#Things to do in Poplar

[immamapletreekid]

instead of grinding for finals i lost hours to a one piece wiki spiral

[itspileofgoodthings]

also I don’t know why but one of my favorite side plots is the Frank Westcott one where he orchestrates his daughter’s marriage to the guy by playing everyone’s characters perfectly and then telling Anne that there’s more than one way to skin a cat

[inbabylontheywept]

Would you mind sharing the psalm and why you felt that person was the most humanist Mormon? I'm not religious at all but I find these sort of things very interesting.

In exchange I could offer the reason for my url ?

I'm warning you, this is kind of a mega essay, and it's fucking unhinged. Click at your own risk.

(Alright. You clicked.)

Psalms 137

By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept

when we remembered Zion.

There on the poplars

we hung our harps,

for there our captors asked us for songs,

our tormentors demanded songs of joy;

they said, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion!”

How can we sing the songs of the Lord

while in a foreign land?

If I forget you, Jerusalem,

may my right hand forget its skill.

May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth

if I do not remember you,

if I do not consider Jerusalem

my highest joy.

Remember, Lord, what the Edomites did

on the day Jerusalem fell.

“Tear it down,” they cried,

“tear it down to its foundations!”

Daughter Babylon, doomed to destruction,

happy is the one who repays you

according to what you have done to us.

Happy is the one who seizes your infants

and dashes them against the rocks.

———

Mormonism has layers. Different cores of believers, cultures within itself. The largest group of Mormons also dominate its image within the larger culture. You know them as the nerdy, cheerful, bubbly dorks on South Park, or the hopelessly naive childlike weirdos from the Book of Mormon musical. Strangely sanitized, "wholesome" people that are, clearly, unwhole. Missing some essential part of the human experience.

(Pain, maybe?)

I think that embracing this image is letting Mormonism view itself as what it wishes it was. A group with all its rough edges sanded off, all its raw and desperate humanity scrubbed away. A clean and godly and slightly unsettling image of joy.

That isn't how it started.

Now, most people know the story of Joseph Smith. Fourteen year old farm boy starts a cult because the whole world if full of idiots, I won't repeat it because you've probably already got it from South Park. But at some point that weirdo cult did become a religion, and I would point to that moment as the Mormon War of 1838.

I don't know how far after the founding that was. Enough that Joseph Smith was a grown man. Enough that the Mormons had around 15-25 thousand members. They'd moved to the Illinois-Missouri area and were establishing settlements.

(They creeped the locals out. Of course they creeped the locals out.)

Eventually, they got pushed out of the county they'd claimed. Jackson County, it was. The state couldn't actually take that county from the people that expelled them, so to try and make the Mormons "whole" for the land they'd bought (ignoring the houses and farms they'd already set up) it gave them a new county.

Next election that came around, that county was sieged. Voting was blocked. Now, the people of the state were terrified that this weirdo voting block was going to take them over. They probably weren't wrong. Some former Mormons had straggled in from the county revealing a frankly corrupt land dealthat the early church had used to transfer resources to itself, and that served as a tipping point. To prevent their state from becoming a religious basketcase, a mob sieged the Mormon county during the next election.

The state tried to return order by sending the militia in to break up the siege, but the militia mutinied. They joined the siegers. A ground of strange, extremist violent Mormons known as the Danites rode out and attacked local settlements that were known to house the families of the militia members.

The Governor at the time - Lilburn Boggs - sent out an executive decree. The Mormons were traitors, and were to be killed on sight. It is the only religion in the US to have ever had such an order made against it.

The Mormons surrendered their county and went to Nauvoo, Illinois. There were again expelled from that city in 1846, and traveled west.

They died in great numbers and they never forgot the homes they lost.

———

I tried to tell the story as sympathetically to the people of Missouri as I could. The Mormons made messes wherever they went, and they unsettled everyone they interacted with. But they were attacked as well, and had a history of violence against them. It should not be totally surprising that they became insular and strange.

Many (most?) Mormons that learn all of their history wind up leaving the religion. It has twists and turns and knots and it is incredibly, overwhelmingly human. I think that's where the facade of Mormon perfectionism comes from - the shame of that. The desire to be something else. But being human is all I've ever wanted. And occasionally, there are people faithful in the church - layers upon layers deep - that know their history.

And they are angry about it.

I think it's more common than people realize. Did you know that until 1930 Mormons swore literal religious oaths of vengeance against the US government for the deaths of Joseph and Hyrum Smith?

I always felt like these were, in some way, the real Mormons. They knew their history, and they loved their church, and they hated what it had suffered all those years ago.

They scared me, those people. But they seemed complete. More complete than the people that had carved out everything that didn't make them smile. They'd walked into the mirror, and touched their shadow, and danced with. Melded with it.

And I knew a few like that. I was taught by one. And he didn't convince me, but he interested me. Gave me some respect for the people I left behind.

———

In the game Fallout: New Vegas, there is a character named Joshua Graham. He's a Mormon. Not like the silly children in adult bodies that they always use on TV. He has gravitas. He has put away his moral compass before, to pursue the dream of one powerful man. Poured his soul into it, helped that man conquer the whole west in piecemeal. He's a somewhat on the nose analogy of the Mormon people themselves, following Joseph Smith. And when he finally failed, when he fought a battle he could not win on the gates of the Old World Hoover Dam, he was lit on fire and thrown into the Grand Canyon to die.

But he did not die.

He says he survived because the fire in him burned brighter than the fire around him. And it seems that way when you speak with him in game. There is something compellingly bright to him. Not shiny like a new toy, or a Utah teenager that hasn't seem just how grim the world can be. He's something blinding, compelling.

But that brightness casts shadows.

He is vicious. He was saved in the canyon by the family he left, the old Mormons of a new world. And he's trying to find that part of him again, regain the soul he lost pursuing someone else's vision. But that old vicious animal part of the covenant is with him. I see Joshua Graham and I see the animal that the Mormons became to survive the West.

And in the game, there is eventually a choice given.

You can lead the tribe Joshua has joined up with out of their Zion. Their Jackson County Missouri. Peacefully and perfectly and inhumnanly transcendant, the way the Mormons wish they actually were about everything. You can give him the chance to be what Mormonism has always wished it could be. Or you can fight with them and help them reclaim their paradise, but get your hands stuck deep in the muck of this world.

Joshua Graham knows his history. He knows all the homes his people lost. And whatever brightness he's trying to regain, whatever soul he's trying to win back from the world that takes and takes and takes and takes - he wants to give it all up again to let these people keep their home.

He knows his past and he is angry.

And as the player, you help him make peace with one of two things: Being human by being fallen, or keeping his soul at the cost of reliving the ancestral trauma of losing Zion yet again.

Both were pretty visceral decisions for a Mormon teenage Babylon to make.

(Tagging @boonebignaturals in this because I need a witness to my madness.)

[loversmantra]

FREE FALLIN' LOVE ADDICT!

synopsis. satoru's fingers look their best soaking wet.

content. gojo satoru x cisfem!reader. smut. minors do not interact. lowkey... househusband satoru and his working wife. making out. fingering. cum eating. drooling. size difference. not explicitly stated but this definitely reads as sub!satoru. foul language. "gojo satoru has the biggest praise kink in existence," i say from the top of my hill. he's kinda pathetic in this tbh but so am i so it's fine.

title from poplar st by glass animals

wc. 2.3k

message from noe. this started as something very different, very wholesome... then it became this. i was fighting demons. sorry. also this is lowkey my first time doing smut be nice to me pls. anyways @neptuneblue dis one is for you twiiin

satoru’s hands are much bigger than yours.

you’ve known this for a long time, of course. as a teen, he never missed an opportunity to remind you you were smaller than him: whether that be by holding something out of your reach or using that creature of an appendage to cover your entire face and muffle your complaints.

he didn’t outgrow his antics. his hands did, however, get even bigger.

but it’s one thing to know, to have the theoretic knowledge of it in the back of your mind. it’s another to have indisputable proof of it: his huge hand wrapped around your own, both warming it and dwarfing it.

satoru’s had his hands on you since the day you first met. rough, teasing — and later loving. soft. and you’re thinking about them a lot these days. you’re thinking of his hands everywhere.

his longs fingers wrapped around your throat. snug around your waist, tight on your hips. deep inside you. you’re thinking about it, a lot.

