#this is something i found in my commonplace book that i think i took from a tiktok

[aromantyczno-liryczna]

I am not here to entertain anyone.

"What if they think I'm weird? What if they think I'm boring? What if they think I'm shy? What if they think I'm quiet?"

I am not here to entertain anyone.

I'm not put here on this earth to entertain anyone.

If I can't talk or don't feel like talking, or I can't be myself fully in this situation, it's fine.

I'm not here to entertain anyone.

[disorganizedkitten]

Bursting Bubbles of Bad Luck Chapter 8

Miraculous Ladybug | 2019 | 1,817 | Ao3 | Prev | Masterlist | Next

November 18th-Frenemies

Dupain-Cheng was watching him again.

 Felix did not know what he had done to get her attention but he wanted to be rid of it. Honestly, it was probably just because he was rich and famous. That was what it tended to be.

 “She doesn’t drool over anyone else in your class,” Plagg pointed out glibly.

 Felix, who had been pretending to read as he tried to spy on her in return, flinched. “Plagg,” he warned.

 “She doesn’t! Maybe she just wants to be friends.”

 Felix scoffed. “I doubt it.” That didn’t happen.

 “Ohh Felix!” Felix shot Plagg a look as though to say ‘this is your fault’. Plagg dove into the bench. Felix looked up at the interloper and smiled like he hated her. He nearly did.

 “Rossi.”

 “I was thinking-” she ran her fingers up his chest, and he shoved them off with contempt. “-maybe we could go get ice cream after class?”

 “Not a chance,” Felix said coldly. Rossi frowned.

 “Are you sure? It could be fun! Or we could go to a museum?”

 “No.”

 “What about-”

 “I’m not going out with you, Rossi.”

 For a moment, she looked like she hated him. Then she smiled and shrugged lightly. “Alright. Let me know if you change your mind.”

 He’s not going to.

 “Girls would bug you less if you had a girlfriend,” Plagg said, poking his head out of the bench. Felix glared.

 “I am fifteen,” he snarled under his breath. “I don’t want a girlfriend.”

 “Just because you’re old-”

 “I am not old!”

 Plagg blinked at him. “Huh. I was sure fourteen was marrying age.” He shrugged and took a bite of cheese. Felix hoped he choked. “Math isn’t my thing.”

 Felix looked over at Lavillant. “Lavillant!”

 She looked up with a smile. “Yes Felix?”

 “Was there a time when people married in their teens?”

 It shouldn’t have been possible, but she lit up. Lavillant’s resting face was The World Is Lovely as an expression instead of a scent, and her smile now was something like The Joy Of Life. It was impressive. Contagious too, as Felix found himself smiling back. “Oh yes! Before medicines and vaccines and hospitals were commonplace, it was very common to marry young. Although in their cases it wasn’t really young- few people would live past their thirties. They’d lived nearly half their life without love!”

 Felix stared. “That sounds terrible.”

 “I know right!” Lavillant squeaked. “Imagine if no one fell in love before they were forty! I’d be so lonely!”

 That wasn’t the part Felix meant, but this conversation was going well so he wasn’t going to clarify.

 “Plus a lot of women died in childbirth, so sometimes men would go through four or more wives before they died,” Dupain-Cheng added.

 “And not all of the babies survived,” Couffaine pointed out quietly. “Labor had a high mortality rate.”

 “I’m so happy we have doctors,” Le Chein said. Felix jumped, having missed him coming in.

 A couple murmurs of assent passed around, and Mme. Bustier walked in.

 Perfect timing.

***

 “What did you get for seven?” Haprele asked.

 “False,” Felix said at the same time as Dupain-Cheng. He glanced at her, and she sent him a cute little smile.

 He hated it.

***

 “Dupain-Cheng, wanna show me that book you were talking about? In the library?”

 Marinette blinked at curseboy. He had never talked to her before, she didn’t think. What was he- oh. His smile was more fixed than usual, and he shot a meaningful glance to the side. Lila was storming up to them.

 “I’d love to, Felix, come on.” She held out her hand and took off, dragging him with her.

 The gloves he wore, that he’d worn the entire semester, were scratchy and worn, like they were trying to fall apart.

 Destruction magic.

***

 “Duck!”

 Dupain-Cheng tackled him. Felix tumbled to the floor under her weight. Above their heads, a beam of terrifying light slammed into the wall. He glanced from it to her face in time to see her blue eyes turn yellow, and then violet when she looked up.

 Just how many sorceressex lived in Paris?

 She climbed off him and offered him a hand up. “You okay?”

 “I’m fine,” he told her shortly. “Thank you. Yourself?”

 She smiled, eyes bleeding back into blue. “I’m fine. But I’m going to go hide now.” She pointed at the hallway. The hallway that had half a wall missing and a rampaging akuma in it. He raised an eyebrow. She flushed.

 Felix rolled his eyes. “I’ll just go hide this way then,” he said lightly. She grinned, a little guilty, but they parted ways. Her odd reaction stayed in his thoughts as he found a corner to transform in. Maybe she was trying to reclaim the akuma? Was that possible?

 “Kid,” Plagg said warningly.

 “Claws out,” Felix murmured. He needed to learn more about magic.

 Something exploded in the courtyard.

 Learning about magic could wait.

***

 “You good, Mari?” Cesaire was asking when Felix entered. He found his eyes drawn to their bench, where Dupain-Cheng was elbow deep in her backpack.

 “Yeah, I’m just trying to find my pen.”

 “Here,” Felix said, dropping one of his onto her desk. She looked up and blushed furiously.

 “Thanks, Felix,” she said. Her eyes didn’t change color.

 “You’re welcome.” Now that he knew it could happen, he was hyperaware of it, and her.

 A part of him hated it, but another part was relieved for the distraction. He was still dusting things, although it didn’t happen for a while after akuma attacks. He probably used up the energy that way- he’d have to ask someone.

***

 Marinette rolled over in her bed, restlessly flicking through her phone. It was late, but she wanted to do something. ADHD was terrible.

The Dead Fandoms Discord - Channel #Magic-Troubles

21:57

Snow Cone King: Can magic… overload?

Coracle Miracle: It can happen but doesn’t often - it’s a repression thing, I think?

 My bedroom is full of little things to transfigure because if I don’t do it on purpose I’ll do it on accident.

 Flutetastic: Blew out someone’s eardrums doing that once.

 Speedster: I crashed into a wall. A lot of walls, actually. Mom says I once broke a window. It’s how they found out I was a sorcerer

 Penny Could Kick Me: How much do you repress your magic?

 That’s terrifying!

 Coracle-Miracle: Ha

Ha

Ha

Haaaaaaaaaaa

 Have you seen Paris? They can’t decide if we’re victims or all working with Hawkmoth

 Snow Cone King: They actually think that?!

 Coracle-Miracle: It’s certainly what people are saying.

 Snow Cone King: That’s reprehensible.

 Coracle-Miracle: Thanks, King.

***

“Oh Felix, there you are!”

 Felix flinched, expecting Rossi to show up again. He’d gotten his parents involved, but she kept at it. The hand that grabbed his was smaller, though, and not followed by an octopus hug for him to shake off. “Hide me,” she hissed into his ear.

 Felix blinked at Marinette. Her eyes were a neon green that looked sickly. He wasn’t sure what that meant but he doubted it was anything good. He forced a smile. “Marinette! I was wondering when you’d get here.”

 “You didn’t say you invited a friend,” Dianora said, sounding betrayed and sad. Felix flinched.

 He knelt down. “I didn’t,” he said softly.

 Marinette let go of his hand. “He’s gone,” she said. “Thank you, Felix. Sorry about the interruption.”

 “Interruption?” Dira asked suspiciously.

 “I don’t have a buddy today,” Marinette admitted, looking straight at Dira. Grudgingly, Felix was impressed. Anyone who could accept children needed talked to as adults had some sense. “So when I noticed someone following me I looked for one instead.”

 Dira squinted, and then looked between them. “Alright. You can stay.”

 Marinette flushed, and jumped. “Oh no! Don’t worry about it, I’ll just wait another few minutes and slip away, I’ll be fine. I just needed to scare him away.”

 “But you’re one of Felix’s friends?”

 “Yes?” Felix wanted to facepalm. Marinette had no idea the trap she was walking into. 

 “So you should stay, and we’ll walk you home after!”

 “What?” Marinette squeaked. “Oh no, no! I’m fine, you obviously already have plans-” 

 Felix rolled his eyes. Could she get any more fidgety? How could anyone stand to be that nice all the time? Someone was going to walk all over her. “Accept it,” Felix said, resigned. “Do you have other plans?”

 “No, I just finished running deliveries for the bakery.”

 “You work at a bakery?”

 “My parents own it,” Marinette said proudly.

 Felix raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. They’re good at it, I assume?”

 “Yes,” Marinette said, a challenge in her gaze. Felix met it evenly.

 “So she’s staying, right?” Dira asked. She tugged on Felix’s hand, and then turned to Marinette. “You are staying?”

 “I- Felix?”

 “We’ll make sure you get home on time. We’re chasing down Andre.”

 Marinette grinned. Her eyes were blue again. “Sounds like a lot of fun. Let me tell my parents where I’ll be.”

 Dira shrieked and bounced.

***

 “Thanks for yesterday,” Marinette said, carefully setting the pen down on Felix’s desk. He looked up at her.

 “You’re welcome.” He said. She could never tell his mood from his tone, it was a bit unsettling. “Just don’t go spreading rumors about us actually dating.”

 Marinette puffed up, offended. “I would never!”

 He scrutinized her for a moment, and Marinette wasn’t sure if her internal tirade on how unjust that would be was happening aloud too. He reached out and pushed the pen back towards her. “I’ll be your distraction, or excuse, whenever you need one, if you’ll do the same.”

 Marinette drew up short. “I- uh, sure?”

 He smirked and nudged the pen in her direction again. “Take it. Then we’ll always have an excuse to talk.”

 She smiled, relaxing. “Thank you, Felix.”

 “Don’t mention it,” he said, picking up his book again. “Seriously, don’t.” He wasn’t even looking at her.

 Marinette prepared to leave, but a gasp and thud drew her attention instead. She spun, and found Felix glaring at his hands. His gloves were gone, and the edges of the book were blackened.

 Marinette reached forward before she was aware of it, changing the ash back to its previous form. “Here. I don’t-” she looked at the pile of dust that had been his gloves and grimaced. “I don’t think I can fix those, I’m sorry.”

 He was looking at her askance. Marinette grimaced, curling in on herself. He’d been cursed- it would make sense if he didn’t like or trust magic and mages. Add in that Hawkmoth showed up soon after and her magic residue was still purple…

 “Don’t worry about it,” Felix said softly, pulling another pair of gloves out of his bag. “Thank you, for the book.”

 Marinette smiled again, although it was a little smaller this time. Softer. “Don’t mention it.”

[justmybookthots]

The Familiar 

I have a lot of mixed feelings about this book.

This is actually the only other Leigh Bardugo book I've read since the masterpiece that is Six of Crows, so I had no idea what to expect. I don't expect an author to maintain the same writing style from a series they wrote so many years ago, but I was expecting something decent at least. And make no mistake; it WAS decent. 

One thing I will say for sure: Leigh can write her ass off. I LOVE her prose. It's even a little like Holly Black's. After slugging through so many subpar pieces of work, it's refreshing to read a book where the author is an excellent writer. Plot aside, the prose is lovely and lush and there are so many lines I wished I annotated or took better note of. 

I think it's even Leigh's gorgeous prose that helps to embellish — or dare I say, mask — the bones of this fantasy story: the rather ubiquitous trials/tournaments trope. I happen to LOVE this trope, but I do think Leigh's writing made a premise that's so commonplace today feel rich, unique and atmospheric. I'm also a huge believer of execution over trope, so this isn't a complaint. It might even be praise. 

So why the mixed feelings, right?

This is going to veer faintly into spoiler territory (though I tried to be subtle), so beware.

The problem is that I don't really love any of the characters. The main cast is… fine, mostly inoffensive, but very forgettable. I know in several months from now I'll have forgotten this story altogether. The thing is, characters are vastly important to me — in fact, I don't even mind a weaker story if the characters stood out more. Luzia seems vague to me — I know she wants more out of her life, but that's about it? I'm sure there are more facets to her personality but overall she hasn't made a salient impression on me. 

Same with Santángel. I was honestly baffled that the writer who wrote distinct personalities like Kaz, Jesper, Wylan and Matthias gave me a male character as tepid as Santángel. His circumstances/curse was extremely fascinating, I don't question that (and it's one of this book's biggest highlights), but his personality was bland. I guess he is a little… grumpy? A little stoic?

That said, I love Valentina's character and I think the ending did her justice. She shone a lot through the book — it does start in her POV, after all — and I'm glad she somehow found her happiness at the end. I also liked the Holy Child, though I was expecting a bit more from her at the end. Hualit — I kept yoyo-ing between disliking her and being neutral and now I just don't care. 😂

The ending… was unexpected. I was scratching my head and trying to make sense of it at first. It wasn't anything like what I had envisioned it to be and I'm having a lot of mixed feelings towards it. The more I think about it, the more I can understand why Leigh wrote it this way, but it felt a tad anticlimactic. Perhaps with time and perspective I'll change my mind (I already have, a bit), but I'd hoped Santángel could break the Curse. Also! The good luck magic doesn't make a lot of sense because obviously it should have worked in a way to keep Santángel by Victor's side, given the calamitous outcome for Victor. But maybe I'm overthinking it. 

Overall, I don't think it was a major letdown or anything like that. More of a "Well, it was an interesting read!" I can't say I loved it, but at least I finally got to read something by Bardugo that isn't Six of Crows, haha. I'm still not sure if I should read Ninth House but maybe one day?

- 6 May 2024

[akumastrife]

I Didn’t Wish For Snow, But It’s Better With You {Les Mis: CourFerre  // Fic Advent: Day 21}

It was Sunday. Sundays were for meeting with the ABC for the cause of the season. This Sunday was thwarted by approximately two feet of cold, white bullshit.

{Part 4}

Courfeyrac pouted and slid lower in his chair.

All of it was so commonplace, Combeferre didn’t even bother to look up.

“E and R are having a movie night,” Courfeyrac said, thrusting his phone across the table for Combeferre’s perusal. “You said the weather was going to cancel the meeting.”

“Hence, they’re not having a meeting,” Combeferre said, flipping a page in his book.

“Ferre, I don’t think I can study anymore. Every time I read something it just spills out of my ears like spaghetti. I would like to watch movies.”

Combeferre sighed, but pushed his current book back a little and checked the time. Used Courfeyrac’s phone because it was still under his nose, and then took it rather abruptly.

It was… much later than he expected. 

He’d planned on getting there early, cramming as much as inhumanly possible, and then beat it out of the library before the storm hit in earnest and they were forced to make a bed and campfire from books (only the damaged ones, of course, headed for the bin anyway.)

Instead he’d spent the whole day at this tiny table in a cramped corner, surrounded by too many empty coffee cups, and Courfeyrac. The very sweet Courfeyrac who hadn’t complained once while sitting with him for six hours.

“Is that really the time? Gracious, Courf, I’m so sorry,” as he jumped up and began organizing his papers and books in earnest.

Courfeyrac’s fluttering fingers appeared under his nose, slowing his hands physically and helping. “Ferre, settle, it’s alright. Really. I needed it too. And I’m only mildly wasting away from starvation, really, easy enough to fix.”

Combeferre frowned, but when he looked up Courfeyrac was smiling at him, not a hint of malice, just fond exhaustion. He was owed that, Combeferre supposed.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

Courfeyrac smiled wider and winked at him, standing to gather his own possessions.

Predictably, Combeferre blushed, but that wasn’t new, either. “I just have to return these to the reference desk, and then we can go.”

“Excellent.”

There wasn’t anyone at the reference desk, so they just stacked their various tomes behind the lip on the counter.

There wasn’t… anyone anywhere, really. The halls were quiet, the computers all idly bouncing around the city logo screen-savers.

Descending the main, winding staircase found no one else. Not a giggle or shriek from the children’s area, not any sulking teens in the lounge, not even late afternoon stragglers in line at the coffee cart.

“Ferre…”

Ferre knew. It hit him all at once with a creeping sort of icy dread that matched the horror on his face reflected in a frost-coated window.

He pulled on the main doors. Once. Twice.

Several more times in quick, panicked succession.

“They’ve locked us in,” he whispered.

“We’re going to die in here,” Courfeyrac whimpered. “What are we supposed to do? Ferre? I don’t have any cash for the vending machines. Do we break a window—”

“No!”

“-call the fire department? Go upstairs and see if they have any vintage porn on VHS?”

Combeferre yanked on one of his curls quickly. “All your ideas are terrible.”

“I don’t hear you coming up with any. This is your natural habitat.”

“Let me think.”

Courfeyrac quieted obediently, even if he pressed his face to the doors and whimpered to the outside world at large.

Even they did manage to get the doors unlocked, or find a particularly forgotten and unsecured window, the snow was already thigh high with no signs of stopping. They’d be lost in a winter wasteland before they made it to the main road.

“Well, I think there’s really only one thing for it.”

“Hmm?”

“We have to call the Mayor.”

Courfeyrac squawked.  

[kafkaoftherubble]

所以2023年的最后那这几天你都去哪儿了？

...还问什么问？当然是去玩啦！不然做什么? 在什么树下打坐冥想几天然后悟道吗？哈！

傅尹比俺还有可能来这套啦！

Since I documented the Coldplay event here (and failed to find the time to document the same event in Paradehye, the diary, beyond the journaling scraps written in The Commonest Man in Festo, a.k.a our commonplace book), I'll also record some of the stuff happening on December 23rd and 24th here.

Yo bruh, what else could we have done?

It's fucking CF!

It's our way of semi-celebrating Christmas! Where you get to see Christmas splendor and cheer melding with weeaboo shits! Lotsa lotsa weeaboo shits!

Report: Still way too many Genshin Impact cosplayers. There was also a huge bunch of Chainsaw Man and Jujutsu Kaisen, but generally, I think this year was impressive in its diversity of costumes. There were a lot of really unexpected shits and some old anime/video game/pop culture cosplays reared their heads, but damn, you'll get to the Indisputably Bestest Cosplay Ever In My History of Attending CF real soon, Lyndises of the Future.

This time, we got to invite and induct Sharon, who had been missing from the main family for more than a decade. She couldn't even remember the correct terms she needed to address our uncle and aunt anymore! So the Me At That Time greeted Ah Cik and Ah Jim loudly before she did, so she could copy me!

