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sheeple · 9 months

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Miracles don't exist | 20: Just like the lot of them

Genre(s): Riddle!reader / Slytherin!reader / kinda slowburn / little happy moments Fandom(s): Harry Potter Pairing(s): Theodore Nott x Reader / Harry Potter x Riddle!reader Summary: Being the Dark Lord's daughter and raised under the strict supervision of the Malfoy's is no easy life. Especially if you start crushing on your father's arch-nemesis, Harry Potter. And that while being engaged to one of his follower’s sons. Warning(s): Not so nice Sirius :( but he means well A/n: Like the first time, I'm gonna take a few weeks off posting MDE. Chapter 21 will be posted on September 27th (because it is my birthday and I'll be turning 21). That also means that I'll post two times that week; chapter 22 will be posted on October 1st. As a little bday present :) [Masterlist] [Mini masterlist] [Playlist]

It's been a couple of hours since the battle and you're locked up in the Infirmary at Hogwarts. Nobody is allowed near you until... you do not know what. In front of the open door, you see Sirius pacing back and forth, looking at you every now and then while an Order of the Phoenix member stands guard.

You passed out before you and Sirius were out of the Floo network. When you woke up, a vase with pretty pink tulips was on the bedside table. Without needing to read the card you knew who it is from.

Suddenly, Sirius and the Order member get called somewhere, presumably to talk to Dumbledore about Voldemort and whatnot.

You turn to your side and stare at the partition with a sigh. A whisper of your name makes you sit back up. Theo looks around to make sure nobody's there before hurrying towards you. You climb out of the bed and limp towards him, hugging him shakingly.

The dark-haired boy wraps both his arms around you, cradling you to his body. "Thank Merlin you're alright. You are alright, right? I was so scared." He takes your face in both of his hands and he checks every nook and cranny.

You feel the blood rush towards your face and you turn away shyly, burrowing your face in his hands. "I'm fine." Your words come out muffled before you pull your face away, "a bit battered and bruised, but fine."

He sighs once again and pulls you back in his embrace, with no intention of letting you go. But when there is a cough, both of you turn your heads and see Sirius standing at the entrance of the infirmary.

"You shouldn't be out of bed." Sirius narrows his eyes at Theodore, estimating if he's a threat or not.

Reluctantly, you let go of Theo and get back into the bed. He goes to sit next to you, tucking you in while Sirius takes place on the chair next to the bed.

"How Harry? And the others?", you ask, not knowing what to talk about.

Sirius nods, scratching his moustache. "They're okay. The matron has patched them up and they're resting in their dorms. Harry's... with Dumbledore."

You hum, nodding.

"Listen", begins Sirius, his eyes flickering towards Theo, "I don't know if it is smart to discuss this with... your friend being here."

Theodore straightens his back and glares at Sirius. "Don't worry about me."

The elder man nods, leaning back in the chair. "Right. After Bellatrix... struck you down, and when You Know Who came—"

"They were both there?" Theo turns towards you with big eyes, his hand grabbing yours. "Did they hurt you?"

"She did, but I attacked her first. The Dark Lord called me young and weak. Before he could do anything Dumbledore came." You do not dare to rise your gaze.

"You attacked first? Since when do you do that?" Theo cocks his head to the side, an angry undertone laced in his words.

You throw your hands up in the air. "She was going to kill Sirius! I couldn't have stood there and done nothing! I'm already in big trouble back at home so who cares?"

He jumps up from the bed, his top lip curled up. "Who cares? Who cares? I care! If you go back to that manor you'll be tortured or killed. And you know they're not above that."

Rolling your eyes, you fold your arms over each other. "I can take it. She crucio'd me back at the Ministry. It wasn't the first time and it won't be the last time I reckon."

"You were crucio'd again?!", the two men say at the same time, shock on their faces.

You slump down and pull the covers over your head. You don't understand the big deal. Knowing who your mother and father are and their temper means that this won't be the last time that spell will be used around you.

"That's it, you're staying with me this summer", Sirius decides and stands up from the chair, his hands on his hips.

You and Theo look at each other and then back to Sirius. "What? No. I'm already staying with Theo." The boy next to you on the bed nods and you feel him pulling you closer to him protectively.

"And how will you be safe? His father is a Death Eater. How do you know he's not just like the lot of them."

Theo slumps his shoulders and shrinks down. You and him never really talked about his father and his views on the Dark Lord. You don't know if it is because you're scared about what he will say or if he's ashamed of his views.

Straightening up in your seat, you grab his hand. "Don't- Don't talk about Theo like that! If there is anyone 'just like the lot of them', it's you! Every bloody one of you has written us off as being a Death Eater. And you of all people should know what's it like to be forced to be something you're not by your family!"

You fold your arms over each other as you turn your head away, not in the mood to look at his hypocritical face. You hear Sirius huff as he rises from the chair. He hoovers for a moment, before walking out of the infirmary and closing the door behind him.

Theo wraps an arm around your shoulders and presses you against his chest. He rests with his chin on top of your head and his thumb rubs comforting circles on your arm. "My father...", he hesitates for a moment, licking his lips, "I got words that my father's arrested. Pretty sure he's on his way to Azkaban right now."

You face the dark-haired boy. "Oh, Theo..." You hold one of his hands and lace your fingers with his.

He shakes his head but won't look at you. "It's better that way. Were safe- you're safe for now." He leans his forehead against yours. Your eyes flutter closed and you and Theodore stay like that until you've fallen asleep and Tho has tucked you under the covers.

You stand with folded arms outside the Gryffindor common room, waiting for the second year to get the golden trio. The first to come out of the hole behind the portrait is Hermione, who gives you a big hug. You get slapped in the face with her hair but return her hug eagerly.

"Oh thank God you're fine! They wouldn't let us into the Infirmary. Not even Sirius could enter. He was at his wit's end!"

Squeezing her tightly one last time before letting go, your eyes flicker to Harry's. "I'm just glad all of you are in one piece. And the others? Are they also..."

Ron nods, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Only Harry got the full brunt of it. He was caught in between Professor Dumbledore and You-Know-Who."

That makes you snap towards the bespectacled boy. You frown, studying him. A couple of cuts but nothing more. "How are feeling?"

Harry shrugs his eyes cast to the ground. You chew on your bottom lip, turning back to Hermione. "From the not-so-celebratory vibes, I assume the Dark Lord is yet to be defeated."

"No... But the Death Eaters present were arrested though."

You hum. "Yeah, I heard it from Theo. His father and my uncle are on their way to Azkaban. They are probably going to hold a mock trial but it's pretty clear that this time it wasn't under the control of Imperio."

The air between the three of you is tense. You purse your lips before speaking. "Right... I'm going to go. I have to pack my stuff to go with Theo."

"You're staying with Nott?" Harry takes a step closer to you, which you counter with one step away from him. He notices it and his shoulders slump.

"Malfoy Manor is not a safe place for me to be at the moment, seeing I made Bellatrix smack against a wall. And as that woman has no maternal instincts, I rather not challenge her."

Realising what you've just said by the three surprised faces, you turn on your heels and make a beeline for the Slytherin common room. But before you're halfway down the first set of stairs, your name gets called out. You turn and look at Harry with raised brows.

"Thank you. For saving Sirius."

You give him a small smile. "He's family after all."

Taglist (bold means I couldn’t tag you): @the0doreslover @lqndkxlmqma @st4rrry @choppedpartymuffinwinner @ledtassoo @literallyobessed @lestat-whore @vanishingcherry @harrysnovia @pietrobae @ireallywannasleep127 @yeolsbubbles @fruityfrog505 @fluffybunnyu @theroyalmanatee @shinrjj @hegdus @kermits-bitch @m1kasawps @noah-uhhh-what @mypolicemanharryyy @fals3-g0d @decapitated-coffee @thatgirljas13 @slytherinambitious @mythicalamphitrite

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bbarnesbby · 10 months

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Through the back door

Pervy!contractor!Joel Miller x fem!reader

(photos from pinterest, and not an accurate representation of how the reader is perceived in their appearance)

Summary: A fresh faced personal assistant catches Joel’s eye whilst working on his current job, and who can blame him for going after what he wants? Even if it takes some convincing…

Words: 2k

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, dark!Joel Miller, Joel is VERY crude and pervy here, he's also very forward, creepy men, catcalling, groping, coercion, lots of sexual innuendos, but no actual smut, my lil brain knows nothing about construction sites or contractors and it shows<3, my dyslexia lol

!! I do not consent to or accept any instance in which my works are copied, edited, reposted or translated on tumblr or any other website. !!

!! Please also note that this is fan fiction and I would never tolerate the themes in this being repeated in the real world. I am not responsible for what you consume on this website, all warnings are given and if you don't feel comfortable with them then your opinion is valid and understandable, but not invitation to hate on or shame this fanfic !!

Thank you and please enjoy <33

The repetitive click of your heels on the dusty pavement below you seems to be the only thing you can hear over your laboured breathing as you rush to get back to the office building, the place that could only affectionately be described as your own personal hell.

When you'd first gotten the job, the ambiguously labelled title you had been assigned did confuse you at first. However, now as you grip the holder for four coffees in one hand, and a bag carrying a series of different flavoured salads, sandwiches, and kinds of pasta in the other, you realise it was all to cover up what you'd really be.

A bottom-of-the-barrel personal assistant.

The job itself isn't one you would complain about, everyone has got to start somewhere after all, especially coming straight out of college. It's just the assholes you work for that make you long for an escape.

Young men with no degree, making them easily less qualified than you, having the audacity to make requests that must be completed in unrealistic time frames seem to be the bane of your existence. The fact they have the power to do so only down to the fact they have family working the important positions in other branches of the company.

That and the thing hanging between their legs.

Pushing your thoughts of distaste aside, you glance at your wristwatch as you round the last corner of your journey before the building is in sight. You notice you've got a good five minutes before you're eligible for a scolding from your boss and let out a sigh of relief.

But as you get closer to your destination, you notice construction tape seems to have materialised around the walkway to the office building in the fifteen minutes you were gone, men already drilling into the ground you need to walk over to get where you need to be.

As you hurry to the now construction site, you stand for a moment confused, huffing as you look around for anyone who could help you in your predicament.

Your eyes scan a group of men standing by the bed of a pickup truck, presumably talking about their job at hand. You walk along the makeshift fence made up of scuffed traffic cones and more construction tape until you're near enough parallel to the truck, not crossing the tape out of concern you may disrupt whatever's going on.

"Excuse me?" Voice loud enough to be heard but still polite, you gain the attention of a couple of the men, their averted gazes prompting those who didn't initially hear you to look over too. A small but friendly smile pulls at your lips but soon falters when a few of them let out their renditions of low whistles and unsavoury comments towards you.

"You alright, pretty lady?" One of them smirks, dark, invasive eyes giving you a once over as he runs his hand over his dark brown, almost black, hair.

Was this building a magnet for sleazy male stereotypes or something?

"Um, I work here." You stumble over the statement slightly, the discomfort you feel under his penetrative stare affecting your speech as you weakly point at the building behind them.

"Yeah, no shit." The same man darkly chuckles along with a couple of the other workers, eyes raking your form, clad in a blouse and pencil skirt. But you feel you might as well be naked in front of them, stuck there like a deer in headlights as they continue to ogle your body. Before he can make any other comments, he's lightly pushed to the side as another man approaches.

"Shut up, Tommy..." His voice is deep and commanding but has a playful nature behind it, the two of them clearly well acquainted with one another.

He looks to be older than the men around him, broad frame imposing as he comes to where the tape separates you from him. Although, the way he carries himself suggests he's probably in a position where he could do whatever he wanted with the equipment on the site, but have no one to answer to for it.

"How can I help, sweetheart?" He sounds friendly enough but has that dirty, smug look on his face that tells you he's not any better than the men who'd previously been eyeing you like a piece of meat.

Despite the sickly feeling that swirls in the pit of your stomach when looking at him, you realise he's probably your best shot at getting you where you need to be.

"I need to get back in the building," your voice is timid as you try to avoid the burly man's gaze, opting to look back to where men are starting to pull up the concrete slabs that once made up your path back into your workplace. Though the pause after you've spoken prompts you to glance back up at him, catching him looking down the gap between your chest and slightly unbuttoned blouse, "I work here-"

"Yeah, you've said that." he cuts you off with a smirk, taking in your mortified expression before looking over the construction site with a huff. "Well my boys are pretty deep in their work now, and I can't have ya walking through here when we've got equipment running," he gives you another once over, "don't want a pretty girl like you getting hurt, do we?"

