#they whipped out those adoption papers FAST

[mo-mode]

Daddy Bearman: Hi, I’m Ollie’s dad. My son is racing for Ferrari—

Charles, Lewis, Max, Seb, Carlos, Entire Ferrari Team, Literally Every Other Driver:

[mymelodymia]

Daddys little girl Dad!Tony stark x baby!daughter!reader

Summary: you are tony starks baby girl <3

Warnings: nothing just fluff 🥰

A/N: my acc hasn't been getting much attention lately. I hope this gets as big as my fics used to be. Also im using the same way you met tony as in toddler years

+•°+*°•+

Being tony starks daughter had lots of benefits, but also lots of bad parts as well. But for now we're focusing on the good parts. Let's start at the beginning.

One day, mid (birth month) the door bell rang. Tony, the famous billionaire playboy, walked out of his garage and turned the corner. Given that the whole wall of the front door was glass, tony saw right through it.

No one was there. Only a small cardboard box, layered with a multi colored blanket. He stepped closer, Jarvis opening the door. He saw a baby looking like it was fresh out the womb.

You, had a envelope in your tiny hands. Tony bent down and took it from your grasp. And along with this note (and angel) came a bag. Which held a single bottle, three diapers, a white onesie, identical to the one you were wearing, and your birth certificate. Only his name was on the paper. You didn't even have an identity yet. Tony opened the letter and read it.

'Dear tony. Shes only 2 weeks old and driving me insane. I dont care what you do with her, whether you put her up for adoption i dont care what you do. But shes yours now, feel free to get a DNA test. Just get her the fuck away from me.'

"What a bitch" tony muttered under his breath, looking down at you, he couldn't help feel the need to take you in. You were his after all.

"Sir, if you do not want the child, we can send it to mr rhodes" Jarvis suggested, tony immediately turning him down "no, no dont do that"

He picked you up, and took your blanket as well, quickly he wrapped you in the small blanket.

He walked over to the couch, staring at you the whole way there.

You began to flutter your eyelids. Tony gasped for no reason at all, his heart began to race slightly. He was about to meet his daughter.

You opened your eyes, and they locked with tonys, you both just stared at each other for a while. Before you, the curious little baby, reached up as high as you could. Your fingers brushing his cheeks.

You cooed, making him smile, which made you smile. You let out a small happy noise. Before tony stood up, and walked toward the front door.

He grabbed the bag and headed upstairs to his bedroom, not taking his eyes off of you.

He sat down on his bed, that was three times his size. And set you down on the mattress. And turned on a movie on the plasma tv mounted to the wall.

After a few minutes, he had noticed you had completely soiled your diaper, he picked you up and put a towel on his dresser, after a few failed attempts, he successfully changed you.

He called happy and pepper, who came as fast as they could given that he called and said "hey so i just found out im a father, i need you to come quick, thanks bye" and hung up.

They both arrived at the same time, and after a small argument over his choice of words on the phone call. Tony sent them out to go get bottles, diapers, formula, etc.

And for the meantime, tony spent some time with you. Your large e/c eyes looking around on awe.

You were beautiful. (Still are) and tony made sure you knew that.

He felt quite stressed given that you did not have a name, and that he had to choose one. He would definitely be one of those guys who picks a name with a meaning.

Eventually, he settled for y/n y/m/n stark. Your first and middle names perfectly fitting in with your last. It had a nice ring to it.

After a moment your eyes began to droop. Tony took note of this and held you to his chest, patting you on the back (be careful tony)

He rocked you to sleep, and once you fell into this slumber, he whipped out his laptop. And after a few hours of online shopping and a couple thousand dollars, everything he needed to take care of you was on its way.

+•°+*°•+

The next few days, most of the packages were there. Including the crib. The past days he had been forced to put you in a laundry basket, that he stuffed had with his pillows. (The first time you fell in love with his scent)

It took both happy and tony to get it through the house. And after multiple arguments, being ended by you crying because they were loud. And pepper taking care of you in the meantime. five hours later the crib was officially in one piece.

Tony also bought a crib that was transparent on the sides so he could keep an eye on you in the living room, but sadly you were too small for that so they decided to save another 7 hours and not put that together now.

Once all of the packages had arrived, tony had happy took all of the packages to tonys bedroom. Then went home.

Tony put your crib right next to his bed, and in a corner he had the changing table, which doubled as a dresser, put in a corner next to a rocking chair for him to lull you to sleep.

He heard you whimper from across the room, he turned to the clock, and it read 10:48 pm.

He walked over to you as you started to cry. He immediately sprung into action and grabbed you, resting you on his chest patting your back.

"You must be hungry, my little y/n" (ahaha. Do you see the connection)

He walked downstairs to feed you. Once he was done with this task, he sat at the rocking chair and sung you a lullaby (or AC/DC in a soft tone 🤷‍♀️)

When you fell asleep, he decided he needed sleep to (for once) though it was quite early for him, he did need to sleep given that he now had you, and thought he needed some extra sleep.

+•°+*°•+

The next morning he was woken up at four in the morning by you screaming your head off. He jumped up (dad instincts already kicking in huh) tripping over his blanket that wrapped around his foot, looked at you. And could smell it before he could get there. Oof.

After he finished changing you, he walked downstairs cradling you in his arms, that engulfed your tiny body. Your head resting in the crook of his arm.

He fed you while sitting at the couch, he thought, might as well stay up. He'll probably just be woken up by you anyways 😆

You fell asleep in his arms not long after. And he swung his head back, closing his eyes. And fell asleep on accident. And a few hours later, he woke up to you once again, screaming your head off.

once your eyes fell upon his, you calmed down immediately. Making a small happy noise. Making him smile.

He had ordered some clothes for you online. And now that the baby carrier thingy was there, he could now bring you into public. He was nervous given that paparazzi follow his every move. But he didn't really care if they saw him with you, you were his.

He went out with just you in his arms, and came back with tons of bags full of clothing.

He then went ahead and put a car seat in place, along with a mirror so he could see you if he was driving. Which he wouldn't be doing for a while.

+•°+*°•+

He had took time off of stark Industries for a few months, so he now worked at home.

After two months of having your presence in tonys home, you were both inseparable. Tony couldn't do anything without you because he was hooked, and you couldn't do anything without him because you were only two months old.

The first time you sat up, he was so proud of you. Same for when you first rolled over, but his favorite achievement you had made so far has got to be when you first giggled 🤭

At seven months you began to crawl. (I know that's kind of early but i started crawling early and i know almost nothing about babies so..)

You had been sitting up, playing with tony when he scooted away from you, you gave him a look and leaned on your hands. You pushed you knees up and started army crawling to tony. Bouncing yourself with your arms.

He gasped and cheered you on. "Come on baby, come to daddy, aaaaahh, you got this sweetheart, come on" when you reached him he scooped you into his arms, smothering you with kisses.

Then his kisses became tickles, he pulled away from you and put his hand on your stomach and began to wiggle them all around.

You started giggling, which fell into deep baby belly laughter when he blew a giant raspberry right above your belly button.

You, only being seven months, couldn't do anything but wait for him to stop. Which he probably won't do anytime soon given that he loves your laughter 🥰

At 11 months old, tony went back to stark Industries. He had made a very large portion of his office dedicated to you.

Toys everywhere, there were a few books, he had that "transparent crib" in there as well. Which doubled as a playpen for you, mainly soft toys like stuffed animals and such were in there.

Many times pepper stopped a meeting mid way through, just to give you to tony. You had been screaming your head off but the second you were in tonys arms you calmed down immediately.

He would continue the meeting with you clung to him. Wrapping your arms around him, your head resting in the crook of his neck.

When you celebrated your first birthday, tony was having very mixed emotions, he loved you, and was so happy to see you made it this far. But he missed the days with his baby, and he wanted them back. He missed feeding you while you rested in the crook of his arm. Or rocking you to sleep while singing to you.

He is definitely the guy who throws magnificent parties that were long and big. But for his baby girls first birthday he only invited Rhody, pepper, and happy.

Watching everyone singing happy birthday and seeing you smothering cake and frosting all over yourself was one of the best times of his life. And he would never forget it.

+•°+*°•+

A/N: i might do another Dad!Tony stark x baby!daughter!reader cause it's so fluffing cute! And here are the few things I forgot while writing this

Tags

@animealways // @white-wolf-buckaroo // @tonystark-au // @zebralover //

[autisticlenaluthor]

Lena

a continuation of 'music'

-

Lacy, oh Lacy, skin like puff pastry Aren't you the sweetest thing on this side of Hell? Dear angel Lacy, eyes white as daisies Did I ever tell you that I’m not doin' well?

-

Lena’s existence is split into a series of moments. Like clips of a film, cut up and taped together— the footnotes of her life. 

There’s before Lex. There’s during him. But at fifteen years old, when the entire world knows and despises his name, she isn’t sure if there will ever be an after.  

All she knows is she wants to be more than who she is. More than this subpar, doormat of a girl. 

And when the mental cuts start to run too deep and it feels like the walls are closing in; like her brother has stolen all the oxygen in the world and the only way to breathe again would be in his absence, Lena tries to imagine what that might look like. Tries to picture a world where she’s on her own— without any of the Luthors. She’d be somewhere in the city — in an apartment, a brownstone, a hotel, on the street, it doesn’t matter where. So long as she’s by herself. 

But as Lillian never fails to remind her, her dreams are just dreams. And while Lena’s used to the cracks in the sidewalks– she’s getting pretty sick and tired of waiting for flowers to grow between them. 

Some days, it feels like Lena's the one splitting into two. 

She isn’t crass enough, isn’t smart enough, isn’t confident enough to properly carry the Luthor name. She isn’t fast enough, isn’t savvy enough, isn’t sharp enough. She’s a prodigy, sure, but where does that get you once you’re no longer a child? Intellect is impressive at seven but at twenty, expected.

At fifteen, Lena’s a circus animal who’s been paraded a year past their prime. 

But in the real world– the world that isn’t run by her parents (although, it’s debatable that anything isn’t) Lena is all too much a Luthor. She has their dark hair and stoic, statue-like stares. She has the education, the upbringing, and the double L name to prove it. It doesn’t matter that she’s adopted, it doesn’t matter that she’ll never be enough– she’s already too much. 

So maybe she shouldn’t be surprised when Kara leaves her alone in Glacier Park to finish picking up trash. She shouldn’t be surprised that Kara finds her just as repulsive as the rest of the world and just as disappointing as her parents do. That part should’ve been predictable. 

But the part where Kara didn’t recognize her name… where she seemed excited, almost, to work with her– that was where Lena should’ve known it was too good to be true. 

She’s a Luthor after all. Poisonous and weak. 

So Lena does what she’s supposed to (just as she always does) and cleans the park on her own. She finishes the paper which she submits with Karas’s name ahead of hers and tells herself at least she never has to see her again. They’ll both get the extra credit that Lena doesn’t need and maybe when Kara sees those five points tacked onto her midterm, she’ll hate her 5% less than she does now. 

But of course, things never go as planned.

Only a week goes by before they see each other again. 

It happens at a coffee shop three blocks from Lena’s school. She’s walking through the doors, arms overstuffed with textbooks and as she focuses her thoughts on how she’s going to balance the AP World History DBQ with studying for her AP chemistry final, Kara crashes into her. 

In a second, the books topple out of Lena’s arms and a whir of blonde hair whips down in front of her as the culprit scrambles to pick them all up. 

“Golly– I’m so sorry, I–” she stammers. Arms move faster than should be humanly possible to grab them.  “That was all my fault.”

Frozen, Lena watches as the girl pops back up. And when she does– the apologetic expression Kara’s wearing goes from concerned to confused.

“Lena…” 

Lena’s lips purse into a line. It’s a fake. An uncomfortable, half-smile as Lena carefully takes the first book from Kara’s hand. She nods slightly but doesn’t say anything.

The sight of her– the glasses and ponytail and her ridiculous Superman symbol necklace, is just too much. The paper is done, the project is done, which means they were never supposed to see each other again. This isn’t in the rules– this isn’t any part of it. 

“I…” Kara stops and starts. Her mouth hangs open ever so slightly. Like she’s waiting for words that won’t come. 

After a second, she adjusts her backpack straps and shifts her weight between her heels, slowly looking Lena up and down. It doesn’t seem judgemental but then again, Lena can never tell.

In her Spence crewneck and skirt, she’s never felt so exposed. 

So she reaches out, takes the rest of the books, and walks right back out the door. It might be rude but she doesn’t care. She’ll get coffee someplace else. She’ll find a new spot and this time, when she says she’ll never see this girl again, it’ll be for real. 

But they find each other again at a museum five days later. 

It’s for a school trip. Toward the middle of October, they all shut down to the public, allowing Metropolis’ various high schools to occupy them for the day. Spence takes all the sophomores to the history museum where they’re split into groups of five- each assigned different sections of the museum to visit and exhibits to take notes on. They’re supposed to connect it back to what they’ve been learning in class and maybe prove that ‘advanced placement’ courses serve a real purpose other than the prestigious name. 

Lena’s group is given various historical leaders to study. The other girls joke about how she better not get any ideas, then conveniently forget to tell her when they’re moving from the exhibit on the Zhou Dynasty to the Egyptian wing.

That’s where Kara finds her half an hour later. 

Lena’s sitting on one of the benches towards the center of the room, bent over her notebook, lazily scribbling onto her worksheet. The room is dark and quiet, with dim lights gently illuminating the art and artifacts. Other than a few students from other schools scattered about, they’re completely alone. 

At first, Lena doesn’t notice her presence. 

She’s too focused. She’s caught back up in her runaway fantasy, wondering, if she didn’t leave with the rest of the kids– would anyone notice she’d disappeared? She knows that kind of thinking isn’t productive. She shouldn’t be fantasizing when she has work to do, but the city’s so packed she’d be just another drop in the ocean. And oh how tempting it is– to feel what it would be like to finally blend in with the crowd. 

After a moment, Lena lifts her head. 

Kara is sitting on the other end of the bench, leaning all her weight into her hands as she stares ahead of her. 

Lena can’t help but look at her. Even though she knows she shouldn’t, even though she knows Kara doesn’t want to see her. In the warm-lit room, surrounded by artifacts from hundreds of years ago, it’s the only thing Lena knows how to do. 

She doesn’t pull herself back to her notebook until Kara notices returns her gaze.

Lena pretends to be fascinated with her work, only dropping the act when she runs out of space on her paper to write. She sighs, defeated, and sets her pen down beside her.

That’s when Kara finally speaks.

“Why aren’t you with your school?” she asks, her voice so much quieter than Lena expects. 

She looks up again, away from her paper and straight ahead, then shrugs. 

“Why aren’t you with yours?” 

“We just… got separated.” 

Lena nods. 

“Yeah. Me too.” 

“Oh.” Kara pauses, glancing over at Lena’s worksheet. “What are you working on?”

“AP World notes.” 

She tilts her paper so Kara can see– the page entirely filled with bulleted annotations. 

“Your handwriting is so pretty.” 

Lena smiles. “Thank you.” 

After that, she stays quiet. She needs to see where Kara’s going to take this– even if inside, she’s whirring with things to say.

“I um… I’m sorry for leaving you.” 

The statement seem to come out of nowhere. Confused, Lena furrows her brow. 

“What?” She asks. 

“At the park,” Kara clarifies. “That was just– it wasn’t a nice thing to do. I- I mean, I know you said I could… but still.” 

“Oh… right.” 

Ducking her head, Lena picks at the skin around her nails. 

“And thank you for finishing the paper,” Kara adds. “It was really good.”

Lena doesn’t know what to say to that. She doesn’t know what to do with any of it, really. 

When it comes to her and her family– the rest of the world tends to be incredibly black and white. There are the people who call Lex a terrorist and her mother a vicious traitor. The ones who say her father was so corrupt with capitalist greed that his untimley death could evoke no symptahy because someone like him deserved nothing more.

There are the girls who hide the dead animals kept in the science lab for disection in Lenas locker. The ones who say she deserves it– after all, she’s just like the rest of them. 

And then there are the people who’d follow her brother off the ends of the Earth if they could. The people who really did die in their attempts to help him on his tirade across so called ‘Earth traitors’. 

Those were the ones who hid behind bushes to take photos of her as she left school because they couldn’t wait to brag about how they’d seen the Lex Luthor’s sister in the flesh. 

But Kara seems to fall somewhere between those two groups. And while Lena can handle the two extremes, she doesn’t have any real experience with someone in the middle. 

“Yeah…” she breathes. “Of course.” 

Before she can say anything else, or even gather her thoughts, Kara has stood up. 

“I um, I should get back to my class,” she says. “It was nice to see you again.”

"Yeah... nice to see you too."

[kawaikith]

☾ my views on marry my husband.

This kdrama = 🥹🤌🏻🫠 *chefs kiss*

Park min young had to lose weight for the role of playing a cancer patient, i remember reading it in the articles. She’s so dedicated, I love her so much.

So, i’m finally watching this drama after hearing the hype over it, and it’s a 5/⭐ I LOVE IT, I’M ONLY ON EPISODE ONE, BUT IT’S SO GOOD!!! ✨

I love the small details, they’re shown so perfectly.

The taxi driver giving her money back, saying that it is his last day as a taxi driver, turns out it was her father. From the small heart mark on the notes he gave her. 🤌🏻

How she wakes up and travels back in time, ten years before she died at the hands of that douchebag, minhwan. He’s such a red flag, though.

The way she runs at him, the moment she looks at him 😭😂 she runs so fast, she runs 200 metre from her company.

And, our green forest follows, with her sandles, even buys her food, because he knows that she needs it. 🤌🏻🤌🏻🤌🏻🤌🏻🫠 The husband she deserves, I hope.

And, that fucking bitch soomin, acting as if she really cares for min young. (I forgot the character’s…wait, it’s jiwon, hmm) 😂not me forgetting her name every few minutes. 😭

Did you also see that when jihyuk watches jiwon smile, he collides with the desk, and all the papers are flying. Lol, he’s so whipped, WHIPPED! LOVE TO SEE THAT SHIT!!!

