#harridan musings

[sweetbitterbitten]

'work:     for our muses to get intimate at someone’s place of work.' ( dealer's choice )

he has a meeting in ten. with the most unreasonable of clients. he needs a refreshing before heading out the door to that harridan. and mary boleyn has it well in hand. she strolls in with the security of stance - as would a well-paid secretary; tie a tamed snake twined between fingers. he is occupied, pouring over newspaper as he downs a quick cup of joe. the latter she plucks from his hold and places on the desk behind her, eclipsing his view and brandishing the length of fabric she means to wrangle him into. "chin up." commands she, smoothly slipping one knee between seated legs (how her hem must strain in rising to accommodate her action with a light lick of friction) to steady the determined strangling of a silk noose. she does not spare a glance to the monitoring of his reactions. only grinds the soft flesh of her knee gently to the apex of his thighs and finishes her task, taking time to admire her handiwork, and linger, the fresh laundered cotton of her collared shirt open perhaps a button more than it ought to be. a delicate pinch between thumb and fore is wriggled in simultaneous twitch to her nose. " t h e r e . all d o n e .." warmth of intruding knee is removed and his unfinished cup stolen as she sashsays, sipping his brew, back from whence she came.

[harridan-witch]

Believing in Magic

Sooner or later, you are going to doubt yourself.

You are going to think its stupid to bang the pots together to get rid of negative energy spirits. You are going to hold up a vial of lemongrass oil and roll your eyes at yourself for anointing a new stone with its cleansing power. And, if you are like me, it’s going to happen more than once. I’m going to tell you that it’s okay.

Lately I’ve been thinking about witchcraft. Not just all the stuff involved, though I’ve been thinking about that too, but the ins and outs of how I, for lack of a better term, cast spells.

Whenever anyone finds out that I’m a witch they automatically get an idea in their head. Some imagine that I run around the woods naked, some think I sacrifice children, and others get a Hollywood image in their head that falls somewhere between Hocus Pocus and Practical Magic. Now and then this bothers me, but in all fairness I can’t blame them. Our society has a knee jerk reaction when the word ‘witchcraft’ is brought up, myself included.

Ultimately what this imaginary person is wondering is whether or not I believe in magic. And man, sometimes I have to ask myself that. Do I honestly, truly believe that waving around my mahogany wand imbues this spell I am casting with strength and longevity? Do I think that I am pulling elemental energy from from the four corners of the universe in the hopes that they will help me get over my writer’s block? Do I think making a sachet of the appropriate herbs and stones helped my friend get through a long term illness?

Most days, yes. Others? Not so much. But why?

When I was a little girl I absolutely believed that the wind came when I called it. That the trees spoke to me. That the ocean understood the message I wrote in the sand. When I was young I believed wholeheartedly in wishing on the divinity of the stars, and that the moon’s light could heal my tears. As an adult it’s not so easy. As a witch, and practicing pagan of seventeen years --more than half of my life-- it’s a lot harder.

Why? Is it because I am “wiser” now? Or is it because I’ve committed the most atrocious crime ever and grown up? Is it because I’ve seen things, or because I’ve failed? I dunno. Probably all of it.

So what can I, and for that matter you, do?

First you have to look at your results. Did your spellwork accomplish the goal that you intended, even if it didn’t match exactly what you expected? Has casting a spell, doing a meditation, energy work or whatever you want to call it, helped you? Even just a little? Even if the only thing it did was help you feel like you were doing something proactive? Then that’s all that matters.

If you need to take a break, reevaluate what you are doing, why you are doing it, and even how, that’s fine. That’s normal. If you feel dumb banging pots together or wave some incense or just roll your eyes at the negative energy and tell it to go away.

I guess what I am saying is that its healthy to doubt, to wonder, to analyze; but don’t let it turn you away from something that makes you happy.

[mistress-ofmagic]

Around the world in 80 days chapter 2

Story summary: You have fallen through a portal into Asgard and come face to face with Thor, and his brother Loki. With no way to return, you must travel with the two men and their hoard of asgardian soldiers to get back home. Things get from bad to worse when you have to share a tent with the god of mischief himself. 

You can find the first part on Tumblr here or on A03 here

“In fact, Loki has an extra large mat in his tent, you could sleep in his tent, with him”

Thors words echoed around your head for a few seconds before you realised exactly what he had said. Before you could cut in with your personal, less than overjoyed, thoughts, Loki did it for you,

“Absolutely not. I am not sharing my tent with some midgardian harridan” He gestured generally in your direction. 

What did he just call you? By his tone you guessed it wasn’t pleasant. Although the sentiments were mutual, at the moment you didn’t feel like speaking up, lest you die by the hands of this alien prince, and you hoped that Thor would concede with Loki. 

“Brother come, you surely cannot be so callous as to leave a poor lady a wandering around here, she will be eaten by a bilgesnipe long before she has a chance to starve to death.”

To be honest, you weren’t sure if you would prefer starving to death, being eaten or sharing a tent with Loki.

“I have no obligations to babysit helpless mortals in order to make you feel like a hero.” He pointed at him. “If you want to keep the mortal she is your responsibility, I know you have a thing for them” He sneered. 

Before Thor had a chance to answer, Loki turned and walked off and into the woods you had just been. 

Thor shot you an apologetic look, 

“Come my lady, we are not long from eating, you may join us. Pay my brother no heed, he will come around.”

Once Thor had ensured you had a seat next to the fire, he disappeared too, leaving you to simmer with your thoughts. You become overwhelmingly obvious to the fact that the rest of the men were either ignoring you completely or giving you curious glances while they prepared the pig one of them had been carrying. You truly felt like the expression “sticking out like a sore thumb” was it not enough that you were here in the first place that now you had to contest with trying to fit in with a bunch of alien soldiers? After what felt like ages of sitting uncomfortably and being stared at by various soldiers, someone eventually passed you some food on a stone tablet and sat down next to you. 

“My Lady,” he spoke “I do not believe we have been properly introduced, my name is Fandral” 

The man who introduced himself as Fandral, was blonde like Thor, with shorter and surprisingly perfectly coiffed hair, considering he’d apparently been sleeping on the floor for a while. 

You smiled weakly at him, although you were actually quite relieved that someone had spoken to you, rather than just staring, as if you were the strange alien. You were still feeling a bit sick from the whole situation and weren’t feeling particularly hungry, but, as you mulled, it was probably better to keep your energy up. You were also more than a little surprised when the man next to you took your hand and kissed it.  You blushed, more so from surprise. He kept your hand in his when he asked, 

“What may I call you?” in a low and silky voice. 

If you hadn’t known better it almost seemed he was flirting with you, and if you hadn’t just fallen through a portal onto another planet, you might have been inclined to play along. As it was, you weren’t particularly in the mood, and you thought perhaps Fandral was the sort of individual to flirt with a rock, if he were next to it for long enough. Although, his question did make you realise that no one yet had actually asked your name, not even Thor, which added to your feeling of loneliness. Nevertheless, you told him, and his answer confirmed your previous musings. 

“A most beautiful name for a most beautiful maiden” he winked at you. 

Bleh, pretty cringe, but you supposed beggars can’t be choosers, and if it was between a womaniser and being threatened by Loki of Asgard, you would take the flirtatious blonde man beside you. 

You smiled at him and took your hand back. 

“I apologise for the actions of my…” He raised his brows, “fellow compatriot” he nearly spat out.

It didn’t take a genius to assume he was talking about Loki, there clearly was no love lost between Loki and this Asgardian. 

“I see his temper hasn’t improved since he tried to take over Earth.” You replied, 

Fandral laughed heartily, despite the comment not being that funny to you.  

“No, well, Loki has always had a temper on him, for as long as I have known him.”

“How long is that?” You asked politely. 

“Norns I don’t know, all his life I suppose, I grew up with Thor and Loki.” 

“Did somebody say my name?” A loud voice said cheerfully behind you, as Thor reappeared. 

“We were merely talking about your heinous brother.” Fandral told him, before taking a large bite out of his food. 

“Ah, yes” Thor’s face dropped and he sighed heavily, “Loki.”

A man came up Thor and offered him a plate of food, which he took,

“Thank you Halvor.”

You noticed that this man wasn’t wearing as much armour as the others, he was dressed in much plainer clothes with much less protection. You wondered if he was a servant, would armies take servants with them on trips? Weirdly, it made you feel better that you weren’t the only non-soldier here. 

Thor sat down with his food around the fire alongside you and Fandral, and began to tuck in. You decided to bite the bullet and ask him what you have been dying to ask him since you first found out you had to share a tent with Loki, 

“Actually, I was wondering if I could sleep with you tonight?” 

Before you could amend your statement, Thor raised his eyebrow, and Fandral choked on his food.

