#is this how french people feel all the time

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part twenty-nine: blind spot

word count: 4.4k(?)

warnings: this chapter contains mentions of drugs, weaponry, and other illegal activities. reader discretion is advised.

twenty eight | twenty nine | thirty

He kept telling himself he was doing the right thing.

Give her space. Let her breathe, for fuck’s sake. Don’t make this about you.

But it was a joke, really. Because no matter how many times he told himself to back off, Lando couldn’t stop wondering what she was doing, how she was feeling, whether she’d eaten something that could actually be considered food. Whether she’d eaten the bread still warm from the bakery or left it to go stale on the table. Whether she cried when she was alone. Whether she cried at all.

He told himself to grow up. This wasn’t some teenage crush. He had blood on his ledger, weight on his name. He ran half the city’s undercurrent from behind the veil, stitched the streets together with money and fear and brute control.

So he acted like it.

Thursday came bitter and sharp, all wind slicing through his coat as he ducked down an alley off La Rousse and into the backroom of an old tailor’s shop – a legitimate front. It was run by an elderly man named Niki who had been running the business since back in the early 1980’s, long before Monaco ever gained their nefarious Reaper. 

Lando just happened to be a loyal business partner of his – a humble young man who paid a generous amount in exchange for exclusive access to the basement of the old property. Niki had the added bonus of being a man who knew how to mind his own business.

Lando liked that in a partner.

The real business was three floors beneath—cold, concrete, and buzzing with quiet tension. His people were already gathered around the long steel table: Max Fewtrell leaning back in a chair, Logan with his arms folded, Carlos hunched over some schematics.

“News?” Lando asked, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it onto the rack behind him.

Carlos looked up, tapping the paper with his knuckles. “Got movement near Mile End. New shipment of knockoff tech—headsets, tablets, black market shit. I say we intercept and flip it.”

Lando nodded. “Do it quiet. No fireworks. I don’t want more noise than necessary this week.”

That’s when Verstappen stepped up to inform him that the warehouse on the docks had been hit. Two of Lando’s runners had gotten picked up and one of them was singing like a songbird. To make matters worse, their local books weren’t clean— for that matter, nothing was clean— but it meant that some fool had tried to skim off the gambling profits again. 

Lando stood at the edge of the table, leaning forward on his fists as he surveyed the projected losses and the photograph evidence. With the way his sleeves were rolled up and his fists were clenched, Logan had to approach him, cutting off his train of thought.

“Mate, you have to take a breath, you're going to kill someone and then paperwork becomes my problem.”

“...Mate?”

“Boss. I meant boss. It’s, uh, a different way of pronouncing it. Yeah! Uh, French. Very French.”

The glare Lando shot him was so potent and so familiar that Logan didn’t need a language to understand it.

Shut up, Spin.

Logan sighed.

Why is it always me?

By noon, his phone buzzed with a familiar unknown number. There was no contact name, but the area code was French, and Lando was smart enough to know who would be so bold as to call him again.

Gasly.

The French always were so full of themselves.

It’d been a while since he’d heard from him. The Frenchman wasn’t one to just call up without a reason. And Lando had a feeling this wasn’t going to be a friendly chat about old racing memories.

With a roll of his eyes, Lando finally answered the call, placing the call on speaker before leaning back in his chair. 

“Gasly,” Lando greeted succinctly, tone unreadable.

“Ah, now you pick up, huh? I have been trying to get your attention for some time now, Mr. Norris,” There was a slight chuckle, then a shift to seriousness. “Lando,” came the smooth, almost cocky voice on the other end. “You are busy?”

“Always,” Lando replied, his tone flat. “What do you need?”

“We should meet.”

He paused. The warehouse around him stilled.

“Where?”

“Neutral ground. Tomorrow night. Hmm, Le Voile d'Or? Not one of your places. Bring one of your own. Just one.”

“I’ll think about it,” Lando said, his voice low and cold. “But don’t think for a second I’m gonna let you walk all over me, Gasly.”

Gasly laughed, as if the challenge didn’t faze him. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The line went dead before Lando could respond.

Bastard.

That night, Lando was back at the head of the intimate table setup in the meeting room, the dark mahogany reflecting the warm light of the ornate overhead chandelier. He folded his sleeves casually, rolling them to his elbows, his knuckles still raw but healing. Logan, Carlos, and Max Fewtrell sat with him, a fresh set of printed diagrams spread across the table—half club schematics, half distribution routes.

“He’s been running the street scene uptown with those modified imports and the fancy kid drivers,” Daniel added, leaning back. “Why would he want to fold into our operation now?”

“Because we’ve got infrastructure,” Lando said. “He’s got speed and no discipline. We’ve got routes, clean-ups, and an intel network he couldn’t build in a decade.”

Max tilted his head. “You thinking we bring him in for delivery work? Or enforcement?”

“Neither.” Lando’s jaw tightened. “We make him a runner. Use Gasly and his Garage to move product across districts fast. Street races’ll double as cover. We don’t touch the actual racin’—we let him handle that circus.”

Daniel let out a low whistle. “That’s pretty ambitious.”

“It’s efficient,” Lando muttered. “We’ve lost two outer routes in the last month. We need speed without, like, needin’ to rebuild everythin’ from scratch.”

Lando leaned forward, resting his forearms against the edge of the table, rings tapping a dull rhythm on the steel. “He said his crew is fast, low-profile, and looking for more work. But I think he wants protection—someone to watch his back if things go south.”

Carlos frowned. “Could be good.”

“Could be bait,” Logan muttered.

Lando considered both. In this life, everything came with a price. 

Trust, especially.

Still, he needed to keep moving. Staying still made him think too much—about her, about that night, about the blood on her hands and how small she’d looked on his bathroom floor, knees drawn to her chest, his name barely a whisper.

At least he could keep the rest of the world in order. That much, he could still control.

“He’s smart,” Max Fewtrell said, interrupting his thoughts, tracing a path from the docks through to the northern districts. “Gasly’s been running his racing ring lean. Tight crew. Fast drivers. They're ghosts, half’a the time.”

Carlos, leaning against the lockers, nodded in agreement. “They are a fast crew. Young. Aggressive, too. They know the roads better than most of our guys do. And the bikes they run with?” He let out a low whistle. “Custom-built, half of them. Perfect for the tight runs.”

“What, you trust ‘em?” Daniel half-laughed, skeptical.

“No,” Lando rolled his eyes, as if Daniel had asked some stupid, childish question. “But I don’t need to trust ‘em. I need him to know we could make each other very, very rich, ” he smiled smugly.