He's smiling again, but you see straight through it and tense at the realisation these men will be working here for god knows how long.

"What should I do then?" You ask with furrowed brows, readjusting your hold on the coffees that now uncomfortably weigh down your hand.

"I mean I could carry ya over," he laughs as though it's a joke, but first impressions tell you he'd jump at the opportunity to get his filthy hands on you -- no matter the circumstance, "how bout I take you in the backdoor?"

The way he worded the innuendo didn't fly over your head the way you wish it did, and the combination of his comment and the way he's now running his pink tongue over his bottom lip making you feel sick in multiple ways.

You reluctantly nod, just wanting to get back to work and away from this man. The obnoxious nepo babies that unfairly dominated your field of work suddenly felt like prince charmings in comparison to the man now stepping over the flimsy barrier that once separated you. But as he came that small distance closer, you couldn't help but feel some attraction to his broad frame and tan skin. And those arms...

His slight chuckle pulls you out of your thoughts, wide eyes snapping up to meet his leering expression as prickling heat floods your face in embarrassment.

"C'mon, I'm Joel by the way," he tilts his head, gesturing for you to walk in front of him. It's a request you realise most likely has ulterior motives, but you do so anyway after muttering your name in return.

Rounding the corner, you falter for a moment as the cluttered alley comes into view. Your gut instinct is screaming at you to tell Joel that he can fuck right off back to wherever he came from, but you figure that would cause more commotion than the slim possibility he'd try anything in broad daylight.

But as you carry on down the alley and squeeze past a particularly cluttered area of multiple dumpsters and bins, you become more uncomfortable as he spews another innuendo about how 'it's real tight, huh?'

His irksome behaviour soon becomes less of an annoyance and more of a concern though.

Once you're past the worst of the clutter you soon realise that it wasn't just an obstacle, but also serves as a wall -- blocking any further view for anyone passing by.

Turning around, you merely stand there as Joel comes closer. His daunting frame becomes more intimidating in the dim light of the narrowing lane you now find yourself trapped in, helpless.

"Doors just there," he mutters while pointing to the slightly beaten-up side door to the left of you, a twisted attempt at making you believe you still have any control over this situation.

Not trusting your voice, you simply nod at him with your eyes still locked. You'd prefer him to leave before you turn your back to him, but when he makes no move to do so, you quickly rush to the door in the hopes you may be faster than him.

But faster you are not.

First, you feel the heat radiating off of him, and then you feel the hard chest, the wandering hands, the grinding hips. As he invades your space and presses himself against your back, you try to squirm away, but only end up pinning yourself between the door and his imposing body.

"Where you tryna go, sweetheart?" His breath is hot against your neck, sending shivers down your spine and to places that make your body hot with shame. "You really wanna go back in there? Where those people are just gonna treat you like shit?"

His hips continue to grind into your ass, becoming more calculated rather than ravenous, as though his words and body are working as one to persuade you.

"I know those guys, they'll chew you up and spit you out." His words become harsh and his rough hands harsher, beginning to untuck your blouse from your pencil skirt, reaching up until his fingers are splayed across your stomach. The skin-on-skin contact is undeniably thrilling, as he now caresses it with finesse.

"So fuckin' soft," he mutters into your hair, inhaling before releasing a rumbling groan, "I'd treat you like the sweetest thing, baby."

You grimace at his words, far too much commitment behind them, leaving you spiralling into another panicked frenzy. You squirm again, this time having more success as you're able to turn to face him, although not fully able to escape his unrelenting hold yet. Facing him, you see how dark his eyes have become, set on you like a predator eyeing its prey.

His hair is slightly tousled, the way he'd previously been ravaging your body having that effect. You realise there's no way you can persuade him to stop his pursuit of you, so you decide to cave, at least you hope he thinks so.

"Let's not do this here." You say it quietly so as to not come off too demanding, peering up at him through your lashes in a way that you hope looks innocent enough for him to believe it. "Wouldn't you wanna do this someplace comfier," your voice switches from scared to sultry, “hm?”

He quirks a brow at this, slowing his assault on your body to a stop, but not yet taking his hands off of you, “you wanna do this somewhere else, sweetheart?”

The pet name still irks you, but provides some ease in telling you your comment hasn’t pissed him off at all. Trying to run along with your manipulative escape, you nod up at him, taking your bottom lip between your teeth and pushing your own crotch closer to his. You tell yourself it’s all for the bigger picture, but you can’t ignore the way your body has come more accustomed to his touch in such a short period of time.

"Mhm,” you’re nodding again, placing a hand on his firm chest, and slowly, teasingly, sliding it lower, “do this where you can take real good care of me… Show me what I'm missing?"

There's a pause, his expression unreadable as he continues to penetrate your façade with his stare. His lack of response has you rethinking your words, brows twitching as more sick scenarios of what could ensue consume your thoughts. But then a dark chuckle fills the tense silence, Joel shaking his head as he smirks down at you. Stepping back, he tucks his hands into his pockets and gives you one last once over before nodding his head and making his way back down the alley.

"I'll keep an eye out," are his last words before he disappears past the trash and clutter, out of sight.

But maybe not quite out of mind...

-----

First fic done! All likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated and I am open to requests on future fic ideas you may have<33

#joel miller x reader #dark!joel miller #joel miller #joel miller x female reader #the last of us #pedro pascal #pervy!contractor!joel miller #pervy!joel miller #joel miller fanfiction

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kittyball23 · 6 months

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Could you please do a fanfic about Bruce and Brandi? I’ve always been in love with married couples and now I’m just in love with them and no one talks about them! It’s killing me! Maybe how they met or something but it’s okay if you can’t. ☺️

Sure thing! I like this ship, too :)

Meeting You (a Trolls fanfic)

Slowly, but surely, Spruce came back into consciousness.

He hadn’t quite remembered when he had been knocked out, and was still not in the right mindset to remember exactly how, either. His head was fuzzy, throbbing with a dull but persistent aching, and his whole body felt like someone had beaten him senseless. He willed himself to move, but was unable to find the energy to do so just yet. Everything seemed heavy, his muscles burning with soreness and protesting against anything that would require him to shift his position.

Suddenly, somewhere in his mind, he had a dreadful thought. Maybe I'm… dead.

But his conscience was adamant to not believe that. He couldn't be dead! The life he'd had was a short one, barely two decades worth of existence, and it would be unthinkable that it could end so soon.

Straining to search for any sign that it wasn't true, Spruce honed in on his senses, trying to pick out anything indicative that he was not, perhaps, actually dead yet. It took a second, but soon he heard it - the sound of a voice, worried at that, and a little muffled, coming from nearby. And, as his hearing equalized back to its normal level of sharpness, he came to note that it was, in actuality, coming from right above him.

"Come on... wake up..."

He felt what seemed to be a large hand pressing down on his chest, pumping rhythmically up and down against his sternum.

"Come on," it came again, in a desperate whisper this time. The pumping continued and, with the building of pressure within him, Spruce felt a substance rise in his throat, salty and acidic, and finally a violent cough sputtered out of him. He gasped for air, hacking hard for a few moments before it finally subsided. Then, slowly, he forced open his heavy eyelids. His vision swam for a moment before focusing enough to make out the basic shapes composing a face. A tall, blurry, indistinct figure hovered over him, outlined by a stunning halo glow that, if possible, made him feel even more breathless than he already was. Hoarsely, he managed to find the ability to speak.

"Am... am I in heaven?"

A light, feminine laughter met him. "No... but I guess this place comes as a pretty close second."

This place? Spruce rubbed his eyes, blinked a few times to adjust to the harsh, bright lighting, and squinted. Now that he could see clearer, he made out the powdery white sand underneath his body, and the thick jungle-like foliage some distance behind him. Blue waves crashed at a shoreline several yards away from where he lay, in the company of whom he presumed to have been his rescuer from whatever the accident was that he'd endured. She was not a Troll, that much was clear, but what creature she was, he couldn't say he had a clue. But, even with the intriguing felt texture of her skin, stringy yarned hair, and puppet-like features that devised her characteristics, there was still something awfully alluring about her.

She was staring down at him with large, dark eyes, her expression filled with concern. "I was worried I'd have to do CPR. Are you okay?" she asked.

Suddenly, even in his withered state, Spruce felt the need to turn up the charm. "Better, now that I'm with you," he purred seductively. Or, as seductively as he could. It was difficult to sound an ounce attractive when his voice sounded like it had been put through a meat grinder. Oh well. At least his abs would fill in where his words couldn't. He turned to lay fully on his back, so that the firm, pectoral muscles were very much visible, and continued. "But just to be sure, I wouldn't mind you performing some of that mouth-to-mouth." He winked and pursed his lips, waiting to see how she'd react.

There seemed to be a sparkling look in her eyes, like one of enchantment, and Spruce believed his captivating spell to be working... until she spoke.

"Hmm. I dunno, you seem pretty fine to me."

He took it in stride. "Oh, I am fine, baby. And so are you." Spruce smiled at her, and gave another quick wink. She laughed softly, rolling her eyes at him with obvious affection, and leaned over to gently pat him on the cheek. Spruce felt his insides flutter, though he remained outwardly cool. He didn't want to appear too eager - there was a certain method to his madness, after all.

A method, it seemed, that she wasn't going to so easily be played by.

"Nice try," she whispered, getting back up on her feet and starting to head off.

Spruce was surprised to see her go so quickly. "Wait! Miss, uhh... um..." He trailed off, not actually knowing what to call her.

"Brandy," she responded.

"Miss Brandy," he repeated smoothly, wondering if her lips tasted as subtly sweet as the drink that was her namesake, "you wouldn't just leave a gorgeous, hunk of man laying in the middle of the wilderness, would you?"

Brandy paused in her steps and turned to look back at him. She tilted her head and smirked. "Maybe," she said coyly, "if he was uninjured and more than capable of walking back to town after a few minutes of rest."

Shoot, Spruce groaned inwardly. While feeling a tad bit bruised from the rough waters that had tossed him in the first place, he sported no major traumas on his body. He'd be more than capable of doing what she'd said without so much as a problem. A tad exasperated that this was not going the way he'd wanted it to, Spruce sighed. "Come on, girl, I'm trying here!"

Brandy chuckled. "Well then, I guess you'll just have to try a little bit harder then, huh?"

Spruce watched her saunter towards the trees, a small grin stretching across his features as he remained mesmerized by the slight sway her hips made with every sashaying step she took. After a few moments, she called over her shoulder.

"You're welcome for saving your life, by the way!"

And with those parting words, she slipped into the treeline, leaving him alone to stammer one meager, lovestruck reply.

"Th-thanks!"

#trolls #trolls 3 #trolls band together #spruce trolls #brandy trolls #sprandy #dreamworks #fanfiction #kittyball writes #thanks for the ask!#kittyball answers

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magicalgirlmascot · 8 months

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When/if Jaller's team gets into their Mahri arc, are they going to be on the swim team? 😁

HGLDFGHLKJFSLKDG

I'm not gonna lie my immediate reaction was "wait are high school swim teams actually a thing" because in my area they exist as like. non-school stuff like at the sports center or whatever but not at actual schools. I've never been to a high school with a pool but presumably they do exist somewhere

I think when the Mahri stuff hits, honestly they just become even weirder. They were already weird as Toa go with the glowing eyes and the lightning thing but now they have, like, gills? Some of them have scales? Kongu's been trying to grow out his beard and for some reason it's got a weird chitinous texture? Jaller has made friends with a crab? Wait, aren't those invasive here?

Meanwhile Nokama "I Am Coping Just Fine With My Werebeast Past" Metru is losing her fucking mind

#bionicle #ficblogging #knps #in all honesty i haven't the first clue how i would even touch the mahri stuff in this au #it's so specific? the ignika needs them to be able to survive underwater so it's like 'oh i'll just fuck around with their biology :)'#meanwhile in knps like. a big part of the inika arc is them trying to do normal high school stuff in conjunction with being toa #(it's a glorified high school au out here i'm SORRY)#and i don't. really have a way for them to disappear into the lake for several months. or a reason honestly!#i'm still figuring out what the actual plot would be here. right now i just have character beats and general vibes

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tylered-up-in-blue · 10 months

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Response to “The Magic Trick You Didn’t See” / The Coffee Theory

I, like many people in the Good Omens fandom, have already read the big essay “The Magic Trick You Didn’t see” –which blows up the coffee theory that’s been circulating on my twitter page to greater heights and big claims. I have some thoughts.

