#Victoria you just..... imagine what it must have been like?

[gutsfics]

in book 1, the billboard for The Warmest Winter has Victoria and a random man on it, but in book 3 The Warmest Winter is a lesbian drama

im gonna go ahead and assume that it's due to PB Fucked Up but. i think a good in-universe explanation is that The Warmest Winter is Lesbian Brokeback Mountain so all of the promotional stuff makes it look Heterosexual

[onegirlatelier]

April, 2024 | Shetland lace shawl

Hi there! It’s been a while. I’ve been kept busy by all my university work…and this shawl.

The shawl is knitted to celebrate the wedding of my friend (now friends, I should say). A wedding is really the perfect excuse for all the heritage crafts and heirloom projects that might seem too serious to gift in other occasions. I did ask the recipient beforehand if she would like it, though, and I was so, so honoured that I got an enthusiastic ‘yes’. I’m sure this sentiment is shared by many makers, whatever gift they are making.

Shetland fine openwork, a knitted lace, seems to have emerged with the beginning of the reign of Queen Victoria, who championed and popularised the craft. It was probably spread from the Isle of Unst to other parts of Shetland. What surprised me the most when I first read about it was that Shetland shawls and other lace pieces were largely exported as luxury items and rarely worn by islanders themselves. Women bought yarn from spinners and knitted mostly in their homes. They then took them to local merchants and exchange the finished objects for goods or (commonly after the 1880s) money to supplement the household income. The ‘supplement’ nature of this work probably means it was not compensated as much as a job outside the home would be for the same hours and skills. Besides, it was not always easy to spin an even 1-ply yarn at 1600 metres per 100 grams. For a piece of knitting with a large ‘plain’ area (i.e. only knit stitches), the unevenness was impossible to hide but could only be discovered after the area was worked. Then the maker had to either frog (unravel) the area or continue with the risk of the whole piece not being able to sell.

Whilst it is very reasonable to point out that Shetland ladies did not usually wear this type of lace (I’ve been to the Scottish Highlands once, in summer, and it was not fine lace weather), I imagine that at least for some, it wasn’t just about making money. Some sort of fulfilment must have been from the satisfaction of having a piece ‘properly done’ by continuing and adapting a traditional pattern, technique or material. I think this sort of satisfaction is also why many modern knitters are willing to spend hundreds of hours on lacework.

Intricate handknitted lace items can still be bought today (a quick search on Etsy would show many are form eastern European countries with a long and prominent craft tradition), but many are knitted for friends or family members. It always makes me so happy to see people share the gifts they have made, whether big or small, simple or complex. I joke with my online craft friends that no handmade fibre project can claim to be so unless they have a hair or two woven into it. It is the proof of existence for the maker, who tries to go against the irregular nature of handicrafts and, at the same time, accepts it. It is about wrapping up hours, weeks or months in one’s life, along with the songs they have listened to and the perfume they have worn and the memories they have made, and putting it squarely in someone else’s hands and saying: ‘All this, for you.’

A Wedding Shawl

I have not read anything about there being a standard form of ‘wedding shawl’ in the Shetland tradition. However, there is definitely a category of square shawls with similar sizes and a few construction methods. The samples I’ve seen mostly measure 1.5-2m on one side and have three parts: a central panel, four borders and a strip of edging. It is worked flat in garter lace from centre out.

Neither is there a standardised yarn weight. A widely available yarn is the Shetland Supreme Lace Weight 1-ply by Jamieson and Smith, which weighs at 400m/25g. The Queen Ring Shawl examined by Sharon Miller used a yarn at 700m/25g. From my experience, if you want the shawl to be a true ring shawl (i.e. you want to be able to pull the shawl through a ring) at the size of the Queen Ring Shawl (210cm on the side), go for 700m/25g or finer.

I chose a rectangular shawl because I had very limited time, but I did enlarge it because for me, an abundance of fabric does mean an abundance of cozy happiness.

Pattern

Shell Grid and Spider Webs Puzzle, pattern No.19 in the book Shetland Knitting Lace by Toshiyuki Shimada.

The names of the motifs are confusing. One motif (or two highly similar motifs) might just have two different names if they are produced in two different regions. Names do not mean everything, but I’ve had fun trying to match the motifs with names according to this article by Carol Christiansen at the Shetland Museum.

The double yarnovers (YO's) in the diamonds were called Cat's Eye, but perhaps the 'Spider Web' in the pattern name is referring to the three rows of double YO's in the centre panel. It has a really simple but effective edging.

Yarn

Mermaid Lace, in colourway #naturel, sold by Great British Wool in the Netherlands. This yarn is 75% merino and 25% sea algae silk. ‘Sea algae silk’ seems to be a semi-synthetic plant fibre like viscose, with algae involved as part of the raw material. (At this price point I don’t think it has anything to do with sea silk, which is fibre produced by actual shells.) The brand name for the most popular product of its type is probably Seacell.

I bought the yarn, because I had never worked with this fibre before and was curious. What I like: it was a little cheaper than a wool/silk blend and has blocked very well. The whole skein was continuous so I didn’t have to deal with a single yarn joint. What I do not like: it lacks the sheen and smoothness of real silk and doesn’t feel as strong, although it doesn’t shed. In conclusion, I’d rather use a traditional Shetland 1-ply or another natural fibre yarn.

It's also worth mentioning that whilst I prefer to support small businesses, it was disappointing to have received a 93-gram skein when I had ordered 100 grams. It was one of those days between Christmas and the New Year and I somehow did not contact the customer service, but I really should have.

Needle

2.5mm 80cm circular needles. See modification below.

Modification

This Japanese knitting book follows Japanese sizing for knitting needles. The suggested size was no. 1=2.4mm. I figured that I could use a 2.5mm since I knitted on the tighter side, and in any case it was probably okay to make the lacework a little more open by going up a needle size.

I am not going to give out the pattern, but it is probably necessary to explain the structure of this shawl. The centre is knitted first, and then an edging is knitted onto it by picking up either live stitches or the vertical edge of the centre as you go (see schematic below). The four ‘corners’ of the edging have short-row shaping to help it lay flat. I know that traditionally people can achieve this by other methods, but I haven’t tried any of those yet.

I enlarged the pattern by increasing both the width and the length. I casted on 133 stitches instead of 101 for the centre panel and knitted Part B 8.5 times instead of 5.5. The spider web pattern in Part B requires the stitch count to be (something dividable by four) plus two, so I made one central increase before the spider web to get 134 and a central decrease after it to get it back to 133. Due to the openness of the lace, the change of one stitch is not visible.

The enlargement meant I had to recalculate the edging as well, because the number of stitches available for pick-up changed. Originally, at each corner you do two repeats with four short-row shaping each. I did 1.5 repeats following the original placement of short-row shaping in order to make the total number of repeats fit the number of edge stitches on the centre panel.

The pattern says to Kitchener-stitch the last row of the edging to the provisional cast-on. It just didn’t make sense because that would be two rows too much (the Kitchener stitch row plus the provisional cast-on row). To make the number perfectly fit, I knitted only ten rows of the last repeat (there were usually twelve in each repeat). Then I Kitchener-stitched the end to the provisional cast-on, following the lace pattern. I am quite proud of this solution because it is completely invisible.

Somewhere in the pattern it said to purl (looking from the right side). It seemed strange because the rest of the lace was entirely garter. I knitted those stitches and so far I haven’t sensed a ‘mistake’.

The pattern originally calls for 45 grams of yarn. I estimated (based on the increase of stitches in the centre panel) to need about 80 grams. I ended up using 86 grams. Besides the inaccuracies in my estimation, it was probably also because I knitted much more loosely than expected as it was difficult to tension the yarn tightly at such a weight. Like I've point out in the Yarn section above, I was lucky not to have needed more than 93 grams.

The original finished size is 53*118cm. I ended up with approximately 70*170cm.

Conclusion

This shawl took about three months of my craft time i.e. one full day every week for three months and many mornings before I had to leave for university. Knitting outside my room just didn’t work because I was a) engaged in some other activities that made it difficult to steady my hands, and b) worried about putting a white shawl on any public surface.

The pattern itself is relatively straightforward. The first difficulty was, of course, to understand the instruction written in Japanese. Google translate was horrible so I had to rely on my knitting experience. Fortunately, much of the text description was also found in graphs and charts. Then I had to get my hands used to the tiny yarn. After that, it was only fiddly when I did the edging, because I had to turn about every twelve stitches, and by that time I was handling a giant cloud of stitches on my lap. It did give me a lot of time to go over my favourite documentaries and films, and the last bit of edging was surprisingly quick!

Traditionally, Shetland shawls could be sent back to the maker for maintenance. I think it only fair for me to offer that too because I don’t want a gift to become a trouble (same as how you do not use non-machine-washable yarn for baby knits).

In general, I am very pleased with this shawl. It does pass the ring test, despite not being a traditional wedding shawl size or thickness. I do have a whole lot of actual Shetland 1-ply in my stash, so I am really looking forward to taking my Queen Ring Shawl project out of hibernation in the near future.

Reference list for Introduction

Christiansen, Carol. Shetland fine lace knitting: Recreating patterns from the past. Marlborough: Crowood, 2024.

Mann, Joanna. 'Knitting the Archive: Shetland Lace and Ecologies of Skilled Practice'. Cultural Geographies 25, no. 1 (January 28, 2017): 91–106. https://doi.org/10.1177/1474474016688911.

[blues824]

Hi there! I hope you don't mind if you have time to write my request about Ciel Phantomhive and Sebastian with nb! or fem! reader as malleus?

What’s up, Anon? I put reader as having horns, but no other description is used.

Ciel Phantomhive

Her Royal Majesty had requested that he host you in the Phantomhive house. He didn’t want to let the Queen down, so he had his staff prepare for your arrival. By ‘his staff’, I mean Sebastian because there is no way that Mey-Rin, Bard, and Finny would be able to accomplish the tasks given to them.

Then you arrived. The most noticeable thing about you was your horns, but Ciel was not intimidated. He had a demon for a butler, after all. He showed you to the room where you would be staying, and you had a surprisingly friendly and polite demeanor. He left you to go get settled in, and went straight to his renowned butler to ask about you and your background.

The things he learned about you were pretty shocking, like how you were a dragon fae from a land called ‘Twisted Wonderland’. It sounded like something he would read about in a novel, not see in real-life. He wanted to get to know you personally, though, so he went to your room and invited you to a game of chess in his study.

Imagine his surprise when you managed to beat him at a board game that he thought he was invincible at. Your cunning mind really intrigued him, so he proposed that he take you around London as your prize. You agreed, and were very excited to see the city that you hadn’t had much of a chance to explore yet. You asked if there were any abandoned buildings or gargoyles, and he said there might be a few.

The excitement on your face as he led you around the streets of the city made him want you to stay so that he could continue bringing wonder to you. The look of happiness on your face when he brought you to an ice cream vendor to try some of the cold treat was one that he wished he could see forever.

Sebastian Michaelis

The young master had informed him that you would be staying at the Phantomhive Manor and he received orders to get the Manor ready. Sebastian, being Sebastian, wanted to make sure that everything was in pristine condition because there was no way that a member of a far away royal family would be housed in anything less than perfection, so he told each of the staff members to not touch anything.

When you arrived, he was standing right beside Ciel and greeted you by bowing and welcoming you to the Manor. Ciel told him to get your things to your room as he showed you around, and that’s when Sebastian noticed your horns. He knew that you weren’t a demon, as a demon typically doesn’t show any horns, so you must have been some other creature.

Well, as he finally led you to where you would be staying, he asked what sort of being you were. You really didn’t want to tell him, but you could feel the magic within him. He was sort of like you, so you felt as though he wouldn’t be scared of you. You told him that you were a dragon fae from a realm called Twisted Wonderland, and that you were the Crowned Heir to one of the many lands within said realm, Briar Valley. It was all very intriguing to the demon butler, as he had never been.

During your stay, it was rather unfortunate that he had so many chores to do when you wanted to talk to him. So, you offered to help him. He at first refused, saying that it would be very improper for a member of visiting royalty to do chores, but you told him that it would give you a normal person’s experience, something necessary for when you are crowned the reigning monarch. He smiled at the loophole, before handing you the rag that he was using to dust the library.

It allowed you both to get to know each other, but he never revealed what he was. You just knew that he wasn’t a human, and that no harm would come to you in his presence; not just because you are the most powerful mage in this world, but also because you are under the protection of Queen Victoria, who already sees you as another one of her children.

[rwrbmovie]

BTS of #RWRBMovie: V&A

Via Amazon:

NG: I think their time together at the Victoria and Albert Museum really sticks out to me as a defining moment of their relationship. My character, Henry, really shares the last frontier of his vulnerabilities and really opens Pandora's box in a way saying plainly to Alex, ‘This is my life. I'm terrified, but I'm willing to take this risk.’

From EW:

For Galitzine, who grew up going to the museum, it was a surreal experience. "I was born and raised in London and the V&A is an iconic place to visit — the galleries, the displays, exhibitions that have been on there. To be able to witness it in such a quiet state was really bizarre. Night shoots are disorienting at the best of times. It's 5:00 in the morning, you're trying to act and be emotional, and you're in this truly beautiful, picturesque setting. It was really cool to be able to explore it. It felt a bit like Night in the Museum. It was a weird, surreal but extremely enjoyable experience."

