't what they used to be and you need this, if you want complete musical and artistic control.”

Chan takes a while to think, you know this is all he’s wanted. Control over everything he and the boys put out there, with no censorship or edits by anyone else. Your CEO assures you you’ll also benefit from the agreement, including your debt fully cleared and money in your bank account as soon as you sign on the dotted line.

“How long does this last?” You ask, pen in hand.

“Twelve months, then you’re free again.” 

Chan looks to you for conformation and you ignore him, signing it and standing up to leave. You only stop to sign more formalities and then you and San head back to your local coffee shop. 

“Well, you sure have a funny way of moving on.”

[thefallenbibliophilequote]

I Wish You Would

Loki x Reader

1989, chapter 7

"He drove past her street each night"

Summary: It's hard to find the one, but even if you do find him it's always going to be a daily struggle to make it work. Can you even make it work after he broke your heart? The answer to that is complicated, but it all started when you found each other again in the Stark Tower- and that's where our story begins.

Word count: 2,896

Warnings: angst, alcohol, poison, only a pinch of fluff. Not in that particular order.

A/N: this one has more Loki than the last. And... I'm sorry. Also, the timeline is important from the last chapter and forward, so keep it in your mind.

A/N2: @chrissquares made me these awesome dividers! And dear @nacho-bucky beta read this for me!

No one is allowed to repost my writing or steal or copy my work! Reblog on tumblr is fine.

Series masterlist

Song on Spotify and YouTube

"We won't be able to control the dwarves for long, we need to calm them down soon or they will attack."

"Your Highness, we need a plan of attack to keep them from breaching through their borders, some shield spell or-" A different councilman piped up.

"No, what we need is to keep peace. We need a negotiator to help maintain order. No more endless war, we can solve it without offence." The Allfather looked at his counsel until his eyes fell on his son who sat quietly throughout the whole meeting. "Loki, I want you to go and calm the situation down, solve it peacefully."

Loki looked up at his father, his stern gaze left no place to argue.

"Yes father." Loki got up after that, getting ready for the long day ahead of him. But before he could go his father's voice stopped him.

"I expect that when you'll be back you will make arrangements to make up with Lady Iyllir for your past behaviour."

"My first priority now is with the negotiation I need to handle." With a thin smile Loki walked away from his father, now with newfound determination to leave Asgard soon.

He stayed there longer than he wanted to. Apparently their species didn't sleep as often as Asgardians do. When he finally got back to the palace, he teleported right into his room and got in bed; he was never more grateful for his powers than now. Through all of his tiredness though, the moment his head hit the pillow you plagued his mind and sleep faded away from him as you pulled him closer into your dangerous clutches.

He felt as if he was the same heartbroken guy he was before everything happened. She took over his dreams after he let her go, and if he was being honest he let her. He'd imagine her next to him, holding his shattered heart together just enough for him to be able to go to sleep, keeping it as close together as she could until the morning came and she was no longer there and the pieces were all scrambled again. He woke up and remembered that you weren't next to him, and no matter how much he'll conjure her up he knew she won't be you. A face identical to yours still doesn't feel like you.

You were so much more than just a figure to him, he could conjure her up and she would be just like you with the same smile and eyes but beyond that she was nothing but empty. She wasn't you because you had a soul that he could feel just by being close to you, and you had emotions behind those brilliant eyes and sincerity behind the smile. You were so much more than a trick of the eye.

He couldn't even touch her.

Last time, after he left you he was ruined, knowing that he had no way to undo what he did- he had no way back, especially after the fall. But now he knew that even if he would go back and knock on your door- you won't let him in. He knew he would only shatter the peace you could have had if he hadn't barged into your life and wrecked you all over again. He was a selfish man but you wouldn't let him in your door again. Loki wasn't dumb by any means, he knew that you meant what you said and he couldn't blame you.

Sleep decided to claim him, but he could only hope you won't be there too haunting his dreams.

"Are you sure this is wise?" Loki voiced out his doubts as you picked your head out of the blanket fort the two of you spent the afternoon making only to shake your head at him.

"Yes, it is like the best thing ever," were mortals so destructive that they enjoyed lacking their needed sleep time? He was certain midgardians needed more sleep than him and it was rather crucial for them. "I cannot believe you've never had a movie marathon!"

"I don't see the point of sitting in front of your screen for many hours without any break, we could just as easily watch one and on another occasion the other. Why the rush to do things we can just do another time?"

"Time is short, and you have to live in the moment. There is nothing wrong with spending just one day as if you're running out of time with someone, actually that is something endearing in a way." He watched as you got lost in thought before your eyes focused on his again and he knew you won't let him deny this. So the god of mischief entered the warm steady fort you created, well it wasn't actually that steady but you didn't need to know the little magic he used on it.

He had to admit that the little nest the two of you built was quite charming, it was odd how such a delicate thing could give one the feeling of safety.

"Come on we are starting the first movie!"

"You still haven't told me, who is this Potter?" he picked up the disc and examined its packaging.

"I love it when you say that with your accent! And he is a wizard!" you giggled at him and put a bowl of popcorn in between the two of you as the movie started playing.

"Are you trying to tell me that this guy is doing magic?" It was preposterous to know that this is how humans perceive magic. He wished he could show you what real magic is like, maybe one day he will.

"I know! it's amazing! I love Sci-fi so much." The movie kept playing on with him making snarky comments at the characters and with you giggling and defending the movie.

The movies went on one after the other and he might have gotten emotional over some scenes, not that he showed it of course.

It was in the fifth movie that he felt a soft weight on his shoulder and when he looked to the side he saw you laying your head on him with your eyes closed. At this point the snacks were pushed aside and you had gotten closer to him and now you fell asleep on him, your bodies touching and he doesn't know why but he held his breath then. You let yourself to be in such a vulnerable state with him, in this makeshift fort, and his body reacted to it more than it should have. With each loud fast beat of his heart realization fell upon him. He didn't know what it was just yet, but he understood it.

It was odd, the feeling he got, he had never been this enchanted with someone before- let alone a human. You seemed to have some sort of effect on him that he couldn't shake off even when you weren't around him. You caused these blooming feelings to erupt inside of him and it was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. And all you did was fall asleep with your head on his shoulder. The god of mischief was falling in love.

•

It was 1am and you might have just stolen Tony's car alongside some expensive bottles he had locked away.

You just had to get out of there, the thoughts got too loud and the dreams got more vivid, so you knew exactly where you needed to go to get your mind straight and maybe drink some wine.

No one knew about the apartment that you kept even after moving into the Tower. The only other person that knew about it was Tony, who bought it and kept it there just for you, clear of annoying neighbours in a silent neighborhood.

Getting into the apartment you shivered at the cold, so you turned on the AC and popped open the first bottle of wine.

So you sat there with the bitter sweet wine scenting the room. So far you had no luck of forgetting the young prince, his taste and smell easily overpowered the alcohol if you focused on them strongly enough.

You almost did.

But with each sip you got sent back into a kaleidoscope of memories. Headlights pass the window pane and sent you aware to a far memory.

"Why are you dressed up like that?" Loki raised an eyebrow at you when he took a sit at the dining room table and you put a drink in front of him. He grew quite fond of midgardian drinks, they were much better than mead. You closed the window and the curtain, the bright light outside was blinding you. It was too early in the morning for that.

"Like what?" you stretched your arms and hem of your night shirt went up a bit and revealed skin that Loki tried not to look at.

"Still in your sleep wear."

"It's morning and I'm not going anywhere." You shrugged him off and sat down in front of him.

"Are you not going to change because I'm here?" he kept his eyes on your face.

"No, I'm comfortable." You shrugged him off again and began to eat your toast. Your answer however lingered in the back of your head.

"Alright," he answered and took a sip. "I'm just saying that it's not fitting for a lady to be dressed like this."

He knew how much you hated being called that. His smirk was hidden by his cup of coffee.

"You son of a bitch… don't call me that."

"Not call you what, my lady?" you pointed your fork at him and he couldn't help but think how adorable you look like this.

"Call me Lady one more time and I'll show you exactly how not lady-like I am."

"Okay, fine!" he watched as you brought your cup to your lips only to realize that you drank all of your tea. "Come on, I'll make you another cup of tea as an apology."

You let him take your empty cup with a satisfied smile. When he was in the kitchen you wandered to the question he asked and the immediate answer that you gave him. It took you a second to get out of your thoughts when you realized something.

"Oh wait Loki you don't know how I make my-" you got up to the kitchen only to open the door right to Loki who just gave you the tea he just made. He moved past you and sat at the table.