Love where this is headed. Finally! I found a good kdrama!

Okay, i watched way too many episodes and came back to update this post.

Can we take a moment to appreciate how jihyuk knows to take care of our jiwonnie, he even outdoes himself and decorates his place with Christmas trees, stockings, and other things. (I’m not a Christian, so i don’t know what those things are called, forgive me)

Also, their first kiss 🤌🏻🫠🥺😩

But, right after they kiss, he pushes her away from himself, because he’s reminded that he is the person who has to protect her.

He literally locks her out of his apartment 😭

Park minhwan, that motherfucker deserved the debts he has and let’s talk about his parents’s insult that jiwon did. 😂😂😂

She legit dressed like a mistress to show his mother that she isn’t below her, that motherfucker had the audacity to say that jiwon should learn how to respect elders, that she can’t cook, blah blah.

Jiwon is such a legend for answering her back, and not letting that bitch of a mother bring her down.

That comeback was honestly so much better than any k-pop groups i’ve ever seen!!!! 🫠

Wait, but this sumin bitch pisses me off so much, she really had the audacity to seduce minhwan knowing that he’s her best friend’s boyfriend, and then covering up the jomart issue and blaming it on jiwonnie.

That bitch’ll get what he reaped, i swear if she doesn’t, i’ll fucking riot!!!

I don’t know how reincarnation trope works, but if soomin had a miscarriage, then i don’t know how jiwon’s revenge is even complete, especially after the special entry of Yuri, jihyuk’s ex fianceé, is there going to be a sad ending?

Okay, yuri’s entry was not needed, they were just dragging the drama, and therefore, the last episodes felt boring.

I love how jihyuk is a man of small details, how he keeps track of everything that makes jiwon smile, and tries to overdo himself just to see her sweet smile, he’s such a cutie patotie, he even adopts the cat that jiwon used to feed in their college days.

He buys her expensive necklaces, clothes, and takes care of her needs so well, it’s so fucking attractive.

He’s such a divine masculine, i fucking love him! 🤌🏻

[swaghaver69]

i hate mice. i grew up in a shitty trailer in the middle of a field in bumfuck nowhere and it had broken windows and holes in the walls and floors and shit and the little motherfuckers would literally crawl in through the fucking windows and shit I WOULD WATCH THEM DO IT and they scared the shit out of me they didn’t pay rent why the fuck were they in my house and they breed and multiply sooo fast ohhhh my god. my dumbass little sister would always leave food out and shit. they scared me so bad. i would see a little motherfucker scurrying out of the corner of my head and whip my head around so fast and my heart would pound immediately and it would be gone because they’re quick and i would have to question whether or not it was real or if i was just seeing shit. my dumbass cats wouldn’t even hunt them or kill them or anything bc they were strays we adopted from the gas station bc they would have died if we didn’t and they didn’t have their mom so they never developed the hunting instinct so they were useless when it came to the mice. one night i was laying on the floor in the pitch black dark on the shitty carpet and i felt a little motherfucker scurry ACROSS MY FUCKING STOMACH. i screamed so loud. i used to sleep on the shitty broken couch we had in the living room in the room with the broken windows and it would be so goddamn cold and drafty and shit. and i would see them scurry around so much. i begged my dad to put out the mouse traps and i heard those shits go off twelve fucking times that night. i wish i was joking. it startled me every time. there were even more after i went to sleep. i just saw a picture of a mouse with its stupid shitty fucking black soulless beady eyes and it reminded me of it. i hate them so much. motherfuckers chew my clothes and leave nasty chewed up paper towels everywhere like places it doesn’t even make sense places paper towels wouldn’t even be. they don’t even pay rent. i hate them so much. full disclosure though if someone told me they had a pet mouse or rat or something i would keep my mouth shut like i wouldn’t joke about wanting to crush it to death or anything bc i know it’s fucked to say that about someone’s pets even if it’s a thing you hate like i get it i literally have pet slugs and i want a pet tarantula one day. im just telling my feelings here on my blog dot com. stay tuned for my next post on why i have a fear of teeth

[nancywheelersgirlfriend]

Steve, Eddie and Robin drop by Nancy's workplace and while they are joking around, Nancy is this close to get mad because one of her coworkers hands her a foreign letter, and it is written in two languages mixed together, none of which she knows.

Nancy finally hits the table and everyone turns to her. "Oh hey." Steve says, "Chill. What's wrong?" And while Nancy is explaining, Robin glances at the letter and "Oh it's Russian and France. Kind of a code. Look."

And Nancy just stares at Robin works out the letter in awe.

Bonus a very proud Steve in the back.

thank you for the wonderful request!! it ended up just being in russian, i hope that's alright! i might write another with a french-speaking Robin, she's so cool :)

INCLUDES STRANGER THINGS SEASON 4 VOLUME 2 SPOILERS

Kyoto (2,083 words)

The Hawkins Post was six feet under - no, literally. Unfortunately (or fortunately, in this case) it’d been built right above the Upside-Down fault line. Diana, a twenty-something waitress who worked at the cafe across the street, told Nancy it’d crumbled like ash underneath the overwhelming heat of the crack.

And so when the rest of Hawkins was busy trying to put itself back together, Nancy focused on what’d always been there; the news. She, accompanied by her ragtag group of clumsy teenage friends, recorded bits and pieces of what was happening to the citizens. Out of the earthquake (or the End of the World) grew a desperate need for a place to collect requests for supplies, missing notices, obituaries, and some good news too, what little there was of it. The first draft of the Hawkins Sun made her mother cry over a story about a father reuniting with his daughter - Hawkin’s previously-dead police chief and his adopted teenage girl brought back together by the earthquake. It was a good cry, Nancy’s mom promised as tears blotted the still-drying ink. 

Now three months later the Hawkins Sun set up shop in the skeleton of the old printing press in the basement of Hawkins High, the high school paper thankfully merging into it because of, well. The lack of students available to help. Either they’d skipped town or disappeared within the smoke and ash from the fault line break. Hawkins High took one look at Nancy’s efforts and handed her a diploma without final exams or a walk across the stage. She took it without question. There were more important things to worry about than a cap or a gown or an afterparty with stale beer.

Unfortunately the printing press still had no air conditioning. A late August afternoon spent slaving over the Sunday issue, set to be sent out and copied that night, had Nancy close to passing out at her desk. She was debating the wording of a short story about Nana’s Bakery, a place downtown, that had given out free breakfast to those who needed it a few days before. As she shifted around words with her eraser and her scissors, tongue between her teeth and deep in thought, the three Stooges decided to walk in.

Steve Harrington’s big and familiar hand (now scarred irreparably) came down first, landing softly on the desk. Just enough to get her attention. Nancy’s head whipped up so fast her reading glasses nearly fell off her face. Steve, ever the hero, swooped in to push them back up onto her nose with a charming smile, one that would’ve had her swooning over three years ago. But it was not three years ago, so she just smiled tight-lipped in return.

Beside him, as he tended to be, was newly innocent Eddie Munson. The earthquake had hindered the witch hunt for Eddie but not enough, so he’d been hiding out since spring break. That is, until mid-June brought him a judge-officiated sentence of ‘NOT GUILTY’. Even though the majority of the townsfolk hesitated to respect it, Eddie was a free man. 

Eddie leaned on Steve’s shoulder, both from the want to be close and also from necessity. His brush with death in the Upside-Down had rendered one leg completely useless and later removed. As the shady government figures (who’d bought the Hopper-Byers house in upper-class Twin Pines) worked on making Eddie a sufficient prosthetic limb, Eddie walked slowly with one foot and spent the majority of his time being Steve’s other half. Which Steve didn’t seem to mind. In fact, it was the complete opposite. Nancy was happy for them. 

On Steve’s other side, a little farther back from the desk but no less visible, was Robin Buckley. Nancy’s first true girl friend since Barb. Robin Buckley, whose nearly overwhelming beauty wafted over in waves of fruity scent despite their lack of proximity. Nancy had been anxious over not getting the cover story worked out by tonight, but Robin’s presence put even a deeper dent into her productivity. Nancy couldn’t even get angry at her for it. 

Robin’s newly chopped bob, hair that barely reached her ears, swung around her head as she walked over. Short hair looked good on her, even with the tiny, dumb-looking ponytail Robin had tied at the base of her head to try and keep stray hairs off of her neck in the heat. 

“Anything good today, Nance?” Steve asked as he peered over her work. Nancy resisted the urge to shoo his grabbing hands away like he was a small child and instead gestured over to a crowded desk beside her. 

“I’m working out one of our last stories,” She explained. “I don’t think the wording is right, though.”

“Nancy!” Her co-worker, Paul, called her over from behind. She felt him brush past her as he dropped a scribbled letter down onto her workspace. “This came for you today. Good luck trying to read it. I have no fucking clue.” Nancy laughed before squinting her eyes. She picked up the piece of paper in confusion. It was in a language Nancy had never seen before.

“Do you know how to read this?” She asked Steve and Eddie, holding it up to them. Both squinted, expressions eerily mirroring each other. 

“I have no idea,” Steve said.

“It’s in Russian, I think,” Eddie spoke at the same time. The two looked at each other and Nancy fake-gagged at them, taking the letter back.

“You two are sickening,” She said with a laugh, spreading out the paper onto her desk and leaning closer. 

She had to take Eddie’s word for it, although knowing the language didn’t help at all. So what if it was Russian? She didn’t know Russian, couldn’t even begin to know it. All Nancy knew was about a year’s worth of Spanish taken her freshman year, which was fairly embarrassing - she wanted to know more languages, but fighting monsters from an alternate dimension took up the majority of her free time. There wasn’t a chance to learn languages.

Her fingers absently traced the edges of the page as she furrowed her eyebrows deeper. Maybe something about the news? If only one of the words were recognizable, but it was all gibberish. Especially because the alphabet differed so much from English - half of the symbols were alien to her. Nancy let out a little frustrated noise.

“Do you think it’s important?” Steve asked.

“I hope not,” Nancy groaned. “Jesus, this is impossible to read. It’s too hot for this.” She contemplated balling up the page and tossing it in a trash can, damn the consequences. Something in the back of her mind told her though that perhaps a letter in Russian, especially with the uncertainty of the gates being closed and Vecna still half-burnt and zombielike out there somewhere, made her instead smooth out the letter’s creases.

“What’s up?” Robin appeared then, leaning over the desk in the same way Steve was. Her bangs fell in her eyes, all sun-tinged brown strands that had Nancy’s heart leaping up to her throat. “Oh, shit! Is that in Russian?”

“Uh, I guess,” Was all Nancy could come up with. Instantly she felt stupid for stuttering like that. But Robin didn’t seem to notice or judge her for it. Instead she rounded the desk, coming to stand over Nancy’s shoulder and read the letter behind her. Dimly Nancy recognized their height difference, how Robin’s bangs brushed with her own as she leaned over to check out the letter. How Robin’s body radiated heat, something Nancy had been trying to avoid all day but now she wanted nothing more but to suffocate herself in, drown in the smell of Robin and her proximity. 

“I know Russian, by the way,” Robin said carelessly, like it was a normal conversation starter. Nancy opened her mouth to speak but then Robin covered one of her hands with her own to hold up the letter closer, breath hitting the shell of Nancy’s ear as she leaned in. Nancy’s eyes went wide. They darted up to Steve’s, who was watching them with a shit-eating grin on his face. That fucker.

“You-you know Russian?” Nancy asked, amazed. Robin hummed an affirmative, clearly not hearing just how shocked Nancy was.

“I think this letter was forwarded to you,” Robin said. “Do you have the envelope?”

“Paul probably does,” Nancy spoke in a daze.

“It’s addressed from somebody who calls himself Enzo,” Robin explained. She stretched out a long, beautiful finger to gesture to where no doubt the aforementioned name was written. “It was for Hopper, I think. Or some guy named Murray. Maybe Murray sent this for you to see too?”

“Murray,” Nancy spoke softly. “Yeah, I know him. He speaks Russian too, I think.”

“Cool,” Robin said. Nancy dared to turn and saw Robin’s pearly grin up close to her eyes. She nearly fainted.

“I can’t believe you know Russian,” Nancy admitted. Robin shrugged self-consciously, a bashful smile on her face.

“I dunno, I’m good with languages,” Robin said, laughing a little. Nancy nodded because of course this girl was good with languages. Was there anything she was bad at? “Anyway, it basically details a bunch of stuff about a gate in Russia. Maybe Hopper knows more?”

“We’ll bring it to him,” Nancy agreed. “So - wait, if you know how to read Russian, that means -”

“Я говорю́ по-ру́сски,” Robin said, tongue flicking out as she spoke. And okay, if Nancy was close to fainting before - she was on the verge of death now. Robin’s voice dropped about an octave when she spoke, hitting the vowel sounds just right. Her throat moved slightly, swallowing. Nancy couldn’t take her eyes away from Robin’s mouth, from her moving neck, from her tongue still left sticking out just slightly. She knew she looked insane but there was no amount of willpower in the world that could’ve gotten her to stop staring. 

“What did you say?” Nancy whispered, eyes wide.

“I said ‘I speak Russian’,” Robin laughed, eyes twinkling.

“Can you two stop fucking in the middle of the printing room?” Eddie said dryly. Nancy remembered she wasn’t dreaming and looked back up, no doubt face as red as the surface of the sun. Eddie and Steve were wearing matching grins like the obnoxious couple they were. Nancy snuck a glance back at Robin, whose cheeks were pink. But neither made any move to put space in between.

“We can drop the letter off to Hopper,” Robin suggested after a moment, voice cracking before she coughed and swallowed again. It was cute how flustered she was and it would’ve been cuter if Nancy wasn’t so equally shaken up. “You know. ‘Cause you need to work, and stuff.”

“Okay,” Nancy said, even though what she really wanted Robin to do was to merge into her. Even if that was physically impossible. She shouldn’t leave her side, that’s for sure. Robin picked up the letter softly, folding it over and over as she stepped back. It was almost painful to lose that contact. “Come back to tell me what he says, yeah?”

“Will do,” Steve nodded as he and Eddie stepped away from the desk, heading for the door. Robin turned to follow but she spun back around before she fully disappeared. She squared her shoulders and took a breath.

“Would you wanna - um. Learn Russian with me, sometime?” Robin squeaked out. Her face was bright red. “I can teach you, you know. Some phrases. If you want.”

“I do want,” Nancy agreed, embarrassed at how fast the words came out. She nodded for emphasis. “I really, really want.”

“Cool,” Robin said. She clapped her hands as if to finish the conversation. “Okay. Um - 

До свидания!” She spun around again, nearly tripping over nothing as she rushed for the door. 

“What does that one mean?” Nancy called after her, heart fluttering in her chest. She couldn’t help but grin as Robin spun back around, hand pushing open the door that led out into the rest of Hawkins High.

“It means goodbye,” Robin said over her shoulder. “Or, um. ‘Until next time’.” Nancy let herself really grin then, the smile staying even after Robin was long gone. Maybe Robin could teach her how to say ‘I really like you’ in Russian. Maybe she’d get her in English, anyway. Nancy wanted to express the emotion in both languages, though. 

She wanted to tell Robin she liked her in every language available.

:) Should I write a language-study date part two?

[aj-illustrated]

*pulls up a 97-slide PowerPoint* I’m so glad you asked

Ben is an OC co-owned by me and @finnoky! The short of it is that he’s an orphan who Varian helps save from a life of crime, and who later gets adopted by Quirin!

More about him under the cut:

Age: About 12

Birthday: He has no idea, but thinks it might have been sometime in the autumn.

Likes: Quirin, Varian, farmwork, tending to the sheep, his dog (Achilles), the Challenge of the Brave (spectating and later competing), adventure stories, head pats, strawberries, friendly roughhousing, drawing

Dislikes: Cramped spaces (he’s claustrophobic), people hugging him, carrots, books with complicated words, cold weather, any kind of tight or scratchy clothing

Fun Facts:

Ben meets Varian about nine months after the end of the series.

He’s good friends with Kiera and Catalina! They’re the only kids his age who can beat him in a fair fight.

He eventually grows to be taller than Varian, and absolutely uses that fact to tease him.

He’s an excellent pickpocket, though he hasn’t stolen much of anything since Quirin took him in.

He’s got a knack for drawing— he’s not too good with words, so he finds it easier to express himself with pictures. He’s also a leftie!

He’s been almost adopted several times, but Quirin is the only foster parent who kept him around for longer than a month.

Backstory: Ben is an orphan who’s been given a raw deal in life, and as a result is kinda pissed off at everyone and everything all the time. The orphanage he grew up in was lacking to say the least, and he spent much of his early childhood being routinely abused and neglected, often lashing out in aggression at those he deemed to be a threat (which was most people). He eventually starts getting into trouble with the law and is tossed in prison for multiple counts of petty theft and assault, and it’s around that time that he meets Varian, who is helping to reform Corona’s prison system and is disgusted to see that they’re still punishing children as if they were adults.

He gets Ben out of prison, but the orphanage refuses to let him come back, so Varian convinces Quirin to take him in. Quirin agrees for a few factors: 1. Ben reminds him of Varian when he was going through a rough time, and how Quirin wasn’t able to help him then, 2. He’s not getting any younger and could use some help around the farm (plus Varian has been worried about him getting lonely, now that Varian has basically moved into the castle), and 3. The kid deserves a shot at having a healthy, stable home life.

Ben only agrees to go live with Quirin because trying to survive on the streets is no picnic, and also because he’d really rather not stay in prison for any longer than he has to. He figures that it won’t last, anyway— Quirin will lose patience with him and kick him to the curb, just like every other foster parent/guardian he’s been handed off to. He gets very confused (and a little annoyed) when Quirin turns out to be incredibly patient and willing to give him as many chances as he needs. In response, Ben acts out and does everything he can think of to convince Quirin that he’s rotten to the core, but nothing works.

