camcorder

The camera fades in to two smiling faces; a young girl with long, knotted pink hair and a gap tooth wearing a stained tee-shirt alongside a skinny half-grown boy with taped glasses. They're sitting on the gray-carpeted floor of a dimly lit and rather dirty apartment.

Beaming enthusiastically, the younger child waves her arms. "It's the Ashley and Johnny show! Starring...ba-da-da-dum! Ashley and Johnny!"

The boy, presumably Johnny, waves a hand at the camera. "Alright, Ash, let's show the folks what we're doing today, okay? What have you got for us now?"

Ashley beams excitedly, holding up two sticks. "I'm gonna play the xylophone!"

"Right, and I'm gonna play the keyboards. C'mon, let's do it like we practiced!" The two children set to their respective instruments with varying degrees of skill; Ashley is shaky, barely understanding what notes to hit, while John is fairly adept for his young age. Despite the difference in talent, it's clear the kids are enjoying themselves...at least, until a loud BANG! shakes the room, causing them to stop.

Offscreen, a woman's voice shrieks at the now-terrified kids. "Are you seriously playing with my camera again?! I told you not to! Why do you never listen to me, you're wasting the battery-"

The video feed cuts out.

Fade back into the same two kids at an odd angle; it seems the camera's been accidentally turned on by someone attempting to put it up. John is hugging Ashley tight. She's crying, obviously upset.

"Why is she so mean all the time?! We were just playing, it isn't fair!"

John hushes her. "I know. She can't help it, she's...grownups are all like that. They never understand, and they never help." He exhales through his teeth, looking grim for a moment, older than his twelve years before moving to ruffle his sister's hair.

"We don't have to worry about that, remember? Once you're strong enough to carry me, you're gonna fly us to Neverland. We'll get to hang out with Peter and Tink, and mom's never gonna find us. You and me are never gonna end up like her, okay?"

A sniffle. "Promise?"

"I promise."

yall ive been workin harddd….. take dis female muteba 🤞🏾

⁀➷ more part time!deku mess

imagine one day while Deku is at work, he sees two kids out playing in the street

they’re hooping and hollering, making a racket

he goes out to see what’s going on, what the noise is about

they scowl at him and he instantly realizes they look like darker skinned katsukis. 

oh, dear. 

“what are you guys up to?”

“we running away!”

“really?... where to?”

“we going to Atlanta!”

“Atlanta?” Izuku had never heard of the place.

“Yeah!” piped the second one. “that’s where mom goes to work sometimes.”

big bakugo smacked little bakugo on the arm “don’t go telling him our business! He could be a cop!”

it took everything to keep from smiling at that. 

“Why would a cop be in a daycare center, huh genius?” Little bakugo challenged. ”Dropping off his little cop baby, duh!”

Midoriya peeked over his shoulder and wasn’t surprised to see his class pressed up on the window, watching. His little “cop baby” was in front, looking as curious as the rest of the kids.

the older bakugo must have seen him too, because he got to pointing “Uh-huh! There he is right there! Got the same bushwhacked Afro just like him!”

“B-bushwhacked?!”

“that’s not how you use that word, stupid.”

“Shut up! That’s how I use it!”

“Is your mom in Atlanta right now?”

the two children stopped arguing and stared at him warily. they moved in on either side, arms out. midoriya patiently waited while they patted him all over.

“What are you doing?”

“checking for heat.”

”or a gun.”

 “Oh.”

“He clean.” little bakugo confirmed. “can i tell him now?”

“Hell Naw! He don’t know our mom, so he don’t need to know where she at.” ”I know your dad, I bet.” Midoriya spoke up.

big bakugo looked up at him like he’d grown two heads and scrunched up his top lip. “Man, you don’t know jack.”

“Katsuki Bakugo, right? Puffy blonde hair, glaring red eyes... yells a lot.” they exchanged looks. “Yah, That’s our daddy”

“sho nuff”

“You both look just like him...”

they seemed to like that. Big bakugo puffed up and little bakugo was smiling at him. Izuku smiled back. “Why don’t we go inside and have a snack?”

Inside, the boys sat at the kiddie table. The other kids in class pulled up their chairs next to them, all curious. Little bakugo waved when they said hi but big bakugo ignored them, his jaw jutted out as he slumped over the table.

Midoriya set two baggies of goldfish and two cups of apple juice in front of them. ”So, my name is Izuku Midoriya. What are your names?”

“Gion Dominic Bakugo. I’m six.” little bakugo said a mouthful through a handful of goldfish, spraying crumbs as he talked. “He’s Itsuki De’andre Bakugo. Seven and half.”

All the younger kids gasped. They had three names???

“Wow!”

“So... many names...”

Gion shrugged. “Our folks in Atlanta are ignorant, so mom gave us middle names to go by when we visit. Over here, we Gion and Itsuki.

Over there,” Itsuki smirked. “We Dominic and De’andre.”

“So,” he challenged. “you know our dad but he don’t never talk bout you tho.”

Izuku scratched the back of his neck and chuckled. “Well, we went to school together, but we didn’t always get along...”

“Why? Did ya’ll scrap in school or something?” ”Scrap?”

“Yeah man! You got a brown baby so i know you got a sista for a wifey, how you don’t know what scrapping is?”

“Dre, you know these people can’t speak proper English.”

“Man,” he sucked his teeth. “like, fight. Did ya’ll fight?” “We couldn’t ever NOT fight,” Izuku admitted. “I would have liked to get along, and when we were kids we did. But after we got older, he was always upset about something I did, even if I didn’t do anything.”

Itsuki snorted, and a smile crossed his face. “Das how it be. My dad STAY mad. He yell at errbody.”

“Even your mother?!” Izuku looked incredulous. ”I was finna say!” Gion chimed in. “He don’t fuss at mom.”

Itsuki nodded. “You right, errbody but mom. She’d snatch him like a wig if he ever tried that.”

It was Izuku’s turn to snort. If Kacchan was being cautious then that meant he had ALREADY tried it and she’d probably torn him a new one.

“Tell you what, when we get to mom, she can tell you all about it.”

“And how do you two plan to get there without adult supervision?” ”....” ”I thought so. I’m calling your father.” ”NO!” “You can’t do that, I bet you don’t even know his number!” Itsuki was trying to keep his tough bravado going but Izuku could hear his leg jiggling under the table. ”You’re right, I don’t have his number...”

They both looked relieved. Izuku turned away from them, muttering to himself. “I’ll just have Kirishima drop them off, I know for a fact he’s got Kacchan’s number...”

(This is a hot mess but i had to get it out before I forgot XDXDXDXD Freaking Deku accidentally meeting Bakugo kids cuz they ran away from home, which they probably do every time their mom leaves the country for work and they get sick of him being mean.)

I'm really curious about "The Boy Who Braids, He Dreams in Red" :D

@musetta3 wanted to know about the same one!

So my first DA game was Inquisition, and like a lot of folks who played that one first, I was charmed by Cullen's bumbling romance (esp after Solas smashed my stupid little heart). My last foray in creative writing had been elementary school, and I'd never written fanfic at ALL, but when I was rambling to a friend about how I wanted more of that romance, they suggested I try writing about it and I did!

The longfic I'm working on now actually had about 40 chapters of a completely different iteration already written. It was initially very soft and saccharine, and an outlet for the romance I craved in my own life at the time. I remember reading about Cullen's misdeeds not long after playing Inquisition, and feeling frustrated that others' perception of his character was so different from the character I knew in DAI. He struck me as a tortured soul, someone who wanted so badly to be good! When I read further and watched scenes from previous games, I knew I wanted to write a solid redemption arc for him, if for no other reason than to align the character in my head with the one on the page. Then that good ol' depression hit, and I stowed my story in a faraway folder and left it collecting virtual dust for almost two years.

I picked up where I left off and wrote a few more chapters, but something didn't feel right. The characters and their stories had time to marinate in my daydreams, and they'd grown more complex than what I'd written. Shielan wasn't a soft sweetie in search of romance, and Cullen wasn't able to earn her forgiveness as easily. My writing skills also improved, and when I went back to re-read those early chapters, I didn't feel they were reflective of what I'd learned. I tried editing and re-editing until something clicked, but eventually I realized the best option was for me to start fresh. Most peoples' eyes bug out of their head when I tell them I scrapped a 40 chapter fic but I'm so glad I did because my story is better for it (and I'm a better writer for it too!)

I'm glad y'all picked this one, because although I'm a wee bit sheepish about it's syrupy sweetness, it gave me the chance to see how much my writing has improved and to appreciate the complexity I've added to my characters since I first began. Anyway, thanks for reading my monologue! There's a snippet of the writing itself under the cut for anyone curious.

I'm very into the dark, brooding but good-of-heart archetype, and I leaned on this heavily in the first iteration of this fic. In this chapter, we have a classic bed-sharing scenario, and the also classic nightmare comfort scenario smushed into one.

***

Everything was steeped in crimson. The shapes, the people, the demons and their screams, all of it red. His throat felt tight and sore as though he were being choked, skin prickly and hot. The nightmares came regularly, but this one was particularly brutal. He shook in his sleep, mumbling and cursing under his breath. As the nightmare progressed his voice grew louder and drew the attention of a sleeping Shielan.

She sat up in bed and lit the candle next to her, taking a moment to let her eyes adjust. Once they'd focused she could see the commander shivering beneath his blanket. She reached for a tin of water nearby and felt around inside the bedside drawer for a piece of cloth to dampen. Cloth in one hand, candle in the other, she climbed down from bed and knelt beside him. His arms were making bigger gestures now, vocalizations becoming more frantic. Just as she moved to press the cold cloth against his forehead he shot up. One arm reached back for his blade but she caught it firmly.

"Cullen!" she barked.

His eyes flew open and he gripped her shoulders tightly, struggling to catch his breath. He willed himself to speak or move, but his body refused, paralyzed by fear. She spoke to him in hushed tones, told him he was safe and everything was alright.

"I've frightened you," he breathed. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," she replied.

She found the cold, damp cloth and dabbed at the beads of sweat that had formed over his furrowed brows. Cullen took it from her hand and gave his face a rough scrub. He was still shaking, his chest heaving as it tried to take in even breaths. Shielan passed him the tin of water and he downed what was left in one smooth gulp. He turned to face the opposite wall, leaning against the bed and letting his head fall back, eyes closed.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Not exactly," he replied, massaging his temples. A splitting headache had begun to creep up through the back of his skull.

"You should try to go back to sleep, perhaps in your bed this time."

He nodded, and they climbed in, one after the other, rearranging pillows and blankets to suit their new shared space. His headache was getting worse, and he was exhausted, but too anxious to sleep. Shielan could feel the tension coming off him, the pain he was projecting onto the atmosphere. She pivoted to face him.

"I can help," she said, taking his face in her hands before he had the chance to protest.

It was cool and crisp this time, the current emanating from her fingertips. He closed his eyes and shivered as relief made its way through his bones, down his spine, settling into his chest. Breaths came and went a bit easier now and he started to feel more steady.

"Thank you," he said.

Although the spell had run its course, her hands had not yet left his face. He opened his eyes to meet her gaze, and her heartbeat quickened. Her own breaths had become ragged now, and her palms started to sweat. The urge to move closer to him was overwhelming, but she felt stuck.

Cullen wrapped his hands around her wrists, letting his thumbs caress the soft skin on the tops of her hands. A tentative smile spread across his face, cheeks red again. He pulled her hands from his face and held them in the air as she weaved her fingers between his, interlocking them in a gentle hold. She braced her shoulder against the headboard and he turned his body to face her, releasing one shaky hand and bringing it up to stroke her cheekbone. A sigh left her lips at his feather light touch. She leaned forward and he followed. They stopped when their foreheads touched, each feeling the other's breath tickle their face.

