On the sixth day of Edmas, Captain Kenway gave to me…
At first, you hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. The days were growing shorter as winter fast approached, your duties as an Assassin still outranking all other aspects of your life. You were training when Altaïr greeted you, his lips straight and his hood covering the rest of his face. He claimed he wanted to see your progress. Of course, you were more than ready to show him how much you’d improved. He had, after all, constantly taunted you.
So you’d sparred with him. Blow after blow you parried each other, neither one of you ever able to hit the other. It was tiring work and lasted long into the night. By the time you called a truce, the sun had long since set and the moon was lighting the sky.
“I can walk you home.” Altaïr offered, voice as stoic as ever.
“It’s alright, I think I can handle any trouble on the way.” You chuckled lightly, sheathing your sword.
Shrugging, you nodded. He walked by your side as you made your way through the twists and turns of the village, the natural light of the skies your only guide. Normally, you’d enjoy the walk home, the beauty of the peaceful roads and the smell of flowers in the air. However, today it was a little more unpleasant, the awkwardness between you and Altaïr taking away from the scenery.
Your eyes flicked up to him, his face unreadable beneath the shadows of his hood. You’d never really spoken to him all that much outside of your Assassin duties, besides the occasional mission you’d have to take with him. And never had he spent more time than necessary with you. In fact, you’d gotten the impression that he, like with most people, disliked you. You were, after all, the only woman Assassin.
But this, this was truly an odd scenario. The great Altaïr didn’t go out of his way to walk anyone to their home, let alone you. So why the sudden change?
“If you don’t mind me asking,” you began, the curiosity itching away at you, “Why are you walking me home?”
His muscles seemed to tense at your question, the lips that were barely visible turned down. He looked to be struggling for an answer.
“You are too worn out to be effective against any danger you might encounter.” He finally settled on that answer, not entirely sure with how that’d boat with you.
“I’m quite capable,” you scoffed, glaring at the pebble your foot kicked in annoyance. The distance screech of a crow took your attention, a sigh being released into the air.
“Even after hours of training?”
That annoying sense of self-importance had slipped back into his tone, causing you to grit your teeth.
“Yes, even after that,” you bit out, stopping abruptly. “Why don’t you go bug someone else?”
Honestly, you’d heard enough talk about not being good enough for three lifetimes, you really didn’t want to hear anymore. Altaïr seemed to fumble with his words for a moment, nodding solemnly and turning his back. You could’ve sworn you heard a soft apology tumble from his lips, but then again, it could’ve been the wind. Shrugging to yourself, you shook off the event and continued on. You doubted anything like that would ever happen again anyways.
The second time it happened, you began to think that maybe there was something Altaïr needed to tell you. It’d been two weeks since he offered to walk you home, most of which you’d spent avoiding the git. He had, although indirectly, suggested that you were incapable of watching out for yourself. You’d been just returning from a short three day mission for a little recon. There hadn’t been any trouble but you had found yourself in need of a break. So, naturally, you went to the river.
The water rushed by in a roar, the soft current tickling at your bare feet as you stood in the water. It was much like what you had done as a child, playing within the cool waters. The temperature didn’t bother you so much as the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, a flash of white robes appearing before you.
“Altaïr?” You questioned, watching the Assassin curiously.
His eyes were on you as you stood knee-high in the water, his hands behind his back.
“(Y/N),” he greeted, nodding once and unsheathing his blade.
The silver glint was blocked by a thick coat of scarlet blood, the sure signs of a recent killing. It seems he’s come to clean his blade. You sighed, turning away from him and moving further into the stream. It was soaking your robes, the thick cloth becoming even heavier as it absorbed the water.
Nostalgic thoughts occupied your mind as you leaned down, immersing your head fully into the liquid. It was relaxing for exactly one minute before a hand ripped you out of the water, your gaze meeting two wide, very beautiful, golden eyes. Altaïr had a look of panic, both hands gripping your shoulders.
“What was that?” You asked, breathless from the time under the water and the sudden disruption.
“I-” He froze up, not entirely sure how to answer it.
“You?” You prompted, setting your lips in a thin line and fixing him with a glare.
“You didn’t come up to breathe and so I thought…” He trailed off, realizing that he still had his hands on your shoulder.
Altaïr pulled away with surprising speed, taking a step back from you.
“That I was what? Dead?” You bit your lip to stop your laugh.
Clearly, the man was a little more than flustered. He shook his head, dragging in a deep breath.
“Well, I just assumed th-”
“It’s okay, Altaïr, really.” You assured him, flashing him a brief, albeit meaningful, smile.
He released a breath, nodding to you. The rush of water ran thickly between the two of you, his mouth opening like he wished to speak more, but no words came out. Strange, he was like that when escorting you home. What was it he seemed to have such trouble spitting out?
“I have to go.” He announced, practically fleeing the scene. You stared where he once stood, an amused smile tugging at your lips. Perhaps Altaïr wasn’t as bad as you made him seem.
It was the third time that you truly understood what was happening. Al Mualim had sent you to Jerusalem with Altaïr stating that he needed two people he truly trusted. Naturally, you and Altaïr had been his first choice. For most of the trip there, Altaïr had been silent, only breaking it when he thought it time to set up camp or retrieve supplies. You didn’t have much desire to speak to him, instead trying to read all you could from his expressions.
All you’d managed to gather in your observations was that he couldn’t hold eye contact with you for more than 5 seconds without looking away and he seemed to have the hardest time biting his tongue when it truly mattered. But there was still something that he wasn’t telling you. It was in the way he’d send you these looks when he didn’t think you were paying attention or the way he’d say your name, like it was a treat to be savoured instead of a mere word to call you.
He’d left you at the campsite an hour ago, leaving you to build a fire while he left in search for water. You’d grown worried, not that you’d ever admit it, but your fears were snuffed out when he approached, his feet moving as gracefully as ever. In both hands he held, presumably, filled waterskins, the scent of cardamom and mint wafting over with him.
