#reminder: lacking physical evidence-- does not indicate people were not doing the thing-- only that it no longer exists

[greensaplinggrace]

honestly THANK YOU for saying all that abt baghra bc i thought i was going crazy from not liking her??? bc i haven't read the books and only summaries of them on wiki and like. i dunno why ppl like her actually even in the show bc this guy, her son, is like "i wanna make the world better for us grisha" and she's just like "no." even tho he sees that she's MAKING HERSELF SICK from suppressing her powers! she's literally like in bed coughing in the flashback yet seem much healthier at the little palace. also like after everything, after her disapproval, after the fold, after centuries of waiting for the sun summoner.. he never abandons her. he makes sure she's cares for. he doesn't harm her. and i have to wonder if baghra has ever thanks him for that, for just not leaving her alone. like i dunno how im suppose ro believe aleks is a heartless villain when he still cares for his abusive mom like this. like has baghra even told her she loved him (honestly she reminds me of a classic emotionally unavailable asian parent but maybe that's just me). also im wondering if baghra ever told aleks that he had an aunt.. bc like.. now that u bring up her isolating him it's like hmmmm...

not at me being like alina... why do u trust the bitter old woman who literally beats u with a stick and verbally abuses u every chance she gets.. just bc she showed a bad painting... like.. pls use two braincells to see that who u figured out as his mother... is also using his protection..

like baghra could've upped and left with alina. but no. she stayed bc she knew she was safe under aleks's protection.

alsoim just impressed that after his first friend tried to drown him and harvest his bones... he didn't go into hiding???? he still wanted to make a safe heaven for grisha!!! HE STILL WANTED TO PROTECT GRISHA EVEN AFTER HIS GRISHA FRIEND TRIED TO KILL HIM FOR HIS FUCKEN BONES. like... this is the guy im suppose to believe is the villain???

honestly i feel like part of the reason why LB's plotlines seem so bad and disconnected (and sometimes outright racist but that's another rant) and why darkles is disproportionately more violent and villainous in the later books is bc she didn't expect the darkling to be so popular and wanted to stick with her guns of making him the villain. but also wanted the money from aleks's popularity. but like you can't have ur cake and eat it too.

Well thank you for sending this ask! It's very sweet and very passionate. I'm glad you liked my post! I didn't put as much thought into it as some of my others lol. I kind of just talked. But it was nice to be able to finally talk about some of the problems I have with both her character and the fandom/author's perception of her.

HERE is the post this is referring to, in case anyone's wondering.

👀👀 You've hit the nail on the head for so many things, here!

Baghra is extremely emotionally unavailable, basically to the point of neglect. She's also verbally and physically abusive, traits which I doubt were only reserved for her students and not her son. Baghra claims she would do anything to protect him, but I've known a lot of parents who have that mindset and yet still harm their children because they think it's "good for them".

Aleksander stays at Baghra's side for years, and even when they're opposing each other she's never too far away from him. Idk if you've read the books but he does eventually hurt her. And as much as I don't like Baghra, I think his actions were horrid. But I'm also honestly kind of surprised it took him so long lmao.

Yeah I mean, in terms of isolation, let's not forget that she never wanted to introduce him to his father, either. Baghra's sense of eternity clouds a lot of her judgments on relationships, which means she views most people as dust and therefore teaches her son to as well. The problem with that is that he's a growing child, and he needs those social and emotional attachments for healthy development.

I would bet quite a bit of money that Baghra has either never told him she loves him or she has told him so few times it's practically forgettable.

And everything becomes more complicated because so many of Baghra's actions are understandable because of her life and her history, but the impacts they have on the people around her, especially Aleksander, are permanently damaging. And the fact that that's never gone over in critical depth in the books or how it's glossed over in fandom is just very disconcerting. Like, acknowledging Baghra's failings doesn't mean we're excusing Aleksander's actions, it just means we're holding Baghra liable for her own. Which the fandom should be doing, considering she's the epitome of an abusive parental figure.

And Alina trusting Baghra over Aleksander is even more confusing! Especially in the show!! This is the woman who beat her and abused her and tortured her friends when they tiny little children (and who probably still does so now that they're adults). This is the woman who mocks you and harasses you and insults you on a regular basis. Why does Baghra revealing she's Aleksander's mother make Alina change her mind?! Like fuck, I'd just feel bad for Aleksander. No wonder he kept it a secret, I would too! And that painting is enough evidence?! Really?! A random painting shown to you by this abusive mentor that's been making your life hell. That's what you're going to betray your new lover over?

The friends trying to harvest his bones thing is a good point, too. I think Aleksander, especially show Aleksander, is incredibly idealistic. I think he cares too much for others - those he's deemed worth his care (a sentiment given to him by Baghra). Despite everything she's tried to teach him about hiding and abandoning others and never caring and never doing anything to help or reach out or connect with people, Aleksander still continues to do so. It's likely because he never got it from Baghra growing up, and so is desperate for those emotional needs to be fulfilled elsewhere.

His turning point, when Baghra tells him it was understandable that those kids tried to kill him because the world is such a hard place for them - that's crucial. And the reason it's possible as a motivating factor is because of that idealism and that desire to help and that desire to be everything his mother isn't. Baghra tells him this trauma he just experienced was because of the oppression of his people, and instead of following her lead and accepting that, going into hiding and abandoning everybody to their misery, he goes I can do something about that. I can make it so this never happens again. Which is usually how trauma like that combines with one's core personality traits at a young age, especially when there's none of the essential support systems in place to aid in recovery (ie, the role Baghra should have been filling but wasn't, because she decided to exacerbate the problem instead).

And yeah, one of my biggest problems with the ham-fisted "beating you over the head with a sledgehammer of evil deeds" look-how-bad-this-character-is! portrayal of the Darkling in the later books comes from the impression I get that Bardugo doesn't trust her readers. She's so desperate to have us hate this character and think him an irredeemable villain, not trusting any of her readers to engage critically with a morally gray character, that it feels quite a bit like condescending fucking bullshit. Which ew, I know how to engage with literature, thanks.

She really does seem to look down on a large part of her fandom, and imo, the infantilization of the female characters in her books seems to carry over to her impression of most of her female readers as well. Which is why the Darkling's character arc gets fucking destroyed. But he's still a good cash grab, of course, so she'll shake his dead corpse in front of the fandom for money every time she wants something from it.

Also! Another reason I think her plotlines feel disconnected (I'm sorry Bardugo I respect you as a person, but shit-) is because the writing in SaB is just bad. I mean, nevermind the absolutely nauseating implications of the way she portrays the Grisha as a persecuted group who's situation is never actually fully addressed as it should be, considering Grisha rights is what her main villain is fighting for (imo for a series called the Grishaverse, LB seems to be pretty anti Grisha), but her characters and story alone are just wrong for each other. They don't fit together.

And the ending is one of the main pieces of evidence in that regard! You can’t say the ending where Alina isn’t Grisha anymore is her “going back to where she started” when she’s always been Grisha. She just didn’t know she was Grisha because she denied that part of herself that she was born with.

Alina is reluctant to move forward or change, she struggles with adapting, and she’s very set on the things she’s grown attached to throughout her life. She also has some latent prejudices against the Grisha, and so denies the possibility of being Grisha for those reasons as well.

Alina’s lack of powers in the beginning of her life because she willfully doesn’t learn about them to avoid change versus her lack of powers at the end of the book when she’s accepted them and then they’re stripped away from her by outer forces are two entirely separate circumstances. You can’t make a parallel about lost powers and lack of Grisha status bringing her back to the start when she was always Grisha and she always had powers and she simply refused to come to terms with it because of personal reasons.

The first situation is an internal conflict that indicates a story about growth and a journey of self acceptance. Denying herself the opportunity to learn about her heritage and to find acceptance with a group of people like her because she’s tied to the past and because of the way she was raised is the setup for a narrative that tackles unlearning prejudice and learning how to connect with a part of her identity that was denied her and learning how to grow independent and self assured. It’s the setup for a different story entirely. The second situation is an external conflict that centers around the ‘corrupting influence of power’... for some reason.

In a world where Grisha do not have social, political, or economic power and they are hunted, centering your heroine’s journey of self acceptance and growth around an external conflict about... the corrupting influence of power (in a group of people that don’t actually have any power?!) just doesn’t work. It is literally impossible to connect the two stories Bardugo is trying to push in Shadow and Bone without seriously damaging the main character’s developmental arc.

The only way a narrative like this would work, claiming that she has gone back to where she started, is either a) if the Grisha weren’t actually a persecuted group and instead were apart of the upper class, or b) if the one bad connection between the two instances is acknowledged - that Alina denied a part of herself crucial to self acceptance and growing up, and that losing her powers at the end has also denied her. It is a tragedy, not a happy ending.

Alina suffered because she didn’t use her powers. She grew sick. It was bad for her. This was not a resistance to 'the corruption of power and the burden of greed', it was her suffering because she couldn’t fully accept herself.

Framing the ending as a return to the beginning can’t be done if you don’t address how bad the beginning was for your main character. You brought her back to a bad point in her life. You regressed her. This should be a low point in her arc. It should be a problem that’s solved so she can finish developing organically or it should be something that is acknowledged as a tragedy in it’s own right, for the future the world (the writing) denied her.

This is a ramble and it makes no sense and I’m really sorry, but my point is that Bardugo put the wrong characters in the wrong story. The character arc required for organic development doesn’t match the story and intended message at all. The narrative doesn’t fit the cast. She's got two clashing stories attempting to work in tandem and she ends up with both conflicting messages that fans still can’t comprehend in her writing and an ending that doesn’t suit her main character to such an impossible degree that it’s almost laughable.

So yeah, there's a few reasons why I think the story and the plot feels so bad and disconnected. I hope you don't mind me making this answer so long! 😅 I was not expecting to write this much.

[chainofclovers]

Ted Lasso 2x7 Thoughts

“Headspace” is a very apt name for this episode, in which we learned almost no new information about the characters in Ted Lasso but learned a great deal about the way many characters’ brains work.

Most of the episodes this season have been so full of new information (if you wanna know something about how my brain works, the critique that early s2 episodes lack conflict does not compute), so full of dramatic irony (Sam and Rebecca don’t realize they’re messaging each other on Bantr! Rebecca’s voicemail to Ted doesn’t actually indicate that she spent a significant portion of time panicking and looking for him!), and misunderstandings that it was really nice to spend a bit over thirty minutes on an episode with very easily mappable plotlines.

Ted and Sharon and Therapy

Ordinarily in my little recaps I talk about the characters as real people making their own decisions, because every character on this show feels very real. But I have to take a minute to just, like, celebrate the acting in these scenes. Sarah Niles and Jason Sudeikis brought the perfect energy to each of their three scenes in Dr. Sharon’s office.

The drinking bird toy! The way he switches from nodding along with it to shaking his head no while the bird continues to shake its head yes, just like Ted shook his head no while saying yes, they should hire a sports psychologist! The way he finally stills the bird in the final therapy scene in the episode...but performatively throws the tissue box.

(Someone is going to need those tissues, Ted. It might be you.)

I also LOVE that this is the first time we see Sharon in an extended scene that takes place in a session. We’ve seen her rapport with the players, we’ve seen the results, and we’ve seen the things she does to make someone feel comfortable at the start of a session, and that’s all the information WE need to know to feel confident in her excellence as a psychologist. But because Ted hasn’t been able to fully appreciate those things, it’s so fitting that his sessions are a time for us to learn more about Sharon’s approach along with him.

It’s just...such good acting. The way she tells him he doesn’t need to worry. The kind of charming (but not performatively charming, just...charming) smile on his face when he claims he knows he doesn’t need to worry. And the way his voice changes a little as the conversations progress—deeper, less controlled, with some very genuine Midwestern “ma’am”s.

Sam and Rebecca and Awkwardness

Sam and Rebecca were so awkward when talking to each other in the hallway! If I had been in that hallway I would have been physically unable to stop myself from doing something even more awkward and diverting to make it stop. (I say this as someone who is neither disgusted by or delighted by the direction of the Bantr storyline. This is a good story about two good people who are in very different places in their lives existing in both a manufactured connection and the real, and very different, connection they have when they aren’t glued to their phones. This story is supposed to be awkward and uncomfortable.)

I did like the parallels of their friends sort of urging them on/coaching them through the inherent panic of the three dots that appear and disappear—a source of panic whether you’re the one creating the dots on the other screen or watching them and feeling at their mercy.

I like that in this episode both Ted and Rebecca are loudly broadcasting “I AM NOT IN THE RIGHT HEADSPACE FOR A ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIP”—Ted with his rueful awareness that Michelle would be upset if she heard him still referring to her as his wife, Rebecca with her insistence that relationships are doomed and awful even though she’s talking to two people (Keeley and Higgins) in committed relationships.

Roy and Keeley and Space

This plot was a really wonderful...counterpoint? complement? to the places both Ted and Rebecca are in as Ted starts to come to terms with the fact that he’s going to have to deal with his past and the losses he’s suffered (including the loss of his marriage) and as Rebecca questions whether she’s really going to embark on the next phase of a relationship with someone whose identity she does not know.

Because Ted and Rebecca are stuck apart, it was great to see Keeley struggle with needing space from Roy without worrying for a second about whether or not this challenge was a threat to their relationship. (Keeley and Roy aren’t used to long haul relationships, so they both see it as a threat, but the audience doesn’t have to.)

There was so much going on in that boot room. I love the coexisting realities there—Rebecca and Keeley and Higgins treating the boot room as their personal room for secret smoking, but as the crowd grows all these other unspoken dynamics emerge (it’s been two days since the panic attack and this is the first time we see Ted and Rebecca in the same room and there’s no evidence that they’ve talked about what happened with the panic attack or Rebecca’s parents or any of the big stuff).

Everything about Keeley’s plotline this episode reminded me of how Ted and Keeley are so similar (and, to a lesser extent, Rebecca and Roy are so similar). Rebecca and Roy both tend to write things off (Rebecca is so certain any relationship she has will be doomed, but it’s just because of how hurt she already is; Roy wanted to convince himself he was happier as a pundit than as a coach, but it’s just because he was scared of how much he wanted to be back on on the pitch), only able to deal with things when a safe person like Ted or Keeley sort of startles growth out of them. (We talk a lot about how Rebecca should be in therapy, but Roy should too.) And Ted and Keeley! Everything’s great, everything’s sunny, but look at how Keeley stands on her couch and screams in sadness and anger when she blows up at Roy and he leaves.

This time, things work out between Roy and Keeley because he figures out what Keeley was trying to communicate and respects what she needs, but in the future she’s going to have to figure out how to articulate herself more clearly. (And so will Ted...not only in therapy with Sharon, but as everything with the other coaches and the team and Will and basically everyone in his life come to light.)

Nate and Beard and Twitter-Insecurity-Rage

Ahhhhhhhhh.

This plotline made me feel almost as nervous for Ted (the things he doesn’t know) and Beard (the things he knows) as it did for Nate and Colin and Will and everyone.

At first I was really bothered by the repetition of Nate checking Twitter. We know! He’s on Twitter a lot now that he’s semi-famous! He’s obsessed! But then it occurred to me that it’s extremely perfect that Nate checking Twitter becomes this silent refrain building him up or tearing him down based on the latest 280-character compliment or take-down. Because this is how the internet works! You get obsessed with something on it and then check it a million times per day until you feel sick. It could be a dating app, or a trending story, or almost anything. If you check it often enough, the internet won’t even have anything truly new for you...it just feels like it does. So the repetition of Nate scrolling Twitter wasn’t meant to deliver us new information, but rather to mimic the old information coming through again and again.

I feel so deeply for Nate, who’s brilliant about football but unfit to coach because the power dynamics of coaching are a totally foreign concept to someone like him, who relies entirely on external inputs to take his actions. Ted and Beard and Roy all go and learn things and bring them back to the pitch, but none of them have had the capacity to teach Nate how to do this. Even Nate’s private thoughts, which he wrote down during s1, only come to light when Ted prompts him. And when your external inputs are coming from social media and an unappreciative father and a hyper-awareness of insult after years spent on the receiving end of bullying...it’s very dangerous. Maybe even literally physically dangerous.

I also feel so deeply for everyone who interacts with Nate right now, particularly Will.

Some Bonus but Never Extraneous Trent Crimm

Trent in the pub made me NERVOUS. Seeing him in this new place where Ted goes to wind down, almost coaching Ted through lying to him about having had food poisoning?! When they both clearly know that isn’t what happened?!?

It felt very fitting that this uncomfortable yet kind-of-mercifully-executed lie takes place towards the end of an episode full of such positive and negative growth for the characters. Such movement. It felt all wrong (in a good way), like covering something new and smooth and precious with spackle because maybe you actually wanna paint something else after all even though it won’t serve you in the long run to do it. To paraphrase Dr. Sharon, the truth will set you free but first it will piss you off, and Ted’s conversation with Trent is a reminder of all the layers there are to cut through on the way to the truth.

If Apple TV could simply release 2x8 - 2x12 this week, I would bargain with something crazy and miserable like giving up caffeine until October 8, the air date for the season finale. I continue to love this season and to feel the serenity of watching excellent actors execute on excellent scripts...but we’re getting to the point where the momentum’s built up and is heading to ever-scarier places, and I neeeeeeeeeed to knoooooooow.

[realcube]

rq; could you possibly write a one shot about the reader having AD(H)D and has a really hard time focusing on core academics (math, science, english, history) because they feel scared about stimming and/or fidgeting in front of people and so they ask tamaki for help?

tw; very mild angst, fluff, stimming, i use the word ‘embrassing’ too much, swearing

words; 2.7k

it only took a moment of skimming over your latest progress report for you to understand the situation.

you continued to thrive in practical subjects like physical education, graphic design and manufacturing — the three main reasons you managed to secure your spot in the support course — but your core subjects seemed to be lacking.

for the last two years, you managed to score flying colours in all your subjects. but now, it was starting to appear as though your golden era was coming to a close. what was once a report with only scores greater than 90%, was now a range of totals anywhere from 90 to 50%.

this meant you were still passing all of your classes but these grades were only indications of how you were doing now; you knew that if you continued to struggle in all of your core courses, you might not finish your third year of UA highschool.

you simply wouldn't allow for your grades to decline further, so like any good student would, you made a list of ways you could improve.

number one was, of course, study more. however, you were almost certain that discipline and diligence aren't the causes of the issue.

number two was to ask for help from your teacher and although this was a completely valid option, you still felt like the problem ran deeper than your ability to comprehend the material. after all, you had made it this far without having to do so.

before you could even ponder number three, your pen ran out of ink. with a huff, you reach out to grab a new one from your pencil case, until you noticed that in the spot where your pencil case usually sits on your desk, there was nothing.

it was as though the void had caused all your memories of yesterday to come crashing down on you in an instant; it was almost nauseating. yet it, ironically, provided some clarity as to the location of your stationary.

two days ago, after school, you paid a visit to tamaki's house to deliver the gear he had commissioned. however, what was initially meant to be a casual interaction, somehow turned into a game of pictionary (with mirio and nejire there too, of course), for which you needed to bring your pencil case out of your bag. amidst your awkward goodbyes, you must've forgotten to put it back into your bag, hence your pencil case is probably lying dejected on tamaki's coffee table.

this left you with no choice but to throw on your jacket and begin your journey to tamaki's house. fortunately, he only lived a bus ride away from your home, yet you still mentally rebuked yourself for the whole length of aforementioned bus ride due to the fact that every time you would interact with tamaki, it felt like you were digging a deeper grave for yourself.

partially because you always found yourself oversharing with him — not that it was a one-sided ordeal — and you couldn't begin to explain why; he kinda just had a comforting aura about him. albeit you haven’t said anything embarrassing yet but the possibility of that happening was way too large. plus taking into consideration your complicated feelings for each other, leaving your pencil case at his house was a disaster waiting to occur.

or perhaps you were overthinking it. either way, you were now standing in front of his door with your school uniform and backpack on during a saturday afternoon because you had no idea what else to wear.

after ringing the doorbell, you stood as a patient statue in the cold until tamaki reluctantly opened the door and only poked his head out. “hello?”

emphasis on ‘only’, because he was truly committed to not allowing you to see him in his casual-wear, for some reason. a part of him reasoned that there was no way you would expect him to be wearing his school uniform on a saturday, but the majority of his brain was screaming about how he had to hide his clothes from you at all costs. especially since he was wearing socks, comfy trackpants and — most shamefully — a sweater with a small octopus design on it. and what would you think of him if you saw that his choice in loungewear was so childish?! it would be utterly humiliating.

completely unaware that tamaki was having a crisis behind the door, you pulled your most authentic smile and said the line you had been rehearing on the bus, “hi, tamaki. sorry for coming unannounced, but i think i left my pencil case on your coffee table when we were playing pictionary with mirio and nejire.”

“oh.” tamaki was almost too panicked to process what you just said but once he did, he immediately recalled the moment he noticed that you had left behind your pencil case. at the time, he planned on calling you to ask if he could drop it off at your house, but his nerves got the better of him and he decided to keep procrastinating the call until he completely forgot.

though, if he remembered correctly, the pencil case should be lying on his desk after he moved it there in hopes that the convenient location would remind him to return it; which it evidently did not.

“yeah. uh, i’ve got it. i’ll just go get it.” his face tingled with warmth slightly as he retracted it from the doorway, resulting in him finally realising how cold it is outside. in fact, since the eaves of his house shielded you for the climate, he didn’t even notice that it was snowing!

the polite bone in him got to work before the rest of him could react, as he blurted out, “come in, make yourself at home.”

fuck! i mean, it’s not that he doesn’t want you in his house — quite the opposite actually — but rather now he had to dart off to his bedroom before you could catch a glimpse of his sweater. but at least now this gave him an opportunity to change into something less embarrassing.

closing the door behind you, you were now left alone in tamaki’s living room. your eyes followed his figure as he dashed towards his bedroom, “odd.” you murmured to yourself. you weren’t exactly tamaki’s BFF but you were close enough to him that you could tell when he was acting weird.

but you didn’t think to much of it. actually, you were slightly grateful for this weird spike in tamaki’s behaviour because if he doesn’t want you around, that just means you are less likely to overshare and catch feelings, which means better outcomes in the long run, right?

after changing into a plain blue sweater and collecting your pencil case, tamaki strolled into the living room and handed it to you with a weak smile, “here you go.” he almost whispered, patiently waiting for your response so he could mentally prepare himself for goodbyes or another hour (or so) of conversation.

