cloth bound books

romeo and juliet: aesthetics
  • romeo: a disassembled jigsaw, bright pieces spread colourfully over a green blanket; lipstick marks from a good friend's mouth on one's cheek and brow; the heat of your own flushed cheeks; streaks of strawberry sauce in a banana milkshake, bright pink cutting through the yellow; a drop of sugar, sweet on the tongue and not yet dissolved into a sloppily made builder's tea; warm hands sliding under someone else's shirt; laughter heard on the wind, warm despite the chill of the breeze; the snag of his woollen scarf on her coat button in the midst of a kiss, followed by giggles and awkward shuffling; soft gasps in the dead of night; whimsical tales bound in high-brow black leather.
  • juliet: a white dress laid on a newly made bed; fresh-picked lavender and heather in a vase upon the sill, reflecting lilac against the windowpane; the warmth of a new fireplace; the scent of a summer breeze; a piano heard in the next room, fingers smooth against the clean keys; a series of cloth-bound books in every hue, clean of dust and shelved colourfully along the wall; drops of blue and pink dye into cake mix, showing swirls of colour in thick white with each shift of the spoon; baked biscuits, pressed flowers, the texture of parchment and the satisfying, smooth roll of a new pen over a blank page.
  • benvolio: the sensation of sliding into a hot bath after a long day; soft sighs into cups of steaming cocoa; shared smiles in the dark, laughter muffled by someone else's shoulder; the smell of old books and baking bread, clinging to a broad-shouldered jacket; a grip slightly too tight on your wrist, firm but not sadistic; a thick, red blanket laid over the back of a comfortable chair; gold braid in places gold braid doesn't need to be; a proffered piece of sweet chocolate that melts on the fingertips.
  • mercutio: glitter smeared on someone else's bedroom door; loud laughter heard just over a song's bass line; an affectionate hand sliding over a good friend's shoulders; freshly cooked lamb laid to rest on the kitchen side; bruises and scuffs that ache on the knees; a white shirt cut so low it might as well be an open vest; a stack of CDs and dog-eared books on a bedside table; an unmade bed with three people sleeping in a row, the cat laid over three feet and purring; a hot shower after coming in from the pouring rain; wide grins shared over good beer.
  • tybalt: the drag of eyeliner over sensitive skin; a bed made tightly with black shining sheets and a half-dozen pillows stacked neatly at its head; a bloody fingerprint on the spine of a well-loved book; the metallic hiss of a blade through the hair; dead flowers tied with ribbon in an antique vase; new shoes settled on a chair awaiting polish; a wardrobe full of crisply ironed, clean shirts; black hair, long and sleek and tied back at the neck; an empty photograph frame hung on a plain wall; a red ribbon curled around the stem of a champagne flute.
Hitched (3/10)

a Captain Swan AU fan fiction

Summary:  After a series of events leave her life in pieces, Emma Swan finds herself hitchhiking out of Maine, her wallet empty and her heart broken. The best she hopes for is a driver who isn’t a pervert and takes her far away from the painful memories of Storeybrooke. But when she finds a ride with a quiet truck driver named Jones, Emma discovers that maybe a trustworthy friend is all she needs.

Rating: M or MA; some profanity and sex scenes.

Cover art: created by the absolutely fabulous @thesschesthair!!

Links: ff.net // ao3 // ch. 1 //  ch. 2 // ch. 4 // ch. 5 // ch. 6 // ch. 7 // ch. 8 // ch. 9 // ch. 10 // epilogue

(also @teamhook and @followbatb, here’s ya tags ^^)


previous

CHAPTER THREE

The loud purr of the engine woke her this time. Emma opened her eyes to see light streaming through the windshield below. There was a little crick in her neck, and she stretched as far as she could, yawning. Then she shimmied around and dropped down into the main area of the cab. Jones was once again nowhere to be seen, but it was a bright, sunny morning, the sun reflecting off the snow lying on the berm of the road and the wet asphalt.

Emma had finished restoring the fold-down bed to its upright and locked position (Like a plane tray table, she thought with amusement), and was pulling on her boots when she saw Jones emerge from the store again. There was a thermos in his hand and a bag suspended over his left arm. He was grinning widely and shaking his head.

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Time Upon Once, ch. 4 (4/?)