“There isn’t much wood to keep the fire going,” you admitted, gesturing towards the dimly lit fire that barely stood a foot above the ground.
“It is good enough.” He said, taking a seat beside you.
You raised your brow, surprised that he didn’t have a complaint about how small the fire was or how you couldn’t find any wood to make sure it was adequately supplied. He handed you your waterskin, either ignoring or oblivious to your shock.
“Thanks.” You mumbled, taking a cautious sip.
The water slid down your throat like the finest of wines, the feel intoxicating. You’d gone hours without drinking and you hadn’t even realized how thirsty you truly were.
“You are welcome.” Altaïr replied lowly, the reply nearly causing you to choke on your water.
Altaïr, the self-important, high and mighty asshole, just acknowledged your thanks. He was full of surprises, his hand lightly patting your back as your coughs subsided. You swallowed, looking upon his face after you caught your breath. His hood was down, something you’d only ever seen twice before. The fire was reflecting off his tanned skin, outlining his sharp cheekbones and full lips. His eyes, golden like the sand under the harsh rays of the sun, were shining brightly to you.
His mouth opened, almost as if he wanted to saw something, then snapped shut with an audible click. The crackling of the fire was the only thing keeping the silence at bay, your mind running with a million possibilities of what it was he was wanting to say. It couldn’t be a coincidence, you’d seen him try to say something too often for it to be that. No, he wanted to say something.
“Altaïr,” you started, keeping his gaze with yours. “What do you want to say?”
His lips parted, tongue moving but no words being uttered. He seemed to be stuck, unable to voice whatever was plaguing his thoughts. With a frustrated growl to himself, he wrapped a hand around the back of your neck, pulling your mouth towards his. He met your lips with a fiery hunger, his movements rough and needy. You gasped, the sound being swallowed by his mouth as he took the opportunity to slip his tongue in.
Your hands, frozen until now, rested on his shoulder blades. Your lips moved against his, matching his ferocity with your own, your tongue sliding along the roof of his mouth. He responded positively, wrapping an arm around your waist so he could properly lay you back, resting himself between your legs.
“Altaïr,” you breathed when he finally released your lips, watching him with wide eyes.
His tongue darted out to swipe along his swollen and wet lips, the gold of his eyes now only a sliver in the darkness of desire.
“I was wrong.” He admitted, his thumb rubbing over the apple of your cheek. “You can handle yourself, but I would rather you didn’t.”
You furrowed your brows in question, one of your hands rubbing between his shoulder blades.
“What do you mean?”
“I admire you.” He stated, his normal confidence back. “More than I should, but I can’t do anything to stop that. I would like to keep you safe, even though you don’t need my help doing it.”
You smiled up at him, his own grin mirroring yours. He definitely wasn’t that bad.
"I said I'd marry you, and I'll be damned if I let this ruin that promise!"
Today was your wedding day. Now, wedding days are famously known for being beautiful occasions with a blushing bride in a beautiful gown and the handsome groom waiting to spend the rest of his life with her. The ceremonies are grand and the receptions are lively, full of dancing and drinking as everyone celebrated.
That wasn’t your wedding day at all.
The day began with a storm that had rolled in out of nowhere. The streets were practically flooded, but you were still determined to make it through the day. It appeared as if things might start to look up when the time to head to the church came around and the rain stopped.
You were soaked as soon as you stepped foot onto the pavement. A reckless driver had sped by, splashing your entire bridal party with dirty water and ultimately ruining your dress.
As if things couldn’t get worse, just a second later lighting struck the church. It was an old building, something Spencer picked out due to the antique architecture.
“Spencer!” you immediately yelled as you saw the roof start to blaze, the lightning strike setting off a fire. The few guests that had braved the horrible weather immediately rushed out, followed by Spencer whose eyes searched for you.
The firefighters showed up and went to work as ashes fell to the floor. Just a minute later, rain began to pour, drenching both you and Spencer to your cores.
“I don’t think life wants us to get married today,” you laughed as the two of you stood underneath the downpour.
“I said I’d marry you, and I’ll be damned if I let this ruin that promise!” Spencer yelled as his hand pushed back his wet hair from his face. He caught sight of the minister who stood underneath an umbrella just a few steps away and dragged you over to him.
“Marry us!” Spencer yelled towards the man. The older man did a double take at the sight of you, disbelief on his face.
“Are you being serious?” he asked.
“Yes!” the two of you exclaimed.
“Alright. This will make an entertaining wedding story to say the least,” the man replied as he looked at the two of you- drenched and in love.
i'd be interested to hear your perspectives on cosmology... like, the origins of the universe, and what happens after death. do you take the norse myths literally?
Myths were never meant to be taken literally, one for one representationally. They’re stories that convey truths, knowledge and shared experience. Like a song - take Bohemian Rhapsody or Hey Jude or American Pie.
The Sound of Silence.
All these are stories, and even if they are not literally one-for-one, they nevertheless evoke memories, associations, similarities in us, biophysical effects - direct our attention to particular ways of perceiving, experiencing and knowing the world. Add in the music, and well, that’s another layer. They communicate, share experience, bring it forth in us.
Their is no literal world tree. But a there is a thing/process which we might perceive as such, in certain states of consciousness - an ever-present axis-mundi, the centre of the kosmos which is everywhere and reaches everywhere else, best conveyed by the associations, metaphors, kennings and memories of trees.
The wandering nature of Odin is conveyed by a cloaked figure one might meet on the road, interfacing with our realm of experience - an appearance or apparition which for a time is as concretely real as the cup of tea I’m drinking. Real enough to appear and nod at me in the rain, and then vanish again when I looked round.
It’s tricky to convey if you’re not used to holding multiple seeming contradictions in your head at once. Myth serves as portal to the raw nature of Being - it transports us - yet it in itself is ‘just’ a story, ‘just’ a recounting of experience arranged a particular way.