Logan looked up from the tablet. “Using his drivers as runners could cut our drop times in half…”

“And also draw heat,” Carlos pointed out. “They crash one car, we will lose the route and the product.”

Lando leaned back, eyes flicking over the blueprints again. 

Logan folded his arms. “ I dunno… could be useful. If we want to up our speed game, y’know.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Or it’s a setup. C’mon, I thought I was our car guy!”

Carlos only laughed.

Lando cracked his knuckles. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll hear him out. He wants to meet at a neutral place, suggested Le Voile d'Or. I want two exits, working comms, and I want eyes on the building an hour before Max n’ I even step foot in it. Logan and Oscar will go tonight and set up early. Got it?”

He could feel his heart rate pick up, the adrenaline that always came with making deals like this. But at the same time, he couldn’t escape the thought that kept gnawing at him—he wasn’t doing this to move forward anymore. He was doing it to outrun what was closing in behind him.

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, the shadow of the city growing darker behind him. Everything he was doing now was just a distraction. A way to ignore the fact that, no matter how many deals he made or how many punches he threw, it was never enough. 

Lando gritted his teeth. He didn’t have time to think about that. Not now.

Gasly had his attention, and that was enough for tonight.

“Yuki!” Pierre barked, stepping over a tangle of brake lines. “The NSX is still sputtering in third—didn’t I tell you to fix that two days ago?”

Yuki, crouched under the hood with grease smudged across his cheek, didn’t flinch. “Yeah, you did. And I am, but maybe if Esteban didn’t screw with the ECU mapping behind my back—”

“That was an improvement,” Esteban waved off, leaning against the wall with a bottle of water and a smug tilt to his mouth. “Unlike your tuning, which sounds like a dying blender.”

Pierre groaned, pacing past the two. “If you two can go thirty fucking seconds without pissing on each other, maybe we would have a car ready before Lando and his crew show tomorrow.”

Tucked into a half-abandoned industrial lot on the outskirts of the city, the place didn’t look like much from the outside. But inside, rows of souped-up cars lined the walls, glittering under harsh fluorescent lights. Toolboxes clanged, beats thudded from an old speaker rigged in the corner, and the murmur of French, Japanese, and the occasional curse in English hung low in the air.

The scent of gasoline and burnt rubber hung heavy in the air, thick with adrenaline and sweat. Neon light spilled from under the cracked roll-up doors of Gasly’s Garage, casting eerie pinks and greens over the collection of customized engines and half-assembled machines inside. It looked like chaos, but every screw, wire, and rev was calculated—Pierre wouldn’t allow otherwise.

This was Gasly’s world. And tonight, he was not fucking around.

“We need to look tight,” Pierre said sharply, pacing between two low-slung Hondas with custom body kits and matte finishes. “Like… we belong in that league, same as him.”

Yuki, now crouched under the open hood of a deep purple Acura NSX, didn’t even look up. “We do belong in the same league. You just want to look prettier.”

“Prettier gets us in the room,” Pierre snapped. “The rest comes after.”

From the far side of the garage, a socket wrench clattered to the floor. Esteban straightened up, rubbing his grease-stained hands on an already filthy rag.

“I thought the whole point of us was not needing his approval,” he said, too loud on purpose. “But sure. Let us beg for Norris’s scraps. I’m sure he’ll be flattered.”

Pierre’s jaw flexed. “It’s not begging. It is business.”

Esteban gave him a look. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, mon frère.”

Yuki rolled his eyes, muttering something in Japanese that probably wasn’t flattering.

“Putain,” Pierre swore under his breath, rubbing the side of his face. “Where the fuck is Jack? Tell me the rookie isn’t late. Again.”

“He’s not late,” came Yuki’s voice, straightening up to take a step back from the hood and check his work. He was still admiring his handiwork when he plainly told Pierre, “You are just anxious.”

Pierre shot him a look. Yuki didn’t flinch, just wiped his hands on a rag and dropped the hood with a satisfying thunk, before coming to stand beside Pierre.

“I’m not anxious,” Pierre said, voice low but clipped. “I’m focused. There’s a difference.”

“You are pacing like my grandmother used to before Sunday Mass,” Yuki deadpanned.

“Your grandmother also used to smuggle hash through airport security in her rosary beads,” Esteban muttered from the side, leaned against a stack of tires with a lazy smirk. “Ah, I know! Maybe she should be running this crew instead.”

Pierre turned his head sharply. “Say that again, Ocon. I dare you.”

Esteban lifted both hands in mock surrender. “I am just saying. If Lando Norris is coming all the way down from his big castle to check us out, maybe he’s expecting more than… this shit.”

Pierre stepped toward him. Yuki, with the patience of someone who’d seen this a hundred times before, simply pulled out his vape and took a long drag.

“You think you could run this place better?” Pierre asked tightly, jaw set. “Sois mon putain d'invité.”

“Je ne veux pas de ton travail, mon pote. I just want to survive the night without you starting a pissing contest in front of a guy who could bankroll half the East District.”

“Guys,” Yuki interrupted. “Maybe focus up? If we screw this up, we lose our only shot at this.”

The hangar doors creaked open with a mechanical groan before Pierre could respond. Jack Doohan rolled in then, stepping out with a backpack slung over one shoulder, hair damp like he’d just showered in a gas station sink. His car was flashy, over-tuned, too much chrome.

“You’re late,” Pierre snapped.

“Sorry,” Jack offered with a crooked smile, dropping the bag with a thud. “Cops shut down the shortcut. Had to take the long way ‘round.”

Pierre just glared. 

Jack raised both hands. “Hey, I’m here now. What’d I miss?”

Yuki stood up, wiping car grease off his hands. “Everything important. But mostly Pierre yelling.”

Pierre shot him a warning look, cutting them off. “We’re here to make this look good. Lando Norris isn’t just some suit with a penchant for fast cars. He’s a calculated bastard. He’ll smell desperation from a mile away, so get your heads on straight.”

A beat of silence passed. The only sound was the low hum of the cars still cooling and the faint beat of music shifting to something darker.

At the back of the garage, Jack stood quietly, knuckles skinned from a rushed brake swap, eyes wide as he tried to absorb everything. This was his third week with Gasly’s crew, and it felt like a masterclass in organized madness. Pierre didn’t trust easily, but Jack had shown he wasn’t just another rich kid with a turbo’d Civic and something to prove. He listened. He learned. And most importantly, he earned his bruises.

“Oi,” Pierre called to him. “Check the tire pressure on the GTR. If we’re gonna show Lando we can move fast, we need to look like we live at 300 kph.”

Jack nodded immediately, wiping his hands on his jeans before jogging over to the corner.