Summary:  Killian Jones is a bailbonds man, living in Boston and doing his own thing. But on his 29th birthday, a kid knocks on his door and claims to be his son. What happens when Killian is forced to face his past along with a mystery prophecy about his own purpose in life?

Rating: M (eventually)

A huge thank you to @tnlph @businesscasualprincess and @blessed-but-distressed  for beta duties and @shady-swan-jones for the banner!

Tagging a few people that showed interest in this story: @lk0622 @nowforruin @sambethe @xemmaloveskillianx  @l-e-x-a-xd @profoundlyfadedprincess @once-uponacaptain @icecubelotr44  @poetic-justice-96  @allietumbles  (want to be tagged? let me know and I’ll do it)

on Tumblr: I II III

ao3  ff.net

Killian shuffled in the driver’s seat of his Bug, his knees bending uncomfortably as his eyes squinted to read the local newspaper classified section by the glow of the streetlights, trying to find a place to live.  The actions brought back memories of all the times he’d spent doing the exact same thing in the past decade. In every new town there had been several sleepless nights in his Bug, searching for a new apartment, with nothing but a duffel bag in the trunk and the hope that one day he’d find her.

Until he’d realized he was chasing nothing but a ghost from time long past, and he’d stopped looking.

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Beautiful editions of classical literature make me so happy…

themasterofvillainy  asked:

Hux taking kylo to his nest for the first time.........

thank you so much for this ❤️

Kylo doesn’t know what planet they’re on. He isn’t even sure the little backwater moon they landed on even has a name but Hux had piloted their shuttle here without a hitch, expertly so. Like he’s flown this route dozens of times before.

The forest is densely thick, the high canopy shields them from the sunlight, creating a chill in the air. Kylo stretches out with the Force, sensing no threats or dangers of any kind but he frowns regardless. He sticks close to Hux, unknowing of where his omega is leading him to but Hux’s scent is incredibly soothing, calmer than Kylo has sensed it to be in a long time.

“You do know where you’re taking us, don’t you?” Kylo eventually says, unable to keep his jitteriness to himself.

Hux turns to look at him, his expression filled with derision. “Yes, Ren. I know exactly where I’m leading us to. Relax. This place is safe. We’re almost there.”

The mated pair trudge through the woodland for only a few more minutes before Kylo begins to notice that the canopy above them is thinning out, allowing the warm sun to beam down on them. Stepping into a small clearing, Kylo blinks, having not expected to come across a small, oddly-shaped house nestled in the glade, its wooden exterior helping it to blend in among the surrounding scenery.  Its slanted roof gives it an off-worldly feel, like such architecture doesn’t belong on such a backwater planet, but Kylo finds it oddly alluring, and oddly familiar.

Hux steps through the tall grass that brushes against his knees to walk up the steps and onto the porch of the house. Kylo follows, noting the nostalgic smile on Hux’s usually-stoic face. From the pocket of his non-uniform trousers, Hux pulls a silver key into his palm, admiring its shape for a second before he unlocks the door, looking over his shoulder to his alpha with a wild admiration in his green eyes. Still frowning and still confused as to what this strange little house is, Kylo follows Hux through the door, though he’s immediately hit with Hux’s scent, though it’s not emitting from his omega’s body, it’s in the very air around them.

The lights flicker on, engulfing them in a warm glow. It’s extremely cosy, decorated intricately with possessions that clearly have a lot a value; paintings and old books and pottery. Kylo can feel the emotional charge radiating from the very walls.

“What do you think?” Hux asks, shedding his jacket, hanging it on a hook on the back of the door.

Kylo closes his mouth, not releasing that it’d fallen agape. “It’s…quaint. What is it?”

Hux inhales through his nose for a few seconds before exhaling calmly. “It’s my nest.”

Kylo’s confusion dissipates in an instant as the puzzle pieces seemingly fit together perfectly now. Omegas nest; create a safe haven for themselves where they feel protected, surrounded by items that they draw comfort from. And this is Hux’s. And Hux has willingly brought Kylo, his alpha, into his nest, his safe place, a gesture of tremendous trust, Kylo thinks. He feels his heart flutter, their growing soulbond manifesting as a flame in his mind, growing fiercer by the second, as though affirming itself, growing stronger the longer Kylo stands in the place where his omega feels most protected.

