#s: missy x twelve

[whatitshouldvebeen]

as someone who has self harm scars i was curious. what do you think johnny would think if he saw his s/o (or victim) had some? also i love ur writing so much <3 hope ur staying hydrated and getting enough sleep !!

First tysm for loving my writing!! I have the type of ADHD where I forget to drink anything so unfortunately not but I do get decent sleep ty for asking ❤️ I hope you enjoy the fic and remember, Johnny is not a licensed therapist so please don't follow his suggestions 😂

Scars of the Past

Pairing: Johnny Slaughter x reader

Warnings: self-harm, blood, local insane man is certain he can make a girl feel better via knifeplay, MINORS DNI

Wordcount: 1,670

Maybe Johnny was stupid for hitting the same place twice after already having picked up a girl, but he had to see if you were still around. You, the girl who checked everyone into the nightclub. The girl he’d been following home for the last week. When you'd taken his hand to stamp it, he honed in on your wrists right away. Scars, and plenty of them.

You were accustomed to getting looks and were used to it by now, so all you did was smile at him and usher him inside. He left a few hours later with a drunk girl on his arm and that was that, or so you thought.

So when the club closed around twelve, you were surprised to see the same tall, dark, and handsome man from last night push himself off the brick wall and approach you.

"Hello, little miss," he drawled as he stopped in front of you while you put on your jacket.

"Oh, hey," you replied, not fully engaged.

"I'm Johnny. What's your name?" he asked.

You glanced up at him and shared your name as you finished fastening your coat.

"Pretty name for a pretty girl," he remarked.

"Thanks. Listen, I gotta get home now—" you began, but he interrupted by taking your hand, drawing your attention back to him.

"I couldn't help but notice your scars," he said, pushing your sleeve back to inspect the faded white lines. Your gaze shifted to his, noticing a large scar over his eye that you hadn't seen before.

"I doubt you did that to yourself," you responded with a half-smile.

"My ma did it," he said, catching you off guard.

"I'm sorry," you said softly.

He brushed it off. "It’s fine. But I'm curious, why'd you do this to yourself?" he asked, genuine interest in his eyes.

You looked into Johnny's dark gaze, surprised to find understanding rather than judgment. "My childhood wasn't the greatest," you explained with a shrug.

"Don't most people hide their scars?" he inquired.

"I don't care what people think. I'm in a better place now," you replied, trying to reassure both him and yourself.

“Are you?” He asked, running his thumb over your scars. You didn't know that he'd seen you through your bathroom window, curled up on the floor of your shower, sobbing. You didn't know he'd seen why you called out three days ago, because you couldn't bear to drag yourself out of bed.

Feeling uncomfortable, you pulled your wrist away. "Yeah, I'm fine," you insisted, attempting to brush past him, but he blocked your path.

You then felt something that made all the color drain from your face. A knife, pressed against your abdomen.

“Nah, I think you'll be coming home with me tonight,” he hissed low in your ear.

–

He drove you to a hotel, and checked into a room, always keeping the knife at the small of your back.

“I'd take you home to mama, but she gets funny,” he said, gesturing to his scar.

“Why are you doing this?” You asked as he opened the hotel room door, pushing you inside before him.

“Tell me your favorite part about cutting,” he demanded, locking the door behind you.

"What?" you asked incredulously.

“You heard me,” he replied, removing his shirt and revealing numerous scars that crisscrossed his pale skin.

"Did you do that to yourself?" you asked, taken aback by the sight.

“I asked you a question first, missy,” he retorted with a cocky grin.

You sighed, sitting down shakily on the bed. “I just like to be reminded that I'm alive, okay? Shit hurts too much,” you mumbled.

“Well, you're certainly alive, darlin’. A whole club of people pretending to be happy, then there's you,” he remarked, stepping closer with a predatory gleam in his eye. “I can see you better ‘n all them. I see through the walls you built. You're not okay, but you could be,” he said, then turned his Bowie knife around, holding the handle towards you.

"What the hell?" you whispered, feeling a mixture of fear and confusion.

“Cut me. Tell me if it makes you feel alive the same way it does when you cut yourself,” he instructed, as if it was the most normal request in the world.

You took the knife, raising an eyebrow at him. He didn't move, he just stood and watched you with a gleam in his eye.

You stood, holding the knife so tightly your fingers hurt. You could've slit his throat, or tried to anyway. Why did he kidnap you just to hand you a knife? Did he have a death wish?

Adrenaline made your heart pound in your ears. He wasn't moving… he must be serious. You raised the knife, took a deep breath, then sliced it across his chest.

“Ooh,” he winced, hissing through his teeth, “got me good. Must be all the practice,” he said with a laugh. All you could do was stare as crimson cascaded down his torso.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” You asked, the knife still limply held in your hand.

“Same thing as you,” he responded simply, running his hand over his abdomen and bringing his fingers to his lips, staining them red.

“Are you going to kill me?” You asked anxiously.

“Why you askin’ me that, you're the one with the knife!” He laughed.

You looked down at the bloodied knife in your hand and realized something. In this instance, you look guilty. If you were to try anything, he could very easily claim you assaulted him.

“Guess you're in a pickle, lil’ missy. Let me help you outta it.” He stepped forward, leaning toward you. “But before I do, tell me how it felt.”

You took a deep breath, watching as the blood continued to seep from his wound he wasn’t bothering to stifle.

“It felt the same as when I cut myself, I guess,” you admitted. “I felt alive.”

“Knew it.” Johnny grinned. “In that case, I have a proposition for ya.”

He set one bloodied knuckle under your chin, angling your eyes to meet his. “There's someone who's stumbled onto my property, you see. Trespassin’. I could use some help teachin’ them a lesson. Might help you feel the same way you did cutting me.”

“I don't know, I'm not a bad person,” you said, your heart still pounding like mad.

“You aren't, but you felt that thrill, didn't ya? The world ain't black and white sweetheart.” He shrugs, moving to the bathroom and grabbing a towel, wrapping it around his abdomen. “Far as I see it, trespassers need to be punished. Come with me. If you do, I'll let you go without a fuss. But I can promise you that you'll be back.”

“And if I don't?” You asked hesitantly.

“Well then, either you escape and I tell the cops you cut me open… or I kill you before you get the chance,” he said matter-of-factly, his demeanor chillingly calm.

You held up the knife, pointing it toward him, a futile attempt to assert some control over the situation.

“If you try it, I know how to survive, darlin’, and it only makes you look more guilty,” he said confidently, approaching you and allowing the knife to dimple his stomach when he reached you.

“Come with me,” he said, wrapping his hand around yours, which was still gripping the knife.

You continued to hold on, but deep down, you knew you stood no chance against this man. So, you let go.

“There ya go,” he said, his face lighting up. “Oh darlin’, we're gonna have so much fun.”

#johnny slaughter #johnny sawyer #johnny slaughter x reader #texas chainsaw massacre #texas chainsaw game #tcm #texas chainsaw massacre game #tcm game #tw self h4rm

[straightbaittournament]

may the best bait win! propaganda under the cut:

twelve and missy:

they literally kiss and flirt all the time but canonically are meant to be like. best friend turned mortal enemies turned ALLMOSOST best friends again not not because of a heartbreaking misunderstanding/turn of events. missy is referred to as 12's "man-crush". but ultimately the nature of their relationship is ambiguous/not "endgame"/never consummated in any sense of the word, platonically or romantically. they like CANNOT tell each other how they feel about each other

Used to be queerbait. Decided to switch it up. They are gay and in love but also m/f presenting. If a rivalry last longer than a few millennia you aren't rivals, you're just gay.

Although the Twelfth doctor and Missy appear straight presenting, two genderfluid beings are not really "straight". Missy and Twelve had romantic undertones and even kissed a few times but ultimately did not end up together They are so so gender. They used to be two guys in gay love. Now they appear to be a man and a woman but really do they even have gender at all? I say no. It's just a fun game to them. In their future they literally swap genders. The universe would be better off if they had ended up together but they still wouldn't have been straight <3

roman and gerri:

a very queer coded Hetero relationship. slime puppy is real that’s s real thing she says

they absolutely have a weird fucking thing going on. weird coworkers with benefits mommy dom undertones thing going on except they never actually touch they just flirt and dirty talk obscenely and show-typically office talk about taking over the company and backstabbing. this is a thing for like one season and then it's dropped with little to no mention of what's in store for them or like what the fuck happened. no development no conclusion it just happened and then uhhhhhhh. they got screentime as a pair like once in a blue moon. romangerri girls were gnawing at scraps

milf x ratboy. they have like a weird sexual thing going on until they mutually betray each other on several occasions and then they end the show on bad terms but where they both still clearly have lingering feelings for each other. romangerri is basically just like queerbaiting but with straight people. have you seen their season 2 promo poster

#straightbait tournament round 1 #this one is a win win for me tbh #however i think everyone knows how i will be voting kjfhskljfglksjfd #if twissy loses any of these polls i will change my icon either to a sad twissy pic #or to a pic of whichever bait ate them #and so on and so forth #succession #doctor who #romangerri #twissy #poll #polls #poll tournament #so few tags needed for this poll i love it lmfao

[harryspet]

a long way down [3] b.barnes & s.rogers

[Warnings] dark bucky barnes x reader, dark steve rogers, violence, death, heavy angst, the walking dead au, slice of life, domestic steve, vaginal sex (wear protection, please)

A/N: I love how this was supposed to be a one-shot and now I’m finding all the ways to make this series longer and add more drama. 

ADULT AND TRIGGERING CONTENT AHEAD

In which your world is shaken again and you’re forced to run back to your first safe haven. 

word count: 3.4k

series masterlist

T H E  N E X T  S P R I N G 

“She recognizes you,” You said, watching Peter’s eyes widen as the baby smiled up at him. It was currently tummy time in the living room and the two of you laid beside her, watching her explore her environment, “That’s Uncle Peter, right Margot?”

You watched her little fingers wrap around her little toys as she proceeded to put them in her mouth to taste them. Six whole months had passed since she was welcomed to this scary world and she’d already grown so much, “It’s me, Margot. It’s me,” Peter spoke in a cute voice and the baby proceeded to babble something incoherent, “Bet you I can get her to say Peter before she says Mama.”

You rolled your eyes at that as you continued to watch her, “You will be saying Mama first, missy,” You told her though she was only focused on a bright orange ring toy. You could look at her little face for hours on hours. You hadn’t felt true love until you laid eyes on her. 

The long journey it took you to get here only made you love her more. You were lucky that she didn’t come too early. God forbid you needed a c-section or she was facing the wrong way. You wanted her to survive and that’s all you hoped and prayed for. When you lost too much blood and began to pass out, you were still happy knowing she’d be okay. 

You didn’t think you would make it. Sharon did her best to give you the best care she could but modern medicine wasn’t available to you. You were sick and on bed rest for the first two months she was alive so now you were enjoying the time when you could move around with her. During the time you were unconscious, Steve had made the considerate decision to name the baby Margaret after some long lost love. 

Margaret Rogers. 

You refused to call her that and decided on a nickname of your own choosing.

“C’mere, Margot,” You sat up, lifting the baby into your lap, “Let me show you something cool, Peter.” 

Peter sat up too, his eyes confused as you removed one of her little socks. She was still happily waving around the toy as you ran a finger down the sole of her foot. Her little toes spread out like a little fan, “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Peter declared and you giggled. 

