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kaiowut99 · 2 years ago

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Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters GX Episodes 87 and 88 Subbed (Finalized)

(Previously: Episodes 85 and 86 Subbed [Finalized])

(Check out my Subbed!GX Stream Masterpost!)

TURN-87: Fight, Ojama Trio! (Part 1)

Manjoume faces off with a pro duelist, winning overwhelmingly using the White Knight Swordsman he wields as a member of the Society of Light. Seeing that Judai was watching his duel, Manjoume requests a bout with him, but Judai notices that the Ojama Trio aren’t in Manjoume’s deck. He tracks down the Ojama Trio’s cards, knowing that Manjoume cared for them, and thinks of using their cards to try and return Manjoume to normal. And so, with the Ojama Trio in tow, Judai and Manjoume duel at last.

TURN-88: Fight, Ojama Trio! (Part 2)

As a member of the Society of Light, Manjoume uses the White Knight Lord card entrusted to him by Saiou to pummel Judai incessantly. Meanwhile, Judai fights defensively, using the Ojama Trio cards that Manjoume had cared for. Despite all the attacks he takes, Judai presses on with the Ojama Trio, who appeal to Manjoume about the fact that they were friends. And then... seeing the rough state the Ojama Trio have been beaten into, Manjoume at last comes to his senses.

(EDIT, 3/9/23: Re-uploaded 88 to correct a sub typo I missed before Judai uses Mystic Wok, and also updated “Cyber Dark Horn” in the preview to “Cyberdark Horn” to match its use in 89.)

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New year, new finalized episodes~

My subs for 87 and 88 are now revised and finalized as we get 2023 underway, and it’s a pretty good duo of episodes. Judai and Manjoume finally have a rematch to settle their score--well, they would if Manjoume remembered what that score was--and in the process, Judai works to snap him out of his Society of Light brainwashing by using the Ojamas. Of course, he promptly gets thrown under the bus by them once it works, but they did fight hard to save him; Judai even said stuff that was kinda touching! I do still like the bit where Judai tells Manjoume how angry he is with himself that he couldn’t even tell that his friends lost and were in such dire straits that they joined the SoL (a shame the dub wrote that out), and Ojama Yellow--as beat-up as he is--pleading with Manjoume to remember them before he eventually reclaims his sense of self is such a good scene, between Mariko Nagahama’s acting, the music, and the pained “Manjoume...” (ie, “Listen to the guy...”) from Judai in response. I also do love how Manjoume’s all “If they want to be clean, I’ll be the thorn in their side soiling things a little!” [paraphrasing], as well as the theme of having been through so much of life’s mud that of course no one would come out unstained. (Also unfortunate that the dub decides to replace his montage of said stains and the Ojamas helping him overcome them with a focus on Society of Light stuff.)

(Also, fun fact: both episodes were screenwritten by Shin Yoshida, who does get some ire in other parts of the franchise, but in GX it’s interesting that he’s actually the screenwriter for a lot of the fan-favorite episodes [he also goes on to write Dark Johan vs Ryou in Season 3, for example]; his writing both helps them feel cohesive. [They had the same Storyboarder in Noriyoshi Nakamura, too.])

Editing-wise, not as many animation/card fixes as I did for 85 and 86, but there were still a fair amount for these two, and 88 did get more in the way of card error fixes. All told, I fixed up six errors in 87, and eight in 88. As always, details under the cut below, if curious!

Enjoy! Next up, will be working on 89 and 90, featuring Hell Kaiser Ryou vs Fubuki (which also sets the stage for Shou’s duel against Ryou in the 90s) and getting a little wine-drunk with Sommelier Parker’s duel against Asuka and more GeneX shenanigans. Have also been looking forward to 90 specifically to re-do one of my earliest on-screen translation edits with the better editing skills I have now, so stay tuned for that. :)

Fixes/Edits! (87)

As Manjoume and Gelgo (the pro duelist) begin their duel at the start of the episode, Manjoume gloats and says he’ll turn Gelgo into one of the “runts”--per Gelgo--whose medals he won, but as they slide in on a split-screen to shout “Duel!” and start, there are a few frames where Manjoume behind the split-screen disappears into purple. A quick fix in Sony Vegas as I held pre-split Manjoume still over those purple frames, then masked on Manjoume and Gelgo’s sides of the split-screen as they slid onto the screen.

After the OP, as we get an update on Manjoume and Gelgo’s duel and see their current LP count, both their LP counters start to move as if they’re changing a frame just before they leave the screen. Also quickly fixed in Vegas, as I just masked in their counters from the previous frame over that frame, keeping their LP scores still.

As Manjoume draws for his turn after Gelgo plays Marshmallon, for a quick frame, we see that his Duel Disk wasn’t fully drawn, ending several pixels before the edge of the frame. As fixed for the hardsub in 86′s preview, I fixed this in Vegas by just cropping the shot slightly to hide the missing part of the frame.

Later, as Judai and Manjoume get their duel underway, Kenzan and a hiding Shou join on a split-screen to hope that Judai does well, but as their split-screen splits to show Judai and Manjoume shout “Duel!”, there’s a quick frame where Shou’s split lacks a border along its edge. Another quick fix in Vegas as I just masked on a border copied from the one on Kenzan’s split, then duplicated the layer and added a light Gaussian Blur to the layer underneath to give it a light glow along the outer edge.

Immediately after #4, as Manjoume draws to start the duel off, there’s a quick frame as he pulls his hand closer to look at his drawn card where the back of the top card on his deck is miscolored as fully orange. Fixed in Photoshop by just recoloring it with the darker brown along the inside of the card’s back, then inserting the fixed frame into the video in Vegas.

Near the end of the episode, as Manjoume gloats about White Knight Lord being the strongest card in his deck courtesy of Saiou, we see the Ojamas on Judai’s field, and Ojama Black and Ojama Green have the other’s card under them instead of their own. Fixed in AfterEffects by applying proxies for their cards under the right one, then masking on Ojama Black and Green over them, while also masking on the original cards’ outlines to help them blend in more.

Fixes/Edits! (88)

In the recap of 87 at the start of the episode, as we see the scene where Judai asks Manjoume about the Ojamas and his reaction in confusion, a weird quirk happens where the last 3-4 frames of the shot has him panning away from the edge of the screen; I think what happened was that the original shot in 87 was 52 frames long and they wanted to extend it by four, but while trying to, their attempt to extend the pan made the footage pan off the film or something? Kind of interesting. Fixed in Sony Vegas by grabbing the shot from 87, positioning it to work with 88′s audio there, then holding the starting and ending frames for three frames each to make it work; not all too noticeable while watching.

As the recap touches on Manjoume’s “The strongest card in my deck, courtesy of Master Saiou!” line, I recycled the fix made for #6 in 87 with Ojama Black and Green’s cards.

During the OP, as we see the episode’s preview clip featuring Ojama Knight attacking White Knight Lord, two errors happen: 1) There’s a quick frame as his sword starts to break where the unbroken sword is still in the shot, and 2) a couple frames later, Ojama Knight’s body vanishes for a frame, while his arm and the broken sword stay on the screen--these errors also happen in the episode proper. Fixed in Vegas by 1) holding the previous frame pre-sword-break over the duplicate-sword frame, then 2) taking the frame post-body-vanishing where Ojama Knight’s body comes back and copying it over the frame in which it vanishes.

After the OP, as Judai calls out Manjoume’s talk of “pure-white brilliance” given his history of not washing his jacket, the shot of him doing so with his field visible has the Ojamas’ cards reversed under them (their name boxes should be facing Judai’s right). Fixed in AfterEffects by first applying the correctly-facing proxies under them, then masking the Ojamas and Judai’s leg over them--after that, I then made masks around all the white zoom lines on the original footage using keyframes, which I then applied to a white-color layer to recreate the white lines over the cards.

A bit later, after White Knight Lord takes out Ojama Black and hits Judai with 300 points of damage, Ojama Green and Yellow look back at him worriedly, but Ojama Green has Ojama Black’s card under him. Fixed in AfterEffects by taking the last frame of the shot and applying Green’s proxy under him, masking him back on top; I then took that fix into Vegas, where I keyframed and redid the panning shot for the fixed card.

After equipping Shield Attack onto Ojama Knight, Judai has him attack White Knight Lord only for the attack to fail due to its effect, but this is where the two errors in #2 happens in the episode proper; fixed in Vegas the same way. Right after that, as Judai and Manjoume are on a split-screen in which Manjoume explains that White Knight Lord has several abilities, Manjoume starts to move a frame before their split-screen starts to split, as he goes on to say that Lord can’t be beat in battle. Fixed in Vegas by holding Manjoume for an extra frame over that so they both move at the same time.

After Judai uses Ojamandala to bring the Ojamas back and Kenzan notes his defensive boost, Manjoume laughs as he starts his turn, but another error occurs with his Disk not being fully drawn, for three movement frames here, as he moves his arm to get ready to draw. I did think about fixing this by drawing the missing edge of the Disk in using Photoshop in each frame, but opted to just use Vegas to crop the shot a bit so that the edge of his Disk hit the edge of the screen. I then made the shot zoom back out to where it was as Manjoume moves his arm to activate Hell Gauntlet.

After his unwhitening, Manjoume activates the effect of his Goblin Negotiator Magic Card while Judai attacks his Ojama Green with White Knight Lord to protect him, but Ojama Green and Black’s cards on his Disk are in Attack Mode when they’re actually in Defense Mode (and you can tell they’d intended the cards to be in Defense Mode with how they’re not fully covering the Monster Zones). Fixed in AfterEffects by placing their proxies in Defense Mode on one of the frames, then used Vegas to redo the zoom that happens.

#GX #yugioh #yugioh gx #ygo gx #ygo #yu-gi-oh gx #yu-gi-oh! gx #my subs #Judai Yuki #Jun Manjoume #also Ojama Yellow's 'he's already filling the gaps in his memories with delusions' re: his saving Asuka lol

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thearchivistsjournal · 2 years ago

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Day 217,

Last night’s nightmare was not as bad as the previous. Merely severely uncomfortable and nerve-wrackingly frustrating rather than agonizingly painful and mind-breakingly terrifying. The body of my dream self (I swear one day that won’t sound ridiculous to me) was still in bad shape and the usual compulsion toward movement was still present, but there was no malevolent other to be felt and the embrace of the artifact blanket persisted through the whole night. I was able to pace myself enough that my fractured and malunioned frame never reached much worse than a dull, fully-body ache. There was the constant sense of wanting to go faster (tied to the urge to movement I suppose), hence the frustration, but I managed to at least sort of balance that with not pushing myself to the point of injury again.

Strangely, for some reason I recall making a conscious (if that word even applies there) decision to actively try to go deeper. I think I might have been following the logic of “if that place won’t let me go up, then at least I might find answers going down.” Reasonable enough at first, but upon waking the possibility of that being what that place, or some thing that inhabits it wants and is trying to drive me toward a grisly fate I’d otherwise avoid seems apparent.

Increasingly I find myself thinking of these wanderings of the Catacomb Depths not merely as a dream but as an actual place that I am sending a part of myself to. I would have scoffed at the notion at one time, and still find a rational part of my mind objecting to the idea, but - as I so often seem to tell myself - with everything else I’ve experienced and heard of, is it really that unbelievable? And besides, if it is a real place (for some certain value of “real”) then that means it has rules, however esoteric or malleable. And if there are rules they can be learned and used to my advantage.

Hopefully.

But I’ve gone on too long now. I’m going to need to hurry to get ready and meet James and family if I want to ride with them into town this morning. I’ll also need to remember to remind Maiko that I won’t be back this evening. She’s probably figured that out already, but it seems polite to actually say it.

*******

Exciting news: The boat is ready.

I had figured I’d be writing about the ride into town, Cass asking how I was doing, reassuring her I was much better this time, talking to James about the boat trip, him telling Cass to stop lording it over her siblings, looking forward to actually being useful in unloading at the market again, and starting on another round of detailed examination of the cathedral chant transcriptions, but BOAT.

It was a bit past noon, Cass and I had just finished our break for lunch and gotten back into the aforementioned transcription examinations when one of the fishermen I’d talked to the other week came in to give us the good news. I’ll admit, I wound up embarrassing myself a little bit by not recognizing him right away and asking what I could help him find in the archive like any other visitor. He laughed it off and said that he’d already found it (me).

When he offered to take us to show their handiwork, Cass volunteered to go track down Lin and Vernon so they could see it too since they both had an interest in joining in on the expedition. Thus, she went running off one way while I locked up the archive and followed my guide down to the docks.

Along the way he apologized that it took so long, explaining that they’d realized shortly after talking to me last time that they were short on materials for plugging leaks and had to wait until the next market day (a week ago) to obtain it. After that, they’d actually finished two days ago, but I’d already left for the evening by that time and then yesterday we had the mists. I accepted the apology although I assured him that the minor delay was no big deal. Like I’d said before, this trip might be for my health, but it’s not like I’m dying without it.

Even if I was winded by the time we reached the pier where they had the boat tied.

There was a small crowd of fishers when we got there. The repairs had been a group effort and everyone was eager to see their work pay off. To my surprise, Marva was there too. She’d not been in the original group I’d talked to, but word gets around and she wasn’t going to pass up the chance to help out her little sister-in-law.

By the time said little sister-in law arrived with Lin and Vernon in tow I still hadn’t actually gotten in the boat. Too much time spent thanking everyone and excitedly gushing over it from the side of the dock.

It seems Marva’s involvement was a surprise to Cass as well, but not an unwelcome one. Marva’s always treated her as a little more mature than Cass’s blood-siblings tend to and never really engaged in filial teasing. I daresay Cass gets along better with her than any of her actual sisters.

But, back to the boat! Lin and I were the first ones on as the two that would be officially and necessarily going on the expedition. Cass came next, indignantly declining offers to be lowered down (it was at low tide, so there was a bit of a drop) in favor of climbing down herself. Unfortunately, after that, it became clear that Vernon wasn’t going to fit and still leave room for supplies. We still got him in for this initial test run though. It was cramped and hard to maneuver with all of us in there, but we had fun with it, and if nothing else it was a stress test for buoyancy and stability as we rowed (or is it paddled?) out past the end of the docks and out onto the (relatively) open water for a short bit before turning around and coming back.

After tying up the boat and another round of excitedly thanking everyone for their hard work, the four of us headed back to the archive to further plan.

The overall result of said planning session is as follows:

Vernon will not be coming with us. As much as we’d all like to have him along, we just couldn’t come up with a good explanation about how we’d accommodate him without bringing up Maiko and her boat.

We’ll spend the next few days getting together any last-minute supplies we haven’t already stockpiled for the trip. We’ve all been putting aside a little bit already and we’re still planning on foraging as we go to supplement our supplies so we should be mostly good to go in short order.

Tomorrow Lin will be taking Cass and I out on the water for more practice with the boat. We’re not going to have her do all the paddling (rowing?) afterall.

Tomorrow evening I’ll fill in Maiko

The day after that, I’ll make that long-procrastinated outskirts trip to visit Tristan and get his account of his meeting with Iole. Going to skip the visit to the glassmaker for now.

The day after that, Cass and I will head into the Village, meet Lin down at the docks, take the boat and head out. Vernon will try to be there to see us off at least.

Once we have the boat, we’ll stop at Maiko’s cove to meet up with her, transfer Cass and some of the supplies to her boat, and then head out for real.

We’re trusting in Maiko for the actual route. Last we talked it over with her, she predicted four or five days to get to the island with the healing spring, depending on our pace, stopping on an island each night.

We’ll stay on that island with the spring for a couple of days and then move on to Iole’s island. Maiko estimates about a day or two for that. The island with the spring is actually the further of the two, but my arguments for seeing Iole first were shot down in favor of the others wanting me back in good health. Even Maiko had said as much back when she, Lin, and I talked about it last at the house.

We’ll stay on Iole’s island until the next mist night at least. We’ll probably be close to one by the time we get there and surely she won’t deny us shelter (another case for going to her island second). Worst case scenario though, we spend the night on the boats.

Once we’re done on Iole’s island (however long that ends up being), we’ll head back to this main island, stop briefly at the cove to switch Cass back over to our boat, and head back to the Village. Fond as I am of the idea of us all meeting back at the house afterward to celebrate, I didn’t voice that suggestion. I imagine Lin’s and Cass’s families will be wanting to be with them.

After that planning session, Lin and Vernon went home and I joined Cass at Norman and Marva’s for dinner. As one might expect, there was a fair bit of congratulating and well-wishing. And filling James in on our preparations and itinerary (leaving out the parts about Maiko and Iole) to assure him I wasn’t taking his daughter out to drown at sea or shipwreck and starve. Not that there was much concern of that happening, but still.

And now I’m back in the archive staying up too late once again, tired as I am. Excitement balancing out the drowsiness I suppose. Also, I saw the floating island passing by on my way back to the library after dinner, so that was neat. I’d lost track of that thing’s schedule and hadn’t seen it in a while, having stayed indoors all rainy season. It’s a sight, all silhouetted by the stars like that.

One more thing though before I head to bed. Before I started writing, I got to thinking about Maiko and yesterday’s conversation and in a moment of curiosity and nostalgia I pulled the first volume of my journal and took a look back at what I wrote the first time she told me about her mother. The part that caught my eye though and is bugging me now was a bit after that exchange. I offered to give her one of the crystals that I’d been using to light the house and said that I didn’t mind her having it because I could use the cracked one from the trip to the cavern as a replacement, but somehow she ended up with the cracked one herself. How did that discrepancy happen? Flipping through the journal, I never found anywhere that I described actually giving her either crystal, just that the next time the crystal I gave her is mentioned is when she was showing me the contents of her pouch during our little heart to heart on the edge of Priscilla’s island.

I trust the accuracy of what I wrote down. I have to, for my own sanity. It’s the parts that I don’t write down that find myself questioning my memory. Because I don’t really remember either way in this case. Maybe I offered her the whole one and she took the cracked one anyway? Maybe she switched them later for some reason?

This is going to bother me until I ask her about it, isn’t it?

Or until I find something else to distract me and I forget about this too.

<==Previous Next==>

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dreamkidddream · 4 years ago

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So my birthday is on April Fools, (how deserving 🤪) and I decided to be self indulgent again and write something! These are short and reader is gender neutral!

WARNING: Lesson 16 spoilers in Beel and Belphie’s part (nothing too heavy but read their sections at your own risks)

The Brothers Celebrating your Birthday!

Lucifer

Expect the most grandest/high class celebration you’ve ever seen MC!

As much as he’s not a morning demon, he’s got a noticeable pep in his step this morning because it’s your special day

Expect him to be one of the first people to text you at midnight because he’s still up doing paperwork

But don’t worry, he won’t be doing any work when it’s time to celebrate

Little messages throughout the day, hinting at something big to come along with small gifts (atleast to him) such as: new outfits, lunch at Ristorante Six with him, basically stuff that he pleases you both and that he would love to see you in (not that he would ever tell you)

Expect his gifts to be high quality too (ie. very expensive)

You expected a huge party, but you didn’t expect him to get so sentimental

After everything ended, you ended up in his room, with him just holding you in his lap, unconsciously caressing you with his mind deep in thought

The impact that you made on his brothers- the impact that you made just on him- it’s far bigger than you could imagine. And that scares him

He’s gotten so close to you that he forgot that you can’t stay here forever, both in the Devildom and mortality. What would he do when you have to leave his brothers? When you have to leave him? It makes his chest pang with pain every time the thought crosses his mind, but he refuses to let it ruin the moments he does get to spend with you

You’ll never know how grateful he is for deep down, and he never wants to lose you. Who would have thought that the mighty firstborn would fall so deep for a mere human?

