#like the wording is weird so i don’t fully trust it but i also am aware im not internet knowledgeable

[frenchphobic]

seeing ao3 fans up in a tizzy about the kids online safety act its like okay but did yall read. the fucking bill. or did you just happily sign a petition without even checking out the original doc and only read a carrd/linktree on it bc i doubt its gonna remove fanfiction come on. i thought yall jacked yourselves off about how much you read surely you can read this.

[ariaste]

The Magic Trick You Didn’t See: Being An Analysis of Good Omens Season 2

(or: Neil Gaiman, Your Brain is Gorgeous But I Have Cracked Your Sneaky Little Code And Have You Dead To Rights*) (*Maybe)

***

Soooooo I just spent the last 48 hours having a BREATHTAKING GALAXY BRAIN EPIPHANY about Good Omens Season 2 and feverishly writing a fuckin16,000 word essay about the incredible magic trick that @neil-gaiman pulled off. 

Yes, it’s long, but I PROMISE your brains will explode. Do you want to know how magic works? Do you want to know what Metatron’s deal is (I’m like 99% sure of this and it’s EXTREMELY FUCKING GOOD)? Do you want to know about the Mystery of the Vanishing Eccles Cakes and the big fat beautiful clue I found in the opening credits? Do you go through the whole inventory of Chekov’s Firearm & Heavy Artillery Discount Warehouse? 

Here is the essay, go read it: https://docs.google.com/document/d/193IXS11XN46lziHRb6eUpM17yK0BQkRqke1Wh64A_e0/ When ur done u can tell me I’m an insane crackpot, and u know what, i won’t even be offended

In case you don’t know whether you want to bother reading the whole enormous thing on google docs, I’ve put the first couple sections of it under the cut. JUST TRUST ME OKAY, HEAR ME OUT, THIS IS VERY EXTREMELY COOL, NEIL IS GOOD AT HIS JOB--

Proem

A dark theater. The rustling of the audience: clothes, breathing, whispers of anticipation. The lights come up. A man enters, stage left. He is a magician—a master magician—and he performs for you a magic trick so good and so subtle... that you don’t even notice you’ve seen it. 

You know there must have been a trick—after all, you came to the theater to see a trick performed, didn’t you? And he claims to be a magician. So there had to be a trick somewhere. There had to be.

But maybe there wasn’t. Maybe there was just a man on a stage, talking to you, telling you a story with a strangely unsatisfying ending you didn’t quite understand. 

I know. This is a weird beginning to an analysis essay. But hear me out, because I have to explain the mechanisms of the stage before I can show you what the trick was, where the trapdoor was hidden, and how Neil Gaiman pulled the whole thing off so gently and elegantly that you didn’t notice a thing. Ready? Here we go.

The Facts As We Know Them

Let us begin by establishing a baseline—some fundamental, logical assumptions that underpin the magic trick. These will seem obvious as soon as I say them, which is precisely the point: They are self-evident, loadbearing foundations for my entire argument, and if I don’t point them out, I’m going to sound like a crackpot conspiracy theorist. (Which! To be fair, I might be. I could easily be wrong about all this—but I don’t think I am.)

Our baseline, loadbearing assumptions that preface my Grand Unified Theory of Season 2: 

1. Neil Gaiman is extremely good at his job.

2. Neil Gaiman loves these characters and wants with all his heart to do them justice; likewise, he has a great deal of respect, love, and admiration for Terry Pratchett and is striving VERY HARD to write the show the way Terry would have been happy with.

3. The devil, as they say, is in the details: Neil Gaiman and the entire Good Omens cast/crew are fully capable of doing extremely subtle detail work, as conclusively proven in Season 1 Ep 6, specifically the whole sequence of the body-swap scenes.

With me so far? Great.

The Elephant In The Room

Season 2 was... odd. It was odd, wasn’t it. This isn’t a matter of whether you loved it or hated it—there was just something odd going on.

I spent the entirety of my first viewing very much enjoying myself and being very happy to be back with these characters and this world, but I was also liveblogging to my groupchat as I went, and a theme soon began emerging:

“Neil, what are you doing? Where are you going with this?” “What in god’s name is going on here? I’m so lost lmao.” “What is going on with the music situation?” “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE NEIL” “zombies, ok, I trust u to pull this all together in the end, Neil, but I still don't know what you're up to” “What is going on LOL” “Incredibly what is going on here” “NEIL! WHAT IS HAPPENING!” “Literally what is happening” “Neil Gaiman why have you constructed a regency au for mystery VIBES reasons” “just????????? lesbians????????? dancing what's HAPPENING. just all the background characters are gay here ok sure sure sure NEIL GAIMAN WHAT IS HAPPENING--” “mmmmmmm neil what u doin”

All these are copied verbatim from my liveblogging, and apparently I am not the only one to have this reaction. And to be clear, I was having a good time! I came out to this theater to see a magic trick, and this Neil Gaiman guy on stage is a master magician—but I didn’t see the trick, even though there must have been a trick. 

At first, I wasn’t sure how I felt about the season. I wanted to like it! Indeed, there were many things that I liked about it! But I felt a bit muddled and jumbled up and confused—I felt like there was something I didn’t understand about it, and so I couldn’t yet understand how I felt about it either.

I started chewing on this question in a friend’s DMs: Why is season 2 so fucking odd? What is going on here, Neil? What are you up to? The matter of whether he was up to something was never in question. I knew that he had to be up to something. Writers are always up to something, and as I watched season 2, it was as if I was watching Neil scamper around the room with a mischievous expression as he messed with things here and there and made little tweaks and adjustments to the arrangement of all the Chekov’s guns he’s stockpiling on the mantelpiece. 

You see, Season 2 has some very bad writing in it. HANG ON, DON’T ARGUE WITH ME YET! THIS IS NOT A JUDGMENT CALL!! This is the rug that the trick’s secret mechanism is hidden under!!! This is the hidden mirror that makes the trick work!!!!! This is the trapdoor in the stage!

Yes, of course I will explain myself.

Neil Gaiman is a master magician, but I am a pretty damn good magician myself—I’m a professional fantasy author who has published nine books, and I teach workshops for apprentice writers online and at universities—and if there is one thing I have learned about the process of achieving mastery of your craft, it is this: 

Regardless of what medium they’re working in, the apprentice artist is concerned primarily with achieving realism via an expansion of their control—control of their brush strokes as they paint a photorealistic eye; control of their deck of cards, the mechanisms of their magic tricks, and where the audience’s attention is being directed; control of all the little factors of voice, plot, character, setting, suspense and surprise that go into writing a good story. However, the master artist has achieved that control—so much so that it often looks effortless to an untrained eye—and sometimes the master artist returns to a messy, amateurish style simply because they have control even over this too. 

As an example, consider Picasso and his entire body of work. He begins as an apprentice focused on achieving control, doing portraits of people that look like people—like what we expect a portrait of a person to look like. Then, as he grows in skill and gradually achieves mastery, he pulls away from realism. He develops a style, he experiments with faces that don’t look like any human alive  colored in ways that do not appear in nature. He expands his control. His work becomes abstract. Towards the end of his life, he starts experimenting with what’s called “Naive art”, something that a 5 year old could theoretically draw... but you have to achieve mastery before you can do it on purpose and have it look good. 

On one hand, Neil Gaiman is extremely good at his job. On the other hand, Season 2 has bad writing in it.

What does that tell us?

Well, we know from our Baseline Assumptions that Neil Gaiman is simply too good of a writer to fuck up through garden-variety clumsiness and lack-of-control the way an apprentice writer would. Additionally, he cannot fuck up by accident in this case because I am positive that the man is scrutinizing his work on Good Omens far too closely to let anything slide—for Crowley and Aziraphale’s sakes, for David and Michael’s sakes, and especially for Terry’s sake. The stakes are sky-high, and he cares too much to write a weird, kind of “bad” season by accident.

Which leaves only one option: He did it on purpose.

(Am I sounding like a crackpot conspiracy theorist? Baby, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. I’m gonna get SO MUCH MORE CRACKPOT.)

If he did it on purpose, then the natural question to ask is: WHY!?!?!??

It’s a great question. Not “Why?” in terms of why he as an individual person with emotions would decide to do that, mind you. More like, “What purpose does this serve for the structure of the narrative?” There is a story he is intending to tell, and out of all the choices he could have possibly made, for some reason this one was necessary and correct in order to achieve that end goal—so what was that reason?

See? Intentionality. He knows exactly what details he left in, and he did it on purpose. (Editing! It’s important!)

So there has to be a reason. It’s like when a master magician “casually” rubs an itch on his nose—why did he do that? What is he sneakily slipping into his mouth by hiding it under the excuse of this little gesture that does not even register to you as meaningful? (If you haven’t watched enough stage magic to know what I mean, watch this.)

This question is, of course, impossible to simply answer out of thin air without any further evidence. It is a dead end—so we must adjust the question and come at it from a different angle.

The one I settled on when I was chewing on this was: Well, okay, what do I mean when I say “bad writing”? What is it about S2 that makes it feel so goddamn odd?

The Pledge, The Turn, and... The Conspicuous, Expectant Silence

There are three parts to a magic trick: Pledge, Turn, Prestige. 

First, the Pledge: You show the audience something ordinary. Second, the Turn: You make that ordinary thing do something extraordinary, like vanish. Third, the Prestige: You bring the ordinary thing back.

To quote the 2006 film The Prestige just after its explanation of the first two parts: “You want to be fooled. But you wouldn’t clap yet, because making something disappear isn’t enough. You have to bring it back.”

You have to bring it back.

When I teach apprentice writers, I call this a “setup-payoff cycle”. Achieving control and dexterity with this tool is crucial, because the setup-payoff cycle is the engine of the story—it’s what makes the story run. You can have a setup-payoff cycle at any scale—I have read ones that were a single sentence long; I’ve read ones that were two books long. Additionally, all jokes, no matter how long they are, are structured on a setup/payoff cycle. These cycles work precisely the same way a magic trick does:

You set up the audience’s expectations. (Optional but generally considered stylish and elegant: You give those expectations a firm jolt to throw the audience off-balance.) You pay off the audience’s expectations in a way they weren’t expecting, while saying “TA DA!!!!” really loud with your arms flung wide.

Audiences really like this. A setup-payoff cycle executed just right makes the audience’s brains light up like Times Square and hammers on their mental “reward” buttons like nothing else. It’s like you’ve personally handed them a cookie and a gold star. They go wild for this.

Here’s an example of a setup-payoff cycle, though it’s not a perfect one—and you’ve probably heard it before, so you’re not going to be throwing chairs and tearing down the theater from sheer glee:

The Setup: Knock knock. Who’s there? Banana. Banana who? The Jolt: (the joke starts over and repeats several times without reaching the payoff (aka the prestige) while the audience grows more and more annoyed and frustrated about the unfulfilled expectations, until finally...) Knock knock. Who’s there? Orange. Orange who? The Payoff: ORANGE YOU GLAD I DIDN’T SAY BANANA?

Good Omens Season 2 feels so fucking odd because the setup-payoff cycles are incomplete—nearly all of them are, and the ones that do close the loop do so in really weird ways which, as a professional author, make me feel kind of, “Bwuh?????? But where’s my cookie? Excuse me??? Sir???? Neil????? My cookie, tho???”

When I realized this, when I finally put my finger on why the whole season was giving me some uncanny valley heebie-jeebies, a chill ran down my spine. (The rest is here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/193IXS11XN46lziHRb6eUpM17yK0BQkRqke1Wh64A_e0/ I’M GOING TO GO STARE INTO THE ABYSS NOW BYE)

[zhongrin]

with you...

◇ characters ◇ zhongli, al haitham, childe, tighnari, wanderer

◇ tags ◇ fluff, slight angst in zhongli’s i’m sorry i couldn’t resist, childe’s is a little suggestive

◇ a/n ◇ i am so down bad for zhongli (but yall probably know this already huh)

𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ⬙ 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡

…. zhongli knows he could dress in rags and you’d still call him handsome. you’ve called him a variety of names and titles - sweet and silly ones, sensual and sultry ones - and he adores them all, adopts them as part of his identity as the mortal being that is zhongli, and refers back to you with the utmost reverence. he knows he need not resent his former names nor his more brutish appearances, for you’ve seen them past their monstrosity and still sees something beautiful in all of them. you’ve shown him how you’ve embraced him in his entirety; his past and his present, and his future.

with you, he can’t wait to experience your life together.

(- yet he knows every journey has its end, and so he promises himself that he’ll appreciate you every step of the way)

…. al haitham knows he doesn’t need to sugarcoat his words. you already know that he’s straightforward and blunt with his remarks and intentions, yet still, you choose to be with him. it’s not that he can’t “read the room” or “be a little more attentive”; he just doesn’t think he’s fit for the job if praises and reassurances that can barely hold any water are what people want in those situations. he also knows that you understand the nature of his job without him having to spell it out for you; he likes that he can talk or grumble about all the darkest secrets of the akademiya along with all of its forbidden secrets, and you would store it in your memory in a drawer where only he has the key to unlocking them.

with you, he doesn’t need to hold back - be it his words, his secrets, or his love, he knows you’ll accept them all and treasure them gently within your arms.

…. childe knows he can trust you with ajax. the lonely, repressed, forced-to-grow-up-far-too-soon ajax. gone is the fearsome and bloodthirsty eleventh harbinger; every time he sees you, he feels like he’s a child all over again, seeing his favorite toy and snuggling into the comfiest blanket that smells like home. he knows you would indulge his every request, from a head pat to a full-on embrace that lasts for the whole day. from a bite of the cake you’re having to a whole ten-course meal. from a little peck to a make-out session that turns into something more… you continue to spoil him despite your nagging and little exasperated huffs. he thinks it’s very very cute and endearing. sometimes tartaglia thinks he doesn’t deserve you, but ajax has already forgotten a world without you and firmly refuses to let you go with that childish mentality of his.

with you, his haven, childe knows he could be in touch with his child self and be as selfish as he wants in reveling within your love, because it seems like you’ve already long since made your home in his heart and won’t be leaving anytime soon, much to his delight.

