#century. all of which is to say: yes am absolutely still doing these and hope you enjoy this even half as much as I did writing it

[ravencromwell]

For the character ask game, Athos Dane: 7, 10, and 20.

7. A quote of them you remember: "No one suffers as beautifully as you." And before everyone starts laughing at my terrible cliche—it is terribly cliched, I would pair it with "My plaything is dead". The no one suffers as beautifully as you comes just after Athos's interlude with Beloc where Beloc tried, and did real damn good for a teenager, to be defiant, but eventually answered Athos's questions about his name etc. without yet having the Soul Seal on. Contrast this to Athos's "Sing for me, Holland" in ACOL, which Holland refuses to do.

Yes, Beloc is undoubtedly fun, but fundamentally, he knows how this game is going to go. The fact that Holland still has defiance, after seven years, seems to just fucking enthrall Athos. He makes Holland fill the blood goblets partially just to fuck with Kell, but also for that flicker of rage and humiliation Kell notices as being so out of character. Fundamentally, he doesn't know when Holland will give him the last scrap of power, and that's what keeps him coming back.

But any love or fascination or what have you is utterly gone once Holland is no longer a spectacle: my plaything, he says, in his own pov while talking to his sister. He feels "annoyance at his servant's incompetence" The one time he mentions Holland by name, it's to tell Kell how he and Holland are fundamentally flawed when compared to Athos.

Everything this man did for seven fucking years around Holland was either about furthering his goals or getting some kind of reaction, be it in his choice of conversation topics or experiment subjects.

Holland has a line that is so fucking sad to me in that context in ACOL where he says he never screamed if he could help it, out of the quixotic hope if Athos didn't get a reaction, he'd just kill him already. There's something so fucking tragic I don't have words for the fact that Holland's refusal to stop being a person, at least in small ways, and even the ways he tried to provoke Athos, were so much of what made him interesting enough to never let fade into the background as a particularly useful pair of hands. Because as we see with essentially sending Beloc out as canon fodder, and again with the dismissive "my plaything" comment after Holland's dead, once there's no longer potential for interesting power dynamics, he's bored moving on. 

10. Describe the character in one sentence.: "Intelligence has never tempered my desire. It merely ensures I take what I wish without consequence."—Athos Dane, to his hypothetical biographer, poor bastard.

20. A weird headcanon:

He may have learned to read on the coast primarily to sniff out magic, but when he arrives at the castle, he finds he quite enjoys books outside of magic. Vortalis was a military histories fan, which Athos "journey of the battle" absolutely fucking devours for the play by play.

Astrid likes the White London version of Caesar: careful, methodical, only moving when the field was to his advantage.

Athos, though, it's the underdogs. The White London Hannibal bringing his elephants in what everyone called folly; the Lord Caradoc/Caratacus resisting a much larger force. Just _immensely his jam.

And once he got started, he wanted more of anything Holland thought might rouse his interest. I don't think the Danes had any _reason to go to Grey London, but I suspect that by God, if the Mareshes Antari could go, they sent Holland there on the semiregular (I will play with the toys, too!) One of the things Grey had neither Red nor White did was a thriving fiction culture. And if you're one Holland Vosijk, who wants to be able to bring back some escapism for yourself, you'd better be prepared to bring back gifts.

Which leads me to: Athos Dane, sometime Shakespeare fan and more often critic.

1. Huge, huge fucking fan of Iago. Iago knows how to properly manipulate some people. (Except of course, as is the problem with so many people, he got squeamish in the end. If he had killed the messengers from Venice when they found him in the alley, he would never have needed to kill his wife and certainly never have been tortured and executed. But Iago pre–Othello Act Five: _spectacular.

2. Huge Richard III fan—likes all the histories, honestly. But that "winter of our discontent" monologue: gets him _every time. Richard, now there's a man who knows how to embrace being hated. (Though that he cares at all about fool's opinion of him just demonstrates he lacked an Astrid. Without that one person for unconditional affection and non-judgment, he could only embrace it so far.

3. Hamlet completely cracks him up in an awful way. Or rather, the ways in which Holland and Hamlet's desire for revenge mirror one another. "You thought you were Hamlet, coming down that hall and did not understand we were not his foolish uncle!"

4. The rest of it: Romeo and Juliet, the comedies, most of the other tragedies, just _trash. Characters too weak to dominate the way they should or unrealistic ("blood never denies blood what they want" he says of the Capulets etc. smiling beatifically at Astrid.

5. Astrid has the copy of Titus Andronicus. Major Queen Tamora fangirl "We shall serve the Arnesians their royals in pie," Athos says, when Astrid sighs over missing their opportunity with Holland.

Athos is very theatrical, has a multitude of ideas for how to stage the Shakespeare sets with magic when they take Arnes, and is very keen to read other plays.

[gabessquishytum]

Time for some dreamling crack! I apologize for the length, it got out of control. Destiny is done. He's just done, okay? He's had enough of his parents who were never there, siblings who are constantly up to some shit, and his ultra-serious job with no vacations. Moreover, being constantly chained to a book (especially when it's such a huge and heavy book) sucks. So, one day he makes an ultimate decision to go on a holiday into some remote galaxy for a century or two, but first, he needs to complete one task that he actually assigned to himself. Technically, he's not supposed to intervene and all that cosmic bullshit, but he's Destiny, and that's his destiny, pun intended. He's the CEO! The year is 1389. Destiny calls Death and tells her they need to go to Dream asap. She's surprised and slightly worried but obeys without questions. Dream is even more surprised - Destiny normally never visits, so the circumstances must be exceptional. Which they are. Destiny is in no mood for pleasantries and gets straight to the business, informing Dream that he needs to get laid for the common good. Dream bluescreens, and so does Death. 'I beg you pardon?' Dream blinks. Destiny never jokes, and he must have misheard… But Destiny, in his impassive, 100% serious tone, repeats that Dream does need to get laid. To prevent the deaths of thousands of dreamers in the 20th century, to prevent the grudge with hell, to save multiple dreams and nightmares, etc., but ultimately, to save himself from the ill fate. 'All this can be prevented if I get laid?' Dream's metaphorical head is spinning. 'Yes,' Destiny deadpans. 'Okay...' Death interrupts cautiously. 'Why am I here, though?' 'Because he needs to get laid regularly, and there is only one human who can handle this task. He must be made immortal for this reason.'

Dream feels like the Dream.exe file has been irrevocably damaged. 'I need to get laid regularly?' He repeats weakly. 'Brother, you know how important my function is. I have no time for-' 'This is exactly why you meet your doom in all the futures but one.' '…where I'm getting laid?' Destiny nods. Death beams. Dream pales to a previously unexisting shade of white. Without further ado, Destiny takes them all to the White Horse, buys some ale (his vacation mood starts to kick in - he expected more objections from Dream), and nods at one table. 'Robert Gadling. He is the chosen one.' 'Brother, you surely do not want me to lay with a mortal who has fleas and hasn't bathed for Delirium knows how long,' says terrified Dream. 'I surely do. Fleas are the least of your potential problems, little brother.' 'Alright.' Death says. 'Robert Gadling is immortal now. Can I go?' Destiny nods again. Death smiles and, before disappearing, loudly whispers to Dream to invite her to the wedding. Dream glances one last time at his brother and approaches Robert's table. If this is his destiny...and it's for the greater good of the universe and dreamers...Besides, this Robert Gadling is quite handsome - well, unwashed and smelly, but handsome still. Destiny is very pleased. Now, he only needs to sign up Desire for a few millennia of uncancellable therapy, and he can go drink his cocktails in a galaxy far, far away!

I love this, thank you so much for writing it all out. It really made me chuckle.

I'm absolutely obsessed with the idea of Destiny just getting really sick of the universe and all the bullshit that it contains. He's the equivalent of a harassed middle aged working parent attempting to keep everything under control and inevitably watching it all go to shit. He deserves such a good vacation, I hope there's a really good spa in the galaxy he's picked out.

Being the oldest sibling is hard, even when you come from a family of cosmic entities. And honestly? Destiny kind of likes the look of his new human brother-in-law. If this guy can keep Dream from going off the rails then that's wonderful, but the fact that he's cute? Also helps. Destiny may be blind but he is not immune to the Hobpropaganda. He's actually kind of not dreading the next family dinner? He can already see that it's going to run a whole lot smoother with Hob around the table.

But first: bottomless mimosas in a different star system. Bye, losers!

[andrealvsbooks]

Demons

Who is Lizbeth Potter really?

That's a question that gnaws at Lizbeth herself. All her life she has felt strange as if a piece of her life was missing, when at last it seemed that the moment of answers would come, everything seems to get worse.

What seemed like a simple tournament in which she would also see her boyfriend Peter Pevensie again, becomes her biggest problem while she deals with new powers, a new identity as hated as the girl who survived and lies.

Have I mentioned yet that she now has a voice in her mind that says it's her dragon pestering her all the time?

Yes, Lizbeth Potter's luck couldn't get any worse.

English isn’t my first language, so if you see any mistakes or things that look weird please tell me so I can fix them.

Chapter 1

POV Lizbeth

It's been two days since the Quidditch World Cup. Death Eaters showed up, and someone conjured the Dark Mark, which caused chaos that still feels fresh in my mind. After the train ride back to Hogwarts and receiving a letter from Sirius, I am now sitting in the Great Dining Hall, next to Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, my best friends, waiting for Dumbledore's welcome speech. Apparently, he has a very important announcement to give us.

Oh, I almost forgot: I haven't introduced myself. My name is Lizbeth Potter, I'm 14 years old, and although I'm just beginning to discover the extent of my powers, I already have a story to tell. I have a boyfriend named Peter Pevensie, whom I met in the Muggle world. He told me about a magical place called Narnia, and I confessed to him that I was a witch. We spent a lot of time together, but one day, he and his brothers just… disappeared. It was as if they had evaporated, as if no one but me remembered that they ever existed. Ever since then, I've been searching for answers.

When I returned to Hogwarts after that summer without Peter, I became obsessed with understanding what had happened to him. Eventually, I discovered that his disappearance was part of his return to Narnia. Now I wait patiently for the day when I can see him again. Because, after all, if magic allowed me to remember him, doesn't that mean we will meet again someday?

-Well, now that you are all seated I have some announcements to make: Mr. Filch the janitor has asked me to remind you that you are not allowed to do magic in the corridors, I also remind you that the forbidden forest is absolutely forbidden for all the students as well as the first and second year students are forbidden to go to Hogsmeade -Filch entered and approached Dumbledore, As I was saying - he continued, smiling at the crowd of students in front of him- we have the honor of hosting an exciting event that will take place over the next few months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It gives me great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will take place at Hogwarts this term.

-He's staying with us! -said Fred in a loud voice. Almost everyone laughed, and so did Dumbledore, as if appreciating Fred's intervention. -I'm not staying with anyone, Mr. Weasley -he replied, -although, speaking of staying with people, I was told a really good joke this summer about a troll, a witch, and a leprechaun walking into a bar… Professor McGonagall cleared her throat noisily. -Eh… Well, perhaps this is not the most appropriate moment…. No, it's true -said Dumbledore- Where was it? Ah, yes, the Triwizard Tournament! Well, some of you probably don't know what the Triwizard Tournament is, so I hope those of you who do will forgive me for giving a brief explanation while you think of something else. The Triwizard Tournament originated about seven hundred years ago, and was created as a friendly competition between the three most important schools of magic in Europe: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. A champion was chosen to represent each of these schools, and the three champions participated in three magical trials. The schools took turns hosting the Tournament, which took place every five years, and was considered an excellent way to establish ties between young wizards and witches of different nationalities as well as to invite rulers from one of the worlds around us… until the number of deaths grew so high that they decided to discontinue the tournament.

-The number of deaths? -Hermione whispered, a little frightened.

But most of the students in the Great Hall didn't seem to share that fear: many of them whispered excitedly, and even I was more interested in hearing more about the Tournament than worrying about deaths that had occurred over a hundred years ago.

-In all this time there have been several attempts to hold the Tournament again -Dumbledore continued -none of which were very successful. However, our departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Sports and Games have decided that now is a good time to try again. We have worked flat out this summer to make sure that this time no champion is in mortal danger.

I'm going to try it! -said Fred Weasley, his face lighting up with excitement at the prospect of such glory and riches. He must not have been the only one who was imagining himself as Hogwarts champion. At every table, I saw students looking at Dumbledore with rapturous expressions, or whispering to their neighbors in utter excitement. But Dumbledore spoke again, and the Great Dining Hall fell silent once more. -Although I imagine you are all eager to take home the Triwizard Tournament Cup -he said -the Headmasters of the three participating schools, in agreement with the Ministry of Magic, have decided to place an age restriction on this year's contestants. Only students who are of the required age (seventeen years of age or older) will be allowed to propose themselves for consideration. This -Dumbledore raised his voice slightly as some people made noises of protest in response to his last words, especially the Weasley twins, who seemed suddenly furious- is a measure we deem necessary since the tasks of the Tournament will be difficult and dangerous, no matter how many precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below the sixth and seventh years will be able to cope with them. I will personally make sure that no student under that age cheats our impartial judge to become Hogwarts champion -His light blue eyes sparkled especially brightly as he winked at Fred and George's faces, which showed an expression of defiance. So, please don't waste your time introducing yourselves if you are under seventeen. Now without further ado, let the Beauxbatons students enter!

