ancient room


Who are the fandom gods? I must pray to them to protect and bless the Magus Bride fandom as it grows. Please direct it into something as beautiful as the series. Please let the fans put as much love and care into this series and its fanbase as the author, director, animators and all other contributors have and continue to do.

I really believe this anime is going to be Big. Please be loving. Please be kind. 

anonymous asked:

Hili :) Can you write andreil 81 for the prompts please? Thank you <3

81: “You’re too good for this world.” okay…. I technically didn’t do this exact prompt, I took off the last word, I hope this suffices my friend, bc it’s actually:

“You’re too good for this.”


The problem with living in a fortress of knives and anonymity is that Neil can’t find him in it. And the problem with that is that a treacherous part of Andrew wants to be found, and touched, and dismantled blade by blade.

The problem with knives is that they won’t stop terrifying Neil, but they won’t stop feeling sure and righteous in Andrew’s palm.

The problem is Neil, a taste Andrew can’t completely swallow.

He puts Renee’s knives in Neil’s safe and Neil says all sorts of sticky emotional things like they’re taking part in some sort of ceremony. Andrew clicks the lock and climbs on top of Neil so he’ll stop thinking, pocketing his ‘yes’ as he goes.

It’s not just that he does what Neil asks, anymore. He tries to do things for him before he can ask for them. He tries to make things happen that he knows Neil doesn’t have words for.

He keeps one knife for himself, and he knows Neil knows about it, because he hands Andrew his armbands some mornings, and the weight is there in his palms.

Sometimes, that weight is the only way to get through the day without his head and throat pounding.

Sometimes Neil jerks awake and thrusts his hand under the pillow, and Andrew has to pry his wrists away. Neil knows protection, so he understands the slim line of a blade at his forearm is to Andrew what Andrew is to Neil.

But Andrew can tell that it bothers him, to have a knife buried in something that matters to him. He sees wintery metal in the shade of Neil’s eyes, and Andrew knows he’s condemning him to a future that looks like his past.

Still, the knife is just a talisman. Andrew is the weapon.

Before an afternoon practice sometime in the middle of the rush towards winter, Jack is the target.

They get to the court early because Neil only has morning classes. He’s always antsy by the time Andrew gets back to the dorm, insufferable and single-minded.

Andrew parks, Neil enters the code to the side door, their runners squeak against the sleek hall floors, and they split up at the locker room. Rinse and repeat. So many times a week that Andrew would feel the monotony in his teeth if it weren’t for Neil darting into side rooms or slipping on floor wax or doubling back to run in the rain, unpredictable as a lightning bolt.

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Setting Aesthetics for the Types

Based on people I know, stereotypes, and cognitive functions.

ENTP: A comic book store. The International Space Station. Old Faithful in Yellowstone National Park.
INTP: A museum at night. The Space Needle in Seattle. A telescope on an apartment rooftop.
ENTJ: A game of chess in the park. Pike’s Peak. The head of a long dining table at Thanksgiving.
INTJ: Physics and chemistry laboratories. Secret passageways in old buildings. A sealed vault.
ENFP: A poetry slam. Ancient Aztec ruins. A room full of decorative, metal-framed mirrors.
INFP: A window seat in a library. A small countryside chapel with stained glass windows. A canopy bed in a cluttered bedroom.
ENFJ: Making snow angels in a park. A birthday party with lots of balloons. A pay-per-view telescope at the beach.
INFJ: The Notre Dame Cathedral. Cloud watching on a grassy knoll. Watching the roe deer in the Hallerbos forest in Belgium.
ESTP: An arcade. Hang gliding over the Grand Canyon. Labeling arteries in a cadaver lab.
ISTP: On a motorcycle in the city at night. Sheer cliffs with waterfalls. Jigsaw puzzles by the fireplace.
ESTJ: The labyrinth of Versailles. Rehearsing in an empty auditorium. The top of the Statue of Liberty.
ISTJ: A subway station early in the morning. The archives of the Library of Congress. A well-worn path through twisted woods.
ESFP: Snorkeling at a coral reef. Fashion week in New York. A performance of Shakespeare at The Globe Theater.
ISFP: Botanical gardens. A blanket fort in the attic. The Santa Maria Cathedral in Florence, Italy.
ESFJ: A picnic in a park with kites. A bustling marketplace with fresh food and flowers. Feeding lorikeets at an aviary.
ISFJ: A petting zoo with baby goats. A meadow of wildflowers as far as the eye can see. Studying at a familiar coffee shop with a house band.