***

And yes, I am going to leave you hanging, because I still haven't written Shielan and Cullen's "real" first kiss yet, and that is the one I want you to see!

do you write the “Sirius runs away from home” trope to get over writers block or are you normal?

—

The summer sun bore down on the earth, warming everything in sight with its rays, including the small house sitting on a patch of spacious land. The birds were chirping as they fluttered in the air and the creek nearby babbled pleasantly in the distance. A young man with several scars across his face was laying in the tall grass in the front of the house, listening to the sounds that surrounded him, allowing the peaceful atmosphere to envelope him. He felt as if he was one with nature in moments like these, which was disgustingly ironic considering he turned into a wild animal once a month that was more familiar and adept with the forest than he was. Still, the birds did not fear him as he was now and the rippling water was more calming than irritating to his senses. He could enjoy these pleasantries as a human rather than startle them as the wolf.

“Remus!” His mother’s voice hollered from the house. The boy listened as the door creaked slightly when opened, followed by light footsteps treading across the old, wooden porch. He smiled to himself, peeking one eye open to watch his mother as she scanned the yard.

“Hmmm...” She tapped her fingers against her chin for a moment. “I wonder where my little boy has run off to.”

“I’m not little anymore, mum.” Remus popped his head up, his curly hair looking quite messy. Hope just smiled and motioned for him to come inside. Once he reached her, he pulled her into a tight hug, resting his head atop her own and laughing.

“See? I’m not little anymore.”

Hope just tutted at him fondly and followed him through the door back into the house. At the small kitchen table sat a light brown farm owl with wide eyes, instantly recognized as James Potter’s pet, with a letter attached to its foot. It hooted happily at Remus and he allowed the bird to peck lovingly at his fingers as he untied the note.

“‘Lo, Kip.” He muttered before moving aside to read the letter so Hope could feed the owl bits of bread. Remus’ eyes scanned over the parchment, his body tensing with each word and the good feeling he had sustained all day was now slipping away, replaced with a sense of foreboding.

Dear Moony,

How have you been, mate? Good, I hope. Pretty sure I have been driving mum and da up the wall with my constant complaints of boredom. Not even Quidditch has been able to occupy my mind.

I know that the moon was last week, but I still wanted to check in and see how you’re holding up. Do you need me to send anything? Mum has some excellent soothing salves if you want some and I can always send more Honeydukes! Call me a mother hen all you want, I don’t care. I want to make sure you’re alright.

Speaking of maternal instincts, have you happened to hear from Sirius? I haven’t gotten one letter from him this summer which wouldn’t be so worrying since we have the mirrors except he won’t answer my calls on those either. Please let me know as soon as possible if you’ve heard from him. I’m writing to Pete about it as well. And send letters to Sirius if you could. Hopefully he’ll answer at least one of us.

Tell your folks I said hi,

Prongs

The feeling of guilt was suddenly welling up inside Remus’ gut. He had not been in correspondence with Sirius ever since school ended either, but Remus had assumed that was due to the event that had taken place just before the year ended. The event being Gryffindor winning the house cup, prompting a celebratory uproar at the Gryffindor table where Sirius, seemingly on a high of adrenaline, promptly placed his lips firmly against Remus’ own.

He felt lightheaded just thinking about it. The tingling sensation he felt when the dark haired boy gently cupped his cheek and the fireworks that had exploded in his mind at the initial touch of lips against lips had left him reeling for the last few days of school and well into the summer. But Sirius hadn’t said a word about what happened. Hadn’t expressed any thoughts about it, not even through a letter. Remus had thought that maybe he was embarrassed, that he regretted it the same time Remus relished in it.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Sirius ignoring Remus because of humiliation was one thing, but ignoring the marauders as a whole? It didn’t sit right. A sudden sensation of dread was filling Remus’ insides at the possibilities of what truly was keeping Sirius from contacting his friends.

The Noble House of Black that Sirius was raised in was not the most loving household there was, putting their outdated views and beliefs above their children’s happiness, meticulously maintaining their pureblooded-ness with arranged marriages to distant cousins and disowning any family members who step out of line. It was horrible really, and Remus wasn’t even aware of all that happened behind closed doors. James had an idea, but James had grown up pureblood as well and though Fleamont and Euphemia were vastly different than Orion and Walburga in every way, the young Potter boy was able to be more privy to conversations surrounding the Blacks affairs through the grapevine that was pureblood society. The quiet conversations James had with Sirius at the beginning and end of each school year let Remus know that things were definitely more complicated with Sirius’ parents than he understood.

But they all knew about the nightmares.

The first time Sirius woke up screaming in the marauders shared dorm room was in their third year just after the summer holiday. Peter was the only one who really knew what to do, having grown up with a younger sister who was apparently susceptible to night terrors, and had wrapped his arms tightly around Sirius’ thrashing body in an effort to restrain him while instructing James to get a cool cloth. None of them ever really spoke about it, but James and Remus quickly learned how to soothe their friend as well.

“Something the matter, dear?”

His mother’s voice pulled Remus’ eyes and thoughts away from the letter in his hand, which was now crumpled at the edges from his tight grip. He looked at her and shook his head. Hope rushed forward in a second, pulling her son into her arms and making him feel like a small boy again, despite the fact that they were joking just moments ago about how much he had grown. Tears had sprung in his eyes unprompted as Hope cooed soothingly in his ear and he thought of how Sirius had probably never received this kind of affection in his life.

“I don’t think Sirius is okay, mum.” Remus mumbled in her neck. She gripped him more tightly, at a loss for what to do. She knew, of course, the way her son felt about the young heir of Black, how scared he was to admit such feelings to her and even more so to himself. Hope had taken it all in stride, taking Remus in her arms the same way she was now, and telling him how proud she was of him and how much she loved him. She couldn’t imagine feelings anything else.

“What do you need from me?” She asked.

“I need to get to James’.”

****

this turned out to be super long and so i am splitting into five separate parts, this being the first! i am also working hard on all your requests but i just had to get this out to get my juices flowing. thank you for your patience 💗 read it on ao3 as well!

What I See Prologue

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader

Word Count: ~1.9

Warnings: None! (For this chapter at least)

Summary: You’re headed back home to London after a few years in America. You’ve got a new job at EMI, thanks to your best friend Freddie and you’re ready to start the next chapter of your life. But navigating life is far more interesting when you see far more than anyone else.

A/N: Heeeellllllooooo everybody! I am sick again, but I wanted to still get the prologue up. I’m kind of excited for this series. I’ve got a plan (kind of) for where I’m going with this story and I _know _you guys will like it, but I had to do some set up. So I promise you’ll get some Roger/Reader interaction in the first chapter. Thank you to everyone that likes/comments/reblogs!

You looked over your flat one last time, giving it a once over to make sure you didn’t forget anything. It had been your home for the last three years, and you were almost going to miss it. Maybe not the water stained ceiling or the loud pipes, but still. America had been fun; it gave you such a huge opportunity, but you were ready to head home.

There was a job waiting for you, working as an audio tech with EMI. And it was all thanks to your best friend, the one and only Freddie Mercury. Working in Hollywood on TV sets, mixing sounds and improving your skills was a dream come true. But you really wanted to work in the music industry. Freddie put in a good word for you at EMI. So when you sent in your application, on top of being more than qualified, you had an inside recommendation. 

You were quickly hired and, surprisingly, told you would be working with Queen. Roy Baker, who was moving studios, apparently requested that you replace him as the head sound engineer. Despite the horrible things Fred told you about Norman Sheffield, he actually agreed. And he gave you enough time to sort yourself out to head back to England. So, all in all, things were going great. But you were still closing a chapter in your life.

“Oh, (Y/N). You’re still here. I was hoping to see you.”

You turned around to see Richie strolling out of your kitchen, long brown hair falling into his face and a mischievous grin on his face. “You only just caught me. I’m just about to leave. Gotta catch my flight,” you said, smiling wide.

“Yes, I heard you were heading back to jolly, old England.” He put on a posh, British accent making you chuckle at his ridiculousness.

“I told you this, like, two weeks ago when you last decided to show up. Don’t you listen when I talk to you?” You gave him a mocking frown. 

“‘Course I do. I’m just saying, it’s worked its way through the grapevine. You’re leaving a lot of sad folks around here.”

You huffed a laugh, grabbing you bag. “Well, you can tell them all, just like I told them, that they can come visit me whenever they want.” You paused. “Within reason.”

Just as Richie was about to respond, the door opened up behind you and in walked your roommate. Well, ex-roommate.

“(Y/N)! Good, you’re still here!” She said, looking slightly out of breath. “I left work a little early hoping I could catch you. Then I couldn’t find a spot to park, and I ran up the stairs ‘cause the elevator was taking too long. And, well, here.”

She reached into her bag pulling out a little picture frame. Inside the frame was a picture of you and her, sunglasses on, arms wrapped around each other. It was from one of your many trips to the beach. “It’s not much. I know you said no presents and you’re flying light but… well, I just don’t want you to forget.”

“Oh, Beth,” you pulled her into a tight hug, squeezing your eyes shut to stop them from tearing up. Beth was your first friend in a new country and she was such a great support whenever you got homesick. Gosh, you were really gonna miss her.

“I know we said our mushy goodbyes last night, but I just wanted to see you one more time, yeah? Can I drive you to the airport?”

You nodded, wiping the wetness around your eyes away. “Yeah… yeah, let’s go.” Grabbing your suitcase, Beth led you out into the hall. You turned around to get the door, but it was already closing and you managed to see Richie giving you a wink before the door shut with a click.

~O~

The flight was long, even though it was a straight shot to London. You technically flew through the night, so you tried to get some sleep. The loud sound of the plane wasn’t very soothing though, and you didn’t get much rest.

It felt like you had been traveling for days when you finally touched down in Heathrow. Your joints cracked and you had to take a moment to stretch out while you waited for your luggage. Once you got it, you were out rushing, heading towards the exit.

When you rounded the corner, you broke out into a wide grin.

Freddie was there, waiting for you like he promised. He was dressed to the nines looking totally out of place and earning curious stares from those around him. On top of that, he was holding up a colorful sign, glittering in the light that said ‘Welcome home (Y/N).’

He shouted your name as soon as he saw you, giving you a big smile and a wave. You ran to him as fast as you could with your luggage weighing you down. But Freddie spared you, meeting you halfway and bringing you into a big hug.

“(Y/N), darling. Welcome home! Look at you!” Freddie grabbed your shoulder, holding you at arms length, eyes roaming all over you. “You’ve grown into a beautiful woman since I’ve last seen you!”

“Thank you, Freddie.” You felt your cheeks heating up a little. “And thank you for picking me. And for giving me a place to stay.”

“Nonsense! Where else would you stay?” He grabbed your luggage from you. Turning around, he started walking towards the exit. Your step faltered as you thought you saw someone you recognized in the crowd, but shrugged it off as you followed Freddie.

“My parents, maybe? They do live in London.”

“(Y/N), you’re a grown ass woman. I’m not letting you move back in with your parents, even for just a little bit. Besides, after three years of only phone calls, I want you to myself for a little bit.”

You laughed, “Fred, I’m going to be working with you. You’ll see me all the time.”

When you got to the van he was borrowing from one of his bandmates, he loaded your things into the back before hopping into the driver’s seat. “Oh, I know that. But then I’m going to have to share you. Can’t I just keep you to myself for a little bit?” 

“‘Course you can, Fred.” You shared a smile. 

He filled you in on everything you missed since your last phone call. EMI apparently has a trip planned for the band. Something about going to a farm that’s somehow also a recording studio.

