#this is sort of a companion to that post i made a few days ago

[metanarrates]

an artist is a director of audience reaction, not its dictator. if you know your craft well, you can make most of your cues hit, but in the end, interpretation of art is up to the viewer. you cannot guarantee that everyone viewing your work will react as you are trying to make them react. a good artist knows that this is what allows works to breathe. by definition, you cannot have art where the viewer brings nothing to the table. you do have to respect both the generative and interpretive ends of the process if you want your art to mean anything.

this is why you have to let go of the urge to plainly state in-text exactly how you think the work should be interpreted. that desire for control conveys disrespect for audience. if you have developed your storytelling skills well enough, the audience will understand what you are trying to communicate without needing you to intercede as authorial voice. sure, some won't get it, but it's better to be misinterpreted sometimes than to talk down to your audience. you won't even gain any control that way; people will still develop their opinions no matter what you do. just find a way to communicate your ideas and hope that it comes across well to your audience at some point

[drawlfoy]

the benefits of journaling p.1

pairing: diary!tom riddle x ravenclaw!reader

summary: you pick up an unassuming journal in diagon alley during an antiques sale without knowing that it's actually a part of a late dark lord's soul. sort of no voldy AU, set in the golden trio era where voldemort was defeated in the first war and thus harry has parents still.

warnings: she/her pronouns/reader that stays in the girl's dorms, language, eventual discussion of murder and whatnot but not yet!, you being a little femcel-aligned/obsessed, tom being awkward because he's been stuck in a diary without talking to anyone for 50 years, i fumble around trying to explain how to brew potions after taking only one semester of high school biology

please note that this tom riddle is definitely not the same tom riddle that dumbledore describes in canon. i read a few meta posts that rewired my brain and now my tom riddle is ~complicated~ and not just evil and murdery for the plot. so just keep that in mind lol

a/n: whoa is this....something other than draco on this blog? yes. im suffering right now and needed to get this out. hopefully i can get this longfic completed within 2-3 parts! i'm not using my usual taglist because i don't know how many of my draco readers want this

wc: 10k

The day you unknowingly bought a part of the late Lord Voldemort’s soul was like any other. It was overcast, the thick clouds a somber, humid ceiling hanging above you and Lucy as you made your way through the annual antiques sale in a dusty corner of Diagon Alley.

“Y/N,” said your companion for the day—a slight, freckled witch with mushroom brown waves and a perpetual smile etched into her mouth. “Look. This is so you.”

You looked up from the bookshelves of one of the stands. It took you a moment to see what she was holding, but once it came into focus, you rolled your eyes. “Oh, sod off. Not funny.” 

Lucy just cackled, tossing the crudely carved wooden snake back onto the pile wearing a wicked grin. 

The world is cruel in that you can scream once when you see Draco Malfoy’s pet ball python in third year and no one ever lets you forget it. 

You turned away from Lucy, looking back to the old bookshelf that had been moved onto the cobbled street. The rich mahogany wood was close to buckling under the weight of all the tomes stacked haphazardly atop each other—far more than would be advisable. 

But it wasn’t just the furniture that caught your eye. No, it was the glimpse of a black spine on the bottom, partially hidden away by an ancient encyclopedia on arithmancy. 

You knelt, carefully arranging your robes so that they wouldn’t pick up dust from the street. You narrowly managed to avoid sending all the books on top tumbling into the street by slowly sliding it out from under the stack.

An unimpressively sized black journal laid in your hand, looking entirely unassuming and incredibly boring. 

You frowned. A quick flip-through confirmed that it was in fact a journal—and that there was nothing written in it. 

Why would someone try to sell an unused journal at an antiques market? You wondered, turning it over in your hand. Though its pages appeared entirely pristine, you could see some wear on the cover. There were no markings detailing when it had been manufactured.

It could very well have been an antique journal, you conceded. But why anyone would want an empty journal made years ago was beyond you.

You went to set the journal back onto the stack, getting so far as to nearly loosen your grip and let it drop from your fingers, when—

You had to buy this journal. 

You weren’t sure why, or how. You just knew that this journal was coming home with you today, even if it was the least interesting thing you could’ve come across in your shopping trip.

“What’s that?” asked Lucy, appearing at your side and gently taking the journal from you. 

“Just an empty journal, I think,” you answered, staring blankly at it in her hands. 

“You know we can just get a normal new one at the bookstore, right?” 

“Well, I like this one,” you heard yourself say. “It has…character.”

“Character.” She snorted, holding it up next to her face. “This is the most bland looking thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Consider yourself blind, then. Surely they’ll charge you twice the cost for this since it’s allegedly ‘vintage’.” Lucy made liberal use of air quotes. “You sure you don’t want to stop by the bookstore before we go? It’ll be on our way.”

“No, it’s really fine,” you said, taking it back into your hands, “I really like this one for some reason. I don’t know. There’s just something about it.”

Lucy tilted her head, giving it one last odd look. “Whatever you say. You go check out, then. Mum’s going to expect me back soon and the queue looks a bit long.” 

The journal sat in your bag for the remainder of the summer, nearly forgotten as you went about your day. You opened it for the first time to examine it on August 31st, just a day before you were off to begin your 6th year.

There was writing that you hadn’t noticed before—thin, elegant script on the inside of the cover in black lettering. A simple “Property of Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

You stared, letting your finger trace gently across the parchment. There was a slight indentation at the lower swoop of the last letter “L”, like whoever had written it had pressed a little too hard with his quill. 

“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” you whispered, trying the syllables out on your tongue. You’d never heard of any wizard named that before. You wondered how long it had been since those words had been written. You wondered if Tom Marvolo Riddle was still alive, and if he was, why he saw it fit to mark his property and then swiftly lose its custody to an antiques dealer. 

Oh well. Sucks to suck, you thought dryly as you took the quill that you’d been using to finish updating your calendar and lifted it over the parchment. Whatever happened to the crusty old dinosaur that hadn’t even been able to make one full entry into his own journal before croaking or whatever was none of your business.

You’d barely started out how you imagined a normal person would begin a diary—a date, August 31st—when it suddenly became clear why this Tom fellow had been unable to leave a lasting mark. 

The ink hadn’t even begun to dry before it sank into the pages, disappearing in a blink of an eye.

“What the fuck,” you mumbled, dumbstruck. You dipped your quill in ink once again and drew a series of short slashes across the first page, using more ink than was strictly necessary.

In a moment it was as if they had never been there.

WHAT??? You wrote mindlessly in the freshly blank page as your mind spun. What kind of magic was this? And what was the point? 

No wonder you’d been drawn to it. It was probably dripping in all sorts of charms. Maybe the combination had been unintentionally alluring to particular passerbys. 

Before you could think any further, the clean page transformed again, but not at your hand.

Hello.

The word assembled letter by letter, as if a ghost was writing it over your shoulder. 

It seems you've found my journal.

You stared. A journal that could write back to you. Huh. A smile caught on your lips as you became glad after all that you’d chosen this one over a plain bookstore version. 

How old are you? You wrote, resting your chin in your palm as you waited for a response as to whether or not your new acquisition actually belonged at the antiques market. 

Sixteen.

You frowned. That was hardly vintage.

This was made sixteen years ago?

The response appeared quickly..

No. I'm sixteen.

Yeah. You were made sixteen years ago.

This time, the journal seemed to hem and haw at the response.

What year is it? Was the final answer that appeared.

What year do you think?

1943. 

A little off. you wrote impishly.

Oh really?

Just a smidge.

Define a smidge, please. 

What does it matter to you?

This seemed to stump the journal. 

May I ask who I have the pleasure of speaking with?

You may not. Then, because you had nothing better to do, you dipped your quill and drew out a Tic-Tac-Toe board, placing an X in the middle.

The board disappeared into the page, and for a moment you wondered if you’d annoyed your magical journal too much. But then it reappeared, this time with an O in the middle.

You huffed. When you took too long to respond, another line appeared below. 

I'm Tom. Tom Riddle.

You stared at the letters, the implications sinking in. If the journal had belonged to Tom—who was presumably a real person at some point in his life—then that would mean…which meant…

In seconds you’d slammed the journal shut and had your wand out, poking at the binding and being careful to avoid touching it again with your bare hands. Stupid, stupid you, buying something that had so clearly been engineered to lure you in, just like it probably had done to Tom back in the 40s. 

The antique market rarely had issues with unknowingly cursed objects. They were allegedly thoroughly vetted by the stand officials to ensure that something like this didn’t happen. But perhaps this one had fallen through the cracks.

There was nothing you could do for now except to wrap the journal in a blanket and throw it into your suitcase. As a muggleborn, there was going to be no real magic for you until tomorrow on the train. 

Better to investigate then, you decided firmly. With access to spellwork, you could at least cast protective wards around yourself and try to detect what exactly was wrong with it the next time you touched it. 

Yes, you thought. That cannot possibly go wrong.

~

“Y/N!” 

“Sorry, what was that?” You blearily blinked in the direction of Lucy and Ishan, both sitting there with an expectant look on their faces. 

“I was saying that I’m pretty sure that Parkinson and Malfoy are actually together this time,” said Lucy, frowning. “I just came from the loo and his head was in her lap. Revolting, to be entirely honest. I can’t believe I had to see that with my own eyes. But whatever. Are you feeling alright? You keep spacing out.”

“I’m fine.” You pulled the fabric of your robe over your wrist so you could gently scrub at your eyes. “Just—tough night last night. I barely slept.”

“I totally get that,” mused Lucy, nodding as her gaze fixed itself on the window. “I can normally never get to sleep the night before we leave. I just get so excited for the new year.”

You smiled. “Yeah.” 

But that hadn’t been your problem. Despite the creepy journal encounter that had left you with your mind spinning, you’d fallen asleep deeply the moment you’d gotten into bed. The issue had been staying asleep after all the dreams you’d had. 

You rarely dreamt. When you did and remembered it the next day, it was normally nonsensical and had to do with forgotten final exams or missing a lecture. But last night…last night had been different.

There was a boy. His hair was dark and his face cast mostly in shadow, his voice a tenor that seemed typical to boys in your year. He hadn’t been speaking anything you’d understood, though. The most peculiar, bone-chilling hissing noises came from his mouth as he bowed his head leaned over a vaguely familiar sink. 

Even though he wouldn’t acknowledge you, it was as if a channel had been opened between you two, like you could feel his emotions as phantoms within you. 

Franticness. Vindictiveness. A thirst for vengeance beyond anything you’d ever felt before.

You sat watching this mysterious dark haired boy from the cobbled floor, feeling the wetness on the stones seep into your robes, climbing up and up until it soaked your skin. 

At precisely 4 in the morning, you’d shot awake so distressed that you hadn’t slept a wink after. Needless to say, you were hardly what you’d consider to be well-rested.

The remainder of the train ride and the welcoming feast went on without a hitch. You managed to keep yourself from falling asleep at dinner and even joined in on the cheering for new Ravenclaws. The first years seemed to look younger and younger every year, you noted dully as you cut into the roast on your plate. It was making you feel awfully old.

Sixth year was supposed to be exciting—the year of N.E.W.T.S and figuring out what you’d concentrate in during your final year and getting to go to Hogsmeade without permission. But you hadn’t quite figured out what it was that you wanted to study. Being a muggleborn from a modest upbringing meant that you couldn’t be too frivolous. There was no amateur art or sports or celebrity career in your future. You couldn’t even count on marrying well—or marrying at all, in fact. None of your halfblood or pureblood friends seemed to understand that your family hadn’t already had an engagement arranged for you from the moment you were born. It was hard to look forward to a life that was so cloaked in uncertainty. 

That being said, you had more immediate concerns to attend to. Though the journal was tucked safely away in one of your suitcases far away in the Ravenclaw Tower, you couldn’t help but feel its presence. You were itching to get back to your dorm so you could steal away into a corner and begin to inspect it. 

Dumbledore finally dismissed the students after a rather uninspiring speech about the importance of dreaming big and staying true to yourself. You all but ran up the stairs, rushing to unpack all of your things.

“Merlin,” noted Padma from her desk. “That excited to move in?”

“I just want to go to bed,” you said, relishing the feeling of casting a spell to quickly stow away your skirts and button ups into your dresser. “Long day.”

“And even longer tomorrow.” Lucy was sitting at her desk, her feet crossed at the ankles. She’d somehow unpacked even quicker than you. “Does everyone have their finalized timetable for the term?”

“I’ve got Potions with Slughorn and Transfiguration with McGonagall on Mondays and Thursdays,” you began, unzipping your last bag and flicking your wand to send your school supplies to your desk. “Divination with Trelawney, Arithmancy with Vector, and Runes with Babbling on Tuesdays and Fridays. And of course the extended lab section on Wednesday for Potions.”

“Which lab section?”

“Morning,” you said. The diary was levitating from your wand now, looking unassuming and very innocent under the golden light of your dorm room. “You?”

“Same,” said Lucy, grinning. “I can’t believe you’re taking N.E.W.T level Divination. Do you hate yourself?”

“It was that or History of Magic.”

She nodded emphatically, turning back to make a marking in her planner.

With the dorm settled into a comfortable silence, you brandished your wand again, peering at the diary in front of you. 

There was nothing outwardly sinister about it. When you’d gone over to Ishan’s manor over Easter break last year, he’d shown you some of the (potentially unlawful) darker artifacts that his old pureblood family had in possession. They’d felt dark. This journal didn’t have that syrupy thick feel around it. Its aura felt sparkly, magnetic. Surely it couldn’t have been dark magic. Because all dark magic felt dark, right?

You gulped. You wouldn’t touch it with your bare hands anymore, you reasoned. Just spellwork and using the tip of your wand to maneuver it. Just in case.

Your 5 years of Hogwarts education had left you sorely deficient in useful diagnostic spells, so you dug around in one of your Defense Against the Dark Arts textbooks from previous years and found a section on spells to examine magical objects. 

Revelo you whispered, feeling the slight jolt of magic as the charm left your wand. 

Nothing, It didn’t even glow blue, a sign of magically active objects. 

Huh. 

You frowned. The slightly more obscure spell you’d heard Snape use once on a student’s suspiciously well-written essay didn’t yield anything either. 

“Whatcha doing?’

You nearly screamed, clutching your wand to your chest. 

Lucy grinned wickedly as she leaned over your shoulder and reached for your journal. “Ooh, is this that thing you bought at—”

“Don’t touch!” You quickly batted her hand away. 

“Sheesh,” said Lucy. “Chill. I wasn’t going to read it or anything. I was just wondering why you were waving your wand at your journal. Secrecy spells?”

“No,” you said. Your heart was racing, “Er—not quite. I actually haven’t written in it, you see,”

“Oh?” Lucy’s brows furrowed in confusion, “Explain the theatrics then?”

A half-baked lie formed at your lips that was about to spill when you stopped yourself. Lucy was your friend. She’d been your best friend since the moment you’d met on the Hogwarts Express during first year. There was no reason to lie.

“It’s so weird!” You motioned towards the diary with your wand. “I buy this, right, because I feel this weird draw to it. And I take it home and try to write in it, and suddenly the book starts writing back.”

“A self-writing journal?” 

“Not quite. Maybe. Maybe not, I’m not sure. It’s just—something’s not totally right about it, but I can’t tell if it’s dangerous or not.”

Lucy gave a good natured snort. “A journal? Dangerous? And from old Linda’s stand? Please. I see her going through everything in her inventory. The poor shopboy in charge of vetting items has to answer to her if he slips up. There’s no way anything actually powerful slipped onto the stacks.” 

You stuck the tip of your wand under the cover and carefully pried it open, pointing at the lettering on the inside. 

“Tom Marvolo Riddle?” She frowned. “Am I supposed to know that name?”

“I don’t know,” you responded at the swooping lettering. “But the journal talked back like it was Tom. Like, it introduced itself as Tom and said that it was 1943. And it acted like an….I don’t know. It was like it was a real person talking to me.”

“Huh.” You could see the gears slowly turning in Lucy’s head,

“Do you know any detection or diagnostic spells?” you asked. “I tried all the ones that we’ve learned so far and it doesn’t even detect magic. But it has to be cursed, right? If the last owner of this diary got sucked into it?”

Lucy was just beginning to open her mouth when ink began to appear.

It is rather rude to be casting all sorts of spells in my direction without warning.

You jumped. “Jesus Christ. Do you see that?”

“Yeah, I do,” said Lucy, but her eyes were crinkled. “Girl. Don’t worry. If it was dangerous, you’d probably know by now. You’ve had it around you for, what, two months? And you’ve already touched it. It doesn’t feel dark. I don’t think there are any slow burning curses that gradually trap you inside an object. If you’re still alright, you’ll probably stay that way. Maybe you should just ask Tom how he got there?”

“If I start disappearing, do try to keep me in this plane.”

“Noted.”

Nervously, you dipped a quill on your desk into an inkwell, waiting for a moment before thinking up how to word your request. In the meantime, a drop of ink fell to the page. It was quickly swallowed up by the parchment.

Sorry you began. Just wanted to make sure you weren't going to trap me in there with you or something

An understandable concern

“Just ask him the bloody question,” said Lucy, hitting your shoulder. “I want to go to bed.” 

“Right, right.” 

If you'd like me to stop with the spells, maybe you could tell me how you ended up in here in the first place

“Nice,” said Lucy. She was nodding thoughtfully. “Very smooth.” 

It took a long time for Tom’s answer to appear despite the fact that your writing had almost instantly disappeared. Finally, black ink began to rise. 

It was an accident. Nothing that can be replicated by you, however. There's no need to worry. I fooled around with the wrong book in the school library.

“School library?” Lucy leaned closer so that the locks of her hair dangled over your shoulder. “Ask him if he went to Hogwarts.”

Hogwarts? You wrote quickly. 

Yes.

In your sixth year?

Yes.

“Ooh.” Lucy hit your shoulder. “Maybe you can use this to get comfortable talking to boys, Y/N.”