Mammon

ITS PARTY TIME

Get ready to have the best birthday ever with no one other than the Great Mammon!

Tries to be the first one to tell you, fell asleep and immediately felt bad

Celebrates your birthday like a national holiday but is still somehow tsundere about it. He’s only being like this because you don’t know how to party, and he doesn’t want to hear you complain later, got it?!

Has his crows bring you small gifts leading up to the big party. Bracelets, candy, mini love letters that he swore that he threw away...

Definitely snuck off during your party, because he wanted to hand you his gift personally (and he didn’t want to hear his brothers say anything about it). Prays (how ironic) that you don’t hate it, tears up when you say that you love it

Definitely got some kisses as thanks and can expect some more later

He just really appreciates and loves you okay? You’re important to him, and today’s the day that you were brought into the world, the reason that he’s able to look forward to something everyday. You’ve made a change in everyone’s lives, even that grouch Lucifer, and he has to say thanks somehow

Plus, you’re important to him- so he does see this as a special day regardless of what comes out of his mouth. He still gets embarrassed about being emotional, but he makes sure that you know that he loves you

He always will

Leviathan

It’s just another day normie, nothing special...

Hey quit trying to figure out what he’s hiding behind his back! He doesn’t have anything okay?! It’s nothing! And ignore that he called you, he just butt dialed you and didn’t expect you to answer! And he just decided to say happy birthday because everyone else was, not because he actually cares!

He is so stumped on how he’s going to celebrate your birthday, he hasn’t stressed about something non-otaku like this in decades. He’s so anxious that he’ll ruin your big day. What if he gets you something and you hate it and then hate him?!!

This day is making him more nervous than it should, but he can’t help it! You’re his best friend, a person that he can confidently say that he’s fortunate enough to know and that he loves-

OKAY he can’t exactly say it out loud yet without turning 50 shades of red, but he really does. He just needs a way to show it

Believe it or not, he was too excited to wait to tell you his gift after the party, so he told you after he said happy birthday. Free range to his manga collection??? What could be better than that?! The perfect gift if you asked him

Plus he rather you be holed up with him in his room than being anywhere else. That’s how it should be: just his Henry, his anime/manga/game collection, and Henry 2.0

It’s the least that he can do for how much you’ve been there for him, and even though he still has a hard time saying how he really feels, he hopes that this atleast gives you a glimpse into his true feelings

Ugh this feels like he’s a love interest in an otome game or something...

Satan

Honestly is the chillest of them all

Don’t get me wrong he’s super excited like everyone else, but he has a very detailed itinerary that you both need to follow for today, starting with breakfast.

Get down here before Beel eats your breakfast!

He made it with all of your favorite activities and places, along with things that he just knew you’ll love (and him too, but seeing you smiling is more than enough to make him content). He put a lot of effort into this whole day, especially with your gift

He put thought into it (no surprise there), he didn’t want to give you just anything and he has to one-up Lucifer and he needed to give you something to show you how much of a change you’ve been in his life. How much you influenced him to make better choices when it comes to channeling his anger and rage

He got you a magic photo album last year, and the way that you reacted to that (which was obviously positive), the pressure is on this year to impress you even more

Which he ended up doing! But he won’t lie, he was just a tad bit nervous in disappointing you, but everything worked out well, so you didn’t need to know!

Although, he did feel a bit shy in handing you his gift, he felt relieved in seeing you accept it so quickly

Also invited you to read any of his books, and even offered to teach you some spells, both safe and simple enough to where it won’t cause any real damage to anyone. Might teach you a spell to spite Lucifer to make the LYS club proud

You don’t know how much you mean to his brothers, how much you mean to him. You’ve made a bigger impact that you think, and while he knows that nothing he does will ever show you how eternally thankful he is for your presence, he at least wants to show you a sliver of his appreciation. What better way than the day you came into the world?

Also expect him to try and fluster you the whole day. You’re too cute for him to leave you alone, and your reactions are better than that brand new cat cafe

Actually he might have to test that theory, and the only way to do that is if you both visit the cafe. Either way he’s not complaining! Cats and you? A match to die for

Asmodeus

You’re the only reason he’ll interrupt his beauty sleep

Wants bragging rights to say that he told you happy birthday first

Today is a big day after all! It’s the day that you came into the world, and that you’re able to even be down here with him- I mean them!

Will be your designated fashion designer. All your outfits already have to not only be on point, but they have to be iconic. No exceptions! Doesn’t matter if you’re just going to Purgatory Hall, you’re going there in style!

Gifts are in style too! He got you stuff that you would absolutely fall in love with. He’s not that self centered, give him some credit MC!

After the big celebration with everyone, of course you’re going out to The Fall! He has to show you off of course, it would be a crime if he didn’t

But once everything is over and you guys are home, he takes his time in doing his nightly routine on you both. Honestly just basking in your glow and just enjoying you. No sharing, no interruptions, just you and him

He catches himself thinking that there’s no way he can love someone more than he can love himself, it’s impossible, it has to be

But he loves you so much that he’s starting to doubt that theory

But would that really be a problem?

Beelzebub

He’s so excited! And he takes today VERY seriously

He’s gonna make sure you eat SO GOOD today that Lord Diavolo would be jealous

As soon as you get up you guys are hitting every restaurant and I mean EVERY

You’re getting the best of the best because you deserve the best

And as a gift he got you so much food that you’ll probably have enough to last you both for the rest of the year...if he doesn’t eat it all

He knows that food is his thing, but he got you so much because he knows that it makes him happy, and he wants you to feel the same way. It makes him feel all warm inside, and when you’re with him it’s like he’s eating all of his favorites at once, but even better

And you guys eating food together?? It makes him feel like he’s back in the Celestial Realm again

But I feel like with Beel, another way he shows love is through acts of service and quality time. For him, even if you guys are doing absolutely nothing, he’s 100% in bliss

So his gift to you was in the way of snacks to share and having him at your mercy (not that you would ever take advantage of him like that). Also promising to take you wherever you want, it’s your day!

You see past his sin, and enjoy Beel for Beel. You don’t just see him as Gluttony, you helped bring his twin back to him, you even sleep and listen to him after his nightmares of Lilith. It’s only right to show gratitude for all that you’ve done on your birthday

And all of his brothers love you, especially him. You’re basically family at this point, and no takebacks either

Just don’t leave him MC, you’ve became a big part of his life now, and he honestly would be very sad without you

Belphegor

There’s no way that this sleepy king can stay up until midnight so you’ll get your happy birthday when he sees you in the morning (if he’s up)

No but fr in the game he DOES NOT CALL YOU OR EVEN TEXT!!! LIKE I STAYED UP THINKING HE FELL ASLEEP AND HE JUST STRAIGHT UP- okay sorry back to the headcannons 😭

He’s very optimistic on the inside trust me, he just doesn’t show it very well on the outside, but he’s trying!

He can’t help it that he’s sleepy but...you put some energy back into him, and he is ecstatic about celebrating with you, he just has a hard time showing it

His brothers were a little peeved about his nonchalant attitude AND not getting you a gift, but Beel already knows what his twin is doing, he just didn’t want anyone else to know because he wanted everything to be perfect

After the party, he snuck you away to the planetarium, which is designated as your sacred spot. This was nothing new, but you still laid in awe cuddled with Belphie looking up at the sky

But tonight was different, as the stars up above spelled out...your name? And did that star basically let out miniature fireworks? And are those stars over there shaped as a cow and mooing?

Seeing your eyes light up meant that it was worth it to skip out on some of his naps to talk to Solomon and practice out some new spells (but you won’t ever know that)

Belphie really cares about you. Really cares about you. No matter how much he may be sarcastic or act like things aren’t a big deal, they are to him, especially when it comes to you. After the ill-fated events in the attic, he would have not been surprised if you hated him and want nothing to do with him ever again; it was his fault after all, he couldn’t be upset with you. But you were willing to forgive him, and start over

MC, you will never know how much indebted he is to you. You’re the reason that he’s out of the attic and reconnected with his twins again, the reason that he’s apart of the family and not separated. Yes, he still has some issues that he may need to work on for himself, but he’s able to take the right step because of you

He doesn’t really have a choice in celebrating your birthday (at least to him but he’s gonna celebrate either way), because without you, he doesn’t know where he would end up at, he would be lost. He owes you enough to see you safe and happy, and he swears that he will keep you that way. A happy and safe MC means a satisfied Belphie

And having you curled up in his side, going on about the show he planned, has him feeling very light, and he can’t help but wonder if this is how his sister felt

If it is, he can’t help but start to see everything a little clearer now

#obey me x reader #obey me reader insert #obey me #obey me lucifer x reader #obey me mammon x reader #obey me leviathan x reader #obey me levi x reader #obey me satan x reader #obey me asmodeus x reader #obey me asmo x reader #obey me beelzebub x reader #obey me beel x reader #obey me belphegor x reader #obey me belphie x reader

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manonblaqkbeak · 3 years ago

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Fire and Ice

hello, hope you’re all doing well. i’m doing a double feature today since its the 20th here in aus. so todays fic is for day 19 and 20 (like, if u squint lol).

its a lil bit more angsty then i planned for it to be in the beginning, but its got some fluff at the end. (also, again, i borrowed the 10 month pregnancy plot from acotar)

1.9k words

enjoy!

The bathroom tiles were cool against Aelin's clammy skin as she slowed her breathing. As she willed herself to stop feeling so dizzy.

Four months into her first pregnancy and Aelin soon came to realise what the worst part of pregnancy; the morning sickness.

Or, as Aelin liked to call it, 'whenever it rutting happened' sickness. Morning, midnight, dawn, she often found herself running towards a bathroom, emptying her stomach loudly for the whole damned kingdom to hear.

She was aware of the rumours flying around, that there were friendly bets going throughout the city as to whether or not Terrasen was going to have a prince or princess (apparently, the majority were betting for a boy, but Aelin didn't care what she had, as long as they were healthy), but neither her or Rowan confirmed the pregnancy, and so the rumours stayed as gossip, until she and Rowan were comfortable enough to officially announce it.

Aelin wanted to wait because of how hard it was to conceive—it had taken her and Rowan over three years to be successful, and while she knew that three years wasn't that long, it was still hard when nothing happened—and was scared that if she said it out loud, then something horrible would happen. She hadn't even told her friends, although she knew that they knew; the rumours would have reached them. She appreciated that they hadn't asked either of them. Other than Rowan, the only other person that knew of her pregnancy was her personal healer, Magnolia. Other than Yrene, the demi-Fae was a healer than Aelin felt comfortable around, because even after a decade later, she still had nightmares about her time in Maeve and Cairn's cruel hands, the never ending chain of healers coming to fix her so she could be tortured again and again.

Rowan wanted to wait because of everything that happened to Lyria and their child. There were many nights when Aelin would wake up and find Rowan just watching her, his hand against her slowly growing stomach, and not only could she see the pain in his eyes as he thought back on what happened all those centuries ago, she could also feel it, like a living thing. Aelin knew that Rowan did his best to stop her from sensing his dread, but she wasn't a fool, and she would have known how he was feeling even if they didn't have the bond between them, even if she was miles away, she would know.

The bathroom door opened and Rowan was helping her up, his hands warm and gentle against her clammy skin.

Aelin was far too tired to ask if one of her handmaids called for Rowan after Aelin ran from their shared closest and into the bathroom, or if he felt her distress through the bond.

It was probably both. She would ask once her head stopped spinning.

Resting her head against her mate's chest, Aelin breathed in his scent, letting the pine-and-snow of him calm her senses. His strong arms wrapped around her, his tattooed hand running up and down the length of her spine as his right hand was a steady presence against her lower back.

How long they stayed like that, Aelin wasn't sure, but once her head stopped spinning, she rinsed her mouth out to get rid of the pungent vomit taste that was lingering. Once satisfied that the taste was gone, Aelin let Rowan lead her to bed—not the closest.

“Rowan—” she started to say, but her husband cut her off.

“That was a strong one, and Magnolia said that it's best to rest afterwards.” So he felt it through the bond, then. “I'll take over, and you can stay in and read that book you've been eyeing all week.”

She should say no, that she was fine, but a day of rest did sound nice and probably something she desperately needed without knowing it—and she really had been wanting to read the book that Dorian had sent her the other week (which she had to write a detailed review of when she sent it back. It was one of her favourite past times, especially if it was a book that Dorian loved, but she didn't particularly like, because his response to her review was always the most dramatic thing that always made her laugh).

“Fine,” Aelin said, “I'll rest and you can go deal with Head Teacher of the Academy.”

Rowan groaned at the mention. The Fae male that ruled the magic school was nice, but just so damned pedantic that he had a say about everything. And everything was falling apart, according to him, despite the fact that the school was built only five years ago. “I swear,” Rowan grumbled, “that if he complains to me that the school halls aren't the right shade of brown, I'll throw him out the window.”

Aelin laughed, because she had said the same thing when the male had come around complaining that the roof tiles were crooked last month and she had sent Rowan to check on said tiles (and what a surprise to absolutely no one that the tiles weren't at all crooked), but that wasn't enough for the Head Teacher, when he came back the next week, he wanted the tiles replaced.

If he wasn't so damned talented and good with children and running the school, she would have had him fired for being a nuisance. But unfortunately, neither she or Rowan couldn't just get rid of him because he was annoying.

“Make sure that your shirt is tucked in neatly, or you'll get the same speech about cleanliness like last time.”

Rowan flared his nostrils at that, but said nothing as he got up and changed his crumpled tunic for a fresh one—not at all tucked in—and began his fussing.

Truthfully, she was surprised that he lasted that long.

He left her a glass of water, and a pitcher full of the liquid on her nightstand, and the bowl of seasonal fruit next to it. Next was opening the balcony doors to let in the fresh air, and then the fluffing of pillows and straightening of the quilt and bed sheets—Aelin may have teased him a little by saying that the sheets were too tight, and then too loose, having to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing as he huffed at her ever-changing mind, until she decided that the sheets were just right after five minutes of readjusting.

Aelin watched it all with a small smile on her face, even as she grumbled about his fussing tendencies—but she knew he did it from a place of love, and that he wanted her and the baby to be comfortable.

He even went as far as to check her forehead, and gave her a wash cloth to freshen her up from her earlier sweating. At least she was already in a cotton nightgown and didn't have to get changed—although she knew that if she had too, Rowan would have brought the clothes over himself.

Once he was satisfied that Aelin was comfortable, he left with a kiss on the lips and a promise that he would see her once he was free, Aelin cracked open the book, but fell asleep thirty minutes later with an unexpected headache, a hand on her stomach.

X X X X X X

It was a rare day when Rowan had an empty afternoon, there was always someone to see, something to do, someone to write back to, that when Rowan finished his meeting with the Lords and Ladies of Terrasen and there was no one waiting for him in the audience chamber, Rowan was the first to leave the meeting, needing to check on Aelin. He hated how pale she looked when he left, but when he spoke to Magnolia quickly, the skilled healer told him that it was perfectly normal, but she would check in on Aelin to make sure that everything was okay—and since he wasn't called for during any of his meetings, he took that as a sign that things were fine.

The fact that the bond was quiet also assured him. He had tugged on it during at some point when one of the Lords was rambling, and he got a tired tug back, effectively telling him that Aelin was sleeping. So he let her be, and he sat in his worried state alone.

Rowan was excited for the baby, to take this step with Aelin, but Gods, he'd also hadn't been this tense, this paranoid that something was going to happen in so long. Rowan didn't think he'd feel like himself until he held their child in his arms, but Aelin still had six months to go.

And sometimes...sometimes he found himself wondering about the child he lost with Lyria. What they would have looked liked, if they would have been tall and broad like him, or slim like her. He also wondered how long their child would have been safe before Maeve claimed the child, having them trained to be a warrior like Rowan, or if Maeve would have cast them aside like she had done to Lyria, who Maeve saw as nothing but a pawn to use and toss aside.

His thoughts kept spiralling, his mind going from one thing and another, but stopped when he heard the sloshing of water and a relived sigh once he got closer to his rooms. He made his way through the space and soon came to the bathroom where Aelin was resting against the porcelain tub. Her skin was a light pink from the hot water, but otherwise looked healthy.

Rowan just stood and watched her for a moment and let the contentment from the bond wash over him. The steam danced through the air, carrying Aelin's scent with it, and the indescribable scent of their child within her.

“Are you going to stand there all afternoon?” Aelin asked, her eyes still closed, “or are you going to join me?”

Rowan decided to join her, managing to hold back his wince as he made contact with the boiling water—how Aelin found the hot as hell water relaxing he would never know.

When he was comfortably behind her, Aelin leaned against his chest, and took his hands and placed them against her growing belly.

“Magnolia visited me a few hours ago,” she said. “She says that soon the nausea will pass.”

“Good,” he said, letting the words settle in him.

Rowan was about to lean back against the bath when Aelin's fire filled the air in thin ribbons, moving as smoothly as water as it flew past him. His own magic moved in response, and soon his ice and wind joined her fire, going around the room, filling it up with the differences in temperature. And from the tub, a water butterfly the size of Aelin's palm lifted into the air, its movements delicate but strong as it came towards him. Aelin turned to look at him, her brows furrowed lightly in concentration.

The butterfly came to rest on his nose, and then exploded in his face.

Aelin laughed at his incredulous expression. Rowan shot forward and flicked water in her face, and soon almost all of the bath water was on the floor as they splashed at each other back and forth.

Rowan's troubles melted away with his ice and Aelin forgot about all of her nausea and stress temporarily.

Aelin couldn't wait to meet her baby, and she knew that Rowan was the same.

Six months couldn't come soon enough.

#rowaelin #rowaelinmonth #my work

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carriagelamp · 4 years ago

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Art of Aardman

I found myself a cheap copy of the Shaun the Sheep movie, so I was rewatching a bunch of Aardman films earlier this month and decided to hunt down some books too. For anyone that doesn’t know, Aardman is a British stop-motion studio that does fantastic work like Wallace and Gromit, Shaun the Sheep, Chicken Run, Early Man… tons of cool stuff. They’re always quirky and funny and warm-hearted. This was just a very nice art book for anyone that’s a fan of Aardman stop motion and wants to see a bit extra; it shows some cool concept art and blows up the neat details in Aardman work, especially in their intricate stuff like The Pirates! In an Adventure with Scientists!

Asterix and the Picts (Asterix and the Chariot Race, and How Obelix Fell Into The Magic Potion)

I decided to try a couple of the new Asterix comics that were done by the new team, just to see if they stand up to the old ones (that and How Obelix Fell Into The Magic Potion cause I’d never read that one before). They were pretty decent! Asterix and the Picts was my favourite of the two though I wouldn’t say either are going to contest for my favourite Asterix comic... but still! The art looks good and the stories felt like what I would expect, they made for a pleasant couple evenings of reading especially since it’s been so long since I’ve read a new Asterix comic. If you’ve never read Asterix it’s one of the biggest name French comic series in North America, as far as I know and very worth the read. It’s about a single Gaulish village that’s holding out against the invading Romans through sheer force of will, slapstick hijinks, and a magical super-strength potion brewed by their druid. Lots of fantastic visuals and cute wordplay, even in the English translations.

