#I mean I had a vague idea but when I read poetry it was rarely for technicaly/English lit reasons

[the-busy-ghost]

Finally learnt what a dactyl actually is and I’m going to have to take a moment to lie down 

[misslovasstuff]

Dazai x reader

Prove it

“Her? Mhm, well….”- Dazai itches his head, shifting his gaze to the floor. - She is nice. Yeah, nice.”

Atsushi and Kunikida raise their eyebrows as the bandaged brunette seemed to avoid a simple question:

Do you like Y/n?

“I mean, we don’t doubt her niceness, what we’re asking is if you fancy her by any chance?”- Oh, Kunikida was enjoying too much what seemed to have turned into a silly interrogation. He fixes his glasses with a smirk, leaning over Dazai’s shoulder:

“She’s totally your type, isn’t she?”

Dazai sighs, shaking his head with a vague smile.

“Just because Kunikida-kun doesn’t have an interesting love life it doesn’t mean you have to start investigating mine.”- he claims with a silly voice, once again provoking his colleagues’ nerves as Atsushi could have sworn he heard Kunikida’s glasses break as he grabs Dazai by the collar of his shirt, whispering all sort of funny insults, to which Dazai is completely immune by now.

“Kunikida-san, perhaps Dazai-san is not comfortable talking about his relationship with Y/n. Perhaps it is better to leave him be haha.”- Atsushi claims with a weak smile, trying to calm the chaotic situation.

Dazai sighs, rubbing his temple then explains:

“Look, to extinguish your curiosity, there is absolutely nothing going on between me and her. Are you blind to fail to see that she has no interest whatsoever in me? Plus, I’ve heard from Yosano she’s seeing someone already so…”

Kunikida widens his eyes to a rare sight; Dazai sighing and looking out the window as if the most beautiful tragedy had happened to him. The kind of misfortune that makes people write poems, listen to music and take long walks by themselves. The tragedy of loving someone you can’t ever have that makes you fragile but yet unbreakable, strong but weak in the heart and it gives you a slap back to a reality that you don’t want to accept. It hadn’t occurred to Dazai before, thus he wonders what this feeling is about and if he can do anything about it.

“Have you ever been rejected by a woman before?”- Atsushi asks, after which he hits himself mentally for asking such a question.

“No. - Dazai answers frankly, to which Kunikida scoffs.

“Well, at least Y/n will ground you a bit.”- he claims, putting his hands in his pockets. - How does it feel to love someone you can’t have?”

“Terrible.”- Dazai says, seemingly not sad, nor happy, he had a rather empty expression on his face, not letting out much emotion to understand what was really going on inside his head. - I see her, and I am struck by her beauty. God, when her eyes meet mine, each and every motioning becomes more intense for my heart. When she greets me and smiles at me so genuinely and gently like she knows how much that smile affects me, making even the sun jealous of her radiance and cheerfulness. Don’t let me get into how talented she is, and her cooking skills, oh and also did you know that she reads poetry? She gave me her favourite book and underlined all verses she found beautiful and meaningful. On page 63, poem two, she had underlined two verses which were:

“I may not know your heart, but it knows me quite well. Am I resident or a foreigner to it?”

And she had written a smiley face on the corner of it, with a little note that said: “Mhm, Dazai?”

Not only that, but she is such a great-

Dazai kept blabbering about how fascinated he was by you while both Kunikida and Atsushi listened and came to a very unbelievable conclusion.

Dazai is so oblivious when he truly falls in love. Either that, or he’s trying to avoid that but still digs the idea of being in love and being loved so beautifully.

“I’m afraid to tell you this buddy but, - Kunikida touches Dazai’s shoulder. - You’re an idiot.”

Atsushi scoffs as he turns around to contain his laughter. Dazai’s face freezes with a smile like 😀

“Homegirl knows you like her, she literally wrote it down, what’s wrong with you?”- Kunikida snaps at Dazai, who now seems to be confused.

Little did they know that you were listening to all this go down, hardly containing your laughter.

The truth is, you and Dazai had been together for a while and no one is the agency knows. You told Yosano you were seeing someone, but funnily enough, even though they’re detectives, they don’t have a clue about your relationship, and you’re thinking is because your lover messes with their heads.

“Kunikida-kun, stop tormenting me! I’m telling you, she doesn’t like me. End of discussion.”- Dazai claims, getting up from his seat and stretching a bit.

“Where do you think you’re going?”- Kunikida asks as he watches Dazai’s tender figure walk away.

“To think about this unbearable pain of my weak heart, since my friends and colleagues don’t care.”

Atsushi holds back Kunikida from going after Dazai:

“He’ll never admit it that he likes her.”- Atsushi claims which gives Kunikida a rather sinister idea.

“Oh he will, I have a plan.”

There is a sudden change of atmosphere which leaves Atsushi a bit scared.

“Kunikida-san, w-what exactly are you planning to do?”- he asks, noticing a smirk from his mentor.

A little bit later/ Coffee shop

You are taking a sip of your hot coffee as rain hits the window by your seat. Although it is raining, you were feeling rather warm, and even though you were by yourself, you were fully enjoying your own company until the door of the cafe opens.

“I’ll take a black coffee, please.”- a unfamiliar voice says, which gets your attention. You turn your head and notice a tall man, build figure and blonde hair. He turns and faces you while waiting for his coffee.

“You don’t mind if I sit next to you while I wait for my coffee, yes?”- he asks with a beautiful smile, blue eyes shining right through.

“Mhm, sure it’s okay.”- you reply, mirroring a smile and scanning the man upfront.

The probability of a very handsome person, coming to this coffee shop while I’m the only one here and all the seats are empty, asking to sit next to me, and furthermore-

“So, what is such a beautiful lady doing here all by herself?”- he asks, looking at your hands holding the coffee cup, then looking directly at your eyes which made you gulp hardly.

“Drinking coffee.”- you reply rather coldly, not warning to give this guy the wrong impression.

“By yourself? Have you no one to accompany you? Maybe a boyfriend of yours?”- he continues to bring up weird questions. What was even weirder, was the fact that he was reaching for your hand, now holding it.

“Since you’re not answering, I’m assuming you do not have a man in your life. Such a catastrophe indeed. - he brings your hand close to his lips, caressing it. - I can offer myself as a candidate.”

“She’s not running any elections. - a sudden voice from behind makes your heart drop. - if that were the case, I would have known.”

You glance over your shoulder and see Dazai. He reached for your hand, shooing away the other guy’s who immediately flinches to the touch.

“Is it a habit of yours to approach lonely women in coffee shops? That’s kinda desperate and disrespectful.”- he continues, glaring at the guy who had widened his eyes.

“I’m just waiting for my coffee.”

“Wait for your coffee somewhere else. - Dazai claims with a cold tone of voice, making you shiver in what you would describe fear, but with a hint of pleasure.

He was so hot right now, for real.

“She didn’t tell me she had a boyfriend.”- the guy claims as he gets up from his seat.

“She doesn’t need to inform you about anything, really. Plus, I’m never too far away. - Dazai winks at you, getting your cheeks all heated up.

Now, - Dazai smiles, - get out of my sight.”

The guy gets out of the coffee shop, forgetting about his order which was now being served in your table.

“I’ll take that, thank you.”- Dazai claims, sitting down in front of you, not noticing the looks you were giving him.

That is, until he takes a sip and his eyes meet yours.

“Mhm? - he hums. - what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is the fantasy im having to have you right here, right now.”

“Woah woah, belladonna~, - Dazai almost spits his coffee. - What has gotten into you? I mean, I’m not complaining but-

“Dazai, do me right now, I swear I’m barely hanging on.” - you explain as Dazai notices your flushed cheeks and heavy breathing.

Damn, what happened? - he wonders.

He smirks and leans in, whispering: “But the coffee will go cold, love. Are you sure?”

“Don’t start teasing me. - you claim. - or would you rather have me do you at the agency while everyone watches so they can finally know that you are mine?”

“That’s … interesting. You’re so hasty, belladonna. Did I do something to turn you on this much?”- Dazai asks, biting his lip as he looks at you up and down with those gorgeous eyes of his that consumed your entire soul with one single glance.

“The moment right now, you being possessive and all, gosh. That was so hot of you.”- you lean in, exposing a bit of your chest to your boyfriend, on purpose obviously, to which Dazai responds by raising his eyebrows and staring at it for a bit.

“Oh really? You know what else I can heat up?”

“No I don’t know, enlighten me.”- you two lean even closer to one another, as Dazai is ready to whisper in your ear:

“That little -

“ALRIGHT THAT IS ENOUGH, point proven Atsushi let’s go!”- you hear Kunikida shouting from behind. They were not only seeing all this go down, but also orchestrated the whole thing.

“So you guys are together, awwww.”- Atsushi says, giving a weirdly firm handshake to you and Dazai. - Congrats, omg. Dazai-san that was so manly of you, Kunikida-san didn’t predict you’d actually go wild like that-

“Kunikida planned this?”- you ask, giving a disappointing nod.

“A perfect executed plan, and Dazai fell right into it. Now, you’ll stop lying and admit that you love this woman.” - Kunikida claims with a smirk, thinking that his partner would still pretend to be in denial.

“I love Y/n.”- he claims, still sipping his tea and acting unaffected by this whole scene, although in truth he was a bit conflicted on how to feel about it.

Upon his declaration of love, you melt, of course.

You caress his hand, to which Dazai smiles, starting to gesture you weirdly.

He means to get out of here. Now you had heated him up.

You nod, looking at Atsushi and Kunikida who are still looking at you both.

“Oookaaayy, - you get up, Dazai following you. - Since you put us into so much trouble, I guess you can pay for our coffee, no?”

As you walk towards the exit, holding hands, Kunikida’s shoutings accompany you:

“If anything I helped you! You owe me one, Dazai!”

You close the door behind you, giving a small sigh.

“You’re so troublesome you know that?”- you poke his nose, so which he responds by pulling you closer by your waist.

“I put you into so much trouble, huh? You’re the one making me go crazy over and over again.”- Dazai answers as you pull him by the belt of his pants.

Remind me, where were we?”- you ask and he smirks grabbing your hand, leading him to somewhere.

“I’ll remind you shortly.”

[gardensnakie]

Who's better at poetry, Stranger or Sunny?

I automatically assume that Sunny would lean more onto the drawing side of art rather than writing, let alone poetry. I think it depends on how people see the character because based on Canon occurrences, Sunny takes a lot of inspiration from the outside world, like from comic books and movies when he dreams. He creates new adventures and scenarios that would lead most to assume that he would be a good writer if he practiced. In addition to his more darker thoughts, and his sad poem skill, it seems possible he'd be good at it. But the thing is, Sunny has trouble identifying how he feels, that includes speaking and even writing those feelings down. If he were to attempt to journal anything for those 4 years that he was stuck in the house, that would ruin the world he created for himself where mari didn't die. With how much he was repressing his feelings, trying to organize them into words would be a long shot. That's why Sunny turns to drawing, in can be incoherent as he wants without directly including the thing he wants to ignore. (And sunnys drawings are cool, I'm a sucker for violent, surrealism art) Even after the truth, I think sunnys poetry would be good and cool to read (I'm not sure, I'm no critic but I'd like to think sunnys poetry would be very vivid, sometimes incoherent) His poetry would be for his eyes only, I don't think he'd actively try to get better at it but use it as a way to be less stressed.

With rare access to pen and paper, Stranger has a lot to say but speaks in a cryptic way as a way to hold back. Of maybe it's because Omori/Sunny refuses to hear anything of the truth that Stranger is simply cursed to never say it out loud. Or maybe Stranger doesn't want to frighten them away and chooses his words carefully in order to keep him from retreating further into repression. I like to think about the second possibility. Stranger is capable of altering his words in a vague, but concise way to lead, question, or warn The Dreamer. He also has access to the Lost Library and practically most of the horrors residing in Blackspace. Every idea is different down there, it changes constantly, the abstract rooms and delusions is a gold mine for inspiration. Horrible inspiration, actually. (Kinda reminds me how most artists are troubled in some way, "thank you for the trauma, I need it for my art" kinda way)

Stranger had been down there longer since Sunny avoided blackspace as much as he could. Who knows? During that time, Stranger must've talked to himself a lot. He may speak strangely, not really using the words 'I feel' because spiraling is far too easy in a quiet place like that. He can't really draw. With personified fears and ideas from The Dreamer in all those rooms, Stranger doesn't want to draw them again as a mean to express his own feelings. How can you express the hell in your head when there is hell all around you? So melodramatic. At least Sunny sat in denial, surrounded by color. Stranger reminds me of someone doodle silly things, at least draw something where he hoped to be instead of living in darkness. Though, it'd probably make him more sad, so he'd abandon it somewhere. If he could, Stranger would write a lot. His thoughts could be like a little rule book to keep himself sane. Anger, guilt, shame, vile thoughts, disgusting actions, Stranger would make sure certain mistakes don't happen twice. He'd remember his purpose, helping Sunny remember. Certainly making him feel less worthless. If all this writing was possible, Stranger would be the one with tons of poems.

Ramble. Ramble. Ramble. Jeez, that was a lot of crap. Sorry if you were expecting a yes or no with a few sentences of reasoning, I wanted to reinforce a lot. It gave me a few ideas in the process, but all of it is pretty loose and theorizable (i didnt read check this, so sorry if certain sentences of explanation are a little awkward). But yeah, whaddya think?

[chocolate-parfait]

I see the askbox is open 🙂 You don’t know the speed at which I raced here.

But I was really hoping that you could do headcanons for Arthur (vamp), Masamune (Sen), and Mitsuhide (Sen) with a s/o who is an author? Like Tolkien almost, she writes high fantasy and is super well known? (bonus points if she goes back in time with one of her novels on her to show them exactly).

I hope it’s not confusing^^

I adore your writing so I hope to see whatever you publish in the future!

Thank you so much!!

Waa thank you sm for your support!! It really means a lot, thank you ❤ ❤ I hope you enjoy!

Author!MC who writes high fantasy novels - (Arthur, Masamune & Mitsuhide)

Arthur

Arthur is extremely amused and intrigued when he hears about your occupation, and even more so when he discovers that you’re a pretty big shot, too. For once, he completely discards appearances (although he still thinks you’re very pretty) and is genuinely interested in your job, frequently asking details about your writing process, your stories and such.

Your books come from two completely different universes, as we have realism and crime against fantasy and supernatural. Yet, when you offer your book for him to read, he falls absolutely in love with it. Although it may not seem like it, Arthur is quite the superstitious man, and has always had a certain interest in the occult and paranormal. Long story short, he becomes your number one fan.

He asks Comte to bring back your books from the future so that he can read them all (if you find out he’ll admit it with a sheepish smile and a blush on his face), and even then he feels like he doesn’t know enough about the different worlds described in your books and about their writer, you. If the topic pops up during conversations he'll take his chance and curiously ask you more and more questions about your job; if not, he'll pick up hints along the way whenever he can.

Your writing schedule will easily adapt to the domesticity of your relationship. You both write together in the same room (sometimes his, sometimes yours, or even in the dining room) as it can be very motivational, and you’re both ready to comfort the other whenever a lack of inspiration puts a stop to your writing. Furthermore, it’s very practical when it comes to taking breaks! He’ll cuddle with you while asking how everything’s coming along and if you need him to help you get some ideas. (this man will def sneak kisses whenever you're absorbed in your own little world because he adores the pout that magically appears on your lips whenever you're concentrated)

Overall, he’s very supportive of what you do. He understands the struggles of being a writer, but he also adores how much of a professional you are. Would probably be a fanboy even if you two didn’t know each other (he’d buy your books in secret so that Theo doesn’t tease him; the great mystery writer who adores realism, falls in love with high fantasy books. The man would never let him see the end of it)

Masamune

Even before knowing that you actually come from the future, Masamune is extremely curious to see some of your works once he hears that you’re a writer. As someone who writes poetry, knowing that you have the same passion makes him like you even more; although your occupations are as different as they can be, he still enjoys finding a common ground with you. Sometime later, after he has already discovered about your particular situation, he’ll also come to learn about the differences between what he thought you did and what your job really is. Fundamentally the job is always the same, but the whole process and the final products are almost completely different than what he had expected.

He doesn’t know what high fantasy is, but when you do tell him about all the various genres and such, he finds himself not too weirded out by the idea; it’s very similar to popular folklore, after all.

When he asks you to tell him one of your stories, you find the perfect situation to show him a physical copy of one of your best-sellers. He’s amazed by the weird-looking book. It’s experiencedly crafted and perfectly written (that’s printing for you<3), and he curiously fidgets with it as he asks endless questions about it. Unfortunately, he can’t read anything (even if it was written in modern Japanese he’d probably be able to grasp 3 words in a whole page or smth, lol), so you find yourself narrating your stories to him. (you receive great in-depth feedback for each chapter in return!! Masamune will be 100% honest with you and takes it v seriously). It becomes a daily occurrence that neither of you wants to miss. Each night, just before bed, you read out loud part of your book as Masamune quietly listens to your every word, wholly enraptured by the story.

He’s the most supportive partner one could wish for, and he’s always ready to show your works off to everyone he knows. He’ll help you get in touch with local printers and see what he can find amongst all the imported goods to make your job easier. If you ever find yourself stuck, he’ll gladly take you on a stroll to help you get your mind off writing for a bit to come back more refreshed and inspired.

Mitsuhide

Mitsuhide is a man who mostly communicates through lies, vague descriptions or distorted realities just to confuse others. As such, he finds your writing skills and wide imagination to be quite useful and admirable. He can be a capable storyteller if needed, so you often wonder why he doesn’t try writing every once in a while.