She also said she had social anxiety and was really nervous about seeing everyone whom she hadn't been meeting for, again, more than a decade. But really? Wei Wei is bonkers and laughs like a banshee with an easy threshold for humor. Ah Jim likes to listen to gossip and is an impressive conversationalist. Ah Cik is an extroverted businessman with an origin as a salesman; holding conversations and making things not-awkward is his forte. Qian Qian takes some time to warm up, but she easily talks a storm when it's something she likes—such as performing on stage and Loki and some manga/manhwa and cats. Hang Hang? Bro dips in and out. But he laughs at the stupidest things until his face flushes and is generally chaotic. He acts like a cool bro and yet his body betrays him by farting when he's excited.

And she's got me. It's my principle not to make anyone feel left out or lonely as best as I can in a given room. What's the point of training to be observant and attentive to people if I couldn't even realize someone's feeling left out?

Oh, it worked out in the end! And I don't think it's because of me, either. It's because she's a good sport who did try to join in on the conversation and listened and talked! And because everyone else was so welcoming to her, too. I really picked the right family to induct her back into the Big Family. Phew. Good thing I was skillful enough at choosing...

(Annoyingly, when I told her we're actually an introvert, she called me a liar. Lyishere called me a liar too just two days ago. Liar?! Moi?!)

Anyway, this was us!

Damn, should have made sure Malaysia's easiest landmark is included in the picture instead of just the Christmas tree. The goddamn Twin Towers where Mei Mei was near in one of the last episodes of Jujutsu Kaisen: Shibuya Incident should have been here...

Why aren't my pocket-flowers showing?

Okay, this one showed a little.

We spent the first day completely inside Art Market so there wasn't time for cosplay pictures. I mean, the market took 5 fucking hours to tour, and I didn't even comb through everything as carefully as I wanted to because Qian Qian was suffocating from the crowd and the smell. Sharon was tired; she had never walked so much before. Conventions are tests of endurance.

This was one of the best stuff in the market! But it was too expensive for my budget. Goddamn it! I swear I will even make space for this amazing ass banner had I bought it. Kulit Wayang style on Zonai aesthetics? Fucking swell!

We did find the Uncle-est Nanami ever while we were on our way out, and honestly, he was one of the best Nanami I found on Day 1! Sure he didn't have the abs and the height, but he had the semblance!

There were some missions, really. Find buff ajuicy Nanami; take pictures of them. Find Nanami re-enactment; take pictures of them. Things I do for Crow Curry, man. THIS IS FOR YOU, YOU NANAMI SIMP!

This cosplayer was so happy, you know? He was so excited to see us excited to take pictures with him, that he forgot his gah-chang, okay? Ya know, the knife?

Even after we left, Qian Qian said she saw him still grinning widely over the whole thing. I didn't even know he could be so happy about it, because cosplayers are so used to being taken pictures. Turned out, his Instagram revealed that this was his first time cosplaying. No wonder!

When we later told Ah Cik about this, his Buddhist ass immediately characterized this as 布施 (Dāna). I mean, none of us thought we were making someone's day, so does it even count? But I'd be lying if I pretended that making one person—goddamn Nanami at THAT—happy didn't please me.

We then walked a few kilometers to Pavilion and the surrounding malls to find some place to eat. KLCC で大変混んでいったから食事が無理だった。

---

Day 2, 24th December 2023

We were pissed not to have taken pictures with any cosplayers (except Uncle Nanami), so we did what Ah Cik and Ah Jim and Wei Wei and Hang Hang thought was insane—BACK TO CF DAY 2!

The best part? I think most people had the same idea as we did! There were even more cosplayers on Day 2! Most of them hung out at the park, like us. I mean, right off the bat we got this:

Dude did work on their eyes!

She couldn't walk without her 4 assistants/friends helping her! Now that's fucking dedication. I wonder if I did end up doing my Monster Rika cosplay (don't bet on it), would I need help walking around too? My ears may be my best sensory organ, but I don't think they are good enough to replace my eyes. I've been a seeing person all my life, after all. I'm also not as good at sensing things as Fionn is...

Fucking found Waldo! And Waldo found us! Yo, here's Wonka over there too!

We looked good for each other, right? Wrong!

Every year during CF, there is a tradition: Qian Qian will always encounter people who just wanna take pictures with her even though she made it explicit that she wasn't cosplaying and was just putting on whatever she likes. The only makeup she ever does is her lips, but she's really pretty and eyeball-attracting, innit? Ha! Stuff like this makes Ah Cik proud.

This professional photographer was just one of the many people who wanted to take pictures of her.

I wonder what it's like to be so visible and eyeball-attracting. All the Past Lyns had wondered the same at some point, right? It would definitely ruin our ability to not be noticed and then jump on someone, that's for sure. Can't be a ghost if you're too visible. But I wonder if being so seen would lessen that feeling of being a see-through not-there... "thing", the way it seemed to be to us throughout our life.

HOLY SHIT ALICE LIDDELL FROM MADNESS RETURNS! Now that's old stuff being brought back!

(Here's the Twin Tower!)

GET IT?! BLUD WAS USING A SWITCH AX! A SWITCH AX!!! AND HE THEN TURNED IT FROM AX MODE INTO GREAT SWORD MODE!

Monster Hunters, riseeeeee! And he wasn't the only MH cosplayer with an amazing weapon prop! There was also a Zinogre cosplay set. You gotta see it for yourself in the album.

I didn't think Cursed Miku would show up, but show up she did!

Okay, here they are. Indisputably Bestest Cosplay Ever In My History of Attending CF:

NANI THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!

Goddamn Guanyin and Buddha cosplays?! And really, this wasn't even the only bunch:

AND THERE WERE AT LEAST TWO GUANYU, AND ONE SUN WUKONG, AND ONE XUANZHANG that we didn't manage to take pictures of—like guys, where did all these deity cosplayers come from?!

Fucking dope though!

Of course, the Nanami Shrine is ALSO hella dope. Hey, wanna see a dead body?

Rate them peaches Rest in Peace!

The Ubiquity of Gojo Satoru: How I Was Space Cleaved by Sukuna and Transported to Another World Along With Many Other Me

You don't always get to see a Mob Psycho 100 cosplay, so all three of us took pictures with them! Mob Psycho 100 is our commonality!

BRUH.

And last but not the least, because it was such a beautiful day where the rain was only half an hour long and a drizzle, and the sun was beautiful, I recorded my official drip of that day,

These are by no means the only pictures we took, guys. Please go to the Google Album attached to the account "black bird" and "short skirt" and "gmail." You know the one.

[athingofvikings]

Since I write historical fiction, one widely held belief about history that I keep running into is that brutality was the norm and accepted, even expected, during the medieval era. And sure, there's a bit of truth to that. There was a named legal punishment on the books during the 1000s in England called "harrying" which involved literally burning a town and killing everyone there. There was a precursor to the French chivalric code called the Peace And Truce Of God, that had a lengthy list of "Don't do this" for French knights--and that list is specific enough that you get the feeling that, yes, there were knights doing all of this on a regular basis because they could. (my favorite bit is "I will not attack noble ladies traveling without husband nor their maids, nor widows or nuns unless it is their fault." Like... how is it going to be "their fault"?)

At the same time, the concept that mercy and kindness were seen as weak or something disdained during this time period is a product of our perceptions now, when so many people focus on the exceptional acts of violence (like the egregious execution methods) and not the everyday lives of regular people.

But in terms of people valuing peace and mercy, let me give a concrete example.

There was a King of Norway named Magnus the Good. His father Olaf II was one of the first Christian kings of Norway. In the late 1020s, another Norse king, King Cnut, invaded with the help of collaborators and unseated Olaf.

Olaf took his family and ran for it, eventually stashing six year old Magnus with his wife's brother-in-law, Prince Yaroslav the Wise of Kyiv for safety. He then turned around and went back to Norway in the hope of regaining his throne.

He failed, and died in 1030 on the battlefield, fighting against an army commanded by two noblemen, Kálfr Árnason and Thorir Hund, who had sided against him in the hope that they would be named viceroy over Norway for the conqueror King Cnut.

They weren't.

Cnut named one of his children as viceroy, with the boy's mother as regent, and started to squeeze Norway for all of the taxes they could.

After five years of high taxes and angry that they had been denied the authority they wanted, Kálfr, Thorir, and a third nobleman, Einar Thambarskelfir, conspired together. They went and found Magnus and, raising another army with help from another of Olaf's relatives, put Magnus on the throne in 1035... with the intention of having the eleven year old boy be a puppet king for them.

Then Einar quickly outmaneuvered Kálfr and Thorir. At a banquet, after a lot of drinking, Einar got the other two men to drunkenly confess to having been involved in the battle that killed King Olaf, with one of them acting out the killing blow...

In front of Olaf's eleven year old son.

So put yourself in Magnus' shoes here for a second. You're eleven--not exactly an age known for self-control. You haven't seen your father since you were six.

And here are two of the men responsible for killing him.

Einar was hoping that Magnus would order them executed. Instead, on the advice of his godfather, the boy-king had them exiled, which was a remarkable bit of personal restraint when you think about how old he was and how deeply personal the offense.

Now, that still left Einar in control, but, despite having every reason to have Kálfr and Thorir messily executed, Magnus instead just told them to get out of his kingdom.

And for that restraint, people called him "The Good".

Because they recognized the depth of the offense and the self-control he displayed.

Brutality might have been commonplace, but it was not expected or applauded, and mercy and kindness were not disdained or seen as weak.

[imagines-hoarder]

House Warming - Bucky Barnes

Summary: Hopping through some standout moments in making Bucky's apartment a place worth coming home to. (This definitely could have been a headcanon but I refuse to do headcanons at this time.)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word count: 2.6 k

Warnings: fluff with a lil angst

A/N: I have finished all the assignments left for my degree and decided to sit down and write today. This is probably trash but idc because it has been written and therefore I may as well release it. It's been a while since I've written and years since I've truly tried dipping my foot into a different fandom, but I figured I'd give it ago. Please don't forget to leave comments, I love interacting with y'all. Thank you @bwbatta​ for the dividers! xoxox

Masterlist

It all started with a damn candle. A ‘sandalwood & vanilla orchid’ candle tucked away in a reused cyan jar.

“I found it at the art market down the street last weekend,” you said as you placed it in the corner of the living room window. “You know we have to support local business.”

“And I shouldn’t assume this is your way of telling me my place smells, right?” Bucky quipped from the kitchen island, a cup of coffee in his hand and a lazy smile on his face. He’d just gotten back from a 12-day mission with Sam, and the last thing he had on his to-do list was to buy candles.

The smile grew firmer as you put yourself into his arms. “Complete opposite, actually. I bought it cause I thought it smelled just like you.” You hid your face within his chest, and he thanked the stars that you couldn’t see the warmth rising in his cheeks. His barren apartment felt a little bigger with a candle in the windowsill.

From there it became decorative pillows… and a couch to hold them. The small living room had quickly become a mess by the time you both had brought it up to his fourth-floor apartment, furniture wrap and packing peanuts strewn everywhere.

“I still don’t know why you needed to buy a sofa this big,” Bucky grumbled as he leaned over the back of the beige three-seater, looking down at your splayed out across its cushions.

“Don’t get me wrong, babe. I love the transient bachelor look you’ve got going on here, but you need more furniture than an armchair,” you mumbled between heavy breaths as you tried to regain control from maneuvering the couch into the apartment.

“And the pillows?” A laugh fell from your lips as you watched him look at the indigo cushions with a remarkable amount of disdain. Who buys pillows made just to look nice on a couch?

“They add character.”

“I didn’t think character was an area we were lacking in. Transient bachelor, remember?” He walked around the couch and shifted you over so he could lay beside you. You instinctively curled into him as you both closed your eyes. For a second the place felt like home. “I also don't know how you plan for us both to fit on this couch every day along with the pillows.”

“Don’t worry about it,” You looked up from his chest with a mischievous glint that made his heart skip. “It’s a pullout bed too. I’m sure it’ll be firm enough even for you.”

The home improvements didn’t stop there, but Bucky refused to admit how much he enjoyed them.

He liked having a place and person to come home to. After you had bought neutral bedding for his room, you’d spent an evening putting together ‘his and hers’ trestle bookcases for either side of the bed. He’d try to keep up his crabbish demeanor as you argued that ‘you needed a place to set your books for when you slept over,’ and a side table could no longer contain the small collection you had spilling over. Even still, he couldn’t find it in himself to banter much about the minor changes you made to make the place feel lived in.

And God, did he love living with you around. Between missions, his continued therapy, and trying to find his place in a world that had tripled in opportunity since his youth, he knew that he never had to question who he was and where he fit in when he walked through that door. You still occasionally slept at your own apartment when he was away, but he could always count on you being asleep in his bed by the time he came home.

One toothbrush in a glass became two, and from there, hand creams, face masks, and cotton pads cluttered the bathroom counter, packed away in their clear containers. You had made sure to keep lavender bath salts on hand for the late-night baths you took together when he woke up in a panic, unable to close his eyes again for fear of falling back into a nightmare.

It took time and working through plenty of hesitation before Bucky could progress from sleeping on the pull-out sofa to the bed, but ever since, you found your nights attended by restlessness whenever you weren’t wrapped in his arms.

Once your lease was up and you had a lengthy conversation about your inability to rest without him, you quickly filled the apartment with brown boxes. Bucky had been no less than astounded by how much you fit into them. From then on, no nook or cranny was without a vase or shelf.

“How many mugs does one house need,” Bucky asked skeptically while he continued to carefully pull them from their paper wrappings.

“Oh, come on! They’re fun!” You exclaimed, wrapping an arm around his waist as you took the Charlie Brown mug from his metal palm. “Plus, we go through enough coffee around here to justify some extra mugs.”

After you put the mug into the lowest shelf of the cabinet, you busied yourself with filing away the spices one cabinet over. No matter how much he tried, Bucky couldn’t pull his eyes away from you, lost in your own world as you chipped away at unpacking your belongings, making yours his, and vice versa. The domesticity in the little things you did was something he could get used to, and he wanted to return the feeling of normalcy as much as he could. He was far from the average boyfriend, but you remind him that could be a good thing. You never wanted to be average, but in these small moments, as you both did what normal couples do, he felt that he could create a new normal with you.

“So your Christmas gift came in already, and it’s too big to hide.” Your awkward tone carried over the phone as he exited a station ten minutes away from the apartment. Even though his neck ached and the cold nipped at the top of his ears, he couldn’t stop himself from releasing a breathy laugh.

“I thought you said you were good at this gift-giving thing, doll,” he teased you as he maneuvered his way to your shared apartment.

“Oh, don’t you fret, baby. I am the best gift-giver in all of New York City. I just slightly miscalculated how big this thing was and have realized it won’t fit into our closet.”

He tsked with a smirk on his face. “If you say so.”

“Hey, you gave me my Christmas gift a week ago.”

“Yeah, that’s because I didn’t know if I’d be back before Christmas.”

“Well, you will be, and I’m glad you are,” your voice softened lovingly as he pulled out his keys to the front of the building.

Bucky had gotten used to your love, but he’d vow to never take it for granted. All the pain he’d endured had somehow led him to you, the person who didn’t see his broken pieces as a burden or a project but as a potential to be whatever he desired.

When he hung up the call and unlocked the apartment, his brows furrowed into one; the apartment was pitch black. It was only when he heard your soft footstep walking towards the entrance that his face relaxed.

Before he could even kiss you, you had your palms firmly placed over his eyes. “No peeking; your gift is in the living room.”

The uncertainty in what you could have got him made his stomach clench. “Is it an animal?”

You slowly dragged him through the front hallway, making sure to avoid crashing into the entryway storage table. “I’m sorry to say it’s not alive.”

“Is it a nice welcome-home spread with candles, fruit, and the pullout bed all set up?”

He could feel your eyes roll to completion. “Easy there, sergeant. That’s for later.” You pulled him down to sit on the couch, and he kept his eyes closed as you pulled your palms away, moving to turn on a lamp. “Okay, Buck. open up.”

When he opened his eyes, it took him a moment to understand what he was seeing nestled against the wall; when he did recognize it, he could only form two words “Holy shit.”

“Holy shit indeed.”

He was quick to stand up and cross the room, eager to get a good look at the walnut centerpiece. “Does it work?”

You scoffed as you moved to kiss his cheek. “What kind of girlfriend would get her ancient boyfriend a broken phonograph console?”

He didn’t even attempt to answer as he bent down to wrap his arms around you, his lips eager to find yours. “A fucking Magnavox radio and phonograph,” he mumbled against your lips.

“A working Magnavox radio and phonograph, you mean.” When you pulled away and saw that his face held a glow reserved only for special occasions, you knew you had made the right choice. “I’ve got some records wrapped up if you want to open those now too.”

You yelped in surprise as he picked you up and made his way towards your bedroom. “I’ve got something else I’d like to unwrap first.”

Bucky Barnes had grown up in a period when the average family could seldom afford nice things or much of anything at all. The Great Depression has resulted in the slogan ‘Make it do or Do without,” being ingrained into what memories he still had, and 'doing without' had become commonplace for the Barnes household.

That’s why every gadget and gizmo you added to your household left him in awe. For much of his life, including the decades he spent as a weapon for Hydra, he hadn’t been allowed to call anything his own; he was still getting used to living so plentifully, both in love and in life. But now, he could barely move and he thought it had all been taken away from him.

The attack was supposed to have been contained, at least three miles away from the apartment. Anything less, and he would have made you visit your family upstate instead of just suggesting it. By the time Sam had told him that there’d been some confirmed damage within a block of the apartment, Bucky was already on his way home. He couldn’t think of anything but the worse: you trapped in a collapsing apartment building or pulling up to find no building there at all.

He felt his lungs fill with air again as he pulled up to your building, completely intact regardless of the severe damage less than a five-minute walk away. It felt like both seconds and hours between when he parked his outside and unlocked the front door.

“He doesn’t have his phone on him, mom. How am I supposed to…” you trailed off from your call as he walked into the living room, turning your head away from the Breaking News report you’d been glued to for the last hour. “Wait, I’ll call you back. Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll call you back.” Your eyes never left his as he walked over to you, hanging up the phone with worry in your eyes. “Buck, are you oka-”

You couldn’t even finish your sentence before he pulled you off of the couch and into his arms. His grip was less reserved than he usually kept, but he made sure not to hurt you, eager to keep you in his arms, where he knew you were safe. A single tear fell from the corner of his eyes as he realized the real possibility that he could have lost you if you lived even 5 minutes closer to the attack. You stayed like that for a while, gathered tightly in his arms as you both settled onto the floor You didn’t push him to verbalize his fear; you already understood it. And it took this occurrence for him to realize he never wanted to experience this feeling again.

Bucky was quiet for the rest of the evening, and while it worried you, his fear had been evident enough not to require questioning. The city-wide cleanup had lasted all hours of the night; for the first time in all the years you had lived in the city, the sounds of the whirring of vehicles clearing debris off the street had been too close to ignore. The sun was rising before a single word was said between you and Bucky, tangled together on the sofa as the first ray of light made itself known.