 “In your tent I mean” you hastily added, “as opposed to Loki’s tent as he…you know, tried to rule my entire planet by force.” 

Thor shot you a sympathetic look, “my lady, I of course would under normal circumstances offer my tent, however I recently sustained an injury in battle, and to ensure we can continue to travel during the day, our healer is working through the night to restore it.” 

This was not the answer you were looking for. 

“You don’t look like you have an injury to me.” 

For some reason his face reddened, 

“I, ah, it is not in a place one would usually, erm, display to the public.” He cleared his throat, “Anyway, I have some other internal scarring that is taking a long time to heal. Besides, Loki truly does have the biggest tent, you would be much more comfortable.” 

You doubted that. Your heart felt like it sank a little further, were you really going to have to sleep in a tent with a known psychopath? Would he attempt to murder you in your sleep? If earlier was anything to go by, it didn’t sound as though he was overly pleased at having you in his tent either.

Your thoughts must have been reflected on your face, as Thor said,

“You know, my brother has earned himself a bad reputation…” 

You snorted, that was an understatement. 

“But he has not always had an easy time. Let’s just say there are certain factors in Loki’s life that, although do not excuse, do at least explain some of his actions.” 

Fandral huffed and rolled his eyes, “I do not care to pander to the trickster. His actions are his own, we shouldn’t explain them away.”

Thor put his hands up in a surrender  “I’m merely arguing the point that there are two sides to every story, we cannot judge others when we all make mistakes, even you Fandral” 

“Mistakes yes, attempt genocide? No.” Fandral wiped his mouth with his sleeve and stood. 

‘I would follow you to the ends of the earth Thor. Believe me, I did not partake onto this tour for your brother.” He nodded at Thor and then you, before departing. 

The sun was setting by now, filling the sky with a pink and orange hue. The feeling of nausea had settled into your stomach and you were starting to get cold and shivery. You wrapped your arms around yourself.

“Truly my lady, Loki’s bark is worse than his bite. He has done some despicable things in his past but I believe he is not a bad person, simply a person who has done bad things.” 

“I’m not sure that makes me feel any better.” You said honestly, “what if he tries to kill me in my sleep?” 

Thor chuckled and then realised you were being serious,

“He won’t, I assure you. Despite what you have learnt of him, my brother is not a cold-blooded killer.” 

You were not convinced, but you decided to drop it for now. 

“Come,” Thor stood and smiled down at you, “it’s getting late and we are travelling all day tomorrow, let me take you to Loki’s tent.” 

You followed him tentatively, mildly feeling as if you were walking towards the gallows. 

“Most of the men sleep next to the fire, to keep warm during the night.” Thor explained as you walked, “as royalty, myself and Loki sleep in tents. I normally have no qualms sleeping alongside the rest of the men, only if I am to continue on this journey it is important I rest due to my injury.”

“Does Loki ever sleep next to the other men?” 

“No” Thor said shortly, “my brother does not like to sleep in the company of these men.” 

The tent itself, was quite large and circular, and it was decorated with green and gold patterns. Thor opened the front panels providing you with the view inside. The interior took you by surprise, it was, well, grand. 

Thor had been lying when he said Loki had a ‘mat’ on the floor, what he actually had was a fully fledged double bed. There was a wooden table and chair to the left that held a plate and goblet, as well as a candle holder. It also held some writing paper and pens. There was even a chest at the bottom of the bed, and green rugs adorned the floor to make it more comfortable to walk on. On another, smaller table centred right of the bed, there was a large pile of books stacked on top of each other. You turned around, and to your horror and dismay, stood in the corner was Loki’s armour and helmet, the very gear he had donned that fatal day in New York. 

To stop try and calm yourself down from the sight, you turned to Thor,

“I don’t understand, I thought you were travelling, how does Loki carry this around with him?”

Thor smiled, “My brother possesses magic. Surely you knew this?”

What? You wanted to cry, this was not the sort of information you had wanted to hear as you were about to sleep next to a war criminal. A war criminal who, as you had just found out, was a freaking wizard too. 

“He possesses what now?” 

“You didn’t know?” He frowned. 

“How would I have known he had magic?” Your voice started to get loud and higher in pitch.

“The incident at Stuttgart, that was shown on your television devices no?”

“We…well I don’t know I thought that was just tricks! Like a magician or a clown, or like tricks of the light or maybe special technology or something! I didn’t know he was actually a wizard!” You were nearly yelling now. 

Your eyes went wide suddenly and then you spoke slowly,  “You mean to tell me, that Loki can actually duplicate himself?” 

This was not good news. You settled yourself as you tried to push thoughts of Loki attacking Earth out of your head, 

“Why doesn’t he magic up tents for everyone then?” 

“Why should he?” A voice came from the tent entrance as the man himself walked into the room. 

You froze immediately, eyes widening. Every time you saw him, your fight or flight system seemed to kick in; your mouth dried up again and your hands grew sweaty. When Loki saw you weren’t going to answer, he smirked and leaned down to you. 

“Continue mortal. Why should I ‘magic up’ as you so eloquently put it, tents for these reprobates, who, I might add, have no loyalty to me whatsoever.”  

You floundered for a bit, what were you supposed to say? What you really wanted to say was “I don’t know how to tell you to be nice to people” but you thought you had better not. 

Unfortunately Loki seemed to be expecting an answer. You mumbled weakly, 

“It would be a nice thing to do.” 

Loki laughed harshly, “Ah but you see, I am not nice.” He stepped closer to you.

“Evidently” you snapped back, before realising your mistake.

Loki glared down at you and hissed, 

“You dare speak to me? Command me, wretched girl? I am a god and a future king, you are not fit to eat the crumbs from under my table.” 

Christ almighty indeed. He may be a god and a future king but he sure as hell was dramatic. 

“Loki that is no way to treat our guest” Thor stated sharply, “we are helping a lost maiden return home and we will do so while acting with honour, what would mother say if she knew you were threatening mortals again.”

Loki scowled, and then shifting into a more passive expression, his eyes glinting menacingly. 

He took a step towards his brother, 

“Your mother.”

You thought that was a kind of weird thing to say, was it like an Asgaridan yo momma joke? Either way it seemed to have the desired effect of irritating Thor, as anger flashed through his eyes. 

He looked like he was about to say something, when that boy from earlier, Halvor, appeared at the entrance to the tent. 

“Your majesties, the scouts have returned with some news.” He bowed his head and left. 

Thor sighed heavily, all trace of anger gone, replaced with something heavier. 

“Come, we must see what they have returned with.” He turned to you and nodded, “Goodnight my lady” and then he left, leaving you and Loki alone. 

You prayed he was going to leave without speaking to you but of course, he turned and grinned at you rather ominously. 

“You were lucky that the glorious Thor was here to save you. Speak to me like that again and I assure you, you will never see your precious Earth again.” He walked towards the entrance. You thought that was it before he turned dramatically saying “I am not your nurse, be gone by the time I get back.” 

[angelicsentinel]

Do you have any more F/F KaiShin among your WIPs?

Eyup. Several. Only one with enough written it's worth sharing. This one's called Gay Disaster AU (not the final title) and it's low-key Kaito's POV to Counter though it covers different content. Different vibes entirely. Same as the previous asks. Unfinished, very rough condition, and if you hate certain ships, consider it in there because I'm not tagging all the ships. Same goes for queer content of any stripes.

5.

"Hakuba! Hakuba, help!" Kaito said, kicking open the door. She staggered into the classroom, clutching her heart. "I'm gay."

Hakuba looked up from what he was reading and rolled his eyes. "Yes, I gathered that fact from your reading material." He looked pointedly at the BL novel on her desk.

"Hakuba, you don't understand. I'm gay," Kaito stressed.

Hakuba closed the BL novel he was reading, and looked at her. "Yes, we've had this conversation. It ended with me covered in your tears and snot and us debating the merits of push-up bras."

That was a very good day.

Kaito shook her head. "Hakubastard, I'm in lesbians with the coolest woman in the entire world," Kaito wailed.

Hakuba let out a sigh. “That sounds very much like a you problem.”

Kaito frowned, her face twisted in an exaggerated pout. “Don’t be a dick.”

“I thought you’d made it perfectly clear that’s just my personality,” Hakuba said.

Kaito let her head fall to his shoulder. “I’m serious,” she said, her voice muffled.

Hakuba gave her shoulder a delicate pat. “Only you could fall in love with someone who kicked a football towards your head at mach two.”

Kaito sighed dreamily. “Right?” Then she shook her head like a dog. “That wasn’t me. That was Kaitō Kid. Who is very male. A manly male specimen of masculinity.”

“Uh huh,” Hakuba said in agreement, his tone of voice quite clear that he didn’t agree with her at all.

