#and prove that it is a group in gory detail

[lipshits-continuous]

I just checked and there are over 1000 of you following me now which is odd

[firstagent]

Spoiler-Free Review: Digimon Adventure 02 The Beginning [Sub]

In this movie, one more troubled relationship between one more kid and their partner threatens the world one more time. The Zero Two kids help… a little.

As much as Last Evolution Kizuna’s message spoke of our need to be able to let go of our childhood fancies, and as much as it would have been an appropriate final bow to the original Adventure canon, it also proved that this world is still capable of turning out some wonderful, thought-provoking stories. Especially when given the kind of budget this movie relishes in throughout. Before we tiptoe around major plot points without actually revealing them, it must be said that The Beginning looks gorgeous. The big action is animated beautifully and minor details in the art go far in supporting the story. It’s important because the movie is all about quality. Quality above distracting subplots, quality above unnecessary fights, and—perhaps more concerning—quality above cherished Digimon Adventure establishments.

The first sign of the movie’s lack of concern about bending the knee to prior Adventure canon: this is 100 percent Lui’s story. If you’re expecting the Zero Two kids to have some deep character growth the way Taichi did in Kizuna… well, it’s the Zero Two kids; half of them didn’t get that in their own season. No, this is all the Lui and Ukkomon show. After tri. and Kizuna you might be thinking “isn’t this the third time now we’ve been introduced to a new character whose partnership issues are a harbinger for chaos?” The answer to that is no: it’s the fourth time if you count Wallace in Hurricane Touchdown. But while tri.’s format allowed the established cast to have full character arcs alongside Meiko’s and Kizuna was still fundamentally about Taichi dealing with the problems Menoa creates, The Beginning is too compact and too tightly wound to give anyone but Lui room for growth.

That’s not a bad thing though! In a relatively short time, we get all the gory details of Lui’s past, where Ukkomon fits into the equation, how things go wrong, why it’s everyone’s problem, and how Lui fixes it. It’s told vividly, and viscerally at times: some of the story is straight-up disturbing and the movie understands the importance of not shying away from it. These are some horrors that would bother even the Ghost Game kids. The facts of Lui’s story aren’t particularly complicated—it’s a surprisingly simple story for a feature-length film—but they’re presented with a nuance that hits the upper echelon of what Digimon has ever been capable of.

Still, it does leave the Zero Two characters a little in the lurch. Character moments are sprinkled in whenever they can get them and everybody’s heard in group conversations (sometimes even making a good point!), but some feel like they’re only there because they have to be. Until the fade out at the end, there honestly isn’t much more of the Zero Two kids being Zero Two kids than we saw in Kizuna. Anyone longing to see these kids tackling their own problems instead of someone else’s will be left hanging. That said, the revamped evolution sequences are fire, we’re still treated to Target and Beat Hit, and there’s even a couple teases for the shippers. And the ending is absolutely a “Zero Two kids being the Zero Two kids” moment.

But yes, one of the trickier conversations will certainly regard The Beginning’s relationship with Adventure canon. On one hand, Lui’s situation suggests a conflict with Adventure and tri., and some could interpret the resolution as incompatible with particular aspects of the epilogue. On the other hand, none of the issues are in any way major, and countered both by references to events in Adventure and tri., and the fact that everybody is still barreling straight toward their epilogue fates. Weirdly, the most dubious point of contention may be with Kizuna. Any direct discrepancies are again insignificant, but the revelations of the prior movie feel like they should weigh more on some minds as they process everything going on here.

To its credit, The Beginning seems fully aware of what it’s doing. It understands how much it’s potentially shaking things up. The characters recognize it! The movie delivers on the things that really matter: the kids, the Digimon, the music, and the heart. Things like adherence to an increasingly rigid and cluttered timeline are more superfluous. It doesn’t dismiss anything for the sake of dismissing it, but it’s not going to let it get in the way of a good story. Even as the kids dutifully stay on track for the epilogue, the ending narration suggests that anything goes from here. We may find out: unlike Kizuna’s sense of finality, The Beginning builds momentum for more stories in whatever interpretation of this world grows them best. If they’re anything like this one, we’ll welcome them.

My Grade: A

Check Back November 10 For the Spoilers/Dub Post!

Thanks to Toei Animation for providing me with an advance screener of this movie.

Want to support my site and/or my work? Buy me a coffee!

[transfemlogan]

if i had proof/evidence i would’ve shared it literal years ago. i’m just trying to prevent anyone else from getting hurt by him. and after how everyone has handled this, i really don’t think opening my heart up and bleeding out for an angry mob who has been nothing but violent is in any way safe, especially since i’m not lucky enough to be able to “prove” it. they’ve made it clear they’ll never listen anyway. why bother…

the death threats concerns is because i was sent countless death threats and kms’s for literally nothing at all by fanders even when i was still with thomas. it kinda ruined fandom for me altogether and i can’t even engage much in any fandom anymore (not even for my special interests :( )because of it. i was anticipating that happening again. and i wasn’t exactly wrong.

i wont be coming back here so if you say anything to me i won’t see it. i don’t know how much more my damn heart can take. i just wanted to protect you all from him so he couldn’t ever hurt anyone else ever again. it hurts that everyone’s response is so cruel. just let me help you…

thanks for the donation btw. i’ll post proof on twitter of using it for necessities once i get everything i currently have going on sorted out. it’ll help, i do appreciate it. thanks

(sorry you were abused and disbelieved. sending solidarity. NO ONE should need to provide proof/evidence or share every gory detail or be able to perform the perfect victim or whatever to be believed. let’s build a world where it’s as simple as saying “this individual abused me” so no one ever goes through this again, shall we?)

hi, atlas. i know you said you won't see this if I reply, but that's alright.

i will be taking what you say in good faith. i know most people aren't, for obvious reasons, but any feelings I have on this ask or you I will not state.

I'm sorry for whatever happened to you. and it sucks not being able to prove yourself to others. Attempting to speak out, only to get ridiculed and attacked is one of the most scary things about trying to speak. Again, I can 100% relate as someone who grew up in an abusive household and was in an abusive relationship. I hope you can find the help that you need & I hope my donation helped at all.

I will say, however, creating a world where someone can just say something and have it be believed no matter what is not a world I want to live in. Which I know is hard for a lot of people to understand, because S/A & abuse is one of the worse things someone can do and whoever does it deserves a neverending punishment, but people are liars. And while people who lie abt S/A & abuse are a very small amount of people, it still happens.

And there's a different set of "rules" when it comes to certain situations. I expect my friends and family to believe me about my abuse, but I don't expect strangers to about another stranger without any proof. If my abuser somehow became super famous, I do not expect them to believe me immediately without any evidence, bexause anyone can just say anything.

(Plus, I'd argue not every situation is black and white— yes, my ex emotionally abused me and caused trauma that I still deal with today after 5 fucking years, but I do not view her as an abuser. We were both children and it was her first relationship. She was just a very insecure person and we were surrounded by the wrong group of friends. That's my specific situation, obviously, but me-a-year after it happened and me-5-years-later both have very differing views on the situation.)

I hope you can heal through whatever this is.

[lifesarchive]

HIDDEN PICTURES by JASON REKULAK (REVIEW)

quickly: a recovering addict gets a new job babysitting a haunted five-year-old. (a young woman trying to live a sober life / a child with a questionable existence / homes that come with guest houses and hidden gardens / disturbed suburbian parents / physical and spiritual battles with sobriety / weird and quirky superstitious neighbors / wickedly beautiful artwork from the spiritual realm / gardeners who make you want to break rules)

not too shabby. not too complex either, honestly. the tone sits firmly in the mystery genre, for me. the ghosts in this story don’t scare or thrill me, but they don’t bore me either. stephen king is quoted on the back cover as saying “the language is straightforward”, and that is absolutely correct. not much poetry or soul to the writing, but it was a full story! it was compelling enough to pull me to the end, but not my favorite ending. it has the kind of ending that you find in most “B” level thrillers (which is no shade, i love b-movies). the ending is a resolution, but it doesn’t take my breath away.

★ ★ ★

more thoughts: SPOILERS!

Some personal context… after a reading sprint that began sometime in March, I spent the past few weeks with THE BOOKS OF JACOB. It is a tome of a book, 900+ pages, and the most time I’ve spent with a book in years. It was an interesting and detailed world to be in, but I couldn’t wait to get back to the thriller/mystery/horror genre, and HIDDEN PICTURES is my return. I read it in less than 24 hours. 

The artwork really pulled me in, and wasn’t as gimmicky as it could have been.

The story opens up with Mallory reflecting on a paid health study she participated in which involved her being blindfolded in front of a group of men. She was instructed to raise her hand if she felt eyes on her, testing her ability to sense the male gaze. She was insanely accurate, telling the instructor that she felt a buzz in her mind whenever she sensed looks. The instructor offers to do more research with her, but Mallory trades her phone for Oxy and the lady is unable to reach her.

After this, we are immediately thrown into the present where Mallory is now sober and has been for 18 months. She is preparing to interview for a babysitting job with The Maxwells, youngish parents living in an affluent suburban enclave. After an awkward and stressful interview that involves her pulling out a piss test to prove her commitment to sobriety, she is hired. Caroline, the Mom, says they believe in giving people second chances, but you learn fast that you can’t believe anything they say.

Soon enough, five-year-old Teddy has formed a close bond with Mallory. The creepy pictures he draws always seem to show an entity hanging around him that no one else can see (but Mallory can sense). Teddy’s mom brushes the pictures off and tells Mallory not to encourage him. After the quirky next-door neighbor tells Mallory about the ghost stories surrounding the guest house where she lives, she eventually convinces herself that her guest house is haunted and the ghost is speaking through Teddy. Half right.

Of course, her pursuit of this tightens the underwear of The Maxwells, and so she begins to investigate under the radar. She enlists the help of The Maxwells’ gardener whom she’s told that she was a local student (and not a recovering person being given a second chance to get her life on track). Fast forwarding past the awkwardness of living with a married couple whose marriage is a thin facade of happiness, the “hauntings”, the creepy photos with the Samura-like girl in them, Mallory trying to confront the super rationalist parents about the supernatural realm, and Mallory trying to make contact to the ghost by ouija board… eventually the ghost jumps into Mallory’s body while she is napping and causes her to draw all over the walls of The Maxwell’s pristine white walls.

The rest is a loud and gory climax with a small scoop of falling action on the side. The parents fire Mallory because of the “artwork”, attributing it to some sort of mental break caused by recovery, and they give her 48 hours to get out. Alex, the gardener, is told about her true background as a recovering addict (but still wants to help her). She miraculously solves the mystery at the last minute and proceeds to do the dumbest thing that characters can do in a mystery/thriller… confront the bad guys with no backup, collateral, witness, or weaponry. The Maxwells reveal their devilry… they are kidnappers who stole a little girl and made her disguise herself as a boy. The child’s real mother, whom Caroline Maxwell killed, is who has been haunting little Teddy.

Caroline Maxwell plans to kill Mallory by drug overdose, but she’s saved by Ted Maxwell who secretly hates his kidnapping murderess wife (but has done nothing but enable her). A delusional Ted is killed by Caroline, in the midst of some pipe dream of him running away to some foreign land with Mallory. A chase ensues, with Mallory running into the woods with Teddy and hiding in a tree. Just as Caroline has hunted them down, the spirit of Teddy’s dead mother possesses her, getting Teddy to kill Caroline with an arrowhead conveniently found earlier in the story. 

That’s how most elements of this story felt. Convenient. The end, while loud and gory, seemed staged. Like I could see the beginning from the end. All the little easter eggs stood out like they had billboards above them pointing out “CLUE HERE”, or “FORESHADOWING”. Yet, I still enjoyed it. Like I would an R.L. Fear Street book. Three stars, but a high three. 

ADDENDUM: seeing from other reviewers how this author's work includes, deceptively, various ideologies used to other and vilify trans children and their parents (which makes me think back to that errant Harry Potter reference). Unfortunate and gross. Knowing makes the work even cheaper than it already was. Keeping my same rating, which was written and determined before I found out. I will definitely be more critical in the future.

[journalosi]

Thoughts at 27

I apologize in advance, I am not a native speaker of English, I wrote this in Spanish and tried to translate it as best as I could.

It is curious how numbers mark your life . Since I became a music lover, I was interested to know more about the 27 Club. You know, the famous group of musicians who have died at that age (and if you still do not know what I mean, try to look it up at "Holy" Wikipedia).

What has always caught my attention, is what the hell happens at that age that seems to change everything? It is a click, a fracture. It seems like something happens at a physical-emotional-spiritual level that defines a before and an after.

For some maybe it's a subtle change , but for others it is a matter of life or death... literally.

So, this is my experience with that age.

I must confess that it all started in a hard way. My ex boyfriend had recently broken up with me and it was the most important relationship I've had so far. I won't go into gory details, but I believe that most of you will share with me the pain that you feel when your heart breaks so I tried to hold on to my family and my few but extremely meaningful friendships.

I don't know if it was a coincidence or not, but the truth is that 27 are difficult. At least in my case, you realize that your concerns are changing.

A month after I turned 27, my grandfather died and as such, I face it in a different way now. At 27, I came to understand that it is indeed a transition, it is a step, not a single end. I finally realized that people do not die, as long as we keep them alive in our memories, what we learned from them and what we do with their legacy. Now, more mature (or at least I want to think I'm more mature) I realize about the transition that needs to be done to get into adulthood.