Director Matthew López didn't know for much of the pre-production process whether the V&A would even allow them to film there. "They were very, very protective as you could imagine," he tells EW. " Especially when we told them where we wanted to shoot, which is a lot of things we could break, and I really didn't want to be the guy who ended up breaking a priceless piece of statuary. But we ended up getting permission, and that was amazing." In McQuiston's novel, this key scene takes place in the Renaissance Gallery, which López and cinematographer Stephen Goldblatt visited while scouting in London. But while we still see Henry and Alex run through that gallery, they decided to choose another due to the V&A's filming parameters. "It's not the most photogenic gallery," explains López. "It's kind of dark and it's very, very big, so there's a lot of blank space between the statues. The chances that you're going to get just a white wall behind you are good. And it's very hard to shoot in there because the rule that the V&A had for us was that we couldn't bring in any exterior lighting. We could not bring it in our own lights." But Goldblatt had an idea to work around that limitation. "He led me to this area of the museum where we did end up filming it," the director continues. "That long, beautiful corridor with all those gorgeous statues filled with very homoerotic art, as well as that narrow alleyway of busts. We came back another night after closing, and he had them turn off everything, all the lights except for the spotlights that were there, illuminating the artwork. But turning off the floodlights that lit the gallery for people to walk around in. What you had in an instant was darkness everywhere and light shining on the art." Goldblatt manipulated the light further with a dimmer switch, creating an almost sacred environment in which Henry and Alex could express their love for each other. "We did not bring in any of our own lighting," emphasizes López. "That scene is shot with the lighting that's available to us at the V&A. We decided that the scene would be the boys for the most part in shadow and the statues illuminated. It was a beautiful use of a problem to create a better solution that you could not have come up with on your own if you had no problem."

From Glamour:

“My absolutely favorite scene to film was the night we shot inside the Victoria and Albert Museum,” says López of the scene depicted here. “We arrived at 10 p.m. and filmed until sunrise. To have access to that museum at night without any other people around made you feel what Henry and Alex must have been feeling the night they go there together. What made it so special is that, for one of the first times in the shoot, it was just me, Taylor, and Nick working. No other actors, no background players. It’s a magical scene in the book, and it was a magical night for all of us.” 

From HELLO:

In the film, as in the book, the pair dance together here as they vow to make their relationship work, come what may. This scene is also Matthew's favorite scene, "because it's the only scene in the film that is actually filmed at the location that it's set".  "That night was very beautiful and I think it's reflected in what you see on screen; there's a magic to that place at night and I like to think we captured it," he adds.

From NYT:

The two men under the dimmed lights were the actors Taylor Zakhar Perez and Nicholas Galitzine, and they swayed until the director, Matthew López, called “Cut!” around 2 a.m. for a lunch break. “It was just the three of us and our crew,” said López, who’s also the film’s co-writer. “It made for an incredibly intimate, really special night.”

From W Magazine:

There’s a sweet moment in the Victoria and Albert Museum. Why did you shoot in that sculptural exhibition? That’s not the gallery from the book. I went there with Stephen Goldblatt, my director of photography, and it wasn’t very cinematic. Stephen took me to another part of the museum, where we shot, with lower ceilings a more contained space with beautiful statues: David and Goliath, three women, the corridor of busts and torsos—very cinematic.

[sionisjaune]

In light of this, please enjoy some scraps of a charles/damiano pwp that is languishing in my gdocs. Dedicated of course to kay @onadarklingplain, vice president of charles/damiano nation:

It’s Damiano’s apartment, and Vic and Ethan are sharing the spare room, and Thomas flops on the couch, leaving Charles with—

“Come on,” Damiano says, beckoning. Charles follows him to his bedroom. He can hear Victoria snickering down the hallway. 

Charles doesn’t know what he was imagining, but the bedroom doesn’t look like the kind of room that would belong to Damiano. All traces of leather and lace are conspicuously absent. Charles must have been picturing a—a sex dungeon, or a coffin that Damiano rises from at dawn like a vampire, but there’s a bed in the center of a blandly carpeted room and grey sheets on the bed. It looks like Charles’s apartment. 

Damiano strips to his briefs, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor, and digs inside the nightstand until he produces a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Charles watches him crack open the window and light one, sticking his head out into the night each time he takes a drag. 

“You know those are bad for you,” Charles says. “You can do a test where they measure your lungs, to see how good they are working.”

Damiano shrugs. “I’m a rockstar. I’m supposed to be bad for me.” He lifts his wrist from the window ledge and offers the burning cigarette to Charles. Ash floats from the end and lands on the carpet. “Want one?” 

Charles shakes his head. He doesn’t understand how Damiano isn’t shivering with the draught coming in from the window. “I’m not allowed in my contract,” he says. 

Damiano pulls his head out of the window and fixes Charles with a weighty look. The black lining his eyes is either smudged eyeliner or abject exhaustion. Both are equally likely this time of year. The band are finished touring for the year, and Charles is done with his disappointing season, and both Charles and Damiano have their respective breakups, too. It’s only three days before Christmas, and the kind of evening Charles could entertain loosening his grip, just for a few hours.

“I’d walk out if that was in any contract of mine,” says Damiano. “And anyway, one puff won’t kill you.” He extends the cigarette for Charles, wedged between two tattooed fingers. The cherry burns bright orange, a jolly invitation.

“No thank you,” says Charles, swallowing. Damiano just shrugs again and sucks down the rest of the smoke, flicking the butt out the window. 

Damiano shuts the window and tosses a bundle of clothes at Charles. “Bathroom’s there,” he says, cocking his head to the right of the doorway. “You can ignore Ethan if he’s in there—doing whatever the fuck to his hair.” 

“Okay,” says Charles. He swallows again. His throat is inexplicably dry. Instead of clutching his borrowed pyjamas and trudging to the bathroom, he drops the bundle on the floor, strips out of his shirt and pushes his jeans to the floor. 

Damiano lifts an eyebrow, leaning his hip against the window frame. Charles stands there, in his boxer-briefs, breathing in the acrid after-smell of Damiano’s cigarette.

“I thought you were never going to get it,” says Damiano. “It’s been a while since my routine took this long.” 

“Your routine,” Charles repeats, sliding his fingers into his own waistband. The hair beneath his navel prickles, just beginning to grow back after waxing. 

“Yeah,” says Damiano. “You know. The one where I let my groupies follow me back to my apartment three days before Christmas.”

“That can’t be a routine,” says Charles, thinking about the girlfriend-shaped mess he got himself into the last time he invited a fan back to his apartment after a consolatory yacht party. 

Damiano gives him a terribly obvious look. “Come over here,” he says. 

Charles closes the distance between them with steps that feel clumsy but are by all accounts quite normal. He and Damiano are exactly of a height, standing close together, but Damiano’s wild hair, curling at his cheekbones, and the makeup around his eyes, make him feel larger, realer. Charles can see the errant speckles of glitter in Damiano’s eyebrows and the red rims of his eyelids. The script tattooed on his collarbones reads IL BALLO DELLA VITA, and one of his nipples is pierced and inked with a heart. 

“You can touch me,” says Damiano, raspy. 

Charles licks his lip and traces his fingers over the naked woman on Damiano’s bicep. 

“You like women?” says Damiano. Charles nods. “And men?” says Damiano. 

Charles retracts his hand from Damiano’s arm and replaces it at his side. He looks Damiano in the eye, sharply. “What do you think,” he says. 

Damiano laughs—a small, throaty noise—but he places his hands on Charles’s waist, thumbing at the muscles of Charles’s abdomen—all of his blank, tanned skin. 

“I think you’ve been denying yourself,” says Damiano. His thumb strokes over the skin above Charles’s waistband, and Charles shudders. “You keep telling yourself that you’re not allowed to have what you want.” 

“I can have it,” says Charles. He leans in. 

The kiss tastes like ash and smells like Damiano’s leather and cherry cologne, and Damiano has enough hair that Charles can get his hands in it and cling. Damiano’s torso is wiry and thin against Charles’s, but he has the muscle to jerk Charles around, to spin him and back him up against the bed, so that Charles’s calves are smacking the bed frame, until he has no choice but to tip over and fall into the sheets. 

Damiano stays on him, kneeling over Charles’s torso and mouthing at his neck. He scratches his varnished fingernails all the way down Charles’s chest on his way to Charles’s groin, pausing to leave a sucking bite on his hip. 

“What do you want, Charles?” Damiano asks, his cheek pressed to the shiny material of Charles’s boxers. Charles can feel the vibrations of Damiano’s throat in his dick. He wants—he wants to resolve the tense awareness that’s been vibrating between himself and Damiano since the first meeting—when the show ended, and Damiano stumbled offstage, nearly naked and drenched with sweat and turned his dark eyes on Charles—sharp and sober although Damiano was obviously exhausted—and Charles had the sense that Damiano was everywhere around him, like Damiano was leeching out of his own skin, unable to be contained by one human body. 

“I want,” says Charles, squirming. How can he even say it? He wants the crushing force of Damiano directed at him in a concentrated beam. He wants to open Damiano up and pour him out and soak in him. He wants to invite Damiano inside his body and take him to the track so he can feel what Charles feels.

Damiano crawls back up Charles’s body so that his face is hovering above Charles, his hair falling in a dark, tousled curtain. He brushes a knuckle underneath Charles’s eye, and it comes away wet. 

“I’m going to choose,” says Damiano. “I want to do a lot of things to you.” His thumb finds the hinge of Charles’s jaw and presses until Charles’s mouth opens. His throat clicks when he tries to swallow. “Can I fuck this?” Damiano asks. 

Charles nods mutely.

-

Charles wakes under the covers—Damiano's foot is touching his calf, and his face is mashed into the pillow, contorted weirdly.

Charles leaves him there and wanders out. A smell wafts from the kitchen. Victoria and Ethan are cooking pancakes over the stove, in their underwear. Thomas is wrapped in a fluffy robe, reading an honest to God newspaper on the couch. Victoria is gesticulating with her slim vape and speaking rapid Italian while Ethan flips the pancakes expertly.

When Charles walks in, Thomas gives a low whistle and a slow clap. 

Victoria pauses and spins around. Her eyebrows climb towards her hairline. "Shit," she says, turning Thomas. "We owe E twenty euros. He had December 20th." 

"Fuck," says Thomas. 

"Good morning!" says Ethan, dumping the pancakes on a plate.

[toms-cherry-trees]

Scraped Heart || Victoria Shelby

Summary: Wounded knees hurt more than just the flesh.

Word Count: 2132

Warnings: Description of minor injuries, post war PTSD, Tommy scaring his sister

Author’s note:  So this is set right after the war is over and everyone has gone home, it could be mere weeks or no more than a couple months since everyone was shoved back into their lives. I’ve always imagined those weeks when they are trying to pretend that nothing happened to be extremely awkward and tense, especially for the younger ones, since four years is basically half of their lives they spent in uncertainty.

Thomas dragged his feet across the dusty boards of the hallway. Many nights had transpired the same way, ever since the return; he wandered around aimlessly, his mind disconnected from his body, until he found himself far away from home without memory of how he got there in the first place. That evening he had snapped back to his senses to find himself in the oldest part of the town’s graveyard, where most tombs dated to the prior century, stained green and the engravings faded by time and the elements. He must have stumbled and fell at some point, for his trousers had mud in the knees and his hands were scraped and bruised. A light drizzle had dampened his clothes and trickled down the bare curve of his neck. Nighttime had fallen already, but Tommy swore it had been daytime still when he left Watery Lane.

As he was about to reach his bedroom, a quiet cry and curse from the nursery caught his attention. Nursery, that word still made him snort. That little wooden sign with said word carved with a knife had arrived at the house with the first baby, and had been moved from door to door to whichever bedroom belonged to the youngest. But it wouldn’t be moved again, since there would be no more babies born under that roof, not at least for the foreseeable future. 

The door stood ajar, and Tommy peeked in curiously, shrouded by the darkness of the hallway. Victoria sat on her bed, knees bent in front of her, both scraped and bruised. Around here laid a mess of pieces of bandages, a rusty pair of scissors, some iodine and oddly enough, a bottle of liquor. A most puzzling scene, especially because Tommy would have never expected his eight year old sister to have the maturity to gather all those supplies and hide in her bedroom while injured, instead of crying it out like a normal child. But again, kids raised in the middle of the war were no normal children.

Vicky had a piece of cloth on her hand and tried to dab at her scrapes, but she hissed every time it came in contact with her injury. Tears streamed down her cheeks, carving lines in the dirt of her skin. Tommy just then realised she was covered in grime from head to toe. 

Vicky again made a feeble attempt to wipe away some of the blood on her knees

“Fuck” She hissed

“Oi, language!” Exclaimed Tommy, entering the bedroom. Vicky nearly jumped from the bed when Tommy marched in; he had the ability to be as silent as a cat, which drove everyone insane since he always startled everyone. The girl looked like she had seen a ghost, but there are worse things than a ghost, like being caught doing things you shouldn’t be by your brother-self-appointed-father.

Tommy sat on the edge of the bed while Vicky watched him cautiously, like a prey being sized up by the predator; Victoria had felt odd around Tommy ever since he came back from France, still struggling to get used to this new self, and desperately trying to find scraps of her old brother in this unknown man. They all had changed, in a way, but Tommy’s switch was most obvious. Sometimes the girl wondered if they had sent her back the right man.

“What happened?” The calmness in his voice was edged by the slightest hint of concern, and a dash of curiosity at the maturity of the littlest Shelby. 

“Street puddles are treacherous places” At her words, Tommy felt a strange pang in his heart. Since when did his little sister use big words like “treacherous”? When they left, she could barely even pronounce her own name correctly, and wanted to be up in someone’s arms all day long. Now she spent most of her days out of the home, either at school or roaming the streets with other rascals. She already knew how to read as well, and clearly used her newfound knowledge to say “big girl words” every time she could. 

Tommy grabbed her leg and pulled her close to inspect the wound, earning a squeak from his sister as she was yanked from a sitting position to be flat on the bed. The scrapes were large, but superficial. Something an adult wouldn’t even notice, but for a child of Victoria’s age it meant the end of the world and certain death. Yet his sister sat before him, teary eyed but otherwise calmly carrying herself. Tommy couldn’t recognise her anymore.

“Why didn’t you tell Aunt Pol to help you?”

For an answer, Victoria pointed to the floor, where her once new white stocks laid in tatters, all ripped up and stained with muddy water. Ada had told Polly that buying Victoria something white and delicate would be a waste of money, but she insisted. She wanted everyone to look their best when they picked the boys at the station, and somehow had stuffed Vicky and Finn in their Sunday best, complete with Finn’s hair slicked back and Victoria with ribbons woven in her plaits.

“Do you want my help?” Tommy felt odd at having to ask his eight year old sister if she needed help with something. In his mind this child had barely left the diapers and had no right to be speaking in full sentences and reading and writing.