the wonderful contrast of cherry red flush on his cheeks, down his neck, down his heaving chest. the heat of his breath on your lips, crazed, feverish, delirious. wide smile, all teeth, as he puts his fingers on his tongue and sucks. baby blues rolling back, away from the conscious world and into something he keeps on a tight, tight leash. he’s so beautiful when he gets like this. you want him.

you’re thinking about it so much, these days. you’re thinking about him.

you’re thinking today might be the boiling point.

you’re thinking satoru looks way too good in this outfit… and his hand is just so much bigger than yours.

your workday ended with a text from your beloved, urging you to hurry home, because he had a lil’ surprise for you. knowing satoru, you were fully expecting to find him laying on the bed naked and oiled up, but the sight you were greeted with when you arrived home was very different — though no less delectable.

the "surprise" itself: satoru in the kitchen, preparing dinner for you. he turned to face you when the door closed softly.

and while this might seem strange to anyone — anyone except you — when paired with his text telling you to hurry, you knew exactly where his intentions lied. you’ve been experiencing him long enough.

he wanted to seduce you. and fuck him, it worked.

not like you needed much help there: you’ve been thinking about jumping his bones, among other things, twenty-four seven, for days. you’re wrapped around his finger. head over heels. thoroughly whipped.

but to be fair, who could blame you?

briefly, you pondered. how wonderful it is, you thought, to have this man taking care you after a long day. how wonderful it is, to be loved by such a cosmic being. to come home and find the house clean. to come home and smell dinner cooking.

you pondered — but not for long. something else drew your attention away from his loving acts of service.

black slacks stretched around his toned legs, glorious ass on full display — you could have bitten him right there. his pristine white shirt was tight on his torso, showing off his rippling muscles as he expertly chopped vegetables. his sleeves — struggling to keep his biceps in check, it almost seemed — were rolled up to his elbows. displaying his hands and forearms perfectly. damn him.

to top it all off: an apron tight around his slim waist. picture perfect househusband.

he looked good. good enough to eat.

and you could tell he thought the same of you in your tailored suit. you saw his eyes darken from all the way across the room.

this was all part of his plan, of course.

he smiled. washed his hands, didn’t wipe away the droplets. he raked his eyes all over you, dark, wanting.

“hi, baby,” he purred.

you took off your shoes hastily, hurried to his side, pushed him against the counter and pushed your lips against his…

…to end up here, dress shirt wide open, tongue down his throat, arms pinned to the kitchen island by his large, large hands. his poor apron forgotten across the room.

there isn’t an inch of free space between the two of you — satoru simply refuses to let you drift away. you can feel his impatience all over him, little whines escaping his lips that you drink eagerly, narrow hips pressed to the furniture as if to give himself relief. you won’t have it, you refuse. his relief will be you or nothing.

“how was your day, satoru?” you smile against him.

he returns it, body shivering at his name falling from your lips. his hot mouth trails down to your shoulder, to leave no part of you untouched, untasted. “missed you,” he whispers with a push of his hips against you.

“hm, is that it?”

a hand leaves yours to flatten on your belly — he pushes you down easily and takes his rightful place, right on top of you. white hair tickles your skin as he makes his way back up until… “yeah,” he grins, eyes so dark you can barely breathe. his smile is all teeth. “that’s it.”

without your permission your thighs move to rub against one another. it doesn’t escape him. you try to turn your head away, to flee from his teasing. he follows. he always does.

“look at me, pretty,” he bites into your neck. “you want something from me?”

you do — you want his fingers knuckles deep inside you. and the absolute best part is, you know how bad he wants it, too, to see you come undone with his touch. you see it, you feel it in his every move. the need.

you feel it in the tight grip his hand has on your own, on your waist to keep you pressed against the marble. in the very, very slight tremor of his thighs close to yours, kept tightly under his control. in the tensing, untensing of his every muscle — restraint he’s giving his all to maintain. in the glorious pink of his cheeks, the sweat already accumulating on his flawless skin. he wants it. he wants you to ask for it.

but your satoru’s been quite spoiled lately. he’s gotten used to getting his way every time, little prince. it wouldn’t hurt him to work for it. you want to make him work for it.

you don’t answer him. instead, you keep him busy with your tongue tracing his lips, one hand trailing your nails down the soft hair of his undercut — earning you another full body shiver — while with the other you unbuckle your belt on your own.

it’s easy, after that, to shove your hand under your panties. satoru pushes himself off you, to better watch.

you make a show of it, just for him. making sure to really coat your fingers with your slick. two tight circles on your clit aren’t enough to relieve the pressure, but you trust him to come around and take care of it — he’s so good at taking care of you. you throw your head back with a soft whine, arch yourself into him, and in the hot air you share with him your hand comes back up, fingers glistening.

he looks jealous. already, he’s moving — moving to take your hand in his and taste — but you won’t have it. before he can do anything about it, you pop your fingers into your mouth, sucking yourself off them.

satoru’s eyebrows knit briefly, but his smile widens. his breaths are reduced to pathetic, shallow pants. if you push him a little more, will you get him drooling, tongue hanging out like a puppy? you bet you could. but today isn’t the day to find out. you want his fucking fingers.

he doesn’t let you think about it any longer. “can i?” he rasps, leaning down. his tongue runs over his teeth.

you don’t think about it. you nod your head, and he dives.

licking into your mouth desperately, moaning like he's having the time of his life. it’s so easy to meet him halfway, to suck his tongue in your mouth, to swallow all his little whimpers — so good, baby, fuck — you want it all, so you take it all.

he only stops to rest against your mouth and whine, “you taste so good, i wish you could eat yourself out.”

he catches you completely off guard. you have no answer to that, so brilliantly, you say, “huh?”

he noses at your cheek and explains, “i want to eat your cum straight from your mouth.”

and that’s enough of that — you’ve run out of patience. you think you’ve wrecked him enough, in any case, to hear such things spewing out of his mouth. you feel him throbbing. you are, too.

“can’t have that, angel,” you pant against him. “but you can make me cum.”

you can feel his smile. “i thought you’d never ask.”

his fingers slide down your body, under your pants, taking the same route yours did. only it’s much harder for him — they’re much bigger.

satoru wastes no time. the stretch is immediate, big finger pushing into you slowly. your hand knitted in his hair tugs him down to you. his moan is even louder than yours.

he stays there for a moment, savoring it, licking at your lips, your neck, the underside of your jaw — moaning like an animal in heat, like he could cry from the relief your hot walls hugging his fingers bring.

cherry red on his cheeks, down his neck and the glimpse of his heaving chest his shirt gives you. hot pants fanning your lips. crazed. feverish. delirious. wide smile, canines glimmering in the light. oh, you’ve been waiting for this. you want more of him, you need more of him. your hands move against your will, almost tearing open his clothing. a huff of laughter warms your cheek.

but your love is as impatient as you.

a second finger pumps into you, slow and steady. you mewl, and with your encouragement satoru rises on his elbow to increase the pace.

“feel good, sweetheart?” he pants.

you couldn’t keep quiet if you tried.

“yeah,” you smile. “i feel fucking good.”

then you sink your teeth straight into his neck and delight at the wild buck of his hips, the sinful cry he gifts you.

his entire body moves with him. his hips grind into you, shameless, desperate, following his hand’s movement — and so does his tongue, fucking into your mouth like he wants you everywhere, wants to be inside you everywhere, wants to bury himself into you. drool drops down his chin. you drink it.

every beautiful sound that comes from him, every whimper, every harsh breath, every high-pitched moan is rewarded with a soft murmur of yours — so good, angel, so good for me, so good! his pace increases, his bicep is bulging, his back tenses, his eyes cross, he’s so close, you’ve got him right where you want him.

the pressure in your lower belly grows stronger with every expert stroke. he touches everywhere, a tender caress pumped into you by the strengths of his arm and pelvis together. mimicked perfectly by his tongue tugging at your lips, stroking your own, invading your mouth. you feel it grow, grow, until—

you come undone right there on his hand, in your pants, with a loud cry of his name, digging his nails into his shoulders — in retaliation, and partly to stave of his own orgasm, you’re sure of it, his bites the soft flesh of your neck, a wail dying in the back of his throat.

you come down together, chests rising and falling against one another, hot breaths warming the air around you. he’s still throbbing against your thighs, fingers slowed to shallow thrusting, as if he couldn’t bear to let the moment end just yet. you force him to still by smothering his hand with your thighs.

satoru makes his way back to your lips, leaving behind a trail of wet kisses and a singular bite on your cheek, one you answer with a giggle.