This said, he never expected for his kitsune story to strike up a chord in you to the point you’d write a story with a character heavily based on him as the protagonist. He’s quite flattered to say the least. When you hand the finished manuscript to him as a gift, he reads it all in one night. (let's pretend he'd be able to understand ahahah...) He’s amazed by your skill and the world you managed to describe through such vivid wording, but you'll have to read between his teasing words to grasp his real feelings about the gift, although he sincerely thanks you profusely.

The novel is the first work of yours he has ever had the chance to read, so he stores it away very carefully in a corner of his room, but curiosity makes him wonder about your previous works though he doesn't directly ask you anything about them. Sure, he'll probably drop some hints here and there concerning this hidden wish of his, but that's totally up to you to understand. Sooner or later he finds two copies of some of your books in the bag in your room (it was totally accidental, he wouldn't just barge in your room and look through your things like that), and he feels like he's fallen in love all over again. There's this particular level of mastery with which you handle your words that leave him spellbound and amazed. Who would have ever thought that his little clumsy mouse was such an expert writer?

In general, Mitsuhide is the closet fanboy. He won't be as open about his love for your stories as Masamune, but he's not afraid to be direct about his feelings every once in a while, especially if you really need to hear supporting words from him. If anyone ever brings up your skills during a conversation, he'll hum in affirmation with a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips.

[hunchbacked-one-eyed-lame]

1939 Hunchback of Notre Dame Deleted Scenes:

The following scenes are present within the screenplay, dated around July 1939 (shortly before principal photography began on the film). Some of these may have been shot, while others may have never been filmed.

- When the band of Gypsies are halted from entering Paris at the city border, the patriarch of them points out how the guards who are forbidding them are of non French ethic backgrounds, groups that were once persecuted like the Gypsies, but the soldiers continue to refuse their entrance. In the film, this scene is much shorter. (“You came yesterday, we come today”)

- alternate scene of the woman being frightened by Quasimodo. In the script she is a pregnant woman who is mildly concerned, and in the film she is terrified and runs to her grandmother for comfort.

- Frollo and the king converse in the king’s private box during the festival. Frollo is bigoted and dismissive of the heresy of the festivities, and the king is surprised to see Frollo accidentally smile at a person balancing on a ball.

(The shot of a man balancing on a ball is used during the festival montage sequence. This, to me, suggests that this scene was filmed, but removed and altered in the editing process.)

- The introduction of Captain Phoebus. He, along with his fiancé Fleur de Lys, her friend Aloise, and the soldier Philippe exchange small talk at the Festival of Fools. Aloise thinks Gringoire is handsome, and Phoebus belittles him, saying that anybody can write verse poetry.

      (A publicity still exists of the scene, implying that it may have been filmed)

- Pierre Gringoire’s play is a much longer sequence, and is politically subversive, showing how the laboring classes provide for society while the clergy and nobility do nothing. The nobles are outraged by the heresy, but the king argues that such offensive ideas are important to listen to. The play also contains scenes of the roman gods.

(All of the actors and their character-appropriate costumes appear in the final film, which means that these scenes could conceivably been filmed, and later deleted for pacing reasons.) 

- When Esmeralda first claims “sanctuary” in Notre Dame, there is a notably etended scene of her talking to King Louis XI. The script makes it clear that she wishes for the king to advocate for the rights of the Gypsies, and of herself. Only a small portion of this scene is in the final film.

- Gringoire wanders the streets after his play is failed and city doesn’t pay him for it. He offers to write poetry for a serving of chicken, but the food vendor cannot read so he refuses the offer.

- during the trial of Gringoire, several candidates, one of them named “ugly Madeline” show vague interest in the poet but don’t want to marry him because he’s not attractive enough.

- as a wedding present, Esmeralda is given a monkey named bimbo. The monkey is seen and even named in the final  film, but the context of its presence is never given.

- during the pillory sequence, a pair of nuns recite Quasimodo’s backstory (told in flashbacks), how he was adopted by Frollo and outcast by the world.

(The 1996 restored score to the film has the music run much longer than the filmed scene, implying that the pillory sequence was originally longer)

- The planning of the birthday party of Fleur de Lys. She and her companions dream of the party later that night, and Fleur demands a fortune teller be invited. Phoebus brings her a birthday gift.

- after being whipped, Quasimodo sulks in the bell tower to lick his wounds.

-The party of the nobles is extended. More scenes of Fleur de Lys and her companions

- Clopin and the beggar Queen show up to the party, disguised as the count and countess of Mendozza. They steal a jewel from Fleur’s mother.

- Love scene between Phoebus and Esmeralda is extended. More romantic dialogue. She has him pose and walk around to look tall, as in the novel. Esmeralda eventually tries to refuse him, because she suspects that he is in love with Fleur de Lys.

- Quasimodo watches the events of the party from the heights of Notre Dame, as he is still processing his feelings of love for Esmeralda. When she is arrested, that is when he begins to madly ring the bells of the church as in the film.

- extended sequence of Quasimodo trying to take the blame for Phoebus’ murder. The jury is thrilled at the prospect of Quasimodo being executed. Frollo dismisses this evidence on the grounds that the hunchback was ringing the bells at the time and sends him to be held in his office.

- While Esmeralda is being tortured, Frollo watched from a secret door in his office. Quasimodo keeps trying to convince Frollo that he is the murderer, by presenting his master with a knife that he supposedly used.

- After the procurator reads Esmeralda’s sentence in Latin, the king remarks how unfair it is that criminals are not even allowed to know what they are guilty of in their own language and how this issue must be reformed.

- During the preparation to execute Esmeralda, Fleur feels sorry for the Gypsy girl. She says that if she never invited her to her party, then both she and Phoebus would have lived. Her mother, named Heloise in this version, chastises her for such pity.  

- After rescuing Esmeralda, Quasimodo rings the bells in triumph while she is asleep. Frollo enters, trying to find the Gypsy, and Quasimodo threatens him by using the rope of a bell like a bullwhip.

- When Clopin rallies his people to seige the church, a character named Mathias (Mathias hungadi?) stirs up support by mentioning all of the plunder to be had.

- The archbishop, on his way to warn the king of the upcoming uprising, runs into Clopin, and tries to talk him out of assaulting the church.

- Clopin’s death was originally much closer to the novel, where he would be killed by the king’s soldiers while swinging a sickle and urging his people to fight on.

- The original ending. Frollo tries to assault Esmeralda and Quasimodo intervenes. The hunchback, though stabbed by Frollo, pushes his master off the cathedral. Frollo dangles on an architectural projection, and eventually falls to his death, like in the book.

- Before she leaves, Esmeralda comforts Quasimodo, unaware he is dying.

- Quasimodo rings the bells one final time before he dies alone of his injuries.

(This scene is described in a rare set of press materials, and the following photo that accompanied it imply that it was filmed. In addition, some of the shots of Quasimodo in the final film feel like insert shots in hindsight. The image quality is quite poor, but these are the only images I have been able to discover.)

Side note: This deleted ending is taken almost beat for beat from the 1923 silent version, which this film was greenlit and advertised as a direct remake of. Ironically enough, most of the elements of this version that were inspired from that film, such as the ending and the addition of a Beggar Queen character, were largely excised from the final product. 

[baoshan-sanren]

Chapter 8 Part 2

of the wwx emperor au which I’m thinking about calling Emperor Wei WuXian and his Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Birthday

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 Part 1

Once, when WangJi was very young, he had broken a Sect rule. 

He had fought without permission.

In the cultivation world, the members of the Lan Sect are outcasts, each one equally despised. But within the Sect, things have never been that simple. When it came to inheritance, bloodlines have aways been faithfully followed, each generation dutifully carrying the burdens of their ancestors. Lan XiChen may have inherited his father’s position, and Lan WangJi his physical appearance, but they had both also inherited equal parts of their father’s failure, and the resulting blame.

At the time, WangJi had been too young to understand why he must shoulder this blame, and carry it without complaint. He had only wanted to defend his father’s honor.

His punishment was to climb and descend the Cloud Recesses steps from five in the morning to nine in the evening, a bag of rocks strapped to his back, without stopping, without resting, for five days.  

Every punishment has a purpose; copying the Sect rules improves the mind, and the handstands improve the balance. Even being beaten with a plank can improve resilience, and build up pain tolerance. There seemed to be no purpose to WangJi’s punishment; it was tedious and exhausting, placing his feet on the same steps, seeing the same stones and trees, his strength sapping away without gaining anything in return.

At the end of the fifth day, when WangJi had climbed the steps to the Cloud Recesses gate for the last time, he had found uncle waiting underneath the arch.

“This will be your life,” uncle had said, “You will carry a burden someone else has placed on your shoulders, and you will carry it past the point of exhaustion. You will never be allowed to put it down or rest. The world will move on around you, uncaring. Fighting it is futile. Hating it is futile. No one will ever take this burden from you. One day, your children will shoulder this burden as well, but yours will never grow any lighter to carry.”

The words had made WangJi feel helpless and small.

“What should I do?” he had asked.

Uncle had placed his hand on the top of WangJi’s head, a rare gesture of comfort, “Lift your shoulders, straighten your spine, and carry it well.”

These words echo in his mind as he rises at the Emperor’s command. He feels exactly as he had back then; the air in his chest is stuttering, the burden of his father’s failure pressing down on his shoulders. But he lifts his chin and meets the Emperor’s eyes nonetheless, refusing to bend under the weight.

The Emperor watches him for a few moments, his face expressionless. WangJi had thought his appearance stern that same morning, but it is so much more imposing now, that WangJi is forced to confront him alone.

There is a certain amount of leisure involved in the Greeting Ceremony; meetings held in the morning hours are always less restrained, and since the Sects were mingling for the first time after their arrival, the hierarchy had not quite been fully established. The dais in the receiving hall is only two steps above the floor, and the Emperor’s chair only slightly more elaborate than a Sect Leader’s seat.

The banquet, held in the grand hall of the Jade Sword Palace, is as different from the Greeting Ceremony as night from day. It is all excess and extravagance, a shameless exhibition of every Sect’s standing and riches. In such an environment, the Emperor must be unmatched in his magnificence, so none forget that only He sits directly below the Heavens, that His brilliance cannot be reached by ordinary human means.

WangJi has to remind himself that everything about Wei WuXian is intended to produce the intimidation he feels. The dais is set a dozen steps above the hall floor, so all who want to see the Emperor must crane their necks. The golden throne, its back portraying two dragons entwining, is as tall as two men, and wide enough to sit five of them, side by side. WangJi knows that he is meant to feel small facing such a display of power.

“Second Young Master Lan,” the Emperor says, and gestures vaguely to the seat Nie HuaiSang had vacated.

For the second time in as many days, WangJi suspects that the Emperor means to play a joke at his expense. And for the second time, he obeys nonetheless, steeling himself for whatever may come.

The cushion he settles down on is remarkably comfortable, and he only needs to tilt his head slightly to meet the Emperor’s eyes. This does nothing to calm his disquiet. He is certain that the Emperor has not requested his attendance as a means to bestow a favor, but no one else knows the circumstances of their first meeting. WangJi feels every gaze in the hall burning into his skin, each filled with malice.

Had he truly thought himself accustomed to animosity before?  

“Lan Zhan,” the Emperor says, drawing his attention, “Your composure is infuriating. Is this a family trait, or something that the Lan Sect teaches?”

WangJi finds himself speechless. His composure? He has never felt more discomposed in his life.

The Emperor’s voice is low, and does not carry. The expression on his face gives nothing away. But there is a glint in his eye, something that hints of mischief. It is small, unlikely to be perceived from distance, but WangJi feels that he may finally be looking at the youth from the rooftop. Instead of calming his nerves, however, this only makes him feel more unanchored.

“I suppose that was an unfair question,” Wei WuXian says, “Let us try another. I trust that you have kept our late night meeting to yourself?”

WangJi nods, even as he feels heat rising in his neck. Perhaps it is only the choice of words used, but Wei WuXian has made their meeting sound borderline lewd.

“Excellent. Do you know any poetry?”

He only realizes that he is gripping his sleeves when his fingers begin to cramp. Turning the question over in his mind does not make it any more comprehensible, nor does it provide him with the correct answer.

“Poetry, You Majesty?”

Wei WuXian smiles, “Never mind. I was only curious as to what would compel you to actually speak.”

The heat has lodged itself in WangJi’s throat, and he swallows around it heavily, wishing this audience would come to an end.

“Your uncle looks worried,” Wei WuXian says, “At least I now know how to crack his composure.”

WangJi’s gaze automatically sweeps across the hall, searching for the Gusu Lan robes.

The Emperor had not been exaggerating. It is daunting to see, after all the humiliations his uncle tolerates calmly, his equilibrium be shaken to such extent, that it is noticeable to the untrained eye. He looks as if he wants to storm the dais and forcibly remove WangJi from the Emperor’s side.

The heat in his throat so easily turns into anger these days, that he hardly notices when it happens.

What type of a ruler finds amusement in tormenting a respectable man? Has the Emperor not done enough damage already?

“Lan Zhan,” Wei WuXian says, his tone turning wary, “your face may be difficult to read, but I believe that you are upset with me.”

“This one would not dare,” WangJi answers, trying to infuse some humility into his voice, and failing miserably.

The Emperor actually snorts at that, “Your uncle would have never told me that Gusu needed assistance, had I not forced him to do so. Yes,” he waves his hand, “it was stupid of me, to praise his abilities in front of the others. The blame is on them, for looking so incompetent in comparison. But I needed them to hear how a capable Sect Leader handles a crisis, and your uncle is the only one whose answer I could be certain of in advance. It was not my intention to make your life more difficult.”

WangJi, who had been steadily avoiding the Emperor’s gaze, is too bewildered to do so now.

The surprise on his face must be obvious because the Emperor blinks at him, then leans away, his expression both amused and exasperated.

“He did not tell you about the meeting, did he? You assumed that I had.... what? Done something terrible? Insulted him? Publicly shamed him in front of the other Sect Leaders?”

Anger swiftly bleeding away, WangJi feels his face prickle with shame and confusion.

“Lan Zhan, is this what you think of me?”

Another this one has erred is on the tip of his tongue, but it feels equally as foolish as the first time he had said it. He cannot believe that he has blundered in his assumptions twice, both times in front of the most powerful man in the world, and with such disastrous results.

As no words will suffice, he turns to the Emperor, and places his forehead back to the floor. He is beginning to think that he should probably just stay in this position for the next six days. Perhaps then, he can stop failing his Sect at every turn.

The moment he feels the cool marble against his skin, a hand is wrapping around his upper arm, pulling him back up.

“Stop that,” Wei WuXian sounds even more exasperated now, “your uncle will leap across this hall and skewer me to the throne. He already dislikes me, and I am sure he thinks I am bullying you right now, which,” his lips twist, “maybe I was, a little bit. But it was not malicious.”

He releases WangJi’s arm but the imprint of his fingers seems to linger, an unfamiliar heat WangJi can feel even through two layers of cloth.

“Second Young Master Lan,” Wei WuXian says, his voice turning serious, “I swear on my mother’s memory that I mean no harm to you, or your Sect.”

Shocked into numbness for the second time in a matter of minutes, WangJi has no idea how to respond to such words, or if he even should respond. He has never felt so slow-witted, so utterly unfit in every respect.

He is his uncle’s best student, the most accomplished disciple of the Lan Sect. And yet, all he had managed to do is make himself appear ridiculous. Whatever the Emperor had expected from his company, Lan WangJi is clearly incapable of providing.

The silence goes on for some time, growing more uncomfortable by the moment, until Wei WuXian sighs heavily, and leans away.

“Every person in this hall would kill to be where you are, but I think you would rather be anywhere else.”

He does not give WangJi a chance to confirm or deny the words, waving his hand again in dismissal.

“You may go now.”

WangJi is not sure how he manages to rise, bow, or make his way down the steps without stumbling. The moment his feet leave the last step, his uncle is by his shoulder, wordlessly steering him away from the dais. The banquet is not over, and WangJi understands that leaving early may be seen as rude, especially in the view of the Emperor’s last rebuke. But when uncle leads them out of the hall, WangJi does not argue.