Myth is the realm of double, triple meanings; highly compressed information slipped into the unconcious mind, to unfurl there like a seed. Poetry is mere words, mere mouth-noises transcribed. It is also blood and fire, honey and ash, the vertigo of love and fear. Look at Beowulf, the Illiad.
Poetry endures, stands for longer than stone temples. Myth carries knowing of-gods across the years. When we had all but forgotten them, when the shadow of the God who is Only Once darkened the earth, blotting out all the bright wonders of blood and honey, song and madness, myth remained, to reach out and touch the minds of mankind anew, to set fire to our worlds, to inspire us though Irminsul fell, though Delphi lay empty and Solomon’s temple lay in forgotten ruins,
There are giants. There are gods. There are spirits of mankind that walk after death. How they appear, how they intrude, how they interface with our experience, is through strangeness, through signs and wonders and gut feelings and impossible actions.
Cosmology is a structure to parse the experience of existence, to give us room to arrange things. It matters not where there be 9 worlds or 7, or three - what matters is that there are worlds; realms of difference. Learning the routes to experience, to have knowledge of these differences, this is the pursuit of wisdom - knowing what to do and when, the right words to say. This is the reason for amassing lore.
(Would you know more, or what?)
Learning how to navigate, to manipulate, to act as-if something which has just appeared is eternal and immortal (which it may be and thus is, in some fashion) this is the trick.
To chart a course through the stormy ocean of the waters of life and death, and to keep to that course in order to get what you need - that’s the trick
The passphrases and rites, the knowings of other forms of awareness, all these are conveyed - today we see only one thing - entertainment or scripture.
Myth is both and neither. it is, as said before, a transportation mechanism.
transport (v.)late 14c., “convey from one place to another,” from Old French transporter “carry or convey across; overwhelm (emotionally)” (14c.) or directly from Latintransportare “carry over, take across, convey, remove,” from trans- “across” (see trans-) + portare “to carry” (see port (n.1)). Sense of “carry away with strong feelings” is first recorded c. 1500. Meaning “to carry away into banishment” is recorded from 1660s.
trans-word-forming element meaning “across, beyond, through, on the other side of, to go beyond,” from Latin trans-, from trans (prep.) “across, over, beyond,” perhaps originally present participle of a verb *trare-, meaning “to cross,” from PIE *tra-, variant of root *tere- (2) “to cross over” (see through). In chemical use indicating “a compound in which two characteristic groups are situated on opposite sides of an axis of a molecule” [Flood].
port (n.1)“harbor,” Old English port “harbor, haven,” reinforced by Old French port “harbor, port; mountain pass;” Old English and Old French words both from Latin portus “port, harbor,” originally “entrance, passage,” figuratively “place of refuge, asylum,” from PIE *prtu- “a going, a passage,” from root *per- (2) “to lead, pass over” (source also of Sanskrit parayati “carries over;” Greek poros “journey, passage, way,” peirein “to pierce, run through;” Latin porta"gate, door,“ portare “passage,” peritus “experienced;” Avestan peretush “passage, ford, bridge;” Armenian hordan “go forward;” Welsh rhyd “ford;” Old Church Slavonic pariti “to fly;” Old English faran “to go, journey,” Old Norse fjörðr “inlet, estuary”).
We are led outside of ourselves, into a larger kosmos - this the secret of ecstasy and creativity, poetry and song:
ecstasy (n.)late 14c., extasie “elation,” from Old French estaise “ecstasy, rapture,” from Late Latin extasis, from Greek ekstasis “entrancement, astonishment, insanity; any displacement or removal from the proper place,” in New Testament “a trance,” from existanai “displace, put out of place,” also “drive out of one’s mind” (existanai phrenon), from ek “out” (see ex-) + histanai “to place, cause to stand,” from PIE root *stā- “to stand” (see stet).
Used by 17c. mystical writers for “a state of rapture that stupefied the body while the soul contemplated divine things,” which probably helped the meaning shift to “exalted state of good feeling” (1610s).
Driven out of our rote-minds, our habitual processes, we are presented with vastness, the immensity which rains down up and through us like a wind, a veritable deluge of sensation. Is it any wonder we seek some defence, some shelter in a structure - endlessly conflicted in our desire to be bitten by the serpent of wisdom, yet fearing the venom of that wyrm, as we constantly seek an antidote?
As is said: “Lord, What fools these mortals be!”
(Puck flashes you a grin, faerie sharp, faerie slick. Old dead Puca slipping on a human skin, ancestral wight strutting ‘bout the stage, all wild and in plain sight. Bucca up from the mine and out of the sea, with bony animated wisdom, peering right at thee. Best keep him sweet with some milk, some blood, some beer, lest he become too close and near - and does you a mischief!)
Turn the skincoat of your own flesh inside out, see the bones and skull and understand you’ll clatter and knock like all those gone before you, til at last you’re dust.
Ahh, but your voice, that’ll go on, wordless, eternal, part of the thronging stream, to make someone’s heart leap, someone not yet born, rising out of the darkness to greet their first dawn.
Maybe, if you’re very lucky, they’ll use the memory of your hide to make a map of the vast places they could go when they die. Maybe not.
Because it’s all about how you prepare when you step out the door to go there and back again. Everyone makes their own map, but if you listen to the songs and the adventures you may find the marks others have left behind.
Myth is realer than real because it’s not bound by time - linear or otherwise. It has its own cycle, its own rhythm.
I don’t know what happens when you die, sorry. I can take an educated guess at my options. Maybe.
AS for how the universe began. I rather think that if it did, it arose from the bones of the last, all rearranged, like. Of course, beginnings and endings can be the same thing….
It’s a Mystery. With a capital M, in case you missed it
My name is Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. Conjure by it at your own risk. When things get strange, when what goes bump in the night flicks on the lights, when no one else can help you, give me a call.
