#bookburnt

she follows from the moment she sees him—loki can do nothing but, knowing what book he carries and feeling the intent radiating from the boy so glaringly that were she even to turn her head, her mind might scream at her not to take her eye away.

the distance is easier than she might want it, if she did not know she intended to be caught. she would not dare do the catching, though she could if she willed it; but loki wants to be known, here, for him to realize she follows. for him to turn and seek his stalker in this dim, rainy afternoon, to see her. perchance to run so that she can delay this at least one day longer. perchance to come forward and open its pages to her that she may finally see what is written.

leitner has called it raven song, she knows that much. the gold filigree of its title has made her sick every single time she’s glimpsed it. even its original name was always too eloquent a thing for it, and she can remember when her father would tell it to her, voice heavy and chanting and old, thicker with blood the older she got. such a weapon to wield against her, and the reason she had left.

          the   infamous   gerald   keay.   statement   after   statement   having   been   written   about   him,   about   places   he   had   touched   with   his   gentle   pop   ins   and   suddenly   –   jon   just   stumbles   across   him.   strange,   as   it   were.   it’s   not   exactly   like   he   was   hunting   for   him.   he   was   grocery   shopping.   not   unless   …   gerald   keay   was   looking   for   him.  

          that   familiar   urge   washes   over   him.   the   urge   to   simply   reach   out   toward   the   other’s   mind,   see   if   he   can   pick   out   something   –   but   he   waves   it   away   with   a   practiced   motion.   bags   dangling   from   his   arms,   he   gives   a   slight   glance   toward   the   other.  

         ‘ we’re um... filming a movie. bringing back practical effects, none of that... computer stuff. ‘ there weren’t any cameras in sight, but she had a feeling this lie wouldn’t get her far.

the sight of the attire on this man on ernest’s doorstep felt like a punch to the gut. the way that he dressed was exactly how victor used to dress — someone, once, had mentioned an american store called ‘hot topic’ to derisively describe victor’s atrocious sense of style, and from the images ernest had googled after that comment, this stranger’s choice in fashion was exactly the sort of ‘hot topic’ mess that victor had always used to favour. as cruel as he knew it was, ernest found himself fighting down the urge to sneer. the placidly smiling older woman at his side did nothing to ease ernest’s discomfort. 

@bookburnt​ asked: ❝ my family was never the touchy-feely type. ❞ from... i dont feel like finding it lol