i just love how she's so fascinated by all the palm trees

it ain't me // dylan o'brien

Summary: Dylan doesn’t realize how much he loves Y/N until it’s too late

Requested: no, based off of this song

Pairing: Dylan & Y/N

Warning: yes, mature language, themes and smut


The envelope had remained untouched on the counter for nearly a week.

Every time he looked at the stupid piece of white paper an immense pain clouded over him like he lived in Seattle and there was no chance of him ever seeing the sun again.

The only thing she had left behind was the letter and a cardboard box with his name scribbled across the front in her messy handwriting.

The two objects had been taunting him for the past week, surely collecting dust by now.

As he took another sip from the bottle clutched tightly in his hand, the cool amber liquid provided him with a small amount of relief he was craving.

Extending his legs onto the coffee table, he squinted his eyes as he flipped through the channels, the only source of light in his dark apartment being that of the muted television he had been staring at for the past 3 days.

Keep reading



His fingers tapped restlessly on his thigh.  Stay cool, Sorcha.  

He had names for her in his head.  Names he couldn’t say out loud. 


Her name, Sorcha in Gaelic, for one.  The other to do with her dark curls.  

Right now she was a witness in the Judge’s Hearing, being cross examined, and was doing very well.  

“Dr. Randall, how did you come to be in my client’s bistro, then?”

“I accompanied Detective Sergeant Fraser because the toxicology report came back citing Conium Maculatum as the poison which caused the first victim’s death, and he asked me if the second death was similar.  It was not, so I researched which poison it could be.  We went back to the bistro together in case the plant was somehow on display, and I could identify it because I’m well versed in Medical Botany.” 

“Please tell us the plants you did see, Dr. Randall,” the Judge interjected.

“Well, I saw Belladonna, and Poppies from which you get opium, Foxglove, Yellow Jasmine.  Oh, and Sweet Pea vines.”

The Judge nodded to indicate he was finished with his question.  

“My client mentioned you came back again.  Alone.”

Claire said nothing.    

“Dr. Randall?”

“Sorry.  I was waiting for a question.”

Jamie shook his head and smiled at her impertinence.

The Barrister asked the question again, impatience in his tone.  “Why did you go back to the bistro alone, Dr. Randall?  And the bruises on your neck?”

Jamie sat up straighter. Come on, mo neighean donn.  

Claire looked from the Barrister, to the Judge, then back to the Barrister.  “I went back to the bistro to try to find a different plant.  Convallaria majalis.  I thought these poisonous leaves might be among the greens one could choose for their salad.  I was incorrect.  They were blended into the salad dressings.  I realized that when Ms. Duncan asked me whether or not “he” liked lemon.” Claire paused, and looked at the Judge again.  “But I never had bruises on my neck.”

Geillis Duncan sat up in her chair, palms flat on the table.  Her green eyes were blazing at Claire.  The Barrister flicked a hand in her direction, silently instructing her to calm down.  

“You had on a scarf, Dr. Randall.  My client said you were trying to cover up the bruises on your neck.  Bruises from an abusive relationship.”

“I wore a scarf that day, but for no other reason than it looked good with my sweater.”  Claire hit the perfect tone of dismissive professionalism.  

The Crown Prosecutor jumped in.  “Your Honour, is Counsel admitting his client is guilty here?  That she willfully poisoned two men because she deemed them to be abusive?”  

“No, I’m simply trying to ascertain if Dr. Randall presented herself falsely so as to entrap my client.”  The Defense realized immediately what he’d done. Stupid mistake. 

Claire did not dare to look at Jamie.  She kept her eyes trained on the Judge.  

“My Chambers, both of you.  You are finished, Dr. Randall.”

Geillis stared at Claire. 

Claire gathered her things.  

Jamie stared at Claire.  My God, she was cool.  Calm.  Collected.  He wondered briefly if she knew the outcome, and that’s why she was so steady.  

It was over in minutes.  

Jamie caught up with Claire waiting in the foyer for the pelting rain outside to die down.  He told her Geillis took a plea bargain.  She admitted to having been abused, and neglected by her alcoholic husband. Geillis Duncan decided to ‘help’ other women in the same predicament.  What they couldn’t get her to admit was how her own husband died.  Apparently, Geillis said he was allergic to almonds.  

Claire knew better.  


It was dark, and fresh after the rain storm.

He opened her car door, and offered a hand to help her out in front of her town home.  Two pints, and a celebration whisky later, she wasn’t too worse for wear. Her tawny eyes were slightly unfocused, but still bright with satisfaction over her performance at the Hearing.  She smiled up at him, and took his hand.  He tugged a little as she got to her feet, and she playfully leaned against his shoulder.

Jamie saw his opportunity and took it.

He hooked a finger under her chin, and lifted it.  Pressed his lips to hers.  Not too hard.  Not too urgent.  Just a kiss.  A beginning.  A start.  

Claire was startled.  Her eyes were wide open as she watched Jamie close his. He broke the kiss, and without opening his eyes, found her lips again.  He did not pressure her.  It seemed just the softness of their mouths was enough.  

She let her eyes drift shut.  Grabbed the lapels of his jacket.  Stepped towards him, and felt his arms come around her.  Gently.  Easily.  

He tasted like whisky.  Like the whisky they had in the pub.  Without meaning to her tongue traced the seam of his lips tasting it. He smiled into the kiss and opened his mouth.  The tip of his tongue touched hers.  She shuddered as he sucked her tongue a little deeper into his mouth.  

When the kiss ended he didn’t let go.  Instead he leaned back against his car, spread his legs, and brought her to stand between them.  Still gripping his lapels, she felt like a teenager at the end of a date.  She could feel him hard against her belly.  

“Jamie…” How to explain?

“It was time, no?  I mean, our fourth date an’ all.”

“What?”  Claire was confused.  Her brain, fuzzy.

“Wot?” Jamie mimicked.  “Aye.  Fourth.”

“We’ve not been on a date, ever!”  Claire placed her palms flat on Jamie’s chest, and tried to push away.  He ran his hands slowly down her backside. Pressed her slightly forward.  Against his desire.

She shivered. 

“The first date we had pizza…”  

“That wasn’t a date!  It was after work!”  

Jamie grinned at her outrage.  

“Aye, it was.  I paid, ken?  That made it a date.  The second time ye paid for me.  Falafals, yeah?”  

“That was work!”

“Nay, it wasna!” Jamie teased, “It was strictly talk of yer life and mine.  No work talk until we’d finished.”  Her loved the way her brow furrowed in thought.  

Claire shook her head.  She was having trouble coming up with a suitable argument.  Jamie snuck in for another quick kiss. 

He continued.  “Then, to cover our arses I told Chief Inspector we were on a date to the bistro, so that makes three, and finally, tonight at the pub.”

Claire laughed, truly amused.  “None of those were dates, Fraser.  You are making up this complete fantasy.”  She poked his chest. 

Jamie hugged her a little tighter.  She had to step a little closer.  “Maybe. Maybe I wanted them to be dates, Claire.”  He pushed a tendril behind her ear.  “Listen, Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Randall of Oxfordshire, England.  Daughter of Julia and Henry Beauchamp.  Raised by Quentin Lambert Beauchamp.  Birthdate, October 20.”

Claire gasped.  “You’ve investigated me!”  She tried to push away.  The feeling of being controlled began to rise up inside her.  Began to sober her.

Jamie held fast. Stayed calm.  Voice measured.  Even.  

“I did.  Not sorry for it, either.  Ye fascinate me, Claire.  And since gettin’ ye to talk about yerself is like interviewing a hostile witness, I was desperate.  Top of yer class in medical school.  Ye were one of the best surgeons in Boston.” 

“Ye ken what else I found out?”  He stood up now, so as to be closer still. “That I’m falling in love with ye, Claire.”

She froze.  No.  This cannot be.  

She closed her eyes.  Placed a hand over his heart.


Not one tiny vision.

Damn it all to hell.  No, no, no, no, NO.