…. tighnari knows he can fully indulge in his baser instincts and you’ll let him. you might complain, but your words won’t have any bites on them and your body will support him to let him take as much as he needed. his nesting behaviors should be an oddity in normal humans’ eyes (he can’t help stealing your clothes because the smell of his mate comforts him and helps him sleep, okay, get your mind off the gutter), yet you tell him he’s adorable and ask him if you can join in. the little fangs in his mouth should be something people are wary of (they’re made for rip and tear upon intimidation, a tool made to fight against danger), yet you tap on them whenever he bares his teeth and tells him his ‘little fangies’ are cute. you’re such a weird lummox. and tighnari loves this weird lummox so, so much.

with you, he sees a mate and a partner for life, and while fennec foxes don’t normally enjoy cuddles, he supposes he can make an exception.

….. wanderer knows he can trust you to pull him back to where he needs to be whenever he’s lost. you’ve always been meddlesome and kinder than you should be with scaramouche, and even with his new identity you’re just as nosy, and he’s grateful for it. you know not to take him seriously when he’s just acting like he doesn’t want you around, but you know to put your foot down when he tries to push you away because he’s starting to doubt himself all over again. he knows he’s not the best lover out there - hell, he’s pretty convinced that he's the worst lover in all of teyvat. but you... you stick with him regardless. you pinch his cheeks and kiss his forehead and do all the things that somehow manage to make him blush. he might not be the best lover on teyvat, but he knows that you are. so he’ll keep trying his best, just for you.

with you, his captivating dancing doll, maybe the soldier doll has managed to form a heart before it could burn to ashes after all.

— with you, i know i am where i belong, and i know that i am safe and loved.

© zhongrin | 2023 ◆ no repost. reblogs much appreciated. feel free to reach out to submit suggestions, feedback, comments, or if you just want to talk!

◇ taglist ◇ @thestarsofenkanomiya | @genshinparty | @abyssmal-skies | @hamdehlesmis | @depressivecomforts | @sophiethewitch1 | @why-am-i-here-someone-save-me | @sunnshineflxwer | @heartonthemoon | @yuutasbabe | @percyval-archives | @carbs-need-more-love | @rebeccka | @queen-belial | @stygianoir | @silentmoths | @niktwazny303 | @dustofthedailylife | @herdrops | @diebischesther | @marina-and-the-memes | @angryhope | @mixed-kester | @shuangxo | @fiannee | @lordbugs | @anonymousficreader | @shizunxie | @ladylofspades | @sup-zfam | @ansy-tea | @irethepotato | @nachotrash

[dirtyvulture]

Dear Diary

*Set in the Darkest Knight AU*

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Mutant!Reader

18+ only, read at your own risk

Word count: 4459

Summary: Natasha embraces her new life as an X-Men.

AN: I'm back with a little one shot. :) Enjoy!

December 6, 2023

Dear Diary,

Is that an appropriate way to start one of these? I’ve never kept a diary or a journal before. But Marie gave me this cute little notebook and said writing stuff down helps clear her mind, so I don’t think there’s any harm in giving it a shot. They would never let us have something like this in the Red Room. Too much evidence lying around for someone to stumble upon. Should I put a lock on this? Y/N wouldn’t snoop around to read this, would she? Well, I guess if she is–leave my diary alone, you big dummy!

The professor said the Red Room soldiers and Widows are coming tomorrow. This is all my fault. I’ve put these good people and innocent children in danger. Earlier, we went to help the kids pack their bags and board the buses. I’m not sure if Y/N has any kids of her own (or ever did at all), but I can tell she really cares about them. Although she was not happy with some of the excessive luggage some of them were bringing. No one would tell me where they’re sending the kids, but I overheard Ororo mention something about a private resort they had to buy out.

I still don’t quite understand why these people are willing to sacrifice so much for me. I’m basically a stranger to them. I have nothing to give them in return if they ask. Maybe they’ll finally throw me out when they realize how worthless I am. That’s what I really deserve. Not these warm clothes, the home-cooked meals, and this roof over my head. And I definitely don’t deserve the kindness and care Y/N has shown me. I really like her, but I’m afraid she’ll leave me when she realizes how boring and inexperienced I am. 

Oh, I think she’s coming out of the shower now. I’ll continue this later.

Love,

Nat

***********************************************************************

December 15, 2023

Dear Diary,

It’s weird how life goes back to normal so fast here. The Red Room soldiers and Widows were here not even a week ago, tearing down doors and blasting out windows, and everything is already repaired and the students are back at it like nothing happened.

A lot of them are excited to go back to their homes and families for the holiday. But a lot of them will also be staying at the mansion, because their families won’t accept them or they just don’t have any home to go back to. The professor asked Y/N to help plan some holiday games so the kids staying don’t get too bored or lonely. She’s acting like it’s the dumbest assignment he’s ever given her, but I’ve seen her spending all her free time ordering presents and decorations (with the professor’s credit card, of course), so I know she takes it very seriously and the kids are going to love whatever she comes up with.

I’m really glad I get to spend Christmas here. It’s been a long time since I’ve actually been able to celebrate it with people I love. I feel so welcomed here and no one looks at me like I’m any different, when I come from a past where there’s red all over my ledger. Sometimes I’m surprised anyone even lets me be around these kids alone, but some of them have powers that even make Y/N nervous, and I think they know they can trust me.

It’ll take some more time before I can be fully comfortable here, but it’s really starting to grow on me and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Love,

Nat

***********************************************************************

December 25, 2023

Natasha wakes up alone. She looks around the bedroom, in case you might be on the floor doing push-ups or in the bathroom showering, but the room is completely empty. Her heartbeat picks up as she jumps out of bed, afraid that you’ve left her, when she notices a note on the desk.

Downstairs making breakfast. Come join when you’re up - Y/N

She relaxes immediately, touched how you made sure to let her know in advance where you would be. She quickly washes up and puts on a robe, then hurries downstairs to a chaotic mess of torn gift wrapping, screaming children, and flashing new toys. She steps into the kitchen, where you are wearing a flowered apron and are threatening Marie with a spatula.

“Stop, those aren’t ready–Marie!” You swat at her hands as she swipes for a pancake.

“Merry Christmas, Miss Nat!” Marie says, moving your attention away from her as your girlfriend appears.

“Merry Christmas, Marie.” Natasha gives the girl a hug, not missing the folded pancake in her hand. 

“Merry Christmas, darling,” you say next, waiting for her to come over. “I made a special plate for you. It’s over here so the kids don’t get into it.” You point to a foil-covered plate off to the side of the stove. Natasha goes to investigate, peeling back the foil to find the plate fully-loaded with two different types of pancakes, one next to a little container of jam and honey, and the other still steaming and garnished with flecks of green onion. There’s even a bowl of grainy buckwheat porridge. Her heart soars at the sight of her favorite native breakfast. With a delighted squeal, she throws herself into your arms.

“Thankyou thankyou thankyou,” she choruses, squeezing you tightly as you rub her back.

“You’re welcome, darling.” 

At this point, you shoo everyone out of the kitchen to finish the preparations. Natasha joins Marie in the dining hall, helping set up the plates and silverware. She watches with great curiosity as Kitty tries getting Peter to step under the mistletoe she hung above the doorway, and then is distracted when Jean and Scott come down for breakfast.

“Y/N cooks Christmas breakfast for us every year,” Jean explains to Natasha. “The kids always look forward to it.”

“Hey, Y/N!” Scott yells into the kitchen. “Keep the walnuts away from my food, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Natasha hears you dismissively respond.

“Scott’s allergic,” Jean whispers to her. “Now there’s no proof how, but he ended up with a plateful of them last year and I almost had to take him to the hospital. Needless to say, it was an eventful Christmas.”

Natasha giggles to herself, already having a feeling she knows exactly how those walnuts got on Scott’s plate.

Everyone finds a seat at the table, the empty one next to Natasha reserved for you. You finally emerge from the kitchen, no longer in the flowered apron but one of your classic checkerboard flannels. You’re carrying an impressive tower of pancakes in one hand and a pan filled half and half with bacon and sausage in the other. The students break out in appreciation and applause as Bobby scoots aside some dishes to make room for the last trays.

“Don’t take more than you can finish,” you remind the kids, going around the table to sit next to Natasha and presenting her with her special plate. “And uh, Merry Christmas, happy holidays, and all that other stuff.” You raise your apple cider in a toast and everyone follows your lead.

“Thanks for breakfast, Y/N,” Ororo says, clinking her glass to yours. The students erupt with more thanks before they start reaching for the food, passing around the mountainous plate of pancakes, scooping whole fried eggs onto each other’s plates.

“Thanks again, babe,” Natasha says, putting her hand on your thigh as she leans over to kiss you on the cheek.

“You should try it first before thanking me,” you tease, still not used to all the praise. You were just trying to be a good partner, and it was somewhat of a Christmas tradition for you to cook breakfast for all the students who stayed at the mansion over break. You didn’t mind it at all, in fact you really did enjoy spending time in the kitchen and it made you feel good to take care of others.

Natasha leaves her hand on your knee as she eats, and eventually you put your hand on top of hers comfortingly. Neither of you engage much in conversation as you eat and listen, happy with the company. Once all of the food has been finished, Ororo rounds up the students to help clean everything before they can continue opening presents. 

Kitty gets you a Johnny Cash vinyl record. Marie and Bobby got you a variety pack of exotic flavors of jerky, including alligator, ostrich, and buffalo. Storm gives you and Natasha tickets to a weekend getaway at a Canadian resort. Jean and Scott also throw in a joint gift of a new set of winter bedsheets. You are very thankful for the presents and pile them neatly by your feet, when Natasha pulls out a box and puts it on your lap. Inside is a familiar-looking flannel shirt.

“It’s a brand new one,” Natasha says. “To replace all the ones I steal from your closet,” Natasha says.

“Thanks,” you say, putting your arm around her to pull her closer so you can kiss her cheek. “This one is from me.” You hand her a very small box.

Natasha opens it delicately and gasps when she sees what you’ve given her. It’s a wooden ring, carved a little roughly around the edges  with little turquoise-colored gems pressed into the outside.

“Did you make this?” Natasha asks, running her finger over the gems.

“Uh, yeah.” You’re suddenly nervous that she doesn’t like it. Woodworking was not your finest hobby, despite your decades to fine-tune the skill, but you preferred to build vast structures and furniture. Tiny little pieces of jewelry were extremely difficult to handle, but hopefully it was worth the numerous cuts and splinters you gave yourself. 

Natasha slips it on her right ring finger–a perfect fit. Maybe you needed to give yourself more credit for your handiwork.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, holding her hand up to admire the ring. “I love it. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” 

Natasha snuggles closer to you and rests her head on your shoulder while you sit back and watch everyone else finish opening their gifts.

***********************************************************************

The rest of the day is busy but productive. Natasha has never felt happier watching the students competitively decorate gingerbread houses, then go outside and play in the snow. You don’t join in anymore, preferring to watch from the side. You’re already wearing the flannel Natasha got for you and Natasha gazes at you adoringly from afar. Despite the differences the two of you had from time to time, she hasn’t loved another person the way she loves you. But sometimes she worries that you don’t feel the same way. 

You still don’t talk very much, hardly opening up about your past the way Natasha has spilled about hers. Although you seem mostly content at the mansion, Natasha can tell you’re still adjusting to being around so many people. The life of solitude in the cabin in the woods had clearly been more your style, and she feels guilty for dragging you away from that. But as much as she would love to spend all day with you cozied up in a cabin you built with your own hands, it wasn’t a realistic option. Not with all the threats and dangers that could come her way.

Which is why it was so important to Natasha that the Red Room be dealt with, as soon as possible.

She didn’t like how dismissive you got every time she brought it up, but she understood why. You had found your domestic bliss and didn’t want to let it go anytime soon. She wasn’t going to blame you. But she wished you would actually listen to her instead of shutting her down all the time. She would figure out how to broach the topic with you eventually, but today was not that day.

After a quiet dinner, which is basically just warmed up leftovers from breakfast, Natasha finds you sitting by yourself on the couch in front of a dying fire. Most of the students had retired to their rooms, exhausted by the day’s festivities. Natasha sits next to you, leaning her shoulder against yours.

“Hey,” she whispers.

“Hi.” You offer her your hand and she clasps onto it, threading her fingers with yours. You smile when you see the wooden ring on her finger. It looks perfect on her. “Did you have fun today?” you ask. 

“It was the best Christmas I ever had,” she replies. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Of course.”

Natasha is tired, but there’s still one more thing she wants to do with you. She rests her hand on your thigh, subtly at first, then she slowly starts to stroke your leg, her fingers barely perceptible through your jeans. You ignore her and her movements become bolder, creeping towards the inside of your thigh now and squeezing it lightly.

“Can I help you with something?” you finally ask. Natasha has always been a little more shy when it comes to asking for intimacy with you. But you were patient with her and never pressured her, and that encouraged her to have the confidence to ask if you were in the mood–even if she didn’t always do it with words. 

“Do you want to go upstairs?” she says, leaning forward until her lips almost touch yours. “I still have one more present to give you.”

“Oh, do you now?” you ask, trying to kiss her but she pulls away.

“You have to come upstairs,” she repeats, offering you her hand as she stands up.

“All right, all right.” Your knees creak as you push off the couch, taking Natasha’s hand and following her upstairs. You can hear her heartbeat pounding with excitement or maybe that’s…yours? You hope everyone else has gone to sleep by now, otherwise they wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon.