Grabbing hold of his alpha’s hand, Hux leads Kylo away from the hall and into the room on the left, opening the door slowly to reveal a messy-looking room, a bed in the middle of the mass of blankets, clothes and old, fabric-bound books.

“But why would you choose a forest planet for your nest? You hate the outdoors,” Kylo asks, obviously puzzled by Hux’s choice of location.

“I didn’t choose it because I liked it. I chose it because it’s safe. And the fact that I very much dislike woodland areas makes it safer,” Hux says, sounding impressed by his own logic. “This little planet is practically the opposite of Arkanis. Green, bright, secluded. Ideal, really. ”

Kylo’s eyes graze across the room, noting a piece of worn, black clothing folded neatly and resting atop the masses of blankets. He frowns, knowing that Hux wears no such clothing.

“…Hux. Is that my robe?”

Was working on fic prompts last night and one got very long and very out of hand and formed another AU because I do that. If I continue working in that AU, I’ll link to this, but for now it works as a standalone, so 

(borrowed a little from @deadcatwithaflamethrower‘s ReEntry, as usual)
(also I think this slips into an AU of @doctorwithafryingpan‘s proposed Tahl Lives AU)


Beautiful is the Temple on Alderaan, with its high vaulted ceilings and its carved pillars and walls, with the statues that line its halls. Splashes of brilliant colour dapple its floors where sunlight bursts through the stained glass panels above and falls to the ground in soundless cascades. 

It would be so easy to make this place austere, ascetic as the Jedi are thought to be - aloof and cold, cold as the mountain winters.

But Alderaan is not cold.

Though the Temple sits nestled in the mountains, perched far away, near-inaccessible unless you know precisely how to make your way to it, the Temple is not cold, it is not austere, it is not at all aloof.

It is, however, somewhat abandoned. Many of the old Temples are, for there are far fewer Jedi these days than even a mere century ago.

The first time Qui-Gon Jinn comes to the Alderaanian Temple, he comes with Master Dooku. Master Dooku is the definition of this perfect Jedi, the only definition Qui-Gon knows. He is cool, he is clinical, he is aloof.

Qui-Gon chafes under the weight of his - frankly chilling - ever-evaluating gaze, his unrelenting sternness. His Master’s praise is rare at best, and he is not a demonstrative man. The only contact the boy can expect is the heavy press of a hand on his shoulder to correct an error in his form (and, stars, he can’t stand Form II). Once, he got himself sold into slavery by complete accident, and his Master chided him for it, made him feel a fool and unwanted -

No. Made him feel how acutely he had inconvenienced his Master.

(Qui-Gon does not know this is wrong. All he knows is that he is not enough, and it’s his fault entirely. He’s sometimes tried to explain, but his explanations are inconsequential, so he pulls them into himself and forces them down. It will be years before he realises that his frustrations escape him in other ways, and the skies are blanketed grey, and the clouds grow heavy and his lungs go tight before they spill.)

(And then, for a time, he feels less tense.)

The first time they come to the Alderaanian Temple, Qui-Gon meets an Archivist who is warm and kind and reminds him of Tahl. She smiles and helps him look for the texts he needs for his classwork, sits him down at her table and throws up her feet to the chair beside her, settling in to read, herself. When confusion knots his brow and he’s all but broadcasting his dismay at failing to understand a simple problem, she catches the tense line of his shoulders in the corner of her eye and softly asks him to read it out to her. Qui-Gon does.

He watches, fascinated, as her agile mind bends and twists and turns, fingers skittering over the table between them. She explains herself, backtracks, prompts him, breaks down the question into parts, tells him things he’s never heard before, pulls up old texts as evidence, and through it all she even finds ways to make him laugh. She never once makes him feel lesser for not knowing so much of what she’s said, never chides him for not looking something up before asking.

Predictably, good moods do not last. He’ll forget what it was about, in a week, because all their arguments are one and the same, but for now Qui-Gon feels the sting of his Master’s words keenly, and he takes himself outside to sit on the Temple doorstep. He tries to be still for a moment, shaking not with the cold - then gathers a breath of air in his lungs and slowly counts as he holds and lets it go. It’s cold, but warmer than the day before, and there is no sharp, biting wind. He looks up just as the first of a flurry of snowflakes twirls through the air and some of them settle, lightly prickling, on his skin.

