#if i see a single “women belong in the kitchen”

[luneaticlab]

AMORE (Chapter 1)

Pairing - CEO!Jungkook x Secretary!reader (female)

synopsis- Never in a million years you thought you'd end up with your boss, in bed.

Word count- 1.4k

IMPORTANT NOTE - Hey guys, this my first fic. I promise I'll improve. love and feedback are always welcomed.

•I do not own any of the pictures•

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

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"come again?"

hesitantly, you repeated the words you said to your bestfriend a few seconds ago "The last time i got laid was 13 months ago..?"

"Girl, are you fucking serious?" Lena, your bestfriend not-so-aggresively threw her hands in the air.

"What's wrong with it? You know i'm not the type to have one night stands and shit" you justified defensively, delicately caressing your 5 month old persian cat, fluff.

"Dude you are in your twenties, you are hot, rich and single, what's wrong with having some fun before you settle down?" all you did was roll your eyes, ready to nag her about hygiene during sex.

"Don't tell me you still have a crush on your jackass boss" alice appeared from your kitchen, a cup of hot choco keeping her hands warm.

you were taken aback, yes, you did have a crush on your not-so-jackass boss, maybe you still do, no one knows, you are too busy with work to think about that. But something about him just makes your thighs clench.

His thick thighs which you would die to sit on, his tiddies who always threaten to come out(thanks to the buttons which do not let them), and his freaking jawline which you want to hold so bad when he kisses you.

Just to be clear the chances of this happening is 0.01% .

He's the typical rich, young, hot bachelor desired by multiple women and owned by none. Somehow you always managed to keep a very professional relationship with him so far. But what's life without some thrill?

"Jeon jeongguk? go ahead , have sex with him then. A rich man is a rich man" Lena suggests as if she's telling you to pick out some roses from the neighbour's garden.

"sure, find me a now job by tomorrow then" Lena chuckles at your reponse.

"Girl, its not that hard, he's a man and he might have needs too, if you really want him on the top then maybe wear some sexy clothes at work, you guys see each other everyday"

"Yeah yeah i'll think about it" you shrugged off the topic, not wanting to discuss it further.

:.。..。.。o○:.。..。.。o○:.。..。.。o○:.。..。.。

"fuck!" You finally found your release , turned the vibrator off, took a shower, slouched on your bed releasing a lazy sigh

Yes ,the vibrator did wonders when you got it for the first time, but you've become too used to it, you knew you needed more and by more you meant jungkook's dic-

you pushed your sinful thoughts out of the way and forced yourself to sleep.

:.。..。.。o○:.。..。.。o○:.。..。.。o○:.。..。.。o○:

next day , 7.39 a.m

You got out of the shower, fresh and clean. Done with the skincare and your usual makeup (nude lips are mandatory!) .you were about to pick your grey sweatshirt, Lena's words resonating in your ears.

Fuck it, it's now or never.

you put the sweatshirt right where it belonged. Took out a white tube top which covered half of your tits, wore a black trouser matching with the blazer of the same colour of the trouser. A black nano belt bag from celine completing your look. Quickly wearing your jimmy choo high heels, you stepped out of your apartment, you felt confident.

You were aware of the stares you were getting at the office, you weren't surprised, not your fault you look good with a minimum effort.

You spot your coworker Diana at the cafeteria, she waves at you , her look telling you that she's got something for you

"Hey y/n, I've completed the list of the guests we are going to invite at the company's gala, Do you mind passing it to Mr.Jeon? I got some last minute work to do." She asked holding your hand

Bingo

"Sure, why not , I was about to give him his espresso anyway." you smile at her politely before taking the file.

Quickly making your way upstairs, you fic your hair before you knock his door.

'"Come in"

"Good morning Mister Jeon, the list for the guests for our company's gala dinner has been finalized." You said as you placed his espresso and the file on his table.

He looked up to see you, "Alright, thank you y/n, I hope you didn't forget we have to go to daegu today."

You caught him stealing a glance at your chest.

"Ofcourse sir" you smiled curtly before leaving his office, swaying your hips on purpose while doing so.

Jeongguk and you had to go to Daegu today for the monthly inspection of the company's factory there.

Being Jeongguk's secretary was undeniably challenging, but the salary was enough motivation to continue doing your job.

・。゜・。・o゜・。゜・。・o゜・。゜・。・o゜

3.39 p.m

"Mister Jeon, we are ready to leave." You said as you peeked out your head from the door into his office.

He nodded while fixing his blue Ralph Lauren coat as he walked past you , you followed him behind, making sure everything is on the right place.

You looked at him from behind, good Lord he was so damn hot then you looked at yourself. You guys would make such a power couple in your opinion.

"Did you have lunch sir?" You asked knowing he might not have eaten given the fact that he absorbs himself too much in his work once he starts.

"I didn't have time to"

"I figured, I ordered chipotle for you, will you be okay with a burrito bowl ?" Jungkook liked having light meals on work days and he gets carsick easily so chipotle was the best option.

"Yes, thank you y/n i appreciate it." He said gratefully, flashing you a small smile which you could write a whole thesis on.

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You were driving the car and the ride was smooth, you guys talked about work related stuff. Until,

"How have you been lately, y/n?" Jeongguk asked out of nowhere.you glanced at him for a second before replying "I've been good, pretty much the same since 2 years. working on weekdays, staying at home on the weekends. Oh, and I've got a new roommate – a furry one. Adopted a cat a few months back. It's nice having someone waiting for me at home, you know?"

You have no idea why you are giving a detailed explanation instead of the typical 'I'm doing good' but it is what it is.

"Any special someone in the picture?" He asked, a hint of uncertainty laced in his voice.

You glance at him again in surprise before refocusing on the road, this guy is really picking his moments. "No special someone right now sir, how about you?" He started this.

He chuckled a little,"Not at the moment, not into relationships anyway."

well damn, at least it was worth the try.

You catch jungkook looking at you a lot of times during the ride.

"We have reached, sir." You both get out of the car and head towards the factory.

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7:51 p.m, Daegu.

It was pouring cats and dogs.

"I think we should book a hotel and stay there for the night". Jungkook suggested while looking up. All of the workers were leaving and driving in this crazy rain is dangerous.

"But i don't have any spare clothes."

"Should we buy them on the way?" Jungkook asked finally looking at you.

"I think we should."

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You guys found the nearest hotel, and went to your respective rooms.Jungkook chose a package of 1 night+ dinner because you guys didn't eat anything after lunch.

"Let us change then meet at the dinner hall yeah?" Jungkook said looking at you, your clothes were a little drenched, the droplets on your half-exposed boobs were visible and he can see your bra underneath the white tube top.

"Sure , sir"

You guys literally shoved your faces in the food because the meal was ten out of ten and ya'll were hungry as hell.

When you entered the elevator, jungkook looked at you for a second before speaking " Good day today"

You smiled at him. Damn that smile, he couldn't control himself , he brought his face closer to yours, literally a gap of 2 centimeters between. "Can I kiss you?" He asked , it came like a whisper.

"Please" You practically whimpered.

Just like that, his lips were on yours.

To be continued

[moonwalkingprincess]

Self Sabotaging p2

Summary: Marshall writes a song telling you why he cheated.

Pairings: Marshall Mathers X reader

Warning: heartbreak, eating a lot of candy, listening to Taylor Swift, etc.

Words: 1146

y/bf pov

I ran up the stairs, anger burning through every part of my body as I rang his doorbell. He opened the door slowly, like he already knew what was coming. I could see it in his eyes—he was hoping it was Y/N.

“It’s just me,” I spat.

Marshall sighed quietly and opened the door all the way. “You’re here to pick up her stuff.”

“Yeah. And I’m not staying a second longer than I have to.”

I walked straight in, started gathering her books, clothes, jewelry—everything that belonged to her. I didn’t want to leave a single piece of her behind in this place.

“I get that you hate me now, but I need to explain…” I heard him say behind me. I threw a t-shirt into the bag, stood up slowly, looked him dead in the eye—and punched him square in the face, cutting his little speech short.

“You cheated on her,” I said coldly. “That’s more than enough. You destroyed her, you absolute piece of shit.”

He nodded, like he’d had this conversation in his head a thousand times. “Can I just explain��?”

I cut him off again and stepped closer. I wanted to hit him again, just like I did when I first found out. But instead, I clenched my jaw and said:

“It won’t change a damn thing. You were messing around with two women right in front of her, acting like she was nothing.”

He stared down at the floor. Shame practically dripping off him.

“How is she?” he asked quietly.

“What do you think?” I said, rolling my eyes.

“She’s listening to Taylor Swift, isn’t she?” he asked, guilt heavy in his voice. He actually knows her better than I thought. I nodded. “I Knew You Were Trouble. That’s the song she picked for you.” 

He looked up at me again, eyes glossy. But I didn’t care. I turned around, grabbed the bag, and headed for the door.

“Be glad it was me who came. Because if it had been her… you wouldn’t have any teeth left.”

I picked up the boxes and started walking toward the hallway when he grabbed my arm. I didn’t think so. My fist connected with his cheek before I even realized what I was doing.

My eyes widened in shock. What the hell did I just do?

Shame swept over me, flooding every inch of my body—so I walked out. 

__

You were lying on the couch, listening to a radio that was currently playing Taylor Swift. Your phone had died because of all the music you have been playing and Marshall had been calling you non stop, so you didn’t want to charge it. y/bf had gone to Marshall a week ago to pick up your stuff. She was currently in the kitchen making me a real meal.

You must have gained a lot of weight because you have only eaten nothing but candy and sweets or Pizza. You were just lying in y/bf couch, listening to your music, in peace, letting tears stream down your cheeks. Suddenly, the radio stopped playing the song and said:

“Yo yo you, we got a very new single from Eminem, featuring Taylor Swift.” 

You looked up to the radio. How did he know you would listen to this radio channel?  Well, this radio channel is known to play Taylor Swift and he knows you like her. You leaned back and listened to his lyrics: 

I don’t even know how to start this,

Pen in my hand but the ink feels heartless,

You were the light in the room where I sparked it,

While I was numb, and drunk, and half-hearted.

You held me up when I was six feet under,Carried my chaos, took on my thunder.

I was high, I was low, you stayed through it all,

While I was too busy tryna outrun my fall.

You saw the man behind the monster I became,

Still called me by my name when I drowned in shame.

Y/N, you were heaven in a hell-made place,

But I burned the bridge — yeah, I spit in grace.”

The song was about us. Me. An apology for me. “y/bf” I shouted and she came running out from the kitchen. “What?” she says, and i point to the air, telling her to listen to the radio. 

“You were gold, I was stone,

I Did what I did because my heart couldn’t 

watch you polish the stone anymore.

I did some things I regret, because I needed to let you go.

You gave me love, and I gave you nothing but pain,

Now I’m just hopin’ you dance in the rain.” 

“it’s Marshall…” I say, y/bf shakes her head. “y/n no, don’t fall for it, it’s just  manipulation.” she says. No it isn’t. Marshall is a lot of things, but he’s not a manipulator. Not after all the manipulation his mom did growing up. He’s always honest in his music. His music is like his journal, they come from his heart. This was 100% him. When you listen to the song, he mentions how he’s always been bad in relationships, how he was a bad husband to Kim, a bad son to his mom,and now, a bad boyfriend to you. He also mentions how he doesn’t deserve you… he was self sabotaging it all? 

You ignored y/bf advice, and got up from the couch, took off your pyjamas and put on some real clothes. You headed to his house, but it was empty, his car wasn’t there. The studio. You got into the car and drove over to the studio. 

__

The door creaked open and Marshall looked up from the soundboard, eyes bloodshot but alert. The second he saw you, standing there with your hoodie pulled over her head, hands in a cross,  something in him cracked wide open. His heart jumped so hard it almost hurt. 

“What are you doing here?” he breathed, barely trusting his voice. She didn’t say anything right away. Just stepped inside the studio, the dim light flickering over her face. Then she looked at him, not with anger, not even with sadness, just something tired but soft. 

“I heard the song,” she said simply. That was all it took. They sat down on the worn-out couch, and time stopped. No yelling, no blame. Just hours of raw honesty. They talked through the night - about everything. About what they’d been through and maybe, what could still come next. 

Marshall, eyes glassy but sober, whispered, “I’m done with it. The alcohol. The pills. All of it. I wanna be better. Not for you, not even for me — just because it’s time.” you didn’t say much, but you didn’t leave either. 

A couple of months later, Marshall went to rehab, and soon, the album recovery would soon be released.

[kondensaduhhh]

TF2 Mercs: Cooking HCs

all the mercs can cook, theyre all grown men ffs, but they're just better at certain things than the rest of them

this long as hell😭😭 good god, didnt expect it to be this long

first of all; Scout. Scout can absolutely cook, i personally think that a single mother who raised 7 sons is, first of all, a badass, and secondly, will not tolerate any of that "Women belong in the kitchen" bullshit, she taught her sons how to do basic life skills.

while, yeah, Scout can cook, he cooks breakfast foods best. sure, hes a little flinchy when the bacon starts poppin' but nothing he cant handle. He makes the best pancakes, toast, french toast, bacon, eggs, hell, the mercs don't get it but somehow even the way Scout makes cereal and milk in a bowl was better.

he doesnt measure either, he just eyeballs everything, which was one if the reasons he could bake for the life of him, no matter how many times his Ma and bros taught him. he makes killer milkshakes though.

Pyro!! idc idc hes a grown adult, hes not gonna burn anything, least of all the kitchen, he's too experienced with fire for such an imbecilic notion. Pyro's the best at making desserts, not really baking, he knows the basics, but not really his forte. Pyro made everyone's opinion on jell-o turn positive, theyre just that good. he can make flans, hard candy, ice cream, if its a dessert he can probably make it. everyone's favorite of his tho is caramel popcorn

Soldier usually either burns food or undercooks it but for some reason only when it's a shallow fry, he's great at deep frying and grilling, like hes super serious abt it, like he never lets whatever it is hes cooking out of his sight, he doesn't set up a timer or thermometer, its like he just knows when the food is fully cooked, he almost looks catatonic as he just stands there completely still watching the food cook but immediately starts yelling at his usual full volume when some tries to sneak in a bite of the food that IS finished cooking.

the demoman. most of Demo's food will usually have a very vague taste of alcohol in it, barely noticeable, the other mercs only realise it when they find out who cooked it. Demo's food always tastes great, unfortunately he can only make it once and he won't be able to recreate it, they're almost always just random ingredients that he somehow turns into a masterpiece.

although, there is one recipe he can make completely the same without fail, and it's his mum's favourite soup.

the engineer is the best at baking, with countless family recipes memorised and tweaked by his engineering prowess, it really is no competition. hes on par with Soldier in the grilling department, used to be a problem whenever they wanted to grill, and the two would butt heads, Heavy always put a stop to it before shit got too out of hand. at the end, it was Soldier who was the main griller, and Engie settled on making the casseroles and biscuits.

when it starts to get cold, everybody (ahemscoutahem) begs Heavy to make soup. While being in the mountains for 20ish years, Heavy found a lot of ways to make soup, from thin, brothy soups, to creamy, sticks-to-your lips soups. Fortunately, they dont have to beg for long since Heavy is always happy to cook his comfort foods for his friends, and while yes he does have to substitute most of the protein, the mercs dont see a problem with any of it, even though Heavy says it's not the same because it's not bear meat.