Kaito leaned all her weight on him and groaned. “What am I going to do?”

"Ask Kudō-kun out on a date, naturally."

Kaito cut her eyes at him. "I'll ask her when you ask Hattori-chan."

Hakuba tugged at his collar. "I'm not in love with that ill-tempered harridan." His blush gave him away, though.

"Uh huh," Kaito said in agreement, her tone of voice quite clear she didn't agree with him at all. "That's why she's all you could talk about after that killer detective island case."

Hakuba affectionately knocked his head against hers and groaned. Kaito hugged him tightly, patting his back. "There, there."

A sultry laugh. "You two are intimate so early in the morning," Akako said, crossing her arms and leaning against a nearby desk. "Interesting."

"This is a queer disaster area," Kaito said, her voice mournful. "Let us die in peace."

"Is Hakuba-kun giving us more rhapsodies of his tall, bladed warrior?" Akako mused. "I'm sorry I missed it."

"Have you seen her in hakama though?" Kaito asked. "It's enough to make anyone swoon." She tilted her head back, putting the back of her hand on her forehead.

"I'm not interested in her looks," Hakuba said, fidgeting.

"No, just her charming personality," Kaito muttered.

Hakuba cleared his throat and continued. "Besides, this isn't about me, it's about you."

"Oh, I missed something?" Akako purred.

"Kuroba is 'in lesbians with the coolest woman in the world,' apparently," Hakuba said.

"That is new," Akako said, eyebrow raised.

"I am a big fat lesbian and I want Kudō to step on me," Kaito said with a nod.

The three of them tilted their heads, imagining it. "That would be a nice view," Akako grudgingly admitted.

Aoko arrived, taking one look at the three of them and sighing, rolling her eyes. "Is Kaito having her daily breakdown?"

"And it is spreading," Hakuba said, glum. "Heiji-kun's crush on Kazuha-san is legendary," he said.

Aoko glanced towards Akako, blush on her face, then looked away. "Have you tried talking to her?"

"I—"

"She ran away after she confessed and hasn't talked to her in over a month," Hakuba said.

Kaito punched him lightly in the arm. "Traitor," she said, scowling.

"Ouch," Aoko said. "Poor girl. You need to talk to her."

"I'll do that when you talk to Akako," Kaito muttered, just loud enough for her to hear.

"Fine! Akako, will you go out with me?" Aoko said, flippant.

Kaito’s mouth dropped in shock.

“Yes,” Akako said.

Aoko froze. “You weren’t supposed to accept!” Aoko said, her face red hot.

“Then don’t ask questions with answers you aren’t prepared for,” Akako said, flipping her hair. Her cheeks were the faintest pink.

"You're blushing!" Kaito said in demented glee, pointing her finger at Akako, "I can't believe you're blushing! You! The legendary kūdere!"

"We're dating," Aoko said faintly, in awe.

"You're one to talk," Akako hmphed. "Now you must keep your end of the bargain." She poked her breast. "Talk." She poked her again. "To." Again. "Kudō!"

"Owwww," Kaito said, rubbing at her breast. "Do I have to?"

"Yes!" Hakuba, Aoko, and Akako chorused.

"Fine! You're all mean and I hate every single one of you!" Kaito said, faking a sob.

4.

"Who was right~?" Aoko asked Kaito, sing-song. She elbowed him in the side. "Who was right?"

"You were," Kaito said, grumpy, crossing his arms.

"I do have the smartest girlfriend in the world," Akako said with a smirk.

"So when do we get to meet her?" Aoko said, hands clasped together in front of her, sparkles in her eyes.

"Never," Kaito vowed. "You're all bad enough. I can't imagine what you'd all do together."

"Someone's grumpy," Hakuba said.

"What is this, pick on Kaito day?" Kaito asked.

"Yes. It's absolutely pick on Kaito day. Every day," Hakuba said, wrapping his arms around him and knuckling his hair.

"Hey," Kaito said, pushing him off and glaring.

Akako laughed behind her hand.

The Blue Parrot shop bell tinkled. "Um, hello?" Shinichi said as she entered the bar.

Kaito bounded over to her, wrapping her in a hug. "You came!"

She wrapped her arms back around him, stepping on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. "Of course I did. You asked," she said simply.

Kaito blushed, a goofy grin on his face.

"You look good in the girl's uniform," Shinichi said. "It's cute."

"Ah," Kaito said, scratching his cheek. "About that—"

Shinichi pulled back to look at him, tilting her head.

Well, it's not like he had any problems really with the concept of femininity, it was the expectations, and something about the casual way Shinichi dismissed all of that ignited something in him, and he felt far more comfortable referring to himself now.

"You look good in everything," Shinichi said, and Kaito preened. "It's a little unfair."

He grabbed her hand and pulled her over to the bar. "Guys guys guys this is my girlfriend," he said proudly, grabbing Shinichi by the arms and thrusting her forward.

"Uh, hi?" Shinichi said.

A chorus of hellos and introductions and nice to meet yous. Then Aoko asked, "So have you stepped on Bakaito yet?"

Shinichi's eyes widened. "I beg your pardon?"

"Ahoko, that's none of your business," Kaito said, his face hot.

"What? I was just joking!"

Shinichi laughed. Such a beautiful sound. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and turned to Kaito. "Do you want me to? I will."

"Yeah," Kaito said weakly.

She stood on her toes, whispering something filthy in his ear.

Kaito whimpered, and Shinichi laughed again.

"Kudō," Hakuba said evenly.

"Hakuba," Shinichi replied.

"He's dying to ask you about Hattori-chan," Kaito whispered loudly.

"Kuroba!" Hakuba hissed.

"He has a crush," Kaito added helpfully.

Shinichi raised her eyebrows. “On Hattori? Good luck,” she said. “You’ll need it.”

Hakuba slumped. Kaito patted his head. "There, there."

[askmalal]

“My sweet bouncing baby Beowulf…” Snorri pulled a thick layer of moss and cobwebbing from the faded hull of the chassis. These things were known, of course. Neither Alec nor Snorri had seen them in the “flesh,” so to speak, but they’d seen holocaptures. “That is one ugly son of a bitch.”

“That statement,” Alec remarked, “was the most stereotypically Fenrisian thing you could have said, minus the stereotypical accent.”

“Oh?” Snorri smirked, “you want me to overemphasize my ohs? ‘Ooh,Broother Poooeer. Loook at this piece of roosted yoonk!”

They both snickered. “It is a beautiful language,” Alec said. “And it isn’t rusted.”

“Eh. You are just saying that because you like our girls.”

“I like your -women-, Brother Snorri. But I do love your language. I’m terrible with it, but I do think it’s lovely.”

“Eh. I’ve never noticed. Grew up with it.” The Iron Priest said. “Seriously though, look at it. It’s… it’s an ugly thing, jah?

“The phrase the Army uses is ‘walking turd’ I believe.”

“But she is proof you can polish a turd, Alec. Look at this thing. A masterpiece of miniaturization. Not as big or as tough as some of what we have. But strong as a Castaferrum, half the size. Efficient. And it can be used for so many things, the Furibundus.”

“Manic, rage. Not a comforting name,” Alec frowned.

“Ninth Legion named it. Odd fellows.”

“So I’m told.”

“Perhaps even more than your lot,” the Space Wolf jibed.

“Beware the wrath of the Hound. For you are crunchy, and taste goof with garum.”

Snorri smirked and tapped the corpse of the man laying at his feet, “So he learned. Was such a violent end necessary? A single shot would have done it.”

“He said something crude about me mother. Only I get to say crude things about the old harridan.”

Snoori laughed and punched the green armored legionary on the chest. The impact caused the slightly smaller man to rock on his heels. “This is a good joke! You should have joined the Sixth!”

“So were her mothering skills. And I had no choice, sadly, besides, our language is easier to speak.” Alec winked. “So… Furibundus. They’ll love this down the forge rooms.”

***

“Furibundus. An old design, but reliable. Not a Contemptor chassis, sadly, but it will serve you well until we can get something else in.” Lysimachus said. “Alastor will get you squared away with the adjustments, and then I’ll redo his work to fit our needs as legionaries. The man knows tech. He doesn’t know being between 6’5 and 8 foot tall, multiple lungs, new ways to be uncomfortable… and these weren’t originally designed for the enhanced, the ascended, whatever you want to call us, anyway.”

“I will serve… as the Chapter requires,” Lir replied. “Has it…” he contemplated the miasma of dark fluid that had been his home for as long as he could remember. “Has… it… a previous occupant?”

“Unclear,” Lysimachus shrugged. “Tech Priests say it’s likely, but that the records have been incomplete. Machine spirit is intact, reliable. The Deathwatch gets what it has from many, many sources. All reliable. Or I’m a Mother Superior.”