You hesitantly took a sip, only to sigh in content- it was perfect.

"You know how I like my tea." It was a statement but you were still fazed by that fact as you sat down. His reply was short.

"Well of course I do."

It was odd how such a simple thing as that could make your heart flutter with a feeling that you haven't felt in a long while but you knew exactly what it was.

•

Three months ago in Asgard.

Asgard looked beautiful in the morning. Loki stood in his room next to his window which overlooked the garden. His mind wasn't in Asgard though, and he had a decision to make, one that was waiting for him the moment he steps out of that door.

He knew that it's been almost a month since he left you and you told him to never come back. He had to find a way to move on even if he couldn't. He'd call it a coincidence if it weren't just unfortunate luck.

He was well aware of his options and the fact that there were none, and while he'd rather perish in his own misery a part of him still knew that he would have to take the other choice.

You'd never take him back, not after what happened when the two of you were well aware that the heartbreak would come, not now that you knew who he is.

Without letting himself think any further Loki went out of his room and descended a floor down until he stood outside of the large doors. He gently knocked on them. Who knew, maybe this will someday give him some twisted peace?

The door opened and there she stood in a flowery gown, Lady Iyllir.

"My lady, I've come here to apologize for my past behaviour. I would very much like it if we could resume the plan for our marriage."

•

You threw one bottle of wine aside, it was 2am but you couldn't even drink, you couldn't do anything. You just wished that he would come back and be here. He could always read your mind even when he assured you that he wasn't actually reading your mind.

"Please Loki, I miss you too much to be mad anymore, just come back."

You knew deep inside you that you'll never be clean of him; you'll never forget him for as long as you'll live. If you could, you'd rush all the way to Asgard for him, throwing away your stupid pride.

Maybe he will knock on the door, maybe he is on his way. You humored yourself but the hope was still there.

Yes you told him to leave but what you really wanted was for him to be there on the other side of the door screaming "I'm in love with you" or maybe he'll wait there in the pouring rain and throw pebbles at your window.

How did the god of lies not see it? Why couldn't he see that when you told him to leave you wanted him to chase after you and fight for you?

"I need you Loki, I do."

Then there was a knock on your door, you were sure you imagined it. But it was real and a smile took over your face when you went towards the door. He heard you.

Everything you needed was right there on the other side of the door, with his face and his beautiful blue eyes, and even with the conversations with the little white lies.

You rushed to open the door after he knocked on it again.

But he didn't have his blue eyes.

"Mike?" you really thought that Loki would show up for you. Your smile fell.

"You seemed off today darling," he walked past you into the living room. "I thought you might want some company."

In your state of disappointment you shook yourself out of it and closed the door. You had a boyfriend, you didn't have Loki. You won't have Loki.

"Oh, thank you. That is very thoughtful of you." He put some bags of food and drinks on the counter and came back to you. He wrapped you up in a hug. He may not be Loki, but you needed a hug right now so you held onto him.

"I know that as an Avenger it must be rough, with the missions and the constant danger," he brought you to sit on the couch with him. "I understand that it could get hard, but I'm proud of you for doing that and I want you to know that I am here for you."

He was saying everything you needed to hear, and so you nodded into his chest. Loki was wild and crazy but here you have a guy who is steady and stable and your heart can't seem to listen to logic.

At least he's here.

"I'll get us something to drink and then we can talk about it if you want, okay?" you nodded at him again as he got up and went to the kitchen.

You straightened your shirt until he got back with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

"Oh, I already have wine right there-" you looked back at the half bottle that was left and cringed.

"Don't worry, I'm sure you'll like this one. Plus this one is brand new." He tried to joke but you wished he hadn't seen how much you drank already. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to drink more but you needed it.

You took the glass with the red liquid. Testing it, you shook it in the glass and sent the burning red liquid down your throat. It was pretty good, you had to admit. It had an unusual taste to it that you couldn't quite figure out.

"It's from Europe." He smiled and you smiled back lightly.

You talked to him and didn't really care that you finished your glass of wine soon and he poured you another one.

The alcohol must have started to get to you, you felt a little spacey, the smell of the alcohol made you feel weird.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" he laughed at you a bit and put his glass on the table.

"I asked you if you're okay, do you feel better now?" it was starting to get a bit hot in the room, you forgot to turn off the AC, you looked around for the remote.

"Yeah I'm just- didn't you drink from your wine?" you looked at the full glass on the table. Your head was starting to hurt and you picked up the glass, the weird smell came back to you and the world felt blurry around you.

"No, I'm afraid I am not here to drink."

•

Tags: @ayybtch @buckys-other-punk @chaoticpete @madcrazy50 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @the-departed-potato @rogerrhqpsody @onceupona-happilyeverafter-love @percabethismyotp14

[macbetha]

below the cut, you'll find an interest check chapter for quatervois, a nancy drew pc fic. it's francy and also my idea of my absolute dream game. please let me know what you think and enjoy!

+++

After Ned breaks up with her and she loses her father, Nancy struggles to find her old vigor for detective work. While on vacation in London with Bess and George, Nancy accepts the urgent invitation to return Blackmoor Manor. Her English getaway quickly turns into an investigation once Nancy realizes the true reason Nigel Mookergee asked her back to the moors. Finding Deirdre Shannon at the manor under the same pretense only sets Nancy’s nerves further on edge. It isn’t until the Hardy Boys show up in Blackmoor that Nancy gets a glimpse of who she once was. With a manor full of suspects and a glass heart cracked open, Nancy is determined to find the truth.

Dear Ned,

How are you? It’s been a while. I’ve always started off my letters telling you about my latest case, but I’m not on one right now. I’m sure that’s hard to believe. Bess and George have whisked me away to London. I’m sure you would love it here. This is the first time I’ve seen Bess and George since I sold the house in River Heights. I stayed with Kyler and Matt in Ireland for a while. I needed a change of scenery. Their daughter just turned two. I’m somewhat jealous I’m happy for them. Anyways, I miss you I hope you’re doing well. I’m sure New York is lovely at Christmas time. I hope Stephanie is I wish Stephanie well How is Stephanie? I hope Stephanie is doing all right. I appreciated the card Stephanie sent when dad passed away. Warm regards, Merry Christmas, Love Nancy

She stares down at the letter as if the red ink were her own blood. It feels just as wounding, seeing her emotions made physical in the words on the paper. Only when a tear splatters on the page does she break free from her trance to the past. Nancy is the only person in her hotel suite, yet she works to rid the evidence like one of her own suspects. She pulls her feet up in the desk chair and crosses her ankles, holding the arch of her right foot – it recently became the victim of her latest culprit. Nancy’s foot got caught under the getaway car’s tire, and she is lucky to even be able to walk after the event. Months later, it’s stiff as hell with the most intense cramps she’s ever endured. Heart racing to forget the night it happened, she focuses on the snowfall out the window – counting little sparkles of snowflakes, though the world blurs when she squints. The doctor thought her failing sight as well as the daily headaches were on account of being hit in the head so many times.

She busies herself with choosing a postcard to send Hannah and Nancy selects one with a cat dressed up as a royal guard. The cuteness puts a smile on her face, however small – she hopes it’ll do the same for Hannah, but there is no telling. Nancy had the gut-feeling Hannah was lying about recognizing her the last time Nancy visited the nursing home. Torment swirls like wind to fallen leaves. She doesn’t have Hannah or Togo to come home to. Togo passed just before Nancy’s thirty-second birthday, and Carson fell ill soon after that. Nancy looks to her hotel bed where Mr. Woogle Woggle sits tucked between two pillows. It seems he is the only one that hasn’t left her. A knock on her hotel door reminds her that is simply not true. Nancy rights herself, fixing her posture to the stance of someone passionate, and she opens the door. Bess and George greet her with blazing smiles; Nancy gives silent thanks for their presence in her life. She would still be in Scotland with Kyler and Matt, had Bess and George not insisted to take her on a vacation. Nancy imagines that their insistence was due to them wanting to keep Nancy from spending Christmas alone on the road again like last year. “Nancy,” Bess stresses. “You’re never going to guess who we ran into in the lobby!” Horror strikes dull and loud in her ears. Surely, it’s not Ned. Please, don’t let it be Ned. George says, “Give you a hint: they were involved in one of your cases.” Nancy’s despair leaves her throat tight. She glances down the hallway, preparing to yank Bess and George into her room and dial her Cathedral contact to get them set up in witness protection.