Back in the privacy of the bedroom, you let Natasha lead you to the bed and you sit down on the edge with her climbing onto your lap. 

“Is this okay?” she asks, her hands locking around the back of your neck.

“Of course,” you whisper, leaning in until your foreheads touch. Your arms circle her waist to hold her securely in place. Her breath fans over your face and her heartbeat pumps at an almost alarmingly quick rate. 

“I want you,” she says, rocking her hips against your thighs. “I want you to take me.”

“How do you want me?” you ask, before she presses her lips roughly to yours, her fingers digging into your neck. Her arousal spikes and so does yours. You open your mouth when she licks your lips to deepen the kiss. She tastes like vanilla and cookies and you instinctively pull her closer to you, wanting to devour her until the morning.

Natasha grabs the collar of your flannel, pulling apart the top buttons and running her hands down your chest and abs. Your skin burns where she touches you and you nip lightly on her bottom lip when she rests her hands on the buckle of your belt.

“I want to taste you,” you pant, hoping your request doesn’t come across as too greedy. Natasha has to fight down her thrill of excitement at your suggestion, wondering how you knew exactly what she wanted. She doesn’t even take the time to agree with you, instead hurriedly stripping off her clothes to show you how eager she is. You take off the flannel, setting it aside with reverence, then removing your undershirt and jeans. Natasha tackles you back on the bed, your thigh fitting between her legs and you feel the heat from her center rubbing against you.

“You’re so wet for me,” you say, holding her hips again and guiding her up until she’s hovering over your chest. “My good girl.”

“Your good girl,” Natasha reiterates, grabbing onto the headboard for support before she positions herself over your face. The scent of her arousal is almost overwhelming to you, and you waste no time bringing your arms over her thighs to pull her down. Natasha whines when your mouth makes contact with her slick center, your tongue slipping into her and coating with her juices. 

Natasha moans, grinding down so you can enter her deeper. Your arms tighten to prevent her from moving too much; you want to do things at your own pace. Her taste is so intoxicating and addictive, you could lie here forever eating her out. Natasha grips the headboard tighter, struggling to rock against your face for more friction, but you won’t let her. She whines in desperation, the noises music to your ears. Your tongue dips into her again before tracing up to her clit, flicking against it and Natasha grinds down harder on your chin, gasping and moaning. 

“Y/N,” she begs. “Y/N, please.”

You stop, pulling away from her far enough to say, “What do you want, baby?”

“I want you,” she repeats, her voice breaking. “I need you.”

“I know, baby. I got you.” As much as you love teasing her, this is not the time. You knew Natasha could sometimes be insecure about your relationship with her. But you had no regrets in choosing to be with her and loved her so much. You would never miss an opportunity to show her, either.

You loosen your arms around her so she has some freedom to move and Natasha quickly adjusts herself until she’s comfortable. When she settles back down on your face again, you find her clit and wrap your lips around it, rewarded with a long, drawn-out moan. Natasha rolls her hips to help you find a good rhythm. You feel her thighs tremble and more of her slick spills onto your tongue. 

“Oh, god. Oh fuck, Y/N,” she whimpers, the headboard flexing dangerously from how hard she’s holding onto it. 

Your stomach practically burns from how aroused you are with Natasha riding your face, and you’re hoping she’ll help you relieve some of the tension once you make her finish. You’ve held out as long as you could, and you can tell Natasha is ready to fall over the edge. Your tongue rests on her clit again, swiping upwards in a straight line, then dragging down at a diagonal angle, then going back up.

N.

Your tongue moves in an inverted V next, drawing an imaginary bar between them.

A.

You lick down her clit once more, then swipe perpendicular.

T.

Natasha is panting and shaking, completely unaware that you’re trying to spell her name on her with your tongue. One of her hands has left the headboard and is holding tightly onto your hair in an attempt to guide you, but your own plan is already in action.

She doesn’t make it the next A, her back arching and thighs clamping around your head as she finally cums. You don’t let a drop of it go to waste, lapping at her sensitive folds until she’s whimpering and trying to pull your head away. Natasha lifts herself off your face with a contented sigh, turning herself away from the headboard now, but you’re not quite done with her yet.

You pull her back down on your face and she falls forward with her hands on your chest. 

“Did I say you could go anywhere?” you grumble playfully. 

“Y/N,” Natasha giggles. 

“Can I have one more, darling?” you ask, and she responds by sitting back on your face. But now Natasha is the one with other ideas, as she eyes the veins on your flexing abdomen that disappear behind the band of your underwear. You feel her hands run across your stomach and your breath hitches when she tugs down your underwear.

“Nat, what are you–oh, shit.” Now it’s your turn to gasp and moan when Natasha leans over and places her mouth on your dripping center. You completely lose focus of what you were doing, instinctively spreading your legs open further to give her better access. “Fuck baby, oh fuck,” you whine, your head dropping back on the pillow.

“Did I say you could stop?” Natasha teases, turning your own words back against you. It takes a monumental effort, but you calm yourself enough to put your mouth to work again. Natasha almost soaks herself when she realizes how turned on you’ve gotten just from eating her out. Now she has only one mission in mind: make you cum before she does a second time. But you’re refusing to make it easy for her, and Natasha is already dangerously close despite having finished mere minutes ago. She knows she has to hurry, but judging from the tremble in your thighs, you’re closer than you’re letting on.

Natasha’s tongue circles your clit and she can feel you panting against her, your own efforts faltering in their rhythm. She pushes back against your face to remind you of what you promised her. Your fingers dig into the curve of her ass and you feel her breasts rubbing against your abs. Her mouth is so hot and wet and perfect on you, making you lose your breath every time her tongue touches you.

“Fuck, Nat,” you whimper, feeling like you’re losing control of yourself. You’re not even sure if what you’re doing to her anymore is working because all you can think about is the throbbing in your lower stomach that begs to be released. Your back arches off the bed when her tongue lashes at your clit and she struggles and fails to push down on your thighs to keep you grounded. “Nat, I can’t,” you warn, a little embarrassed at how fast you’re ready to release. 

“It’s okay,” you hear Natasha say, “Cum for me, baby.” 

White floods your vision and all the muscles in your body tighten as you spill into her mouth, a moan catching in your throat. Your head spins in a rush of endorphins and you’re practically convulsing underneath Natasha when you finally come down from your high. She purrs in delight at her success, gently squeezing at your thighs. And as much as you want to flip her around and press her head against your chest, you still do owe her.

Natasha’s second orgasm is a little more subdued but just as pleasurable. She bites the inside of your thigh to quiet the noise of her moan and you almost cum again. But once she finds the strength to move, Natasha crawls back up to you, nuzzling the side of your head and kissing you. Normally, you could go several rounds without even stopping for a break, but you’re unusually exhausted today. Maybe it was from waking up at four o’clock to work on breakfast for everyone or making sure that the Christmas activities throughout the day ran smoothly. 

Natasha rests her head on your chest, listening to your steady heartbeat and you rub her shoulder, tilting your head down to breathe in the faded scent of her shampoo. 

“Merry Christmas, Y/N,” she whispers.

“Merry Christmas, darling.”

***********************************************************************

January 2, 2024

Dear Diary,

Professor Xavier called me personally to his office today. I was really nervous that I was in trouble for something. I’m still not sure how I feel about his mind-reading thing. I try to keep my thoughts in check when he’s around, but I think that makes it seem like I’m hiding something. But other than that, he’s only ever been polite and respectful to me, and I can tell Y/N really looks up to him as a mentor and father figure.

He told me he has a lead on where the Red Room could be and asked if I still want to pursue them. Of course I do, but I know Y/N isn’t happy about it. I thought she would understand more. I know she’s got her own past that she hasn’t told me the entirety of yet (not that she’s required to), but she’s told a few stories so I know her situation is similar enough to mine. I wish she was more supportive instead of trying to talk me out of it, but I know she’s worried too. She doesn’t want me rushing back into danger and I totally get that. But I just…I can’t stay here and be cared for and protected and loved when there are so many of my sisters still being held against their will and forced into doing horrible things.

Luckily, the professor seems more understanding of things. But I don’t want him or anyone else here risking their lives for me. If I have to go alone, I will. I don’t know if I can do it alone, though. I’m sure Y/N will insist on tagging along no matter what. I just hope she doesn’t get too grumpy about the whole thing.

Love,

Nat

***********************************************************************

January 4, 2024

Dear Diary,

I still haven’t told Y/N what the professor told me 2 days ago (assuming she hasn’t already gone through my diary and read about it here). I tried to mention it after dinner, but I could tell as soon as I let the “R” word slip she was not paying attention to the conversation anymore. I don’t want my frustration to build up, so I’ll probably have to be straightforward about it, which isn’t easy.

I know the professor can hear all of my thoughts, so I wonder if he’s going to get tired of them and just talk to Y/N himself. But probably not. This is my problem to handle. I’ll find the courage somehow to deal with it. 

I just hope it doesn’t cause Y/N to look down on me for this. I’m already nervous that I’m constantly annoying her, and if she gets fed up enough and kicks me out I will literally have nowhere to go and at that point, I’d welcome back the Red Room with open arms. That probably seems a little dramatic, but I really don’t want to risk losing the best person that ever came into my life. I have Y/N to thank for everything I have here, and I think most people in my position would call me crazy for trying to make any changes to my situation. 

But I’m not like most people. And I have to do what I think is right, even if others try to stop me. 

I’ll bring it up to Y/N later again. Maybe if I catch her in a good mood she’ll be more receptive to the idea. Wishing luck to my future self.

Love,

Nat

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AN: Please leave likes, comments, and reblog! Follow for more content. 🥰

Multipart sequel in the works!

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

aita for calling my roommate crazy?

I (28f) live with 2 other people, a former college roommate who I’m pretty close with (29f) and 2nd roommate (28nb) who we both met when we moved in together 2 years ago.

Let me start this out by saying, this isn’t a fandom aita, it’s going to sound a bit weird at first, but bear with me.

I have a medical condition (relevant later) which stopped most of my bones from maturing past puberty (growth plates closing, cartilage not hardening into bones, ect.), so my skeleton is basically stuck somewhere between 13-19, (I look about 17-19, but the last time I tried to buy hard cider, the cashier thought I was 14, so that’s how young I can look). I also have very pale skin (unrelated to my disorder, just a ginger), and (related to my disorder) lack some liver enzymes so I need eat meat or I get sick (the same reason why cats need to eat meat), I ended up in the ER when I lived with my vegan sister for a week and ate the same veggie diet as her.

Trouble is, Roommate 2 is really into conspiracy theories and other fringe stuff. Nothing alt-right or anything, just like, (for example) they fully bought into that Mermaids: the body found show, and wouldn’t be dissuaded, even when Roommate 1 googled it and showed them solid proof that it was fictional. Wholeheartedly believes the US government preformed 9/11, does alternative medicine (homeopathy, ect), wishes there were ‘all natural’ vaccines (still isn’t an anti-vaccer though, just needs to be persuaded that Bill Gates didn’t put microchips in them).

Anyway, Roommate 1 and I have a recurring joke that I’m a vampire because of the meat thing and the pale thing and the not aging thing. Roommate 2 overheard us and laughed, but weirdly. She kinda joked along with us, but she seemed...odd. About a week later, they start asking me stuff about being a vampire. But they seemed friendly and not nervous then and I was hoping they were just joking and I also sincerely thought they were just asking me about how vampires work on one of my shows (I’m a big fan of Carmilla and the Originals), so I tried to explain, but I cited each show when I’m explaining a thing. This continued for several weeks, but getting worse and more weird every time, eventually culminating about 2 and a half months later into them asking me more stuff about life as a vampire and I really realised that they were serious. Bear in mind, Roommate 1 and I were trying to be very clear that we don’t believe in vampires this whole time because we both know how Roommate 2 is about this. As a result, this was the first time I really registered that they seriously seemed to genuinely believe I was a vampire. I firmly told them that I am not a vampire and that vampires aren’t real, they’re fun to joke about, but they aren’t real. They implored me ‘to be straight with them about being a vampire,’ and that ‘I could trust them,’ and I’m ashamed to say, I kinda freaked out at this point, cuz I was afraid that they would be scared of me and maybe try to hurt me, since they seemed kinda unstable because of this.

This is where I think I was an asshole, I am usually very sensitive to mental health issues. I have some c-PTSD myself and there are a lot of mental health issues in my family (unfortunately, I think some history with my own mentally ill father may have made me react this way, since he has very similar issues to Roommate 2 (vaccines, alternate medicines, specifically involving me in his delusions) and I had a very bad experience in my early teens where he thought I was a demon and ‘sent to destroy him’). Anyway, I got very upset and I yelled at them, I told them they were completely crazy and needed to get mental help and said I thought Roommate 1 and I needed to move out because they might try to stake my heart or something. I feel really bad for calling them crazy, especially because Roommate 2 has some very mental health issues and words like crazy make light of and stigmatise that and I’m very big into not blaming people for their mental health problems, but this was very triggering and in this moment I was very distresssed.

So, aita, all things considered here? I’m still gonna feel like the asshole no matter what, since mental health problems aren’t to be taken lightly or blamed on the person, but I’m curious what the internet thinks.

What are these acronyms?

[lightwise]

TBB S3 E10 Reaction

Life has been a bit busier the last few weeks so I am finally catching up on my episode reactions (I’m determined to do all of them this season!) And I apologize y’all, this episode made me very snarky apparently.

I’ll be honest. When this episode first came out I was nowhere near as surprised by it or horrified by it as reviewers seemed to be. Nothing about Palpatine hunting down force sensitive children as experiments and using Cad Bane to do it is a surprise, and the Vault feels so much like Andor. But even on a rewatch this episode holds up so well and honestly just starts to give a cold chill under the skin as the quiet horror of it sinks in.