The Garage was more than just their base—it was sacred ground. A Frankenstein’s lab of torque and tension. The walls were lined with old race trophies and Polaroids: half the people in them long gone, half still hanging on by blood, rivalry, or debt.

“You have got two hours,” he said instead. “We meet Lando and his guy at midnight sharp, comprendre?”

Esteban crossed his arms. “And what do we do when Lando starts asking questions we can’t answer? You think he is just going to just hand over his distribution lines because we brought him pretty toys?”

“No,” Pierre said. “I think he’ll listen if we show him we’ve got speed, discipline, and something he doesn’t. He knows this city better than anyone — but we know the streets. Every alley, every cop rotation, every crew too young or too desperate to turn legit. That’s what we offer.”

Jack looked around, cracking his knuckles. “You, uh, think they’ll bring Spin?”

Yuki raised an eyebrow. “No, I don’t think so. Lando doesn’t let anyone talk for him.”

“Except the Fewtrell boy,” Pierre muttered. “That’s his second, from what I hear.”

Esteban snorted. “Great. Can’t wait.”

Yuki closed the RX-7’s hood with a clang. “Why are we even trying so hard with this guy? You know he doesn’t play well with others.”

Pierre shot him a look. “Because Lando Norris doesn’t just run a syndicate—he is the syndicate. We get this deal, we stop bleeding cash on side bets and finally start –how they say– playing in the big leagues.”

“And if he says no?” Esteban asked, too casually.

“Then we make him say yes.” Pierre’s voice was calm, too calm.

Yuki exhaled, long and low. “You always say that before something explodes.”

“That’s because something always does,” Pierre grinned, flashing gold where his canine used to be. “Now get the hell to work. Tomorrow’s not just a meeting. It’s our audition.”

With that, Pierre was already walking toward his own car — a sleek silver Nissan GT-R with a cobalt blue underglow, hood up, engine gutted and humming as his crew fine-tuned every detail. He stood there for a moment, one hand resting on the roof.

This had to go right.

Because Gasly’s Garage wasn’t just a bunch of kids racing for pink slips anymore – not since the money started moving, not since the bets turned serious. Not since the first time someone crashed, and the body disappeared before sunrise.

They were in it now. And Lando Norris — the Reaper himself — was the next step.

So yeah, they’d play nice. 

For now.

But only because they planned to run this city one day.

And when they did?

They’d remember exactly who looked down on them.

The chosen meeting, an unconstructed club called Le Voile d'Or was nothing more than a skeleton — steel beams, concrete floors, and open air where the ceiling should’ve been. No neon signs, no thumping bassline. Just construction tape fluttering in the breeze and the sound of sawdust spreading about. Lando liked it that way. No distractions. No corners to hide in.

The meet was set for midnight.

He arrived at 11:43, naturally. Max was already pacing near the car, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

“They’re not here yet,” Max muttered, eyes scanning the lot. “You sure this isn’t a trap?”

“It’s always a trap,” Lando said evenly, pulling off his gloves as he stepped onto the gravel. “S’why we lay ours first.”

Oscar was already in position. Rooftop a block out, four floors up, a clean sightline, silencer on. One text and he could stop a heartbeat mid-sentence.

Logan had swept the perimeter earlier — camera blind spots mapped, back exits sealed, with Daniel and Verstappen posted by the service stairs. With Carlos positioned near the front entrance, nothing got in or out without them knowing.

Still, Lando’s eyes never stopped moving. Even in this hollow, half-built ruin, he was all edges. Sharp jaw, sharper gaze. His coat moved like a shadow when he walked, his boots steady and deliberate. You could tell just by looking at him: he wasn’t here to negotiate unless he wanted to.

11:56.

The hum of tuned engines echoed off the walls before the headlights appeared — three cars, low and fast, cutting through the dark. One was black with a burnt-pink stripe. The other, a silver Nissan, purred like a threat.

Gasly stepped out first. He didn’t hurry – he didn’t have to. He had that swagger particular to people who knew they were dangerous in ways others hadn’t even figured out yet. Yuki emerged just behind him — shorter, tenser, but clearly not a sidekick. Not with the way he scanned the site like he was already calculating escape routes.

Pierre approached with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, giving the Brit a once over. “Is that a gun? Or you are just happy to see me?”

Lando raised a brow. “Only as happy as you are,” he shot back, pointing his gaze to the handgun tucked into the band of Pierre’s baggy jeans.

Pierre chuckled. “Ah, touché.”

Max stayed silent behind Lando, eyes locked on Yuki, who looked like he might pull a knife just for fun. He made a point to stretch, the lifting of his jacket enough to show off the gun tucked in his own pocket, even if he couldn’t spot one on Pierre’s second. Tension crackled beneath the false politeness — a quiet understanding that everyone here had killed someone, directly or not.

Still, they went through the motions.

“Gasly,” Lando greeted.

“Norris.”

They shook hands — cool, quick, firm. No warmth.

“I hear you’re looking to expand,” Pierre said, tone smooth. “And I hear you’ve had trouble keeping up with demand lately.”

Lando didn’t react. “You offering t’help or just here to gloat?”

Pierre smiled. “Help, of course. I’ve got roads you don’t. Drivers you haven’t met. Eyes in places your boys would never pass unnoticed. You’re good at staying clean. I’m better at staying untraceable.”

Max Fewtrell looked over at Lando, unimpressed. Lando reflected that same look back to Gasly.

“Did you call me here just to make y’self feel nice, or do you actually have something f’me?

Gasly chuckled. “I have been thinking. You know how we used to roll together, back in the day? The racing, the high stakes? I’ve got a proposition for you.”

Lando unbuttoned the front of his suit, leaning against a makeshift table as he stared up at the Frenchman with a look that told to get on with it quickly. Lando Norris didn’t take kindly to have his time wasted, especially by posh wannabes looking to be somebodys.

“Go on.”

“I’ve got a network, a big one – street racers, quiter routes, plenty of guys who know not to play by the rules.” He glanced over at Yuki, who nodded, before he continued with his pitch. “We’ve got the runners, the cars, the cash flow, but we’re looking for someone who can push things, make it worth the risk. And you… well, you’ve got a reputation.”

Pierre had slowly been making his way closer to where the two Reaper boys were standing, and it was making Max antsy. Gasly saw Max’s hand twitch for his handgun and laughed, waving him off. “We are old friends here, non? No need for such things.” 

Within moments, Lando’s mind clicked over the options. This was exactly the kind of thing he’d been looking for: leverage, power, control. A street racing ring under his influence meant more money, more influence, more control of the territories he was still trying to solidify. Gasly could help him gain an edge over rival crews who were too weak to understand how to play the long game.