Suddenly, the huge doors of the Great Hall opened with a solemn echo, and the murmur of students faded into an expectant silence. In walked a group of girls in elegant sky-blue uniforms, their cloaks billowing softly as they passed, as if a mysterious wind were surrounding them. Each of them moved with impeccable grace and amazing synchronization, performing a delicate and harmonious dance that caught everyone's attention. Their movements were smooth, and each gesture carefully calculated. It was impossible to look away. As the show progressed, I could see some of the students begin to blush, enraptured. Ron, in particular, was completely mesmerized, his cheeks taking on a bright red color that went unnoticed by anyone. Hermione, the twins and I couldn't hold back a laugh at his expression, a mixture of admiration and rapture that made him seem completely oblivious to our surroundings.

When the students finished their presentation, a huge woman appeared behind them and started walking towards Dumbledore. In all my life I had only ever seen one person as gigantic as that woman, and that was Hagrid. It seemed to me that they were exactly the same height, but even so (and maybe because I was used to Hagrid) that woman seemed even bigger. Taking a few steps, she stepped fully into the area illuminated by the dining room light, and it revealed a beautiful face with dark skin, large black crystalline eyes, and a sharp nose. She wore her hair tied back at the base of her neck in a shiny bun. Her robes were black satin, and a multitude of opal beads glittered around her throat and on her thick fingers. Dumbledore began to applaud. The students, imitating their headmaster, clapped as well, many of them standing on tiptoe to get a better look at the woman. Smiling graciously, she advanced toward Dumbledore and extended a glistening hand. Though Dumbledore was tall, he barely had to bend down to kiss it. -My dear Madame Maxime -he said -welcome to Hogwarts. -Dumbledog -Madame Maxime replied, her voice deep- I hope you are well. -In excellent form, thank you -Dumbledore replied.

Without another word Dumbledore directed the Beauxbatons students to sit at the Ravenclaw table while Madame Maxime sat at one of the free seats at the teachers' table. -Now, our friends from the north, let us welcome the proud students of Dumstrangs and their headmaster Igor Karkarov - said Dumbledore. For the second time, the doors of the Great Dining Hall opened, and this time they revealed a group of burly, imposing-looking young men. They were tall, with serious faces and intense gazes, and they moved forward in an intimidating line. Every step they took echoed off the ground, and with calculated movements, they tapped their staffs in unison. In perfect synchronization, they traced figures in the air with flames that seemed to emanate from their staffs, forming orange and golden sparkles that illuminated their faces and gave the place an almost mystical aura. Leading them was a man of sinister bearing, who wore on his shoulders a cloak of singular skin, smooth and of a silvery tone that reflected the light as if it were made of pure metal. His hair, of the same silver hue, fell in an orderly fashion.

-Dumbledore! -he shouted effusively as he climbed the slope- How are you, my old companion, how are you? -Splendidly, thank you, Professor Karkarov! -Dumbledore replied. Karkarov had a pasty, affected voice. He was tall and thin like Dumbledore, but his white hair was short, and his goatee (which ended in a small curl) did not quite conceal his weakly pronounced chin. Arriving before Dumbledore, he shook hands with him. -Old Hogwarts -he said, looking up at the dining room ceiling and smiling. His teeth were quite yellow, and notice that the smile did not include his eyes, which kept their cunning, cold expression- It's great to be here, it's great….. As the Durmstrang students made their way to the Slytherin table at Dumbledore's direction, we saw a boy, with his nose, prominent and curved, and thick black eyebrows. To recognize that profile I didn't need Ron's punch in the arm, nor did I need him whispering in my ear:

-It's Krum! I don't believe it! -Ron exclaimed in amazement- Krum, Lizzie! It's Viktor Krum! -Ron, for God's sake, he's just a quidditch player! -said Hermione. -Nothing more than a quidditch player? -He's one of the best seekers in the world, Hermione! I never would have guessed he still went to school! Before Ron could express his excitement any further, Dumbledore spoke again, causing the dining hall to fall silent again.

-And finally, we welcome the rulers of one of the many worlds that exist. This year we have the pleasure of welcoming the kings and queens of Narnia.

What?

The doors to the Great Hall slowly opened, and an imposing figure filled the doorway. A huge lion with golden fur and deep, serene eyes walked in with calm, confident strides. Following him, in an elegant formation, came Peter, Lucy, Susan, Edmund, and a taller young man with a noble bearing and dark hair I didn't recognize. Awe and excitement made me grip Hermione's hand, who seemed quite curious.

As they reached the front of the Great Hall, the lion stopped in front of Dumbledore. The headmaster greeted him with a smile.

—Aslan, old friend —Dumbledore said, bowing his head slightly in respect.

—Albus, it's good to see you again —the lion replied, his deep voice leaving us all astonished.

An absolute silence took hold of the room. Students and professors were stunned until Fred and George broke the tension.

—The lion... —Fred whispered in amazement.

—He spoke! —George added.

—Awesome! —they both exclaimed in unison, prompting some laughter among the students.

With a playful expression, Dumbledore looked at everyone and introduced:

—Dear students, it is an honor to present the kings and queens of Narnia: Queen Susan, Queen Lucy, King Peter, King Edmund, and King Caspian. They all come from a world called Narnia, filled with magic and adventures.

Following Dumbledore's lead, the kings made their way to the Gryffindor table, while Aslan walked toward the professors' table. I suspected he might be another judge for the Triwizard Tournament.

Fred and George, ever curious, quickly approached the newcomers.

—Hello, kings... —Fred said with a playful grin.

—And queens —George added with a slight bow.

—We’re the Weasley twins, and we welcome you to Gryffindor —they both said proudly.

Peter smiled and nodded formally.

—It's a pleasure to meet you, Fred and George.

The twins laughed, giving him a light pat on the shoulder.

—No need for so much formality, okay? —Fred said, winking—. Here in Gryffindor, we consider ourselves the lions of Hogwarts. We’re brave and loyal, and besides, the Potter family has always been in this house —he added with a proud smile.

I shot him a mildly annoyed glance at the mention of my last name, while Susan looked on with curiosity.

—Potter family? —she asked, intrigued.

—Yeah, yeah —George said, pointing at me—. Lizbeth Lilian Potter, our friend since day one. Come on, we’ll introduce you to her. We’ll tell you how she saved the Philosopher’s Stone, defeated a basilisk, and rescued her godfather.

As the Narnian kings approached, Lucy stepped forward and hugged me warmly.

—Lizzie! —she exclaimed with a big smile.

—Lucy! —I replied, wrapping her in an equally excited embrace.

Hermione watched the scene with a furrowed brow, clearly confused.

—Do you know each other? —she asked, looking at Lucy and then at me.

—Well... —I started to say, noticing Peter taking a seat next to me. With a calm smile, he took my hand, intertwining his fingers with mine, giving me the courage to continue—. We met in the Muggle world when Peter and his siblings moved near the Dursleys' house. At first, we were just friends, but over time, something more developed —I added, smiling—. Peter and I have been together for almost two years.

A murmur of surprise swept across the table. Just then, the food appeared on the tables, distracting everyone’s attention. As we ate, the conversation shifted to the Triwizard Tournament. When dinner ended, Dumbledore stood up again and walked over to a brown box next to the professors' table, capturing our attention once more.

—Your attention, please, I would like to say a few words —he said, standing next to the box—. Eternal glory awaits the student who wins the Triwizard Tournament, but to achieve it, they must survive three dangerous tasks...

But at that moment, a deafening thunderclap rang out, and the doors of the Great Hall flew open. A man appeared in the doorway, leaning on a long staff and draped in a traveling cloak.

All heads in the Great Hall turned to observe the stranger, suddenly illuminated by a flash of lightning that lit up the ceiling. He pulled down his hood, shaking out a long mane of hair that was part gray and part black, and walked toward the professors' table. A dull thud echoed with each of his steps across the Great Hall. He reached one end of the professors' table, turned right, and limped heavily toward Dumbledore. Another flash of lightning illuminated the room. Hermione stifled a gasp.

That light highlighted the man’s face, and it was a face very different from any I had seen in my life. It looked as though it had been carved from a piece of wood worn by time and rain, by someone who had no idea what human faces looked like and who was also not very skilled with a chisel. Every inch of his skin appeared scarred. His mouth was like a slash at an angle, and a large chunk was missing from his nose. But what made him truly terrifying were his eyes. One was small, dark, and shiny. The other was large, round like a coin, and a vivid, electric blue. The blue eye moved constantly, never blinking, darting up and down, side to side, completely independent of the normal eye... and then it would turn white, as if looking inside the man’s head.

The stranger reached Dumbledore. He extended a hand as roughly formed as his face, and Dumbledore shook it, murmuring words we couldn't hear. He seemed to be asking the stranger questions, who shook his head, remaining unsmiling, and answered in a very low voice. Dumbledore nodded as well and gestured for the man to take the empty seat to his right. The stranger sat down and shook his mane to get the gray hair off his face; he reached for a plate of sausages, lifted it to what remained of his nose, and sniffed it. Then he took out a small knife from his pocket, poked one of the sausages at one end, and began to eat it. His normal eye was fixed on the sausage, but the blue one continued darting back and forth without pause, moving in its socket, focusing both on the Great Hall and the students.

—I present to you our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher —Dumbledore said cheerfully, as the room fell silent—. Professor Moody.

Normally, new teachers would be met with cheers and applause, but this time no one clapped, neither the professors nor the students, except for Hagrid and Dumbledore. The sound of their hands clapping resonated so sadly in the silence that they quickly stopped. Everyone else seemed too stunned by Moody's strange appearance to do anything but stare.

—Moody? —I whispered to Ron—. Mad-Eye Moody? The Auror?

—It must be him —Ron said, sounding scared.

—What happened to him? —Hermione asked in a very low voice—. What happened to his face?

—I don't know —Ron replied, watching Moody with fascination.

Moody seemed completely indifferent to this cold reception. Ignoring the jug of pumpkin juice in front of him, he rummaged again in his traveling cloak, pulled out a flask, and took a long swig from its contents. As he lifted his arm to drink, the cloak lifted a few inches off the ground, and I saw, from under the table, part of a wooden leg ending in a claw.

Dumbledore cleared his throat again.

—... just to clarify the procedure we will be following. But first, for those of you who don't know them, allow me to introduce Mr. Bartemius Crouch, director of the Department of International Magical Cooperation —there was a hint of polite applause—, and Mr. Ludo Bagman, director of the Department of Magical Games and Sports— They applauded much more for Bagman than for Crouch, perhaps due to his fame as a Quidditch Beater, or perhaps simply because he looked much friendlier. Bagman acknowledged the applause with a jovial wave of his hand, while Bartemius Crouch neither waved nor smiled when presented. Remembering him in his immaculate suit at the Quidditch World Cup, Harry thought the wizard’s robe didn’t suit him. His bristle mustache and the straight part in his hair looked very odd next to Dumbledore’s long, white hair and beard—. Messrs. Bagman and Crouch have been working tirelessly over the past few months on preparations for the Triwizard Tournament —Dumbledore continued—, and they will be with me, along with Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, and His Majesty, Aslan, on the panel that will judge the champions' efforts.

At the mention of the word "champions," the students' attention increased even more, dispelling the tension that Moody's entrance had caused. Perhaps Dumbledore sensed the sudden silence because he smiled as he said: —Mr. Filch, if you would be so kind as to bring the chest...

Filch, who had gone unnoticed but was paying attention in a corner of the Great Hall, approached Dumbledore with a large wooden box studded with jewels. It looked extraordinarily old. Murmurs of interest and excitement rose among the students. Dennis Creevey stood on his chair to see better, but he was so small that his head barely popped above the others.

—Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman have already examined the instructions for the trials that the champions will have to face —Dumbledore said as Filch carefully placed the chest on the table in front of him—, and they have arranged all the necessary preparations for them. There will be three trials, spaced throughout the school year, that will measure the champions in many different aspects: their magical abilities, their daring, their deductive skills, and, of course, their ability to face danger. At the mention of this last word, an absolute silence fell over the Great Hall, and no one seemed to breathe.

—As you all know, three champions compete in the Tournament —Dumbledore continued calmly—, one from each participating school. The perfection with which they carry out each of the trials will be scored, and the champion who has obtained the highest score after the third task will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial judge: the Goblet of Fire.

Dumbledore took out his wand and tapped it three times on the top of the chest. The lid slowly creaked open. Dumbledore reached in to pull out a large chalice, roughly carved from wood. It wouldn't have drawn attention if it weren't for the trembling bluish-white flames that filled it to the brim. Dumbledore closed the chest and carefully placed the chalice on top so that everyone present could see it well.