First of all: I think that the original essay has a few details wrong, essentially because it falls into a kind of utilitarian perspective with the whole magic show metaphor. The thing is –sometimes details which are left hanging, or themes which are shown to be important, don’t always tie up somewhere. Sometimes they’re there because they’re interesting, or poking at intrigue –trying to get you to notice and note down for later, rather than evidence of one ultimate solution that’ll be revealed as a holistic great plot. Also “I didn’t think the writing was good in this moment” isn’t very convincing to me, I’m sorry.

But –I do think that they were onto something. I hesitate to make any grand claims, like “Maggie isn’t real,” or “The Metatron is editing the book of life,” because -to be honest- I don’t trust myself to put my name to something as big as that, and I don’t want to erase my favourite thing about Good Omens: its whimsicality. But I will say that there are themes and notable elements which I think will be important later and hint at some larger fuckery (if you’ll excuse the OFMD reference) going on, so consider this a kind of rejigging of the theory to be a more thematic approach that lays out things I just thought were interesting under an more open-ended (or flip-floppy, depending on how you take it) idea:

Something was going on this season which will be revealed as a Heavenly plot to split Aziraphale and Crowley up by the end. It worked. And the person to reveal the greater plot will be Muriel.

I’ll write down first of all a list of things that have been introduced to the world of Good Omens which I think are important, and highlight why one of them sticks out to me. Then I’ll work on a thematic basis of what things are shown to be worth narrative focus/presuppose S3. The first two themes are very much commentary drawing on the essay I’m responding to, and the second two are more my own ideas –certainly the fourth.

Okay, so: there are introductions to the Good Omens-verse which are clearly there to expand our world for later use. I don’t know if all of these things will come up again, but by the end of this season we know:

There are Nazi (and possibly more) zombies running around London.

There is a gun in Aziraphale’s bookshop -in case it’s needed.

Heaven is interested in keeping things quiet, and they will fiddle with memories to do so. Erased memories can be “stored” in things/creatures.

There is a thing called “The Book of Life” that if you’re written out of, you NEVER EXISTED. (It can be edited, too, presumably.)

Crowley is possibly the most powerful being in the show. “Half a tiny miracle” ends up being enough to resurrect someone 25 times over, and his attempt to stay calm after a little tiff with aziraphale results in draining the street of electricity. Also he created the entire universe. (coming back to amend this with the fact Neil said he got going just "that tiny corner of space" -but I still feel there is significant evidence to say he is very powerful:) )

I lay these out because they’re just good to have noted down, really, and because they’re definitely GOING to be important. ALSO because the last one makes sense for the greater aim to be breaking up the ineffable husbands. Emphasis on Crowley’s power –and for their shared power– sets up a REAL threat for what we KNOW will be the basis of s2: The Second Coming. If you’re Heaven, and you want the second attempt at an apocalypse to be successful, you’d be stupid to let the two celestial beings who were meddling in the whole averted-apocalypse ordeal last time to just be AROUND for it. Especially when one has the ability to stop time!!! You’ve GOT to break them up.

Theme 1: Investigation (Muriel!)

Investigation is a fun little theme in s2: Aziraphale goes full detective mode. He loves the clues, he’s in his little trilby investigating. All the marketing was very investigative and invites the audience to pay close attention. And there are SO many little easter eggs. From The Colour of Magic appearing to Gabriel reading the first lines of Good Omens –even as small as a Terry Prattchet impersonator speaking over the tannoy in Hell, or the film in The Resurrectionist being chosen specifically to play because there’s a scene where Jimmy Stewart talks to a fly.

So! Investigation is fun! It’s important. And my favourite part of the essay I’m responding to is definitely that about Muriel. I think that all this build up to the detective-vibe is going to cumulate in their s3 role. Essentially: I entirely agree that they are coded as the one to blow open this whole case in S3. The police costume and giving them The Crow Road are certainly suggestive–but more than anything, leaving them in charge of the bookshop (full of Aziraphale’s diaries and books and everything) props them up perfectly to earn the promo they got for s2. Because I’m not sure about you, but my mutuals and I were shocked that the NYCC scene (“hello hello hello, I’m a human police officer!”) didn’t happen until episode three. From the way the promo was going (character profiles, trailer etc.) I thought Muriel would be in s2 WAY more.

They also make a HUGE point of how Muriel is considered “nobody.” They say it themselves, they’re called “the dull one” by Metatron.

They set them up perfectly to solve this later.

Theme 2: Memories and Stories:

Memory! Another theme! –memory that can be tampered with, contained, erased and returned.

Heaven is willing to meddle with and erase memories if necessary. They are, then, SUBTLE.

There is no God narrator.

There is a statue immortalising a very real Gabriel (somehow/for some reason –Gabriel was also involved in its making?)

My favourite part of season 2 was definitely the minisodes. The costumes, the settings –I was so surprised to find the horses and carts in ep 3 were CGI in the X-Ray! They look so good! I loved how every single flashback was incredibly vital and interesting to expand on Aziraphale and Crowley’s relationship –that convo on the rock in ep 2? WOW. Stunned. Anyway, not to go on.

I completely disagree with the conviction that these were edited. I think that, to the contrary, these memories are (IF there’s something going on with temptation/persuasion (more on that later) and The Book of Life) are ENTIRELY real. And the reason for that is highlighted in the very essay: each memory is tied to a physical record of it happening. The Book of Job; the Polaroid in ‘41, and Aziraphale’s diaries. This is not to say that there aren’t still gaps: where was the “I’m sorry” dance of ‘41? If Aziraphale wasn’t drinking in 2500 BC then when did he start? Just little things like this.

This is the thing: stories, words, are vital. The challenge that they gave the guy who did Sherlock (I can’t remember his name I’m sorry!) –it’s talked about in the X-Ray– was to have words pop out in 4 different ways across S2. This a fun stylistic choice, but it also gives words narrative attention, so ties in with all this. Without God to narrate, narratives and accounts are left to the characters within the world. It’s fun and important both. So is the spelling stuff. Maggie can’t spell, neither can the demons. (She may be a demon herself –I’m not entirely convinced it’s this simple, tbh, but Aziraphale’s miracle not working on her in ep5 is definitely a red flag.) Anyway – it’s also interesting.

With all this, my idea that Heaven/Metatron had been planning the aziracrow divorce from the beginning might mean they’re tampering with The Book of Life –it also could mean that they’re ABOUT to do something weird with Aziraphale’s memories, or all these pieces are going to become very very helpful for Muriel’s investigation.

I really do wonder what this role of records, memories and narratives will come to, but I have a feeling it’ll bleed into s3.

Theme 3: Food

Crowley was the reason Aziraphale tried food in the first place. I just wanted to put that down because of course he was, but also it is deeply INSANE that he INTRODUCED AZIRAPHALE TO THE CONCEPT OF EATING. God, David was right. They really don't exist without each other.

This is kind of the point I make with food here: it’s a HUGE theme in s2, largely just to emphasise the fact that it’s powerful.

For some reason (jokey or otherwise) eccles cakes can “calm you down.”

Aziraphale becomes significantly bonded to Crowley by eating the Ox in ep2. Later, Crowley is “as strong as an Ox." –fun little echo.)

They drink the same wine as always in ‘41 –they share no wine in s2, just the sherry and whiskey respectively. They also don’t share a meal, which seems interesting. I personally think that it’s to do with consumption being a metaphor for queer desire, and the absence of it being a sign of C/A being on “their own side” in s2. Crowley abandons temptation as Aziraphale abandons attempts to “save” Crowley. –-Or it may mean something else!

Crowley drinks laudanum and it makes him go lala. It ALSO makes him turn tiny, then giant, and he does something kind –kind enough to get him dragged off to hell and tortured so badly that he’s asking for holy water as “insurance” 40 years later.

That fucking oatmilk almond coffee. Okay. So if food is powerful, this has weight. From the colour of it being weird against the background to the fact (to quote my dear friend Jey) “nobody fucking drinks almond syrup!!” –I’m sure you’ve see all this going around. Almonds are obviously very poison-coded, and considering the above point I smell something strange. (I don’t believe it was quite a case of drugging per say, but more metaphor: Aziraphale is being tempted. He’s being manipulated, and drawn back into the culty office world of heaven.)

So what we know here is that food is powerful. An important metaphor and force (especially for aziracrow.)

Theme 4: Resurrection

OKAY: so, this is the most original of my listing in these themes. I am so interested in this resurrection thing they’ve got going.

The Resurrectionist pub: where Gabriel and Beez come to their plan. We see that The Dirty Donkey is a lift to heaven (which NOT enough people are talking about) –so what about The Resurrectionist? What power does it hold as a space? Why is the legacy of Mr Dalrymple important?

Why did (wee) Morag’s eyes glow briefly? Is she a zombie now?

Zombies exist. We know this. They’re also tied to the concept of consumption, which is cool.

Heaven measures miracles by Lazarii.

Gabriel, in one of his flashes of prophecy, says: “there will come a tempest (...) the dead will rise from their graves and wander the earth once more.”

These are all cool. Thematically, it seems that being raised from the dead is going to be something big. I’m interested in this, considering that after Gabriel said the above mentioned prophecy my good friend Jey said “hold on, is this going to be about The Rapture?”

Now: we know that “668: Neighbour of the Beast” was supposed to be set in America. Whether it actually is or not, I don’t know, but I think that if it is about a second coming on American soil, The Rapture feels VERY pertinent. The dead are the first to rise and be with God in The Rapture, but all believers join them: and they join them permanently. In some versions, there is a period in which Christ rules the earth. All very fun and interesting prospects for s3!

Where this leaves us:

S2 is the “bridge” between 1 and 3, in Neil’s words. It’s the “romantic filling” of the sandwich.

I would argue that some seriously tough bread started with “oh Crowley, nothing lasts forever,” but hey ho, that’s the very ending of the season. I just want to talk about coded language/draw on what I’ve just said to talk about how we’re set up for the structures of s3:

Heaven is a CULT. A serious cult. From the (temptation) manipulation of the coffee, to the man at the pub calling Gabriel a “mason” –which I’m assuming he means freemason– to the frankly INSANE smile on Michael Sheen’s face as the credits roll (also sickening lighting there)– they are a big threatening cult, and that is going to be important. I think it’ll just get increasingly so.

FurFur and Shax have it OUT for the ineffable husbands. Like they are NOT fans. And they seem to also be buddies now so… not great news.

In The Scene </3 Crowley stops himself short of saying he’d like to spend eternity with Aziraphale, and instead asks him to “go off together,” just like s1 –I think their language is going to develop hugely in s3. It’ll go back to being the space they “carved out for themselves,” only further.

And finally: a bet. The last time we see Crowley, he’s in a car full of plants because he’s carrying “their side” away with him. I am willing to bet –not that this is a hottake or anything– that it’ll end, as it began: in a garden. S3 will end in the garden of their South Downs Cottage !!!

#gos2 #the coffee theory #good omens #good omens 2 theory #good omens 3 #ineffable husbands #permit me a soapbox

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theamityelf · 26 days

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What about normal Makoto in a room full of his kamakurized friends? 👀

Lol, immediately this brought to mind a kind of inversion of the Undead AU, where the lucksters instead have to take care of super genius versions of their classmates.

But let's put that aside for now.

(I'm making this one a new AU, so the Kamukura 78th class get the same characterization as before, but the backstories from the Kamukuras AU are changed so that instead they were just all entered into the Kamukura Project at the same time. Presumably Izuru Kamukura still exists as the first success and they took that success as a green light to do the same thing with fifteen more kids. None of them have met Izuru, though; he's in the basement of Hope's Peak, and they're at some secondary location where the many people who would be looking for them can't find them.)

So, the scientists Kamukurify the whole 78th class, except Makoto. (Presumably they tricked them into signing off on it, but since some of them are definitely the type to thoroughly read a contract, I'm thinking it was just casually tossed in as a condition to attending.) This does raise the question of "When did they go through with the procedure, and where was Makoto while it was happening?" I'm going to say it happened over some kind of holiday or break, so when Makoto gets pulled in, he has no idea of how serious the danger is until after he's tossed into a room with all of them.