“It’s called the Babinski reflex. It might go away as early as twelve months so I’m going to savor the cuteness,” You encouraged Peter to try it too and the boy seemed to swoon over Margot. You moved the baby into his lap, continuing to tell him about all the little milestones that Margot was passing. 

“She’s like a sponge, it’s amazing,” Peter said, bouncing the little girl in his lap, “Do you get any sleep?”

You nodded, “I’m up by five every morning but I’m used to it now. If she wakes up while I’m sleeping, Steve takes care of her. Luckily, she’s sleeping through the night.”

“Such a sweet girl,” Peter cooed, “I’m sure you’d never cause Mommy any problems.” You were lucky that Margot’s temperament was easy. She got frustrated like all other babies but she wasn’t very sensitive. You thought it meant she’d do well in a world like this. 

The two of you spent more time with Margot but your peace and serenity was interrupted when both Steve and Bucky returned home. You always got the feeling that they disliked Peter being around but that never stopped you from being friends with him. Peter probably cared more for you then both of them combined. 

“It’s getting late, son,” You heard Steve say, his deep voice trying to be as authoritarian as it could. Steve scared Peter, you could tell that much. 

“I’ll go then,” Peter rushed out, handing the little girl back to you. Margot seemed a bit upset at his absence and you held her to you in order to keep her calm. You knew it was useless to argue about this with Steve and you doubted Bucky would have your back. 

You stood up from your place on her baby blanket, using Margot’s hand to wave goodbye, “Say bye-bye, Peter,” The little girl only mumbled something incoherent, “See you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Margot. Goodbye, Y/N,” Peter smiled before walking out of the living room. The room went silent as Peter made his way to the front door and tension only increased 

Steve walked over to greet his daughter, lifting her from your arms, “Hello, honey-bear,” Margot’s mood seemed to lift again as she recognized her Daddy and Steve’s hard exterior softened. When they were together, it reminded you how alike they looked. He lifted the giggling girl, taking a whiff of her bottom, “You need a change, don’t you?”

“I can do it-”

Steve interrupted you, “No, I’ve got it. Daddy’s gonna change you, yes he is.” 

“Wash your hands please,” You told Steve who was too focused on the tiny creature. As Steve walked away to climb the stairs, your eyes met with Bucky’s. Although you liked that he was forced to face the consequences of his actions, you knew that he was still chasing your affection. He was facing his demons in order to get closer to you. 

“Catch anything good?” You asked, leaning down to collect all the toys. There was a lake just outside the compound limits that Steve and Bucky frequented for their “time to just be a man” where they liked to go fishing. 

“Nothing alive,” Bucky said, following you as you walked into the kitchen. You put the toys into the sink, turning the warm water on in order to clean them. Bucky leaned against the counter and you felt his gaze burning into you, “It’s still pretty peaceful out there, we didn’t run into any walkers. I was thinking we could go out there together, you could take a break like you deserve.”

“Go out there and do what?” You asked, your eyes not meeting his. 

“I don’t know, have a picnic or something.”

“Or something?” You scoffed, scrubbing at the toys, “Sounds romantic.”

Bucky’s lips pressed into a thin line of frustration, “I’m trying here. I’m not good at … romantic stuff.”

“To say the least,” You added, “Bucky, I don’t need or want a break. I’m perfectly content right now.”

“You’re sure about that? You don’t have any other needs begging to be met?” You scowled at him, knowing what he was hinting at. Steve had barely touched you since you started showing and, after the rough birth, he wasn’t willing to rush into trying for a boy. 

“I’m sure.”

+

“Looks like both the girls are down for the night,” Steve said, letting out a sigh as he sat in his desk chair. Bucky sat in the chair in front of Steve’s desk, his feet kicked up on the desk. 

“What about Sharon?”

Steve rubbed his temples at the mention of the woman, “She’s been working late at the infirmary. She won’t tell me but I know it’s because my attention has been elsewhere,” Bucky was beginning to doubt Steve’s feeling for Sharon in the first place. It seemed Steve was ready to completely let the woman go due to her infertility, “I don’t really care if she doesn’t come back. Y/N and I can handle things on our own.”

Bucky only nodded, his mind already wandering elsewhere. Steve noted his friend's frustration and wondered why the man continued to bother with you. Even after all this time, Bucky still didn’t have anyone else on his mind, “What’s on your mind, Buck?”

Bucky’s fingers rubbed over his facial hair as he thought, “That Peter kid.”

Right away, Steve understood. It had been a topic they avoided despite knowing how each other felt about it, “What about him?”

“You don’t think he spends a little too much time around here? With your daughter?”

Steve didn’t believe Peter was any real threat to his family here. Steve saw him as a distraction for you. Someone who helped you forget your worries, “This is about her, Buck. You don’t want him around her.”

“Fine,” Bucky threw up his hands in defeat, “I think he’s getting in the way of Y/N letting me in again. She has Peter to be there and tell her everything's going to be alright so she doesn’t need me.”

“Tell her not to see him then. Matter of fact, tell him to stay away,” Steve spoke simply, the solution obvious in his mind. 

“If she knows I had something to with it, it’ll make things worse. I have to be the good guy in her eyes.”

Steve smiled, a lightbulb going off in his mind, “Shall I be the bad guy then?”

Bucky moved his feet, leaning forward in his chair, “What are you thinking?”

“I still need someone to replace you. Someone to travel and relay messages between our camp and my allies. Peter could fill the position for the time being,” Bucky didn’t think over it long before he agreed. All that was on his mind was winning you back and this would only help his cause, “I need to keep up appearances around here anyways. We don’t need some kid running around here with our girls, right?”

“Right,” Bucky said, his mind on you, “Thanks, Steve.”

“No need, Buck. We have to look out for each other. Besides that, I think it's a good time to ask you to be my second in command.”

+

Margot was a complete celebrity in Liberty. You couldn’t walk on the street without people coming up to wave or to get a look at her. Margot was good with strangers which only solidified her position as princess of this place. 

It was a sunny spring day and you had dressed her in a floral dress and a pink bow. You carried her in one hand and held a tupperware of deserts in the other hand. Sam wasn’t far behind but that hadn’t changed in the past year. 

“We’re going to find uncle Peter, yes we are,” You cooed to the little girl who was energized from her latest nap, “And he’s going to love the cookies we made him.”

You eventually got to the barracks where Steve’s group of soldiers usually stayed, you walked through the long lines of bunk beds to find his. As you passed some men, all of them burly and intimidating, they even waved hello to your little one. 

As you approached Peter’s bunk you found it empty, only a mattress sitting on top of the metal. All of his comics and textbooks were nowhere to be found. You searched around for the nearest person and found a group of older men playing some dice game, “Excuse me, do you know where Peter Parker is today? He slept over there,” You asked, pointing to Peter’s bunk. 

“Packed up early this morning,” The man said, “Think he got reassigned.”

“Reassigned where?” You asked.

“Something outside of the compound. Poor kid.”

Your heart started pounding heavily as you turned back to Sam, “Take me to Steve. Now.”

“He’s on duty-”

“Find him and take me to him, Sam.”

+

Margot was screaming in your eyes mostly because she sensed how upset you were. As soon as you approached Steve, he swooped the little girl into his arms, trying to calm her, “What the hell are you doing?” Steve asked. He came down from one of the watchtowers, a rifle still strapped to his back, as he saw you approaching with Sam. 

“Peter? Where did you send him?”

Steve sighed, “Y/N-”

“Where did you send him?” You shouted back. 

“I needed a new emissary and he volunteered to do it,” Steve stated simply. 

“By himself? He’s a kid, Steve!” Margot cried louder but your blood was boiling, “You’re going to get him killed!”

“We all have to earn our keep around here, Y/N. Some people put their lives on the line for a chance to live here and then people like you spread your legs for it. That’s how it works, sweetheart.”

“You’re a fucking monster,” You spat at him. 

+

Bucky scoured the camp looking for you for a good hour. You were sitting at the bottom of a big tree, staring out into a small field. Where the field ended, the wall began. Bucky startled you when he suddenly appeared and you were quick to try and wipe away your tears. 

He took a seat beside you, leaning his back against the tree. This area of the camp was peaceful, it was no wonder that you had taken a liking to it. 

“What are you doing here?” You asked, your face in a frown. 

“I thought you didn’t need a break,” Bucky said, avoiding your question. 

“This isn’t a break,” You said softly, “You’re supposed to feel relaxed on a break-” As your voice cracked and the tears started falling again, Bucky wrapped an arm around your soldier. You leaned into him and sobbed into his shoulder. 

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” You tried to speak as you choked on your sobs.

“He’ll be back, I promise” Bucky stated, “Probably sooner than you think. The kid can handle himself.”

“He shouldn’t have to. Margot shouldn’t have to,” You said, “It isn’t fair.”

Bucky rubbed your shoulder, drawing lines on your skin with his fingers, “I know, doll.”

It was like losing your family all over again. It was worse than losing them. At least you knew they were dead. You wouldn’t know if he was alive or dead and, if something happened, you wouldn’t even know how it happened. There were so many things outside of the walls that could get you killed. 

You pulled away from Bucky gently, realizing how long it had been since you’d been in his arms. Looking into those blue eyes gave you a weird sense of familiarity. Of home, “Maybe you could talk to Steve? For me?”

Bucky nodded, “Of course, doll.”

You stared at his moment and Bucky noted the way your gaze traveled to your lips. Bucky reached over to wipe a tear from your cheek. He couldn’t hide how attracted to you he was, even when you were crying. Bucky placed a soft, hesitant kiss on your cheek, “Everything’s going to be okay. All I should worry about is your little one.”

You took a deep breath, nodding in agreement. 

It must’ve been the emotions or the off-balance hormones because, when Bucky leaned into your lips, you didn’t stop him. In fact, you welcomed that touch. The soft kisses soon became more desperate and hungry. Your lips were angry, demanding as they moved against his. 

It shocked Bucky as much as it did to you. Bucky was elated but he had little time to celebrate you being back in his clutches. You were hungry for something and he was going to make sure you were satisfied. 

Bucky pulled you into his lap and, as you straddled him you said, “Just this once.”

“Just this once,” Bucky agreed, knowing the opposite would be true. 

Your lips devoured each other and Bucky explored your mouth with his hands pulled down the straps of your sundress. As your breast sprang free, he palmed them his hand. The cold of his metal hand sent shivers down your spine but Bucky warmed you again with his mouth. He played with your nipple in his mouth causing you to bite down on your lips. 

Your hands ran through his hair as you savored the feeling. As he moved his mouth away, his head tilted up at you, “You’re so beautiful,” Bucky said and you rolled your eyes, leaning down to undo his belt and zipper. 

“Just fuck me, okay?” Bucky grabbed you by your ass roughly pulling you into him. He reached under your dress, tucking your underwear to the side as he positioned himself at your entrance. You could feel how hard he already was and the idea of him filling you up was making your mouth water with anticipation. 

As you slowly impaled yourself on his cock, your mouth was agape. You realized how full he made you fill, how complete you felt. Bucky held your hips as you began to bounce up and down. Bucky groaned huskily, loving how your face contorted to different expressions as the pleasure went through you. 

As you tried to contain your moans, Bucky placed kisses along your jaw and then on your neck. He felt all your anger and sadness as you used it as motivation, moving your body hard against his. 