[7r0773r]

The Hatred of Poetry by Ben Lerner

“Poetry” is a word for a kind of value no particular poem can realize: the value of persons, the value of a human activity beyond the labor/leisure divide, a value before or beyond price. Thus hating poems can either be a way of negatively expressing poetry as an ideal—a way of expressing our desire to exercise such imaginative capacities, to reconstitute the social world—or it can be a defensive rage against the mere suggestion that another world, another measure of value, is possible. In the latter case, the hatred of poetry is a kind of reaction formation: You lash out against the symbol of what you’re repressing, i.e., creativity, community, a desire for a measure of value that isn’t “calculative.”  “Poetry” becomes a word for an outside that poems cannot bring about, but can make felt, albeit as an absence, albeit though embarrassment. The periodic denunciations of contemporary poetry should therefore be understood as part of the bitter logic of poetry, not as its repudiation. This is why so many cultural critics, with a kind of macabre glee, proclaim “the death of poetry” ever few years: Our imaginative faculties, we fear, have atrophied; the commercialization of language seems complete. The actual number of poems being written and read appears to be irrelevant to the certification of poetry’s death—a decade ago, James Longenbach reported there were more than three hundred thousand websites devoted to poetry—because what the pronouncement reflects is less an empirical statement about poems than a cultural anxiety about our capacity for “alternative making.” (pp. 53-54)

***

Great poets confront the limits of actual poems, tactically defeat or at least suspend that actuality, sometimes quit writing altogether, becoming celebrated for their silence; truly horrible poets unwittingly provide a glimmer or virtual possibility via the extremity of their failure; avant-garde poets hate poems for  remaining poems instead of becoming bombs; and nostalgists hate poems for failing to do what they wrongly, vaguely claim poetry once did. There are varieties of interpenetrating demands subsumed under the word “poetry”—to defeat time, to still it beautifully; to express irreducible individuality in a way that can be recognized socially or, à la Whitman, to achieve universality by being irreducibly social, less a person than a national technology; to defeat the language and value of existing society; to propound a measure of value beyond money. But one thing all these demands share is that they can’t ever be fulfilled with poems. Hating on actual poems, then, is often an ironic if sometimes unwitting way of expressing the persistence of the utopian ideal of Poetry, and the jeremiads in that regard are defenses, too. (pp. 75-76)

***

I remember speaking a word whose meaning I didn’t know but about which I had some inkling, some intuition, then inserting that word into a sentence, testing how it seemed to fit or chafe against the context and the syntax, rolling the word around, as it were, on my tongue. I remember my feeling that I possessed only part of the meaning of the word, like one of those fragmented friendship necklaces, and I had to find the other half in the social world of speech. I remember walking around as a child repeating a word I’d overheard, applying it wildly, and watching how, miraculously, I was rarely exactly wrong. If you are five and you point to a sycamore or an idle backhoe or a neighbor stooped over his garden or to images of these things on a television set and utter “vanish” or utter “varnish” you will never be only incorrect; if your parent or guardian is curious, she can find a meaning that makes you almost eerily prescient—the neighbor is dying, losing weight, or the backhoe has helped a structure disappear or is glazed with rainwater or the sheen of spectacle lends to whatever appears onscreen a strange finish. To derive your understanding of a word by watching others adjust to your use of it: Do you remember the feeling that sense was provisional and that two people could build around an utterance a world in which any usage signified? I think that’s poetry. And when I felt I finally mastered a word, when I could slide it into a sentence with a satisfying click, that wasn’t poetry anymore—that was something else, something functional within a world, not the liquefaction of its limits.

Remember how easily our games could break down or reform or redescribe reality? The magical procedure was always first and foremost repetition: Every kid knows the phenomenon that psychologists call “semantic saturation,” wherein a word is repeated until it feels emptied of sense and becomes mere sound—”to repeat, monotonously, some common word, until the sound, by dint of frequent repetition, ceased to convey any idea whatever to the mind,” as Poe describes it in the story “Berenice.” Your parents enforce a bedtime and, confined to your bed, you yell, ”Bedtime” over and over again until whatever meaning seemed to dwell therein is banished along with all symbolic order, and you’re a little feral animal underneath the glowing plastic stars. Linguistic repetition, you learn from an early age, can give form or take it away, because it forces a confrontation with the malleability of language and the world we build with it, build upon it. Most horrifying was to do this or have it done to your name, worst of all by some phalanx of chanting kids on the playground—to be reminded how easily you could be expelled from the human community, little innominate snot-nosed feral animal too upset even to tattle. And what would you say? “They broke my name.” The teacher would just instruct you to cast a weak spell back: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words. . .” (pp. 78-81)

[buckysrighthanddoll]

Weaponized

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: meantions of trauma (SA related), angst, slight pining

Prompt: “If I love you, is that a fact or a weapon?”

Getting into Bucky’s mind was easy. The man was overanalytical and calculated every small detail. You didn’t need to say a word for Bucky to think about you.

Getting into Bucky’s heart, however, was entirely different. He was guarded like Fort Knox; he lined the walls with dozens of troops, and then he had even more waiting on the inside.

You always held sympathy for Bucky. He went through a lot; there was not a single thought in your head that called him a monster. He was brainwashed and had no control over his own actions--there was nothing he could do besides stay alive.

The first time you had any interaction beyond an introduction, it was because Tony put you and him on a case together. Basic recon--eastern Spain. The mission would be a week, but it wasn’t horrific compared to other missions.

Bucky was strict at first. Rigid, even. He never spoke a word unless you talked to him first, and he never let himself go. Well, not until you convinced him to.

“Come on, James, it’s just a drink,” You scoffed, offering him the glass of whiskey.

“Don’t call me James, please,” He responded. That was the thing with Bucky--he was polite, despite everything he wanted to say. “And we’re on a mission. Drinks are not a good idea.”

“You’re a super-soldier,” You pointed out. “I thought you couldn’t even get drunk.”

“I can’t, but you can.”

“Have one drink with me, and I’ll stop,” You bartered. Both of you knew that if Bucky didn’t want to, you wouldn’t make him. But you were hoping that this would loosen him up a bit.

Once the night’s work was done, you both drank some more. You were a lightweight and got tipsy relatively quickly. He was stone-cold sober.

You smiled upon the memory. It was easy to recall him helping you back to the shitty motel room, and it was even easier to remember him helping you to bed.

Things got a bit easier after that mission. It was hard not to when you spend a week alone with someone on a mission. Communication was imperative, and sleeping in the same room with someone else can (and will) bring someone closer together.

You had thought that maybe you were starting to get through to him, but then the mission was over, and you both went back to the tower. Bucky locked himself in his room like he usually did, and you went back to your daily activities.

Bucky came into the kitchen almost nightly. You were also there, although neither of you spoke to each other. You couldn’t sleep at night, so you usually stayed in the kitchen or communal area to catch up on some reading and writing. Bucky would grab some water and sit at the counter, not saying a word.

Both of you would sit in silence, despite your mind thinking of a multitude of questions. You wanted to talk to him like you did on the recon, but that seemed nearly impossible with his walls so high.

Six weeks had passed like this. One night, however, it changed.

“I get nightmares, too,” You said casually. “Not quite as intense, but I still get them.”

Bucky looked taken aback for a fraction of a second. “I’m sorry,” He muttered, looking up from his glass of water.

“You don’t have to apologize, Bucky,” You responded, placing a bookmark and setting your novel down. “I just want to put it out there that if you’d like me to try and help you, I’d like to.”

“But--”

“I’m not just saying it because I feel like I have to,” You interjected. “I’m saying it because I want you to get a good night’s sleep. You’re tired.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“I’m not asking you to spill your deepest fears. I’m asking if I can help you.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive,” You reassured. “Come on.”

Bucky led you back to his room, and then he awkwardly sat on his bed. You placed your book on the nightstand and got under the sheets on the opposite side of him, holding the blankets for him. He rested his head on your chest and put his arms around your torso. You grabbed the book with one hand and played with his hair with the other.

“Would you like me to read to you?” You asked. “It’s a poetry book if that’s okay.”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

“Okay,” You answered, opening the book to some of your favorite poems. You began reading to him, the words flowing freely and gently from your lips. For a fleeting moment, his mind told him that he wanted to drink those words from you as though he was parched.

Coincidentally, it was also the night you began to fall for James Buchanan Barnes.

He fell asleep on your chest, and you put the book down once his breathing evened out. You didn’t want to get up. You wanted to stay here and keep playing with Bucky’s hair, listen to his breath, and feel his heartbeat. He was resting, and it was beautiful.

When Bucky woke up at five in the morning, you were still awake. You had been scared to fall asleep next to another man, but that was a trauma you weren’t ready to dig up. The two of you were in the same position he fell asleep in but was nearly startled to find you still playing with his hair.

He hummed in relief when he noticed you there, burrowing himself deeper into you. It made your heart soar. You had guessed that this would be awkward. After all, you were still in his bed, hand dancing in his hair, and you hadn’t gotten a lick of sleep.

“You haven’t slept,” Bucky said. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. He already knew.

“And you slept like a baby,” You countered, taking the attention off of you. You really didn’t want to admit to this man that you couldn’t share a bed with anybody. It had been nearly a decade.

“Why didn’t you sleep?” He asked groggily. He rolled over and stretched his body, exerting a yawn while he was at it.

“Just couldn’t,” You responded vaguely. “You going on a run?”

“Yeah; are you joining?”

“Another time,” You told him. “I have to get some paperwork done,” You added. Your hope was to avoid suspicion, but you knew that if anybody could read another human being, it was Bucky Barnes.

Lucky enough, he left it alone. You went on your separate ways for the day and repeated the process at night. Of course, he became wary about why you hadn’t been sleeping whenever you stayed the night with him. Even when you had slept together in your bedroom, you didn’t get a wink of sleep.

A month later, you were head over heels for him. It was easy to fall. There were numerous late-night conversations, coffee runs, and morning jogs. There were even more workouts and training sessions. Things were amazing. Bucky was finally starting to let his guard down around you, and the team noticed as well.

Bucky would come to team meals, but only as long as you were there. Steve noticed that he smiled and conversed with everybody he could, but only when he was by your side. You calmed his nerves. You offered him some form of emotional protection. He knew that if he wanted to leave at any point, you would follow him and hang out in his room with him. He fell for you, as well, but he wasn’t able to admit it to himself.

The only person who was worried was Tony. It wasn’t that he was unhappy to see you in brighter moods. He totally adored that. It was the concern of compromising missions because of emotions. Tony didn’t know how you’d be together. Any mission would be dangerous if one of you got hurt or went missing. Emotions could be used as weapons.

Tony pulled each of you aside to talk. It was a simple (yet stern) conversation that summed up to not letting the world know if you were sleeping with each other. If that information got into the wrong hands, the team could be threatened.

Both of you had the same reaction, despite not knowing about each other’s conversation; it was all “nothing is going on between us--we’re friends”.

Tonight was just like any other night. Once everybody decided they were going to bed, you went into Bucky’s room and laid in his bed.

“(Y/N), can I ask you something?” Bucky asked as he slipped on a shirt. You hummed a yes as you looked at him. “How come you never sleep when we do this?”

And there it was. The question you had been avoiding for nearly three months. “Buck, I don’t know if I wanna talk about this.”

“No, we need to,” He pushed. “I feel horrible seeing you with bags under your eyes because you’re not sleeping at night. You’re exhausted when we have to do things with the team. You pass out on any car ride or when we use the quinjet. Doll, you even nod off at debriefings.”

“I can’t sleep in the same bed as anybody,” You muttered, sighing as you gave in. This was Bucky, and as much as you didn’t want him to know, you had to tell him. He was a concerned friend. “I haven’t been able to in ten years.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m not going into it right now. All I can say is that something happened to me when I was with this guy--it happened while I was sleeping. And it happened multiple times. So now whenever I try to fall asleep with someone, I just get the most intense nightmares; and that’s if I can fall asleep at all.”

Bucky didn’t say anything; he just nodded his head and got into bed next to you. He held his arms out to you, which was rare. Typically, you held him so that he could sleep. This time, though, he wanted to let you know that you could let your walls down.

“I wouldn’t wanna sleep beside me, either,” Bucky said after a couple of minutes. “I mean, I don’t even understand how you can put up with my screaming and kicking like you do.”

“That’s easy,” You state before realizing how awkward of a position you put yourself into. You couldn’t just tell him that you loved him. Not now. This wasn’t the right time (but then again, would it ever be the right time?). You quickly thought of something to add. “I like helping you rest better.”

“You need rest, too,” Bucky responded, rubbing his hand up and down your back. He had found that it was a quick way to calm you down--but it was never enough to help you sleep.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried staying awake longer than you. There were nights where neither of you slept because he wanted you to fall asleep first. It never happened.

“I get to rest, but it’s when you go for your run,” You said. You tangled your legs with his, welcoming the warm embrace that this man was offering you.

“I just really care about you, doll. I don’t want you to suffer because you’re helping me.”

The moment shifted. It went from being-a-concerned-friend to there’s-something-much-deeper-here. You looked up at Bucky and found that he was looking right back at you.

“What’s on your mind?” You asked. He looked between your eyes and your lips, furrowing his eyebrows. It was easy to see that he didn’t want to do whatever he was thinking about.

“I--it’s j--well, uh--it’s just that if I--if I said I loved you, I wouldn’t know if that was a fact or a weapon,” Bucky stammered.

“Buck, you’re not a weapon. What we have--” You said, trailing a hand up to his chest and motioning between the two of you. “--is not a weapon.”

“Can I kiss you?” Bucky muttered. Your stomach fluttered at the words, not only because he wanted to kiss you, but because he was so respectful of your boundaries.

“You don’t have to ask me,” You responded. He smiles and ever-so-softly connects your lips. A deep and contented sigh falls from both of you as if your entire lives had led to this moment. The moment when James Buchanan Barnes would hold you in his arms and kiss those celestial lips of yours. The moment when you felt the safest you had in ten years. The moment that tipped you over the edge and into something bigger. Something better.

“I love you,” Bucky says against your lips. He repeats the words, at first testing them out for size; but then he started saying it just because he loved the way you smiled against him and repeated them back to him.

That night, you slept next to Bucky Barnes. The smile on his face when he woke up to your calm breathing and steady heartbeat made everything in his long life worth it. You, he knew, were worth it.

[bbnibini]

PSISLY: An Obey Me!CYOA – fifty-nine🔖

Reassurances did little for Satan to forgive his own blunders. You were at his side, attentive to the slightest changes of his expressions, intent on making him realise that he had not been at fault for what happened. The Purgatory Hall members did not comment on what they saw, and instead ushered everyone to their living room, asking for their preference of refreshments. Mammon seemed shaken by his brother’s outburst and was strangely quiet until Solomon sat next to him and enticed him to form a pact.

“An equivalent exchange for a moment of my time, don’t you think so?” The sorcerer smiled, any emotions or thoughts unreadable on his face. Mammon frowned, then looked at you as if he were betrayed; the sorcerer did not mention any catch on his agreements last night, attributing his generosity to drunkenness. You should have known better to believe him.

“Oh, you couldn’t take a joke, Avatar of Greed~ At least I tried~”

“Didn’t sound like a joke to me.”

You mouthed a sorry to Mammon, hearing him shout something about notebooks before your attention returned to Satan. Perhaps due to his outburst earlier, everyone’s eyes were focused on him, notes on their hand along with looks of expectation—no one was willing to speak first even if they wanted the study session to start. Lucifer’s warning was received in varying degrees: from indifference to outright opposition. You even heard Asmo say something about how unfair their firstborn was, expecting everyone to study together when he couldn’t even go. Then, you turned your attention to someone across from you.

“Simeon says he has an ice pack, Levi.” You tested. You weren’t sure if you were forgiven yet. He had defended you and seemed worried about you last night, but you would honestly do the same for him if you had ever switched roles. Just because you are fighting doesn’t mean that you stopped being friends. Thankfully, he did not ignore you this time, and instead let out a soft hm, as he stood up. No words, but there was acknowledgement at least.

Sigh.

Now…how do you deal with this situation?

The air was too thick and awkward. Satan was spent. Was it a good idea to continue today’s group study? But everyone didn’t seem to have any intentions of leaving either. You waited and waited, the sound of quill pens hitting paper almost deafening. They might as well just study alone!

“What the—how am I supposeta understand this? Yer handwriting’s chicken scratch!”

.

.

.

.

.

Well. At least Mammon and Solomon were having a more productive time. You squeezed Satan’s hand from under the table, catching him off guard. “Something the matter?” His eyebrows were knotted and he looked so solemn while reading paragraphs of human realm info dump.

“So, got any ideas on how to start?”

His tense expression relaxed. “You were worried.”

“Of course.”

“Not scared?”

You blinked at him. “Scared?”

He leaned his head to your side, unbothered by the public display of affection. For an unlabelled relationship, he never gave you the time to doubt his sincerity towards you. “You were the last person I ever…” He paused, making circular motions on your palm. “I didn’t want you to be afraid of me.”

You booped his nose and laughed, causing him to pout. “I would have avoided you if I were.”

Simeon and Luke’s arrival did wonders on the large study table. The food caused Beelzebub to perk up, and Belphie was happily admiring the pretty “galaxy drink” (fully awake) that Luke had concocted for the refreshments. Asmo was making knowing glances at yours and Satan’s side, causing you to straighten yourself up from your seat and making your not-yet-demon boyfriend laugh at your delayed reaction.  Levi also came back, nursing his black eye with an ice bag, wincing at the pain. Mammon and Solomon were still arguing, making you turn over to them in curiosity.

“What do you mean ya have no notes? Smart people always have notes!”

“Smart people don’t need notes~”

“And smart people can write!”

“Something wrong?” You decided to look over to see what’s going on in their table while everyone was having a snack break.

“Oi, human! This guy’s a total hack!” He pointed at Solomon, who only smiled vaguely at you. “He ain’t no wise King! Can’t even write a darn proper sentence!”

You noticed Solomon’s bandaged hand… “You’re injured.”

“Oh, it’s nothing life threatening. It’ll heal right away.”

…then turned to Mammon who immediately shook his head and sputtered out a multitude of denials. “I-I didn’t do nothin’! His hand’s been broken since we got here!”

“It’s true.” He confirmed, looking over at you with a nod. “I had a tussle with a sorcerer last night.”

“At the mage party?”

“Mhm.”

“With the hot mages?”

“Mhm.”

“While you’re really drunk?”

He tilted his head and snorted a laugh. “I’m still seeing stars right now.”

You sometimes forget that this man was also human like you. After throwing up and drinking a recovery potion, Asmo had been fine—back to his affectionate and cheerful self. Solomon was different. Being a powerful mage didn’t equate to being invulnerable.

“Are you okay? Did I make things difficult for you?”

You saw his eyes widen, as if having someone worry about him was something rare or even impossible to happen. You haven’t seen this expression on his face before—was it timidity? It felt…fragile. He almost looked like a child.

“Difficult?” He parroted. “It’s just a broken hand. Inconvenient, yes. But this doesn’t concern you.”