“I’m… listening,” Lando muttered carefully.

“There’s potential in this for both of us, Lando. We can talk the bigger numbers when you agree. But you and I, we’ve always worked well together. Let us make something bigger than just a few races, hmm? Let us make it profitable for both of us.”

Lando’s jaw clenched. He could hear the pitch—Gasly was selling the idea of partnership, but he was also a businessman. If Lando played his cards right, this could open doors for all sorts of opportunities. But he had to be careful. Gasly was clever, slippery. And Lando wasn’t sure he trusted the guy enough to dive in without a second thought.

“And in return? Somehow I get the feelin’ you’re not doin’ this out of the goodness of you heart,” Max asked.

“Product. Routes. A seat at the table. Not the whole table — I know who I’m talking to.” Pierre tilted his head, smiling. He took a step closer, his voice lowering. “But… perhaps a slice.”

Yuki stepped forward, holding out a tablet with a map — color-coded, clean, and too detailed for Lando’s liking. Lando didn’t touch it. He simply nodded for Max to take it.

“I’ll have someone vet it,” he said.

“Of course,” Pierre replied. “And if you don’t like what you see?”

Lando met his gaze. “I’m sure you’ll be the first to know.”

The air held its breath for a moment.

Then Pierre smiled again. “I always like a man who’s polite when he threatens me.”

“Oh no, I’m not threatening,” Lando said, his smile sickly sweet. “Yet.”

Pierre laughed. Yuki didn’t, his eyes flitting between the two Brit’s momentarily.

One mistake, and it could all fall apart.

They talked numbers next — shipments, timing, how many people were on Pierre’s crew, what kind of muscle they had, whether they had clean fronts or needed cover. Pierre answered everything easily, like he’d been rehearsing for this moment.

Lando noticed it,  clocked it, but didn’t call it out.

Pierre’s boys had made their pitch, and Lando—cool, unreadable, two steps ahead as always—had picked it apart and rebuilt it in his favor. On paper, they’d be allies. In reality, Gasly’s Garage would be working under him without realizing it. Lando had danced circles around sharper men. Pierre might’ve been slick, but Lando was surgical.

He slid his hands into his coat pockets, posture relaxed. Beside him, Max gave the faintest nod, as if to say we’ve got this. Across the concrete skeleton of the unfinished club, Pierre was still talking—something about logistics, runners, trust but Lando had mostly stopped listening by then.

They’d already won. His work here was done.

But he let Pierre talk anyway, because letting a man believe he’s in control is often the final stroke in tightening the noose.

By the time they finished, the night had shifted — the air less hostile, the power still clear but… tentative. Like everyone had shown their cards, but kept a few aces tucked into their sleeves.

Yuki appeared more closed off, standing more like a protective Doberman by Pierre’s side, while it was Pierre who approached so he and Lando could shake on it..

“Looking forward to working with you, Lando.”

“We’ll see,” Lando said. His designer shoe clacked against the concrete underneath as he too took a step closer, and then—

“Lando—”

Two clicks sounded before Oscar’s voice crackled to life in his ear – urgent and out of breath.

Why was he out of breath?

Lando barely had enough time to wonder when Max looked at him with a matching expression of realization.

“It’s an ambush! You guys need to get out, now!”

a/n: yippee! a new chapter, and some new (familiar) faces! what do we think?

[obligateweirdo]

What’s Really Magic About Aziraphale

Aziraphale: terrible magician, cringey speaker of bad French, laughable dancer of antiquated steps. Even defenders of the angel say “What a dork!” and giggle over his clueless antics.

I don’t, and have never, seen them in that light, and I’d like to talk about why.

First off—maybe most importantly—I don’t laugh at good-hearted people who are dorks. I try to see their challenges and celebrate their achievements on their own merits. I strongly dislike people who cut others down because they don’t measure up to an arbitrary standard.

Angels, presumably, and demons as well, are functionaries. They sprang fully-formed into existence equipped to perform the duties that were required of them (this may or may not jibe with the GO universe, but it seems likely to). Both Crowley and Aziraphale challenge their boundaries, and both should be appreciated for doing so.

We forget the main characters in GO aren’t human, because the actors are humans cosplaying supernatural beings cosplaying humans. We see them as human in the show when they’re actually not physically embodied, and because all fictional beings are, at base, cosplaying humans by metaphorically representing our humanity.

But they’re not human, and I like it like that.

Aziraphale loves humans. His first great act of rebellion is to give away his flaming sword with the intent to protect them. We don’t know a lot about what his directives actually were, but in both books and show he’s protective of them. He loves cosplaying humans, with his portly, comfortable shape, his reading glasses, his love of creature comforts.

I think Aziraphale is fascinated by human cleverness, and wants to understand it.

Aziraphale can speak all languages, but chose to learn French “the hard way.” (In truth, this is very likely to explain why his French was “rusty” in the prison scene in S1, but it becomes an important plot point in itself.)

How does a being who was created to speak all languages learn a language “the hard way”? You can’t learn a language badly when you already instinctively speak it perfectly; can can only pretend to speak it poorly.

To actually undertake this feat, he would first have to forget the language—presumably with a self-applied miracle. This is an important point in itself because it suggests that the supernatural beings in GO can choose to forget at will. But specifically it means Aziraphale cared enough about something to go to extraordinary lengths to explore it.

Crowley is baffled by the angel’s linguistic struggle, as he fairly frequently is about Aziraphale’s special interests. As Crowley says, Aziraphale is unpredictable; and it’s one of the things Crowley adores about him, no matter how cringey or frustrating the demon finds it from time to time.

I expect if you intrinsically speak a language, it may be exceedingly difficult to relearn it. Adult humans may struggle to learn a new language, and we’ve needed to do so many times over the course of human existence. We’re born with the ability to learn languages, and learn new ones if necessary.

Aziraphale was made with the ability to speak all languages; he isn’t naturally equipped to learn them word by word as humans have to. It’s outside of his skill set. Of course he isn’t very good at it, but he had the persistence to make the attempt, and is justifiably proud of his progress, no matter how we feel about it. Aziraphale is the only angel (or demon) we know of to have taken this radical step.

It’s been pointed out that French is known as the language of love, and that it’s beyond relevant that Aziraphale learned it from a Monsieur Rossignol. We might say that metaphorically he’s the only angel who has forgotten what Heaven has taught him about love (if anything), and relearned it, haltingly, the way a human learns it—by heart, the hard way. I hope he speaks it fluently some day.