Hopefully not -his-mother, Lir mused. Furibundus… Walking turd.

[an-apocalypse-of-magpies]

Asterix and the Legacy of the Original Authors

So I finally saw Asterix and the Secret of the Magic Potion (2018). Significantly, this is the first Asterix story I’ve experienced since the retirement of Albert Uderzo, the original co-creator of the characters and creative lead follower the death of Rene Goscinny.

And it was brilliant.

The plot, simply summarised, is that Getafix (Panoramix in the original French), venerable and wise village druid, slips and falls out of a tree for the first time in his long career. He begins to worry that he’s getting too old for this (indeed, Getafix’s age has always been ambiguous, but he’s easily the oldest recurring character after the appropiately named Geriatrix/Agecanonix, who’s certainly over 80), and that he needs to find a successor, not least of which because only he knows the formula for his legendary magic potion that gives the Gauls the super strength needed to hold off the Roman invasion (the film makes a running joke that druids never write things down). While on the search, an old rival of Getafix’s, Sulfurix (dubbed Demonix in the Canadian English dub, in case it wasn’t clear that he’s evil) is desperately trying to steal the formula, seeking to liberate the Gaulish lands from the Romans and not merely one village. Along with Asterix, Obelix and tagalong kid Pectin(/e), the heroes must find a successor, but is there a Gaulish druid worthy of this most sacred knowledge?

The animation is excellent, as it was in the previous animated outing Asterix and the Mansions of the Gods (2014), really capturing the look and feel of the comic albums. I feel like too much cartoon media these days is afraid to really exploit squash-and-stretch for expressive and dynamic purposes, and with Asterix’s trademark slapstick being Roman soldiers clobbered so hard their torsos sail off into the air before their feet have entirely realised what happened, it was necessary for this. The film is bright and crisp, and the light effects suitably dramatic (and with many a magical zip and zap, it’s crucial to have good lighting).

The story has many of the familiar beats. Alexandre Astier is clearly playing it a little bit safe, but considering he’s writing his own Asterix story, it’s safer to stick with that than to try and push it too far and risk alienating the audience. A crisis emerges, Asterix and Obelix and miscellaneous tagalongs leave the village, shenanigans happen, Asterix and Obelix have a falling out and become separated temporarily, there’s an ominous moment when the magic potion runs out, Romans attack the village, everyone gets back in time to save the day, Romans get punched a bit, big feast under the stars. What I liked, though, is how this story tried to do something interesting with the side characters. While Getafix is a very important character for the story, he rarely gets involved in the actual plot, so it’s nice to see more of him and in particular his character flaws - namely his stubbornness and attempts to do everything himself, even to the detriment of those around him. Even being confined to a primitive wheelchair for a lot of the film due to an injured ankle doesn’t stop him from taking a part, and it’s nice to see more of him than merely ‘wise wizardly old man, keeps calm and lectures people’. Unhygenix the fishmonger (Ordralfabetix) gets an amusing background arc where he believes that he could be Getafix’s successor and tries dabbling with druidcraft in the background, with amusing results. For once, his role isn’t just ‘gets in a fight with Fulliautomatix the blacksmith (Cetautomatix)’, and we get to see that he’s an interesting combination of surprisingly intelligent and thick as two short rocks. Fulliautomatix himself gets to have some humorous musing at his alchemical antics, and at one point the requisite Unhygenix/Fulliautomatix fight is successfully quelled, with Fulliautomatix admitting that he has a short temper and that this was unnecessary aggression on his part. Vitalstatistix (Abraracourcix) leads the village men (apart from the perennially unpopular bard Cacofonix (Assurancetourix)) to accompany Getafix halfway through, leaving the womenfolk to defend the village with a backup supply of potion. Happily, this means we also get to see more of the village women - headed up by Impedimenta (Bonnemine), Mrs Geriatrix (Geriatrix’s unnamed but incredibly young wife) and Bacteria (Ielosubmarine) - than just ‘being someone’s wife’ - Impedimenta plays a vital role in corralling the women for war and appears to be keeper of the potion reserves, while the others get more speaking roles and are able to participate in fights. It’s not much, but in a world of Gaulish men, the women tend to fall by the wayside unless they get to be a sex symbol or someone’s harridan wife. Cacofonix himself gets to play at being a chief, where his cowardly nature makes for an amusing contrast Impedimenta’s more no-nonsense practicality. We also get to see some of the Gaulish children for once! They make fun of their elders and play around with stolen Roman warrior stuff. When the going gets tough, though, the first thing the village defence team do is make sure the kids get somewhere safe, and Cacofonix gets a slightly tender moment where he tries to assure them that he’s going to be okay ... with a long winded speech rather than just getting on with it.

The real star of the film (well, alongside Asterix, Obelix and Getafix) is Pectin. Pectin is a scrappy little girl from the village who’s into inventing and engineering, and her establishing scene is ignoring the other kids playfighting so that she can finishing what seems to bee some kind of automatic watering machine. She’s smart, creative, appropriately afraid of the dangers that crop up but wants to do right by Getafix, whose wisdom she deeply admires. It’s fairly clear even from the outset what her role will be. Eventually, in the darkest moments, Getafix teaches Pectin the secret recipe - including Getafix’s secret ingredient - in order to save the village. She assures Getafix later that she will try to forget the recipe, so that she won’t accidentally reveal it to the wrong sort, but just as the credits roll, Getafix muses what we’re all thinking - that this girl might be worthy to be his successor. Pectin’s important because of the series’ ... shaky history with feminism. The film sets out that only men can become druids, and women are even forbidden from the woods where they meet. When taking Getafix to the meet, Pectin has to wear a hood and hike her dress up to look more like a boy appropriately. To allow Pectin to become a druid would defy ... well, some lofty ideal that only men can become druids. Like so many old sexist tropes, the reason has become ‘... well, they just don’t’. So it’s good that this is addressing that, as well as forcing more female characters into the limelight. The most prominent female character in all of Asterix is Impedimenta, followed maybe by the heartthrob and Obelix’s crush Panacea. I’ve elaborated above the problems there. In Asterix classic, women are to be desired or to be overbearing wives to henpecked husbands. It’s likely that Goscinny and Uderzo meant no malice by this writing; they were two French men writing a humour comic, and played on the popular tropes accordingly. But they (or rather, Uderzo) did attempt to tackle feminism in this comic before. It was ... well, it was a bit clunky.

Asterix and the Secret Weapon (1991) was a rather dated and fearmonger-y take on feminism, having a feminist activist outsider called Bravura comes to the village, encourages the women to rise up against their husbands (the men, out of chivalry and hen-peckedness, do not resist), seizing control of the village. Asterix, being both a bachelor and bit of a firebrand at perceived injustice, confronts Bravura, whereupon she flirts with him to try and seduce him into marrying her, whereupon he (shock horror) strikes her out of reflex. But Gaulish men do not hit women! Asterix is banished to the nearby forest for his insolence, eventually joined by the other men, fed up with the overbearing women. When the Romans (knowing that Gaulish men will not attack a women) send a detachment of female soldiers to the village, the women have turned it into a primitive shopping centre, where the female soldiers can shop and get their hair and make up done and forget all about attacking the village. Yeah. Feminists are salacious witches who would enthrall men and subjugate them, women love nothing more than shopping and beauty, it’s ... it’s bad. Secrot of the Magic Potion at least attempts to fix this by questioning male dominance in a role without being so weird about it, and having the women be just as much proud, organised village defenders as the men, arguably more so, given they lacked the weapons or numbers they normally had with the men around. (I know that the most recent album, Asterix and the Chieftain’s Daughter (2019), kinda deals with this too, but I haven’t yet read that one)

Putting aside the feminist rant, the key theme of this film seems to be the passing of the torch, clinging to past glory, and stepping up to take responsibility. Getafix isn’t getting any younger, and as much as might hurt his pride, he needs to train someone to take his place. The other elder druids, it transpires, are foolish, complacent and irresponsible, getting too used to just messing around and partying. They’re getting senile too, shamefully admitting to keeping crib sheets to remember which apprentice druids are any good. Druids not writing things down seems to be a metaphor for old masters, well versed in their craft, who know it all so well that they don’t need notes ... and then struggle to teach others, so they keep doing it all themselves. Sulfurix is bitter that, despite his magic fire being useful, Getafix is held up as the better druid. Way back when, they were finallists in a druidcraft competition, and being able to conjure flame from nothing is certainly a useful talent that won out over Getafix’s useless but dramatic and very complex magic. Getafix is implied never to have held a grudge over this, especially given that he would eventually develop the magic potion that makes his people so formidable. Sulfurix, meanwhile, found his ‘useful’ parlour trick get weaker and less reliable over time, and he seems to have very few tricks under his belt by the present, so fixated was he on this one thing. His Villain Rant at Getafix at the end is pure projection - he’s become irrelevant, because his one thing became all he was known for. Finally, with Cacofonix being acting Chief, the women defending the village, and Cholerix (Teleferix) the apprentice druid and later Pectin striving to create the magic potion and fill Getafix’s footsteps, there is a theme of people, even wildly unprepared people, stepping up to take responsibility because it’s what needs to be done, be it for the sake of a legacy or simply because this operation won’t run itself. Such a theme rings loud in, I remind you, the first original Asterix story on film since the death or retirement of both of the original creators. They’re on their own now, with a great and beloved legacy to continue, and I think they’ve done a wonderful job. The film was not perfect by any means - the English dub lip-flaps weren’t that well aligned (my DVD didn’t have French language options), the story’s quite formulaic if you’re a fan of the series, and Sulfurix is ... not subtle as the villain - but if you like Asterix, you’ll like this. And if you don’t care for Asterix, it’s still enjoyable.