Medic can cook, it just so happens the only foods he can make without the aid of a written recipe are German dishes. He doesn't have much of a relationship with food, but can cook, but he does like to experiment which often gets tested out by either Pyro (bc he can stomach pretty much anything somehow), Sniper (bc Medic still wants to know if the food is edible and Pyro kinda doesn't count, and Sniper is the least picky with food), and Scout (this is mostly bc Sniper called him a pussy when he commented on the food)

Spy barely, very rarely will make food for the team, but if his ego was stroked enough he just might make a French dessert where he would pretty much blockade the kitchen bc French desserts are 'extremely fragile' hes exaggerating ofc, he just wants the kitchen to himself. while he does appear to be quite cold to the team, he does care for them and will, occasionally, not always, make them smth to eat when he notices smth amiss, he wont let them know its him (but they know, bc who else would elegantly plate smth as simple as frozen waffles?)

and finally Sniper. Sniper, if alone, would only eat what is necessary, not very picky either, has and will eat scorpions again if necessary. but whenever its his turn to cook for the team he always cooks family recipes, he has a box filled with index cards with his mum's handwriting, ranging from bread recipes, to a 3-day marinated beef stew. he usually just cooks the pasta soup and rice soups tho for stretchability of the dish

[strawberrystepmom]

prev chap | YOU ARE A FEVER | gojo x f!reader | series masterlist | next chap

cw: reader has defined characteristics (complexion that visibly reddens), two sisters, mentions of farming and livestock. word count 3k.

SIX YEARS AGO IN THE VILLAGE OF UCRA

Your days begin before the sun begins her own.

Distant roosters crow letting you know that morning has arrived and you shift in your bed uncomfortably, linen sheets scratching against your bare legs. Reasoning with yourself for five more minutes would be useless knowing it would throw your entire day off schedule. For a fleeting selfish moment, you contemplate the harm in allowing those measly minutes to clear your own head. The more reasonable part of you wins out this time, five minutes here and there add up quickly if you tally them at the end of the day, and your feet dangle over the edge of the bed. Your grandmother’s voice is audible through the door separating your bedroom from the kitchen, the soft clatter of dishes accompanying the sound of her singing quietly to an audience of no one.  

Padding softly across the floor, you swing the door open and greet her with a sleepy half-smile. Your sisters are still asleep and your grandfather is out of the village to trade leaving you responsible for the animals until he returns. The chickens will be fed twice today and their eggs will be collected and delivered to your neighbors. The goats will be pet gently while they’re milked, something you hope you can convince one of the girls to help with. The cows will be allowed to mosey in the pasture all day, chomping on grass while clouds roll by over their heads. 

You, on the other hand, will be handling a transaction between your grandfather and someone from the bustling city of Amavel. Sheer mention of the city makes your stomach flutter excitedly, imagining what it must be like to be in a place so large you can remain anonymous. In Ucra, everyone knows you and has since the day you were born. The community is small and deeply protective of itself, something you have always found difficult to understand given how big this world is. 

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

Your grandmother greets you as she does every morning, a soft smile on her face that shows the ever deepening lines around her mouth. Age leaves no one untouched, a thought you often refuse to indulge in because it makes you sad to think about ever losing her. You grab her hand gently and she perks up when you squeeze it. 

“Take a rest today.” Your word isn’t absolute given you are not the woman of the house but she is fair enough to consider your opinion when you give it. “Have one of the girls tend to stuff around the house.”

She sighs and squeezes your hand back, dropping it to reach around your back and grab a few eggs out of the bowl on the counter. 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

It’s the best answer she can give. The responsibilities double when it’s just you girls left at home. She cracks eggs into a skillet and the soft sizzle fills the kitchen while you take a seat at the table your family has been sharing for three generations. This house, this table, this life - it has all belonged to people who existed long before you did. You’ve never felt like you fit into it quite well enough, something beneath your skin itching to break free from the fate of the women before you. 

This line of thinking always draws you back to imagining Amavel. A place where you can truly be anyone or no one or even someone if that’s what you desire. It’s hard to imagine a single cow or a milking bucket in a place like that, paved and illuminated streets leading its citizens from place to place if the stories you have heard are true. Bustling libraries and places to get food and drink you have never even dreamed of having in your life.

You sigh as your grandmother did moments ago, settling back into the chair you sit on for a moment. It does no good to dream, being labeled as a dreamer is being seen as trouble and you have worked your whole life to be seen as anything but. You are reliable, where you’re supposed to be when you say you’ll be there.

With any luck, your good reputation will help you today.

“Do you know what time I should be meeting our visitor? Papa didn’t say anything before he left.”

Grandma smiles and flips your egg by lifting the pan and tossing it gently in the air. When you were a child you swore this was a magic trick and told her so, eyes sparkling with joy. You were quickly and sternly told to never mention something like that again after you said it. The request has been honored but you still think the same thing every time you watch it.

There have always been rumors that magic exists in all of Ormur’s countrymen although in Ucra, this is strongly frowned upon. The people of this village lean on the primitive side compared to the rest of the increasingly modern country and superstition runs rampant in every home. Doorways and windows are blessed to keep evil out, black cats are shooed away with brooms and terrified glances.

“I believe he said this evening although I think you should stick as close to home as you can today in case he arrives sooner.” She advises and you nod. “People from the city tend to run on a different schedule than the rest of us.”

From the few past experiences you’ve had handling transactions with people from the city, you know she’s right. Time moves differently when you have endless amounts of it. “I better get started then.” You move to stand up but she stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder, sliding your breakfast in front of you. The same breakfast you’ve enjoyed since you were a child, two eggs with their yellow eyes staring up at you. “Eat first. I’ll see if I can get your sisters up to milk today.” A gentle reassurance that she’s trying to lessen your load, just as you do hers. You smile up at her and she leans down to kiss your forehead while you split the two eggs into separate pieces and silently give thanks for the meal. The sun has risen, her light filling the kitchen, and you’ve well and truly managed to mess up your schedule for the day by taking those few minutes to enjoy your breakfast. 

-:¦:- -:¦:--:¦:- -:¦:-

As expected, nothing has gone according to plan today and it feels as though there is some force out of your control causing all of the chaos around you.

The chickens got out of their coop overnight, giving you no choice but to walk into the forests that surround the village to gather them all. You gently reprimanded each of them and placed them back in their homes with a disappointed sigh, plucking eggs from the nests to put in the pockets of your apron. Counting over each of the rows, you notice one is missing and shut the coop tightly, latching it closed before leaving.

How could you forget one? You could’ve sworn they’d all made their way back when you clucked at them and scattered feed on the ground at your feet to beckon them to you and you stomp back into the woods, frustration evident in the way you mutter to yourself quietly. 

“Of course this has to happen today of all days,” you spit through gritted teeth, the blooming hydrangeas of the forest brushing your arms as you walk through the thick bushes to a clearing where you stand and take a deep breath.

“FLORENCE!”

You scream the name one of your sisters gave the chicken so loudly it practically rips itself out of your throat, your body bending with the force of it. Fists balled at your sides, you stomp in place and furious tears roll down your cheeks. 

Your mind races with anxious, spiraling questions. Why is this happening? Is it because you wasted too much time with grandma this morning? Is it because your mind dwelled a little too long on this concept of magic that seems so foreign but so pervasive everywhere you look?

Bottom lip quivering, you unball one of your fists to wipe your fingers down your face. A few angry tears drip down your chin before you can catch them and you blow out a defeated puff of air. Going any deeper into the woods could spell disaster if you can’t find your way back home by the time you need to be there so you contemplate what to do next. 

Then you hear them - footsteps. The crunch of fallen leaves and dirt causes you to spin around and you come face to face with a man you’ve never seen before. A whole lot of man at that. 

He’s taller than any man you’ve ever seen, broad shouldered and easy smile wearing. Blue eyes lock their gaze on you and you note that if they’re the sky, the floppy white strands atop his head are the clouds and they’re both unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. Your breath catches in your throat and he smiles, raising his arms that are wrapped around your lost chicken.

“I’m guessing this,” he nods downward at the surprisingly calm bundle in his arms, “is Florence?”

Wordlessly, you nod and reach out for your lost chicken. He holds her a moment longer, thumb stroking the fingers around her neck, and you wonder if this isn’t an ambush given you are in the forest on your own. Long before your adulthood, there were a few packs of bandits that attacked villagers and forced the entire group to be assigned escorts.

Your posture stiffens and he notices, handing her over with an affable smile and a laugh.

“Believe it or not, she found me.”

You attempt to discreetly assess your chicken for any harm that may have come to her on her adventure but find yourself thwarted by how interested this man is in speaking to you, his glance still fixed on your face. Florence clucks and shifts in your arms but your touch immediately soothes her as you pet the feathers on the top of her head and her beak.

Deciding to play it cool, you clear your throat and raise your eyebrows, finally meeting his gaze fully. Your stomach flutters as it did this morning, the excitement of something you’ve never seen before nearly overcoming any farm girl stoicism you may have perfected in your life. 

“Where at?” You ask coolly, or at least you believe you do until he cracks a smile. He can tell you’re trying to appear tough and aloof to protect yourself from any potential threat so he slackens his posture to make himself at least a little smaller. 

“In the bushes not far from here.” He points in the opposite direction of where you stand and you nod, still clutching the chicken. “I was on my way to the village to pick up an order and honestly assumed that’s probably where she came from.”

This is the man coming to pick up a freshly processed cow, sold to him by your Papa? Your eyes widen and you smile, tension melting from your body. 

“You’re supposed to be meeting me, actually.” You laugh. The coincidence is funnier than you expected and you tilt your head to the side curiously. “Are you the cafe owner? Nanami, I believe?”

“No, no. I’m the cafe owner’s friend,” he raises his eyebrows and waggles them in a way that makes you giggle. “I don’t know if he’d call me his friend, maybe just his brave and extraordinarily handsome delivery man, but he’s my friend.”

The chicken meltdown seems like a distant memory as a giggle bubbles out of you, amazed by this man’s easy going nature. The people in your village are so serious it’s hard to believe a person like this actually exists. Every bit of him seems different, thrumming with a bright white light of joy and vitality. His steps are as light as air, his grin shines in the dappled afternoon light.

“What’s your name?”

The man smiles down at you and opens his arms.

“Satoru Gojo, the one and only. And you?”

Quickly you introduce yourself though your confusion about his introduction is apparent. You tilt your head to the side curiously. Florence once again rustles in your arms and you touch her, gently assuring her everything is fine despite whatever she is worked up about. The chaotic energy that has blanketed your day clearly hasn’t disappeared fully but you are best suited to keep her calm.

“You’ll have to forgive me for asking but are you famous or something?”

Now it’s his Satoru’s to laugh. It sounds like the music that is played during the seasonal festivals in the village to you; you hear the songs so rarely that they have become something you cherish. 

This laugh could become the same if you think too long about it. 

“I mean if you mention my name at any bar in Amavel you’ll probably get a collective sigh from the patrons,” he jokes. “I’m pretty talkative and drunk people hate that.”

You wouldn’t know. You’ve never stepped foot in a bar despite being old enough to drink, the village tends to steer clear of alcohol unless it’s festival season so even wine is hard to come by. Excitement rises in you again, warmth lightening your limbs. 

“Can I ask you a few questions about the city while we walk back to the village?”

Gojo grins, a bit taken aback by your friendliness though he plays it off well. He has only traveled to Ucra a few times in his life, most of them recent, and he has never met someone quite as excited to see a stranger. Your eyes gleam and he wonders for a moment how anyone in your life has denied you a thing.

“Of course but you have to answer my questions too, okay?”

Nodding excitedly, you giggle.

“You can go first if you’d like.”

He pretends to ponder for a moment, stroking his chin thoughtfully while you begin walking back toward your home, where the large wheelbarrow of meat purchased waits for him to take back to the city. You don’t want to take up too much of his time knowing that what he purchased is time sensitive but the day is already so off track - what does it matter if you take a few minutes to do this? You took a few minutes to nourish yourself with breakfast, this is simply a different kind of sustenance and one you get to enjoy so rarely.

“Why is your chicken named Florence?”

You squeeze her gently in your arms.

“My sister named her. I have two of them and they named all of the chickens. This is Florence, we have Mary, Hattie, and Lucy and a bunch more at home. I could introduce you if you want?”

Even your frustration about having to wrangle and return each of these chickens has long evaporated and Satoru nods at you, holding his hand out in the direction of your village.

“After you.”

-:¦:- -:¦:--:¦:- -:¦:-

Once he’s certain that he is far enough out of the village that his magic will not be detected, Satoru mumbles a spell that encapsulates the bundle of packages in the wagon in golden light and they whoosh away in an instant, magicked off to their rightful owner Kento Nanami hours away from the secluded village he remains outside of. There’s a basket of preserved fruit and eggs dangling from one of his arms, courtesy of you, and he decides to keep them with him instead of sending them back. He doesn’t have to share a gift, after all.

Taking his time getting home, he walks in the opposite direction of the dirt path you walked him down just hours ago. There is so much to contemplate from this one little trip but there are two things he knows for certain. 

One, you have magical ability. Your touch alone was enough to calm animal and human alike, the slight golden aura shimmering off of your hands alerting him that it is not simply your good personality providing comfort although he did believe it to be nothing but at first. He won’t deny your good nature or your kind heart but there is more, something you clearly are interested in judging by how many questions you asked him about Amavel.

Two, he likes you. Not in the way he sort of likes everyone, it’s in his nature to be personable, but in the “why is my heart beating a little too fast right now” way. The “why do I have to leave you when I want to stay here and listen to you talk about how you named your chickens all night” way. The way that will make him certain he has to come back no matter what. Clever man that he is, it doesn’t take long to concoct a plan to figure out how to do just that.

Gojo mutters an incantation and with a wave of his free hand a book materializes out of thin air. It’s heavy and leather bound with gold raised lettering on the cover. It plops onto the ground with a thud when he releases his magic and he bends down to situate it between the hydrangea bushes far enough away from the village that he knows only you will venture out here. 

There’s a binding spell on the book, something to always tether him to you while he is back in the city. The book won’t spy on you per se but he will know every time you pick it up to read it, a gentle tug on his magic telling him that the sweet village girl is interested in more. 

If you wanted it, he’d give you everything including the world but he must take it a step at a time. This is simply step one - a magical interest check if you will. 

Satisfied with his plan, Satoru rises to standing and plucks a satchel of dried peaches from the basket you sent him home with. Popping one into his mouth with a pleased hum, he grins as he chews and continues walking away from the place he hopes to return to very soon.

[middleearthpixie]

I'll See You in My Dreams ~ Chapter Fourteen

Summary: Noelle James knows soul mates exist, the trouble is, she just can’t seem to find hers. Especially since hers seemed to have existed only in the world of cinema and The Hobbit movies. No one believes she actually spent time in Tolkien’s Middle Earth and even fewer believe Thorin Oakenshield existed in her world, either. 

So when she finds herself unexpectedly alone on yet another Christmas, she has no way of knowing exactly what the universe has in store for her this time.The trouble is, this man claiming to be Thorin can’t possibly be him, for he died at the hands of Azog the Defiler at Ravenhill. She saw him die with her own eyes.

So, it can’t be him.

Or can it?

Pairing: Thorin x ofc Noelle James

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 3k

Read on AO3

Noelle was in the kitchen in Thorin’s apartment, staring at the tin of tea leaves, trying to figure out how she brewed a cup of tea since she couldn't find a strainer to sift them into, when there came another knock at the door.