“You don’t know me, Jamie.  You don’t know what I’m capable of.”  Claire started to shake.  She had to tell him.  

He closed his hand over hers as it lay on his chest. “What do ye see, Claire?” he asked softly.    

“Nothing,” she whispered.  “That happens, when….when I….”  God, Beauchamp, out with it.  “When I’m too close…emotionally….to someone.”    

Jamie’s heart leapt.  Dare he hope?

“Is that what happened with Frank, then?  Is that why ye blame yerself?  Ye never saw his accident?”

Claire swallowed hard.  Took a deep breath.  Tried to focus on his face.  The accident swam in front of her eyes again.  Suddenly, she was back there.  

She took a step away from him.

“I did see, Jamie.  When he brushed past me after our argument I saw it all. The black ice.  The tree.  The twisted car.  All of it.”

She stepped back again.  And again.  

His hands dropped from her hips.  She was free from his touch.

“And I didn’t do a damn thing to stop him.  I saw it.  And I didn’t say a word.”

She saw Jamie’s eyes widen.  She felt his shock.    

“I sent Frank to his death.” 

It's You •Part 2• (Soulmate AU Newt Scamander x Reader)

“Newt,” a voice whispered softly. His head ached as his eyes fluttered open, the light in the room causing him to squint. He looked up, eyes bleary and everything out of focus as he began to sit up. “Maybe you should stay down, honey.”

“Queenie?” He questioned, blinking a few times in an attempt to clear his vision. Once he was able to see, he found that he was laying on the floor of the sister’s apartment.

“Yeah, I’m here,” she replied with a soft smile. “Tina and Y/N are in the kitchen. Do you remember what happened?”

“She doesn’t remember me,” he forced out, voice shaking as he covered his face with his hands. “W-Why is she here? How did we get here?”

“For a wizard, it seems that you don’t know how easy it is to use magic to get from place to place,” she joked lightly, her hopeful expression falling as Newt merely wiped at his eyes.

“Why is Y/N here?” He questioned lowly, looking at her with distant eyes.

“She wants to talk to you,” Queenie explained, looking back at the kitchen where you and her sister were talking quietly.

“I can’t talk to her, Queenie, not like this,” he frantically sputtered out as his eyes darted to where you were standing. “You need to send her away, this can’t-”

“At least wait until tomorrow before making any decisions,” she interrupted him. She played nervously with her dress and bit her lip as she turned to face him. “She wants to get to know you, Mr. Scamander, and I know that you would hate yourself if you turned her away.”

“What makes you so sure of that? She doesn’t know me, it won’t matter-”

“But it does matter!” She insisted in a quiet voice. “She’s your soulmate and you love her!”

“She doesn’t even know me!”

“I, um, I don’t mean to intrude,” your soft voice interjected as you stepped into the living room. Queenie and Newt looked at you with surprise, neither one knowing that you had made your way over until they heard your voice. “But I can leave if you don’t want me here. I don’t want to be a burden, and I truly understand if you’re mad at me for not knowing you, Newt.”

“You could never be a burden to me, Y/N,” Newt promised as his eyes met yours with a tenderness you had never seen before. “I just need to… I need to make a plan before we see if your memories can come back.”

“Do you want me to leave until then?” You asked nervously. His eyes became clouded with guilt and he stood up from the floor. He went to grasp onto your hand before realizing that you might not want him to, his hand dropping immediately.

“You can stay, I just need to be alone,” he said sadly, head lowering slightly. “I believe that there’s a few things in my case that might help.”

“Now that that’s settled, I’ll take Y/N to the guest room and give her a tour of the place,” Tina piped up anxiously, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and leading you out of the room. Newt watched as you left, your head turning back to glance at him one more time before being pulled into a room.

“I’ll help you,” Queenie offered as Newt stood silently in the room for a moment. His eyes flickered over to her as he set his case up on the floor and opened it.

“Alright,” he gave in, climbing in and motioning for her to follow. “But there’s to be no questions about Y/N until her memories are back.”

Newt and Queenie worked long into the night, and eventually, Tina crept slowly into the case with a tray of tea and snacks. Her sister was on the floor, dozing off with a book on her lap and palm under her chin as soft snores escaped her. Tina let out a small snort and set the tray down on a clear space on a table before walking out of the shack to find Newt.

It wasn’t until she reached Dougal’s enclosure that she was able to find Newt. At first, she didn’t hear much, just the sounds of the creatures going about their business, but then she could hear the faint sound of crying from behind a tree. Carefully, she made her way over and saw Newt sitting on the ground with Dougal, Pickett, and the Niffler perched beside him. They watched as he cried, looking on with sad eyes and attempting to make him feel better.

“Mr. Scamander, it’s getting late,” she spoke up after watching silently for a few minutes. Newt immediately attempted to stop his crying as he heard her voice. He nodded stiffly and wiped at his face, Dougal moved foward and gently wiped away a few stray tears as Pickett climbed into one of his pockets. The Niffler let out a huff before pulling a small gem out of its pouch, holding it out to Newt.

“That’s very kind of you,” Newt sniffled as he accepted the gem, reaching to take it from the Niffler’s tiny hands.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t know what to say,” Tina admitted as Newt stood up. They began to walk to the shack, the creatures slowly following behind them.

“How is she?“

“She’s up in the guest room, sleeping, I would imagine.”

“I don’t know if her memories can…” Newt trailed off, his voice becoming lost in the breeze that filled the air. Tina watched as his eyes became glassy and he wiped at them with the back of his hands.

“If you can’t get back the old, you’ll just have to make new,” she stated with a smile.

“I don’t know if I can, Tina. What if she’s completely different? What if…”


“What if she wants someone else?”

“You can’t torture yourself like this,” Tina scolded him as they neared the shack. “There’s an endless amount of possibilities in the world, and not all of them are good. You just have to make it so that she learns to love you again; you’re soulmates for a reason. Don’t let her get away because you’re scared of the possibility of losing her, because if you do nothing, you will definitely lose her.”

“Maybe I should let her go,” he mumbled, kicking a small rock on the ground. There was an audible gasp from Dougal and the two turned to look at him. Within a second, the Demiguise darted foward and grabbed onto Newt’s hand, tugging him into the shack.

“Mr. Scamander,” Queenie breathed out as he burst into the shack. She was standing in the middle of the room, eyes closed as she faced the door.

“Dougal!” Newt exclaimed as the creature abandoned him for Queenie. Her eyes snapped open as Dougal latched onto her hand, gently tugging her to the ladder.

“What’s going on?” Tina questioned as she stepped into the shack.

“I-I don’t know,” Newt stammered out as he watched nervously. Queenie looked down at Dougal and let a sigh before looking at her sister and Newt.

“I can hear Y/N’s thoughts,” she said in a distant voice. “I think she’s remembering something.”

“W-What?” Newt choked out, heart swelling with hope that you would remember him.

“She was murdered in her life before this one, wasn’t she?”

“How did you-”

“She was dreaming about it.”

“Is she awake?” Newt frantically asked.

“I think-”

Queenie could barely get her words out before Newt was clumsily scrambling up the ladder. Dougal followed him, letting go of Queenie so he could climb out of the case. Once out, Newt raced to the guest room, bursting in with a worried expression.

“What’s going on?” You exclaimed from the bed. You were sitting upright, a glass of water in your hands as you looked at him with wide eyes.

“Are you alright?” Newt questioned, stepping towards you. You nodded slowly and set the glass on the nightstand beside the bed.

“I’m fine,” you reassured him. “Are you?”

“Of course,” he whispered, head lowering in embarrassment. “I just thought… it’s nothing.”

“It’s obviously not nothing,” you pointed out, waving him over so he could sit on the edge of the bed. Newt cautiously sat down with Dougal beside him. “What’s wrong?”

“What were you dreaming about, Y/N?”