“You’ve spent so much time piecing this place together, doll.” His voice was raspy. You know he hates when you see him cry, but his pain was always evident in his voice. “And it could have been all wiped away in seconds.” You let a heavy silence settle between you as you traced a pattern into his shoulder. He couldn’t bear to say it, but you knew what he meant: You could have been gone within seconds. “I just… I don’t ever want to feel like this again.”

You’d both gone through so much to make your relationship work. Nearly normal was as close as you would ever attain to being an average couple. The distance, the days without contact, and the ever-present fear that anything could pull you away from one another was something that had taken time to work through.

You looked around the living room and saw the place you had built together. There were photos and books scattered on any flat surface, a leftover mug half-filled with cold tea, and a record left out on the phonograph. The apartment looked like what love felt like; a messy combination of everything you and Bucky. But this apartment could not contain everything that ‘home’ was; only Bucky could do that.

The words fell from your mouth before you could restrain them. “Maybe we should move.”

Your eyes found each other, and you both sat in silence, though it felt lighter, invigorated with the new proposition.

Before he even responded, you could see tension dissolve from his shoulders. “Where do you want to move?”

You hadn’t thought that far ahead, only being able to provide him with a shrug. “I don’t know… maybe upstate, maybe somewhere else.”

“Your mom would like you being Upstate.”

“My mom would love us living next door too, but I don’t see that in the cards anytime soon.” You got a ghost of a smile for that.

“We could probably afford a house if we moved out there,” he said as he moved his lips to meet your forehead.

“Buck, I’d move anywhere with you. As long as we have each other, then we have all we need to rebuild this place.”

He pressed soft kisses to the crown of your head, and you swore you felt his chest flutter. “Tomorrow, I’m gonna look for some places, bigger ones too.” He tilted your head up to find your eyes, and you were sure that all of the love you carried for each other was incredibly visible at that moment. “You have made this apartment something worth coming home to. Now let me give you a house to make a home.” Your skin tingled with adoration as you pulled him as close as possible, burying your face into his neck.

You didn’t want to let go. You wanted to lay in this room, in this bed, and in this moment until the end of time, but you knew that something bigger and better was on the horizon for you and Bucky.

“All I heard is that you’re buying me a house.” His laugh was music to your ears.

[emperor-palpaminty]

Payback

Hi welcome to part 2 of this horny disaster, which could also be called "Minty does not know how to write anything beyond hugging" or “Minty has been watching Oceans 11 too much please take it away”

Also this is rated 18+, go away children, I will give you a juice box, I cannot FUCKING write romantic buildup please don't hurt me, my one-shots are better, I am just a nervous mess, send help

Any great scientist knew to test a hypothesis before they execute it as fact. You were not a scientist, simply looking for revenge for the (finally) faded hickey on your neck. You were, for once, thankful that the body glove went up to your neck.

The Sepratist group affiliated with Farnbec were found to frequent a casino in Canto Bight, where dealings would also often go down among the rich distractions, where enough alcohol and gambling adreneline could turn many a blind eye to illegal activities.

Because Tech was the most knowledgable about (in Wrecker’s words) “fancy high class stuff” and you were (in Hunter’s words) “eye candy” for vulnerable separatists, you were both roped into the next infiltration mission. The whole situation was (in Crosshair’s words) hysterical and laughable. At least, that was what you picked up from his hysterical laughing. 

You glanced sideways at Tech, next to you on the shuttle. He was reading some book on his holopad, eyes skimming it, consuming the information with a hunger you had begun to admire. You watched him for a moment, eyes flickering to his full lips, which were moving slights, perhaps tracing the words or formulas that came to him from the page of the books. 

Those lips could do a lot of damage.

Your head turned quickly and fixated on the window, pressing a hand to your chin, fingers tapping against your lips. Tech, know-it-all and snarky and talkative Tech, had all the swagger of a womanizing God, and he... just didn’t show it. Ever. Until that gala, and now you couldn’t get his lips, his damn hands, off your mind, and you wanted them back on you. 

Subconciously, your hand moved up to your throat, stroking it in thought. Maybe he would do it again, or more. Your throat bobbed in a swallow, thinking of your back to a wall, that same heat in his eyes, hands yanking at your clothes-

You were pulled out of the daydream by Tech’s hand gently laying on your arm. “We should be arriving shortly. The funds went for one of the... higher class locations.”

”It makes sense.” Your arm relaxed under the warmth of his hand, and you risked a glance back him. His lips were pulled into a small smile, which pressed further in a smirk as you glanced at those lips. Your gaze snapped back up to his eyes. “We have to match the whole... fancy role we’re playing.”

Tech bobbed his head in a nod, curly hair bouncing. “Yes. I believe this mission will be easy.” He stood, tucking the holopad under his arm, and smiled back at you, a devilish gleam in his eyes. “Especially if it’s anything like last time.”

You felt your brow press as you grabbed your bag, standing, hurrying out after Tech, snarling at him under your breath. Oh, it would be just like last time.

Maybe this time, the roles would be flipped.

___

You tugged at the clasp on your dress, hand fumbling for the other half of it. "Stupid-" You hissed. You twisted your wrist, trying to catch it, and you groaned, fingers brushing it but never able to grab the clasp. You paused, glancing back into the bedroom, and you popped your tongue in thought. 

You smoothed a hand in your hair, toussling it slightly, and you leaned in the mirror, checking the red lipstick. You stepped away, clearing your throat. “Hey, Tech? I need a hand.”

“Coming,” The trooper called. You heard him shift, standing off the bed, and you leaned over the counter again to pretend to examine your lipstick once more. He entered, pausing at the door, eyes skimming your form momentarily, before he entered, eyes moving to meet yours in the mirror. Yours met his, and you pressed your lips together to set the lipstick, and his eyes- oh, those eyes, they flicked to your rosy mouth, and he ran his tongue along his lips, gaze slowly searing against you. “Nice dress.”

“Thanks.” You straightened up, examining your reflection innocently. “Can you get the clasp?”

He nodded and walked over behind you, softly taking your hair and moving it aside, fingers stroking your neck. You inhaled and glanced down at the counter, pressing your hands against the cool stone quietly. His breath was warm as he leaned close to your back, fanning your bare skin as he took his time clasping the back of the dress behind your neck, which still exposed a majority of your back.

You let his hands smooth down your spine, gingerly, softly, but you moved away from him quickly, flashing a smile at him brightly, tossing the hair he had just moved over your shoulder. “Thanks, Tech,” You purred, swaying as you walked away. Maybe, if you played your cards right, he would be helping you take this dress off, too.

___

The air of the casino was thick with luck and the scent of drinks. Tech had you on his arm, and he exhaled softly. “Alright, darling.” He said gently. “Let’s see where our friends are.”

You smiled and nodded, eyes scanning the high-life around you. “After you, dearest.” You let him lead you, watching his eyes skim the club. You could practically hear the gears twisting in his head. You took his hand, tugging it up and gently kissing the inside of his wrist. His fingers twitched, and you watched in fascination. You parted your lips, gently pressing your hot tongue to his wrist.

Tech’s fist clenched, and he looked at you, lips half-parting. “What was that about?”

“We have to look like a couple.” Your smile turned into a smirk, and you dropped his hand from your lips, gently weaving your arm in his. Tech's gaze flamed, and his lips matched yours, tugging into a smirk.

His gaze was caught by something behind him. "There." He said, interrupting the moment. "I found them."

You glanced back at the table, filled with fine and rich men and women, sitting around, dealing cards and throwing dice, drinking wine that was far more pricey than it should have been. "Do you know how to play?"

Tech nodded, calmly. "It's all math, I believe, and I play with Hunter all the time."

"Yes, because you play with our Sargent, you're fully prepared to go against some of the richest gamblers in the galaxy."

His brow arched, and he began leading you to the table. "Precisely."

You chuckled and shook your head, matching your stride to his. "Of course. I'll be your moral support." Your hand moved up and arched on his back, running it over the fine material of his suit. "You look confident, act the part."

Tech gave a curt nod, his own fingers slipping down to your waist. "Only if you do the same."

"Oh, darling," You whispered, bumping your hip to his. "You couldn't handle me if I went all out."

His fingers left your back as Tech slid into the extra, empty chair. You moved to sit on the arm of the chair, sliding your hand across his shoulders, massaging gently into the flesh- his armor made him look lanky, awkward, and like that word he disdained, cute. You felt his shoulders stiffen as your fingers traced up to his neck, skimming up and down the tanned lines of it up to his jaw.

You leaned down to look at his cards, nails tracing nondescript shapes into his skin. You watched him, his eyes glancing at each one, the ones splayed face-up on the table, and saw his lips moving, tasting each number that came into his head. He lowered his cards and tossed in a few chips, a dangerous calm settling around him as his free hand reached up and caught the one you had on his neck. His thumb began working in circles on your knuckles, and he tugged your hand to his lips and kissed it, slowly, glancing up at you, expression fierce with confidence.

You sat back and watched him, placid faced, until it came his turn to bet again. The process of calculating began once more.

Why was all of this so easy for him? And why should you have made this easy for him?

You leaned down to his ear, gently kissing his lobe, smoothing your hand back towards yourself. "Good hand?" You mumbled, voice low.

"Yes," Tech's voice was steady, but you watched as your hand skimmed around his lower back, and everything below the table was tensed up, stressed. "Very good hand."

"Good." You smoothed your hand gently along his thigh, leaning away from his ear. Your fingers squeezed the tense muscles gently, running down to his knee.

Without a word, Tech tugged you off the arm of the chair and into his lap, still keeping his face level as he looked over his cards again. No one looked twice, too drunk or too wrapped up in gambling. His free hand curled absentmindedly in your hair, and he leaned towards your ear. His lips pressed distractedly pressed to the back of your neck, and he set down his cards, calmly, declaring himself the winner of the round. "You," He huffed, gently squeezing you to him. "Are very, very eager."

You squirmed and his hand lazily drifted up and down your side, lips gently pressed on your ear. You allowed yourself to settle against him (partners and companions were commonplace here, it seemed), and then you swiftly rose, moving away from him, a smirk playing on your lips as he watched you, vague shock on his face as you leaned in, kissing him, and you felt him stiffen and heard him hum.

___

You tugged away, grinning, pressing a final peck to his nose. "I'll be waiting." You whispered, turning and swaggering away, hormones and buildup making your stomach flip.

With how his eyes followed you, and how his eyes seared into your back, the confidence in your hips, you knew you wouldn't have to wait very long for him to join you.

Tags for yall sinners:

@milkytheholy @shuttlelauncher81 @itskeletor @kittykollision​

[demonicheadcanons]

Can I get the brothers reacting to finding MCs sketchbook and it’s filled with drawings of the demon who picked it up? All of them are masterpieces and some are angsty or sad, others happy, some just them doing mundane things. When confronted, MC just says “Of course I draw you all the time, you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. You’re my muse.” Thank you in advance, if it’s too complicated you can skip.

AN: This cute prompt has been sitting in my inbox for far too long. Thanks for sending this in Nonny <3 I love this idea. I tried to keep each scenario short so I could get this done quickly, as you’ve waited long enough for it. Tried is the key word here ;u;

You’re maybe already dating the boys in these? Or very close? They’re not explicitly romantic but have some affection. I also didn’t make the MC say these exact words, or even anything at all in some of these prompts, but the general feeling is still there. I hope that’s alright!

Lucifer

You left the book behind when studying together, rushing off to meet up with Mammon after you realised you were late and would hear hell for it. He notices it sometime later, too busy relishing on even the short period of time he’d gotten to spend alone with you in relative peace.

He picks it up and, curious, with no worries that you might not really want him to look through it, he flips it open to the first page. He realises what it is right away, and continues to flip through the pages until he gets to a drawing of him. Its such a perfect represention of the moment that he can recall exactly when you must’ve drawn this.

You’d come into his room to have a break from all the noise in the rest of the house, and you had laid on your stomach on his bed and worked away at something as he went through paperwork at his desk. He’d wanted to ask you, at the time, what had you so focused, but he hadn’t wanted to ruin the sight.

He continues to flip through the pages, and frowns slightly for every drawing he sees of one of his brothers, but his lips twitch up every time there’s even a simple doodle of him. He counts, unconsciously, and realises you’ve drawn him more than anyone else. Pride swells in his chest, so very familiar and not at the same time.

He hears the tapping at his door and calls out, immediately, for you to come in. He knows that knock, after all, and you’re one of the few members of the house that he wouldn’t hear coming down the corridor. He leans against the front of his desk, holding your book open in front of him, not bothering to hide the fact that he’d looked through it.

The particular sketch he’s looking at is one where you must’ve been close - you’ve detailed in every long, delicate eyelash, his hair falling in front of his face and his lips slightly parted, only the faintest frown on his face as he focuses hard on his work. He smiles as he tips the book forward, watching as your eyes are drawn to it. To his surprise, you only smile, relieved, raising a hand to your chest.

“Thank goodness, I did leave it here after all.”

You walk over and hop up onto his desk, leaning towards him as you try to see which sketch he’s looking at. He slouches a little more to make you comfortable and shows the sketch.

“You’ve drawn me a lot,” he comments.

“Of course. You’re beautiful, how could I resist?”

He presses a kiss to your temple and rests his head against yours, smiling. He doesn’t often like people commenting on his appearance - he was confident enough about it, knew how he looked, but he didn’t need to hear about it all the time. Still, from you, it didn’t hurt. Especially not if you felt inspired enough by it to draw him.

.

[[Other brothers are under the read more]]

Mammon

Mammon had burst into your room and you weren’t there. Frustrated by your absence and unsure of when to expect you back, he decides to pick through your stuff. He wasn’t going to steal any of it - he’d been called out by Beel about that, before, and whilst he’d denied it at the time he knew it was true. He’d much rather steal something for you than from you.

The book is open on your desk to a page full of mindless doodles. It piques his curiosity, and he grabs it and sits down, kicking his feet up on top of your desk. It wasn’t like you were there to tell him not to, and you’d left without telling him where you were going so he was going to do whatever he wanted until you got back.

He flicks back to the start of the book, and honestly his first thoughts are about how you could easily sell these drawings for a lot of Grimm. Sketches of the Devildom, of flowers and creatures you couldn’t find in the human realm, of how the Devildom looked all lit up with the moon overhead, from the highest balcony in the RAD building. He’s in awe, mouth a faint ‘o’ shape as he continues to turn page by page.

The first drawing of him makes him freeze up. He was a model, Mammon knew he must be handsome. But he’d never felt it like he did now. In the drawing, he’s sitting on the floor, cushion in his lap as he plays some game on a controller. His expression is somewhere between frustrated and delighted, his hair fluffy and messy because he’d been running his hands through it.

He remembers - you’d been having trouble adapting to the Devildom so he stole- borrowed a console from Levi, but you were too tired to play. He played anyway, hoping that at least watching him would distract you enough, and to convince himself that he was in part doing it for him too and not to entertain some random human.

You walk in and he slams the book shut, but its too late - you’ve seen him holding it. You don’t seem mad about that, though, and instead glare at how he has his feet up on your desk. He adjusts quickly, fumbling as he tries to put on his confident act, walking over to you as he waves the sketchbook in the air.

“What’s this, then? You’ve been drawing me without asking me first?” he asks, teasing lilt falling flat in his voice. His face feels far too warm, as it often does when he’s around you.

“I couldn’t help it. You’re so pretty I just had to.” You shrug, nonchalant. You swipe the book from his hand and sit on your bed, tapping the space beside you. “How far in did you get?”

Mammon pouts as he goes to sit beside you. “Not far.” As he sits beside you, he grabs your sides and pulls you to lay down, holding the sketchbook open up in the air. He’s desperate for some attention right now, but he wanted to keep looking at your art. “Let’s look through the rest together.”

.

Leviathan

Levi was flustered. You’d been spending time in his room, and he loved your presence but it took him so long to get used to it each time that you stopped in to hang out with him. You’d brought the book you always had with you, and were working away on something, laying on your stomach on the floor with a Ruri-chan plushie in one arm.

He fumbles with his controller and sighs as he misses yet another jump in the game he was trying hard to distract himself with. Every time he glances over, he wants to ask what you’re doing, why you’re here with him when you could easily do your work elsewhere or with any of his brothers, if you were really happy to just sit in his presence like this. His voice dies in his throat and his face flushes when he catches sight of you, so he never does get to ask.

He’d messed up one too many times and was starting to get frustrated when he glanced over and realised you were looking at him, too. Heat floods into his face, and his frustrations die before he can even mumble out his signature ‘this is so unfair’. You smile, going back to your work before dropping your pencil. You wiggle around until you’re sitting, cross-legged, and hold out your sketchbook.

It was a drawing. You’d been drawing, and you’d been drawing him. Levi leans closer hesitantly, wanting to get a better look at it, trying not to think about how giddy and anxious your proud smile made him feel. He works up the courage to take the book out of your hands and looks over the drawing. It takes a long time before he can say anything, too busy focusing on all the little details - how his face is scrunched up from frustration and concentration, how his headphone cord is coiled around his fingers from when he’d been playing with it and hadn’t untangled it fully, how his head was tilted to stop his hair from fully falling in front of his eyes.

“You... its really good, but, I don’t... I’m not this handsome,” he mumbles, face bright red, and he flinches when you laugh.

“You are. More-so, actually, but its hard to capture from this distance.”

Levi can’t respond, just swallows. You sigh, something fond in it, and walk on your knees until you can fall against his side, cuddling up to the Ruri-chan plushie.

“Look through the other drawings. I only draw what I find beautiful. That’s why I drew you.”

His smile is faint, but its enough. He’s hearing your words, even if they’re hard to process for him. He relaxes and flips back to the front page, ready to look at the rest of your work with you.

.

Satan

Books were commonplace in his room. They were part of the furniture - quite literally, as they were piled up everywhere, even on top of his bed, although he’d made an effort to stop putting them there so long as you were spending time with him, so that you had somewhere comfortable to sit or lay whilst you were reading.

And yet, he always noticed when one was out of place, or when a new book had joined his collection without his knowing. Sometimes this happened because his brothers had found something interesting but weren’t willing to say aloud that it had reminded them of him, or that they bought it because he might enjoy it, so they’d simply popped into his room and added it to a stack. It was normal at this point.

That’s why he didn’t question it when there was a new book left on his bed, and when he didn’t hesitate to lay down and open it up, curious as to what story one of his brothers had left for him this time. Instead, he’s met with drawings. Amazing drawings of the Devildom, of his brothers... and of him.

There are notes, as well, few and far between, that allow him to place this as being your book. He knew that scrawl. He felt guilty to look through your sketchbook without your permission, but now that he’d already opened it, he was too curious to leave it be. He’d be honest about it later and deal with the consequences then, or joke about how you’d been drawing him without his permission so you were equal now.