Clair(e)voyance

2.5

Ste. Anne de Beaupré was a long standing parish in London.  

Old.  Settled.  Desperately trying to keep up with the times.

She stood outside it’s gate waiting for Jamie to get off the phone. 

Well, waiting for Jamie to stop pacing and shouting into the phone.

“What d’ye mean I’m to leave off?”  Jamie ran a hand through his hair making the copper tones glint and flash in the afternoon sun.  

“We don’t need trouble with the Catholic Church, James.  You don’t have a warrant to search the school.”  Detective Chief Inspector Grey’s voice was like ice.  Jamie couldn’t understand why he was blocking this investigation.

“I’m no’ here to cause trouble.  A boy is deid.  His father’s in jail yet still refuses to speak to us. Another boy passed two days ago. Ye have to admit the circumstances are suspicious, to say the least.  I’m just going to look around!” Jamie looked at Claire and shrugged dramatically.

“And with whom are you investigating?”  Grey looked out of his office window. He knew the answer already.  

Jamie paused.  His eyes narrowed.  He could feel the anger bubbling.  Fuck you, John Grey.  But he answered him honestly nonetheless.  

“I brought the M.E.  Dr. Claire Randall.”

“Of course you did.  Because she’s a detective.  Because she has so much experience in field work.  Because -”

“BECAUSE -” Jamie shouted, then lowered his voice when John stopped talking, “she has a keen mind and a keener eye.”  Jamie took a deep breath and tried to unclench his jaw.  

“I’m going into this school.  Sir.” he said as an after thought.  “I’ll be speaking to Father Anselm, the Head Master.  And then I’ll report back in.”  

Jamie disconnected the call.  

The phone rang again almost immediately.  Jamie muted it.  Stuffed the phone in his pocket. 

“Jamie maybe we shouldn’t -” the last thing Claire wanted was to see Jamie in trouble. 

“I’ll do the talkin’, ken?” he pushed open the gate.  “Ye just let me know what ye see.”  


“So what do you think, Dr. Fraser?”  The priest looked over at the woman. Perhaps she didn’t hear him.  “Dr. Fraser?” he said louder.

“Claire,” Jamie spoke.  “Honey.  Father is speaking to ye.”

Claire whipped around.  Oh, God.  She hadn’t caught her name.  Dr. Fraser, indeed.  Jamie raised an eyebrow at her, willing her to answer.  

She played with the ring on her left hand.  Jamie’s father’s ring.  He wore it on his little finger.  She now wore it on her wedding ring finger.  

It felt strange.  

The vision it induced, stranger still.

“Well, it’s quite an old building, isn’t it?  But the Science Lab saves it, to be honest.”  She gave Father Anselm a small, tight smile.  

Honestly.  How does he do this?  Undercover work, pretending to be someone else.  Rather be elbows deep resecting a tumour.

“The recent updates have been a blessing.  Your child is interested in Science?” Father asked politely as he led them back out into the courtyard.  

“Isn’t every child?”  Jamie said, and smiled.  “Might we see the grounds?”

He changed the subject.  He had been quite adept up to this point of dancing around the question of a child.  And after Grey’s outburst he dared not pretend there was one.  

With Claire wearing his ring, the quiet, grave woman at reception assumed they were married.  When he asked for a tour from the Head Master she introduced them as Mr. and Mrs. Fraser.  He simply mentioned Claire was a doctor.  

No lies told. 

The long black cassock floated over the uneven cobbles as the priest walked in front of them.  

Speaking back over his shoulder he said, “We’ve good teachers here.  And a strong community of parents.”

“Well, that’s wonderful, isn’t it Claire?”  When she didn’t answer Jamie turned around.  

Claire stood off to the side of the courtyard.  Her body rigid.  Eyes fixed.  

Jesus, God, let me get there afore she stumbles, he thought.  He took three steps towards her before she spoke.

Loudly.  Firmly.  Aggressively.

“What is in there?”  Her head turned slowly towards Father Anselm.  Her eyes were cold.  Her features, defiant.  She was daring him to lie to her.  

She already knew.

Father Anselm moved towards her, his manner as friendly as ever.  

“Oh!  Yes, well, that used to be a small chapel.  We don’t use it, of course.  It’s old…much too dangerous to go in there.  It’s part of the original monastery, you know.”  