—Anyone who wants to volunteer as a champion must write their name and the name of their school on a piece of parchment in clear handwriting and toss it into the chalice —Dumbledore explained—. The aspiring champions have four days to do this. Then, on Halloween night, the chalice will give us the names of the three champions it deems most worthy to represent their schools. Tonight, the chalice will be displayed in the entrance hall, accessible to all those who wish to compete. To ensure that no underage student succumbs to temptation —Dumbledore continued—, I will draw an age line around the Goblet of Fire once we have placed it in the entrance hall. No one under the age of seventeen will be able to cross the line. Lastly, I want to emphasize to all who are thinking of competing that careful consideration must be given before entering the Tournament. When the Goblet of Fire has selected a champion, he or she will be obliged to continue in the Tournament until the end. By putting your name in the Goblet of Fire, you are signing a binding magical contract. Once turned into a champion, no one can back out. So you must be very sure before offering your candidacy. And now it seems to me that it is time to go to bed. Good night, everyone.

As we all stood up, I took Peter's hand and quickly led him to a more secluded corner of the hallway. Without thinking twice, I hugged him tightly.

—I’ve missed you so much, Peter. I’m glad you’re here —I whispered without pulling away from him.

—I’ve missed you too, Beth, more than you can imagine. I love Narnia, but… by Aslan, I’ve never missed anyone so much —he replied. Hearing him call me by that nickname he only used filled me with warmth.

—How have you been? I can’t wait for you to tell me everything…

But before I could continue, Susan appeared with a soft smile.

—I’m sorry to interrupt, but Aslan wants to talk to us, Peter. It’s great to see you again, Lizzie.

—Su! I’m excited to see you too —I exclaimed, happy. I had forged a good friendship with her during the summers at the Dursleys' house.

—I’ll see you later, okay? —Peter said, though it was clear he wasn’t very happy to have to interrupt our conversation.

—Sure, don’t worry. Besides, I have to go show a new girl around the castle. We have the whole year to catch up —I replied, smiling as I caressed his hands.

We said goodbye with one last exchange of glances, and I headed off to find Professor McGonagall for instructions on where to find the new student. As I walked, I thought about how promising this fourth year looked.

[thegloweringcastle]

A Million Lifetimes

Happy holidays to @sideralwriting!! My dear, I appreciate your patience with me as I navigated life (& the gift swap) this holiday season. It has been SUCH a delight getting to know you these past few weeks and I look forward to hopefully staying in touch after the swap! I'm sorry this isn't my best work, but I hope you like it nonetheless. I tried my best to add small little details you might appreciate, and I know it's not great but I hope it may bring you some joy. <3

And the absolute biggest hug and thank you to @acotargiftexchange for being so patient with me - I'm sorry I had to be *That Person* this year. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart<3<3<3<3<3

No warnings to be found! Just silly feysand fluff and shenanigans.

_~_~_~_~_~_~_

Many people use the holidays as a time to reflect on all which has changed. Some measure how much they’ve grown as individuals, others use it as a way to mark the end of a long, grueling year - seeing the short break as a way to signify a year’s worth of change and prompt improvement for the months between the next holiday.

Feyre and Rhys, on a similar note, liked to use it as a way to track how many times they have found each other, over and over again.

***

This time the wind blew gently; not hard enough to urge people inside, but not so gentle that it went unnoticed. In the crowded holiday market of Velaris, two people huddled closer together, sharing heat and smiles.

“I’m just saying,” Feyre’s words formed between them as frosty clouds. “I still think that the winter we spent in Greenland was better than the one in London.”

“But Feyre darling,” Rhysand’s words were not as clear as Feyre’s, thanks to the scarf he kept tight around his face. “London!” 

“Yes, London, but it was early nineteenth century London and we had just run into each other - quite literally - from slipping and sliding through sewage.”

“Oh, darling, you forget how I so smoothly saved us from certain doom.” He tugged the scarf away from his face, rewinding it around both of them.

“You didn’t save my shoes, that’s for certain.” She huffed. “All I’m saying is I believe you’re looking at it through rose-colored lenses.”

He chuckled. “I’m not going to win, am I?”

“No, my love. You’re not.” She offered him a pat on the cheek - a consolation.

They wandered between stalls of vendors, watching the holiday lights and decorations in quiet awe. Feyre itched to blend the colors together on canvas, perhaps make a mashup of every holiday she’d ever spent with Rhys. There would be golds and reds from the market they currently walked through, but there would also be greys and browns and greens. Light and shade, with a fair share of tears to balance out the smiles. It would be… chaotic. And perfect. A strange, haphazard image that perfectly depicted their lives. 

She tugged on his hand, drawing them to a stop in front of a Bavarian craftsman.

“What about that christmas in Germany?”

“That was a pretty good year. Bloody cold though.” He shivered, as if just the thought of it sent chills down his spine. “I think it’s still one of my favorites of our firsts. It was refreshing to see you so at ease. Remember how simple it was that year?”

Yes, Feyre remembered that life well. It was among her favorites, she supposed; one of their cozier lives.

***

Feyre could feel the cold seeping through the window of the train even on the farthest side of her bench. Her lace gloves didn’t do much other than look pretty, and not for the first time she grew irked at women’s fashions for being so terribly impractical. Sure, petticoats galore were plenty warm in such low temperatures, but not very easy to maneuver; and narrow-heeled boots weren’t especially stable in slush and ice.

Nonetheless, she was enjoying her travels. Watching the world blur past the window was meditative - reassuring. There may not have been much left for her to escape, but being on the move was the only way to ensure peace and quiet - and the only way for her to feel less adrift in her search for… whatever it was she thought was missing.

The train drew to a halt, wheels screeching against the tracks as it stopped for a station in Munich. The hustle and bustle of people unboarding began immediately, luggage being jostled down the aisle and people rushing past. It was a wonder Feyre even noticed the booklet which tumbled to the floor - she wouldn’t have, if it hadn’t fallen from the pocket of a man with violet eyes.

She leaned over, snatching it during a break in the crowd while trying to keep track of her stranger. Right before he stepped off, his gaze found hers.

Her heart tugged, and before she knew it, Feyre was out of her seat - belongings snagged at the last minute - and braving the crowd to follow the man with violet eyes. The notebook couldn’t have been more than thirty pages or so, yet it sat heavy in her hand as she navigated the crowded station, ducking between people and dodging around suitcases. Feyre realized that she had lost sight of her stranger, but there was a sense of urgency she couldn’t shake. It wasn’t until she was panting for air and had almost certainly gone in circles that she slumped onto a bench, setting her things down with a clatter and letting the book fall open on her lap.

She knew it was rude to look, but it was unlikely that she would find the owner to return it. One peek couldn’t hurt; if it was a grocery list - well, nothing terribly personal there. If it was notes, or perhaps a novel in the making… She was an artist too. It would be fine.

Still, she wasn’t quite prepared for what she found on that random, worn page.

In that icy chill

Of those depthless blue eyes

I see only warmth

I wonder

How might it feel

To succumb to you

Adrift in your blue

“There you are,” A voice deep as night stood out over the din of the train station. “From the train. I’ve been looking for you.”

Feyre snapped the book shut with a resounding thwack and stood abruptly, only to be pinned in place by a pair of violet eyes. 

“I’ve been looking for you too. For a while, I think.” She held out the journal. “This is yours?”

“Indeed. Thank you for finding it for me.” Their hands overlapped, making it impossible for Feyre to let go.

“This may sound odd, but for quite some time I’ve been looking for something I think I lost. You seem to be good at finding things,” She could listen to his voice forever. “Perhaps you could help me once more?”

Even as he asked, the pieces began to fall into place. Sounds of past lives ringing through to the present, urging her to hang onto him. Memories returned to both of them, and his grip moved from the journal to her hand. 

“Of course.” She smiled, watching carefully for a crinkle around his eyes. “I would love to.”

***

“I have to admit, all those skirts were warm, but they sure were a pain to deal with when nature called.”

Rhys’ laugh boomed between the aisles of vendors. “And it made it much more challenging to undress y-”

“That’s enough!” She clapped a hand over his mouth before he could say anything too filthy. “We are in public, Rhys!”

He smirked. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Yeah, sure you weren’t.”

“I think it’s you who let her dirty mind get carried away.” His grin was impish.

“If I have a dirty mind it’s only because you’ve rubbed off on me.”

He put his hands up, surrendering. “Whatever you say, love.”

They wandered some more between vendors, debating over their favorite holidays together and which first-meeting was their best.

“I thought it was funny when your friend introduced us,” It was a memory that Feyre often thought of, no matter how plain it might have been. “Not sure if it was the best, but it was… normal.” Out of everything, that had to count for something, right?

Rhys laughed loudly, grabbing her hand even tighter. “And he kept meddling in our business no matter how clear we made it that we were together.”

“It was flattering to know he thought we went well together, at least.” She wagged a finger at him, laughing slightly. “At least it was better than the one where you saved me from being burned at the stake. That was pretty horrid, wasn't it?”

He pulled her close, teasing and hinting at a kiss. “At least I got to play hero for you.”

“Oh,” She dragged it out. “That’s right, because we were early in the game and I was, at the time, still half convinced you were a complete prick. Yes, you did need those extra points.”

He hummed, half in amusement and half in agreement. “What about that one we spent at that inn? That was one hell of a time.”

“The place with the armadillos?” She shivered. “Unfortunately, I do remember that.”

***

Feyre did not like the high desert for two reasons. Reason one: The air was too dry, it hurt her skin and chapped the inside of her nose. Reason two: there were too many creepy crawling critters that wanted either to kill her, to eat her, or to steal her body heat.

It didn’t matter if it was winter and most animals had either migrated or gone into hibernation underground. She did not. Like. The. desert.

“Almost there, darlin’.” Rhys encouraged, ignoring the fact that she had just chewed him out in an hour-long tangent for “dragging her into the middle of nowhere for a single, stupid job in the blasted desert during a snowstorm”.

“I thought the desert didn’t get snow.” Feyre was pouting. She knew she was pouting. Unfortunately, she was too uncomfortable to care.

“This is the high desert, love. It’s a bit more dramatic than what we’re used to.”

“Rhys,” She pulled their horses to a stop and faced him. It was getting harder to see as the snowfall grew heavier. “Please tell me we’re close. I don’t want to cut this life short, I especially don’t want to cut this life short because of one stupid decision.”

“I promise you, darlin’, we’re not far.” He turned to face forward, pulling out his compass. “There’s a small town just around this bend. We’ll stay there ‘till this weather clears up.”

Feyre didn’t waste her energy responding - she wanted a hot drink and soft bed now. 

Sure enough, Rhys hadn’t been lying. There was a town - small and rundown though it was, Feyre was just grateful they wouldn’t freeze to death in the most miserable place on earth.

Rhys held the door for her, the two of them stepping into an inn and stomping the snow from their boots and shaking the ice from their scarves and coats. 

“Howdy there and welcome, I’m Shirley and I sure am happy to see you. What can I do for you lovely folks tonight?”

Feyre looked up from where she was struggling to undo her buttons, ready to charm the lovely owner for a room, before letting out a startled gasp.

The woman - Shirley - held an armadillo to her chest as one might hold a cat or puppy. A snake rested coiled on the hearth, another few armadillos trundled between tables at the restaurant. Other patrons sat at the bar normally, seemingly unconcerned with the lizards crawling around the counters.

“W-we um-”

“Howdy ma'am.” He stuck his hand out, not once looking at the armadillo the lady held. “The name’s Rhysand, this here’s my lovely wife Feyre. We got caught in the snow and were hoping you might be able to spare a room for the two of us?”

“Of course! I hope you two don’t mind cacti too much. Any concerns? You know what, doesn’t matter. I’ll grab a key and show you two on up!”

“That’s perfect. Thank you, ma’am.” 

Not even thirty minutes later they had gotten a room and were getting ready for bed. Or, Rhys was getting ready for bed. 

“Rhysand, you know I love animals. I adore animals. I do not, however, adore snakes. Or any desert dwelling creatures. They're gross, and dusty, and out to get you. Remember that Christmas in Australia? Boiling hot and everything was trying to kill us.”

“But darling, that’s Australia.”

“That’s irrelevant!” She huffed. “My point is, I want to celebrate our first christmas in this life somewhere other than an Inn filled with wild animals.”

He grabbed her hands, stopping her pacing and making her meet his gaze. “We will. I promise.” 

Sure enough, the storm had passed by the time they woke in the morning. They were up and at’em in a hurry, Rhys’ compass taking them to the next town over in time for a holiday spent indoors, together, and most importantly away from wild animals. 

***

“I think I still have that compass, somehow. I remember finding it again in an antique shop in that area a few lives ago, then I tucked it away for safekeeping - and the future. Sort of like you do with our rings.”

At the mere mention, Feyre brought hers up to the light. It glimmered beneath the street lamps, scratched and nicked from centuries of wear. Some people may have been bothered if their wedding rings had been so damaged, but Feyre just saw it as lives well lived and loved.

She shrugged. “So that may not have been my favorite, but it wasn’t the worst. In hindsight, it was a more entertaining year, so I can’t hate it.”

Rhys’ shit-eating grin dimmed, shade by shade. “I know which one was my least favorite.”

It was Feyre’s too.

They both sobered and held one another a little bit closer.

*** 

In all of their lifetimes, through dozens of centuries, it was the longest they had been apart; the loneliest they had ever been, too. 

War had a tendency to do that.

In this particular life Feyre had been teaching art classes at an elementary school, biding her time while waiting for something. Someone. There was a pain in her heart amplified by a holiday season spent alone. It felt like every day the rain would just fall and fall and fall, unbroken by sunshine or snow. Even ice would have been welcome - anything to cut through the long, unending shadows. 