You scoffed, blushing a hot red. “Excuse me! I’ve told you. I’m too busy for that.”

“Uh huh.” She twirled a piece of her hair around her finger. “Well, I think you should just keep it. It’s harmless. Like I said, it’s from one of the tamest parts of Diagon Alley. And you wouldn’t be able to get anything genuinely dark into Hogwarts. The wards would’ve detected it. Have fun with it.”

“Have fun with it?”

Lucy shrugged, bouncing once as she settled down on her bed. “I dunno. Think about it. I think a responding diary could be fun. Let’s say I’m not around to gossip one day. You have another outlet. Or maybe you could use him to help you study or something. Really, the possibilities are endless.” 

“True.” You mulled over the thought as you let your wand sit on its stand on your desk. Tentatively you grasped the soft leather of the journal and pulled it nearer to you. Tom was waiting for your response, after all. 

Me too you wrote.

And you still won't tell me your name?

“Do you think it’s a bad idea to tell him my name?” you asked Lucy, whipping around.

She set down her book and shook her head. “What’s he gonna do with it? He’s stuck in there.” 

Y/N. 

A splotch of black appeared on the other end, but it was quickly crossed out. 

How did you find me?

Antiques sale in Diagon Alley

I'm an antique?

Given that 1943 was over 50 years ago, yes

Nothing from Tom.

Is that not what you expected? You added. 

I'm not sure

Just as you were about to close the journal and head to bed, Tom wrote again.

And how are you liking your time at Hogwarts?

It's nice. Fall term starts tomorrow. 

You thought about leaving it there, but for some reason the words began to spill out of you. 

It does feel weird being so close to graduating, though. I don’t know quite what it is that I want to do yet.

Oh? But surely you must have some idea.

You pressed the end of your quill to your lips, debating whether or not to share it with this mysterious Tom. In the end, Lucy’s previous comment was what made the scales tip. What did it matter? Tom wasn’t going to tell anyone.

I would really like to go for a cursebreaking mastery abroad, but that hinges on what happens in my N.E.W.Ts this year. I need an O in Potions. 

I was taking N.E.W.T Potions at the time that I was trapped, Tom wrote. Perhaps I can be of assistance.

I can’t ask that of you.

Please do. It’s terribly boring being all alone in here.

You swallowed, watching the ink slowly sink back into nothing. 

What do you mean? What’s it like being trapped?

It took a while for a response to form.

Quiet. You’re the first visitor I’ve ever had. I’m still in Hogwarts, technically, but there’s no one else here. 

I’m sorry you found yourself writing before you could stop yourself. That sounds very lonely.

I don’t mind being lonely. It does get a bit dull, though. 

“Luce,” you said, leaning over the back of your desk chair. “He just offered to help me with Potions.” 

“See? Useful.” 

I've got to go to bed now. First day of classes and whatnot. 

Best of luck

Can you sleep where you are?

I don’t need to but I can

The words chilled you somewhat, but you pushed the feeling away. 

Well, goodnight you wrote. 

Goodnight

~

How were classes?

The ink appeared the moment you flipped open the journal. It was already two weeks into term, and you’d written to Tom nearly every night. You were curled up in bed, your blankets pulled heavy around your lap and your pajamas clean and smelling of lavender. A mug of tea lay steaming on your bedside table, its tendrils barely visible in the dim golden light of the candle you’d lit. 

As expected you wrote, yawning. How was your day?

Oh, you know. Thrilling.

You snorted.

“What are you giggling about?” Lucy’s voice snapped you back into reality. You looked up to see her peeking over the textbook in her lap, a smirk etched deeply into her lips. 

“Nothing,” you said quickly, but the way you slammed the journal shut gave it away.

“Talking to your fake boyfriend, huh?” teased Lucy. 

“I’m not even going to answer that.” You rolled your eyes. “He’s a fucking journal. It’s not like he’s real.”

“Didn’t he say he was trapped in there?”

You huffed. “I guess. He seems to have accepted his position in life, though. It’s not like he’s begging for help.” 

“No,” agreed Lucy. “But just think about it. What if you did manage to get him out? How romantic would that be?”

“Oh my god, shut up!” 

Lucy ducked away from the pillow you lobbed in her direction, cackling maniacally all the way. 

There you are. I thought I’d bored you. 

The words reappeared within seconds of you reopening the journal. You tried to smother the way your lips turned upwards at the sight. 

Sorry you wrote back, hoping that Lucy was sufficiently distracted with her textbook and would give you a rest for the night. A friend wanted to talk.

Does this friend know about me?

You held your quill to your lips for a moment before you wrote back.

Yes. She loves to tease over how much time I spend writing to you 

I take it she doesn’t understand

Quite the contrary. She’s the one who encouraged me to write to you in the first place, in fact.

How so?

Something about how it would be nice to be able to tell my secrets to someone who could never tell anyone else

Tom’s response took a bit longer to appear this time around. 

Oh? Any you’d like to share now?

Your heart skipped a beat as you looked at the drying ink. 

You first.

For a minute, you thought that maybe Tom had disappeared. The parchment remained blank and clean. Maybe he’d gotten bored with you and had gone off to…whatever he did in his empty version of Hogwarts. 

Then the lettering appeared again. 

I used to have a pet snake when I was a child. I was an orphan, you see, and the other children thought that I was too strange to play with. I was terribly lonely. The matron took us to the beach once, and I found this little grass snake in the weeds. I stuck it in my pocket and took it back to the orphanage with me. 

You lived in a muggle orphanage? 

Yes. Obviously. Once I was amongst magicfolk, people did find me quite charming. 

Why’d you pick a snake?

I liked having someone—or something, I suppose—to talk to. 

You stared as the ink sunk back into nothing. Talk. Snakes. Talking?

Are you a Parselmouth? 

I’ve already given a secret Tom wrote. Your turn. 

Will you answer if I give you one?

That’s only fair. 

Secrets—you barely had those. You’d grown up sharing nearly everything with Lucy since you’d been paired up in first year Charms class. 

Not losing your nerve, are you?

I’m just thinking you quickly wrote back. I don’t have many secrets. 

Surely you do. 

This isn’t a very exciting secret. Heat rose to your cheeks as your quill scratched against the paper. But I haven’t told anyone this. 

Go on.

I can’t tell anyone this because they’ll think I’m annoying. I do really well in classes. But I feel like I’m never going to be smart enough. It seems like nothing that I ever do will be enough to stand out 

I understand more than you know

What do you mean?

I was sorted into Slytherin. Coming from such a modest background meant that I had to prove that I was worth the space I was taking up 

A swell of…something rose in you as you stared down at the paper. You tried to imagine this mysterious Tom in the familiar green robes that you saw every day in Potions, scrunching his nose up over a book and studying hard. All alone—motivated by the knowledge that no one was rooting for his success—knowing that there was no name he could depend on to cover even one misstep—

You blinked. Whoa. That was some serious projection. 

I can’t really tell this to anyone else. All of my friends come from influential pureblood families, so they just don’t get why I don’t get to make mistakes or slip up. They think I’m so uptight

Exactly. They all have safety nets. The grades, the house points, the prefect badges—those are all just surface level. It’s your name that gets you anywhere important 

“You’re looking mighty serious over there,” said Lucy from over her textbook. “Trouble in paradise?”

You laughed tightly. “Er, no. Just talking.” 

“Uh huh.”

I always feel like it’s evidence that I don’t belong when I don’t immediately understand something in class you add into the journal. To your horror, tears started pricking at your eyes. None of your friends were muggleborns. You’d never been able to voice these things out loud—or on paper, in this case. Writing it all out seemed so sad now. Like today in Runes. It took me longer than usual to understand a translation technique for this ridiculous slate from the Middle Ages. I had to talk myself down from believing that I’m faking it and that everyone else doesn’t even need to try

Is Babbling still there?

Yes. She’s still teaching 

She was already too old to be coherent when she was teaching me wrote Tom. Tell me, do you have to rennervate her throughout the lesson to keep her present?

She was old back then??? 

Ancient. 

I can’t believe she’s still alive. You chewed on your lip as you thought. She’s practically a fossil.

Do you think of me like that? Old?

Would it make you feel better if I said I considered you vintage? 

I’m wounded

“Fucking get to the library and start researching ways to pull that poor boy out of there,” said Lucy from her bed, “Or stop giggling like that. Merlin. You’re killing me. You’re practically twirling your hair.”

“Shut up!” Slowly, you opened the journal back up after slamming it closed.

Your friend again?

Yes you scribbled back. She’s teasing me again about how I should try to get you out of here. Which I’m assuming is impossible, since I’m doubtful you’re even a real person

I’m very real

Your blood cooled. 

Then why haven’t you asked me to get you out? 

A pause—just long enough for you to feel suspicious. 

I’ve gotten quite used to my little home in here wrote Tom finally. And forgive me if I believe it a bit forward to immediately demand the first person to which I speak to orchestrate my extraction. 

Extraction. Interesting word choice, you thought. 

How polite. Part of you was beginning to feel the slightest bit uneasy. And what would this so-called extraction entail? 

That I haven’t quite figured out yet. The response was instantaneous. Ever since we’ve met I’ve been returning to the library in hopes of finding an answer.

Which book trapped you in here?

Another pause. 

I sincerely doubt it’s still in print wrote Tom. It was a very dangerous book with dark, terrible magic. I had no business digging around in it. I paid the price dearly. 

He refused to elaborate.

You spent the entire weekend digging through the Restricted Section, paging through every book you could imagine that had anything to do with Tom’s situation.

Nothing. Nada. Zero. You tried every querying spell you could think of. You were desperate enough to recruit Madam Pince by telling her that you were writing a paper for a class and needed to find anything there was on getting yourself trapped in magical objects. What she did dig up was at best irrelevant—tales of ill-executed Animagi rituals that resulted in the wizard getting stuck in their animal form and reports of interactions with cursed objects sending the users into a different dimension, never to be heard from again. 

But as you were leaving the library on Sunday night, feeling downtrodden and profoundly disappointed, you saw something that caught your eye: the Alumni section. 

It was one of those things that you always passed by without another thought. No classwork required students to reference previous Hogwarts attendees. It existed largely to appease the old families by nodding to their longstanding presence in Hogwarts, and the only friends who you had ever seen in this part of the library were purebloods curious about their ancestry. As a muggleborn, this was predictably unrelatable. There’d been no person of interest waiting for you in the old, dusty books that were shoved neatly into chronological order, no long-lost ancestor or namesake. 

Not until now. 

The click of your oxfords against the dark hardwood echoed as you came to a stop in front of the stacks. Every yearbook was the color of that school year’s House Cup winner, and the one with 1943-1944 on the thin spine was a rich, loud red. It slid easily from the shelf—which was a relief, because occasionally older books required permission to handle and were thus unremovable—and settled gently in your hands. 

For a second you pondered leaving the aisle and finding a table to crack it open and savor the moment, but the thought of having to explain why you were looking at the 1943 class yearbook would be embarrassing. Doubly so if Lucy found you—she’d never let you hear the end of it. So, case closed. You’d open it here. 

Oh god. You swallowed and used the cuff of your free sleeve to wipe the bead of sweat that had formed on your forehead. This was a terrible idea—or was it? Maybe he wouldn’t be your type. Yes, maybe he’d look just like someone who annoyed you in class or he’d have poorly kept hair or he’d have a creepy smile. Then you could stop thinking about—that.

And that shouldn’t even matter! You squeezed your eyes shut to dispel the thought. It was all Lucy’s fault for teasing you so much about him being your sort-of-weird-ghost boyfriend—part of you was starting to pretend like that was real. And it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It didn’t matter that no boy before had managed to make you this excited to talk to them. It didn’t matter that he got you like no one else in this castle seemed to. It didn’t, because as of present he was actually a journal and not a corporeal being.

In short, you reminded yourself harshly, you were checking this yearbook to verify that a Tom Marvolo Riddle did in fact exist and attended Hogwarts during the time period he claimed. That was it—nothing more. 

Nervously, you let the cover flip open and began to card through the thick pages. Moving pictures of entirely unfamiliar students greeted you, flashing past your eyes. First years, second years, third years, fourth years…

You paused before turning from the fifth year page to the sixth, overwhelmed with the thought that whatever you saw was going to change the way you saw your interactions with the diary. If he wasn’t there, you’d need to re-evaluate how safe this whole diary scenario was. You’d need to go back and reconsider if anything you’d heard from him was ever the actual truth. And if he was…

You swallowed. You couldn’t pretend like you hadn’t been imagining what he’d look like on nights that you struggled to fall asleep. There was never a face you could settle on. Whenever you’d spin up something in your mind’s eye, the features would shift and morph into something entirely different before you could enjoy it. 

But it didn’t matter—it couldn’t matter, because it was crazy that you’d even been fantasizing about a potentially make-believe boy who only existed in a worn diary. 

You turned the page, and Tom Marvolo Riddle stared right back at you.

Tom looked every bit of what you’d expect a Slytherin prefect to be like. Everything about him was neat, orderly, and intentional, from the tidy robes to the obediently shaped dark waves atop his head that looked tragically soft. The only thing out of place was a single piece of black hair, dangling temptingly in the middle of his forehead. 

His lips were drawn into a polite almost smile, his image almost entirely still save for the slight bob of his throat that repeated as the image replayed, over and over again. 

Tom was pretty—much prettier than you ever could’ve thought up on your own. He looked unreal, like he’d been sculpted by some higher being’s hand with the express purpose of being devastatingly ethereal. 

And he’d been talking to you. Connecting with you. And he was real. The weight of your satchel over your shoulder reminded you that he was right there. All it’d take was a quill and some ink to speak to him again. 

The picture had repeated its loop one final time before you closed the book shut and pushed it back onto the shelf, hearing the pounding of your heart the whole way.

When you wrote to him that night, you tried your best to keep yourself imagining how he’d look writing back. Would he smile when he saw that you’d opened the journal? Would he laugh at your (admittedly stupid) jokes? 

September turned into October which tilted into November with such speed that you could barely breathe. Time barreled ahead as classes sped up, assignments piled on, and each day became just another challenge to survive. 

Tom remained one of the few constants in your life, alongside Lucy and Ishan. It was concerning how much you’d come to confide in him, telling him things that you’d never dare to share with anyone else. You told him about the little accomplishments that you could never bring up to your friends, like Professor Snape insulting everyone’s potion except yours and what McGonagall wrote on your most recent paper, calling it one of the most well-researched essays she’d gotten from a N.E.W.T level student. You even told him how Lucy occasionally got on your nerves and how it made you feel like a bad friend. 

He was a good listener and an even better conversationalist. When he wasn’t being your confidant, he was more than happy to indulge any academic topics of interest. You spent hours going back and forth, debating the content of the news headlines that you’d tell him about each day. 

With time, the memory of Tom’s face and intimidatingly good looks faded to the back of your mind. You’d barred yourself from going back into the Alumni section in the library lest you felt inspired to crack open his yearbook again and remind yourself just how attractive your imaginary friend had been when he’d been alive. If you did that, then you’d start fantasizing about a future where you invented some sort of way to pull him out, and that was just silly. You had exams, and Tom didn’t seem particularly rushed in leaving his journal—or he’d at least come to accept that he’d never leave.

Despite this new normality you’d built around the strangeness of the journal, some things still felt tense. You’d grown comfortable with Tom—arguably more comfortable with him than nearly anyone else, save for maybe Lucy, since you couldn’t ever imagine opening up the journal and telling him all about the fact that it was your time of the month and detailing exactly how your cramps were making you feel—but there was this underlying sense of anticipation. For what exactly, you weren’t sure. You just knew that things couldn’t be like this forever. Something had to give. 

In the end, it was Professor Snape who started it. He’d looked down at your cauldron and said something about how your Draught of Living Death base was the most elementary thing he’d ever had the misfortune of laying his eyes upon and that you were lucky to even be allowed into the class, and something inside you broke. 

You’d tried so hard on that potion. You’d followed the instructions to a T. You’d diced everything evenly and stirred it with the precision of a muggle performing brain surgery. Potions had never been your best subject, and you tried to make up for it by trying harder than everyone else. Normally it worked, but N.E.W.T potions was something else.

Tom was taking longer than usual to respond to this particular soliloquy that night, a few letters surfacing before he scribbled them out.

I know this might seem scary he finally wrote. I’ll understand if this frightens you too much. But I think that I may be able to help. 

What do you mean, scary? Are you a mean tutor or something?

I mean that I can show you how to brew that Draught Tom replied. 

Show me?

If my research is correct, it’s possible that I can temporarily cross you over into my world. 

Your heart thudded, your hands suddenly clammy. 

“Lucy?” 

“Yeah, what’s up?” Lucy tossed her book onto her desk and turned to face you. “Oh no. Did something happen? You look awful.”

“Gee. Thanks.” You swallowed. “Er—sort of? I was writing to Tom about how crazy Potions class was today and he told me that he could help me. Like actually tutor me.”

“Is that not a good thing?” 

Your mouth was dry. “No. That’s not it. He means like, tutor me tutor me. In person. He says he can cross me over into his world temporarily.”

Lucy froze. 

“I have to say no, right?” It was so, so stupid that you were asking that. Of course you had to say no. There was no telling what he could do to you if you said yes. Maybe he was actually a demon that was attempting to possess you. Maybe he was going to eat your soul and use your body as a husk to feed on the other students and—

“I mean, probably not.” She thoughtfully pressed the top of her quill to her mouth. “Think about it. You guys have been in contact for months and nothing supernatural has happened. We already came to the conclusion that the journal isn’t dark magic because the wards would’ve kept it out.”

“But what if I get stuck with him? I haven’t been able to find anything about this type of magic before. I don’t know how it works.”

Lucy hummed. Then realization flickered across her features. “Hang on. I think I have something that might help.” 

She dug around in one of her desk drawers until she produced a small spool of half-used thread. It was golden in color but so thin it was nearly iridescent. 

“What’s that?” you asked, squinting at it. 