“that was a good one, baby,” he says against your mouth. “how many more can i give you?”

“depends. how many more can you take?”

he doesn’t answer. instead, he smiles. his hand resurfaces from your underwear, soaked, glistening. he takes a moment to rub his fingers together, admire the slick, the feel of it all over his skin. you take the time he gives you to admire him.

he’s so beautiful, when he gets like this.

his hand rises, heading for his face. your gut clenches, thighs rubbing together in anticipation, a deep breath filling your lungs—

his tongue lolls out and his soaked fingers come to take their rightful place right onto it. his lips close around his hand. his cheeks hollow as he sucks.

baby blues rolling to the back of his head, satoru trembles, wracked with a full body shudder and a moan so sinfully loud you swear it echoes against the walls. his throbbing cock rubs on your thigh.

he allows himself one, two, three finger-deep thrusts into his mouth, practically fucking himself, gagging on his own hand, putting on the most wonderful show for you. just to make sure there’s not a droplet left.

then his fingers leave his mouth with a loud pop! and he looks back down at you. crazed. feverish. delirious. eyes so dark you can barely breathe.

looking good enough to eat.

later on, after a lot more cum from both parties and a well-deserved bath, you rush into the kitchen, praying your apartment isn’t about to burn down. satoru was, after all, supposed to be making you dinner.

when you lean over the countertops, you find that the stove was never on.

LOVERSMANTRA © 2024, all rights reserved. do not translate, crosspost, or copy. steal my work and i'll steal your kneecaps. bitch.

[within-ur-intro-verse]

Favorite Complete Canon Setting Joongdok Fics

One-shots

oh, how you've made me a fool by aevum; 1,602 words, Rated: Gen; YJH realizes during an encounter with Asmodeus that KDJ is pretty and has a crisis.

how the mighty fall (in love) by Anonymous; 6,335 words, Rated: Teen; In which YJH confuses sexual tension with anger issues when it comes to KDJ.

Some things are meant to be by Anonymous; 13,432 words, Rated: Teen; Yoo Joonghyuk remembers round zero and assumes his sponsor has taken another incarnation, namely Kim Dokja, behind his back. Yoo Joonghyuk is not bitter about it (he is).

[sub-scenario — hellsent guardian angel] by Anonymous; 6,203 words, Rated: Teen; ABO AU - KDJ’s irregular heat strikes during the apocalypse. Without a companion to help him, KDJ channels it out through indiscriminate carnage.

"I am not a model," Kim Dokja lied. by aynchent; 6,615 words, Rated: Teen; KDJ gets roped into modeling for a beauty competition scenario.

have you no idea that you're in deep by blerghie; 3,111 words, Rated: Teen; YJH unknowingly meets the Goddess of Love & Beauty who has taken the form of KDJ.

A Bleeding Heart Is A Beating Heart by brannrice; 6,241 words, Rated: Mature; KDJ is in every one of YJH's regression rounds, from the 3rd to the last.

a tilt of the axis mundi by lady_peony; 1,245 words, Rated: Teen; YJH takes the Absolute Throne with KDJ as his consort.

'Be my Queen' by Mosspool13; 1,953 words, Rated: Teen; YJH becomes KDJ's Queen during the Absolute Throne arc.

Why do you keep talking about my looks?! by NurikoEsuki; 6,393 words, Rated: Teen; YJH can read KDJ's mind when he thinks about his looks.

because companions kiss a lot by oronine; 4,408 words, Rated: Teen; Uriel matchmakes Kim Dokja and Yoo Joonghyuk with a scenario. It works.

self-rationalisation by oronine; 5,843 words, Rated: Teen; YJH meets KDJ in the body of a child and realizes a few things about their past.

Silver Poplars by ritterlich; 6,955 words, Rated: Teen; Post-canon - KDJ returns from being constellation-ed without his memories except his name and YJH finds him three years later.

A Thorny Embrace by Sabby___writ12; 12,741 words, Unrated; A mandatory scenario leads to Yoo Joonghyuk travelling through Kim Dokja's worst memories and seeing who his Life and Death companion truly is.

Kim Dokja Can Sing?! by SkylerSkyhigh; 5,948 words, Rated: Gen; KimCom has accidentally triggered a hidden scenario with a harsh penalty. Can they survive the scenario without losing their voice?

Hands of God by spoonks; 4,524 words, Rated: Gen; KDJ's old apartment survives the apocalypse. KimCom goes and finds a binder of KDJ's drawings.

On the Tip of My Tongue by spoonks; 4,808 words, Rated: Gen; KDJ was born an empath where he can taste emotions. It makes eating difficult.

can wait for you at the bottom by trainerlyra; 10,490 words, Rated: Teen;  KDJ goes off on his own again, and when he comes back, he's noticeably different. YJH isn't sure how to deal with this.

sponsor and incarnation by Umbalt; 4,147 words, Rated: Gen; Post-canon - The epilogue finally begins in earnest, and YJH gets to ask KDJ his final question.

through the looking-glass by unluckyolive; 10,300 words, Rated: Teen; The Fourth Wall comes down. Kim Dokja realizes he’s been relying on it more than he thought.

bet i made you look by venividivici; 3,303 words, Rated: Teen; Where KDJ was a supermodel before the apocalypse.

you got me starstruck by virotutis; 3,680 words, Rated: Teen; Idol KDJ whose songs were about YJH's regression turns.

skills aren’t everything (well they are to me) by wonrkive; 4,117 words, Rated: Teen; What happens when you’re so emotionally repressed? The universe has to step in and play therapist for you.

the volatile truth of white lies by zxrysky; 5,438 words, Rated: Mature; Role Reversal AU - where YJH incarnates in the world of TWSA/ORV as a reader of the ORV novel.

Multi-chapter/Series

Voiceless Emotions Echoing in the Night by Akeara4; Multi-chapter (9,787 words), Rated: Explicit; KDJ & YJH get trapped in the Dark Fault for 300 days. When their relationship starts progressing, they avoid talking about it. It keeps progressing anyway.

and loathed is he who curses the warmth of the sky, whilst he should be so cruelly shackled with ice by Anonymous; Multi-chapter (10,788 words), Rated: Explicit; YJH is able to drag KDJ through regressions with him.

tell-tale heart beats and beats by Anonymous; Multi-chapter (24,777 words), Rated: Teen; a scenario takes KimCom into KDJ's first meeting with one of its members (spoilers: it's YJH).

You make me wanna live forever by Anonymous; Multi-chapter (143,024 words), Rated: Teen; Role Reversal AU - Regressor KDJ and Reader/Fan YJH.

Brilliant Tapestry by A_simple_Cookie, Moreta; Series - Story 1 (Discontinued - 70,180 words; Rated: Mature) & Story 2 (Complete - 6,050 words; Rated: Teen); Joongdok were boyfriends before the apocalypse.

Derealization by Frill; Multi-chapter (121,356 words), Rated: Teen; KDJ is a spy that find himself isekai'd into the TWSA-verse as the scenarios began.

[Message from the Universe: Kim Dokja Must Die] by jarofclay; Multi-chapter (27,291 words), Rated: Explicit; A tragicomedic Final Destination-esque story featuring one dreamer in distress, his personal hero and his rightfully anxious family.

can't keep my hands to myself by LethalBookshelves; Series - Story 1 (Complete, Rated: G - 3,165 words), Story 2 (Complete, Rated: G - 4,261 words), Story 3 (Complete, Rated: T - 5,071 words); YJH can't figure out why KDJ is called ugly.

The cost of life by Mayura_Slay, Moreta, Watching_fromabove; Multi-chapter (Discontinued - 63,770 words), Rated: Teen; KDJ and YSA starts out the apocalypse ate Minosoft. The events take place during the 999th Regression.

Is this normal? by Moreta; Multi-chapter (9,332 words), Rated: Teen; 1863!YJH transports into reality and walks into Minosoft covered in blood.

Now you know by Moreta; Multi-chapter (5,946 words), Rated: Teen; What if YJH actually used the Affection Reader when fate got placed on KDJ?

devil's manner by oronine; Multi-chapter (5,274 words), Rated: Teen; Yandere!KDJ - if Kim Dokja grew up a little different.

Repose by Waltzfor-Zizi (azro_zee); 6,783 words, Rated: Teen; Post-canon - In which KDJ feared the silence, and YJH was reminded that the lull could be a little scary.