“That didn’t narrow it down at all, George,” Bess says with a roll of her eyes. “Nancy’s been on hundreds of cases.” Nancy’s strain creeps into her one word: “Who?” Bess and George beam. “Maya Nguyn!” ++

Nancy follows Bess and George to the elevator in a hurried stupor. No thoughts can she conjure as she steps free from the elevator walls which seem to close in on her; Nancy marches into the lobby and notices a woman in the crowd of tourists. She stands with her back to Nancy, her hair drawn up in a bun, and her chin is lifted high with no time for games. Maya turns around and her bright red mouth stretches into a smile. “Nancy!” “Maya,” Nancy huffs in disbelief. She tenses in Maya’s sudden embrace before all but falling into it. This is something good I did; Nancy cherishes with shut eyes. This is someone I helped. When Maya pulls back, Nancy says, “What are you doing all the way out here? You said in your last letter, you were still in Washington.” “My house is technically there,” Maya nods. “But I get to work on the road more these days.” Her brows crease over a sympathetic smile. “Bess and George tell me you’re kind of in the same boat.” Nancy shrugs, struggling to hold Maya’s concerned gaze. “It’s just easier,” Nancy lies. Maya seems to see right through it, but she doesn’t speak on it. Nancy will have to thank her later. George says, “Maya offered us free tickets to a play she’s reviewing tonight and get this – it’s at the Globe Theater!” “Remind me what’s so special about a globe theater,” Bess sighs, checking her nails. “Not ‘a’, Bess, the.” George shakes her head. “The Globe Theater – well, technically it’s a reconstruction of the first one, but it’s where Shakespeare wrote his plays.” “It’s the opening night of a new play,” Maya explains. “And Nancy, you’ll never guess who the star is.” Nancy cannot take anymore guessing games. “Brady Armstrong.” Maya blinks. “Well – yes, actually.” Nancy frowns. “Wait, really?” “Yes,” Maya laughs. “I’ll be conducting an interview with him after the show if you want to go backstage and chew him out for all the stunts he pulled back in the day.” A spark of vigor heightens Nancy’s senses. That doesn’t sound bad at all. Still – “Are you sure we won’t be a distraction or –” “Nancy.” Maya’s hand falls on her shoulder. “You saved my life. You’re the furthest thing from a distraction.” Gratitude floods her before Nancy nods. “All right, then.” +++ The walk to the Globe would be depressive what with the sky being the color of a soaked napkin, but the Christmas decorations lift everyone’s spirits. Nancy limps by a shop playing Christmas oldies through the open door and she is borne back to her father listening to records over cocoa on Christmas morning. She tries to push the memory from her mind, then she thinks of building snowmen with Ned and having snowball fights that turned into the sweetest kisses she’s ever received. The music won’t stop. There are three Christmas trees in the display window and their flashing lights strike pain behind Nancy’s eyes. She pants through a sensory overload before someone squeezes her hand. Maya smiles in understanding as Bess and George walk obliviously in front of them. “It’s hard,” Maya says. “This life on the road. You pick up a few habits.” Nancy squeezes her hand in thanks before tucking her own in her peacoat’s pocket. “I want to enjoy this,” she admits quietly. “But I think the holidays are always hard.” Maya nods. “It won’t be this way forever, Nancy,” she promises. “I’ve got my fingers crossed for you.” Cross your fingers, there’s a story behind this door! Nancy swallows around the lump of panic in her throat. She plasters on a smile. +++ The theater is packed with noise and touching and all-around boisterous patrons. They find their seats in the crowd and Nancy doesn’t watch where she’s going – she must keep her eyes on the open ceiling to remember how to breathe. She sits down at the end of the group and Maya passes out programs. Quatervois, the title reads. Bess says, “What does that mean?” “It means you’re at a crossroads,” Maya says. “A turning point.” “Sounds a little dramatic,” George grumbles. Nancy traces the swooping lines of the title with

her thumb, repeating the process until the lights go down. The masked chorus emerges from the shadows and gives a synopsis: Down from Olympus a great hero emerges, Mighty in his strength and courage! A choice he must make Shall he ignore fate? Will he choose love, Or follow his destiny there-of? When Brady saunters on stage in an impossibly short silk chiton, it’s an out-of-body experience for Nancy. He still hasn’t grown his ponytail back, so Simone could very well be in the audience right now. Nancy rubs her aching temple at the thought. Brady begins his journey as the character Diogenes, a demigod that was supposedly – according to the play’s plot – written out of ancient Greek mythos. Diogenes must defeat those who want to leave him forgotten in history, lest he admit that he can’t win this fight and live his life like everyone else. Nancy assumes the play’s ending too soon. She imagines this will be a droll experience written only to paint Brady as a glorious hero that can conquer anything – but she is quickly surprised. Brady is stabbed in the final act and addresses the audience in a wail: And so my story ends a breath too early, No time to even be weary! The moon shall pass over my corpse, And the sun will beat down on my ashes with no remorse. Today, I have failed my quartervois Alone, forgotten, and lost. When the curtain falls, Nancy’s mouth is parted in disbelief as a tear burns down her cheek. They don’t receive a proper goodbye with Maya since the rest of the crowd is bustling toward the exit. She does have time to say that Brady is producing a new television series and will be scouting some locations further into Essex; Maya will be following the film crew there for test shoots. She embraces each girl individually and holds Nancy for a beat longer, whispering, “You’ll call if you need to talk?” “Of course,” Nancy says by impulse. “Same to you.” +++ Nancy is proud of herself for going out, but when she closes the door to her hotel suite, her back thunks against the wall and she must take deep breaths for several minutes. She decides to treat herself to a bubble bath even though it’s nearly midnight. She rolls her hair up into a bun and looks at it in the mirror, how haphazard and messy hers is in comparison to Maya. Nancy isn’t jealous – but she can’t help but notice when people are thriving. She wants to figure out how to do it herself and hasn’t found the cure yet. The bath is claw-footed and deep. Nancy sinks into the steaming water before goosebumps rise on her arms, and her freckled skin blushes in the heat. The water does wonders for her foot. She eases her head back on the lip of the tub and nears a light doze when her cell phone rings. It rests atop a stack of towels by the tub. Nancy wipes her damp hand off before looking to the screen. Frank Hardy. Nancy answers and taps the speaker button to relax back in the tub. “Hey.” “Hi, Nance,” Frank says, his voice a familiar balm after such a stressful time. “What’s going on?” “Things aren’t too different from last week’s call,” Nancy smiles. “But I’m on vacation with Bess and George.” “Oh wow! That’s awesome. I hope it’s been fun.” Nancy’s glazed eyes blink. “Yeah,” she rasps. “It’s nice.” She clears her throat, searching for her old enthusiasm. “But what about you? How’s Joe?” “Same as usual, a pain in my ass.” Nancy chuckles before a distinctive lift raises Frank’s voice. “We’re actually getting ready to get on a plane for a case – but I wanted to make sure everything’s good with you.” Nancy’s hand closes in a fist on her raised knee. “Gosh, it’s been so long since I’ve been on a case.” “Not really. You just took a few months off to stay with Kyler, right?” “Yeah, but that’s the longest I’ve ever gone without a case since I started.” “I’d give you ours if I could,” Frank says. “Really not looking forward to such a long plane ride. Oh, they’re calling for our gate – but do you want me call you when I land?” Gratefulness is a warm glow in her heart. “No, that’s okay – but