“You know, don’t you? Queenie told you?” You quipped, staring at him with hardened eyes. Your jaw was clenched and face filled with a coldness that Newt had never seen before.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want to help-”

“Please get out,” you ordered him. “I promise to come to you if I remember anything of significance. I just don’t want anyone to be in my head or-”

You moved your hands around as you talked, exposing your wrists to the air. Dougal grabbed onto one of your arms as you began to finish talking and you let out a shocked gasp.

“Dougal, let go of her!” Newt demand quickly reaching out to remove your arm from the creature’s grasp. He stopped short, however, as Dougal moved your wrist so it was facing Newt. There was a tattoo of a name where there hadn’t been one before.

Newt Scamander

“It’s your name,” you murmured out in fascination.

“I’m going to get your memories back, Y/N,” Newt promised in a shaking voice. “I’m going to fix this.”

Sanvers Week Day 2 - Nerd Girlfriends

In all her years of being wined and dined by well-intentioned young men she tried so hard to love, Alex hoped she’d learned a thing or two about how to treat a lady.

But when Maggie first came over to her apartment with pizza and beer, to make all her hopes come true and kiss her for what felt like the first time, Alex had blurted out that she wanted to take her on a date before she even realised that she’d never planned one in her life.

Where the hell did lesbians go for dates anyway? She didn’t think she’d ever seen any at the movies, at a restaurant… Did they just go to gay places? Is that why she’d never noticed?

The doubt must have shown on her face, because Maggie had smiled a little and tucked some of Alex’s hair behind her ear. “Danvers, you really don’t have to. I feel like I should take you out first. You know, to show you how the other half live,” she joked.

“Pfft, thank you, but I’ve got this,” Alex chuckled, eyes flitting anywhere but into the too-warm intensity of Maggie’s. “I can plan a date. I’m the best at planning dates. I’m…I’m known for it.”

Keep reading

NOTHING NATURAL by Diana Hurlburt

They call him Prosper, a measure of mockery for each measure of awe.


You know the road to the laboratory blind, could walk it in your sleep—have, because sleepwalking is telltale of the godborn, so your mother says and touches your ankle in rare affection where it rests on the porch rail, one foot on the earth and one in the realm of spirits.

“Spirits,” she repeats, gesturing to the road below, the spindly pine woods and the yellow haze of heat and pollution that makes up your horizon. “He controls the spirits.”

There are no spirits, only neighbors: Men and women and half-made machines given to rust, the detritus of civilization. A plot of bloodless jackdaws, midway between flophouse and refugee camp. You know that part of her statement, at least, is true. The weak and weak-willed, the dying, the once-dead, the discarded and useless, the flagrant all require direction. Seek strength. Are used by those stronger.

Sicaria laughs and makes her crooked cross, murmurs her oblique prayer.

“Get out,” she tells you in sudden rage, “go to your master. Get out of my sight, you unworthy and unclean thing, you who have forsaken the ways of God, you who cleave to the machines. Your eyes see only falsehood.”


It is fifteen years since your mother was cast out. It is your lifetime that has been spent in wasteland, the between-place, the unplace beyond the pale. It is a pine island that shelters you, a fanatic who raises you, a scientist who uses your hands and your back and his daughter who considers your mind.

Your mind. You know you have one. All creatures do, born or made. It is the First Law of Being.

Your name. If Sicaria gave you one it has been lost. It was only after Prosper’s carelessness that anyone else tried—his accident in the lab, though he would never call it that, surely you were at fault, your clumsy hands too broad for fine work and your elbows always in the way. Acid scattered from a flask, droplets caught in sun. You did not scream; it wasn’t the worst pain you had felt. In the washroom Miranda’s hands were gentle, washing, salving. They slowed after the initial motions and your pulse followed. You examine your two faces in the mirror. If you had ever displayed beauty it was gone now, Miranda’s heightened by your face now scarred. Her luminosity beyond the human and your coarseness, a sun and its shadow.

Her hand stayed on your cheek after its necessity had lapsed. She traced the remnants of acid, specks and splotches, long fingers black and velvet like the touch of night. You believe her grasp could shift moons from their orbit.

“Calvaluna,” she said, a cantrip reshaping your vision of yourself. “I read it somewhere—where? I have never read a book. I don’t need to, Father put his knowledge into my head before he activated me. But I hear it.” She tapped her forehead, then yours. “I hear it. It means you. It suits you. Calvaluna.”

It was prettier than you, you knew that, a beautiful name. Prettier than most things. Not prettier than her.


When Prosper leaves the laboratory it is less a retirement for the evening and more retreat. He would never call it that but you believe him fearful, after all. The powerful always are. He swings himself like a cudgel upon exit, he shouts for Miranda to attend him and cuffs you, a passing blow, thoughtless. Brutality is his lever, rarely compassion.

You know his laboratory better than he does, you think, wiping down counters. You know his daughter, made in his own image but ultimately fathomless. There’s a phrase in Sicaria’s Bible that makes you quiver when you apply it to Miranda.

It is full dark when Miranda comes for you. Your laboratory is Prosper’s in miniature, piecemeal and theft-built, squirreled away in a shed in the woods south of the pine island on which the best of the unplace’s hovels are built.

“It was a citrus packing house,” Miranda says as she always does. Touches the frame of the door right and then left, stretches to her full height to brush its top. It’s a ritual the way your mother’s prayers are, her prostrations, her rages. “Before the Laws took effect there was an industry here. Fruit. Citrus fruit.” She looks at you, a delight on her face that would fire the darkness. “Can you imagine it, Calvaluna? Whole stands of trees with fruit on them. Wild fruit, just growing. Imagine taking fruit off a tree and eating it.”

Your imagination is not that good.

She goes to the single table in the laboratory and stands before it in a manner you’ve thought must be like that of the Israelites in the Holy of Holies. You are not supposed to know what that means. You are not supposed to have holiness in your life. She looks at you briefly, with mischief, and draws down the shroud you have used to protect the R.E.L.’s shell from rain.

“I think we’re close,” she says. Her eyes are fascinated, distracted; her hand reaches for you. “Come here, Calvaluna, tell me if this is calibrated properly.”

“You have your father’s knowledge,” you say. But you go and look at the R.E.L. with her. You’re proud of the effort, the work of your joined hands. You are not supposed to have pride, either. There is no pride in being raised beyond the pale. In being the offspring of a hanged woman, a witch they would have called her in days past, a lawbreaker too iconoclastic to be allowed in the city and too ineffectual to be executed, spared for her belly to the tune of mockery. Certainly there is no pride in your form or your face.

“I think he’s almost ready to revive,” Miranda says. Her joy is the only light in these woods. The sun exists, you know, in theory. Miranda’s face is your only evidence thus far, fifteen years alive and far from those spaces left which thrive in natural sunlight. She links her fingers in yours, her thumb rubs the calluses on your palm; she points with your hands to the R.E.L.’s blank and staring eyes, his half-human head, his chest with its missing heart and its new core of wires. “Oh, Calvaluna! I’m nervous. Are you nervous?”

Nervous is not the right word for what you are.


“Calvaluna,” Sicaria repeated the day you told her of Miranda’s gift. She scraped the tip of her ritual knife between her teeth, grinning. “An appropriate name for you, my aborted dream. I should have exposed you as a sacrifice to God.”

There is no god but human will. This is the Second Law of Being.


Your fellow-spirits are all will-bound to Prosper’s caprice. He makes the cogs of the community turn, greases the paths of food and potable water and herbs plucked at the witching hour that make life slightly less… life-like. Thus he is obeyed.

“Daughter,” Sicaria echoes. She spits at the trash heap beside the back gate. “Blasphemy. Blasphemy. Such words I hear from your lips, my burden. Who was it gave you speech, that you fling curses in my face? I think maybe you’re the worse for your time spent in that man’s house. I see you confuse craft for birth.” She broods, her fingers twitching at the strand of beads beneath her wrapper. “But there’s no more to be done. How else are we to live?”

Once, and only once, you suggested that perhaps her god might see to living arrangements, if she did not like how you were turning out under Prosper’s tutelage.

“Go.” She waves to the wood path. “I heard tell there was meat today.”