But yeah, the scientists just toss Makoto into a room with the Kamukuras and lock the door.

All of the Kamukuras would immediately reach the conclusion, "The scientists have given us a human plaything, and we're expected to share it, and I know someone is going to break it."

So everyone has one of four reactions:

Someone's going to break him, so it might as well be me.

Someone's going to break him unless I protect him, so I will.

Someone's going to break him, so no point taking an interest.

Someone's going to break him, so I'd better do something interesting with him before they do.

And because they're all Ultimate Analysts, they all know the exact mental journeys the others are on. The best of them are able to circumvent the worst possible outcome (which is, him dying immediately and no one gets to do anything with him and they don't get another one).

As soon as Makoto (again, super not knowing what he's in for) walks into the room, Sakura restrains Junko just to make sure she doesn't do anything to sabotage this chance at stimulation for the rest of them.

Hina runs up to Makoto like, "Interesting. They've never given us something like this before."

("The likeness is incredible," Chihiro's voice floats from somewhere near Hifumi, because Hifumi drew Makoto's face the previous day. "Your clairvoyance has improved, since you spoke with Hagakure." For his part, Hiro is just standing in the corner, looking like he's seen all of this before and doesn't mind an encore.)

"Hina?" Makoto looks around at all of them, confused. They all have shoulder-length hair, uncombed. It's a weird look, especially for those of them who used to have really long or really short hair. (Their hair hasn't grown Kamukura-length yet, since it was shaved for the procedure.) Their eyes are all bright red. "You look...different. Why are you talking like that?"

"He knows us," Celeste observes, having immediately decided to earn his loyalty on the assumption that he can be useful in getting her out. She keeps her hair tidier than any of the others, but Makoto is more focused on how even her eyes are different. They were already red, but before it was a simmering scarlet, like red wine, not a glaring crimson. "Poor thing; you must be so confused."

"Celeste?"

She's unfamiliar with that name, because it isn't the one on record for this body, but she takes it in stride because she doesn't care what he means by it. "Yes? How may I help you?"

"Why did you call her Celeste?" Hina asks.

"You guys- Whoa!" Makoto yelps in fright, as he is lifted off of his feet.

Mondo holds Makoto over his head, like keeping a toy out of reach of children. It's not beyond any of them, physically, to access Makoto anyway, but the idea is that getting to him now would require them to cross a line that would lead to a skirmish, so they won't.

"We should negotiate the use of this resource," Mukuro says.

"He is not a resource for our use," Taka says. "He is a human as humans were meant to be. He shouldn't be touched."

"Guys?!" Makoto calls from his weird position, being held in the air by his shirt and pant leg. "Is everyone okay? You're all being really weird."

"Slow on the uptake," Leon drones. "Might as well let Enoshima cut him open."

"You insult my imagination," Junko replies, casually, from her restrained position.

They're talking like they don't know me, Makoto thinks. And...a little like they don't know each other. At least, not the way they did before. "What happened to you? Did you guys get amnesia or something?"

"Owada, could you put him in the other room while we negotiate?" Sayaka suggests. She has already taken those few seconds to imagine a few outcomes in which everyone would be satisfied. It's the kind of thing she really enjoys doing.

They lock Makoto in an adjacent room and very clinically discuss the best ways to avoid killing him. Or at least to avoid killing him too quickly.

Meanwhile, Makoto is adjusting to all this information he just gathered from that short interaction and preparing for how he's going to interact with them, moving forward.

#danganronpa #kamukura wrangler au #makoto naegi #sayaka maizono #junko enoshima #mukuro ikusaba #leon kuwata #chihiro fujisaki #mondo owada #kiyotaka ishimaru #hifumi yamada #celestia ludenberg #sakura ogami #aoi asahina #yasuhiro hagakure

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praisethesuuun · 1 year

Text

this is my first time writing for him so pls be kind with me ////also, english is not my first language so I'm sorry for any mistakes

Buddha x poet!reader: sweet as lollipop

Type: fluff

Warnings: swearing

“And then I punched him in the face!”

“That’s wonderful, Lord Zeus” said Y/N sitting on one of the sofas of the room. They were sitting there for hours now, but the god wanted the job done by the end of the day. Listening to him non-stop was one of the hardest things in the world, especially if he never stopped praising himself. ‘Did he even do all those things? Probably not’ thought Y/N completely exhausted. They breathed a sigh of relief when Zeus realized what time it was, kicking them out of the room and leaving him alone in the middle of the hallway.

“Narcissist bitch, what the hell do I do now?”

Well, there wasn’t usually so much fun for gods like them: art and poetry were appreciated, but everyone always preferred the strongest deities like Hercules, Zeus or Poseidon. And now Y/N was on Olympus only to write about all the “beautiful adventures” the others made, but for what? Money? A god doesn’t need it. Fame? A lot of people already worshipped them. So why…why were they suffering so much? Exactly, for nothing.

Sometimes Y/N asked themeselves why couldn’t they leave and do whatever they wanted, but everytime they realized why; everyone on Olympus has a place, a part to play, and theirs was to be there and tell the true story of the gods. Only this way would humans have spread the truth.

But, of course, their job had his perks. Like that time Y/N decided to inspire their poets to tell the story of how Ares ended up trapped in a giant vase and how he managed to stay there for days. Needless to say that everyone was laughing their ass off on Olympus when they found out; or the time Y/N and Hermes spread the rumor of Aphrodite's presumed death. She was so angry!

Walking through Valhalla they stopped in the middle of one of the many fields of flowers. Y/N breathed a sigh of relief even though their tranquility didn't last long.

“There you are!” said a voice from behind them.

“What are you doing here, Buddha?”

Y/N hated that damn god. Buddha was always trying to get on their nerves, constantly criticizing them about how they’re not able to go against Zeus and get a life. The diety of poetry growled before answering: “If you’re here to tell me how shitty I am maybe you should go somewhere else”

Buddha laughed. “Wasn’t expecting such low language for you”

Internally he was really hoping to change something in Y/N’s existance: soon there would be Ragnarok and humans would need a guide, a foretaste of the end of humanity, a refuge in art. But Zeus kept Y/N in check and wanted to avoid giving any kind of help to humans, "for fun" he said, even if it was only cruelty.

“Why don’t you do something?” he said. “There you go. Please, I’m just tired and I don’t need another one of Socrate’s like speech…damn, that guy is even worst than you…”

“Just think about it, you’re not like Zeus, you're kinder”

“I’m a god, I’m made of stone”

“You can’t be: you’re a poet” and having said this, Buddha sat down beside them. He started sucking on his lollipop, his eyes lazily watched the colorful field. His head slowly bent to one side, getting close to Y/N's ear, his voice now a whisper: “Help us go against the Heavens”

Y/N's heartbeat stopped completely and their hands started to sweat. Betrayal. Were they even able to backstab everyone? Of course they were. All the days spent writing other people's bullshit, silly minors gods’ poems, hand cramps... Buddha was offering them a chance. The poet had to think carefully: Brunhilde and Buddha were already on humanity's side, it is impossible for the other gods to do like them, so they’re on their own. But even if they accepted, what would they actually change? They are only a deity of poetry after all.

Buddha stood up, rousing them from their thoughts. "Well, if you want to join the club of assholes, give me a ring, but decide quickly. You know very well that there's no more time"

He’s right. So why not give him the answer. “I’m in”

“What? Really?”

“You heard me. Let’s go destroy the whole Olympus”

“That’s the spirit!” screamed the other god picking them up and squeezing them as hard as he could, after all, this may be his only opportunity to do so. He was scared that he had made a mistake and that he might push the other away with that sudden gesture of his, but he relaxed when he felt the grip being reciprocated. Y/N was about to get a shot of life, that thing that they never really fully got.

The poet felt so strange: nobody even dared to touch them or didn't even cared. Everyone looked at their works, not the artist: that gesture so sincere made them feel like jelly and, for the first time after literal eons, they felt at peace. The god's hands encircled their sides, while one of them caressed their back. What they were doing was dangerous, too dangerous, and Buddha began to wonder if he had made the right decision to ask the other to join his rebellion. But he knew it has to be done.

“We’re gonna make it. I promise” thought Buddha with the other still in his arms.

Time seemed to stop for a few moments, the two of them existed and that's it. Y/N was considering their choice again, yet Buddha's encouraging squeeze erased all thought from them. Fate smiled at them and they did the same.

#record of ragnarok #record of ragnarok buddha #record of ragnarok headcanons #ror buddha #buddha x reader #buddha x you #ror imagines #ror x reader #ror x you #snv x reader #snv buddha #snv x you #snv x y/n

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romione-trope-fest · 2 months

Text

Something to Believe In

Fic Title: Something to Believe In

Author Name: voldemorts-tap-shoes/smjl

Selected Trope: Soulmates

Brief Summary: An unusual witness sparks a disagreement between Ron and Hermione about the existence of soulmates.

Word Count: 5286

Rating: M

Any Trigger Warnings: non graphic discussions of death and murder, mentions of suicide

***

Hermione hunches over the desk, her eyes skimming the familiar words for what feels like the thousandth time. Victim: Brendan Hughes. Found alone in his flat. Avada Kedavra. Nothing peculiar about the scene. No witnesses.

She can’t remember the last time she was this frustrated by a case. They’ve been working on this one for over a week with absolutely no forward progress. Any leads they had were exhausted as dead ends within forty-eight hours, so she’s sent Dean and Seamus out to do yet another canvas of the victim’s neighborhood, hoping to find something, anything they might have missed. Meanwhile, she’s back at the DMLE poring over the paltry case file, looking for any insignificant detail that may offer a clue as to what happened.

Ron returns from his coffee run and flops into his usual chair beside her. He sets two paper coffee cups on her desk, the smell of the hot beverages warring with his woodsy cologne over which is the more intoxicating scent. “Anything?”

Forgoing her usual no-caffeine-after-four-pm rule, Hermione takes a large sip of the coffee. If nothing else, letting the nutty aroma hit her nostrils might help distract her from her partner-in-crime-fighting.

“No, nothing,” Hermione replies with a sigh. She flips the case file shut and hands it to him. “Maybe you can work your magic on it. See if there’s a story in there somewhere.”

The pages flutter as Ron gives a perfunctory rifle through them. “I’ve tried. But this is seriously the most boring case ever. Even the bloke’s life was boring. Maybe he Avada’d himself just for something to do.” His blue eyes flicker up at Hermione, pursing her lips in thought, and he laughs. “You’re not really going to check his own wand, are you?”

“Well, it’s about the only thing we haven’t checked,” Hermione says defensively. “You never know.”

“Hopefully Dean and Seamus will turn something up.” Ron sets the file down and Hermione reaches for it again immediately, even though it won’t tell her anything she doesn’t already know. She scans the words again, willing them to make sense in her head. Ron, now idly twirling a quill around his fingers, seems to have abandoned all effort to do any work on the case—not that he actually works here in the first place. He’s generally more helpful than this, but they also generally have more to go on.

Hermione is about to surrender for the day as well, when the sound of heavy, booted footsteps alerts her to someone approaching her desk. “Detective Granger?”

She looks up to find one of the junior Aurors approaching her desk and does a quick glance at the shiny badge pinned to the younger man’s uniform. “Yes, Auror Casey? How can I help you?”

Casey motions to the far side of the room, where a witch about her age is waiting. She’s bundled up in a heavy coat and several scarves, though the weather is mild today, and dabbing at her red-rimmed eyes with a handkerchief. “I think you’ll need to talk to this woman.”

“Auror Casey,” Hermione starts, trying to temper the irritation in her tone. It’s not his fault that she isn’t making any progress on her case, but the interruption isn’t going to help. “They’re still teaching you how to take witness statements in the Academy, I presume?”

“Of course.” The young Auror straightens his spine as if to prove his merit. “But she, uh…she says she witnessed that murder you’re working on.”

Ron, who had been tipped back in his chair staring at the ceiling, sits up abruptly, and the legs of the desk chair make a resounding clatter against the tile floor. “That’s great news!” he exclaims. “I mean, not for her, of course, but you know.”

Hermione shoots him a brief but withering look before she turns back to Casey and lowers her voice. “None of our evidence suggests that there were any witnesses to the crime. Are you sure she’s credible?”