My generation is now responsible to maintain, promote or change family traditions. We have to generate or create environments , moments and help everyday logistics of family and/or social order. That I'm not that confused and clueless teenager, running from one place to another without knowing what to do, what to say or what to think at a certain moment. I am no longer that girl with the simple and easy life anymore. I am now a verb, I am action , I am the creator, builder and destroyer of my own reality. External factors affect, of course, but I'm the one that defines how or how much of that influences my daily decisions.

At 27, I realized that although it sounds cliché "The most important relationship that you will ever be in, is the one with yourself". Geez! It took me a lot to understand that! Everyone seems to say it, but so few actually internalize that expression. We seek to satisfy our needs and gaps in others or in the worst case, in things. I'm a true believer that consumerism is just a way of filling the spaces or gaps that the system has convinced us that exist.

I've finally come to understand that having ideals is the most dangerous double-edged weapon created by man.

Certainly it is a necessary tool that allows us to explore and prove to ourselves the power to aspire to greater things , to re- define the relationships that we set every day and be able to push our limits to new enriching experiences. But it is also true that living around ideals makes us constantly hit that wall of reality.

What is all that crap of having "a perfect man or woman?" Why do we torture ourselves and others with that concept? Do you realize that reality tends to lose against ideals? That doesn't mean we should settle for mediocrity. But how many opportunities have we lost for not going further?

In my 27 years I have learned to appreciate the importance of the differences. For many years I sought to shape my reality and thus to those around me . I finally understand why those differences can join us . And actually, these are the elements that allow us to look beyond our own mirror. The differences and how we react to them, are the most effective way to meet others and consequently ourselves.

I know that all of this sounds very "self-help book" style , but it has helped me ... and a lot.

I have come to appreciate the patience and time. Now I try to control my anxieties , I try to eat and walk slowly . I try to breathe, think and feel calmly. How many details of our daily life have we lost by living in a hurry?

I don't wanna get married or have children for now. None of these decisions will fix my life or fill spaces that I must fill by myself. I understand that these are the most important challenges of our lives and for that, I want to go slow.

I understand the importance of nurturing my soul with new energy . Energies that come from me, that are inside of me, hidden in boxes that I was too afraid to open. I realized that I had always needed to be in control of every step, every moment, every word that came out of my mouth, because I was looking for some stability or just something that wouldn't make me go insane. And now I wonder, What is wrong with going crazy for a little bit? There's no way to understand the importance of balance without feeling some instability in our lives.

Pain. Now I accept that I live, feel and cry for it but I can also comfort myself. I can heal myself. I realize that now.

Life is beautiful, especially in our darkest moments. I know it sounds weird, but when we face the darkness, when we absorb it and understand its importance, it is when we see the glow of the light of life, the light of love, the light that has always been within us and that we haven't taken enough time to contemplate.

It has been a tough road. I've suffered, sometimes bitterly, but I love being 27 years old. I still have 4 months before I turn 28, so I'm gonna enjoy these few months to come.

The oddest thing about this process is that I feel I 'm flirting and conquering myself and giving myself the chance to love the person I have in front of my mirror, and I love that feeling.

[chimielie]

girlfriend

summary: Iwaizumi x F!Reader. you might be his girlfriend—but she's his girl.

word count: 2.4k

cw: hurt/comfort. a lot of reader insecurity. fear/mention of emotional cheating but there is none

a/n: this actually fills @akimind's request for my 500 follower event one million years ago but the formatting is tooo hard so. here it is!!! iwaizumi + angst + college au + "that's not what i said." LOVE YOU SORRY HOPE IT HURTS AND IS ALSO ENJOYABLE. <<<<3333333

You didn't mean to fall in love with your boyfriend.

You hadn't gone into this expecting Hajime to become your boyfriend at all, actually. You liked him. Liked how easy it was to be with him. How warm he was when you let your touch linger on him and pretended it was more than a flirty friendship. You hadn't ever predicted it would become so, because Hajime was hung up on his ex-girlfriend.

They'd traveled over oceans to be together, coming to Irvine from the same prefecture in Japan. They had still been together when you met him, her head tucked beneath his chin, his arms wrapped around her waist. Your first thought was "oh, he's beautiful." Your second thought was "they look like they're made for each other." You shoved the first thought deep inside a secret crevice of your brain and stuck out your hand to introduce yourself with a bright smile.

The strain of new adulthood got to them, though, or so you assumed: you were never privy to the gory details of the breakup. They remained friendly, in the same friend group, and it just always seemed obvious to you that they would someday reconcile. It wasn't until two years after their break that you were able to start showing regular, platonic affection to Hajime without feeling like an attempted homewrecker.

It was just before graduation, having dragged him away for a late-night bite to eat so neither of you would starve to death studying for finals, when everything flipped on its head. Your plan to energize the both of you had backfired; you were yawning every other sentence and came close to laying your head on the table before Hajime put his palm down in front of your face.

"Come sit next to me," he'd said, so you maneuvered around into his side of the booth and been promptly pulled into his side. You had looked up at him, murmuring a sleepy question that was more wordless noise than actual English, and that was it. Something you didn't understand softened his gaze, and then he tilted his head to the side and brushed his lips over yours.

It was a perfect first kiss.

In the weeks following it, you had bounced violently between insisting to yourself that he hadn't meant for you to read too far into the kiss and your natural instinct to go after what your heart wanted. And the more he proved that it wasn't a one-off anomaly, that he could kiss you right out of drought into a superbloom, the more you were convinced. Iwaizumi Hajime wouldn't knowingly break your heart.

When Hajime asked you to be official, wildflower bouquet in hand, the lights of the now-empty graduation pavilion shining down on the both of you, you said yes, your whole heart and none of your brain in the matter.

As you entered your apartment hand-in-hand with him, greeting all the friends who had gathered there to celebrate the end of undergraduate school, you remembered that the key modifier in "Iwaizumi Hajime wouldn't knowingly break your heart" was knowingly. He seemed happy enough announcing the development to everyone else, and then she had walked in, carrying a bottle of wine that almost slipped from her grasp when she saw your proximity. He had dropped your hand—just for a second, but it had happened, and then picked it back up like his sentence hadn't died in his mouth at the sight of her.

He'd always gotten a little defensive when people mentioned their relationship, his features shutting down into a blank, tight expression. Though they obviously weren't as close as they had been for most of their lives, they were still both part of your friend group, and he always seemed to laugh just a little harder at her jokes, kept eye contact a little longer, got embarrassed more easily around her. You didn't want to be jealous or insecure or possessive, but it just felt more increasingly obvious that you were a rebound, a cheap, temporary dupe meant to fill in until Hajime realized and returned to the love of his life.

It was hard to be angry at him, though, because you knew with every fiber of your bleeding heart that he wouldn't do this to you on purpose. You knew he thought he cared for you, that he thought he had moved on. He did a good job almost every day coming very close to persuading you of it, enough to keep you from breaking up with him and leaving him behind, but never quite erasing your insecurities for more than a few weeks at a time.

One of the first mornings you woke up in his bed, well rested and sore in all the right places, he was missing. You got up, mourning the softness of his sheets and the scent of him on the pillowcases, and slipped into one of his shirts before leaving his room to explore.

He was cooking, shirtless in the kitchen, and if that wasn't one of the yummiest things you had seen in your life.

"Good morning," you said, leaning against his counter.

"Very," he returned, flipping an egg in the pan. "Looking like that. I think—I mean, it seems like that shirt always gets chosen to be the boyfriend shirt." He had narrowly avoided saying her name, but you had heard it threatening to tumble out of his mouth. You bit back a response, but your smile still dropped, and he spent the next hour making allusive, sorry overtures without either of you actually acknowledging the slip.

You never wore that shirt again. He gave you another one, you accepted it, and life moved on.

Except you had somehow become mired in the past with a relationship that was long over, and without university or a job to distract you—you were starting at the end of September, which felt aeons away—it was eating you alive, especially as Hajime left for a preliminary return trip to Japan.

"Did you hear how Mattsun and Makki greeted him when he landed?" You sit in the car on the way to the airport, packed in with Hajime's ex, successfully hyping yourself up to see him again until she addressed the group.

"Oh, yeah," you laugh. "So funny." You haven't had a conversation with Hajime that had more depth than "how are u? miss u" for the trip's duration. She's your friend, too, though you've never been close, but there's something unbearable about admitting it to her now, when you're so unsure of your relationship's current status. It has to mean something that he was keeping her updated and active in his life, didn't it?

You find solace in knowing that you don't blame her at all. If you could find an ounce of resentment for her in your heart, you would probably have left Hajime by now—isn't that the mark of a truly evil plot-pushing girlfriend?

You cry when you see him again.

"Happy tears," you assure him, and hide your face in his shoulder.

Later, alone in his apartment, you bite your lip when Hajime asks if you want to sleep over.

"Okay, babe, I don't want to pressure you," he says, and you can feel yourself tensing up as he speaks. "But I feel like you've been—off all day. Is everything okay?"

You blanch and focus on the cowlick on the right side of his head, the one that's endeared him so much to you, so you don't have to look him in the eyes. Too much is bubbling up in your throat, your brain thrown into overdrive, and he's staring at you with so much worry in his eyes it's just not right to leave him hanging:

"No."

Hajime makes a noise you don't understand, low in his throat. "Is it because I didn't call enough while I was gone? Because I can explain that, I promise."

"No," you rush to explain. "I don't—it wasn't you, exactly. I've just—ever since we started dating—I think you still love her."

You're picking at your nails, a bad habit you've had since you were small, and he takes your hands in his, smooths his thumbs over the torn cuticles.

"I don't," he says, finally, neutrally, though his face hasn't formed into the cold mask you're used to seeing when she's brought up. "Ever since we started dating?"

"Before," you admit. "I always thought you would get back together. You just seemed so made for each other."

"But we weren't," a little pucker between his eyebrows forms. "So—what did you think when we started dating?"

"When you first kissed me," you say, "I thought maybe it was a one-off. That you wanted something casual. And then it got more serious, and I thought maybe I could just suppress my insecurities until they went away, and I mean, I really thought you liked me."

"I do," his voice grows more agitated, his lips thinning out.

"Yeah, but..." You trail off. "You would do things that made me think, oh, he's just the perfect guy, they just looked so amazing because I was jealous, and then every so often I'd see you interact with her and it wasn't like how we are at all. I know the insecurity is my own fault, that's not on you, but I feel like it's holding both of us back."

"What do you mean holding us back? You don't think you make me happy?" He snaps, and you wince.

"Not like you are with her! Every time she comes in the room you get this look on your face, like you're speechless. Like-like the songs, Haji, I just..."

He lets go of your hands, crosses his arms.

"Do you really think I'd do that to you?"

"No, Haji, I know you'd never cheat. That's why I fell in love with you! You're a good guy, but I don't want you to wake up one day and break both our hearts because she's meant to be your girl and I'm just your fucking girlfriend." Your eyes sting, your chest heaving by the end of the sentence.

"You love me?" He's quieter now, giving you a little more space to breathe.

"What? That's not what I said."

"Yes, it is," he says, a little smile growing at the corners of his mouth, as though he can't control it. "You love me."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand why you're focusing on that," you wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand. "It's true, I just don't get it."

"Because you make me happier than she ever did," he promises, crowding you up against the counter and motioning for you to jump up to sit on top of it after you can go no further. "I'm weird when she's around because she's my ex, sure, but not because I still want her. It... ended badly. It's a miracle we didn't pull the entire friend group into it, and I never wanted to make her look bad to them, so I'm always trying really hard to look, uh, normal around her. We're on better terms now, but I haven't wanted her in years, honey."

"She knew about what you were doing when I didn't," you mumble, feeling small in the stormy release of emotions. "And she knows so much about you I don't in general."

"We grew up together," Hajime reminds you. "It would have been one of the guys. I know I didn't tell her anything. You can check my call history, my texts."

You shake your head. "I believe you."

"Really?" He arches a brow, and you laugh and push gently at his shoulder.

"Yes, really."

"You know how long I had a crush on you before I did anything about it? I thought you weren't interested, and then you finally started being even more affectionate with me than you were with our other friends, and I took the chance."

"Rookie numbers," you preen under his gaze. "I liked you... pretty much as soon as I met you. But I suppressed it 'cause I didn't want to be a homewrecker."

"You're sweet," he chuckles. "I promise, you have nothing to worry about there. I'm never gonna wake up and not be grateful to see you drooling on my bed."

"You're the worst, you know that?"

"Yeah, yeah," he looks at you fondly, swiping his thumbs under your lower lashes. "You love me, though."

"Oh," your lips part. "And the not calling in Japan?"

He scrunches his nose. "I was trying not to spoil anything. I wanted to, uh, discuss it with you first, but you should know my friends and family are all waiting to embarrass me if I have to turn everything around now."

"Okay? I'll consider your dignity, but I make no promises," you tease. He drops his head to your shoulder for a moment, taking a deep breath, and you wind a hand into his hair, petting him until he straightens.

"So, you know how I have that paid internship opportunity back home?" You nod, not wanting to be reminded. You'll do it for him, but... long distance sucks. "I went to their office and turned it down. I want to go through with my doctorate."

"Oh, that's huge!" You gasp. "That's incredible, I'm so happy for you!"