The two eventually met your climaxes together, your body shaking as you rode out the rest of the wave. You breathed heavily, leaning against his body. You tucked your head into his shoulder and Bucky simply wrapped his arms around you. 

“Say you won’t leave again,” You whispered.

“I won’t leave you ever again, doll.”

+

The next day you awoke beside Bucky. You watched him as he slept peacefully, his hand over his shirtless chest and his chest slowly rising and falling. That “just this once” had turned into four times which you were sure he was happy with. You had to admit that you didn’t have that morning-after regret that you expected. Bucky had done such horrible things to you and yet he managed to bring you joy like no other. 

You hated that you ran back after resisting for so long but, without Peter, you were once again feeling completely lost. Being with Bucky reminded you of simpler times and, despite the hell you knew it would bring, it was worth it just to feel that comfort. 

Suddenly, you heard commotion coming from downstairs, glass shattering and Steve’s booming voice traveled through the air. You shook Bucky awake as you  began to throw on some clothes, “Bucky, something’s going on!” You threw on some boots and Bucky put on a t-shirt before the two of you filed out of your room. 

You heard your little girl wailing and you followed the sound. You found the front door wide open and quickly ran out of it. As you moved down the porched steps, the sight before you stopped your heart. Steve was holding Margot in one hand and a pistol in the other. A pistol that was pointing at a begging and pleading Sharon. 

Bucky tried to grab your hand but you ran towards him, “Steve, what the hell are you doing?” Your eyes widened even more as you noticed that Margot had no clothes on except for a checkered dishtowel and her skin was wet.

Steve handed you the child but kept the gun pointed at the woman. By now, everyone had filed out of their homes and were watching the chaos, “She tried to drown our baby,” Was all he said, shaking with anger. 

“I-I would never!” Sharon shouted back, her hands up as she laid on the gravel, “Please-”

“I fucking saw you!” Steve shouted back and you felt Bucky’s arm pulling you away. You stepped back with him, knowing that if the gun went off that you didn’t want Margot anywhere near it. 

Your eyes connected with Sharon’s and there was only pure hatred there. She didn’t even look sorry for what she was being accused of, “I was helping! I was taking care of her! You know me, Steve!”

Steve didn’t believe her and you hated that you didn’t either. Was she really capable of something like this? All because of jealousy? Jealousy over a life that you didn’t even want. 

“You weren’t even supposed to be in my house!” You watched as Steve cocked the gun, “You’re lucky I walked in when I did. If you had gotten away with hurting my little Margaret, I would’ve dismembered you piece by piece and I would've enjoyed it. Consider this a blessing.”

“Steve, don’t-” You pressed yourself into Bucky, trying to protect the crying child in your arms as the gun went off and the blonde woman fell limp. 

Steve tucked the weapon into his belt, his muscle still tense, as he tried not to contain whatever emotions were coursing through him, “Early start today. Everyone get to work!” Steve shouted to every citizen who was listening, “And get her body off my fucking street!”

Silence fell over the small town of Liberty. 

+

Hope you enjoyed! Let me know your thoughts and predictions!

#dark fic #bucky barnes #steve rogers #dark bucky barnes x reader #dark steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x reader #dark!bucky x you #dark!steve rogers #dark!bucky #dark!bucky x reader #dark!steve x reader #the walking dead #post apocalyptic #apocalypse au #stucky x y/n #dark stucky #stucky x reader #dark stucky x reader #black!reader #bucky barnes x black!reader #steve rogers x black!reader #peter parker #peter parker x reader

[sclfmastery]

© mum facts specific to our verses. Permission to fully go off. :D

Hell yeah, I need soft things.... get ready bitches, this is all my mainverses, so it’s gonna be LONG lmfao.

--------------

SIMM X THIRTEEN (kids: Zinnia, Martha, Jack) :  --Became licensed doula just so he could be the one to deliver all his kids. Has done so, with aplomb.  In fact never lets anyone forget that he is in fact a licensed doula. Will mention it 3-5 times per conversation with anyone ever.

--Spoiled Thirteen a lot during pregnancy.  To the point that she starts to like being pregnant, lol.  --Goes interchangeably by “Daddy” and “Mum.”  Whichever the kid is feeling at the time. Secretly likes “Mum” best but doesn’t wanna pressure anybody.  --He is terrified his children will find out one day about the horrible things he’s done to their mother’s companions in the past.  

--He misses being a mother specifically. His clearest memories of parenthood are as a mother of one daughter, in his second face, which is little-known-of, but is the face Missy referred to when she mentioned a brooch the Doctor gave her “when my daughter....”  He is convinced he will fail his three current babies as he did his first child, by failing to protect her during the Time War, when ostensibly she died (but who knows, maybe she didn’t....?)  --Literal best friends with eldest daughter, Zinnia, thusly named after the first earth flower to bloom in space.  She is him, miniature, down to the fat cheeks, tiny nose, and exact shade of blond hair.  Her faceclaim is Elle Fanning.  She’s artistic (she assigns colors to people’s telepathic “feeling,” with the Master as Red, the Doctor as Blue, herself as Purple) and almost bizarrely prescient about the moods and thoughts of others, especially for a child of three. Her vocab is up to that of a seven or eight year old human child’s.   --Learned to sew to make a lot of her stuffed animals. Learned to cook to make her organic baby food and branched out to adult meals. Previously was a disastrously bad cook. 

--Has built the most complex maze of Erector Set toys (think the little builder people from Fraggle Rock lol) for babies.  This, he believes, will be their little playground paradise.  It’s set so that anytime Zinnia opens the nursery door and walks in, a little purple ball rolls along the whole landscape.  During Christmas time (this Koschei loves Christmas even though he hates humans, lol) he also builds in a trainset with a little waving Santa Claus in the engine car.  He delights in spoiling his children with elaborate toys and games.  --Right before Zinnia was born, revamped the entire merged DoctorxMaster superTARDIS to be child proofed, and made the nursery armored so that even in the unlikely event of an enemy penetrating the TARDIS, the nursery would lock and be impenetrable to anyone but either parent.  Woke up at night terrified by nightmares of convoluted ways she could be killed on the TARDIS.  Like, truly implausible ways.  --Took extensive scientifically sound documentation of every stage of both of Thirteen’s pregnancies.  Measured her belly, took videos, asked her roughly every other day if they could go take a new sonogram.  

--Gained about 25 lbs of sympathy weight over the first pregnancy. All custard cream stress-eating. 

--Upon Thirteen’s urging, named their next kids, fraternal twins, Martha and Jack, after companions they both felt they’d especially wronged, as a vow to do better.

--Zinnia adores Bill Potts, or “Auntie Bill.” After the Master offers careful conversation (and profuse sincere apology) to Bill, who is living with Heather on a distant planet, they very slowly reconcile their friendship from their time on the Mondasian ship.  He convinces her to talk to the Doctor, who also apologizes and reconciles with Bill. Zinnia has decided she will be Bill’s best friend forever. 

--Koschei will impenitently kill anyone who threatens his children’s lives, and has. And not in a quick merciful way. 

--Ironically he regularly has nightmares about converting all three of them, but especially Zinnia, into Cybermen: something he would die before ever doing. 

--This Koschei is his babie’s best A) playmate (no game is too silly or undignified), B) storyteller, and C) cheerleader/advocate.  He can pull any child out of the deepest meltdown or tantrum or sad spot or post-nightmare fear with a snuggle and just a few words.  His sanguine disposition and bombastic charm are a comfort to them. 

--This Koschei and Thirteen are planning on terraforming Gallifrey in their timeline, which is POST-Timeless-Children canon.  They want to plant a silver tree and build an entire “home base” farm around it, where their babies can play and grow up knowing the land of their heritage. 

SIMM x NINE:

--He absolutely wants a kid, wants to be “mum,” with all the same memories from his Second face, but is afraid to ask Nine about loom tech now that Nine destroyed Gallifrey. Will it upset, guilt, or trigger his husband to bring up anything lost to the carnage? 

SIMM x TWELVE:

--He absolutely wants a kid, wants to be “mum,” and is wholly intending to ask the Doctor at the right moment in their relationship, when the Doctor is more secure that he’s forgiven and that Koschei harbors no lingering resentments or mistrust (he really doesn’t, but this Doctor is very tired and emotionally fragile, and is having a hard time believing him).  As all Time Lords are intersex (EU canon, though I can’t remember the source now, gah), he’s considering carrying the first child the “non-loomy way,”  though managing this will be difficult given the only thing all Time Lords share reproductively is a uterus.  If that can’t be managed, he wants them to build a loom. And he will demand that they do, lmao.

DHAWAN x THIRTEEN (children: Nova): --Thirteen is “mum” and Koschei is “mama.”

--During Thirteen’s pregnancy, Koschei took progress photos of her belly and painted her at every stage, in the nude.   He’s an accomplished visual artist in this face.  

--She asked that he also paint a planet on her pregnant belly.  He obliged of course. 

--He hid all her disgusting sweets and candies during her pregnancy, with riddles and notes explaining “bad for baby xoxo,” and she almost killed him.  

--But he also spoiled her a lot. 

--Koschei is an accomplished seamstress ;) and sews all of Nova’s clothes.  She is very haute couture because of mama. 

--Nova is born deaf.  She and her mama have been telepathically “conversing” since she was in the womb, however, so they already have their own developed language.  Koschei learns comprehensive BSL in one day by putting his brain on three separate simultaneous tracks (as he’s shown able to do in The Timeless Children) and devoting each to mastery of the vocabulary. He then teaches it to his daughter when she’s old enough to learn.

--Thirteen often calls Koschei “mama kangaroo.” This is because he carries Nova everywhere inside whatever shirt he’s wearing, like it’s a kangaroo pouch.  He does this until she’s like seven or eight and just too big for it.  He cries when he has to stop.  She’s pretty bummed out too, but she starts to ride around on his back instead. 

--During the aftermath of the Timeless Children events, Koschei sought therapy, even voluntarily staying at a facility for mental wellness when he could have easily sabotaged the efforts and broken out.  He learned all kinds of self-soothing mindfulness and meditation techniques there. He teaches these telepathically to Nova and they sit together yogi style meditating. Sometimes this is a hybrid event with tea parties. They both wear their best dress.   

--They also enjoy taking a dip in the TARDIS’s pool together.  He plays Jaws to make her laugh.

--I have more but I’ll stop. FOR NOW. 

DHAWAN x NINE: 

--Same exact deal as Simm and Nine.  Same. Exact. Deal, but mixed up with Simm and Twelve :3c So he wants to very literally become a mum with his big tough husband-to-be.  

----------

Both of my muses live and die for their children.  They adore being dadmums.  They are the best version of themselves with and for their babies. 

#headcanons #mostincrediblechange #pregnancy tw #reference

[plus-size-reader]

What Bill doesn’t Know

Ted “Theodore” Logan x Plus size!reader

Word Count: 1343 words

Warnings: none

Summary: Reader is Bill’s sister who has a crush on Ted but can’t do anything about it until they’re alone

———————————————————————————————————

Bill and Ted had been best friends for as long as either of them could remember, which meant that you'd been around Ted a fair share in your life as well. William S. Preston esquire was your older brother by a whole twelve minutes, so he thought that made him the boss of you.

He'd always teased you about being the older twin, and knowing more about everything than you did. That was why he got to play guitar in the band with Ted while you worked lights, and why he always got first dibs on anything you two shared.  