The Gavotte. Ok, it’s cute and funny that Aziraphale learned something as antiquated and obscure in modern times as this dance, and it’s so adorable to watch him enjoy his skill. But let’s take into consideration that, canonically, angels don’t dance. Like they really don’t dance, like, “it’s one of the distinguishing characteristics that marks an angel” don’t dance. They don’t dance the same way orioles don’t tie their shoelaces, and even demons (presumably laxer about decorum in general) apparently aren’t very good at it.

This is something no other angel has ever done. He’s not a two-left-feet guy who has to work to get a mediocre skill, he is a pioneer of an art form that his species has never explored.

But Aziraphale, although he took to it like “a duck to merchant banking,” persisted, and (unlike French), he became “quite good at it.” If that’s not a triumph against your conditioning and your toxic heritage, I don’t know what is.

Then there’s magic. Yeah, yeah, yeah, usually he’s embarrassingly bad at it and it’s very funny at his expense. Why is he bad at it? Because, as Crowley points out as he tries to fathom what the hell is up with his angel, he can do real magic, and he’s good at that. That engineered Austenian ball was a tour-de-force of miraculous orchestration.

But he loves human magic—prestidigitation, sleight-of-hand. He was made with the talent for miracles; the skill for illusion he has had to fight for and to persist at.

I think about ancient cultures where the imitation was more valuable than the original—imitations of natural objects made of cloth or precious stones where the value is in the human ability to mimic, to fool the eye of the observer. I’m a sculptor in a small way, and I know a good statue of a cow will generally enthrall me more to look at than a living cow (no matter how fond of cows I may be), and in a different way.

NO HE ISN'T “GOOD” AT IT. Of course he isn’t. It’s actually against his nature, but he does it anyway. Why would an angel need an aptitude for stage magic? He doesn’t have the aptitude, but he persists.

And I know, I know: Crowley was so very gentle when he told Aziraphale—right after Aziraphale’s magic trick saved his demonic bacon—that he really is “terrible at magic.” I think it may actually be the worst thing Crowley does in the series. It always makes me cringe. He could just as well have said “retire the act until all the kinks are worked out” (which is also a fun double-entendre, of which they are fond), or something of that nature. Give the angel a break—it was his first time on a big stage, with a dangerous act that hadn’t been rehearsed, in the chaos of trying to perform with an unexpected miracle blocker in action—and they pulled it off. Aziraphale scarcely missed a beat.

Terrible at (stage) magic? Aziraphale is better at it than any other angel. That’s pretty impressive, really.

Angels are also presumably not engineered to lie, which is another form of human magic. We often see Aziraphale as a bad liar, but when the chips are down, he lies as well as any demon (or any human, more germanely).

In Conclusion

Aziraphale is not just funny and clumsy; he’s actually a trailblazer. We all know Crowley asks questions—but so does Aziraphale. The questions are just different ones. I think he loves how humans work and delights in experiments to celebrate them.

We see Aziraphale being brave a number of times—in the Final Fifteen, certainly, in the confrontation in the dressing room with FurFur, and—my favorite—when he goes balls-out (with apologies to Jane Austen) to defy the hectoring martinet of a quartermaster, to desert Heaven’s army and defect to earth despite being handicapped by the lack of a body, in search of someone to possess despite having no idea how any of that works. He figures he will just learn on the job, and he did.

But I think he deserves recognition for the bravery of doing so many things he isn’t good at, will likely never be good at, likely never can be good at. He delights in them for their own merit and doesn’t judge himself by others’ standards.

Maybe your own victories are worth celebrating, even if your best friend thinks you’re terrible at them.

[arrietty-rune]

Templates made by @itsnotmourn !!

Yeees already V3 version of them (+ ALTs)!! But just some bits changes and new interface because i actually don't like how messy are the others ones ꒰◞‸ ◟꒱💧 So i hope you'll enjoy these better!!

Also yeah these don't have some lore info i did on the others so see below for info of each ♥ (⚠︎ Warning long text) ⬇️⬇️⬇️

──────── ˚.⋆୨୧⋆.˚ ────────

Luciano:

His blood is in a reddish pink, a raspberry tone, being also the flavor of it.

Past was difficult for him. Strict family, important event: had lack of feelings for a decade, this due to being struck by lightning at 6 years old but recovered slowly at 18.

Doesn't actually know much about his species, this due to his full life among humans. This also meaning he knows little of his magic.

Had no idea about the existence of the Hidden World* until Rósa told about it.

He can be exhausted easily at work, especially when it's about some kids making troubles. But he still likes to help as much he can.

He speaks fluently at Italian, English and Sardinian. Know a little bit of french words and sentences, from the Sterenn sisters but also from memes.

Affiliation with the cult: Has been kidnapped after his work, as to be used as a sacrifice. When Eyes realized his fairy identity, they spared him but instead, they and the cultists are making profit from him. Otherwise, if Luciano doesn't obey, they will use any from his closest friends to be sent as a sacrifice instead. For now, all he does are little harmless tasks, like cleaning rooms and cooking. As being not a cultist, he never saw any of these members without their mask.

──────── ˚.⋆୨୧⋆.˚ ────────

Rósa:

Her blood has a light green color, close to a turquoise tone, with a fresh mint flavor.

Chill past, grew up with her sister Maelys and her father, Icarus, being an human.

Her mother died but shares few memories of her, almost blurred.

She spent time mostly on the Hidden World due to magic school stuff. She knows very much her water magic and has learnt other magic stuff.

She knows dark magic and barely used it. Has knowledge of it, as to push it away and/or to annihilate, it with white magic. (note: she can use dark magic by her left hand, white magic by her right one)

As her element being water, she can control blood, only used it once as this being a part of her boundaries.

She's able to see souls and can read them, not perfectly though, but can recognize how people can be good or bad by this.

Other notes: Can work as an exorcist, or a monster hunter, as protecting innocent soul from their attacks.

She does invest a lot in the forest near the town, due to weird magic she can feel her. She tries to prevent people to not get here, but kids never obey. One day, she started a white magic spell on a supposed dead tree, as to revive it and to possibly use it to chase black magic.

However, something was wrong. Very wrong, as she realized she used her left hand on not a tree, but a dead body, starting to move but seeming very weak.

After moments of panic and confusion, she thought of having no choice but hiding them in the forest, then later in her home after the undead person, named Apollo, recovered enough energy. She tries her best to hide his existence toward people, including his sister.

──────── ˚.⋆୨୧⋆.˚ ────────

Maelys:

Her blood color is in a light reddish orange, with a peach flavor.