“It’s Invisible String,” said Lucy, already rolling it out and pulling it around your wrist. It was pleasantly warm against your skin, like it’d just been sitting out in the sun. As soon as it made contact with your body, it disappeared. “It used to be used for Ministry Employees who used Time Turners. Whoever is on the other end of the thread is able to pull the wearer back to this reality and this timeline. It’s very useful in avoiding nasty time related incidents. My dad took home a bunch of spools when Time Turners were officially outlawed. He taught me how to apparate with them since it can also work over long distances in the same reality—just in case I did something stupid.” 

“Wow,” you breathed, staring down at your wrist. There was nothing to stare at, of course. It was already gone. But it was an ingenious little contraption, probably charmed so many times with such obscure and rare spells that it would go for thousands of galleons if you tried to buy it yourself.

The perks of having a rich pureblood best friend, you supposed.

“As long as I’m holding the other end, I’ll be able to bring you back,” explained Lucy, holding the spool up demonstratively. “So, go for it. If that’s your only hold-up, I think you should go meet him. If anything, at least it’ll help your Potions grade.” 

You turned your attention back to the journal, worrying your lip for a second before you dipped your quill in the inkwell and wrote out Ok. 

“This is so exciting,” said Lucy from over your shoulder. “You have to tell me everything when you get back.”

“If I can come back.”

She dangled the spool in front of you. “I’ll make sure of that. If you’re not back by curfew, I’ll yank you back to this reality by myself.”

“Right.” Anxiety began to build in your middle, bubbling up until you were sure you were trembling. 

This might feel a bit uncomfortable was all Tom wrote before you were suddenly falling into a void.

When the inertia faded and light slowly bled back into your vision, you were sprawled on the floor of a Potions classroom that you’d been in when you were a second year. Tom Riddle stood tidily a few feet away from you, wearing the same formal school robes you’d seen on him in the yearbook. 

“Hello.” His voice was proper and measured. It fit him perfectly, but the fact that you were finally hearing him speak for the first time made you feel something that was highly inadvisable. 

“Hi.” 

For a moment, you just stared right back into his eyes as the silence closed in around you and the gravity of your situation sunk in. You’d really done it now, hadn’t you? As if to comfort you, the thread around your wrist warmed against your skin. 

“Don’t worry,” said Tom, like he could already tell what you were thinking.“You won’t be trapped. It’s me who’s bound to this world.” 

“And how are you so sure of that?” 

“This is a prison for my soul,” he said casually. “Not yours. You have nothing keeping you here.” 

“Right.” You slowly made your way from the ground to your feet, brushing off your robes and casting a few cleansing charms to dispel the dust clinging to you. At least your magic seemed to work fine here, you noted. It was a small comfort to know that you’d be able to defend yourself if shit went left. 

“I didn’t think you’d say yes.” Now that he was speaking more, you couldn’t help but admire the way he sounded—silken and smooth and entirely unbothered, like he did this every day. “I was sure that I’d scared you off.”

“You underestimate how much I want that Potions O,” you offered. 

“Never,” he said dryly. “Now that I see that you’re a Ravenclaw, I wouldn’t endeavor to make such ill-informed assumptions.”

You blanched, your head whipping down to take in what you were wearing. You weren’t sure why you were so shocked to see that you were wearing exactly what you’d had on moments ago at your desk—a midnight blue jumper with the Ravenclaw emblem stitched into the left breast, pulled on top of the white button up with the bronze and blue tie tucked underneath. That, and the standard-issue Hogwarts skirt and tights. Hardly dungeon attire—if you didn’t start brewing something soon, you’d be shivering. 

It all looked very silly compared to how many layers Tom was wearing. His prefect pin glinted under the dim lighting of the Potions classroom, and you tried your best to keep your heart from swooning. 

“Did I not tell you that I was a Ravenclaw?”

The corner of his mouth twitched up. “I don’t believe so. I would’ve remembered.” 

“Are you surprised?”

He cast his dark eyes up to the ceiling and scrunched his nose in a way that you thought was meant to convey a serious bout of thinking. “Not quite. I was stuck between that and Slytherin.”

“Slytherin?” You couldn’t stop the way you grimaced at this.

“I thought we had enough in common for it to be plausible.” 

A thrill shot through you. “I’m sorry to disappoint.” 

“I suppose I can't be too taken aback,” he said mildly, stepping neatly back and conjuring a cauldron to appear on the tabletop to his right. “You are a muggleborn. I don’t know of any who have been sorted into Slytherin.” 

This wasn’t news to you, but Tom’s delivery stung more than usual. The implication hung heavy in the air that you were somehow in the inferior house, only placed in Ravenclaw because of your blood. As an afterthought—as a convenient place for you to be put away. 

“That’s true,” you said, stepping closer until only the brewing table was in between you two. “But I doubt that I’d have been sorted there, even if I had been born a pureblood. The whole glutton-for-knowledge thing about Ravenclaw has always been me.”

“I disagree.” Tom summoned over a few jars of ingredients with a nonverbal wave of his wand. “If you’d been born with purer blood, you wouldn’t be so desperate to find a way to compensate.”

You flinched. Ouch. 

“I’m very aware of why I feel the need to work so hard,” you snipped. “But I really don’t think that has anything to do with my genuine academic curiosity. If I was so single-minded in using knowledge for compensation then perhaps I would have been a Slytherin.”

For a moment, his dark eyes flashed with something that you couldn’t quite catch before his face ironed itself into something impassive once more. “Excuse me. I didn’t mean to offend.”

You frowned, watching as he placed familiar ingredients on the table and began lining them up. “It’s fine. Just a bit of a sore spot, that’s all.” 

He gave you a look that made you feel like you’d just pointed out the obvious. Which you had, clearly. But it was offensive regardless. 

“I’ve assembled all the ingredients for a Draught of Living Death,” he announced, stepping back from the table and waving one pale hand at the spread in front of you. “You said you had trouble with brewing the base. This makes sense, since more complicated potions require more stable bases. I’m not wrong in assuming that you’ve always been adept at following instructions and brewing perfect potions before this year?”

He waited for your nod to continue.

“N.E.W.T Potions is different in that it challenges your intuition. Before this, you’ve been able to coast by relying on the guidance of others. But with potions like the Living Death, you need to be able to think on your feet. Even the slightest variation in your ingredients—the age, the quality, the place of origin—can be what ruins an otherwise perfectly good brew. Every potions recipe you see in school textbooks makes implicit assumptions about the quality and age of your ingredients. If, say, it’s an unusually hot day when a supply shipment arrives and the gillyweed oxidizes, the instructions for a more difficult potion won’t anticipate that you need to temper it with volcanic salt.

“That’s where you come in. When you’re preparing your base, you need to have an intimate understanding of the properties of each ingredient and how they interact with each other. This way, when you notice something isn’t quite average with your supplies—as is common in a school where ingredients are shipped in bulk—you can adjust.” 

Tom paused, his eyes meeting yours. You blinked once, then broke the contact to look at the cauldron.

No one had ever explained that to you before. No one had ever taken the time. Snape certainly hadn’t been interested in lecturing about why so many students were incapable of  producing viable potions—he was far more content with insulting his pupils for being inadequate. 

“I never knew that,” you admitted, finally looking back at him. He hadn’t moved an inch. “That makes so much sense.” 

Though your words were far from creative, honesty dripped from your voice.

“Right then,” said Tom, nodding tightly and stepping back to gesture to the ingredients. “Try to prepare the base again. This time pay attention to the state of the ingredients.”

You got the work, thinly dicing the beetroot while you set the moon water to simmer in the cauldron. 

“This was bruised,” you noted, motioning to the cubes you’d just cut. 

Tom nodded, looking at you rather expectantly. 

“...which means that part of it has already oxidized,” you continued cautiously. In truth, you hadn’t spent much time learning about the different chemical properties of the ingredients. That felt too concretely muggle, too blatantly biological. “Which means that the enzymes have, uh, had their bonds ruptured?”

“And…?” 

“And that means I need to…” You squinted down at the vegetable, trying to conjure up any knowledge you had about enzymes and potion making. It probably wouldn’t be volcanic salt. Would it? “I don’t think that I can use volcanic salt as a binding agent this time. If my memory serves correctly, moon water becomes unstable in the presence of pure minerals. So that means…acid? Lemon?”

Tom slid a vial over to you, a ghost of a smile on his face. “Mix a little into the beetroot before adding it.”

You uncorked it and let the citrus juice sink into the purple cubes, running slightly down the cutting board and pooling in the wooden crevices. 

The rest of your base preparation went just as smoothly, with Tom offering up the odd helpful comment while you nodded and committed it to memory. 

You finished with a base that looked nothing like the disaster you’d created just hours ago. You were just barely able to keep yourself from grinning and throwing your arms around Tom’s neck as you both began to clean up and vanish the contents of the cauldron.

“Well done,” said Tom, spelling the cutting board clean. The vibrant pink marks from the beetroot vanished. “Consider me impressed.”

You nearly exploded with giddiness. 

“Thank you,” you said very normally. He was standing so close to you now that if you reached out, your fingers would skim his robe-clad arm. But you wouldn’t do that, because that was weird. Because he was living in a journal and he was somehow bound to this strange alternative reality. Because you weren’t even sure if it was possible to touch him. Because even if it was, Tom Riddle did not seem like the type of person who would be partial to physical affection—especially not from someone like you. “Do you—have you found anything out about how you can escape?” 

Tom’s fluid motions as he tidied the table only stuttered for a moment. “Some. Nothing concrete, though.”

“If you told me exactly what it was you did to get stuck in here, I’d probably be able to offer a lot more help,” you pointed out in a way that you hoped didn’t sound too cajoling. 

He didn’t say anything. 

“Come on,” you pressed, putting your hands on your hips. “I’ve aired out all my dirty laundry to you. You can tell me. I don’t think there’s anything you could say that I haven’t already guessed.”

“Really?” drawled Tom, his eyes locking on yours. “Nothing at all?”

“Nothing,” you affirmed. 

“So why don’t you tell me what happened?” 

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

Men could be so frightfully dull sometimes. 

“There’s a book,” said Tom with a deceptive casualness, “That should be in the Restricted section. It’s called ‘Secrets of the Darkest Arts.’ Read that. If you’d still like to know afterwards, I’ll oblige.”

You let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine.” 

The work table was all cleaned up, no trace of your previous potion brewing except for the lingering scent in the air. 

“Well,” said Tom. His hands were folded neatly behind his back as he remained a respectable distance away from you. “I suppose I should be sending you back.”

“I suppose,” you echoed. “Will I—do you think I’ll get to see you again?”

You regretted it the moment the words left your mouth. Hopefully the blush on your face could be written off by the excuse that you were just brewing. 

This time when he looked at you, it felt like he was re-evaluating something. “Whenever you’d like. I’m not especially occupied.”

Before you could stop yourself, your face was splitting into a bright smile. “Of course. I was definitely asking because of your busy schedule.” 

He blinked twice. Then he opened his mouth, closed it, and fidgeted with his tie. It was the most obvious sign of discomfort you’d seen from him the entire evening. 

“Right,” he said stiffly. “Ehm—yes. It was pleasant to have you here.”

“Pleasant?” you echoed, your eyebrows raised. 

“I mean that I’ve enjoyed the time that we’ve spent in correspondence,” he said, waving a hand like that made what he said any less awkward.

“Tom, I was teasing you,” you said. “I don’t need some sort of confession about how you can actually stand being around me. I can tell.”

“Right,” he said again. “I’ll send you back now.”

Before you could add another remark about how weird he was being, you were catapulted out of the dungeons and back into your desk chair.

“Merlin’s Beard!” gasped Lucy from behind you. 

You blinked, letting your eyes adjust to the bright lighting of your dorm. 

“You literally came out of nowhere!” said Lucy, coming around to put her hands on your desk and stare at you. “I was getting worried, too. Padma is coming back soon. I thought that I’d have to devise some sort of plan to keep her out of the room so she wouldn’t ask why you materialized out of thin air.”

“Yeah,” you said, your eyes unfocused.

“So what happened?” 

“I—” You exhaled. “Lucy, I’m so fucked. He’s actually really cute.” 

“I knew it,” said Lucy, shaking your shoulders. 

“He helped me brew the base for the Draught of Living Death,” you elaborated. “He’s a really good tutor. He spoke for like 5 minutes about the properties of different ingredients, and I swear I’ve learned more from him than from 6 years of Snape’s lectures.”

“And did you guys talk?”

“A little.” You frowned, thinking back on the interactions you’d had. “He was really odd when I asked him about what I needed to do to get him out. Even weirder when I asked if I was going to see him again. He made some comment about how he wasn’t exactly busy and I said something that implied that I knew that but wanted to know if he liked seeing me, and he was super awkward.”

Lucy cringed. “Well, I mean, if I’d been stuck in a diary for 50 years without talking to someone, I’d probably be a little strange too. Tell me how he is when he talks—or writes, I guess—to you next.”

The next time Tom responded to a diary entry, you had news.

Tom you wrote. Are you there?

Yes.

Can you bring me back to you?

Why? Do you need another Potions lesson?

You rolled your eyes. Not quite.

Well, no. I won’t let you back until you’ve read the book I told you about.

That’s why I’m asking! I’ve tried looking for it everywhere. When none of the querying spells worked, I went through the entire Restricted Section by hand. Nothing! I asked Madam Pince and she told me that that book had been banned since before she’d gotten the position as librarian. I’m probably on some watch list now

That is troubling. 

So if you’ll be so kind, please let me back in so I can use your library. Thank you in advance

There was a long pause that you imagined Tom took to sigh and run his fingers through his hair in exasperation. Then:

Very well. 

You were falling through space once again.

final a/n: thank you for reading! let me know how you feel about it! this is my first time writing for tom so im kind of nervous or whatever

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Right Place, Right Time - Nick Torres x Reader

Tagging: @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @oureternalbond @brownskinbaby22 @kgkslgohogkdlslgk @divergent146 @delightfulbelieverwerewolf @kotlclover2021 @lapricot @stxrryswvrld @whateversomethingbruh

References to Where Evil Grew and Companion piece to Red Rag

You’re working alone in the basement when Nick finds you. It’s gone past eight pm and you’re standing in front of the large glass workspace you sometimes use as a conference table, sorting through decades old, blurry crime scene photographs. You’re trying to match them against the half assed A1 crime scene sketch that you’ve blown up for the occasion.

The case you’re working is from 92 and requires a lot more time and attention than you originally thought because of the shoddy work undertaken by the previous agents.

You’ve stayed late tonight because it’s quieter in the evenings, less interruptions. Being the Senior Field Agent means you’re a conduit of information for the younger agents trying to make their bones down here. It can be both time consuming and frustrating.

“I thought you were out on an op tonight?” You murmur, tilting the picture in your hands 45 degrees to the right in the hope that it will make more sense.

“About to head out.” He says, his palms coming to rest upon the surface of the table as he studies your process. There’s an art to what you do, how you put the pieces of a puzzle together after so long. You have an affinity for it.

“You slept with Sawyer.” He states quietly.

It takes a second for the words to filter through to your brain, your eyebrows furrow into a frown before you set the glossy image down upon the table.

“I did.” You tell him tipping your head up to meet his gaze.

“Is that all you’re going to say?” He asks you, shrugging his shoulders.

“I’m not sure what you want me to say.” You return, your hands coming to rest upon your hips. “It was over a year ago, we bumped into each other at a bar, had a few drinks…”

You don’t need to say anything else because he knows how it goes. He’s done it before, many times. His brain just can’t comprehend the fact you did it with Sawyer, that he’s only hearing about it now.

“I’m not going to apologise for a one night stand I had, before you and I were even a thing.” You inform him, your attention straying back to your work.

“I don’t expect an apology. I just…” He says tilting his head away as he struggles to find the words. “We were close back then I don’t understand …”

“Do you remember what was going on around then?” You ask him, your knuckles rapping lightly on the glass. He takes a beat, his mind scrolling back eighteen months.

“Katy.” He says softly.

“Yea.” You murmur. “It was a couple of nights after you closed her case.”

Your sister Katy had disappeared off base when you’d recieved your first posting with NCIS. She had taken after your father, heading into the service, raising through the ranks. You’d worked that case unofficially day and night and when you came up dry just like everybody else, you’d become the girl whose sister vanished into thin air. You couldn’t take the pitying looks, the sympathetic words so you’d taken the first undercover assignment that was offered to you, and then the next one, and then the next because becoming someone else was a lot easier than dealing with your reality.

That’s how the two of you met, working UC operations together. When he’d come out of deep cover, you’d been the first one he contacted. You’d gotten out a year earlier, been assigned to Violent Crimes before you made the move to Cold Cases.

Katy’s body had been found early last year along with those of three other sailors. Nick had worked the case, along with the rest of his team. He had been the one to break the news. Until then you had held out this hope, this stupid fragile hope that she’d had enough of the navy life, that she’d spirited herself away to Nashville the way she’d talked about when she was a teenager.

“She had this amazing voice,” You had told him that night, your fingertips tracing over a polaroid you kept on the fridge. “She used to sing Alison Krauss all the time.”

The news had decimated you, it felt like someone had plunged their hands into your chest and torn your heart right out. They’d caught the guy, a serial who’d been operating in the area at the time, but your sister was gone, and you had to come to terms with that.

“I needed to blow off some steam.” You tell him honestly. “With someone who wasn’t complicated.”

“We were complicated.” He says knowingly, coming to lean on the work surface beside of you.

Eighteen months ago he’d been trying to get sober, starting therapy. Gibbs had just left for Alaska, Bishop not long before. He’d experienced too much loss in such a short space of time, it had knocked him off balance.

“We were.” You agree. “I was a mess, I couldn’t…”

You trail off before finding the words, your arm brushing against his.

“I didn’t have anything left to give,” You explain before gesturing between the two of you. “And we deserved a proper shot.”