“Roger’s throwing a fit about it. Says that it’s in the middle of nowhere and we’re gonna be bored out of our minds. Brian keeps telling him that’s the point, but he won’t listen.”

You never got to meet any of Freddie’s friends. You were off to technical school before he really even met them himself, and then you were in America right after. Sure, Freddie gave you numerous stories to fill in the gaps. In a way, you felt like you knew them, or at least knew enough about them to start a friendship.

Freddie told you all about how Brian was obsessed with space, that he’s the rational, calm one of the group; he told you that Roger was unfairly beautiful, but an intelligent spitfire to boot; he told you that John was quiet but so incredibly kind (except when you get on his nerves). So you felt like you already knew these boys.

You just hoped they like you well enough. It seems like you’ll be spending a lot of time together, after all.

When you arrived at Freddie’s flat he helped you unload, carrying your suitcase up the stairs. “Wow, Fred. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do so much work.”

“Oh, shut up, darling. It’s just this once.” Freddie prepared the guest room for you, depositing your luggage next to the few boxes of things you sent in the mail ahead of you. “I imagine you’re extremely tired, but you need to stay awake if you want to fight the jet lag. So you get settled and then I’m taking you out.”

“But-”

“No arguments,” he said with a wink, closing the door behind you.

You sighed, but smiled a little to yourself. It was only early morning in London but your body thought it was still time for sleep. Maybe going out with Freddie would do some good and keep your mind off of sleeping.

You unpacked some of your things. The first thing you pulled out was the picture Beth gave you, setting it on your nightstand. Even though you were staying with Freddie, you were still planning on finding a place of your own. Though it seemed like you might need to wait a little longer if you’ll be heading to this farm-studio-thing. Taking a shower loosened your still stiff muscles and made you feel so much better. So when Freddie came to get you, you felt ready to see London again.

Los Angeles became a home away from home, but it was no London. Now, London wasn’t beautiful, at least not all of it, but it was still familiar. Freddie took you to your favorite fish and chips place (you were slightly embarrassed when you accidentally called them french fries and Freddie just laughed at you). You walked around Kensington market and Freddie showed you where he had run a stall with Roger. He described all the types of things they sold, delving into stories about particularly memorable customers.

Throughout the day, you kept thinking that you saw someone familiar, but whenever you looked, no one was there. Almost like you were being followed. You shrugged it off as being tired as well as getting used to London again. By the time you both got back to the flat, you were beat. 

Freddie insisted on stopping for take out though so you ate dinner together on the sofa. You felt your eyes drooping more and more as you started to pick at your food. You must have dozed for a moment because the next second you jolted awake, Freddie’s hand on your shoulder.

“Go to bed, darling. Really. I think you earned a good night’s rest after indulging me all day.” Freddie said quietly, giving you a small nod towards the hallway. “Go, I’ll clean up.”

“Alright,” you said through a yawn. “Thanks Freddie. Night.”

“Night, darling.”

You shuffled down the hallway to your room. Slowly, you pulled your pajamas on before pulling your toothbrush and toothpaste out of your pack. You brushed your teeth quickly, wanting to fall into bed. But as you opened the bathroom door, you let out a loud shriek, coming face to face with Richie.

“Richie! What the fuck!” you panted, trying to catch your breath.

“(Y/N)!” Freddie yelled, coming down the hall. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

You sighed, eyeing up the guilty look on Richie’s face. “Nothing, Fred. It’s just Richie. Coming out of nowhere.”

“Hey,” he said, hands up in mock defense, “you said I could visit anytime.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t mean right away. Or to scare the living daylights out of me.” Richie just shrugged, tossing his hair over his shoulder.

“Wait,” Freddie said, slowly. “Richie? As in, the ghost you met at the dive bar in L.A.? The one you caught criticizing some guy’s pick up line? That Richie?”

You glanced at Freddie, pursing your lips. “Yes, that Richie.”

~

Part 1

Taglist: @jennyggggrrr​

Hello ladies! I would love to read a fic in a book 9-ish setting, to see wee Mandy meeting her grandparents, and Jem seeing them again and being reunited with Germain/the Ridge in general, as well! Thank you

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight

Homecoming - Part Nine

Brianna set Mandy down on the bench alongside the long main table. Claire was directing Jem and Germain to clean themselves up before she’d allow them any of the bread or honey. Both boys being in good spirits thanks to their reunion, they obliged while Mandy watched with wide eyes.

“Jemmy did wha’ she said,” Mandy remarked quietly to her mother, “and didna put on a fight first.”

Brianna gave an un-amused laugh as she used a damp cloth Claire provided to wipe Mandy’s face and hands.

“Why?” Mandy pressed.

“You’ve heard me and Da and Jem talk about Grandda and Gannie before,” Brianna reminded Mandy. “When we’re here, they help Da and me to take care of you, so when they ask you to do something, you need to listen to them and do as they say. Understand?”

Mandy looked over at Claire who was slicing a loaf of bread at a small table next to the doors that led through to the kitchen. Jem and Germain burst through a moment later, their hands, faces, and hair still dripping from their scrubbing.

“Go back through and make sure that floor is clean,” Claire told both boys, holding the eye of each of them long enough to ensure they heard the steel behind the instruction. There were giggles as soon as the door closed behind the mischievous pair.

Mandy turned back to her mother and nodded.

Claire carried the sliced bread over on a large plate and handed Brianna a napkin to spread on the table before Mandy.

“Fanny, will you fetch the honey from the pantry?” Claire requested before settling in at one end of the table across from Brianna and Mandy. “Better take what we want now because there won’t be a chance for seconds.” She put a slice of bread on the spread napkin in front of Mandy, smiling at her before handing a slice to Brianna and taking one for herself as well.

“Mam says yer my Grannie,” Mandy informed Claire, “and tha’s why Jemmy listens to ye.”

Claire chuckled. “I am. You were just a baby when I saw you last. A little bigger than the baby you saw earlier, but not much bigger.”

Mandy turned to Brianna for confirmation of Claire’s claim.

“Grannie was the first one ever to hold you when you were born,” Brianna assured her daughter, the girl’s surprise at that causing her mouth to fall open. “And you know how one of your middle names is Claire? That’s cause it’s her name.”

“Is tha’ why my hair’s got curls too?”

Brianna and Claire fought to suppress their laughter and Claire nodded. “The color’s from your father but I do believe the curl traces back through your mother to me.”

Fanny returned with a ceramic pot of honey and a spoon, offering them to Claire.

“Would you like to do it yourself, Mandy?” Claire suggested with a questioning glance at Brianna.

“If you do, you’re gonna do it sitting in Grannie’s lap, not mine,” Brianna said, already rising and lifting Mandy over the table to hand her to Claire. “I’ll eat it but I have no desire to wear it.”

Claire settled Mandy in her lap and handed her the spoon to dip into the pot while Claire held it and adjusted it as necessary to minimize how much dribbled onto the tabletop. When there was a large pool of honey on the bread, seeping into the air pockets and leaking to soak the napkin beneath, Claire eased the spoon from Mandy’s hand and handed the pot down the table for Fanny and the boys to negotiate (Jem had grown tired of waiting and had already eaten the crust off his bread).

Mandy tried to lift her slice of bread to bite into it but had to blow her curls out of the way first. Claire struggled to hold back her granddaughter’s hair but when Mandy pulled back, chewing happily, a strand of honey trailed back to the end of a ringlet. She whipped her head around to look up at Claire over her shoulder, flinging the honey into the older woman’s face.

“I like this honey better’n wha’ we have at home,” Mandy told Claire. “Ours comes from a bear.”

“A bear?” Fanny frowned. “Bears don’t make honey. Bees make honey.”

“I didna say they make it,” Mandy challenged the older girl with a roll of her eyes.

“Mandy,” Brianna scolded.

Fanny backed down as well, turning her attention to Germain and Jem who were seeing how high they could hold the spoon of honey and still dribble it on the slice of bread below.

“Where did you get the bears in Scotland?” Claire asked Mandy quietly.

Mandy was pleased to see that even if the girl didn’t believe her, Grannie did.

“Mam had a friend who sent them to us cause they’re Mam’s favorite.”

Brianna mouthed ‘Joe’ to her mother who smiled at the thought of her old friend.

The boys and Fanny had finished with their snack and were smearing the remnants of the honey across the backs of their hands as they raced to the door—Fanny demonstrated a little more decorum than that, taking care to wipe her face on her napkin and leave it neatly folded before floating out of the house and toward the garden where William was talking with Ian, Rachel, and Roger.

“And did you ever get to meet your mother’s friend?” Claire asked, her eyes fixed on Brianna who nodded.

“Ah huh. When Da was missin’ Mam took us to see ‘im in Boston. She said it’s where she grew up and tha’ he was a friend of yers first. He’s the one helped with my heart when I was a wee bairn,” Mandy explained, her voice pitching high at the end before she stuck her fingers in her mouth to lick them clean.

“And did you have fun in Boston?” Claire asked, giving Mandy a small bounce in her lap

Mandy giggled. “Ah huh. We did ‘speriments drivin’ round the Common and Mam took us to a big park but it was inside and we werena allowed to play on the grass cause someone else was havin’ a game.” Mandy’s excitement cooled and she whispered accusationally to Claire, her eyes darting back to Brianna, “I wanna go back an’ visit but Mam says we cannae do that. She says we cannae go home to Lallybroch again neither.”

Claire sighed and reached for the damp cloth Brianna had left on the table, using it to wipe the stickiness from Mandy’s face. Brianna looked up as a door opened and Jamie came in with as large a piece of paper as he had in his study. A quill was in one hand, his fingers stained with ink.

“I’m sorry you can’t go back to Scotland and Lallybroch,” Claire said. “We’re going to do everything we can to make sure you’re happy here. You’ll have playmates nearby and some cousins.”

“Uncle Ian and Aunt Rachel,” Brianna reminded. “Baby Brian.”

“And I ken ye’ve been bouncin’ about for a time wi’ no place that’s been yers since Lallybroch,” Jamie spoke up, spreading the paper on the table. “But why don’t ye come over here and help me and yer mam make a start of fixin’ that?”

Claire let Mandy down so she could scamper around the table and climb into her mother’s lap.

“Wha’s this?”

“This is goin’ to be yer new house,” Jamie told her, using the quill to point at the diagram he’d started sketching. “It’ll start wi’ just this big room here—tha’s about as much as we’ll be able to build before the snows come—but then in the spring, we start framing this part out here and before summer arrives we can knock out this wall and it’ll be the kitchen for the larger house.”

“Ooooh,” Brianna purred, reaching over and taking the quill from her father’s hand. “If we take the larger part of the house and move it to this side of the cabin instead, the kitchen chimney will help heat it along here. Then, a second chimney on the far side here…”

“Jem’ll get plenty of practice splittin’ kindling if ye want a house wi’ two chimneys like that,” Jamie remarked.

“I wanna practice too,” Mandy piped in.

“I’ll see the smith about a wee hatchet for ye,” Jamie promised, blinking at Mandy with a smirk on his face before glancing up to see Brianna struggling to hold her tongue. “If ye’re goin’ to be helpin’ yer mam and me wi’ the new house, ye’ll need to start wi’ the right tools.”

Claire reached over to the pot of honey and ran her finger around the rim, gathering the drips and dribbles on her finger and popping it in her mouth while she smiled at Brianna with a look that teased, It’s our right as grandparents to spoil them.

“Did ye build this house?” Mandy asked Jamie, her jaw dropping when he nodded. “All of it? By yerself?”

“I had help, though… I’m sure it would ha’ gone that much faster did I have you helpin’ too.” Mandy slipped from Brianna’s lap and shuffled across the bench to climb into Jamie’s lap.