Ben doesn’t want to get his hopes up or let himself get attached. He manages to annoy everyone else: the other villagers, Varian, even Eugene (who visits sometimes), but never Quirin. The most he ever gets out of him is an irritated sigh.

Throughout all of this, Ben is also finding out that he kinda likes helping out on the farm, and he’s pretty good at it, too. He’s very strong for his age, and a fast learner.... except for one thing: he can’t read. The orphanage had tried to teach him, but it never really clicked and they had long since given up on him, so he just never learned, instead relying on pictures and context clues to figure out the meaning of written words. As he continues to grow more attached to Quirin, he starts wanting to be better, to deserve the love and acceptance Quirin is offering him, so his self-consciousness about reading (among other things he doesn’t like about himself) really starts to bug him.

While he's sociable and generally gets along with other children, he does have the flaw of a short temper. So when he's targeted and called out for his apparent lack of academic intelligence, things get ugly, fast, and he gets in a fight. When Quirin asks later what it was about, Ben is reluctant to tell him, and is even less enthused when Quirin later suggests enrolling him in school.

He eventually admits to Quirin that he’s illiterate, expecting to get belittled or even compared to Varian (who is an actual genius and is kind of intimidating to Ben). But Quirin.... he doesn’t care that Ben can’t read, and even offers to help teach him or find him a tutor if he wants to learn. It’s after letting himself be vulnerable and accepting Quirin’s help that Ben starts to wonder if maybe... maybe he has a shot at being part of a real family.

He starts to let himself feel at home in Old Corona, thinking (or rather hoping) he’s found somewhere he belongs... as much as he hates to admit it, he really likes it here. So he tries to keep on the straight and narrow so he can stay longer, even making an effort to be nicer to Varian (who is more than happy to help him with his reading and is the one to introduce him to the Flynn Rider series). For the first time, Ben’s future is looking bright.

Until he loses his temper again.

On a visit to the capital, he passes by his old orphanage and gets in an argument with one of the kids he used to know (and wasn’t on particularly good terms with). The argument quickly gets personal, and then physical, and Ben takes it way too far— by the time the guards arrive on the scene to break it up, the kid Ben was fighting is a bloody, mangled mess, about a minute away from passing out. The guards don’t care what awful things that kid said to Ben; all they care about is that this boy with a history of violence and petty crime just savagely attacked another child, and Ben is swiftly arrested and taken to the dungeons.

At this point, Ben has cooled down enough to realize just how serious his situation really is. Even if they let him out of prison to go back to Quirin, he’s sure this is the last straw and that Quirin won’t want anything to do with him— he’s violent and dangerous, and no matter what he does he can’t seem to stay out of trouble, even when he really does try his best to be good. He hates himself for blowing his one chance at finding a home and family, and consoles himself by thinking that it was only a matter of time and at least the wait is over (boy’s got some raging self-loathing issues if you haven’t noticed).

Varian gets word that Ben’s been arrested and heads down to the dungeons to hear his side of the story, but Ben is too ashamed to even look him in the eye. Ben was told by the guards that, although he won’t be left to rot in the dungeons or thrown onto a prison barge (as per the new regulations regarding juvenile justice), he’ll be sent away to a correctional facility for delinquents— aka, reform school. Ben has no idea what to expect, but based on what the guards have been saying about it (very loudly, just outside his cell), it sounds no better than regular prison.

Varian is having absolutely none of this and contacts Quirin to tell him what’s going on— Quirin is up at the castle within the hour to try and bail Ben out, or at least renegotiate his sentence. However, since Quirin is not yet technically related to Ben— for the past year or so, he’s legally been closer to a parole officer than anything else— the law states that he can’t actually do much to interfere with Ben’s bail or sentence, especially since the boy is a repeat offender and is now classified as a menace to society.

Instead of giving up on the situation, Quirin decides to become Ben’s legal guardian right then and there, whipping out the adoption papers he’s been keeping in his vest for weeks— he’s been wanting to ask Ben if he’d like to be adopted for a while now, but he could never find the right moment. Now seems to be as good a time as any.

It takes a day or two to sort things out (Nigel and Fred both aren’t too keen on releasing a violent criminal for any reason, even if that criminal is like twelve), but Varian is able to pull some strings with Raps and Eugene to give Quirin full guardianship over Ben. Meanwhile, Ben is expecting he'll be shipped off any day now— when he sees Varian come back down to the prison with a guard, he expects it's to say goodbye... not to remove his shackles and lead him back upstairs to the throne room, where Quirin and Rapunzel are waiting beside a stack of paperwork. They only need one more signature to make the adoption official: Ben’s.

Luckily, Varian and Quirin have been helping him practice writing his name, and once he signs, Quirin tosses Raps the bail money (which she had whittled down to like two coins) and they head back home— Ben’s permanent home.

Ben’s story is a result of many many rambles between me and Feen on Discord, and I don’t think we’re gonna be stopping anytime soon— Ben is such a fun OC to flesh out XD

Feen and I are actually running a Q&A for Ben over on Feen’s Instagram story, y’all should go check it out!

[ourstarscollided]

jatp fanworks appreciation - day 3 (wips)

wip wednesday - I didn’t think I wanted to join in on this day for my own stuff considering I’ve never posted anything original for this fandom, but I think this might just be the little boost I need from myself to actually finish the wips that I have sitting around. I am peer pressuring myself and holding myself accountable by posting this - or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. Most of the past 6 mths has just been me screaming to no one in a Google Doc, so here are some things I’ve been ruminating about over the last 6 months (and if my secret agenda is to get other people to write about it so I don’t have to? Then that’s between you and me).

Everything’s under a read more because I like giving context and that usually spirals out of control!?!?

If you would like to see more from any of the below, feel free to shoot me an ask/message and I can definitely share some more! (Or you can just come yell at me about JATP in general.)

Strangers Fake Dating AU // Julie x Luke

I’m a simple person. I see a prompt, I latch onto it, and then I completely miss the entire point of the prompt as my imagination goes wild for no real reason. This really was supposed to be a super short drabble, but it manifested into a 3k+ thing that isn’t even finished.

Julie’s not really sure what she’s supposed to do now. Nothing has ever prepared her for a situation in which she’s supposed to pretend to be a stranger’s girlfriend, especially if that situation involves parents. Does she continue this ruse? Can she come up with a quick enough excuse to tell this Luke character that she actually can’t stay? What if this is just all an elaborate plan to kidnap her? Has she been listening to too many true crime podcasts? Why does Luke smell so good? Does he know how to cook? Why does his shirt not have sleeves? What-

“I can hear you thinking from here.” Her head whips up at the sound of Luke’s voice, which is now at a whisper and kind of frantic. “I just- I just really needed to get my mom off my back, so I kinda need you to pretend to be my girlfriend. Just for the night. I swear I’ll make it up to you somehow.”

Julie studies Luke’s face and it’s nearly impossible to not cave under his gaze, which can only be simply described as ‘puppy dog eyes’. She finds herself smiling back, letting out a huff, “I hope you like lasagna.” And the grin that spreads across the boy’s face is enough for her to know that he’s incredibly relieved that she agreed.

“I’m Luke by the way. Luke Patterson.”

(Okay, he’s kinda cute. And no one this cute is a serial killer. Right?)

She gives a small smile back, “I’m Julie.”

//

5+1 alive!Juke AU // Julie x Luke

Inspired by paper - LANY

This is one of the first things I ever felt the urge to write down back in September because I love exploring the idea of how two people can appear to be the perfect relationship on the outside, but are actually fighting their own demons. Especially when it comes to celebrities and people who are in the spotlight. It’s basically a 5+1 fic about the moments from other people’s perspectives who happen to orbit around Julie/Luke that all revolve around paper. My outline for this is so long because I can’t manage to narrow it down, and there’s zero cohesiveness but I do have little things jotted down.

“Hey little man,” Luke’s knelt down to match his 5 year-old height, and a hand extends out to him for a high five, “What are you doing here?”

His eyes flicker to the left, towards his own apartment door, where his mom is giving him an encouraging nod. “ I- I just wanted to-” he stutters and finds himself looking at his feet as he shuffles back and forth on the spot. “I- I drew you guys something!”

He shoves the paper out towards the older boy in front of him, but doesn’t look up.

//

Reincarnation AU // Julie x Luke

I had a random thought in December about how magical it is that Julie and Luke are so tied to one another that their love transcends time and space, which will always lead them back to one another. I remember reading a book a long time ago about how the main character is fated to die at a certain age, and that kind of sparked this little idea. I can’t bring myself to actually plot out every single timeline right now, but I did manage to write a little bit.

It will never be as complex as Rosie’s idea and all the wonderful additions in the link here, and I don’t really plan on it being anything more than a small idea. But I really do still think someone should write some sort of reincarnation AU cause I’d hop on that so fast!!

“Okay- that’s not- Luke. You seriously just ran away?”

“What was I supposed to do Alex? We all know how this ends.”

His friend looks at him, face painted in understanding and he sighs, “Yeah. Yeah, we do.”

Because it’s true, Alex does know, so does Reggie and Bobby. Most importantly, so does Luke. It’s the exact same tragic love story every time.

Call it a curse or fate or destiny. Maybe it’s because Mercury is in retrograde. Whatever. It always ends the same way - with a heartbreaking goodbye, a whisper of the promise that they’ll find each other again, and the possibility of a happy ending. He’s said the same goodbye at least 734 times, but it’s not like he’s counting or anything. Fuck the universe and its mystical ways.

//

Competitive Alex // Alex x Willie

No real thoughts or reasons for this other than I just think I self-projected my need to play board games with people in real life into a fic. And maybe a little bit of my competitiveness onto Alex and then threw in Willie because I think he would be able to handle it while also finding it endearing. I also have written nothing about the actual competitiveness, it’s just 2k words of Alex crushing on Willie.

“Wait,” his eyes dart between the three boys, “You both know Willie? How come I’ve never met him?”

His roommates look at each other, and there’s a smirk on Luke’s face when he says, “Actually Alex, I think you have. Remember that time you got really drunk after one of our shows?”

Oh no. He really hopes that it’s not the time he’s thinking of, so he tries to sound nonchalant. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Luke.”

“The night we played at that tiny bar at the edge of the campus! We got paid in those tiny colourful shots?” He doesn’t really know where Luke is going with this, so he’s slowly nodding along. “And you were super upset that the hot dog vendor at the end of the street was closed?”

//

Dear Julie, Love Mom series

I made myself sad with this thought when I first watched the show and was talking to my friend about how I think that Rose would’ve left messages for the Molina family, especially when we found out that Wake Up was actually from her mom. I wrote a bigger explanation for it here.

Anyways, I started with the one for Julie’s wedding and it kind of became an 8k monster with three different POVs?!? As much as I love how I wrote this, I feel too unsure about my writing to share it in full, so you will get carefully selected looks alkfe. (I’m also kind of stuck on some of the more emotional scenes and I may or may not have procrastinated by photoshopping a moodboard for it.)

Excerpt 1 (Julie POV): A look into where I’m going with this whole letters from Rose thing.

The key clicks into place, and with a turn, the latch falls open. She’s not sure what she wants to find in the box, and she’s too scared to think about it really. All she knows is that this was the sign from her mom that she was waiting for all week, and in true Rose fashion, her mom had managed to give it to her, even if at the last second. Her dad turns the box to face Julie, and gestures to her to open up the lid.

Tucked inside is a VHS tape, the words ‘For Julie, on your wedding day’ written in her mom’s cursive on the cover. Some loose glitter and confetti fall back into the box as she reaches in to pick up the tape and turn it over in her hands. There’s a little purple butterfly etched on the back, the same one that’s been drawn on all the other messages that her mom had left her. Her finger automatically finds its way, tracing the shape of the small doodle.

“Do you want me to leave you alone, mija?”

Excerpt 2 (Julie POV): This part has absolutely nothing to do with the main plot of the story, but it self-inserted itself into this fic after @tangledstarlight and I talked about You’re Still the One by Shania Twain being their first dance. This whole scene came to me at 4am one night and might be the most self-indulgent thing I’ve ever written.

They knew that when they had asked Reggie to be in charge of the first dance performance, that they (and Alex) weren’t allowed to veto any of his ideas. Luke had warned Julie that that would be a mistake, but the giddiness that radiated off of Reggie when she had told him he could have free reign was worth it. She just hadn’t thought that he would actually take it to heart and run with it.

Sure, they had chosen You’re Still the One by Shania Twain as their first dance song, and sure it was more or less a country song, but she didn’t really imagine that she’d be staring at her adoptive brother, Carlos and her Dad wearing cowboy hats and boots at her wedding. They had somehow managed to ditch their Flynn-approved suit jackets and were sporting a taupe-coloured suede-textured vest over their dress shirts. If she looked closely, she could see that they had somehow also found some gaudy looking bolo ties with a matching set of ornamental clasps to wear. When she envisioned her wedding, she really didn’t expect that her first (public) dance as a married couple would be a full-on Western themed occasion. The only exception was Alex, who had settled on his cajon in the back, still in his pink suit, eyes rolling when she met his gaze. But even she knew how there was no real annoyance in the blonde’s reaction or else he wouldn’t also be wearing one of the tacky ties around his neck as well.

“I’m gonna seriously kill him.” She hears Luke grumble under his breath, only low enough for her to hear. But she’s still too busy giggling to actually be mad, and she knows that Luke isn’t really going to kill Reggie. At least she doesn’t think so.

Excerpt 3 (Luke POV): Idk man. My mind went “What about Luke?” and I said “You’re right!! What about him?!?”

He doesn’t realize that he’s just been silently staring at the woman in front of him, until a gentle voice breaks him out of his thoughts. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Julie’s peering at him from under her eyelashes, a curious look on her face.

“You just-” he gives a little shake of his head, trying to come up with the right words. He wants to tell her she’s beautiful. Stunning. A wicked beauty. But she’s more than that - she’s almost angelic. “I can’t believe you’re my wife.”

“Luke, we’ve been legally married for like, a whole year.” Her lips are quirked up in a grin, amusement in her voice. “You’ve only just realized that now?”

“That’s different.”

“Yeah? Different how?”

This feels a little strange to post and a little like my inner self seeking validation but let’s not talk about that.

Kskssj anyways present me @ future me: finish one of these because writing has been really cathartic for you and you didn’t think it would bring you so much joy!!!

[tessadoesstuff]

Fueled By Spite, Chapter 1

Trying Something New! Posting the fic itself here instead of just the link.

Before you click read more - this is a VERY Pro-jedi anti Kylo Ren & Admiral Hux fic. Read at your own peril.

Chapter 1 of 3

"Let me go! I'll beat his karking Shebs in!" Ponds strains against Mace's force grip to lunge at the two intruders. He's clearly determined, as even as Mace tries to keep them apart, Ponds still is almost gaining ground. Mace can feel the hatred radiating off his commander.

"See! Even now, they control your actions and take away your free will! The Jedi see you only as puppets to be controlled, flesh droids. They care about nothing an no one, their emotions as false as any of their lies-" The redheaded admiral continues again, and Ponds stops in his fight to instead just stare in shock.

"What in the sith hells?" Is what Ponds spits out in response to that, and Mace knows that he's not the only one in the room who can't believe what these intruders are sprouting. "Where do you think you have the right?" Ponds yells again, and his rage crashes again like a wave over the room. Mace rides it out - it's nothing he hadn't heard before, but it's... refreshing to have someone come to his defense like this.

“Yes! Channel that rage, use it to slaughter the ones who would hold you back! Embrace your anger!” The whiny darksider calls out to Ponds. It is perhaps the most obvious darkersider comment Mace has heard in a long time. He wishes the Sith Lord would be this obvious about being a Sith. Mace does not appreciate these attempts to do… whatever these attempts are trying to do to Ponds.

“Would you kriffing shut your karking mouth?” Ponds screeches in response, Force fluctuating with his sheer rage, and then he flawlessly executes the three sharp movements that Mace has been teaching his men to break free of a darksider’s force hold. Mace feels the impressed surprise from his fellow council members, but he is a little busy attempting to grab Ponds again as the man crosses the room towards the redheaded fascist admiral.

Help? Mace sends at Depa, who’s seated closer to Ponds now, and she manages to hook him into her own force hold, pulling him closer to her, even as Ponds takes a swing at the admiral. He isn’t close enough to land the hit, but it has the benefit of sending a look of surprise across the redhead’s face, and he steps back away from Ponds, fear spiking in the force. His darksider partner sends the admiral a look in response to his fear. The look is punctuated by equal parts distaste and pure sexual hunger, and Mace can’t stop his gut reaction of disgust to that particular situation from bleeding into the force. Given the way the force twists with discomfort from the whole council, he’s not the only one.

“That’s right, I am far more powerful than you ever will be because I allow myself to love, unlike you twisted, unfeeling, repressed Jedi!” The darksider hisses at him, and at this point, Mace is impressed that the dark-haired man can even string those words together, although Mace isn’t sure he knows what they mean. They kind of all contradict each other. Mace doesn’t respond, he just folds his hands into a platform in front of his chest and leans forward to rest his chin on his hands. He never takes his eyes off the darksider.

Never let it be said though, that Obi-Wan and his commander were not every bit the trolls that the rest of their lineage is, Mace, thinks, as Commander Cody’s response to that is to whip his helmet off, lean over, and plant a kiss straight onto Obi-Wan. Mace works very hard to keep a straight face in response to that. Obi-Wan snakes a hand around his commander’s head, pulling them closer together in a move that Mace is sure is not comfortable, but certainly looks like it’s very… involved. In total contrast to the revolting hunger of the previous interaction between the admiral and the darksider, there is a gentle underscore of respect and care in the kiss between Obi-Wan and Commander Cody, despite the obvious joke the two are making. Clearly, the darksider has different feelings, as he makes a noise of disgust and protests.