She sat in a late night diner, avoiding returning to an empty apartment while sipping burnt coffee over a half-finished portrait of a man with raven hair and violet eyes. Something familiar, someone unknown. Behind the counter a server switched the radio to a news channel broadcasting the latest updates from overseas. 

Had she known that her next life would be so much fuller, she might not have been so hopeless. Had she known that, a lifetime from then, memories would come rushing back and the stranger in her painting would not be so strange, she might have been less disturbed by the sheer number of renditions she had made of the same man.

Alas, she did not know these things. She didn’t even know the cruel twist of the universe - the war? -  taking from her the man she didn’t know she waited for. And so for many many more nights she sat in silence with a tepid, burnt coffee (she preferred hot chocolate) and endless half-finished portraits, always hoping for the rain to stop.

***

Children rushed past them, dodging around holiday shoppers and festival booths with shocking agility. Silence hung between them like a clock’s pendulum at its peak, ready to come falling down at any second.

He squeezed her hand. “It made our next-first-meeting even better, I would say.”

Sparkling lights of all different colors turned to smudges in the background as Feyre focused her gaze on Rhys; on his violet eyes. Some things about him had changed, especially after the war, but his eyes stayed the same. The way he smiled with his entire being remained the same. Reliable. Constant.

“I think I would have to agree.”

***

With time their memories would fade. They would begin again, growing into new lives and apart from each other, but they were inevitably always nudged back together. And each time, they remembered one another a bit more easily.

So when Rhys settled in after the war and his new neighbor felt like home, all he needed was a light push in the right direction.

That day in particular had been windy and icy. Roads were closed, businesses were shut down, students were off of school. The universe handed Rhys an excuse to seek out his neighbor on a silver platter: the power went out, and Rhys knew his apartment was the only one with a classic wood-burning fireplace.

She answered after only the first knock.

“I have hot chocolate at my apartment and a working fireplace - if you need. Hot water too.”

Her gaze was soft, and she didn’t hesitate before agreeing.

They kept that year simple, soft, easy. It’s what they needed - something comforting. She stayed even many hours after the power had gone back on and the world had returned to operating in full-swing. They fell into easy company as years long since passed came rushing back, and a new promise was made to never be separated for that long.

***

They still had yet to break their promises.

“I thought that was very domestic, even for you.” Feyre grinned, exchanging a few coins for a small cone of roasted chestnuts.. “But I wonder if maybe we’d earned it. So many different adventures and lifetimes… maybe it’s good that we finally have the time for things like hot chocolate and wood fires. And roasted chestnuts.”

His lips turned up, the creases around his eyes softened. “Maybe you’re right.”

When it inevitably grew too cold outside and even their shared scarf and intertwined hands weren’t enough to keep them warm, the couple navigated through the crowded streets towards their shared townhouse. 

Cozy, small, but most importantly - theirs. 

He took her jacket, she put away his hat. He put the kettle on, she got their mugs and measured out the tea. They moved fluidly together, silently; familiar over so many different lives spent together. It wasn’t until they had settled in together on the couch, warmed pumpkin beside steaming tea on the coffee table, that Feyre spoke again.

“I still don’t know which of our holidays is my favorite. Maybe I don’t have one.”

Rhys reached out to tuck a lock of her hair behind one ear, cupping her face with the movement. “My favorite one is the one with you.”

“That’s most of them - I don’t think that counts as any single one, as romantic as it is.” She placed a kiss on his cheek. “But you sure are a sweet talker.”

“Then it’s this one, right here, right now, with you. When we can finally have forever.”

***

In every one of their meetings and partings, Rhys and Feyre fell together into one single life. Whether it grew from eye contact across a supermarket, a quick handshake in a business meeting, or simply bumping shoulders on a crowded sidewalk, and no matter how it ended, there was another life waiting for them. Homes to be lived in and loved, holidays to be spent bundled up together in a bubble outside of time.

It was the general consensus between the two of them: The best lives were the ones spent together.

[praisedbesophia]

im lightskin quarter latine whose greatgrandparents deliberately did not teach their son mexican culture or even to speak spanish hoping he would have better opportunities. then he and his daughter married very white europeans. i look white, culturally im white, but theres something missing in me, i feel lost and theres freedom and an overwhelming sense of place in the deserts of the southwest(my home already), the flow of the spanish tongue(estoy aprendiendo), the flavors of the cuisine, everything.

i feel a strong (though currently broken) connection to my ancestry and pull towards mexican culture, but im very concerned about appropriating or claiming something never meant for me. i knew i wasnt ready for any of the spirituality, but reading your blog made me realize it may never be available to me.

do you have any advice for a young person trying to reconnect with their ancestors' culture?

im still not even sure i can claim to be latine, or if even that much is inappropriate

Hi anon! I'm excited to hear that you're interested in reconnecting to Mexican and Latine culture. One thing I would recommend (and it seems you're already doing this considering you sent me an ask) is to reach out to and interact with people who were raised in the culture. Here on Tumblr it would mean not only following Mexicans and other Latines, but also reblogging our posts. And not just the "fun" ones. We absolutely do notice how whiteblr is quick to reblog pictures of Santa Muerte but ignore posts that discuss things like the absolute racism and vileness of "Mexican coquette", or the neocolonialism of Mexico and other Latin American countries

For example, I have mentioned in the past that non-Latine westerners have moved into Indigenous and rural Mexican communities and have either driven out the locals (many of whom whose families have lived in those same communities for literal centuries) or else have unofficially introduced segregation with the locals getting the short end of the stick. I am not exaggerating when I say that there are banks, restaurants, grocery stores, hotels, schools etc. in Mexico that will not serve Mexicans. These exist solely for (non-Latine white) western neocolonizers. Sadly but unsurprisingly, my posts and similar posts by other Mexicans have been all but ignored by whiteblr

Which brings me to another point. It is important that you acknowledge your whiteness and privileges it gives you. Understand that you will most likely be perceived as gringo by most Mexicans. In fact most Latines will likely perceive you as gringo. This isn't meant to discourage you; it is simply a fact. Even my dad and I who aren't remotely white passing by US standards have been perceived as gringos — which in Mexican culture typically refers to a non-Latine white USAmerican — by other Mexicans because we are light skinned USAmerican native English speakers

There are people who will tell you that you will never be able to claim Mexican culture. Ignore them. I have found that most of those people aren't even Mexican in the first place. Many aren't even Latines. And the ones that are often turn out to be xenophobic and white supremacist. Yes, the legal definition may say one thing, but the legal definition isn't the cultural definition. I have cousins who do not fit the legal definition of Mexican whatsover, yet they are still Mexican. They walk through this world as Mexicans. The only people to have ever told them that they're not Mexicans? I'm sure you can guess

Claiming Latine may be a little more complicated. There are many who believe that the term Latine should only apply to people raised in Latin America or who have a parent raised in Latin America. The Mexican definition of Latine is more relaxed, but even we would give dirty looks to someone with absolutely no connection to Mexico or Latin America whatsoever (beyond some distant unknown ancestor) claiming Latine

This is not out of xenophobia. Rather this is a response to racist and xenophobic attempts by non-Latine white westerners to redefine and claim Latine and Latin American for themselves within recent years after centuries of dehumanizing us and deeming our cultures inferior

Learning Spanish is of course a good idea. Becoming fluent isn't necessary — I'm not, and it was my first language as a small child — but you should learn enough to at least communicate in full sentences. Plus learning Spanish will allow you greater interaction with Latamblr. Many Latines on here write their posts mostly if not entirely in Spanish or Portuguese. Some do it because they don't know how to read or write in English. Others for other reasons

Do you know where your great grandparents were from? Mexican culture is rich and varied. Each state is its own traditions, cuisine, dress, dialects, music, etc. White rice (often cooked with butter) is a common part of the diet in Jalisco where my mother is from. Yet my paternal grandparents from Chihuahua had literally never even eaten white rice until one of their daughters married a Chinese man. And let's not forget Californio, Tejano, Nuevomexicano, Sonoran Chicano cultures. These cultures are often dismissed and degraded (even by other Mexicans) but they too are rich

I am also grateful for you admitting that you are not ready to engage with Mexican spirituality and may likely never be able to. However, should you choose to look into Mexican spirituality in the future, please keep this in mind: Mexican spirituality is heavily Catholic. Mexico is the second most Catholic country in Latin America (Brazil takes first place). More specifically, Mexican spirituality centers heavily around La Virgen de Guadalupe. In fact one of our most famous hymns is called La Guadalupana, and in that hymn is a verse that claims devotion to La Virgen de Guadalupe as essential to being Mexican

Many of us find it offensive and insulting when people attempt to separate Catholicism and devotion to Guadalupe from Mexican Spirituality. Even some Indigenous Mexicans have expressed finding this offensive and insulting because while it's true that most Indigenous Mexican religions and spiritual traditions predate the Catholic Church in Mexico, even many of those have been influenced and permanently altered by Catholicism

[shae-s-heartsong]

On unusual reactions and complex situations (GO2 ending)

So, I see a lot of interesting theories, analyses and speculations about what happens at the end of S2 out there, and regardless of if I agree with them or not, I keep track of everything, because every perspective is interesting and enriching.  I do observe, though, that a lot of these posts assume things about how Aziraphale and Crowley react (and I mean, I DO THAT AS WELL), and use these assumptions as arguments for their theories - without nuancing them.

The thing is that we don’t exactly know for sure what happened exactly in both our character’s heads; and we don’t know how they are supposed to react to the situation. Because we never had such a situation. YES, we had similar situations, which helps to have an idea of what’s normal or what’s not, or at least what is usual. But that’s just what it is. Ideas. And while it is totally valid to try to make a point and use the examples and clues we have, it is important to nuance them, if you theorize (speculating is a different thing). If I’m writing that, it’s because a lot of people seem to focus on the fact that Crowley’s reaction after Aziraphale left is unusual and like I said, use that as an argument.

From what I read, it seems difficult to imagine that Crowley’s so calm and still, that he barely shows anything, that he’s not getting angry or shouting or something like that. To that, I want to answer: by what standard? Why do you assume that he should ALWAYS react the same way to things that affect him? And why does his body language seem so strange to so many people?

Personally, I didn’t find that strange (but I am autistic so not the biggest authority for that tbh). In fact we already saw him reacting in similar ways.  Now I know that I said that it wasn’t enough of an argument, but I read many people saying that we didn’t. But we did. For example, after Aziraphale and him had an argument because of Gabriel, when he goes to his car, he looks absolutely exhausted and he probably would have stayed like that if Beelzebub did not appear in his car.

I know that this happens after he gets angry, but it still proves that he can show that type of behavior, if he’s tired enough. We can reasonably imagine that the kiss he gave to Aziraphale was a gesture of despair and replaced the “I’m getting angry” phase. We can also imagine that Aziraphale still rejecting his offer (which in his mind is probably rejecting him) after THREE different attempts to make him change his mind (1- try to convince him 2- kiss him 3- wait for him) was enough to just absorb all of his energy, all of his anger, all of his frustration. Maybe he’s just DONE. Maybe he just doesn’t always react that way. I mean, he was so close to obtaining what was, in his eyes, happiness. It’s something that never happened before - at least not with Aziraphale so close to say yes. Can you imagine how crushing that must be for him to let go of that hope?  And well, maybe the anger will come. After. Things only just happened. He’s still processing them. 

I could go on and talk about other details that seem to bother people but it’s rather useless -  I mean, maybe I’m wrong, and also, I think that there are pieces that we might not have yet. It’s just that I’m frustrated when people don’t go for reasonable assumptions before diving into more obscure theories (using these primal elements as introduction or simply nuance).

And I’m frustrated when people say that Crowley, or Aziraphale, shouldn’t react the way they do - I know that details matter in Good Omens, but also, you can’t expect them to exhibit the exact same behavior in situations with different degrees of stakes. (I don’t know if I make sense). And I think this is one of the most complex, delicate situations they have ever been in - after centuries of living in survival mode, they finally come to the crashing point where there life model isn’t enough anymore, when even the love they share for each other is no longer enough - because their belief systems, their desires and the state of their trauma processing are on complete opposition. And they have to finally face it - without the other. This is unprecedented. 

[silvfyre-writings]

Not Such a Simple Tale Pt. 5 (BSD Fanfic)

I have absolutely no memory of writing this chapter, but I did in fact, write it, so I hope you enjoy the bramran!!!

Word Count: 5112

Pain.

That’s all Ranpo feels right now.

But it’s not a bad pain. Not this time.

“You are doing good.” Bram says approvingly, hands curled around Ranpo’s arm to provide a firm grip as the two of them walk around the bedroom—well, Ranpo stumbling more so than walking but he’s doing better than the last time they tried this so he’ll take it. Bram’s hands are warm where they hold him, sturdy and stable and absolutely the only things keeping him up right now.

Ranpo lets out a concentrated grunt, forcing his leg to actually lift up and move instead of drag. He’s rewarded when it actually obeys him, although it’s clear he still has a long way to go as putting his foot down in a way that doesn’t make his ankle also roll is not how he’d like to be walking. He lifts the other leg. “I can do better.”

“You already are.” Bram says. “Remember not to push yourself too far, lest you backtrack your progress.”