She’s never one to turn up her nose at a lead, but Hermione also has no patience for wasting DMLE resources on false claims. For a witness to suddenly come out of the woodwork, she can’t help but be suspicious.

“We haven’t released any details to the press,” Casey replies. “So if nothing else, she knew our victim.”

Hermione sighs but shifts her gaze back to the woman and offers a reassuring smile. It’s not like she has any other work to do on this case, anyway. “Could you set up Ms…?”

“Davis,” Casey supplies. “Lizzie Davis.”

“Set her up in interrogation, please. We’ll be there in a minute.”

While Auror Casey escorts their new witness into one of the interrogation rooms, Hermione gathers up her notes and some fresh parchment to prepare for questioning. When she turns to Ron to ask if he’s ready to go, the amused look on his face stops her short. “What?”

“This is the least excited I’ve ever seen you about a lead,” he teases. “What’s wrong?”

Ron knows her entirely too well. It’s a wonder she’s able to hide anything from him anymore. “I suppose this case has just brought out my inner pessimist.”

“Inner?” he snorts, and Hermione narrows her eyes at him..

“The whole thing has been one giant dead-end,” she huffs. “My gut is just telling me this will be more of the same.” Hermione shrugs and gets to her feet. “But let’s go find out.”

***

The conversation begins the same way Hermione always starts her witness interviews, with basic information about the person in front of her. But she only gets one question further—how do you know the victim, still an easy one—before she’s completely thrown. Her pen hovers over the parchment, halted from writing the answer as she stares back at the woman across the table. “I beg your pardon?”

“He’s my soulmate,” Lizzie repeats, but the words don’t make any more sense the second time.

“You mean you were involved with Mr. Hughes?” Hermione clarifies. “Romantically?”

Lizzie shakes her head, her eyes wide. “Oh, no, we never met.”

Never met? How in Merlin’s name would this woman have any idea that their victim is her soulmate if they never even met? More importantly, how is she supposed to have witnessed his murder? Hermione sighs heavily. This is a waste of her time, just like she was afraid of. “Ms. Davis—”

Before she can get the words out to conclude the interview and offer her opinion on wasting law enforcement resources, Ron’s hand darts out under the table and squeezes her leg just above the knee, dumbfounding her into silence. The witness momentarily forgotten, Hermione turns her head to gape at Ron, but his attention is elsewhere.

“That’s terrible,” he says sympathetically to Lizzie, leaning forward to offer the woman a fresh handkerchief with his other hand. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It is,” she agrees, taking the kerchief as a fresh round of sniffles surfaces. “Thank you.”

While Lizzie swipes at her teary eyes again, Ron looks pointedly at Hermione. Her shock at his unexpected touch has given way to indignation, and she merely quirks an eyebrow back at him. He’s on his own if he wants to play good cop to her bad cop.

Taking the hint—and finally removing his hand from her leg, leaving it cold—Ron turns back to their witness. “Had you been aware of your connection to Brendan for very long?”

“Brendan,” Lizzie sighs with longing, and Hermione forces herself to hold back an eye roll. “No, I don’t think I realized it until he was gone. But then I just knew.”

“You felt his absence?”

Lizzie nods, clutching a hand to her heart. Ron slides the parchment and pen out from underneath Hermione’s clenched fingers to jot down a note before continuing his questioning. He’s been with her—working with her, she corrects herself—long enough now to conduct a decent interrogation without her guidance, but it’s hard to consider it a worthwhile contribution to the case when the person they’re interviewing is clearly delusional.

“You told Auror Casey that you witnessed the murder,” Ron prods, bringing them back on topic. “Did you have plans to meet Brendan?”

“Meet?” Lizzie asks, puzzled, then repeats, “No, like I said, we never met.”

Ron shoots a questioning look at Hermione as he touches the corner of the case file. She gives him a brief nod in answer, prompting him to reveal, “He was killed in his flat.”

“Yes.” She seems neither surprised nor confused by this fact.

“So…you were there?”

“No. But I saw it.” Lizzie taps her temple with a slender finger.

It’s clear that despite Ron’s silent request to continue the interview, he’s struggling to make sense of what they’re being told. Hermione can practically hear him in her head as he turns to her again with a pleading look. A little help here?

Hermione smirks back at him. She’s your witness now.

Ron takes a deep breath and slides the parchment back to Hermione, who picks up the pen again, ready to take notes on the off chance that Lizzie says anything worth retaining. Ron folds his arms against the table, the muscles in his forearms belying a tension that isn’t evident in the patience of his tone. “Let’s start at the beginning,” he suggests softly to Lizzie. “Why don’t you take me through the last two weeks?”

They spend another half hour with Lizzie Davis despite the interview being filled with increasingly ridiculous claims, and Hermione is not at all sorry to see the lift doors close behind her. She finally lets her eyes roll skyward as she turns to head back to the office. “What an absurd waste of time,” she grumbles as they walk. “Hopefully Dean and Seamus had better luck.”

“What are you talking about?” Ron counters. “She told us who the killer is!”

Hermione stops and glares up at Ron. And here she was, thinking what a good job he had done with a very difficult witness. “You’re not serious.” Ron just blinks at her, and she folds her arms tight across her chest. “Mark Richards—whoever he is—is not a killer. And do you know how I know that? Because Lizzie Davis did not witness Brendan Hughes’s murder.”

Ron puts his hands on his hips, readying his stance for an argument. “Even if she just made up a name to give us, she knew how the victim was killed.”

“He was killed with a killing curse,” Hermione reminds him. “It’s not exactly an earth-shattering guess. And you said it yourself, this case is boring. The crime scene was boring. The details are boring. We could drag any person in here off the street, and they could tell us what happened with as much accuracy as Lizzie did.”

“But it’s not a story for her,” Ron insists. “She knew because they’re soulmates. She felt it.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, of all the ridiculous—there’s no such thing as soulmates.” Hermione starts walking again, in the opposite direction of the DMLE this time with her new target being the coffee cart in the Atrium. She’s going to be awake half the night at this rate, but she needs something stronger than tea to deal with Ron’s outlandish theories.

“No such—” Ron cuts himself off, looking flabbergasted as he follows her. “How can you say that?”

“Honestly, you’ve known me for how long now?” Hermione pauses to order her usual hazelnut coffee from the witch at the cart. “You can’t be shocked by this.”

“I can and I will be,” Ron replies indignantly. He orders a triple espresso, and Hermione shudders at the thought of all that caffeine. “You really don’t believe in soulmates?”

“Oh, come on, you know I don’t believe in Divination and all that rubbish,” she says. “And soulmates? The idea that there’s just one single person out there for everyone—that your match, the person you’re meant to spend your life with, has been predetermined for you—that doesn’t sound crazy?”

“I’m just saying, we’re surrounded by magic.” Ron gestures around them—at the fountain that flows without plumbing, at the interdepartmental memos fluttering past every which way, at the coffee pot that pours itself. “Soulmates is just as crazy an idea as anything else, isn’t it?”

“This from the man who I have seen roll his eyes on multiple occasions about Rose’s mum’s research,” Hermione points out. “So, sure, I’ll give you that one. Soulmates are at least as crazy an idea as the crumple-horned—what is it?”

“Snorkack.”

“Yes, that. And just as likely to exist.”

“So, not at all, you’re saying?”

“Correct.”

They take their drinks from the cart and start back toward the DMLE. “I’ll be the first to admit that Luna has some…interesting pursuits,” Ron concedes, and Hermione snickers. “But soulmates! It’s the magic of love! How can you not believe in that?”

“Okay, let’s say they are real,” Hermione ventures. She’s not sure why she’s even entertaining this argument other than to pass the time back to the Auror offices, though she always enjoys sparring with Ron. “Do you believe everybody has one?”

Ron shrugs. “Nah.”

“Really?” That surprises her. She’s not well-versed in the finer details of Soulmate theory, but the general concept seems to lend itself to a sort of universality. Why wouldn’t everyone have a soulmate if anyone had one? “Then what’s the point?”

“Okay, it’s like Seers. Our Divination professor at Hogwarts—fuck, you would’ve hated her—she made, like, three real prophecies in her life. Real ones—they’re downstairs if you want to go check.” Hermione rolls her eyes again but motions for him to continue. “But then, she was always predicting that Harry was going to die and shit, and obviously none of those ever came true.”

Hermione laughs at the absurdity of his explanation. “I’m sorry, are you trying to explain why soulmates are real by telling me what absolute nonsense Divination is?”

“Divination is only ninety percent nonsense. That’s the point.”

“It’s a terrible point.”

“Okay.” Ron stops and snags Hermione’s elbow, pulling her around to face him. “Where do you draw the line, then? Soulmates can’t be real, but your gut has magical properties?”

“My gut was right about that interview,” Hermione argues as she shakes out of Ron’s grasp and starts walking again. “It was absolutely a waste of time.”

“We don’t know that yet. You haven’t even looked up this Mark Richards character.”

“We don’t even know he exists. Honestly, it’s more likely that Ms. Davis is our killer and she told that story to throw us off.”

“So, killer comes out of hiding and waltzes into the DMLE without a care in the world to lie to the Aurors about a crime she committed?” Ron rolls his eyes as he holds open the department door for her. “And you say my theories are ridiculous.”

“They are, and I’ll stand by that assessment forever.”

Dean and Seamus are waiting back at the office, and they both look up as Ron and Hermione enter. “What are you two arguing about now?” Dean quips.

“Do you think soulmates are real?” Ron fires back in answer.

“No,” Seamus says immediately. “But if Romilda asks, I never said that. She’s into all that Witch Weekly mumbo-jumbo.”

“‘Witch Weekly mumbo-jumbo’,” Hermione echoes, her tone gloating as she looks at Ron. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Ron glares back at her but sits down at Hermione’s desk to face her two partners. “Did you two find anything on the canvas?”

“Yeah, actually.” Dean opens his notebook and Hermione is immediately at attention. “We met one of our victim’s neighbors—he wasn’t home the last time we went door-knocking, so we must have missed him. Anyway, Mr. Richards said that—”

“Wait,” Hermione interrupts. Ron looks positively delighted, and it makes her insides squirm. “What is the neighbor’s name?”

“Richards,” Dean repeats. “Mark Richards.”

Hermione’s head spins. What are the chances?

“Go ahead.” Ron pokes her in the ribs, grinning annoyingly at her. “Say it’s just a coincidence.”

“It’s a common name,” she retorts instead, and Ron snorts indignantly.

“And Lizzie Davis is just a lucky guesser, I suppose.”

Seamus raises his hand as if they’re in school, and the confusion on his face matches Dean’s. “Who’s Lizzie Davis?”

“Nobody,” Hermione says firmly as Ron answers, “Our victim’s soulmate.”

Dean’s eyebrows knit together as he slowly closes his notebook again. “Maybe you two should fill us in on your afternoon first,” he suggests.

Ron, still smirking triumphantly, motions for Hermione to answer. She heaves a sigh and explains, “A woman came into the office claiming to have witnessed the murder. She told us this whole silly story about how she and Brendan were soulmates but they never met, and she saw his murder in her mind because of their ‘ethereal reciprocity’.”

Dean and Seamus both erupt in laughter, and Ron’s face falls. “You, too?” he questions, then sighs dramatically. “I’m surrounded by skeptics.”

“Okay, wait, but how does Mark Richards fit in?” Dean asks once they calm down. “Does this woman know him or something?”

“She, um—” Hermione can hardly bring herself to admit it, but it is awfully odd that their supposed witness could have pulled the name out of thin air, common or not. “She seems to think he’s our killer.”

Despite the disbelief among them, Dean and Seamus both adopt a more serious expression. “We’ll see what else we can find on him,” Dean says. “Just in case.”

“You said you talked to him today, though?” Hermione prompts. “What did you find out?”

“Apparently our victim had gotten himself into a bit of gambling trouble with our old friend Ludo,” Seamus explains. “He borrowed some Galleons from Mark to pay off his debt.”

“Let’s see if Harry will put in a word with Mr. Bagman. Maybe Ludo wasn’t the only person Brendan owed money to.” The detectives scatter at Hermione’s instructions, and Ron props his hand on his chin to look expectantly at her. “Oh, stop,” she scolds. “I’m sure the neighbor is just a coincidence.”