“How’d ye do the map?” She reached for the quill from Brianna. “Show me?”

“It’s no a map the way most folk think of maps,” Jamie explained, guiding her hand as the tip of the dry quill traced the lines of the sketch. “It’s no even a proper plan—that would have the measurements marked here…”

Crooked from the prompt list owo

The aqueduct cut an erratic path over the pitiable adobe hovels that tumbled over one another like boulders on a great hillside in Drybrush, collapsing into the murky valley of Pearl Lane below. Water seldom flowed through its courses – only after the monsoons, when the cisterns filled almost to bursting and the city streets, usually parched, were slacked with the dust-choked overflow. Built by a publicly-minded – or at least public-facing – cousin of the house of Ul some decades hence, the staggering, slanted work of Ul’dahn engineering mediocrity was left to decay almost immediately. Even for a flash in the pan of royal generosity, though, it had a distinctly poor reputation among the lower orders. Invariably the porous limestone used in its construction sucked up more of the water than it carried, which it proceeded to sweat over the course of days onto the sagging roofs below. Yet even more concerning for the local homeowner was the haven it provided for the street rats, for the scamps nimble and unwise enough to attempt to scale its clumsy, idiosyncratic edifice and run hollering their japes and curses over the heads of so many beleaguered residents.

               Of course, to a guttersnipe like Castor, one man’s tragedy of public spending was another man’s own personal trans-urban hideaway. Personal, except for the gang of dirty, bedraggled children that regularly draped across the sunbaked stone like so many Hannish macaques, challenging one another to feats of acrobatics and derring-do that, they assured one another, would put hair on their chests. These children, hair slick to their heads with sweat or sticking out at odd angles, were nominally some of Castor’s closest friends, though the thorny politics normally associated with having eleven summers and not much else tended to corrupt that notion. Any given day, one of them could become the subject of the afternoon’s ridicule, a position whose duties would be relieved only after the sun went down. Whether they served as the object of the hitting game or merely the meanest ribbing the group was capable of varied depending on the mood and the particular predilections of tormenters and tormentee.

               For Castor, the daily informal drawing of lots – a process decided by whoever managed to say the first dull thing after lunch – was a complicated dance. In point of fact, it was not merely enough to not say anything; the less he said, the more likely someone was to point out how funny he looked, compared with the rest of the gaggle of urchin kids. Even when days of ceaseless sun put a muddy, freckled tan on his back, his shock of snow white hair marked him. How often had Athulf called him snowdrop, or Imelda poked fun at his odd name and his short stature? It was a mercy that none of them had said what their parents whispered to one another as they hung laundry, what made his mother tense her shoulders and turn her face as she hurried home in the evenings. “Don’t be out after dark,” she chided him. “Folk aren’t as kind as you think.” It was a familiar warning, but it had somehow grown more grave in the time since father passed.

               Castor was under no illusions that Athulf was kind. But he was bigger, and funnier, and – in many ways – more normal. In a borough full of Ala Mhigan whelps who’d never seen the homeland, it made him a crucial ally. It was in light of this that Castor broke the key convention – not to comfort the tormented – and found himself sitting a respectful distance from the ruddy haired bully, watching him bawl his eyes out. It had been a rare day. Mighty Athulf, whose steps shook their earth of their small world, had tipped his hand; he was fond of Imelda, and despite her unheard protests, the court of public opinion had turned against the match. The other boys pushed Athulf around, calling him a softie among other, crueler things, while the girls consoled Imelda that she didn’t have to like big, dumb, Athulf too. Now he and Castor were perched on the lip of the aqueduct as the stars hung above. Athulf, so cruel in victory, clutched the bruises on his arms and nursed others that would not heal as quickly, choking desperate, uneven sobs from his sore throat.

               “Hominī ēvictō, clēmentiam praebētō.” It was the sort of thing father was often fond of saying, in the evening when he would gather Castor into his lap and sit observing the hearth, his meerschaum pinned between his teeth. It meant that, as Castor was older, he had to be nice to Athulf when he was feeling sad. Dead fool as father was, it hadn’t seemed right to just up and leave Athulf alone when all the others left, never mind that Athulf would’ve – and had – certainly done the same to him.

               “Oi,” Castor called, after what seemed an appropriate amount of whimpering. “… D’ya really fancy Imelda?” The big Ala Mhigan boy shot him a look equal parts enraged and hurt, stifling another cry between his bared teeth. “What’s it to do with ye, snowdrop?”

               “Gar, Thulf, ain’t askin’ fer jollies. D’ya fancy ‘er, or not?” Castor cocked his head, hugging his knees to his chest. He prepared himself to spring – if Athulf came after him, he had to be ready to run, even along the whole length of the aqueduct.

               To Castor’s surprise, however, Athulf didn’t yet move to strike him. Instead, he merely hugged his broadening shoulders, sniffling pathetically. “Aye.”

               Restraining himself from the amused surprise of his compatriots, Castor nodded slowly. “S’posin’ as she’s pretty.” She was not, particularly, thought Castor. Though to say as much did not seem to be much help at this time.

               “None of your business what she is.” Athulf’s rebuke was swift. Eyes narrowed, he turned to Castor, leaning on one hand and pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Ye don’t fancy ‘er, do ye?”

               “Thal, I ain’t said that. I were just sayin’.”

               “Right.” Athulf turned back to watch the dark streets below.

               The silence hung thick.

               “Folk didn’t like that me Da liked me Ma.”

               Athulf wheeled on Castor, suddenly blistering fury. “What’d ye say?!”

               “Gar, I just said as –“

               “Don’t ya make me out like ye, or yer bloody pa!”

               “But –“ Castor scrambled to his feet as Athulf drew closer.

               “It ain’t the bloody same! My pa says so!” Athulf advanced, making to seize Castor. “Everybody knows yer just a damned mutt!”

               Red. Redder than the color of his mother’s hair, of the few turning locks that drooped from his brow that proved Athulf’s point. Redder than the scarlet silks of the street dancers’ gowns, than filched strawberries, than a splatter of gore on dry, hard earth three years past. Castor’s hands turned to claws, and went forward of their own accord, supported by thin, wiry arms. The perfunctory sound of skin against skin, and a clipped cry of alarm. Seconds later, a dull thud, far below. Castor opened his eyes – or maybe just regained his sight as anger turned to surprise.

               In the dark below, Athulf cried, a heartbreaking, heartbroken sound. Through sudden tears, Castor saw him laid out on the roof below the aqueduct. Something was wrong about his shape; ah. There it was. His back was crooked.

songs of my decade

2010/2011: Anyone Else But You by the Moldy Peaches

Towards the end of my convent years, my school was beginning to resort to the weirdest methods to ensure we get some semblance of effective Sex Education without compromising on the values of the catholic instituition. In efforts to make us abstain from sex in the most entertaining way possible, they sat us all down in a stuffy school gymnasium and made us watch a censored version of Juno from a tiny projector screen. This plan fell flat on its face because the film turned out to make us empathise with teenage pregnancy rather than fear it, although not all of us fathomed this. Eventually, the things most talked about was the bemusement we felt when she yelled the entire vocabulary of english profanities while in labour pains, and the gentle & sweet folk songs that made the OST. Amongst which was Anyone Else But You, by the Moldy Peaches, a song off the soundtrck that caught on most well. I remmeber how Nat and I would break out randomly into song while hanging out around our Hougang hood after school, with the lyrics all memorised to a T. It was one of the first songs I learnt on my own during guitar ensemble practices. I performed it for my friends, family, hoping the song's feeble lyrics & uncomplicated chord progression would easily capture adoration. AEBY became one of my most remembered songs of my teenage years, and opened me up to indie folk musicians that i would come to love. It represented the tame, boyless youth of my convent years. It makes me think of blue coral sweet talk slushies, nun-white sneakers, and running away from finger-wagging discipline mistresses. AEBY is innocent - like the comfortable cocoon of my teenage years, where my self-esteem hinged upon the affection drawn from friendships, the length of my ankle socks, the seeming eternity of vacuous girlhood

2013/2014: Breezeblocks by Alt-J

This song is a fucking masterpiece and the only thing Spotify got right - it did indeed come out tops on my most played songs of the decade. I remember listening to it on a shared earpiece with Nina when in JC, then later on throughout year 1 & 2 of uni when i was trying to be edgy with my identity crises, and the weeks following the legendary moment of seeing Alt-J play the song live at Genting. Everytime i hear breezeblocks i hear the manifestation of my (currently unconfirmed) ADD condition - if i'm not just being the hypochondriac i am. Whatever the song expresses, my inner mind is - it's my gross inability to stay on the ground, my never ending attempts to both subdue yet express myself by going from excitement to excitement, my train of thought repeatedly disrupted by the trigger-happy da-da-da-das. Breezeblocks’ shuddering background hi-hats combined with Joe Newman’s lazy drawls is this precise sensation felt daily - the slow, swirling haze over my mind i cannot navigate, the overtures of energy my body transmits back and forth from fidgeting finger to shaking feet. And yet, the emotion that runs through its sounds is one of both love and fear - the slowed & sugary strums that leap suddenly into hyperactive, crashing drums. Coming to terms with this condition in adulthood, especially when it's been disrupting my work life, has been precisely this: a messy experience of both loving and fearing myself; putting up with the constant pandemoniums in my head, and knowing it's the very reason i'm uniquely who I am. Breezeblocks is that constant paradigm shift - a frustration at my inability and an endearment of my brokenness; a resulting schizo-desire to both quell and expel.

2017: J-Boy by Phoenix

To be honest, there's no true connection to what the song's trying to convey to whatever 2017 was to me. All i know is that when this song was on full-on repeat mode, it was when i was experiencing for the first time an unsettling combination of two polar feelings: the feeling of falling in love again, and the feeling of heart-wrenching grief. Layered atop was the actual taste of independence for the first time in my life, being 22 and alone in Spain in the company of strangers that felt so familiar to me. J-Boy occured when i lost my grandpa, when i began my relationship with Matt, when i travelled alone all by myself for the first time. Everytime I play J-Boy I open a portal to spanish hillsides and castles, the sounds of murcia's rolling brooks, the sensation of wrapping my arms around my lover’s body in the midst of the icy mediterranean sea. I step insiside the idyllic, temporal limbo of summer 2017 - before returning to the reality of an emptier home, to a a life that mercilessly moves forward. You feel trapped in a vault, in an empty aquarium If suddenly you're out of the woods Then inside of an alley, you're out of words Well, I thought it was radium at first

2018/2019: 20 - Something by SZA

Self-explanatory. When SZA desperately sang Praying the 20 somethings don't kill me? I felt that 100%. The 20's are pretty much already becoming the hardest times of my life, and any more it's giving me could easily tip me over the edge. It makes me wish I could fast forward to being 30 and being grown enough to live in my own house, to make my own damn decisions, and be taken seriously enough in the corporate world. and yet? I also never want it to end, these are, after all, the final years of licensed irresponsibilty, and where you'll never be faulted so hard for your failures. The 20's are so far, a penrose staircase that you have to keep walking and walking - not knowing if there'll ever be a resolution or progress - and i've already fallen off it a couple of times from trying to skip a few steps or run too fast. Then the getting-back-on is so confusing because you no longer know if you're on the right step from where you've fallen off from before, and whether you'll have more certainty of an end from where you're getting on again. It's the most ecclestiastical season of my life, but it's also so fuckin beautiful. And that honest, aimless stream of consciousness in 20-Something’s verses express this determination to pin down the fleeting years, to define its pressure points - of trusting recklessly, of adventurous first-times, of heartbreak and hope - that seem to promise yet confound..