If there was meat to be had, you suspect it’s long gone now. Your fellow-spirits are avaricious. What have they but base pleasures?

“He’s in a gloom,” Miranda says, her face round and open as a poinciana pod. “He’s made me clean the laboratory twice over, and asked me to cook… something. I didn’t recognize it, Calvaluna. Lentil soup? What is a lentil, do you know?”

You know of lentils.

“You can’t make lentil soup,” you tell her. “He shouldn’t ask you to do things he knows are impossible.”

“He believes anything is possible,” she says. You love and hate to see her countenance. You remember a time when she would have spoken the same words in hope and affection. You know it is your fault, the way she is changing, her will a canker on the face of beauty. You wonder what Prosper will do when he realizes it. You ponder in the night, sometimes, this scholar whose eyes perceive all but the truth.

Perhaps you will be gone before he awakens.

“Race me,” Miranda says, but she takes your hand.

“How am I to race if you keep me beside you?”

“A race doesn’t have to have a winner,” she says, and begins to run.

She times these things impeccably. She runs so that you can almost believe the light follows her footsteps, that she leaves no mark on the earth. Dusk springs up behind you. You prefer night, its honesty; you prefer the real dark that would cover most of your world if not for artificial day. The unplace is a hive of night creatures. Your fellow-spirits are easiest perceived in dimness, their proclivities hidden and their countenances smoothed.

Miranda keeps your hand in hers and runs, runs, fearless and laughing. She runs like a dart flung toward the center of the south woods, the pine cloven by lightning looming over your laboratory. The pine grows despite the wound at its heart. It is where you found the R.E.L.—one of Prosper’s cast-offs, what he termed a failed experiment—half-dead and crumbling piecemeal to rust in dank rainfall.

She drops to the base of the pine and pulls you down and points up.

“I know of stars,” she says, her eyes searching as though Heaven might reveal itself. “The Southern Cross, the Swan. The Pleiades. Many more names my father gave me.” She touches her forehead, as she does when she speaks of Prosper’s knowledge, planted in her like seed corn. She is godborn more surely than you can ever be, gleaming divinity. She touches your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose. “I think they must look like you. The stars beyond our sky.”

She traces the scars and specks and splotches. She draws new constellations and names them, her fingers a warm trail on your skin, her breath a promise.


Just once you asked your mother if you would ever leave the unplace. You did not then understand that no one came to the salt-strewn plots of land on the city’s outskirts by choice—no one laid eyes on the pine island and thought, I am home. It is far more difficult to leave a place you have not happened upon by choice.

“He’ll be a protector,” you say, pliers in one hand and cording in the other. “His new code will require defense. Otherwise…”

You look at Miranda and think of what might happen to her if the R.E.L.’s defensive code does not run as planned. You picture yourself and remember Sicaria’s dark jibes, her reminiscences of city life. You rub your upper arm where the contraceptive block had been implanted. It only prevents some things, can halt neither the heady mix of desire and aspiration nor flat violence.

“Defense,” Miranda says, her face solemn in its thinking pose, unaware of your thoughts. “Defense, financials, new birth records and identification…”

Her voice skips along, almost merry, a fertile stream in which to seed possibility.


The Third Law of Being is the inviolability of life. No one has ever explained to you whether the Law covers all life.


Light explodes behind your eyes when Prosper’s hand meets your skull. Or, you realize a little belatedly, it is the fault of the lab table, the edge of it kissing your temple. Air rushes from your lungs. You stare at the vault above the shed in the woods, its ceiling gaping in sections to reveal leaves, the white sky of noon.

Miranda flies at him, her face dressed in horror. You have never kissed her, you think. You would prefer not to die unkissed; you’d prefer not to die at all.

“Ungrateful wretch,” Prosper says. “Twisted ape-child, spawn of—how thought you?” He smashes his hand across the table. “How thought you to betray my kindness? To turn my own blood against me?” He lifts one of the R.E.L.’s arms, almost delicately. “Whore and daughter of whores. Thief.”

Small comfort to think his rage stems from fear, but it’s enough. Prosper would not be angry if he didn’t believe the R.E.L. was sound.

“You.” He points to Sicaria in the doorway. One of your fellow-spirits has fetched her at his command and she is in a state, white-eyed and gagging on anger. “Take your mooncalf in hand, I never want to see her again. Corruptor.”

He catches Miranda and snares her arms, wrenches her close, covers her head with his hands as though she is innocent. As though healing and reviving the R.E.L. were not her idea. As though a child can be born of only one parent. The R.E.L. is your inheritance, legacy of unnatural issue, a being greater than the sum of its creators.

“This abomination will be destroyed,” Prosper says. Sicaria prays in the doorway, her eyes not on you nor on the R.E.L. but searching, seeking. She hates the sight of machines. Had the city not cast her out for improper worship she would have repudiated them anyway.

“He is an R.E.L.,” Miranda says. You stare despite the throb in your head, the blood in your eyes. Her voice remains soft, wondering, a caress on the cyborg’s clinical name. Aerial, a creature of movement and possibility. “Robotically Enhanced Lifeform. Give him his name, Father, lend some pity, even if you thought nothing of flinging him into the trash when he failed to serve you.”

“Abomination,” he repeats. “Homunculus, deformity—daughter. Listen. Calvaluna has done wrong in her ignorance but you… you are not ignorant, Miranda.”

You marvel at the blindness of the learned man, the man cast out for his learned ways, the man who has made the wilderness blossom in decay. Lord of chaos, king of the misruled.

“God be with me in this hour,” Sicaria prays, her hands on either side of the doorframe. “God be with me in my pain, God give me strength for the task before me, God grant me…”

Me, you mouth. God be with Sicaria, and science with Prosper, and neither passionate belief nor dispassionate prowess sustain them. Miranda looks at you from beneath her father’s hands. Her smile is your signpost, her trust your life raft. Your fellow-spirits are like unto you only in substance: Crude matter, blunt usefulness. Miranda is your true equal, beloved of your soul. Her eyes remain open.

Your eyes must remain open. You must get up. There are but two steps between you and the table, one step in the scientific process, a bare nudge of your fingers at the master switch. Miranda’s being is in your hands.

On the table, the R.E.L. casts off slumber and rattles to life.

kaitrionabalfe  asked:

I'm in dire need of a fluffy scene where Claire tries to read the lines on Jamie's palm and she ends up failing miserably.

Liv says: So this isn’t fluff, so to speak—but I hope it’s still fun! Set about 2-3 years before puir Frank the Mailman died in the Three Witches AU. No worries if you haven’t read it. This one stands alone! :)

Intersection: A Three Witches Story

Claire knew this was against coven rules. Like, totally outside the realm of acceptable witch behavior.

To dole out one’s magical talents—particularly at the county fair—was a bit manipulative (in regards to the customers), a bit sad (in regards to Claire). Still, she liked to think she was working for a kind of greater good. Ensuring the happiness of all mankind! And that was almost admirable, wasn’t it? Giving hopeful glimmers of adulthood to the stork-like teenagers, comforting the mopey singletons who trudged around, heads bent? She’d offered such assurances as:

“A new man will come into your life. A handsome one—with a huge prick! His name…I think his name begins with a ‘T’.” (This to the recent divorcee, clutching her naked ring finger like a burn. She hadn’t known what a “prick” was but was no less forthcoming with her money.)

Or this, to the bucktoothed 16-year old picking at his acne scars: “You’ll be the coolest person in college. Captain of the ultimate frisbee team!” He’d been disappointed at that one, enormous chompers clamping over his bottom lip. “Ho ho ho there, young man!” she’d said then. “Ultimate frisbee is cool where you’re going. The coolest cool.” And then he’d smiled, a patchwork of teeth and holes, which Claire hoped someone might find endearing. A nice and wholesome blind girl, maybe.

And then this, to the both of them: “For just $5 more, I can guarantee it! All you have to do is buy this magical rock and carry it with you wherever you go.” Nevermind that said magical rock was actually from Claire’s backyard. Nevermind that several of them were speckled in bird shit. Maybe some cicada guts.