"So the part that has to do with you is, um," he says, "you're planning to stay here, right?"

"Yeah," you say, "my next step is like a twenty minute commute, thankfully."

"I want to finish my schooling in the States," he tells you, "and then after that, I want to go wherever you go."

"Hajime," you start, but he puts a shaking hand on your knee, and that shuts you up.

"I love you," he says seriously. "It's like I said, okay? You make me happier than anyone else. I know you're the one for me, if you'll have me. If not, I get—"

You grab his face and smash your lips into his, and if that doesn't get the message across? You don't know what will.

[chuplayswithfire]

I’d like to ask you, as a white person who reads your posts about ofmd and race because it is genuinely something I don’t see and these perspectives are important—but every time you mention the bar scene in episode 10 I can’t help thinking that your analysis of Stede’s behavior and the men’s reaction hinges on them knowing that Blackbeard isn’t white. And how could they? They believe his head is made of fire. Maybe not literally but the point is they almost certainly don’t know that he’s not white and so doesn’t that mean that their demands for Stede to reinforce their assumptions have more to do with them just wanting to relish the idea of a monstrous bloodthirsty pirate because it fills some hole in their own dull lives, and not as a way of othering a person of color?

I'm going to take this in good faith and answer it earnestly, because I get that this can be easy to be lost but -

here's the thing.

firstly, no one besides Stede *actually* believes that ed has a flaming, or smoking head. this is show very clearly by the fact that the entire crew are rolling their eyes or otherwise scoffing.

secondly, ed is clearly recognized as blackbeard by everyone from random dutch merchants to random people living on st. augustine. no one is surprised that blackbeard is a nonwhite man. it is a well known quantity, in fact, that blackbead is a nonwhite man, because no one ever mistakes izzy hands for blackbeard even though he has a much blacker beard than ed at this point, who really ought to be salt and pepper beard, as he pointed out.

so like. that makes it pretty clear that people know. besides the fact that there ARE pictures of ed. in books. we see two different artistic renditions of ed, and while we don't get to read the descriptions because they're unimportant to the point being made in the episodes where those images are shown.... we can expect that these published accounts of blackbeard will describe him as nonwhite perhaps not explicitly maori, but like. his nonwhiteness will be a known factor. it is improbable that the racist as fuck societies of the 1700s wouldn't mention it.

so its very very very likely that the entire world of those interested in pirates can easily know that blackbeard isn't white.

thirdly.... even asking "but could they KNOW that he's not-white when they eagerly ask about how blood-thirsty and monstrous edward teach is, wanting all the gory details, in a scene that tempts stede to dehumanize ed in a way that immediately casts him as not being human, not being like them, not being a person, being an other" is like.... affording good faith that none of these clearly casually cruel and bored with their lives white men deserves.

and finally, the most important thing is, this is a TV show, and its written and filmed with intent - which means that the writing and production and acting team all expect that we, the viewing audience, will be able to put together that when stede is in this room of only white men, eagerly asking for the secret true details and the awful gory nature of edward teach, maori man, brown man, nonwhite man, that there is racism afoot, because when awful and even, regular, white people who would never think of themselves as awful, group together, they love love to "let down their hair" so to speak and express racist sentiments they'd express around the people of color in their lives.

so we know that they know, because this is a tv show, and the writing team knows that WE know, and this moment is about what we see Stede do, and the betrayal he commits, and the reasons he immediately feels so bad - because he gave into this to make himself feel better, to prove his place with these people - over holding true.

[sgogs]

cw: animal death, i suppose

I remember when I was 12 years old and just starting private school, the school collaborated with this like, rugged hunter program or wtvs where they would take you out into the woods for 2 days and teach you "survival skills" (shelter-making, reading compasses, setting traps, etc etc) and I decided to sign up for it.

Hijinks definitely ensued (getting into several fights with the boys to assert dominance, only to be told "golden rule" as if I DIDN'T want them to fight me, having our chaperone break her ankle and the duty falling to me, all stories for another day probably) but the highlight of the trip was having to kill, skin, and cook a rabbit.

Mind you, we were a bunch of 12-14 year olds, most of which were sheltered to the point of not being allowed to listen to secular music, being thrown into the woods with rations, a knife, and not much else. The rabbit part was optional, but I was Not Like Other Girls and had something to prove, I guess, so I decided that I'd go out and partake in this.

They had ponchos, but there were only 2 of them to split between 7 people, and being the new kid who didn't really have any standing, I didn't get one. I'll save you the gory details bc it was an all-in-all unpleasant sight and I felt bad.

It was bloody though.

Very bloody.

So the group comes out of the woods, and you can imagine the look on the other's faces seeing 6 pretty clean people who didn't suffer the horror of Blood, and then one scrawny, 4'7" girl gripping onto a hunting knife as big as her forearm with this harrowed look in her eyes following in the very back.

I didn't partake in the rabbit.

[seijorhi]

Hi Rhi! I hope you enjoyed your break. and I'm happy that you blessed us of your first tokrev fic with a soulmate au .I'm a hoe for this trope and the teams (and maybe one day gang☺) × reader trope(?). I really liked how you portrayed kazutora's second hand affection towards reader and his craziness (like why to carve name with a knife instead of tattooing it 🤨). I just have one questions. Has Kazutora ever met his soul mate ,if so, has he got rid of them?

(Ps: please ignore my question of your other blog 😅)

Ahh thank you bby <33

honestly i have been thinking about writing either a group darling with bonten or toman OR doing like a group darling with either the sano, akashi or shiba families so :)) we will see

tw: a lil gore

and as far as for the shape of your name goes, no kazutora hasn't yet met his actual soulmate, and it wouldn't go well for them if they did. he's absolutely unhinged at this point - the fic doesn't go into it in super detail cuz i didn't want it to be too gory but essentially before carving the reader's name into his arm he basically carves up his actual mark until it's all but unrecognisable.

he's dedicated himself 100% to you, you're all he cares about. being with you, proving that he can love you – protect you – just as well as Baji can, and trying to make you love him back, that's his sole purpose now. anyone who tries to stop him or gets in the way of that is a threat. he's too far in the delusion, and if someone shows up claiming to be his 'real' soulmate, he'd lose his shit and kill them in a heartbeat. god forbid if they did it while you were around - he won't accept anyone trying to make you doubt your bond with him.

as far as your mark goes, he'd leave baji's name untouched. you were baji's, and now you're his. sometimes he even fantasises about a world where he didn't die, and they could've shared you.

[brawlingdiscontent]

the men of metal, menacing with golden face, 3/?

a.k.a sequel to terrible with the brightness of gold

(cherik fic, viking au, subtle a/b/o, mature rating)

(part one) (part two)

Hi all, I am so sorry for the space between these updates! - I am so close to finishing my PhD (not in any history or medieval studies field, lol) and things are just really hectic with revisions, publications and syllabi, etc.

A reminder that the last chapter (from 5000 years ago) ended with Charles being graphically/violently threatened by a mysterious man. (See the link above if you’d like to re-read it.

Warnings: Slightly gory description, mentions/implications of violence and sexual assault, child death (not Charles’ kids)

----

In the end, they don't set off that afternoon. 

It’s decided in a council, a strategy meeting that Charles is not invited to, and reported to him curtly by Lehnsherr later that day that if they start off early enough it’s only most of a day’s ride to Eoforowic, and is the preferable alternative to the vulnerability of camping overnight. 

He sees almost no one before the Danish king returns to the tent bearing an evening meal. 

The man in question has forgone the advisors and trailing pages, leaving his subordinates behind for the night, as no loud voices or other signs announce his arrival. The denizens of the camp are likely off savouring the hours of daylight that remain in varied nefarious ways.  The long summer nights are not yet over, but in the tent it’s darker, shadowed but not yet dim enough to warrant a candle or fat lamp. The canvas walls seem to glow faintly with the strange quality of early evening light.

Charles has arranged himself in a defensive position, seated at the small table on the lone chair facing the tent flap. He took advantage of his time alone to redistribute a number of the furs from the main pile, making the corner where he intends once again to sleep more comfortable and well-padded. Together with the extra things Alex brought him--when, under the watchful eyes of the guards, they risked exchanging only a nod to confirm his task’s success--he fashioned a warm berth for himself. His current placement, with its slight chill, is a tactical necessity. He straightens in the hard, wooden seat. It’s best to avoid being caught in a prone position lest Lehnsherr take it as an invitation. 

When he enters, Lehsherr carries in two rough-hewn, steaming wooden bowls balanced atop an extra stool. 

“You must be hungry.” 

Charles scans him for ulterior motives, finding none for now. He hasn’t eaten since the food that was left for him this morning, but can’t seem to muster up much of an appetite. 

“Yes. Thank you,” he says anyway. He needs to keep his strength up. 

Lehnsherr sets the bowls on the small table, nudging one slightly towards Charles, and the stool beside it. He then turns away, once again going through the routine of divesting himself of his gear. If he notices or has any feelings about Charles’ rearrangement of his space he says nothing, leaving Charles to return to his own thoughts.

That afternoon, after the monstrous man retreated, slinking off to some other part of the camp while Charles stood shaken, Charles’ guards had suddenly and conspicuously reappeared.

As he was escorted back to Lehnsherr’s tent, Charles had, briefly, turned over the possibility of telling him what happened. Of what could be construed as nothing other than a violent threat. But the man hadn’t actually done anything, hadn’t even touched Charles. And what, even, were the chances that Lehnsherr would believe him—or that he would care? In any case what exactly could he expect the Dane to do? The bear-man, whoever he is, must be powerful, as he contrived some way—whether by bribery or sheer command—to send the guards away from their positions outside the tent. 

—Or, the thought had occurred to him, both disturbing and the most plausible yet, perhaps Lehnsherr had sent the man to threaten him, to warn him off and keep him in line. It is this possibility that is nearest in his mind as Lehnsherr wanders the tent.

“I trust you found your men well?” Lehnsherr questions, not turning from where he is folding his gambeson.

Charles contemplates several responses. Acerbic: ‘Alive would be a more accurate understanding.’ Another part of him wants to respond in anger, Logan’s blackened eye, the morning’s events, urging him to confront and accuse Lehnsherr. It’s an urge he knows is at least partly the product of fear. He presses his palms flat against the wood of the table and feels its uneven surface press back. In the end, exhausted, and unwilling to cause a fuss, he settles on, “I did,” then turns towards the bowl before him.

The food is hot, rabbit this time. Likely commandeered from one of the many the braziers and fire pits that dot the camp as he doubts Lehnsherr has had time for hunting. It is good, and Charles feels some appetite flare again, even when Lehnsherr has divested enough weapons and layers and joins him at the table.

A silence falls between them, not exactly awkward, but not quite comfortable either. On Charles’ end, it stems from reservation. Lehnsherr, conversely, seems content not to speak.

Charles steals surreptitious glances between bites. He studies the lines of the other man’s face trying to puzzle him out as the shadows in the tent begin to lengthen. 

He’s a man become even more confusing and inscrutable after the day’s events. If Lehnsherr had sent that beast of a man to threaten him in place of doing so himself, it speaks to a capacity for sophisticated psychological manipulation, one that goes beyond and complicates his reputation for sheer brutality. For all of Charles’ careful planning he hadn’t seriously considered the possibility that Lehnsherr might be worse than Shaw. He needs to know who he’s—getting into bed with, his mind supplies—getting involved with. Only then can he have any hope to defend himself. For who can say what will happen to whatever appeal he has—the tenuous sexual hold that had checked Lehnsherr the night before—once Lehnsherr finally gets what he wants and is sated. What then can Charles possibly do to hold him back, should he prove monstrous? 

He must have been more transparent in his observation than he realized, an act which once again is misinterpreted. 

“Relax, your Highness.” Lehnsherr says.  “I’ll honour your wish to wait. I won’t touch you.”  

“Until we are married,” Charles says aloud if only to remind himself, tracking with his eyes the slow advance of a line of shadow across the table.

“Until we are married,” Lehnsherr agrees, his voice carrying notes of something that has Charles turning back studiously to his food to avoid analyzing.

...

The sun is just ghosting above the horizon when they assemble to head off the next morning, gently bathing the plain in its orange-red glow. There’s a morning chill carried in the wind that batters at Charles’ cheeks. It wipes away the bleariness of the early hour, and makes him glad that extra furs were among the items that he’d requested Alex fetch. And yet the last edges of summer are holding on; it’s nothing compared to the winter they’ll face once the seasons change and even the memories of warmth fade.

Lehnsherr had woken him just before dawn, and they’d had a hurried breakfast in the tent by the light of a flickering taper. More of the flat, dry bread and some of the season’s last berries, foraged from a nearby bush.

They’ll be going overland to Eoforwic. It’s the slower route than sailing up the coast, which tells Charles that either Lehnsherr doesn’t want their journey observed or reported, or that he’s uncertain of what awaits them in Eoforwic.

Scanning the group, Charles counts about fifty gathered, all told. Enough to defend themselves if it came down to it, but still a small enough party to travel relatively unobtrusively. 

His horse gives a restless shuffle, tugging gently on the reins in his hands. A nobleman's former mount, certainly. Fine little features stand out in the saddle, tack, and gear. The rivets in the saddle bags are detailed in a star motif, points radiating out in blades of light, as only the very wealthy could afford. It was probably scavenged from its slain owner, or, optimistically, was given up by a defeated city relinquishing its riches. Londres had given up several hundred horses in the surrender.  