Any semblance of that fragile child you have seen in him for a fraction of a second disappeared completely, replaced by his usual, whimsical expressions. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way, of course. I appreciate your concern.” He looked over at the other table and said,

“But isn’t Satan starting his tutoring sessions over there already?”

…before going back to teaching Mammon about magic spells.

It almost felt like he was pushing you away, but you thought the idea too ridiculous and dismissed it. He had always been like that.

You sat back on your seat and listened to Satan’s crash course on seductive speechcraft. It was certainly a lot more concise and interesting than Lucifer’s complex reviewers—okay, interesting was an understatement. He hadn’t even started with his seductions yet and you were already seduced.

“Focus on the lesson, please.” He playfully bonked your head with Lucifer’s rolled up reviewers. “Or do you want to get detention?”

“But this is a study group.”

“Oh, I am not shy with inflicting punishments myself. Especially to wayward students.” Or so he says feigning annoyance, but when everyone else wasn’t looking, he had the audacity to kiss your cheek and say, “Feeling feverish? It is the rainy season.” You caught Levi rolling his eyes on your peripheral, probably thinking of something along the lines of stupid normies.

So much for stealth, Avatar of Wrath.

There were many more instances, like a squeeze on your hand below the table, or an endearingly cheesy poetry thinly masked as a love confession on Literature 63: Classics All Over Three Realms. There was a hilarious recount of Emison Beckstein’s novel, but instead of the usual characters, everyone else turned into various breeds of cats to keep the lecture interesting. Simeon ate up the whole DevilPoint presentation, clapping his hands and even crying a bit at how well-thought out it was. It was almost strange to see Luke being the more muted one in their angelic duo. Belphie was strangely active once it was time for Astronomy 18, answering Satan’s questions at lightning speed that it was almost impossible to butt in.

“You’ve read your reference books. I’m impressed.” Satan said smiling.

“I haven’t touched a book willingly for at least 600 years.”  Belphie drawled out, unsmiling.

Meanwhile on the other table, you heard Mammon groan in frustration as he got the answer wrong for the nth time.

“Whaddya mean it goes like this and that? It doesn’t make a lick of sense!”

“Oh? But it’s so simple!” Solomon then began to explain the answer in words you can barely comprehend. You looked at the sorcerer, then at Belphegor and concluded: geniuses are scary.

Your eyes chose to settle back onto Satan, finding his intelligence not as inhuman (irony at its finest) nor as unattainable as the two abnormals. “I like your brain the best,” you didn’t realise you said that out loud, making Satan burst into laughter.

“I would prefer it if you would like me enough to pay attention. Or is my body part your only reason to like me?”

You threw a french fry at Asmo when he suddenly waggled his eyebrows. “Luke is listening, so get your head out of the gutter!” Your action prompted everyone else to do the same, throwing and shoving food into the former Jewel of Heaven’s mouth, a complete caricature of what he once was.

“Listen to what?” Luke blinked, looking up from his notes. Simeon gracefully evaded the smaller angel’s questioning with a random fact about stars. Beel didn’t really understand what was going on, but seeing as his brothers had chimed in, he shoved a few more French fries at the distraught Asmo’s mouth, an outcry letting out of his poor victim’s mouth (something about empty calories yet he swallowed every single piece anyway).

“Sataaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan, they’re being so mean~!” He said Satan but embraced another(read:you), squeezing himself in between the two of you and smooshing both of your cheeks.

“You smell like booze, Asmo.”

“Oh, darling! Why must you hurt me so? :( ~”

You couldn’t help but laugh a little, stroking his head in comfort. “You’re fine, Asmo. You’ll get past this. You always do.”

Satan’s smile was deathly cold. While he insisted that it was fine for Asmo to sit in between both of you, you knew better. He’s probably going to ask to be spoiled later. The thought alone was something to look forward to, and made the gruelling endeavour of studying for the sake of not getting into trouble with Lucifer a little less tedious. And the troublemaker who dragged everyone into the mess in the first place seemed to be trying his best as well, at least according to Solomon who remarked (rather impressed) about Mammon’s astounding mathematical abilities once the session for the day concluded.

Once Satan got the hang of pacing his lessons, everyone observed a drastic improvement on their mock test scores. Levi a.k.a on-the-verge-of-getting-the-rope-for-his-numerous-attempts-to-skive-athan (who you have long reconciled with after a teary marathon of Ghibli films with Beel and Belphie), almost received his second black eye when he unconsciously reached in for a kiss from his unamused younger brother. Satan was crushed into a hug by a grateful Beel anyway, whose sincere thank you, had been more well-received compared to Leviathan’s smooches (causing the third-born to sulk). The said incident had been implored to never be mentioned by both parties ever again.  

Of course, due to your busy days working as the exchange student representative (as well as Satan’s duties as student council treasurer), your vague relationship remained a status quo. You’re definitely NOT “just friends”. No platonic friends would ever kiss each other as much as both of you do. It couldn’t be brushed off as something out of friendly affection either, as you recalled every affection you shared under the sheets as anything but friendly. You almost got in trouble for your public displays of affection a few times when Lucifer had time to attend the study sessions. Almost as if Satan wished to be caught—he was usually better with being discreet at the times when Lucifer wasn’t around. When you ask him this, you never get an answer though, so you attributed his silence as affirmations.

💌💌💌

“What are we sneaking around for?” You asked him, genuinely confused as he led you to Lucifer’s garden. He’s entering this place…willingly? Is this really Satan? He laughed when he mimicked your thoughts, much like J*seph Joestar’s running gag in Part 2—only, this was mother effing Satan; he was no ridiculously buff anime character but a respectable member of the illustrious Seven Princes of Hell™.  He immediately denied your sensible (ha!) claims of him taking interest in your Chinese cartoons, and instead refocused your attention to a small patch of land he told you to enter.

“Lucifer doesn’t know about this spot.”

“In his own garden?”

His close-eyed smile had been lovely. “He’s been too busy to know. Anyway, I have something to show you.” He urged you to enter the small hole of trimmed grass hidden by Lord Diavolo’s statue—an enchantment, you’ve begun to know as he had undone numerous barriers protecting a space that appeared a lot bigger than the Alice in Wonderland-esque “door”.

“Your room?”

He moaned out in approval from afar, obscured by a stack of tomes on his table. It did seem like he was trying to retrieve something from his balcony. “I installed this portal just recently. Makes the trip to Purgatory Hall more convenient.” After the incident with the broken blackboard, you had been holding the studying sessions in Purgatory Hall instead. The atmosphere there had been too familiar to really consider on changing locations, and Simeon and the others did not seem to mind. “Actually, can you come here instead? It’s pretty dark in there.”

Dark? Well of course. Devildom is in eternal darkness. But you held your urge to banter.

You were surprised to see light in a small corner of Satan’s balcony—an artificial sun, albeit small, illuminating a familiar flower on a plastic pot.

“That’s…”

Satan smiled sheepishly as he urged you to scoot over to him. “Mhm. I did say I’ll give you another gift.”

“This…this is too much!” Growing a carnation? In such a harsh environment? “Isn’t it hard to…make it survive here?” Your question was answered by a quick peck on your lips. His beautiful emerald eyes narrowed at you, lips curving up into a smile that made your heart skip a beat. How much does he love you to do this?

“I didn’t do this to make you cry, kitten.” A nickname he only approved of if you were the one it addresses to. He wiped your tears with his fingers, kissing the corner of your eyes. “Look closely. Such a lovely little thing, trying their best to live their life in an unfamiliar environment. Doesn’t it remind you of someone?”

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“UuuuuuUUuuuuuuU!!!!”

“Hey—! What did I just sa—!”

You tackled him to the ground, smothering him with your hugs and kisses. “I loveuuuu Sachaaaan—” You sniffled, soothed by the gentle strokes he made on your back. Despite his protests, he continued holding you anyway, offering loving words you knew he meant from the bottom of his heart.

“I love you too. More than anything in this world.” You wondered what number that kiss was in your ever growing kisses with him; how does he see you in those alluring green eyes of his? Was his heart also beating out of his chest?

“I don’t want to leave…” you couldn’t help but say, which he replied with a forehead kiss to signify his agreement as he sat you on his lap, back leaning on the wall.

“Then don’t.”

“Sataaaaaan.”

“It’s only a suggestion.” He laughs. “A tempting one, isn’t it?”

You finally stopped crying. Only an evidence of it was left on your tear-stained face. “What will happen to us?

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…sorry, that question is unfair.”

“We’ll…”

“Think of something?” You finished his sentence for him, causing him to laugh quietly at your side. “Once Mammon passes his exams—oh, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t do anything this time.”

“Huh.”

“Well, Solomon is going out of his way to help despite his injury. And…” He hesitated, yet spoke out his thoughts anyway. He didn’t want any secrets, and you felt the same. “...it seems like Lucifer did not approve of such arrangements.”

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Why so?”

“It’s just suppositions but, Solomon might be involved in whatever Lucifer is busy with.”

You suddenly felt very guilty. “Doesn’t that mean that I did something really bad?” Did you intrude upon his already busy life?

“Well, he was the one who accepted.” Satan, however, reassured you.

“Still…”

“I did say it was a supposition. I might be wrong.”

You hoped so. You couldn’t really know. In fact, you didn’t know much about the sorcerer at all.

“Speaking of suppositions…” ah. He’s pouting again. “You mentioned about a love letter. A secret admirer…”

“Someone I NEVER knew and never made himself known.” You emphasised, kissing the creases on his brows away. “Satan, I haven’t thought about him until you brought him up.”

“Which means his letter is still out there—in your room, rotting away in its leafy carcass.”

“Paper. It’s paper. Say it like how everyone does.”

He made a tch sound, making you promise to retrieve it and have it read once he’s finished with his tutoring.

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What you didn’t expect was his impromptu proofreading when you handed it out to him. You never really managed to finish reading it—pages and pages of flowery words and lovelorn promises. Your heart skipped a beat with several of its passages, and were surprised by how…this enigma seemed to know you despite not knowing him at all.

“Clearly this is a stalker.”

And so, your romantic fantasies were thereby thwarted by your cynical demon, You saw him roll his eyes as he begrudgingly admitted the author’s skill with his word weaving, amazed by his vocabulary and prose. “Carnations too. Had he seen my gift and imitated me?”

“It must be a coincidence.”

That, he readily admitted to be the likely possibility. He hated how you made sense; gives him less reasons to ask to be comforted (read: spoiled) by you. “He could be dangerous.” And so, he turned to Freud and his idea of rationalisation. He wished it could have been projection—reaction formation if you wanted him to be more civilised; he can make compromises. Any excuse to inflict harm on the said man, really.

“If he was, then I never found myself to be in one. Much more when you’re there protecting me.”

“I do all the work for him, do I not?” You chuckled and kissed his still pouting lips.

“If you hate it so much, you can throw it away.”

He raised an eyebrow at you, considering the thought. “Or, I can one-up my competition and write a better letter. Letters. I can write one every day starting now.”

Your eyes widened, remembering the embarrassing bouquet he gave you. Oh. Oh. No! You weren’t having that again!

“No more grand displays, sir! I object!”

“No more? I haven’t even started yet.”

You shook your head repeatedly, complaining to him about the aftermath of his previous one. You couldn’t believe the utter audacity of his words.

“You call that a grand display? You have some low standards, kitten. I am inclined to change it.”

“No!”

He caged you in his arms this time, forcing you to meet his eyes. Darn it. Why was he so handsome?

“What would I do to make you say yes?”

Any embarrassment was thrown aside; replaced by evil, evil thoughts. You smirked.

“I want you to be my boyfriend. For real. No secret relationships. Full-blown, embarrassing declarations of love by the school grounds.”

“Deal.”

“Ha! I knew—Wait what?!”

He only answered with a smirk on his annoyingly attractive face, making you realise the answer for yourself.

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Well fuck. You just got played. The letter? Good as gone. Burnt, burnt, burnt to ashes, too eager for its own end to await for the vermilion bonfire on the school grounds to claim it.

Instead, it had been you who was being threatened to be consumed. You shouldn’t have allowed yourself to be pressured into this. Everything had gone according to his plan—he really is a show-off! And you thought he was the “normal” one in their family!

Oh shit.

Exams were coming up after the festival.

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You’re going to get looks while taking your exams, won’t you? You definitely will!

Try as you will to make it known to him that you were not pleased with your agreements, he only laughed at you, planting kisses on your face. When you asked him if he was treating you like how he treats catty (pun intended) felines, he did not answer; but all it took was a glance at his impish lips to know (internally) he said yes.

💌💌💌

You couldn’t concentrate. Not with knowing what will happen on the festival dance. Not with that big ass bonfire standing there, reminding you of your stupidity. Not with your almost-boyfriend reminding you of how excited he was to dance with you tonight! It was a miracle you were able to carry out your final duties as a festival organiser without letting so much as a stumble out from the many opportunities where you could have screwed everything up for everyone—at least your body had the decency to not do that. You wish you could say the same for Satan. Oh, you loved him so much but sometimes, he can be so…so infuriating. What was more infuriating was that he knows deep down, that you were looking forward for this too.

Was his grand gestures as grand (read: embarrassing) as you anticipated? Immensely grand. Immensely showy. Immensely devilish and so very him. You were blindfolded on your way, a smiling Asmo surprisingly cooperative and tight-lipped when you asked him questions about his contributions to his brother’s grand grand schemes.

You only heard a muted orchestra in the background as you neared your destination. Asmo didn’t let you go, and instead led you up a small flight of stairs—one, two, three…five steps. This must be the makeshift stage near the bonfire where Lord Diavolo would be sitting for the rest of the event. You could hear his voice now, a cheerful baritone that hinted of his own cooperation (and perhaps outright enthusiasm) when he greeted you, marvelling at the unique charms of human world school festivals where he took his most recent project’s inspiration from.

“You can open your eyes now, sweetie.” Asmo whispered on your ear as you felt a bright light on you, eyes squinting at its sheer intensity. A spotlight? But before you could ask anything, Satan’s voice boomed in the speakers. Your still squinting eyes, adjusting to the light searched for its source but only saw the fascinated crowd below you.

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“You asked for grand gestures and I delivered,” You didn’t! Not unironically! But your protests were deafened by the noise around you. Clamours and cheers, your name mixed in the cacophony of sounds shouted by voices familiar and dear to you. You saw some of them in the crowd, but your favourite blond was not among them. You strained your ears and listened to his voice once more.

“A famous human playwright named Shakespeare once said that the robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief. I didn’t give much thought to his words, thinking it meant something shallow or too humanly inclined for me to understand, but…” he called your name, a sweet and gentle tone permeating his love for you.

“But now, dearest? I feel like I do.”

His words were like a trigger, muting the voices from below—they formed groups around the bonfire, partner after partner, hand in hand, dancing to the beat of human realm music in harmonious cadence.

“My lovely thief, may I steal you away tonight? For the rest of your life?

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Save the last dance for me, won’t you?”

Wait. Isn’t that—

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬʸᴵᴺᴳ... ᵐᵉʳʳʸ⁻ᵍᵒ⁻ʳᵒᵘⁿᵈ ʲᵒᵉ ʰᶦˢᵃᶦˢʰᶦ: ʰᵒʷˡ'ˢ ᵐᵒᵛᶦⁿᵍ ᶜᵃˢᵗˡᵉ ᴼˢᵀ 1:05  ───|────── 2:53 |◁              II             ▷|

“Howl’s Moving Castle?”

Anime music? In a school festival? This must be Levi’s doing!

“Are you going to stare at me, or are you going to dance?”

“Levi?” Speak of the demon!

“No, Sophie—of course it’s me! Geez. How did I get dragged into this….”

His black eye was still there, but it was healing. Blushing to the tip of his ears, he fumbled as he searched for your hands and clumsily held them as he led you down the stage.

“M-Moses!”

“Not a name I thought I would hear in Devildom, but I see your point.”

Your point exactly? Exactly as you might be thinking right now. The crowd parted to make way for you, until Levi settled you in an empty spot and shakily threaded your fingers. “J-just so you know, Satan forced me into this! I have an event to grind, y’know! You should be grateful!”

“I am. Thank you, bestie~”

You heard him scoff, yet he took the lead effortlessly anyway, matching the strides of the other dancers around you. “You only call me that to tease me.”

“You know it’s out of friendly affection.”

“Yet you dodged and got me this black eye—“

“What, you want us to get it together?” He snorted, his amber eyes narrowing as he caught you after you dipped. “You better make it up to me soon. I’ve listed so many of your felonies and they’re only increasing as we speak.”

“Oh?” You glanced at him sideways and prepared to spin. “What are friends for?”

Dancing with Levi had been lovely. It was easy to talk to him, especially after how you’ve already made up.

“Hey,” he called to you, sounding hesitant.

“Yeah?”

With bitten lips, the words he caught in his throat collected, and with a sigh to lessen its impact—its filter, he finally spoke. “Are you happy?”

That made you think and look back at your memories in Devildom. It’s not always sunshine and rainbows of course, and you would argue that there might even be hostility there at both parties especially your first encounters with them. But now?...

“I couldn’t be any happier!” You smiled at him. “I’m so glad I came here! I’m so glad I met all of you!”

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“I’m glad.” Somehow, the way he smiled back at you felt faraway. “I’m going to lose a best friend when you’re gone.”

…until he voiced out his thoughts and you finally understood. He was so silly, wasn’t he?

As his turn came to an end, and with it, seeing Beel approaching, you kissed his cheek and answered,

“No one can ever take your place, Levi. You will always be my best friend too!”

You might have imagined it, but it looked like Levi was about to cry when you left.

💌💌💌

“Congrats.” Greeted Beel as he linked your arms together.

“…Satan bribed you, didn’t he?”