But that was the thing about desperate Mortals. Metaphorically speaking, their whole lives were a succession of bird shit plops and smeared bug guts. So they didn’t even notice when it was covering their $5, not-magical rock.

“Yes please! I’ll take two!” the divorcee had cried, handing Claire a ten dollar bill. (Did she think this would bring two men into her life? Because that’s not how Claire’s bird shit rocks worked.)

“Um. Yeah. That’s sounds pretty sick,” said Beaver Bobby. “I’ll buy a rock.” He’d paid in all quarters but, hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

If her best friend Gillian were here, she would likely call this “an exploitative farce,” two terms she would’ve picked up from her beloved Word of the Day calendar.

Claire,” she would hiss, “this is such an exploitative (Wednesday’s word) farce (last Friday’s word).” And then she’d pull out her Moleskin, update her word count with a self-satisfied tick. Her record, she claimed, was sixty words in a single morning, and Claire imagined a horrible plague descending upon their town, zombifying everyone until they could only grunt “verisimilitude.” Gillian thought an expanded vocabulary made her smarter but, really, it just increased her smart-assedness to a barely tolerable level.

Luckily, Gillian wasn’t here to offer one of her impressive synonyms because she’d bailed on their plans. If Claire could place money on it—and she couldn’t, with only $7 to her name, the very reason for this “manipulative/sad/exploitative farce”—Gillian was protesting GMO’s one county over. Perhaps arguing for the rights of beluga whales. Or, and this was the most likely, she was loitering at the Creamy Whip, breasts thrust at a very specific angle so that customers’ cones would find their shirts and not their mouths.

Psh! Now if that wasn’t an “exploitative farce” then Claire didn’t know what was. Gillian had mosquito bite boobs and a push-up bra more magical than her own powers.

But here was the thing: Claire wasn’t completely faking it. She wasn’t, so to speak, wearing a bra with three inches of padding. She could read palms, see futures unfurl, weblike, across strangers’ skins. Forks, divots, complex branches—each had such a distinct voice, that Claire had no doubt as to whether or not, say, Mr. Duncan over there would choke on a hot dog and die very suddenly. Or whether young Malva—that girl with the cotton candy and ruffled socks—would pop out a kid by the time she was 17. Claire, being a witch, knew precisely what would befall her clients by simply looking at their hands.

But of course, teenage pregnancy and death by synthetic meat logs weren’t exactly good for customer satisfaction. And so Claire would read Mr. Duncan’s palm, and she would see Mr. Duncan’s red face, gasping on a particularly troublesome bit of hot dog, but say he’d live until he was 85. A little white lie for a happy client. And a happy client meant A) money, B) a potential second visit, and thus C) more money. The $5 rocks weren’t scams, just for-profit business cards.

So she was lying, but not, y’know, totally lying. She’d deal with the prevention of hot dog-induced deaths later, when it better benefitted her monthly budget. (Because just as she wasn’t a complete liar, she wasn’t a complete asshole either.)

The fair had died down to a trickling of stragglers: mostly drunks, a couple of junkies who’d staggered into Nayawenne County for cheap-rate smack. Sighing, Claire stood to begin packing up, turned off the moody sound effects, gathered Gillian’s stack of Tarot cards (all hand-painted variations of herself: man Gillian; tree Gillian; Gillian with bigger-than-mosquito-bite boobs).

In the five hours since Claire had arrived, she’d made $120. Not a terrible turnout if one compared it to last year’s fair, when an angry swarm of Bible-thumpers had tossed her earnings into the funnel cake fryer. Sally Bain—or, as Claire called her, Sally Bane-of-Her-Existence—had rallied her troop of Jesus warriors and thrust crucifixes into Claire’s face, chanting things like, “Begone Satan!” and “This is God’s land!”

Which was kind of funny when you thought about it. If God wanted to claim ownership of Nayawenne—out of every other place in the universe—then he was pretty damn stupid.

Fortunately, Claire had suffered no further Bible-thumping, crucifix-wielding disturbances. Sally Bane-of-Her-Existence had fled town once she’d discovered her husband had fucked the organ player up in the ass. And in the church rectory, no less. (Such irony! Claire’d had absolutely nothing to do with it. Ha.)

It had been a windy afternoon, and Claire’s crystal ball was now coated in a fine layer of dust. Though it was only for decorative purposes—for customer satisfaction!—Claire decided she ought to give it a nice shine, make it look at least halfway capable of revealing visions of tomorrow.

Witch Tip #1: Unbeknownst to Mortals, crystal balls were like kisses from a true love. Which was to say, not powerful in the slightest. The most a kiss could do was give you mouth herpes. And, at its highest power, a crystal ball would fly across a room, break a window and the pinky toe of an irritating significant other. Not that Claire had experience with either situation. Certainly not the mouth herpes.

Claire ripped off a paper towel and went to grab the Windex, only to realize she’d left the Windex at home. Had, by a stroke of poor planning, only brought the herbal tonic she sometimes had to spritz into her eyes when they got a bit cloudy.

Witch Tip #2: Seeing the future had its drawbacks. Your eyes would get all crusty if you did it too much. As if your body was punishing you with goopy morning blindness. Honestly, it was pretty gross.

Well shit, Claire thought. She spat on her hand and rubbed the ball, hoping the couple beside “Whack-A-Democrat” wouldn’t think she was, like, doing something sexual to an inanimate object.

But whatever the couple thought, they were watching her, whispering behind their hands and giving her darting glances. Oh God, Claire thought, Bible-thumper radar blaring. Did Sally Bain send them? Did she organize a sabotage via prayer? Was it possible to raise an army of vengeful Baptists an entire state away? (Claire wouldn’t be surprised. She’d heard of stranger things. Done some of them herself. See also: anally-fucked organ player before he was anally fucked.)  

But no, the couple wasn’t looking at Claire with the fury of God in their eyes—but fascination. The woman, a petite but sturdy thing, was shoving her partner in Claire’s direction. Making a not-so-obvious pointing gesture, like, Her. Her! that he seemed somewhat reluctant to obey. Still, he did, and soon he was striding towards Claire, long legs stomping up clouds of dirt dust, red hair matching the synthetic blood of a “whacked” Bill Clinton.

“Are you…” the man began, looking nervously over his shoulder. The woman pursed her lips, arched her brow like, Do it, you pussy. He shoved his hands in his pockets, defeated. “Are ye done for the day, lass?”

“I was just about to pack up, but I’ve time for another reading if you’re interested.”

“Aye…” he said, completely unconvincing. “Aye, I suppose I’m interested.”

“Well then, take a seat, Mr…?”

“Fraser. Jamie.”

Keep reading

Jon is Brandon’s Bastard AU Part 2

Part two in which there is more Ned, some Cat, and a brief glimpse into Jon. 

Jon x Sansa, Ned x Cat, Benjen x adorable confusion, Jon x pining, all my otps.

Sometimes Ned wasn’t sure he’d made the right choices. He’d been so close to claiming his nephew; had chosen the words, the phrases, had repeated them over and over in his head. It took one look at his lovely wife, pale and drawn, standing in the courtyard of Winterfell with their son in her arms, and he couldn’t say them.

Maybe things would have been better, he knew it had brought Cat pain to think her once betrothed had laid with another soon before they would have been wed. But he knew that it would pain her infinitely more to think it his, and to have to face a husband, wed and vowed, that had done so. And he was selfish. He saw the pain of such a deception stretching on and on into a future where even if they loved each other, there would always be a breach, whose name was Jon.

So Jon became Brandon’s son, but he acted like Ned’s. He was quiet, calm, and had a tender hand. Ned worried once that the North may have been growing almost suspicious, for Jon was so like him, despite how ridiculous the very idea of honourable Ned Stark having a bastard would be.

Things changed when Jon and Robb started to leave boyhood.