Lehnsherr, who’d gone off on an unnamed errand after seeing Charles matched with a horse, approaches once more. He’s leading not only a horse of his own, but a woman. Charles recognizes her dark eyes and small stature from the previous morning. 

“Charles,” Lehnsherr says without ceremony, “this is Angel. She’s here to assist you.”

He looks back over at her, as she returns his gaze placidly. Assist him? The road, travelling rough as they are, is no place for an attendant. Then, focusing on her smooth expression, it all clicks into place.

Assist him. Ha. More like spy on him. He quickly re-assesses the meeting he interrupted yesterday as an intelligence report. Interesting. Sebastian, with his more traditionalist views, would likely not have thought to assign such a job to a beta or omega woman. 

He manages, “a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Angel.” It’s a lie, of course, but Charles was raised with manners, and she can’t help the assignment she's been tasked with. While Charles is fairly confident in his charm,  Angel proves just as enigmatic as her commander, offering merely a hint of a smile and a raised eyebrow before turning to see to her own mount.

With eyes on him secured, Lehnsherr seems relatively content to leave him alone, as he heads up towards the front of the column to rally the troops.

They set off, and Charles easily falls towards the back of the group, ghosted by Angel. If he had any remaining doubts about her occupation, they dissipate after watching her subte, silent moments, even on horseback.

Travelling en masse, they alternate bursts of speed with walking breaks to keep a sustainable pace for the horses.

He is content to pass the first canter course just relishing the abandon of the pace, the uneven terrain below the horses’ hooves. The sun gradually climbs higher until he can feel the warmth of it on his hair, and the wind blows across his face. He basks in the experience of being out in the open, running wild (if not free) after six months of siege. 

The dusty roadside is lined here and there with dots of blue chicory, long stems stretching up tenaciously towards the sky. A flock of chaffinches, startled by their appearance, burst in flight. His spy, Angel, seems to have melted away into the group, perhaps prefering to operate in her usual mode when her targets don’t know she’s there. It is tempting to forget the circumstances and enjoy the moment. 

But Charles is too pragmatic, hardened by bitter experience underlined by recent events, to let this lapse in Lehnsherr’s attention (Angel aside) go to waste.

In the first walking break, he looks around at the stragglers in the second half of the party for promising targets of some reconnaissance of his own. Just ahead and to his left are two burly men engaged in animated discussion. Inching subtly closer, he’s disappointed but not surprised to find that they’re speaking Danish. He has so little of the language, certainly not enough to make reliable sense of their discussion, but at the least perhaps listening might improve his facility. He listens amongst the glottal phrases for repeated sounds he might begin to decipher.

“It’s a blunt-tongued language, isn’t it?” a warm voice addresses Charles from slightly behind.

He starts and turns his body in the direction of the sound—as pleased to hear the softer tones of Saxon as he is startled at the sudden intrusion—to find another rider approaching on his right.

He’s a young man, a little younger than Charles from appearances, and clothed in unusual attire. A flat sort of cap, fashioned from a vibrant dark red material, adorns his head. His tunic, where it peeks through his furs, is woven of rich fabric: not over-ornamented, but of a quality far surpassing the coarse weaves and eclectic dress of the surrounding men. He carries himself with a cool confidence, perched lightly on his saddle, relaxed and much more poised than any other of Lehnsherr’s men.

Charles pulls gently at the reins, slowing his horse’s pace to allow the other man to draw even with him. 

Even as he takes him in, the clothing stirs a memory at the back of his mind of a childhood long ago; Muslim traders at the Norman court. The memory is an old one; Sebastian’s kingdom was an insular one and didn’t get on with outsiders, let alone cultured guests from the learned centres of the world. 

“Forgive me for startling you, Your Highness,” the man says. Despite Charles’ deliberate choice to leave his circlet behind at the tent, it seems that Lehnsherr’s scene in the banquet hall the other night has left him no chance of anonymity.

“That’s quite alright. Though, you seem to have me at a disadvantage.”

“The name’s Armando, sir.”

“Armando.” He says, rolling the name around in his mouth. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” It's the second time today he’s offered these words, but he finds he can be more sincere with them when not faced with a spy. “And what is your role here?” He’s a figure somewhat misplaced among the rough-and-tumble Danes. 

“I’m a physician. Born in Cordoba, and trained in Alexandria.” 

A frisson of excitement runs through Charles at this announcement. “You speak Saxon very well for an Andalusian. Better than myself, and I’ve been speaking it almost since birth.” 

“Thank you. Once I had the first few, the next languages came easily enough.” He switches into Norman for the second part of explanation to demonstrate.

“How many others do you speak?” 

“Fluently? I’d say seven--maybe eight.” He cracks a broad, warm smile at Charles’ astonishment. “What can I say? I’m adaptive.” 

Mindful of his spy close at hand, Charles yet can’t hide his delight to be in the company of a fellow seeker in the pursuit of knowledge, one with personal experience of the madrasas of the learned world at that. Despite this, he tries to rein himself in before his enthusiasm overwhelms his caution. After all, no matter how much he may seem a kindred spirit, he doesn’t know Armando nor his agenda. And, after seeing firsthand the danger that lurks in the camp, he’d be a fool to count himself safe. 

They settle into a comfortable rhythm. It’s in the next walking break that Charles, between probing questions about the scientific and medical developments out of Baghdad, catches sight of a head above the crowd. His heart stutters, and he almost jerks on the reins impulsively. Riding up at the front, near Lehnsherr, but a bit off to the side. He’s easy to spot, rising nearly head-and-shoulders above the men surrounding him, stature and bearskin robe unmistakable.

“Armando, what can you tell me about that man?”

Armando follows his gaze to the front of the party, and when he sees the man to whom Charles refers seems to hesitate. 

“He goes by the name of Sabretooth. He leads one of the strongest factions among the Danish warriors.” He pauses so long that Charles thinks he might have to prompt again, before continuing. “He and his supporters are known for their unyielding savagery in battle. I’ve only ever seen the aftermath.” Armando looks towards the riders at the front, squinting into the midday sun at the outline of the man in question. His words seem improbably incongruous in the brightness of the day. “Going into battle they consume a potion to free them of inhibitions and drive away all traces of remorse. Many of his followers file their teeth, supposedly to more easily rend the flesh of their enemies. Except Sabretooth himself who they say likes the challenge of a duller edge.” 

Charles masks his disquiet with a wry remark. “No doubt a firm favourite of his Grace.” He had heard tell of such stories, whispers of viking cannibals, but had always assumed them to be over-inflations of reality. 

“You’re wrong about that, actually.” 

He looks back over, surprised. 

“I have the sense—mind you, this is just my perception—that His Grace dislikes him very much.”

Charles thinks on this. Armando’s explanation would seem to square with the disagreement he witnessed back at the camp. Furthermore, the man—Sabretooth—seems prone to unpredictable violence, of a sort that might irk someone as careful and controlled as Lehnsherr. And yet—

“If that's the case, why invite him on such a party?

Armando takes a moment to respond, looking between the two riders up ahead. “There’s a common saying in Alexandria. It translates roughly to: a wise man holds his enemies close to his breast but far from his heart.”  

Charles nods in agreement as he notes the appropriateness of it, thinking of the justification he had used to convince Lehnsherr to take him along even as he once again reconfigures his knowledge of the man. He, too, is an enemy Lehnsherr has held close. But before he can take the train of thought much further, the low blast of a horn signals the return to a canter, and it’s lost in the clatter of advancing hooves.

…

In the late afternoon, the first sign of smoke on the horizon alerts them. It curls above the treetops a little ways off the road. Too dense and heavy to be from a cooking fire. 

The nearby homestead is set back from the road, but after the party halts at another horn blast a few riders break away from the pack in its direction. Charles pulls his horse past the crowd of remaining men and follows after them.

It’s a desolate scene. What was formerly a cottage now smouldering ashes but for the charred edges of a door frame still standing. The field of crops outside is churned up and scattered. Crushed stalks of barley that were trodden under horses’ hooves are beaten into the mud. A handful of slaughtered animals lie along the path. But what is most evident is the woman crouched in front of the remains of the house, keening in grief. Her ragged dress is torn, at her side a small child with a soot in their hair and clothes.

Lehnsherr has already dismounted, handed off his reins to another rider in order to survey the scene. Charles follows suit without a thought, and once he gets closer, it unfolds before him tragic inevitability.

He sees the dead man lying a few feet away from the woman and child, his grotesquely splayed body telling the story of his violent end. Then, clutched in the woman’s arms, a boy. A mere child, perhaps thirteen summers. His small eyes are closed almost peacefully, his forehead smeared with clotted blood. 

Armando, who has followed Charles from the road, is quick to be rallied to aid. 

Insensible in grief, the woman seems to barely register their presence as they cautiously approach. The young child, likely too small to comprehend the events that have taken place, tugs on her dress to get her attention, until she at last looks up at them. Her gaze is empty as one beyond reach, already crossed over to the next world.

It strikes Charles deeply, who freezes, feeling her disconnection mirrored in his own. Dissociation is a strategy he’s used to make himself hard, hiding his emotions in a fortress to protect them from a scene that has and will continue to play out countless times across the countryside. Recognizing it now in this woman, he’s struck by its haunting unnaturalness, the hollowness it invokes.

Armando, who had gently nudged the woman aside to conduct an examination, looks up and shakes his head. 

The young child shrieks suddenly, drawing back and cowering behind their mother, who, past caring, doesn’t noticeably react. The cause is soon clear: having finished attentively examining the scene and damage, Lehnsherr is making his way over. To his credit, in response to the child’s dismay he slows his approach and spreads his hands wide in the universal symbol of non-aggression. It’s the only reason that Charles makes no move to stop him as he nears the woman and child, and crouches down.

Charles watches as he starts a conversation in Saxon, gently asking a question or two. He thinks he hears Lehnsherr quietly mutter a few words following the woman’s stilted responses. Then the man pulls an aged leather drawstring pouch from somewhere on his person, and produces several small, glinting coins which he hands to the woman.

A weregild.

Blood price for so much death and evil, paid for with some mere pieces of metal. He rails internally at his own impotence, safe behind a palace wall while people are suffering; dying. And at the authors of the violence, as Lehnsherr’s actions here have surely confirmed, the very men he rides with. 

He’s overwhelmed by a helpless rage that washes over him like a tide. 

“A few coins” the words come out flat, subdued. “Do you think they can repair the loss of a husband, bring back her child?” It’s an accusation but empty, anger deserting him as quickly as it arrived for a dull hopelessness. 

Lehnsherr turns to him, delayed. His gaze is a bit distant, as though he’d forgotten Charles was there.

“It will bring them food,” he says levelly, “buy them shelter for the winter. Nothing can bring back the dead.”

Charles stands there for an indeterminable span of time, consumed by the endless cruelties of men. By this tangible reminder of the pain caused and lives lost to men—no, not men, beasts, seeking only personal glory, an enrichment of power.

“You generals and your wars,” he says coldly and turns away, the smoke still stinging in his eyes.

[wwilloww]

cliff diving pt. 1 | kth

CLIFF DIVING | KTH 1 of 3

genre: fluff. smut. nonidol!au. camping!au.

pairings: Taehyung | Reader

rating: 18+. NSFW. Explicit.

word count: 2.9k

warnings: cursing. talk of sex. undressing. pining. minor jealousy. mxm makeout. handholding ? (this list will get longer as I add more chapters)

summary: Every year as soon as the weather warms up, your friends haul ass out of the city to the mountains where you camp and hike in the shadow of giant rocks and ancient evergreens—and now apparently jump off of cliffs for fun. This time, an innocent round of truth or dare inspires you and Tae to play a mischievous game without getting caught by your friends.

a/n: Wow, okay, this is not what I expected. This is part 1 of 3, meaning the other chapters are written, I’m just spicin’ them up for you 😉

So many thanks to @spicykoreantatertots for beta reading this at LITERALLY the last minute and for her incredible support. If you like this, please let me know! And if you want to be added to the tag list, leave a comment and you’ll be notified as soon as part 2 is up! Okay okay, enough chitterchatter, lets get it.

moodboard

masterlist || series masterlist || ao3 || next chapter ->

WWILLOWW©️ DO NOT TRANSLATE, REPOST, OR COPY MY WORK.

CHAPTER ONE

Fifty feet beneath you, the deep blue swimming hole awaits, dark and cold from mountain snowmelt. The evening sun beats down gloriously on your back, teasing freckles to the surface of your skin.

This is not your idea of fun.

The five of you sit on the top of a large piece of natural red rock, panting from the climb and sipping on luke-warm beers while you admire the stark beauty of the mountains rising up around you, singing in late summer glory. Every year as soon as the weather warms up, your friends take a couple of days off of work, haul ass out of the city to the mountains to camp in the shadow of giant rocks and ancient evergreens—and now apparently jump off of cliffs for fun.

As much as you love your friends and would probably follow them anywhere, you can’t deny how dizzy you feel peeking over the stark red rock and into the waiting waters below. Even sitting several feet away from the edge does nothing to quell the feeling of tipping over the edge of the rock and into the open air.