The drawings were beautiful, more detailed that he’d seen for casual doodles left in a book without being shown to the subjects in them. He takes his time to look over each page carefully, each drawing filling his heart with something foreign, sweet and sticky like berry pie. He spends extra time focusing on each drawing of himself, wonders how and why you’d made him look so soft. It was hard for him to get portraits done as his presence could invoke anger in others and leave harsh and angry lines and brush strokes on the canvas, but clearly he didn’t have that same influence on you - instead, each drawing of him was more delicate than any of the others, like you’d put more effort in.

Satan returns it to you later, a smile on his face. He does apologise immediately, for looking at the drawings without your permission.

“Its alright. I’m just glad you found it for me.” You’re completely cheery, not bothered at all, and Satan sighs in relief.

“You’ve drawn me quite a lot,” he notes.

“Well obviously. I spend the most time with you,” you say, smiling when you catch the faint pout he covers up. That wasn’t what he had expected or wanted you to say, clearly. Nor was it all you had to say on the matter. “Also, you’re very beautiful. I wanted to try and capture that and keep a little for myself.”

He smiles now, content, and pats you on the head. “If you want me around, you only have to ask.”

.

Asmodeus

You’d been working away at something as he picked out an outfit and fixed his hair, and he’d been dying to ask but he just needed to adjust a few more strands first - you were going out to Majolish together and he wanted to look perfect. He always did, of course, but when the two of you were going out together he put in even more effort than usual.

When he finally finishes, he jumps up out of his chair and rushes over to you.

“How do I look?” he asks, beaming, full of confidence as always.

“Fabulous,” you say, reaching out to readjust a few strands of hair that had fallen out of place from his quick movements. He sits down on his bed beside you and pulls you up until you’re sitting beside him, hugging you around your waist.

“What were you doing whilst you were waiting? You looked so focused, it was adorable~” Asmo chirps, looking pointedly at the sketchbook. His eyes widen in genuine surprise. “Wait, is that me?”

You nod, lifting your sketchbook up so that the two of you could see it properly. You’d been drawing him, just little sketches as he flitted about the room doing this and that to get ready. You couldn’t have spent long on each one, and yet they captured him perfectly. He looked elegant in each, determined and beautiful.

You flicked back to the previous page before he could comment, and Asmo’s breath caught in his throat. This drawing was him, it was so brilliant an example of everything that he was. He was looking at you and smiling, and you’d captured the love and admiration in his eyes so perfectly he wondered if this was somehow a photograph.

Asmo tears up and hugs you tighter, burying his face against your neck. You can feel him smile wide against your skin. He stays like that for only a moment before his excitement bubbles up to the surface and he litters your cheek, nose, and forehead with feather-light kisses. He’d do anything for the one who saw him as he was.

.

Beelzebub

Beel had a pretty normal schedule for each day - he’d exercise, go to school, spend time with you and Belphie or his other brothers if they were around and alright with it, and of course, he’d eat quite a lot. You had a good idea of where he’d be throughout the day, and when you had the time for it, you’d accompany him so he wasn’t alone. Whether that meant sitting on the counter as he dug through the fridge, or laying on the sofa with your head in his lap and your feet in Belphie’s, you just liked to spend time with him.

And, a lot of the time, he noticed you had this little book with you. He’d caught you glancing at him many times, but didn’t think anything of it. He glanced at you a lot, too, so maybe it was only to be expected. He’d gotten used to the butterflies in his stomach when you two randomly linked eyes and you grinned, twirling your pencil around in your hand.

A lot of your time was spent together in relative silence, as well, and he was accustomed to hearing your pencil scratch against the paper. But he never asked what you were doing, because if you wanted to tell him you would. He trusted you to do that. And his trust paid off, when you were both watching a show together.

He notices early on that you're paying more attention to him than the screen, and when the episode finishes you tap him gently on the shoulder before stretching out your wrists. He looks to you, tilting his head in curiosity until you hold the book open in front of him.

It was a drawing of him, focused on the screen, odd lighting casting shadows against his form. He had something in his hand, some sort of food, but you’d put more attention into actually drawing him. So much attention that he was sure no matter how long he looked, there would always be something more to notice.

“Its me?” he asks, unsure lilt in his voice. He looks bashful, like he’s done something wrong. “Why?”

You stretch out your arms again, thinking, and finally answer, “Because you looked beautiful, and I wanted to draw you?”

It was neither easy nor hard to make Beel blush, and most of the time it just seemed to happen. You hadn’t caught onto the pattern yet, hadn’t been able to perfect it so that you could make it happen whenever you wanted. But you smile in silent victory now as his ears and cheeks flush a reddish pink, pairing nicely with his wide eyes.

His surprise gives way to a smile, and he leans over to wrap his arms around you, holding you close. All he can manage is a thank you, but with that you know how much he appreciates it, how much he appreciates you.

.

Belphegor

Belphie would often drag you off to the attic, and whilst he enjoyed the times where you would curl up in his arms and nap with him until you absolutely had to get up, he knew he couldn’t expect that of you constantly. You were still human, and you could only sleep so much before you had to get up to stretch or eat or just do something else to occupy your mind.

You’d built up a habit together, now, where if you wanted to get up you’d tap his arm twice and he’d reluctantly let you go. He’d stay awake if you left the room, just enough so that he’d be able to tell when you returned. If you didn’t, he’d have to go seek you out again by himself to drag you back with him and absolutely not just to make sure you were okay. If you did return, he’d go back to sleep and let you do what you wanted, opening his arms up if you tapped on them again to crawl back into his grip. It was peaceful, and though he never said it aloud, he loved it.

Often times, when he did wake up, you’d be sitting nearby in a little bundle of pillows and blankets that you’d made with a book and pencil in hand. You were quick to notice when he woke up, so Belphie could never just watch you to figure out what you were doing, which frustrated him to no end but at the same time it was nice to be known. Still, he was determined to figure it out.

His determination is unnecessary, because one day he wakes up and you’re looking straight at him, smiling contentedly. He woke up too fast, then, heart pounding as he tried to remember that expression. Did you admire him so much to look at him like that, even when he was just sleeping?

“You’re awake,” you say, voice light and cheery.

“And you were watching me sleep, as always,” Belphie scoffs, pulling the blanket up over his face to cover up his blush. “What’s new?”

You pout and stick out your tongue at him, and he lowers the blanket enough to return the gesture. It was hard to remember just how old he was when he acted like that.

“With good reason,” you tell him. He raises an eyebrow, and you smile and hold out your sketchbook. He takes it immediately, trying to act nonchalant as he opens it up and flicks through the pages. You barely catch how his eyes widen, how his breath catches and he slows down, taking in each drawing carefully.

“There are... a lot of drawings, of me sleeping,” Belphie says, swallowing, raising the book enough to try to cover his smile. Too late, you think. You’d caught him.

“You look cute like that. Plus, its the only time you sit still enough for me to draw you.”

“Or you’re just that obsessed with me. Weirdo.” He closes the book and hands it back to you, sitting up to stretch. He keeps his eyes on you, notices when you frown the tiniest bit. Was his teasing too much?

He sighs and slides out of bed, sitting in your pile beside you. He leans against you, like a cat looking for attention without wanting to admit it, and takes your hand in his, playing with your fingers.

“Thanks, MC.”

[jafndaegur]

Things Said and Unsaid

Jumin Han x MC

Mystic Messenger

a/n: now that the zine is long past, here is my story from the Garden of Eden Zine:) Enjoy!

Jumin twisted the flower stem between his fingers as he reclined further against the chair. Waxy pink petals mocked him in a way that he did not appreciate and the bright bloom weighed heavily, leaning forward in his careless grasp. He rested his chin on the back of his free hand, temple twitching at the not-quite perfect amount of wine for a buzz but enough for a headache. 

MC's voice still floated in the air as if she'd just called about her final report for the RFA event.

"All of the flower arrangements are ready for the party," her voice was stilted over the phone even as she tried to be chipper.

Jumin wondered if she felt uncomfortable around him with everything said and done. "They'll look beautiful I'm sure." He reassured. 

The pause and silence between them felt unnatural and constricting.

"What did you pick? For the bouquets." He finally peeped out, his voice rocking with concern. Had they always struggled with communicating? The memory of being able to freely converse with her, speaking of any little trivial thing that came to mind an easy and amusing way for him to pass the time. Surely he hadn’t ruined things so thoroughly during the time she had spent at the penthouse.

MC’s airy and pitched laugh reached his ears in a painful display of her discomfort. "That'd ruin the surprise."

And what a surprise it'd been.

Jumin had been eager, and even anxious, in awaiting her arrival to the party. Afterall they all owed its renewed existence to her. And he himself owed so much to her too. When they had parted the night before, V rightfully helping her return to the apartment, it had been with a tender apology. She'd embraced him—held him close and promised things would work out the way they should.

He wasn’t sure if it had been a lie or her convincing herself. Perhaps some odd adherration of both to her conviction.

The day of the party came, but MC did not.

It was obvious that Seven had hesitated his journey before finally making the reluctant trek to Jumin with a piece of paper in one hand and a tied bouquet of flowers in the other.

The pink camellia had seemed so bright and vibrant in the light of the ballroom. And even now in Jumin's hand, standing stark and vibrant, the bloom dazzled against the rest of his muted parlor decor. It smiled and flourished, and yet here he sat more dejected and more confused than ever.

Somehow, he managed his way back to the kitchen, where the rest of his  bouquet lay abandoned on his dining room table—scattered petals and bulbs strewn across the wood top due to his careless toss of the bunch. He had been angry and frustrated at the time, but now he felt guilt tugging at the span of his ribs when he thought of the disregard he gave to her last gift to him. The note lay innocently next to it, as if trying to appease him with the gentle slope of MC's handwriting.

I've meant everything Jumin. Said and unsaid. I don't regret anything and I hope you won't either. But we both need this to move forward, I think this is what's right...I hope you'll see that. I've left you the best.

-MC

Among the flowers, pink carnations were the easiest to pick out. The petals crimped and wavy, and the blossoms themselves the most commonplace and plain. And yet MC had made sure the flowers had stayed nestled close amongst bushels of goldenrod. Another odd pick for a formal party. His eye for detail made things easy to recognize that beautiful hardworking and problem-solving touch MC made with every  deliberate and precise choice. He knew that much. From the sorrel that warmly held everything together, to the pink camellias blushing prettily at the center wrapped in forget-me-nots.

In times such as these Jumin realized he had one consultant he could count on, a source where information passed easily from itself to him. Where he could learn unhindered and without bias about the best that MC left behind for him. Because surely, she did not simply mean the best flowers from the bunch. She was too clever for that.

He found himself at a library, in the area with the farmer's almanacs and horticulture how-tos. It was an aisle he frequented when seeking answers to inquiries about his vineyard. 

Heavy and cumbersome, he found an encyclopedic tome titled Whispers from the Flowers. It was an odd name but upon opening it he found satisfaction knowing that his assumption on its topic had been correct. The flower language. Something not in a million years he imagined himself researching. But for MC, he would do anything. And his beloved left behind one very, very important clue. "Things said and unsaid." And he hoped it was more than a mere sentimental way of saying she left him behind regardless of whether or not she was able to relay all she wished to. 

Jumin found the index at the back of the book, searching for sorrel first. MC had meticulously ensured that the green and stringy plant entwined itself around the main bouquet like a cradle. It was hardly a flower and yet the vibrancy of it added life and color outside of the thematic pink hues of the other blooms. Affection. Sorrel is the gateway to confessions and the key to unlocking the heart—it lays bare the raw and pure emotion of those who offer it. His fingers danced over the words, tracing the letters with the faintest of smiles. MC's disappearance seemed like a rather large lack of said-affection, but he knew there had to be further explanation. And all answers resided within the little puzzle she had set aside just for him.

Because she knew and understood he had every capability to solve it. He hoped.

Encouragement. Good fortune. Goldenrod offers the same blade with two edges. One of well wishes and the other of outstretched hands. It is an easy flower to convey both farewells and prosperity. 

Jumin’s breath curled within his chest and his fingers hovered. “Farewells.” It was a mutter, something that he dare not speak more than a whisper.  MC left behind hide nor hair of her existence. The memory of her laugh and gilded eyes were the only proof he could offer. Yet somewhere amongst the agonizing pull in his chest as he read the summary over and over again, he feared that she had truly meant her goodbye hidden within these flowers. 

He knew his own faults had greatly weighed upon her decision to leave with Jihyun that day. But had he really ruined things so much that she chose never to see any of them again to escape him? Were all affections between them nullified because of his shortcomings.

Breath hitched and his fists clenched the book. Memories of true love. Forget-me-nots are the staple flower of sweet love. Anyone gifting their sweetheart with these iconic blooms know every moment spent with their true love will be cherished and treasured. Jumin’s brow furrowed. Contradictory. This was all so illogical and contradictory. If he had not just recently gone through a week-long anxiety attack and now the loss of the woman he had planned to propose to, he’d chalk these meanings up to happenstance and throw the book into the closest recycling bin. But everything said had been meant. And everything unsaid had been meant. He needed for his own sanity and for his own comprehension to know if these flowers truly enveloped MC’s feelings for him. Or if he was just a fool trying to pry into a love that was never his to keep.

“I’ll never forget you.” 

A shudder. The words flowed past his lips as he read the phrase mechanically. “I’ll never forget you.” Each utterance a tremor to his heart as the walls constricted and shook.

I’ll never forget you. Pink carnations are easily the most misused and the most misunderstood. Believed to be a simpleton’s flower, the meaning behind this bloom is often lost due to being handed out of context. It’s beautiful and pastel color can often be misleading. It is a mournful flower, often handed at the cusp of goodbye. A beautiful tendril to remember a fleeting yet vibrant romance. 

The search through the index for the last flower was a trembling one.  Jumin’s fingers skimmed the crisp paper gentle against his skin as he tried to account his increasing pulse to apprehension or suspense. He was approaching the last piece of MC’s riddle and good or bad—real or not—he had been able to come to some conclusion about their parting. About their romance. About them. 

His vision blurred and he felt the world spin.

A note had been tucked away close to the spine where the pages parted. It was a small envelope, no bigger than an index card. “Jumin” had been scripted neatly on the front, and on the back, there was a little flower drawn over the edge of the opening flap. He recognized MC’s handwriting anywhere. Impulse struck a chord with his nerves and he plucked the note quickly before forcing himself to slow down. He wanted to finish this mission. 

Pink camellias. Longing for you.

No more waiting. Jumin dropped the book and tore the envelope open. His heart pitter-pattered and he double took the gentle slope of that oh-so familiar handwriting. The gentle sweep and slant of her penmanship was obvious the moment he gazed upon the ink. There before him, tiny and hopeful, was a phone number. He'd arrived at the end of her puzzle with a growing smile, shaking his head with a fond chuckle. His finger brushed the new note.

"You can be greedy, you know," he whispered reverently. "Around me don't worry. Whatever fears or struggles we may have to face, we'll figure them out together. You don't have to hold back for my sake or for yours."

He pulled two business cards from his wallet, placing one in the forget-me-knots section and the other in the section about pink camellias. Satisfied, he closed the book and walked to the front desk where the head librarian sat typing away on the computer. Noticing his approach, they gave him a warm smile. Holding out their hand, the librarian inclined their head.

"Got everything you need?"

Jumin nodded and handed the book over. "I will soon enough. In the meantime, could you place this on hold? A friend is going to pick it up."

"Of course," the librarian nodded. "Name and number."

"Han MC," Jumin decided with a touch of humor, a welcomed break to his multi-day anxiety high, before reciting the number from the note.

The person assured him that MC would be notified and that the book would be on hold for the next twenty-four hours. He bowed his head slightly and graciously thanked them before heading to the car where Driver Kim awaited. There was so little time to get ready but he wanted to make the most of this anticipation that clung to his lungs with baited breath.

[sofwrites]

Each other's biggest ally

Polin Week Day 1: Favorite Quote

“No, his method of attack was a lazy smile, a well-timed joke. If Colin ever lost his temper...

Penelope shook her head slightly, unable even to fathom it. Colin would never lose his temper. At least not in front of her. He'd have to be really, truly—no, profoundly —upset to lose his temper. And that kind of fury could only be sparked by someone you really, truly, profoundly cared about.” - Romancing Mister Bridgerton, pg. 64

The one where Colin profoundly cared and had no choice but to lose his temper.

Type: One-shot, angst, sentimentalism, protective/mywife!Colin, protectective/myhusband!Penelope

Length: 3.3k

Read on ao3! Or continue under the cut

In the late months of the year 1825, Penelope Featherington Bridgerton published her debut novel titled The Wallflower. And in the early months of the year 1826, she relished in the praise of her work and suffered in the consequences of her now-public identity.

The response to her book was generally positive. Whether or not they were willing to admit it, the members of the ton were eager to uncover the scathing details surrounding Mrs. Bridgerton’s former pen name. They devoured the secrets hidden between the lines of the pages- forming their own conclusions and theories of what was fact and what was fiction.

It seemed that after many years of Penelope appearing to be invisible, the gravity of her voice was finally truly understood.

But as in all life, there were complications as well.

One gentleman in particular was quick to make his discontent known, and it was all due to just one short excerpt.

Although Beatrice did not befriend even half of the ton, she had made the acquaintance of nearly everyone at one point. And though they never realized, she scrutinized them almost as much as they disregarded her.

Even with her close examinations, she generally liked the people she met. There were bores, many in fact, as well as those with whom conversation could rarely be carried, but most were reasonably pleasant. There were exceptions, however, as there always are. One such exception was as follows:

It is an earlier season for Beatrice, one still full of wonder and disillusioned hope. She looks at the dancefloor with wistfulness in her eyes, dreaming, praying that her prince charming will notice her from across the room and ask her to take his arm.

He does not, of course. His mind is still focused fully on the small group that surrounds him, drawn to him like a shining star amongst the thinly veiled candlelight. Although the music is certainly too loud and the conversations too many, our heroine can perfectly hear his laughter through the crowded ballroom. She can hear it because she knows it better than she knows her own.

Later that evening, he’ll ask her to dance. He’ll remember her minuscule presence in his life, likely prodded by a sharp finger to his spine and a voice carrying a gentle reminder. And even though she knows why he will do so, knows that it is due to a kind sense of duty rather than true desire, she will cherish it all the same.

Right now, however, Beatrice remains at the edge of the dancefloor, her silent woes interrupted by the familiar voice of her mother.

“Beatrice, dear, this is Mr. Wetherden. Mr. Wetherden, I present to you my daughter, Beatrice Harpenton.”

Another bachelor, this one ranking second-tier rather than third. Her mother seems to have given her more credit this evening, Beatrice thinks as she looks at the familiar face.

The introduction is an unnecessary formality, of course, as are many of their rules; they were made acquaintances during her first season. Nonetheless, society calls for her to curtsy and give a gracious smile, and she obliges.

At the same time, he assesses her similarly to how he did so a few years before. And she sees it immediately, the dismissal that passes over his eyes even before he fully bends into his low bow.