Behind him the Archivist’s already-familiar presence is warm as it draws near. He doesn’t want to be seen, but at the same time, he wants that comfort. He wants someone to see him, really see him. Just someone.

The warmth of that presence seeps into him when she sits down, almost close enough to lean towards him and brush shoulders. “It’s early for snow,” she remarks absently, but says nothing else.

Qui-Gon thinks it must be lonely here, where she is one of a handful of Jedi whom he’s seen, and there are perhaps a handful more in the more distant parts of the Temple. Yet it is warm and peaceful, and he thinks that perhaps she isn’t unhappy even in this small circle.

By dint of a heavy snowstorm, Master Dooku decides to delay their departure a few days. Qui-Gon spends those days mostly sequestered in the Archives.


The second time he comes to the Alderaanian Temple, the Archivist is no longer there. The Temple feels colder, because its walls have stood even nearer to empty in the last decade. It feels almost the way he felt, for much of these last ten years.

And yet, as he brushes his fingers over the old cloth- and leather-bound books, painstakingly cared for and preserved, he catches a hint of that warmth still. In his mind, a new flame burns - a young child he’d been forced (yes, forced, Master Yoda, you gave me no choice in the matter) to take as his Apprentice. They haven’t had an easy time of it, though their difficulties stem from different things.

Obi-Wan learned harsh lessons on Melida/Daan, lessons that Qui-Gon had wanted to shield his Padawan from learning. No matter how you try, no matter if you do everything right, you can still lose in the end - that was what Tahl had said. He couldn’t explain to this brilliant boy that the sacrifices to end their war had to come from the Melida/Daan alone, and not from Jedi. Instead he’d watched his Padawan suffer, thinking he’d failed to protect him - again - that he’d failed as a Master.

That he wasn’t enough. Again.

And yet this child had burrowed into his arms afterwards for almost the entire duration of their flight back to Coruscant, clung to him and wept into his tunics, and would not let go. When they made it back to the Temple, Qui-Gon had taken him straight to the Healers and refused to leave the boy’s side even to make their report until he was released a tenday later.

Those early days, Obi-Wan was restless without the tactile reassurance that Qui-Gon was still there, still with him. When they made their report to the Council, he’d inched closer and closer to his Master’s side without any conscious awareness of it, and Qui-Gon had finally given up all pretenses of serenity or aloofness, pulling his Padawan tight against him. In the privacy of their quarters, Qui-Gon held him for their shared meditations while he guided Obi-Wan’s mind, helped him reach out with the Force to see what his eyes no longer could.

They’d been removed from the active mission roster. Qui-Gon cornered Mace outside the salle once while Tahl watched Obi-Wan as he worked through his warmups, and demanded to know the reason in a low growl. Mace had deliberately brushed him off, but answered, not without sympathy, that Qui-Gon’s missions were always high-pressure diplomatic disputes, and many had a tendency to go to pieces.

“Mace -”

“It’s not an accusation, Qui-Gon. If anything, it’s something of a compliment. We have a tendency to run our best ragged, and we’ve been sending you into situations that, sometimes, should have been left alone entirely.” Like Melida/Daan - the words hung unsaid in the air between them, colouring it with regret.

“Never thought I’d hear you say that,” Qui-Gon grumbled, somewhat mollified.

Mace shrugged. “You didn’t hear it from me. We’re looking for something that has a bit less chance of going to pieces, but at the moment all we have is the Alderaanian Temple -”

“What?” The Force seemed to chime in his ears. “What about the Alderaanian Temple?”

Thus they had found themselves here, in the mountains. Qui-Gon still remembers the convoluted route the guides had taken his Master on, but when his Padawan looks left instead of right and asks, ‘why not that way?’ he listens and lets him lead on. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they find themselves at the Temple steps long before dark, when their expected arrival had been estimated at nightfall.

More and more, Qui-Gon lets himself hang back while his Padawan walks ahead, quite in reverse of tradition where the Padawan follows the Master. Obi-Wan is daring, yes, at times even reckless, but he’s never lead his Master astray.