“Wrong place, wrong time.” He says, capturing your hand, his fingers entwining with yours. “I’d like to think we’re in the right one now.”

“Yea.” You say, your cheek coming to rest on his bicep. “I think so too.”

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Picking Up The Pieces

6K Fanfiction

Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland

or

Edwin Payne & Charles Rowland

can be read as either

Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Set Post S01, Edwin POV, Arguments, Talking about Feelings and Trauma, Crying

When Charles won't stop asking about what really happened between Edwin and The Cat King, it leads to the two friends finally sitting down and talking and sorting through a few things that are on their mind after returning back to London.

Note: I spent the w h o l e day writing this and pouring every thought, interpretation and feeling about the Dead Boy Detectives into this. This is what I imagine could happen right after the ending of the first season; a way how feelings and experiences could be talked through. It's only the beginning though. The boys have a lot more work to do.

Funnily enough I wanted to write some wholesome fluff but the sad feelings poured in, so this happened instead. It's quite alright, since there has to be a lot of healing on both sides before the wholesomeness even has a chance, in my opinion.

Ever since they returned to their London office a few weeks ago, Edwin had picked up on a bit of a tension between their agency members. Of course The Night Nurse had not been thrilled to be a part of their detective work instead of getting him and Charles sorted in the Lost and Found Department. Her negative mood was explainable.

And of course, Niko's death had not only shaken him to the core. The others surely felt her absence too and were mourning just as he himself did.

But Edwin had the feeling that there was more. The way he, Charles and Crystal interacted seemed stiff. Charles smiled less. Edwin could not pinpoint exactly what made him believe it to be unrelated to Niko's disappearance, but he was sure of it.

He prided himself in his detective work and his investigative instincts made him pick up on clues confirming his suspicions.

For example, how Crystal and Charles seemed to have created a distance between them that felt odd. The frequency of them pairing up to investigate and research for a case decreased, while the opportunities to do so did not. They seemed to not be particularly excited for these outings either.

In contrast to Crystal's and Charles' cooled interactions, Crystal and Edwin himself seemed to be on remarkably good terms. She took their differing opinions on case work in stride and in turn Edwin found himself addressing her much more politely than he did when they first met.

Lastly, something had changed between Edwin and Charles. His best friend seemed to be less relaxed. Truth be told, this seemed to be more of a constant state these days, rather than a reaction to being alone with his best friend.

While Crystal slept at night in a spare room they had acquired a bed for, Edwin had expected to spend time with Charles in the same manner they had for nearly 35 years. Reading in companionable silence, trying out new magic artifacts, doing case work or on occasion, when they wanted to delve into their child-like ways, playing board games.

This, however, was not the case. Charles seemed restless while Edwin tried to keep up his habits. Studying modern technological devices, taking notes and sorting their case files was often interrupted by Charles making some kind of ruckus. Whether it was throwing a ball against a wall repeatedly, pouring out the contents of his backpack only to throw everything back inside, or pacing around the apartment, it cut through Edwin's need for tranquility and began getting on his nerves.

Of course he wondered- no, feared that this behaviour was directly related to Edwin's ill-timed confession on the stairs of Hell. Even though Charles had reassured him that nothing had changed between them, Edwin was not so sure. How could Charles be alright with Edwin so much as looking at him, knowing his best mate wanted to kiss him?

Edwin had never imagined Charles to feel this way for him. But that did not mean he hadn't secretly hoped. And as gentle and kind as Charles' reaction to Edwin's honesty had been, it had not been what his heart had desired. His first and foremost priority had been to stay friends with Charles the way they were though. Nobody had ever taken Edwin's ways in stride the way Charles Rowland had. Accepting, with no intention of changing the way he walked or talked or thought.

He cherished their connection, no matter the underlying feelings on his side and wished for nothing more than that his feelings would not disturb their closeness.

Related to his confession- or maybe not at all related, Edwin did not know- Charles had not let up on inquiring what exactly had happened between Edwin and The Cat King. He frequently brought the topic up in conversation, although only when the two of them were alone.

Apart from the fact that both the encounter with The Cat King and with Monty had helped Edwin realise truths about his identity and his feelings towards his best friend, Edwin had not told Charles details about his conversations with either mystical being.

He had not thought it to be crucial information Charles needed to understand his journey of self-discovery. Charles seemed to think differently. However, he did not seem to be half as interested in Monty as in The Cat King.

Lately, it wasn't a rare occurrence that he asked about him a few times a week. Today, though, Charles had the nerve to ask again after already having been told no only a few hours ago.

"I do not wish to talk about it, Charles", Edwin snapped his book shut and looked up at his best friend from behind his desk. He was at a loss as to what could have brought this up this time and frankly also as to why Charles did not accept his answer. His inquiries were getting ridiculous and Edwin felt on edge.

"You never wanna talk about it mate, but I saw how much it bothered you. Why are you so hell-bent- oh, um oops, I mean, why don't you just tell me? You know I'd never judge you”, Charles smiled and Edwin supposed he tried to look reassuring but there was an edge to that smile, to his eyes, that Edwin did not like. 

The tension in him, the helpless feeling of not knowing what to do to not lose his friend, the mourning of Niko's death, his own identity that he was not at all done understanding- it all suddenly accumulated to only one feeling. A feeling that tried to hold all the others down, to not make them be felt because it just hurt too much: annoyance.

"I believe it to be the same manner in which you refuse to talk about your father”, Edwin heard himself say and a second ticked by before he understood what he had done.

He and Charles just stared at one another in shock, before Charles’ face hardened. 

Edwin realised his mistake in that moment. This sensitive topic had to be handled with care, which was not something Edwin was able to do in this moment.

"Wait, Charles! I didn’t mean to-"

"Oh no, well. I get it. I see how it is."

"No, you don't understand-"

"Oh, I don't understand? Sure mate, I was never in Hell. I've never had to endure as much pain as you. Doesn't mean my life didn't fucking suck as much as my death”, Charles spat back. He looked positively dangerous in the anger that was boiling up inside of him.

“You just, you don't know- it's fucking trauma, okay? It was traumatic. What would you know about being traumatized because no matter what you did, it was never good enough? What would you know about being fucking inadequate doing anything? That's its own kind of hell! You wouldn't understand that either, cause you've always been fucking perfect!"

Edwin felt Charles’ words like a slap to the face. He knew of his insecurities regarding his own worth and abilities. He knew of his bullies and his unloving father. He also knew that he did not know even half of it all, of the impact it left on his friend and that Charles knew not even half of his own struggles either. 

But Edwin had not known- had never thought possible- that Charles would hold his trauma against him. Charles who was always so understanding and kind, so much so that he played his own problems down on the regular.

It made Edwin wonder whether he really, truly knew Charles after all. And that thought stung like a knife forcefully shoved between his ribs. It also made anger well up inside of him, something he rarely let himself feel. But all of a sudden it was all he could feel.

"You believe me to be free of trauma from the time when I was still alive? Hell didn't just start after my death!” Edwin shouted incredulously.

“Why do you think I could never understand? Because I wasn't literally sacrificed for being the way I was?! Being sacrificed for being fucking wrong?! But sure, I always have the answers, I always know everything. I fucking don't! I don't know anything! And I sure as hell don't know how to deal with my best friend rejecting me only to force me to talk about my, my gay awakening or whatever Crystal called it!”

He had sprung up from his chair and both boys stared each other down, fuming and hurt.

“I never imagined you would measure your experience against mine. This is not like you”, Edwin said in a calmer, quieter tone.

“We have been through difficult times, respectively, before we died. I don't think- we should not compare ourselves like this.”

Charles let out a humourless laugh.

“Oh, you say that? Mr. ‘I don't care what Crystal's been through ‘cause it could never compare to my 70 years in hell'? Well, you know fucking what? Nothing compares to anything!”

Edwin looked down in shame. 

“I realise my mistake now. I have changed.”

“And that's- that's exactly what I don't understand!” Charles shouted and he looked less angry and more desperate now.

Edwin was confused. He knew they were having a very significant argument now and he wanted to continue solving this conflict, but he hoped they could try and do so in a calmer, more structured way.

Quickly he walked around his desk and came to stand in front of Charles. He needed to better see his eyes and to feel the comfort of his presence, even if it wasn't truly physical. Charles seemed to deflate like a balloon before his eyes and Edwin took his hand.

“You don't understand that I have changed?” Edwin asked quietly.

Charles broke their eye contact and looked to the side but didn't try to pull his hand away. Seconds ticked by before he spoke.

“It's all just… so sudden.”

“How do you mean that?” Edwin asked.

Charles sighed and looked back at him.

“Can we, I don't know, can we at least sit down?” 

The two dead boys sat down on their couch side by side, a few inches between their thighs, looking straight ahead at the opposite wall. Well, Charles was. Edwin kept sneaking glances at his profile.

Charles took some time to ponder over his words, kneading his knuckles as he did.

“It's just been like, one, maybe two months since we got to Port Townsend”, he started eventually. 

“We had our, our thing, our agency and routine and everything for over 30 years. And we were quite happy, weren't we? Before Port Townsend?” 

Charles turned his head to look at his partner and Edwin was surprised to see his eyes hold such vulnerability. Charles really wanted an answer and Edwin was more than ready to tell him what he wanted to know.

“Yes. I was quite happy before Port Townsend”, he risked a small smile.

“Were you?”

Charles nodded. Then shook his head and ran his hands through his hair in frustration.

“I was, yeah. I mean, I told you, I wouldn't wanna be dead with anyone else but you. It was good, what we had. But now… I feel like I never truly… I don't think I could- ugh”, he groaned and hid his face in his hands, his elbows on his knees.

Edwin tentatively reached out and placed his hand on Charles’ upper arm, hesitantly stroking along its length in a way he had seen Crystal do before. She was way better with comforting people than Edwin ever was. As if reading his mind, Charles straightened up and let his hands sink down to look at Edwin, really looking him in the eyes.

“You were never one for comforting gestures”, he said and a small and fragile smile played along his lips.

Edwin drew his hand back in shame and folded both hands in his lap.

“Oh no”, Charles quickly added.

“This was nice.”

He chewed on his lip before continuing.

“I just thought about how there are just so many ways to be there for others. I always knew you weren't the best in social situations but… I think I forgot just how good you are at making people feel at ease and less afraid, in your own way.”

Edwin looked up in surprise. He knew his face was undoubtedly showing his skepticism at this statement.

“It's true”, Charles smiled at Edwin's doubt, this time looking much more like himself than before.

“It was literally what you did when we first met. Keeping me company, reading to me, easing me into dying as peacefully as possible. It was the most anyone ever did for me.”

Edwin gasped and looked to the side. Watching and listening to Charles speak so highly of him, so full of affection, had his imaginary stomach do flips. In the past he would have waved it off with a blush, unable to take a compliment from his best friend, but now things were different. It was so much harder now to take compliments from the boy he loved. Because even if Edwin himself did not believe what Charles said, his heart was now craving for it to mean more than Charles intended. To mean that their feelings were in sync.

Charles didn't urge Edwin to look back or to accept his compliment. He seemed to be slowly setting foot into the water, testing out how it felt to talk about the things that were on his mind.

“I should have let you, back then”, he mumbled more to himself and Edwin had to ask what he meant.

“I should have let you comfort me. More than you already did”, Charles clarified. He was back to staring at the wall and Edwin was thankful for it. He wasn't sure how much eye contact he could take at this moment.

“I guess I didn’t want to get greedy, or to dump all my shit on you or…”, he trailed off, again being silent for a while before he spoke again.

“Okay no. That wasn't it. I just… I simply didn't want to feel all this pain.”

At that, Charles did look back to Edwin and he felt like this was the most open Edwin had ever seen his friend. The vulnerability in his gaze kept Edwin's eyes glued to his.

“I wanted to shove it all far away from me. I thought… I thought ‘I am dead now, it's all over, so why get stuck on the past?’ so I decided to never think about it all again but of course that didn't work. So instead I decided to at least not talk about it again.”

Edwin grabbed Charles’ hand on an impulse, squeezing it probably harder than would have been comfortable for a living human. Charles looked down at their joint hands and turned his palm up to properly clasp their hands together. He smiled sadly.

“I mean, it worked. It worked for over 30 years but it kept me from getting closer to my best mate”, Charles squeezed Edwin's hand back.

“It feels like such a joke. We've known each other for so long and still never really got to know one another.”

“I don't believe that to be true”, Edwin spoke up.

“We have gotten to know each other through our actions these past decades. I never needed to know your tragic past in detail to realise what kind of person you are. And you are the best kind”, Edwin almost whispered the last part. Ever since his confession, all the compliments he gave to Charles felt like he was baring too much of his soul, being too open about his romantic feelings towards him. He could not shake the feeling that his opinion on Charles’ good qualities was going to be too much. And still he needed Charles to know how good of a person he was and how much he was appreciated.

“It's just…”, Charles seemed to be back to being uneasy and squirmy about his thoughts and Edwin squeezed his hand as hard as he could, trying to get Charles to feel as much as possible to ground him.

It seemed to help because Charles relaxed his shoulders a bit.

“It was always the two of us, ever since I died. It was like you welcomed me into the afterlife with open arms. You showed me everything and helped me get used to being a ghost. I am forever thankful for your friendship.”

Again Edwin felt uneasy at the praise but also because he sensed a ‘but’ hanging menacingly above their heads.

“You were always there for me and then Port Townsend happened and you struggled to come to terms with your identity and I didn’t even help you with that.”

Edwin's eyes widened. Was this what all of this was about?

“I feel… I fear that I'm not that good of a friend”, Charles confessed quietly and looked down at his lap.

Edwin could not have this. He used his free hand to cup Charles’ jaw and turned his face towards himself. Charles refused to look at him until Edwin began stroking his cheek lightly.

“You, Charles Rowland, are the best friend anyone could ask for”, he said and his tone left no room for doubts whether or not he really meant that.

“I never really had a friend before you. Nobody was interested in getting close to me. But you did. You did without thinking about it, without hesitation. You've always had my back. You always protected me. You've loved me without expectations.”

Edwin let his hand slowly sink down to join his other one in clasping Charles’ hands in his.

“There is nothing, and I mean nothing, you ever did or didn't do that I regret.”

Charles gulped and nodded shortly.

“I know that your expectations towards yourself are vastly different from mine. But please believe me, you have nothing to feel bad about when it comes to our friendship.”

“That's hard to do, mate”, Charles chuckled shakily. 

“I know”, Edwin said and squeezed both of Charles’ hands.

“So, this was what upset you? Thinking you failed me because you did not help me figure out my feelings? There is nothing you could have done, since I didn’t tell you what was occupying my mind.”

“It was part of it, yeah”, Charles disentangled one hand from Edwin to scratch at his scalp.

“Would you mind telling me what the other part was?” Edwin asked tentatively. 

He was aware that this level of honesty about his feelings and struggles was new territory for Charles- for Edwin too- and he was already immensely proud of his best friend for opening up so much. Pushing for more than he could handle could very well close Charles off completely and yet Edwin wanted to ease Charles into trusting him with all of it.

Charles let out a long sigh and momentarily closed his eyes. When he opened them again he still looked out of his depth but also somehow determined.

“I'll try”, he said.

“I was hyped at first, when Crystal came along and there was a living girl and it was all new and exciting.”

Edwin nodded along. Not because he understood. He did not. He had not liked the change in pace and routine. But he needed Charles to feel like he could tell him everything and be free of judgment.

“But after you got that bracelet, it all shifted somehow. More changed than I was comfortable with. And the change didn't just start something new, it also brought me back to my past, hard, which was the last thing I wanted.”

Edwin smiled in understanding and hummed in acknowledgement. There wasn't much he could do in this situation, not much he could do while Charles was baring his soul to him. But he needed his best friend to know that he was listening and trying to understand what he was thinking.

“And you started to change too. You kept things from me. Started acting differently. Started hanging out with others. I know, I did too and I had no reason to be jealous. I was just so confused about what had brought this on.”

Charles fiddled with his earring while he continued.

“When you know someone for 30 years and you think you know all about their comfort zones and limits, and suddenly that starts to change and expand… I guess I always took for granted that you were comfortable in my presence while you weren't with others. And suddenly you started hanging out with Monty.”

“He was a crow”, Edwin felt the need to remind him.

“I know, I know. But we didn't know at the time, did we?” Charles asked.

“Anyway, right now I am glad that you learned to let others in. You deserve more than one friend. You deserve for others to see how great you are. Just at that time… I really just didn't understand it. And I still don't to be really honest.”

“So…this is why you are so interested in knowing what The Cat King and I talked about?” Edwin asked.

He could not deny that he was feeling uneasy about this. About telling the boy he loved how he had responded to a flirtatious cat man who had awakened not only emotional but also physical urges in Edwin, making him painfully aware of his attraction to men. He felt like Charles was asking too much of him. If he didn't feel differently about their friendship knowing that Edwin was in love with him, how would that change if he was confronted with the carnal reality of Edwin's preferences?

“Yeah. I just want to understand how he managed to get that out of you, to make you think about all that stuff”, Charles shrugged.

“Your realisations, your change, he inspired it, didn't he?” 

“He did, yeah…”, Edwin admitted slowly.

“But it was not all his doing. Monty had to do with it too. And a lot of it was actually Niko.”

That thought stung. Charles seemed to sense that and squeezed Edwin's hand once more. Their back and forth with squeezing reassurance into each other's hands made Edwin feel oddly warm inside.

“You really hit it off, you two”, Charles said with a gentle smile. 

“Made me happy to see you get so close.”

Edwin was suddenly thrown back to Niko giving him the red sea glass. For courage. She had inspired him again and again to be brave, through little, kind gestures. It made it somewhat easier to make his decision.

“If I tell you what the Cat King said to me, you must promise me to not hold it against me”, he told Charles without looking at him.

It was now Charles’ turn to lift up Edwin's face by pushing his chin up with his fingers to make him look at him. He was smiling one of his softest, gentlest smiles.