Ron chuckles. “Mm-hmm. Just because you can’t explain something—”

“Yet,” Hermione interrupts. “I can’t explain it yet. But there has to be a connection with Lizzie Davis.” Ron opens his mouth to speak again, but Hermione jumps ahead of him. “A real connection. One we can prove.”

“Who needs proof when it’s such a great story?”

“Well, that’s why you’re the novelist and I’m the detective.”

Hermione walks over to Dean’s desk and picks up his notebook to flip through his notes from the afternoon. Ron’s brow furrows as he thinks, turning more serious as he watches her read. “Money is always an odd motive to me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, how does our killer expect to recover the debt from a dead person?”

“Fair point. I’m sure I’ll regret asking, but do you have a different theory?”

“Mark Richards is not the killer, but he’s involved with Lizzie Davis. Or was. Things ended badly, and so she decides to frame him for her true love’s murder.”

Hermione frowns. “And the actual killer is…?”

Ron shrugs, unbothered by the absence of this detail. “I dunno.”

“Why is Lizzie still mad at Mark about their breakup if her soulmate is someone else?”

“I dunno.”

“A brilliant theory, as always,” Hermione quips, and Ron sticks his tongue out at her.

“Have you got a better idea?” he retorts, his tone teasing.

“Sadly, no.” She replaces Dean’s notebook and grabs her coat off the back of her chair. “And on that absurd note, I think it’s time to call it a day. See you tomorrow?”

“C’mon, a magical love triangle? Now that is a classic motive.” Ron grins at her. “Just think about it.”

Hermione rolls her eyes as she heads for the Floo. “Goodnight, Ron.”

***

Rather than go straight home, Hermione decides to stop at Flourish and Blott’s before picking up dinner. The bookstore has an extensive section on Divination but relatively few books about soulmates. It seems like even within one of the most speculative branches of magic, the concept isn’t widely accepted. The lack of available reading material on the subject puts Hermione’s mind at ease a little. She doesn’t deal well with the unknown. She’s good with facts and evidence. And if there isn’t any evidence to prove the existence of soulmates, then she’s bolstered in her distrust of Lizzie Davis.

But as much as she doesn’t want to believe the how, there’s no denying that Lizzie knows something about their victim and the murder. It’s impossible that she was there—by her own account, she was vacationing in Tuscany during the entire week of the murder, and the Portkey logs corroborated her whereabouts—so she must have learned of Brendan Hughes’s death by some other means. Possibly even from the killer.

She’ll have to see what else they can find out about their apparently lovestruck witness. Like she said to Ron earlier, there has to be a connection. And an explanation. One that doesn’t involve ridiculous notions of the farthest-flung outlying beliefs of magic.

Until she finds it, though, Hermione is stuck with the inexplicable. She’s never believed in any of this stuff, even before her mother’s death turned her into the frosty cynic that all her friends and coworkers know. It always sounded so ridiculous, like something out of a child’s fairytale or a terrible romantic comedy on the movie channel. Then again, she never would have believed that magic was real either, if she weren’t living it. Maybe Ron is right.

Hermione scoffs at herself. Her thoughts always seem to drift back to him; maybe there’s something to that. Hand-in-hand with the idea of soulmates is the concept of fate, destiny. She had been working in the Auror department with Harry, Ron’s best friend in the world, for nearly two years before the copycat murders forced their paths to cross. Harry could have introduced them any time, but they only met by chance. What was that if not fate?

Not that she and Ron are soulmates—or even some less fantastical version of it. They haven’t even—she can’t bring herself to admit that she has anything but friendly feelings for him, and even those were a very slow thaw from the frozen facade she gave him at first. Every once in a while, she thinks that maybe he’s grappling with the same internal conflict. But if he is, he’s never acted on it. And if he had feelings for her, why wouldn’t he? Act on it, that is.

He could have—and has had, according to Witch Weekly—any woman he wants, though his appearance in the gossip pages has decreased significantly since they started working together. If he wanted more than their current partnership, Hermione would know.

Maybe that’s the problem with her lackluster love life. Soulmates are real, and she just hasn’t met hers yet. The thought releases an audible chuckle, and Hermione slides the book back into place on the shelf. How ridiculous.

Filled with a renewed sense of determination after a good night’s sleep, Hermione arrives early to the DMLE the next morning, surprised to find the office quiet. It’s not unusual for her to be in before Dean and Seamus—and definitely before Ron—but she would have thought given everything that happened yesterday, they might have wanted to get a jump on things.

Maybe they’re already out in the field. The light is on in the Head Auror’s office, so Hermione makes her way across the room to say hello and check in. Harry has his head bent over a case file—hers, it appears—but he looks up as she enters. “Morning, Hermione,” Harry greets her. “I was just about to owl you.”

“Have we had news about the Hughes case?” she asks excitedly as she sits across from him. “Did you speak to Ludo?”

“I did, but the case is closed. So you can take the day off, if you want.”

“Closed?” Hermione blinks in surprise. “How?”

“Well, Mr. Hughes’s gambling debt was a problem, but only for him. Padma’s ruling it a suicide.”

“You’re kidding.” She almost forgot about Ron’s quip yesterday afternoon suggesting just that before they met Lizzie Davis. “But it wasn’t his wand that we found at the scene.”

“Not his Ministry-registered wand,” Harry concedes. “But Padma checked the spell signature against his wand. He’s definitely the one who cast the AK.”

Harry hands her the case file, with Padma’s forensic report on top. Hermione reads over the test results as Ron’s voice sounds from down the hall, carrying easily across the empty office.

“Okay, I thought about it all night, and I’ve got a new theory. There’s not a huge dragon population in Italy, but they could definitely be using Tuscany as a stopping point along a more prolific smuggling route. Lizzie Davis doesn’t necessarily strike me as the courier type, but I can owl Charlie if you want, and—what?” Ron appears in the doorway halfway through his diatribe but stops short as he takes in Harry’s raised eyebrows.

“Looks like your first theory was spot-on,” Hermione tells him as she hands the file back to Harry to finish. “It was a suicide, after all.”

“Oh.” Ron frowns. “But what about Lizzie? And Mark Richards?”

Hermione shrugs. “I guess their illicit love triangle will have to remain a mystery.”

“But—well, can’t you get her on making false statements or something? It’s so unsatisfying when a case ends without an arrest.”

“So you admit that she was lying about being Brendan’s soulmate?” Hermione teases.

“Not about that, but she obviously didn’t witness his murder if he wasn’t murdered.”

Harry smirks. “We could, yeah. Hermione, you’re the lead on this case. Do you want to press charges on Lizzie Davis?”

“If I never see that woman again, it will be too soon.” Hermione rolls her eyes and brushes past Ron to leave the office. “Come on,” she says, tugging at his sleeve. “We can drown your disappointment in a plate of bacon and eggs.”

“Oh, now that’s not fair,” Ron complains, though he follows her without hesitation. “You know I can’t turn down breakfast.”

Once they’re settled in the Muggle diner across the street and Ron has ordered half the menu, the conversation naturally turns back to their now-closed case. “This one is going to haunt me, I just know it,” Ron says dramatically. “Lizzie Davis accused someone of murder. I feel like that deserves a little more digging. Even if there wasn’t actually a murder.”

“Do you really want me to press charges on her?” Hermione asks as she sips at her tea. “With everything she said, I’m inclined to believe she’s less a criminal mastermind and more so just mentally unstable.”

“Because you’d have to be mentally unstable to believe in soulmates?” Ron challenges.

“To be fair, I’ve known you were crazy since the day I met you, so your belief in soulmates doesn’t really move the needle.”

Ron smirks at her, and Hermione is hit with a feeling of deja vu. She likes to think she’s gotten to know Ron fairly well over the past two years, but the look he’s giving her reminds her of the early days of their partnership when he was always three steps ahead of her, and his next words confirm it. “I never said I believe in soulmates.”

“You—yes, you did.” As Hermione plays back their conversation from yesterday, though, she can’t pinpoint where he actually said it. He challenged her beliefs, and argued on behalf of Lizzie Davis’s, but not once did he admit to his own. Ron doesn’t even bother to contradict her now, just waits while she comes to the conclusion on her own. “You don’t believe in soulmates?”

“No.” Ron shrugs and reaches for the little bin of sugar packets, pulling out a handful and dumping them all into his coffee without even tasting it first.

“Then why were you arguing with me so much yesterday?” She knows the answer, of course: it’s just what they do. Finding out that they share this non-belief, though, has her more confused than ever.

“You’ve known me for how long now?” Ron shoots back, echoing Hermione’s question from yesterday. The rhythmic clinking of the spoon against the ceramic coffee mug as Ron stirs in his sugar makes Hermione grit her teeth in annoyance, but he misunderstands the gesture. “You’re not seriously mad at me, are you?” Hermione reaches across the table to still his hand, and he flashes her a sheepish grin as he sets the spoon aside. “Sorry.”

“So all the things you said yesterday—about Divination, and the ‘magic of love’, and crumple-horned snorkacks—you were just messing with me?”

“Not all of it. I believe in love.”

A snort escapes Hermione’s lips. “Has that line ever actually worked?”

“It’s not a line.”

As Ron lifts the coffee mug to his lips, Hermione searches his face for any sign that he’s once again taking the mickey, but finds none. Two years ago, when she met the presumed playboy seated across from her, she might not have believed that statement. But despite the—relatively few, compared to his reputation—women that have flitted briefly in and out of his life in that timeframe, Hermione doesn’t think she’s ever seen Ron Weasley in love.

Taking advantage of Hermione’s silence, he continues, “It’s all around you if you know where to look.” Ron tilts his head toward the counter, and Hermione turns just in time to see the waitress tuck an engagement ring back into the pocket of her apron with a fond expression before ducking back into the kitchen. At the end of the counter, an elderly couple are sharing a plate of pancakes, and Hermione smiles at them before turning back to Ron.

“There’s nothing magical about that, though.”

Ron chuckles. “If you don’t think so, you’ve never been in love.”

She hasn’t, but she’s not going to tell him that. She’s definitely not going to tell him how close she’s coming to falling in love now. “Have you?” she deflects, then immediately regrets it. She’s never given much scrutiny to Ron’s romantic pursuits, and she’s not sure how close she can get without getting burned. This current conversation feels dangerously close to the flames.

He lifts his coffee mug to his lips again, obscuring his expression so that all she can see are his intense blue irises over the rim. “Once.” He doesn’t offer any further details, and she doesn’t press. When he lowers the mug back to the table, he rotates it slowly between his hands, and Hermione finds herself entranced by the motion. “You have to at least believe in it, though, don’t you?” Ron asks, both of them staring at the dark brown liquid.

Her internal monologue from the bookstore last night floats back through her mind, mixing in with the present discussion. “In theory, I suppose.”

Ron laughs, breaking the tension of the moment. “‘In theory’,” he repeats teasingly, “listen to you.” The waitress reappears then and sets several steaming plates between them, but other than sliding a plate of toast to sit in front of Hermione, Ron ignores the food for a moment. “You know you can’t prove everything, Hermione,” he says, more serious than perhaps she’s ever seen him. “Soulmates aside, don’t you ever just feel like something is right?”

This. Us. You.

“Sometimes,” she says instead. “But I don’t always trust it.”

“You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. Trust yourself.” Ron tucks into his breakfast and then shoots her a wink across the table. “And believe in a little bit of magic.”

#submission #romione trope fest #soulmates

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boringboy · 2 months

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Thoughts about Ada. Is it coherent, I don’t know? You tell me. (PART 1)

I’d like to start this off by saying I’m not in my right mind right now, it’s sort of like— literally 5am in the morning as I write this and I have not slept a wink, but this is the sort of thing I’ll sacrifice for my latest obsession! Haha, okay but anyways. This is just a little character post, sharing my thoughts about a certain one, and in no way do I consider it to be up to par with any of the other existing analyses within the Nevermore fandom. I don’t do this often, so forgive me.

Ada, to me, is an amazing antagonist. I believe she’s incredibly well written, so much that she (almost) seems human. At first you think she’s annoying, which you’re meant to, but then somewhere down the line you start feeling something similar to remorse. Guilt. And then you immediately become annoyed again. I know exactly how Morella feels.