What could Dís want now? It simply wasn't possible that she wanted to ask her anything more about herself. She’d already asked a million and one questions, and certainly seemed satisfied with Noelle’s answers. There couldn't possibly be anything else she wanted to know, nor  could there be a single detail Noelle had overlooked or forgotten about herself. She was pretty sure Dís even knew when she’d cut her first tooth as a baby. The dwarrowdam was relentless in her curiosity.

The knocking grew insistent, so the tea leaves were forgotten as she went back to the door and opened it with, “Did you forget to ask me my shoe size, Dís? Because I’m a six, if you truly must know.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh,” Noelle stared down at Thalia, whose eyes were red and shiny and swollen, “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

“Miss James, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. But call me Noelle.”

“Noelle.” Thalia sniffed, rummaging in her small bag before coming up with a rather limp-looking handkerchief, with which she dabbed her eyes. “Might I come in a moment?”

“I don't think that’s a good idea, really. It’s Thorin’s apartment and—”

“Yes, I know it’s his flat. And perhaps you didn't know it, but it was to be mine as well in the coming days.”

“Really?” Noelle leaned against the doorjamb. “Thorin never mentioned that.”

“Didn't he?”

“No,” Noelle shook her head, “he didn’t. Now, I’m sorry because I don't meant to be rude, but what do you want?”

“I’ll admit, I was curious about you.” Thalia’s voice softened, and she offered up a hint of a smile. “Wouldn’t you be, if you were in my slippers? I mean, Thorin and I were a couple, and then he somehow disappears for several hours and when he returns, it’s with you and he tells me our betrothal is off. Can you fault me for wondering why? And would you not feel the same? Wouldn’t you also want answers as to why your entire life has suddenly been upended?”

“Of course I would.”

“Yes, you would. And I bear you no ill-will, of course. I just… I simply have questions, is all.”

There was no mistaking the pain in Thalia’s voice, or the sadness in her eyes, but Noelle wasn't entirely convinced Thalia was being absolutely sincere, either. After all, Noelle knew that Thorin had not asked Thalia to marry him yet, which meant that she probably had not moved into his apartment yet, either. 

Still, she didn’t know Thalia, and so had to be cautious as well. With that in mind, Noelle said, “I think I would be, sure. But, he was only gone a few hours in this world. In mine? He was there several days. Almost a week, in fact.”

“In this world. In your world,” Thalia’s voice went flat, her eyes going cold. “Have you any idea how mad that sounds? People simply do not travel between worlds and what world is yours, where women dress as men and throw themselves at men who belong to another?”

Noelle couldn't stop herself from rolling her eyes. “I’m hardly dressed as a guy, trust me, although that’s pretty funny, coming from a woman with a beard.”

Thalia’s eyes grew frosty. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, you heard me. Or did you think that you could just insult me and I would just ignore it?” Noelle folded her arms as she held that icy glare easily. “Because if you were expecting me to just take whatever you felt like handing out, you’re going to be very disappointed.”

“You stole him from me,” Thalia snapped. “And with him, you stole the life that was supposed to be mine. And it would have been mine, had it not been for you.”

“He’s not a prize, you know. I didn't steal him. And I’m not going to apologize—no, you know what? I’m not even having this conversation with you. You need to go. Now.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I told you, this is my flat, too.”

“Really? You know, I find that funny because there is absolutely nothing even remotely feminine here that doesn’t belong to me, no indication whatsoever that you’ve spent a single minute in this apartment. So you’ll forgive me if I call bullshit on you, because I am absolutely calling bullshit on you, Thalia.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, you heard me and I don't doubt for a minute that you can’t figure out what that means all on your own.”

Thalia’s eyes narrowed. “How dare—”

“No, how dare you. I don't know if you’re used to just bulldozing your way over people, or having them all bend over the moment you demand it, but if you think for one second I believe you actually live here, when we both know that you don’t, you’re crazy. I know you live here,” she gestured all around her with one hand, “as in Erebor, but you definitely do not live here as in this apartment. And we both know that you were going to be queen in your mind only, because he hadn’t even asked you to marry him. Now, I know you thought he was going to, but—”

“He was going to. Until you sank your claws into him.”

“My claws—look, lady, you need to go. And I’m not asking you again. Get. Out.”

“I am not going anywhere.” A hint of a smile tugged at Thalia’s lips. “In fact, I’d be very surprised if Thorin wasn't still going to ask for my hand. After all, these are my people as well and I highly doubt they would ever accept a daughter of Man as their queen. Surely, you realize this yourself.”

“Do I really look that dumb to you?” Noelle shook her head slowly, not troubling to hold back her laugh. “Because Thorin and I do talk, you know. And I know he told you the same thing. So really, all you’re doing is embarrassing yourself now, Thalia. So, why don’t you do us both a favor and just… go?”

Thalia remained where she stood, her eyes narrowing, but then she gave a sharp bob of her head. “Very well. But just remember, Thorin and I have far more in common than you and he ever will. You are but a pleasant distraction for him, a new toy he’d not yet grown bored with. But he will. Especially when his people refuse to accept you as their queen. He will do the right thing, as he always tries to, and that means that in time, he will come to his senses and realize who they will accept.”

It took every ounce of will Noelle possessed to not tell Thalia to go to hell, not that the dwarrowdam would understand what that meant, and it also took a great effort to not say exactly what she was thinking at that moment. Instead, she gritted, “Go. Away.”

Thalia sniffed and then marched back out of the apartment. As she closed the door behind Thalia, Noelle let out a soft sigh, sinking against the heavy door as she did. Her hands shook as adrenaline pumped wildly through her. She didn't think Thalia sensed her discomfort, but truth be told, Noelle hated confrontations of any kind. She didn't even like to send back a wrong order in a restaurant or at the coffee shop. 

But, years of building her own public relations firm, of dealing with people of all walks of life in the process, had taught her to stuff down her discomfort when necessary and this was definitely one of those times. She’d be damned if she let Thalia think, for one minute, that she was in any way threatened by the dwarrowdam. It would be a cold day in Hell before she let that happen.

Still, a hint of relief swept through her when she heard the dull thud of Thorin’s boots on the stone floor beyond the apartment door. For a brief moment, Noelle wondered if Thalia was there, lingering in the hallway, waiting for him, but when no voices reached her ears, she sighed as she sank onto the narrow sofa in the center of the room. 

The door opened and Thorin strode in, his forehead creased slightly, his expression on the annoyed side. “Was Thalia here?”

The harsh bark in his voice suggested that he already knew the answer, but she nodded just the same. “She was. I tossed her out a few minutes ago. Was she just lying in wait for you?”

“I passed her on the staircase, but she merely ignored me.” His glower faded as he thumped into the sitting room. “Did she give you trouble?”

Noelle managed to smile. “She tried, I’ll give her that. Unfortunately for her, I’m not that easily bullied. But tell me, was she living here in reality or only in her mind?”

That earned her a grin. “Only in her mind.”

“I thought as much.”

“She tried to tell you otherwise?”

“What do you think?”

With a low, rumbling sigh, he came around to sink onto the sofa beside her. “She is not taking this well.”

“Nope. But, to be honest, I can’t say I blame her.” Noelle got to her feet, shifted, and then sank astride him, her knees pressing into the firm cushions on either side of his hips, her hands resting on his shoulders. “I wouldn’t take it well, either, if I were in her shoes. Like I said, you have no idea what you do to a woman.”

His hands curved about her hips. “Did you hurt her?”

“Of course not.” She slowly settled against him, smiling as his breath hitched. “Jeez, you hit one guy in the face with an iron skillet and you’re marked for life.”

His eyes darkened. “Perhaps we should discuss Thalia tomorrow?”

“There’s nothing to discuss.” She leaned closer, her lips brushing his. “I don’t blame her, but I’m not about to put up with her shit, either.”

“Mmm….” He smiled up at her, his fingers tightening on her hips. “I love you.”

The darkness settled about them, thick and black and peaceful, and Noelle couldn't hold back her sigh as she tucked her head against Thorin’s chest. His fingers moved lightly along her hair, his voice low and rumbling as he whispered, “What’s on your mind, mesmel?”

“I’m sleepy,” she whispered back. “It’s been a long, wild day for me.”

“I know that feeling well.”

She chuckled, letting her fingers trail lightly across his chest, down over his stomach. Unlike gym bros, Thorin wasn't shredded, but there was no mistaking the muscle that lay beneath his skin, even if he sported no chiseled six-pack. Rather, his muscle was the sort that came from labor, not barbells, and was absolutely solid. Compared to even the biggest musclehead she’d ever shared gym space with, Thorin put them all to shame. 

“I guess you do. But, I have to admit, this wasn't nearly as jarring as when I ended up in Mirkwood the last time. When you didn't remember me and I had to convince you that I wasn't a stranger. That was awful and I wasn't even sure you’d ever remember me.”

“In my defense, you fell into my world before I’d fallen into yours. How could I remember a woman I’d never met?”

“True, but at the same time, you did remember me. You simply didn't remember that you remembered me.”

His arm tightened about her shoulders. “I must be used to you now, for that made perfect sense to me.” 

He pressed a kiss into the top of her head and as she snuggled closer, he murmured, “So, do you think you will be happy here, Noelle?”

“Do we know for certain I’m staying?”

“No, I don't suppose we do. Not yet, anyway. But if you were to, would you be happy?”

She fell quiet for a long moment, trying to imagine what it would be like, never seeing New York, her assistant Kai, her office, her family, again.

Of course, in her world, she saw her family only on occasion. Work took up so much of her life, there simply wasn't much left over for her to give. She was closer to Kai than she was to almost anyone else, but he was also her employee, not really her friend. In truth, her life had been rather solitary before Thorin came into it and even when she and Rich were a couple, he was away on location so often and work kept her so busy that they only saw each other every few weeks. Not even their engagement gave them more time to be together.

So, would she be unhappy being in Erebor, where she would have Thorin and the Company—hopefully they’d one day remember her—and the chance for a life that didn't revolve around work and stress and always being on the go to clean up one mess after another? Would she be happy here, where life moved at a slower pace and work wouldn’t come between her and Thorin, at least, not for long?

“Noelle?”

“I think I would be happy here, Thorin,” she murmured, her fingers going still against his stomach. “I mean, I would miss my family, but I think I’d be happy, yes.”

The smooth linen sheets rustled softly, the mattress shifting as he suddenly rose onto one elbow. She could make out little more than his outline, as he was darker than even the darkness. “Are you certain?”

“I am.”

“And what about your Rich?”

She scowled, even though she was pretty sure he couldn't see her any more clearly than she could see him. “Thorin, are you kidding me?”

A soft chuckle rolled toward her. “Just curious.”

“You’re unreal.” She rolled onto her side, offering him her back.

A mistake. The bed shifted, the linens rustling once more, and a moment later, warm lips swept along her left shoulder, toward her neck. A chill rippled through her, growing stronger as he nipped gently at the curve of her neck, and she couldn’t keep herself from sucking in a sharp breath as her eyes closed. But no matter how wonderful those lips felt on her skin, she would not give him the satisfaction of letting him know how wonderful they felt.

“It’s not going to work,” she managed to grit when he nipped her again. 

“Of course it will,” came his husky reply, “for I know where to touch you, Noelle… I know exactly how to make you tremble, to make you tug at my hair and whisper my name…”

He slid an arm about her waist, tugging her flush against him. Heat wafted from him, sinking into her as he added, ��But if I did, we might fling ourselves back into your world and to be honest, I’m far too tired for that at the moment.”

She snorted, smiling into the darkness. “Very romantic, Thorin.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Well… no… you’re not wrong. Just not very romantic, either.”

His chuckle skimmed along her shoulder. “I will be romantic in good time. I give you my word. But right now? I’m very sleepy, mesmel.”

She smiled as she rolled back toward him and snuggled up against him once more. “Fair enough. I am, too, so I guess I can let it slide this one time.”

“How very generous of you.” He pressed another kiss into the top of her head. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

****

Thorin rolled onto his back, his eyes slowly opening as sleep faded into memory. For a moment, he stared up into the gloom, unable to discern between dream and reality. Perhaps he’d just simply dreamed returning to Noelle, dreamed of her returning to Erebor with him. 

He rubbed his eyes with one hand, then stretched to light the lamp on his bedside table. A soft golden light banished the gloom, splashed across the rumpled quilts, and he bit back a chuckle as Noelle mumbled something unintelligible in her sleep and rolled away from him. Thank Mahal that he hadn’t dreamed it at all. She was there, with him, and all was right in his world. 

With that, he slid from the bed and moved to the wardrobe in the far corner to take out fresh clothes. He dressed, then extinguished the lamp before he woke Noelle, and then slipped from the bedchamber, closing the door behind him. 

At one time, the quiet in his apartments felt like loneliness, but for some reason, he didn't feel that now. In fact, as he’d found when he was in New York, having Noelle there in Erebor made him feel… whole… The last time he’d felt that way was the last time she was in Erebor, although dragon sickness had made it impossible for him to realize it at first. 

He tugged on his boots, then left the apartments as quietly as he’d left his bedchamber, to make his way up to the Great Hall, where he spotted Dís and his nephews already in their usual seats.  

“So, where is yer girl?”

A knowing smirk accompanied Dwalin’s words and Thorin chuckled, shaking his head. “She is still sleeping, not that it’s any of your business.”

“Ahhh… but,” Dwalin lowered his voice as he came up alongside him, “is she in the guest quarters or yours?” 

“That,” Thorin offered up a long look, “is none of your concern.”

“Which means that she is—”

“Dwalin, hush,” Dís growled as she sidled up to him and slipped her arm through his. “Like Thorin said, where Miss James might be is none of your business. Now, let the matter drop, won’t you?”

Thorin bit back a smile at Dwalin’s sheepish look, which was followed by his equally sheepish, “Of course. As you said, it’s none of my concern.”

“Good.” Dís smiled up at him. “Besides, someone might overhear you and you certainly wouldn’t want to sully Miss James’ reputation, would you?”

“Of course not.”

Thorin chuckled. “Dís, I do believe that is the first time I’ve seen him put in his place so quickly.”

Dwalin glowered at him, but Dís let out a silvery laugh. “I don't think I’ve ever seen you blush before, Dwalin.”

“I’m not blushing at all.”

“Of course you are. Now, instead of arguing with me, let’s just go to our table, shall we?”

Dwalin nodded, but Thorin heard them bickering about whether or not he was blushing (he absolutely was) all the way across the Great Hall. However, his good humor was short lived as he caught sight of Thalia across the room.

But thankfully, she never looked his way, and for that, he was thankful. He had the feeling it would be too much to hope for that it would stay this way, but for now? He’d enjoy it for as long as he could. 

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[loosesodamarble]

Welcome to the Black Bird Part 4: Wesley the Chilling

Summary: Introducing Nozel as Wesley, the dashing but ice-cold butler from the Black Bird. Genre: general Word count: ~850 A/N: @cringeyvanillamilk is again the artist for this fic's art.

..........

Silver hair spread out around the head like a crown, or perhaps a halo. No, not a halo, as they belonged to spirits that passed on, not this person. Eyes closed as if in sleep. Yes, merely sleep. Arms laid on either side, impossibly still but with a steady pulse felt through warm skin.

Acier Silva slept soundly. As she had been for nearly two years.

Nozel reached out and brushed Acier’s bangs aside. After tucking the strands back, Nozel paused and lamented that it used to be the other way around. Acier had done this very thing for him all his childhood. And now…

“Don’t worry, Mother. It’s my turn to take care of you,” Nozel whispered to her.