“Edwin Payne, I promise you to never hold anything against you that makes you who you are. You're my best mate. I love you the way you are.”

Edwin was suddenly very aware of the way his bow tie and shirt collar sat snugly against his ghostly skin. He wasn't supposed to actually feel it and yet the phantom sensation of the fabric digging into his neck made him uneasy.

“Wait, I-”, he pulled his hands back from Charles and made to take off his bow tie and open the two top buttons of his shirt.

Ghosts did not need to breathe and still Edwin had the feeling of being more free to do so now. There were some ways in which one simply couldn't stop feeling human, he supposed. 

“This is better”, he sighed and took Charles’ hand back in his. At this point he couldn't imagine not having this point of contact with his best friend while recalling his first encounter with The Cat King. 

Charles was silent, patiently waiting for Edwin to be ready the way he had waited for Charles before.

“When I was transported away from you and Crystal”, Edwin started, “I found myself in The Cat King's sleeping quarters.”

Charles’ jaw twitched and Edwin pressed hard into his hand.

“Please let me… please let me talk freely. You do not need to worry about my well being, even in the past. I just want to be able to tell you this without… without judgment”, Edwin pleaded and Charles’ eyes widened.

“I told you, I would never judge you! This guy just makes me feel-”

“I know”, Edwin interrupted him.

“I just don't want you to judge him either.”

Charles closed his mouth and nodded, although he did not look convinced. 

“I asked where you had gone and he…”, Edwin gulped and then forced himself to continue.

“He asked if we had a special friendship. I didn’t understand his meaning behind that at that point.”

Edwin bit his lip at the memory. At what he knew now. At all the little secrets tucked away in his heart that The Cat King had kicked loose like fallen leaves from a carefully swept up pile. 

“He told me that his kingdom was about… was about want and pleasure. And he insinuated that my punishment could be pleasure too.”

Charles balled his hands into fists, making one of them slip from Edwin's grasp. Edwin sucked in a sharp breath on instinct and felt panic rise in his chest.

Charles immediately grabbed his hand once more and squeezed as hard as Edwin had before.

“I swear, I'm trying not to judge. And I assure you, this has nothing to do with the both of you being guys”, Charles said and his other hand came up to grab Edwin's upper arm, holding him steady.

“I just feel like… he was abusing his power in that situation. He had the upper hand and he was clearly coming onto you, expecting who knows what-”

“It's fine. Charles. It's fine”, Edwin tried to soothe him.

“I don't hold a grudge. And you shouldn't either, not on my behalf.”

Charles tried to relax but there was still a stiffness to his shoulders that Edwin could do nothing about.

“Can I continue? It is just a retelling of the past. Really, Charles. Nothing happened there that left me feeling mistreated or hurt.”

“Okay. I trust you”, Charles said and Edwin hadn't even realised that it was exactly what he needed to hear right then. For Charles to trust him to know his own boundaries and not let himself be exploited was somehow important to him. He needed to feel capable of taking care of himself, to not need to be rescued. He generally appreciated Charles’ concern and his will to protect Edwin from all harm. But this was a story of self-reflection and Edwin needed to feel in control of this topic.

“Alright then. I, admittedly, did not understand how I had done harm by using the binding spell on this cat and I told him as much. He was not pleased by it. And yet…”, Edwin trailed off and felt his face get hot somehow. 

“He told me that he found me attractive. And that he was fascinated by me.” 

Edwin had not dared to look at Charles during any of this so far but now he was looking up into his best friend's and crush's face, directly into his eyes as he told him that another man found him attractive.

Charles' expression was open and Edwin felt himself relax his tight posture in relief.

“I had broken a rule of his and made him angry and still he was interested in me. That… that did something to me”, Edwin admitted shyly. 

“I believe it wasn't simply about a man openly telling me about his interest in me, but also about being desired despite having done wrong. I never imagined that second part of it to be possible, much less the first.”

Charles nodded his head with a little frown creasing his forehead, seemingly trying to follow Edwin's reasoning.

“Then he, he changed outfits”, Edwin gulped at the memory.

“In a puff of smoke he suddenly stood there, wearing a fur coat and only underpants underneath”, Edwin looked away, suddenly feeling awkward telling Charles about another man's near nakedness.

“That seems inappropriate”, Charles mumbled.

“I know, I'm not supposed to judge, I know you don't mind now, but honestly, just getting undressed in front of a stranger? That wouldn't be okay with anyone else”, he said, his frown now stronger than before.

“I agree”, Edwin admitted.

“It was unconventional. At that moment I was simply shocked. I could barely move or say anything. I just… I just looked at him.”

“And did you like what you saw?” Charles asked with an intense expression before his eyes widened and he shook his head.

“Shit, forget that. That was super wrong to ask.”

“It's quite alright”, Edwin mumbled, though his cheeks did still feel warm.

“I can’t say that… that it was an uncomely sight”, he answered stiffly.

“I admit, I kept thinking of the way he looked in that moment at later points in time. I was… I don't know if it was actual attraction. I am still not certain about that. I was undoubtedly fascinated by the way he presented himself so freely, without shame.”

Charles nodded.

“I hope you know now that there really is nothing shameful about that”, Charles squeezed his hand again and it made Edwin smile.

“I think… I think I am getting there”, he said quietly. He collected his thoughts and then continued with the retelling.

“The Cat King walked towards me and he, um, he got very close.”

Edwin knew before he had uttered the words that Charles wouldn't like that. And sure enough Charles raised his eyebrows in displeasure. Edwin tried to ignore this reaction to force himself to get out the next words.

“He whispered in my ear that I fascinated him and then he, I… I think my body anticipated him touching me, kissing me. And a part of me would have been okay with it”, Edwin breathed out. Suddenly he felt out of air, which, again, was only natural for a ghost but did not feel like it.

“Instead he put the bracelet on my wrist”, Edwin said and held up the wrist in question to inspect it with a forlorn expression.

“So he didn't do anything else? Didn't touch you inappropriately beyond that?” Charles asked and he looked less on edge than before.

“He did not. He emphasised on being a consensual Cat King and I believe him. He would not have touched me against my will.”

“Undressing in front of someone and whispering in their ear like that is kinda not consensual, mate”, Charles frowned again.

“I told you, Charles. It is alright”, Edwin smiled at him.

“He did propose that he and I find a way to make him happy”, Edwin stressed, “but he sensed that I was opposed to that, so he ordered me to count cats instead to get rid of the bracelet”, Edwin closed.

“And then I was sent back to you and Crystal.”

“That was it?” Charles asked, looking wary.

“For our first encounter, yes”, Edwin confirmed.

“To me only a few minutes passed. I still don't understand how he managed to manipulate time like that.”

Charles bit his lip for a moment before he blurted out: “would you tell me what else there was? When you met him again?”

Edwin fidgeted in his seat.

“Charles, I-”

“It's okay. You don't have to. I'm sorry”, Charles immediately backtracked.

“You already told me so much you didn't have to. I'm sorry for making you do this.”

Edwin skirted closer on the sofa, making them touch from hip to knee.

“You did not force me to do anything, Charles. I decided to trust you with this.”

“Well, I kinda did though”, Charles sighed.

“Kept bugging you until you told me, same way that Crystal's been doing with my dad ever since we got back to London”, he admitted.

“Oh. Is that why you two seem to not enjoy each other's company anymore?” Edwin asked in concern.

“It's not that bad, mate”, Charles chuckled but with a pointed look from Edwin he relented.

“Alright, yeah. We are kinda tense around each other lately. She wants me to talk about my dad and I don't want to. She won't back off though. It's been driving me crazy. So, uh, sorry for doing the same to you”, Charles scratched at his neck nervously.

“If it helps your case”, Edwin said slowly, “telling you about it just now has helped me feel a bit better.”

Charles looked at him incredulously.

“It is true”, Edwin nodded.

“I thought I would not enjoy talking about this delicate moment and it was rather uncomfortable. But sharing this with you has somehow made me feel lighter just now.”

“Ugh, Edwin”, Charles groaned and let his head fall back against the couch's backrest. 

“You can't say stupid, therapeutic shit like that and then expect me to ignore my pile of garbage in peace.”

Edwin chuckled despite himself and it made Charles look back at him.

“I don't expect anything from you”, Edwin clarified.

“I am simply deducting from my experience what could be a helpful suggestion to solve your situation.”

Charles laughed wholeheartedly.

“That was such a ‘you’ thing to say”, he grinned. It faded quickly.

“Listen. I am not as strong as you. I can’t-”

“You are putting yourself down again”, Edwin frowned.

“Do not do this.”

Charles sighed deeply.

“I'm just trying to say, I am not ready to dive into this shithole that was my childhood and dig around in it. It's… It's too much, you know?”

“And that is completely alright”, Edwin touched a hand to Charles’ still tense shoulders and squeezed. 

“You do not have to be ready now. This does not make you a weaker man though.”

“I don't know”, Charles said.

“There is just so much in me, so much that threatens to flow out any minute and I don't know how to get it under control. And I feel stupid for it because I need help to sort through this. Once again I need your help while you figured your stuff out by yourself.”

Edwin snorted, half annoyed.

“No. Charles. I haven't got everything figured out. There is still a lot I don't understand about myself. I merely started scratching at the surface, I'm afraid. And I could use help with this too. I just never learned to ask for it.”

Charles looked him in the eyes for a few seconds, then smiled a small, hopeful smile.

“I'd love to help you any way you need, mate.”

“The same goes for you”, Edwin smiled back. 

They sat there in silence for a bit longer before Charles launched himself at Edwin and hugged him close. After a second of shocked immovability, Edwin hugged him back and sank into the touch, resting his head on Charles’ shoulder. 

They stayed like this, pressed together tightly, for a while, when Edwin realised that Charles was shaking in his arms.

He pulled back to get a look at his face and sure enough, Charles was crying. This was unchartered territory. The only other time he had seen Charles cry was after he had pushed The Night Nurse into Angie's hungry mouth.

He had not been able to comfort him then but just now Charles had told him that he thought of Edwin as more than capable of calming people down. In his own way.

Edwin took Charles’ face in his hands and wiped away the tears on his cheeks.

“You are wonderful, Charles”, he whispered.

“You are a wonderful person and you will figure this all out.”

Charles sniffled, probably in disbelief but Edwin took it in stride.

“We've got literally forever to figure it all out, remember?” he smiled at his best friend and Charles looked back at him.

“We are no longer on the run. We are no longer hiding from Death. We've really got forever now. Together.”

“Together”, Charles croaked out and smiled. He put his forehead to Edwin's and they stayed that way until Charles had calmed down. With his best friend in his arms and his heart a bit lighter from talking things through, Edwin truly believed, for the first time, that everything would turn out alright.

I hope you all enjoyed this! Fell free to tell me what you think in comments and tags or over on ao3.

[bayofwolves]

Rereading Wild Born

Decided to continue doing these! I made a post for Hunted first, but now it's time to go back and recap my reread of Wild Born from a few weeks ago. These won't be full analyses, rather just details that I find interesting or missed when I was younger. I'm rereading the whole series to gather information for my rewrite and fourth arc, so you may see some commentary on how I plan to change certain plot points.

Let's get into it!

If you've ever wondered what the tasseled thing on Abeke's waist in all her book cover appearances is, I'm quite sure it's a sort of a bag that she can store small items in.

The inside cover graphic depicts an arrow going through Uraza's body. I think that's a really neat touch, especially considering things that happen Later On.

Abeke drinks the Nectar of Ninani on her eleventh nameday, not birthday as Conor does. Do Niloans celebrate the day their parents named them, instead of the day on which they were born? Very interesting.

Abeke's Rain Dancer abilities are never explored. A real shame, especially since Uraza is the only member of the Fallen to not have a special power (Briggan has prophecy, Jhi has healing, Essix has uncanny insight). Uraza having weather-related powers would tie in nicely with Abeke's Rain Dancer role.

Zerif is wearing Euran clothing when he meets Abeke and her family, meaning that he was probably searching for Conor and Briggan in Eura prior to this. Obviously, he was unsuccessful.

Interestingly, Zerif knows Abeke's name without being told. We can gather from this that Yumaris's prophecy revealed the names of the four summoners. If true, this gives the Conquerors a stark advantage over the Greencloaks in the race to claim them. From their behaviour in the previous chapter, it appears Tarik and Isilla knew Briggan would be summoned that day, but did not know which of the three children would call him. (However, this is contradicted in a later chapter, when Tarik reveals they know Abeke's name thanks to Lenori.)

Meilin's mother, who died in childbirth, had a spirit animal who we know nothing about. Are they still alive? How did they handle the death of their human companion? Did Meilin ever interact with them at all? You'd think this would be an important thing to expand upon. The lack of information about Meilin's mom in general is criminal. (Same goes for Abeke's mother and Conor's entire family.)

Rollan is a full year older than the other three protagonists. His coming birthday, which would have occurred during this book, goes unmentioned, though.

Abeke claims Shane is 12, but he is said to have just turned 13 in The Book of Shane: Venom. Either the authors made a mistake, or Shane lied about his age for unknown reasons. In my rewrite, I stick with the two year age gap that Venom gives them.

I'm not sure if it was intended this way, but the fact that the pretend assassin goes for Shane in particular could be a hint at his true identity. There's another one of these instances in a later chapter: when Shane and Abeke walk up to a pair of guards, they bow to Shane before letting them through.

Tarik is described as "grim" and "the sort of stranger Rollan would have avoided on the streets of Concorba". For some reason I've always remembered him looking kind and open, rather than intimidating. But I like this better.

Whale-towed ships are unique to Erdas. So are the rockback whales themselves -- our first (of a few) species that only exists on Erdas! There's another one that's introduced in this book, Lenori's rainbow ibis.

Zerif speaks as if he hails from Stetriol -- a lie, since Shane places him as a foreigner when he first meets him. I quite like how mysterious he is. Any background he gives for himself is either untrue or too vague to decipher.

If Zerif and General Gar are to be believed, the early Greencloaks carried out a genocide in Stetriol after the First Devourer War. "Women, children -- the Greencloaks tried to wipe out all life on Stetriol, as if the common people were responsible for what the Devourer had done... The Greencloaks were ashamed of their actions and tried to hide the fact that Stetriol ever existed... They removed it from the histories and maps. But not all the people in Stetriol perished." Why isn't this talked about, like ever??!

Drina is actually mentioned in this book by Zerif! Abeke forgets about her, though, because in Rise and Fall she's surprised to learn that Shane has a sister. An opinion I alone hold is that Drina should have been involved in the series prior to Rise and Fall. It would have been the perfect opportunity for her to come along with Gar and Yumaris to recruit Abeke. (Spoilers: this happens in my rewrite.)

Meilin's classism and racism jumps out on practically every page. She constantly judges Rollan, Conor and later Abeke based on their lower social standings and calls the far west of Amaya (dominated by native tribes) "uncivilized". I will say, her character growth as the series progresses is astounding.

Long ago, the Four Fallen and the Devourer were prophesied to return. "The Devourer has returned. As promised," Tarik says to Barlow and Monte. I would like to know more about this prophecy. Who gave it? Tellun, maybe? Or did Feliandor himself, moments before his death, tell his enemies he'd be back someday?

Abeke doesn't know the names of all the Conquerors she went with to find Arax's talisman, which I feel is unrealistic. Abeke would care about that sort of thing, and it's not even a big group. But more than this, I wish this author worked to flesh the Conquerors out more, to humanize them, to have Abeke see them as friends past just Shane. It would have made her decision to switch sides hold more weight.

Shane breaks his leg in the final battle, thanks to Rollan. I bet he loves to tell that tale. Maybe that's why Shane doesn't show up in Hunted -- he was bedridden for a few months! /s

Plot hole: Barlow is buried in Tarik's cloak, but that same cloak (which is described as tattered and worn, presumably from years of use) passes to Rollan in Rise and Fall.

You can take or renew your vows at any Greencloak stronghold, apparently. I used to think that could only be done at Greenhaven.

Gerathon's prison is just a massive mound of earth. For some reason, as a child I pictured her being imprisoned in a giant cage deep in some creepy underground system of passages, like a sewer.

We never find out who the guy who freed Gerathon is. My best guess is Zerif. Who do y'all think it was?

Wild Born is as good an introductory book as ever, I'd say. Some have called it boring, but I found it enjoyable. Our protagonists are wonderful and I hope nothing horrible ever befalls them. (Spoilers...) Abeke's chapters with the Conquerors were the most interesting to me, but I'm heavily biased. A lot of missed opportunities for character development here, but don't worry, we'll get that in the coming books. I wish the worldbuilding was better -- but to be fair, these books aren't very long. There's only so much room to talk about each land's geography and history and religion.

Excited to rediscover what the future holds for our protagonists!

This is part of an ongoing series.

Wild Born | Hunted | Blood Ties | Fire and Ice | Against the Tide | Rise and Fall | The Evertree

Immortal Guardians | Broken Ground | The Return | The Burning Tide

Heart of the Land | The Wildcat's Claw | Stormspeaker | The Dragon's Eye

Tales of the Great Beasts | The Book of Shane | Tales of the Fallen Beasts

[theheraldsrest]

Hello! First of all, I'd like to say I love your writing and the blog/posts organization is just so neat.

I wanted to know if you write things with trans characters? If not that's completely fine too.

If yes, here's my request: how about the Inquisitor coming out as a trans man? As in, he already passes as a man, but somehow the companions learn about it, like them seeing surgery scars and the Inquisitor coming out or something similar.

The characters I'd really like to see would be Dorian, Cullen, Solas.

If it helps, my Inquisitor is Lavellan and mage.

This is a pretty self indulgent request lol but feel free to change anything in the it if it helps in the writing!

“Companions react to Mage!Lavellan!Inquisitor coming out as Trans(Male)”

Got a bad joke for yall. “What did Andraste keep losing at her wedding? The Veil, it kept Fading away.” Not sorry.