“You know that he can’t really love you. The Jedi are so blinded by their light that they can’t love. It’s become just as poisonous as the dark.” What the kark? Mace has questions. That’s just… not how the force works. The light is selfless acts, and the dark is selfishness. One is a constant battle to do the right thing and the other a blinding spiral of mistakes. Unfortunately, before Mace can do more than clear his throat to interrupt, the darksider continues. “They don’t know how to love. They hate love. They believe that love is corrosive, evil, and they will never allow themselves to feel it properly. They will never love you.”

There is a spike of pure rage, and then a crack of metal and flesh, and the whole council realizes their mistake. With Depa holding Ponds back, no one has a grip on her commander anymore. To be fair, Mace had naively assumed he could be trusted to be the responsible one. The darksider falls to the ground with one hit, and there’s a scramble by the Jedi present to grab Grey, many of them even getting out of their seats to do it by hand.

“Ren!” The admiral cries but doesn’t actually make any more to help the darksider – Ren, apparently. There’s just a burst of muffled petty satisfaction. “We’re here to help you and the galaxy be free from the Jedi’s tyranny!” He continues, and Mace will admit that at this point, it feels a little like he’s being trolled.

“Do you know what this is?” Grey responds, holding up a datapad displaying what was familiar to Mace even at this distance as a senate certified from. It was too far for Mace to make out details, but he's pretty sure he recognizes the blood-red seal that was on all of the orders that sent his men, Vode and Jedi alike, back out to another deployment. The admiral makes a decisive noise. The spike of violent intent from Grey has Shaak Ti physically lunging to catch him, but she isn’t fast enough. Grey slams the datapad across the admiral’s face, and the redhead crumples to the floor with an angry groan. “These, are the approved adoption papers that my son and I signed. My son, the Jedi Padawan.” Grey grinds out, and Mace feels a swell of love for his grandpadawan. It’s strong enough that it probably came from at least him, Depa and Grey. Mace also knows the papers are a joke. There is no legal adoption that has taken place. But the point is non the less effective.

Shaak Ti collides with Grey at what is clearly a well-calculated angle, sending them both toppling on top of the two intruders while still looking almost accidental.

“Well then. Now that we have this settled, I propose we find our guests somewhere to sleep of their… education and move onto the next item on the agenda.” Obi-Wan proposes from where he is lounging in his chair in the only way a member of his lineage could. Dramatically. Mace feels a headache building.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26507122

[queenofallhobos]

DAISYPOOL Chapter 2: A Strange turn of events.... get it? Cause Doctor Strange is in this chapter...

            Summary: Not just backstory, now we’re finally getting into shit.

Chapter 1

    I whipped my head around so fast I got a crick in my neck, my brown eyes meeting Loki's ice blue ones breifly. Then he was surrounded by the orangy gold magic belonging to the sorcerer I was on my way to harass. Ragnarok! So it's starting now. Pulling out my phone I shot a quick text to Wade.

                [Daisy: Hey loser, gonna be home late... maybe a few days late?]

                Putting my phone in my back pocket I approached the god of thunder skipping. "Hi Thor!" I chirped, practically vibrating in my excitement.

                "I'm sorry, but I have-"

                "To go get your brother, yeah I know. Follow me, I know the way." I told him heading toward the sanctum with out looking to see if he was following.

                "How did you know I was looking for my brother?" Thor asked, wary. Smart man... a Wilson was not someone you followed blindly usually.

                "He was just standing next to you and then magicked away. I am familliar with the sorcerer that took custody of him... kinda." I explained. "I'm Daisy by the way. Big fan of yours and your brother." He looked shocked and I continued before he could respond. "Not the whole New York thing, but the... well you'll see. You mind if I tag along with you though? I've never been in the sanctum before." I asked.

                Thor opened and closed his mouth a few times, resembling a large good looking fish. "I-um... I suppose that is acceptable." He managed.

                "Excellent! I appreciate it. So I have to ask... those stories from norse mythology, how much is truth?" Thor sighed heavily his brow furrowing. "I'm guessing your friends asked already?"

                "They did. What stories are you inquiring about?" He asked warily.

                "Your dads horse, and you in the wedding dress." I asked as we turned onto Bleecker ST.

                Thor let out a bark of laughter. "Aye, the story of me wearing the dress is true. As for Sleipnir, Loki is in a sense his father, as he created him for the Allfather."

                "That is a lot less exciting than I thought it would be." Thor laughed at my disappointment. "What about the funniest inaccurate story you've been asked about?"

                He was quiet for a moment, thinking. "While it is most amusing, I would say the story of my brother and the goat." He finally chuckled.

                It took a moment for it to click but when it did I doubled over in laughter. "Please tell me he's aware of this story!" I gasped once I'd mostly reigned myself in.

                "He is not." Thor said, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

                "You sure Loki is the god of mischief?" I asked leading the way up the steps to the sanctum.

                Thor laughed but didn't say anything, just pulled the paper with the address out to double check we were in the right place. Rolling my eyes I raised my fist to knock only to suddenly be upstairs with a shocked Thor. "Thor Odinson." Dr. Strange boomed from behind us and I turned to see him hovering down the stairs toward us.

                "Is this the wizard who took my brother?" Thor muttered to me, holding up Mjolnir the umbrella defensively.

                "God of thunder." Stephen continued.

                "Sorcerer, but yup." I said brightly, waving at the confused man.

                "You can put down the umbrella." He finished, finally turning his attention to me. "Who are you?" I couldn't tell if he was angrier at my being there at all or that he didn't know who I was.   

                "She is with me." Thor announced subtly placing himself between Stephen and I. Man... god, whatever, doesn't even know me but is willing to put himself in danger to keep me safe. The poor stupid goof. "Who are you? And what have you done with my brother?"

                "My name is Doctor Stephen Strange, I have a few questions for you." In the blink of an eye we were in a different room, sat in high-backed chairs. "And apparently a few for you as well." He added quirking an eyebrow at me.

                "Can I have a Dr. Pepper? Thor will have beer please." I asked before he could offer the tea like he had in the movie. Yet another blink and Thor held a large beer stein and I had a large bottle of Dr. Pepper that I opened with out hesitation and took a large pull from.

                Doctor Strange shook off his annoyance/bafflement then got down to business. "So," He said turning to Thor. "I keep a watch list of individuals and beings from other realms that may be a threat to this world. Your adopted brother Loki is one of these beings."

                "He's a worthy inclusion." Thor said as I grumbled, "The adopted part is unnecessary." into my drink.

                "Then why bring him here?" I was now being ignored by the sorcerer. Rude.

                I zoned out, instead taking in details of the room while the two men unknowingly read from a script someone had written for them. I got to my feet to check out the decorations but had barely made it halfway across the room when we were transported into a library. In my surprise I dropped my bottle which rolled under a nearby table. "Fuck me." I growled getting to my knees and going after it and when I stood back up I was alone. "Snooping time." I grinned to myself immediately walking out of the room in search of the artifacts.

                I'd barely made it halfway down the hall before I was transported and collided with Thor's chest. Wide eyed, I turned around slowly, seeing a confused Loki and next to Stephen was a portal to Norway. "You can handle them from here." Stephen said shaking hands with Thor.

                "Thank you very much for your help."

                "Handle me? Who are you?" Loki yelled summoning two daggers while Thor rumbled a warning. "You think you're some kind of sorcerer? Don't think for one minute, you second rate-"

                "Bye bye." Stephen said making a sweeping motion with his hands, the portal moving forward and swallowing the three of us. Poor guy, he looked stressed... maybe I should order him some pizza.

                I pulled my phone out to do just that, forgetting that I was now out of country. I pocketed my phone with a sigh and turned to watch the touching moment between Allfather and sons. Seeing Odin turn into what was basically sunlight was jaw dropping and I was so transfixed I didn't realize the brothers had started arguing and a dark cloud was gathering behind me until Thor spoke.

Chapter 3

I know I said Fridays would be the day I’d post the next chapters... but I really wanted to get into the actual story. So chapter 2 is early and you’ll get chapter 3 on Friday! So have a good week and behave yourselves, don’t do anything Wade and Daisy wouldn’t do ;)

@evening-starlight

[cozy-the-overlord]

Until Tomorrow

Summary:  Quarantine by itself is lonely enough. Quarantine amidst a rainstorm of biblical proportions is downright depressing. Lucky for you, a visitor arrives just in time to keep you company.

Word Count:  2,463

Pairing: Loki x Reader

A/N: Sooo..... I did a thing. I’ve never written fanfiction or reader-inserts before, but it was pouring rain last night and I’ve been reading so many quarantine fics on Ao3 that I thought I’d give it a whirl. I’ve never been more nervous about posting a story before... I hope you like it!

Also, I got an Ao3 account now, so you can read it here if you’d like

              It was raining.

              Although raining didn’t seem to do the weather justice. You couldn’t remember the last time you had witnessed such a torrential downpour. The pattering of raindrops rushing down your slanted roof had been drowned out by the wooshing of the fast-moving river that a few hours ago had been your street. Between the dark storm clouds and fog so thick you could cut it with a knife, you couldn’t make out exactly how bad the road was, but the waves that crashed against your window every time a car came skidding past your house told you that you weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

              Not that you currently had any great travel plans.

              You sat on the couch at your front window, a book lying open and ignored in your lap, watching water droplets race down the glass as a shiver raced down your spine. Usually, you loved the rain. You had grown where storms were a treasured rarity, where you’d insist your mother buy you rainboots for your birthday only for her to give them away a year later when they became too small, balls of paper still stuffed into their toes. Usually, when it poured, you’d run into your driveway with your head back and arms out, belting out “Singin’ in the Rain” as you attempted dance moves that would make Gene Kelly role in his grave, just because you could.

              But today, you didn’t feel like dancing. With everything going on right now, the rain seemed less like a cause for celebration and more like a sign of impending doom. It had been weeks since you left the sanctuary of your tiny suburban house. You were lucky, everything considered— your parents were safely quarantined in your childhood home on the other side of the country, from where they FaceTimed with you at least once a day.

              Your job was secure. That was one of the wonderful things about working for Tony Stark: the day everyone was sent home, the head man himself sent out an email swearing to keep everyone on the payroll through the quarantine, regardless of how long it lasted. He had even set up a system for delivering groceries to his employees: you texted a number with your order, and a few hours later a red and gold drone dumped a box of overflowing plastic bags on your doorstep. That was something your mom couldn’t get over—Iron Man bringing you milk!— and honestly the ridiculousness of it all made you want to giggle, too.

              Sometimes, though, it was all too much. It had been ages since you’d seen anybody, ages since you had heard another voice unfiltered by the garbled speaker of your cell phone. You had never considered yourself to be an overtly social person, but damn did you wish you had somebody here to talk to. Your mother had been trying for years to convince you to adopt a pet, insisting that it wasn’t healthy for you to be living completely alone, but you had always brushed her off, saying that you were working so often that you were rarely at home and it would be cruel to the animal. Now, you promised yourself that as soon as this was over, you were heading to the Humane Society.

              If this was ever over.

              Outside, the rain kept pouring. The trickling water seemed to be whispering to you—sinister promises of something worse yet to come. You curled tighter upon yourself, pressing your cheek to your knees.

              Let this end. Please, just let this end.

              A crash behind you startled you out of your thoughts. You shrieked, whipping around to see a figure standing in your living room, soaking bags sprawled about him, staining the carpet. He scowled.

              “Bloody rainstorm. You can’t see a damn thing out there.” He shook his head and began wringing out his hair, muttering in a language you didn’t understand.

              It was several moments before you could find your voice. Once you did, it slipped out cautiously. “Loki?”

              “At your service, my lady.” He gave a grand bow, his words dripping with sarcasm.

               You stared. You knew Loki, of course. You were familiar with all of the Avengers who lived in the tower—your office was located on one of the higher levels, and as a result it wasn’t uncommon to see celebrities like Dr. Banner or Captain Rodgers making their way across the floor to meet with one of your coworkers. Unlike the others, however, you had actually spoken with Loki.

              The two of you had a little run in a few months ago, when you were refilling your coffee mug at the break room. You were already on edge because Dr. Foster was visiting, Dr. Jane Foster, and word about the floor was that she would be stopping by with Thor to meet some of the higher-level workers at some point during the day. You felt silly for feeling so starstruck, but Dr. Foster’s work was on another level of world-shattering, and the thought that you might be shaking her hand by the end of the day had you all sorts of jittery.

              Then the coffee pot exploded.

              Exploded wasn’t exactly the right word. It was more like an eruption— all at once the pitcher just vomited its contents across the counter, up to the ceiling, all over the floor, writing like an animal and spitting out more coffee than it possibly could’ve been holding previously. With a scream, you threw the anthropomorphic pot to the floor, adding shattered glass to the absolute mess in the break room.

              There wasn’t time to comprehend what just happened before he was there, pulling you out of the puddle of lukewarm coffee.

              “Forgive me, that was not supposed to happen. Are you hurt?” Loki scanned your form with an anxious sort of urgency. There was a tinge of pink on his cheeks—if you hadn’t known better, you would’ve said he was blushing. “Are you hurt?” he asked again when you only gaped at him like a dead fish. “Burned? That was not meant—forgive me.”

              “No,” you finally said. The coffee hadn’t been warm enough to do any damage. “Just… my clothes—”

               He waved his hand, and the sticky moisture clinging to your front disappeared. You ran your hand over your shirt, now dry and stainless. That’s useful.

               “Are you certain you are uninjured?” he asked. “I swear, that was not what I intended—”

               “I’m fine.” Now that the shock had worn off, you found yourself stifling the urge to giggle. “What were you trying to do?”

               Loki looked embarrassed. “My brother has the tendency of laying claim to the refreshments of any floor he visits, without leaving anything for those working on said floors. I thought I’d teach him a lesson.” He cast a glance back at the mess behind him. “The charm was meant only to react to him. I suppose I made a mistake in casting it.” He turned back to you. “I am sorry.”

               You smiled. “It’s alright. I guess I could use a bit of excitement in my life.”

               He grinned. “Words to live by.”

               After that, you had been friendly. You’d greet each other when you walked by one another, you’d make small talk in the elevator if you were riding together, he’d hold the door for you if he had the chance. Nothing serious, nothing even that personal really, just office-friendly.

              Definitely not crashing-unannounced-into-your-living-room-during-a-rainstorm-in-the-middle-of-a-pandemic friendly.

              “What—?” you sputtered, springing off the couch. “What are you doing here?”

              Loki dramatically gestured to the bags on the floor. “It seems I have been relegated to the status of a delivery boy.”

              Craning your neck, you recognized the label of your local grocery market. You frowned. “Did—did you bring me groceries?”

              The Asgardian in your living room huffed irritably. “You had an order for today, did you not?”

              You nodded slowly. Yes, you were waiting on an order today, and now that you were looking you could see that it was sprawled across the floor at Loki’s feet: a carton of orange juice, a tub of ice cream, a bag of potato chips… but what was Loki doing dropping off food for you?

              He sighed. “Stark, in his infinite wisdom, failed to consider the effect of such the elements—” he gestured to the monsoon outside your window “—on his mechanical messengers. As I am the only individual he knows with means of instantaneous travel, I have been encouraged to assist with deliveries. I am—what is the phrase?—making the rounds, if you will. ”

              “Oh.” You found yourself at a loss for words, likely looking every bit as dumbfounded as when you first met in the break room. You mentally slapped yourself. “Um… thank you. Here,” you moved to collect to foodstuff off the carpet, “I can, uh, start putting things away—”

              With one swift motion, Loki scooped everything up. “Allow me. Just tell me where you want me to put it.” You glanced up at him cautiously. He raised his eyebrows.

              “Uh, okay.”

              He followed you into your kitchen, and you cringed as you realized how truly disgusting your sink was. It had been ages since you had the motivation to do the dishes, and they had been piling up in your sink like the leaning tower of cheap ceramics for at least a week now. Loki didn’t say anything though. At your direction, he placed the bags on the counter and watched as you silently put the contents away.

              Even amidst all the awkwardness, there was something soothing about his presence. For the first time in weeks, there was a living, breathing person in your house, someone real to talk to and laugh with. So when Loki said that he had to finish his deliveries, the question that popped out of your mouth was birthed by pure desperation.

“Do you want something to drink before you go?” you asked. “Like, a glass of water? Or… I have coffee, if you don’t mind it being reheated.”

              If Loki was surprised by your offer, he masked the emotion quickly with a smirk. “Do you really trust me with coffee?”

              You giggled. “I don’t know. Can I?”

              “You shouldn’t trust me with anything,” he said, slipping into one of the seats at your kitchen table. “But I think we can make an exception just this once.”

              You sat and talked for nearly an hour, sipping your microwaved coffee as the rain pounded on the roof. Loki had plenty of quarantine stories from the Tower, stories that always seemed to end with Thor accidentally blowing something up.

              “He is not used to staying in such a limited space for this long of a time period,” he said reflectively. “I think perhaps confinement is having a detrimental effect on his intellect. Stark has installed a ‘Days Without an Accident’ count at the kitchen table, and thus far my brother has managed to reset it every day.”

              You snorted. “That sounds hilarious. I wish I was there to see that.”

              “No, you don’t. Everyone is fed up with everyone else.” Loki stared into his mug absently. “They have been starting altercations over the minutest details. It’s quite chaotic.”

              You frowned. “Aren’t you supposed to like chaos?”

              “When it’s within my control. This is far beyond that.” He took another sip, emptying it. “You are lucky to live alone. I would gladly welcome the peace you have here.”

              “I don’t know. There’s not much to do in here.” You held in a sigh. “It gets kind of depressing after a while.”

              Loki cocked his head, brow furrowed. “You are lonely?”

              Your cheeks heated with embarrassment. It was such a menial complaint to have, especially when so many others were suffering. “Kind of,” you muttered. “It’s not so bad, though.”

              Loki continued pressing. “You have access to communication, yes?” he asked, leaning forward. “I thought all of you mortals were addicted to your cellular devices.”

              “Yeah,” you replied slowly. “But it’s not the same thing as, you know, actually talking to someone. Like, when they’re actually there.”

