prompt: any pairing, person A is a beginner witch and person B is a curious demon they've accidentally summoned.
Aaron should have known better. He’d grown up knowing that there were a reason the rules were in place - that the structure was for the safety of him and of those around him. He’d spent years study, memorizing rules and incantations and learning about the properties of the elements and how they could be used to help and to harm.
Putting that knowledge into practice was something he had much less experience with. It was no secret that a young witch was unstable, that they needed to spend their formative years doing exercises and finding their core and looking inside of them to see where their strengths lie.
Magic without that discipline, without that self-awareness, could only bring destruction.
That was what Aaron had been taught since his talent had been discovered, what he had grown up hearing. It was a fact - the same as knowing the sun rose in the east.
He had just begun to summon his power, to practice basic spells when he became a soldier. Aaron knew all that he was expected to know, but without the practical experience to be of any use.
Aaron didn’t know what lead him to do it - he knew that it was a terrible idea, the inevitable sense of potential doom overwhelming him even as he set the stones out.
It was a protection spell - stones and earth being spread around the camp with whispered words and power focused into the materials.
Or rather, it was meant to be a protection spell.
He was startled awake by a sudden weight on his stomach. Aaron opened his eyes and the sole reason his scream didn’t wake up the entire camp was the clawed hand that stretched out to cover his mouth.
Wide, black eyes stared at him - Aaron supposed the creature had lit his candle with the way the flames were reflecting in the inky abyss - and Aaron inhaled a deep breath through his nose.
The creature was almost pretty - tan skin, freckles, curly hair - but the sheer unnaturalness ruined the image. The black eyes and black marks on its face, the sharp teeth when it smiled at him.
“Will you be silent, summoner?” the creature asked, voice raspy, hissing and clunking over the no-doubt unfamiliar sounds.
Summoner. This was a demon. Aaron nodded, and the creature pulled its hand back, slow and unsure, as if waiting for him to yell for help. Aaron remained silent.
It blinked, and its smile grew wider. “Summoner. I’ve never been called for before, this is quite strange. Not how I told it would happen.”
Aaron swallowed. “I didn’t summon you,” he whispered. “What are you doing here? Who are you?”
“Shh, names are powerful things, don’t think I’ll give mine out to just anyone,” the creature said. “But, you can call me,” its eyes flicked to the side in thought. “John. You can call me John. That’s a human name, yes.”
“Right, John,” Aaron said. “What are you doing here? I didn’t summon you?”
John leaned closer, a small distance separating the demon’s foreign features from Aaron’s own. “Yes, you did. Or I wouldn’t be here. And I’m very much here.”
“No,” Aaron sputtered, shaking his head. “I did a protection spell, I didn’t summon you!”
“But you made a circle,” John tapped his cheek with a clawed finger,” you made a circle and you wanted something - protection - and you didn’t ward off against demons.”
Oh. He had forgotten a warding stone. Shit. “And you’re going to offer that protection? What do you want in return?” Aaron asked, suspicious. Demons did nothing for free.
John giggled and tapped his cheek again. “You’re very pretty.”
“Thank you,” Aaron muttered, worry growing in his chest. He was trapped, the demon on top of him, holding him to the bed. Aaron didn’t know what would happen if he called out, but since the demon’s other hand was resting on his chest, he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.
He had been fed too many horror stories as a child of demons eating the heart out of a summoner if they didn’t approve of what was offered - of when a witch got cocky and tried to summon a higher level demon, too strong to be controlled. Aaron took in another breath. The demon smelled of sulfur. “What do you want?”
“From you?” John grinned. “I want a kiss.”
There was a pressure against his mouth and Aaron shut his eyes and opened his lips in surprise.
The demon tasted of sulfur too.
John pulled away, smiling wider. The demon’s thumb traced Aaron’s just-kissed lips and it said, “you, I like you. I’m going to keep you, I think.”
“But I summoned you,” Aaron whispered. “Not the other way around.”
“Yes,” John agreed. “And now you’re mine - don’t tell me you forgot the tales of a demon’s kiss now. They’re old laws, you know. Old laws that all witches know and must follow.”
Right. There were rules for interacting with demons. To give any part of yourself to them was to be bound. It was why you didn’t use blood in a summoning ritual - why you didn’t offer a demon anything you considered to be yours. Aaron supposed a kiss counted.
The demon put its thumb into his mouth and pulled it away, the candlelight shining on his spit-slick skin. “See,” John said, “yours.”