Bear

I found out about this bastion of Canadian literature via tumblr post that was losing its collective mind over the fact that some bizarre bear-based erotica novella somehow won the most prestigious literary prize available in Canada. Since I too found this hilarious and unspeakably bizarre I had to give it a read, obviously. And yes, the flat surface level summary is... a librarian moves out into rural Ontario and falls in love with a literal for-real not-supernatural-not-a-joke bear. And I have to say… it is actually worthy of an award, which I was not expecting given that I was there for a laugh. It has beautiful writing, and the subtextual story is pretty interesting… it kind of makes me think of The Haunting of Hill House actually in terms of themes. (Womanhood, personhood, independence, autonomy partially achieved through escaping the male gaze by claiming non-human lovers... listen if I were still in university I would right a paper comparing the two novels).

I dunno man, it’s fucking weird. Actually a well-written book, but sure is about a woman falling in love with a literal bear. Give it a read if you want something bonkers but like… high-brow bonkers.

Hunger Pangs: True Love Bites

Best book I have read in like… a while. A long while. I am not a fast reader, and I consumed 90% of this book over a weekend. It’s not at all like Terry Pratchett, but at the same time it scratched an itch for me that I haven’t had satisfied since Pratchett’s death. A very clever, hilariously funny poly romance between a disabled werewolf, an anxious vampire lord, and an incredibly powerful woman, with heaps of social satire, political commentary, and sinister undertones. The whole thing reads a bit like fanfiction and I say that in the most flattering way possible -- it is so easy to jump right in and be immediately taken over by the characters and the world and the plot, you never feel like you’re fighting to engage even though the world-building is fascinating and expansive. It welcomes you in right away, it was the book equivalent of a quilt and a hug which is something I sorely needed with all this pandemic bullshit. If you read any of the books on this list, go read that one while I sit here in pain waiting for the sequel.

Kid Paddle

I watched the cartoon of Kid Paddle as a kid and was thinking about it recently, so I decided to hunt down some of the original comics online. They’re fun and weird, with a cute art style and fantastic monsters designs. (My favourites are always about Kid either daydreaming or playing games that involve Midam’s weird warty troll creatures. It’s like a cross between Calvin and Hobbes and Foxtrot with the fun sort of quirks that I love in Belgian comics. Unfortunately, unlike Asterix, I’ve only come across these ones in French, but if you can read French it’s totally worth popping over to The Internet Archive and reading the ones they have available.

The Last Firehawk: The Golden Temple

The lastest Firehawk book. Despite being written for quite young readers, I did enjoy the early books in this series quite a bit. They’re about a young owl and squirrel who found an egg for a magical species that was believed to be extinct. With the newly hatched firehawk, the three of them head off on a mission to find an ancient firehawk magic that could save the entire forest. Very basic adventure story but a good intro to the tropes for children. Unfortunately the quality really feels like it drops with each subsequent book; this will probably be the last one I bother reading.

Lumberjanes: The Moon Is Up

I honestly think I enjoy these Lumberjanes novels even more than the comics just because it really gives time to delve into each story and examine how the camper are really thinking and feeling about everything. (Also I’m always weak for novelizations of anything.) The Moon Is Up is a book that focuses more on Jo, and takes place during the camp’s much anticipated Galaxy Wars, a competition between cabins that goes over several days. While the campers prepare for these challenges though, they also run into a strange little creature with a penchant for cheese and theft. Roanoke cabin needs to keep ahead in Galaxy Wars and somehow deal with the fearsome Moon Pirates that a closing in...

Lumberjanes v4 (Out Of Time)

One of the Lumberjanes comics, a cool, girl-focused, queer comic series. Honestly, this is just a fun series that I never got as into as I should have. My advice is honestly to skip book one because it gets better as it continues, and I’ve really been enjoying the later books now that I’ve given it another go. It follows five campers at Miss Qiunzella Thiskwin Penniquiqul Thistle Crumpet’s Camp for Hardcore Lady Types (Jo, April, Molly, Mal, and Ripley) as they handle all sorts of challenges, from friendship to crushes, camp activities to supernatural horrors, getting badges to not being brutally killed. Great if you liked the vibe of Gravity Falls but want it to be queer-er.

Mooncakes

Another queer graphic novel, but unfortunately not a very good one. It really looked appealing and I had high hopes, but the book itself really didn’t hold up… I actually couldn’t even finish it, the plot was just too… non-existent. The art is fairly mediocre once you actually look at it, especially backgrounds, and it feels very… placid. Not much conflict or excitement or even a very compelling reason to keep reading. If you just want a soft queer supernatural you may get more mileage out of it than me, but it didn’t really do it for me. There’s better queer graphic novels out there.

New Boy In Town

One of the worst books I have ever read. My girlfriend had ordered a very different book online but through a frankly stupendous error was sent this 1980s pulp romance instead. Absolutely nauseating on levels I couldn’t even begin to enumerate here. Naturally we read the whole thing out loud. Probably took us 10 times longer to finish than it warranted because I had to stop every two sentences to lose my mind. If you like bad decisions, baffling hetero courting rituals, built-in cultural Christianity without actually calling it that, and gold panning then boy howdy is this the book for you.

(seriously, you better have patience for gold-panning if you attempt this one, because I sure learn that I don’t)

Piggies

This was a picture book I enjoyed as a kid and had a reason to reread recently. Honestly it’s just very cute and simple, and the art is completely mesmerizing. Wonderful if you know a young child that would enjoy a simple goofy boardbook.

Shaun the Sheep: Tales From Mossy Bottom

Related to my Aardman fascination earlier this month. I tried reading a varieties of Shaun the Sheep books — most of which are mediocre at best — but the Tales From Mossy Bottom Farm series is genuinely good. Just chapter books, of course, but the illustrations match the series’ concept art and each story feels like it could have jumped directly out of an episode. They’re just cute and feel-good! Kinda like Footrot Flats but more for kids, and from the sheep’s perspective moreso than the dog’s.

#aardman animation #shaun the sheep #lumberjanes #kid paddle #asterix #the last firehawk #hunger pangs: true love bites #marian engel #bear #canadian literature #canlit #queer lit #book review #book reviews #chatter

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k-s-morgan · 4 years ago

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What He Grows to Be: Snippet 5

Thank you to everyone who expressed their preference over what they’d prefer to see in the snippet! Tom watching Harry’s memories about the Chamber of Secrets got the most votes, so here is the draft version of it. Though since it’s almost 4K long, maybe calling it a snippet isn’t appropriate :D

------------------------------------------------------------

Talking through a diary was an interesting idea. Tom wasn’t sure what kind of magic this was, but now that he’d seen it, he could figure it out. He and Harry would be able to have immediate conversations instead of relying on letters or Patronuses.

Then again, considering what this diary had led to, perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. The last thing Tom wanted was to add himself into Harry’s collection of negative associations in one more way.

He didn’t see how Harry had managed to get into the Chamber of Secrets. One moment, he was staring at the bloody inscription on the wall; the next one, he was standing in an entirely new vast space. Tom still had no idea where it was located or how to access it.

His heart sank in disappointment, but when the full implications hit him, it stopped entirely.

Harry had excluded this memory on purpose. He didn’t trust Tom with the knowledge of where the Chamber was. He showed him the core events but not the details because his trust and his faith were already gone by that point.

And the ritual made it even worse.

An uncomfortable itchy heat began to radiate from Tom’s chest. The sensation was entirely unfamiliar, so he pressed his palm against it, confused and hoping to squash it down.

He couldn’t name it, but it felt a little like shame. He’d never experienced it to this extent before, and it was never mixed with this kind of almost desperate hurt.

He’d been trying. For years, he’d been trying to be someone Harry would approve of. The craving, the longing for his acceptance stayed his hand so many times that now Tom couldn’t count them all — he even allowed that scum Morfin to blackmail him, no matter how maddeningly outrageous the whole situation was, simply because he refused to risk Harry finding out.

He’d made mistakes, but they were minimal in comparison to what he would have done if he hadn’t been trying. And yet Harry still didn’t trust him.

The shame began to curl away, giving way to dejection. Loneliness suddenly felt sharp and uncompromising, and Tom wrapped his hands around himself, watching how Harry’s head snapped up.

“She won’t wake,” a voice said. It was soft but cold, so it took a moment for Tom to recognise it. His eyes quickly moved towards one of the pillars, and something in him shuddered from what he saw.

It was like watching his reflection in someone else’s dream. Something was wrong with the boy he was looking at, and it wasn’t just about the fact that his physical contours were blurred, as if he was being held together by magic alone.

No, he was simply different. He didn’t have the splendour Tom prided himself on. He was thinner and hollow-cheeked; his clothes, while neat, came from some cheap store Tom would have never stepped into. He was but a shadow with empty vicious eyes and greed that swarmed around him in a cloud — greed Tom wasn’t sure he could relate to.

He longed for things. He longed for Harry. But even from here, he could read the shallowness and the arrogance written all over his twin’s face, and he didn’t like it one bit.

This wasn’t him. This was Tom Riddle. Someone he could have been.

“Are you a ghost?” Harry asked. He was staring at Riddle with such earnestness, like he trusted him entirely and couldn’t see what a hollow shell he was. This was the first time Tom would disappoint him — the first in a long line of failures and betrayals.

“No,” Tom murmured to himself, shaking his head briefly. He couldn’t keep blurring himself and Riddle — that way madness lied. Despite some superficial similarities, they were completely different people. He might have let Harry down, too, but their story was different. This abomination was dead and could never touch it.

“A memory,” Riddle replied. His voice was quiet, but its sinister and bitter undertones were as loud as shouting. “Preserved in a diary for fifty years.”

Tom’s brows furrowed. What? A memory? That must have been some ritual. Why would he condemn himself to this kind of existence? To give Voldemort more power? Maybe Voldemort had managed to subdue his will and make him into a brainless soldier somehow. This was more plausible than any version of him feeling such loyalty to some monster that he would follow him blindly and sacrifice his life force for him.

How did one become a memory in the first place? Even Tom with his knowledge about all possible forms of dark arts couldn’t figure it out.

Riddle burst into an animated, mostly one-sided conversation, and several minutes later, Tom had to admit that listening to his own voice was surprisingly challenging. Riddle’s arrogance was distorting his words; his excitement over successfully breaking an 11-year-old girl was embarrassing — Tom had felt less enthusiastic when he killed Charlus, and that happened back when he was a child himself. His first impression had been accurate: Riddle was worlds away from him. He was stupid, and Tom would have never believed it if he wasn’t witnessing it with his own eyes.

“I have been waiting for you to appear since we arrived here,” Riddle said pleasantly. His eyes were fixed on Harry in an intense, hungry way — and well, they did have something in common, after all. “I knew you’d come. I have many questions for you, Harry Potter.”

“Like what?” Harry spat angrily. He didn’t look intimidated in the slightest — his anger and righteousness made him appear taller, and his blazing eyes were furious enough to stop anyone in their tracks.

“How is it that you, a skinny boy with no extraordinary magical talent, managed to defeat the greatest wizard of all time?” Riddle wondered. The pleasant notes were disappearing again under the piles of bitterness and odd envy. “How did you escape with nothing but a scar while Lord Voldemort’s powers were destroyed?”

By the end of it, a red gleam entered his eyes. It looked unnatural enough for Tom to make an instinctive step towards Harry.

This was unnerving. Magic was one thing, but what would turn his eyes — Riddle’s eyes — red? Humans couldn’t do that, it went against all laws of nature. Unless… Unless Riddle wasn’t human.

If so, what was he?

“Why do you care how I escaped?” Harry asked slowly. His own gaze was narrowed in a dawning realisation that Tom couldn’t decipher. Did Harry have a theory? How could he — he was only twelve. “Voldemort was after your time.”

Riddle smirked at him, looking almost giddy, and Tom had to amend his opinion. This impostor wasn’t simply stupid, he was crazy. He grew excited over irrelevant things and reacted inappropriately to every logical question Harry asked.

“Voldemort,” he uttered, “is my past, present, and future, Harry Potter.”

Pulling a wand out of his pocket, he slashed the air with it, writing three rapid words.

Tom Marvolo Riddle

Tom studied them, his stare lingering on “Marvolo.” Something about it stood out. Something was strangely familiar.

Before he could follow the clues, Riddle waved the wand again, rearranging the letters. The syllables shifted and clung to each other briefly before assuming their designated places.

I Am Lord Voldemort

His mind went utterly blank. Time stopped. The existence of the world lost its meaning. Tom stared at these words, re-reading them again, and again, and again.

I Am Lord Voldemort.

Tom Riddle. Voldemort.

He was Voldemort.

He was Voldemort. All this time, he was watching himself, and he didn’t even realise this.

The bottom dropped out of his stomach. Tom recoiled from the damning words so violently that he lost his balance and collapsed onto the wet floor. His body didn’t feel the impact — it couldn’t, he didn’t even have it here, but it still burned, it still groaned and shuddered, as if the weight of his mind and his feelings was too much for it to bear.

“It can’t be,” he tried to speak. No words reached his ears, so he did it again. “It’s not possible. I’m not him.”

Still nothing.

Acid burned at the back of his throat. His stomach contorted in pained shock, and then the terrible screaming something filled his ears, crawling in them until it was the only sound they could perceive. It was violent and shredding — it echoed in his very bones.

He was Voldemort. All along, he was Voldemort. He’d killed Harry’s parents. He tried to kill Harry. He made so many Horcruxes that he had gone insane, losing his mind along with his powers, losing the respect of his followers, leaving only fear in its place.

He wasn’t the right hand of Harry’s nemesis. He was his nemesis. Harry had spent his entire first life hating and fearing him — he had single-handedly ruined Harry’s existence so thoroughly that Harry was forced to escape into the past. To accept guardianship over someone who tortured and destroyed him.

An icy fist closed around his lungs, clawing and squeezing the remains of air out of them. Tom gasped, his body jerking in odd abrupt movements that he had no control over. The next second, the contours of the Chamber of Secrets faded, melting back into Harry’s bedroom. The phantoms of the past were gone — they stayed trapped in the Pensieve, but their terrible echoes remained with Tom. They latched onto his mind with hungry vengeance, throwing an image after an image of the pictures he had seen when he was first watching Harry’s memories.

It didn’t matter then. Those pictures were just that — the images of a monster he didn’t know and had no direct relationship with. But recalling them now and putting his own face onto them…

His mind rebelled. Tom pressed his hands to his ears, trying to silence the screaming, but it kept getting louder. It hurled accusations and mockeries, painted every crime he committed, every time he hurt Harry and raised his wand against him.

There was no silencing something like this. The only thing Tom could do was outcry it, so he screamed, too.

He found that he couldn’t stop.

***

That night, he added just one sentence to his letter.

Why would you love me?

***

The sleep didn’t come. The desire to tear into his skin and shred it until physical pain remained the only sensation was strong, but every time Tom raised his wand or his hands, he stopped.

He wanted to hurt himself. He didn’t want to hurt Harry.

It was easier before. In Harry’s absence, for a long time, he’d been putting his own hurt above everything, even above Harry himself; he’d marred his skin without care, wanting, needing acknowledgement.

But he couldn’t do it now. The thought of leaving even a small scratch on Harry made him sick.

That cursed ritual.

Tom managed to stay physically intact throughout the night, yet he spent it curled into a tight ball, shaking under the pressure of ache and grief and emotions he couldn’t identify. There were so many of them — they were crowding his chest, interfering with his heart, making him feel like he was about to explode with them.

When the morning came and nothing changed, Tom made himself get up. He cooked breakfast, then stared at it silently, knowing that he could never eat it without vomiting it back.

He needed… something. Something comforting. Harry wouldn’t return; Harry’s blanket and things no longer produced the same soothing effect, so it had to be something new.

If he could capture Harry’s Patronus into some vial… if he could consume the letters Harry had written him…

The letters. He still had the letters. They were the last thing he’d gotten from Harry — they had his personality, his handwriting; they had a whole part of him because Tom could easily trace the story of their creation. From the pressure Harry had applied to a quill in different instances, it was evident where he hesitated, where he took a break, where he got anxious or passionate. It was the closest thing to him Tom had in his possession now.

Without thinking further, he returned to the bedroom and grabbed the last letter. His eyes immediately zeroed in on three specific half-lines.

…I’m going to keep explaining until you do.

…I’ve promised you’ll always be my priority.

…I might consider returning.

A promise of future communication.

The use of future tense.

Future possibility.

This was evidence. Whatever Tom was, Harry didn’t give up on him. Harry still loved him. He might still return.

Tom closed his eyes, nuzzling into the letter, and finally, for the first time in hours, the ache lessened. The sick feeling grew dimmer, too, and he felt solid and grounded again. When he pulled back, his gaze dropped to another passage.

Watch those memories. Don’t contact me until you do.

Tom pressed his lips to these lines, trying to breathe them in, feeling how their rough surface scratched his mouth.

Permission to contact Harry. He still had it. He was simply supposed to meet Harry’s condition.

That meant that he had to return to the Pensieve. The sooner he was done, the closer to Harry he could feel again.

Carefully, Tom folded the letter and put it in his pocket. If things got bad again, he could always touch it and remind himself of the future.

The memories weren’t a punishment. They were a chance to improve things.

Tom couldn’t really be certain, but he preferred to cling to this notion.

This made things easier at least to a small degree.

***

He chose to return to the start of the memory. Silently, he watched his shadow speak with Harry, lingered on how it hissed the words of self-admiration and hung onto its useless pride.

“I fashioned myself a new name,” Riddle boasted breathlessly, “a name I knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak, when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the world!”

“You are not,” Harry said quietly. Despite his age, his resolution was steely, and if Tom had to choose whom he admired more at this moment... it wouldn’t even be a competition.

“Not what?” Riddle snapped. Insecurity and rage were twisting his ghostly face — it was a pitiful display. If the words of a 12-year-old boy had the power to affect him, then he had not only failed at greatness, he was also a failure of a sorcerer.

“Sorry to disappoint you and all that, but the greatest wizard in the world is Albus Dumbledore,” Harry said hotly. “Everyone says so!”

The reasoning was… like that of a child. Even though his stomach was clenched into a tight knot, Tom smiled a little, suddenly overcome with a rush of gentleness and fondness for this particular version of Harry.

He was trusting. He was pure in a way that even his Harry wasn’t — he didn’t see death and destruction yet; he was not betrayed by Dumbledore.

He was not betrayed by Tom.

The smile disappeared, leaving Tom hollow.

When Dumbledore’s phoenix burst into the Chamber, carrying the Sorting Hat, Riddle laughed, and Tom laughed with him — only his laughter was hysterical because all pieces in his head suddenly clicked into one clear picture.

Dumbledore. Of course. Of course it was Dumbledore’s plan all along, how did he not see this from the start?

Harry hadn’t sneaked into the Chamber secretly — Dumbledore allowed him to. Dumbledore was likely watching him even now, invisible, waiting for the outcome.

Harry was a Horcrux, and Horcruxes could be destroyed with basilisk’s venom.