Beel pondered for a bit as he spun you, catching your back with his palm and threading your fingers once you repositioned. “He cooks really well. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay! You’re right though. You should ask him to make as much meals as you want to take advantage of the situation.” Now, Beelzebub might be the demon amongst both of you (at least biologically speaking), but you were far, far more devilish and equally vengeful. “Do you want recommendations? I know some exquisite human realm cuisine you could ask him to make for you!”

The way Beel’s mouth watered as he asked you to make good of your promise after the festival affirmed that you have successfully turned the tides against your almost-boyfriend. Wordlessly, he guided you to your next partner, a rather sleepy looking Belphegor who was trying his best to keep himself awake.

“Just a little more, Belphie!” You encouraged him, taking the lead for him instead.

“Sleep…”

You laughed and shook your head as you tried your best to keep him awake.

You got to hand it to Levi for choosing good anime music. To an unsuspecting normie, it sounded like it belonged to a ballroom. In fact, it was wayyyy too effective as Belphie complained about it sounding too much like a lullaby. “Ah…congrats by the way.”

“Thanks..

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Belphie, your face is too close—“ Ah, he’s almost going to pass out! You snapped a finger in front of him and he repositioned.

“…aren’t you going to say something to me?”

You blinked your eyes and tilted your head. “No?” And you saw Belphie frown as you answered. Almost melancholy. He shook his head.

“Nevermind. What’s important is you’re here, and you’re happy.”

Try as you should to understand what he meant, you could not. Not even once he led you to Barbatos, your next partner.

“Congratulations.” He offered his heartfelt felicitations, and you couldn’t help but blush in embarrassment.

“Why did Lord Diavolo agree to such a…grand (you hated that word now) scheme?”

Barbatos hummed, filled with his usual grace and composure. “Milord is generous and wise. And you,” He halted his words for a short while to hold you by the waist. “You are more than a student to this school. You’re family to those brothers, so family you shall be treated.”

That answer was very him, you supposed--showing not a hint of his emotions or inner thoughts. His dedication to his work was impressive.

“Shall we?” He offered his gloved hand to you as his turn ended. And when you accepted, you were treated to a small, yet rare smile from him. Simeon awaited you on your next turn, a serene smile on his lips as well that you felt obliged to return (albeit more awkwardly).

“Congratulations!”

Bright. Bright! Too powerful!

“You have provided me such excellent material for TSL’s next volume. Thank you, kindly~!” Were you just imagining it, or was he teasing you right now? The way he led you was flawless, feeling his grace down to his fingertips.

“Are you really going to use Satan’s cheesy grand gestures in your next volume?” You blinked your eyes, suddenly reminded of the fact that you’re friends with a very successful author. The fact that you’re not starstruck right now was almost unimaginable.

“The Lord of Masks and his unexpectedly romantic side is very very tempting to explore.” He reasoned, holding you by the shoulder. “The current arc needs a bit more light-hearted scenes, methinks.”

Thankfully, you were able to talk him out of doing it before he surrendered you to Mammon.

“Grats…” He was frowning when he intertwined your hands with his, an exasperated sigh as he begrudgingly took the lead. “Your boyfriend’s scary, y’know? I almost didn’t make it out alive!”

“Make what of?” You asked, curious. “Did something happen, Mammon?”

“!!!”

When he didn’t talk, you repeated your question.

“Gah! Don’t look at me with those, googly human eyes of yours!”

“What. Did. He. Do?”

When he didn’t answer you again, you threatened to step on his foot (empty threats, but it was worth a try) so he finally relented (emphasis on the finally). “I might have…tried…to steal the flower on the pot. I’msorryIcan’thelpit!”

He was shocked to hear you laugh instead of being angry with him. Smiling, you shook your head.

“It wasn’t stolen if you’re caught, right?”

Mammon’s confused look was rather adorable.

“…hey, human?”

“Hey, Mammon.” You parroted.

He chuckled and spun you around. “You’re weird.”

He only laughed at you once more when you agreed.

💌💌💌

“Darling~!! It’s our turn now!”

You giggled and accepted his hand. “Hello, Asmo! It’s nice to see you again!”

His playful way of leading you washed the fatigue off of you. It was exhausting to switch partners every one or two spins and dips. And you were happy that Asmo noticed. “Sooooo, how are you enjoying your day?”

“Unsurprised, but still embarrassed. Probably a little hurt you kept this from me.”

Asmo feigned concern, catching your larky tone. “I’m soooo sorry, darling! But Satan insisted! And, you’re happy he did this deep down, aren’t you? Don’t try lying to me now! Love and lust are connected, however blurred~”

“Tch.”

“Fufu~ See, see! I was right!♡” Sometimes, you hated how right he was. And pretty. What’s worse is that he knows it.

“You’re terrifyingly perceptive.” Asmo hummed in agreement as he supported your back to dip.

“Of course!~ I’m amazing, aren’t I? Praise me more!”

“You’re amazing, Asmo~”

“Oh, darling, I love you!!!”

You laughed as you accepted his hug, a fish out of water compared to the synchronised movements around you.

“I love you too, Asmo.”

The artificial sunset reminded you of the real ones in the human world. The large bonfire at the centre of the school grounds continued to flicker as the music played, and Mephisto's voice echoed in the speakers, cueing everyone to switch partners. Satan was dancing with a succubus, being an excellent escort, and you couldn't help the bubble of pride in your chest as he reassured his nervous partner who stepped on his foot a few several times. Isn’t my boyfriend amazing? You couldn’t help but think, a voice from inside you asking several questions back: Why weren't you jealous? Because you didn't have any reason to be. You felt safe. Secure in his company. You knew he would never hurt you, not on purpose. You trusted him. You loved him.

"He's good at dancing, isn't he?"

Your eyes focused back at your own partner, laughing at his awkward way of holding your hand.

"I don't have a deadly disease, Solomon." You joked, threading your fingers together and feeling the heat of his hand. He pulled away instinctively, eyes looking elsewhere. Oh darn. You keep on forgetting he's injured.

"Did I hurt you?"

His silence was jarring, but not as jarring as the look of shock in his eyes.

“Does it hurt that much?” Your racked your brain over that healing spell you learned in class. It was Latin something. Or was it Gaelic? Oh shit. You were bad at rune magic—

“Never. Not at all.” Ah, he’s back. You couldn’t help but think, focusing on the bags under his eyes, his usual yet somewhat tired smile. “Let’s try again, shall we?”

You thought you imagined it at first: a surprising, fragile side to him. Maybe it was the lighting, maybe it was something else. But he was back, and he was squeezing your hand and it hurt. You felt that weird vulnerability again when he apologised to you, before promptly disappearing when he teased you about your sweaty palms, never to return.

“You’re not going to heal it?” You asked, pertaining to his broken hand. “Not before finals?” He has more than enough magical capacity to do so. As if reading your thoughts, he flippantly replied.

“Mammon’s reactions are amusing.”

“I knew you had an ulterior motive!”

Your eyes couldn’t help but wander back to Satan—smiling and having fun. You were relieved to see him enjoying himself, but he was so far away all the same. You could see however, your next partner. Amongst the crowd was the ever elegant Lucifer, leading a demoness who seemed to be enjoying his company.

“…thank you.”

But before you could reply back to him, the sorcerer had already given you to your next partner (Lucifer), making an exaggerated curtsy as he left.

“We finally meet. Shall we?” Lucifer offered his gloved hand and you accepted with a smile. Satan was closer now, almost a turn away, and you caught yourself stealing glances at him as much as he was. You saw him mouth, Lucifer’s glaring at you with a laugh, and you fearfully turned back to the firstborn, and confirmed that yes. He was glaring, and yes. You have missed a spin.

“I was against Satan’s ridiculous gambades. In fact, I find that my negligence caused a lot of discomforts.”

Gulp.

“If this is about Solomon—I,”

His eyes widened at your Freudian slip, holding you in a cuddle dip. You felt him sigh from the nape of your neck, the hoarseness in his voice, you attributed to fatigue. “So you knew.”

You didn’t want to face him. This was supposed to be a light-hearted dance, so why does it feel like you’re being grilled?

“You should have consulted me first, then again…you do not know the underlying reasons of my anger, do you?”

By the time you had to switch back to your original position, you felt yourself creasing your brows. “I don’t. Won’t you tell me?”

He didn’t answer, satisfying your curiosity with thoughtful silence.

“…I’m sorry for keeping things from you.”

You tilted your head, not really knowing what he meant. “Things?”

“You’ll know soon enough. Speaking of…”

A spin. A turn, and he continued. “Come to Barbatos’ Estate after this. You can bring Satan or any other of my brothers whom you trust. Of course, you can also go alone.”

That was…really strange. It certainly snapped you out of that fairytale-like feeling you’re having.

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“…hello, gorgeous.”

…Only for it to come back at full strength once your weary heart finally found its match.

“If I become the centre of gossip after this, you have to take responsibility.” You pouted as you accepted his hand, threading your fingers together as you moved to the music.

“I only listened to your suggestions.” His close-eyed smile widened as you missed his foot. You hissed at him and it only earned you a sneaky kiss at the back of your hand as you made a turn.

“So, my dearest; on a scale of flawless to perfect, how do I fare as a boyfriend?”

You rolled your eyes. “Your first day on the job and you’re already up there, aren’t you?”

“The highs of a love realised.” He bantered.  “A luxury a few can afford.”

You missed his foot again and frowned. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I know.”

When did the music stop playing? When did everyone disperse? The bonfire illuminated only he and you, casting shadows on vermilion. His forehead touched yours, looking down to meet your eyes. There was a smile there, not his usual ones—almost warm. “After this and it’s almost over.”

“Oh…”

He kissed your forehead to silence the dark thoughts looming inside there, squeezing your hand to know he wasn’t going away. Not ever.

“My heart will always be with you.” He called your name. “You are just a teleport away anyway. And we can call each other every day.”

“But what if I want to kiss you?”

He kissed you just then, feather soft before pulling away. “Would you like to make a deposit? For a rainy day, of course.”

You blushed, stunned at the sudden gesture. “I’ll use it all in one go,”

A kiss again, this time longer than the other. You stopped moving already and it took you a while to notice. You were too drunk on the moment to notice anything else, in fact.

“Wouldn’t that be a problem? I’m almost tempted to keep you here.”

“Don’t say that…” you bit your lip. “And I’m almost tempted to stay.”

You hated the thought of being away from him. Most especially now that…you had something. A label. An officiation of sorts—validating your feelings for each other.

“Won’t you trust me?”

He said to you, four simple words that you couldn’t help but simmer over as your happy yet fleeting days with him are almost coming to an end.

Lucifer

Have you made your decision?

And then there’s that—a thought you had set aside in favour of not letting your wonderful day to be spoiled. However you wish to evade responsibility however, you could not. You asked Satan’s words back at you again:

Do you trust him?

💌[ Tell Satan. ]

💌[ Go alone. ]

💌masterlist

[ MEMORIA 10: ~To Deceive, To Protect~ unlocked. ]

[ MEMORIA 10: ~To Deceive, To Protect~ unlocked. ]

💌 Read now

💌Read now (first draft version/private blog)

[ A new option has opened in Mammon’s Route: ~Smile at him~ ]

💌Read now

[danielcooperrp]

We Two Boys Together Clinging

Halfway through 19th Century American Poetry and Drew has a sensation with which he is all too familiar: eyes boring into the back of head. It doesn't matter how many times he's been gawked at in a restaurant or in the allergy aisle of CVS (hay fever is a bitch), the feeling of the little hairs on the back of his neck standing up never fails to make him want to slink into a hole and die. He tries to ignore it, tries to focus all of his attention on the professor, who is droning on about the difference between various editions of Leaves of Grass, but that only lasts so long. Eventually, he caves, and he turns to look. 

He's not shocked when the dark eyes watching him quickly dart away—people are often abashed when they get caught staring—but it is a surprise when, a few moments later, they return to meet his. The face they belong to is handsome, warm, dark skin, a strong jaw, a slightly crooked nose that suggests some kind of trouble, and—oh. Two rows of perfect white teeth that he sees now because the face is grinning at him, an inviting, dangerous grin, and now Drew's the one looking away, his own cheeks glowing red. His eyes burn holes in his notebook—he hasn't written a word in so long, he'll have to research this edition issue on his own later—and the other guy's eyes burn holes in his skull. 

Why is he looking at him like that? Drew hasn't said a thing all class, not that any of them would be able to get a word in edgewise. His eyes dart down to check his outfit; a little schnerdy, sure, but nothing that stands out in a Harvard classroom. He risks it again; a quick look back, and that smile is still waiting for him, this time a little softer, like he's happy he keeps getting caught. 

By the time class ends, Drew is a sweaty mess. He has no idea what the professor said for the last half of that lecture, but he's not going to stick around to ask. He tosses his notebook and his copy of Whitman into his satchel and slides into the mass exodus from the room. He lets himself be carried toward the building exit by the river of hungry undergrads, hoping that he avoids whatever situation was brewing behind him in class, but the river comes to a screeching halt when everyone notices that it's pouring buckets outside. Those smart enough to plan ahead whip out their umbrellas and leave, and some who don't have any other choice lower their heads and shoulders as though preparing to take a charging bull head on and foray bravely into the downpour. 

Drew doesn't have another class for forty-five minutes, and even though he was planning on getting lunch in the interim, he really doesn't want to get this sweater wet, so he decides to duck into an alcove and wait it out. He pulls out his phone, Googles the information he thinks he missed in class, and is halfway through an Encyclopedia Britannica article when someone clears their throat. He looks up and blinks owlishly. It's the teeth. 

"Hi," the teeth say. "I'm Xander." 

Drew stares. He doesn't know what to do with this information. During the rare instances someone deigns to talk to him, an introduction like "I'm Xander" is almost always followed by a request like "Can I get an picture?" or "Do you know where the bathroom is?", depending on if he's been recognized or not. But this...this is just warm brown eyes and a big shiny smile that he doesn't know what to with. 

"Drew Cooper," he eventually blurts out, remembering that he is in fact a human person with a name. "Um. Hi." 

Xander leans casually against the wall adjacent to Drew, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight over the bulk of his arms as he crosses them over his very muscular chest. "You know, I really liked what you had to say last week about the em dashes in Emily Dickinson's poems. How they're meant to give you space to breath but really end up making you feel breathless. Professor didn't know what do with that, but...I liked it."

What is happening what is happening what is hap— Drew swallows thickly. "Oh. Thanks. I, uh, visited the house in Amherst a lot growing up. School field trips, family weekends...I'm...familiar with her work."

Xander nods toward the corner of Leaves of Grass sticking out of Drew's satchel. "What about Whitman? He a favorite too?"

Drew shrugs. "Sure. Mostly 'Song of Myself' and 'Drum-Taps,' but generally...yeah, his language is...unparalleled." Drew pauses, unsure, and then continues. "Reading Whitman always reminds me that I need to look around more. That everything is beautiful if I let it be."

The smile grows bigger. "I really like the way you talk about poetry, Drew Cooper." Xander reaches into the JanSport he's got slung over one shoulder and pulls out an umbrella. "Want to talk about it over lunch?"

—————

It’s not until their third post-poetry class lunch that Drew finds out something interesting about his new friend. “Wait...you’re on the football team?”

Xander laughs, a loud, warm sound that makes Drew feel like he’s part of the joke instead of the butt of it. “Yeah, yeah, I’m on the football team.” Drew makes a face. “What?”

“Well...don’t take this the wrong way, but...” Drew swirls his spoon in his cup of clam chowder. “...is Harvard’s team any good?”

This earns a longer, louder laugh from Xander, who takes a bite of his grilled chicken when he’s done. “In the grand scheme of things? No. We go up against Auburn or Clemson and we’re getting our asses kicked, no questions asked. But against the teams we actually play? We’re not half-bad.” 

“So what position do you play?”

“Tight end.”

“Oh, I know that one. That’s...an important one.”

Xander suppresses the laugh this time. “It’s okay, Cooper. You don’t have to pretend to like football.”

Drew scrunches his nose. “I’m sorry. I come from a sports family. My dad and my older sister, in particular, they’ll talk for hours about football or baseball or hockey...it all goes over my head.”

With a shrug, Xander says, “Well, you’ve got enough good stuff going on in that head. No need to waste brain space on stuff that doesn’t matter.”

Drew feels himself starting to flush, so he quickly tries to shift the focus. “Well what about you? If football doesn’t matter, why risk CTE for it?”

“Scholarships, Cooper! You think Harvard pays for itself? I got in on test scores, but test scores don’t get you out of loans. Football does.”

And doesn’t that make Drew feel so silly. He knows how unbelievably lucky he is, that he had every semester of higher education he could ever want at whatever university would take him paid for before he was even born. If he had the mind to, he could keep taking classes at Harvard or Yale or Oxford until he died and he’d never have to think about the cost. Xander actually has to work for his education, and Drew feels like a little kid in comparison. 

—————

They’ve been in a little back corner of Lamont Library for a few hours now, bent over their respective texts as they work on assignments for different classes. Drew’s nose-deep in an anthology of Helen Hunt Jackson, while Xander’s scribbling away at equations for one of his insanely complicated math classes. They work in comfortable silence, and every once in a while Drew wonder how strange it is, the easy way they spend their days together. 

At one point, Xander throws down his pencil in disgust. “That’s it. Cooper, I’m dropping out.”

Drew makes a face. “You’re not dropping out, Xander.” 

“I am. No economics degree is worth this.” He gestures vaguely to his chicken-scratch math homework. 

“I mean, you’re not going to hear an argument from me, the guy studying History and Literature.” Drew peeks at the equations. “Would it help if you explained it to me?”

