#muddling through brave and queue

[nowandforalways]

Did you listen to Now And For Always alone in your car and start crying at 10:51 am or are you normal?

[nowandforalways]

*I CAN walk through a metal detector*

#so cool how Bucky’s arm doesn’t set off alarms

[scorlettimagines]

Try To Be Normal: A Caliban Imagine

Request from @panda-duuu​:  Alright, I'm going to try and be the shortest I can be without being confusing. (I'll be using R in this as in reader instead of "me") It started with R in college, having a few friends and a roommate. After a while the roommate had to move, which meant a free room. While trying to find someone to share the house with, R meets Caliban (can't remember how) and he ends up moving in and they develop a good friendship but because he's from hell, doesn't understand the whole college concept and what comes with it. After sometime they eventually go out and start dating, and when they're at the cafeteria/bar he's being a dork while choosing what to eat and cuteness and sappy couple interaction comes with it. When they go back to the apartment, because they still sleep in separate room, R is like "don't you wanna join me and lay here" leading to cuddles and fluffiness

Okay, so this is a Caliban College AU thing which was super fun to write!  Hope this is okay for you lovely, and enjoy x

Day One.

College was supposed to be fun, it was supposed to be a chance at normal. After the Pagans had invaded Greendale, you had decided you’d had enough of the whole witch business, and fancied living life the way mortals were supposed to. Zelda Spellman hadn’t been particularly impressed when you’d told her you were leaving the Academy, but you didn’t have to do anything she said anymore.

From the moment you had arrived at college, you had renounced witchcraft, and Satan, or whoever was looking after Hell now. Because that was happening, wasn’t it? The fight for the throne of Hell; Sabrina Spellman versus that other guy. You weren’t sure of his name, only having watched from the sidelines.

But that wasn’t your problem anymore. Instead, you had the issue of finding a new roommate.

And that wasn’t enjoyable for anyone.

You had put posters up around campus, and so far, there hadn’t been any takers. You were currently in your apartment, debating giving up completely, and just living alone, trying to muddle through normal life on your own, when he showed up.

“Heard you’re looking for someone to live with.”

The door opened to reveal a rather tall figure leaning against the frame, clad in jeans and a yellow t-shirt, arms folded as if him entering your place unannounced and uninvited was the most casual thing in the world. Golden curls framed a face that you knew was sculpted from clay, each eye a jewel set into place.

Your mouth opened slightly, lost for words as you looked at him. You knew who he was, and the fact that he was here meant that your plan for normal wasn’t quite working.

“It’s Caliban, by the way,” he chuckled slightly at your expression, taking a step into the room.

“What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be competing against Sabrina?”

“Didn’t quite go as I’d hoped. Fancied a go at the whole normal thing, like you’re doing, clearly. How’s it going not using any magic?”

You should have told him to leave, but there was something about his whole demeanour that made you all the more interested to spend time with him. Not to mention, he was cute. And there were worse people to have for roommates, surely.

Day Seven.

Word of your new roommate had reached the ears of your friends, and the entire student body. That much was clear when you walked onto campus with Caliban, everyone’s eyes turning towards him. He obviously relished the attention, and you hit his arm when his gaze lingered on one girl for what you thought was way too long to not be considered creepy.

“What was that for?”

“Creepy. You’re supposed to be normal, remember?”

In the past week, you had developed quite a friendship with the former Prince of Hell, but there was something else there you couldn’t put your finger on; an underlying tension that you couldn’t define. There had been several moments in the week when he had suddenly seemed too close, or too far away, his voice taking on a tone that could have been interpreted as something else.

“I still don’t understand why we have to be here this early, Y/N.”

“Because that’s college.”

Caliban leaned down, and you were aware of how his lips just missed your ear when he spoke.

“Why don’t we forget college, and just go home?”

You shrugged him off, climbing the stairs to your class.

That evening, Caliban kissed you for the first time.

Day Fourteen.

A week into your relationship with Caliban, and he had already ensured that everyone knew about it. Walking onto campus with his hand in yours, fingers interlocked, kissing you in the middle of corridors, never leaving your side.

You couldn’t help but smile every time he complimented you, a blush rising to your cheeks. Maybe this normal thing wasn’t as bad as you thought it was going to be.

You walked into the cafeteria with him, his hand still in yours. You had yet to brave this particular part of college with him, knowing that it would probably cause more trouble than it was worth. Of course, that was back when he was just your roommate, and you were more inclined to get annoyed at him.

Now, what with the loved up-state that you were in, you couldn’t imagine getting irritated at him for anything.

He had been an absolute gentleman since that night he had kissed you, that night everything had changed. Hands in hair, on skin, slipping under clothes but protecting modesty all the same.