thank you. Be safe on your trip and tell Joe I said hi.” “Can do.” Frank pauses. “I – tell Bess and George I said hi.” “Can do,” Nancy repeats. She chews her lip. “See you soon?” She feels foolish for saying something when Frank is headed to a case. While the weekly phone calls have kept Nancy sane, it would be even better to see the Hardy Boys. “I’ll make it happen,” Frank promises. “See you, Nance.” After they hang up, Nancy struggles to get out of the tub with her swollen foot. She gets into a pair of sweats and wraps up some ice in a washcloth, then holds it against her foot. Nancy mulls over her conversation with Frank, wondering how much of her poor mood could be due to not solving a mystery. With a deep yawn, she tosses the soaked washcloth in the wastebasket, not able to walk to the bathroom to put it in the sink. She cuddles up to her teddy bear and flicks the lamp off when her phone rocks to life on the nightstand. Bewildered, Nancy turns the lamp back on to look at the screen. The number is unknown; she sees her hand tremble around the phone. She lets the call go to voicemail before the phone vibrates to life once again. Bracing herself, Nancy answers. “Hello?” “Yes, hello – I’m trying to reach a one Nancy Drew?” The voice is British and eerily familiar, like Nancy heard it in a dream. “This is she.” “Splendid! Oh, you wouldn’t believe the trouble I’ve gone to in order to find your number.” “Sorry? Who is this?” “Why, Nigel Mookergee. We met at –” “Blackmoor,” Nancy whispers. “Nigel, hi. What’s going on?” “I’m afraid the manner of my call is not a jovial one,” he says. “How should I explain this? Well, I suppose from the start. You see –” He sighs. “Don’t tell anyone I’m speaking of this, but the Penvellyns have fallen into a bit of… financial trouble.” Nancy says, “’Financial trouble’?” “It’s certainly not my business to spread, but yes. It’s not that they are a poor family by any means, but one diplomat’s salary is not enough to keep up a castle.” Nancy sits up, grabbing a pen and notepad from her bedside table. She jots as Nigel continues. “The Penvellyns began to host historical tours at the manor – much to Mrs. Drake’s dismay, I might add. Jane wishes to expand the business to the paranormal side of things, and I don’t quite agree with the idea myself, but she insists it’s just what the manor needs.” Nancy finishes scrawling and says, “So, you’re working for the Penvellyns now?” “Yes. I’m afraid there’s been some situations – inconsequential events, if you will – that need a glance over.” Nancy arches a brow. “You mean an investigation.” “Ah, such a serious word. I simply want to make sure we are fully prepared to expand the business.” Nancy’s eyes narrow. “Right. When would you need me there?” “As soon as possible -” Nigel catches himself. “I mean, at your earliest convenience.” Nancy glances over her notes, running her hand over the page filled by red ink. She closes her eyes against the sight and says, “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

thank you so much for reading! please let me know what you think and stay safe. and please consider following me here and on twitter! xoxo

[midnighter13]

the world in mutable delight

Y'all I'm so full of feelings. So many of them. Anyway I've been shouting about Caleb using his Transmuter's Stone on Molly to anyone who will listen for actual years so now, please have more soft pre-widomauk feelings about it.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31672169

The process of recovery, Caleb knows, can be a strange one. Of course, there is hardly anyone stranger than the singular Mollymauk Tealeaf, to begin with. Between the circumstances of his deaths, his lives, and all the magic that brought him back to them, it is hardly a surprise that he needs some time to gather up all the patchwork pieces of himself again. Caleb has no doubt that he will reclaim everything he wishes to, in time; after all, he has never known anyone better at creating beauty from shattered glass. The massive stained-glass tribute within his tower is as close as Caleb could come to capturing the artistry with which Molly created his style and his life and his whole self, and seeing him in vivid, vibrant life again has reminded Caleb that even his best effort could never possibly do him justice.

It is best that way, though. Mollymauk Tealeaf should never be captured in something so still as glass, so static as paint. A whirling dervish of color and laughter and terrible ideas and sheer wonder needs a living canvas to flourish, and thanks to a miracle, he has that chance again.

 One day soon perhaps, Caleb would like to ask Molly about the decor of the tower. He is still fond of his best effort, the beauty that Molly’s memory lends to his library, but it needn’t be the same forever. It would be equally wonderful to listen to Mollymauk create something new, to see if Caleb can create with magic what Molly’s endless font of color and bullshit can imagine.

… Of course, that would require Caleb to overcome the way his mind goes blank every time he thinks about approaching Molly. There are so many things he wants to say, needs to say where Molly can hear him this time, but he doesn’t seem to have the language to express the maelstrom of emotions trapped inside his chest. There is so much happiness and relief and affection and amusement and delight and and and— 

And it is all stopped at the back of his throat by the sharp point of the memory that springs up every time, the fact that the manifestation of all of Caleb’s magic, all of his drive and talent and hope and hunger, failed when Molly needed him. Again. Nine months ago, on Glory Run Road, Caleb’s magic was not enough to keep him alive. And two days ago, in the crumbling city in the Astral Sea, Caleb’s magic was not enough to bring him back.

So. There are a few things he must grapple with himself, before he can indulge in everything he wants to say to Molly.

It has been fairly easy to hang back, so far. He has managed to distance himself enough from the celebrations to keep from spilling his heart across the ground at Mollymauk’s feet. Simply looking at him, vibrant and energetic again, is enough to sustain him—simply hearing his voice, the handful of words he speaks with endless inflections, is a feast when he has been starving. So Caleb stands a handful of feet away at all times, and watches the rest of his family hug and touch and reconnect until his eyes go dry.

The first night of their return to the Material Plane would have been no good, anyway. With how tired they all are, how nearly broken and still very bruised each and every body among them is, it is not the time to show Molly around the whole tower. There will be time for that later, always time for that later, to his greatest elation—later, he will take Molly by the hand and show him everything that he built, every piece of his heart that he conjures to house his friends, his family. He will show him that no matter the time that passed, he kept Molly safe in his mind and gave him a place here, always waiting for him to come home. 

But that will have to wait until Caleb’s hands no longer shake with the phantom weight of his Transmuter’s Stone; and besides, he would have to wait anyway until Molly and Yasha willingly part from each other, and those two certainly have shown no signs of budging from each other’s sides, not through the exhausted pile the (whole, finally whole) Mighty Nein slept in that first night, nor at meals with the welcoming Clay family the next day, nor the hours full of odd conversation and new acquainting and re-familiarizing that followed. There has been plenty to occupy Molly upon his return, more than enough to let Caleb sit outside of arm’s reach and drink in everyone else’s stories, and pretend that his heart has not leapt every time Molly’s bright, lively eyes have turned to him and lingered in return.

Now, basking in the afternoon sun on the second bright day since their family saved the world and was made whole, Caleb knows that he should be taking more action to recover his arcane stores. But each time he tells himself that he will get up and look for a suitable stone, his throat becomes tight again. He makes excuses to Essek, to Veth, when they ask: they are safe here in the Grove so he does not need the protection it grants him; they are among a family that seems very partial to glowing crystals as light sources, so he is in no rush to regain the darkvision he lost with the Eyes; why bother to make himself quicker to move, when they are all enjoying a well-earned rest? Neither of them question him further on it, though there is deep understanding in Essek’s eyes and a shrewd worry in Veth’s. They let him lie back and look up at the endlessly-shifting canopy of green, and try to reorganize his thoughts in peace.

Someone, however, does not abide by that peace. Only a half-hour into his meditation, and having made very little progress in unsnarling his tangled heart, Caleb hears the soft sound of bare feet on moss approach, and stop beside him. When he turns his head, there, of course, is Mollymauk.

“Magician,” Molly says firmly, and plunks himself down on the ground beside Caleb’s head. He settles in, wiggling his toes in the moss. One foot has nails freshly painted in bright teall, the other in charming pink. Both colors, of course, suit him perfectly. Then he says, “Mister Caleb,” with a widening grin, and Caleb’s breath catches once more in his throat.

“Hallo, Mister Mollymauk,” he says in return, the smallest greeting that settles sweetly on his tongue. He pushes himself upright, and turns to face Molly in kind. “Your words are returning to you, it seems.”

“Some,” Molly says, and the word that is not empty is accompanied by a decisive little nod. It takes effort, it seems, but Mollymauk has always been an obstinate individual. Regaining all his words may be like trying to pick up pieces of confetti one at a time, but if Mollymauk wants them back he will have the time to do so now. And hopefully, his friends can continue to help.

“That is very good to hear,” Caleb replies, and he cannot stop the smile that spreads across his face at Molly’s pleased expression.

“Magician,” Molly repeats, and holds out a closed fist between them. Caleb hesitates, unsure if this is a greeting or a request—then Molly shakes his hand a little, impatiently, and Caleb obligingly holds out his own open palm beneath it. Mollymauk’s tail swishes in broad strokes behind him, and he opens his hand to drop something into Caleb’s palm.

A blue-grey stone the size of a hen’s egg hits his palm with a soft sound. There is no ring around this one like his first, but when it catches the light it sparkles with countless tiny deposits of mica, glittering like stars. Caleb blinks at it, then up at Mollymauk. “Ah… thank you?”

“Magician,” Molly insists; then, after a pause, “lucky,” accompanied by that little flicker of his fingers that he used many times before, whenever he mentioned how little he understood about magic or asked Caleb if he could cast a spell. And perhaps it is not elegant, no kind of official communication that even a Comprehend Language could parse, but Caleb understands him perfectly, and his throat stings as though he might cry.

“Oh,” he says, and stares down at the stone in his hand. “Th-thank you, Molly. How did you know…?”

“Joy—” Molly clears his throat, a quick little cough and a wrinkle of his nose that spells frustration with his voice. “Jester,” he says carefully, clearly, “told me. What—hmm. Happened. Empty—”

He takes a deep breath, seems to gather his thoughts. He reaches out and closes Caleb’s fingers around the rock in his palm. “Empty,” he says again, softer now. Then he says, “Caleb,” and brings his hand up and presses his lips to Caleb’s fingers.