Xander furrows his brows. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...my sisters always head more of a head for the STEM subjects, while I’ve always been better at...” He waves a hand over his poetry book. “...softer stuff. But when I was a kid, my dad, who’s, like, an insane science nerd to the max, would tell me to pretend that I was the science teacher and I had to teach him the homework. It really helped. Explaining out loud, going over each problem piece by piece, helped me understand it better.” He flushes. “It’s just a thought, though. You don’t have to...”

“On one condition.” Xander smirks. “You have to tell me all of your thoughts on Thoreau afterward.”

Drew can’t fight his grin. “Deal.”

—————

Drew’s schedule is light on Tuesdays, so he’s back in the apartment he shares with Aidan, about halfway between Harvard and MIT’s campuses. She’s here, too, ditching a class she claims is “beneath the mathematical sensibilities of a first-grader.” She and some friend Drew is sure he should know the name of are on their little balcony, sipping wine coolers and people-watching while Drew reads for his early Wednesday class. Mostly, really, he’s listening to them gossip.

“See her?” 

“Blond ponytail?”

“No, by the crosswalk, with the dog. Don’t tell her you have a fake ID, she’ll narc on you in a heartbeat.”

“Get out!”

“Dead serious. Freshman down the hall got busted because of her.”

“What a bitch. Over there, those two: dating or siblings?”

“They’re practically identical, so I’m hoping siblings....Oh god, please let me be wrong...”

“Who’s that?”

“Where?” 

“Coming down the sidewalk here.”

“He’s hot, whoever he is.”

“I’ll say.”

“Wait...why does he look familiar....”

“Wasn’t he at that party two weekends ago? The one on Banks Street?”

“Oh my god, that’s it, he’s on the Harvard football team!”

Drew’s head snaps up. 

“Tell you what, he could score a touchdown any day. Look at those arms...Drew?” 

Drew scrambles off of the couch and flings himself onto the balcony. Aidan gives him a wild look. “What the hell?”

Peering over the edge, Drew spies Xander just as he gets to the front door of their building. He doesn’t need to use the buzzer, because someone’s coming out. “Oh.”

“Drew?”

Ignoring his sister, Drew rushes back to the couch, where he grabs all of his books and notebooks and tosses them into his backpack. Then he races into his bedroom to grab shoes. “I, uh, have to go! Study thing!”

Aidan looks down to the street and back to her panicked twin. “Drew...are you friends with a football player?”

“No!” Drew squeaks. “Yes! I mean, yes, we are friends. We have a class together. I have to go!”

Aidan squints in suspicion as Drew charges out the door. When it slams shut behind him, her friend says, “Does he know his sweater is on backward?”

Aidan shrugs. “Not my business.”

—————

“Why do you hang out with me?”

It’s a hazy October afternoon, and Drew and Xander are hanging out in Flagstaff Park, studying. People call out to Xander as they walk by, and Xander gives them a friendly wave or a “Hey man!” but makes no move to get up and socialize. Drew knows he’s quiet, not the best conversationalist in the world, so he wonders. 

“What do you mean?” Xander looks at him like he always does, like Drew is about to say something absolutely revelatory. 

“I mean...shouldn’t you be hanging out with the rest of the football team? Is that what you’re supposed to do?”

Xander seems amused. “Is that what you want me to do?”

“No,” Drew answers too quickly. “I just...I don’t know. I’ve never had someone spend so much time with me who wasn’t a blood relative, that’s all. And it seems like you have a lot of friends so...I don’t know...forget it...” Embarrassed, he turns back to his history textbook. 

A wide hand, fingers splayed, plops down over the pages, and Drew looks up to see Xander rolling his eyes. “I hang out with you so much, Cooper, because I like spending time with you, and also, I’m hoping that if I earn enough goodwill you’ll let me take you out to dinner at some point.” 

Drew freezes. “I—what?”

“I mean, if you’re not into me, that’s fine. I’m a big boy, I can handle it. But the thing is, I think you are into me, which is great, because I’m into you too, but I don’t mind biding my time until you’re ready.”

Every single neuron in Drew’s brain is misfiring. “You’re—into me?”

“Man got himself into Harvard just to outshine the professors and he still can’t read what’s right in front of him.” Xander sighs. “Yes, Cooper, I am into you, and would like to start seeing you socially in a romantic capacity.”

“But...you’re on the football team!” 

“I—what?” Drew just gapes at him. “Cooper...” Xander starts to laugh, slow at first, and then harder.

“Wait, why are you laughing at me?”

“It’s just...really refreshing to talk to someone as woefully out of touch as you are.”

“Hey!”

“Cooper, I dated a guy on the swim team for like two months last year. My being gay is...not news. To anyone.”

“Apparently not my sister,” Drew grumbles. 

“What?”

“Nothing.” Drew shakes his head. Nothing is making sense. “Do you know...who I am?”

“...We’ve met, yeah.”

“No, I mean...my family.”

“Oh.” Xander shrugs. “Yeah. Did some light Googling. I mean, c’mon, a white boy as quiet and smart as you? I had to be sure you weren’t secretly a neo-Nazi or some shit.”

“I’m Jewish,” Drew mumbles, “but that’s not the point. You know...who I’m related to.”

“Yeah. Am I supposed to care?” Xander reaches out and takes Drew’s hand, interlaces their fingers together. Drew’s heart is pounding so hard in his ears he can barely hear Xander speak. “Cooper, I am an economics major. I don’t want to date you because your grandpa was a billionaire. I want to date you in spite of the fact that your grandpa was a billionaire.”

Drew chokes out a laugh. “Fair enough.” 

“I mean, you’re cute and all, but don’t think I won’t eat you for sustenance when the class war starts.”

His laugh is louder this time. “Stop.” 

“So what do you say?” A squeeze of the fingers, and a squeeze to his heart. “Drew Cooper, will you go on a date with me?”

Drew chews on his lip, and then he nods. “Yeah. Yeah I will.” 

Then Xander grins his perfect white grin, and Drew knows he’s a goner.

[alltingfinns]

The Hounds of the Baskerville

Holding a phallic object, splattered with a body fluid and breathing heavily.

“Well that was tedious!”

And as if that was too subtle, he keeps playing with the harpoon even after it and him has been cleaned off and he’s switched to one of his robes.

John taking just two seconds to pretend considering to give in, just to be a little shit.

Also I am pretty sure that John has a secret scrapbook just for pictures of Sherlock in the hat.

Oh look, begging for mercy. Twice.

I just really love this scene, the manic energy of Sherlock and the calm sass of John gives us some of the funniest moments of the entire show. Also Ben needs to do more physical comedy.

Here he mentions a blog entry on perfume identification which plays out in HLV, so I’m a bit disappointed that the blogging on textile tensile strength in TEH didn’t feature in s4. Maybe some shirts get ripped in s5?

It’s so mean, but my favorite bit really is the mocking of the little girl asking for help finding her rabbit.

The wagging from side to side “please please please can you help?”

“Like a fairy!” with accompanying high pitch and hand motions.

Followed by a look from John that suggests he doesn’t think a lack of substance is Sherlock’s present issue.

And then suddenly he’s like “wait this actually does sound better than nothing”

And Cluedo. “It was the only possible solution”

Trivia note: the Swedish name for the game is also Cluedo, except we pronounce each vowel seperately. Clu-e-do.

It’s so domestic how they say “client” together. Apparently there’s a certain way frequent callers would ring the doorbell that differentiates clients.

Sherlock’s mainly looking at Henry looking at the video, don’t think I’ve noticed that before.

John’s irritated already when Sherlock begins listing things he noticed. Maybe he feels it is a bit too similar to when they first met, meaning he might be jealous that Sherlock does it with others or irritated at his past self for being as mesmerized as Henry is.

Sherlock inventing aggressive passive smoking.

Sherlock is so annoyed that Henry keeps thinking he’s in a horror story rather than a detective story.

I wonder what kind of poetry John wrote. He probably tried to use his feelings for Sherlock to simulate the romance his girlfriends wanted, which is why it is extra exasperating that Sherlock found it “funny”. Although that might be because he’d find the poetry mismatched to the girlfriends and/or the emotional investment John showed them.

“Childhood trauma masked by an invented memory. Boring!”

The parallel has been pointed out before but it bears repeating. Even if they hadn’t planned ahead by the time this episode was written, why go ahead and use an already discarded plot device they themselves called boring?

Interestingly the plot of the episode does more or less lead to this being the solution but not quite. The memory was invented and masking the real events, but it wasn’t Henry’s childhood brain doing it (at least not without aid). Might be worth comparing these plots. If only for the meta moment of it wasn’t you who imagined what you saw, someone made you see it. And then they tried to drive you into fear and doubt to keep secrets hidden.

“The vanishing glow-in-the-dark rabbit! NATO is in an uproar.”

That :( face is so funny every time.

Hound is a bit tricky in Swedish as the Swedish word for dog is hund. So the subtitles just go with spökhund. (Ghost dog)

“It’s cold.” John doesn’t even say anything but he still makes Sherlock self conscious.

Wonder why they showed us the therapy session?

John standing by the counter looking at Sherlock just looking very soft.

Doesn’t even complete his denial. And was that a single key, or were two keys just so closely held together? I’ve never been fully sure if they shared a single room or had one each. John’s incomplete denial would suggest separate rooms (it’s okay because they’re not actually a couple).

John showing his detective skills. And for once it won’t play out like the cats in TGG. It’s an important reminder that John is a smart man overshadowed by a genius, instead of the common enough Everyman and/or bumbling oaf that some believe of Watson.

“And the ruddy prisoner” probably the full extent of the subplot from the novel.

“Is yours a snorer?” “Got any crisps?” Pretty high pitch there, John.

There is sort of a running theme of characters waxing poetically in vague spookiness and Sherlock just scoffing at it. Reminder that the novel is a horror story starring a detective outside of his normal trappings.

“We’ll get caught.” “No, we won’t. Well not right away.”

More exact words from John as he pulls rank and activates Sherlock’s military kink.

The timer doesn’t start ticking at the gate but at the building itself, wonder why. Or maybe it has been ticking, but now there’s atten paid to it?

“Enjoy it?” Just something to file away in the John wing of his mind palace.

I halfway expected one of the elevator buttons to be key activated for the really tippy top secret secrets.

I see one monkey has seen Raiders of the Lost Arc. That or it’s still upset that it didn’t get the part.

“Stapleton?” He may have mocked little Kirsty, but he still remembered her name.

“People say there’s no such thing as coincidences. What dull lives they must lead.” But the universe is rarely so lazy? Of course rarely does not mean never, and looking at the forebears website Stapleton is a 1 in 3600 name in Devon. So the only question is if Kirsty listed her whereabouts on the forum. Not in her message but maybe in the profile she made.

The dramatic reveal of BLUEBELL.

Sherlock deducing the inside job while John just repeats “the rabbit?” is as good a summary of the show as anything, honestly.

Mycroft’s exasperated “goodammit, Sherlock!” look is almost too loud for the Diogenes club.

I think I read on tvtropes that the Major’s beard isn’t regulatory. Acceptable breaks of reality for the sake of original reference.

“It wasn’t my hat.” I love how the hat is used as a summary of the artifacts attached to the character. The trappings that come from adaptations and parodies and whatnot. Like Igor, who apparently wasn’t even in the original Universal Horror film but its sequel.

Exactly how does John expect Sherlock to turn off his cheekbones? Also the idea that Sherlock is turning up his collar to “play cool” as they’re leaving Baskerville kind of shows that it’s mainly for John’s benefit. Like his later choices to wear the hat. Sherlock starts off wanting to impress John, and by s3 it is about playing a specific Sherlock Holmes role. And again, John betrays his real thought by mentioning the cheekbones. “Stop being so attractive, dammit!”

“Has she been working on something deadlier than a rabbit?” “To be fair, that is quite a wide field.” Cue the killer rabbit jokes.

John’s awkward “are you... rich?”

In the original story the wealth was far more plot relevant, here it’s just a bit of dialogue fodder.

Not spelling out “in” this time?

Pretty sure those are IKEA mugs.

The plan sounds bad, but it is perfectly sound. They have done as much preliminary research as they can at the moment, and by going all three of them they do stand a decent chance should the beast be real. Of course Sherlock still doubts it’s real, which is the main plot for his character.

With the exception of this episode and episodes of Midsumer Murders I hadn’t really heard fox screams before. Imagine not knowing that’s what it is and just hearing this almost ghostly screech specifically when watching English mystery shows.

John just wandering away from the others without alerting them, and then he’s surprised that Sherlock and Henry has continued on without him. If he has a survival instinct it is in a coma.

Umqra. John knows Morse, which I honestly have found tricky trying to learn.

Taking a break here.

[nightbloomsresorthotel]

A Controversial, but Fair Essay on Gabbie Hanna’s Poetry That Doesn’t Completely Shit on Her Writing

So I just finished listening to her youtube video where she addresses this topic. When I first saw her poems, I could see what everyone was talking about: her poems are simple, full of puns that seem to masquerade as a function of “depth”, with simple, easy to understand language juxtaposed with themes of growing up and trauma. She says that her influences include Shel Silverstein, Bo Burnham and William Williams, including his famous poem This is Just to Say.

(prepare thyself reader, this is a quick 2k analysis. I’ve included GOOD poetry recs at the end!)

She goes on to say that what drew her to these poems was there charm- Shel Silverstein’s works were meant for children, and they are easy to interpret- and could be read from the perspective of both an adult and child. As a child reading Where the Sidewalk Ends, I enjoyed the illustrations and the rhyming nature of these poems. I’m sure Gabbie Hanna did as well. Hearing her talk about these inspirations and what she wanted to do with her own poems, it’s clear that she was aiming for each piece to harken back to the whimsy and innocence of childhood, while addressing more adult topics.

I think that Gabbie Hanna missed the mark. She admits that some of the poems in her book were rushed and this makes me question if and where she ever got any peer feedback from her pieces. I also wonder if Gabbie has ever taken any writing classes or poetry workshops, but I am doubtful. The big difference between This is Just to Say and, lets say, her poem Chivalry is clear. Here is This is Just to Say:

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold.

So much has already been said about this poem. But the biggest thing to take away here, is that Williams clearly put thought into syntax, imagery, rhythm and rhyme. You will notice that this piece doesn’t exactly rhyme, but it slant rhymes. Rhyming has become less of a marker for poetry recently, mostly because I think it makes people think of nursery rhymes or songs and traditional, older forms of poetry, and some poets don’t want that connotation. This may surprise some, but poetry is an ever evolving art form; poets are always playing with experimentation in their work. Here, imagery and the five senses make This is Just to Say great. Up until the last stanza, we don’t really get anything that makes us feel a physical sensation until we get to “so sweet/ and so cold”. This is where the impact of the poem lies. This is the climax of this poem. Every word before it is intentionally abstract, while sweet and cold are in comparison, concrete images and sensual images. This is why we can almost taste the plums the author is talking about at the end of the poem.

Let’s look at a poem I picked at random from Gabbie Hanna’s book, CHIVALRY:

I’m not some no-brained bimbo

and i’m not some helpless girl

i am fucking remarkable

and i deserve the world.

i don’t need you to open my door,

but the gesture would be nice.

i don’t need you to buy my meal;

the offer would suffice.

i don’t need to be taken care of,

but it’d be cool to know you care.

i’m a holographic charizard

highly desired and rare.

yo, i even drop pokemon references

‘cause i’m fuckin dope as shit.

i’m good with just me, i don’t need you

not even a tiny bit.

Let me address what I like about this poem first. Gabbie knows what she wants to do- she utilizes rhyming and repetition to make this an easy flowing read. She knows that a lower-case “i” shows that despite what she may be claiming in the poem “i don’t need you/ not even a tiny bit”, the narrator does not think highly of themselves— perhaps the narrator desperately needs the “you” addressed, but is not confidant enough to ask for their friendship/ relationship. The narrator is contradicting themselves, showing a low self-esteem, and maybe crying for help. This juxtaposed with the fun rhyming tone of the piece and the mention of pokémon succesfully gets this point across.

However, this poem seems to focus on utilizing these elements of craft only. Gabbie could enhance the reader experience by adding more concrete imagery: why type of meal? How helpless of a girl? These are instances where Gabbie could help the reader connect to the speaker, and she doesn’t do so. We could also argue that she’s emulating This is Just to Say by only including one concrete and colorful image, but I will address this further down.

Additionally, this narrator could be anyone. I could imagine anybody saying this, of any gender. Perhaps Gabbie did this intentionally- the more vague a narrator is, the more it could apply to anyone— the average teen/adult could connect to this poem. However, this gives the poem a generic quality. Perhaps others would like to connect to this narrator more, and get a better sense of who the narrator is. Also let me address why I keep using “narrator” instead of “Gabbie”. It’s a force of habit for me (that I got from poetry courses in college) to assume that the narrator of the poem and the author of the poem may not always be the same person. I think in this situation, these poems are undoubtedly from Gabbi’s perspective, but to remain neutral just in case, I will continue to use “narrator”. 

Something I’d also like to address is the matter of rhyming in the current poetry world. Many journals have gone so far as to say “we do not accept rhyming poems” in their submission guidelines. Not all, but some. People who just start out writing poetry believe that poems must rhyme to be considered poetry at all, but when you take your first poetry class in high school or college, you quickly realize that this is not the case. Here, Gabbie uses a simple end rhyme scheme to evoke poetry like Silverstein and childhood memories of reading poetry, nursery rhymes, etc. But I think to those who have been reading poetry for a long time, teaching it, or reading submissions for their journal, the mark of a novice poet is that everything rhymes, sometimes at the sake of using a better word in its place that doesn’t rhyme. I think rhyme has its place in poetry, but it can be overused. Since most of Gabbie Hanna’s poems do rhyme, it’s easy to see someone getting “rhyme fatigue” while reading. Another negative effect of rhyming is that the reader will begin to anticipate the rhyme- this can cause the reader to skip lines entirely, and focus solely on the rhyme scheme, rather than focusing on the meaning of the poem. A piece that harkens back to childhood and uses rhyme well, in my opinion, is This Be the Verse by Phillip Larkin:

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.  