[bastardsunlight]

Its not any of Nero's business why Dante is out drinking, but he's going to pretend it is for a few minutes. "What the hell are you doing? You said you'd stopped drinking!" He shoved Dante's shoulder, all growly and grumpy looking, shoving himself between the person who didn't know personal space and Dante. Nero gave a nod to Dante, trying to indicate 'we're cool, I'm just making a scene so we can scram'.

He slapped a twenty on the counter and grabbed Dante's shoulder to "steer" him out the bar, loudly rambling along the way. "I can't fucking believe you, Dad's at home, worried sick about what's got you working so late, and you're out here getting drunk with fucking floozies again, I cannot even, goddamn." Soon as they were safely out of earshot though, Nero let go and patted Dante on the back. "So, wanna get pizza and a milkshake, on me? Looked like you were having a shit night."

It was rare that Dante finds himself in a non-navigable social situation. This one, he could not seem to escape and the individual was becoming more handsy than he liked. Nero’s body pressed between them was enough to pry the two apart, the kid acting like a human(ish?) crowbar. It was effective and his harridan growling was both hammy as all hell, and kind of hot. Maybe that was the alcohol. Dante considered it, then the situation, and grunted moodily, affecting more drunkenness than he felt.

“Got in a little deeper’n I was ready for, kid,” he said as they hit the cool night air. “Could use some grub. I know a place up the street that serves icecream at all hours.” He gestured.

“Arachne, by the way… I think… not on the job, kinda caught me off-guard—shit, I’m too fuckin’ old for this.”

My muse is being harassed and yours doesn’t like it

[tilnathiel]

(`･ω･´) : What does your muse completely gush over?

His boat.

There is nothing on Azeroth that he loves more than that rickety little thing.

No, not even whiskey. Or music. Or… well, a certain hunter might come close.

…But ask one question about the Harridan, and– if he trusts you– sit the fuck down and get comfy because he is about to regale you with SOME STORIES. How amazing she was in this or that scenario. How quickly she can zip past big naval lunkers and leave them in the wash. How impossible she is to see in the dead of night. And so on, and so on.

He will go on. And on. And on. And on. And on, ad infinitum.

Bring a book. Don’t let him catch you reading it in the middle of his testimony, though.

Thank you, @theunfortunatedruid!

[hrlaw]

             HOUSE HARLAW.                  house motto: death hath no harvest. blazon: silver scythe on black.                    one of the most powerful houses on the iron islands. the seat of the house is the castle ten towers on the island of harlaw, cadet branches of house harlaw are located on grey garden, harlaw hall, harridan hill, and the tower of glimmering. houses volmark, stonetree, myre, and kenning pledge fealty to house harlaw. known members of house harlaw include   gwynesse harlaw, alannys greyjoy nee harlaw, rodrik harlaw,  harras harlaw, hotho harlaw & boremund harlaw.

                                         do not reblog; unless you interact with hrlaw or have a house harlaw muse

[girl-next-door-writes]

A Possible Beginning.

Characters: Crowley x Reader

Summary: Crowley is withholding information, that’s nothing new, but perhaps there is more he is keeping to himself.  Which information would you prefer?  The information that helps solve the case or the real reason why he’s been avoiding you?

Word Count: 1589 words

Prompt: The Story – Brandi Carlile

A/N: Written for the wonderful @luci-in-trenchcoats fabulous challenge.  This was originally gonna be Gabe but the muse wants what it wants and Crowley is fairly demanding.  Enjoy.  

He was tired.  It was written all over his face and for once he wasn’t even attempting to hide the truth. You’d never noticed the lines on his face before, not that he looked anywhere near his age.  Taking the half empty bottle of whiskey from the table next to you, you crossed to where he was sat.  The chains rattled as he shifted, eyes never leaving you, studying each movement carefully.  There was no fear there, or even mild amusement, which seemed to be his default expression when dealing with you.  Slowly pouring the amber liquid into two glasses, the only sound in the room the change in tone the whiskey made as it splashed against the ice.  Looking at his hands, bound at the wrists, you smirked as you placed a straw in one of the glasses before taking the drinks and sitting in the empty chair opposite.  There was silence as he watched you lift a glass to your lips, taking a long, slow sip and as your lips parted slightly he raised an eyebrow.  “They decided to break out the big guns have they?” His usual silky-smooth voice a little rougher around the edges from lack of use, or perhaps too much if the screams that echoed down the halls earlier were any indication.  Shaking your head, in such a small movement many people would have missed it, you offered him the glass with the straw.  He looked at it with such distain, dragging his eyes from the offending receptacle up to you.  Shrugging, you placed it on the floor and took another sip from your own glass.  

Watching him watch you over the rim of your glass you wondered what it must do to you, to live that long, to see that much pain and chaos and destruction.  Sometimes, for very brief moments, you thought you caught almost a soulful look deep in those earthly brown eyes of his and it was almost as if his story was right there written on his face.  “The plaid brothers can do their worst.  I don’t have a bloody clue where it is.” His usual air of irritation hummed through his words and you simply nodded.  You both knew you weren’t there to hurt him and you both knew and you both knew he did, in fact, know exactly where the information they were searching for, you were searching for, was hidden.  

You had been close at one point, you and the King of Hell. Late night drinking sessions, Game of Thrones marathons.  If something went south on a solo hunt he was your call, even before Castiel.  This friendship of sorts had been going steadily in secret for almost a year when suddenly he just stopped showing up.  No call, no note, just silence.  Oh, he’d turn up for Sam or Dean but it was clear that where you were concerned it was purely business, nothing more.  At first you were confused, wondering if you had done or said something, and then you felt a burning rage and disappointment and then… then you just missed him.

He’d watched the door slowly open and had steeled himself for another Dean Winchester special but his heart faltered when he saw you enter and close the heavy door behind you.  He wondered if you would be as brutal as he’d seen you hunt but really, he knew that even a small amount of pain at your hands would do him more damage than both Winchesters and their pet angel combined could cause him at their worst. He felt he deserved your hate, your pain, so he was unprepared to see you cross the room and pour him a drink. The straw had been a nice touch and he had almost forgotten himself and smiled.  His eyes lingered on your lips and he remembered exactly why he had abandoned you.  He decided to break the silence, to get this show on the road with his usual aplomb but he heard a hint of desperation in his tone and that vexed him.  He was a demon.  Not just any demon but the bloody King of Hell dammit.  He couldn’t get all warm and fuzzy about some human.  You offered him the straw and he could see the hint of amusement dancing in your eyes at his response.  He felt an ache in his chest as he recalled the pride that had filled him every time he had been responsible for your smile, your laugh. He heard the lie escape his mouth and knew that wouldn’t be the last time he would lie to you and that caused his heart to ache in a way he was completely unprepared for.

It had been his mother, of all people, who had brought his happy ignorance crashing around him.  “You’ve crossed a line with that one Fergus.  I have held my council while you palled around with those hunters but you are breaking every single rule when it comes to that girl.  You really think she would spend her time with you willingly without anything in return?” She stormed into the throne room obviously in a rage.  Crowley glared at his mother and was about to throw a witty retort her way but he was cut off by her continued rant. “For months now you’ve been mooning over her. I thought it was a phase but this… you got too far to protect her.  You wouldn’t go this far to protect me.” She spat accusatory.

“That’s because I don’t love you, you harridan.” He shot at her before realising what he had said.  His eyes widened and he looked at her as if checking he had actually said it out loud.  Her expression just confirmed it.  He opened his mouth to defend himself but then realised he didn’t want to.  He did love you.  He loved the way you made him feel, when he was with you he wasn’t the King of Hell, he was just him and that was something he hadn’t been in a long time. Surely that was worth going to the ends of the earth for.