“I can do it myself” Victoria sat up and grabbed the cloth again, but her hand shook even before she touched her knees. The sun would freeze over before she was finished.

Tommy snatched the cloth from her hands and dripped some iodine on it “It will not kill you to ask for help” He knew this bravado would crumble soon enough, but he couldn’t quite figure out what she was trying to prove.

“Aunt Polly said we have to fend for ourselves now”

Oh.

Tommy knew Pol didn’t say that. She would never say that directly to a child. But he still recalled the conversation when that phrase had been said. Late at night, the four of them sat before the hearth and passed around a bottle of cheap whiskey. They were due to leave at 9 am sharp the following day. Their hairs cut, their weavings packed and ready. Polly had stuffed their pockets with cigarettes and given them a bit of money in case they needed it. Then she prayed for their lives and commanded the three brothers to return, for they had people who loved them and depended on them. She remarked that even though Arthur and Tommy had no kids of their own they still had their responsibilities, because there were still three children under that roof that would now have to fend for themselves.

He couldn’t even begin to comprehend how Victoria remembered that. Maybe Polly had said those words again to a neighbour, or to Ada who was old enough to understand; and the little rascal had eavesdropped and gotten the wrong idea. A painful coil tightened around Tommy’s throat; the baby of the house had spent all these years under the impression that she only had herself in the world, even if she didn’t quite understand what that implied. 

Tommy didn’t reply. What could he possibly say? How could he erase from her mind that idea that she had to rely only on herself because everything and everyone else around her were not for granted? He couldn’t say that he would be forever with her, because he knew that was a promise he didn’t know if he could keep.

He gently dabbed the cloth on her knee, earning a hiss and quietly muttered curse from his sister, who quickly covered her mouth with her hands.

“Don’t let Pol hear you or she will wash your mouth with soap” Tommy swiftly pulled Victoria into his lap so he could hold her better, and to give her the chance to hold onto him. He got to work on cleaning the scrapes, feeling little fingers dig tightly on the fabric of his coat, and he was pretty sure Vicky bit the arm he was using to hold her. 

Once the grime had been wiped away he began to bandage her knees “What is the liquor for?” Tommy inquired curiously, nodding to the almost empty bottle on the bed. The bottle had some cheap hard liquor that they kept in a cabinet for emergencies, and never for drinking. Not that Thomas believed Vicky to be taking swigs of alcohol behind their backs, but the thought was amusing nonetheless.

“I have seen you and Arthur clean up wounds with that” She shrugged “I don’t think I need it thought” She added quickly

Tommy hummed “You couldn’t open it, right”

“Yep”

The faintest ghost of a smile tugged on Tommy’s lips. A big girl with big words and a big attitude but she still didn’t have the strength to open up a bottle, nor had she figured out how to work the house keys, and still wanted to have her food cut up for her. He finished wrapping the bandages and tied them up neat and nicely “Does it feel okay?”

The girl flexed her legs a few times and nodded “I could do that myself” Victoria could never, ever lose the opportunity to try and up her older brothers. Only when she stepped off Tommy’s lap did she notice the dirt in his trousers and the little scraps of his hands “Did you fall too?”

Tommy’s body immediately tensed up and he put his hands down to hide his reddened palms “Yards are treacherous places”

Victoria immediately tried to pull up Tommy’s trousers to take a look, but Tommy held her wrists to stop her, rather harshly. Both of them stood in absolute silence until Tommy let go of her. He hadn’t intended to be so harsh, but sometimes it happened too fast. His wrecked nerves got the best of him, fueled by the fact that never, ever in his life Tommy had allowed anyone to help him; not before the war and certainly not after. 

But he couldn’t be this way with Victoria, not if he wanted to make up for all the years of her life he lost. And especially not now, when with that little gesture, something as simple as showing concern for him, Tommy caught a glimpse of what his sister had always been before she decided to build up walls, just like everyone around her. War had hardened the Shelby brothers, but it didn’t have to do the same to their little ones. 

Just as Vicky straightened up, slowly as if she feared he would snap again, Tommy released a slow breath and pulled his sister into a bone crushing hug, her arms pinned to her sides as he squeezed her in the way he used to do when she was a baby. In the same way he hugged her when he took the train in 1914, and the way he hadn’t hugged her ever since. He kept her there until Vicky squirmed “Tommy you are squeezing me”

“I know”

“....Can you put me down?”

“No”

In that moment, that hug felt like an anchor to the life he once had and the man he used to be; both things now lost to the war machine. The war life had taken him, chewed him up and spat him back out as something new, something he couldn’t recognise and something that would forever be damaged in a way only those who had been chewed too could understand. But somewhere behind layers of trauma, scars, fears and anger lay a sliver of the pre-war Thomas Shelby, an miniscule sliver of a man who once believed the world could be good and kind. And that sliver belonged to Victoria for as long as she lived, so she could once more see the world through a rose tinted lens and never again had to think that she had to fend for herself. And so he could make up for all those missed hugs, cuddles and tickles.

After minutes of maintaining the hug, Tommy stood up and swung his sister over his shoulder. He suddenly had the vitality and energy he had lacked the last weeks. He marched out the room and down the hallway with Victoria over him like a sack of potatoes.

“Where are you taking me?” Inquired Victoria curiously

“To the bathroom. You are a grime ball and if Pol sees you like this, she will have both of our heads”

Victoria’s protests echoed on the walls as she tried to wiggle out of Tommy’s protective arms, laughing and squeaking as Tommy playfully dug his fingers in her ribs to tickle her.

[miss-conjayniality]

another submissive dilf!jay thought that randomly jumped out of the blue….crossdressing with dilf!jay.

imagine that you and jay are about to attend a social function and he sees you getting ready. and there’s something that truly gets to him whenever he looks at you getting ready. he thinks you look absolutely stunning from start to finish. whether you’re bare-faced or full faced, it doesn’t matter. he’s always starstruck by your beauty.

being the inquisitive, knowledge-seeking man he is, jay has always had a casual interest in makeup. tinkering around with makeup tutorials and seeing how it looks on him, learning about its rich history spanning all the way back to ancient egypt…..he’s fascinated by how both women and men used cosmetics for millennia as a way to beautify the self.

as jay sees you blending your eyeshadow, he has a certain desire in his mind - he wants you to put makeup on him. to him, the creation of glamour sounds like such an intimate, romantic experience. you see, glamour starts from within. and depending on who you are inside, it outwardly shows up differently and uniquely on everyone. for jay, he is the embodiment of a classy, vintage, gentlemanly glamour. but he’s also open to experimenting towards something different and not boxing himself to just masculine dapperness.

dare we say it? he envies you. he loves and relishes in his dapperness dearly. but as stated before, he’d love to tap into his girly, feminine side without the rigid social repercussions. and what better way than to do it with his lovely, endearing wife?

on that same note, he loves your lingerie….and not only does he find it incredibly sexy on you, but he would love for you to put it on him. sometimes, when he gifts you new lingerie, he wishes he could share them with you too. he wants you to do unspeakable things to him as he wears your pretty pink silk nightgowns, pink laced lingerie, sparkly pink stilettos, and more.

“p….princess?” jay nervously asks, “may you put your makeup on me sometime? and maybe your lingerie too? ehehe. daddy thinks it sounds real fun.”

jay didn’t mean for those last two sentences to come out. his mind-to-mouth connection vanished for a moment because of his desires flooding his mind. he hopes you don’t find him weird or anything…

“ah! princess oh my god I’m so sorry if i-

“daddy,” you interrupt, “i’d be more than delighted to do those aforementioned things to you. i think you’d look stunning in my skimpy little clothes. i have never seen this side of you come out but i’m glad it is.”

“r-….really princess?” he blushes, “thank you for the kind words. I love you so much. thank you for accepting this side of me. for a long time i thought you’d find it strange.”

“well all I must say is that you’re sexy and beautiful regardless if you’re wearing blue calvin klein boxers or pink victoria’s secret lingerie. that’s how deep my love runs for you. you are valid as is. and you are my stunning, beloved daddy no matter what.”

he gets even more flustered by your kind, affirming words. you give his cheek a peck and you two head off for the night. but jay is anticipating tomorrow far more than this event because he’s been dreaming of this for so long.

he’s excited for you to dress him up and beautify him, only for the lingerie to be taken off afterwards and the makeup to be smudged in tears after a good hard fuck from his pretty princess.

[mahoushojo-chan]

headcanons on the Cazador spawn family

because i had to write the family into my fanfiction, i spent a good hour in the szarr manor just scrounging for details.

additional credits to this redditor who helped get me started. i won't be going over the details that they already succinctly summarized, i'll only go over my extrapolations

tw: mentions of SA, ptsd, and all the gory details you'd expect from astarion's personal quest. and spoilers, of course.

Cazador Szarr:

in many ways, i want to write cazador as astarion's foil, and someone who has very similar views to an ascended astarion, even if he has a relatively different personality. i saw him as someone more introverted and calculated than our hedonistic, in-the-moment ally, but they are joined in the sense that both of them are intentionally cruel to others and possessive over what is theirs. i also wrote him as a necromancer wizard. just seemed to fit.

one thing that seemed to stump many is why there were only seven spawn that cazador kept, but seven thousand he could have chosen from. my theory is this: cazador was truly trying to build some semblance of family, as fcked up as it became. i also don't think that he ended up seeing them as family, and that his viewpoint constantly changed between seeing them as family, lovers, and slaves/tools for his own pleasure. astarion truly loved you before he ascended, and in the same vein, i imagine cazador had an innocent wish as a spawn, or even as a human: he wanted to be a father or a lover, apparently to a large family. this frames how i view the 'siblings'.

Leon Onufrio:

the only spawn with a last name, oddly enough. astarion says that he was 'one of (Cazador's) firsts', which led me to believe there must have been at least one before. i wrote leon to be his first. this makes sense for cazador's first spawn, since cazador seemingly has an affinity towards pretty men. it made sense to me that he could lure in a human with the false promise of eternity, and that he would choose one who seemed responsible and kind for his first 'son'. he is the only one with a daughter, and the only one with limited access to magic. he also seems to understand cazador well, being the first to realize that astarion is right to believe in cazador's cruelty over their false promise of freedom. i imagine cazador would have wanted him to play the role of a 'responsible older brother', and allow him the most independence. the first to have a child, the top hunter, the role model. amongst the spawn, he is the golden child, aka just had the most time to adapt to cazador's ways and go towards people pleasing. and due to his role, cazador allows him to play this.

i wrote him as a shadow magic sorcerer, because we know he is canonically a sorcerer and that he managed to place a necrotic curse on his daughter's blood, in case anyone would go after her. shadow magic seemed fitting for a vampire. it seemed like the type that would attract cazador.

I know that canonically there's a likelihood that he was the last spawn that cazador took in, and he had to take victoria with him and had to be in a position to actually mpregnate someone, but i just wrote it such that he managed to do so while he was a spawn... which is possible, astarion fans... it is possible...

Astarion Ancunin:

canonically astarion's one of cazador's firsts, and i chose to make him the second. i figured if i were an evil, narcissistic asshole playing 'house' with a son, artistically, a cain-and-abel dynamic with an 'ideal' older son and a resentful, evil younger brother. it is also known that astarion was rebellious, and cazador took specific glee in punishing him. that's right, according to this theory: astarion was always built to fail. he was always made to be punished in his role, regardless of what he did. he was meant to be broken over and over again, but not broken enough to stop rebelling entirely, because this would mean that he didn't fit his role well enough. he would be punished according to his role, because you could not be too rebellious, but then he could also be punished if he did not rebel enough, because then he wouldn't suit cazador's cruel playacting. he is the 'rebellious second-born'.

using the bg3 canon, astarion is an arcane trickster. i write him as a thief, never quite having enough time or wanting to put enough effort on honing his magical ability, moreso focusing on surviving.

Dalyria:

the rest of the spawn get a little more difficult, as less and less of them are known. we know dalyria was a physician, she cares about astarion, and she killed leon's daughter to try and discover a 'cure' to their vampirism. i just wanted to write her in relation to the others as a "mature and elegant older sister". one who genuinely has other people's best interests at heart. i also wanted to keep in mind the doctor's hippocratic oath and how that may have degraded and suffered from cognitive dissonance under years of abject torture, especially with what she ended up doing to victoria.

as it stands, there actually is a 'physician's touch' feat in dungeons and dragons, under the monk: way of mercy subclass.

Aurelia:

personally, i thought aurelia was really cute. she's also the only tiefling in cazador's coterie. continuing with the pattern, i thought perhaps cazador could also think so: she plays the role of the 'cute, anxious younger sister' that needs to be coddled a bit. she allows the hope of freedom to be dangled in her face.

in my hypothetical, she was innocent and it was probably easy for cazador to lure her in. perhaps she was already treated poorly by the world as a tiefling, and cazador pretended to be a kind, caring, gentle figure. whether as a father, or a lover. she seems to be the most aware of cazador's schemes and easy to control.

because she was captured while she was still innocent, and i made it so that after capture, none of cazador's spawn could really 'grow' as people while under his control (hence why astarion is level 1 when we meet him), i don't have a class for her yet, other than the charisma-based inclination based off her tiefling nature. i do have two little plot hooks for her though, so i'll see which direction she decides to go in.

Petras:

what we mainly know is that petras is a bit of an idiot, according to astarion. while this would normally hold very little juice, since astarion thinks all acts of good are idiotic, we also see that petras is regarded this way in general, such as looking for a meal when he finally is allowed his freedom. his role was "dumb younger brother".

i imagined him as a bit of a jock. not exactly ill-intentioned, but definitely ignorant. he also looked shorter and stouter than astarion--even though i know they most likely use the same model, i wanted to incorporate this. i wanted to make him a idiot-good paladin at first, and keep him as someone resilient and protective, but none of the oaths really seemed to suit him. i knew none of them could be a religious class, mainly for the reasons astarion brought up, and the oaths themselves didn't really serve him well. i settled on barbarian and flavour him with dhampir. yes, even though all of them are technically vampires and petras specifically was a human in life, i just used character sheets to make things easier.