“thank you!” you basically squealed, pulling off your bag to stuff your pencil case back inside. while adjusting the straps on your shoulders, you took a moment to appreciate tamaki’s familiar attire, “oh, i love your sweater; i have a similar one with a cute little octopus on it.”

tamaki concluded that neither of you would be saying goodbye for a long while.

“thank you.” he responded with a soft smile, folding his arms over his chest as he made his way towards the kitchen, “um, so how are you?” he inquired, assuming that it was a pretty harmless question that would simply help get the conversation off the ground while he prepared tea.

“i’m good. but i don’t think i can say the same for my progress report.” you said with an awkward chuckle, standing aside as you watched tamaki put the kettle on. “and how are y--”

“what do you mean?” tamaki asked, disregarding the fact that he didn’t answer the question himself. although, simply put, this was because he found that conversation came more naturally to him when he was with you; or perhaps that is a slight overstatement. he tended to be more curious and inquisitive when talking to you and it wasn’t hard to tell.

until now you and mirio simply brushed it off as tamaki’s interest towards the support course, since you were the one who manufactured most of his gear. yet nejire always teased him as she believed that tamaki’s interest was caused by a different sort of passion.

nevertheless, regardless of tamaki’s motives, you still found yourself consistently answering his questions, “eh, well, i’ve just not been performing as well as i hoped.” you replied plainly with a shrug.

“is that all?”

no matter how many questions he asked, each one still managed to catch you off-guard. “um,” your throat ran dry, which might’ve been a sign from a deity to stop talking, but your swallowing was your way of proving that you did not care. although you will probably regret it later, talking with tamaki always relieved you.

“well,” you started, the lump in your throat growing by the second, “i guess i have a bit of trouble focussing in some classes too. but i mean, maybe it is because i drink too much caffeine? i’m not even sure to be honest.” that was lie, you were  90% sure of what the problem was, but you wanted to hear tamaki’s response before you proceeded, to determine whether he’d be open-minded about it.

“there is no such thing as too much caffeine.” he joked, handing you a cup of tea while he sipped on his own. “so it’s probably something else.”

he’s too good. it’s as if he knew you were withholding information.

“well,” you began once more, trying your best to appear clueless, “i guess moving helps me focus, but no once else in the class does it so wouldn’t it be embarrassing if i was the only one?”

“i don’t think it would be embarrassing at all.” he spoke softly, leading you back into the living room and offer you a seat on the couch beside him, which you graciously accepted. “but if you think it is, then i have something to help.”

before you could say anything, tamaki got up and headed towards his bedroom; leaving you to drink his heavenly tea while he searched. though, only a few minutes passed before you felt his arms slither over your shoulders to hook two clips together by your neck.

“there.” he said with a proud smile, “this is one of my cloaks that i use in my hero costume. you can tie it together so it covers the whole front half of your body.”

observing your reflection in the blackened TV, you smiled upon seeing for your own eyes that everything he said was true. it was like wearing a cape that goes around your whole body, and it had a nice hood! “wow, this is so adorable!” you cheered, then paused, “but how is it going to help me focus?”

“well, you can do whatever you want underneath it and no one will notice.”

ignoring the shady implications of that sentence, you moved your hand around underneath the cloak and he was right! no one would see you fidgeting underneath the cloak, and hopefully the professor’s voice would cover any sounds you made. plus, it looked pretty badass.

“this might work! are cloaks included in dress-code?” you joked, but you weren’t laughing for long as you turned to look at tamaki who was wearing an upset expression with his head hung low, “no.”

“oh.” you sighed, unclipping the cloak and handing it back to tamaki with a slight smile, “it’s fine. thank you for your help, and the tea. it was delicious, but i’ll probably have to start cutting back on the caffeine.” you gave it a chef’s kiss yet he didn’t even chuckle like he usually does. it was almost scary how your true emotions reflected onto him, as it seemed like the whole atmosphere had changed.

“(y/n).” tamaki uttered with a much more serious tone; eyes filled with determination yet trained onto the cloak in his hands. “you shouldn’t be embarrassed-- or at least, I, um, don’t think you should be.”

your eyes widened at how sternly he said the first part; granted, he became flustered when it came to the second part, but it really showed you how firmly he stood by what he was saying. you nodded for him to continue as he looked like he still had a lot on his mind.

“it’s unfair that you have trouble focussing because of what other people think. so my two cents is that you should do whatever you need to do, and, um, not care about other people... well, i mean, you should care about them, but just not what they think about you. because like, you can’t really control that--”

he found himself having to abruptly shut his mouth to stop himself from prattling on any further. especially since most of what he was saying was probably none sense that he mistook for inspirational, or at least that is what he gathered from the shocked look you wore; it was ironic how humiliated he was.

“that’s nice to hear.” you hummed, a kind smile gracing your features in place of the previous stunned expression, “though it’s hard to believe coming from someone as cool as you, tamaki.”

“cool?”

“yeah.” you chuckled, rolling your eyes at his baffled look which he must have been faking. surely he knows how highly thought of and respected he is throughout the whole school. he is in the big three, for fucks’ sake! “there is probably a better word to describe it, but you are one of the most badass people i know.”

“badass?” it was as if all he was capable of doing was repeating these words to you with an innocent yet confused gaze.

“yes!” you enthused, “so, is there anything you even have to be embarrassed about?”

“i do!” he almost whined, and without thinking, he stormed to his bedroom only to grab the sweater he cast aside earlier to show it to you, “look! an octopus sweater, isn’t this embarrassing?”

you deadpanned, unsure as to whether he was joking or not. “stimming is very different from a octopus sweater but go on.” however after a few moments of actually analysing the design on the article of clothing, you exclaimed, “oi, i have that exact same sweater! how is a cute little octopus embarrassing? plus, it would be extra cute on you because you have tentacles.”

in a moment of frustration and wanting to prove a point, he threw the sweater aside and began to sheepishly grab at the ends of his sleeves, “well, you know what’s even more embarrassing? having a crush on someone for three whole years and not having the balls to ask them out! and on top of that, being to nervous to return my crush’s stuff after you left it at my house.”

you weren’t sure if he meant to switch out ‘my crush’ with ‘you’ on purpose or if he was just confused. either way, you found yourself leaning in to wrap the poor boy in an overdue embrace, smiling against his chest as he hugged back. “that was..” you faltered, allowing tamaki to interject with “mortifying” but you were quick to correct him, “i think that was a very unique way to confess, and i'm just glad you did.”

your chuckle that followed was left to echo around the room as tamaki stood still and silent, simply enjoying the comfort in your arms as feeling the pleasure of time escape him. until eventually he whispered close to your ear, “so since i know more about embarrassment than you thought, will you take my advice now?”

you snickered, gently tracing shapes onto his back, “i was going to take your advice either way because if i don’t get good grades and remain in the support course, how will i graduate with you?”

“good point.” he hummed, not-so silently enjoying the relaxing sensations near his spine, “but we are not wearing matching octopus hats.”

how did manage to shoot down your idea before you even proposed it?

[thephantomessoftheopera]

Notes on Gaston Leroux‘s „The Phantom of the Opera“ - Chapter 22: „Interesting and Instructive Tribulations of a Persian in the Cellars of the Opera“

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This is a flashback chapter that allegedly reproduces the Persian‘s personal account of his previous interactions with Erik before he and Raoul jumped into the torture chamber. It also provides some background on Erik‘s time in Persia. The Persian’s narrative begins with him stalking Erik in the hope of finding a way into his house. On one occasion, when he has taken the boat to get to the wall where the door of the house is hidden, he encounters the “siren”, one of Erik’s ingenuous defense strategies. The trick of the “siren” is to attract any intruder with its singing (as sirens usually do), so they can easily be snatched and dragged underwater when they are close enough. The “siren” is none other than Erik himself, who is using a reed to breathe and sing underwater - something that he learned from the Pirates in Tonkin, a french colony in northern Vietnam (does anyone else want to see Erik give Jack Sparrow a run for his money🏴‍☠️??). He recognizes the Persian just before he can drown him, and drags him to the shore instead, where he tells him that he does not want his presence in his house.

Apparently, when the Persian saved Erik’s life in Persia, he made him promise that he would not commit any more murders. Therefore, he wants to know if Erik was involved in the fall of the chandelier, but Erik denies it, saying that it was badly worn, and that he didn’t make it fall. It’s hard to know if Erik is lying or speaking the truth here - we naturally assume that it was his doing in the context of the novel. However, as the chandelier’s counterweight falling was a real event which happened in 1896, killing one person, all we know is that most likely, it did in fact fall without someone actively dropping it - unless you assume that a real ghost had a very real hand in making the accident happen.

Erik‘s brand of violence in general is a very artistic and impersonal one, which helps him separate his crimes from himself and focus on the art instead of the crime. When the Persian reminds him of the „Rosy hours of Mazenderan“, it is evident that he wishes to suppress those memories, sadly stating that he tries to forget about them, but that at least „he made the little sultana laugh“. Another indication of this mental compartmentalization is Erik‘s occasional use of „illeism“, i.e. referring to himself in the third person. This illustrates the „feeling of "being outside one's body and watching things happen", a psychological disconnect resulting from dissonance either from trauma such as childhood physical or sexual abuse, or from past outbursts that cannot be reconciled with the individual's own self-image.“ I think we can safely say that in Erik‘s case, both factors come into play. Erik was traumatized practically from birth - we don‘t really know about any physical abuse, but in any case, he was emotionally and mentally abused from his earliest childhood (a lack of affection is crippling to a child’s development). Disassociating himself from his crimes then serves as a coping mechanism for him. In his speech, he actually uses the first person far more frequently than the third person, though.

The Persian‘s insistence on controlling Erik‘s behaviour is due to him feeling responsible for any crimes he might commit since he saved his life, and it seems that he regards him as a mixture between an unruly child and a very dangerous animal. Later, we will learn that it was in fact the Persian who brought Erik to Persia in the first place, thus probably also feeling some responsibility himself for whatever Erik did there, and whatever he might do in the future. It is important though that Erik and the Persian - as chief of the Mazenderan police - were both in the employ of the Persian rulers, and those were allegedly far more monstruous than Erik himself, perverting his genius in a way that served their cruel ideas of entertainment.

Throughout his account of the story, the Persian usually calls Erik a „monster“ and always fears that Erik will go through with his threat against „many members of the human race“. He has been spying on Erik and Christine during their lessons, but cannot believe that Erik‘s voice would be „enough to make her forget his ugliness.“

When he witnesses the progression of the relationship between the two, and that they are now seeing each other, he once again tries to stop Erik when he is on his way out to go shopping for Christine, on the morning after the first night she spent at his house. For those who wonder how Erik was able to go out and run errands, here is the resolution:  when he went out, he wore a papier-mâché nose with a mustache attached, which would hide the fact that he had no nose - which is apparently his most horrible feature. The fake nose made him „almost bearable“ to look upon, so he was able to go out without wearing a full-face mask.

Erik is angry at the Persian for constantly following him around, endangering his secrets, and threatens that terrible things would happen should he be betrayed. He mentions the mysterious „man in the felt hat“ again, speaking of how he had to take the Persian to the managers twice, and that he himself was there, too. Unfortunately, this is not any more conclusive than before, as Erik usually speaks of his alter egos (the siren, for example) as if they were separate entities.

The Persian insists that he has come for Christine and accuses Erik of keeping her as a prisoner (which is not really true at this point, as he offered her her freedom the night before, and she hasn‘t unmasked him yet). Erik makes the Persian promise to leave him alone if he can prove that Christine loves him for himself by coming back to him of her own free will, and the Persian agrees because he thinks that no one could love „that monster“ Erik for himself (which is kind of a sad thing to think…).

He is therefore reasonably amazed when he sees Christine freely come to and leave Erik’s house, but concludes from observing Christine‘s and Raoul‘s engagement game that Erik „occupied her mind by terror, but her heart belonged wholly to Raoul de Chagny“. Now, as we‘ve seen through Raoul‘s eyes and Christine‘s own account, it was not as simple as that. While terror was definitely in the mix, Christine herself said she cared more about Erik’s tears than his threats, and despite her fears, was unwilling to hurt him and run away until it was too late. Therefore, I personally don‘t think that the Persian has much authority to speak of Christine‘s heart, especially since he does not seem to know her particularly well.

The Persian still intends to find the entrance into Erik’s house and one day, watches Erik enter it through the third cellar. The house is apparently not soundproof, as Erik’s music can still be heard in the cellar above, but obviously no one knows where this “ghost music” is coming from.

He then recounts the events of the day of Christine’s abduction and how he briefly considered preemptively denouncing Erik („the monster”) to the police, but chose not to do so because no one would believe him. He then provides several details from Erik’s backstory: how he learned to use the punjab lasso in India, how he fought as a type of gladiator armed with only the lasso for the amusement of the sultana of Mazenderan in Persia, and how he worked as a contractor for Charles Garnier and was therefore secretly able to build his house into the foundations of the opera during the Franco-Prussian war and the siege of Paris from 1870 to 1871, while official construction work on the opera house was suspended. The house is located between the inner and outer casing that was built to contain the water in the underground lake, presumably towards the western side of the building and roughly on the level of the fourth cellar.

Upon finding himself in the torture chamber, the Persian recognizes that it is the same type of chamber that Erik had built in Mazenderan, and which was used for the execution of prisoners (and occasionally, random people as well) by the sultana. He also concludes that Joseph Buquet must also have been trying to follow Erik and had fallen into the torture chamber where he hanged himself, and that later Erik must have moved the body and hung it on the set piece from “Le Roi de Lahore” (which basically translates to “The King of the capital of the Punjab” - did I mention he has a twisted sense of humour??). But as the lasso, being made of catgut, might have aroused suspicions, he apparently decided to get rid of it somewhere else.

Now, upon finding the lasso at his very feet, the Persian’s fears rise and he tries to get Raoul to stay silent and motionless so as not to alert Erik of their presence in his house...

Next chapter >>

[brywrites]

Partners in Crime

A/N: This is one of the earliest Reid x Reader stories I wrote and never published, and I figured, why not? Reid and the Reader often go undercover as a couple to bait an unsub, and this time things don’t quite go as planned.  CW: for non-consensual behavior, mild physical abuse, reference to rape

-

It’s always the two of them. She figures it’s because they’re so close in age, and such good friends. After months of working together, and plenty of free time spent hanging out, the chemistry comes naturally. Whenever there’s a case involving couples, and the profile alone isn’t enough, she and Reid end up masquerading as boyfriend and girlfriend, husband and wife, all varieties of people madly in love with each other. Sometimes it’s enough to just lure out an unsub, twice they’ve been kidnapped, but never for long. They do good work together. Garcia has even taking to calling them Partners in Crime, or The Dream Team.

Deep down she knows it’s not just her profiling abilities or friendship with Spencer that allows her to play the part so well. That chemistry has become absolutely natural, too much so. Long after the game is done, she finds herself stealing glances at him, staying up late at night wondering what it would be like to really be in love with him. It’s an impossible dream. Reid is brilliant, handsome, and her co-worker. Strictly off limits. And yet those fantasies continue with every smile he gives her, and a part of her hopes that maybe, maybe…

“Baltimore PD have requested our help with a serial killer,” Hotch announces in the conference room. “Over the last six months, six people have kidnapped and murdered. There’s evidence of torture and sexual sadism, though preliminary ME reports don’t indicate any sign of rape.”

“Why would they think it’s consensual?” JJ asks, skeptical. They’ve encountered incompetent medical examiners before.

“Because of the victims he chooses,” the unit chief says, nodding at Garcia to move to the next slide. Six photos pop up on screen, in groups of two. “Jeremy and Renee Lagher, Tyrone and Nina Davenport, and Louisa and Ryan Sheffield.”

From across the room, Y/N catches Reid’s eye, the two of them realizing where this is likely headed. “He’s using married couples,” Rossi observes. “Is there any indication to how he finds his victims?”

“Social networking,” Garcia chimes in. The internet has made it all too easy for predators to hunt. Oversharing can be fatal. “The couples all used Instagram, had no privacy settings, and shared photos that made it clear they were married. Their last posts were just before they went missing, and all of them used the location feature to check-in at a local restaurant.” The team throws out ideas and questions, possibilities about how he finds them and why he chooses them. It seems to be the general consensus that he must stake out the restaurant, and wait for the couple to leave after dinner.

Y/N is distracted through the discussion, unable to ignore the feeling that there’s something Hotch is keeping from them. Sure enough, the chief has one last thing to add before they get ready to head out. “Given the lack of evidence and how this unsub targets his victims, I’ve spoken with the Baltimore PD and we’ve come to the conclusion that the best way to find him is bait him. Reid, Y/L/N, are you up for this?”

The question is less of a request, more rhetorical in nature. What choice do they have? It’s their job to hunt down criminals, no matter what it takes to find them. And so they agree. On the plane, once the briefing is complete, the go about preparing for the undercover work. Garcia has worked some Photoshop magic, pulling stock photos and personal pictures alike to create two different accounts for Spencer and Y/N Fitzgerald. Over time they’ve gotten into the habit of choosing last names inspired by famous literary and scientific couples. Scrolling through the one created for her, she tries to memorize the details. They’ve been married for two years, they live just west of Baltimore in a studio apartment, they have a cat. She is a librarian, he’s a high school chemistry teacher.

Since no other couples have been reported missing, the police want them to get to work as soon as possible. That evening, she slips on a black dress and a pair of heels, her hair and makeup done much nicer than she would typically take the time for. If this is going to work, she needs to look the part. Reid is waiting for her in the lobby of their hotel, wearing a simple suit and a smile that widens at the sight of her. “You look beautiful,” he tells her.

“Thanks.” She can feel herself blushing, and reminds herself that this is all a part of the game, of the job. None of this is real. Still, when he holds out his hand for her to take, she can’t push back the happiness that bursts in her chest. They walk the few blocks to the restaurant that way, close enough that their shoulders touch. Once he’s put in a reservation, they stand in the dim light of the waiting area to take a photo. Reid wraps his arm around her, holding her close to his side. At the last second, he presses a kiss to her temple just as she snaps a photo on her phone.

“How was that?” he asks. Too good, she thinks. In the picture they look just like a couple, very much in love. It’s soon posted to Instagram, documented along with the rest of their fake relationship. She adds their location just as a waiter comes to whisk them away to a table. Dinner is wonderful, filled with long gazes and laughter and moments where his knee will bump hers, or her fingers will rest over his hand just a little too long. This is just a show, just in case the unsub is lying in wait somewhere inside. It’s a damn good performance, more convincing than it needs to be. Does she really need to look at him that way? Does he really need to give her that devastating grin? They steal all these small moments for themselves, lingering in a soft state of bliss.

It’s only temporary, and soon enough they’re on their way out the door once more. “I’m surprised you weren’t able to meet with your friend,” he says, trying to sound casual. Every so often his eyes dart along the sidewalk, trying to check their surroundings without making it obvious he’s looking.

“Me too, but I suppose plans can always change.”

Reid starts to respond, but the words never come. Instead, a hand clamps over her mouth, and something cold presses hard against her head. Metal, round. The barrel of a gun. “Do what I say,” a voice growls. “Or she dies.” Neither of them are armed, and he has no choice but to comply. A man in a ski mask leads them to a dark colored sedan, yanking open the door of the backseat. Before shoving them inside, he reaches into the pocket of Reid’s suit jacket to extract his cell phone. The device, along with her purse, is tossed onto the sidewalk, leaving them no way to contact the team as the car speeds away.

-

It’s hard to say for sure how much time has passed since they’ve arrived in the dingy cellar. Hours at least, though not a whole day. The room is dirty and cold, and Reid insists on giving her his jacket. He holds her hand still, and that small amount of physical contact is a silent promise between them that everything is going to be okay. They haven’t heard from their captor since the abduction. Does the team know they’re missing? Is Garcia trying to track them down? What’s going to happen to them?

The metal door swings open, and the man enters. His mask is gone, revealing a middle-aged white man. He is balding with a cruel sneer and empty eyes. One hand holds a gun, the other a bag surely full of the tools he tortures his victims with. Their profile was spot on. “Here’s how this is going to go,” he says. “I’m going to give you instructions. You will comply exactly. If you refuse, or mess up, I’ll kill you. If you try to escape, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?” They both nod. “Good. Kiss your husband, Mrs. Fitzgerald.”

“How do you know our name?” Reid demands, though they already know the answer. It’s like chess, all about making the right moves.

“No questions,” the man growls. “Do as I say.” Tentatively, Y/N stands on her toes to close the distance between them, kissing him gently. Chaste, soft, nothing that requires too much of either of them. But that isn’t good enough for their abductor. “Do it like you mean it.”

So she kisses him harder, deeper. If she closes her eyes, it’s easy to pretend that they aren’t here at gunpoint, that it’s just the two of them, that this kiss really does mean something. That this is the moment she’s been imagining a thousand times. He returns it, his hands settling on the small of her back in order to pull her closer. “Now, hit her.” At the sound of the bald man’s voice, Reid freezes, then pulls away. An apology is written on his face, and she braces herself for the slap that stings her cheek and sends her stumbling backwards a few steps. This isn’t going to be a romantic fantasy, apparently.

“Take off her dress, Mr. Fitzgerald.” On his tongue, their names are taunts and not identifiers.

Reid hesitates, but she gives him the slightest of nods. If they’re going to get out of this, they have to play along. It’s their only hope of staying alive long enough for the team to find them. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. His hands reach up her back, unzipping her dress in one fluid motion before easing it down her body. The black fabric falls in a pile at her feet, and she shivers. Standing in only her bra and underwear, the air is colder on her skin now, but it’s terribly unnerving for him to see her so exposed like this.

It isn’t supposed to be like this. This isn’t supposed to be the first time he kisses her or sees her undress. This isn’t the fantasy she replays on the jet each time they close a case and stop pretending to be a couple.

“Touch her,” the man commands, pointing at her chest. This is easily the most humiliating experience they’ve been put through since Hotch first started pairing them up for assignments like this, and it’s quickly devolving into the most humiliating thing they’ve been through, period. Any chance she has hoped for at some future relationship is dashed away. After something like this, how will they ever be able to look at each other the same way?