That being said, it was clear to you that Ted's attention was also something you two had to compete for, not that you got most of it in the first place. Ted was a sweet guy and had always been there when your brother needed him, but that in no way tied you to him.

You understood if he never looked at you as anything more than Bill's annoying baby sister. It didn't matter how he looked at you however, because you thought he was absolutely radical.

The only problem was, that you'd known each other all your lives, and you were worried he only looked at you as the snot nosed little girl from elementary school. It felt foolish, considering you'd had a huge crush on him that he very clearly didn't reciprocate.

Luckily for you, it wasn't a problem most of the time because whenever Ted was over at your house, he was always right on Billy's heels, so you never had to worry about awkward interactions...or at least you shouldn't have.

That whole narrative changed the moment you turned the corner into your kitchen, to see Ted standing there, but Bill was no where to be found. It didn't make sense...the two of them were never, ever apart if they could help it.

"Hey, where'd Billy go?" you wondered, opening the fridge to fetch some orange juice. Ted didn't answer you right away, just shuffling on his feet lightly as you passed. By the time you closed the fridge and turned around, the dark haired boy had turned to meet you, a glass in hand for you that he'd gotten from the cabinet.

It was a sweet gesture but you knew he was just being helpful, so you stifled the blush that threatened to erupt on your face. You always read too much into the little things Ted did for you, that was part of why the crush was so hard to fight.

Ted was constantly just doing cute things for you that made your mind wander as to what it would be like if you were a couple, only to be reminded that you weren't.

"some girl from school asked him to run into town with her, they should be back in a few hours" he allowed, shocking you for a few reasons. The first was your brother going on a date, Billy hadn't been on a date in months, so it was weird for him to just be going out without telling anyone first but it was the second reason that was truly concerning.

If your brother was busy, and Ted was standing in your kitchen, that meant he didn't have anything to do. If ever there was an opportunity for you to spend time with Ted unbothered by anyone else, it was now, though something about it seemed off.

You had no idea how to go about it, so instead of saying anything else to the dark haired boy, you headed back upstairs, not even looking back as you climbed the stairs.

~

It took a half hour or so before you heard anything else from outside. There was just a simple knock on your bedroom door but you didn't think anything about it at first, as far as you were concerned, it was probably just Missy asking if you wanted something to snack on.

Spoiler alert: You were wrong.

As soon as the door was pulled back, the lanky, dark haired teen entered through it, not even thinking about asking for permission before asking or checking to make sure that you weren't doing something embarrassing.

You felt that familiar tightening in your chest as you met eyes with Ted but didn't say anything, you knew better than that. Instead you smiled, turning back to your book without much trouble until you heard your mattress springs squeaking and groaning beneath his weight.

That sound was so familiar to you, that you didn't even have to look at him to know that a near grown ass man was jumping up and down on your bed. Still, you glanced behind you to check, and saw Ted with the biggest smile on his face.

"What are you doing? Get up here" He suggested, flailing his arms about as if that would somehow convince you that what he was suggesting wasn't a terrible idea...which it was.

Anyone with an older brother knew that dating the best friend was the biggest no no in the world, but spending time with him wasn't a crime-besides, what Bill didn't know wouldn't kill him.

So you stop from your chair and took the hand Ted was holding out to you, which he used as leverage to help you up onto the bed. You were surprised at how easily the teen was able to lift you up, because looking at him, you wouldn't have assumed Ted had enough strength to even lift your brother.

Before you knew what was going on, you were bouncing around on your mattress, laughing and giggling with Ted, who was having an amazing time hanging out with you...not that he was surprised.

In truth, Ted had always thought that you were an incredible person, but never did he think that he could have so much fun with you alone. There was something so sweet and comfortable about the moment you were in right now, just holding hands and jumping around like a couple kids in a bouncy house.

Until you cracked your foreheads together, crumbling instantly in a big puddles of giggles, holding your faces. "That-was so much fun" You smiled, your sentence broken up as you tried to stifle the laughing, still clutching your forehead. Ted hummed to himself, grabbing your hand in his own unconsciously in his own "Why haven't we done that before, that was totally awesome" he agreed, allowing himself to stay close to you without it being weird.

It wasn't until this moment that you realized how close you were to Ted, his arm thrown over your shoulder as he chuckled to himself. This was as comfortable as you'd ever been with another person, and it wasn't ideal.

You kept forgetting that you were with your brother's best friend in the world, and there was no way that this could work out between you two. However, it wasn't a problem you felt you'd have to worry about until you turned toward Ted, and saw just how close your two faces were.

It was to the point where if either of you leaned in even an inch, you would have kissed...and that's exactly what happened. Not abruptly, or aggressive, the whole thing was sweet and slow, with Ted's hand lightly resting on your cheek as if  to pull you in even more than you already were.

"Excellent" he smiled, finally pulling away from your face when you both decided that you had to take a breath. It wasn't what he said that made you laugh, but how he said it, breathy and low in his throat. "Totally" you agreed, biting into your lower lip to keep the laughing from escaping.

Now you were screwed, this was a terrible idea...but luckily, you were so far into it that it didn't matter. 

You couldn't bring yourself to care about what Bill would say if he found out about this, not when you were in his arms, enjoying the comfortable silence that came after the laughing fit you recently had.

#bill and ted #bill and ted x ps reader #bill and ted x plus size reader #bill and teds excellent adventure #80s #80s x ps reader #80s x plus size reader #ted theodore logan #ted theodore logan x ps reader #ted theodore logan x plus size reader #ted logan #ted logan x ps reader #ted logan x plus size reader

[aenslem]

Your newest Twissy gifset made me think about an old debate in the fandom: when Twelve sings Pretty Woman was it dedicated to Missy or Clara? It was dedicated to Missy, right?

agh AGH who are you nonny and why do i have a feeling you are the same anon who asked me about 12 x Clara before? anyway, even if he plays for Clara which is probably true i don’t care :D bECAUSE

also anyone is free to think whatever they want, if someone thinks he plays for clara, well, good for them, if someone thinks he plays for missy, well, good for them too. i mean, why need to prove that the other is wrong when we can love both and just enjoy the show, which i try to do here. I do not like that ship but i love clara and 12′s relationship as well as doc and other companion relationships, i just don’t think about them in that way as well as i do not think about Amy and 11 in that way, so it doesn’t matter for me if he plays for missy or clara there and actually i did not even think about that before, thanks. what matters is Peter Capaldi fucking rocked there and looked damn good.

#text #ask #doctor who #Anonymous

[whoufuckingfaldi]

A little post about multishipping! I personally ship Nine/Ten with Rose, Eleven with River, Twelve with Clara (although Twelve and River was cute too and I don’t mind a bit of Twelve and Missy - it makes me chuckle) and I am starting to ship Thirteen and Yaz (even though I was determined not too). 

So, I know they are all the Doctor but bear with me here... (oh and I’m just going to stick to New Who or the post could go on forever).

As much as I love Nine and Ten with Rose, I cannot picture her with Eleven or Twelve. I just don’t think the dynamic would be there with those two doctor’s but I could see her still being in love with Thirteen. That’s not be devaluing the Doctor x Rose ship. She was one of the big loves of his long life. I know that just because I can’t picture a Rose x Twelve romance it doesn’t mean it wouldn’t have worked on screen.

I don’t feel like I have seen enough of Yaz yet to judge but my immediate impression is that her immediate bond with Thirteen is helped by them both being women (a bit of hero worship?) but I could see her being quite smitten with Ten too. I’m not convinced she would have the same reaction to the rest of them. 

Missy would enjoy mauling any version of the Doctor. Back when she was the Master the Ten x Master vibes were strong too. You have the added dynamic of them both being timelords and having different regenerations reacting to each other. Bit more complex this one!

River, despite the age difference between the actors, really worked with Eleven. It was an odd mix but it worked. I already knew she had chemistry with Ten because obviously she was introduced (and died) during that regeneration. I didn’t think she would work with Twelve but was pleasantly surprised. I could see her getting along just fine and having chemistry with Nine and I reckon she would be well into Thirteen. 

I am not a huge River x Doctor shipper, I just like it rather than love it. A lot of that was to do with the story lines delivery and the amount of plot holes that surrounded it. I for one really enjoyed most of the Moffet era, especially the Twelfth Doctor, but I found the River Song story line both brilliant in its idea and at times poor in its execution. 

I am a huge Doctor and Clara shipper though. My main love was of course Twelve x Clara but I did like her dynamic with Eleven. I honestly believe that the Doctor would have adored her in any regeneration and that she would have felt the same way. The evidence in this is when she met Ten and the War Doctor. Both of them were instantly a bit smitten and starry eyes for her and she was able to relate and communicate with them both easily. Even the War Doctor, the version of himself that the Doctor hated. So the only New Who Doctor’ s we haven’t seen her with is Nine, who I think she’d have had a great dynamic with and Thirteen. We know Clara also likes women (all those Jane Austin references) even though they didn’t push it on screen and liked all that energy that both Ten and Eleven oozed. I think its a dead cert that the two would get on - I even think that elements of Thirteen’s personality are very Clara. I hear people compare Thirteen to the other Doctor’s and I can see how they have taken elements of each but there is a lot of Clara’s influence their too. Not surprising considering the Doctor only regained memories of her just before regenerating. 

The point of this is.... there is really no need to fight over ship’s in the Doctor Who universe. The Doctor is actually Millions of years old now if you include the time in Heaven Sent or at least 2000 years old if you don’t. In a normal human life time you usually love more than once, if not a handful of times. Imagine how many people you could love over 2000 years. On that note, you can’t use age difference to invalidate someone else’s ship. The Doctor is technically too old for anyone except Missy/Master. Age is really just a number in Doctor Who. Let it go. Ship the Doctor with everyone...and the TARDIS.

#doctor who #multishipping

[bardqueenofgallifrey]

For the band AU are Four's gang just the most ridiculous prog rock band on the planet. Harry Sullivan playing a keyboard shaped like a clam and wrestling with it mid show ala Emerson Lake and Plamer. Four is Peter Gabriel x 10. Leela is the lead guitarist.

I........ don’t have enough music knowledge of that kind to go into that sort of thing

I’m going with Four and SJ being a folk duo back in the 1970′s, Leela will probably be back of the Gallifrey band which will be its own thing, I reckon

also I hope y’all realise that this AU is still very firmly focused on Twelve, Missy, River, and Bill, and that these other bands will only make cameos or be mentioned, I don’t want you to get your hopes up on that front 

(though Three and Delgado!Master will feature more heavily)

#anon asks #the band au

[beccaland]

Doctor Who: The Tag Game

@orelseatlastsheunderstoodit tagged “whomever wants to do this” and that means me so…

Tag Game: Doctor Who Edition!!

The rules are simple - answer the questions, then tag other Whovians to get to know each other better/find new people to follow, message, etc. If there are any questions you don’t have an answer for, feel free to skip them!

Doctor you started with: Well I was really young (as in I can’t actually remember how old I was when I started watching Doctor Who), and PBS tended to jump around a bit, so I’m not actually sure. But I think it was Four or Five? Certainly Five was the first Doctor I remember actively wishing I could travel with, so we’ll go with that one.

Favourite Doctor: The Doctor. All of him. But I think Peter Capaldi is the best actor to ever play the Doctor.