Violet:

Violet was at least a little interesting--mostly because of her diary. she constantly writes about playing pranks on other people and overall being a menace. she's also the only other person to be in the 'favoured spawn' room in recent history. while leon constantly tried to shoehorn his way in there for his daughter, she had no such attachment. i figured she just was a little cruel, and enjoyed the suffering of others so much that she may have actually enjoyed the killing a vampire would do.

i also had cazador enforce this behaviour, because in this hierarchy, she is the 'bratty younger sister'. the favoured youngest spawn. i made her a gloom stalker ranger. i wanted her to be ruthless in the way that she got her kills, attacking others while she had the advantage, and still having some skill. i also wanted an overlap where she and astarion could reconnect so that she wouldn't be completely lost and evil, what with both of them being sneaky and such. plus helps with the pranks role, and gives her some capacity for wisdom

Yousen:

the final sibling. the only thing i think we ever find out about this guy is that violet played a prank on him once. i imagine that cazador saw him as a joke. his stature doesn't fit his team, he's not particularly their type, and he doesn't seem to be treated very well. i think of him as the 'black sheep' of the family. the 'runt of the litter'. this is the role he is meant to play.

however, even though this is the role he plays, i didn't make him this way at all. i headcanon this is the 'character' cazador cared least about. i don't think he took much time carefully picking it out, since yousen would also be the last spawn chosen for the ritual, and at this point, cazador figures they're all going to die anyways--he just needs to complete the family. there was a lot i could do here, with so little known about him. i made him reclusive and resentful, which makes him seem to fit the role, but deep down it's mostly because he's hardened and jaded. i made his backstory as a soldier--perhaps one that cazador found drunk at a bar one day and figured he would make a good joke, a runt, and effectively the most misunderstood.

he is a battle master fighter. or, well, formerly was. i had him lose a significant amount of skill during the years that he became a spawn. also during cazador's ritual, if you examine everyone, he and leon are the only ones with blood on their mouths. i felt that this meant they were the only two who attempted to fight cazador before becoming sacrifical lambs. (note: they also have it at the camp when they attack astarion, but this could still be valid and also i don't trust the texture mapping they did with the spawn, what with their red bodies) i thought a sorcerer and fighter could make a badass combo. also, there are a lot of people who sleep on the halfling fighter builds.

[verona2314]

Judgment of the Damned (translation) PART V

LINK PART IV

Summary:

In the realm of Limbo, where souls deemed too good for Hell but not virtuous enough for Heaven reside, Victoria finds herself thrust into an unprecedented mission. When a notorious sinner, Sir Pentious, achieves redemption and ascends to Heaven, it sends shockwaves through all realms. Tasked with unraveling this mystery, Victoria, a minor judge of souls, is sent to the infamous Hazbin Hotel in Hell. For the first time, an emissary from Limbo steps foot into the fiery depths, tasked with observing and judging the denizens of Hell for their potential for redemption. As Victoria navigates this unfamiliar territory, she captures the unrequired attention of the enigmatic Radio Demon, Alastor. Amidst the chaos of demonic antics and the pursuit of understanding redemption, Victoria must confront her own beliefs and judgments. As she delves deeper into the secrets of the Hazbin Hotel, Victoria uncovers hidden truths about sinners, redemption, and the ultimate fate of souls caught between damnation and salvation. With each soul she encounters, Victoria's journey becomes not only a quest for answers but a personal voyage of self-discovery in the heart of darkness.

Chapter 5: A Fair Trade ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hey, I just want to thank each and every one of you for your support...As always, thank you very much for reading this story. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I also want to inform you that I won't be uploading chapters this weekend as I want to have some chapters ready to upload during the week. Please, feel free to leave your comments and ask questions if you wish.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alastor

After his interesting conversation with Zestial, he immediately set out to resolve that small problem Carmilla was dealing with. After all, he had told the ancestral Overlord that he would take care of that matter in exchange for the information. It wouldn't take him long as he already had everything prepared and planned in advance. He appreciated efficiency and his time, so he would try to be as brief as possible.

He headed towards a building in very poor condition, where several sinners did not receive him kindly. Their first impulse was to attack until they realized his identity. They tried to flee in terror, but Alastor showed no mercy. As he took care of the "clean-up," his thoughts wandered to everything Zestial had told him. The mere possibility that those stories were true thrilled him immensely. Just imagining having in his possession a creature with the ability to modify or annul a contract caused him an indescribable sensation. It could be that backdoor he had been searching for. Who better than a judge to find weaknesses in a contract?

The screams of his victims didn't even faze him. He was so excited that he was undoubtedly going overboard, but he didn't care in the least. He needed to know more about the judge. He had to find out if she really had the abilities that Zestial had mentioned in his tale. The problem was that Victoria wasn't simply going to answer his questions, let alone reveal her cards. It was evident that the esteemed judge was cunning and wouldn't expose herself in that way. The only remaining option was to try to subtly extract the truth through seemingly innocent conversations. However, this wouldn't simplify things much either, as she seemed like a difficult person to manipulate. Furthermore, making the situation even more unfavorable for him, Victoria never trusted him.

The night had already fallen. Alastor walked over the bodies as he tried to solve this dilemma. He truly felt very eager for this challenge and was anxious to have another conversation with the judge and discover what sharp retorts she would give to his sarcastic remarks. Perhaps he could crack that mask of calmness again and see once more that expression of indignation on her face. It was gratifying to know that he had provoked that, that he, the great Alastor, had gotten on the nerves of a minor Judge. Clearly, he had used a low trick. Anyone would be annoyed if they were made to fall to the ground, so he couldn't boast much about that achievement either. Wasn't he perhaps thinking too much about her? Well... how could he not when she was his new source of amusement? A rival to respect and to keep him on his toes. It was just that. Besides, as long as no one else knew about the dear judge's existence, he would have plenty of entertainment time assured.

To his surprise, this last thought caused him a slight unease. The idea of other Overlords trying to befriend her in order to obtain information or use her abilities did not please him. Having competition would make this job much more difficult and would only succeed in making Victoria's walls rise even higher and stronger. No. He couldn't allow the news to spread, as that would completely go against his own interests. And on the other hand, Zestial would also be very pissed off if he found out that he had hidden something like that from him.

Alastor had been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed he was already outside the hotel. He entered the building and came face to face with the remains of the chandelier. "I thought it had stayed firm this time," he thought to himself as he looked at the ceiling. “How could it have fallen if I made sure the chandelier could withstand twice its weight?.” 

At that moment, Alastor heard some very lively laughter coming from the hotel's new bar. Of course, he wanted to know what was the origin of such a cheerful atmosphere, so he transported himself to the door of the lounge, coming across a completely unexpected scene.

Sitting at the bar were Angeldust, Husk, and the judge, engaged in a lively conversation. Victoria laughed and responded to her interlocutors' comments in a charming and carefree manner, acting completely different from what he had seen.

"So you won't believe what the guy replied," Alastor heard Victoria say. "He said that anyone would be grateful to meet his 'little friend'."

"And what did you say?" Angeldust asked, quite interested.

"Well, what anyone would say in that situation," replied Victoria. "That with those tight pants, it was clear that what he had down there was a rather small 'little friend' and that he had proven to not be very smart, so I doubted he could use it in any way to compensate for that detail. So I politely declined his offer."

"Judge!" Angel responded, feigning shock while Husk chuckled quietly. "I never imagined you could be so sharp."

-Well," Victoria continued, shrugging her shoulders, "maybe I went a bit too far. The idea was to deflate his ego, not tear him to pieces."

"I didn't know Limbo could receive such unpleasant people," added Husk, pouring some drinks. From a distance, Alastor could notice that Victoria's smile faltered for a second, which struck him as slightly suspicious.

"Well, you know what they say," the judge replied, "there's all sorts in the Lord's vineyard."

"Judge," said Angel, "I must admit I never thought you could be so amusing. I thought you'd be a boring and strict woman. No offense."

"I can understand why," Victoria replied casually. "It's the image associated with this position. However, it would be difficult to reach people if you can't socialize and build bonds. How could I do my job of gathering information about sinners if I acted like an insufferable woman? I can be firm with my convictions and ideals and uphold the rules while being friendly at the same time. Although when I am strict, I can be quite fearsome. Or so I've been told, at least."

"You're not what I expected from someone who spends their entire existence judging the actions of humans as good or bad," Husk responded.

"There are many shades of gray," Victoria pointed out, looking at her glass. "I've learned that sometimes context does matter and other times it doesn't. That people with the same circumstances make completely different decisions, but life is full of tough choices. Hence, these ideas of 'double effect' or 'unrenounceable fear' emerge."

"I think angels wouldn't like you," murmured Angel.

"Great! That's great news," the judge responded in a celebratory tone. The trio laughed again.

Alastor listened to this conversation from afar, completely puzzled. It was hard to believe that this person was the same Victoria he had spoken to just a few hours ago. She retained her dignified aura and elegant movements, but her face displayed a variety of positive expressions while her amber eyes sparkled with wit. It seemed effortless for her to connect with people. Even Husk seemed to be in a good mood. This implied that Victoria had great social skills and empathy. How could a being from Limbo possess such qualities?

He narrowed his eyes. There was definitely something very suspicious about her. His first impulse was to try to start a conversation with the judge to get answers. He was about to take the first step towards the group when he noticed a slight detail that made him pause. She wasn't carrying the briefcase. His eyes widened. He had to take advantage of the fact that the dear judge was distracted, and without wasting any time, he teleported to her room.

Yes, it wasn't very gentlemanly to intrude without permission into a lady's room, but because of how suspicious the woman seemed, he could make an exception. He turned on the room's light and looked around. Immediately, he spotted the briefcase on the table. It was open, and around it were closed documents. "So that's what you were hiding in there," Alastor thought to himself as he approached the table. Each of the files had a label on the front with a name written on it. "These must be the documents with information about the inhabitants of Hell," he mused to himself as he saw some very interesting names. He reached out to take one of the files when suddenly, golden chains surrounded the folder while he felt the tips of his fingers burning slightly, causing a deep ache.

"Fuck!" he muttered, withdrawing his hand. How could he have underestimated the judge so much? It was obvious that she wouldn't leave something so important in plain sight without any protection. His carelessness irritated him. He needed to find a way to obtain those documents, but apparently, they were protected by some kind of enchantment he knew nothing about. He stepped back frustrated, temporarily giving up on the idea. He would come up with a plan eventually. Slowly, the burning sensation in his fingertips faded until there was no trace of pain. It reminded him of when a child gets a light slap on the hand for trying to take something they shouldn't. He let out a small laugh. He wasn't going to deny that he deserved it. He had decided to leave the room when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a small notebook with a lilac cover on the bed. He tried to resist the temptation, but in the end, curiosity won. With great care and caution, he slowly reached out to take the notebook. This time, no chains appeared, nor did he feel any burns. He examined its exterior, but the only thing written on the cover was the judge's name in very elegant lettering. Alastor shrugged and decided to open the notebook slowly until he could see the first page. Nothing happened. That page was completely blank. Now confident, Alastor decided to turn the page to start reading the contents of the notebook. To his surprise, the blank page wrapped around his index fingers, trapping them, and the notebook slammed shut.

"What's this?" he exclaimed, studying the way the paper had wrapped around his fingers. At first, he was confused; every time he tried to free his fingers, they became more trapped. Finally, he remembered what this was. He had fallen prey to a Chinese finger trap. A really sturdy one that wouldn't break even when he pulled with all his might. For several minutes, he tried to free himself from this trap. He tried in various ways, even with his demonic powers, but the finger trap wouldn't budge. It wasn't hard to deduce that it must also have some enchantment from Limbo. One of very poor taste in his opinion. It was as if they were mocking him. Completely frustrated, he decided to leave the room, hiding his little predicament with the sleeves of his coat. It would be absolutely humiliating if anyone saw him like this. No. Under no circumstances would he allow such a thing. He had had enough for today. He chose to retreat to his room and deal with the damn trap on his own; after all, he was a powerful Overlord.

Victoria

That morning she woke up with a slightly dry mouth. She wasn't sure if it was because of how much she had talked the night before, or from the alcohol she had drunk, or both. Anyway, she felt very happy to have had such a pleasant moment with Angel and Husk. After the chandelier incident, she knew she had to break that awkwardness with the residents immediately before it got worse. So, after getting up, she followed Angel and Husk to the hotel bar where things just fell into place wonderfully.

Unfortunately, her good mood was slightly overshadowed by remembering the reason she was in that place in the first place. Her biggest problem was that she had no idea how to enter the social circles of Hell without resorting to the Overlords or other more important figures. She also didn't want to ask for help from Lucifer because if introduced by him, she would attract too much attention by being associated with the king of Hell. No. She had to find another way, but for now, nothing came to mind. Perhaps she was too focused on that and needed to take some time to relax and clear her mind and maybe, acclimate to the environment. With that in mind, she made the decision to give herself the morning off.

She left her room and after a few minutes of wandering, she found, to her delight, a room with several armchairs and some shelves with books. It was a kind of reading room. She browsed through the books and most of them were dense classics. She could understand that for many, this type of reading could be torturous. There were works by authors like Ivan Turgenev, Leo Tolstoy, William Faulkner, etc. To her surprise, she found a book by Victor Hugo, The Hunchback of Notre Dame. That would be her choice for the day. She sat in the armchair closest to the window and immersed herself in the story. She was so focused on her reading and wiping away the tears that Victor Hugo's words caused her that she didn't notice that someone had entered the room, closing the door.

"Good morning, dear judge!" Alastor greeted with a very lively and noisy voice. Victoria startled in her seat, emitting a small squeak. "It wasn't my intention to scare you, but I can't deny that was very amusing. It definitely must be repeated."

"Alastor," Victoria responded in a monotone voice, regaining her composure. "Good morning to you too," she added, returning her attention to the book, but the radio demon continued to stare at her. She tried to ignore him, but as time passed, she grew more uncomfortable. She sighed resignedly. "Yes? Do you need something?"

"Indeed, dear judge! But I didn't want to interrupt your... interesting reading. I see we share a taste for Victor Hugo, however, I believe you would categorize his books as tragedy and I... hmm never mind."