Meetings by WindsOfTime; Series, Rated: Teen, Story 1 (39,658 words) and Story 2 (67,592 words); What canon could have been if Midday Tryst had been used more often.

Tangible Things by wyrvel; Series - Story 1 (Complete, Rated: G - 2,967 words), Story 2 (Complete, Rated: E - 3,870 words), Story 3 (Complete, Rated E - 7,710 words); Joonghyuk relationship during the apocalypse.

seldom the ghost returns by yamscooper; Multi-chapter (31,619 words), Rated: Teen; Post-canon - KDJ is hallucinating seeing OD everywhere.

[themistdragon]

Callum, talking to Ethari post-reunion: So you have your husband back

Ethari: Yes, I do

Callum You must be... re-leafed he's okay

Ethari: ...Oh, yes. I must admit, when I saw him for the first time, I got quite a bit... sappy

Callum: I understand how you feel. When I saw Rayla after two years, I fir-got how much I loved seeing her face

Ethari: That’s sweet. How are you enjoying the Silvergrove, by the way? Have you tree-ted yourself to the bakery, yet?

Callum: Oh, the moonberry surprises are the best! I can see why they're so poplar

Ethari: I know, right? They're just the thing to spruce up your day

Callum: I tried some of the other pastries, but in comparison to the surprises, they were just oak-kay

Ethari: The surprises are delicious. When my husband and I were younger, I remember how he wood pine after those desserts as if they were the answer to life.

Callum: He's got good taste. Do you think you could convince him to branch out and try some tarts from Katolis?

Ethari: I'm not sure... but it wood-n't hurt to try

Runaan:

[rindragon-from-twewy]

Tracklist:

Life Itself - Desuhiko

Youth - Yakou

Season 2 Episode 3 - Vivia

Pork Soda - Shinigami

Mama's Gun - Zilch

Cane Shuga - Yomi

[Premade Sandwiches] - Kurumi

The Other Side Of Paradise - Yuma

Take A Slice - Halara

Poplar St. - Fubuki

Agnes - Makoto

God the first draft of this had so much info dumping that this is honestly less then a quarter of what it was. Sumn tells me nobody has the patience to read every single thing I have to say so I'll keep it brief!

Tldr; This is my favourite album of all time and my favourite fanart format is when people redraw characters on to the cover.

The track list is what character in mdarc I'd assign to each song on the album, even though I chose to only do the detectives in the artwork. This is because I thought it looked cooler for it to only be the detectives (minus Zange, sorry dude, I can't draw old people and there weren't enough spots anyways-) And also because I want to do the back cover art but as Kanai Ward Residents/Peacekeepers.

Tbh I think the whole theme of the album itself can be applied to Raincode really easily beyond just "I imagine this character in my head when I listen to this song". They both deal with how to define what humanity is, showing it's ugliest sides through horrible but strangely beautiful means. If you haven't already, I highly and fully biasedly recommend listening to it!

[mediumgayitalian]

The rules of Persephone’s garden don’t apply to him.

He’s not entirely sure why. He’s mortal, or at least half. No ichor flows through his veins, not that it helped Persephone. Perhaps it is because he already spends so much of his time in his father’s kingdom; perhaps the Fruit of the Underworld has lost its potency so far removed from the Ancient Lands, so long after Pam’s death.

Regardless, Nico gets to indulge.

Anything from the roundest, sweetest apples to the bitter tang of pink grapefruits, he has sat under the poplar trees and devoured. He likes fruit more than any other food group, more than any other taste. He has always had a sweet tooth. And his eyes eat as much as his lips, drinking in the glimmering sheen of dimpled lime peel and delicate pearls of round concord grapes. He has made himself sick eating strawberry after strawberry.

But his favourite, without question or pause, is a clementine.

The best he’s had, secretly, was not in his stepmother’s garden but in a tiny orchard in Algeria. Engineered for generations by human hand and grown under wide, sparkling sun, the skin had been bright and fragrant, pith minimal and pleasantly bitter, and thin-skinned globules of flesh so plump with juice they’d begged to be burst under his teeth. He’s dreamed about those clementines every week since he’d eaten them. If it wouldn’t kill him, he’d jump to the north African country every day and buy them in swathes.

Unfortunately, at camp, he’s stuck with what he’s got.

But they aren’t so bad.

“You have a sweet tooth worse than anyone I’ve ever met,” Will grumbles, poking at his shoulder. “And when she was 11, Kayla lived off Nerd ropes and Gushers for two months.”

Nico cracks a smile. “Kayla’s continued existence astounds me.”

“I do genuinely think she’s a medical marvel.”

“Don’t tell her that.”

“Believe me, I wasn’t planning on it.”

For a while there’s nothing except the tearing sound of Nico ripping off the peel of his citrus. He’s skilled enough to remove it in one go, but sometimes, as a random challenge, he tries to remove it in a certain shape. Today, for no particular reason, the peel comes off in the shape of a heart.

“I can feel you eyeing this,” he says, shooting an exasperated look over his shoulder. Will smiles small and guiltless, in response, raising and dropping his shoulder.

“Dunno what you’re talking about. Just wishin’ you’d eat a vegetable or two.”

Liar. Well, that exact sentence isn’t a lie — Will is such a bad vegetable pusher that he is often teased about secretly owning a farm — but it’s not what he’s thinking about. Nico isn’t stupid.

He sighs. “Here,” he grumbles, wedging his thumbs between the two hemispheres of the fruit and tearing. “You can have half.”

Will brightens. His smile is like clouds clearing, like the give of a snapping elastic. Startling, demanding, storm-cracking and loud. Eye-catching in every possible way.

“Thanks!”

He holds out a cupped palm, and Nico rests half the fruit inside it, fingers brushing the heel of his hand for no justifiable reason. It’s callused — most of his hand is callused. Nico wants to trace the outline of them, with his fingers and then his tongue.

He watches as Will brings the fruit to his mouth, happily munching on the whole thing without bothering to separate the sections, like always. Nico winces.

“You’re barbaric.”

“It goes to the same place! There is not logical reason to eat it section by section!”

“If the sections weren’t meant to be eaten one by one, they wouldn’t be naturally separated, you heathen.”

“Corn is naturally separated. D’you eat that kernel by kernel?”

Nico hates being friends with smart people.

Will laughs, and Nico’s eyes flutter shut, savouring.

“That’s what I thought.” He pops the last bite in his mouth, chewing and swallowing and smiling his dazzling smile, after, sticky citrus juice making his lips look shiny. “Thanks for sharing, Neeks.”

“Course,” murmurs Nico quietly, hiding his smile behind a segment of fruit. “Anytime.”

[seat-safety-switch]

Are you the kind of person who loves trees? Many folks are. Even though trees have killed lots of our most-beloved celebrities, a lot of you have a yen for our arboreal pals. They can do no wrong in our minds, and so we tolerate their slow invasion of our properties.

Where I live, we have a sort of feral invasion of poplars. Genius folks who started the city brought them from far away and put them all over the place to provide resale value and pretty green colours, without realizing that they'd get big and mess up the sidewalks. In response, fifty-plus years later, the city has decided to just kill 'em. Fuck those trees, they say, they're near the end of their lives anyway. Keep those taxes low, they say, while driving from site to site in brand new Ram Rebels equipped with the ultra-off-road luxury package.

As a result, a lot of local folks have been galvanized into political action for the first time in their lives. Sure, a lot of horrifying shit has happened in the recent past that should have outraged them more, but these are trees we're talking about. Do not fuck with our trees! Things got so bad that the Mayor decided to stop going to "public engagement" sessions and sent his subordinate instead. His subordinate got his ass whooped so hard by tree people at the last one that he now smells permanently like spruce.

So: more trees? This, too, angers the local populace, who don't want the city to pull up their existing, beautiful trees, and replace them with an inferior local breed. Those trees are where my children used to play! You're destroying history! The city had to pick some kind of compromise, find a useful scapegoat, and coincidentally dispose of the entire contents of the police vehicle seizure lot.

That's where I come in. Sure, it hurts to crash a bunch of decrepit, unregistered 80s-drug-dealer Cadillacs into these old trees, just because the city wants an excuse to get rid of them. It's even sort of demented that I do so with a pine air freshener hanging off the mirror (you really don't want to breathe what these things smell like after a few decades.) And it's not great for what chiropractors call "the back and neckal area." They let me keep the Caddys as payment, though, and I've got a great bodyman who will get them shipshape as soon as he comes back from his jail term for chaining himself to a poplar and screaming obscenities at the Mayor outside of City Hall. Don't worry: I've got lots of new trees growing through the old cars in my backyard for him to hug.