She sends a silent prayer to the team to find them soon, then meets Reid’s eyes. “It’s okay,” she says quietly. “Spencer, it’s okay.”

The pained look on his face cuts her deep. Is he repulsed by the situation? Or by her? She tries to keep as still as she can, tense under the scrutiny of the bald man. Reid’s hand covers her breast and she oscillates between trying to pretend she’s not in this body, and trying to pretend that she is but it’s just the two of them here. Every so often they are directed in new ways, as if this is just a play and they’ve become actors in some sort of twisted production. It’s quite possible this is reminiscent of an event that occurred in the unsub’s life at some point. Reid is instructed to nibble her ear, she to grope at his backside. Every so often an interruption demanding a hit or a punch. His commands become increasingly more rough, Y/N receiving most of the abuse while Reid tries to be as careful as he can with her, touching her gently, trying to make it look like a slap is harder than it is.

“Remove her bra, then take off your pants.” No no no no no. She knows where this is going. She knows how this scene is supposed to end. They both balk for a brief moment, until the click of the gun cocking jolts them back to their senses.

Reid is shaking his head, but she squeezes his hand. He can feel how badly she’s trembling. This isn’t pleasant for either of them, but her voice is firm. “Do what he says. Just do what he says Spencer. We’re going to get out of here.”

Just as he reaches towards her, there’s a loud bang from somewhere beyond the open door. “Ronald Horton, FBI!” Morgan’s voice echoes down to them. As the man – Horton – turns away to see what’s happening, Y/N bends down to pull her dress back on, Reid pulling his jacket back over her shoulders so she won’t have to waste time fiddling with the zipper. She’s grateful that he’s looking out for her, trying to save her any embarrassment. It’s hard to recall if she has ever been more relieved to see her team storming down a flight of stairs.

Hotch and Morgan drag Horton away in handcuffs, and Rossi turns to the couple who stand together, visibly shaken by the turn of events. “Everything okay?” he asks.

“It is now,” Y/N sighs.

-

Ronald Horton is violent sociopath whose marriage broke apart two months before the killings began. Oddly enough, his ex-wife was the more dominant one in the relationship. To keep up appearances, he relented to her physicality, though didn’t spare her the emotional abuse he was so apt at causing. The murders were a fantasy of his, using surrogates the enact the revenge he never had the chance to. He is booked downtown, and after a long day all of the agents are relieved when Hotch informs them they’ll be staying in Baltimore one more night to catch up on sleep.

She tosses and turns in her bed. Her mind races through everything that happened, and everything that could’ve. If the team hadn’t arrived then, what was he going to force them to do? How far would they have to go? She tries to untangle the violation, the awfulness of it, from the fact that the romantic actions were things she had wanted from Reid. But not like that. Never like that.

Her skin doesn’t feel like her own. She still feels exposed, wrapped under two blankets. She wants to forget it, but she doesn’t want to forget him.  

There is a knock on the door late that night. At this hotel, sets of two rooms are connected by a door in the wall, and she knows who is on the other side before she opens it. “Hi,” Reid says softly. “Did I wake you up?”

“Not at all,” she replies. “I couldn’t sleep.” She motions for him to come in, and he does so somewhat reluctantly.

“Um, listen, Y/L/N, I just wanted to apologize for everything that happened before. That must’ve been… uncomfortable for you, and I’m really sorry.” His pause makes it clear that uncomfortable is an understatement, but neither of them knows what word to place there.

She tries to brush it off. “It’s fine, Reid. Really, it is. This isn’t the first time we’ve done something like this.” It is however, the first time they’ve had to be quite so physical with each other. There’s no reason for him to come apologizing though, it wasn’t his fault. The blame belongs solely to Ronald Horton.

“It’s not fine, though. What happened wasn’t okay. And I am so sorry for hurting you.”

“I had to hurt you too,” she says. Not as much. But neither of them were able to consent to what was done to them.

“I just… I feel bad.” He sighs and looks down at the floor. Conversation between them has never felt so strained. “Doing this, it’s embarrassing,” Reid mumbles.

The awkwardness she feels turns to anger, to hurt. Perhaps it was her that he had a problem with before, not the situation itself. After months of friendship, the idea of being with her is somehow abhorrent to him, and when she likes him so much, that knowledge is like a punch to the face. “If you’re so embarrassed by me, maybe you should stop agreeing to go undercover with me,” she retorts, starting to storm away from him. She’s too tired to deal with this.

“Y/L/N!” he cries. When she doesn’t stop, a strong hand grabs her wrist, pulling her back. “Y/N. Please, wait. That’s not what I meant. There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s me. You always have to pair up with me, and I don’t want to embarrass you. I’m sorry I-” He’s cut off by her mouth on his, kissing him hard. Like she means it. Because she does.

“That’s how you think I feel about you?” she gasps, when he pulls away. “Why do you think it’s so easy for me to pretend? Why do you think I never complain about the assignment? I like being with you. And I really like you.”

“You do?” Positively astonished, he is.

“Spencer, I love you. God, I love you so much. How can you not see that? If anything, you should be the one embarrassed by me.” He’s so smart, so good-looking.

“That would be impossible,” he says. Reid takes her hands in his, taking half a step towards her. He’s so tall, looming over practically, but his eyes are kind. Then he leans down to kiss her again. The depth of it surprises her, when he slips his tongue into her mouth. In response she bites his bottom lip gently, enticing a sigh from him.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

“I want to feel like I have a choice again in who touches me and how,” she answers. “And I want it to be you.”

It occurs to her they could be moving too fast, but when he moves his hands to her hips and she tangles her fingers in his hair, she decides she doesn’t care. After all, they’ve been dating for months. Fake-dating albeit, but every lie has a bit of the truth in it. And besides, it just feels too good to stop.

“I don’t think it’s quite fair,” she manages to find the air to say, “that you’ve seen me undress, but I haven’t seen you.” Her words give him pause, and Y/N reaches up to loosen his tie, pulling it away before starting on his shirt. The row of buttons is slowly undone, slower than is necessary. She wants to savor this, steadily revealing more of him as she goes. Reid shrugs out of his shirt, and she trails a hand down his torso, his skin warm beneath her fingertips. Feeling a little bolder, she places her lips on his neck, working her way down to his collarbone. Every soft moan spurs her on, until he captures her lips once more. It’s so good to finally touch him this way, to be touched by him. No instructions or unsubs or commands here. There’s only a warm room, dim light, and movements making up for lost time.

He’s pressed so close to her, close enough that she can feel him, hard against her. This has been so long in the making, she’s not surprised it doesn’t take long before he’s aroused. Especially not after all of the early physical stimulation between them. She’s feeling quite excited herself, the room too warm, her heart beating too fast, falling faster than she can keep up with. This man before her is like no one she’s ever met before, and she can’t remember loving someone as much as him. Needing someone as much as him. Reid’s hands slide up her sides until they find hold on the zipper of her dress. “Let’s get you out of that dress,” he murmurs.

This is how it was always supposed to be. Nothing about this is rough or difficult. In this hotel room, he is incredibly gentle with her, though his previous hesitation is gone. He knows what he wants now, they both do, and they’ve both given permission for it to happen. In a way, it’s like they are reclaiming every gesture they were forced to perform. These touches, theses feelings don’t belong to Ronald Horton. They belong to the two of them, tangled up together as they slowly explore the geography of the body. The fear is gone, wholly absent from their frantic exchanges. Love, desire, need, fills the place of that uncertainty and awkwardness.

He hurries to undo his belt, step out of his trousers. Taking full advantage of the opportunity, she teases the bulge in his boxers as he continues to find new places on her skin to place his lips, his tongue, his teeth. She tries to bite back a groan, knowing that walls are never quite as thick as they appear. Eventually she pulls him down the bed with her, and it takes only seconds before there’s no layers left between them. Just him, just her, just now.

It is even better than she’d imagined it would be. Spencer proves that he excels in every endeavor, this being no exception to the rule. It’s beautiful, the way he looks at her. How she wishes she had his eidetic memory, so as not to forget a single sensation. And when she calls out his name, when he answers with her own, nothing in the world has ever sounded so right. It seems over too soon, but they find themselves both breathless between the sheets, utterly delirious with joy. His hair is messier than usual, her face is flushed, but neither can stop staring at the other. Like stars in the night sky, it’s so hard to look away from something so wonderful.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he tells her. “I have been since the day it snowed in October, and you started a snowball fight with me on our way out of the office.”

“You lost horribly,” she says, laughing at the memory. Reid had been stunned by the unseasonably cold weather, and after hearing that he’d never had snow days growing up in Vegas, she promptly lobbed a snowball at his back. The ensuing war had been short, marked by short ceasefires so she could attempt to demonstrate proper snow packing techniques. As a term of surrender, he’d bought her hot chocolate, and the day was among her favorite memories of their friendship. This night would certainly have its own place in the rankings.

Spencer simply brushes her hair back, smiling at her. “I think I won, in the end.”

“Isn’t this technically against the rules?” she asks, thinking she should’ve read those fraternization policies a bit more closely.

“Mmm, probably. I suppose that makes us… what is it Garcia always calls us?”

“Partners in crime,” Y/N laughs. “I never thought that would be so true.” It’s absolutely worth it, she decides, because, “I love you, too.”

-

At breakfast the next day, Spencer seems visibly happier, and she can’t help but feel delighted at well. Once or twice she swears she catches Morgan looking at them funny, but she brushes it off. The older agent walks over to Reid and whispers something to him that makes their resident genius turn as pink as a pair of Garcia’s heels. Y/N is hoping things are still okay, until Morgan catches her on her way out the SUVs.

“Congratulations on finally breaking all that sexual tension. I thought you two were never going to get a clue. But hey, I guess life imitates art?” She’s tempted to slap the smirk off his face, but then Derek adds, “Thin walls, Y/L/N. But don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

[eldritchteaparty]

Chapters: 7/20 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Rosie Zampano, Oliver Banks, Original Elias Bouchard, Peter Lukas, Annabelle Cane Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, I'll add characters and tags as they come up, Reference to injuries and blood, Character Death In Dream, Nudity (not sexual or graphic), Nightmares, Fighting

Summary: Following the events of MAG 200, Jon and Martin find themselves in a dimension very much like the one they came from--with second chances and more time.

Chapter summary:  Frustrated by his physical condition and his lack of connection to the Eye, Jon asks Martin to visit Hill Top Road with him.

***

Chapter 7 of post-canon fix-it is up!

Read on AO3 at link above or here below.

Tumblr master post with links to previous chapters here.

***

Over the next few days, Jon continued to struggle. He remained insistent on going into the Institute every day, but even with Martin’s encouragement he had trouble finishing entire meals.

“It’s all right,” Martin told him more than once. “I know you’re trying. Just keep trying.”

Jon would nod. If they were at work, he would catch Martin’s hand between his, just below the edge of his desk, and Martin would quietly tell him about his morning. At home, he would lie back on the couch with his head in Martin’s lap. Martin would come up with something to talk about, unrelated to the entities or the archives or anything that had happened to them. He started saving up topics that occurred to him just so he could have them on hand: a movie he remembered, a funny reddit post, a weird bug he found in the stacks. It wasn’t like Jon really cared; he watched Martin talk more than he listened, anyway. He seemed contented, and that was what mattered. Sometimes he was able to eat more afterward, if he didn’t fall asleep.

***

“Are there still more interviews to be done?” Jon asked Martin one morning, late that week, as they were walking to the office.

“I don’t know,” Martin answered. “I imagine there are. I don’t think Tim’s followed up with any since the ones we did. And I think Sasha’s been around the office the whole time.”

Jon nodded.

“Wait.” Martin reached out a hand to stop him; they faced each other on the pavement. “You're not considering doing them, are you?”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to do something different.” Jon took Martin by the elbow and urged him to keep walking. Martin sighed, but did as he wanted.

“Is it—” Martin measured his tone very carefully and started over. “Is it because what you’re doing isn’t working?”

The Eye, you mean?” Jon looked up at Martin. “No, that’s not why.”

“But also, it isn’t working. Right? You would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

“Nothing’s changed,” Jon confirmed. “But that really isn’t it. I’ve… I’ve run out of information. I’m just going further and further back, through anything describing events and people involved in all of it, and it’s pointless. There was nothing here before we came. Nothing real.”

“Yeah?” Martin asked, recalling that he had done most of the talking between them that week. “I assume you’ve looked into—well, let’s start with Jonah Magnus. What was his deal?”

Jon shrugged. “Him, Robert Smirke, Mordechai Lukas—I’ve looked into all of them. They all existed, they were obsessed with the same ideas and concepts, perhaps because of the pull from our dimension… but there was nothing on the other side of those ideas. Not here.”

“I see.” Martin nodded. “And you think the interviews will give you more?”

“Maybe. It’s the only evidence we’ve had of real connections with individuals. You met Oliver Banks. Tim’s discussions with his police contacts—it was Callum Brodie, by the way. They won’t officially release his name, but it was easy enough to find on social media.”

“So that’s what you want to do, then—look for avatars?”

“Yes,” Jon answered. “They pose the greatest threat, and I think they require the most—advancement in their patrons.”

Martin considered. “You’ll let me go with you?”

“I won’t even pretend I could manage alone right now,” Jon said. “I could go with Tim, I suppose, but he wouldn’t go if you said no. That means it’s your decision.”

“Jon.” They were coming upon the Institute now, and Martin stopped him one more time. “Can I ask—if you just let go of all this—what would happen?”

“What do you mean? Happen how?”

“To you. What would happen to you? Would you get better? Would you get worse? I know you don’t know, but—what does it feel like?”

Jon considered. “You’re right, I don’t know. But… it also doesn’t matter. I can’t just let go. I need to do what I can to fix it, whatever that might be. Don’t ask me to let it go. Please.”

“All right.” Martin had already assumed the answer would be something like that. “Then we do the interviews.”

“Thank you,” Jon said quietly, as Martin put his arm around him before walking into the building.

***

Martin asked Sasha if they could do the interviews. She seemed surprised, but was agreeable enough, probably because Martin was the one doing the asking—it provided an implicit indication that Jon was feeling well enough to go, and Martin felt a bit like he had lied to her just by asking. Tim was a little more skeptical when Martin asked him for the contact forms. He ignored Martin and addressed Jon directly across the office.

“You know, Martin and I could still go.”

“No,” Jon said. “It’s too—it’s better if I’m there.”

“You sure?” Tim tried again. “Look, I don’t really know what the issue is, but if you’re worried about Martin, don’t be. Frankly, he’s doing much better than you are, and we’ve—”

“That’s not it. I just want to be there myself.”

Now Tim looked back at Martin and raised an eyebrow, and Martin shrugged.

“All right then,” Tim said, and reached for a drawer on his desk. “There’s a couple that will bring you down toward Crawley, if I remember, and a couple more that are spread out up north.”

“Can I look at them?” Jon said. “I’d like to see what they’re regarding.”

“Knock yourself out,” Tim said, handing them to Martin.

There were no names they recognized, and Jon didn’t think any of them looked particularly promising, but Martin was able to get ahold of two of them and set up appointments for that afternoon. The discussions were frustrating for everyone involved. For one thing, Jon hadn’t quite come to terms with the fact that things went very differently when people weren’t compelled to tell their stories, and Martin had to keep reminding him to be patient. For the same reason, it was hard to tell what was what; one of the stories might have been legitimately Corruption-related, but it could have also been a very bad case of health code violations combined with an active imagination.

“How did you know before if they were real or not?” Martin asked, as they were headed back on the train. “Like, in the beginning?”

Jon leaned back in the seat next to him with his eyes closed. “Well, when they were written down, there was the fact that I couldn’t record them except on the—on the tapes.”

“Right.” Martin frowned. “Obviously we’re not doing that again, but maybe we could try recording on our phones or something and seeing if it works?”

Jon gave a slight nod of his head. “Maybe. We don’t know if it will be the same, though. We don’t really know why that was. Maybe it was all Web, from the beginning.”

“True.” Martin turned it over some more. “Well, when you were talking to people directly how did you know?”

“I just did,” Jon sighed. “I didn’t think of it as anything more than a feeling until later.”

“And you couldn’t tell today?”

“No. Not even a hint.” Martin was relieved to hear it, although he opted not to share that with Jon.

They rode in silence for a while. Martin was surprised to see Jon had not fallen asleep when he checked on him.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

Jon opened his eyes and turned to Martin, then to the back of the seat in front of him. Martin prompted him again.

“Jon? What are you thinking?”

“Come to Hill Top Road with me.”

“What?”

“Come to Hill Top Road with me,” Jon repeated.

“Why?”

“I need to know if I can feel anything there.”

“Why there?”

“When we came here—” Jon stopped and thought for a moment. “It’s hard to explain, but it’s where the separation—the barrier between us and them—would be the weakest.”

“Then it sounds like we shouldn’t go there.” Martin turned in his seat, and Jon finally looked at him. “It kind of seems we should actively avoid going there. Like, ever.”

Jon took Martin’s hand in his. “I just need to know. You—you could be right. About the Eye. Maybe it’s not coming back for me. Maybe it’s done with me.”

Martin breathed out slowly, a careful, measured exhalation. “And what if it is done with you?”

“Then…” Jon paused again. “Then I need to accept it.”

“And if it isn’t?”

A little bit of life came back into his voice. “Then it isn’t, and like I’ve been saying, it’s better to know and get on with it.”

Martin wasn’t sure he agreed, but he kept silent.

“Come to Hill Top Road with me,” Jon entreated him again. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Martin exclaimed loudly, and a woman two seats up across the aisle looked back at them. “Oh—sorry. Sorry.”

He waited until she had smiled and turned back to try again, more quietly. “Tomorrow? Really?”

“Yes. In the morning, first thing. Tell Sasha we have therapy.”

“If we go…” Martin sighed. “If we go and you don’t find what you’re looking for, will you—will you try to let it go? I don’t mean everything, we can talk to Tim and Sasha, we can do whatever you want, just—will you try to live without it?”

Jon considered, a troubled look in his eyes.

“I’m not asking for a promise, Jon—I don’t want one. I’m just asking what you’ll do.”

Jon took a deep breath. “I’d like to try. I think I would try.”

“All right.” Jon had won. Martin squeezed his hand, more to reassure himself than anything. “I’ll go with you. Tomorrow morning. I’ll tell them when we get back.”

“Thank you.”

Then next time Martin checked on him, Jon had fallen asleep.

***

Jon’s alarm went off the next morning right around sunrise, before Martin’s usual waking time. Martin was surprised by how much energy he seemed to have; he wanted it to be because he was feeling better, but he suspected Jon was running on fumes and willpower.

“Not going to shower first?” he asked, when Jon stepped out of bed and immediately went to the closet.

“No,” Jon answered. “I’d like to leave as soon as we can.”

“Well, you are going to have breakfast,” Martin grumbled, sitting up and trying to blink away the sleep.

“Martin—”

“That’s not debatable. I couldn’t get you to eat anything last night.” They had ended up taking a cab back from the train station, and Martin had worried for a moment that he was going to have to carry Jon up the stairs. “Use some of that energy to—go pour yourself some cereal or something.”

“Fine.” Jon started to leave the bedroom. “Do you want anything?”

“Nope.” Martin groaned as he started to stand up.

“Well, if I have to, then you should—”

“I ate dinner last night. And part of someone else’s dinner that I didn’t want to go to waste. And it is way too early right now, and—”

“Fine. I get it. I’m going.”

After Martin was dressed, he joined Jon to find him scraping at the bottom of a bowl of cereal.

“How full was that?” he asked, suspicious.

“Overflowing.” Jon regarded him from his seat on the couch.

“Really?”

“No. I don’t know, normal?”

“Look, I’m sorry,” Martin sighed. “I’m still really worried, ok?”

Jon softened his gaze. “No, I’m sorry. I’m—I’m nervous. I just want to get this done.” He put one last spoonful into his mouth, and it made chewing and swallowing look extremely distasteful. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’m going to be,” Martin said. “Let’s go.”

The train ride out was long, and they had to switch to a bus line in Oxford. They barely spoke, but it wasn’t a particularly uncomfortable silence. Part of it was probably the early hour, although Jon seemed more awake and alert than Martin had seen him in days. He was probably anxious about what they would find; Martin was, at least, so it was easy to imagine Jon was feeling the same.

When they arrived, they stood together, side by side, staring at the front door. The house that occupied the property was the same as he had imagined it from when the other archive staff had visited it before the apocalypse. Apparently built as student housing, no one had ever actually moved in. The front porch was covered in cobwebs. Martin broke the silence they had maintained during the walk from the bus station.

“I don’t like this.”

“Me neither,” said Jon.

“Yes, but—I mean I don’t want to go in.”

“I understand. You can wait for me out here.”

“No, that—” Martin looked down at Jon, who continued to stare at the house. “I don’t want us to go in. Either of us.”

They let the silence take over again. It went on long enough that Martin wondered if they could just stay on the front lawn indefinitely, if he didn’t say anything; it seemed like it might be the most reasonable option. Unfortunately, Jon did eventually speak again.

“Martin, I really do understand if you—”

“No. If you’re going in, I’m—I’m going too.”

“I am sorry.” Jon started to step toward the house, but Martin caught him by the arm.

“Wait. Where is—where is Annabelle? Where has she been?”

“What?” Jon asked, turning to look at him.

“I know we haven’t talked about it, and maybe this is a bad time to bring it up—but she came here with us, didn’t she? To this dimension.”

“Presumably, yes.”

“Where would she go, if not—if not here? I mean, even without what you said about it—just look at it. It’s got to be crawling with spiders.”

Jon furrowed his brow before responding. “She could be here. It’s possible.”

Martin’s pulse quickened. “Well then—wouldn’t we want to not be here? Isn’t that a good reason to stay out?”

“I’m not concerned.” Jon shrugged, leaving Martin in disbelief.

“Can I ask why not?”

“It’s just a theory, but—” Jon walked a few paces and sat on the front step. “I think—I think the entities are getting stronger, regaining their power, in the order that the fears evolved and separated from one another. The dates I’ve pieced together from Sasha’s notes, the avatars—”

“What?” Martin was dumbfounded. “What do you mean?”

“Right. When I—after I killed Jonah, there was a, um…”

“A statement?”