-Lord Lex

Cullen

-Panics over your scars because WHAT KIND OF CREATURE WOULD CAUSE THAT SORT OF TEARING?! After a a quick explanation, he is a little embarrased but respects that. Will still call you sir and what not. What? He respects anyone who wants to fight, no matter who they are. He’ll defend your honor and stand by you if someone tries to pry or make comments on it, no matter what

Josephine

-Concerned and asks if the scars were meant to be there or if something happened. Coming out to her, you just get a “Oh! Understandable,” and goes about her day. She won’t say anything more about it but, if she does have one or two questions, she might ask privately and if you’re alright with answering. Wants to make sure you’re alright.

Leliana

-First thought was that someone tortured you and that she needs to go out for blood. Telling her, she’ll calm down and go about her business. She’s very neutral about it. Doesn’t matter if you’re male or female, if you can stab something, you’re good.

Vivienne

-Oh, congrats darling! She thinks you look perfect but does excuse herself since you didn’t have the chance to tell her how you wanted to. Is curious on who did it for you because it is some exceptional work.

Varric

-Already respected you but it’s a new found respect. Good for you for being who you want to be. Knows a few people who’ve been through the same, some with similar stories and some with different. Well, some don’t get as easy a chance but that’s why he’s happy for you. You made it so far.

Cole

-He knows. I mean, he’s always known like everybody else, right? You became yourself a long time ago. What people see is you but they don’t know that there was another you. The one that you had to be, not wanted to be. There are scars there, to prove it, but they don’t see the ones that he does. The painful ones, the hardened ones, the once-loved ones. He sees you.

Solas

-Huh. Interesting. Solas will then excuse himself for intruding on you. What? That’s your business. What you care to share with him is up to you. He can only choose how he responds and he responds by complimenting you on this change. Though he is a little curious on what others might think, he’ll be there if you need someone. Or even taking it to the grave. He’s a very good liar, trust me.

(Personal headcanon: I think elves just don't care. I don't mean that in a rude aspect. I mean they'll respect you for your choices and how you treat your people and others.)

Cassandra

-Has to pause for a solid minute to comprehend. She’ll be very flustered and a little red in the face as she looks away to give you privacy but she will also have you be very exact on how she should address you. It’s not hard for her to remember, but she just wants to make sure she hasn’t been fucking up this entire time and calling you something you rather not be called.

The Iron Bull

-...Was…was he not supposed to know? If this had been his first time witnessing this sort of thing, he might have made even less of a deal about it. Bull’s from the Qun, after all. They don’t care about that. But having known someone who’s had to go through something similar, he treats it with caution and makes sure to know what you’re ok with. It’s important to know who’s on your side and how they see you, to know you got people in your corner who will respect you even when you share something like this.

Dorian

-Fuck yeah! Good for you! Good on you for being who you want to be and not letting some arse holes choose for you! This calls for drinks! Kidding, but he will pretend he doesn’t know so that you can come out on your own terms to him. And then you’ll get drinks. Gods help the poor fool who tries to make a rude comment on it or just be a complete buffoon when addressing you. You both still laugh about the one noble’s butt catching fire.

Sera

-It quite surprises her. At first, she thought it was some sort of joke tattoo about boobs. Until you tell her what they really are. Perplexed and a little fascinated, she just starts bombarding you with a bunch of questions. If you don’t want her to ask much about it, she’ll stop and respect your space. She’s a heathen so she knows when to step over some lines, but she also knows when to draw the line.

Blackwall

-Oh, nice scars. He’s got a few on his chest as well. There’s this one from a battle a few years ago, there’s this one from a misunderstanding, there’s- Wait, what. You come out to him and he sits there for a tic, processing. But you’re male right? Yes, you tell him, but you weren’t always. But you are now? Then that’s what matters. He’ll still call you sir and such because that’s who you are.

[slytherhys]

12 Days of Christmas - ACOTAR Edition

In the spirit of the Holidays, I will be writing & posting short stories about the ACOTAR characters for the next 12 days. Please note that some will be shorter than others and that this is simply meant to be a fun time for everyone that loves these characters as much as I do!

PS. I'm open to requests.

You can also find this story on my AO3.

10th day of christmas - Gift Giving

PSA. It's been a couple of very busy days and I haven't had much time to write but I'm trying my best. Hope this brings you some joy on Christma's Eve, at the very least.

Nyxmas - Drabble

The announcement that Nyx would be choosing his own gifts for Solstice this year-round was met sceptically. When Feyre and Rhys had both looked at each other with confused looks on their faces – mainly because they couldn’t quite understand how a six-year-old would be choosing any gifts without their help – Nyx had simply given them a determined frown and left the room without a glance back.

For days, both Rhys and Feyre had tried to convince him – to trick him, really – to let them help, but such efforts were often met with unimpressed looks and, at one specific time, a cold shoulder that had lasted until he had forgotten about it (which is to say ten minutes later).

Mor, too, had apparently been unsuccessful. When she had taken him shopping, Nyx had returned with a pleased smile on his face, his hands remarkably empty of any bags or gifts. Mor, for one, had slumped against the couch in defeat, looking at both Rhys and Feyre with a desperate sort of look on her face.

“He couldn’t be more your child if he tried.” She had said.

And that had been that.

As Feyre watched her son make his way towards her and Rhys, she finally understood why, exactly, Mor thought so.

In his hands was a too large, poorly-wrapped present – a clear sign he had refused any help yet again – but on his face pride shone as brightly as the stars in his eyes. It was obvious how proud of himself he was, just as it was obvious how much he wanted to make his family happy. By the delighted look on everyone’s faces when they had each received their gifts, there was no doubt in Feyre’s mind he had achieved exactly that.

Laughter had been a steady companion throughout the night as Nyx handed out his presents – his favourite book for Nesta (even though Feyre wondered what book Rhys would now read to him before bedtime), his favourite toy for Cassian (which he was only allowed to play with, with Nyx), an invisibility blanket for Azriel (“for the garden” he had said, and though it had made no sense to Feyre or Rhys, the blush on the Shadowsinger’s cheeks hadn’t gone unnoticed) and a beautiful silver comb for Mor (Feyre was slightly relieved she had finally found her favourite comb, even if a little upset it now apparently belonged to Mor).

As Feyre and Rhys opened their gift, however, tears filled everyone's eyes.

On the canvas in front of them was a painting of their family. Morrigan, with her blonde hair and red dress; Amren, her frame purposely short in a way that ought to make her complain about it in the future; Cassian and Nesta were side by side on one side of the canvas, while Elain and Azriel stood together on the other. In the middle stood Feyre - hair so long it nearly brushed the ground - and Rhys - a cheeky smile on his face and only one wing on display. Nyx, naturally, stood in the middle of them all, a full set of teeth grinning instead of the toothy grin he now gave them, waiting for everyone's reactions with a bated breath. In the night sky surrounded by them, the word Family was written in a sloppy scrawl that could only belong to Nyx - a word Feyre knew he had only learned to write a few weeks ago due to the insistent teachings of his dad.

“You painted this alone, my love?” Feyre asked, pride burning hot inside her chest.

Nyx smiled sheepishly. “Aunt Mor helped.”

Mor quickly objected. “I only helped him line the figures. In fact, he pretty much kicked me out of the room the second I offered to help him prepare whatever colours he needed.” She said, smiling knowingly at Nyx.

"Can I hang it in my office?" Rhys asked. 

Nyx's eyes widened. "Really?"

"Of course, love." Rhys kissed his temple. "It'd be an honour." 

Nyx smiled sheepishly at his dad, his cheeks rosy at the rising excitement surrounding him. Feyre pressed a kiss to his head before he ran off to hand Elain her gift. She could only watch him, something akin to wonder on her face as she watched him Her little boy who had a heart so big he had decided to give everyone a meaningful gift; who was already so independent he had decided to do it all on his own.

I really think we did. And what a blessing it was to see their son become everything that was good about Rhys, everything that was good about her.

We did good with him, didn't we? Rhysand's voice was as proud as she felt.

Mor, too, seemed to see it all. “Like I said," She shrugged, speaking to her and Rhysand only. "He’s your son through and through.”

[adamsvanrhijn]

what i, tumblr user maudbeaton, actually want to happen with the gilded age character maud beaton and oscar van rhijn (part 1/?)

Ok. so.

I made a post a few days ago just talking generally about my thoughts on the theory that Maud is scamming Oscar, which then boiled down to, "I do not think the scam explanation is more compelling or necessarily makes more sense than the straightforward explanation".

Even after 2.06, this is still my feelings on the situation overall: to me, it is more interesting if Maud isn't simply scamming Oscar, and if there is truth to what we have heard from/about Maud and the people around her.

However. What I want to happen only very rarely aligns with what Julian Fellowes wants to happen. Nothing in this series of posts is intended to be perceived as a prediction or as me debunking a common fan theory. I won't be surprised if Maud does turn out to be a scam artist at this point! I'm not even saying I think she isn't, we'll get there... If anything this might convince you even more that she IS scamming who knows!

I'm only saying that my hope is that ultimately what happens is more complicated than that, and here's why.

Meeting Maud

Let's take everything we heard about Maud (from Maud herself and from Aurora Fane) in 2.02 at face value for a moment. Maud has been living in Europe ("Paris mostly") since the death of her mother, who was born a Stuyvesant - old money New York family. She's heard of Mrs. Van Rhijn, because she was just talking to the Drexels in Newport - but she's not staying with them in Newport, she's staying with other friends. She now lives in New York with a sort of paid companion. Her named father, John Beaton, is dead. She is rumored to be the biological illegitimate daughter of Jay Gould, who has taken an interest in her, and she has lots of money at her disposal.

Jay Gould is an incredibly prominent figure, the archetypal robber baron. He has obscene money and influence (like George), and he amassed this wealth through being a ruthless businessman who undercuts and ruins the businesses of others (like George). This is Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk levels of publicity, with comparable buying power. People do not like Jay Gould. Jay Gould is not easy to deal with. That line from him in the first episode about hiring half the working class to kill the other half? A quote that has been attributed to him IRL and that lined up pretty well with his own actions. His one known soft spot was his own wife and children.

Realistically, Maud being rumored to be an illegitimate daughter wouldn't be good for her socially, let alone being rumored to be Jay Gould's illegitimate daughter.

We have a precedent for this in the show, because Marian brings it up about Cissie Bingham (the "niece" of Henry Flagler, rumored to be his daughter, whom Raikes later marries) the previous season in 1.09:

Raikes: We know New York now, you and I. There's a life to be lived here, and a good life. But two penniless strangers from out of town could not have hoped to live it. Marian: But Miss Bingham can make sure of that life for you? Well, why not? She won't suit the old crowd, but she'll do well enough with the new, and her fortune is more than ample for both of you.

(Just for fun, I will also call out that it's the Drexels' box at the Academy of Music where Aurora spots Bingham and Raikes in 1.09.)

And Aurora calls out that people do talk about Maud—in the same breath as saying that she goes everywhere and is nice, and as we see Maud speaking to a nameless background character.

Oscar thinks this is great. "Suitable and charming" he says! Oscar is a fortune hunter who wants to marry a rich girl for her money. He's also closeted and wants the social stability that would come with marriage to a woman — especially a pretty, popular woman who is liked (if not, in Maud's case, universally well regarded).

Here's the thing:

From when we first meet her, Maud is already too good to be true.

...but it's not because the information we have about her doesn't make sense on its own. It's because Oscar's conclusion doesn't make sense based on that information.

At this point all Oscar (thinks he) knows is that this woman is an orphan living with a paid companion who says she knows the Drexels and has friends in Newport she's staying with and lived in Paris and looks down on Parisians, and whose father might actually be Jay Gould, and that's why she can spend all the money she does. That all adds up! Not unheard of, it makes sense that a young woman with no living legal guardians might be supported by her wealthy biological father even if he hasn't claimed her.

What doesn't add up is that she would retain any of the wealth she has access to after she married other than a dowry. It doesn't add up that she would continue to be supported by a man who has no legal responsibility toward her once there is a man with a legal responsibility toward her: a husband. That's the case for girls with alive legitimate biological fathers, too—and in 1.03, Charles Fane calls out that it's not a good look or feeling to be a penniless husband relying on your wife's father for financial support.

There is no reason to think, with the information that Oscar has, even taking that information completely at face value, that Maud is an heiress to or of anything.

Even if we assume everything that Oscar has been told at this point is true (and it's already been presented to him as rumor!), the most straightforward explanation here is that Maud's biological dad doesn't want her to fall into poverty after being orphaned and it's a drop in the bucket to him, not that she's secretly an heiress to Gould money. Oscar is making an assumption based on what he wants to be true, without all of the facts.

Yes, Maud has plenty of money at her disposal... but is it hers?

Oscar is not bothering to ask that question. He is already setting himself up for failure.

(part 2)

[rapturezoo]

i would absolutely LOVE to learn about the hottest girl in dunwall: elizabeth THEE inchmouth

anything from her history to any scandals she may have been involved in (or caused heh heh)🔥💕🔥💕🔥👀

Oh boy oh boy 💕 ty for sending this, I'll try to stay as spoiler free as I can because I'm planning to post a new fic I'm working on involving some of the events described here after getting carried away with a prompt I received some weeks ago. I apologize for taking so long with this, it had been sitting for days on my drafts and I've been too short on time lately to get any writing done ToT.... ANYWAYS,,,

Elizabeth is very mindful of her reputation and that of her families', sees herself as a sort of guardian of their combined legacy, something that has made her life more akin to that of a horse, racing forward with blinkers than the one a more liberal spirit might have indulged in. This does not mean that Liz has been without scandal, quite the contrary, she's had to deal with her fair share but usually stays away from instigating them. She'd rather go on the defense than in the offensive.

A few notable examples are:

One of the earliest events in her life to be widely discussed in society occured during a dinner party hosted by her father, General Charles Augustus Inchmouth, to honour recent retirees of Gristolean High Command who were to be awarded with Fellowship of the Imperial War Academy.

Most of the guests arrived with their spouses, with the exception of the host himself, known to be a long time widower. In place of his late wife, a fifteen-year-old Elizabeth acted as hostess. This was not an uncommon arrangement, for the young lady had previously served as her father's companion in numerous occassions, given the latter's efforts to groom her into being his successor from an early age.

Things were bound to turn sour that night, for by the time the second course was being served, a visibly drunk General Wesley Brisby took notice of the father-daugther duo and loudly remarked to the rest of the table that "Inchmouth was lucky to be a widower, for it freed his hands to chase after any pretty young thing".

The joke went unappreciated, as Lord Inchmouth took no time in standing up and grabbing Brisby by his collar to the astonishment and shock of those present. Despite a crippling injury sustained during the last days of the Insurrection, Elizabeth's father pulled his fellow officer off his chair and threw him harshly to the ground, where he continued to punch him until the other noblemen rushed to separate the two.

Brisby was promptly thrown out of the Manor by the servants as an apologetic and very humilliated Lady Brisby made a hasty excuse to the partygoers, rushing after her husband

This event not only tensed relationships in the tightly knit military community, but meant that relations, even cordial, with the Brisby clan were effectively severed up until the death of General Charles Augustus Inchmouth, after which Elizabeth as new head of the family decided to let by-gones be by-gones.

---

Her disastrous marriage in 1812 to Lord Zachary Nicholas Perth, 3rd Baron and son of famed Admiral Herbert Richard Perth, was the talk of the town. She was the first of her circle of friends to get married and to the brother of one of her closest friends no less, though those closer to the group knew that the years-long mutual dislike Liz and Zack had for one another was bound to cause them trouble. Her sister-in-law Sylvia and mutual childhood friend Alexandra Carmine went as far as to bet on the marriage to fail after a few years.

The ceremony itself was nothing out of the ordinary for the high nobility and while the union of a Landgrave's daughter to a Baron did raise some eyebrows in society, these concerns had been mostly forgotten by the time the lavish festivities were over.

The first hint that things were not going as smoothly as the couple made it seem to be was the notable fact that the bride chose to keep her maiden name instead of changing it to her husband's.

Their honeymoon did not fair any better. Serkonos was the obvious choice, since the Inchmouths' wartime record in Morley made it a no-go; rumours soon reached Dunwall from nobles on holiday that the newly-weds were rarely, if ever seen in the company of the other, with some claiming that the groom would rather spend his nights with the chambermaids at their hotel than with his wife.

Zachary's blatant disregard for discretion led Elizabeth to cut the trip short and drag him back to the capital, where she hoped that the constant presence of on-lookers would disuade him from being unfaithful, at least publicly. The strategy failed spectacularly and her husband is well known in polite society for his life of debauchery alongside the likes of Morgan and Custis Pendleton.

----

Widely discussed was the birth of her son, Ezra Jasper, in 1813 during a complicated procedure that left her infertile. Not long after the newborn's delivery, Royal Physician Cornelius Ridley (@newbordeaux's oc hehe) had to be called to the Inchmouth residence after Elizabeth developed post-partum depression, or as they would call it in the DH universe "a type of neurosis that impaired her natural maternal instincts".

This led to her being institutionalized for a few months in a Sanatorium in Whitecliff; while her father took over the responsabilities of Ezra's upbringing, moving into the manor and sequestering an entire wing as he settled in with the couple, to the great chagrin of both.

Zachary became a mockery at the Shooting Club when news of his father-in-law taking the reins of the family away from him spread through Dunwall's polite society, which only contributed to fueling his hatred for the Inchmouth patriarcg. Elizabeth on the other hand, doesn't speak often of her time under the doctors' care and has managed a "full recovery from her condition".

----

Elizabeth enrolled in the College of Histories a few years after her marriage, around the 1820s.

While her family had been well-regarded benefactors of the institution for decades, the presence of a woman in a traditionally male dominated environment such as the hallowed lecture rooms of the College was not exactly welcomed by all.