Her mother leaves them to it- the stifled conversation in an even more stifling ballroom. The unfortunate girl in the canary-colored dress stands on the sidelines, trapped in conversation with yet another uninterested bachelor who is just as much forced upon her as she is on him.

He speaks endlessly, unquestionably more for his benefit than hers. He spends fourteen minutes explaining the difference between rugby and football. She suppresses three yawns and is interrupted twenty-six times throughout the topic, clearly expected to be an audience member rather than a participant.

At this time, she thinks this is Mr. Wetherden’s worst offense. Later on, when she is years older, Beatrice discovers that she was sorely mistaken in her youth. That without the cautionary lights of London (albeit often cloudy and forgiving), he is much worse.

She later on learns about his propensity to unwilling women. To frightened young housemaids who are often not given the options that women of a higher class are granted.

Our heroine also finds out later exactly how commonplace such a tendency is. And with it, her vision of social seasons- the one with balls and picnics and musicales- begins to splinter.

Penelope hadn’t named him, of course. She hadn’t named anyone directly.

She couldn’t publish a memoir, not really. Even though she was related to a fine variation of important characters in society, she couldn’t put such a strain on her family, and particularly not on her husband. Her husband, her lovely, amazing husband who supported her through the entire process even despite the fact that so much of their own private history was laid out in the pages of her novel. Penelope had written the truth, which hadn’t been entirely pretty. But Colin had agreed with her that the truth was more important than sheltering their secrets.

But even though she couldn’t publish a direct recounting of her life and experiences with the ton, she’d been unwilling to just hide behind fabricated stories.

Penelope’s telling of that night at the ball wasn’t completely factual. She did not know how many times Phillip Cavender interrupted her during their conversation, nor whether or not Colin had even been present that evening. But the details of the matter weren’t as important to her as shedding light on the entire situation.

She’d been young and naive during her first few seasons, believing that a few nasty comments and looks were really the worst of what society had to offer. Later on, she’d found out that she had been wrong, and that there was much worse than she’d ever known. And when her sister-in-law, Sophie, had recounted the night she and Benedict had met (well, met again), Penelope knew that she had to shed light on the matter. She had to make it clear what happened outside of the fancy dresses and giggling parties.

But as mentioned, such decisions did not come without their objections.

“Thank God, they’re leaving.”

The words came from just a few feet behind them, full of indignancy and bitterness. The couple had been walking together, arm-in-arm, towards the door, quite eager to return home for the evening.

They’d been attending an intimate house party at the request of the gentleman’s mother. She’d been unable to make her attendance that evening and had asked that her son and his wife go in her stead. They hadn’t been particularly excited about the prospect, but they’d agreed for her.

The party itself hadn’t been bad. The food was good, the music was pleasant, and almost everyone in attendance had offered the woman praise for her work. Though they hadn’t exactly been excited to attend, the evening hadn’t been at all poor.

That was, until they’d been nearing the exit and heard the troublesome remark behind them.

Colin glanced down at his wife, who grimaced, her nose scrunching as her eyes closed. They’d been met with a number of sneers and snide comments in the last few weeks, but they never became easier to hear.

With a small sigh, he turned them both around, looking directly at the man holding a glass of port too large and wearing a lip too curled.

Colin gave him a smile, the familiar one he used whenever he was looking at something that both irritated and mildly amused him. “Didn’t see you there, Cavender. So nice of you to offer us a sendoff.”

The opposing man’s mouth turned downwards, a stark contrast to the grin still on Colin’s face. Penelope swallowed, quickly cutting in. “We really must be getting home.”

With a pointed look directed towards her husband, she began pulling him back towards the door. Though Penelope would have loved to see Phillip Cavender get put into his place, she knew far better than to spar with a man holding a petty vendetta.

But before they’d even fully turned around, there was a mocking bark of laughter, followed by a slight slurring of words. “You do everything she tells you then? Follow her around like a lapdog?”

This time, Colin’s brow lifted ever so slightly, the same half-smile still imprinted on his lips. Penelope felt an uncomfortable heat rising up her neck as she reluctantly turned from the door again.

“If it means getting to share my life with this incredible woman,” Colin sent her a small wink before shrugging, “Then, by all means, call me a lapdog.”

There was some tittering around them by the small audience they’d attracted. With a quick glance, Penelope could see the angry lurch in Cavender’s throat, the narrowing of his eyes, the twitching of his fingers as they tightened around his glass.

Please, just let it go. Let us just leave and go home.

But he didn’t. Of course, he didn’t.

“I know what lies she’s spread about me.”

“Oh?” Colin’s face took on a thoughtful expression, one that might have been convincing in any other circumstance. “I don’t recall ever hearing my wife mentioning you.”

Cavender’s glare deepened. “In that bloody book of hers.”

Penelope cringed inwardly as she felt the twitch of Colin’s hand in hers. Her eyes darted around the room as an overwhelming sense of dread engulfed her. The ballroom was small and the guests were bored, and a public row was certainly enough to draw a crowd- one that was full of prying eyes and listening ears.

Colin’s face remained the picture of serenity even though Penelope could sense the angry heat rising from him. It was something she could feel in him that others always missed, a secret fire that he did so well in masking.

Looking at the other man, Colin let out a sigh, one that was forcibly tired, as though he were speaking down to an overly emotional child. “I can assure you that all the characters in my wife’s novel were fabricated. And if you saw yourself in one of the less attractive personages, then I’d venture to say that such is simply a reflection of your own self-image.”

The whispers around them grew, and Cavender sputtered for a moment, clearly caught off guard by the easy taunt. But his surprise only lasted a moment before he hardened once more.

A man with a petty vendetta did not often allow himself to be diverted.

His eyes flickered to Penelope before they returned to Colin and he sneered. “You realize that she’s made you out to be an ass, don’t you? You can act high and mighty, Bridgerton, but the wife you so proudly boast has fashioned you into the biggest fool in all of London.”

It was at this jab that Penelope frowned, feeling her own prickle of anger. And for the first time in the nasty exchange, she turned directly to their shared foe, a hard, determined look set on her face. “Excuse me, Mr. Cavender, but I must ask that you don’t speak to my husband that way.”

She could almost see his eyes flash in fury as they set themselves on her. But before he could give the biting retort that was no doubt resting on his tongue-

“And I’d suggest that you consult a dictionary to properly understand the concept of fiction.” Colin’s tone was relaxed, just a sprinkle of mocking mixed into it. But Penelope could feel the tension in him, the protective edge that mirrored her own.

Cavender’s gaze shifted back to Colin, his rage appearing a bit more controlled as they listened to the snickering that surrounded them. Slowly, his mouth thinned into a tight line, and he took a step closer to the couple. By instinct, Colin angled himself in front of Penelope as her grip on his hand tightened.

He was just a few feet away from them when he finally spoke, a voice so low that it was barely audible over the murmurs. “And I’d recommend that you consider taking yourself and that bitch of a wife,” his eyes darted to Penelope for a moment, “out of town.”

And it was this comment that wiped the smile completely off of Colin’s face, along with any attempt of levity.

It was as if a chill had passed over, one that was both icy and burning at the same time. He stiffened like a board, a wave of unmistakable anger coming over him. And when his words came, they were low and even, colder than anyone had ever thought possible from Colin Bridgerton.

“You would do well to avoid threatening my family, Cavender.”

Though there was a slight tinge of red on his face, Phillip Cavender did not retreat. Instead, he took another step forward. “And why is that, Bridgerton?”

Penelope could see the muscles in Colin’s jaw moving from where she was angled, could practically feel the heat radiating off of his body. She’d seen him angry before, furious even, but this was different. This was so much more.

She wasn’t frightened, not by Colin nor by the man standing across from them. Fright was not why she wanted this to stop.

She didn’t want her husband’s anger to be made into a form of entertainment at a party. For him to have to serve the role of gallant protector whenever she upset someone. So, she attempted to silently will him to calm down, running a featherlight thumb across the surface of his hand.

But Colin wanted to finish what they’d started and instead let go of her and took his own step forward, almost shielding her completely.

“I think we all know that I have more than enough relatives to run you out of town,” he said, eyes locked on Cavender.

There was a flash of worry that crossed his face, but it was quickly forced away by a snort. “Is that meant to scare me? The threat of a duke and a viscount?”

Colin didn’t falter. Instead, his head tilted as he considered the man, considered the shaking fingers and the smell of alcohol on his breath. He’d never been a violent man by nature, even having grown up with two older brothers. He preferred words when he fought, and they almost always gave him his victories. He wasn’t opposed to physical repercussions, but he knew that a private gathering was not the place or time.

He looked Cavender directly in the eyes, speaking in a low, clear voice. “I will ensure that you are ruined, that is a promise.”

And because he couldn’t help himself, “And if that is not enough, be rest assured that we will do worse. My only qualm in doing it myself is that my brother would be disappointed he wasn’t able to help.”

There was a silence in the room that followed as Cavender glowered at him. His eyes darkened in fury as his face reddened, trying to figure out how far Colin could really go.

But there was something in Colin’s threat that didn’t allow for any consideration that he might have been exaggerating. Perhaps it was the definitive and resolute tone in his voice, or the strength behind his gaze, or the tight set of his jaw.

Or perhaps it was because Colin Bridgerton wasn’t the type to quicken to anger. Wasn’t the type to have a temper or even hint at unpleasantry.

Whatever it was, it made Cavender finally break eye contact and step back. He turned away, taking another large swig of port.

Colin could hear the pounding in his ears as he looked at the pathetic man, anger still coursing through him. But then he felt a warm hand lace through his, and the red glare of the world began melting away. Penelope was whispering something, her voice calm and soothing. He squeezed her hand in understanding but kept his gaze on Cavender.

There was a familiar casualness when Colin spoke this time, but it was threaded with venom. “Do not forget what I’ve said.”

And with that, he turned to his wife and pressed a kiss into her hair.

“Good night,” Penelope nodded to the remainder of the crowd, who finally had the decency to look away.

A few minutes later, when they were finally in a carriage returning to their home, Penelope sighed. With her eyes glued to her skirts, she whispered, “I’m so sorry, Colin.”

He looked at her thoughtfully, taking in a deep inhale of breath.

He’d been scared after the reveal of her identity, terrified even. There were evenings where he’d lie awake in bed and imagine all of the awful things that could happen to the person who was his entire world. And though they never spoke of such worries aloud, he knew that she was just as aware as he was.

Italy had been like taking a deep breath after being underwater for too long. There, no one cared or knew, and the only threat they faced was the harsh sun.

And then Penelope was pregnant, and a new light was added to his life, one that shifted his fears elsewhere.

Then they became a family of three, and Colin was thrilled. He still worried, of course, but his joy outweighed everything else.

Old wounds had been reopened in the recent weeks, that was for certain. But it did not mean that he blamed Penelope for them.

So, Colin pulled her into his side and tucked her head under his chin. “You have nothing to apologize for. We both agreed that you did the right thing.”

For a few moments, she said nothing, just listened to the sound of his heartbeat and the wheels on cobblestones. And though he couldn’t see her, Colin could sense in the silence that she was crying. Wordlessly, he handed her a handkerchief.

Penelope dabbed at her eyes a few times before leaning back to look at him. “I didn’t want to force you into this position.”

He smiled and lifted a hand to stroke her cheek, feeling the familiar warmth of her skin. “I watch you every day with nothing but awe, Penelope. I love you, I’m proud of you. And I will gladly stand by you through anything.”

Her eyes moved slowly as they crossed his face, searching for any hesitance. There was none, not even a hint of resistance.

Instead, there was so much love that it overwhelmed her, struck her with the same shock that it had years before. It was a love that mirrored her own, a fierce desire to protect and support another with as much reverence as one did for themself. It was one that never faltered even in the most difficult of times.

Her eyes were glossy when her hand reached up to meet his, and the smile on her lips was weak but true. “I love you so much. And I can’t believe that I’ve become so lucky in my life to have you by my side.”

And with that, they settled into their drive home, sharing whispered conversations and watery chuckles.

They still had a long road ahead of them, of that they were sure. But they knew that they would cross it together.

[airplanned]

All the Trashy Novels Part 22

Part 1...Part 21

***

Nine out of every ten people at the castle were overly-proud and overly-pleased that Link had a townie girlfriend.  "He's so happy lately.  I didn't know he could smile."  "That boy deserves it with all the work he puts in."  "Sure hope she's good to him."

He did look happy lately.  It was unnerving.  His stony face had softened and there was a light to his eyes and an easiness to his step.  Instead of looking as if he wished to completely remove himself from interacting with everyone, he now looked like he was having a quiet, good time over there by himself.

It made no sense.  He didn't really have a girlfriend.  He was taking his lie much too far.

The other one out of ten people were furious that he wasn't dating them.  Jealousy was strong with some of the court ladies.  And weirdly some of the Sheikah techs.  And a disproportionate number of cooks in the kitchen.

There was no in-between: everyone was either thrilled or bitter.  No one was ambivalent.  

Zelda was the only person who was not happy for him and not blindingly jealous.  She was annoyed, but not because she was jealous.

Unfortunately, their agreement to temper their loathing of one another in public meant that she couldn't round on him and tell him how ridiculous he looked smiling vaguely into space.  She suspected that he only did it to annoy her.

"Where's the book I had?" she asked, looking up from her table in the library and shifting everything about to find it. (A month ago, she wouldn't have asked him.)

"Which one?"  (A month ago, he wouldn't have answered.  He just would have let her talk to herself.)

"Novel Methods in Guardian Programing?"

He shifted her other books about as well, holding it out to her when he found it under a pile of sketches.

"Thank you."

He smiled at her.

She gave him a distracted smile back, then remembered herself and frowned at him.  They weren't pretending to be friends.  They were pretending to not hate each other.

His smile turned soft, and she rolled her eyes and opened her book.

Everyone in the castle was talking about how they were getting along so much better.  Because Link had a girlfriend.  Which put him in a good mood.  Not because Zelda was working on being nice.

It was beyond frustrating.

When she went to bed that night, she pressed a pillow over her face and screamed.

She was distracted by a tapping at her window.  She stilled, certain it was a bird or a tree branch or her imagination.  But then it came again, and she remembered that there was no tree outside her room.  There was also no ledge, so it couldn't possibly be a person.  She sat up and crossed to the window, startling at the silhouette of a figure clinging to the wall.  She nearly screamed when he flicked back his hood.

She opened the window and hissed, "What on earth are you doing there?"

Link's eyes darted past her to her door, where the night guard was stationed, listening for any sound of distress. (Not screaming into pillow distress.  That was commonplace.) Then he flicked his hood back over his head and adjusted his grip on her window sill.  She leaned out and couldn't tell what he was using for footholds.

"I need your help," he whispered.

"Now?"

He nodded.

She frowned at him.

"I'll meet you in my study," she whispered.  Then she closed her window.

She tied the belt of her robe tighter and patted at her hair.  If Link needed help, it must be important.  If he needed help from her, it must be dire.

She walked outside and across the bridge to her study tower.  Should anyone see her, they wouldn't think it strange.  Well...not unusual.  They, of course, thought her strange.  As soon as she shut the door, Link dropped from the ceiling.

"What is it?"  She hurried to light a lantern.  What could she possibly help him with?  He must need her to cover for him while he ran off to do something outside the castle, or need her help with a guardian part gone awry.

"It's about my fake townie girlfriend."

She gave him a blank look.  "You snuck to my window and woke me up and acted horribly inappropriately because of your fake townie girlfriend?!  I thought you were in trouble."

"I am in trouble."

She narrowed her eyes at him.  

"Some of the guards are starting to doubt me."

"They doubt the veracity of your completely fictional story?  Imagine that."

"If they find out I don't have a townie girlfriend, what are they going to think?"

"I don't know.  And I don't care.  And I don't know what any of this has to do with me."

"I was hoping you could--"  He gestured at his neck.

She stared at him.  Then she exploded.  "You want me to give you another hickey?!"

"Yes?"

"No!"

"Please?"

She huffed.  The mark she'd left days ago was starting to fade.

"Fine," she snapped.  "Take off your shirt."

He startled.  "What?"

In exasperation she explained, "Your fake townie girlfriend left an obvious mark last time.  She wouldn't make the same mistake twice.  Take off your shirt."

He unclasped his cloak.  "I thought the point was to be obvious."

She rolled her eyes.  "You go shirtless enough that this will hardly count as hidden.  And if you want my help, you can trust that I know what I'm doing."

He frowned, unbuckling his baldric.  "You know what you're doing?"

"I will throw you from this tower."

He nodded, setting the Master Sword on her desk.  Then he pulled his Champions tunic and its undershirt over his head.

Suddenly, there was a lot of boy in her office.  She tried to consider it a logistical challenge and tuck her emotions aside.

"Alright," she said.  "I'm going to bite you."

"Shocking."

"Get out."

"Sorry.  Sorry.  Okay."

"Okay."

She nodded to herself, then stepped forward.  Even without touching him, she could feel the warmth radiating off him.  He held very still, which made it easier to stay calm as she lowered her mouth to the fleshy part of his shoulder.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let herself imagine it.  She would be on her back, with him on top of her, his skin as warm as it was now.  She pressed against him so she wouldn't have to imagine it.   He sucked in a breath, and she used that--the feel of him moving against her, the sharp sound of his breath--to fuel her fantasy.  Her fingers dug into his sides, dragging up, over tensing muscles, until she could cling to his shoulders.  

And that's what she would be doing: clinging.  Holding onto him for dear life as he pounded away, as her control unraveled in raw, aching strips, as she lost herself to bliss.  His hips twitched, and she whimpered, and she muffled the sound by sinking her teeth into his shoulder, clinging, clinging, her nails scrambling at his skin, scratching into his shoulder-blade, digging into the small of his back to pull him closer, deeper.

He made a noise halfway between a hiss and a grunt, and his hands came to rest tentatively on her back, wanting to cling to her as well, but uncertain if that was alright.  

Because this was a ruse.

She soothed the scratches with her hands and released him from her teeth.  She couldn't help pressing the flat of her tongue to the mark, couldn't help pressing her lips gently to his flesh.  Then she pulled away and wiped her mouth with her wrist.

She surveyed her work.  The bite was a red and angry circle of dents.  The very edge would peek from his collar.  Just a hint.

She swallowed hard so her voice would sound normal when she said.  "There.  That should do it."

If she looked him in the eye, she'd have to see the look he was giving her.  She knew the heat that would be there.  She could feel it in his skin.  If she looked, she'd do something foolish.  Something very foolish.

"See yourself out," she said, and left.

***

Part 23

[imaginethebeautifulworld]

Please please please, may i please request a prussia/reader drabble (oneshot?? what ever is easier for you honestly) for the prompt: “Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear.”?? thank you so much and i love your writings <3

Hello, Lovely~ Wanted to thank you for your patience. Couldn't quite get the perfect scene in mind till about 1:14 am this morning. Hope you enjoy, and thank you for the request!