- Cute kid. And the Batch nowhere to be seen. This is going to be a different episode isn’t it

- Oh no. He’s force sensitive 😫😫😫 hmmm how could that possibly go wrong

- This is giving Andor vibes 👀

- It’s always interesting seeing “regular people” in Star Wars and little markets and how they’re just trying to go about their daily lives.

- Don’t go around snitching people! Nothing good ever comes of it!!!

- Yeah this guy is worse than Timm from Andor. Wtf dude. You’re turning in a baby!!

- Also is it just me or typical Star Wars “houses” end up being pretty dark and depressing?

- Wait okay okay. So this is the CX chamber. Why can’t we see any of them yet 😩😩 what is this red fog? What are these weird conditioning pods? What kind of armor is on this datapad?? *trying to crawl inside my screen* I NEED ANSWERS JENNIFER!!

- “Do you trust me?” Ooooh why do I think that’s going to come back around

- But also, babygirl, I don’t think you actually know what you’re signing up for

- “I could be more useful” “you wish to be the new chief scientist Dr. Karr?” “I believe I’ve earned it.” Alright. This. This is interesting. This fully encapsulates the dynamic that these two have shared. Emerie knows that Hemlock only values things that are useful, and probably only sees her own value in the light of what she can contribute, due to how she was raised and the circumstances she has been trapped in. Hemlock’s tone of voice implies that he has never considered her as being the new chief scientist, and yet he acquiesces quite quickly, almost as though he’s just too busy to think about it and if it means things are brought back up to production standard then he’s fine with it. His utter disregard for Emerie as an actual human and someone with merit is disgusting though.

- But I get it, the man’s busy, he’s got a lot of evil shit he’s trying to do all at the same time 🙄

- So we have “the assets”, which is the area that Hemlock took Palpatine in the first episodes, where the orange containment pods are and the zillo beast is being kept. We still don’t know what those assets are. The Vault is something different.

- Well. Shit. It’s Andor and Narkina 5 for kids. Lovely 😳💀

- “There are few adults left with such characteristics” I WONDER IN THE NAME OF ONE EMPEROR PALPATINE WHY

- Okay so this entire exchange is awful. The kids are so cute! Hemlock is so cold. “Specimens. Assets” ughhh Emerie what are you getting yourself into!!

- Is this the first time we’ve heard the word glasses in Star Wars?

- Oh no. So THIS is why Cad Bane was brought back 🥺🥺

- The score in this episode is perfectly eerie

- Lol Todo is not good with kids huh 🤣

- That poor mama when she wakes up and finds her baby is gone

- I hope that dude has his entire life flash before his eyes as he’s trying to pick all of those credits up

- “My name’s Eva” 🥹🥹🥹 Emerie has no idea how to handle this 😂

- I still wanna know what’s happened with these commandos. No way a clone of Jango Fett is able to look a child in the eyes, call them a “specimen” and not have even an ounce of remorse as they stun them point blank.

- “Jax?” And Eva just points. The power in knowing someone’s name vs a dehumanizing number

- It’s also interesting that these kids are species that are red, blue, and green, and when they get Bayrn in, he’s white. RGB colors make up white light when put together.

- The little peeks of Emerie’s backstory we keep getting are so interesting. She was abandoned by Nala Se. She knows that these children don’t belong here, the same way that Omega told both her and Crosshair that they didn’t belong here either. Nala Se says that the Empire will hold these kids to control them. Emerie feels like she has no power to do anything differently. So much to unpack here.

- Why is Tarkin’s holo so large?

- Lol I honestly love getting to see the backbiting politics of how the Empire functions. It’s so bad and so funny

- Also love that Project Necromancer is so secret that even Tarkin doesn’t know what it is. He’s so nosy

- Okay why does he bring up the CX schematic again and why is it so different than the one we saw earlier??

- Whoa Cid was tortured???

- “The other operatives aren’t ready to join you in the field” why????

- We’re visiting a lot of space stations this season

- Man I wish Emerie had fudged this test

- Nooo let the poor baby go home 🥺

- Oh and now we’re putting kids in solitary confinement. Great.

- C’mon Emerie. Keep clicking that moral compass until it points north

- She kept the straw Lula. She’s giving it to Eva 😭. There’s hope for her yet

[ctinalk]

Season two isn’t (fully) real, it’s a peaceful, fragile existence

The more I rewatch the show and read different theories, the more convinced I get that S2 is some sort of elaborate dream sequence or a distraction or memory alteration attempt (Neil’s chaotic angsty ineffable husbands fanfic?). But not all of it.

(This gets kind of rambly so if you want my true hook, scroll down to the Michael Sheen Staged gif.)

Let me make this perfectly clear on the outset: I don’t think all of it is a dream, and I certainly don’t think the final 15/kiss is or is going to be discounted (and not only because there would be literal riots in the street, because there absolutely would be, but also I’m putting trust in Neil and the team wholeheartedly). I think that could actually be the domino that brings them out of it. I read somewhere recently something along the lines of “something loved can never be truly forgotten” and I think that fits my theory perfectly. I’m also making no claims (yet) as to what I think is real and what I think is “enhanced”.

Also I apparently am either too far deep or cannot work the tumblr search function with any modicum of usefulness, so please link me to the posts I’m alluding to if you think it’s the right one. I will edit them in and sincerely apologize to the brilliant minds that exist outside the confines of the search function.

Now, On with the show:

You can be in charge of the biscuits

Maggie and Nina: Look, I get that recasts happen, they change the actor playing the character because of scheduling conflicts, etc. But to cast the actor/actress that is immediately recognizable from a prior interaction (whether with the characters or the audience) is not something you see. FFS Maggie DIED in S1, and Nina was pivotal (maybe too strong a word, but enough to be memorable surely) to the storyline. It’s like someone said “Hey, they’ll work, bring em in, no I don’t care that they were in S1. It’ll be a test of how well our facade is working. If they (A&C) notice, then the gig is up and we’ll know it.”

Also why in the world is the owner of a coffee shop offering Eccles cakes to calm down, when camomile tea is right there? (Resists the urge to go off on a tangent on how Eccles cakes were used to celebrate the “Eccles wakes” at the feast of St. Mary (yes that Mary) and how that ties into the second coming plot.) Do Eccles cakes count as biscuits? Ugh another thought for another day I suppose.

It has come to my attention during writing that Shax is the same actress as Madame Tracy. I have less of an affront to this knowledge since I’m 2 months deep and countless rewatches in and only just noticed. But I’m going to pop it in this header anyway. Are you really trying to tell me that a show that apparently has demon entrances happening precisely on the 6s really didn’t think these choices out very deliberately? (Edit 3: https://www.tumblr.com/noneorother/735823422626709504/the-secret-timeline-inside-of-good-omens-season-2 JFC why can I never find the blogs when I want to insert them? It was a breakdown about how all of the demon entrances happen at a 00:00 that ends in a 6.)

Yours very faithfully, Maggie

Text to mail disconnect: There’s been a theory pop up (at the time one writing this at least (edit 2: https://www.tumblr.com/azariah-z-fell/743434274903048192/it-is-extra-weird-because-it-is-on-the-record) that Maggie actually texted Aziraphale her request to talk, and it was magically translated into a physical form, and the spelling error (that so many people are shouting DEMON at) was just an autocorrect typo. But, surely Maggie would know he doesn’t text if she knew him for several years at least. We’ve never seen either of our boys text, only call. Seems like someone doesn’t know how phones work, but wanted to get the message received? See also: currency, below.

You ever think, what’s the point?

Numerous people have pointed out the same obvious background people. There are theories about the guy in the Hawaiian shirt being the second coming or something similar. I wonder if it’s some sort of play on a badly executed attempt to make Wickber Street seem “normal” in an alternate reality, an elaborate distraction, but they have to keep using the same character models because their imagination is just slightly better than Shadwells’ (Oh gfdi how did I miss Mrs. sandwich right there). I’m not saying we haven’t done a “oh oops silly me I forgot something” but that isn’t usually done in the middle of a sidewalk. When Aziraphale is initially talking to Jim with the blanket, there’s a guy just chugging his arms outside the window, not walking. Another one in E3 when Shax show up outside the shop, a guy in an orange sweatshirt passes in the background, then passes again, and not close enough in time/area to just be the continuation of the walk. Especially in the early episodes, there are veritable conveyer belts of people, straight lines, no trying to pass, etc. I’m trying to look at the background in S1 and while there are still tons of people, the background is… livelier. People passing, shoving past, actually going places.

“I’m looking at the statue of Gabriel.” “Oh, good job?”

Aziraphale basically learns fuck-all when he makes the trip to Edinburgh. Granted, I do believe most of that was to make the Bentley “our car”, but so many things are out of character. The no drink, the over-the-top “investigation” (as awkward as he is, Aziraphale knows how to act more normally than that with humans), the background on the drive up there…

All the others were taken (random collective thoughts)

Somehow ALL the businesses on the street are different from Season 1?

A normal person would have moved out of the rain instead of just lolling there letting raid splatter their glasses, yeah? (As a person with glasses I can confirm).

“We have all the hosts of hell searching for him” cue Crowley looking around like then why the fuck are there still demons around me?

The cross disappearing from the Gabriel statue between shots.

“I’m a bit out of miracles” and “that’s not how miracles work” from the guy who got written up for too many frivolous miracles.

I have here a sixpence and a farthing There’s always money in the banana stand

The lack of (accurate?) paid transactions seems like whoever is pulling the strings has no concept of earthly money and how it’s supposed to work, just that it exists. Crowley and Aziraphale talk bluntly about poverty and know that money is needed and used in current society (“Give her the money, Angel”, Rome, Globe Theatre, 1941 magic shop, etc.). Could be a “let’s not get lost in the trivialities” thing but it does strike me as odd. Caveat: Aziraphale forgiving the rent doesn’t quite fit, but cost of the record is obscenely low.

But this does give me hope about the 3rd 1941 flashback, because they were using money accurately there, which hopefully means the flashbacks and memories aren’t being altered, just “present day”.

We’re real people

One of the overarching themes in Season 2 (and S1 now I think of it) is “stop interfering in the lives of other people”. Maggie and Nina, Job, Elspeth, the entire dance party, Warlock, the book of prophecy. It would be a shame if someone were to make sure I failed to be messing about in their own lives.

I had brothers, you don’t scare me

Something happened just before Maggie told them to “Come in here and say that to my face.” Another demonic turn potential here, but also kind of like someone’s saying “FFS get on with the plot”.

The book of love has music in it

This post https://www.tumblr.com/noneorother/731977308306636800/all-the-music-you-didnt-hear-the-good-omens (finally, one I can find!) popped up, and there’s another one that purports to have noticed that there’s music lines missing from the opening sequence (edit 1: Found it!: https://www.tumblr.com/dadesu/726651737165938688/anyone-noticed-the-missing-half-bar-in-good-omens ). Possibly Clueing us in that there’s something that’s missing elsewhere (I mean obviously, that’s the whole point of this season, is it not?).

So where do we go from here?

As much as I’d love to say “Alright so the kiss breaks the spell whoever was put over them because of ✨the power of love✨, the ruse will be revealed, and they’re not talking because they don’t have to”

I don’t know, my thoughts are just the overarching patterns I’ve noticed over many, many rewatches and probably reading a few too many magic trick theories and/or fanfics. I don’t intentionally make my theory posts open-ended, but in the end that’s the fun of it. Nothing has to be mutually exclusive (yes I’m referencing my “Is Crowley already the new Supreme Archangel” post, I think I’m allowed that much). I’m happy to be proven wrong, and probably will be.

Lots of things are wrong right now

But I will leave you with one parting thought: Crowley knows. He knows there’s furniture missing. (That’s why he keeps just tossing things everywhere, because he know it doesn’t matter.)

And he. Does not. Care. For it.

How many theories that I myself hate can I dig into?