              “I understand.” He reached out to set his mug on the table. Somewhere hidden under your smile, your heart sank. He’d be leaving soon.

               Loki cleared his throat. “If you would like,” he said, “I could pay you a visit every so often, as we are doing now.”

              What?

              “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” you rushed to say, even though the thought of having a regular visitor sent your pulse thrumming.

              “No, but I think I would appreciate the respite. Today has been quite lovely, if I may say so.” He smiled— a genuine smile, not a smirk or a grin—and you felt rather silly for the way your heart seemed to soar. “Of course,” he added quickly, “if you don’t wish for my company, I completely—”

              “No!” The volume of your voice made you cringe. Jeez, he must think you haven’t spoken to anyone in months. “No, I—if you want to come over, then…” For a moment, you fumbled with your words, searching for an eloquent way to accept his offer. “I’d like that,” you finally said, giving up. “I’d like that a lot.”

              He laughed. “In that case, I’ll stop by tomorrow.” When he stood, you stood with him, following him back to your living room where he had left the groceries you hadn’t claimed. “I do need to be going now, though,” he said, scooping up the remaining bags. “The last thing I need is Stark having a fit over my failure to deliver his employees’ groceries on time.”  He nodded at you. “Thank you very much for the coffee.”

              “No problem,” you said. “Thanks for—thanks.”

              He chuckled. “Until tomorrow, my lady.”

              “Until tomorrow.”

              And just like that, he was gone. It was a noiseless disappearance: one moment he was there, the next, you were once again alone with the pouring rain. With a sigh, you made your way back to the couch, scooping up your book off the floor. Once again, however, you found your attention drifting to the water running down the window, the rushing waves of your street outside. Nothing had changed, and yet it seemed so much less frightening than it had an hour before. No, now, it was almost soothing. You had the sudden urge to run out on to your driveway and belt “Singin’ In the Rain.”

              I should’ve done that while Loki was here, you thought sleepily, pressing your cheek to the cushion. He would’ve gotten a kick out of that.

              Maybe you could, if it was still raining tomorrow.

              Tomorrow.

              You dozed off to the peaceful lullaby of the rainfall, smiling softly and thinking of tomorrow.

[pinelife3]

What’s this Pizzagate in the heart of nature?

The big tech story in Australia last month was Facebook’s decision to restrict people and organisations in Australia from sharing or viewing news content on Facebook. This was in response to the Morrison government’s proposed Media Bargaining legislation which is basically a Murdoch-serving law to try to get tech companies to pay media organisations for news content hosted/linked/displayed on their sites and, most galling of all, share details of their algorithms with Australian media orgs. The idea that Facebook would have to notify NewsCorp every time they want to tweak their algorithm is patently insane. So I admire Facebook’s petty, dramatic manoeuvre: “if the way we share news on the site is such a problem then fine, no more news for you”. After all the fuss, the Australian government agreed to amend the Media Bargaining legislation - evidently with terms more agreeable to Facebook, meaning news has been restored to Facebook down under. 

One of the key responses I saw expressed in relation to Facebook’s initial news eradication was concern that disinformation would be able to spread more easily on the site - and that people wouldn’t be able to rebut disinformation with factual news articles.

So far as I can tell, the proliferation of disinformation online wouldn’t matter if people didn’t believe it. And most especially, if people didn’t want to believe it. After all, the web is full of persuasive writing and people who want to convince you of things - for whatever reason, conspiracy theories just seem to be very alluring. So rather than trying to protect people from their own stupidity by hiding disinformation... maybe we could look at why people are so credulous in the first place. Deep state? Jet fuel can’t melt steel beams? CIA Contra cocaine trafficking? The great replacement? Pizzagate? 

I’m going to class conspiracy theorists into three categories of my own making:

I believe: well meaning, uninformed people who have been fooled or duped. The fraudulent 1998 Lancet paper by Andrew Wakefield which started the vaccines cause autism conspiracy was actually written to support a class action lawsuit. Wakefield knew the results in his paper were not true: in addition to his conflicts of interest, he had falsified data. The paper was eventually debunked and retracted but the conspiracy had its roots and has continued to grow. I think a lot of the people who believe that vaccines are dangerous are parents who are just worried about their kids - and also want to protect other kids from a threat they believe to be real. Why is one debunked article more persuasive to people than a million proving the efficacy of vaccines? It is literally beyond reason.

It suits me to believe: people motivated by self-interest who adopt a conspiracy theory to support their larger world view. Their self-interest could be anything from their own ego to gun rights. The conspiracies around the Sandy Hook Primary School shooting are interesting because you can see a clear motivation for people to subscribe to that theory rather than the truth. If you’re a keen gun-owner, arguining that the shooting was a hoax to generate anti-gun sentiment and thereby allow the Democrats to pass harsher gun restrictions is neat and comforting. No one could argue that the events of Sandy Hook weren’t inhumanly terrible  - so the only option is to argue that they didn’t happen at all. Plus, in this worldview, no kids are getting hurt so you can sleep easy knowing you have seven semi-automatic weapons in the house.

I need to believe: the world is disorganised, scary, unknowable. Ocean deep, sky vast, dark impenetrable - and meanwhile our skin is so thin and delicate. So. Wouldn’t it be comforting to think that there’s a race of reptilian overlords that control the planet by whipping their tails against a complicated system of levers and pullies? That would explain a lot of the chaos in our world. Or maybe the problem is an elite coterie of Satan-worshipping cannibalistic pedophiles? If only we could defeat those accursed pedophiles then life would be peaceful. Luckily, Q and a septuagenarian reality TV host are here to save us. 

Across these categories, there are two unifying features: 

Rejection of widely accepted truth 

Investment in the conspiracy

As a comparison with the conspiracists above, here’s my take on a conspiracy: I think it’s quite probable that Epstein didn’t kill himself. I think that some powerful, shadowy entity took him out to protect itself. But I’m not obsessed by this idea. It would not surprise or upset me if this was officially confirmed - similarly crazy shit happens all the time. I haven’t devoted my life to revealing this truth. I guess I fit into the “I Believe” category: all official information says that Epstein took his own life but my scepticism of the unusual circumstances around his death and Epstein’s powerful connections leads me to doubt the official information. The difference is I don’t do anything about it. I don’t really care if I’m right or not - I’m not that invested in the conspiracy.

And that’s why it seems ludicrous to me that Facebook should be tasked with combatting the conspiracy theories spiralling across our culture. Simply being exposed to bad information does not radicalise you, does not conjure an investment in the conspiracy. If a normal person reads something creatively wrong or misleading they discard it from their mind. If it hits a chord with them, they may adopt that opinion themselves - see: astrology, Armie Hammer as cannibal, tarot cards, essential oils as serious medical treatment, etc. But the evolution from agreeing with a thought to militaristically insisting that the rest of society also agree with it is an abnormal progression. That strange impulse runs deeper in people than their Facebook timeline.

Most people have fears for the planet or believe there are major issues plaguing humanity - and we never do anything about it because it would be mildly inconvenient or because it’s too hard to care about every issue under late capitalism: 

"But sorting my recycling is boring”

“Yeah yeah fast fashion is problematic but H&M is just so affordable" 

"Of course I hate R.Kelly! But ‘Ignition (Remix)’ is my jam” 

“At least they have suicide nets in the Foxconn factories now”

“I only buy free range chicken thighs because I care about animal welfare”

“I retweeted that thing about anti-Black racism. Yay racism solved!”

There are probably lots of people who believe in conspiracy theories but are ultimately apathetic about doing anything: they can’t be bothered talking about vaccines and politics all the time, can’t be bothered going to a protest, can’t summon the interest to care much. So what’s interesting then is that across the three categories of conspiracy theory belief (I believe > It suits me to believe > I need to believe), what a person believes in, and perhaps even the reason for the belief, doesn’t create any impetus to enact real world change. On both the left and the right, the impulse to do something about an issue is rare. Do you think conspiracy theorists, like the left, have a problem with performative activism? 

Imagine that you agree that Sandy Hook was a false flag, that ‘they’ hired crisis actors to publicly grieve as if their pretend children had been murdered... do you then get in your car and drive overnight to Sandy Hook and start harassing those crisis actors at the pretend funerals? What do you call someone like that? The hero of their own story.

Just wait!

In their worldview, QAnon are unironically trying to save us from pedophile cannibals. Given what conspiracists believe to be true, they are acting in good faith and doing the right thing. If you believed this shit, you’d be upset too. The fact that they’re doing something about it is kind of admirable: they don’t want our babies to get autism from the measles vaccine, they don’t want a deep state to manipulate our democratic governments. It’s existential for all of us - we just don’t agree on the threat. 

Can you imagine how electric the riot at the Capitol Building must have felt for the people who led it. Brave, romantic, a grand gesture: it was like their Storming of Tuileries. Remember this day forever! 

Modern conspiracists are actually similar to the sans-culottes in terms of being avid consumers of propaganda and inflammatory reporting. Disinformation and stirring rhetoric are not new - but shouldn’t people today be less clueless than 18th century peasants?

Why are there are so many people who believe things which are untrue? They exist on this planet with us but interpret it so differently. These questions really are existential: an ancient, echoing maw pointing to the heart of human nature. The struggle for a more perfect world, whispers about where the danger comes from at night, arguments about how to protect ourselves. 

Has there ever been a society where people didn’t have differing views on how best to shape the world? It’s the central conflict of human existence: epic, older than language - and now we want Facebook to fix it?

[symphonic--chaos]

Okay, so as a forewarning @crispyoperawolfdean​ , it’s not exactly like you requested. In order to stay true to their character, I had to make some sacrifices to the request and fill it in with what would be more likely to happen. I hope you’ll still like it!

It was Max's fifth birthday and Magnus was busy holding the chair for Alec as he put up the streamers along the wall. It was totally feasible for Magnus to do it with a simple wave of his hand and a little magic to set the streamers in place, but this way came with a nice view. "Magnus!" The warlocks mind snapped to as he hummed in question, his eyes focusing on Alec's face instead, the one looking down at him in both amusement and disbelief. They trailed down as the Shadowhunter wiggled his hand a bit, the empty tape roll rattling in the container. "We need more tape. Were you staring at my ass?" "No, not at all, Alexander. Why would I? It's not like it looks like it was sculpted by the skillful hands of Michaelangelo, a grace of the Gods to me, a lowly plebian. You haven't been doing weighted squats at the gym, no, absolutely not. You know, the pants you wear don't only accentuate your front, but the ba-" "Tape, Magnus." Alec interjected, rolling his eyes as he offered the empty container again. A grin broke the neutral line of his mouth, 'bitch face' as Izzy called it, as Magnus grumbled over his poetic 'Ode to Alec's ass', stopped in its tracks. It was his turn next though, as Magnus walked away. Alec's eyes swept over the tall, lithe figure of his husband as a wistful sigh passed parted lips, shifting right as a movement caught his attention, Max giggling in delight as Rafe chased him through the hallway. Alec had made it Rafe's job to distract the small blue one, to keep him out of the living room until the party started, and he knew it was a job the boy would take seriously and do well. "Tape, good sir." Magnus announced, giving a bow as his hand offered up the now full container with a flourish. His smile was bright when he straightened, Alec's laugh amused at his playful antics. A knock at the front caught their attention and Magnus gave a soft pat to Alec's rear with a playful wink to accompany it as he stepped away to answer the door. The bright smile remained on Magnus's face as he opened the door, only faltering the slightest bit when he saw a nervous woman on the other side. Her dark hair was frizzed and curled at the end, her eyes equally as dark and shifting from the door to the hallway where she'd come off the elevator and soon to Magnus. Seeing her go pale when she looked at him had Magnus's smile become forced. The hand hidden behind the door curled immediately as he did the quietest snap he could, a wall and ward forming and blocking off the hallway to the kids' rooms where they were currently playing. "Can I help you, miss?" Magnus asked as pleasantly as he could, though the tiny hairs on his body were standing on end, getting the worst energy off of the nervous woman in front of him. "I... I'm...Um... Are you Magnus Bane?" She finally managed, her fingers curling and tugging at the hem of her rumpled shirt, which looked like it had seen better days. She didn't look dirty or unkempt per se, like the poor homeless that Magnus tried to help every now and then, but like she'd been traveling a long while. Magnus inhaled quietly, his fingers curling around the edge of the door as he kept his ground in the doorway. She smelled of jasmine and something else that he couldn't put his finger on. "...Yes, and you are?" "N-Natalie. I... I was told to come here because you, um... You have my baby."