While you all cool down from the hike and enjoy the image of the mountains sprawled out around you, Jin has convinced you all into a classic game of truth or dare—something you haven’t done since college. But with the combination of the height swirling in your body and the fact that it seems your friends have some kind of secret pact to pass along every intimate truth and absurd dare to you, you are feeling oddly tense. They had steadily extracted secrets you had no intention of ever sharing, like all the gory, embarrassing details of your last hookup (the toe guy). Meanwhile, the boys seemed to skate by with harmless dares and less-than entertaining truths.

Jin nudges you. “It’s your turn,” he winks.

“Alright,” you let out a shaky breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Truth.”

Groans rise up from the four boys around you.

“You always pick truth,” Jungkook complains. “You’re so booring.” He draws the last word out, slumping against your shoulder in a dramatic show of his disappointment.

“Okay, okay, fine, dare,” you shoot back.

“Nope! You already picked truth,” a grinning Jimin pipes from across the circle. “So you get a truth.” You groan. By the look in his eyes, he’s going to make this painful for you. Jimin has proven himself to an expert at extracting the most devilish truths.

The question that springs to his lips seems almost preconceived.

“If you were to pick any of us to have a friends-with-benefits thing wit—, no, wait—”

“To fuck, who would you fuck?” Jin finishes.

“Fwa—?!” you sputter, spitting beer. “What the hell kind of question is that?!”

The four boys around you crack up, Jin slaps his knees as his signature bray echoes off the rocks. Jimin giggles, Jungkook snorts, and Tae—well, Tae is oddly quiet. You wonder if he disapproves of the question.  

To be honest, it’s not as if you had never thought of it before. You had undeniably attractive friends. You had seen the way Jimin’s hips moved when he practiced his dance routines. You’d watched Jungkook grow from a scrappy boy to a strong and kind young man. And Jin was an expert at balancing the dynamic of the group, always so gentle and hilarious—and undeniably the most handsome of your friends. And Tae, well, then there was Tae.

He had started on the outskirts of your small group of childhood friends as one of Jungkook’s besties, but because he lived several towns over you rarely saw him. However, after all of you ended up at the same university, Tae’s boxy smile and gentle humor became a constant as he gradually wove his way into your hangouts and your heart. While you had initially written him off for his ridiculously good looks, he proved himself to be more than just a pretty face. You quickly learned that his sharp gaze was trained--not to judge--but to make sure everyone had what they needed. He became a shoulder to lean on and someone to look up to and when he spoke about the things he was most passionate about, a soft smile would take over his features and his voice would deepen with a unique kind of magic.

Over the years you had found yourself lingering on the idea of Tae. It crept into your life naturally, starting with an urge to text or see him popping into your thoughts. And you gave that no mind. But it soon developed into something that tasted almost like a craving. You would find yourself glancing at the door when you knew he was on his way over. He started invading your dreams at night, leaving you to wake clammy and confused in the mornings. When he was busy finalizing a case at work while you were out with the rest of your friend group, you felt as if there was a piece missing. During movie nights, it was his form that you wanted to curl into--and you were always thrilled when he obliged, wrapping himself around you on the couch.

There were even moments when you thought your craving for him might be reciprocated, only to find the moment halted and stalled, never progressing past friendship. So you never pushed. You never pursued him.  

And now his eyes are locking on yours, intense and searching.

If Tae is honest, he hasn’t considered it before. At least really, seriously considered it. He had always found you attractive, that was true, but since the moment he met you, the knowledge that you were the closest friend of his closest friends had him shoving down any thought of you in more than a platonic way. Even then, he couldn’t help ruminating on the little things you’d do—repeatedly tucking the same piece of stray hair behind your ear, or the way you swing your heels over your shoulder after a long night out and skip down the city concrete, or how you’d try to claim objects by licking them. He would find himself grinning from ear to ear at your smallest moments of delight. But that’s normal for friends, right? Especially one as delightful as you.

But now now that the thought is out there, the idea of you with Jin or Jungkook or Jimin—your legs wrapped around their waist as they kiss slowly down your neck, your hands pressed against their cheeks, holding them so tenderly—you with anyone else, really, doing any of that. It sets off something tight and painful in his stomach. He hates it.

His eyes narrow with the thought, and you catch it, confused by the sallow expression on his face.

“Tae—?” you blurt out before you realize what you’re saying. You had meant to simply call his name, not answer with it.

“TAE!” Jungkook hollers. The boys explode into hoots of laughter. “I can’t even imagine that!”

You’re in shock.

“I mean… I mean all of you,” you add, trying to diffuse the situation.

“ALL OF US!” Jungkook screams.

The laughter only escalates.

Your friends are cackling around you and all you can do is crack a weak smile.

“Well, I guess you know where to go when your next hookup falls through,” Jungkook tosses another beer can at Tae.

Tae chuckles.

“Could be worse, eh?”

He brings himself out of the mess of emotions swirling within and back to the present moment. To where you’re sitting across from him, beet red and looking wildly disappointed. Are you disappointed with the options for a FWB set in front of you? Are you disappointed in his response?

Still, the slight pout resting on your lips has him wondering how anyone could ever make sulking look cute.

“Well, Taetae, as entertaining as that was, it’s now your turn.” Jin claps his hands, rubbing his palms together in the same manner as when he’s getting ready to prepare one of his famous five-course meals.

“Uh, it’s definitely not m—”

“Truth or dare,” Jin orders.

“Fine. Dare,” Tae says, thinking he dodged the bullet unlike you.

“Okay. Kiss.”

It’s now Tae’s turn to spit his beer out. It feels like your heart stops in your chest.

“Uh, no—what? That’s not fair—that’s not—what?”

“Definitely fair,” Jungkook intercepts Tae’s fumbling. “It’s truth or dare. It’s not truth or dare without someone kissing someone.”

“True. You can kiss anyone. It’s up to you. Does that make it fairer?” Jimin adds.

Tae purses his lips. Then, answers, “Fine. I, uh—” his eyes flicker to yours, and excitement sparks in your belly. Is this it? Is it really that easy? You feel a smile spread across your lips. But then his eyes dart away and he grins, “Jimin, my friend, smoochy, smoochy.” He makes grabby hands in the air.

Jimin’s mouth falls open and he looks between the two of you.

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

The young men lean into the circle and reach for each other. Jimin’s hand comes to gently cup Tae’s cheek as they press together, their features softening as their lips move in sync. You can’t deny they look beautiful like this. When they pull away from the lingering kiss, a rosey wash has started to creep up Jimin’s neck and Tae is grinning from ear to ear.

“A round of applause!” Jin cheers.

You clap as Tae grabs his beer to polish off the rest of it, before rubbing at your red cheeks, hoping that those pesky tell-tales will fade into nothingness. You feel surprised at the disappointment that bubbles up in you. Had you expected that his kind gaze meant he wanted to kiss you?

You don’t want it. You don’t want to be disappointed over such an inconsequential game, you don’t want to deal with the confusing and unnamable desire that you’ve been pushing down for years—and you definitely don’t want to be stuck replaying an unending reel of the delightful blush that crept up Teahyung’s neck when you called his name.

But that seems to be exactly where you are: disappointed and stuck. There’s really only one way out.

“I’m jumping,” you state as you stand.

Earlier in the day, Jimin had promised to hold your hand when you finally jumped off the cliff, knowing how much it terrified you. But now, with your face burning and your hands balled into tiny fists, there was no ounce of fear left in your body.

“Wha—” Jin floundered. “Now?”

“Yep, now,” you said as you peel off the little remaining clothes you’re wearing. There’s half a thought in your mind to be sexy while undressing, but instead, your shirt gets stuck on your head.

The noise of the men jostling and joking behind you fades as you stride over to the cliff edge. You look over your toes gripping the edge into the dark water below you. There was something about that kind of darkness—unseeable, unknowable—just waiting for you to dive straight into it. A pulse of adrenaline shoots through your body, raising goosebumps on your skin despite the mid-summer heat.

In a second, body and mind align. Yes, there’s fear. And there’s also something else, some kind of song, a call to tip yourself off the edge and into the unknown. It sings up to you, it sings you forward. You push through the fear. You push through and—

Jump.

It feels like you’re flying, your heart expanding into every corner of your body. The world becomes sharper. The wind around you feels like a blanket, the fading sun like a caress.

Deep breath in. Hold it.

It’s effortless.

The next thing you know you’re hitting the sublime coolness of the water, plunging into the darkness that waits.

It’s consuming, this darkness, this coldness.

It wraps heavy around your limbs, sparking energy, delight, life in you. You could exist here, weightless, suspended in between the feeling of being consumed by something larger than you and the sense of absolute presence.

It’s not long before your lungs start to ache and you resentfully kick to the surface.

As the water parts around your face, you are hit with the warmth of the sun and you can’t help but smile, endorphins pulsing through your body. You paddle away from the center just in time to hear the echoing whoops above you and look up to see, one by one, the rest of the group plummeting into the swimming hole. The water becomes turbulent and choppy around you, lifting your body and swaying you in the small waves.

As you watch each of your friends pop up from the dark water, shaking the water from their hair and eyes,  a second thrill zaps through you.

“You did it!” Jimin exclaims, swimming over to you to hug you from behind. Jimin rocks you back and forth in excitement and you giggle at the awkwardness of his movements. “I’m so proud of you. You didn’t even look scared when you jumped!”

Taehyung is the last to dive off the cliff and the last to pop up out of the water. When he does, the first thing he is met with is the sight of Jimin wrapped around you, your head thrown back in laughter as he praises you. His eyes narrow at the sight, that same fiery discomfort from before burning in his gut.

Jimin lifts his face from where he’d buried it in your hair to glance over at Taehyung to ask him if--but the words turn cold in his mouth at the sight before him. His friend is gaping at you, eyebrows furrowed, and some emotion between anger and desire simmering in his eyes.

“Tae?” Jimin calls unsurely.

Tae’s eyes snap into focus and the tension on his face begins to melt. He opens his mouth to say something but is interrupted by Jungkook’s dark head popping up between the three of you, a pair of goggles strapped too tightly to his face--so tightly that they pull his eyes down comically.

“Guys! I found a GoPro!” he gasps, flipping the goggles up to reveal the red suction rings around his eyes. He must have somehow managed to dive down to the floor of the swimming hole because indeed, he’s holding an expensive and dripping camera in his hands.

The five of you spend the next half-hour diving, swimming, and floating in the cool water. Jungkook continues to dive, each time bringing up his finds to show you all. He finds two more GoPros, a water-logged watch, and an old flip phone and proudly displays his growing collection of treasures on a boulder in the middle of the water. Taehyung seems a little reserved to you, surprisingly quieter than his usual collected but boisterous self.

“Who’s going to bring our shit down from the cliff?” Jimin asks as you all are getting ready to head back to the lake to set up camp.

“I’ll get it!” Jungkook, ever the energizer bunny, yells from the water. He immediately starts paddling to the shore before leaping out and sprinting up the steep trail barefoot.

The rest of you start to make your way to shore where a precarious stack of towels is waiting for you. You glance behind you to see Tae still floating on his back in the middle of the swimming hole, lost in thought. Just as you are turning around to swim back to him, the sun dips below the mountains, casting him and the water in a dusky gold film. You pause for a moment, admiring the way the light reflects off the water droplets on his face, seemingly covering him in specks of gold.  

“Tae—are you coming?”

“Hm?” He lifts his head, effectively moving his body into an upright position again.

“We’re going,” you say softly.

Taehyung watches as you swim towards him. Your hair, darkened by the water and floating like silk strands around your shoulders,  falls in your eyes and around your shoulders. You can’t help but grin at him as you near him and reach out to grab his hand. With his fingers intertwined in yours, he automatically stretches out with his free hand to tug on a strand of hair that has gotten stuck in your mouth. His gaze glides along the slight pout of your lips, the lovely dip of your cupid’s bow, the gentle shadow beneath your lower lip.

As Taehyung meets your eyes, your cheeks fill with the prettiest blush he has ever seen, like a dusty rose. You’ve noticed his lingering stare. Despite your blooming cheeks, you hold his gaze, tilt your head, and let the smallest smile play across your lips.

That’s the moment he knows.

He wants you, unapologetically.

tag list (let me know if you’d like to be added): @dontaskshhhhh​ @myimaginationsrunningwild​

masterlist || ao3 || next chapter ->

[dancingkirby]

Azula Week Day 4: AU

@azulaweek

This could’ve worked for Day 3 too, but I’m glad I took the extra day to add final details.  It’s my first attempt at an ATLA AU!

WARNINGS: Multiple character deaths, and Azula struggling with grief, depression, and paranoia as a result.  Mentions of blood, and some brief gory imagery.  Vague references to sexual abuse.  Azula is possibly not the most reliable of narrators.  (There.  I think that’s everything!)

Everyone had blamed Father for Zuko’s untimely death, but Azula didn’t get it.  How was he supposed to have known that his oldest legitimate child had had an undiagnosed heart condition, and that the stress of the Agni Kai would cause it to give out on him when Father hadn’t even properly touched him with the flames yet?!  But he had, and it did, and that was that. He had given Zuzu all the proper funeral rites, and still the nobles were mad at him!

(Azula had only cried a very little bit at the funeral, when Father wasn’t looking.)

Now that Azula was the heir, Father said, she needed extra lessons with him.  These sessions were no longer simply practicing katas and memorizing military engagements: now she was to learn how to rule.  Father would talk to her every day, and sometimes long into the night as well.  There was something almost frantic about the vast amount of information he was pumping into her head, as if he sensed that he had much material to cover and a limited amount of time in which to cover it.