   They may not mean to, but they do.  

They fill you with the faults they had

   And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

   By fools in old-style hats and coats,  

Who half the time were soppy-stern

   And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

   It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

   And don’t have any kids yourself.

I think the big difference between this and Gabbie Hanna’s poem is that it starts off strong right away with “They fuck you up, your mum and dad”. The condescending tone is always there right from the start, and the rhyming is more of a surprise than an expectation throughout- the line “it deepens like a coastal shelf” brings new imagery and meaning to the poem by veering off into another subject. This enhances the surprise.

I’d also like to address cliche’s. The cliche’s present in CHIVALRY are “I deserve the world” and “I don’t need you to open my door”. These are easy to understand from a readers point of view, but often, cliche’s offer nothing new and exciting to the reader. They are easy to skip over and ignore. These add to the poems generic atmosphere.

Let’s talk about the pieces title itself: CHIVALRY. When we read this poem with the title in context, we get a strange disconnect. The poem is clearly about a girl who says she doesn’t need chivalrous acts from a  friend or partner, and doesn’t need someone because they are “good with just me”. But the subtext of the piece is less about chivalry and more about self-esteem or a willingness to be loved. The piece has changed meaning two thirds of the way down. I think the title is too obvious and misleading, and gives the reader the wrong idea about what the poem is trying to say. In essence, the piece is named after a facet of the relationship between the narrator and other person, rather than the root of what the poem is trying to convey.

The pokémon references add color to this piece, and it is the only place this piece has any kind of concrete imagery. In the This is Just to Say the sweet and cold plum imagery is the very last line, heightening them. In CHIVALRY, they’re near the middle of the piece. Thus, the longer ending reduces the color  and lasting effect of “holographic charizard”.

Overall, I think Gabbie Hanna could benefit from workshopping her poems and getting peer feedback from other poets, in addition to reading poetry that isn’t thirty plus years old. I don’t know if she already does this, but judging from her poems, I can only assume that she hasn’t. At the very least, she should avoid rushing to get poems out before they are due.

Gabbie Hanna is a novice poet who put her poems out into the world and got a greater amount of backlash than any novice poet usually does in a workshop or classroom setting.  When in the classroom, there is such a thing as Critique Etiquette. Critique for poems are give honestly and gently, never in a harsh or mean way. Fellow poets point out possible interpretations of work, or possible unwanted connotations of sometimes, even a simple word at the end of the line. In addition, poets in the classroom are exposed to modern poets that are creating new and exciting work that is often published in highly esteemed magazines- reading the best of todays poetry. Gabbi Hanna’s work seemingly got published without peer review, and the quality of it was clear to those who read it. That being said, I do think that people who read and love Gabbie Hanna’s work do connect with it— no doubt because these poems are designed to be as generic as possible, so that others may see themselves in the words.This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I believe her work appeals best to newcomers to poetry, people who maybe have only ever read works from Shel Silverstein or Edgar Allen Poe. This can be a blessing and a shame. There are many good poets out there, that aren’t getting published because they don’t have youtube channels or brand collaborations, and they are just plain hard to find. However, Gabbie Hanna has opened the door for many would-be poetry readers, and has sparked a love for the art of poetry in them. Hopefully, this love leads them to become wider read, and to seek out more poetry from a multiple of authors to read.

I decided that I’d also like to include some published poetry from poets that are from a range of different backgrounds. Go forth and read!

POETRY THAT DOESN'T SUCK: Sonya Vatomsky's Salt is for Curing- poems by a non-binary poet that focus on themes of femininity, Russian food, Russian folklore and identity. Review Purchase 

Danez Smith- A black, queer, non-binary and HIV positive writer. A poem I really like of theirs is "Dinosaurs in the Hood" is a great poem that I personally love.

Claudia Rankine's Citizen: An American Lyric. This book contains poems that focus on the Black experience in America. Excerpt from the book here

Khadijah Queen's I'm So Fine: A List of Famous Men and What I Had On. This collection features conversational poems that focus on the narrators encounters with famous men in relation to what the narrator was wearing at the time. A piece that centers around the question "Well, what were you wearing?". Read two poems from the book Here. 

Fatimah Ashgar's IF THEY COME FOR US. Poems by a Pakistani-Kashmiri-American. These poems focus on race and identity. One of my favorites takes the form of a bingo card, titled Microagression Bingo (read here and two other poems from the book). As a poc myself, I was nodding along to every line, thinking "Yup. I've been through that too."

Tommy Pico is an indiginous poet, and Junk is a book length poem of couplets that uses modern, fast, text style language. From the Tin House website: "The third book in Tommy Pico’s Teebs trilogy, Junk is a breakup poem in couplets: ice floe and hot lava, a tribute to Janet Jackson and nacho cheese. In the static that follows the loss of a job or an apartment or a boyfriend, what can you grab onto for orientation?" Read an excerpt Here. 

I can assure you that none of these read like Rupi Kaur, Gabbie Hanna, or Atticus. These are serious poets that have spent years honing their form, submitting to journals-- they did the work. And it shows in the quality of their writing.

While I'm not a fan of Atticus and Rupi Kaur and Gabbie Hanna, I can appreciate that they've appealed to people who may have never read a poem before. Now those people have a  newfound love for poetry, and a hunger for more. Hopefully, those people will seek out other poets and expand their knowledge and repertoire of current poets, maybe lesser known poets that do amazing work.

[la-paritalienne]

Eve!!!! Need your thoughts about Taylor's album!!!! 💓💓💓💓💓💓

i love getting asked :”(((((( :”))))))) thank uuuuuuuu. let’s get to it. as usual, it’s an almost-first impression (normally i write my basic thoughts during the first listen – yeah i’d started doing it before getting this, you know, just in case – and then i review them w a second one, where i also select my favourite passage). sooo, let’s go

♡♡♡♡

the 1 — such sweet yet heartbreaking lyrics... very soft sound, if it sets the mood for the album im 100 per cent in! This one didn’t stick w me after one listen, but after the second i was like wooow! I love how she says waking up alone ughhh. 8

fave lyrics: persist and resist the temptation to ask you / if one thing had been different / would everything be different today?

cardigan — !!!!!!! the sound has that bittersweet something that gets under your skin and makes you nostalgic for something you can’t even pinpoint. it reminds me of the softest lana, especially in nfr (eg bartender!!). i’m in awe. instant obsession!!!! the ending takes you to another plane of existence – ‘cause i knew everything when i was young... i knew you’d miss me... you’d come back to me. also i’m crying. 10+

[it’s hard to choose bc the whole song reads like poetry but i’m especially obsessed w] giving me your weekends; once in twenty lifetimes; tried to change the ending / peter losing wendy; you drew stars around my scars

the last great american dynasty — storytelling on pointttt and sound, too! telling the story of someone she bought her house from?? the genius jumped out. she paints it like a romantic portrait, mad woman pacing on the shore, but then also gatsbian, the crazy parties, dali... and then takes it back to today w the key lime green dog, idk, iconic. i want to know this woman. this song truly takes you somewhere else, i thought it was a bit repetitive but then the bridge came in and the final vocals plus i had a marvelous time ruining everything, i have to stan! 8+

there goes the maddest woman this town has ever seen / she had a marvelous time ruining everything

exile — ok wow, bon iver’s voice is something else!!!! i was kind of ignorant when it came to him, i admit. his depth and rasp paired with how angelic she sounds... heavenly. sound-wise, but also thematically, this vaguely reminds me of tomorrow never came w lana and sean ono lennon. (one of my fave songs of all time maybe?). the way they enunciate i think i’ve seen this film before is literally a work of art all in itself, not to mention – well i’m mentioning it bc it’s worth it! – the you never gave a warning sign vs the way she goes over it w i gave so many signs. god this makes me feel sooooo sad and like, involved. it’s so beautiful. 10

you’re not my homeland anymore / so what am i defending now?

my tears ricochet — ok wtfffff??? everything about this speaks to my soul. the airy voice, the way she sets the scene... sunlit room, the funeral metaphor, you turned into your worst fears. i didn’t have it in myself to go with grace speaks to me more than anything, but just, everything about the lyrics. truly something else, cursing my name / wishing i stayed gives me chills everytime she says it. the beat that gets more insistent towards the end, with the bridge....... the high notes that then fade..... just wow. 10

and i can go anywhere i want / anywhere i want, just not home / and you can aim for my heart, go for blood / but you would still miss me in your bones / and i still talk to you when i’m screaming at the sky / and when you can’t sleep at night you hear my stolen lullabies

mirrorball — love the lyrics, maybe a bit less the sound? i mean i do love the sound, so far i’m loving how softly produced and coherent this album is, but this one i wouldn’t listen to on repeat and maybe there’s something a bit whiny that i don’t love. powerful meaning tho, and who’d use a mirrorball as a metaphor for feeling like you’re fragile, trying too hard to be a people-pleaser and no one sees the real you? 7

i’m still trying everything to keep you looking at me

seven — ah........ i started crying as soon as this one started, pleeease picture me in the trees, i hit my peak at seven....... like ok there’s no need to go that hard??? it’s so dreamy and like... naïf? in a perfect way. the way she says i still got love for you...... and everything else... she mentions folk songs... the purest love described in the purest way. i don’t think i have enough words to descrive the way this song moves me. like i want to listen to it again and again, to be able to feel like that again, but also i’m almost scared to listen bc it touches me too deeply. i still will tho hehe. 10+ (also just realised this is track 7 ok makes sense but my mind is blown. 100)

[this is literally deeper than a shakespeare sonnet so everything literally is my fave but, having to choose] and i’ve been meaning to tell you / i think your house is haunted / your dad is always mad and that must be why / and i think you should come live with me / and we can be pirates / then you won’t have to cry / or hide in the closet / and just like a folk song / our love will be passed on

august — i love the contrast between the lighthearted, happy singing and guitars and the sad lyrics. the story it tells is so simple and yet there’s so much poetry in that... plus it reminds me of fearless or even speak now?? which are like. the taylor that gets to my heart, tbh. the bridge and the outro made the song for me. 8,5

for me, it was enough / to live for the hope of it all / canceled plans just in case you’d call

this is me trying — oh god... lyrically this song is so raw and honest, it gives me chills! i do have to say, i don’t love how she says i just wanted to know (like metrically?? idk, im weird) but these are really just small comments on amazing songs, bc i feel like all i’m saying is wow this is great, lyrics and sound, but it truly is a complete and consistent work of art, easily listened to top to bottom each time. 8-

they told me all of my cages were mental / so got wasted like all my potential / and my words shoot to kill when i’m mad / i have a lot of regrets about that

illicit affairs — ok this goes without saying but i love storyteller taylor, it’s the taylor i grew up loving and singing to in my room. the thing about most of these songs, this one included, is that they probably grow on you after a few listens, bc they’re not made to be catchy, the production and backgrounds are always very soft and some i love more than others. this one musically maybe isn’t my fave but the narration is on point, and the bridge?? the fuckkkk. plus it has one of mt favourite themes ever which is so rarely spoken about, which is the fact that language you only speak w a particular someone you love, makes you miss them even more when they’re gone. or well not exactly this but i can’t put it into words, she did tho. 8+

you taught me a secret language i can’t speak with anyone else / and you know damn well / for you, i would ruin myself / a million little times

invisible string — the color theme!!! the guitar strumming!!! and the idea of an invisible tie w someone special... i do think she outdid herself w this album. again, not my fave soundwise, maybe slightly whiny when she goes meEeeEee? but, lyrically adorable and moving. 7,5

one single thread of gold / tied me to you

mad woman — maam...... this is iconic shit........ how could she say stuff like this w such a dreamy, breathy voice. musically i get huuuge lana’a nfr vibes again (which i mean. goals) but i also adore that lyrically it’s so taylor, no one would say this shit the way she does. adore how she sings to wrap your news around and bonus for women like hunting witches too, i do love me a nod to the fact that some women are so deeply filled w machism that they’re basically men in disguise. 8,5 

every time you call me crazy, i get more crazy / what about that? / and when you say i seem angry, i get more angry [isn’t this just womanhood condensed in a few lines]

epiphany — aw! it sounds like a lullaby, maybe it’s slightly ‘boring’ for my taste? meaning i get distracted which is surely a shame bc the words seem beautiful, but it’s so soft i just drift off? but reading the lyrics – for focus hehe – i’m moved. 7+

only twenty minutes to sleep / but you dream of some epiphany / just one single glimpse of relief / to make some sense of what you’ve seen

betty — okay byeeeeeeeeee. this is taylor at her finest! countryyyyyyyy, storytelling, lesbian jdjdfk no yeah I know I knowww, romance went sour. gut wrenching and beautiful, this feels like... watching a sad teen movie but w a sepia filter, idk. i dreamt of you all summer long oh my......... it’s like og taylor from her iconic first couple of albums came back but w all her baggage and growth and experience and better than ever. also why does taylor sing so wel about being in love w a woman????? well. 10+

betty, right now is the last time / i can dream about what happens when / you see my face again

peace — ..........yes yes yes. the high notes, the honesty, the syncopated parts where she says so much so quick and yet it still hits you. it’s not even a short song but it ends too soon, it goes by like that..... a poem. omg it just hit me this has flo vibes! especially from high as hope, for example grace or south london forever?? i mean... taylor doing alt folk country pop...... queen. give you my wild, give you a child?? ok ok. 10

all these people think love’s for show / but i would die for you in secret

hoax — weeeell the lana inspo jumped out w that piano!!!!! and like. mood. and lyrics...... this reminds me of wuthering heights or of lana’s tormented love stories (shades of blue.....). a powerful closer. poetry. 9

i am ash from your fire

♡♡♡♡

okkkkk this was a flattering review, very well deserved imo since the review is mine gjgjhkhk i agree w myself. thank you again and as i always say, feel free to come back w your comments! and have a great dayyyyy! much love

[synesindri]

10, 11, 55. Also what’s reality play

lmao reality play is a term i just made up and is not intended to be as sexual as it probably sounds. i just mean like...little departures from what is actual/likely/possible when talking about anything. spinning off into mildly fictionalized versions of the world for a while. yes-anding someone about something that’s never going to happen but is just fun to think about hypothetically. you know? this maybe isn’t clear but basically i just mean not being super grounded in concrete ordinary life, being playful and flexible with entertaining far-fetched ideas.

10. Do you believe in love at first sight?

nah. imo love requires a lot of knowledge about a person’s life and character, shared experiences, and practice interacting. i definitely think it’s possible to have instant chemistry with someone, or to predict that you will get along with someone, but love takes a lot more than that to me. 

11. Do you ever want to get married?

not especially. i could see having a lifelong commitment to someone in some capacity, but marriage has never appealed to me, and i think i’d only do it for legal reasons.

55. Share a relationship story.

what is a relationship story...? hmm...before i had ever had a serious dating relationship, i had a “travel relationship” with someone who i met while on an extended backpacking trip and who i stayed in contact with for a few months. i wrote a lot of flowery stuff about that; it wasn’t a “real” romantic relationship but it was extremely aesthetically valuable to me. here are a couple of fragments from back then:

I choked tears not yet shed into my mouth when I kissed you for the last time. You did not expect them, but I read in your posture that you tasted them.

*

“Your skin is so smooth” “your heart is beating fast” “I don’t want to leave you” “I know we’ll meet again” – are these not the words of lovers?

*

I can’t count how many times I’ve wrapped my blanket tightly around me at night to remember the pressure of you against my back and around my waist when we slept. I won’t thread my fingers through my own or cup myself sweetly in my own hand, I won’t, because it’s sad. I won’t, because I’d be able to tell it’s not you.

*

I don’t know anything: what I like, what to do, what I want you to do. But I kept thinking recklessly, I felt it foolishly, that I would let you do anything to me, and I don’t know enough to think it much less to let you, but I did, and I’ve rarely been so glad of anything in my life.

*

What is love that makes me desperate for whatever I can get of you, what is love that you can electrify me with a fingertip, what is love that brings me to tears anywhere and everywhere, what is love that tightens my chest when I remember you, what is love that I love you though I don’t know you? Love, this love, is every sonnet ever written, every truth about want and passion to blaze across place and time – we are universal, and singularity does not breed good art.

*

I miss you always. I want your eyes on me during random afternoons; I at least consider talking to you every day when I think of you; I want to watch you dress in the morning when I wake up. But as time passes I realize that I only deify you at night when your absence is most tangible. You are painfully beautiful in so many ways but I most ache for your beauty that could touch me. I do love you but not fully; my body might need you but I do not. There is a poetic sense of the word love and in that I have hopelessly fallen, but poetry is only real at night and there is more to me than verse.

thanks anon! revisiting this for 55 was fun, even if it’s maybe not what was intended by the question lol

vaguely nsfw asks

[hanramm156]

Rammstein Family Game: Get to know me! (Warning: a long ramble)

I’m honored to be tagged by @cherrisplace​ and @momoredcrow​. ^^ It’s been a pleasure to read other people’s Rammstein memories and opinions, so here comes mine as well. Writing is one of those rare things that keep me sane during this crazy season, so I apologize this being super long. More rambling is probably coming when everything’s cancelled and I have nothing else to do.