Caleb’s heart is nearly tripping with how quickly it hums. His ears are hot, and he knows that the afternoon sun cannot be to blame in the pleasant shade of the Grove. “Molly,” he says, helplessly. “Molly, I—I’m sor—”

Molly’s tail smacks gently into his knee. His eyes narrow as he looks up at Caleb, somewhere between playful and warning. Caleb swallows hard. He takes in the sight of Mollymauk’s face before him, and memorizes the new weight of the stone in his hand.

“Ja, okay,” he manages. “I can use this, Molly. Thank you.”

“Ja, ja,” Molly says, grinning wide and cheeky once again, and the laugh that bursts from Caleb feels like lightness, like relief, like forgiveness.

Molly is still smiling at him, his tail tapping softly against the moss. He releases Caleb’s hand from his grasp, the stone safely inside. Then he puts one hand up and crooks his finger at Caleb, in a universal gesture of come here.

Obligingly, Caleb leans forward, narrowing the space between them and trying very hard not to blush all the way to the roots of his hair. Molly puts his hand on the side of Caleb’s face—warm, his touch is so warm and firm and real again. It’s almost enough to distract him, enough that it takes him by surprise when Molly leans forward and kisses him firmly on the forehead. Then he lingers there, and Caleb lets his eyes close just for the moment as he memorizes the feeling of being here, with Mollymauk Tealeaf, safe and happy once more.

When Molly sits back, he folds his hands in his lap, contentment written so plainly across his face that he hardly needs the words to say it. Caleb thinks of five things he could say, a dozen, a hundred possibilities like fragments of fate. But Molly only has so many words to give, and it is better, for right now, that Caleb can speak his language in return.

He holds up his free hand and crooks his finger at Mollymauk in the same gesture of come here. Molly’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and his tail patters rapidly against his shin—but he leans forward, a smile lurking at the corners of his lips, just enough to show the dimples in his cheeks and the light dancing in his eyes. Caleb puts his hand to Molly’s cheek, and gives in to the temptation to run his thumb gently along the vibrant peacock feather there. Molly’s smile grows wide, showing teeth and crinkling the corners of his eyes, as Caleb leans forward and presses his lips gently to Molly’s forehead. He holds him there for a long moment, savoring the warmth of his skin and the once-again inescapable whiff of sandalwood and incense.

Words are few and far between, right now, but words are not the only thing they need. For now there is touch, and there is warmth, and there is magic, and there is Molly. And for anything else, there will be time for that later. 

[onecanonlife]

In which Tommy travels back in time and tries to prevent a nightmare from happening to everyone he knows. Everyone else, meanwhile, is highly concerned.

(fic masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first part) (previous part) (next part)

(word count: 4,132)

--------------------  

Part Four: Eret

“They’re here.”

The words are said in her own voice. She does not remember willing her mouth to move. She does not remember how she got here, nor where here is. Inside, somewhere, for sure; her surroundings are blurry, twist and warp everywhere she looks, and it’s confusing, dizzying. The air is hazy, clouded with smoke and drifting sparks, flickering on a hot, dry wind, and a film of red has descended on her vision, as if her glasses are tinted. She doesn’t know what’s happening, nor why she spoke, but even as she listens to the words, she is certain of their veracity, a deep, dark dread pooling in her chest. They are coming. They are coming for her, and for everyone else.

She is scared. It is a wide, unfocused, fear; she can’t seem to concentrate enough to figure out what or who she’s scared of, what or who they are. The details slip away when she tries to grasp them, and the act of thinking feels like wading through thick mud. Her thoughts are foggy, unfocused, and she can barely feel her own body, like she’s a passenger in her own skin.

But she is scared. Her skin buzzes with it, with a pure, unadulterated terror, with the sensation of running out of time.

“We knew they’d find us,” someone says. They—no, he, he feels right in a way she can’t explain—he stands next to her, though she cannot turn her head to look. His voice is familiar to her as summer rains, the crunch of a footstep on sand, the ring of a pickaxe on gold, but she does not know him. “We knew this was inevitable. I’d hoped for more time, but—”

He is scared, too. She can hear it in his voice, and every inch of her aches to soothe him.

“We won’t be able to win this,” she hears herself say instead. “Not against all of them.” Her voice pauses. “Not this time.”

“Who’s here?” a new voice says, lighter than the first, accented differently, reverberating with an echo that wedges in her bones, empty and unnatural. Their presence feels like an absence. “Do we have visitors?”

“Enemies, more like,” the first voice says.

“Ah,” says the second. “I’ll go tell them to fuck right off, then.” A pause, and then, “Is Techno coming?”

A name she knows but doesn’t. A face flashes in her mind’s eye, and once gone, she cannot remember it.

“Maybe,” says the first. “Why don’t you go see? And if he’s not, you can go ahead and, um, tell them to fuck right off. That’ll be really helpful.”

There is a blue of motion in the corner of her eye, someone passing out of the room, though they are soundless, and the air does not change with their leaving. She still cannot turn to look.

“He’s not what he was,” she hears herself say. “He won’t be able to hold them.”

“I know,” the other says, and there is defeat in his tone, heavy and terrible. She wants to take his hand. She wants to look into his eyes. She wants to know who he is. She can do none of those things. “I know. There’s nothing else we can do now. Are you ready for this? What you were telling me about?”

She feels herself swallow past a lump in her throat. “Ready enough to try,” she says, and her voice is choked. “But I don’t—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, and then, he is in front of her, and he is right there, but her eyes will not focus, and every time she blinks, she forgets his features, forgets—but she cannot retain them long enough to describe them, even to herself, and she’s left with nothing, like trying to snatch at dying embers before they go cold and turn to dust. She thinks she could cry with the frustration of it, and she still doesn’t understand, has no idea why she wants to know so badly, why this is so important to her. “It’s all gonna be okay.”

“It won’t be,” she says. “I didn’t want it to end like this.”

“Neither did I, old pal.” There are lips on her forehead, a gentle kiss. She leans into it, wants to keep the memory of it forever. “Don’t think of it as an ending. Just a—a see you later.”

She laughs, unhappily. “There won’t be a later.”

“Maybe not,” he says softly. “But I’d like to think that’s not true.”

There is a sound, then, a noise like a shriek and a cry and a grinding of metal against metal, discordant and clanging, and it’s as if it punches her in the throat. She gasps for breath, the air suddenly too thin to sustain her, and past the sound, the terrible sound, the sound that is drawing closer, some destructive thing on the hunt, she hears his voice: “We’re out of time.”

Behind her. There is someone behind her. She turns, and her vision flares with red, but she can make out blond hair, blue eyes, something small and pink held in their arms, clutched to them desperately, protectively, and then the world is tilting, blurring and changing, and the turns again and she is kneeling, her knees on hard stone, and she knows, she knows that something awful is happening, and they’re out of time, they’re all out of time, and her hands mark the ground with desperate, rushed motions, smearing paint—no, blood. She doesn’t know how she knows that, but she does, and her motions, too, are beyond her control.

And yet, they feel natural. Like something buried in her rising up to the surface. She has no idea what she’s doing, even though her body does, and yet, and yet—

The universe hums at her fingertips, and it is as familiar as her own name.

“Eret,” someone gasps, someone pleads, “Eret, what’re you—he’s still up there, we have to go get him—”

“He’s buying us time,” she manages, her voice distant to her own ears. The next words that she says are not comprehensible to her, power vibrating through them, something other, something wrong and yet right all at once, and the blood—it is her blood—begins to glow, shimmer with a silver-red light, and she can barely look at the patterns she’s made, her mind skittering off of them like a rock skipped across a pond; she’ll sink if she lets herself.

“Eret, please,” they say.

She stops her chanting. The spell is set. Half of her feels calm, serene. The other half of her feels like she’s screaming.

“I couldn’t save anyone else,” she says. “I’m sorry. But I can do this, at least.”

“Wh—Eret!”

Alarm, true alarm, fear, and she meets their eyes. His eyes. His face solidifies, sharpens, becomes clear. His eyes are duller, his hair streaked with white, his face scarred. But it’s Tommy. Too old and too young all at once.

The glow brightens, illuminates the contours of his face. Lights up the room. Warms her skin.

Tommy screams.