[apoemaday]

Poplar Street

by Chen Chen

Oh. Sorry. Hello. Are you on your way to work, too? I was just taken aback by how you also have a briefcase, also small & brown. I was taken by how you seem, secretly, to love everything. Are you my new coworker? Oh. I see. No. Still, good to meet you. I’m trying out this thing where it’s good to meet people. Maybe, beyond briefcases, we have some things in common. I like jelly beans. I’m afraid of death. I’m afraid of farting, even around people I love. Do you think your mother loves you when you fart? Does your mother love you all the time? Have you ever doubted? I like that the street we’re on is named after a tree, when there are none, poplar or otherwise. I wonder if a tree has ever been named after a street, whether that worked out. If I were a street, I hope I’d get a good name, not Main or One-Way. One night I ran out of an apartment, down North Pleasant Street — it was soft & neighborly with pines & oaks, it felt too hopeful, after what happened. After my mother’s love became doubtful. After I told her I liked a boy & she wished I had never been born. After she said she was afraid of me, terrified I might infect my brothers with my abnormality. Sometimes, parents & children become the most common strangers. Eventually, a street appears where they can meet again. Or not. I’ve doubted my own love for my mother. I doubt. Do I have to forgive in order to love? Or do I have to love for forgiveness to even be possible? What do you think? I’m trying out this thing where questions about love & forgiveness are a form of work I’d rather not do alone. I’m trying to say, Let’s put our briefcases on our heads, in the sudden rain, & continue meeting as if we’ve just been given our names.

[ovenbakedbones]

JASMINE!

chapter 2 !

pairing : mafia!yoongi x (eventual) str1pper!reader

genre : romance???? mystery? smut??

summary : yoongi gets tired of seeing you only once a night for a few minutes, so he takes it into his own hands.

note : sorry this took so long ! i’ll start uploading frequently i swear ‼️

thank you for enjoying chapter 1 !

———————————————————————————————

yoongi spends the next week spending as much time with you as possible. its not enough.

everyday, he sits at the bar, nursing his whiskey until the lights turn red and the music slows. he sits in the leather chair thats centre stage, not too far back, but not too much to expose him. just enough for you to notice him. thats all he needs.

he studies you while you sing, taking note of every mole and freckle that paints your perfect skin, and how your hands wrap around the mic stand in front of you. his favourite part of the night is when your eyes travel towards him. you’ve noticed how he started coming in every night, you’ve heard from the other girls that he has no interest in watching them dance or taking them to a private room, and most importantly, you’ve heard of how he always dashes through the dressing room and to the back door in hopes of catching you.

it is pretty cute how badly he wants you.

namjoon has proved useless at finding information about you. jasmine was clearly a stage name and it’s pretty hard to find someone who disappears after 3 minutes. yoongi has debated putting his men in front of the back door so he has no chance of missing you, but namjoon convinced him that it would probably creep you out.

it’s now a sunday night and yoongi is sat at the bar, waiting for you to perform. jin is off flirting with some of the dancers and yoongi cant help but feel a little stupid obsessing over a woman he knows nothing about. his thoughts are interrupted by the dimming of the lights and he walks to his usual seat, his eyes skimming over the crowd.

there is a certain type of crowd that comes to a strip club on a sunday night, and yoongi isnt especially happy to be lumped in with them. unemployed losers who throw their money at women who want nothing to do with them. he chooses to ignore the irony that he is doing the same thing. if not, worse.

his eyes are glued to you as you take the stage and the music begins to play. you’re wearing a black off the shoulder dress that finishes near the top of your thighs. yoongi cant help but admire your collarbones and the way your hair falls onto your shoulders. you look perfect, as always.

but something about your eyes today look different. almost sad.

family (with suzanna son) - the weeknd, suzanna son

arms like the branches of a poplar tree

eyes like the ocean or the great big blue sea

love just like my mothers with a price, its not free

the music starts playing and yoongi notices that it’s slightly off too, it still has the seductive undertones that you use regularly, but something about the lyrics unsettles him. the rest of the crowd are too busy drooling over your bare legs and figure to notice, but yoongi cannot tear his gaze away from the somber look in your eyes.

voice like my fathers, when he screams the house shakes

dreams like my brother’s, oh, we pray for his sake

hopes just like my mothers, only last till her wake

there’s something eerily beautiful about the way you’re singing tonight. your focus seems to be on the back of the room or the floor instead of eyeing up the customers as if you’re interested. how can someone so melancholy look so beautiful?

thats my family

oh, we dont like eachother very much

oh, im okay with that

but it breaks my mothers heart

yoongi furrows his brows, trying to not listen to the lyrics and soak up the little time he has with you, but he cant help but go over the lyrics in his heart and wonder what happened to change your personality so completely. he’s seen you perform at least 6 consecutive nights, so what is so different about today?

he spends the rest of the song overthinking and his eyes dart up when the music fades out. he blinks and you’re leaving the stage, the money that you collected tucked away into your dress.

he gets ahold of himself and half heartedly walks towards the backstage area. he knows you wont be there but he cant stand the possibility of missing an extra moment with you.

the dancers are used to his presence so they ignore him barging through their space and pushing open the back door and looking down the alley.

his eyes widen and his heart stops when he sees you leant against the brick wall with a cigarette in your hand.

he blinks, half expecting you to disappear, and is pleasantly surprised to see you still standing there, one arm wrapped around yourself and the other hovering near your mouth while you take a drag from your cigarette.

he doesnt have time to think before you notice him and lift your head up, tilting it slightly as you take in his appearance, finally not hidden in darkness.

“guess you finally caught me” you tease and take another drag from your cigarette.

yoongi has to clench his jaw in order to keep it shut. how was your speaking voice as beautiful as your singing voice?

he wants to punch himself for how starstruck he must look. he is in charge of hundreds of people, he deals with criminals on a daily basis, he gets any woman he could ever want. why does he feel like a teenage virgin whenever you look at him?

he clears his throat and leans on the wall next to you, speaking up in a raspy voice.

“oh yeah? you been hiding from me?” he smirks and lights a cigarette of his own.

you smirk and shrug and yoongi forces himself to look away from you. he cannot be one of those losers who can’t even speak to a woman without cumming in their pants.

“i see you’ve become a regular. any particular reason?” you ask innocently and look up at him.

fuck. he’s whipped.

he chuckles and blows some smoke towards your direction “you know damn well why”

you smirk and nod while looking away from him.

“yeah, i have an idea”

yoongi bites back a smile. he’s glad you’re as intoxicating to talk to as you are to look at.

“any particular reason you decided to grace me with your presence this evening?” he says while taking another drag.

you laugh a little “decided to put you out of your misery, i’ve heard enough stories of how you try to beat me here every night”

okay. that’s a little embarrassing. fuck those dancers for snitching on him like that. but at least he can finally talk to you now. maybe he should thank those dancers then?

“yknow, you get caught up in your thoughts alot” you say while looking up at him

he smirks “how observant of you. and here i thought you were too busy eye-fucking me to notice”

you laugh “don’t feel special, i eye-fuck all my customers”

“do you have little after-hour chats with all your customers too?”

you roll your eyes “okay, maybe you can feel a little special”

he smirks and puts out his cigarette.

“so what was with the song today?”

you turn to face him with a raised a brow “what about it?”

“dont bullshit me, it was different than the other days i’ve been here” he scoffs

you turn to press your back against the wall again “now whose the wobservant one?”

“come on, angel. be honest with me”

you tilt your head at him “angel?”

“im not calling you jasmine. i’ll either call you your real name, or angel” he grunts, hoping you’ll tell him your name so he can feel at least a little closer to you.

fuck mystery. he wants to know you.

you smirk “angel is fine”

fucking brat.

he rolls his eyes “so? fess up”

you sigh and put out your cigarette.

“its my birthday”

this catches yoongi off guard a little. he doesnt want to bombard you with questions that you most likely wouldnt answer, but he cant deny his curiosity about why you were so sad on your birthday.

so instead, he settles with ….