“Yes.”

“Of course there was.” Martin shook his head and moved to take a seat next to Jon.

“I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“It’s all right.” It still hurt every time he remembered Jon had gone up to the tower without him, and Jon knew it. “Go on.”

“They were born in our dimension. They grew there, as one being at first. Then, as animals and humanity developed and changed, and their fears became more specific, more distinct, so did the entities themselves. The Hunt, the End, the Dark—they were first.”

“I see.” Martin thought. “And we’ve seen Oliver Banks and now Callum Brodie. What about—”

“I suspect we want to avoid anything having to do with Daisy, if we can.”

Martin’s eyes unintentionally drifted to the scar that still stood out vividly on Jon’s throat before he caught himself. “And where does the Eye fit in?”

“Soon. If I’m right.”

“Ok.” Martin now realized there had been a deeper layer to Jon’s recent desperation. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I honestly thought it wasn’t important. But now—you brought up Annabelle, and—”

“Right. So where does the Web fit into this theory?”

Jon considered. “If I’m right—if I’m right—we have time. If she is here, she’s likely much weaker than I am. She would have more to fear from us than the other way around.”

Martin sighed. “Any chance we can just burn the place?”

“Tempting.” Jon grinned just enough for Martin to see it. “In the long run, though—”

“Yeah, yeah—it would probably just make things worse.”

“Shall we?” Jon asked, starting to rise to his feet.

“If you have to.”

“I do.”

The front door gave way at a light touch; the knob and deadbolt were completely useless. It seemed like the sort of place that had been broken into so many times that the owners had simply stopped replacing them. The inside of the house was at least as covered with webs and dust as the front porch.

“Well,” Martin said, “I hate this.”

“I don’t love it.” Jon reflexively reached for Martin’s hand. “Come on.”

They walked further into the depths of the house, which was quite large. There were multiple small rooms, which made sense for student housing, and a larger sitting room; it looked like there was a kitchen in the very back. He was so busy looking up to make sure he didn’t accidentally walk into anything, that he jumped about a foot when Jon stomped his heel against the floor.

“Jon, why would you—”

“Spider,” Jon said.

“Oh. Carry on, then.”

“Remember when you used to get upset with me for—”

“Don’t.”

Jon squeezed his hand, and Martin had the odd feeling that he was somehow more comfortable now than he had been for a while. They looked around them from what appeared to be roughly the middle of the floorplan.

“Should we go upstairs, or—”

“Look,” Jon cut him off, and pointed to the floor. Beneath the dirt and footprints of previous trespassers, Martin could see an unmistakable pattern in the wood stain that ran across multiple boards, beyond the edge of the room they were currently in. It gave the appearance of a long, dark, jagged crack. He may not have noticed it if he hadn’t been looking for it, but he couldn’t see anything else now.

“Do you think that’s—where it is?” Martin asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Jon started to pull Martin toward it, but Martin stayed where he was.

“Do you really have to stand right on it?”

“Just give me a moment.” Jon slipped his hand out of Martin’s before he had a chance to protest. Martin held his breath and gave him five seconds, then ten seconds.

“Anything?”

“Wait.”

Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds. He was counting each of them.

“Jon—”

“Wait. Please.” Jon was growing tenser, more anxious.

A minute.

“Jon, I don’t—”

“I told you to wait.” Jon snapped at him this time.

The momentary sting was quickly replaced by concern; that just wasn’t like Jon. He bit his lip, unsure what to do. If he insisted on interrupting him, tried to convince him to leave, Jon might not feel like he really gave it enough of a chance—or worse, he might blame Martin for the failed attempt to find whatever power he was seeking. He’d be too kind to say anything, of course, but they would both know.

He decided to continue waiting, as long as he could make himself. He pressed his hand to his mouth as a reminder. The house was so quiet; it occurred to him he should have been able to hear sounds from outside, but something about the place seemed to be swallowing them up before they could reach them.

In the stunted silence, Martin had the sudden feeling they were not alone.

Before he could make up his mind to disrupt him again, Jon spoke.

“There’s nothing,” he said meekly.

“What?” Martin asked.

“There’s nothing,” Jon said again. “I don’t feel anything. I really thought—” He cut himself off, his expression a mix of loss and confusion and sadness, and Martin was filled with a deep, distressing pity for him.

“Hey,” he said, crossing to Jon, forgetting his trepidation toward the mark on the floor. It seemed meaningless now, nothing more than an ugly accident at the lumber factory. He pulled Jon into his arms. “It’s going to be all right. We’ll figure it out.”

Jon didn’t answer, but he allowed Martin to hold him, eventually letting the weight of his head fall against Martin’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Martin said quietly.

“Are you?”

“Yes,” Martin answered. “Part of me is relieved, I’ll admit, but I don’t want you to be miserable, Jon. Honestly, I don’t. We’ll do whatever we need to do to help make this better, ok?”

Jon fell silent again, and in that silence Martin remembered the feeling he’d had just before Jon had spoken.

“Jon—can we get out of here? Sit outside? We can talk there. On the porch, even. I just have this feeling like—like we’re being watched.”

“What?” Jon pulled away enough to look up at his face.

“Not like—watched, I don’t think that even feels like anything. I just mean—like, regular being watched. If that’s a thing.”

Jon concentrated for a moment, but quickly gave up. “All right. We can go.”

Martin felt a second wave of relief wash over him. It’s over, he thought to himself, at least for the time being. He released Jon from his grasp, turning him gently toward the door—the faster they could get outside, back to the fresh air, the better for both of them.

A few steps, though, and Jon stumbled. Martin, instinctively reaching to support him, assumed at first that he had stepped wrong or tripped over something—but that wasn’t right. Jon was heavy in his arms, and Martin nearly fell himself trying to stop Jon from hitting the ground.

Ok. Martin collected his thoughts as quickly as possible as he gently set Jon down. He’s fainted. That wasn’t great, but it wasn’t entirely unexpected, given how he had been feeling and his inability to eat. I just need to give him a minute and he’ll come around.

That wasn’t right either, though, Martin quickly realized, because Jon had stopped breathing.

Shit, shit, shit. He had taken a CPR class many years ago, but he hadn’t thought about it in almost as long. What were the steps? He knew Jon wasn’t choking, and he remembered something about checking for a pulse, although he didn’t remember if you were supposed to do that right away or—

Do something.

He reached for Jon’s neck, pressing two fingers against his carotid artery. He waited.

I’m doing it wrong.

He readjusted. Still nothing.

“Shit.” Panic started to well up inside him again. Breaths? Chest compressions?

Call for help.

He pulled out his phone and started to dial, but quickly realized he had no reception. He held it up, moving it around, even standing again to see if he could get a signal, but no matter where he moved he couldn’t get a single bar of service. He thought about going outside to try there, but couldn’t stand the thought of leaving Jon alone in this place.

Chest compressions.

He knelt next to Jon, placing one hand on top of the other the way he thought he remembered. He pressed the heel of his palm against Jon’s sternum, just inches away from the scar he had put there only months ago.

Don’t.

The scar where he had driven a knife through muscle and maybe bone—he didn’t think it was supposed to be so easy to do that, but the cracking sound—

Don’t, not now.

—the cracking sound and then suddenly it had been so much easier, the knife went in and there was that single gasp of pain, and then he’d pulled the knife out because he couldn’t stand to leave it in, but all the blood came with it—

I killed him.

Jon was dying. The tape unspooled; the tower crumbled around them, and Martin held on. Jon lay dead in his arms as the world disappeared around them, and he held on. He held on for so long.

God, it hurts.

“Martin—”

I’m so sorry.

“Martin, let go.”

Martin opened his eyes and tried to remember where he was. His pulse was racing.

“Martin.”

He was sitting on the floor with Jon—Jon needed him to let go. He did, and Jon immediately took a deep breath. Martin still couldn’t quite remember where they were.

“You were dead.”

“No,” Jon answered, still breathing hard. “No, I just blacked out. I think I’m ok.”

“No. I killed you. There was—there was the knife—where did it—”

Jon, understanding, reached for Martin’s face. “Look at me. We’re at Hill Top Road. We came here together.”

“What?” Martin tried to remember, and eventually the details of their current situation came back to him. He looked around at the house. Jon was so pale. “Oh god. Jon, are you all right?”

“I think so. I think I just blacked out.”

“You weren’t breathing. I swear you weren’t breathing, and I couldn’t find a pulse—”

“Are you sure? Or were you…”

“I—I think so?” Although now that he thought about it, Martin realized he couldn’t be completely sure. “Maybe?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m—I’m ok now. I’m breathing.”

Martin looked around again. He hated this place. “Let’s leave. Please. Right now.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

It was harder to help Jon to his feet than either of them expected. His energy from earlier in the day had vanished almost entirely, and he leaned hard against Martin as they walked toward the door. The porch, which had previously seemed as dreadful as the house, now felt like a sanctuary as the sun streamed onto it through the support columns. It was almost unbelievable that nothing stopped them from reaching it, and Martin collapsed onto the wooden deck as soon as they did.

He made sure Jon had a relatively comfortable spot to lie, and then dragged himself to the steps, pulling his knees into his chest and blocking the light from his eyes with one arm. He stayed like that until he’d relaxed enough to reach into his pocket for his phone again. He had a little reception out here, at least. He scrolled through his contacts until he’d pulled up Sasha’s number.

“Hi Martin,” she answered cheerily. “Everything going all right?”

“Sasha, hey,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Listen, I’m sorry to do this—”

“Martin, I can barely hear you. Is everything all right?”

“Yeah—it is. Mostly.” He was too miserable to think up an actual lie. “Jon’s not feeling well today. I think—I think we’ll need the whole day off.”

“Did you say—is Jon ok?”

“He’s—” He looked at Jon where he lay in a patch of sunlight, eyes closed, taking shallow breaths. “He’s—I don’t know. He’s not great.”

“I’m—I’m sorry to hear that. Do you need anything?”

“No. We’ll manage.” He wasn’t sure that was true, but he had no idea what kind of help he could even ask for.

“You’re breaking up, but—please keep me updated? I’ll check in later.”

“All right.”

Martin ended the call.

[chibimyumi]

Since there have been so many contributions to the list of BOAs flaws,*deep breath* it was so disappointing that they didn't include Sebastians line about forgetting to spare one of the assassins in the manor. It just portrays his indifference to humanity and just natural cruelness so well- and it would take like 30 extra seconds of screen time!

【Referred post】

Dear Anon, yes, I ranked the trimming of Sebas’ cinematic record as the personal number one sin in the original post, but indeed, that specific part was arguably the worst choice to omit.

Cutting that scene does more than taking away the portrayal of Sebas’ indifference and cruelty. This moment is literally less than one page, but it tells us quite a lot about Sebas’ past.

Sebastian’s Past Contracts

We know that this ⇈ happened before Sebas was trained, so everything we saw in the flashbacks was what was Sebastian’s ‘normal’ before this contract; being a mass destruction weapon.

If we think about it, it makes perfect sense, as most if not all his masters of the past must have summoned him as a mass destruction weapon. What do people usually want to buy with their soul? Regardless of the details of the contract, the objective probably mostly boiled down to grandiose power.

Sure, some might contract a demon for him to generate limitless wealth, but is that really worth selling one’s soul for? In the end, most past masters probably desired some kind of destruction for the sake of gaining/retaining power and wealth. Destroying enemies to stabilise power, annihilating other countries for political dominion… etc.

Judging from Sebas’ reaction in chapter 63 ⇈, he was reminded of something that had genuinely slipped his mind. This was our first indication that he simply acted out of habit. This is a perfect continuation of what we see in chapter 138 ⇊, where Sebas was already marching off into massacre even before all three contract terms were sealed.

This was not just his impatient nature talking; this was him going on auto-pilot-mode for his ‘job’. Everyone who has done something for an extended period of time must be very aware of this auto-pilot kicking in.

Denied Opportunities

Most humans distrust demons and would therefore keep them at a distance, physical and emotional. There is simply no need to keep demons close; why earn a demon’s trust or get them to like you, if an order to send them off to their mission is all that is necessary?

These two panels below ⇊ are likewise further evidence of Sebas being but a weapon to his past masters.

Sebas already had superb control of the finest motor skills from the beginning, as evidenced by him effortlessly extracting the ring from R!Ciel’s body. Therefore we can assume that he did have the skills to bathe a human properly, just not the knowledge to apply to the skills.

Sebas only knew how to destroy things, and there is no upper limit to power that had to be applied. But ‘not’ destroying things is quite different. If no past human ever let Sebas near enough to teach him about how to ‘not’ destroy a human body, how would he possibly have guessed? And indeed, he had no clue!

Current Contract and Bond

The current contract with O!Ciel is likely the first one wherein Sebas is treated as a being with a mind and feelings of his own. It could very well be that the boy is the first human who consciously let the demon close, and is actually interested in Sebas as a ‘person’.

I don’t think Sebas really cares that for most of his contracts, ‘cattle’ have “““dehumanised””” (for lack of better word) him. But it might nevertheless be quite refreshing and nice to finally have a master who actually communicates with him.

It is not for nothing that Sebas is so exceptionally thrilled about O!Ciel’s soul. The boy’s soul was probably very delicious because of his character to begin with. But because O!Ciel has opened up to Sebas (more than his past masters ever did, anyway), Sebas also has more opportunity to really manipulate the boy’s soul, customising it to his own taste.

As I discussed in the post ‘That Demon, Skin Crawling’, Sebas was excited to the point of almost crying. He was probably both laughing and crying at this exhilaration, as well as the irony of his prey having ‘opened up’ to his predator. How rare is that?

Sebas is still morally pitch and pitch black, but I can’t help but feel a bit of melancholy for him that he was nothing but a mindless tool in most of his jobs. I also feel a weird sense of happiness that he is finally treated as a sentient “person”, and has therefore more chance at getting his autonomy respected.

Regardless of how I feel for Sebas, I definitely think Yana managed to show us a great deal about who Sebas used to be with merely a few panels. I respect her for that!

[lurafita]

SIM Tony / Peter, Part 4

Read part 1 here

Read part 2 here

Read part 3 here

I hadn’t planned on updating this so soon after the last part, but I got inspired.

Alright people, things are going to start getting real from here on out. Tony’s new ‘Superior’ mode makes an entrance. I don’t know exactly how many parts I’m gonna do for this before I find a point at which I can call it finished, but just know that from here on out, the plot is gonna spice up.

From here on out, Tony will be Superior Iron Man, and while I will probably deviate in his characterization from most other stories that feature SIM Tony (mostly in the way he treats Peter), he will get dark. He will be manipulative, possessive and ruthless. Violent (never to Peter though, I can’t write physically abusive relationships and don’t want to), dominant and dismissive to other people (aside from Peter, because as you must know by now, I just can’t be too mean to Peter).

Tony Stark had had his insecurities over the years, but he had never realized just how truly lacking he had been before.

Before his transformation, before his new suit, before his new.... him. Everything was so much better now. So much stronger. So much more.

It was as if he had awoken from a life long sleep. Truly alive for the first time ever. And it felt glorious. He wondered if it was the same for Peter, after the spider bite had changed his DNA. This feeling of rightness.

He was reborn.

He was...

Superior.

He admired his reflection in the floor to ceiling windows of his laboratory. His hair, that had been peppered with grey spots before, was a rich black now. While he had always been fit, his physique had changed slightly as well, making him stronger, broader. No more wrinkles on his handsome face. Extremis had knocked off what felt like a good twenty years from his body. He was in the prime of his life.

Another thing that was new was his eye color. Instead of the previous dark brown, his eyes now bore a cold but fierce blue. It wasn’t like he minded the change, but he had always been a bit partial to his brown eyes. They had reminded him of his mother. Though to be honest, hers had been a little lighter than his. More of a honey brown, than his previous dark coffee tone. It didn’t matter though. The icy blue was very becoming, and there was someone else whose honey brown eyes he would be able to stare into very soon.

A low groan had his gaze drift to the ground some feet behind him, where Curt Conner and Otto Octavious were currently lying in their containment cells.

Breaking the two former scientists out of the Raft had been easy, but taken a lot longer than Tony had liked. Timing had been crucial, and so the planning had been meticulous and followed down to the very second.

Acquiring Venom had been just slightly more tricky, but nothing was impossible for a man like Tony Stark. (Even his previous, inferior, self.)

Then the experimentation had started. Each of the villains had unique strengths and abilities, that the billionaire wanted for himself. The perfect melding of two species and regenerative factor from Conners, though preferably without the monster make-over. The harmonic symbiosis of the human body and machine from Octavious, though Tony had no desire for the frankly gaudy looking appendages. And the fluidity and shapeability of Venom’s armor and other perks, but without the alien taking over the genius’ mind.

Two days of panning for the acquisition of the three villains, followed by four days of experimentation on his subjects to find out how it all worked. Tony could only smirk derisively when remembering how much his previous self had loathed the process. Tony had never been as much of a believer in second chances as Peter was, but he had been against human experimentation and torture. In the beginning, Tony had tried to keep any pain to an absolute minimum, had tried to be as respectful to whatever remained of his subjects humanity as possible, even though he would never forgive them for the torment they had inflicted upon his love.

But when things had reached the finish line, as he had extracted and recreated what he needed from them, as Extremis had absorbed and subjugated Venom and combined everything together to mold it all to Tony’s body, he had known that his previous reservations had been needless. These creatures didn’t deserve any consideration or mercy from him. Whatever pain had been inflicted on them had been warranted. So what if extracting the genetic code to their mutations had fried their pathetic little minds? It was nothing that Tony Stark should need to concern himself with.

Foolish sentimentality and redundant human morals might be cute for Peter, but they should never limit him.

Speaking of Peter, it was time that the new and improved Tony went to fetch his sweetheart. Six days, though unfortunately necessary, had been far too long to be separated from his love.

“Jarvis, take two suits and transport the garbage to the warehouse I have prepared. Then send an anonymous tip to Shield, so that they can collect them.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The monotone, taciturn answer of his A.I. brought another grin to Tony’s face. Jarvis attempts to caution and dissuade him from his plans to improve himself had not sat well with him. After all, the A.I. was just that, an artificial intelligence programmed by him (well, his former and weaker self), to assist and serve him. He had appreciated neither the sarcasm, nor the way that Jarvis tried to lecture him about the possible dangers his transformation might bring.

It was yet another piece of evidence that showed how fucking weak he had been before. The old Tony had programmed his A.I. specifically to back talk and supervise him, to make sure he wouldn’t cross a line he couldn’t un-cross. To keep himself humble.

Pathetic.

The only kind of sassy mannerisms he would tolerate in his life came from a certain spidery hero.

As the two suits now carrying the all but brain dead men inside them flew away from the tower, Tony let his Endo-Sym armor encase his body. He watched with smug satisfaction as the silver cells flowed like water over his form and solidified into a nearly unbreakable shell. No verbal or manual commands required. The armor was a part of him now, reacting to his will alone.

“Find my sweetheart, Jarvis.”

Six days since they had last spoken, and Peter had left the tower in tears. But Tony would rectify it all now. He was better now.

The window in front of him opened and he lifted off the floor, his new suit capable of storing and using electric and psionic energy for flight easily.

A miniature map of the city appeared on the transparent shield in front of his eyes (why deprive the people of his handsome face with a helmet, after all. Also, the silver armor complimented his blue eyes marvelously). A little dot blinked rapidly right at the docks.

“Camera footage and public reports indicate that Spiderman is currently engaged in a fight with the Green Goblin at this location, Sir.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t expected to be dealing with the Goblin this soon, but he was not about to let Harry fucking Osborn hurt his love any more. Feeding more power into his thrusters, he sped to the harbor.

-

Peter hadn’t managed to dodge the last bomb his former best friend had thrown completely, and was knocked out of the sky from the explosion. The noise and flash of it was hell on his enhanced senses, disorienting him as he fell to the ground, unable to catch himself with his webs.

The hard impact punched the breath out of him, and he felt his ribs crack.

Possibly broken, but he couldn’t worry about that right now, he needed all his concentration to be fixed on Harry if he wanted to win this.

Ignore the pain.

Danger!

He propped himself up and off just in time to avoid the knife aimed at his jugular, but not quick enough to escape it all together, as the blade sliced a small gash along his arm.

Since when does Harry use throwing knifes?!

“What’s the matter, Spiderman? A little on the slow side today?” Harry cackled above him, spinning around on his glider and readying himself for his next attack.

Harry was right, though. Their fight had dragged on too long already, with Peter having to lure his nemesis out to the docks to avoid civilian causalities. As the adrenaline that had kept him on his toes at first was ebbing away, the exhaustion of the last few days started catching up to the young hero anew. Even with the help of his spider-sense, Peter’s movements were starting to get sluggish.

Ignore it.

The number of hits he had taken was rising at a rapid count.

Ignore it.

The constant explosions from Harry’s bombs was playing havoc on his senses.

Ignore it.

“No funny little quips today, Spiderman? No ‘You don’t want to do this, Harry.’?”

His breaths came in harsh pants, he had no air to spare for words.

Danger!

A jump to the right saved him from the full force of another small bomb, but brought him closer to the water, and away from any buildings to climb or attach his webs to.

If there even was any left in his shooters.

Ignore it.

Harry’s mutated, twisted face grinned down at him. “Tired already, Pete? But we are just getting started!”

Danger! Danger! Danger!

This time it wasn’t just one, but five of the miniature bombs that the Goblin threw down at him. Peter let instincts and spidey-sense take control as his body weaved through the explosions. But it was too much.

There were too many. Too close.

He was too hurt. Too exhausted.

Ignore it!

He couldn’t.

DangerDangerDANGER!

Too slow.

The bomb detonated right at his feet, throwing him back through the air, weightless for an endless second, before he was swallowed up by the cold embrace of the ocean’s water.

Move. Move, dammit! Swim up! You still have a job to do! Fucking fight!

He tried. But his limbs felt cold and numb, and the water kept dragging him down.

I’m sorry.

Just as the darkness was starting to creep in around the edges, he heard some kind of big splash. He tried turning to the sound, but moving hurt. Everything hurt.

So this is it, then.

Just as they had constantly during the last six days, Peter’s thoughts turned to the man he loved.

I’m so sorry, Tony.

The last thing he saw before unconsciousness set in, was a pair of ice blue eyes.