This was a test. Dumbledore wanted to see if he could get rid of the Horcrux inside Harry without necessarily killing him. The Hat was here to give Harry the Sword — with his mindless bravery, it was not a surprise that he could pull it out. The phoenix was here to decrease the chances of Harry dying and to heal him after he was stabbed.

Clever. And enraging. Because for Dumbledore, Harry was a game piece. For Tom, he was the world.

He would have let Voldemort live for a thousand of years. He would have allowed him to destroy this universe until nothing was left if it meant he could keep Harry safe. Dumbledore would never prioritise one over a billion, and for that, Tom hated him.

“Kill him,” Riddle hissed. The words sent a jolt of automatic panic through him, and Tom moved between Harry and the basilisk before he could think rationally about it.

The snake was magnificent, there was no denying it. Even the first time, when he’d been distracted to the point of ignorance, he stopped to watch it because it was breath-taking in every way.

There was only one drawback. It wanted to kill Harry, and it meant that Tom would see it destroyed.

Harry broke into a run with his eyes shut. He managed to half-cross the room when he tripped and crashed down, his chin colliding with the cold stone. The sound of it launched Tom into immediate action again before he could stop his stupid feet.

Feeling this protective for such an extended period of time was exhausting. His heart kept hammering relentlessly and his hands were itching with magic, needing to pour it somewhere to protect Harry and to make sure he never got hurt again. How could anyone live in such a state?

The basilisk roared from pain when Dumbledore’s phoenix attacked it. Its tail whipped across the floor, approaching Harry with deadly speed, and Tom’s heart stopped. It stumbled forwards again only when Harry ducked, crouching, dirty and bloodied but with determination still burning brightly on his face. He was beautiful and desperate, and Tom would have cradled him in his arms if he could touch him.

A gust of wind sent the Hat right in Harry’s face. He grabbed it, put it onto his head, and threw himself to the side when the basilisk’s tail snapped forward again, almost crushing him into nothingness.

This was all strategic. It wasn’t a coincidence that the phoenix appeared immediately after Harry pledged his loyalty to Dumbledore. This was training — training in blind devotion, in recklessness, in self-sacrifice. And Harry had no idea.

At least this Harry didn’t. The adult version knew everything yet he still seemed to hold deep respect for Dumbledore.

Perhaps some training was too ingrained to ever fade from one’s core. This explained… almost everything about Harry. If Tom got another chance to make things right, he would dedicate himself entirely to removing these suicidal ideas from his head once and for all.

Harry pulled out the Sword from the Hat. He spent only a second on contemplating it — the next one, he was already standing and pointing it at the basilisk.

Nothing about this picture was palatable. The sword was too heavy for a child his size: Harry was struggling with it, and the basilisk kept thrashing, hitting everything in sight. How he survived was a matter of miracle. If he had died… If he’d died, this would be it. Tom would never be the person he was now. He would be limited to a memory in his own diary, to a ruin incapable of human thought. He would never get his second chance, and the life as he knew it would never exist.

Terror that rolled through him could only be rivalled by the sheer horror of witnessing the basilisk’s fang separate itself from its mouth and plunge into Harry’s arm. Static electricity burned somewhere above his elbow in a phantom sensation of pain Harry had to be experiencing. It wasn’t real, but Tom’s breathing still quickened, and his fingers wrapped around his arm convulsively.

He couldn’t tell if the fang fell out because Harry had aimed his Sword there or if it was Dumbledore again. Either way, Harry was dying, and even though Tom knew he’d survive, watching this was no less excruciating.

“Fawkes,” Harry murmured hoarsely. His eyes were fluttering shut in an image that came straight from Tom’s worst nightmares. “You were fantastic, Fawkes.”

Giving praise to an impervious bird when life was bleeding out of him. Harry was insane. He was the Harry — his Harry. It was no wonder that an overwhelming longing for him had been and was going to be Tom’s undoing in every life he lived.

“You’re dead, Harry Potter,” Riddle crowed, and Tom turned to face him with a snarl.

He hated this version of himself. Hated him. It was just a shard of him, dull and shallow, and if this underwhelming thing was ever his future, he would have preferred death.

Riddle wasn’t a powerful wizard. Even now, when faced with a dying wandless boy, he was too wary of making his own move. He let the basilisk be his weapon; he was watching Harry die and not intervening because he was intimidated.

Though perhaps it made sense. Maybe even Riddle could see Harry’s brilliance despite his narrow-mindedness — maybe, beneath the hatred and the fear, he was fascinated. Tom knew he would be.

Harry might not have much power, and he certainly didn’t at the age of twelve, but he still managed something no other wizard had tried. He’d defeated a giant basilisk with a sword; his agility was almost otherworldly as he twisted, crouched, and ducked from the heavy blows.

This was worthy of admiration. Even Riddle couldn’t be that blind so as to miss it.

When the phoenix healed Harry, Riddle didn’t cry out in alarm or anger like Tom might have expected him to. Instead, his face shifted between different conflicting expressions, and his eyes regained the hungry glint Tom found intimately familiar.

“It makes no difference,” Riddle spoke confidently, with only the tiniest twitch of uncertainty underneath. “In fact, I prefer it this way. Just you and me, Harry Potter... you and me.”

The surprising jealousy raised its ugly head, making Tom tense. He didn’t know in what way his shadow meant these words — he didn’t like to think about it either. It didn’t matter any way because there would never be such thing as Riddle and Harry, not until Harry came back to the past and gave the real Tom a chance at rebirth.

Without answering, Harry stabbed the diary with the fang, his eyes glistening with fevered hatred. Even Riddle’s piercing scream didn’t shake Tom the way this look had. He barely heard a sound through the sudden roaring in his ears, the sudden realisation that this was Harry’s first and last meeting with an actual Tom Riddle. Voldemort was a monstrosity with a face Tom refused to claim, but physically, Riddle was him.

How did Harry feel, watching him grow up? Had he ever looked at him and seen Riddle from the Chamber of Secrets? How could the feeling of love prevail over the feeling of hatred the 12-year-old Harry was currently wearing?

Tom turned away, unable to keep looking. His throat was dry, and as his knees started to shake, threatening to buckle right under him, he thrust his hand into his pocket, gripping the letter there.

In some other world, this moment had been Riddle’s end. But it wouldn’t be his.

He could do better. He would do better.

He’d finish watching these memories, he’d complete his letter to Harry, and then he’d start working. Harry would never look at him like he had at Riddle. In years, the memories of the Chamber of Secrets would fade; Riddle would become a shadow of a shadow, and Tom’s image would outshine him. It would take precedence in Harry’s mind.

This determination washed away the worms of doubts and self-hatred. When the new wave of memories swept him along, Tom felt prepared to face them.

#my fics #tomarry

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lady-divine-writes · 3 years ago

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Good Omens - Taking the Cake (Rated G)

Summary: When Aziraphale decides to host Warlock and Adam's 12th birthday down at his shop, he tells Crowley they'll be doing it without magic. That's all well and good until Crowley is called upon to finish decorating the cake... (1551 words)

Read on AO3.

“Ho there! Mmph... angel? Ngk... ” Crowley grunts, stuffing himself through one door of Aziraphale’s bookshop, the other holding stubbornly to its frame. He barely makes it through, lugging copious bags bulging with party gear, his long fingers curled around handles strained thin by the weight.

"In here, dear," Aziraphale replies, giving no indication that he's coming to help. Crowley picks an aisle and starts walking, navigating the narrow expanse between late 18th century classics and Roman philosophy.

“I got everything on your list," Crowley says when he spots his husband. "Goodie bags, balloons, streamers, poppers… “ He pauses inventorying when he comes up behind Aziraphale, deeply engaged in the creation of a buttercream rosette.

By hand, no less.

Aziraphale insisted they throw together this entire party like natives, and that meant no magic whatsoever. Crowley couldn’t understand why. Miracling together a party is literally a snap. They'd done it hundreds of times over the years. It's how they hosted their wedding.

With a snap.

That did, however, create a mountain of paperwork, which led to Gabriel and his henchmen finding out about their shindig and showing up uninvited. Surprisingly, they didn't cause much in the way of trouble. They snickered a little, made a few snide remarks, but they mostly spent their time "observing" from a table in a far corner, mingling with no one as if above it all.

Crowley tensed when they arrived, but having a few party crashers didn't go too badly... until the karaoke began.

“Is that the cake then?”

“Yes. I’m almost done.“ Aziraphale pinches his tongue between his teeth, steadying his hand as he adds a peony this time.

"It's gorgeous," Crowley says in awe. "Truly stunning."

"Thank you, my dear," Aziraphale says, glowing from his husband's praise.

"But... "

Aziraphale's shoulders instantly go rigid.

Crowley hates to do this to him. The cake really is a masterpiece of confectionary construction. But it needs to be said. "Warlock and Adam are turning twelve."

"And... ?"

"Don't you think they might appreciate something a bit more... I don't know.... befitting of a pair of former antichrists? Like a zombie with bleeding eyes? Or a raven with sharp, pointy teeth?"

Aziraphale glares over his shoulder at Crowley as if insanity has finally set in. "Ravens don't have teeth!"

"I know! That's why it would be terrifying! Right up their alleys!"

Aziraphale shakes his head, going back to his peonies. "This is a birthday cake! Not a Halloween cake! Besides, I only know how to make flowers. Anything else would require magic, and you know how I feel about that. Besides, I'm certain they only care about the insides anyway, and it's crammed full of chocolate. I don't think they'll mind a crocus or two."

"Fair enough," Crowley concedes.

The clock in the corner chimes, and Aziraphale sighs. He looks over at it, then double-checks the time on his pocket watch. Crowley checks the time on his watch, too, although he doesn't know what for.

"Three o'clock," Aziraphale observes. "Damn."

"Wot's wrong?"

"I’m afraid I’m running a bit behind.”

“Anything I can do to help?” Crowley asks, piling his sacks on a nearby chair.

“As a matter of fact, I have to pop out for a few," Aziraphale says, handing Crowley the piping bag, "but this cake needs one final touch.”

“And that is?” Crowley holds the bag between his fingers the way he would a dead rat, wary that he might be called upon to construct the same delicate flowers Aziraphale has. Without his magic, Crowley doesn't have anything near Aziraphale's talent with icing.

Warlock and Adam may just get a gruesome cake after all.

“I just need it to say 'Happy Birthday Warlock and Adam'.” Aziraphale bustles about, grabbing his coat off the tree and throwing it on. “The handwriting doesn't need to be immaculate, just legible. Could you do that for me?”

“Pfft. No problem," Crowley says, secretly perceiving a problem. "Piece of… “

Aziraphale stops on his way out the door to give his husband an exasperated look. Crowley snickers.

“Well, you know,” Crowley finishes, shooing Aziraphale out the door. "Ta-ta now. Mind how you go."

***

"Damned antique dealers and their damned negotiations! Ignorant bast---" Aziraphale stops short of cursing. It doesn't matter what happened, which was extremely upsetting. There is no need for bad language. He hurries down the crowded sidewalk, going over the details of the past hour-and-thirty in his head. "I was doing them a favor, and look how I'm repaid! I'm late to the party I'm hosting! There's a fine how-do-you-do! Ungrateful humans! See if I stop another Apocalypse for you, in your tacky grey suits and your cheap pointy shoes... "

Aziraphale stomps up to his door, keys in hand, but stops outside when he hears laughter on the other side. He peeks through the dusty glass, and his shoulders sag.

The party is for the kids. He knows. But he was so looking forward to celebrating with everyone from start to finish. That and he didn't think he'd take this long, so he neglected to relocate his first editions somewhere secure.

He fears for their safety.

Icing is notoriously difficult to get out of parchment and ligament, even through the use of miracles.

He should have never taken that stupid meeting to begin with. He had a feeling it wouldn't pan out.

Oh well.

No need wasting any more time on that than already has, he thinks, bucking up and unlocking the door. Time to stop feeling sorry for myself and start celebrating while I still have the chance...

Aziraphale takes a step in, ready to announce his arrival, but stops dead when he hears jazzy scatting in a sonorous voice.

A voice that doesn’t belong to anyone he knows.

Aziraphale walks in further, scanning those gathered, and makes a minor correction to his original assessment - doesn’t belong to any human that he knows. His eyes blow wide, his cheeks burn red, and his husband's name explodes off his tongue before he even opens his mouth.

"Anthony J. Crowley-Fell!"

Aziraphale doesn't say anything other than his name and Crowley starts apologizing. "I'm sorry, angel!" he says, running across the shop to greet him, but not looking the least bit sorry.

"I gave you one task!" Aziraphale bellows, snapping his fingers and slamming the door shut, his no-magic edict flying out the window. "Just one little thing! And you couldn't do it!"

"I'm no good at writing!" Crowley defends with the shadows of an infuriating grin on his face. "My hand gets all wobbly! I didn't want to risk ruining any of your lovely flowers!"

Aziraphale, splotchy-faced and buggy-eyed, glowers. "You couldn't write a simple Happy Birthday, so you enchanted the entire cake!? That was your brilliant plan!?"

"I'm a demon! Of course, that was my plan!"

"Crowley!"

"They showed up right after you left! I had no time! I panicked!"

Aziraphale drops his head into his hands, shaking it slowly back and forth. Crowley reaches out to put a comforting hand on his husband's shoulder until he hears him counting backward from one hundred... in Akkadian. Then he creeps his hand to his side and quietly steps off.

Aziraphale breathes in deep through his nose and out through his mouth, struggling to ground himself. He has no one to blame but himself. That's the painful part. In the back of his mind, he knew something like this might happen.

He's impressed it isn't worse.

He should have never left his husband alone.

Next time, he'll hire a sitter.

Aziraphale continues counting, continues breathing, and as he does, he pays more attention to the goings-on around him.

The cake singing is quite unsettling, but the children are gleeful, the adults joyful. Joking, teasing, and enthusiastic conversation fill the spaces in between.

Much like their wedding reception, except there isn't an archangel in sight.

And Crowley's magic was instrumental in making that day memorable.

Maybe Aziraphale overreacted with that 'no magic' rule. Crowley's face fell when Aziraphale told him they'd be hosting the boys' birthday at his bookshop sans magic, but he'd recovered quickly. The streamers and balloons Crowley managed to toss on the walls look plenty festive, but they don't compare to what could have been had Aziraphale allowed Crowley to tap into his imagination.

Their guests are having a grand time despite the modest decor, but it could have been so much more. They are an angel and a demon! Between the pair of them, they could have whipped up a true spectacle, if for no other reason than they still owe poor Warlock after last year's fiasco.

What would have been the harm of calling upon a little divine intervention?

An alarming thought pops into Aziraphale's brain, and his head snaps up. “They’re going to cut into that, you know. Is that when the enchantment ends?”

“Nope.” Crowley rubs his palms together. “That’s when the fun begins.”

"Uh... "Aziraphale's jaw drops. "Good Lord," he moans, Crowley cackling when Adam runs to fetch the cake cutter. Aziraphale's mind whirls with thoughts of what fun could imply, but there's no time to ask. While Crowley starts laying a drop cloth, Aziraphale puts his coat away and relocates his favorite books into his back room for safekeeping.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley

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marjansmarwani · 4 years ago

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beyond the terror of the nightfall

4.5k || ao3

After everything, there is much healing to be done. But comfort can always be found in the ones you love. --- A (very late) 2x13 coda

Did this take me forever? Yes. But I got it done before the new episode and that's what matters. Shoutout to @justaswampdemon for helping me make sense of my own timeline, you’re the best!

(And am I insane posting this 6 minutes before the 911 episode airs? Probably.)

----------

Things looked brighter in the morning.

Not only because they had fallen into bed without drawing the curtains when they had finally gotten to a bed in the early hours of the morning, but because of the man laying beside Carlos; face still peaceful in sleep. He couldn’t help but stare; taking in the miracle that was TK’s rhythmic breathing. It was irrefutable proof that he was still there, that Carlos had not lost him in the chaos and fear of the night before.

He lay on his pillow, silently observing and resisting the urge to reach out and touch him for that extra layer of proof. He wanted to feel the warmth of his familiar skin beneath his fingers but he did not want to pull him from this blissful state where maybe he could forget everything that had happened, for a little while. He turned away to avoid the temptation and look around the room, taking in the details that had escaped him the night before.

Owen Strand’s guest room was sparsely but tastefully decorated and the warm browns of the room were as comforting as any place could be. The bright sunlight streaming in told Carlos that it was well past the time he usually woke up and for a brief frantic moment he thought he must be late for work. But then he remembered that at some point during the seemingly never-ending night one of his coworkers on scene informed him that their captain had ordered Carlos to take at least a few days off and that more leave would be ready for him should he need it.

He let his head fall back against the pillow with a sigh, closing his eyes as he tried not to think about all of the things that needed to be done. He and TK had nothing now: no home, no clothes, no wallets. Every bit of their life, no matter how important or trivial had been reduced to ash right along with their home. Carlos knew they were lucky to have even escaped with their lives; the very real fact that they almost hadn’t had haunted him since the moment the flames erupted. But now, after, he was able to see around that and consider their way forward; and he knew it wouldn’t be easy.

The sound of TK stirring beside him pulled Carlos from his thoughts and he rolled over to see his boyfriend slowly blinking open his eyes. He tried for a smile when those eyes landed on him and received an equally unsteady one in return.

“Good morning,” TK said softly, his voice almost a whisper as if he didn’t want the world to know they were awake yet.

“Good morning,” Carlos replied, matching the other man’s volume even as he moved closer and pressed a light kiss onto his lips. TK smiled into it, but once they pulled apart and he took a look around at their surroundings his smile faded.

“I remember it happening,” he said after a moment, his eyes on the sparse furnishings of his dad’s house, “I was just hoping that maybe it was a dream.”

Carlos hummed his agreement but he slid his hand across the bed to find TK’s. He squeezed it as soon as he found it and TK wound their fingers together in response before he pulled his mind back to the present and turned so he was facing Carlos again. They lay in silence, simply soaking in the presence of each other for a long time before Carlos finally sighed and ran a weary hand over his face.

“We have so much to take care of,” he lamented, “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Me neither,” TK agreed, “but we can divide and conquer, I suppose. You’re not alone in this Carlos,” he reminded him earnestly, “We are in this together, 100%.”

Carlos smiled at him as warmth spread through his chest. Their home might be gone but he can’t help but feel lucky that they didn’t lose this, that he didn’t lose him. The tasks before them were daunting and he was already dreading the hours spent on the phone with the insurance company, but knowing that he has TK at his side makes it all just that much more bearable.

“We do make a good team,” he agreed, watching as TK’s smile grew.

They lay there for a few more minutes, soaking in the calm silence of the late morning sun and the soothing presence of each other. It’s eventually TK that moves, a groan coming from his lips as he pulls himself up.

“I suppose we need to actually face this,” he said wryly, “but I’m going to take a shower first. Care to join me?”

Carlos laughed at his suggestive eyebrows but shook his head, “As tempting as it is,” he told TK, “I don’t think I could knowing that your dad and Mateo are right down the hall.”

TK gave a light chuckle and leaned down to give him a lingering kiss. When he pulled away he took Carlos’s air with him as he stood from the bed.

“Your loss,” he told him as he disappeared out the bedroom door with one last suggestive grin.