I'm in the book.
I reached for the phone and started spinning the dial to Susan's number. Mister batted at my hand approvingly.
"Or maybe I'm just too stupid to get out of trouble's way, eh?"
Mister rumbled a deep, affirmative purr in his chest. I settled back to ask Susan over, and enjoyed the warmth of the fire.
The Council is going to be furious at me, but what else is new.
Susan doesn't call. Doesn't visit. But I got a card from her, on my birthday, Halloween. She only wrote three words.
I'll let you guess what three.
"All of those faeries and duels and mad queens and so on, and no one quoted old Billy Shakespeare. Not even once."
I stared at Billy for a minute and started to laugh. My own aches and bruises and cuts and wounds pained me, but it was an honest, stretchy pain, something that was healing. I got myself some dice and some paper and some pencils and settled down with friends to pretend to be Thorg the Barbarian, to eat, drink, and be merry.
Lord, what fools these mortals be.
Maybe somethings aren't meant to go together. Things like oil and water. Orange juice and tooth paste.
Me and Susan.
But tomorrow was another day.
I frowned at a giant green bag and asked Thomas, "Hey. Why did you get large breed Puppy Chow?"
I stopped and blinked--first at the candles and then at my burned hand.
"What?" Butters asked.
"Nothing," I said, and opened the book to look over it. "You know, Butters, for a mortician you're a pretty good healer."
"You think so?"
I glanced at the warm, steady flame of the candles and smiled, "Yeah."
"You want me to drive us?" he asked.
I bowed my head in reply. "I'd like that, sir."
I looked around the place for a minute more. The coffee girls were having a private conversation, evidently, discussing us, if all the covert glances and quiet little smiles were any indication.
I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing, and it felt good.
"An excellent answer," she murmured, her dark eyes huge. "One that should, perhaps, be further explored."
I rose and held out her chair for her, and helped her into her coat.
As it turned out, the rest of the night was good for the soul, too.
Will swung the door open wide, and we went inside, where I introduced Butters to everyone and produced several bottles of Mac's best ale.
See, here's the thing. Morgan was right you can't win them all.
But that doesn't mean that you give up. Not ever. Morgan never said that part--he was too busy living it.
I closed the door behind me, while life went on.
*Nope it's spoiler territory to the umpteenth degree*
Demonreach stirred. The pale tendrils and roots began withdrawing themselves from my arms, leaving small, bleeding holes behind.
"For what?" I asked.
"For the journey to my court, Sir Knight." She paused and looked over one shoulder at me, green eyes bright and cold. "There is much work to do be done."
Thunder rumbled over Lake Michigan, unusual in November.
I settled the new black leather duster over my shoulders, picked up the long, rough branch I'd cut from the island's oldest oak tree a few hours before, and started back up the hill, toward the former lighthouse and future cottage. I had preparation to me.
There was a storm coming in.
Maggie was warm and soft beside my heart. Mouse stirred for a moment, and shifted until his big shaggy head was lying on my foot before going back to sleep. Behind me, the Carpenter household was settling into the quiet, stable energy of a home going through a familiar pattern. Bedtime.
Sometimes you realize you’re standing at a crossroads. That there are two paths stretching out ahead of you, and you have to pick one of them.
Without a word, I took Amoracchius and settled it where I could reach it easily when it was time to stand up.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* \MARINA AND THE DIAMONDS LYRIC MASTERLIST/ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
+ hi hi helo etc !!!! so basically for my first hundred (i'm crying i haven't been here long and ily all so much) i thought i'd make a lil masterlist of lyrics by marina and the diamonds from every ep/album that she's released that could be used for inspiration, descriptions, prompts, ideas, bios etc. check them out under the cut, and please like/reblog if you found this at all helpful. (ღ˘⌣˘ღ)
Pairing: Kabby, but honestly this is mostly Dad!Kane not gonna lie
Summary: Marcus sits with Clarke at dinner a few days after they return to Arkadia. While they don’t know it, they both have a knack for telling the other exactly what they need to hear. <3
Author’s Note: Apparently the fandom is having all sorts of Clarke and Marcus/Dad!Kane feels today, and this is my contribution. :’) Warning - there is a tiny bit of Clexa mentioned here, so if that’s not your thing then you might want to skip that part of this fic. I just thought it was believable that Lexa might come up in conversation.
“Is it all right if I sit here?” Marcus asked, motioning to
the seat next across from the blonde-haired girl, and she nodded her assent
while shoving a forkful of the evening’s meal into her mouth.
Normally, he would have eaten
dinner with Abby, a semi-nightly tradition they’d fallen into during her
daughter’s absence. But she spent the day in Medical, treating the City of
Light survivors to whom a component of returning pain had been injuries they
sustained while under ALIE’s control. She wasn’t going to eat tonight unless he
brought her something, and he made a mental note to take a plate to her when
her shift ended.
He wasn’t feeling joyful enough to
take part in the celebration, but he wasn’t miserable enough to retreat to his
quarters. He existed in an emotional limbo understood only by those who ALIE
had manipulated to a great extent, by those who could barely look in the mirror
for fear of the face that stared back. Those who still looked over their
shoulder for a woman in a red dress, fearing she’d haunt them forever. Those
for whom the joy of being reunited with their loved ones was canceled out by
the guilt of what they’d done, and they were left with emptiness where emotion
should have lived.
Apparently, Clarke Griffin was one
of those people.
She’d been sitting alone at a table
on the outskirts of the celebration, watching the festivities, keeping her
distance. They’d come back to Arkadia three days ago and she was still here: a
good sign. A relief to her mother. A weight off of Abby’s delicate shoulders,
which still continued fracturing under guilt’s unyielding heaviness. But it was
apparent her daughter’s mind was still in Polis, still wrapped around
everything that had transpired days ago.