In a world that never seemed to rest, tranquility had become an elusive mistress, an antiquated ideal that was valuable for its rarity alone. There were many who would never find such a thing, or would be cursed with just a brief glimpse before it slipped away once more, never to return.

Tranquility was a gift, and you had been blessed in multitudes.

A light breeze was rustling the pines towering above you, scents of the nearby stream, forget-me-nots, and the wisps of smoke from the campfire dancing with it.

So tucked away from everything, you couldn't hear any engines, noisy neighbors, or- most fortunately- the impatient pings from your cell demanding your attention. 

It was quiet, as quiet as Nature could be when one is sitting near a babbling brook, their swing squeaking on hinges decades older than themselves, birds of all ages serenading the small patches of sunlight reaching the forest floor.

Your foot trailed along the ground beneath you, a path carving in the soil from the steady back-and-forth of the old wooden swing, your head resting comfortably against Gil's chest.

He had one arm loosely draped on the back of the swing, the other extended as he read his paperback, folded over itself to spare himself a little freedom.

You shifted slightly, just a little, and he instinctively followed, adjusting the blanket across your legs and shifting his own to accommodate your new position, all without once removing his attention from the page.

It was approaching midday, and while you had both agreed on a short hike to visit some waterfall or other, you were finding you had no desire to leave just yet, perfectly content and cozy as you were.

You let yourself relax further, eyes closing as you rested your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady refrain of his heartbeat. 

The familiar, unconscious dance of fingers against your upper arm made you smile, his decision to shift his free arm almost as reflexive as your decision to open your palm and rest it directly over his heart.

In a time not so long ago, the very thought of being alone in the same room as him would have been laughable, and now you were alone together in some ancient hunting cabin, leagues away from civilization, and completely at peace.

It struck you in that moment just how ingrained he was into your life, your sphere, your thoughts. You never could have anticipated this level of intimacy, and the unexpected epiphany of just how vulnerable that made you left you reeling.

"It kind of scares me sometimes," the words slipped out in a sigh, a wisp of a murmur that faded as easily as woodsmoke. They hadn't even been loud enough to disturb a trio of hares near the truck, and when several moments passed, you were beginning to hope Gil hadn't heard them at all.

It was more a rumbling than a fully coherent query that finally answered you, his eyes still firmly affixed to the Greek text before him. "What's that?"

Without fully lifting your head, you shifted your angle, giving you the chance to study his features- the small indents on his nose from wearing his glasses so much the past week, the single, nearly invisible freckle just by his left eye, the patch of chapped skin on his lower lip, the intoxicating and inexplicable gradients of indigoes and crimsons in his irises.

He hid nothing from you, every perceived flaw and weakness completely at your mercy. And to know that he could see through all of your own barriers, knew you in-and-out more than you perhaps knew yourself-

But there was trust there, and something so strong that- even years after first naming it, after first defining it, exploring it, embracing it- still left you breathless, still rendered you speechless.

For a moment, it did exactly that, overwhelming you in a wave of emotion so strong that you could scarcely think in the face of it. 

But it was a familiar feeling, one so commonplace that you simply sighed again, letting it settle over you like an additional blanket, warmth settling in your veins as you relaxed once more.

"It scares me sometimes how in love I am with you." You traced a pattern with your finger against his shirt, eyes focused on the lupine family enjoying vegetable scraps from the night before. "It scares me how vulnerable you make me feel."

But no. Scared wouldn't be quite the right word for how this vulnerability made you feel. Intimidated, perhaps? 

Irregardless, it was such a good feeling, so freeing to be so fully exposed to someone, to know they saw the worst of you and still-

He was resting his head against your own, silence patiently resting between you, the quiet of the forest yet again remaining undisturbed. He had even ceased powering the swing, apart from a small movement with his toes that was likely from his muscle spasms than anything else. You let yourself relax fully, because no matter how suddenly and aggressively this wave of realization had swept you away in its riptide, he would always keep you safe, always anchor you in the face of whatever storms may come.

"You know it's a two-way street, right?"

As if further testament to his knowing you, the words went straight to the core of it all, exposing his own vulnerability to you, proving just how much he had placed his faith in you.

What a perilous place to be, putting so much faith and trust and hope and care and control in someone else's hands, wholeheartedly believing that they will never bring you any harm, that-

"You're not going to leave me, right?"

The question was so sudden, so unexpected, that you took yourself by surprise, not accounting for the deep, tired exhale of the man so gently holding you. "How could you even ask that?"

You started to try taking it back, wishing for all the world you could keep your thoughts more thoroughly reined in, but he was plowing ahead, the arm that had been resting on the swing coming around you, fingers slipping in between your own. "Do you really think I could leave you?"

By all accounts, yes. Yes he could. 

His claim to immortality was shaky at best, and there was no guarantee that he wouldn't get bored of you, that someone pushing near 1,000 would wake up one morning and realise that-

"Where the Hell is all of this coming from anyway?"

You gave it a half a moment of thought, and soon found yourself melting in defeat. "I wish I had an answer, but I honestly have no idea."

He resumed his earlier motion, putting the swing back into a steady glide. When he spoke again, it was as if he were reaching across centuries, finding just the right words out of billions to try to comfort you. "To quote some book I read in some teahouse somewhere quite a long ass time ago: 'Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own.'" Here he paused, a good six seconds of silence as he rooted himself once more to the present, voice lowering to a whisper. "Leaving you? Losing you? It would be like losing a part of myself, like losing the best parts of myself."

He paused again, a seriousness that was only just familiar to you making an appearance, a depth to his words that made your toes curl. "I was lost for centuries, Schatz, never realizing or accepting just how alone I was, how fucked up I was. I waited for you for ages, and didn't even know how badly I needed you until I finally met you. It was like everything I had done, everything I had gone through, suddenly made sense. You were- are- the very thing I was fighting so hard for."

For claiming to have not a hint of romance in him, he still always seemed to have the perfect strategy for disarming you, for charming you, for leaving you even more infatuated with him than you were mere minutes before.

But this pedestal that he had carved for you, these expectations- 

"I'm only human, Gil."

"I know," he murmured.

"I could still get sick-"

"I know," he sighed.

"Or hurt-"

"I know," he growled.

"Or di-"

"I know!"

His exasperation was so unexpected that you swore the whole world had frozen around you, as if the tranquility of the forest had finally been disturbed. 

But no- 

Everything was still exactly as should be; it was only your surprise that had affected your perception. 

In actuality, his interjection had been scarcely more than a rasp, so damaging to you alone as it cut straight through to your soul, piercing through what little armor you still had against him.

He squeezed your hand, an apology conveyed simply through touch, an armistice accepted and strengthened through reciprocation. "'Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own,'" came the quiet refrain, each syllable accented through the dance of his thumb against your palm, each syllable a soft breath that tickled your scalp. You expected him to stop there, his point well made, but soon enough he was murmuring again, words nearly a hum. "'In pain and sickness they would still be dear.'"

You couldn't place the words- who knew if a copy of that book even existed anymore- but it didn't matter. They were exactly what you had needed, the balm for a restiveness that you hadn't even known was plaguing you till a few moments ago. And what's more, you never knew Gilbert to exaggerate, not when it came to matters of the heart. He knew no other option than complete sincerity, maddening some days, endearing most others.

Thoughts shifting, comfort once more reestablished, you shifted slightly, turning your attention to the few clouds you could see through the canopy. "Every atom, huh?"

There was a huff of a laugh, an accentuated exhale that highlighted his exasperation, but the amusement in his reply was tempered by fondness, highlighted with a small kiss above your ear. "Every proton, neutron, electron... Every single quark, if you need me to get technical," he finished in a whisper, slowly, gently, reassuringly, practically an embrace on its own.

You melted against him, giving his hand a small squeeze of gratitude, thoroughly reminded now of exactly why it was okay to share your vulnerabilities, how lucky you were to have found him, to be found, to trust and fall and grow together.

Tranquility eventually, quietly, made her reappearance, bringing with her the blessing of the midday sun.

Thanks for reading!

[musicallisto]

⚔ — 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥; (tyrion lannister x f!reader)

@multifandomfix​​ requested: Hey, for your start of the year event, could I get #44 with Tyrion Lannister, please? Thanks in advance if you end up choosing it. I hope 2021 will be a great year for you. 😊

song: bazzi - beautiful | 𝄞

summary: How could he tell you it was all his fault - that he had loved you to pieces since the stars had taken their first breath, and that Tywin’s revenge on him was to make you suffer while he was powerless?

author notes: I ain’t never seen a fluffy one-shot written by me, always half of it gotta be depressing

word count: 2.7k (what the HELL)

warnings: language + the typical stuff that’s commonplace in GoT

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 younger, young enough to hear her speak freely around you, you’d often heard the illustrious Cersei Lannister, blessed may her reign be, mutter her implacable adage through slit eyes and arrogant teeth; in Westeros, when one played the game of thrones, they were either crowned or buried. Some win and some die, she’d state with a smug grin, ignoring Jaime rolling his eyes right by her. You would always nod in silence; partly because you, lesser Lady of King’s Landing, certainly did not dare to contradict your most redoubtable playmate; but also because, deep down, you believed in her truths. You’d seen it when your father came back from his battles, commanding the Crown’s armies across the Southern seas, or when you heard the whispers at Court of yet another fallen Lord who believed he could play with fire like the Targaryens; there was little more than victors and vanquished, and you, as a lady-in-waiting to the future Queen, could sleep easy at night knowing you were on the right side of the world.

Yet when the rebellion led by your father’s army of mutineers was crushed by the King’s forces, when your brothers all fled into exile across the continent; when your title, name, and lands became those of a traitor to the Crown; you understood that in the game of thrones, death was the only blessing the powerful bestowed when they were clement; for there was far crueler and harrowing a punishment than torture: humiliation and servitude.

King Robert Baratheon, his mercy guided by Tywin Lannister’s murmurs, decided against sending you to death as he would have any of your brothers, despite the abject crimes your name now carried. In all his bonhomie, he had made you a servant of his wife instead, perpetually condemned to following the Lannisters around and never quite catching up to them.

“Why did the King spare my life?” you had asked Jaime one time, in hushed tones, aware that a servant caught talking to the Kingslayer with such familiarity would cause quite the scandal.

“Probably because he knows you were always a dear friend to Cersei and me.”

That was Jaime, as always; believing what he wanted to believe, and damned would be the one who’d change his mind. And to think he still thought, with a disconcerting assurance, that Cersei and you were still dear friends...

You hadn’t asked her why you were still alive. You knew she’d eye you for a moment, then order you to fetch her some water. She savored the sight of you in rugged clothes and immensely exhausted.

The only one who knew was Tyrion.

He always knew everything.

Even more so when it was about you.

“Why did the King spare my life?” you had asked him one evening, in the quiet banquet hall, only illuminated by flickering candles. He had looked up from his chalice of wine and at you, clearing the last dishes from the grand supper, and he swore his heart ruptured. He loved nothing more than staying absurdly late after dinner so he could catch you alone, but when your misty eyes, still too pure and bright for a world so cold, asked such unfathomable questions...

“I don’t know,” he had muttered casually.

Neither of you believed it. There was nothing Tyrion didn’t know.

But how could he tell you it was Tywin’s sick little pleasure, to keep you in chains at an arm’s length from him, from his embarrassment of a son? How could he tell you it was all his fault - that he had loved you to pieces since the stars had taken their first breath, and that Tywin’s revenge on him was to make you suffer while he was powerless?

“Sometimes I wish he had not,” you had confessed with this outrageous beauty of yours, chin up and prosody of a dame despite the greasy plates in your elegant hands.

Tyrion had bitten his tongue hard enough to draw blood. You were not the King’s prisoner, nor the castle’s, nor your family name’s; you were his, and he loved you so ardently, beyond all the words he knew, that he was utterly paralyzed.

The wine and hall were long cold by the time he went to sleep that night.

The following days, inexplicably, Tyrion was the first of the family to retire to his quarters after dinner. A pang of sullenness stung your throat when you brought the usual wine cup to an empty chair. Never before had he gone to bed without wishing you goodnight. Not since the night, so many years before, when you had run out on Cersei and Jaime to stay with their boring and lame little brother and talk the night away with his electric soul...

“Why didn’t Tyrion wait for you?” Jaime had whispered into your ear as you leaned over to pour him more wine.

You froze, almost long enough for Cersei to flair your discomfort. That was Jaime, as always; surprisingly perceptive when he allowed himself to be...

“I don’t know.”

You and Tyrion were so alike. You had the same inflection in the voice when you admitted to not knowing something... frustration and defeat.

“Maybe he’s not feeling well. You should check on him.”

“I’m certain he is f—”

“Y/N, go tend to my brother, please,” he cut, his voice a little louder.

You stopped, looking at Jaime, strong and tall and almost imperturbable. You were a servant of the Lannisters, but Jaime rarely bossed you around. You looked deep into his eyes, looking for a hint, a glimpse... and found it; a remnant of the boy you once knew, the childhood friend you sparred with wooden swords with. The boy with mischief and connivance.

“Yes, of course, my Lord.”

Your footsteps already echoed in the somber halls when you remembered you hadn’t even brought the wine pitcher back to the kitchens.

Before you knew it, you were standing in front of Tyrion’s closed door. Years before, you had run up and down all the castle halls in search of passageways and hiding spots with a giggling Cersei on tow; yet you had never felt as lost and out of place as you did then, knuckles hovering over the wooden panel.

“Lord Tyrion, your brother asks to see you,” you called in one breath after knocking sharply. Calling the twins by their titles was disturbing enough to you; but Tyrion, brilliant and dedicated Tyrion, Tyrion you'd find reading hidden in the library and who'd blush when you asked him what his book was about—Tyrion, a Lord of Casterly Rock?

“No, he does not.”

There was nothing he didn't know. Especially when it came to his brother... and you.

“I...,” you sighed, at a loss for words. So many untold truths jostled in your throat, none eloquent enough for his bright soul. “He insisted I check up on you, sir.”

“Well I'm fine, am I not? You can go now.”

His words echoed in your skull with the strength of a thousand storms. Taking a shaky breath, you prepared to turn around and leave him... but a sudden force rumbled deep in you like a menacing earthquake. You might have been stripped of your lands and rights, you might bear the name of a traitor and a criminal, but he had been a general before he was a corpse and you had been an eldest daughter before you were a plaything. Your foot grazed the door, almost with too much violence, when you turned to face it.

“Truth be told, I wanted to check up on you as well, and to tell you that I’m bewildered at your recent behavior towards me, and that I don’t think I have done anything to deserve this shift in your attitude, and that I esteem you dearly and dared to hope that it was the same for you, and that I am frankly hurt by your sudden coldness, and that if you will not deign to tell me whatever is happening, then I will merely wish you a pleasant night and disturb you no further. Sir.”

Catching your breath, you turned on your heels before you could regret any of the words you’d just said. It would be a miracle if Tyrion managed to catch any of them clearly with how fast you had hammered them; let alone answer to them... yet as you were about to leave, the door was unbolted, and there stood a seemingly somber and preoccupied Tyrion.

“Come on in. And please, we’re alone. Don’t give me any of that “sir” crap, I know you hate it.”

And like so many times, so many years before, you stepped into Tyrion’s quarters like inside a forbidden dungeon, but it all seemed twice as small and dark as it did when you were reckless children.

The both of you remained silent for long moments, even after he had motioned for you to take a seat on the ottoman at the foot of his bed; the shadows from the fireplace projected onto his face made Tyrion’s unmoving silhouette all the more unreadable.

“Is it something I’ve done?”

“Do you wish to know why the King didn’t have your head when your father rebelled? Well — why my father didn’t?”

Your eyes widened for a split second, but your irritation barely subsided. For some reason, despite your never-ending quest for answers, the subject of your family’s treason and fate always prompted you to defensiveness when it was mentioned by others... especially by your best friend. The one who knew too much.

“What does this have to do with anything, Tyrion?”

“Everything, Y/N. It has to do with everything.”

“Enlighten me, then. You always know better than everyone else.”

Tyrion took a deep, interminable breath before continuing. It was only then that you noticed how shaky his hands were; for the first time, you read a disconcerting uncertainty on his face.

“My father knows humiliation is far worse than death, especially among Lords... and he knows how to take the most pleasant acts of revenge on his enemies. Your last name... and myself.”

You kept quiet. The puzzle was starting to piece itself together, spurred by Tyrion’s voice, low and even, albeit a little unsteady — as though the charred logs and crackling fire were confiding in you themselves...

“He’s known you since you were an infant. You were always proud and righteous, a proper Lady and a treasure to your name, but still pure and kind... all the traits I adored in you when I first met you. He knew nothing would hurt you more than stripping you of everything you had - status, respect, poise, and dignity... and your friends. He’s burying your family’s legacy under grime and filth and savoring every second of it...”

His words became progressively spaced, as though he was choosing them carefully. You hadn’t yet noticed your own hands were shaking now, too.

“And he can screw me over as well. Any chance he gets, he takes.”

His shoulders were solid and unmoving, but his words came in ragged breaths and laborious swallowing. He took a step forward, finally breaking free from the backlighting of the fireplace; his eyes were fixated on you, resolute and, despite the nervousness, more tender than ever. You remembered the expression all too well; it was the one he had worn all through the night you had talked until daylight about anything and everything... and seeing the enamored child in the man before you, you started to understand it all.

“He’s always known how much I care about you. How your presence never fails to lighten my mood and ease my worries, or how I’ve always looked for excuses to talk to you alone and catch your eye at supper. Most of all, how you’ve always given me exactly what I wanted... a chance. And he always thought it was the ultimate example of my weakness. To kick you around like an animal when I can’t do anything about it and know it’s all partly because of me is his favorite game...”

You clasped your hands together on your lap to curb your agitation. He had taken another step towards you, and you couldn’t break away from his gaze. Each of his features held more love than you’d ever known; more than when your father would ruffle your hair, or when you’d share your family tart with your brothers and smeared all the jam on their cheeks; and you couldn’t fathom how long it had taken you to discover this warm and fuzzy feeling you got whenever Tyrion was around had a simple name: home.

“Tyrion,” you spoke before the tears invaded your eyes. “Are you saying you fancy me?”

“Ah, to hell with it.”

Eyes entirely bathed in light now, he responded almost immediately and clearer than before.

“I’m saying I love you, Y/N, and that I have loved you for as long as I can remember. I first thought that I only liked your company, and admired your grace — that you were just the sister I wish I’d had, but I’ve had to face the fact that your face and voice set me afire in a way that nothing else can. I’m light and naive when you’re around... and you make me believe I have the strength they all won’t stop blabbering about. But I thought that if I could convince my father I saw nothing more in you than a whore like all the others, he would maybe let you go... maybe set you free.”

And the last confession seemed to hurt him more than everything else he had admitted that night, because it cut him right in his pride.