Carlos watched him go, still trying to find his breath. Sometimes he was just struck by how much he loved the other man. It was a thought he had often, and a thought he had had last night as the flames had raged around them.

As he pulled himself out of the familiar bed and began to get ready for the first day in their uncertain future he knew without a doubt that no matter what came and no matter how difficult, it would be worth it. Because he still had TK and they still had each other and after that, nothing else really mattered.

-----

It doesn’t hit him until he is in the shower, of all places.

He and Carlos had both spent an extremely long time under the running water the night before, plying the soot and smell of smoke off of their skin with Owen’s myriad soaps and skincare products but somehow now this regular, everyday act of showering before he got ready was his undoing.

It was inevitable, he supposed. He hadn’t really processed it after all. There had just always been another thing to focus on: getting them out safely, answering questions about what had happened, supporting Carlos. TK had been a firefighter for the majority of his adult life; fire was nothing new to him. The sights and smells and sensation of being trapped among the hungry flames hadn’t affected him like it had the other man, for which TK was grateful. Carlos was the consummate pillar; always there to lend his support, always ready for TK to lean on and he was happy to be able to return the favor.

But eventually, he ran out the timer he didn’t even know was running.

It’s the smallest thing that acts as the catalyst. He’s just reaching for a shampoo when an idle thought drifts through his mind: he can’t remember the name of the shampoo Carlos used.

It had been a bit of a running joke between them that Carlos had been struggling to find a shampoo that worked with his curls. He finally had settled on one just last week, but TK couldn’t remember what it was. He needed to replace it for him, he needed to make sure Carlos had everything he needed but he couldn’t remember the name of his shampoo.

And it’s that thought that somehow brings the reality into focus. Everything they had is gone. They needed to move forward and they needed to do it completely from scratch. Everything they had built together was gone, and there was no bringing it back. The past month of living with Carlos and building a home together had all been erased; all proof of its existence reduced to ashes.

All their memories seeped into every square inch of the house were gone and there was no getting them back.

It’s just one tear at first, but the rest quickly follow. Before he knew it he was sliding down the wall of the shower; chest heaving and shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs. He landed on the shower floor as the tears kept coming, mixing with the warm water falling around him as he put his face in his hands.

He hadn’t let himself feel this because Carlos had needed him but now, in the privacy of the shower with the sound of the water concealing his sobs, he let it come. He cried until he didn’t have anything left in him, until all the fear and pain was gone and he only felt numb.

Then he stood up, shut off the water, and stepped out of the shower; drying himself off and getting ready to face a new day.

----------

Carlos stepped into the kitchen to find Owen, fully dressed and bent over the counter writing something on a notepad. He cleared his throat awkwardly as he stepped into the kitchen, not wanting to startle the older man.

“Carlos!” he greeted cheerfully, Good morning! I was just leaving a note for you boys, I have to head out for an appointment in a bit. How’d you sleep?”

“The room was very comfortable,” he replied, carefully skirting around all mentions of sleep and dreams. The look Owen gave him told Carlos that he wasn’t fooled, but he didn’t press.

“I expected you both to sleep longer,” he said instead. “It was a late night and lord knows TK’s never really been a morning person. Is he up too?”

“He’s in the shower,” Carlos answered, taking a seat on one of the stools at the counter. “We both figured we have a lot to get done so it would be best to get moving.”

“That actually brings up something I wanted to talk to you about - well, a few things actually,” Owen amended. “The first is simple.”

He followed his words by picking up something resting on the counter beside the paper he had been writing on. It was his credit card and when Carlos went to protest he shook his head, “Don’t even think about it. Unless one of you went to bed with your wallet last night and failed to mention that, neither of you has access to any of your accounts at the moment. We’ll get that all sorted out in time but for now I’m sure you’d appreciate having some clothes that actually fit. And don’t even think about trying to pay me back,” he added as he slid the card across to Carlos, “I can cover it, and it’s the least I can do.”

Carlos carefully picked up the card in front of him and looked from it back to his boyfriend’s father, “Thank you, Owen.”

Owen waved off his thanks. “It truly is the least I could do, given everything. But I’m not the only one who wants to help you two.”

Carlos opened his mouth, ready to assure him that the 126 didn’t need to do anything, that simply being there was enough (though knowing them he was sure his assurances wouldn’t stop them) but what Owen said next was not what Carlos had been expecting.

“I know TK talked to his mother last night and told her it was fine that she couldn’t fly down here, but if I know her she is kicking herself for that. Now, this is all up to you and TK. It’s your house and your insurance and it’s up to you how you want to handle it but don’t forget that you have a powerhouse of a Manhattan lawyer on speed dial,” Owen reminded Carlos, “don’t be afraid to call Gwyn if you think it’ll help.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to…” Carlos began but Owen shook his head.

“None of that,” he told him firmly before his expression softened. “She hates that she can’t be here for you two and if you would like to pass on some of the legal and insurance stuff to her I know she would be happy to do it. She would probably feel better about it, knowing that she was able to help you both even if it’s just a little.”

Carlos nodded, feeling the smallest amount of weight lift off his shoulders. There was still plenty left behind, but the knowledge that someone with a better understanding of the system could help them made it just that much easier to breathe in the face of it all.

“Thank you, Owen. I will.”

“Good,” Owen said with a nod. “It’ll mean a lot to her and I’m sure you won’t mind a few fewer things to deal with.”

Carlos nodded emphatically at that and Owen grinned. His expression shifted though as he caught sight of the clock about the stove.

“I need to go,” he said hurriedly, “I have an appointment at the hospital. Will you tell TK...I don’t want to leave before he comes down but…”

Carlos shook his head, “It’s fine, I’ll tell him. We’ll see you later.”

Owen gave him a grateful smile, “Count on it. If you need anything while I’m gone just call me, and don’t worry about buying whatever you need because I’m not letting either of you pay me back, I mean it.”

Then he was gone, out the door with a wave before Carlos could even open his mouth to argue. He picked up the card idly and was tapping it against the counter while his mind wandered when he heard footsteps behind him. He looked around and felt a smile spread across his face at the sight of TK entering the kitchen. It abruptly faded though when his boyfriend grew closer and he could see the telltale signs of recent tears all over his face. They were well concealed, but Carlos knew TK’s face better than his own. TK had been crying, there was no doubt.

“Babe?” he asked gently, rising from his seat at the counter.

“I’m fine,” TK assured him in a hearty voice that did not have Carlos fooled for a second.

“TK you are not fine,” he retorted adamantly, “talk to me.”

“I am Carlos, really,” TK repeated firmly and Carlos went to argue again but TK kept talking. “It just all finally hit me, I think,” he told him, “that’s all.”

Carlos could feel the panic that had sprung up at the sight of TK’s upset start to fade in the absence of any immediate threat or injury. “I’m not surprised,” he admitted softly, stepping forward to wrap his arms around the other man. “You’ve been a rock the entire time and while I appreciate it - really, I do - it was your home too.”

TK heaved a weary sigh and wrapped his own arms around Carlos, returning the embrace. “I know that,” he said softly into Carlos’s shoulder, “but I’m okay, I swear.”

Carlos pulled away enough to study TK’s face, to look for any sign that he was lying. When he didn’t see any he relaxed and took a breath. He knew that it would take some time for them to both move past this and that they were each going to deal with this in their own way. He also knew that this would be far from the last time they talked about this, or the last time one of them struggled. But if TK said he was fine, he was fine and Carlos would let it go - for now.

“Your dad just left,” he said instead, stepping away from his boyfriend so he could enter the kitchen. “He had an appointment but he said he would see us later.”

TK nodded as he crossed to the counter and pulled out two mugs before filling them both with coffee and handing one to Carlos. Carlos took it with a grateful smile and continued, “He also left his credit card and told us to buy whatever we need and was very clear that we were not paying him back. He mentioned that part twice.”

TK shook his head fondly and Carlos grinned before he moved onto the next part of their conversation. “He also suggested we call your mom to see if she can help us with any of the insurance stuff.”

TK looked up, surprised for a moment before his expression evened. “That makes sense,” he admitted. “If anyone knows their way around the system, it’s her.”

Carlos grinned at that, allowing himself a quick moment of enjoyment at the thought of an unsuspecting insurance agent trying to pull one over on Gwyneth Morgan. “I think we should,” he said a beat later, “I think it could make a difference because frankly, I have no idea where to even start with all of this.”

TK chuckled and shook his head, “Honesty, me either. I’ll call her in a little bit, see what she says.”

Carlos nodded but secretly he was sure the answer would be yes. He was fairly certain that Owen was right, that she would do anything that felt like she could help them, especially in a way that only she could.

“We should make some time to go out for a bit,” he says instead, “get some clothes to get us through the week, get you a new phone.”

TK grimaced at the reminder. “You’re lucky you still had yours in your pocket,” he told Carlos. “It feels so weird not having it. I feel so out of the loop.”

Carlos chuckled and reached across the table to place his hand on top of TK’s, “That’s okay,” he assured him sweetly, “I’ll make sure you stay in the loop.”

“My hero,” TK deadpanned, but he was grinning.

Any further conversation was halted by the dinging of the phone in question and Carlos fished it out of his pocket, swiping it open to reveal a new message in the group chat. He put the phone down on the counter so he could see the message from Paul: Status update: everyone make it through the night?

TK rolled his eyes fondly as messages from the others appeared, all confirming their continued existence. Carlos grinned at him before he pulled the phone closer to type out a message informing them all that yes, he and TK had in fact survived the night. The conversation quickly shifted from there and, TK reading over his shoulder as he sipped his coffee, slowly a plan began to form.

Paul reminded them all that they had scheduled a game night for tonight and that if there was ever a time they all needed it, it was now. Marjan was quick to agree and Mateo to wonder where they were going to meet. It was Nancy who suggested the 126, reminding them that it would be abandoned for the foreseeable future and that the building had been deemed structurally sound. It was at this point Carlos felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to meet TK’s concerned eyes.

“Would you be okay with that?” he asked softly.

“Yeah,” Carlos responded, baffled at the other man’s concern, “why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because we barely escaped from a burning building with our lives last night.” TK reminded him gently, “I’m just making sure you’d be fine hanging out in another one.”

Carlos considered, looking back down at his phone. The messages had paused and it seemed as if everyone was waiting on him. The idea of being surrounded by the work of the arsonist who had taken their home did seem daunting, but doing it with their friends and TK at his side made it seem far less so.

So he smiled at TK and gave him a nod before he typed his agreement into the chat. The others were clear in their enthusiasm and despite everything that lay behind them and what was still waiting, Carlos found another smile.

He had a feeling they’d be okay after all.

-----

Walking into his destroyed firehouse is like walking into a grave, again.

When he first started out as a firefighter he never thought he would be forced to stand in the ruins of the place that had come to be a second home (or even a first home, at times) and contemplate the loss and tragedy of the sight before him. But he had, twice. The first time it had been silence: the emptiness of the formerly bustling kitchen, the hastily made beds in the bunk room. The knowledge that the rooms would never be filled again.

This time it was charred walls and shattered windows; physical destruction scattered with the debris and clutter of their day-to-day lives. They were still there - still standing - but there was an illusion of safety that had been washed away, never to be fully regained again. A safe place had been violated and for that Owen was sure he would never forgive himself for being the cause.

His flashlight caught a glint of something in the debris of his office and he reached down to pull out the lump of melted steel. He turned it over in his hand as he sank into his chair, his mind fractured between a time nearly 20 years ago and this moment. He had once walked out of hell alone; filled with the grief of losing his brothers and the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again. But he had moved on and he had built new families and he had vowed to look out for them so he would never have to feel that loss ever again. In the minutes between his frantic call to Judd and the call confirming they were all safe he had nearly been toppled by the fear of that thought. He had thought that he might lose a family again, and that this time it would be his fault.

But he hadn’t; his luck had held again. It had even carried on late into the night, saving him from losing the one thing that meant most to him in the entire world. The pure, unrestrained fear he had felt upon making the connection between Raymond’s threat and the fact that TK and Carlos - the two people both he and Gabriel Reyes cared for most - lived together, making them a perfect target, was unlike anything else he had ever felt in his life. The helplessness had almost overwhelmed him as he and Billy had raced to the scene, the guilt still did even now.

But his luck had held once more and while he was beyond grateful - the thought of losing either of the boys was too awful for him to even comprehend - he was left now to once again wonder why. What had he ever done to make him deserve a happy outcome when Tommy didn’t get one. What made him better, more worthy of a long life, than Charles Vega? He may not have known the man for long, but he had come to know him well and he knew without a doubt that Charles had been a better man than him. Not just a better man: a better person, a better friend, a better husband, a better father. Charles Vega was better than Owen in every single aspect of life that mattered.

Yet for some reason fate had decided that Charles’s time in this life was over; that Tommy needed to face life without her partner, their girls without their father.

And Owen was still here, left standing once again in the ruins; wondering how to move on.

He turned the lump of steel - a reminder and a relic - over again in his hand. There were so many skeletons in his past and sometimes he was afraid that his present was trying to match that. It was a fear that he lived with day in and day out, it was one of the things that kept him up at night and kept him turning to the tequila. He didn’t know how to shake this feeling of dread that had become his constant companion and sometimes he was afraid it would drown him.

Sometimes he wished it would.

There was a list of people in his head; people he couldn’t save, people who should have lived instead. He was running through the list of names (Pullman, Rollins, Rosewater, Santiago…) when the sound of loud music erupted through the silent shell of a firehouse. He frowned, glancing around as if the source would reveal itself before standing and heading down to the first floor.

The sound of voices soon mingled with the sound of the music as he followed it to its source. He turned the corner from what had formerly been the kitchen into the skeletal remains of the lounge to see a small crowd. It was his team, and Carlos. He watched in awe as they took it in stride, as they made the most of it. He lingered off the side, beer in hand and more than content to watch and observe as they bantered and argued about foosball teams. They had all been deeply affected by everything that had happened; he had seen it in them in the immediate aftermath. He knew it had affected them each deeply in their own personal way.

But somehow, they keep moving forwards.

He wonders vaguely when he lost that ability as he stands off to the side, watching them jostle and tease each other by the foosball table as Carlos and TK watch fondly from the sidelines, quietly seeking comfort in each other. He is amazed at their fortitude, at their propensity for healing. They have all faced so much and yet they keep coming out on the other side just as good, just as strong. Just as whole.

He felt a smile find its way to his face as he saw TK gently rub at Carlos’s back; an almost unconscious act of comfort and support. They were fine because they had each other and as long as that was true he knew they’d be okay.

His new team had become a family somewhere along the way and he knew that together, they could make it through anything. It’s in that moment that he decides two things: first, that the news of Charles Vega’s death could wait. These people deserved one night unmarred by tragedy and he had the power to give it to them so he would.

The second, he decided as he watched them laughing with abandon and leaning into each others’ space - finding happiness in the literal midst of destruction - was that the best thing he could do for them is to make sure that they always had each other. And he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would do anything and everything in his power to make sure that stayed true, for as long as he possibly could.

#911 lone star #911 lone star fic #my writing #userkimmy #userjilly #userac #usermaximus #userbones #tuserjamie #tuserpaige #reyesstrand #reyeslonestartag #jazzyjess #hierophvnts #buckybarnesalways #laelipoo #maizsnex

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ordinaryschmuck · 3 years ago

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What I Thought About "Echoes of the Past" from The Owl House

Salutations, random people on the internet who most certainly won’t read this. I am an Ordinary Schmuck. I write stories and reviews and draw comics and cartoons.

What probably gets debated the most in the fandom is the legitimacy behind King being the King of Demons. Some believe that there's truth to his statement, while others, like me, like to think that he was just some stray Eda picked up off the streets. Either option seemed likely, especially since Season One never gave an answer that leaned one way or the other.

Then here comes the writers finally answering the question of who King is in episode THREE of Season Two! Because, again, they don't waste time on giving fans exactly what they want.

Fans wanted answers behind King, we got 'em, and analyzing what those answers mean requires going deep into spoilers. So if you haven't checked the episode out yet, I highly recommend that you do. Trust me, it's worth seeing.

Now let's review, shall we?

WHAT I LIKED

Luz Experimenting with Spells: Hey, look! More proof that Luz isn't an idiot like some people flanderize her to be!

But, seriously though, this is a perfect little thread to introduce into the story. Luz collecting knowledge from Lilith's old books and past work she and Eda made adds to Luz's intelligence while also providing a believable explanation for how she gets new spells. It's also nice to see that she has this little notebook (or spellbook) to help see what works and what doesn't. It's a level of experimentation that proves her dedication to becoming a witch while also exemplifying how she isn't stupid. Occasionally reckless, sure, but you can't say that the person who figured out an invisibility spell through showing her work is also an idiot.

Francios with a Knife: How did Francois get a knife? I don't know. But the fact that a random knife plopped out behind him with little to no explanation is funny, and I will not hear otherwise.

I don't make the rules. I just abide by them.

Luz’s Invisibility Spell: I breezed past this, but I honestly love this invisibility spell. More specifically, I love that there's a limiter. It can turn you, objects, and people you're in contact with invisible, but only as long as you can hold your breath. It helps make the spell something the characters can't always rely on, which is appreciated. Because if it works as long as they concentrate, what's stopping them from sneaking into Belos' castle and assassinating him in his sleep? It's a smart way of explaining why they can't always rely on something, despite how insanely useful it is.

Luz: Let's gush about Luz some more, shall we!

"Echoes of the Past" is another episode that has Luz on top form. She is constantly supportive of King, even if Lilith has a point in the dangers of indulging his fantasy as a powerful tyrant. Doing so would cause more harm than good, especially when King finds out Luz doesn't believe him, but her going along with it was all done with the best of intentions. Luz doesn't want to hurt her friend, and even if she did in the long run, she still makes up for it by helping King learn more about his past.

And, as another reminder, Luz isn't stupid. She's the first to say they should leave when it's clear how dangerous the castle is and is quick to figure out there should be more at the top. Luz is a loyal and caring friend who's also guarded and intuitive when the situation calls for it. This episode understood that, so here's hoping other fans will too.

Lilith: Yeah, she's still growing on me.

I feel like this episode shows a better idea of Lilith's place in the group more than the past two. She's a person who's obsessed with knowledge and learning but considers herself above the jovial nature of King, Luz, and definitely Eda. Therefore, she acts as the perfect catalyst for what jumpstarts this week's adventure. It doesn't surprise me in the slightest that she almost instantly dismisses King's claims due to considering herself more knowledgeable than everyone else. Still, I like how she's willing to believe King once she finally sees evidence that seemingly proves he really was the King of Demons, to the point of referring to him as "her lord." Hooty does the same thing, but it comes across as him fearing for his own life and choosing to be friends with someone who could maybe kill him in an instant. For Lilith, her newfound respect comes from the desire to learn more, and it's that desire that makes Lilith an enjoyable character to me. It's adorable to see, and it has some comedic flavor in moments like when she dismisses everyone else and their emotional revelations to take pictures of the carvings around her. I'm sure she'll cause some controversy like other characters with rushed reformations, but for me, I'm more than ok with her addition to the main cast.

More of Lilith’s and Hooty’s Friendship: HOW DOES THIS WORK!?

ON PAPER, IT SEEMS LIKE IT WOULD BE A BAD IDEA, BUT IT F**KING WORKS!