As he glanced at her he took in the
set of her shoulders, the slight furrow of her brows: she was thinking about
something, and she was thinking hard.
It was the
same look Abby wore when something troubled her, he knew. He’d seen it many
times over the years, approached her with that expression on her face and ended
up getting berated. Truthfully, he could admit that at least eighty percent of
the time he deserved what he got from her. But their yelling and slamming doors
and knocking things off of tables had always drawn attention from the
passersby, civilians who commenced staring at them with slack jaws and eyes
down eventually, but she’d never apologize. Neither would he. When they were on
the Ark that just wasn’t how their relationship worked, at least before the
kids were sent down. They went to battle with each other, they retreated, they
called a truce separately as they continued to seethe in their quarters and
acted on it when they didn’t rip each other’s throats out at the next Council
Meeting. A treaty was never signed.
different between them now, but that went without saying. The thought turned
the corners of his mouth up into a wan smile as he continued musing over what
troubled Clarke. It could have been number of things, and he wasn’t about to
try and guess. His relationship with the kids had softened, but he was too far
removed from his own youth to try to assume such a delicate, personal thing.
all right?” he asked, attempting to start something akin to a conversation.
she said. Exactly like her mother.
They both tried to brush people off when something was wrong, tried not to
worry others when, in reality, they deserved some sympathy. Some kindness. Some
comfort. It was both exasperating and endearing, but he had to use caution with
Clarke: they didn’t have the same history he and Abby did.
So he tried
another approach, looking around the dining hall at people hugging and smiling
at one another. There were tears, yes, but there was an air of rejoicing, of a
deep-set sentimentality. Here were people who thought they’d lost each other
forever and found both themselves and their friends again. Certainly, she had
to be feeling some joy in this moment.
us, Clarke,” Marcus said, returning her smile with one full of warmth and
affection. “Arkadia and everyone in it…we’re here because of you. You did
to see her smile widen, but instead it slipped from her face. His heart pounded
in his chest. What did I say?
“Clarke, I-“ he started, but she
didn’t let him finish.
“I need to
meet with you and mom. Officially,” she said. “It doesn’t have to be tonight,
but then it needs to be tomorrow. And I’d like Bellamy and Raven to come, too.
Just us for now, but we’re probably going to have to involve the others at some
honestly i kill for anything that has to do with witch!clarke and dragon!bellamy. so maybe a modern au where clarke does magic stuff in the city (u know those cute aesthetic posts about city witches using tupperwear for potions and sigils in ur phone) and she runs into dragon!bellamy (he totally hoards books omg)at a coffee shop or the library. idk this is my first time doing a prompt but its up to you ! thank you!!
+ Anonymous said: Oh! For the magic prompt how about dragon!Bellamy and witch!Clarke?
a/n: err, probably not exactly what you expected, but we have oblivious!clarke crushing on exasperated!bellamy with a make out session and some petting thrown at the end just because I could, ops? big thanks to @hooksandheroics for helping me with the Baybayin translation, as well as the quick crash-course on some aspects of the Philippine mythology (that did not make it into this story)
Clarke loved being a modern witch – from the all-fresh deliveries Amazon did timed with the moon phases to the witch how-to twitter threads to the enormous knowledge dumped into the digital void that was the internet.
Everything she could ever want was just few clicks away and she still couldn’t get – didn’t think she would ever get – used to having so much freedom with how she chose to manipulate her magic.
Technology was the best thing that had happened to all witches across the world.
But also the worst because some witches had always been greedy and overzealous of their knowledge, and with digitalization of numerous texts, glyphs, sigils and grimoires, many witches put curses on their books to prevent them from being scanned or photographed, and tried to profit from that.
In a way, Clarke understood the subconscious impulses to protect one’s abilities – especially the kind of knowledge that could be harmful if in the wrong hands –, but the bigger part of her wanted to tell them to fuck off because they were supposed to be a community, a worldwide network that helped each other.
And yet, here she was, following her crappy GPS, trying to find a forgotten from the Goddess little run-down bookstore to hunt for knowledge that somebody decided it wasn’t worthy for the public eyes.
The bookstore didn’t even have a sign, just a dark red wooden door with small dragon carved in the center – it was eating its own tail, an ouroboros. Immortality, infinity, unity.
A bit strange for a bookstore.
She put her phone away, and tucked her danburite crystal back under her shirt, the touch of the stone on her naked skin calming her immediately.
The door didn’t have a bell to announce her entrance but it squeaked quite loudly so Clarke guessed that was more than enough. The store was big but cluttered, dimly-lit and stuffed full with overflowing bookcases that were holding on heroically under all the weight they had to support, book stacks littering the little free space between them. Goddess, it was a mess, but somehow a well-managed mess and it had a homey feel to it.
She looked around but nobody came to the front, and Clarke ventured deeper into the store, hastily clutching her bag to her chest when she nearly sent one book stack flying. It wobbled precariously and she steadied it with her free hand.
“Can I help you?”
The unexpected voice startled her and Clarke yelped, her hand smacking against the books and pushing them down.
Can you just write all the things? Please? Like, damn, now I really want a Peeta as Katniss's bodyguard story. You're killing me. In a good way. Basically, you're amazing. Bye.
okay I couldn’t resist :)
Peeta’s grip on her arm is firm, potentially bruise-inducing, and he holds her close to his side as he rushes her through the hotel lobby. Katniss follows him obediently (like she has a choice), staring dumbly at the side of his head. She doesn’t even think her feet are touching the ground, actually; she’s pretty sure he’s carrying her single-handedly at this point.