In the quieter moments, and particularly in the evenings, Obi-Wan prepares tea for them both, almost ritually presents it to his Master, then curls up pressed against Qui-Gon’s side. It’s on one of these nights that Qui-Gon notices how the ache in his chest eases when his Padawan settles beside him. He’s reviewing an inventory list for the Temple - and, gods, if this is the work of the Head of the Coruscant Temple, he quite understands why Mace looks like he has perpetual migraines (because he actually does).

But when Obi-Wan presses close, the threat of a migraine recedes; and moments later, when the rhythm of soft shallow breaths proves that the boy has fallen asleep, Qui-Gon realises he will never, never feel at ease without this. That he has, perhaps, never felt so much wanted and needed in all his life. The feeling almost overwhelms him, constricts his chest and clutches at his throat and dares to steal his breath. He breathes through the sting at the back of his eyes, shuts off the datapad and shoves it away to wrap the small, beloved warm body beside him in a tight embrace.

All Manner of Thing - A Call the Midwife Fanfic

Soooooo I wrote a fic based on the lovely @deliabusbys‘ excellent headcanon. It’s my first ever fic, just a fluffy Patsy and Delia one-shot. And please, bear in mind that I haven’t written for fun since I left school, a long long time ago. Enjoy!!

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School Is For Losers, Visit Oregon Instead

also on ao3; exactly what it says on the tin. and i really hope that readmore works

-

September is one of the worst times of year.

There was no more running about from the start to the end of the day and staying up late to welcome their mother home with warm milk and a perfectly made and mysteriously softer than usual bed.

Okay, so they may have asked Alcor for help with that one.

But they have to start school again, and Year Six is their final part of primary school, and it is going to be utterly terrifying. The kids who pushed Stacey around until she knocked one out cold would still snicker behind their backs and the teachers who acted like the twins are completely capable children who fully understood instructions that weren’t designed for their brains to follow and the bus drivers who refused to let them on unless they were with an adult.

<!– more –>

So after their first day back at school, when the other pupils are waiting for their parents to pick them up in the playground and take them home, Stacey hangs back in the classroom with Saffron and opens her English exercise book to the last page. She draws a small summoning circle in the top right hand corner with smooth, practised pencil strokes.

“What are you doing?” Saffron asks her sister in a hushed whisper.

“Summoning Alcor, what does it look like, sis?” replies Stacey. “Give me your elbow, I don’t think the scab’s healed yet.”

Saffron groans and rolls up her worn school sweatshirt. “We’re going to get expelled for this, you know,” she grumbles.

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” grins Stacey. She picks the scab from Saffron’s skin and says, with the most self-important voice she can muster, “Alcor, I summon you forth to do my bidding! Egassem sdrawkcab, egassem sdrawkcab, egassem sdrawkcab!”

When Alcor appears on their plane of existence, flame burning in his eyes, he can only hold the position for three seconds before they all start laughing.

“Keep it down,” says Saffron between giggles. “The teacher might come back!”

Alcor snorts. “Then we’ll have to kill them, won’t we?”

“Look at us poor, innocent children,” giggles Stacey. “Someone protect us from the big scary demon and his little fluffy sheep!”

There is silence for a moment, before Alcor says, “I really haven’t taught you that summoning demons is highly dangerous, haven’t I?”

Saffron shrugs. “Well, I knew regardless. Stacey’s just overstepping a line without realising, aren’t you?”

Stacey blows a raspberry, and small chuckles replace the awkward silence.

“But seriously, I need a sacrifice to stick around for any longer,” Alcor adds. “Who wants to make a deal?”

-

One half of a saved lunch later, Alcor – in a far more unassuming form – shows up at the school gates to free the two girls. Stacey clambers onto his orange polo shirt-clad shoulders, while Saffron simply walked beside them, making them seem like a normal family.

“So, what did you two learn today?” he asks.

Saffron shrugs as her sister plays with the powerful demon’s brown hair. “Well, we mostly got an overview of what we’re going to be learning this year. We’re finally going to be told the various summoning circles for demons and what they do, but that’s on Fridays and it’s mostly going to be all fearmongering with no actual educational substance.”

Alcor grins, far too wide and with much too pointy teeth, but Saffron has grown to ignore that part. “How about we teach them how it really works?”