Married Life Meme: Luka and mah sistah Beth (dealers choice of verse)

Meme: Married Life Meme Status: Open

Round and round the stone is spun between fingers that can not speak its tongue. Round and round the memories turn, and one by one escape.

leaves their dirty clothes on the floor

Actions unsuited for a lady. But he hardly much remembers how it is a human Lady should act. And there is nothing at all amiss to him about picking up the soiled garments, one by one. Laid over the chair by the fire. One he moves to stoke and encourage into something that will keep her warm til dawn.

His charge is to protect not to smother. And perhaps he enjoyed the afternoon with her, on the edge of the forest, far more than anyone can know. Because she is a Lady and he but a servant in two realms. And he tells himself it is duty that ensures she’s tucked in snugly, before slipping out her door. To run the green and wild lands until the morning comes.

forgets to run the dish washer

They won’t let him in. She is ill and unfit for company they say. So he sits and he paces and he waits. The stone before her door nearly etched with the strides of his feet. And with every come and go of her caretakers he tries to catch sight of her through the door, but the old women are skilled and quick for their age. Shoving trenchers into his hands, and soiled clothes. Demanding more water and clean linens.

And he goes for what else can he do? Returning from the kitchens with what was asked. And the pacing begins a new. A scowl kept to himself with the coming and going of the crowned prince. For who would dare tell the future king no? Who would dare bar his way? Not a soul–though one might beg it to be done.

pumps gas for the car

She wishes to ride today, and he will see it done. Rising earlier than really needed to ensure the beast bred to bare her was well fed and brushed and tacted. In good health and mood when she appears in the courtyard. Shining and bright. A red ribbon in her hair that stands stark against dark tresses. Her maids fussing after her that it is hardly a Lady’s place to be galavanting off on horse back to who knows where, when she should be spending the day at court.

drives when they’re going somewhere

But she comes. Radiant and unhindered despite the basket clutched in hand. One that he takes, ties upon the horses back for her, before helping her to mount. And he leads her and her favored friend away from the prattling woman. To the northern fields where they can both take heart, that not a soul shall see them. And for a few hours, at the least, they may be themselves without judgement.

rearranges the furniture

            “I would not see you sleep in such discomfort a night more!”

And that had been the end of it. For who was he to argue with a princess? And the highest Princess at that? Though he had to get used to the humanness of it all. The sleeping within walls of stone, and doors barred by iron. Had to learn to ignore the sounds that echoed through the hollow halls and the stillness of the air. Learned again the usefulness of blankets and the luxury of a pillow. 

Never mind at all that his feet stuck off the end. Never mind the room beside her own felt enclosed like a cage. He was near her here, and that meant he was able to do as he’d sworn more easily. And never could it be said that even a mouse or moth passed by her door, without the wolf’s consent. 

falls asleep with the TV on

               Tell me a tale. You must know of at least one.

Moments tick by in the quiet. One pair of eyes transfixed upon the heavens while the other sees nothing but her. And he thinks…oh how he thinks. A thousand stories across a hundred handfuls of years–she wishes for a tale. And it must be something grand. Something worthy of her ears and her time.

          “D’ere were o’farmer d’at were blessed wi’d d’ress sons. An’ when d’ey be grown an’ were toi’me fer d’em ta be foi’ndin’ o’lass ta marry he be callin’ d’em together…”

By the time the little princess mouse had run her bell thrice and made her way along the road to meet the farmer with her sweetheart by her side—his little princess had long fallen into dream. Tucked against his arm with his shoulder for a pillow. And perhaps the wolf remained as he was for hours more, until the cool of the evening woke his wisdom to move her to her bed.

gets to use the bathroom first

A beast in part he may be but that does not at all mean he must smell like one. But bathes are drawn for kings and queens. For their children and for lords and ladies. Not for those that serve. So he is left with but one option. To find a river near the royal encampment, after the evening extravagance. 

Shrouded by the dark and given sight by a waning moon. But skin as pale as his own stands stark against the blackness of the water. Reflects the circle fires and the starlight. And perhaps he knows not that a Princess watches through the pulled too curtains of her tent. Perhaps he knows not of the heat that it brings to her cheeks, and what it stirs in her. 

Or perhaps he does, and he lingers in his washing longer than necessary.

decides the temperature for the ac/heater

          “Be ye troi’yin’ ta catch ye dea’d?”

A stride or three carries him to the fire. Stoking and adding fuel to the embers. Forcing it back into a roaring dance, whose heat bleeds into the room far to slow for his liking. And a fur is fetched from the chest near by. Laid about her shoulders and wrapped around her tightly. Hands doing what they can to rub her frame. To bring heat back into limbs. Only to stop with her words.

                 He knows. My brother. He knows. And I fear he means you harm.

A flicker of light that has no source amid green and yellow. And it takes but a moment for hands shift. For fingers to catch beneath her chin and lift her face to his.

          “He can troi’y, Réiltín. He may even suceed. Bu’ d’harm he do will be upon himself in d’en’. Me duty be ta ye. An’ oi’ no’ abandon me pos’. No’ matter wha’ da prince moi’ght do. Oi’no’ will leave ye. Ye, believe d’at….aye?”

A forward motion, a collapse and there they remain. Tangled in each other by her hearth. For he meant what he said. He would not leave her. Not for anything. In this realm or the other.

sets up holiday decorations

Picketing tents and unloading tables from wagons. It is not easy work but he sees it done all the same. For tonight the castle will be alive both within and without. A festival to honor the harvest and a new cycle of seasons. Celebrations that will ring across both realms. And there is a joy in him that perhaps some do not understand. 

So when she comes flitting to his side. A crown of flowers set gingerly upon his head. There is a smile that escapes. One that settles deeply into his bones. And the crown is left where it is. For when a princess offers you good tidings and a gift—you keep it. And you honor it for as long as the flowers hold their color.

leaves the lights on 

              But it will go out without tending.

       “D’en oi’will tend i’.”

           All night?

        “Aye, Réiltín. All noi’ght.”

A promise that he keeps. For she does not abide the dark well. Afraid of the things within it. Afraid of the spirits and their tricks. So he tends the light. Keeps it burning bright and warm. Because he can not tell her there is nothing to fear. He can not tell her the darkness would not dare. For even the dark must live by rules. Rules that were written far before either of them were every thoughts. Rules that his Lady was there to help write.

uses the bathroom with the door open

It isn’t his fault though perhaps his luck, that the foolish boy had left the prince’s best saddle to the elements. Draped over the wall meant to mark the grounds of the cattle fields. Maybe he should have left it be, but how can he? Sitting there as it had been, just begging to be stolen. Or worse yet ruined.

And it’s all fun and games is it not? For the faire folk are like the wind. They blow both ways. And one ill turn deserves another. So the saddle is taken. The leather used to alleviate the itch in his teeth. The detailed stitch torn bit by bit by bit and scattered across the dewy grass. And eventually….stained with liquids never meant to be applied.

And there he leaves it to be found upon the morrow. Another casualty of the monster the prince has yet to capture.

fixes the plumbing (or calls the plumber)

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It seems to grow louder with each occurrence. The rain that pours down in sheets, has found it’s way into the thatching and through the stone. He’s not the tools to mend and fix and he must wait for the morning. 

Morning that can not come fast enough. Morning that he meets with little rest and lagging feet. Both of which she notices. As well as the dampness of his boots. For he had not else to catch the invading rain in but them, and not the time nor tools to dry them before he was expected at her door.

        I will have the holes addressed before the day is out. 

           “Aye, as ye wish.”

Undo my ESC - Semi-final 1

Hey there, folks – with this year having so many ESC national finals with results that I personally found lamentable, I thought I’d do a little write-up, Undo my ESC, where I take this year’s entrants and make a feasible change, anything as small as tinkering with a few minor touches or as big as another person winning the national final completely.  Obviously, just my opinion and a light-hearted review, but I hope the people that always unfollow this page because they disagree with something I say on the few occasions I go into personal opinions stop reading here. Let’s take a look, first, at Semi-Final 1. Azerbaijan: she’s a jazz and soul singer. Get her singing a song in one of these styles that is comfortable to her! If the Azeris really think they wouldn’t have a chance with these genres, then they haven’t been paying attention to the last few winners of the contest. Even if she didn’t emulate them, she’d surely get to the final with their qualification rate, and would have more of a chance of standing out than with this generic “bop” (my most hated overused word of this season.) Iceland: Iceland this year may have sent the song with the most excruciatingly hackneyed lyrics in several years. Take a Hallmark card poem, drown it in treacle and you have an idea of how syrupy and twee the song is, almost as if they were some pretty bad satirists trying to write an over-the-top “humankind is one” pastiche song. I didn’t really pay much heed to Söngvakkepnin this year – finding their offerings a tame lot compared to recent years, like the excellent showdown between Svala and Daði Freyr last year – so I don’t have a horse to back, but since Í stormi was winning the contest televote before the superfinal, in this alternate timeline, I will have it win instead. Albania: This song is as close to perfection almost as you can get to me. Some people don’t like the revamped version, but – after what feels like an entire era of bad revamping – I like it and think it makes the song melodically tighter. I guess my change would be that Eugent would get the visa needed to attend the pre-parties, as he really needs all the exposure he can get to get out of this semi-final of death. Belgium: A really nice effort from Belgium, with Flanders stepping it up a gear to match the Walloons’ quality over the past years. Not sure how to change it, except to perhaps incorporate some Dutch in there? The separation of broadcasters made sense when Wallonia was sending songs in French and Flanders in Vlaams, not so much now when they’re both sending English songs. It’d be nice to hear the first bit of Dutch from Belgium since 1996 in, for example, one of the reprises of the choruses. Czechia: The Czechs surprised a lot of onlookers by joining the wave away from internal selections and towards national finals, but there was only ever going to be one winner here, Mikolas Jozef, whose song soared above an otherwise weak crowd melodically – but not lyrically! Even his new “family friendly” version for the ESC feels sleazy, misogynistic, and raises a bunch of questions that I definitely wouldn’t want to have to explain to my students. My change would be that he take the opportunity of writing a new set of lyrics to write something to go much better with the admittedly catchy score. Lithuania: This is gorgeous on every level and is soaring up my personal chart. Ieva’s vocals, powerful in their delicacy, are really moving and add to the poignancy of the lyrics. I originally found the English version sorely lacking compared to Kai myliu, but they have a certain understated simplicity and naïveté that I find lovely. She’s letting the words speak for themselves and I love that. My one change? Make it bilingual and add some Lithuanian to the mix, something she did in the final but is unclear whether she’ll replicate on the big stage.