He’d been right.

The worst came to pass on a sunny yet not beastly hot summer day, almost five months after Zuko’s death.  Father had decided to reward Azula’s progress in her studies with a walk through the gardens together.  There had been more gardeners out working that day than usual, but Azula hadn’t paid it any mind.  (Stupid, stupid!) They’d stopped by a rosebush, Father bending over to smell an especially tantalizing bloom, when Azula felt the shadow upon them, saw a glint of metal out of the corner of her eye.  She’d barely had time to shout out a warning when one of the gardeners leapt onto Father.  Others soon followed.  There were so many of them attacking at the same time, dozens of them, with the element of surprise on their side, that he hadn’t been able to inflict more than minor injuries with his firebending before he was completely incapacitated by his wounds.  Nobody came to his rescue.

Azula had tried to fight them on her own, but several other men had immediately chi-blocked and grabbed her, working in perfect synchrony.  Even with her bending suppressed, she’d kicked and scratched and bit and screamed with all her might, but their hold was too strong for her to overcome.  They’d rushed her out of there, carrying her lengthwise and keeping a firm grip on her head, so she didn’t see much of what happened.  She only got a quick glimpse of blood and Father’s body slumped over the bush before there was a stinging pain in her neck and everything went blurry.  

They’d kept her heavily sedated for the next couple of days; she did attend the hasty funeral, but couldn’t recall any details of it later on.  Finally, she came to her senses, only to find herself in Father’s massive suite of rooms, lying in bed.  As soon as they realized she was awake, the two servants who had been watching her at the time fell into immediate kowtows at the foot of her bed, and addressed her as “Fire Lord.”  All Azula could do was blink at them.  Father, that constant towering presence throughout her entire life, was dead just like that.  And she, in the span of a few frenzied minutes, had been promoted from Crown Princess to Fire Lord.  She was still three months away from her twelfth birthday, yet she was the absolute ruler of fifty million people.  Unimaginable power was hers…if she could figure out how to keep it for herself.

Nothing seemed quite real at first.  Now that Father’s grueling early-morning firebending demonstrations and late-night quizzes–as well as her obligations to Daddy–had abruptly ceased, Azula had so much more free time that she wasn’t sure what to do with it all.  The first day that she was allowed out of bed, she went straight to the Fire Lord’s office.  Sitting at the enormous and beautiful mahogany desk that had been built during Fire Lord Zoren’s reign, she flipped through the pile of important papers awaiting her signature, inspected all of the little drawers and secret compartments, held her brand new seal.  Her head was muffled as if it was underwater, and she started feeling dizzy.  She couldn’t breathe…

(She was told later that she’d been found lying on the office floor, laughing hysterically.  Or possibly crying; the servants didn’t all agree on that point.)

As the details of just what had happened slowly leaked out, though, Azula knew she had to snap out of this state quickly.  It transpired that a group of assassins had dressed as servants and gotten admittance into the garden.  Most of the Royal Guard had either been bribed, or were in on the plan themselves; they’d made certain that the ones who were truly loyal were sent elsewhere at the time.  This had been no ragtag group of malcontents who had acted on impulse.  The number of people involved had been massive, and the assassination had been coordinated and carried out flawlessly.  Even so, to Azula’s fury, their death sentences had been commuted to banishment while she’d still been bedridden.    They had obviously had the backing of someone powerful in the palace to be able to carry out the plan like that and escape proper punishment.

Azula knew exactly who that person was…the same man who’d been declared regent before Father’s body was cold.  Uncle Iroh. He’d kept his own hands clean, but Azula was certain he’d had it all planned out months in advance; anything to avenge his beloved Zuzu.  She highly doubted that he’d have done the same had she been the one to die. Oh sure, he’d put up an act of being concerned about her initially.  He’d come to her room a couple times, tried to talk to her, asked if Father had hit her, or had mistreated her in “other ways”.  At this last, she had threatened to have him thrown in the palace dungeon, and he made no further attempts.

Obviously, he had expected Azula to continue to be in shock–a shell of herself–and easy to manipulate.  He’d let her sit on the throne to receive important visitors, to preside over official ceremonies…but he would hold the real power.  And then, as soon as she came of age to dissolve the regency, he’d likely marry her off to one of his supporters, the idea being that she’d be too busy with childbearing to oppose being turned into a figurehead.

Azula intended to prove him wrong.  Her first official act as Fire Lord had been to change the lock on the door of Father’s office, so that Iroh had had to go find another room from which to work.  Petty, maybe, but satisfying nonetheless.  Her second act had been to start forming her own spy network.  Ty Lee and Mai would prove invaluable for the latter; no one would suspect a couple of schoolgirls of plotting anything.  

(Ty Lee kept worrying about her and asking how she was doing.  Mai, as usual, kept any and all feelings to herself.  But, no matter how strong the temptation got, Azula could never confide in either of them.  That would make them her equals.)  

Within a week, Azula had solid evidence that Iroh was holding secret talks with the ultimate goal of ending the war.  And he thought everyone would just kiss and make up, and the world would be a perfect place where nothing bad ever happened and everyone would just sit around and drink tea all day?  Ha. Unfortunately, she couldn’t remove him from power…not yet, at least.  He had too much support for that.  What she could do was make his life utterly miserable.  Father’s advisors got quite the surprise when she walked into the war room that first time and took her rightful seat on the throne. Regent or not, Iroh still had to bow and otherwise show deference to her in public.  And Azula was determined to relentlessly argue every single policy change he proposed until he wished he were dead in Father’s place.  Someday, as soon as she was able to rally her own supporters, Uncle would get his wish as he was finally punished for his crimes.

New guards had been selected for her, but she refused to have anything to do with them.  There was the possibility that they might turn on her as well, and the certainty that they were reporting back to Uncle.  Even the few who had been proven innocent of any involvement in Father’s death had been too trusting of their colleagues. And what about the servants?  What if they were plotting things as well? Shiza had taken her children and fled at the first possible opportunity, the bitch.  No, this wouldn’t do.  Any palace staff that she’d allow anywhere near her would have to undergo a rigorous selection process, run by her and only her.  

With all of these pressing concerns, every day seemed like a lifetime to her.  Nevertheless, the weeks started passing.  Azula made sure that the palace was always ablaze with entertainment.  She poured money into the arts like no Fire Lord had done in generations.  Erhu and pipa players were stationed in her antechamber all day. She had sleepovers with Mai and Ty Lee and Ruanyu almost nightly, where they binged on sweets and bounced on the mattress of the Fire Lord’s bed until they almost puked.  There were lavish garden parties, huge banquets, plays and operas and ceremonial dances.  A few foolish people had hinted to her that this might not be the most appropriate course of action in a time of mourning, but she insisted that Father would have wanted it this way.  The rest of the court, Uncle included, indulged her.  Azula could tell what they were all thinking:  Look at our beloved child ruler, so brave after the trauma of witnessing her father’s assassination.  Let her have her fun.  However, this line of thought was inaccurate in two ways.  Firstly, she wasn’t a child, and hadn’t been for some time. Secondly, she didn’t actually enjoy any of it; she just wanted something to occupy her brain, to protect her from her own thoughts.  

(The humongous pillows on Father’s…no, her bed were excellent for muffling her sobs at night, once the festivities were over and everything was quiet.  She was good at putting up a front for now, but how much longer until that collapsed?  How was she supposed to continue like this, without him?  She was surrounded by people, yet all alone.  It was as if a huge bleeding hole had been ripped into her gut, tearing her internal organs asunder.  Would this ever heal?  Could it?)

Nearly a month into her reign, Azula was finally crowned.  Traditionally, the coronation of a new Fire Lord would occur on the same day as the old one’s funeral.  However, Iroh had kept finding reasons to postpone hers.  But now he’d run out of excuses, and the Fire Sages assembled at the Coronation Temple for the second time in less than three years.  As the surprisingly heavy hairpiece was set into Azula’s topknot, she knelt in the new mantle and robes that had had to be custom-made for her small frame.  

“Hail Fire Lord Azula!” the head Fire sage boomed.  Azula got to her feet, looking out at the Sages kneeling before her, and then to the crowds of cheering commoners watching from afar.

They all loved her. She felt nothing.

[foreverfangirlalways]

Spooky Scary Wedding

Summery: Virgil and Remus get paired for a project where they have to plan their wedding. Fluff, weirdness, bonding, and pining ensues.  

Ships: Dukexiety

Warning: misunderstandings, innuendoes, extreme flirting  

-let me know if I need to add more warnings-

(This was requested by @sanderssstuff, I hope it lives up to your expectations!)

*here is the SlideShow that Virgil and Remus made, as an apology for getting it out so late 😅 file:///C:/Users/megan/Downloads/Halloween%20Wedding%20(1).pdf *

—-

It was 8th period Human Development, and the class was eagerly awaiting instructions for the newest project.

“Alright everyone! Who is ready to start the next project?” Mr. Critic asked. Everyone let off various noises of confirmation, because while Mr. Critic was the hardest grading teacher, he also puts together THE BEST projects.

“For this project, I have grouped everyone up into pairs, and those pairs will decide on if they want to make a presentation and slideshow about their wedding, their first kid, or starting a business. Does everyone understand?”

Once everybody nodded, Mr. Critic started naming off teams.

“Remy and Emile.”

“Janus and Patton.”

“Virgil and Remus.”

After that point, both Virgil and Remus stopped listening and stared at eachother. They had been friend for forever, but both wanted to be more, and both was afraid that it would ruin their friendship.

“Alright everyone, get with your partner and pick what you want your project to be about.”

Remus walked over at sat beside Virgil. “Hey favorite emo, what are you thinking?”

Virgil looked at Remus and laughed. “Well, we are certainly not doing ‘first kid’. You would give it a knife and I would end up shooting you from all the anxiety.”

Remus grinned. “I don’t know about you, but I think starting a business could be fun. We could start a Crematorium!”

“Ok, so we aren’t doing business either.” Remus busted out laughing at Virgil’s words, then got a flirty look on his face.

“Looks like their is only one option left.” Remus got down on one knee, grabbed Virgil’s hand, and opened his mouth.

“Hey Remus, wanna marry me?”

Remus sputtered. “You stole my thunder!”

“Yes I did.” Virgil smirked. “So ya want to get hitched or not?”

The bell rang, and Virgil stood up, grabbed his bag, and looked at Remus expectantly.

Remus got up and made a show of looking Virgil up and down.

“Ehh, I guess so. Your hot enough for me to get stuck with.” Virgil blushed and punched Remus in the arm. Remus laughed, and just laughed harder after Virgil turned told Mr. Critic “I’m marrying that asshole.”

Virgil flipped Remus off and speed walked towards his locker. Remus ran up and caught up to him. Remus grabbed Virgil’s elbow when he reached for his lock.

“Come on babycakes, let me come over so we can work on our wedding, pwetty pwease!” Remus gave his biggest puppy eyes, and Virgil just sighed.

“I’m not allowing you to hang out with Patton anymore. Fine, but your driving.” Remus whopped, and grabbed Virgil’s notebooks out of his hands.

“Lets go hot stuff! The sooner we plan the wedding the sooner we go on the honeymoon!”

Remus dragged blustering Virgil to his car. Virgil huffed, and buckled up. “If I die from your crazy driving, I will haunt your ass.”

“Wow Virgil, you mention my ass a lot, I think you like it.”

Virgil punched Remus again, and Remus just smirked and revved his car engine.

Once they made it to Virgil’s house, they plopped onto the couch and Virgil fires up his computer while Remus makes lewd doodles on his notepad.

“Alright Remus, first things first, what do we want for the theme? Like, colors or day specifically.”

“Green! Ooo! It should be on Saint Patrick’s day!”

Virgil shook his head. “That sounds like an awful idea, and this is a school project, so I don’t think you can put booze in the ‘why’ category.”

Remus makes a pouty face that makes Virgil’s insides feel butterflies. “Aww, but Vergy, I wanted a green wedding!”

Virgil rolled his eyes, but looked at the computer screen thoughtfully.  “What if we kept the green? I thing green would go well with purple, and it- WAIT!” Virgil screamed, and Remus fell off the couch.

“Damn it V! What?”

“Halloween! We could have a Halloween wedding! It would cover the day, the color scheme, and the theme.”

Remus grins and plops himself right behind Virgil. “That sounds awesome, my dark and brooding emo! It fits both of our aesthetics perfectly! Great job.”

Virgil beamed and leaned back against Remus’s legs. Remus played with Virgil’s hair while they worked out the finer details.

They decided that it would be a costume wedding, and that they would walk down the isle together to the tune of ‘Spooky Scary Skeleton’. Remus wanted it gory, but Virgil wanted it more traditional.

Luckily, they found a wondrous combination that suited both of them.

Once they got a good majority of the planning done, they called it a night and Remus headed home.

Once he got into his room, Remus called his best friend Janus and told him EVERYTHING!

“You’ll never guess it JanJan! V asked me to marry him! We are having a Halloween wedding and are walking down the isle to the song ‘Spooky Scary Skeletons’!”

“... The livingtrombstone Remix?”

“Of course! It’s a costume wedding and I want you to be my best man!”

Janus looked at his phone, and smirked. Virgil has been texting him for the last 15 minutes about the wedding project, and just basically gushing.