Favourite Companion: It really tends to be whichever one I watched/listened to most recently. BUT if I step back from my “feelings in the moment,” then I’d say it’s a very close race between Liv & Helen (they come as a team and you can’t make me pick between them), Ace, and Clara.

Favourite Episode: I will give you my favorite story from each era, and you can’t expect me to narrow it down beyond that, this is hard enough as it is: The Dalek Invasion of Earth, The Mind Robber, The Sea Devils, Robots of Death, Enlightenment, Vampire of the Mind (likely to change after I listen to more Six audios), Remembrance of the Daleks, The Red Lady, The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances, Midnight (narrowly beating out Blink and Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead), The Doctor’s Wife (extremely narrowly beating out A Christmas Carol, and The Day of the Doctor, which are all tied for second place), and Heaven Sent

DW OTP: The Doctor/River Song

BrOTP: Four/Sarah Jane, Ten/Donna, The Doctor/The Brigadier

(I’m borrowing this next one from @evilqueenofgallifrey because she is 100% right it needs to be here, and also my picks for this category are exactly the same as hers <shrugs>)

Queerplatonic/QPP/QTP?: Three/Jo, Eight/Charley, Twelve/Clara

Favourite line/quote: “The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but vice-versa, the bad things don’t necessarily spoil the good things and make them unimportant.”

Favourite character that isn’t the Doctor or a companion: Tie between Missy and River Song

Favourite DW fic (if you have one): I quite like a lot of @mygalfriday’s work. There’s also this really incredibly good Firefly crossover with the Tenth Doctor by frostfyre7 called “The Man with No Name.”

Favorite DW fanart/blog (if you have one): @johannesviii, no contest. Not only is it the definitive blog for Eighth Doctor fanart, but it’s just absolutely beautiful work all around.

If you could pick anyone to be the next Doctor, who would it be?:  Richard Ayoade or Ruth Wilson

If you could pick anyone to be the next companion who would it be? (Why?): Absolutely no idea

Favourite fan theory: When I called that River Song was Amy’s daughter at the end of series 5.

Other fandoms: Stargate, Firefly, Babylon 5, The X-Files, Star Trek (mostly TNG), Lord of the Rings, Discworld, Narnia, the Marvel cinematic universe, and lots more…

If you want to do this, consider yourself tagged!

#doctor who fandom #about me

[streetbeatradio-blog]

 J Cole

About J. Cole        

J. Cole is widely considered to be one of the best storytellers of the new hip-hop generation, eschewing hype and hedonism in favor of levelheaded honesty and conscious self-reflection.

Since signing with Jay Z’s Roc Nation in 2009, the Frankfurt-born emcee/producer has collaborated with the likes of Drake, Kendrick Lamar, Miguel, Bas, KQuick, French Montana, Rick Ross, Melanie Fiona, Trae Tha Truth, B.o.B., Jadakiss, Tyga, Mark Morrison, Gudda Gudda, Bun B, Beyonce, Elle Varner, Bei Maejor, Sean Garrett, TLC, Missy Elliot, Trey Songz, Curren$y, Wiz Khalifa, Yo Gotti, Kanye West, Pusha T, Big Sean, Rihanna, Chris Brown, Tinie Tempah, Lil Wayne and more.

Most recently, his latest album Born Sinner was certified Gold, and he may or may not have gotten engaged to his high-school sweetheart. He’s currently on the on the international “What Dreams May Come Tour” with Wale, and is slated to perform at VH1’s Super Bowl XLVIII Blitz in Manhattan alongside Janelle Monae, Fall Out Boy, TLC, the Goo Goo Dolls and Gavin DeGraw. Stay tuned.

Facts Only

Jay Z "shunned" J. Cole upon their first encounter outside the former's Roc The Mic studio.

Cole Was born on a United States Army base in Frankfurt, West Germany.

He started rapping at the age of twelve.

He was a first-chair violinist for the Terry Sanford Orchestra as a youth.

During his beginnings in the Bomm Sheltuh collective alongside FilthE Rock and Nervous Reck, his original moniker was Therapist.

His first pieces of production equipment were an 808 beat machine and an ASR-X.

Cole attended Fayetteville, North Carolina's Terry Sanford High School.

He received an academic scholarship from New York's St. John's University, graduating magna cum laude with a degree in communication and business.

J. Cole has a strong passion for basketball.

His earliest musical influences were Canibus and Eminem.

[cyarra97]

Doctor Who Tag Game

I was tagged by @fanfreakinfandoms , and this is the first tag game that I’ve replayed to.

Doctor you started with: Nine. My dad put this on for my siblings and I to watch during the time that 11’s reign was just starting, so I’m pretty new compared to most Doctor Who fans, but am definitely as obsessed.

Favorite Doctor: Eeeeehhh that’s a tough one, but im going to have to go with 9, 12 being second. Idk, 9 is just such a well written, complex character and his finale and regeneration is so very dear to me ;-;

Favorite Companion: Ok, this is like choosing between children. I’ve really grown to like Bill but I fucking love Donna but Martha is so close to my heart but Amy is so awesome and don’t even get me started on Sarah Jane Smith. But, I guess, I’ll have to choose Sarah Jane Smith because A) her spinoff is dope as fuck and B) How the fuck do you not love Sarah Jane to bits she’s such a bamf and I fucking miss Elizabeth Sladen so much it hurts my soul. So, yeah, Sarah Jane.

Doctor Who OTP: My favorite Doctor Who OTPs are actually the least developed ones, like Bill x Heather, Jenny x Vastra, Martha x Mickey, and I’m sure there’s more but I can’t think right now. The only person I am willing to ship the Doctor with is River, specifically 12 and River, because reasons and I liked their Christmas special.

Favorite line/quote: The entirety of 12’s war speech and/or 12’s speech in The Doctor Falls about being kind. Also “Bananas are good.”

Favorite character who isn’t the Doctor or a companion: Captain Jack or Missy…or River Song or Wilfred Mott or Luke Smith (he fucking counts because he cameos in like two episodes or some shit ok don’t fuck with me about Luke Smith) or Jenny and Vastra..

BROTP: Bill and Twelve. And Ten and Donna. They’re all awesome.

Favorite Fanfiction: This is a shocker, I don’t actually read Doctor Who fanfiction. Sorry babes

Favorite fanart blog: They aren't specifically Doctor Who fanart blogs, but they've done some of my favorite fanart. @st-jude-blog and @joscribbles

If you could choose, who would you like to play the next Doctor: I don’t know, all I know is that no one will be able to compare to Capaldi.

Who would you like to be the next companion: Again, I don’t know, but I would like them to be Asian.

Favorite fan theory: One specific one isn’t coming to mind, sorry again, but I’m sure I’ve seen ones that I love, I just can’t think of them right now.

Other fandoms: Torchwood, Class, The Sarah Jane Adventures, Harry Potter, Merlin, Sense8, Star Trek, Star Wars, and some other shit, but it seems like I’ve forgotten every other fandom I’ve joined ever in my entire life.

#doctor who

[hmhteen]

Read an excerpt of SPARKS OF LIGHT by Janet B. Taylor!

Time travel and romance seem to go hand in hand these days, don’t they? We’re certainly not complaining, because it means we get to read the second book in the Into The Dim duology, SPARKS OF LIGHT! 

In INTO THE DIM, Hope Walton went back in time to the 12th Century to rescue her mother and learned she comes from a line of time-travelers. Now she’s back to rescue something else: an invention made by Nikola Tesla in the 1800′s in New York City! But danger lurks behind every corner, and Hope must decide if saving the past is worth destroying her present.   

You can read the first three chapters of SPARKS OF LIGHT below!

CHAPTER ONE

Decapitation.

       De-Capitate, verb. From the Latin, Decapitatus. To remove the head from the rest of the body.

       It happened in the bedroom. In my bedroom to be specific, though it still seemed bizarre to think of it as mine, this once-sumptuous chamber of velvet and marble and antique furniture so massive and solid it would likely survive the apocalypse. As with a prom queen at the end of a long night of debauchery, only touches of the room’s original glamour remained.

       Not that I had firsthand prom knowledge per se. But one does read about these things.

       After another excruciating day, which had included three muddy hours of‘stabbing practice, my muscles were in full-on noodle mode, and I was already mentally sinking into my comfy, if craterous, feather mattress. So when I pushed open the door, it took me a second to get it. Though I froze before the utter and complete annihilation scattered across the scuffed floorboards, my brain, old reliable, began to catalogue the horror.

       Splayed, crooked limbs. Clothing ripped to shreds. Matted clumps of hair strewn about a slim, fragile neck that was now nothing but a ragged stump.

       I did not see a head.

 My life had become decidedly weird in the last few months. And though it hadn’t been what most folks would call apple-pie normal in the first place, at least there’d been no brain-twisty flights through time and space, no assault, no mutilation or bloodshed.

       That was no longer the case.

       Since arriving at my aunt’s manor in the Scottish Highlands, I’d seen medieval soldiers battle with blood and sword. I’d befriended a legendary queen. I’d been pursued by a vengeful saint. I’d engineered a prison escape and helped bring my mother back from the dead.

       I’d killed a guy.

       Maybe. Probably. The temporal jury was still out on that one. The fact that he’d been a very bad guy didn’t temper the horrible nightmares.

 But this victim had been an innocent. Her destruction a direct result of my own negligence. I took in a breath and stepped inside. As I picked my way through torn lace and body parts, my heart tried to crumble into miniscule, crackling bits.

       No, I thought as I faced off with the murderess herself. No. This I will never forgive. This was assassination. And I forever swear vengeance upon your head.

 With a smirk playing around her mouth, the killer sat down on the floor amid the carnage she had caused and—without the slightest hint of remorse—began to lick her own butt.

       “Oh, that’s real nice.”

       My best friend’s new calico kitten interrupted her bath, one leg raised in that peculiar contortion only cats can perform, and blinked at me with wide, oh-so-innocent eyes.

       “Oh, don’t you dare look at me like that,” I snarled down at the little puff head. “I know you did it.”

       The fur-ball stood on three stubby legs and glared at me for daring to chastise her. The right rear leg dangled, nothing but a nub, though it didn’t slow her even the slightest.

       Mac, Collum and Phoebe’s grandfather had found her outside the barn. Wet, bloodied, one of her legs mangled beyond repair. After returning from the vet, the feline had quickly usurped control of the manor.

       She stretched languidly, back arching as she gave a yippy little yawn. I frowned and reached down to snatch a hunk of blond hair caught in her whiskers.

       “This.” I waved it before her. “Is evidence. See it? Red. Freaking. Handed.”

       With a little hiss, she raised a minute paw and batted at the blond curl. I jerked back just in time to avoid having my finger ripped open by the needle-sharp claws.

       The kitten had evil in her, I was sure of it. She despised anyone with an X-chromosome, though for some reason, she adored the guys. Mac, in particular, was smitten, toting her around, the little whiskered face peeking out from the pocket of his down vest. Her only redeeming feature was how utterly uncomfortable she made Collum, as she continually appeared out of nowhere and yowled at him to pick her up.

 “Why?” I whispered as I surveyed the destruction. “What did I ever do to you?”

       She’d been delicate, beautiful. Ancient. Much, much older than the eighteenth-century house itself. The beheaded doll that now lay in scattered ruin across my bedroom floor was the only evidence of my true origins. The only reminder of the child I had once been.