That step hadn’t been taken yet.

You pushed that out of your mind as you noticed Caliban looking at the food on offer with absolute disgust. You had ordered a lot of takeaways in the time you had lived with him, and he didn’t seem particularly impressed with the lack-of-budget college meals.

“You just pick one, babe,” you leaned up and kissed his cheek.

“They all look horrible, unlike you of course,” he turned to face you then and kissed you with more passion that was probably appropriate for the current situation. You fell into him, and you only broke apart when there was a shout of protest from someone waiting in the queue.

You looked each other and laughed, forgetting for a moment that you were a witch, and he was a demon.

In that moment, you were both normal.

Day Twenty.

Having finally mastered the challenge that was the cafeteria, plus multiple public displays of affection that had caused scoffs of disgust from your fellow students, you were now back in your apartment. Caliban kissed you good night, and made to go to his room, still a perfect gentleman, when you spoke.

“Don’t you want to come to my room? It’s not even that late,” your voice grew quieter, waiting for him to decline your offer. You were still nervous around him, always waiting for him to make the first move in any situation in case you were wrong about something.

“Okay.” He followed you, and at first, didn’t join you as you lay on the bed. You patted the spot next to you, your head on your pillow.

“Do you want to join me here?”

It looked as if this was the question Caliban had been waiting for you to ask, and he was quick to climb on, lying next to you. He wrapped his arm around you as you snuggled into him, head on his chest now. He kissed the top of your head, and for a moment, neither of you spoke, content just to be in contact with each other.

“You can sleep in here, if you want.”

“Hmm.”

You shut your eyes as he kissed you again, finding comfort in him, in a person you would never have found it in had you not left Greendale.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

And there it was. The first time it had ever been said. The three words that made your heart soar, that made moving to college and trying to be normal worth it.

“I love you too.”

CALIBAN MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

[ceol-aen]

☽☉☾ The Brief History of the Shulam Tribe ☽☉☾

original art By Natalie Shaw can be found here! The Shulam Tribe are a very secluded tribe of Xaela residing deep within the mountain range of Azim Steppe’s. Unlike their Xaelic brethren, this tribe does not come into contact with other tribes, as in the past they had very nearly been wiped out by enemy tribes. With a desire to preserve their way of life , the Shulam tribe had moved from the planes of the Steppe’s to deep within the mountains. The tribe now rarely makes connections with any outsiders, and they take measures to prevent being discovered, such as scouts to watch for movement of nearby tribes. 

There have been some instances where they had accepted outsiders, however it has mostly been either children or elderly that have been left behind, any being they have deemed week and unable to care for themselves. However, Xaela who are brought into the tribe later on can only accept the name of ‘Shulam” if they are wed into the tribe. The Shulams triibe beliefs and history are under the cut!...