_____________________________________________________________

Hui.

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frenchfrostpudding

  alanaaw88

[justcallmenikki7]

BTS Reaction To: You Standing Up For Yourself (Mafia!Au)

Summary: you don’t put up with shit from people who disrespect you.

Warnings: language, sexist discriminatory comments, asshole people, a funny Taehyung, NCT, and proud boyfriends.

Notes: I needed to get something posted because I’ve been lacking really badly. School, track, my job, and finals coming up next week is overtaking my life so I have had barely any time to actually sit down and write and update, so I just got only Jin’s, Namjoon’s and Yoongi’s part up. Once schools out I’ll be updating more.

Request: Anon said - bts mafia reaction to their s/o having a strong personality and knowing how to protect themselves.

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

You’re dating the most powerful Mafia boss in Asia, half of Europe and a small part of the United States. Everyone respected you because you’re smart, intelligent, and are able to take care of yourself. You’re known to be passionate and will defend for what you believe in.

But sometimes, you do have people who are rude and cruel to you, but that does not stop you.

Jin, Yoongi, and Namjoon

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

Jin:

You were sat with your boyfriend, Kim Seokjin, at his desk going over a blueprint of a building that one of your rivals are stationed in. You both were going over strategies on how to attack, where to place certain members, who will come in on each side, and where every camera is.

The sound of Jin’s office door opening was what had the both of you looking up from the blueprint. Taehyung and Hoseok entered with two slightly new members of Jin’s gang. The men bowed to both you and Jin, except one in particular.

This caught Jin’s attention right away.

His friend next to him nudged him, giving a confused expression along with a slightly panicked one, mouthing ‘dude.’

“What?” His friend answered rudely, “I’m not going to bow down to a woman, she doesn’t deserve my respect.”

The comment struck a cord within you that you never knew that you had. Standing up abruptly, you pulled out your gun, cocking it before pointing it right at his feet. Firing right in front of his foot, the scared yelp sent a wave of satisfaction through you. Moving around the desk, you slowly made your way to the man, giving both Taehyung and Hoseok a nod, telling them that you got it. The two moved back a few feet along with the other, but staying near just in case the man decided to do anything.

You twirled the gun around your finger, a crazed smile on your lips. “So, just because I’m a woman, you cannot bow down to me?” You asked, pouting slightly.

He straightened up, trying to put on a cool facade, “Yes, this is a job only for men, not women. You females will only get in the way because you’re just weak Little damsels in distresses.” He sneered at you.

Your eye twitched.

Before he could even blink, you lifted your foot, kicking him where the sun doesn’t shine. While he was bent over, you grabbed his face and lifted your knee before bringing his face to your knee, earning a cry of pain from him. As you were going to do more, you felt the familiar touch of your boyfriend.

Looking up, you were met with his loving gaze that held anger but you knew it wasn’t at you - it was for the man. “Love, please calm down.” Your boyfriend said in the soothing voice he only gave to you. “Don’t let him win by getting to you.”

“He deserves to die! He deserves-“

“-I know, and he does. But right now we stay in the right mind to finish going over the plan for tomorrow’s invasion. We cannot be distracted and mess up on this. After we are done, you can go down to the cells where he’ll be and give him everything that he deserves. As of now, you need to be in the right state of mind to hack into the system and give Jimin the cue.” Jin explained softly, calming you down by caressing your cheek and running his fingers through your hair.

Nodding your head, you allowed Jin to take the gun out of your hand. You were only focused on him, not paying attention to anything else around you. Usually you were the one calming down your boyfriend, but sometimes you have your moments.

Yoongi:

You were introverted like your boyfriend. Always keeping to yourself, quiet, and lazy also. You guess that’s why you both fit so well together. Although you were a lot nicer than him, you still had your moments where you could be mean if you wanted too - that was rare though since you hated confrontation and being mean.

But sometimes, you had to take on those confrontations.

You were with your boyfriend and a few of his close members (Namjoon, Jungkook, and Jimin) at a shipment. You usually don’t go to these things because you hate coming face to face with nasty people. Plus, you’d rather stay in bed watching Law&Order while eating takeout. But this time your boyfriend wanted you to come with him for some ‘moral support’ in his words.

Standing next to him, you listened to your boyfriend and the man who is exchanging whatever it is that his exchanging talk. You looked around, trying to pick out anything that was odd or unusual that Jungkook and Jimin aren’t seeing. As your eyes wandered back to the man who was talking to your boyfriend, you didn’t miss the man behind him glaring at you. Furrowing your eyebrows in confusion, you have him a confused look back.

“Yo, Yoongi, who’s she?” He called out to your boyfriend, interrupting his and the mans conversation.

“I’m Y/N,” you waved awkwardly, “Yoongis girlfriend.” For some reason this made the guy laugh.

You saw your boyfriends jaw tick, indicating that he’s pissed at the disrespect that you’re getting. “And why is that funny?” Your boyfriend question, coming up and standing in front of you to shield you from the still laughing guy.

“Because it’s funny how the most sadistic Mafia leader is dating a goody to shoes like her. I’m sorry man, but you deserve a woman and not a girl. She’ll just hold you back by her whining, annoying, weak, unqualified-“

Before he could finish, he was met with your fist. No one, not even your boyfriend, saw you move from how fast you were. Right now, all you could see is read. You couldn’t control the rage that you felt as you punched, kicked, and slapped the guy who degraded you.

“Weak?” You chuckled angrily, “look at you. You’re nothing but scum who can’t even defend their self against a ‘girl.’” You growled, punching him again, getting satisfaction from the blood that spewing from his mouth and nose. As you were pulling your arm back to land another punch on his face, you felt a hand wrap around your fist, causing you to look back to be met with your boyfriend.

His face automatically made you relax, a small smirk appearing at his face from feeling your tense body now relax all because of him. The pissed off look that was on his face was still present, but the soft, comforting look in his eyes was only evident to you. Your breathing was heavy and you had no doubt that you look like a crazed woman from your hair being all over the place and the sweat on your forehead.

“Kitten, take a deep breath.” Your boyfriend instructed sternly. Doing as he said, you breathed in deep before releasing the air, feeling slightly better. “Good girl.” He praised, making you smile in glee from his small praise. “Now, I know what he said pissed you off, but I need you to calm down so you don’t kill the man.” You were going to protest before Yoongi cut you off. “You’ll be able to finish where you left off once he gets back to consciousness.” Your boyfriend smirked, silently telling you that you could take him to the dungeons and use the special tools that he has that are made for torture.

“Wait, consciousness?” You asked confusedly before turning around to find an unconscious, beaten to the pulp man laying on the ground with blood spewing from their mouth and nose. “Oh... oops?”

The laugh that came from your boyfriend had you blushing, “That’s my girl.”

Namjoon:

You and your boyfriend, Kim Namjoon, are nerds. You both have the passion for reading, discovering new theories on why the world came to be, and anything that has to deal with school. Now, that may sound weird because why would a human being love school? Both of your answers would be, to learn new things. To know why something is the way that it is. To know why you have to go through all of these obstacles to get from A to B.

It’s nerdy, and that’s how you and Namjoon clicked.

Your close friends always make fun of you and Namjoon by calling you ‘nerds’ or ‘Einstein 1 and 2’. You both love it.

But not everyone thinks the same thing. You see, Namjoon is one of the smartest and intelligent Mafia leaders. You, being his girlfriend, get a lot of hate and discrimination because of a lot of the other mafia leaders think that this job is only made for guys and women do not know how to run a gang.

Of course, you laugh at this because you know for a fact that you’re smarter than them. Especially by being one of the 12 people to score perfectly on the CSAT (College Scholastic Ability Test). Plus, you’re skilled with being able to take someone out physically if needed to be. You’re confident in yourself, you don’t allow people to push you over the edge or get under your skin, but you also have your breaking points like every human does.

Today would be an example.

You were at a meeting with your boyfriend and his gang that involved teaming up with an ally, NCT, to take down a gang that is causing chaos for both your boyfriends gang and NCT’s gang.

You sat quietly beside your boyfriend, allowing him to discus matters with the gang leader, Taeyong. You were fond of him and his gang because they were pleasant to be around and they also like peace and not war. Plus, they reminded you slightly of your boyfriends gang. You talked with Yuta and he mentioned that they just got a new member, Do-Hun. You could point him out by how loud and cocky he was, something that the members of NCT that you knew were not.

Your boyfriend and Taeyong called break, thankfully, making you sigh in relief since you needed to pee. As you made your way to the bathroom, you ran into Do-Hun.

“Excuse me,” you politely said, stepping aside so he could pass by.

“Are you Namjoons bitch?” Do-Hun asked, taking you aback by the vulgar name he referred you to as.

“Pardon?” You asked surprised.

“Are you Namjoons bitch? Because he doesn’t deserve you, you’ll just hold him back from his ability of being as powerful as he could ever be. You women are nothing but people us men come home to to find the house clean, food on the table, and for the bed to be warm at night and to protect since you can’t defend theirselves. Women are not supposed to be the leaders, you’re the followers.”

At that, you punched him in the mouth. Before he could retaliate, you kicked behind his knee to get him to the ground and then brought his face to your knee. The loud groan he gave had your boyfriend and his gang, with their guns drawn, and Taeyongs gang and their guns drawn too, into the hall where you and Do-Hun were. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, you pulled it back to where he was staring up at you.

“Y/N-“

You turned to look at Namjoon, putting up your hand as a way of saying ‘I got this’. Looking back at the excuse of a man, you smirked. “Who’s above you now?” You questioned innocently, “me. You see, men like you don’t deserve to live, or even be apart of a gang that’s as great as they are. You only bring them back by being disrespectful, pieces of sexist cocky shit, who think they’re better than everyone. You’re weak, you let a woman kick your sorry weak ass. We can’t protect ourselves? I could kill you right now with ease, but you know what? That would be a waste of my time and I don’t like wasting my time on pieces of shit as you.” You pouted before punching him in the jaw where it knocks him out.

Standing up, you straightened out your clothes before turning around to be met with your proud boyfriend and a shock Taeyong.

“See,” Taehyung stated, “this is why noona is awesome.”

[theharellan]

Guess who read The Dread Wolf Take You!

The Assassin’s Tale:

Three agents. First elf is Dalish, second a city elf, third an ancient elf, which is a good demonstration of the diversity of elven experience among the ranks. I’ll be making another post about Solas’ resources and reach later, likely after I’ve finished reading the other stories, as I know I have comments about some of the other stories where agents are involved.

The Dalish elf says he wants to awaken his gods with the idol, indicating that there’s either differing motives for joining Fen’Harel or he was lying, believing that it would allow him to get what he wants sooner. Both are honestly believable possibilities.

Solas (and his agents, whose ranks also likely include other Dreamers) can kill people in their sleep, even dwarves. This isn’t new information, we’ve known it since Feynriel in DA2, although I am surprised dwarves aren’t immune. I wonder if it would work on Surface dwarves and not Orzammar’s, as magic resistance is explicitly lessened when dwarves leave Orzammar. I imagine it would at least be harder. Based on the Bard’s comments I think in this particular instance and the importance of securing the idol, Solas himself was involved in the assassinations of the sleepers.

Dreams also seem to be places people get instructions/orders, which would confirm a headcanon of mine. 

The Mortalitasi’s Tale:

The red lyrium idol is elven, depicting either “two lovers” or “a god mourning her sacrifice.” I should note again that if Mythal/Solas is ever confirmed as romantic I will be going canon divergent on that, but for now it’s still unclear.

The Tevinter mage uses blood sacrifice to get the idol to do its thing, using slaves. Whatever ritual they were doing was interfering with whatever Solas had been doing at the time.

His behaviour in this story reminds me of something he says to the Inquisitor at the start of the game, the first conversation in Haven: “Posturing is necessary.” I’ve long held the headcanon that a lot of Solas’ weight after he became Fen’Harel was a result of deliberately making himself seem scary, what we get in this is a glimpse of the intimidation tactics I think he’s used since Arlathan.

The Mortalitasi thinks he must have bound spirits/demons to accomplish his attack, but this seems unlikely. Solas has his hypocrisies, but Cole notes in Trespasser “he knows how to speak so spirits listen” re: the sanctuary guardians, and it seems more likely the spirits are aiding him freely.

Again, the binding of spirits continues to play a role in Solas’ anger and frustration in the world-- his problems cannot be addressed just by improving the lots of physical elves.

The Bard’s Tale:

I’m rather doubtful of how much of this is true, I do believe he went to Llomerryn and retrieved the idol and that he now has it. Other than that the story is mostly a lot of name drops or references, with everyone from the Warden to Divine Victoria to Xenon to Tallis being referenced.

He describes Solas as touching the idol reverently, clearly it has personal meaning, although given his reaction to the focus breaking it’s probably nice to not find it’s cracked after some human put their hands on it.

I also believe the Ben-Hassrath didn’t listen to his warning at the end of Trespasser, although tbf the vidassala wasn’t in a position to pass the message on.

Addition: Lisa reminded me that the Bard described the idol, and likely has the most accurate interpretation -- “crowned figure who comforted the other” -- again, like the end of Inquisition. This isn’t the first time Solas has had a sad in Mythal’s arms. Why he needed comforting in the scene depicted here is unclear. It could be anything from Mythal’s impending death, to the Veil, to depicting Solas’ feelings after he took physical form at Mythal’s behest.

General Notes:

More wisps being used for really casual things that really could be done by hand, or potentially even just magic by hand, rather than ordering something else to do it for you. From the description of the Mortalitasi putting it away it seems its in the spoon permanently.

First, some notes about The Bard, headcanons included --     ◦ As others have pointed out, Gauche, the name the party is booked under and his alias, means “awkward,” but it also means “left.” It’s a fitting name both because like “Solas” it’s a feeling/state of being, but also the Anchor was on the left hand (and therefore it’s the hand he removes in Trespasser).    ◦ Opal inlays, which were apparently in fashion a few years back according to Vivienne banter.    ◦ Resembles a dragon, again leaning on Mythal imagery.   ◦  My headcanon that Solas knows Orlesian came true (although I also hc it as being limited in DA:I, I think he would have improved it since then).   ◦ His manner and accent were coached by agents, specifically I like to think Adélaïde (found on @ourdawncomes) played a role in that, among others. Miraen (Joly’s OC, found on @ancientimpudence) likely helped with the outfit.

The little tells Charter picks up on kills me, like her noting that his hair toss is clumsy and the lack of tan lines indicating he doesn’t typically wear rings. I guess when you’ve been bald a while you forget how hair works, which as sb who has had a pixie cut for a few years... yeah, it tracks.

He can freeze people without turning them to stone, and can also freeze golems.

Solas literally can’t pretend to like tea so he just doesn’t drink it. Like I think he’s physically incapable of not making The Face.

The second he drops the act he sounds more like as we know him, Charter immediately noting he sounds “tired.” His voice falters, he smiles sadly, and smiles again when Charter points out that he’s hardly one to talk about the Executors being dangerous. Speaking of, he doesn’t like the Executors, and frankly they do seem pretty odd.

What he says to Charter after she asks for her life -- Ar lasa mala -- features in the phrase “ar lasa mala revas” or “you are free/I give you your freedom.” Since “revas” Means freedom, my guess is this just means what he says in Common, “I grant it to you.”

The second thing he does after allowing Charter her life is freeing the spirit/wisp in the stirring stick, a detail for which I owe Mx. Weekes my life.

Charter does more than just see through Solas’ disguise, but the line “perhaps we are not the only ones you lied to” is probably one of the best assessments of Solas’ character in the series. It also indicates that Solas’ motivations for approaching in Trespasser were, in part, a lie-- or rather, I think, not the whole truth. Lines about how he hopes to be proven wrong and his appearance here it reinforces that he has self-sabotaging tendencies for this plan, like he wants to be stopped but won’t, possibly can’t stop, which brings me back to Regret: There might have been a better choice-- a thought it had not been allowed.

His plans may not be as destructive as first assumed, it’s noted Tevinter will likely take the brunt of it, but also he notes “the elves who still remain” may find it better when his work is done. I headcanoned ages ago that Solas doesn’t lie to those he allies with about the consequences of his actions, aka the destruction it’ll cause. He’s honest with the Inquisition and telling them the truth, allowing them to know the truth while lying to those he’s working with would be inviting unnecessary betrayal. Solas saying this to Charter is further evidence that the modern elves working with Solas are well-aware of what’s happening and as a whole not being lied to, although I also wouldn’t be surprised if some joined up with different ideas, as the Dalish elf at the start may have.

That Solas’ next move was the lyrium idol (which is also his? Or Mythal’s) indicates that if there are other foci out there, they can’t be wielded by him. This makes sense given his could explicitly only be wielded by him without killing him, so I imagine if there are others out there they’re specific to that evanuris/whatever mage created them.

That he regrets involving and revealing himself in Trespasser is pretty funny considering Solas showed up here in-person for like. Really minor, personal reasons. Again. Then revealed more of his plans. Again. Did I mention the self-sabotage?

It looks like this Solas was neutral-to-high approval, almost definitely not romanced. “Tell them I’m sorry” is a pretty general message, so for the purposes of roleplay he would say different things to everyone’s Inquisitor.

In conclusion: Solas is a loser but im still trash for him.

[kosmosian-quills]

Blameless

So this is actually a pre-story event that (as of yet) isn’t featured in my WIP, but I make a reference to it and I just wanted to write this scene and it is one of my favourites.

Reposting and editing slightly from my other writing blog, making it a bit more conscise than it was previously.

POV: Irena

The library always is a peaceful place for me. For the longest time, the deafening silence was a tranquil comfort that never seemed to be a problem. I can find solace in the crisp pages of the books that told their own unique and dynamic tales, both fictional and non fictional. It’s calming, reading the words of people who were alive long before I was born, about what their view of the world was.

It was always intriguing to me - to see the world through another person’s eyes.

It just seems to be a bleaker world now than it was a week ago. Everything is different. Before, things were very bright, colourful, happy. But now, things are so tense and everyone can feel it, it’s constricting. The rumours and the gossip, the entire incident is the worst kept secret, and only 11 people in the world know what really happened on that fateful night a week ago.

And the entire feeling of trust and protection that was once very evident has evaporated into dust, all because of the actions of one man. One man that a lot of people had their trust in.

I was taking a moment alone in quiet recollection in the library when Anastazja, the strong presence that she is, joined me by the window, overlooking the vast ocean below us.

“The atmosphere is so dark around here,” she said thoughtfully, gazing out with me, crossing her arms as she spoke.

“I’m not surprised, honestly. How are you doing?” I asked, careful in how I phrased the question.

“I am fine, I am,” she nodded reassuringly, raising a hand slightly before she continued, “I… Am worried, though,” she said slowly, as though hesitant.

“The General and the guard involved are being punished for their crimes, I’m sure,” I tried to be just as reassuring, but I felt my voice waver. The General used to be such a decent man, and now I didn’t know what to think about him anymore, “the King wouldn’t let them get away with it.”

Anastazja raised a hand completely now, “no, no, not that. I am certain we agree on that. That isn’t what worries me,” she looked away, casting a glance at the door behind us, before facing me again, “it’s Matylda.”

“She told me she was fine, that he didn’t hurt her…” I recalled. I had only spoken to Matylda once since the incident, mainly because of her request for solitude.

“And you’re right. But it’s not a physical pain she is suffering through, and believe me, she’s suffering,” Anja nodded her head as she spoke, “she blames herself. And before you say anything, we all know it was not her fault. No one blames her for what happened. When the General had a knife at the Princess’ throat, he told Matylda that he will slit her throat if she so much as moves. He held her in place by those words, she was terrified. When I fought back and ran away, she still daren’t move. I put the Princess in danger with my actions, but I ran for help. Matylda is hurting, Irena, and I think you’re the only one who can help her. She won’t listen to me, but I think she is going to act irrationally - she thinks the Princess hates her for her lack of action, which is certainly not true. Haven’t you noticed how little she has seen the Princess since the incident?”

“So surely the Princess is the better qualified person to speak with her about this?” I countered.

“By the time the Princess is ready to talk to her, I think it will be too late.”

“And… what, you think she’s going to quit?”

“I do, I don’t want her to, but I do, and I think once she’s set on it, she will quit.”

The idea of Matylda leaving her duty as a Maiden of Honour was heartbreaking to consider. She was good at her role and respected in it as well, why would she want to give it all up? Well, she has just been through a scarring incident that the Princess is unlikely to forget in a rush, and Matylda is so much younger than us. As sobering as it is, Anja is probably right.

It would also mean that I am so close to losing a dear friend over something she had no fault in.

“Please, just go see her. She needs a friend, someone to talk to, and I don’t think she’ll listen to anyone else. You’re both so close to each other, please,” Anja pleaded, taking a hold of my hand and looking into my eyes.

I nodded, “I will, Anja.”

---

"Matylda, are you alright? You’ve been awfully quiet,” I asked, after having knocked on the door to her bedroom, just two doors down from the Princess’. To get to our rooms, you have to go through the Princess’ herself. There is a small corridor to the side of the room, which connects our five generously spacious rooms to Anjelika’s. All of them had a stunning view of the gardens below us, but only the Princess had a balcony. Our windows opened, but it was too cold for that at this time of year.

Matylda didn’t open the door straight away, and she took her time answering me at all.

"I… I’m fine, Irena,“ she said weakly through the door.

“Please, let me in, Laleczka. I just want to see you again,” I asked gently, my head against the door, waiting for a sound to indicate that she was moving either towards or away from me, “please...”

It took a few seconds, but I did hear the click as she finally unlocked her door. She didn’t open the door to let me in, so I did it myself, slowly and as quiet as I could manage.

Matylda’s room was adorned with flowers. She loved to paint, and was quite skilled at it, and most of her paintings were of the flowers in the gardens below us. They were full of life and colour, just like she should be. Her other painting is something of her pride and joy, and only hung it up because I had seen it before she could hide it. She had done a self-portrait, of sorts, of the six of us performing ballet, with her next to the Princess in the centre. She had captured us so perfectly, and I loved the way she painted the dresses like they were flowers, the flowers in the gardens below us. She was decked in a dress that looked like a yellow and orange iris, Anja’s was covered in red and white corn poppies. Karolina was purple with tulips, Zofia was a blue lotus. The Princess was a daisy, and I was a “euphorbia redwing charam”. I had never seen this flower, as it was not a Kosmosian native, but it is a beautiful green flower, she told me. Matylda had chosen them for us, decorated our dresses in a way that envisioned us, she said. She was going to hide this beauty away from us, until I showered it with praise that it rightfully deserves. She had painted the flowers that she thought were us, around the room, every one of them. She hangs it above her bed, a proud reminder of what she can accomplish.