Acier didn’t answer of course. She couldn’t but Nozel still spoke to her regularly on the doctor’s suggestion. Outside stimuli was recommended for Acier’s brain activity. The doctor’s also said that it would give Nozel an outlet for his feelings. Even if Nozel’s visits to the hospital helped his mother’s recovery, it didn’t do anything about what caused Acier to fall into her present state. He needed to find out the truth…

Once he left the hospital, Nozel checked his phone and saw a message notification from Dorothy: [update for uuuu~ ( ^ω^ )]

Nozel immediately replied, [What news do you have for me?]

[i found u a job that u might not botch~ ( ✌︎'ω')✌︎] It may have been a text but Nozel could hear Dorothy’s playful voice in his mind.

[You make me sound incompetent and like I’ve never worked a job before.]

[im not totally wrong tho (￣▽￣) u never worked a normie job (*^▽^*)]

Nozel’s eye twitched. Why did his dear friend also have to be a theatrical tease? Still, he replied, [Never mind my job history. What’s the position you found for me?]

[o(^▽^)o ur gonna luv it~]

Coming from Dorothy, the statement wasn’t as comforting to Nozel as it should’ve been.

…..

“One order of the Fairy Spring Tea Set, my lady,” Nozel stated while setting down a three-tiered tray on a table where a single woman with long, chestnut-colored hair. “Do call upon me once you’ve completed your meal.”

“What?” The chestnut-haired woman tucked her hair behind her ears and gave a sharp smile. “You won’t encourage me to enjoy the food? How cold of you, Wesley.”

“I see no reason to doubt the kitchen staff’s work. It’s guaranteed that you’ll enjoy it.”

With that, Nozel turned away. The woman hummed with amusement behind him. Nozel then approached the other table he was attending to. Seated were three women: one with sun-kissed skin and golden hair, one with similarly dark skin but earthy brown locks, and one with silvery-white hair that matched her fair complexion.

“Esteemed mistresses,” Nozel greeted. “I’m Wesley, your attendant for this day.”

“Hiya Wesley,” the blonde tittered with a wide grin. She leaned over to the brunette. “See, I told you he was regal!”

“He certainly has a princely vibe, even as a butler,” the brunette replied, laughing as well.

“To compare to a higher station seems rather inappropriate.” Nozel’s tone was clipped, as he needed to emphasize his coldness. “Regardless, what drinks shall I start you with?”

“Do you perhaps have any recommendations?” the pale-haired woman inquired with a smile that was petite but radiating kindness.

The trio of women were all endeared to Nozel it seemed. And it perplexed him how customers could be entertained by such an attitude. It made more sense than his previous work persona at least. How anyone liked his previous performance, as it was, was beyond him.

…..

Shivering Citrus Delight. A lemon-lime sorbet topped with a crisp waffle cookie.

Nozel understood how the dish, being frozen and having an off-white color which made it appear like a snowball, worked well with his work persona and appearance. The invoking of winter was clear in both Nozel and the dish. However, the bright, citrus flavor of the sorbet brought to mind summertime. Something which Nozel failed to see in himself.

Nozel couldn’t easily share his smile with others. His heart was too heavy with thoughts of Acier’s condition and his mind, too frenzied trying to investigate to be carefree. And instead of being an inviting presence, Nozel distanced himself from his family. He wouldn’t allow his younger siblings to be dragged down by responsibilities and burdens meant for him alone.

Winter and summer in one. An ideal that Nozel saw as illogical. Or rather, unattainable…

There was no summer in Nozel to thaw him from the winter he isolated his heart in. And there likely were no answers awaiting him, despite his bided time.

A sour, perhaps even bitter, feeling welled up in Nozel’s mind.

Has this all been a waste? Have I wasted myself? Nozel bit his cheek and kept his face neutral despite feeling the need to scowl.

Nozel set down his serving tray. When he did, the cookie that came with the Citrus Delight tipped and fell onto the tray, crumbling. He muttered an apology to his customers.

Nozel was frustrated. He, too, felt close to crumbling.

[survivalove]

hii what type of tropes do u think katara fits ?? and what type of tropes do u think her character subverts ??

Hi anon! I’m not gonna lie this is a heavy topic which has been weighing on my mind ever since my Katara rant a few days ago. Tbh, I wasn’t going to make a post about this, just cuz I feel like maybe I talk too much 😂 but you just gave me the perfect excuse so here we go:

1. Girls are Healers, not Fighters

I want to start this off with the issue of misogyny in the Northern Water Tribe and how the fandom discusses Katara’s portrayal in LoK. First of all, the NWT not allowing girls to fight is misogyny and Pakku telling Katara to “go in the healing hut with the other women” very much sounds like “go in the kitchen where you belong”. This is something everyone understands.

However, I think we start losing the plot when people only focus on this aspect and ironically parrot the same misogyny when they talk about female healers in the franchise and in media. Let’s look at Yagoda. Yagoda is a recognized master. She doesn’t teach in her house, her kitchen or her bedroom. She teaches in a school alongside other master healers and students. When the Yue was stillborn, who did her family turn to at first? Pakku? No, the healers. During the civil war, did Katara just sit at home twiddling her fingers like so many in the fandom would have you believe? No, she was single-handedly healing dozens of rebels in her White Lotus outpost. The importance of female healers in the franchise and media in general should not be diminished when speaking out against this misogynistic trope. I just had to get that out of the way.

So, how does ATLA subvert this trope with Katara? They show her developing her healing abilities alongside her fighting skills. One does not hinder the other. When Katara discovers her healing ability, she gains respect for possessing a talent so rare and revered, by a man originally from the nation that wiped out the male and female waterbenders of her tribe. When Katara saves Aang’s life, the most important moment in the entire show IMO, in the same episode, she is also shown facing off a major enemy in battle and winning. These two sides of her are constantly shown in balance to the fullest extent of her power, without one skill being diminished to highlight the other.

2. The Hero’s Girl

I think this is another trope that’s prevalent in media, particularly shonen animes which ATLA gets compared to so often. A lot of times these female love interests are never in the main story without the main male character. They seemingly have a one-sided crush, fall apart at his feet, interacts with him only when he needs her (and only him), and can sometimes be a pick-me when it comes to any competing female characters. I think a lot of people see Katara this way solely because she gets with Aang in the end, when this does not even come close to how she is portrayed.

Katara is an extremely developed character. Her arc is largely independent of Aang even though there are so many parallels between the two. Katara initially sees Aang as just a friend and even when she starts seeing him as a potential love interest, she’s not begging him to notice her or accept her affections. She gets jealous but isn’t competing with anyone for his attention for long and she has relationships with other characters that further the story whether Aang is there or not. She doesn’t exist solely to be with him, in fact she even teaches him. Katara and Aang being endgame is not integral to either one of their stories. They don’t agree with each other all the time and when he pushes their romance too far, she isn’t framed in a negative light for rebuffing his affections. No one in the narrative forces her to be with Aang because he’s the Avatar for status, or anything else. Love is not her biggest priority and she chooses to put off her romantic feelings until the war ends.

Now does she get jealous of other girls who seem to like Aang as well? Yes. Does she cry and get emotional when something happens to him? Yes. Does she spend an episode pestering the fortuneteller about her future husband and get excited at the idea of falling in love? Lol yeah. Does she blush and hug and kiss Aang often? Literally every other episode. But that’s not all there is to her or their dynamic. I think some people often overemphasize the fact that Aang and Katara do get together in the end and act like it automatically voids the rest of her development in canon when it really doesn’t. Like I said in another post, I know a lot of Katara stans that don’t ship her with anyone or can discuss her character at great length without mentioning romance. People who choose to focus on her ending up with the hero to ‘defend’ her are more doing her a disservice if you ask me.

3. One-Dimensional Female Characters

This sort of ties into everything I just said and is also something the franchise achieves with all the female characters, but even more-so with Katara. Katara has several behaviors that directly contradict her general personality traits:

In the Chase, Katara lectures Toph about the importance of doing chores and being a team player and in the same episode, insults her, picks fights with her to the point she leaves the group entirely.

Katara loves her brother and always cheers him up when he’s feeling him down, but she still will tease and pick on him, and on a darker note, lashes out at him in the Southern Raiders when he doesn’t tell her what she wants to hear.

Katara turns up her nose at the wrestling tournament they find Toph in and winces as she attacks The Earth King’s soldiers, but still partakes in fighting the war because it’s for the greater good.

Katara from a young age had to take up the societal expectations that her mother would have had in her family and in her tribe, but is still a child and often takes delight in activities children enjoy, as she should.

The point is, Katara isn’t one-dimensional. There are a lot of contradictions within her that are usually juxtaposed one after the other. Yet, most viewers can only focus on one side at a time, usually choosing to focus on the negative aspects of her character. They will complain about her being motherly as if she never has fun. They will focus on the one time she was out of line with Sokka just to attack her character. They will cry she was too hard on Zuko, after 2.5 seasons of him chasing them down.

Most annoying of all, they will compare her to other female characters who are less hypocritical in nature and, in my opinion, simply not as complex as Katara. Don’t even get me started on how community is such an integral part of Katara, Sokka and Aang’s characters and how their character development often get overlooked in favor of characters with more individualistic and straightforward narratives. But this is about Katara.

Katara is an unapologetically feminine character that is sweet and kind without serving some villainous agenda that gives her a reason to be on par with the male characters when it comes to fighting skill. Her strength gets questioned in ways that Azula, Toph, Mai and Ty Lee’s do not. She subverts a lot of misogynistic tropes that a lot of 2000s female love interests in media suffered from and still do. She’s a very difficult character for most people to wrap their heads around, simply because she doesn’t stick to the script that most fmcs who look and act like her, do.

If we pretend she’s not fictional for two seconds, Katara is a hypocrite and hello? Who isn’t. It’s human nature for people to change their minds or do things that don’t really match up with that they’re say about. People who get mad at Katara for this, are essentially saying they’re mad because she’s not a flat character and they don’t even realize it. Her contradictions aren’t just one-off moments and her grief over her mother’s death isn’t something she only brings up once or twice. These occur over and over again because she is the other main character and with that comes a lot more screentime for her to be hypocritical, grow and show development to a level that the other female characters can’t.

[myemuisemo]

Watson, discouraged by the impersonal replies Holmes sends to his letters, is instead journaling in chapter X of The Hound of the Baskervilles in Letters from Watson.

Two items caught my attention: the dog cart and the typewriter lady.

Dogs and dog carts

I'd been imagining the English countryside full of little carts pulled by very large dogs, like Nana from Peter Pan. This can be done, as we see in this still from a 2011 Lancashire Online video:

But no! It is a dog cart because it was used for hauling hunting dogs. The dogs are carried in that hat-shaped space under the seats.

As we raise a glass for Mortimer's lost spaniel, the question arises: how big a dog can be transported in a dog cart?

Can we fit an English Mastiff? (English working dog, 30 inches tall at the withers, which is the highest point of the back, near the neck.)

Can it fit a Great Dane? (Hunting dog, minimum 28 inches to the withers.) This dog would also have been called a "mastiff" in 1889.

The massive Great Dane is Scooby-Doo, by the way. So Scooby-Doo of the Moors, if you exist, where are you?

But where could such a hound lie concealed, where did it get its food, where did it come from, how was it that no one saw it by day?

Given that an actual convict, sought by half the countryside, successfully hid in a Neolithic hut and ate meals from the kitchen of the very house where you are staying, Watson, hiding a dog cannot be that hard. The countryside is full of servants nobody bothers to mention and large houses with stables nobody has yet visited. "Oi, ye can't be thinkin' of Minnie, what goes with John at the Pub, can ye? She's a right friendly hound, always up for a pet and a treat."

The typewriter lady

Frankland. has. a daughter. And he disowned her, because of course he did. He's really turning out to not be the jolly old curmudgeon that Watson wants to paint him as.

Many hints are dropped that Laura Frankland Lyons was difficult in some way beyond an impulsive choice of husband -- I'm leaning toward her having a mind of her own and being willing to speak it, rather than to sexual improprieties. Why?

Because although she settles down in a little village (generally agreed to be an expy of Bovey Tracey), the business she starts to support herself is not sewing, laundering, or other respectable-but-ill-paid pursuits typical for single women. It's "a typewriting business."

By 1889, typewriters have existed for about 15 years but been in common business use for more like 5 years. So culturally, Laura Lyons' typewriting business is very modern: more like "learn to code and build apps" in today's world. She's being coded as efficient and independent.

Here's a Fitch 1 typewriter, which might have been a little new for Laura Lyons' business.

Women did start typewriting businesses as soon as typewriters were available! Mark Adams dedicates an entire blog to the history of typewriters, including this gem of a post that documents the early women in this field in the U.S.

So what is Laura Lyons typing, in a little village in Devon? There is surely less business than she could find in a larger settlement. Business and legal documents that require multiple copies might be one line of business. Another is typing someone's book manuscript. Is anyone on the moor writing a memoir? A book on legends? A scientific treatise on butterflies or perhaps skulls?

The mystery man

My bet is 70% on Holmes, 30% on Rodger Baskerville or his heirs.

Watson almost regains his cinnamon roll status with me for this line:

I am certainly developing the wisdom of the serpent, for when Mortimer pressed his questions to an inconvenient extent I asked him casually to what type Frankland's skull belonged, and so heard nothing but craniology for the rest of our drive.

[madstheauthor]

Don’t Call Me Aaron

Part 1:

WORDS: 1.5K

You and Hotchner have just been called to go and check out a new crime scene for the case you’ve been working on for about a week now.

“I can’t believe we haven’t been able to catch this guy yet,” Hotch says, frustrated, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “This makes six women dead now.” I get it. We’ve been doing everything we can but this unsub is still one step ahead of us.

“I know,” I tell him, “But we aren’t going to give up. He’s getting angrier, which means he may mess up and leave something at the scene that will help us.” I tell him with as much confidence as I can muster at the moment. I’m trying to be hopeful, but this guy has done everything perfectly. Not a sliver of DNA at the crime scenes besides the victims.

The team doesn’t know, but this unsub has hit close to home for me. I’ve never been able to tell them what happened. All they know is that my mom passed when I was 8 and my dad has never been around. Everyone has been trying to find him, especially Hotchner, I don’t think he’s slept since we arrived in the small town of St. Augustine, Florida.

In the three years I’ve been with the BAU, I’ve never seen an unsub get to Hotch the way this one has. I couldn’t tell you exactly what it is about this particular case, but you can see it on his face. He almost looks like he could explode.

“Hotch, I’m worried about you,” I tell him, looking up at his dark brown eyes. “You need to eat and you need to sleep. Those aren’t things you can just skip.” I just need him to take care of himself.

“How am I expected to rest when you-” he starts to say but is cut off when we pull into the driveway of the crime scene. Every police car in the state of Florida must be here. Hotch finds a place to pull over and we jump out of the car.

By the time my feet hit the asphalt, Aaron is halfway to the house, taking giant strides to get there like someone he adored was being held hostage in that house. I run to catch up with him and we walk in together. And as soon as my feet are over the threshold,

Blood. Blood everywhere. On the walls. Floor. Cabinets. If it’s in the kitchen, it’s covered in dark red blood. It looked as if a tornado had gone straight through the center of the house. Not a single thing looked as if it belonged. And right in the middle of the kitchen table, a kitchen knife, covered from handle to tip in the darkest, crimson blood I’ve ever seen.