The Origin Story of Tsenkher and the Shulam: The history of how the Shulam tribe came to be is muddled, as many of the original founding members of the tribe have passed away. The tribe folklore states that in the far past a small collection of Xaela from different tribes had all received a similar vision--a beautiful blue light enveloping them in invisible warmth; beseeching them to follow her word, for if they did they would remain in her blessings and protect them from the dangers lurking their planet. It was an enchanting vision too all who received it, for it was nothing like anything experienced before. Despite the bliss, there were many that had remained silent about their visions, terrified of whatever outcome could befall them if they were to speak out. Some in fear, were able to reject the visions fully and had no longer heard her words in their dreams There were still Xaela that were so moved by the light’s visage, who they later called Tsenkher, decided it would be best for them to leave their old tribes. They had no clue where they would venture to, but almost on queue they received another vision--one of a lone and bare tree high within the mountains, where they were closest to the light of the sky--and in that image they knew that would be their meeting spot. These pilgrims were all mostly female identifying, as for some reason the message mostly touched female aura. While this wasn’t an issue at first, later on did they realize the problem of the inability to conceive children--which raised the risk of quick death of their beliefs if there ever was a raid on their tribe. The tribe shaman told the swiftest xaela to go forth and seek out certain children that appealed to Tsenkher, which at first was decreed “The lost, unloved; the fellow outcasts.” So the Shulam would go after children that were abandoned, such as Tumet children that were never able to reach their Tribe or taking male infants left behind by the Borlaaq. This wasn’t an issue with other tribes at first; what became an issue however was when the shaman decreed that Tsenkher wanted “children untouched by the Dusk Mother, those whom had not abandoned their light for the moon.” So the shulam began stealing infants from all tribes, either stealing them in the night while the tribe slept or simply enticing a young one to stray away from the camp --far enough so they could easily be swept away. Now that WAS an issue, and sadly the Shulam made a grave mistake from stealing a child from the Adarkim. A raid broke out, the Adarkim with their large number swarmed the Shulams campsite, however at the end of the battle no children could be found--for only a small group of Shulam adults succumbed to the massacre. According to Shulam history, Tsenkher had warned the tribe of an oncoming danger and that the children and those too weak for battle must hide deeper within the mountains, which they did. This quick retreat saved the legend of Tsenkher from utter destruction, but now the tribe would forever hide in secrecy, only remaining a sort of urban legend through the Steppes--a tale mothers would use to warn their children not to stray lest they would be whisked away by the Shulam. A Brief Analysis of The Shulam tribes beliefs. The Shulam tribe shares a lot of similarities with other Xaelic tribes, such as a nomadic lifestyle and herding large animals, however there is a staple difference that separates them from other tribes. What the Shulam tribe praises the most aside for their love of Tsenkher is perfect physical health. In their teachings, perfect health is a sign perfect balance with one’s physical body and spiritual body. Tsenkher, who they see as the True Goddess, was targeted by Azim and Nhaama for her powers of light, and even though she is weak now she still tries her best to protect her followers from the judgement of Azim and Nhaama; which to the Shulam is seen as sickness and disease. Thus, the Shulam tribe has spent more time studying medical knowledge and have a much deeper understanding on the art of healing. Compared to other tribes their knowledge is beyond profound, topics ranging from disease prevention, alchemy and even anatomy and chirurgery. Most -if not all- of their medical knowledge and healing is unaided by Aether, and they are more used to traditional methods instead. It’s common for members of the Shulam tribe to have strong immune systems and longer lifespans. However, that is not to say no one gets sick in the tribe. If someone becomes ill--it is considered a whole tribal effort to cure them. The medics obviously tend to the patient nonstop, but non-medics will sometimes help gather ingredients for whatever tonic needs to be made. This in itself has created strong bonds within the members of the tribe. While the tribe has both a Khaan and Head Shaman--there is another title that is just as important as these two. There is an Eikon status that that anyone can possibly achieve--however the requirements are difficult to achieve. There are only two, and they are 1) having high proficiency or having perfected any healing art and 2) have never succumbed to illness yet. Usually, tribal healers receive this title. If there is a high influx of healthy healers, then there is a specific test. Those candidates are forced to brave the elements away from the with none of their medic tools, and whoever does not succumb to any ailment is given the title. The belief is that the person who in the most favored in Tsenkher’s eye is the one whose soul is blessed and protected from intruders, and that they have the strongest connection their beloved goddess out of everyone in the tribe. One’s with this title are given the status, and are sought out when people needed medical guidance and blessings. Offerings are common too, and the they is always present during important holidays and events. However-- the eikon doesn’t make any official decisions for the tribe as the other leaders of the tribe do. Someone’s campaign is can differ from the previous eikon, as the length on their status is all based on how long it takes for them to fall ill. It may last for only a few months to decades if one is lucky. Past eikons have always remained as respected members in the tribe, as many believe those whose time in the limelight might’ve been short lived, still stood as the right hand of Tsenkher, which is an honor to be celebrated.  

[bjbwriting-blog]

Basta! Pasta.

It is hard at first glance to fully ascertain what it is that these people are queuing for.

They all appear to have the time, at 12.30 on a weekday, to stand, in single file and the sort of silence only normally reserved for a doctor’s waiting room, and slowly shuffle forward towards something that must be worth the trouble.

A quick scan of the queue reveals some stereotypes writ large in technicolour.

You have your communal-garden hipster, long hair with an artful slick of pomade, likely made by an artisanal friend who has rekindled the dying technique of making hair products from traditional rabbit skin glue combined with the semen of a buffalo and the tears of a woodpecker, or something similar. There is no hint of this in the beard, which grows wild and free. The clothing has been chosen for its symbolism rather than its fit, it appears that he is trying to symbolise a librarian from 90’s Bromley on a work trial as a lumberjack.

In front of this hirsute queuer is a young lady, who also appears to want to partake in the new ritual of the midday shuffle. This one, at a glance, could work as a personal trainer or the founder of a tech unicorn. The legs are clad in a material designed to stretch and hold in a manner that defies logic. How something quite clearly so soft and malleable can also have the holding and defining properties of kevlar, is beyond me. Perhaps that is her company, maybe she sells this stuff, if so, well done to her, as a glance up and down the queue and out into the surrounding muddle of bustling commuters and ambling tourists, one at odds with the other, amongst these tribes one can count immediately at least forty young people sporting a version of this lycra-cum-kevlar composite. And it is easy to see the appeal, buttocks and calves that unsheathed from this new material might bear the stretch marks of a sag, or the pockmarks of cellulite, are rendered taught and without movement by the elastic armour. And as we drag our gaze up from the clearly defined buttocks and calves of this young lady, the confusion hits, as the lower half which points to a personal trainer or gym bunny is contradicted by the top half that says tech tycoon or consultant. A riot of cashmere and leather intertwine to create a garment that looks softer than a llama’s belly and as durable as a fresh hewn hide.