“I was wrong.”

An impossible soreness had taken over your throat during Tyrion's tirade, leaving you struck and mute. For a few seconds, all you could hear was the gentle hooting of the wind outside and the rapid and disjointed thumping of your heart... when you spoke eventually, it was but a hoarse whisper.

“All these years...”

“Yes.”

“And all those girls I had to see you with...”

“None of them mattered. None of them were you.”

“Why didn't you tell me, Tyrion?”

“Why would I?” he puffed with an acerbic laugh, gesturing at his frame, his scars, his cynicism and selfishness, and his wit and brilliant mind and feverish eloquence and golden eyes...

And suddenly your father's voice echoed in your head, unmistakable yet so distant, as he had spoken to you one day when you were little; he had said that angels existed in this world, closer than one might expect, and more often than not they took on unexpected forms, but once could always recognize them as they were the shiniest forces in the world around when everything was grim and black.

Maybe it was the dim lighting of the fire and moonlight that cast abstract shadows on the walls, or maybe your eyes and heart playing tricks on you, but you swore Tyrion was veiled by a pulsating halo, gold and black, that got even more radiant as he half-smiled.

When you leaned over and kissed him, you did not doubt that he truly was the angel your family tales had told you about, and maybe the only remaining angel in Westeros — because kissing him was like every star in the sky falling into place and forming new constellations, and when he grabbed your face to deepen the kiss, you were certain you felt his wings rustle.

“You have the most beautiful soul in this damn city, Tyrion,” you breathed when you finally pulled back.

Had he always looked at you with this unshakeable air of triumph and delight, or was it another trick of the light?

“If you knew how long I've waited to tell you how beautiful you are...”

“Tell me. Over and over.”

There was a smile on his face, the first genuine and devilishly charming one you'd seen in weeks when he stepped back and closed the velvet curtains.

He told you all night.

tagging; @fives-cup-of-coffee ​ @softeninglooks ​(all my writing)

[vivithefolle]

Is there anyway you could share the entire livejournal essay about Hermione's reaction to Ron coming back in DH? The few paragraphs that you referred to in your recent answer sound extremely interesting.

[The “recent answer” that goes back to... last December. Oh my god I’m such an ass I left you hanging for so long I’m so sorry.]

Okay, okay, so here goes! KEEP IN MIND: I DIDN’T WRITE THIS. I FOUND THIS ON LIVEJOURNAL AND PICKED EVERYTHING THAT I LIKED ABOUT IT, AS WELL AS SOME COMMENTS THAT INTERESTED ME.

This “essay” was actually more of a “reading the books” thing with the person sharing their thoughts and ideas about it. The person was clearly a Snape fan, but they had sympathy for Ron too. I’ll try to formate it as accurately as I can remember it.

And now, here it is:

---

ORDER OF THE PHOENIX

[About Ron being made a prefect.] The essayist: It’s sad, but this probably is the first time Ron’s beaten Harry at something. And the last time.

A commenter: Ron's had a really difficult life, and this is the book that proved it for me. It made me a Ron fan. Just look at the interactions he has with Fred and George. This is commonplace. I know a lot of people don't like Ron, but just look at this book, this chapter especially. People have accused Ron of being lazy, unambitious, having no emotions, and being a big stupid boy. It's just not true. Look at how Fred and George needle him out of jealousy. Look at how they treat Percy. Imagine Ron having to grow up with two older brothers that will not hesitate to bother, torture and torment people that stand out or that get more attention than they do or that cross them. He saw it happening with Percy, so what's he going to learn? He'll learn to shut up unless he wants to have something happen to him. He'll learn that standing out positively is rewarded with cruelty. I can understand how Mrs. Weasley could not have fully protected him from those two. Not all the time, not while trying to also care for Ginny, keeping up with her other kids in school, and running the household. Worst of all, punishing F&G doesn't seem to do anything. Those two just don't care/they crave the attention, negative or positive. The best thing she could've done would be to give them no attention, but that's so against her nature that unfortunately she just fed the monsters. No emotions? Is it really difficult to understand that sensitivity wouldn't be encouraged in young Ron? He's got these two bullies that only want a reaction out of him. If he cries, it'll only encourage them. Any reaction is encouraging to them, but he has to go with anger. It's a survival thing- puff yourself up, make yourself look bigger than you are so the predator messes with you a little less. Look at the pride Ron's showing in his badge. The desire to do well is there. He likes the good feeling that comes with it, but he's been hard-wired since birth that it's better to be "middle of the pack". In later chapters, I know you'll have to point out the way the power makes Ron behave, so I just want to start on the defence now. It's all Ron knows. It's all he's been taught. It's a huge character flaw, but it's what makes him so human. Rowling did develop this in the book, but only accidentally. We're never going to get a good look at Ron's psychology except through these hints because it's, as usual, All About Harry. Ron's flawed, but I hope we remember that he has a reason why he's got those flaws. It doesn't excuse him, but it really explains him. So yeah... that's why I defend Ron.

...

“I’m not Percy,’ he finished defiantly.”

The essayist: Mmmm-hm. Ron feels nervous at the thought of his good fortune inspiring anger in someone and what's his first defence? "I'm not Percy"? Man, the evidence that the Twins' psychological torment has left lasting scars on Ron could not have been more obvious if he'd shielded himself and said "Please don't jinx me, Fred! ... I mean Harry. ... Shit, what'd I say?"

...

“Excellent,”  said  Ron,  with  a  kind  of  groan  of  longing,  and  he  seized the nearest plate of chops and began piling them onto his plate, watched wistfully by Nearly Headless Nick. “What  were  you  saying  before  the  Sorting?”  Hermione  asked  the  ghost. “About the hat giving warnings?” “Oh  yes,”  said  Nick,  who  seemed  glad  of  a  reason  to  turn  away  from  Ron,  who  was  now  eating  roast  potatoes  with  almost  indecent  enthusiasm.

The essayist: Ron’s not being very restrained with his eating, is he?

The commenter: I don't know if it's accidental or not, but this is one of those moments that I love, one of the tellings of Ron's home life via his behavior. In this scenario, he's totally a kitten who just got adopted to a house where he's the only cat. He's at a table with food, so his instinct is to eat as fast as he can or his siblings will yoink it. It doesn't help that there are many other people around, encouraging the "get the good stuff fast or you'll have to sate yourself on bread or whatever nobody wants". Ron is so much more human than Harry! How can Harry not be showing any signs of his "horrendous abuse" for eleven years? Well... I guess he sort of does when he buys all that stuff in his first year. And I guess Ron has to go back home every summer where it gets reinforced. But Harry goes back every summer, too... what the hell?

...

“What’s going on?” Ron  had  appeared  in  the  doorway.  His  wide  eyes  traveled  from  Harry,  who  was  kneeling  on  his  bed  with  his  wand  pointing  at  Seamus, to Seamus, who was standing there with his fists raised. “He’s having a go at my mother!” Seamus yelled. “What?” said Ron. “Harry wouldn’t do that — we met your mother, we liked her. . .” “That’s  before  she  started  believing  every  word  the  stinking  Daily  Prophet writes about me!” said Harry at the top of his voice. “Oh,”  said  Ron,  comprehension  dawning  across  his  freckled  face.  “Oh . . . right.” “You know what?” said Seamus heatedly, casting Harry a venomous look.  “He’s  right,  I  don’t  want  to  share  a  dormitory  with  him  anymore, he’s a madman.” “That’s out of order, Seamus,” said Ron, whose ears were starting to glow red, always a danger sign. “Out of order, am I?” shouted Seamus, who in contrast with Ron &#145;was  turning  paler.  “You  believe  all  the  rubbish  he’s  come  out  with  about You-Know-Who, do you, you reckon he’s telling the truth?” “Yeah, I do!” said Ron angrily. “Then you’re mad too,” said Seamus in disgust. “Yeah?  Well  unfortunately  for  you,  pal,  I’m  also  a  prefect!”  said  Ron,  jabbing  himself  in  the  chest  with  a  finger.  “So  unless  you  want  detention, watch your mouth!”

The essayist: Note how Ron’s first reaction is to side with Harry.

The commenter: Not surprising because of the best friends thing (some might argue) but I say it's not surprising considering how Hermione and Ron were treating Harry like a ticking time bomb. Survival!

...

“Hello, Harry!” It was Cho Chang and what was more, she was on her own again. This was most unusual: Cho was almost always surrounded by a gang of giggling girls; Harry remembered the agony of trying to get her by herself to ask her to the Yule Ball. “Hi,” said Harry, feeling his face grow hot. At least you’re not covered  in Stinksap this time, he told himself. Cho seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “You got that stuff off, then?” “Yeah,”  said  Harry,  trying  to  grin  as  though  the  memory  of  their  last meeting was funny as opposed to mortifying. “So did you . . . er . . . have a good summer?” The moment he had said this he wished he hadn’t: Cedric had been Cho’s boyfriend and the memory of his death must have affected her holiday  almost  as  badly  as  it  had  affected  Harry’s.  .  . Something  seemed  to  tauten  in  her  face,  but  she  said,  “Oh,  it  was  all  right,  you  know. . .” “Is  that  a  Tornados  badge?”  Ron  demanded  suddenly,  pointing  at  the front of Cho’s robes, to which a sky-blue badge emblazoned with a double gold T was pinned. “You don’t support them, do you?” “Yeah, I do,” said Cho. “Have  you  always  supported  them,  or  just  since  they  started  winning the league?” said Ron, in what Harry considered an unnecessarily accusatory tone of voice. “I’ve supported them since I was six,” said Cho coolly. “Anyway . . . see you, Harry.” She  walked  away.  Hermione  waited  until  Cho  was  halfway  across  the courtyard before rounding on Ron. “You are so tactless!”

The essayist: So Harry meets Cho, makes a complete faux pas and reminds her of her dead boyfriend. Ron quickly steers the conversation away onto something more happy, i.e., Quidditch, before Cho can get too upset. Nevertheless, Ron is apparently the insensitive jerk around here, not Harry.

[If this reminds you of something, then yes, I absolutely took what the essayist was saying and elaborated on it. I confess, I am a dirty thief.]

...

“Well, I suppose he could’ve played better,” Harry muttered, “but it was only the first training session, like you said. . .” Neither Harry nor Ron seemed to make much headway with their homework  that  night.  Harry  knew  Ron  was  too  preoccupied  with  how  badly  he  had  performed  at  Quidditch  practice  and  he  himself  was having difficulty in getting the chant of “Gryffindor are losers” out of his head. [...] And so they worked on while the sky outside the windows became steadily darker; slowly, the crowd in the common room began to thin again.   At   half-past   eleven,   Hermione   wandered   over   to   them,   yawning. “Nearly done?” “No,” said Ron shortly. “Jupiter’s  biggest  moon  is  Ganymede,  not  Callisto,”  she  said,  pointing over Ron’s shoulder at a line in his Astronomy essay, “and it’s Io that’s got the volcanos.” “Thanks,” snarled Ron, scratching out the offending sentences.

The essayist: So Ron’s getting basic facts wrong in his essays.

The commenter: This is going to look so contrived, but I genuinely believe it, and maybe after these reviews, your standards for contrived have dropped enough for me to pass the bar :3 But... he's not putting in any effort. His ego can't take another beating at the moment (even punching bags have limits). Imagine it- after the Quidditch humiliation with his friend the Star Athlete (when he really was trying) he tries to distract himself by doing school work 1. which he isn't very good at anyway, 2. with the Star Athlete of Academics/Slytherin Spectator Crowd best friend Hermione there 3. with Hermione there to set it right anyway (it sounds as if Hermione isn’t so much correcting their essays as writing them herself). If he tries his best at this and then fails at that, Ron probably would start to consider suicide. It's self-preservation at this point to put in zero effort. This kind of fail is literally "I'm not trying because I have given up."

...

She  wrenched  her  bag  open;  Harry  thought  she  was  about  to  put  her books away, but instead she pulled out two misshapen woolly objects,  placed  them  carefully  on  a  table  by  the  fireplace,  covered  them  with  a  few  screwed-up  bits  of  parchment  and  a  broken  quill,  and  stood back to admire the effect. “What  in  the  name  of  Merlin  are  you  doing?”  said  Ron,  watching  her as though fearful for her sanity. “They’re  hats  for  house-elves,”  she  said  briskly,  now  stuffing  her  books  back  into  her  bag.  “I  did  them  over  the  summer.  I’m  a  really  slow  knitter  without  magic,  but  now  I’m  back  at  school  I  should  be  able to make lots more.” “You’re leaving out hats for the house-elves?” said Ron slowly. “And you’re covering them up with rubbish first?” “Yes,” said Hermione defiantly, swinging her bag onto her back. “That’s not on,” said Ron angrily. “You’re trying to trick them into picking  up  the  hats.  You’re  setting  them  free  when  they  might  not  want to be free.” “Of  course  they  want  to  be  free!”  said  Hermione  at  once,  though  her face was turning pink. “Don’t you dare touch those hats, Ron!” She left. Ron waited until she had disappeared through the door to the girls’ dormitories, then cleared the rubbish off the woolly hats. They  should  at  least  see  what  they’re  picking  up,”  he  said  firmly.  “Anyway  .  .  .”  He  rolled  up  the  parchment  on  which  he  had  written  the title of Snape’s essay. “There’s no point trying to finish this now, I can’t  do  it  without  Hermione,  I  haven’t  got  a  clue  what  you’re  supposed to do with moonstones, have you?”

The essayist: This doesn’t seem like a particularly open-minded and enquiring position to take, although I suppose that Hermione’s open-mindedness has always been something of an informed attribute.

The commenter: This trope among fans has got me riled up beyond belief because they use the "Hermione's word is gospel" thing to make unfair assumptions about other characters: Ron's "emotional range of a teaspoon" thing comes to mind, and right after that, Lavender supposedly being silly about believing Trelawney about her dead pet (Hermione never considered that maybe the thing Lavender was dreading was bad news from home or bad news about her pet). Regarding house elves: This is one case where the fans ought to have seen that Hermione was being very thoughtless as far as strategy. Ron has lived all his life up until this point thinking that there was no problem with house elves and she literally expects to be able to just tell him "it's wrong" and he's supposed to change instantly? Talk about your cultural insensitivity. In this case, maybe Ron knows better than you do, Hermione? You didn't even know about house elves until you were at least twelve (but more likely, she didn't know until this year). She must understand the concept of "he doesn't know it's wrong". That was how she defended Crookshanks when he was chasing Scabbers. ... Hey, Hermione thinks Ron's smarter than her cat. That's something, I guess.

...

The commenter: Competition is seriously the worst thing in the world for Ron. He's got wa-a-ay too much baggage. Do well so they'll love you. Do well so they'll notice you. If they notice you, you'll get praised. And tormented by Fred and George. Then if you fuck up, you'll have let everyone down. My brothers never let anyone down. That's the standard. Oh God, I can't live up to that. Which do I want to chose- being ignored or scorned? I could do well. Then I'll be good enough to be called "just like them"! JFC, when's it ever going to be "Good like Ron"? Chess. Literally everyone else has one thing they shine in, even Neville with his Botany and Dean with his art (and... and I'm going to ignore the fact that Hermione and Luna are the only two I can think of with non-appearance based special stuff... someone please help me out? I guess Tonks' doesn't really count as a shallow one because it makes her a master of disguise...)

...

HALF-BLOOD PRINCE

...

Ron gagged on a large piece of kipper. Hermione spared him one look of disdain before turning back to Harry.

The essayist: “Hermione spared [Ron] one look of disdain before turning back to Harry” pretty much sums up her relationships within the trio. It’s no wonder Ron’s so insecure and keeps worrying that she really fancies Harry.

...

“And you’ve been through all that persecution from the Ministry when they were trying to make out you were unstable and a liar. You can still see the marks on the back of your hand where that evil woman made you write with your own blood, but you stuck to your story anyway...”  “You  can  still  see  where  those  brains  got  hold  of  me  in  the  Ministry,  look,”  said  Ron,  shaking  back his sleeves.  “And  it  doesn’t  hurt  that  you’ve  grown  about  a  foot  over  the  summer  either,”  Hermione  finished, ignoring Ron.  “I’m tall,” said Ron inconsequentially.

The essayist: Ron’s so adorably pathetic here, the way he’s obviously feeling inferior to Harry and being ignored by his so-called friends. *hugs Ron*

...

When they left the Gryffindor table five minutes later to head down to the Quidditch pitch, they passed  Lavender  Brown  and  Parvati  Patil.  Remembering  what  Hermione  had  said  about  the  Patil  twins’  parents  wanting  them  to  leave  Hogwarts,  Harry  was  unsurprised  to  see  that  the  two  best  friends were whispering together, looking distressed. What did surprise him was that when Ron drew level with them, Parvati suddenly nudged Lavender, who looked around and gave Ron a wide smile. Ron blinked at her, then returned the smile uncertainly. His walk instantly became something more like a strut. Harry resisted the temptation to laugh, remembering that Ron had refrained from doing so  after  Malfoy  had  broken  Harry’s  nose;  Hermione,  however,  looked  cold  and  distant  all  the  way  down  to  the  stadium  through  the  cool,  misty  drizzle,  and  departed  to  find  a  place  in  the  stands  without wishing Ron good luck. 

The essayist: Hermione keeps belittling Ron and doing him down, and reacts quite strongly when he even so much hints at losing interest in her and showing attention to another woman. Can we say “abusive relationship”, anybody?

...

“Harry! Ginny!” Hermione was hurrying toward them, very pink-faced and wearing a cloak, hat, and gloves. “I got back a couple of hours ago, I've just been down to visit Hagrid and Buck--I mean Witherwings,” she said breathlessly. “Did you have a good Christmas?” “Yeah,” said Ron at once, “pretty eventful, Rufus Scrim—” “I've got something for you, Harry,” said Hermione, neither looking at Ron nor giving any sign that she had heard him. “Oh, hang on--password. Abstinence.”

The essayist: Wow, Hermione’s just being so childish here, ignoring Ron when he’s talking directly to her. Incidentally, Ron’s speaking to her like a normal friend, it’s Hermione who’s doing the blanking. Still, I’m sure this argument is all Ron’s fault for daring to go out with another girl. Hermione is totally blameless.

[Just in case: the essayist is being sarcastic, they’re pointing out the double standard of the HP fandom blaming Hermione’s immature behaviour on Ron.]

...

DEATHLY HALLOWS

...