I tried to hide the horror and fear on my face but I must not have done a good job because if I thought Hotch walked quickly into the house, he was dragging me out before I could blink. I couldn’t do anything but stare ahead of me, motionless. Trying to get my mind back where it needed to be.

“Go wait in the car. Now.” He said staring down at me. He almost looks, sad. I do what I can to keep myself from looking weak.

“Hotch, I’m fine, c’mon,” I told him, sounding surprisingly okay. I tried to walk past him back to the house. I didn’t make it very far though; he stuck his arm out to stop me dead in my tracks. “Aaron, this is my job, and you know I’m capable or you wouldn’t have hired me in the first place. This is important that we look over every detail. I want to find him just as bad as you.” I tell him frustratingly. I know he’s worried about me, but I’m grown, and I can take care of myself. What happened to me is not something I’m just going to forget. The next best thing is to work through it.

“I don’t care if you say you’re fine or not. You’re not needed here. That’s an order. Take the car back to the police station and help Reid with the geographical profile. I’ll get a ride from one of the deputies.” He hands me the keys with a deep sigh. “And don’t call me Aaron.” he ends, and goes back into the house. I walk angrily back to the SUV. I can’t believe he just did that. How am I supposed to help catch this guy if Hotch doesn’t trust me and my skills?

. . .

A few hours later everyone gathered at the police headquarters to look over the pictures from the crime scene. As JJ is flicking through all the pictures, I can feel someone’s gaze on me. I look around the room to see Aaron Hotchner, staring so hard at me that I was sure he could see straight through me. I decide to ignore it for the time being, but putting a mental note in my head to tell him to stop acting like I’m going to fall apart. I look back at the TV to see the living room of the house, which looked like a whole other house compared to the kitchen. Everything in the room was pristine like it had never been used, almost like nobody even lived in the house.

“So Hotch, did y’all find anything at the house?” Morgan asked.

“We did find a few fingerprints, Garcia is running them through the database as we speak.” He said, yet still looking at me. I’m so tired of him. He’s not my dad, and he needs to stop acting like he is. I never got the joy of having one of those. I’ve had enough.

“Well, we could have missed something since Hotch decided not to let me even look at the scene.” I told the group, but staring right at Aaron with boiling anger. I hadn’t even noticed my fists clenched at my sides until I could feel my fingernails digging into my palms.

“Why not?” Reid questioned, looking back and forth between me and Hotch. I’d love to see what he comes up with as a good excuse.

“Not that it’s anyone’s business, but she wasn’t needed. There were plenty of deputies there and I needed her here working on the geographical profile.” He told everyone. “It will take a few hours to get the results back from Garcia on those fingerprints, so everyone go home and rest, we will meet back here first thing in the morning.” I am exhausted and ready to be home so I can just sit in the silence. I need to be alone. I gathered all my stuff off the table and headed towards the door, but of course, it’s not that simple.

“Agent, a word please,” Hotchner says looking at me. Of course, I’m in trouble. And the group must have heard because they all turn and give me a sympathetic look before walking out and shutting the door behind them. I take a seat back at the table while Hotch continues to stand.

“What the hell was that?!” He inquires, with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Oh like you have no idea. You completely invalidated my skills today and made me feel like I wasn’t good enough to be on the team, Aaron” I spit back at him, sure to add his first name there at the end to make sure he gets the point. He starts walking in my direction and takes a seat directly next to me.

“I will not tell you again, do not call me Aaron.” He tells me through gritted teeth.

“Hotch I need to know why. Why did you send me back? I know I’m one of the best profilers in the BAU. I want to be treated as so, not like a five-year-old girl who needs her daddy.” I ask desperate to know the answer. I hate feeling like I’m not good enough, I’ve felt like that my whole life and things finally got better when I started working for the FBI.

“You want to know why?!” Hotch yells, standing again. He starts to pace around the room like he’s begging to get something off his chest. Something he’s been holding in since we got to Florida last week.

“Something is off about this case with you, I can feel it. And your face when you saw the crime scene, it was something I’d never seen in you before. I wasn’t going to sacrifice your well-being over this case.” He says, his pacing paused to gauge my reaction.

“Well that’s not your decision to make sir, I can figure that out myself. I am perfectly capable.” I tell him, swiftly standing from my chair to match him.

“What’s wrong, honestly?” He asks me, searching my eyes like they have the answer. But they don’t, I do.

“That’s none of your business, Aaron.” I spit as I grab my things and walk out, slamming the door behind me.

Part 1 to my series, writing part 2 now!! My first time writing, by the way, give me suggestions please on where I could take this story! Thank you! ❤️❤️

[etruatcaelum]

On Ozlem.

This will be less a singular headcanon than a collection; my reading of the relationship is particular and on several key points, well off the beaten track from popular fanon. I thought it would be helpful to put it all in one place for ease of reference.

Salem’s Childhood.

Salem was the second-born child of a minor lord, born into the eighth generation of mankind since the creation of the world Arziant, in a kingdom called Pastoria. Her mother Salome had been the king’s only child, but not heir to the realm; Pastorian law and custom forbade women to leave their divine appointment within the home. In practice, a woman belonged to her father until she was given to her husband.

In that time, monolatrous worship of the God of Light was nigh-ubiquitous, and tradition held that no one who lived a virtuous life would die before their hundredth year, unless slain in battle or by some violent calamity brought about by the Darkness. To fall ill was proof in itself that one had committed some offense in the eyes of God. This was not mere superstition, for although natural sickness did exist, the God of Light gave healing to those he judged pure and inflicted disease as a punishment for sin.

Death in childbirth, although not (as Salem believes, even now) wholly unknown, was quite rare and supposed to be a punishment reserved only for the truly wicked. Both of Salem’s parents were well-known for their piety, and her father Lord Ithai was scrupulously devout; for his wife to sicken and die in the course of bearing their second child was shocking, not only to Ithai himself but to all of Pastoria. While he would have held the tragedy against her in any circumstance, his personal inclination to do so fed eagerly upon advice from religious advisors who, to preserve Salome’s good name in the eyes of the people, blamed her infant child. There had been, after all, prophecies foretelling the virtue and great deeds of heroes in the past; why not portents of a dire evil?

(In truth, Salome had made an error in a ritual entreating the God of Light to grant his blessings to her unborn child, and he intended to make an example of her carelessness.)

The modern fairytale The Girl in the Tower portrays the girl’s father as a paranoid, possessive tyrant who loves the girl as a miser loves his treasures, who becomes angry and violent when she asks to be set free; this characterization, though not an inaccurate portrait of Lord Ithai himself, elides the misogynistic norms and popular religious justification for Salem’s imprisonment. Simply put, she had no hope of rescue because most of Pastoria truly believed that she was an ill-omened child who needed to be locked away for the good of all.

Salem did not grow up in complete isolation, though she was alone far more often than not: she was raised by an ever-changing parade of servants, priests, and tutors. Her father visited her on occasion; her elder brother Kalev snuck in to see her with greater frequency.

The first twenty-one years of her life, she spent in locked in a single room—little more than a cell, ten paces wide and nine across—at the top of her father’s keep. Her singular window overlooked the block where Ithai executed those whom he suspected of treating her with undue kindness; from the time she was old enough to understand, Salem was made to watch these executions (and in time it became a compulsion to do so, one that still lingers; to this day Salem keeps obsessive count of the deaths she considers to be her fault).

She was nearly always hungry. Of the one hundred forty-three people Ithai executed, in those twenty-one years, most were kitchen servants condemned on suspicion of bringing her too much food, or for lingering to speak with her while she ate; to bring the lord’s daughter a meal, it was well known among the kitchen staff, was to risk one’s life. Quite often, she went without food altogether, and seldom received more than one meal in a day. Salem grew up both hoarding food and feeling intense guilt around eating.

Ithai was, on the rare occasion of his visits, extremely abusive; Salem was so terrified of him that even now she feels on edge around men who remind her of him. (He was quite tall, broad-shouldered, with a full beard; his hair sandy-brown in his youth, half-grey by the time of Salem’s birth; a deep baritone.) She cannot handle being yelled at without shutting down. Her instinctive reaction to violence against herself—to simply take it, quietly, without resistance, and wait for it to be over—is a response she learned in childhood, and unless she is already quite angry, it’s one she finds difficult to overcome.

Escaping the Tower.

In the fairytale, at the age of sixteen, the girl asks her father for paper and pen. She uses these to write pleas for rescue, promising to marry anyone who can save her from her father, and throws them to the wind. Innumerable would-be saviors flock to answer, only to be slain by her father while the girl looks on in horror, until one day a true hero defeats her father in a duel and frees her at last.

This is not quite how it happened.

When Salem was sixteen, and Kalev eighteen, she put to her brother that he should find someone to marry her. She was reaching the proper age (indeed, their mother had been only a year older when the king married her to Ithai), and she could think of no other means to escape than by marriage, though the prospect filled her with dread. Kalev undertook this effort very reluctantly, fearing that anyone willing to marry a girl who’d spent her whole life locked away would undoubtedly be at least as awful as their father; but he did try, without success, for several years.

He was twenty-one, Salem nineteen, when he met Ozma: not an aristocrat but the wandering knight of a holy order who chanced to be nearby when Kalev’s retinue was set upon by the largest wyvern any of them had ever seen. Ozma leapt to Kalev’s aid and slew the grimm, and would have died of the injuries they sustained in doing so had Kalev been less skilled in healing. They talked, afterward, finding they had much in common; and before long, the conversation turned to the plight of Kalev’s sister.

Ozma had no interest in marriage—had sworn vows of chastity, in fact—but Kalev’s account of Salem’s treatment horrified them. They had heard tell of the ill-omened girl held safe within the lord’s keep, of course, but the rumors had given them the impression that she was sickly, too frail to leave her bed. Upon learning the truth, they became determined to help her. Together, the pair hatched a new plan: Ozma would pledge themself as Kalev’s vassal, ingratiate themself to Lord Ithai, and find some opportunity to free Salem in secret.

Two more years would pass before Ozma found their opportunity, for the magic Ithai had woven around her cell would not allow her to cross the threshold, even were the door torn from its hinges. During this time, Ozma stole up the tower whenever they could to visit Salem; they didn’t dare enter the room, for fear of being ensnared by the wards, but they could speak to her through the door.

Without fail, Salem would beg them not to come back; desperate though she was for escape, she did not believe this plan had any chance of working, and lived in terror of Ozma being found out and executed. Ozma, for their part, stayed resolute in their conviction that freeing her was a worthy cause to die for, which had—for as long as they could remember—been the only thing they really wanted.

In the end, what happened is this:

Lord Ithai came to Salem’s cell late one evening, on the same night Ozma risked ascending the tower to talk to her; and though they realized the danger halfway up the stairs, hearing echoes of her father’s tirade, before they turned back as they’d promised her to do if this should ever happen, they heard the unmistakable sound of a blow, a choked cry of pain, and could not find it in themself to leave.

Up they charged. Ithai had his back turned to the door, his hands around Salem’s neck, and Ozma gathered all the magic they knew to strike at him from behind; but Ithai was an experienced combatant. Though wounded, he was not bested, and he whirled around in a murderous fury to retaliate. The duel was swift and brutally decisive—within moments, Ithai shattered Ozma’s defenses and had them on disarmed on the floor.

Salem had collapsed when Ithai dropped her and remained cowering against the wall while the brief battle raged; but when her father raised his hand to strike Ozma dead, with the door open and someone who had been kind to her about to die because of her like so many others, she snapped. Her magic, never trained, and never very strong, exploded outward as she threw herself across the room.

She drove her hand into Ithai’s body as if his flesh were water and ripped his pulverized heart right out of his chest.

That was not what she meant to do, exactly. She had wanted only to make him stop, and twenty-one years of desperate fear crashed together in that moment to become a wild, boundless rage; but no sooner had his body crumpled than reality caught up with her, and then she was only a girl clutching the gory shreds of another person’s insides in her hands, whereupon she became hysterical.

Salem does not, whatsoever, remember leaving the tower, nor anything else until dawn, when she regained her senses to find Ozma coaxing her to let them clean the blood off her hands. But after realizing what had happened, Ozma scrambled up, pried the gore out of her hands, swept a few valuable-looking trinkets into a satchel—they’d wanted her to have something to her name—thrown their cloak around her shoulders, and raced the both of them out of the keep at speed.

The image Jinn presents when Ruby asks her what Ozpin is hiding, of Salem and Ozma fighting their way out together, is a representation of how Ozpin would have told this story: distilled, softened, stripped of personal feeling… but that fight did happen, for the lord’s death and Salem’s passage through his unravelling wards awoke his retinue. Ozma fought; Salem was a storm of uncontrolled violence lashing out in blind panic.

Their First Relationship.

Although Ozma had, over the course of those two years spent whispering through her door, fallen quite hopelessly in love with her, it became clear to them within hours that Salem not feel the same. The satchel of minor valuables they’d hastily gathered for her, she tried to give to them, and their polite refusal to accept caused her to lapse into hollow silence for several minutes before she asked what they wanted from her instead—and only then had they realized how scared she felt that she might be no more to them than a prize.

The first lie Ozma ever told her was that they had never thought of anything but to set right the terrible injustice her father inflicted upon her, and they resolved to take the secret of their infatuation with her to the grave.

Still: she had nowhere else to go, and neither of them dared stay in Pastoria after murdering a nobleman. Ozma offered to take her wherever she liked, and Salem ventured that she had always wanted to see the ocean. In those days, the land formed a single continent, and Pastoria lay nestled at its heart, in the verdant foothills beneath the Light’s sacred mountain.

The long journey would be Ozma’s undoing, for the sea and the edges of the great continent belonged to the God of Darkness, and the vows Ozma had made to Light forbade them to enter Dark’s own country. But they thought nothing of it at the time; their whole life, they had scrupulously abided by the stern, unyielding tenets of their faith while privately yearning for death, only for Salem to ignite within them a ferocious desire to live.

So off they went.

For more than two years, the pair traveled further and further west. Salem grew easier around them, and as her wariness ebbed, true friendship rose to take its place—not the desolate, harrowing need which had bound them both together when they fled, but the simple sense of being kindred spirits. (It was during their travels together that Ozma first decided to worry less over fitting into either manhood or womanhood, and began—just between themself and Salem—to invent an un-gendered mode of address for themself; at the time, the phrase they’re still so fond of repeating in the present, that they are only a man, not even a very good one, was not self-deprecation but a private joke they shared with her at the world’s expense.)

With other people, however, Salem struggled: her speech was stilted and afflicted by a ruinous stutter, she was awkward, she was sometimes volatile and sometimes seemingly void of any emotion at all, she was painfully shy, she could not eat with anyone else looking at her, she sometimes lost the thread of conversations and simply lapsed into silent staring… every invisible scar her childhood left upon her marked her out as strange, as unnatural, perhaps even dangerous.

By the time she and Ozma reached the ocean, Salem felt utterly exhausted and half-certain her brother and Ozma were the only good people in the entire world; she found the desolation of the coast appealed to her, the wild emptiness, the sheer scale of the endless water.

She wanted to stay, and stay they did.

They built a little house upon cliffs overlooking the sea, a day’s walk from the closest village. Planted a garden. Lived. Grimm were far more numerous around the coast than in the heartland, and though the creatures proved to be less trouble than Ozma expected, they still insisted on teaching Salem how to fight, more than the basics she’d picked up along the journey. For a year, all seemed well.