Israël: Netta was rightfully the breakout star of the Israëli preselection, and having seen interviews of her, she seems genuinely lovely. I wouldn’t change her as the representative picked, but I wóúld go for a different song. Listening to or watching “Toy”, for me, feels like sensory overstimulation, like entering a room with a blur of a thousand noises and flashing lights. It feels too try-hard for me, like they want to be the memetic entry of the year, which some people will vote for just because of the chicken memes rather than the musical value of the piece. I also think that trying to posture it as a #!MeToo anthem is the biggest reach since Brisa Fenoy’s acclamation of Lo Malo. Belarus: As much as I’ve come to ironically appreciate the song and Alekseev’s bizarre accentuation, Farevvahh doesn’t hold a candle to Chmarki for me, which would have been a second unusual and unique pick for Belarus. Estonia: Eesti Laul was a bit of a dud for me this year, unlike the previous year where I loved Spirit Animal and Slingshot liked almost every song in the final -except for the eventual winner (my luck in a nutshell, there.) My pick would have been the sweeping and otherworldly Külm, which would have brought about an overdue return to the exceedingly musical Estonian language at Eurovision. If we have to keep Elina, give her a song (rather than a vocal exhibition) in Estonian, a language whose vocalic richness is perfectly suited for operatics. Bulgaria: The thing letting this darkly atmospheric piece down the most is the female vocalist, Žana Bergendorff, who doesn’t add much to the five-piece combo and has done very little except for gawp distractingly at the crowd in live performances. Bulgaria’s broadcasters teased much bigger names… I would have had them follow through on them. Macedonia: I’ve really grown to like this song from Macedonia, though on first listen – and those first impressions are crucial for folk who haven’t been listening to the songs for months in advance – it seemed a bit messy rather than the musical odyssey I currently consider it to be. It’s a risk, but I’d leave the composition as it is – except for inserting some of the supposed Macedonian we might have got. Croatia: Go back in time and tell Franka not to make a version of Sam Brown’s “Stop” with trap beats? Austria: Another composition that I can barely find fault with and really like. I love the light and shade of this – the dark and despairing verses offset by the build of the bridge and the upbeat, gospel-twinged verses. Only a special voice could pull that off, but Cesár’s husky and soulful timbre is perfect for both. The only part of the song where my attention flags is between the 2nd and 3rd choruses, where I think a fully-fledged third verse would be more interesting. Greece:  Actually have a national final. Don’t eliminate all but one song in the shadiest way possible. And have the winner be Don’t forget the sun/ Μην ξεχνασ τον ηλιο, which I feel brought a truly Greek atmosphere and combined English and Greek effortlessly, avoiding the clunkiness that bilingual songs often have. Finland: I would rather have had a proper UMK with more than one candidate, rather than what we got, 3 songs from Saara Aalto, which doesn’t represent that much choice. If that were impossible – as it seemed YLE was dead set on that path – then I’d probably have gone with Domino instead. Monsters is, musically, a more interesting piece and doesn’t have the atrocious rhyming of “falling, oh” with “domino” (troolee jeenyus riming), but her performance of Domino was considerably less shaky, and I find the chorus a bit gratingly shrill. Armenia: I love that Armenia are sending a song in their beautiful native language, and Qami is a grower with mystical and poetic lyrics. But I can’t lie – I much preferred If you don’t walk me home and would have it win Depi Evratesil instead. Switzerland: I’m going to be honest: in the last few years, I haven’t expected much out of Switzerland except for “non-qualifier” fodder, having brought us only 3 songs I like (Cool vibes, Unbreakable and especially the verbosely charming Hunter of Stars. Come back, Sebalter!) … since their last victory in 1988! I don’t mind Stones, even if I think it’s pop that’s rolled around in the mud a bit to present itself as grungey. However, there was something truly beautiful and stirring in the selection, Chiara Dubey’s “Secrets and Lies”, which seemed elegantly pared back despite also having something of an orchestral flourish. And her voice, as smooth as velvet, crowning the composition. Unfortunately, it had no chance… but I would make it my personal winner of the Swiss selection. Ireland: Ireland’s song this year is not daring or likely to make a splash, but quite lovely, with beautiful harmonies. I find the representative this year to be very unctuous and shifty though, especially his fake news about his video – whence I imagine most of the hype comes from, representing his song about a boy and girl breaking up with a romantic interpretive dance between two fellas falling in love, naturally – that he propagated against Russia.  Cyprus: Just no on every level to the current package, one of my absolute least favourites this year. I’d have a national selection with some Greek language songs. Whilst I begrudge how ERT handled their “national final” fiasco, at least they made a few steps in the right direction. This is the equivalent of flying half way around the world in the wrong direction. And the direct finalists voting in this semi-final:  Portugal: Whilst I have grown to find Isaura’s meditative song about the loss of her gran quite an extraordinary and emotive listen, I found this year’s Festival da canção of great quality and diversity and would have preferred Beatriz’ Eu te amo, Diogo Piçarra’s Canção do fim, or even better, Janeiro’s “(sem título)” as the host nation’s entry. Spain: This is one of my huge favourites this year, so I can pick little fault with it at all, though I think I prefer their pre-revamp version, which was a little more subtle in its lack of additional adornments. United Kingdom: The only thing I was happy about when it came to the result of You Decide, (which should be renamed You decide 50%, a jury decides the rest and we never tell you who réálly was decisive!) was that this prevented the more hideous hymn of unwarranted self-aggrandisement that was “Legends” from getting the ticket. But the eventual winning song, and especially the revamp, which sounds like the producers got bored and let their six year old kid go wild on a Casio, is such a wet weekend for me, especially when it was up against a soaring voice and poignant set of lyrics in Jaz Ellington’s “You”. 

So, that’s my summary of what I consider to be by far the stronger semi-final of this year’s Eurovision, and where only a few of my changes needed to be drastic. Join me soon to go through SF2, as I navigate a nearly wall-to-wall litany of horrors and share how I would like to try to right them!

Shifted - Part 7, Chapter 7

In Shifted, the premise is simple - what if Claire had gotten pregnant with Brianna a month or two earlier in the story, and she and Jamie had re-evaluated  their priorities and decided that the cause was lost, and they were able to slip away from the army and quietly return to Lallybroch?

Previous installments…

Part 7 - The Visitor

Lallybroch, Autumn 1762

Jamie jerked awake in the half-light of dawn, blinking harshly to shake off the dream.

 He couldn’t remember the details – only that he was standing at Craig Na Dun, holding Claire’s knit shawl. Claire herself was nowhere to be found, but he didn’t need to be told that she’d gone away. Gone back, through the stones – and the bairns gone with her, leaving him behind. Leaving him alone.

 Within the circle of his arm, Claire stirred. He stilled, not wanting to wake her. Not wanting her to know the foolishness of the dream. No matter how many times she told him – no matter how many times she showed him – the fact remained that his biggest fear was losing her. Living a life without her – without half of his heart. It would kill him.

 He knew she had had those dreams, too – especially right after Brianna was born. But the years had passed – and her comfort in this time had grown – and it had been a long time since she’d woken from one of those dreams.

 Jamie inhaled the messy curls at the crown of Claire’s head. They were one flesh, after all. They had the same joys, hopes, fears. No wonder that they would share the same dreams – or nightmares.

 No point in getting back to sleep now. Claire would be worried – preoccupied – as soon as she woke up. It pained him to see that – to see her forced to think, again, about a life she’d chosen to leave behind such a long time ago. Deep down, she still felt twinges of guilt about it – especially leaving Frank. Jamie didn’t begrudge her those feelings. But yesterday had brought everything back to the surface. And proven that, even two decades later, some matters and issues still needed to be resolved.

 It was his duty as Claire’s husband, then, to take her mind off of the situation. Give her something to smile about, even briefly. Ground her to the here and now – not the past, not the future.

 Jamie smiled and gently withdrew his arm from underneath Claire’s side. He balanced on his hands over her, edging down her supine body and drawing back the blanket as he went. His breath quickened against her navel as he set to kissing her awake.

 -----

 William Fraser was an early riser. Unlike his sister, who would sleep all day if it were possible, William never saw the value of lying abed when there were always so many things to do. So many things to learn, to think about.

 Such as Mr. Wakefield, the dinner guest. He clearly knew Mama – but from where? And from when? William knew that she’d been in this time for nearly twenty years, and the stranger couldn’t be much older than Young Jamie. So just how did Mama know him?

 He tossed and turned under his blankets, careful not to wake the two cousins with whom he shared the bed. Young Ian, beside him, slept like a rock. But Michael, on Ian’s other side, was always the more sensitive sleeper. Many mornings he had given William a difficult time for waking him so early.

 William sighed. Da, then – he always rose early. He would know more about Mr. Wakefield. He would know what to do. Quietly he turned back the quilts, tugged his drooping stockings up above his ankles, and padded down the hall to his parents’ bedroom.

 -----

 Claire gasped, digging her fingers into the hair at the base of Jamie’s neck, pressing him closer against her. Tilting her hips, she dug her heels into the mattress.

 So good. So close –

 Suddenly she felt a rush of cool air as Jamie lifted his head from between her thighs. His eyes, blazing, met hers. He spoke – Claire furrowed her brow in a desperate attempt to focus. She opened her mouth, but her lips were parched – she could not speak.

 “ –only be one of the bairns, Sassenach. Shall I get the door?”

 Panting, Claire weakly pushed Jamie’s head back down. His eyes smiled and he returned to his work.

 Had it ever been this good between them? She was so close –

 Suddenly her back arched – and she felt another rush of cool air as Jamie raised himself up over her. He kissed her, swallowing her scream and smiling against her lips as he felt her shudder and go absolutely boneless.

 Her mind flailed about until it reconnected with her body. She opened her eyes to meet Jamie’s smile. He kissed the end of her nose.

 “It must be William – Brianna would have stopped knocking after the first go-round.” He kissed her chin. “Are ye back then, Sassenach?”

 Claire swallowed, throat thick. “Good morning to you too,” she croaked.

 He grinned widely. “Oh, good.” He rose and pulled the sheet up to her shoulders. “And just think – ye still have the whole rest of the day.”

 “Jamie – ” she rasped, watching her husband cross the room, naked. “What if it’s not – ”

 Jamie turned the lock and cracked the door open. “What is it, William?”

 “I need to talk to ye, Da.” Her son’s voice was muffled by the door – but even now, Claire could tell he was serious.

 Jamie opened the door enough for William to slip through before re-bolting it. He rested a hand on his son’s shoulder, gently holding him in place.

 “Now then. Tell me.”

 William’s eyes darted to his mother – who was shrugging into a shift – and back to his naked father. Had he interrupted something? He knew what passed between husbands and wives in bed – Mama had made sure to tell him last year, and he knew his parents seemed to do that more often than most folk their age –

 “Is Mama Mr. Wakefield’s mother?”

 Jamie gaped. “What?”

 William gulped, pinned to the spot by his father’s piercing blue eyes. “He clearly comes from Mama’s time, and Mama said she kent him, and he said he was orphaned when he was a lad, which was when Mama came here.”

 By now Claire had slipped out of bed to stand beside Jamie. William backed up a bit against the door and tore his eyes from Jamie’s to his mother’s. “Did he come to take ye back, Mama? Because I willna let him. Ye canna leave Da.”

 Claire knelt and opened her arms. The lad fell into her shoulders and clutched her tight.

 “No, I’m not his mother,” Claire said softly, gently stroking William’s hair. “I knew him when he was a little boy, but what he told you is true – his parents did die when he was small.”

 Jamie knelt and wrapped two big arms around them both. “Is that what was worrying ye last night at supper, a bhailach? That yer Mam would leave us?”

 William shuddered and nodded, still holding Claire in a death grip. “Young Jamie said that he was looking for you. Why else would he come than to take ye back?”

 Claire pushed William’s face into her neck. “We don’t know why he’s here, love,” she said softly, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “But I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here with you, and Brianna, and your father.” Jamie gently – but firmly – squeezed his son and wife closer.

 “But is he staying for good?”

 Claire turned her face to meet Jamie’s gaze, raising one eyebrow in question. “We don’t know,” Jamie said quietly. “And dinna ask him. That’s for me and yer Mam to do, aye?”

 William nodded. Claire felt his breathing steady, but he didn’t move – just wanting to be held.

 After a few moments he raised his head to meet their eyes directly. “I think he likes Brianna,” he said quietly.

 Jamie closed his eyes and sighed. “Did she tell ye that?”

 His son shrugged. “No. But I could tell.”

 “How could you tell?” Claire asked softly. The fingers of her left hand slid along Jamie’s back, tracing his scars with her thumb.