“oh. happy birthday”

[daybreakerangel]

I hope one day someone does an audio drama of their Adamsapple fan fiction. Hell, I wish audio dramas were poplar in the Hazbin fandom in general. There are (were?) a huge thing in the MLP fandom. It would be cool to do artwork for an audio drama. Someone, everyone out there make my dream come true. 😌

[inbabylontheywept]

Is your url based on the song Babylon canon?? I recently found the song through a camp that I’m doing and it’s absolutely beautiful :)

Kinda. My URL is based Psalms 137, which the Babylon Canon is quoting. When I first chose this username, I wasn't planning on that account being for writing - I was using it to access the exmormon subreddit. I eventually burned out on them because they were so, so bitter, and I just... I wasn't. I was sad. I would describe myself as very religious, but not at all spiritual. I loved my friends, I loved the ward, I loved all the insane bullshit that happened in scouts, I loved that there were grown men who had busy lives and kids of their own that worked together to give me adventures in my childhood. I talk about the disasters because they're memorable, but these were not incompetent people. For every disaster there were 10 things that just went great.

I wasn't angry. The worst thing they did was hurt people near me, and when people you love do bad things to other people you love, it's just miserable. I wish they'd treated all of my people as good as they treated me. They loved the house, but not its crows.

Anyway, I chose that Psalm for a handful of reasons.

It's a homesick song. And after leaving, I felt homesick. I sat down by the river and I hung my harp on the poplars, and I wept when I remembered Zion.

I know this is incredibly dorky - but the only piece of media I ever found as a Mormon boy that took the religion seriously was Fallout New Vegas. They weren't a punchline in that game. They wrote Mormons that had deep regrets and complicated pasts, who had lived through and did terrible things, and I loved them for it. The most well executed example of this was a character named Joshua Graham, and he spits Pslams 137 at you in a key moment, and changed my brain chemistry. Watch this if you want to get a sense of the character. Or this. Either works.

I had a really, really, crazy seminary teacher. I've got two stories (story 1, story 2) about him, but frankly, I could write like, ten. He talked about Psalms 137 a lot. He had a very strong belief in God's willingness to inflict a terrible vengeance, but he also had like, beliefs on what it took for that vengeance to be invoked. One of the most interesting people I've met in my entire life, and deeply thus deeply entwined with my relationship with Mormonism.

Good question, and well asked! I've had some people just jump into thinking I'm a Zionist. I'm not.

[qqueenofhades]

Your tags on the Dreamling/Good Omens cross over have me frothing at the mouth and I just need you to know that if you were to write that “Crowley stumbles into the New Inn” fic, I would be highly supportive of your life choices

The place isn't otherwise busy. It's edging into the lull period of late afternoon, when the day drinkers have shuffled out and the evening drinkers aren't quite off work, when there are only a few tourists taking snaps for the 'gram and the bartenders are out back for a cigarette break by the bins. Hob is sitting at his usual table, confronted with a pile of papers, a brewing catastrophe about the autumn schedule that for some reason he is expected to sort out, three passive-aggressive emails from Philippa about the prospect of him becoming Head of School next year (not on your fucking immortal life, mate) and other mundane academic crises, when the door flies open and a bloke at the end of his rope staggers in.

Thing is, Hob knows this particular bloke, at least by casual sight. He's been in from time to time, has a drink, stares at the wall, looks moody, and goes out again, either to a vintage Bentley filled with houseplants or just the streets of Poplar. Hob has made friendly conversation with him a time or two, knows that his name is Anthony Crowley and he lives in Soho, and he has a husband/boyfriend/life partner of some description who often drives him bonkers (join the club? Though the Stranger isn't even really that). But from the look on Anthony Crowley's face, as much as can be discerned from beneath his ever-present black sunglasses (not really a fashion item one otherwise needs in London), this is a five-alarm fire, and Hob gets up in some concern. "Hey. Mate. Everything -- ?"

Crowley stumbles past him without answering, which is probably only what Hob deserves. He reaches the bar, and since the bartenders are still on fag break and nobody else seems around to do it, Hob scuttles around the back. "Get you something?"

"Beer. Whiskey. Drink. I don't care." Anthony digs in his wallet and flings the first assortment of bills he can find at Hob, which is far more than it costs for a drink even in this terminally overpriced city. "Make it strong. Want to forget my own fucking name."

"Right. Got it." Hob only worked the bar when the New Inn was first opened and they were still hiring staff, but he hasn't forgotten. He selects a Scottish whiskey, neat, and pours it into the bottom of a tumbler, sliding it across the bar. Anthony throws it back without even seeming to breathe and shoves the glass in search of another, and Hob frowns. "Oy. Take it easy."

Crowley mutters something about that being the last thing he intends to do, thanks, and Hob's curiosity, the one thing that has often propelled him through the centuries, gets the better of him. "Not my place," he says cautiously. "But is everything, y'know? All right at home? Your, uh, partner, is he -- "

The effect of this utterance is not dissimilar to waving a red flag in front of a bull. Crowley rears back, looks for a moment like he's going to bolt, and is only prevented by Hob strategically shoving the refilled whisky glass into his hand. He tosses it down the hatch without turning a hair, wipes his mouth raggedly with the back of his hand, and with that, and no further prompting, launches into an absolutely nutty jeremiad. Something about Heaven and Hell, something about Aziraphale (that's his partner's name, yes) being a stubborn angelic idiot who's going to get himself killed, something about people named Gabriel (also an angel?) and Beelzebub (also a demon -- wait, demon?) running off together and he just thought -- he thought -- like a bloody fool he thought they could -- but no. Nooooooooo.

"Er," Hob says at the end, blinking hard. "Sorry, I don't quite follow."

"Course you don't." Crowley heaves a heavy sigh. "Even though you're not an ordinary human, I suppose it's just too...." He searches for a word, slurs a little on the end (maybe that whisky, of which he has just chugged the third glass, is having an effect on him after all), and enunciates with bitter, drunk precision. "Ineffable."

"Wait. What?"

"You're Robert Gadling." Crowley tips his head like an owl, trying to size Hob up in his progressively more lubricated state, and his dark glasses slide to the end of his nose, revealing lucent golden eyes beneath. "The special one. The immortal one. Right?"

Hob opens his mouth. Hob shuts his mouth. He realizes vaguely that it's quite possible Crowley has not, in fact, been talking in convoluted celestial metaphors the whole time. "How did you...?"

"I know your boyfriend," Crowley snaps. "Bit bloody full of himself too, isn't he? He and Az -- Azz-- Aziraphale probably sit around having secret societies for technology-hating, stuck-up, idiotic, holier-than-thou, utter total fucking prigs who can't use their words and constantly deny their feelings, eh?"

"My boyf -- " All at once, Hob feels as if a grand piano has been dropped on his head from a great height, like something out of an old cartoon. Yes, things with the Stranger are going well-if-you-squint, ever since their last meeting here: the idiot actually turned up, he apologized, he smiled, they had a long conversation, there were definite sparks. Considering the last, er, six hundred years or so of dismal precedent, that's a low bar, but still. "Afraid," Hob says at last, "he and I -- well, we aren't exactly like that, but -- "

Crowley keeps staring at him like he desperately wants Hob to sit him down and give him a clinic in how to get with the fussy, standoffish, excessively rules-bound immortal being he has been, evidently, also bloody pining after for Christ only knows how long. "Why not?"

"Ah." Good question. Hob isn't sure. "It's complicated."

"Complicated." Crowley stares moodily at the mirrored bar. "Sure. Yeah. Six thousand bloody years of complicated."

"Did you say six thousand -- ?"

"Yeah." Crowley holds out the glass again. "More."

Hob's mouth is still open. He's going to say something, but he doesn't know what. Six thousand years? God's wounds. He and the Stranger, at their piddly six hundred, are practically fucking married.

(He gets Anthony Crowley another drink, on the house. Can't help but feel that the poor bastard deserves it.)

[shoku-and-awe]

Do you have a personal ranking of the different convenience stores in Japan? The ones off the top of my head I can think of are 7-11, Lawson, Family Mart, Daily Yamazaki, and Ministop.

This is a great ask, very much my field of interest! But I don't rank them hierarchically so much as.... territorially(? situationally?) because they have different strengths but here it is!

------------------------------ 7-11: The conbini I'm most attached to! Generally has the best bento selection, and also the best-smelling coffee. (All the grind-and-brew coffee machines are basically the same quality, but the 7-11 ones really smell great.)

FamiMa: The best fried chicken! And generally a good chuhi selection. Also has far and away the most iconic jingle, and now I get this absolute bop by Miyachi stuck in my head every time I visit.