Father looked around fondly over the grounds.  “So much history here.”

Claire walked towards the weathered wooden door.  “James would love to see it.  He’s quite a history buff, aren’t you, darling?”

Jamie took his cue.  “Could we, Father?”

“Well, I’m not sure,” Father Anselm said.  “I’m certain it’s locked.  At the very least boarded up from the inside, I’m afraid.”  He moved towards the building.  

Claire followed as if mesmerized.  

Mary, Michael and Bride. Now is not the time for one o’ those visions that brings her to her knees.  

Father Anselm pushed slowly on the door.  

The ease with which it opened surprised the clergyman. 

Rustic didn’t begin to describe the inside.  The old altar was one step up from the red tile floor.  The chairs were wood and wicker.  Prie-Dieu chairs, they called them.  It was cold.  Candles lined the back of the wall around a vividly carved crucifix and a painting of The Divine Mercy.

It all looked very normal.  Very monastic.  

And very recently used.

Father Anselm stepped into the ancient room, muttering to himself. 

Jamie stepped up behind Claire.  Close behind her.  Just in case.

She stepped down into the chapel.  

Then she started to shake.

Shake like she was standing outside, naked, in the middle of a December night. 

Her teeth chattered. Her muscles spasmed.  She felt Jamie’s arm curl around her shoulder.  He pushed her two steps forward and sat her in a chair. Conversation hummed around her but she couldn’t concentrate fully to hear it. 

Tears.  Pleading.  Desperation.  Fear.  Shouting.  Prayers.  Sorrow.

Death.

Jamie was roaming around the small, close room.  Scanning.  Searching. Noticing.  

Metal rings under the edge of the altar table. Straps in a side drawer.  Oils. Incense. Crucifixes.  Holy Water vessels.  Rosary beads.  Bible.   

And traces of blood.  

She dropped her head.  She knew now.  

Father Anselm was not the problem.  But someone at this school was.  And they needed to work fast. 

“Father,” Jamie said to the confused, worried old cleric.  “Ye do realize I’m going to need to call this in.”


Jamie put Claire in a squad car, leaning across to help her shaking hands buckle the seat belt.  Unnoticed by others he kissed her lightly on the forehead. 

“I’ll be over as soon as I can.  Promise.”  He withdrew from the vehicle, and gave the officer her address, along with a series of instructions.  

While she waited Claire looked up at the school.  

A chill shivered down her spine again.  The woman at reception was looking out the window at her.  Spine straight.  Dull grey clothes.  Lifeless eyes. 

Claire watched as the woman placed her hand on the glass, palm flat.  

Claire saw her suddenly, in that chapel.  Rosary in hand.  Eyes shut.  Blackness dancing around the room.  Her words, chanting.  Deliver us from evil.  Miserere mei, Deus. 

Claire placed her hand on the window of the car in empathy.

She jumped when the officer slammed the door.  The engine started and off they went.  

The woman watched her until she fell out of sight.  

D.C. Mohr and D. C. MacKenzie arrived with the forensics team.  They oversaw the bagging of the religious articles.  Watched as the team took swabs of the darker spots on the altar that resembled blood.  

Jamie took a formal statement from Father Anselm.  There was one thing of which he was certain.  The priest was blissfully ignorant of the goings on at his school.  He did what he could to wrap up the scene.  He sat in his car and watched the forensics truck pull away.  He waved off Mohr and MacKenzie.

One thing left to do before he could check on Claire. 


He walked onto his floor at New Scotland Yard with his anger simmering.  He headed straight to his Chief Inspector’s office.  Stepping into John Grey’s room, he shut the door behind him.

“What the hell, Fraser?”

Jamie ignored him.  He walked over to a small side table and pulled it out into the middle of the room.  The chess board was already set up.  Jamie pulled over a chair, took off his jacket and draped it over the back.  Then, he sat.  

And waited for his boss to join him.

John Grey stood.  Threw his pen on the desk.  Reluctantly came out from behind it.  Pulled a chair over and sat down heavily.  Made the first move.

They played in silence for ten minutes.  

Finally, Jamie spoke. 

“I dinna need yer permission,” he said softly.

“You’ve lost your perspective.  Your decisions are…compromised.”  D.C.I. Grey moved his queen’s bishop.  “Whisky?”

“I thank ye.”  Jamie leaned over the board.  Lost in thought.

Grey stood up and poured them both a drink.  