The world rips, or perhaps she is ripping the world, but she is falling, falling back and away, falling out of herself and a void is underneath but not in time for her to escape, the world is imploding but there are footsteps, there is someone shouting, and someone yanks her head back by the hair, and there is a sharp slide of a blade across her neck, a gush of something hot, and then pain, and—

Eret wakes up choking.

He sits bolt upright, hands flying to his neck, pawing at it, pressing it, trying to stem a flow of blood that does not exist, close a wound that is not there. It takes several full minutes for his body to convince his brain that he is whole and unharmed, that he is neither bleeding out from a blade to his throat nor tumbling into some vast emptiness as the world destructs around him, destructs from something he did—

What was that?

Slowly, he calms, regulates his breathing, but not all of the panic leaves him, adrenaline flooding his veins and setting him shaking. He takes his hands down from his throat, stares at them; they tremble, but there is no blood painting them.

That is, perhaps, the most vivid dream he has ever had. And also perhaps the most frustrating. He can’t say he’s ever had one like it, where he felt like he was trapped within himself, unable to affect his own actions, spouting off words that he had no context for.

He shudders, suddenly, a full-body convulsion.

Air. He needs air.

It’s the dead of night, it seems. L’Manberg is quiet, peaceful, enjoying her first night of true independence. It’s still a bit hard for him to believe, that it was won just like that, and by Tommy, no less. He was prepared for the conflict to stretch out a lot longer, little though he liked the idea. But now, it’s all over, and they have to figure out how to proceed. Or at least, Wilbur does; Wilbur is still in charge, president now rather than general. He’s not sure how he feels about that.

He likes Wilbur. Rather a lot, actually. But sometimes, it concerns him, how much Wilbur seems to enjoy power.

Though he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the thought of having a little power himself, power to protect anyone he chooses, to lead if need be, so perhaps he’s just a hypocrite.

All thoughts for later, though. For now, the night air is a balm on his face, fresh and free, and he breathes in deeply. The world is fine. He is fine. He can even imagine where the dream came from; Tommy was acting so very strangely yesterday, and he’s been stressed in general, so it’s not hard to figure that his mind conjured up some outer manifestation of it, some representation of the way he feared everything would come crumbling in around them. Dreams are tricky things. It’s never wise to put too much stock in them.

The one thing he can’t push aside was the other person. Not Tommy, and not the one who left. The one who kissed his forehead, called him a friend. He’s not sure why his mind would invent someone when he has plenty of friends here to fill the role, and something about it unsettles him. Because the depth of attachment he felt for this person, who he is sure he doesn’t know, who he doesn’t recognize at all, was frightening, almost, in its intensity.

And yet, it was also comforting. Familiar. Safe.

Absently, he reaches up and touches his forehead. He’s reading too far into this, to be sure. But he can’t help but wonder who he was, even if he was just an invention of his troubled, tired brain.

He sighs, and decides to mount the walls. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to fall back asleep any time soon, so he may as well have a decent view. May as well help keep watch, even though they supposedly don’t really need to anymore. He’s not sure he’ll trust this peace until the documents are all drawn up and signed, but hopefully Dream is a man of his word. Hopefully he is one that keeps his promises.

The night is peaceful, and there’s a cool wind blowing from the northeast. He turns his face into it, breathing deeply, and that is when he sees it: movement. A figure on the ground, moving slowly but steadily toward the walls. He leans further out, trying to get a better look; is this something he should raise the alarm over? One person probably can’t do a lot, unless that person is Dream. He hopes it’s not Dream.

He squints as the figure approaches. They really are making a beeline for the walls, and there’s no indication that they’ve seen him. He wonders if he should call out, make them aware that they’ve been observed. Would that dissuade a potential troublemaker?

And then, the figure gets close enough for him to make out details. Rumpled red and white t-shirt, blond hair. It’s unmistakably Tommy. Which begs a new question: what is Tommy doing outside L’Manberg’s borders so late at night?

He did the same last night, from what Eret gathered. Went to Dream and traded his discs for L’Manberg’s freedom. A risky ploy, one that he’s surprised actually worked, but he supposes he’s been underestimating the value that this discs have to many people on the server. He wasn’t here for the onset of the wars over them. Still, he admires the sacrifice that Tommy made, even if he can’t make heads or tails of that interaction they had yesterday.

But then, Tommy’s always been a bit of a strange kid. This was a new kind of strange, but he’s fifteen going on sixteen years old, and he’s proven himself to be resilient. He’s sure everything is fine.

As he muses, Tommy clambers his way up the wall, and once he’s up, he just stands there for a second, leaning against one of the parapets. His face is pinched, lined with exhaustion and something else, something that Eret can’t quite interpret in the dim light of the stars. He seems preoccupied, caught up within himself and whatever he was doing, and Eret considers letting him go without saying a word. But concern wins out over that, and he clears his throat. Tommy jerks, wheeling on him violently, lips slightly parted.

“Hey, Tommy,” he says, raising a hand to placate him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t startle me,” Tommy says. “I’m unstartleable.”

He smiles, inclining his head. “I’m not sure that’s a word.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Tommy says. “What’re you doing up here?”

“Unsettled dreams, I’m afraid,” he says. He sees no reason to hide it, and perhaps admitting to a bit of weakness will put Tommy more at ease. Currently, he’s holding himself tense as a bowstring. “I came out to get a bit of air. What about you? Any particular reason to go for a stroll this time of night?” He cuts himself off before he can say something stupid, such as, I’m sure Wilbur wouldn’t be happy to know you’re out and about this late. Because while that is the truth, and he’s sure Tommy knows it, knows that the man is protective over him like he is over practically nothing else, he’s also sure that Tommy’s independent spirit wouldn’t appreciate him pointing that out.

“No,” Tommy bites out. “No reason at all.”

That is so clearly a lie that it’s almost insulting. But he takes one look at Tommy’s closed off posture, the jut of his chin, and decides to leave it. What’s most important is that Tommy is back safe; he won’t pressure him to reveal something he’s not comfortable with sharing.

“Alright, then,” he says. “You’re welcome to join me, if you’d like.”

Tommy shoots him a scathing glare at that. But to his surprise, he then walks over, a bit hesitantly, and joins him in bracing himself against the ramparts, staring out over the surrounding countryside. He doesn’t say anything else, and Eret tries to study him without making it obvious.

“I think it’s pretty amazing, what you did,” he says. “I can’t pretend to understand how difficult that was for you, but you single-handedly won us a war. You’ve probably had your fill of receiving thanks, but I think it bears repetition.”

“I know it was amazing,” Tommy says, and his voice is oddly hollow. “I’m very amazing, thank you so much.” He sighs, then, shoulders hunching a bit. “No, it just—it just needed to be done, so I did it. That’s all there was, really. Not even sure if it’ll hold up. Dream’ll use them as leverage if he thinks he can get away with it, and then we’ll have a whole other mess of problems.”

“Do you think he’ll keep his word?” he finds himself asking. Perhaps it’s the maturity Tommy seems to be displaying, the awareness, but he seems like the one to ask.

“Don’t know,” he says. “At this point? I hope so. He’s still got people he’s accountable to, so maybe. If not, we’ll have to kill him.”

“Right,” he replies, and wonders when death entered the picture. They knew it was a risk, of course, in war, but no one has died yet, on either side, and he rather thought that everyone was looking to keep it that way. “I pray it won’t come to that.”

Tommy snorts. “Let me tell you something, Eret,” he says. “Praying doesn’t do shit. Gods die just as easily as men do.”

That—sure is something for a teenager to say. He’s not sure why it strikes such a chord in him.

“Hope, then,” he says, and tries not to reveal that he’s rattled.

“Hope’s not much better. Unreliable, that is,” Tommy mutters, and Eret thinks that it might be time to change the subject. Otherwise, he’ll have to confront just how jaded Tommy sounds, and as much as he likes the kid, he’s really not sure that he’s the one best equipped to help him, even if Tommy would allow him to do so. Surely, someone like Tubbo or Wilbur would do better in trying to talk him through it.

“I’m not sure I understood what you were trying to thank me for, earlier,” he says. “Or yesterday, rather.”

Tommy shoots him a glance. “Don’t worry about it,” he says dismissively. “You don’t need to make it a thing. It wasn’t a thing.”

“It felt a little bit like a thing.”

“Well, it wasn’t, so piss off.” Tommy frowns, and then turns to face him fully. He turns as well, trying to show him that he has his undivided attention. “Look, it was just a, a general thank you, yeah? Enjoy it, because you’re not getting another one. But you’re not completely shit all of the time, I guess.” He sounds so very put upon in a way that only teenagers can, and Eret suppresses a grin. “Don’t read into it, shit head. But listen, Eret,” —His tone shifts, suddenly, going lower, more serious, and Eret leans in a bit on instinct— “you are sticking around, yeah? With us, with L’Manberg?”