They aren’t together the hipster and our half-trainer-half-tech-CEO, and neither is the young academic in NHS style glasses and leather briefcase, neither is the young lady, a food writer, a fact she announces loudly and often through her headset-cum-telephone

‘I mean, sorry, I’m here to write up the Pici for our next issue, and yet they make me wait. Well, you know how this works don’t you, for every minute that they make me wait, I will grant them one less sentence about the quality of the pasta, and one more about the draft coming in through the perennially-ajar door, or the proximity of my table to the restroom, or indeed the fact that they don’t take bookings at all, which was cute in 2006…’

In front of the food writer, which is probably the cause of some great consternation, to her, we find a father, adorned with at least three kids strapped to him via papoose and carabiner. This chap might well be our favourite. A pioneer and stay-at-home-dad-liberal, he wears his feminism smugly. Rather than eschew the exciting new pasta place as described by the last food writer to have braved the queue, he is going to attach his children to him, like a sherpa, and join the queue, be part of the thriving food scene, the pulsating heart of this great city he loves so dearly.

Once inside, he will unclip each child from his person and release them into the restaurant to explore and express themselves, whilst he quietly goes about having a transcendental moment with the beef short-rib pappardelle or the with the smoked eel tagliatelle which transports him back to the small Ligurian trattoria where he and his currently-hard-at-work-wife, shared a mind-bending plate of pasta on their last trip before they had kids.

This is what he will tell the bored waitress from Romania, whom he has wrongly assumed is from Italy and is desperate to hear every thought he has ever had on the life and times of a small Italian agrarian community imagined, rather than experienced, by he and his wife on said last trip.

So it is as we survey this queue.

We know now, that it is a new pasta place, and we know that one ‘simply must order the Pici’. We ignore the fact that one can make a passable carbonara or pasta alla norma at home, and assume that by the strength of the queue at 12.30, there is genuinely a perfect plate of pasta beyond the clipboard at the head of the queue.

So we join the queue.

And having joined, we wonder what people will be thinking of us as we stand there. Her in her long blue wool coat, looking perhaps like a fashion blogger or photographer, rather than the primary school teacher that she is, and me in my simple blue work jacket and well worn boots, looking nearer to the hipster or his arty cousin, than the airline pilot that I am.

We get our first glimpse in through the window. It is just steaming up at the edges, which hints at a warmth within, not shared with the London Bridge pavement on a bitter November day, and we can peer into the open kitchen where guys and girls toss pans and drain pasta with tattooed arms, and rustle through red chillies and herbs with a knife that looks more like the sort in that Netflix documentary about sushi chefs that the old heavy stainless steel knives that used to be issued at the beginning of a long term of home economy.

As we peer through the steamy glass, fast filling so as to obscure our view, we can see plates of pasta being delivered to the owners of the smug faces sat with their snouts up to the window, looking like pigs awaiting their feed at the trough.

They are sat too close to one another. An arrangement designed presumably by accountant rather than restaurateur, but they look deliriously happy.

We’ll wait it out we think. How long can it possibly take?

It’s only a plate of pasta.

[nowandforalways]

For some reason, the funniest headcannons to me that the Death Note fandom comes up with are that if L ever has headphones on he's listening to just, like, the goofiest, least L-like music anyone could think of.

So I have decided that to me this means that L is listening to K-pop (inspired by the fact that L's actor in the Korean version of the musical, Kim Junsu, is a K-pop singer who was actually active in a group at the time Death Note takes place!)

[nowandforalways]

I don't think "How is this man's voice real?" every time I hear Hong Kwangho sing.

I think it even when I'm not listening to him

[nowandforalways]

I don't care how much more manga-accurate the character designs are the Japanese Death Note musical is literally inferior in every way to the Korean one

[nowandforalways]

Oh look, it’s my first and second favorite Victor Hugo musicals and my fifth favorite ALW musical!

ah yes, the classic trio.

[nowandforalways]

Is it weird how proud I am of my queue tag? Like it took me forever to come up with and then not ONLY did I think of one where "queue" rhymes with the word it replaces without even being a slant rhyme, it's ALSO a lyric from the song that's been my blog title since I started tumblr (or maybe slightly after)