Magnus couldn't help the blatant look of shock that came across his face before his brows furrowed and he looked back into the apartment, searching for Alec, who must have heard the words because he was headed over to the doorway as well. "I'm sorry, but we don't have any babies here. You must be mistaken," Alec said as he came to stop beside Magnus. Magnus inhaled again and he swore he knew that smell, something on her was so familiar and he knew it so well, but his brain wouldn't process what it was. His magic tugged from within, trying to pull what it was and suddenly he felt like a vampire, trying to sniff out what made someone smell the way they did. It would have been humorous to him were his heart not pounding in his chest. "He isn't a baby, he'd be... Four, almost five. I left him on the church stairs because I didn't know what else to do, and I was told that was a safe place. I've been looking for it for the past month, but I haven't been able to find it again..." She started, looking between the two men as she seemed to curl in on herself, almost as if she was hesitant to finish. "He's... Blue." Alec felt his heart drop into his stomach as his head whipped to the side to look at Magnus, who looked equally as paled as the woman was. He watched Magnus's Adams apple bob as he swallowed hard, watched his fingers tighten around the door frame. "How... Did you find this place, may I ask? And hear about me?" Magnus soon asked, his voice quiet and almost steely. "I...know people. Like you. They told me that his father was a..." "Demon." Alec finished when her voice tapered off, his arms coming to cross over his chest. "What do you want with him?" Magnus noticed that Alex purposefully neglected to say Max's name, relief flooding him that they were on the same page- neither wanted to give her that power over knowing their son more than she should have. "I...I want him back. I know what I did was wrong, but you have to understand that I wasn't expecting a blue baby and I didn't know what to do because I was just 19 and--" "No." Magnus said firmly, his voice cold. "I'm... I'm sorry?" "I said no. You can't have him. Legally he's our son, we have the papers signed and declaring so. You don't get the right to just come back after four or five years and say you want him back." Alec was shocked at the deeper, colder tone Magnus's voice had taken on, shocked at how his mindset had changed in just a few years when he'd been so uncertain on finding Max, in being a father. "But I'm his mother." Natalie said as her eyes narrowed, her tone losing that nervousness and gaining a tinge of anger. "You were his mother. You lost that right when you abandoned him with a note saying, 'Who could ever love it?'. It. You called that beautiful baby an 'It'. What, because he was blue?" "Because I PANICK--" "I don't care. You didn't come to ask for help, you came to abandon him like trash. Most people look for help with they panic and you didn't even bother trying. You left him, called him an 'It', and you aren't his mother anymore." "I--" Natalie started, looking to the silent Alec as if he would help her case, make Magnus reconsider or think about it. Unfortunately for her, Alec was stone faced and looked as thrilled as Magnus was, which, frankly, was not at all. "It's not possible. We've adopted him, legally, and that's not going to change." Alec words were quiet but firm, though Magnus knew there was a fire raging as equally within him. "I can go to the police and-" "And what? You do realize that once a child has been adopted, the biological parent has the hardest time getting them back, right? And you'll plead your case by telling the judge your story about how you left your naturally blue baby on the stairs of an invisible Church to be taken care of people that crowd control demons and people that have magic that come out of their fingertips." Another woman's voice floated from the shadows down the hall. Magnus shifted enough to look out, seeing Lily emerge from the corner beside the elevator, a small birthday bag in her hand. She would never admit that she liked the kids, but Magnus and Alec both knew that after the Rafe ordeal, all her visits 'just because' was to check up on Rafe and in turn, she loved Max as much. "You'll sound absolutely insane and the judge will probably just lock you away in a looney-bin." Lily finished as she approached the doorway, offering a smile to Alec and Magnus. The words had been harsh, but both parents knew it was true and judging by the look on Natalie's face, she knew it as well. With a quick inhale and a forced huff, she turned on her heels and rushed down the hallway to the elevator, leaving the trio to watch her go until they disappeared back into the apartment, the door closing with a firm click of the lock. -- ".....duérmase pedazo, de mi corazón." Magnus finished the quiet lullaby as his fingers stroked through Rafe's hair, the boys body beside his own as they rested in his bed. Where normally Rafe's eyes would be heavy and the boy soon fast asleep, Magnus noticed that tonight he was still awake and with a worried look on his face. "Rafe, what's wrong?" Magnus asked as his hand stopped in the boys hair, instead moving to stroke his cheek with his thumb, giving a gentle and soft squeeze to the soft pink mound that was still plump with baby fat, though diminishing. Rafe was silent as he looked at Magnus before he turned his face away, little white teeth catching his bottom lip in a nervous habit Magnus knew Rafe picked up from him. Magnus frowned at the silence and while he never pushed the kids to tell them things, rather teaching them that they could come to their parents when ready to talk, he'd never seen Rafe look as nervous as this. "Baby..." Magnus's tone carried the worry despite his attempts to mask it. Rafe's words were soft and in Spanish, something Magnus knew he only did when he was upset or scared. "If ... If someone was trying to take Max away from the family, you wouldn't let him, right? He's my brother. He's our family. No one can take him away, right?" Red flags went off in Magnus's mind at those questions and he swallowed as he forced his body to not tense. Why was this suddenly a question? He'd blocked off the hallway a week back on Max's party, there would have been no way the kids would have heard the conversation. "Of course not, mi corazón. No one will ever take Max. Not from you, not from me, not from your dad. You know we'd fight for him and protect him, the same way we would fight for and protect you, no matter what." It was hard to muster up the words when his thoughts were going a thousand miles a minute and every single inch of him wanted to be up and in Max's room, as if Rafe's words meant there was someone in there about to snatch up his little blueberry. Rafe still had a hint of worry on his face, but Magnus could see the relief in the dark eyes that watched him, trusted him. "Get some sleep and if you need to, we'll talk more about it tomorrow morning over pancakes, alright?" Painted nails were brushing through Rafe's hair once more, a soft and lingering kiss pressed to the boys forehead as Magnus tried to collect himself, using the contact to ground himself. "Magnus, what's wrong?" Alec asked from the couch as Magnus walked briskly to Max's door after shutting Rafe's. When Magnus didn't answer, too set in his way, Alec placed the book on the couch and stood to follow him into Max's room. "Babe?" "Max, baby, wake up, bapa needs to talk to you." Magnus whispered as his fingers curled around Max, gently squeezing the boys arms and sending a small pulse of magic into the blue skin as if trying to assure himself that Max was there and alright. The gentle spark of energy pulsed back to his fingertips, a comfort system they'd established between them to remind each other that everything was okay. "Nnngh?" The boy groaned as his fists rose to rub at his eyes, his body limp and lazy as he was hefted up into Magnus's arms and cradled to him. Alec sat in the now empty space, watching the two as a feeling of dread spread through him, Magnus's vibes and energy off-putting and unlike the ones he'd had when they split to put the boys to sleep. "Max, are you afraid someone is going to take you away from our family?" Magnus asked, looking down into the blue eyes that were on Alec first, then up to Magnus, clearly startled at the question. "What?" Alec tensed, his gaze shifting from Max to Magnus as the smile he'd had for the boy dropped from his face. "What are you talking about?" "Rafe asked me if we would ever let someone take Max away from us, and I..." Magnus paused as his magic tugged and a familiar scent hit his nose. "Magnus--" Alec started, but stopped when Magnus nuzzled into the boys neck like a dog looking for a buried treat. Despite his alarm, Max couldn't stop the giggle from being tickled by both the nuzzling and Magnus's hair. "Max, I need you to be honest with me, baby. Have you been talking to a stranger?" "How is he going to talk to a stranger if he's always with us?" Alec asked, though his gaze soon followed Magnus's to the mirror in the room. Max was quickly handed over as Magnus moved off the bed and to the mirror, noticing the smell only got stronger as he did. The same smell that had been on Natalie, and the same smell he could suddenly find on Max. Magic leaked from his fingertips as they swiped along the edge, his teeth gritting together as he felt a wave of dark magic pulsing off of the center. "Max, I need to know right now. Has there been someone here?" Magnus's finger pointed to the middle of the glass, which shattered, confined in a blue cocoon as his magic spread across the surface once Max nodded in confirmation, tears trailing down his face. Magnus muttered something under his breath and soon the frame of the mirror creaked and groaned, curling in and folding on itself until it finally made a pop noise and disappeared into thin air. The magic dispersed through the room, scattering across the walls and along the floor and ceiling as a ward weaved itself in the air, bringing a new level of protection to their apartment. Alec soothed Max, rocking him and holding him close as the little boy cried, burying his face into Alec's shirt as his fists clenched his father's shirt. "Bapa's not mad at you, we're just worried," Alec assured, his hand cradling Max's head as he pressed a kiss to the top of the boys head. Magnus took in a deep breath, feeling every bit on edge as he finally moved to sit on the bed with them. "Can you tell us who you were talking to?" "A-a... blue... man..." Max said between sniffles, rubbing his nose against the soaked area of Alec's shirt, of whom didn't seem to mind at this point. "H-he camed on my buh-buh-birthday an' h-he said that he-heeee's m-my real d-daddy." Magnus could feel his heart breaking with each struggled word as the boy sobbed them out and he could see Alec's eyes prickling with tears as he tried swallowing and forcing them back. "What did you tell this man?" Magnus asked slowly, his fingers reaching out to wrap around Max's own little ones, which gripped the longer digits tightly. "I-I told-ed him that he was l-lying." Max said softly, a hiccup interrupting his words. "I said t-that my daddies w-were you. And he s-said that I had to come with him or he'll... H-he'll hurt daddies and Rafe." "Max, what is Elyaas?" Magnus was quiet, his fingers clutching the edge of the bed, only continuing once Max responded with 'a demon'. "And do we listen to them when they tell us lies and try to tempt us?" "N-n-no." "We both have demon blood in us, Max, you and Bapa. But the demon in the mirror is bad, very very bad. He... He might be your real daddy--" "Magnus-" Alec sounded alarmed as he looked up at Magnus, thinking they both should discuss explaining Max's parentage to him first, rather than at a time when Max was so upset. Magnus only shot him a look saying 'Trust me' in return and while Alec did trust him, his body language remained on edge. "He might be your real daddy, since your daddy is a demon. We will never know because we won't let him come scare you anymore. But he's dangerous, Max, all of our daddies are. Your real daddy, my daddy. Especially if we're powerful, like you and I. All they want is our power to make them stronger. That's why I have you talk to Elyaas. This man is the reason why I need to help you grow strong and smart. You're already so, so very smart, but I need to help you learn to be smart against them. Do you understand?" Max had finally stopped crying, his breathing simply just small hicks of breath as he listened to Magnus, watching him from where he had tried burying himself into Alec's chest. "Uh huh," he said with a small nod and a pout of his lips. Magnus offered out his arms and Alec helped Max scramble over, the boy burying his face in Magnus's neck as his arms wound tight around him. Magnus looked to Alec, they both knew they would have to ward the room better than it already was and now both knew they would be more wary around mirrors. "Max, don't forget, we'll never be mad at you for talking to us," Alec said quietly, rubbing Max's back as his free hand met Magnus's seeking one, their fingers lacing. "We'll always protect you, and if a stranger or anyone ever makes you feel uncomfortable or makes you scared, that's what we're here to protect you from. Ideally we don't want you talking to them in the first place, but..." A shift at the door had Alec ready to spring up and protect the two, but seeing Rafe peeking in brought him down. His hand reached out in offering to the curly-haired boy, who soon entered the room to take the hand and clamber up onto Alec's lap. "And Rafe, if you ever are scared for you, or for your brother, please don't be afraid to tell us. We're your daddies and it's our job to make sure you always feel safe." Alec's arms wound around Rafe, holding him close and, for once, the boy didn't seem to protest. "So...Max isn't going anywhere?" Rafe said hopefully, looking at his little brother, who soon turned his head to look over at Rafe. "No, Max is staying with us, always, no matter what anyone says, no matter who comes around trying to tear us apart. We're family. Lightwood-Bane's, all of us. Right, Magnus?" Magnus nodded in agreement, his rings flashing in the light from the small tableside light beside them. "Always, and nothing will change that. Are you... are you happy we're your daddies?" He wasn't sure why he was so hesitant to ask, he would have hoped so after five and three years respectively that they were happy in the home and not hiding anything. Rafe was immediate to nod, looking quite eager as he said 'Yes'. Max was silent, but his little slim fingers reached up and out, one hand touching Magnus's jaw and the other touching Alec's hand. Both could feel the soft warm pulse that came from his palms and the bright smile to follow eased every worry that Magnus may have had on the issue. "Happy. I won't talk to strangers. Our daddies, no demons." He said, watching the smile spread across Alec's face, seeing the pride there at his words. "What do you say we all have a sleepover?" Magnus offered, seeing Max and Rafe perk up. That night they would all share Alec and Magnus's bed, safe and protected, just as promised.

[sol-futura-est]

When I finally step into my room, I unlace my shoes, undo my jumpsuit, and strip almost naked, save for my boxers. On my desk, besides the dim lamp, is at least four or five stacks of journals, most unread, organized from the formation of the first republic, to the modern era, but I only read about the recent wars more closely. I had returned all but a few of the ones of the beginning. What was open and waiting was Lawrence di Firenze’s account of his movement from Mesopotamia to Saint Petersburg, after fighting numerous skirmishes and enlisting the help of men on the path, he defied the orders of the senate and abandoned a quiet sector in favor of facing the fire, predicting the enemy’s advances as if he knew them more than anyone else. When he arrived to relieve his brother, and routing the siege, he was widely considered by people from east and west to be more than a mere tribune, but a hero worth talking about.

"Today marks the first of February, 2236. I’ve personally, let alone commanded the death of, killed so many of these machines and zealots that I’m beginning to view this war as something eternal, something worth finishing sooner than later. Araasi, the elected chief of the armies and political mastermind of the Svarogovist war machine, has laid siege to the great city of Petrograd, Saint Petersburg, Leningrad, whichever you prefer. As I already made clear to the senate, and the consul, he intends to take the city for the rail lines and airstrips that tie it to the rest of Eastern Europe and north into Finland and Scandinavia. I was ridiculed. I was told he would be stupid to challenge my brothers forces to open combat while entrenched in the city, and that I should take my horsemen and my commandos to greater effect in waiting for another attack from the Caspian Sea, or a new set of tunnels in northern Persia to burst. Despite my track record, despite my national appeal, from Mongols, Sikhs, Latins, Intermarians, even among my auxiliaries from even farther parts of the world, the senate, a handful of men, refuse.

It’s too bad I’m already here, on the banks of the sea to the west, encamped, ready to give the order to advance across the south and give my brother some relief. My chief lieutenant, my divisional legate, is still young. His aptitude is unquestionable, but he’s deeply afraid, almost embarrassingly so. He insists that I’m insane for using my horsemen like I do. I always ask him who won at Sinjar, in Central Asia, or even further back, in Kunduz, or Khalistan. Every time he just shudders, calls me old fashioned. I always tell him that it isn’t the implement, it’s the organization, it’s the application, the details. He insists that my ways will get me killed. In my eyes, this is why I’ve been so successful. Twenty years ago, my adoption and adaptation of coursers was laughed at, until we pushed Araasi’s predecessor into battle and killed him. For the first time in three hundred years, horsemen marched on city streets as heroes. My brother was amazed. He even told me before we deployed that his power armor would be the new knights of old, that I could not be in the spotlight as he hoped. After, it was as if he was seeing horses for the first time. Part of me wishes it was him, that the future, the grand spectacle of old books, where man fought different enemies, with suits of steel powered by space age technology. Little did I know we still used rifles and bows and lances, swords, knives, we even fought in hand to hand ambushes. Those were grand times.

Araasi still has us outnumbered two to one. Most of his other forces are south of us, dealing with Roland in the Caucasus, and the Sikhs further still.  All I have to stop is this one individual, and when this front collapses, I can end the war completely. If I end it, that’s just gonna exacerbate what certain voices are already shouting in the west.

It isn’t just youths who want me to take the mantle of dictator for some time, but even a lot of the men and women my age. Rumors that the senate gamed things after the first war, and allowed this one to happen, and my zeal against the enemy, it all makes these folks wish I was the one making decisions, not men who once upon a time were my peers. 

These dreams of mine are always alight with the same scene. I’m charging headlong through a valley of fire, against frightened machines, mutilated and disformed men, lowering my rifle and gunning them down. But I can see my horse and myself alight, in golden flame, as if the sunlight was pouring out of me. I can feel the horse galloping fast, the thrusting push of my rifle, even the fear through the air from the demons in front me. 

But it goes black suddenly, and I can’t wake up for a few moments. When I wake up, I feel as if the fire had only just gone out, as if Sol was trying to tell me something, but I cannot be sure. I want to believe that his is truly with me, that he was there when my father crossed the alps to take Bern, I want to believe not only that the republic is chosen, but many men themselves, but should I be afraid?"

Almost abruptly, the entry closes. Two weeks later he enclosed Araasi on a field and both of them died in the ensuing battle. Lawrence was found and carried out, Araasi was apparently either mutilated or simply drug back to the underground cities, entombed in whatever strange way they did things.

Specifically, it was this tale that caught my thoughts in moments like this. Two weeks after he penned this, he died. More than that, I know nothing of the man’s ripples in the lake of what remained. My body shivered trying to imagine what that battle was like, how it ensued beyond the tide of time, how the memory that existed on paper was so that the memories of those that adored him could feel his heartbeat through the letters. When I folded the tome and set it down again, next to one of Tarquin’s journals from the first war, I remembered reading it for the first time seven years ago, slowly, each night when one page became ten, ten became twenty or thirty. Mortimer told me once when there was a book or a movie the owners of this place didn’t want a fighter to see in his possession, that he got sent to a mining colony in the Urals. One of the few mandated by the senate, but operated by what used to be Svarogovist refugees. Those were my bedtime horror stories. Mortimer let his hate sew into me from youth on. When I’m stuck here, I can’t know if that’s true.

If the night was going to last forever, I might stay up, read more, but there’s not much reason to. Tomorrow always comes. When I slip under the thin blanket on my bed, I drift closer and closer to sleep as the dim lamp lights my desk, but not revealing the far off corner I was in. Each ride of the waves as they came onto me dragged me into the current, until suddenly…

Stop.

I know it’s a dream, but when I open my eyes again, I’m no longer in the arena, and somehow, I know I’m no longer in Karelia. When I stand, My feet are buried in flowing grass, and my ears can hear the faint whistle of the draft wrapping around me, and in front of me is emptiness, as far as I can see. All there are is rolling hills, the same I have seen every so often in my dreams. If I do dream, it’s lucid, just like this, just as if I can see and feel every little thing in some far off place I’ve never been to. The sun is always at dawn, gleaming rays striking firm into an endless horizon beyond the human imagination, a light that always inflicts on you the fury of comfort, of confidence. Nothing here can hurt you, nothing here is imperfect. Sparse trees and shrubs, hills that come in waves, glimmering dew, glistening blue sky, it all comes together to paint one picture, serene, perfect. Mountains afar stand taller than the ones here in Karelia, and faintly, from the north, is the smell of the ocean, riding the wind. Urban stench, sound, and surefound idiocy are gone. This isolation, the temporal, spiritual, physical isolation is not uncommon to me, but my own life, and I thrive within the quiet moments, where all that is left is to either think or lie down and breathe.

The first time I heard of a dream, I didn’t know what it was. When I found out that Mortimer knew I had dreams, he regrettably mentioned he knew nothing of the dreams I had. When I pried as a young kid, all he could do was shrug, and I came to think there was a local rarity within myself. When I found myself dreaming more than twice a week, I heard comments from the legionnaires, within their own conversations, and I’ve figured out that my dreams weren’t common, but still rare. I got lucky that day hearing that conversation; it helped me not be so afraid of being alone here. At first, all I could do was hope the shadows around trees were the light dancing. Eventually all I learned was that fear is a beast that starves without your hand to feed it, and this world was nobody’s but mine. In domineering it, I domineered the one part I could control.

When all you hear is the wind whipping, every little noise becomes another sound against the background, water running, grass flowing, trees groaning and twisting, and eventually, your own heart becomes an addition to the symphony. I didn’t want anything here. I never wanted more than this, but in my heart, I was curious for more. Every nagging thought, asking if this is all life is, was at times too much. Those nights I would wake up, pace my room, maybe even exhaust myself with two or three hundred push ups until the pain distracted me, and when I finally slept, my eyes simply stared at the absence. Every time I woke, rested or not, I went about my day.

But the questions would stay for night after night until the quiet of my mind returned, and when I finally went back to the dream, to the rolling hills I now sit in, encapsulated by walls of granite on one end, and the endless ocean on another. Each air into my lungs was rhythmic, patterned, as if I was breathing with the earth, with the wind, and no longer was I so detached for a few moments. Even as the hours drew on, the dawn never rose to the day, and the dew never rose up. 

Soon enough, my visage faded more and more, as if there was a great weight on me, and just as it began, my eyes shut.

Stop.

[aliferous-ly]

o h ????????? royality + mythological creatures au (like fairy/mermaid, dryad/neried, whatever u want beee ily)

roman is a very sad creature of the sky. he’s not an avian, his wings are much too delicate for that -- but he’s not a fairy, with his soft, gentle feathers. he can’t belong to the nightland creatures, the bats or dragons, because his wings are gossamer, not leathery, and lack the trademark talons of dragons. he just ... is, and to him, that’s enough. it has to be enough, because he has nothing else. 

he doesn’t belong to any clan, though, which is why he’s -- very sad. he does not eat most animals, like the fairies, but strays away from beetles like the dragons -- he eats fish, and plants, and nuts. and he stays near the water, making stories out of rocks and sticks. 

while sitting there, one day, a head pops out of the water. the creature has webbed ears and scales, trailing along their cheekbones and down their neck, a glistening array of pale blues. they grin at him, showing rows of sharp teeth, and introduces -- himself, as patton. a merman. 

roman tells patton his own name and they get talking. they have a lot in common -- same favorite fish, a passion for the beauty of the world, and they’re both -- alone. 

sort of. 

because later, patton says, “hey, i want you to meet my friend,” and roman’s like -- “okay.” because what else can he say? 

and the next day patton comes streaming along the coast, a man -- he’d have to be running, going that fast, but it looked much too graceful, like he was gliding, and roman pales because only a fairy could move that beautifully

Patton introduces his good friend Logan, who bows and says “it’s nice to meet you, Roman, i’ve heard so much,” and roman realizes logan doesn’t -- he doesn’t have any wings

roman makes a sad, devastated sound, a mixture of a crooning bat and warbling avian, and logan smiles, crooked, explaining how his wings were torn off many many years before, because he’d unearthed the wrong conspiracy, and how he was cast out of his clan. 

when roman expresses sorrow logan shrugs it off, saying he’s over it (even if anyone could tell that he really, really wasn’t)

but then patton starts up a lighter conversation and he chatters on about this gorgeous coral reef he found. catch roman leaning on his fist, smiling fondly, while logan watches on with raised eyebrows

from then on, roman and patton are joined by logan every so often. some days it’s just roman and patton (and if roman’s totally honest, he adores those days) and sometimes, logan shows. logan could be gone for days at a time, but patton reassured roman that he was safe, that logan is “the smartest guy I know!” 

one night roman and patton are hanging out, roman preening on a rock and patton splashing around beside him. roman catches sight of a bat, whipping through the air, silent as the moon, and an ache starts up in his chest. he could never be quiet enough, his wings never strong enough, his skin never thick enough. he didn’t have the shimmering transparency of fairies, and besides, fairies had the strength of stars at their fingertips. 

patton asks him, soft, where he came from. 

so roman tells him.

he tells him of magnum rocks skipping on a cave floor, of races through trees, and flying high, high in the sky, until the world was stretched and blurred through the clouds. from when he was really young. He could remember a fire-breathing figure (only certain dragons could breathe fire) and smoke and coughing. and paper-thin wings, much too thin, leathery and gleaming. 

but, that was all in the past. his more recent memories included fighting to survive, trying to find a clan that would let him in, and it wasn’t -- their fault, he just couldn’t do all of the tasks needed to survive as a fairy, dragon, bat, or avian. he fell short in all of the above.

patton touches his wings, and says, “well, you’re a part of my clan, now.” 

roman isn’t ashamed to say he cried. because his family -- patton and logan, small but sweet -- was his. he belonged with them, with this merman (what was wrong with him? why was he alone?) and a wingless, inquisitive fairy. 

a week later, logan returns, buzzing and smiling and explains that he found a wounded dryad, and helped him, and now he wants to introduce him to them. patton is delighted and roman laughs, because of course they found more disfunctional creatures to take in. 

so then virgil joins the family. he’s quiet and reserved, at first, only talking with logan, and then patton, and finally roman. he has ochre skin, long ears, and black tattoo-like lines covering his body. he turns into a tree when he’s freaked out, and roman, logan, and patton -- love him. 

roman loves patton in a much different way, but how do -- how do mermen -- date? do they court, or jump straight to the intense sticking-together-for-life? he asks logan endless questions and logan promises to look into it when he can, but tells him to just -- go with his gut feeling, because patton would appreciate it nonetheless. 

he’s nervous, though, so he doesn’t do much more than hold patton’s hand more. 

patton, however, is much more Action Oriented. one night, when they’re stargazing (logan suspiciously absent, roman knows how much the fairy loves the stars) patton kisses him. and, well, then they start dating -- roman has no idea what customs he should follow, seemingly a mixture of major sky creatures, but patton doesn’t seem to mind. they figure out their own way, and it works. it’s good. 

also, they end up finding a small abandoned naga that they end up adopting and raising on their own. he literally only answers to “dee”. patton is his favorite, because he loves water, for some reason (logan muses about water snakes) but he adores each of them in their own way -- just much more quietly. 