She’s still trying to piece together the scene that just unfolded outside the hotel mere minutes ago, as she was making her way to the car that was supposed to take her to the gym. Peeta, her relatively new bodyguard, was there to escort her directly from the revolving door through the car door. Additionally, there were a few paps out there to take some “candid” shots of her—she has no doubt her agent Effie alerted the tabloids about her workout plans—her assistant Flavius, and a few fans or bystanders milling around the sidewalk. Katniss stopped to snap a quick picture with a couple of girls on the verge of tears, when she heard the commotion behind her—some angry shouts, cries of protest and alarm
She whipped around in time to see Peeta bodyslam a hulking brute of a man to the ground. Bewildered, she watched them struggle on the sidewalk, Peeta very quickly pinning the man onto his stomach and wrenching his arms behind his back, a knee pressed between his shoulder blades.
“I’ll kill that fucking slut!” The threat bellowed down the street, but Katniss knew it was meant for her. She recognized that voice now, that spiky blond hair and red, bulging face.
Suddenly, Flavius and some hotel staff were whisking her back inside the building under the blinding flood of camera flashes as security rushed out to help Peeta detain the man. The paps swarmed, yelling at her, torn between photographing her and the struggle on the ground, but the doors shut and Flavius was simultaneously fretting over her and shrieking at the staff to call 911.
Agitated, Katniss brushed Flavius off of her, insisting she was fine, but when Peeta barreled through the front entrance a moment later and grabbed her, she didn’t resist, letting him pull her toward the elevator bank.
Author’s Note: This chapter of Survivors is all about Nurse Claire and Jealous Jamie. All previous chapters, including the prequel story Taken, can be found on the Master List. For those of you who need to avoid this kind of thing at work (or for those of you who want to skip straight to it), basically the last third is just smut ;)
We arrived in the main English camp the next day, having been delayed behind Angus, Duncan, and Willie by a broken wagon wheel. Thankfully, this was a different regiment than the one to which Jack Randall had belonged, and no one recognized me as his escaped prisoner, nor Jamie and Murtagh as my rescuers. Lord Melton left us under the protection of a young officer. I had met Jeremy Foster before, first encountering him while we were collecting rents for Colum, and then when he brought me to Brigadier General Lord Oliver Thomas. I had not expected to see him again, but he had been transferred to Grey’s regiment when he was promoted to Captain. I was startled by the sight of the gallant young man who had once displayed concern for my well being, but not, I think, as much as he was to see me. He still had no idea what to make of me, but looked pleased nonetheless. “Mistress, we meet again.” He bowed deeply and with a charming smile.
Behind me, Jamie growled, “Missus. Mrs. Fraser, to be exact.”
Captain Foster glanced at Jamie as if he had somehow managed not to notice the enormous, flame-haired warrior looming over me. He nodded his head politely. “Mr. Fraser. Good day. I am Captain Foster. Lord Melton asked me to see to you and your companions while he is gone.”
Jamie snapped, “We need no looking after. We’ll be fine on our own.”
Foster simply arched one brow. “Perhaps you have no regard for yourself, but I should think you might hold your wife’s safety of higher import.”
Jamie stepped in front of me, clenching his fists. “Excuse me? Are you threatening my wife?”
I'd like a scenario with Suho where his powers some how effect his abilities to have sex with his girlfriend. They find a way to their sexy night a success. Thank you & lots of success with your blog.
A/N: Thanks! This one was quite interesting. Never ever seen a request like this. Very creative! Saranghaeyo! ♥♥♥♥
Song on Repeat During the Writing: “Love, Love, Love” EXO-M
Title: “Earth, Air, Water, Fire”
“Suho!” you moaned out as you climaxed over your hand. Your head was reeling as you tried to look down at Suho at the foot of the bed. “Anything?” you asked panting. By the frustrated look on his face you guessed his answer. “Nope. Nothing.” He said exasperated. You sighed and crawled down to the edge of the bed and curled up against him. You began stroking his arm and trying to console him. “Oppa, maybe you just don’t find me attractive anymore.” you said heavily sighing and looking up at him. His eyes widened. “No. Jagi, that’s not it at all!” he said appalled. Suho’s body was begin to fail him. Rather, that’s what he thought. No matter what he just could…get it up. He tried watching porn (embarrassed because you were the one to suggest it), he watched you pleasure yourself, he tried “enhancements”, but all failed. He was so anxious. He didn’t know how long it’d be before you turned your attention elsewhere. Though you assured him that no such thing would ever happen, he was still obviously insecure. You never fully understood why he didn’t see what you saw in himself. So out of concern you dragged him to the doctor. “Yaaaaah! This is embarrassing! I don’t want to do this.”, he whined as you sat him down in the waiting room. You gave him a stern look. “Suho this isn’t even just about the sex. If that part of your body isn’t working well you need make sure that that’s the only problem.” you said concerned. He smirked at. “Yeah. I know how empty you feel.” he said smugly. You rolled your eyes and smacked his arm. As he began to whine again the doctor called “Kim Joon-myun?” He sighed and stood up, wiggling his fingers for you to take his. “You signed me up for this. You’re coming along.” he said pulling you behind him into the examination room. He went through various small tests and when it was all over he sat down, tired. “Gee, are you alright? All they made you do was pee just now.” you said anxiety enclosing you. He exhaled heavily. “I don’t know.” he breathed out. The doctor came in with results. He looked as if he was in his fifties. Judging by the look on his face he pitied you two heavily. “Well, to be very honest, adeul, you are one of the healthiest boys I’ve ever examined. I cannot conclude any possible cause of your uh…problem.” he said awkwardly looking between your pink face and his red face. “Ah! However, you do appear to be moderately dehydrated.” he said remembering. You immediately straightened and with wide eyes you and Suho, simultaneously turned to look at each other. Hydration. Water! Of course! It all made sense. Suho had been using so much of his natural hydration for his power, he barely had any left over for other things.
“He probably doesn’t have too many men volunteering to become Kinslayers,” Maglor said.
“It would surprise me if he does not,” said his brother.
“He might not know the children are alive.”
“Were there enough other children slaughtered that their bodies could plausibly have gone unnoticed?”