       That is, the only tangible reminder. In a way that hurts my brain to think on, just twelve years had passed since someone had plucked her from an icy forest, and kept her safe until he could return her to me.

       Twelve years, give or take a few hundred.

 “Hey, Hope, have you seen Hec .º.º.”

       Phoebe MacPherson skidded to a halt in the doorway. Her hair, previously spiky and the color of blue-raspberry soda, now bore a sleek, chin-length bob, and was dyed what could only be described as shrieking purple. Freckled, barely five feet, and sporting her favorite panda-print jammies, my friend would’ve looked closer to twelve than sixteen if it hadn’t been for her rather abundant chest.

       Phoebe gasped as she took in the shredded, headless body. “Oh-h-h,” she moaned. “No-o-o. No no no! Tell me she didn’t.”

       I shrugged. “She did.” I turned away before my friend could notice my lips trembling. “My fault. I must’ve left the door open.”

       Phoebe knelt, and carefully scooped up the doll’s fragile carcass. Bits of yellow silk floated to the ground. We both looked around for the head. I spotted it first, half-buried beneath a pillow.

       “Got it.” I climbed up the three wooden steps and stretched out full-length across the mattress. As my fingers closed around the round shape, the cat jumped up onto the bed to claim her prize.

       Avoiding her, I sat up and stared at the delicate painted face in my cupped palm. I sniffed. Stupid to get upset about a dumb doll. Still.

       Soft fur rubbed against my elbow. I glanced down as Sister Hectare “Hecty” MacPherson gave a sympathetic meow and nestled against my side.

       “Oh, no.” Feet dangling over the edge of the bed, I glared at her. “I do not accept your apology, you furry little butthead.”

       Hecty nudged me.

       “Don’t you get all purry with me, missy,” I said. “You are a bad, bad kitty.”

       Phoebe climbed the steps and settled in on my other side, holding the carcass’s torso in her lap. I tried to maintain my ire, but when the kitten put her paws on my leg and looked up at me again in that melty, Puss-in-Boots way cats have, I sighed. Conceding defeat, I reached down to scratch the velvety spot just behind her ears.

       She hissed, and tried to rip the head from my hands with her tiny teeth. I snatched it away just in time. Disgusted, the cat hopped down and—tail high—stalked out the door.

       “Doesn’t really match the name, does she?” I said. “Sister Hectare was nice. That thing is a nightmare.”

       “Well, the good sister did have sharp claws, aye?”

       I huffed. “That’s true enough.”

       The stud through Phoebe’s eyebrow glinted as we shared wobbly smiles, both of us thinking of the decrepit little nun who’d used up the last bit of her strength to save our lives. To us, Hectare had died only a few weeks before. Not a thousand years in the past. Her image, and that of the incomparable Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, remained sharp in both our minds.

       Though the history books chronicled many details of Eleanor’s life, Sister Hectare’s story had disappeared into the mists of time.

       “So.” Phoebe sniffed and swiped at her eyes. “Is it broken, then?”

       I examined the doll head in my palm. The carved wooden features were blessedly intact. But the paint was scratched, and there was a bald patch on one side where the kitty had snacked on the brittle golden strands of real hair imbedded in the skull.

       “No.” I said. “I don’t think so.”

       I should have known better than to leave it lying right there on the bed, with full-on feline access.

       But I’d taken to sleeping with the doll. Stupid, I knew. Childish. Still, it was all I had left of that murky “time before.” And .º.º. the only thing I had left of him. Of Bran Cameron. The only physical evidence that we—as a we—had really existed. That what had happened between us was real.

 Every morning when I woke, there were always a few sleepy seconds before it hit me. A hammer blow to the chest.

       Not one word in all this time. Not since he’d gone back. To her. To his mother, Celia Alvarez, the woman who’d trapped my mother in the past, then left us all there to die. And though she’d allowed Bran to return to the Timeslippers, I didn’t want to think what kind of torments she’d inflicted on him for his betrayal.

       “Oy.” Phoebe reached out and took my hand, squeezing hard enough to pull me back from the dark place. “He does love you, you know.”

       “Oh, really?” I jerked away, and rubbed my bloodless fingers. “Then why not one word in all this time, huh? It’s been nearly two months. Two bloody months.”

       I scowled when her pointed nose crinkled and one side of her wide mouth curled up.

       “What?”

       “It’s just funny to hear you say ‘bloody.’” She grinned. “It’s all like .º.º. bluudee.”

       “Shut up.” I jabbed her with an elbow. But a reluctant smile began to tug at my lips.

       We sat in silence for moment. We had no idea what Celia was planning. Where or when she might decide to travel next. The only thing we knew for sure was that she would never give up, not until she found the Nonius Stone, the infamous opal she believed would allow her to better control the entity we knew as ‘the Dim.’

       This we could not allow.

       And the thing that knotted my stomach the most was that I knew Bran. He’d take crazy risks. To protect us. To protect me. And if Celia caught him thwarting her plans, adopted son or not .º.º. I had no doubt what she’d do.

       As if she’d read my mind yet again, Phoebe said, “He’s okay, you know. I mean, it’s Bran. If anyone can talk themselves out of a tough situation, it’s him.”

       I sat up straighter at that. “Well, that’s the truth. He does have a kind of knack for getting out of trouble, huh?”

       When Phoebe beamed that grin at me, the one that lit up an entire room, I couldn’t help but return it.

       “That’s my girl,” she said.

       She gave my leg a pat and launched herself off the bed, clearing the steps in one acrobatic leap. Despite her petite size, my best friend was freakishly strong. I followed, easing down the steps in my own distinctly unathletic manner.

       “Gram can fix her, you know.” Phoebe plucked the doll’s head from my hand and stuck it in the pocket of her jammies. Cradling the battered torso in one hand, she said, “I’ll drop her off in the sewing room, then I’m for bed.” She gave a huge yawn. “It’s late and you could use some beauty sleep yourself. You look like something the dog dragged in.”

       “Thanks a lot,” I said. “But I think I might—”

       “To bed. No excuses,” she ordered, giving me her sternest—no use arguing—face.

       In that moment, she looked and sounded so much like Moira, I raised my hands in submission. “Okay, okay.”

       “Good girl.” At the doorway she turned. “Actually,” she mused,“think I’ll drop off our mangled friend here, then scoot downstairs and see if I can’t entice my Doug away from that damn computer of his. Lad’s been working around the clock, and it’s not good for his condition.”

       “Good luck,” I said. “But you’d better watch out. I swear he and that thing have something going on the side.”

       She gave a lewd wink. “Oh .º.º. I’m not worried. I’ve a few moves I doubt that blasted computer can match.”

       She sashayed out the door, hips swaying. I shook my head, smiling because I knew she was right. Our resident genius might be deep down his computer rabbit hole. But I’d seen Phoebe bring it before, and I had no doubt that in the end .º.º. she’d have him—probably literally—eating out of her hand.

CHAPTER TWO

The girl’s grandfather, gangly and stooped in his scholar’s robes, held tight to her hand as they hurried through the huge, ornate chamber. She was feeling very important indeed as they followed the Lord Chamberlain through room after room, moving past all the handsome lords in their doublets and ruffs. Past ladies in their silks, their hair piled high and strung with pearls as they waited for an audience with the queen. Though she’d been instructed to stare directly ahead, back straight, chin high, she couldn’t help gawping at the ladies’ white-painted faces.

       Her mother claimed painting one’s face was nothing but vanity, and silly besides. Though she wondered sometimes had her mother been a great lady, instead of the wife of a cloth merchant, if she might feel differently.

       As they passed through the last pair of green and white doors, the girl saw her. The orange-haired queen sat behind a small desk, eating orange slices. She felt a little stab of disappointment not to find Her Majesty seated on her great throne, beneath a canopy of state. But her jewel-encrusted gown sparkled prettily in the light that slanted down through the mullioned windows, and the girl thought that was very nice.

       A tall, handsome man in a velvet cape the color of grass leaned against the queen’s chair, speaking quietly to her.

       “That is Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester,” her grandfather told her in a whisper. “A great friend to the queen and to myself.”

       When they entered, the Earl straightened and came around the table to greet them.

       “Good morrow, John,” he said to the girl’s grandfather. “’Tis been some time. I’ve missed our games. No one else beats me at chess quite as soundly as do you.”

       “It has been a while, Your Grace,” her grandfather agreed. “And if I recall correctly, you very nearly won the last time we played.”

       Grinning down at the girl, Robert Dudley doffed his feathered cap and pressed it to his chest. “Oh Glorious Majesty. Queen of my heart.” He turned and gave the queen a theatrical wink. “I do believe this beautiful maiden might have just stolen my love clean away.”

       “Oh, do get out, Robin.” The queen waved him away with a ringed hand. “And don’t come back for two days. I tire of your jokes.” Her voice sounded severe. But the girl saw the queen’s lips quirk, and observed that her gaze never strayed as she watched the Earl sweep into a deep reverence, then saunter out the door.

 They approached the desk. The queen’s face turned terribly stern, though there was a sadness around her eyes as they flicked again toward the closed door.

       The queen swallowed hard, and the girl thought maybe Her Majesty hated wearing the high, frilly collar as much as she herself did. When the girl’s fingers rose to tug at the thing—starched into submission by her mother that very morning—her grandfather whispered to her to stop fidgeting.

 As I lay curled beneath the quilts in a half doze, I knew the scene filling my mind was no dream. It happened like that now. The once-cloaked memories of my strange early childhood bubbled up from the shadowy part of my brain, returning at odd times. When I was distracted, or my brain logy with sleep.

       Unlike the memories of so-called normal people, mine emerged crystal clear. Every detail as sharp and crisp as if it had happened only days earlier. Before I’d come to Scotland, my photographic memory had been yet another thing that singled me out. Made me different. Made me a joke with my father’s family. Add to this that I was the only home-schooled kid in our entire infinatesimal town and it’s not hard to deduce that my social calendar was rarely full.

       And yet, as the memories emerged full-bodied and complete, I felt removed from them. As if I were watching a beloved character from one of my favorite books come to life.

 A few feet from the desk, the girl’s grandfather bent low in a respectful bow. She followed with her best curtsy, proud that she held it without tipping over. Back at home, before her grandfather had hoisted her onto his great horse, her sister had leaned down to hiss into her ear, “Do be careful, sister. You know how clumsy you are. I’d hate for you to fall flat on your face when you meet Her Majesty.”

       One winter day, as the girl wept in her mother’s arms, her mother had explained that it was envy that caused her sister’s occasional cruelty. She resented their grandfather’s special affection for the girl, her mother had said Though he visited their house often, eating at their table and spending long hours teaching all three of them—her brother, sister, and herself—to read and write, he took only the younger girl with him when he went to visit his mother’s home at Mortlake.

       After he informed the girl’s mother he was taking her to meet his great friend, the queen, the girl’s sister had yanked on her braid and would have pinched her had their older brother Willie not warned her away.

       Her small legs trembled as she held the curtsy. When, finally, the queen’s rich, husky voice ordered her grandfather and her to rise, the girl dared a look. The queen’s lips, painted in a red cupid’s bow, stretched as she smiled fondly at the girl’s grandfather. When he returned a slow grin, the girl knew something special existed between them, this magnificent queen and her own ratty old Poppy with his ink-stained fingers and scruffy gray beard. Her chest and cheeks glowed with pride. She wondered, though, why the queen’s own mother hadn’t taught her to use a willow twig to clean her teeth, as they looked very dark against her white face.