“Of course,” he answers, taken off guard. “I’ve no plans to be elsewhere.”

“Good,” Tommy says. “That’s—that’s good. Not that I care if you stay or not! Don’t get ideas! But you should stick around, because we are clearly superior to everyone else on this shit server, and we’ll treat you right. Not like Dream would. Especially not like Dream would.”

“Right, yeah,” he says, sort of feeling like he’s lost the thread of this conversation, and more than a bit disconcerted at the intensity of Tommy’s words. “Don’t worry, I have no plans to go anywhere near Dream.”

“Good,” Tommy says again, and this time, he seems satisfied. Eret raises an eyebrow at him, but he just goes back to looking over the edge of the wall, and Eret shakes his head a bit, going to push his sunglasses further up his nose.

And then realizes—he’s not wearing them. Hasn’t been wearing them this whole time.

“Shit,” he hisses, and pats himself down frantically, trying to see if they’re anywhere on his person, but of course they’re not. He’s wearing his nightshirt and loose trousers, and he can picture exactly where his glasses are: sitting on the nightstand beside his bed. He didn’t think to grab them, shaken by his nightmare as he was, certain that he wouldn’t be running into anywhere else.

“What? What’s the matter?” Tommy asks, alarmed, and he realizes something else.

His eyes have been on display throughout this entire conversation, and Tommy hasn’t said a word about them. Hasn’t so much as reacted. Hasn’t so much as stared. And that—that is foreign to him. Incomprehensible. He knows very well what his eyes bring to mind, knows very well the reasons why he chooses to hide them. Better that than to scare everyone around him away. Better to hide than to have no one. But Tommy hasn’t said a word about them. He hasn’t—

He doesn’t know what to do with this.

“My glasses—” he stutters out. “I don’t—I don’t have—”

“Oh,” Tommy says, and visibly relaxes. “Yeah, did you drop ‘em somewhere or something? Did they fall out of your pocket?”

That—that is not what Tommy is supposed to be asking. Eret shakes his head, but the motion brings him no clarity. He’s trying to think past the drumbeat of instinctive anxiety, though it’s fear that apparently has no basis, even if he doesn’t know why.

“You’re not scared?” he manages.

Tommy’s face goes slack in surprise. Surprise, as if that’s the last thing he expected Eret to be asking, but surely, surely he understands Eret’s nerves? Surely he understands why Eret is confused? Surely—he must know, right?

And then, he sees a bit of that understanding dawn on Tommy’s face, his lips forming an ‘o’, and Eret braces himself.

“Of what, those?” Tommy says, making a general sort of gesture. “Gonna take more than that to frighten me, big man. You’ve got some weird fucking eyes, but I don’t see why that should bother me. And fuck anyone who is, right? They’re just eyes, man. Everyone’s got ‘em.” He pauses. “Except for Dream, maybe. We’ve never seen them. He could be hiding anything under that mask. Wait, shit, what if he hasn’t got any eyes? What if he doesn’t have a face?”

He sounds genuinely disturbed by the line of questioning. But also, he’s darting glances at Eret every now and then, as if checking to see what his response will be, and—is he trying to distract him? To calm him down, perhaps, in the most Tommy-like way possible?

Something in Eret’s chest grows warm.

“As far as I know, Dream’s just a guy,” he says. “I’m sure he’s got a face.”

“An ugly face, maybe.”

“You—” He can’t help but check. He needs to know, needs to be certain. “You really don’t mind them?”

Tommy shrugs. “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he says. “They’re fucking strange, and you’re fucking strange, but it’s alright, man. You don’t—I mean, I know you, and that seems more important than anything else, yeah?” And Eret’s face must be doing something at that, because Tommy scowls at him, sudden and ferocious. “No, no, I see what you’re thinking, this isn’t a thing either, you bastard. This isn’t a thing. You’re just being an idiot, so I’m correcting you. This is a correction, because I simply can’t let you go on thinking things that are wrong. You get that? I’m right and you’re not and I’m telling you that. That’s what this is.”

“Right, of course,” he says. “I wouldn’t dream of claiming otherwise.” He pauses. “But thank you, Tommy. Really. That kind of means a lot.”

Tommy’s face reddens. “Whatever,” he murmurs, but he sounds unmistakably pleased. “It’s fine. I’m gonna—I’m just gonna go now. G’night, Eret.”

“Goodnight, Tommy,” he replies, and watches as Tommy practically runs for the nearest ladder.

And he remembers his dream. Remembers Tommy looking at him with trust and terror in equal measure. Remembers the scars that dotted his face in the one second that it became clear. Remembers the tremble in his voice, and the horror in that last moment as someone came up behind them and slit his throat.

He gets a sudden, overwhelming urge to call out to him, to ask him about it. But he tamps down on it. To do so would be ridiculous, after all, and Tommy seems to have enough on his plate without him adding to it. And what would he even say? Oh, by the way, I watched you watch me die in my dream just a bit ago. You don’t think there’s any meaning to that, do you?

Because that would go over so well.

So he just watches as Tommy sets foot within the L’Manberg borders and heads off at a good clip toward the building he’s claimed as his house. It’s kind of a sad structure; they really do need some better architecture around here. Maybe he should get on that. He’s a fairly good builder himself. He might be able to draw up some plans.

For now, though, he turns his face back toward the stars, and tries to feel like there’s nothing missing.

[holycatsandrabbits]

Love’s Endless Light: A Good Omens serial romance

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Note: this chapter reveals Aziraphale's secret. If you haven't read the previous chapters, you might want to do that first.

Chapter 10: Your Truth Confessing

1967, Soho, London, England

“Needed a word with you,” Aziraphale said. He had appeared in the passenger seat of the Bentley, with a smile on his face that didn’t make him look happy. It was odd how much more balanced Crowley’s beloved car looked with Aziraphale there, a pale passenger in a darkened space, like a star in the night sky.

Crowley had made sure Aziraphale would hear about his scheme to steal holy water from a church. Crowley was far too afraid to bring up the subject of holy water again with Aziraphale, but he wanted the angel to know that the plan for their defense was moving along. He just wasn’t sure what Aziraphale was going to do about it now that he did know.

“I’m not a fighter, like you,” Crowley said. “I can’t conjure up a flaming sword. This is just me being careful. Of course, Heaven is a likely danger too, so we should talk about you having access to hellfire somehow. I was thinking maybe if we could find a witch— I just met this guy who might know of a few.” Crowley trailed off, watching Aziraphale stare out the window at the street beyond, the crowds of people, the passing cars.

“Crowley, you know that holy water won't just kill your body. It will destroy you completely.”

“I do know that.”

“I thought it was going to. In Eden.” When Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley, he was as ashen as his white coat. “We— we met on the wall, if you remember—”

“Of course I remember.”

Aziraphale looked wistful for a moment. “We shouldn’t have, really. You should have been afraid that I would hurt you, strike you down for what you did with Eve and the apple. You didn’t know I wasn’t armed at the time, that I’d just given my sword away.”

“I’ve never been scared of you, Aziraphale.”

This revelation, which was not really a revelation but something immensely obvious, seemed to shake Aziraphale, making him tremble and breathe unsteadily. “The rain,” he said. “I thought it might be holy water falling from the sky. God’s punishment for what you did.”

Crowley shivered. “I didn’t know if it was or not. Scared me either way.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were now full of tears that sparkled with all the colors of the neon lights out on the street. “I put out my wing to shelter you, but you were already coming close. Why? Please tell me why.”

Crowley tried to speak gently. “I know you killed demons in the War in Heaven. I understand. That was your job. And I’m glad you did. They would have hurt you! Demons aren’t— they were your enemies. That doesn’t mean you’re a cold-blooded killer who’d strike down a demon for talking to you. You don’t come across that way, you don’t seem threatening. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be threatening unless you have to be, and even then, you— Look, the reason I’m not scared of you is because you’re a good angel. Not good by Heaven’s standards, maybe. Just— good.”

“There’s not supposed to be a difference,” Aziraphale said, wiping his eyes. “There cannot be more than one kind of good angel.”

Crowley huffed out a dark laugh. “Well, maybe you’re just ineffable, then. An angel who won’t kill demons outside of a war. It’s not just me, I’ve seen you chase off plenty without hurting them. Even that one who attacked you in 1143, the Florentine Republic. Remember him, with the tail? You injured him in the War but then when you met him again, you let him go. Of course, you did stomp on the scar of the tail wound you’d given him all those millenia ago. He didn’t appreciate that.” Crowley laughed again, and it was just as unnatural-sounding as the first time.