"You were going to say comedy, weren't you?" Victoria responded, narrowing her eyes and raising her eyebrows.

"Guilty," Alastor smiled.

"I think I'm the one who should decide that, right?" she replied jokingly. At that moment, Victoria noticed Alastor was hiding his hands. "What are you hiding?"

"What do you mean, dear judge?" Alastor feigned ignorance. Victoria gave him a stern look. Alastor pinned his ears back and looked to the side. "I don't have a weapon or anything of the sort. Relax, dear. In fact, Judge, I wanted... um... to ask for your help with a small matter, but I would greatly appreciate it if it stayed between us."

"My help?" Victoria looked at him incredulously and with complete distrust. This whole situation was too strange and suspicious. Her mental alarms were screaming at her not to meddle further in the matter. He was surely trying to manipulate her to get something from her. Had he discovered something else? Was he already aware of her abilities as a judge of Limbo?

"Indeed," Alastor responded with an expression of annoyance.

Victoria could tell that Alastor seemed uncomfortable. He wouldn't look her in the eye, and his expression seemed tense. "Alright. I'll help you."

"It's crucial, dear judge, that you don't tell anyone about this," the radio demon emphasized.

"Yes, yes. I got it," she replied a bit annoyed. "So, what is it?" At that moment, Alastor sighed and revealed his hands. Victoria tried to contain her laughter, but the corners of her lips trembled. What she was witnessing was hilarious. She tried to take a deep breath, but small chuckles tried to escape her lips. Alastor looked at her with his ears even more pinned back, averting his gaze with a look of absolute irritation. She couldn't hold it in any longer and started laughing. "Can you tell me why you have a Chinese finger trap?" she asked amidst laughter. "Wait... is it from my notebook? Did you sneak into my room?"

"I apologize for that invasion of your privacy," muttered the radio demon under his breath.

Victoria kept laughing. "Oh, Mr. Accused, it seems you're ready to be brought to court. Ready to testify?"

Alastor chuckled lightly at her last remark. "Yes, my esteemed judge. What am I accused of?" the demon played along.

"Attempted theft! And the evidence is very clear," said Victoria, pointing to Alastor's fingers trapped in the finger trap.

"False! I plead. It was never an attempted theft. Perhaps trespassing... but not theft,  judge."

At that moment, they both looked at each other while laughing lightly. Feeling more composed now, Victoria shook her head slightly, setting the book aside.

"Goodness, Alastor. I hope you didn't try to touch the documents I had on my table. I can't believe you entered my room. Is your curiosity that great? Don't you know curiosity killed the cat?"

"Should I feel offended that you're equating me to a cat?" the demon responded.

"On the contrary. They're pleasant creatures."

"Have you seen cats in Limbo?" Alastor asked, clearly confused.

"It doesn't matter. That's irrelevant. The point is... I'm very tempted to leave you like this. It would be much easier to deal with you in that state."

"Believe me, my dear judge, I don't need to have my hands free to make your day difficult. Why does your notebook have this cursed thing? I tried to free myself from it all night."

"Well, that notebook was a gift from Seilmon."

"Who?"

Victoria looked at him for a moment. Was this a trick from the radio demon to gather information? She sighed. There was really no harm in Alastor knowing a little about Limbo, and she highly doubted he would subject himself to such humiliation just to uncover her secrets. "Seilmon is the president of the five supreme judges. You could say he's my boss. He's a wise, calm being, but a bit playful. His sense of humor is somewhat childish. That finger trap is completely his style."

Alastor snorted indignantly. "Can you remove it?"

"I could... in exchange for a favor." Victoria wasn't going to miss this opportunity.

"Oh, I see you have claws, my esteemed judge," Alastor said, looking at her maliciously.

"Don't worry, it's nothing too serious. You shouldn't get defensive," Victoria said with a slight smile.

"You couldn't be more wrong. I'm not defensive, I'm very intrigued. Tell me, my dear judge, what can I do for you?"

"I need to enter some social circles of Hell without attracting too much attention. I didn't want to turn to anyone in authority because of the problems that could imply. It's not a good idea to owe favors to individuals like yourselves. But look at what a magnificent opportunity presented itself now that you're in this little predicament, isn't it?"

Alastor emitted a deep, grave laugh. He watched her for a few minutes, possibly trying to read her intentions, but she was being completely honest. Alastor approached her, and she immediately stood up from her seat. The last time he had gotten this close, she had ended up on the floor.

"Oh, don't be afraid, dear judge," Alastor said, leaning down to be at eye level with her. He looked into her eyes for a moment and then straightened up, raising his hands to expose them. "It seems like a fair deal. I'm at your mercy."

Victoria rolled her eyes in annoyance before proceeding to free Alastor from the finger trap. "Can I touch your hands?" she asked to avoid being invasive. The radio demon nodded. Victoria took Alastor's hands and first tried to release him from the trap by bringing his hands closer together to slide his fingers further into the tube. As she suspected, it didn't work. She knew Alastor was clever enough and must know the trick to get out of this type of artifact. She pondered for a moment. This was Seilmon's doing... she had to try to think like him.

"Well?" Alastor inquired. "Are you just going to hold my hands?"

"I'm thinking," she replied calmly. At that moment, a possible solution came to her mind. She concentrated for a moment and whispered, "Free yourself." The trap didn't release. It seemed she would have to give the command with the complete formula. After all, Seilmon was old-fashioned. Again, she focused and with a firm yet calm voice, she said, "With my authority as a judge, I mandate you to free yourself." Barely had she finished speaking when the finger trap released, freeing Alastor. Victoria smiled satisfactorily, but her tranquility wouldn't last long upon seeing her interlocutor's expression. The radio demon was looking at her with a wide smile and eyes full of enthusiasm.

"I SEE NOW! That's a judge's mandate! Tell me, my dear judge Victoria, then… are the rumors about your other abilities true?" LINK PART VI

[no-where-new-hero]

LANTERN HILL CATCH UP POST AT LAST! Analysis under the cut so the post doesn't destroy everyone's timelines.

CH. 2:

LMM really knows how to put her heroines on the torture rack of family disapproval. We just went through Valancy's under the Stirlings and I know Emily's off by heart, but there's something even more terrible about the way Jane is treated because she's not 29 and therefore somewhat more acquainted with life, nor does she have Emily's soul-armor of imagination. As an object of belittling, she has very little to shield herself when her entire world is her unpleasant family around her. Love this line, I've definitely been there too lol.

Sometimes Jane thought drearily that there must be something the matter with her when there were so many people she didn't like.

CH. 3:

Jane got up and walked out of the summer-house and around the garage, past the lonely dog-house that had never had a dog in it…at least, in Jane's recollection…

Disappointed (Dog)House.

Again Jane felt a thrill of understanding. So this girl was afraid of people, too.

Jane is an unusual socially-centric LMM heroine from what I can tell. Valancy and Emily disappear into blue castles or nature to cope. Anne is intensely sociable, but she wins over everyone: she's never allowed the grimier side of humanity to put fear in her. So the fact that this is what stands against Jane and Jody marks a change: they would like to partake in the freedom of society but mores stand against Jody and Grandmother stands against Jane.

CH. 4:

Ahem. Mother's complete and utter lack of compassion for Jody is where the problems begin to arise, I see. I'm also a bit impressed that Jane is able to see her mother's "weakness" so unerringly at 10. It shows how the circumstances of always living in terror of Grandmother has provoked a trauma response of being too precocious at reading people. Grandmother continues to make my blood boil. This following passage REALLY shows LMM's mastery in making the most of an economical scene:

She stood in the doorway and looked at them. You could feel the silence spreading through the room like a cold, smothering wave. "What does this mean, Victoria...if I am allowed to ask?" "This is...Jody," faltered Jane. "I...I brought her over to give her my doll. She hasn't any." "Indeed? And you have given her the one your Aunt Sylvia gave you?" Jane at once realized that she had done something quite unpardonable. It had never occurred to her that she was not at liberty to give away her own doll.

And Jane DOES have a blue castle! Of course LMM couldn't leave her without a coping mechanism. Calling it a "moon spree" is absolutely delightful and henceforth anytime I fall into daydreams I'm going to call it a moon spree.

CH 5:

All she knew about him was that his name must have been Andrew Stuart, because mother was Mrs Andrew Stuart.

Okay not gonna lie this broke my heart a little. She doesn't even know his name qua his name. It probably had never been directly spoken to her. I have to say I love her audacity (even if unintended) in dropping the bombshell question in the mother of Grandmother's tea party. I can only imagine the tempest in the teapot that followed Jane's departure.

But the most terrible thing about it all was that there was something now that could not be talked over with mother. Jane felt it between them, indefinable but there. The old perfect confidence was gone.

And this stuck under my skin. Of course Jane would avoid the subject like the plague, but what's keeping Robin from providing her daughter with some necessary context? Grandmother's prohibition on mentioning him seemed mostly directed at Jane. I'm sure more about Robin will unfold, but keeping in mind a lot of stuff other people have posted about her, I think her cardinal sin is this kind of selfish immaturity. She has learned to love her daughter, probably because Jane insists on being self-reliant, but because of that she probably can't see what she can do to help Jane's suffering.

CH 6:

Mary did not tell Jane that she firmly believed the old lady had poisoned the dog. You didn't tell children things like that and anyway she couldn't be dead sure of it. All she was sure of was that old Mrs Kennedy had been bitterly jealous of her daughter's love for the dog.

MRS. KENT ENERGY. I feel certain someone else in the book club brought this up, but wow the resemblance is strong with this one. And a way into deciphering Teddy's character based on Robin? Certainly, the selfishness and immaturity doesn't seem a stretch to imagine.

"I expect you to obey me without argument, Victoria. You cannot have your own way all the time. Other people's wishes must be considered occasionally. Please oblige me by making no further fuss over a trifle."

Okay of all Grandmother's travesties, this one takes the cake for me. I want to slap the daylights out of this woman so badly.

CH. 7:

Kenneth Howard has peaked eyebrows...brother under the skin to Barney Snaith. Now, all jokes aside, Jane projecting onto Kenneth Howard kind of hit a personal nerve. And the fact that it's yet another thing that Robin can't talk about...like, WOMAN. Please be normal about men to your 11 year old daughter or neither of you may ever recover. I'm curious how this thread will be taken up again later.

CH. 8:

Something about the fact that Robin can't even tell her own daughter that she did a good job in front of Grandmother, no matter what Grandmother herself thinks, makes me wonder what kind of threat Robin finds herself under. Because Grandmother so determinedly "loves" Robin, she doesn't seem likely to wield sarcasm against her. Yes, she kind of orders her about and turns her into her doll, but that's less active cruelty than what she says to Jane. What is Robin so afraid of that prevents her from supporting her daughter? That Jane will be harmed if she seems too loved, like her dog? Yet if Robin is that aware of what's going on and doing nothing about it--dramatically saying that its too late for them to escape--then Robin is literally as damaging to Jane's well-being as Grandmother is.

[jimmyspades]

Sad Boston Legal analysis at 9 am sorry

Season 3 Alan sees Vanessa in that pretty yellow dress and he can’t stop staring, he tells her why it affects him so deeply:

When I was a sophomore in high school I attended my very first dance. There was this girl, standing across the dance floor, wearing a yellow dress. She was so beautiful. I didn't have the courage to ask her to dance, perhaps for fear of the long lonely walk back across the gym floor after being refused. I finally willed myself to go ask, and then suddenly she was gone, in a fleeting second she must have left. I began to imagine what she must have been like. Her laugh. Certainly her kiss. I still know exactly what that feels like, though l've never felt it. She's been a figment for 29 years. An imagined standard by which all other women seem to have fallen terribly short.

He said it was a sophomore dance so he was probably 14-15, which means he had already been assaulted by his neighbor (s4 ep4: “I was 14, Denny. It was statutory rape. You’re the first person I’ve ever told that to.”) but he hadn’t yet been abused by his best friend Paul’s mom Victoria (explored in The Practice s8 eps 13-15: “Victoria, I was 16. Can a boy even be capable of love? … How many teenagers had you been with?”)

So there’s teenage Alan at the dance, at a very strange, confusing time in his life—

—his parents aren’t there for him, his father doesn’t like him, his mother never hugs him, but recently other adults have started showing him affection; grown women want him and use him sexually, and he thinks he’s flattered by the attention because he’s a stupid horny teenage boy!, of course he should want this!, he’s never been touched and suddenly everyone wants to touch him, even Denny makes a joke of it decades later when Alan finally calls it rape, but he’s still just a child. He’s 14!!!! Suddenly he’s “experienced” and treated like an adult and has a reputation—

—but tonight he’s shyly leaning up against the gymnasium wall, alone, wishing he had the confidence to ask this beautiful girl in his class, his own age, to dance. She was so pretty and safe to him—making up a harmless, idealized girl who would never hurt him at a time when he was being abused and tossed around and confused beyond belief—that for the next 30 years (and beyond) Alan used the idea of her to protect himself.

The idea of her kept his standards so high he could always walk away, he never had to be hurt—because any woman who hurt him clearly wasn’t her, so of course she’d disappoint. He expected this.

Of course Tara broke up with him. Of course Sally wouldn’t stay. Of course the women who had sex with him as a teenager lost interest. Of course he and Gloria would never work out. Of course Phoebe (and several other ex gfs) came back to use him then leave again. Of course his wife died. They weren’t the girl in the yellow dress, they were always going to let him down. “I’ve never met the girl in the yellow dress.” He’s still waiting to find her.

[alexanders-pokemon-adventure]

A little rain in every life must fall

Trigger warning themes of depression and themes suicidal

Derek Dagda

In the hospital Alexander was being cared for at Derek sat in a Secluded hallway and thought. Sera tarot reading had no been a clear and undeniable sign that they would succeed he wonted and alexander continuing to worse state was … deeply apparent to derek. Alex is wasting, derek could feel it . Sense a steady waning in for lack of any other Terminologies Alexander’s life force , knew sera and the professor could feel it to in their own strange way as Well. Derek Understood undeniably that the situation was bad but A selfish and unreasonable part of himself felt resentful of Alexander’s family for coming. Their large family have been coming in shifts for the last week. Derek felt it was like they were saying goodbye like they were saying it was already over. it made some Incoherent raging part him want to scream “ ALEX IS NOT DEAD WHY ARE YOU CRYING LIKE ITS OVER , WHY ARE YOU CROUNDING THEM , ALEX DOSENT LIKE BEEING CROWDED”

But…he wouldn’t .Maybe 19 year old Derek Fresh out Of their apprenticeship and angry would have but 28 year old Derek would not. It was the truth that alexander may die soon and their family has the right to be here .