       After a moment, her grandfather made the introductions. “Your Majesty,” he said. “This is the child I’ve mentioned to you.”

       Queen Elizabeth Tudor’s painted eyebrows arched into a high, plucked forehead. “Ah,” she said, smile dimming. “Yes. I seem to recall. You did help support a poor orphaned child once long ago, did you not? A girl, I believe? Grown now, with children of her own. How very .º.º. philanthropic you are, John.”

       The girl’s grandfather went very, very still as the queen picked up a tiny golden spoon and began to tap the end of a boiled egg. It cracked, and she peeled the shell off in one long coil.

       “But.” She reached out to pinch some salt from the engraved silver salt cellar, sprinkling the egg before stabbing the spoon into the tender white flesh.

       A dripping bit of yolk made its way to the queen’s painted lips. And when she looked back at the girl’s grandfather, her black eyes had gone cold.

       “In truth,” Queen Elizabeth said. “This child is your granddaughter. Her mother a bastard, a by-blow from your younger days. A fact which you did not deign to share with me.”

       The girl’s back stiffened at that, though her grandfather’s hand squeezed hers in warning.

       How dare you, thought the little girl, her small body almost vibrating as she seethed with outrage. How dare you call my mother a bastard!

       Even at four and one half years, the girl knew what that meant. A scurrilous lie, she thought, crossing her arms over her thin chest as she waited for her grandfather’s no doubt furious rebuttal.

       She waited and waited. And when her grandfather only stared down at his feet, the girl’s heart sank. She determined then to demand the truth from her grandfather the moment they set out from Windsor Castle.

       “Did you think I would not hear, John?” The queen stood, anger cracking the smooth white paint. “Nothing happens in my kingdom that I do not learn of it!”

       Queen Elizabeth threw the spoon hard against the nearby window. It clattered to the ground. A trail of yellow slime dripped down the glass. Silence reined for a long moment. The girl watched sunlight glint off diamonds and emeralds as the queen paced back and forth, a ringed hand pressed to her flat abdomen. The girl may’ve been young but everyone in the kingdom whispered of it. How the great Virgin Queen would not choose a husband. How she had no child, no heir, to call her own. How she was beginning to age.

       Her grandfather spoke softly. “Your Gracious Majesty,” he began. “When I was young, I made many mistakes.” His grip on the girl’s hand loosened, though he did not let go as he looked the queen in the eye. “My only regret in this matter is that I did not share this with you. But the deed itself I cannot regret. Not for one moment. Not when this child is the outcome. She is like me. She holds my gift of memory. And I believe with the right training, she could one day be very useful to you and to England.”

       Finally, seeming to come to some decision, Queen Elizabeth gave a short, sharp nod. Her grandfather’s shoulders relaxed as he let go of the young girl’s hand. The girl held tight to the poppet he’d bought for her in the market only that morning, squeezing her as the queen’s sharp black eyes roved over her face.

       Opening pursed lips, the Virgin Queen, Gloriana, Queen of all England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales, began to scream.

 Wait, that’s not right. I thought. What had happened next was that the queen had taken her grandfather aside to speak privately while the girl .º.º. while I .º.º. looked out the window at the garden. Then—

       My eyes popped open as the scream came again, faint and lingering, followed by a high-pitched wail. A glance at the digital clock on my bedside table told me it was 11:43 pm, meaning I’d been in bed a total of twenty-seven minutes.

       I threw off the covers and stumbled down the wooden steps. Dashing across the room, I threw open the door.

       Illuminated only by antique wall sconces, converted in the last century from their original gas, the darkly paneled hallway seemed to stretch out to nightmarish lengths. My bare feet slid on the faded carpet runner as I skidded to a halt before the last door on the left.

       From inside came two distinct cries.

       I wasn’t the only one who’d heard. Moira MacPherson, plump cheeks flushed from sleep, appeared seconds later, and I allowed myself an inward sigh of relief that I wouldn’t have to face this alone. In her fluffy bathrobe and pink sponge curlers, Moira nodded at me solemnly.

       Down the hall, Mac, Moira’s balding husband, was wrapping a flannel robe around his gangly form.

       “Happening again, is it?” Yawning, Mac scrubbed at small blue eyes, identical to his granddaughter Phoebe’s. “I thought Greta had prescribed something to help our Sarah rest?”

         In the last month, Dr. Greta Lund, Aunt Lucinda’s Danish doctor friend, had spent hours with my mom, helping her learn to cope with the aftereffects of her traumatic ordeal. Afterward, Greta and Lucinda often spent time together, sharing a cup of tea or a glass of wine.

       That the good doctor also knew all the family secrets came as something of a surprise.

       “Thick as thieves, those two were,” Moira had told Phoebe and me one evening after Aunt Lucinda had escorted Greta through the back door to her car. “Greta spent all her holidays and summers here, her own family being a bit of a mess, you see? When she chose medicine over staying on with the Viators, it nearly broke Lu.”

       Taken aback, Phoebe and I looked at each other. The idea of anything “breaking” my imposing aunt was beyond both of our imaginations.

       The hell? Phoebe mouthed.

       I shrugged. But as Moira ambled off to clear the dinner table, Phoebe and I scrambled to the kitchen window to watch Lucinda and the pretty, gentle-voiced Dr. Lund. They were standing very close together. And when Greta laid a hand on Lucinda’s cheek, my aunt smiled down at her with such devastating emotion, I could only gawp.

       “Whoa,” Phoebe whispered, eyes going round as marbles as she turned to look at me.

       “Yeah,” I agreed. “Whoa.”

       Phoebe beamed. “But that’s brilliant! I always felt sorry for Lu, you know? No matter how strong she is or how she claims to be ‘married to the Viators,’ she has to be lonely. And especially now, with the illness and all. Gram claims the blood transfusions are helping. But I heard Greta tell her that without a sample of the disease, there’s no real way to cure it.”

       I turned away from the window, giving the two women their privacy. Whatever was killing my aunt’s red blood cells was a complete mystery to her doctors. Of course, what they did not know—could never know—was that the disease rampaging through my aunt’s bone marrow had been acquired during a trip to thirteenth-century Romania.

 From behind my mother’s closed door, the baby mewled.

       “Mom won’t take the sedatives, ’cause of the nursing,” I told Mac.

       “I offered to wean the babe to the bottle,” Moira put in. “But Sarah wouldn’t have it.”

       As Mac started down the hall, Moira waved him back.

       “No need, mo ghràdh,” she said quietly. “Get to yer bed. Hope and I can handle this. It won’t be the first time, aye?”

       Mac paused, then stifled a yawn as he nodded. “A’right then. But call if you have need of some warm milk. Or a tot of whiskey. I can fetch either.”

       As the door to their bedroom closed, Moira turned back to me. “Scotsmen,” she tsked. “Always thinking life’s ills can be cured with a bit o’ whiskey.”

       Moira and I faced the door together. For the moment all was silent.

       Maybe they went back to sleep.

       The staccato tinkle of shattering glass sounded through the thick wood. Moira gave a cry and grabbed the crystal knob. It turned, but the door wouldn’t open. Cursing in Gaelic under her breath, Moira reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a skeleton key.

       “Learned my lesson last time,” she told me as she twisted the brass key in the lock.

       Though every lamp was lit, so that the room blazed with light, I didn’t see my mom. The wicker bassinet in the corner was empty, but the room was filled with the sound of my two-month-old sister’s squalls.

       The bedroom smelled of baby powder and furniture polish, underlaid with a metallic tinge. Light from the small chandelier glinted off shards of glass that lay strewn across the wooden floor and braided rug. On the bedside table, strands of purple heather tangled in a puddle of water where a crystal vase had stood earlier that evening.

       While Moira dashed to the bed and rifled through the rumpled quilts, hoping to find the baby there, my gaze flicked around the room. In the shadowed space beneath the four-poster bed, I thought I saw something shift.

       “Mom?”

       Moira, back at my side, pointed a shaking finger. “Hope,” she murmured. But I’d already seen it. A small scarlet stream that flowed from beneath the bed.

       I dropped to my hands and knees. “Mom,” I choked out. “It’s me, Hope. Mom, are you hurt? Is Ellie okay? There’s blood, Mom. Why is there blood? Please come out, you’re scaring me.”

       “Hope?” My mother’s voice sounded scratchy and hoarse, as if she’d been shrieking for hours. “Is it really you? She .º.º. she didn’t take you?”

       “Wh-what?” Stifling the sob that was trying to wrench itself from my throat, I croaked, “No one took me, Mom. I’m right here. Just .º.º. come out, okay?”

       Moira eased down, knees cracking as she knelt.

       “Sarah,” she called softly. “It’s me, darling girl. It’s your Moira. Hope’s fine. Come on out, now. We’re sore worried about you. And the babe.”

       For a time, my sister’s wails quieted and all we could hear was my mother’s uneven breathing. I glanced down as something warm touched my fingertips. The blood had reached the spot where my hand pressed against the floor. It began to pool up around my fingers. Shuddering, I jerked away.

       “Mom! “My voice cracked. “Mama. Plea—”

       “Sarah Elizabeth Carlyle!” A stern voice cut me off. “Stop this nonsense and come out of there this instant!”

       My arms wobbled, and I nearly wilted in relief as my Aunt Lucinda marched across the room, towering over me.

       “L-Lu?”

       “Of course it’s me, Sarah,” my aunt snapped. “Now come out from under that bed. Your child is in distress.”

       With a sharp gesture, my aunt waved me back as my mom began to shuffle out from beneath the bed, her left arm squeezing my red, flailing sister tight against her side.

       Over the last few weeks, my mother’s strawberry blond hair had developed a large streak of white. Marie Antoinette syndrome, Dr. Lund had explained. A condition that occurs when a terrible shock causes the hair follicles to stop producing pigment. Aunt Lucinda, eight years my mother’s senior, had always looked much older than Mom.

       But now, seeing her ragged face beneath the unforgiving lights, I realized my mother had aged a decade in the last year.

 Dr. Sarah Carlyle, had been one of the world’s most sought-after and respected historians. An author of bestselling biographies, once a year my mom had crisscrossed the world on her sold-out lecture tours. Later, of course, I learned the true reason a renowned critic once wrote, “Dr. Carlyle’s descriptions are so clever and so damn realistic, one would swear she had been there to witness the events for herself.”

       My mother was clever, no doubt. But she’d also put her trust in the wrong person, and it had almost killed her.

       For eight long months, she had been trapped in the twelfth century. Tricked, then abandoned in medieval England by a woman who’d once been her very best friend. Celia Alvarez had sold her out, and the abuse my mother had endured at the hands of the brutal man she was forced to marry was unimaginable. Alone and heavily pregnant, by the time Collum, Phoebe, and I arrived in that distant era to save her, my strong, brilliant mother had been so badly broken, I’d barely recognized her.

 Lucinda helped Mom to her feet, gently pried my squalling sister from her arms, and handed the squirming bundle off to Moira.

       My heart twisted itself into a hard, pulsing knot when I saw blood smeared across the tiny ducks on Ellie’s Onesie. Moira laid my sister on the bed and gave her a quick, practiced once-over.

       “The babe isn’t hurt,” Moira whispered. “Only scared and likely hungry.”