Chill past, grew up with her sister Rósa and her father, Icarus

Her mother died few years after she was born. May was too young to share any memory of her

Spent time mostly among humans, share some part of school years with them

Use her fire magic only for good, never as a weapon. Use a frying pan only to defend her or her closest ones. Also do apologies every time she hit someone with as she hates any form of violence

Can use her hair as a source of light. It has healing powers

Speak fluently French and Breton, her English is good but can do mistakes

Love her breton origins, have a flag on her room with an AroAce one. Doesn't even have a french flag lmao

Other notes: Basically chilling in the town, doesn't get much in troubles. Girl works most of her time in morning, sometimes in the afternoon, but met Miles (Captain) and Mihka (Shotgun man) in the bakery, as them and other cops buying sweets there. She becomes easily friends with them, as the friendly girl she is! She does talk with them while being at work when these two have a break.

Both her and Mihka will develop feelings to each other, but at present, they aren't in relationship yet.

──────── ˚.⋆୨୧⋆.˚ ────────

Hidden World* => An unknown place on the Earth, where non-humans lived together, where humans are very rare there! Creatures froms myth and folkores like yokais, vampires, fairies, centaurs, etc live here! Rare humans here are usually affiliated with non-monsters, such like Icarus, the father of Maelys and Rósa.

[eightpackdiaz]

was listening to so high school and i got struck with a kingdon vision…an exes (to lovers) au

(there’s like 2k words under the cut, i dont know what came over me)

so mel and frank met in her first year of undergrad, he was already in his third year, and the way they met was…almost cliché, really, it’s the first day back from summer break, and half his classes already are swamping him with work so he walks his ass to the library because he wants to be a doctor, and he will do well in school, and he will prove his father wrong. except he gets there and the tables are full, because of course they are, it’s still summer and the library has AC so people are there and not even half of them are actively studying. But he looks for a table and there’s one little two person table right next to the back window and he can see a girl already sitting there. She has her back to him, so all he sees is a loose blonde french braid, the back of a pink tshirt, and a very neat pile of books to her right. He feels bad asking because he also doesn’t like sharing the table, but he really needs to start studying, so he walks up to her.

Once he’s in front of her, he forgets what he is going to say for a second. He can’t really see her face, but he can see glasses, and a face covered in sun-kissed freckles, and he thinks his heart is beating a little too fast, and oh fuck. she’s looking up at him with a tiny smile and, wow, okay, maybe that’s what it feels like to meet someone who is your type (even if he previously thought he didn’t have *a* type).

She says “can i help you with something?” and he white knuckles his backpack strap to keep himself from doing something stupid like reaching out and adjusting her glasses, he powers through

“Hi, sorry, do you mind if i sit here? i really need to get started on my papers, and people are here and they’re not even doing homework! how’s that okay? anyways, sorry, i know it can be annoying to share a table, but i promise i really just need to study” why is he rambling?!, he hasn’t been a rambler for years and now she’s looking at him funny but she doesn’t look put off yet, that’s good.

“of course you can! i understand, it can be upsetting that people don’t use the library for actual studying. my name is melissa, but everyone calls Mel, nice to meet you” she punctuates this last sentence with the cutest little wave he had ever seen anyone over the age of 5 make, and woah okay he’s staring, he needs to get a grip

“i’m frank! nice to meet you, are you new here? i don’t think i’ve seen you before, i would remember” okay why is he sounding flirty, he need to stop he said he was only gonna study and he really meant it, but she doesn’t seem to register it or simply chose to ignore it,

she gives him a bigger smile and says “i am! first year of undergrad, i take it you’ve been here longer?”

“i’m starting my third year of biochem, hoping to go to medical school after!”

“me too! not biochem, i mean, i want to go to medical school once i finish mine, i’m in biology!”

and so they start studying, he’s doing his best to not be fidgety and annoying, but he can’t help it and he finds himself stopping himself like four different times, u til she very obviously catches him the last one.

“i understand if you need to fidget, it won’t bother me, and i’m sure it would help you focus more, i sometimes need to stim to really concentrate”

and he just looks at her, in awe, because this is the first time someone *isn’t* bothered by his fidgeting

And so they have little snippets of a conversation during their jours of study that day, at the end he tells her that he would like to do this again, and she smiles, and tells him she would too, and before he knows it they’ve exchanged numbers, with mel explicitly stating “i do prefer phone calls because i have a hard time deciphering people’s tones via text” and as he sees her walk away he gets a feeling deep in his bones that his life is never going to be the same again

during that first week they study together three times, he’s now ashamed to say he reached out the very next day after that first meeting, and actually, he’s not ashamed to say he reach out all three of those times, but every single time he called, he was met with a bright and warm “hi frank! how are you doing today?”, so all things considered he’s more than happy to keep doing it.

studying with mel is amazing, really. they’re a great team, he learns a lot from her, and tells her that. he has the wild thought that if they were to practice together, they would save s lot of patients.

they’ve been study buddies for about three weeks when for the very first time, they hang out without the pretense of homework, he invited her to go with him to try a new pizza place he heard about, and truly, he has no expectations.

he likes her, of course he does, shes so beautiful, and so smart, and her eyes are so bright, and even when he can tell that she’s missing her sister she never lets that affect the way she treats others, always so kind and patient. she’s in no uncertain terms someone who he knows he’s gonna fall inlove with, he just knows she doesn’t see him that way, and he’s okay with that.

mel is the funniest person he’s ever met. he spends half the dinner laughing and he thinks that maybe she doesn’t first get most jokes but my god her own sense of humour is amazing, and they have enough rapport now that she can appreciate domestic of his darker jokes, especially because since day one he now follows them immediately with “its a joke”, and it’s great, and god, he wishes this was a date.

he feels it important to note that whilst she does recoil to most people’s touch or proximity, after that very first day she has been okay with him standing or being near, he doesn’t touch her much, doesn’t want to test his luck, and also doesn’t think his heart could handle it. but he’s always near, always almost touching, and she lets him, and he feels like he has done something right.

so for about two weeks after that, they start hanging out more and more, yeah he has a friend group, and she’s making her own friends but they make time for each other. they meet for coffee on the way to campus, or meet in between classes just to talk about anything other than school, and little by little he can tell that this crush of his is becoming more.

they’ve known each other for about two months, when they’re in his apartment, his roomates aren’t there (yes he made sure of this, no not like *THAT*) and they’re watching a movie, and they’re sitting in the sofa and then she leans her head on his shoulder.

his heart is going a mile a minute, she initiated the contact and god, her hair smells like strawberries, and he can feel her breathing through his tshirt, and he feels her check move so now he knows she’s smiling.

the movie ends, and she looks up, they hold eye contact for about 5 seconds before he blurts out “wouldyouliketogoonadatewithme” before he chickens out

she just blinks, and he sees her trying to process it, but he waits, he will always wait for her.