It was sad to think that she would leave us behind, after everything we have done together, as Maidens and as friends. At least, if me and Anastazja are correct in our assumptions.

“You’ve seen me now,” she said from her desk, “I’m fine, honestly.”

"Please don’t lie, Laleczka, something is wrong. Please, tell me what it is,” I asked gently, closing the door behind me. I knew it was a stupid question, but I didn’t think about that as I spoke.

Matylda was watching me. At my words, she turned back to the desk and looked down at whatever she had been doing. A blank sheet of paper, and a pen rested on top of the pristine desk. It was not normally so devoid of anything, there were normally her sketchbook and pencils there, maybe an unfinished picture too, maybe her paints. Seeing just the pen and paper spelled out everything to me, confirmed it, even.

She curled her shoulders forward, and I heard her voice crack, “I… I failed.”

“Failed at what?” I asked, sitting myself down on the spare chair just beside her desk.

She continued to look at the paper, and I could see the tears well up in her vibrant blue eyes, “I failed in my duties. I’ve thought about this. I want to resign from my role as Anjelika’s Maiden of Honour,” she spoke quickly, as though getting them out quicker will somehow make them hurt less, as if treating a wound.

But also like treating a wound, it can hurt much more to remove something quickly instead of carefully.

"Matylda, please think this through,” I pleaded.

She nodded, her untamable blonde hair bounced as she did, closing her eyes, "I have. The Princess hates me, I didn’t do anything. Anja, she fought and kicked and got away… I just let them try to…” she hitched her breathing as she sobbed, letting the tears stain her pale cheeks and fall onto the paper she was trying to write on.

“I promise you, Laleczka, that no one sees it that way except you,” I tried reasoning with her, holding out a gentle hand and resting it on her shoulder, I hope she sees this as a comforting gesture, yet something in me nagged to not touch her, so I released her after only a few seconds.

She shook her head, "I did a dishonourable thing, Irenka…”

I pulled my chair closer to her, “Matylda, you did not. Please listen to me. I am so sorry you all went through that, truly,” I put my hand on her shoulder again, but this time she looked at me, glassy eyes swimming with tears and sadness, “maybe this is too soon to talk to the Princess about, but go talk to Anja. I promise she will tell you exactly what I am telling you now. Me? I would have probably done what you did. You have to remember that Anja has been in a high stress situation like that before, neither you nor I have.”

“But…” she stammered, her face blotchy and red.

I didn’t let her finish, I spoke over her, “What is your duty as a Maiden of Honour, Matylda?”

Matylda thought for a moment, thinking on her answer. She looked down at my feet and spoke to them instead of me, but this was good enough, “… um, to be a companion to her company. To offer her guidance, support and advice. To be loyal and trustworthy…“

"Now where in those duties you just told me, does it mention having to protect her from an active threat?” I asked, she looked me in the eyes again briefly, but quickly darted them over my shoulder, “where does it mention having to sacrifice your safety for her own? That duty belongs to the guards assigned for her protection - not to a Maiden of Honour, not to me and certainly not to you,” I shook her shoulder slightly as I spoke, speaking with enough confidence and conviction to hopefully get my message across, “I promise you, Laleczka, that Anjelika does not hate you for being forced to watch. Anja does not resent you for not acting the way she did. You were in an unpredictable situation because you did not expect the General to do what he did. He is the dishonourable one, Matylda. Not you. Do you understand?”

She nodded slightly, sniffling, “… I understand, Irenka.”

Somehow I suspect that she did not believe her own words, “I want you to repeat after me, alright? I did nothing wrong.”

“But, I did -” she protested, but I knew that she would react this way.

“I did nothing wrong.” I repeated calmly, but slightly louder, looking her straight into the eyes. She looked into mine, I could see something in hers. A glimmer of something, beneath all the sadness. I’m not sure what it was, but there was something there.

“… I did nothing wrong.”

“I am not responsible for the General’s actions, he is responsible for his crime.”

She looked down, breaking our eye contact, before she repeated me again.

“I am not re… Responsible for the General’s actions… He, he is responsible for his crime.”

“The Princess does not hate me for being too scared to help her.”

This is where her silence was truly a shock. Even I did not expect her to believe this. How much had this one thought eaten at her, in the two days since the incident? How lonely must this have been, for her to live thinking that one of her only friends in the world must hate her? How could she have conceived this idea in the first place?

“The Princess does not hate me for being too scared to help her,” I repeated, blinking quickly to supress my own tears.

She gulped, and then repeated my words, "the… The Princess does not hate me for being… Being too scared to help…”

I pulled her close, into my arms. I heard her sob, face buried in my shoulder, clutching at my front, her own shoulders jarring from crying. I heard her weak attempts at words between her hitched sobs, but they were so incoherent that I didn’t attempt to ask her to speak. I squeezed my arms around her, hoping that she understands that I am here, I always have and always will be, “and don’t you forget it,” I said quietly into her ear, through my own tears, “the only person the Princess blames for that night, is the General.”

Matylda pulled away from me after a while, truly opening the floodgates of her emotions to me. She wiped her teary eyes with her fingers before speaking again, “… I understand. Thank you Irena,” she spoke with a small shadow of a smile hanging from her lips. I could sense the gratitude, and I smiled in return.

"I’m only looking out for my friend,” I smiled, wiping my own tear from my cheek, “come on, let’s go get you something to eat. You can see the others, if you want to,” I nodded my head in the direction of the door, my hand held out for her to take. She took one look at her desk again, before standing up and leaving with me.

If all she needed to know was that she still had her friends believe in her, then that is what I will give her every time.

I hope she truly understands that, now, that none of us will turn our backs on our friends in need.

[hellfireandbookshops]

This blog has crossed 1k followers, I am so overwhelmed! Thank you all so much!

As a way of celebrating I have decided to break my 4-year hiatus on publishing fanfiction! I’ve posted chapter one of my short stories/drabble collection which you can read on AO3 here. A preview is available below the cut! 

My plan is to update as often as I can with short stories and drabbles exploring the lives of the ineffable husbands after the apocalypse. All the drabbles will exist in the same universe and be in chronological order. So far there are 30 chapters planned, and I am open to prompting too!  

Thank you guys so much for sticking around for my descent into Good Omens obsession and keeping me creating content, I appreciate and love you all <3

~O~

You can stay at my place if you like.

Boarding the bus to Oxford (the bus that would drive to London anyway) was a silent affair. Crowley got on first, a brief gesture with his left hand ensuring that they would make it home tonight. Home being the demons residence, of course, no matter that Aziraphale hadn’t actually agreed to go there yet. If he was certain of anything right now it was that the angel shouldn’t be exposed to the ruin of his bookshop. Not tonight.

It had been horrific enough for Crowley. The aged rafters had crumbled to ash, the scent of burning paper surrounded the demon and choked in his lungs. All that uncomfortable heat licking at his skin, a dangerous reminder that whatever once stood there was now nothing more than dust in the wind. Fuel for a vicious flame. He’d called for Aziraphale but he had known the second he parked outside the angel was gone.

For the last six thousand years, Aziraphale has always been on his mental radar. An energy output ever-present in the back of his mind no matter where he went; it was how he managed to follow him across the globe al these years. It burned in him like the north star; leading him home.

There was nothing amidst the fire, though. Just an absence the likes of which he hadn’t felt since rising through the earth in the garden of Eden. An indicator that his best friend wasn’t in this realm anymore; discorporated or destroyed completely, he had no way of being certain. Oh, he’d hoped it was the former. That way he could just pop back down again with another body, surely. But who was to say the archangels hadn’t intervened and put a stop to whatever relationship they had? Crowley had been openly pleading with him in the street just an hour beforehand and hellfire would do a slap up job of eradicating an angel and his shop.

Crowley wasn’t entirely certain even he’d be able to stomach looking at the carcass of his friend’s home right now, not after grief like that.

So they’d go to the flat.

He took the seat beside the window, staring out at the quaint little village lit up in the night. It looked sickeningly nice. The kind of thing you’d put on a postcard to your nan. To think the world almost ended here today, in picturesque rural England. Oh the hidden dangers of a beautiful thing, much like an angel brandishing a flaming sword he supposed.

So busy waxing poetry about some scenery, and wasn’t that embarrassing for a being from hell, he hadn’t noticed the angel slide comfortably into the seat next to him. It was a little surprising, to say the least. Throughout the millennia, sitting together involved a fair amount of space between them. Crowley used to joke about leaving room for the holy ghost, but close quarters had simply never been worth the risk to them. Being caught talking was one thing, being caught cuddled together like illicit lovers was something else entirely. So park benches found the demon sprawled on one side and Aziraphale propped stiffly on the other. Any time they met at alternative Rendezvous point number 2; the number nineteen bus, Crowley would sit in the always conveniently absent seats directly behind his friend. Inconspicuous may not be their middle name, but at least they made something of an effort.

Pressed side by side with their shoulders brushing was different.

Though if either of them were being perfectly honest; everything was different now. Reality as they knew it was rewritten; or at least… He thought. Even Crowley couldn't be entirely certain what had happened on that airfield today with little Adam Young.

The bus pulls away and Crowley resolves to leave that train of thought behind. It’s going to take more than their journey’s length home to properly wrap their heads around it. Instead, he takes a large mouthful from their open bottle and wordlessly offers it to his companion.

“I don’t think we should really drink here.” The angel uttered in hushed tones, ever wary of the opinions of onlookers. Despite his protests, though, he does take the bottle into his own hand.

There was barely any passengers at this hour, Crowley knew, having cast a glance around the vehicle as soon as he’d boarded. A young woman near the front, headphones firmly in place and eyes drooping shut. A couple of seats behind them, there sat two young men both absorbed with their phones, uncaring of the world around them. Finally, at the back, a rather run down looking businessman skimming a broadsheet newspaper. Unlikely any of them would give the two eccentric gentlemen at the front a second glance. “I don’t think anyone cares, angel.”

Regardless, Aziraphale insisted, “I do.”

He was clinging to the bottle like an infant might cling to a safety blanket, but he was making no move to actually drink from it. The demon sighed deeply. “Suit yourself.”

Neither of them spoke for some time following that. Many people might assume that being friends for roughly six thousand years would leave very little to talk about, these people would be wrong. Crowley had long since mastered reading Aziraphale like one of his books, and he wouldn’t be dim enough to imagine the angel couldn’t do the same. They understood each other almost frighteningly well. Thus, the silence itself was practically a conversation.

The press of Aziraphale’s shoulder against his own was an act of showing comfort as much as it was the other seeking it for himself. Actual physical contact between them, at least in Crowley's opinion, was always a signifier of something consequential. Whether that be a handshake declaring an arrangement, or the brush of their fingers when they exchanged items (an incident involving Nazi spies and a church sprang to mind). This felt like it was much the same.

Rather than just innocently brushing, Aziraphale was gradually letting his weight come to rest against the demons side; and though he was loathed to admit it, Crowley was doing the same. Very soon they’d be propping each other up in a display of mutual reassurance. It enveloped him in something rather soothing.

Flashes of love, he remembered Aziraphale describing once on the drive back from Tadfield.

At the time Crowley had brushed him off, declared the notion ridiculous. That was more because of his irritation at having found no leads than it was the lack of understanding. He was not a being of love, but he certainly knew what it felt like. That energy on his radar was what it felt like. Like sinking into a hot bath. The waves of it washing over him in a cascade of warmth, circling his bones and settling in the pit of his stomach. Filling him up until he felt like he was glowing with it. That love he understood; he’d been feeling it since Eden, and it was only identifiable to him as Aziraphale.

“Did you mean what you said earlier?”

It took an embarrassingly long moment for Crowley to bring himself out of his thought process and register the angel's words. Luckily for him, staring off into the distance in broody silence was something of a signature behaviour, and as such raised no query from the other when it took several seconds of just staring at him to form a response.

“That depends entirely on what you’re referring to. I said a lot of things.” Was what he settled on.

Amused but unwilling to admit as such, Aziraphale narrowed his eyes just briefly; a fleeting smile gracing his features before it was gone again. “You said I could stay with you tonight.”

Crowley continued to stare, dumbfounded. “Of course I meant it, why wouldn’t I mean it?”

The angel had no particular response to that; a minute shake of his head that Crowley would have missed had he blinked, and choosing to forgo his earlier shame by bringing the bottle they’d been sharing to his mouth. There was a hefty swallow of alcohol.

Worst of all his angel’s usual warmth is buzzing beside him; it almost makes the demon uncomfortable to sit next to. The only reasonable comparison is a live wire. It’s something volatile and dangerous like it wasn’t moments ago, as if the angel was trying to forcibly keep something under control and failing.

Crowley hadn’t the faintest clue how to interpret this.

“Angel, I meant it,” Seemed a good place to start as any. It worked in some small way; Aziraphale turned his head enough to meet his gaze, those impossibly wide eyes making an appearance as he hung on Crowley’s every word. Damn those eyes. “I’m not going to leave you out on your ear, am I?”

Crowley wasn’t going to leave him at all. That much should be painfully evident if the two failed attempts at abandoning earth were anything to go by. Going anywhere without the angel just wasn’t an option for him anymore. Probably hasn’t been for about a thousand years.

Yet Aziraphale still looked so lost. He’d always had such an expressive face; he could tell more stories than his bookshop could hold with the things that face could do. Currently, his eyes were glistening, brow softly furrowed, cheeks dusted pink, lips parted on words that aren't likely to be spoken. Crowley knows that face will be the end of him one day.

“I’ve got a few bottles of 2009 Essence Bordeaux that I’ve been saving for a special occasion,” He offers, gently. “Averting the end of the world seems appropriate, don’t you think.”

The atmosphere around them begins to feel less dangerously electric and more like a mildly concerning fizzle.

“You’ve never offered that before.” The angel says suspiciously.

“I’ve been ageing it.” One shoulder lifts a little in a half shrug. “I’m sure a decade will suffice.”

“You said that about the Roussanne,” The demon groaned and turned his gaze away at the stark reminder of that process gone wrong. “and a decade was in fact far too long.”

“You still drank it.”

“It would have been a shame to waste it, really.” The sigh Aziraphale gives is fonder than he likely intended it to be.

They share a smirk and it feels like something all their own, secretive and special. On Crowley’s mental radar, everything settles back to normal with a wash of warm water over his very being. Whatever was troubling his angel seemed to be on the back burner for now.

“Thank you, Crowley.”

It’s almost completely inaudible. The demon turns his head to catch it and instead finds himself eye to eye with his best friend. The way he’s staring at him with such wonder makes Crowley glad his heart is entirely decoration; otherwise, it would be thumping in his chest like a bass drum. The gratitude clearly wasn’t just about tonight, he could understand that much, it was all-encompassing gratitude.

Not just thank you for letting me stay the night, but rather, thank you for staying by my side all this time.

He wanted to reply that there wasn’t anywhere in any universe he’d rather be, but admitting such things out loud weren’t becoming of a demon. Nor were they becoming of Crowley, honestly, who still flinched when he was called nice. So the only appropriate response seemed to be to demonstrate this point non-verbally. Specifically by slouching in his seat and leaning his weight against his friends side a little more, a slow grin adorning his features.

Aziraphale huffed a delicate laugh and rolled his eyes at the behaviour, likely not expecting a response any other way. The angel didn’t stop there, however, those perfectly manicured fingers reaching across to brush against the back of the hand lain in Crowley’s lap. The confident nature of the action was lost about halfway through, Aziraphale looking as if his limbs had acted of their own accord rather than his instruction and he was unsure where to go from here. Between them, the temperature starts to feel a little humid.

Crowley, not one for half measures, decided to aid his friend in his time of need. He flipped his hand over and entwined their fingers without a second thought.

There was something to be said about his role in this relationship, if it had an official title it would likely be something along the lines of ‘Here to Finish What Aziraphale Starts’. His job description was to pull the other out of near-death situations at the last second, give him a gentle push into beneficial decisions; and as of this moment assist him in instigating the affection he clearly wanted but wasn’t quite ready to ask for. Not that he had ever been anything but glad to hold this particular role. Crowley was, and always had been, unashamedly open about everything. At least in his opinion, he had been.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, had spent six thousand years denouncing their friendship in one breath and then asking him for lunch the next. It only made sense to the demon that the other was a bit skittish about hand holding.

Neither of them said anything about it- Obviously. But it was the most relaxed either of them been since arriving in Tadfield. The air around them settled back into something familiar.

For right now at least, Crowley was content to believe that this could be their eternity.

[hannah-martin-uor]

Quaderno appunti Inglese

Brave New World

Chapter Four

•Part One: On the way to the helicopter roof Lenina meets Bernard and tells him she wants to visit the Savage Reservation in New Mexico with him. He is embarrassed to discuss the trip with her in public. She leaves to meet Henry Foster and they fly to the Obstacle Golf Course.

Comment->This chapter makes reference to various castes in the World State: Henry and Bernard are Alphas; the lift (elevator) operator is an Epsilon - Minus; the Beta-Minus group is playing tennis; the Deltas are holding a gymnastic display and community sing; the Gamma girls are waiting for the tramcars. Each group has its own work and its own recreation.

•Part Two: Bernard, somewhat upset by his encounter with Lenina, rushes to his plane. He feels guilty and alone - he feels inadequate because he is shorter and thinner than others in the Alpha caste. Physically and emotionally he considers himself a misfit.

Comment->Huxley draws our attention to Bernard Marx because he does not look and act as a member of his caste should. He is short and slight when he should be tall and robust; he feels guilt and depression while others are happy; he is modest and unassuming rather than boastful and self-confident.

Bernard flies to Propaganda House to pick up Helmholtz Watson, a lecturer at the College of Emotional Engineering (Department of Writing). As on other occasions, Bernard and Helmholtz discuss their individualism and their desire to find some meaning in life.

Comment->Helmholtz is introduced at this point to indicate that the conditioning process is not always entirely successful. Although Bernard and Helmholtz are very different physically, psychologically, and emotionally, both are dissatisfied with life in the World State. What causes this dissatisfaction, they do not know, but somehow they sense that their existence is meaningless. Because they do not feel, act, and react in exactly the same way as others in their peer group do, both of them are being observed by their respective superiors.

Bernard is considered odd not only because he is physically smaller than the other members of the Alpha caste, but also because he likes to spend time by himself, and he does not like to participate in sport activities. (In the World State one should always be with others, always busy, never alone.) When discussing Bernard, reference is often made to the rumor that alcohol was accidentally put in his blood - surrogate - and this supposedly accounts for his oddness. Because individuals are decanted according to specification, any deviation would seem to be the result of some mistake, some chemical imbalance.

Helmholtz is suspect because he is too able, too intelligent, too successful. Because he is outstanding physically and mentally, because he is a good committeeman and a highly successful lover, he is an individual whose talent sets him apart - and the World State does not want extraordinary individuals; it wants "cogs in a wheel."

Chapter Five

•Part One: On the way back from the golf course, Lenina and Henry fly by a crematorium. They discuss the social usefulness of all the castes and the fact that everybody is "happy." Landing on the roof of Henry's apartment house, they go down for dinner. Later, they spend the night in Henry's room, Lenina having taken the proper precautions to prevent pregnancy.

Comment->as at other points in the book, the necessity of doing things according to schedule and in a prescribed manner is stressed: the golf course and night club close at specified times; Lenina takes the contraceptive precautions specified by the regulations.

•Part Two: Every other Thursday Bernard has to attend a "Solidarity Service" at the Fordson Community Singery. He arrives a little late and takes a place in the group. Twelve men and women take alternate seats around the table. Soma tablets and liquid are taken as communion. As the Soma begins to take effect, individuals jump to their feet and shout as if in religious ecstasy. Although he feels nothing, Bernard acts his part. They all dance around the table shouting "orgy-porgy" in a kind of frenzy and then fall on the couches exhausted. Indiscriminate sexual relations conclude the "service."

Comment->The Solidarity Service takes the place of religious services and provides emotional release for the participants. But Bernard feels nothing - no rapture, no peace, no solidarity. He remains alone and unsatisfied.

Huxley's substitution of the Solidarity Service for the expected religious service re-emphasizes the extent to which the World State controls the people. The religious impulse in man has manifested itself through the ages; the World State recognizes this impulse and makes use of it. The Solidarity Service is a parody of and substitute for the Christian Communion Service; Soma is used to induce a "religious" feeling. Karl Marx called religion the opium of the people; in Huxley's Brave New World Soma is substituted for religion.

Chapter Six

•Part One: Lenina at first questions whether or not she should visit the Savage Reservation with Bernard Marx. She remembers his odd views - his dissatisfaction with his life, his desire to be different.

•Part Two: Bernard receives a permit to visit the Savage Reservation. The Director, who must sign the permit, tells Bernard of his visit there some twenty years before. He recalls that the girl who had accompanied him on the trip disappeared, and he had to return to London without her. While in the office, the Director reprimands Bernard for his odd behavior and warns him that conformrty is necessary. 

Comment->The Director's account of his visit to the Savage Reservation becomes very important later in the book. In discussing Bernard's odd behavior, the Director uses an interesting term - "infantile decorum." People in the World State were expected to satisfy every desire without thinking - they were to be like infants, completely dependent on the state.

•Part Three: Bernard and Lenina arrive at the Reservation. The Warden attempts to impress them with rvation for the sixty thousand Indians and half-breeds. Since the Savages have not been conditioned, they still preserve their old beliefs and customs (religion, marriage, natural birth, family life).

Comment->Again we see the reversal in the values held by the World State. The Savages are considered uncivilized because they believe in marriage and morality as their ancestors had.

Bernard calls Helmholtz and finds that the Director of Hatcheries and Conditioning intends to replace Bernard and have him sent to Iceland because of his odd views and lack of conformity. Bernard and Lenina are given permission to enter the Reservation and are flown to the guesthouse.