“I think you’re right,” she told him. “It’s just a morality tale, it’s obvious which gift is best, which one you’d choose—” The three of them spoke at the same time; Hermione said, “the Cloak,” Ron said, “the wand,” and Harry said, “the stone.” They looked at each other, half surprised, half amused. “You’re supposed to say the Cloak,” Ron told Hermione, “but you wouldn’t need to be invisible if you had the wand. An unbeatable wand, Hermione, come on!” “We’ve already got an Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry. “And it’s helped us rather a lot, in case you hadn’t noticed!” said Hermione. “Whereas the wand would be bound to attract trouble—” “Only if you shouted about it,” argued Ron. “Only if you were prat enough to go dancing around, waving it over your head, and singing, ‘I’ve got an unbeatable wand, come and have a go if you think you’re good enough.’ As long as you kept your trap shut—” “Yes, but could you keep your trap shut?” said Hermione, looking skeptical. “You know, the only true thing he said to us was that there have been stories about extra-powerful wands for hundreds of years.” “There have?” asked Harry. Hermione looked exasperated: the expression was so endearingly familiar that Harry and Ron grinned at each other.

The commenter (?): Actually, I thought that Ron was proving the errors in the story. Because he’s right. The eldest brother didn’t die because the Elder Wand had corrupted him (like the One Ring). He died because he was an idiot. He died because he randomly decided to start blabbing about his new toy.

“You talk about wands like they’ve got feelings,” said Harry, “like they canthink for themselves.” “The wand chooses the wizard,” said Ollivander. “That much has always been clear to those of us who have studied wandlore.” “A person can still use a wand that hasn’t chosen them, though?” asked Harry. “Oh yes, if you are any wizard at all you will be able to channel your magic through almost any instrument. The best results, however, must always come where there is the strongest affinity between wizard and wand. These connections are complex. An initial attraction, and then a mutual quest for experience, the wand learning from the wizard, the wizard from the wand.”

The essayist: Harry’s wand has to think for and protect him because he’s too stupid and incompetent to think for and protect himself! Ollivander’s the expert, and he just admitted it. He said any halfway decent wizard can perform magic with almost any wand. The reason Harry could only work with the holly wand is because of the phoenix feather core it shares with Voldemort’s wand. That is, it wasn’t Harry doing the magic with Harry’s wand! It was the Voldemort soul piece! Once Harry was forced to use wands that didn’t have that core, the soul piece couldn’t do the work for Harry any more. He was forced to rely on his own magical powers and competence, which are clearly minimal. This is proven by his inability to do effective magic with any other wand. It’s also proven by an incident from Philosopher’s Stone. Remember when Harry was being chased by bullies and inexplicably found himself on top of the shed roof? That was the soul piece allowing him to fly like Voldy. Lily could slow her descent from a height, as if she had an invisible parachute, but that is not the same as flying, and we have no evidence she could fly. Only Voldemort and Snape fly without assistance! The evidence is overwhelming that I am right. How many spells can Harry do effectively? Expelliarmus, Expecto Patronum, Protego--that’s it. Even as a young adult, he is incapable of doing the basic healing or cleaning spells a young child should have down pat before going to Hogwarts. Of course, we’re told the Patronus spell is difficult and advanced, but who told us that? Remus Lupin, friend of Harry’s father, sycophant, and notorious liar, particularly when it comes to flattering Harry. Recall Lupin also said Snape didn’t like James because Snape was envious of Potter Sr.’s Quidditch prowess, and we know that was a lie. Given this evidence, anything Lupin says that cannot be confirmed by an independent source, especially regarding the Potters, should be dismissed out of hand. True, Hermione has trouble with the Patronus spell, and she’s super-competent. Doesn’t that prove it’s a very difficult spell? Not at all. To take an example from a different field, Beethoven was a virtuoso organist, the greatest pianist of his day, one of the greatest pianists in history, and probably the greatest improvisational musician ever. But he was only a decent violinist. Everybody has areas of weakness, no matter how good they are overall. In addition, Hermione is very gullible where authority figures are concerned. If a teacher tells her, “The Patronus is a very difficult, advanced spell that many people can’t ever master,” she’ll believe that, which may create a self-fulfilling prophecy. A couple of years ago, another DTCL member and I facetiously suggested Harry was less intelligent than his wand. We didn’t know we were right. It rarely happens, but this is an occasion when I would have preferred to be wrong.

...

If only there was a way of getting a better wand... And desire for the Elder Wand, the Deathstick, unbeatable, invincible, swal-lowed him once more... They packed up the tent next morning and moved on through a dreary shower of rain. The downpour pursued them to the coast, where they pitched the tent that night, and persisted through the whole week, through sodden landscapes that Harry found bleak and depressing. He could think only of the Deathly Hallows. It was as though a flame had been lit inside him that nothing, not Hermione’s flat disbelief nor Ron’s persistent doubts, could extinguish. And yet the fiercer the longing for the Hallows burned inside him, the less joyful it made him. He blamed Ron and Hermione: Their determined indifference was as bad as the relentless rain for dampening his spirits, but neither could erode his certainty, which remained absolute. Harry’s belief in and longing for the Hallows consumed him so much that he felt isolated from the other two and their obsession with the Horcruxes. [...] As the weeks crept on, Harry could not help but notice, even through his new self-absorption, that Ron seemed to be taking charge. Perhaps because he was determined to make up for having walked out on them, perhaps because Harry’s descent into listlessness galvanized his dormant leadership qualities, Ron was the one now encouraging and exhorting the other two into action. [...] But not until March did luck favor Ron at last.

The essayist: MARCH! That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. The first fifteen pages of this chapter cover three months, and during that entire time, Harry Potter does nothing, nothing, but sit on his ass fantasizing about the Elder Wand and trying to connect with his Voldie-soul mate. Oh, wait. He also tries to open the snitch so he can get the stone out of it. (Nothing gay about that, either.) I wish he’d succeed in that, too. Maybe he’d swallow the stone, and it would end up in his scrotum. He sure needs something that works down there. Harry doesn’t have the right to bail out on his society like this. He can’t have it both ways. He can’t have the adulation that goes with being Mr. Boy-Who-Lived-Chosen-One-Wizarding-World-Savior and abdicate the responsibilities that go along with those titles and that adulation. Look at what happens in this chapter: Harry becomes obsessed with finding and uniting the Hallows, so much so that he withdraws from his friends, bails out on the job his idol Dumbledore gave him, and spends all his time brooding and trying to connect with the Dull Lord. In other words, he acts clinically depressed. Ron and Hermione were exposed to the same information Harry was, but they didn’t become obsessed/depressed. Ron was mildly interested in the Super-Wand, but not enough to distract him from the Horcrux hunt. Hermione dismissed the whole DH story as nonsense and continued following Dumbestbore’s orders. So why weren’t they tempted?

...

The essayist: Harry opens the locket using Parseltongue--interesting that this never occurred to him before now--and two ghostly figures emerge. They’re Voldie-versions of Harry and Hermione, and they articulate Ron’s worst fears: “Least loved, always, by the mother who craved a daughter...Least loved, now, by the girl who prefers your friend...Second best, always, eternally overshadowed...” I’ll say it again: When you’re right, you’re right. The evidence is overwhelming that Molly Weasley treated Ron the worst of all her children. And if Rowling doesn’t want us to ship HP/HG, she needs to quit throwing them together and making them leaders, with Ron either in the background or absent entirely. JKR obviously wants us to automatically dismiss certain statements just because they’re made by “bad guys” such as Voldemort and Rita Skeeter. There are two problems with this: (1) The “lies” make perfect sense, far more sense than what we’re supposed to believe. (2) Even pathological liars sometimes tell the truth, typically when it won’t hurt their own interests to do so. For those of us who live in what cartoonist Garry Trudeau calls “the reality-based community,” the evidence is what matters, not what we’re told by authority figures. Those of us in the higher stages of spiritual development are funny that way.

...

The essayist: Well, whose fault is that, Ms. Rowling? You’re the one who’s spent the last four books making Ron dumber and dumber, depriving him of any meaningful activity, while you shoved Harry and Hermione into increasingly dominant roles.

The commenter: Are we supposed to look down on Ron now so that we can condemn him for leaving Harry and Hermione? Because if so, then that’s just unfair. Every time Ron tries to come up with an idea, Hermione criticizes him or shoots him down. And the twins have done a fine job of intimidating Ron into remaining mediocre and modest so that he doesn’t remind them of Percy, so what is he supposed to do? How is he supposed to come up with ideas when he’s surrounded by people who basically tell him to shut up and sit down?

The essayist: Just then, Hermione comes out of the tent with cups of tea, with tears running down her face and looking terrified her “friend” is going to curse her with her own wand.

The commenter: So, Hermione will snarl at Ron all day long, but cower in fear when Harry gets mad. Is she projecting herself onto Harry and assuming that just because *she’s* quick to hex people who anger her (Ron, Marietta, etc.), Harry will do the same to her?

The essayist: The evidence is overwhelming that Molly Weasley treated Ron the worst of all her children.

The commenter: And blatantly showed favoritism to Harry while snarling at Ron in the same breath. Of course, Horcrux!Tom doesn’t bring that up, because JKR would have to admit that there might be something wrong with Molly favoring Harry the way she does. The essayist: Hermione acts so crazy Harry has to put a protection charm between her and Ron.

The commenter: Yeah…sorry, it’s not “slapstick” anymore when somebody actually has to stop her from hitting Ron. When Harry feels that the situation is dangerous enough that his intervention is necessary. That’s not funny. That’s a true-crime episode. What gets me is that Hermione's tantrum lasts for days. It goes on for several pages into the next chapter. She doesn't start acting normal again until she comes up with the idea of visiting Xeno Lovegood. The essayist: Hermione tells Ron she still hasn’t ruled out attacking him with birds again.

The commenter: *flatly* So, all of the fans who cooed about how “great” it was for Hermione to show “girl power” by sending Ron to the hospital wing in HBP or breezily dismissed the scene as just tired teenage melodrama? Can put a sock in it. Hermione has clearly learned nothing, JKR clearly feels that that scene was funny, and at no point are we supposed to think that Hermione is an abuser. Even though, if the genders were reversed, fans would be calling for Ron’s head on a platter if he dared lay a finger on Hermione. No. This isn’t funny. This isn’t charming. Hermione hurt Ron so badly in HBP that he had to go to the hospital wing. And she tried to repeat the damage she caused here. Is she going to attack him with birds again after they get married? Is she going to do it in front of their children? Will it be “cute” and “funny” then? No, if a man is an abusive monster for losing his temper and trying to hurt his girlfriend, then Hermione is an abusive monster for losing her temper and trying to hurt her boyfriend. Not only did Hermione land Ron in the infirmary with the first attack, but she wants to do it again at a time when they are on the run. She will NOT be able to take an injured Ron to Hogwarts infirmary, nor to St. Mungos. In other words - she intends for him to remain injured and stick with them while camping, or else he must apparate away while injured, risking another splinching so he could be healed.

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The essayist: Ron and Harry go back to the tent, and Harry fades into the background so as not to interfere with the lovers’ reunion. That’s a mistake. After Harry wakes Hermione, she shows her delight at Ron’s return by--attacking him? She punches him over a dozen times while yelling at him and screaming for her wand from Harry. Remember last chapter, when I talked about how immature Hermione is? Here’s your proof.

[The essayist quotes an article that I haven’t been able to find, but paraphrased: it speaks of a father who came to pick up his 4 y/o daughter from daycare, a little later than usual, and the daughter reacted by punching and hitting her father, upset at his being late. Additional read:  “The parents must know that physical aggression is a common yet natural problem faced by toddlers.”]

The essayist: So there you have it: Hermione Granger, know-it-all supergirl, is so immature she acts like a preschool child when the boyfriend she’s been missing finally returns. I’m not suggesting she has a father-daughter relationship with Ron; this kind of anger is found in other relationships, too. What I am saying is that her way of expressing her anger is appropriate for a very young child. While adults may certainly feel this kind of anger and desire to hit when reunited with a loved one under similar circumstances, they don’t act it out. That restraint is what separates adults from children. Hermione acts so crazy Harry has to put a protection charm between her and Ron. I frankly found her behavior so out of control as to suggest mental instability. She engages in two full pages of histrionics before throwing herself into a chair, sitting so tensely I’m surprised the circulation isn’t cut off to her arms and legs. She remains in a bratty snit until the end of the chapter, which is another six pages.  Hermione is still pouting the next morning. I’m wondering if her real problem is not that Ron left, but that she didn’t. Is she angry at him because he had the guts to admit they were blowing it and take a time out, while she just kept trailing along after Harry like a lost house elf? I think she’s definitely mad because she’s always controlled Ron and their relationship. How dare he assert his independence of her! Who does he think he is? Her equal? In an AU, maybe. This is called the Potterverse after all, not the Ronverse.  Hermione’s having a bad month. First Ron runs out on them; then she saves Harry’s life, but he’s an ungrateful jerk about it; then Harry asserts his independence; then Ron comes back but doesn’t grovel sufficiently for her taste. All this mistreatment is going to give her the idea she’s just a normal character and not an Author’s Darling.   While Ron was gone, he was captured by bad guys called Snatchers, who are bounty hunters for Voldemort. In getting away, he got a spare wand, which he gives to Harry. Of course, it doesn’t work as well as Harry’s “real” wand, so Harry’s still in a snit about that, and with Hermione in a snit, too, they’re a cheerful bunch. Honestly, I don’t know why Ron puts up with these two. The Hs are so spoiled and self-centered, they deserve each other, but I don’t think this is what HP/HG shippers mean when they proclaim the two as an OTP. Sane, normal Ron doesn’t deserve either one of them. Run, Ron! Run while you still can!

...

The essayist: As an interesting aside, ròn is the Celtic word for seal. In Druid lore, seals represent love, longing, and dilemma. No more appropriate totem animal could be imagined for this boy whose sense of selfhood is undermined by his longing for love from a rejecting mother and inadequate father, and who, like the selchie wives of folklore, is faced with the impossible choice of being who he truly is and being rejected, or denying the best part of himself to gain love. Ron’s intelligence and independence threaten his insecure wife (and best friend), just as the selchie’s identity as a seal-woman threatens her human husband; Ron imprisons himself by hiding who he is so the Hs can feel smart and in charge, just as the selchie’s human husband imprisons his wife by hiding her sealskin in a trunk.

[ccohanlon]

an interview with c.c. o’hanlon

[In 2018, I was appointed editor of The Island Review, a journal focussed on the literature and visual art of islands, founded by Scottish writer Malachy Tallack and editor Jordan Ogg. It was an opportunity I relished, although I stepped away from it after just a few months in the role.

Shortly before I took over, Jordan conducted a short interview to introduce me to The Island Review’s readership and contributors.]

Welcome to your new role as skipper of The Island Review. I think you will enjoy it here. What three things should readers know about you?

Oh God, how do I begin to answer that? [long pause] I’m insatiably curious, and always eager to encounter the unusual or unfamiliar or unsettling. I love story-telling in all its forms; my father was a novelist so, I guess, it’s been part of my life since childhood. I’m particularly drawn to visual storytelling. Finally, I'm a sea person; I’ve spent extended periods away from the sea, unfortunately, but I only really feel whole when I live in close proximity to it — or, better yet, on it. I’ve never really had a sense of place, of belonging, ashore.

You are from Australia, which means you are well placed to help answer the perennial island conundrum: Australia — is it an island or landmass?

It's a continent with the mindset of an island. Which is not altogether a good thing. Being Australian is, in part, defined by a consciousness of being far from anywhere — there's this unsettling sense of disconnection from a ‘mainland’ that is actually the rest of the world. Awareness of Australia as an island is unavoidable if you’re living on its coasts but even far inland, the stations and small communities that survive in the arid semi-desert of the outback are kind of lonely archipelagoes, too.

Why do you think islands have such an extraordinary appeal to artists and writers?

An old nomad adage holds that some people are born in the wrong place and they spend the rest of their lives looking for the right one. Deserted or sparsely populated islands are places where ’the right one’ can be imagined and, to some extent, created, and this has an appeal to those of us who find themselves disenfranchised — or, more likely, have disenfranchised themselves — from conventional social constructs. More simply, islands suit those who want to insulate themselves from the commonplace of urban living, to restore themselves, to reconnect with nature, or to reflect without too much distraction. For me, there’s something almost baptismal, soul-cleansing, about the passage over water to get to them (and no, a flight is not the same).

You are a sailor and a cartographer. This means you must have loads of good island stories. Can you tell us one or two?

They’re not so much stories as moments: sailing alone to Les Îles Saint-Marcouf, off the coast of Normandy, to picnic atop the ruin of a Napoleonic fort on deserted Île du Large; being becalmed at night close by the Aeolian volcanic island of Stromboli as lava spilled down its slopes; being caught by a huge rogue wave south west of St Kilda and capsized; seeing jagged Skellig Michael loom out of a mist off the south-west corner of Ireland, and sailing by it so close I could see the ancient ‘beehive’ monk cells on its high upper slopes; hooking squid with traditional fishermen off the north-east coast of Sardinia, then going ashore on a tiny, rocky islet to cook black-ink pasta for lunch; smelling damp, sweet soil in the night, out in the Atlantic, when still 100 miles west of the Azores island of Flores, which is pretty much the experience its 15th century discoverer, Diogo de Teive, had.

Do you have a favourite island-related book, poem or artwork you would like to share with us?

Well, my childhood favourite was Erskine Childer’s Riddle Of The Sands, set among the shifting tidal banks of the Frisian Islands, off the north-east coast of Germany, but as an adult, The Starship And The Canoe by Kenneth Brower. It’s a dual biography of the renowned astro-physicist Freeman Dyson and his son George, now a distinguished science historian. When the book was written, George was a young, hippie-ish guy who lived in an illegal tree-house he’d built 90 feet above Burrard Inlet in Vancouver; he also built large voyaging baidarkas (a type of kayak) in which he ranged as far north as Alaska. A father who dreamed of island settlements on asteroids and a solitary son who paddled his own, self-contained islands to some of the emptiest shores of the Pacific north-west — irresistible!

What are your plans for The Island Review?

No, no, don’t ask me that. Not yet. It'd be insufferable of me to propose plans before I’ve had a chance to immerse myself in the community that Malachy and you have built over the past five years. I need to take some time to survey and understand what's gone before. Possibly, I might broaden the definition of ‘island’, possibly I might try to challenge contributors to take on specific themes. My most immediate hope is to continue to grow the readership, continue to offer great original writing and strong images.

Finally, which is best: Shetland or Orkney?

I’ve spent half a lifetime recovering from a single night of heavy drinking at the Lerwick Boat Club, in Shetland. Sleepless, drunk, I ended up being cajoled into taking part in a race involving a handful of unstable, over-canvassed, open boats, each crewed by half a dozen unstable, intoxicated Vikings who kept flinging heavy lead ingots into the arms of those of us who were stupid enough to be sitting on the windward gunwhales trying to keep the bloody things upright in a rising gale. None of us were wearing lifejackets or waterproofs or, in my case, any kind of footwear. I suspect Orkney’s ancient hermitic traditions might suit my temperament better. The Shetlanders are fucking nuts.

Thank you, as a Shetlander myself I am most pleased to hear this. Wishing you all the best as our new editor.

First published in The Island Review, UK, 2018.