Joining the niche of military historians was not an easy task and it took many scathing reviews by her peers on her essays and academic papers for her to finally be accepted into their ranks. Most of her colleagues saw her as a valuable source of information who held close relations to subjects of great interest, while a few appreciated her penmanship and enthusiasm to collect historical artifacts.

The animosity of her College peers led her to follow in the footsteps of her great grandmother, a renowned authoress herself, and establish a salon dedicated to the promotion of literature and the arts. As the years passed, it became a fashionable weekly gathering for the nobility, counting amongst its patrons Lydia Boyle, Alexandra Carmine, Genevieve Cottington, Sylvia Perth and other personages of note.

In 1827, she publishes her first book, an overview of Gristol's military campaigns throughout the years. It's reception is mixed as it caused quite a stir amongst academic circles due to her subtle, yet deliberate downplay of her own father's "feats" during the latest war. This is clearly noticed by those in the know, leading to mixed reviews as her Gristolean colleagues accuse her of intelectual dishonesty, while her Morleyan counterparts argue that it paints the occupying Imperial forces in a favourable light without taking into account the plight of the opressed.

Her father takes personal offense toward her writings, resulting in their relationship reaching its boiling point with an argument that quickly becomes physically violent. Things would never be the same between them as each party agrees to avoid one another for the sake of peaceful coexistence.

This would come to an end with General Inchmouth's death in 1828 from complications caused by a stroke suffered during his grandson's 15th birthday. The veteran spent several months paralyzed and bedridden, under the care of the ancient family doctor, with Royal Physician Anton Sokolov making visits from time to time, albeit more interested in the clan's collection of artifacts both historical and heretical than in the ailing patient himself. Surprisingly Elizabeth volunteers to administer her father's medicine during the long months he spent in his deathbed. Eventually, Lord Inchmouth expires, ostensibly from complications derived from his condition. Unbeknownst to the doctors, his daughter had been slowly poisoning him with small doses of Hemlock Essence, making any treatment ineffective and leading to his untimely demise. Elizabeth becomes head of the family, succeeding her father in Parliament and as director of Inchmouth Iron & Steelworks. A disillusioned Ezra enrolls in the Imperial Naval College, while Zack feels relieved to return to his old stomping grounds in the Golden Cat without his father-in-law threatening to beat him into a pulp. A large funeral takes place to honour the late General and it sees Elizabeth reuniting with her estranged best friend Leonella Davenport, daughter of her father's aide-de-camp, for the first time in 17 years.

The two had drifted apart after Liz made unreciprocated affectionate advances toward Leo, the latter then seemingly disappeared after leaving Dunwall. Her return might rekindle some old flames, though Miss Davenport hides ulterior motives.

---

Not long after the funeral, Miss Leonella Davenport manages to succesfully lobby Elizabeth to replace Lord Bunting's services with her own as personal art dealer and appraiser. Her perfectly-timed return to Dunwall for Lord Inchmouth's funeral coincided with the bankruptcy of Davenport's Fine Arts in Karnaca, allowing Leonella to use her silver tongue in pursuit of a more definitive solution to her financial hurdles.

Lord Bunting did not remain impassive at the snub, sending a strongly worded letter to Lady Inchmouth warning her against ill-advise and tempting her with a lowered price for the foreclosed collection of the Moray estate, skipping the public auction. Losing Elizabeth as a client would severely hurt the art dealer's finances, leading him to even offer her lower appraisal rates in future.

However, Leonella was quicker and provided an ever juicier offering thanks to her black market connections: A set of rare gems that once belonged to the Tyvian crown jewels. Their provenance was dubious, to say the least, as newspapers soon ran the news that the yacht of an exiled Tyvian royal had been raided by pirates off the coast of Bastillian.

Bunting, feeling humilliated and frankly furious for his position being taken over by a commoner, retaliated by offering the Moray collection, including an early Sokolov, to the Boyle family and hosting a lavish unveiling gala, to which Elizabeth was deliberately excluded from, opening the doors to endless gossip and a fierce, yet cordial competition between Dunwall's great families as they raced to bulk up their private collections, engaging either the services of Lord Bunting or those of Leonella Davenport's newly established gallery in the Estate District.

---

In 1829, publishing heiress and amateur genealogist Lady Genevieve Cottington finishes her work on a book about the history of Gristol's great families. It's an exhaustive study on each noble clan's ancestors, starting from their very roots and following a timeline of anecdotes, feats and stories of their members up to the current heads of the respective families.

While Lady Cottington took great pride in her work, the gentry at large was not keen on someone taking their dirty laundry and hanging it in the townsquare for everyone to see. Swift action was taken by many Lords and Ladies as they sued Cottington Publishing for libel, demanding the book to be taken out of circulation.

The scandal that ensued led to Genevieve being kicked out of Elizabeth's salon for the grievances caused to her fellow members, Liz included. Her departure left a vacant seat ripe to be taken as many upwardly mobile gentlemen and women who sought to cement their position in polite society fought over membership. Alas, at the suggestion of Miss Leonella Davenport, the vacancy was filled by Lord Treavor Pendleton, whose love for poetry made a delightful addition to the weekly gatherings at Inchmouth Manor.

---

Ever since her early days in Parliament, Elizabeth Inchmouth has been part of a faction of the Conservative Party under Lord Sigfrid Estermont, former party leader and Liz's mentor. However, years have not been kind to old Lord Estermont and his influence has been eroded by younger political forces within the Party, such as the Pendleton twins, and the continuous rise of the opposition during Empress Jessamine Kaldwin's reign.

The machinations and intrigues inside the legislature often mean getting your hands dirty in exchange for valuable information. Resorting to Royal Spymaster Hiram Burrows for such favours means one day he will come back to ask for one in return.

Seeing no harm in this and hoping to reinforce her faction, Elizabeth exposes a fellow Parliamentarian's affair with an attaché of the Tyvian Trade Commission and calls on the Speaker of the House, Lord Mersey, to investigate further into the matter under the pretenses of the MP engaging in "efforts to undermine the Gristolean government in favour of a foreign power".

The idea of summoning Lord Chief Justice Rhodesbrook and the Abbey liason for sanctions against the strictures is floated by her peers but is quickly shelved between the squabble that ensues.

In the end, she is succesful in getting the Parliamentarian from the Pendleton faction suspended but the whole debate damages her credibility, making her look unreliable and a tattletale to her peers in the Party.

Up to that point no one had exposed an affair publicly to further their political goals, it was sort of an unspoken rule of etiquette not bring up such gossip to the Chamber, which often left these games of tug of war between political enemies to be played under the table. Elizabeth overstepping this boundary would come back to haunt her later.

[indigowallbreaker]

31, for kiss prompt, with edelgrid (edelgard/ingrid)?

Transman Ingrid for all! Enjoy!

31. Kiss at Dusk

(Currently accepting rare ships! Click here for the info post!)

--

“I was thinking of announcing our engagement soon.”

Ingrid, who had a mouthful of fruit and herring tart, looked over at Edelgard with alarm. Edelgard laughed. “I’m sorry, I suppose I timed that wrong.”

Narrowing his eyes, Ingrid tried to both elegantly and quickly swallow his bite of dinner-- with mixed success. “Do you think the people are ready to know?” Ingrid asked, wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin. Flakes of crust stuck to his lips that he tried to brush away before his lover could notice.

“I am certainly ready for the people to know. We hadn’t exactly been subtle about our courtship. An official announcement might stop the rumors that I’m turning into a Kingdom puppet, or that you are attempting to get close to me to carry out an assassination.

Ingrid shook his head. “Are people still saying such things? It’s been nearly three years since our relationship became known to the public. I could have killed you hundreds of times by now. Not that I ever planned to!” He hurried to add when Edelgard laughed again. 

“I know, I know,” Edelgard assured, taking Ingrid’s hand on the tabletop. “It’s always been an absurd idea.” She ran her thumb across Ingrid’s knuckles. A frown creased her face that Ingrid didn’t like.

Pushing away his dinner plate, Ingrid placed his other hand over Edelgard’s. “What is it?” He pressed. 

Edelgard met Ingrid’s eye. The sun was setting over Enbarr, feeble rays of light catching on the gold in Edelgard’s outfit in one last hurrah for the day. Ingrid couldn’t help but smile. Getting to witness the Emperor’s emotions so unguarded was a privilege he has earned during the war. He planned to never lose this love and trust. 

“I don’t want to pressure you into a such a personal decision.” Edelgard began carefully. “I have written up the announcement already but, what name should I put for my husband to be?”

Ah. Ingrid turned to the window. He should have know that’s what this was about. It had been only six months since he started using male pronouns and dressing in more masculine-styled attire. This transition was still new territory for himself and Edelgard-- and thoughts of a different name still caused a fearful sort of excitement to fill Ingrid. 

“I’ve been thinking it over,” Ingrid said with no small amount of hesitation. “There’s a few that I like but I don’t know if any fit.”

Edelgard took Ingrid gently by the chin and made him face her again. “Such as?” She prompted.

“Well... there’s Lykos and Everard. And then Claude had a suggestion too.”

“Claude? You spoke about this with Claude before me?”

“It came up at that summit in spring. I asked him where his name came from and we got to talking.” Ingrid took the hand Edelgard still held to his chin and brought it up for a kiss. “If it helps,” he continued sheepishly, “I don’t know how many of his suggestions were legitimate. He does like to tease.”

The affronted look that had taken Edelgard’s face at the mention Claude softened. “That he does,” Edelgard conceded. “What did he suggest?”

“Irfan. It means “knowledge” or “awareness” in Almyran, if he is to be believed.”

“And where do Lykos and Everard come from?”

“Everard was brother to the king of Faerghus about five or six centuries ago. He never became king himself, but he fought in many battles to ensure peace across the Kingdom. Lykos--” here Ingrid paused and offered an awkward smile. “He was a wolf companion in a storybook Glenn used to read us.”

Edelgard nodded as if fairytales were serious business. “They seem like good names. Which one speaks to you the most?”

Ingrid bit his lip, letting Edelgard’s hands slip from his as he sat back in his chair. “I don’t know. I don’t think people would like me parading around the new Empire with the name of an ancient Kingdom royal. It’s probably foolish to choose a name from a children’s book. And of course, Irfan might offend people who are still uneasy about--”

Getting to her feet, Edelgard gripped the back of Ingrid’s chair with one hand and leaned right into Ingrid’s face. He tensed as those eyes narrowed at him. He vaguely thought it would be better to have a weapon in hand if he was to be stared at with such intensity. 

“I did not ask how the world felt about these names.” Edelgard’s voice was deliberate. Commanding. “I asked how you felt about them. You are the one who has to live with it. I’ll task again-- which one speaks to you the most?”

Ingrid opened and closed his mouth. Years of being at Edelgard’s side-- through peace talks with Almyra and the reorganizing the Kingdom and outsting Empire nobles-- and Ingrid never got used to being near that gaze. 

After a lengthy pause, Edelgard smiled. “Allow me to assist. How does Irfan von Hresvelg sound?” Ingrid’s heart beat loudly in his ears. “No? Maybe Lykos von Hresvelg.” 

“Edelgard--”

“Everard von Hresvelg? If you’re looking to history for names you might consider Derick, a past prime minister who ended up marrying the Emperor at the time. You will be sharing his fate after--”

Ingrid pulled Edelgard down by the collar and kissed her. Dusk had officially fallen and their dinners were now cold, but Ingrid didn’t care. The world could have ended outside the palace window and Ingrid wouldn’t have let Edelgard go. 

When they finally did part, Edelgard cupping his cheeks with both hands, Ingrid’s head still spinning. “I will write use Ingrid for now,” Edelgard murmured. “If you choose a different name by the time we marry, we will use that in the wedding announcement.”

“I love you,” Ingrid could only think to say.

Edelgard chuckled and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Just so you know, Ingrid von Hresvelg is perfectly acceptable.”

Ingrid kissed her again. And again. And soon dinner was forgotten in favor of laughter and tugs towards the door and more suggestions for a good name of Edelgard’s future husband. 

[clueingforbeggs]

Lyrics are in the original description, but in case Tumblr/YouTube doesn't like you clicking on the embed (which it doesn't like me doing), I'll put them below the cut as well.

(opening: Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band) It was 60 years ago today Lady Lambert got the show to play And I know it's had its ups and downs But there's a reason why it's still around So let me introduce to you The man who kicked it off in style... Billy Hartnell's Cranky Time Lord Band...

(I Am The Walrus) I am Who and Who are You and where is Sue And take your business elsewhere See how I flick this real specific switch, See how we fly Not lyin'

Prehistoric caveman Fire from the cave of skulls Superstitious witches Never been a hero Funny thing is fear it Makes companions of us all I M not Foreman We're on a tour, man I am the Doctor Hmm? Doctor Who?

Static city, Thals are pretty, Polycarbon mutants run the show See how they talk in adenoidal squawks See how we rise I'm dyin'...

Me and Marco Polo... in the court of Kublai Khan Sacrifical Aztecs, 'nachronistic priestess Open up the door mid-flight And now we're very small

I'm the original (you might say) I am the first one (sort of) I am the Doctor - Hmm? Doctor Who?

Post-apocalyptic London Where a love can bloom One day I'll come back, I really will, Until then have a pleasant time.

Bye Susan Foreman More is in store, man I am the Doctor, Hmm Doctor Who? Hm Doc-

(Eleanor Rigby) Bennett and Vicki Trapped on a planet where no hope for rescue is clear No one comes near 'Cept for Koquillion. He's a big monster who threatens them never to leave Would you believe? They are the same people And Barbara shot your dog

(Tomorrow Never Knows) Relax into the vibe of ancient Rome Such a hot party... fires are starting And float like the Menoptera do at home Flitting smartly... ('no') over Zarbii... The warriors with crosses in their eyes They are crusading... they are crusading So run before the Dalek fleet arrives Evil is scheming... Ian is leaving... Barbara is leaving... someday we'll be memeing

(spoken) 'London 1965!' (someday we'll be memeing) 'London 1965!' (today we are memeing) 'London 1965!'

(Eleanor Rigby) Steven the pilot Stuck on a planet of hostile geodesic domes Heck of a home Hifi the panda His only friend and the only thing helping him deal He's not even real

(paperback writer) Excuse me mister, where did you get that? It's the year 1066 and all that You're gear and fab, but cannot yet fab gears So who brought the watch? well, I doubt it was a Normandic settler it's the time meddler... It's the time of legends, and if we're on course, gonna see a few guys about a horse Vicki's fallen for a boy from Troy She should read a play and that play should be Troilus and Cressida May the gods bless ya... It's the Myth Makers... it's the myth makers...

(Yellow Submarine) Sara Kingdom kept the peace Katarina never saw the like in Greece As companions, they're unmatched But I wouldn't get too attached They won't live through the Dalek's Masterplan The Dalek's Masterplan The Dalek's Masterplan

(I Am The Walrus) Hmm? Doctor Who? Hmm? Doctor Who? Some Caucasian dude with Asian clothes made me play Towers of Hanoi See how they clown, take Billy Bunter down, I'm just a hand... I'm dying...

Where's the nearest dentist? Let's check the OK corral. Steven's going savage, WOTAN in the tower Pleased to meet you, Polly, Ben, won't see this face for long I'm the original (you might say) I am the first one (sort of) I am the Doctor - Hmm what's that who? Hmm what's that who? Quite right... Everybody loves one... everybody loves one... Everybody keep warm... everybody keep warm... Everybody keep warm... everybody keep warm...

(Spoken) 'Oh, Barbara' 'Now you've squashed my favourite Beatles'

[carriagelamp]

A few really superb books this month and few very "meh" ones. Nothing truly appalling though so that's something. If you read nothing else though, consider reading This is How You Lose the Time War because man that book made me feel things, I knocked that one out in a day

(EDIT: I am feeling very self-satisfied, this has been sitting in my drafts for a few weeks waiting for me to stop being lazy and post it and suddenly I have the entire internet backing up my assessment that Time War kicks complete ass. Go read it if you haven't, bigolas dickolas said so)

A Psalm for the Wild-Built

After reading Legends & Lattes last month I was really craving some more “cosy fantasy”. This one is obviously scifi instead, but it came highly recommend and it was exactly what I needed. It’s a pandemic lockdown novel and you can feel it, and I mean this in a very affectionate way. Everything from the characters, the narrative, to the tone feels rather healing now that we’re three years out from the initial covid outbreak.

A Psalm for the Wild-Built is a look at a world, not ours but an analogy of it, that had hit its industrial climate crisis and has since come out the other side. There are multiple catalysts, but one catalyst was the sudden sentience gained by the robots that they used. Not knowing how it was done but determined to allow the robots to self-determine, they allowed the robots to retreat into nature to find themselves, and they were left with the need to completely restructure their society without robotic aid. Humans stepped away from factories and manufacturing, and managed to recreate society — smaller scale, self-sufficient, and entirely based around the idea of existing in harmony with the natural world. Most of their planet has been left to re-wild itself, and humans keep to their own areas and focus on caring for their own communities. 

The main character, Dex, is a travelling tea monk that feels a calling for something more, something different than what they’re doing. That calling leads them further into the wilderness than they have ever gone before and in doing so runs face to face with a robot who has come down from the mountains in an effort to see how humans are doing since the separation.

A Prayer For the Crown-Shy

A lovely sequel and conclusion for A Psalm for the Wild-Built. In this story, Dex and Mosscap descend from the mountains into human populated land so that Mosscap can continue its mission to learn “what humans need”. Along the way it learns how complex and varied that answer is, even for someone like Dex.

The Darkness Outside Us

I read this a little while ago but never got around to reviewing it. Honestly, I mostly found it disappointing and I couldn’t tell you why. I really enjoyed the other books I read by this author, but The Darkness Outside Us did not do it for me. I didn’t like the protagonist. I didn’t like the world it painted. I didn’t like Kodiac or the relationship it was trying to set up or how it was doing it. I don’t know, I can be picky with scifi though and I don't love amnesiac plots, so your mileage may vary, I have heard it highly recommended.