‘Whelp, time to play matchmaker.’

“Oh my Remus, I would simply *hate* to be in your wedding. Do you think Virgil would approve?”

“Of course! You are his favorite cousin, also, if you’ve liked him for as long as I have you know exactly how to get him to him to blush, which I would have no problem doing if he needed a bit of convincing. His blush is the cutest thing ever, and I would drop it if he truly didn’t want to.”

Janus smiled. “That sounds ‘dreadful!’ I can’t wait!”

-_-_-_-

Meanwhile, with Virgil, he was on the phone with Remy, and talking up a storm.

“But Rem, you don’t understand! He was flirting with me! Like, legit flirting! He even called me hot!”

Remy rolled his eyes and smirked.

“I know you can’t see me, but I’m rolling my eyes at you. Babes, of course he flirts with you and calls you hot! Have you looked in a mirror? He’d be dumb and blind not to.”

Virgil grins and shakes his head. “Remy, I do think your opinion is biased, you think anyone who has ever bought you Starbucks is drop dead gorgeous. Besides, Remus has been my friend for forever. I highly doubt that he would just now be interested in me.”

Remy has to take a moment and stare at his phone.

‘Wow. That oblivious dumbass. Whelp, guess I’m going to have to prove a point. Ooo! I can finally get revenge for Virgil setting Emile and I up, when he knew that I was about to ask him out! Eventually...’

“Alright, well sorry babes, but you’re gonna have to tell me more tomorrow. Emile is calling me.”

“Kay, by Rem.”

“By V!”

‘He doesn’t suspect a thing. This should be fun!’

-_-_-_-

The next day, the school bell had just rang for lunch, and Remy and Virgil were standing in front of Virgil’s locker.

“Gurl, why don’t you ever introduce me to your crushes? You’ve liked this guy for years! The least you could do is point him out.”

Virgil rolls his eyes and shuts his locker. “How about this. If he ever introduces himself without me pointing him out, you can say whatever you want to him!”

Remy smirks and shakes Virgil’s hand. Because unbeknownst to Virgil, Janus texted Remy a picture of Remus last night, and told Remus to go to Virgil’s locker at lunch time.

‘Well, speak of the devil!’

Remus walks towards Virgil, and Virgil turns around and instantly looks terrified. Remy smirks and looks at Remus.

“Hi babes, I’m Remy, Virgil best bitch. Who are you?”

“I’m Remus, Virgil’s soon to be husband.”

Virgil makes a choking noise and Remy does a dramatic gasp.

“Ooo, Remus? You can’t be the same Remus that Virgil said was his partner and hopeless crush. He has been talking my ear off about all that pining. But that has to be someone else, huh hun?”

At this point, Virgil is on number 7 of the intricately detailed murder plots for Remy that he has come up with in the three minute span that Remy has been talking. He is giving Remy his best death glare, and pointedly ignoring Remus’s gaze.

Remy notices Virgil’s stare, and goes, “Oop, there’s Emile, see you later Vergy.”with a wink.

Remy ran off, and then Virgil was forced to face Remus. Virgil stares in mute horror, and Remus has the biggest shit eating grin ever. He places a hand right next to Virgil’s head on the lockers, then leans in.

“What’s that supposed to be about, baby?”

Virgil.exe has stopped working.

Virgil is blushing so hard that he looks like a strawberry. Remus has not moved, so Virgil does the only thing that comes to his mind.

He shoves Remus and RUNS.

Instead of upsetting Virgil more, Remus runs to find Janus and tell him everything.

-_-_-_-

On the day of the presentation, Virgil ignored Remus all day. Once he made it into the classroom, he set up the slideshow on his computer and smiled at Remus’s outfit.

Part of their presentation was having to do at least one physical demonstration. They had decided to wear their wedding costumes, so Remus was dressed as Beetlejuice and Virgil dressed as Jack Skellington.

Once it was their turn, Virgil hooked up his computer and started the slide show. Everything was going fine until he reached the part that was supposed to be the proposal details.

Instead of showing the picture that they had taken, it was a black screen with the words ‘TURN AROUND’ written in what looked like blood. Virgil whirled around to yell at Remus for changing the slide show, but his voice died.

Remus is on one knee, holding a bouquet of dead black roses takes Virgil’s hand.

“Virgil Angst Skellington, will you do me the honor of being my boyfriend?”

Virgil is shocked. Unable to form words, Virgil starts crying.

Remus sees the tears and immediately thinks that they are tears of embarrassment. He sets the roses down and stands up, looking dejected.

“Shit! I’m sorry V, I should have asked beforehand. I didn’t mean to embarrass you, I just have liked you since you first hissed at our middle school math teacher when he told you that being gay was wrong. Over the years I have really grown a lot closer to you and have just fallen for you even more. And when Remy said that you liked me yesterday, I thought that I had a chance.”

Virgil puts a finger to Remus’s lips, and Remus looks up. Virgil, who has whipped his tears away, levels Remus a look.

“Remus, I mean this in the nicest way possible, please shut the fuck up.”

Remus looked like his heart shattered. Virgil smirks, pulls Remus closer by his tie, and kisses him in fount of the whole class.

“Yes you dumbass, I would love to be your boyfriend”

Remus smiled and spun Virgil around in burst of joy.

Remy shouts “Yas Bitch!”

The entire class cheers, even Mr. Critic was clapping.

Virgil hides his face in Remus’s neck and Remus just flips them all off while smiling.

They were able to get through the rest of the presentation and class without issue. After class they went and got ice cream with Virgil holding a bouquet of dead black roses and Remus holding Virgil’s hand.

They ended up making the highest grade on the project, and actually used a few of the ideas from their high school projects on their actual wedding.

Taglist-

@dragonwithproblems

@five-falseh00ds-ph0nated

@thefingergunsgirl

@kawaiikat54

@sanders-sides-with-quinn

@007ardra

@yikesdodson

@nerdycupcake559

@softestvirgil

@teacupfulofstarshine

@impatentpending

@star-crossed-shipper

@ravenivy2079

@rainbowemonightmare

@ladyartemisia28

@moose-boi

@resident-trash-goblin

@parx-boiiz

@ninathepancake

@kuroyurishion

@funkyfreshfatherfigure

@pattoncake-and-eyeshadow

@drewwwbydoobydoo

@sure-i-exist

@sophiexteresa

[k7l4d4]

Owl House AU Ideas, ZA FOURTH!!

This one is another crossover, but a bit more serious than my last. Show of hands, who here has heard of Black Clover! Really? THAT many? Alright!! Note: This is incomplete, and will be expanded upon at a later date, or at request.

Clovers and Owls!: The premise, the cast of the Owl House exists within the world of Black Clover. Bonesborough is a refuge hidden within the outskirts of the Clover Kingdom, populated by one of the two groups of descendants and survivors of the Elf Tribe massacre and runaways from the Forest of Witches, its inhabitants are gifted with incredibly powerful, and incredibly unusual forms of magic. Near totally self-sufficient, the residents of Bonesborough are a complete unknown to all but the highest levels of the Magic Knights, (technically, the actual king is supposed to know as well, but he is so incompetent that he never learned.) the nature of the residents being elves is unknown, all that is known is that they are the reclusive descendants of Witches and are wary of outsiders. Amity: In this story, the inhabitants of Bonesborough include the Blight family, which boasts a proud lineage as descendants of Licht the Sword Mage. Unfortunately, the Blight parents don't exactly live up to their heritage, being isolationist paranoiacs. At an early age, they, along with one other family, experimented on Amity in the hopes of creating the "Ultimate Elf Mage" as a deterrent in the event of another conflict between Humans and Elves occurring. Due to Amity baring a lack of identifying marks to prove the experiments occurred, along with the Blights' influence with Bonesborough, they managed to escape punishment, though not unscathed, as they lost a large amount of prestige. While Amity bares no memory of the experiments, she is plagued by chronic pains, fortunately non-debilitating, and is fully aware of what her parents were accused of doing, which she completely believes they are capable of. The experiments linked Amity, as well as the other test subject, to the same reincarnation spell as the old Elf Tribe, granting her an immense boost to her already massive reserves of magic, but the modifications to her being resulted in Amity being ostracized as an "unnatural child" and a profound sense of loneliness. Amity wields Catalyst Magic, allowing her to borrow the magical abilities of others in exchange for having none inherent to herself. Amity's variant allows her to wield all her available elements simultaneously, blending them together into incredibly complex workings that even seasoned veterans find impressive. The alterations done to her body have resulted in Amity gaining the ability to store and feed shards of others magic, granting her access to magical elements she would otherwise be without due to not having an appropriate mage on hand, however, she must be careful not to fully expend her shards or she will use them up and lose access to the magic they contained. Another alteration has made it so she can store and wield Anti Magic, but use of it prevents her from using any other form of magic and causes her pain, as it damages her body from within. One of Amity's greatest strengths is her innate affinity for mana, allowing her to detect and record the flow of it perfectly at all times, something she possessed even before she was altered, and may have contributed to her parents selecting her for the experimentation process; her senses are so fine that Asta, someone born without mana and is thus a void in the senses of other Mages, is perfectly detectable to her, as she can feel the ambient mana of her environment flow around him and his own lack of inherent mana.

Luz: In this story, Camila, along with an infant Luz, were on the run, attempting to avoid those seeking to exploit Camila's powerful Healing Magic, with their trek eventually leading them to Bonesborough. Upon reaching the isolated town, Camila managed to plead her case and set up residence for herself and Luz. Growing up as the sole full human in a village populated by Elf-Witch hybrids, Luz experienced isolation from others early on, though she some how always managed to keep a cheerful grin on her face, even when it was just to hide the pain inside. While very similar to her Canon self, Luz is a bit more thoughtful and level-headed in this AU, with the nature of her abilities necessitating her thinking things through before she actually does them. A passionate ray of sunshine, Luz always attempts to look on the bright side of a situation, with a natural flair and charisma that allows her to sway all but her most staunch adversaries. Luz's magical abilities are considered truly unique, as the composition of her mana is technically on the level of members of Royalty, yet its unusual nature presents difficulties for others to sense her true power, with only elves and certain members of royalty being able to truly gauge her magical power, with anyone else getting a reading no different than the average peasant. Luz's magic is known (in homage to her original series) as Wild Magic. Wild Magic, in this setting, is the fundamental magic of nature itself, the use of which causes Luz to literally merge with the magic and mana around her. Due to the current risk of losing herself in the mana, Luz often restricts herself to lower-level feats, creating the illusion that her magic is merely a form of environmental manipulation. Luz is desperate to learn more about humanity and the outside world, so when a chance to join the magic knights to gain intel was offered, she jumped at the chance. Boscha: Boscha's parents were part of the same group as Amity's, with Boscha serving as the prototype for their experiments. I'll spare you the gory details, but to test the feasibility of tapping into reincarnation magic-based forms of empowerment, Boscha's soul was forcefully extracted from her body and shoved back in through a reincarnation spell, known as Evil Eye. Boscha is far faster, stronger, and more aggressive than nearly any other mage her age. Due to the extant of the experiments conducted on her, Boscha's Evil Eye is always open, warping her mind into a near-feral state, and her original flame magic became corrupted into Demon Flame magic, a form of magical fire that can devour other forms of mana, and even the soul itself. Because she had so many more noticeable signs of alteration, Boscha's parents were unable to escape justice for what was done to her, leading to their exile into the Grand Magic Zone outside the Clover Kingdom. Like Amity, Boscha was heavily ostracized due to her altered state, but whereas Amity grew despondent, Boscha grew angry and bitter. Boscha has a horrible temper, and craves violence to a degree that frightens even herself, yet despite her flaws, Boscha is unwaveringly loyal to those she cares about, with Amity and surprisingly Luz counted among that number, and surprisingly friendly to those she isn't against and even to those she technically is! Boscha is incredibly proud of her skills, and any slight as to her strength and ability will near always result in violent retaliation. Boscha wields the power of Manticore, an artificial Fire Spirit created through the same experiments that resulted in her current state. Unlike other spirits, Manticore is nearly mindless, only showing any form of intellect and personality when called upon in a fight, and even then only in the loosest of senses.

As always, feel free to ask questions, comment, or use the AU as you please.

[plus-size-reader]

Loss and Comfort

Shane Walsh x Plus size!reader

Word Count: 1405 words

Warnings: Emotional. Reader loses a child since all of the plague stuff. 

Summary: What’s done is done but that doesn’t mean you have to pretend that it never happened.

———————————————————————————————————

You didn’t mean to blame Kip for everything you two had gone through.

It wasn’t his fault, after all, not really but you couldn’t help it.

After everything-you had lost your daughter, you had nearly died yourself and now, you were running for your life-every second of every day. It seemed to be never ending but that wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part, as it would turn out, was the fact that your so-called husband had completely and totally shut you out.

He acted as if this was all your fault, as if the sickness that killed Charlotte had anything to do with you. “Every time I look at you,” he would say, “All I can see is our dead little girl”

It was a pathetic, albeit hurtful declaration but you didn’t argue.

When she was alive, Charlotte had bore a striking resemblance to you, but that wasn’t your fault. You were her mother, after all. What did he expect?

For a while, you thought that would be the worst of it.

You thought that taking Kip’s daily tantrums and berating was the most suffering you could endure after something so traumatic, but of course, you had been wrong.