This was the pattern they’d fallen into - strategic observation, self-loathing rejoinder, and each of them could take either part. It was a gutted, hollow parody of the eager late-night conversations of happier years.
Summary: Aunt Flo paid her usual visit late last week, and I had seen a lot of other fics floating around that dealt with this subject…so I tackled the bunny that bit. Or would that be the bunny tackled me? Either way…we have fic. :)
Word count: 2365
Songs used in the writing of this fic: “Lips of an Angel” by Hinder – I know…but hey it really fired up the Winchester muse, so who cares? LOL
Warnings: None that I can see, except perhaps the profanity and overprotectiveness of the boys. Little bit of drinking, but they are all adults, so… yeah. Lots & lots of fluff, though! :)
**Her outfit can be found here: http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/set?id=134150032 **
I managed to hide my condition from the boys long enough to get back to the motel. Thank God that hunt was over and I could rest. Sam carried my gear bag into the room and dumped it by the bed he and I shared. “Dean and I are going to get some food. You want anything?” he asked.
“Burger and fries and a chocolate shake,” I replied, sitting on the bed and trying not to wince. “Orange juice.” I tossed him my wallet. “And a bottle of Crown.”
“Got it. Anything else?” Sam asked, sitting down next to me. “What’s wrong?” he asked, alarm in his voice as I grimaced when pulling my boots off. He immediately dropped to the floor to gently take over with my other foot and examine both intently for any signs of injury.
“Sam, I didn’t get hurt on the hunt. I’m fine, it was a simple salt and burn,” I said, swatting at his hands when he went to slide my sweats off.
He blinked. “Sweatpants? Seriously? You know better than to wear those hunting. What were you thinking?” He shook his head.
“I’m thinking I’m in pain, Sammy, that’s what. Jeans are too fuckin’ tight right now.” I got up and stepped around him. Walking over to where my other bag was, I rummaged around in it for a minute, coming up with a small white wrapped package and a more comfortable shirt. Ducking into the bathroom, I opened the package to reveal a maxi pad and put it and the other shirt on. Then I rummaged through my bag for some Tylenol and my heating pad. My heating pad was gone. “Aw, shit!”
“What is it, baby?” Sam asked, concern in his voice. I felt his hands on my shoulders.
“My friggin’ heating pad’s gone. Damn it!” I kicked at my duffle bag.
“You need another one? I’ll pick it up too.” Sam smiled and opened his arms. I walked into his embrace and he wrapped his arms around me, careful of where he put his hands. “Can you make sure it’s one of the soft fabric washable ones, not the ones made of out that plastic crap? They squish up too much and are a pain in the ass to get unfolded again,” I said. His soft laugh rumbled through his chest. “Sure. Anything else?”
“Bottled water just to make sure I don’t get dehydrated,” I replied, collapsing onto the bed.
Sam paused on his way to the door to write down everything I’d requested on the little notepad by the motel phone. The door opened behind him and Dean stuck his head in. “Sammy, dude, what’s the hold up?”
“Our girl’s not feeling well, so in addition to food, I’m going to pick up some other stuff up for her, so we’ll need to make another stop, okay?”
Dean walked into the room and shut the door. He sat down on the foot of the bed and tweaked my foot. “Nice socks, half pint,” he grinned at me. They were black and white and looked like the stickers put on some albums now. ‘Parental Advisory: Explicit Content.’ I jerked my foot out of his grasp. “Not in the mood, Dean,” I said.
“Dude,” Sam said, and whispered something in his ear. “Oh,” Dean mumbled. He got up and walked over to me. “We’ll take care of you, sweetheart, don’t worry.” Leaning over, Dean kissed me on the forehead and then jerked his head towards Sam. “Let’s hit the road, Sammy.”
Before he left, Sam passed me my laptop and plugged it in. “No research. You just play games or something,” he said sternly, kissing me on the lips softly. A few minutes later, I heard the rumble of the Impala’s engine as the boys left to grab food and the other stuff I had asked for.
I took two Tylenol with water from the tap in the bathroom and then laid down on the bed. I started to play games like Sam said, but got a little tired so I shut the laptop and closed my eyes. The next thing I knew it was over an hour later and the boys were just getting back.
“Oh, hey guys,” I said sleepily, sitting up as they came in and unloaded bags on the table. Sam brought over the box with the new heating pad, unpacked it, set it up behind my back and tossed the cord over the edge of the bed. Dean unpacked my food, passed it to me and plugged in the heating pad. As I started eating, the boys brought in the rest of the stuff they bought. Their own food went on the small table. The cooler we kept in the car had been refilled with ice and several of the bottles of water went in there, the rest in the room’s small fridge. The bottle of Crown Royal I had asked for also went into the cooler. Orange juice in the fridge. There were still two other bags yet to be unloaded and I gestured with my milkshake. “What’s that stuff?”
Dean reached over and grabbed one of the bags and tossed it to me. Inside were new packages of pads, tampons, Tylenol, Advil and Midol. I smiled at them. “Thanks, guys. Now what’s that other one?”
Sam grinned. “Hopefully enough chocolate to keep you from killing us.”
“Oh, now, I wouldn’t do that! I love you guys! But let me get this pain down to a dull roar and turn me loose on something…” I raised my eyebrows, making Dean laugh.
We discussed strategies for the next few days. “No offense sweetheart, but in this much pain, you’re…”
“Next to useless. Yes, I know,” I rolled my eyes. “At least I can still do research. But yeah…you two are going to be stuck with all the heavy work for a few days, unless you guys want to take a break too.”
The brothers exchanged glances and I could see the idea had some appeal. I let them mull it over while I scooted off the bed. “Whoa. Whoa. Where are you going?” Dean demanded.
“To get something to drink,” I said, gesturing at the cooler.
“No,” Sam replied, scooping me up and putting me back at the head of the bed.