I’m a demon, I lied:

[cacaobean760]

Ok so this is my first ever post but I actually really want to talk about this because for the past 3 or 4 days I have been hyperfixated on Touchstarved 😅(but who can blame me🤷‍♀️) so this is gonna be on Leander because like everyone else I have been thinking about his character and what everything means because he is obviously MAD sus. I know that there are already a lot of theories out there in this pretty boy so I’m just gonna talk about some weird lines I noticed and I think I’ll do a separate post about things about his character physically because this is already gonna be a long one🌞 I honestly have no idea where to really start but I’m just gonna hop right in so buckle up because this will probably be long🤠 Now first things first as much as I would love to trust this pretty boy we all know that he is, for one reason or another, trying to get us to trust him. And with the very first option we get with Leander to either take the flowers or refuse them, if you choose to refuse them he basically just dismisses us and reiterates what he said before

At first glance this seems innocent enough and maybe even kind but when you actually think about it, it is a bit weird. Like he is really trying to make a good impression on us because who doesn’t like flowers right?👀 and we know that he is specifically targeting us because before this when everyone else is calling out for the flowers(which means that we can assume that they all already like, trust, and or know Leander) this happens

Now upon reading this, this was definitely gonna happen because we are the MC but if you look at this from Leanders view, we are a new face, someone he doesn’t know yet, someone who doesn’t trust him yet. Leander later plays this off by flattery and saying he is,” certain that he would remember a face as lovely as ours around Lowtown”. Now I just might be SUPER paranoid here but I feel this kills two birds with one stone because one it covers up the fact that he noticed us right away but also establishes a relationship with some flattery. Am I saying he is lying when he says this and that he is not being truthful about finding us attractive, no, but I definitely think that there is a hidden agenda here, which is getting us to trust him. Next, I don’t even know what this fully means but I think it definitely alludes to his character so I’ll include it

Just like the flowers, Leander is trying to make an impression, whether this nice guy act last long or not, we don’t know yet 🤷‍♀️ Later on in the story at the bar counter the MC and Leander are chit chatting so Leander asks us why we are at the Wet Wick and once Leander realizes it’s for work his mood changes immediately but only for a second

Before he was very happy and all smiles but for some reason this drops when he realizes it’s about work??? I also have no idea what this means again, but if he is actually disappointed that we did not come to the Wet Wick just because, or something else I don't know, but I feel this is important. Then when we mention the Senobium and all the Bloodhounds act up this caught my eye

Beforehand he was very invested in us and talkative but now he doesn’t even notice an uproar??? And then to add on, when he does notice, this is his reaction

I just feel that this is a very weird reaction for someone who is portrayed as very friendly and outgoing. Again in the moment of reading this it might not seem that weird or out of character but when you think about how bubbly he was before it definitely is questionable. Like I said there are many theories on Leander and the Bloodhounds and one of them is that the Bloodhounds are a gang or something like it and something that I feel backs this up is this line right here, specifically the key word territory

As far as I know gangs do have territory. But this means that there has to be some other territory or some sort of rival! This leads me to what Vere says later on in the game when you choose to follow him

Sooooooo does this mean that the Senobium is or has a gang???? Maybe, but I feel that there is something going on there. Then after all the commotion we finally go outside and Leander tries to figurer out what is "wrong" with us and why we want to go to the Senobium. When trying to convince us to tell him he says

Again at first glance, this seems perfectly fine but, again, I may just be reading wayyyy to much into things, but to me, this feels a bit cocky for someone as friendly and bubbly as he is suppose to be. He is most definitely trying to convince us to tell him about ourselves even though we already know that INFORMATION IS VERY SENSITIVE IN THIS CITY. And yet Leander reassures us that he can help and so we should tell him. Then when we finally do tell him that we are cursed his response is

This strikes me as odd because the Devs have said that yes, he is from a Hightown family, but he did not go to the Senobium to study, soooo how exactly would he know the differences and why would he be so interested in it because unless for some odd reason he was taught at home about curses which I don't think is very likely, what did he exactly do to acquire this knowledge?

Ok so this is already really long, like longer then I thought it would be but I still have more so Ima just gonna do a part 2, but thanks for reading!!! And in conclusion, Leander is mad sus.

[samdeancrimespree]

thinking about stanford era again SORRY but. the boys entire life john trained dean too look out for sam. he thought something was after sam. and then sam, technically an adult but never to John, still skinny and inexperienced and soft, decided to leave. yes he said don’t come back. yes he had a hold over dean. but am i really expected to believe that dean, the john winchester whisperer, wouldn’t have been able to convince him to let dean go live with sam and make sure he was ok? it’s His Job. it’s clear that they had been hunting apart for some time before the pilot. so why would john keep dean away from sam? even if he had people “watching” sam from a distance, i fucking doubt the most paranoid man on earth, the man who hated 99.9% of hunters, would’ve had a bunch of friends to cash in 4-year-long favours with. i think if dean asked john to let him leave, the only reason john would’ve stopped him was as some weird punishment / bcs he was too angry at sam to care about his safety that much.

to me, there are 4 options. in order from most to least likely: dean a) spent wayyyy more time around stanford than he would ever admit b) was so destroyed by (what he saw as) sam’s abandonment of him that it broke his brain and he blindly followed johns orders for years, because he fully believed sam hated him and couldn’t live with having that confirmed c) couldn’t even bear to be in the same state as sam for at least a year because he has no impulse control and would’ve sought out the self-punishment of seeing his sam being happy and normal without him, but also would’ve never been able to leave him again or d) was trying to leave sam alone like sam wanted, and he trusted sam’s abilities because dean had trained him well and he could totally, definitely stand the idea that sam didn’t need him anymore (laughable)

not-quite canon compliant thoughts aside, i think it is completely impossible that they didn’t have a code for this too. like. To Me. dean drove to stanford to help sammy move in, and set up some sort of system with him where each month or whatever he would leave a message on deans phone with a code word so dean didn’t drive himself insane thinking he was dead. and that day was the best day of the month to him. and he didn’t answer the phone, because he knew sam didn’t want to talk to him, but he saved all those messages, even though they were like one word long.

[saras-devotionals]

Quiet Time 3/11

What am I feeling today?

Just really wish I wasn’t awake right now. I was struggling to fall asleep last night and I only got a few hours of actual sleep. And my cat have been meowing and scratching at my door for about two hours now and I wish she’d just give up because I’m so so tired. I’m also back in school and this week is just going to be so hectic and I’m just not looking forward to it. I just feel like crying and giving up.

Bible Plan: healing what’s hidden

Holding on to Hope

God doesn’t operate as humans do. He uses the foolish to shame the wise. He makes a no-name shepherd into a king. He lets the last go first. He prays for his enemies. He turns the other cheek. He overcomes evil with good. He defeats death itself by submitting himself to death. And he births hope out of suffering.

Yeah you gotta admit, but human standards, God operates in a really weird way that most of us struggle to understand.

Don’t give up. Keep holding on to hope because God is faithful to provide it and because you are not alone in the struggle. Trauma may have been what brought you here, but soon enough, God’s redemptive love for you will take you to places so rich with joy and purpose you can’t even imagine them yet!

Right on time with the last thing I wrote was that I want to give up, isn’t it cool God can work like that? That He’s just always aware and gives His word in such a timely manner? Yeah He’s pretty awesome and just mind boggling and insane to fully comprehend.

‭‭Romans‬ ‭5‬:‭3‬-‭5‬ ‭NIV‬‬

“Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.”

The formula this passage gives us: suffering produces perseverance, perseverance produces character, and character produces hope. Of all the ways we’d expect hope to be produced, suffering wouldn’t have been at the top of the list. And yet, here we see that it is the unlikely place where hope is actually found. And you know what, it makes sense, because what would call for the need of hope if we didn’t suffer at some point?

Ephesians 3:20 NIV

“Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us,”

Yeah that’s so true and sometimes I forget it when things don’t always go my way. God is literally all powerful, like insanely so. And sometimes I can be selfish with that, asking for things for me when really I don’t deserve anything. Why should He give me what I ask for? There’s no reason! But all the more reason to be grateful when He does!

James 1:2-4 NIV

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.”

We all know there are no quick fixes to trauma. It’s going to take patience and grit but do. not. give. up. What does he mean by “let perseverance finish its work”? I’m inclined to believe that he meant something like this: Don’t give up when you’re already partway there. Don’t let it all be for nothing. Yes, the pain is awful, but if you keep moving forward, it will mean something someday. Somehow, this terrible experience will be recycled for something good even though it doesn't make sense right now. And I really do believe that from past experiences. We don’t go through things without reason, trust that it fits in the plan some way down the road.

[lavender-0-menace]

the people have spoken

so we start with light yagami. top of his school, great family, tons of friends right? well, it definitely looks that way. but if you look more in depth you start to see the cracks in his “perfect boy” persona. he goes to class, studies, and goes to cram school. we really don’t see him with any genuine friends and anyone he seems nice to he actually kinda hates in his inner monologue. the only time we see him hang out with people outside of school is during the bus jacking date and that one time he tried to find misa. it’s most likely intentional since he doesn’t think anyones as smart as him. he’s close with his family, but even then he’s playing the role as the golden child.for example, we are introduced to his mom via her asking him for his test scores, making small conversation, and then leaving him alone. she’s glad his scores are so high and compliments him, but doesn’t even ask about his day or anything. his dad works weird, late hours as a cop as well. he’s close to sayu, but pushes her away as the story goes on.

also, light is incredibly immature at the start of the story (and doesn’t really mature mainly because of the death note. as we all know, he developed a severe god complex and stop maturing mentally since he saw himself as this all powerful perfect diety who didn’t need to change his ideals and how he saw the world). in all fairness, he is around 16-17 when he received the death note. i think his beliefs are better summed up in Where Is The Justice than i could write. i fully believe that had he not received the death note he would have become a very respectable detective, but that is not his story.

to summarize, light is lonely, immature, and think he’s the smartest guy in the world.

until he meets L.

L Lawliet is a weird character. he doesn’t really trust anyone, is off putting to most people, and more importantly, knew light was kira even when evidence pointed otherwise.

it is a fucking delight to rewatch death note just to see L make light squirm. you realize all his weird tendencies were intentional. Light can’t take anything he says at word because L is always two steps ahead of him. i think it’s best shown in the phone scene, where light thinks he can get L’s true name (side note: i love how L’s real name is literally just L Lawliet. that’s so clever, he doesn’t have to worry about kira finding his true name, since he already knows it, kira just needs his last name but doesn’t think of asking because why would someone just be named L? it’s genius) and calls misa, then L reveals he has miss’s phone and fucking talks to light on it. then lights like “ok whatever he didn’t know misa has another.” AND L HAS THE SECOND PHONE TOO! he’s just an absolute genius.

additionally though, L is also very lonely. he doesn’t really have any friends and his only family is fucking watari, who i am sure kept him away from the other kids in the wammy house as a child so he could focus on detective work. he’s incredibly smart but he’s reached that level where nothing really satisfies his curiosity, which is why he takes on the kira case.

somehow along the way, kira and L become light and L, who are actually friends. they understand each other in a way no one has before. the yotsuba arc shows just how well they get along, even if they annoy each other. they aren’t lonely anymore. they have someone who understands thems.

once l dies, however, it’s clear just how much their relationship meant to light. even before they really became friends, their rivalry was amazing. L was the one thing keeping light in check and with him gone light goes completely off the rails. light does some things in the second half of the series (trusting people with the information that he is kira, falling for nears traps,killing takada, and letting mikami use the death note) that he wouldn’t have even considered in the beginning because of how risky it was.

and at the end of it all, it’s not misa or his father or ryuk he sees as he dies. it’s L.

[star-girl69]

DUDEEEEEE. She calls me baby youuuuu ate that harrrrrrrd. Like I had to go back in for seconds and thirds and fourths fr fr. Cause are we even surprised or are we just grateful that you give us mortals a second of your time and talent????

Babe you are so incredibly talented. The way you write is sooooooo amazing its like you just know how to manipulate your words into something that will and has had me in tears in like 2 seconds. Don't even get me started on how you write your characters. Like I don't know how I can fully and most genuinely express the astonishment you leave me in all the time.

I believe that you are one of a kind and a treasure to be cherished. I know that doubting is inevitable but I hope that you know that I'm always gonna be in the obsessed with addie corner no matter what. Like I meant it when I said that there won't be a time when you have no fans. Ever. You will forever be my favourite gorgeous goddess❤️❤️❤️.

-❤️

(I'm sorry I've been so absent school has been actually eating me alive)

(I think about you everyday though and it makes life just that much better)

(I hope you don't think I'm exaggerating😭😭😭😭All of this that I've been feeling without releasing had to be sent in a long ask my bad)

(I missed your little bonuses though, I hope you're doing okay)

(I'm always here for anything you may need, even if its literally just to tell you how amazing you are)

(love you ❤️)

#jealousclarissesupremacy

I WAS WONDERING WHERE YOU WERE I WAS SO WORRIED I SMILED SO HARD WHEN I GOT THIS ASK 🤭🤭

I CANT THAT WHOLE SECOND PARAGRAPH LIKE I CANT LIKE WOWWWW YOU THINK THAT???? ABOUT MEEE??!!!!??!?!?!?!!

TREASURE IS INSANE BTW 🤭 anyways omg. i’m so grateful wtf like i’m sorry i cant come up w something more poetic like you i just love these asks so much i get so happy and idk how to express that other than ilysm and i’m just so happy and so so grateful

also gorgeous goddess… i giggled 🤭🤭🤭

(ITS OKAYYYYY IM GLAD YOUR BACK SCHOOL HAS BEEN COOKING ME TOO 💔💔)

(EVERYDAY??!?!?!?! i think about you everyday too tho….. thinking about that one day you were so active and i got like 5 asks from you… BEST DAY OF MY LIFEEE) (also pls don’t take this as me pressuring you TRUST i am grateful for whatever you give me 🙏🙏)

(STOP. I. LOVE. LONG. ASKS. DONT ANNOY ME BY DOUBTING MY LOVE FOR YOU!!!!!!!)

(idk i’m okay i’ve just been really feeling pressured to write stuff bc the fandom is dying down (guys pls come back) and i am now firmly addicted to the praise and number of notifs i get…. lol. the bonuses have always been weird bc sometimes they come so easily to me like the first one i did was so it goes and i didn’t even have to think about it and then someone said they liked it so i went back and did it to my other fics and started doing it and idk yeah basically what i’m saying is sometimes they’re so easy and other times i have to force myself to come up w something which sucks but people like them so i’m happy to do it!!!!)

(tbh i’ll probably go back and add a bonus to she calls me baby bc i have just a little teeny bit of ocd and it will bother me but also i’m trying to let the little things go but idk we’ll see how strong i am 😭😭)

(sorry i will stop ranting now) (shoutout to anyone who actually reads that incoherent ramble)

(i need to be told how amazing i am 24/7 so that will be hard 😔) (BUT I APPRECIATE YOU SAYING THAT)

(LOVE YOU TOOOOO 💋💋💋)

#iagreesobad

[loudblonde]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Male!Reader Mafia AU (Chapter 8) Controlled Burning

Summary: Their so far bliss-filled, almost lovingly, time spent away from the business and Price is cut short with unfortunate news. With no choice but to escape they begin their journey towards France.

Warnings: alluded to canon typical violence, emotional distance.