HOW?!

WHAT BLACK MAGIC DID THESE WRITERS USE TO MAKE A RELATIONSHIP SO UNEXPECTED COME ACROSS AS SO ENDEARING AND ADORABLE?!

And where can I get some for my stories...just asking.

But seriously: HOW?!

Hooty Making Himself Portable: Ah, yes. The classic bit where a character does something horrifically grotesque off-screen, and we have nothing but character reactions and sound effects to imagine what happened between shot A and shot B. It's an oldie, but given how hard I was laughing (mostly because of Luz's gagging), it's still a goodie.

Eda’s Portable Bathtub Boat Thing: I mean...I was expecting Eda would use something to catch up with the others, but...that thing...well...I mean, I'm still laughing just by thinking about it. That should tell you how well executed this joke was.

John Luke: ...I'm gonna go ahead and add him to the list because HOLY S**T was this guy disturbing! From his design to his movements to even the sounds he makes when moving, everything about John Luke screams as something that will stay in kids' nightmares for a while. Now, this might seem like a complaint, but to be honest, I'm more than alright with how creepy John Luke is. I highly doubt adult viewers will consider John Luke scary, but I guarantee he'll terrify some of the youngins that this series is aimed for. And that's fine. It's good to creep kids out a little bit with something somewhat scary, as it might introduce them to more good horror stories later in life.

Plus, the reveal that John Luke was only a guard for King is pretty solid narratively speaking. You can see how John never really meant to hurt King aside from one accident when Eda escaped with him. If you want to read into it, I guess it might be questionable to tell kids that something that looks dangerous is secretly nice, but that's really nitpicky, in my opinion. John Luke was a fantastic threat that is designed and animated well, with a solidly executed twist. Some might hate what he presents, most will fear him, but we can all agree on one thing: His theme is awesome (can I get the track for that, please)!

King’s Backstory: Finally, at long last, we know who King is, thus putting an end to a year-long debate. And I fully mean it when I say that the writers gave the best possible answer. Because in a way, everyone was right. Yes, King was just an animal that Eda decided to adopt, like the nature-loving hippie she is inside (She's got the hair for it). However, while he may not be the King of Demons himself, he is still the son of someone who deserves that title. So while he isn't the King, there's a chance he might be the Prince. Once again, there's no direct answer, but given how the writers came up with something that pleases everyone while still providing more questions for debate, it acts as a brilliant move, in my opinion. So whatever answer we get next, I'm sure it will be just as perfect.

Baby King:

My heart was not prepared for that level of cuteness!

King’s Breakdown: NOR WAS IT READY FOR THIS LEVEL OF SADNESS!

But in all seriousness, a HUGE round of applause to Alex Hirsch for his performance in this episode. He expertly captured the raw emotions of shock, anger, betrayal, and sadness that King must have felt when finding out that everything he believed he was is a lie. It's one of those moments where I don't hear a person voicing lines in a booth (or wherever the hell VAs are voicing characters nowadays), but instead hear a living person being emotionally torn apart. It was heartbreaking seeing King so vulnerable as he's so guarded with his emotions. Seeing him like this adds so much more layers to a character that many would mistake him as a cute, comedic animal sidekick. But just like with Luz, there's more to him than people will tell you.

“I don’t even know what’s real or fake anymore!”: I'm just pointing out this line because I believe it's what convinces Luz to help King learn more about who he is. Hell, not knowing what's real or fake is the main reason why Luz got sent away in the first place, so I feel like she can relate to King when he's in a similar predicament.

Hooty and Lilith vs John Luke: This was just a cool scene with some epic moments of dodging John Luke's attacks and some funny ones, like how Hooty said the word "pain." It's a ten out of ten that I would rewind to watch again.

King’s Other Horn: I'd question the logistics of how a horn that got broken off when he was a baby still manages to fit perfectly in the present...but it is neat symbolism of King accepting his past and letting it be a part of him, so who cares?

(The fact that the colors of the broken-off piece don't match the rest of the horn is nice attention to detail as well.)

WHAT I DISLIKED

It's a Little Too Predictable: I pretty much figured almost every little twist the episode offers. But, I'm willing to say that's because I'm in my twenties, and I've seen enough stories similar to this one, so I'm more likely to know what will happen. The little monsters watching this will see it for the first time, so they'll most likely get more surprised than me...And that was my only complaint about the episode...which is more of a personal problem than an actual issue...I guess that means it's perfect.

IN CONCLUSION

"Echoes of the Past" is an easy A+ in my book. It gives lore and backstory that furtherly develops the characters that episodes like this should. It also tells a tragic story about King that still sprinkles in a few good jokes every now and again to lighten up the mood. Sure, there are some nitpicks I could mention (how did King remember his own birth?). But when the good stuff is done so well, what's the point of dwelling on small, insignificant issues? This is still a phenomenal episode that flew past all expectations I had for it, and it continues the winning steak this season is having so far.

(But that's still three home runs in a row. Meaning that a stinker is coming. Ooiee, is it coming!)

#the owl house #the owl house season 2 #king of demons #luz noceda #lilith clawthorne #toh hooty #the owl house reviews #what i thought about

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nordleuchten · 3 years ago

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La Fayette and the Battle of Brandywine

On September 11, 1777, things were not looking well for the Continental Army. They were engaged in a battle that would later be known as the Battle of Brandywine. They faced the British army under the command of General Lord Cornwallis and soon the American troops were retreating in an unorderly fashion. Enter the youngest Continental general, the Marquis de La Fayette. He had just turned 20 a few days before the battle and had virtually no experience on the battlefield. He was determined though to do something and to rally the retreating soldiers. He was shot in the leg trying to achieve this and his injury was only one of the ways he would eventually cemented his place in the heart of a whole nation. Let us have a closer look at La Fayette’s wound on this anniversary of the battle.

La Fayette wrote in his Memoirs about his wound:

(…) the confusion became extreme; and it was whilst M. de Lafayette was rallying the troops that a ball passed through his leg; -- at that moment all those remaining on the field gave way. M. de Lafayette was indebted to Gimat, his aide-de-camp, for the happiness of getting upon his horse. General Washington arrived from a distance with fresh troops; M. de Lafayette was preparing to join him, when loss of blood obliged him to stop and have his wound bandaged; he was even very near being taken. Fugitives, cannon and baggage now crowded without order into the road leading to Chester. The general employed the remaining daylight in checking the enemy: some regiments behaved extremely well, but the disorder was complete. During that time the ford of Chad was forced, the cannon taken, and the Chester road became the common retreat of the whole army. In the midst of that dreadful confusion, and during the darkness of the night, it was impossible to recover; but at Chester, twelve miles from the field of battle, they met with a bridge which it was necessary to cross; M. de Lafayette occupied himself in arresting the fugitives; some degree of order was re-established; the generals and the commander-in-chief arrived, and he had leisure to have his wound dressed. (…) M. de Lafayette having been conveyed by water to Philadelphia, was carefully attended to by the citizens, who were all interested in his situation and extreme youth. That same evening the congress determined to quit the city: a vast number of the inhabitants deserted their own hearths -- whole families, abandoning their possessions, and uncertain of the future, took refuge in the mountains. M. de Lafayette was carried to Bristol; in a boat he there saw the fugitive congress, who only assembled again on the other side of the Susquehannah; he was himself conducted to Bethlehem a Moravian establishment, where the mild religion of the brotherhood, the community of fortune, education, and interests amongst that large and simple family formed a striking contrast to scenes of blood, and the convulsions occasioned by a civil war.

A few things to add to this little excerpt. La Fayette was quite lucky, because the musket ball had hit the fleshy part of the calf without damaging nerve or bone. In the medical world of the 18th century, especially a damaged bone would have led to a certain amputation of the limp. But La Fayette was indeed quite lucky. There is a bit of a discussion about the “true” extend of La Fayette’s injury because he tended to drastically downplay serious illnesses and injuries (while he would do the exact opposite with minor illnesses and injuries). Later in life, he also mentioned that without the good care of the Moravian sisters, he would have lost his leg - thus leading some people to believe that the injury was worse than he presented it. There is however no real evidence to support this theory, neither coming from La Fayette nor from anybody else.

Another interesting side note, the founders of the Moravian settlement came from the same region that La Fayette was later imprisoned in - from the region were Olmütz was at.

The sash that was used for the initial dressing of the wound has survived and is now displayed in the Fraunces Tavern Museum. I wrote about the sash here.

On the day of the battle, George Washington send some sort of “after action report” to John Hancock, who was then the President of the Continental Congress. In his letter, Washington also mentioned La Fayette:

The Marquis La Fayette was wounded in the leg, & General Woodford in the hand. Divers other officers were wounded, & some slain; but the numbers of either cannot now be ascertained.

But Washington was not the only one who wrote letters, La Fayette wrote letters as well that detailed his wound. He wrote his wife Adrienne a day after the battle on September 12, 1777:

While I was trying to rally them, the English honored me with a musket shot, which wounded me slightly in the leg. But the wound is nothing, dear heart; the ball hit neither bone nor nerve, and all I have to do for it to heal is to lie on my back for a while-which puts me in very bad humor. I hope, dear heart, that you will not worry; on the contrary, you should be even less worried than before, because I shall now be out of action for some time. I intend to take good care of myself; you may be sure of that, dear heart. This battle will, I fear, have unpleasant consequences for America; we must try to repair the damage, if we can. You must have received many letters from me, unless the English are as hostile to my letters as to my legs. I have received only one from you so far, and I long for news.

He wrote his wife again on October 1, 1777 from Bethlehem:

To put the best face on it, I could tell you that mature reflection had induced me to remain in my bed for several weeks, sheltered from all danger. But I must admit that I was invited to stay there because of a very slight wound in the leg. I do not know how I received it; in truth, I did not expose myself to enemy fire. It was my first battle, so you see how rare battles are. It is the last of this campaign, or at least the last big battle, it appears. If any other action occurs here, you see that I could not be present. Consequently, my dear heart, I take pleasure in reassuring you that you have no need to worry. While I tell you not to worry about me, I tell myself that you love me, and this little conversation with my heart pleases it very much, for it has never loved you more tenderly.

The day after that battle, my first thought was to write to you. I told you then that the wound was nothing, and I was right. The only thing I fear is that you have not received that letter, for if, when General Howe gives his master the king some slightly inflated details about his exploits in America, he reports me wounded, he could just as well report me killed. That would cost him nothing. I hope that my friends, and you especially, my dear heart, will never believe the reports of those people who last year even dared to print a story that General Washington and all his general officers were in a boat that capsized and all of them were drowned.

But we were speaking of my wound; the ball passed through the flesh and touched neither bone nor nerve. The surgeons are astonished by the rate at which it heals; they are in ecstasy every time they dress it, and maintain that it is the most beautiful thing in the world. I myself find it very foul, very tedious, and rather painful; there is no accounting for tastes. But, finally, if a man wished to be wounded just for his own amusement, he should come and see my wound and have one just like it. There, dear heart, you have the story of what I pompously call my wound, to give myself airs and to make myself interesting.

Now, since you are the wife of an American general officer, I must give you some instructions. People will say to you: “They have been beaten.” You will reply: “That is true, but between two armies of equal size, in open country, old soldiers have the advantage over new ones; besides, the Americans had the satisfaction of killing many more of the enemy than they lost.”

This letter is just so quintessential La Fayette! The way he wrote that he did not know how he even was injured in the first place, his statement that battles are oh so rarely and that he is perfectly safe, him getting completely side-tracked in the middle of the letter and finishing with his “instructions” to Adrienne (who still went on after that). But best of all is the opening line of the letter:

I wrote to you, dear heart, on the twelfth of September; the twelfth is the day after the eleventh

Yes La Fayette, that is true - but also very obvious, but thank you for pointing that out again :-)

He wrote his wife a last time regarding his injury on November 6, 1777. By that time he had actually already returned to the army (October) and had resumed active service.

You may receive this letter, my dear heart, in five or six years, for I am writing you by an indirect route, which I don't know much about. (…) All my other dispatches have informed you of the remaining events of the campaign. The Battle of Brandywine, where I cleverly left a little bit of my leg; the occupation of Philadelphia, which is so far from having the ill consequences of which they are persuaded in Europe; an unsuccessful attack on the camp at Germantown, in which I didn't participate because I had very recently been wounded (…)

I again included the opening sentence, not because it is of any merit for the topic, but because he is simply too good to be left out.

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slytherinsnekxvii · 4 years ago

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let's talk about severus snape. he's one of the most controversial characters the internet has to offer, with several blogs, channels and pages dedicated specifically to hating him, despite him having one of the most—if not the most—intriguing character arcs the series has to offer. so, as a result of me coming across far too many of said blogs, channels or pages, here's an extremely detailed explanation of why i like him and think he's easily one of my favourite characters :)

1. he's not that bad of a teacher.

just so you know, i'm a teenage girl fresh out of high school. so, my experience with teachers? still keeps me up at night :)

my family is pretty strict about religion. you can guess what that means. anything that was magic-adjacent, especially something that, god forbid, had an entire school dedicated to witchcraft and wizardry was a hard no if i wanted to have any sort of freedom over the media i paid attention to, and any opportunity to go about my life without being monitored to make sure i wasn't suddenly possessed or something. thanks to this, i ended up secretly reading the philosopher's stone in my last year of primary school. i would've been 11 at the time, just about to turn 12, so a little bit older than harry and co. going on what i'd heard from those who had already read the series, i went in expecting to absolutely despise this man. i went in expecting to read a demon. i finished the book and came out thinking... that really wasn't that bad.

my mom found out, so i didn't get to read the rest of the series until i ended up on the executive committee for my school's book club and my friends were appalled that i'd only read the first book. at this point, i'm still expecting him to get worse and... he just doesn't. when i was in primary school, i had multiple teachers break wooden meter-long rulers across my classmates' backs. the first time it happened, i was in infant year 2 (about 6/7 years old). i had teachers who would insult us, based on anything from hygiene to behaviour to intelligence if you looked at them wrong. my sister (who was three years ahead of me) had a teacher who kept her in hours after school was over because the teacher had a written a note in her workbook upside down, and when my sister corrected her, the teacher made her rewrite it, turning the book each time the note was written so it would never be done the correct way.

in secondary school, i had teachers who would actively humiliate us in front of the class if we didn't do as well as they wanted. i had teachers who would throw markers and whiteboard erasers at us if we did something they didn't like during class. i had a teacher who looked for a friend of mine who was petrified of attention and then mercilessly picked on her until she went to the bathrooms to cry. these are the kinds of teachers that i was used to. so, when i read harry potter and read snape, who would have probably been one of the nicer teachers i met in my lifetime, i thought to myself, he's really not that bad. he's just... strict.

antis claim that he traumatised every kid that ever went through his class, that he straight up abused them and... no. he didn't. all of them are comfortable talking back, they talk during his class, no one trembles when he walks past, except for neville, who usually bore the brunt of snape's anger because he was consistently messing up in a potentially lethal class.

after school, i hated the thought of formal education, so now i'm working until i feel ready to do university. coincidentally, one of my jobs is teaching maths and english to kids writing the end of primary and secondary school exams. given the sheer amount of annoyance i feel sometimes, i actually respect him for not being more harsh with them, especially when they're all running off into danger or exploding cauldrons.

he really isn't that bad of a teacher, and we know this, since his classes' owl results are said to be consistently good.

plus, he was written in the 90's when all this was okay behaviour for teachers. hell, compared to some of the teachers in text, given that he goes out of his way to make sure the students are always protected, he's a lot better than most people give him credit for.

2. i relate to him.

come on, the man grew up to be a dramatic, queer-coded, petty bitch who wears all black all the time and likely has at least one mental disorder. i'm a petty, emo bisexual with (actually diagnosed, don't worry) depression and anxiety and I'm in a theatre group. what did you really expect from me?

on a serious note, both of the schools i went to were considered "prestigious". i got into my primary school because of a teacher's recommendation (she was a family friend). the second school i got into was because i scored ridiculously high on the placement test that would determine which school i went to. in primary school, i was the poor, really awkward, really smart kid who got left out of everything, and my best friend was the only kid who was worse off than me.

in secondary school, i was just as smart as everyone else... but i was still poorer, and still more awkward and still got left out of everything.

i got that isolated feeling, that feeling of not being good enough, that feeling where life always seems to have it out for you and that's even though i still got dealt a better hand than snape ever did. so, i get it. i'm never ever going to have it as bad as he did, but i acknowledge what he went through and i sympathise, because i have a chance, but it only ever got worse for him.

3. i genuinely enjoy his character.

this dude went through absolute hell for basically his entire life. the best years he had were probably when he was neck-deep in the group of people who hated witches and wizards like him, but somehow managed to treat him better than the good guys.

all of that, and he still manages to be one of the most entertaining motherfuckers in the whole series, with one of the most interesting character arcs ever. it's the witty lines, the sheer dynamic of his character, the change from the twitchy, hypervigilant kid from the slums to the adult that managed to spy on the Dark Lord himself and save the wizarding world in the process, while still being a hot mess of a person. it's the managing to get shit done while everybody hated him and everything was going to hell. it's the everything, and i haven't even talked about how badass he is.

come on, potions prodigy turned master, exemplary duellist (cough, cough, winning 4-on-1 vs McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout and Slughorn, and leaving a scratch on nobody, while managing to not take a single hit himself, cough, cough), spellcrafter, spy and one of the only wizards to ever figure out unaided flight. dark arts master, proficient at healing (dumbledore would've been dead a lot sooner, if it weren't for him, most likely). he's one of the most powerful wizards of his time. i've said that any universe where he's actually a bad guy—or just legitimately loyal to the death eaters—is a universe where voldemort wins and this is why. if he was motivated by literally anything other than lily, the wizarding world was more than likely fucked.

the point is, i just think he's neat.

4. spite.

every time i appreciate snape, a snater feels like someone is walking over their grave. every time i appreciate snape, a snater turns blue out of sheer rage. every time i appreciate snape, a snater loses their mind looking for their non-existent reading comprehension.

the spite in my veins is tempered only by the broth of instant ramen and ungodly amounts of sugar, and i'm going to use them all in my mission to cause antis pain when they refuse to acknowledge their lack of critical thinking and analysis skills.

so, yeah. why do i actually like snape?

tl;dr: he's not that bad. for a teacher written in the 90's and compared to teachers i've had within the decade, the guy's just strict. sure, he's a dick (who i personally think is hilarious), but he always makes sure the students are safe and he didn't leave any lasting effect on any of the students. he's really not that bad of a teacher. and hell, he's not even that bad of a person. i fully admit that he was an asshole and i entirely believe he was prone to self-destructive behaviour, but he still tried to atone for his mistakes and he did, is the thing, even though the odds were stacked more or less completely against him. i like him because he entertains me, and because i relate to him, as a teen who went through some shit and probably would have joined up with some bad people if it weren't for my friends and family, and as a teacher who really can't stand my students sometimes. i also like him because it irritates people who don't like him :)

also, istg if any of you respond to this with "bUt hE was ObseSsED with LiLY and just WAnTEd to FUCK hEr," i'm crawling into your bedroom window with the most unrealistic, mangled interpretations of your favourite characters and making sure they haunt you in your dreams. meet me in the fuckin' pit, babe. reread the series, actually think about it and come with receipts that aren't Voldemort, because i don't think you want to have the same opinion as the character who canonically doesn't understand love, now, do you, sweetheart? when you do that, then, and only then, will i consider entertaining your bullshit :)

that's about it from me, thanks for reading!