“Needed some space ?” Sera ask as she leaned against next to him

Derek side and nodded”yes , I wanted to think”

“ anything specific” she prodded

“ I don’t know” and A soft sigh was all Derek could muster , there was so much to think about. Their plan to help Alex was still painfully theoretical, Victoria, we’re still out there doing gods know what, alexander’s family had questions that none of them seem to be able to answer satisfactory and then their was Nimbus alexander’s Castform that while they had not been rendered comatose in the greenhouse incident had clearly suffered some kind of damage to their cohesive energy matrix that remained abnormal even weeks after the fact . And then there was. Sara didn’t allow him to finish the thought

“ thinking about the card, Derek ?” Sera asked handing him the The seven of cups

her uncanny ability to hit the nail directly on the head was some thing that used to shock Derek. But after a few years of being friends, with a psychic, the novelty of such things, begins to wear off.

“ it didn’t go unnoticed by me that your face Took the place of the oracle or the lover “ she said “ so i know you two have been a thing for a while bbuuuut I’ve noticed you two have never made it official ?” She said more as a question. Than a statement

“Hmm have you now , didn’t you also say that the images might not be literal , that they may just represent alex imagining the future, not the actual future” derek was deflecting . And he knew it .

“ your going to make me ask, aren’t you” sera said as a statement

“ Someone less nosy wouldn’t ask at all” Derek responded also as a statement

“ Well, Alex and I are best friends and you and I have been friends for the better part of a decade. Also, I’m psychic nosiness comes Prepackaged with all my relationships, unfortunately . So im asking why Aren’t you and alex together ?”sera said

Derek knew the answer “ because alexander doesn’t want to, I’ve asked they said no “ . Sera seam Genuinely shocked by that answer “ they said no ?”

“Not in so many words but it wasn’t yes , Sera “ derek answered “ i dont think alex want that kind of “ he paused Searching for the right words “ i dont think Alexander want a serious romantic relationships anymore ,not after Antonio”

Sera was Silent for a long moment after that and derek wondered if she too remembered the day the Titan slayer killed alexander Five closest friends, and lover , Remember, the weeks that followed when she literally found Alex on the ledge of the starlight tower ready to jump. How when we and their family got them to the Mental health facility ,alex looked so hallow ,so lifeless. Derek knew alexander treatment at that Facility had help them grieve and work through the pain and trauma. help them decide they no longer needed and it was no longer healthy for them to be a Ranger. That it help Bring them to a place where they can feel joy again…but

“ i dont think after Antonio died and Alex stated getting better that they want that kind of relationship again”

“Hmm i had hoped that after four years , that after all this time … that maybe you two would be able to make it work “ sera said

Derek knew because it was sera that her comment was not meant to hurt him or question his Resolve but an actual hope for his and Alex’s happiness. After all, she was one of the few who knew that before there was an Alexander and Antonio, there had almost been a Derek and Alex. But that was along time ago What they had been then in their ranger Apprenticeship days was in the past No matter how much Derek wished it could be his and Alex’s future. Alex would have to want it to and he did not believe Alex Did.

“ you don’t think Alex doesn’t want to because of Antonio do you? . Alex has know that Antonio would’ve wanted them to be happy and to find someone else?” Sera ask

“ I dont know Sera, i think they know logically that Antonio only ever wanted them to be happy . But knowing in your mind and knowing in your heart are not the same thing . Besides alex may just not want or Prioritize that aspect of their life anymore poeple change “ derek said

Sera and Derek stayed silent for long moments in that quit hallway

“Derek i don’t think your face being on the Seven of cups was a coincidence , just like I’m certain our presence on the five of wands wasn’t one . I think your presence in alexander life acts as a nexus of possibilities just like all the other symbols on that card you draw them towards different paths. I think you should tell them when they wake how you feel and what you want and even if alex says no at lest you both will have your Answers and will be able to make choices from there.”

“ but what if they say no?” Derek ask a hint of desperation in his voice

“ then you’ll know alex cant give you what you want and if they cant , you deserve more than an Unfulfilling Situationship with your best friend of over a decade Derek. It’ll suck for a while but it will pass and you both will be better for it.

Derek thought it was terrible to hear unasked for advice that was completely correct , but what did he expect being friends with a Nosy psychic.

[imnotoverlyobsessive]

Moodboard by @softhecreator

Don’t Blame My English Blood For This American Heartache

Chapter Five: Don’t Stop Me Now

AO3 info prologue one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve

All my work is 18+.

I feel I’m watered down whenever he’s around. I put on the crown of clowns and melt slowly to the ground.- MARINA, Hermit the Frog

Mid August, 1984

Diagon Alley

London, England

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Sera admitted, looking at the wand a very old man named Ollivander was offering her in his wand store.

“Nonsense, Miss Malfoy,” the old man assured her. “The wand chooses the witch.”

“I’ve never used a wand before,” she explained. “I learned magic without one.”

“You can’t go to Hogwarts without a wand,” Yarrow told her, fanning herself with a painted fan that looked like it had been made for Queen Victoria herself.

“Indeed, Miss Rosier,” Mr. Ollivander confirmed.

Hesitantly, Sera took the wand in hand.

“Now then,” Mr. Ollivander said pleasantly, “just give it a wave, if you please. Or, if you’d like, perform a simple spell.”

Sera waved the wand, imagining a small ball of harmless light emerging from the tip.

A ball of light did emerge from the tip. But it was not small, nor was it harmless.

It caused a moderately-sized explosion.

With a wave of his own wand, Mr. Ollivander cleaned up his store and offered Sera a second wand to try.

She did the same thing with the same results six times. It seemed that every wand Mr. Ollivander had made disliked Sera a great deal. It took awhile, but eventually, one of the wands she tried didn’t produce an explosion, but rather a large ball of light that closely resembled the sun. She had instinctively waved her free hand and put the light out, of course, but the three of them were momentarily blinded anyway.

“Well,” Yarrow said, mildly amused, “I suspect that’s as good as it’s going to get.”

“Perhaps we should try—“

“Thank you, Mr. Ollivander,” Sera cut him off with a polite smile. “I’ll take this one, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, of course.” He seemed reluctant, but he did as she’d asked.

Sera figured she wouldn’t be using the wand, anyway.

What she was excited for was the cat she was allowed to bring to school with her, were she to be accepted. She’d found a tiny black kitten by the side of the road. She figured that since he was an orphan she found in Europe, she’d name him Beowulf, Beo for short.

“What on earth do you mean you don’t need a trunk?” Aunt Ursa asked, astonished.

“Well,” Sera said slowly, idly petting Beo, was perched on her shoulder at the moment, “we don’t have the money to buy one, and my suitcase will do just fine.”

“But everyone has a trunk.”

Sera shrugged, jostling Beo, who let out a small meow of protest. “Everyone enrolled as a first year, too. I’m enrolling as a seventh year.”

Aunt Ursa pursed her lips. “Very well, dear. As you please.”

Sera smiled. Her aunt had been very kind and accommodating. “I’m very grateful to you for all you’ve done for me, Aunt Ursa. Truly.”

Her aunt smiled back at her. “Of course, dear girl. Now come, we must get you to Hogwarts for the placement examinations.”

The tests were beyond exhausting.

It certainly didn’t help that Sera hadn’t bothered to attend in the Hogwarts uniform everyone else was wearing. That was probably why people were staring so much, actually: she wore a black and red plaid skirt with suspenders that went over the black Lick It Up sleeveless shirt she’d bought at a KISS concert when she was fifteen and the beat-up combat boots she’d had since she stopped growing at thirteen.

She didn’t always dress like a punk, but she had a few friends who were in college back at UCSC who were really into that kinda thing. Okay, so Doug was more the sort to wear jeans and plain t-shirts, but his girlfriend liked to drop acid at the Boardwalk, and his best friends consisted of a dude majoring in astrophysics and another dude who’d founded UCSC’s gay and lesbian organization, which Ta attended the meetings of despite not even being enrolled yet. In any case, some of her friends back home dressed the way she did, and she kept forgetting that nobody in the Wizarding World did.

Mid August, 1984

Hogwarts

Scotland

“I really think I should try it without a wand, ma’am,” Sera attempted to tell the transfiguration professor, whose name was McGonagall. Transfiguration was her first test with a practical section, and Sera knew it was essential she display her abilities there because Aunt Ursa’s explanations of English-style magic may not have been entirely adequate to get her a passing grade on their own, comprehensive though they were.

The older woman—who Sera thought she might like, actually; she was terribly excited to get to know other witches, especially teachers—pursed her lips. “We will try with a wand first, and then without a wand.”

Sera nodded, and was then presented with some sort of ball.

“Turn this into a balloon, if you please,” Ms. McGonagall said politely. “With your wand.”

Sera nodded, and, picturing the ball turning into a balloon, she flicked her wand at it. 

The ball transformed into a balloon, which promptly exploded.

Ms. McGonagall blinked at the scorch marks on the stone floor, then looked up at Sera. “Let’s try without your wand, then.”

Sera put her wand down on the table carefully, as if it might bite her, which she half-thought was a possibility.

“Should I make a new ball?” she asked. 

Ms. McGonagall raised her eyebrows. “Can you do it without making it explode?”

Sera grimaced, but nodded. “Yes.”

“Very well, then.” With that, the teacher stood back, presumably to avoid potential injury if another explosion were to occur. 

Sera flicked her hand, and a ball identical to the one before popped into being.

Ms. McGonagall stared at her. “Wandless and nonverbal,” she observed quietly, taking notes on a pad of some sort. “The balloon, if you would.”

Sera nodded and flicked her hand again, and the ball became a balloon.

Ms. McGonagall pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Are you capable of human transfiguration?”

Sera nodded, sitting down at a desk chair. “I used to do this at the beach with a friend of mine,” she admitted a bit bashfully. The teacher raised her eyebrows expectantly, and then Sera gestured to her legs. Her pale skin became opalescent scales, and her legs merged into a tail.

“You can transform yourself into a mermaid,” the teacher observed dryly.

“Yes,” Sera confirmed, tapping her tail idly to turn it back into legs. “I can’t breathe underwater or anything, though.”

Ms. McGonagall’s lips twitched, and Sera thought she might’ve been trying not to smile. “Miss Malfoy, what happened when you used your wand, does that always happen?”

Sera shrugged. “I never used one before I came to Europe. I learned without one.”

“You learned magic without a wand?”

Sera nodded. “The people who taught me don’t use them, either. I didn’t know witches used wands until recently.”

Ms. McGonagall nodded once, scribbling down something on her notepad.

She had to do several other transfigurations before the practical was over, and the teacher was a very stoic woman, but Sera hoped she was at least a little bit impressed.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Sera addressed her, a bit nervous. Ms. McGonagall looked down at her, as expressionless as always. “Do you think… that is to say, do I have a chance? At— at getting in, I mean.”

The older woman looked at Sera consideringly. “I think, Miss Malfoy,” she said slowly, “that if you show the skill in your other examinations as you did in this one, I will be very pleased to have you in my class.”

Mid August, 1984

Malfoy Manor

Wiltshire, England

Upon her return to Malfoy Manor, she was most displeased to discover none other than Regulus Black waiting there for her.

“Eugh,” she said by way of greeting, curling her lip at him. “Go away. I am so not in the mood.” It was true; she was exhausted. Hours of testing made one very tired, and she was very interested in going to bed, despite the fact that it was barely past six and she hadn’t even had dinner.

Regulus smiled in a way that made him look deceptively good-natured. “I know you had your placement examinations today, and I thought you’d fancy could use a bit of a breather afterwards.”

“Yes, I would could,” she agreed immediately. “Which is why you should leave. I’m not in one of your fancy hundred-year-old dresses, anyway.”

He looked down at her outfit, his eyes widening as if he hadn’t noticed it before. “What on earth are you wearing?”

“Clothes,” she informed him flatly.

“Is… is that how Muggles dress?”

She put a hand on her hip. “People who can’t use magic, you mean? Yes, they sometimes dress like me.”

He licked his lips, his eyes fixed on her bare legs. “You… you wear this kind of thing oftena lot?”

“Sometimes.” She wanted to smack him until he actually left. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

His gaze flicked back up to her face. “I’d like it to be.”

Sera fixed him with a glare. “What I wear is never going to be any of your business.” 

With that, she moved around him to the main hallway and made a right in the direction of the spiral staircase that led to the third floor she occupied.

“Where are you going?” Regulus asked, sounding like he was hurrying after her.

“My room. Not that that’s any of your business, either.” She turned into the tiny room with the staircase, hoping very much he would take the hint and leave her be.

“I thought we could have a cup of tea,” he told her.

“I’m American,” she snapped impatiently. “I don’t drink tea to wind down. I watch things, listen to music, and take naps.”

“Oh.” She rolled her eyes at his ridiculousness and didn’t respond, but he followed after her anyway.

“I might decide to turn the stairs into a slide,” she warned as she began to go up them.

“No, you won’t,” he deduced easily. “I remember those exams, and they’re an absolute nightmare. You won’t want to do magic like that for another few hours at least.”

She pursed her lips, annoyed. Especially about the fact that he was right.

“Why won’t you go away and leave me alone?” she demanded in exasperation as they reached the top of the stairs on the third floor.

“Because if I leave you alone, you’ll never fancy me, and that won’t do.”

“That won’t do,” she mimicked, dropping her voice down low in and faking a British accent in what she considered to be a spot-on impression of the dickhead. “I’ll never ‘fancy’ you either way, fancy boy.”

She strolled into her TV room, plopping down on the couch and grabbing the remote off the coffee table. “I’m confident you will, but— what’s that?” He pointed at the TV.