Aziraphale had rested one hand on the door handle to the car, but otherwise, he made no move to leave. He just looked at Crowley with a misery that made Crowley feel sick. “His tail,” Aziraphale said, in a quiet voice. “It didn’t fit under my wings. The rain— there was holy rain in the War in Heaven, and a drop— splashed him. I couldn’t quite heal it, there wasn’t time. Or room, really, with all the— with all the rest there.”

“Holy fucking Hell,” Crowley whispered. “You didn’t kill demons in the War. You protected them.”

Aziraphale smiled sorrowfully. “From holy water. Twelve of them.” Now that he had gotten started talking, the words began to flow rapidly. “That was all I could fit under my wings. Some were very small, you know. It started because I saw this little one— he looked like a sort of cat-thing, but rather more teeth than anyone would ever need. He tried to bite me, that was all he could do. But he missed and so he started to back away. And then it started to rain. I could feel the drops of it on my body, cold in that way that holy water is, pure and sharp and heavy. I put out my wing to cover him. I just— I just did. I’m a guard, Crowley, it’s instinct, I cannot just—”

Crowley reached across the seat and pulled Aziraphale into his arms. Aziraphale buried his face against Crowley’s shoulder and sobbed.

Aziraphale hadn’t been in Crowley’s arms since the kiss in 1941, and it felt to Crowley like he’d never left, and also like he couldn’t stay. Like they were two pieces of a whole who were desperately holding themselves together across a crack that ran all the way through.

“They all trusted me,” Aziraphale said, muffled into Crowley’s jacket. “They came from everywhere, trying to shield themselves from the rain until they made it to my wings. I picked up two of the little ones, and the rest of us squeezed together until the rain stopped. It felt wonderful, Crowley, it felt right.”

Aziraphale pushed back, out of Crowley’s arms, wiping his eyes. He held out a hand and materialized an object from the air: a flask, decorated in a pale tartan design. “The humans don’t know what the holy water will do to you,” he said, his voice still shaky. “Your plan to rob a church is stupid, and your plan to use holy water in self-defense is probably right, but at the same time very stupid. And dangerous. But I cannot let you go unguarded. Not— not from your ridiculous caper, and not from Hell. So— so here. Don’t go unscrewing the cap.”

“Angel,” Crowley breathed. “What this must mean to you—”

“What you mean to me,” Aziraphale said, with a bit of a leftover sob.

“Do you know what you mean to me?”

Aziraphale smiled, just a little. “This isn’t over, Crowley. It’s not fixed. It’s not safe. You and I— we have to be careful not to go too fast.”

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My previous Good Omens serial: Mr. Fell’s Bookshop

Coming August 20: "Tollense," my next serial romance. A history professor falls in love with his best friend, a 3000-year-old vampire.

My Carrd

*********

Image text: Love’s Endless Light by Dannye Chase (HolyCatsAndRabbits) Chapter 10

As Aziraphale and Crowley slowly fall in love over the millennia, Crowley discovers that Aziraphale is keeping a very dangerous secret.

[cinnonym]

let it snow (i’ll keep you warm tonight)

For Day 1 - Snow/Cold of 12 Days of Supercorp @supercorpbb

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***

“You want to do what?”

Alex’s voice sounded about as doubtful as if Lena had told her that she planned to conjure a full-grown hurricane instead of a few harmless clouds. Director Henshaw limited himself to an incredulous look. Unreasonably incredulous, insultingly incredulous even, if Lena weren’t used to people underestimating her.

“It’s not that complicated, actually,” she said, in lieu of rolling her eyes. “I simply have to trigger nucleation manually, which, given the current temperatures, shouldn’t be a problem if enough INA bacteria is distributed in the troposphere – ”

“Yes, yes, I understand the nephology part,” Alex interrupted. There was an irritated twitch to her lips, as if Lena’s explanation had offended her in return.

Lena smoothed down her skirt, suppressing a smirk. “Then what is the problem, Agent Danvers? Naturally, I will only use harmless bacteria, saprophytes in fact. The quantity has been carefully calculated. You are welcome to read the measurement protocol, if you want.” She gestured at the files before her. “The risk is minimal, or else I wouldn’t be contemplating this. The DEO has nothing to worry about.”

“Okay. Let’s say we believe you.” Director Henshaw thumbed through a report, eyes scanning the pages before they settled on Lena again. “One thing remains unclear: why?”

Lena bit back a sigh. Of course this question had to come up, although she had hoped, against her better judgement, that it wouldn’t. But invading citizens’ privacy was probably part of Secret Agent 101.

She put on a little smile nonetheless, ignoring that the director’s expression remained unchanged in response.

“I’m sure meteorologists all over the world applaud this experiment. The advancement to science will be its own reward.”

“With all due respect, Ms Luthor,” Henshaw said, while Alex wrinkled her nose, as if to say ‘which is none, right now’, “If you expect us to give you the green light for covering National City in homemade natural snow, we’d like to know your reasons.”

Lena lifted an eyebrow. “With equal respect, director, I am not asking for permission. L-Corp is authorised by the city council to possess and manoeuvre drones over National City, and as for the nucleators, well. Our average air pollution lies at 90 US AQI; a few microgram of non-toxic bacteria should be the least of our worries.

“So, I will make it snow on Christmas, that is already decided. I’m just here to inform you about the possible fluctuations in your readings. Next to L-Corp’s own technology, I figured your sensors would be quickest to pick up changes in the air, and given your history of sometimes hasty action…”

Much to Lena’s gratification, Director Henshaw’s mask of a face finally started showing some cracks. The muscles in his jaw clenching, unclenching, and clenching again, he stepped back from the table where Lena’s lab reports lay spread out.

“We are keeping this city safe,” he said stiffly, “Sometimes quick action is required.”

Lena gifted him with her sweetest smile. “The city is safe. And I just want to make people happy.”

***

Alex waited for her in the corridor, leaning against the wall in an entirely unmilitary fashion. She straightened up when Lena closed the door behind her.

“Why are you really doing this?”

Lena smirked. Kara’s sister or not, she kind of liked Alex Danvers. The fire in her, the passion, the competitiveness which reminded Lena of herself. She shrugged.

“Is it so hard to believe that I’d simply like to have a white Christmas?”

“Uh, yes?” Alex gave her a wry look. “You don’t exactly strike me as the type to care for snow. Or weather in general.”

“And yet I understand more of nephology than you want to give me credit for.”

Alex’s gaze darkened. “You’re deflecting.”

That almost drew a laugh from Lena. It seemed Director Henshaw wasn’t the only one who had paid attention at agent school.

“You are good,” she admitted, pulling her coat closer around her as she headed for the door, Alex following her grudgingly. “But I’m still not going to tell you.”

Alex sighed. “Fine.” Then she brightened. “Hey, are you coming over for game night next Friday? Maybe Kara can worm your cloudy secret out – “

“No, don’t tell Kara!” Lena interrupted, then, when Alex’s eyebrows skyrocketed, hastened to add: “You know how she dislikes secrets…”

But it was too late. Alex’s eyes were already widening with comprehension, her jaw dropping with implication. Lena felt her cheeks go red despite herself.

“It was just a silly idea,” she murmured, ducking her head to escape Alex’s almost manic stare. “She just mentioned how much she missed the snowy winters in Midvale and I just…”

“Lena fucking Luthor,” Alex said slowly, effectively cutting through Lena’s rambling, “You better treat her well or else.”

Lena’s face was positively burning now, and she suddenly wished she’d never come here. But she couldn’t have risked Kara’s Christmas surprise being destroyed by the DEO overreacting to unusual cloud formation, and so here she stood, struggling not to squirm under Alex Danvers’ sternest glare.

“It’s not like that,” she said hurriedly. “We’re not – Well, she’s not – I mean, it’s not like she – “

Alex snorted. “It’s not like she won’t gift you her entire heart when you make it snow for her, and you know that.” Her eyes narrowed, but she was grinning now, and Lena felt her nervousness fade away like it had never existed in the first place.

“You really think so?” She asked, smiling slyly when Alex gasped.

“Oh, don’t play innocent now. You totally planned this! You charmed my sister into being your friend, and now you’ll charm her into being your girlfriend.”

Lena bit her lip. “Girlfriend is a big word…”

“And self-made snow is a big gesture,” Alex shrugged, then leaned close. “Look, obviously I cannot say with absolute certainty that Kara will react that way, but between the two of us: if she doesn’t propose to you right there and then, I just might.”