This new world was challenging you, and as they say, when it rains, it pours. You two had been living with a new group of survivors that you met on the way to Atlanta, but it was only a matter of time before the idiot got himself killed.

You had gotten rather close with one of the other survivors-a former cop named Shane. He had rescued you, and kept you all alive this long. As far as you were concerned, you owed him for everything.

Kip however, didn’t feel the same way.

Maybe he resented the fact that Shane treated you differently or that you had gotten so close to another man. You couldn’t be sure but he thought he could prove himself.

He wanted to show everyone that he was more of a man than Shane was or than any of them were. All he ended up doing was being stupid and getting eaten alive.

Luckily-you didn’t have to be there to see it.

You had been charged with staying back at the camp, so that you could collect acorns and mushrooms. A couple of the guys, including Kip, T-dog and Glenn had gone on the run.

Apparently, as far as you’d heard it, Kip thought he could take on a few more of them than he could and got cornered.

It was a dumb-as-shit move but after losing so much already, you didn’t even have a tear to shed. Instead, you decided to focus on making sure you didn’t lose anyone else.

You didn’t have a family anymore but at least you could make sure that no one else lost what you had.

Nothing was worth that.

No one talked about it at first.

After the initial news that your husband was dead, no one knew what to say. There really wasn’t anything to say, you all lost people.

However, that wasn’t good enough for Shane.

In some ways, he thought that he was responsible for the fact that you’d lost Kip. In some ways, he’d challenged him to prove himself and now he was just another corpse.

Not that he was planning on telling you that.

Knowing the gory details wouldn’t help bring him back and it sure as hell wouldn’t help you sleep better at night.

“Just wanted to tell you I’m sorry about Kip” he started, kneeling down beside you in the grass. He’d been watching you for half an hour and you hadn’t moved from your spot.

It was clear that you were thinking about something.

...He just didn’t know what it was.

“Don’t be, you didn’t kill him” you shrugged. It was more dismissive than you meant for it to be but you didn’t want to talk about it.

You didn’t even want to think about him right now.

In truth, you had fallen out of love with Kip a long time ago, but the death of your daughter had ended it all. The two of you despised each other for the constant reminder of what you’d lost.

...Of what had happened.

It was all too much for you to handle, and of course it was. The death of a child was the most traumatic thing that anyone could go through.

Everything reminded you of her, and as much as you hated Kip for treating you so poorly toward the end, he had given you the greatest gift you’d ever been given.

“I sure as hell didn’t save his ass either” he countered, running his right hand through his hair, which was sort of damp with sweat. He had been chopping wood earlier, for a fire and was currently feeling the after effects of the heat.

“Did you know that I had a kid? A little girl named Charlotte” you started, clearly over talking about Kip and what his loss had meant.

You needed to let someone else know about what you’d been through, before all this.

When Kip was around, you had someone to share the grief with but that wasn’t the case anymore. Now it was all on your shoulders and you couldn’t bare it anymore.

You had to get it out.

“You had a kid? Why didn’t you say anything before?” he wondered, genuinely shocked that this was the first he was hearing about it. Usually, the people that you’d lost were the first thing to come up.

...But you’d stayed quiet all this time.

It didn’t make any sense.

However, grief did manifest in a million different ways, for different people. There was really no telling how you had dealt with it, especially since he didn’t know you when it happened.

“She was seven, had a pretty bad fever when it all started,” “Kip thought she had a cold but it just didn’t go away” Tears bloomed in your eyes as you spoke, recalling the memory.

You hadn’t stopped sobbing for weeks after it happened. You couldn’t eat, you couldn’t sleep and surviving the dead was more or less out of the question.

...But Kip had gotten you through it.

He buried her, and got you out alive. He’d seen the alerts for the crisis centers all over tv but by the time you got there, you got stuck up on the highway.

It was, as it turned out, the best thing that could have happened to you but that was all in the past now.

“Damn, I’m sorry Y/N...I really am” he started, a new level of sincerity in his voice that you’d never heard before. He wasn’t all that good at the sentimental stuff-but this was different.

You were dealing with something he couldn’t even fathom.

“It’s better that way, at least she went in her sleep” you hummed, knowing the alternative was a horror you didn’t even care to imagine.

A sweet little thing like that didn’t need to live in a world like this.

This world didn’t deserve her.

“I bet you were a great mother” he allowed, after a few moments. You had always had a maternal air about you but he wasn’t quite able to place it until now. 

He would have loved to see you, chasing a young girl around the fields, teaching her things and turning her into a real grown adult. It was a shame that you’d lost her. 

The world could be cruel like that sometimes. 

“I did my best with what I had” you shrugged, you could have been better, you could have always been better but you had to admit that being a mother was the happiest thing you’d ever done. 

It was the only thing you’d ever really been proud of. 

“Thank you Shane, for letting me get this all out” you smiled, genuinely feeling as if a weight had been lifted off of your chest. If nothing else, you felt a little less alone in the world. 

It wasn’t perfect but it was the best you could do with what you had. At least now you had someone to talk to when it got too hard. 

That was the most you could ask for right now. You had to take it one day at a time and Shane had just made today a little bit easier to stomach. 

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

The Whole Truth - 2

(Full story available on AO3! If you want to be tagged as new chapters are posted, leave a comment “tag me” on this post!)

(Please note: Tumblr continues to make my Italics disappear. It’s very frustrating, so I apologize if the formatting makes anything confusing.)

Monday

1999

--

Aziraphale stared at the book on his desk. “What kind of curse?”

“Don’t know, not my department.” Gabriel smiled, excited, just a little distracted. It tugged at something in Aziraphale, made him want to prove he was worth the Archangel’s attention, too. “Michael’s soldiers seized it in a raid. Very dramatic stuff. Pity you weren’t able to make it.”

“Ah, yes, well…”

“Could have used another sword.” A nudge of the elbow, so hard Aziraphale staggered a little. “Those demons fought back hard.”

“Yes, terribly sorry. As I’d said there was this urgent business to attend to. Demonic possession. Entire family cursed. The house itself had become sentient. And. Carnivorous. I really had to deal with it all immediately.”

“Sounds frightening.”

“Oh, it was. Very frightening. And gory. And certainly not rated for general audiences.”

“What?”

“Nothing!” Aziraphale tugged on his waistcoat. The last thing he needed was for Gabriel to learn about movie night. Well. It was mid-ranked on the very long list of things Gabriel shouldn’t know. He hated lying to the Archangel, but no – things were better this way. “Regardless. You say these – these demons had this book in their possession?”

“Oh, yes. Not sure what they were planning to do with it, but it’s cursed. Very cursed.”

“Fascinating.” Aziraphale picked up a pen and used it to lift the cover, peering at the first page. He could just make out the writing. “It’s printed, not handwritten. Not Roman or Cyrillic alphabet.” He let the cover fall and started searching for a pair of gloves. “In fact, I don’t recognize the script at all. I’ll need a larger sample—”

Gabriel clapped his hands. “Good! Excellent, that’s just what I like to hear. Your obsession with material objects and human record keeping finally has a use. So glad we have an expert to consult on this.” Aziraphale hid a little smile at that. Expert. “See what you can find out by the end of the week.”

“End of the – you can’t be serious.” Aziraphale pulled his glasses off, waving them as politely as he could. “I mean, I’m sure you have your reasons, O holy Archangel, but deciphering an unknown text takes time. Not to mention identifying a curse—”

“We already have a team on that,” Gabriel interrupted, before Aziraphale could confess to knowing very little about demonic curses, apart from the sort Crowley shouted at other drivers.

“Oh. Jolly good.”

“Yes, they’ve told me the curse is so potent, any angel attempting to remove it would be immediately destroyed. Incinerated was the term they used.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale took a step away from the desk. “Well, I suppose that does change things.”

Gabriel shrugged. “As long as you don’t try to remove the curse yourself, you’re fine. Anyway, by Friday night, they’ll have worked out a proper disposal method. I proposed launching the book into the sun but apparently that would cause a, what did they call it, Superb Nova.”

“Oh dear.” Another step away. “You know, Gabriel, as…happy as I am that you wish to entrust this task to me, er, we are currently located in a major population center, and I don’t think—”

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel gave him that warm look, the one he saw so rarely, the one that made him feel included. “This raid was a big deal. I don’t want to start any rumors, but…it’s possible the demons were planning something. I would consider it a huge favor if you could just, I don’t know, poke around a bit? Find out what they wanted?”

“Well…as…as a favor…” There was a shiver of happiness running up his spine at that. Gabriel never asked for favors. “Yes, I think I can…learn a few things that might help you out. As long as it’s safe?”

“It’s fine!” Gabriel picked up the book and waved it around. “Perfectly harmless to angels; obviously, don’t let any humans near it. They might set something off. Probably blow up half the city!” He laughed, tossing the book. It hit the table with a crack, falling open to a random page.

“Oh, dear.” That hardly sounded safe. “What…if a demon tried? Er, someone come looking for his lost property, perhaps?”

“It would be very bad. No one touches this but you. Understand?”

Aziraphale nodded, feeling rather ill. He should say no, there were too many things that could go wrong.

His eyes drifted to the open book, the strange writing, a drawing of some horrifying creature. One word was a little larger than the rest and for a second, it looked familiar. He bent closer, almost instinctively. “This text…I almost think I’ve seen it before. No, it’s gone now, but perhaps…” He looked up in time to catch an eager gleam in Gabriel’s eyes. “Yes, I think…I can take a look. As…as a favor.”

“Excellent! That’s exactly the attitude I like to see. Now if you’ll excuse me, lots to do, places to be. I’ll follow up with you on Friday. Say, four o’clock?”

In a twinkling of light and a pop of air pressure, Aziraphale was alone with the book.

--

“He just – just left you with a cursed book?” Crowley paid the ice cream vendor and handed Aziraphale his cone.

“Yes. Is that so strange? I am an expert on Earth tomes, and languages, and treatises on magic.” He puffed his chest a little. “Why shouldn’t Heaven give me such a fascinating project?”

“Because they don’t care about any of that,” Crowley snapped flatly. “Besides, languages? I’ve heard you speak French.”

“I was having a bit of an off day,” Aziraphale pouted. “I shouldn’t be judged based on a single incident – what was it, two hundred and six years ago now? For all you know, I’ve been brushing up on my French ever since.” He licked the ice cream, smiling at the thick, creamy texture of it.

“Have you though?” Crowley sauntered alongside him, hands in his pockets, red hair slicked and gelled tight against his head.

“Well, no, but only because I’ve already read everything of interest in French.”

“Is that so?” Crowley smirked as if he was so clever. “Does this mean you finally got around to reading Proust?”

“Well. No. But neither have you.” Aziraphale took a quick bite of his ice cream before it could melt down his hand.

“Yeah, but I don’t live in a bookshop,” Crowley took a few steps ahead and started walking backwards, smirk evolving into a rather large grin. “So that makes me wonder who else you haven’t read. Dickens? Twain? Dostoyevsky? Is the Principality Aziraphale, in fact, a giant sham?”

The angel pursed his lips. “Any luck getting your car to play other music?”

Crowley’s face fell. “No,” he muttered, circling back to walk beside Aziraphale again. “At this point I’m really starting to get sick of Queen. Hope it doesn’t go on too much longer.”

--

Aziraphale stood before his desk, book lying innocuously on the blotter. He wore the thickest gloves he could find and – just to be safe – had rolled his sleeves up past the elbow. He still approached it with extreme caution.

One finger carefully tapped the spine, pulling away instantly.

No sparks. No chills. No cloud of demonic energy.

Just a perfectly ordinary book, really.

With feather-light touch, he brushed his fingers down the cover. Leather-bound, deep red-brown. Hopefully normal leather, but you never knew with demonic books, or for that matter certain obscure human texts. Sturdy and thick, the binding worn through in a few places just enough to indicate irregular use. No title, but gold pressed into the leather formed some sort of broad-leafed plant. Nothing he recognized.

Lifting the cover, he inspected the pages inside. Thick, rough paper – the edges a bit uneven and ragged in places. When he leaned close to inspect them, he detected the distinct dusty scent of old book, with just a hint of spice.

It seemed that Gabriel was correct. Nothing suggested the book was dangerous to touch.

Aziraphale set his armchair beside the desk and settled in for some proper investigation.

The first step of his process: Aziraphale turned to a page at random. He liked to think providence was guiding him to the first clues.

It looked much as that page he’d glimpsed during Gabriel’s visit, yet also entirely different. Small, curving letters – a bit like calligraphy, half unical, he thought, perhaps English or Irish – arrayed around complex illustrations of green plants on one side, and something that might have been an insect on the other. The artwork was immensely detailed, with subtle color variations, but resembled nothing he had ever seen.

The text was also strange, the longer he looked at it. He skimmed the page looking for patterns, groups of letters that appeared together more than once. Nothing. There were distinct words, all between four and seven characters, but each was unique. And the characters each looked sharp and clear and perfectly uniform in size, but there was variation, each uniquely formed, as if handwritten.

He turned the pages, sheet after sheet, looking for anything he recognized, leaning closer as he read. Sometimes a word would look almost familiar and then – no, it was gone.--

--

(The horror movie Aziraphale mentions is supposed to be “The Haunting” but I got it a bit confused with other movies from the late 90s. The mysterious writing and diagrams are loosely based on several mysterious texts, most notably the Voynich Manuscript.)