Rules: There are no rules. Tag whoever you want. Don’t tag yourself. Tag yourself. You don’t have to answer all the questions. Do what you please. Have fun.

Created by: @vapor-stein

1. I’m curious: when did you discover Rammstein?

2004 properly, but I might have heard Du hast or other popular songs even earlier.

2. Tell me your story. How did you discover them?

As said, it was 2004 and I was watching some random Finnish music show. Back in the days, I watched a lot of music videos from the tv and recorded my favorite ones to VHS. One evening Rammstein’s Amerika came from the show and I was like “??? What on earth is this??? Sounds interesting…”. I wasn’t into metal music back then (I mostly listened to indiepop and alternative rock), but for whatever reason, I got hooked instantly to this German band’s dark, eerie sound. It was refreshing to hear something else than English and the video was also thrilling.

Rammstein had intruded my mind already, but the final straw was when I saw the Mein Teil video. I liked both the song and the video A LOT - so much that I even felt kinda “dirty” for liking something this dark. A 14-year-old me was constantly asking from myself that: “am I even allowed to like this kind of stuff this much?”. The backstory for the song was creepy, but so mesmerizing – like I had been introduced to the darkest corners of human mind: yes, this kind of stuff happens, and we shouldn’t close our eyes from it. So next, the only thing I could do was to buy Reise, reise album, listen to it on loop and sketch my German notebook full of Rammstein lyrics. Here’s a proof:

I have so many stories about my relationship to Rammstein that I might have to write them all down now when there’s a lot of time.

3. Favourite song?

This topic would be worth a novel itself, but here are some of my favorites:

Asche zu Asche – So badass, gives me such an energy every time – plus, not to forget the burning microphones and SILVER REESH!

Bück dich – Yes, it’s a horrible story once again in this song, but I can’t help but to admit that the song is freaking catchy and in a weird way, hot. Also, there’s a funny backstory when I was in 9th grade and we almost performed this song in our official graduation party with my boyfriend and a bunch of our friends (maybe good that the idea was abandoned in the end…). We had a vague clue what the song was about, but we just thought it was funny – also, our German teacher dressed always in leather and loved Rammstein (she played us Bestrafe mich during one class and I’ll always remember the awkward atmosphere) so we were thinking to dedicate the song to her for as our goodbye. XDD Seriously, why I have been so weird for all my life…

Sehnsucht – In most of the pop songs, longing is described by tender words and soft lyrics, but not in Rammstein’s case. I’ve had this weird feeling of “longing” all my life that I can’t describe properly. It’s kind of an inner emptiness, only arts and music can help to deal with it when it hits. I think Sehnsucht describes so realistically what is longing about in reality: it’s this angry pressure in your heart which you want to get out of your chest but can’t. In the end, you just want to scream your lungs out.

Mein Herz brennt – Powerful song that always gives me goosebumps. I can’t even explain why. Maybe the fact that “tough” men being emotional is my soft spot and Rammstein hits that spot hard.

Links 2-3-4 – I have always been kind of a rebel and I feel like when everyone else is going to the “right” I have to go to the left, to the unknown. My heart is longing for adventure, for the paths the others are not going. I dunno, but this is such a powerful song for me. When I hear it, I always just want to jump around. In Tampere concert I went totally nuts when Links started as the second song, lol. From that moment I felt like I was back home with my boys.

Mein Teil – No need for further explanations anymore.

Los – The harmonica solo!!! The dropped c tuning and the acoustic sounds!! I love it.

Amour – My favorite R+ ballad. I confess that I listen to this and think about the lyrics when I’m in the mood for writing something painfully romantic.

Weit weg – There’s this painful longing once again that always resonates to me. I listened this to a lot after the “after blues” of Ratina concert.

Tattoo – A song that I didn’t care about so much at first, but for whatever reason, it’s almost my favorite from the new album nowadays. It’s catchy as hell and I like the “rattling” guitar riffs.

4. Least favourite song? Come on. I know you have one.

Feuer frei – Too much Vin Diesel vibes. I also get a picture of drunken, middle-aged Finnish guys on a R+ gig who don’t care about to band, but just want to have a party of their life and get drunk, far away from their wives. (No offense to anyone, but as music is almost like a religion to me, I can’t help but to have a bit of disrespect for kind of people who just “consume” music.)

Pussy – Both musically and lyrically, so bad, but I get the point the guys tried to give with this nonsense.

5. Favourite album? & 6. Least favourite album? aka. I ramble about all the albums.

Tough one… as the rules were vague, I decided to have a short opinion about each of the albums.

Herzeleid – Summary: a bunch of guys, born and raised in DDR, are tired of everything so they get together and play aggressive songs - you can almost smell the testosterone miles away while you are listening to this album. I have to admit that I love this album even though it’s not musically super creative. It’s just raw men with raw feelings – and I have to say, it works for me.

Sehnsucht – I was creeped out of the album art as a teenager, lol. But yeah, musically improved from the former one and there are some classic songs that make Rammstein as they are nowadays. I listen to this often when I’m driving.

Mutter – The album that they had the most struggles with if I have understood correctly. The pain can be heard through the songs and it’s so honest and raw. I lost my friend in 2004 tragically and this album was one of the things that kept me sane back then. Especially the beginning of the album (MHB, Links, Sonne) hits me hard in the guts.

Reise, reise – The album that started all this hype in me, so it has a special place in my heart. I also liked how they tried something different to their usual sounds in this one, like orchestral and acoustic songs.

Rosenrot – To be honest, this album has always left me a bit “cold”, so I cannot even make a real opinion of it. There are some good moments though, like Mann gegen Mann that really speaks to me.

Untitled: This has been on the loop since last August and I was honestly surprised how good the album was. I hadn’t listened to Rammstein for a while, but when I got this album to my hands after the concert, holy shit it hit me. I like hearing the path the guys have gone: their new music is much more mature than the first angry albums. Also, I love Till’s poetry in this one, like Was ich liebe and Weit weg.

I think I answered the question #7 already, so I’ll skip to #8.

8. Unpopular opinion about a member? A scandal? Anything?

Even though I appreciate Till as an artist and a poet, I don’t find his appearance attractive. You can throw rotten tomatoes at me now, but this is just my opinion, no means to offend anyone. Maybe the reason is that my taste for men tends to go for androgynous side, so I am not drawn towards very masculine men.

I’m not interested in Lindemann project and I don’t like their music so much, but the tour looked entertaining though. I bet all the people who attended had a lot of fun.

How Richard pronounces English is extremely sexy to my ear, even though it clearly sounds like a German guy trying to sound American - still, it’s like honey to my ears. Stupid man who makes my knees weak with everything he does.

I hate to admit that I don’t like Ohne dich so much. I don’t know why. :(

9. Have you ever seen them live? Tell me what you felt.

Three times this far! Oh man, I could talk about for hours how the concerts have made me feel, but I try to be reasonable now.

Ruisrock, Turku, 2005 – My first time seeing them live – and going to a festival without any adult supervision, so it was a special experience overall – and they blew my mind. It was raining and thundering and we were completely soaked with my friends, but it was worth it!

Bonus for everyone who managed to read this far: teenage me waiting for Rammstein to start playing, looking so badass with my denim jacket and R+ logo drawn with eyeliner. :D

Hartwall Arena, Helsinki, 2012: We went to the show together with my boyfriend to celebrate Valentine’s day and holy shiiiiit it was awesome. Hands down one of the best evenings of my life. I was so hooked to Rammstein afterward that when we were at my bf’s family’s cottage, his brother had to tell me to stop blasting Herzeleid all the time in the kitchen. :’D

Ratina Stadium, Tampere, 2019: Aka. byebye my life, say hello to fics, listening to the band all over again, stupid memes and all the content this fandom creates. I fell in love again with Rammstein during this concert.

I have tickets for Düsseldorf and Tallinn, but now I can only wait and stress that will Corona ruin everything. In that case, I’ll weep alone and write fics about the tour 2020 that ended up never happening.

10. Do you play any instruments? If you do can you play any song by them?

Yeah, I play guitar and piano but nowadays I mostly sing. Rammstein songs are super easy to play with guitar and I recently learnt to play Tattoo and Sex. Have been practicing Engle on piano as well. Some songs I like to sing are Deutschland, Tattoo and Engel. The “speaking” parts are difficult though. ^^;

I’m not sure who I could tag to this who hasn’t done it already, but I’ll try my luck: @ah-its-too-much​ @soronya​ @einemelodie​ @xiaolianhuax​ @so-darya-darya​ @maximaembra​ @kvidasjuklingur​

[charmingpplincardigans]

I wish you would write a fic where... it's just a 300k epic detailing crowley's relationship with poetry; what poets/poetry he influenced personally (and those a certain celestial being on the Other Side might have); the nature of poetry as it relates to humanity; the nature of humanity as it relates to poetry; and, of course, the multitude of ways poetry manages to encapsulate emotions in ways nothing else really can manage to do. But, y'know, no biggie 😘❤

Thank you for indulging me with this. Can I tell you, I saw it and immediately went into a fit of glee. Please imagine me draping myself across a chaise lounge, fanning myself with a peacock embroidered fan, and moaning ‘I WISH MY FRIENDS KNEW ME AT ALL. IT’S SUCH A BUMMER THAT NO ONE REALLY GETS ME. I’M SUCH AN ENIGMA. SO HARD TO CRACK.’ By which of course I mean this is so up my alley I don’t know what to do with it AND YOU KNOW THAT, BLESS YOU. Also, in a twist that will surprise no one, I’ve had an outline for almost this exact fic since that person left the comment on What’s Done In the Dark asking if Rilke had been an inspiration for it. SO. 

Here is a piece of what that will maybe become, which I have plucked from the middle of the outline at random even though it’s the very first thing I’ve written on it and wouldn’t it have been easier for me to just write the beginning? OH WELL. 

[Send me an ‘I wish you would write a fic where…’ ask.]

. . . 

Aziraphale had accused him once—in an argument about something that turned out to be inconsequential, as things always did when compared to not being friends at all—of malevolently giving poets certain ideas about heaven. 

Crowley had scoffed, and then laughed, and then said, in a tone of voice more appropriate for a crowded pub than the angel's small and quiet backroom, "I never even met Rilke!" 

Aziraphale had blanched even paler than he usually was at that and made himself busy searching for the meaning of life in the bottom of his mostly empty wine glass. And didn't that just prove it. Every angel was terrifying, except for this one in certain moods, but especially when he was called out on being so. There were at least three astronomical units of space between the angel Aziraphale was—soldier, protector, celestial being of waspishness and petty vengeances—and the person Aziraphale wanted people to think he was. Unfortunately for Aziraphale, Crowley knew exactly where to find the parts that he didn't want seen.

Crowley had taken another sip of wine to let the moment really settle in and then said, "so it was you."

After that Aziraphale had sobered up quite quickly and changed the topic.

The truth of it was that Heaven did not need demons or angels to turn poets for or against it. It had done that quite efficiently on its own by being alternately vengeful and vague. The knowledge that there was no real sure way to please the all-powerful organization in charge of one's post-life eternity was more than enough to drive a person to either fanaticism or atheism. Poetry, as far as Crowley could tell, was an appropriate response to both. 

Because really, there were just as many poets for heaven as against it. Crowley remembered little Hilde and the pain that would eventually drive her to ecstatic fits. He remembered Dante who had got so much wrong and so much eerily right. He remembered young Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad from Balkh and his mentor from Tabriz. What had happened with Shams was one of those small things Crowley was still bitter about some near thousand years on.

All of this was, thankfully, a subject Aziraphale rarely broached with him, because Crowley had protested too much over the years that he didn't read books and Aziraphale had assumed that meant he didn't have an interest in literature. In reality Crowley had as much interest in literature as he did anything else, in so much as literature was just the chronicling of the lives happening around them all of the time. What Crowley didn't have an interest in was discussing it and beating the lives of mortals to death in search of meaning. If an overarching meaning even existed, the two of them surely lived outside of it, just as they would have lived outside of the plight of humanity had Armageddon properly kicked off. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale said. His voice broke into Crowley’s reverie, but still sounded far away.

The difference in priorities between the two of them and the billions of humans was a matter of scale. As was, he suspected, the difference in intensity of a certain predilection for sentimentality. Which way he thought those particular scales tipped depended entirely on his mood and whether or not he and Aziraphale were on speaking terms at any given time. 

"Dearest," Aziraphale said, more quietly this time.

They were currently on speaking terms, which was a good bit of luck. If he'd been alone this line of thought could have spiraled for literal decades—had done in the past—and he would have missed many of the wonders of the world finding its footing again. Wonders like the way the fall afternoon light was staining Aziraphale's shirt cuffs and hands a warm yellow where they were folded over the book in his lap. 

Crowley shook himself from the depths of his reverie and opened up to the warmth of the room and the light and Aziraphale's curious gaze. "Yeah?"

Aziraphale gave him a small, tight, close lipped smile. It was the one that said 'you have kept me waiting, but I will continue to wait' and 'you would tell me wouldn't you, if something were wrong?' and 'thank heavens you're here, thank someone anyway.'

"Where did you go?" he asked. 

Crowley shrugged. "Nowhere." 

Aziraphale nodded the easy nod of an unconvinced man and placed the book on the coffee table between them. Robert Frost, comfort reading Aziraphale had picked up in the early twentieth century the last time he and Crowley had not been on speaking terms. Comfort reading meant there was something eating at Aziraphale and it might be years before he could find the words to let Crowley know what it was.  

"I would like to go for a walk," Aziraphale said. He looked down at the book and then up into Crowley's eyes. "If you would join me."

"Sure, okay," Crowley said.

Perhaps moving forward, after everything, it would not take years. 

Crowley unfolded himself from the couch and took a few minutes to exaggeratedly stretch out his limbs while Aziraphale puttered around, putting on his overcoat and checking the stove was off and that no candles had been lit. He checked these things all the time now, even when they hadn't been set to warming or burning in the first place. Once you’ve had your whole sanctuary burned to the ground, twice shy, Crowley supposed. 

He pulled his jacket off the back of the couch and slipped it on, perched his glasses on top of his head, and stepped into a square of sunlight spilled across the carpet to wait. Crowley closed his eyes and tilted his face up into the light. He let himself get lost in the feeling of relief that washed through him sometimes when he thought too long about how the sun would still rise over London for a time and how some small part of that was down to him. He didn’t hear Aziraphale approach. 

Aziraphale’s hands landed gently on Crowley’s shoulders and Crowley felt his weight shift. When he opened his eyes and looked down Aziraphale was leaning up onto his toes and using Crowley for balance. He kissed Crowley’s forehead and his cheek and then his lips. The kisses were soft and chaste, landing with all the weight of a feather hitting the floor. 

Crowley did not press for more, even has his hidden wings shivered and another set of jaws somewhere inside of him opened wide, ready to devour. This new thing between them was probably not as fragile as he feared it to be, considering what they’d been through just to get to this place, but that didn’t mean he wanted to test the boundaries of it either. Not yet, anyway. 

When Crowley had imagined touching Aziraphale with intent he had always thought of them outside of these bodies, in the pure existence somewhere between what Heaven and Hell had shaped them into: feather and talon, scale and air, shadow and flame. They’d had that too, but practically, because of the jobs they had decided to keep and the space they took up on this plane, they had this more often. 

It was a lot of work after all, slipping into a separate plane of existence just to quickly touch someone and tell them you were glad they were there. Crowley was so, so glad Aziraphale was still here, that the angel had decided to stay on earth and with him. It was more than he’d expected. It was almost all that he’d wanted. There would be time for the rest, maybe. 

Legend had it that Shams-i-Tabrīzī had prayed and prayed for another person who could endure him, see him for who he was and accept all of it, want to keep all of it. One night, a voice answered him, asking what it was he would give in return for finding this happiness, this other he sought. Stricken, one imagines, and desperate and lonely, Shams replied, “My head!” Satisfied with that answer, the voice told him to seek out Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī in Konya. The two men had four years together: learning, teaching, writing, seeking the infinite bliss of knowing God in the way a drop of water knows the ocean it resides in. And then one night, legend further had it, Shams was called away from Rumi, out the back door and into the night, never to be seen again.

Romantics liked to imagine he was murdered as recompense for knowing another person too well, for being too beloved, but Crowley had been to the tomb in Khoy and knew it was more likely that the teacher merely left his student once the student no longer needed his guidance. Left alone, Rumi had devoted reams and reams of words to his teacher and friend, his faith letting him feel the absence as if it was another presence. It was these knowing departures that Crowley feared most, the form of taking that cut the deepest.

There was so much poetry in the world that would not exist without otherworldly pain. And if there was one thing Crowley knew intimately, it was otherworldly pain. He tried not to think about his own capacity for poetry too much. When he did, he became almost as waspish as Aziraphale. He enjoyed poetry and poets, but he did not think he had it in him to write it. He had been, for the last six thousand years or so, too busy living it.

Aziraphale pulled away and settled back onto the soles of his shoes. He raised a hand and placed it against Crowley’s cheek. 

Crowley turned his face slightly, pressed into Aziraphale’s palm to chase the added warmth. “Where to?” he asked. 

“Regent’s Park, I should think. I have a feeling that it’s going to be an all out beauty of a sunset this evening.”

“A feeling or a doing?” Crowley slipped his sunglasses down over his eyes as Aziraphale pulled his hand away. 

Aziraphale wiggled his fingers like he was warming up for a coin trick. “I guess we’ll see when we get there.”

Crowley bit down on his lip to hold in the smile. Better to not reward this behavior in the long run. But when Aziraphale turned and headed for the door Crowley followed after him, which he hoped was reward enough for another sort of trick altogether.