#severus snape #pro snape #why do people like snape?#i can't speak for anybody else but here's me #i probably left something out since i haven't written a good essay since my literature exam #but it's fine #let me like my chaotic bastard son in peace please #snape #snapedom

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aellynera · 4 years ago

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Accidental Anniversary (Llewyn Davis x Reader)

ACCIDENTAL ANNIVERSARY

💜💘 Happy Valentine’s Fic Exchange, @samrockweil 💘💜

I am your Valentine’s elf (or maybe cupid?) It was an absolute blast writing this for you!! At first I couldn’t decide which guy to write for, but Llewyn spoke to me and I ran with it and I hope you love it even half as half as much as I did writing it. Happy reading and happy beeps!

Also, huge thanks to @sergeantkane for putting this fic exchange together! Love you Clarke!

Word Count: around 8k oops look i had a whole MONTH okay i’m not sorry

Summary: You meet Llewyn Davis one night at the Gaslight, and soon find out that the universe has an odd sense of humor and an even weirder sense of timing.

Warnings: A few curses. Nothing else, it’s 99.999999999% fluffy fluff.

March 14

The air inside the Gaslight is thick with smoke that coils and kinks around the dim lights on the walls and the candles on the tables. Someone at the end of the bar calls out for a whiskey, which you pour and pass down. The sound system shrieks with feedback for three painful seconds as your boss flips the power on.

You’ve been working there for a couple weeks, a side job to help make your rent and keep you busy on the weekends. It’s not a terrible gig, most of the time; the patrons are pleasant enough, the performers hit or miss, and Pappi, your boss, is okayish, so long as you can mostly steer clear of him.

You begin to wipe down part of the bar while the next performer sets up on the small, dingy stage. You haven’t seen him before, but whispers from the stools at the counter hint he’s semi-popular around these parts. You quirk an eyebrow; he certainly is easy on the eyes, at least.

From the minute he takes the stage, your focus is ninety percent on him (you do need a little brain power to do your job, after all) and you find that he is also very easy on the ears. Dark curls, dark beard, dark eyes, dark clothes, but a surprisingly bright voice singing lovely songs. He finishes his set, comes off the stage, and sidles up to the bar. You hand him the requested bourbon with a soft smile.

And the next thing you know, Pappi is on the ground and this stranger is holding his hand, wincing, flexing his fingers. Your mouth drops open.

“Oh my god!” you cry. “What--”

“Jesus Christ, Llewyn,” Pappi groans from the floor. “I was only kidding.”

“Yeah, doubt that,” this Llewyn person mutters under his breath, taking a seat on the stool closest to him. “Can I bother you for some ice?”

You keep a wary eye on him, and on Pappi as he gets up and wanders to the other side of the room like nothing happened, and wrap some ice cubes in a towel and hand it to him. “You decked him.”

He scoffs and takes a sip of his drink. “You hear what he said about you?”

Well, no, you hadn’t actually, but having heard what Pappi has said about others in the club over the past two weeks, you can imagine. “I can handle him,” you say archly.

“I’m sure you can,” a huff of air escapes his lips, “but you shouldn’t have to.” He turns around to look at Pappi, who just glares and shakes his head. The man in front of you flips your boss off.

You refill his glass without him asking and stick out your hand, telling him your name.

He shakes it and says, “Llewyn Davis” with a sheepish smile.

April 14

Llewyn shuffles down the sidewalk towards the Gaslight, really only noticing the early spring chill that hangs in the air. It’s early, before noon, but he wants to run through his set before the night’s performance and the early hour is convenient for him to be able to do so in peace.

He’s about a block away when a sound distracts him. A voice is singing, pure and sweet - if a tiny bit off-key - and if he didn’t know any better - and he certainly does, at least most times - he would call it angelic. No, not angelic. An actual angel. That’s what it sounds like.

Llewyn stops and looks up at an open window on the third floor. He can make out the vague outline of a figure inside, but he’s unable to see any details. But that voice. A few minutes pass as he just listens, staring up at the window, thinking about calling up to get the attention of the mysterious singer. But he doesn’t, and he just stands and listens, until he finds his feet starting to carry him on to his usual destination.

Three steps into his walk, he realizes he knows the song. It’s one of his songs. Part of him can’t believe it, and the rest of him wants to offer pitch correction. Three more steps into his walk, and his face makes very solid, very resounding contact with the light pole on the corner.

“God dammit,” he shouts.

A few seconds later, the window on the third floor slides open and a head pokes out. “Oh my god. Llewyn?”

Llewyn looks up and groans inwardly as he recognizes your face from that last gig at the Gaslight. “Hey,” he waves awkwardly, leaning on the pole.

“Are you bleeding?” you call down to him.

He reaches up near his eyebrow and realizes he is, in fact, bleeding. Quite a bit, honestly. Before he can answer, you call back down, “Come up the fire escape to the side window!” The window drops shut and he can hear another slide open.

So Llewyn Davis climbs the fire escape steps and meets you at your side window, a first aid kit in your hands as you motion for him to sit. He does and you start to patch up his wound.

“You should be more careful,” you mutter as you worked, stopping briefly to look him right in the eyes.

He holds your gaze. “Sorry, I was...distracted.”

“Mmm,” you return. You fold a gauze pad and hand it to him. “Hold this on that cut. I’m going to get you some ice.” You turn to walk to your kitchen.

He mumbles his thanks and leans his head back against the fire escape railing.

May 14

You glance back behind the bar, making sure the bottles are stocked and the glasses are ready. Another night at the Gaslight is about to start, and although Llewyn isn’t playing tonight, he takes up a spot at the end of the bar and thanks you as you pass him a drink.

“How have you been?” you ask. You’d seen him a few times over the past couple weeks, here and there in the Village, but it’s been several days. You found Llewyn’s company quite enjoyable. You’d talked a bit and even shared lunch once at the diner a couple blocks away.

His lips turn up, a shy smile lighting his face. He opens his mouth to respond, when another voice breaks in.

“He’s been an asshole.”

Llewyn’s head ships around and you follow his gaze. A slender woman with long, straight brown hair and piercing eyes stands about ten feet behind him, arms crossed and glaring. Neither of them says anything for a beat, Llewyn turns away from her, and then she’s on him, daggers flying from her lips, going on and on about assholes and responsibility and electrical tape.

Llewyn keeps his eyes down, the bottom of his glass suddenly staring back at him. “Jesus Christ, Jean.”

You bite your lip as you glance between them. You have no idea who this woman - this Jean - is, but it’s clear she is not a fan of Llewyn Davis. In three seconds flat you decide you do not like her either.

“Is there something you needed?” you break in.

Her eyes flare at Llewyn, then at you, then bore into the back of Llewyn’s head. You resist the urge to literally toss a glass of whiskey in her direction.

“I need Llewyn to stop being an asshole,” she seethes. Llewyn rolls his eyes.

You arch an eyebrow and the words are on your tongue - I need you to back off, you crazy weird bit-- you bite your tongue just hard enough to make your mouth behave. Fortunately, she’s distracted by someone else calling her name and her attention drifts to the stage. With a final mutter of “asshole” and a rude hand gesture, she flounces off.

You point over Llewyn’s shoulder. “Um, what was that?”

He snorts. “A night of bad decisions and a lifetime of regret.” A pause. “It’s...a long story.”

You watch as she adjusts the microphone center stage. “Good lord, is she a singer? Tell me she’s not going to just smile and sing after...whatever that was.”

“Yeah. Well,” he offers by way of explanation and doesn’t say anything else. It’s almost like this woman sucked all the fight out of him and you feel your heart give a little twinge.

You toss the rag in the sink and take his glass. “Do you wanna get out of here?” The air around you has a weird vibe now, and you felt a sudden impulse to get out and take this man - your friend - with you, away from this...whatever she was, somewhere safe.

“Fuck yes,” he sighs, a grateful glimmer passing through his dark eyes.

“There’s a great cafe down the block.”

“But don’t you have to...you know...work?”

You look around and shrug. “It’s dead in here, and Bobby can handle it,” you hook your thumb at a co-worker behind the bar. “And if Pappi says anything, I know someone who can set him straight.”

Llewyn’s eyes glint and his lips turn up in a real, honest smile this time. “So, coffee?”

“Coffee.”

June 14

The summer - or very last days of spring, technically - is starting to get hot and your open windows are doing the bare minimum to alleviate the warmth. Of course, the third glass of wine you’re drinking probably isn’t helping things either.

Whatever. It’s your day off.

Shoes kicked off, jeans rolled up above your ankles, feet up on the arm of the couch, a record on the turntable and your glass of red as the dusk slowly melts into dark. The night is tranquil and relaxing and perfect. It has been a shitty week, and all you want is to ignore the outside world and do exactly this.

The shrill ring of your phone bursts that bubble..

You close your eyes and tilt your head back on the couch. Ignore it. If you just ignore it, it will go away. The phone stops ringing. Deciding to take no further chances, you switch off the ringer, completely, then sigh happily, settling yourself on the couch and sipping your wine.

Perfect.

A resounding, repeated thump echoes through the room. You bit back a shriek. Ignore it. If you just ignore it, it will go away - lightning can strike twice, right? It was extremely rude of people to just call you and knock when all you wanted was--

“Hey, are you home?” a muffled voice comes from the other side of the door.

Suddenly alert and somehow much less annoyed, you spring up and cross to your front door. Yanking it open, you find a very disheveled Llewyn Davis on the other side. He doesn’t seem to notice right away that the door was now open, and you had to jump back as his hand, raised to pound on the door again, almost knocks you in the head instead.

You take a deep breath. You catch a waft like the mat under the taps after a long night at the bar.

“Shit,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”

“Are you drunk?” You take him by the arm and drag him inside, appraising him quickly. His eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, his curls an absolute mess, and there’s a dark mark under his left eye and a split in his lip. He looks terrible, smells just as bad, but suddenly all your desire for a quiet, no-other-humans night evaporates. “And did you get in a fight?”

“...yes?”

You sigh and point to the couch. “Go. Sit. I’ll make some coffee, and then you’re getting a shower..”

“You’re incredible,” he slurs, smiling, “And you’re so…I tried t’call you, from th’phone on the corner but you dinnt answer. An’ then I realized, hey, I’m on your corner, so decided t’come up and see you. You’re pretty.”

You take him by the elbow and lead him to the couch, only stumbling twice and managing to catch him as he sways, precariously, once. “Uh huh,” you bite your lip to hide a smile. “Sounds like you’ve had a fun night. You wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.” He flops down on the couch and buries his face in a pillow.

By the time you make the promised pot of coffee and get back to the living room, Llewyn is snoring, still face down in the throw pillow. Turning off the music and the lights, you cover him with a blanket and take your glass of wine to your room.

July 14

Ring, ring, ring.

You’d remembered to turn the ringer back on three days after Llewyn slept it off on your couch, but your phone hadn’t actually rung again until just over half an hour ago, and honestly you weren’t sure if that was a blessing or if it was just sad.

You are sure, however, that the sheer desperation in the voice on the other end when you answered is the reason you’re on this train to Queens. Are you doing anything, Llewyn had asked, because I could really, really use some help right now. Please, I’m begging you. And now the echo of your phone ringing just, well, rings in your ears.

The train screeches to a halt and you exit, making your way to the given address. You knock on the door of a smallish, nondescript row house and it swings open almost immediately, revealing a very disheveled, slightly panicked looking Llewyn.

“Oh, thank fuck,” he breathes and grabs you by the arm, dragging you inside.

“Llewyn? What is going on?”

“It’s a disaster,” he says. He’s completely serious.

You’re preparing yourself for blood, broken bones, water damage, collapsed ceilings, possible dismemberment, anything, really, that could explain your friend’s current frazzled condition. What you get is completely, unexpectedly, not anything like that.

There are about ten kids, all around ten years old, running around in the living room, which is also full of balloons and streamers. One giant pinata, shaped like a baseball glove and bat, hangs from the light fixture. To Llewyn’s credit, it is kind of...chaotic, but it’s far from a disaster and you can barely contain the guffaw that escapes your lungs.

“Whose birthday?” you grin at him.

He narrows his eyes at you. “It’s not funny.”

You consider this and try to straighten your lips. Nope, not working. “It’s a little funny.”

Llewyn smacks you lightly on the shoulder. “It’s my nephew’s birthday, and my sister forgot some party thing and made a run to the store. I was stayin’ here last night and she just decided, oh, Llewyn can watch the kids, and she was gone.”

“So what’s the problem, exactly?”

“She should be back by now,” his eyes look slightly panicked.

“Maybe she had to go to a couple stores? Maybe she just got delayed by transit?”

“I can’t do…” Llewyn gestures around weakly, shaking his head. “This.”

“Llewyn, they’re kids. They can’t be more than what, ten years old? Just blindfold them and let them whack at the pinata.”

“You’re the people person. I can’t...can you help me, please,” he turns to look at you. Directly at you. You’re fairly certain his eyes cannot get any bigger or shine more pleadingly.

“Fine,” you sigh. “Let’s go wrangle some kids.”

The panic slides from his face and to your surprise, he throws an arm over your shoulder and kisses the top of your head in his thanks.

And when one kid takes a wild swing at that tacky papier-mache sports equipment, misses completely, and lands a clean hit on Llewyn’s thigh, neither of you talk about it.

You just get him an ice pack.

August 14

“I’m making lasagna. Come over for dinner.”

You worked early that day, and said this to Llewyn as you left the Gaslight for the day. He isn’t playing tonight, and he’s really just here to stay out of the sun, and as much as he doesn’t like to push his luck with others’ hospitality, he has to admit that a home-cooked meal does sound incredible.

He has a feeling your invitation was partly due to Jean showing up, ready to do unnecessary verbal battle because she just can’t let it go, and you’d asked to both deflect her and keep yourself from actual physical battle. But whatever.

So he finds himself at your front door a couple hours later, a bottle of cheapish red wine in hand and an odd tingle in his chest. He dismisses it offhand; he’s probably just hungry.

You open the door and Llewyn’s nose is assaulted by the smell of homemade sauce - he’s half Italian, he knows these things - and cheese and garlic. You smile brightly at him. Yeah, he’s definitely hungry.

“Hey! Come in, it’s almost ready.”

He hands you the bottle. “Brought wine.”

“Excellent,” you lead him to the kitchen table and motion to a seat. He settles himself into it and grabs a piece of bread from the basket on the table as you grab two wine glasses.

“What’s the occasion?” he asks around a mouthful of carbs.

The timer dings and you pull the lasagna out of the oven. “No occasion. I just felt like making this and I didn’t really want to eat alone.”

“Lucky for you I like to eat,” he chuckles.

Your face suddenly feels warmer. Well, you did just pull a piping hot casserole dish out of the oven, so that does make sense, you suppose. You turn and put the lasagna on the trivet in the middle of the table, then turn and grab two regular glasses for water. There is an outlandish, metallic ka-chunk-ing noise as you turn on the tap, and suddenly water is shooting from under the sink and halfway across the room.

Llewyn jumps up and dives at the faucet, a chunk of bread clutched between his teeth, at the same time you crawl halfway under the sink to try and shut the water off. The stream blasts you in the face and you sputter.

This is not how you imagined tonight. Blasted ancient, rickety building. You make a mental note to have words with the super tomorrow.

You finally get the water shut off, and Llewyn closes the tap and sinks down onto the wet floor next to you. You lean against the cabinets and try to wipe the water out of your eyes.

Llewyn fares a little better; he’s only wet from his waist down. Your head thumps back on the soaked particle board behind you and you turn your head towards him. For a long moment he looks back at you, then rips the butt off the hunk of baguette in his mouth and passes it to you.

You snort. He bites his lip.

“Sorry, I think dinner might be a bit late,” you deadpan, eyes still on him, and take a bite of bread.

He bumps your shoulder with his. “It’s okay. Lasagna is always better the next day.”

Llewyn has to admit, though, it’s still pretty good a couple hours later, after you’re both dry and the lake in the kitchen is mopped up and you settle on the couch with your plates.

And if you use the water glasses for the wine, well, neither of you mentions it.

September 14

It’s pleasantly warm today, the heat of late August dragging itself into the beginning of September, and you find yourself in Washington Square Park, on a checkered blanket, a basket in the middle and a guitar by your feet. Pigeons wander and plot to steal food, but it’s easy enough to shoo them away.

It takes a little convincing, early that morning, to get Llewyn to agree to join you. It didn’t, really; he’s quickly become one of your best friends, and he doesn’t have anywhere else to be, he just likes to tease you.

But he does accept, and you eat some of the bread and cheese you packed and drink the iced tea you brought, and you get out a container of fruit salad and package of cookies your down-the-hall neighbor, Mrs. Peterson, made for you that morning.

“For you and your lovely man,” she’d said as she knocked on your door. You feel the warmth in the tips of your ears and you certainly see the color rise in Llewyn’s embarrassed face, but you don’t have the heart to correct her. She’s such a sweet old lady.

Llewyn plays a song or two while you enjoy your lunch, and even asks if you want to hear a new song he’s been working on, which you are more than happy to agree to.

It’s such a pleasant afternoon.

Until a small, brownish-gray blur jumps onto the blanket and grabs a chunk of bread and darts further onto the lawn.

“What the hell!’ Llewyn shouts as you yelp in surprise. The squirrel, for its part, just stops fifty feet away and turns back with a triumphant gaze, then scoots off into the bushes, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs in its wake.

He starts to make a comment about the nerve of the wildlife, but you’re not really listening. Your eyes are fixed on the path the squirrel just ran and you tug on Llewyn’s sleeve. He keeps muttering and you tug harder.

“Llewyn.”

He finally looks up and follows your finger. There’s a flock - an honest-to-god flock, not that he has any real idea on the technical makeup of a flock, but there’s more than one so as far as he’s concerned, yeah, it’s a flock - of geese marching directly at the blanket.

Okay, so there’s only three of them. But they look angry.

The leader strides forward deliberately and bites at Llewyn’s shoe. Another yelp leaves your lips and he grabs your hand, pulling you to your feet. He also grabs the remainder of the bread and tosses it in the opposite direction as he takes off running towards the fountain, dragging you behind him.

“Where are we going?” you shout.

“No idea,” he replies. The leader falls for the bread feint, but his loyal minions do not, and they follow behind you, quacking and honking and flapping and Llewyn isn’t sure but he may dislike geese even more than he dislikes pigeons.

He jumps up on the edge of the fountain and pulls you into a protective embrace as the beasts close in. Only Llewyn doesn’t account for, you know, physics, and the force of your bodies colliding sends you both straight into the water.

Spluttering, you try to wipe the water out of your eyes. Llewyn is doing the same when a loud HONK startles you both. The leader is back, flanked by his friends, and they’re all staring at you.

“Um, Llewyn?” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

“...don’t geese like, love the water?”

His eyes flick to you, then the winged monsters, then you again, then the fountain like he’s seeing it for the first time and all he can do is mutter, “Shit!” and grab your hand as he pulls you to your feet and takes off running again.