Word count: 1,6K

The tension was high as (Y/N) prepared breakfast. He had let his business side slip and it had affected Simon who was sitting by the kitchen island with a cup of tea between his hands. His eyes were looking down at the tea, watching the rings form as (Y/N) moved about in the kitchen. His breaths came out silent, as though he was minimising his presence, not wanting to be seen or heard. It looked weird, that such a large imposing man could shrink away, a man who (Y/N) was sure had faced worse or perhaps it was just a shock to see the man he shared a bed with go from somewhat loving to completely the opposite. 

Yet (Y/N) couldn’t make himself care too much, after all, Simon, no, Ghost was here to protect him. His father had said to not get attached, to not fully trust Ghost. (Y/N) couldn’t see why, couldn’t understand why his father would possibly tell him that right before sticking him someplace remote with the man. 

(Y/N) was conflicted, on one hand, he was honoured to get to know Simon and not Ghost but on the other hand, his father's words and worry still had a hold of him.

(Y/N) placed some buttered Toast and scrambled eggs in front of Simon who looked up at him and blinked. “Sorry, I was in my own thoughts.” He said, letting go of his cup. 

(Y/N) placed his hand on top of Simon’s and smiled. “Hey. Don’t worry about it, Si.” He said, leaning on the table. There was only one way to prevent Simon from betraying him. He needed to make the man attached to him, completely and thoroughly. “I am sorry for earlier, I didn’t mean to spook you.” (Y/N) didn’t lie, he hadn’t meant to spook nor scare Simon. “I let myself get carried away and that isn’t alright.” 

Simon’s eyes searched for any notion of lie or punishment but found nothing. Simon simply gave a small smile. “I know, (Nickname),” Simon said, his voice hiding how shaken he still was. 

The difference between Ghost and Simon was just as night and day. Two complete sides and (Y/N) had wormed his way to Simon without even trying. (Y/N) had Simon wrapped around his finger in a way that could only be described as dangerous. Yet, (Y/N) wasn’t aware of this. After all… How could anyone love a monster such as (Y/N)? Whose hands were stained with the blood of both innocence and sinners alike? Hands that had choked out people since childhood and killed since his early teen years. (Y/N) in many ways was just as guilty and broken as Simon, he just hid it better. 

“Eat, you need to get your blood sugar up.” (Y/N) said, gently letting his thumb run across Simon’s hand. “I am going outside and taking a swim, I will be back within an hour, if you feel like coming out I would enjoy your company.” (Y/N) said before letting go. He shot Simon a smile before going to get dressed. 

(Y/N) wore swimming trunks before heading out into the water, his towel resting on the chairs. He started swimming, making sure to keep an eye out. Not only for people but also for other things. (Y/N) wasn’t superstitious by nature but he would be damned if he didn’t listen to the mythology of the land he was in, there was always a grain of truth hidden somewhere.

(Y/N) swam for 20 minutes before he heard the door open and close, he stopped and glanced back before seeing Simon standing and watching him. (Y/N) smirked a bit as he swam over, easily getting right up next to the area where the deck entered the water. 

(Y/N) placed his arms on the deck. “Hey, sailor~ Come here often?” He asked, drawing a chuckle from Simon. 

“Ya a mermaid?” Simon asked as he sat down a bit away from (Y/N) but still within arms reach. “Merman? Is that the name of a male mermaid?” 

(Y/N) chuckled and tilted his head a bit. “I could be a merman, but no I don’t think I can sing well enough to be a…” Simon's phone begins ringing. 

He picked it up and glanced at the name before answering. “Yes?”

On the other line, a cough came. ‘Get my son out of the country, things have gone to shits. I am fine but my son is the next in line for all of this, protect him at all costs. Soap get your fucking bombs under control!’ Price yelled at the end, causing Ghost to pull away from the phone slightly. ‘There is a man by the docks that you will go to, you know who, he will get you both on a boat to France, the safest option by far. Do you understand?’ 

“Yes sir. I understand.” Ghost said, his eyes hardened. 

‘Good, leave immediately, someone tipped them off about your location. Scorch earth, Ghost. Burn it all down, I don’t want anything remaining there.’ Price said a heavy tone of sadness was present. 

“Okay, I can do that,” Ghost said, his sentences short and to the point. He was, after all, on the job. 

‘Good, if I don’t make it, Soap will contact you.’ Price said before hanging up. Simon pulled out his balaclava and put it on before standing. He held a hand out to (Y/N) who took it and stood up. 

“I will get dressed.” (Y/N) said and grabbed his towel. He hurried into the house and gathered his things in his bag, never more than he could carry. Only the most important things could be packed up with no problems. (Y/N) opted for dressing in something more casual, less noticeable. Some regular jeans and a loose t-shirt. He glanced in the mirror and nodded to himself. He was decent. He looked normal, average if you will. 

Meanwhile, Ghost was packed in little time, his bag in the car with some jerky for them both and some water bottles. He took the extra gas and began pouring it everywhere in the cabin, making sure to get the files first. He walked back upstairs and looked at (Y/N) standing at the door. “Ready to leave, sir?” Ghost asked. 

(Y/N) nodded. “Of course, Ghost. I will be in the car.” He said and left. Things had gone sideways enough that they needed to run, to get away. If things got even worse (Y/N) knew he had someone he could call to help, someone who would offer them sanctuary no questions asked. (Y/N) got into the back seat and glanced away as the house was set aflame.

Ghost got into the driver's seat and took off. 

(Y/N) leaned back, his eyes never leaving the window. He wasn’t even looking outside, he just got lost in his own mind. He had gotten too used to Simon, the detached state of Ghost wasn’t in his plans. He didn’t know how to work with that side of the man. It wasn’t something he had calculated for. Simon was a sweet man starving for touch and praise. Very broken, like (Y/N) but he could be helped away from it. Even if just a little. But Ghost was different. Ghost was a mask used to scare people and to keep Simon under wraps, to keep out his emotions and self-doubt. Ghost was the soldier who followed every order without hesitation. A perfectly crafted and moulded specimen that his father had full control over and (Y/N), for one, couldn’t wait to have the same control. 

“If we get followed into France I have someone we can go to, he operates an old bunker system that the french government doesn’t know about.” (Y/N) said. 

Ghost glanced in the rearview mirror for a second before looking back to the road. “What is his name?” 

“König.” (Y/N) replied and shifted in his sleep. “He has full loyalty to me, he would take us in, no questions asked and he would never say a word to anyone about us being there.” 

“When we get to France, we will consider if we should call him.” That was all that Ghost said. 

(Y/N) nodded and leaned back, he prepared for a long drive and an even longer sail trip. It would be nighttime by the time they arrived in France, and they would need a hotel before going anywhere. 

“I will book us a hotel, a fully discrete place.” (Y/N) said and took his phone out. “The rooms are small, not designed for two so we will need to share a bed.” 

Ghost hummed in response, confirming that it was okay. 

I love the smell of rain on a sunny afternoon, preferably close to the city. I like the noise level at two in the evening. It’s all quiet.

(Y/N) gave a nod, closed himself off and opened the web link. 

No, I always get restless. But if it changes I usually take something light, like müsli bars. 

The person on the other side started writing. 

I like that time as well. Do you like eating around that time?

(Y/N) replied before the chat shut down. “And we have a reservation.” 

Tag list

@rasberry-jupiter @one-green-frog

[abnormalityjoseph]

Corey Cunningham • General Headcanons

I LOVE THIS GUY

Oh. Corey. The guy that lives in my head rent free right now? Headcanons for him? Sure.

Totally not like I just finished the novel and was scrambling to throw this out there.

But as for my thoughts on the novel and the movie,,,I like some of the movie’s change in dialogue, but I also feel like the novel gives more..context/insight? Idk how to explain it. Hopefully there’s an extended cut of the movie that I can watch eventually.

•••••

- A very polite and well mannered guy.

-> Well, he tries to be even when the entire town hates him.

- You might have seen my previous post, but I am a FIRM BELIEVER that Corey has some fluffy hair AND I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL

- He’s so??? Emotionally distant towards anybody. If Yk what I mean?

-> [Most definitely terrified of getting emotionally hurt again. Especially with how everyone started to alienate him post-accident.]

-> Oh but he’s really touched starved.

- He may or may not…go a tad bit overboard. With affections towards his friends or a significant other(s).

-> I just think that he may seek physical contact from trusted friends. Platonic actions that would normally be seen a romantic (like hand holding), yk?

- He either gives awkward hugs or really good ones. Never an in-between.

- Corey would be very cautious of somehow stepping on your toes/boundaries. He doesn’t make many friends or ever had a romantic relationship (or generally made many friends—?)

-> Besides, he lost any friends he made after the accident. Because no one wanted to associate with the ‘Psycho Babysitter.’

- Totally would rant about ANYTHING because he doesn’t know social cues or when to stop talking.

-> Or— well, he would rant about his interests and then apologize because he feels like he talked too much. And feel like he just scared away any friend he could’ve made because he wouldn’t shut up.

-> It’s fine though because he would listen to his friends/romantic partner rant for as long as they want to talk. He’s a good listener!

- Might be a bit of a weird one, but I think he’d enjoy Twenty One Pilots and Wilbur Soot’s music. Dunno, just him listening to La Jolla/Saline Solution or Fairy Local makes sense in my head.

-> Also think he’d listen to Ship in a Bottle by fin, but I’ll make a different post for songs. Maybe.

- As for family.. I don’t know, his family life is definitely rough and tense as is.

-Resents his mother for being so overbearing (if that’s the right word for it), but can’t seem to fully hate her because she’s his family.

- He sometimes wonders about his dad, Wally, and if his life would’ve been better with him in the picture.

- He also doesn’t know how to feel about Ronald, his step-dad. He wasn’t really involved in his upbringing, but he’s nicer and way less of an overbearing parent in his life. Yet he still doesn’t do much to stop Joan.

- He doesn’t have social media. That’s probably a given but still.

- I feel like he wouldn’t vent to a friend by text, since Joan can snoop through his phone. He’d rather talk about his problems face to face, so the person can also share their problems as well.

- You know, he saw a psychiatrist for a bit before stopping? I’m assuming that’s the time just after the accident. It’s not a headcanon but it’s just something I noticed while I was reading the novel. It’s on, I think, page 207 on the digital version?

-> “…Mostly he just stayed at home. He had weekly trips to a psychiatrist for a while, but that was it. And this went on for months…”

- Corey may be able to tolerate terrible/mean customers, and the scrutiny or insults that any passerby could give him, but it’ll boil over eventually.

- He used to keep a diary/journal. But Joan (his mom) kept snooping and would find it. Now he can’t keep one in the house.

-> Well— maybe he hides it outside or the house. Maybe nearby the the place he works at.

- I think he doodles. Just on the corners of his notebooks. It’s kinda bad but hey, he never said he was a good artist.

- Post-Accident Corey can’t find that much enjoyment in Horror movies, especially The Thing, after well..you know.

-> Post-Michael Corey can though. He loves horror movies, and doesn’t feel that uncomfortable watching The Thing anymore. Just..fascinated. Over the concept of the creature, I mean. Shapeshifting alien…maybe a slasher movie would be more preferred for him still.

•••••

I… will write more stuff about a romantic relationship with Corey in a different post. And I’ll try to write more about post Michael Corey.

[existentialbogwitch]

I had a really weird experience at the doctor yesterday and it’s still bothering me.

I went to talk to her because I’ve been experiencing some physical pain. I’m a musician and at first I thought it was just carpal tunnel and I figured it was just going to be part of my life.

But then the pain got worse. There was a week straight where it was entirely unbearable and hurt all the time. Over my entire body.

My doctor told me it was just stress and trauma and that as I learn to manage my symptoms better the pain will dissipate.

I came to my appointment wearing all black. Some swishy pants I love because they are baggy and they do not feel too tight, a sweater vest I just got that is one of my favorite items of clothing right now, and a regular long sleeve white shirt. I had a black beanie on because I needed to wash my hair and in order to make it to my appointment on time, I had to skip a shower.

My appointment was on my day off and I made it earlier than I originally wanted to because I thought I was going to hang out with a friend after. (This was a mistake and I’m never making a doctors appointment before noon again).

I was also wearing sunglasses and a mask because they insist on using fluorescent lighting in the doctors office and it’s easier for me to manage my anxiety if I’m wearing sunglasses. I was wearing a mask because I don’t want to get sick.

When the doctor comes into the room, the first thing she does is point out the bags under my eyes. And I had to reassure her that I’m fine, I’m just tired because I’m working more and I got up early today and I’m not wearing any makeup.

Then she asked me why I was wearing all black and “what happened” because last time she saw me I was really colorful. I told her I just like black, which is the truth. Also I contain multitudes. I actually really liked my outfit that day and I was kind of hurt that she was so judgmental about it.

However, this doctor has been very kind to me over the past year I’ve been seeing her, and I appreciate her kindness. She has children with autism and is generally very compassionate and empathetic.

But she also makes me feel like a child and it’s weird.

She used the word “quirky” to describe me and other autistic people several times.

She told me about her young son who is into jiu-jitsu but also loves my little pony and powerpuff girls.

She told me how it’s “ok that her son likes these things as long as he doesn’t talk about them at school.” And that’s fair, but it broke my heart.

She gave me a list of doctors to go see about getting my autism diagnosis. And that was helpful.

But I had to fight the urge to tell her that the way she was speaking to me about autism felt uncomfortable.

Every time someone tells me a “solution” to autism symptoms that involve pretending to fit in with other groups of people, I immediately feel gross. Mostly because this is what I’ve been told my whole life. Even before I knew I was autistic.

I’ve always had to be the one to make the effort to change myself so that other people will be more comfortable.

I fully recognize that there are a lot of public spaces where this is necessary for safety reasons and also to be respectful of others.

But pretending I don’t have anxiety so that other people will feel more comfortable? I’m not doing that anymore.