       Lucinda’s broad shoulders sagged just a bit as she gave Moira a brisk nod. Mom flung her arms around her sister’s neck, clinging as she trembled and muttered to herself.

       When I saw the large shard of crystal jutting from my mother’s clenched fist, all the breath left me in a whoosh. Blood poured down her wrist to stain the back of Lucinda’s peach bathrobe as my mother held on.

       “Aunt Lucinda.” My voice vibrated. “Her hand—”

       “I’m aware,” she said, without moving. “Moira? The child?”

       “I’ll take her downstairs,” Moira said. “If you’ve got this?”

       “She’s coming for us,” my mother whispered in a voice that felt like spiders marching down my spine. “Celia’s coming. She swore it, Lu. She came to me and said she’d take us all back there if it was the last thing she ever did. I had to protect my daughters.”

       A silence fell, as if the name had poisoned the very air around us.

       The back of Lucinda’s neck flushed. Cheek pressed against my mom’s lank, sweaty hair, she said quietly, “Moira, please fetch the first aid kit before you go. Hope and I will tend to Sarah.”

       As Moira bustled out, Lucinda slowly eased my mother’s arms from around her neck.

       “Hope, a clean cloth, if you please.” Though she aimed to speak in her normal, stolid manner I could hear my aunt’s voice quiver as I snatched a cloth diaper from a nearby laundered stack. Holding on to my mom’s other side, I helped Lucinda ease her down into the wooden rocker next to the bed.

       “Sarah.” Lucinda knelt before the chair. “Remember what Greta told you. They are only nightmares. Dreams. Nothing more. You know we have eyes on Celia. She cannot hurt any of us.”

       I flinched, knowing full well who was keeping an eye on Celia. Who supposedly reported her dealings to my aunt, commander general of the Viators. I shoved away thoughts of Bran, refusing to dwell on how much danger he was in, or what would happen if Celia ever found out he was spying for us.

       As Lucinda gently opened my mother’s fist, I swallowed hard at the damage. Only one person was to blame for this.

       One day I would make her pay.

       Tutting, Lucinda carefully withdrew the vicious shard. I took it from her outstretched fingers, then dropped it into the nearby metal waste bin with a heavy plink as my aunt pressed the cloth into the jagged wound.

       “Oh, Sarah,” she said under her breath. “What have you done?”

       My aunt snatched up a thick, folded sheaf of papers from the floor beside the bed and passed them to me. “Take this away, please.”

       Nodding, I turned my back to them and unfolded the pages.

       The stark, black words at the top read: DIVORCE DECREE: Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.

       I closed my eyes as rage flared inside me.

       I shouldn’t have been surprised. When Dad had arrived weeks earlier, responding to my aunt’s urgent summons, he hadn’t taken the news well. Not only was his wife back from the dead .º.º. he also had a newborn daughter. A scientist, my adoptive father refused to accept the truth, even after my aunt, Mac, and I had explained everything. That his wife had been trapped in the past. That she’d been tricked by an evil woman. That—after being told for years it was impossible—the baby she bore was his.

       He’d begged me to go with him. As if I would ever think of leaving my mom alone.

       “This is my home now,” I told him, realizing the truth of the words even as they left my lips.

         Later, of course, we learned that he and Stella had become engaged on their vacation. That while we were fighting for our lives in the brutal medieval world, my father had been kneeling on a beach in Mexico, proposing to a nice librarian.

       I’d hated him for it at first. His cowardice. His disloyalty. But Mom convinced me that in the long run, it was best for everyone. My dad’s world was algae and test tubes. Fourth of July parades and iced tea on front porch swings. She’d said she’d known that about him, and had thought it was the life she wanted too. It was why she’d never told him the truth about who she really was. About who I am, and where I came from. For years, she’d tried to stuff herself—and me—into a world that was always going to be too small for people like us.

 Apparently, he’d made his decision. And it was just one more thing to pile on. One more punch to the gut, along with everything else Mom had suffered. Well, maybe I couldn’t protect her from this, but I sure as hell would protect her from Celia Alvarez.

       I crumpled the pages in my fist as I turned back around.

       “Mom?” I said, my voice fierce and low as she raised her bloodshot eyes to mine. “I—I love you, Mom.”

 CHAPTER THREE

“Blade!”

       By the time I managed to snatch my dagger from its hidden sheath in my boot and bring it up, it was far too late. My attacker’s sword whipped down, so close I felt the breeze on my cheek and heard the weapon slice the air next to my ear. A few dark curls floated to the muddy ground and disappeared into the muck.

       Heart slamming, I tried to dance away. But the tight waist of the practice gown had long ago stolen what little breath I had. The full skirts tripped me up, and I went down hard. In seconds the cold, boggy ground seeped through the thick layers of wool and muslin.

       I scuttled back on my butt, boot heels making divots in the mud.

       “Stop. Can’t brea—” The sword tip nudged my throat. Cold, sharp, stinging.

       Ignoring the raindrops that pattered my cheeks and eyelashes, I glowered up at the grin spreading across my opponent’s broad, freckled face.

       “Better.” Collum MacPherson sheathed the short gladiator sword that had once belonged to his father. “You drew quick enough that time.” He offered me a hand up. All pride gone, I took it.

       “But you paused,” Collum went on. “And you can’t hesitate, Hope. Not for an instant. Not when you’re under attack.”

       “But,” I said, my voice just south of a whine. “I could’ve cut you.”

       Collum’s blond eyebrows quirked puppy-like over his eyes, though he was kind enough to hide the smile. “Unlikely.”

       That was true enough, though it irked me to no end that he had to look so damn smug about it. Despite weeks of endless training, I was still clunky and awkward with any and every type of weapon. Besides, I’d never seen anyone faster with a sword than Collum MacPherson.

       Well .º.º. that part wasn’t exactly true. But before the image of a dark-haired figure whipping two curved blades like they were extensions of his own body, could fully form, I pushed it away.

       “What?” Collum’s hazel eyes narrowed on me.

       “Nothing. Just cold.” I shivered for effect.

       “Cold?” he queried. “In July?”

       “It’s a Scottish Highland July. What is it, like sixty-eight, seventy degrees? It’s ninety-eight in Arkansas right now. In the shade. Plus,” I added, gesturing to the mud that was congealing on the back of my skirts. “Ick.”

       “Ick?” Collum closed his eyes and pinched the creased skin between his sandy brows. “So what you’re saying is that when you get into trouble on a mission, you’ll simply .º.º. what? Call a time-out?” His voice went high-pitched in the worst American accent I’d ever heard. “‘Excuse me! Hello, all you murderers. Could you stop swinging at me for a moment, please? I’ve a muddy bum.’”

       “Well, I—”

       “No.” He picked up my blade and handed it to me, hilt first. “Again. And again and again. And never mind the ‘ick.’”

       In the two months since my abrupt return from the past, Collum had been relentless. Two hours. Every day. Tired or exhausted. Rain or .º.º. well, less rain, I was dragged outdoors to defend myself—in costume, no less—against an opponent of his choosing.

       With Phoebe, a much more patient and gentle teacher, I learned how to use my opponent’s larger size against them. Only for me, that happened about one out of every hundred times, and usually because my feet got accidentally tangled with theirs.

       Phoebe had trained almost since she’d left the womb, in an insane regimen of a variety of martial arts. With a body weight of a hundred pounds dripping wet, my petite “bestie” could put down any attacker. Usually in less than five moves. Watching her send Collum crashing to the mud was one of the joys of my life.

       I wasn’t any better at knife throwing, Phoebe’s other exquisitely honed skill. As Mac often said, “My granddaughter can peel the wings off a fly at thirty paces, she can.”

       After days, weeks, two months of kicks and punches, knife chunks and bow twangs. After countless nicks from steel objects—mostly self-inflicted. After hours in Moira’s Epsom salt baths, trying to soak the feeling back into my numb muscles, you’d think I’d have become at least somewhat less pathetic.

       You would be wrong.

       “Argh! I can’t do this!”

       I threw the light practice sword away in disgust. It twirled through the air, hit the mud point first, and stuck there.

       “Hey!” I called to Collum as I watched the part that wasn’t sunk in the mud sway back and forth. “Kinda stuck the landing, didn’t I? I mean sure, it was an accident and all. But you gotta admit, that wasn’t too bad, was—”

       From twenty yards away, Collum rushed me. Like his woad-painted ancestors before him, he raised his sword and shrieked an ancient battle cry as his large feet pounded across the stable yard.

       It happened without conscious thought. A translucent film, tinged neon green, overlaid my vision. Multiple arcs drew themselves from every angle, tracing out possible escape routes and countermeasures. Instantaneously, my mind filtered through every lesson, every bit of training, calculating each possible outcome of this scenario.

       As two hundred pounds of bellowing Celtic warrior descended on me, my mind discarded one idea after another after another until .º.º.

       I stepped aside and stuck out my foot.

       Collum’s speed was such that he couldn’t veer off in time. His trajectory took him straight into my path, where he tumbled over my outstretched leg and splatted, face first, into the mud.

       “Ow!” I hopped on one foot, trying to rub the already bruising flesh where the toe of his boot had cracked against my ankle.

       He rose slowly while hunks of slimy earth slid down to glop back onto the ground. Collum MacPherson swiped at his eyes, flinging mud from his fingers as he glared at me for a long moment. All I could see of his face were two clear hazel eyes amid the brown gunk.

       “Um.” I grimaced. “Sorry?”

       White flashed amidst the rich ocheras he grinned. Grinned and began to laugh.

       And then I was laughing too because well, it was all so utterly, utterly ridiculous. All of it.

       “You .º.º.” I wheezed. “Covered in.º.º.º. And holy crap, we .º.º. freaking time travelers.” I bent, breathless as I let it all go in a long, soundless spasm that I was sure would burst every blood vessel in my brain. “How .º.º. st-stupid is that?”

       “Aye.” Collum hiccupped. “And damn my eyes if you don’t look like a wee barbarian yerself with your hair all stuck to one side of your head!”

       We laughed. We laughed until we couldn’t laugh anymore. Until tears tracked through the mud on our faces and the sun peeked through the clouds to infiltrate the raindrops.

       “They say when the sun shines through the rain it’s the devil’s beating his wife,” Collum said as we headed toward the house.

       “Well, that is so not cool.” I climbed the steps to the screened porch. “Mrs. Satan should file a restraining order against that ass-hat.”

       He snorted and reached out to pluck something from my hair. Turning his palm over, I saw it was a solid clump of stable yard mud or .º.º. what I sincerely hoped was mud. Above us, the mountaintop had disappeared behind a cloak of white mist. The air around us had turned an odd peachy plum, as if each droplet emitted its own tiny rainbow.

       Collum sighed. “Oh, but I do love this time of day,” he said. “When the day rests her bones beneath night’s soft cloak.”

       “Why, Collum MacPherson,” I said. “Were you just being poetic? Hang on, I need a pencil and paper. Someone has to notate this auspicious occasion.”

       Collum’s always windburned cheeks went neon as he bumped me with his shoulder. And despite the mud and the rain and the sore muscles .º.º. as we both smiled, I felt something peaceful and comforting settle around me, a warm blanket to chase away the chill.

       “Might be that a shower is in order.” He gave the dark clump a dubious look.

       “Right back atcha,” I threw over my shoulder as we headed inside. “’Cause you look like a golem.”

       We were still laughing as we headed upstairs.

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