“What?” I spluttered, gawking at him.
“We are going to take care of you. Whatever you need, we’ll get it or do it for you,” Dean said, picking up one of the small motel glasses, filling it with ice and pouring in some of the whiskey, correctly assuming which drink I meant. He handed it to me and I downed half of it in one gulp, raising an eyebrow at him and his brother.
“You two are going to wait on me hand and foot?” They both nodded.
“Um, you guys do know this is not serious? I’m not dying here,” I told them, trying not to laugh at how serious they were taking all this.
“So what? You’re right. We could use a break, and what better way to spend it than with you?” Dean grinned at me.
“Right,” I said, sipping at the rest of my drink. “Doing what, exactly?”
“Whatever you want,” Sam said, getting himself a beer and curling up on my left side. “Dean, pass me my food, will you?”
“Oh, hey, that’s a great idea, Sammy,” Dean smiled at me while handing Sam his meal. Dean sat down on the other side of me, kicked off his boots and picked up his own food.
As the boys ate, I finished off my fries and milkshake, replaying their earlier words in my mind. Anything, huh, fellas? We’ll see about that.
Once again I crawled to the foot of the bed, and Dean growled at me. “What is it?”
“Dean, seriously? I have to pee, for fuck sakes. Oh, and hot baths or showers really help when it hurts like this, so which one of you is gonna join me later?” I snapped, trying not to die laughing at the looks on both of their faces when I said that.
Coming back from the bathroom a few minutes later, I grabbed the TV remote and crawled back to my spot in between the boys. I turned on the TV and resolved to ignore both of their overprotective asses. Just to irk Dean, I stopped channel surfing when I saw that ‘Dirty Dancing’ was on. Glancing to the side, I just looked at him for a minute, daring him to make some smartass comment about my viewing choices.
The next two hours passed relatively easily. The movie had just started when I found it, and the three of us actually enjoyed ourselves. Both of them had gotten comfortable for the night, stretched out on the bed to either side of me. I had curled into Dean’s side and he insisted on me keeping the heating pad at my back, even though it would make him hot too. I just shrugged and did as he asked, but told him to let me know if it started to burn him. My legs were stretched out across Sam’s lap, and every once in a while he would absentmindedly massage my calves.
I had seen this movie so many times it wasn’t funny, and when a shirtless Johnny put on ‘These Arms of Mine’ by Sam Cooke, and Baby knocked on the door to his cabin, I knew what was coming. Dean was making fun of some of the dialogue, and I had to elbow him hard in the gut and threaten him to make him stop. “Knock it off, Dean, or I’ll throw you on the floor.” He just laughed.
Not being able to help myself, I sat up and spoke along with Baby when she said some of my favorite lines. “Me? I’m scared of everything. I’m scared of what I saw, I’m scared of what I did, of who I am, and most of all, I’m scared of walking out of this room and never feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I’m with you.”
Dean cuddled closer to me at that, and Sam slid his arm around me. The boys knew I wasn’t just parroting favorite movie lines. They knew I was talking to them. I had been living and hunting with them for several years now, but some of it was still taking some getting used to. Sometimes after really bad hunts, I had nightmares, and they knew this. What they did not know was the actual content of those dreams, and I wasn’t sure if I could ever tell them that I often dreamed of the monsters we hunted coming back and killing them in revenge, leaving me all alone. I loved both of them dearly, and honestly I didn’t know what I’d do without them.
On the television screen, Baby and Johnny were dancing to Solomon Burke’s ‘Cry To Me’. When Johnny removed Baby’s shirt, Dean covered my eyes. “You’re too young to see that,” he joked and I slapped at his arm. Surprisingly Dean was quiet for the rest of the movie, except for whistling at Johnny’s car, a ’57 Chevy. I glanced at Sam and we rolled our eyes. When it got to the end, and I knew the final dance was moments away, I got up and moved to the other bed so I could be closer to the screen. I had thought my bodyguards would follow me, but they stayed put where they were, watching me enjoy the last few minutes of the movie. As the ending credits rolled, I stood up and stretched. “You guys want another drink?”
“Nah,” Sam said, shaking his head. “I think I’m going to turn in.” He got up and headed for the bathroom to take a quick shower.
“Dean?” I asked, brandishing a water bottle in one hand, Crown in the other.
“Nope. You come here,” he said, crooking his finger at me the same way Johnny had Baby at the beginning of the final dance. I put the whiskey back in the cooler and crawled back up the bed, water bottle in hand. “What?”
Dean opened his arms and I laid down beside him, laying my head on his chest. He wrapped his arms around me, one hand spread against my lower back. “Get some sleep sweetheart,” he said softly, kissing the top of my head. A few minutes later I heard rustling behind me and felt the bed dip as Sam climbed in on my other side. I laughed. “Guys…I don’t think this is going to work.”
Dean slid himself out from under me and sat up. “Sammy, I got an idea. Come here,” he said, walking around to where the other bed was. Dean nodded his head at the bedside table. “Help me move this,” he said to his brother. A few minutes later, they had moved the single bedside table to the other side of the room, and the second bed was pushed next to the one we had all crowded into. Then we took the sheets and blankets off both and spread them over the middle of the now extra-large bed, then we all crawled in. “You need your heating pad, sweetheart?” Dean asked me. I shook my head. “Nah, you’re not supposed to sleep with one on. Might get burnt. Besides, I think I’ll be okay with you two human furnaces here,” I laughed.
Dean again opened his arms, and I laid down as I had been, curled on his chest. Sam curled up behind me. They wrapped their arms around me in such a way that Dean’s hand was on my lower back as it had been before the whole bed moving project, and Sam laid a hand on my lower abdomen. Both of them kissed me goodnight, Dean on the top of my head again, Sam on my cheek. I smiled. Despite the pain I was in, I couldn’t have been in a better place. I was with my best friends. I never wanted to be anywhere else.