“She makes you weak and you put her in danger.  Anyone who knows about this can and will target her. If you really do care for her you’ll stay away instead of putting a target on her.” Crowley raised an eyebrow with a look of mild surprise.  “Oh don’t look at me like that, what’s the point of being the mother of the ex King of Hell?” she flounced out leaving him considering the grain of truth in her words.

 And so now he sat here, chained in the dungeon, watching you sipping whiskey and even though the situation was not exactly how he envisioned spending time with you he couldn’t help the corners of his mouth twitching up into the hint of a smile.  A smile which was hiding all the words that wanted to come spilling from his mouth. Words of tenderness and declarations of his devotion that took all his self-control to contain.  He had been so sure he was doing the right thing walking away. The few times he had seen you recently had been brief and he had focused on Moose and Squirrel but now… here… alone with you in the dim light his head was a mess.  He frowned.  This was unlike him, this split personality had him so confused and the one person he wanted to talk about it with, the only person he truly trusted, was the one responsible.  You were the one who knew he really was, all of it, and you were still comfortable in his presence.  

You watched him curiously.  It looked almost as if he were having an internal conversation, an argument perhaps, each micro expression flickering across his face drawing you closer.  His eyes shot up to yours with a hint of desperation that shocked you, made you take a step back as your brow furrowed.  “I know you Crowley.  We can do this little dance all night if you like but… just talk to me honey.” Your voice was soft and as the pet name slipped out his face softened.  The lines on his face telling a different story now. Still one of where he had been, where he had come from, the struggle of getting where he now was but there was something more.  Almost a realisation.  You were right, you did know him and keeping away from you made him far weaker than being with you.  You were his weakness but you were also his strength.  

“If I tell you where the scroll is… will you join me for dinner?” There was a hint on nerves in his usually steady voice and challenge in his eyes.

“Is this a test?” You frowned.  “You think you need to make a deal to take me for food?  Crowley, what’s going on?”

“Is it a deal?” He raised an eyebrow, his expression once again unreadable.  Walking over to him with purpose you placed your hands on his shoulders, leaned down, and placed a soft and tender kiss to his lips.  Pulling away you saw surprise on his face

“Consider it a deal.” You smirked.  Looking at each other, you both knew there had been no need for a bargaining chip.  Despite him being a demon and like, a billion times older than you and oh yeah, the KING OF HELL, you couldn’t quite shake the feeling he was made for you.

Tagging: @deanxfuckingadorablexwinchester @nea90sweetie @knittingknerdy @feelmyroarrrr @vintagevalentinexx @cojootromuelle @palaiasaurus64 @littleblue5mcdork @littlenerdgirl16 @thewhiterabbit42 @like-a-bag-of-potatoes @sumara62 @captainemwinchester @createdbybadappreciation @sunskittlex

[mellicose]

Dead muse is no bien D: Hmmm, Chris, motor oil, and fluff. Hope this helps.

He was deep underneath the hood of his car when she pulled up. Despite it all, her heart began to pound. She parked and put her forehead against the steering wheel.

Why am I so nervous? she though, and chuckled. He’s a total nerd. A driving school instructor. She looked up to him wiping off his dipstick. He put it back in and pulled it out, squinting at the tip. As he pushed his glasses up his nose, he left a large black smudge.

Oddly, it made her mouth water. He was devastating.

She discreetly smoothed her hair and stepped out of her car. Her heels clicked on the pavement. She worked in a staffing agency on the first floor of the building. Ordinarily, they would not have met, but he was always outside, washing or doing maintenance on his little car. She didn’t fault him - it was his bread and butter, after all.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said. She turned a bit too quickly.

“You dropped your glove,” he said, waving it as he jogged to her.

“Miss Andalou,” she said, taking it gratefully.

He pushed his glasses up the narrow bridge of his nose again, and again, he left a smudge. His eyes were swimming behind nearly a quarter inch of glass, but still, they were warm.

“Miss … Andalou,” he said, smiling broadly. “I’m Chris. I work at the-“

She cut him off. “The driving school,” she said, pointing to the magnetic sign on his passenger’s side door.

“Right. True,” he said, fidgeting. “And you work in that office downstairs,” he said.

“Staffing. Boring stuff,” she said, shrugging. “but it keeps me in meat and potatoes.”

“Those are tasty,” he said. He tried to put his hands in his pockets, but stopped. His hands were filthy.

They had nodded at each other for over three months, and this is the most they said to each other. Although she didn’t want to go, she was already running late.

“I’ve got to get on before the boss lady wonders where I am,” she said, moving toward the front door.

“Yes, of course,” he said, waving dismissively and walking slowly back to his car. She opened the door, then froze. She didn’t want him to feel that she was brushing him off. She walked back toward him.

“Is it boring?” she asked, stuffing the glove back into her coat pocket.

His smudged face glowed at the sight of her. “The maintenance?” he asked. “Nah.”

She smiled. “No, not that. The being in the car for long periods of time … with strangers.”

He mulled the question. “It was a bit strange in the beginning. I was really shy.”

“Was?” she said.

He shrugged. “It’s not so bad, since it’s one-on-one,” he said. “You can get to know people quite well when they’re nervous and in a tight spot.”

She nodded. “I guess so,” she said. “Do you offer them words of wisdom as they learn about parallel parking and carriageway driving?”

“Maybe. Sometimes,” he said, but he looked abashed.

“That sounds lovely. A million years ago, my driving instructor was a screeching harridan who was always accusing me of trying to kill her,” she said, giving him a toothy grin.

He sucked his teeth and rolled back on his heels. “Now that you mention it, I’ve been observing your driving technique. You do tend to turn into this parking lot on two wheels,” he said.

“You’ve been observing me?” she said, looking up at him.

He stiffened. “Sometimes… when I’m here doing maintenance -Just a time or two-“

She feigned indignation. “I am an excellent driver. I  get speeding tickets only once or twice a month,” she said. “It’s a savings. It used to be more.”

“You do realize the posted speed limit is there for not only your safety, but everyone’s in the vicinity?” he said, mock frowning at her.

“Yeah, but I’ve gotten quite good at swerving schoolchildren or pets. No injuries yet,” she said. He looked genuinely appalled. She burst out laughing.

“It was a joke,” she said. It was … mostly. There had almost been a fluffy doggie incident several times, to her own chagrin.

“I certainly hope so,” he said, shaking his head gravely. He pushed his glasses up again, this time leaving a smudge on his cheek. “If not, I strongly suggest you visit the school and arrange some refresher lessons.”

“You and I, in your trusty car for hours at a time - what will we talk about?” she said.

“The rules of the road. Proper motor vehicle operation.” He furrowed his brow, trying to sound august.

“Meat and potatoes,” she said without thinking. Her heart rushed again.

“Hmmm?” he said. “Food?”

She looked at her watch. She was already 7 minutes late. Her boss would have her ass.

“Will you be out instructing around one?” she asked. She was breathless with nerves.

He didn’t realize at first what she was asking. “No. Boss lady gives us an hour for lunch-“ realization dawned on his face, followed by incredulity.

“What do you say? We can meet here at one, and I can drive us to the Italian place around the corner - just enough for you to give me a proper assessment of my driving skills.” She sweat underneath her coat. She would be mortified if he thought her too bold, but he was lovely, and she eager to know him better.

His lips moved silently. He took off his glasses and wiped them on his fleece. She didn’t know what to make of his blushing cheeks. Maybe he was old-fashioned. Maybe he was insulted-

“Sure-yes. Of course. We can do that. I’ll wait in the car while you pick up your lunch and we can head back quickly and I’ll write something up for you. Free of charge.“

“Oh no. We can have lunch there, if you like. Together. I have an hour too.” She wanted to be swallowed by the earth.

“Lunch? Italian, wi’ me? Oh.” He smiled slowly, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. Despite the baby banker haircut and the glasses, he was gorgeous. “Yes. I like a bit of spaghetti.”

“Brilliant,” she said, smiling bright enough to make him squint. “Then I’ll see you at one?”

“Sharpish,” he said, looking down, then looking back at her. She rubbed her nose. “What?”

“You’ve got a bit of motor oil right there,” she said, pointing at his nose.

“Oh. Oops!” he said, wiping it off. He bowed closer to her. “Is it gone?” She felt the warmth of his breath. It was nice.

“You got a bit …” she waved over his cheek. He wiped, but just made it worse. She hesitated, then wiped it for him. His skin was soft. Touching him made something intense and immediate course through her. This close and without his glasses, his eyes had a warm, sleepy quality that made her breath catch. Did he know his own charm?

She took a step back.”I should get going. Work awaits,” she said, hoping her makeup camouflaged her reddening cheeks.

“Of course. Until spaghetti o clock,” he said, putting his glasses back on.

She giggled and waved as she walked into the building.

What a beautiful nerd.