John popped its thumb into its own mouth. “And now mine, just like you.”
TANZEE!! Here’s “It brings out your eyes.” Prompt list here if you want to send me one!
Continuation of this Non-SHIELD AU, but can be read alone.
He doesn’t look up when the door creaks open, having learned that it only embarrasses the students. Instead, he grabs the ream of paper and allows the latecomer to believe they haven’t been disruptive at all.
“Now,” he says, “I know that spacetime is a difficult concept, but think about it this way.” He sets the ream of paper on the table, for all the class to see. “We’re 3D, yeah? Okay, but imagine we lived in a two-dimensional existence. Flat,” he continues, picking up the top sheet from the ream, “just like this piece of …”
He almost chokes on his own spit when he sees her. She’s sitting way in the back, but that smile shines like a lighthouse. He stands there, gaping at her until she mouths the words go on, and he realizes the whole class is very confused.
And of course, he must look like a fool, standing at the front of the class holding a piece of paper and stunned that the woman he loves just waltzed in. She’s supposed to be on the other side of the ocean. He’s supposed to meet her at the airport on Saturday. It takes him a minute to realize that he’s also supposed to be giving a lecture.
“This …” He squints down at the sheet in his hands. “Imagine that we’re flat, like this piece of paper. We wouldn’t be able to conceive of …” She leans in, and he swallows, “Of three dimensions. Of a cube, or … anything that’s not two-dimensional.”
He continues as best as he can, but she has to know how she’s affecting him, or she wouldn’t be enjoying it so much. In the end, he has to avoid looking in her corner of the room, or he’ll keep thinking of the way she looked the last time he saw her, of the way he kissed her without realizing it, of the fire in his blood when she kissed him back. So he watches the ream of paper, the whiteboard, the podium, and his notes. He glances at the front row, the second row, and his own hands. And somehow, magically, he makes it through the class.
He shuffles through his notes as the students leave, pretending to pack up even as he feels her draw closer. He’s never felt his heart beat like this before, because he didn’t realize he loves her until she kissed him like she loves him back.
“Fascinating lecture,” she says, and he still doesn’t look up. “I never thought of teaching it that way. I may have to steal your methods.”
Her voice is so casual, so usual, that he can’t help but look at her face and hope there’s another meaning behind her words. He finds that her coy smile is enough to blind him.
“You’re early,” he says, then winces. “I mean, you’re back early. Is everything … is everything alright with your mum and dad?”.
Her smile sobers, but doesn’t disappear. “He’s doing fine, actually. Recovering quite nicely. I would have been happy to stay longer, but I started to feel like I was in the way.” She shrugs, as if that’s just life, as if her presence isn’t something to be treasured. He narrows his eyes at her.
“I’m sure that’s not the case.”
“Well,” she says, “you know my parents. I’ve been out of the house so long that I tend to muck up their routine. And I think my mum just wanted time alone with him, since she came so close to losing him.”
This smile is different, like she’s remembering something unspeakably pleasant, and he wonders if she’s ever looked at her parents the way he has, if she’s ever thought that love wasn’t worth having if it didn’t look something like theirs.
“I did have time to go through their cupboards, though,” she continues. Her smile grows mischievous. “I binned everything remotely unhealthy and replaced it with something much better. I had some angry texts waiting for me when I got off the plane!” She chuckles then, and he restrains himself from saying he should have been there, or that he almost booked himself a ticket.
“I know how he feels,” he says instead, trying to control the smile of his own. “You did the same thing to me once, if you recall.”
“I recall that you had nothing in your kitchen but ice cream,” she says. “And I remember that you made yourself sick with it. I also remember thinking that girl who dumped you didn’t deserve you or your tears.”
He takes in a breath, because they’d been dancing around this subject on the brief phone calls they’ve had, and here it is. He tries to stammer out a response, but it takes a few fragments of nonsensical sounds before he finds the right word.
Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, and he’s pleased to have surprised her.
“Dinner,” he repeats. “You must be exhausted from your trip. Let me take you out to dinner.”
He’s pretty sure that he said an actual, complete sentence, but his mind is whirling. He’d made a reservation for the day she was scheduled to come back, but would they let him move it? Or would he have to start his research all over again? Honestly, there were so many variables, and he was sure Italian was appropriate for the occasion, but what if he couldn’t find—
“Dinner,” she says. He swallows.