“yes, i would like to go on a date with you. i like you, and i could tell that you liked me too, but figured maybe i was confusing signals because you didn’t ask”

and so he explains, that no, he very much does like her but he is a coward. she just smiles and says “i would never call you a coward”

and so they go on a date, he’s had a handful of first dates in his life, but he has never felt this at peace in one before, there’s nerves of course there’s nerves, but it’s like his system knows, it’s like it’s saying “there you are, i’ve been waiting for you” and it lets him feel calm.

the date is amazing, he asks if he can hold her hand, and her answer is to take his hand and swing their joined hands between them and he thinks his heart will explode. at the end of the date, he walks her to her house. he asks if he can kiss her, and he sees her thinking about it, but he waits, he will always wait for her. she nods, short and determined. he leans in, projecting his movements so she knows what to expect.

he swears he can see fireworks when he closes his eyes, he feels like floating, her hands are clutching the front of his shirt and he decides that it’s his favourite thing ever. they part, he bids her good night and takes a deep breath after she enters her house, he feels delirious to think it, but one day he’s going to marry that girl.

he meets becca after dating mel for six months. becca’s funny, and crazy smart. she tells him in no uncertain terms “i told mel to find someone to kiss at college, so you’re welcome” the responding blush in mel’s checks is what frank’s dreams are made of.

they have a lot of firsts, firsts for him, firsts for her, and firsts together.

they date for about two years. he knows this is it, he knows he’s never going to love anyone the way he loves her, he’s known it from the very first time he sat in front of her.

then he gets accepted to med school in the other side of the country, and he knows she won’t want a long distance relationship because they’ve talked about it, and she loved him but this was a boundary for her, and he applied there because his mom moved to pittsburgh last year after the divorce, and he misses her, and because he really likes their medical program, and because mel from the very beginning told him to stick to his life plan because as much as they love each other, they both have dreams, and those dreams might be similar but they’re not the same.

The day he gets the acceptance letter, they both know their relationship has an expiration date. They are officially together right until the morning he’d set to move away. They wanted to break up amicably, they still love each other so deeply, he thinks knows she will always be his one true love. They kiss goodbye, and they’re both crying, and as soon as they part she says “i love you, and i want you to be happy, so please. try to move on, we can be friends in a few months, but first, we need to try to move on”

the day they become friends again never comes. he loves her so much it aches, but he knows she’s right, and he also knows they might never see each other again, and he needs to focus on med school, and if he can do something is make his mom proud and prove his dad wrong, and

goddamn it, its been two years and he still can feel the ghost of her touch, he can still hear the way he used to call her name, he can still….he needs to stop. he needs to get laid, he needs to move on. she probably has moved on already, he doesn’t know, because he’s been too much of a coward to check, and because she said to be friends when they move on, and he hasn’t moved on so why even try to reach out.

abby is the polar opposite of mel, she’s also clearly into him and he thinks she’s fun and attractive so he goes for it, he knows there’s a saying about getting under someone ti get over someone, and he’s drunk enough that he doesn’t care that she’s not who he really wants her to be.

“i’m pregnant” abby says into the phone, it’s late, and he was studying for an exam, and he’s in the middle of his third year of med school. what the fuck is he going to do.

abby and him are friends, they like each other, they fuck sometimes, and she wants to keep the baby, and he likes her enough to think that he light convince himself one day that he loves her.

so life goes on, they get married because her parents want that, they have tanner and he loves his son, and there’s a pandemic, and his just starting his residency and the world is falling apart, but things get better, him and abby are still really good friends, he tells himself he’s not lying to her when he says he loves her, because he’s not, she’s the mother of his kids, and he does love her, she’s just not. well.

it’s just another random thursday, and he’s leaning on the desk in front of him because his back is killing him and he’s only been here like 20 minutes, but he’s trying to space out his pills so, he is doing his best, and then robby wants to introduce the….

he knows thar braid. he hasn’t seen her face, and robby is talking but he knows that…

“…second year resident, dr melissa king, fresh from the VA” robby says, like this isn’t taking the air straight out of frank’s lungs. he blinks, looks away and at the computer because this can’t be happening, she’s here. his life is falling apart, his back is killing him, abby is angry at him for god knows why, but shes here, his mel is here.

“everyone calls me mel. i’m so happy to be here” he wonders if she hasn’t realized he’s right behind her. he’s looking at that braid, he’s standing behind her and he can’t stop staring, and he’s suddenly 20 years old again.

[ask-postcrash-curly]

hey bub

how’re ya doing? i feel like i haven’t asked that in a while. take a sec to self assess. HAH! talk about therapy. bringing back the ol’ Trauma Therapy from Death Itself, huh? but seriously, how’re doing right now? god, i can’t wait for you to be able to move and stuff again. you’re kinda hard to read when you’re in the same position without face muscles to show physically anything.

…

you want more nicknames from Dove? hah, ok. crazily enough, most people wouldn’t call their companion “Death” if that were their name. little strange, huh? anyways, you know how i said i never told anyone about… all that? well, i did tell dove her my name. i won’t say it, but it’s after a story where a woman’s lover is sentenced to death, and she sets her house ablaze while inside. we weren’t even scandinavian, we were french for fucks sake! it wasn’t a name i liked.

i’m off topic. ok… yeah, she would call me that sometimes, much to my dismay. she loved it. she called me Angel a lot. sometimes, she’d talk about me under the guise of “a friend”, she’d always refer to me as angel then. i think they thought she was hallucinating me. oh, if only they knew. oh! sometimes i was raven, or more commonly, “my raven”.

i would watch her as an actual raven from time to time, i remember she would be talking to someone, and she’d see me, and in the middle of speaking, she’d smile and laugh a little bit. she was funny.

…

fucking hell, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to spill all of that. well, there’s more for ya!

everyone, curlings, friends, this is a real picture of mr Grant David Curly from when he was an infant. yep. you can’t deny that that doesn’t look exactly like you. your hair. was almost white when you were a baby, you had a full head of curls by the time you were 9 months old, plus, you were a porcelain skinned rosy cheeked little baby. this is how me and Robin see you. small little baby.

ignore the depressing lyrics, focus on the killer beat near the end.

i love ya!

🖤🖤

Heya.

I'm... Same as ever, really. Tired, achey, but powering through. Hah, yeah. I keep forgetting you're watching me. Hello!

Really? Never occurred to me not to call you that. ...French, eh? Hah, sorry. I don't know that story. I do know about being ablaze though. Wouldn't recommend.

Angel's nice. Raven, too. Hey, I just found out that corvids are the smartest birds. I guess you had to go along with the bird theme, huh? Hahah.