“Hell yes!” Stacey shouts, making a few pedestrians turn their heads. She giggles as Dipper shushes her, and repeats, in a much quieter tone, “Hell fucking yes.”

“How about no?” Saffron says, exasperated. “You’ll probably give Mrs. Lyndon a heart attack.”

Stacey pouts.

“I knew a guy who had a heart attack once,” Alcor says conversationally. “He was pretty cool.”

“Did he, you know, die?” asks Stacey, fiddling with a lock of Alcor’s hair.

Alcor laughs. “Everyone dies, Stacey. It’s part of being human. Their minds don’t do too well after a couple of centuries.”

The girl groans and flops backwards so she hangs upside down, supported by her knees over Alcor’s shoulders and her ankles crossed over his chest. “Yeah, duh, but did he die of the heart attack?”

With a shrug, Alcor says, “Yes, but it was his sixth one. Typical of him. Six friends, six fingers, and six tries to get him to kick it. Sixer was a good name for him.”

Sixer?” Saffron says, her voice reaching an octave that only dogs and demons could hear. “But I have six fingers!”

She wiggles her visibly five-fingered hands to emphasise the point.

“Calm down, Saffron,” Alcor says nervously. “Polydactyly isn’t uncommon.”

“But you call me Sixer!” she says, flapping her hands with a look of fear. “Am I going to have a heart attack?”

Alcor sighs. “I’m going to need a library for this.”

-

The library that Alcor had selected turns out to be one of the strangest places that Saffron has ever seen, and one time, she saw a dead pixie floating in a bucket of Gremoblin vomit.

They had been blipped to Oregon from their hometown, due to the local library’s lack of any books on the supernatural that were not basic books from the last couple of decades about what a fairy was or not to under any circumstances summon a demon such as Alcor the Dreambender, the Twin Star, the Consumer of Dreams and the Father of Nightmares, yadda yadda.

The Stanley Pines Memorial Library is humongous. Gigantic. Big as fuck. Possibly alive.

Saffron is going to love it.

Stacey is going to get lost at some point.

But Alcor knows this building, and it knows him, and it guides him and the two girls through the maze of books that have grown from the small collection that it started with by a shimmering blue light.

“Here we are,” he says, standing in front of a musty shelf that looks as though it hasn’t been touched in fifty years.  There are stickers over the wood and the books, some puffy, some sparkly, all centuries old yet still protected. The biggest stickers are at the top, each an individual letter in a different colour, reading Pines Family of Mabel and her Dorks.

“Who’s Mabel?” asks Stacey, reading the letters slowly.

“None of your beeswax,” Alcor replies shortly, looking through the shelves. There is a long pause, before he adds, “Mizar. My twin.”

Saffron furrows her brows. “Like, metaphorical or literal?”

Definitely literal,” he groans. “I swear, if either of you two ever read Twin Souls, I am going to remove all of those memories from your head and possibly exchange your mind with that of a slug. No more questions, I found the book.”

He pulls out a large floral cloth-bound book. The edges are worn, but it seems to have been handled and repaired with care too many times to count. When Alcor places the book on the ground, he opens it with the utmost care to the contents page, which has been written in obnoxious yellow glittery gel pen.

“Damn, this takes me back,” he murmurs, before flipping to the page that Mabel had labelled with Two Grunkles for the Price of One!.

Saffron and Stacey look over his shoulders in awe at the ancient picture of two old men. Stacey’s face falls quickly. “Who the hell are these people and why are they important?”

Alcor points carefully to both of the men in the photo in turn. “That’s Stanley Pines, and that’s his twin Stanford. And, well, they’re you two.”

Both of the sisters stare at him blankly. “What the fuck?” Stacey says.

“You’re reincarnations of an old con artist and his twin who got trapped in between dimensions for thirty years,” says Alcor with a shrug. “Congratulations?”

Seven Deadly Sins of Reading

Sloth-Watching the movie instead of reading the book

Greed-Hoarding multiple copies of a single book

Gluttony-Devouring a series too quickly

Wrath-Damaging Books

Lust-Desiring leather and cloth bound books, because they’re just so pretty

Envy-Jealousy of your friends bookcases

Pride-Believing that your favourite characters can’t possibly die