If I’m feeling anxious or angry or sad or any other “big feeling”, I’m going to try to do the best I can to regulate my emotions so they do not control me. And this might involve me needing to leave the situation entirely and be alone. Or if I cannot leave, I will tell people that I am feeling dysregulated and I’m trying to calm down and to please stop talking to me or asking me questions while I’m trying to calm down.

Someone standing in my face and going “you don’t have to be anxious with me.” Is not going to help me.

I’m realizing that my trauma is a lot more severe than I thought and combined with the autism, it’s making it very difficult for me to trust people or talk to anyone because I can no longer discern if someone is being genuinely kind to me because they care or if they are manipulating me.

I’m trying not to feel like “too much” or take up too much space or make other people uncomfortable, but it is very painful for me to have to hide so much of myself.

I wish I had the energy to just write music that could convey my feelings. People will listen to you if you have well produced videos and a social following.

But I am overwhelmed by the dichotomy between expressing my own feelings and being concerned that those feelings could harm others.

A lot of people do not like to hear that their actions have been harmful to me, especially when they had good intentions.

I also do not like hearing when my actions have been harmful to others, especially when I have good intentions.

But I am learning and I’m trying my best.

Not everyone is going to like me, and some people may even hate me. Some people do not want me to exist at all.

(No people directly in my personal life have ever threatened me to my face, but it is difficult to live with family who is invalidating to your experiences and watching conservative propaganda on YouTube constantly.)

I’m waiting for the day that I’m “too weird” for someone and they retaliate.

I’m afraid to go out to public events sometimes out of fear that there might be a shooter.

I think my fear is justified.

I’ve been trying to cultivate more community online and participate in “safe spaces” but it is still difficult sometimes. I’m 37 and I do not have a partner or kids and I live with my family. I’m the kind of autistic, mentally ill person who needs a lot more support than I’m getting and many things are difficult for me.

Sometimes it’s hard for me to relate to people with kids because they use their kids as their reason for being exhausted. I don’t have kids. What’s my excuse? I’m just lazy then I guess?

They never say this to me out loud, but I don’t know what to say to them sometimes and they don’t know what to say to me either.

I’ve lost a lot of friends because no one knows how to talk to me and I don’t really know how to talk to other people either. Unless it’s about music or something else I’m interested in.

A lot of day to day topics are hard for me to talk about because my day to day looks very different from most people my age.

I have to do things in the ways that work for me though, even if it’s different from the “norm.”

I like watching social media accounts featuring other autistic people and how they have learned to live in the world. But I also take this information with a grain of salt because every person is different.

Also if catering to your sensitivities makes you weak, then I don’t want to be strong.

I am really working on releasing some of the shame I feel about the state of my existence, but it is a difficult process.

I feel weird posting this because I’m unsure as to whether I’m doing the right thing by sharing my inner experiences.

Almost every time I post I feel like people are reading it and going “poor girl she should really go to therapy.” Instead of just talking to me like a friend.

And I get it, a lot of people do not have the emotional regulation skills themselves to engage with someone who is suffering.

I think most people could benefit from learning emotional regulation skills.

I’m constantly torn between “there are already enough people in the world shouting things from mountaintops, you don’t need to add to the noise.”

And “if you don’t write about your experiences, they will sit inside you and rot, slowly poisoning you from the inside out.”

So I feel compelled to share because it makes me feel better.

If other people don’t like it, they don’t have to read it.

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Vows (500 Celebration)

500 Celebration Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Prompt: From the Quotes category: “To you even betrayal can sound like a vow.”

Word Count: 5083 (😬)

Warnings: My writing (I haven’t written anything worth posting for Ivar in ages, it is worth warning that this is probably very OOC or just plain bad). The usual warnings associated with Ivar. Abduction/forced marriage topics. Angst disguised as fluff. Lying, I guess, if that counts as a warning. Greek/Byzantine Reader. My inability to keep the plot and characterizations of Nostalgia from bleeding into the rest of my work. By extension, Hades/Persephone themes.

A/N: So, one of the AUs that I have always wanted to write for Nostalgia was Praxidice (you can find the reason behind the name and a snippet in the  AU’s masterlist right here),  but I never quite got into writing it as a fully-fledged series, and I’ve always had these scattered thoughts about  scenes in this AU. I have recently come to the realization that I can actually just write and post what I want lol, so I’ll be writing those scenes as drabbles, and yeah, here  I am.

You obviously don’t need to read the monstrosity that is Nostalgia (over 230k words and counting ffs), this just happens to have the Reader character from that series and some plot elements, but it deviates pretty early on (Ch8), so you won’t miss anything.

Sorry, this is entirely too long, both this author’s note and this piece, and I took entirely too long to post something new. I’m working on that, but it takes time, I’m rusty.

Anyhow, I had a lot of fun writing this, and I like this AU so much (not at all because Ivar being lied to about being loved is a thing I am apparently obsessed with, what do you mean?). And also, the weird ass way this dude acted when he met Freydis in Kattegat lives rent free in my head, because while it is almost endearing, it has the potential of being terrifying if you know who he is/what he is capable of; and I tried working a bit of that into the beginning of this piece, hope it isn’t too bad.

Sorry for the ramble!

You walk inside, and try not flinching at the sound of the doors closing behind you as the guards escorting you leave you alone with Ivar. You haven’t been here before, this spacious place of dimly lit fires and candles, this room of wood and furs bereft of anything to speak of life.

It feels cold to you. Everything in this kingdom does, even the people, but this room feels the coldest to you. And you gather it is because your very heart shudders in its slow beats when you realize where this room leads, when you understand why the guards that follow you like dogs since Ivar brought you to his kingdom in chains stopped at the door.

They led you -he ordered them to lead you- to his room. Past the arch you can almost see up ahead you imagine you’ll enter the section where his bed is, and dread churns at your stomach.

Dread and something else, something that poisons you all the more, something that hurts all the more. Because when you first met him, when you refused to give him your name or acknowledge his in some old hut in a besieged Saxon city but still met with him day after day, you thought -foolishly, childishly, helplessly- that you could trust him; and now betrayal lodges itself in your chest, right next to your heart, and it sends pangs of pain each time fear of this new place and dread of its mad king make your heart quicken its beat.

But none of that matters now, the past does not matter any longer. And neither does the future, neither does what your worst thoughts warn you is to happen past that damn arch in that damn bed. Because try as you might to pretend otherwise, you do not have a choice.

You do not have a choice but to be here, and so you are. You do not have a choice but to step forward to meet Kattegat’s King, and so, after a deep breath, you do.

He smiles at you when you walk to him, when you make yourself seen. Strange, really, since you both know he heard you walk in, and heard the silence that came after as you battled dread by the closed door.

But still he smiles. A rushed, somewhat insincere smile. But not insincere in its coldness, or its cruelty, no. Insincere because it trembles on his lips as he stands taller to greet you, because even as he smiles his eyes give away something boyish, something like nervousness.

For some reason it unsettles you all the more, and you can do nothing but stare back, saying nothing, giving nothing. It is unnerving, to find humanity in him, to find it bared so foolishly, so carelessly, so helplessly; when you find it so much easier to think he lacks such humanity, such vulnerability, in the first place.

Ivar clears his throat, and motions with the hand not on the crutch for the table where food awaits you.

You do not move. You know an order when you see one, and you know it takes a very special kind of stupid to ignore Ivar the Boneless’ commands, but still you do not move.

“I have been thinking of what I’ll tell the people about you.” He starts simply, as if this is but another conversation you shared on that city that smelled of despair.

“You dragged me to your home in chains. I’d gather they can put together the rest if they are too curious about what brought me here.”

“They are curious about you. You are-…”

“Just another prisoner.”

You know it irks him when you remind him of what he made of you, and you have a feeling it is because he knows it makes him your jailor.

There’s a refreshing harshness in his eyes when he meets your gaze now, a clear tell of gritted teeth when he clarifies, “A foreigner.”

It is enough for you to have forced him to once again on this pointless battle even if for a moment, to have reminded him of what he has done even if he wants to pretend it never happened to try and escape the consequences of it; and so you only shrug.

Your eyes remain on him, though, studying him. You linger on the way he stands tall by that table set with elaborate foods, shoulders squared and pride coiling on his spine, and wonder if he is hoping you are impressed by this display; you linger on the way he grasps with his free hand at the iron encasing his right leg to approach the table, and wonder why when you have seen him walk without needing to before.

You linger on the way he is acting so unnaturally mellowed, attempting such artificial charm, and wonder, not for the first time, if you have actually managed to understand the reason why he insists on arguing he never made you a slave, a prisoner. You wonder if he is attempting some sort of normalcy in your meeting, if he is expecting you to play the part of a woman willingly spending her time with him.

You once were that, though, you once were willingly spending your time with him, allowing yourself to foolishly trust him, but he couldn’t handle the possibility of not being in control of it all, the possibility that one day you may choose not to spend your evenings with him any longer; so he took your choice from you.

And now he seems to expect nothing to change, he seems to want to return to what was before, now certain he holds control tightly in the same hand with which he holds invisible chains still set on you.

As if he could hear your thoughts, as if he could sense realization dawning on you, he confirms your suspicion by gesturing with his free hand once he sits by that table and prompting,

“Have dinner with me.”

“I thought-…your people dine in the great hall.”

“Not tonight. Not us, anyways.”

You move limbs of lead to sit on that chair, eyes still on him, trailing over his features, lingering on the movements of his hand when he pours you a drink. At the tip of your tongue are demands of honesty about what he wants out of you, about why he chose to take you here against your will instead of asking, about anything other than this strange domesticity, but he speaks before you have a chance to.

“Just a man and a woman sharing a meal, nothing more, hm?” Ivar presses, gesturing to the plate in front of you again, ordering you to eat. To play along.

You bite back words about how once you might have been just a man and a woman to one another in that besieged city, and it was nothing more than a shared meal the many times you at by low fires with him and ate and talked until your eyes threatened to fall closed; but now…now it cannot be, not anymore, not since he captured you like who does an exotic beast and brought you to his cold home.

But that isn’t what he wants to hear, and while you never feared his rage, aware from the beginning of how easily prone to anger he was and yet never hesitating to push him; now, facing this brittle calm, this staining certainty, this eager unpredictability, you cannot rid yourself of something quite close to fear.

So instead of arguing, you agree to the unspoken rules, and you reach for a piece of cheese on the table, taking a bite and swallowing before you quip,

“A Greek Priestess and a Viking King, why would I dare think this is anything but ordinary?”

He smiles at that, a softer smile, almost crooked, but less performative than before, more honest, and your foolish heart does this strange little thing in your chest when you earn the same smile you did when you first met him.

“What would make this ordinary for you?”

“Stone walls, the warmth of the sun, speaking in my own tongue.” You list out, before taking a sip of mead, looking at him over the rim of your goblet, making note of the slight softening of his features as he notices you are playing along, keeping up with him even if only in this small interaction.

“Teach me your language, then,” He orders without hesitation, leaning forward, elbows on the table. At your answering look, he shrugs, a downward curve of his mouth in a gesture of indifference before he clarifies, “Stone is expensive, and I do not yet command the sun. We will speak in your tongue then.”

“Your people already suspect me a witch, Viking,” You remind him, letting slip the title you used on him before, when you pretended not to know who he was, when of you he knew your secrets but not your name. Steeling yourself against the foolish way you let down your guard, you forgot of what brought you here, you continue, a tad more reserved now, “If their King starts speaking in another tongue, they’ll see their suspicions proven right.”

“You care what they say about you?”

“Don’t you? Have you heard what they say about me?” You ask instead, eyebrows raised, almost a dare.

“Have you heard what they say about me?” He retorts, rueful smile curving at his lips, the same dare shining in his eyes.

You concede to his point with a reluctant smile of your own, taking another sip of the sweet drink.

“Yet you made of yourself something far greater than the things they may whisper you are,” Because your stomach churns at the mere idea of giving praise to the man that lied to you, that betrayed you, that chained you; you add, “Now you have even made yourself the captor of a Greek witch. They are sure to be impressed.”

“I didn’t bring you here because of them.” He argues, once again giving away something in that strange way of his, unwillingly yet almost confrontationally. And your eyes narrow as you cannot help but think, almost accusingly, almost pityingly, just how many things have you done because of them, because of what you want them to think of you?

“Why did you bring me here then?” You ask, a colder edge to your voice that you do not care about hiding. “You promised me my freedom, you said I would be free to go, yet you brought me to this town and left me alone for days, followed around by those brutes. I think you owe me the tr-…”

“You still think you are in a place to make demands, don’t you?” He interrupts, a mocking edge to his chuckle and an anger he doesn’t bother hiding rising his voice, giving an edge to his words. After a few moments of silence, he offers, irritated, as if you are the one in the wrong, “I promised you freedom and I do not break promises. You are a free woman, but I have to keep you here.”

“Why?” You ask, the question leaving your lips in a tired breath. “What difference is there between now and when you had iron chains to my wrists?”

“Because you now know I didn’t bring you here with the intention to make you a slave.”

This is madness. He is mad and this entire situation is sure to drive you mad as well soon. You force yourself to take a deep breath, and instead of butting heads with him for any longer, you instead ask,

“What then? A witch? A healer?” You press, because you will probably surprise the Gods themselves the day you learn to shut your mouth.

For a few breaths he stays silent, and you are reaching for the goblet again -not too bothered about drinking yourself numb if this madness intends to continue- when Ivar answers,

“A wife.”

Your chest tightens, as if an unseen smoke has clouded your lungs, and your breath quicken so sharply that you have to force yourself to control your breathing, force yourself to focus on nothing but regular breaths in and out.

Still, your eyes, widened at the realization of what Ivar wants to make out of you, stinging with the fear that has haunted you since you were a child, follow him,

“Wh-What are you talking about?”

“I will make you my wife.”