(and yes -- roman has a brother. he dreams of him, sometimes, but never knows exactly who he is or how he relates to himself. remus is a mix, just like roman, with thin leather wings that are much too bright for a bat or a dragon. he and roman were split when they were very young, the same time roman was left in the woods to fend for himself. remus is still alive.)

[searchingwardrobes]

An Education in Southern Gothic: 2/2

Here it is, the second chapter where things heat up and then take us full speed to the dramatic finale! Much thanks again to @snowbellewells for being an awesome beta and @hollyethecurious for the art. I also thank my fellow @cssns writers for all the help in the discord chat. “Ya’ll bloody wankers” ;) You know who ya’ll are!

Summary - Fact: there’s a graveyard between the football field and the science building. Debatable: A ghost haunts the halls of Misthaven Hills High. Emma Swan is about to get an education. Killian Jones is about to get a whole lot more.

Rating: T

Chapter one on tumblr. Also on Ao3.

Tagging the usuals: @welllpthisishappening @kday426 @jennjenn615 @let-it-raines @kmomof4 @teamhook @whimsicallyenchantedrose @wellhellotragic @optomisticgirl @distant-rose @shireness-says @xhookswenchx @ohmakemeahercules @thislassishooked @winterbaby89 @branlovestowrite @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @gingerchangeling @mythologicalmango @vvbooklady1256  @ultraluckycatnd @revanmeetra87 @resident-of-storybrooke  @tiganasummertree @bethacaciakay @profdanglaisstuff @spartanguard @thejollyroger-writer @nikkiemms @courtorderedcake

Chapter Two: Theories of Exorcism

Killian sits in his classroom, a stack of essays on the Roman Empire in front of him, his red pen tapping pensively against his jaw.

He’s not thinking about the papers.

Emma has been worrying him since Friday night. He tried to brush off the odd way she was speaking, the slightly unnatural way she was holding herself. She had been camping out with twenty one teenage girls in a cafeteria, after all, and it had been the middle of the night. But the next morning, she had scooped a few pieces of fruit from the tray they had picked up at Chick-fil-a and completely ignored the chicken biscuits and the hash browns. Emma Swan choosing healthy food over greasy food was cause for genuine concern. When he made a joke about the hash browns she had twisted his arm for, she had looked at him in utter confusion.

Killian sighs as he looks down at the essays in front of him. His planning hour is half over, and he told his sophomores he would have their essays graded by tomorrow.

Suddenly, his door flies open and Killian startles, dropping his red pen. And his jaw. He feels like one of those old cartoon characters when their jaws hit the ground and their drooling tongues go rolling across the floor. He’s never denied that Emma Swan is attractive - he would have to be blind and a complete idiot for that - but he’s never seen her quite like this. Her usual ensemble for work is casual and professional - some slacks and a blouse - and her hair is normally pulled up. Today, her golden locks are carefully styled and tumbling over her shoulders. And her dress . . .

It’s tight. It’s red. It short. It shows off her cleavage. It’s completely inappropriate for a high school teacher.

And his body is reacting whether he wants it to or not.

So did the bodies of the boys in her first period class, he’s sure. Wait a minute . . .

“Your second period class, Emma?” he asks in alarm, rising from his desk.

She’s still leaning seductively against the door frame, one arm draped over her head, the other propped on her hip. It should look ridiculous, but it just . . . doesn’t.

“What about it?” she asks flippantly.

Killian stops a few feet away, thinking that’s probably the safest distance. “Um, you’re supposed to be teaching American Lit right now?”

Emma pushes off from the door frame, pulling the door shut behind her and leaning against it. Her chest heaves in a very distracting way in her tight dress.

“It was incredibly dull, so I told the children to read quietly.”

Killian arches a brow. “Incredibly dull?”

“Yes,” Emma pouts, coming closer.

Her legs go on for days in that dress and in those heels. He looks out the window quickly and thinks of England. He swallows, trying to remain calm as her hands reach out to rest upon his chest. Incredibly dull? He has never heard Emma talk that way.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Killian bites his lip as he turns his gaze on her. “Sure, love.”

Her hands slide up his chest and wrap around his neck.

“I’ve had a little crush on you for a long time.”

The breath rushes out of his lungs. He’s longed to hear her say that for so long, probably since that stupid faculty meeting back in July when he’d been a complete wanker trying to get her attention. Despite the euphoria he feels at her words, alarm bells are going off in his brain. He glances over Emma’s shoulder at the door, which is mostly glass. Anyone walking by could see them.

“Emma,” he says gently, removing her hands and taking a step back, “this is neither the time nor place.”

Suddenly, her expression shifts, and her eyes widen in sudden rage. “What are you? Some kind of Puritan? What man turns down a perfectly good proposition?”

She whips around so fast, he gets a mouthful of her hair.

“Emma,” he says, stopping her with a gentle hand to her elbow, “this isn’t you. What’s going on?”

She grins slowly as she turns back around. Before he can register what’s happening, she’s shoved him backwards against his desk, sending papers flying. He catches himself, bracing both hands on the edge of it. Emma presses her entire body flush against him, grinning at his length that she can easily feel through his dress slacks.

“See?” she purrs, running her hands up and down his chest before grasping his tie in her fist. “You want me.”

He’s tempted for one excruciating moment to give in, to grab her in his arms and kiss the living hell out of her. But then he looks into her eyes, and once again, something just isn’t right. He pushes her away roughly and moves to put his desk between them.

“Not like this, Emma,” he tells her, praying she won’t notice the tremor in his voice.

She scowls at him, yet another foreign expression playing over her features. “Well, Mr. Jones, I suppose we’ll save this cat and mouse for another day.”

She saunters out, her arms crossed over her chest, her long painted nails tapping at her biceps. She glances at him once before walking out the door.

Once she’s gone, Killian falls shakily into his desk chair. He’s practically sweating and moves to loosen his tie. He glances at the clock and groans before picking up his red pen.

Nothing like sophomore essays to douse his arousal.

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

If anyone at his old high school had suggested that Killian Jones would one day be a high school history teacher, everyone would have assumed it was a joke and burst out laughing. Bad boy, smart ass Killian Jones who liked to argue with the teachers, got into almost daily fights, and got caught drinking rum behind the bleachers, a future high school teacher? His teenage self had been well known by the principal, and not for good reasons. He spent an inordinate amount of time in the woman’s office, much to her irritation.

So getting called into the principal’s office was something he grew used to, and those old demons probably account for the sass he doles out to Regina on a regular basis now. He admits whenever she asks to see him, he can’t seem to stop the proverbial chip from resting on his shoulder.

Yet never in all his life, as a student or a teacher, has he been physically yanked into the principal’s office. Until now.

The embarrassing yelp he emits when Robin yanks him by the arm and drags him into the office is half due to his friend’s upper body strength (he isn’t the school’s archery coach for nothing) and half due to his almost constant state of distraction since Emma became . . . someone else.

“Bloody hell, Robin, what are you? Your wife’s personal henchman now?”

He turns to find a small group gathered around Regina’s conference table: Mary Margaret, David, and Jasmine. The principal herself stands in front of the framed painting of Misthaven Hills Plantation circa 1885, the focal piece of art in her largely austere office. Her eyes are focused, her perfectly manicured nails tapping at her forearms where they’re crossed at her chest.

“This is an emergency meeting, Mr. Jones,” she tells him cooly, “to discuss what’s happening in your department.”

“My department?” Killian asks incredulously, pointing at his own chest. Mary Margaret is the department chair, if they want to get technical.

Regina rolls her eyes. “The humanities department, Jones, now sit.”

She uncrosses her arms to point at the last empty chair, and Killian obeys. He almost asks what Robin is doing there when he teaches PE, but Regina doesn’t seem to be in the best mood. She sits, adjusts the jacket of her sensible pantsuit, and folds her arms upon the polished surface of the conference table.

“We all know why we’re here,” she says archly.

“Because Emma has started dressing like Substitute Barbie?” Jasmine ventures.

Killian swallows back a defense for Emma. Jasmine isn’t off base in her assessment, unfortunately.

“Let’s not bring my sister into this,” Regina snaps.

“Well she did wear a skintight dress with a plunging neckline last time she subbed for me,” Mary Margaret says, “with no bra.”

Regina rubs her head wearily, then shoots a glare at her husband. “Don’t you start!”

Robin lifts his hands in surrender. “I didn’t say a word!”

David covers his mouth, clearly stifling a laugh. Another department member, but oh well, it’s a small town, and Killian knows David is probably more worried about Emma than he is. For some reason, he and Mary Margaret have practically adopted her old roommate.

“The point,” Regina sighs, “is that Emma is being unprofessional, not only in her wardrobe choices, but also in almost every area of her job for the past two weeks.”

Killian thinks back to when she showed up in his classroom when she was supposed to be teaching. As a matter of fact, Emma has been practically stalking him since that night in the cafeteria. The most embarrassing was when she sauntered right into his class in the middle of his lecture on the Salem witch trials and perched on the edge of his desk in a tiny black leather number he assumed was supposed to be a dress.

“Killian, you have to talk to her,” Mary Margaret puts in.

He swallows nervously, scratching behind his ear. “I, um, don’t think I’m the best person for that.”

“What do you mean?” Jasmine exclaims. “You’re the one she’s spending all her time with.”

“When she’s supposed to be teaching,” Regina adds.

“You’re her boss!” Killian argues.

The only way he’s survived the past two weeks is by avoiding Emma at all costs or at least ensuring they’re not alone. So he doesn’t do something stupid like shove her against his whiteboard and have his way with her. He rubs at his neck - is it hot in here?

“I’ve called her into my office twice,” Regina tells him with a shake of her head. “The first time she blew me off. This morning . . . I can’t explain it. For some reason, I ended the meeting apologizing to her.”

“She’s not herself,” Killian tries to explain. His colleagues might think he’s crazy, but his gut tells him that this woman is not his Emma, which is precisely why he’s fighting his libido at every turn.

“I agree with Killian,” David speaks up, “something’s wrong.”

Killian points at his friend, “See? I knew it wasn’t just me. She hasn’t been the same since the cheerleaders had their overnight in the cafeteria.”

Regina narrows her eyes. “What are you suggesting?”

Killian presses his eyes closed for a moment. Please don’t let them think I’ve lost my mind. “When I say Emma isn’t herself, I don’t mean that figuratively . . . . I’m talking about the curse of Cora Mills.”

Regina snorts out an incredulous laugh. Jasmine lifts her eyes heavenward, and Robin shakes his head.

“You can’t be serious,” David mutters.

“You said yourself something is wrong!”

“I thought maybe . . . “ he squirms in his seat, “that the two of you finally, I mean . . . “

“Oh God, are you serious right now?”

“There has been sexual tension,” Jasmine points out.

“This is Emma we’re talking about!” Killian yanks at his hair with both hands. “The most I’ve gotten out of her all this time is witty banter and subtle flirting. She’s not the type to go zero to sixty, especially with me, her co-worker and friend!”

Everyone starts to talk at once, until Mary Margaret’s voice rises above the others. “Killian has a point.” Everyone falls silent to gape at the brunette. “I’ve known Emma longer than any of you. She may lay it on thick at a bar for a one night stand, but not when it’s someone she actually may . . . care for.”

She looks at Killian apologetically, and he gets it. Talking about his feelings for Emma is weird in this setting, even if he’s been walking around with his heart on his sleeve since July. No one wants their love life discussed in a department meeting. Yet he’ll gladly endure a bit of embarrassment if they can figure out how to help Emma.

“But a ghost, sweetheart?” David asks.

“There was something in that kitchen, I’m telling you,” Mary Margaret insists.

“This is the most ridiculous meeting I have ever led!” Regina exclaims in frustration, rising to her feet. She leans forward, resting one hand on the desk, and pointing the other at Mary Margaret. “Department chair, get your English teacher to stop dressing like a hooker. I’m getting complaints from parents. And all three of you better get a handle on the homecoming issue of the paper since Ms. Swan isn’t doing shit with it.”

Jasmine’s and Mary Margaret’s voices rise in irritation about Emma carrying her weight with the paper. Jasmine is particularly peeved since she got stuck with the back to school issue and the football season kickoff issue. As for Killian, his blood is boiling, and he jumps from his seat.

“Are you all kidding me? That’s all you people care about? The school paper and Emma’s wardrobe?”

“What do you want us to do, Kil? An exorcism?” Robin asks, and when Killians sees the little smirk on his face, he has to clench his fist to keep from punching his friend in the jaw.

“Ya’ll bloody wankers!” he shouts, stomping out the door and slamming it behind him.

Robin looks around at his wife and stunned coworkers. “Did he really just put those three words together?”

Killian’s chest is heaving when he walks out into the hallway, and he wasn’t imagining things, Regina’s office was stuffy. He takes big breaths of the cooler air, pacing in agitation. He kicks a bottom locker, swearing.

“I can help.”

Killian jumps at the sound of Henry Mills’ voice. He spins to see the freshman sitting in a plastic chair beside his mother’s office door.

“Apologies, lad,” Killian says, unclenching his fists and relaxing his shoulders, “I didn’t see you there.”

Henry shrugs. “Mom cusses at home, so she’s kind of a hypocrite about that language rule.”

Killian chuckles and comes to lean against the wall next to the boy. “I take it you heard some of that meeting just now?”

“Try all of it,” Henry says, leaning over to yank a folder out of his bookbag, “and you’re not crazy. Ms. Swan is one of my favorite teachers - besides you, of course - and she isn’t the same person lately. She doesn’t care about us kids at all anymore, and she’s never like that.”

“So what’s your theory?”

“Just like you said, the ghost of Cora Mills.” Henry opens the folder on his lap. “Know that project you gave us on American ghost stories and urban legends?”

“Yeah?” It was an assignment Killian had given his freshmen every year since he started teaching. He was always trying to find ways to get kids excited about history, and this particular project was always a hit. Henry Mills, however, wasn’t the average student, and he wasn’t surprised to hear the passion in the boy’s voice.

“Well, I’m doing mine on the ghost story right here at this school. Cora Mills - no relation by the way -

Killian chuckles as he takes a seat next to the boy, and Henry smiles.

“Well, anyway,” Henry continues, “Cora’s ghost supposedly seeks revenge on men -”

“- by possessing a woman and then . . . “ Killian trails off, his face warming at having this conversation with a student.

Henry just rolls his eyes. “Seducing the guy and killing him? Don’t patronize me. I’m fourteen, not ten.”

“Touche,” Killian grins, “but, why aren’t there boys dropping dead every other day around here?”

Henry sorts through his papers. “Because there’s a pattern to the deaths.” He shoves some papers in Killian’s hands. “See?”

Killian’s eyes widen as he skims over the old newspaper clippings from the Misthaven Mirror. Henry leans over to point at the dates.

“See? The first case of a man dying in the company of a woman with no memory of what happened occurred in 1899. The next one in 1909 -”

“Then 1919, 1929, they’ve happened every ten years!”

Henry nods. “Cora Mills murdered the LaTours in October of 1889. Every ten years since, she’s possessed the body of a woman and murdered the man she loves. Pretty creepy, huh?”

Killian narrows his arms as he regards Henry. “You seem to be getting a little too into this.” The boy grins. “What can I say? This town is so boring! This ghost story is at least interesting!”

Killian frowns. “But how do we help Emma - I mean, Ms. Swan?”

“You mean how do we help you? Cora Mills won’t leave Ms. Swan’s body until she’s killed you.”