“It’s a TV,” she said flatly, clicking the power button. She had MASH queued up in the VCR already, so Hawkeye’s dreamy face immediately appeared onscreen.

Regulus flinched. “What on earth—“

“It plays videos,” she explained impatiently. “Recordings. Like a play you can watch. See?” She pressed play, and Hawkeye resumed badgering Frank Burns, the way he’d been doing when she’d turned it off last.

Regulus stepped closer to the TV as if it would bite him.

“Ugh,” she groaned when he stepped in front of the screen. “If you’re not gonna leave, at least get out of the way. Sit down or something.”

He did so wordlessly, watching the screen with wide, fascinated eyes. “This really happened?”

Sera grimaced. “Well… yes and no.” He looked at her in askance, and she paused it with a sigh. “The people, they’re actors. The characters aren’t real. But the place they’re in, Korea, is obviously real.” He nodded his understanding, and she continued, “And Americans really did send troops over there.”

“They’re not fighting anyone,” Regulus pointed out.

“That’s because they’re a MASH unit,” she said. At his blank face, she added, “Mobile Army Surgical Hospital. They’re doctors—healers, whatever—and they treat people who were wounded in the war.”

“Why would anyone choose to do that?” he asked, bewildered.

She snorted. “Oh, they didn’t choose it, most of them. They got drafted.” He looked confused again, so she elaborated, “You know, conscription? Picking random citizens to go fight?”

“That’s barbaric!” Regulus declared, horrified.

“No shit,” she said dryly. “Now shut up; Hawk takes his shirt off in this one and I don’t want you distracting me from his hotness.”

“You— you find this man attractive?” he demanded, looking astonished.

Sera rolled her eyes. “Duh, look at him.”

“He’s got dark hair and light eyes,” Regulus observed. “He’s tall and rather thin— I am your type, then.” He settled back against the couch cushions, satisfied. “Lovely.”

“You are so not my type,” she said, like a liar.

After that, Regulus spent a great deal of time at Malfoy Manor bothering Sera.

She could admit to herself, however begrudgingly, that he was occasionally interesting to be around. He was intelligent and well-spoken, and he seemed to genuinely want to hear her thoughts on things.

Not that she’d ever tell him that, of course.

“We should go out to dinner,” he decided one afternoon.

Sera scowled at him from her place on the couch as she pet Beo, who was asleep in her lap. “Absolutely not.”

He frowned. “It’s a grand idea.”

“It most certainly is not a grand idea,” she said, mimicking his stupid fancy boy accent.

“Very well, then,” he acquiesced, plopping down next to her on the couch, far too close for her liking. “We can stay here.”

She scowled again. “Or, fun alternative,” she said slowly, “you could leave.”

“No,” he hummed thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think I will. Your family likes me.”

“They like you because you’re rich.”

Regulus shrugged. “The end result remains the same.”

“Whatever,” she scoffed.

It wasn’t until several hours later, when she fell asleep on his shoulder, that he carried her to bed; Beo trotting after them. 

Very softly, he said something to her, and whatever it was made her smile and nuzzle into her pillow, but she drifted off before his words could register.

September, 1984

Hogwarts

Scotland

Before Sera knew it, she got her acceptance letter and was off to Hogwarts.

Everything happened so fast that it felt like a whirlwind; she was sorted into Ravenclaw with Yarrow, and they were to share a dorm room. Yarrow didn’t even mind that Sera had a kitten and wanted to put up a mezuzah on their door frame.

She was honestly very excited for almost all of her classes: Transfiguration, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, History of Magic, and—tragically—Potions. She was also taking two elective courses in Ancient Studies and Magical Theory, both of which sounded fascinating.

“Really, Miss Malfoy,” her Head of House, Mr. Flitwick, was saying, “Llumos Solem solem is not a terribly complex spell for a witch of your level. I trust that you will be able to perfect it with ease, based on your examination scores.”

“I can, yeah,” Sera agreed immediately. “The issue isn’t the spell or how difficult it is, sir, it’s the fact that me using a wand doesn’t go well.”

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine,” the teacher assured her.

Sera winced, glancing back at Yarrow, who was looking on with raised eyebrows and pursed lips.

“Remember, Miss Malfoy,” her teacher said, watching the way she held her wand closely, “lumos solem.”

Sera nodded, furrowing her brow in concentration and trying her damnedest to not put too much power behind the spell. Very softly, her voice almost a murmur, she said, “Lumos solem.”

A ball of light emerged from her wand, and it rather closely resembled the sun. It was hot, as if she were in an inferno, and the force of it knocked her onto her ass before she could put it out, but Mr. Flitwick quickly waved his own wand to disperse the bright, burning light.

“I think, Miss Malfoy,” Mr. Flitwick said after a tense moment of silence, “perhaps it would be best if you didn’t use a wand.”

She didn’t notice when several weeks had passed.

She did notice when an unfamiliar owl dropped a letter in her lap at breakfast one morning.

She looked at the front; the envelope was sealed in green wax, a weird, morbid-looking crest on the front. If she looked very closely, she could see that it had three ravens on it, a hand holding a dagger, what appeared to be a skull, and some French written on a weird scroll at the bottom. Bizarre.

She frowned, opened it curiously, and began to read.

Miss Malfoy,

I hope you’re settling in well. Your aunt tells me that you were Sorted into Ravenclaw. I must admit I’m disappointed you weren’t put in my own House, though I don’t doubt that you deserve a spot in the House of wit.

I would very much like to see you, perhaps during a Hogsmeade weekend. I assure you I am privy to all the best places to go and things to do in the village, so your time will be well-spent, even if you do not particularly enjoy my company just yet. Please let me know when would be best.

Yours,

R. A. Black

“Who’s that from?” Yarrow wanted to know, looking up from her vegetarian omelet.

“Lord Black,” Sera said mockingly. “He ‘would very much like to see me’, as he put it.” She made air quotes and rolled her eyes.

Yarrow’s eyes widened. “He really fancies you, doesn’t he?”

Sera scowled. “I hope not. He’s a jackass.”

Yarrow bit back a smile. “Is he now?”

“Don’t look at me like that!” Sera groaned miserably. “Just ‘cause he’s hot doesn’t mean I—“

“Oh, so he’s hot now, is he?” her friend tittered. “I thought he was a jackarse.”

“He is,” Sera insisted. “He’s just a very sexy jackass.”

Yarrow grinned. “You must write him back.”

Sera recoiled so much she damn near fell off the bench. “I’ll do no such thing!”

“Oh, honestly.” Her friend rolled her eyes. “He’s the most eligible bachelor in the country. I find him repulsive physically and even I’d marry him!”

“Dunno how you can find him repulsive,” Sera grumbled into her oatmeal. “Either way, he’s trying to ‘court’ me or whatever, and I’m not having it. No thank you to that.”

Yarrow dropped her fork, and it clattered onto her plate. “He wants to what?”

“Court me,” Sera said dully, taking a bite of her food. “Or so he says.”

“And you said no?”

“Doesn’t seem to have deterred him.” She shrugged. “Maybe my lack of response will do the trick.”

Her lack of response did not, in fact, deter Regulus. He sent her letters fairly regularly, and she always said she wouldn’t read them, but she ended up caving every time.

The letters usually contained things like him bemoaning the fact that she wouldn’t respond to him, stories about his life and schooling, things he wanted to know about her, and—more than a few times—how ‘utterly enchanting’ he found her. His words.

She would be nineteen at the end of October, on the 29th, which was a Monday. However, the following Wednesday was Halloween, and they were permitted to visit a nearby village called Hogsmeade starting after classes let out.

The morning of her birthday, yet another letter arrived from Regulus, except this one was… heavier than normal. She opened it and pulled the paper out, beginning to read.

Miss Malfoy,

I hope your birthday is as lovely as you are. Please accept this small token of my admiration. Your aunt has accepted an invitation to my family’s annual Christmas ball on your behalf, and I ask that you wear this gift for it.

I hope to see you soon.

Yours,

R. A. Black

Yarrow, who had snatched the envelope, pulled a necklace out. Sera’s mouth fell open when she saw it.

The necklace was a woven platinum snake with tiny emeralds amongst the diamonds covering the entire thing, and, astonishingly, a large emerald hanging from the mouth of the snake, as well as three more on either side of it, all the size of her thumb.

Sera could do nothing but stare.

Yarrow, however, laughed outright as she pulled out the pair of matching earrings. “Oh, this is just—“ She cut herself off, collapsing into giggles.

Sera took the necklace from her friend to inspect it, turning it over in her hands.

The emeralds had to be fake, right? They just had to be.

Apparently, she’d said that out loud, because Yarrow fought down more giggles and said, “Oh, no. Those aren’t fake. Emeralds and diamonds. Check the back of the center gemstone.”

Sera blinked in confusion but did as she’d been told.

To her absolute horror, the Black family crest was engraved into the setting.

“Their crest is there, then?” When Sera could only nod, speechless, Yarrow snorted in a rare moment of minor inelegance. “I thought as much. It’s called the Ophiuchus. He gave you a family heirloom, darling. Bloke must be hard as a rock for you.”

“What am I gonna do?” Sera breathed, dejected and at a loss.

Yarrow shrugged. “Marry him, of course.”

“I can’t do that!”

“You could do a hell of a lot worse.”

Sera wasn’t sure that that was true. Hopefully, she’d never have to find out. 

Regulus is so fun to write lol

Big thanks, as always, to the lovely @lilmaymayy for betaing this for me 💗 and of course Sof’s fucking phenomenal moodboard, as per usual

Tag list:

@ellamaianderson @shika1200 @blackqueenstarseed1 @gatoenlaciudad @esmaada @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @softhecreator @timolaurence @timmymyluv @oddlyenoughiamweird @leecrunchybones @s-we-e-t-t-ea @almostg @leespparker @bubblebuttwade @glizzymcguirex @starberry-cake @camille-1019 @lixzey @shycreationdreamland

To be added, please ask 💗

[october-faye]

The penultimate episode of Partner Track. The show has barely taken off, and now it has to stick its landing.

Ingrid drops by Nick's place to return the engagement ring. She looks like she's dreading the conversation. Not to rub it in (but also to totally rub it in), I'd like to ask her if this confrontation is easier than simply breaking up with him weeks ago?

She explains to Nick that she and Jeff have a history.

Girl!

👏 You 👏 slept 👏 with 👏 him 👏 once 👏 six years ago, never learned his name, and never saw him again. That's not history. That's barely a footnote. Look, I just summed up the entirety of it in one sentence.

Nick calls Jeff dark and tortured (LOL) and tells Ingrid to ask herself why she always chases the storm (LOL).

Jeff is not 'the storm'; he's that drizzly piss weather we get in London. Or maybe he means Ingrid's love life in general? Still not seeing it.

Nick tells her he'll have her stuff shipped over to her.

In case this is your last scene, Nick... uh... sorry. You did not deserve this shit. But also, you and Ingrid dated for a matter of months, and you can do better than a woman who's only sort of into you.

Opening credits.

Ingrid is at her apartment, microwaving a meal and looking sad. She must be missing Nick's cooking. But she forgets about all that when the doorman rings and asks if Jeff can come up. She says 'yes' and hurriedly tidies.

Jeff has bought dumplings (I suppose they were out of egg salad sandwiches?) but he sees Ingrid is already eating some. So I suppose he learned her preferred foods off-screen?

He tells Ingrid that he's cooled things off with Victoria, and she tells him that it's 100% over with Nick. They kiss.

The two actors are excellent screen kissers, by the way. It's an easy thing to forget about until you see actors who can only smash their mouths together in a way that just looks like assault.

Jeff and Ingrid agree to keep their relationship a secret in the office. Jeff reminds her that she jumped him in that same office. They giggle some more.

Cut to a montage where they walk past each other at work, eye-fucking so intensely that I'm surprised Ingrid doesn't get pregnant on the spot. Now I'm imagining the beautiful but insufferable and stupid baby they could make.

Seriously, everyone in the office has eyes. They'll see you two touching hands in the corridor as you pass each other. Do you think you're the first ones in the firm to have an affair? I shudder to imagine what a black light would reveal in your offices.

In the overly long montage, they hang around Ingrid's apartment while she dances sexily for him and strips before they have sex. They also make out in an elevator. These two only wish they were Meredith and Derek from Grey's Anatomy.

I'm making fun of them, but I do buy that they're having a lot of fun. It's a shame there weren't enough episodes in this season to let their early love affair play out more slowly so we could see what they're like as a couple when it's not all steamy looks and slow motion fucking.

The montage (finally) ends, and they're in bed. The dialogue tells us it's been a week and that Ingrid is going to a deal closing ceremony. Ingrid tells him there are three slots for Partner at the firm, and she thinks it'll be her, him and Dan who get it.

Jeff agrees and hands her a gift - it's a pretty diamond necklace with a rose pendant, (which is a callback to Rosecliff, where they met). Ingrid is touched, but she's still sad that she hasn't patched things up with Rachel and Tyler. Jeff tells her to give them time and keep moving forward.

They talk about ambition and Jeff tells Ingrid she lives for the gold star. She asks Jeff about his parents' expectations. Jeff tells her that he was the parent. He cooked and took care of his little sisters. His mother was mentally unwell (it's implied she was an addict due to their circumstances and the abuse from his father) and she set fire to a picture of the two of them because she said it had demons in it.

I like getting some backstory for Jeff, but again it's all tell and no show. They could've given him any other backstory, and it wouldn't matter because it isn't reflected enough in his behaviour. In fact, I half-suspect he might be lying about everything. I just don't know.

It's not the actor's fault. The writers waited too long to give us anything to care about with Jeff. But even this just feels like a set-up for the inevitable implosion of their relationship by the finale.

I do like these two as a couple, sort of. Which surprises me, because I wanted to murder Jeff in episodes 1 through 4, and intermittently thereafter.

If this had been better written, we could've had a solid enemies to lovers story. I've found it easier to find gifs on Tumblr for Paralegal Justin and Rachel's love story than for either of Ingrid's love interests. The side pairing was getting more fandom attention than the love triangle the show based a chunk of its marketing on. Whoops.