A nervous laugh that sounds manic and uneven to your own ears leaves your lips, heaves your chest.

Dragging your hands over your face, you mutter a quiet, “This is madness,” Before turning back to him and asking, almost pleading, “I don’t-…why do you-…why?”

“You have already been given to me, Priestess,” He tells bluntly you past the clear tell of gritted teeth, with an entitlement that surprises you even though it shouldn’t, considering how you got here. “I am not asking.”

“And I haven’t given an answer,” Because you haven’t done anything but demand, are the words you save, letting the half-truth serve as a reassurance even if you do not mean it. And leaning closer even if all you think of doing is running away, you press, “After everything, don’t you think you owe me the truth?”

“I was born cursed, you know.”

That was certainly not the explanation you were expecting.

“What?”

“I was born a cripple, and all…all my life I have been in pain. I can’t even walk properly; everything has been a…a damn struggle. With myself, with others,” A twitch of anger curls at his lip for a moment, furrows at his nose, and you wonder if the anger is at himself. He continues, “So I have always been so angry, so jealous of everyone around me. And I…don’t know how to be any other way,” It seems that only after a breath he realizes of what he has said, of how quiet his voice has become, and he looks away with a huff of what once would have been a bitter chuckle. You wish you were someone else, or he was, so you could tell him not to dismiss truths he gave away with a scoff, not to retreat back when faced with silence at the baring of a wound. But before you can be someone else, or he can, Ivar meets your gaze again, faint smile on his lips. The bitterness is still there, as is the resentfulness at Fate, as is the grief of something never had, and you understand that smile more than any other. Ivar continues, “Nothing has come easy in my life, and since I was a child I have asked the Gods why.”

And they never answered, did they?

You too asked the same thing, to different Gods or perhaps just uttering different names, but you too asked the same thing; and you cannot help the part of you that wants to offer truth, that wants to stretch out a hand and say something honest, something that when you were just a woman and he was just a man in some cabin in Wessex, you would have said.

But not now, because you remind yourself that he is, beyond anything after what he has done, your enemy, your captor. And you refuse to offer him anything truer than whatever it is he deluded himself into wanting out of you.

So instead you offer something less human than truth, and you whisper,

“I don’t have an answer, Ivar.”

But an answer wasn’t what he expected from you apparently, for he shakes his head with a small smile so reminiscent of the almost soft look he had before, when he was just a Viking and you just a Priestess, that it hurts at some foolish part of your heart.

“No,” He argues, more softly than you would have ever thought a man like him to be capable of, leaning forward, as close as he can get to you from where he sits. Pale blue eyes look into yours, and you’d think he is the one searching for answers and not you from the way he seems to seek something in your gaze. Quietly, he sentences, “You are the answer.”

The coldness of this land returns to you as if you had jumped -or were thrown- into freezing waters, and your breath catches in your throat as you lean back in your seat.

“You aren’t-…that doesn’t make any sense.”

If he hears you, he shows no sign of it.

“I was once told that the Gods mark us for pain, that some of us are…chosen to suffer, to be pushed to the ground, over and over again,” His head moves with his words, gaze deviating to the side before he leans forward, meeting your wide eyes again. “To test if we endure. And I did, I still do. I have done much more than any of my brothers, than any man my people know, ever did. I give Odin and Freyja warriors to take to their halls and wars to rejoice in,” You aren’t so sure anymore that it is only you he is attempting to convince that this isn’t madness. Regardless, he continues, “And I understand now, that when we become what the Gods expect of us, when we…endure, we are rewarded,” A small smile curves at his lips soft even if manic, “The Gods have sent you to me.”

“I don’t…I don’t follow your Gods, they…they have no power over me.”

“That does not matter. It was Fate that you and I met,” He explains without hesitation. “It is Fate that you remain at my side, however I choose to have you.”

All air leaves your lungs in a shuddering gasp that sounds like a death rattle to your own ears, the cold of this land seeping into your very bones and taking from you the last of the spring and life of your homeland you kept with you.

And the woman you know you are supposed to be is screaming that you demand to know why he thinks Gods you do not worship would send you to him, why he think his Norns are to rule over your Moirai and decide your Fate instead.

But the woman you are supposed to be is suffocated, extinguished, under the weight of all this madness, of the coldness of this place, of the death of your home.

And left behind in the wake of the life that will not be, that cannot be, all you hear are the echoes of the life that led you here.

Many years ago, the Seer spoke to me about you, you know, Sieghild told you one day, when you were still a child, still learning the ways of the world, still enjoying the freedom of belonging nowhere, to no one. A part of you wanted to tell her that you did not care about what her Gods had to say about you, but you couldn’t help the curiosity, and so you stayed silent, waiting. Unaware, you think now, of how her words, her prophecy, would haunt you for the rest of your life, he told me that I will return home with you; when the throne is empty, when the witch reigns, when the temple burns. It is Fate, little one.

You always argued with your mother that it wasn’t Fate what made such prophecies come true, but people’s blind belief in them, their resignment to their inescapabilty weaving those words into the threads of their Fate.

And realization dawns on you, crushing your chest with the pressure of it and forcing the words past your lips in a whisper,

“Sieghild is the one who told you my name, who I was.”

“She didn’t.” He argues, but it isn’t a denial of having met your mother, and that is enough of a confirmation, enough of a sentencing.

“But she did meet with you,” You state, not waiting for an argument, not sure what you will do if he chooses to lie now, unwilling to hear from him the truth. Still, your voice betrays you and you push, “My mother gave me away to you, not that Christian.”

“She said it was Fate that you were…left to me.”

Venom clogs your throat, an anger older than you can remember makes your hands tremble as you close them into fists on your lap, a hollowness you remember from when Sieghild first took you with her away from Greece returns to your chest at her abandonment; and for all that you are, all that you believe, you want to retort to his certainty, to her betrayal, to their certainty in Fate, with denial, with anger, with…with something alive.

But there is nothing alive left, not here, not in this kingdom of iron and coldness, not far from the Roads you once made your home; and even your Gods have no life to offer you now, with the Persephone not far from her descent now and her mother not far from her grief as winter approaches.

And there is nothing left to give life to the woman you ought to be.

Survive, until spring comes.

With your mother’s last words echoing in your mind, with her advice finding a home somewhere in the hollowness her abandonment left in your chest; you lift your gaze to meet Ivar’s pale eyes.

Sieghild would have never parted from you with such an order if she didn’t count on you to understand its meaning, she would have never left you alone without a plan to have you reunited with her.

You will only survive Kattegat for the winter if you have Ivar, you aren’t yet proud or blind enough to believe otherwise, and you know…you know you will only survive leaving Kattegat once spring comes if Ivar is blinded enough not to see your betrayal, your escape, coming.

“My mother often spoke of this, you know. Of you,” You tell him, reminding yourself that spring is merely half a year away to keep the waver from your voice. “I just didn’t understand at the time. She was told by your Seer that she would bring me here, I just…never believed her.”

This time it is him who draws back, though he catches himself before doing so completely, and remains hunched over the table you share, searching your gaze for a question he isn’t asking. You notice the way his shoulders are rising and falling slightly faster with his quicker breaths. His breathing give him away, it has since the beginning.

He wants to believe you. You know he does, and you’d venture to say he knows you are lying, just as he knows what he is pretending to be convinced of is madness. But he wants to believe, and you finally understand what you were once told about blind men and those who do not want to see.

In the short time you have known him, you have learned to think of him and think of an open wound, think of all the times you worked on healing an exposed nerve, a fresh wound, and with but a sweep of wind over the tender flesh, in more instinct than anything else, you earned anger and threats, and frantic hands pushing you away to keep themselves from the pain of such injury being revisited.

And that is what he is, at the end of it; at least to you. Exposed nerves giving way to anger at the slightest push, a beast snarling in a tongue you do not understand for you to keep away lest you bring pain, an open wound. But it is also something else, it is a shiver running down his spine at the slightest tender touch, it is restless hope in the hope the outstretched hand brings reprieve and not pain, it is…a weakness.

“So you’ll do it? You’ll marry me?” You swallow past the knot in your throat and nod your head, but Ivar is shaking his, “No. Say it.”

Strangely, it reminds you of the way he stood there, welcoming you to have dinner with him, the way he started a casual conversation while the marks of his chains still lingered on your wrists; for this feels like making you agree aloud to marrying him is but another way for him to fulfill the desire for something real while holding onto control.

Still, you smile and whisper, “Yes. I will marry you, Ivar.”

You wouldn’t notice it if you weren’t so close, if you weren’t looking for it, but you notice the way the tension coiling around his shoulders loosens, the way his expression, almost as if he cannot help it, softens at your words.

To you even betrayal can sound like a vow, you cannot help but think.

You let your hand creep closer, and intertwining your fingers with his would feel like a greater betrayal to yourself than this lie, so instead you let the tips of your fingers trace the back of his hand almost absently, almost as if the touch is mindless. Almost as if you don’t realize the way his breath hitches at the soft caress.

“It has always been my Fate, even when I ran from it, even when I ignored it, to come here, to…meet you, Ivar,” Your voice is quiet, and your smile is soft, you make sure of it, as you add, venom hidden in a jest, “I am not so certain my Fate is to marry you, but…”

“Marrying you would-...it will be...real, once we are married. I want to make you my wife,” It is the most honest truth he has given yet, and still you have a feeling you could draw on the sand the strategy of attack and defense of this conversation as easily as you drew those of the battle for Eleusis. You smile, pretending endearment, and nod your head, a quiet murmur of I know being the only answer you can give. His voice is low, almost hesitant as he offers, “You can ask me for anything you want.”

I want to belong nowhere, to no one, you want to tell him. But you can’t, you won’t.

Instead you do what is easier, even if some foolish part of your heart breaks at your choice, even if with each beat of what is left of it the shard betrayal left embedded in your chest makes the pain all the worse. You do what is easier, and you stand up.

“I want only one thing.”

Taking a step closer, you let one of your hands venture bravely to reach for him, settling somewhere on his shoulder, before lowering just enough to settle over his heart. It isn’t what you want, but it is what he wants you to want.

Pretending you don’t feel his eyes frantically searching yours, studying your face, trying to find certainty in the madness your closeness inspires, trying to find answers to questions he is too proud to ask; you move to settle yourself on his lap, knees on either side of his iron-encased legs, hand still resting proudly, perhaps possessively, over the center of his chest.

You meet the frantic blue of his eyes, and for all the times you found yourself foolishly lost in his gaze before it is easy to pretend now that you lose your breath and your mind to the moment your eyes meet.

But that is all there is: pretending. For you now know, as you were forced to learn when he put chains on your wrists and dragged you to his kingdom, that you cannot trust him, that you cannot lower your guard around him. That he is, despite what you once thought, your captor, a monster.

You would think you ought to feel as if you are watching closely at a predator’s movements, trying to predict the moment it will strike, but now you find yourself facing a beast quietened, meeting the gaze of a monster that out of all things was made to crave softness.

Telling yourself all that pushes you is the desire to survive, you kiss him.

He stills under your touch, so suddenly and so compulsorily that a pang of fear makes its way to your heart, but you do the only thing you can. You reach with trembling hands to hold him against you, one hand grasping at the cloth over his chest while the other reaches up to cup the side of his face to lure him into leaning into your kiss, to prompt him to give in.

It is tentative, clearly laced with inexperience, the way he first attempts to kiss you back, jittery movements as he moves his lips against yours, as he parts them to let you deepen the kiss.

Just shy of doing so, for just a moment, you pull back, to allow yourself this one small indulgence, and give yourself but a breath to admire him.

Ivar leans forward when you pull back, unwilling to part from your kiss, seemingly as bewitched by your touch as the people whisper he is, and the sight of his handsome face relaxed in the closest thing you have seen to the openness that comes with trust sends a pang of something through you, a heat that makes your heart stutter, a pain that stings at a part of you already dead.

You let yourself linger there, in that shared breath, brows almost pressed together, and allow yourself an honest smile, however small, when his eyes finally flutter open to look at you.

Quietly, you prompt, “Kiss me?”

And he does. Without hesitation, without doubting either you or himself.

It’s hunger, hunger laced with something else, something like hesitance. It’s uncertain movements of his lips against yours as he tentatively returns your kiss, yet strong hands fiercely, almost forcefully, holding you against him.

It’s a man that promised you anything you wanted when you lied about being certain you were sent to him by the Gods, and yet a man that chose to betray and chain you before giving you a chance to refuse him.

And that leaves you no chance to be the woman that would have said yes to following him to this kingdom of death if he had only asked, and yet the woman that will leave him when spring comes, and take his heart with her.

Thank you for reading! I hope this was alright! I’m sorry if it was too confusing for people that haven’t read Nostalgia, or too boring for people who have. I tried my best to balance the two.

And yeah, the “Kiss me?” from her was 100% me feeling nostalgia for Nostalgia and wanting to put a little flip on the scene of their first kiss. Couldn’t help it.

Tbh, I wanna write more for this AU, but idk how to go about posting it, so I’d love to hear your thoughts to decide how to go forward. Idk if I should keep Nostalgia and all its AUs separate from this 500 thingies, or if it’s alright to mix them with prompts and post the Praxidice drabbles as a part of this. I just don’t want it to be confusing, or post something in a general masterlist that isn’t clear or fun to read for people that aren’t familiar with Nostalgia, y’know? Would love to know your thoughts, cause I don’t really know what to do here. Thank you!

500 taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @1950schick​ @ietss​ @peachyboneless​ @encounterthepast​ @maggiescarborough​ @fae-sedai​ @zuxiezendler​ @crazybunnyladysworld​​ @stupiddarkkside​​ @northumbria​​ @sagyunaro​ @aprilivar​​

Ivar taglist: @yourwonkywriter​​​​