However, though Ozma had long since forgotten their vows, the God of Light did not forgive, and seeing now that his wayward servant had no intention to repent, he at last struck Ozma down.

The sickness killed them slowly; it began with mere fatigue, headaches… mild at first, though they grew ever more severe and lingering until Ozma was left nearly insensate with agony for days at a time. Over the course of nine months, they slid piece by piece into a listless haze of pain and confusion—and though Salem tried everything she could think of to help, even leaving them in village and traveling alone to the nearest city to plead for medical aid or healing from the temple, they died just short of four years after her liberation.

Salem has always, deep down, believed she killed them, somehow.

In all that time, Ozma had never breathed a word to her of how they loved her or the depth of their feeling, still afraid to ask for anything she didn’t want to give; and Salem had only just begun to realize similar feelings for them when they fell ill. The thought that they had died not knowing she loved them was almost as unbearable a torment to her as grief itself.

Salem’s Petitions to the Brothers.

The journey back to the heartland took Salem just seven months. She had pushed herself extraordinarily hard to traverse such a vast distance in so little time, scarcely sleeping or eating and using magic to whip herself onward past the brink of collapse; she was deeply unwell, and her thin hope that the God of Light might take pity was all that kept her standing.

She had always been fervently religious, in her way, although her imprisonment and the abuse she’d suffered and the estrangement she felt from the rest of mankind after her escape had all left her with idiosyncratic, at times nakedly heretical ideas about the Brothers. (For one, Salem had spent most of her life praying to the God of Darkness too, because it never made sense to her that only one of mankind’s creators should be worshipped; she believed, and still believes even today, that it was Darkness who freed her from the paralyzing terror on the night she killed her father.)

Salem had no intention of marching into the sacred domain of the Light to demand anything, nor did she truly expect him to give her what she asked; but she did feel certain there had been some mistake, because good people were not supposed to sicken and die, and she did believe, with all her heart, that the God of Light was just and kind.

When she climbed the marble steps, she imagined that she would kneel before the pool to pray, and perhaps the Light would offer her some sign of comfort, of sorrow, of understanding. For him to appear in front of her himself before she could even utter a word shocked her, and ignited a wild hope that he might actually grant her a miracle—hopes that he shattered by instead chiding her for making demands of him.

That was the first fracture in Salem’s faith. Light sent her out of his realm and left her reeling: he had not been kind. Why reveal himself to her at all, just to rebuke her prayers? It seemed—unfair, even cruel.

Of course she turned to the God of Darkness, then. If even the gods were cruel, Salem did not care to live in the world, and she had worshipped Darkness from afar all her life. Why not seek out kindness from him, or else find merciful death in the jaws of his monsters?

Perhaps, she thought, he was lonely too.

Finding his realm took some doing, for no one in living memory had dared go looking for it; in the end, Salem resorted to following the grimm until one led her to the proper place. By then she had lost all sense of time, exhausted and sick and starving as she was, but it was almost exactly a year since Ozma’s death when she stumbled wearily up the granite steps to visit the God of Darkness.

Though Ozma believes that she asked Darkness to bring them back to life, and lied to him about having gone first to his brother, this is not so. (Salem told them the truth, eons later, as well as she could: but by then she had been so long alone, and the events that had led to mankind’s destruction were so distant, that her account had been meandering and confused, difficult to follow. The answer Jinn gives Ruby is not absolute truth, only exactly what Ozpin believed to be true and chose to hide, and contains a great deal of guesswork on Ozma’s part, to make sense of it all.)

What she did do is tell Darkness of all her sorrow, vowing to revere him above his brother for the rest of her life if he ended her pain. Salem half-hoped he would unite her with Ozma in death—it seemed a fitting mercy, from the god of destruction—and half-feared he would answer by unburdening her of the capacity to feel at all. Until he did so, it never occurred to her to imagine that Darkness would grant her the favor his brother had coldly forbidden her to even want.

But he did, and during that brief moment before the God of Light appeared in all his icy wrath, Salem had every intention to uphold her end of the bargain. Light had treated her with cold disdain, but in Darkness she had found the kindness she had been taught to expect from his supposedly benevolent brother; she would never again worship the God of Light, and had Light not interfered then, she would have become a devoted, unendingly faithful disciple to the God of Darkness.

Instead, the Brothers twice incinerated Ozma in her arms and drowned her in the fountain of life to consign her to a deathless eternity alone, and that was the second fracture in her faith.

Her Rebellion.

When the Brothers cast her out of Light’s realm, they sent her home: to the cliffside by the sea where she and Ozma had lived.

The very first thing Salem did was hurl herself into the sea.

How long she spent drowning and drowning and unable to die beneath the waves, Salem did not know; by the time a (distraught) fisherman discovered her undying but horrifically broken body in his net, the little house on the cliff had fallen into ruin, and the village she remembered had grown into a large and prosperous town.

The fountain of life had poured into her soul—which left the physical pool in the Light’s domain a mere puddle of water with no magical properties at all—and remade her into the very wellspring of creation itself; the life-force humans would, much later, come to know as aura. No matter the severity of her injuries, she could not die, but healing serious injuries with aura requires training, focus.

Salem had healed imperfectly: the bones she had shattered when she plunged into the sea knitting back together at strange angles, her body bent and distorted by the uncontrolled and unchecked growth of masses that would have killed anyone mortal, her chest distended with seawater. She could barely move, let alone speak, and it was only good fortune that the fisherman who had found her overcame his panic before casting her overboard again.

He brought her to Light’s temple, in the town that had once been a village. The priests there were baffled, but they could see that she was in terrible pain, and they did what they could to help her. Mostly, this was miserable: a matter of breaking bones and carving out tumors, little by little pulling her body back into human shape.

She did not make it easy for them. The ruin of her physical body had not diminished her magical power, and as soon as Salem understood where she was she began to lash out, wanting nothing to do with the gods who had done this to her. Still, the priests felt sorry for her—and assumed that her violent reactions were motivated by pain, rather than hatred of the god they served—so they persisted.

Then the ones who had taken charge of her care began to sicken, and Salem realized two things: first, that they were not caring for her under Light’s auspices; and second, that he accounted the kindness they were trying to give her a sin deserving of punishment.

That was the third, and final, fracture in her faith. She stopped fighting her caretakers and bent every effort toward healing herself and trying to heal them; in this, she failed, and watched those who had aided her die one by one even as she was restored to perfect health.

She was outraged.

Yes, she had prayed for things she was not meant to have, and yes, she had sown discord between the Brothers by mistake, and yes, she had railed against them and called them monsters when they ripped her love away from her again. Perhaps that did make her selfish, arrogant, deserving of the torment they inflicted upon her—but these people had done nothing to deserve death.

It was an injustice.

It was worse than cruel; it was wrong.

Salem returned to Pastoria brimming with righteous fury. There, to her surprise, she found Kalev—an old man now, though she still looked not a day older than twenty-five.

The reunion was strange and bittersweet. Kalev had spent most of his life wondering what happened to her, praying to God to keep her safe and happy, and to learn that the Brothers had treated her with such brutality devastated him. From his devastation and her rage, the first spark of rebellion was struck.

When Salem set out to galvanize others to their cause, she told the truth: of the injustices and cruelty she had seen; of how the Brothers had made her immortal by throwing her into the fountain of life, and so revoked the promise of healing for the pure from the rest of the world; of the division she had seen between Light and Darkness; of her vision of a new world freed from the chains of their creators. The gory spectacle of her immortality and the fervent truth of her convictions overcame every obstacle that had always set her apart from the rest of her kind.

Though it was Salem who lit the match, the firestorm she unleashed surpassed her expectations, and when the rebellion stormed the marble steps to Light’s domain, the movement had long since grown beyond her, grown bigger than the faint hope she clung to that she might find a way to die after the Brothers were gone.

(She wouldn’t recognize it until eons later, but she had already begun, even then, to resign herself to the possibility of living forever.)

The Moonfall and the Making of Remnant.

See this post.

Upon climbing back out of the pool of grimm, Salem found that it, just as the fountain of life had done, had poured itself into her soul. The vast and infinite well over which Darkness once presided had diminished to mere scattered ponds of atrum, still capable of birthing grimm if given a spark of life yet no longer alive as the dark lake had been; and she felt that vast and infinite power churning within herself now, mixing together with the molten radiance of the fountain. She began to have an inkling, then, of what she had done.

Eons ago, the Brothers created mankind by the admixture of their two natures—so went the old stories—creation and destruction bound together in one. Salem had thought to do the same, when she bore the light into the pool, but instead… some intangible barrier had shattered, she thought, had fallen into dust and less than dust. The waters mingled: and here is fire.

She wandered away from the Dark’s onetime domain in a daze, unsure of what she would find in this new world but excited to meet it, and what she found was the first and second of Remnant’s peoples: the fauni, who were no more human than she, and the grimm, as fierce and wild as she remembered.

Humans would come later. Salem has… complicated feelings about mankind, these days, a mixture of admiration for their virtues—their strength, their wisdom, their resourcefulness, their passion, their ingenuity, their hope—and profound wariness. She has not thought of herself as human since that half-century beneath the waves, and even less since her transformation in the dark lake; she is grimm, she is the one called God of Animals, the fauni are her people, and she does not much care for the way humans treat those who are different from themselves.

The First Reunion.

Ozma knew nothing of this, when the God of Light sent them back into life. They knew only what Light told them: that Darkness had destroyed mankind for an offense he implied had something to do with Salem, that humanity would rise anew in desperate need of redemption lest they be condemned to obliteration, and that though Salem yet lived, she was no longer the woman they held dear.

When they agreed to return, Ozma did not give a damn about any of this. Salem lived. No matter how she’d changed, they felt certain beyond any doubt that they would love her still, and when the words I’ll do it left their mouth, they had every intention of finding her at once.

But nothing could have prepared them to wrench awake behind a stranger’s eyes, nor for the overwhelming flood of another’s mind shattering and bleeding into their own. Nothing could have prepared them to feel the like-minded soul die so that they could live.

Nothing prepared them for the horrors of this new world, where humans bereft of magic cowered in the shadows like rats among grimm who now seemed all but unstoppable. Nor could they fathom the scale of suffering they saw everywhere they went: the senseless ravages of disease, the brutal and desperate wars over resources that had once been abundant, the seemingly endless panoply of false gods and false creeds which served as pretext for yet more war, the almost-human creatures called faunus who—they were told—lived bestial lives in the wilderness, whom the grimm did not hunt because they had no souls, who hated humanity just as fiercely as did the grimm… who served and worshipped the malignant Witch of the Wastes.

She had to be Salem. Ozma knew it from the moment they heard the first whisper of that name, for who else in this damned and desolate world could wield power of that kind?

Fear crept over them. Doubt. They remembered what she had done to her father, the spectacular violence in her fear; Ozma had never been blind to Salem’s wrath. What had happened to her, after they died? What had she done? What if—in the end it was this thought that overcame the rest of Ozma’s worries and brought them to her doorstep, heart in their mouth—what if the God of Darkness had laid a curse upon her?

(Might she still be saved, even now?)

Some of those fears melted away when Salem opened her door and Ozma looked into her eyes at long last: they knew at once that she was still herself, and for a while that was all that mattered.

For her part, Salem had long since made peace with never seeing Ozma again; she held on to a faint hope that their soul might be reborn, now that the gates of death had cracked, but she knew—thought she knew—that they would never return as themself, and she might never find their soul again. Her grief had become a deep ache, never quite fading but possible to live with, around, through. What else was there for her to do but keep living?

(Sometimes—now and then, when the anguish rose to the surface again—her mind did conjure echoes of them. She had spent countless nights of her interminable isolation huddling miserably in their arms, half-dreaming and half-believing they were really there. It comforted her sometimes to pretend not to know these were only hallucinations; she liked to imagine their spirit lingering with her, reaching out to soothe her when she could bear the pain no longer. But even that had not happened in a very long time, when Ozma found her.)

The first thought to arise from the searing, wordless shock of finding them before her once again was wonder at the recognition aglow in their eyes, the smile dawning upon their face as if no time had passed at all; the second, an overwhelming terror that this wasn’t real.

Both were cautious, in the beginning. Salem felt acutely aware of how much she had changed, how foolish it would be to expect everything to go back to the way it was in that little house by the sea; Ozma’s fear that she had been cursed by Darkness seemed all but confirmed by her grimm appearance and the bizarre, erratic tale she told of defying the Brothers and plunging into the divine wellsprings. She could do magic no longer, for the Brothers had torn their gifts from her soul, and the wild power she held now was unlike anything Ozma had seen.

Yet… even so.

Every troubling tale they’d heard of the Witch proved to have a reasonable explanation. Of course the fauni had souls (and Ozma has never quite lost their mortification for believing otherwise), and Salem’s careful observations of the grimm led her to believe they were drawn to powerful negative emotion: hatred, anger, misery, envy, fear, all feelings roused by the rampant persecution of faunuskind at human hands. She offered protection to those fauni who sought her out, and sometimes stole into settlements late at night to set captive fauni free. In the village nestled along the edge of her woods, she was well-regarded—if still a little feared, for she seldom left the woods unless someone came to ask for her help.

Those first few weeks together in her cottage were peculiar, thick with dread and uncertainty and the awkward feeling of the eons now lying between them; there had been missteps and hurtful misunderstandings aplenty, while they learnt each other again.

She was different: she had acquired a sardonic sense of humor which delighted them, an astounding depth of knowledge on the natural forces of the world, an alarming farrago of new gods, a vicious temper that often saw her storming out of their cottage to (she admitted to them once, rather sheepishly, when they asked) lurk at the bottom of a lake for hours to calm herself…

But though they looked, Ozma could find nothing in her to fear; she was still kind, still inquisitive, still terribly shy, still—true enough that Salem was no longer the awkward, volatile, passionate girl they’d held so dear, but that girl wasn’t gone. She had only grown into herself, and each day they loved her more.

Ozma didn’t exactly intend to lie to her.

For those first few weeks, they kept what the God of Light had told them to themself, wanting to hear Salem’s side of the story before they made any judgments; and as weeks turned to months, Ozma concluded that, cursed by the Brothers though she was, nothing was wrong with Salem, and they resolved to forget their task as they had once forgotten their vows to be with her.

They found that they could not. Even as the love they shared with Salem, never quite fully realized in their previous life, put down roots and blossomed in this one, the suffering they had seen—the promise of obliteration—the twisted, still-bleeding shrapnel of the boy they had overtaken—all of it still lurked in the back of their mind, impossible to forget and growing ever harder to ignore.

In the present, when Ruby asked Jinn her question, Ozpin did almost believe that Salem had lied to Ozma, used them, led them blind and infatuated to their ruin: but that is only the lie Ozma has clung to for centuries.

The truth, far more painful, is that Salem trusted them. In spite of everything she had suffered, despite her terror of rejection, of losing them again; despite the fact that they answered her eager questions about how they’d found their way back with naught but vague nothings, Salem chose to give them her trust and her love and her unwavering faith; and so, when they cautiously ventured to lament the division they saw tearing Remnant apart, she had looked at them with hope shining in her eyes and promised to help them heal the world of its wounds.

To create a paradise—without the Brothers.

Ozma should have told her then. In that moment, they had known she would never break from her hatred of the gods who had slain the last world and tortured her for so long, would never submit to them again, and that had been the right time to tell her.