[wellesleyunderground]

WU Reviews: Lady Bird by Shloka Ananthanarayanan ‘08 (@shlokes)

                                                                             (Source)

Sometimes you don't realize how much you needed a movie until you see it. Lady Bird is that movie. Following a summer filled with loud, action-packed entertainment, Greta Gerwig's directorial debut is a funny, affecting, and incandescent wonder.

A tale about a teenage girl navigating her senior year in high school in 2002, Lady Bird is perhaps the most profound look at female relationships I've seen on screen. The always magnificent Saoirse Ronan plays Christine "Lady Bird" McPherson (Christine is her given name, but Lady Bird is the name she has given herself). Like all teenage girls, she has a contentious relationship with her mother, Marion (played by a startlingly brilliant Laurie Metcalf). At school, Lady Bird's best friend is Julie (Beanie Feldstein, playing the most adorable and warm best friend you could hope for). They both attend a Catholic high school, and one of the side characters, the nun Sister Sarah Joan (Lois Smith) immediately reminded me of the nuns who ran my school when I was a child. It is so easy to mock Catholic high schools and their stereotypes, but instead, Lady Bird strives to portray both the silliness and grace in this environment. Yes, the girls might be secretly snacking on Communion wafers and complaining about skirt checks, but the nuns and priests are also kind teachers, who strive to do right by their students within the confines of a religious education.

It's hard to describe this movie any further because it would just devolve into a listing of all of my favorite scenes (which is pretty much all of them). Over the course of one year, the immature Lady Bird slowly grows up, making many mistakes along the way. There are encounters with boys (Lucas Hodges and Timothee Chalamet, playing two very different characters to represent the typical spectrum of teenage boyhood). Lucas Hodges, in particular, has a scene that is Best Supporting Actor-worthy in itself. There are the challenges with Julie, and the desire to get in with the cool kids that puts a strain on their friendship. And there is that turbulent relationship with her mother, a woman who has such a big heart, but simply does not know how to talk to her daughter without pissing her off. Their relationship will resonate with mothers and daughters everywhere - the moments when your mother just doesn't get it, the moments when you wish you could confide in her but don't, and the moments when you simply crumble and she knows exactly what to do. I will be shocked if Metcalf doesn't nab every nomination (and hopefully award) for Best Supporting Actress this year.

And of course, this brings us to Lady Bird herself, Saoirse Ronan. She is clearly writer-director Greta Gerwig's muse, and her every action and expression is reminiscent of Gerwig herself. Ronan commands the screen, making Lady Bird the most lovable weirdo I've seen in some time, and somehow, even though we led completely different lives, I still found myself relating to every moment in her life. That is a testament to Gerwig's storytelling ability. Even though the world and characters seem so specific to this time and place, the situations are universal, and you will find yourself remembering all the stupid things you did as a teenager (and continue to do now as an adult). If you're a parent, you will wholeheartedly relate. If you're a teacher, you'll understand. If you're a nun, you'll cheer at the portrayal of your fellow Sisters as something other than joyless harridans. And if you're a woman, you will rejoice at this acknowledgement of all the complex emotions and frustrations that make up your life and challenge you on a daily basis.

Greta Gerwig has stated that she wanted Lady Bird to serve as a female counterpoint to all the movies about male adolescence. She has triumphed in her endeavor. This movie is a pitch-perfect depiction of what it's like to be a teenage girl, and I promise you, even if you are reading this in some deeply conservative country or region where you would never get up to half the things that Lady Bird does, you will still understand this girl and what she's going through. I should know - I was a Hindu who went to Catholic school in the Middle East and am now an atheist in New York who still loves visiting churches. Lady Bird made me tear up at multiple moments and say "oh yes, I know what that feels like." It also helps that the use of Dave Matthews Band's "Crash into Me" was so perfect, it nearly destroyed me.

Lady Bird is a movie that sneaks up on you, starting off as a light comedy and gradually unleashing its tentacles into your heart until it has a strong grip and won't let go. I loved it and I have a feeling it will become a classic, the movie that teenage girls and adult women quietly revel in for years to come.

This review originally appeared on Shloka’s blog, Pop Culture Scribe. 

[chalcedonywaves]

so, a tangentially related musing to my earlier outburst: i used to be a pretty big slash shipper in my late teens. I didn't write fic for those ships but devoured it regularly, mostly from anime fandoms where it was plentiful, though I went through a major Remus/Sirius phase at one point. one common thread through all of them was the minimizing of female characters which occasionally veered into flagrant misogyny. i recall Gundam Wing fandom being particularly horrid about this in regards to Relena, a character i found annoying anyway, so when fics turned her into a screeching, scheming psychopath standing in the way of True Dude Love i was generally amused by it. my ship/fic tastes changed substantially in my 20s, and i'm sure that was at least partially due to overcoming my fear of exploring my sexuality instead of relying on fiction to do it for me. i've largely avoided slash fandoms for the last decade or so, but spending so much time in the SW/Reylo corner brought them back into view. the thing now isn't so much "lol let's make this female character into an unlikeable harridan to invalidate the het ship" as it is "let's paint her as a weak and defenseless child in need of protecting to invalidate the het ship," with a hearty side helping of concern trolling. the same misogyny is still there, it's just shifted forms. but now more than ever it seems to be about denying agency. it's not just about rendering "strong female characters" as weak and in need of protecting from male characters whose asses they've canonically kicked. it's about policing the fantasies of real women, of all colors and ages and sexualities, who want to write about those female and male characters in a relationship and are being told NO YOU CAN'T DO THAT IT'S PROBLEMATIC.

[skysteelsun]

what is stephanivien's relationship like with his family?