“Bram.”

“Yes, Ranpo?”

“Shut up and let me concentrate.” Ranpo grumbles, pausing to wipe the sweat beading his brow against his arm. Who would’ve thought that relearning to walk would take so much effort? That’s what he gets for surviving his near-death experience, he figures, wishing a little that he hadn’t just so he wouldn’t have to go through this ridiculous healing process. But he was tired of having to be carried around, so if he wanted to get around on his own two feet, he had to push through the pain and actually heal.

It would help if he had a doctor treating him, but so far, Bram hadn’t had much luck in finding one, so the fellow king and Melville had taken it upon themselves to try and help him with what knowledge they had stored in their memories. He’d been curious as to why they were struggling to find a doctor to help him—after all, it wasn’t like he’d been short on doctors in his own country—and that was when he got a brief history lesson on Bram’s vampire kingdom; specifically, the last war with Ranpo’s own, a couple of centuries before he’d even been born.

And by brief, he meant several hours.

There was a lot of history to go through.

It was all fascinating stuff, and Ranpo felt the strong urge to learn as much as he could, but now wasn’t the time for idle chatter. He had to focus all his effort on healing so that he could partake in whatever plan Bram’s council came up with so that he could fight to take his country back from Dazai. After the meeting. Bram had left his council members to discuss things without them, which seemed stupid to Ranpo but who was he to judge how someone who’d been alive for so long ran their council? He was quickly learning that there was a method to Bram’s actions—all of them—even if he didn’t yet understand them.

That’d been three days ago and still, they were waiting on word from Edgar.

Ranpo lets out another sigh as he completes another lap. “I need to rest.”

Bram nods and guides Ranpo to the closest thing he can sit down on; some sort of antique storage box that isn’t all that comfortable to sit on. “Do you require pain medicine?”

Ranpo shakes his head. “I just need a moment to breathe. Have you heard back from Edgar yet?”

“Not yet. Margaret is keeping an eye out for him though, so we will hear the moment he crosses the border. Are you worried?”

“Of course I am!” Ranpo snaps. “Why aren’t you?”

Bram takes a seat next to Ranpo, resting his hands on his knees. “I find that worry leads to more problems because it causes you to conjure up scenarios that may or may not happen. Worrying is fine, of course, but you must be careful not to let it control you. So with that I say, I am worried about what is to come, but I am doing the best that I can with this strange situation. As I said to the council, all we can do is wait for now.”

Ranpo lets out a sigh, knowing that what Bram says is the right course of action but he can’t help but be frustrated over the entire situation. He just wishes he could do more considering this whole debacle revolves with him at the centre of it—as much as he wishes he didn’t. For the past couple of months, he’s lain awake and tried to figure out how it all went so wrong, how he didn’t see through the deception that’d been happening right under his nose and despite running through several different scenarios, he still can’t figure out where he went wrong. He just doesn’t get it. Why did Dazai betray him? Why did some of the advisors that’d served his parents not do the same for him?

Why?

Why?

Why?

“Ranpo.” He feels a hand against his shoulder and realises he’s hidden his face into his hands. He lifts his head to see Bram looking at him in concern. “What is on your mind?”

“Nothing.” Ranpo says quickly, and then lets out another sigh. “I would like to return to bed if you don’t mind.”

Bram nods and instead of coaxing Ranpo into walking back to the bed, he simply reaches down to lift him into his arms and carries him over. Ranpo doesn’t have the energy to protest the treatment, not that he really wants to anyway. He knows that Bram’s only doing it because he cares and when he feels vulnerable like he currently does, a bit of physical affection is enough to make him feel better. Ranpo is placed on the bed, but when Bram makes to pull away and leave him, he reacts before he even realised he’s moved, reaching out to grab hold of the front of Bram’s shirt. He blinks, stunned, and Bram too, looks surprised at his action.

Ranpo feels his cheeks burning. “I apologise, I just… wish for company, I guess.”

For a moment, Bram just stares at him and Ranpo feels as if he’s said something wrong. But then the vampire’s face softens and instead of pulling away, he slides onto the bed to sit next to Ranpo. A hand finds its way into his hair, smoothing it gently.

“We all have moments where we need somebody, Ranpo.” Bram says quietly. “I can do my work in here today if you do not wish to be alone.”

“I have already inconvenienced you enough.” Ranpo says bitterly. He’s already embarrassed at needing someone to sit with him, something that he hasn’t needed since the death of his parents, yet he can’t find it within himself to push Bram away either. So he speaks harsh words in the hope that the vampire king will take offense and leave him be.

But of course, he is a fool to think he can try and convince Bram to do anything.

“I am simply doing what is right to help you. If that means sitting with you whilst your emotions are weak, then I will sit with you.”

Ranpo grunts. “You don’t have any of your work here.”

“On the contrary.” Bram says, getting up from the bed for just a moment to grab a stack of papers that Ranpo hadn’t even noticed off the chair in the corner of the room before returning to his prior position. “Louisa stopped me on my way here to give me this stack of paperwork to go through.”

“It looks like they’re all letters.” Ranpo comments, eyeing the pile with distaste. He himself hated paperwork of any kind, often leaving it up to his advisors to either do it on his behalf or chase him down and force him into doing it. Letters were always the worst of the paperwork too; people with trivial complaints that they expected him to deal with instead of figuring it out on their own—of course, there were some that needed his opinion, but the majority did not, and yet he was often forced into responding to them anyway. He has to wonder if Bram’s letter situation is a similar one.

“They are.” Bram says, face scrunching slightly. “This will be people complaining about my decision to hold off on retaliation against Dazai’s provocation’s.”

Ranpo hums and carefully rolls onto his side so that he can better see the letters, resting his head on the top of Bram’s thigh so that he can see. He doesn’t even realise he’s done it until Bram stiffens underneath him and he stiffens himself. What an idiot he was for acting so familiar with someone that he’d only known a couple of months, what an absolute idiot. He opens his mouth to apologise and move away, but then Bram settles an arm over his shoulders and, well, it’s not like he can move now, not without making the whole situation awkward. Ranpo will just go with the idea that he wanted some affection, instead of acting as he would’ve with a friend. If Bram questions him, of course.

“Well, you explained your decision in the messages you sent out, didn’t you?”

Bram nods. “I did, however people will complain about the simplest of things as I am sure you are well aware of. I will listen to their complaints and see if I can do something about what it is they are complaining about.”

“I am starting to believe that nothing affects you.”

“There is plenty that affects me, Edogawa Ranpo. I just have the skills to hide it from those who do not need to witness it.” Bram responds, and then frowns, pulling out a letter from the middle of the stack.

Ranpo happens to catch a glimpse of the handwriting and his heart begins to beat anxiously.

It’s a letter from Edgar.

“Open it!” Ranpo hisses.

Bram doesn’t reprimand him for his impatience, sliding a long nail underneath the seal to open it without any further prompting. From his current position, Ranpo can’t see what the letter says, even when he cranes his neck to try and see. “Bram, let me see!”

“Patience.” Comes the reprimand this time, although Bram does lower the letter so that he can see what’s written on the paper. It’s not a long letter which is disappointing—he’d been hoping for an update on his homeland. Bram lets out a hum, looking like he’s deep in thought. “Edgar is back in the country now, so he will be back to give us a report in a couple of days. He said he made contact with Fukuzawa, who says he will not flee, but will instead stand against Dazai. Edgar says that Fukuzawa will be ready to support you upon your return.”

“Well, that’s something at least.” Ranpo sighs, wishing that Fukuzawa hadn’t chosen to stand his ground. “I’ll just have to get better quick so I can join him in his fight.”

“Having Fukuzawa on our side will prove fruitful.” Bram says, ignoring Ranpo’s words. “Our border extends along the territory he controls so I may be able to get word to the northern soldiers to send aid if he requires it. Although if he can hold his own without my soldiers, that would be best. I do not wish to give Dazai cause to attack elsewhere.”

“Are you listening to me?” Ranpo asks.

“But if Fukuzawa falls then that means that Dazai can approach from the north… perhaps more soldiers in the north would be beneficial to protect the people? I will have to discuss it with the council—”

Obviously not. Ranpo rolls his eyes and raises a hand to snatch the letter out of Bram’s hand to read for himself; Bram doesn’t react in the slightest which speaks for how deep in thought he was, continuing to run over various different scenarios out loud. Ranpo tuned out the ramblings, focusing on the lilting handwriting in front of him; even after all these years, Edgar’s handwriting is still as atrocious as ever, and it took him forever to decipher what was written on the page. His eyes widen as he reads the words.

“Bram!” He reaches over and smacks the letter against Bram’s chest, the rambling finally coming to a stop.

Bram grunts and glances down at him with a hint of annoyance. “What?”

“Edgar found Genichirou!” Ranpo looks excited, slapping the letter against the vampire’s chest again and again until Bram lets out a snarl and snatches the letter back from him.

“Stop that.” Bram says, even as he looks over the letter again.

“Yeah, well, you should’ve finished reading before you started mumbling battle plans.” Ranpo huffs. “But look, I’m read it right, aren’t I? He found Genichirou and is bringing him here?”

It takes a second for Bram to find the right part of the letter, and nods when he does. “That he is. It is good news indeed. Your friends will soon be here to support you, which will help you to heal faster.”

Ranpo gives Bram a incredulous look. “You seriously believe in that superstition?”

“It has been proven true many a time that being surrounded by those that support you, will help you to feel better from your injuries.” Bram says, sounding a little indignant. “And as you so often like to complain about; you are taking a while to heal.”

Bram’s not wrong, although his words still touch a nerve, and Ranpo moves to shove the vampire away, regretting ever latching onto him in the first place. Only, he doesn’t think his actions through, so when he slams his hands against Bram’s side to try and shove him off the bed, instead of the vampire actually moving, Ranpo collapses into his lap instead with a cry of pain as fresh waves of pain shoot up his arms. He curls in on himself, drawing his arms close to his body and cursing under his breath.

Bram too, curses, throwing the letter onto the bedside table and turning towards him, hands hovering uneasily above him. “You are a fool, Ranpo.”

“Shut up. I don’t want to hear it.” Ranpo snaps, breathing deeply through his nose to try and ease how much it hurts.

“Let me see.” Bram says, concern replacing his previous annoyance as he gently grabs hold of one of Ranpo’s arms, checking over it to see if he’s torn open his injuries. He does the same with Ranpo’s other arm. “It does not look like you reopened your injuries.”

“I hate this. I hate this so much.”

“I know you do.”

“Why am I not healing, Bram? Why is it taking so long?” Ranpo says softly.

Bram slides off the bed to be eye level with him, one hand coming to cup his cheek, touch cold against his own warm skin. “Because you are hurting more than just physically. We can bandage your physical wounds, we can heal you of infection, but we cannot heal your broken heart. That is something only you can do.”

Ranpo sighs and turns to bury his face into the pillow. He’s tired now. “I didn’t mean to try and push you.”

“You did.”

Another sigh; Bram is right, he did mean it. “Well, I want you here. If you still want to be here.”

“I will sit with you. You should try to rest. We can talk more when you wake.” Bram says, sliding back onto the bed. He hesitates before continuing in a much quieter voice. “And if you wish to be close to me, I will not refuse you.”

Ranpo tilts his head to stare at the vampire with a singular eye narrowed questioningly. In response, Bram pats his leg, where Ranpo had been resting his head only moments ago. That’s as much of an invitation as he needs, so he shuffles over and rests his head in Bram’s lap, and like before, the vampire drapes an arm around his shoulders.

It doesn’t take long for sleep to come for him, and just as he’s drifting off, he murmurs a quiet thanks under his breath that he can only hope Bram heard.

He thinks he has, when there’s a gentle squeeze on his shoulder.

Ranpo isn’t sure how much time has passed when he wakes up from his sleep, but when he opens his eyes, the first thing he notices is that Bram is still in the room with him, still reading through his pile of letters, although it looks like he’s made a solid dent in the pile. He watches as the vampire reads through a letter and then scribbles notes on a separate piece of paper, no doubt to go over later as he figures out the decisions that he needs to make. Big decisions if the stress lines on his face are anything to go by, and Ranpo feels guilt pool within his stomach at knowing that he’s the main cause of those stress lines—he’s quick to squash the feeling though, reminding himself that it’s not his fault and that the fault is Dazai’s instead.

It's hard, but he thinks he manages it.

He continues to watch Bram for a little longer, studying him carefully like he does whenever he gets the chance to, not that he’s sure why he does it exactly. Perhaps it’s the kingly side of him; needing to know and understand his competition in the ruling world even though their countries haven’t traded in many years from what he’s been told. Or perhaps it’s just his own natural curiosity, the one that has him wanting to know everything he can about a person or a situation. Now that one seems more likely… Ranpo had always been told that he was quite the nosy person at times.

“How are you feeling?” Bram suddenly speaks up, causing Ranpo to jump because he hadn’t given any indicator that he’d been awake. He glances up to see Bram smirking at him. “I can hear your heartbeat.”

Oh. That made sense. Ranpo lets out a groan and stretches, wincing as his body twinges against the worst of his still healing injuries. “Better. I see you’re almost done with those letters.”

Bram sighs and turns back to the letter currently in his hand. “People have far too many complaints. This person is complaining about the flood debris. I may be strong, but I cannot move a tree on my own.”