You manage to swing by and gather the leavings of your picnic, blanket and basket tucked under your arms and his precious guitar clutched to him, as you beeline out of the park, soaking wet and laughing.

October 14

Llewyn slides the key into the lock and turns it, an odd flutter rolling up his spine as he hears the bolt click open. He’s had a key to your apartment for almost two months now. You gave it to him, insisted really, telling him this way he wouldn’t need to worry about finding somewhere to crash. That your couch is always open.

It still doesn’t feel real and he doesn’t always use it, but tonight he really, really doesn’t feel like making the rounds. You’ve been spending more time together recently anyway, and he feels mostly comfortable around you.

He’s greeted by the sight of you wearing a catcher’s mask and knee high rubber boots, and you’re wielding a tennis racquet. He doesn’t know what to say for a full minute.

“What are you...why are you wearing...what the hell.”

“There’s a bat,” is your whispered response.

Llewyn’s nose scrunches and he isn’t any less confused than he was a second ago. “What?”

“There’s a bat,’ you repeat. Your voice is slightly on the edge of hysteria because, well, “there is a bat. In the bathroom.”

“...okay?”

You jab your finger at the closed door. “I was just going to wash my face and brush my teeth and I went in there and it was just...in the corner, by the shelves. It was staring at me.”

He bites his lip, trying his hardest to suppress the smile tugging on his face. It isn’t working. He drops to a whisper himself and asks, “Baby, why are you whispering?”

Your head jerks towards the bathroom, and your shrug nearly sends the tennis racquet into his shoulder. “Because that’s how they...they’re...how they do the...the bat hearing thing!”

Llewyn laughs fully. He can’t help it; you’re ridiculous and his face heats a bit as he realizes it’s entirely endearing. “I don’t think that’s how it works,” he says, his voice sliding back to a whisper. He avoids your death glare as he makes his way to the bathroom door. “But sit tight, slugger, I’ll get rid of it.”

“What’re you gonna do?”

Hand on the doorknob, he pauses and considers this. “Just gonna encourage it to go home? I dunno.”

Your grip tightens on the racquet. “How will that work?!”

“I don’t know! I’m not a fucking bat!” he hisses at you. “Just, make sure a window is open.” He opens the bathroom door.

Several things happen at once. Llewyn doesn’t so much open the door as he flings it wide and it slams into the wall. The bat makes a squeaky-shrieky noise (you were entirely unaware, until now, that they could even do that) and swoops out, recklessly streaking through Llewyn’s mess of curls. You make an actual shriek and fling the side window open as wide as possible. Llewyn makes a sound he can’t describe and you’re honestly not sure if it was Llewyn or the bat. The bat decides to take a few laps around the living room and you duck under the window sill just before it mercifully decides that outside is the place to be. Llewyn slams the window shut and you spring back to your feet, crash into his chest and his arms wrap around you.

Neither of you say anything, and Llewyn isn’t sure how much time passes, but he’s very aware of your hand running through his hair, and your soft words catching as you say you’re just trying to smooth out the bat damage.

He clears his throat. “I, uh, I’ll keep watch out here, make sure that thing doesn’t come back,” he jokes. “You okay?”

You finally - finally, he cheers internally - take off the catcher’s mask and nod slowly. “Yeah, I’m...good. Thanks for...thanks.”

Llewyn lets you go and takes the tennis racquet out of your hands, placing it next to the couch. He throws you a soft smile. “Just in case.”

November 14

It’s been a long night at work, a lot longer than it has any right to be and infinitely insufferable. The Gaslight is packed, patrons nearly crawling the walls and not an empty seat to be found. Drink orders stack up and you try to keep up. It’s so crazy that even Pappi doesn’t have a chance to be a smartass like usual.

Apparently it always gets like this, closer to a holiday.

Note to self - skip holidays.

There are two acts tonight. Llewyn is first, and it’s clear much of the crowd is here to catch him. It cheers you slightly, and it would certainly cheer you more if you had the time to pay more attention to him, but the constant call for whiskey and gin takes most of your focus. But for the time he’s on stage, your heart feels lighter.

Then the second act takes the stage, and Jean launches eye missiles at Llewyn from behind the microphone, and your mood sours instantly.

Yeah, it’s a very long night.

Everything is blurry for the rest of the evening, until last call mercifully rolls around and you can finally get to straightening out the mess the bar has become. You notice Llewyn still sitting on his usual stool at the end of the counter, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Don’t even say it,” you point at him sternly. “When will you stop fussing about this?” Ridiculous man. He has a key to your apartment, and still he worries that he’s an inconvenience.

You toss an orange slice at him, and he allows you a sweet grin.

Finally - finally - you’re home and Llewyn follows you inside, locking the door behind you. He heads for the couch and you head for your room, a mumbled g’night the only word that passes between you. You’re far too exhausted to deal with anything higher level.

It could be minutes or it could be hours later - your alarm clock somehow ended up on the floor and the darkish sky outside giving nothing away, and when did it start raining anyway - when a loud SPRONG and then a yelp and a THUMP from the living room jolts you awake.

It takes a few seconds to regain your senses. “Llewyn?”

“Fuck.”

You stumble out to the living room to find him half-sitting, half-sprawled on the floor, the quilt he normally uses tangled around his knees and ankles. He rubs a spot on his lower back and winces.

“Llewyn! What happened?” you cry.

He points to the middle cushion and you see something sticking up from the padding.

“Oh, Llewyn, jesus. I’m so sorry,” you apologize. You really do feel terrible; your couch hasn’t been in the best shape for ages, and it looks like the squeaky spring you noticed a few weeks ago finally gave up and poked it way through. And stabbed Llewyn in the back as he slept. Damn it.

“It’s...it’s fine,” he tells you, still wincing. “I can turn the other way, or sleep on the floor. Not a big deal.”

You shake your head. “Yes big deal. My couch just stabbed you, and it’s cold outside, you can’t sleep on the floor.”

“S’fine. Not the first time I ended up on the floor.”

You make up your mind before you even think about it and reach your hand out to him. “Come on,” you wiggle your fingers. “Come to bed.”

Llewyn’s eyes go wide and he opens his mouth to protest, but your look is so firm that he relents with a soft sigh and extricates himself from the blanket. He follows you to the bedroom and asks, no less than seven times, if you’re sure this is okay and says he really has no problem sleeping on the floor. You eventually tell him to shut the hell up and get under the covers.

You both lay on your sides, facing each other, but keep a space between you. Llewyn still looks mildly uneasy but relaxes as you smile at him and the warmth of your duvet and the softness of your pillows pull him under.

“Good night again, Llewyn,” you whisper.

“Good night again,” he replies with a soft yawn.

The rain steadily patters on your window and the sky slowly lightens as morning breaks and you languidly wake, curled into Llewyn’s chest, his arms secure around you.

December 14

Snow falls lightly outside, coats the grass and sticks to Llewyn’s curls, and his breath swirls and makes curlicues in the chill winter air. It’s two weeks until Christmas, and you decide to put up a tree, a real tree, and you tell him he’s going to help decorate it.

You also tell him that a bunch of your light strings have stopped working, and before you can ask him to run to the shop down the block that sells replacements, he volunteers and is out the door.

He can’t remember the last time he was anywhere with a real tree. It was usually those cheap-looking fake ones, the green plastic branches a color that would never exist naturally, if there were any tree at all.

So yeah, maybe he’s a little excited. He comes up the steps to the apartment, a bag perched in the crook of his elbow as he unlocks the door.

“So I got the lights, like you asked,” he says cheerfully, and sets the bag down on the table by the door.

“Help.” That’s...not the response he’s expecting.

It’s two weeks since the entire living room has been rearranged. The new, non-back-stabbing couch is on the opposite wall. You rearranged all your shelves, got a new armchair, and much to Llewyn’s wary delight and bewilderment, a new side table. The side table has blank sheet music and pens and there’s a guitar stand next to it and he doesn’t really know what to make of it. You just smile and tell him he needs a space to be himself, whatever that means.

The newly-opened space under the window is where the tree is going. Or, should be going. Llewyn looks down at the toppled fir and sees a foot sticking out near the trunk.

“Sweetheart? What happened?”

Your voice answers from beneath the branches. “Can you just help get this off me, please?”

Llewyn rights the tree and turns his head to check on you. He’s more concerned about you than the tree, of course, but he wants to make sure it doesn’t take you out again so he secures it to the stand as he takes you in. Thankfully you look fine, a few needles stuck to your sweater and a tiny scratch on your cheek, but otherwise…

He tries to stifle a laugh. “You’re looking very festive.”

Your eyes narrow. “Go ahead and ask,” you bite out, “because I know you’re going to ask.”

“I already did ask, before I had to be your lumberjack.”

You refrain from telling him that lumberjacks fell trees, not upright them. Whatever. You motion your head to the shiny silver tinsel wrapped around your torso. You can’t use your hands, really, and you’re not sure how they got tied up in this mess, exactly, but here you are, sitting on your living room floor in a pile of pine needles, trussed like a Christmas goose in sparking silver twine.

And your best friend is laughing at you. Jerk.

“I was trying to get this around the top part, and I lost my balance. Then like an idiot I tried to catch myself on the tree, and the whole damn thing went down with me,” you sigh. “I don’t even know how the rest of this tangled mess happened.”

He does laugh now, full and rich. “I was only gone for like, twenty minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah. Um, can you maybe...untie me?”

“Oh! Wait, here, I got something else,” Llewyn jumps to his feet. He ignores your request and pokes around in the shopping bag.

“If it’s not chocolate, I don’t want to hear about it,” your grumbled response brings another laugh.

Llewyn’s back in front of you seconds later, holding a small white cluster above your head. The grin on his face is equally charming and infuriating.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you blink at him.

“I mean, I was just gonna, y’know, hang it above the door later and let it happen, but now seems like a better time for some Christmas cheer.”

“I think you’re pretty satisfyingly cheerful right now, idiot.”

He waves the mistletoe over your heads. “Come on. It’s tradition.”

One day, maybe you’ll be able to stop sighing in his presence, but today is not that day. You sigh again, roll your eyes, and lean in, planting a soft kiss on his cheek and delighting in the shade of crimson he turns in response. He clears his throat and places the mistletoe to the side.

“Now will you untie me?” you ask, sugar-sweet.

He does, and helps you get the tinsel where it’s supposed to go and you spend the rest of the afternoon decorating the tree and drinking hot cider.

Llewyn sings you more than one Christmas song to make up for all the teasing.

January 14

It seems like a good idea at the time. One of your friends at your actual day-to-day job offers to set you up with another coworker, and it’s been ages since you went on a date and you figure, why not? What could possibly go wrong?

It turns out the answer is, a lot. A lot can go wrong. So much that you don’t even want to think about it.

Okay, that’s not entirely true. There is no chemistry, no spark, just an hours-long recitation of how your date is god’s gift to pretty much everything under the sun and possibly also the moon. The name-drops are just the cherry on top.

Maybe your first impression isn’t wrong after all.

You trudge up to your apartment, the bag of your favorite takeout under your arm filled to nearly bursting, and get the door open. All you want to do is stuff your face and maybe take a long, hot bath with a glass of wine. Yes, that sounds perfect.

The melody of a strumming guitar stops as you place the bag on the side table and shimmy out of your coat. The lamp in the corner is the only illumination and you tilt your head towards the armchair’s occupant. You’re surprised that he’s there, but only because he was supposed to be somewhere else tonight. Knowing he wouldn’t be around was at least...half the reason you agreed to this stupid date in the first place.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a date tonight?” Llewyn asks in a low voice through the dim light.

“Aren’t you supposed to be playing at the Gaslight tonight?” you retort, brow raised.

He shrugs. “Might have had a few too many an’ said some things. Might’ve gotten thrown out.”

“Mmm,” you appraise him. He just looks the same way you feel; ridiculously tired. Exhausted. “Might’ve told my date I had to use the restroom but… maybe didn’t mention I meant the one at my house.”

“That bad?” Despite his snort, Llewyn sounds genuinely curious.

You sigh as you flop down on the couch and hold up the takeout bag. “I’d rather not talk about it. You wanna help me eat this?”

In an instant he’s on the couch next to you and you hand him some plastic utensils and a napkin. You get up and grab two beers. For a while you just focus on eating, passing containers back and forth with occasional comments about the food. Your knees bump sometimes as you each reach for different containers or your drinks.

“So what happened?”

You stab a piece of chicken a bit more forcefully than necessary. “I said I don’t want to talk about it. It was a stupid idea to go on a blind date.”

“Kind of a stupid idea to go on a date at all,” Llewyn replies softly.

“What.” It’s not really a question. You definitely don’t mean it as a question and you vaguely think about throwing an egg roll at him but that would be an honest waste of decent takeout.

“I know what the problem is,” he continues in a normal voice. “It’s the fourteenth.”

You look at him with a raised brow. He has an odd look on his face and you wait a beat before asking, “Okay? And?”

Llewyn also waits a beat before replying and points at you with his fork, a green bean stabbed on the end. You lean forward and pluck it off with your teeth. He needs a moment to clear his throat before he can go on. “It’s the fourteenth,” he repeats. “Don’t know if you noticed, but...well..weird things seem to keep happening. On the fourteenth. Of every month.”

“Huh.” He’s right, now that you think about it. You stab your food again. “What do you think that means?”

Llewyn looks like he wants to say something, like he’s going to say something, but instead he just shrugs. You put the container down and lean back on the couch, swinging your feet into Llewyn’s lap.

He idly strokes your ankles as his expression grows serious. “I think it means we should not go out on any fourteenths, ever. Just to be safe.”

You poke him with your big toe. “You’re an idiot. There are things that can happen inside. There are things that have happened inside.”

A smirk creeps through his beard. “Shit, you’re right. One-a your crappy novels might fall off the shelf and crack me on the skull.” He pauses. “More run-ins with wildlife? Oh! I know. Squirrels, but this time, in the walls.”

“That’s not funny!” you try to poke him again and dissolve into giggles as he tickles your foot. Your combined laughter ricochets off the living room walls before dissipating back into silence.

This time, you’re clearing your throat before being able to continue. “It’s been a day. I’m gonna go take a hot bath.” You get up and walk down the hall to the bathroom.

“Please don’t fall asleep in the tub!” he calls after you. “Don’t forget what day it is.”

Idiot.

After your bath, you head to the bedroom and find Llewyn passed out on top of the covers. He has a key, and he stays over far more often than not nowadays, and even though he’s been told numerous times since the broken couch that it’s okay if he’d rather sleep in a bed, you don’t mind sharing, he rarely takes you up on that offer. Okay, so this is the first time since the broken couch that he’s even sort of taken up the offer.

It’s been a weird day.

You grab a quilt and curl up on the other side of the bed, pulling it over both of you and snuggling down into your pillow.

“I wonder what happens on the next fourteenth,” you yawn mutter into the darkness of the room.

You’re asleep, so you can’t notice that Llewyn isn’t, really, and he rolls to face away from you and whispers, “Yeah, me too.”

February 14

The air inside the Gaslight is thick with smoke that coils and kinks around the dim lights on the walls and the candles on the tables. Someone at the end of the bar calls out for a straight bourbon, which you pour and pass down. The sound system shrieks with feedback for three painful seconds as Pappi flips the power on.

You glance back behind the bar, making sure the bottles are stocked and the glasses are ready. Another night at the Gaslight is about to start, and Llewyn isn’t playing tonight, and he hasn’t shown up yet, which is strange.

Another thing that’s strange? This weird feeling of déjà vu. Whatever, you’ve been working more nights at the club recently, and they’re all starting to blend together.

“Your friend’s out back,” Pappi’s voice breaks into your thoughts as he sidles up to the bar and leans back on it.

“My friend?” you ask, confused.

Pappi shrugs. “Said he was a friend of yours. Dark curly hair, worn corduroy jacket, always looks tired or pissed off or both.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Wait, why is...did he get the crap kicked out of him again?”

“Nah,” Pappi shakes his head. “At least, maybe not yet. Anyway, I dunno, he just asked me to tell you he was outside. I don’t know what the hell he’s up to.” He nods his head towards the back exit and turns to tend to the bar.

Strange.

You duck your head out the door and glance up and down the alley. You see nothing except the usual debris; trash containers, the dumpster, the rusty drain pipes that run down from the gutters, weathered fire escapes. Something skitters off at the far end and disappears between the buildings. Was that a raccoon?

You snort a laugh as you recall Llewyn’s jab about wildlife run-ins. It would be something that happens, in a dark alley behind a basket house in Greenwich Village on the fourteenth of…

Oh. It is the fourteenth.

“Hey,” a familiar voice calls from the head of the alley.

Llewyn stands there, leaning against the brick, dark curls and worn corduroy and all. He holds a single yellow rose in his hands. He looks incredibly nervous, enough to match you looking incredibly confused.

You step fully outside and the door clicks shut behind you. “Hi?”

“Uhm, this is for you,” he says, awkwardly holding the rose out. “Saw a guy selling ‘em a few blocks down, thought you might like it.”

“Thank you? But what’s the occasion?” Why is everything coming out as a question? Even that.

He bites his lip. “You don’t know what today is?”

“Yeah, it’s the four---” Oh. Oh.

“You wanna get out of here? Have dinner with me, maybe?” Llewyn rubs the back of his neck. It’s a nervous habit you’ve seen him done countless times, usually when he’s thinking about something serious and… Oh.

You twirl the rose in your fingertips and don’t quite meet his eyes. “I thought you said maybe we shouldn’t go out any fourteenths.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, well. Um, I don’t know if you also noticed, along with this whole fourteenth business, but I...I really like spending time with you, just hanging out with you, and...I don’t know. Maybe it’s stupid, but I thought maybe we could, y’know, have a non-weird fourteenth day of the month for a change.”

He’s rambling and it’s adorable. You hum softly. “...on Valentine’s Day.”

Llewyn’s hands twitch in his pockets. “Well...yeah. I mean, I like spending time with you, but...I also like you. So why not?”

He has a point. And really, now that one of you has said it out loud, you really can’t deny it. All the time spent together, all the shared meals and drinks and late-night talks on the couch and letting him basically move into your apartment...it’s no secret, you realize, it never really was, how close you’ve become over the past many months. How easy it is with him. How natural it is.

All the times he helped you. All the times you helped him. All the times you were together, just being.

The fourteenth of the month be damned.

You pretend to think about it for a little longer than necessary as Llewyn watches you anxiously. “Well, I do have to work, you know.”

“I already asked your boss,” he shakes his head, “and he was more than willing to agree. Something about not getting a black eye on your behalf tonight.”

Your laugh rings out into the street. “But it is the fourteenth. What if one of us gets food poisoning or chokes on dessert or something?”

“Vomit doesn’t bother me and I know the Heimlich,” he smirks. “And I’m already asking you out in a dark alley in the Village, how much weirder can it get?”

“You make a fair point, Llewyn Davis.”

He extends an elbow and a hopeful smile.

If he notices, as he brushes his lips on your knuckles as you take his offered arm, that your breath catches and your heart rate increases, he doesn’t let on.

But later that night, as he trails kisses along your jaw and down your neck and asks you what you want to do on the next fourteenth, well, Llewyn Davis definitely notices then.

~end~

#llewyn davis #llewyn davis x reader #valentine's fic exchange #oscar fandom fic exchange #samrockweil

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