“James.  You cannot take the M.E. out on police business.  I forbid it.”

“It’s your move, Chief Inspector.”  Jamie took a sip from the glass that was offered.  

Grey walked around the table and sat, glass in hand.  He leaned over to take a pawn, and smiled. 

Jamie sat as still as marble.  He finally drew a long breath. 

“A long time ago we sat here.  Played chess.”  He moved a rook.  “And ye took a liberty ye shouldn’t have.”  Jamie’s blue eyes pinned Grey to his chair.  

Grey knew that look.  He’d seen it once before.  Feared it.  Feared that he had lost his career when that gaze struck him like a blow.

“I didna say a word to anyone.  I simply told ye to take yer hand off me.”

“Or you would kill me,” Grey added.

“Aye.”  Jamie took another drink and drained his glass.  “So.  Understand.  I willna have ye tell me what I can and canna do with Claire.”

“Why, James?”  Grey couldn’t keep the slight pleading from his voice.  Hated himself for it, but could not stop it.  “She’s really not that special.”

He did not expect James’ reaction.  Could not have predicted it.

Jamie stood and in one smooth motion grasped the edge of the small table, and flipped it forward.  

Hard. 

Chess pieces flew.  Caught Grey in the face.  He didn’t move fast enough and the edge of the table caught his knee.  The pain shot through John.  He dropped his glass and it shattered.

John looked up into the dark blue gaze.  He couldn’t look away, or blink.  

Jamie grabbed his jacket, and without a sound, left the room.  

I’m revising for my ancient history exam by making timelines which are colour coded according to who’s doing what, and they’re getting less and less colourful as everyone dies

how i sleep at home in my own bed surrounded by pillows with the fan on for white noise in complete darkness:

how i sleep in an ancient waiting room lounge chair upholstered with the fabric equivalent of sandpaper at 11:45 am while obnoxiously bright florescent lights beam down on me:

bellamyblake-kru  asked:

Congratulations on 4k Jade!! Prompt: "Can I cut in?" for bellarke at a ball/dance 😊

If you’d asked Clarke Griffin what she would be doing the day before the world ended, she wouldn’t have guessed dancing.

But the wait while Raven is working on the rocket is awful, and Clarke had found herself at some point in one of the glass rooms above the working space, watching Raven at the computer. She’d asked if she could do anything to help, but the mechanic had sent her away irritably. And Murphy had left on some ancient CD in this room, and the music was still quietly playing away when she’d walked in. Some part of Clarke’s childhood had awakened upon hearing a tune that she recognized, and she’d started swaying with the beat.

She doesn’t even realize how into it she gets, really, until a deep, amused voice filters from the doorway:

“Who are you dancing with?”

Clarke freezes and glances in the direction of the door. Bellamy’s standing there, eyes alight with amusement. She can only imagine how stupid she looks. The music playing is slow, and she’d had her eyes closed, arms hanging in the air as if around another person.

“My dad,” she admits, her gaze unfocusing as her memory re-paints the scene in her mind. “He used to dance with my mom to this song in our living room. And sometimes me, too, when I got tired of not being the centre of attention.” She’s grinning now at the memory, and then she realizes Bellamy is smiling at her too, endearingly.

She quickly drops her arms, and is about to say they should probably go back downstairs, when Bellamy asks, “Can I cut in?”

She’s surprised, and can’t tell whether he’s joking or not. But when she hesitantly raises her arms, he comes closer, and oh what the hell— she puts her arms around him. He leans into her, and they sway.

She hears him sigh above her hair. “I remember this song too,” he murmurs, and Clarke immediately understands why he asked her to dance. He’s thinking of his family, just like she is. The end of the world tends to bring those memories to the forefront.

Clarke smiles, bittersweet. “Remember those dance parties they used to hold? On Community Days? God those were awful.”

“I wouldn’t know.” He says it matter-of-factly, but Clarke still feels a pang at her own tactlessness.

“We’ll have them again,” she promises him, craning her neck up to meet his eye. “When we get on the Ark.”

A smile plays on his lips. “Just for the six of us?”

“Yes.”

Bellamy nods his head distantly, as if doing a mental count of who that includes. “That does sound awful.”

She laughs, and presses closer. “But we’ll have time, Bellamy. We can do whatever we want.” The revelation hits her like a train, and she feels dazed enough to pause in her swaying for a moment, at least until Bellamy’s motions lull her back in again.