 William pursed his lips, considering. “Because he was looking at her like how Da looks at you sometimes, Mama. Like he’s found the one thing in the world that makes him happy.”

previous | previous in arc | first | ambrosius’ introduction | next

Dreamweaver touched down in the village square. Despite the recent commotion, they were happy to note it was as lively as ever. However, underneath the soothing urban thrum of the marketplace, they detected the unmistakable rumblings of unease. Eyes followed them as they moved between the stalls, punctuated by hushed conversations that not even their keen ears could decipher amid the clamor.

Something unfortunate had happened while they were away.

Banrai was waiting for them when they arrived on the front stoop. He appeared perfectly at ease, but that was to be expected. Their husband was always at ease. The only time they had ever heard him raise his voice was during the flood, when they had made the decision to stay behind with Seaglass. That day, though fresh in their mind, seemed to belong to another lifetime.

“Welcome home, Dreamy,” Banrai said, and the tension in their shoulders melted away like warm butter. They sank into Banrai’s arms, inhaling his scent as greedily as if they had been away for an age. Banrai smelled of barley, of the farmlands to the east and the summer sun that cast them all in gold.

“I missed you,” Dreamweaver murmured.

“I missed you too,” Banrai replied. His grip tightened imperceptibly. “Did something happen?”

“Can I not miss my husband without some great cataclysm looming on the horizon?” Dreamweaver asked.

“You can,” Banrai said, “but we were only apart for a few days.”

Dreamweaver sighed into Banrai’s chest, their fingers digging rivets into his shirt. “It’s nothing we need to worry about just yet,” they assured, “but the Seat is proving to be a bit more of a challenge than we’d initially hoped. I’ll be going back to Aphaster in a few days to lend a hand. Between myself and Lutia, I’m sure we can figure something out.”

“You are the two most powerful beings in the Sunbeam Ruins,” Banrai said, “aside from the Lightweaver Herself, of course. I wouldn’t stress if I were you. If it’s you, if it’s Lutia, anything is possible.”

“You have a great deal of confidence in us.”

“Because I know you both so well.”

Dreamweaver smiled and leaned up, pressing a firm and insistent kiss to their husband’s lips. If it had been up to them, they would have spent the rest of the day kissing him. There was something tugging incessantly at the back of their mind, though, so they slipped away until only their fingers were entwined with his. “I need to see Xerxes,” they said. “How has he been?”

“Well,” Banrai replied, and led them from the stoop back out into the bustling square. “He’s with Isaiah and Crucis now. They’ve managed to lengthen his time spent conscious by several minutes—he’s up to half an hour. Crucis thinks he’ll be up to half a day sometime after Brightshine.”

“They’ve made that much progress?” Dreamweaver said. “I knew Crucis was good, but, gracious, that drake might just rival Lutia someday.”

“How do you think she’ll feel about that?” Banrai asked with a barely suppressed laugh. “He’s already causing problems for her and Aphaster. If she hears he’s catching up to her, she’ll probably throw in the towel and submit to exaltation.”

“She’s aware of Phantasos’ potential,” Dreamweaver said. “If she hasn’t exalted herself at the prospect of that little hooligan surpassing her—and me, for that matter—I doubt Crucis playing catch up will be the final straw.” Their smile softened just slightly, and Banrai moved closer to them. “She’s doing better, you know?” they informed. “This mess with the Seat has got us all a bit prickly, but it’s been good to see her in higher spirits. Telos too—you wouldn’t believe how well Telos is doing.”

“You sound so proud,” Banrai said. “She’s Abaddon’s daughter-in-law, not ours!”

“I can’t help but feel protective,” Dreamweaver confessed. “She was still terribly young when she took the throne, and she’s been with us for so long. I know she isn’t my daughter, but—oh, you know me. Ever since we married, I’ve grown more sentimental by the year. It’s your fault, dear.”

“Guilty as charged, and glad to be.”

The walk to Crucis’ observatory was spent largely in silence after that. Banrai had many questions, and Dreamweaver had many answers, but this was the first time in a long time that they’d been able to revel in one another’s company. The crowds thronging in the narrow village streets parted for them; no one dared to interject, so even when Phantasos came skidding around a distant corner, eager to greet his dede upon their return, he was quick to duck back into the shadows, a smug grin on his face.

“Da and dede are having ‘them’ time,” he whispered to his brothers. Then the trio of youngsters stumped off to find some new mischief, hopefully of a sort that wouldn’t interfere with their parents’ lovey-dovey stroll through town.

The first sign that something was amiss was the silence. There was an eerie quiet over the whole of the observatory, and neither Crucis nor Isaiah came to greet them. Dreamweaver rapped on the wall, but it remained smooth, undisturbed. They exchanged an uncertain glance with their mate. “You told me he was doing well,” they said.

“He is,” Banrai replied, “or he was this morning.”

“Crucis isn’t opening the door,” Dreamweaver said, “so something’s gone wrong. Xerxes must have lost control again.”

The second sign that something was amiss confirmed Dreamweaver’s suspicions. Suddenly, a palpable aura of pure, unfiltered magic shot out from the observatory and enveloped them both in blue static. Dreamweaver’s entire body bristled—Banrai, whose immunity to magic was almost absolute, merely shook himself before wrapping his mate in a tight, shielding embrace. It wasn’t enough of a surge to harm them, but it was certainly enough to make Dreamweaver’s vision waver.

“What is it about our clan that attracts such ridiculously strong young folk?” Dreamweaver said. “I feel like this is becoming a nasty trend.”

“Should we break in?” Banrai asked. “They might need our help.”

“If Xerxes’ magic is permeating walls as thick with enchantments as these,” Dreamweaver replied, “then, yes, they need our help. Give me a bit of space.”

Banrai stepped back—reluctantly, because leaving his mate unprotected in the midst of an electrical storm like this one made his muscles bunch up and his hackles rise. Even as he watched them place their palms flat against the wall, even as he once again bore witness to their immense power, power enough to make solid stone crumble beneath their fingertips, he couldn’t shake the desire to pull them back against his chest and hide them away.

He did so as soon as Dreamweaver’s magic had dissipated. They offered him a frail smile. “I’m all right,” they said. “Enough fretting over me. You should be fretting over Isaiah and Crucis.”

“They aren’t my mate,” Banrai said simply.

Dreamweaver started to argue, but the furrowing of Banrai’s brow gave them pause. Instead, they smiled again and pressed onward, deeper into the storm. Banrai followed obediently, his head low, his arms tight around their shoulders.

The inside of the observatory was what could only be described as a disaster zone. Crucis and Isaiah appeared to be safe, weathering out the worst of it behind a shield of magic, but the same could not be said of Crucis’ research equipment. What wasn’t broken was burnt, and what wasn’t burnt soon would be. Xerxes’ magic was beginning to recede, but it left a trail of scorch marks in its wake that would never fade.

“Are you two all right?” Dreamweaver called.

“He got Isaiah,” Crucis replied. “It’s nothing life-threatening, but his arm’s in bad shape.”

“It’s fine,” Isaiah said. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Crucis insisted. “Dreamweaver, if we don’t get him help, he’s going to lose the whole thing.”

“I’m not going to lose my damn arm!”

“Where is Betelgeuse?” Dreamweaver asked. “He should have been here in my absence. I told you to tell him—”

“We did,” Crucis said, “and he was here—but there was an emergency that required his attention, and I felt comfortable enough with our progress to continue on without him.”

“What emergency? Banrai, what emergency?”

“I…” Banrai pursed his lips. “No one told me anything about an emergency.”

“It’s ongoing,” Crucis said. “They probably sent someone to fetch you, but, well, you’re here, so…”

“Forget it,” Dreamweaver said, “I’ll see to it once we’ve moved Isaiah to safety. Banrai—”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“I need you to—”

“I’m not leaving you again, Dreamweaver!”

As the last of Xerxes’ magic sputtered and died, and the boy fell, limp and lifeless, back into his wheelchair, Dreamweaver saw that side of their mate again—that angry, stubborn, frightened side of him that made their stomach tie itself in knots. His head came down to sag against their shoulder; when he spoke, his voice was nothing more than a pitiful whisper in their ear. “I left you once,” he said, “and you almost…”

“I didn’t…” Dreamweaver rested their trembling fingers against the nape of Banrai’s beck. “I didn’t know you were still so upset…”

“I know now’s not the time,” Banrai mumbled, “I know Isaiah needs us, but I—I’m so selfish, Dreamy. I don’t want you to go back to Aphaster. I know you’ll be ok, I know you can do anything, I meant what I said, but I still don’t want you to go, and I don’t want to leave you alone here, because what if you won’t be ok? What if I’m wrong? What if you’re right and I really do just have too much confidence in you? What am I supposed to do then? You keep putting yourself in harm’s way, and what am I supposed to do if I lose you?”

His voice cracked. His entire body shuddered. “I’m not like Abaddon,” he croaked. “I’m not as strong as he is.”

“Banrai…” Dreamweaver pushed lightly on their husband’s shoulders, until he was forced to straighten and meet their gaze. “Xerxes has already exhausted himself,” they pointed out.

“…Oh.”

“We’ll talk about this later,” Dreamweaver promised. “I never want you to keep something like this from me again, understand?”

Banrai nodded. It was all he could manage. His throat felt tight, and it only grew tighter when Dreamweaver smiled at him. He knew it was selfish, but he couldn’t imagine letting go of that smile, even if it meant sacrificing everyone around them.

“Go find Betelgeuse,” Dreamweaver said. “Bring him here. Tell him to bring his emergency with him if he must.”

“What if he can’t?” Banrai asked.

“Tell him he’d damn well better figure out how he can.”

They parted then, and it was painful. Neither of them wanted to. Their hands lingered too long together, and it took every ounce of strength they possessed to leave the other’s side. Banrai was afraid, and Dreamweaver was sending him away. Dreamweaver was vulnerable, and Banrai was leaving them unprotected. Now, more than ever, they needed to be with one another.

But someone else needed them to be apart even more.

“Crucis, see to Xerxes,” Dreamweaver commanded. “I’ll take care of Isaiah. I want a full report. Now.”

“It’s needles,” Isaiah said, his voice weak with exhaustion, “that’s his trigger.”

“Needles…?”

“Isaiah and I theorized that he was a slave,” Crucis said as he began strapping Xerxes back into his chair. The boy remained unresponsive and staring. “He still hasn’t told us anything concrete about his past, but we’ve been able to confirm that theory just through regular interactions with him. He’s dodgy around certain topics, said he moved around a lot, wouldn’t elaborate, but we knew what that meant.

“The first time he lost control,” Crucis went on, “was when Isaiah mentioned putting him on a drip. The second time was because I was in his head. This time, we were trying to get an IV in him again, and he lost it.”

“What’s that got to do with slavers?” Dreamweaver asked.

“They drug their stock,” Crucis said. “Keeps them docile.”

“Ugh! Revolting!”

“It’s my fault,” Isaiah murmured. “I should’ve—damn, I should’ve paid closer attention. Crucis, how is he?”

“Don’t worry about him,” Crucis said, “worry about yourself. That’s got to sting.”

“I can’t feel it at all.” Dreamweaver followed Isaiah’s gaze to his left arm, and a small gasp escaped them. It was blackened, the skin peeling away in places to reveal stark white bone, so burnt that it couldn’t even bleed. “It looks pretty bad,” Isaiah admitted, “but I feel fine.”

“W-we’ll get it sorted out,” Dreamweaver stammered. “Betelgeuse will have something for it.”

“Yeah.” Isaiah gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Amputation.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Dreamweaver scolded. “If you lose your arm, you—”

“I’ll have to retire,” Isaiah said. “Maybe I’ll join June down on the beach.”

“He hides his crippling fear of failure behind sarcasm and dark humor, Dreamweaver,” Crucis said. “Don’t pay him any mind.”