“Not to mention that you’re here and nowhere near the flooded areas?” Ranpo questions, getting his arms underneath himself so that he can sit up and rest against the headboard instead of craning his neck constantly.

“Exactly.” Bram huffs, noting something on his sheet of paper before putting the letter on the side. “Herman will be by with dinner soon as well.”

Ranpo blinks. Dinner? Had he really slept that long? A quick glance outside showed him that it was in fact, dark outside. “Oh. I slept all day.”

Bram hums, but doesn’t say anything more to him, attention drawn to yet another letter.

Ranpo rolls his eyes. If he’d known that asking Bram to stay with him would result in him being mostly ignored, he would’ve tried harder to get the vampire to leave him alone earlier. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t quite manage to achieve that the first time. Not that he doesn’t mind some silent company, in fact he often prefers it, but he can only be cooped up for so long without human interaction before he starts to go insane—and no, Melville and Bram do not count as human interaction considering he sees them every day almost. And yes, he does understand why he can’t wander around the castle or it’s surrounding town, but it doesn’t make him any less frustrated about not being able to go outside.

He really can’t wait until he heals enough to finally move on his own.

A knock on the door draws both his attention and Bram’s, the two of them looking up at the same time to see Melville step into the room—without any food.

Bram frowns. “Has something happened, Herman?”

“Not at all, my lord.” Melville says with a bow before looking towards Ranpo. “It appears that Lord Edogawa has a visitor.”

Ranpo blinks. “A visitor?”

Melville inclines his head before stepping to the side, gesturing for whoever it was behind him to enter the room, and Ranpo watches with interest as he spots a heeled boot, sitting up as much as he can as the cloaked figure slides into the room, throwing their hood back as they do so—

“Yosano!” The grin is on Ranpo’s face before he can even control himself and he moves to throw himself out of the bed, only stopped by the hand that grabs the back of his shirt to drag him back down.

Bram throws him an unimpressed look. “Please do not hurt yourself even more.” He says, putting down his work and rising, crossing the room to greet his old friend. “Dr Yosano, your visit is most welcome.”

Yosano’s gaze flicks from Ranpo’s bandaged form to Bram and back again, confusion in her eyes as she speaks. “I was told you were in need of a doctor’s services. I never thought…” Her brow furrows. “Ranpo, they’re saying you’re dead.”

“I know.” He says, letting out a sigh. “Dazai decided he wanted leadership for himself and had me exiled. As it turns out, however, his definition of exile is a little skewed, as you may have noticed.”

“Oh I noticed.” Yosano steps around Bram and heads straight for the bed, not ignoring the vampire king out of malice or to be impolite, but in the typical doctor’s way of needing to get to their patient—she really was meant to be a doctor, and, well, he’s just glad to see that she’s alive and well. Yosano comes to a stop beside the bed, sitting on the edge of it and dropping a bag onto the floor by her feet. “I see that in the twelve years since we last saw each other, you’re still getting yourself into mischief, Ranpo.”

Ranpo huffs, wincing as Yosano grabs her arm and pulls it towards her, unravelling the bandages. “And like I keep telling you, trouble always finds me! This happening was not my fault!”

“I’m not saying it is.” Yosano says, tone gentle as the bandages fall off his arm, revealing the almost healed wound underneath it. She carefully manipulates his arm into different positions to test his range of motion, watching his face for what hurts him and what doesn’t. As she does, she continues to speak. “You don’t need to get so defensive, Ranpo. Anyone with a lick of sense would be able to see that Dazai did this just because he could.”

“You do not seem surprised that Dazai betrayed his king.” Bram says, coming to sit on the chair that rests beside the bed, watching Yosano carefully.

Yosano scoffs. “You’re talking about the same man who decided that only he could have Ranpo as a friend and thus he convinced Ranpo’s advisors that I was a terrible influence on their underaged king and that he needed to be rid of me.” The doctor gives Bram an unimpressed look. “We were fourteen and Dazai was ten.”

“Ah…” Is all that Bram says.

Ranpo drops his gaze to the bed, uncomfortable because he hadn’t even realised that it was because of Dazai that he had had to stop seeing Yosano; all this time and he’d thought it was his advisors not liking the fact that Yosano came from a family that was far poorer than he. But no, it was just another of Dazai’s schemes that he’d failed to recognise. How was it, that he was considered to be a genius king capable of remembering everything he ever learnt, yet he couldn’t see through someone scheming right under his nose? What was it about Dazai that’d lulled him into that false sense of security?

“What’s going on in that brain of yours?” Yosano says, poking him in the cheek with a slender finger to drag him out of his thoughts.

“Nothing.” Ranpo murmurs.

Yosano raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment as she reaches for his other arm. “Well, one of your arms is fine, aside from that gash, but it’s healing up alright, so I’m not too worried about it. Just keep it covered until it closes over.”

“And his other arm?” Bram asks, standing again to lean over Yosano’s shoulder a little. “There were fractures within most of his limbs.”

To her credit, Yosano doesn’t snap at the vampire as he hovers, although she does look a little annoyed at his presence. “They will have healed by now. Fractures tend to heal faster than complete breaks and from the looks of it, you’ve kept him resting.”

“I have tried my best.”

Yosano nods and finishes unravelling the bandages on Ranpo’s other arm which only has a few small scars to left behind where skin had once been sliced open—at least one of his limbs had decided to heal. Like before, she moves his arm around, watching his reactions carefully.

Ranpo winces as she raises his arm up and she frowns at him. “Describe the pain.”

“It’s not bad.” Ranpo says quickly because it isn’t. It’s more of an ache rather than actual pain, like if he’d been carrying a stack of books for too long. “It’s just an ache.”

“Hmm… well if it gets worse, let me know, it could mean a muscle or tendon was damaged rather than bone.” Yosano explains and then looks towards his legs that are bandaged far more heavily than his arms were before glancing towards Bram. “How bad are his legs?”

“There were fractures in the thigh bone of the left leg.” Bram answers, sliding around her to sit on the bed and point—Ranpo tries to ignore the fact that he suddenly feels like he’s a piece of decoration. It’s not like he knows much about his own injuries other than what Melville told him that one time; he hadn’t wanted to ask just in case they’d been worse than first thought. He stops listening as Yosano and Bram talk to each other but he does watch as his old friend moves to free his legs from the bandages that confine them and he cringes internally as he catches sight of the wounds still there. No wonder walking hurt so much. They certainly looked better compared to the first time he’d watched his bandages be changed, but the wounds were deep and the ones that’d closed over left indents into his skin.

Even Yosano frowned at the sight of them. “How long as he been on bedrest?”

“Two months.” Bram says, concern in his eyes. “We just started doing some light walking around the room, but nothing strenuous. Usually I am supporting most of his weight.”

“There must be something keeping them from healing properly…” Yosano said, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth, looking thoughtful. After a moment she looked towards Ranpo. “How bad does it hurt when you walk? Is it both legs or just one?”

Ranpo gestures towards his left leg. “That one hurts more, but they both hurt when I stand.”

Yosano lets out a hum, and then quickly frees the other leg so that she can look at it; the wounds on this one are closed over, the scars pink with freshness—but far deeper than the wounds on his other leg. “Well, it looks like you didn’t manage to escape completely unscathed. Looks like you might have internal damage.”

Internal damage.

A death sentence for someone of his status, robbed of it as he is currently.

“How bad?” Ranpo falls back against the headboard, trying to keep his emotions in check. He’s pretty sure he fails from the sympathetic looks he’s given.

“I can’t say since I’ve only just got here.” Yosano says. “But you’ll be walking if that’s what has you worried. It might just be harder than it used to be—and before you even think of walking—”

A sharp pain shoots through his leg and Ranpo lets out a cry, flying upwards with tears pricking his eyes. It feels like he’s been stabbed as the pain turns into a throb and Ranpo throws a hand out to shove Yosano away from him, an instinctive reaction to being hurt by her. He’s stopped by a cold hand covering his fist and drawing it away, and Ranpo collapses to the side where Bram is now sitting, letting his fellow king be the one to support him.

He doesn’t care anymore if he appears weak to the vampire.

If Bram can handle him at his worst, then nothing he does now will faze him.

“Get me some bandages.” Yosano orders, both hands pinning Ranpo’s leg to the bed, pressing against the bone in his thigh—the source of his pain obviously.

Bram leans away just enough to fish out the requested item and passes it over to Yosano.

“Hold him firm.” She says, pulling one hand away to take the bandages. “I’m going to hurt him some more.”

“Why do you have to hurt me at all?” Ranpo snaps unhappily, trying his best to ignore the pain that’s still shooting through him.

“The bone was shifted a little—easy to miss. It’s why your wounds have been healing so slow. I’ve pushed it back into place now, so you’ll find that you’ll actually heal now. It does mean you’ll have to keep off this leg for another month or so, but you’ll be able to use crutches until it does.”

Ranpo lets out a groan at her words. He won’t survive even more months stuck in this bed.

“Do not worry.” Bram says at that moment. “Since it is only your leg, and the rest of your injuries are healed or almost healed, you should be fine to go outside.”

“Can we go—ow!” Ranpo asks quickly, cutting himself off with a grunt as Yosano tightens the bandages on his leg with enough force it feels like she’s breaking it more.

“If you leave this bed today, Edogawa Ranpo, so help me, I will make sure to finish what Dazai started.” Yosano threatens, meeting his eyes with an equally threatening glare.

He wilts. “Fine then. Tomorrow?”

Yosano exchanges a glance with Bram and then nods. “Tomorrow.”

[mariana-oconnor]

The Blue Carbuncle pt 2

In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed.

*coughBritishCrownJewelscough*

"It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was of considerably more value than if it were made of solid gold."

I quite agree. I also hope that Mr Henry Baker gets some of the reward money if that is the case.

As I approached the house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle which was thrown from the fanlight.

Oh no! He's had to replace his hat with a chilli!

...yeah, yeah. I'll see myself out.

It is a cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for summer than for winter.

Does that mean he's red in the face? Because... his capillaries work well? I'm trying to follow the logic here. I too go red in the face easily, but I most certainly am not well adapted for summer. Most of summer I hide in a darkened room and hiss at anyone who tries to make me go near sunlight. It burnsss uss precious. So I feel like a cursory examination of the subject might render a different conclusion.

"Is that your hat, Mr Baker?" "Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat."

Case closed! We can all go home for tea. Huzzah. The hat is returned.

A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his extended hand, recalled Holmes's surmise as to his habits.

I don't know whether this is intended also as support for Holmes' comment about his circulation, as I theorised, or if it merely is a sign of alcoholism. Merely, I say. Henry, if you do get any reward, please don't spend it all on the booze.

He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing his words with care, and gave the impression generally of a man of learning and letters who had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune.

I know that the conceit of the stories is that Holmes knows all these things and is proven right time and again, but I am struck by the question here on whether Watson has perception bias and assesses Henry Baker in this way because Holmes has already primed him to see those things.

I'm not saying they're false, and I know this is entirely pointless as it is a fictional work and therefore the question is moot. But how much of Watson's view of the man is entirely accurate and how much of it is what Holmes told him to see?

Of course, then we have the third layer of how much is what Watson adds on when writing his narrative from a future perspective and I honestly don't think ACD thought that hard about these stories, so I probably shouldn't either.

"Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat it." "To eat it!" Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement.

OK, well now I think he's involved in some way.

"Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your own bird, so if you wish—" The man burst into a hearty laugh. "They might be useful to me as relics of my adventure," said he, "but beyond that I can hardly see what use the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance are going to be to me.

OK, so that was a feint. Well played, ACD. Well played.

And there's the evidence of his learning and large brain, I suppose. 'disjecta membra'? Strangely enough in my Latin lessons we didn't cover those words. Apparently it's a direct translation of dismembered limbs.

What a peculiar phrase to randomly translate into Latin while talking. I suppose a lot of latin texts are war treatises and the like, so it's entirely possible he learnt it while reading, but such a specific phrase to translate. Is it supposed to soften the brutal nature of the phrase? If it's in Latin it can't possibly be unpleasant.

"I am somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown goose."

Once again the 21st century reading makes me giggle just a bit.

The fanciest of geese!

This year our good host, Windigate by name, instituted a goose club, by which, on consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to receive a bird at Christmas.

Ah yes, I remember the goose club. So many geese. They will be avenged.

"Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them's not our geese." "Indeed! Whose, then?"

THIS is the bit I remember best. The genuine, bona fide goose chase of it all. Your goose is in another castle, Mr Holmes.

"Remember, Watson that though we have so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the other a man who will certainly get seven years' penal servitude unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt but, in any case, we have a line of investigation which has been missed by the police, and which a singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and quick march!"

I love this speech. Chasing a goose on the chance it might be proof of a man's innocence. It might not, but even a chance is enough to make this important.

Things are heating up on the goose hunt. Holmes and Watson charging across London in one direction and then another. I wonder if they'll be redirected again at the next place they visit.

[ace-and-the-rpg-horrors]

Okay, sorry, I saw the orchestra AU card game post and I just have to nerd our else I'll burst. Hope you don't mind!