“You’ll be able to draw again,” he says, and Clarke finds herself surprised that he remembers that about her.

“Yes,” she whispers. “And you can have time to read your books.” She feels him look down at her, but she keeps going. “Or maybe learn something else. We can try something new.”

“Try something new,” Bellamy repeats, voice raspy. “Like what?”

Her cheeks heat at the timbre of his words. “Anything we want. We’ll have time, won’t we?”

His hands tighten around her waist in response, and she’s brought into full awareness of how closely they are now standing, nearly breathing the same air, but their breathing is unsteady as they both try to take in the magnitude of this future. To have time— it seems brilliant, far-away, too good to be true. A future not meant for them.

Someone calls Bellamy’s name from downstairs, and Clarke frowns at the interruption. The song’s not even half over. Bellamy steps away.

The silence stretches a second too long between them, and Clarke tries to shrug it off with a joke. “Go. I’ll just have a dance with someone else until Raven gives me something to do.” She holds up her arms to empty air again.

Bellamy’s smile only grows, and he turns for the door. He hesitates there, and turns around one last time. She’s startled to hear how soft, almost shy, he sounds as he tells her, “But save the last one for me. If you can.”

finishing up the 5(+) sentence fics!

I’m really into this sweater weather thing✨✨

mermaidelephant  asked:

Any chance we can get some Anabasis or DAV in celebration of Triduum/Holy Week?

Late reply is super late, but better than never I hope.

I’m working on the next DAV fic which would actually be a perfect fit for the Passover / Easter season, with its focus on themes of liberation, but it is, alas, not finished yet.

So in lieu of that (and by way of apology for being gone so long), here’s a snippet of Anabasis.

This one is pretty spoilery, tbh. But Holy Week for me is all about liberation and new life, and this part of the story is definitely that. So when I finally publish the whole of Anabasis, you all can pretend to be surprised…

[In which Anakin finds Palpatine’s collection of Sith holocrons…]

*

The place was dim and musty, and it clanged with the distant echoes of crumbling old machinery. Padmé’s hand drifted uneasily and came to rest on the blaster at her hip. Just in case.

The door Dinsa had stopped before was the seventeenth in a line of identical doors, each unmarked and wholly unremarkable, the sort that might be found in any number of abandoned factories or warehouses in the Works.

But Padmé didn’t fail to notice the way Dinsa stood well back from the door, or the way she and Sabé watched Anakin closely, alert and ready for any sudden directive. Anakin himself was focused intently, seemingly unaware of anyone else around him. Padmé shifted from foot to foot, watching him stand perfectly still, watching the light of memory burn in his eyes.

“Anakin?” she whispered, hesitating only a moment before placing a hand on his shoulder. Warmth bled through his clothing and into her skin.

He blinked slowly, just once, then turned from the door to face her. His mouth curled, far too vicious to be called a smile.

“This is the place,” he said. “I can feel it.”

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Down the Rabbit Hole

Originally posted by carezero

Pairing: Maknae line x Reader

Genre: Wonderland!Au / Angst / Smut / Drabble series

Rated T for mentions of drugs, madness and mature themes

Word count: 4.7k

Synopsis: It took Y/n months - years. Infinite days of searching, of wondering, of grasping to the tiny, fragile hope of not being crazy as everyone said.

(But, really, who isn’t a child of madness in this world?)

And, finally, she found it: the key to open the gates to Wonderland. So, with a smile curling her lips and liquid danger between her fingers, the girl gladly fell once again.      

Author’s note: So, dunno what this thing is, an experiment, maybe. Hope you’ll enjoy this darkish lil series (but I swear this has some kind of sense in my mind).


Prelude // part 1 // part 2


Part one – the Cat

                                     “Well! I’ve often seen a cat without a grin,’ thought Alice

          ‘but a grin without a cat! It’s the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!” 


Grass tickles on her check, over her lips, and suddenly the girl’s lashes flutter open.

She leans on her palms as the legs fold under the bluish skirt of her dress and her eyes try to adapt to the dusky light. In the tilting of her head, fair hair slides along petite shoulders like silk, eliciting the tiniest of shivers on her spine: the twilight air is cold, and the starlit strands over the bare skin only enhance the chilly sensation.

It’s not exactly unpleasant, though.  

The girl raises on her feet, and her head spins a bit once she stands tall under the crescent moon; one hand flies to the left side of her forehead, palm pressing down to attenuate the low pulsing in her temple.

Where am I?

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