Isaiah rose up slightly out of sheer indignation, but fell back into Dreamweaver’s lap almost immediately. The world swam before his eyes; he bit down hard on his tongue. “Shit, that does sting,” he hissed. “Where the hell is that creep of a head witch when I really need him?”

“While I am pleased to hear a drake with such great pride admit to requiring my assistance…” A long, dark shadow fell across the observatory’s pale floor. Isaiah stiffened in Dreamweaver’s grasp, clutching clumsily at their robe with his good hand. “…I would prefer it if you called me by name.”

“No thanks,” Isaiah said, “I’m good.”

“Betelgeuse, where were you?”

Although deeply magical by his very nature, even Betelgeuse cowed under Dreamweaver’s white hot stare. He pulled his hood more tightly around his face and bowed his head in submission. “I apologize,” he said, “Vladimir requested my assistance in a matter most pressing. Crucis assured me my presence would not be missed.”

“Fix this,” Dreamweaver demanded.

Betelgeuse kneeled beside them and took Isaiah’s mangled arm in his hands. After a moment of quiet contemplation, he declared, “I can heal him. It will take a full fortnight, and the aid of the lesser witches will be necessary, but it is within my power.”

“Take him then,” Dreamweaver said. “Gather the other witches and do what you must.”

“As you wish.” Betelgeuse bowed his head again. “There is, however, the matter of my unfinished business with Vladimir.”

“I will take care of it myself,” Dreamweaver assured.

“You…” Betelgeuse hesitated. His face was invisible, hidden by the shadow of his hood, but they could feel his eyes on them. “You are going to be displeased,” he said. Then he hefted Isaiah in his arms and stood. “Vladimir is waiting for you at his home. I would suggest you move with haste.”

NOVL Excerpt: Dreamland Burning

— Rowan— 

Nobody walks in Tulsa. At least not to get anywhere. Oil built our houses, paved our streets, and turned us from a cow town stop on the Frisco Railroad into the heart of Route 66. My ninth-grade Oklahoma History teacher joked that around these parts, walking is sacrilege. Real Tulsans drive.

But today my car is totaled and I have an eleven- thirty appointment with the district attorney at the county courthouse. So I walked.

Mom and Dad wanted to come home and pick me up after their morning meetings. I convinced them the walk would help me clear my head, and it did. Especially when I got to the place where he died.

Honestly, I’d been a little worried that being there again would mess me up. So to keep myself calm, I imagined how things must have looked the night Will and Joseph and Ruby tried to survive. There’s this old map of Tulsa online, and the streets I walked along to get here are on it. In 1921, the Arkansas River cut them off to the south, just like it does today. But back then they ran north into trees and fields and farms. There aren’t any farms now, only highways and concrete.

It was probably quieter a hundred years ago, but that doesn’t necessarily mean better. I understand now that history only moves forward in a straight line when we learn from it. Otherwise it loops past the same mistakes over and over again.

That’s why I’m here, wearing one of Mom’s knee- length business skirts, sitting on a bench near the court- house, waiting to tell the DA what happened. I want to stop just one of those loops. Because it’s like Geneva says: The dead always have stories to tell. They just need the living to listen. 

Everything started the first Monday of summer vacation. It was my only chance at a real day off, because the next morning I was supposed to start the internship Mom had arranged. It was the kind of thing that would look good on college applications and get me recommendation letters from people with MD after their names. I didn’t especially want to be locked up in a sterilized research lab all summer, but I never bothered to look for something better. The way things stood, I had one day all my own to sleep late, eat Nutella with a spoon, and send James a thousand texts about nothing.

Only I didn’t get to do any of that.

At 7 am on the dot, a construction crew pulled into the driveway and started slamming truck doors and banging tools around. Hundred-year-old windows do a crap job of keeping things out, so even though the men spoke quietly, I could hear their murmurs and smell the smoke from their cigarettes.

After a while, the side gate squeaked open and the guys carried their tools to the servants’ quarters behind our house. Just so you don’t get the wrong idea, that sounds a lot more impressive than it is. I mean, yes, we have money, but no one in my family has had live-in servants since my great-great-grandparents. After they died, my great-uncle Chotch moved into the back house. Years earlier, when Chotch was two, he’d wandered out of the kitchen and fallen into the pool. By the time the gardener found him and got him breathing again, he was blue and brain-damaged. He’d lived, though, and was good at cut- ting hair. Dad says he gave free trims to all the workers at the oil company my great-great-grandfather founded, right up until the day he died. That was in 1959.

The only things living in the back house since then have been holiday decorations, old furniture, Uncle Chotch’s Victrola, and termites. Then, last Christmas, Mom decided that even though there are three unused bedrooms in the main house, we needed a guest cottage, too.

Dad fought her on it, I think because he’s a nice liberal white guy weirded out by the idea that the back house was built for black servants. If it had been up to him, he would have let it rot.

Mom was not okay with that.

Her great-grandfather had been the son of a maid, raised in the back house of a mansion two blocks over. He’d gone on to graduate first in his class from Morehouse College and become one of Tulsa’s best-known black attorneys. Mom went to law school to carry on the family legal tradition and ended up owning a back house. For her, it mattered.

“I won’t stand by and let a perfectly good building crumble to dust,” she’d argued. There had been some closed-door negotiations between her and Dad after that, then a few days where they didn’t talk to each other at all. In the end, Dad started referring to the back house as his “man cave,” and while he shopped for gaming systems and a pool table, Mom interviewed contractors.

That was six months ago. The renovations started in May.

I lay there listening to the workmen’s saw, figuring I had maybe three minutes before our grumpy neighbor, Mr. Metzidakis, started banging on the front door to complain about the noise.

Only he didn’t have to.

The saw stopped on its own. The gate creaked open.

Equipment clunked against the truck bed. And the men talked so fast and low that I could only catch four words.

Huesos viejos. Policía. Asesinato.

Which, yes, I understood—thank you, Señora Markowitz and tres años de español. And which, yes, was enough to get me out of bed and over to the window in time to see their truck back out onto the street and drive away.

Something strange was going on, and I wanted to know what. So I snagged a pair of flip-flops and headed for the back house.

It was a disaster inside. A week before, the workmen had demolished the ceiling and pulled all the toxic asbestos insulation. After that, they’d hacked out big chunks of termite-tunneled plaster from the walls and ripped the old Formica countertops off the cabinets. A gritty layer of construction dust coated everything, including Uncle Chotch’s old Victrola in the corner. At least they covered it with plastic, I thought, stepping around boxes of tile and grout on my way to the fresh-cut hole in the floor at the back of the room.

Only once I got there, I forgot about the Victrola completely and understood exactly what had sent the workmen running.

Huesos viejos. Policía. Asesinato.

Old bones.

Police.

Murder.

— William—

I wasn’t good when the trouble started. Wasn’t particularly bad, either, but I had potential. See, Tulsa in 1921 was a town where boys like me roamed wild. Prohibition made Choctaw beer and corn whiskey more tempting than ever, and booze wasn’t near the worst vice available.

My friend Cletus Hayes grew up in a house two doors down from mine. His father was a bank executive muckety-muck with a brand-new Cadillac automobile and friends on the city council. For that reason alone, Mama and Pop generally let Clete’s knack for mischief slide. He and I got along fine eighty percent of the time, and kept each other’s company accordingly.

One thing we always did agree on was that misbehaving was best done in pairs. Plenty of the roustabout gangs running Tulsa’s streets would have taken us in, but I always figured the two of us and maybe even smart enough to know the difference between hell-raising and causing real harm. Those gangs were chock-full of unemployed young men back from the Great War who’d come to Oklahoma looking for oilfield work down at the Glenn Pool strike. They’d seen bad things, done a few themselves, and liked showing off for locals. Problem was, the locals would try to one-up ’em, the roustabouts would take things a step further, and in the end, someone always spent the night in jail. That’s why Clete and me kept to ourselves. We weren’t angels, but we weren’t hardened or hollow, either. Of course, even fair-to-middling boys like us veered off the righteous path from time to time. Some worse than others.

I was only seventeen, but had the shoulders and five- o’clock shadow of a full-grown man. More than one girl at Tulsa Central High School had her eye on me, and that’s the truth. None of them stood a chance, though; Adeline Dobbs had stolen my heart way back in second grade, and the fact that she was a year older and the prettiest girl in school didn’t dampen my hopes of winning her in the least.

She was a beauty, Addie was; slim and graceful as prairie grass, with black hair and eyes like a summer sky. I dreamed about that girl, about her clean smell and the peek of her lashes underneath her hat brim. And I loved her for her kindness, too. Boys followed her about like pups, but she always managed to deflect their affections without wounding their pride.

For years I loved her from afar, and spent no small amount of energy convincing myself it was only a matter of time before she started loving me back. Maybe that’s why what happened at the Two-Knock Inn that cool March night tore me up so bad.

I was on my third glass of Choc and feeling fine when Addie arrived. Clete was there, too, dancing with a pretty, brown-skinned girl. For when it came to the fairer sex, a sweet smile and a pair of shapely legs were all it took to turn him colorblind. Not that it mattered at the Two-Knock. Jim Crow laws may have kept Negroes and whites separated in proper Tulsa establishments, but in juke joints and speakeasies out on the edge of town, folks didn’t care about your skin color near so much as they did the contents of your wallet.

The Two-Knock was a rough place, though. A place where girls like Addie didn’t belong. Even so, the sight of her coming through that door took my breath away. She was a vision: crimson dress, lips painted to match, eyes all wild and bright. Clete saw her, too, and made his way to my side after the song ended and poked me in the ribs, saying, “Lookee who just walked in!”

I didn’t have breath enough to respond, so Clete jabbed me again. Said, “What’re you waiting for, Will? Go talk to her!”

I wanted to. Lord, how I wanted to. But Addie was too good for the Two-Knock, and I couldn’t quite reconcile myself with her being there.

When I didn’t move, Clete rolled his eyes and socked me on the shoulder. Said, “This is it, dummy! If you don’t go over and buy her a drink, you’re the biggest jackass I know.”

To which I replied that Addie didn’t drink. And Clete snorted, “We’re in a speakeasy, knucklehead. She didn’t come for tea.”

I shrugged. Signaled the bartender for another glass of Choc and slugged most of it down soon as it arrived. Then I looked back at Addie and asked Clete if he really thought I should go over.

“Hell yes!” he said.

So I puffed up my chest like the big dumb pigeon I was and got to my feet. Which was when the front door opened, and everything changed.

The man who walked in was tall and handsome, muscled all over, and browner than boot leather. Something about him shone. Drew your eyes like he was the one thing in the world worth looking at. He only had eyes for Addie, though, and she gave him a smile like sunrise when he sat down beside her.

I dropped back onto the barstool.

“You better chase him off,” Clete said. But my throat was tight, and I only just managed to mumble, “Nothin’ I can do.”

“You kiddin’ me?” he said. “That boy’s out of line!”

I stayed quiet and stared at Addie’s pale hand perched atop the table. She and the man were talking. Smiling. Laughing. With every word, his fingers moved closer to hers.

Hate balled up inside me like a brass-knuckled fist. And when he slowly, slowly ran his fingertip across her skin, every foul emotion in the world churned deep down in the depths of my belly. Glancing sideways at a white woman was near enough to get Negroes lynched in Tulsa. Shot, even, in the middle of Main Street at noon, and with no more consequence than a wink and a nudge and a slap on the back. And God help me, that’s exactly what I wanted for the man touching my Addie.

I wanted him dead.

Thanks for reading the first two chapters of Jennifer Latham’s thought-provoking and powerful new novel. Like what you read? Be sure to check out Dreamland Burning when it releases on Tuesday, February 21, 2017!