She sounds great. Wish I could've met her. Please, again, you don't need to apologize! I think it's nice.

For fuck's sake— it is not! I was a perfectly ordinary-looking baby with no wings whatsoever. Hah. Where are you getting these? I'm a full-grown man, even if I don't look it.

Well. Okay. ...Yeah, no, that beat's pretty killer. Nice. Thanks!

Love ya too.

[kindaorangey]

hold on wait. wait. regime change between when show!armand leaves delhi, and when he's turned into a vampire. god. i'm thinking about his speech to madeleine, his "what will you do when there is nothing left of your era?". if he tried to visit the village he came from during his time with marius, he will likely have witnessed exactly that. within his mortal life. armand believes he is uniquely suited to endure immortal life, to adapt and survive no matter what. he might have seen the fall of the lodi dynasty while he was in his 20s; maybe that's why. but god. how devastating. his village might even have been destroyed in the fall of the lodi dynasty. what do you do if you are taken from your home and when you finally have the freedom and strength to return to it, it is unrecognisable to you. fuck.

[bogkeep]

realized something earlier today. you know that trope where bilingual characters in fiction will sprinkle their native language into english sentences? and how i personally, while i can't speak for every bilingual person on the planet, don't really see that happening in reality pretty much ever, at least not with people who are passingly fluent in english? anyway i realized i DO mix languages, just the other way. i will happily throw english words and phrases into my daily speech when chatting with my peers in norwegian or czech like it's no biggie. because we all know english here, so it makes sense to swap in words if i'm falling short! but why would i say words other people don't understand in conversation...!

[idontmindifuforgetme]

I admire girls who can pull off long nails bc it literally can never be me. I just don’t get how it works functionally

[coquelicoq]

good morning can i show you guys the christmas card my little sister wrote me in french (she does not know any french)

joyeux Noël, j'espère que vous comprenez ce que je dis compte tenu de la fiabilité de Google Translate. Jespère qu'à l'avenir nous voir plus de deux fois par an. Je ne sais pas vraiment quoi dire d'autre, alors joyeux Noël et j'espère que papa t'a offert. Profitez également des autres choses que je mets sur la carte au lieu de vous ècrire un essai complet.

and then she wrote me a little crossword and a "connect the language to its way of saying 'merry christmas'" game 😭

[cerbreus]

baking never feels more like science to me than when i'm trying to cobble together an intricate multi step recipe together from several different recipes and tutorials online because the recipe I'm imagining doesn't exist....

[goldenstarprincesses]

ok ok I like and prefer older brother America

But i love and am obsessed with older sister America

[la-galaxie-langblr]

maybe i am too disabled for this

[website-com]

devastating: the feminist essay didnt actually watch the movie

[justinefrischmanngf]

i need to get over myself and learn the languages i want to learn if i want to learn them like i just need to do it if i want to learn them then i should go out and learn them and like . fuck whatever else any of it means . yes it IS embarrassing to learn a language like the ones i want to learn as an adult but who CARES and yes i KNOW my grandparents will never want to speak to me in those languages but who CARES if it's important to me it can be important to me anyway

[the-king-of-lemons]

,

[intersex-support]

Help an intersex family in Gaza!

Hi everyone. I'd like to share about a fundraiser that is very important to me. A good friend of mine is in contact with the organizers.

(Described in alt).

Their story:

"Hello, my name is Abeer. I'm organizing this fundraising campaign from Belgium on behalf of my family, who currently live in Gaza. 

Since October 7, all families in Gaza have been subjected to genocide. My family is one of those families that has had to flee its own home several times because of the threat of regular attacks. 

After two months, my family decided to return home and take the risk of being bombed at any moment rather than stay in the street. Our 4-floor building now contains over 100 people who have fled from different parts of Gaza. We always open our hearts for our own people, but we can't do it without your help and support. 

My parents, Kamal (53) and Moukaram (51), are suffering from the war because of their age and health. My brother Suliman, his wife Rawan Abualnaja and their two-year-old daughter Bisan are trying to stay strong, but it's complicated by their little daughter's enormous needs. My other siblings who are not married are Mohammed 25, Inas 22, Ibrahim 17, Abdallah 15.

My family medical condition during the war:

My father suffers from delusional disorders. He can't work or help my family financially. Mohammed and Ibrahim suffer from a chronic disease, congenital adrenal hyperplasia. It is difficult for them to obtain medication in Gaza. One of their medicines has not been available in Gaza for two years. During the war, they couldn't get their medicines because they simply didn't exist anymore. My family members are still suffering. They don't want to be potential victims. They want to escape death and live like other families on the planet.

 On 01/01/2024, they attacked the local mosque and the missile failed to explode and ended up in front of my family's house. My family is in danger and the missile will explode any second.

Since then, my family has decided to be evacuated from Gaza because of the senseless attack on our city. Please help me evacuate my family to Egypt so that they can rebuild their lives in peace.

I've been in Belgium for over five years. I feel useless because I haven't been able to do much except try to help them with their daily living expenses. That's why we created this campaign. We're raising funds to evacuate my family to Egypt, a place that offers a glimmer of hope and stability. However, the cost of the evacuation is high, hence our call for crowdfunding.

Every contribution makes a difference The funds we raise will be used for :

- Evacuation from Gaza for both families (Rafah border crossing fees for 9 people total)  - Two months of temporary living expenses in Egypt, including food, shelter, and transportation  - Passport fees  - Food expences untill they leave Gaza 

No matter how small your contribution, it can make all the difference in breaking the cycle of violence and uncertainty. By supporting our campaign, you are offering a lifeline to our families so that they can rebuild their lives, heal from their trauma and make a fresh start in a safe and secure environment. Please leave a comment and share our campaign with your friends, so we can reach more people and make a bigger impact. Together, we can make a difference!"

They are using a French platform called Papayoux Solidarite instead of GoFundMe. Abeer also has a Paypal account for non European donors.

They are currently at 33 588,78 €/ 50,000 €.

Let's see if we can get them to 34,000 today. Any donation matters, even $1 or $2 donations can add up.

We need to help them meet their goal. Intersex liberation means intersex liberation everywhere--it is so important that we show up in solidarity. Those of us living with CAH know how dangerous salt wasting crises are without medication, and how important it is to urgently help Mohammed and Ibrahim get access to the medications they need to support their CAH. Intersex solidarity means that we need to show up and support intersex people facing genocide.

If you can't donate, please share. Consider doing an art raffle to raise money. Do whatever you can to help this family because it is urgent, and we need to act in solidarity with them now and make sure that the intersex community is here to support them!