Lawson: Best for its special stores! Discount store Lawson 100 was a godsend for groceries and household supplies my first year in Tokyo. And I will stop basically anytime I see a Natural Lawson (aka Natty Law aka Naughty Lad) because they have organic/imported/upscale/health/vegetarian stuff you won't find elsewhere.

Ministop: Great for softserve ice cream and also hotcase and deli items! The deli items feel more homemade than at the Big Three. Also they have halohalo and sticky rice dumplings that I always mean to try.

Daily Yamazaki: Kind of a wild card! These days they have interesting variety and grocery items (the other day I got these kimchis and a liter of unbelievably sweet organic soymilk that was in a plastic bag for some reason), fresh breads/pastries and Japanese sweets, and snacks that aren't major brands. But! Until recently, they were kind of..... hmm. Of the two near me, one was staffed by a very old woman on an oxygen machine who completely ignored you (both things *very* unusual for Tokyo) and one by the absolute tiniest old woman I'd ever seen and a very smiley man who was either her elderly son or somewhat younger husband, both utter sweethearts. The stores were dingy and poorly lit, and the selection was somewhere between basics and bare bones—but also some nights they would sell fresh cream puffs from a French bakery?? Chaotic, kind of a grab bag, some Building 19 vibes (IYKYK). Then in maybe 2018ish, there was a major overhaul and now they are as shiny, well-lit, and antiseptically clean any other chain. If a little less friendly.

New Days: I added this one! Easy to overlook because they're teeny, with a very basic selection, but that's because they're only found inside of JR train stations. I don't think that they're anyone's conbini of choice, but they're there when you need them! (Sometimes.) ------------------------------

Also honorable mentions to Poplar, which I never see anymore (East Tokyo only?), and to Three-F, which seems to have been bought by Lawson, and 🫡 RIP to Sunkus (run by Circle K), which I always liked. When I lived near the red light district, we always used to stop at Tokyo's last surviving Sunkus on our way to see the pharmacy with the goat.

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — One

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: none for this chapter, just Tom being grumpy and hating the world

— WORDCOUNT: 3k

— A/N: This is a fic that was commissioned by @localravenclaw as a gift for @esolean 💕 It's going to be a bit of a rollercoaster, with angst and fluff and smut galore. I plan to post twice a week, Mondays and Fridays. I had a lot of fun writing it, and I hope you will have fun reading it, my dears! 💚

I

Tom was twenty-five. It had been seven years since he graduated from Hogwarts, and just as many since he started working at Borgin and Burkes. Now, he found himself in a sweltering place with the world passing him by. Trapped, for his sins, in a moving metal coffin. If this was hell, it looked like rolling hills, houses nestled in the fog, narrow rows of poplars and puffs of grazing sheep, all set to the tune of clinking chains and carriage shuffles. He hated this assignment.

After taking the train from London to Dover, he caught the ferry that sailed to Calais, and from there took a series of coaches and trains meant to take him on to Italy. To Rome. They had just stopped in Lyon to pick up more passengers, and now they were on their way again.

He had fought with Burke regarding the logistics of the whole thing. Why couldn’t he just use Floo like a normal wizard? But the miserable old stoat said he’d sooner trust muggle transportation than Tom’s pronunciation of Italian or French — and besides, was Floo even networked all the way down there? It didn’t matter anymore.

Tom was convinced it was all done to save costs, and perhaps for Burke to not have to call in any favours. So off he went with one measly suitcase and two billfolds of franks and lira — all of which were merely enchanted oak leaves. They would inevitably transfigure back to their original form in a couple of weeks or so, but by then Tom should be long gone. Who said money didn’t grow on trees?

He tried to distract himself from all this misery by checking his notes again. His little book cracked open, snapping at the spine, and its insides were revealed to him like a cadaver cut through with a black spidery scrawl. It was a list of books and authors, with observations added vertically on the side to save space.

“The Secrets of Wisdom, N. Tamisso 1650 — high priority, any edition. The Lost Word, B. Trevisan 1661 — low priority, optional. Delomelanicon (or The Invocation of Darkness), A. Torchia 1666 — first edition, mandatory.” The latter word was underlined three times. His notes continued with the instructions Burke had given. “Check the rare book dealers, antiquaries, private collectors if necessary. If you can not find it, find out who can. If they will not sell it, take it anyway.”

Tom’s lip curled. Whatever joy there was in being away from the squalor of Knockturn Alley was soiled by what he had to do in Rome. It wasn’t the books he minded, and in fact, he quite admired Burke’s taste in this matter. But to be flung so far away from home on such short notice, and for such a length of time, was pitiful to him. The heir of Slytherin turned errand boy…

“Excuse-moi, est-ce que — Oh, bonjour.”

Tom turned his frown toward the sliding doors of the compartment, between which stood a young man in his twenties. Lanky brown locks fell into his eyes veiling the crinkles of a smile.

“Yes?” sighed Tom.

“I was wondering if this was free,” said the boy. And without waiting for an answer, he dragged his luggage inside — three suitcases, all leather with copper fittings looking ready to burst — and closed the doors behind him.

“I suppose it is,” mumbled Tom. He subtly closed his notebook and tucked it back into the messenger bag at his feet while he kept track of the stranger from the corner of his eyes.

The fine quality of the newcomer’s clothes was somewhat disguised by how carelessly they hung around him. His white and starched shirt was loosened at the top, revealing a hint of tanned skin sprinkled with sparse curls. A golden pin kept a red and blue striped tie affixed to it, and around his pinky finger was a silver ring thickly laid with marcasites and crowned with a malachite stone. His lips were full and purple-stained from wine. His eyes were a bright blue. Judging by his pressed trousers and clean leather shoes, he was a gentleman who had arrived at the station by car — or, at least, he was the spoilt brat of one.

“Clement,” the boy grinned, extending his hand.

“Tom,” he replied, giving him a firm, brief shake.

“I’m on my way to Rome!” Clement sighed, plopping down onto the seat opposite him. Almost immediately, he cracked open a cigarette case and started fishing for a lighter in his trouser pocket. His luggage lay strewn all around the floor, suitcases filled with junk, no doubt. “You?”

“The same,” Tom said and instantly regretted sharing anything at all. With people like these — the overly friendly types — it was best to not encourage conversation.

“Oh, magnificent. Vacation?”

“Work.”

“How sad,” tutted Clement as he popped a cigarette between his lips. He offered one to Tom as well.

“Don’t smoke.”

“Ah.”

He closed the case with a loud click and set it on the table between them. With a smooth, almost theatrical motion, he lit up his pocket lighter — silver, older than him, probably an heirloom, engraved with an elaborate floral motif featuring a fleur-de-lis — and let the flame dance on the tip of his cigarette until he was satisfied.

“Don’t talk much, either,” the boy chuckled. He kept his eyes on Tom as he took a drag, then started puffing away without a care. He attempted to blow rings of smoke but failed. “What do you use your mouth for, then?”

“Cursing, mostly.”

Clement laughed. “The same!”

Tom doubted it.

The compartment soon filled with smoke, and the narrow window open at the top only made it dance around inside. The muggy summer fumes were driving Tom to madness already, and he could only hope the train moved fast enough to clear the air. But as they went further into the rural parts of France, the scent of sheep took over. Maybe it’s not too late to try to Apparate directly at the station, he thought.

“So, what do you do?” asked the French boy, vowels gliding altogether in one breath between his lips. His arm extended elegantly to tap the ash into a cheap tray by the window.

It took Tom a moment to look at him and answer. “I’m in, er, publishing.”

“Truly?” he said, excited enough to lean over the table. “That’s magnificent. I intend to be published too.”

“Oh? What do you write?”

“Poesies.”

“Poetry? Ah, not my area, I’m afraid.”

“But you must know some people…”

Tom wanted to tell him that if he were any good he’d have found a publisher already, but intuition told him to temper himself.

“I might,” he said, “but I’m afraid I’m full up at the moment.”

The boy puffed away nervously as he tapped the round gemstone of his ring against the window, and kept his eyes on him. Tom turned to watch the view rolling past them, seeing without seeing. The sensation of being watched was as familiar as it was discomforting. It crawled down his thin cheeks, his narrow neck, and from there sank into his clothes like sweat. He gazed briefly at the tapping ring from the corner of his eyes in irritation, before focusing away again. For a few moments, he thought he’d successfully ended their conversation.