First off, we can talk about her background. What Edgar Allan Poe work is Ada based on? That’s right, Tamerlane! And what exactly is Tamerlane about? To put it short, it’s a poem about an important man who falls in love with a peasant girl who’s conveniently named Ada, who he takes for granted. We can already infer so much from this, and it’s reinforced by the Mystery Manor arc which does hint at it before it’s basically confirmed. I mean, how else would she know that the servant’s staircase were the quickest way to get round the mansion, if not from experience? And the way she responded to Lenore when she’d asked what a peephole portrait could be good for: “Uhh, privacy, obviously?” followed by, “These old manors have all sorts of secrets like this!”. (Taken from episodes 56 and 57). This isn’t something people with status would care to know about or remember.

When it’s shown outright in episode 69 through a memory triggered by Prospero’s rejection, we see Ada in maid attire, denoting her status. She has presumably been lured into the forest by this man, the man she loves, the man who is wealthy, and the man who is holding a hatchet and has already struck her. Well, sliced her to be exact. Right in the stomach. A lot of people theorise this to be due to an accidental pregnancy and an affair, which is something I agree with and what I believe to be the most probable situation. Continuing on, Ada’s bleeding out, in tears, and understandably confused. Was her pregnancy, or whatever it could be, not something to be happy about? Even though she’s dying, the last thing on her mind is the pain. What she cares about is what the man thinks. All she can think about is why he’s doing this to her.

Ada was dealt an awful hand in life. She’s never been fortunate ever, not even in death.

What did she want from this relationship?

Naturally, as a person born so low down, you would want to live better and be treated better. So you take any sliver, any scrap, of anything that comes close to that. You fall in love with that rich man, that’s nothing, but if he loves you back or says he does? I’d scrabble to my knees just to get the chance. Hell, I’d accept it without even thinking twice.

I think their interactions might have been almost fairytale like, the man acting like a prince, at least in her eyes, explaining her attitude towards the whole thing.

And Ada continues to go for it in death because she’s unfulfilled. She wants to be satisfied for once in her life, in so many different ways. This game the Deans are playing is what she thinks is her chance to finally change things.

How does her background affect her? What does it do for her character now?

Her insecurity is rooted in classism. The likely reason she was killed was because the man couldn’t be caught with someone of a low class, and of course Ada would know that. You’d be made to know your place since the day you were born. That insecurity only grows worse upon entering Nevermore. When you’re afraid of one thing, you start fearing more. The way she acts towards others because of that earns her insults and adds even more salt to the wound. I think she came out more insecure than when she arrived 😭. Like all the precautions she’s taken have all been wasted because they don’t even have the effect on others that she wants. Nobody likes her because of it.

Also because of her background, she’s unable to stand up for herself when she really needs to. Yes she’ll fight it at first, pretend she’s as good as the rest, but it’ll fade fast. There’s no point in fighting it when it’s the natural order of things, right? What she’s been before is what she’ll always be and nothing can change that. No matter how much she dreams. Resigning herself to others is what she’s used to doing. Ada can’t defy her authority, can’t defy anything even if she feels guilty.

She wants to be loyal and worthy. She craves validation so desperately it’s insane.

What is so relatable and real about her?

The cycle she’s stuck in is something I believe a lot of people can relate to, or something a lot of people have seen others go through. She’s self destructive, and I don’t think I even need to explain that. You can easily identify what, where and when.

The fact that she’s vulnerable. All of these things have made her unstable and easy to manipulate and use, and I don’t think she’s aware of it either, or maybe she is deep down, but doesn’t mind it because she’s getting what she wants, or what she supposes she wants.

Her actions seem almost reasonable now when you take into account her living life and her circumstances, but it doesn’t make it okay obviously. It makes you sympathise with her. Kind of like a love/hate thing. R&F did really well with that, the expressions and all the little things make such a huge difference/impact. I can tell exactly how she feels in her lowest moments.

Help. We’re stopping here because if I continued there’d be so much more.

I don’t know. I think it’s the fact that you can think this much about her that proves she’s an amazing character? Because wow she is thought provoking. This is all nonsense actually, I’m afraid of looking at this after it’s posted.

#ada nevermore #nevermore webtoon #nevermore webcomic

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oleander-nin · 10 months

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The Weight of a Letter(8)

A/N: Apologies if it's not the best, I'm not having a good time right now and I'm also really busy. This is kind of a filler chapter, and I hope it doesn't come back to bite me. Any criticism is welcome, constructive or not. This is supposed to be a gender neutral reader, so if I screwed up somewhere, please tell me.

Taglist? If you want to be added or removed, just say so: @ssak-i @sinister-things @ancreativename @t0ta11y-n0t-cup1d @idiotreblogger @whygz @lexiechr@10yagurlchip01 @rex-ray

Part 1 - Previous - Next

Words: 1519

Content warnings: A scolding, arguing

Chapter 8: A Needed Scolding

I hear the door behind me click open, Irma’s figure stepping in. She waves at me and I wave back, my face pulled into an unsure grin. The entire interaction I had just a few moments ago made me feel uneasy, but I doubted my worry held any weight. I had just seen an old friend again after months between our first meeting. It was cool, even if he seemed more cautious this time around.

Irma makes her way across the apartment, setting her backpack down on the floor next to the couch. She crashes down, her long arms stretching above her head as she pops her back. I stand in the middle of the room for a moment more before sitting next to her, my hands clasped in front of me. My eyes scan Irma, her body collapsed on the couch as she curls into the armrest. “How was school?”

“Fine. I brought your homework back. We learned a new topic in English though, and I very much do not like it.” Irma says, her face scrunched in displeasure. I snicker into my hand and she sticks her tongue out at me. She turns back to her phone, and I reach for the remote that was sitting on the back of the couch. I flip on the TV, scrolling through the different channels until I settle on one I like.

We both sit in silence for a while, neither of us wanting or needing to start a conversation. I always liked how we could just exist in each other's space, and that was all that was needed to spend time together. Except, we were spending time together because I can’t go home at the moment, rather than us being this close from our own accord. Still though, it was nice.

“Do you want pizza tonight?” Irma asks, her fingers raking through her hair. She looks at me over the top of her phone, her eyes, dancing between the screen and my face. I think her offer over for a minute before shrugging. I sure didn’t want to cook, and I doubted Irma did either.

“Pizza sounds great, thanks.”

Irma nods and messes with her phone for a bit, presumably putting in the pizza order. I turn back to the TV, mindlessly watching the show. I fiddle with my thumbs, sighing. Today was certainly an odd one. I couldn’t help but feel I was forgetting something.

“Hey, how come you never answered my texts.” Irma says, her eyes narrowed at her phone.

Oh, that was what I was forgetting. My phone. I rub the back of my neck, unsure how to phrase all that went down. If I told Irma about the mutant turtles, she wouldn’t believe me. I didn’t want her to think I was any crazier than she already did. It would probably be better to be as vague as possible, or even to lie if I can. “I broke my phone.”

Irma looks at me blankly. “What?”

“I got upset and threw it at the wall, and it uh, it kind of shattered?” I explain, clasping my hands as my leg starts to bounce. Irma groans, leaning back against the armrest.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then,” Irma takes a deep breath, tapping the top of her phone against her chin. “We can drop it off at a repair shop tomorrow while we’re at school. If they can’t fix it, you’ll just have to get a new one I guess.”

I hesitate for a moment. “Actually, I already have someone who’s working on fixing it…”

Irma blinks at me, confused. She chews on her cheek, thinking my words over. “Did you stop by a shop or something today?”

I shake my head, suddenly feeling very stupid for my decisions. “Uh, no. I actually uh, I… Do you remember that guy I told you about? The one I met in the junkyard?”

Irma narrows her eyes at me, clearly not liking where this was going. “Go on.”

“I met him again, and he kind of offered to fix it?” I say, wincing. Irma looks as if she’s going to breathe fire.

“I’m sorry, you just gave your phone to someone who you met at some random junkyard?” She groans, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Do you realize how stupid that sounds?”

While I completely agree with her, I feel the urge to defend myself. Will my argument win? No. Will I gain back some of my pride? No idea, but too late to back down. “He understands tech, and he offered to do it for free. It doesn’t hurt.”

“It does hurt! What if he fixes it, then just mines all your data? Or sells it on the internet of something? Do you even know when you’re getting it back?” I cringe as Irma continues to scold me, her face worried as she starts to pace. I sit on the couch in silence, making sure not to speak. I give up on trying to defend myself. Hindsight was twenty/twenty, and I was an idiot. I fiddle with my thumbs, unsure how to explain. She was right, of course, but it’s not like it would’ve made a difference. They offered to fix it, so I’m letting them fix it.

“I know who I gave it to, it’s not like I handed it off to someone on the street.” I protest weakly, sitting up a bit. Irma narrows her eyes at me, frowning. I shrink back into the couch.

“(Y/n), you’ve met the guy twice. And there was an almost four month gap in between each meeting.” I rub my arm, knowing she’s right. I got too caught up in the moment and didn’t think about it enough. Giving them my phone, broken or not, was probably a bad idea. Most likely, I’d never see it again.

I scooch over as Irma plops next to me on the couch, her arms crossed. She grumbles a bit before glancing at me. “Let’s give it a week. If they don’t come back with your phone, we’ll cut our losses and just get you a new one.”

“Okay.”

Irma's face morphs into one of concern, her hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry for yelling at you, I was just worried. If you don’t have a phone and something goes wrong, you can’t call me for help. Just, next time, don’t give your phone to the first random guy who asks.”

I snort slightly, nodding. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

Irma holds her pinky out for me to take, a wide grin on her face. “You gotta promise, (Y/n). We got too much weirdness going on for you to go handing out possibly privacy shattering stuff. You have everything on your phone, let’s hope this guy isn’t some weirdo.”

I sigh, hooking my pinky with hers. “I promise. But I swear, this guy isn’t bad. He's really cool, and his brothers are super sweet.”

“His brothers?” Irma questions, raising an eyebrow. I smile shakily, my hands moving back and forth next to my head in a ‘jazz hands’ motion.

“Surprise? I met his brothers. They were all super sweet.”

Irma looks unimpressed. I sigh, pouting. “He had three brothers, and they were all around when I saw him again.”

“Where exactly did you guys meet?” Irma asks, looking more confused than ever. My eyes dart to the fire escape.

“I went on a walk.”

Irma sucks in a deep breath, trying to process everything. I felt bad, knowing this was probably just adding to her stress. I’d tell her the truth eventually, just, after this whole possible stalker thing was over. One thing to deal with at a time. I didn’t want to lie to her, but I didn’t want to push all this new stuff on her just yet. Hopefully she will understand.

“Okay, well, nothing we can do about it now I guess.” Irma’s voice knocks me out of my thoughts. Her arms were crossed and she was looking at the door, contemplating something. Never before have I wanted to reach into her mind and see what she was thinking more than now. I know I made her upset, but I truly wasn’t thinking. I just took the opportunity I was handed. It was fine though. I trusted Donnie. Plus, there really isn't anything we can do except wait.

Irma sits back down grabbing her phone. She curls into the armrest like before, but this was different. I feel my heart sink. Irma was upset, and now she was ignoring me. I turn back to the TV, unable to pay much attention to the screen. I would leave her be for a bit. I could only hope this would all blow over soon. Irma would see it was fine, and we would go back to normal. Irma would see that she was overreacting, and I would apologize again for being careless.

I pull my knees to my chest, too clouded with thought to do anything. This would all blow over and be fine. It had to.

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cbk1000 · 8 months

Text

Still bored and not feeling great, so here is a follow-up preview to this post. It's been sitting in my Google Docs for quite some time, so might as well throw some of it up online.

It was raining furiously going out of Edinburgh, so that the Viaduct had to rise from the heath as if from the mists of time. In fair weather, or even in typical weather, those nebulous masses which one could presume to be hills nursed their heather by the light of the sun or the soon-to-be-sun; and when the weather had determined to be better than itself, the hillsides showed where the day set fire to the bluebell and ling, and exposed the shy moss in its bole. But now they were going as if through the Atlantic. It was wet, it was grey; and sporadically the mist broke its back on a peak, and showed, as if through some spume, where there was a world still anchored in earth. Then the fogs closed again, and they were alone in that dread, dead place between worlds, in the wastes of time or no-time.