But they’d looked into her eyes, and imagined that boundless admiration curdling in betrayal and disgust, and instead they had leaned closer to kiss her and said, let’s do it.

Lux Aeterna.

Every lie that followed came easier than the last. Salem balked at too grand ambitions, and it often seemed to Ozma that she would have preferred to stay in that cottage with them forever—it was plain to see she did not much like standing before crowds, let alone leading a country, for all that she could be a dazzling orator when she had time to prepare—but they found they could persuade her to agree to almost any course of action so long as they gave it to her piecemeal.

(There were some lines she would not cross: Salem flatly refused to even consider imposing prison sentences, no matter the crime, and she afforded no patience to those humans who protested bitterly at being treated as equals to faunuskind under Aeternian law. But Ozma considered that she was often on the right side of these lines, and did not trouble themself much over her stubbornness.)

The girls were a surprise bordering on miraculous. Salem and Ozma had talked about wanting to have children, raise a family, but neither believed Salem could bear her own. (Ozma could not help but see it as a good omen, a sign that they were on the right path, and all the more so each time their daughters came out human.) Mara, the eldest; the twins, Dana and Lital; and Esther, the baby.

For a time, all seemed well. Lux Aeterna soared to prominence in the region: a small but prosperous city-state ruled by fair-minded, if frightfully powerful, rulers, a place where all were welcome regardless of appearance or culture or creed.

The troubles started small.

Ozma, plagued by terrible nightmares of the final judgment and knowing that this harmonious medley of differences was not what the God of Light truly meant by unity, grew ever more nervous about their utter failure to nudge Salem toward adopting a unified state religion.

Many of their people did worship Salem and Ozma, of course, just as planned. However…

Salem had been the one who put forward the idea of claiming divinity, but it quickly became apparent that Salem meant something quite different than what Ozma had thought: they’d envisioned a stepping stone toward acting as heralds for the true God, condemning the worship of false idols. But to her, becoming gods meant little more than fulfilling a certain societal role, one which overcame every difficulty she found in connecting with other people by simply asking them to accept her as an inhuman being who acted in accordance with inhuman rules. She cared not at all for the trappings nor the power of godhood; she just liked the rules, the contractual nature of relationships built on ritual and reciprocal favors.

Thus the worship of other gods did not trouble her whatsoever; Ozma could not even persuade her to stop adopting more of the gods invented by Remnant’s people, let alone to condemn the worship of false idols. Nor could they explain why it troubled them so without revealing their deception, and so they fretted, and their occasional arguments on the subject never came to any satisfying conclusions.

Then came the intractable problem of what Salem looked like, and the stories told about her across the region.

Grimm did not trouble Lux Aeterna, but they did prey upon her neighbors—many of them ancient human city-states wherein fauni were still enslaved and viewed with deep suspicion; many of them envious and resentful of the way Lux Aeterna flourished. Rumors began to spread of dark rituals performed by the Grimm Queen in the wilderness at night; baseless accusations of human sacrifice, of secret cannibalism, of Aeternians driving grimm into other kingdoms in order to steal more land, and similar fare.

Ozma tried desperately to lower tensions through diplomatic appeasement, ignoring Salem’s blunt insistence that it wouldn’t work. (She had seen this play out many times, in many places, and her cynicism with regard to mankind’s fear of the unknown is boundless.)

It did not work.

Rumors became threats, threats turned to actual incursions against Lux Aeterna’s borders—and one gory assassination attempt against Salem herself, which shook Ozma very badly—and when a vigorous, decisive defense of the borders failed to put an end to all the saber-rattling, Lux Aeterna took the offensive.

With the onset of war, Ozma discovered a new side of Salem that they had never yet seen: she had a strategic brilliance that spoke to deep experience, and she was utterly, dispassionately ruthless. In swift succession, one after the next, each hostile city-state crumbled and bent the knee beneath the Aeternian banner.

Salem approached this conquest with an attitude of grim necessity: there could be no peace with these wolves snarling at the door, and so the wolves must be broken and brought to heel. To Ozma, the merciless expansion of their borders felt by turns intoxicating—for how simple it was after all, to bring people together by the sword—and horrifying.

The Shattering.

One of the many things Ozma reflected upon, during their protracted withdrawal after Jinn caused them to relive all this, is whether Salem had begun to suspect the truth, near the end. Throughout the last few of the thirteen years they shared, she developed a habit of making disquietingly blunt remarks about what they were doing; about the necessity of conquest, if Ozma truly wished to unite the world behind their banner.

Salem did not have any idea what Ozma was hiding from her, but she did know that there was something they would not tell her; and as the war raged on, she grew ever more impatient with Ozma’s—as she saw it—willful blindness to the cost of their grand ambition. To bring freedom and peace to a small portion of the world, that could be done with ease: one needed only to give people something true, a common cause to strive for, and then shepherd it from one generation to the next. Lasting change did not dawn quickly.

(They were still, she often reminded herself, so young. She had been impatient once, too.)

Lux Aeterna had always seemed to her far more precarious than Ozma believed, an idealistic, fragile experiment surrounded on all sides by adversaries who would like nothing better than to tear it to shreds; years before the possibility of war even crossed Ozma’s mind, Salem had deemed it inevitable and made quiet preparations to insure that the outcome fell in their favor. (Her web of spies was vast, intricate, and wholly invisible to Ozma.)

One thing to prepare for war; another to wage it and hear her partner speak dreamily of bringing the whole world together and in the same breath recoil from the bloodshed.

It vexed her that they couldn’t seem to grasp that one implied the other. More than that, it crushed her to think that they were not satisfied with the life they had built with her, even more than it hurt when she realized they wanted more than a simple life together in her cottage. Salem had grown to like Lux Aeterna, despite her misgivings. She cared for its people; she loved her own daughters to bits; she loved Ozma. She was not… exactly… unhappy.

But she was not exactly happy, either. She felt inadequate, and taken for granted, and with ever-growing frequency in those last few years, like everything she did was wrong somehow. Whatever Ozma refused to tell her was plainly tearing them apart, and they seemed to always be further out of reach.

By the end, Salem had begun to question whether they even loved her anymore, or if all that really bound them together was inertia, or tired habit, or some misguided sense of obligation to her and their daughters.

The truth was worse, and far more horrible than Salem could ever have guessed: that the Brothers she’d thought long gone were trying to claw their way back was awful enough, that they wanted to butcher this world too a nightmare almost beyond comprehension, but the depth of Ozma’s betrayal in serving those monsters for all this time, in manipulating her into enacting their design, was beyond her ability to fathom. She could not understand it. (She still cannot understand it.)

There is a very old story faunuskind used to tell about where they came from, called The Shallow Sea: in it, the God of Animals gathers all the unhappy misfits and outcasts of the world and brings them to a certain island—a harsh new world where they can make their own home, if they choose. All they need to do is leap into the magical waters of the sea and swim ashore, shedding their old human skins to become something new.

Most choose to embrace the change, the chance for freedom given to them; but a small handful refuse, spitting accusations at the god and their chosen people, so the god sends them back home to their old lives, and for the rest of time, the ones who refused to change and all their descendants hate and fear the fauni, for reminding them of what they are not and never can be.

This is the myth Salem quoted to Ozma when she refused to go along with the divine plan for Remnant’s future, and this is what she meant: that the Brothers are of a kind with the resentful humans in the story, seething impotently that the world has outgrown them, and they deserve nothing but scorn; that humanity cannot be saved because there is nothing to redeem, and the only course is to press onward; that the world will never again be what it was.

Both she and Ozma understood her meaning perfectly. (No one else who witnessed Jinn’s answer did, a fact Ozma has not actually realized yet. When they tell Hazel that Salem is cursed to live for as long as the world turns and that she craves only death, they are—as they so often do—lying through their teeth.)

Salem does not remember anymore what she said, exactly, for she’s torn and twisted the memory so badly in desperation to make sense of it that the only thing she remembers is the emotion, and the way Ozma glared at her before they stormed out of the study.

Nearly four hours elapsed between that moment and Salem catching Ozma leaving with the girls. Most of that time, Ozma spent at war with themself, torn between their desperation to stay with Salem and their terror of what punishment the Light would inflict upon her, upon their daughters, upon the whole world if Ozma defied him. Salem, meanwhile, was sitting where Ozma had left her in a state of abject shock and horror.

Both were so on edge by the time they came face-to-face in the corridor that they broke at almost exactly the same time, and both remember seeing the other move to attack first. (In The Lost Fable, there is a very brief shot in which Ozma tightens their grip on their staff—bracing themself—and then Salem visibly startles at that movement the instant before she snaps.) Both were caught up in an overwhelming tide of desperate fury and years of pent-up resentment and distrust that had long since eroded the foundation of their relationship, and both were one hundred percent focused on trying to kill the other.

Neither of them knows exactly what happened to their daughters.

& The Rest.

Since that night, Salem and Ozma have seen each other only twice—in the apocalyptic final battle for Ruakh, and in Atlas when she captured Oscar.

Salem has largely done her best to avoid them, not caring what they did so long as she knew they didn’t have all four relics. She never wanted to see them again, after Ruakh. Ozma, meanwhile, has never stopped hating themself for sacrificing her for the sake of the divine plan… but the divine plan is all they have left, and they do not believe she could ever forgive them, so they keep stumbling through the motions of trying. Their paranoia, their tendency to see her in the shadows of every conflict and every grimm, arises from a mixture of intense guilt and twisted longing.

Salem is not aware that they do not have a choice about coming back, and nearly all her hatred in the present is founded upon her belief that they have spent the last three or four thousand years making a deliberate choice to murder an innocent person each time they return, either out of sheer zealotry or an obsessive desire to punish her. The instant she learns this is not so, her rage will rebound tenfold on the God of Light.

The girls did not, in fact, die that night. Ozma’s semblance—once they’re free, once it manifests in its fully-realized form—will reach back four thousand years to the moment the fight began and simply bring them forward. Or it has already done so, depending upon one’s perspective, and they just haven’t arrived at the right moment yet. Either way, to the children it is as if no time passes at all.

(The girls disappear from the scene right before the fight begins, and V9 gave me time travel shenanigans. I am in constant misery. Let me have this.)

[sandgraab]

something about chappell roan makes some of u people deranged like every single thing she's done since the kamala endorsing thing has been totally blown out off proportion. post title will be like CHAPPELL ROAN SUPPORTS PUPPY MURDER AND THINKS WOMEN BELONG IN THE KITCHEN? and the clip is her being like "i made a grilled cheese today and gave a piece of the crust to my dog" i don't get it. i see this even in the super progressive "feminist" spaces i spend time in . is it really just because she wouldnt support girlboss genocide .

[katsune-nya]

Random headcanons that I'm writing down 'cause I got writer's block for the kink headcanons.

Thanks to @devilgirlnq for the help 💞.

Tora listens to Evanescence and has a MySpace account.

Kei is a tsundere, that's the tweet.

Ken uses 2in1 shampoo 😔.

Taka... For some reason I see him being lowkey a christian???

Fuyu acts all confident and shit with love when "advicing" Michi but if he has a crush he just goes 🧍🏻‍♂️ and will NEVER approach you.

Shin is actually not shy at all, we love flustered Shin, but I firmly believe he's just chill with everything.

Akkun is probably the best husband, ngl. He's stable, has a work/life balance...

Mikey has a special corner on his blanket/towel that he chews on.

Souya has to set ALL his stuffies on the bed when he goes to sleep 'cause if not he feels bad for them.

Hakkai and Nahoya sleep like in a starfish position, they sprawl all over the bed, blankets stuck to their limbs, just a mess.

Mikey and Senju drool in their sleep. (So do Shin, Michi...)

Taiju sleeps like a vampire or corpse or something, kinda creepy.

Ran wears a silk bonnet and eyemask to bed. (He's so babygirl)

Ran used to get up in the middle of the night and check if Rin was still breathing 😭.

In the last timeline, Emma got cute overalls to match the vibe when hanging out at Shin's shop, then used them when "helping" Ken (talking his ears off).

Taka and Kei are the ones that respect women the most tbh. Mikey and Ken are cool too, just... Kinda old school? Women need protection 'cause they're weaker and shit? But with good intentions.

Ken is the dad friend, Taka the mom friend, Mikey, Kei, Nahoya and Tora are the bastard children, Peh and Pah the pet chihuahuas.

Mikey didn't one day decide to let his hair grow, he just was too lazy to go get a haircut and it just ended up as we know it.

I can imagine that if shin had a daughter he would go see lil Izana at the orphanage to show him his niece while Kakucho looks in awe along with him.

Ran would definitely give his daughter those black sun glasses to wear... As a toddler.

Koko's son is a fashion icon.

Mikey can't have children, he is the baby.

Draken is so girl dad.

Koko's son knows how to strut.

The machoman dressed like a fairy having a tea party... That's mochi.

MUCHO TOO. Man will look so intimidating with makeup smeared all over his face by his daughter.

He walks down the street at a fair or smth with his two girls one on each hand, stern expression fairy wings and glittery makeup.

I see Taka not having children until he's older maybe.

He had enough kids already lmao.

Wait till marriage type of man (for kids, not sex lmao.)

The *gets closer* "can I kiss you?" Is Taka in the beginning of the relationship.

Shion looks like the type to be so competitive when playing pretend kitchen with their child.

HE CORRECTS HER COOKING BUT IT'S A 3YO PLAYING WITH PLASTIC.

When in real life he can burn the dam kitchen.

Cooked dry pasta but didn't know you needed to boilt it.

Just put it in the pot.

You come back after being out for the day and find Shion asleep on the floor next to the couch, mouth open, with your kid sprawled on his chest, the house a mess, and fast food boxes around.

The state of the kitchen shows he tried

Almost all of them are girl dads.

Not because of being good with women or anything.

But because they all give gay vibes. (I'm joking... Mostly)

Hakkai ain't having kids.

He's a single, childless gay.

He's like fuck them kids, respectfully.

Hanma... Why do I see him having old parents or a grandpa.

His parents had him when they were in their 30s/40s.

Probably parents don't even live where he lives 'cause they don't give a shit or are dead.

Or both lmao.

He gives unsupervised vibes.

He probably got kicked out or snuck out and lived in the streets somewhere.

He's one of the many characters who doesn't get holydays or bds celebrated at home.

I see him living alone somewhere.

Maybe the streets, staying over places.

Or a house that used to belong to a relative.

Or abandoned place.

He slept on the bus stop benches.

But like, he has money for cigs.

He steals or pickpockets.

Maybe some deals, betting... Doesn't even cheat, he's just good and lucky.

Beats people up for money too.

And has senpaiis is the delinquent world.

That's how he got his bike.

I headcanon him and Tetta go hang out and eat sometimes with Tetta's excuse being having to strategize.

And Tetta always pays.

He just does it, before Shu can't even say or do anything.

Shu probably gets seconds yet Kisaki is so used to it he doesn't question it. Just scoffs at him but nevertheless still pays.

He scolds him for eating like a pig but then side eyes him worriedly if he eats less.

And goes like "It's rude to not even eat what I'm getting you".

Will NEVER say that he just worries about him lmao.

Mikey needs a photographer for something as a racer and before Koko recommends someone Tetta goes "I'll call Hanma." And leaves.