“Well, I’m in show business,” Clement said instead, grinning brilliantly. There was a gap between his first incisors that made him look boyish and pure. “Theatre.”

“Your parents must be very happy.”

“No,” he laughed. “Miserable. But,” he shrugged, “it is not their decision.”

Tom hummed and said nothing else.

“Your parents are happy with your job, no? You go on important business trips to France, to Rome, and… erm. Well, it is a good job, for sure. Makes them proud, yes?”

Whatever sunshine beamed through the window was chilled and clouded by the glare in Tom’s dark eyes. Why did this bothersome Frenchman have to talk to him? He wasn’t going to keep doing it the whole way to Rome, surely…

“I wouldn’t know,” he finally said. “They’re dead.”

“Oh… Oh, I am so sorry...”

“I’m not,” he mumbled. He didn’t think Clement had heard him, but he wouldn’t care even if he did.

The boy pulled the ashtray closer and put out his cigarette, then leaned his head against the glass. Fidgeting, he held the silver case in his hands and clicked it open and closed, open and closed… He did that for quite a while.

Tom could feel him staring. Could even sense to some extent the messy thoughts inside that head: curiosity, intrigue, and joy.

What could be joyful about that moment?

Well, if Tom was being honest, this wasn’t the first time he’d had such an effect on people. Memories of Burke’s clients came back to him accompanied by the customary shiver down his spine. Clement had the same flippant merriment about him that all the others did, those careless old witches and wizards. That unguarded look of innocence surrounded by the fog of greed. An airy absence of thought and feeling. Must’ve been the side effect of all that money.

Tom had once envied such people. Had even flattered himself with the knowledge that he, however distantly, was one of them. What greater destiny than to be born to glorious old blood? What greater tragedy than to be fallen from it…? He could even remember, with much clarity and shame, how he’d spent several months during his third year obsessing over the Gaunts and Riddles, chasing up on genealogies, and smattering the back pages of his diary with heraldic designs.

But the more he understood the upper classes — their uselessness, their inborn idiocy, their paradoxical sense of superiority which stood impervious to anything reality threw at them — the more he grew to hate them.

“I am sorry if I offended…” said Clement rather softly. “Sometimes, I talk too much.”

“Oh, really? I didn’t notice.”

“No, but I do, I do…”

Tom had overshot his subtleties, apparently.

“So you are not happy with your job? Forgive me for asking…”

“No, it’s quite alright.”

“A pity, you know…”

“Why?”

“To not like it.”

“Oh, it’s not too much trouble most of the time. Why? Do you like your job?”

“But of course!” he said, blue eyes twinkling.

Tom cast a scathing look his way. How strange… He couldn’t imagine enjoying any form of employment — other than the coveted post of DADA professor at Hogwarts.

“Why are you in Rome, then?” Tom asked.

“On vacation. I am, erm, meeting a friend,” he whispered with a grin.

“A girlfriend?” asked Tom with a smirk.

Clement shook his head and giggled. “A boy friend.”

Tom’s brows nearly reached his hairline. He’d never heard of such things being bandied about quite that openly before, at least not in England. Clement seemed not to care. Must’ve been a habit of his, as he seemed to not care about much at all other than enjoying life.

“You have a fun vacation ahead of you, then.”

“More than you know,” he winked.

Tom curled his nose at that and sat back, away from the whole conversation. But Clement leaned closer, arms braced over the table lazily, eyes flashing excitedly.

“We will rob this old fool, and run with his money.”

That captured Tom’s attention again. The boy was waiting eagerly for his reaction, and not a thought ran through his head that Tom might’ve been untrustworthy. Of course, far be it from him to ruin someone else’s fun, but the scenario Clement proposed was too absurd to be believed.

So what else could Tom do but laugh? The sound of it filled the cabin, and so out of use were those muscles that his cheeks began to ache. The sight of it seemed to delight young Clement. He leaned back and gave another one of his brilliant smiles.

“You can join us, if you like,” he offered smoothly.

“Sorry,” said Tom, his cheeks still flushed. “My schedule is full.”

“Oh, pity, pity… You would like my friend, I think. His name is Donatien. He is more serious, like you.”

“Is that so,” said Tom distractedly.

“By the way, what is your hotel?”

II

They entered Rome on a train that ran six hours late, and wobbled on its tracks, and stank of mouldy cheese and wine rust.

Clement talked most of the way there, and seemed to be satisfied with Tom mostly reacting with brief hums and tilted smiles. They even exchanged gifts. The French boy was enchanted by what was, in Tom’s estimation, a fairly average switchblade. He’d only taken it out to peel an orange. It was something he’d bought in London right before his seventh year, and although it was quite plain, it did have some delicate embellishments on its ivory handle of two writhing snakes. That seemed to appeal to Clement, who offered his own blade in exchange — a Swiss army knife that also had a screwdriver and bottle opener tucked in its red body. Considering it a more efficient deal, Tom shrugged and accepted the trade.

Faint details came up now and then about his plans with this Donatien, but most of it was lost in smoke and loud metallic rattles. As much as Tom hated flying on brooms, even he could agree it would’ve been preferable to this…

But at least he didn’t have to fear any Ministry or Aurors in these parts. Not any that were familiar with him, anyway. The Italians had their own Ministry of Magic, of course, but it was all the way down in Mirto, Sicily, and foreigners were a low priority for them. There were so many people from all over the world in Italy those days that it wasn’t worth keeping track of them all, or at least so Burke had told him.

The train slowed and pulled into the station, and pulled, and pulled… It groaned as if in pain. Clement took the jolt of inertia as it all came to a stop with cheerful clapping, and promptly got up to collect his bags.

“So, we are agreed?”

“Absolutely not agreed. Besides, I doubt my lodgings would be to your taste.”

“Ah Tom, you do not know my taste!”

“Very well, but best keep your complaints to a minimum once we get there.”

They struggled to get everything off the train with four suitcases between them. Tom was travelling light with just the one, about which Clement made some snide comment that he soon forgot, but he helped him anyway. His own belongings consisted of plain muggle clothes and some books that Burke wished him to barter with, if it came to that. Between the lines, and between Burke’s sparse and slimy brows, Tom understood he was expected to use his charms to get a bargain price — as per usual — but he did not intend to let some fat old antiquary put his grimy hands on him. Not this time. Besides, conversing with Clement had stained his dignity enough.

Being away on the continent had one advantage, at least: he was no longer under the vulturous watch of his employer.

Tom stepped out onto the platform, muscles sore from days of sitting down, and looked ahead as if he knew where he was going. People were chatting all around him, filling the cool hall with murmurs all the way up to its dome — some in German, some in French, others in variously accented English. Tom wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve and picked up his suitcase to follow Clement, who was hunting for a trolley to load his luggage onto.

As soon as they stepped out onto the street, the heat of Rome in August hit Tom in the face like an oven door and he, frail and pallid thing, was not prepared for it. He squinted in displeasure, to Clement’s great amusement.

“This way, Tom!” he said as he popped on a pair of sunglasses. “I see a taxi!”

Tom had spent most of the journey brushing up on his Italian with the help of a conversation guide he picked up at the Gare du Nord. His extensive knowledge of Latin came in pretty handy. But now that he saw Clement handle things, perhaps he needn’t have bothered. His companion could easily direct the driver to the dingy old hotel Tom was staying at, the Gallienus on Via Domenichino, and chatted a bit more besides.

“Vacation in Rome often, then?” he asked.

“I just know some phrases,” Clement smiled. “You don’t need much with these people.”

The driver pretended not to understand the slight.

“Where do you want to have lunch, then?” Clement asked.

“Lunch? I’m certainly not in the mood, not now.”

“Oh come ooon…”

“You can eat on your own.”

“We can leave our stuff and take the taxi to this place I know on Via della Mercede. They make the best seafood, the best!”

It had not been until now, with this journey to somewhere far away, that Tom realised how limited his world had been at Hogwarts. He’d once felt equal parts ashamed and at a strange advantage next to the other Slytherins, his peers, all purebloods, for knowing both the magical and muggle worlds. Now, exiled for this assignment among strangers, it seemed to Tom as if he were starting life all over again. He looked out the window and everything was new, everything was strange. The buildings, the street, the people, even the clothes were different. The city, like London, was massive, but the streets were broader, blazing white. Some disappeared into little alleyways that slithered like dark serpents. Tom could easily see himself getting lost in such a place.

It was… humbling. He didn’t like it.