Both were strong fighters, with Robb and his bulky building holding a lance as finely as any jumped up southern knight, and Jon with his broad shoulders and trim waist handling a sword with precision and grace. But Jon showed an edge in the ring that could never have come from Ned. He did not show it against his brother, and he did not use it against any of the younger boys training in the yard. But when Theon crowded Sansa against a wall, or slid a hand a touch too low; when a Karstark teen compared Arya unfavourably to her sister- then there was no trouble believing that Jon Snow could be Brandon Starks son. There was a fury there, and it blew hot, and it blew cold, and it rivalled Brandon at his most incandescent.

Even Benjen, when he came down from the Wall, had remarked on it upon seeing Jon thrashing Theon over a crude comment overheard at the supper table.

Keep reading

SasuSaku Month Day 9 - On Opposite Sides


Pairing: SasuSaku

Summary: On a cold winter evening, Sasuke steals a kiss from his traveling companion, Sakura. As he drifts to sleep, fresh thoughts of his lover’s lips, he is unexpectedly sharing a pot of tea with his family and Madara Uchiha.

A/N: So I managed to squeeze this one out in two sessions .-. It’s not sexually graphic at all this time around! (Surprising, I know) I tried to keep it applicable to the current canon. It’s set during the Blank period with our lovely couple traversing the world. I had a lot of fun writing this one, particularly the conversation among the dead Uchiha and Sasuke. I remember reading a fanfic before that had him talking with his extended family about Sakura, which I think was written by @kuriquinn but i’m not sure. (I really love your writing if you ever see this! :D ) So enjoy some non-smutty, cutesy SasuSaku!

The evenings had been getting chillier by the day. Winter was approaching quickly, and they had no plans on returning to the Leaf within the next few months. Sasuke had just finished up their campfire, while Sakura returned with a small catch of fish. Their days were spent in the wilderness. It had only been a few weeks since they were sent out by Kakashi on their current mission. In that small amount of time they had managed to build a very strong relationship. Sasuke was reluctant to title their relationship, and I’m content with that. He had noticed Sakura was opening up to him more and more these days. When they first set foot outside of the village together, she seemed very hesitant to delve deeper into her own past, but especially his. He could sense she was holding back information, without evoking a dojutsu to verify his suspicions.

Keep reading

Signs of Life

My entry for the spn-summergen exchange on LJ and was a gift for annie46 who wanted a Red Meat coda with hurt!Sam and Dean dealing with the aftermath. Beta’d by the always lovely @wehunt-monsters-whatthehell.

Pairing: Gen | Rating: PG13 | Wordcount: 2,048 | Link to AO3

Dean can’t leave, he can’t sleep, because Sam could just slip away. Again.

The beer is warm and bitter but he takes another sip, grimacing as it hits his stomach. His system is still shredded raw from the pills and the doc’s resuscitation efforts. Nurse Ratchet reminded him as he checked out of the clinic that he should only drink broth or bland crap for a few days. And of course, absolutely no alcohol, unless he wanted to end up back in the hospital, or worse.

He’d rolled his eyes at that, because what could be worse than being dead? Then he’d hustled Sam out to the car and out of town as fast as he could.

Now that they’re settled in a motel room for the night and Sam is finally asleep, there’s no way Dean is leaving to make a run for chicken soup and saltines. Instead, he sits at the dinette set and drinks their remaining beers, his feet up on the green cooler. As the minutes tick by on the cheap wall clock, he can hear the big rigs roar past on nearby Highway 184, crossing through Boise without a second thought. He’ll take all the late-night road noise and bad motel rooms as long as he never has to set foot in a national forest again.

A snuffle from the far bed gets his attention. Sam is stretched out long on the mattress, one foot half dangling off the side, his mouth slightly open in a snore. And snoring is good. It’s great, even. It means Sam is sleeping. It means he is alive and breathing.

Dean waits, listening for that next exhale. When it happens, he can finally breathe too. 

Keep reading

On the streets, unrequited love and death go together almost as often as in Shakespeare.

Scott Turow

The One After Her: A Relationship in Pieces

A Crimimal Minds Fan-fiction: 2

Featuring: Spencer Reid x Female Reader    Setting: Season 10

1st Piece (You really need to read this first) xoxo Stu

The day he met her

When Spencer returned to the team after talking with Y/N everyone was staring at him. He ignored them with their silent questions and got back to the case. The internal fanfare of his potential date with an interesting and attractive woman kept the corners of his mouth poking up spontaneously for the remainder of the day. How was he a profiler when he couldn’t even keep his emotions at bay?

Derek probed him for answers once they were driving back to Quantico in the dark SUVs. Spencer tried to dismiss Derek’s inquiries. But finally Derek guessed that he had gotten her number, for more than just the case and Spencer balked too dramatically. “My man, look at you! So you going to call her?”

“Wha–Of course I am going to call her! Why would I put myself through all that to get her number and NOT call her Morgan?” Spencer justified.

“But not tonight, right? You don’t want to come on too strong.” Derek explained.

“Alright, when would be a socially acceptable time to call Y/N?”

“Y/N? That’s her name? Fitting. I would wait a couple of days, but I know you. You won’t be able to handle the nerves that long. Call her tomorrow.”

And so he had, after dialing her number and hanging up four times. When her voice answered Spencer smiled, wiping the sweat from his palms one at a time. “Yes, hello, Y/N?”

Two months later

She stood along the curb in front of her apartment complex. Spencer had spotted her writing furiously in her moleskin, like most time she spent alone. He pulled his car over and waited. When Y/N concentrated, her brow furrowed in such a way that made him think of baby animals and pouting children. Her thoughts always on the next obstacle for her protagonist or the spurning words of a side character’s abusive parents. How she navigated the realms she created fascinated him. He had only been allowed to read the smallest bits of her poetry. She held her adventures for herself, until she deemed them complete. He was willing to bet the world would run out of trees first.

He stepped out of the car, quietly waiting for Y/N to see his taller form beside his distinctive vehicle. When she looked up in thought she spotted him, Spencer waved. The relaxing of her facial muscles and the resulting shining smile gave his stomach a jolt. This is what breathtaking meant.

Y/N rushed over, ducking her head inside his cramped car. She leaned in and hugged him tightly once he was situated. She smelled sweet, but not like bakery it was floral and fresh. The way her softer body pressed into his thin chest was simultaneously comforting and invigorating. Spencer held on until she pulled back, clicking her seat belt.

“I am so excited you are back today! I got you a surprise and I am not waiting until after dinner.” Her mischievous grin melted him further. “Now close your eyes. No peeking Spencer Reid!”

Keep reading

Renegade (pt. 3)

Originally posted by parkchanyeolieoppa

Another wolf-finds-his-mate story, but I kicked it up a notch and created a whole new world around it.

Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader

Genre: Supernatural (EXO as wolves, but more species involved in the storyline)

Word count: 5039 words

Warning: None!

New to the series? Start your adventure here: Prologue (Don’t skip it, it contains info you’ll need in a small part of this chapter)
The posts will always contain a link to the next part, unless that part hasn’t been posted yet.

Part 3

The light that shone through the open windows, brightened the whitely painted parquet floor and wheat brown walls of Chanyeol’s bedroom. Whereas last night, the artificial lightening from his simple pendant Scandinavian ceiling light gave the feel of a cosy bedroom, the atmosphere in the room was now more heavenly. The sound of whistling birds filled the room and small details such as the tree stump nightstands, his carefully located acoustic guitar and the present house plants even made one overlook the small mess on his desk.

Chanyeol felt very comfortable. Despite his legs being tangled up with (y/n)’s under the sheets, the feeling of his arms holding her close and her perfume, now perfected in his presence, satisfied his inner wolf immensely and he wanted time to stop so he could stay like that forever.

He opened his eyes, curious to (y/n)’s sleeping figure. As her head was nestled snugly in his neck, he carefully tried to lower himself without waking her to be at eye-height with her.

Keep reading

Kingdom- Chapter Four

Gajeel has had the dream about dying for the blue haired girl for as long as he can remember. Which is weird, since he’s never met anyone with blue hair in his life.