Whether a piano is present in an orchestra depends on 1) type of orchestra 2) time period. This is because pianos originated (well, I say originated, but honestly nobody really invented pianos as they are now - they have very long history) as a chamber instrument, or in other words, an instrument that was meant to be a part of small group of instruments and mostly played with a small company at one's comfort, not a music hall. Of course, they were also able to be played solo. But for... Some time, piano as an instrument wasn't as popular as it is now. One of the (many!) reasons for this is the modern pianos' distant ancestors (harpsichords, for one) really weren't able to give that much of a powerful sound that could carry in the orchestra like many more instruments did.

Coming back to the type of orchestra - this is why symphonic orchestras (orchestras that primarily play symphonies - huge, long pieces consistent of around 4 different parts) don't usually have pianos. For the longest time, they just weren't needed nor used. That changed with the invention of fortepiano (so... Basically a Loud piano), and its rise to stardom, in late 18th century and onwards - now some symphonies started to include pianos, although it was - and still is - rare. The first (known) symphony with a piano part in it was composed in 1886, to be precise.

[Then more stuff happened, fortepianos were kind of used in the orchestras, then not used, becoming obsolete again, then used again in 20th century and now we have a mixed bag - completely unimportant for the point I'm making, just wanted to say that classical music is both much more of a dumpster fire and an absolute historical mess than I think most people realize (so don't blame me for inaccuracies haha-)]

Why am I saying all that? Well, pianist Mafuyu would either be a guest pianist for a new, kind-of-revolutionary but we aren't sure people will like it symphony written by... Someone (Kanade?), which would already kind of be intriguing, or she'll be an accompaniment to someone else, a part of a small chamber orchestra perhaps. But I feel like the first option is just so much Vibe with the whole late 19th century aesthetic, especially with Rui's whole... Lightbulb thing in that card, and how he compares himself to Edison in EN translation. Just that kind of time period, if we skit around the accuracy and go for like, completely made up fantasy setting. The Vibe.

Sorry I went onto a tangent, you accidentally touched my hyperfixation (⁠•⁠ ⁠▽⁠ ⁠•⁠;⁠) you don't have to add or even respond to this of course, I just felt compelled to infodump. And I can't do that in reblogs because tumbrl is very mean to me.

please don't apologise at all, that was so interesting!! yes, i rather like old fashioned AUs so that would fit perfectly, oooooh...

Kanade could definitely fit in the AU, actually

[ohyondermemphis]

WIP Lines Tag Game

Thanks for the tag, @luxvespertine!

Rules: share 7 (or more) lines of a WIP you've been working on

———

Well, I am getting old af. But these WIPs are even older.

1.

A Silence of the Lambs AU that just feels like I'm watching the movie but with Tomarry:

“You drew these yourself, sir?” He follows Harry’s line of sight, unblinking, that slow slide of a smile that still looks ill fitting on him. Voldemort hums, walks slowly closer to him. Harry tenses, jittery but desperate to not show it, this close and it feels like a predator closing in. 

He’d been to the zoo once, long enough ago that it’s not a clear memory, but a snake had reared up in the cool dark of the enclosure, swaying eye to eye with him for breathless moments. He feels very much the same now. 

2.

Jumping on the Regulus bandwagon, Fem Harry/TR/RB, semi-incestuous Black family drama:

“You fuck him and call it family.” She spits it out, like it could absolve her from her own guilt, like how she dug her fingernails into her palms every time she looked at him. 

He smiles, bright and charmed by her vulgarity, crosses around the desk to stand in front of her, tall and much more impenetrable than she could ever hope to be. His hand, long and wand calloused, touches the curve of her cheek, her hard jaw. He whispers lover soft into her ear, “What do you call it when I fuck you?”

A jolt, but he’s always hit below the belt. 

“A mistake.” He laughs, low and amused, forever amused by her, she’s always ten inches tall in front of him. 

3.

Tomarry Arranged Marriage AU - my absolute favorite - with a gush of A/B/O:

Customarily, before mating, the alpha will supply all and sundry for the omega. He is to come to his alpha with nothing but that which the alpha provides. Harry isn’t surprised that Voldemort is such a traditionalist. 

So, Harry sits on his bed, sleep deprived and nervous. His fingers twitch on his bare thigh, and his door remains locked even though there have been knocks. He murmurs an affirmative to their low voices, ambivalent to any concern now that the contract is signed. The words are binding, his people are safe, his family and friends even more so. Magic is shining her light on Great Britain again and he isn’t even the first war bride in the last century.

4.

Witcher!AU - High fantasy with UST and knives to throats.

“He’s but a boy.” Tom arches a brow, arms folded and already bored with the older men’s theatrics. The clash of swords outside, that beautiful melody of steel against steel, reaches longingly into his ears. How long has it been since he pressed blade to blade with Barty, with Bella? How long since he had felt more human than monster? 

The answers aren’t in Dumbledore’s bright blues. Nor are they in the basin, with its blood and gore, where two emeralds fade into the bones that rattle in its depths. 

“A boy.” Sardonic, he turns to Gellert, his mentor, one hand holding his cheek and long legs crossed. His smile is all sharp teeth. He knows Tom will say yes, his pet seer isn’t needed for that, at least. 

5.

Fem!Harry/Fem!Tom, Hogwarts!AU - Grief fic sliced with slutty interludes.

Tom puts her arm up, quick, silent, stopping Harry in her tracks. She licks her lips, eyes on Tom, feeling that reckless, that daring more than usual tonight. “You’ll let me go, won’t you, Tom?” She becomes boneless, lost lamb. Tom’s eyes eat up what little light there is in this secret, furtive alcove.

“That depends entirely on you, sweetheart.” Tom doesn’t do anything as crass as licking her lips, not like Harry, who has plump bottom lip caught between teeth. She leans, breathless, on the wall, let’s Tom tower over her. She seems to like it, this cat and mouse game Harry can’t stop herself from playing. 

Tom’s other hand touches her sharp collar bone again, light fingertips that trail across vulnerable skin. They haven’t broken eye contact. 

Harry pushes forward, tip toes skimming the flagstones to press her mouth against the slick smirk on Tom’s. 

6.

Again. Femme Tomarry - because there just isn't enough. Toxic domesticity (catch and release pt 2)

There’s a darling curl of a tattoo under her rib, snake and skull, that clues Tomasina to anywhere she might be. She’s had no cause to regret it, even now. 

They’ve only been split for three days, enough that the ashes of every Marlboro light still clings to the tips of her fingers, drunk on cheap fire whisky (at home) and giggle water (at the pub). She keeps her wand near her and her ears as open as she can, can’t help but watch sightless in front of her when Tom’s name is whispered behind her back. 

7.

Tomarry Hannibal!AU - Dark romance in all it's forms.

She doesn’t bring up her late night escapades the next day. All her glamours drip off like rain as she walks through his doors, so she doesn’t have to say a word. The arch of his brow, the purse of his lips, the way he can read her so well, intrinsically, intimately. 

She swallows the thought back down. 

“Trouble sleeping again?” She wonders if he’s paid by the word, if he’s energized by the charming way he disarms every warrior that enters through his gates, world weary and heavy hearted. She snorts, inelegant, unrefined, nails bitten down and dirt from where she’d worked in her garden this afternoon. 

She was off today. Twenty four hours away from the hell her job had become. Twenty four hours to drink whiskey from mugs and pet her cats and feed her owl and pretend for twelve goddamn hours that this was the sum of her life. 

Her mandatory attendance with Tom Marvolo Riddle, six p.m. sharp, every Wednesday, whether she was working or not, interrupts that blissful fantasy. 

These were the terms and conditions of her agency. Free will wasn’t an option. Not when she was her, not while she still dreamed of monsters, not while she didn’t even need to be asleep to see them still. 

.....and that's enough of that.

[biuebeardsbride]

can’t stop thinking about the blue flower by penelope fitzgerald, which is a book that everyone should give a go because it’s the loveliest book about love around. it’s about the german romantic poet novelis (dubbed fitz) falling in love with this 12-year-old girl called sophie. it’s somehow not strange or creepy, i can’t explain to you, but it isn’t! it’s filled with these short little snippets into 18th-century life in germany and filled with descriptions of salt mine practices, and a party and fancy dinners. all i can say is that it’s one of those books that manages to capture the magic and mystery of love. that you can see someone, and they can move you so completely. no one, and i mean absolutely no one, can understand why he’s so infatuated with her, and the reader doesn’t get a unique perspective into it either. sophie’s brother comes to investigate, in fact, and is like why do you like her? she’s not intelligent at all, and fitz, in response, is like I’m not vain enough to be moved by her beauty, to which her brother says, she’s ugly too. which is a laugh out loud moment, but i think the thing i adore the most is just how uninterested this book is in explaining why he’s fallen in love with this silly, childish girl. he just has!!

and yes, it is very destiel-brained but mostly what i could think about is dean and cas. how instantaneous cas’ affection for dean is and yeah there are hiccups at the very beginning of their encounter, but it’s so obvious from early on that cas likes dean. how often dean is questioned about his loyalty towards cas/ the fact that a part of him still holds onto hope that cas will be on their side again and all he can really come up in response to that interrogation/ all he can use to explain is that it’s cas. i know this is largely accidental on the show’s part but i’ve always found it so beautiful in a lot of ways. in that, what we feel often resists vocalisation or explanation. cas is asked so often why he’s still loyal to the winchester’s and he never truly answers it cause we can never really know why someone cares about another. that’s the beauty of love and our relationships! all we can see are the ways someone is transformed and moved to changed because of it.

and like we get that within the confession scene. the closest we ever get to this attempt to vocalise why cas likes dean, why he loves him. this one last attempt say what’s never had to been said in the past. but more importantly we see the ways love has reoriented and moved these characters to change who they are (“i cared about the whole world because of you” / “that’s not who i am”)

[themeaningofitall]

5/19/2023

The past few weeks have been rough. I really thought I was getting better. In some ways I certainly have, though not in those which matter most. There’s only really so much one can change before admitting that the problem comes from within; though figuring out what it exactly is is a bit more complicated. For years now I’ve held that nothing can make my life worse unless it also makes me worse. Unfortunately, I still believe that. Desire and inability make for one cruel cocktail of desperation. Perhaps that explains some of my recent choices. 

I feel strange writing this. I feel I have no real right to complain. My family’s just purchased a new home, I’ve just completed another successful semester at school, I recently received a promotion at work, and everyone I care about is well. I truly am thankful. Yet there remains a nagging feeling difficult to explain. The best I can do is to say that I am in few ways better, in many worse, and this makes me think that my life is being wasted. I can’t help but think that if my life were to end now there would be nothing worth showing for it. There is nothing one could point to and say ‘Ah yes, he did that!’ or ‘He was that.’ What could possibly be said at my funeral? ‘He had a decent GPA’? ‘He was good at his job’? O God, nearly a quarter of a century and absolutely nothing to show for it. Well, no more.

A few months ago I thought of an idea to save all my money for a year and then go on a one year travel spree throughout the country. That idea has been scrapped, at least for the time being, in favor of a much more appealing one. While I love the idea of traveling on my own, my discontent was too great to wait an entire year, possibly even longer. My impatience and desperation were too great to endure for so long, and so I began looking for other options. I’m happy to say, it didn’t take very long to find one. I found a program named WWOOF. This program connects volunteers  with organic farmers who provide food and board along with opportunities to live in new places, learn new skills, and enjoy new experiences. Within just a few days of signing on, I found a great host who welcomed me on her farm. In just over a month, I’ll be traveling nearly 2,000 miles to hopefully begin a new chapter in my life. And though I made this decision on a whim and am leaving quite a lot behind, I am confident that I chose rightly. 

For the remaining month, I’ll be busy downloading books and music, setting a few things in order, and finally packing my essentials. I hope to be away for about a year, and I currently see no obstacle to that. To say I am excited would be an understatement; I genuinely cannot wait for this trip to begin. I know I’ve said this before, but I’ll try to post regularly (for reals this time). Thank you for reading.