[charlesandmartine]

Saturday 27th April 2024

We awoke early this morning, now trained to go game watching at silly o'clock. I thought the air conditioning must be on, but it was the roar of the Falls that can constantly be heard from our room. The immense spray can be seen rising from the gorge hewn by the water.

The sun beat down on us yet again. 32° on the rich, the poor, the just and the unjust. Our personal guide showed up on queue, bundled us into the back of his minibus and swiftly drove us to the Falls some 1km from the hotel. The Chinese were ahead of us already doing the selfies. Imagine if you will the holiday slide show happening soon in the home of the Pings, downtown Shanghai. What picture is this asks daddy Ping? That's Victoria Falls says Shing. Where Falls says daddy Ping, all I see is your ugly face. You got any other picture of Falls? Shing falls silent for a moment, then brightens and says yes, I took picture of Falls me and Ting. But Victoria Falls is World Heritage Site, is 107m high, 1737m wide and has 1100m3/sec, 300,000 gallons per sec. flowing over it why only picture of ugly face. Was same with Taj Mahal, London Bridge, Sydney Bridge. Last time I pay for holiday! (Names changed to protect the innocent)

This thing is immense and awe inspiring and the most amazing waterfall we have ever seen. It's construction is of several falls: Devil's Cataract used in previous days as an animal sacrifice area in times of hardship, the Main Falls, Horseshoe Falls, Rainbow Falls and Armchair Falls. In terms of scale it is 10th widest and 13th by volume but figures combined make it to the top three waterfalls in the world. The spray from the crashing water hitting the bedrocks far below rose high into the air forming fine rain soaking us through despite wearing cagoules. Whole areas were hidden intermittently due to the low cloud formed. The viewing walkways have been planted with rainforest vegetation and palm trees because after all, it is warm and it rains continuously and ideal conditions for such a beautiful tropical creation. Astonishingly, on the Zambian bank, possibly Livingstone Island, feet from the precipice edge sat a small pool, quiescent from the thunder of the current passing just inches away before crashing hundreds of feet to the melee far below. Those with an incredibly low IQ were able to enjoy this free gratis jacuzzi provided by nature despite certain death so close at hand.

The first European to find the Falls was of course David Livingstone in 1855. The Chobe River we were by, is one of several feeds to the Zambezi which tips over the Zambian side of the Falls allowing the Zimbabwe peoples to get a good look at it. Livingstone, whose statue we passed, spent his life in Zambia, dying in Chitambo in 1873. He apparently said his heart lay with Zambia, so whether he meant this literally or not, we shall never know for sure, they cut his heart out and buried it there and posted the rest of him back to Westminster Abbey. The railway bridge which also forms the border with Zambia, passes close to the Falls and is an integral part of the Cape Town to Cairo railway a dream of Cecil Rhodes. A jaw dropping engineering project from the late 19 century. Well it would be but it ran out of steam, navies and engineers by the time it reached Tanzania due to sickness and being eaten by lions and it didn't get any further. The 156m bridge was designed by the same guys who built Sydney Harbour bridge; prefabricated in Cleveland, England and shipped out in kit form; an amazing achievement in itself. It was completed in just 14 months in 1905.

Now the Victoria Falls Hotel is quite a closed community with its internal staff coupled closely with the outdoor security staff that have the appearance of a small army! They parade around the grounds keeping non-guests, locals, undesirables and baboons firmly under control and away from the bricks and mortar. They are not that keen on guests either and are likely to ask what your room number is. After recuperating from our dousing at the Falls this morning, we spent an hour or so in the sun by the pool and then felt strong enough to escape to promenade the high street. From the minibus it all looked very jolly; full of curiosity shops, the odd eating place and bar. So off we went. Now I'm sure that they are all very nice people in their own way, but I began to understand how an impala felt just popping out to where the lions live. To start with there were stares similar to those I imagine a black person might get in a white enclave. Then the hard sell starts; carvings, little wooden bowls, statuettes and bright African things. All highly valued in their own way but no I don't want one is not the right answer. You are accompanied along the street having the goods yet again thrust in front of you in case you hadn't previously realised just how much you needed one of these. Then there's the person who is convinced you want a supermarket, maybe for water and he's your man to help you find one. Then there's the honest beggars. A call will be heard from inside a shop you may be passing. It's like the entire Zimbabwe economy must depend on what's in your pocket. We felt desperately for these people but we really don't know what we could do for them. We've done as much as we can simply by coming, staying in a hotel which employs local people. I took a photo of a discarded steam engine and we legged it back to the security of the hotel just mentioned our room number to the host of guards patrolling outside once or twice.

Jungle Junction not being for us tonight we decided to eat on the terrace restaurant. The official currency in Zimbabwe is the US dollar although they have in the last couple of weeks announced for the first time ever their own currency although from what I've heard it's plummeting faster than a bucket down a well. Items purchased and meals are unusually expensive here in the hotel probably due to the link with the dollar. Meal last night was not too far short of $100!

ps Zimbabwe flags are all flying half mast because 3 brigadiers were killed in a motor accident.

pps Tomorrow we will be boarding the Rovos Rail for the next four nights to Pretoria. WiFi might be scarce.

[cordeliaflyte]

Today

By Victoria Chang

On Kawara’s “Today” series

Jan.4.2022

A call is just a call. I pick it up.

Jan.6.2022

I lift blankets looking for my father.

Jan.7.2022

When I take off the patch, your eye is gone.

I spend the day in other people’s tears.

Jan.9.2022

Someone says your eyelid almost came off,

the doctors tried to reattach it. I

close my eye all day to see if I can

feel your dying. What is dying but a

form of hunger, visible to God. When

we pull down your shirt, your good eye opens.

All the waiting, the moon is an athlete.

Jan.11.2022

The woman who let you fall won’t look at

me. In each of us, there is a stranger,

a single road that in one instant forks.

Jan.12.2022

There’s a name for it. The way your mouth stays

open, no breathing. We hold our breaths as

if companions of your dying. Cheyne-Stokes,

named after two doctors. What if we named

everything? The last hand-squeeze before death,

the way your eye looks at me when I talk,

the way the reincarnated cry the

most, bewildered by the star’s second blink.

Jan.13.2022

I tell a story about something, with

my arms waving. And your arm grabs mine, as

if I am a messiah. But really

I withheld food and drink from you so that

your feet that loved to walk would never touch

the ground again. And I wonder why we

are always on our hind legs, to see what?

Jan.15.2022

Maybe we feel dizzy because we are

moving and so is the earth. On some days,

I can tell the earth is rotating in

another direction. Today I meet

a hospice nurse named Harsh. He is sweet, sweet.

Jan.16.2022

They drop the morphine under your tongue. How

it must feel like a faint raindrop taken

from the sky. It’s been two weeks since the fall

and death still catches me by surprise.

I feel nothing. It is raining morphine.

Jan.17.2022

No matter how I scold you, you won’t die.

Meanwhile, there are no birds in the sky, they

have all flown into your brain. I always

knew that our thoughts were birds, but I didn’t

know they would return for the funeral.

Jan.18.2022

Five breaths. Then a minute of not breathing.

I time it, announce it, as if you are

running a race. You would have loved winning

this race to annihilation. Because

you are winning, your mouth is shaped like an O,

has been open for fourteen days now, as

if to say you aren’t done telling me

that Rilke’s Open doesn’t exist, that

our eyes aren’t inverted, that we can see

everything an animal sees with our

eyes closed and our mouths open. If I lean in,

I can hear all the words said in your

life, now in a different order. There’s still

no love, even though I’ve looked through all the

words twice. I go digging in the mass grave

of language for the extra loves and I

end up bringing loneliness back with me.

Jan.19.2022

Every phone call says the same thing, that he

is hanging on. And I imagine you

holding on to the edge of a building,

the city’s mouths waiting for you to jump.

Jan.20.2022

Today is your birthday. Someone came in

and said, they’re still not feeding him? thinking

I was someone else. The eyes press against

the glass of my brain. They can’t touch me but

they won’t stop looking. Eyeballs have footsteps

too. When they walk, they sound sticky. Hundreds

of them have gathered outside the window.

Jan.22.2022

The sky is crooked at my feet. I’m tired

of someone else’s dying. I’ve lost two

pounds because I’ve been chewing rain instead

of swallowing it. Because you haven’t

been eating or drinking, all the food I

eat tastes twice as dead. Twice as good. In the

room down the hall, a man has a stroke, half

of his body splits off. The caretakers

gossip. My sister won’t stop crying, keeps

telling everyone she was your favorite.

Jan.23.2022

They called me at 4:30 am and

I don’t remember what they said. But I

know they never said the word death or died.

Jan.24.2022

The funeral home calls and I open

your checkbook, a balance of mocking birds.

Jan.26.2022

On my notebook, a large group of ants. I

wonder why they had only gathered there

and on Etel Adnan’s Time. They walk on

these words: When no one is waiting for us

any longer, there’s death, so faithful. I

spend the morning killing ants and wonder

how many insects I have killed until

now. All the killing to prepare me to

forgo the feeding tube. Yesterday I

drove past a group of boys running without

their shirts. At the stoplight I could only

see the way their sweat lifted from them. And

I realized the ants weren’t coming from the

floor but were coming from my words. Down the

road, another group of runners going

in the opposite direction, having

no idea of the other runners. All

this time, I thought I didn’t know a thing.

Jan.27.2022

When death was near, I could touch time. It was

softer than I thought it would be. There were

two of them. When I tried to measure their

lengths, I was sent back to the living. I

was shorter but my shadow was longer.

Jan.31.2022

I read you ten poems, eight-hundred-fifty-

nine lines, I had fourteen coffees, nine creams,

twenty-three bobas. I cried zero times.

Feb.1.2022

Another day went by. Still no feeling.

Why is language the only thing I have?

I wonder if it’s possible to live

by persistence, wanting so badly to

remain secured to the body, that his

soul left fourteen years before its vessel.

When asked when a painting was done, Rothko

said, there’s tragedy in every brushstroke.

Feb.3.2022

A man from the funeral home called me.

His voice was so flat, I took a nap while

he talked. When I woke up, I was in the

casket looking up at the ceiling fan.

I couldn’t move my body and a patch

covered my left eye. I heard my own voice

describing my fall onto a knob, how

I lost my left eye, how I refused to

die. And then I saw myself bend over

to look at me. My own hand grabbed my hand

but I couldn’t feel it or move my eye.

I saw myself for who I was—evil,

full of syllables. Poets are useless.

Feb.4.2022

Twice now I’ve thought about the wood casket

and what proportion of the ashes are

wood. Twice now I’ve read about the chamber,

this time I learn it is called a retort,

also a sharp reply. This time, I read

about the pugilistic stance when they

burn the body, the boxer-like pose the

body makes. I think about my father,

alone in the retort, in a small box,

two thousand degrees, his legs bent, his fists

ready to punch me and my live flesh.

Feb.6.2022

The cows have spread out and I have counted

fourteen. Their heads always hang down. They don’t

seem to need to look up. In that way, they

are unlike us. Our euphoria that

comes directly from despair. Look up, we

say, to remind us that we will all die.

Here, the sky is made of nothing. It is

so vast that the twenty-five people who

live here don’t have enough sight to change it.

Feb.9.2022

Today they burned my father. A man named

Garrett called me, in his toneless voice, to

say that someone cleaned his body, covered

him in white linen. After the man called,

I felt warmer all day. My body reached

two thousand degrees but would not burn. I

realized I had not thought of my father

more than once in Wyoming. You’d never

know the planet is dying. Here, the clouds

have holes in them and the deer are more etched

with shadow. A sandwich arrives at my

door at noon. I’m so hungry that I eat

the sandwich first, then think of my father.

Feb.10.2022

Today the river is in crisis, no

horizon dares to go near it. Today

my father is in a small jar. At dusk,

I went into a painter’s studio,

saw his stretched canvas on the table, white,

empty. What are we without those who made

us? May his memory be your blessing,

people emailed me all week. The artist

was painting a series of doors, which were

so real that I walked through the one that was

slightly open. Inside the room was my

breath that I had held since January

13, an eyelid, a loose eyeball, the

knob the eye fell on, the girl’s hands that tried

to catch him, which were charred and still waving.

Feb.11.2022

The white truck went from one frame to the next

and I thought of the time when someone lied

about me. How day and night I cared so

much about the lie that it split into

two, one part went out the left window frame,

the other out the right. Like the blue car

that disappears at the same time as the

white one, yet I can see both at once. When

they burned my father’s body, I wondered

if the eyeballs spread so far on each side

that they could see Wyoming, these two panes,

me on a small brown chair, looking out the

windows, waiting for oblivion to

travel through with its eighteen wheels and truth.

Feb.12.2022

At the beginning of our family tree

was hope. Or maybe it was just an owl.

Feb.13.2022

The same wind was blowing here eighty years

ago, always snapping families in half.

Feb.14.2022

If I keep the window closed, I am stuck

inside with language as it buzzes back

and forth, trying to get out and start wars.

My sister is the only one left. If

she is the favorite of nothing, then

I must be one of Calvino’s cities,

the one with angular shadows, the one

that when turned on its side, becomes a line.

Feb.15.2022

The caskets are shaking. The white-tailed deer

gently cross the river. I hike up the

hill to find my feelings. Instead, I run

into Hope, who doesn’t look at me or

stop, but walks down the hill. Today could be

a day where everything is beautiful.

Feb.16.2022

Yesterday, I walked to the small chapel,

head down, yet all the people driving by

waved to me as if they knew what I had

just done, as if they knew I was going

to the chapel. When I got there, fourteen

white-tailed deer stopped and stared, moving away

from me, as if they also knew. Inside, the

cold mixed with the cold from my body and

the moment of mixing, the stained glass, and

my sobbing finally came. It was so

delayed that I wasn’t sure if I was

crying for the deer that wouldn’t stay, or

the nine people I had just met and would

soon leave behind, the snow that would

come after I am gone, or my father.

I left a note in the guest book, wrote his

name. Above it, Thomas and Claire Bushnell,

married the day before my father’s death,

a tribute to Traveler, one of the

best horses ever. It’s time to go home.

Feb.17.2022

Each of us comes from somewhere with blossoms.