Levy has always loved myths and legends. So much so, in fact, that she was currently getting her master’s in mythological studies.

What neither of them realized was that they were living a legend all their own.

AKA the one with a knight, a princess, and a curse that keeps bringing them together just to pull them apart.

Keep reading

shouldernova  asked:

i feel embarrassed to even suggest this but um. Crack fic where they somehow discover theyre fictional

what if……

what if it’s a normal day at the palace. it’s post curse: the sun shines lovely on their faces as lumiere and plumette waltz in the kitchen; the evergreen trees bristle bright green as adam walks into the forest for a bit of fresh air; the marble walls of the palace are cool and calming as lefou takes tea with mr. cogsworth. In the hidden heart of France, belle curls up happily in her new home to start her new project.

Ah, yes. The bookshelf. A cranky old piece of work, tucked in the back of one of the unused bedrooms, full of all the books nobody bothered to put in the library. They had been sitting here, undusted and unloved, for many years now; adam, even, hadn’t known what was in them or what they were.

“probably medical journals, or something,” he had said. “something boring, i don’t know. if they were interesting i would have insisted they be put in the library.”

“If you don’t know what they are, how do you know if they’re interesting?”

“Stop being cheeky.” Adam grins and goes for his walk, and Belle is smiling with the memory of it as she cracks open the glass doors—goodness, they’re grimy, Plumette hasn’t been in here—and lifts out the first book.

What do you know. A medical journal. Adam would never let her hear the end of it.

Keep reading

Garden of Simple

For the OQ Prompt Party: #74 Enchanted Forest, s3, OQ secret candlelight dinner.

Robin misses the forest – especially on nights like these. Clear, cool nights where the moon is a heavy, glowing orb up above, and the stars scatter pinpricks in the darkness of the heavens. It’s bright enough one could stroll the forest by moonlight alone – something he’d loved doing, before. He’d enjoyed the solitude, the peace, the feeling of being a part of the world just like any other beast that walks or crawls.

But there are dangers now – brought close to home by their returned travelers. Winged monkeys that swoop and snatch, and midnight wandering is ill-advised. They’ve retreated indoors, into the safety of the Queen’s castle. A laughable statement once – who’d have ever imagined finding refuge there?

And yet, they have. He and his motley crew of ruffians have taken over a series of rooms on a lower floor, strung it with hammocks and bed pallets (they’re not much for creature comforts, indoors or no), and begun to take regular meals in a great hall next to the very royals they once would have plundered.

It’s funny how life works out, isn’t it?

And it has its benefits certainly – last week had been one of near-constant drizzle mixed with bursts of downpour, and bitter winds all the while. He can’t say he’d missed their encampment, then – not when he and his son were nestled in warm bedclothes by a roaring fire, Roland sipping heated broth while Robin drank from a flask of whiskey he’d been gifted by Prince David. Warm, full bellies, and warm, dry clothes are a good sight better than huddling beneath canvas tents and trying to keep any sort of flame over hissing, sputtering embers in the forest.

And then there’s her. The Queen herself.

Robin supposes he shouldn’t consider her a perk of castle life – she’s not a thing, after all, not a pretty bauble, but a person. And what a person she is, full of life, and fire, with an acid tongue, a quick wit he quite enjoys matching with barbs of his own. And she’s lovely, absolutely lovely, to look at.

He’s been caught staring more than once by John, or Tuck, or Much, his gaze riveted to the shape of her frown as she takes bites of venison as though they’re as boring as whatever tale Princess Snow is regaling her with at the royal table. How someone can be so surly and so pretty at the same time, he’ll never fathom, but he’s drawn to her like moth to flame again and again.

And then there are the moments that she smiles – with sharp malice after she lands a particularly sound insult, or (his favorite) the soft curves of lip she saves for Roland and Roland only. To have said she has a soft spot for children was an understatement – in Robin’s experience, they seem to be the only thing to bring her any joy.

So yes, he does consider her a perk of castle living. Her lively wit, and her secret smiles, and the dark coffee color of her eyes. Privately, he does.

And yet, on nights like these – the clear, cool ones – life inside these castle walls simply isn’t enough. He feels confined here, trapped. Feels the urge to prowl, if only because he’s not allowed to simply roam.

He’s not foolish enough to leave the grounds on his own, but Roland is tucked dreaming away beneath his covers, and Robin is restless. So he heads for the nearest thing to a forest he can find within the fortified walls – the Queen’s garden.

Her prized apple tree lives in an upper courtyard, a place of prominence, but it’s not the only vine she tends. There’s another grove on the castle’s eastern side, a sizeable patch of land gated and walled off, said walls now covered entirely by creeping ivy that had grown thick and lush during the years of the curse. There are rosebushes there, and flowering trees, tall shrubbery and an old weeping willow that Roland loves to play hide and seek in.

It’s not a forest, but it’ll do. It still smells of green things, and there are frogs that croak merrily in its depths, and birds that nest happily in its trees and sing their songs during the daytime. If he faces the right direction, keeps the high spires of the castle at his back, he can pretend he’s not walled in by stone and circumstance.

The old gate creaks as he enters, a low whine that’s echoed by one of those friendly frogs, and Robin smiles as he lets it swing shut behind him and takes a deep breath in. The chilly night air fills his lungs, bringing with it the scent of night-blooming flowers that he knows full well are out of season right now, and yet, somehow they flourish here. (It is the Queen’s garden, after all, and it bends ever to her will – he’s fairly certain the hush that falls over him as that gate clicks closed is not simply the sound-dampening effects of ivy.)

Something in his middle settles, and that part of him that needs to feel the softness of earth beneath his boots bears down just a little into each blessedly springy step as he leaves the footpath and trods over well-watered grass. He doesn’t have a destination in mind, per se, circles the outer edge, and runs his fingers over the night-chilled growth of ivy, feels the pillowy roughness of a patch of stone covered over in thick moss, and every bit of it soothes that restless heart of his.

He visits her roses, the red ones almost black under the light of the moon, and the white ones nearly glowing.

And then he takes a trip to that old willow and its drooping, leafy curtains. There’s a bench beneath it, hidden in close near the trunk, and he’s a mind to sit for a spell and let the foliage engulf him. To pretend he’s high up in some old canopy in Sherwood, free as a bird.

Or maybe just to peek out the parted swath and admire the garden as a whole, the lights of the castle looming above it, yes, but not quite managing to touch.

It’s not until he’s ducked beneath that very canopy of leaves that he becomes aware his idea wasn’t a novel one.

He doesn’t see her dress (it’s black) or the moonlit pale wash of her skin (that bench is well ensconced in shadow) – it’s the fire he sees first. A sudden, orange bloom of it clutched in her palm that makes him yelp rather embarrassingly and stagger backward.

She smirks – none of the ire he might expect from a Queen interrupted, simply amusement at her own ability to call up a fright in him. To catch him unawares.

Robin presses a hand to his hammering heart, and forces a smile in return (it doesn’t take much effort, summoning a smile for Regina), speaking over the gentle nighttime chorus of nature to offer her, “Apologies, milady. I thought I was alone.”

“It’s Your Majesty,” she corrects, as always, but without a bit of heat, and then, “And I noticed.”

A flick of her wrist and the flame in her palm is gone – or not gone, but it flickers into pieces, little wafts of flame that wrap slowly with thick glass until they’re each cupped in a little jar. Robin watches, rapt, as silvery chains grow link by link from their rims, up, up into the darkness. After a moment the little jars seem to cease hovering, settling into their own weight and swinging lightly from their chains.

He’s never been too terribly trusting of magic, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t fascinated by her little displays.

“Is that safe?” he wonders, his heart kicking up again as he catches sight of her shifting to make room beside her in the bench.

They’re not friends, Robin and the Queen, and the clear invitation seems out of character.

Out of character, but not unwelcome, and Robin certainly won’t refuse. He approaches slowly, but casually, feeling a bit like he’s about to spook a momentarily friendly bear.