Two astronauts from opposite sides of a global cold war find themselves on an assignment together, travelling through space on a rescue mission. Ambrose wakes with no memory of the launch, and is surprised to find any sort of companion at all, never mind a surly, reclusive coworker who is determined to keep their countries’ animosity alive and well. He tries to ignore Kodiac and focus on the need to rescue his sister, but being completely alone with only an AI and a single companion on a dangerous mission makes that easier said than done.

Dear NOMAN v1

Sapphic manga with vaguely shonen adventure vibes. Don’t bother reading it, it’s mediocre at best and kinda squicky at worse. The main character is fourteen I think? And the romantic interest, a crow demon, very much is presented as an adult woman. I just can’t. The story itself isn’t very interesting either, as the girl gets recruited into a vaguely Bleach-rip-off style ghost hunting job, but the relationship is just. No. Untenable. Moving on.

Magic Tree House: Dinosaurs Before Dark // Sunset of the Sabertooth

I found myself rereading this to kids and honestly they really are just excellent, fun little introductions to chapter books. No notes, still charming. Love Jack and Annie and their ability to use books to travel through time.

Doctor Who: Scratchman

EXCELLENT read. A novel spin off of a show can always be hit or miss (see the Torchwood book coming up) but this one really knocked it out of the park. Tom Baker, unsurprisingly, has a great handle on the Fourth Doctor’s character voice, and the way he wrote Sarah and Harry is completely delightful. I’ve only seen a bit of the Fourth Doctor so this is actually my first intro to Harry, and it made me fall completely in love with this dingus.

This book felt like it knew what it should be: a fun adventure — occasionally tense, often funny — that isn’t trying to reinvent the wheel. It fit very naturally into the world as a good, solid, simple Doctor Who adventure. The Doctor, Sarah, and Harry are intending just to stop for a break and a picnic, but soon find themselves doing their best to protect a host of villagers against an invading force of evil, skeletal scarecrows that are attempting to infect the humans around them. A necessary plot point is understanding how phone party lines work and this delighted me more than I can say for a book published in 2019.

Torchwood: Something In The Water

Meh. In the spectrum of Torchwood novels this falls smack dab in the middle. Not atrocious but certainly not good. It had instances I really quite enjoyed, the beginning was pretty fun, and there was a lot of promise to it, but reading about a fatal and rapidly-spreading respiratory infection that requires a government response hits VERY differently post-pandemic. Maybe it would have felt more believable or enjoyable in 2008, but when you know what a global response actually does/should look like? It ends up taking a book that should have really been Owen’s time to shine and just made him look like an absolute fucking moron. It was disappointing. I would secretly love to see it rewritten because it had potential, it had so much potential. Tosh was the only character with half a brain in the whole novel, god help her.

The Sprite and the Gardener

I’ve been meaning to read this for ages, ever since I found out that original comic that circulated tumblr was being developed in a fully fledged story. And it’s so worth reading, the art is stunning. The story is sweet, and every page is just such a pleasure to look at, I can’t get over the colour palette.

Before, caring for plants was the task of sprites... but that was before humans appeared and begin to carefully and rigidly cultivate them. Now sprites have little to do... except Wisteria finds herself enamored by one young gardener who is trying so hard but continuously failing to bring life to her dead little garden.

This is How You Lose The Time War

I was skeptical about this one because, again, I’m picky about my scifi and often don’t love time travel stories (ignore all the Doctor Who…) But this was one of the best books I read this month, easily. It’s a very quick read, and it’s more poetic imagery than heavy duty scifi. It feels like a pure example of the truly romantic love letter genre blasted into the future.

If you read any book from this list, I would recommend this one. It was so delightfully different from anything else I’ve read in a while.

EDIT: to allow the much more influential voice have a say:

Doctor Who: Time Lord Fairytales

Pure fun. This book is composed of various twisted fairytales all set in the Doctor Who universe. Some involve the Doctor, others borrow species, characters, or props. I had the audiobook of this and my mother, who knows almost nothing about Doctor Who, ended up listening to it and enjoying it immensely just as scifi-flavoured fairytales. 

The True Blue Scouts of Sugar Man Swamp

I’ve been meaning to read this book for years and finally got around to it. It was a really fun middle grade read! If you liked Holes this hits a similar notes in the way it weaves a number of seemingly disconnected stories and histories together into a single narrative.

In part the story is about two raccoons who take over as the Sugar Man Swamp Scouts, who have the job of listening for Intelligence and to wake the Sugar Man in case of emergency. In another part, it’s about a boy who is trying to help his mom save their little cafe on the edge of the swamp. In part it’s about a conniving businessman and his alligator-wrestling colleague attempting to profit off the swamp. In part it’s about a grandfather who loved his grandson, his swamp, and wanted nothing more than to take a picture of a woodpecker.

The Underneath

I wanted to read another book by this author after reading True Blue Scouts (and Maybe a Fox, which a few years back) but this one didn’t do it for me. It was a fine book, and a fine animal adventure, but the pacing just felt like it dragged too much to really keep me interested. I could have finished it if I’d really wanted to, but there were other things I wanted to move on to more. If you feel like a rather melancholic, somewhat mythological middle grade animal story though you’d probably quite enjoy it.

Like True Blue Scouts, The Underneath weaves together a number of different stories, including one about a mythical snake and her daughter, a hateful isolated man, an old injured dog, and a mother cat. The dog, who stepped in front of his master’s gun at the wrong moment, is now kept chained in the yard and spends most of his time hiding beneath his master’s house. He was lonely and isolated… until a mother cat joins him and ends up giving birth to her kittens. They’re now both devoted to caring for the kittens, and trying to protect them from the horrible master in the house above.

[tutuandscoot]

Just another super cute #softboiscott moment

They always always (very rarely even pre-comeback would they not) switch back to holding hands after they take their bows- both practice and performance- like it’s just habit or impulse. Like I know it’s been said before but there is nothing convenient or proper- like ‘how you’re supposed to’ about it so it really just must be that they really really like holding hands 🥹 even if it’s not convenient, but coz it’s just what they do it’s so normal to them and something a simple as that is just really beautiful. Also I just think it’s really cute when they wear gloves coz they have quite famously said they don’t like to partner in gloves but when it’s this cold I can just imagine him telling her to keep warm as rug up if she’s cold (not that he needs to tell her she has every right to but I just remember the off mic ‘are your hands cold/how are you knuckles’ comment so yeh and he’s always taking care of her so that’s why I think it) coz he often only has gloves on at the end and beginning of practice, but yeh it’s just nice they are all bundled up and warm it’s cute ok… 😬

His lil bow for Marie 🥹🥹🥹 I’ve seen quite a few of other skaters- specifically dance pairs do this. I’ve only seen it from them a handful of times- mostly with Marina, this is the first (and I think only) time post comeback/with MFP (the only time caught on camera at least) that I’ve seen it and it’s not even both of them. Certainly they would always say thank you at the end of practice (it’s just what you do, same in ballet you always go and bow/curtsy to the teacher at the end of class- if it’s a strict school at least) but yeh one of the rare times there’s a bow. It’s really really sweet and I remember watching this a while ago and I tried to find it again coz it made me super emotional (surprise surprise 🙄😅) it’s just very small and the follows it up with his beautifully soft cheek kisses which there’s other times- often after performances where he either goes in for it or Marie is kinda like, ‘excuse me where’s my kiss’ (and i think important to note is very different to how he kisses T but still always with this curtesy and respect for their femininity). Obviously I would have no way to know what their actual relationship with each of the coaches they’ve had over their careers possibly is (beyond what they’ve told us) but there’s just so much difference between them with MFP and with Marina and everyone else from Detroit. That’s pretty obvious but I had a though the other day that… obviously TS are strong minded as fuck- I mean for T to get through all those years being injured and succeeding just by the sheer force of will. For both of them everything they would’ve had to face but there’s something about them (it’s that they’re sensitive- they’ve said that) that Marie and Patch seem more like parental, mentor, companion figures to them more than simply their coach- which I fully believed Marina cared deeply about them but (maybe stereotypically) it was just a harsher, less kind environment, and that in Montreal it just seemed softer and more nurturing. That could a bit maybe be the training environment as well as just how TS approached their comeback as a whole but also just their relationship with MFP since they were young. From the outside it just seemed more caring. More mutual respect- and I think for Marie and Patch- who were no doubt brilliant in their own right, they know just how talented TS are and, not to over exaggerate, but are so much better than they ever were and maybe see some of their unfulfilled potential that can be realised in TS and want to do everything to ensure they can succeed and know that they are loved- and then in turn TS show them that respect for being their mentors and teaching them how to be mentors in their own right. And so you sort of see that in just this little moment of his bow of respect and manners but then that kiss(s) that’s a little bit motherly (like she’s a bit of a motherly figure- they do call TS their babies). It just feels like.. again no way to actually know, but the first thing to come from MFP after a practice or performance is ‘i’m/ we’re proud of you’ rather then ‘you screwed that up’ or ‘you didn’t try hard enough’. And it’s like that because TS DO work so hard and always tell each other how proud they are of each other so it’s like their dynamic isn’t being looked down upon or pushed to the side as being unimportant- or only their performer/chemistry is important. It seems like a totally reciprocal thing and there is just more love and nurturing there.

And finally, really just continuing on from the previous point, that he goes to give JF a hug and not one of those like ‘bro’ hugs but again a really nurturing ‘good job I’m proud of you’ hug. Like I said TS are strong minded AF but just knowing some of the stuff Scott especially (and as a result tessa) was dealing with that season, idk it’s just really heart warming all that compassion and it just really seemed like people were taking care of him really well- it wasn’t all about the skating it was about being good people and taking care of the people they care about. It’s just an energy thing and just feeling like even though he was going through a really hard time and probably on some level a competition/rink/travelling wasn’t where he felt he should or wanted to be, he also wanted to be here with Tessa skating and getting better and striving for this goal together and for these two years they were each other’s no. one priority and commitment. So it’s just sweet to think about that comforting and loving environment they created, no matter which/both of them may have been having a hard day, that they had this greater team supporting them, and were in a much more caring environment, even though they were further away from home then previously they had people around them that resembled, or were at least able to be at times like a family to them 🥹.

[squadron-goals]

4 November 1917, Sunday morning

Good morning, my dear heart! Yesterday was a happy day for me: the first letter from my Annamarie that says "Du". But I've been thinking of you for a long time with "Du", actually from the beginning. So now you have the difficult mission with your parents behind you. May they have accepted everything with a loving heart! I have every confidence that your mother will help us in everything. Tomorrow I reckon I'll probably get a greeting from you at Hubertusmühle. It's an awfully long time, having to wait four days before I find out what you've experienced! Good thing the war isn't in Africa! We had to wait three weeks from one post to the next. When the black messenger, who ran the 30 kilometers from Wilhelmsthal in three hours, dumped his mailbag, he was the focus of all the white ghosts at that moment, and five minutes later everyone was sitting in a corner reading. One more thing, my dear! If you really don't receive a greeting from me for a few days, you know that all sorts of coincidences and obstacles can occur at the field post. Yesterday, for example, our motorcyclist, who takes the post to the next field post office, fell over halfway - that's a whole day's delay. Don't be surprised if my letters are often a bit choppy - I can only rarely write in one piece. Your friends at work are real rascals for teasing you so much about the mysterious lieutenant's visit. But their congratulations for me are well and nice - so say hello to them for me and I wouldn't miss a next opportunity to introduce myself. Yesterday I got a very appreciable addition to my squadron: the Bavarian Lieutenant Max Müller, who with 31 victories is now in second place (after Richthofen) among the living aviators. He was part of our squadron a year ago, but then spent the summer with another one. Now I have to tell you about my twenty-first. I had been at the front with my squadron without any particular events and I changed way on the flight home to visit Richthofen, whom I had not spoken to for several weeks. After a little coffee and chat, I flew home, but before I landed I saw that my comrades were already on the move again, so I flew back to the front, where I soon found them. High above us was a whole wing of English single-seater fighters. We tried to climb as fast as we could. Since I'd used up most of the fuel on the first flight, my plane felt pretty light and climbed like Charlemagne. After a short time I was far ahead of my companions and always drew the same line with the Englishmen who were flying even higher, so I kept an eye on them all the time. Until finally one of them came up with the insipid idea of attacking me from above. I made the first attack ineffective by flying quickly towards him, so he quickly pulled his machine up again and was immediately about 200 meters above me - he was flying the latest type with a very powerful motor. From then on he made four or five more shy attempts to attack, but each time I was right under him and he couldn't get a shot. He had gradually lost height, and at a favorable moment I was able to turn the tables - now he's resting in the ground, the stupid fellow! The whole affair lasted around five minutes. Of course, it couldn't have lasted any longer, because I came home without any petrol at all. In the meantime they had thrown bombs here, but only made holes in the surrounding fields. This morning it's dense fog, so I'll get to work on my writing business - lately everything rhymes with Annamarie for me. How I long for you!

[leaves-and-inks]

🐇🌾AND IF YOU GO CHASING RABBITS🌾🐇

number three, and the companion piece to every rose has its thorn! so far i’m keeping up with the classic rock naming, though I stretched it a little with this one considering this guy’s a hare, but alas

I struggled with getting the eyes right on this.. not sure if it’s 100% but it’s better than what it started off as, so I see that as a win. Didn’t think this would be the first hate I posted, but it certainly won’t be the last! I love them, they have a stare that seems to stare into your soul, and seemingly bring some sort of omen.. I just think they’re really neat :) I would love to see one in the wild someday!!

There will be more of these coming!! I currently have 3-4 planned, but if I have 4 I gotta make it 5 somehow, so I may stick with 3 for now. I officially finished my finals a few days ago, so I’m hoping for some more consistency this summer!! I’ve got quite a few WIPs I want to finish, along with some other ideas, so stay tuned!! :D

[ID: A hand holding a black and white illustration on tan paper with uneven edges. behind it is a white tapestry with a pattern made up of illustrated green leaves, slightly out of focus. The illustration is a black hare head, with white ink details. It looks at the viewer straight on, its snout pointed downward. it sits in a white circle, it’s nose and ears breaking past the border. All the details and the eyes are sketched in with white, and has black pupils drawn in sketchy, horizontal lines. some fluff of the base of its neck can be seen behind it. In a larger circle surrounding the hare head are vines with roses, leaves, and thorns. the roses are black, the petals drawn in in white. most of the thorns, vines, and leaves are colored in black, but some are just a white outline. the roses break out from a larger circle behind them and the hard drawing, this one being a white outline. Over top of the roses radiating out from the center of the hare’s head are sketchy white lines. the paper is thin, and has creases in it.

image 2: cropped version of the previously described illustration. the photo goes to the edges of the page, and the illustration is centered, with the ends of the top and bottom vertical white lines cropped.

image 3: cropped version of the previously described illustration. the photo goes to the edges of the page, and the illustration is centered.

image 4: close up on the hare’s right ear and the roses, vines, and leaves, showcase details in the white line work. it crops right at the base of its ear, at the top third of its ear. it only showcases the top left quarter of the roses and circles. /end ID]

[magellanicclouds]

tell me about some ocs you have? :)

Oh my. This is an answer that could go for days I think, anon. I want to answer you as completely as possible, but how far back are we going with this? ' ~ ' In an effort to still answer you without turning this post into an essay, I'll talk about a few that I've posted here before, but maybe haven't much talked about!

I'll go from left to right! ' U ' Jules: (they/them) I began drawing Jules about 15 or 16 years ago. They weren't intended as anything, just a boxy little scribble that showed up one day and I thought it was charming. With how quick and easy Jules was to draw, I began to use them as a kind of emote. The saucer-like eyes and long wiggly arms fit every feeling I could think of! Jules didn't have a name or any sort of story for over a decade. I'd sometimes refer to them as 'little bolt'. It wasn't until very recently that I named them Jules and gave them a real personality of their own as a Halo OC. A highly advanced 'Smart' AI that interacts with the physical world through the use of a wiggly-armed mobile platform. There is only a small fragment of the totality of their full self installed into this body though. Their full and complete self is a much larger and complex matrix of data that exists often inside the supersystem of a large starship or facility. Jules's primary function is therapy, providing social enrichment and emotional support to people who are frequently isolated for long periods of time aboard space-faring vessels. In particular, Jules is very drawn to Spartans, seeking to share a companionship with them that they are regularly denied, and to help encourage them to express and discover more about themselves as individuals.

Volans: (he/him) Piscis Volans, 'The Flying Fish', is an actual constellation made of 6 stars that can be found in the Southern sky. Ancient celestial maps often depicted Volans swimming through the stars alongside another constellation, the ship Argo Navis, and it is often referred to in short as Volans or Vol, but can also be said as Volantis, a name I also go by! ' U ' I am a lifelong lover of the night sky, and Volans has been with me since I was really young. He represents a lot of different stages of my life. Without getting into things too deeply, there is a significant pain attached to him that I'll carry with me always, but he's equally as much a strength and a comfort in a way I think I'll always need. He became a kind of compass, and fit right in with my love and fascination of the world beyond our world. He is an ever-patient companion to any who are lost or afraid, the uncertain, and the not yet able or willing to speak.

Roe: (he/him) Roe is a tough one, but I'm not afraid or unwilling to share him, and wanted him here. Like Volans, he's old as I am, and sadly represents a lot of conflict. He is one half of two sides at war with one another in a single body, each unwittingly causing harm to the whole. In the struggle, one half has managed to dominate the head, guiding his experience of the world with a single unmistakable face. The other half wars to keep the body, holding tight to the chest even as it's steadily overcome. Despite the uneasy duality, Roe engages the world with a certain and meaningful intent, humble for the wisdom he's collected. He is a steward to wild places and things forgotten. There is a lot of old hate that lives in a part of my family who've done their best to remind me that I wasn't welcome before I was even born. Roe is a sense of fear without being afraid. He connects me to a side of myself that's a stranger, but someone I'd of liked to have known.