send me a topic to write a meta about my muse on

In short, complicated. At length -

The Haillenarte family is large: Stephanivien has five siblings, of which he is the oldest, and both of his parents are still living. Unfortunately, only his relationship with his father, Count Baurendouin de Haillenarte, is explored in canon - the rest is all headcanon and development with fellow RPers.Stephanivien’s relationship with his father is… strained; as the heir to House Haillenarte, there are expectations placed on Stephanivien’s shoulders, and none of those expectations involve whiling away his days at the Skysteel Manufactory. While Baurendouin never outright forbids him from visiting the workshop, he makes his disapproval clear, and always has; Stephanivien does his best to never allow it to trouble him overmuch, believing always that he will someday persuade his father to see the value of his work. He has always assumed his father is ashamed of him: he isn’t the knight his sister or middle brother are, and isn’t invested enough in the politics and gossip of noble life to maneuver successfully through society - indeed, he prefers the company of lowborn engineers and artisans, and has very few friends among the nobility, which frustrates his father to no end. Luckily, this does change in time, as Stephanivien’s machinists begin to make a name for themselves.For himself, Baurendouin is actually quietly proud of his son’s stubborn loyalty to his work - it isn’t what he wants his eldest son to be doing, of course, and he despairs to imagine what the boy’s future (to say nothing of House Haillenarte’s future) is going to hold, but he cannot help but admire Stephanivien’s tenacity.Stephanivien’s mother is the lovely Countess Yvonne de Haillenarte (an OC of mine), once the daughter of a lesser noble house with ties to House Fortemps. In many ways, Stephanivien takes after his mother - he has her merry heart and welcoming personality, and her unshakable tendency to see only the best in everyone she meets. While he often laments that he cannot be the perfect son she would doubtless prefer, Stephanivien is nevertheless close to his mother - in fact, it was her gentle insistence that finally persuaded Baurendouin to allow Stephanivien to spend so much time at the manufactory as a child. Not that Steph himself knows or realizes it, of course; she keeps that her own secret.Second-oldest and Stephanivien’s partner in crime since before either of them can remember, Aurvael ( @diadembound ) is the goad to his mischievous streak. As children, among other pranks, the boys convinced as many people as possible that they were twins: an easy feat, as they were born almost dangerously close together (Yvonne wasn’t aware she could have another child so soon) and very closely resemble one another: there are still some people in Ishgard who believe it. They’re thick as thieves, and beware any time the two are together: if Aurvael has a ludicrous and dangerous idea, odds are, Stephanivien has a machine or a plan - or both - to make it happen. He designs and builds the airships that Aurvael takes on grand adventures to the mysterious and deadly Diadem, and most of Ishgard prays that’s the last of their collaborations.Stephanivien’s relationship with his brother Kistenian (the incomparable @kistenian-haillenarte, whose OC is considered canon for this blog) is occasionally tempestuous, but no less loving for it; Stephanivien is quite certain he has his fashionable younger brother’s disdain, and tries not to impose on him overmuch these days even when he is home from the manufactory. The truth is quite the opposite; by all accounts Kist would love to see more of his scarce oldest brother, but convincing Stephanivien of that would involve him actually being home for once.As he failed to become a knight and indeed despised his knightly training, it should come as no surprise that Stephanivien’s relationship with his late brother Chlodebaimt - a renowned knight in spite of his youth - was also strained. It didn’t help that the serious, tight-laced Chlodebaimt was the frequent victim of Steph and Aurvael’s childhood pranks, and that it was common knowledge (and frequently remarked upon) that Baurendouin’s middle son would make a far better heir to House Haillenarte. While the pranks settled down significantly once Stephanivien found the manufactory and, through it, a better outlet for his creative energy, the divide between them was never fully mended before the fall of the Steel Vigil and Chlodebaimt’s untimely death. ( @chlodebamf writes a Chlodebaimt that survived the Vigil’s destruction, and is taken as canon for this blog.)The other knight in the family, Stephanivien’s sister Laniaitte ( @cloudtoprose ) had the fortune of being born late enough that she endured very little of her eldest brothers’ pranks and mischief (barring Stephanivien dismantling a music box of hers for parts). He sees her only seldom, only when visiting Camp Cloudtop to take a look at the constantly-grounded Protector, or during her own rare trips back to Ishgard - but he isn’t quite certain where he stands with her, as he isn’t often popular with knights, and is forever convinced that his family is ashamed of him and his work. Stephanivien himself is feverishly proud of his baby sister, and will loudly praise her to the heavens should anyone so much as mention her name in his hearing.The youngest of his siblings, Francel ( also found on @chlodebamf ) is the sibling whom Stephanivien understands the least - quiet and melancholy by nature, Francel is almost the complete opposite of his eldest brother, and Stephanivien has never quite been able to grasp how to get close to him. It often pains him to be around Francel for long, as his prospectometer insists his youngest sibling is capable of great things, but for the life of him, he cannot seem to find the way to draw those great things out of him. (There is another Francel at @aroseyetbloomed, though admittedly I’m not sure how active they are anymore. ; u; )Of note is Stephanivien’s long-term lover and childhood best friend Haurchefant (specifically @haurchefantgreystone ), who is as good as family - after saving Francel’s life on more than one occasion, Baurendouin himself considers Haurchefant as good as a son to him, and considers the young knight’s friendship to his family as a boon to House Haillenarte, bastard-born or no. Haurchefant is perhaps the only person allowed to see Stephanivien truly weak and heartbroken, even if only for a short time before he rallies his own spirit. Stephanivien considers Haurchefant his safe place (along with Skysteel itself), and the feeling is mutual. The only problem, really, is that Stephanivien is convinced Haurchefant is ashamed to be with him, and that this is the reason Haurchefant wished to keep their relationship a secret for so long - which couldn’t be further from the truth.And last but not least, Joye ( my own blog at @ninefaces ) - seemingly nothing more than a housemaid in the service of House Haillenarte, Joye is a quiet, anxious young woman who transforms into a gun-toting, hard-swearing harridan upon drawing her flintlock, and Stephanivien adores her. She keeps him in line: acting as a source of focus for his otherwise impulsive nature, Joye makes certain Stephanivien finishes the most important tasks first before indulging in his own pet projects - as well as making sure he eats and sleeps on occasion, and training new machinists in the use of firearms… and still maintaining her job at the Haillenarte manor. Stephanivien absolutely considers her a member of the family, and has long since recognized her as both indispensable and invaluable, and never misses the opportunity to let her shine her brightest.

[ghostwriter-uk-blog]

‘Martha, my Muse’

My muse, a Harridan hag? I don't think so! Some have familiars, in the shape of cats. Others have Spirit Guides, which are Red Indian warriors. (I don't do all that PC stuff and say they are Native North Americans!) Me? My muse is a wizened old woman. I was killing time, standing outside the Hospice shop, waiting for my watch repair to be ready. One split second she wasn't there, I swear, the next she was! She appeared from nowhere, I'm telling you! The encounter with the woman in the grey shawl. It took just ten minutes that was all. But it will last a lifetime. Mine. Was it real, or was it a dream? Was she a witch or a wraith? Merely a ghost or a gregarious goblin, in disguise? The situation certainly had all the makings of a mystery, and all the trappings of a thriller. The people I tell just stare at me strangely. Who wouldn't? I ask myself. I'd probably do just the same, if it wasn't for the fact that it happened to me. She came from the North, or so she said. Irmerston is a name I recall her using more than once. Or was it that she had relatives there? Was I really 'touched by an angel'? There was definitely ' a laying on of hands', as in the biblical sense. Could this have been an encounter of the Fourth kind? Hebrews thirteen has a lot to answer for. She said she was eighty five, and had been a Mormon since she was forty. But in some lights I would have sworn she wasn't yet sixty. In others, she had a face that had seen more than a thousand summers. I've heard of shape-shifters, I never thought to meet one. Many say I talk at tangents, and maybe they are right. I do waffle on a bit. Never keeping to the same subject for long. Fleeting thoughts, forever fluttering like a butterfly in its short life span. Over the last couple of years, the diagnosis of my chronic atrial fibrillation has caused me to consider my life expectancy, and to realise it may be seriously shortened at anytime in the near future. But she spoke confidently and authoritatively about longevity, quoting several incidences of people living to a good age. Katherine Hepburn living to a hundred; her long relationship with Spencer Tracy. And made it sound so matter of fact, that Katherine had given him a cup of tea, shortly before he finally died. It was as if she had been there at the time. Her opening gambit had been to draw my attention to a boxed set of Frank Sinatra records displayed in the shop window. As I intimated earlier, I'm sure I was alone outside that shop, and the sound of her speaking to me had startled me, into realising she was standing beside me. She started by saying Frank had a daughter, Nancy and a son, Frank Jr. She talked about his Mafia connections. When I retorted that rumours were rife during all of Sinatra's life but that he had never publicly admitted to the allegations. She intimated that the reason being was that Frank had not actually done anything 'bad' so to speak. At that moment, she gave me the distinct impression that she might have known him and his family intimately. But how could that be? I was becoming afraid of the enormity of the developing situation, so I made my excuses to leave, and she let me go wishing me well. We parted. Me going my way, she hers. I picked up the watch from the menders. It must have taken all of two minutes, when I suddenly realised the terrible mistake I had made in cutting our conversation short. I began searching the town, shop by shop. Each individual lane up and down. But to no avail. Seeming she had disappeared the same way she arrived. Suddenly. It wasn't till I was on the bus travelling home, feeling thoroughly desolate, that I heard her voice again. But this time it was different. She was inside my head, talking to me. She said artists, of all kinds, needed inspiration from time to time; and she would be mine, if I let her.

I know now I made a mistake: I thought I was her 'mark' in the town, and she was just getting ready to put the sales spiel on me; to buy her that expensive bottle of sherry that she said was the only one that she drank. She'd talked about many things, and how everybody had vices. Drugs, booze, cigarettes etc. She said how hers weren't too bad; just a tipple now and again of sherry that could be bought in Tesco's (which had been across the way from where we had been standing), at nine pounds a bottle. “Here we go," I'd thought, "Here comes the pitch; hard times 'n' all, for an old lady. You seem a nice person. Could you see your way clear to buying me a bottle, maybe?" This is why I had up and ran. But instead, here was she offering me the gift!

Some writers have residencies.

 I am hers.

Where we will go from here, is any body's guess. Just watch this space! But I do suggest you don't waste your time, standing outside the Hospice shop, in the vague hope she might just amble along. Because she's mine; and I'm keeping her!

[wandchoosesthewizard]

005. — Throw something large at my muse. ( to/from whoever you like )

These violent delights have violent ends || @xmusiisms || Still accepting

Bellatrix was merely testing him, in her own unwelcome and unhinged way. She would tire eventually. At least, that’s what he hoped. And it was what the evidence pointed towards. Attacking him in his sister’s house might betray a certain level of fury - however - if she was she truly as calculating as he thought her, she’d have followed him to his own home to do this, in privacy. 

She had not broken out any of the unforgivables yet - and he well knew her proclivity and proficiency with them. Trying not to goad her into doing so was a razor’s edge - she was ready to spar with words, hurling insults almost as frequently as hexes - but would not take any attack on her character lightly. If he injured her, she would wish to inflict pain. However, if he did nothing but defend - she would take that a sign of weakness… And Bellatrix, he believed, found that an incredibly ugly trait. 

If she wanted him dead - or writhing in agony - she’d be trying harder.

Not that she was going easy on him. He was faced, currently, with a sofa soaring across the room at him, directed by her wand work. He apparated - the pop of his magic drowned out by the sound of what had been a fine piece of furniture hitting the wall and dropping to the floor.

Appearing behind her, he wrapped both arms around her (a rather chancy decision) using his height to hoist her from the ground. “Yield, Bellatrix, you insufferable harridan.” He snarled.