Comment->In this chapter Huxley is preparing us for the contrast between life on the Reservation and life in the "civilized" part of the World State. Lenina recalls "truths" she has been taught - "A gramme in time saves nine" or "Progress is lovely" - and Bernard mockingly makes reference to the number of times this was repeated during conditioning to assure her acceptance of a particular idea. The Savages have not been conditioned; consequently they do not hold the same "truths." Their beliefs are based on tradition and what the Controller referred to as "old-fashioned" ideas about morality and right and wrong.

Chapter Seven

An Indian guide takes Bernard and Lenina to see the Savages dancing. Lenina is disgusted by the Savages - seeing evidence of old age, disease, and dirt horrifies her.

Comment->The things that horrified Lenina are the things that are not characteristic of the world she knows. The World State has abolished disease, marriage, motherhood, and old age everywhere except on the Reservations. (The government did not consider it worthwhile to "civilize" certain ethnic groups and certain remote areas of the World State.)

The drums, the singing, and the performance remind Lenina of the Solidarity Services. The dance continues, with the leader of the dancers throwing snakes to the others. The ceremony ends with the whipping of a young man. Lenina shudders at the sight of blood. Suddenly a young white man appears.

Comment->Lenina is distressed by the sufferings of the young man because she was conditioned to consider blood and violence disgusting, not because she feels sorry for him. The young man (John) tells Lenina and Bernard that his mother (Linda) came to the Reservation from the Other Place (London) with a man who was his father. The man was Tomakin, the Director of Hatcheries and Conditioning. 

Bernard recalls the Director's story and realizes that knowledge of this affair with Linda could result in the Director's disgrace.

Lenina and Bernard meet Linda, who is a fat, ugly blonde. She is pleased to see them and recounts with horror that she, a Beta, had had a baby. She tearfully describes her life on the Reservation and speaks fondly of her life in the Other Place.

Comment->Huxley stresses the difficulty Linda had in adjusting to life on the Reservation since she had been conditioned to act and think only one way. She considers John "mad" because he accepts the Savage's values rather than hers.

Life on the Reservation contrasts violently with life in the Other Place. Here pain, suffering, disease, filth, and old age still exist - in the Other Place science has succeeded in abolishing anything which interferes with or impairs the physical well-being of the citizenry. We have already noted the contrast and conflict regarding morality.

Note that both ways of life are based on ignorance - an ignorance based on superstition or an ignorance fostered by the state. Huxley does not consider either way of life attractive or desirable because he believes that life should be conscious existence - a life based on reflection and study and an acceptance of one's own being. 

Chapter Eight

Bernard finds the life that John, Linda, and the Savages lead unbelievable, and he asks John to explain it as far back as he can remember.

Comment->Although Bernard is considered odd because he does not conform blindly to life in the World State, he has known no other life.

John tells Bernard of the many men who visited Linda, the women who beat her because of her sexual activities, Linda's stories of life in the Other Place, his learning to read, and his life among the Savages.

Comment->The account of Linda's and John's life among the Savages underlines the differences between the two cultures. Linda, having been decanted and conditioned as a "Beta," had one set of values; the Savages, having maintained the "old ways," had a different set. John accepted the values, ideas, and ideals of the Savages.

Having received a superior education because of her caste, Linda was able to teach John how to read. And one of the books John acquired from Pope, one of Linda's male friends, was The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. His close reading of Shakespeare provided him with many ideas and beliefs and helped him develop a strong code of moral conduct.

Bernard tells John he will try to obtain permission for him and his mother to come to the Other Place (London). John is thrilled with the idea and, like Miranda in Shakespeare's The Tempest, exclaims, "O brave new world that has such people in it."

Comment->Huxley selects this quotation from The Tempest because of the parallel in the lives of Miranda and John: both are anxious to embrace a way of life that neither knows or understands.

Chapter Nine

After the horrifying events of their first day at the Reservation, Lenina takes a large dose of Soma and sleeps. Bernard contacts Mustapha Mond, the World Controller, and receives permission to bring Linda and John to London. John enters Lenina's room and finds her asleep, but he is too modest to touch her. 

Comment->Bernard realizes that the return of John and Linda to London will assure his position and prevent his transfer to Iceland.

Chapter Ten

Bernard returns to London with Linda and John. The Director of Hatcheries and Conditioning, wishing to humiliate Bernard because of the unorthodoxy of his behavior, publicly announces his banishment to Iceland. Linda enters and exclaims that the Director is John's father; the crowd roars with laughter, forcing the Director to rush from the room.

Comment->Bernard realized that the presence of John and Linda in London would prevent any untoward action being taken because of his lack of conformity. The Director had hoped to use Bernard as an example of the consequences of nonconformity and had decided to make a public announcement. The arrival, of Linda and John (a physical manifestation of the Director's own unorthodoxy) saves Bernard.

This chapter opens with a rather detailed description of the work of the Hatching and Conditioning Centre - fertilization, predestination, decanting, conditioning. Then, in conversation with Mr. Foster concerning Bernard Marx, the Director says, "Unorthodoxy threatens more than the life of a mere individual; it strikes at Society itself." Thus our attention is again called to the necessity of conformity - the individual is not important, but the group is. Bernard's "crime" is his desire to do what he wanted to do instead of what they wanted him to do.

[tomoreadsandlistens]

A Girl on the Shore

A Girl on the Shore:   Written and art by Inio Asano

SPOILER REVIEW

Considering this is my first manga review, I wanted to elaborate about a short series that truly impacted my entire being recently. There’s only a few manga (and anime) out there that’s ever really affected me emotionally, but I felt compelled to express the deep impact “A Girl on the Shore” had on me. I feel this is the right platform to do so since I don’t really have anyone to talk about this with. I want to remind everyone since my Introduction post that everything I do on here is opinionated. This is just my own personal review on this story, and you’re more than welcome to agree or disagree. Fair warning, this review will contain spoilers and will most likely talk about the NSFW content. If this is a story you cannot handle, I would really not recommend it. The artwork in this manga does get graphic at times, so it’s not for everyone.

With that being said, if you’re ready for an emotional roller coaster, buckle your seat belts! This IS a long post so please bear with me.

First Read:   Curiosity got to the best of me when I stumbled upon an article online about an “angsty” manga about a few months back, I noticed “A Girl on the Shore” was written about and recommended. On a whim I went out and bought it, as simple as that. It is currently published in English by Vertical Comics in an omnibus completed edition of volumes 1 and 2. I have to admit, the description on the back of the omnibus really did not follow through to exactly what the story was about. If anything, somewhat false advertising on their end. However, the emotional roller coaster ride I endured was not regrettable, and in fact completely not what I expected. So to Verticals’s credit they tweaked the description to grip you right in.

The Story:   This story is about two, very broken teenagers that are searching for something. Searching for something they cannot achieve. Searching for an escape of themselves. These two teens, Koume and Isobe, emotionally manipulate each other and never truly expressed how they were ever really feeling, to one another. The way this dramatic plot expressed teenage mentality really hits the nail on the head, especially for those who have experienced sexual experiences at a very young age; A Girl on the Shore does not shy away from these issues and in fact does get quite blunt about its experimentation on sexuality. The sad truth to this is that it IS so relatable that it’s actually pretty disgusting that society pressures early on how one “should” have to have sex to feel accepted, especially minors. Plus, truthfully, middle school and high school is a time where one appears impressionable, but once someone is not like the others, they’re practically shunned out of the group and ultimately judged to the extreme. It is especially evident with Koume’s character, who can’t even admit to her friends she ever liked Isobe later on in the manga, nevertheless hooked up with him!

Right from the get go Koume asks Isobe out of the blue to take her virginity as a result of Misaki, your local high school playboy, rejected Koume even though she performed a blowjob on him, through manipulation of course. Regardless of the fact she confessed her feelings to Misaki, she was still taken advantage of. With that being said, this is how the story begins. As the story progresses, Isobe and Koume begin to experiment with each other through casual sex, with no meaning behind it. These two characters never even kissed. Isobe agrees to be Koume’s sexual partner regardless of how he originally had a huge crush on her in the past, and currently. As the story unfolds, both of our main characters go through drastic changes within their toxic relationship.

The Characters:   Koume is a very vulnerable young girl who lost some faith after her experience with Misaki; She wanted to fill that deep void using Isobe and continously had sex with him to try to get over it. It is certain that most people who have experienced their adolescent years would recognize this scenario, not just with sex but most of us have replaced situations with others to fill that sadness in our hearts. Especially her being a female character, she was manipulated by an older teen which is basically statutory rape through oral sex. Koume originally wanted to spend time with Isobe just for sex. Keep in mind that Isobe consented to this. Given the fact they are both born the same year (Koume being 15 and Isobe’s birthday was half a year later into their “relationship”); there’s not much of an age gap to deem this as “rape”. Isobe absolutely could’ve realized what he was getting himself into from the start when he agreed to her. At one point in the manga Isobe acknowledges that for his age he shouldn’t be having sex, implying how emotionally disconnected, ashamed, and used he felt in the end. He recognized eventually that their sexual encounters were getting too toxic for his well being, so he begins to neglect her. On the other side of the coin, Koume eventually grows to really like Isobe, but she was terrible at expressing it, and eventually it became too late to do so. The sex with Isobe became more yearning for love than for her own pleasure. She couldn’t connect her head to her heart; which most teenagers don’t realize at this time. Considering how she didn’t want to deal with embarrassment and judgement from her piers, she kept her entire experience with Isobe to herself. She insisted she had to keep a certain image to the general public. However, you do see throughout the manga the emptiness Koume felt as she stares off into space, holds her phone waiting for something, thinking of how to talk to Isobe, even just laying around; you can easily see her quirks of loneliness.

Isobe is first glanced as a shy, curious character who had his hopes up when the opportunity to have sex with the girl of his dreams was provided to him. You also learn on the side when Koume isn’t present that Isobe once had an older brother who killed himself on Isobe’s birthday, which is September 15th. Ever since his death, Isobe felt emotionally devastated, unheard, lost, longing to avenge his brother, but yet he literally did not say a word about any of this to Koume throughout the entire manga. That to me was one of the most heart breaking occurrences in this story. Knowing how Isobe was suffering and refused to talk about it, concerned that he would never be accepted nor understood. It breaks my heart. All he wanted was to have a perfect romance blossom with Koume but their disconnects and misunderstandings really pushed the both of them away from each other.

Title Meaning:   A Girl on the Shore is a double meaning about Koume and another character who is nicknamed “a girl on the shore”. Isobe and Koume find an SD card for a digital camera at the shore which contained pictures of a random girl doing daily life things and hanging out at the shore. Isobe kept the SD card and admired this individual for her beauty and appearing to be nice. Koume does show her jealousy and deletes the pictures from Isobe’s computer. This is part of the reason why Isobe begins to ignore her. After Koume gets ignored for a period of time, she encounters Isobe at school, attempts to talk to him and he then threatens to kill her if she ever touches his computer again. Ever since this threat Koume goes along with her summer attending School camp, while her depression takes a toll and becomes desperate to see Isobe and longs to understand what’s going on with him. You can tell communication was needed and yearned for, but it really lacked out of fear and rejection. Koume shows up at Isobe’s house after School Camp, and they both have sex for the entire rest of the day. This was the last time they ever had intercourse. Isobe expresses to Koume that he was suicidal, wanting to end his misery. Koume is skeptical of this but she implies that she would care if he died. After their last encounter Isobe doesn’t show up to school for a while, and Koume begins to get concerned. On the day of their school festival, on Isobe’s birthday, Koume provides a present and letter to Isobe, which she hoped to express her feelings for him, to him. She begins to search for Isobe throughout the town during a tropical storm. Isobe is seen walking throughout town near the shore, which could be indicated that he was contemplating to take his own life the same way his brother did in the high tides. Koume is seen screaming Isobe’s name at the shore, and the storm begins to subside and the sun appears. Isobe is seen at at coffee shop having peace and quiet to himself. He leaves the shop and sees a girl standing next to him which turns out to be “the girl on the shore”. Koume ends up throwing away Isobe’s present and card when she assumed he may have taken his life.

A week after the school festival Koume sees Isobe at school and requested to talk to him over the weekend near a dock. Isobe appeared different with his hair cut and how he went on about himself, he acted happier. He tells Koume about “the girl on the shore” and expressed how he’s aiming to attend the same high school as her. It is clear that he’s also putting up a front to prove his point that this other female character is kept contact with him and potentially is an open window for a future relationship. Koume becomes devastated. She admits that all of this was her fault for what she physically and mentally put him through, and confessed her love for him seeking a second chance to make up for her selfishness. Isobe rejects her and leaves Koume at the dock. Almost two years go by, Koume is now appeared older and has not seen Isobe since that day. She is now seeing a guy eerily similar to Isobe and has not told anyone about him. It is absolute that till this day she is still putting up a different image of herself, and seeks to be with someone a lot like Isobe.

The last bit of this manga is Koume at the shore with a childhood friend she hasn’t seen in a while, Kashima. They catch up for a bit with how school is going for the both of them, until Koume notices a couple walking along the shore together. Personally, I really think these two figures are Isobe and “a girl on the shore”. You only see small, cropped imagery of the two but it seems to me this is what the manga artist wanted to go for. These two figures are also seen up close kissing without showing their entire faces. Meanwhile, Kashima explains that every bit of experience shapes into who you are, but you have to take the future into your own hands and not always expect everything to be handed to you. Koume starts to realize this and claims that she found something bigger than what she was searching for, she answers: “the sea.” My theory for that entire scene is that Koume purposefully left her SD card in the sand at the same spot where Isobe found “a girl on the shore” the first time. In the previous scene before, the boy Koume is “dating” gave her a camera. She tells him the only pictures she took was miscellaneous things and some selfies, but she demonstrates while turning on the camera that she “lost” the SD card so no images were seen. It is obvious that she had the same exact type of pictures “a girl on the shore” took as well. I believe Koume is trying to repeat history but yet is trying to reach Isobe, so he can find her SD card, see her pictures and hope for him to come back to her. She wants to be the next “girl on the shore”.

In Conclusion (Final Thoughts):   I first want to say thank you so much for making it this far in my review. I know I didn’t really talk about the Kashima arc but it wasn’t my main focus on the entirety of this story. I must’ve cried a million times reading A Girl onthe Shore. Between the GORGEOUS artwork, the way both characters are portrayed is so spot on to how teenagers act and feel in real life; they are both reckless and similar but yet you can see how different they really are. I truly feel sorry for Koume and Isobe. I desperately wanted their relationship to work out. I wish I can give them both a hug. I really felt that it wasn’t enough time with these two characters. I wanted MORE. I am desperate to see what the future holds for Isobe and Koume. I wish happiness for the both of them. It appears that Koume has taken responsibility for her loss. Isobe seems to now be in a stable relationship and ACTUALLY kisses someone. A part of me wishes that they would reunite somehow, but we all know it’s better off they went their own separate ways. I really think Koume noticed Isobe at the shore, which could be plausible to her mentioning her seeking the ocean at the end of the manga. When you first read this manga, you may feel turned off by how young looking Koume and Isobe are, artistically, so at first I thought this book would be a major turn off. Gradually you notice Koume and Isobe aging so it became easier to read. In regards to the sexual content, this is a type of story that should NEVER turn you on. It is so far from gearing in that direction I’d actually question anyone for thinking this is attractive. The point of this content is that the artist is covering issues which the vast majority of society may have dealt with. It is a very psychological enduring story, and perhaps nostalgic to some. The upbringings of these characters are very much like real life and it needs to be considered spoken about. Teenagers will think they know what it means to take on adult situations, but they are SO young to be dealing with this at 15 and 14. This is why parents should really talk to their children. Teenagers go through shit all the time that some parents would never consider nor assume, trust and honesty is so important these days; so please PLEASE talk to your children. Especially if they are engaging in sex early, they should be aware of the emotional (and of course physical) repercussions that they may suffer with. A sheer warning, if you will. Mental health is no joke. I must’ve reread this manga at least 10 times by now and every piece of dialogue said makes more sense to me each time, and becomes more painful to read. I wonder if other people have done this and felt this way too. I wish Inio Asano, the creator and artist of this manga, would be interviewed about “A Girl on the Shore.” I’d love to see what he’d say about it. Sure as all heck I’d request a sequel if given the opportunity to talk to him! I’ve read numerous of opinions and interview articles about A Girl on the Shore, while I whole heartedly agree on most of them, I’m appalled how some people could consider these characters as “sluts”. THEY ARE CHILDREN. They can’t be considered sluts when not only were they BOTH in this together, but they were BOTH manipulated and MANIPULATING!!!!! AND DON’T KNOW WHAT THEY’RE DOING. Again, they’re children. They can’t completely fully understand the consequences because of their YOUNG MENTALITY. None of them slept with anyone else either. So please, spare me the slut argument.

Do I recommend this manga to everyone? That depends. Depends on the maturity level on the person to read a story as intense as this. However, I would never force this story on others because some may not be comfortable with the artwork, and that’s totally fine. The artwork isn’t meant to be comfortable to begin with. But if you want a really good teen angst manga that really dives into the mind and analyzation, please read this story.

Until next time~ Tomo

[stickykeys633]

The other day an anti was yelling at me because I criticized the intention of their fic. It was tagged as Sterek, but then proceeded to make Stiles and Derek woefully out of character while Scott became the protagonist. I pointed out that this is what antis do and made a list of ways to spot a scott stan fic that’s labeled as Sterek for hits. 

The author was upset, which, understandable, but instead of just saying they were offended, they decided to pull the tactic of presenting new information like it was a) known, and b) had anything to do with the context of what was said. 

He mentioned that it wasn’t right to criticize his writing (which I didn’t do) because he was recovering from a brain injury and how DARE I abuse the mentally and physically incapacitated?!He expected me to feel shame, but what he forgot is much like every Craigslist scam, his ploy is over-saturated. 

The need of antis to say “Well I don’t like X, so… IF YOU DO LIKE X YOU ARE A TERRIBLE PERSON!” is so played and they all do it across the board. “Well, I’m not saying you can’t like Sterek, Stiles, Peter, etc. Heck, I like them! Just know that if you prioritize them over Scott (read, acknowledge them in any way and you know… like them) then that’s indicative of being complicit in racist, homophobic and misogynistic tropes (read: you suck)” *shrugs*

And because we internalize everything, we really do take the time to consider if we’re racist and in that time they’ve shamed four more people into their way of thinking that’s ultimately wrong and certainly not universal.

Which leads me to this post^^. 

The idea of Scott being “stupid” has always been a fun trope. His little slip-ups were reminders that he was still human, still a kid. He was an underdog trying to be a hero despite his hormones, his reluctance and his lack of general knowledge on the Supernatural. We’re not expecting Scott to be a Rhodes scholar, he doesn’t need to be, THAT’S WHAT HE HAS STILES AND LYDIA FOR!

The idea that Scott has to be a genius has never been present in anyone’s minds except the antis, who also seem to be the only ones who take umbrage with the fact that he’s not a genius. He was never meant to be, doesn’t he have enough on his plate? So to try and push the idea that a) he’s a genius and b) you’re racist if you think he’s not, when canon rightly shows us the opposite, is hypocritical. 

Sure, go ahead and write your AU’s where super scientist Scott saves the day, but know that it will be an AU and again, the only one offended is you. 

Let’s take a look at this post:

Seriously, nothing pisses me off more than the taken for granted assumption that Scott is stupid when we have nothing BUT evidence to the contrary.

I will point out that many of the examples reach so far as to credit villains who sarcastically think Scott is smart. Like… nagl sis. 

1) His vocabulary in the PILOT has him casually dropping words like ‘litigious’ in the appropriate context.

His dad is in the FBI and Stiles dad is a sheriff, I’m sure he’d know the word litigious. But okay, vocab, it’s a good indicator, I hope not ephemerally. 

2) His teachers are concerned his grades SLIPPED dramatically after he was bitten. Grades can’t slip unless they were higher to begin with.

I mean, high C’s to are a thing? I don’t know that we ever know his grades, and I know people that will fight him being in AP bio (apparently freshman were in the same class as college level seniors? Mmkay), but it’s canon they slipped. HE WAS FIGHTING MONSTERS! I think the biggest indicator in this point is the fact there never seemed to be any proactive planning. McCall pack was very reactionary where Hale Pack was a bit more proactive. I don’t know if that is an indicator of intelligence, at least not entirely.

3) Peter (freaking PETER) says ‘I continue to be impressed by your ingenuity Scott’ after Scott engineers an interruption of his date with Melissa, sets off Allison’s car alarm to get her away from him, etc.

Yeah, this one… nagl, lol!

4) Figures out Gerard is sick, expects betrayal from him and takes countermeasures.

Now, maybe I don’t remember this, but… didn’t Gerard cough up blood? And the countermeasures were a long drawn out plan to kill him using Derek so… I don’t know how smart any of that is, but sure. He’s a long form strategist. On his own. 

5) Sees his grades visibly rise the second he sets them as a priority again.

Like literally everyone ever? And this only lasted until the next monster. He has an innate inability to multitask.

6) He’s half dead on a bus in 3A, literally DYING from self-imposed guilt negating his ability to heal, and he’s still acing his SAT vocab prep questions.

Scott’s guilt thing made zero sense, especially since y’all don’t subscribe it to him using Derek to try and kill Gerard, but whatevs, sure, this is smart. I didn’t study for my SAT’s (still got 1490/1600 w00t!) but I’m sure distracting yourself from your guilt really helps you focus. 

Maybe though, and this is just a thought, even going on the trip knowing he has a lot of loose ends to tie up wasn’t such a good idea? 

7) As a sixteen year old, is shown being familiar with even advanced veterinary techniques, and wearing gloves and in front of an array of beakers and test tubes is shown examining a dog’s stool and finding the source of his illness (the mistletoe he ingested). Like, consider that for a second - Stiles connects threads on his whiteboards and is a detective. Scott whips out some forensic investigation shit and is stupid. LOL like what even? CHECK YOURSELF FANDOM.

That’s his job, he was trained. Stiles’ is his hobby. But again, you’re the only one making this comparison. The inability of Scott stans to just like Scott for Scott is kind of bewildering. And yeah some people are more science minded so there’s something to be said for his diagnostic skills. I don’t see Stiles as having an keen interest in actual medical sciences so sure, Scott has that up on him. 