She’s squinting slightly up at their makeshift lanterns, and from this close and in the glowing lamplight, he can see the rise and fall of her shoulder as she shrugs.

“They’re well-contained and it’s not a terribly warm flame,” she concludes, as he sinks to the stone beside her. “Not much wind tonight. We should be fine.”

“Mm,” he hums in acknowledgement, leaning back against the trunk of the old tree and gazing upward at the flickering lights, if only because he’s afraid looking too long at her (what he’d truly like to do). They’re getting along quite nicely at the moment, and he wouldn’t want to disturb whatever mood she’s in by staring at the wonder of her profile by candlelight. Not just yet, at least.

For a minute, they just sit in silence. Just them and the frogs, and the crickets, and an owl hooting somewhere not too far off. Robin thinks perhaps they’ll sit there like that all evening (and perhaps they should, he really wouldn’t mind it), but it seems a shame to waste such a pleasant mood on silence, so he breaks it, finally.

“So,” he begins, rolling his gaze toward her and nearly losing his train of thought in the flickering line of brow, nose, lips he shouldn’t want to kiss (but does), and chin. He clears his throat lightly and continues, “I know why I went wandering in a dark garden on my own tonight – I needed a bit of fresh air. What’s your reason for sitting here, all alone in the dark, Your Majesty?”

Those kissable lips curve (she’s still looking up, up, at her own little flames), and she sinks back against the trunk beside him, a flick of her wrist illuminating a little table he’d not noticed sitting on her far side. It’s not very large, set only for one, with a plate piled high with fruits and meat, and roasted vegetables. A goblet of wine, and a small plate of sweets.

“I was having a late dinner, away from Snow White’s incessant need to party plan,” she tells him, dryly.

And, “Ah, yes,” he smiles. “She has been on about that lately, hasn’t she?”

Regina Mms, and her eyes roll heavenward. The princess has been insisting on a ball to honor the change of seasons, something festive to keep morale up around the castle. It doesn’t surprise him overly much that Regina isn’t eager to help throw the little soiree.

Still, that’s not what has him most distracted at the moment. No, that’s the fact that she was, “Eating in the dark?”

It’s a question somewhat unspoken – why on earth would she be taking her meal in near blackness, even if she was dining alone.

One perfectly shaped brow rises up at that, and she tells him archly, “I wasn’t,” smirking to add, “I had the candle lit, until someone came wandering through the garden gate.”

Robin has the decency to look guilty for a moment, offering up an, “Ah,” and an, “I’m sorry, then. I’ve disturbed your meal. I could go, if you’d prefer.”

Idiot. He shouldn’t have offered – she’ll surely take the out and send him packing.

But the night is full of surprises, it seems, because Regina only shakes her head and tells him, “It’s alright. It seems I’m rather poor company for myself tonight; I wouldn’t mind if you… stayed.”

Ah. Well, that explains her willingness to be sociable, then.

“Well, then it’s good I haven’t had my fill of the night air yet,” is all he says in reply, hunkering down a little more comfortably into the bark against his back.

She hums a little, and adds, “And besides, this is far too much food for one person.”

He tilts his head to spy her plate again, and it’s not, really, not at all. But then, she eats like a bird most days. Not that he’s noticed. (He’s most certainly noticed.)

Before he can blink, the candle winks out, the table with it, a dark swirl and the sharp scent of impending rain, the hairs on the backs of his arms stand on end for a moment, and then the table is in front of them, candle and all, a second goblet of wine beside the first.

“Help me finish it?” she requests, and, well, who is Robin of Locksley to refuse the delicacies offered by a Queen?


I carry your heart with me

Originally posted by greyjoyvs

Fandom: The Lord of The Rings
Pairing: Aragorn x reader
Genres: fluff, very much fluff
Words: 1.335
Summary: A marriage ceremony between Aragorn and reader written mostly in Aragorn’s POV - requested by Anonymous
A/N: I mixed a few marriage vows for this fic, and I put a bit of reader’s POV at the beginning. I hope I did well, enjoy! :)

Keep reading

~Tir Na Nog~ (M)

Who knew a bit of music and dancing could lead to such sensual behavior?  

Rated M for Mature: Smut


Word Count: 5,902

Your feet scuffed the grass as you stood unsurely by the entrance of the forest.  The sun was high in the sky and you felt like it was the perfect day to venture out and see your dragon lover.  If only your chicken thoughts didn’t catch up to your spur-of-the-moment decision.  What if he wasn’t there or maybe he’s busy.  

Oh, get a hold of yourself, woman!  Before your feet could morph into chicken legs and try to scurry off in the opposite direction, you step into the forest.  Under the tall trees, the air was much cooler compared to being in direct sunlight and the breeze feels marvelous against your skin.

As you walk, your ears pick up the sound of a woman’s voice, multiple women’s voices actually and they appear to be singing.  

~From the shores through the ancient mist, you bear the mark of my elven kiss~  

 Why would there be people all the way out here?  Nobody tended to venture out this far from the trails. Curiosity fully piqued, you follow the beautiful song and you’re surprised when you see the edge of your grove.  As you near the opening to the clearing, you duck behind a tree and peek through the branches.  Your jaw drops when you see a dozen women dancing through the flowers.

At least, you think they are women.  

Keep reading

The Ballad of the Herring Omusubi

Read Time: 3 minutes | Prompt: Gifts

“Ah, so even once-in-a-lifetime geniuses can fail in at least one thing in their life.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Didn’t you see what Neji-sensei’s having for lunch? It’s a burnt mass of abomination begging to be called ‘food’!”

“You better not let him hear that, young man.”

All the heads of the gossiping Academy genin turned to see the flashy-looking Rock Lee in front of them, grinning wickedly. “L-Lee-sensei!” The bowl-haired male was one of the most laid-back shinobi in the village, but the children knew that he was a lifelong teammate of the subject of their conversation.

“Hahaha! Look how white your faces have gone!” Lee plopped down to join the circle underneath the biwa tree. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell. But please remember that your sensei can get very, very protective about his lunches.”

“Protective? Don’t you mean ‘defensive’?” one child chimed in.

“I meant exactly what I said.”

“But he shouldn’t feel bad about not being good at cooking!” The female genin pressed her hands together, as if swooning. “Sensei’s good at everything else anyway!”

“Oh, Neji’s great at cooking. But he’d rather not.”


Lee reached overhead to pluck a leaf from one of the biwa ’s low-hanging branches and proceeded to cup his hands over it. He tested it with a puff of air and a high-pitched whistle resounded from the plucked leaf.

“WOAH!” The Academy pupils’ eyes widened in awe.

Lee closed his eyes and began to play a few, cheery notes.

Come all ye, Konoha’s shinobi-to-be
Today I’ll tell the tale of Neji’s Herring Omusubi.
It’s burnt and salty, and the fish tail sticks out.
But it’s a dish the man can’t do without.

The balladeer snuck a furtive glance at where Neji was and saw that the latter was still blissfully unaware of what was happening. So he continued to sing.

Keep reading

Snapped: Part two; Flustered. [Smut]

A/N; So this is part two of the collab with @mystic-biscuit her part was called captivated. It will run for a few chapters, the series is entitled Snapped. I really hope you enjoy it and i’m looking forward for the next few chapters. Anything bolded is an inner thought. Enjoy my loves. xoxo

Author: thelittlestkitsune

Warnings: Abuse. Smut. Domination. 

Word count: 7,239

Part one. 

Originally posted by pereswagposts

Keep reading

secrets don’t make friends

send me requests !!!

anon said:  Hey, so I was wondering if it would be okay to ask if you could write something about being like best mates w the marauders and a lesbian? Idk maybe coming out to them or something - and dating Marlene if that’s alright? I say your posts earlier and feel in love w your wlw content, I adore you☺️

not gonna lie i was working on another request when i got this and i started working on it immediately i LVOE this. i will always write wlw content forever for the rest of my life thank 

Keep reading