[lithuanianking]

What do you think about the bits of characterization implying that Seymour thinks Audrey likes abusive guys (the leather jacket scene/"Gee I'd like a harley machine, toolin' around like I was James Dean, makin' all the guys on the corner turn green!"/her choosing Twoey over him in his nightmare in the extended movie version of The Meek Shall Inherit), this stuff drives me insane and I don't ever see anyone talk about it but I think it's really interesting and can be tied into things like his insecurity about his masculinity and the reality of her 50s housewife dream actually being very messed up and conductive to abuse unknown to her and yeah why do I never see anyone talk about this it's so (strange and) interesting

I have never heard this concept before omg.

Seymour definitely tries to "mirror" orin in the sense that he at least wants to look like him.

Audery actually kinda admits to him that she keeps ending up with abusive guys "I'd meet a man and I follow him blindly,he'd snap his fingers,me I'd say sure." Also with in the movie how she excuses orin by saying he makes good money and that he's a Professional.

So I don't know if I agree with Seymour thinks she particularly goes affter abusive guys but I don't disagree either.

But I'm gonna have to flat out respectfully disagree with you about her wanting to be a house wife being messed up.

The second wave of feminism took place in the 1960s which was did critique the idea of women having to belong in the kitchen. But just because a woman wants to be a housewife does that mean she has internalize misogyny?

Let's break down her song somewhere that's green.

"I know Seymour's the greatest

But I'm dating a semi-sadist

So I've got a black eye

And my arm's in a cast."

It's pretty clear what she's saying here,Seymour is the ideal guy for her but she can't really leave orin.

"Still, that Seymour's a cutie

Well, if not, he's got inner beauty

And I dream of a place

Where we could be together at last"

Being a house wife isn't audery trying to confine to social standards it's a place for her and Seymour to get away from there hard lives.

"He rakes and trims the grass

He loves to mow and weed"

Here she talks about how Seymour would Also be doing his fair share,even though it is the more "masculine" chore. But she likes the idea of having a husband who'd just like to do chores and be a good father.

It suddenly Seymour she mentions being raised by a single mother so she probably wants a "normal" adult life and wants to raise children with 2 parents.

Also yes Seymour is definitely concerned about his masculinity. He is a very nerdy guy and allways portrayed as the weak guy.

To get a little off topic but in the cartoon i mentioned there a episode that he's I'm home ec and he gets bullied by paine and his friends for not being manly enough.

He probably feels almost pressured by orin who is this overly masculine guy (which is to compensate for the fact he is a closed gay man but that's not what this posts about) and might think audery won't like a little shrimp like him.

He's also constantly getting picked on and pushed around and mostly by his own creation. I myself do struggle with some toxic masculinity and can sympathize with Seymour being more feminine by the people around him.

So audery "choosing " orin over him 100% makes him feel not manly enough.

Thanks so much for this ask it was great to think of something I've never took into account !

[sunlightandsuffering]

Lys you don’t understand. Now I’m hungry for an Auntkasa drabble of Eren taking off her garter belt with his mouth

BABE STOP IT I MIGHT! im tryna gey my writing mojo back ! I think I like the idea of him convincing her to let him put it on.

It's lying innocently on the bed, just waiting to be put on, to be slid up those gorgeous legs of hers, soft and silky smooth, Eren would know, he's had them wrapped around his waist before, had his face crushed between those thighs, fuck. His breathing comes a little quicker, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he zeroes in on the white silk.

Mikasa follows his gaze curiously, and he watches in satisfaction as her cheeks heat up when she realizes what he's looking at. "It's tradition," She says by way of explanation, a hint of guilt in her tone and Eren could punch something, because yeah, it is tradition, one he's very familiar with, one that will end in her groom taking the garter off himself when it should be Eren doing it, preferably with his teeth." "You gonna throw it to me after?" He asks, hating the edge to his tone, how obvious he is in how much he hates this, "It's good luck after all, for all the single bachelors in the room. Maybe i'll get lucky, find my bride next." Mikasa's face tightens, her cheeks pinching up, full lips pressing into a thin line at the thought. "Maybe," is her callous response, "But isn't my husband supposed to throw it?" Eren shrugs, vibrating with nervous energy, unable to stay in place anymore. He walks to the bed, fingering the silk regretfully, it should be him, how he wishes it was him. He holds the delicate garment in his hand, conjuring the mental image of her slim leg encased in the silky circlet, rucked up high on her thigh, the most beautiful of garments for the most beautiful of women. It's such a delicate thing, meant to be taken off carefully, meant for the wearer to be worshipped properly. His grip on the fabric tightens, crushing the soft silk in his fist, because all he can think about is how unbelievably unfit Mikasa's groom is for the job. "Eren," Mikasa says his name softly, "Give it here." He sighs, deflating like a balloon, all the steam leaving him as he turns to her, so beautiful, barefaced and in a matching white slip, a strap hanging off the soft curve of her shoulder, the slit of her dress exposing a delicate sliver of thigh.

She's stunningly beautiful, just as she was that first day he saw her in Marco's kitchen, and even years later, more mature, he's still captivated, still in love. And Eren thinks that if he can't take off the garter, he might as well be the one to put it on, might as well worship her now before she belongs to someone else forever. "Let me do it," he murmurs, sinking to a kneel in front of her, large hands wrapping around her ankle. Mikasa gasps at the touch, her cheeks colouring pretty pink, all the way down to the full swells of her breasts, and fuck she's always been so reactive to him, even her nipples are hard, he can see it through her dress. It had been a cold slap to the face when he'd gone off to university, to find out that not all women were as beautifully responsive as Mikasa was. To learn that not everyone could cum from having their breasts worshipped alone, fuck.

"Eren," Mikasa tries to stop him, a hand coming up but he brushes her away, pulling her leg up high to rest on his shoulder.

"C'mon Miki," He kisses her ankle softly, "Just let me have this, you were my first evrything just let me have this." She sighs, a soft keening sound that goes straight to his dick as he trails his left hand up her thigh, the fabric of her dress slipping away like water, the slit parting for him to reveal miles of smooth milky skin. He brings the garter up, slipping it over the arch of her foot and she watches him through soft silver eyes, honeyed with lust, remniscent of the look she gets when he's inside her, all fucked out and sated with him.

He misses it, hasn't seen it in so long.

The delicate silk slips up her calf easily, and Eren traces his nose along the muscle, his fingers teasing as he lingers at her knee. It becomes harder for him to keep control as he pushes her dress farther up, when he trails over the creamy of her thighs and the silky garter begins to fit snug, finally pulled taught over her soft upper thigh. His cheek rests against her thigh and he inhales softly, the delicate scent of vanillla from hte body lotion, and he can't resist another kiss, just a little too high to be appropriate, a little too close to what he wants, barely covered by a thin layer of silk from her dress, hiding what he wants most. She tastes sweet, her skin salty and clean, freshly showered, dewy. He barely resists the urge to leave a hickey, to suckle at the sensitive skin so she'll make that sweet noise again, so her husband will realize she doesn't belong to him. As it is, Mikasa is breathing harshly above him, her manicured fingers clenched tightly around the arms of her chair, and Eren breathes out a sigh, ready to pull back. His breath teases along the edge of her cunt and Mikasa lets out a strained noise, a beautifully high pitched little keen, a hand slipping to knot in his hair. She looks down at him with desperate eyes, "Please." Without further question he noses his way up towards her cunt, the pretty pink slit he hasn't tasted in far too long, and already he aches for the flavour to have him writhing above him while he fucks her with his tongue. He unwraps her like a present, lovingly pulling her dress away to reveal soaked lace panties, barley concealing the glossy lips of her bare cunt and god is she ever pretty, even through her underwear. "Fuck Mikasa," he groans, and without further ado he spreads her legs wide, kissing her folds through her panties, suckling at her little bud and she cries out above him. She tastes just like he remembers, sweet, so, so sweet he could die between her thighs and he'd be a happy man. "All for me huh Mika?" "Always," she whispers desperately, and for that he pulls her panties to the side, finally becoming reacquainted with the delicate folds and fuck she's just like he remembers, the first pussy he ever tasted, the prettiest girl he's ever met. He buries his tongue between her folds, and is rewarded with plump thighs trapping him between her legs.

Eren is the happiest he's been in a long time, tonguefucking Mikasa in her dressing room barely an hour before her wedding, while bridesmaids run up and down the halls behidn them, and her groom gets ready to line up to await her.

He makes her orgasm a memorable one, whispering praise into her cunt, how he's missed it, how pretty she is, all the while he keeps one hand on that garter belt, pulled tight so she knows he's there, that it's him who put it on, that when her groom takes it off later it'll be him she's thinking about, her cunt soaked through her panties for him.

She's dazed afterwards, a dreamy slump on her chair and Eren takes special care to arrange her wet panties back over her cunt, leaving her with one last hot open-mouthed kiss right at the centre that has her whole body shiver. He pats her thigh lovingly, giving the garter one last gentle tug before he lets her dress fall to cover her up. She stares up at him with sleepy, delighted eyes and Eren can't help his smirk as he wipes his face off with the sleeve of his tux. He takes a step back, and he can't help but note how her legs are still quivering, she probably hasn't had an orgasm like that in a long time. "See you out there Miki." And then he does the second hardest thing he's ever done, he turns and leaves, for the second time in his life he walks away from the girl he loves, with hopes that maybe this time it'll end differently.

[kamisatoyato]

gentle as the wind, rough as the storm

Character(s). kaedehara kazuha

Warnings. hurt, breakups, loneliness, sadness, angst

Summary. you just broke kazuha's heart, leaving him alone with a letter from you...

Notes. this is my second written work on tumblr, so I hope you all enjoy! I also appreciate constructive criticism and any notes or comments! also, I kind of rushed this...

Kazuha was a sweetheart and you loved him. You had a crush on him ever since Beidou introduced you two, and it was like love at first sight. Before Kazuha, you didn't think that it was real- love at a glance. The way he smiled at you, the way he held your hand, proudly showing his relationship off. He wouldn't admit it, but he loved your flaws as well. Every way you showed emotion, your face lighting up with joy or contorting in disgust. The way you cried into his shoulder, warm tears soaking through his shirt. He was pained to see you sad, yet cherished the moments when you could bond and cuddle, spilling your inner secrets and desires to him. He knew all of your dreams, your favourite foods, your facial expressions, your moods.

Yet, the one thing he missed was the way you would laugh and brush off his comments, playful yet sad. He overlooked some things, like how you would react to him talking or laughing with other women, your eyes focused on their facial expressions and your ears listening to their conversations. Now, was he filled with regret?

Every time you walked past, your smile directed at another.

Every time you turned around, your back to him.

Every time, every single time you would fake a smile for him, not quite meeting your eyes.

Did he....

realize...?

How you turned around when he tried to hug you, avoiding him when he wanted a kiss. Kazuha would ignore those actions, thinking you were being playful.

Yet one day, Kazuha was sleeping soundly and didn't wake to you packing up your things in the middle of the night. Your eyes strayed to his sleeping face, his form covered with the blanket you had shared for the past two years. His gentle features were relaxed, his mouth slightly open, light snores reaching your ears. You wiped your tears away, turning on your heel and gathering your belongings in a box. You had already secretly written a letter for him, the moonlight illuminating the page on your empty nightstand. Closing the door, you stepped into the hallway, never once turning back again.

Kazuha woke with no warm body next to his. He was surprised when the dresser drawers and closet doors were open, showing no signs of your clothing inside. With quick yet light footsteps, he hurried down the hallway to your bathroom. Your toiletries were gone, his toothbrush the only one in the cup. He started to panic, rushing downstairs to the kitchen and living room. He looked around frantically, but he saw no signs of your being. Only his belongings remained. What time was it even? Panic-stricken, Kazuha searched the entire house to see if you were hiding somewhere.

Finally, after an hour of searching, he saw the letter that you had written him sitting on the nightstand. A feather quill and ink jar had been holding down the curled parchment. He held the paper with quivering arms, tears threatening to fall. With each word he read, with each stroke of your quill, he saw you.

And it was as if you were there next to him.

End.

[rachelbethhines]

60 Years of Doctor Who Anniversary Marathon - McGann 3rd Review

The Adventures of Henrietta Street - Novel

Well that sucked.

I don't know why, but I was under the impression that the BBC Eighth Doctor books were generally more well regarded than the previous Virgin New Adventures. I assumed that this was because they were less try-hard edgy and fake mature because there was more BBC oversight.

I was wrong.

The Adventures of Henrietta Street is every bit as tasteless, offensive, and immature as any NA I've ever read. Worse... it's even more pretentious than any NA I've ever read, and that's really saying something!

But I'm getting ahead of myself... what is the book about?

So Gallifrey has recently been destroyed... Not by the Time War, but in some other conflict. Something to do with alternate dimensions... It's okay though cause eventually the books will reverse this decision just in time for RTD to destroy the planet again in the revival series. (No wonder he likes Chibnall's own retcon of Gallifrey's alive status.)

Therefore, cut off from his home and the Tardis, the Doctor falls ill and finds refuge in a late 1700s house of prostitution. He befriends the girls working there, and they become his 'army' against a new foe that has slipped through the cracks between dimensions now that the Time Lords are no longer around to hold them back.

His plan is to make an uneasy alliance with all the witches of the world and one man who wishes to replace the Doctor and become a Time Lord himself. And to accomplish this, the Doctor has to get married.

Did I lose you yet?

Yeah, by this time, like with the NAs, the BBC books were becoming more and more insular as they tried to appeal to their current audience of hardcore fans rather than trying to make the series accessible. So there's a lot of backstory and lore that the novel just expects you to already know.

It's not impossible to follow if, like me, you haven't read all the books up to this point, but it's not a very inviting read.

Then there's the issue with the book's 'gimmick'. Save for the opening chapter, the entire book is written like a bad History Channel documentary. You know the kind, the ones that claim aliens built the pyramids and that President Kennedy is secretly still alive.

It's annoying. I would have prefer to read the story in pure letter form like Dracula or just have a normal telling. Trying to do both with a Lemony Snicket type narrator doesn't work... mainly cause the author takes himself way too seriously.

Also I hope you don't like actual science fiction, cause none of it is to be found here. The story doesn't even pay lip service to it. It's pure fantasy with the Doctor as a wizard and ordinary humans capable of real ass magic with no explanation at all.

Oh and the female orgasm can stop time and summon daemons, apparently....

This is the part that really offends. I mean I don't care for the gore and burning the innocent priest alive on a cross is perhaps a step too tactless... but claiming women have magical powers just because they're women smacks of that second wave girl power bullshit that drives me up the damn wall every single time.

Placing women on a pedestal rather than treating them like real human beings is every bit as offensive as telling them they belong in the kitchen.

Oh and there's an unpleasant subplot where the Doctor is grooming a 16 year old girl to marry him.

To be fair, it's not intended to be romantic/sexual in any way, and he doesn't actually go through with it. But that's only because the girl runs away, and we're supposed to see this act of agency as a 'betrayal' or some shit.

It's gross.

Also it doesn't even really matter cause he winds up marrying someone else anyway and it's dubious as to if said wedding was even necessary. Like what does it actually accomplish narrative wise other then to transport everyone to the demon dimension... even though it's established in the story that there are plenty of other ways to get there?

And I'm not even going into the stupidly of the Doctor's rival being able to transplant one of the Doctor's hearts into his own chest and that magically giving him time travel. In fact everything about Sabbath is beyond dumb and I hope to never come across the character ever again.

Anything else? ... Oh yes, the Doctor's wife reminds me of River Song and not in a good way. Moffat really didn't have an original concept to his name, did he?

So yeah, I don't recommend this one at all. Hopefully the next story will be more fun.