But again, book smarts and street smarts aren’t the same. Scott has one and Stiles has the other, this is why they’re partners. They’re not opposites though, they’re yin and yang. Stiles has the tactical and strategic skills while Scott is the braun and the leadership. He assesses threats and then delegates others to take action. That’s what a leader does. 

8) Actually DOES his assigned reading, and quotes Heart of Darkness, rattles off about Greek myths and monsters, etc.

I mean… he’s a student, but ok. 

9) Gets a B in AP Bio before shit starts going down in 5A and only considers dropping it because he’s back to prioritizing staying all night at the school to try and stop mad scientists from killing a teenage girl instead of studying at home.

But some of his protection methods and ideas (like using said teenage girl as bait without telling her) are not the smartest. 

And again, they’re not supposed to be, because Scott McCall is not infallible. He’s a teenager and still human. He’s trying to make due with what he has. The problem is you see “Scott is stupid” and then you turn tail and run. You miss all the things about how he has a big heart and rises to action despite constant obstacles. 

Nope, you look at one thing and then you call anyone who would dare… not even to disagree with you, but not agree with you 100%, a racist? How is that acceptable or ok? Why do you get to make the rules for everyone’s experience? 

I always say, be the change you want to see. If you and your buddies spent more time creating content that wasn’t petty and vindictive, you’d see your numbers rise. But no one wants to be a part of a group whose sole existence relies on pouring hateful energy into a white boy. Scott fans love Scott. And if you did too, maybe you’d be able to engage more. But this idea that Scott fans have to love only Scott and the way that you say to love them is outlandish. And -not to invoke Godwin’s law too strongly- kinda totalitarian. 

Get it together, y’all. 

[darkouter]

anyways here’s the 11 page 1.5 spacing “short drabble” i wrote for barty and remus in grimmauld place.  who knows what possessed me to do this to myself.  write a short drabble, i said.  it will be quick, i said.  it will be fun, i said.  you know.  like a liar.

cw:  emetophobia, blood, mentions of violence

     Number 12, Grimmauld Place had been fairly peaceful that day.  The Order of the Phoenix members who normally kept the place with a constant level of liveliness were busy, leaving only a few behind.  For the most part, it was quiet.  That is, until a certain Bartemius Crouch Jr. bustles into the home.

     He doesn’t normally show his face here.  No one wants him in the Black home; there is very seldom welcome in the face of his arrival.  It has been years, decades, since he has felt warmth in that home.  The only person that could have provided this for him has long been gone.  The only echo of this past is found in the face that greets him at the doorway. Regulus’ loyal house elf, Kreacher, is a ghost of Barty’s best friend’s presence.  They have a certain respect for each other, though it’s almost entirely based around their bonds to Regulus.

     Kreacher can’t help but take notice of Barty’s manner of entrance.  It’s abrupt, hasty, and the man appears absolutely sickly.  His freckles contrast more against his skin than ever, given how pale he is when he looks at the house elf with wide eyes.  He seems taken aback to be greeted, and he falters with hand pressed against the wall, leaning on it for support.  Out of breath, it takes a moment for him to think.

     “Master Barty?” Kreacher asks with a tentative and hoarse voice.  Despite his drooping and sagging skin in his old age, he manages to convey some sense of confusion and concern in the face of Barty’s interruption.

     At first, Barty can only stutter a syllable or two.  He gathers himself.  “Kreacher, is there.”  Stare. His mouth moves silently as he tries to organize his thoughts.  “Bathroom. Please.”  He only receives a pointed finger in response from the house elf. Barty offers a simple nod before rushing down the hall.  There are following words from Kreacher, directions, but he doesn’t quite register them. With each step further into the home, he begins to recollect the layout.  Barty rarely wanders this deep into Grimmauld Place.  He finds himself surprised when he correctly remembers the placement of the bathroom.

     Stumbling in, he wonders how he managed to get this far.  His fingers tremble so badly that he struggles to lock the door. Sweating, he can feel the acrid taste of nausea biting at his mouth.  He’s so dizzy.  He nearly falls over on his way to the toilet, dropping hard on his knees, and retching.  It’s bile and nothing else.  When did he last eat?  Maybe it’s a blessing that he hasn’t.  Despite the empty stomach, he heaves for far too long, as his sickened state hasn’t been caused by anything physical at all.  

     It’s strange how emotions alone can push someone past queasiness.  Anxiety has always made him suffer, but this is something else.  It isn’t completely unfamiliar to him.  The last time this happened, he was hit by this feeling with such sudden force that he hadn’t had the control he’s shown now.  Perhaps it was because, back then, he had maintained his external calm for a heinous amount of time.

     How can someone hold onto repose like that after killing their own father?

     Shock, perhaps.  Necessity, perhaps.  Insanity? Certainly, he has gone mad, though he can’t pinpoint when.  So much has happened.  Yet, there were eleven years of stagnancy; it has clearly affected him, nonetheless.  With his father, he used his hands.  There were years of reason to justify his actions. Anger, a grudge, and the abuse to reinforce it.  What of this?

     This isn’t the same.  His rage is fresh and raw and insatiable.  With his father, it was embers stoked and consistently fed over years, but this is a roaring flash fire fueled by gasoline.  He has burned himself too, manifesting in reality by way of action and its consequences; his mottled skin on his arm now greyed, necrotic, and scarred from attempts to remove the dark mark is just one example.  Then there is now, overtaken by tears and an acidic taste coating his teeth. He attempts to spit it away, but it clings to him, just a reminder that he’s dirty.  Dirty.  Barty yanks the chain to flush it all away.  Falling back, he slumps against the wall, breathing heavily.  What possessed him to come here and soil those childhood memories?  To drag his rot through a house that no longer held such foul residents?  They don’t deserve this contamination.  This thought screams louder in his head when he looks down at his feet, seeing red.

     Horror strikes his face.  There must be blood in his wake, trailing down the hall from his bootsteps.  He, quite literally, has tainted this place. Nothing fills him. Hollowness.  He feels blank.  Jarringly, he then feels punched with the full amount of what he has done, and he bursts into sobbing.  His back presses into the wall behind him, feet pushing himself into it, and he curls inward, hoping that he might wither from his wild state into nonexistence.  His hands grab at his hair, pulling, and maybe he can tear himself apart.  To stop.  Stop himself.  Stop everything.

     The man was unknown to him.  And if Barty would have recognized him by looking harder, it would be impossible now. Killing death eaters is no longer new to him.  He casts curses with hisses through his fangs, like a feral dog trying to bite anyone he can. Barty is all claws and gnashing teeth and frothing mouth.  That is, except now, when he stares at the floor where he has tracked blood in. Then, he becomes what howls and cries and tries to pull out its own teeth because it’s scared of itself.  Something that wishes it wasn’t rabid.  Something that wishes he hadn’t stomped.

     And stomped.  And stomped. And stomped.

     Its face was mangled when he left it.  The body’s, that is.  Barty thinks: it, it, it. He doesn’t want it to be a he.  He doesn’t want to think that it was ever a person, but that it was always a body, because that feels easier.  But that person screamed and fought because it was not an it, it was a he.

     When Barty can breathe again, when new tears cease to flow, he does not know how long he has been hiding away in that bathroom.  He feels exhausted.  His limbs are heavy.  His head aches.  Barty knows that his eyes must be red and his face puffy.  It takes more time before he gathers himself out of his pile on the floor, pulling himself back into a person.  At the mirror, he washes his face.  Rinses his mouth, then his hair too.  Wonders if he can clean everything about himself.  Remembering, he pulls out his wand, and he removes what he has dirtied across the floor.  Remnants on his shoes.  He thinks that it won’t ever really be gone, will it?  History sticks to his feet.

     Not knowing what to do, he stands for some time.  He lingers in this place that feels liminal; he’s scared to leave it. Instead, he puts it off longer, searching for a towel to dry his face and hair.  He reasons with himself that he can’t leave until there’s no sign of redness to indicate his breakdown.  Following this logic, he stays, feeling like he’s doing no more than floating.  Given the vomiting and weeping and subsequent blankness while standing around, it’s impossible for him to estimate how long he has been here.  Evidently, enough time for someone to feel it necessary to knock at the door.  The sound brings him back to his body, grounding him, and there’s a long moment where he wonders whether to answer at all. Which is silly; of course, he must.

     “Barty?”  He recognizes the voice to be Remus Lupin’s.  “Kreacher told me you were here.”

     Silence.  Barty trudges to the door, taking a deep breath.  Exhales.  It’s tentative, but he slowly opens the door.  He peers out, feeling shy and awkward and disgusting.  It must show because Remus seems taken aback.  Barty would not have appeared too healthy regardless of his current circumstances; lack of much eating or sleeping for the past week (or more?) has taken its toll.  He has always worn sleeplessness under his eyes and rarely stayed nourished when under his own control, but it has simply worsened.

     Remus hesitates.  He can’t say he has felt more sympathy than resentment for Barty, but the shock of Barty’s state before him seems to have rattled his usual stance.  “Can I get you something?”

     Then it’s Barty’s turn to hesitate.  He doesn’t like asking for things.  Doesn’t like to overstay his welcome, which really means that he should never set his foot in the door.  But he feels so dizzy and out of place that he cannot reasonably leave right now. Thinking of it, he wonders if he can walk very far at all because standing alone has made him feel faint.  “I.”  His eyes fall to Remus’ feet.  Those are clean.  Curious, his eyes flicker down the hall.  There doesn’t seem to be anything left behind.  “Could I.  Get a glass of water.”  He gazes back up at Remus. “If that’s okay.”

     It’s off-putting.  Remus is fully aware of Barty’s displeasure in remaining here.  Given what he believes has been a long stay in the bathroom for Barty and the red eyes, he has many questions.  He doesn’t ask.  Instead, he nods politely.  Barty has always earned that much from him, though entirely due to Dumbledore’s word. “Yes.  You can, yes.  Come along.”

     Barty emerges from his place of safety, wary of his surroundings as Remus leads him to the kitchen.  He’s possibly more upset when Order members show him kindness than when they do not. Remus has always afforded him that luxury, somehow.  Very shallow, yes, but Remus does not glare at him with contempt the way others do. Barty does not hear venom in Remus’ tone.  That seems terribly nice from Barty’s perspective.  He knows Remus must be so much more close to Harry than most people that walk through these halls.

     It’s all a daze, but Barty finds himself leaning against a counter as he hears glass clatter.  Water running.  Out of focus, it takes Remus calling Barty? for him to recognize that a cup is being offered to him.  He takes it gently, and he utters a confused, quiet, and too meek thank you in his usual flavor of gratitude within this house.  They are quiet.  This is the extent of the kindness, Barty thinks as he drinks.  The reality is that Remus is mostly just inspecting him.  Remus doesn’t quite understand what he is taking witness to right now.

     It’s a loud crack that yanks them from their stillness.  Noisy running greets their ears along with a shrill voice.  “Master Barty!  Master Barty!”  Barty stiffens, standing upright, and he feels his jaw clench as he stares wide eyed toward the kitchen entrance.  He sets his water aside as his house elf bounds into the room, much the way he himself entered Grimmauld place earlier.  “Winky is here!  Winky is here for Master Barty!”

     Upon seeing her, he immediately falls to his knees.  He nearly plummets to the ground entirely in his weakness, stopping himself with a palm on the ground, and his other arm opens wide.  As soon as she’s near, he grabs her in a hug. “Winky.  What are you doing here?”

     “Kreacher told Winky about Master Barty!  Winky is worried, so she is coming to Master Barty to make sure he is okay!”  It’s now that, looking over her shoulder, Barty sees Kreacher trailing into the kitchen. Only now does Barty realize that it must have been Kreacher who cleaned the floors of Barty’s terrible mistake. He simply hugs her tight, thankful to have her, though it must make him look worse to Remus, that Kreacher felt the need to summon Winky.  It certainly has the other man curious, as Remus regards Barty with a puzzled expression. It makes little sense to him how Barty has always treated Kreacher so respectfully, and seeing Barty show such warmth toward his house elf only serves to further bewilder.  “Master Barty, you is awful looking!  Winky will make you dinner.  Master Barty needs to eat! You is never eating, you has never eaten enough, and Winky is filled with worry for Master Barty always!”

     Barty simply shakes his head, and his eyes shortly flick toward Remus before focusing on Winky while he pulls away from the hug.  “N- no, Winky, I am fine.  This is not — we are not home right now,” he mumbles.

     “Master Barty will eat in the Black home.  Master Regulus would want Master Barty to eat,” Kreacher reasons.  

     Remus continues to watch, befuddled by the house elves’ insistence on taking care of this man, once a death eater.  Yes, house elves might remain loyal to their families regardless of how they are viewed by their masters, but these two aren’t really bound to Barty by any means. Kreacher never has been.  He hasn’t complained about Barty’s traitorous intentions toward pureblood kind.  Winky has been released from Barty’s care since Barty Crouch Sr. died, and this is not to mention that the man now down on his knees hugging her was the one to murder the Crouch home’s last head of house.  She showed beyond no ill-will, but a true desire to take care of Barty despite his betrayal.

     “I am not your master, Kreacher.”  Barty sighs. “You must not call me that.”  Making a scene is the last thing that he wants. Still, Kreacher hobbles over to them, looking quite stubborn with his chronic hunch and crossed arms.  Winky appears just as determined.  It seems that she never will be able to stop being his caretaker, as she has been for almost his entire life.

     “The kitchen is mostly under Molly’s supervision,” Remus notes.  He is not looking at Barty, but over to the entrance. Barty only then realizes that they have gathered an audience of one, with Mrs. Weasley eyeing them with an equally bemused stare.  Her brows are furrowed, as she has never quite been able to hide her dislike, choosing what one might call aggressive passive-aggression.  She stares at him hard.

     Having weighed her decision carefully, it seems he has made claim to some amount of sympathy from her.  Barty is completely certain that he must be in pathetic condition when she announces it. “You can have dinner here.  Be sure to eat at the dining room table.” After the curt acceptance, she abruptly turns and leaves.

     It’s a bit late, but Barty sputters a “thank you.”

     From the other room, he hears:  “You’re welcome, dear.”

     Molly Weasley terrifies him more than anyone else here, he thinks.

     Given the permission, the house elves begin zooming around the kitchen.  “Kreacher will make tea for Barty.  The werewolf can take Barty to the dining room.”

     Remus seems to go rigid.  His secret, once again, is taken from him.  He shouldn’t be surprised by now, but it particularly goes down sour to have it announced to Barty.  Worse yet is the dumb-founded look spread across his face.  Remus’ arms cross, feeling defensive.  Barty composes himself.

     “Kreacher, that is.”  He reaches upward, rubbing his forehead.  He still has a headache.  “Well beyond rude.  You shouldn’t say things like that.”

     “Kreacher thought that Barty was not his master,” replies the house elf haughtily.

     Barty furrows his brows, now pushing himself up with hands on his knees. “I doubt Regulus would care for you to conduct yourself with such ill-form.  Remus is, after all, a guest in the Black home.  You reflect poorly upon them.”

     The house elf doesn’t spare him a glance.  “That is up for Kreacher to decide.”

     Now standing, Barty sighs.  The most he can do is offer Remus an apologetic expression.  What he receives back is a perturbed face.  It manages to soften.  “You tried,” Remus acknowledges, and he beckons Barty to follow him to the dining room.

     While most of the home was still in disrepair, much less grand than when Barty was a boy, the kitchen and dining room are far more presentable.  He supposes this must be due to Molly’s frequent use of the kitchen and the dining room serving as a place of conference for the Order.  It no longer feels as intimidating to him as when he was a boy.  He and Regulus were so small.  Remus gestures to the long table for him to sit, and Barty does with a nod in thanks.  Then exiting, Barty is alone.

     It’s hard to sit in this place.  The nostalgia isn’t pleasant like most would feel when encountering a place with fond memories.  It’s painful. Oppressive, even.  It only makes him think of what he misses.  Nothing was ever perfect for him, but coming to the Black family house was a reprieve from a hostile home life.  Two boys horsing around.  He remembers hiding under this table when playing hide and seek.  Regulus grabbed him by the ankle and pulled him out as they screamed with laughter.  Now this place contains meetings with the goal of stopping people like who they became.  Barty wonders if Regulus would feel just as out of place as Barty does now.  Then again, Barty always feels like Regulus had a sense of self that he never had or ever will have.  Confidence.  Enough to emotionally reclaim what was his.  He likely could have walked right in without this anxiety.  Barty wishes he would.  Wishes Regulus would run in, grab him by the arm, and lead him to his room, and he would show Barty all of his obnoxious knick-knacks, and Barty would be delighted.  Yes, Barty wishes that.  He has wanted to see that room ever since he first revisited Grimmauld Place, but he never dared.  He isn’t sure he ever will find it in him to.  Even if someone invites him.

     For the umpteenth time that night, he finds himself being dragged back to reality. This time it’s with the arrival of Winky and Kreacher with his promised meal.  It’s vaguely upsetting to see them serve him, though there is something comforting about it.  While Kreacher chooses to leave, Barty requests Winky stay, and she sits in his lap with one of his arms wrapped around her.  This is another depressing form of nostalgia, as the last time he had the pleasure of dining with her like this was while he lived in the Crouch mansion, enslaved by the Imperius curse.  It still brings him happiness to have her here.  He wouldn’t have it any other way.  He misses her dearly.

     They still don’t get it, Remus and Molly.  Unable to simply leave Barty be, they peer into the dining room periodically before stepping aside to talk about it.  Stranger and stranger he seems to them.  “Do you think he’s really so fond of her?” Molly asks after a suspicious peek at the guest.

     “I don’t know.”  Remus keeps his gaze pointed towards his hands, rubbing a thumb against his palm. It’s all interesting.  “You know, I never could understand how he became a death eater.  I knew him while at Hogwarts.  We were both prefects, so he would come to me sometimes.”  He chuckles with slight disbelief.  “He was… Talkative.  He always said he didn’t like death eaters, and a few of the kids he ran around with were muggleborn.  It never added up to me.”

     “I didn’t know him, but the way Minerva described him when they caught him — he sounded evil.”  She never asked Harry about that night since, though she desperately wanted to know more. Dumbledore warned them all about talking to him about it.  “Absolutely vile.  Mad. But we’re supposed to accept him now? I just don’t understand it.”

     Remus nods.  “I never saw him like that; haven’t seen him at all since school.  I almost didn’t believe he could be a death eater, and I still wasn’t entirely sure after the trial.  But after Lily and James…  Well, anything seemed possible.”  His face fell, incapable of not becoming somber at the memory of the Potters and Sirius and Peter.  That night made it so hard for him to trust anyone again.  “But that man in there seems more like the boy I knew than anything anyone has said about who he is supposed to be now.  Dumbledore knows something we don’t.”

     “I wish he would explain more.”  And that, they could both agree on.

     Remus took it upon himself to try and understand.  Curiosity had won against his reservations about Barty, so he grabbed himself a cup of tea before entering the dining room.  He finds it less reasonable to hold onto his anger after Harry expressed to him that he found Barty to be pitiful and disappointing rather than someone to be hated.  Perhaps Dumbledore had explained to Harry why this man started visiting them. Remus doesn’t exactly know if Harry forgave Barty, though either way wouldn’t surprise him.  Harry has gone through so much because of this man, but the boy has always been so full of a desire to seek out the goodness in people. He isn’t unlike Dumbledore in that respect, Remus thinks.  Whether Barty deserves that kindness has yet to be seen.

     Barty never expected the company, so his eyes widen from his corner at the very end of the table.  Winky, too, blinks her large eyes at Remus as he sits down across from Barty.  A pause falls between them as Barty expects Remus to make some comment.  When he doesn’t, Barty becomes quite sheepish, and he returns to his soup so that he isn’t expected to fill the silence either.  The only sounds between them are the soft clacks of silverware and sipping.

     Finally, unable to remain silent, Barty speaks:  “I — well.  Thank you. For both of you.”  He paws at his soup with his spoon.  “Letting me be here, that is.”  If Sirius had been the one to find him, he certainly would not be sitting at this table.

     “Why did you do it?”

     Barty’s eyes raise from his food, astonished by the question.  It seems so abrupt from Remus, of all people.  The accompanying intense stare, also unusual, only exacerbates this feeling.  It takes him a moment to entirely wrap his head around what Remus is asking.  It’s such an all-encompassing thing to inquire; there’s too much to be said, and he isn’t sure what Remus wants to hear. Barty’s eyebrows knit together.  “That is…  Rather complex.  There is a lot to say.”

     “I have the time,” Remus encourages.

     It isn’t that Barty doesn’t want to explain.  In fact, he yearns for it.  He wants people to understand.  Maybe they will still hate him by the end of his story, but he just wants them to listen. However, he hasn’t even begun, and it feels like it may end up too overwhelming to repeat it in its entirety the same way he did to Dumbledore.  Barty’s eyes fall on Winky.  He isn’t sure either that he could start with her in the room.  “Winky.  Do you think you could check on Kreacher?  See if he needs help with anything.”

     He and Remus know fully well that Kreacher isn’t doing any work anyways. Perhaps Winky around might facilitate some change in that area.  Barty just wants her to go for now.  She seems crestfallen at the request, but she slides off his lap.  “Winky does what Master Barty asks.”  As she walks away, Barty takes the chance to try and finish his soup to fill in the time before she exits.

     Then setting it down, he sighs at the bowl, fingertips tapping away at it. What to say.  Where to begin.  “How much do you want to know?”

     Remus considers.  “Everything,” he decides.

     The expression Barty gives him betrays that he feared Remus would say that. “Alright.  It just.  I do not know how long it will take to tell you.”

     Remus nods, now also looking down at Barty’s bowl.  “If not tonight, you can finish tomorrow night.  Or whenever you next have a chance.”  Barty tilts his head at Remus.  Remus continues, “Something tells me you could do with more meals here.”

     Barty’s stare is long.  Bewildered, to say the least.  He never expected the offer.  Frankly, it doesn’t make sense to him.  Doesn’t seem reasonable.  There isn’t a reason to want Barty here, want his explanations.  Even from Dumbledore, he can’t understand the kindness he was given by being able to share, nor the later acceptance.  To think Remus would give him the same privilege is an alien concept. But he nods.

     “If you wouldn’t mind,” Remus adds.

     “Yes.  Of course, yes.  I can tell you everything.”