-Rose

[dreamwritesimagines]

Hello Dream! I hope you’re having a lovely day/night. I am so invested in Graden of Secrets that I am thinking of re-reading all the chapters in wait for the new update on Sunday ☺️

I wanted to share with you, the other day I was reading through a list of language of flowers and it said that four leaved clovers mean Be Mine (I didn’t double check, so I might be wrong) but still, my mind immediately went to the scene where Clover gives the one she just found to Benedict and he practically glows with happiness, and my heart melted at the thought🥹

I was wandering if there is a particular reason why you chose her to be nicknamed Clover aside from her always finding the four leaved ones? 👀

Hi love! I hope you're having a lovely day as well!❤️

OMG OMG OMG-

Okay so I'm totally going to get into a very detailed presentation speech here because you know how I get when I'm talking about symbolism and writing in general, so I'm putting it under a read more 😂❤️

BUT THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ASKING ME THIS AAAAA I'M SO EXCITED😍

So first of all yes! You're absolutely right, in Victorian language of flowers, clovers were used as a way of saying "be mine"❤️ And I usually try to use the Victorian era's flower symbolism because some of the meanings sometimes change in time❤️ I find it very interesting! ❤️

So while I was planning the fic and trying to decide on the nickname, I wanted it to be something flower related, but the problem was that a lot of flower names are used as like...actual names and since it is a reader insert I didn't want it to be confusing😂 So I started looking into the flowers/plants that were a bit rare as names ❤️

And I also checked out a lot of books that were written in the 19th century on flowers because they had like these language of flowers guidelines in a way😁 But clovers had few details compared to roses and such, so I also wanted to take a look at not only the victorian era but also different meanings in different times and places ❤️

So the symbolism that we all are familiar with is luck and I figured it would be quite ironic for her to be nicknamed after something that symbolizes luck, considering her home life earlier 😁 And also, four leaf clovers are very rare and she's the type of person who Benedict is not very familiar with, she is very rare in the ton because she didn't grow up in it ❤️ Also clovers can pretty much can survive anywhere, just like her 😁

In terms of dream symbolism, apparently seeing a clover in your dreams means "happy marriage" 😏 Which, she didn't believe she could have 😁

And also, (I had lots of fun with this one) in certain places people believed that if a young woman placed a four leaf clover over a door, the first man to walk through would be her husband 😁 And that's kind of how she and Benedict's first meeting went, "Clover" was by the door and the first man who walked through that door -and quite literally crashed into her- was Benedict 😂❤️

Clover flowers have lots of symbolism that has to do with marriage and love as well 😂 It could "heal the aches of heart" and also symbolized "ethereal beauty" and "faithfulness and love" for those who are about to enter into a marriage 😏

Thank you so much for this darling! 🥰❤️❤️

[redheadbigshoes]

It’s rly interesting tho cuz I live in Canada but I have no idea what our lgbt history is. It’s almost like it’s non existent so all history I go by is from the US. And from what u said earlier - sometimes I get annoyed by people/younger gay ppl who don’t know lgbt history But it’s really only because they have bad takes and make up history or are lesbophobic and back it up by saying “well all non-men used to be called lesbians because there was no other word for mspec women” or “transness was never included in lesbianism” or something of the sort. So while I do absolutely recognize that the US and gay ppls history is not the centre of all lgbt history (literally don’t even like the US) I do take a lot from it because it Is still history and I really don’t have anything else to go by to defend my community yk. Like recently there’s been A Lot of lesbian/bi discourse on twt and a lot of the time it’s younger bi ppl/young women who are being lesbophobic and say that they were the most oppressed group/sexuality in the 20th century and were pushed out of lesbian spaces and ‘movements’ (not sure which they were referring to) While Historically butches were pushed out of the feminist movement because they were seen as men/imitating their oppressors and femmes were also pushed out if they were dating a butch. So yeah. That’s according to US lgbt history. But yeah. Anyways sorry for saying so much and probably went off track but I think it’s just the case that US lgbt history is most accessible - but even then it’s still hard to find

I’m very sorry if I misunderstand you, but I really hope you don’t support “mspec” lesbians lol, because you were criticizing something lesbians say to lesbophobes who love to include men in lesbianism (and to clarify, I am talking about cis and trans men). Because from what I saw the people who say “all non-men used to be called lesbians because there was no other word for mspec women” are usually people who criticize “mspec” lesbians, not people who say that to support them.

I know how you use US history as like the default because you don’t know any other history, but my criticism here is to consider US history as universal history. Yes it’s still LGBTQ+ history, but what I’m complaining about is how people use it to criticize everything else as if everywhere the LGBTQ+ history was the exact same as the US.

Obviously if younger people say certain things because they’re ignorant about the history or if they’re simply saying something wrong it’s totally fair to call them out, I’ve never said otherwise. My problem is 1) someone being younger than you does not = having less knowledge, 2) acting as if you’re superior just because you’re older is simply a shitty thing to do. Someone’s age shouldn’t matter. Actually, what I hate about other queers using the age card is that they reproduce the same argument a lot of homophobic cishets use.

I have no problem to use American history as the default or parameter for LGBTQ+ related issues. I have a problem with acting as if the American history is the only history. Maybe you and everyone else (including me) should try to do more research about other countries history regarding LGBTQ+. If we know how US-centered the community is we have the power to just go online and learn by ourselves about other places.

I don’t like the mindset “well, the only LGBTQ+ history we know it’s from the US, so let’s just keep it like that”.

[what-if-nct]

hiiii today's reminder is happy Kun day!!! my husband the loml my absolute favourite boy. I'm so surprised (and very touched!!) you remembered my birthday but also you're right because I've spent a fair amount of my time daydreaming about Kun and i watching new years/fourth of july fireworks together and just being disgustingly in love and also his birthday is the start of the year and mine is almost exactly the midpoint, so we'd also use it to be all sentimental and… ok there's a slight chance I've been using these romantic fantasies as a coping mechanism for things i should properly deal with but whatever. my dream Kun can never let me down.

alsoooo i watched the sm concert in bits and pieces half asleep because it started at 9 am here but a few things about that: one, wtf is Sungtaro's role at SM, are they tour guides at this point? i feel like they do everything but actual idol stuff now. two, they really performed take off for the first time in about three centuries, i almost screamed when i saw that (hyperbole, i was curled up in bed with the volume just high enough for me to hear it but i did audibly gasp). three, i was expecting a shinee's back 2023 thing like they did for don't call me considering it's their 15th anniversary next year but superm??? they're still a thing?? also i saw someone say that they added tvxq's colour to the logo thingy so changmin might be joining which??? i will Cry can you imagine the power but also the awkwardness bc I'm pretty sure he can't tell most of the nct boys apart. also reminded me that you said that's what you wanted superm to be, more of a rotational lineup. four, I'm pretty sure i have a massive crush on Boa after that

also happy new year one last time before i have to go back to the real world tomorrow morning :(

Hiii! Happy Kun day! It's your husband and wayvs father of 5, Ten isn't his child and Kun will never claim him birthday . I hope his 27th birthday was wonderful he looks so happy to be back out on that stage. And of course I remembered I remember all of the important birthdays. Do not ask me from memory to list all of NCTs birthdays there's like 50 of them. And that's literally the cutest relationship like you kiss on midnight and right as you pull away you say happy birthday and he kisses you again. And on your birthday it's a warm July night and he flies you off to Disney World and as the fireworks sparkle in the sky he pulls you close and says "it's all for you, happy birthday" and he kisses the top of your head. Like stop you two would be so cute.

And romantic fantasies are sometimes the only thing that can make you feel better. In my world. I ran into Chan, Felix and Hyunjin in the mall and they're lost and they come up to me and ask for help. I ask about the Aussies accent knowing full well but you can't let them know that you know cause you'll be fanzoned immediately. And as we're talking Hyunjin is just silently staring at me and when they walk away Hyunjin gives a small wave and we bump into each other later and instead of saying sorry he says "you're pretty" and asks if I want to have coffee with him and its quiet but we talk with glances and smiles and "accidental' grazes of fingertips. If you don't have your delusions and fantasies your just rawdogging life and that is not the way to live.

I've only seen clips here and there and to watch them perform Baby Don't Stop and 7th sense live in 2023 is honestly the only way to start the year. And they gifted us Hendery nipple. I have to watch all the other performances. I stayed up texting my crush he just got back to town anyway I fell asleep at some point. And I can just see Changbin asking Kai which one was just talking to him. And yes maybe we get Johnny? Chanyeol? Together? Please. Happy New Year again 💕 I hope you're new years was wonderful and I hope regular life is nice to you and takes care of you till Kun can come to take care of you. I leave you with a picture of Felix holding a hamster.

It's Felix's turn to babysit Jisung. Our Jisung ,not their Jisung. The almond on the hamster belly and Felix's itty bitty hands. Thats a dwarf hamster look how perfect it fits in Felix's baby hands. A Syrian would be so big in his hands.

[tarot-by-e11e]

Hii~~

Thank YOU, your skill deserves even longer positive feedbacks, yes that IS a compliment please forgive if it came the wrong way, but my point still persists—you're absolutely a SPIFFING READER! I genuinely admire your reading style—your depth, your wit, and your ability to make everything so relatable. It's like you're a master at turning complexity into simplicity.

woah adding all of them into library!! And i think i read a little of under the oak tree? My memories are glitching again, sigh, BTW GOOD NEWS— I now remember as to where "the extra unknown" Was from. It was from a manhwa called "surviving romance", it's completed, it was realistic, like it'd keep you on your bated breath. That good! And at times it might leave you little feeling melancholic as well.

Yes, I won't break my bank, thanks soo much 🤧, and will praying be enough? And I kid you not, I am spooked by myself at this point, some days ago around midnight, before I'd comprehend I jolted awake because I heard "noise" And just..stared, which just spooked my family members.. Lmao.

You're most welcome. Oh, she is? I just searched it up and tuxedo cats look gorgeous— the mixture of intimidating and a big softie~ No wonder they are attracted to you, animals recognize the best people and also the qualities they have— being gorgeous, badass, and softie!

You should definitely do if you feel called to, and it's your birthday month?! Has your birthday passed already? I'm sorry if I'm late but I hope you have/had the HAPPIEST BIRTHDAY THIS YEAR and all of your wishes, dreams, desires comes into fruition, wish you great health, wealth, luck, opportunity and a happy long life! I'm proud of you for acing another year even if you might not feel like it, and keep gracing each year with your presence each day!!

Oh, how I truly wish i could have made your wish come true..but I'm very broke myself, I'm sorry 🤧....so, I can't do anything but hope that you get lots and LOTS of paid reading requests that your bank account gets stacked up with cash.

You're literally an all-rounder at this point, and I'm here for it!!! Like I really can imagine you doing every creative and intellectual skill like the back of your hand, while you slowly sip teas like it's nothing, with the knowing smirk!! (AS YOU SHOULD!)

And yes, how can I relate with my fellow homebody— as it's too cozy to leave, and can we be blamed though? Nooo way.

OMG you write poems too?! Yes I would DEFINITELY take the time to wish you the WELL+EST! I truly hope your book becomes the bestseller of the CENTURY and gets read by billions, and trust me when I say this— I can already feel the energy of your future bestseller in the air. I hope and pray you get the fame you so truly deserve, and if God graced me till next year then I'll be definitely buying multiple AND MULTIPLE copies of your books (with your autograph? Please?) And if you're okay with that, then I would love to see your beautiful arts and read your profound poems? Or maybe not since you're preparing for the publishing, so don't pressure yourself, I understand and I'm VERRRYY excited for YOUU!

Hi dear,

Thank you so much for your taking the time to double checking that you sent me your feedback twice! This helps me make sure that my inbox with hide your feedback!

My dear, you always love to spoil me with your feedbacks! I always have a soft spot whenever I see you send me these. I actually usually re read your feedbacks whenever I'm feeling down; because I consider your feedbacks as my go-to pick me up!!

As always, I'm so grateful for the appreciation of my reading style and yes I do tend to get that compliment alot, the whole "simplifying complex concepts". That's why my nieces and nephews love to ask me to tutor them because they said that I'm great at explaining things in a way that they'd understand.

I'm glad I can give you some manhwa suggestions! "The Extra Unknown"? I'll definitely check it out because it sounds interesting~

Yessssssss please don't break your bank!! Also, there are some unexplainable things that just happen, and you're kinda left to just roll with this paranormal punches.

Yes, almost all my fur babies are tuxedos! And I didn't know they have that meaning!! This is so heartwarming, I might actually cry!!

Actually my birthday's on Wednesday so you haven't missed greeting me on the exact date yet ~ but still, thank you for the advanced greeting!! Really, I'm so grateful for you and the whole Tumblr community for making my 2024 so emotionally fulfilling.

Hey no worries, it's just a wish list; out of all hobbies to have, I had unintentionally chosen the expensive ones (FYI: Art supplies are expensive AF. Especially the really great quality ones!)

I really do hope that wish of many complete paid readings requests do happen soon! I'd be nice to have the art supplies or a drawing tablet for work. Yessssssss more moolah for all of us!! We all deserve to treat ourselves!!!

The thing with me is I can't niche down to save my life, belive me, I tried. And when I tried to figure out why using astrology, lo and behold, I got Varuna 29° and Fama 14° in Gemini, both retrograde. Go figure, LOL. My brain's interest maybe that of a generalist but my hyper-fixation gives me inhumane(my profs, friends and former coworkers words, not mine) perfectionistic specialist mastery approach. This make me unable to fully claim being a generalist when I wouldn't jump to another hobby unless I mastered at least 2 difficulty skills/techniques in that niche industry.

Ahehehehehe, I'm literally trying to manifest that, "Curating my life by my design" kind of lifestyle flr me. Yessssssss for cozy creatives!! Not our fault that the bed has been our safe space. Too comfy to complain ~

OMG gurllllllllll you can feel and sense my success??? THANK YOU!! Please keep wishing me well with this!!!!

Ahehehehehe, you don't need to buy multiple copies, one copy is enough!! But yeahhhhhhhh I understand the sentiment but as your unofficial big sis in this community, one copy is enough.

I make art whenever I feel like it on IG but if you want to read my essays, I have a whole Substack to have a bit of a preview on my writing style. Just DM me if you're curious, I'll message you my Substack.

I'm still figuring out how to build an online audience for my poetry and books, but that's actually part of my main tasks before the year ends.

Again, thank you so much for all the love and support you always send my way whenever you send me your feedback!! I'm truly grateful that you always allot some of your previous time to open up with how your readings resonated with you!