Arthur was still related to Morgana, and still, consequently, drinking. He had had a little champagne first, and remembered that he didn’t fancy champagne; and it certainly didn’t fancy him. He was sat now on one of the sofas with some whiskey, feeling a little better in his stomach, though not his soul. He was still thinking about the bed. He was thinking that for seven unremitting nights, he would have to be elbowed, and kicked at, and drooled on: all of which Merlin had done before, somewhere in the jumbled mists of their uni years, when their backs did not care where, how, or when they slept, and fighting over a blanket on a floor was no worse than doing it at the Four Seasons. But at least he had had the privilege of going to the other end of the sofa, and sticking his feet in Merlin’s face, or to the far edge of the blanket, where he could put some space and decency between the inevitable phenomenon of being a man alive in the morning, and happy to see it. Now because Merlin was not thoughtful enough to take the armchair, or make himself some cosy nest on the floor, now because he had been working on his physique, Arthur would have to compress himself into an inadequate double with some shoulders almost as broad as his own. Now he would have to share, on his own personal holiday, his own personal bed, with a man not civilised enough to give up most of his allotment.

He was frowning out the window, and waiting for Scotland to do something lovely, when Merlin threw himself down onto the sofa with his own whiskey, and dropped his head back on the cushion. He had crowded in predictably, so that his knee was touching Arthur’s knee, in a rather ominous harbinger of what his nights were to be like from this day forward, unto eternity (Monday). He had got off his blazer already, and rolled up his sleeves, so that Arthur could see the muscles in his forearms, so that he could see the weedy uni mate who had had to make his way fighting larger men with his wit and rabies could now do it with his rather distastefully large hands.

“You’re not supposed to take off your jacket,” Arthur said. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

“Well, if they throw me off the Viaduct for violating the dress code, you’ll get the bed to yourself, yeah?” He nudged Arthur’s knee with his, and took a drink. “By the way, I’m going to bed at old man time tonight, and if you try and fight me over the bed, I will bite you. I’m so knackered.”

“Well, just remember, I sleep on the left, and if you take my side, you’re sleeping on the floor, one way or another.”

Merlin knocked their knees together again and drank. He looked away from Arthur, out the window; and there fell over them that silent existence which did something to the depths of Arthur. He left his knee where it was, where there was the small, warm point of human contact, in the desolate train hurtling in a desolate world to end or absolution. The whiskey had come up a little in his throat, and stopped where there was a lump to stop it. He had had the same human touch the rainy weekend in Cornwall, when he was alone on a planet of billions moving in time without him. He had to look from the window for a moment, to the stubbled face in profile, and hurt, for a moment, exquisitely. It is sometimes like that to love; though of course he would not have called it that, when there were a number of other terms less fraught or complimentary.

“You ok?” Merlin asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“Ok. You pillock.”

“What do you want me to say, in front of a lounge full of passengers?”

“You could say ‘yes’ in a tone that actually sounds like you mean it, or you could say ‘no’, and we could go back to the cabin, and get pissed, or watch Netflix, or call your dad and tell him what an absolute cock he is. I can do it; you should keep not talking to him.” Then there was the little knock on his knee again, and Merlin said, “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately.”

“I really didn’t notice,” Arthur said, scratching at the back of his neck. “I’ve been busy myself.”

“Oh, right, I forgot, every day when I called you whilst I was on lunch, you were like, ‘Merlin; Merlin…sorry, it’s not ringing a bell, mate.’”

“Well, you called me, so if you’re trying to accuse me of something lunatic, like missing you, it’s probably projection.”

“No, I didn’t miss you. Just wanted to make sure you had a voice to go with the hair doll.” He took another drink.

“It’s a voodoo doll, actually.”

“So you just sit in your room all day, sticking pins in me? Kinky.” Merlin snorted. “You are bright red.”

“I am not. And you can’t say ‘kinky’ on a luxury train.”

“If you can’t say ‘kinky’ where it will make rich people uncomfortable, what’s the point of saying it at all?”

Arthur rolled his eyes.

And now the teasing had gone from him, and he said, “Arthur,” quietly, and looked at him in the grey light of the window, and touched him, just long and gently enough, where there were no witnesses to ruin it.

“Yeah. Fine,” Arthur said, and Merlin clapped his knee with the hand he had laid briefly and feelingly on it, and said, “Ok, well, then we should get something settled. You are going to teach me how to eat dinner, right?”

Arthur rolled his eyes again. “You’ve never needed my help eating anything in your life. In fact, usually you stab me with your fork when I try.”

“Yeah, but there are going to be little spoons or something, and I’m going to have to use them in a specific order, and I’m going to have to eat the food in a specific order, and all whilst wearing a suit that I don’t want to muck up, because I paid fifty quid for it.”

“You only paid fifty quid for your suit?” Arthur cried. “For the whole suit? Did you get most of it from a skip?”

“I’m not going to just drop several hundred pounds on a suit I’m only going to wear a few times,” Merlin protested.

“You didn’t answer me about the skip,” Arthur said, setting aside the whiskey, which he did not have room to process, alongside his horror.

Dinner was got through with no mishaps but the mishaps Merlin had orchestrated; though he did have to ask Arthur whether he could eat the little flower on top of his salmon without dying.

“It’s a garnish, you plonker.”

Merlin pinched it between his fingers and held it up to the light to squint at it. “So can I eat it, or not?”

“You’re not meant to, though that’s never stopped you before.”

Merlin ate the flower, just to be gauche.

“Are you going to eat yours?” Gwaine asked Arthur, and helped himself to it before he could reply.

“You have my genetics, and hence could have pretty much any man you wanted, and this is your choice?” Arthur asked sourly, giving Morgana a nasty little look, and batting Gwaine’s hands away from his plate.

“Don’t malign me like that; I’ve only got half your genetics. Besides, it’s not like you’ve got yourself the Prince of Wales. No offence, Merlin,” she said, patting his hand, as if he would need to be consoled.

“None taken; he’s a twat,” Merlin said.

“Yes, but the difference is, Merlin and I are not a couple. So it doesn’t matter if he eats the garnish on his confit of salmon; it doesn’t reflect poorly on me, because I’m not shagging him where innocents can walk in on it.”

“If you had wanted to remain innocent, you should have knocked before walking into a flat that didn’t belong to you.”

“Who does that with the door unlocked?” Arthur demanded, whilst Gwen and Lance politely pretended they were not being involuntarily involved in someone else’s sex life, when they could have been off enjoying their own.

There was entertainment in the Observation Car, which Arthur, naturally, complained about.

“You sound like you have gout,” Merlin said.

“What on earth does gout have to do with anything?” Arthur asked.

“Nothing; you just sound like one of those old men who sits round complaining about all his old man ailments and never letting anyone else have any fun. ‘Oh, music, people laughing; just horrid. Horrid,’” Merlin mocked in a bratty voice.

“There might be bagpipes.”

“They’re not going to bring bagpipes on a train where people can’t escape them.”

“There were bagpipes when we were getting on the train,” Arthur said, frowning.

“There are bagpipes everywhere in Edinburgh,” Merlin replied, in a voice that stated, firmly, he thought Arthur was a great nattering twat baby. They adjourned (it did not seem appropriate to say they merely ‘went’ to a train car full of furniture worth more than his annual salary) to the Observation Car, which was now full of diners, and music. There were not any of the dread bagpipes, but only a lovely fiddle, going on impressively, whilst an elderly passenger clapped in time with it; or what the champagne told him was in time with it. He was wobbling about, in exactly the opposite spirit of Arthur, introducing himself to everyone, and twice to Morgana, who had got all the charm there was to be got from the Pendragon line, leaving none for Arthur.

Outside the window, Scotland was still rather miserable. Merlin had hoped to see those dreaming glimpses of the highlands, which were, or were felt to be, pure of humanity. The itinerary had promised him Ben Arthur and Loch Lomond, and he had fantasised making them into one of the walking tours, though he knew, intellectually, he would only glimpse them in passing. He had already made them in his heart a place for him and Arthur to be alone where aloneness has meaning; where it is a grand reckoning with that simultaneous infiniteness and finity of time. All that long month he had been caged in his office, seeing Arthur for brief intervals at the pub, or over FaceTime, whilst what was left of the wild country called to him; and now when he had expected to see it, at least, through the train window, streaming away into eternity, and taking with it his imagination into the secret dells and copses where there were fungi or larks to discover, what he saw was a desolate grey. He was looking at a smudge. Now and again there resolved out of it a larger smudge, more darkly or lightly coloured; and then even that feeble hope of scenery dissolved into that dreary badland which the British rain makes of the grasses which feed from it. If it were a nice little tropical rain, he could have marvelled at it, and counted the stalks of the gorse in the clean clear light of summer eternal; but here it was arse. Here he felt the train was having to invent the world as it drove along, into that great grey nothing out of which the trestle tracks sprang when they were needed, and vanished thereafter.

Arthur had got them some whiskeys, and sat them at the far end of the car, away from the musicians, and socialisation; so it was they two in the warm yellow light of the train, sitting too closely, because Arthur did not understand personal space; and especially he did not understand it when he had a mate, a very bisexual mate, who was trying to be romantically ignorant of him. Arthur was a great clueless lout, who blundered about in heterosexual infamy; and Merlin was tired. So they were sitting as close as boyfriends sat, and complaining about politics, whilst Merlin resisted sleep. He had that strange sensation of being unmade. He was as cosy on the sofa with Arthur as if he had been in bed; and so he was fraying, bit by bit, at the seams of his corporal body; he was in that state of confusion which the conscious mind feels when it is on the cusp of leaving itself. He was on the sofa, with his knee pressed to Arthur’s knee; but he was also beyond it, where dreams or half-dreams have carried their fuddled makers. He felt that he had been speaking one moment; and the next moment he was waking up on Arthur’s shoulder, in a puddle of drool.

Arthur had taken the whiskey out of his limp hand before he had spilled it, and was quietly going through his phone; though he pointed out, loudly, and quickly, before there was any confusion about his considerateness, about the drool, and pushed Merlin’s head.

They left the others to what was a very fine night of drinking, and dancing, and returned to the cabin for bed, at the humble hour of 8.00, because Merlin had been up since 4.00, and because Arthur, in the Observation Car, would have been in tremendous danger of having fun. They had to decide the order of their ablutions by playing rock, paper, scissors; or a revised version of it, which went something like rock, paper, fuck you, because they were both wanton cheaters, so that whatever was to be settled by it generally was settled by taking the ostensible winner, and shoving him into a wall, or kneeling on his back, till he agreed the other was a wanker; but a triumphant one.

Merlin was too tired for the usual order of business; he had to go for the truncated version. He smacked his fist three times into his palm: and turned whilst Arthur was mocking his loss, and sprinted for the loo.

“I’ll remember that,” Arthur said with cold promise when he emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam.

He put on his joggers after Arthur had disappeared into the bathroom, and got straightaway into the bed, with a little hope in his exhaustion, that he would be asleep before Arthur was even out of the loo, never mind in the bed. He was not as casual about the bed as he would have liked to be. He would have to wake up, practically in the arms of a man who was an egregious spooner, with his penis reporting for duty. He had shared an alarming number of sofas with Arthur in uni, and knew what was to be the next week of his life; it was to be horrid. Arthur would lie down very stiffly beside him, with a few pillows between them, which he had stacked like a wall between his heterosexuality, and Merlin; and then all those troubled instincts which he had for human touch would drive him to seek it. By morning the pillows would be gone; and Merlin would have both an erection, and the warm body in which it felt it could be sated. It was not polite to wank to one’s friends; and so he would have to lie, thinking of his grandmother, whilst Arthur twitched on or against him: and woke, with a snort, to say, “Why the hell are you cuddling me?”

For safety they had had to sleep head to foot; and he considered now rearranging the pillow at the other end of the bed, so that Arthur’s feet could work their incredible magic on Merlin’s morning wood. They were better than thinking of his grandmother; who after all was not despicable, but only his grandmother. But those were the old insecurities of men, almost boys, trying to make it understood that they were, in the one case, straight, and in the other, possessed of actual taste. It was no longer necessary, at thirty, to flaunt their obvious sexual disregard for one another. So he kept the pillow where it was, and determined to be an adult about it; and then Arthur came out of the bathroom in only a towel, as if he were not rather fit, and Merlin were not rather bisexual. And with the usual inconsiderateness of the hetero, he went round the whole cabin in it, with the water running out of his chest hair, and into his stomach hair.

#train fic #that's the only title i've got for this right now #lmao #merthur #fic #writing #preview

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