She tilts her head at him, as if she’s not sure what he means, but he’s sure it must be plastered all over his face. He was sure that a kiss like that meant she wanted him to take her on a date, but the silence gives room for doubts. What if—
“That sounds lovely,” she says. “But I have one condition.”
He almost chokes for a second time. “Okay.”
“You have to wear your blue dress shirt. The one you wore when we went to the symphony, with the same tie.” She looks down at the floor, and he swears he sees the hint of a blush on her cheeks. “It’s just that it … it brings out your eyes. And it’ll go well with the dress I want to wear.”
“Oh,” he stammers. “Oh, I mean if you … okay.” He does some metal inventory and verifies that yes, that shirt is clean and pressed, and he’s pretty sure he has the tie. But—did she say she’d wear a dress?
She looks up into his eyes and he swears, in this moment, he’d give her anything.
“Yeah, I can … I can do that. I have, um, I have another class after this, but I can pick you up around … six?”
Six, he hopes, is early enough that they’ll get a table right way, maybe early enough that he might be able to ask for an outside table where they can share the view. It’s supposed to be warm tonight, so she should be comfortable even if she …
She nods. “Six is perfect. I’ll see you then. And Fitz?”
He’s still trying to tell himself that it’s a Thursday, that it’s near the stadium but the big game isn’t until tomorrow, that it should be fine it should be fine it should be fine, so it takes him a second to realize she asked him a question.
Her expression is truly unreadable.
He furrows his brow. “Thank you? For what?”
She looks down, but one corner for her lips curls upward.
“For teaching me that some things are inevitable. For being something to come home to.”
And he’s so stunned by what she means that he doesn’t realize she’s standing on her toes to kiss him until it’s happening. It’s all too brief, but he knows what it means. He knows that they both have wonderful things to look forward to.
She doesn’t say anything before she leaves, just gives him a look so pointed that he’s still standing there long after she’s left, alone in this empty room and feeling more full than he ever has in his life.
There’s a difference, he thinks, between coming home and having your home come back to you.
Summary: Writer blocks can be really frustrating, and sometimes having a “muse” doesn’t really help either. - Specially when your inspiration might not be there with you forever. ModernAU!
Warnings: Slight angst, or not so slight e.e
A/N: PLOT TWIST 4 U. Also, I’m sorry this chapter turned out boring af, It’s like the link between the development and the end. @buchananbarnestrash THIS ONE IS FOR YOU, MAÑA. Check her writing, she’s good as hell.
“(y/n) honey, can you come here?” You heard Pietro’s voice through your phone. You left your cup of coffee next to your partner, who was revising your work thoroughly.
“Where are you, Maximoff?” You asked, knowing that something occurred again.
“The printer room, please come quickly.” He sounded frightened, like a little kid that did something bad and could tell that he was going to be grounded without TV cartoons the whole week. Sighing, you went to the rescue, making sure your boss was not around, checking on her workers.
The whole place was a chaos. You could picture thousands of dead trees claiming revenge, as the ground was filled with blank papers with only a few words typed in them, making them useless for the purpose they were created for in a book editorial.
I saw a text post. Something about Dean never picking Sam up from Stanford, never being reunited until one day, Dean is arrested and Sam is a hot shot lawyer… well and then this fic happened. I would link you to the text post if I knew where it was…
“Well, well, well. What are the chances?” Dean drawls. “Do you believe in coincidences?”
Sam glares as he pulls out his chair and takes a seat across from his brother.
“No,” Sam says in a voice deeper than Dean remembers it being.
Dean shrugs, “Well, you know, crazier things have happened. Like you. Look at you man, hot shot lawyer?!”
He taps his fingers against the cold formica tabletop.
“It’s like destiny. Or something. You try to run from it,” from me, he doesn’t say, “but look at us man,” He grins. It doesn’t reach his eyes. "Look at us.“
"Yeah, look at us. Me, a lawyer, you wearing orange. Destiny, right?”
I travel a lot and in airports I have the opportunity to see a great many soldiers. Some are in fatigues, bulky backpacks slung over their shoulders. Others are in their dress uniform, everything about them sleek and disciplined, right down to their spit-shined shoes. In airports, I see a lot of gratitude toward these soldiers. As they walk through terminals, people stop to thank them for their service. American Airlines makes a point of offering uniformed soldiers priority boarding. Soldiers can have free access to most airport clubs. These gestures are certainly well-intended, but there is also something hollow to them because they are filled with the misguided idea that we understand what we are giving thanks for and the hope that there might be just recompense for a soldier’s service.