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

The clouds above Misthaven Hills High are dark and threatening rain. There’s a strong wind, yet the air is still heavy with humidity. The weather only adds to the ominous feeling pressing on Killian’s chest. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his dress slacks as he crosses the lower classmen parking lot. Belle is a few feet away, chatting with Henry beneath the enormous branches of the ancient live oak tree that shelters the old plantation cemetery. The wind keeps sending her auburn curls swirling around her face, but her face is serene as she smiles at Henry. Belle’s calm amidst any storm is one of the reasons he had become friends with her so quickly when he first arrived at the school two years ago. David is like a brother, Mary Margaret like a doting mother, and Belle? She’s like the sister he never had, someone who allows him to be himself while simultaneously never hesitating to call him out on his bullshit.

She’s also the only adult on campus who didn’t bat an eye at he and Henry’s ghost possession theory. She had jumped at the chance to help them, and whatever she has in that heavy messenger bag slung over her shoulder will hopefully save Emma.

And him, by extension. Killed by the woman he loves may be at least a dramatic way to go, but he prefers surviving, thank you very much.

“Killian!” Belle exclaims, greeting him with a smile and a friendly hug when he reaches the graveyard.

“Now can we see what’s in the bag?” Henry asks, shuffling his feet in excitement.

Belle kneels on the ground and begins removing the items. He immediately recognizes the large, ornate crucifix and the dozen votive candles. Killian frowns as he picks up a small, white plastic bottle.

“Is that . . . Jesus on this label?”

“Yes,” Belle says a bit defensively as she snatches it away from him, “you order Holy Water on the internet, and that’s what you get okay?”

“Don’t we need a priest?”

“This is a tiny town in the middle of Georgia, Killian. The nearest priest is seventy miles away. Why do you think I had to order Holy Water on Amazon?”

“Wow,” Henry says without a trace of sarcasm, “you really can buy anything on Amazon.”

Killian’s brow creases with worry. “We can do this without a priest, though? I mean, will it work?”

Belle shrugs as she stands up, brushing leaves from the tights beneath her houndstooth skirt. “I hope so. It’s the best we can do. Some protestants believe any Christian can dispel demons.” She crosses her arms as she regards Killian with a tilted head. “How’s your soul, Mr. Jones?”

“Uh,” he chuckles warily as he scratches behind his ear, “my mother and brother after her tried to raise me in the faith, God rest their souls, but I’m afraid . . .” he rocks back on his heels. “If you need me to prepare my soul, it may take a while.”

Belle laughs easily and reaches to squeeze his hands in hers. “I’m teasing. Exorcising a ghost from a friend isn’t exactly an exact science. I’m guessing, anyway.”

“And Ms. French and I will be here to help,” Henry speaks up.

“Ms. French will be here to help,” Killian corrects, “you’re getting the hell out of here.”

“Aw, man, why?”

“First of all, I just don’t know what may happen, lad,” Killian explains, clapping a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “and secondly, you have a dance to take that sweet lass Violet to.”

“I’m going to the game first to watch her cheer, actually,” Henry replies, a blush reddening his face.

“See? You don’t want to disappoint her.”

“If you don’t see us at the dance,” Belle adds, “then and only then can you come look for us.”

Henry nods, then reluctantly heads for the stadium where students are already starting to gather. Once he’s out of earshot, Belle turns to Killian with a serious expression.

“Are you sure you can lure Emma here?”

Killian nods grimly, though he knows there are multiple landmines to avoid along the way. Four of the five murders since the school was built revolved around the homecoming game and dance, so they had come up with the theory that Cora Mills preferred to lure her victims to the grounds of Misthaven Hills Plantation. They were pretty sure she would jump at the chance to attend the dance with Killian, and once on school grounds, all Killian had to do was find a romantic excuse to come down to the old live oak and the graves littered around it.

He just had to remember that Emma wasn’t Emma right now - she was Cora Mills. He had to resist temptation until he could get her to the base of the tree.

God prepare his soul, indeed.

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

Killian’s knuckles are practically white on the steering wheel. The looming thunderstorm still hasn’t been unleashed, and the humidity has just kept climbing. It’s only 75 degrees, but it feels like its 90. He loosens his tie, thankful he at least tossed his jacket in the backseat.

Of course, the woman in the passenger seat is affecting his core temperature even more than the humidity. She keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs, her tiny silver dress inching up every time. Soon he swears he’ll know the color of her underwear.

If she’s wearing any. He wouldn’t put that past her.

She’d tried to kiss him when he picked her up, grabbing his tie with one hand and the lapel of his suit coat with the other. Extricating himself from her embrace had been a herculean effort. And not just emotionally; ghostly possession evidently comes with increased strength. He almost panicked, thinking she was going to physically haul him inside, but the way he pulled away so violently had irked her into releasing him. She had been more annoyed than anything as she grabbed her purse. Maybe a man had to be willing before the murder took place?

He bit the inside of his cheek as he took the next turn. Strength, Jones! We’re almost there!

“You seem so tense, darling,” Emma coos, sliding across the bench seat of his 1970 Chevelle.

Here hair is done up, but not in the tousled, casual way of the Emma he knows. This hairstyle is sleek, her hair gathered into a bun of perfectly coifed curls. It isn’t his favorite look on her, except . . . her neck. It’s on perfect display, begging to be kissed. Especially with the dangling faux pearl earrings teasing him with every turn of her head.

She rests one hand on the back of his neck and begins to run her fingers through his hair. She sets her other hand on his thigh and begins to rub circles there, her fingers inching their way subtly closer and closer to his crotch. He swallows hard as he attempts to shift away from her.

“Do you not like me?” she pouts, rubbing her nose against his stubbled jaw.

“Of course I like you,” he answers hoarsely with a nervous laugh, “I asked you to the dance, didn’t I?”

“Then why do I make you so nervous?” she asks, whispering in his ear.

The way her lips brush the tip of his ear makes a shudder run through him involuntarily, and he can feel Emma’s lips curl into a smile. His reactions to her body and her advances clearly haven’t gone unnoticed. This isn’t Emma! He reminds himself. It’s Cora!

He almost weeps with relief when the stadium parking lot comes into view. “We’re here!” he announces, a bit louder than necessary. God, all he needs is a crack to his voice, and he’d sound like a bloody teenager. He parks and practically scrambles out of the car, Emma crawling after him over the bench seat. When he turns to offer his hand to help her out, she’s still on all fours, her breasts almost spilling out of the top of her strapless dress. Her lips curl suggestively at the look in his eyes. He swallows. Again. God, getting her to the damn tree is going to be the biggest challenge of his life.

Wait . . .

Deciding to change his tactic, he gives the woman before him (NOT Emma, this isn’t Emma!) a cocky grin.

“Actually, my dear, I’ve been teasing you,” he swipes his tongue along his bottom lip as he regards her.

“Oh,” she purrs as she takes his hand and steps out of his car, “and how so?”

He grabs her around the waist, and pulls her flush to him, eliciting a growl from deep in Emma’s throat. Against her neck, he breaths out the next words.

“I have a private place for us,” he turns his head to gaze deeply into her eyes, “to get to know one another better.”

“Really?” she asks, and he exults at how breathless she now is.

His eyes glance down at her lips, then up to her eyes again. “Before the dance.”

A smile slowly spreads across her face, and for the first time since that night in the cafeteria, it seems like one his Emma would offer. Genuine, yet slightly hesitant, with a touch of awe. His arm around her tightens against his volition as he takes in her light jade eyes, that shade he has seen in his dreams so many times. His eyes flicker again to her lips, pink and so perfect. Cora luckily hasn’t messed with them; covering them with nothing more than shimmery gloss.

Cora!

Killian shakes his head and takes a step back. He covers it with a flirtatious smile and his touch as the tips of his fingers slide down her arm and grasps her hand. He won’t let their first kiss be tainted like this, especially when he knows Emma won’t remember it tomorrow.

Because hopefully I’ll still be alive tomorrow.

He takes her across the stadium parking lot, along the covered walkway that connects it to the science building, then down the hill and across the lower classmen parking lot. His eyes scan the cemetery and the base of the oak tree. There’s no sign of Belle, but a blanket is spread beneath the tree, and the votive candles have been lit.

He turns to Emma with a smile he hopes is seductive as he leads her to the blanket. It must work, because she bites her bottom lip and presses herself against his side, snaking her arm around his waist. He clenches his jaw as his body reacts to her nearness, and he prays fervently that Belle doesn’t waste too much time intervening. He forces himself not to pull away as Emma rises up on her toes and slides her arms around his neck. Maybe just one kiss, not a deep one -

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I command you to leave this woman!”

Belle’s sudden appearance and shouted command snaps Killian to his senses, and he stumbles backwards, narrowly avoiding the candles. Belle is flinging Holy Water into Emma’s face, and she’s stumbling away from her, squeezing her eyes shut. Killian takes the crucifix from Belle’s other hand, and they both advance on Emma. She flings her head back and screams. At the same moment, a loud clap of thunder rumbles across the sky followed by a jagged streak of lightning. Killian isn’t sure if it’s the storm or the exorcism.

Emma doubles over, clutching her stomach, and he and Belle wait breathlessly. Yet when she stands up again, she’s laughing hysterically. He glances nervously at Belle.

“You thought that would work?”

The voice has never in the last two weeks been so clearly different from Emma’s. Her eyes as she stalks towards him are no longer that light shade of green, but pitch black. The wind whips around her, yanking at her hair. The thunder rolls, the lightning strikes, and the skies choose that moment to open up. Rain pours down, drenching them all. Emma is close enough now to touch him, and Belle lunges between them, shouting again and flinging the Holy Water. Yet what good can it do in this downpour? Emma flings her arm outward, and though she doesn’t even touch Belle, the other woman goes flying through the air, hitting the ground with a loud thud.

“Belle!” Killian screams, racing towards her, but his legs won’t cooperate. He feels a force he can’t fight turning him back towards Emma.

But it isn’t Emma. Her hair is completely free of the hairspray and pins, blowing wildly around her. The blonde is streaked through with darkness, and a blue tinted light emanates around her. She curls her lips as she bends her finger coyly.

“Come here, loverboy,” she spits out in that same voice that isn’t hers.

His feet lift off the ground, and Cora is pulling him towards her. He lifts the crucifix, shouting for Cora to leave Emma’s body, but it does no good. She laughs that bone chilling laugh again, and he shudders at the sound even as the cold rain soaks through his suit. When he is close enough, she roughly grasps his face in her hands.

“Such a pretty face,” she says as she studies him.

“Emma,” he whispers, his voice breaking.

She blinks, and for a split second, her eyes are green again. A tiny flicker of hope swells in him even as the black fills her eyes once more.

“Emma, fight it!” he begs.

“Emma isn’t here!” she screams, flinging him down to the ground.

He tries to scramble away from her, but she’s once again holding him in place. The lightning splits the sky again, illuminating the tree behind her, the Spanish moss almost like a living creature in the violent wind of the storm.

“Emma,” he tries again, “this isn’t you.”

Her face relaxes for a heartbeat, but then she shakes her head. “Well, at least now we’re getting somewhere,” she snarls as she stalks closer, almost straddling him now, “it’s Cora Mills, used and abused by the opposite sex. My revenge can never be sated, boy!”

Killian takes a deep, steadying breath, and when he gazes into the face of the woman before him, he softens his expression. When he speaks, he tries to infuse his words with the depth of his feelings.

“Emma, I love you.”

She shakes her head as a furrow of confusion creases her brow. He smiles softly at the tiny bit of Emma he can see shining through.

“Yes, I love you,” he continues, his voice rising above the pounding of the rain, “and that’s why I know this isn’t you. The woman I love is the one who rolls her eyes at me every time I use an innuendo.”

Emma stumbles backwards at his words. The storm increases in its rage, yet the unearthly blue light around Emma begins to fade, her hair slowly turning gold again. Killian rises to his knees as he continues to speak.

“The woman I love is the one who kicked me in the shin when I tried to hit on her at a faculty meeting. She’s the one who stayed up all night binge-watching Sherlock with me, drinking rum. The one who wears sweats in my apartment with messy hair and a tub of rocky road on her lap. The one who sticks her socked feet in my face when she thinks I’m hogging the couch. That’s MY Emma. Not this.”

Emma doubles over again as a scream tears through her. “NOOOOO! SHUT. UP!”

Killian rises to his feet, stepping forward to cup Emma’s face in his hands. “I am in love with Emma Swan. The one with sarcasm and bad eating habits and walls around her heart. And I want her back. I want my Emma back.”

She presses her eyes shut, and when she opens them, the black is seeping away. “Killian,” she whispers through her tears, and it’s her voice saying his name.

He grins and bends to kiss her, thinking she’s done it; she’s won. But before their lips can meet, Emma shoves him to the ground. She screams again, throwing her head back and shaking all over.

“I . . . won’t . . . let . . . you hurt him!!!”

As the words leave her mouth, Killian’s eyes widen to see a dark haired, ethereal figure literally ripping itself away from Emma’s body. Both women - ghostly and corporeal - seem to wrestle against one another until suddenly a bolt of lightning strikes the top of the live oak tree. Killian shields his eyes, certain the tree will burst into flames, but it doesn’t. The Spanish moss is no longer merely being whipped by the winds, it’s writhing and twisting like snakes. The tendrils of moss reach out, wrapping themselves around the form of Cora Mills. With one final other-worldy scream, the ghost is ripped completely from Emma’s body and yanked into the branches of the tree. The oak seems to envelop Cora in a supernatural embrace until the ghost is absorbed into the very branches from which the murderess’s body was hanged over a century ago.

The cemetery goes eerily quiet then; even the storm subdues into more muted tones. Killian rushes to Emma’s crumpled form and gathers her into his arms. Her eyes blink open, and she lifts a trembling hand to cup his face.

“Emma,” he breathes, “are you okay?”

“I . . . I think so.”

He runs his hands through her hair, trailing his fingertips over her cheekbones. He wants to memorize every inch of her face after so many days gazing into a countenance that wasn’t fully hers.

“What do you remember?”

“Not much really,” she says, her brow furrowing, “except . . . “

The light spilling from the parking lot and the open doors of the gym are enough to illuminate the blush upon her face.

“Except what?” he asks, unable to keep a roguish smile from his face.

“Did you . . . say that you love me?”

His smile breaks into something more ridiculously happy as his thumb rubs circles over her cheeks. “I did.”

“Okay,” she says with a pensive nod, then she surprises him by lunging forward and pressing her mouth to his.

He melts into the kiss, gathering her against his chest and tilting his head to taste her more fully. She digs her fingers into his hair, letting out a little mewling sound that sets his heart pounding. He begins to pull away, not wanting to rush this, but Emma will have none of it, pulling his head back down to hers and swiping her tongue across his lower lip. He devours her then, giving in finally to the pull he’s felt towards her for so long. When they finally part, gasping for breath, Emma presses her forehead to his and his eyes slide closed.

“I love you too, just for the record,” she breathes against his cheek.

“And I, just for the record, am perfectly fine, thanks for asking.” Another voice above them interrupts.

“Belle!” Killian exclaims, rushing to his feet to embrace his friend. “I’m so glad you’re okay!”

“Of course you are,” she quips, but she smiles up at him fondly.

“Thank you, Belle,” Emma adds as she scrambles to her feet, “and I’m sorry about -” she cuts off as she looks down at herself. “What the hell am I wearing?”

Killian and Belle both chuckle.

“You’ve um . . . been making some pretty bold fashion choices the last couple of weeks,” Belle explains.

Emma’s jaw drops as she covers her face with both hands. “No,” she groans, “in front of the kids?”

“I’m afraid so, love.”

“I’m practically naked!” She scowls at him when he can’t help laughing. “This isn’t funny, Killian!”

He pulls her into his arms and presses a kiss to her temple. “Everyone knew you weren’t yourself. Although I would check your credit card statements. Cora may have had a bit of a shopping spree at your expense.”

Emma lets out a huff of breath against his collarbone as she turns her head into his rain-drenched shirt front. “Great. How am I exposed to explain that to Visa? It wasn’t my fault, I was possessed?”

“Identity theft?” Killian jokes.

Emma pulls back to look at him with humor in her eyes, her hands fisted around his ruined suit coat. It’s the look he’s used to; the one that is so patently Emma that his heart swells in his chest to see it again. He can’t help himself, he surges forward to claim another kiss.

As it grows more heated, they both hear Belle clear her throat.

“Okay, you too, keep it PG. We still have a dance we signed up to chaperone.”

“Henry!” Killian exclaims. “He’ll be worried if we don’t show up soon!”

Emma steps out of his embrace to look at herself. The rain has abated, but it’s still coming down steadily, plastering Emma’s blonde hair to her face and chest. Her dress, which was never appropriate for a chaperone, is smeared with Georgia red clay. More mud is streaked across her legs, and at some point, she lost both of her high heel shoes. He looks down at himself and over at Belle. They don’t look much better.

Emma catches his eye and smiles slowly. “You did say the Emma you love wears sweats and has messy hair.”

“Sounds perfect,” he tells her, punctuating the words with a soft kiss.

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

The kids of Misthaven Hills High weren’t sure why two of their teachers and the librarian showed up to the homecoming dance wearing MHHS sweats swiped from Mr. Locksley’s office (though Henry Mills could guess). That wasn’t what caused the buzz of gossip that lasted all weekend and into Monday, however. No, the gossip was caused by the way Mr. Jones dipped Ms. Swan at the end of a slow song and kissed her (with tongue, many kids claimed).

The students of Misthaven Hills High also continued to tell the tale of the ghost of Cora Mills, especially every October. For without fail, every October since homecoming of 2019, rain or shine, the Spanish moss on the old live oak dripped with fat drops of water. Some said they were tears. Something, the kids said, made the ghost of Cora Mills begin to weep. Another lost love, some claimed, a heart too strong for her to steal because it already belonged to Emma Swan.

Decades later, when Emma Swan had been Emma Jones for many long years and she and her husband had moved away, kids claimed that in October every year, a name could be heard on the breeze around the old live oak. In a wailing, anguished voice, it cried “ Kiiiliaaaan . . .Joooones . . .” as tears dripped from the Spanish moss.

The name of the only man who saw past the facade of Cora Mills and into the soul of the woman he loved.